Ex Libris
C. K. OGDEN
PICTORIAL EDITION
SHAKSPEKE,
EDITED BY
CHARLES KNIGHT.
THE SECOND EDITION, REVISED.
DOUBTFUL PLAYS,
LONDON : VIRTUE & CO., CITY ROAD AND IVY LANE.
5012351
CONTENTS.
TITUS ANDRONICUS 1
PERICLES t C\
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN HI
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
LOCRINE ... 11
SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE, PART I 207
THE LIFE AND DEATH OF THOMAS LORD CROMWELL 217
THE LONDON PRODIGAL 225
THE PURITAN 238
A YORKSHIRE TRAGEDY 239
NOTICE ON THE AUTHORSHIP OF A YORKSHIRE TRAGEDY 253
ARDEN OF FEVERSHAM 257
THE REIGN OF KING EDWARD III 277
GEORGE-A-GREENE 297
FAIR EM 301
MUCEDORUS 308
THE BIRTH OF MERLIN 311
THE MERRY DEVIL OF EDMONTON 315
APPENDIX-
DEDICATION, ADDRESS, AND COMMENDATORY VERSES, PREFIXED TO THE
EDITIONS OF 1623 AND 1632 327
A HISTORY OF OPINION ON THE WRITINGS OF SHAKSPEBE 331
SHAKSPERE IN GERMANY , . 401
SHAKSPERE IN FRANCE .435
INDEX 437
INDEX TO THE CHARACTERS OF THE PLAYS . 493
ILLUSTRATIONS
THE SUPPLEMENTAL VOLU&1L.
TITLE-PAGE TO VOLUME. KHOM A DESIGN BY \V. HARVEY.
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
FROM DESIGNS BI W. HARVEY.
TITLE. ACT IV., SCENE IV S
INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.
PONTINE MARSHES, HOME f>
DRAMATIS PERSOXJE.
HUMAN SYMBOLS 8
ACT I.
HEAD. SCENE I t
TAIL. SCENE II I*
A.CT II.
HEAD. SCEXK II *<
TAIL. BCKKZ III * a
ACT III.
HEAP. SCENE L
TAH.. SCENE II.
ACT IV
HEAD. SCENE I SO
TAIL. SCENE III. ... J/
ACT V.
HEAD. SCENE I.
NOTICE.
UKAU
TAIL
4T
59
ILLUSTRATIONS TO SUPPLEMENTAL VOLUME.
PERICLES.
FROM DESIGNS BY W. HARVKY.
TITLE. ACT III., SCENE I., AND CHORUS . .
FAOX
. fil
ACT III.
. 85
INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.
. . W
. 68
DRAMATIS PERSONA.
ACT IV.
. . . 92
PORTRAIT OF GOWER, ETC
. 64
too
ACT I.
. 65
ACT V.
72
. . 102
TAIL. ANTIOCH , , ......
. . 108
ACT II.
. TS
SUPPLEMENTARY NOTICE.
TAIL. TYRE . .......
83
MONUMENT OF GOWEB
. . Ill
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN
FROM DESIGNS BY W. HARVEY.
TITLE. PALAMON AND ARCITK ..... 121
INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.
GRECIAN HORSEMEN FROM ELGIN MAEBLES . 123
DRAMATIS PERSONS
ACROPOLIS, ETC 124
ACT I.
PROCESSION OF HYMEN, ETC 125
THE THREE QUEENS 132
ACT II.
PALAMON AND ARCITK'S FIRST VIEW OF EMILIA 133
EMILIA AND HER MAID ........ HI
ACT III.
MEETING OF PALAMON AND AHCITE IN THE WOOD 142
THESEUS INTERRUPTING THE COMBAT BETWEEN
PALAMON AND ARCITE ......... 152
GAOLER'S DAUGHTER AT THE LAKE .... 153
GAOLER'S DAUGHTER ESCAPING TO THE CITY . 159
ACT V.
ARCITE ON HORSEBACK ......... 160
DEATH OF ARCITE ...... ..... 168
THE ASCRIBED PLAYS.
FROM DESIGNS BY W. HARVEY.
TITLE. WITH PORTRAIT OF 8HAKSPERE . . . 189
HEAD-PIECE TO ' LOCRINE ' 193
TAIL-PIECE TO DITTO 205
HEAD-PIECE TO ' SIB JOHN OLDCASTLE ' ... 209
HEAD-PIECE TO 'THOMAS LORD CROMWELL* . 219
HEAD-PIECE TO 'THE LONDON PHODIGAi ' . . 227
HEAD-PIECE TO 'THE PURITAN* 235
HEAD-PIECE TO 'A YORKSHIRE TRAGEDY* . . 243
TAIL-PIECE TO DITTO 252
ABBE* OT FEVERSHAM 259
Tl
TAIL-PIECE TO ' ARBEIT 01 FEVERSHAM' . . . 276
EDWARD III 279
TAIL-PIECE. EDWARD THE BLACK PRINCE . . 293
THE PINNER OF WAKEFIELD 297
FAIR EM 301
MUCEDORUS 306
BIRTH OF MERLIN .... 311
MERRY DEVIL OF EDMONTON 81*
TAIL PIECE. UNVEILING 8HAKSPEBE . . . . J23
ILLUSTRATIONS TO SUPPLEMENTAL A/OLUME.
THE HISTORY OF OPINION.
OK BEN JON80N 3.16
HILTON 340
CHARLES 1 341
PRYNNK 343
BAVENANT 346
DHYDEN 354
DENXIS 360
BOWK 361
POPE 363
WARBURTON ........ 3(6
GARKICK . 3fi7
PORTRAIT OF DR. JOHNSON S78
VOLTAIRE 582
MRS. MONTAGU S84
,, CAPELL SSC
FARM Ell 387
,, 8TEETEN8 388
,, MALONE 3S3
STRATFORD JUBILEE, FROM A DRAWING BY THE
LATE MR. PYNE 895
PORTRAIT OF COLEP-ID^E . 399
SHAKSPERIC IN GERMANY.
PORTRAIT OF GOETHE 417 | PORTRAIT OF TIECK
422
TITUS ANDRONICUS,
AND
PEfUCLES;
WITH NOTICES OF THEIR AUTHENTICITY.
SUP. VOL. B
)
[Pontine Marshes, Rome.]
INTEODUCTOEY NOTICE.
RESERVING the consideration of the external and internal evidence of the authorship of this tragedy,
we here supply the facts connected with its publication, and the supposed period of its original
production.
The earliest edition, of which any copy is at present known, of Titus Andronicus, appeared in
quarto, in 1600, under the following title : ' The most lamentable Romaine Tragedie of Titus
Andronicus. As it hath sundry times been playde by the Right Honourable the Earle of Pembroke,
the Earle of Darbie, the Earle of Sussex, and the Lorde Chamberlaine, theyr Servants. At London,
printed by J. R. for Edward White, 1600.'
The next edition appeared in 1611, under the following title: 'The mo&t lamentable Tragedie
of Titus Andronicus. As it hath sundry times beene plaide by the Kings Maiesties Servants.
London, printed for Edward White, 1611.'
In the folio collection of 1623 it appears under the title of 'The lamentable Tragedy of Titus
Andronicus.' It follows Coriolanus ; and precedes Romeo and Juliet.
The copy of the quarto edition of 1600, belonging to Lord Francis Egerton, was collated by
Mr. Todd, previous to the publication of the variorum edition of 1803 ; and the differences
between the first and second quartos are inserted by Steevens in that edition. They are very
trifling. The variations, on the other hand, between both the quartos, and the folio of 1623, are
more important. The second scene of the third act, containing about eighty lines, is only found
in the folio, and there are one or two other changes which are evidently the work of an
INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.
and not of an editor or printer. We have, of course, noticed them in our foot-notes. In the
quartos, also, we have no division into acts, as in the folio. The stage directions, in each copy
are nearly alike; and these we have copied with scarcely any variation. But, with these excep-
tions, we may say that the folio of 1623 is printed from the quarto of 1611, as that was probably
printed from the quarto of 1600. The accuracy of all the copies is very remarkable.
But Gerard Langbaine, in his 'Account of the English Dramatick Poets,' 1691, says of Titus
Andronicus, " This play was first printed 4to, Lond. 1 594, and acted by the Earls of Derby, Pem-
broke, and Essex, their Servanta." This circumstantiality would show that Langbaine had seen
such, an edition ; and his account is confirmed by an entry in the Stationers' Registers, under date
of Feb. 6, 1593: "John Banter. A booke entitled a noble Roman Historye of Tytus Androni-
cus." This entry is accompanied by the following : " Entered also unto him, by warrant from
Mr. Woodcock, the ballad thereof." The ballad hare entered was most probably that printed by
Percy, in his ' Reliques of Ancient English Poetry,' and which we here insert :
" You noble minds, and famous martiall wights,
That in defence of native country fights,
Give eare to me, that ten yeeres fought for Eome,
Yet reapt disgrace at my returning home.
In Rome I lived in fame fulle threescore yeeres,
My name beloved was of all my peeres ;
Full five and twenty valiant sonnes I had,
Whose forwarde vertues made their father glad.
For when Rome's foes their warlike forces bent,
Against them stille my sonnes and I were sent ;
Against the Goths full ten yeeres weary warre
We spent, receiving many a bloudy scarre.
Just two and twenty of my soanes were slaine
Before we did return to Rome againe;
Of five and twenty sonnes I brought but three
Alive, the stately towers of Rome to see.
When wars were done, I conquest home did bring,
And did present my prisoners to the king,
The queene of Goths, her sons, and eke a Moore,
Which did such murders, like was nere before.
The emperour did make this queene his wife,
Which bred in Rome debate and deadlie strife;
The Moore, with her two sonnes, did growe soe proud
That none like them in Rome might bee allowd.
The Moore so pleas'd this new-made empress' eie,
That she consented to him secretlye
For to abuse her husband's marriage-bed,
And soe in time a blackamore she bred.
Then she, whose thoughts to murder were inclinde,
Consented with the Moor of bloody minde
Against myselfe, my kin, and all my friendes,
In cruell sort to bring them to their endes.
Soe when in age I thought to live in peace,
Both care and griefe began then to increase:
Amongst my sonnes I had one daughter bright
Which joy'd and pleased best my aged sight ;
My deare Lavinia was betrothed then
To Caesar's sonne, a young and noble man :
Who in a hunting, by the emperour's wife
And her two sonnes, bereaved was of life.
He, being slain, was cast in cruel wise
Into a darksome den from light of skies :
The cruel Moore did come that way as then
With my three sonnes, who fell into the den.
The Moore then fetcht the emperour with speed
For to accuse them of the murderous deed;
And when my sonnes within the den were found,
In wrongfull prison they were cast and bound.
6
But nowe, behold ! what wounded most my mind,
The empresse's two sonnes of savage kind
My daughter ravished without remorse,
And took away her honour, quite perforce.
When they had tasted of soe sweet a flowre,
Fearing this sweete should shortly turn to sowre,
They cutt her tongue, whereby she could not tell
How that dishonoure unto her befell.
Then both her hands they basely cutt off quite,
Whereby their wickednesse she could not write,
Nor with her needle on her sampler sowe
The bloudye workers of her direfull woe.
My brother Marcus found her in the wood.
Staining the grassie ground with purple bloud,
That trickled from her stumpes and bloudlesse armes
Noe tongue at all she had to tell her harmes.
But when I sawe her in that woefull case,
With teares of bloud I wet mine aged face.
For my Lavinia I lamented more
Then for my two and twenty sonnes before.
When as I sawe she could not write nor speake,
With grief mine aged heart began to breake ;
We spred an heape of sand upon the ground,
Whereby those bloudy tyrants out we found.
For with a staffe, without the helpe of hand,
She writt these wordes upon the plat of sand :
'The lustfull sonnes of the proud emperesse
Are doers of this hateful wickednesse.'
I tore the milk-white hairs from off mine head,
1 curst the houre wherein I first was bred j
I wisht this hand, that fought for countrie's fame.
In cradle rockt had first been stroken lame.
The Moore, delighting still in villainy.
Did say, to sett my sonnes from prison free,
I should unto the king my right hand give,
And then my three imprisoned sonnes should Hvt.
The Moore I caus'd to strike it off with speede,
Whereat I grieved not to see it bleed,
But for my sonnes would willingly impart.
And for their ransome send my bleeding heart.
But as my life did linger thus in paine,
They sent to me my bootless hand againe,
And therewithal the heades of my three sonnes.
Which filled my dying heart with fresher moane*.
Then past reliefe I upp and downe did goe,
And with my tears writ in the dust my woe:
I shot my arrowes towards heaven hie,
And for revenge to hell did often crye.
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
The empresse then, thinking that I was mad,
Like furies she and both her sonnes were clad,
(She nam'd Revenge, and Rape and Murder they,)
To undermine and heare what I would say.
I fed their foolish veinesa a certaine space,
Untill my friendes did find a secret place,
Where both her sonnes unto a post were bound,
And just revenge in cruell sort was found.
I cut their throates, my daughter held the pan
Betwixt her stumpes, wherein the bloud it ran:
And then I ground their bones to powder small,
And made a paste for pyes straight therewithall.
Then with their fleshe I made two mighty pyes,
And at a banquet, served in stately wise,
Before the empresse set this loathsome meat ;
So of her sonnes own flesh she well did eat.
Myselfe bereav'd my daughter then of life,
The empresse then I slewe with bloudy knife,
And stabb'd the emperour immediatelie,
And then myself : even soe did Titus die.
Then this revenge against the Moore was found,
Alive they sett him halfe into the ground,
Whereas he stood untill such time he starv'd.
And soe God send all murderers may be serv'd."
Percy has pointed out the variations between this ballad and the tragedy ; and inclines to the
opinion that the ballad preceded the tragedy, for the reason that it " differs from the play in several
particulars ; which a simple ballad-writer would be less likely to alter than an inventive tragedian."
The terms of the entry of the ballad in the Stationers' Registers if the ballad printed by Percy be
one and the same would appear to show that the ballad had been in existence longer than the
tragedy, for it is assigned by a previous publisher to John Danter, who enters the "booke," or
play. "We have unquestionable authority, however, that the tragedy was popular as an acted play
before 1593, as the ballad may also have had an earlier popularity. Ben Jonson, in the Induc-
tion to 'Bartholomew Fair,' first produced in 1614, has a passage which carries the date of Titus
Andronicus further back than twenty years from that period : " He that will swear, Jeronimo, or
Andronicus, are the best plays yet, shall pass unexcepted at here, as a man whose judgment shows
it is constant, and hath stood still these five-and-twenty or thirty years." We know that Kyd's
' Jeronimo ' belongs to the earliest period of our regular drama. It was acted by " the Lord
Strange's men" in 1591. Twenty-five years earlier than 1614 would give us the date of 1589 for
both plays; the medium of twenty-five or thirty years would give us the date of 1586-7.
* Vcine humours.
PERSONS REPRESENTED
SAtURNINDo, son to the late Kaijifur of Scmia.
BASSIANUS, brother to Saturninus.
TITUS ASDKOXUTS, a noble Human
MARCUS ANDRONICUS, brother to Titus.
Lucius,
ftuiNius,
MARTIUS,
MUTIUS,
Young Lucius, a boy, ton to Lucius.
PUBLIUS, ton to Marcus, the tribune.
^MILIUS, a noble Roman .
sons to Titus Ambon ic us.
ALARBUS, "J
CHIRON, > so
DEMETRIUS, 3
ni to Tamora.
AARON, a Moor.
A Captain, Tribune, Messenaer, and Clown
Goths and Romans.
T A. MORA, Queen of the Goths.
LAVINI A, daughter to Titus Andronicus
A Nurse, and a black Child.
Kinsmer of Titus, Senators, Tribunes, Officer!
Soldiers, and Attendants
ACT I.
SCENE I. Some.
Flourish. Enter the Tribunes and Senators,
aloft: and then enter SATURNINUS and his
Followers at one door, and BASSIANUS and his
Followers at the other, with drum and colours.
Sat. Noble patricians, patrons of my right,
Defend the justice of my cause with arms ;
And, countrymen, my loving followers,
Plead my successive title with your swords :
I am his* first-born son, that was the last
That wore b the imperial diadem of Rome :
Then let my father's honours live in me,
Nor wrong mine age c with this indignity.
Bass. Romans, friends, followers, favourers of
my right,
If ever Bassianus, Caesar's son,
Were gracious in the eyes of royal Rome,
Keep then this passage to the Capitol ;
And suffer not dishonour to approach
Th' imperial seat ; to virtue consecrate,
To justice, continence, and nobility :
Am hit. The folio, wai the.
t> Wore. The quarto, ware.
c Age seniority.
But let desert in pure election shine ;
And, Romans, fight for freedom in your choice.
Enter MARCUS ANDRONICUS, aloft, with the
crown.
Marc. Princes, that strive by factions and by
friends
Ambitiously for rule and empery,
Know that the people of Rome, for whom we
stand
A special party, have by common voice,
In election for the Roman empery,
Chosen Andronicus, surnamed Pius,
For many good and great deserts to Rome :
A nobler man, a braver warrior,
Lives not this day within the city walls.
He by the senate is accited home,
From weary wars against the barbarous Goths,
That with his sons, a terror to our foes,
Hath yok'd a nation strong, train'd up in arms.
Ten years are spent, since first he undertook
This cause of Rome, and chastised with anns
Our enemies' pride : five times he hath returu'd
Bleeding to Rome, bearing his valiant sons
In coffins from the field ;
Act I.]
TITUS ANDRONICTTS
( Scene II
And now at last, laden with honour's spoils,
Returns the good Andronicus to Rome,
Renowned Titus, flourishing in arms.
Let us entreat, by honour of his name,
Whom worthily you would have now succeed,
And in the Capitol and senate's right,
Whom you pretend to honour and adore,
That you withdraw you, and abate your strength;
Dismiss your followers, and, as suitors should,
Plead your deserts in peace and humbleness.
Sat. How fair the tribune speaks to calm my
thoughts !
Bass. Marcus Andronicus, so I do affy
In thy uprightness and integrity,
And so I love and honour thee and thine,
Thy noble brother Titus and his sons,
And her to whom my thoughts are humbled all,
Gracious Lavinia, Rome's rich ornament,
That I will here dismiss my loving friends ;
And to my fortunes and the people's favour
Commit my cause in balance to be weigh' d.
[Exeunt Followers of BASSIAXTJS.
Sat. Friends, that have been thus forward in
my right,
1 thank you all, and here dismiss you all ;
And to the love and favour of my country
Commit myself, my person, and the cause.
[Exeunt Followers of SATURXIXUS.
Rome, be as just and gracious unto me,
As I am confident and kind to thee.
Open the gates and let me in.
Bass. Tribunes, and me, a poor competitor.
[Flourish. They go up into the Senate-house.
SCENE II. The same.
Enter a Captain, and others.
Cap. Romans, make way: the good Andromcus,
Patron of virtue, Rome's best champion,
Successful in the battles that he fights,
With honour and with fortune is return'd,
From where he circumscribed with his sword,
And brought to yoke, the enemies of Rome.
[Sound drums and trumpets, amd then enter two
of TITUS' Sons. After them two Men bearing
a coffin covered with black: then two other
Sons. After them TITUS AXDROXICUS ; and
then TAMORA, the queen of Goths, and her
iwo Sons, CHIRON and DEMETRIUS, with
AARON the Moor, and others, as many as can
be. They set down the coffin, and TITUS
speaks.
Tit. Hail, Rome, victorious in thy mourning
weeds!
10
Lo, as the bark that hath discharg'd her fraught,
Returns with precious lading to the bay
From whence at first she weigh'd her anchorage,
Cometh Andronicus, bound with laurel boughs,
To re-salute his country with his tears,
Tears of true joy for his return to Rome.
Thou great defender of this Capitol,
Stand gracious to the rites that we intend !
Romans, of five-and-twenty valiant sons,
Half of the number that king Priam had,
Behold the poor remains, alive, and dead !
These that survive let Rome reward with love :
These that I bring unto their latest home,
With burial amongst their ancestors.
Here Goths have given me leave to sheath my
sword.
Titus, unkind, and careless of thine own,
Why suffer 5 st thou thy sons, unburied yet,
To hover on the dreadful shore of Styx ?
Make way to lay them by their brethren.
[They open the tomb.
There greet in silence, as the dead are wont,
And sleep in peace, slain in your country's wars :
O sacred receptacle of my joys,
Sweet cell of virtue and nobility,
How many sons of mine hast thou in store,
That thou wilt never render to me more !
Luc. Give us the proudest prisoner of the
Goths,
That we may hew his limbs, and on a pile,
Ad manes fratrum, sacrifice his flesh,
Before this earthy* prison of their bones;
That so the shadows be not unappeas'd,
Nor we disturb 'd with prodigies on earth.
Tit. I give him you, the noblest that survives,
The eldest son of this b distressed queen.
Tarn. Stay, Roman brethren, gracious con-
queror,
Victorious Titus, rue the tears I shed,
A mother's tears in passion for her son :
And if thy sons were ever dear to thee,
O think my son to be as dear to me.
Sufiiceth not, that we are brought to Rome
To beautify thy triumphs, and return
Captive to thee, and to thy Roman yoke ;
But must my sons be slaughter'd in the streets,
For valiant doings in their country's cause ?
O, if to fight for king and commonweal
Were piety in thine, it is in these.
Andronicus, stain not thy tomb with blood,
Wilt thou draw near the nature of the gods ?
Draw near them then in being merciful :
Earthy, in both quartos. The folio, earthly.
b Thi,, in the folio. The.quarto, hit.
ACT I.]
TITUS A.NDRONICUS.
[SCEKK II.
Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge.
Thrice-noble Titus, spare iny first-born son.
Tit. Patient* yourself, madam, and pardon
me.
These are the b brethren, whom you Goths beheld
Alive and dead, and for their brethren slain
Religiously they ask a sacrifice :
To this your son is mark'd, and die he must,
T' appease their groaning shadows that are gone.
Luc. Away with him, and make a fire
straight ;
And with our swords, upon a pile of wood,
Let 's hew Ids limbs till they be clean consum'd.
[Exeunt TITUS' Sons with ALARBUS.
Tarn. cruel, irreligious piety !
Chi. Was ever Scythia half so barbarous ?
Dcmet, Oppose not' Scythia to ambitious
Rome.
Alarbus goes to rest, and we survive
To tremble under Titus' threat'ning look.
Then, madam, stand resolv'd ; but hope withal.
The self-same gods that arm'd the queen of
Troy
With opportunity of sharp revenge
Upon the Thracian tyrant in his tent,
May favour Tamora, the queen of Goths,
(When Goths were Goths, and Tamora was
queen,)
To quit the bloody wrongs upon her foes.
Enter the Sons of ANDRONICUS again.
Luc. See, lord and father, how we havfi per-
form'd
Our Roman rites : Alarbus' limbs are lopp'd,
And entrails feed the sacrificing fire,
Whose smoke, like incense, doth perfume the
sky.
Remaineth nought, but to inter our brethren,
And with loud 'larums welcome them to Rome.
Tit. Let it be so, and let Andronicus
Make this his latest farewell to their souls.
[Flourish. Sound trumjiets, and they lay
the coffin in the tomb.
In peace and honour rest you here, my sons ;
Rome's readiest champions, repose you here in
rest,
Secure from worldly chances and mishaps :
Here lurks no treason, here no envy swells,
Here grow no damned grudges ; here are no
storms,
No noise, but silence and eternal sleep.
In peace and honour rest you here, my sons.
a Patient as a verb.
*> The, in the folio. The quarto, lltfir.
'Not. So the quaito. The folio, me.
Eater LAVINIA.
Lav. In peace and honour live lord Titus
long;
My noble lord and father, live in fame !
Lo, at this tomb my tributary tears
I render for my brethren's obsequies :
And at thy feet I kneel, with tears of joy
Shed on the earth for thy return to Rome.
O bless me here with thy victorious hand,
Whose fortunes" Rome's best citizens applaud.
Tit. Kind Rome, thou hast thus lovingly re-
serv'd
The cordial of mine age to glad my heart !
Lavinia, live ; outlive thy father's days,
And fame's eternal date, for virtue's praise.
Enter MARCUS ANDRONICUS, SATURNINUS,
BASSIANUS, and others.
Marc. Long live lord Titus, my beloved
brother,
Gracious triumpher in the eyes of Rome !
Tit. Thanks, gentle tribune, noble brother
Marcus.
Marc. And welcome, nephews, from successful
wars,
You that survive, and you that sleep in fame :
Fair lords, your fortunes are alike in alL, b
That in your country's service drew your swords.
But safer triumph is this funeral pomp,
That hath aspired to Solon's happiness,
And triumphs o\er chance in honour's bed.
Titus Andronieus, the people of Rome,
Whose friend in justice thou hast ever beer.,
Send thee by me, their tribune and their trust,
This palliament c of white and spotless hue,
And name thee in election for the empire,
With these our late deceased emperor's sous :
Be candidatus then, and put it on,
And help to set a head on headless Rome.
Tit. A better head her glorious body fits,
Than his that shakes for age and feebleness.
What ! should I don this rota, and trouble you ?
Be chosen with proclamations to-day,
To-morrow yield up rule, resign my life,
And set abroad new business for you all ?
Rome, I have been thy soldier forty years,
And led my country's strength successfully,
And buried one-and-twenty valiant sons,
Knighted in field, slain manfully in arms,
In right and service of their noble country ;
Give me a staff of honour for mine age,
Fortu.net, in the quarto. The folio, fortune.
*> The folio has, " all alike in all."
c PalliamcntTobe.
11
ACT I.]
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
[SCCIIE II.
But not a sceptre to control the world !
Upright he held it, lords, that held it last.
Marc. Titus, thou shalt obtain and ask the
empery.
Sat. Proud and ambitious tribune, canst thou
tell?
Tit. Patience, prince Saturninus.
Sat. Romans, do me right.
Patricians, draw your swords, and sheath them
not
Till Saturninus be Rome's emperor :
Androuicus, would thou wert shipp'd to hell,
Rather than rob me of the people's hearts.
Luc. Proud Saturnine, interrupter of the good
That noble-minded Titus means to thee !
Tit. Content thee, prince, I will restore to thee
The people's hearts, and wean them from them-
selves.
Bass. Andronicus, I do not flatter thee,
But honour thee, and will do till I die :
My faction if thou strengthen with thy friends,
I will most thankful be, and thanks to men
Of noble minds is honourable meed.
Tit. People of Rome, and people's* tribunes
here,
I ask your voices and your suffrages ;
Will you bestow them friendly on Andronicus ?
Tribunes. To gratify the good Andronicus,
And gratulate his safe return to Rome,
The people will accept whom he admits.
Tit. Tribunes, I thank you: and this suit I
make,
That you create your emperor's eldest son,
Lord Saturnine, whose virtues will, I hope,
Reflect on Rome as Titan's rays on earth,
And ripen justice in this commonweal :
Then, if you will elect by my advice,
Crown him, and say, ' Long live our emperor ! '
Marc. With voices and applause of every sort,
Patricians, and plebeians, we create
Lord Saturninus Rome's great emperor ;
And say, ' Long live our emperor, Saturnine ! '
\_A long flourish, till they come down.
Sat. Titus Andronicus, for thy favours done
To us in our election this day,
I give thee thanks in part of thy deserts,
And will with deeds requite thy gentleness :
And for an onset, Titus, to advance
Thy name, and honourable family,
Lavinia will I make my empress,
Rome's royal mistress, mistress of my heart,
And in the sacred Pantheon b her espouse :
People'}, in the quarto. The folio, noble.
b Pantheon, in the second folio. All the earlier copiea
Panlhan.
12
Tell me, Andronicus, doth this motion please
thee?
Tit. It doth, my worthy lord; and in this
match
I hold me higldy honoured of your grace,
And here, in sight of Rome, to Saturnine,
King and commander of our common-weal,
The wide world's emperor, do I consecrate
My sword, my chariot, and my prisoners,
Presents well worthy Rome's imperial lord :
Receive them then, the tribute that I owe,
Mine honour's ensigns humbled at thy feet.
Sat. Thanks, noble Titus, father of my life !
How proud I am of thee, and of thy gifts,
Rome shall record ; and when I do forget
The least of these unspeakable deserts,
Romans, forget your fealty to me.
Tit. Now, madam, are you prisoner to an
emperor ; [To TAMORA,
To him that, for your honour and your state,
Will use you nobly, and your followers.
Sat. A goodly lady, trust me, of the hue
That I would choose, were I to choose anew :
Clear up, fair queen, that cloudy countenance :
Though chance of war hath wrought this change
of cheer,
Thou com'st not to be made a scorn in Rome :
Princely shall be thy usage every way.
Rest on my word, and let not discontent
Daunt all your hopes : madam, he comforts you,
Can make you greater than the queen of Goths ,
Lavinia, you are not displeas'd with this ?
Lav. Not I, my lord, sith true nobility
Warrants these words in princely courtesy.
Sat. Thanks, sweet Laviuia. Romans, let us go .
Ransomless here we set our prisoners free.
Proclaim our honours, lords, with trump and
drum.
Bass. Lord Titus, by your leave, this maid is
mine. [Seizing LAVINIA.
Tit. How, sir? are you in earnest then, my
lord?
Bass. Ay, noble Titus, and resolv'd withal
To do myself this reason and this right.
Marc. Suum cuique is our Roman justice ;
This prince in justice seizeth but his own.
Luc. And that he will and shall, if Lucius live.
Tit. Traitors, avaunt ! where is the emperor's
guard?
Treason, my lord ! Lavinia is surpris'd.
Sat. Surpris'd ? by whom ?
Bass. By him that justly may
Bear his betroth'd from all the world away.
[Sratxt MARCUS and BASSIANUS, with
LAV ix i A.
ACT I.)
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
[SCBJJK II
Mut. Brothers, help to convey her hence
away,
And with my sword I '11 keep this door safe.
[Exeunt Lucius, QUINTUS, and MARTIUS.
Tit. Follow, my lord, and I '11 soon bring her
back.
Mut. My lord, you pass not here.
Tit. What ! villain boy, barr'st me my way in
Rome ?
Mut. Help, Lucius, help ! [TiTUS kills him.
Re-enter Lucius.
JMC. My lord, you are unjust, and more than
so;
In wrongful quarrel you have slain your son.
Tit. Nor thou, nor he, are any sons of mine :
My sons would never so dishonour me.
Traitor, restore Lavinia to the emperor.
Luc. Dead, if you will, but not to be his wife,
That is another's lawful promis'd love. [Exit.
Enter aloft the EMPEROR, with TAMORA and her
two Sons, and AARON the Moor.
Sat. No, Titus, no : the emperor needs her not.
Nor her, nor thee, nor any of thy stock :
I '11 trust, by leisure, him that mocks me once ;
Thee never, nor thy traitorous haughty sons,
Confederates all, thus to dishonour me.
Was none in Rome to make a stale but Satur-
nine?'
Full well, Andronicus,
Agree these deeds with that proud brag of thine,
That saidst, I begg'd the empire at thy hands.
Tit. O monstrous ! what reproachful words
are these ?
Sat. But go thy ways ; go, give that changing
piece
To him that flourish'd for her with his sword :
A valiant son-in-law thou shalt enjoy ;
One fit to bandy with thy lawless sons,
To ruffle in the commonwealth of Rome.
Tit. These words are razors to my wounded
heart.
Sat. And therefore, lovely Tamora, queen of
Goths,
That, like the stately Phoebe 'mongst her nymphs,
Dost overshine the gallant'st dames of Rome,
If thou be pleas'd with this my sudden choice,
Behold I choose thee, Tamora, for my bride,
And will create thee empress of Rome.
Speak, queen of Goths; dost thou applaud my
choice ?
The second folio has
" Was there none else in Rome, to make a stale,
But Saturnin;?"
And here I swear by all the Roman gods,
Sith priest and holy water are so near,
And tapers burn so bright, and everything
In readiness for Hymeneus stand,
I will not re-salute the streets of Rome,
Or climb my palace, till from forth this place
I lead espous'd my bride along with me.
Tarn. And here, in sight of heaven, to Rome
I swear,
If Saturnine advance the queen of Goths,
She will a handmaid be to his desires,
A. loving nurse, a mother to his youth.
Sat. Ascend, fair queen, Pantheon: Lords,
accompany
Your noble emperor and his lovely bride,
Sent by the heavens for prince Saturnine,
Whose wisdom hath her fortune conquered :
There shall we consummate our spousal rites.
\_Exeunt SAT. and his Followers ; TAMOKA,
and her Sons ; AARON, and Goths.
Tit. I am not bid to wait upon this bride ;
Titus, when wert thou wont to walk alone,
Dishonour'd thus, and challenged of wrongs P
Re-enter MARCUS, Lucius, QUINTUS, and
MARTIUS.
Mare. O Titus, see ! see what thou hast
done !
In a bad quarrel slain a virtuous son.
Tit. No, foolish tribune, no : no son of
mine,
Nor thou, nor these, confederates in the deed
That hath dishonour'd all our family ;
Unworthy brother, and unworthy sons !
Luc. But let us give him burial as becomes :
Give Mutius burial with our brethren.
Tit. Traitors, away ! he rests not in this tomb :
This monument five hundred years hath stood,
Which I have sumptuously re-edified :
Here none but soldiers, and Rome's servitors,
Repose in fame, none basely slain in brawls :
Bury him where you can ; he comes not here.
Marc. My lord, this is impiety in you :
My nephew Mutius' deeds do plead for him :
He must be buried with his brethren.
Quint., Mart. And shall, or him we will ac-
company.
Tit. And shall! What villain was it spake
that word P
Quint. He that would vouch it in any place
but here.
Tit. What! would you bury him in my
despite ?
Marc. No, noble Titus ; but entreat of thee
To pardon Mutius, and to bury him.
13
ACT I.]
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
[SCENE fl.
Tit. Marcus, even thou hast struck upon my
crest,
And with these boys mine honour thou hast
wounded :
My foes I do repute you every one.
So trouble me no more, but get you gone.
Mart. He is not with himself ; a let ua with-
draw.
Quint. Not I, till Mutius' bones be buried.
[The Brother and the Sons kneel.
Mare. Brother, for in that name doth nature
plead.
Quint. Father, and in that name doth nature
Tit. Speak thou no more, if all the rest will
speed.
Marc. Renowned Titus, more than half my
soul!
Luc. Dear father! soul and substance of us
all!
Marc. Suffer thy brother Marcus to inter
His noble nephew here in virtue's nest,
That died in honour and Lavinia's cause.
Thou art a Roman, be not barbarous :
The Greeks, upon advice, did bury Ajax,
That slew himself : and wise Laertes' son
Did graciously plead for his funerals :
Let not young Mutius then, that was thy joy,
Be barr'd his entrance here.
Tit. Rise, Marcus, rise !
The dismall'st day is this that e'er I saw,
To be dishonour'd by my sons in Rome :
Well, bury him, and bury me the next.
[They put MUTIUS in the tomb.
Luc. There lie thy bones, sweet Mutius, with
thy friends,
Till we with trophies do adorn thy tomb.
[They all kneel and say,
No man shed tears for noble Mutius ;
He lives in fame that died in virtue's cause.
[Exeunt all but MARCUS and TITUS.
Marc. My lord, to step out of these sudden b
dumps,
How comes it that the subtle queen of Goths
Is of a sudden thus advanc'd in Rome ?
Tit. I know not, Marcus : but I know it is ;
Whether by device, or no, the heavens can tell ;
Is she not then beholding to the man
That brought her for this high good turn so
far?
Yes ; and will nobly him remunerate.'
With himself, in the quarto. The folio omits with.
b Sudden, in the folio. The quarto, dreary.
c This line, found in the folio, is wanting in the quarto.
It was, probably, not intended to be spoken by Titus, and
lome recent editors give it to Marcus.
14
Enter the EMPEROR, TAMORA and her two Sons,
with the Moor, at one side ; enter at the other
side, BASSIANUS and LAVINIA, with others.
Sat. So, Bassianus, you have play'd your prize!
God give you joy, sir, of your gallant bride !
Bass. And you of yours, my lord. I say no
more,
Nor wish no less ; and so I take my leave.
Sat. Traitor, if Rome have law, or we have
power,
Thou and thy faction shall repent this rape.
Bass. Rape call you it, my lord, to seize my
own,
My true betrothed love, and now my wife ?
But let the laws of Rome determine all ;
Meanwhile I am possess'd of that is mine.
Sat. 'Tis good, sir; you are very short with
us;
But, if we live, we '11 be as sharp with you.
Bass. My lord, what I have done, as best I
may
Answer I must, and shall do with my life.
Only thus much I give your grace to know :
By all the duties that I owe to Rome,
This noble gentleman, lord Titus here,
Is in opinion and in honour wrong' d,
That, in the rescue of Lavinia,
With his own hand did slay his youngest son,
In zeal to you, and highly mov'd to wrath
To be controll'd in that he frankly gave.
Receive him, then, to favour, Saturnine,
That hath express'd himself, in all his deeds,
A father and a friend to thee and Rome.
Tit. Prince Bassianus, leave to plead my
deeds :
'Tis thou, and those, that have dishonour'd me.
Rome, and the righteous heavens, be my judge,
How I have lov'd and honour'd Saturnine.
Tarn. My worthy lord, if ever Tamora
Were gracious in those princely eyes of thine,
Then hear me speak, indifferently for all :
And at my suit, sweet, pardon what is past.
Sat. What, madam ! be dishonour'd openly,
And basely put it up without revenge ?
Tarn. Not so, my lord ; the gods of Rome
forfend
I should be author to dishonour you.
But on mine honour, dare I undertake
For good lord Titus' innocence in all ;
Whose fury not dissembled speaks his griefs j
Then, at my suit, look graciously on him :
Lose not so noble a friend on vain suppose ;
Nor with sour looks afflict his gentle heart.
My lord, be rul'd by me, be won at last ,
ACT I.]
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
[SCENE II
Dissemble all your griefs and discontents :
You are but newly planted in your throne ;
Lest then the people, and patricians too,
Upon a just survey take Titus' part,
And so supplant us for ingratitude,
Which Rome reputes to be a heinous sin,
Yield at entreats, and then let me alone :
I '11 find a day to massacre them all ;
And raze their faction and their family,
The cruel father, and his traitorous sons,
To whom I sued for my dear son's life ;
And make them know, what 't is to let a queen
Kneel in the streets, and beg for grace in vain.
[The preceding fourteen lines are spoken
aside.
Come, come, sweet emperor ; come, Andronicus ;
Take up this good old man, and cheer the heart
That dies in tempest of thy angry frown.
Xing. Rise, Titus, rise; my empress hath
prevail'd.
Tit. I thank your majesty, and her, my lord.
These words, these looks, infuse new life in me.
Tarn. Titus, I am incorporate in Rome,
A Roman now adopted happily,
And must advise the emperor for his good.
This day all quarrels die, Andronicus ;
And let it be mine honour, good my lord,
That I have reconcil'd your friends and you.
For you, prince Bassianus, I have pass'd
My word and promise to the emperor,
That you will be more mild and tractable :
And fear not, lords : and you, Lavinia,
Vs. So the folio. Recent editors print you; but
Tamora in her own royal condition associates herself with
the fortunes of the Emperor. Her proposed revenges as
Be immediately see, are those of "a queen."
By my advice, all humbled on your knees,
You shall ask pardon of his majesty.
Luc. We do ; and vow to heaven, and to his
highness,
That what we did was mildly, as we might,
Tend'ring our sister's honour and our own.
Marc. That on mine honour here I do pro-
test.
Sat. Away, and talk not ; trouble us no
rrore.
Tarn. Nay, nay, sweet emperor, we must all
be friends :
The tribune and his nephews kneel for grace ;
I will not be denied. Sweet heart, look back.
Sat. Marcus, for thy sake, and thy brother's
here,
And at my lovely Tamora' s entreats,
I do remit these young men's heinous faults.
Stand up. Lavinia, though you left me like a
churl,
I found a friend : and sure as death I sware,*
I would not part a bachelor from the priest.
Come, if the emperor's court can feast two brides,
You are my guest, Lavinia, and your friends :
This day shall be a love-day, Tamora.
Tit. To-morrow, an it please your majesty
To hunt the panther and the hart with me,
With horn and hound, we'll give your grace
bon-jour.
Sat. Be it so, Titus, and gramercy too.
[Rrennt
* Sware, in the folio. The quarto, iu-orc.
'.',''
ACT II.
SCENE I. Rome. Before the Palace.
Enter AARON.
Aaron. Now climbeth Tamora Olympus' top,
Safe out of Fortune's shot ; and sits aloft,
Secure of thunder's crack or lightning flash,
Advanc'd above pale envy's threat'ning reach :
As when the golden sun salutes the morn,
And, having gilt the ocean with his beams,
Gallops the zodiac in his glistering coach,
And overlooks the highest peering hills ;
So Tamora.
Upon her wit doth earthly honour wait,
And virtue stoops and trembles at her frown.
Then, Aaron, arm thy heart, and fit thy
thoughts,
To mount aloft with thy imperial mistress,
And mount her pitch, whom thou in triumph
long
Hast prisoner held, fetter'd in amorous chains,
And faster bound to Aaron's charming eyes
Than is Prometheus tied to Caucasus.
16
Away with slavish weeds and servile* thoughts
I will be bright, and shine in pearl and gold,
To wait upon this new-made empress.
To wait, said I ? to wanton with this queen,
This goddess, this Semiramis, this nymph, b
This syren, that will charm Rome's Saturnine,
And see his shipwrack, and his commonweal's.
Hollo ! what storm is this ?
Enter CHIRON and DEMETRIUS, braving.
Demet. Chiron, thy years want wit, thy wit
wants edge,
And manners, to intrude where I am grac'd ;
And may, for aught thou know'st, affected be.
Chi. Demetrius, thou dost overween in all ;
And so in this, to bear me down with braves.
'T is not the difference of a year or two
Makes me less gracious, or thee more fortunate :
a Servile, in the quarto of 1600; the folio, idle, and so the
quarto of 1611.
b Nymph, in the quarto of 1600; the folio and the quarto
of 1611, queen.
Ac-rll.]
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
SCENE I.
I am as able, and as fit, as thou,
To serve, and to deserve ray mistress's grace ;
And that my sword upon thee shall approve,
And plead my passions for Lavinia's love.
Aaron. Clubs, clubs ! these lovers will not
keep the peace.
Demet. Why, boy, although our mother, un-
advis'd,
Gave you a dancing rapier by your side,
Are you so desperate grown to threat your
friends ?
Go to ; have your lath glued within your sheath,
Till you know better how to handle it.
Chi. Meanwhile, sir, with the little skill I
have,
Full well shalt thou perceive how much I dare.
Demet. Ay, boy, grow ye so brave ?
[They draw.
Aaron. Why, how now, lords ?
So near the emperor's palace dare you draw,
And maintain such a quarrel openly ?
Full well I wot the ground of all this grudge ;
I would not for a million of gold
The cause were known to them it most concerns.
Nor would your noble mother, for much more,
Be so dishonour'd in the court of Rome.
For shame, put up.
Demet. Not I, till I have sheath'd
My rapier in his l-osom, and, withal,
Thrust those reproachful speeches down his
throat,
That he hath breath'd in my dishonour here.
Chi. For that I am prepar'd, and full resolv'd,
Foul-spoken coward, that thund'rest with thy
tongue,
And with thy weapon nothing dar'st perform.
Aaron. Away, I say !
Now, by the gods that warlike Goths adore,
This petty brabble will undo us all !
Why, lords, and think you not how dan-
gerous
It is to jet upon a prince's right ?
What, is Lavinia then become so loose,
Or Bassianus so degenerate,
That for her love such quarrels may be broach' d,
Without controlment, justice, or revenge P
Young lords, beware; and should the empress
know
This discord's ground, the music would not
please.
Chi. I care not, I, knew she, and all the world,
1 love Lavinia more than all the world.
Demet. Youngling, learn thou to make some
meaner choice :
Lavinia is thine elder brother's hope.
SUP. VOL. C
Aaron. Why, are ye mad P 01 know ye not
in Rome,
How furious and impatient they be,
And cannot brook competitors in love ?
I tell you, lords, you do but plot your deaths
By this device.
Chi. Aaron, a thousand deaths would I pro-
pose,
To achieve her whom I love.
Aaron. To achieve her, how F
Demet. Why mak'st thou it so strange ?
She is a woman, therefore may be woo'd ;
She is a woman, therefore may be won ;
She is Lavinia, therefore must be lov'd.
What, man ! more water glideth by the mill
Than wots the miller of ; and easy it is
Of a cut loaf to steal a shive, we know :
Though Bassianus be the emperor's brother,
Better than he have worn Vulcan's badge.
Aaron. Ay, and as good as Saturniuus may.
Demet. Then why should he despair that
knows to court it
With words, fair looks, and liberality ?
What, hast not thou full often struck a doe,
And borne her cleanly by the keeper's nose ?
Aaron. Why, then, it seems, some cert ait
snatch or so
Would serve your turns.
Chi. Ay, so the turn were serv'd,
Demet. Aaron, thou hast hit it.
Aaron. Would you had hit it too,
Then should not we be tir'd with tlu's ado.
Why, hark ye, hark ye, and are you such fools
To square for this ? would it offend you then
That both should speed ! <<l
Chi. Faith, not me.
Demet. Nor me, so I were one.
Aaron. For shame, be friends, and join for
that you jar.
'T is policy and stratagem must do
That you affect, and so must you resolve
That what you cannot as you would achieve
You must perforce accomplish as you may :
Take this of me, Lucrece was not more chaste
Than this Lavinia, Bassianus' love.
A speedier course than b ling'ring languishment
Must we pursue, and I have found the path.
My lords, a solemn hunting is in hand ;
There will the lovely Roman ladies troop :
The forest walks are wide and spacious,
And many unfrequented plots there are,
Fitted by kind for rape and villainy :
This line is omitted in the folio: the seme is incomplete
without it.
b Than in the original copies, thit.
17
ACT II.].
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
[SCENES II., I!T.
Single you thither then this dainty doe,
And strike her home by force, if not by words :
This way, or not at all, stand you in hope
Come, come, our empress, with her sacred" wit,
To villainy and vengeance consecrate,
Will we acquaint with all that we intend ;
And she shall file our engines with advice,
That will not suffer you to square yourselves.
But to your wishes' height advance you both.
The emperor's court is like the house of fame,
The palace full of tongues, of eyes, of ears :
The woods are ruthless, dreadful, deaf, and dull :
There speak, and strike, brave boys, and take
your turns.
There serve your lust, shadow' d from heaven's
eye,
And revel in Lavinia's treasury.
Chi. Thy counsel, lad, smells of no cowardice.
Demet. Sit fas aut nefas, till I find the stream
To cool this heat, a charm to calm these fits.
Per Styga, per manes vehor. [Exeunt.
SCENE II. A Forest.
Enter TITTJS ANDRONICUS, his three Sons, and
MARCUS, making a noise with hounds and
Tit. The hunt is up, the morn is bright and
grey,
The fields are fragrant, and the woods are green ;
Uncouple here, and let us make a bay,
And wake the emperor and his lovely bride,
And rouse the prince, and ring a hunter's peal,
That all the court may echo with the noise.
Sons, let it be your charge, as it is ours,
To attend the emperor's person carefully :
I have been troubled in my sleep this night,
But dawning day new comfort hath inspir'd.
Here a cry of hounds, and wind horns in a peal ;
then enter SATURNINUS, TAMORA, BASSIANUS,
LAVINIA, CHIRON, DEMETRIUS, and their at-
tendants.
Tit. Many good morrows to your majesty;
Madam, to you as many and as good.
I promised your grace a hunter's peal.
Sat. And you have rung it lustily, my lords ;
Somewhat too early for new-married ladies.
Bass. Lavinia, how say you ?
Lav. I say no :
I have been broad awake two hours and more.
Sat. Come on, then ; horse and chariots let us
have,
And to our sport : madam, now shall ye see
Our Roman hunting.
Marc. I have dogs, my lord,
Will rouse the proudest panther in the chase,
And climb the highest promontory top.
Tit. And I have horse will follow where the
game
Makes way, and run like swallows o'er the plain.
Demet. Chiron, we hunt not, we, with horse
nor hound ;
But hope to pluck a dainty doe to ground.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III. The Purest.
Enter AARON.
Aaron. He that had wit would think that I
had none,
To bury so much gold under a tree,
And never after to inherit it.
Let him that thinks of me so abjectly
Know that this gold must coin a stratagem,
Which, cunningly effected, will beget
A very excellent piece of villainy :
And so repose, sweet gold, for their unrest,
That have their alms out of the empress' chest.
Enter TAMORA.
Tarn. My lovely Aaron, wherefore look'st
thou sad,
When everything doth make a gleeful boast P
The birds chant melody on every bush ;
The snake lies rolled in the cheerful sun ;
The green leaves quiver with the cooling wind,
And make a checker' d shadow on the ground :
Under their sweet shade, Aaron, let us sit,
And, whilst the babbling echo mocks the hounds,
Replying shrilly to the well-tun'd horns,
As if a double hunt were heard at once,
Let us sit down and mark their yelping" noise :
And, after conflict such as was suppos'd
The wand'ring prince and Dido once enjoy'd,
When with a happy storm they were surpris'd,
And curtain'd with a counsel-keeping cave,
We may, each wreathed in the other's arms,
Our pastimes done, possess a golden slumber,
While hounds, and horns, and sweet melodious
birds,
Be unto us as is a nurse's song
Of lullaby, to bring her babe asleep.
Aaron. Madam, though Venus govern your
desires,
Saturn is dominator over mine :
Sacred in the Latin sense, nccvrted
18
Yelling. So the folio commonly, yrlling.
kCT II.]
TITUS ANDROXICUS.
What signifies my deadly standing eye,
My silence, and my cloudy melancholy,
My fleece of woolly hair, that now uncurls
Even as an adder when she doth unroll
To do some fatal execution ?
No, madam, these are no venereal signs ;
Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand,
Blood and revenge are hammering in my head.
Hark, Tamora, the empress of my soul,
Which never hopes more heaven than rests in
thee,
This is the day of doom for Bassianus ;
His Philomel must lose her tongue to-day ;
Thy sons make pillage of her chastity,
And wash their hands in Bassianus' blood.
Seest thou this letter ? take it up, I pray thee,
And give the king this fatal-plotted scroll.
Now question me no more ; we are espied :
Here comes a parcel of our hopeful booty,
Which dreads not yet their lives' destruction.
Enter BASSIANCJS and LAVINIA.
Tarn. Ah, my sweet Moor, sweeter to me than
life!
Aaron. No more, great empress, Bassianus
comes.
Be cross with him ; and I '11 go fetch thy
sons
To back thy quarrels, whatsoe'er they be.
Bass. Who have we here ? B,ome's royal
empress,
Unfurnish'd of her well-beseeming troop ?
Or is it Dian, habited like her,
Who hath abandoned her holy groves,
To see the general hunting in this forest ?
Tarn. Saucy controller of our private steps,
Had I the power that some say Dian had,
Thy temples should be planted presently
With horns as was Actseon's, and the hounds
Should drive upon thy new-transformed limbs,
Unmannerly intruder as thou art !
L<tv. Under your patience, gentle empress,
'T is thought you have a goodly gift in horning,
And to be doubted that your Moor and you
Are singled forth to try experiments :
Jove shield your husband from his hounds to-
day;
'T is pity they should take him for a stag.
Bass. Believe me, queen, your swarth Cim-
merian
Doth make your honour of his body's hue,
Spotted, detested, and abominable.
Why are you sequestered from all your train P
Dismounted from your snow-white goodly steed,
And wander'd hither to an obscure plot,
C 2
Accompanied but 1 with a barbarous Moor,
If foul desire had not conducted you ?
Lac. And, being intercepted in your sport,
Great reason that my noble lord be rated
For sauciness : I pray you, let us hence,
And let her 'joy her raven-colour'd love ;
This valley fits the purpose passing well.
Bass. The king, my brother, shall have note b
of this.
Lav. Ay, for these slips have made him noted
long;
Good king, to be so mightily abused !
Tarn. Why have F patience to endure all this ?
Enter CHIKON and DEMETRIUS.
Demet. How now, dear sovereign, and our
gracious mother,
Why doth your highness look so pale and wan ?
Tarn. Have I not reason, think you, to look
pale?
These two have 'tic'd me hither to this place,
A barren detested vale, you see it is ;
The trees, though summer, yet forlorn and lean,
O'ercome with moss and baleful misseltoe.
Here never shines the sun ; here nothing breeds,
Unless the nightly owl, or fatal raven :
And when they show'd me this abhorred pit,
They told me here, at dead time of the night,
A thousand fiends, a thousand hissing snakes,
Ten thousand swelling toads, as many urchins,
Would make such fearful and confused cries,
As any mortal body, hearing it,
Should straight fall mad, or else die suddenly.
No sooner had they told this hellish tale,
But straight they told me they would bind me
here,
Unto the body of a dismal yew,
And leave me to this miserable death.
And then they call'd me foul adulteress,
Lascivious Goth, and all the bitterest terms
That ever ear did hear to such effect.
And had you not by wondrous fortune come,
This vengeance on me had they executed :
Bxvenge it, as you love your mother's life,
Or be ye not henceforth call'd my children.
Demet. This is a witness that I am thy son.
[Stabs him.
Chi. And this for me, struck home to show my
strength. [Stabs him likewise.
Lav. Ay, come, Semiramis,--nay, barbarous
Tamora !
For no name fits thy nature but thy own.
* But. The edition of 1600 has this word.
h Note. In the folio and quartos, notieet.
o Hare I. Tbe original copies, I hare.
18
ACT II.]
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
Eicr IV.
Tarn. Give me thy poniard ; you shall know,
my boys,
Your mother's hand shall right your mother's
wrong.
Demet. Stay, madam ; here is more belongs to
her;
First thresh the corn, then after burn the straw:
This minion stood upon her chastity,
Upon her nuptial vow, her loyalty,
And with that paiuted hope braves your mighti-
ness :
And shall she carry this unto her grave?
Chi. An if she do, I would I were an eunuch.
1 )rag hence her husband to some secret hole,
And make his dead trunk pillow to our lust.
Tarn. But when ye have the honey ye desire,
Let not this wasp outlive us both to sting.
Chi. I warrant you, madam, we will make
that sure.
Come, mistress, now perforce we will enjoy
That nice preserved honesty of yours.
Lav. Oh, Tamora! thou bear'st a woman's
face
Tarn. I will not hear her speak ; away with
her!
Lav. Sweet lords, entreat her tear me but a
word.
Demet. Listen, fair madam; let it be your
glory
To see her tears, but be your heart to them
As unrelenting flint to drops of rain.
Lav. When did the tiger's young ones teach
the dam ?
0, do not learn her wrath ; she taught it thee.
The milk thou suck'st from her did turn to
marble ;
Even at thy teat thou hadst thy tyranny.
Yet every mother breeds not sons alike ;
Do thou entreat her show a woman pity.
[ft CHIRON.
Chi. What ! wouldst thou have me prove my-
self a bastard ?
Lav. 'T is true ; the raven doth not hatch a
lark :
Yet have I heard. oh could I find it now !
The lion, mov'd with pity, did endure
To have his princely paws par'd all away.
Some say that ravens foster forlorn children,
The whilst their own birds famish in their nests :
Ob, be to me, though thy hard heart say no,
Nothing so kind, but something pitiful !
Tarn. I know not what it means ; away with
her!
Lav. O let me teach thee ! For my father's
sake,
20
That gave thee life when well he might have
slain thee,
Be not obdurate, open thy deaf ears.
Tarn. Hadst thou in person ne'er offended
me,
Even for his sake am I pitiless.
Remember, boys, I pour'd forth tears in vain,
To save your brother from the sacrifice ;
But fierce Andronicus would not relent :
Therefore, awav with her, and use her as you
will;
The worse to her, the better lov*d of me.
Lav. Oh Tamora, be call'd a gentle queen,
And with thine own hands kill me in this place :
For 't is not life that I have begg'd so long ;
Poor I was slain when Bassianus died.
Tarn. What begg'st thou then ? fond woman,
let me go.
Lav. 'T is present death I beg ; and one thing
more,
That womanhood denies my tongue to tell :
Oh, keep me from their worse than killing lust,
And tumble me into some loathsome pit,
Where never man's eye may behold my body ;
Do this, and be a charitable murderer.
Tarn. So should I rob my sweet sons of their
fee.
No, let them satisfy their lust on thee.
Demet. Away, for thou hast stay'd us here too
long.
Lav. No grace ! no womanhood ! Ah, beastly
creature,
The blot and enemy to our general name !
Confusion fall
Chi. Nay, then I '11 stop your mouth ; bring
thou her husband :
{Dragging O^LAVINIA.
This is the hole where Aaron bid us hide him.
Tarn. Farewell, my sons; see that you make
her sure :
Ne'er let my heart know merry cheer indeed,
Till all the Andronici be made away.
Now will I hence to seek my lovely Moor,
And let my spleenful sons this trull deflour.
[Exit.
SCENE IV. The Forest.
Enter AARON, with QUINTUS and MARTIUS.
Aaron. Come on, my lords, the better foot
before :
Straight will I bring you to the loathsome pit,
Where I espied the panther fast asleep.
Qtdnt. My sight is very dull, whate'er it
bodes.
ACT II.]
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
[Scai-KlV
Mart, And mine, I promise you; were't not
for shame,
Well could I leave our sport to sleep awhile.
[MARTIUS falls into the pit.
Quint. What, art thou fallen? What subtle
hole is this,
Whose mouth is cover'd with rude growing
briers,
Upon whose leaves are drops of new-shed blood,
As fresh as morning's dew distill'd on flowers ?
A very fatal place it seems to me :
Speak, brother, hast thou hurt thee with the
fall?
Mart. O brother, with the dismall'st object
hurt,"
That ever eye with sight made heart lament.
Aaron. [Aside.'] Now will I fetch the king to
find them here,
That he thereby may have a Likely guess,
How these were they that made away his brother.
[jgrtf.
Mart. Why dost not comfort me and help me
out
From this unhalloVd and blood-stained hole ?
Quint. I am surprised with an uncouth fear;
A chilling sweat o'erruns my trembling joints ;
My heart suspects more than mine eye can see.
Mart. To prove thou hast a true-divining
heart,
Aaron and thou look down into this den,
And see a fearful sight of blood and death.
Quint. Aaron is gone, and my compassionate
heart
Will not permit mine eyes once to behold
The thing whereat it trembles by surmise :
Oh, tell me how it is, for ne'er till now
Was I a child, to fear I know not what.
Mart. Lord Bassianus lies embrued here,
All on a heap, like to a slaughter^ lamb,
In this detested, dark, blood-drinking pit.
Quint. If it be dark, how dost thou know 't is
he?
Mart. Upon his bloody finger he doth wear
A precious ring, that lightens all the hole :
Which, like a taper in some monument,
Doth shine upon the dead man's earthy cheeks,
And shows the ragged entrails of this pit :
So pale did shine the moon on Pyramus,
When he by night lay bath'd in maiden blood.
0, brother, help me with thy fainting hand,
If fear hath made thee faint, as me it hath,
Out of tliis fell devouring receptacle,
As hateful as Cocytus' misty mouth.
Hurt. In the quarto of 1600 only.
Quint. Reach me thy hand, that I may help
thee out ;
Or, wanting strength to do thee so much good,
I may be pluck'd into the swallowing womb
Of tliis deep pit, poor Bassianus' grave.
I have no strength to pluck thee to the brink.
Mart. Nor I no strength to climb without thy
help.
Quint. Thy hand once more ; I will not loose
again,
Till thou art here aloft, or I below :
Thou canst not come to me ; I come to thee.
[Falls in.
Enter SATURNINUS and AARON.
Sat. Along with me : I '11 see what hole is
here,
And what he is that now is leap'd into it.
Say, who art thou that lately didst descend
Into this gaping hollow of the earth ?
Mart. The unhappy son of old Andronicus,
Brought hither in a most unlucky hour,
To find thy brother Bassianus dead.
Sat. My brother dead ? I know thou dost but
jest:
He and his lady both are at the lodge,
Upon the north side of this pleasant chase ;
'T is not an hour since I left him there.
Mart. We know not where you left him all
alive,
But out, alas ! here have we found him dead.
Enter TAMORA, ANDRON icus, and Lucius.
Tarn. Where is my lord the king ?
Sat. Here, Tamora, though gnev'd with killing
grief.
Tarn. Where is thy brother Bassianus ?
Sat. Now to the bottom dost thou search mj
wound ;
Poor Bassianus here lies murthered.
Tarn. Then all too late I bring this fatal writ,
The complot of this timeless tragedy ;
And wonder greatly that man's face can fold
In pleasing smiles such murderous tyranny.
[She gives SATURNINE a letter.
SATURNINUS reads the letter.
" An if we miss to meet him handsomely,
Sweet huntsman, Bassianus 't is we mean,
Do thou so much as dig the grave for him ;
Thou know'st our meaning : Look for thy rewaid
Among the nettles at the elder-tree,
Which overshades the mouth of that same pit.
Where we decreed to bury Bassianus.
Do this, and purchase us thy lasting friends."
Sat. Oh Tamora, was ever n ieard the like ?
21 .
A.CT II.]
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
[SCEN
This is the pit, and this the elder-tree :
Look, sirs, if you can find the huntsman out,
That should have murther'd Bassianus here.
Aaron. My gracious lord, here is the bag of
gold.
Sat. Two of thy whelps, [to TITUS] fell curs
of bloody kind,
Have here bereft my brother of his life :
Sirs, drag them from the pit unto the prison ;
There let them bide until we have devis'd
Some never-heard-of torturing pain for them.
Tarn. What, are they in this pit? oh wondrous
thing!
How easily murther is discovered !
Tit. High emperor, upon my feeble knee,
I beg this boon, with tears not lightly shed,
That this fell fault of my accursed sons,
Accursed, if the fault be prov'd in them
Sat. If it be prov'd ! you see it is apparent.
Who found this letter, Tamora ; was it you ?
Tarn. Andronicus himself did take it up.
Tit. I did, my lord; yet let me be their
bail:
For by my father's reverent iomlo I vow
They shall be ready at your highness' will,
To answer their suspicion with their lives.
Sat. Thou shalt not bail them ; see thou follow
me.
Some bring the murther'd body, some the mur-
therers :
Let them not speak a word, the guilt is plain ;
For, by my soul, were there worse end than
death,
That end upon them should be executed.
Tarn. Audronicus, I will entreat the king :
Fear not thy sons ; they shall do well enough.
Tit. Come, Lucius, come; stay not to talk
with them. [Exeunt.
SCENE V.Tke Forest.
Enter DEMETRIUS and CHIRON, with LAVINIA,
Tier hands cut off, and her tongue cut out.
Demet. So now go tell, an if thy tongue can
speak,
Who 't was that cut thy tongue and ravish 'd
thee.
Chi. Write down thy mind, bewray thy mean-
ing so,
A.n if thy stumps will let thee play the scribe.
Demet. See, how with signs and tokens she
can scrowl.
Chi. Go home, ca]l for sweet water, wash thy
hands.
22
Demet. She hath no tongue to call, nor liands
to wash ;
And so, let 's leave her to her silent walks.
Chi. An 't were my cause, 8 1 should go hang
myself.
Demet. If thou hadst hands to help thee knit
the cord. [Exeunt DEJTET. and Cm.
Enter MARCUS, from hunting.
Marc. Who is this ? my niece, that flies away
so fast ?
Cousin, a word ; where is your husband ?
If I do dream, would all my wealth would wake
me!
If I do wake, some planet strike me down,
That I may slumber in eternal sleep !
Speak, gentle niece ; what stern ungentle hands
Have lopp'd, and hew'd, and made thy body
bare
Of her two branches, those sweet ornaments
Whose circling shadows kings have sought to
sleep in,
And might not gain so great a happiness
As have b thy love ? why dost not speak to me ?
Alas, a crimson river of warm blood,
Like to a bubbling fountain stirr'd with wind,
Doth rise and fall between thy rosed lips,
Coming and going with thy honey breath.
But sure some Tereus hath defloured thee,
And, lest thou shouldst detect him, cut thj
tongue.
Ah, now thou turn'st away thy face for shame !
And, notwithstanding all this loss of blood,
As from a conduit with their issuing spouts,
Yet do thy cheeks look red as Titan's face,
Blushing to be encunter'd with a cloud.
Shall I speak for thee ? shall I say, 't is so P
Oh that I knew thy heart, and knew the
beast,
That I might rail at him to ease my mind !
Sorrow concealed, like an oven stcpp'd,
Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is.
Fair Philomela, she but lost her tongue,
And in a tedious sampler sew'd her mind.
But, lovely niece, that mean is cut from thee ;
A craftier Tereus hast thou met withal,'
And he hath cut those pretty fingers off,
That could have better sew'd than Philomel.
Oh ! had the monster seen those lily hands
Tremble like aspen-leaves upon a lute,
And make the silken strings delight to kiss
them,
Cause. So the old editions. In modern copiei, cat.
b Have. The old copies half. Mr. Dyce adopts have,
after Theobald.
t So the folio. The quarto of 1600,
"A craftier Tereus, cousin, hast thou met."
Aci II.]
TITUS ANDRONICTTS.
[SCBMI '
He would not then have touch'd them for his
life.
Or had he heard the heavenly harmony
Which that sweet tongue hath made,
He would have dropp'd his knife, and fell asleep,
As Cerberus at the Thracian poet's feet.
Come, let us go, and make thy father blind ;
For such a sight will blind a father's eje:
One hour's storm will drown the fragrant meads;
What will whole months of tears thy father's
eyes?
Do not draw back, for we will mourn with tliee ;
Oh, could our mourning ease thy misery !
r rev*l.
RECENT SEW READING.
Sc. II. p. 18.
There are few who will make a study of this disagreable play; but it is curious to see how it has been tampered with by
the Corrector of Mr. Collier's folio, in the transformations from blank verse to couplets. Mr. Collier thinks the passage,
is corrected, belong to the time when the play was first written. We think they belong to the period after the Restoration,
rhen rhyming tragedies were in fashion. One parallel example will be sufficient :
ORIGINAL.
The hunt is up, the morn is bright and grey,
The fields are fragrant, and the woods are green ;
Uncouple here and let us make a bay,
And wake the emperor and his lovely bride,
And rouse the prince, and ring a hunter's peal,
That all the court may echo with the noiie.
Sons, let it be your charge, as it is oun,
To attend the emperor's person carefully;
I have been troubled in my sleep this night,
Rut dawning day new comfort hath inspir'J.
CORRECTED FOLIO OF 1632.
The hunt is up, the morn is bright and gay,
The fields are fragrant, and the woods are wide:
Uncouple here, and let us make a bay,
And wake the emperor and his lovely bride,
And rouse the prince, and sing a hunters 'rouni,
That all the court may echo with the tound.
Sons, let it be your charge, and to will I,
To attend the emperor's person carefully:
I have been troubled in my sleep this night,
But dawning day brought comfort and delight.
[Scene l.j
ACT III.
SCENE I. Rome. A Street.
Enter the Judges and Senators, with MAKTIUS
and QUINTUS bound, passing on the stage to
the place of execution ; and TITUS going before,
pleading.
Tit. Hear me, grave fathers ! noble tribunes,
stay !
For pity of mine age, whose youth was spent
Ln dangerous wars, whilst you securely slept ;
For all my blood in Rome's great quarrel shed ;
For all the frosty nights that I have watch' d ;
And for these bitter tears, which now you see
Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks ;
Be pitiful to my condemned sons,
Whose souls are not corrupted, as 't is thought.
For two-and-twenty sous I never wept,
Because they died in honour's lofty bed.
[ANDROMCUS lies down, and the Judges
pass by him.
P4
For these, tribunes," in the dust I write
My heart's deep languor, and my soul's sad
tears ;
Let my tears stanch the earth's dry appetite ;
My sons' sweet blood will make it shame aod
blush.
\~Exeunt Senators, Tribunes, and Prisoner*
O earth, I will befriend thee more with rain,
That shall distil from these two ancient nrn%*
Than youthful April shall with all his showers
In summer's drought I *11 drop upon thee still ;
In winter, with warm tears I'll melt the snow,
And keep eternal spring-time on thy face,
So thou refuse to drink my dear sons' blood.
Enter Lucius, with his weapon drawn.
Oh, reverend tribunes ! oh, gentle, aged men !
Unbind my sons, reverse the doom of death ;
a -Ma)o:ie reads, ' good tribunes.
b Urnt in the old editions mint. Haumer'r correction
ACT ill.]
TITUS ANDRONICt'S.
[ScNt I
Ajid let me say, thit never wept before,
My tears are now prevailing orators !
Luc. Oh, noble father, you lament in vain ;
The tribunes hear you not, no mau is by,
And you recount your sorrows to a stone.
Tit. Ah, Lucius, for thy brothers let me
plead :
Grave tribunes, once more I entreat of you !
Luc. My gracious lord, no tribune hears you
speak.
Tit. Why, 't is no matter, man ; if they did
hear
They would not mark me : oh, if they did hear,
They would not pity me : a
Therefore I tell my sorrows bootless 1 " to the
stones,
Who, though they cannot answer my distress,
Yet in some sort they 're better than the tribunes,
For that they will not intercept my tale :
When I do weep, they, humbly at my feet,
Receive my tears, and seem to weep with me ;
And, were they but attired in grave weeds,
Rome could afford no tribune like to these.
A stone is as soft wax, c tribunes more hard than
stones ;
A stone is silent, and offendeth not ;
And tribunes with their tongues doom mcii to
death.
But wherefore stand'st thou with thy weapon
dnxvrn ?
Luc. To rescue my two brothers from their
death :
For which attempt, the judges have pronounc'd
My everlasting doom of banishment.
Tit. Oh, happy man, they have befriended
thee :
Why, foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceive
That Rome is but a wilderness of tigers ?
Tigers must prey ; and Rome affords no prey
But me and mine : how happy art thou, then,
From these devourers to be banished !
But who comes with our brother Marcus here ?
Enter MARCUS and LAVJNIA.
Marc. Titus, prepare thy noble d eyes to
weep,
Or, if not so, thy noble heart to break :
[ bring consuming sorrow to thine age.
So the folio of Ifi23. The quarto of 1GOO
" Or, if they did mark,
They would not pity me ; yet plead I must,
All bootless unto them."
The quarto of 1611 omits " Yet plead I must," but retains
" All bootless unto them."
i> Bootlrts is omitted in modern editions.
As loft u-ax. So the folio : the quartos, "soft as wax.''
4 Knble The common reading is ajeii.
Tit. Will it consume me ? Let me see it, then.
Marc. This was thy daughter.
Tit. Why, Marcus, so she is.
Luc. Ah me ! this object kills me.
Tit. Faint-hearted boy, arise and look upoii
her:
Speak, Lavinia, what accursed hand
Hath made thee handless in thy father's sight P
What fool hath added water to the sea ?
Or brought a fagot to bright -burning Troy ?
My grief was at the height before thou cam'st,.
And now, like Nilus, it disdaineth bounds :
Give me a sword, I '11 chop off my hands too ;
For they have fought for Rome, and all in vain ;
And they have nurs'd this woe, in feeding life ;
In bootless prayer have they been held up,
And they have serVd me to effectless use.
Now all the service I require of them
Is that the one will help to cut the other.
'T is well, Lavinia, that thou hast no hands ;
For hands, to do Rome service, are but vain.
Luc. Speak, gentle sister, who hath martyr'd
thee?
Marc. Oh, that delightful engine of her
thoughts,
That blabb'd them with such pleasing elo-
quence,
Is toni from forth that pretty hollow cage,
Where, like a sweet melodious bird, it sung
Sweet varied notes, enchanting every ear.
Luc. Oh, say thou for her, who hath done
this deed ?
Marc. Oh, thus I found her, straying in the
park,
Seeking to hide herself, as doth the deer
That hath receiv'd some unrecuring wound.
Tit. It was my deer ; and he that wounded her
Hath hurt me more than had he kill'd me dead :
For now I stand as one upon a rock,
Environ'd with a wilderness of sea,
Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave.
Expecting ever when some envious surge
Will in his brinish bowels swallow him.
This way to death my wretched sons are gone ;
Here stands my other son, a banish'd man ;
And here, my brother, weeping at my woes :
But that which gives my soul the greatest spurn
Is dear Lavinia, dearer than my soul.
Had I but seen thy picture in this plight
It would have madded me : what shall I do
Now I behold thy lively body so ?
Thou hast no hands to wipe away thy tears,
Nor tongue to tell me who hath martyr'd thee :
Thy husband he is dead, and for his death
Thy brothers are condemn'd, and dead by t.-iis
26
ACT III.]
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
[SfEXZ L
Look, Marcus ! ah, son Lucius, look on her !
When I did name her brothers, then fresh tears
Stood on her cheeks, as doth the honey-dew
Upon a gather'd lily almost wither'd.
Marc. Perchance, she weeps because they
kill'd her husband :
Perchance, because she knows them innocent.
Tit. If they did kill thy husband, then be
joyful,
Because the law hath ta'en revenge on them.
No, no, they would not do so foul a deed ;
Witness the sorrow that their sister makes.
Gentle Lavinia, let me kiss thy lips,
Or make some sign how I may do thee ease :
Shall thy good uncle, and thy brother Lucius,
And thou, and I, sit round about some fountain,
Looking all downwards to behold our cheeks
How they are stain'd like" meadows yet not dry
With miry slime left on them by a flood ?
And in the fountain shall we gaze so long
Till the fresh taste be taken from that clearness,
And made a brine-pit with our bitter tears ?
Or shall we cut away our hands, like thine ?
Or shall we bite our tongues, and in dumb shows
Pass the remainder of our hateful days ?
Wliat shall we do ? let us that have our tongues
Plot some device of further misery
To make us wonder'd at in time to come.
Luc. Sweet father, cease your tears ; for at
your grief
See how my wretched sister sobs and weeps.
Marc. Patience, dear niece; good Titus, dry
thine eyes.
Tit. Ah, Marcus, Marcus ! brother, well I
wote
Thy napkin cannot drink a tear of mine,
For thou, poor man, hast drown' d it with thine
own.
Luc. Ah, my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks.
Tit. Mark, Marcus, mark ! I understand her
Had she a tongue to speak, now would she say
That to her brother which I said to thee.
His napkin, with his true tears all feewet,
Can do no service on her sorrowful cheeks.
Oh, what a sympathy of woe is this ;
As far from help as limbo is from bliss !
Enter AARON.
Aaron. Titus Andronicus, my lord the em-
peror
Sends thee this word, that if thou love thy sons,
Let Marcus, Lucius, or thyself, old Titus,
Like. The old copies have in. Rowe made the change.
26
Or any one of you, chop off your hand,
And send it to the king : he, for the same,
Will send thee hither both thy sons alive,
And that shall be the ransom for their fault.
Tit. Oh, gracious emperor ! oh, gentle Aaron!
Did ever raven sing so like a lark,
That gives sweet tidings of the sun's uprise ?
With all my heart, I '11 send the emperor my
hand:
Good Aaron, wilt thou help to chop it off?
Luc. Stay, father; for that noble hand of
thine,
That hath thrown down so many enemies,
Shall not be sent : my hand will serve the turn :
My youth can better spare my blood than you,
And therefore mine shall save my brothers' lives.
Marc. Which of your hands hath not de-
fended Rome,
And rear'd aloft the bloody battle-axe,
Writing destruction on the enemy's castle?*
Oh, none of both but are of high desert :
My hand hath been but idle : let it serve
To ransom my two nephews from their death,
Then have I kept it to a worthy end.
Aaron. Nay, come, agree whose hand shaL
go along,
For fear they die before their pardon come.
Marc. My hand shall go.
Luc. By heaven, it shall not go !
Tit. Sirs, strive no more ; such wither'd herbs
as these
Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine.
IMC. Sweet father, if I shall be thought thy
son,
Let me redeem my brothers both from death.
Marc. And for our father's sake, and mother's
care,
Now let me show a brother's love to thee.
Tit. Agree between you; I will spare my
hand.
Luc. Then I '11 go fetch an axe.
Marc. But I will use the axe.
[Exeunt Lucius and MARCUS.
Tit. Come hither, Aaron ; I '11 deceive them
both:
Lend me thy hand, and I will give thee mine.
Aaron. If that be called deceit, I will be
honest,
And never, whilst I live, deceive men so :
But I '11 deceive you in another sort,
And that you'll say, ere half an hour pass. [Aside.
[He aits off TITUS'S hand.
Cattle. Theobald changed this to caique. It is pro-
bably put for stronghold, power.
ACT III.]
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
[SCENI I
Entei Lucius and MARCUS.
Tit. Now, stay your strife; what shall be is
despatch'd :
Good Aaron, give his majesty my hand;
Tell him, it was a hand that warded him
from thousand dangers : bid him bury it :
More hath it merited, that let it have.
As for my sons, say I account of them
As jewels purchas'd at an easy price ;
And yet dear too, because I bought mine own.
Aaron. I go, Andronicus ; and, for thy hand,
Look by-and-by to have thy sons with thee.
Their heads I mean : oh, how this villainy
{Aside.
Doth fat me with the very thoughts of it !
Let fools do good, and fair men call for grace,
Aaron will have his soul black like his face.
[Exit.
Tit. Oh, here I lift this one hand up to
heaven,
And bow this feeble ruin to the earth :
If any power pities wretched tears,
To that I call: What, wilt* thou kneel with
me ? [To LAVINIA.
Do, tnen, dear heart, for heaven shall hear our
prayers,
Or with our sighs we '11 breathe the welkin dim,
And stain the sun with fog, as sometime clouds,
When they do hug him in their melting bosoms.
Marc. Oh, brother, speak with possibilities b
And do not break into these deep extremes.
Tit. Is not my sorrow deep, having no bottom ?
Then be my passions bottomless with them.
Marc. But yet let reason govern thy lament.
Tit. If there were reason for these miseries,
Then into limits could I bind my woes :
When heaven doth weep, doth not the earth
o'erflow ?
If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad,
Threat'ning the welkin with his big-swoll'n face?
And wilt thou have a reason for this coil ?
I am the sea. Hark how her sighs do blow : c
She is the weeping welkin, I the earth :
Then must my sea be moved with her sighs ;
Then must my earth with her continual tears
Become a deluge, overflow'd and drown'd :
For why, my bowels cannot. hide her woes,
But like a drunkard must I vomit them.
Then give me leave, for losers will have leave
To ease their stomachs with their bitter tongues.
* Wilt, in the folio ; the quartos, would
b Possibilitiet, in the folio, and quarto of 1611. That of
;600, pottibility.
s Blow, in the lecond folio. The earlier copi3,y?otr.
Enter a Messenger with two heads and a hand.
Messen. Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou re-
paid
For that good hand thou sent'st the emperor :
Here are the heads of thy two noble sons,
And here 's thy hand in scorn to thee sent back:
Thy griefs their sports : thy resolution mock'd :
That woe is me to think upon thy woes,
More than remembrance of my father's death.
[Exit.
Marc. Now let hot ^Etna cool in Sicily,
And be my heart an ever-burning hell :
These miseries are more than may be borne.
To weep with them that weep doth ease some
deal;
But sorrow flouted at is double death.
Luc. Ah, that this sight should make so deep
a wound,
And yet detested life not shrink thereat !
That ever death should let life bear his name,
Where life hath no more interest but to breathe !
[LAVINIA kisses TITUS.
Marc. Alas, poor heart, that kiss is comfort-
less,
As frozen water to a starved snake.
Tit. When will this fearful slumber have an
end?
Marc. Now farewell flattery : Die, Androni-
cus;
Thou dost not slumber : see thy two sons' heads,
Thy warlike hand; thy mangled daughter here;
Thy other banish'd son with this dear sight
Struck pale and bloodless ; and thy brother, I,
Even like a stony image, cold and numb.
Ah, now no more will I control my" griefs :
Rend off thy silver hair, thy other hand
Gnawing with thy teeth; and be this dismal
sight
The closing up of our most wretched eyes :
Now is a time to storm ; why art thou still P
Tit. Ha, ha, ha !
Marc. Why dost thou laugh ? it fits not with
this hour.
Tit. Why, I have not another tear to shed :
Besides, this sorrow is an enemy,
And would usurp upon my watery eyes,
And make them blind with tributary tears.
Then, which way shall I find revenge's cave ?
For these two heads do seem to speak to me,
And threat me, 1 shall never come to bliss,
Till all these mischiefs be return'd again,
Even in their throats that have committed them.
My, in all the early copies. Theobald changed it to thy.
We see no necessity for the change.
27
ACT III.]
TITUS ANDRONICUS
SCKNE U.
Come, let me see what task I have to do.
You heavy people, circle me about,
That I may turn me to each one of you,
And swear unto my soul to right your wrongs.
The vow is made. Come, brother, take a head,
And in this hand the other will I bear.
And, Lavinia, thou shalt be employ'd in these
things/
Bear thou my hand, sweet wench, between thy
teeth :
As for thee, boy, go get thee from my sight ;
Thou art an exile, and thou must not stay :
Hie to the Goths, and raise an army there ;
And if you love me, as I think you do,
Let 's kiss and part, for we have much to do.
[Exeunt TITUS, MARCUS, and LAVINIA.
Luc. Farewell, Andronicus, my noble father ;
The wofull'st man that ever hVd in Rome :
farewell, proud Rome, till Lucius come again :
He leaves' 3 his pledges, dearer than his life.
Farewell, Lavinia, my noble sister ;
0, would thou wert as thou tofore hast been !
But now, nor Lucius, nor Lavinia, lives
But in oblivion and hateful griefs :
If Lucius live, he will requite your wrongs,
And make proud Saturnine and his empress
Beg at the gates like Tarquin and his queen.
Now will I to the Goths, and raise a power,
To be reveug'd on Rome and Saturnine.
[Exit Lucius.
SCENE H. A Room in Titus's House. A
Enter TITUS, MARCUS, LAVINIA, and Young
Lucius, a boy.
Tit. So, so ; now sit : and look you eat no
more
Than will preserve just so much strength in us
As will revenge these bitter woes of ours.
Marcus, unknit that sorrow- wreathen knot ;
Thy niece and I, poor creatures, want our hands,
And cannot passionate our tenfold grief
With folded arms. This poor right hand of
mine
is left to tyrannize upon my breast ;
And d when my heart, all mad with misery,
Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh,
Then thus I thump it down.
a Things in the folio. The quartos, arms.
b Leaves. The old copies have loves. Rowe made the
change, which appears judicious.
c This scene is only found in the folio of 1623. Johnson
says it " does not contribute anything to the action " The
poet no doubt felt that after such tumultuous action repose
was wanting.
<" And. The original has tcho.
23
Thou map of woe, ftiat thus dost talk in signs !
[To LAVINIA.
When thy poor heart beats with outrageous
beating,
Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still.
Wound it with sighing, girl, kill it with groans ;
Or get some little knife between thy teeth,
And just against thy heart make thou a hole ;
That all the tears that thy poor eyes let fall
May run into that sink, and, soaking in,
Drown the lamenting fool in sea-salt tears.
Marc. Fie, brother, fie! teach her not thus
to lay
Such violent hands upon her tender life.
Tit. How now! has sorrow made thee dote
already ?
Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I.
What violent hands can she lay on her life ?
Ah, wherefore dost thou urge the name of
hands;
To bid jEneas tell the tale twice o'er,
How Troy was burnt, and he made miserable ?
O, handle not the theme, to talk of hands ;
Lest we remember still that we have none.
Fie, fie, how franticlv \ square my talk !
As if we should forget we had no hands,
If Marcus did not name the word of hands !
Come let's fall to; and, gentle girl, eat this :
Here is no drink ! Hark, Marcus, what she
says;
I can interpret all her martyr'd signs ;
She says, she drinks no other drink but tears,
Brew'd with her sorrows, mesh'd upon her
cheeks :
Speechless complainer, I will learn thy thought ;
In thy dumb action will I be as perfect
As begging hermits in their holy prayers :
Thou shalt not sigh, nor hold thy stumps to
heaven,
Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a sign,
But I, of these, will wrest an alphabet,
And, by still practice, learn to know thy mean-
ing.
Boy. Good grandsire, leave these bitter deep
laments :
Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale.
Marc. Alas, the tender boy, in passion mov'd,
Doth weep to see his grandsire's heaviness.
Tit. Peace, tender sapling; thou art made of
tears,
And tears will quickly melt thy life away.
[MARCUS strikes the dish with a knife.
What dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knil'e
Marc. At that that I hav? kill'd, my lord ;
fly.
ACT III.
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
[SCENZ If
Tit. Out on thee, murtherer ! tliou kill'st my
heart;
Mine eyes are " cloy'd with view of tyranny :
A deed of death, done on the innocent,
Becomes not Titus' brother : Get thee gone ;
I see thou art not for my company.
Marc. Alas, my lord, I have but kill'd a fly.
Tit. But how, if that fly had a father and
mother ?
How would he hang his slender gilded wings,
And buzz lamenting doings in the air !
Poor harmless fly !
That, with his pretty buzzing melody,
Came here to make us merry; and thou hast
kill'd him.
Marc. Pardon me, sir; 'twas a black, ill-
favour'd fly,
Like to the empress' Moor; therefore I kill'd
him.
a Are is omitted in the original.
Tit. 0, 0, 0,
Then pardon me for reprehending thee,
For thou hast done a charitable deed.
Give me thy knife, I will insult on him ;
Flattering myself, as if it were the Moor,
Come hither purposely to poison me.
There 's for thyself, and that 's for Tamora.
Ah, sifrah !
Yet, I think we are not brought so low,
But that, between us, we can kill a fly,
That comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor.
Marc. Alas, poor man ! grief has so wrought
on him,
He takes false shadows for true substances.
Tit. Come, take away. Lavinia, go with me :
I '11 to thy closet ; and go read with thee
Sad stories, chanced in the times of old.
Come, boy, and go with me ; thy sight is young,
And thou shalt read, when mine begins to dazzle
\Exeunt.
ACT IV.
SCENE I. Before Titus's House.
Enter TITUS and MARCUS ; then Young Lucius,
and LAVTNIA running after Mm, the boy flying
from her with his books under his arm.
Boy. Help, grandsire, help ! my aunt Lavinia
Follows me everywhere, I know not why.
Good uncle Marcus, see how swift she comes !
Alas, sweet aunt, I know not what you mean.
Marc. Stand by me, Lucius ; do not fear thy
aunt.
Tit. She loves thee, boy, too well to do thee
harm.
Boy. Ay, when my father was in Rome she did.
Marc. What means my niece Lavinia by these
signs ?
Tit. Fear her not, Lucius: somewhat doth
she mean.
See, Lucius, see, how much she makes of thee :
Somewhither would she have thee go with her.
Ay, boy, Cornelia never with more care
R^ad to her son than she hath read to thee,
30
Sweet poetry, and Tully's Orator :
Canst thou not guess wherefore she plies thee
thus?
Boy. My lord, I know not, I, nor can I guess,
Unless some fit or frenzy do possess her :
For I have heard my grandsire say full oft,
Extremity of griefs would make men mad ;
And I have read that Hecuba of Troy
Ran mad through sorrow: That made me to
fear;
Although, my lord, I know my noble aunt
Loves me as dear as e'er my mother did,
And would not, but in fury, fright my youth :
Which made me down to throw my books, and
fly.
Causeless, perhaps : but pardon me, sweet aunt .
And, madam, if my uncle Marcus go,
I will most willingly attend your ladyship.
Marc. Lucius, I will. [LAVINIA turns over
the books which Lucius has letfaL.
Tit. How now, Lavinia ? Marcus, what means
this?
ACT IV.]
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
[gCEKB. 1.
Some book there is that she desires to see :
Which is it, girl, of these ? open them, boy.
But thou art deeper read, and better skill'd :
Come, and take choice of all my library ;
And so beguile thy sorrow, till the heavens
Reveal the damn'd contriver of this deed.
What book?'
Why lifts she up her arms in sequence thus ?
Marc. I think she means that there was more
than one
Confederate in the fact ; ay, more there was :
Or else to heaven she heaves them for revenge.
Tit. Lucius, what book is that she tosseth so ?
Boy. Grandsire, 't is Ovid's Metamorphoses ;
My mother gave it me.
Marc. For love of her that 's gone,
Perhaps, she cull'd it from among the rest.
Tit. Soft ! How b busily she turns the leaves !
Help her : what would she find ? Lavinia, shall
I read ?
This is the tragic tale of Philomel,
And treats of Tereus' treason and his rape ;
And rape, I fear, was root of thine annoy.
Marc. See, brother, see ; note how she quotes
the leaves.
Tit. Lavinia, wert thou thus surpris'd, sweet
girl
Ravish'd and wrong' d as Philomela was,
Forc'd in the ruthless, vast, and gloomy woods ?
See, see ! Ay, such a place there is where we
did hunt,
(0 had we never, never hunted there !)
Pattern' d by that the poet here describes,
By nature made for murthers and for rapes.
Marc. O, why should nature build so foul a
den,
Unless the gods delight in tragedies ?
Tit. Give signs, sweet girl, for here are none
but friends,
What Roman lord it was durst do the deed ?
Or slunk not Saturnine, as Tarquin erst,
That left the camp to sin in Lucrece' bed ?
Marc. Sit down, sweet niece; brother, sit
down by me.
Apollo, Pallas, Jove, or Mercury,
Inspire me that I may this treason find.
My lord, look here ; look here, LavinJa.
[He writes his name with his staff", and
guides it with feet and mouth.
This sandy plot is plain ; guide, if thou canst,
This hemistich is found only in the folio, and is omitted
In some modern editions.
* How. The early copies read to. The modern reading
I*. 'See how. The pause after Soft is a metrical beauty.
Quotes observes, searches through.
This, after me. I have wrii, my name,*
Without the help of any hand at all.
Curs'd be that heart that forc'd us to this shift 1
Write thou, good niece, and here display at last,
What God will have discover'd for revenge.
Heaven guide thy pen to print thy sorrows
plain,
That we may know the traitors and the truth !
[She takes the staff in her mouth, and
guides it with her stumps, and writes.
Tit. Oh, do ye read, my lord, what she hath
writ?
' Stuprum, Chiron, Demetrius.'
Marc. What, what ! the lustful sons of Ta-
mora,
Performers of this heinous, bloody deed ?
Tit. Magni Dominator poli,
Tarn lentits audis scelera ? tarn lentus tides ? .
Marc. Oh, calm thee, gentle bid; although
I know
There is enough written upon this earth
To stir a mutiny in the mildest thoughts,
And arm the minds of infants to exclaims.
My lord, kneel down with me ; Lavinia, kneel ;
And kneel, sweet boy, the Roman Hector's hope:
And swear with me, as with the woful fere, b
And father of that chaste dishonour'd dame,
Lord Junius Brutus sware for Lucrece' rape,
That we will prosecute, by good advice,
Mortal revenge upon these traitorous Goths,
And see their blood, or die with this reproach.
Tit. 'T is sure enough, an you knew how ;
But if you hunt these bear-whelps, then beware:
The dam will wake, and if she wind you once,
She 's with the lion deeply still in league,
And lulls him whilst she playeth on her back,
And when he sleeps will she do what she list.
You are a young huntsman, Marcus; let it
alone;
And, come, I will go get a leaf of brass,
And with a gad of steel will write these words,
And lay it by : the angry northern wind
Will blow these sands like Sibyls' leaves abroad,
And where 's your lesson then ? Boy, what say
you?
Boy. I say, my lord, that if I were a man,
Their mother's bed-chamber should not be safe,
For these bad bondmen to the yoke of Rome.
Marc. Ay, that 's my boy ; thy father hath
full oft
For his ungrateful country done the b'ke.
Some modern editors read
" This after me, when I have writ my name."
The Cambridge editors print as above, inserting a lUge
direction.
b Fere a companion, and here a husband. (Seelllustra
lions of Henry IV., Part I., Art i.)
Acr IV.]
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
[SCIWE II
Boy. And, uncle, so will I, an if 1 live.
Tit. Coine, go with me into mine armoury ;
Lucius, I '11 fit thee ; and withal, my boy
Suall carry from me to the empress' sons
Presents that I intend to send them both :
Come, come, thoii 'It do thy message, wilt thou
not?
Boy. Ay, with my dagger in their bosoms,
grandsire.
Tit. No, boy, not so ; I '11 teach thee another
course.
Lavinia, come ; Marcus, look to my house ;
Lucius and I '11 go brave it at the court :
Ay, marry will we, sir ; and we '11 be waited on.
[Exeunt TITUS, LAVINIA, and Boy.
Marc. heavens ! can you hear a good man
groan,
And not relent, or not compassion him ?
Marcus, attend him in his extasy,
That hath more scars of sorrow in his heart,
Than foemen's marks upon his batter 5 d shield ;
But yet so just, that he will not revenge :
Revenge, ye heavens, for old Andronicus. [Exit.
SCENE II. A Room in the Palace.
Enter AARON, CHIRON, and DEMETRIUS at one
door ; at anotlier door Young Lucius and
Attendant, with a bundle of weapons, and
verses written upon them.
Chi. Demetrius, here 's the son of Lucius ;
He hath some message to deliver us.
Aaron. Ay, some mad message from his mad
grandfather.
Boy. My lords, with all the humbleness I
may,
I greet your honours from Andronicus ;
And pray the Roman gods confound you both.
[Aside.
Demet. Gramercy, lovely Lucius, what 's the
news?
Boy. That you are both decipher 5 d, that's
the news,
For villains mark'd with rape [Aside"]. May
it please you,
My grandsire, well advis'd, hath sent by ine
The goodliest weapons of his armoury,
To gratify your honourable youth,
The hope of Rome ; for so he bad me say :
And so I do, and with his gifts present
Your lordships, that, whenever you have need,
This line is omitted in the folio ; a typographical error,
wttich has arisen through the preceding Tine ending with the
same word.
32
You may be armed and appointed well,
And so I leave you both: [Aside] like bloody
villains. [Exeunt Boy and Attendant.
Demet. What 's here ? a scroll ; and written
round about ?
Let 's see :
' Integer vita, scelerisque purut,
Non eget Mauri jaculis, nee arcu.'
CM. O 't is a verse in Horace; I know it well:
I read it in the grammar long ago.
Aaron. Ay, just a verse in Horace;* right,
you have it.
Now, what a thing it is to be an ass !
Here 's no sound jest ! the old man hath found
their guilt,
And sends the weapons wrapp'd about with lines,
That wound, beyond their feeling, to the quick :
But were our witty empress well a-foot,
She would applaud Andronicus' conceit.
But let her rest in her unrest awhile. [The
preceding seven lines are spoken aside.
And now, young lords, was 't not a happy star
Led us to Rome, strangers, and more than so,
Captives, to be advanced to this height ?
It did me good, before the palace gate,
To brave the tribune in his brother's hearing.
Demet. But me more good, to see so great a
lord
Basely insinuate, and send us gifts.
Aaron. Had he not reason, lord Demetrius ?
Did you not use his daughter very friendly ?
Demet. I would we had a thousand Roman
dames
At such a bay, by turn to serve our lust.
Chi. A charitable wish, and full of love.
Aaron. Here lacks but for your mother for to
say Amen.
Chi. And that would she for twenty thousand
more.
Demet. Come, let us go, and pray to all the
gods,
For our beloved mother in her pains.
Aaron. Pray to the devils ; the gods have
given us over.
[Aside. Trumpets sound.
Demet. Why do the emperor's trumpets flou-
rish thus ?
Chi. Belike, for joy the emperor hath a son.
Demet. Soft ; who comes here ?
Enter Nurse, with a blackamoor child.
Nurse. Good morrow, lords ;
0, tell me, did you see Aaron, the Moor ?
Ay, jutt a verse in Horace merely a verse in Home*
The common punctuation is, " Ay, just ! A verse," &rc.
ACT IV.]
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
[SCEtt* II
Aaron. Well, more, or less, or ne'er a whit
at all,
Here Aaron is ; and what with Aaron now ?
Nurse. O gentle Aaron, we are all undone !
Now help, or woe betide thee evermore !
Aaron. Why, what a caterwauling dost thou
keep!
What dost thou wrap and fumble in thine ams ?
Nurse. O, that which I would hide from
heaven's eye,
Our empress 3 shame, and stately Rome's dis-
grace;
She is deliver' d, lords, she is deliver'd.
Aaron. To whom ?
Nurse. I mean she is brought a-bed.
Aaron. Well, God give her good rest ! What
hath he sent her ?
Nurse. A devil.
Aaron. Why, then she is the devil's dam; a
joyful issue.
Nurse. A joyless, dismal, black, and sorrow-
ful issue :
Here is the babe, as loathsome as a toad,
Amongst the fairest breeders of our clime.
The empress sends it thee, thy stamp, thy seal,
And bids thee christen it with thy dagger's
point.
Aaron. Out, you 8 whore ! is black so base a
hue?
Sweet blowse, you are a beauteous blossom sure.
Demet. Villain, what hast thou done ?
Aaron. That which thou canst not undo.
Chi. Thou hast undone our mother.
Aaron. Villain, I have done thy mother.
Demet. And therein, hellish dog, thou hast
undone.
Woe to her chance, and damn'd her loathed
choice !
Accurs'd the offspring of so foul a fiend.
Chi. It shall not live.
Aaron. It shall not die.
Nurse. Aaron, it must ; the mother wills it so.
Aaron. What ! must it, nurse ? Then let no
man but I
Do execution on my flesh and blood.
Demet. I '11 broach the tadpole on my rapier's
point:
Nurse, give it me ; my sword shall soon despatch
it.
Aaron. Sooner this sword shall plough thy
bowels up.
[Takes the Child from the Nurse.
Out, you is the reading of the folio. The quartos,
Zounds, ye.
SUP. VOL. D
Stay, murtherous villains, will jou kill your bro-
ther?
Now, by the burning tapers of the sky,
That shone so brightly when this boy was got,
He dies upon my scimitar's sharp point
That touches this my first-born son and heir.
I tell you, younglings, not Enceladus,
With all his threat'ning band of Typhon's brood,
Nor great Alcides, nor the god of war,
Shall seize this prey out of his father's hands.
What, what! ye sanguine, shallow -nearted
i
Ye white-Jim'd walls ! ye ale-house painted
signs !
Coal-black is better than another hue,
In that it scorns to bear another hue :
For all the water in the ocean
Can never turn the swan's black legs to white,
Although she lave them hourly in the flood :
Tell the empress from me, I am of age
To keep mine own, excuse it how she can.
Demet. Wilt thou betray thy noble mistress
thus?
Aaron. My mistress is my mistress ; this, my-
self;
The vigour, and the picture of my youth :
This before all the world do I prefer ;
This, maugre all the world, will I keep safe,
Or some of you shall smoke for it in Rome.
Demet. By this our mother is for ever sham'd.
Chi. Rome will despise her for this foul escape.
Nurse. The emperor, in his rage, will doom
her death.
Chi. I blush to think upon this ignominy.*
Aaron. Why, there 's the privilege your
beauty bears :
Fie, treacherous hue, that will betray with
blushing
The close enacts and counsels of the heart :
Here 's a young lad fram'd of another leer. b
Look, how the black slave smiles upon the
father,
As who should say, ' Old lad, I am thine own.'
He is your brother, lords, sensibly fed
Of that self-blood that first gave life to you ;
And from that womb, where you imprison'd were,
He is enfranchised and come to light :
Nay, he is your brother by the surer side,
Although my seal be stamped in his face.
Nurse. Aaron, what shall I say unto the em-
press ?
Demet. Advise thee, Aaron, what is to be
done,
Ignominy, in the folio ; the quartos, ipnomy.
>> Leer complexion, hu.
83
ACT IV. i
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
[SCEKR FIT.
And we will all subscribe to thy advice :
Save thou the child, so we may all be safe.
Aaron. Then sit we down, and let us all con-
sult.
My son and I will have the wind of you :
Keep there ; now talk at pleasure of your safety.
Demet. How many women saw this child of his ?
Aaron, Why, so brave lords: When we* join
in league
I am a lamb ; but if you brave the Moor,
The chafed b boar, the mountain lioness,
The ocean swells not so as Aaron storms :
But say again, how many saw the child ?
Nurse. Cornelia the midwife, and myself,
And no one else but the deliver'd empress.
Aaron. The empress, the midwife, and your-
self:
Two may keep counsel when the third 's away :
Go to the empress, tell her this I said :
\_He kills her.
Weke, weke so cries a pig prepar'd to the spit.
Demet. What mean'st thou, Aaron? where-
fore didst thou this ?
Aaron. Oh, lord, sir, 't is a deed of policy ;
Shall she live to betray this guilt of ours ?
A long-tongued babbling gossip ! No, lords, no :
And now be it known to you my full intent.
Not far, one Muliteus lives, c my countryman ;
His wife but yesternight was brought to bed ;
His child is like to her, fair as you are :
Go pack d with him, and give the mother gold,
And tell them both the circumstance of all,
And how by this their child shall be advanc'd,
And be received for the emperor's heir,
And substituted in the place of mine,
To calm this tempest whirling in the court ;
And let the emperor dandle him for his own.
Hark ye, lords ; ye see I have given her physic,
[Pointing to the Nurse.
And you must needs bestow her funeral ;
The fields are near, and you are gallant grooms :
This done, see that you take no longer days,
But send the midwife presently to me.
The midwife and the nurse well made away,
Then let the ladies tattle what they please.
Chi. Aaron, I see thou wilt not trust the air
with secrets.
Demet. Tor this care of Tamora,
Herself and hers are highly bound to thee.
[Exeunt DEMETRIUS and CHIRON, bearing
off the Nurse.
* The ordinary reading was, " alljnin.'
b Chafed, in the old copies ; the variorum reading, chased.
c Lives, which is not in the old copies, was inserted by
Bowe.
1 Pack contrive, arrange.
34
Aaron. Now to the Goths, as swift as swallow
flies;
There to dispose this treasure in mine arms,
And secretly to greet the empress' friends :
Come on, you thick-lipp'd slave, I'll bear you
hence ;
For it is you that puts us to our shifts :
I '11 make you feed on berries, and on roots,
And feed on curds and whey, and suck the goat,
And cabin in a cave, and bring you up
To be a warrior, and command a camp. [Exit.
SCENE III. A public Place in Rome.
Enter TITUS, MARCUS, Young Lucius, and other
Gentlemen, with bows, and TITUS bears the
arrows with letters on them.
Tit. Come, Marcus; come, kinsmen; this is
the way :
Sir boy," let me see your archery ;
Look ye draw home enough, and 't is there
straight.
Terras Astreea reliquit, be you remember'd,
Marcus.
She 's gone, she 's fled. Sirs, take you to your
tools ;
You, cousins, shall go sound the ocean,
And cast your nets. Happily, you may find l
her in the sea ;
Yet there 's as little justice as at land :'
No ; Publius and Sempronius, you must do it ;
'T is you must dig with mattock and with spade.
And pierce the inmost centre of the earth ;
Then, when you come to Pluto's region,
I pray you, deliver him this petition ;
Tell him it is for justice and for aid,
And that it comes from old Andronicus,
Shaken with sorrows in ungrateful Rome.
Ah, Rome ! well, well, I made thee miserable
What time I threw the people's suffrages
On him that thus doth tyrannize o'er me.
Go, get you gone, and pray be careful all,
And leave you not a man-of-war unsearch'd :
This wicked emperor may have shipp'd her
hence ;
And, kinsmen, then we may go pipe for justice.
Marc. O, Publius, is not this a heavy case,
To see thy noble uncle thus distract ?
Pub. Therefore, my lords, it highly us con-
cerns,
By day and night t' attend him carefully ;
a The reading of the second folio is, Sir boy, now.
b Find. So the folio, and quarto of 1611 j that of 1600
catch.
ACT TV.]
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
[SCEME ill.
And feed his humour kindly as we may,
Till time beget some careful remedy.
Marc. Kinsmen, his sorrows are past remedy.
Join with the Goths, and with revengeful war
Take wreak on Rome for his ingratitude,
And vengeance on the traitor Saturnine.
Tit. Publius, how now ? how now, my mas-
ters?
What, have you met with her ?
Pub. No, my good lord ; but Pluto sends you
word,
If you will have revenge from hell you shall :
Marry, for Justice she is so employed,
He thinks, with Jove in heaven, or somewhere
else,
So that perforce you must needs stay a time.
Tit. He doth me wrong to feed me with
delays.
I '11 dive into the burning lake below,
And pull her out of Acheron by the heels.
Marcus, we are but shrubs ; no cedars we,
No big-bon'd men, fram'd of the Cyclops' size ;
But metal, Marcus, steel to the very back,
Yet wrung with wrongs more than our backs
can bear :
And sith there is no justice in earth nor hell,
We will solicit heaven, and move the gods,
To send down justice for to wreak our wrongs.
Come to this gear ; you are a good archer, Mar-
cus. [He gives them the arrows.
Ad Jovem, that 's for you ; here, ad Apoliinem :
Ad Martent, that 's for myself;
Here, boy, to Pallas ; here, to Mercury :
To Saturn, Caius, not to Saturnine/
You were as good to shoot against the wind.
To it, boy : Marcus, loose when I bid :
Of my word, I have written to effect,
There 's not a god left unsolicited.
Marc. Kinsmen, shoot all your shafts into the
court :
We will afflict the emperor in his pride.
Tit. Now, masters, draw. Oh, well said,
Lucius ! [.They shoot.
Good boy, in Virgo's lap; give it Pallas
Marc. My lord, I aim a mile beyond the
moon;
Your letter is with Jupiter by this.
Tit. Ha, ha ! Publius, Publius, what hast thou
done?
See, see, thou hast shot off one of Taurus' horns.
Marc. This was the sport, my lord : when
Publius shot,
The old copies read
"To Saturnine, to Caius, not to Saturnine."
Rowe corrected the passage.
D2
The Bull, being gall'd, gave Aries sucn a knock,
That down fell both the Ram's horns in the court,
And who should find them but the empress
villain:
She laugh'd, and told the Moor he should not
choose
But give them to his master for a present.
Tit. Why, there it goes : God give your lord-
ship joy.
Enter Clown, with a basket, and two pigeons
in it.
Tit. News, news from heaven! Marcus, the
post is come.
Sirrah, what tidings ? have you any letters ?
Shall I have justice ? what says Jupiter ?
Clown. Ho! the gibbet-maker? he says that
he hath taken them down again, for the man
must not be hanged till the next week.
Tit. But what says Jupiter, I ask thee ?
Clown. Alas, sir, I know not Jupiter :
I never drank with him in all my life.
Tit. Why, villain, art not thou the carrier ?
Clown. Ay, of my pigeons, sir; nothing else.
Tit. Why, didst thou not come from heaven ?
Clown. From heaven ? alas, sir, I never came
there. God forbid I should be so bold to press
to heaven in my young days ! Why, I am going
with my pigeons to the tribunal Plebs, to take
up a matter of brawl betwixt my uncle and one
of the imperial's men.
Marc. Why, sir, that is as fit as can be to
serve for your oration ; and let him deliver the
pigeons to the emperor from you.
Tit. Tell me, can you deliver an oration to
the emperor with a grace ?
Clown. Nay, truly, sir; I could never say
grace in all my life.
Tit. Surah, come hither ; make no more ado,
But give your pigeons to the emperor :
By me thou shalt have justice at his hands.
Hold, hold; meanwhile, here's money for thv
charges.
Give me pen and ink.
Sirrah, can you with a grace deliver a supplies.
tion?
Clown. Ay, sir.
Tit. Then here is a supplication for you. And
when you come to him, at the first approach
you must kneel ; then kiss his foot ; then deliver
up your pigeons ; and then look for your reward.
I '11 be at hand, sir ; see you do it bravely.
* The quarto of 1601, "kit lordship." That of 1611 omit-
the line, which -we print as in the folio.
35
ACT IV.]
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
[SCENE l\
Clown. I warrant you, sir, let me alone.
Tit. Sirrah, hast thou a knife ? Come, let me
see it.
Here, Marcus, fold it in the oration,
For thou hast made it like an humble suppliant.
And when thou hast given it the emperor,
Knock at my door, and tell me what he says.
Clown. God be with you, sir ; I will. [Exit.
Tit. Come, Marcus, let us go ; Publius, follow
me. [Exeunt.
SCENE TV. Before the Palace.
Enter SATURNINUS, TAMORA, CHIRON, DEME-
TRIUS, Lords,' and others. The Emperor
brings the arrows in his hand that TITUS shot
at him.
Sat. Why, lords, what wrongs are these ? was
ever seen
An emperor in Rome thus overborne,
Troubled, confronted thus ; and, for the extent
Of egal justice, used in such contempt?
My lords, you know, as do a the mightful gods,
However these disturbers of our peace
Buzz in the people's ears, there nought hath
pass'd,
But even with law, against the wilful sons
Of old Andronicus. And what an if
His sorrows have so overwhelm'd his wits ;
Shall we be thus afflicted in his wreaks,
His fits, his frenzy, and his bitterness ?
And now, he writes to heaven for his redress ;
See, here's to Jove, and this to Mercury,
This to Apollo, this to the god of war :
Sweet scrolls to fly about the streets of Rome !
What's this, but libelling against the senate,
And blazoning our unjustice everywhere?
A goodly humour, is it not, my lords ?
As who would say, in Rome no justice were :
Bat if I live, his feigned ecstasies
Shall be no shelter to these outrages ;
But he and his shall know that Justice lives
In Saturnmus' health, whom, if he b sleep,
He'll so awake, as he in fury shall
Cut off the proud' st conspirator that lives.
Tarn. My gracious lord, my lovely Saturnine,
Lord of my life, commander of my thoughts,
Calm thee, and bear the faults of Titus' age,
Th' effects of sorrow for his valiant sons,
Whose loss hath pierc'd him deep, and scarr'd
his heart ;
And rather comfort his distressed plight,
Ax do. These words were inserted by Ro\vf.
* He. So thte original copies. The antecedent being con-
sidered Justice, the modern reading is the. The Cambridge
editors have retained the original he.
36
Than prosecute the meanest or the best
For these contempts : Why, thus it shall become
High-witted Tamora to glose with all :
But, Titus, I have touch' d thee to the quick,
Thy life-blood out : if Aaron now be wise,
Then is all safe, the anchor 's in the port.
[Aside,
Enter Clown.
How now, good fellow, wouldst thou speak with
us ?
Clown. Yea, forsooth, an your mistership be
imperial.
Tarn. Empress I am, but yonder sits the
emperor.
Clown. 'T is he. God and saint Stephen
give you good den ; I have brought you a letter
and a couple of pigeons here.
[SATURNINUS reads the letter.
Sat. Go, take him away, and hang him pre-
sently.
Clown. How much money must I have ?
Tarn. Come, sirrah, you must be hang'd.
Clown. Hang'd! by'r lady, then I have brought
up a neck to a fair end. [Exit, guarded.
Sat. Despiteful and intolerable wrongs !
Shall I endure this monstrous villainy ?
I know from whence this same device proceeds, .
May this be borne, as if his traitorous sons,
That died by law for murther of our brother,
Have by my means been butcher'd wrongfully ?
Go, drag the villain hither by the hair ;
Nor age, nor honour, shall shape privilege :
For this proud mock I '11 be thy slaughter-man ;
Sly frantic wretch, that holpst to make me great,
In hope thyself should govern Rome and me.
Sat. What news with thee, ^Emilius ?
JEmil. Arm, my lord ; Rome never had more
cause !
The Goths have gather'd head, and with a
power
Of high-resolved men, bent to the spoil,
They hither march amain, under conduct
Of Lucius, son to old Andronicus ;
Who threats in course of this revenge to do
As much as ever Coriolanus did.
Sat. Is warlike Lucius general of the Goths ?
These tidings nip me ; and I hang the head
As flowers with frost, or grass beat down with
storms :
Ay, now begin our sorrows to approach :
'T is he the common people love so much !
ACT IT.]
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
Myself hath often heard them say,
(When I have walked like a private man,)
That Lucius' banishment was wrongfully,
And they have wish'd that Lucius were their
emperor.
Tarn. Why should you fear ? is not your city
strong ?
Sat. Ay, but the citizens favour Lucius,
And will revolt from me, to succour him.
Tarn. King, be thy thoughts imperious, like
thy name.
Is the sun dimm'd, that gnats do fly in it P
The eagle suffers little birds to sing,
And is not careful what they mean thereby,
Knowing that with the shadow of his wing'
He can at pleasure stint their melody.
Even so mayst thou the giddy men of Home !
Then cheer thy spirit : for know, thou emperor,
I will enchant the old Andronicus,
With words more sweet, and yet more dangerous
Than baits to fish, or honey-stalks to sheep ;
When as the one is wounded with the bait,
The other rotted with delicious feed.
Wing. The originals, wingt. But the line! are meant
tc rhymf alternately.
Sat. But he will not entreat his son for us.
Tarn. If Tamora entreat him, then he will ;
For I can smooth and fill his aged ear
With golden promises, that, were his heart
Almost impregnable, his old ears deaf,
Yet should both ear and heart obey my tongue.
Go thou before to be our embassador ;
[To JEMILIUS.
Say that the emperor requests a parley
Of warlike Lucius, and appoint the meeting,
Even at his father's house, the old Andronicus.'
Sat. ^Emilius, do this message honourably :
And if he stand on hostage for his safety,
Bid him demand what pledge will please him best.
JEmil. Your bidding shall I do effectually.
[Exit JSniLius.
Tarn. Now will I to that old Andronicus ;
And temper him, with all the art I have,
To pluck proud Lucius from the warlike Goths.
And now, sweet emperor, be blithe again,
And bury all thy fear in my devices.
Sat. Then go successantly, and plead to him.
[Exeunt
This line is not in the folio, but in the earlier quarto*
ACT V.
SCENE I. Plains near Rome.
flourish. Enter Lucius, with an, army of Goths,
with drum.
Luc. Approved warriors, and my faithful
friends,
I have received letters from great Rome,
Which signify what hate they bear their em-
peror,
And how desirous of our sight they are.
Therefore, great lords, be, as your titles witness,
Imperious and impatient of your wrongs ;
And wherein Rome hath done you any scathe,
Let him make treble satisfaction.
Goth. Brave slip, sprung from the great An-
dronicus,
Whose name was once our terror, now our com-
fort ,
Whose high exploits, and honourable deeds,
Ingrateful Rome requites with foul contempt,
Be bold in us ; we '11 follow where thou lead'st.
Like stinging bees in hottest summer's day,
Led by their master to the flower' d fields,
And be aveng'd on cursed Tamora :
And, as he saith, so say we all with him.
Luc. I humbly thank him, and I thank you
all
But who comes here, led by a lusty Goth P
Enter a Goth, leading AAKON with his child in
his arms.
Goth. Renowned Lucius, from our troops I
stray'd,
To gaze upon a ruinous monastery,
And as I earnestly did fix mine eye
Upon the wasted building, suddenly
I heard a child cry underneath a wall :
I made unto the noise, when soon I heard
ACT V.]
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
[SCBNK I.
The crying bube control!' d with this discourse :
' Peace, tawny slave, half me, and half thy dam !
Did not thy hue bewray whose brat thou art,
Had nature lent thee but thy mother's look,
Villain, thou mightst have been an emperor.
But where the bull and cow are both milk-white,
They never do beget a coal-black calf :
Peace, villain, peace ! ' even thus he rates the
babe,
' For I must bear thee to a trusty Goth,
Who, when he knows thou art the empress' babe,
Will hold thee dearly for thy mother's sake.'
With this, my weapon drawn, I rush'd upon him,
Surpris'd him suddenly, and brought him hither
To use as you think needful of the man.
Luc. Oh worthy Goth, this is the incarnate
devil
That robb'd Andronicus of his good hand :
This is the pearl that pleas'd your empress' eye ;
And here 's the base fruit of his burning lust.
Say, wall-eyed slave, whither wouldst thou
convey
This growing image of thy fieudlike face ?
Why dost not speak? what, deaf?" not a word?
A halter, soldiers ; hang him on this tree,
And by his side his fruit of bastardy.
Aaron. Touch not the boy, he is of royal
blood.
Luc. Too like the sire for ever being good.
First hang the child that he may see it sprawl,
A sight to vex the father's soul withal.
Aaron. Get me a ladder! 11 Lucius, save the
child,
And bear it from me to the empress :
If thou do this, I '11 show thee wond'rous things,
That highly may advantage thee to hear ;
If thou wilt not, befall what may befall,
I '11 speak no more, but vengeance rot you all.
Luc. Say on, and if it please me which thou
speak' st,
Thy child shall live, and I will see it nourish'd.
Aaron. An if it please tnee? why, assure
thee, Lucius,
'T will vex thy soul to hear what I shall speak :
For I must talk of murthers, rapes, and mas-
sacres,
Acts of black night, abominable deeds,
Complots of mischief, treason, villainies
Ruthful to hear, yet piteously perform'd ;
And this shall all be buried by my death,
Unless thou swear to me my child shall live.
* The second folio here inserts no,
Get me a ladder. These words belong to the Moor in all
the editions. He may mean, Execute me, but save the
child ! In modern copies, Lucius is made to call for U>
ladder.
Luc. Tell on thy mind ; I say thy child shall
live.
Aaron. Swear that he shall, and then I will
begin.
Luc. Who should I swear by ? thou believ'st
no God;
That granted, how canst thou believe an oath ?
Aaron. What if I do not, as indeed I do not :
Yet, for I know thou art religious,
And hast a thing within thee called conscience,
With twenty popish tricks and ceremonies,
Which I have seen thee careful to observe,
Therefore I urge thy oath ; for that I know
An idiot holds this bauble for a God,
And keeps the oath which by that God he
swears ;
To that I '11 urge him : therefore thou shalt vow
By that same God, what God soe'er it be,
That thou ador'st, and hast in reverence,
To save my boy, to nourish, and bring him up ;
Or else I will discover nought to thee.
Luc. Even by my God I swear to thee I will.
Aaron. First know thou, I begot him on the
empress.
Luc. Oh most insatiate, luxurious woman !
Aaron. Tut, Lucius, tlu's was but a deed ol
charity,
To that which thou shalt hear of me anon.
'T was her two sons that murther'd Bassianus ;
They cut thy sister's tongue, and ravish'd her,
And cut her hands off, and trimm'd her as thou
sawest.
Luc. Oh, detestable villain! call'st thou that
trimming ?
Aaron. Why, she was wash'd, and cut, and
trimm'd,
.Vnd 'twas trim sport for them that had the
doing of it.
Luc. Oh, barbarous, beastly villains, like thy-
self!
Aaron. Indeed, I was their tutor to instruct
them :
That codding spirit had they from their mother,
As sure a card as ever won the set :
That bloody mind I think they learn'd of me,
As true a dog as ever fought at head :
Well, let my deeds be witness of my worth.
I train'd thy brethren to that guileful hole,
Where the dead corpse of Bassianus lay :
I wrote the letter that thy father found,
And hid the gold within, the letter mention'd ;
Confederate with the queen and her two sons.
And what not done, that thou hast cause to rue,
Wherein I had no stroke of mischief in it P
I play'd the cheater for thy father's hand ;
JM
ACT V.]
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
[SCEKE II
And, when I had it, drew myself apart,
And almost broke my heart with extreme
laughter.
I pry'd me through the crevice of a wall,
IVhen, for his band, he had his two sons' heads ;
Beheld his tears, and laugh'd so heartily,
That both mine eyes were rainy like to his :
And when I told the empress of this sport,
She swounded almost at my pleasing tale,
And for my tidings gave me twenty kisses.
Goth. What, canst thou say all this, and never
blush?
Aaron. Ay, like a black dog, as the saying is.
Luc. Art thou not sorry for these heinous
deeds ?
Aaron. Ay, that I had not dene a thousand
more.
Even now I curse the day, and yet I think
Few come within the compass of my curse,
Wherein I did not some notorious ill :
As kill a man, or else devise his death ;
Ravish a maid, or plot the way to do it ;
Accuse some innocent, and forswear mjself ;
Set deadly enmity between two friends ;
Make poor men's cattle break their necks ;
Set fire on barns and haystacks in the night,
And bid the owners queneh them with their
tears :
Oft have I digg'd up dead men from their graves,
And set them upright at their dear friends'
doors,
Even when their sorrows almost were forgot ;
And on their skins, as on the bark of trees,
Have with my knife carved in Roman letters,
' Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead.'
Tut, I have done a thousand dreadful things
As willingly as one would kill a fly ;
And nothing grieves me heartily indeed,
But that I cannot do ten thousand more.
Luc. Bring down the devil for he must not
die
So sweet a death as hanging presently.
Aaron. If there be devils, would I were a
devil.
To live and burn in everlasting fire,
So I might have your company in hell,
But to tonnent you with my bitter tongue !
Luc. Sirs, stop his mouth, and let him speak
no more.
Enter a Goth.
Goth. My lord, there is a messenger from
Rome
Desires to be admitted to your presence.
Luc. Let him come near,
40
Welcome, JEmilius : What 's the news from
Rome?
jflmil. Lord Lucius, and your princes of the
Goths,
The Roman emperor greets you all by me ;
And, for he understands you are in arms,
He craves a parley at your father's house,
Willing you to demand your hostages,
And they shall be immediately deliver' d.
Goth. What says our general ?
Luc. JEmilius, let the emperor give his pledge
Unto my father, and my uncle Marcus,
And we will come : march away.
\Flourlsh. Exeunt.
SCENE II. Before TITUS'* House.
Enter TAMORA, CHIRON, and DEMETRIUS,
dixrjuised.
Tarn. Thus in this strange and sad habiliment
I will encounter with Andronicus,
And say I am Revenge, sent from below,
To join with him and right his heinous wrongs
Knock at his study, where they say he keeps,
To ruminate strange plots of dire revenge :
Tell him Revenge is come to join with him,
And work confusion on his enemies.
[They knock, and TITUS opens his Study door.
Tit. Who doth molest my contemplation P
Is it your trick to make me ope the door,
That so my sad decrees may fly away,
And all my study be to no effect ?
You are deceiv'd, for what I mean to do
See here in bloody lines I have set down ;
And what is written shall be executed.
Tarn. Titus, I am come to talk with thee.
Tit. No, not a word : how can I grace my
talk,
Wanting a hand to give it action ?
Thou hast the odds of me ; therefore no more.
Tarn. If thou didst know me, thou wouldst
talk with me.
Tit. I am not mad ; I know thee well enough.
Witness this wretched stump, witness these crim-
son lines,
Witness these trenches made by grief and eare,
Witness the tiring day and heavy night,
Witness all sorrow, that I know thee well
.For our proud empress, mighty Tamonu
Is not thy coming for my other hand ?
Tarn. Know thou, sad man I am not Ta-
mora;
It action. So the folio. The quartoj, tHat accord.
JcrV.]
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
[SCENE II.
She is thy enemy, and I thy friend.
I am Revenge, sent from the infernal kingdom,
To ease the gnawing vulture of thy mind,
By working wreakful vengeance on thy foes :
Come down, and welcome me to this world's
light}
Confer with me of murther and of death.
There 's not a hollow cave or lurking-place,
No vast obscurity or misty vale,
Where bloody Murther, or detested Rape,
Can couch for fear, but I will find them out ;
And in their ears tell them my dreadful name
Revenge which makes the foul offenders quake.
Tit. Art thou Revenge ? and art thou sent to
me
To be a torment to mine enemies ?
Tarn. I am; therefore come down, and wel-
come me.
Tit. Do me some service, ere I come to thee.
Lo, by thy side where Rape, and Murther, stands !
Now give some 'surance that thou art Revenge ;
Stab them, or tear them on thy chariot-wheels ;
And then I '11 come and be thy waggoner,
And whirl along with thee about the globes.
Provide thee two proper palfreys, as black as
jet, a
To hale thy vengeful waggon swift away,
And find out murtherers b in their guilty caves.
And when thy car is loaden with their heads,
I will dismount, and by the waggon-wheel
Trot like a servile footman all day long,
Even from Hyperion's rising in the east
Until his very downfall in the sea.
And, day by day, I'll do this heavy task,
So thou destroy Rapine and Murther there.
Tarn. These are my ministers, and come with
me.
Tit. Are they thy ministers ? what are they
call'd?
Tarn. Rape and Murther ; therefore called so,
'Cause they take vengeance of such kind of men.
Tit. Good lord, how like the empress' sons
they are,
And you the empress ! but worldly men
Have miserable, mad, mistaking eyes.
Oh, sweet Revenge, now do I come to thee,
And, if one arm's embracement will content thee,
I will embrace thee in it by-and-by.
[TiTUS closes his door.
Tarn. This closing with him fits his lunacy.
Whate'er I forge to feed his brain-sick fits,
Do you uphold, and maintain in your speeches ;
Some editors write the line,
" Provide thee proper palfreys, black as jet."
l> Miinheri-rs. The early copies, murther.
For now he firmly takes me for Revenge,
And, being credulous in this mad thought,
I '11 make him send for Lucius, his son ;
And, whilst I at a banquet hold him sure,
I '11 find some cunning practice out of hand
To scatter and disperse the giddy Goths,
Or, at the least, make them his enemies :
See, here he comes, and I must ply my theme.
Enter TITTJS.
Tit. Long have I been forlorn, and all for
thee.
Welcome, dread fury, to my woful house ;
Rapine, and Murther, you are welcome too.
How like the empress and her sons you are !
Well you are fitted, had you but a Moor !
Could not all hell afford you such a devil P
For well I wot the empress never wags
But in her company there is a Moor ;
And, would you represent our queen aright,
It were convenient you had such a devil :
But welcome as you are : What shall we do ?
Tarn. What wouldst thou have us do, Andro-
nicus?
Demet. Show me a murtherer : I '11 deal with
him.
Chi. Show me a villian that hath done a rape,
And I am sent to be reveng'd on him.
Tarn. Show me a thousand, that have done
thee wrong,
And I will be revenged on them all.
Tit. Look round about the wicked streets of
Rome,
And when thou find'st a man that 's like thyself,
Good Murther, stab him ; he 's a murtherer.
Go thou with him ; and when it is thy hap
To find another that is like to thee,
Good Rapine, stab him ; he is a ravisher.
Go thou with them ; and in the emperor's court
There is a queen attended by a Moor ;
Well mayst thou know her by thy own propor-
tion,
For up and down she doth resemble thee.
I pray thee do on them some violent death :
They have been violent to me and mine.
Tarn. Well hast thou lesson'd us; this shall
we do.
But would it please thee, good Andronicus,
To send for Lucius, thy thrice-valiant son,
Who leads towards Rome a band of warlike
Goths,
And bid him come and banquet at thy house :
When he is here, even at thy solemn feast,
I will bring in the empress and her sous,
The emperor himself, and all thy foes ;
41
AcrV.]
TITUS ANDRONICLS.
k SCESII-
And at thy mercy shall they stoop and kneel ;
And on them shalt thou ease thy angry heart.
What says Andronicus to this device ?
Enter MARCUS.
Tit. Marcus, my brother, 't is sad Titus calls.
Go, gentle Marcus, to thy nephew Lucius :
Thou shalt inquire him out among the Goths.
Bid him repair to me, and bring with him
Some of the chiefest princes of the Goths ;
Bid him encamp his soldiers where they are.
Tell him the emperor, and the empress too,
Feast at my house, and he shall feast with them.
This do thou for my love ; and so let him,
As he regards liis aged father's life.
Mure. This will I do, and soon return again.
[Exit.
Tarn. Now will I hence about my business,
And take my ministers along with me.
Tit. Nay, nay; let Rape and Murther stay
with me.
Or else I '11 call my brother back again,
And cleave to no revenge but Lucius.
Tarn. What say you, boys? will you bide
with him,
Whiles I go tell my lord the emperor,
How I have govern'd our determin'd jest ?
Yield to his humour, smooth and speak him fair,
And tarry with him till I turn again. [Aside.
Tit. I know them all, though they suppose
me mad,
And will o'erreach them in their own devices :
A pair of curbed hell-hounds, and their dam.
[Aside.
Der.iet. Madam, depart at pleasure : leave us
here.
Tarn. Farewell, Andronicus; Revenge now
goes
To lay a complot to betray thy foes. [Exit TAM.
Tit. I know thou dost ; and, sweet Revenge,
farewell.
Chi. Tell us, old man, how shall we be ern-
ploy'd ?
Tit. Tut ! I have work enough for you to do.
Publius, come hither, Caius, and Valentine.
Enter PUBLIUS and others.
Pub. What is your will ?
Tit. Know you these two ?
Pub. The empress' sons, I take them, Chiron,
Demetrius.
Tit. Fie, Publius, fie ; thou art too much de-
ceit d :
The one is Murther, Rape is the other's name ;
And therefore bind them, gentle Publkis :
42
I Caius, and Valentine, lay hands on them.
Oft have you heard me wish for such an nour,
And now I find it ; therefore bind them sure,
And stop their mouths if they begin to cry.*
[Exit TITUS. PUBLIUS, Sfc., lay hold on
CHIRON and DEMETRIUS.
Chi. Villains, forbear! we are the empress'
sons.
Pub. And therefore do we what we are com-
manded.
Stop close their mouths ; let them not speak a
word;
Is he sure bound? look that you bind them fast. 1 *
Enter TITUS ASDRONICUS with a knife, and
LAVIXIA icith a lasin.
Tit. Come, come, Lavinia ; look, thy foes are
bound :
Sirs, stop their mouths; let them not speak to me,
But let them hear what fearful words I utter.
Oh, villains, Chiron and Demetrius !
Here stands the spring whom you have stain'd
with mud;
This goodly summer with your winter mix'd.
You kill'd her husband ; and for that vild fault
T\vo of her brothers were condemn' d to death,
My hand cut off, and made a merry jest ;
Both her sweet hands, her tongue, and that
more dear
Than hands or tongue, her spotless chastity,
Inhuman traitors, you constrain'd and forc'd.
What would you say if I should let you speak ?
Villains, for shame you could not beg for grace.
Hark, wretches, how I mean to martyr you.
This one hand yet is left to cut your throats,
Whilst that Lavinia 'tween her stumps doth hold
The basin that receives yonr guilty blood.
You know your mother means to feast with me ;
And calls herself Revenge, and thinks me mad.
Hark, villains ! I will grind your bones to dust,
And with your blood and it I '11 make a paste,
And of the paste a coffin I will rear,
And make two pasties of your shameful heads,
And bid that strumpet, your unhallow'd dam,
Like to the earth, swallow her own d increase.
This is the feast that I have bid her to,
And this the banquet she shall surfeit on :
For worse than Philomel you used my daughter;
And worse than Progne I will be reveng'd.
And now prepare your throats : Lavinia, come,
a This line is omitted in the folio.
b There is a stage-direction here Exeunt. They perhapi
go within the curtain of the secondary stage, so that the bloody
scene may be veiled.
c Coffin the crust of a raised pie.
d The folio omits own.
A.CT V.]
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
[SCIXK III
Receive the blood ; and when that they are dead,
Let me go grind their bones to powder small,
And with this hateful liquor temper it,
And in that paste let their vild heads be bak'd.
Come, come, be every one officious
To make this banquet, which I wish may prove
More stern and bloody than the centaur's feast.
[lie cuts their throats.
So ; now bring them in, for I J ll play the cook,
And see them ready against their mother comes.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III. Titus'* House. A Pavilion.
Enter Lucius, MARCUS, and the Goths, with
AARON.
Luc. Uncle Marcus, since 't is my father's
mind
That I repair to Rome, I am content.
Goth. And ours, with thine ; befall what
fortune will.
Luc. Good uncle, take you in this barbarous
Moor,
This ravenous tiger, this accursed devil ;
Let him receive no sustenance, fetter him,
Till he be brought unto the empress' * face,
For testimony of her foul proceedings :
And see the ambush of our friends be strong :
I fear the emperor means no good to us.
Aaron. Some devil whisper curses in mine ear,
And prompt me that my tongue may utter forth
The venomous malice of my swelling heart !
Luc. Away, inhuman dog, unhallow'd slave !
Sirs, help our uncle to convey him in.
The trumpets show the emperor is at hand.
[Flourish.
Sound trumpets. Enter SATURNINUS and
TAMORA, with Tribunes and others.
Sat. What, hath the firmament more suns
than one ?
Luc. What boots it thee to call thyself a sun ?
Marc. Rome's emperor, and nephew, break
the parle ! b
These quarrels must be quietly debated.
The feast is ready, which the careful Titus
Hath ordained to an honourable end ;
For peace, for love, for league, and good to
Rome:
Please you, therefore, draw nigh, and taKe your
places.
Sat. Marcus, we will. {Hautboys.
Empress', in the quarts of 1600. The quarto ofl 6 11, and
the folio, ea'peror't.
*> Begin the parley.
Enter TITUS, like a cook, placing the meat on
the table ; LAVINIA, with a veil over her face ,
Young Lucius, and others.
Tit. Welcome, my gracious lord; welcome,
dread queen ;
Welcome, ye warlike Goths ; welcome, Lucius ;
And welcome, all ; although the cheer be poor,
'T will fill your stomachs ; please you eat of it.
Sat. Why art thou thus attir'd, Andronicus ?
Tit. Because I would be sure to have allweil,
To entertain your highness and your empress.
Tarn. We are beholding to you, good Andro
nicus.
Tit. An if your highness knew my heart, you
were :
My lord the emperor, resolve me this :
Was it well done of rash Virginius,
To slay his daughter with his own right hand,
Because she was enforc'd, stain'd, and de-
flour'd?
Sat. It was, Andronicus.
Tit. Your reason, mighty lord !
Sat. Because the girl should not survive her
shame,
And by her presence still renew his sorrows.
Tit. A reason mighty, strong, and effectual ;
A pattern, precedent, and lively warrant,
For me, most wretched, to perform the like.
Die, die, Lavinia, and thy shame with thee,
And with thy shame thy father's sorrow die.
[He kills her.
Sat. What hast thou done, unnatural and
unkind ?
Tit. Kill'd her, for whom my tears have
made me blind.
I am as woful as Virginius was,
And have a thousand times more cause than he
To do this outrage ; and it is now done."
Sat. What, was she ravish'd? tell, who did
the deed ?
Tit. Will 't please you eat, will 't please your
highness feed ?
Tarn. Why hast thou slain thine only daugh-
ter?
Tit. Not I ; 't was Chiron and Demetrius.
They ravish'd her, and cut away her tongue,
And they, 'twas they, that did her all this
wrong.
Sat. Go fetch them hither to us presently.
Tit. Why, there they are both, baked in that
pie,
Whereof their mother daintily hath fed,
Eating the flesh that she herself hath bred.
* This line ii omitted in the folio.
ACT V.]
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
"i 1 is true, 't is true, witness
nninr, F
[SCKMX IIL
point.
o my knife's sharp
[He stabs TAMOBA.
Sat. Die, frantic wretch, for this accursed
deed ! [He kills TITUS.
Luc. Can the son's eye Dehold his father
bleed?
There 's meed for meed ; death for a deadly
deed. [He Mils SATUKNINUS. The
people disperse in terror.
Marc. You sad-fac'd men, people and sons
of Rome,
By uproars sever' d, like a flight of fowl
Scatter'd by winds and high tempestuous gusts,
Oh, let me teach you how to knit again
This scatter' d corn into one mutual sheaf,
These broken limbs again into one body;
Lest* Rome herself be bane unto herself;
Aud she whom mighty kingdoms curtsy to,
Like a forlorn and desperate castaway,
l)o shameful execution on herself.
But if my frosty signs and chaps of age,
Grave witnesses of true experience,
Cannot induce you to attend my words,
Speak, Rome's dear friend, [To Lucius] as erst
our ancestor,
When with his solemn tongue he did discourse
To love-sick Dido's sad attending ear,
The story of that baleful burning night,
When subtle Greeks surpris'd king Priam's Troy.
Tell us what Sinon hath bewitch'd our ears,
Or who hatli brought the fatal engine in
That gives our Troy, our Rome, the civil
wound.
My heart is not compact of flint nor steel,
Nor can I utter all our bitter grief;
But floods of tears will drown my oratory,
And break my very utterance, even in the time
When it should move you to attend me most,
Lending your kind commiseration.
Here is a captain ; let him tell the tale ;
Your hearts will throb and weep to hear him
speak.
Luc. Then, noble auditory, be it known to you,
That cursed Chiron and Demetrius
Were they that murthered our emperor's brother,
And they it was that ravished our sister ;
For their fell faults our brothers were beheaded ;
Our father's tears despis'd, and basely cozen'd
Of that true hand that fought Rome's quarrel out,
And sent her enemies unto the grave :
Lastly, myself, unkindly banished ;
The gates shut on me, and turn'd weeping out,
To beg relief amongst Rome's enemies,
a Lest. The originals, let.
Who drown' d their enmity in my true tears,
And op'd their arms to embrace me as a friend;
And I am the turn'd forth, be it known to you,
That have preserv'd her welfare in my blood,
And from her bosom took the enemy's point,
Sheathing the steel in my advent'rous body.
Alas, you know I am no vaunter, I ;
My scars can witness, dumb although they are,
That my report is just and full of truth.
But soft, methinks I do digress too much,
Citing my worthless praise. Oh, pardon me,
For, when no friends are by, men praise them-
selves.
Marc. Now is my turn to speak : behold this
child;
Of this was Tamora delivered,
The issue of an irreligious Moor,
Chief architect and plotter of these woes.
The villain is alive in Titus' house,
Damn'd a as he is, to witness this is true.
Now judge what cause b had Titus to revenge
These wrongs, unspeakable past patience,
Or more than any living man could bear.
Now you have heard the truth, what say you,
Romans p
Have we done aught amiss ? show us wherein,
And, from the place where you behold us now,
The poor remainder of Andronici
Will hand in hand all headlong cast us down,
And on the ragged stones beat forth our brains,
And make a mutual closure of our house :
Speak, Romans, speak ; and if you say we shall,
Lo, hand in hand, Lucius and I will fall.
j&rail. Come, come, thou reverend man of
Rome,
And bring our emperor gently in thy hand,
Lucius, our emperor ; for well I know,
The common voice do cry it shall be so.
Marc. Lucius, all hail, Rome's royal em-
peror ! c
Go, go, into old Titus' sorrowful house,
And hither hale that misbelieving Moor,
To be adjudg'd some direful slaughtering death,
As punishment for his most wicked life.
[To Attendants.
Lucius, all hail to Rome's gracious governor !
Luc. Thanks, gentle Romans ! May I govern
so,
To heal Rome's harms, and wipe away her woe ;
Damn'd. The old copies, And.
b Cause. The earliest copies, course. The fourth folio
gave the correction.
c This line, and the concluding line of Marcus' speech, are
given to the people "Romans" byall themodern editors,
against the authority of all the original copies. Marcus is the
tribune of the people, and speaks authoritatively what " the
common voice " has required.
ACT V.]
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
[SCENE I II.
But, gentle people, give me aim awhile,
For nature puts me to a heavy task !
Stand all aloof ; but, uncle, draw you near,
To shed obsequious tears upon this trunk.
Oh, take this warm kiss on thy pale cold lips,
[Kisses TITTJS.
These sorrowful drops upon thy blood-stain'd face,
The last true duties of thy noble son.
Mare. Tear for tear, and loving kiss for kiss,
Thy brother Marcus tenders on thy lips.
Oh, were the sum of these that I should pay
Countless and infinite, yet would I pay them.
Luc. Come hither, boy; come, come, and
learn of us
To melt in showers. Thy grandsire lov'd thee well;
Many a time he danc'd thee on his knee,
Suog thee asleep, his loving breast thy pillow ;
Many a matter hath he told to thee,
Meet and agreeing with thine infancy ;
In that respect, then, like a loving child,
Shed yet some small drops from thy tender
spring,
Because kind nature doth require it so :
Friends should associate friends in grief and woe.
Bid him farewell, commit him to the grave,
Do him that kindness and take leave of him.
Boy. 0, grandsire, grandsire, even with all
my heart
Would I were dead, so you did live again !
0, Lord, I cannot speak to him for weeping ;
My tears will choke me if I ope my mouth.
Enter Attendants with AARON.
Roman. You sad Andronici, have done with
woes!
Give sentence on this execrable wretch,
That hath been breeder of these dire events.
Luc. Set him breast deep in earth, and famish
him :
There let him stand, and rave, and cry for food :
If any one relieves or pities him,
For the offence he dies ; this is our doom.
Some stay to see him fasten'd in the earth.
Aaron. Ah ! why should wrath be mute, and
fury dumb ?
I am no baby, I, that with base prayers
I should repent the evils I have done :
Ten thousand worse than ever yet I did
Would I perform, if I might have my will :
If one good deed in all my life I did,
I do repent it from my very soul.
Luc. Some loving friends convey the emperor
hence,
And give him burial in his father's grave.
My father and Lavinia shall forthwith
Be closed in our household's monument :
As for that heinous tiger, Tamora,
No fun'ral rite, nor man in mournful weeds,
No mournful bell shall ring her burial ;
But throw her forth to beasts and birds of*
prey :
Her life was beastly b and devoid of pity,
And, being so, shall have like want of pity.
See justice done ou c Aaron, that damn'd Moor,
By whom our heavy haps had their beginning :
Then, afterwards, to order well the state,
That like events may ne'er it ruinate. [Exeunt,
a Of, in the folio. The quartos, to.
b Beatt-like, in the folio. The quaitot, beattly.
On, in the quartos. The folio, to.
NOTICE
THE external evidence that bears upon the authorship of Titus Adronicus is of two
kinds :
1. The testimony which assigns the play to Shakspere, wholly, or in part.
2. The testimony which fixes the period of its original production.
The direct testimony of the first kind is unimpeachable : Francis Meres, a contemporary,
and probably a friend of Shakspere a man intimately acquainted with the literary history
of his day not writing even in the later period of Shakspere's life, but as early as 1598,
compares, for tragedy, the excellence of Shakspere among the English, with Seneca among
the Latins, and says, witness, "for tragedy, his Richard II., Richard III., Henry IV.,
King John, Titus Audronicus, and his Romeo and Juliet,"
The indirect testimony is nearly as important. The play is printed in the first folio
edition of the poet's collected works an edition published within seven years after his death
by his intimate friends and " fellows :" and that edition contains an entire scene not found
in either of the previous quarto editions which have come down to us. That edition does
not contain a single other play upon which a doubt of the authorship has been raised ;
for even those who deny the entire authorship of Henry VI. to Shakspere, have no doubt
as to the partial authorship.
NOTICE ON THE AUTHENTICITY OF TITUS ANDRONICUS.
Against this testimony of the editors of the first folio, that Shakspere was the author of
Titus Andronicus, there is only one fact to be opposed that his name is not on the title-
page of either of the quarto editions, although those editions show us that it was acted by
the company to which Shakspere belonged. But neither was the name of Shakspere affixed
to the first editions of Richard II., Richard III., and Henry IV., Parti.; nor to the first
three editions of Romeo and Juliet ; nor to Henry V. These similar facts, therefore, leave
the testimony of Hemings and Condell unimpeached.
But the evidence of Meres that Shakspere was the author of Titus Andronicus, in the
game sense in which he assigns him the authorship of Romeo and Juliet that of being the
sole author is supposed to be shaken by the testimony of a writer who came nearly a
century after Meres. Malone says " On what principle the editors of the first complete
edition of our poet's plays admitted this into their volume cannot now be ascertained. The
most probable reason that can be assigned is, that he wrote a few lines in it, or gave some
assistance to the author in revising it, or in some other way aided him in bringing it for-
ward on the stage. The tradition mentioned by Ravenscroft in the time of King James II.
warrants us in making one or other of these suppositions. ' I have been told ' (says he in
his preface to an alteration of this play published in 1687), ' by some anciently conversant
with the stage, that it was not originally his [Shakspere's], but brought by a private author
io be acted, and he only gave some master-touches to one or two of the principal charac-
ters.' " A few lines further on Malone quotes Langbaiue, who refers to this tradition ; and
he therefore ought to have told us what Langbaine says with regard to Ravenscroft's asser-
tion, We will supply the deficiency. Langbaine first notices an early edition of Titus
Andronicus, now lost, printed in 1594 ; he adds "'Twas about the time of the Popish
Plot revived and altered by Mr. Ravenscroft." Ravenscroft was a living author when
Langbaine published his 'Account of the English Dramatic Poets,' in 1691 ; and the
writer of that account says, with a freedom that is seldom now adopted except in anonymous
criticism " Though he would be thought to imitate the silk-worm, that spins its web from
its own bowels ; yet I shall make him appear like the leech, that lives upon the blood of
men." This is introductory to an account of those plays which Ravenscroft claimed as his
own. But, under the head of Shakspere. Langbaine says that Ravenscroft boasts, in his
preface to Titus, " That he thinks it a greater theft to rob the dead of their praise than the
living of their money;" and Langbaine goes on to show that Ravenscroft's practice "agrees
not with his protestation," by quoting some remarks of Shadwell upon plagiaries, who
insinuates that Ravenscroft got up the story that Shakspere only gave some master-touches
to Titus Andronicus, to exalt his own merit in having altered it. The play was revived
"about the time of the Popish Plot," 1678. It was first printed in 1687, with this
Preface. But Ravenscroft then suppresses the original Prologue ; and Langbaine, with
a quiet sarcasm, says " I will here furnish him with part of his Prologue, which he has
lost ; and, if he desire it, send him the whole :
' To-day the poet does not fear your rage,
Shalcespear, by him reviv'd, now treads the stage :
Under his sacred laurels he sits down,
Safe from the blast of any critic's frown.
Like other poets, he '11 not proudly scorn
To own that he but winnow'd Shakegpear's corn ;
So far he was from robbing him of 'B treasure,
That he did add his own to make full measure.' "
Malone, we think, was bound to have given us all this if the subject, of which he affects
to make light, was worth the production of any evidence. We believe that, with this
47
NOTICE ON THE AUTHENTICITY OF
commentary, the tradition of Edward Ravenscroft will not outweigh the living testimony
of Francis Meres.
We now come to the second point the testimony which fixes the date of the original
production of Titus Andronicus. There are two modes of viewiag this portion of the
evidence ; and we first present it with the interpretation which deduces from it that the
tragedy was not written by Shakspere.
We have mentioned in our Introductory Notice to this play but it is necessary to repeat
it that Ben Jonson, in the Induction to his 'Bartholomew Fair,' first acted in 1614,
gays " He that will swear Jeronimo, or Andronicus, are the best plays yet, shall pass
unexcepted at here, as a man whose judgment shows it is constant, and hath stood still these
five-and-twenty or thirty years. Though it be an ignorance, it is a virtuous and staid
ignorance ; and, next to truth, a confirmed error does well." Percy offers the following
comment upon this passage, in his 'Reliques of Ancient Poetry :' " There is reason to
conclude that this play was rather improved by Shakespeare with a few fine touches of his
pen, than originally written by him ; for, not to mention that the style is less figurative
than his others generally are, this tragedy is mentioned with discredit in the Induction to
Ben Jonson's ' Bartholomew Fair,' in 1614, as one that had been then exhibited ' five-and-
twenty or thirty years ;' which, if we take the lowest number, throws it back to the year
1589, at which time Shakespeare was but 25 : an earlier date than can be found for any
other of his pieces." It is scarcely necessary to point out, that with the views we have
uniformly entertained as to the commencement of Shakspere's career as a dramatic author,
the proof against his authorship of Titus Andronicus thus brought forward by Percy is to
us amongst the most convincing reasons for not hastily adopting the opinion that he was
not its author. The external evidence of the authorship^ and the external evidence of the
date of the authorship, entirely coincide : each supports the other. The continuation of the
argument derived from the early date of the play naturally runs into the internal evidence
of its authenticity. The fact of its early date is indisputable ; and here, for the present,
we leave it.
We can scarcely subscribe to Mr. Hallam's strong opinion, given with reference to this
question of the authorship of Titus Andronicus, that, " in criticism of all kinds, we must
acquire a dogged habit of resisting testimony, when res ipsa per se vociferatur to the con-
trary."* The res ipsa may be looked upon through very different media by different
minds : testimony, when it is clear, and free from the suspicion of an interested bias,
althoiigh it appear to militate against conclusions that, however strong, are not infallible,
because they depend upon very nice analysis and comparison, must be received, more or
less, and cannot be doggedly resisted. Mr. Hallam says, " Titus Andronicus is now, by
common consent, denied to be, in any sense, a production of Shakspeare." Who are the
interpreters of the "common consent?" Theobald, Jonson, Farmer, Steevens, Malone,
M. Mason. These critics are wholly of one school ; and we admit that they represent the
"common consent" of their own school of English literature upon this point till within
a few years the only school. But there is another school of criticism, which maintains that
Titus Andronicus is, in every sense, a production of Shakspere. The German critics, from
W. Schlegel to Ulrici, agree to reject the "common consent" of the English critics.
The subject, therefore, cannot be hastily dismissed ; the external testimony cannot be dog-
gedly resisted. But, in entering upon the examination of this question with the best care we
Can bestow, we consider that it possesses an importance much higher than belongs to the proof,
or disproof, from the internal evidence, that this painful tragedy was written by Shakspore.
" ' Literature of Europe, ol. ii. p. 385.
48
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
The question is not an isolated one. It requires to be treated with a constant reference
to the state of the early English drama, the probable tendencies of the poet's own mind
at the period of his first dramatic productions, the circumstances amidst which he was
placed with reference to his audiences, the struggle which he must have undergone to
reconcile the contending principles of the practical and the ideal, the popular and the
true, the tentative process by which he must have advanced to his immeasurable supe-
riority over every contemporary. It is easy to place Titus Andronicns by the side of
Hamlet, and to say, the one is a low work of art, the other a work of the highest art.
It is easy to say that the versification of Titus Andronicus is not the versification of A
Midsummer Night's Dream. It is easy to say that Titus raves and denounces without
moving terror or pity ; but that Lear tears up the whole heart, and lays bare all the
hidden springs of thought and passion that elevate madness into sublimity. But this,
we venture to think, is not just criticism. We may be tempted, perhaps, to refine too
much in rejecting all such sweeping comparisons ; but what we have first to trace is
relation, and not likeness ; if we find likeness in a single " trick and line," we may
indeed add it to the evidence of relation. But relation may be established even out of
dissimilarity. No one who has deeply contemplated the progress of the great intellects
of the world, and has traced the doubts, and fears, and throes, and desperate plunges of
genius, can hesitate to believe that excellence in art is to be attained by the same process
through which we may hope to reach excellence in morals, by contest, and purification,
until habitual confidence and repose succeed to convulsive exertions and distracting aims.
He that would rank amongst the heroes must have fought the good fight. Energy of all
kinds has to work out its own subjection to principles, without which it can never become
power. In the course of this struggle what it produces may be essentially unlike to the
fruits of its after- peacefulness : for the good has to be reached through the evil the true
through the false the universal through the partial. The passage we subjoin is from
Franz Horn : and we think that it demands a respectful consideration :
" A mediocre, poor, and tame nature finds itself easily. It soon arrives, when it
endeavours earnestly, at a knowledge of what it can accomplish, and what it cannot. Its
poetical tones are single and gentle spring-breathings ; with which we are well pleased,
but which pass over us almost trackless. A very different combat has the higher and
richer nature to maintain with itself; and the more splendid the peace, and the brighter
the clearness, which it reaches through this combat, the more monstrous the fight which
must have been incessantly maintained.
" Let us consider the richest and most powerful poetic nature that the world has ever
yet seen ; let us consider Shakspere, as boy and youth, in his circumscribed external
situation, without one discriminating friend, without a patron, without a teacher, with-
out the possession of ancient or modern languages, in his loneliness at Stratford, following
an uncongenial employment ; and then, in the strange whirl of the so-called great world
of London, contending for long years with unfavourable circumstances, in wearisome
intercourse with this great world, which is, however, often found to be little ; but also
with nature, with himself, and with God : What materials for the deepest contemplation !
This rich nature, thus circumstanced, desires to explain the enigma of the human being
and the surrounding world. But it is not yet disclosed to himself. Ought he to wait for
this ripe time before he ventures to dramatise 1 Let us not demand anything super-
human : for, through the expression of error in song, will he find what accelerates the
truth ; and well for him that he has no other sins to answer for than poetical ones, which
later in life he has atoned for by the most glorious excellences !
" The elegiac tone of his juvenile poems allows us to imagine very deep passions in the
SUP. VOL. K 49
NOTICE ON THE AUTHENTICITY OF
youthful Shakspere. But this single tone was not long sufficient for him. He soon
desired, from that stage ' which signifies the world ' (an expression that Schiller might pro-
perly have invented for Shakspere), to speak aloud what the world seemed to him, to
him, the youth who was not yet able thoroughly to penetrate this seeming. Can there be
here a want of colossal errors ? Not merely single errors. No : we should have a whole
drama which is diseased at its very root, which rests upon one single monstrous error.
Such a drama is this Titus. The poet had here nothing less in his mind than to give us
a grand Doomsday-drama. But what, as a man, was possible to him in Lear, the youth
could not accomplish. He gives us a torn-to-pieces world, about which Fate wanders like
a bloodthirsty lion, or as a more refined and more cruel tiger, tearing mankind, good
and evil alike, and blindly treading down every flower of joy. Nevertheless a better
feeling reminds him that some repose must be given ; but he is not sufficiently confident
of this, and what he does in this regard is of little power. The personages of the piece
are not merely heathens, but most of them embittered and blind in their heathenism ; and
only some single aspirations of something better can arise from a few of the best among
them ; aspirations which are breathed so gently as scarcely to be heard amidst the cries
of desperation from the bloody waves that roar almost deafeningly."
The eloquent critic adds, in a note, " Is it not as if there sounded through the whole
piece a comfortless complaint of the incomprehensible and hard lot of all earthly ? Is it
not as if we heard the poet speaking with Faust ' All the miseries of mankind seize
upon me?' Or, with his own Hamlet,
' How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world !
Fie on 't ! 0, fie ! 't is an un weeded garden
That grows to seed ; things rank and gross in nature
Possess it merely.'
And now, let us bethink ourselves, in opposition to this terrible feeling, of the sweet
blessed peacefulness which speaks from out all the poet's more matured dramas ; for
instance, from the inexhaustibly joyful-minded ' As You lake It.' Such a contest
followed by such a victory !"
It is scarcely necessary to point out that this argument of the German critic is founded
upon the simple and intelligible belief that Shakspere is, in every sense of the word, the
author of Titus Andronicus. Here is no attempt to compromise the question, by the
common English babble that " Shakspeare may have written a few lines in this play, or
given some assistance to the author in revising it." This is Malone's opinion, founded
upon Ravenscroft's idle tradition ; and in his posthumous edition, by Boswell, " those
passages in which he supposed the hand of Shakspeare may be traced are marked with
inverted commas." This was the system which Malone pursued with Henry VI. ; and, as
we there endeavoured to show, it was founded upon a most egregious fallacy. The drama
belongs to the province of the very highest poetical art, because a play which fully realizes
the objects of a scenic exhibition requires a nicer combination of excellences, and involves
higher difficulties, than belong to any other species of poetry. Taking the qiialities of
invention, power of language, versification, to be equal in two men, one devoting himself
to dramatic poetry, and the other to narrative poetry, the dramatic poet has chances of
failure which the narrative poet may entirely avoid. The dialogue, and especially the
imagery, of the dramatic poet are secondary to the invention of the plot, the management
of the action, and the conception of the characters. Language is but the drapery of the
beings that the dramatic poet's imagination has created. They must be placed by the
poet's power of combination in the various relations which they must maintain through a
long and sometimes complicated actiou ; he must see the whole of that action vividly,
60
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
with reference to its capacity of manifesting itself distinctly to an audience, so that even
the deaf should partially comprehend : the pantomime must be acted over and over again
in his mind, before the wand of the magician gives the agents voice. When all this ia
done, all contradictions reconciled, all obscurities made clear, the interest prolonged and
heightened, and the catastrophe naturally evolved and matured, the poet, to use the terms
of a sister-art, has completed that design which colour and expression are to make manifest
to others, with something like the distinctness with which he himself has seen it. We
have no hesitation in believing that one of the main causes of Shakspere's immeasurable
superiority to other dramatists is that all-penetrating power of combination by which the
action of his dramas is constantly sustained ; whilst in the best pieces of his contemporaries,
with rare exceptions, it flags or breaks down into description, or is carried off by
imagery, or the force of conception in one character overpowers the management of the
other instruments cases equally evidencing that the poet has not attained the most
difficult art of controlling his own conceptions. And thus it is that we so often hear
Christopher Marlowe, or Philip Massinger, to name the very best of them, speaking
themselves out of the mouths of their puppets, whilst the characterization is lost, and the
action is forgotten. But when do we ever hear the individual voice of the man William
Shakspere ? When does he come forward to bow to the audience, as it were, between the
scenes 1 Never is there any pause with him, that we may see the complacent author
whispering to his auditory This is not exactly what I meant ; my inspiration carried me
away ; but is it not fine ? The great dramatic poet sits out of mortal ken. He rolls away
the clouds and exhibits his world. There is calm and storm, and light and darkness ;
and the material scene becomes alive ; and we see a higher life than that of our ordinary
nature ; and the whole soul is elevated j and man and his actions are presented under
aspects more real than reality, and our control over tears or laughter is taken away from
us ; and, if the poet be a philosopher, and without philosophy he cannot be a poet,
deep truths, before dimly seen, enter into our minds and abide there. Why do we state
all this ? Utterly to reject the belief that Shakspere was a line-maker ; that, like Gray,
for example, he was a manufacturer of mosaic poetry ; that he made verses to order;
and that his verses could be produced by some other process than an entire conception of,
and power over, the design of a drama. It is this mistake which lies at the bottom of all
that has been written and believed about the two Parts of ' The Contention of the Houses
of York and Lancaster ' being polished by Shakspere into the Second and Third Parts of
Henry VI. The elder plays which the English antiquarian critics persist in ascribing
to Marlowe, or Greene, or Peele, or all of them contain all the action, even to the
exact succession of the scenes, all the characterization, a very great deal of the dialogue,
including the most vigorous thoughts : and then Shakspere was to take the matter in
hand, and add a thousand lines or two up and down, correct an epithet here and there,
and do all this without the slightest exercise of invention, either in movement or charac-
terization ; producing fine lines without passing through that process of inspiration by
which lines having dramatic beauty and propriety can alone be produced. We say this,
after much deliberation, not only with reference to the Henry VI. and to the play before
us, but with regard to the general belief that Shakspere, in the outset of his career, was
a mender of the plays of other men ; or that, in any part of his career, he was associated
with other men in writing plays. We know that this is a hazardous assertion, which
militates against many received notions, some of which have been very ably set forth ;
but we, nevertheless, make it upon conviction. Timon, according to our belief, is the
only exception ; and we regard that not as an exception to the principle, because there
the characterization of Timon himself is the Shaksperian creation ; and that depends
E 2 61
NOTICE ON THE AUTHENTICITY OF
extremely little upon the general action, which, to a large extent, is episodical. We say.
then, that we hold Malone's principle of marking with inverted commas those passages
in which he supposed the hand of Shakspere may be traced in this play of Titus Andro-
nicus to be based upon a vital error. It is not with us a question whether the passages
which Maloiie has marked exhibit, or not, the critic's poetical taste : we say that the
passages could not have been written except by the man, whoever he be, who conceived
the action and the characterization. Take the single example of the character of Tamora.
She is the presiding genius of the piece ; and in her we see, as we believe, the outbreak
of that wonderful conception of the union of powerful intellect and moral depravity
which Shakspere was afterwards to make manifest with such consummate wisdom.
Strong passions, ready wit, perfect self-possession, and a sort of oriental imagination, take
Tamora out of the class of ordinary women. It is in her mouth that we find, for the
most part, what readers of Malone's school would call the poetical language of the play.
We will select a few specimens (Act n., Scene in.) :
" The birds chant melody on every bush ;
The snake lies rolled in the cheerful sun ;
The green leaves quiver with the cooling wind,
And make a chequer'd shadow on the ground :
Under their sweet shade, Aaron, let us sit,
And whilst the babbling echo mocks the hounds,
Replying shrilly to the well-tun'd horns,
As if a double hunt were heard at once,
Let us sit down."
Again, in the same scene :
" A barren detested vale, you see, it is :
The trees, though summer, yet forlorn and lean,
O'ercome with moss and baleful ruisseltoe.
Here never shines the sun ; here nothing breeds,
Unless the nightly owl, or fatal raven.
And, when they show'd me this abhorred pit,
They told me, here, at dead time of the night,
A thousand fiends, a thousand hissing snakes,
Ten thousand swelling toads, as many urchins,
Would make such fearful and confused cries,
As any mortal body, hearing it,
Should straight fall mad, or else die suddenly."
In Act iv., Scene iv. :
" King, be thy thoughts imperious, like thy name.
Is the sun dimm'd, that gnats do fly in it ?
The eagle suffers little birds to sing,
And is not careful what they mean thereby ;
Knowing that, with the shadow of his wing,
He can at pleasure stint their melody."
And, lastly, where the lines are associated with the high imaginative conception of the
speaker, that she was to personate Revenge :
" Know thou, sad man, I am not Tamora ;
She is thy enemy, and I thy friend :
I am Revenge ; sent from the infernal kingdom,
To ease the gnawing vulture of thy mind,
By working wreakful vengeance on thy foes.
Come down, and welcome me to this world's light."
The first two of these passages are marked by Malone as the additions of Shakspere to the
work of an inferior poet. If we had adopted Malone's theory we should have marked the
52
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
two other passages ; and have gone even further in our selection of the poetical lines spoken
by Tamora. But we hold that the lines could not have been produced, according to
Malone's theory, even by Shakspere. Poetry, and especially dramatic poetry, is not to
be regarded as a bit of joiner's work, or, if you please, as an affair of jewelling and ena-
melling. The lines which we have quoted may not be amongst Shakspere's highest things ;
but they could not have been produced except under the excitement of the full swing of his
dramatic power bright touches dashed in at the very hour when the whole design was
growing into shape upon the canvass, and the form of Tamora was becoming alive with
colour and expression. To imagine that the great passages of a drama are produced like
" a copy of verses," under any other influence than the large and general inspiration which
creates the whole drama, is, we believe, utterly to mistake the essential nature of dramatic
poetry. It would be equally just to say that the nice but well-defined traits of character,
which stand out from the physical horrors of this play, when it is carefully studied, were
super-added by Shakspere to the coarser delineations of some other man. Aaron, the Moor,
in his general conception is an unmitigated villain something alien from humanity a
fiend, and therefore only to be detested. But Shakspere, by that insight which, however
imperfectly developed, must have distinguished his earliest efforts, brings Aaron into the
circle of humanity ; and then he is a thing which moves us, and his punishment is poetical
justice. One touch does this his affection for his child :
" Come on, you thick-lipp'd slave, I '11 bear you hence ;
For it is you that puts us to our shifts :
I '11 make you feed on berries, and on roots,
And feed on curds and whey, and suck the goat,
And cabin in a cave ; and bring you up
To be a warrior, and command a camp."
Did Shakspere put in these lines, and the previous ones which evolve the same feeling,
under the system of a cool editorial mending of a second man's work ? The system may
do for an article ; but a play is another thing. Did Shakspere put these lines into the
mouth of Lucius, when he calls to his son to weep over the body of Titus 1
" Come hither, boy ; come, come, and learn of us
To melt in showers : Thy grandsire lov'd thee well :]
Many a time he danc'd thee on his knee,
Sung thee asleep, his loving breast thy pillow ;
Many a matter hath he told to thee,
Meet and agreeing with thine infancy ;
In that respect then, like a loving child,
Shed yet some small drops from thy tender spring,
Because kind nature doth require it so."
Malone has not marked these ; they are too simple to be included in his poetical gems.
But are they not full to overflowing of those deep thoughts of human love which the great
poet of the affections has sent into so many welcoming hearts ? Malone marks with his
commas the address to the tribunes at the beginning of the third act. The lines are lofty
and rhetorical ; and a poet who had undertaken to make set speeches to another man's
characters might perhaps have added these. Dryden and Tate did this service for Shakspere
himself. But Malone does not mark one line which has no rhetoric in it, and does not look
like poetry. The old man has given his hand to the treacherous Aaron, that he may save
the lives of his sons : but the messenger brings him the heads of those sons. It is for
Marcus and Lucius to burst into passion. The father, for some space, speaks not ; and
then he speaks but one line :
" When will this fearful slumber have an end t "
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NOTICE ON THE AUTHENTICITY OF
Did Shakspere make this line to order ? The poet who wrote the line conceived the
whole situation, and he could not have conceived the situation unless the whole dramatic
movement had equally been his conception. Such things must be wrought out of the
red-heat of the whole material not filled up out of cold fragments.
Accepting Titus as a play produced somewhere about the middle of the ninth decade of
the sixteenth century, it possesses other peculiarities than such as we have noticed, which,
upon the system of Malone's inverted commas, would take away a very considerable number
from the supposed original fabricator of the drama, and bestow them upon the reviser.
We must extract a passage from Malone before we proreed to point out these other pecu-
liarities : " To enter into a long disquisition to prove this piece not to have been written
by Shakspeare would be an idle waste of time. To those who are not conversant with his
writings, if particular passages were examined, more words would be necessary than the
subject is worth ; those who are well acquainted with his works cannot entertain a doubt
on the question. I will, however, mention one mode by which it may be easily ascer-
tained. Let the reader only peruse a few lines of ' Appius and Virginia,' ' Taucred
and Gismund,' 'The Battle of Alcazar,' 'Jeronimo,' 'Selimus, Emperor of the Turks,'
' The Wounds of Civil War,' ' The Wars of Cyrus,' ' Locrine,' ' Arden of Feversham,'
' King Edward I.,' ' The Spanish Tragedy,' ' Solyman and Perseda,' ' King Leir,' the
old ' King John ' or any other of the pieces that were exhibited before the time of Shak-
speare, and he will at once perceive that Titus Andronicus was coined in the same mint."
What Malone requests to be perused is limited to " a few lines " of these old plays ; if
he could have bestowed many words upon the subject he would have examined " parti-
cular passages." Such an examination has of course reference only to the versification.
It is scarcely necessary to say that we do not agree with the assumption that the pieces
Malone has mentioned were exhibited " before the time of Shakspeare." It is difficult, if
not impossible, to settle the exact time of many of these ; but we do know that one of the
plays here mentioned belongs to the same epoch as Titus Andronicus. " He that will
swear Jeronimo, or Andronicus, are the best plays yet, shall pass unexcepted at here,
as a man whose judgment shows it is constant, and hath stood still these five-and-
twenty or thirty years." We shall confine, therefore, any comparison of the versification
of Titus Andronicus entirely to that of ' Jeronimo.'
Titus Andronicus contains very few couplets, a remarkable thing in so early a play.
Of ' Jeronimo ' one half is rhyme. Of the blank verse of ' Jerouimo ' we will quote a
passage which is, perhaps, the least monotonous of that tragedy, and which Mr. Collier
has quoted in his ' History of Dramatic Poetry,' pointing out that " Here we see trochees
used at the ends of the lines, and the pauses are even artfully managed ; while redundant
syllables are inserted, and lines left defective, still farther to add to the variety."
" Come, valiant spirits; * you peers of Portugal,
That owe your lives, your faiths, and services,
To set you free from base captivity :
let our fathers' scandal ne'er be seen
As a base blush upon our free-born cheeks :
Let all the tribute that proud Spain receiv'd,
Of those all captive Portugales deceas'd,
Turn into chafe, and choke their insolence.
Methinks no moiety, not one little thought
Of them whose servile acts live in their graves,
But should raise spleens big as a cannon-bullet
Within your bosoms : for honour,
Your country's reputation, your lives' freedom,
Ordinarily pronounced in early dramatic poetry as a monosyllable.
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
Indeed your all that may be term'd revenge,
Now let your bloods be liberal as the sea ;
And all those wounds that you receive of Spain,
Let theirs be equal to quit yours again.
Speak, Portugales : are you resolv'd as I,
To live like captives, or as free-born die ? "
We have no hesitation in saying (in opposition to Malone's opinion) that the freedom of
versification which is discovered in Titus Andronicus is carried a great deal further than
even this specimen of ' Jeronimo ; ' and we cannot have a better proof of our assertion
than this that Steevens anxiously desired, and indeed succeeded, in reducing several of
the lines to the exact dimensions of his ten-syllable measuring-tape. We will give a few
parallel examples of the original, and of what Steevens did, and what he wished to do :
QUARTOS AND FOLIO.
" Rome's readiest champions, repose you here in rest.
" A barren detested vale, you see, it is."
"Therefore away with her, and use her as you will."
" Aaron is gone, and my compassionate heart."
" And make the silken strings delight to kiss them."
" For these, tribunes, in the dust I write."
" Soft ! How busily she turns the leaves ! "
" Why dost not speak? What, deaf? Not a word? ''
" Titus, I am come to talk with thee."
" Witness this wretched stump, witness these
crimson lines."
STEEVENS.
" Rome's readiest champions, repose you here."
" A bare detested vale, you see, it is."
("As the versification of this play is by no means
inharmonious, I am willing to suppose the author
wrote, A bare, &c." STEEVENS.)
" Therefore away, and use her as you will."
[Untouched, by marvellous forbearance.]
[Also untouched.]
" For these, good tribunes, in the dust I write."
" Soft ! See how busily she turns the leaves ! "
" Why dost not speak ? What, deaf ? No : not a
word ? "
" Titus, I 'm come to talk with thee awhile."
" Witness this wretched stump, these crimson lines."
We think that we have done enough, even in these instances, to establish that the Shak-
sperian versification is sufficiently marked in Titus, even to the point of offending the
critic who did not understand it. But the truth of the matter is, that the comparison of
the versification of Titus with the old plays mentioned by Maloue is altogether a fallacy.
Like the Henry VI. it wants, for the most part, the
" Linked sweetness long drawn out "
of the later plays, and so do The Two Gentlemen of Verona, and The Comedy of
Errors. But to compare the play, as a whole, even with ' Jeronimo ' and Kyd, in free-
dom and variety of rhythm, whatever he may want in majesty, is superior to Marlowe
argues, we think, an incompetent knowledge of the things compared. To compare it with
the old ' King Lear,' and the greater number of the plays in Malone's list, is to compare
the movement of the hunter with that of the horse in the mill. The truth is, that, after
the first Bcene of Andronicus, in which the author sets out with the stately pace of his
time, we are very soon carried away, by the power of the language, the variety of the
pause, and the especial freedom with which trochees are used at the ends of lines, to forget
that the versification is not altogether upon the best Shaksperian model. There is the
same instrument, but the performer has yet not thoroughly learnt its scope and its power.
Horn has a very just remark on the language of Titus Andronicus : " Foremost we may
recognise with praise the almost never-wearying power of the language, wherein no shift
is ever used. We know too well how often, in many French and German tragedies, the
princes and princesses satisfy themselves to silence with a necessary Helas ! Oh Oiel I
Schicksal ! (0 Fate !) and similar cheap outcries ; but Shtvkspere is quite another man,
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NOTICE ON THE AUTHENTICITY OF
who, for every degree of pain, knew how to give the right tone and the right colour. In
the bloody sea of this drama, in which men can scarely keep themselves afloat, this, without
doubt, must have been peculiarly difficult." We regard this decided language, thia
absence of stage conventionalities, as one of the results of the power which the poet possessed
of distinctly conceiving his situations with reference to his characters. The Ohs 1 and
Ahs I and Heavens I of the English stage, as well as the Oiel t of the French, are a
consequence of feebleness, exhibiting itself in commonplaces. The greater number of the
old English dramatists, to do them justice, had the same power as the author of Titus
Andronicus of grappling with words which they thought fitting to the situations. But
their besetting sin was in the constant use of that " huffing, braggart, puft " language,
which Shakspere never employs in the dramas which all agree to call his, and of which
there is a very sparing portion even in Titus Andronicus. The temptation to employ
it must have been great indeed ; for when, in every scene, the fearful energies of the
action
" On horror's head horrors accumulate,"
it must have required no common forbearance, and therefore no common power, to
prescribe that the words of the actors should not
" Outface the brow of bragging horror."
The son of Tamora is to be killed ; as he is led away she exclaims
" Oh ! cruel, irreligious piety ! "
Titus kills Mutius : the young man's brother earnestly says
" My lord, you are unjust."
When Tamora prescribes their terrible wickedness to her sons, Lavinia remonstrates
" ! Tamora, thou bear'st a woman's face."
When Marcus encounters his mutilated niece there is much poetry, but no raving. When
woe upon woe is heaped upon Titus we have no imprecations :
" For now I stand as one upon a rock,
Environ'd with a wilderness of sea ;
Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave,
Expecting ever when some envious surge
Will in his brinish bowels swallow him."
In one situation after Titus has lost his hand, Marcus says
" Oh ! brother, speak with possibilities,
And do not break into these deep extremes."
What are the deep extremes ? The unhappy man has scarcely risen into metaphor, much
less into braggardism :
" 0, here I lift this one hand up to heaven,
And bow this feeble ruin to the earth :
If any power pities wretched tears,
To that I call : What, wilt thou kneel with me ? [To LAVI.MA .
Do then, dear heart ; for heaven shall hear our prayers ;
Or with our sighs we '11 breathe the welkin dim,
And stain the sun with fog, as sometime clouds,
When they do hug him in their melting bosoms."
And in his very crowning agony we hear only
" Why, I have not another tear to Bhod."
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
It has been said, " There is not a shade of difference between the two Moors, Eleazar
and Aaron." * Eleazar is a character in ' Lust's Dominion,' incorrectly attributed to
Marlowe. Trace the cool, determined, sarcastic, remorseless villain, Aaron, through
these blood-spilling scenes, and see if he speaks in " King Cambyses' vein," as Eleazar
speaks in the following lines :
" Now, Tragedy, thou minion of the night,
Rhainnusia's pew-fellow, to thee I '11 sing
Upon an harp made of dead Spanish bones
The proudest instrument the world affords ;
When thou in crimson jollity shall bathe
Thy limbs, as black as mine, in springs of blood
Still gushing from the conduit-head of Spain.
To thee that never blushest, though thy cheeks
Are full of blood, Saint Revenge, to thee
I consecrate my murders, all my stabs,
My bloody labours, tortures, stratagems,
The volume of all wounds that wound from me,- - .
Mine is the Stage, thine the Tragedy."
But enough of this. It appears to us manifest that, although the author of Titua Androni-
cus did choose in common with the best and the most popular of those who wrote for
the early stage, but contrary to his after-practice a subject which should present to his
comparatively rude audiences the excitement of a succession of physical horrors, he was
so far under the control of his higher judgment, that, avoiding their practice, he steadily
abstained from making his " verses jet on the stages in tragical buskins ; every word
filling the mouth like the faburden of Bow bell, daring God out of heaven with that
atheist Tamburlaine, or blaspheming with the mad priest of the sun." t
It is easy to understand how Shakspere, at the period when he first entered upon those
labours which were to build up a glorious fabric out of materials that had been previously
used for the basest purposes, without models, at first, perhaps, not voluntarily choosing
his task, but taking the business that lay before him so as to command popular success,
ignorant, to a great degree, of the height and depth of his own intellectual resources,
not seeing, or dimly seeing, how poetry and philosophy were to elevate and purify the
common staple of the coarse drama about him, it is easy to conceive how a story of
fearful bloodshed should force itself upon him as a thing that he could work into something
better than the dumb show and fiery words of his predecessors and contemporaries. It
was in after-years that he had to create the tragedy of passion. Lamb has beautifully
described Webster, as almost alone having the power "to move a horror skilfully, to
touch a soul to the quick, to lay upon fear as much as it can bear, to wean and weary
a life till it is ready to drop, and then step in with mortal instruments to take its last
forfeit." Lamb adds, " writers of inferior genius mistake quantity for quality." The remark
is quite true ; when examples of the higher tragedy are accessible, and when the people
have learnt better than to require the grosser stimulant. Before Webster had written
' The Duchess of Malfi ' and ' Vittoria Corombona,' Shakspere had produced Lear and
Othello. But there were writers, not of inferior genius, who had committed the same
mistake as the author of Titus Andronicus who use blood as they would " the paint of
the property man in the theatre." Need we mention other names than Marlowe and
Kyd ? The " old Jeronimo," as Ben Jonson calls it, perhaps the most popular play of
the early stage, and in many respects, a work of great power, thus concludes, with a
sort of Chorus spoken by a ghost :
" C. A. Brown's ' Autobiographical Poems of Shakspere.' t Greene, 1588.
57
NOTICE ON THE AUTHENTICITY OF
" Ay, now my hopes have end in their effects,
When blood and sorrow finish my desires.
Horatio murder'd in his father's bower ;
Vile Serberine by Pedringano slain ;
False Pedringano hang'd by quaint device ;
Fair Isabella by herself misdone ;
Prince Balthazar by Belimperia stabb'd ;
The duke of Castille, and his wicked son,
Both done to death by old Hieronimo,
By Belimperia fallen, as Dido fell ;
And good Hieronimo slain by himself :
Ay, these were spectacles to please my soul."
Here is murder enough to match even Andronicus. This slaughtering work was accom-
panied with another peculiarity of the unformed drama the dumb show. Words were
sometimes scarcely necessary for the exposition of the story ; and when they were, no great
care was taken that they should be very appropriate or beautiful in themselves. Thomas
Hey wood, himself a prodigious manufacturer of plays in a more advanced period, writing
as late as 1612, seems to look upon these semi-pageants, full of what the actors call
"bustle," as the wonderful things of the modern stage: "To see, as I have seen,
Hercules, in his own shape, hunting the boar, knocking down the bull, taming the hart,
fighting with Hydra, murdering Geryon, slaughtering Diomed, wounding the Stynipha-
lides, killing the Centaurs, pashing the lion, squeezing the dragon, dragging Cerberus in
chains, and, lastly, on his high pyramides writing Nil ultra Oh, these were sights to
make an Alexander."* With a stage that presented attractions like these to the multi-
tude, is it wonderful that the boy Shakspere should have written a Tragedy of Horrors ?
But Shakspere, it is maintained, has given us no other tragedy constructed upon the
principle of Titus Audronicus. Are we quite sure ? Do we know what the first Hamlet
was t We have one sketch, which may be most instructively compared with the finished
performance ; but it has been conjectured, and we think with perfect propriety,
that the Hamlet which was on the stage in 1589, and then sneered at by Nash,
"has perished, and that the quarto of 1603 gives us the work in an intermediate
state between the rude youthful sketch and the perfected Hamlet, which was pub-
lished in 1604." t When we compare the quarto of 1603 with the perfected play, we
have the rare opportunity, as we have formerly stated, " of studying the growth not only
of our great poet's command over language not only of his dramatical skill but of the
higher qualities of his intellect, his profound philosophy, his wonderful penetration into
what is most hidden and obscure in men's characters and motives." | All the action of the
perfect Hamlet is to be found in the sketch published in 1603 ; but the profundity of the
character is not all there, very far from it. We have little of the thoughtful philosophy,
of the morbid feelings, of Hamlet. But let us imagine an earlier sketch, where that
wonderful creation of Hamlet's character may have been still more unformed ; where the
poet may have simply proposed to exhibit in the young man a desire for revenge, combined
with irresolution perhaps even actual madness. Make Hamlet a common dramatic
character, instead of one of the subtilest of metaphysical problems, and what is the tragedy 1 ?
A tragedy of blood. It offends us not now, softened as it is, and almost hidden, in the
atmosphere of poetry and philosophy which surrounds it. But look at it merely with
reference to the action ; and of what materials is it made ? A ghost described ; a ghost
appearing ; the play within a play, and that a play of murder ; Polonius killed ; the ghost
* ' An Apology for Actors." t ' Edinburgh Review,' vol. Ixxi. p. 475.
I Introductory Notice to Hamlet.
58
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
again ; Ophelia mad and self-destroyed ; the struggle at the grave between Hamlet and
Laertes ; the queen poisoned ; Laertes killed with a poisoned rapier ; the king killed by
Hamlet ; and, last of all, Hamlet's death. No wonder Fortinbras exclaims
" This quarry cries on havoc."
Again, take another early tragedy, of which \ve may well believe that there was an
earlier sketch than that published in 1597 Romeo and Juliet. We may say of the deli-
cious poetry, as Romeo says of Juliet's beauty, that it makes the charnel-house " a feast-
ing presence full of light." But imagine a Romeo and Juliet conceived in the immaturity
of the young Shakspere's power a tale of love, but surrounded with horror. There is
enough for the excitement of an uninstructed audience : the contest between the houses ;
Mercutio killed ; Tybalt killed ; the apparent death of Juliet ; Paris killed in the church-
yard ; Romeo swallowing poison ; Juliet stabbing herself. The marvel is, that the sur-
passing power of the poet should make us forget that Romeo and Juliet can present such
an aspect. All the changes which we know Shakspere made in Hamlet, and Romeo and
Juliet, were to work out the peculiar theory of his mature judgment that the terrible
should be held, as it were, in solution by the beautiful, so as to produce a tragic con-
sistent with pleasurable emotion. Herein he goes far beyond Webster. His art is a
higher art.
INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.
THE first eJition of Pericles appeared in 1609, under the following title : ' The late and much
admired play, called Pericles, Prince of Tyre. With the true relation of the whole historic, adven-
tures, and fortunes of the said prince : As also the no lesse strange and worthy accidents, in the
birth and life of his daughter Mariana. As it hath been divers and sundry times acted [by] his
Maiesties Seruants at the Globe on the Bank-side. By William Shakespeare. Imprinted at
London for Henry Gosson, and are to be sold at the sign of the Sunne in Paternoster-row, &c.
1609.' In the British Museum there are two copies bearing this date ; and we mention this to
state that there are minute differences in these copies, such as present themselves to a printer's eye,
and show that the types were what is technically called kept standing, to meet a constant demand.
Other quarto editions appeared in 1611, in 1619, in 1630, and in 1635. The variations in these
from the text of 1609 are very slight. In 1664 Pericles first appeared in the folio collection of
Shakspere's works, being introduced into the third edition, whose title-page states " Unto this
impression is added seven plays never before printed in folio." This folio edition varies very
slightly indeed from the quarto of 1635; and that varies, as we have said, very slightly from the
original quarto. It is probable that the first edition was printed, without authority, from a very
imperfect copy. It was produced, as we see upon the title-page, at Shakspere's theatre, and it
bore his name ; but his fellow-shareholders in that theatre did not re-publish it after his death.
Had it been re-published in the folio of 1623, we should, most probably, have had a copy very dif-
ferent from that upon which the text must now be founded. All the copies have been carefully
collated for the purposes of our own edition ; but we have been able to add little to what Malone's
careful editorship effected in 1778. The text manufactured by Steevens is the received text of
modern editions. He went upon his ordinary principle of adjusting the versification to a syllabic
regularity, and especially the lines spoken by Gower. These he has reduced to octo-syllabic verse,
by the most merciless excision of " superfluous " words ; and, whilst we lament the perverseness of
the man, we cannot but admire the ingenuity with which he has cut his cloth to the exact dimen-
sions, and sewn it together again with surprising neatness. The manipulation of Steevens has been
carried so far in this play, that it would have been waste of time to have called attention to it in our
foot-notes.
The Illustrations to each act contain very full extracts from Gower's ' Confessio Amantis,' upon
which the author of ' Pericles ' founded his legendary drama. The chronology of the play belongs
to the question of its authenticity.
65
GOWER
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
ANTIOCHUS, King of Antioch.
PERICLES, Prince of Tyre.
HELICANUS, >
ESCANES, } tW L T
SIMONIDES, King of Pentapolis.
CLEON, Governor of Tharsus.
LYSIMACHUS, Governor of Mitylene.
CERIMON, a Lord of Ephesus.
TiiALiARD, tervant to Antiochus.
LEONINE, tervant to Dionyza.
Marshal.
A pander and hit wife.
BOOLT, their servant.
GOWER, at chorus.
The daughter of Antiochus.
DIONYZA, wife to Cleon.
THAISA, daughter to Simonides.
MARINA, daughter to Pericles and Thaisa.
LYCHORIDA, nurte to Marina.
DIANA.
ACT I.
Enter GOWER.
Before the Palace ofAntioch.
To sing a song of* old was sung,
From ashes ancient Qower is come ;
Assuming man's infirmities,
To glad your ear, and please your eyes.
It hath been sung, at festivals,
On ember -eves, and holy-ales ; b
And lords and ladies, in c their lives,
Have read it for restoratives.
The purchase d is to make men glorious ;
Of. The early editions, that.
b The early copies, holy-days. Farmer suggested holy-alei.
c In their iivei, in all the copies. During their lives.
d Purchase. So the original. The primary meaning of
purchase is to obtain: a purchase is a thing obtained.
Steevens altered the word to purpose. This alteration was
annecesary, for, however obscure the sense, we may accept
the word as it is used by Chaucer :
" To wind and weather Almighty God gives purchase;"
SOP. VOL. P
Et bonum, quo antiquius, eo rncliua.
If you, born in these latter times,
When wit 's more ripe, accept my rhymes,
And that to hear an old man sing
May to your wishes pleasure bring,
I life would wish, and that I might
Waste it for you, like taper-light.
This Antioch then, Antiochus the Great
Built up, this city, for his chiefest seat ;
The fairest in all Syria ;
(I tell you what mine authors say :)
The king unto him took a pheere,'
Who died and left a female heir,
So buxom, blythe, and full of face,
As Heaven had lent her all his grace :
that is, Almighty God provides : what is provided by tho
poet is to " make men glorious."
Pheen. In the originals, peer. Pheere, or f ert, is a
mate. See Titus Andronicus, Act IT. Sc. I.
65
ACT I.]
PERICLES.
[SCENE I,
With whom the father liking took,
And her to incest did provoke ;
Bad child, worse father ! to entice his own
To evil, should be done by none.
By* custom, what they did begin
Was with long use account no sin
The beauty of this sinful dame
Made many princes thither frame,
To seek her as a bedfellow,
In marriage-pleasures playfellow :
Which to prevent, he made a law,
(To keep her still, and men in awe,)
That whoso ask'd her for his wife,
His riddle told not, lost his life :
So for her many a wight did die,
As yon grim looks do testify.
What ensues, to the judgment of your eye
I give, my cause who best can justify. [Exit.
%
SCENE I. The Palace o/Antioch.
Enter ANTIOCHUS, PERICLES, and Attendants.
Ant. Young prince of Tyre, you have at large
recei^d
The danger of the task you undertake.
Per. I have, Antiochus, and with a soul
Embolden'd with the glory of her praise,
Think death no hazard, in this enterwise.
[Miuie.
Ant. Bring in our daughter, clothed like a
bride, b
For the embracements, even of Jove himself;
At whose conception (till Lucina reign' d)
Nature this dowry gave, to glad her presence ;
The senate-house of planets all did sit,
To knit in her their best perfections.
Enter the Daughter of ANTIOCHUS.
Per. See where she comes, apparel' d like the
spring,
Graces her subjects, and her thoughts the king
Of every virtue gives renown to men !
Her face the book of praises, where is read
Nothing but curious pleasures, as from thence
Sorrow were ever 'ras'd, c and testy wrath
Could never be her mild companion.
By. The originals, tut.
b The old copies read,
" Musick, bring in our daughter clothed like a bride. 1
Musick was evidently a marginal direction.
* 'Rae'd. The first quarto reads racte the subsequent
copies, rackt. The verb raze, or eraie, was formerly written
race, and racte was the past participle.
B6
Ye gods that made me man, and sway in love,
That have inflam'd desire in my breast
To taste the fruit of yon celestial tree,
Or die in the adventure, be my helps,
As I am son and servant to your will,
To compass such a boundless happiness !
Ant. Prince Pericles
Per. That would be son to great Antiochus.
Ant. Before thee stands this fair Hesperides,
With golden fruit, but dangerous to be touch'd ;
For death-like dragons here affright thee hard :
Her face, like heav'n, enticeth thee to view
Her countless glory, which desert must gain :
And which, without desert, because thine eye
Presumes to reach, all thy whole heap must
die.
Yon sometime famous princes, like thyself,
Drawn by report, adventurous by desire,
Tell thee with speechless tongues, and semblance
pale,
That, without covering save yon field of stars,
Here they stand martyrs, slain in Cupid's
wars ;
And with dead cheeks advise thee to desist
For going on Death's net, whom none resist.
Per. Antiochus, I thank thee, who hast taught
My frail mortality to know itself,
And by those fearful objects to prepare
This body, like to them, to what I must :
For death remember" d should be like a mirror,
Who tells us, life 's but breath, to trust it error.
I '11 make my will then ; and, as sick men do
Who know the world, see heav'n, but feeling
woe,
Gripe not at earthly joys, as erst they did ;
So I bequeath a happy peace to you
And all good men, as every prince should do ;
My riches to the earth from whence they came ;
But my unspotted fire of love to you.
[To the Daughter O/'ANTIOCHTJS.
Thus ready for the way of life or death,
I wait the sharpest blow.
Ant. Scorning advice; read the conclusion
then;"
Wliich read and not expounded, 't is decreed,
As these before, so thou thyself shalt bleed.
Laugh. Of all 'say'd yet, mayst thou prove
prosperous !
Of all 'say'd yet, I wish thee happiness ? b
> The early editions give these lines confusedly :
" I wait the sharpest blow, (Antiochus,)
Scorning advice; read the conclusion then."
The name of the character was evidently mistaken for a pait
of the dialogue.
b OJ all taya yit is the ancient reading, which Percy sug-
gested meant ol all who have essay'd yet.
4.CT I.]
PERICLES.
(SCENE I
Per. Like a bold champion I assume tke
lists,
Nor ask advice of any other thought,
But faithfulness, and courage.
THE RIDDLE.
" I am no viper, yet I feed
On mother's flesh which did me breed :
I sought a husband, in which labour,
I found that kindness in a father.
He 'a father, son, and husband mild,
I mother, wife, and yet his child.
How they may be, and yet in two,
As you will live, resolve it you."
Sharp physic is the last : but 0, ye powers !
That give heav'n countless eyes to view men's
acts,
Why cloud they not their sights perpetually,
If this be true, which makes me pale to read it ?
Fair glass of light, I lov'd you, and could still,
[Takes hold of the hand of the Princess.
Were not this glorious casket stored with ill :
But I must tell you, now, my thoughts revolt ;
For he 's no man on whom perfections wait,
That, knowing sin within, will touch the gate.
You 're a fair viol, and your sense the strings ;
Who, finger'd to make man his lawful music,
Would draw heav'n down, and all the gods to
hearken ;
But being pla/d upon before your time,
Hell only danceth at so harsh a chime :
Good sooth, I care not for you.
Ant. Prince Pericles, touch not, upon thy life,
For that 's an article within our law,
As dangerous as the rest. Your time 's ex-
pirM;
Either expound now, or receive your sentence.
Per. Great king,
Few love to hear the sins they love to act ;
'Twould 'braid yourself too near for me to
tell it.
Who hath a book of all that monarchs do,
He 's more secure to keep it shut, than
shown :
For vice repeated is like the wand'ring wind,
Blows dust in others' eyes, to spread itself :
And yet the end of all is bought thus dear,
The breath is gone, and the sore eyes see
clear
To stop the air would hurt them. The blind
mole casts
Copp'd hills toward heaven, to tell, the earth is
throng'd *
By man's oppression ; and the poor worm dotb
die for 't.
Steevens reads icrong'd.
F 2
Kings are earth's gods : in vice their law 's their
will;
And if Jove stray, who dares say Jove doth ill ?
It is enough you know ; and it is fit,
What being more known grows worse, to smo-
ther it.
All love the womb that their first being bred,
Then give my tongue like leave to love my head.
Ant. Heaven that I had thy head! he has
found the meaning !
But I will gloze with him. \Aside^\ Young
prince of Tyre,
Though by the tenor of our strict edict,
Your exposition misinterpreting,
We might proceed to cancel of your days ,
Yet hope, succeeding from so fair a tree
As your fair self, doth tune us otherwise :
Forty days longer we do respite you,
If by which time our secret be undone,
This mercy shows we '11 joy in such a son :
And, until then, your entertain shall be,
As doth befit our honour, and your worth.
{Exeunt ANT., his Daughter, and Attendants.
Per. How courtesy would seem to cover sin !
When what is done is like an hypocrite,
The which is good in nothing but in sight.
If it be true that I interpret false,
Then were it certain, you were not so bad
As with foul incest to abuse your soul ;
Where now you 're both a father and a son,
By your untimely claspings with your child
(Which pleasure fits a husband, not a father) ;
And she an eater of her mother's flesh,
By the defiling of her parent's bed;
And both like serpents are, who though they feed
On sweetest flowers, yet they poison breed.
Antioch, farewell ! for wisdom sees, those men
Blush not in actions blacker than the night,
Will shun b no course to keep them from the
light.
One sin, I know, another doth provoke ;
Murder 's as near to lust, as flame to smoke.
Poison and treason are the hands of sin,
Ay, and the targets, to put off the shame :
Then, lest my life be cropp'd to keep you clear,
By flight I '11 shun the danger which I fear.
[Exit.
Re-enter ANTIOCHUS.
Ant. He hath found the meaning, for the
which we mean
To have his head ;
The quartos, counsel of; the folio (Ifi64\ cancel off
Shun. The original copies, t'^w.
VI
ACT I.]
PERICLES.
[SCENE II.
He must not live to trumpet forta my infamy,
Nor tell the world, Antiochus doth sin
In such a loathed manner :
And therefore instantly this prince must die ;
For by his fall my honour must keep high.
Who attends us there ?
Enter TKALTAIID.
Thai. Doth your highness call ?
Ant. Thaliard, you're of our chamber, and
our mind
Partakes her private actions to your secrecy ;
And for your faithfulness we will advance you.
Thaliard, behold here 's poison, and here 's gold ;
We hate the prince of Tyre, and thou must kill
him;
It fits thee not to ask the reason why,
Because we bid it. Say, is it done ?
Thai. My lord, 'tis done.
Enter a Messenger.
Ant. Eaough.
Let your breath cool yourself, telling your haste.
Mes. My lord, prince Pericles is fled.
Ant. As thou
Wilt live, fly after ; and like an arrow, shot
From a well experienc'd archer, hits the mark
His eye doth level at, so do thou ne'er return,
Unless thou say'st, prince Pericles is dead.
Thai. My lord, if I can get him within my
pistol's length, I '11 make him sure enough : so
farewell to your highness. [Exit.
Ant. Thaliard, adieu ! till Pericles be dead,
My heart can lend no succour to my head. [Exit.
SCENE II. Tyre.
Enter PERICLES, HELICANUS, and other Lords.
Per. Let none disturb us : why should this
charge of thoughts,
The sad companion, dull-ey'd Melancholy,
By me so us'd a guest, as not an hour,
In the day's glorious walk or peaceful night,
(The tomb where grief should sleep), can breec
me quiet?*
In the first line of this speech in the original the word
now printed charge is chage. Douce thinks the reading c
thange maybe supported: "Let none disturb us; wh
should this change of thoughts [disturb us] ! " Charge ap-
pears to be the likeliest word, in the sense of burthen. Bu
we do not make the sentence end at charge of thoughts, a
is usually done. The tad companion is that charge. Th
passage h& been printed thus :
" Let none disturb us : Why this charge of thoughts
The sad companion, dull-ey'd melancholy,
By me so us'd a guest it, not an hour," &c.
M alone reads
68
lere pleasures court mine eyes, and mines eyes
shun them,
And danger which I feared, is at Antioch,
IVhose arm seems far too short to hit me here ;
Yet neither pleasure's art can joy my spirits,
Slor yet the other's distance comfort me :
Then it is thus ; the passions of the mind,
That have their first conception by mis-dread,
Save after-nourishment and life by care ;
And what was first but fear what might be
done,
Grows elder now, and cares it be not done.
And so with me ; the great Antiochus
(' Gainst whom I am too little to contend,
Since he 's so great, can make his will his act)
Will think me speaking, though I swear to
silence ;
Nor boots it me to say I honour him, 1
If he suspect I may dishonour him ;
And what may make him blush in being
known,
He '11 stop the course by which it might be
known;
With hostile forces he '11 o'erspread the land,
And with the stint of war will look so huge, k
Amazement shall drive courage from the state ;
Our men be vanquish' d, ere they do resist,
And subjects punish' d, that ne'er thought
offence :
Which care of them, not pity of myself,
(Who am c no more but as the tops of trees,
Which fence the roots they grow by, and defend
them,)
Makes both my body pine, and soul to languish,
And punish that before that he would punish.
1 Lord. Joy and all comfort in your sacred
breast !
2 Lord. And keep your mind, till you return
to us,
Peaceful and comfortable !
Hel. Peace, peace, and give experience
tongue :
They do abuse the king that flatter him,
For flattery is the bellows blows up sin ;
The thing the which is flatter 5 d, but a spark,
" By me s so us'd a guest, as not an hour."
In following the original we must understand the verb be:
" Why should, &c.
By me [be] so us'd a guest at not an hour."
Him was added by Rowe.
b Stint, "which is the reading of all the copies, has here
no meaning," according to Malone. Ostent is therefore
adopted. But what has been said just before?
" He'll ttop the course by which it might be known ; "
He will stop it, by the stint of mar. Stint is synonymous
with ttop, in the pl_d writers.
Am. The original has ou-e. Farmer suggested an.
ACT I.]
PERICLES
To which that blast* gives heat .and stronger
glowing;
Whereas reproof, obedient, and in order,
Fits kings as they are men, for they may err.
When signior Sooth here doth proclaim a peace,
He flatters yon, makes war upon your life :
Prince, pardon me, or strike me if you please,
I cannot be much lower than my knees.
Per. All leave us else ; but let your cares
o'erlook
What shipping, and what lading 's in our haven,
And then return to us. Helicanus, thou
Hast moved us : what seest thou in our looks ?
Hel. An angry brow, dread lord.
Per. If there be such a dart in princes' frowns,
How durst thy tongue move anger to our
face?
Hel. How dare the plants look up to heaven,
from whence
They have their nourishment ?
Per. Thou know'st I have power to take thy
life from thee.
Hel. I have ground the axe myself; do but
you strike the blow.
Per. Rise, prithee rise ; sit down, thou art no
flatterer ;
1 thank thee for it ; and heaven forbid,
That kings should let their ears hear their faults
chid!"
Fit counsellor, and servant for a prince,
Who by thy wisdom mak'st a prince thy servant,
What wouldst thou have me do ?
Hel. To bear with patience
Such griefs as you yourself do lay upon your-
self.
Per. Thou speak'st like a physician, Heli-
canus;
That minister'st a potion unto me,
That thou wouldst tremble to receive thyself.
Attend me then ; I went to Antioch,
Wliereas, c thou know'st, against the face of
death,
I sought the purchase of a glorious beauty,
From whence an issue I might propagate ;
Are arms d to princes, and bring joys to subjects.
Her face was to mine eye beyond all wonder ;
The rest (hark in thine ear) as black as incest ;
Which by my knowledge found, the sinful father,
Seem'd not to strike, but smooth: 8 but thou
know'st this,
T is time to fear, when tyrants seem to kiss.
* Blast in the original spark.
b Chid. The originals have hid. Mr. Dyce suggested
the correction, explaining that let means hinder.
c Whereat, in the sense of where.
* Which are armt, Sic., it here understood.
* To tmooth signifies to flatter.
Which fear so grew in me, I hither fled,
Under the covering of a careful night,
Who seem'd my good protector: and, being
here,
Bethought me what was past, what might suc-
ceed;
I knew him tyrannous, and tyrants' fears
Decrease not, but grow faster than the years :
And should he doubt it, (as no doubt he doth,)
That I should open to the listening air,
How many worthy princes' bloods were shed,
To keep his bed of blackness unlaid ope,
To lop that doubt, he '11 fill this land with
arms,
And make pretence of wrong that I have done
him;
When all, for mine, if I may call 't offence,
Must feel war's blow, who spares not inno-
cence :
Which love to all (of which thyself art one,
Who now reprov'st me for it)
Hel. Alas, sir!
Per. Drew sleep out of mine eyes, blood from
my cheeks,
Musings into my mind, with thousand doubts
How I might stop this tempest ere it came ;
And finding little comfort to relieve them ,
I thought it princely charity to grieve them.
Hel. Well, my lord, since you have given me
leave to speak,
Freely will I speak. Antiochus you fear,
And justly too, I think ; you fear the tyrant,
Who either by public war, or private treason,
Will take away your life.
Therefore, my lord, go travel for a while,
Till that his rage and anger be forgot ;
Or till the Destinies do cut his thread of life :
Your rule direct to any ; if to me,
Day serves not light more faithful than I '11 be.
Per. I do not doubt thy faith ;
But should he wrong my liberties in my ab-
sence
Hel. We '11 mingle our bloods together in the
earth,
From whence we had our being and our birth.
Per. Tyre, I now look from thee then, and to
Tharsus
Intend my travel, where I '11 hear from thee ;
And by whose letters I '11 dispose myself.
The care I had and have of subjects' good,
On thee I lay, whose wisdom's strength can
bear it.
I '11 take thy word for faith, not ask thine oath :
Who shuns not to break one, will sure crack
both:
ACT I.]
PERICLES.
[SCENES III., IV.
But in our orbs we '11 live so round and safe,
That time of both this truth shall ne'er con-
vince,"
Thou show'dst a subject's shine, I a true prince.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
Enter THALIAK.D.
Thai. So, this is Tyre, and this the court.
Here must I kill king Pericles; and if I do it
not, I am sure to be hanged at home : 't is dan-
gerous. Well, I perceive, he was a wise fellow,
and had good discretion, that, being bid to ask
what lie would of the king, desired he might
know none of his secrets. Now do I see he had
some reason for it : for if a king bid a man be a
villain, he is bound by the indenture of his oath
to be one.
Hush, here come the lords of Tyre.
Enter HELICAJJTJS, ESCANES, and other Lords of
Tyre.
Hel. You shall not need, my fellow-peers of
Tyre,
Further to question me of your king's departure.
His seal'd commission, left in trust with me,
Doth speak sufficiently he 's gone to travel.
Thai. How ! the king gone ! \_Aside.
Hel. If further yet you will be satisfied,
Why, as it were unlicens'd of your loves
He would depart, 1 '11 give some light unto you.
Being at Antioch
Thai. What from Antioch ? [Aside.
Hel. Royal Antiochus (on what cause I know
not)
Took some displeasure at him, at least he judg'd
so:
And doubting lest he had err'd or sinn'd,
To show his sorrow, he 'd correct himself ;
So puts himself unto the shipman's toil,
With whom each minute threatens life or
death.
Thai. Well, I perceive
I shall not be hang'd now, although I would ;
But since he 's gone, the king sure must please b
He 'scap'd the land, to perish at the sea.
I '11 present myself. Peace to the lords of
Tyre.
Convince, in the sense of overcome.
b The original copies have
" But since he 's gone, the king't seas must please ."
We adopt the principle of Steevens'g alteration, who re .1
" But sine, 'Q s gone, the king it sure must please."
70
Hel. Lord Thaliard from Antiochus is wel-
come.
Thai. From him I come
With message unto princely Pericles ;
But since my lauding I have understood
Your lord hath betook himself to unknown
travels ;
My message must return from whence it came.
Hel. We have no reason to desire it,
Commended to our master, not to us :
Yet ere you shall depart, this we desire,
As friends to Antioch, we may feast in Tyre.
{Exeunt.
SCENE IV. Tharsus.
Enter CLEON, DIONYZA, and others.
Cle. My Dionyza, shall we rest us here,
And, by relating tales of others' griefs,
See if 't will teach us to forget our own ?
Dio. That were to blow at fire in hope to
quench it ;
For who digs hills, because they do aspire,
Throws down one mountain to cast up a higher.
my distressed lord, ev"n such our griefs are ;
Here they 're but felt, and seen* with mischief's
eyes,
But like to groves, being topp'd, they higher
rise.
Cle. O Dionyza,
Who wanteth food, and will not say he wants if,
Or can conceal his hunger till he famish ?
Our tongues and sorrows do sound deep our
woes
Into the air; our eyes do weep, till tongues"
Fetch breath that may proclaim them louder,
that
If heaven slumber, while their creatures want,
They may awake their helpers to comfort
them.
1 '11 then discourse our woes felt several years,
And, wanting breath to speak, help me with
tears.
Dio. I '11 do my best, sir.
Cle. This Tharsus, over which I have the
government,
And seen. Thus in the original copies. Malone pro-
posed unseen ; but Dionyza means to say that here their
griefs are but felt and seen with mischief's eyes eyes of
discontent and suffering ; but if topp'd with other tales
that is, cut down by the comparison like groves they will
rise higher, be more unbearable.
b Tonguef, in all the early editions. Steevens changed the
word to lung*.
c Helpers, in the original. The modern reading is helps
PERICLES.
[SCENl IV.
A city, on whom Plenty held full hand,
For riches strew'd herself even in the streets ;
Whose towers bore heads so high they kiss'd
the clouds.
And strangers ne'er beheld but wonder'd at ;
Whose men and dames so jetted and adorn'd,
Like one another's glass to trim them by :
Their tables were stor'd full, to glad the sight,
And not so much to feed on, as delight ;
All poverty was scorn' d, and pride so great,
The name of help grew odious to repeat,
Dio. Oh, 't is too true.
Cle. But see what heaven can do ! By this
our change,
These mouths, whom but of late, earth, sea, and
air,
Were all too little to content and please,
Although they gave their creatures in abun-
dance,
As houses are defil'd for want of use,
They are now starved for want of exercise ;
Those palates, who, not us'd to hunger's sa-
vour,'
Must have inventions to delight the taste,
Would now be glad of bread, and beg for it ;
Those mothers who, to nouzle up their babes,
Thought nought too curious, are ready now
To eat those little darlings whom they lov'd ;
So sharp are hunger's teeth, that man and
wife
Draw lots who first shall die to lengthen life :
Here stands a lord, and there a lady weeping ;
Here many sink, yet those which see them
fall
Have scarce strength left to give them burial.
Is not this true ?
Dio. Our cheeks and hollow eyes do witness
it.
Cle. let those cities that of Plenty's cup
And her prosperities so largely taste,
With their superfluous riots, hear these tears !
The misery of Tharsus may be theirs.
Enter a Lord.
Lord. Where 's the lord governor P
Cle. Here.
Speak out thy sorrows, which thou bring'st in
haste,
For comfort is too far for us to expect.
Lord. We have descried, upon our neighbour-
ing shore,
A. portly sail of ships make hitherward.
This is Malsne's reading. AH the early copies have
"Those pallats, who, not jret too savers youngei."
Cle. I thought as much.
One sorrow never comes but brings an heir,
That may succeed as his inheritor ;
And so in ours : some neighbouring nation,
Taking advantage of our misery,
Hath 1 stuff 'd these hollow vessels with their
power,
To beat us down, the which are down already ;
And make a conquest of unhappy me,
Whereas no glory 's got to overcome.
Lord. That 's the least fear ; for, by the sem
blance
Of their white flags display'd, they bring Ub
peace,
And come to us as favourers, not as foes.
Cle. Thou speak' st like him 's untutor'd to
repeat,
Who makes the fairest show, means most de-
ceit.
But bring they what they will, and what they
can,
What need we fear P
The ground's the lowest, and we are half way
there :
Go tell their general, we attend him here,
To know for what he comes, and whence he
comes,
And what he craves.
Lord. I go, my lord.
Cle. Welcome is peace, if he on peace con-
sist ; b
If wars, we are unable to resist.
Enter PERICLES with Attendants.
Per. Lord governor, for so we hear you
are,
Let not our ships, and number of our men,
Be, like a beacon nVd, to amaze your eyes.
We have heard your miseries as far as Tyre,
And seen the desolation of your streets ;
Nor come we to add sorrow to your tears,
But to relieve them of their heavy load ;
And these our ships (you happily may think
Are, like the Trojan horse, war-stuff'd c within,
With bloody views expecting overthrow)
Are stor'd with corn to make your needy bread,
And give them life, whom hunger starVd half
dead.
Omnes. The gods of Greece protect you !
And we will pray for you.
Per. Arise, I pray you, rise ;
Hath. The original copies, that.
b Comist stands on.
e War-stufd, This is Stcevens's ingcniout emendation ol
uvw stuflM.
71
ACT I]
PERICLES.
[SrE IV.
We do not look for reverence, but for love,
And narbourage for oorseif, our ships, and men.
Cle. The which when any shall not gratify,
Or pay you with unthankftuness in thought,
Be it our wives, our children, or ourselves,
The curse of heaven and men succeed their
evils!
Till when (the which, I hope, shall ne'er be
seen),
Your grace is welcome to our town and us.
Per. Which welcome we '11 accept ; feast here
a while,
Until our stars, that frown, lend us a smile.
[Exeunt.
ILLUSTRATIONS OP ACT I.
To enable the reader to judge how closely the
author of Pericles has followed the course of the
narrative in Gower's ' Confessio Amantis," we shall
make some considerable extracts from that poem ;
following the exact order of the poem, so as to
include the events of each Act. It will be un-
necessary for us to trace the association by reference
to particular scenes and passages. We have modern-
ized the orthography, so that the comparison may
be pursued with more facility; and we give an
interpretation of some obsolete words :
" The father, when he understood
That they his daughter thus besought,
With all his wit he cast and sought
How that he might find a let ;
And thus a statute then he set,
And in this wise his law he taxeth
That what man that his daughter axeth,
But if he couth* his question
Assoil.b upon suggestion
Of certain things that befell,
The which he would unto him tell,
He should in certain lose his head.
And thus there were many dead,
Their heads standing on the gate,
Till at last, long and late,
For lack of answer in the wise,"
The remnant, that weren wise,
Eschewden to make essay."
* * * *
" The king declaretl Aim the case
With stern look, and sturdy cheer.
To him, and said in this manner .
With felony I am up bore,
I eat, and have it nought forbore,
My mother's flesh, whose husband
My father for to seek I fonde.d
Which is the son of my wife.
Hereof I am Inquisitive,
And who that can my tale save,
All quite e he shall my daughter have
Of his answer; and if he fail
He shall be dead without fail.
For thee, my son, quoth the king
Be well advised of this thing
Which hath thy life in jeopardy."
* * *
" This young prince forth he went,
And understood well what he meant,
Within his heart, as he was lered j '
That for to make him afferedg
The king his time hath so delayed.
Whereof he dradde.h and was amayed i
Couth was able.
In the wise in the manner.
Quite free.
g A fared afraid.
b A noil antwer.
d Fonde try.
t Lered taught,
h Dradde dreaded.
I Amayed dismayed.
Of treason that he die should,
For he the king his soth a told:
And suddenly the night's tide,
That more would he not abide,
All privily his barge he hentb
And home again to Tyre he went.
And in his own wit he said,
For dread if he the king bewray'd,*
He knew so well the king's heart,
That death ne should he not asterte.d
The king him would so pursue.
But he that would his death eschew,
And knew all this to fore the hand
Forsake he thought his own land,
That there would he not abide ;
For well he knew that on some side
This tyrant, of his felony,
By some manner of treachery
To grieve his body would not leave."
" Antiochus, the great sire.
Which full ol laucour and of ire
His heart beareth so, as ye heard,
Of that this prince of Tyre answer'd.
He had a fellow-bachelor,
Which was the privy councillor,
And Taliart by name he hight,
The king a strong poison dight
Within a box, and gold thereto,
In all haste, and had him go
Straight unto Tyre, and for no cost
Ne spare, till he had lost
The prince, which he would spill.
And when the king hath said his will,
This Taliart in a galley
With all haste he took his way.
The wind was good, and saileth blive,*
Till he took land upon the rive '
Of Tyre, and forthwith all anon
Into the burgh he 'gan to gon,
And took his inn, and bode a throw,!
But for he would not be know,
Disguised then he goeth him out,
He saw the weeping all about,
And axeth what the cause was.
And they him tolden all the case,
How suddenly the prince is go.
And when he saw that it was so,
And .that his labour was in vain,
Anon he turneth home again :
And to the king when he came nigh,
He told of that he heard and sihe, h
How that the prince of Tyre is fled,
So was he come again unsped.
Sof/i-truth.
f Bewrny'd discovered.
Blive quick.
* Throw -time.
b ffent took to.
* Atterievicvp*
t Rive coast,
h SihrSimt.
78
ILLUSTRATIONS OF ACT I.
The king was sorry for a while,
But when he saw, that with no wile
He might achieve his cruelty,
He stint his wrath, and let him he."
' But over this now for to tell
Of adventures, that befell
Unto this prince of whom ytold :
He hath his right course forth hold
By stem and needle,a till he came
To Tharse, and there his land he name.
A burgess rich of gold and fee
Was thilke time in that city,
Which cleped was Stranguilio ,
His wife was Dionise also.
This young prince, as saith the book,
With him his herbergage t> took ;
And it befell that city so,
By fore time and then also,
Stern and needle stars and compass,
*> Herbergage lodging.
Thurh strong famine, which them lad, 6
Was none that any wheat had.
Appollinus, when that he heard
The mischief how the city ferde.c
All freely of his own gift,
His wheat among them for to shift,
The which by ship he had brought,
He gave, and took of them right nought.
But sithen first the world began
Was never yet to such a man
More joy made, than they him made;
For they were all of him so glad,
That they for ever in remembrance
Made a figure in resemblance
Of him, and in common place
They set it up ; so that his face
Might every manner man behold,
So that the city was behold.
It was of laton d over-gilt ;
Thus hath he not his gift spilt."
Thurh through,
c Ferde terrified.
Lad lead.
d Laton mix"d inetai
ACT II.
Enter GOWEB.
Gow. Here Lave you seen a mighty king
Ills chiJd, I wis, to incest bring :
A better prince and benign lord,
That will prove awful both in deed and word.
Be quiet then, as men should be,
Till he hath past necessity.
I '11 show you those in trouble's reign,
Losing a mite, a mountain gain.
The good, in conversation
(To whom I give my benizon)
Is still at Tharsus, where each man
Thinks all is writ he spoken can
The meaning of this obscure line probably is thinks all
ecan speak is as holy writ.
And, to remember what he doea.
Build his statue * to make Mm glorious :
But tidings to the contrary
Are brought to your eyes ; what need speak I P
Dumb show.
Enter at one door PBKICLES talking with CLEOS ;
Build hit statue. All the old copies read build; but the
word has by some been changed to gild, because in the
Confessio Amantis ' we find, with regard to this statue
" It was of laton over-gilt."
But before the statue was gilt it was erected, according to tin
same authority :
" For they were all of him so glad,
That they for ever in remembrance
Made a figure in resemblance
Of him, and in a common place
They set it up."
Why not then build as well as gildf
75
ACT II.]
PERICLES.
all the Train with them. Enter at another
door a Gentleman, with a letter to PERICLES ;
PERICLES shows the letter to CLEON ; PERICLES
gives the Messenger a reward, and knights
him.
[Exit PERICLES at one door, and CLEON
at another.*
Good Helicane hath b stay'd at home,
Not to eat honey, like a drone,
From others' labours ; for though he strive
To killen bad, keeps good alive ;
And, to fulfil his prince' desire,
Sends word c of all that haps in Tyre :
How Thaliard came full bent with sin,
And had intent to murder him ;
And that in Tharsus 't was not best
Longer for him to make his rest :
He, knowing so, d put forth to seas,
Wliere when men bin, there 's seldom ease ;
For now the wind begins to blow ;
Thunder above, and deeps below,
Make such unquiet, that the ship
Should house him safe, is wrack'd and split ;
And he, good prince, having all lost,
By waves from coast to coast is toss'd :
All perishen of man, of pelf,
Ne aught escapenbut himself;
Till fortune, tir'd with doing bad,
Threw him ashore to give him glad :
And here he comes ; what shall be next,
Pardon old Gower ; this 'longs the text. 6
[JMH
SCENE I. Pentapolis.
Enter PERICLES, wet.
Per. Yet cease your ire, ye angry stars of
heaven !
Wind, rain, and thunder, remember, earthly
man
Is but a substance, that must yield to you ;
A.nd I, as fits my nature, do obey you.
Alas, the sea hath cast me on the rocks,
Wash'd me from shore to shore, and left me
breath,
Notliing to think on, but ensuing death :
Let it suffice the greatness of your powers,
To have bereft a prince of all his fortunes ;
* We give this dumb show literally, as in the original.
b Hath. In the old copies, that.
c Sends word. In the old copies, sav'd one.
d In the old copies, he doing to.
< Douce explains this clearly : " ' This 'longs the text 'is,
in Gower's elliptical construction, this belongt te the text ; \
need not comment upon it ; you will see it."
76
And having thrown him from your wat'ry
grave,
Here to have death in peace, is all he '11 crave.
Enter three Fishermen.
1 Fish. What, ho, Pilche ! a
2 Fish. Ha, come, and bring away the nets.
1 Fish. What, Patch-breech, I say !
3 Fish. What say you, master ?
1 Fish. Look how thou stirrest now: come
away, or I '11 fetch thee with a wannion.
3 Fish. 'Faith, master, I am thinking of the
poor men that were cast away before us even
now.
1 Fish. Alas, poor souls ! it griev'd my heart
to hear what pitiful cries they made to us to
help them, when, well-a-day, we could scarce
help ourselves.
3 Fish. Nay, master, said not I as much>
when I saw the porpus how he bounced and
tumbled? they say, they are half fish, half flesh;
a plague on them ! they ne'er come but I look to
be wash'd. Master, I marvel how the fishes live
in the sea.
1 Fish. Why, as men do a-land; the great
ones eat up the little ones : I can compare our
rich misers to nothing so fitly as to a whale ; 'a
plays and tumbles, driving the poor fry before
him, and at last devours them all at a mouthful.
Such whales have I heard on o' the land, who
never leave gaping, till they've swallowed the
whole parish, church, steeple, bells and all.
Per. A pretty moral.
3 Fish. But, master, if I had been the sexton,
I would have been that day in the belfry.
2 Fish. Why, man ?
3 Fish. Because he should have swallow'd me
too : and when I had been in his belly, I would
have kept such a jangling of the bells, that he
should never have left, till he cast bells, steeple,
church, and parish, up again. But if the good
king Simonides were of my mind
Per. Simonides ?
3 Fish. We would purge the land of these
drones, that rob the bee of her honey.
Per. How from the finny subject b of the sea
These fishers tell the infirmities of men ;
And from their watery empire recollect
All that may men approve, or men detect !
Peace be at your labour, honest fishermen.
a Pilche is most probahly a name ; as we have afterward*
Patch-breech. The old copies have " What to pelch f "
b Finny subject. The original has fenny. Subject must b
taken as a plural noun.
ACT II. 1
PERICLES.
SCENE I.
2 Fish. Honest, good fellow, what 's that ? If
it be a day fits you, search out of the calendar,
and nobody look after it."
Per. You may see, the sea hath cast me on
your coast. b
2 Fish. What a drunken knave was the sea,
to cast thee in our way !
Per. A. man whom both the waters and the
wind,
In that vast tennis-court, hath made the ball
For them to play upon, entreats you pity
him;
He asks of you, that never us'd to beg.
1 Fish. No, friend, cannot you beg ? here 's
them in our country of Greece gets more with
begging, than we can do with working.
2 Fish. Canst thou catch any fishes then ?
Per. I never practis'd it.
2 Fish. Nay, then thou wilt starve sure ; for
here's nothing to be got now-a-days, unless
thou canst fish for 't.
Per. What I have been, I have forgot to
know;
But what I am, want teaches me to think on ;
A man throng'd up with cold; my veins are
chill,
And have no more of life than may suffice
To give my tongue that heat to ask your help :
Which if you shall refuse, when I am dead,
For that I am a man, pray see me buried.
1 Fish. Die, quoth-a ? Now gods forbid ! I
kave a gown here ; come, put it on, keep thee
warm. Now, afore me, a handsome fellow !
Come, thou shalt go home, and we '11 have flesh
for holidays, fish for fasting days, and moreo'er
puddings and flap-jacks; and thou shalt be
welcome.
Per. I thank you, sir.
2 Fish. Hark you, ray friend, you said you
could not beg.
Per. I did but crave.
2 Fish. But crave ? then I '11 turn craver too,
and so I shall 'scape whipping.
Per. Why, are all your beggars whipp'd then ?
2 Fish. O, not all, my friend, not all ; for if
This is the reading of the original, and has occasioned
some discussion. Does it not mean that the fisherman,
laughing at the rarity of being honest, remarks, If it be a
day (i.e. a saint's or red-letter day) fits you, search out of
(not in) the calendar, and nobody look after it (there, as it
would be useless)? Steevens supposes that the dialogue
originally ran thus :
" Per. Peace be at your labour, honest fishermen ;
The day it rough and thwarts your occupation.
2 Pith. Honest ! good fellow, what 's that f If it be not a
day fits you, icratch it out of the calendar, and nobody will
look after it."
>> This is the reading of the folio.
c The old copies hare al
all your beggars were whipped, I would wish no
better office than to be a beadle. But, master,
I '11 go draw up the net.
[Exeunt two of the Fishermen.
Per. How well this honest mirth becomes
their labour !
1 Fish. Hark you, sir, do you know where
you are ?
Per. Not well.
1 Fish. Why, I '11 tell you; this is called
Pentapolis, and our king, the good Simonides.
Per. The good king Simonides, do you call
him?
1 Fish. Ay, sir, and he deserves so to be
called, for his peaceable reign, and good govern-
ment.
Per. He is a happy king, since he gains from
his subjects the name of good by his govern-
ment. How far is his court distant from this
shore ?
1 Fish. Marry, sir, half a day's journey ; and
I '11 tell you, he hath a fair daughter, and to-
morrow is her birthday; and there are princes
and knights come from all parts of the world to
just and tourney for her love.
Per. Were my fortunes equal to my desires,
I could wish to make one there.
1 Fish. 0, sir, things must be as they may ;
and what a man cannot get, he may lawfully
deal for his wife's soul.*
Re-enter the two Fishermen, drawing up a net.
2 Fish. Help, master, help ; here 's a fish
hangs in the net, like a poor man's right in the
law ; 't will hardly come out. Ha ! bots on 't,
't is come at last, and 't is turn'd to a rusty
armour !
Per. An armour, friends ! I pray you, let me
see it.
Thanks, Fortune, yet, that after all my crosses,
Thou gi^st me somewhat to repair myself;
And, though it was mine own, part of mine
heritage
Which my dead father did bequeath to me,
With this strict charge (even as he left his life),
' Keep it, my Pericles, it hath been a shield
'Twixt me and death (and pointed to this brace) ;
For that it sav'd me, keep it ; in like necessity,
The which the gods protect thee from ! 't may
defend thee.' b
We cannot attempt to explain this. There we more
riddles in this play than that of Antiochus.
t> The old copies read
" The which the gods protect thee, fame may defend
thee."
77
ACT II.]
PERICLES.
[SCENE II.
It kept where I kept, I so dearly lov'd it ;
Till the rough seas, that spare not any man,
Took it in rage, though calm'd they've given it
again :
I thank thee for it ; my shipwrack now 's no ill,
Since I have here my father's gift in his will
1 Fish. What mean you, sir ?
Per. To beg of you, kind friends, this coat of
worth,
For it was some time target to a king ;
I know it by this mark; he lov'd me dearly,
And for his sake, I wish the having of it ;
And that you'd guide me to your sovereign's
court,
Where with it I may appear a gentleman ;
And if that ever my low fortune 's better,
I'll pay your bounties; till then, rest your
debtor.
1 Fish. Why, wilt thou tourney for the lady?
Per. I'll show the virtue I have borne in
arms.
1 Fish. Why, d' ye take it, and the gods give
thee good on't.
2 Fish. Ay, but hark you, my friend ; 't was
we that made up this garment through the rough
seams of the water : there are certain condole-
ments, certain vails. I hope, sir, if you thrive,
you '11 remember from whence you had it.
Per. Believe it, I will ;
By your furtherance I am cloth' d in steel ;
And spite of all the rupture of the sea,
This jewel holds his biding" on my arm ;
Unto thy value I will mount myself
Upon a courser, whose delightful steps
Shall make the gazer joy to see him tread.
Only, my friend, I yet am unprovided
Of a pair of bases. b
2 Fish. We '11 sure provide : thou shalt have
my best gown to make thee a pair; and I'll
bring thee to the court myself.
Per. Then honour be but a goal to my will,
This day I '11 rise, or else add ill to ill. [Exeunt.
SCENE n. A public Way or Platform, lead-
ing to the Lists. A Pavilion by the side of it,
for the reception of the King and Princess.
Enter SIMONIDES, THAISA, Lords, and Attend-
ants.
Sim. Are the knights ready to begin the
triumph ?
Biding. The old copies, buylding.
b Covering for the legs.
c This description of the scene is modern.
78
1 Lord. They are, my liege ;
And stay your coming, to present themselves.
Sim. Return them, we are ready ; and our
daughter,
In honour of whose birth these triumphs are,
Sits here, like beauty's child, whom Nature
gat
For men to see, and seeing wonder at.
[Exit a Lord.
Thai. It pleaseth you, my royal father, to
express
My commendations great, whose merit 's less.
Sim. 'T is fit it should be so ; for princes are
A model which heaven makes like to itself:
As jewels lose their glory, if neglected,
So princes their renown, if not respected.
'T is now your honour, daughter, to explain*
The labour of each knight, in his device
Thai. Which, to preserve mine honour, I 'U
perform.
[Enter a Knight ; he passes over the staje,
and his Squire presents his shield to the
Princess.
Sim. Who is the first that doth prefer him-
self?
Thai. A knight of Sparta, my renowned
father ;
And the device he bears upon his shield
Is a black jEthiop reaching at the sun ;
The word, Lux tua vita mihi.
Sim. He loves you well, that holds his life of
you. {The second Knight passes.
Who is the second that presents himself ?
Thai. A prince of Macedon, my royal father ;
And the device he bears upon his shield
Is an arm'd knight, that 's conquered by a lady :
The motto thus, in Spanish, Piu per dulcura que
perfuerca.* 1 [The third Knight passes.
Sim. And what 's the third ?
Thai. The third of Antioch ; and his device,
A wreath of chivalry: the word, Me pompae
provexit apex.
[The fourth Knight passes.
Sim. What is the fourth ?
Thai. A burning torch that 's turned upside
down;
The word, Quod me alit, me extinguit.
Sim. Which shows that beauty hath his power
and will,
Which can as well inflame, as it can kilL
[The fifth Knight passes.
Thai. The fifth, an hand environed with
clouds,
Explain. The old copies re-d entertain.
b We do not alter the original, in which Spaniih an<]
Italian are mingled.
ACT II.l
PERICLES.
[SCBMB III.
Holding out gold, that's by the touchstone
tried:
The motto thus, Sic spectanda fides.
[The sixth Knight passes.
Sim. And what 's the sixth and last, the which
the knight himself
With such a graceful courtesy deliver'd ?
Thai. He seems to be a stranger; but his
present
Is a wither'd branch, that 's only green at top :
The motto, In hac spe vivo.
Sim. A pretty moral ;
From the dejected state wherein he is,
He hopes by you his fortunes yet may flourish.
1 Lord. He had need mean better than his
outward show
Can any way speak in his just commend :
For, by his rusty outside, he appears
To have practis'd more the whipstock than the
lance.
2 Lord. He well may be a stranger, for he
comes
To an honour'd triumph, strangely furnish'd.
3 Lord. And on set purpose let his armour
rust
Until this day, to scour it in the dust,
Sim. Opinion 's but a fool, that makes us scan
The outward habit by the inward man.
But stay, the knights are coming ; we '11 with-
draw
Into the gallery. [Exeunt.
[Great shouts, and all cry, The mean Knight !
SCENE III A Hall of State. A Banquet
prepared.
Enter SIMONIDES, THAISA, Lords, Attendants,
and the Knights from tilting.
Sim. Knights,
To say you are welcome, were superfluous.
To place upon the volume of your deeds,
As in a title-page, your worth in arms,
Were more than you expect, or more than 's fit,
Since every worth in show commends itself.
Prepare for mirth, for mirth becomes a feast :
You are princes, and my guests.
Thai. But you, my knight and guest ;
To whom this wreath of victory I give,
And crown you king of this day's happiness.
Per. 'T is more by fortune, lady, than by
merit.
Sim. Call it by what you will, the day is
yours;
And here, I hope, is none that envies it.
j In framing an artist, art hath thus decreed,
To make some good, but others to exceed ;
And you 're her labour'd scholar. Come, queen
o' the feast,
(For, daughter, so you are,) here take your
place:
Marshal the rest, as they deserve their grace.
Knights. We are honour'd much by good
Simonides.
Sim. Your presence glads our days; honour
we love,
For who hates honour, hates the gods abore.
Marshal. Sir, yonder is your place.
Per. Some other is more fit.
1 Knight. Contend not, sir; for we are gen-
tlemen,
That neither in our hearts, nor outward eyes,
Envy the great, nor do the low despise.
Per. You are right courteous knights.
Sim. Sit, sir, sit,
By Jove, I wonder, that is king of thoughts,
These cates resist me, he not thought upon.*
Thai. By Juno, that is queen of marriage,
All viands that I eat do seem unsavoury,
Wishing him my meat : sure he 's a gallant gen-
tleman.
Sim. He 's but a country gentleman ; has done
no more
Than other knights have done; has broken a
staff,
Or so ; so let it pass.
Thai. To me he seems like diamond to glass.
Per. Yon king 's to me, like to my father's
picture,
Which tells me, in that glory once he was ;
Had princes sit like stars about his throne,
And he the sun, for them to reverence.
None that beheld him, but, like lesser lights,
Did vail their crowns to his supremacy ;
Where b now his son 's like a glow-worm in the
night,
The which hath fire in darkness, none in light ;
This speech is usually assigned to Pericles : and in the
second line under this arrangement, we read, "the not
thought upon." But throughout the remainder of the scene
Pericles gives no intimation of a sudden attachment to the
Princess. The King, on the contrary, is evidently moved
to treat him with marked attenhen, and to bestow his
thoughts upon him almost as exclusively as his daughter
If we leave the old reading, and the old indication of the
speaker, Simonides wonders that he cannot eat "these
cates resist me" a though he (Pericles) is "not thought
upon." This is an attempt to disguise the cause of his soli-
citude even to himself. It must be obseived that the suc-
ceeding speeches of Simonides, Thaisa, and Pericles, are all
to be received as soliloquies. In the second speech Sinion-
ide continues the idea of "he not thought upon," by at-
tempting to depreciate Pericles "He's but a country gen-
tleman."
b Whert whereon.
78
ACT II.]
PERICLES.
[SCENE III.
Whereby I see that Time 's the king of men,
For he 's their parent, and he is their grave,
And gives them what he will, not what they
crave.
Sim. What, are you merry, knights ?
1 Knight. Who can be other in this royal pre-
sence?
Sim. Here, with a cup that 's stored" unto the
brim,
(As you do love, fill to your mistress' lips,)
We drink this health to you.
Knights. We thank your grace.
Sim. Yet pause a while ; yon knight doth sit
too melancholy,
As if the entertainment in our court
Had not a show might countervail his worth.
Note it not you, Thaisa ?
Thai. What is 't to me, my father ?
Sim. O, attend, my daughter;.
Princes, in this, should live like gods above,
Who freely give to every one that comes
To honour them :
And princes, not doing so, are like to gnats,
Which make a sound, but kill'd are wonder'd
at.
Therefore to make his entrance more sweet,
Here say, we drink this standing bowl of wine
to him.
Thai. Alas, my father, it befits not me
Unto a stranger knight to be so bold ;
He may my proffer take for an offence,
Since men take women's gifts for impudence.
Sim. How ! do as I bid you, or you '11 move
me else.
Thai. Now, by the gods, he could not please
me better. [Aside.
Sim. And further tell him, we desire to know
of him,
Of whence he is, his name and parentage.
Thai. The king my father, sir, hath drunk to
you.
Per. I thank him.
Thai. Wishing it so much blood unto your
life.
Per. I thank both him and you, and pledge
him freely.
Thai. And further he desires to know of
you,
Of whence you are, your name and parentage.
Per. A gentleman of Tyre (my name Peri-
cles;
My education has been in arts and arms ;)
Styr'd. The first quartohas iturd; the subsequent copies
iltrr'd each the same word.
80
Who, looking for adventures in the world,
Was by the rough seas reft of ships and men,
And, after ship wrack, driven upon this shore.
Thai. He thanks your grace; names himself
Pericles,
A gentleman of Tyre, who only by
Misfortune of the sea has been bereft
Of ships and men, and cast upon this shore.*
Sim. Now, by the gods, I pity his misfor-
tune,
And will awake him from his melancholy.
Come, gentlemen, we sit too long on trifles,
And waste the time, which looks for other
revels.
Even in your armours, as you are address'd,
Will very well become a soldier's dance : b
I will not have excuse, with saying, this
Loud music is too harsh for ladies' heads ;
Since they love men in arms, as well as beds.
{The Knights dance.
So, this was well ask'd ; 't was so well per-
form'd.
Come, sir ; here is a lady that wants breathing
too:
And I have often heard, you knights of Tyre
Are excellent in making ladies trip ;
And that their measures are as excellent.
Per. In those that practise them, they are,
my lord.
Sim. Oh, that 's as much as you would be
denied
{The Knights and Ladies dance.
Of your fair courtesy. Unclasp, unclasp ;
Thanks, gentlemen, to all; all have done
well,
But you the best. {To PERICLES.] Pages and
lights, to conduct
These knights unto their several lodgings :
Yours, sir,
We have given order to be next our own.
Per. I am at your grace's pleasure.
Sim. Princes, it is too late to talk of love,
For that 's the mark I know you level at :
Therefore each one betake him to his rest ;
To-morrow, all for speeding do their best.
{Exeunt.
In the old editions there is a want of coherence in some
parts of this speech. Mr. White thinks a line has been omitted.
We give the passage as it stands in the variorum editions.
1> Malone says, " The dance here introduced is thus ae
scribed in an ancient ' Dialogue against the Abuse of Danc-
ing ' (black letter, no date) :
" There is a dance call'd Choria,
Which joy doth testify;
Another called Pyrricke,
Which -warlike feats doth try.
For men in armour gestures made,
And leap'd, that so they might,
When need requires, be more prompt
In public weal to fight."
ACT II.l
PERICLES.
[Seems IV.. T
SCENE IV. Tyre.
Enter HELICANTJS and ESCAPES.
Hel. No, Escanes, know this of me,
Aiitiochus from incest liv'd not free ;
For which, the most high gods not minding
longer
To withhold the vengeance that they had in
store,
Due to this heinous capital offence ;
Even in the height and pride of all his glory,
When he was seated in a chariot of
An inestimable value, and his daughter
With him, a ike from heaven came and shrivell'd
up
Those bodies, even to loathing; for they so
stunk,
That all those eyes ador'd them" ere their fall,
Scorn now their hand should give them burial.
Esca. 'T was very strange.
Hel. And yet but justice ; for though
This king were great, his greatness was no
guard
To bar heav'n's shaft, but sin had his reward.
Esca. 'T is very true.
Enter three Lords.
1 Lord. See, not a man in private confer-
ence,
Or council, hath respect with him but he.
2 Lord. It shall no longer grieve without re-
proof.
3 Lord. And curs'd be he that will not second
it.
1 Lord. Follow me then : lord Helicane, a
word.
Hel. With me ? and welcome : happy day,
my lords.
1 Lord. Know that our griefs are risen to the
top,
And now at length they overflow their banks.
Hel. Your griefs, for what ? wrong not your
prince you love.
1 Lord. Wrong not yourself then, noble Heli-
caue;
But if the prince do live, let us salute him,
Or know what ground's made happy by his
breath.
If in the world he live, we '11 seek him out ;
If in his grave he rest, we '11 find him there ;
* An elliptical construction all those eyes which adorM
them.
Sup. VOL. Q
And be resolv*d, he lives to govern us,
Or dead, gives cause to mourn his funeral,
And leaves us to our free election.
2 Lord. Whose death 's, indeed, the strongest
in our censure :
And knowing this kingdom is without a head,
(Like goodly buildings left without a roof
Soon fall to ruin,) your noble self,
That best know'st how to rule, and how to reign,
We thus submit unto, our sovereign.
Omnes. Live, noble Helicane.
Hel. For honour's cause, b forbear your suf-
frages :
If that you love prince Pericles, forbear.
Take I your wish, I leap into the seas, c
Where 's hourly trouble, for a minute's ease.
A twelvemonth longer, let me entreat you
To forbear the absence of your king ;
If in which time expir'd, he not return,
I shall with aged patience bear your yoke.
But if I cannot win you to this love,
Go search like nobles, like noble subjects,
And in your search spend your adventurous
worth;
Whom if you find, and win unto return,
You shall like diamonds sit about his crown.
1 Lord. To wisdom he 's a fool that will not
yield;
And since lord Helicane enjoineth us,
We with our travels will endeavour it. d
Hel. Then you love us, we you, and we '11
clasp hands ;
When peers thus knit, a kingdom ever stands.
[Exeunt.
SCENE V. Pentapolis.
Enter SIMONIDES reading a Letter ; the Knights
meet him.
1 Knight. Good morrow to the good Simon-
ides.
Sim. Knights, from my daughter this I let
you know,
That for this twelvemonth she will not under.
take
A married life :
Her reason to herself is only known,
Which from herself by no means can I get.
Censure opinion. We believe, says the speaker, that
the probability of the death of Pericles is the strongest
He then proceeds to assume that the kingdom it without a
head. So the ancient readings, which we follow.
b For the original has try. Mr. Dyce proposed this de-
cided amendment, they are exhorted to forbear for "honour's
cause." c Seat. Malone proposed to read teal.
d // has been added to the old reading.
81
ACT II.]
PERICLES.
[SCENE V.
2 Knight. May we not get access to her, my
lord?
Sim. 'Faith, by no means ; she hath so strictly
tied her
To her chamber, that it is impossible.
One twelve moons more she '11 wear Diana's
livery ;
This by the eye of Cynthia hath she vow'd,
And on her virgin honour will not break.
3 Knight. Loth to bid farewell, we take our
leaves. [Exeunt.
Sim. So,
They 're well despatched ; now to my daughter's
letter :
She tells me here, she '11 wed the stranger
knight,
Or never more to view nor day nor light.
'T is well, mistress, your choice agrees with
mine;
I like that well : nay, how absolute she 's in 't,
Not minding whether I dislike or no !
Well, I do commend her choice,
And will no longer have it be delay'd :
Soft, here he comes ; I must dissemble it.
Enter PERICLES.
Per. All fortune to the good Simonides !
Sim. To you as much ! Sir, I am beholden to
yo,
For your sweet music this last night : I do
Protest, my ears were never better fed
With such delightful pleasing harmony.
Per. It is your grace's pleasure to com-
mend;
Not my desert.
Sim. Sir, you are music's master.
Per. The worst of all her scholars, my good
lord.
Sim. Let me ask yon one tiling. What do you
think
Of my daughter, sir ?
Per. A most virtuous princess.
Sim. And she is fair too, is she not P
Per. As a fair day in summer; wond'rous
fair.
Sim. My daughter, sir, thinks very well of
you;
Ay, so well, that you must be her master,
And she will be your shcolar; therefore look
to it.
Per. I am unworthy for her schoolmaster.
Sim. She thinks not so ; peruse this writing
else.
Per. What's here?
82
A letter, that she loves the knight of Tyre ?
'T is the king's subtilty to have my life. [Aside.
Oh, seek not to entrap me, gracious lord,
A stranger and distressed gentleman,
That never aim'd so high to love your daughter,
But bent all offices to honour her.
Sim. Thou hast bewitch' d my daughter, and
thou art
A villain.
Per. By the gods I have not ;
Never did thought of mine levy offence ;
Nor never did my actions yet commence
A deed might gain her love, or your displeasure.
Sim. Traitor, thou liest.
Per. Traitor !
Sim. Ay, traitor.
Per. Even in his throat (unless it be a king),
That calls me traitor, I return the lie.
Sim. Now, by the gods, I do applaud his
courage. [Aside.
Per. My actions are as noble as my thoughts,
That never relish'd of a base descent.
I came unto your court for honour's cause,
And not to be a rebel to her state ;
And he that otherwise accounts of me,
This sword shall prove, he 's honour's enemy.
Sim. No !
Here comes my daughter, she can witness it.
Enter THAISA.
Per. Then, as you are as virtuous as fair,
Resolve your angry father, if my tongue
Did e'er solicit, or my hand subscribe
To any syllable that made love to you ?
Thai. Why, sir, say if you had, who takes
offence
At that would make me glad ?
Sim. Yea, mistress, are you so peremptory ?
I am glad of it with all my heart. [Aside.
I '11 tame you ; I '11 bring you in subjection.
Will you, not having my consent, bestow
Your love, and your affections upon a stranger ?
(Who, for aught I know,
May be, nor can I think the contrary,
As great in blood as I myself.) [Aside.
Therefore, hear you, mistress ; either frame
Your will to mine and you, sir, hear you,
Either be rul'd by me, or I will make you-
Man and wife ;
Nay, come, your hands and lips must seal it
too:
And, being join'd, I '11 thus your hopes destroy;
And for a further grief, God give you joy !
What, are you both pleas'd P
ACT II.]
PERICLES.
[SCBMK V.
Thai. Yes, if you love me, sir.
Per. Even as my life, or" blood that fosters it.
m Or, in the old copies. Malone reads
" Even as my life my blood," &c.
Even as my life loves my blood. The original answer is
clear enough I love you, even as my life, or as my blood
that fosters my life.
Sim. What, are you both agreed ?
Both. Yes, if it please your majesty.
Sim. It pleaseth me so well, that I '11 see you
wed :
Then, with what haste you can, get you to bed.
[Exeunt.
[Tyre.l
ILLUSTRATIONS OF ACT II.
Extracts from Gower's ' Confessio Amantis,' continued.
" WHEN him thought all grace away,
There came a fisher in the way,
And saw a man there naked stond,
And when that he hath understand
The cause, he hath of him great ruth,
And only of his poor truth,
Of such clothes as he had
With great pity this lord he clad,
And he him thanketh, as he should,
And saith him that it shall he gold,
If ever he get his state again ;
And pray'd that he would him seyn b
If nigh were any town for him?
He said, Yea, Pentapolim,
Where both king and queen dweller*.
When he this tale heard tellen
He gladdeth him, and gan heseech
That he the way him would teach ;
And he him taught, and forth he went,
And prayed God with good intent
To send him joy after his sorrow.
It was not yet passed mid-morrow."
" Then thitherward his way he name,
Where soon upon the noon he came.
He eat such as he might get,
And forth anon, when he had eat,
He goeth to see the town ahout ;
And came there as he found a rout
Of young lusty men withal;
And as it should then hefall,
That day was set of such assise,
That they should in the land's guise,
As he heard of the people say,
The common game then play :
And cried was, that they should come
Unto the game, all and some
Of them that ben<i delivers and wight.f
To do such mastery as they might."
*****
" And fell among them into game,
And there he won him such a name,
So as the king himself accounteth
That he all other men surmounteth,
And hare the prize above them all.
The king bade that into his hall,
At supper-time, he shall be brought ;
And he came there, and left it nought
Without company alone.
Was none so seemly of person,
Of visage, and of limbs both,
If that he had what to clothe.
At supper-time, nathless,
The king amid all the press
Let clap him up among them all,
And bade his marshal of his hall
Ruth pity,
i Ben are.
* Seynsr.y. Name takes.
Deliver nimble, f Wight active.
To setten him in such degree
That he upon him might see.
The king was soon set and serv'd,
And he which hath his prize deserr'd,
After the king's own word,
Was made begin a middle board,
That both king and queen him sihe.
He sat, and cast about his eye,
And saw the lords in estate,
And with himself wax in debate,
Thinking what he had lore ; b
And such a sorrow he took therefore,
That he sat ever still, and thought.
As he which of no meat rought." c
" The king beheld his heaviness.
And of his great gentleness
His daughter, which was fair and good,
And at the board before him stood,
As it was thilked time usage,
He bade to go on his message,
And fondee for to make him glad,
And she did as her father bade,
And goeth to him the soft pace,
And axeth whence and what he was !
And prayeth he should his thoughts leave
*****
" When he hath harped all his fill
The king's hest to fulfil,
Away goeth dish, away goeth cup,
Down goeth the board, the cloth was up.
They risen, and gone out of hall.
The king his chamberlain let call,
And bade that he by all way
A chamber for this man purvey,
Which nigh his own chamber be.
It shall be do, my lord, quoth he."
*****
" And when that he to chamber is come,
He hath into his council nome f
This man of Tyre, and let him see
This letter, and all the privity
The which his daughter to him sent.
And he his knee to ground bent,
And thanketh him and her also;
And ere they went then a two,g
With good heart, and with good courage,
Of full love and full marriage
The king and he ben whole accorded.
And after, when it was recorded
Unto the daughter how it stood,
The gift of all the world's good;
Ne should have made her half so blithe."
Sifte saw. Lore lost. Bought carpi
<J Titiltt that ame. Fondetry. Kome taken.
g A iuo apart.
84
ACT III.
Enter GOWER.
Gow. Now sleep yslaked hath the rout ;
No din but snores, the house about,"
Made louder by the o'er-fed breast
Of this most pompous marriage feast.
The cat, with eyne of burning coal,
Now couches from b the mouse's hole ;
And crickets sing at the oven's mouth,
Are c 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,
1 The house about. In the original, "about the house.
b From before a short distance off.
o Are. So the original. Mr. Dyee reads Aye.
With your fine fancies quaintly eche; a
WTiat 's dumb in show, I '11 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
thows it to SIMONIDES ; the Lords kneel to
him* Then enter THAISA. with child, and
LYCHORIDA, a nurse. SIMONIDES shows [his
daughter] the letter ; she rejoices : she and
PERICLES take leave of her father, and depart.
* Eche eke out.
b Malone says, "The lords kneel to Pericles, because they
are now, for the first time, informed by this letter that he u
king of Tyre."
85
ACT III.]
PERICLES.
[SCENE I.
Gotc. By many a derne* and painful perch,
Of Pericles the careful search
By the four opposing coignes,*
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
(Tame answering the most strange inquire)
To the court of king Simonides
Are letters brought ; the tenor 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 them, 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,
Yravished the regions round,
And every one with claps can sound,
" Our heir apparent is a king ;
Who dream' d, who thought of such a tiling ? "
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 mov*d, e
Varies again : the grizzled 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
Doth fafl 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-toss'd Pericles appears to speak. [Exit.
SCENE L
Enter PERICLES on a ship at sea.
Per. Thou God of this great vast, rebuke
these surges,
Derne solitary.
b Coiffne*. The old copiei have crignet.
c Fortune mov'd. So the old copies. Steevens read*,
loitune's mood,"
86
Which wash both heaven and hell ; and thou
that hast
Upon the winds command, bind them in brass,
Having call'd them from the deep ! still
Thy deafning, dreadful thunders ; gently quench
Thy nimble, sulphurous flashes ! -O how, Ly-
chorida,
How does my queen? Thou storm, venom-
ously,
Wilt thou spit all thyself ? The seaman's whistle
Is as a whisper in the ear of death,
Unheard. Lychorida ! Lucina,
Divinest patroness, and midwife," gentle
To those that cry by night, convey thy deity
Aboard our dancing boat ; make swift the
pangs
Of my queen's travails ! Now, Lychorida
Enter LYCHORIDA.
Lye. Here b a thing too young for such a
place,
Who, if it had conceit, would die, as I
Am like to do: take in your arms this piece
Of your dead queen.
Per. How ! how, Lychorida !
Lye. Patience, good sir, do not assist the
storm.
Here 's all that is left living of your queen,
A little daughter ; for the sake of it,
Be manly, and take comfort.
Per. Oh ye gods !
Why do you make us love your goodly gifts,
And snatch them straight away ? We, here
below,
Recall not what we give, and therein may
Use honour with you.
Lye. Patience, good sir,
Even for this charge.
Per. Now, mild may be thy life !
For a more blust'rous birth had never babe :
Quiet and gentle thy conditions !
For thou art the rudeliest welcom'd to this
world,
That e'er was prince's child. Happy what fol-
lows!
Thou hast as chiding a nativity,
As fire, air, water, earth, and heaven can
make,
To herald thee from the womb :
Even at the first, thy loss is more than can
Thy portage quit, with all thou canst find here.
Now the good gods throw their best eyes upon it !
Midteife. The old copies, my tcift.
Ar*I'.I]
PERICLES.
[SCEHEIT
Enter two Sailors.
1 Sail. What ! courage, sir ! God save you.
Per. Courage enough: I do not fear the flaw;
It hath done to me the worst. Yet for the
love
Of this poor infant, this fresh-new seafarer,
1 would it would be quiet.
1 Sail. Slack the bolins there; thou wilt not,
wilt thou ? Blow and split thyself.
2 Sail. But sea-room, an the brine and cloudy
billow kiss the moon, I care not.
1 Sail. Sir, your queen must overboard ; the
sea works high, the wind is loud, and will not
lie till the ship be clear'd of the dead.
Per. That 's your superstition.
1 Sail. Pardon us, sir ; with us at sea it hath
been still observed; and we are strong in, astern.*
Therefore briefly yield her; for she must over-
board straight.
Per. Be it as you think meet. Most wretched
queen !
Lye. Here she lies, sir.
Per. A terrible childbed hast tnou had, my
dear;
No light, no fire : the unfriendly elements
Forgot thee utterly ; nor have I time
To give thee hallow'd to thy grave, but straight
Must cast thee, scarcely coffin' d, in the ooze ; b
Where, for a monument upon thy bones,
And aye-reinaining c lamps, the belching whale
And humming water must o 'erwhelm thy corpse,
Lying with simple shells. 0, Lychorida,
Bid Nestor bring me spices, ink and paper,
My casket and my jewels ; and bid Nicander
Bring me the satin coffin : d lay the babe
Upon the pillow ; hie thee, whiles I say
A priestly farewell to her : suddenly, woman.
Strong in, astern. The original copies have, "we are
strong in easterns." Steevens first proposed to read, " we
are strong in credence; " and subsequently, " we are strong
in earnest." Boswell would read, "we are strong in custom."
It appears to us that the sailor, at such a moment, was not
very likely to enter into an explanation of his superstition.
He believes in it ; and he points out the danger. Thus Malone
receives " we are strong in eastern" as, " there is a strong
easterly wind." Will not the slightest change give a nau-
tical sense, with the conciseness of nautical language? All
that one of the sailors wants is " sea-room." The ship, as we
learn immediately, is off the coast of Tharsus. The sailor
dreads the coast, and the ship is driving upon it, unmanage-
ableanswering not the helm : We are strong in [driving
strongly in shore] astern."
b Ooze. The originals have oare. Steevens made the in-
genious correction.
c And aye-remaining. The originals have " The ape-re-
maining." Malone made the alteration, which gives a clear
meaning, monuments being surrounded with constantly-
burning lamps.
d Coffin, and coffer, are words of the same original meaning.
Subsequently, Cerimon says to Thaisa
* Madam, this letter, and some certain jewels,
J*y w>* v you in your coffer."
2 Sail. Sir, we have a chest beneath the
hatches, caulk'd and bitumed ready.
Per. I thank thee. Mariner, say what coast
is this ?
2 Sail. We are near Tharsus.
Per. Thither, gentle mariner ;
Alter thy course for Tyre." When canst thou
reach it ?
2 Sail. By break of day, if the wind cease.
Per. O make for Tharsus.
There will I visit Cleon, for the babe
Cannot hold out to Tyrus ; there I '11 leave it
At careful nursing. Go thy ways, good ma-
riner;
I '11 bring the body presently. [Exeunt.
SCENE II. Ephesus. A room in Cerimon's
house.
Enter CERIMON, a Servant, and some persons
who have been shipwrecked.
Cer. Philemon, ho!
Enter PHILEMON.
Phil. Doth my lord call ?
Cer. Get fire and meat for these poor men;
It hath been a turbulent and stormy night.
Ser. I have been in many ; but such a night
as this,
Till now, I ne'er endur*d.
Cer. Your master will be dead ere you re-
turn;
There 's nothing can be minister'd to nature,
That can recover him. Give this to the 'pothe-
cary,
And tell me how it works.
[To PHILEMON
Enter two Gentlemen.
1 Gent. Good morrow.
2 Gent. Good morrow to your lordship.
Cer. Gentlemen, why do you stir so early ?
1 Gent. Sir, our lodgings, standing bleak upon
the sea,
Shook as the earth did quake ;
The very principals 6 did seem to rend,
And all to topple : pure surprise and fear
Made me to leave the house.
2 Gent. That is the cause we trouble you so
early;
T is not our husbandry.
Pursue not the course for Tyre.
Principals. The strongest timber* of a building
87
An III.]
PERICLES.
[SCFMC II.
Cer. O you say well.
1 Gent But I much marvel that your lord-
ship, having
Rich tire about you, should at these early
hours
Shake off the golden slumber of repose :
It is most strange,
Nature should be so conversant with pain,
Being thereto not compell'd.
Cer. I held it ever,
Virtue and cunning* were endowments greater
Than nobleness and riches : careless heirs
May the two latter darken and expend ;
But immortality attends the former,
Making a man a god. 'T is known, I ever
Have studied physic, through which secret
art,
By turning o'er authorities, I have
(Together with my practice) made familiar
To me and to my aid, the bless'd infusions
That dwell in vegetives, in metals, stones ;
And I can speak of the disturbances
That nature works, and of her cures ; which
gives me
A more content in course of true delight
Than to be thirsty after tottering honour,
Or tie my pleasure up in silken bags,
To please the fool and death. b
2 Gent. Your honour hath through Ephesus
pour'd forth
Your charity, and hundreds call themselves
Your creatures, who by you have been restor'd :
And not your knowledge, your personal pain,
but even
Your purse, still open, hath built lord Cerimon
Such strong renown as never shall decay.
Enter two Servants with a Chest.
Ser. So ; lift there.
Cer. What's that?
Ser. Sir,
Even now did the sea toss upon our shore
This chest ; 't is of some wrack.
Cer. Set it down, let 's look upon it.
2 Gent. 'T is like a coffin, sir.
Cer. Whate 'er it be,
'T is wondrous heavy. Wrench it open straight;
If the sea's stomach be o'ercharg'd with gold,
It is a good constraint of Fortune it belches upon
us.
Cunning knowledge.
*> So, in Measure for Measure
" Merely thou art death' t fool,
For him thou labour's! by thy flight to shun,
And yet runn'st toward him still."
88
2 Gent. It is so, my lord,
Cer. How close 't is caulk'd and bitum'd !
Did the sea cast it up ?
Ser. I never saw so huge a billow, sir,
As toss'd it upon shore.
Cer. Wrench it open ;
Soft it smells most sweetly in my sense.
2 Gent. A delicate odour.
Cer. As ever hit my nostril ; so, up with it.
Oh you most potent gods ! what's here ? a corse!
1 Gent. Most strange !
Cer. Shrouded in cloth of state !
Balm'd and entreasur'd with full bags of spiers !
A passport too ! Apollo, perfect me
In the characters ! [He reads out of a scroll.
" Here I give to understand
(If e'er this coffin drive a-land),
I, king Pericles, have lost
This queen, worth all our mundane cost.
Who finds her, give her burying,
She was the daughter of a king :
Besides this treasure for a fee.
The gods requite his charity ! "
If thou liv'st, Pericles, thou hast a heart
That even cracks for woe ! This chanc'd to-
night.
2 Gent. Most likely, sir.
Cer. Nay, certainly to-night ;
For look how fresh she looks ! They were too
rough
That threw her in the sea. Make a fire within ;
Fetch hither all my boxes in my closet.
Death may usurp on nature many hours,
And yet the fire of life kindle again
The o'erpress'd spirits. I have heard of an
Egyptian
That had nine hours lien dead,
Who was by good appliance recovered.
Enter a Servant with napkins andfre.
Well said, well said ; the fire and cloths.
The rough and woeful music that we have,
Cause it to sound, 'beseech you.
The viol* once more ; How thou stirr'st, thou
block!
The music there. I pray you, give her air ;
Gentlemen, this queen will live :
Nature awakes ; a warmth breathes out of her ;
She hath not been entranc'd above five hours.
See how she 'gins to blow into life's flower again!
1 Gent. The heavens, through you, increase
our wonder,
And set up your fame for ever.
The viol. So the first quarto. The second and subse-
quent editions, the vial.
ACTill,]
PERICLES.
[SCENES III., IV.
Cer. She is alive ; behold,
Her eyelids, cases to those heavenly jewels
Which Pericles hath lost,
Begin to part their fringes of bright gold ;
The diamonds of a most praised water
Do appear, to make the world twice rich. O
live,
And make us weep to hear your fate, fair crea-
ture,
Rare as you seem to be ! [She moves.
Thai. dear Diana,
Where am I ? Where 's my lord ? What world
is this ?
2 Gent. Is not this strange ?
1 Gent. Most rare.
Cer. Hush, my gentle neighbours ;
Lend me your hands : to the next chamber bear
her.
Get linen ; now this matter must be look'd to,
For her relapse is mortal. Come, come,
And Esculapius guide us !
[Exeunt, carrying her away.
SCENE III. Tharsus. A Room in Cleon's
House.
Enter PEKICLES, CLEON, DIONTZA, LYCHORIDA,
and MABINA.
Per. Most honour'd Cleon, I must needs be
gone;
My twelve months are expir'd, and Tyrus stands
In a litigious peace. You and your lady
Take from my heart all thankfulness ! The gods
Make up the rest upon you !
Cle. Your shafts of fortune, though they hurt
you mortally,
Yet glance full wond'ringly on us.*
Dion. your sweet queen !
That the strict fates had pleas' d you had brought
her hither,
To have bless'd mine eyes with her !
Per. We cannot but obey
The powers above us. Could I rage and roar
As doth the sea she lies in, yet the end
Must be as 't is. My gentle babe, Marina,
(Whom, for she was born at sea, I have nam'd
so,)
Here I charge your charity withal,
Leaving her the infant of your care, beseeching
you
This is Steevens's reading. The originals have thakes
(not shafts), and haul (not hurt). The use of glance decides
the value of the correction. Some would read wand'ringly.
To give her princely training, that she may be
Manner'd as she is born.
Cle. Fear not, my lord ; but think,
Your grace, that fed my country with your
corn,
(For which the people's prayers still fall upon
you,)
Must in your child be thought on. If neglection
Should therein make me vile, the common body,
By you reliev'd, would force me to my duty :
But if to that my nature need a spur,
The gods revenge it upon me and mine,
To the end of generation !
Per. I believe you ;
Your honour and your goodness teach me to it,
Without your vows. Till she be married, madam.
By bright Diana, whom we honour all,
Unscissar'd shall this hair of mine remain,
Though I show will in 't. a So I take my leave :
Good madam, make me blessed in your care
In bringing up my child.
Dion. I have one myself,
Who shall not be more dear to my respect,
Than yours, my lord.
Per. Madam, my thanks and prayers.
Cle. We '11 bring your grace even to the edge
o' the shore ;
Then give you up to the mask'd Neptune, and
The gentlest winds of heaven.
Per. I will embrace
Your offer. Come, dearest madam. O, no tears,
Lychorida, no tears :
Look to your little mistress, on whose grace
You may depend hereafter. Come, my lord.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV. Ephesus. A Room in Cerimon'*
House.
Enter CERIMON and THAISA.
Cer. Madam, this letter, and some certain
jewels,
Lay with you in your coffer ; which are now
At your command. Know you the character ?
Thai. It is my lord's. That I was shipp'd at
sea
I well remember, even on my yearning time ;
But whether there delivered or no,
u The original has " unsister'd shall this heir." He will
not marry; she shall be unsister'd. But when Pericles In
the fifth act discovers his daughter, he will "clip to form"
what makes him " look so dismal; " and beautify what for
"fourteen years no razor touched." Steevens ha the merit
of this construction of the passage. Malone explains to thoio
will is to show wilfulness ; Mr. Dyce reads to jhbic ill in U,
that he looks uncomely in it.
89
ACT III.]
PERICLES.
[SCEM* IV.
By the holy gods, I cannot rightly say ;
But since king Pericles, my wedded lord,
I ne'er shall see again, a vestal livery
Will I take me to, and never more have joy.
Cer. Madam, if this you purpose as you
Diana's temple is not distant far,
Where you may 'bide until your date expire :*
Moreover, if you please, a niece of mine
Stall there attend you.
Thai. My recompense is thanks, that 's all ;
Yet my good will is great, though the gift small.
[Exeunt.
Until you die.
ILLUSTEATIONS OE ACT IH.
Extracts from Gower'a ' Confessio Amantis,' continued.
" THEY axen when tbe ship is comet
From Tyre, anon answered some.
And over this they saiden more,
The cause why they come for
Was for to seek, and for to find,
Appollinus, which is of kind
Their liege lord ; and he appeareth,
And of the tale which he heareth
He was right glad ; for they him told
That for vengeance, as God it would,
Antiochus, as men may wete,
With thunder and lightning is sore smete.''
His daughter hath the same chance,
So be they both in oc balance."
* * * *
" Lychorida for her office
Was take, which was a nourrice,
To wend with this young wife,
To whom was shape a woeful life.
Within a time, as it betid,
When they were in the sea amid,
Out of the north they saw a cloud:
The storm arose, the winds loud
They blewen many a dreadful blast,
The welkin was all overcast.
The dark night the sun hath under,
There was a great tempest of thunder.
The moon, and eke the stars both,
In black clouds they them clothe,
Whereof their bright look they hid.
This young lady wept and cried,
To whom no comfort might avail:
Of child she began travail,
Where she lay in a cabin close.
Her woeful lord from her arose,
And that was long ere any morrow,
So that in anguish and in sorrow
She was deliver'd all by night,
And dead in every man's sight.
But nathless for all this woe
A maid child was bore tho.d "
* * * *
" The master shipman came and pray'd,
With other such as be therein,
And said that he may nothing win
Again the death, but they him rede.e
He be well ware, and take heed.
The sea by way of his nature
Receive may no creature,
Within himself as for to hold
The which is dead ; for this they would,
As they councillor! all about,
The dead body casten out :
For better it is, they saiden all,
That it of her so befal,
Than if they shoulden all spill."
*****
" I am, quoth he, but one alone ;
So would I not for my person
There fell such adversity,
But when it may no better be,
Do then thus upon my word :
Let make a coffer strong of board,
Wete know.
c one.
d Tho then.
b Smete smitten.
Rtdt advise.
That it be firm with lead and pitch.
Anon was made a coffer such
All ready brought unto his hand ;
And when he saw, and ready found
This coffer made, and well endowed,
The dead body was besowed
In cloth of gold, and laid therein."
*****
" I, king of Tyre, Appollinus,
Do all manner men to wit,
That hear and see this letter writ,
That, helpless without rede,
Here lieth a king's daughter dead ;
And who that happeth her to find,
For charity take in his mind,
And do so that she be begrave.b
' With this treasure which he shall have."
*****
" Right as the corpse was thrown on land.
There came walking upon the strand
A worthy clerk, a surgeon,
And eke a great physician,
Of all that land the wisest one,
Which hight master Cerymon :
There were of his disciples some.
This master to the coffer is come,
And peysethc there was somewhat in,
And bade them bear it to his inn,
And goeth himself forth withal.
All that shall fall, fall shall."
*****
" They laid her on a couch soft,
And with a sheet warmed oft.
Her cold breast began to heat,
Her heart also to flack d and beat.
This master hath her every joint
With certain oil and balm anoint,
And put a liquor in her mouth,
Which is to few clerks oonth.e
So that she 'covereth at the last.
And first her eyen up she cast ;
And when she more of strength caught,
Her arms both forth she straight,'
Held up her hand, and piteously
She spake, and said, Ah! where am If
Where is my lord ? What world is this t
As she that wot nought how it Is."
*****
" My daughter Thayse, by your leave,
I think shall with you bileave g
As for a time ; and thus I pray
That she be kept by all way :
And when she hath of age more,
That she be set to books' lore.
And this avow to God I make,
That I shall never for her sake
My beard for no liking shave,
Till it befall that I have,
In convenable time of age,
Beset her unto marriage."
* Rede counsel ; perhaps here medical aid.
b Begravc buried. Peyteih considereth.
d Flack flutter. * Couth known.
I SlraughtttretcYitA. I Biltave \ezvo behind.
Cl
ACT IV.
Enter GOWER.'
Qow. Imagine Pericles arriv'd at Tyre,
Welcom'd 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 Tharsus, and by Cleon train' d
In music, letters ; who hath gain'd
Of education all the grace,
Which makes her both the heart and place
In the early quartos there is no division into acts and
scenes, which first occurs in the folio of 1664. In that edi-
tion this chorus, mid the two following scenes, belong to
Act in.
92
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 hath our Cleon
One daughter, and a wench full grown, 1 -
Even right for marriage rite ; this maid
Hight Philoten : and it is said
For certain in our story, she
Would ever with Marina be.
The old copies have
" Which makes high both the art and place."
* The old copies read,
" And in this kind our Cleon hath
One daughter and a full-grown wench."
bteevens transposed the words to produce the rhymo.
ACT IV. 1
PERICLES.
[SCKVK I.
Be't when she" weav'd the sleidcd silk
With fingers long, small, white as milk ;
Or when she would with sharp neeld wound
The cambric, which she made more sound
By. hurting it ; or when to the lute
She sung, and made the night-bird mute
That still records' 1 with moan; or when
She would with rich and constant pen
Vail to her mistress Dian ; still
This Philoten contends in skill
Will 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 c 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 doth appear,
With Leonine, a murderer. [Exit.
SCENE I Tharsus. An open place near the
tea-shore.
Enter DIONYZA and LEONINE.
Lion. Thy oath remember; tliou hast sworn
to do it.
'T is but a blow, which never shall be known.
Thou canst not do a thing in the world so soon,
To yield thee so much profit. Let not con-
science,
Which is but cold, inflaming love i' thy bosom,
Inflame too nicely ; d nor let pity, wliich
Even women have cast off, melt thee, but be
A soldier to thy purpose.
She, The old copies, they.
b Records makes music singg.
c Prest- ready.
d Much of this scene, though evidently intended to be
metrical, is printed as prose in the old copies. This pas-
sage runs thus : " Let not conscience, which is but cold, in
flaming thy love bosom, inflame too nicely.'' The passage
was usually printed "inflame love in thy bosom." We gain
a better construction by departing less from the original.
Leon. I '11 do 't ; but yet she is a goodly crea-
ture.
Dion. The fitter then the gods above should
nave her.
Here she comes weeping for her only mistress'
death.'
Thou art resolv'd ?
Leon. I am resolv'd.
Enter MARINA, with a basket of flowers.
Mar. No : I will rob Tellus of her weed,
To strew thy green" with flowers: the yellows,
blues,
The purple violets, and marigolds,
Shall as a carpet hang upon thy grave,
While summer days do last. Ah me ! poor
maid,
Born in a tempest, when my mother died,
This world to me is like a lasting storm,
Whirring me from my friends.
Dion. How now, Marina ! why do you keep
alone?
How chance my daughter is not with you ? Do
not
Consume your blood with sorrowing ; you have
A nurse of me. Lord ! how your favour 's
chang'd
With this unprofitable woe !
Come, give me your flowers, e'er the sea mar
them. d
Walk with Leonine ; the air 's quick there,
And it pierces and sharpens the stomach. Come,
Leonine, take her by the arm, walk with her.
Mar. No, I pray you ;
I '11 not bereave you of your servant.
Dion. Come, come ;
I love the king your father, and yourself,
With more than foreign heart. We every day
Expect liim here : when he shall come, and find
Our paragon to all reports thus blasted,
Malone prints this,
" Here she comes weeping for her only mistress.
Death thou art resolv'd."
Percy suggested that the passage should be altered to
"weeping for her old nune's death." We follow the ori-
ginal ; though probably mistresse. is a misprint for nourie*.
b Green, in the quartos. The folio of 1 664, grave. Seethe
next note.
c Carpet. So the old copies. The modern reading waa
chaplet. But it is evident that the poet was thinking of the
green mound that marks the last resting-place of the humble,
and not of the sculptured tomb to be adorned with wreaths.
Upon the grassy grave Marina will hang a carpet of flowers
she will strew flowers, she has before said. The carpel of
Shakspere's time was a piece of tapestry, or embroidery,
spread upon tables ; and the real flowers with wliich Marina
will cover the grave of her friend might have been, in her
imagination, so intertwined as to resemble a carpet, usually
bright with the flowers of the needle.
d Them. The early copies read it; and Malone has,
" Give me your wreath of flowers, ere the sea mar it."
The change of it to tltem is less violent.
93
ACT IV.]
PERICLES.
[SCENES II., Ill
He will repent the breadth of his great voyage ;
Blame both my lord and me, that we have ta'en
No care to your best courses. Go, I pray you,
Walk, and be cheerful once again; reserve*
That excellent complexion which did steal
The eyes of young and old. Care not for me ;
I can go home alone.
Mar. Well, I will go ;
But yet I have no desire to it.
Dion. Come, come, I know 't is good for you.
Walk half an hour, Leonine, at the least ;
Remember what I have said.
Leon. I warrant you, madam.
Dion. I '11 leave you, my sweet lady, for a
while ;
Pray walk softly, do not heat your blood :
What ! I must have a care of you.
Mar. My thanks, sweet madam.
{Exit DIONYZA.
Is this wind westerly that blows ?
Leon. South-west.
Mar. When I was born the wind was north.
Leon. Was 't so ?
Mar. My father, as nurse said, did never
fear,
But cried, ' Good seamen,' to the sailors, galling
His kingly hands with hauling of the ropes ;
And, clasping to the mast, endur'd a sea
That almost burst the deck.
Leon. When was this ?
Mar. When I was born.
Never was waves nor wind more violent ;
And from the ladder-tackle washes off
A canvas-climber : ' Ha ! ' says one, ' wilt out ? '
And with a dropping industry they skip
From stem to stern : the boatswain whistles, and
The master calls, and trebles their confusion.
Leon. Come, say your prayers.
Mar. What mean you ?
Leon. If you require a little space for prayer,
I grant it : pray ; but be not tedious,
For the gods are quick of ear, and I am sworn
To do my work with haste.
Mar. Why will you kill me ?
Leon. To satisfy my lady.
Mar. Why would she have me kill'd ?
Now, as I can remember, by my troth,
I never did her hurt in all my life ;
I never spake bad word, nor did ill turn,
To any living creature : believe me, la,
I never kill'd a mouse, nor hurt a fly :
I trod upon a worm against my will,
But I wept for it. How have I offended,
Reserve preserve.
Wherein my death might yield her any profit,
Or my life imply her any danger ?
Leon. My commission
Is not to reason of the deed, but do it.
Mar. You will not do't for all the world, I
hope.
You are well-favour' d, and your looks foreshow
You have a gentle heart. I saw you lately,
When you caught hurt in parting two that
fought :
Good sooth, it showed well in you; do so now :
Your lady seeks my life ; come you between,
And save poor me, the weaker.
Leon. I am sworn,
And will despatch.
Enter Pirates whilst she is struggling.
1 Pirate. Hold, villain ! [LEON, runs away.
2 Pirate. A prize ! a prize !
3 Pirate. Half-part, mates, half-part. Come,
let's have her aboard suddenly.
[Exeunt Pirates with MAKINA.
SCENE H. TJie same.
Re-enter LEONINE.
Leon. These roguing thieves serve the great
pirate Valdes ;
And they have seiz'd Marina. Let her go ;
There 's no hope she '11 return. I '11 swear she 's
dead,
And thrown into the sea. But I '11 see further ;
Perhaps they will but please themselves upon
her,
Not carry her aboard. If she remain,
Whom they have ravish'd must by me be slain.
{Exit.
SCENE III. Mitylene. A Room in a Brothel.
Enter Pander, Bawd, and BOTJLT.
Pand. Boult.
Boult. Sir.
Pand. Search the market narrowly; Mitylene
is full of gallants. We lost too much money this
mart by being too wenchless.
Sated. We were never so much out of crea-
tures. We have but poor three, and they can
do no more than they can do; and they with
continual action are even as good as rotten.
Pand. Therefore let 's have fresh ones, what-
e'er we pay for them. If there be not a con-
science to be used in every trade, we shall never
prosper.
Bawd. Thou say'st true : 't is not our bringing
ACT IV.]
PERICLES.
LSCEXK III.
up of poor bastards, as I think I have brought
up some eleven
Boult. Ay, to eleven, and brought them down
again. But shall I search the market ?
Bawd. What else, man ? The stuff we have,
a strong wind will blow it to pieces, they are so
pitifully sodden.
Pand. Thou say'st true; they're too unwhole-
some o' conscience. The poor Transylvanian is
dead that lay with the little baggage.
Boult. Ay, she quickly poop'd him ; she made
him roast-meat for worms : but I '11 go search
the market. [Exit BOULT.
Pand. Three or four thousand chequins were
as pretty a proportion to live quietly, and so give
over.
Bawd. Why, to give over, I pray you ? Is it
a shame to get when we are old ?
Pand. O, our credit comes not in like the
commodity ; nor the commodity wages not with
the danger : therefore, if in our youths we could
pick up some pretty estate, 't were not amiss to
keep our door hatched. Besides, the sore terms
we stand upon with the gods will be strong
with us for giving over.
Bawd. Come, other sorts offend as well as we.
Pand. As well as we ! ay, and better too ; we
offend worse. Neither is our profession any
trade ; it's no calling ; but here comes Boult.
Enter the Pirates, and BOULT dragging in
MARINA.
Boult. Come your ways. [To MARINA.] My
masters, you say she 's a virgin ?
1 Pirate. O sir, we doubt it not.
Boult. Master, I have gone thorough for this
piece, you see : if you like her, so ; if not, I
have lost my earnest.
Bawd. Boult, has she any qualities ?
Boult. She has a good face, speaks well, and
hath excellent good clothes ; there 's no farther
necessity of qualities can make her be refused.
Bawd. What 's her price, Boult P
Boult. I cannot be bated one doit of a thousand
pieces.
Pand. Well, follow me, my masters ; you
shall have your money presently. Wife, take
her in ; instruct her what she has to do, that
she may not be raw in her entertainment.
[Exeunt Pander and Pirates.
Bawd. Boult, take you the marks of her ; the
colour of her hair, complexion, height, her age,
with warrant of her virginity ; and cry, ' He
that will give most, shall have her first.' Such
a maidenhead were no cheap tiling, if men were
as they have been. Get this done as I com-
mand you.
Boult. Performance shall follow. [Exit BOULT.
Mar. Alack, that Leonine was so slack, so
slow !
(He should have struck, not spoke ; ) or that
these pirates,
Not enough barbarous, had but overboard
Thrown me, for to seek my mother !
Bawd. Why lament you, pretty one ?
Mar. That I am pretty.
Bawd. Come, the gods have done their part
in you.
Mar. I accuse them not.
Bawd. You are lit into my hands, where you
are like to live.
Mar. The more my fault, to 'scape his hands,
where I
Was like to die.
Bawd. Ay, and you shall live in pleasure.
Mar. No.
Bawd. Yes, indeed shall you, and taste gentle-
men of all fashions. You shall fare well ; you
shall have the difference of all complexions.
What ! do you stop your ears ?
Mar. Are you a woman ?
Bawd. What would you have me be, an I be
not a woman ?
Mar. An honest woman, or not a woman.
Bawd. Marry, whip thee, gosling : I think 1
shall have something to do with you. Come,
you are a young foolish sapling, and must be
bowed as I would have you.
Mar. The gods defend me !
Bawd. If it please the gods to defend you by
men, then men must comfort you, men must
feed you, men must stir you up. Boult's re-
turned.
Enter BOULT.
Now, sir, nast thou cried her through the mar-
ket?
Boult. I have cried her almost to the number
of her hairs ; I have drawn her picture with my
voice.
Bawd. And I prithee tell me, now dost thou
find the inclination of the people, especially of
the younger sort ?
Boult. 'Faith they listened to me, as they
would have hearkened to their father's testa-
ment. There was a Spaniard's mouth so watered,
that he went to bed to her very description.
Bawd. We shall have him here to-morrow,
with his best ruff on.
Boult. To-night, to-night. But, mistress, do
95
ACT 17.1
PERICLES.
IT.
you know the French knight that cowers i' the
haras?
Bawd. Who ? monsieur Veroles.
Boult. Ay ; he offered to cut a caper at the
proclamation; but he made a groan at it, and
swore he would see her to-morrow.
Bated. Well, well; as for him, he brought
his disease hither : here he doth but repair it.
I know he will come in our shadow, to scatter
his crowns in the sun.
Boult. Well, if we had of every nation a tra-
veller, we should lodge them with this sign.
Bawd. Pray you, come hither a while. You
have fortunes coming upon you. Mark me ;
you must seem to do that fearfully which you
commit willingly; to despise profit where you
have most gain. To weep that you live as you
do makes pity in your lovers : Seldom but that
pity begets you a good opinion, and that opinion
a mere a profit.
Mar. I understand you not.
Boult. O take her home, mistress, take her
home : these blushes of hers must be quenched
with some present practice.
Bawd. Thou say'st true i' faith, so they must;
for your bride goes to that with shame, which is
her way to go with warrant.
Boult. 'Faith some do, and some do not.
But, mistress, if I have bargain'd for the
joint,
Bawd. Thou mayst cut a morsel off the spit.
Boult. I may so.
Bawd. Who should deny it? Come, young
one, I like the manner of your garments well.
Boult. Ay, by my faith, they shall not be
changed yet.
Bawd. Boult, spend thou that in the town :
report what a sojourner we have ; you '11 lose
nothing by custom. When Nature framed this
piece, she meant thee a good turn; therefore
say what a paragon she is, and thou hast the
harvest out of thine own report.
Boult. I warrant you, mistress, thunder shall
not so awake the beds of eels, as my giving out
of her beauty stir up the lewdly-inclined. I 'U
bring home some to-night.
Bawd. Come your ways ; follow me.
Mar. If fires be hot, knives sharp, or waters
deep,
Untied I still my virgin knot will keep.
Diana, aid my purpose !
Bated. What have we to do with Diana ?
Pray you, will you go with us ? [Exeunt.
* Jftre absolute certain.
SCENE IT. A Room in CLEOX'* House at
Tharsus.
Enter CLEOX and DIOXYZA.
Dion. Why, are you foolish ? Can it be ion-
done ?
Cle. Dionyza, such a piece of slaughter
The sun and moon ne'er look'd upon !
Dion. I think you'll turn a child again.
Cle. Were I chief lord of all this spacious
world,
I 'd give it to undo the deed. O lady,
Much less in blood than virtue, yet a princess
To equal any single crown o' the earth,
T the justice of compare ! O villain Leonine,
Whom thou hast poison'd too !
If thou hadst drunk to him, it had been a kind-
ness
Becoming well thy face : what canst thou say,
When noble Pericles shall demand his child ?
Dion. That she is dead. Nurses are not the
fates,
To foster it, nor ever to preserve.
She died at night ; I '11 say so. Who can cross
it?
Unless you play the pious innocent,
And for an honest attribute, cry out,
' She died by foul play.'
Ck. O, go to. Well, well.
Of all the faults beneath the heavens, the gods
Do like this worst.
Dion. Be one of those that think
The pretty wrens of Tharsus will fly hence,
And open this to Pericles. I do shame
To think of what a noble strain you are,
And of how coward a spirit.
Cle. To such proceeding
Who ever but his approbation added,
Though not his pre-consent, he did not flow
From honourable courses.
Dion. Be it so then :
Yet none doth know, but you, how she came
dead,
Nor none can know, Leonine being gone.
She did disdain my child, and stood between b
Her and her fortunes : none would look on her,
But cast their gazes on Marina's face ;
Whilst ours was blurted at, and held a malkin
Not worth the time of day. It pierc'd me
thorough ;
And though you call my course unnatural,
You not your child well loving, yet I find,
Pre-eontent. The first quarto has prince consent; the
second quarto, it-hole consent, Steevens made the judicioui
alteration.
t> Diidain. Mr. Dyce would read distain.
Act IV.]
PERICLES
[SCIKE V
It greets me as an enterprise of kindness,
Perform'd to your sole daughter.
Cle. Heavens forgive it !
Lion. And as for Pericles,
What should he say ? We wept after her hearse,
And even yet we mourn : her monument
Is almost finish' d, and her epitaphs
In glittering golden characters express
A general praise to her, and care in us
At whose expense 't is done.
Cle. Thou art like the harpy,
Which, to betray, dost, with thine angel's face,
Seize with thine eagle's talons.
Dion. You are like one that superstitiously
Doth swear to the gods that winter kills the
flies :
But yet I know you '11 do as I advise.
[Exeunt.
Enter GOWER, before the Monument of MARINA
at Tharsus.
Gow. Thus time we waste, and longest
leagues make short,
Sail seas in cockles, have, and wish but for 't ;
Making (to take your imagination)
From bourn to bourn, region to region.
By you being pardon'd, we commit no crime
To use one language, in each several clime
Where our scenes seem to live. I do beseech
you,
To learn of me, who stand i' the gaps to teach
you,
The stages of our story. Pericles
Is now again thwarting the wayward seas,
(Attended on by many a lord and knight,)
To see his daughter, all his life's delight.
Old Escanes, whom Helicanus late
Advanc'd in time to great and high estate,
Is left to govern. Bear you it in mind,
Old Helicanus goes along behind.*
Well-sailing ships and bounteous winds have
brought
This king to Tharsus (think his pilot thought ;
So with his steerage shall your thoughts grow
on),
To fetch his daughter home, who first is
gone.
Like motes and shadows see them move a
while;
lour ears unto your eyes I '11 reconcile.
In the old copies these lines are thus misplaced :
" Old Helicanus goes along behind
Is left to govenie it : you beare in mind
Old Escenes whom Heliranus late
Advancde in time to great and hie estate.'
SUP. VOL.
II
Dumb show.
Enter PERICLES at one dwr, with all his train ;
CLEON and DIONYZA at the other. CLEON
shows PERICLES the tomb [of MARINA];
whereat PERICLES makes lamentation, puts
on sackcloth, and in a mighty passion departs.
Gow. See how belief may suffer by foul
show!
This borrow'd passion stands for true old
woe;
And Pericles, in sorrow all devour' d,
With sighs shot through, and biggest tears
o'ershowYd,
Leaves Tharsus, and again embarks. He
swears
Never to wash his face, nor cut bis hairs ;
He puts on sackcloth, and to sea. He bears
A tempest, which his mortal vessel tears,
And yet he rides it out. Now please you wit*
The epitaph is for Marina writ
By wicked Dionyza.
[Reads the inscription on MARINA'*
monument.
" The fairest, sweetest, best, lies here,
Who wither'd in her spring of year.
She was of Tyrus, the king's daughter,
On whom foul death hath made this slaughter ;
Marina was she call'd j and at her birth,
Thetis, being proud, swallow'd some part o' the earth :
Therefore the earth, fearing to be o'erflow'd,
Hath Thetis' birth-child on the heavens bestow'd :
Wherefore she does, and swears she '11 never stint,
Make raging battery upon shores of flint."
No vizor does become black villainy,
So well as soft and tender flattery.
Let Pericles believe his daughter 's dead,
And bear his courses to be ordered
By lady Fortune; while our scene b must play
His daughter's woe and heavy well-a-day,
In her unholy service. Patience then,
And think you now are all in Mitylene. [Exit.
SCENE V. Mitylene. A Street before the
Brothel.
Enter, from the Brothel, two Gentlemen.
1 Gent. Did you ever hear the like P
2 Gent. No, nor never shall do in such a place
as this, she being once gone.
1 Gent. But to have divinity preach'd there !
did you ever dream of such a thing ?
2 Gent. No, no. Come, I am for no moi
bawdy-houses : shall we go hear the vestals sing?
Please you wit be pleased to know.
*> Scene. In the old copies, iteare.
T
ACT IV."]
PERICLES.
[SCENE VI
1 Gent. I '11 do anything now that is virtuous,
but I am out of the road of rutting, for ever.
[Exeunt.
SCENE VI: The same. A Room in the
Brothel.
Enter Pander, Bawd, and BOULT.
Pand. Well, I had rather than twice the worth
of her, she had ne'er come here.
Bawd. Fie, fie upon her ; she is able to freeze
the god Priapus, and undo a whole generation.
We must either get her ravish' d, or be rid of her.
When she should do for clients her fitment, and
do me the kindness of our profession, she has
me her quirks, her reasons, her master-reasons,
her prayers, her knees ; that she would make a
puritan of the devil, if he should cheapen a kiss
of her.
Boult. 'Faith I must ravish her, or she '11 dis-
furnish us of all our cavaliers, and make all our
swearers priests.
Pand. Now, the pox upon her green-sickness
for me !
Bawd. 'Faith, there 's no way lo be rid on 't,
but by the way to the pox. Here comes the
lord Lysimachus, disguised.
Boult. We should have both lord and lown, if
the peevish baggage would but give way to cus-
tomers.
Enter I/ISTMA.CHTTS.
Lys. How now ? How a dozen of virginities ?
Bawd. Now, the gods to-bless your honour !
Boult. I am glad to see your honour in good
health.
Lys. You may so ; 't is the better for you that
your resorters stand upon sound legs. How
now, wholesome iniquity ? Have you that a man
may deal withal and defy the surgeon ?
Bawd. We have here one, sir, if she would
but there never came her like in Mitylene.
Lys. If she 'd do the deed of darkness, thou
wouldst say.
Bawd. Your honour knows what 't is to say,
well enough.
Lys. Well ; call forth, call forth.
Boult. For flesh and blood, sir, white and red,
you shall see a rose ; and she were a rose indeed,
if she had but
Lys. What, pri(hee ?
Boult. 0, sir, I can be modest.
Lys. That dignifies the renown of a bawd, no
less than it gives a good report to a number to
be chaste.
98
Enter MAKINA.
Bawd. Here comes that which grows to the
stalk ; never plucked yet, I can assure you. Is
she not a fair creature ?
Lys. 'Faith she would serve after a long voy-
age at sea. Well, there 's for you ; leave us.
Bawd. I beseech your honour, give me leave :
a word, and I '11 have done presently.
Lys. I beseech you, do.
Bawd. First, I would have you note, this is
an honourable man.
[To MARINA, whom she takes aside.
Mar. I desire to find him so, that I may
worthily note him.
Bawd. Next, he's the governor of this coun-
try, and a man whom I am bound to.
Mar. If he governs the country, you are bound
to him indeed ; but how honourable he is in that,
I know not.
Bated. Pray you, without any more virginal
fencing, will you use him kindly ? He will line
your apron with gold.
Mar. What he will do graciously I will thank-
fully receive.
Lys. Have you done ?
Bawd. My lord, she 's not pac'd yet ; you
must take some pains to work her to your ma-
nage. Come, we will leave his honour and her
together. [Exeunt Bawd, Pander, and BOULT.
lys. Go thy ways. Now, pretty one, how
long have you been at this trade ?
Mar. What trade, sir ?
Lys. What I cannot name but I shall offend.
Mar. I cannot be offended with my trade.
Please you to name it.
Lys. How long have you been of this profes-
sion?
Mar. Ever since I can remember.
Lys. Did you go to it so young ? Were you a
gamester at five, or at seven ?
Mar. Earlier too, sir, if now I be one.
Lys. Why, the house you dwell in proclaims
you to be a creature of sale.
Mar. Do you know this house to be a place of
such resort, and will come into it ? I hear say,
you are of honourable parts, and are the governor
of this place.
Lys. Why, hath your principal made known
unto you who I am ?
Mar. Who is my principal ?
Lys. Why your herb-woman; she that sets
seeds and roots of shame and iniquity. 0, you
have heard something of my power, and so stand
aloof for more serious wooing. But I protest to
ACT IV. }
PERICLES.
r SCENE VI.
thee, pretty one, my authority shall not see .thee,
or else, look friendly upon thee. Come, bring
me to some private place. Come, come.
Mar. If you were born to honour, show it now ;
If put upon you, make the judgment good
That thought you worthy of it.
lys. How 's this ? how 's this ? Some more ;
be sage.
Mar. For me, that am a maid, though most
ungentle
Fortune have plac'd me in this loathsome sty,
Where since I came, diseases have been sold
Dearer than physic, that the gods
Would set me free from this unhallow'd place,
Though they did change me to the meanest
bird
That flies i' the purer air !
IA/S. I did not think
Thou couldst have spoke so well ; ne'er dream'd
thou couldst.
Had I brought liither a corrupted mind,
Thy speech had alter* d it. Hold, here's gold
for thee :
Perserver still in that clear way thou goest,
And the gods strengthen thee !
Mar. The gods preserve you !
Lys. For me, be you thoughten
That I came with no ill intent ; for to me
The very doors and windows savour vilely.
Fare thee well. Thou art a piece of virtue,
And I doubt not but thy training hath been
noble.
Hold ; here 's more gold for thee.
A curse upon him, die he like a thief,
That robs thee of thy goodness ! If thou bear's t
from me
It shall be for thy good.
[As LYSIMACHUS it putting up his purse,
BOTJLT enters.
Boull. I beseech your honour, one piece foi
me.
Ly*. Avaunt, thou damned door-keeper !
Your house, but for this virgin that doth prop it,
Would sink and overwhelm you. Away. [Exit.
Boult. How 's this ? We must take another
course with you. If your peevish chastity,
which is not worth a breakfast in the cheapest
country under the cope, shall undo a whole
household, let me be gelded like a spaniel.
Come your ways.
Mar. Whither would you have me P
Boult. I must have your maidenhead taken
off, or the common hangman shall execute it.
Come your way. We '11 have no more gentle-
men driven away. Come your ways, I say.
H 2
Re-enter Bawd.
Bawd. How now ! what's the matter ?
Boult. Worse and worse, mistress; she has
here spoken holy words to the lord Lysimachus.
Bawd. O abominable !
Boult. She makes our profession as it were to
stink afore the face of the gods.
Bawd. Marry, hang her up for ever !
Boult. The nobleman would have dealt witj
her like a nobleman, and she sent him away as
cold as a: snow-ball; saying his prayers too.
Bawd. Boult, take her away ; use her at thy
pleasure, crack the glass of her virginity, and
make the rest malleable.
Boult. An if she were a thornier piece oi
ground than she is, she shall be ploughed.
Mar. Hark, hark, ye gods !
Bawd. She conjures : away with her. Would
she had never come within my doors ! Marry
hang you ! She 's born to undo us. Will you
not go the way of womenkind? Marry come
up, my dish of chastity with rosemary and bays !
[Exit Bawd.
Boult. Come, mistress; come your way with
me.
Mar. Whither would you have me ?
Boult. To take from you the jewel you hold
so dear.
Mar. Prithee, tell me one thing first.
Boult. Come now, your one thing ?
Mar. What canst thou wish thine enemy to
be?
Boult. Why, I could wish him to be my mas-
ter, or rather, my mistress.
Mar. Neither of these are yet so bad as thou
art,
Since they do better thee in their command.
Thou hold'st a place, for which the pained'st
fiend
Of hell would not in reputation change :
Thou art the damn'd door-keeper to ever
coyst'rel
That comes inquiring for his tib ;
To the choleric fisting of every rogue thy car
Is liable ; thy food is such
As hath been belch'd on by infected lungs.
Boult. What would you have me do ? go to
the wars, would you ? where a man may serve
seven years for the loss of a leg, and have not
money enough in the end to buy him a wooden
one?
Mar. Do anything but this thou doest. Empty
Old receptacles, or common sewers of filth ;
Serve by indenture to the common hangman;
99
Act IV.]
PERICLES.
[SCENE VL
Any of these ways are better yet than this :
For what thou profcssest, a baboon, could he
speak,
Would own a name too dear. That the gods
would safely
Deliver me from this place ! Here, here 's gold
for thee.
If that thy master would gain aught by me,
Proclaim that I can sing, weave, sew, and dance,
With other virtues, which I '11 keep from boast;
And I will undertake all these to teach.
I doubt not but this populous city will
Yield many scholars.
Boult. But can you teach all this you speak
of?
Mar. Prove that I cannot, take me home
again,
And prostitute me to the basest groom
That doth frequent your house.
Boult. Well, I will see what I can do for
thee : if I can place thee, I will.
Mar. But amongst honest women ?
Boult. 'Faith, my acquaintance lies little
amongst them. But since my master and mis-
tress have bought you, there 's no going but by
their consent : therefore I will make them ac-
quainted with your purpose, and I doubt not
but I shall find them tractable enough. Come,
I '11 do for thee what I can ; come your ways.
[Exeunt.
ILLUSTRATIONS OF ACT IY.
Extracts from Dower's ' Confessio Amantis,' continued
AND for to speak how that it stood
Of Thayse his daughter, where she dwelleth
In Tharse, as the chronique telleth.
She was well kept, she was well looked,
She was well taught, she was well booked ;
So well she sped in her youth
That whe of every wisdom couth,
That for to seek in every land
So wise another no man found,
Ne so well taught at man's eye ;
But woe-worth, ever falls envy."
* * * *
fc The treason and the time is shape,
So fell it that this churlish knape
Hath led this maiden where he would
Upon the strand, and what she should
She was a drad ; and he out braid a
A rusty sword, and to her said,
Thou shalt be dead: alas, quoth she,
Why shall I so ? So thus, quoth he,
My lady Dionise hath bade
Th)u shalt be murder'd in this stede.
T)is maid then for fear shrihte,b
And for the love of God all-might
Ste pray'th, that for a little stound*
She might kneel upon the ground
Toward the heaven, for to crave
Her woeful soul that she may save.
And with this noise and with this cry
Out of a barge fast by,
Which hid was there on scomerfare,
Men start out, and weren ware
Of this felon : and he to go,
And she began to cry tho.d
i Braid started, drew.
Stound moment.
b Shrihie shrieked,
d Tho then.
Ha, mercy, help, for God's sake !
Into the barge they her take,
As thieves should, and forth they went."
*****
"If so be that thy master would
That I his gold increase should,
It may not fall by this way ;
But suffer me to go my way
Out of this house, where I am in,
And I shall make him for to win
In some place else of the town,
Be so it be of religion,
Where that honest women dwell.
And thus thou might thy master tell,
That when I have a chamber there,
Let him do cry ay wide-where a
What lord that hath his daughter dear,
And is in will that she shall lere i>
Of such a school as is true ;
I shall her teach of things new,
Which that none other woman can
In all this land."
*****
"Her epitaph of good assise c
Was writ about, and in this wise
It spake : O ye that this behold,
Lo, here lieth she, the which was hold
The fairest, and the flower of all,
Whose name Taysis men call.
The king of Tyre, Appollinus,
Her father was : now lieth the thus.
Fourteen year she was of age
When death her took to his viage. d "
Wide-where far and near.
Auitt situation.
)> Lure learn
d Viaye journey
ACT V.
Enter GOTVER.
Goto. Marina thus the brothel scapes, and
chances
into an honest house, our story says,
bhe sings like one immortal, and she dances
As goddess-like to her admired lays :
Deep clerks she dumbs; and with her neeld
composes
Nature's own shape, of bud, bird, branch, or
berry;
That even her art sisters the natural roses ;
Her inkle, silk, twin with the rubied cherry :
That pupils hicks she none of noble race,
Who pour their bounty on her ; and her gain
She gives the cursed bawd. Here we her place,
And to her father turn our thoughts again,
102
Where we left him on the sea. We theie aim
lost :
Whence driven before the winds he is arriv'd
Here where his daughter dwells; and on this
coast
Suppose him now at anchor. The city striv'd
God Neptune's annual feast to keep: from
whence
Lysimachus our Tyrian snip espies,
His banners sable, trimm'd with rich ex-
pense ;
And to him in his barge with fervour hies.
In your supposing once more put your sight.
Of heavy Pericles think this his bark :
Where, what is done in action, more, if might,
Shall be discover'd ; please you sit and hark.
[Exit
ACT V.J
PERICLES.
[SCME I
SCENE I. On board PERICLES' ship off Mity-
lene. A close Pavilion on deck, with a cur-
tain 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 HELI-
CANTJS.
Tyr. Sail. Where is the lord Helicanus ? He
cau resolve you. [To the Sailor of Mitylene.]
O, here he is. Sir, there is a barge put off
from Mitylene, and in it is Lysimachus the
governor, who craves to come aboard. What is
yonr will ?
Hel. That he have his. Call up some gentle-
men.
Tyr. Sail. Ho, gentlemen ! my lord calls.
Enter two Gentlemen.
1 Gent. Doth your lordship call ?
Hel. Gentlemen, there is some of worth would
come aboard ; I pray, greet them fairly.
[The Gentlemen and the two Sailors descend,
and go on board the barge.
Enter from thence LYSIMACHTJS, attended; the
Tyrian Gentlemen, and the two Sailors.
Tyr. Sail. Sir, this is the man that can, in
aught you would, resolve you.
Lys. Hail, reverend sir ! The gods preserve
you !
Hel. And you, sir, to outlive the age I am,
And die as I would do.
Lys. You wish me well.
Being on shore, honouring of Neptune's tri-
umphs,
Seeing this goodly vessel ride before us,
I made to it, to know of whence you are.
Hel. First, what is your place ?
Lys. I am the governor of this place you lie
before.
Hel. Sir, our vessel is of Tyre, in it the king;
A man, who for this three months hath not
spoken
To any one, nor taken sustenance,
But to prorogue his grief.
Lys. Upon what ground is his distemperature P
Hel. Sir, it would be too tedious to repeat ;
But the main grief springs from the loss
Of a beloved daughter and a wife.
Lys. May we not see him P
Hel. You may,
But bootless is your sight ; he will not speak to
anv.
Lys. Yet let me obtain my wish.
Hel. Behold him, sir. [PERICLES discovered.]
This was a goodly person,
Till the disaster that, one mortal night, a
Drove him to this.
Lys. Sir, king, all hail ! the gods preserve
you! Hail,
Bx>yal sir !
Hel. It is in vain ; he will not speak to you.
Lord. Sir, we have a maid in Mitylene. 1
durst wager,
Would win some words of him.
Lys. 'T is 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 one of the attendant Lords. Exit
Lord in the barge of LYSIMACHUS.
Hel. Sure all 's effectless ; yet nothing we '11
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.
Lys. 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.
Hel. Sit, sir, I will recount it to you.
But see, I am prevented.
Enter from the barge, Lord, MARINA, and a
young Lady.
Lys. O here 's the lady that I sent for. Wel-
come, fair one !
is 'i not a goodly presence ?
Hel. She 's a gallant lady.
Lys. She's such a one, that were I well
assur'd
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 bountj %
Ifight. The old copies, wight.
b Bounty. The old copies have beauty.
tie correction.
Steovens m*d<
103
ACT V.]
PERICLES.
[SCBKX I.
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.
Mar. Sir, I will use
My utmost skill in his recovery,
Provided none but I and my companion
Be suffer'd to come near him.
Lys. Come, let us leave her,
And the gods make her prosperous !
[MARINA sings.
Lys. Mark'd he your music ?
Mar. No, nor look'd on us.
Lys. See, she will speak to him.
Mar. Hail, sir ! my lord,
Lend ear.
Per. Hum, ha!
Mar. I am a maid,
My lord, that ne'er before invited eyes,
But have been gaz'd on like a comet : she
speaks,
My lord, that, may be, hath endur'd 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. I will desist ;
But there is something glows upon my cheek,
And whispers in mine ear, 'Go not till he
Per. My fortunes parentage good parent-
age
To equal mine ! was it not thus? what say you?
Mar. I said, my lord, if you did know my
parentage,
You would not do me violence.
Per. I do think so. Pray you, turn your eyes
upon me.
You are like something, that What country-
woman?
Here of these shores ? b
Mar. No, nor of any shores :
Yet I was mortally brought forth, and am
No other than I appear.
Per. 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 ;
* feat. The old copies, fate. Percy suggested feat.
b Shore*. The old copies, t/ieti'ei.
104
Her stature to an inch ; as wand-like straight ;
As silver-voic'd ; her eyes as jewel-like,
And cas'd 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 ?
Mar. Where I am but a stranger : from the
deck
You may discern the place.
Per. Where were you bred ?
And how achiev'd you these endowments, which
You make more rich to owe ?
Mar. If I should tell my history, it would
seem
Like lies disdain'd in the reporting.
Per. Prithee speak ;
Falseness cannet 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 '11 believe
thee,
And make my senses credit thy relation,
To points that seem impossible ; for thou look'st
Like one I lov'd indeed. What were thy friends?
Didst thou not say, when I did push thee back,
(Which was when I perceiv'd thee,) that thou
cam'st
From good descending ?
Mar. So indeed I did.
Per. 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.
Mai: Some such thing I said, and said no
more
But what my thoughts did warrant me was likely.
Per. Tell thy story ;
If thine, consider' d, prove the thousandth 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 ? b Thy name, my most
kind virgin ?
Recount, I do beseech thee ; come, sit by me.
Mar. My name is Marina.
Per. O, I am mock'd,
And thou by some incensed god sent hither
To make the world to laugh at me.
Mar. Patience, good sir, or here I'll cease.
On-e own.
b Them is not found in the old copies.
AcrV.]
PERICLES.
[SCXMB I,
Per. Nay, I '11 be patient ;
Thou little knowest how thou dost startle rue,
To call thyself Marina.
Mar. The name was given me
By one that Lid some power ; my father and a
king.
Per. How ! a king's daughter, and call'd
Marina ?
Mar. You said you would believe me ;
But, not to be a troubler of your peace,
I will end here.
Per. 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 ?
Mar. Call'd Marina,
For I was born at sea. <
Per. At sea ? who was thy mother P
Mar. My mother was the daughter of a king ;
Who died the very minute I was born,
As my good nurse Lychorida hath oft
Delivered weeping.
Per. O, stop there a little !
This is the rarest dream that e'er dull sleep
Did mock sad fools withal : this cannot be
My daughter buried. [Aside ^ Well; where
were you bred ?
I '11 hear you more, to the bottom of your story,
And never interrupt you.
Mar. You '11 scarce b believe me ; 't were best
I did give o're.
Per. 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?
Mar. The king, my father, did in Tharsus
leave me ;
Till cruel Cleon, with his wicked wife,
Did seek to murther 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 Mitylene. 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.
* Malone reads,
" Have you a working pulse ? and are no fairy f
Motion? Well; speak on. Where were you born I "
This reading was probably adopted from the desire to avoid
n alexandrine. A "fairy motion" appears to us in the
poet's best manner.
b You 'II scarce. The old copies have you icorn. Malone
aade the change.
Per. Ho, Helicanus !
Eel. Calls my lord?
Per. 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 ?
Hel. I know not ; but
Here is the regent, sir, of Mitylene
Speaks nobly of her.
Lys. She never would tell her parentage ;
Being demanded that, she would sit still and
weep.
Per. 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. come
hither,
Thou that begett'st him that did thee beget ;
Thou that wast born at sea, buried at Tharsus,
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 confirin'd enough,
Though doubts did ever sleep.
Mar. First, sir, I pray, what is your title ?
Per. I am Pericles of Tyre ; but tell me now
My drown'd queen's name : as in the rest you
said,
Thou hast been god-like perfect, the heir of
kingdoms,
And another like to Pericles thy father.
Mar. 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.
Per. Now, blessing on thee, rise; thou art
my child.
Give me fresh garments. Mine own, Helicanus,
she is;
Not dead at Tharsus, 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 ?
Hel. Sir, 't is the governor of Mitylene,
Who, hearing of your melancholy state,
Did come to see you,
Per. I embrace you.
Give me my robes ; I am wild in ray beholding.
* Malone prints the passage thus :
" Mine own Helicanui ,
She is not dead," <cc.
Steevens omits the ii.
106
ACT V.]
PERICLES.
[SCENES II., HI
heavens bless my girl J But hark, what mu-
sic 's this ?
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?-
Hel. My lord, I hear none.
Per. None?
The music of the spheres : list, my Marina.
Lys. It is not good to cross him; give him
way.
Per. Rarest sounds do ye not hear ?
Lys. Music?" My lord, I hear
Per. Most heavenly music :
It nips me unto list'ning, and thick slumber
Hangs on mine eyes ; let me rest. [He sleeps.
Lys. A pillow for his head.
So leave him all. Well, my companion-friends,
If this but answer to my just belief,
1 '11 well remember you. b
[JEre?K^ LYSIMACHUS, HELICANUS, MARINA,
and attendant Lady.
i
SCENE H. The same.
PERICLES on deck asleep ; DIANA appearing to
in a vision.
Dia. 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 like.
Perform my bidding, or thou liv'st in woe :
Do 't, and be happy : by my silver bow
Awake, and tell thy dream. [DIANA disappears.
Per. Celestial Dian, goddess argentine,
I will obey thee ! Helicanus !
Enter LYSIMACHUS, HELICANUS, and MARINA.
My purpose was for Tharsus, there to strike
Th' inhospitable Cleon ; but I am
For other service first : toward Ephesus
Turn our blown sails; eftsoons I'll tell thee
why. [To HELICANUS.
Shall we refresh us, sir, upon your shore,
And give you gold for such provision
As our intents will need P
Lys. Sir,
Mr. Dyce makes this a stage-direction ; but surely the
music was in the imagination of Pericles, and not to be
heard by those on the stage or by the audience.
b Malone thinks this sentence should be spoken by Marina
to her female companions.
106
With all my heart ; and when you come ashore^
I have another suit.
Per. You shall prevail,
Were it to woo my daughter ; for it seems
You have been noble towards her.
Lys. Sir, lend me your arm.
Per. Come, my Marina. . \Exeunt.
Enter GOWER, before the Temple of DIANA at
Ephesus.
Gow. Now our sands are amiost run ;
More a little, and then dumb.
This, my last boon, give me,
(For such kindness must relieve me,)
That you aptly will suppose
What pageantry, what feats, what shows,
What minstrelsy, what pretty din,
The regent made in Mitylin,
To greet the king. So he has thriv'd,
That he is promis'd to be wiv'd
To fair Marina ; but in no wise,
Till he had done his sacrifice,
As Dian bade : whereto being bound,
The interim, pray you, all confound.
In feather'd briefness sails are fill'd,
And wishes fall out as they 're will'd.
At Ephesus, the temple see,
Our king, and all his company.
That he can hither come so soon,
Is by your fancy's thankful doom. [Exit.
SCENE III. The Temple of DIANA at Ephe-
sus ; 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.
Per. Hail, Dian ! to perform thy just com-
mand,
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 ; who, O goddess,
Wears yet thy silver livery. She, at Tharsus
Was nurs'd with Cleon; whom at fourteen years
He sought to murther : but her better stars
Brought her to Mitylene ; against whose shore
Riding, her fortunes brought the maid aboard ua,
Suit. The old copies have ileiyht.
AoV.]
PERICLES.
[SCBNB III.
Where, by her own most clear remembrance, she
Made known herself my daughter.
Thai. Voice and favour !
You are, you arc royal Pericles !
[She faints.
Per. What means the woman? she dies! help,
gentlemen !
Cer. Noble sir,
If you have told Diana's altar true,
This is your wife.
Per. Reverend appearer, no ;
I threw her o'erboard with these very arms.
Cer. Upon this coast, I warrant you.
Per. 'T is most certain.
Cer. Look to the lady ; O, she 's but o'er-
joy'd.
Early in blust'ring morn this lady was
Thrown upon this shore. I op'd the coffin ;
Found there rich jewels ; recover'd her, and
plac'd her
Here in Diana's temple.
Per. May we see them ?
Cer. Great sir, they shall be brought you to
my house,
Whither I invite you. Look, Thaisa is
Recovered.
Thai. 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 speak,
Like him you are : Did you not name a tempest,
A birth, and death ?
Per. The voice of dead Thaisa !
Thai. That Thaisa am I, supposed dead
And drown'd.
Per. Immortal Dian !
Thai. Now I know you better.
When we with tears parted Pentapolis,
The king, my father, gave you such a ring.
[Shows a ring.
Per. This, this ; no more, you gods ! your pre-
sent 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.
Mar. My heart
Leaps to be gone into my mother's bosom.
[Kneels to THAISA.
Per. Look, who kneels here ! Flesh of thy
flesh, Thaisa ;
Thy burthen at the sea, and call'd Marina,
Foi she was yielded there.
Thai. Bless' d, and mine own!
Uel. Hail, madam, and my queen !
Thai. I know you not,
Per. You have heard me say, when 1 did fly
from Tyre,
I left behind an ancient substitute.
Can you remember what I call'd the man ?
I have nam'd him oft.
Thai. 'T was Helicanus then.
Per. Still confirmation :
Embrace him, dear Thaisa ; this is he.
Now do I long to hear how you were found ;
How possibly preserv'd ; and whom to thank,
Besides the gods, for this great miracle.
Thai. Lord Cerimon, my lord; this man,
through whom
The gods have shown their power; that can
from first
To last resolve you.
Per. Reverend sir, the gods
Can have no mortal officer more like
A god than you. Will you deliver how
This dead queen re-lives P
Cer. 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 within the temple ;
No needful thing omitted.
Per. Pure Diana !
I bless thee for thy vision, and will offer
Night-oblations to thee. Thaisa,
This prince, the fair-betrothed of your daughter,
Shall marry her at Pentapolis. And now,
This ornament that makes me look so dismal,
Will I, my lov'd Marina, clip to form ;
And what this fourteen years no razor touch' d,
To grace thy marriage-day, I '11 beautify.*
Thai. Lord Cerimon hath letters of good
credit,
Sir, that my father 's dead.
Per. Heavens make a star of him ! Yet there,
my queen,
We '11 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 the way.
[Exeunt omnei.
Enter GOWEK.
Qow. In Antiochus and his daughter, you
have heard
Of monstrous lust the due and just reward ;
We follow some alterations by Malone, of the old text,
which, without these, is hopelessly obsrure.
107
ACT V.]
PERICLES.
In Pericles, his queen and daughter, seen
(Although assail'd with fortune fierce and keen)
Virtue preserv'd 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, and honour' d
name
Of Pericles, to rage the city turn ;
That him and his they in his palace burn.
The gods for murther seemed so content
To punish them/ although not done, but
meant.
So, on your patience ever more attending,
New joy wait on you! Here our play hath
ending.
[Exit GOWBB.
Them is omitted in the old copies.
ILLUSTRATIONS OF ACT V.
Extracts from Dower's ' Confeasio Amantis,' concluded.
A MESSENGER for her is gone,
And she came with her harp on hand ;
And she said them, that she would fonde
By all the ways that she can
To glad with this sorry man.
But what he was she wist nought,
But all the ship her hath besought,
That she her wits on him despend.b
In aunterc if he might amend,
And say it shall be well acquit.
When she hath understonden it
She goeth her down, there as he lay,
Where that she harpeth manyfc^y,
And like an angel sang withal.
But he no more than the wal'
Took heed of anything he heard.
And when she saw that he so ferde d
She falleth with him into words,
And telleth him of sundry hordes. e
And asketh him demands strange,
Whereof she made his heart change ;
And to her speech his ear he laid,
And hath marvel of that she said.
For in proverb and in problem
She spake, and bade he should deme r
In many a subtile question ;
But he for no suggestion
Which toward him she could stere,c
He would not o h word answer,
But as a madman at the last,
His head weeping away he cast,
And half in wrath he bade her go :
But yet she would nought do so ;
And in the dark forth she goeth
Till she him toucheth, and he wrothe.i
And after her with his hand
He smote : and thus when she him found
Diseased, courteously she said,
Avoy, k my lord, I am a maid ;
And if ye wist what I am,
And out of what lineage I came,
Ye would not be so salvage.
With that lie sober'th his courage,
And put away his heavy cheer.
But of them two a man may lere
What is to be so sibbe 1 of blood
None wist of other how it stood,
Fonde try.
c Aunter adventure.
Hordes countriet.
h one.
k Aooy avoid.
b Detpend would expend.
d Ferde fared.
f Deme judge. g Stere itir
i Wrothe was angry.
1 Sibbe related.
And yet the father at last
His heart upon this maid cast,
That he her loveth kindly ;
And yet he wist never why,
But all was known ere that they went?
For God, which wot their whole intent,
Their hearts both he discloseth.
This king unto this maid opposeth,
And asketh first, what is her name,
And where she learned all this game,
And of what kin that she was come ?
, And she, that hath his words nome, a
Answereth, and saith, My name is Thaisw,
That was some time well at ease.
In Tharse I was forth draw and fed,
There learned I till I was sped,
Of that I can : my father eke,
I not where that I should him seek :
He was a king men told me.
My mother drown'd was in the Jea.
From point to point all she him told
That she hath long in heart hold,
And never durst make her moan
But only to this lord alone,
To whom her heart cannot hele, b
Turn it to woe, turn it to weal,
Turn it to good, turn it to harm.
And he then took her in his arm ;
But such a joy as he then made
Was never seen : thus be they glad
That sorry hadden be to forn. c
From this day forth fortune hath sworn
To set them upward on the wheel :
So goeth the world, now woe, now weal."
*****
" With worthy knights environed,
The king himself hath abandoned
Ir.to the temple in good intent.
The door is up, and in he went,
Where as, with great devotion
Of holy contemplation
Within his heart, he made his shritt,
And after that a rich gift
He ofTreth with great reverence ;
And there in open audience
Of them that stooden all about
He told them, and declareth out
His hap, such as him is befall :
There was no thing forget of all.
Nome taken,
b Helt hide.
t To font befort.
109
ILLUSTRATIONS OF ACT V.
His wife, as it vas Sod's grace-.
"Which was piofessed in the place
As she that was abbess there,
Unto his tale hath laid her ear.
She knew the voice, and the visage :
For pure joy, as in a rage,
She stretch'd unto him all at once,
And fell a swoon upon the stones
Whereof the temple-floor was paved.
She was anon with water laved,
Till shp rame to herself again,
And then she began to seyn
Ah, blessed be the high soonde,
That I may see mine husband,
Which whilom he and I were one."
Sionde gtrt.
" Attaint they weren by the law,
And doomed for to hang, and draw,
And brent, and with the wind to blow.
That all the world it might know.
And .upon this condition
The doom in execution
Was put anon without fail.
And every man hath great marve.
Which heard tellen of this chance,
And thanketh God's purveyance,
Which doth mercy forth with justice
Slain is the murd'rer, and murd'ress,
Through very truth of righteousness ;
And through mercy safe is simplessen
Of her, whom mercy preserveth.
Thus hath he well, that well deserveth.
Strop J simplicity,
[Gower's Monument.)
NOTICE
THE AUTHENTICITY OF PERICLES.
THE eztei-nal testimony that Shakspere was the author of Pericles would appear to rest
upon stronger evidence, as far as regards the fact of publication, than that which assigns
to him the authorship of Titus Andronicus. That play was not published as his work till
after his death : Pericles was published with Shakspere's name as the author during his
Lifetime. But this evidence is not decisive. In 1600 was printed 'The first part of the
true and honourable history of the Life of Sir John Oldcastle, <fec. Written by William
Shakespeare ;' and we should be entitled to receive that representation of the writer of
Sir John Oldcastle ' as good evidence of the authorship, were we not in possession of a
fact which entirely outweighs the bookseller's insertion of a popular name in his title-
page. In the manuscript diary of Philip Henslowe, preserved at Dulwich College, is the
following entry: "The 16th of October, 99. Received by me Thomas Downton of
Philip Henslowe, to pay Mr. Monday, Mr. Drayton, Mr. Wilson, and Hathaway, for The
first part of the Lyfe of Sir Jhon Ouldcastell, and in earnest of the Second Pte, for the
111
NOTICE ON THE AUTHENTICITY OF
use of the company, ten pound, I say received 10 lb."* The title-page of Pericles, in
1609, might have been as fraudulent as that of ' Sir John Oldcastle' in 1600.
The play of Pericles, as we learn by the original title-page, was " sundry times acted
by his Majesty's servants at the Globe." The proprietary interest in the play for the
purposes of the stage (whoever wrote it) no doubt remained in 1623 with the proprietors
of the Globe Theatre Shakspere's fellow-shareholders. Of the popularity of Pericles
there can be no doubt. It was printed three times separately before the publication of
the folio of 1623 ; and it would have been to the interest of the proprietors of that edition
to have included it amongst Shakspere's works. Did they reject it because they could
not conscientiously affirm it to be written by him, or were they unable to make terms
with those who had the right of publication 1 There was an entry at Stationers' Hall on
the 20th of May, 1608, by Edward Blount, of "The book of Pericles Prynceof Tyre;"
and Blount at the same time enters "A book called Anthony and Cleopatra." But
Pericles was first published by Henry Gosson. Blount was one of the proprietors of the
folio of 1623. He seems to have possessed the right of printing Pericles in 1608 ; and
he probably assigned it to Gosson, who (upon a similar probability) subsequently assigned
it to S. S. (Simon Stafford 1 ?), who printed it in 1611, and who again assigned it to
Thomas Pavier, who printed it in 1619. A question then naturally arises, whether
Blount, the proprietor of the folio, was unable to recover back what he had assigned as
a separate publication ; and whether the non-admission, therefore, of Pericles in the folio
of 1623 was not wholly a commercial matter, depending upon the claim to copyright.
It is obvious that this is a question which is not likely to be decided.
It is a most important circumstance, with reference to the authenticity of Titus Andrc-
nicus, that Meres, in 1599, ascribed that play to Shakspere. We have no such testimony
in the case of Pericles ; but the tradition which assigns it to Shakspere is pretty constant.
Malone has quoted a passage from "The Times displayed, in Six Sestiads," a poem
published in 1646, and dedicated by S. Shephard to Philip Earl of Pembroke :
" See him, whose tragic scenes Euripides
Doth equal, and with Sophocles we may
Compare great Shakspeare : Aristophanes
Never like him his fancy could display :
Witness The Prince of Tyre, his Pericles :
His sweet and his to be admired lay
He wrote of lustful Tarquin's rape, shows he
Did understand the depth of poesie."
Six years later, another writer, J. Tatham, in verses prefixed to Richard Brome's ' Jovial
Crew,' 1652, speaks slightingly of Shakspere, and of this particular drama :
" But Shakespeare, the plebeian driller, was
Founder'd in his Pericles, and must not pass."
Dryden, in his prologue to Charles Davenant's ' Circe,' in 1675, has these lines :
"Your Ben and Fletcher, in their first young flight.
Did no Volpone, nor no Arbaces, write ;
But hopp'd about, and short excursions made
From bough to bough, as if they were afraid*
And each was guilty of some slighted maid-
* Boswell's ' Malone,' vol. iii. p. 329.
112
PERICLES.
Shakspeare's own Muse his Pericles first bore ;
The Prince of Tyre was elder than the Moor.
T is miracle to see a first good play :
All hawthorns do not bloom on Christmas-day."
Fhe mention of Shakspere as the author of Pericles in the poems printed in 1646 and
1652 may in some respect be called traditionary; for the play was not printed after
163,5 till it appeared in the folio of 1664. Dryden, most probably, read the play in that
folio edition. In 1691 Langbaine receives the play without any doubt of the authorship;
but he also accepts, as written by Shakspere, the six other doubtful plays which appeared
in the folio of 1664. On the other hand, Gildon, in 1709, in his remarks subjoined to
Rowe's edition, treats Pericles as a genuine play by Shakspere ; but of the six other
ascribed plays he says, they " are none of Shakespeare's, nor have anything in them to
give the least ground to think them his." Rowe himself speaks more cautiously : " It is
owned that some part of Pericles certainly was written by him, particularly the last act."
Before we proceed to the internal evidence of the authenticity of Pericles, it will be
necessary to ascertain the date of its production. The title-page of the first edition calls
it " The late and much admired play." In modern phraseology " the late " would be
the new or the recent. That edition was printed in 1609. The play was entered at
Stationers' Hall in 1608. There are other circumstances leading to the belief that,
about the period of its publication, Pericles was a new play, in some sense of the word.
Malone has extracted six lines from a metrical pamphlet entitled ' Pimlyco,' which he
originally thought was printed in 1596, but subsequently found bore the date of 1609.
They are as follow :
" Amazed I stood, to see a crowd
Of civil throats stretch'd out so loud :
As at a new play, all the rooms
Did swarm with gentles mix'd with grooms ;
So that I truly thought all these
Came to see Shore or Pericles."
Malone quotes these lines, not to fix the date of the play, but to show that it is mentioned
" as a very popular performance." Mr. Collier holds that this passage from ' Pimlyco '
is decisive as to the date : " In this year (1 609) it is actually spoken of by the anonymous
author of Pimlyco, or Runne Red-cap, as a new play."* Receiving, as Mr. Collier
does, the metrical tract of 'Pimlyco' as first published in 1609 (although Malone says
it might have been a republication "), there is a very obvious question suggested by
the last of these six lines, which Mr. Collier has not adverted to in the elaborate parti-
culars which he has so industriously collected on the subject of Pericles. That question
is this Was Shore as well as Pericles a new play in 1609 1 Mr. Collier shall himself
answer that question in his extracts from, and observations upon, Henslowe's Diary,
preserved at Dulwich College, which Malone had previously noticed : " The ' Jane
Shore? assigned to Chettle and Day in January, 1601-2, was only a revival of an older
play, as Henslowe then gave forty shillings to those poets, in order that ' the booke of
Shoare' might be 'now newly written for the Earl of Worcester's players.' "t In
Malone the entry stands under date March, 1602-3 : "Jane Shore, by Henry Chettle
and John Day." Here we have the unquestionable fact that in 1602, or in 1603,
' Shore' was brought out by Henry Chettle and John Day ; and yet in 1609, if the date
of ' Pimlyco ' is to be relied upon, it was a new play. What, then, is the argument
worth, that the lines in ' Pimlyco ' show that Pericles was first produced in or about
* 'Farther Particulars,' &c., p. 31. t ' History of Dramatic Poetry,' p. 91.
Sep. VOL- I 113
NOTICE ON THE AUTHENTICITY OF
1G09 1 ? "The anonymous author of Pimlyco, or Runne Red-cap" has proved too
much. Is the entry at Stationers' Hall in 1608 more decisive 1 ? We think not; for the
first entry of Romeo and Juliet, printed in 1597, is made in 1606, at which time the
entry was also made of Love's Labour 's Lost, printed in 1598. Is the expression upon
the title-page of 1609. " The late and much admired play," more decisive? We think
not. For in the edition of 1619 it is still " The late and much admired play;" in 1630
still the same in 1635 still the same. If the evidence of 'Pimlyco' had not broken
down, the collateral evidence of the entry at Stationers' Hall, and of the title-page of
1609, might have strengthened that direct testimony. Of themselves they prove little.
The first known edition of Titus Andronicus bears the date of 1600 ; and of that edition
only one copy is supposed to be in existence. But Langbaine, a hundred and fifty years
ago, mentions a copy bearing the date of 1594. The date of 1600, therefore, is no
evidence as to the date of the play's production. So it may be with the Pericles of 1609 ;
for " the late " upon that title-page might have been copied from some previous edition
now lost ; as the title-page of that of 1619 was a copy of that of 1609. But Mr. Collier
has one other witness to produce : " I think the piece of evidence I am now about to
introduce must be considered decisive. It is a prose novel, founded upon Shakespeare's
Pericles, in consequence, in all likelihood, of the great run it was experiencing
It must have been hastily put together, and published while Pericles was enjoying
extraordinary popularity, in order to forestal the appearance of the printed play, because
Nat. Butter, the bookseller, hoped to derive a profit from the desire of people to read a
story which on the stage was so remarkably attractive. Had the play not then been a new
production, and had it not been 'fortunate' by being performed in ' oft-crammed theatres,'
Butter would have had no inducement to enter into the speculation." Mr. Collier then
subjoins the title-page, which we copy : ' The Painfull Aduentures of Pericles Prince of
Tyre. Being the true History of the Play of Pericles, as it was lately presented by tho
worthy and ancient poet John Gower. At London. Printed by T. P. for Nat : Butter.
1608.' Although we admit that there cannot be a doubt that this remarkable tract is,
as it professes to be, " A true history of the Play of Pericles " that is, a reduction of
the play into a story-book we are sceptical enough not to receive the other words of
that title-page, " as it was lately presented," as an absolute proof that the play was then
a new production. The play was popular as an acting drama a hundred years after this.
Pericles was one of Betterton's favourite parts. In 1629, when Jouson wrote his famous
ode, " Come, leave the loathed stage," he adverts to Pericles as a play so popular that it
kept the stage to the exclusion of what he considered better performances :
" No doubt some mouldy tale,
Like Pericles, and stale
As the shrieve's crusts, and nasty as his fish,
Scraps out of every dish,
Thrown forth, and rak'd into the common tub,
May keep up the Play-club.
There, sweepings do as well
As the best-order'd meal ;
For who the relish of these guests will fit,
Needs set them but the alms-basket of wit."
In Owen Feltham's Answer to Jonson's Ode, Pericles is again mentioned, with an
inference that its plot is offensive to a critical judgment :
" Your jests so nominal
Are things so far beneath an able brain,
As tfey do throw a stain
114
PERICLES.
Through all th' unlikely plot, aud do displease
As deep as Pericles."
We hold, therefore, that if Butter's story-book had borne the same date as Pavier's third
edition of Pericles, namely, 1619, in the same way that the continued popularity of
Pericles demanded that third edition, and allowed it to be called " the late and much-
admired play," so the story-book might even then have said, ' The true History of the
Play of Pericles, as it was lately presented' By parity of reasoning, the story-book of
1609 might have reference to a play which was a new play in 1602, according to the
testimony of that honest witness, ' Pimlyco,' who tells us that he was in a crowd where
gentlemen were mixed with grooms, as though they came to see a new play, ' Shore,' or
' Pericles.' That other unexceptionable witness, Mr. Henslowe, we have called to prove
that 'Shore' was a new play in 1602. We therefore cannot receive the indirect testimony
that Pericles was a new play in 1609, any more than we should receive the same testimony
that ' Shore ' was a new play in 1609.
But what, in the natural construction of the language of the writer of ' Pimlyco,' was
a new play ? ' Shore ' and ' Pericles,' according to him, are new plays. But Henslowe
has left it upon record that in 1602 he gave the large sum of forty shillings to two poets,
that " the book of Shoare might be now newly written." There was an old book of
' Shore,' then, which was to be modernized, in which the action, probably, was to be
kept, but the dialogue was to be rendered acceptable to a more critical audience than had
been familiar with it in its original state. In this sense of the word was ' Shore ' a new
play. It is in this sense of the word that Pericles, whether produced when ' Shore ' was
produced, or some seven years later, was a new play. In our original Introductory
Notice to The Two Gentlemen of Verona we incidentally mentioned our belief that
Pericles was a very early play of Shakspere's, saying, " We have Dryden's evidence that
' Shakspeare's own muse his Pericles first bore.' "
Mr. Collier has been kind enough to notice this opinion ; although, of course, he differs
from us : "Malone was mistaken in supposing that there was an older edition of 'Pimlyco'
than that of 1609. It was then first published, and not in 1596. If Pericles had been
produced before 1590, as the Editor of the ' Pictorial Shakspere ' conjectures, it would
not have been mentioned as a new play even in 1596, much less in 1609." * But 'Shore'
was " mentioned as a new play ; " and we know that it was not a new play, in the strict
sense of the term. The parts that were " now newly written " of Pericles might have
entitled it to be called a new play ; just as the parts " now newly written " of ' Shore '
might have entitled that to be called a new play. We hold it to be impossible that
Shakspere could have written Pericles, for the first time, in the seventeenth century ,
although he then might have written parts of it for the first time. This opinion is not
manifestly inconsistent with our former and our continued belief in what Mr. Collier
calls " Dryden's obiter dictum," that
" Shakspeare's own muse his Pericles first bore."
Mr. Collier says, " I do not at all rely upon Dryden's evidence farther than to establish
the belief as to the authorship entertained by persons engaged in theatrical affairs after
the Restoration." But is such evidence wholly to be despised ? and must the belief be
necessarily dated "after the Restoration?" Dryden was himself forty -four years of age
when he wrote the line in question. He had been a writer for the stage twelve years.
He was the friend of Davenant, who wrote for the stage in 1626. Of the original
* ' Farther Particulars,' Note, p. 31.
I 2 U5
NOTICE ON THE AUTHENTICITY OF
actors in Shakspere's plays Drydeu himself might have known, when he was a young
man, John Lowiii, who kept the Three Pigeons inn at Brentford, and died very old, a
little before the Restoration ; and Joseph Taylor, who died in 1653, although, according
to the tradition of the stage, he was old enough to have played Hamlet under Shakspere's
immediate instruction ; and Richard Robinson, who served in the army of Charles L, and
has an historical importance through having been shot to death by Harrison, after he
had laid down his arms, with this exclamation from the stern republican, " Cursed is he
that doth the work of the Lord negligently." It is impossible to doubt, then, that Dryden
was a competent reporter of the traditions of the stage, and not necessarily of the tradi-
tions that survived after the Restoration. We can picture the young poet, naturally
anxious to approach as closely to Shakspere as possible, taking a cheerful cup with poor
Lowin in his humble inn, and listening to the old man's recital of the recollections of his
youth amidst those scenes from which he was banished by the violence of civil war and
the fury of puritanical intolerance. We accept, then, Dryden's assertion with little
doubt ; and we approach to the examination of the internal evidence of the authenticity
of Pericles with the conviction that, if it be the work of Shakspere, the foundations of it
were laid when his art was imperfect, and he laboured somewhat in subjection to the
influence of those ruder models for which he eventually substituted his own splendid
examples of dramatic excellence.
There is a very striking passage in Sidney's ' Defence of Poesy,' which may be taken
pretty accurately to describe the infancy of the dramatic art in England, being written
some four or five years before we can trace any connexion of Shakspere with the stage.
The passage is long, but it is deserving of attentive consideration :
" But they will say, how then shall we set forth a story which contains both many
places and many times 1 And do they not know that a tragedy is tied to the laws of
Poesy, and not of History, not bound to follow the story, but having liberty either to
feign a quite new matter, or to frame the history to the most tragical convenience ?
Again, many things may be told which cannot be showed : if they know the difference
betwixt reporting and representing. As for example, I may speak, though I am here, of
Peru, and in speech digress from that to the description of Calecut : but in action I
cannot represent it without Pacolet's horse. And so was the manner the ancients took
by some Nuntius, to recount things done in former time, or other place.
" Lastly, if they will represent an History, they must not (as Horace saith) begin
above, but they must come to the principal point of that one action which they will
represent. By example this will be best expressed. I have a story of young Poly dor us,
delivered, for safety's sake, with great riches, by his father Piiamus, to Polymnestor
king of Thrace, in the Trojan war time. He, after some years, hearing of the overthrow
of Priamus, for to make the treasure his own, murthereth the child ; the body of the
child is taken up ; Hecuba, she, the same day, findeth a sleight to be revenged most
cruelly of the tyrant. Where, now, would one of our tragedy-writers begin, but with
the delivery of the child ? Then should he sail over into Thrace, and to spend I know
not how many years, and travel numbers of places. But where doth Euripides 1 Even
with the finding of the body, leaving the rest to be told by the spirit of Polydorus. This
needs no farther to be enlarged ; the dullest wit may conceive it."
Between this notion which Sidney had formed of the propriety of a tragedy which should
understand "the difference betwixt reporting and representing," there was a long space to
bo travelled over, before we should arrive at a tragedy which should make the whole
action manifest, and keep the interest alive from the first line to the last, without any
116
PERICLES.
"reporting" at all. When Hamlet arid Othello and Lear were perfected, this culminating
point of the dramatic art had been reached. But it is evident that Sidney described a
state of things in which even the very inartificial expedient of uniting description with
representation had not been thoroughly understood, or at least had not been generally
practised. The " tragedy-writers " begin with the delivery of the young Polydorus, and
travel on with him from place to place, till his final murder. At this point Euripides
begins the story, leaving something to be told by the spirit of Polydorus. It is not diffi-
cult to conceive a young dramatic poet looking to something beyond the "tragedy-writers"
of his own day, and, upon taking up a popular story, inventing a machinery for " report-
ing," which should emulate the ingenious device of Euripides in making the ghost of
Polydorus briefly tell the history which a ruder stage would have exhibited in detail.
There was a book no doubt familiar to that young poet; it was the 'Coiifessio Amantis,
the Confessyon of the Louer,' of John Gower, printed by Caxton in 1493, and by Berthelet
in 1532 and 1554. That the book was popular, the fact of the publication of three
editions in little more than half a century will sufficiently manifest. That it was a book
to be devoured by a youth of poetical aspirations, who can doubt 1 That a Chaucer and
a Gower were accessible to a young man educated at the grammar-school at Stratford we
may readily believe. That was not a day of rare copies; the bountiful press of the early
English printers was for the people, and the people eagerly devoured the intellectual food
which that press bestowed upon them. ' Appollinus, The Prince of Tyr,* is one of the
most sustained, and, perhaps, altogether one of the most interesting, of the old narratives
which Gower introduced into the poetical form. What did it matter to the young and
enthusiastic reader that there were Latin manuscripts of this story as early as the tenth
century; that there is an Anglo-Saxon version of it; that it forms one of the most elabo-
rate stories of the ' Gesta Eomanorum 1 ' What does all this matter even to us, with
regard to the play before us 1 Mr. Collier says, " The immediate source to which Shake-
speare resorted was probably Laurence Twine's version of the novel of 'Appollonius King
of Tyre,' which first came out in 1576, and was afterwards several times reprinted. I
have before me an edition without date, ' Imprinted at London by Valentine Simmes for
the Widow Newman,' which very likely was that used by our great dramatist." * Mr.
Collier has reprinted this story of Laurence Twine with the title ' Appollonius, Prince
of Tyre ; upon which Shakespeare founded Pericles.' We cannot understand this. We
have looked in vain throughout this story to find a single incident in Pericles, suggested
by Twine's relation, which might not have been equally suggested by Gower's poem.
Wo will not weary our readers, therefore, with any extracts from this narrative. That
the author of Pericles had Gower in his thoughts, and, what is more important, that he
felt that his audience were familiar with Gower, is, we think, sufficiently apparent. Upon
what other principle can Gower perpetually take up the dropped threads of the action ?
Upon what other principle are the verses spoken by Gower, amounting to several hundred
lines, formed upon a careful imitation of his style ; so as to present to an audience at the
latter end of the sixteenth century some notion of a poet about two centuries older 1 It
is perfectly evident to us that Gower, and Gower only, was in the thoughts of the author
of Pericles.
We call the play before us by the name of PERICLES, because it was so called in the
first rudely printed copies, and because the contemporaries of the writer, following the
printed copies, so called it in their printed books. But Malone has given us an epigram
of Richard Flecknoe, 1670, ' On the Play of the Life of PYROOLES.' There can be little
* 'Farther Particulars' p. 30.
117
NOTICE ON THE AUTHENTICITY OF
doubt, we think, as Steevens has very justly argued, that Pyrocles was the name of the
hero of this play. For who was Pyroclea 1 The hero of Sidney's ' Arcadia.' Steeveus
says, " It is remarkable that many of our ancient writers were ambitious to exhibit Sidney's
worthies on the stage ; and when his subordinate agents were advanced to such honour,
how happened it that Pyrocles, their leader, should be overlooked 1 " To a young poet,
who, probably, had access to the ' Arcadia,' in manuscript, before its publication in 1590,
the name of Pyrocles would naturally present itself as worthy to succeed the somewhat
unmanageable Appollinus of Gower ; and that name would recommend itself to an
audience who, if they were of the privileged circles, such as the actors of the Blackfriars
often addressed, were familiar with the 'Arcadia' before its publication. After 1590 the
' Arcadia ' was the most popular work of the age.
It will be seen, then, that we advocate the belief that ' Pyrocles,' or ' Pericles,' was a
very early work of Shakspere, in some form, however, different from that which we possess.
That it was an early work we are constrained to believe ; not from the evidence of parti-
cular passages, which may be deficient in power or devoid of refinement, but from the
entire construction of the dramatic action. The play is essentially one of movement^
which is a great requisite for dramatic success ; but that movement is not held in sub-
jection to an unity of idea. The writer, in constructing the plot, had not arrived to a
perfect conception of the principle " That a tragedy is tied to the laws of Poesy, and not
of History, not bound to follow the story, but having liberty either to feign a quite new
matter, or to frame the history to the most tragical convenience." But with thia essential
disadvantage we cannot doubt that, even with very imperfect dialogue, the action pre-
sented a succession of scenes of very absorbing interest. The introduction of Gower,
however inartificial it may seem, was the result of very profound skill. The presence of
Gower supplied the unity of idea which the desultory nature of the story wanted ; and
thus it is that, in "the true history" formed upon the play which Mr. Collier has analysed,
the unity of idea is kept in the expression of the title-page, " as it was lately presented
by the worthy and ancient poet, John Gower." Nevertheless, such a story we believe
could not have been chosen by Shakspere in the seventeenth century, when his art was
fully developed in all its wondrous powers and combinations. With his perfect mastery
of the faculty of representing, instead of recording, the treatment of a story which would
have required perpetual explanation and connexion would have been painful to him, if
not impossible.
Dr. Drake has bestowed very considerable attention upon the endeavour to prove that
Pericles ought to be received as the indisputable work of Shakspere. Yet his arguments,
after all, amount only to the establishment of the following theory : " No play, in fact,
more openly discloses the hand of Shakspeare than Pericles, and fortunately his share in
its composition appears to have been very considerable ; he may 'be distinctly, though not
frequently, traced, in the first and second acts ; after which, feeling the incompetence/ of
his fellow-labourer, he seems to have assumed almost the entire management of the re-
mainder, nearly the whole of the third, fourth, and fifth acts bearing indisputable testi-
mony to the genius and execution of the great master." * This theory of companionship
in the production of the play is merely a repetition of the theory of Steevens : " The
purpurei panni are Shakspeare's, and the rest the productions of some inglorious and for-
gotten playwright." We have no faith whatever in this very easy mode of disposing of
the authorship of a doubtful play of leaving entirely out of view the most important
part of every drama, its action, its characterization, looking at the whole merely as a col-
* 'Shakspeare and Lis Times,' vol. ii. p. 268.
118
PERICLES.
lection of passages, of which the worst are to be assigned to some Ante damnee, and the
best triumphantly claimed for Shakspere. There are some, however, who judge of such
matters upon broader principles. Mr. Hallam says, " Pericles is generally reckoned to
be in part, and only in part, the work of Shakspeare. From the poverty and bad manage-
ment of the fable, the want of any effective or distinguishable character, for Marina is no
more than the common form of female virtue, such as all the dramatists of that age could
draw, and a general feebleness of the tragedy as a whole, I should not believe the structure
to have been Shakspeare's. But many passages are far more in his manner than in that
of any contemporary writer with whom T am acquainted."* Here "the poverty and bad
management of the fable " " the want of any effective or distinguishable character," are
assigned for the belief that the structure could not have been Shakspere's. But let us
accept Dryden's opinion that
" Shakspeare's own muse his Pericles first bore,"
with reference to the original structure of the play, and the difficulty vanishes. It was
impossible that the character of the early drama should not have been impressed upon
Shakspere's earliest efforts. Sidney has given us a most distinct description of that drama ;
and we can thus understand how the author of Pericles improved upon what he found.
Do we therefore think that the drama, as it has come down to us, is presented in the form
in which it was first written ? By no means. We agree with Mr. Hallam that in parts
the language seems rather that of Shakspere's " second or third manner than of his first."
But this belief is not inconsistent with the opinion that the original structure was Shak-
spere's. No other poet that existed at the beginning of the seventeenth century perhaps
no poet that came after that period, whether Massinger, or Fletcher, or Webster could
have written the greater part of the fifth act. Coarse as the comic scenes are, there are
touches in them unlike any other writer but Shakspere. Horn, with the eye of a real
critic, has pointed out the deep poetical profundity of one apparently slight passage in
these unpleasant scenes :
" Mar. Are you a woman ?
Bawd. What would you have me be, an I be not a woman ?
Mar. An honest woman, or not a woman."
Touches such as these are not put into the work of other men. Who but Shakspere
could have written
" The blind mole casts
Copp'd hills towards heaven, to tell, the earth is throng'd
By man's oppression j and the poor worm doth die for V
And yet this passage comes naturally enough in a speech of no very high excellence.
The purpurei panni must be fitted to a body, as well for use as for adornment. We think
that Shakspere would not have taken the trouble to produce these costly robes for the
decoration of what another had essentially created. We are willing to believe that, even
in the very height of his fame, he would have bestowed any amount of labour for the
improvement of an early production of his own, if the taste of his audiences had from
time to time demanded its continuance upon the stage. It is for this reason that we
think that the Pericles of the beginning of the seventeenth century was the revival of a
play written by Shakspere some twenty years earlier.
' History of Literature,' vol. iii. p. 669.
119
KINSMEN
INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.
THIS play was first printed in 1634, with the following title : ' The Two Noble Kinsmen : f re-
sented at the Blackfriers by the King's Majesties servants, with great applause : written by the
memorable Worthies of their Time, Mr. John Fletcher, and Mr. William Shakspeare, Gent.
Printed at London, by Tho. Cotes, for John Waterson, and are to be sold at the signe of the
Crowne, in Paul's Church- Yard, 1634.' In the first folio edition of the works of Beaumont and
Fletcher, in 1647, this play did not appear. In the second folio it is reprinted, with very slight
alterations from the quarto. That second folio contains the following notice: "In this edition
you have the addition of no fewer than seventeen plays more than were in the former, which we
have taken the pains and care to collect, and print out of 4to. in this volume, which for distinction
sake are marked with a star in the catalogue of them facing the first page of the book." (Preface.)
The Two Noble Kinsmen is so marked.
Without prejudging the question as to Shakspere's participation in the authorship of The Two
Noble Kinsmen, we have thought it the most satisfactory course to print the play entire. The
reader will be better prepared for entering upon the examination of the authorship, after its
perusal ; and we think that in itself it will abundantly repay him. We hardly need an apology
for this course, when Coleridge has said, " I can scarcely retain a doubt as to the first act's having
been written by Shakspeare ; " and when Charles Lamb says, " That Fletcher should have copied
Shakspeare's manner in so many entire scenes (which is the theory of Steevens) is not very
probable ; that he could have done it with such facility is, to me, not certain."
123
PERSONS REPRESENTED
THESEUS, Duke of Athens.
PALAMON, > The Two Noble Kinsmen, tn iove
ARCITE, / with Emilia.
I'ERITHOUS, an Athenian general.
VALERIUS, a Theban nobleman.
ARTESIUS, an Athenian Captain.
Six valiant Knights.
Herald.
Gaoler.
Wooer to the Gaoler's Daughter.
Doctor.
Brother, -\ .
_ . ' I to the Gaoler.
Friends, )
GERKOLD, a schoolmaster.
HIPPOLYTA, bride to Theseus.
KM i LI A, her sister.
Three Queens.
Gaoler's Dauhter, in love with Palamon.
Servant to Emilia.
A Taborer, Countrymen, Soldiers,
ACT I.
SCENE I.
Enta- HTMEN, with a torch burning ; a Boy, in
a white robe, before, singing and strewing
flowers; after HTMEN, a Nymph, encom-
passed in her tresses, bearing a wheaten gar-
land ; then THESEUS, between two other
Nymphs, with wheaten chaplets on their
heads; then HiPPOLYTA, the bride, led by
PERITHOUS, and another holding a garland
ver her head, her tresses likewise hanging ;
after her, EMILIA, holding up her train.*
SONG.
ROSES, their sharp spines being gone,
Not royal in their smells alone,
But in their hue ;
Maiden-pinks of odour faint,
Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint,
And sweet thyme true.
* This is the original stage-direction; with the exception
that Hippolytv by a manifest error in the old copies, is led
by Theseus.
Primrose, first-born child of Ver,
Merry spring-time's harbinger,
With her bells dim ;
Oxlips in their cradles growing,
Marigolds on death-beds blowing,
Larks'-heels trim.
All, dear Nature's children sweet,
Lie 'fore bride and bridegroom's feet,
Blessing their sense I [Slrew /wrt.
Not an angel of the air,
Bird melodious, or bird fair,
Be>> absent hence.
The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor
The boding raven, nor chough hoar.c
Nor chatt'ring pie,
May on our bridehouse perch or sing,
Or with them any discord bring,
But from it fly!
* Angel is used for bird. Dekker calls the Roman eaglt
' the Roman angel." Gifford't Mtutinger, vol. i. p. 36.
b Be. The early copies, ii.
CloKgh he is the reading of the old editions.
125
ACT I.]
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
[Sccxe J.
Enter three Queens, in black, with veils stained,
with imperial crowns. The first Queen falls
down at the foot of THESEUS ; the second falls
down at the foot of HIPPOLYTA; the third
before EMILIA.
1 Queen. For pity's sake, and true gentility's,
Hear, and respect me!
2 Queen. For your mother's sake,
And as you wish your womb may thrive with
fair ones,
Hear, and respect me !
3 Queen. Now for the love of him whom Jove
hath mark'd
The honour of your bed, and for the sake
Of clear virginity, be advocate
For us, and our distresses ! This good deed
Shall raze you out o' the book of trespasses
All you are set down there.
Thes. Sad lady, rise !
Hip. Stand up !
Emi. No knees to me !
What woman I may stead that is distress' d,
Does bind me to her.
Thes. What 's your request ? Deliver you for
all.
1 Queen. We are three queens, whose sove-
reigns fell before
The wrath of cruel Creon ; who endure
The beaks of ravens, talons of the kites,
And pecks of crows, in the foul fields of Thebes.
He will not suffer us to burn their bones,
To urn their ashes, nor to take th' offence
Of mortal loathsomeness from the bless'd eye
Of holy Phoebus, but infects the winds
With stench of our slain lords. Oh, pity, duke !
Thou purger of the earth, draw thy fear'd sword,
That does good turns to the world ; give us the
bones
Of our dead kings, that we may chapel them ;
And, of thy boundless goodness, take some note
That for our crowned heads we have no roof
Save this, which is the lion's and the bear's,
And vault to everything !
Thes. Pray you kneel not :
I was transported with your speech, and suffer'd
ITour knees to wrong themselves. I have heard
the fortunes
Of your dead lords, which gives me such la
menting
As wakes my vengeance and revenge for them.
King Capaneus was your lord : the day
That he should marry you, at such a season
As now it is with me, I met your groom
By Mars' s altar ; you were that time fair,
126
Not Juno's mantle fairer than your tresses,
Nor in more bounty spread her ; your wheatcu
wreath
Was then nor thresh'd nor blasted ; Fortune at
you
Dimpled her cheek with smiles; Hercules our
kinsman
(Then weaker than your eyes) laid by his club,
He tumbled down upon his Nemean hide,
And swore his sinews thaw'd : oh, grief and
time,
Fearful consumers, you will all devour !
1 Queen. Oh, I hope some god,
Some god hath put his mercy in your manhood,
Whereto he '11 infuse power, and press you forl !i
Our undertaker !
Thes. Oh, no knees, none, widow !
Unto the helmeted Bellona use them,
And pray for me, your soldier. Troubled I am.
[Turns away.
2 Queen. Honour'd Hippolyta,
Most dreaded Amazonian, that hast slain
The scythe-tusk'd boar; that, with thy arm as
strong
As it is white, wast near to make the male
To thy sex captive ; but that this thy lord
(Born to upnold creation in that honour
First nature styl'd it in) shrunk thee into
The bound thou wast o'erflowing, at once sub-
duing
Thy force and thy affection ; soldieress,
That equally canst poise sternness with pity,
Who now, I know, hast much more power on
him
Than ever he had on thee ; who ow'st his
strength,
And his love too, who is a servant for
The tenor of thy speech ; dear glass of ladies,
Bid him that we, whom flaming war doth scorch,
Under the shadow of his sword may cool us !
Require him he advance it o'er our heads ;
Speak 't in a woman's key, like such a woman
As any of us three ; weep ere you fail ;
Lend us a knee ;
But touch the ground for us no longer time
Than a dove's motion, when the head 's pluck'd
off!
Tell him, if he in the blood-siz'd field lay
swoll'n,
Showing the sun his teeth, grinning at the moon,
What you would do !
Hip. Poor lady, say no more !
I had as lief trace this good action with you
As that whereto I 'm going, and never yet
Went I so willing way. My lord is taken
ACT I.I
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
[Serve I
Heart-deep with your distress: let him consider;
1 '11 speak anon.
8 Queen. Oh, my petition was
[Kneels to EMILIA.
Set down in ice, which by hot grief uncandied
Melts into drops ; so sorrow wanting form
Is press'd with deeper matter.
Enn. Pray stand up ;
Your grief is written in your cheek.
3 Queen. Oh, woe !
You cannot read it there; there through my
tears,
Like wrinkled pebbles in a glassy stream,
You may behold them ! Lady, lady, alack,
He that will all the treasure know o' the earth,
Must know the centre too ; he that will fish
For my least minnow, let him lead his line
To catch one at my heart. Oh, pardon me !
Extremity, that sharpens sundry wits,
Makes me a fool.
Emi. Pray you, say nothing ; pray you !
Who cannot feel nor see the rain, being in 't,
Knows neither wet nor dry. If that you
were
The ground-piece of some painter, I would buy
you,
To instruct me 'gainst a capital grief indeed ;
(Such heart-pierc'd demonstration !) but, alas,
Being a natural sister of our sex,
Your sorrow beats so ardently upon me,
That it shall make a counter-reflect 'gainst
My brother's heart, and warm it to some pity
Though it were made of stone : pray have good
comfort !
Ihis Forward to the temple ! leave not out
a jot
Of the sacred ceremony.
1 Queen. Oh, this celebration
Will longer last, and be more costly, than
Your suppliants' war ! Remember that your
fame
Knolls in the ear o' the world : what you do
quickly
1 s not done rashly ; your first thought is more
Thau others' labour'd meditance ; your preme-
ditating
More than their actions; but (oh, Jove!) your
actions,
Soon as they move, as ospreys do the fish,
Subdue before they touch : think, dear duke,
think
What beds our slain kings have !
2 Queen. What griefs our beds,
That our dear lords have none !
3 Queen. None fit for the dead !
Those that with cords', knives', drams' precipi
tance,"
Weary of this world's light, have to themselves
Been death's most horrid agents, human grace
Affords them dust and shadow.
1 Queen. But our lords
Lie blistering 'fore the visitating sun,
And were good kings when living.
Thes. It is true : and I will give you comfort,
To give your dead lords graves :
The which to do must make some work with
Creon.
1 Queen. And that work now presents ttseU
to the doing :
Now 't will take form ; the heats are gone to-
morrow ;
Then bootless toil must recompense itself
With its own sweat ; now he is secure,
Not dreams we stand before your puissance,
Rinsing our holy begging in our eyes,
To make petition clear.
2 Queen. Now you may take him,
Drunk with his victory.
3 Queen. And his army full
Of bread and sloth.
Thes. Artesius, that best know'st
How to draw out, fit to this enterprise
The prim'st for this proceeding, and the number
To carry such a business ; forth and levy
Our worthiest instruments ; whilst we despatcli
This grand act of our life, this daring deed
Of fate in wedlock !
1 Queen. Dowagers, take hands !
Let us be widows to our woes ! Delay
Commends us to a famishing hope
All. Farewell !
2 Queen. We come unseasonably; but when
could grief
Cull forth, as unpang'd judgment can, fitt'st time
For best solicitation ?
Thes. Why, good ladies,
This is a service, whereto I am going,
Greater than any war; b it more imports me
Than all the actions that I have foregone,
Or futurely can cope.
1 Queen. The more proclaiming
Our suit shall be neglected : when her arms,
Able to lock Jove from a synod, shall
By warranting moonlight corslet thee, oh, when
Her twinning cherries shall their sweetness fall*
a This is usually printed
" Those that with cords, knives, drams, precipitance."
We receive "cords," &c., as genitive cases to "precipi-
tance."
b War. The early copies, was.
" Fall an active verb.
127
ACT I.]
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
[SCENE II.
Upon thy tasteful lips, what wilt thou think
Of rotten kings or blubber'd queens ? what care
For what thou feel'st not, what thou fecl'st being
able
To make Mars spurn his drum ? Oh, if thou
couch
But one night with her, every hour in 't will
Take hostage of thee for a hundred, and
Thou shalt remember nothing more than what
That banquet bids thee to.
Hip. Though much unlike
You should be so transported, as much sorry
I should be such a suitor ; yet I think
Did I not, by the abstaining of my joy,
Which breeds a deeper longing, cure their sur-
feit
That craves a present medicine, I should pluck
All kdies' scandal on me : therefore, sir,
As I shall here make trial of my prayers,
Either presuming them to have some force,
Or sentencing for aye their vigour dumb,
Prorogue this business we are going about, and
hang
Your shield afore your heart, about that neck
Which is my fee, and which I freely lend
To do these poor queens service !
All Queens. Oh, help now !
Our cause cries for your knee. [To EMILIA.
Emi. If you grant not
My sister her petition, in that force,
With that celerity and nature, which
She" makes it in, from henceforth I '11 not dare
To ask you anything, nor be so hardy
Ever to take a husband.
Thes. P ra .Y stand up !
I am entreating of myself to do
That which you kneel to have me. Perithous,
Lead on the bride. Get you and pray the gods
For success and return ; omit not anything
In the pretended celebration. Queens,
Follow your soldier, as before ; hence you,
And at the banks of Aulis meet us with
The forces you can raise, where we shall find
The moiety of a number, for a business
More bigger look'd. Since that our theme is
haste,
I stamp this kiss upon thy currant lip ;
Sweet, keep it as my token. Set you forward ;
For I will see you gone.
[Jfctf ARTESITJS.
Farewell, my beauteous sister ! Perithous,
Keep the feast full ; bate not an hour on 't !
Per. Sir,
I '11 follow you at heels : the feast's solemnity
Shall want till your return.
128
Thes. Cousin, I charge you
Budge not from Athens ; we shall be returning
Ere you can end this feast, of which, I pray you,
Make no abatement. Once more, farewell all !
1 Queen. Thus dost thou still make good the
tongue o' the world.
2 Queen. And earn'st a deity equal with Mars.
3 Queen. If not above him ; for,
Thou, being but mortal, mak'st affections bend
To godlike honours ; they themselves, some say,
Groan under such a mastery.
Thes. As we are men,
Thus should we do ; being sensually subdued,
We lose our human title. Good cheer, ladies !
[flourish.
Now turn we towards your comforts. [Exeunt.
SCENE II.
Enter PA.LAMON and ARCITE.
Arc. Dear Palamon, dearer in love than blood,
And our prime cousin, yet unharden'd in
The crimes of nature ; let us leave the city,
Thebes, and the temptings in 't, before we further
Sully our gloss of youth !
And here to keep in abstinence we shame
As in incontinence : for not to swim
In the aid of the current, were almost to sink,
At least to frustrate striving ; and to follow
The common stream, 't would bring us to an
eddy
Where we should turn or drown; if labour
through,
Our gain but life and weakness.
Pal. Your advice
Is cried up with example : what strange ruins,
Since first we went to school, may we perceive
Walking in Thebes ! Scars, and bare weeds,
The gain o' the martialist, who did propound
To his bold ends, honour and golden ingots,
Which, though he won, he had not; and now
flurted
By peace, for whom he fought ! Who then shall
offer
To Mars's so-scorn'd altar ? I do bleed
When such 1 meet, and wish great Juno would
Resume her ancient fit of jealousy,
To get the soldier work, that peace might purge
For her repletion, and retain anew
Her charitable heart, now hard, and harsher
Than strife or war could be.
Arc. Are you not out ?
Meet you no ruin but the soldier in
The cranks and turns of Thebes ? You did begin
As if you met decays of many kinds :
AIT I.]
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
[SCINB IL
Perceive you none that do arouse your pity,
But th' unconsider'd soldier ?
Pal, Yes; I pity
Decays where'er I find them ; but such most,
That, sweating in an honourable toil,
Are paid with ice to cool 'em.
Arc. 'T is not this
I did begin to speak of ; this is virtue
Of no respect in Thebes : I spake of Thebes,
How dangerous, if we will keep our honours,
it is for our residing ; where every evil
Hath a good colour ; where every seeming good 's
A certain evil ; where not to be even jump'
As they are, here were to be strangers, and
Such things to be mere monsters.
Pal. It is in our power
(Unless we fear that apes can tutor 's) to
Be masters of our manners : what need I
Affect another's gait, which is not catching
Where there is faith ? or to be fond upon
Another's way of speech, when by mine own
I may be reasonably conceiv'd ; savM too,
Speaking it truly ? Why am I bound
By any generous bond to follow him
Follows his tailor, haply so long until
The followed make pursuit ? Or let me know,
Why mine own barber is unbless'd, with him
My poor chin too, for 't is not scissar'd just
To such a favourite's glass? What canon is
there
That does command my rapier from my hip,
To dangle 't in my hand, or to go tiptoe
Before the street be foul ? Either I am
The fore-horse in the team, or I am none
That draw i' the sequent trace ! These poor
slight sores
Need not a plantain ; that which rips my bosom
Almost to the heart's
Arc- Our uncle Creon.
Pal. He,
A most unbounded tyrant, whose success
Makes Heaven unfeaVd, and villainy assur'd,
Beyond its power there 's nothing : almost puts b
Faith in a fever, and deifies alone
Voluble chance who only attributes
The faculties of other instruments
To his own nerves and act; commands men's
service,
Jump just exactly.
b This passage is ordinarily printed
" A most unbounded tyrant, whose iucce>te$
Make Heaven unfear'd, and villainy assur'd,
Beyond its power; there's nothing almost puts," Sir..
Seward suggested the punctuation which we have adopted
In the third' line; but by leaving the plural nominative
mccestei, lie left the remainder of the sentence unintelligible
at least to modern readers, who require strict grammatical
construction.
SDP. VOL.
K
And what they win in 't, boot and glory too :
That fears not to do harm ; good dares not : let
The blood of mine that 's sib* to him be suck'd
From me with leeches : let them bieak and fall
Off me with that corruption !
Arc. Clear-spirited cousin,
Let's leave his court, that we may nothing
share
Of this loud infamy ; for our milk
Will relish of the pasture, and we must
Be vile or disobedient ; not his kinsmen
In blood, unless in quality.
Pal. Nothing truer
I think the echoes of his shames have deaf'd
The ears of heav'nly justice : widows' cries
Descend again into their throats, and have not
Due audience of the gods. Valerius !
Enter VALERIUS.
Vol. The king calls for you; yet be leaden-
footed,
'Till his great rage be off him. Phoebus, when
He broke his whipstock, and exclaim' d against
The horses of the sun, but whisper' d, to
The loudness of his fury.
Pal. Small winds shake him :
But what 's the matter ?
Val. Theseus (who where he threats appals)
hath sent
Deadly defiance to him, and pronounces
Ruin to Thebes ; who is at hand to seal
The promise of his wrath.
Arc. Let him approach :
But that we fear the gods in him, he brings not
A jot of terror to us : yet what man
Thirds his own worth (the case is each of ours),
When that his action's dregg'd with mind assur'd
'T is bad he goes about P
Pal. Leave that unreason'd !
Our services stand now for Thebes, not Creon.
Yet, to be neutral to him, were dishonour,
Rebellious to oppose ; therefore we must
With him stand to the mercy of our fate,
Who hath bounded our last minute.
Arc. So we must.
Is 't said this war 's afoot ? or it shall be,
On fail of some condition ?
Vol. 'T is in motion ;
The intelligence of state came in the instant
With the defier.
Pal. Let 's to the king ; who, were he
A quarter carrier of that honour which
His enemy comes in, the blood we venture
Sib kin.
129
AOT I.]
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
[SCENE III
Should be as for our health; which were not
spent,
Rather laid out for purchase : but, alas,
Our hands advanc'd before our hearts, what will
The fall o' the stroke do damage ?
Arc. Let th' event,
That never-erring arbitrator, tell us
When we know all ourselves ; and let us follow
The becking of our chance ! [Exeunt.
SCENE III.
Enter PEBJTHOUS, HIPPOLYTA, and EMILIA.
Per. No further !
Hip. Sir, farewell : Repeat my wishes
To our great lord, of whose success I dare not
Make any timorous question; yet I wish him
Excess and overflow of power, an 't might be,
To dure a ill-dealing fortune. Speed to him !
Store never hurts good governors.
Per. Though I know
His ocean needs not my poor drops, yet they
Must yield their tribute there. My precious
maid,
Those best affections that the Heav'ns infuse
In their best-temper'd pieces, keep enthron'd
In your dear heart !
Emi. Thanks, sir. Remember me
To our all-royal brother ; for whose speed
The great Bellona I '11 solicit : and
Since, in our terrene state, petitions are not
Without gifts understood, I '11 offer to her
What I shall be advis'd she likes. Our hearts
Are in his army, in his tent.
Hip. In '3 bosom.
We have been soldiers, and we cannot weep
When our friends don their helms, or put to sea,
Or tell of babes broach'd OH the lance, or women
That have sod their infants in (and after eat
them)
The brine they wept at killing 'em ; then if
You stay to see of us such spinsters, we
Should hold you here for ever.
Per. Peace be to you,
As I pursue this war ! which shall be then
Beyond further requiring. [Exit.
Emi. How his longing
Follows his friend ! Since his depart, his sports,
Though craving seriousness and skill, past
slightly
His careless execution, where nor gain
Made him regard, or loss consider ; but
Playing one b business in his hand, another
Dure. So the original, for endure. Some read cure;
sthers, dare.
b One is suggested by M. Mason. The original has ore.
130
Directing in his head, his niind nurse equal
To these so diff'ring twins. Have you observ'd
him
Since our great lord departed ?
Hip. With mach labour
And I did love him for 't. They two have
cabin'd
In many as dangerous, as poor a corner,
Peril and want contending; they have skiff d
Torrents, whose roaring tyranny and power
I' th' least of these was dreadful : and they have
Fought out together, where death's self was
lodg'd,
Yet fate hath brought them off. Their knot of
love
Tied, weavM, entangled, with so true, so long,
And with a finger of so deep a cunning,
May be outworn, never undone. I think
Theseus cannot be umpire to himself,
Cleaving his conscience into twain, and doing
Each side like justice, which he loves best.
Emi. Doubtless
There is a best, and Reason has no manners
To say it is not you. I was acquainted
Once with a time, when I enjoy'd a playfellow ;
You were at wars when she the grave enrich' d,
Who made too proud the bed, took leave o' th'
moon
(Which then look'd pale at parting) when our
count
Was each eleven.
Hip. 'Twas Flavina.
Ems. Yes.
You talk of Perithous' and Theseus' love :
Theirs has more ground, is more mature!;
season'd,
More buckled with strong judgment, and their
needs
The one of th' other may be said to water
Their intertangled roots of love ; but I
And she (I sigh and spoke of) were things inno-
cent,
Lov'd for we did, and like the elements
That know not what, nor why, yet do effect
Rare issues by their operance ; our souls
Did so to one another : what she lik'd,
Was then of me approv'd ; what not, condemn' d,
No more arraignment ; the flower that I would
pluck
And put between my breasts (oh, then but be-
ginning
To swell about the blossom), she would long
'Till she had such another, and commit it
To the like innocent cradle, where phoenix-like
They died in perfume : on my head no toy
ACT!,]
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
[SCENE IV
But was her pattern ; her affections * (pretty,
Though happily her careless wear) I follow'd
For my most serious decking ; had mine ear
Stol'n some new air, or at adventure humm'd
one
From musical coinage, why, it was a note
Whereon her spirits would sojourn (rather dwell
on),
And sing it in her slumbers : this rehearsal,
Which, every innocent wots well, comes in
Like old importment's bastard, has this end,
That the true love 'tween maid and maid may
be
More than in sex dividual.
Hip. You 're out of breath ;
And this high-speeded pace is but to say,
That you shall never, like the maid Flavina,
Love any that 's call'd man.
End, I am sure I shall not.
Hip. Now, alack, weak sister,
I must no more believe thee in this point
(Though in 't I know thou dost believe thyself)
Than I will trust a sickly appetite,
That loaths even as it longs. But sure, my
sister,
If I were ripe for your persuation, you
Have said enough to shake me from the arm
Of the all-noble Theseus ; for whose fortunes
I will now in and kneel, with great assurance,
That we, more than his Perithous, possess
The high throne in his heart.
Emi. I am not against your faith ; yet I con-
tinue mine,
SCENE IT.
A Buttle struck within; then a Retreat ; Flourish.
Then enter THESEUS, victor ; the three Queens
meet him, and fall on their faces before him.
1 Queen. To thee no star be dark !
2 Queen. Both Heav'n and earth
Friend thee for ever !
3 Queen. All the good that may
Be wish'd upon thy head, I cry ' amen ' to 't !
Thes. Th' impartial gods, who from the
mounted heav'ns
View us their mortal herd, behold who err,
And in their time chastise. Go, and find out
The bones of your dead lords, and honour them
With treble ceremony : rather than a gap
Should be in their dear rites, we would supply 't.
But those we will depute which shall invest
You in your dignities, and even b each thing
Afectinnt what she affected liked,
b Kven make even.
K2
Our haste does leave imperfect : so adieu,
And Heav'n's good eyes look on you! What
are those ? [Exeunt Queens.
Herald. Men of great quality, as may be
judg'd
By their appointment; some of Thebes have
told us
They are sisters' children, nephews to the king.
Thes. By th' helm of Mars, I saw them in the
war,
Like to a pair of lions, smear'd with prey,
Make lanes in troops aghast : I fix'd my note
Constantly on them ; for they were a mark
Worth a god's view. What was 't that prisoner
told me, a
When I inquir'd their names ?
Herald. With leave, they 're call'd
Arcite and Palamon.
Thes. 'T is right ; those, those.
They are not dead ?
Herald. Nor in a state of life : had they been
taken
When their last hurts were given, 't was pos-
sible
They might have been recover'd; yet they
breathe,
And have the name of men.
Thes. Then like men use 'em.
The very lees of such, millions of rates
Exceed the wine of others ; all our surgeons
Convent in their behoof; our richest balms,
Rather than niggard, waste ! their lives concern
us
Much more than Thebes is worth. Rather than
have them
Freed of this plight, and in their morning state,
Sound and at liberty, I would them dead ;
But, forty thousand fold, we had rather have
them
Prisoners to us than death. Bear 'em speedily
From our kind air (to them unkind), and
minister
What man to man may do ; for our sake more :
Since I have known fight's fury, friends' behests,
Love's provocations, zeal in a mistress' task,
Desire of liberty, a fever, madness,
'T hath set a mark which Nature could not
reach to
Without some imposition, sickness in will
Or wrestling strength in reason. For our love
And great Apollo's mercy, all our best
Their best skill tender ! b Lead into the city :
This is Mr. Dyce's judicious reading.
b Since we printed this play entire in our first edition o(
the Pictorial Shakspere, Mr. Pycc, in his edition of Beau-
mont and Fletcher, has brought a higher critical skill
131
Art I.]
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
T.
Where having bound things scatter'd, we will
post
To Athens 'fore our army. [Exeunt.
SCENE V.
Enter the Queens with the Hearses of their
Husbands, in a funeral solemnity, $c.
Urns and odours bring away,
Vapours, sighs, darken the day !
Our dole more deadly looks than dying !
Balms, and gums, and heavy cheers,
Sacred vials fill'd with tears,
And clamours, through the wild air flying :
towards clearing up some difficulties of the text, than wa
shown by the previous editors, Seward and Weber. In the
eight lines, beginning "Since I have known," and ending
at " tender," we have adopted Mr. Dyce'j text.
Come, all sad and solemn shows,
That are quick-ey'd Pleasure's foes'.
We convent nought else but woes.
We convent, &c.
3 Queen. This funeral path brings to your
household's grave : a
Joy seize on you again ! Peace sleep with him !
2 Queen. And this to yours !
1 Queen. Yours this way ! Heavens lend
A thousand differing ways to one sure end !
3 Queen. This world 's a city, full of straying
streets ;
And death 's the market-place, where each one
meets. [Exeunt severally.
Household 1 ! grave. So the quarto. The ordinary /
it houiehold gravel. Each king had en* grave.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
E*ter GAOLER and WOOER.
Gaoler. I may depart with* little, while I live;
something I may cast to you, not much. Alas,
the prison I keep, though it be for great ones,
yet they seldom come: before one salmon, you
shall take a number o* minnows. I am given
out to be better lined than it can appear to me
report is a true speaker : I would I were really
that I am delivered to be! Marry, what I
have (be't what it will) I will assure upon my
daughter at the day o' my death.
Wooer. Sir, I demand no more than your own
offer ; and I '11 estate your daughter, in what I
have promised.
Gaoler. Well, we 'D talk more of this when
the solemnity is past. But have you a full
Depart with part with.
promise of her ? When that shall be seeu, I
tender my consent.
Wooer. I have, sir. Here she comes.
Enter DAUGHTER.
Gaoler. Your friend and I have chanced to
name you here, on the old business : but no
more o' that now. So soon as the court-hurry
is o'er, we '11 have an end of 't , in the mean
time, look tenderly to the two prisoners ; I can
tell you they 're princes.
Daugh. These strewings are for their cham-
ber. It is pity they are in prison, and 't were
pity they should be out. I do think they have
patience to make any adversity ashamed: the
prison itself is proud of them: and they have
all the world in their chamber.
Gaoler'. They 're famed to be a pair of abso-
lute men.
133
ACT II.]
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
II.
Daugh. By my troth, I think fame but stam-
mers 'em; they stand a grice a above the reach of
report.
Gaoler. I heard them reported, in the battle
to be the only doers.
Daugh. Nay, most likely ; for they are noble
sufferers. I marvel how they'd have looked,
had they been victors, that with such a constant
nobility enforce a freedom out of bondage, mak-
ing misery their mirth, and affliction a toy to
jest at.
Gaoler. Do they so ?
Daugh. It seems to me, they 've no more sense
of their captivity, than I of ruling Athens : they
eat well, look merrily, discourse of many things,
but nothing of their own restraint and disasters.
Yet, sometime, a divided sigh, martyred as
't were in the deliverance, will break from one
of them; when th' other presently gives it so
sweet a rebuke, that I could wish myself a sigh
to be so chid, or at least a sigher to be com-
forted.
Wooer. I ne'er saw them.
Gaoler. The duke himself came privately in
the night, and so did they. What the reason of
it is, 1 know not.
Enter PALAMON and ARCITE above.
Look, yonder they are ! that is Arcite looks out.
Daugh. No, sir, no ; that 's Palamon : Arcite 's
the lower of the twain : you may perceive a part
of him.
Gaoler. Go to, leave your pointing ! They 'd
not make us their object : out of their sight !
Daugh. It is a holiday to look on them !
Lord, the difference of men ! [Exeunt.
SCENE II.
Enter PALAMON and ARCITE, in Prison.*
Pal. How do you, noble cousin ?
Arc. How do you, sir P
Pal. Why, strong enough to laugh at misery,
And bear the chance of war yet. We are
prisoners
I fear for ever, cousin.
Arc. I believe it ;
And to that destiny have patiently
Laid up my hour to come.
Pal. Oh, cousin Arcite,
a The folio of 1679 has grief ; the quarto has0ra.se. Grice
U a stei).
b The position of Palamon and Arcite in the prison, with
the power of observing what passes in the garden when
Emilia enters, implies a double action which requires the
mployntW of the secondary stage. See Othello, Act v.
134
Where is Thebes now ? where is our noble
country ?
Where are our friends, and kindreds ? Never
more
Must we behold those comforts ; never see
The hardy youths strive for the games of honour,
Hung with the painted favours of their ladies,
Like tall ships under sail; then start amongst
'em,
And, as an east wind, leave 'em all behind us
Like lazy clouds, whilst Palamon and Arcite,
Even in the wagging of a wanton leg,
Out-stripp'd the people's praises, won the gar-
lands,
Ere they have time to wish 'em ours. Oh, never
Shall we two exercise, like twins of honour,
Our arms again, and feel our fiery horses,
Like proud seas under us ! Our good swords now,
(Better the rod-ey'd god of war ne'er ware)
Ravish' d our sides, like age, must run to rust,
And deck the temples of those gods that hate us ;
These hands shall never draw them out like
lightning,
To blast whole armies more !
Arc. No, Palamon,
Those hopes are prisoners with us : here we are,
And here the graces of our youths must wither,
Like a too-timely spring ; here age must find us,
And, which is heaviest, Palamon, unmarried ;
The sweet embraces of a loving wife,
Loaden with kisses, arm'd with thousand Cupids,
Shall never clasp our necks ; no issue know us;
No figures of ourselves shall we e'er see,
To glad our age, and like young eagles teach
them
Boldly to gaze against bright arms, and say,
Remember what your fathers were, and con-
quer !
The fair-ey'd maids shall weep our banish-
ments,
And in their songs curse ever-blinded Fortune,
Till she 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 ;
Hear nothing but the clock that tells our woes ;
The vine shall grow, but we shall never see it ;
Summer shall come, and with her all delights,
But dead, cold winter must inhabit here still !
Pol. 'T is too true, Arcite. To our Theban
hounds,
That shook the aged forest with their echoes,
No more now must we halloo ; no more shake
Our pointed javelins, whilst the angry swine
Flies like a Parthian quiver from our rages,
ACT II.]
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
[SCKNR II
Stuck with our well-steel'd darts. All valiant
uses
(The food and nourishment of noble minds)
In us two here shall perish ; we shall die,
(Which is the curse of honour !) lastly,
Children of grief and ignorance.
Arc. Yet, cousin,
Even from the bottom of these miseries,
From all that fortune can inflict upon us,
I see two comforts rising, two mere* blessings,
If the gods please to hold here, a brave
patience,
And the enjoying of our griefs together.
Whilst Palamon is with me, let me perish
If I think this our prison !
Pal. Certainly,
'T is a main goodness, cousin, that our fortunes
Were twin'd together : 't is moat true, two souls
Put in two noble bodies, let them suffer
The gall of hazard, so they grow together,
Will never sink ; they must not ; say they could,
A willing man dies sleeping, and all 's done.
Arc. Shall we make worthy uses of this place,
That all men hate so much ?
Pal. How, gentle cousin ?
Arc. Let 's think this prison holy sanctuary,
To keep us from corruption of worse men,
We are young, and yet desire the ways of
honour ;
That liberty and common conversation,
The poison of pure spirits, might, like women,
Woo us to wander from. What worthy blessing
Can be, but our imaginations
May make it ours? and here being thus together,
We are an endless mine to one another ;
We are one another's wife, ever begetting
New births of love; we are father, friends ac-
quaintance ;
We are, in one another, families ;
I am your heir, and you are mine ; this place
Is our inheritance ; no hard oppressor
Dare take this from us : here, with a little
patience,
We shall live long, and loving ; no surfeits seek
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 business ;
Quarrels consume us ; envy of ill men
Grave b our acquaintance; I might sicken, cousin,
Mere absolute.
b Crave is the word of the early copies. M. Mason pro-
poses to read cleave that is, separate the acquaintance of
two friends. Mr. Dyce'g reading of Grave, the simple sub-
ititution of a 6 for a C gives a clear and impioved mean-
ing, winch \ve gladly adopt.
Where you should never know it, and so perish
Without your noble hand to close mine eyes,
Or prayers to the gods : a thousand chances,
Were we from hence, would sever us.
Pal. You have made me
(I thank you, cousin Arcite) almost wanton
With my captivity : what a misery
It is to live abroad, and everywhere !
'T is like a beast, methinks. I find the court
here,
I 'm sure a more content ; and all those plea-
sures,
That woo the wills of men to vanity,
I see through now ; and am sufficient
To tell the world, 't is but a gaudy shadow,
That old Time, as he passes by, takes with
him,
What had we been, old in the court of Creon,
Where sin is justice, lust and ignorance
The virtues of the great ones ! Cousin Arcite,
Had not the loving gods found this place for us,
We had died as they do, ill old men unwept,
And had their epitaphs, the people's curses.
Shall I say more ?
Arc. I would hear you still.
Pal. You shall.
Is there record of any two that lov'd
Better than we do, Arcite ?
Arc. Sure there cannot.
Pal. I do not think it possible our friendship
Should ever leave us.
Arc. Till our deaths it cannot ;
Enter EMILIA and her Servant.
And after death our spirits shall be led
To those that love eternally. Speak on, sir !
Emi. This garden has a world of pleasures in 't.
What flower is this P
Sen. 'T is call'd Narcissus, madam.
Emi. That was a fair boy certain, but a fool
To love himself : were there not maids enough ?
Arc. Pray, forward.
Pal. Yes.
Emi. Or were they all hard-hearted ?
Sere. They could not be to one so fair.
Emi. Thou wouldst not ?
Serv. I think I should not, madam.
Emi. That's a good wench !
But take heed to your kindness though !
Serv. Why, madam ?
Emi. Men are mad tilings.
Arc. Will you go forward, cousin P
Emi. Canst not thou work such flowers in
silk, wench ?
Serv. Yes.
135
ACT II.]
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
Emi. I '11 have a gown full of them ; and of
these ;
This is a pretty colour : will 't not do
Rarely upon a skirt, wench ?
Ser*. Dainty, madam.
Arc. Cousin ! Cousin ! How do you, sir P
Why, Palamon !
Pal. Never till now I was in prison, Arcite.
Arc. Why, what 's tLe matter, man ?
Pal. Behold, and wonder !
By Heav'n, she is a goddess !
Are. Ha!
Pal. Do reverence.
She is a goddess, Arcite !
Emi. Of all flowers,
Methinks a rose is best.
Sen. Why, gentle madam P
Emi. It is the very emblem of a maid :
For when the west wind courts her gently,
How modestly she blows, and paints the sun
With her chaste blushes ! when the north comes
near her,
Rude and impatient, then, like chastity,
She locks her beauties in her bud again,
And leaves him to base briers.
Sen. Yet, good madam,
Sometimes her modesty will blow so far
She falls for it : a maid,
If she have any honour, would be loth
To take example by her.
Emi. Thou art wanton.
Arc. She 's wondrous fair !
Pal. She 's all the beauty extant !
Emi. The sun grows high ; let 's walk in.
Keep these flowers ;
We'll see how near art can come near their
colours,
I 'm wondrous merry -hearted ; I could laugh
now.
Sen. I could lie down, I 'm sure.
Emi. Aud take one with you ?
Serv. That 's as we bargain, madam.
Emi. Well, agree then. [Exit with Serv.
Pal. What think you of this beauty ?
Arc. 'T is a rare one.
Pal. Is 't but a rare one ?
Arc. Yes, a matchless beauty.
Pal. Might not a man well lose himself, and
love her ?
Arc. I cannot tell what you have done; I
have,
Beshrew mine eyes for 't ! Now I feel my
shackles.
Pal. You love her then ?
Arc. Who would not ?
Wfi
And desire her
Pal.
Arc. Before my liberty.
Pal. I saw her first.
Arc. That 's nothing.
Pal. But it shall be.
Arc. I saw her too,
Pal. Yes ; but you must not love her.
Arc. I will not, as you do ; to worship her,
As she is heavenly, and a blessed goddess :
I love her as a woman, to enjoy her ;
So both may love.
Pal. You shall not love at all.
Arc. Not love at all 1 who shall deny me ?
Pal. I that first saw her; I that took possession
First with mine eye of all those beauties in her
Reveal' d to mankind. If thou lovest her,
Or entertain' st a hope to blast my wishes,
Thou art a traitor, Arcite, and a fellow
False as thy title to her : friendship, blood,
And all the ties between us, I disclaim,
If thou once think upon her !
Arc. Yes, I love her ;
And if the lives of all my name lay on it,
I must do so ; I love her with my soul.
If that will lose you, farewell, Palamon !
I say again, I love ; and, in loving her, maintain
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 man's son.
Pal. Have I call'd thce friend ?
Arc. Yes, and have found me so. Why arc
you mov'd thus ?
Let me deal coldly with you ; am not I
Part of your blood, part of your soul? you have
told me
That I was Palamon, and you were Arcite.
Pal. Yes.
Arc. Am not I liable to those affections,
Those joys, griefs, angers, fears, my friend shall
suffer ?
Pal. Xou may be.
Arc. Why then would you deal so cunningly,
So strangely, so unlike a Noble Kinsman,
To love alone ? Speak truly ; do you think me
Unworthy of her sight ?
Pal. No ; but unjust
If thou pursue that sight.
Arc. Because another
First sees the enemy, shall I stand still,
And let mine honour down, and never charge ?
Pal. Yes, if he be but one.
Arc. But say that one
Had rather combat me ?
Pal. Let that one say so.
ACT II.]
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
[SCXKI II.
And use thy freedom ! else, if them pursuest her,
Be as that cursed man that hates his country,
A branded villain !
Arc. You are mad.
Pal. I must be,
Till thou art worthy : Arcite, it concerns me ;
And, in this madness, if I hazard thee
And take thy life, I deal but truly.
Arc. Fie, sir !
You play the child extremely : I will love her,
I must, I ought to do so, and I dare ;
And all this justly.
Pal. O, that now, that now,
Thy false self, and thy friend, had but this for-
tune,
To be one hour at liberty, and grasp
Our good swords in our hands, I 'd quickly teach
thee
What 't were to filch affection from another !
Thou 'rt baser in it than a cutpurse.
Put but thy head out of this window more,
And, as I have a soul, I '11 nail thy life to 't !
Arc. Thou dar'st not, fool; thou canst not;
thou art feeble.
Put my head out ! I '11 throw my body out,
And leap the garden, when I see her next,
Enter Gaoler.
And pitch between her arms, to anger thee.
Pal. No more ; the keeper 's coming : I shall
live
To knock thy brains out with my shackles.
Arc. Do.
Gaoler. By your leave, gentlemen.
Pal. Now, honest keeper ?
Gaoler. Lord Arcite, you must presently to
the duke :
The cause I know not yet.
Arc. I am ready, keeper.
Gaoler. Prince Palamon, I must awhile be-
reave you
Of your fair cousin's company.
[Exit icith ARCITE.
Pal. 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 fair,
Let honest men ne'er love again. Once more
I would but see this fair one. Blessed garden,
And fruit, and flowers more blessed, that still
blossom
As her bright eyes shine on ye ! 'Would I were,
For all the fortune of my life hereafter,
Yon little tree, yon blooming apricock !
How I would spread, and fling my wanton arms
In at her window ! I would bring her fruit
Fit for the gods to feed on ; youth and pleasure
Still as she tasted should be doubled on her ;
And, if she be not heav'nly, I would make her
So near the gods in nature, they should fear her ;
And then I 'm sure she 'd love me.
Enter Gaoler.
How now, keeper !
Where 's Arcite P
Gaoler. Banished. Prince Perithous
Obtain'd his liberty ; but never more,
Upon his oath and life, must he set foot
Upon this kingdom.
Pal. . He 's a blessed man !
He shall see Thebes again, and call to arms
The bold young men, that, when he bida them
charge,
Fall on like fire : Arcite shall have a fortune/
If he dare make himself a worthy lover,
Yet in the field to strike a battle for her ;
And if he lose her then, he 's a cold coward :
How bravely may he bear himself to win her,
If he be noble Arcite, thousand ways !
Were I at liberty, I would do things
Of such a virtuous greatness, that this lady,
This blushing virgin, should take manhood to her.
And seek to ravish me.
Gaoler. My lord, for you
I have this charge too.
Pal. To discharge my life P
Gaoler. No; but from this place to remove
your lordship ;
The windows are too open.
Pal. Devils take them,
That are so envious to me ! Prithee kill me !
Gaoler. And hang for 't afterward ?
Pal. By this good light,
Had I a sword, I 'd kill thee.
Gaoler. Why, my lord ?
Pal. Thou bring* st such pelting scurvy news
continually,
Thou art not worthy life. I will not go.
Gaoler. Indeed you must, my lord.
Pal. May I see the garden ?
Gaoler. No.
Pal. Then I 'm resolv'd I will not go.
Gaoler. I must
Constrain you then ; and, for you 're dangerous,
I '11 clap more irons on you.
Fi.rliint a chance.
137
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
NS III,
Pal. Do, good keeper.
I '11 shake 'em so, you shall not sleep ;
I '11 make you a new morris. Must I go ?
Gaoler. There is no remedy.
Pal. Farewell, kind window !
May rude wind never hurt thee ! Oh, my lady,
If ever thou hast felt what sorrow was,
Dream how I suffer ! Come, now bury me.
[Exeunt.
SCENE HI
Enter AKCITE.
Arc. Banish'd the kingdom P 'T is a benefit,
A mercy, I mast thank them for ; but banish'd
The free enjoying of that face I die for,
Oh, 't was a studied punishment, a death
Beyond imagination ! Such a vengeance,
That, were I old and wicked, all my sins
Could never pluck upon me. Palamon,
Thou hast the start now ; thou shalt stay and see
Her bright eyes break each morning 'gainst thy
window,
And let in life into thee ; thou shalt feed
Upon the sweetness of a noble beauty,
That nature ne'er exceeded, nor ne'er shall :
Good gode, what happiness has Palamon !
Twenty to one he '11 come to speak to her ;
And, if she be as gentle as she 's fair,
I know she 's his ; he has a tongue will tame
Tempests, and make the wild rocks wanton.
Come what can come,
Tke worst is death ; I will not leave the king-
dom:
I know my own is but a heap of ruins,
And no redress there : if I go, he has her.
I am resolv'd : another shape shall make ine,
Or end my fortunes ; either way, I 'm happy :
I '11 see her, and be near her, or no more.
Enter four Country People ; one with a Garland
before them.
1 Com. My masters, I '11 be there, that 's
certain.
2 Coun. And I '11 be there.
3 Coun. And I.
4 Coun. Why then, have with ye, boys ! 't is
but a chiding ;
Let the plough play to-day ! I '11 tickle 't out
Of the jades' tails to-morrow
1 Coun. I am sure
To have my wife as jealous as a turkey :
But that's all one; I'll go through, let her
mumble.
13S
3 Coun. Do we all hold against the maying ? *
4 Coun. Hold ! what should ail us ?
3 Coun. Areas will be there.
2 Coun. And Sennois,
And Rycas ; and three better lads ne'er danc'd
Under green tree ; and ye know what wenches.
Ha!
But will the dainty domine, the schoolmaster,
Keep touch, do you think ? for he does all, ye
know.
3 Coun. He '11 eat a hornbook, ere he fail :
Goto!
The matter is too far driven between
Him and the tanner's daughter, to let slip now ;
And she must see the duke, and she must dance
too.
4 Coun. Shall we be lusty ?
2 Coun. All the boys in Athens
Blow wind i' th' breech on us ; and here I '11 be,
And there I '11 be, for our town ; and here again,
And there again. Ha, boys, heigh for the
weavers !
1 Coun. This must be done i' th' woods.
4 Coun. Oh, pardon me !
2 Coun. By any means; our thing of learn-
ing says so ;
Where he himself will edify the duke
Most parlously in our behalfs : he 's excellent
i' th' woods ;
Bring him to th' plains, his learning makes HO
cry.
3 Coun. We '11 see the sports ; then every
man to 's tackle !
And, sweet companions, let 's rehearse by any
means,
Before the ladies see us, and do sweetly,
And God knows what may come on 't !
4 Coun. Content : the sports
Once ended, we'll perform. Away, boys, and
hold!
Arc. By your leaves, honest friends ! Pray
you, whither go you P
4 Coun. Whither! why, what a question 's
that!
Arc. Yes, 't is a question to me that know
not.
3 Coun. To the games, my friend.
2 Coun. Where were you bred, you know it
not?
When we open Beaumont and Fletcher's works we en-
counter grossnesses entirely of a different nature from those
which occur in Shakspere. They are the result of impure
thoughts, not the accidental reflection of loose manners.
They are meant to be corrupting. We have four lines after
mumble conceived in this spirit; and we omit them without
hesitation. No one has thought that those comic scenes
were written by Shakopeic.
Acr II.]
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
[SfJENSSlV, V.
Arc. Not far, sir.
Axe there such games to-day ?
1 Court. Yes, marry are there ;
And such as you ne'er saw : the duke himself
Will be in person there.
- Arc, What pastimes are they ?
2 Coun. Wrestling and running. 'T is a
pretty fellow.
3 Coun. Thou wilt not go along ?
Arc. Not yet, sir.
4 Coun. Well, sir,
Take your own time. Come, boys !
1 Coun. My mind misgives me
This fellow has a vengeance trick o' th' hip ;
Mark, how his body 's made for 't !
2 Coun. I '11 be hang*d though
If he dare venture ; hang him, plum-porridge !
He. wrestle? He roast eggs. Come, let's be
gone, kds ! [Exeunt Countrymen.
Arc. This is an offer'd opportunity
I durst not wish for. Well I could have wrestled,
The best men call'd it excellent ; and run
Swifter than wind upon a field of corn
(Curling the wealthy ears) e'er flew!* I'll ven-
ture,
And in some poor disguise be there : who knows
Whether my brows may not be girt with garlands,
And happiness prefer me to a place
Where I may ever dwell in sight of her ? [Exit.
SCENE IV.
Enter Gaoler** DAUGHTER.
Daugh. Why should I love this gentleman?
'T is odds
He never will affect me : I am base,
My father the mean keeper of his prison,
And he a prince : to marry him is hopeless,
To be his whore is witless. Out upon 't !
What pushes are we wenches driven to,
When fifteen 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 look'd on : next, I pitied him ;
And so would any young wench, o' my con-
sience,
That ever dream' d, or vow'd her maidenhead
To a young handsome man : then, I lov'd him,
The ordinary reading was,
" And run,
Swifter the wind upon a field of corn
(Curling the wealthy ears) ne'er flew."
The original has than, which has been altered to Me. By
changing ne'er to e'er we obtain a better construction.
Extremely lov'd him, infinitely lor'd him !
And yet he had a cousin, fair as he too ;
But in my heart was Palamon, and there,
Lord, what a coil he keeps ! To hear 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 bows his noble body, then salutes me thus :
'Fair gentle maid, good morrow; may thy
goodness
Get thee a happy husband !' Once he kiss'd me ;
I lov'd my lips the better ten days after :
'Would he would do so ev'ry day ! He grieves
much,
And me as much to see his misery :
What should I do to make him know I love
him?
For I would fain enjoy him : say I ventur 'd
To set him free ? what says the law then ?
Thus much for law or kindred ! I will do it,
And this night, or to-morrow, he shall love
me. [Exit.
SCENE V. A short flourish of cornets, and
shouts within.
Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, PERITHOUS, EMILIA,
and AB.CITE with a Garland. 8fc.
Thes. You have done worthily; I have not
seen,
Since Hercules, a man of tougher sinews :
Whate'er you are, you run the best and wrestle,
That these times can allow.
Arc. I am proud to please you.
Thes. What country bred you ?
Arc. This ; but far off, prince.
Thes. Are you a gentleman P
Arc. My father said so ;
And to those gentle uses gave me life.
Thes. Are you his heir ?
Arc. Hia youngest, sir.
Thes. Your father
Sure is a happy sire then. What proves you ?
Arc. A little of all noble qualities :
I could have kept a hawk, and well have hol-
loa'd
To a deep cry of dogs ; I dare not praise
My feat in horsemanship, yet they that knew
me
Would say it was my best piece; last, and
greatest,
I would be thought a soldier.
Thes. You are perfect.
Per. Upon my soul, a proper man !
139
ACT II.]
Emi. He is so.
Per. How do you like him, lady ?
Hip, I admire him :
I have not seen so young a man so noble
(If he say true) of his sort.
Emi. Believe,
His mother was a wondrous handsome woman .
His face, methinks, goes that way.
Hip. But his body
And fiery mind illustrate a brave father.
Per. Mark how his virtue, like a hidden sun,
Breaks through his baser garments.
Hip. He 's well got, sure.
Thes. What made you seek this place, sir ?
Arc. Noble Theseus,
To purchase name, and do my ablest service
To such a well-found wonder as thy worth ;
For only in thy court, of all the world,
Dwells fair-ey'd Honour.
Per. All his words are worthy.
Thes. Sir, we are much indebted to your
travel,
Nor shall you lose your wish. Perithous,
Dispose of this fair gentleman.
Per. Thanks, Theseus !
Whate'er you are, you 're mine ; and I shall give
you
To a most noble service, to this lady,
This bright young virgin : pray observe her
goodness.
You've honour'd her fair birthday with your
virtues,
And, as your due, you 're hers ; kiss her fair
hand, sir.
Arc. Sir, you 're a noble giver. Dearest
beauty,
Thus let me seal my vow'd faith : when your
servant
(Your most unworthy creature) but offends you,
Command him die, he shall.
Emi. That were too cruel.
If you deserve well, sir, I shall soon see 't :
You're mine; and somewhat better than your
rank I '11 use you.
Per. I '11 see you furnish'd : and because
you say
You are a horseman, I must needs entreat
you
This afternoon to ride ; but 't is a rough one.
Arc. I like him better, prince; I shall not
then
Freeze in my saddle.
Thes. Sweet, you must be ready ;
And you, Emilia ; and you, friend ; and all ;
To-morrow, by the sun, to do observance
110
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
[SCBKX VI.
To flow'ry May, in Dian's -wood. Wait well,
sir,
Upon your mistress. Emily, I hope
He shall not go afoot.
Emi. 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 '11 find a loving mistress.
Arc. If I do not*
Let me find that my father ever hated,
Disgrace and blows.
Thes. Go, lead the way ; you 've won it ;
It shall be so : you shall receive all dues
Fit for tbe honour you have won ; 't were wrong
else.
Sister, beshrew my heart, you have a servant,
That, if I were a woman, would be master ;
But you are wise. [Flourish.
Emi. I hope too wise for that, sir. [Exeunt.
SCENE VI.
Enter Gaoler'* DAUGHTER.
Laugh. Let all the dukes and all the devils
roar,
He is at liberty. I 've ventured for him ;
And out I 've 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 brook ; and there he shall keep close,
Till I provide him files and food ; for yet
His iron bracelets are not off. Oh, Love,
What a stout-hearted child thou art ! My father
Durst better have endur'd cold iron than done it.
I love him beyond love, and beyond reason,
Or wit, or safety. I have made him know it ;
I care not ; I am desperate. If the law
Find me, and then condemn me for 't, some
wenches,
Some honest-hearted maids, 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 do, maids will not so easily
Trust men again : and yet he has not thank'd me
For what I have done ; no, not so much as kiss'd
me;
And that, methinks, is not so well ; nor scarcely
Could I persuade 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
ACT II
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
VI.
Will take more root within Mm : let him do
What he will with me, so he use me kindly.
For use me so he shall, or I '11 proclaim him,
And to his face, no man. I '11 presently
Provide him necessaries, and pack my clothes up,
And where there is a path of ground I '11 ven-
ture,
So he be with me, by b'm, like a shadow.
I '11 ever dwell. Within this hour the hubbub
Will be all o'er the prison : I am then
Kissing the man they look for. Farewell,
father !
Get many more such prisoners, and such
daughters,
And shortly you may keep yourself. Now to
him ! ( Eiii.
ACT III.
SCENE I. Cornets in sundry places. Noise
and hallooing, as of People a-maying.
Enter ARCITE.
Arc. The duke has lost Hippolyta ; each took
A several land. This is a solemn rite
They owe bloom'd May, and the Athenians pay
it
To the heart of ceremony. Oh, queen Emilia,
Fresher than May, sweeter
Than her gold buttons on the boughs, or all
TL* enamell'd knacks o' the mead or garden!
yea,
We challenge too the bank of any nymph,
That makes the stream seem flowers ; thou, oh,
jewel
Of the wood, of the world, hast likewise bless'd
a place
142
With thy sole presence ! In thy rumination
That I, poor man, might eftsoons come between
And chop on some cold thought ! Thrice blessed
chance,
To drop on such a mistress, expectation
Most guiltless of 't ! Tell me, oh, lady Fortune,
(Next after Emily my sovereign,) how far
I may be proud. She takes strong note of me,
Hath made me near her, and this beauteous
morn
(The prim'st of all the year) presents me with
A brace of horses ; two such steeds might well
Be by a pair of kings back'd, in a field
That their crowns' titles tried. Alas, alas,
Poor cousin Palamon, poor prisoner ! thou
So little dream' st upon my fortune, that
Thou think'st thyself the happier thing, to be
So near Emilia ; me thou deem'st at Thebes,
ACT IILj
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
And therein wretched, although free : but if
Thou knew'st my mistress breath'd on me, and
that
I ear'd her language, liv'd in her eye, oh, ooz,
What passion would enclose thee !
Enter PALAMON, as out of a Busfi, with his
Shackles ; bends hisjist at AB.CITE,
Pal. Traitor kinsman !
Thou shouldst perceive my passion, if these
signs
Of prisonment were off me, and this hand
But owner of a sword. By all oaths in one,
I, and the justice of my love, would make thee
A confess' d traitor ! Oh, thou most perfidious
That ever gently look'd ! the void'st of honour
That e 'er bore gentle token ! falsest cousin
That ever blood made kin ! call'st thou her
thine?
I '11 prove it in my shackles, with these hands
Void of appointment/ that thou liest, and art
A very thief in love, a chaffy lord,
Nor worth the name of villain ! Had I a sword,
And these house-clogs away
Arc. Dear cousin Palamon
Pal. Cozener Arcite, give me language such
As thou hast show'd me feat !
Arc. Not finding in
The circuit of my breast, any gross stuff
To form me like your blazon, holds me to
This gentleness of answer : 't is your passion
That thus mistakes; the which to you being
enemy,
Cannot to me be kind. Honour and honesty
I cherish, and depend on, howsoe'er
You skip them in me, and with them, fair coz,
I '11 maintain my proceedings. Pray be pleas'd
To show in generous terms your griefs, since
that
Your question 's with your equal, who professes
To clear his own way with the mind and sword
Of a true gentleman.
Pal. That thou durst, Arcite !
Arc. My coz, my coz, you have been well
advertis'd
How much I dare: you've seen me use my
sword
Against th' advice of fear. Sure, of another
You would not hear me doubted, but your
silence
Should break out, though i' the sanctuary.
Pal. Sir,
I 've seen you move in such a place, which well
Without preparation of armour or weapon.
Might justify your manhood ; you were calt'd
A good knight and a bold: but the whole week 's
not fair,
If any day it rain. Their valiant temper
Men lose, when they incline to treachery ;
And then they fight like compell'd bears, would
%
Were they not tied.
Arc. Kinsman, you might as well
Speak this, and act it in your glass, as to
His ear, which now disdains you.
Pal. Come up to me :
Quit me of these cold gyves, give me a sword
(Though it be rusty), and the charity
Of one meal lend me ; come before me then,
A good sword in thy hand, and do but say
That Emily is thine, I will forgive
The trespass thou hast done me, yea, my life,
If then thou carry 't; and brave souls in shades,
That have died manly, which will seek of me
Some news from earth, they shall get none but
this,
That thou art brave and noble.
Arc. Be content ;
Again betake you to your hawthorn-house.
With counsel of the night, I will be here
With wholesome viands ; these impediments
Will I file off ; you shall have garments, and
Perfumes to kill the smell o' the prison ; after,
When you shall stretch yourself, and say but,
' Arcite,
I am in plight ! ' there shall be at your choice
Both sword and armour.
Pal. Oh, you heav'ns, dare any
So noble bear a guilty business ? None
But only Arcite ; therefore none but Arcite
In this kind is so bold.
Arc. Sweet Palamon
Pal. I do embrace you and your offer : for
Your offer do 't I only, sir ; your person,
Without hypocrisy, I may not wish
More than my sword's edge on 't.
\Wind horns of cornets.
Arc. You hear the horns :
Enter your musit," lest this match between us
Be cross'd ere met. Give me your hand ; fare-
well:
I '11 bring you every needful thing : I pray you,
Take comfort, and be strong
Pal. Pray hold your promise,
And do the deed with a bent brow; most
certain
The oripinal has, " enter your music." Seward reads
"muse quick," explaining mute to be "the muse of a hare."
Weber adopts muse, but omits quick. We substitute muiit,
which has the same meaning. See note on Venus and Adonis.
143
III.]
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
[SCESES II., III.
You love me not : be rough with me, and pour
This oil out of your language : by this air,
I could for each word give a cuff ; my stomach
Not reconcil'd by reason.
Arc. Plainly spoken.
let pardon me hard language : when I spur
My horse, I chide him not ; content and anger
\J7ind horns.
In me have but one face. Hark, sir ! they call
The scattered to the banquet : you must guess
I have an office there.
Pal. Sir, your attendance
Cannot please Heaven ; and I know your office
Unjustly is achiev'd.
Arc. I 've a good title,
I am persuaded : this question, sick between us,
By bleeding must be cur'd. I am a suitor
That to your sword you will bequeath this plea,
And talk of it no more.
Pal. But this one word :
You are going now to gaze upon my mistress ;
For, note you, mine she is
Arc. Nay, then
Pal. Nay, pray you !
You talk of feeding me to breed me strength :
You are going now to look upon a sun
That strengthens what it looks on ; there you
have
A vantage o'er me ; but enjoy it till
I may enforce my remedy. Farewell
{Exeunt.
SCENE II.
Enter Gaoler'* DAUGHTER.
Daugh. He has mistook the brake' I meant ; is
gone
After his fancy. 'T is now well-nigh morning ;
No matter ! 'would it were perpetual night,
And darkness lord o' the world ! Hark ! 't is a
wolf:
In me hath grief slain fear, and, but for one
thing,
I care for nothing, and that 's Palamon :
I reck not if the wolves would jaw me, so
He had this file. What if I halloo'd for him ?
I cannot halloo : if I whoop' d, what then ?
If he not answer' d, I should call a wolf,
And do him but that service. I have heard
Strange howls this live-long night ; why may 't
not be
They have made prey of him? He has no
weapons;
The original has beakt. M. Mason suggested brake.
He cannot run ; the jingling of his gyves
Might call fell things to listen, who have in
them
A sense to know a man unarm' d, and can
Smell where resistance is. I '11 set it down
He 's torn to pieces ; they howl'd many toge-
ther,
And then they fed on him : so much for that !
Be bold to ring the bell ; how stand I then ?
All's chared* when he is gone. No, no, I lie;
My father 's to be hang'd for his escape ;
Myself to beg, if I priz'd life so much
As to deny my act ; but that I would not,
Should I try death by dozens. I am mop'd :
Food took I none these two days ;
Sipp'd some water ; I have not clos'd mine eyes,
Save when my lids scower'd off their brine.
Alas,
Dissolve, my life ! let not my sense unsettle,
Lest I should drown, or stab, or hang myself !
Oh, state of nature, fail together in me,
Since thy best props are warp'd ! So, which
way now ?
The best way is the next way to a grave :
Each errant step beside is torment. Lo,
The moon is down, the crickets chirp, the
screech-owl
Calls in the dawn ! all offices are done,.
Save what I fail in : but the point is this,
An end, and that is all. {Exit.
SCENE III.
Enter AKCITE, with Meat, Wine, and Files.
Arc. I should be near the place. Ho, cousin
Palamon !
Enter PALAMON.
Pal. Arcite ?
Arc. The same : I 've brought you food and
files.
Come forth, and fear not ; here 's no Theseus.
Pal. Nor none so honest, Arcite.
Arc. That 's no matter ;
We '11 argue that hereafter. Come, take cou-
rage ;
You shall not die thus beastly ; here, sir, drink !
I know you 're faint ; then I '11 talk further
with you.
Pal. Arcite, thou mightst now poison me.
Arc. I might ;
All 't chared. Weber says that this means " my task
Is done," chare being used in the sense of a task. Chare is
a turn a job of work. Mr. Dyce (note in ' Love's Cure,'
Act in. Sc. II.), sho.vs that early writers used chared in the
sense of dispatched.
ACI III.]
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
[8c IV.
But I must fear you first. Sit down ; and, good
now,
No more of these vain parleys ! Let us not,
Having our ancient reputation with us,
Make talk for fools and cowards. To your
health !
Pal. Do.
Arc. Pray sit down then ; and let me entreat
you,
By all the honesty and honour in you,
No mention of this woman ! 't will disturb us ;
We shall have time enough.
Pal. Well, sir, I '11 pledge you.
Arc. Drink a good hearty draught ; it breeds
good blood, man.
Do not you feel it thaw you ?
Pal. Stay ; I '11 tell you after a draught or
two more.
4rc. Spare it not; the duke has more, coz.
Eat now !
Pal. Yes.
Arc. I am glad you have so good a stomach.
Pal. I am gladder I have so good meat to 't.
Arc. Is 't not mad lodging here in the wild
woods, cousin?
Pal. Yes, for them that have wild consciences.
Arc. How tastes your victuals ? Your hunger
needs no sauce, I see.
Pal. Not much :
But if it did, yours is too tart, sweet cousin.
What is this P
Arc. Venison.
Pal. 'T is a lusty meat.
Give me more wine : here, Arcite, to the wenches
We have known in our days ! The lord-steward's
daughter ;
Do you remember her ?
Arc. After you, coz.
Pal. She lov'd a black-hair'd man.
Arc. She did so : well, sir ?
Pal. And I have heard some call him Arcite ;
and
Arc. Out with it, faith !
Pal. She met him in an arbour :
What did she there, coz ? Play o' the virginals ?
Arc. Something she did, sir.
Pal. Made her groan a month for 't ;
Or two, or three, or ten.
Arc. The marshal's sister
Had her share too, as I remember, cousin,
Else there be tales abroad : you '11 pledge her P
Pal. Yes.
Arc. A pretty brown wench 't is ! There was
a time
When young men went a-hunting, and a wood,
SDF. VOL. L
And a broad beech ; and thereby hangs a tale.
Heigh-ho !
Pal. For Emily, upon my life ! Fool,
Away with this strain'd mirth ! I say again,
That sigh was breath'd for Emily : base cousin.
Dar'st thou break first ?
Arc. You 're wide.
Pal. By Heav'n and earth, there 's nothing in
thee honest !
Arc. Then I '11 leave you : you are a beast
now.
Pal. As thou mak'st me, traitor.
Arc. There 's all things needful; files, and
shirts, and perfumes :
I '11 come again some two hours hence, and
bring
That that shall quiet all.
Pal. A sword and armour ?
Arc. Fear me not. You are now too foul :
farewell !
Get off your trinkets ; you shall want nought.
Pal. Sirrah
Arc. I '11 hear no more ! [Exit.
Pal. If he keep touch, he dies for 't ! [Exit.
SCENE IV.
Enter Gaoler's DAUGHTER.
Laugh. I 'm very cold ; and all the stars are
out too,
The little stars, and all that look like aglets :
The sun has seen my folly. Palamon !
Alas, no ; he 's in heav'n ! Where am I now P
Yonder 's the sea, and there 's a ship ; how 't
tumbles !
And there 's a rock lies watching under water ;
Now, now, it beats upon it ! now, now, now !
There 's a leak sprung, a sound one ; how they
cry!
Spoom her before the wind," you '11 lose all else !
Up with a course or two, and tack about, boys !
Good night, good night ; you 're gone ! I 'm
very hungry :
'Would I could find a fine frog ! he would tell
me
News from all parts o' the world ; then would I
make
A carrack of a cockle-shell, and sail
By east and north-east to the king of pigmies,
For he tells fortunes rarely. Now my father,
Twenty to one, is truss'd up in a trice
To-morrow morning ; I '11 say never a word.
Spoom. The original has upon. There have been
several attempts to render this proper nautical language.
Weber reads, "tpoom her before the wind," which Mr. Djce
adopt*.
145
ACT III.]
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
[SCENE V.
SONG.
For I '11 cut my green coat a foot above my knee :
And I '11 clip my yellow locks an inch below mine eye.
Hey, nonny, nonny, nonny.
He '8 buy me a white cut, forth for to ride,
And I '11 go seek him through the world that is so wide.
Hey, nonny, nonny, nonny.
Oh, for a prick now, like a nightingale,
To put my breast against ! I shall sleep like a
top else. [Exit.
SCENE V.
Enter GERB.OLD, four Countrymen (and the Ba-
vian*), two or three Wenches, with a Taborer.
Ger. Fie, fie!
What tediosity and disensanity
Is here among ye ! Have my rudiments
Been labour'd so long with ye, milk'd unto ye,
And, by a figure, ev*n the very plum-broth
And marrow of my understanding laid upon ye,
And do ye still cry 'where,' and 'how,' and
' wherefore ?'
Ye most coarse frieze capacities, ye j ape b judg-
ments,
Have I said ' thus let be,' and ' there let be,'
And 'then let be,' and no man understand me ?
Pro Deum, medius fidius ; ye are all dunces !
For why, here stand I ; here the duke comes ;
there are you,
Close in the thicket; the duke appears ; I meet
him,
And unto him I utter learned things,
And many figures ; he hears, and nods, and
hums,
And then cries 'rare!' and I go forward; at
length
I fling my cap up ; mark there ! then do you,
As once did Meleager and the boar,
Break comely out before him, like true lovers,
Cast yourselves in a body decently,
And sweetly, by a figure, trace and turn, boys !
1 Covn. And sweetly we will do it, master
Gerrold.
2 Conn. Draw up the company. Where 's the
taborer ?
3 Coun. Why, Timothy !
Tab. Here, my mad boys ; have at ye !
Ger. But I say where 's their women ?
4 Coun. Here 's Friz and Maudlin.
2 Coun. And little Luce with the white legs,
and bouncing Barbary.
Fletcherusesthis termforacharacterin the morris-dance.
*> Jape. The original has jave. Seward reads tleave. At
no one can explain jave, and tleave, the sleave of silk, is
almost meaningless, we substitute jape, belonging to a
biiffoo:!, ajaper. Mr. Dyce would read jane, the stuff called
jran.
140
1 Coun. And freckled Nell, that never fail'd
her master.
Ger. Where be your ribands, maids ? Swim
with your bodies,
And carry it sweetly, and deliverly ;
And now and then a favour and a frisk.
Nell. Let us alone, sir.
Ger. Where 's the rest o' th' music ?
3 Coun. Dispers'd as you commanded.
Ger. Couple then,
And see what 's wanting. Where 's the Ba-
vian?
My friend, carry your tail without offence
Or scandal to the ladies ; and be sure
You tumble with audacity and manhood ;
And when you bark, do it with judgment.
Bav. Yes, sir.
Ger. Quo usque tandem? Here 's a woman
wanting.
4 Coun. We may go whistle ; all the fat 's
i' th' fire !
Ger. We have,
As learned authors utter, wash'd a tile ;
We have beenfatu/ts, and labour'd vainly.
3 Coun. This is that scornful piece, that
scurvy hilding,
That crave her promise faithfully she would be
here,
Cicely, the sempster's daughter.
The next gloves that I give her shall be dog's
skin;
Nay, an she fail me once You can tell, Areas,
She swore by wine and bread, she would not
break.
Ger. An eel and woman,
A learned poet says, unless by the t'ail
And with thy teeth thou hold, will either fail.
In manners this was false position.
1 Coun. A fire ill take her ! does she flinch
now?
3 Coun. What
Shall we determine, sir ?
Ger. Nothing ;
Our business is become a nullity.
Yea, and a woful, and a piteous nullity.
4 Coun. Now, when the credit of our town
lay on it,
Now to be frampal !
Go thy ways : I '11 remember thee, I '11 fit
thee!
Enter Gaoler's DAUGHTER.
DuugJl, The George alow came from the south,
From the coast of Bafbary-a.
And there he met with brave gallants of war,
By one, by two, by three-a.
ACT III.]
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
[SCEME V
Well hail'cl. well hail'd, you jolly gallants!
And whither now are you bound-at
Oh, let me have your company
Till I come to the Sound-a !
There was three fools, fell out about an howlet :
The one said 't was an owl,
The other he said nay,
The third he said it was a hawk,
And her bells weie cut away.
3 Conn. There is a dainty mad woman,
master,
Comes i' th' nick ; as mad as a March hare !
If we can get her dance, we 're made again :
I warrant her, she Ml do the rarest gambols !
1 Coun. A mad woman ? We are made, boys !
Ger. And are you mad, good woman ?
Dauffh. I would be sorry else ;
Give me your hand.
Ger. ' Why?
Daugh. I can tell your fortune :
You are a fool. Tell ten : I 've pos'd him.
Buz!
Friend, you must eat no white bread ; if you do,
Your teeth will bleed extremely. Shall we
dance, ho?
I know you ; you 're a tinker : sirrah tinker,
Stop no more holes, but what you should.
Ger. Dii boni ! A tinker, damsel ?
Daugh. Or a conjurer :
Raise me a devil now, and let him play
Qui passa o' th' bells and bones !
Ger. Go, take her,
And fluently persuade her to a peace.
Afque opus exegi, quod nee Jovis ira, nee
ignis
Strike up, and lead her in.
2 Coun. Come, lass, let 's trip it.
Daugh. I '11 lead. [ Wind horns.
3 Coun. Do, do.
Ger. Persuasively, and cunningly; away,
boys ! [Exeunt all biit GEKROLD.
1 hear the horns : give me some meditation,
And mark your cue. Piillas inspire me !
Enter THESEUS, PERITHOTJS, HIPPOLYTA, EMILIA,
ARCITE, and Train.
Thes. This way the stag took.
Ger. Stay, and edify !
Thes. What have we here ?
Per. Some country sport, upon my life, sir.
Thes. Well, sir, go forward : we will edify.
Ladies, sit down ; we '11 stay it.
Ger. Thou doughty duke, all hail ! all hail,
sweet ladies !
omitted in the original. Weber reads we.
L2
Thes. This is a cold beginning.
Ger. If you but favour, our country pastime
made is.
We are a few of those collected here,
That ruder tongues distinguish villager ;
And to say verity, and not to fable,
We are a merry rout, or else a rabble,
Or company, or by a figure, chorus,
That 'fore thy dignity will dance a morris.
And I that am the rectifier of all,
By title, Pedagogus, that let fall
The birch upon the breeches of the small ones,
And humble with a ferula the tall ones,
Do here present this machine, or this frame :
And, dainty duke, whose doughty dismal fame
From Dis to Dedalus, from post to pillar,
Is blown abroad : help me, thy poor well-wilier,
And with thy twinkling eyes, look right and
straight
Upon this mighty morrof mickle weight ;
/* now comes in, which being glew'd together
Makes morris, and the cause that we came
hither,
The body of our sport of no small study.
I first appear, though rude, and raw, and muddy,
To speak before thy noble grace, this tenor :
At whose great feet I offer up my penner."
The next, the lord of May, and lady bright,
The chambermaid, and servingman, by night
That seek out silent hanging : then mine host,
And his fat spouse, that welcome to their cost
The galled traveller, and with a beck'mng
Inform the tapster to inflame the reck'ning :
Then the beast-eating clown, and next the
fool,
The Bavian, with long tail, and eke long tool ;
Cum multis aliis, that make a dance ;
Say ' ay,' and all shall presently advance.
Thes. Ay, ay, by any means, dear domiue !
Per. Produce.
Ger. Intrateflii ! Come forth, and foot it.
Enter Countrymen, Sec. They dance.
Ladies, if we have been merry,
And have pleas' d ye with a deny,
And a derry, and a down,
Say the schoolmaster 's no clown.
Duke, if we have pleas'd thee too,
And have done as good boys should do,
Give us but a tree or twain
For a Maypole, and again,
Ere another year run out,
We '11 make thee laugh, and all this rout.
Pcnntr case for holding pen*.
ACT III.]
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
[SCENE VI
Tlies. Take twenty, domine. How does my
sweetheart ?
Hip. Never so pleas'd, sir.
Smi. 'T was an excellent dance ;
And, for a preface, I never heard a better.
Thes. Schoolmaster, I thank you. One see
them all rewarded !
Per. And here 's something to paint your
pole withal.
Thes. Now to our sports again !
Ger. May the stag thou hunt'st stand long,
And thy dogs be swift and strong !
May they kill him without letts,
And the ladies eat 's dowsets !
Come, we are all made ! [Wind horns.
IHi Deenque omnes ! ye have danc'd rarely,
wenches. [Exeunt.
SCENE VI.
Enter PAIAMON^OOT the Bush.
Pal. About this hour my cousin gave his faith
To visit me again, and with him bring
-Two swords and two good armours ; if he fail
He 's neither man, nor soldier. When he left me,
I did not think a week could have restor'd
My lost strength to me, I was grown so low
And crest-fall'n with my wants : I thank thee,
Arcite,
Thou 'rt yet a fair foe ; and I feel myself,
With this refreshing, able once again
To out-dure danger. To delay it longer
Would make the world think, when it comes to
hearing,
That I lay fatting, like a swine, to fight,
And not a soldier : therefore this bless'd morn-
ing
Shall be the last ; and that sword he refuses,
Tf it but hold, I kill him with : 't is justice :
So, Love and Fortune for me ! Oh, good mor-
row!
Enter AKCITE, with armours and sicords.
Arc. Good morrow, noble kinsman !
Pal. I have put you
To too much pains, sir.
Arc. That too much, fair cousin,
Is but a debt to honour, and my duty.
Pal. 'Would you were so in all, sir ! I could
wish you
As kind a kinsman, as you force me find
A beneficial foe, that my embraces
Might thank you, not my blows.
Arc. I shall think either,
Well done, a noble recompense.
148
Pal. Then I shall quit you.
Arc. Defy me in these fair terms, and yov.
show
More than a mistress to me : no more anger,
As you love anything that 'a honourable !
We were not bred to talk, man; when we 'ie
arm'd,
And both upon our guards, then let our fury,
Like meeting of two tides, fly strongly from us ;
And then to whom the birthright of this beauty
Truly pertains (without upbraidings, scorns,
Despisings of our persons, and such poutings,
Fitter for girls and schoolboys) will be seen,
And quickly, yours, or mine. Will 't please you
arm, sir?
Or, if you feel yourself not fitting yet,
And furnish'd with your old strength, I '11 stay,
cousin,
And every day discourse you into health,
As I am spar'd : your person I am friends with,
And I could wish I had not said I lov'd her,
Though I had died ; but loving such a lady,
And justifying my love, I must not fly from 't.
Pal. Arcite, thou art so brave an enemy,
That no man but thy cousin 's fit to kill thee:
I 'm well and lusty ; choose your arms !
Arc. Choose you, sir .
Pal. Wilt thou exceed in all, or dost thou
do it
To make me spare thee ?
Arc. If you think so, cousin,
You are deceiv'd ; for, as I am a soldier,
I '11 not spare you !
Pal. That 's well said !
Arc. You will find it.
Pal. Then, as I am an honest man, and love
With all the justice of affection,
I '11 pay thee soundly ! This I '11 take.
Arc. That 's mine theu ;
I '11 arm you first.
Pal. Do. Pray thee tell me, cousin
Where gott'st thou this good armour?
Arc. 'T is the duke's
And, to say true, I stole it. Do I pinch you P
Pal. No.
Arc. Is 't not too heavy ?
Pal. I have worn a lighter
But I shall make it serve.
Arc. I '11 buckle 't close.
Pal. By any means.
Arc. You care not for a grand-guard ?'
Pal. No, no ; we '11 use no horses .- I per-
ceive
You would fain be at that fight.
1 Grand-guard armour for equestrians.
ACT III.]
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
[SCEHl VI.
Arc. I 'm indifferent.
Pal. faith, so am I. Good cousin, thrust
the buckle
Through far enough !
Arc. I warrant you.
Pal. My casque now !
Arc. Will you fight bare-arm'd ?
Pal. We shall be the nimbler.
Arc. But use your gauntlets though : tho?e
are o' the least ;
Prithee take mine, good cousin,
Pal. Thank you, Arcite.
How do I look ? am I fall'n much away ?
Arc. Faith, very little; Love has us'd you
kindly.
Pal. I '11 warrant thee I '11 strike home.
Arc. Do, and spare not !
1 '11 give you cause, sweet cousin.
Pal. Now to you, sir !
Methinks this armour 's very like that, Arcite,
Thou wor'st that day the three kings fell, but
lighter.
Arc. That was a very good one ; and that day,
I well remember, you outdid me, cousin ;
I never saw such valour : when you charg'd
Upon the left wing of the enemy,
I spurr'd hard to come up, and under me
I had a right good horse.
Pal. You had indeed ;
A bright-bay, I remember.
Arc. Yes. But all
Was vainly labour'd in me ; you outwent me,
Nor could my wishes reach you : yet a little
I did by imitation.
Pal. More by virtue ;
You 're modest, cousin.
Arc. When I saw you charge first,
Methought I heard a dreadful clap of thunder
Break from the troop.
Pal. But stilJ before that flew
The lightning of your valour , Stay a little !
Is not this piece too strait ?
Arc. No, no ; 't is well
Pal. I would have nothing hurt thee but my
sword ;
A bruise would be dishonour.
Arc. Now I 'm perfect.
Pal. Stand off then!
Arc. Take my sword; I hold it better.
Pal. I thank you, no ; keep it ; your life lies
on it:
Here 's one, if it but hold, I ask no more
For all my hopes. My cause and honour
guard me ! {They bow several
ways ; then advance and stand.
Arc. And me, my love ! Is there aught else
to say ?
Pal. This only, and no more : thou art mine
aunt's son,
And that blood we desire to shed is mutual ;
In me, thine, and in thee, mine : my sword
Is in my hand, and if thou killest me
The gods and I forgive thee ! If there be
A place prepar'd for those that sleep in honour,
I wish his weary soul that falls may win it.
Fight bravely, cousin ; give me thy noble hand;
Arc. Here, Palamon. This hand shall never
more
Come near thee with such friendship.
Pal. I commend thee.
Arc. If I fall, curse me, and say I was a
coward ;
For none but such dare die in these just trials.
Once more, farewell, my cousin !
Pal. Farewell, Arcite ! [Fight.
{Horns within ; they stand.
Arc. Lo, cousin, lo ! our folly has undone us !
Pal. Why?
Arc. This is the duke, a-hunting as I told
you;
If we be found, we 're wretched; Oh, retire,
For honour's sake and safety, presently
Into your bush again, sir ! We shall find
Too many hours to die in. Gentle cousin,
If you be seen you perish instantly,
For breaking prison ; and I, if you reveal me,
For my contempt : then all the world will scorn
us,
And say we had a noble difference,
But base disposers of it.
Pal. No, no, cousin;
I will no more be hidden, nor put off
This great adventure to a second trial.
I know your cunning, and I know your cause.
He that faints now shame take him ! Put thy-
self
Upon thy present guard
Arc. You are not mad ?
Pal. Or I will make th' advantage of this
hour
Mine own ; and what to come shall threaten me,
I fear less than my fortune. Know, weak
cousin,
I love Emilia; and in that I '11 bury
Thee, and all crosses else.
Arc. Then come what can come,
Thou shalt know, Palamon, I dare as well
Die, as discourse, or sleep : only this fears me,
The law will have the honour of our ends.
Have at thy life !
149
ACT III.]
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
[SCENE VL
Pal. Look to thine own well, Arcite !
[Fight again. Horns.
Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, EMILIA, PERI-
THOtrs, and Train.
What ignorant and mad malicious trai-
tors
Are you, that, 'gainst the tenor of my laws,
Are making battle, thus like knights appointed,
"Without my leave, and officers of arms ?
By Castor, "both shall die !
Pal. Hold thy word, Theseus.
We 're certainly both traitors, both despisers
Of thse and of thy goodness : I am Palamon,
That cannot love thee, he that broke thy prison ;
Think well what that deserves ! and this is
Arcite;
A bolder traitor never trod thy ground,
A falser ne'er seem'd friend : this is the man
Was begg'd and banish'd; this is he contemns
thee,
And what thou dar'st do ; and in this disguise,
Against thy own edict, follows thy sister,
That fortunate bright star, the fair Emilia,
(Whose servant, if there be a right in seeing,
And first bequeathing of the soul to, justly
I am;) and, which is more, dares think her
his.
This treachery, like a most trusty lover,
I cafl'd him now to answer : if thou beest,
As thou art spoken, great and virtuous,
The true decider of all injuries,
Say, 'Fight again!' and thou shalt see me,
Theseus,
Bo such a justice, thou thyself wilt envy ;
Then take my life; I '11 woo thee to 't.
Per. Oh, Heaver-,
What more than man is this !
The*. I 've sworn.
Arc. We seek oiot
Thy breath of mercv, Theseus. T is to me
A thing as soon to die, as thee to say it,
And no more mov'd. Where this man calls me
traitor,
Let me say thus much : if in love be treason,
In service of so excellent a beauty,
As I love most, and in that faith will perish ;
As I have brought my life here to confirm it ;
As I have seiVd her truest, worthiest ;
As I dare kill this cousin, that denies it ;
So let me be most traitor, and you please me.
For scorning thy edict, duke, ask that lady
\^ hy she is fair, and why her eyes command me
Stay here to love her ; and if she sav traitor,
I am a villain fit to Ik unburied.
Pal. Thou shalt liave pity of us both, oh,
Theseus,
If unto neither thou show mercy ; stop,
As thou art just, thy noble ear against us ;
As thou art valiant, for thy cousin's soul,
Whose twelve strong labours crown his memory.
Let 's die together at one instant, duke !
Only a little let him fall before me,
That I may tell my soul he shall not have her.
Tfk.'s. I grant your wish; for, to say true,
your cousin
Has ten times more offended, for I gave him
More mercy than you found, sir, your offences
Being no more than his. None here speak for
them!
For, ere the sun set, both shall sleep for ever.
Hip. Alas, the pity ! now or never, sister,
Speak, not to be denied : that face of yours
Will bear the curses else of after-ages,
For these lost cousins.
Emi. In my face, dear sister,
I find no anger to them, nor no ruin ;
The misadventure of their own eyes Mis them :
Yet that I will be woman, and have pity,
My knees shall grow to the ground but I '11 get
mercy.
Help me, dear sister ! in a deed so virtuous,
The powers of all women will be with us.
Most royal brother
Hip. Sir, by our tie of marriage
SmL By your own spotless honour
Hip. By that faith,
That fair hand, and that honest heart you gave
me
SKI. By that you would have pity in another,
By your own virtues infinite
Hip. By valour,
By all the chaste nights I have ever pleas'd
you
Thct. These are strange conjurings !
Per. Nay, then I '11 in too :
By all our friendship, sir, by all our dangers,
By all you love most, wars, and this sweet lady
Emi. By that you would have trembled to
deny
A blushing maid
Hip. By your own eyes, by strength,
In which you swore I went beyond all women,
Almost all men, and yet I yielded, Theseus
Pf> . To crown all this, by your most noble
soul,
Which cannot want due mercy ! I beg first.
Hip. Next hear my prayers !
. let me entreat, sir !
Pfr. For mercv !
ACT III.]
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
VL
Hip. Mercy !
Emi. Mercy on these princes !
Thes. You make my faith reel : say I felt
Compassion to them both, how would you place
it?
Eni. Upon their lives ; but with their banish-
ments.
Thes. You 're a right woman, sister ; you have
But want the understanding where to use it.
If you desire their lives, invent a way
Safer than banishment : can these two live,
And have the agony of love about them,
And not kill one another ? Every day
They 'd fight about you; hourly bring your
honour
In public question with their swords: be wise
then,
And here forget them ! it concerns your credit,
And my oath equally : I have said, they die.
Better they fall by the law than one another.
Bow not my honour.
Emi. Oh, my noble brother,
That oath was rashly made, and in your anger;
Your reason will not hold it : if such vows
Stand for express will, all the world must perish.
Beside, I have another oath 'gainst yours,
Of more authority, I 'm sure more love ;
Not made in passion neither, but good heed.
Thes. What is it, sister ?
Per. Urge it home, brave lady !
Emi. That you would ne'er deny me anything
Fit for my modest suit, and your free granting :
I tie you to your word now ; if you fail in 't,
Think how you maim your honour ;
(For now I 'm set a-begging, sir, I 'm deaf
To all but your compassion ;) how their lives
Might breed the ruin of my name's opinion !*
Shall anything that loves me perish for me ?
That were a cruel wisdom ! do men prune
The straight young boughs that blush with thou-
sand blossoms,
Because they may be rotten? Oh, duke The-
seus,
The goodly mothers that have groan'd for these,
And all the longing maids that ever lov*d,
If your vow stand, shall curse me and my beauty,
And, in their funeral songs for these two cousins,
Despise my cruelty, and cry woe -worth me,
Till I am nothing but the scorn of women :
For Heaven's sake save their lives, and banish
them !
We adopt a suggestion of M. Mason. The original has,
name, opinion." Opinion is used in the sense of reputa-
Thes. On what conditions ?
Emi. Swear them never more
To make me their contention, or to know me^
To tread upon thy dukedom, and to be,
Wherever they shall travel, ever strangers
To one another.
Pal. I '11 be cut a-pieces
Before I take this oath ! Forget I love her ?
Oh, all ye gods, despise me then ! Thy banisn-
ment
I not mislike, so we may fairly carry
Our swords and cause along ; else never trifle,
But take our lives, duke. I must love, and will ;
And for that love, must and dare kill this cousin,
On any piece the earth has.
Thes. Will you, Arcite,
Take these conditions ?
Pal. He 's a villain then !
Per. These are men !
Arc. No, never, duke ; 't is worse to me than
begging,
To take my life so basely. Though I think
I never shall enjoy her, yet I '11 preserve
The honour of affection, and die for her,
Make death a devil.
Thes. What may be done ? for now I fed
compassion.
Per. Let it not fall again, sir.
Thes. Say, Emilia,
If one of them were dead, as one must, are you
Content to take the other to your husband ?
They cannot both enjoy you ; they are princes
As goodly as your own eyes, and as noble
As ever Fame yet spoke of; look upon them,
And if you can love, end this difference
I give consent ; are you content, too, princes ?
Both. With all our souls.
Thes. He that she refuses
Must die then.
Both. Any death thou canst invent, duke.
Pal. If I fall from that mouth, I fall with
favour,
And lovers yet unborn shall bless my ashes.
Arc. If she refuse me, yet my grave will wed
me,
And soldiers sing my epitaph.
Thes. Make choice then.
Emi. I cannot, sir ; they 're both too excellent:
For me, a hair shall never fall of these men.
Hip. What will become of them ?
Thes. Thus I ordain it :
And, by mine honour, once again it stands,
Or both shall die! You shall both to your
country:
And each within this month, accompanied
151
A.CT III.]
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
[SCENE VI.
With three fair knights, appear again in this
place,
In which I '11 plant a pyramid : and whether,
Before us that are here, can force his cousin
By fair and knightly strength to touch the pillar,
He shall enjoy her ; the other lose his head,
And all his friends: nor shall he grudge to
fall,
Nor think he dies with interest in this lady :
Will this content ye ?
Pal. Yes. Here, cousin Arcite,
I 'm friends again till that hour
Arc. I embrace you.
Thes. Are you content, sister ?
Emi. Yes : I must, sir ;
Else both miscarry.
Thes. Come, shake hands again then !
And take heed, as you're gentlemen, this quarrel
Sleep till the hour prefix'd, and hold your course.
Pal. We dare not fail thee, Theseus.
Thes. Come, I '11 give ye
Now usage like to princes and to friends.
When ye return, who wins, I '11 settle here ;
Who loses, yet I '11 weep upon his bier. [Exeunt
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
Enift GAOLER and a Friend.
Gaoler. Hear you no more? Was nothing
said of me
Concerning the escape of Palamon ?
Good sir, remember !
1 Friend. Nothing that I heard ;
For I came home before the business
Was fully ended : yet I might perceive,
Ere I departed, a great likelihood
Of both their pardons ; for Hippolyta,
And i'air-ey'd Emily, upon their knees
Begg'rt with such handsome pity, that the duke
Methought stood staggering whether he should
follow
His rash oath, or the sweet compassion
Of those two ladies ; and to second them,
That truly noble prince Perithous,
Half his own heart set in too, that I hope
All shall be well : neither heard I one question
Of your name, or his 'scape.
Enter Second Friend.
Gaoler. Pray Heav'n, it hold so !
2 Friend. Be of good comfort, man ! I bring
you news,
Good news.
Gaoler. They 're welcome.
2 Friend. Palamon has clear'd you,
And got your pardon, and discover'd how
And by whose means he 'scap'd, which was
your daughter's,
Whose pardon is procur*d too ; and the prisoner
m
ACT IV.l
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
[SCENB I.
(Not to be held ungrateful to her goodness)
Has given a sum of money to her marriage,
A large one, I '11 assure you.
Gaoler. You 're a good man,
And ever bring good news,
1 Friend. How was it ended ?
2 Friend. Why, as it should be; they that
never begg'd
But they prevail' d, had their suits fairly granted.
The prisoners have their lives.
1 Friend. I knew 't would be so.
2 Friend. But there be new conditions which
you '11 hear of
At better time.
Gaoler. I hope they 're good.
2 Friend. They 're honourable :
How good they '11 prove, I know not.
Enter Wooer.
1 Friend. 'T will be known.
Wooer. Alas, sir, where 's your daughter?
Gaoler. Why do you ask ?
Wooer. Oh, sir, when did you see her ?
2 Friend. How he looks !
Gaoler. This morning.
Woozr. Was she well? was she in health, sir?
When did she sleep ?
1 Ft lend. These are strange questions.
Gaoler. I do not think she was very well ;
for, now
You make me mind her, but this very day
1 ask'd her questions, and she answer'd rae
So far from what she was, so childishly,
So sillily, as if she were a fool,
An innocent ! and I was very angry.
But what of her, sir ?
Wooer. Nothing but my pity ;
But you must know it, and as good by me
As by another that less loves her.
Gaoler. Well, sir ?
1 Friend. Not right?
2 Friend. Not well?
Wooer. No, sir ; not well :
'T is too true, she is mad.
1 Friend. It cannot be.
Wooer. Believe, you '11 find it so.
Gaoler. I half suspected
What you have toid me ; the gods comfort her !
Either this was her love to Palamon,
Or fear of my miscarrying on his 'scape,
Or both.
Wooer. 'T is likely.
Gaoler. But why all this haste, sir ?
Wooer. I '11 tell you quickly. As I late was
angling
154
In the great lake that lies behind the palace,
From the far shore, thick set with reeds and
As patiently I was attending sport,
I heard a voice, a slirill one ; and attentive
I gave my ear ; when I might well perceive
'T was one that sung, and, by the smallness of it,
'A boy or woman. I then left my angle
To his own skill, came near, but yet perceiv'd not
Who made the sound, the rushes and the reeds
Had so encompass'd it : I laid me down
And listen'd to the words she sung ; for then,
Through a small glade cut by the fishermen,
I saw it was your daughter.
Gaoler. Pray go on, sir !
Wooer. She sung much, but no sense; only
I heard her
Repeat this often : ' Palamon is gone,
Is gone to the wood to gather mulberries ;
I '11 find him out to-morrow.'
1 Friend. Pretty soul !
Wooer. ' His shackles will betray him, he, '11
be taken ;
And what shall I do then ? I '11 bring a bevy,
A hundred black-ey'd maids that love as I do,
With chaplets on their heads, of daffadillies,
With cherry lips, and cheeks of damask roses,
And all we '11 dance an antic 'fore the duke,
And beg his pardon.' Then she talk'd of you,
sir;
That you must lose your head to-morrow morn-
ing,
And she must gather flowers to bury you,
And see the house made handsome : then she
sung
Nothing but ' Willow, willow, willow ; ' and be-
tween
Ever was, ' Palamon, fair Palamon ! '
And 'Palamon was a tall young man!' The
place
Was knee-deep where she sat; her careless
tresses,
A wreath of bulrush rounded; about her stuck
Thousand fresh water-flowers of several colours;
That methought she appear'd like the fair
nymph
That feeds the lake with waters, or as Iris
Newly dropp'd down from heav'n ! Rings she
made
Of rushes that grew by, and to 'em spoke
The prettiest posies; ' Thus our true love 's tied;'
' This you may loose, not me ; ' and many a one :
And then she wept, and sung again, and sigh'd
And with the same breath smil'd, and kiss'd
her hand.
ACT IV.]
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
[SCEKE II.
2 Friend. Alas, what pity 't is !
Wooer. I ma de in to her ;
She saw me, and straight sought the flood ; I
sav'd her,
And set her safe to land ; when presently
She slipp'd away, and to the city made,
With such a cry, and swiftness, that, believe me,
She left me far behind her : three, or four,
I saw from far off cross her, one of them
I knew to be your brother ; where she stay'd,
And fell, scarce to be got away; I left them
with her,
Enter BROTHER, DAUGHTER, and others.
And hither came to tell you. Here they are !
Daugh.
1 May you never more enjoy the light,' &c.
Is not this a fine song ?
Broth. Oh, a very fine one !
Daugh. I can sing twenty more.
Broth. I think you can.
Daugh. Yes, truly can I; I can sing the
Broom,
And Bonny Robin. Are not you a tailor ?
Broth. Yes.
Daugh. Where 's my wedding-gown ?
Broth. I '11 bring it to-morrow.
Daugh. Do, very rearly;" I must be abroad
else,
To call the maids, and pay the minstrels ;
For I must lose my maidenhead by cock-light ;
'T will never thrive else. {Sings.
' Oh, fair, oh, sweet,' &c.
Broth. You must e 'en take it patiently.
Gaoler. 'T is true.
Daugh. Good e 'en, good men ! Pray did you
ever hear
Of one young Palamon ?
Gaoler. Yes, wench, we know him.
Daugh. Is 't not a fine young gentleman ?
Gaoler. 'T is love !
B"M. By no means cross her; she is then
distemper'd
1'ar worse than now she shows.
1 Friend. Yes, he 's a fine man.
Daugh. Oh, is he so ? You have a sister ?
1 Friend. Yes.
Daugh. But she shall never have him, tell
her so,
For a trick that I know : you had best look to
her,
For if she see him once, she 's gone; she 's done,
nearly <:arly. Gay, in nis 'Shepherd's Week,' uses
re.ir as a provincial word, in this sense. The original has
rarely.
And undone in an hour. All the young maids
Of our town are in love with him ; but I laugh
at 'em,
And let 'em all alone ; is 't not a wise course ?
1 Friend. Yes."
Daugh. They come from all parts of the duke
doin to him
I '11 warrant you.
Gaoler. She''s lost, past all cure !
Broth, Heav'n forbid, man !
Daugh. Come hither ; you 're a wise man.
1 Friend. Does she know him ?
2 Friend. No ; 'would she did !
Daugh. You 're master of a ship ?
Gaoler. Yes.
Daugh. Where 's your compass ?
Gaoler. Here.
Daugh. Set it to the north ;
And now direct your course to the wood, where
Palamon
Lies longing for me ; for the tackling
Let me alone : come, weigh, my hearts, cheerly !
All. Owgh, owgh, owgh ! 't is up, the wind
is fair,
Top the bowling ; out with the mainsail !
Where is your whistle, master ?
Broth. Let 's get her in.
Gaoler. Up to the top, boy.
Broth. Where 's the pilot ?
1 Friend. Here.
Daugh. What kenn'st thou ?
2 Friend. A fair wood.
Daugh. Bear for it, master; tack about !
[Sings.
' When Cynthia with her borrow'd light,' &c.
[Exeunt,
SCENE II.
Enter EMILIA, with two pictures.
Emi. Yet I may bind those wounds up, that
must open
And bleed to death for my sake else : I 'L
choose,
And end their strife ; two such young handsome
men
Shall never fall for me : Iheir weeping mothers,
Following the dead-cold ashes of their sons,
Shall never curse my cruelty. Good Heav'n,
What a sweet face has Arcite ! If wise Nature,
We omit some lines here, for the same reason as we
have previously stated. The tendency of Fletcher is to
destroy his own high merits by a wanton indulgence in
pruriency. He loses nothing by occasional omissions; not,
however, regulated by over-fastidiousness.
ACT IV.]
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
[SCBNK H.
With all her best endowments, all those beauties
She sows into the births of noble bodies,
Were here a mortal woman, and had in her
The coy denials of young maids, yet doubtless
She would run mad for this man : what an
eye!
Of what a fiery sparkle, and quick sweetness,
Has this young prince ! here Love himself sits
smiling;
Just such another wanton Ganymede
Set Jove afire, and enforc'd the god
Snatch up the goodly boy, and set him by him
A shining constellation ! what a brow,
Of what a spacious majesty, he carries,
Arch'd like the great-ey'd Juno's, but far
sweeter,
Smoother than Pelops' shoulder! Fame and
Honour,
Methinks, from hence, as from a promontory
Pointed in heav'n, should clap their wings, and
sing
To all the under-world, the loves and fights
Of gods and such men near 'em. Palamon
Is but his foil ; to him, a mere dull shadow ;
He 's swarth and meagre, of an eye as heavy
As if he 'd lost his mother ; a still temper,
No stirring in him, no alacrity ;
Of all this sprightly sharpness, not a smile.
Yet these that we count errors may become
him:
Narcissus was a sad boy, but a heavenly.
Oh, who can find the bent of woman's fancy ?
I am a fool, my reason is lost in me ;
I have no choice, and I have lied so lewdly,
That women ought to beat me. On my
knees
I ask thy pardon, Palamon ! Thou art alone,
And only beautiful ; and these thy eyes,
These the bright lamps of beauty, that com-
mand
And threaten love, and what young maid dare
cross 'em ?
What a bold gravity, and yet inviting,
Has this brown manly face! Oh, Love, this
only
From this hour is complexion ; lie there, Arcite !
Thou art a changeling to him, a mere gipsy,
And this the noble body I am sotted,
Utterly lost ! my virgin's faith has fled me,
For if my brother but e'en now had ask'd me
Whether I lov'd, I had run mad for Arcite ;
Now if my sister, more for Palamon.
Stand both together ! Now, come, ask me,
brother,
Alas, I know not ! ask me now, sweet sister ;
156
I may go look ! What a mere child is fancy,
That, having two fair gawds of equal sweet-
ness,
Cannot distinguish, but must cry for both !
Enter a Gentleman.
How now, sir ?
Gent. From the noble duke, your brother,
Madam, I bring you news : the knights are
come !
Emi. To end the quarrel ?
Gent. Yes.
Emi. 'Would I might end first !
What sins have I committed, chaste Diana,
That my unspotted youth must now be soil'd
With blood of princes ? and my chastity
Be made the altar, where the lives of lovers
(Two greater and two better never yet
Made mothers joy) must be the sacrifice
To my unhappy beauty ?
Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, PERITHOUS, and
Attendants.
Thes. Bring them in
Quickly by any means. I long to see them.
Your two contending lovers are return'd,
And with them their fair knights : now, my fair
sister,
You must love one of them.
Emi. I had rather both,
So neither for my sake should fall untimely.
Enter Messenger.
Thes. Who saw them ?
Per. I a while
Gent. And I.
Thes. From whence come you, sir ?
Mess. From the knights.
Thes. Pray speak,
You that have seen them, what they are.
Mess. I will, sir,
And truly what I think : six braver spirits
Than these they've brought, (if we judge by
the outside,)
I never saw, nor read of. He that stands
In the first place with Arcite, by his seeming
Should be a stout man, by his face a prince
(His very looks so say him) ; his complexion
Nearer a brown than black; stern, and yet
noble,
Which shows him haidy, fearless, proud of
ACT IV.]
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
[SCEKB II.
The circles of his eyes show fire * within him,
And as a heated lion, so he looks ;
His hair hangs long behind him, black and
shining
Like ravens' wings; his shoulders broad and
strong ;
Ann'd long and round : and on his thigh a
sword
Hung by a curious baldrick, when he frowns
To seal his will with ; better, o' my conscience,
Was never soldier's friend.
Thes. Thou hast well describ'd him.
Per. Yet a great deal short,
Metliinks, of him that 's first with Palamon.
Thes. Pray speak him, friend.
Per. I guess he is a prince too,
And, if it may be, greater ; for his show
Has all the ornament of honour in 't.
He 's somewhat bigger than the knight he spoke
of,
But of a face far sweeter ; his complexion
Is (as a ripe grape) ruddy ; he has felt,
Without doubt, what he fights for, and so apter
To make this cause his own ; in 's face appears
All the fair hopes of what he undertakes ;
And when he 's angry, then a settled valour
(Not tainted with extremes) runs through his
body,
And guides his arm to brave things ; fear he
cannot,
He shows no such soft temper; his head's
yellow,
Hard-hair'd, and curl'd, thick twin'd, like ivy
tops,
Not to undo with thunder ; in his face
The livery of the warlike maid appears,
Pure red and white, for yet no beard has bless'd
him;
And in his rolling eyes sits Victory,
As if she ever meant to crown his valour ;
Hi.s nose stands high, a character of honour,
His red lips, after fights, are fit for ladies.
Emi. Must these men die too ?
Per. When he speaks, his tougue
Sounds like a trumpet ; all his lineaments
Are as a man would wish them, strong and
clean;
He wears a well-steel'd axe, the staff of gold ;
His age some five-and-twenty.
Mess. There 's another,
A little man, but of a tough soul, seeming
Fire fair in the original. A modern reading in far,
implying deep-seated eyes, fair might be received in the
se'nse of clear; but the expression " wi'hin him" implies
something more Mr. Dyce suggests the unexceptionable
reading of fire.
As great as any ; fairer promises
In such a body yet I never look'd on.
Per. Oh, he that 's freckle-fac'd ?
Mess. The same, my lord :
Are they not sweet ones ?
Per. Yes, they 're well.
Mess. Metliinks,
Being so few, and well dispos'd, they show
Great, and fine art in Nature. He 's white-
"hair'd,
Not wanton-white, but such a manly colour
Next to an auburn ; tough, and nimble set,
Which shows an active soul; his arms are
brawny,
Lin'd with strong sinews ; to the shoulder-piece
Gently they swell, like women new-conceiv'd,
Which speaks him prone to labour, never faint-
ing
Under the weight of arms ; stout-hearted, still,
But, when he stirs, a tiger ; he 's grey-ey'd,
Which yields compassion where he conquers;
sharp
To spy advantages, and where he finds 'em,
He 's swift to make 'em his ; he does no wrongs,
Nor takes none ; he 's round-fac'd, and when he
smiles
He shows a lover, when he frowns, a soldier;
About his head he wears the winner's oak,
And in it stuck the favour of his lady ;
His age, some six-and-thirty. In his hand
He bears a charging-staff, emboss'd with SM er.
Thes. Are they all thus ?
Per. They 're all the sons of honour.
Thes. Now, as I have a soul, I long to see
them !
Lady, you shall see men fight now.
Hip. I wish it,
But not the cause, my lord : they would show
Bravely about the titles of two kingdoms ;
'T is pity love should be so tyrannous.
Oh, my soft-hearted sister, what think you P
Weep not, till they weep blood, wench ! it must
be.
Thes. You've steel'd 'em with your beauty.
Honour'd friend,
To you I give the field ; pray order it
Fitting the persons that must use it !
Per. Yes, sii.
Thes. Come, I '11 go visit them: I cannot stay
(Their fame has fir'd me so) till they appear !
Good friend, be royal !
Per. There shall want no bravery.
Emi. Poor wench, go weep; for whosoever
wins,
Loses a noble cousin for thy sins. \Exeunt.
157
kci IV.]
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
I.SCESE III.
SCENE III.
Enter GAOLER, WOOER, and DOCTOR.
Doctor. Her distraction is more at some time
of the moon than at other some, is it not ?
Gaoler. She is continually in a harmless dis-
temper; sleeps little, altogether without appe-
tite, save often drinking; dreaming of another
world, and a better; and what broken piece of
matter soe'er she 's about, the name Palamon
lards it ; that she farces every business withal,
fits it to every question.
Enter DAUGHTER.
Look, where she comes ! you shall perceive her
behaviour.
Daugh. I have forgot it quite; the burden
on 't was ' down-a down-a ; ' and penned by no
worse man than Giraldo, Emilia's schoolmaster :
he 's as fantastical too, as ever he max go upon 's
legs ; for in the next world will Dido see Pala-
mon, and then will she be out of love with
jEneas.
Doctor. What stuff 's here ? poor soul !
Gaoler. Even thus all day long.
Daugh. Now for this charm that I told you
of; you must bring a piece of silver on the tip
of your tongue, or no ferry : then if it be your
chance to come where the blessed spirits (as
there's a sight now), we maids that have our
livers perished, cracked to pieces with love, we
shall come there, and do nothing all day long
but pick flowers with Proserpine; then will I
make Palamon a nosegay ; then let him mark
me then !
Doctor. How prettily she's amiss! note her
a little further !
Daugh. Faith, I '11 tell you ; sometime we go
to barleybreak, we of the blessed : alas, 't is a
sore life they have i' th' other place ! If one
be mad, or hang, or drown themselves, tLither
they go ; Jupiter bless us !
Doctor. How she continues this fancy ! 'T is
not an engrafted madness, but a most thick and
profound melancholy.
Daitffh. To hear there a proud lady and a
proud city-wife howl togetner ! I were a beast,
an I 'd call it good sport ! [Sings.
' 1 will be true, my stars, my fate,' &c.
[Exit DAUGHTER.
> We have again been compelled to employ the pruning-
knife. Our edition is for general readers, as well as few
153
Gaoler. What think you of her, sir ?
Doctor. I think she has a perturbed mind,
which I cannot minister to.
Gaoler. Alas, what then ?
Doctor. Understand you she ever affected
any man ere she beheld Palamon ?
Gaoler. I was once, sir, in great hope she
had fixed her liking on this gentleman, my
friend.
Wooer. I did think so too ; and would account
I had a great pennyworth on 't, to give half my
state, that both she and I at this present stood
unfeignedly on the same terms.
Doctor. That intemperate surfeit of her eye
hath distempered the other senses; they may
return, and settle again to execute their pre-
ordained faculties ; but they are now in a most
extravagant vagary. This you must do : con-
fine her to a place where the light may rather
seem to steal in, than be permitted. Take upon
you (young sir, her friend) the name of Pala-
mon ; say you come to eat with her, and to com-
mune of love ; this will catch her attention, for
this her mind beats upon ; other objects, that
are inserted 'tween her mind and eye, become
the pranks and friskings of her madness; sing to
her such green songs of love, as she says Pala-
mon hath sung in prison ; come to her, stuck in
as sweet flowers as the season is mistress of, and
thereto make an addition of some other com-
pounded odours, which arc grateful to the sense:
all this shall become Palamon, 'for Palamou can
sing, and Palamon is sweet, and every good
thing; desire to eat with her, carve her. drink
to her, and still among intermingle your peti-
tion of grace and acceptance into her favour;
learn what maids have been her companions
and play-plieers ; a and let them repair to her
with Palamon in their mouths, and appear with
tokens, as if they suggested for him : it is a
critical students. The essential difference between Shak-
spere and Fletcher makes it necessary to adopt a different
course with reference to the two writers, it is not a false
reverence for Shakspere that calls upon an editor to leave
his text unchanged : but a just discrimination between the
quality of what is offensive in him and in other writers of
his age. Coleridge has defined this difference with his usual
philosophical judgment: "Even Shakspeare's grossness
that which is really so, independently of the increase in
modern times of vicious associations with things indifferent
(for there is a state of manners conceivable so pure, that
the language of Hamlet at Ophelia's feet might be a harm
less rallying, or playful teazing, of a shame that would
exist in Paradise) at the worst, how diverse in kind is it
from Beaumont and Fletcher's ! In Shakspeare it is the
mere generalities of sex, mere words for the most part ;
seldom or never distinct images, all head-work, and fancy-
drolleries; there is no sensation supposed in the speaker.
I need not proceed to contrast this with Beaumont and
Fletcher."
a Play-pheers playfellow*.
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
ISCESElIl.
falsehood she is in, which is with falsehoods to
be combated. This may bring her to eat, to
sleep, and reduce what are now out of square in
her, into their former law and regiment : I have
seen it approved, how many times I know not ;
but to make the number more, I have great hope
in this. I will, between the passages of this
project, come in with my appliance. Let us put
it in execution ; and hasten the success, which,
doubt not, will bring forth comfort. [Exeunt.
t
ACT Y.
SCENE I.
Enter THESEUS, PERITHOTJS, HIPPOLTTA, and
Attendants.
Thes. Now let them enter, and before the gods
Tender their holy prayers ! Let the temples
Burn bright with sacred fires, and the altars
In hallow'd clouds commend their swelling in-
cense
To those above us ! Let no due be wanting !
[Flourish of cornet*.
They have a noble work in hand, will honour
The very powers that love them.
Enter PAX.AMON, ARCITE, and their Knights.
Per. Sir, they enter.
160
Thes. You valiant and strong-hearted ene
mies,
You royal germane foes, that this day come
To blow that nearness out that flames between ye,
Lay by your anger for an hour, and dove-like
Before the holy altars of your helpers
(The all fear'd gods) bow down your stubbori
bodies !
Your ire is more than mortal ; so your help be !
And as the gods regard ye, fight with justice !
I '11 leave you to your prayers, and betwixt ye
I part my wishes.
Per. Honour crown the worthiest
[Exeunt THES. and Train.
Pal. The glass is running now that cannot
finish
ACT V.I
r iflE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
Till one of us expire : think you but thus ;
That were there aught in me which strove to
show
Mine enemy in tliis business, were 't one eye
Against another, arm oppress'd by arm,
I would destroy th' offender; coz, I would,
Though parcel of myself; then from this gather
How I should tender you.
Arc. I am in labour
To push your name, your ancient love, our
kindred,
Out of my memory ; and i' the self-same place
To seat something I would confound : so hoist
we
The sails that must these vessels port ev'n where
The heavenly Limiter pleases.
Pal. You speak well :
Before I turn, let me embrace thee, cousin.
T liis I shall never do again.
Arc. One farewell !
' Pal. Why, let it be so : farewell, coz !
Arc. Farewell, sir !
[Exeunt PAL. and his Knights.
Knights, kinsmen, lovers, yea, my sacrifices,
True worshippers of Mars, whose spirit in you
Expels the seeds of fear, and th' apprehension,
Which still is further off it, go with me
Before the god of our profession. There
Require of him the hearts of lions, and
The breath of tigers, yea, the fierceness too,
Yea, the speed also, tn go on, I mean,
Else wish we to be snails : you know my prize
Must be dragg'd out of blood; force and great
feat
Must put my garland on, where she sticks
The queen of flowers ; our intercession then
Must be to him that makes the camp a cestron
Brimm'd with the blood of men ; give me your
aid,
And bend your spirits towards him :
[They kneel.
Thou mighty one, that with thy power hast
turn'd
Green Neptune into purple; [whose approach]"
Comets prewarn ; whose havoc in vast field
Unearthed skulk proclaim ; whose breath blows
down
The teeming Ceres' foison ; who dost pluck
With hand armipotent from forth blue clouds
The mason'd turrets; that both mak'st and
break'st
The stony girths of cities ; me, thy pupil,
The words in brackets are not in the original copies, but
were added by Sew ard. As something it evidently wanting,
Uie addition is judicious.
SUP. VOL. M
Youngest follower of thy drum, instruct this day
With military skill, that to thy laud
I may advance my streamer, and by thee
Be styl'd the lord o' the day ! Give me, great
Mars,
Some token of thy pleasure !
\Here they fall on their faces as formerly,
and there is heard clanging of armour,
with a short thunder, as the burst of a
battle, whereupon they all rise, and bow
to the Altar.
Oh, great corrector of enormous times,
Shaker of o'er-rank states, thou grand decider
Of dusty and old titles, that heal'st with blood
The earth when it is sick, and cur"st the world
Of the plurisy 8 of people; I do take
Thy signs auspiciously, and in thy name
To my design march boldly. Let us go ! {Exeunt.
Enter PALAMON and his Knights, with the
former observance.
Pal. Our stars must glister with new fire }
or be
To-day extinct : our argument is love,
Which if the goddess of it grant, she gives
Victory too : then blend your spirits with mine,
You, whose free nobleness do make my cause
Your personal hazard. To the goddess Venus
Commend we our proceeding, and implore
Her power unto our party ! [Here they kneel.
Hail, sovereign queen of secrets ! who hast
power
To call the fiercest tyrant from his rage,
To weep unto a girl ; that hast the might
Ev'n with an eye-glance to choke Mars's drum,
And turn th' alarm to whispers; that canst
make
A cripple flourish with his crutch, and cure him
Before Apollo ; that may'st force the king
To be his subjects' vassal, and induce
Stale gravity to dance ; the polled bachelor
(Whose youth, like wanton boys through bon-
fires.
Have skipp'd thy flame) at seventy thou canst
catch,
And make him, to the scorn of his hoarse throat,
Abuse young lays of love. What godlike power
Hast thou not power upon ? To Phoebus thou
Add'st flames, hotter than his ; the heavenly fires
Did scorch his mortal son, thine him; tup
huntress,
All moist and cold, some say, began to throw
Her bow away, and sigh ; take to thy grace
P'uri-u used by the old poets for fulness.
161
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
ACT V.J
Me thy vow'd soldier ! who do bear thy yoke |
As 't were a wreath of roses, yet is heavier
Than lead itself, stings more than nettles :
I 've never been foul-moutli'd against thy law ;
Ne'er reveal'd secret, for I knew none, would not
Had I kenn'd all that were ; I never practis'd
Upon man's wife, nor would the libels read
Of liberal wits ; I never at great feasts
Sought to betray a beauty, but have blush'd
At simpering sirs that did ; I have been harsh
To large confessors, and have hotly ask'd them
if they had mothers ? I had one, a woman,
And women 't were they wrong' d. I knew a
man
Of eighty winters (this I told them), who
A lass of fourteen brided ; 't was thy power
To put life into dust ; the aged cramp
Had screw'd his square foot round,
The gout had knit lu's fingers into knots,
Torturing convulsions from his globy eyes
Had almost drawn their spheres, that what was
life
In him scem'd torture ; this anatomy
Had by his young fair pheer a boy, and I
Believ'd it was bis, for she swore it was,
And who would not believe her ? Brief, I am
To those that prate, and have done, no compa-
nion;
To those that boast, and have not, a defier ;
To those that would, and canno!, a rejoicer :
Yea, him I do not love that tells close offices
The foulest way, nor names concealments in
The boldest language : such a one I am,
And vow that lover never yet made sigh
Truer than I. Oh, then, most soft sweet god-
dess,
Give me the victory of this question, which
Is true love's merit, and bless me with a sign
Of thy great pleasure !
[Here music, is heard, doves are seen to
flutter ; they fall again upon their
faces, then on their knees.
Oh, thou that from eleven to ninety reign' st
In mortal bosoms, whose chace is this world,
And we in herds thy game, I give thee thanks
For this fair token ! which being laid unto
Mine innocent true heart, arms in assurance
[They bow.
My body to this business. Let us rise
And bow before the goddess ! Time comes on.
[Exeunt
[_Still music of records
Snter EMILIA in white, her hair about her shoul-
Jort, a wheaten wreath ; one in white holding
182
up her train, her hair stuck with Jlowers ; one
before her carrying a silver hind, in which is
conveyed incense and sweet odours, which be-
ing set upon tthe Altar, her Maids standing
aloof, she setsjire to it; then they curtsy and
kneel.
Emi. Oh, sacred, shadowy, cold, and constant
queen,
Abandoner of revels, mute, contemplative,
Sweet, solitary, white as chaste, and pure
As wind-fann'd snow, who to thy female knights
Allow'st no more blood than will make a blush,
Which is their order's robe ; I here, thy priest,
Am humbled 'fore thine altar. Oh, vouchsafe,
With that thy rare green eye, which never yet
Beheld thing maculate, look on thy virgin !
And, sacred silver mistress, lend thine ear
(Which ne'er heard scurril term, into whose port
Ne'er enter'd wanton sound) to my petition,
Season' d with holy fear ! This is my last
Of vestal office ; I am bride-habited,
But maiden-hearted; a husband I have ap-
pointed,
But do not know him ; out of two I should
Choose one, and pray for his success, but I
Am guiltless of election of mine eyes ;
Were I to lose one (they are equal precious),
I could doom neither; that which perish'd
should
Go to 't unsentenc'd: therefore, most modest
queen,
He, of the two pretenders, that best loves mo,
And has the truest title in 't, let him
Take off my wheaten garland, or else grant,
The file and quality I hold, I may
Continue in thy band !
[Here the hind vanishes under the Altar,
and in the place ascends a rose-tree,
having one rose upon it.
See what our general of ebbs and flows
Out from the bowels of her holy altar
With sacred act advances ! But one rose ?
If well inspir'd, this battle shall confound
Both these brave knights, and I a virgin flower
Must grow alone unpluck'd.
[Here is heard a sudden twang of instru-
ments, and the rose falls from the tree.
The flower is fall'n, the tree descends ! Oh,
mistress,
Thou here dischargest me ; I shall be gather'd,
I think so ; but I know not thine own will :
Unclasp thy mystery ! I hope she 's pleas'd ;
Her signs were gracious.
[The$ curtsy, and exeunt
ACT V.]
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
; S, rsr. II.
SCENE II.
Enter DOCTOR, GAOLER, and WOOER (in habit
of PALAMON).
Doctor. Has this advice I told you done any
good upon her ?
Wooer. Oh, very much : the maids that kept
her company
Have half persuaded her that I am Palamon ;
Within this half-hour she came smiling to me,
And ask'd me what I'd eat, and when I'd kiss her :
I told her presently, and kiss'd her twice.
Doctor. 'T was well done ! twenty times had
been far better ;
For there the cure lies mainly.
Wooer. Then she told me
She would watch with me to-night, for well she
knew
What hour my fit would take me.
Doctor. Let her do so.
Wooer. She would have me sing.
Doctor. You did so ?
Wooer. No.
Doctor. 'T was very ill done, then :
You should observe her ev'ry way.
Wooer. Alas !
I have no voice, sir, to confirm her that way.
Doctor. That 's all one, if you make a noise :
Pray bring her in, and let 's see how she is.
Gaoler. I will, and tell her her Palamon
stays for her. [Exit.
Doctor. How old is she ?
Wooer. She's eighteen.
Doctor. She may be ;
But that 's all one, 't is nothing to our purpose.
Enter GAOLER, DAUGHTER, and MAID.
Gaoler. Come ; your love Palamon stays for
you, child ;
And has done tliis long hour, to visit you.
Daugh. I thank him for his gentle patience ;
He 's a kind gentleman, and I 'm much bound
to him.
Did you ne 'er see the horse he gave me P
Gaoler. Yes.
Daugh. How do you like him P
Gaoler. He 's a very fair one.
Laugh. You never saw him dance P
Gaoler. No.
Daugh. I have often :
He dances very finely, very comely ;
And, for a jig, come cut and long tuil to him !
He turns you like a top.
Gaoler. That 's fine indeed.
M 2
Daugh. He '11 dance the morris twenty mile
an hour,
And that will founder .the best hobby -horse
(If I have any skill) in all the parish :
And gallops to the tune of ' Light o' love : '
What think you of this horse ?
Gaoler. Having these virtues,
I think he might be brought to play at tennis.
Laugh. Alas, that 's nothing
Gaoler. Can he write and read too :
Laugh. A very fair hand ; and casts himself
th' accounts
Of all his hay and provender : that ostler
Must rise betime that cozens him. You know
The chestnut mare the duke has ?
Gaoler. Very well.
Laugh. She 's horribly in love with him, poor
beast;
But he is like his master, coy and scornful.
Gaoler. What dowry has she ?
Daugh. Some two hundred bottles
And twenty strike of oats : but he'll ne'er have
her;
He lisps in 's neighing, able to entice
A miller's mare ; he '11 be the death of her.
Doctor. What stuff she utters !
Gaoler. Make curtsy ; here your love comes !
Wooer. Pretty soul,
How do you ? That 's a fine maid ! there 's a
curtsy !
Daugh. Yours to command, i' the way of
honesty.
How far is 't now to the end o' the world, my
masters ?
Doctor. Why, a day's journey, wench.
Daugh. Will you go with me T
Wooer. What shall we do there, wench ?
Daugh. Why, play at stool-ball.
What is there else to do ?
Wooer. I am content,
If we shall keep our wedding there.
Daugh. 'T is true ;
For there I will assure you we shall find
Some blind priest for the purpose, that will
venture
To marry us, for here they 're nice and foolish ;
Besides, my father must be hang'd to-morrow,
And that would be a blot i' the business.
Are not you Palamon ?
Wooer. Do you not know me ?
Daugh. Yes ; but you care not for me : I have
nothing
But this poor petticoat, and two coarse smocks
Wooer. That 's all one ; I will have you.
Daugh. Will you surely ';
163
ACT V.]
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
[SCENE 111.
Wooer. Why do you rub my kiss off ?
Laugh. 'T is a sweet oue,
And will perfume me finely 'gainst the wedding,
is not this your cousin Arcite ?
Doctor. Yes, sweetheart ;
And I am glad my cousin Palamon
Has made so fair a choice.
Laugh. Do you think he '11 have me ?
Doctor. Yes, without doubt.
Dazqh. Do you think so too ?
Gaoler. Yes.
Lenigh. We shall have many children. Lord,
how you 're grown !
My Palamon I hope will grow, too, finely,
Now he 's at liberty ; alas, poor chicken,
He was kept down with hard meat, and ill
lodging,
But I will kiss liim up again.
Enter a Messenger.
Mess. What do you here ?
You '11 lose the noblest sight that e 'er was seen.
Gaoler. Are they i' the field ?
Mess. They are :
You bear a charge there too.
Gaoler. I '11 away straight,
I must ev'n leave you here.
Doctor. Nay, we '11 go with you :
I will not lose the fight.
Gaoler. How did you like her ?
Doctor. I'll warrant you within these three
or four days
I '11 make her right again. You must not from
her,
But still preserve her in this way.
Wooer. I will.
Doctor. Let 's get her in.
Wooer. Come, sweet, we '11 go to dinner ;
And then we '11 play at cards.* [Exeunt.
SCENE m.
Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, EMILIA, PERI-
THOUS, and Attendants.
End. I '11 no step further.
Per. Will you lose this sight P
Emi. I had rather see a wren hawk at a fly,
Than this decision : every blow that falls
Threats a brave life ; each stroke laments
The place whereon it falls, and sounds more like
A bell, than blade : I will stay here :
a This scene, as it. stands in the original, contains im-
purities of thought faf more corrupting than any indelica-
cies of language alone. We have pursued the same course
'is in two previous instances.
164
It is enough my hearing shall be puaish'd
With what shall happen ('gainst the which
there is
No deafing), but to hear, not taint mine eye
With dread sights it may shun.
Per. Sir, my good lord,
Your sister will uo further.
Thes. Oh, she must :
She shall see deeds of honour in their kind,
Which sometime show well-pencill'd : Nature
now
Shall make and act the story, the belief
Both seal'd with eye and ear. You must be
present ;
You are the victor's meed, the price and garland
To crown the question's title.
Emi. Pardon me ;
If I were there, I 'd wink.
Thes. You must be there;
This trial is as 't were i' the night, and you
The only star to shine.
Emi. I am extinct ;
There is but envy in that light, which shows
The one the other. Darkness, which ever was
The dam of Horror, who does stand accurs'd
Of many mortal millions, may ev'n now,
By casting her black mantle over both,
That neither could find other, get herself
Some part of a good name, and many a murder
Set off whereto she 's guilty.
Hip. You must go.
Emi. In faith, I will not.
Thes. Why, the knights must kindle
Their valour at your eye : know, of this war
You are the treasure, and must needs be by
To give the service pay.
Emi. Sir, pardon me ;
The title of a kingdom may be tried
Out of itself.
Thes. Well, well, then, at your pleasure !
Those that remain with you could wish their
office
To any of their enemies.
Hip. Farewell, sister !
I 'm like to know your husband 'fore yourself,
By some small start of time : he whom the gods
Do of the two know best, I pray them he
Be made your lot !
\Exeunt THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, PKRI-
THOUS, 8fC.
Emi. Arcite is gently visag'd : yet his eye
Is like an engine bent, or a sharp weapon
In a soft sheath ; mercy and manly courage
Are bedfellows in his visage. Palamon
Has a most menacing aspect ; his brow
ACT V.]
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
[SCENE III
Is grav'd, and seems to bury waat it frowns on;
Yet sometimes 't is not so, but alters to
The quality of bis thoughts ; long time his eye
Will dwell upon his object; melancholy
Becomes him nobly ; so does Arcite's mirth ;
But Palamou's sadness is a kind of mirth,
So mingled, as if mirth did make him sad,
Ajid sadness, merry; those darker humours
that
Stick misbecomingly on others, on him
Live in fair dwelling.
[Cornets. Trumpets sound as to a Charge.
Hark, how yon spurs to spirit do incite
The princes to their proof ] Arcite may win me ;
And yet may Palamon wound Arcite, to
The spoiling of his figure. Oh, what pity
Enough for such a chance ! If I were by,
I might do hurt; for they would glance their
eyes
Toward my seat, and in that motion might
Omit a ward, or forfeit an offence,
Which crav'd that very time ; it is much better
[Cornets. Cry within, A Palamon !
I am not there ; oh, better never born
Than minister to such harm ! What is the
chance ?
Enter a Servant.
Sen. The cry 's a Palamon.
Emi. Then he has won. 'T was ever likely :
He look'd all grace and success, and he is
Doubtless the primest of men. I prithee run,
And tell me how it goes.
[Shout, and cornets ; cry, A Palamon !
Sen. Still Palamon.
Emi. Run and inquire. Poor servant, thou
hast lost !
Upon my right side still I wore thy picture,
Palamon 's on the left : why so, I know not ;
I had no end in 't else ; chance would have it
so.
\Anothcr cry and shout within, and Cornets.
On the sinister side the heart lies : Palamon
Had the best-boding chance. This burst of
clamour
Is sure the end o' the combat.
Enter Servant.
Scrv. They said that Palamon had Arcite's
body
Within an inch o' the pyramid, that the cry
Was general a Palamon ; but anon,
Th' assistants made a brave redemption, and
The two bold tilters at this instant arc
Hand to hand at it.
Emi. Were they metamorphos'd
Bo!h into one Oh, why ? there were no won i ah
Worth so compos 'd a man ! Their single share,
Their nobleness peculiar to them, gives
The prejudice of disparity, value's shortness,
[Cornets. Cry within, Arcite, Arcite !
To any lady breathing. More exulting [
Palamon still !
Sen. Nay, now the sound is Arcite.
Emi. I prithee lay attention to the cry ;
[Cortiets. A great shout and cry, Arcitt,
victory !
Set both thine ears to the business.
Serv. The cry i&
Arcite, and victory ! Hark ! Arcite, victory I
The combat's consummation is proclaim'd
By the wind-instruments.
Emi. Half-sights saw
That Arcite was no babe : God's 'lid, his richness
And costliness of spirit look'd through him! it
could
No more be hid in him than fire in flax,
Than humble banks can go to law with waters,
That drift winds force to raging. I did think
Good Palamon would miscarry ; yet I knew not
Why I did think so : our reasons are not pro-
phets,
When oft our fancies are. They 're coming off :
Alas, poor Palamon ! \_Cor i.'ts.
Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, PERITHOUS, An-
CITE as Victor, Attendants, &c.
Thes. Lo, where our sister is in expectation,
Yet quaking and unsettled. Fairest Emilia,
The gods, by their divine arbitrament,
Have given you this knight : he is a good one
As ever struck at head. Give me your hands !
Receive you her, you him ; be plighted with
A love that grows as you decay !
Arc. Emilia,
To buy you I have lost what 's dearest to me,
Save what is bought ; and yet I purchase cheaply,
As I do rate your value.
Thes. Oh, lov'd sister,
He speaks now of as brave a knight as e'er
Did spur a noble steed ; surely the gods
Would have him die a bachelor, lest his race
Should show i' the world too godlike! His
behaviour
So charm'd me, that methought Alcides was
To him a sow of lead : if I could praise
Each part of him to th' all I 've spoke, your
Arcite
Di<J not lose by 't; for he that was thus good,
165
ACT V.]
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
[Scim IV.
Enconnter'd yet his better. I have heard
Two emulous Philomels beat the ear o' the night
With their contentious throats, now one the
higher,
Anon the other, then again the first,
And by and by out-breasted, that the sense
Could not be judge between them : so it far*d
Good space between these kinsmen ; till heav'ns
did
Make hardly one the winner. Wear the gar-
land
With joy that you have won ! For the subdued,
Give them our present justice, since I know
Their lives but pinch them ; let it here be done.
The scene 's not for our seeing : go we hence,
Right j oyful, with some sorrow* Arm your prize : a
I know you will not lose her. Hippolyta,
I see one eye of yours conceives a tear,
The which it will deliver. [Flourish.
Emi. Is this winning ?
Oh, all you heav'nly powers, where is your
mercy ?
But that your wills have said it must be so,
And charge me live to comfort, thus unfriended,
This miserable prince, that cuts away
A life more worthy from him than all women,
I should and would die too.
Hip. Infinite pity,
That four such eyes should be so fix'd on one,
That two must needs be blind for 't !
Thes. So it is. [Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
Enter PALAMON and his Knights pinioned,
GAOLEE, Executioner, and Guard.
Pal. There 's many a man alive that hath
outliv'd
The love o' the people; yea, i' the self-same
state
Stands many a father with his child : some
comfort
We have by so considering ; we expire,
And not without men's pity ; to live still,
Have their good wishes ; we prevent
The loathsome misery of age, beguile
The gout and rheum, that in lag hours attend
For grey approachers ; we come tow'rds the gods
Young, and unwappeu'd, 1 " not halting under
crimes
Ann i/oi/r prize offer your arm to thelady you have won.
b Unu-aiipen'd. The originals have unwapper'd. Without
knowing exactly the meaning of the word wapptn'd, we would
receive the epithet here as the opposite to that in Timon
"That makes the icappen'd widow wed again."
Mr. Dyce retains unu-ujiper'tl in the use of unworn, not
166
Many and stale ; that sure shall please the gods
Sooner than such, to give us nectar with them,
For we are more clear spirits. My dear kins-
men,
Whose lives (for this poor comfort) are laid
down,
You 've sold them too, too cheap.
1 Knight. What ending could be
Of more content ? O'er us the victors have
1 Fortune, whose title is as momentary
As to us death is certain ; a grain of honour
They not o'erweigh us.
2 Knight. Let us bid farewell ;
And with our patience anger tott'ring fortune,
i Who at her certain'st reels !
3 Knight. Come ; who begins ?
Pal. Ev*n he that led you to this banquet
shall
Taste to you all. Ah-ha, my friend, my friend !
Your gentle daughter gave me freedom once ;
You '11 see 't done now for ever. Pray, how does
she?
I heard she was not well ; her kind of ill
Gave me some sorrow.
Gaoler. Sir, she 's well restor'd,
And to be married shortly.
Pal. By my short life,
I am most glad on 't ! 't is the ktest thing
I shall be glad of ; prithee tell her so ;
Commend me to her, and to piece her portion
Tender her this.
1 Knight. Nay, let 's be offerers all !
2 Knight. Is it a maid ?
Pal. Verily, I think so ;
A right good creature, more to me deserving
That I can quite or speak of !
All Knights. Commend us to her.
[Give their purses.
Gaoler. The gods requite you all,
And make her thankful !
Pal. Adieu ! and let my life be now as short
As my leave-taking. [Lies on- the block.
1 Knight. Lead, courageous cousin !
2 Knight. We '11 Mow cheerfully.
[_A great noise within, crying, Run, save,
hold!
Enter in haste a Messenger.
Mess Hold, hold ! oh, hold, hold, hold !
Enter PEEITEOUS in haste.
Per. Hold, hoa! it is a cursed haste you
made,
If you have done so quickly. Noble Paiamon,
ACT V.]
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
[SCKNK IV
The gods will show their glory in a life
That thou art yet to lead.
Pal. Can that be,
When Venus I 've said is false ? How do things
fare ?
Per. Arise, great sir, and give the tidings ear
That are most dearly sweet and bitter !
Pal, What
Hath wak'd us from our dream ?
Per. List then ! Your cousin,
Mounted upon a steed that Emily
Did first bestow on him, a black one, owing
Not a hair-worth of white, which some will say
Weakens his price, and many will not buy
His goodness with this note ; which superstition
Here finds allowance : on this horse is Arcite,
Trotting the stones of Athens, which the calkins "
Did rather tell than trample ; for the horse
Would make his length a mile, if 't pleased his
rider
To put pride in him : as he thus went counting
The flinty pavement, dancing as 't were to the
music
His own hoofs made (for, as they say, from iron
Came music's origin), what envious flint,
Cold as old Saturn, and like him possess'd
With fire malevolent, darted a spark,
Or what fierce sulphur else, to this end made,
I comment not ; the hot horse, hot as fire,
Took toy at this, and fell to what disorder
His power could give his will, bounds, comes on
end,
Forgets school-doing, being therein train' d,
And of kind manage ; pig-like he whines
At the sharp rowel, which he frets at rather
Than any jot obeys ; seeks all foul means
Of boisterous and rough jadery, to dis-seat
His lord that kept it bravely : When nought
serv'd,
When neither curb would crack, girth break, nor
diff'ring plunges
Dis-root his rider whence he grew, but that
He kept him 'tween his legs, on his hind hoofs
On end he stands,
That Arcite's legs being higher than his head,
Seem'd with strange art to hang : his victor's
wreath
Even then fell off his head ; and presently
Backward the jade comes o'er, and his full poise
Becomes the rider's load. Yet is he living ;
But such a vessel 't is, that floats but for
The surge that next approaches : he much de-
sires
To have some speech with you. Lo, he appears !
Catkins the hinder parti of a horse'* hoe, which are
turned tij).
Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLTTA, EMILIA, ARCITK
in a Chair.
Pal. Oh, miserable end of our alliance !
The gods are mighty ! Arcite, if thy heart,
Thy worthy manly heart, be yet unbroken,
Give me thy last words ! I am Palamon,
One that yet loves thee dying.
Arc. Take Emilia,
And with her all the world's joy. Reach thy
hand;
Farewell .' I 've told my last hour. I was false,
Yet never treacherous : forgive me, cousin !
One kiss from fair Emilia ! 'T is done :
Take her. I die ! [Dies.
Pal. Thy brave soul seek Elysium !
Emi. I '11 close thine eyes, prince ; blessed
souls be with thee !
Thou art a right good man ; and while I live
This day I give to tears.
Pal. And I to honour.
Thes. In this place first you fought; even
very here
I sunder'd you: acknowledge to the gods
Our thanks that you are living.
His part is play'd, and, though it were too short,
He did it well : your day is lengthen' d, and
The blissful dew of heaven does arrose you ;
The powerful Venus well hath grac'd her altar,
And given you your love ; our master Mars
Has vouch'd his oracle, and to Arcite gave
The grace of the contention : so the deities
Have show'd due justice. Bear this hence !
Pal. Oh, cousin,
That we should things desire, which do cost us
The loss of our desire ! that nought could buy
Dear love, but loss of dear love !
Thes. Never Fortune
Did play a subtler game: the conquer 'd tri-
umphs,
The victor has the loss ; yet in the passage
The gods have been most equal. Palamou,
Your kinsman hath confess'd the right o' the kdy
Did lie in you ; for you first saw her, and
Even then proclaim'd your fancy; he restor'd
her,
As your stol'n jewel, and desir'd your spirit
To send him hence forgiven: the gods uiy
justice
Take from my hand, and they themselves be-
come
The executioners. Lead your lady off ;
And call your lovers* from the stage of deatli,
Whom I adopt my friends. A day or two
* LoftrM companion!, friendi.
167
ACT V.]
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
{SCENE IV
Let us look sadly, and give grace unto
The funeral of Arcite ; in who.e end
The visages of bridegrooms we '11 put on,
And smile with Palamon ; for whom an hour,
But one hour since, I was as dearly sorry,
As glad of Arcite ; and am now as glad,
As for him sorry. Oh, you heav'nly charmers,
What things you make of us ! For what we lack
We laugh, for what we have are sorry ; stiii
Are children in some kind. Let us be thank
fill
For that which is, and with you leave dispute
That are above our question ! Let 's go oif,
And bear us like the time ! [Flourish. Exev.nt
X O T I C E
THE AUTHORSHIP OF THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
THE title-page of the original edition of The Two Noble Kinsmen sets forth, as we have
seen, that it was " written by the memorable worthies of their time, Mr. John Fletcher
and Mr. William Shakspeare." This was printed in 1634, nine years after the death of
Fletcher, and eighteen years after the death of Shakspere. The play was not printed in
the first collected edition of Beaumont and Fletcher's works, in 1647, for the reason
assigned in the ' Stationer's Address.' " Some plays, you know, written by these authors
were heretofore printed ; I thought not convenient to mix them with this volume, which
of itself is entirely new." The title-page of the quarto of 1634 is, therefore, the only
direct external evidence we possess as to Shakspere's participation in this play ; and that
evidence in itself would certainly not warrant us in reprinting it, for the first time, in a
collection of Shakspere's works. Nor have we to offer any contemporary notice of The
Two Noble Kinsmen which refers to this question of the co-authorship. The very pro-
logue and epilogue of the play itself are silent upon this point. We have not printed
these, because they are, except in a passage or two, unimportant in themselves, have no
poetical merit, and present some of those loose allusions which, as we approach those days
when principles of morality came into violent conflict, rendered the stage so justly
obnoxious to the Puritans. The epilogue, speaking of the play, says
" It has a noble breeder, and a pure,
A learned, and a poet never went
More famous yet 'twixt Po and silver Trent :
Chaucer (of all admired) the story gives ;
There constant to eternity it lives ! "
And it then add*
" If we let fall the nobleuess of this,
And the first sound this child hear be a hiss,
How will it shake the bones of that good man,
And make him cry from under-ground, ' Oh, fan
From me the witless chaff of such a writer
That blasts my bays, and my fam'd works makes lighter
Than Robin Hood ! ' "
The expression "such a writer" is almost evidence against the double authorship. It
implies, too, that, if Fletcher were the author, the play was presented before his death ;
for if the players had produced the drama after his death, they would have probably
spoken of him (he being its sole author) in the terms of eulogy with which they accom-
panied the performance of ' The Loyal Subject j'
160
NOTICE ON THE AUTHORSHIP OF
" We need not, noble gentlemen, to invite
Attention, pre-instruct you who did write
This worthy story, being confident
The mirth join'd with grave matter and intent
To yield the hearers profit with delight,
Will speak the maker : And to do him right
Would ask a genius like to his ; the age
Mourning his loss, and our now-widow'd stage
In vain lamenting."
The inferences, therefore, to be deduced from the prologue to The Two Noble Kins-
men (supposing Fletcher to be concerned in this drama), that it was acted during Lis life-
time, and that he either claimed the sole authorship, or suppressed all mention of the joint
authorship, are to be weighed against the assertion of the title-page, that it was " written
by the two memorable worthies of their time." We are thrown upon the examination of
the internal evidence, then, without any material bias from the publication of the play or
its stage representation. But if the evidence of the title-page is not valid for the assign-
ment of any portion of the play to Shakspere, neither is it valid as a proof of the co-
operation of Fletcher in the work. The first editors of the collected edition of Beaumont
and Fletcher do not print The Two Noble Kinsmen, as well as seventeen other plays,
because it had been printed before in a separate shape. The publishers of the second
edition, of 1679, do print it, that the collection may be "perfect and complete," and con-
tain "all, both tragedies and comedies, that were ever writ by our authors ;" and in this
way they reprint 'The Coronation,' first published in 1640, with the name of Fletcher,
although, in 1652, Shirley distinctly claimed it in a list of his works. If we reject, then,
upon the external evidence, Shakspere's claim to a portion of the authorship of The Two
Noble Kinsmen, we must reject Fletcher's claim, as supported by the same evidence ; and
for a satisfactory solution of both questions we must rely upon the internal evidence.
Before the first builders-up of that wondrous edifice the English drama, lay the whole
world of classical and romantic fable, " where to choose." One of the earliest, and conse-
quently least skilful, of those workmen, Richard Edwards, went to the ancient stores for
his ' Damon and Pythias,' and to Chaucer for his ' Palamon and Arcyte.' We learn from
Wood's MSS. that when Elizabeth visited Oxford, in 1566, "at night the Queen heard the
first part of an English play, named ( Palajmon, or Palamon Arcyte,' made by Mr. Richard
Edwards, a gentleman of her chapel, acted with very great applause in Christ Church
Hall." An accident happened at the beginning of the play by the falling of a stage,
through which three persons were killed a scholar of St. Mary's Hall, and two who were
probably more missed a college brewer and a cook. The mirth, however, went on, and
" afterwards the actors performed their parts so well, that the Queen laughed heartily
thereat, and gave the author of the play great thanks for his pains." * It is clear that the
fable of Chaucer must have been treated in a different manner by Edwards than we find it
treated in The Two Noble Kinsmen. We have another record of a play on a similar subject.
In Henslowe's ' Diary' we have an entry, under the date of September, 1594, of ' Palamon
and Arsett' being acted four times. It is impossible to imagine that The Two Noble
Kinsmen is the same play. Here then was a subject adapted to a writer who worked in
the spirit in which Shakspere almost uniformly worked. It was familiar to the people in
their popular poetry ; it was familiar to the stage. To arrive at a right judgment regarding
the authorship of The Two Noble Kinsmen, we must examine the play line by line in its
relation to ' The Knight's Tale ' of Chaucer. The examination cannot be ill bestowed it
it bring any of our readers into more direct acquaintance with the great master of English
* Nichols's 'Progresses of Queen Elizabeth,' vol. i. pp 210, 211.
170
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
verse, whose poem of ' Palamon and Arcite,' although it was acknowledged by its author
to be " kuoweu lite " in his own days, when abridged into his Knight's Tale ' furnished
to Dryden in his translation (he himself calls his poem a translation) a subject for " the
most animated and most harmonious piece of versification in the English language ;"* and,
in a revived taste for our old poetry, will itself always be admired for its force, its simplicity,
its majesty, and its just proportion.
' The Knight's Tale ' of Chaucer opens with the return to Athens of the " duke that
highte Theseus," after he had
" conquer'd all the regne of Feminie,
That whilom was ycleped Scythia,
And wedded the freshe queen Hypolita,
And brought her home with him to his countrey
With muchel glory and great solempnitie,
And eke her younge" sister Emelie."
The Two Noble Kinsmen opens with Theseus at Athens, in the company of Hippolyta
and her sister, proceeding to the celebration of his marriage with the " dreaded Ama-
zonian." Their bridal procession is interrupted by the
" three queens, whose sovereigns fell before
The wrath of cruel Creon."
In Chaucer the suppliants are a more numerous company. As Theseus was approaching
Athens,
" He was 'ware, as he cast his eye aside,
Where that there kneeled in the highe* way
A company of ladies tway and tway,
Eaoh after other, clad in clothes black ;
But such a cry and such a woe they make,
That in this world n'is creature living
That ever heard such another waimenting."
Briefly they tell their tale of woe, and as rapidly does the chivalrous duke resolve to avenge
their wrongs :
" And right anon, withouten more abode,
His banner he display'd, and forth he rede
To Thebes ward, and all his host beside."
The Queen and her sister remained at Athens. Out of this rapid narration, which oc-
cupies little more than a hundred lines in Chaucer, has the first scene of The Two Noble
Kinsmen been constructed. Assuredly, the reader who opens that scene for the first time
will feel that he has lighted upon a work of no ordinary power. The mere interruption of
the bridal procession by the widowed queens the contrast of their black garments and
their stained veils with the white robes and wheaten chaplets and hymeneal songs with
which the play opens is a noble dramatic conception ; but the poet, whoever he be, pos-
sesses that command of appropriate language which realizes all that the imagination can
paint of a dramatic situation and movement ; there is nothing shadowy or indistinct, no
vague explanations, no trivial epithets. When the First Queen says
" Oh, pity, duke !
Thoupurger of the earth, draw thy fear'd sword,
That does good turns to the world; give us the bones
Of our dead kings, that we may chapel them : "
we kuow that the thoughts which belong to her condition are embodied m words of no
Warton.
171
NOTICE ON THE AUTHORSHIP OF
aommon siguificancy. When the Second Queen, addressing Hippolyta, " the soldieress/'
says,
" Spealc't in a woman's key, like such a woman
As any of us three ; weep ere you fail ;
Lend us a knee ;
But touch the ground for us no longer time
Than a dovSt motion, when the head 's plucttd off I "
we feel that the poet not only wields his harmonious language with the decision of a prac-
tised artist, but exhibits the nicer touches which attest his knowledge of natural feelings
and employs images which, however strange and unfamiliar, are so true that we wondei
they never occurred to us before, but at the same time so original that they appear to defy
copying or imitation. The whole scene is full of the same remarkable word-painting.
There is another quality which it exhibits, which is also peculiar to the highest order of
minds the ability to set us thinking to excite that just and appropriate reflection which
might arise of itself out of the exhibition of deep passions and painful struggles and reso-
lute self-denials, but which the time poet breathes into us without an effort, so as to give
the key to our thoughts, but utterly avoiding those sententious moralizinga which are
sometimes deemed to be the province of tragedy. When the Queens commend the sur-
render which Theseus makes of his affections to a sense of duty, the poet gives us the
philosophy of such heroism in a dozen words spoken by Theseus :
" As we are men,
Thus should we do ; beiny sensually subdued,
We lose our human title."
The first appearance, in Chaucer, of Palamon and Arcite is when they lie wounded on
the battle-field of Thebes. In The Two Noble Kinsmen the necessary conduct of the
story, as a drama, requires that the principal personages should be exhibited to us before
they become absorbed in the main action. It is on such occasions as these that a drama-
tist of the highest order makes his characters reveal themselves, naturally and without an
effort ; and yet so distinctly, that their individual identity is impressed upon the mind, so
as to combine with the subsequent movement of the plot. The second scene of The Two
Noble Kinsmen appears to us somewhat deficient in this power. It is written with great
energy ; but the two friends are energetic alike ; we do not precisely see which is the more
excitable, the more daring, the more resolved, the more generous. We could change the
names of the speakers without any material injury to the propriety of what they speak.
Take, as an opposite example, Hermia and Helena, in A Midsummer Night's Dream,
where the differences of character scarcely required to be so nicely defined. And yet
in description the author of The Two Noble Kinsmen makes Palamon and Arcite essen-
tially different :
" Arcite is gently visag d : yet his eye
Is like ail engine bent, or a sharp weapon
In a soft sheath ; mercy and uiauly courage
Are bedfellows in his visage. Palamon
Has a most menacing aspect ; his brow
Is grav'd, and seems to bury what it frowns on ;
Yet sometimes 't is not so, but alters to
The quality of his thoughts ; long time his eye
Will dwell upon his object ; melancholy
Becomes him nobly ; so does Arcite's mirth ;
But Palamon' s sadness is a kind of mirth,
So mingled, as if mirth did make him sad,
And sadness, merry ; those darker humours that
Stick misbecomingly on others, on him
Live in fair dwelling.'
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
This is noble writing ; and it is quite sufficient to enable the stage representation of the
two characters to be well denned. Omit it, and omit the recollections of it in the read-
ing, and we doubt greatly whether the characters themselves realize this description : they
are not self-evolved and manifested. The third scene, also, is a dramatic addition to the
tale of Chaucer. It keeps the interest concentrated upon Hippolyta, and especially
Emilia ; it is not essential to the action, but it is a graceful addition to it. It has the
merit, too, of developing the character of Emilia, and so to reconcile us to the apparent
coldness with which she is subsequently content to receive the triumphant rival, which-
ever he be, as her husband. The Queen and her sister talk of the friendship of Theseus
and Perithous. Emilia tells the story of her own friendship, to prove
" That the true love 'tween maid and maid may be
More than in sex dividual."
This, in some sort, modifies the subsequent position of Emilia, "bride-habited, but
maiden-hearted." Her description of her early friendship has been compared to the
celebrated passage in A Midsummer Night's Dream :
" Is all the counsel that we two have shar'd," &c.
Seward, the editor of Beaumont and Fletcher, makes this comparison, and prefers the
description in The Two Noble Kinsmen. Weber assents to this preference. We have
no hesitation in believing the passage in the play before us to be an imitation of the
passage in A Midsummer Night's Dream, and therefore inferior in quality ; we do not
think that Shakspere would thus have repeated himself.
In Chaucer, Theseus makes swift work with Creon and with Thebes :
<; With Creon, which that was of Thebes king,
He fought, and slew him manly as a knight
In plain bataille, and put his folk to flight ;
And by assault he won the city after,
And rent adown both wall, and spar, and rafter ;
And to the ladies he restor'd again
The bodies of their husbands that were slain,
To do th' obsequies, as was then the guise."
It is in the battle-field that Palamon and Arcite are discovered wounded :
" Not fully quick ne fully dead they were,
But by their cote-armure and by their gear
The heralds knew them well in special."
The incident is literally followed in the play, where the herald says, in answer to
the question of Theseus, "They are not dead?"
" Nor in a state of life : Had they been taken
When their last hurts were given, 't was possible
They might have been recover'd ; yet they breathe,
And have the name of men."
In Chaucer, Theseus is to the heroic friends a merciless conqueror :
" He full soon them sent
To Athenes, for to dwellen in prison
Perpetual, he n'olde" no ransom."
But in The Two Noble Kinsmen he would appear to exhibit himself as a generous foe,
who, having accomplished the purposes of his expedition, has no enmity with the honest
defenders of their country :
173
NOTICE ON THE AUTHORSHIP OF
" The very lees cf such, millions of rates
Exceed the wine of others ; all our surgeons
Convent in their behoof; our richest balms,
Rather than niggard, waste ! their lives concern us
Much more than Thebes is worth."
The fifth scene of The Two Noble Kinsmen is a scenic expansion of a short passage ia
Chaucer :
" But it were all too long for to devise
The greate clamour and the waimenting
Which that the ladies made at the brenning
Of the bodies."
The epigrammatic ending of the scene is perhaps familiar to many :
" This world's a city, full of straying streets j
And death's the market-place, where each one meets."
Pursuing the plan with which we set out, of following the course of Chaucer's story
and our reasons for adopting this plan we shall hereafter have to explain we pass over all
those scenes and parts of scenes which may be called the underplot. Such in the second
act is the beginning of Scene I. In Chaucer we learn that
" In a tow'r, in anguish arid in woe,
Dwellen this Palamon and eke Arcite
For evermore, there may no gold them quite."
The old romantic poet reserves his dialogue for the real business of the story, when the
two friends, each seeing Emilia from the prison-window, become upon the instant defying
rivals for her love. This incident is not managed with more preparation by the drama-
tist ; but the prelude to it exhibits the two young men consoling each other under their
adverse fortune, and making resolutions of eternal friendship. It is in an attentive perusal
of this dialogue that we begin to discover that portions even of the great incidents of the
drama have been written by different persons ; or that, if written by one and the same
person, they have been composed upon different principles of art. We have had occasion
previously to mention a little work of great ability, printed in 1833, entitled ' A Letter on
Shakspeare's Authorship of The Two Noble Kinsmen.' The writer of that letter is now
commonly understood to be the accomplished Professor of Rhetoric in the University of
Edinburgh, William Spalding, Esq. ; and although we have reason to believe that his
opinions on this particular question have undergone some change or modification, it would
be unjust, not only to the author, but to our readers, not to notice with more than common
respect the opinions of a writer who, although then a very young man, displayed a power
of analysis and discrimination which marked him as belonging to a high school of criti-
cism. Mr. Spalding assumes that a considerable portion of this drama was unquestion-
ably the production of Shakspere ; that the underplot was entirely by a different hand ; but
that the same hand, which was that of Fletcher, was also engaged in producing some of the
higher scenes of the main action. The whole of the first act, according to the traditional
opinion, he holds to have been written by Shakspere. The dialogue before us, in the first
scene of the second act, and the subsequent contest for the love of Emilia, he assigns to
Fletcher. We quote his words with reference to the first part of this scene : " The dia-
logue is in many respects admirable. It possesses much eloquence of description, and the
character of the language is smooth and flowing ; the versification is good and accurate,
frequent in double endings, and usually finishing the sense with the line ; and one or two
allusions occur, which, being favourites of Fletcher's, may be in themselves a strong pre-
sumption of his authorshin ; the images too have in some instances a want of distinctness
174
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
in application, or a vagueness of outline, which could be easily paralleled from Fletcher's
acknowledged writings. The style is fuller of allusions than his usually is, but the images
are more correct and better kept from confusion than Shakspeare's ; some of them indeed
are exquisite, but rather in the romantic and exclusively poetical tone of Fletcher than in
the natural and universal mode of feeling which animates Shakspeare. The dialogue too
proceeds less energetically than Shakspeare's, falling occasionally into a style of long-drawn
disquisition which Fletcher often substitutes for the quick and dramatic conversations of
the great poet. On the whole, however, this scene, if it be Fletcher's (of which I have no
doubt), is among the very finest he ever wrote ; and there are many passages in which,
while he preserves his own distinctive marks, he has gathered no small portion of the
flame and inspiration of his immortal friend and assistant." He adds, " In this scene
there is one train of metaphors which is perhaps as characteristic of Fletcher as anything
that could bo produced. It is marked by a slowness of association which he often shows.
Several allusions are successively introduced ; but by each, as it appears, we are prepared
for, and can anticipate, the next : we see the connection of ideas in the poet's mind through
which the one has sprung out of the other, and that all are but branches, of which one
original thought is the root. All this is the work of a less fertile fancy and a more tardy
understanding than Shakspeare's : he would have leaped over many of the intervening
steps, and, reaching at once the most remote particular of the series, would have imme-
diately turned away to weave some new chain of thought." We shall presently advert to
the differences of style thus clearly pointed out.
We are now arrived at a part of the tale where the poetry of Chaucer assumes the
dramatic form. The description of Emilia walking in the garden, the first sight of her by
Palamou, and his imaginative love, the subsequent prostration of his heart before the same
vision by Arcite, are all told with wonderful spirit by the old poet. The entire passage
is too long for extract, but we give some lines which will show that the energy of Chaucer
imposed no common task of rivalry upon him who undertook to dramatize this scene of
" This Palatnon 'gan knit hia browns tway.
' It were,' quod he, ' to thee no great honour
For to be false, ne for to be traytour
To me, that am thy cousin and thy brother
Ysworn full deep, and each of us to other,
That never for to dien in the pain,
Till that the death departen shall us twain,
Neither of us in love to hinder other,
Ne in none other case, my leve 1 brother ;
But that thou shouldest truly further me
In every case as I should further thee.
This was thine oath, and mine also, certain ;
I wot it well, thou dar'st it not withsain :
Thus art thou of my counsel out of doubt,
And now thou wouldest falsely been about
To love my lady, whom I love and serve,
And ever shall till that mine hearth sterve.
" ' Now certe"s, false Arcite, thou shalt not so :
I lov'd her first, and tolde" thee my woe
As to my counsel, and my brother sworn
To further me as I have told beforn,
For which thou art ybounden as a knight
To helpen me, if it lie in thy might,
Or ell^s art thou false I dare well aay'n.'
This Arcita full proudly spake again.
175
NOTICE ON THE AUTHORSHIP OF
" ' Thou shalt,' quod he, ' be rather false than I,
And thou art false, I tell thee utterly ;
For par amour I lov'd her first ere thou.' "
It is a remarkable circumstance that one of the conditions of the friendship of the young
men the chivalric bond,
" Neither of us in love to hinder other,"
so capable of dramatic expansion, has been passed over by the writer of this scene in The
Two Noble Kinsmen. The story is followed in Arcite being freed ; but in Chaucer he
returns to Thebes, and after a long absence comes to the court of Theseus in disguise. The
unity of time is preserved in the drama, by making him a victor in athletic sports, and
thus introduced to the favour of Theseus and the service of Emilia. In Chaucer, Palamon,
after seven years' durance,
" By helping of a friend brake his prison."
The gaoler's daughter is a parasitical growth around the old vigorous tree.
Palamon is fled to the woods. Arcite has ridden to the fields to make his May-garland ;
and his unhappy friend, fearful of pursuit, hears him, unknown, sing
" Maye", with all thy flowre's and thy green,
Right welcome be thou faire" freshd May,
I hope that I some green here getten may."
The old poet continues, with his inimitable humour :-
" When that Arcite had roamed all his fill,
And sungen all the roundel lustily,
Into a study he fell suddenly,
As do these lovers in their quaiute gears,
Now in the crop, and now down in the breres,
Now up, now down, as bucket in a well."
The lover gives utterance to his lamentations ; his rival hears him, and starts out of the
bushes with, " False Arcite, false traitor ! " Arcite proposes that they should determine
their contention by mortal combat on the following day :
" Here I will be fouuden as a knight,
And briugen harness right enough for thee,
And choose the best, and leave the worst for me :
And meat and drinke" this night will I bring."
The corresponding scene in The Two Noble Kinsmen is finely written. There is a quiet
strength about it which exhibits very high art. The structure of the verse, too, is some-
what different from that of the prison scene between the friends. But still we have no
difficulty in believing that it might be written by the author of that previous scene. The
third scene, where Arcite comes to Palamon " with meat, wine, and files," is merely the
carrying out of the action promised in the previous interview. It is unnecessary for the
dramatic movement. We quite agree with Mr. Spalding in his estimate of tins scene
that it is not very characteristic of either Shakspere or Fletcher, but that it " leans to-
wards Fletcher ; and one argument for him might be drawn from an interchange of
sarcasms between the kinsmen, in which they retort on each other former amorous
adventures : such a dialogue is quite like Fletcher's men of gaiety." The combat itself
takes place in the sixth scene. The passage in Chaucer upon which this scene is founded
possesses all his characteristic energy. The hard outline which it presents is in some degree
a natural consequence of its force and clearness :
176
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
" And in the grove, at time and place yset,
This Arcite and this Palamon been met.
Tho changen gan the colour in their face ;
Right as the hunter in the regne of Thrace
That standeth at a gapp^ with a spear,
When hunted is the lion or the bear,
And heareth him come rushing in the greves,
And breaking both the boughe's and the leaves,
And think'th, 'Here com'th my mortal enemy,
Withouten fail he must be dead or 1 ;
For either I must slay him at the gap,
Or he must slay me, if that me mishap."
So fareden they in changing of their hue,
As far as either of them other knew.
There n'as no good day, ne no saluing,
But straight withouten worde"s rehearsing,
Everich of them help to armen other
As friendly as he were his owen brother ;
And after that with sharpe" speargs strong
They foinden each at other wonder long."
It is upon the " everich of them help to armen other " that the dramatist has founded
the interchange of courtesies between the two kinsmen. The conception and execution of
this scene are certainly very graceful ; but the grace is earned somewhat too far to be
natural. The dramatic situation is finely imagined ; but in the hands of a writer of the
highest power it might, we think, have been carried beyond the point of elegance or even of
beauty ; it might have been rendered deeply pathetic, upon the principle that at the
moment of mortal conflict the deep-seated affection of the two young men would have
grappled with the chimerical passion which each had taken to his heart, and would have
displayed itself in something more eminently tragic than the constrained courtesy of the
scene before us. It is this power of dealing with high passions which appears to us to be
most wanting in the scenes where passion is required. It is answered, that those scenes are
written by Fletcher, and not by Shakspere. Of this presently. The interruption to the
combat by Theseus and his train ; the condemnation of the rivals by the duke ; the inter-
cession of Hippolyta and Emilia ; and the final determination that the knights should depart
and within a month return accompanied by other knights to contend in bodily strength for
the fair prize these incidents are founded pretty closely upon Chaucer, with the exception
that the elder poet does not make Theseus decree that the vanquished shall die upon the
block. The scene has no marked deviation in style from that which precedes it.
The supposed interval of time during the absence of the knights is filled up by Chaucer
with some of the finest descriptions which can be found amongst the numberless vivid
pictures which his writings exhibit. In the Two Noble Kinsmen the whole of the fourth
act is occupied with the progress of the underplot ; with the exception of the second scene,
which commences with the long and not very dramatic soliloquy of Emilia upon the pic-
tures of her two lovers, and is followed by an equally undramatic description by a mes-
senger of the arrival of the princes and of the qualities of their companions. This description
is founded upon Chaucer. We pass on to the fifth act.
Chaucer has wonderfully described the temples of Venus, of Mars, and of Diana. The
dramatist has followed him in making Arcite address himself to Mars, Palamon to Venus,
and Emilia to Diana. Parts of these scenes are without all doubt the finest passages of
the play, surpassed by very few things indeed within their own poetical range. The ad-
dresses of Arcite to Mars, and of Emilia to Diana, possess a condensation of thought, a
strength of imagery, and a majesty of language, almost unequalled by the very highest
SUP. VOL. if 177
NOTICE ON THE AUTHORSHIP OF
masters of the art ; but they as properly belong to the epic as to the dramatic division of
poetry. The invocation of Palamon to Venus, although less sustained arid less pleasing,
is to our minds more dramatic : it belongs more to romantic poetry. The nobler invo-
cations are cast in a classical mould. The combat scene is not presented on the stage.
The absence of it is certainly managed with very great skill. Emilia refuses to be
present ; she is alone ; the tumult is around her; rumour upon rumour is brought to her ;
she attempts to analyse her own feelings ; and we must say that she appears to be thinking
more of herself than is consistent with a very high conception of female excellence,
Arcite is eventually the victor. Palamon and his friends appear on the scaffold, prepared
for death. Then comes the catastrophe of Arcite's sudden calamity in the hour of
triumph ; and this again is description. The death of Arcite is told by Chaucer with
great pathos ; and the address of the dying man to Emilia is marked by truth and sim-
plicity infinitely touching :
" What is this world ? what asken men to have ?
Now with his love, now in his colde" grave
Alone withouten any company.
Farewell, my sweet, Farewell, mine Emily !
And softe" take me in your arme"s tway
For love of God, and hearkeneth what I say.
I have here with my cousin Palamon
Had strife and rancour many a day agone
For love of you, and for my jealousy ;
And Jupiter to wis my soul 6 gie,
To speaken of a servant properly,
With alls' circumstances true"ly,
That is to say, truth, honour, and knighthead,
Wisdom, humbless, estate, and high kindred,
Freedom, and all that "longeth to that art,
So Jupiter have of my soule part,
As in this world right now ne know I none
So worthy to be lov'd as Palamon,
That serveth you, and will do all his life ;
And if that ever ye shall be a wife,
Forget not Palamon, the gentle man."
The dramatic poet falls short of this :
" Take Emilia,
And with her all the world's joy. Reach thy hand;
Farewell ! I have told my last hour. I was false,
Yet nevei- treacherous : Forgive me, cousin !
One kiss from fair Emilia ! 'T is done :
Take her. I die ! "
In this imperfect analysis of The Two Noble Kinsmen, as compared with the ' Palamon
ani Arcite' of Chaucer, we have necessarily laid aside those scenes which belong to
the underplot, namely, the love of the gaoler's daughter for Palamon, her agency in his
escape from prison, her subsequent madness, and her unnatural and revolting union with
one who is her lover under these circumstances. The question which we have here to
examine is, whether Shakspere had any concern with the authorship of this play ; and it
is perfectly evident that this underplot was of a nature not to be conceived by him, and
further not to be tolerated in any work with which he was concerned. Had he made " the
friend" who delivered Chaucer's Palamon from prison to appear on the stage as a woman,
she would have been a timid, confiding, self-denying, spirit-bound woman, which character
he of all men could represent best; and not a creature of mere sexual affection. Assuming
178
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
that he wrote any part of the play, we may safely lay aside this part as having his partici-
pation or concurrence. Our inquiry is then reduced to narrower limits. We have to ask
what portion of the original poem of Chaucer Shakspere is supposed to have dramatized,
and what portion was the work of a coadjutor. The stage tradition was, that he wrote
the first act. The searching analysis of Mr. Spalding leads to the conclusion that he
wrote all that relates to the main story in the first and fifth acts, and a scene of the third
act ; amounting to little short of half the play. To Fletcher is assigned the remainder.
Mr. Spalding says that an attentive study of this drama from beginning to end " would con-
vince the most sceptical mind that two authors were concerned in the work ; it would be
perceived that certain scenes are distinguished by certain prominent characters, while
others present different and dissimilar features." These differences, Mr. Spalding has
justly shown in the case of Fletcher as compared with Shakspere, are so striking, that " we
are not compelled to reason from difference in degree, because we are sensible of a striking
dissimilarity in kind. We observe ease and elegance of expression opposed to energy and
quaintness ; brevity is met by dilation ; and the obscurity which results from hurry of con-
ception has to be compared with the vagueness proceeding from indistinctness of ideas ;
lowness, narrowness, and poverty of thought are contrasted with elevation, richness, and
comprehension : on the one hand is an intellect barely active enough to seek the true ele-
ments of the poetical, and on the other a mind which, seeing those finer relations at a glance,
darts off in the wantonness of its luxuriant strength to discover qualities with which poetry
is but ill fitted to deal." This is strikingly and truly put. Yet, be it observed, it has
reference only to the drapery of the dramatic action and characterization the condensa-
tion or expansion of the thought the tameness or luxuriance of the imagery the eqtiable
flow or the involved harmony of the versification. The real body of a drama is its action
and characterization. It is the constant subordination of all the ordinary poetical excel-
lences to the main design, to be carried on through the agency of different passions, tem-
peraments, and humours, that constitutes the dramatic art. To judge of a question of
authorship, and especially of such a question with reference to Shakspere, we must not
only take into consideration the resemblances in what we call style (we use this for the want
of a more comprehensive word), but in the management of the action and the development
of the characters. Such inquiries as these are not without their instruction, if they lead us
by analysis and comparison to a better appreciation of what constitutes the highest qualities
of art. The best copy of a picture is necessarily inferior to the original ; but we may
better learn the value of the original by a close examination of the copy ; and this is the
position which we are about to take up in the question of the authorship of The Two Noble
Kinsmen. We hold that in parts it bears a most remarkable resemblance to Shakspere in
the qualities of detached thought, of expression, of versification ; and not so with reference
to Shakspere's early and unformed style, but to the peculiarities of his later period. But
we hold, at the same time, that the management of the subject is equally unlike
Shakspere ; that the poetical form of what is attributed to him is for the most part
epic, and not dramatic ; that the action does not disclose itself, nor the characters exhibit
their own qualities.
The fact that amongst the extraordinary multitude of plays produced in the palmy half-
century of the stage, a very great many were composed upon the principle of a division of
labour between two, and sometimes three and even four writers, is too satisfactorily esta-
blished for us to consider that the difficulties attending upon such a partnership would pro-
duce imperfect and fragmentary performances where there was not the closest friendship.
It is probable, however, that the intimate social life of the poets of that day, many of whom
were also actors, led to such a joint invention of plot and character as would enable two or
N 2 170
NOTICE ON THE AUTHORSHIP OF
more readily to work upon a defined plan, each bringing to the whole a contribution from
his own peculiar stores. The ordinary mixture too of the serious and comic portions
of a drama facilitated such an arrangement ; and the general introduction of an under-
plot, sometimes very slightly hung upon the main action, would still further render the
union even of more than two writers not a very difficult thing to manage. It must be
considered too that the dramatists of that age were all, or very nearly all, thoroughly
familiar with stage business. As we have said, many of them were actors ; and the lite-
rary employment of those who were not so was, if we may use the term, so professional,
that it was as necessary for them to be as familiar with the practice of the theatre as for a
lawyer to know by daily habit the rules of court. All these circumstances made such
dramatic partnerships comparatively easy to manage. But we must not cease to bear in
mind that these arrangements must always have had especial reference to the particular
capacities and excellences of the persons so united, as known by experience, or suggested
by their own promptings of what they were most fitted to accomplish. Let us apply these
considerations to the case before us.
Shakspere and Fletcher, we will assume, agree to write a play on the subject of Chau-
cer's tale of ' Palamon and Arcite.' It is a subject which Shakspere in some respects
would have rejoiced in. It was familiar to many of his audience in the writings of Eng-
land's finest old poet. It was known to the early stage. It was surrounded with those
romantic attributes of the old legendary tale which appear to have seized upon his imagi-
nation at a particular period of his life, and that not an early one. But, above all, it was
a subject full of deep feeling, where overwhelming passions were to be brought into con-
tact with habitual affections ; a subject, too, not the less interesting because it required to
be treated with great nicety of handling. It may be presumed, that if such a partnership
had been proposed by Fletcher to Shakspere (the belief that Shakspere would have solicited
Fletcher's assistance is not very probable), the younger poet would have offered to the
great master of dramatic action, to the profound anatomist of character, to him who knew
best how to give to the deepest and most complicated emotions their full and appropriate
language his own proper task of exhibiting the deep friendship, the impassioned rivalry,
the terrible hatred, and the final reconciliation of the two heroes of the tale. The less
practised poet might have contented himself with the accessory scenes, those of the intro-
duction and of the underplot. Now, according to the just belief which has been raised
upon the dissimilarities of style, Fletcher has not only taken the underplot, but all, or
nearly all, the scenes that demanded the greatest amount of dramatic power, the exhi-
bition of profound emotion in connexion with nice distinction of character. It was not
the poetical faculty alone that was here wanting that power which Fletcher possessed of
expressing somewhat ordinary thoughts in equable and well-rounded verse, producing
agreeable sensations, but rarely rising into the sublime or the pathetic, and never laying
bare those hidden things in the nature of man which lie too deep for every-day philosophy,
but when revealed become truths that require no demonstration. Shakspere, on the con-
trary, according to the same just belief as to the internal evidence of style, takes those
parts which require the least dramatic power, the descriptive arid didactic parts ; those
which, to a great extent, are of an epic character, containing, like a poem properly epic, set
and solemn speeches, elaborate narration, majestic invocations to the presiding deities.
There can be no doubt as to the high excellence of these portions of the work. But is such
a division of labour the natural one between Shakspere and Fletcher ? If it be said that
Shakspere left portions of a posthumous play which Fletcher finished, we have the same
objection differently applied. The internal evidence of style would lead us to assign the
first and last acts to Shakspere. The course of the action would of necessity adhere pretty
180
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
closely to the tale of Chaucer ; and thus the beginning and the end might have been written
without any very strict reference to what was to come between, provided the subject were
in the hands of an author who would look at the completeness of the narrative as the main
thing to be worked out. Shakspere might have made the preliminary scenes as full as we
find them in The Two Noble Kinsmen ; but when we look at the conciseness with which
Chaucer gives the same scenes, and hurries on to the more dramatic parts of the subject,
we do not very readily believe that Shakspere would have taken the opposite course. Skil-
ful as he is in the introduction of his subjects, in the preparation with which he brings
the mind into the proper state for comprehending and feeling the higher interests which are
to be developed, he comes in almost every case, with that decision which is a quality of the
highest genius, to grapple with the passions and characters of the agents who are to work
out the events ; and when he has done this, and has our imaginations completely subdued
to his power, he delays or precipitates the catastrophe, sometimes lingering in some
scene of gentleness or repose to restore the balance of feeling, and to keep the tragic within
the limits of pleasurable emotion, and sometimes clearing away by a sudden movement
all the involutions of the plot, shedding his sunlight on all the darkness of character,
and yet making this unexpected denouement the only one compatible with truth and
nature. It was out of Shakspere's own power, we believe, because incompatible with those
principles of art which were to him as an unerring instinct, to produce the last scenes of
a play before he had worked out the characterization which would essentially determine
the details of the event. The theory that Shakspere left a portion of The Two Noble
Kinsmen, which, after his death, was completed by Fletcher, is one which, upon a mature
consideration of the subject, we are constrained to reject ; although it has often presented
itself to us as the most plausible of the theories which would necessarily associate them-
selves with the belief that Shakspere had written a considerable portion of this play.
In his specimens of ' English Dramatic Poets,' Charles Lamb selects from The Two
Noble Kinsmen nearly all the first scene of the first act, part of the scene between Emilia
and Hippolyta in the same act, and the dialogue between Palamon and Arcite, before
Emilia comes into the garden, in Act II. The latter scene, he says, " bears indubitable
marks of Fletcher : the two which precede it give strong countenance to the tradition
that Shakspere had a hand in this play." These and other passages, he adds, " have a
luxuriance in them which strongly resembles Shakspere's manner in those parti of his
plays where, the progress of the interest being subordinate, the poet was at leiswre for de-
scription." Upon a principle, then, of arranged co-operation with Fletcher, Shakspere
had produced only those parts of The Two Noble Kinsmen in which the interest is sub-
ordinate, and which should resemble his manner when he was at leisure for description.
This is the main point which, with every deference for the opinion founded upon a compa-
rison of style, that Shakspere was associated in this play with Fletcher, we venture to urge
as evidence that ought to be impartially taken in support of the opinion that Shakspere
was not concerned in it at all. Our own judgment, as far as the question of style is con-
cerned, very nearly coincides with that of the author of the ingenious ' Letter' to which
we have several times referred ; but, on a careful examination of the whole question, we
are inclined to a belief that Shakspere did not participate in the authorship. We do not,
on the other hand, go along with Tieck, who, with somewhat of an excess of that boldness
with which his countrymen pronounce opinions upon the niceties of style in a foreign lan-
guage, says of this play, " I have never been able to convince myself that a single verse
lias been written by Shakspere. The manner, the language, the versification is as
thoroughly Fletcher as any other of his pieces. If Shakspere had the capability of alter-
ing his language so variously as we here see, yet he nowhere presents exaggerations of
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NOTICE ON THE AUTHORSHIP OF
thought and feeling in soft and flowing speeches, which is the characteristic of Fletcher."*
This is to mistake the question at issue. Nobody has ever supposed that Shakspere wrote
the parts that are commonly assigned to Fletcher ; and therefore nobody accused him of
putting exaggerated thoughts in soft and flowing speeches. If Tieck, however, considers
the scenes of the first act, to which he distinctly alludes, to be in Fletcher's natural and
habitual manner, he maintains a theory which in our opinion is more untenable than any
which has been proposed upon this question. Steevens holds that the play is for the most
part a studied imitation of Shakspere by Fletcher. But if he has imitated style, he has
also imitated character ; and that most weakly. The Gaoler's daughter is a most diluted
copy of Ophelia ; the Schoolmaster, of Holofernes ; the clowns, with their mummery, of
the "rude mechanicals" of A Midsummer Night's Dream. This very circumstance,
by the way, is evidence that there was no distinct concert between Shakspere and Fletcher
as to the mode in which the subject should be treated. We agree with Lamb, that
Fletcher, with all his facility, could not have so readily gone out of his habitual manner
to produce an imitation of Shakspere's condensed and involved style. He frequently
copies Shakspere in slight resemblances of thought ; but the manner is always essentially
different. These scenes in The Two Noble Kinsmen are not in Fletcher's manner ; it
was not very probable, even if he had the power, that he would write them in imitation of
Shakspere. We believe that Shakspere did not write them himself. We are bound,
therefore, to produce a theory which may attempt, however imperfectly, to reconcile
these difficulties ; and we do so with a due sense of the doubts which must always sur-
round such questions, and which in this case are not likely to be obviated by any suggestion
of our own, which can pretend to little beyond the character of a mere conjecture, not
hurriedly adopted, but certainly propounded without any great confidence in its validity
We hold, then, that Fletcher, for the most part, wrote the scenes which the best critical
opinions concur in attributing to him: we hold, also, that he had a coadjutor who pro-
duced for the most part the scenes attributed by the same authorities to Shakspere : but
we hold, further, that this coadjutor was not Shakspere himself.
Coleridge has thrown out a suggestion that parts of The Two Noble Kinsmen might
have been written by Jonson. He was probably led into this opinion by the classical tone
which occasionally prevails, especially in the first scene, and in the invocations of the fifth
act. The address to Diana,
" Oh, sacred, shadowy, cold, and constant queen,
Abandoner of revels, mute, contemplative,
Sweet, solitary, white as chaste, and pure
As wind-fann'd snow,"
at once reminds us of
" Queen and huntress, chaste and fair ; "
more perhaps from the associations of the subject than from Jonson's manner of treating
it. But Coleridge goes on to state that the main presumption for Shakspere's share in
this play rests upon the construction of the blank verse. He holds that construction to
be evidence either of an intentional imitation of Shakspere, or of his own proper hand.
He then argues, from the assumption that Fletcher was the imitator, that there was an
improbability that he would have been conscious of the inferiority of his own versification,
which Coleridge calls "too poematic minus-dramatic." The improbability, then, that
Fletcher imitated Shakspere in portions of the play, writing other portions in his owe
proper language and v ers ifi c ation, throws the critic back upon the other conjecture, that
* Alt-Englisches Theater, oder Supplemente zum Shakspere.
182
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
Shakspere's own hand is to be found in it. But then again he says, " The harshness of
many of these very passages, a harshness unrelieved by any lyrical intei -breathings, and
still more the want of profundity in the thoughts, keep me from an absolute decision."
We state these opinions of Coleridge with reference to what we must briefly call the style
of the different parts, to show that any decision of the question founded mainly upon style
is not to be considered certain even within its own proper limits. We have rested our
doubts principally upon another foundation; but, taken together, the two modes of view-
ing the question, whether as to style or dramatic structure, require that we should look
out for another partner than Shakspere in producing this work in alliance with Fletcher.
Coleridge appears to have thought the same when ne threw out the name of Jonson ; but
we cannot conceive that, if he had pursued this inquiry analytically, he would have abided
by this conjecture. Jonson's proper versification is more different from Shakspere's than
perhaps that of any other of his contemporaries ; and we doubt if his mind was plastic
enough, or his temper humble enough, to allow him to become the imitator of any man.
We request our readers to compare the following invocation by Jonson, from ' Cynthia's
Revels,' with the invocation to Mars in the fifth act of The Two Noble Kinsmen ; and
we think they will agree that the versification of Jonson, in a form in which both the
specimens are undramatic, is essentially different :
" Phcebua Apollo, if with ancient rites,
And due devotions, I have ever hung
Elaborate paeans on thy golden shrine,
Or sung thy triumphs in a lofty strain,
Fit for a theatre of gods to hear ;
And thou, the other son of mighty Jove,
Cyllenian Mercury, sweet Maia's joy,
If in the busy tumults of the mind
My path thou ever hast illumined,
For which thine altars I have oft perfum'd,
And deck'd thy statues with discolour'd flowers :
Now thrive invention in this glorious court,
That not of bounty only, but of right,
Cynthia may grace, and give it life by sight."
Here is no variety of pause ; the couplet with which the speech concludes is not different
from the pairs of blank-verse which have gone before, except in the rhyming of the tenth
syllables. But there is another writer of that period who might have been associated with
Fletcher in the production of a drama, and did participate in such stage partnerships ;
who, from some limited resemblances to Shakspere that we shall presently notice, might
without any improbability be supposed to have written those portions of The Two Noble
Kinsmen which are decidedly and essentially different from the style of Fletcher. We
select, though probably not the best selection we could make, a passage of the same
general character as the invocations so often mentioned, and which may be compared also
with Jonson's address to Apollo. It is au invocation to Behemoth :
" Terror of darkness ! oh thou king of flames I
That with thy music-footed horse dost strike
The clear light out of crystal, on dark earth,
And hurl'st instructive fire about the world,
Wake, wake, the drowsy and enchanted night,
That sleeps with dead eyes in this heavy riddle :
Oh, thou great prince of shades, where never sun
Sticks his far-darted beams, whose eyes are made
To shine in darkness, and see ever best
188
NOTICE ON THE AUTHORSHIP OF
"Where men are blindest ! open now the heart
Of thy abashed oracle, that for fear
Of some ill it includes would fain lie hid,
And rise thou with it in thy greater light"
The writer of this invocation, which we select from the tragedy of ' Bussy D'Ambois,' is
George Chapman.
Webster, in his dedication to ' Vittoria Corombona,' speaks of " that full and heightened
style of Master Chapman," in the same sentence with " the laboured and understanding
works of Master Jonson." It is in the "full and heightened style" that we shall seek
resemblances to parts of The Two Noble Kinsmen, rather than in the " laboured and
understanding works." We are supported in this inquiry by the opinion of one of the most
subtle and yet most sensible of modern critics, Charles Lamb : " Of all the English play-
writers, Chapman perhaps approaches nearest to Shakspeare in the descriptive and didactic,
in passages which are less purely dramatic. Dramatic imitation was not his talent. He
could not go out of himself, as Shakspere could shift at pleasure, to inform and animate
other existences, but in himself he had an eye to perceive and a soul to embrace all forms.
He would have made a great epic poet, if, indeed, he has not abundantly shown himself to
be one ; for his ' Homer ' is not so properly a translation as the stories of Achilles and
Ulysses re-written." Our theory is, that the passages which have been ascribed to Shak-
spere as a partner in the work of The Two Noble Kinsmen are essentially " descriptive
and didactic ;" that to write these passages it was not necessary that the poet should be
able to " go out of himself;" that they, for the most part, might enter into the composition
of a great epic poem ; that the writer of these passages was master, to a considerable extent,
of Shakspere's style, especially in its conciseness and its solemnity, although he was ill fitted
to grapple with its more dramatic qualities of rapidity or abruptness ; that also, unlike
most of the writers of his day, who sought only to please, he indulged in the same dis-
position as Shakspere, to yield to the prevailing reflection which the circumstances of the
scene were calculated to elicit ; and, lastly, that his intimate acquaintance with the Greek
poets fitted him to deal more especially with those parts of the tale of ' Palamon and Arcite '
in which Chaucer, in common with all the middle-age poets, built a tale of chivalry upon
a classical foundation. We can understand such a division of labour between Fletcher
and Chapman, as that Fletcher should take the romantic parts of the story, as the knight-
errantry, the love, the rivalry, the decision by bodily prowess, and that Chapman should
deal with Theseus and the Amazons, the lament of the three Queens (which subject was
familiar to him in ' The Seven against Thebes ' of the Greek drama), and the mythology
which Chaucer had so elaborately sketched as the machinery of his great story.
Lord Byron somewhere says, speaking of his own play of ' Sardanapalus,' " I look
upon Shakspere to be the worst of models, though the most extraordinary of writers."
We think, if Shakspere be the worst of models, it is because he is the most extraordinary
of writers. His prodigious depth of thought, his unbounded range of imagery, his in-
tense truth of characterization, are not to be imitated. The other qualities, which might
remain as a model, lie beneath the surface. Imitate, if it be possible, the structure of his
verse ; the thought and the imagery are wanting, and the mere versification is a lifeless
mass. Dryden says, in his preface to ' All for Love,' " In my style I have professed to
imitate the divine Shakspeare." Open the play at any part, and see if the imitation has
produced a resemblance. Rowe tells us that Jane Shore' is an imitation of Shakspere.
It is a painted daub of the print-shops imitating the colouring of Titian. Otway pieced
Romeo and Juliet into his ' Caius Marius,' where the necessity for imitation was actually
forced upon him, in making a cento of Shakspere's lines and his own ; and yet the last
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
speech of the Romeo of Otway's tragedy substitutes these three lines in the place of
" Thus with a kiss I die :"
" This world's gross air grows burthensome already,
I am all a god ; such heavenly joys transport me,
That mortal sense grows sick, and faints with lasting."
We mention these things to show that men of very high talent have not been able to
grapple with Shakspere's style in the way of imitation. A poet, and especially a contem-
porary poet, might have formed his own style, in some degree, upon Shakspere ; not only
by the constant contemplation of his peculiar excellences, but through the general cha-
racter that a man of the very highest genius impresses unconsciously upon the aggregate
poetry of his age. This we believe to have been the case with Chapman. He was not an
imitator of Shakspere in the ordinary sense of the word ; he could not imitate him in his
scenes of passion, because he could not " shift at pleasure, to inform and animate other
existences." But, in a limited range, he approached Shakspere, because he had the same
earnestness, the same command of striking combinations of language, a rhythm in which
harmony is blended with strength, a power of painting scenes by a vivid description, a
tendency to reflect and philosophize. All this Shakspere had, but he had a great deal
more. Is that more displayed in the scenes of The Two Noble Kinsmen which have
been attributed to him ? or, not being present, had Chapman the power of producing
these scenes out of his own resources] This is a question which we certainly cannot
pretend to answer satisfactorily : all that we can do is to compare a few peculiarities in the
first and last acts of The Two Noble Kinsmen with passages that offer themselves in those
of Chapman's works with which we have an acquaintance.
We will begin with a quality which is remarkable enough in passages of The Two
Noble Kinsmen to distinguish them from those written by Fletcher we mean the pre-
sence of general truths and reflections, propounded always with energy, sometimes with
solemnity ; not dragged in as a moral at the end of a fable, but arising spontaneously out
of the habit of the author's mind. Coleridge doubts the profundity of these thoughts
and we think he is right. We will place in one column a few of such passages from Tha
Two Noble Kinsmen ; and, in the other, passages of a similar nature, selected somewhat
hastily from three or four of Chapman's plays :
Two NOBLE KINSMEN.
" We come unseasonably ; but when could Grief
Cull forth, as unpang'd Judgment can, fitt'st time
For best solicitation ? "
" Oh, you heavenly charmers,
What things you make of us ! For what we lack
We laugh, for what we have are sorry ; still
Are children in some kind."
" Let th' event,
That never-erring arbitrator, tell us
When we know all ourselves ; and let us follow
The becking of our chance 1 "
CHAPMAN.
" Sin is a coward, madam, and insults
But on our weakness, in his truest valour ;
And so our ignorance tames us, that we let
His shadows fright us." Bussy TfAmltmt.
" the good God of Gods,
How blind is pride ! what eagles we are still
In matters that belong to other men I
What beetles in our own 1 " All Fools.
"0 ! the strange difference 'twixt us and the stars !
They work with inclinations strong and fatal
And nothing know : and we know all their working,
And nought can do or nothing can prevent"
Byron's Tragedy.
It would be easy to multiply examples of this kind ; and it would not be necessary for our
purpose to select passages that are very closely parallel. We only desire to show that
Chapman is a reflective poet; and that in this respect the tone of thought that may be
185
NOTICE ON THE AUTHORSHIP OF
found in the first and last acts of The Two Noble Kinsmen is not incompatible with his
habits of composition.
We have already selected an invocation by Chapman, with the intent of showing that
his style in this detached and complete form of poetry approaches much more closely to
tke invocations in The Two Noble Kinsmen than the style of Jonson. Chapman appears
to us to delight in this species of oratorical verse, requiring great condensation and majesty
of expression, and demanding the nicest adjustment of a calm and stately rhythm. He
derived, perhaps, this love of invocation, as well as the power of introducing such passages
successfully in his dramas, from his familiarity with Homer ; and thus for the same
reason his plays have more of the stately form of the epic dialogue than the passionate
rapidity of the true drama. We will select one invocation from Chapman's translation of
the ' Iliad,' that of Agamemnon's prayer in the third book, to show the sources at least
which were open to the writer of the invocations in the fifth act of The Two Noble Kins-
men, for examples of condensation of thought, majesty of diction, and felicity of epithet :
" Jove, that Ida doth protect, and hast the titles won,
Most glorious, most invincible ; and thou, all-seeing sun ;
All-hearing, all re-comforting ; floods, earth, and powers beneath !
That all the perjuries of men chastise even after death ;
Be witnesses, and see perform' d, the hearty vows we make."
These invocations -in his 'Homer' have the necessary condensation of the original. In
his own inventions in the same kind he is naturally more diffuse ; but his diffuseness is
not the diffuseness of Fletcher. Take one example :
" Now all ye peaceful regents of the night,
Silently-gliding exhalations,
Languishing winds, and murmuring falls of waters,
Sadness of heart, and ominous secureness,
Enchantments, dead sleeps, all the friends of rest,
That ever wrought upon the life of man,
Extend your utmost strengths ; and this charm'd hour
Fix like the centre : make the violent wheels
Of Time and Fortune stand ; and great existence,
The maker's treasury, now not seem to be."
The time is past when it may be necessary to prove that Chapman was a real poet. There
are passages in his plays which show that he was capable not only of giving interest to
forced situations and extravagant characters by his all-informing" energy, but of pouring
out the sweetest spirit of beauty in the most unexpected places. Take the following four
lines as an example :
" Here 'a nought but whispering with us : like a calm
Before a tempest, when the silent air
Lays her soft ear close to the earth to hearken
For that she fears steals on to ravish her."
Was ever personification more exquisitely beautiful ? The writer of these lines, with his
wondrous facility, was equal to anything that did not demand the very highest qualities for
the drama ; and those qualities we do not think are manifest in the first and last acts of
The Two Noble Kinsmen, rich as these are in excellences within the range of such a
writer as Chapman, especially when his exuberant genius was under the necessary restraint
of co-operation with another writer.
The classical nature of that portion of The Two Noble Kinsmen that we think might
have been assigned to Chapman might have been treated by a writer not very deeply
186
THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
imbued with the spirit of Greek poetry without the use of any peculiar phrases or epithets
which a poet derives from a particular course of reading, as we constantly find in Milton.
We will select a very few parallel examples of such from The Two Noble Kinsmen, and
from Chapman s plays and the translation of the ' Iliad : '
Two NOBLE KINSMEN. CHAPMAN.
The scythe-tusk'd boar.
Blubber'd queens.
Clear-spirited cousin,
^he heavenly limiter.
Shaker of o'er-rank states.
Sacred silver mistress.
Oh, you heavenly charmers
Thy music-footed horse.
His blubber* d cheeks.
Cold-spirited peers.
The heavenly lightener.
Thou mighty shaker of the earth.
Golden-throned queen.
The eternal dwellers.
It would be tedious as well as unnecessary to pursue these details farther. Whoever
was the writer of those passages in The Two Noble Kinsmen which, on some grounds,
have with great probability been attributed to Shakspere, it is clear to us that there were
two hands concerned in the production of the play, as dissimilar in their styles as Chapman,
as a translator of Homer, is dissimilar to Pope. There is some analogy, however remote
it may appear, between the poetical characters of Fletcher and Pope, as compared with
writers of greater energy and simplicity ; and the differences in kind of this poetical qua-
lity may serve as an illustration of the imperfect argument which we thus conclude :
CHAPMAN.
" They sat delightfully,
And spent all night in open field ; fires round about
them shin'd ;
As when about the silver moon, when air is free from
wind,
And stars shine clear; to whose sweet beams, high
prospects, and the brows
Of all steep hills and pinnacles thrust up themselves
for shows ;
And even the lowly valleys joy to glitter in their
sight,
When the unmeasur'd firmament bursts to disclose
her light,
And all the signs in heaven are seen that glad the
shepherd's heart ;
So many fires disclos'd their beams, made by the
Trojan part,
Before the face of Ilion ; and her bright turrets
show'd :
A thousand courts of guard kept fires : and every
guard allow'd
Fifty stout men, by whom their how eat oats and
hard white corn,
And all did wilfully expect the silver-throned morn."
POPE.
" The troops exulting sat in order round,
And beaming fires illumin'd all the ground ;
As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night,
O'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light.
When not a breath disturbs the deep serene,
And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene,
Around her throne the vivid planets roll,
And stars unnumber'd gild the glowing pole ;
O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed,
And tip with silver every mountain's head ;
Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise,
A flood of glory bursts from all the skies :
The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight,
Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light :
So many flames before proud Ilion blaze,
And lighten glimmering Xanthus with their rays ;
The long reflections of the distant fires
Gleam on the walls, and tremble on the spires ;
A thousand piles the dusky horrors gild,
And shed a shady lustre o'er the field.
Full fifty guards each flaming pile attend,
Whose umber'd arms, by fits, thick flashes send ;
Loud neigh the coursers o'er their heaps of corn ;
And ardent warriors wait the rising morn."
We have only one word to add. Chapman died in the very year that the first edition
of The Two Noble Kinsmen was published, with the name of Shakspere in the title-page.
If the title-page were a bookseller's invention, the name of Shakspere would be of higher
price than that of Chapman.
187
L C R I N E.
L C E I N E.
THE subject of this tragedy was a favourite with the early poets. We find it in ' The
Mirror of Magistrates,' in Spenser, and in Drayton ; occupying seven stanzas of ' The
Faery Queen' (Book II., Canto 10), and fifty lines of the Poly-Olbion.' The legend
of Brutus is circumstantially related in Milton's ' History of England,' where the story
of Locrine is told with the power of a poet :
"After this, Brutus, in a chosen place, builds Troja Nova, changed in time to Trinovantum, now
London, and began to enact laws, Heli being then high-priest in Judaea ; and having governed the whole
isle twenty-four years, died, and was buried in his new Troy. His three sons, Locrine, Albanact, and
Camber, divide the land by consent. Locrirfe has the middle part, Lmgria ; Camber possessed Cambria,
or Wales ; Albanact, Albania, now Scotland. But he in the end, by Humber, king of the Hunne, who
with a fleet invaded that land, was slain in fight, and his people drove back into Lo?gria. Locrine and his
brother go out against Humber ; who, now marching onwards, was by them defeated, and in a river
drowned, which to this day retains his name. Among the spoils of his camp and navy were found
certain young maids, and Estrildis above the rest, passing fair, the daughter of a king in Germany; from
SUP. VOL. O 103
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
whence Humber, as he went wastmg the sea-coast, had led her captive ; whom Locrine, though before
contracted to the daughter of Corineua, resolves to marry. But being forced aud threatened by Corineus,
whose authority and power he feared, Guendolen the daughter he yields to marry, but in secret loves
the other : and ofttimes retiring, as to some private sacrifice, through vaults and passages made under
ground, and seven years thus enjoying her, had by her a daughter equally fair, whose name was Sabra.
But when once his fear was off, by the death of Corineus, not content with secret enjoyment, divorcing
Guendolen, he made Estrildis now his queen. Guendolen, all in rage, departs into Cornwall, where
Madan, the son she had by Locrine, was hitherto brought up by Corineus, his grandfather. And
gathering an army of her father's friends aud subjects, gives battle to her husband by the river Sture ;
wherein Locrine, shot with an arrow, ends hia life. But not so ends the fury of Guendolen ; for
-Estrildis, and her daughter Sabra, she throws into a river; and, to leave a monument of revenge,
proclaims that the stream be thenceforth called after the damsel's name, which, by length of time, i*
changed now to Sabrina, or Severn."
In 'Comus' Milton lingers with delight about the same story :
" There is a gentle nymph not far from hence,
That with moist curb sways the smooth Severn stream,
Sabrina is her name, a virgin pure ;
Whilome she was the daughter of Locrine,
That had the sceptre from hia father Brute.
She. guiltless damsel, flying the mad pursuit
Of her enraged stepdame, Guendolen,
Commended her fair innocence to the flood,
That stay'd her flight with his cross-flowing course."
The tragedy of ' Locrine' was originally printed in quarto, under the following title :
' The lamentable Tragedie of Locrine, the eldest sonne of King Brutus, discoursing the
warres of the Britaines and Hunnes, with their Discomfiture : The Britaines victorie,
with their Accidents, and the death of Albanact. No less pleasant than profitable.
Newly set foorth, ouerseene and corrected, by W. S. London, printed by Thomas Creede.
1595.' It was entered in the books of the Stationers' Company on the 20th of July,
1594. The play concludes with some homespun lines, which, to a certain extent, fix the
date :
" Lo ! here the end of lawless treachery,
Of usurpation, and ambitious pride.
And they that for their private amours dare
Turmoil our land, and set their broils abroach,
Let them be warned by these premises.
And as a woman was the only cause
That civil discord was then stirred up,
So let us pray for that renowned maid
That eight-and-thirty years the sceptre sway'd,
In quiet peace and sweet felicity ;
And every wight that seeks her grace's smart,
Would that this sword were pierced in his heart ! "
The thirty-eighth year of Queen Elizabeth's reign began on the 17th of November,
1595 ; and it would therefore appear that these lines were written after the entry at
Stationers' Hall ; and that the piece, if acted at all, was presented in the latter part of the
year of which the first edition bears the date. The question then arises, whether the
expression in the title-page of that edition, " Newly set foorth, ouerseene and corrected,
by W. S." implies that W. S. had corrected and published a play of an elder date ; and
that involves the further question whether W. S. was the original author, or one who
undertook to repair a work that had fallen into his hands. Steevens says, " Supposing
for a moment that W. S. here stood for our great poet's name (which is extremely im-
probable), these words prove that Shakspere was not the writer of this performance. If
it was only set forth, overseen, and corrected, it was not composed, by him." This is not
194
LOCRINE.
a very logical inference from the words of the title-page ; nor is this an isolated case of
prominently setting forth the correction of a play. The following title-page is, we
think, an exact parallel to that of ' Locrine :' ' A pleasant Conceited Comedie called
Love's Labours Lost. As it was presented before her Highness this last Christmas.
Newly corrected and augmented by W. Shakespeare.' Here the corrector and aug-
menter is the undoubted author ; and so the appearance of W. S. in the title-page of
' Locrine ' as its overseer and corrector, does not prove that " it was not composed " by
W. S. We have no earlier trace that W. S. was held to be William Shakspere than the
publication of ' Locrine ' in the folio of 1664. If the publishers of that edition of Shak-
spere' s works were misled by the initials W. S., they are not the only persons who have
thought that these initials could only belong to the greatest of writers. Shakspere has
been made a political economist upon the strength of them. He was indeed a much
better political economist than many of the statesmen of his time ; but he did not in
1581 write 'A compendious or briefe examination of certayne ordinary complaints, <fec.,
by W. S.,' which in the last century was printed with his name. The author of that
very able pamphlet was William Stafford. The theory of Steevens with regard to
' Locrine ' is that it was written by Marlowe, who died in 1593 ; that it was entered on the
Stationers' books as Marlowe left it ; that some revision was necessary ; and that it was
published with the initials of the reviser, William Smith, in 1595. In 1596 William
Smith printed a collection of fifty sonnets, entitled, ' Chloris, or the Complaint of the
passionate despised Shepheard.' In 'England's Helicon,' printed in 1600, there is a
little poem entitled ' Corin's Dream of his fair Chloris,' bearing the initials W. S.,
which is no doubt by the same William Smith. We extract the first eight lines of this
poem :
" What time bright Titan in the zenith sat,
And equally the fixed poles did heat :
When to my flock my daily woes I chat,
And underneath a broad beech took my seat.
The dreaming god, which Morpheus poets call-
Augmenting fuel to my ^Etna's fire,
With sleep possessing my weak senses all,
In apparitions makea my hopes aspire."
In the 'Censura Literaria' (vol. v., p. 113) an account is given of a work printed in
1577, entitled ' The Golden Aphroditis : a pleasant discourse penned by John Grange,
gentleman,' in which a poem is also found by W. S., which is thus described :
" Eighteen commendatory lines succeed, by W. S. This probably was Wm. Smith,
the writer of other poesies. Shakspeare it could not be ; both on account of the date,
and because he thus useth the commonplace process of compliment employed in that
age, in which mythology and personification are made to halt for it." We extract four
lines from these commendatory verses :
" Here virtue seems to check at Vice, and Wisdom Folly taunts :'
Here Venus she is set at nought, and dame Diane she vaunts.
Here Pallas Cupid doth detest, and all his carpet-knights ;
Here doth she show that youthful imps in folly most delights."
Here then was a W. S. appearing as a poet in 1577, and again in 1596. Locrine, in
1595, is newly set forth, &c., by W. S. The same anonymous person might have written
a play in the very early days of the English stage, contemporary with the first perform-
ances of Peele, Greene, Marlowe, and Kyd ; he might have revised it and published it in
1595. Very little is known of this author ; nothing of his personal history. A copy or
two is in existence of his fifty sonnets ; and, if that be fame, his little book has been sold
O 2 195
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
for thirty pounds in our own day. Seventy years after the first publication of 'Locrine,'
it is reprinted in a collection of Shakspere's works ; but we have not a particle of evi-
dence that it was traditionally ascribed to Shakspere. The principle which appears to
have determined the publishers of our poet's works in 1664 to add to their " impression "
a collection of " seven plays never before printed in folio" appears to have been a very
simple one. They took all which they found bearing the initials W. S., or the name
William Shakspere, as may be seen from the following table :
Title of Play.
I Initials, or Name, on Title.
Date.
Pericles, Prince of Tyre
. . William Shakespeare . .
. W S.
1609
1595
1600
1600
1602
1613
1605
1607
1608
First Part of the Life of Sir)
John Oldcastle . . . /
Chronicle Historic of Thomas \
Lord Cromwell . . . /
The London Prodigall . . .
1. No name or initial .
2. William Shakespeare .
1. No name or initial . .
2. W. S
William Shakespeare . .
W. S
A Yorkshire Tragedie .
W. Shakespeare . . .
The name of Shakspere affixed to the title of any of these plays cannot, as we have
before observed in our notice of Pericles, be received as evidence of the authorship.
'Sir John Oldcastle,' of which two editions were published in 1600 by the same book-
seller, the one with Shakspere's name, the other without (the one without a name being the
most correct), was unquestionably not written by Shakspere, because we have record
of a payment to the actual writers. This circumstance compelled us to inquire into the
authorship of Pericles, almost wholly with reference to the internal evidence. And
upon the same principle we must examine < The London Prodigal ' and ' The Yorkshire
Tragedy.' It is manifest that the initials W. S. upon the title-pages of the early copies
cannot be received as evidence at all of the authorship, however convenient it might have
been for a publisher to accept them as evidence fifty years after Shakspere's death. W. S.
might, without any attempt to convey the notion that ' Locrine ' was written by Shak-
spere, have fairly stood for William Smith ; and in the same way the W. S. of ' Thomas
Lord Cromwell,' and the W. S. of ' The Puritan ' might have represented Wentworth
Smith, a well-known dramatic author at the date of the publication of those plays, who
wrote many pieces in conjunction with the best poets of that prolific period of the stage.
We proceed to an analysis of ' Locrine,' not, as we would repeat, to attempt any display
of ingenuity in finding parallels or contrasts, but, inquiring into the broad principles of
Shakspere's art, to apply something like a test of the genuineness of those productions
which have been assigned to him at various periods since they were written, some very
loosely and hastily, as we think, and others upon grounds that demand a patient and
careful examination.
According to Tieck, ' Locrine ' is the earliest of Shakspere's dramas. He has a
theory that it has altogether a political tendency : " It seems to have reference to the
times when England was suffering through the parties formed in favour of Mary Stuart,
and to have been written before her execution, while attacks were feared at home, and
invasions from abroad." It was corrected by the author, and printed, he further says,
in 1595, when another Spanish invasion was feared. We confess ourselves utterly at a
loss to recognise in ' Locrine ' the mode in which Shakspere usually awakens the love
of country. The management in this particular is essentially different from that ol
King John and Henry V. ' Locrine ' is one of the works which Tieck has translated,
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LOCRINE.
and his translation is no doubt a proof of the sincerity of his opinions ; yet he says, frankly
enough, " It bears the marks of a young poet unacquainted with the stage, who endea-
vours to sustain himself constantly in a posture of elevation, who purposely neglects the
necessary rising and sinking of tone and effect, and who with wonderful energy endea-
vours from beginning to end to make his personages speak in the same highly-wrought
and poetical language, while at the same time he shakes out all his school-learning on
every possible occasion." To reduce this very just account of the play to elementary
criticism, Tieck says, first, that the action of the play is not conducted upon dramatic
principles; second, that the language is not varied with the character and situation;
third, that the poetry is essentially conventional, being the reflection of the author's
Bchool-learning. It must be evident to all our readers that these characteristics are the
very reverse of Shakspere. Schlegel says of ' Locrine,' " The proofs of the genuineness
of this piece are not altogether unambiguous ; the grounds for doubt, on the other hand,
are entitled to attention. However, this question is immediately connected with that
respecting Titus Androuicus, and must be at the same time resolved in the affirmative or
negative." We dissent entirely from this opinion. It appears to us that the differences
are as strikingly marked between ' Locrine ' and Titus Andronicus as between Titus
Andronicus and Othello. Those productions were separated by at least twenty years.
The youth might have produced Aaron; the perfect master of his art, lago. There is
the broad mark of originality in the characterization and language of Titus Andronicus.
The terrible passions which are there developed by the action find their vent in the
appropriate language of passion, the bold and sometimes rude outpourings of nature.
The characters of ' Locrine ' are moved to passion, but first and last they speak out of
books. In Shakspere, high poetry is the most natural language of passion. It belongs
to the state of excitement in which the character is placed ; it harmonizes with the ex-
cited state of the reader or of the audience. But the whole imagery of ' Locrine ' is
mythological. In a speech of twenty lines we have Rhadamanthus, Hercules, Eurydice,
Erebus, Pluto, Mors, Tantalus, Pelops, Tithonus, Minos, Jupiter, Mars, and Tisiphone.
The mythological pedantry is carried to such an extent, that the play, though unques-
tionably written in sober sadness, is a perfect travesty of this peculiarity of the early
dramatists. Conventional as Greene and Marlowe are in their imagery, a single act of
' Locrine ' contains more of this tinsel than all their plays put together, prone as they
are to this species of decoration. In the author of ' Locrine ' it becomes so entirely
ridiculous, that this quality alone would decide us to say that Marlowe had nothing to
do with it, or Greene either. There is another peculiarity also in ' Locrine ' which dis-
tinguishes it as much from Titus Andronicus as it does from the accredited works of the
best dramatists of the early period. We allude to the incessant repetitions of a phrase,
in the endeavour to be forcible and rhetorical. Sparingly used, all poets know the power
of an echo which intensifies the original sound ; but we will select a few such passages
from ' Locrine ' which are the mere platitudes of weakness and inexperience :
' These arms, my lords, these never-daunted anna."
' This heart, my lords, this ne'er-appalled heart."
' Accursed stars, damn'd and accursed stars."
' Brutus, that was a glory to us all,
Brutus, that was a terror to his foes."
' For at this time, yea at this present time."
' Casts such a heat, yea such a scorching heat."
' Since mighty kings are subject to mishap
(Ay, mighty kings are subject to mishap)."
" But this foul cUy, this foul accursed day."
ifjr
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
No doubt we may find this rhetorical form amongst the founders of our drama, aud
often in an excess which approaches to the ridiculous ; take a passage from Greene's
1 Orlando Furioso ' for example :
" Although my country's love, dearer than pearl,
Or mines of gold, might well have kept me back ;
The sweet conversing with my king and friends,
Left all for love, might well have kept me back ;
The seas by Neptune hoised to the heavens,
Whose dangerous flaws might well have kept me back ;
The savage Moors and Anthropophagi,
Whose lands I pass'd, might well have kept ma back ;
The doubt of entertainment in the event
When I arriv'd, might well have kept me back ;
But so the fame of fair Angelica
Stamp'd in my thoughts the figure of her love,
As neither country, king, or seas, or cannibals,
Could by despairing keep Orlando back."
W hTe the ams sort of elaborate repetition in ' Locrine :'
" If Fortune favour me in mine attempts,
Thou shalt be queen of lovely Albion.
Fortune shall favour me in mine attempts,
And make thee queen of lovely Albion."
The latter passage, as well as that of Greene, is evidently part of the system of rhetoric
upon which both writers proceeded, although in Greene the management is more spirited.
We know of nothing like examples of this system in Shakspere, except in one playful
piece of comedy, where the principle is applied with the greatest nicety of art
" Bass. Sweet Portia,
If you did know to whom I gave the ring,
If you did know for whom I gave the ring,
And would conceive for what I gave the ring.
And how unwillingly I left the ring,
When nought would be accepted but the ring,
You would abate the strength of your displeasure.
For. If you had known the virtue of the ring,
Or half her worthiness that gave the ring,
Or your own honour to contain the ring,
You would not then have parted with the ring."
(Merchant of Venice, Act v
Let us, however, proceed to a rapid examination of ' Locriue,' in its action and charac-
terization.
The dumb-show, as it is called, of ' Locrine ' is tolerably decisive as to the date of the
performance. It belongs essentially to that period when the respective powers of action
and of words were imperfectly understood; when what was exhibited to the eye required
to be explained, and what was conveyed to the imagination of the audience by speech
was to be made more intelligible by a sign-painting pantomime. Nothing could be more
characteristic of a very rude state of art, almost the rudest, than the dumb-shows which
introduce each act of ' Locrine.' Act i. is thus heralded :
"Thunder and lightning. Enter Ate in black, with a burning torch in one hand, and a bloody sword in
the other. Presently let there come forth a lion running after a bear ; then come forth an archer, who
must kill the lion in a dumb ihow, and then depart. Ate remains."
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LOCRINE.
Ate then tells us, in good set verse, that a mighty lion was killed by a dreadful archer;
and the seventeen lines in which we are told this are filled with a very choice descrip-
tion of the lion before he was shot, and after he was shot. And what has this to do
with the subject of the play? It is an acted simile:
" So valiant Brute, the terror of the world,
Whose only looks did scare his enemies,
The archer Death brought to his latest end.
0, what may long abide above this ground,
In state of bliss and healthful happiness ! "
In the second act we have a dumb-show of Perseus and Andromeda; in the third "a
crocodile sitting on a river's bank, and a little snake stinging it;" in the fourth Omphale
and Hercules; in the fifth Jason, Medea, and Creon's daughter. Ate, who is the great
show-woman of these scenes, introduces her puppets on each occasion with a line or two
of Latin, and always concludes her address with " So " " So valiant Brute " " So fares
it with young Locrine" "So Humber" "So martial Locrine " " So Guendolen."
A writer in the ' Edinburgh Review' most justly calls Locrine "a characteristic work of
its time." If we were to regard these dumb-shows as the most decisive marks of its
chronology, we should carry the play back to the age when the form of the moralities
was in some degree indispensable to a dramatic performance; when the action could not
move and develop itself without the assistance of something approaching to the character
of a chorus. Thus in ' Tancred and Gismunda,' originally acted before Queen Elizabeth
in 1568, previous to the first act " Cupid cometh out of the heavens in a cradle of
flowers, drawing forth upon the stage, in a blue twist of sijk, from his left hand, Vain
Hope, Brittle Joy ; and with a carnation twist of silk from his right hand, Fair Resem-
blance, Late Repentance." We have their choruses at the conclusion of other acts;
and, previous to the fourth act, not only " Megsera riseth out of hell, with the other
furies," but she subsequently mixes in the main action, and throws her snake upon
Tancred. Whatever period, therefore, we may assign to ' Locrine,' varying between the
date of ' Tancred and Gismunda' and its original publication in 1594, we may be sure
that the author, whoever he was, had not power enough to break through the trammels
of the early stage. He had not that confidence in the force of natural action and just
characterization which would allow a drama to be wholly dramatic. He wanted that
high gift of imagination which conceives and produces these qualities of a drama; and
he therefore dealt as with an unimaginative audience. The same want of the dramatic
power renders his play a succession of harangues, in which the last thing thought of ia
the appropriateness of language to situation. The first English dramatists, and those who
worked upon their model, appear to have gone upon the principle that they produced
the most perfect work of art when they took their art entirely out of the province of
nature. The highest art is a representation of nature in her very highest forms; some-
thing which is above common reality, but at the same time real. The lowest art
embodies a principle opposite to nature; something purely conventional, and conse-
quently always uninteresting, often grotesque and ridiculous. ' Locriue ' furnishes
abundant examples of the characteristics of a school of art which may be considered as
the antithesis of the school of Shakspere.
The first scene introduces us to " Brutus carried in a chair." With him are his three
sons, Locrine, Camber, and Albanact; Corineus and Asaracus, his brothers; Guendolen,
the daughter of Corineus ; with other personages. Brutus informs the assembly of his
approaching death; and his brothers tell him of his great renown; which speeches
encourage Brutus to take a very self-satisfying view of the whole course of his life, from
199
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
the period of his flight from Italy to his quelling of the giants of Albion. However, the
dying man at last proceeds to business; divides the kingdom amongst his sons, and
directs that Locrine should marry Guendoleu. Having effected all this at an expense of
words which would be somewhat weakening to a person in health, he very opportunely
dies, and his son and brother break out into the following rhapsodies :
" Loc. Accursed stars, damu'd and accursed stars,
To abbreviate my noble father's life !
Hard-hearted gods, and too envious fates,
Thus to cut off my father's fatal thread !
Brutus, that was a glory to us all,
Brutus, that was a terror to his foes,
Alas ! too soon by Demogorgon's knife
The martial Brutus is bereft of life :
No sad complaints may move just _<Eacus.
Cor. No dreadful threats can fear judge Khadamanth.
Wert thou as strong as mighty Hercules,
That tam'd the hugy monsters of the world,
Play'dst thou as sweet on the sweet-sounding lute
As did the spouse of fair Eurydice,
That did enchant the waters with his noise,
And made stones, birds, and beasts, to lead a dance,
Constrain'd the hilly trees to follow him,
Thou could'st not move the judge of Erebus,
Nor move compassion in grim Pluto's heart ;
For fatal Mors expecteth all the world,
And every man must tread the way of death.
Brave Tanlalus, the valiant Pelops' sire,
Guest to the gods, Buffer'd untimely death ;
And old Tithonus, husband to the morn,
And eke grim Minos, whom just Jupiter
Deign'd to admit unto his sacrifice.
The thund'ring trumpets of bloodthirsty Mars,
The fearful rage of fell Tisiphone,
The boisterous waves of humid ocean,
Are instruments and tools of dismal death.
Then, noble cousin, cease to mourn his chance,
Whose age and years were signs that he should die.
It resteth now that we inter his bones,
That was a terror to his enemies.
Take up the corse, and, princes, hold him dead,
Who while he liv*d upheld the Trojan state.
Sound drums and trumpets ; march to Troynovant,
There to provide our chieftain's funeral."
At the end of the first act Locrine and Guendolen are married; but a comic scene is
interposed, in which Strumbo, a cobbler, talks of Cuprit and Dina, and in the same
breath of the fourth book of Lactantius. It is evident that the author of this play could
not produce the lowest buffoonery without making a parade of his book-knowledge.
The second act opens with the arrival of Humber, the king of the Scythians, with
Estrild his wife, and Hubba his son. The lady is rapturous in her admiration of
Albion :
" The plains, my lord, garnish'd with Flora's wealth,
And overspread with particolour'd flowers,
Do yield sweet contentation to my mind.
The airy hills enclos'd with shady groves,
The groves replenish'd with sweet chirping birds,
The birds resounding heavenly melody,
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LOCRINE.
Are equal to the groves of Thessaly ;
Where Phoebus, With the learned ladies nine,
Delight themselves with music's harmony,
And from the moisture of the mountain-tops
The silent springs dance down with murmuring streams
And water all the ground with crystal waves.
The gentle blasts of Bums' modest wind,
Moving the pittering leaves of Silvan's woods,
Do equal it with Tempo's paradise ;
And thus consorted all to one effect, *
Do make me think these are the happy isles,
Moat fortunate, if Humber may them win."
After strutting about, and talking of Fortune, and Boreas, and Semiramis, and Lucifer,
and Penthesilea, these Scythian scholars move forward, and the cobbler appears again
upon the scene, and refuses the " press-money " which a captain offers him. Subse-
quently the Scythians burn the cobbler's house with his wife in it ; but he goes to the
wars with Albanact, and has the honour of fighting with the king of the Scythians.
Humber is routed ; and talks, as is very natural with people when they are in very great
distress, about Briareus, Olympus, and Minerva. However, the tide of battle turns
again, and Albanact is routed ; and kills himself, after a denunciation of Fortune, which
furnishes the most satisfactory evidence of the greatness of his ambition who was
resolved to do so many wonderful things after he had cut his own throat :
" Curs'd be her charms, damn'd be her cursed charms,
That do delude the wayward hearts of men,
Of men that trust unto her fickle wheel,
Which never leaveth turning upside-down !
gods, heavens, allot me but the place
Where I may find her hateful mansion.
I'll pass the Alps to wat'ry Meroe,
Where fiery Phoebus in his chariot,
The wheels whereof are deck'd with emeralds,
Casts such a heat, yea such a scorching heat,
And spoileth Flora of her checker'd grass ;
I'll overturn the mountain Caucasus,
Where fell Chimsera, in her triple shape,
Rolleth hot flames from out her monstrous paunch,
Scaring the beasts with issue of her gorge ;
1 11 pass the frozen zone, where icy flakes,
Stopping the passage of the fleeting ships,
Do lie, like mountains, in the congeal'd sea :
Where if I find that hateful house of hers,
1 '11 pull the fickle wheel from out her hands,
And tie herself in everlasting bands."
He very appropriately concludes with six Latin hexameters before he kills himselfl It
is difficult to say which is the most ludicrous the solemn ravings of the hero, or the
burlesque of the cobbler and his man.
In the third act Locrine comes against Humber, and finally defeats him, after a great
many words uttered in the same " Ercles' vein." We hopelessly look for any close
parallel of the fustian of this play in the accredited works of Greene, or Marlowe, or
Kyd, who redeemed their pedantry and their extravagance by occasional grandeur and
aweetness. The dialogue of 'Locrine' from first to last is inflated beyond all com-
parison with any contemporary performance with which we are acquainted. Most
readers are familiar with a gentleman who. when he is entreated to go down, says,
201
PLAYS ASCEIBED TO SHAKSPEEE.
" To Pluto's damned lake, to the infernal deep, with Erebus and tortures vile also."
The valiant Pistol had, no doubt, diligently studied ' Locrine ; ' but he was a faint
copyist of such sublime as the following :
"You ugly spirits that in Cocytus mourn,
And gnash your teeth with dolorous laments ;
You fearful dogs, that in black Lethe howl,
And scare the ghosts with your wide-open throat* ;
You ugly ghosts, that flying from these dogs
Do plunge yourselves in Puryflegethon ;
Come all of you, and with your shrieking notes
Accompany the Britons' conquering host.
Come, fierce Erinnys, horrible with snakes ;
Come, ugly furies, armed with your whips ;
You threefold judges of black Tartarus,
And all the army of your hellish fiends,
With new-found torments rack proud Locriue's bones I"
We do not get rid of Humber, who of all the characters excels in this line, until the
end of the fourth act ; previous to which happy event of his death Locrine has fallen in
love with Estrild, his prisoner ; and the lad)'-, after a very brief wooing, requites his love,
under the assurance that Queen Guendolen shall do her no harm. The following lines.
in which Locrine describes the arrangements that he has made for the indulgence of his
passion, furnish almost the only example of a passage in the play approaching to some-
thing like natural and appropriate language :
" Nigh Durolitum, by the pleasant Ley,
Where brackish Thamis slides with silver streams,
Making a breach into the grassy downs,
A curious arch of costly marble fraught
Hath Locriue framed underneath the ground ;
The walls whereof, garnish'd with diamonds,
With opals, rubies, glistering emeralds,
And interlac'd with sun-bright carbuncles,
Lighten the room with artificial day :
And from the Ley with water-flowing pipes
The moisture is deriv'd into this arch,
Where I have plac'd fair Estrild secretly.
Thither eftsoons, accompanied with my page,
I visit covertly my heart's desire,
Without suspicion of the meanest eye,
For love aboundeth still with policy.
And thither still means Locrine to repair,
Till Atropos cut off mine uncle's life."
In the fifth act we hear of the death of Corineus ; upon which Locriue commands
that Estrild shall be queen in the room of Guendolen. The rightful wife, upon hearing
of her misfortune, calls upon the winds and the clouds and the sun, and other such allies
of tragic personages, to assist her in her distress, and she does not call in vain :
" Behold the heavens do wail for Guendolen ;
The shining sun doth blush for Guendolen ;
The liquid air doth weep for Guendolen ;
The very ground doth groan for Guendolen.
Ay, they are milder than the Britain king,
For he rejecteth luckless Guendolen."
202
LOCRINE.
Her sou arrives, and changes her temper in a moment from sorrow to revenge :
" Then henceforth farewell womanish complaints !
All childish pity henceforth then farewell^
But cursed Locrine, look unto thyself ;
For Nemesis, the mistress of revenge,
Sits arm'd at all points on our dismal blades :
And cursed Estrild, that inflam'd his heart,
Shall, if I live, die a reproachful death."
A battle ensues in which Locrine is defeated ; but previously the ghost of Corineut
appears, and his speech is no unfavourable specimen of the power of the writer :
" Behold, the circuit of the azure sky
Throws forth sad throbs, and grievous suspires,
Prejudicating Locrine's overthrow.
The fire casteth forth sharp darts of flames ;
The great foundation of the triple world
Trembleth and quaketh with a mighty noise,
Presaging bloody massacres at hand.
The wandering birds that flutter in the dark
(When hellish night, in cloudy chariot seated,
Casteth her mists on shady Tellus' face,
With sable mantles covering all the earth)
Now flies abroad amid the cheerful day,
Foretelling some unwonted misery.
The snarling curs of darken'd Tartarus,
Sent from Avernus' ponds by Hhadamanth,
With howling ditties pester every wood.
The wat'ry ladies, and the lightfoot fawns,
And all the rabble of the woody nymphs,
All trembling hide themselves in shady groves,
And shroud themselves in hideous hollow pits.
The boisterous Boreas thund'reth forth reveng*
The stony rocks cry out on sharp revenge :
The thorny bush pronounceth dire revenge.
Now, Corineus, stay and see revenge."
The last four lines furnish another example of that species of repetition which w have
previously noticed. We have four lines very similar in Lodge's ' Wounds of Civil
War:'
" Thy colour'd wings, steeped in purple blood,
Thy blinding wreath, distain'd in purple blood,
Thy royal robes, wash'd in my purple blood,
Shall witness to the world thy thirst of blood."
Locrine and Estrild each kill themselves ; and Sabren, previous to her completion of
the tragedy, speaks some lines which, with a few other scattered passages here and there,
afford evidence that, if the author possessed little or nothing of what may be properly
called dramatic power, he might, could he have shaken off the false learning and extrava-
gance of his school, have produced something which with proper culture might have
ripened into poetry :
" You mountain nymphs which in these deserts reign,
Cease off your hasty chase of savage beasts 1
Prepare to see a heart oppress'd with care ;
Address your ears to hear a mournful style 1
No human strength, no work can work my weal,
Care in my heart so tyrant-like doth deal.
208
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
You Dryades, and lightfoot Satyri,
You gracious fairies, which at even-tide
Your closets leave, with heavenly beauty stor'd,
And on your shoulders spread your golden locks ;
You savage bears, in caves and darken'd dens,
Come wail with me the martial Locrine's death ;
Come mourn with me for beauteous Estrild's death !
Ah ! loving parents, little do you know
What sorrow Sabren suffers for your thrall."
Can we then believe that ' Locrine' was the earliest work of Shakspere, as Tieck would
believe 1 or are we to think with Schlegel that it belongs to the same class, and the same
hand, as Titus Audronicus ? We doubt much whether it is the work of a very young
man at all. It is wrought up to the author's conception of a dramatic poem ; it has no
inequalities ; its gross defects were intended to be beauties. It was written unquestion-
ably by one who had received a scholastic training, and who saw the whole world of
poetry in the remembrance of what he had read ; he looked not upon the heart of men ;
he looked not even upon the commonest features of external nature. Did Shakspere
work thus in the poems that we know he produced when a young man 1 Assuredly not.
If his training had been scholastic, his good sense would have taught him to see some-
thing in poetry besides the echo of his scholarship. Nor can 'Locrine' be compared with
Titus Andronicus. The faults of that play are produced by the uncontrolled energy
which, straining for effect in action and passion, destroys even its own strength through
the absence of calmness and repose. Even Shakspere could not at first perceive the
universal truth which is contained in his own particular direction to the players : " In
the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) the whirlwind of passion, you must acquire
and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness."
We have already apprised our readers that the opinions we entertain with regard to
the authorship of ' Locrine ' are directly opposed to those of Tieck, who has translated
the play. The passages we have selected are, we think, fair examples of the average
character of the poetry ; but Tieck has pointed out one passage which he considers
demonstrative of the hand of Shakspere. He supposes that ' Locrine ' was enlarged and
improved by our poet previous to the edition of 1595 ; and he says " In this new edi-
tion are doubtless added many verses adapted to the circumstances of the time ; but par-
ticularly the beautiful rhymad stanzas in the fourth act, which so distinctly remind us
of his Sonnets and the Venus and Adonis, that these alone would prove the genuineness
of the drama." We subjoin the stanzas :
" Enter Soldiers, leading in ESTRILD.
Est. What prince soe'er, adorn'd with golden crow%
Doth sway the regal sceptre in his hand,
And thinks no chance can ever throw him down,
Or that his state shall everlasting stand,
Let him behold poor Estrild in this plight.
The perfect platform of a troubled wight
Once was I guarded with Mavortial bands, .
Compass'd with princes of the noble blood ;
Now am I fallen into my foemen's hands,
And with my death must pacify their mood.
O life, the harbour of calamities !
death, the haven of all miseries !
1 could compare my sorrows to thy woe,
Thou wretched queen of wretched Pergamus.
204
LOCRINE.
But that thou view'dst thy enemies' oYerthrow.
Nigh to the rock of high Caphareus
Thou saw'st their death, and then departedst theaoc ;
I must abide the victors' insolence.
The gods, that pitieu thy continual grief,
Transform'd thy corpse, and with thy corpse thy care :
Poor Estrild lives, despairing of relief,
For friends in trouble are but few and rare.
What said I, few ? ay, few, or none at all,
For cruel Death made havoc of them all.
Thrice happy they whose fortune was so good
To end their lives, and with their lives their woes f
Thrice hapless I, whom Fortune so withstood,
That cruelly she gave me to my foes 1
O soldiers, is there any misery
To be compar'd to Fortune's treachery ?'
SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE.
PART L
SIB JOHN OLDCASTLE.
PART I.
THE mode in which some of the German critics have spoken of this play is a rebuke to
dogmatic assertions and criticism. Schlegel says putting ' Sir John Oldcastle,' ' Thomas
Lord Cromwell,' and ' The Yorkshire Tragedy,' in the same class " The three last pieces
are not only unquestionably Shakspere's, but in my opinion they deserve to be classed
among his best and maturest works. . . . "Thomas Lord Cromwell' and 'Sir
John Oldcastle ' are biographical dramas, and models in this species ; the first ia
linked, from its subject, to Henry VIII., and the second to Henry V." Tieck is
equally confident in assigning the authorship of this play to Shakspere. Ulrici, on the
contrary, takes a more sober view of the matter. He says " The whole betrays a poet
who endeavoured to form himself on Shakspere's model, nay, even to imitate him, but
who stood far below him in mind and talent." Our own critics, relying upon the internal
evidence, agreed in rejecting it. Malone could "not perceive the least trace of our great
poet in any part of this play." He observes that it was originally entered on the Sta-
tioners' registers without the name of Shakspere ; but he does not mention the fact that
of two editions printed in 1600 one bears the name of Shakspere, the other not. The
one which has the name says "As it hath bene lately acted by the Right honorable the
SUP. VOL. P 209
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
Earle of Notingham, Lord High Admirall of England, his Seruants." In 1594 a play
of Shakspere's might have been acted, as, we believe, Hamlet was, at Henslowe's theatre,
which was that of the Lord High Admiral his servants; but in 1600 a play of Shak-
spere's would have unquestionably been acted by the Lord Chamberlain his servants.
However, this conjectural evidence is quite unnecessary. Henslowe, the head of the
Lord Admiral's company, as we learn by his diary, on the 16th of October, 1599, paid
" for The first part of the Lyfe of Sir Jhon Ouldcastell, and in earnest of the Second
Pte, for the use of the company, ten pound;" and the money was received by "Thomas
Downton " " to pay Mr. Monday, Mr. Drayton, Mr. Wilson, and Hathaway." We
might here dismiss the question of the authorship of this play, did it not furnish a very
curious example of the imperfect manner in which it was attempted to imitate the excel-
lence and to rival the popularity of Shakspere's best historical plays at the time of their
original production. It is not the least curious also of the circumstances connected with
' The First Part of Sir John Oldcastle,' that, whilst the bookseller affixed the name of
Shakspere to the performance, it has been supposed that the Falstaff of his Henry IV.
was pointed at in the following prologue :
" The doubtful title, gentlemen, prefix'd
Upon the argument we have in hand,
May breed suspense, and wrongfully disturb
The peaceful quiet of your settled thoughts.
To stop which scruple, let this brief suffice :
It is no pamper' d glutton we present,
Nor aged counsellor to youthful sin,
But one, whose virtue shone above the rest,
A valiant martyr, and a virtuous peer ;
In whose true faith and loyalty, express'd
Unto his sovereign and his country's weal,
We strive to pay that tribute of our love
Your favours merit. Let fair truth be grac'd,
Since forg'd invention former time defac'd."
In the Introductory Notice to Henry IV. we have adverted to the opinion that the Sir
John Falstaff of Shakspere's Henry IV. was originally called Sir John Oldcastle ; and
the question is again touched upon in 'the Introductory Notice to the Merry Wives of
Windsor. The line in the prologue which we have just quoted
" Since forg'd invention former time defac'd "
might appear to point to an earlier period of the stage than that in which Shakspere's
Henry IV. was produced. Indeed the old play of ' The Famous Victories ' contains the
character of Sir John Oldcastle. He is a low ruffianly sort of fellow, who may be
called "an aged counsellor to youthful sin;" but he is not represented as "a pampered
glutton." In the- Notice to Henry IV. we said "In our opinion, there was either
another play besides 'The Famous Victories' in which the name of Oldcastle was
introduced, or the remarks of contemporary writers applied to Shakspere's Falstaff, who
had originally borne the name of Oldcastle. The following passage is from Fuller's
'Church History:' '"Stage-poets have themselves been very bold with, and others very
merry at, the memory of Sir John Oldcastle, whom they have fancied a boon companion,
a jovial royster, and a coward to boot. The best is, Sir John Falstaff hath relieved the
memory of Sir John Oldcastle, and of late is substituted buffoon in his place." This
description of Fuller cannot apply to the Sir John Oldcastle of ' The Famous Victories.'
The dull dog of that play is neither a jovial companion nor a coward to boot." We added,
"Whether or not Shakspere's Falstaff was originally called Oldoastle, Shakspere was,
210
SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE.
after the character was fairly established as Falstaff, anxious to vindicate himself from the
charge that he had attempted to represent the Oldcastle of history. In the epilogue to
The Second Part of Henry IV. we find this passage : ' For anything I know, Falstaff
shall die of a sweat, unless already he be killed with your hard opinions; for Oldcastle
died a martyr, and this is not the man.' " The Second Part of Henry IV., the epilogue
of which contains this passage, was entered in the Stationers' registers in 1600, and was
published in that year. When 'The First Part of Sir John Oldcastle' was published in
the same year, Falstaff is distinctly recognised as the companion of Prince Henry. In
that play Henry V. is represented as robbed by the parson of Wrotham, a very queer
hedge-priest indeed, bearing the name of Sir John, as if in rivalry of another Sir John ;
and the following dialogue takes place :
" Sir John. Sirrah, no more ado ; come, come, give me the money you have. Despatch ; I cannot
stand all day.
K. Henry. Well, if thou wilt needs have it, here it is. Just the proverb, one thief robs another.
Where the devil are all my old thieves ? Falstaff, that villain, is so fat, he cannot get on his horse; but
methinks Poins and Peto should be stirring hereabouts.
Sir John. How much is there on't, o* thy word?"
Falstaff is again mentioned in the same scene by the priest, who asserts that the king was
once a thief; and in answer to the question " How canst thou tell 1 " replies,
" How ? because he once robbed me before I fell to the trade myself, when that foul villainous guta,
that led him to all that roguery, was in his company there, that Falstaff."
We have here tolerable evidence that Falstaff was "not the man" Oldcastle in 1600.
And yet the following very remarkable letter, or dedication, is written some years
after :
" To my noble friend Sir Henry Bourchier :
" Sir Harry Eourchier, you are descended of noble ancestry, and in the duty of a good man love to
hear and see fair reputation preserved from slander and oblivion. Wherefore to you I dedicate this
edition of Ocleve, where Sir John Oldcastle appears to have been a man of valour and virtue, and only
lost in his own times because he would not bow under the foul superstition of Papistry, from whence,
in so great a light of Gospel and learning, that there is not yet a more universal departure, is to me the
greatest scorn of men. But of this more in another place, and in preface will you please to hear me
that which follows ? A young gentle lady of your acquaintance, having read the works of Shakespeare,
made me this question : How Sir John Falstaffe, or Fastolf as it is written in the statute-book of Maudlin
College, in Oxford, where every day that society were bound to make memory of his soul, could be dead
in Harry the Fifth's time and again live in the time of Harry the Sixth to be banished for cowardice ?
Whereto I made answer that this was one of those humours and mistakes for which Plato banished all
poets out of his commonwealth ; that Sir John Falstaff was in those times a valiant soldier, as appears
by a book in the Herald's office, dedicated unto him by a herald who had been with him, if I well re-
member, for the space of 25 years in the French wars ; that he seems also to have been a man of
learning, because in a library of Oxford I find a book of dedicating churches sent from him for a present
unto Bishop Wainfleet, and inscribed with his own name. That in Shakespeare's first show of Harry the .
Fifth, the person with which he undertook to play a buffoon was not Falstaff, but Sir John Oldcastle ;
and that, offence being worthily taken by personages descended from his title, as peradventure by many
others also who ought- to have him in honourable memory, the poet was put to make an ignorant shift
of abusing Sir John Falstophe, a man not inferior of virtue, though not so famous in piety as the other
who gave witness unto the trust of our reformation with a constant and resolute martyrdom, unto which
he was pursued by the priests, bishops, monks, and friars, of those days. Noble sir, this is all my pre-
face. God keep you, and me, and all Christian people, from the bloody designs of that cruel religion.
" Yours in all observance,
" RICH. JAMES."
This letter is contained in a manuscript preserved in the Bodleian Library, written by Dr.
Richard James, who died in 1638. The manuscript to which it is prefixed is entitled
The Legend and Defence of the Noble Knight and Martyr, Sir John Oldcastel,' and
p 2 211
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPEEE.
has been published by Mr. Halliwell, having been pointed out to him by the Rev.
Dr. Bliss.*
The "young gentle lady" who, according to this letter, was so well employed in
studying Shakspere's historical plays, read them as many other persons read, without any
very accurate perception of what essentially belongs to the province of imagination, and
of what is literally true. Whatever similarity there may be in the names of Sir John
Falstaff and Sir John Fastolf, the young lady might have perceived that the poet had
not the slightest intention of proposing the Fastolf of Hemy VI. as the FalstafF of Henry
IV. Assuredly the Falstaff that we last see in the closing scene of The Second Part of
Henry IV. a jester, surfeit-swelled, old, profane, as the king denounces him is not the
Fastolf that makes his appearance at the battle of Patay, in the First Part of Henry VI.,
and is subsequently degraded from being a knight of the garter for his conduct on that
occasion. In these scenes of Henry VI. Shakspere drew an historical character, and
represented an historical fact. The degradation of Fastolf was in all probability an
unjust sentence, as unjust as that pronounced by the worthy writer of the letter in the
Bodleian Library, that the wittiest of all Shakspere's creations was a " buffoon," and that
he might be confounded with the very commonplace knight whose only distinction was
the garter on his leg. Fastolf was a respectable personage no doubt in his day, but
not "sweet Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff,
and therefore more valiant, being, as he is, old Jack Falstaff." It appears to us, therefore,
that, in the same manner as the " young gentle lady " and Dr. Richard James, somewhat
ignorantly, as we think, confounded Fastolf and Falstaff, so they erred in a similar way
by believing that "in Shakespeare's first show of Hariy the Fifth, the person with which
he undertook to play a buffoon was not Falstaff, but Sir John Oldcastle." Fuller, in his
'Worthies,' speaking of Sir John Falstaff, has the same complaint, as we have seen,
against "stage-poets." Now, admitting what appears possible, that Shakspere in his
Henry IV. originally had the name of Oldcastle where we now find that of Falstaff, is it
likely that he could have meant the champion of the Reformation of Wickliff, who was
cruelly put to death for heresy in the fourth year of Henry V., to have been the boon
companion of the youthful prince; and who, before the king went to the French wars,
died quietly in his bed, "e'en at the turning of the tide 1 ?" And yet there is little
doubt that, when Shakspere adopted a name familiar to the stage, he naturally raised up
this species of absurd misconception, w r hich had the remarkable fate of being succeeded
by a mistake still more absurd, that Falstaff and Fastolf were one and the same. It is,
however, extremely probable that there were other plays in which the character of Sir
John Oldcastle was presented historically, and falsely presented ; that from this circum-
stance Shakspere saw the necessity of substituting another name for Oldcastle, and of
making the declaration " Oldcastle died a martyr, and this is not the man ; " and that
the authors of the play before us, ' The First Part of Sir John Oldcastle,' adopted a
subject with which the public mind was at that time familiar, and presented Sir John
Oldcastle upon the stage, in a manner that would be agreeable to "personages descended
from his title," and to tKe great body of the people " who ought to have him in honour-
able memory." Whether the reputation of Oldcastle derived much benefit from their
labours remains to be seen.
The play opens with a quarrel in the street of Hereford between Lord Herbert, Lord
Powis, and their followers ; which is put down by the judges, who are holding the
assize in the town. The commencement of the conflict, in which blood was shed, is thus
described :
* On the Character of Sir John Falstaff, 1841.
212
SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE.
'' Lord Powis detracted from the power of Homo,
Affirming Wickliff's doctrine to be true,
And Rome's erroneous : hot reply was made
By the lord Herbert ; they were traitors all
That would maintain it. Powis answered,
They were as true, as noble, and as wise,
As he ; they would defend it with their lives ;
He nam'd, for instance, sir John Oldcastle,
The lord Cobham : Herbert replied again,
He, thou, and all, are traitors that so hold.
The lie was given, the several factions drawn,
And so enrag'd that we could not appease it."
The second scene introduces us to the Bishop of Rochester, denouncing Lord Cobham
(Oldcastle), as an heretic, to the Duke of Suffolk. The bishop is supported by Sir John
of Wrotham, whose zeal is so boisterous as to receive the following rebuke from the
Duke :
" Oh, but you must not swear ; it ill becomes
One of your coat to rap out bloody oaths."
The king appears to hear the complaint of the churchmen ; and he promises to send for
Oldcastle " and school him privately." In the third scene we have Lord Cobham and
an aged servant, and Lord Powis arrives in disguise, and is concealed by Cobham. In
the second act we have a comic scene, amusing enough, but anything but original ; a
sumner arrives to cite Lord Cobham before the Ecclesiastical Court, and the old servant
of the noble reformer makes the officer eat the citation. Nashe tells us in his ' Pierce
Pennylesse ' that he once saw Robert Greene " make an apparitor eat his citation, wax
and all, very handsomely served 'twixt two dishes." We have something like the same
incident in the play of the ' Pinner of Wakefield.' The scene changes to London,
where we have an assembly of rebels who give out that Oldcastle will be their general.
In the next scene, which is probably the best sustained of the play, we have Henry and
Lord Cobham in conference :
" K. Henry. 'T is not enough, lord Cobham, to submit;
You must forsake your gross opinion.
The bishops find themselves much injured ;
And though, for some good service you have done,
We for our part are pleas'd to pardon you,
Yet they will not so soon be satisfied.
Cob. My gracious lord, unto your majesty,
Next unto my God, I do owe my life ;
And what is mine, either by nature's gift,
Or fortune's bounty, all is at your service.
But for obedience to the pope of Rome,
I owe him none ; nor shall his shaveling priests,
That are in England, alter my belief.
If out of Holy Scripture they can prove
That I am in an error, I will yield,
And gladly take instruction at their hands :
But otherwise, I do beseech your grace
My conscience may not be encroach'd upon.
K. Henry. We would be loth to press our subjects' bodies,
Much less their souls, the dear redeemed part
Of Him that is the ruler of us all :
Yet let me counsel you, that might command.
Do not presume to tempt them with ill words,
Nor suffer any meetings to be had
219
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
Within your h>>u.He; but to the uttermost
Disperse the flocks of this new gathering sect.
Cob. My liege, if any breathe, that dares come forth,
And say, my life in any of these points
Deserves the attainder of ignoble thoughts,
Here stand I, craving no remorse at all,
But even the utmost rigour may be shown."
The Bishop of Rochester appears and denounces Cobham for the contempt shown to hia
citation ; the king reproves the bishop and dismisses Oldcastle in safety. It is evident
that the dramatic capabilities of such a scene furnish an occasion for the display of high
poetical power. The interview between Henry and his faithful friend and adherent ; the
anxiety of the reformer to vindicate himself from disloyalty, whilst he honestly sup-
ported his own opinions ; the natural desire of the king to resist innovation, whilst he
respected the virtues of the innovator, points like these would have been handled by
Shakspere, or one imbued with his spirit, in a manner that would have lived and abided
in our memories. The lines that we have quoted, which are the best in the scene,
furnish a sufficient proof that the subject was in feeble hands.
The third act opens to us the conspiracy of Cambridge, Scroop, and Grey. The con-
spirators meet Lord Cobham. The mode in which they introduce their purpose is
spirited and dramatic. Cobham has invited them to his house, and promises them
hunters' fare and a hunt. Cambridge thus replies, before he presents the paper which
discloses the plot :
" Cam. Nay, but the stag which we desire to strike
Lives not in Cowling : if you will consent,
And go with us, we'll bring you to a forest
Where runs a lusty herd ; among the which
There is a stag superior to the rest,
A stately beast, that, when his fellows run,
He leads the race, and beats the sxillen earth,
As though he scorn'd it, with his trampling hoofs ;
Aloft he bears his head, and with his breast,
Like a huge bulwark, counterchecks the wind :
And, when he standeth still, he stretcheth forth
His proud ambitious neck, as if he meant
To wound the firmament with forked horns.
Col. 'T is pity such a goodly beast should die.
Cam. Not so, sir John ; for he is tyrannous,
And gores the other deer, and will not keep
Within the limits are appointed him.
Of late he's broke into a several,
Which doth belong to me, and there he spoils
Both corn and pasture. Two of his wild race,
Alike for stealth and covetous encroaching,
Already are remov'd ; if he were dead,
I should not only be secure from hurt,
But with his body make a royal feast."
Cobham then dissembles, and asks
." Is not this a train laid to entrap my life ?"
They offer to swear fidelity ; but he requires them only to subscribe the writing. The
time and place of meeting are appointed, and they part. Cobham puts the paper in his
pocket, and goes off to betray them to the king. The state-morality of the age of
Elizabeth might perhaps have made this incident more palatable to an audience of that
214
SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE.
day than to ourselves ; but we doubt whether Shakspere would have put this burthen
upon the soul of one whom he wished to represent as a hero and a martyr. We have
more scenes of the rebels ; followed by the scene which we have already noticed of the
parson robbing the king. The same worthy divine is afterwards found in the king's
camp, dicing with his majesty ; and then the robbery is discovered, and the robber
pardoned. The rebels who were in the field, headed by Sir Roger Acton, are routed.
The Bishop of Rochester affirms that they were incited by Cobham, who arrives at the
moment of the accusation to prove his loyalty by denouncing Scroop, Grey, and Cam-
bridge. The king is satisfied ; but subsequently the Bishop of Rochester seizes Cobham
and confines him in the Tower, from which he very soon escapes. With the exception
of a scene in which Cambridge and the other conspirators are seized by the king, the
whole of the fifth act is occupied by the wanderings of Cobham and his wife, their
disguises, and their escapes. The following scene is happily imagined and gracefully
expressed :
" Cob. Come, madam, happily escap'd. Here let us sit ;
This place is far remote from any path ;
And here awhile our weary limbs may rest
To take refreshing, free from the pursuit
Of envious Rochester.
L, Cob. But where, my lord,
Shall we find rest for our disquiet minds ?
There dwell untamed thoughts, that hardly stoop
To such abasement of disdained rags :
We were not wont to travel thus by night,
Especially on foot.
Cob. No matter, love,
Extremities admit no better choice ;
And, were it not for thee, say froward time
Impos'd a greater task, I would esteem it
As lightly as the wind that blows upon us :
But in thy sufferance I am doubly task'd ;
Thou wast not wont to have the earth thy stool,
Nor the moist dewy grass thy pillow, nor
Thy chamber to be the wide horizon.
L. Cob. How can it seem a trouble, having you
A partner with me in the worst I feel ?
No, gentle lord, your presence would give ease
To death itself, should he now seize upon me.
[She produces some bread and cheese, and a bottle,
Behold, what my foresight hath underta'en,
For fear we faint ; they are but homely cates ;
Yet, sauc'd with hunger, they may seem as sweet
As greater dainties we were wont to taste.
Cob. Praise be to Him whose plenty sends both this
And all things else our mortal bodies need !
Nor scorn we this poor feeding, nor the state
We now are in ; for what is it on earth,
Nay, under heaven, continues at a stay ?
Ebbs not the sea, when it hath overflow'd ?
Follows not darkness, when the day is gone ?
And see we not sometimes the eye of heaven
Dimm'd with o'er-flying clouds ? There's not that work
Of careful nature, or of cunning art,
How strong, how beauteous, or how rich it be,
But falls in time to ruin. Here, gentle madam,
In this one draught \ wash my sorrow down. [Dr/>//-..
215
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
The persecuted pair fall asleep ; arid a murdered body being found near them, they are
apprehended as the murderers and conducted to trial. They are discharged through th
discovery of the real murderer ; and fly with Lord Powis into Wales.
It will be evident from this analysis that ' The First Part of Sir John Oldcastle ' is
entirely deficient in dramatic unity. Shakspere, in representing a series of historical
events, did not of course attempt to sustain that unity of idea which we see so strikingly
in his best tragedies and comedies. We have not one great action, but a succession of
actions ; and yet, through his wonderful power of characterization, and his skill in grouping
a series of events round one leading event, we have a principle upon which the mind
can determinately rest, and rightly comprehend the whole dramatic movement. In the
play before us there is no distinct relation between one scene and another. We forget
the connection between Oldcastle and the events in which he is implicated ; and, when he
nimself appears on the scene, the development of character, in which a real poet would
have luxuriated, is made subordinate to the hurry of the perplexed though monotonous
movement of the story. Thoroughly to understand the surpassing power of Shakspere
in the management of the historical drama, it might be desirable to compare John, or
Sichard II., or Richard III., or Henry VIII., with this play ; but, after all, the things do
not admit of comparison.
THE LIFE AND DEATH
OP
THOMAS LORD CROMWELL.
THOMAS LOUD CROMWELL.
THE first edition of this play was published in 1602, under the title of 'The Chronicle
History of Thomas Lord Cromwell.' No name or initials of any author appear in the
title-page. In 1613 appeared 'The true Chronicle Historie of the whole life and death
of Thomas Lord Cromwell. As it hath beene sundry times publikely Acted by the
Kings Majesties Seruants. Written by W. S.' In 1602 the registers of the Stationers'
Company had the entry of " A Booke called the Lyfe and Deathe of the Lord Crom-
well, as yt was lately acted by the Lord Chamberleyn his servants." It appears,
therefore, that the play was originally performed, and continued to be performed, by the
company in which Shakspere was a chief proprietor. In the Introductory Notice to
Henry VIII. we have attempted to show that Shakspere produced that play as a new
play in 1613. It is easy to understand why in 1613 it might recommend the sale of
' Thomas Lord Cromwell ' to put W. S. on the title-page, whether those initials repre-
sented the real writer, or were meant to imply that the writer was William Shakspere.
Beyond these initials there is no external evidence whatever to attribute the play to the
great dramatizer of English history.
Schlegel, as we have seen, calls ' Sir John Oldoastle and ' Thomas Lord Cromwell '
" biographical dramas, and models in this species." We have no hesitation in affirming
219
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
that a biographical drama, especially such a drama as ' Thomas Lord Cromwell,' is
essentially undramatic. ' Oldcastle'- takes a portion only of the life of its hero; but
' Cromwell ' gives us the story of the man from his boyhood to his execution. The
resemblance which it bears to any play of Shakspere's is solely in the structure of the
title; and that parallel holds good only with regard to one play, Lear, according to its
original title, the ' True Chronicle Historic of the life and death of King Lear and his
three Daughters.' In the folio collection of 1623 we have indeed 'The Life and Death
cf King John,' < The Life and Death of Richard II.,' ' The Life of King Henry V.,'
< The Life and Death of Richard III.,' and < The Life of King Henry VIII.' So in the
same edition we have ' The Life and Death of Julius Csesar.' But our readers are
perfectly aware that in all these dramas a very small portion of the life of the hero of
each is included in the action. Shakspere knew his art too well to attempt to teach
his\ory dramatically by connecting a series of isolated events solely by their relation to
a principal agent, without any other dependence. Nothing, for example, can be more
complete in itself than the action of Richard II., or that of Henry V., of Richard III.,
and of Henry VIII. We have in these pieces nearly all the condensation which pure
tragedy requires. But in ' Thomas Lord Cromwell,' on the contrary, what Shakspere
would have told in a few words, reserving himself for an exhibition of character in the
more striking situations, is actually presented to us in a succession of scenes that have
no relation to any action of deepening interest chapter upon chapter of which might
have been very well spared, if one chapter, that of the elevation and fall of Cromwell,
had occupied a space proportioned to its importance.
We begin the drama in the shop of old Cromwell, the blacksmith, at Putney, where
young Cromwell, with a want of sense that ill accords with his future advancement, insists
that his father's men shall leave off work because their noise disturbs his study. His
father comes, and like a sensible and honest man reproves his son for his vagaries ; and
then the ambitious youth, who proclaims the purpose of his presaging soul, that he will
build a palace
" As fine as is king Henry's house at Sheen,"
thus soliloquizes :
" Crom. Why should my birth keep down my mounting spirit ?
Are not all creatures subject unto time,
To time, who doth abuse the cheated world,
And fills it full of hodge-podge bastardy ?
There's legions now of beggars on the earth
That their original did spring from kings ;
And many monarchs now, whose fathers were
The riff-raff of their age : for time and fortune
Wears out a noble train to beggary ;
And from the dunghill millions do advance
To state and mark in this admiring world.
This is but course, which in the name of fate
Is seen as often as it whirls about.
The river Thames, that by our door doth pass,
His first beginning is but small and shallow ;
Yet, keeping on his course, grows to a sea.
And likewise Wolsey, the wonder of our age,
His birth as mean as mine, a butcher's sou ;
Now who within this land a greater man ?
Then, Cromwell, cheer thee up, and tell thy soul,
That thou may'st live to flourish and control."
The young man, who despises work, immediately gets employment without seeking it,-
220
THOMAS LORD CROMWELL.
to bo secretary to the English merchants at Antwerp. Then commences the secondary
action of the drama, which consists of the adventures of one Banister, an English mer-
chant, who is persecuted by Bagot, a usurer, and relieved by a foreign merchant. It is
by no means clear what this has to do with Thomas Lord Cromwell; but it may be satis-
factory to know that eventually the usurer is hanged, and the merchant is restored to
competence.
It would have been difficult, with all the author's contempt for unity of action, to have
contrived to have told the whole story of Cromwell dramatically ; and so he occasionally
gives us a chorus. The second act thus opens :
" Now, gentlemen, imagine that young Cromwell 'a
In Antwerp, leiger for the English merchants ;
And Banister, to shun this Bagot's hate,
Hearing that he hath got some of his debts,
Is fled to Antwerp, with his wife and children ;
Which Bagot hearing, is gone after them,
And thither sends his bills of debt before,
To be reveng*d on wretched Banister.
What doth fall out, with patience sit and see,
A just requital of false treachery."
Cromwell has nothing to do with this "just requital of false treachery " which requital
consists in the usurer being arrested for purchasing the king's stolen jewels. Cromwell
gets as tired of keeping accounts as he previously was of the din of his father's smithy ;
so all in a moment he throws up his commission and sets off upon his travels to Italy,
having very opportunely met in Antwerp with Hodge, his father's man. And so we get
through the second act.
In the third act the capricious lad and his servant are standing penniless upon the
bridge at Florence, and their immediate necessities are relieved by the generous Italian
merchant who was succouring the distress of the Englishman in the first act. Cromwell
is always moving ; and he sets off for Bononia, where he rescues, by a stratagem, Russell
the Earl of Bedford from the agents of the French king. We have the chorus again in
the middle of the act :
" Thus far you see how Cromwell's fortune pass'd.
The earl of Bedford, being safe in Mantua,
Desires Cromwell's company into France,
To make requital for his courtesy ;
But Cromwell doth deny the earl his suit,
And tells him that those parts he meant to see,
He had not yet set footing on the land ;
And so directly takes his way to Spain ;
The earl to France ; and so they both do part.
Now let your thoughts, as swift as is the wind,
Skip some few years that Cromwell spent in travel ;
And now imagine him to be in England,
Servant unto the master of the rolls ;
Where in short time he there began to flourish :
An hour shall show you what few years did cherish."
The scene shifts to London, where Sir Christopher Hales is giving an entertainment to
Cardinal Wolsey and Sir Thomas More, with Cromwell waiting on the guests. The
sudden preferment of Cromwell to the highest confidence of Wolsey is accomplished with
a celerity which was perfectly necessary when the poet had so many events to tell us :
" Wol. Sir Christopher, is that your man ?
ILiles. An 't liko
221
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
Your grace, he is a scholar, and a linguist ;
One that hatli travelled through many parts
Of Christendom, my lord.
Wol. My friend, come nearer : have you been a traveller !
Crom. My lord,
I have added to my knowledge the Low Countries,
With France, Spain, Germany, and Italy ;
And though small gain of profit I did find,
Yet it did please my eye, content my mind.
Wol. What do you think then of the several states
And princes' courts as you have travelled ?
Crom. My lord, no court with England may compare,
Neither for state, nor civil government.
Lust dwells in France, in Italy, and Spain,
From the poor peasant to the prince's train.
In Germany and Holland, riot serves ;
And he that most can drink, most he deserves.
England I praise not for I here was born,
But that she laughs the others unto scorn.
Wol. My lord, there dwells within that spirit more
Than can be discern'd by the outward eye :
Sir Christopher, will you part with your man ?
Hales. I have sought to proffer him unto your lordship ,
And now I see he hath preferr'd himself.
Wol. What is thy name ?
Crom. Cromwell, my lord.
Wol. Then, Cromwell, here we make thee solicitor
Of our causes, and nearest, next ourself :
Gardiner, give you kind welcome to the man."
The fourth act opens again with a chorus :
" Now, Cromwell's highest fortunes do begin.
Wolsey, that lov'd him as he did his life,
Committed all his treasure to his hands,
Wolsey is dead ; and Gardiner, his man,
Is now created bishop of Winchester.
Pardon if we omit all Wolsey's life,
Because our play depends on Cromwell's death.
Now sit, and see his highest state of all,
His height of rising, and his sudden falL
Pardon the errors are already past,
And live in hope the best doth come at last.
My hope upon your favour doth depend,
And looks to have your liking ere the end."
It was certainly needless for the author to apologize for omitting " all Wolsey's life ; "
but the apology is curious as exhibiting his rude notions of what was properly within the
province of the drama. We have now Cromwell, after the death of Wolsey, become Sir
Thomas Cromwell ; and Gardiner makes a sudden resolution that he will have his head.
The Florence merchant comes to London in want ; and we presently find him at the
hospitable board of Cromwell, with money-bags showered upon him, and his debts paid.
We have in this act a scene between Gardiner and Cromwell which, feeble as it is, is
amongst the best passages of the play :
" Crom. Good morrow to my lord of Winchester : I know
You bear me hard about the abbey lands.
Gard. Have I not reason, when religion 's wrong*d ?
You had no colour for what you have done.
222
THOMAS LORD CROMWELL.
Orom. Yes, the abolishing of antichrist,
And of his popish order from our realm.
I am no enemy to religion ;
But what is done, it is for England's good.
What did they serve for, but to feed a sort
Of lazy abbots and of full-fed friars ?
They neither plough nor sow, and yet they reap
The fat of all the land, and suck the poor.
Look, what was theirs is in king Henry's hands ;
His wealth before lay in the abbey lands.
t Gard. Indeed these things you have alleg'd, my lord ;
When, God doth know, the infant yet unborn
Will curse the time the abbeys were pull'd down
I pray now where is hospitality ?
Where now may poor distressed people go,
For to relieve their need, or rest their bones,
When weary travel doth oppress their limbs ?
And where religious men should take them in,
Shall now be kept back with a mastiff dog ;
And thousand thousand "
Gardiner suborns witnesses to impute treasonable words to Cromwell, and absolves them
by crucifix and holy water.
The real action of the play commences at the fourth act ; all which precedes might
have been told by a skilful poet in a dozen lines. The fifth act presents us the arrest of
Cromwell ; and after a soliloquy in the Tower, and a very feeble scene between the unhappy
man, Gardiner, and the Dukes of Suffolk and Norfolk, his son is introduced, of whom
we have before heard nothing :
"Lieu. Here is your son, sir, come to take his leave.
Crom. To take his leave ? Come hither, Harry Cromweil.
Mark, boy, the last words that I speak to thee :
Flatter not fortune, neither fawn upon her ;
Gape not for state, yet lose no spark of honour ;
Ambition, like the plague, see thou eschew it :
I die for treason, boy, and never knew it.
Yet let thy faith as spotless be as mine,
And Cromwell's virtues in thy face shall shine :
Come, go along, and see me leave my breath,
And I'll leave thee upon the floor of death."
Cromwell leaves the stage for his execution with this speech :
" Exec. I am your deathsman ; pray, my lord, forgive me.
Cr&m. Even with my soul. Why, man, thou art my doctor,
And bring* st me precious physic for my soul.
, My lord of Bedford, I desire of you
Before my death a corporal embrace.
Farewell, great lord ; my love I do commend,
My heart to you ; my soul to heaven I send.
This is my joy, that ere my body fleet,
Your honour'd arms are my true winding-sleet.
Farewell, dear Bedford ; my peace is made in heaven.
Thus falls great Cromwell, a poor ell in length,
To rise to unmeasur'd height, wing'd with new strength,
The land of worms, which dying men discover :
My soul is shrin'd with heaven's celestial cover."
It would be a waste of time to attempt to show that ' Thomas Lord Cromwell ' could
not have been written by Shakspere. Its entire management is most unskilful ; there is
223
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
no art whatever in the dramatic conception of plot or character; from first to last there is
scarcely a passage that can be called poetry; there is nothing in it that gives us a notion
of a writer capable of better things ; it has none of the faults of the founders of the stage,
false taste, extravagance, riches needlessly paraded. We are acquainted with no
dramatic writer of mark or likelihood, who was a contemporary of Shakspere, to whom it
may be assigned. If W. S. were Wentworth Smith, it must have been unlucky for him
in his own time that his initials might excite a comparison with the great master of the
stage ; however fortunate he may have been in having descended to after-times in the
same volume with ten historical plays that probably first stimulated his weak ambition.
THE LONDON PRODIGAL.
SUP. VOL. Q
226
THE LONDON PEODIGAL.
THIS comedy was first published in 1605, with the following title: 'The London Pro-
digall. As it was plaide by the Kings Maiesties seruauta By William Shakespeare,
London. Printed by T. C. for Nathaniel Butter. 1 It was probably written after the
death of Elizabeth ; for in the second act we have, " I am a commander, sir, under thd
king." There is no entry of the play in the Stationers' registers. Schlegel says, " If
we are not mistaken, Lessing pronounced this piece to be Shakspere's, and wished to
bring it on the German stage." Tieck also assigns this comedy to Shakspere. Hazlitt
says, " ' Locrine ' and ' The London Prodigal,' if they were Shakspeare's at all, must
have been amongst the sins of his youth." This is at best a hasty opinion ; for there can
be no doubt whatever that these two plays belong to different periods, and that each is
characteristic of its period. They must have been separated by at least twenty years. If
in * Locrine ' we could find any natural power, any of that instinctive knowledge of art,
that constitutes genius, we might inquire whether it was possible that the youthful Shak-
spere could have produced the work. We find in it, not the faults of a very young man,
but the habits which belong to a vicious system, in which the writer has had a complete
Q 2 227
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
training. We therefore reject it. Putting the date of its publication out of the question,
we are satisfied from the general tone of ' The London Prodigal ' that it represents the
manners of the last years of Elizabeth, or the first of James. If Shakspere wrote it,
therefore, he must have written it after his comic powers were fully matured ; after he
had produced Much Ado about Nothing, Twelfth Night, As You Like It, The Merry
Wives of Windsor. The belief is almost too extravagant to be gravely controverted.
The comedy opens with the arrival from Venice of the merchant Flowerdale senior,
who had left his son Matthew under the guardianship of his brother, Flowerdale junior,
a London merchant. The uncle tells the father of the reckless course of the young man.
The father takes this view of the matter : " Believe me, brother, they that die most
virtuous have in their youth lived most vicious; and none knows the danger of the fire
more than he that falls into it." This, we undertake to say, is not the morality of Shak-
spere : it is a tolerance beyond his tolerance. But it is the morality which prevails in
' The London Prodigal.' The uncle goes on to say that the son is a continual swearer, a
breaker of his oaths, a mighty brawler, a great drinker, one that will borrow of any man.
The youth knocks at the door ; and the father disguised is to be represented as dead. A
will is produced by which the son is disinherited ; and it is justice to him to say that he
displays the same indifference about the loss of fortune as about the death of his father.
Old Flowerdale lends him twenty pounds in his assumed character, and agrees to engage
with him as a servant. A wooing now commences after a strange fashion. Sir Lancelot
Spurcock has three daughters, of whom Luce, the most attractive, has three suitors Sir
Arthur Greenshield, whom she prefers; Oliver, a Devonshire clothier, whom the father
patronizes; and young Flowerdale, who is rejected both by father and daughter. A more
heartless scoundrel certainly never presented himself in worshipful society. His father
being named, he thus speaks of him :
" Ay, God be praised, he is far enough ;
He is gone a pilgrimage to Paradise,
And left me to cut a caper against care.
Luce, look on me that am as light as air."
His father, who in his assumed character of a servant is called Kester, is desirous to marry
his son to the lady; and he thus devises a plan for overcoming the prudential scruples of
Sir Lancelot :
" Presently we '11 go and draw a will,
Where we '11 set down land that we never saw;
And we will have it of so large a sum,
Sir Lancelot shall entreat you take his daughter.
This being form'd, give it master Weathercock,
And make Sir Lancelot's daughter heir of all ;
And make him swear never to show the will
To any one, until that you be dead.
This done, the foolish changing Weathercock
Will straight discourse unto Sir Lancelot
The form and tenor of your testament.
Ne'er stand to pause of it ; be rul'd by me :
What will ensue, that shall you quickly see."
The device succeeds. The covetous knight rejects the honest clothier, and Luce is married
against her will to the heartless profligate, who thus discloses the nature of his love in con-
fidence to Kester:
" And thou shalt see, when once I have my dower,
In mirth we '11 spend full many a merry hour ;
As for this wench, I not regard a pin,
It is her gold must bring my pleasures in."
228
THE LONDON PRODIGAL.
The father and uncle concert to arrest the prodigal on his return from church, that they
may try the temper of his wife. The libertine braves it out when this resolve is carried
into effect; but the unhappy woman clings to him, now he is her husband, with a tender-
ness that in the hands of a real poet might have been worked up into subsequent situations
of uncommon beauty :
"Sir Lane. I am cozen'd, and my hopefullest child undone.
M. Flow. You are not cozen'd, nor is she undone.
They slander me ; by this light, they slander me.
Look you, my uncle here 's an usurer,
And would undo me; but I'll stand in law ;
Do you but bail me, you shall do no more :
You, brother Civet, and master Weathercock, do but bail me,
And let me have my marriage-money paid me,
And we'll ride down, and your own eyes shall see
How my poor tenants there will welcome me.
You shall but bail me, you shall do no more :
And you, you greedy gnat, their bail will serve !
Flow. Jun. Ay, sir, I'll ask no better bail.
Sir Lane. No, sir, you shall not take my bail, nor his,
Nor my son Civet's : I'll not be cheated, I.
Shrieve, take your prisoner; I'll not deal with him.
Let his uncle make false dice with his false bones ;
I will not have to do with him : mock'd, gull'd, and wrong'd !
Come, girl, though it be late, it falls out well ;
Thou shalt not live with him in beggar's helL
Luce. He is my husband, and high heaven doth know
With what unwillingness I went to church ;
But you enforc'd me, you compell'd me to it.
The holy churchman pronouiic'd these words but now,
' I must not leave my husband in distress : '
Now I must comfort him, not go with you.
Sir Lane. Comfort a cozener ! on my curse forsake him.
Luce. This day you caus'd me on your curse to take him.
Do not, I pray, my grieved soul oppress :
God knows my heart doth bleed at his distress."
The wife refuses to go home with her father ; and she is left with her husband and his
uncle :
" Luce. go not yet, good master Flowerdale :
Take my word for the debt, my word, my bond.
M. Flow. Ay, by , uncle, and my bond too.
Luce. Alas, I ne'er ought nothing but I paid it ;
And I can work : alas, he can do nothing.
I have some friends perhaps will pity me :
His chiefest friends do seek his misery.
All that I can or beg, get, or receive,
Shall be for you. do not turn away :
Methinks, within a face so reverend,
So well experienc'd in this tottering world,
Should live some feeling of a maiden's grief:
For my sake, his father's and your brother's sake.
Ay, for your soul's sake, that doth hope for joy,
Pity my state ; do not two souls destroy.
Flow. Jun. Fair maid, stand up : not in regard of him,
But in pity of thy hapless choice,
I do release him. Master sheriff, I thank you ;
And, officers, there is for you to drink.
Itt
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
Here, maid, take this money ; there is a hundred angels :
And, for I will be sure he shall not have it,
Here, Kester, take it you, and use it sparingly ;
But let not her have any want at all.
Dry your eyes, niece ; do not too much lament
For him whose life hath been in riot spent :
If well he useth thee, he gets him friends ;
If ill, a shameful end on him depends. [Exit FLOWERDALE Jim.
M. Flow. A plague go with you for an old fornicator !
Come, Kit, the money ; come, honest Kit.
Flow. Sen. Nay, by my faith, sir, you shall pardon me.
M . Flow. And why, sir, pardon you ? Give me the money,
you old rascal, or I will make you.
Luce. Pray hold your hands ; give it him, honest friend.
Flow. Sen. If you be so content, with all my heart. [Gives the money.
M. Flow. Content, sir ? 'sblood ! she shall be content
whether she will or no. A rattle-baby come to follow me !
Go, get you gone to the greasy chuff your father ; bring
me your dowry, or never look on me.
Flow. Sen. Sir, she hath forsook her father and all her
Mends for you.
M. Flow. Hang thee, her friends and father, all together !
Flow. Sen. Yet part with something to provide her lodging.
M. Flow. Yes, I mean to part with her and you ; but if I
part with one angel, hang me at a post. I '11 rather throw
them at a cast of dice, as I have done a thousand of their
fellows."
The unmitigated villain deserts his wife after this brutality. She is, necessarily, protected
by his father; and, disguised as "a Dutch frow," enters into the service of her own mar-
ried sister. Matthew Flowerdale loses his hundred angels at the gaming-table; robs
Spurcock's unmarried daughter upon the highway ; is reduced to starvation and beggary ;
receives alos from his own wife in her Dutch mask; and thus shows how the medicine
misfortune has operated upon his soul : " By this hand, this Dutch wench is in love with
me. Were it not admirable to make her steal all Civet's plate, and run away?" Of course
the fellow has his deserts. He is about to be taken to prison on a charge of robbery, and
on suspicion of having murdered his wife. The Dutch frow, who sees his arrest, throws
off her dress, and the following scene quickly leads to a happy conclusion :
" Luce. I am no trull, neither outlandish frow :
Nor he nor I shall to the prison go.
Know you me now ? nay, never stand arnaz'd.
Father, I know I have offended you ;
And though that duty wills me bend my knees
To you in duty and obedience,
Yet this way do I turn, and to him yield
My love, my duty, and my humbleness.
Sir Lane. Bastard in nature ! kneel to such a slave ?
Luce. master Flowerdale, if too much grief
Have not stopp'd up the organs of your voice,
Then speak to her that is thy faithful wife ;
Or doth contempt of me thus tie thy tongue ?
Turn not away ; I am no ^Ethiop,
No wanton Cressid, nor a changing Helen ;
But rather one made wretched by thy loss.
What ! turn'st thou still from me ? then
I guess thee wofull'st among hapless men.
M. Flow. I am indeed, wife, wonder among wives i
230
Thy chastity and virtue hath infus'd
Another soul in me, red with defame,
For in my blushing cheeks is seen my shame."
Old Flowerdale also throws off his disguise, and the sou rejoices in a kind wife and a
forgiving father :
" M. Flow. My father I 0, I shame to look on him.
Pardon, dear father, the follies that are past.
Plow. Sen. Son, son, I do ; and joy at this thy change,
And applaud thy fortune in this virtuous maid,
Whom Heaven hath sent to thee to save thy soul
Luce. This addeth joy to joy ; high Heaven be praia'd.
Weath. Master Flowerdale, welcome from death, good
master Flowerdale. *T was said so here, 't was said so here,
good faith.
Flow. Sen. I caus'd that rumour to be spread myself,
Because I'd see the humours of my son,
Which to relate the circumstance is needless.
And, sirrah, see
You run no more into that same disease :
For he that's once cur'd of that malady,
Of riot, swearing, drunkenness, and pride.
And falls again into the like distress,
That fever's deadly, doth till death endure :
Such men die mad, as of a calenture.
M. Flow. Heaven helping me, I'll hate the course as hell.
Flow. Jun. Say it, and do it, cousin, all is well.
Sir Lane. Well, being in hope you'll prove an honest man,
I take you to my favour."
If Shakspere had chosen such a plot, in which the sudden repentance of the offender
was to compensate for the miseries he had inflicted, he would have made the prodigal
retain some sense of honour, some remorse amidst his recklessness something that would
have given the assurance that his contrition was not hypocrisy. We have little doubt that
the low moral tone of the writer's own mind produced the low morality of the plot and
its catastrophe. We see in this play that confusion of principles of which the stage was
too long the faithful mirror. In Shakspere the partition which separates levity and guilt
is never broken down ; thoughtlessness and dishonour are not treated with equal indul-
gence. This is quite argument enough to prove that Shakspere could not have written
this comedy, nor rendered the least assistance in its composition. If it exhibited any
traces of his wit or his poetry, we should still reject it upon this sole ground.
THE PURITAN.
THE PURITAN.
THE first edition of this comedy was published in 1607, under the following title: 'The
Puritaine or the Widdow of Watling-streete. Acted by the Children of Paules. Written
by W. S.' The entry of the play appears in the Stationers' registers of the same year.
It was printed, as we have seen, in the third edition of Shakspere's works ; and was ascribed
to Shakspere by Gildon in 1 702. Gildon probably relied upon its publication as Shak-
spere's in the third collected edition of his plays. Our own critics of recent times have
uniformly rejected it. Schlegel inclines to the opinion that Shakspere wrote it; and he
produces this curious theory: " One of my literary friends, intimately acquainted with
Shakspere, was of opinion that the poet must have wished to write a play for once in the
style of Ben Jonson, and that in this way we must account for the difference between the
present piece and his usual manner. To follow out this idea, however, would lead to a
very nice critical investigation." Such an investigation would, we believe, bring us to the
conclusion that 'The Puritan' is as unlike Ben Jonson as it is unlike Shakspere. If it
possesses little of the wit, the buoyancy, the genial good humour, the sparkling poetry,
the deep philosophy, and the universal characterization of Shakspere, it wants in the same
degree the nice discrimination of shades of character, the souni judgment, the careful
management of the plot, the lofty and indignant satire, the firm and gorgeous rhetoric, of
Jonson. As a comedy of manners, ' The Puritan ' is at once feeble and extravagant.
ttf
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
The author cannot paint classes in painting individuals. ' The Puritan ' is a misnomer.
We have no representation of the formal manners of that class. The family of the Widow
of Watling Street is meant to be puritanical, but it is difficult to discover wherein they
differ from the rest of the world, except in the coarse exhibition of the loose morality of
one of their servants, who professes to lie though he swears not, and is willing to steal
if the crime is called by some gentler name. Yet the comedy is not without spirit and
interest. The events are improbable, and some of the intrigues are superfluous ; but the
action seldom lingers ; and if the characters seem unnatural, they are sufficiently denned
to enable us to believe that such characters did exist, and might have been copied from the
life by the author. It is this individual painting that constitutes the essential difference
between the comedy of almost every writer as compared with Shakspere. Old Aubrey
said, with a truth which might have been imitated by critics of higher pretension, " His
comedies will remain wit as long as the English tongue is understood, for that he handles
mores hominum; now our present writers reflect so much upon particular persons and
coxcombities that twenty years hence they will not be understood."
The first scene introduces us to the widow, ostentatiously weeping for the death of her
husband. She is surrounded by a silly sou, a brother not over wise, and two daughters
of "no characters at all," except that one vows she will never marry, and the other
declares herself entirely of an opposite inclination. The whelp of a son refuses to weep
for his father, and the mother thus chides him :
" Wid. U thou past-grace, thou ! Out of my sight, thou graceless imp ! thou
grievest me more than the death of thy father. thou stubborn only son ! Hadst
thou such an honest man to thy father that would deceive all the world to get
riches for thee, and canst thou not afford a little salt water ? He that so wisely
did quite overthrow the right heir of those lands, which now you respect not :
up every morning betwixt four and five; so duly at Westminster-hall every term-
time, with all his cards and writings, for thee, thou wicked Absalon : dear
husband ! "
The widow vows on her knees an awful vow :
" may I be the by-word of the world,
The common talk at table in the mouth
Of every groom and waiter, if e'er more
I entertain the carnal suit of man ! "
The second scene introduces us to the chief actor in the piece, Pyeboard, a profligate
scholar, who unites the professions of a poet and a swindler. Mr. Dyce, in his valuable
edition of George Peele's works, says that George Pyeboard is the same as George Peele,
" Peel signifying a board with a long handle with which bakers put things in and out of
the oven." It is somewhat hard upon the memory of Peele to assume, as some have
assumed, that Pyeboard was meant as a portrait of him. The exact date of Peele's death
has not been ascertained; but an allusion to his death is made by Meres in 1598. He
was no doubt a man of profligate habits ; as were too many of the unhappy race of authors
in those days, when uncertain occupation and dependence upon the great made them more
than usually ready to snatch at passing gratifications. The ' Merrie conceited Jests of
George Peele, Gentleman, sometime a Student in Oxford,' was published in 1627, and in
that tract there are two stories told of Peele which are very nearly similar to two of the
tricks of Pyeboard in ' The Puritan : ' both may have been mere inventions or exag-
gerations. In the following passage of ' The Puritan ' there is probably a melancholy
truth as to the condition of men of letters in that age. Pyeboard is addressing himself
to an old soldier, Skirmish :
236
THE PURITAN.
" As touching my profession ; the multiplicity of scholars, hatched and nou-
rished in the idle calms of peace, makes them, like fishes, one devour another ;
and the community of learning kas so played upon affections, that thereby aJ-
most religion is come about to phantasy, and discredited by being too much
spoken of, in so many and mean mouths. I myself, being a scholar and a
graduate, have no other comfort by my learning, but the affection of my words,
to know how, scholar-like, to name what I want ; and can call myself a beggar
both in Greek and Latin. And therefore, not to cog with peace, I'll not be
afraid to say, 'tis a great breeder, but a barren nourisher; a greaj getter of
children, which must either be thieves or rich men, knaves or beggars.
Skir. Well, would I had been born a knave then, when I was bom a beggar !
for if the truth was known, I think I was begot when my father had never a
penny in his purse.
Pye. Puh ! faint not, old Skirmish ; let this warrant thee facilis descen-
sus Averni 'tis an easy journey to a knave; thou may'st.be a knave when
thou wilt : and Peace is a good madam to all other professions, and an errant
drab to us. Let us handle her accordingly, and by our wits thrive in despite of
her : For since the law lives by quarrels, the courtier by smooth good-morrows,
and every profession makes itself greater by imperfections, why not we then by
shifts, wiles, and forgeries ? And seeing our brains are our only patrimonies,
let's spend with judgment ; not like a desperate son and heir, but like a sober
and discreet Templar : one that will never march beyond the bounds of his
allowance."
Pyeboard resolves to be a fortune-teller, and proposes to Skirmish to be a conjuror, and so
they are to deceive the widow and her family. We are presently introduced in the Mar-
shalsea Prison to Captain Idle, who has committed what he calls a common offence a
highway robbery. Captain Idle is to be released by a stratagem of Pyeboard. The gold
chain of Sir Godfrey Plus, the widow's brother, is to be stolen by his puritanical servant,
and to be discovered by the instrumentality of the military highwayman. As the action
advances the plot thickens. The widow and one of her daughters refuse honest suitors ;
and when Idle is redeemed from prison (which the knight effects in a moment with the
hope of finding his chain) the worthy confederates propose to marry the ladies. The
fortune -telling and conjuration scenes are amusing enough, but they will scarcely furnish
any extracts. In the end, however, the stratagems of the scholar and the captain are dis-
covered ; and the widow and her daughter are rescued from their hands on their way to
church to be married. The affections of the ladies are very quickly transferred to other
suitors ; and so the play ends. The following scene, which occurs in the third act, is
one of the incidents which is told, with some variation, of the hero of the ' Merrie
conceited Jests.' Pyeboard is under arrest for debt ; and he persuades the bailiffs to
go with him to a house " to receive five pound of a gentleman for the device of a mask
here drawn in this paper." The following scene ensues :
" A Oallery in a Gentleman's House.
Enter a Servant.
Ser. Who knocks ? Who's at door? We had need of a porter.
[Opens the door.
Pye. [Within.] A few friends here. Pray is the gentleman, your master,
within ?
Ser. Yes ; is your business to him ? [Servant opens the door.
Enter PYEBOARD, PCTTOCK, RAVENSHAW, and DOGSON.
Pye. Ay, he knows it, when he sees me : I pray you, have you forgot me f
Ser. Ay, by my troth, sir ; pray come near ; 1 '11 in and tell him of you.
Please you to walk here in the gallery till he comes. [Exit Servant.
Pye. We will attend his worship. Worship, I think ; for so much the posts
at his door should signify, and the fair coming-in, and the wicket j else I neither
237
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
knew him nor his worship : but 't is happiness he is within doors, whatsoe'er he
be. If he be not too much a formal citizen he may do me good. [A tide.]
Serjeant and yeoman, how do you like this house ? Is 't not most wholesomely
plotted ?
Rav. 'Troth, prisoner, an exceeding fine house.
Pye. Yet I wonder how he should forget me, for he never knew me. [.dn'cfe.]
No matter; what is forgot in you will be remembered in your master. A pretty
comfortable room this, methinks : you have no such rooms in prison now ?
Put. 0, dog-holes to 't.
Pye. Dog-holes, indeed ! I can tell you, I have great hope to have my cham-
ber here shortly, nay, and diet too ; for he is the most free-heartedest gentle-
man, where he takes : you would little think it. And what a fine gallery were
here for me to walk and study and make verses !
Put. 0, it stands very pleasantly for a scholar.
Enter Gentleman.
Pye. Look what maps, and pictures, and devices, and things, neatly, deli-
cately Mass, here he comes ; he should be a gentleman ; I like his beard well
All happiness to your worship.
Gent. You are kindly welcome, sir.
Put. A simple salutation.
Rav. Mass, it seems the gentleman makes great account of him.
Pye. I have the thing here for you, sir. [Takes the Gentleman apart.] I be-
seech you, conceal me, sir ; I'm undone else. [Aside.] I have the mask here for
you, sir ; look yon, sir. I beseech your worship, first pardon my rudeness, for
my extremes make me bolder than I would be. I am a poor gentleman, and a
scholar, and now most unfortunately fallen into the fangs of unmerciful officers ;
arrested for debt, which, though small, I am not able to compass, by reason I
am destitute of lands, money, and friends ; so that if I fall into the hungry
swallow of the prison, I am like utterly to perish, and with fees and extortions
be pinched clean to the bone. Now, if ever pity had interest in the blood of
a gentleman, I beseech you vouchsafe but to favour that means of my escape
which I have already tho\ight upon.
Gent. Go forward.
Put. I warrant he likes it rarely.
Pye. In the plunge of my extremities, being giddy, and doubtful what to do,
at last it was put into my labouring thoughts to make a happy use of this paper;
and to blear their unlettered eyes, I told them there was a device for a mask
drawn in 't, and that (but for their interception) I was going to a gentleman to
receive my reward for 't. They, greedy at this word, and hoping to make pur-
chase of me, offered their attendance to go along with me. My hap was to
make bold with your door, sir, which my thoughts showed me the most fairest
and comfortablest entrance ; and I hope I have happened right upon under-
standing and pity. May it please your good worship, then, but to uphold my
device, which is to let one of your men put me out at a back-door, and I shall be
bound to your worship for ever.
Gent. By my troth, an excellent device.
Put. An excellent device, he says ; he likes it wonderfully.
Gent. 0' my faith, I never heard a better.
Rav. Hark, he swears he never heard a better, serjeant.
Put. 0, there 's no talk on 't ; he's an excellent scholar, and especially for a
mask.
Gent. Give me your paper, your device ; I was never better pleased in all my
life : good wit, brave wit, finely wrought ! Come in, sir, and receive your
money, sir."
The prisoner, of course, escapes.
There is-no doubt considerable truth in this picture : but it is not such truth as we find
in Shakspere ; it belongs to the temporary and the personal, not the permanent and the
universal. Such is the characteristic merit of the whole comedy, whatever merit it has
238
A YORKSHIRE TRAGEDY.
INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.
' A YORKSHIRE TRAGEDIE. Not so new, as lamentable and true. Written by W. Shake-
Bpeare.' This was the title of the original edition of the play printed in 1608. Upon a
subsequent title we have ' All's One, or, One of the four Plaies in one, called a Yorkshire
Tragedy.' We may receive ' All's One ' as the general title of four short plays repre-
sented in the same day and standing in the place of a regular tragedy or comedy. Of
the four plays thus presented it is remarkable that ' The Yorkshire Tragedy ' is the onlj
one which appears to have been published ; that was entered, on the 2nd of May, 1608,
on the Stationers' registers, as ' A booke The Yorkshire Tragedy, written by Wylliam
Shakespere.' The publisher of the play, Thomas Pavyer, in 1605 entered 'A ballad cf
lamentable Murther done in Yorkshire, by a Gent, upon two of his owne Children,
sore wounding his Wyfe and Nurse.' The fact upon which the ballad and the tragedy are
founded is thus related in Stow's 'Chronicle,' under the year 1604 : "Walter Calverly }
of Calverly, in Yorkshire, Esquire, murdered two of his young children, stabbed his wife
into the body with full purpose to have murdered her, and instantly went from his house to
have slain his youngest child at nurse, but was prevented. For which fact at his trial in
York he stood mute, and was judged to be pressed to death, according to which judgment
he was executed at the castle of York the 5th of August."
STTF. VOL. R 421
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
HOSBAKD.
MASTER of a College.
A Knight (a Magittrate).
Several Gentlemen.
OUTER, \
RALPH, Servant*.
SAMUEL, j
Otker Servants and Officers.
J little Boy, r.
WIFE.
Ma'd-Servant.
A YORKSHIRE TRAGEDY.
SCENE I. A Room in Calverly HalL
Enter OLIVER and RALPH.
Oliv. Sirrah Ralph, my young mistress is in
such a pitiful passionate humour for the long
absence of her love
Ralph. Why, can you blame her P Why,
apples hanging longer on the tree than when
they are ripe, makes so many fallings ; viz. mad
wenches, because they are not gathered in time,
are fain to drop of themselves, and then 't is
common you know for every man to take them
up.
Oliv. Mass, thou say'st true, 'tis common
indeed! But, sirrah, is neither our young
master returned, nor our fellow Sam come
from London P
Ralph, Neither of either, as the puritan
bawd says. 'Slid, I hear Sam. Sam 's come ;
here he is ; tarry ; come i' faith : now my
nose itches for news.
R2
Oliv. And so does mine elbow.
Sam. [within.~\ Where are you there P Boy,
look you walk my horse with discretion. I have
rid him simply : I warrant his skin sticks to his
back with very heat. If he should catch cold
and get the cough of the lungs, I were well
served, were I not P
Enter SAM.
What, Ralph and Oliver !
Both. Honest fellow Sam, welcome i' faith.
What tricks hast thou brought from London P
Sam. You see I am hanged after the truest
fashion : three hats, and two glasses bobbing
upon them ; two rcbato wires upon my breast, a
cap-case by my side, a brush at my back, au
almanack in my pocket, and three ballads in my
codpiece. Nay, I am the true picture of a com-
mon servingman.
Oliv. I '11 swear thou art ; thou mayst set up
when thou wilt : there's many a one begins
243
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
J
with less, I can tell tliee, that proves a rich
man ere he dies. But what's the news from
London, Sam ?
Ralph. Ay, that's well said; what's the
news from London, sirrah ? My young mistress
keeps such a puling for her love.
Sam. Why, the more fool she ; ay, the
more ninnyhammer she.
Oliv. Why, Sam, why ?
Sam. Why, he is married to another long
ago.
Both. I' faith? You jest.
Sam. Why, did you not know that till now ?
Why, he 's married, beats his wife, and has
two or three children by her. For you must
note, that any woman bears the more when
she is beaten.
Ralph. Ay, that's true, for she bears the blows.
Oliv. Sirrah, Sam, I would not for two years'
wages my young mistress knew so much ; she'd
run upon the left hand of her wit, and ne'er be
her own woman again.
Sam. And I think she was blessed in her cradle,
that he never came in her bed. Why, he has
consumed all, pawned his lands, and made his
university brother stand in wax for him : there's
a fine phrase for a scrivener. Puh ! he owes
more than his skin is worth.
Oliv. Is 't possible ?
Sam. Nay, I'll tell you moreover, he calls
his wife whore, as familiarly as one would call
Moll and Doll; and his children bastards, as
naturally as can be. But what have we here ?
I thought 't was sometliing pull'd down my
breeches ; I quite forgot my two poking-sticks :
these came from London. Now anything is
good here that comes from London.
Oliv. Ay, far fetched, you know, Sam. But
speak in your conscience i' faith ; have not we
as good poking-sticks i' the country, as need to
be put in the fire ?
Sam. The mind of a thing is all ; the mind of
a thing is all ; and as thou said'st even now, far-
fetched are the best things for ladies.
Oliv. Ay, and for waiting-gentlewomen too.
Sam. But, Ralph, what, is our beer sour this
thunder P
Ralph. No, no, it holds countenance yet.
Sam. Why, then follow me; I'll teach you
the finest humour to be drunk in : I learned
it at London last week.
Both. I' faith ? Let 's hear it, let 's hear it.
Sam. The bravest humour ! 't would do a man
good to be drunk in it : they call it knighting
in London, when they drink upon their knees.
244
Both. 'Faith, that's excellent.
Sam. Come, follow me ; I'll give you all
the degrees of it in order. [Exeunt.
SCENE II. Another Apartment in the same.
Enter WIFE.
Wife. What will become of us ? All will
away :
My husband never ceases in expense,
Both to consume his credit and his house ;
And 'tis set down by heaven's just decree,
That riot's cliild must needs be beggary.
Are these the virtues that his youth did promise ?
Dice and voluptuous meetings, midnight revels,
Taking his bed with surfeits ; ill beseeming
The ancient honour of his house and name ?
And this not all, but that which kills me most,
When he recounts his losses and false fortunes,
The weakness of his state so much dejected,
Not as a man repentant, but half mad,
His fortunes cannot answer his expense,
He sits, and sullenly locks up his arms,
Forgetting heaven, looks downward; which
makes him
Appear so dreadful that he frights my heart :
Walks heavily, as if his soul were earth ;
Not penitent for those his sins are past,
But vex'd his money cannot make them last.
A fearful melancholy, ungodly sorrow.
O, yonder he comes ; now in despite of ills
I'll speak to him, and I will hear him speak,
And do my best to drive it from his heart.
Enter HUSBAND.
Hus. Pox o' the last throw ! It made five
hundred angels
Vanish from my sight. I am damn'd, I'm
damn'd ;
The angels have forsook me. Nay, it is
Certainly true ; for he that has no coin
Is damn'd in this world; he is gone, he's gont.
Wife. Dear husband.
Hus. O ! most punishment of all, I have a
wife.
Wife. I do entreat you, as you love your soul,
Tell me the cause of this your discontent.
Hits. A vengeance strip thee naked ! thov
art cause,
Effect, quality, property; thou, thou, thou! [Exit.
Wife. Bad turn'd to worse ; both beggary of
the soul
And of the body ; and so much unlike
Himself at first, as if some vexed spirit
Had got his form upon him. He comes ;igain.
A YORKSHIRE TRAGEDY.
Re-enter HUSBAND.
He says I am the cause : I never yet
Spoke less than words of duty and of love.
Hus. If marriage be honourable, then cuck-
olds are honourable, for they cannot be made
without marriage. Fool ! what meant I to
marry to get beggars? Now must my eldest
son be a knave or nothing ; he cannot live upon
the fool, for he will have no land to maintain
him. That mortgage sits like a snaffle upon
mine inheritance, and makes me chew upon
iron. My second son must be a promoter," and
my third a thief, or an under-putter ; a slave
pander. Oh, beggary, beggary, to what base
uses dost thou put a man ! I think the devil
scorns to be a bawd; he bears himself more
proudly, has more care of his credit. Base,
slavish, abject, filthy poverty !
Wife. Good sir, by all our vows I do beseech
you,
Show me the true cause of your discontent.
Hus. Money, money, money ; and thou must
supply me.
Wife. Alas, I am the least cause of your dis-
content ;
Yet what is mine, either in rings or jewels,
Use to your own desire ; but I beseech you,
As you are a gentleman by many bloods,
Though I myself be out of your respect,
Think on the state of these three lovely boys
You have been father to.
Hus. Puh! bastards, bastards, bastards; be-
got in tricks, begot in tricks.
Wife. Heaven knows how those words wrong
me : but I may
Endure these griefs among a thousand more.
call to mind your lands already mortgag'd,
Yourself wound into debts, your hopeful brother
At the university in bonds for you,
Like to be seiz'd upon ; and
Hus. Have done, thou harlot,
Whom, though for fashion-sake I married,
1 never could abide. Think'st thou, thy words
Shall kill my pleasures ? Fall off to thy friends;
Thou and thy bastards beg; I will not bate
A whit in humour. Midnight, still I love you,
And revel in your company ! Curb'd in,
Shall it be said in all societies,
That I broke custom ? that I flagg'd in money P
No, those thy jewels I will play as freely
As when my state was fullest.
Wife. Be it so,
* Promoter informer
Hus. Nay, I protest (and take that for an
earnest), [Spurns her.
I will for ever hold thee in contempt,
And never touch the sheets that cover thee,
But be divorc'd in bed, till thou consent
Thy dowry shall be sold, to give new life
Unto those pleasures which I most affect.
Wife. Sir, do but turn a gentle eye on me,
And what the law shall give me leave to do,
You shall command.
Hus. Look it be done. Shall I want dust,
And like a slave wear nothing in my pockets
[Holds his hands in his pockets.
But my bare hands, to fill them up with nails ?
much against my blood ! Let it be done.
1 was never made to be a looker-on,
A bawd to dice ; I'll shake the drabs myself,
And make them yield : I say, look it be done.
Wife. I take my leave : it shall. [Exit.
Hus. Speedily, speedily.
I hate the very hour I chose a wife :
A trouble, trouble ! Three children, like three
evils,
Hang on me. Fie, fie, fie ! Strumpet and bas-
tards!
Enter three Gentlemen.
Strumpet and bastards !
1 Gent. Still do these loathsome thoughts jar
on your tongue ?
Yourself to stain the honour of your wife,
Nobly descended ? Those whom men call mad,
Endanger others ; but he's more than mad
That wounds himself; whose own words do
proclaim
Scandals unjust, to soil his better name.
It is not fit ; I pray, forsake it.
2 Gent. Good sir, let modesty reprove you.
3 Gent. Let honest kindness sway so muct)
with you.
Hus. Good den; I thank you, sir; how do
you ? Adieu !
I am glad to see you. Farewell instructions,
admonitions ! [Exeunt Gentlemen.
Enter a Servant.
How now, sirrah ? What would you ?
Ser. Only to certify you, sir, that my mistress
was met by the way, by them who were sent
for her up to London by her honourable uncle,
your worship's late guardian.
Hus. So, sir, then she is gone; and so may
you be;
But let her look the thing be done she wots of,
Or hell will stand more pleasant than her house
At home. [Exit Servant*
245
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO BHAKSPERE.
Enter a Gentleman.
Gent. Well or ill met, I care not.
Hus. No, nor I.
Gent. I am come with confidence to chide you.
Has. Who ? me ?
Chide me? Do't finely then; let it not move me:
For if thou chid'st n.e angry, I shall strike.
Gent. Strike thine own follies, for 'tis they
deserve
To be well beaten. We are now in private ;
.There's none but thou and I. Thou art fond
and peevish ;
An unclean rioter ; thy lands and credit
Lie now both sick of a consumption :
I am sorry for thee. That man spends with
shame,
That with his riches doth consume his name ;
And such art thou.
Has. Peace !
Gent. No, thou shalt hear me further.
Thy father's and forefathers' worthy honours,
Which were our country monuments, our grace,
Follies in thee begin now to deface.
The spring-time of thy youth did fairly promise
Such a most fruitful summer to thy friends,
It scarce can enter into men's beliefs
Such dearth should hang upon thee. We that
see it
Are sorry to believe it. In thy change,
This voice into all places will be hurl'd
Thou and the devil have deceiv'd the world.
Hus. I'll not endure thee.
Gent. But of all the worst,
Thy virtuous wife, right honourably allied,
Thou hast proclaim'd a strumpet.
Has. Nay, then I know thee ;
Thou art her champion, thou; her private friend;
The party you wot on.
Gent. O ignoble thought !
I am past my patient blood. Shall I stand idle,
And see my reputation touch'd to death ?
Hits. It has gall'd you, this ; has it ?
Gent. No, monster ; I will prove
My thoughts did only tend to virtuous love.
. Has. Love of her virtues ? there it goes.
Gent. Base spirit,
To lay thy hate upon the fruitful honour
Of thiue own bed !
[They fight, and the HUSBAND is hurt.
Hus. Oh !
Gent. Wilt thou yield it yet ?
Hus. Sir, sir, I have not done with you.
Gent. I hope, nor ne'er shall do.
\Theyfight again.
246
Hut. Have you got tricks ? Are you in cor-
ning with me ?
Gent. No, plain and right :
He needs no cunning that for truth doth fight.
[HusBA> T D/fl// dotcn,
Hus. Hard fortune ! am I levell'd with the
ground ?
Gent. Now, sir, you lie at mercy.
Hus. Ay, you slave.
Gent Alas, that hate should bring us to oui
grave !
You see, my sword's not thirsty for your life :
I am sorrier for your wound than you yourself
You're of a virtuous house; show virtuous
deeds;
'Tis not your honour, 'tis your folly bleeds.
Much good has been expected in your life ;
Cancel not all men's hopes ; you hare a wife,
Kind and obedient ; heap not wrongful shame
On her and your posterity ; let only sin be sore,
And by this fall, rise never to fall more.
And so I leave you. [Exit.
Hus. Has the dog left me then,
After his tooth has left me ? O, my heart
Would fain leap after him. Revenge, I say ;
I'm mad to be reveng'd. My strumpet wife,
It is thy quarrel that rips thus my flesh,
And makes my breast spit blood; but thou
shalt bleed.
Vanquish' d ? got down ? unable even to speak ?
Surely 'tis want of money makes men weak :
Ay, 'twas that o'erthrew me: I'd ne'er been
down else. [Exit.
SCENE III. Another Room in the same.
Enter WIFE, in a riding-suit, and a Servant.
Ser. 'Faith, mistress, if it might not be pre-
sumption
In me to tell you so, for his excuse
You had small reason, knowing his abuse.
Wife. I grant I had ; but, alas,
Why should our faults at home be spread
abroad ?
'T is grief enough within doors. At first sight
Mine uncle could run o'er his prodigal life
As perfectly as if his serious eye
Had number 5 d all his folh'es :
Knew of his mortgag'd lands, his friends in
bonds,
Himself wither'd with debts ; and in that minute
Had I added his usage and unkindness,
'T would have confounded every thought of
goodi
A YORKSHIRE TRAGEDY.
Where now, fathering his riots on his youth,
Which time and tame experience will shake off-
Guessing his kindness to me (as I smooth'd him
With all the skill I had, though his deserts
Are in form uglier than an unshap'd bear),
He's ready to prefer him to some office
And place at court ; a good and sure relief
To all his stooping fortunes. 'Twill be a means,
I hope,
To make new league between us, and redeem
His virtues with his lands.
Ser. I should think so, mistress. If he should
not now be kind to you, and love you, and che-
rish you up, I should think the devil himself
kept open house in him.
Wife. I doubt not but he will. Now prithee
leave me ; I think I hear him coming.
Ser. I am gone. [Exit.
Wife. By this good means I shall preserve
my lands,
And free my husband out of usurers' hands.
Now there's no need of sale; my uncle's
kind:
I hope, if aught, this will content his mind.
Here comes my husband.
Enter HUSBAND.
Has. Now, are you come P Where's the mo-
ney P Let's see the money. Is the rubbish
sold? those wise-acres, your lands? Why, when?
The money? Where is it? Pour it down; down
with it, down with it: I say, pour't on the
ground; let's see it, let's see it.
Wife. Good sir, keep but in patience, and I
hope my words shall like you well. I bring you
better comfort than the sale of my dowry.
Hus. Ha ! what's that ?
Wife. Pray do not fright me, sir, but vouch-
safe me hearing. My uncle, glad of your kind-
ness to me and mild usage (for so I made it to
him), hath, in pity of your declining fortunes,
provided a place for you at court, of worth and
credit ; which so much overjoyed me
Hus. Out on thee, filth! over and overjoyed,
when I'm in torment? [Spurns herl\ Thou
politic whore, subtiler than nine devils, was this
thy journey to nunck ? to set down the history
of me, of my state and fortunes P Shall I, that
dedicated myself to pleasure, be now confined in
service ? to crouch and stand like an old man i'
the hams, my hat off? I that could never abide
to uncover my head i' the church ? Base slut !
this fruit bear thy complaints.
Wife. O, heaven knows
That my complaints were praises, and best
words,
Of you and your estate. Only, my friends
Knew of your mortgaged lands, and were pos-
sess'd
Of every accident before I came.
If you suspect it but a plot in me,
To keep my dowry, or for mine own good,
Or my poor children's, (though it suits a mother
To show a natural care in their reliefs,)
Yet I'll forget myself to calm your blood :
Consume it, as your pleasure counsels you.
And all I wish even clemency affords ;
Give me but pleasant looks, and modest words.
Hus. Money, whore, money, or I'll
\_Draws a dagger.
Enter a Servant hastily.
What the devil ! How now ! thy hasty news ?
Ser. May it please you, sir
Hus. What! may I not look upon my dag-
ger ? Speak, villain, or I will execute the point
on thee : Quick, short.
Ser. Why, sir, a gentleman from the univer-
sity stays below to speak with you. [Exit.
Hus. From the university? so; university:
that long word runs through me. [Exit.
Wife. Was ever wife so wretchedly beset ?
Had not this news stepp'd in between, the point
Had offer'd violence unto my breast.
That which some women call great misery
Would show but little here; would scarce be seen
Among my miseries. I may compare,
For wretched fortunes, with all wives that are.
Nothing will please him, until all be nothing.
He calls it slavery to be preferr'd ;
A place of credit, a base servitude.
What shall become of me, and my poor children,
Two here, and one at nurse? my pretty beggars!
I see how ruin with a palsy hand
Begins to shake the ancient seat to dust :
The heavy weight of sorrow draws my lids
Over my dankish eyes : I scarce can see ;
Thus grief will last ; it wakes and sleeps with
me. [Exit.
SCENE IV. Another Apartment in the same.
Enter HUSBAND and the MASTEB of a College.
Hus. Please you draw near, sir; you're ex-
ceeding welcome.
Mast. That's uiy doubt ! I fear I come not to
be welcome.
Hus. Yes, howsoever.
Mast. 'Tis not my faslu'on, sir, to dwell iu
247
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
>ong circumstance, but to be plain and effectual ;
therefore to the purpose. The cause of my set-
ting forth was piteous and lamentable. That
hopeful young gentleman, your brother, whose
virtues we all love dearly, through your default
and unnatural negligence lies in bond exe-
cuted for your debt, a prisoner ; all his studies
amazed, his hope struck dead, and the pride of
his youth muffled in these dark clouds of op-
pression.
If us. Umph, umph, umph !
Mast. O you have killed the towardest hope
of all our university: wherefore, without repent-
ance and amends, expect ponderous and sudden
judgments to fall grievously upon you. Your
brother, a man who profited in his divine em-
ployments, and might have made ten thousand
souls fit for heaven, is now by your careless
courses cast into prison, which you must answer
for; and assure your spirit it will come home
at length.
Em. OGod! oh!
Mast. Wise men think ill of you; others speak
ill of you; no man loves you: nay, even those
whom honesty condemns, condemn you: And
take this from the virtuous affection I bear your
brother; never look for prosperous hour, good
thoughts, quiet sleep, contented walks, nor any-
thing that makes man perfect, till you redeem
him. What is your answer ? How will you be-
stow him ? Upon desperate misery, or better
hopes ? I suffer till I hear your answer.
Hits. Sir, you have much wrought with me ;
I feel you in my soul: you are your art's master.
I never had sense till now ; your syllables have
eleft me. Both for your words and pains I
thank you, I cannot but acknowledge grievous
wrongs done to my brother; mighty, mighty,
mighty, mighty wrongs. Within, there !
Enter a Servant.
Hus. Fill me a bowl of wine. [Exit Servant.]
Alas, poor brother, bruis'd with an execution
for my sake !
Mast. A bruise indeed makes many a mortal
sore,
Till the grave cure them.
Re-enter Servant with wine.
Hus. Sir, I begin to you; you've chid your
welcome.
Mast. I could have wish'd it better for your
I pledge you, sir : To the kind man in prison.
248
Hus. Let it be so. Now, sir, if you please to
spend but a few minutes in a walk about my
grounds below, my man here shall attend you.
I doubt not but by that time to be furnished
of a sufficient answer, and therein my brother
fully satisfied.
Mast. Good sir, in that the angels would be
pleas'd,
And the world's murmurs cahn'd ; and I should say,
I set forth then upon a lucky day.
[Exeunt MASTER and Servant.
Hus. thou confused man! Thy pleasant
sins have undone thee ; thy damnation has beg-
gared thee. That heaven should say we must
not sin, and yet made women ; give our senses
way to find pleasure, which, being found, con-
founds us ! Why should we know those things
so much misuse us ? O, would virtue had been
forbidden! We should then have proved all
virtuous; for 'tis our blood to love what we are
forbidden. Had not drunkenness been forbidden,
what man would have been fool to a beast, and
zany to a swine, to show tricks in the mire ?
What is there in three dice," to make a man
draw thrice three thousand acres into the com-
pass of a little round table, and with a gentle-
man's palsy in the hand shake out his posterity
thieves or beggars? 'Tis done; I have done't,
i' faith : terrible, horrible misery ! How well
was I left ! Very well, very well. My lands
showed like a full moon about me ; but now the
moon's in the last quarter, waning, waning;
and I am mad to think that moon was mine;
mine, and my father's, and my forefathers';
generations, generations. Down goes the house
of us ; down, down it sinks. Now is the name
a beggar; begs in me. That name which hun-
dreds of years has made this shire famous, in me
and my posterity runs out. In my seed five are
made miserable besides myself: my riot is now
my brother's gaoler, my wife's sighing, my three
boys' penury, and mine own confusion.
Why sit my hairs upon my cursed head ?
[Tears his hair.
Will not this poison scatter them ? 0, my bro-
ther's
In execution among devils that
Stretch him and make him give ; and 1 in want,
Not able for to live, nor to redeem him !
Divines and dying men may talk of hell,
But in my heart her several torments dwell ;
Slavery and misery. Who, in this case,
Would not take up money upon his soul ?
The game called patsage, or pass dice, was played with
three dice.
A YORKSHIRE TRAGEDY.
Pawn his salvation, live at interest ?
I, that did ever in abundance dwell,
For me to want, exceeds the throes of helL
Enter a little Boy with a Top and Scourge.
Son. What ail you, father? Are you not
well ? I cannot scourge my top as long as you
stand so. You take up all the room with your
wide legs ? Puh ! you cannot make me afraid
with this ; I fear no visards, nor bugbears.
[He takes up the Child by the skirts of his long
coat with one hand, and draws his dagger
with the other.
Hus. Up, sir, for here thou hast no inherit-
ance left.
Son. O, what will you do, father? I am your
white boy.
Hus. Thou shalt be my red boy ; take that.
[Strikes him.
Son. O, you hurt me, father.
Hus. My eldest beggar,
Thou shalt not live to ask an usurer bread ;
To cry at a great man's gate ; or follow,
'Good your honour/ by a coach; no, nor your
brother :
'Tis charity to brain you.
Son. How shall I learn, now my head's broke?
Hus. Bleed, bleed, [Stabs him.
Rather than beg. Be not thy name's disgrace ;
Spurn thou thy fortunes first ; if they be base,
Come view thy second brother's. Fates ! My
children's blood
Shall spin into your faces ; you shall see,
How confidently we scorn beggary !
[Exit with his Son.
SCENE V.
A Maid discovered with a Child in her arms;
the Mother on a couch by her, asleep.
Maid. Sleep, sweet babe; sorrow makes thy
mother sleep :
It bodes small good when heaviness falls so
deep,
Hush, pretty boy ; thy hopes might have been
better.
'Tis lost at dice, what ancient honour won :
Hard, when the father plays away the son !
Nothing but Misery serves in this house;
Ruin and Desolation. Oh !
Enter HUSBAND, with his Son bleeding.
Hus. Whore, give me that boy.
[Strives with her for the Child.
Maid. help, help ! Out, alas ! murther,
murther !
Hus. Are you gossiping, you prating, sturdy
quean?
I'll break your clamour with your neck. Down
stairs;
Tumble, tumble, headlong. So :
[He throws her down, and stabs the Child.
The surest way to charm a woman's tongue,
Is break her neck : a politician did it.
Son. Mother, mother ; I am kill'd, mother !
[WirE awakes.
Wife. Ha, who's that cried? me! my
children,
Both, both, bloody, bloody !
[Catches up the youngest Child.
Hus. Strumpet, let go the boy; let go the
beggar.
Wife. O, my sweet husband !
Hus. Filth, harlot !
Wife. 0, what will you do, dear husband ?
Hus. Give me the bastard !
Wife. Your own sweet boy
Hus. There are too many beggars.
Wife. Good my husband
Hus. Dost thou prevent me still ?
Wife. OGod!
Hus. Have at his heart.
[Stabs at the Child in her arms.
Wife. O, my dear boy !
Hus. Brat, thou shalt not live to shame thy
house
Wife. Oh, heaven !
[She is hurt, and sinks down.
Hus. And perish ! Now be gone :
There's whores enough, and want would make
thee one.
Enter a Servant.
Ser. sir, what deeds are these P
Hus. Base slave, my vassal !
Com'st thou between my fury to question me ?
Ser. Were you the devil, I would hold you,
sir.
Hus. Hold me? Presumption! I'll undo thee
for it.
Ser. 'Sblood, you have undone us all, air.
Hus. Tug at thy master p
Ser. Tug at a monster
Hus. Have I no power? Shall my slave fetter
me?
Ser. Nay, then the devil wrestles : I am
thrown.
Hvs. villain! now I'll tug thee, now I'll
tear thee.-
249
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
Set quick spurs to my vassal; bruise him,
trample him.
So ; I think thou wilt not follow me in haste.
My horse stands ready saddled. Away, away ;
Now to my brat at nurse, my sucking beggar :
Fates, I'll not leave you one to trample on !
[Exit.
SCENE VL Court before the House.
Enter HUSBAND ; to him the MASTER of the
College.
Mast. How is it with you, sir ?
Methinks you look of a distracted colour.
Hus. Who, I, sir ? 'Tis but your fancy.
Please you walk in, sir, and I'll soon resolve
you:
I want one small part to make up the sum,
And then my brother shall rest satisfied.
Mast. I shall be glad to see it: Sir, I'll
attend you, [Exeunt.
SCENE VII. A Room in the House.
The WIFE, Servant, and Children, discovered,.
Ser. Oh, I am scarce able to heave up my-
self,
He has so bruis'd me with his devilish weight,
And torn my flesh with his blood-hasty spur :
A man before of easy constitution,
Till now hell power supplied, to his soul's
wrong:
how damnation can make weak men strong !
Enter the MASTER of the College and two
Servants.
Ser. O the most piteous deed, sir, since you
came!
Mast. A deadly greeting! Hath he summ'd
up these
To satisfy his brother ? Here's another ;
And by the bleeding infants, the dead mother.
Wife. Oh! oh!
Mast. Surgeons ! surgeons ! she recovers
life:
One of his men all faint and bloodied !
1 Ser. Follow; our murtherous master has
took horse
To kill his child at nurse. O, follow quickly.
Mast. I am the readiest; it shall be my charge
To raise the town upon him.
1 Ser. Good sir, do follow him.
^Exeunt MASTER and two Servants.
Wife- O my children.
7J50
1 Ser. How is it with my most afflicted mis-
tress ?
Wife. Why do I now recover ? Why half live,
To see my children bleed before mine eyes ?
A sight able to kill a mother's breast, without
An executioner. What, art thou mangled too ?
1 Ser. I, thinking to prevent what his quick
mischiefs
Has so soon acted, came and rush'd upon him.
We struggled ; but a fouler strength than his
O'erthrew me with his arms : then did he bruise
me,
And rent my flesh, and robb'd me of my hair ;
Like a man mad in execution,
Made me unfit to rise and follow him.
Wife. What is it has beguil'd him of all grace,
And stole away humanity from his breast ?
To slay his children, purpose to kill his wife,
And spoil his servants
Enter a Servant.
Ser. Please you to leave this most accursed
place:
A surgeon waits within.
Wife. Willing to leave it ?
'Tis guilty of sweet blood, innocent blood :
Murther has took this chamber with full hands,
And will ne'er out as long as the house stands.
[Exeunt.
SCENE VUL A High Road.
Enter HUSBAND. He falls.
Hus. O stumbling jade ! The spavin over-
take thee !
The fifty diseases stop thee !
Oh, I am sorely bruised ! Plague founder thee!
Thou runn'st at ease and pleasure. Heart of
chance !
To throw me now, within a flight o' the town,
In such plain even ground too ! 'Sfoot, a man
May dice upon it, and throw away the meadows.
Filthy beast !
[Cry within] Follow, follow, follow.
Hus. Ha! I hear sounds of men, like hue
and cry.
Up, up, and struggle to thy horse ; make on ;
Despatch that little beggar, and all's done.
[Cry within~\ Here, here; tin's way, this
way.
Hus. At my back ? Oh,
What fate have I ! my limbs deny me go.
My will is 'bated ; beggary claims a part.
could I here reach to the infant's heart !
A YORKSHIRE TRAGEDY.
Enter the MASTER of the College, three Gentle-
men, and Attendants with Halberds.
All. Here, here ; yonder, yonder.
Mast. Unnatural, flinty, more than barbarous !
The Scythians, even the marble-hearted Fates,
Could not have acted more remorseless deeds,
In their relentless natures, than these of thine.
Was this the answer I long waited on ?
The satisfaction for thy prison' d brother P
Hus. Why, he can have no more of us than
our skins,
And some of them want but flnyin?
1 Gknt. Great sins have made him impudent.
Mast. He has shed so much blood, that he
cannot blush.
2 Gent. Away with him ; bear him to the
justice's.
A gentleman of worship dwells at hand :
There shall his deeds be blaz'd.
Hus. Why, all the better.
My glory 'tis to have my action known;
I grieve for nothing, but I miss'd of one.
Mast. There's little of a father in that grief:
Bear him away. [Exeunt.
SCENE IX. A Room in the House of a
Magistrate.
Enter a Knight, and three Gentlemen.
Knight. Endanger*d so his wife? murther'd
his children ?
1 Gent. So the cry goes.
Knight. 1 am sorry I e'er knew him ;
That ever he took life and natural being
From such an honour'd stock, and fair descent,
Till this black minute without stain or blemish.
1 Gent. Here come the men.
Enter MASTER of the College, $-c., with the
Prisoner.
Knight. The serpent of his house! I am sorry,
For this time, that I am in place of justice.
Mast. Please you, sir
Knight. Do not repeat it twice ; I know too
much :
Would it had ne'er been thought on ! Sir, I
bleed for you.
1 Gent. Your father's sorrows are alive in me.
What made you show such monstrous cruelty ?
Hus. In a word, sir, I have consumed all,
played away long-acre; and I thought it the
charitablest deed I could do, to cozen beggary,
and knock my house o' the head.
Knight. 0, in a cooler blood you will repent it
Hits. I repent now that one is left unkilTd ;
My brat at nurse. I would full fain have
wean'd him.
Knight. Well, I do not think, but in to-mor-
row's judgment,
The terror will sit closer to your soul,
When the dread thought of death remembers
you:
To further which, take this sad voice from me,
Never was act play'd more unnaturally.
Hus. I thank you, sir.
Knight. Go, lead him to the gaol :
Where justice claims all, there must pity fail.
Hus. Come, come ; away with me.
[Exeunt HUSBAND, fyc.
Mast. Sir, you deserve the worship of your
place:
Would all did so ! In you the law is grace.
Knight. It is my wish it should be so.
Ruinous man !
The desolation of his house, the blot
Upon his predecessors' honour'd name !
That man is nearest shame, that is past shame.
[Exeunt.
SCENE X. Before Calverly Hall.
Enter HUSBAND guarded, MASTER of the
College, Gentlemen, and Attendants.
Hus. I am right against my house, seat of
my ancestors :
I hear my wife's alive, but much endanger'd.
Let me entreat to speak with her, before
The prison gripe me.
His WIFE is brought in.
Gent. See, here she comes of herself.
Wife. my sweet husband, my dear dis-
tress'd husband,
Now in the hands of unrelenting laws,
My greatest sorrow, my extremest bleeding ;
Now my soul bleeds.
Hus. How now? Kind to me? Did I not
wound thee ?
Left thee for dead P
Wife. Tut, far, far greater wounds did my
breast feel ;
Unkindness strikes a deeper wound than steel.
You have been still unkind to me.
Hus. 'Faith, and so I think I have ;
I did my murthers roughly out of hand,
Desperate and sudden ; but thou hast devis'd
A fine way now to kill me : thou hast given
mine eyes
251
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE-
Seven wounds apiece. Now glides the devil
from me,
Departs at every joint ; heaves up my nails.
O catch him, torments that were ne'er invented!
Bind Him one thousand more, you blessed angels,
In that pit bottomless ! Let him not rise
To make men act unnatural tragedies ;
To spread into a father, and in fury
Make him his children's executioner ;
Murther his wife, his servants, and who not!
For that man's dark, where heaven is quite
f 01 got.
Wife. my repentant husband !
Hus. my dear soul, whom I too much have
wrong'd ;
For death I die, and for this have I long'd.
Wife. Thou shouldst not, be assur'd, for
these faults die
If the law could forgive as soon as I.
[Tlie two Children laid out.
Hus. What sight is yonder ?
Wife. 0, our two bleeding boys,
Laid forth upon the threshold.
Hus. Here's weight enough to make a heart-
string crack.
O. were it lawful that your pretty souls
Might look from heaven into your father's eyes,
Then should you see the penitent glasses melt,
And both your murthers shoot upon my cheeks !
But you are playing in the angels' laps,
And will not look on me, who, void of grace,
Kill'd you in beggary.
that I might my wishes now attain,
1 should then wish you living were again,
Though I did beg with you, which thing I
fear'd:
0, 'twas the enemy my eyes so bler'd !
O, would you could pray heaven me to forgive,
That will unto my end repentant live !
Wife, It makes me even forget all other
sorrows.
And live apart with this.
Off,. Come, will you go ?
Hus. I'll kiss the biood I spilt, and then
^'11 go:
My soul is bloodied, well may my lips be so.
Farewell, dear wife; now thou and I must
part;
I of thy wrongs repent me with my heart.
Wife. stay ; thou shalt not go.
Hus. That's but in vain; you see it must
be so.
Farewell, ye bloody ashes of my boys !
My punishments are their eternal joys.
Let eveiy father look into my deeds,
And then their heirs may prosper, while mino
bleeds. [Exeunt Hus. and Officers.
Wife. More wretched am I now in this distress,
Than former sorrows made me.
Mast. kind wife,
Be comforted ; one joy is yet unmuither'd ;
You have a boy at nurse ; your joy 's in him.
Wife. Dearer than all is my poor husband's life.
Heaven give iny body strength, which is yet faint
With much expense of blood, and I will kneel,
Sue for his life, number up all my friends
To plead for pardon for my dear husband's life.
Mast. Was it in man to wound so kind a
creature ?
I'll ever praise a woman for thy sake.
I must return with grief; my answer's set;
I shall bring news weighs heavier than the debt,
Two brothers, one in bond lies overtliromt,
This on a deadlier execution. \Exeitnt oxnet..
NOTICE
THE AUTHORSHIP OF A YORKSHIRE TRAGEDY.
THE event upon which this little drama is founded happened in 1604 ; the play was
published in 1608. If it were written by Shakspere then, as his name on the title-page
would lead us to believe, it must have been written when he was at the height of his
power and of his fame. The question therefore as to his authorship of this play lies
within very narrow limits. On the one hand we have the assertion of the publisher, in
his entry upon the Stationers' registers, and in the title-page of the book, that Shakspere
was the author : on the other hand, we have to consider the manifest improbability that
one who essentially viewed human events and passions through the highest medium of
poetry should have taken up a subject of temporary interest to dramatize upon a prosaic
principle. The English stage is familiar with works of extensive and permanent popu-
larity which present to the senses the literal movement of some domestic tragedy, in
which, from the necessary absence of the poetical spirit, the feelings of the audience are
harassed and tortured without any compensation from that highest power of art which
subdues the painful in and through the beautiful. ' George Barnwell ' and ' The
Gamester ' are ready examples of tragedies of this class ; and without going into any
minute comparisons, it is easy to understand that the principle upon which such works
ore composed is essentially different from that which presides over Hamlet and Lear and
Othello. There was a most voluminous dramatic writer in Shakspere's time, Thomas
Hey wood, whose pen was ready to seize upon a subject of passing interest, such as the
frantic violence of the unhappy Mr. Calverly. Charles Lamb, after quoting two very
pathetic scenes from a tragedy of this writer, ' A Woman Killed with Kindness,' says,
" Heywood is a sort of prose Shakspeare. His scenes are to the full as natural and affect-
ing. But we miss the poet, that which in Shakspeare always appears out and above the
surface of the nature. Heywood's characters, his country gentlemen, &c., are exactly
what we see (but of the best kind of what we see) in life. Shakspeare makes us believe^
while we are among his lovely creations, that they are nothing but what we are familiar
with, as in dreams new things seem old ; but we awake, and sigh for the difference.'
We have no doubt that Hey wood could have written 'The Yorkshire Tragedy;' we greatly
question whether Shakspere would have written it. The play, however, is one of sterling
merit in its limited range ; and as it is also a remarkable specimen of a species of drama of
which we have very few other examples of the Shaksperian age, we have printed it entire.'
It is scarcely necessary for us to enter upon any minute criticism in this place, especially
as we shall have to revert to the general principle of the suitableness of such a subject to
Shakspere's powers, when we give an account of ' Arden of Feversham,' a tragedy of an
earlier date, which has also been imputed to our great poet. A writer in the ' Retro-
25?
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE
spective Review,' analyzing the ' Yorkshire Tragedy,' says, " There is no reason why Shak-
Bpeare should not have written it, any more than why he should." The reason why Shau-
spere should not have written it is, we think, to be deduced from the circumstance that he,
who had never even written a comedy in which the scene is placed in his own country
in his own times, would very unwillingly have gone out of his way to dramatize a real
incident of horror, occurring in Yorkshire in 1604, which of necessity could only have
been presented to the senses of an audience as a fact admitting of very little elfcv&tion
by a poetical treatment which might seize upon their imaginations. There is, no doubt, in
this little drama the evidence of a sound judgment, relying upon the truth of the repre-
sentation for its effect ; and the patience and gentleness of the wife, as contrasted with
the selfish ferocity of the husband, add to the intensity of the pain which the representation
produces. The Retrospective reviewer further says "If he (Shakspere) had written
it, on the principle of merely dramatizing the known fact, he would not have done it much
better than it is here done ; and there were many of his contemporaries who could have done
it quite as well." We agree with this assertion. If ' The Yorkshire Tragedy ' had been
done better than it is that is, if the power of the poet had more prevailed in it it would
not have answered the purpose for which it was intended ; it would in truth have been a
mistake in art. Shakspere would not have committed this mistake. But then we doubt
whether he would have consented at all to have had a circle drawn around him by the anti-
poetical, within which his mastery over the spirits of the earth and of the air was unavail-
ing. There were other men amongst his contemporaries to whom these limits would not
have been imprisonment ; who might say with Hamlet, " I could be bounded in a nut-
shell, and count myself a king of infinite space." Thomas Heywood was one of the
number. We extract from that writer the concluding scene of ' A Woman Killed with
Kindness,' in which a faithless but repentant wife receives when dying the forgiveness of
her husband. We request our readers to compare this with the last scene of ' The York-
shire Tragedy,' in which the murderer of her children, when about to be led to execution,
is in the same spirit forgiven by his outraged wife :
" Frankford. How do you, woman ?
Mrs. Anne. Well, Mr. Fraukford, well ; but shall be better
I hope within this hour. Will you vouchsafe
(Out of your grace and your humanity)
To take a spotted strumpet by the hand ?
Frankford. This hand once held my heart in faster bonds
Than now 't is grip'd by me. God pardon them
That made us first break hold.
Mrs. Anne. Amen, amen.
Out of my zeal to heaven, whither I 'm now bound,
I was so impudent to wish you here ;
And once more beg your pardon. Oh ! good man,
And father to my children, pardon me.
Pardon, pardon me : my fault so heinous ia,
That if you in this world forgive it not,
Heaven will not clear it in the world to come.
Faintness hath so usurp'd upon my knees,
That kneel I cannot, but on my heart's knees,
My prostrate soul lies thrown down at your feet
To beg your gracious pardon. Pardon, pardon me.
Frankford. As freely from the low depth of my soul
As my Redeemer hath forgiven his death,
I pardon thee. I will shed tears for thee ;
Pray with thee ; and, in mere pity of thy weak estate
I '11 wish to die with thee.
A YORKSHIRE TRAGEDY.
All. So do we all.
Nicholas. So will not I ;
I "11 sigh and sob, but, by my faith, not die.
Sir Francis. 0, Mr. Frankford, all the near alliance
I lose by her, shall be supplied in thee :
You are my brother by the nearest way ;
Her kindred has fall'n off, but yours doth stay.
Frankford. Even as I hope for pardon at that day,
When the great Judge of heaven in scarlet site,
So be thou pardou'd. Though thy rash offence
Divorc'd our bodies, thy repentant tears
Unite our souls.
Sir Charles. Then comfort, Mistress Frankford,
You see your husband hath forgiven your fall ;
Then rouse your spirits, and cheer your fainting soul
Susan. How is it with you ?
Sir Francis. How d' ye feel yourself ?
Mrs. Anne. Not of this world.
Frankford. I see you are not, and I weep to see it.
My wife, the mother to my pretty babes !
Both those lost names I do restore thee back,
And with this kiss I wed thee once again :
Though thou art wounded in thy honour'd name,
And with that grief upon thy deathbed liest,
Honest in heart, upon my soul, thou diest.
Mrs. Anne. Pardon'd on earth, soul, thou in heaven art free.
Once more : thy wife dies thus embracing thee. (Diet."
ARDEN OF FEVERSHAM.
YOL. 8
AEDEN OF FEVERSHAM.
IN 1592 was first published 'The lamentable and true Tragedie of M. Arden of Fever
sham in Kent.' Subsequent editions of this tragedy appeared in 1599 and 1633. Lillo,
the author of ' George Barnwell,' who died in 1739, left an unfinished tragedy upon the
same subject, in which he has used the play of the 16th century very freely, but with
considerable judgment. In 1770 the 'Arden of Feversham' originally published iu
1592 was for the first time ascribed to Shakspere. It was then reprinted by Edward
Jacob, a resident of Feversham (who also published a history of that town and port),
with a preface, in which he endeavours to prove that the tragedy was written by Shak-
spere, upon the fallacious principle that it contains certain expressions which are to be
found in his acknowledged works. This is at once the easiest and the most unsatisfactory
species of evidence. Resemblances such as this may consist of mere conventional
phrases, the common property of all the writers of a particular period. If the phnisea
are so striking that they must have been first created by an individual process of thought,
the repetition of them is no proof that they have been twice used by the same person.
S2 269
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
Another may have adopted the phrase, perhaps unconsciously. General resemblances of
style lead us into a wider range of inquiry; but even here we have a narrow enclosed
ground compared with the entire field of criticism, which includes not only style but
the whole system of the poet's art. It has been recently said of this play, "Arden of
Feversham, a domestic tragedy, would, in point of absolute merit, have done no discredit
to the early manhood of Shakspere himself; but, both in conception and execution, it is
quito unlike even his earliest manner; while, on the other hand, its date cannot possibly
be removed so far back as the time before which his own style had demonstrably been
formed."* Tieck has translated the tragedy into German, and he assigns it with little
hesitation to Shakspere. Ulrici also subscribes to this opinion; but he makes a lower
estimate of its merit than his brother critic. The versification he holds to be tedious and
monotonous, and the dialogue, he says, is conducted with much exaggeration of expres-
sion. The play appears to us deserving of a somewhat full consideration. It was printed
as early as 1592, and was most probably performed several years earlier; the event which
forms its subject took place in 1551. What is very remarkable too for a play of this
period (and in this opinion we differ from Ulrici), there is very little extravagance of
language ; and the criminal passion in all its stages is conducted with singular delicacy.
There are many passages too which aim to be poetical, and are in fact poetical ; but for
the most part they want that vivifying dramatic power which makes the poetry doubly
effective from its natural and inseparable union with the situation which calls it forth,
and the character which gives it utterar.ee. The tragedy is founded upon a real event,
which had been popularly told with great minuteness of detail ; and the dramatist has
evidently thought it necessary to present all the points of the story, and in so doing has
of course sometimes divided and weakened the interest. Of invention, properly sc
called, there is necessarily very little; but there is still some invention, and that of a
nature to show that the author had an imaginative conception of incident and character.
Upon the whole, we should be inclined to regard it as the work of a young man ; and the
question then arises whether that young man was Shakspere. If ' Arden of Feversham,'
like the ' Yorkshire Tragedy,' had been founded upon an event which happened in Shak-
spere's mature years, that circumstance would have been decisive against his being in
any sense of the word the author. But whilst we agree with the writer in the ' Edin-
burgh Review' that "both in conception and execution it is quite unlike even his
earliest manner," we are not so confident that " its date cannot possibly be removed
so far back as the time before which his own style had demonstrably been formed."
Whether it be due to the absorbing nature of the subject, or to the mode in which the
story is dramatically treated, we think that ' Arden of Feversham ' cannot be read for the
first time without exciting a very considerable interest ; and this interest is certainly not
produced by any violent exhibitions of passion, any sudden transitions of situation, or any
exciting display of rhetoric or poetry ; but by a quiet and natural succession of incidents,
by a tolerably consistent, if not highly forcible, delineation of character, and by equable
and unambitious dialogue, in which there is certainly less extravagance of expression
than we should readily find in any of the writers for the stage between 1585 and 1592.
Do <ee then think that ' Arden of Feversham ' belongs to the early manhood of Shak-
spere? We do not think so with any confidence; but we do think that, considering its
date, it is a very remarkable play, and we should be at a loss to assign it to any writer
whose name is associated with that early period of the drama, except to Shakspere. In
questions of this nature there may be a conviction resulting from an examination of the
whole evidence, the reasons for which cannot be satisfactorily communicated to others.
* Edinburgh lleview, vol. Ixxi. p. 471.
260
ARDEN OF FEVERSIIAM,
But we arc less anxious to make our readers think with us than to enable them to think
for themselves; and we shall endeavour to effect this object in the analysis to which we
now proceed.
The murder of Arden of Feversham must have produced an extraordinary and even
permanent sensation in an age when deeds of violence were by no means unfrequent.
Holinshed's 'Chronicle' was first published in 1577; the event happened twenty-six
years before, but the writer of the 'Chronicle' says, "The which murder, for the
horribleness thereof, although otherwise it may seem to be but a private matter, and
therefore as it were impertinent to this history, I have thought good to set it forth
somewhat at large, having the instructions delivered to me by them that have used
some diligence to gather the true understanding of the circumstances." The narrative
in Holinshed occupies seven closely printed columns, and all the details are brought out
with a remarkable graphic power. We have no doubt that this narrative strongly
seized upon the imagination of the writer of the play. To judge correctly of the
poetical art of that writer we must follow the narrative step by step. The relative
position of the several parties is thus described .
" This Arden was a man of a tall and comely personage, and matched in marriage with a gentlewoman,
young, tall, and well favoured of shape and countenance, who chancing to fall in familiarity with one
Mosbie, a tailor by occupation, a black swart man, servant to the Lord North, it happened this Mosbie
upon some mistaking to fall out with her ; but she being desirous to be in favour with him again, sent
him a pair of silver dice by one Adam Foule, dwelling at the Flower-de-luce, in Feversham. After which
he resorted to her again, and oftentimes lay in Arden's house ; and although (as it was said) Arden per-
ceived right well their mutual familiarity to be much greater than their honesty, yet because he would not
offend her, and so lose the benefit he hoped to gain at some of her friends' hands in bearing with her
lewdness, which he might have lost if he should have fallen out with her, he was contented to wink at
her filthy disorder, and both permitted and also invited Mosbie very often to lodge in his house. And
thus it continued a good space before any practice was begun by them against Master Arden. She at
length, inflamed in love with Mosbie, and loathing her husband, wished, and after practised, the means
how to hasten his end."
The first evidence of a sound judgment in the dramatist is the rejection of the impu-
tation of the chronicler that Arden connived at the conduct of his wife from mercenary
motives. In the opening scene he puts Arden in a thoroughly different position. The
play opens with a dialogue between Master Arden and his friend Master Franklin, in
which Franklin exhorts him to cheer up his spirits because the king has granted him
letters-patent of the lands of the abbey of Feversham. This is the answer of Arden :--
" Franklin, thy love prolongs my weary life j
And but for thee, how odious were this life,
That shows me nothing, but torments my soul ;
And those foul objects that offend mine eyea,
Which make me wish that, for* this veil of heaven,
The earth hung over my head and cover' d me I
Love-letters post 'twixt Mosbie and my wife,
And they have privy meetings in the town :
Nay, on his finger did I spy the ring
Which, at our marriage, the priest put on :
Can any grief be half so great as this?"
Presently Arden breaks out into a burst of passion, and Franklin thus counsels him:
" Be patient, gentle friend, and learn of me
To ease thy grief and save her chastity :
Entreat her fair ; sweet words are fittest engines
To raze the flint walls of a woman's breast :
For- instead of.
Ml
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERJE.
In any case be not too jealous,
Nor make no question of her love to thee,
But, as securely, presently take horse,
And lie with me at London all this term ;
For women, when they may, will not,
But, being kept back, straight grow outrageous."
Alice, the wife of Arden, enters; and he accuses her, but mildly, of having called cm
Mosbie in her sleep ; the woman dissembles, and they part in peace. "We have then the
incident of the silver dice sent to the paramour by Adam of the Flower-de-luce. The chro-
nicler has represented Alice as the principal agent in procuring the murder of her hus-
band; and the dramatist has, it appears to us with considerable skill, shown the woman
from the first under the influence of a headlong passion, which cannot stop to conceal its
purposes, which has no doubts, no suspicions, no fears. The earnestness with which she
proceeds in her terrible design is thoroughly tragic ; and her ardour is strikingly con-
trasted with the more cautious guilt of her chief- accomplice. She avows her passion for
Mosbie to the landlord of the Flower-de-luce; she openly prompts Arden's own servant
Michael to murder his master, tempting him with a promise to promote his suit to
Mosbie's sister. The first scene between Mosbie and Alice is a striking one :
" Mosbie. Where is your husband ?
Alice. 'T is now high water, and he is at the quay.
Mosbie. There let him : henceforward, know me not.
Alice. Is this the end of all thy solemn oaths ?
Is this the fruit thy reconcilement buds ?
Have I for this given thee so many favours,
Incurr'd my husband's hate, and out, alas !
Made shipwreck of mine honour for thy sake ?
And dost thou say, henceforward know me not?
Remember when I lock'd thee in my closet,
What were thy words and mine ? Did we not botb
Decree to murder Arden in the night ?
The heavens can witness, and the world can tell,
Before I saw that falsehood look of thine,
'Fore I was tangled with thy 'ticing speech,
Arden to me was dearer than my soul,
And shall be still. Base peasant, get thee gone,
And boast not of thy conquest over me,
Gotten by witchcraft and mere sorcery.
For what hast thou to countenance my love,
Being descended of a noble house,
And match'd already with a gentleman,
Whose servant thou may'st be ? and so, farewell.
Mosbie. Ungentle and unkind Alice, now I see
That which I ever fear'd, and find too true :
A woman's love is as the lightning flame,
Which even in bursting forth consumes itself.
To try thy constancy have I been strange
Would I had never tried, but liv'd in hopes !
Alice. What needs thou try. me, whom thou never found false ?
Mosbie. Yet, pardon me, for love is jealous.
A lice. So lists the sailor to the mermaid's song ;
So looks the traveller to the basilisk.
I am content for to be reconcil'd,
And that I know will be mine overthrow.
Mosbie. Thine overthrow? First let the world dissolve.
Alice. Nay, Mosbie, let me still enjoy thy love,
And, happen what will, I am resolute."
262
ARDEN OF FEVERSHAM.
It is impossible to doubt, whoever was the writer of this play, that we have before ua
the work of a man of no ordinary power. The transitions of passion in this scene are
true to nature ; and, instead of the extravagant ravings of the writers of this early period
of our drama, the appropriateness of the language to the passion is most remarkable.
There is poetry too, in the ordinary sense of the word, but the situation is not encumbered
with the ornament. We would remark also, what is very striking throughout the play,
that the versification possesses that freedom which we find in no other writer of the time
but Shakspere. Ulrici holds a contrary opinion, but we cannot consent to surrender our
judgment to a foreign ear. There is too in this scene the condensation of Shakspere,
that wonderful quality by which he makes a single word convey a complex idea :
" Is this the fruit thy reconcilement buds f "
is an example of this quality. The whole scene is condensed. A writer of less genius,
whoever he was, would have made it thrice as long. The guilty pair being reconciled,
Mosbie says that he has found a painter who can so cunningly produce a picture that
the person looking on it shall die. Alice is for more direct measures for a poison to
be given in her- husband's food. Here again the ' Chronicle ' is followed :
" There was a painter dwelling in Feversham, who had skill of poisons, as was reported ; she therefore
demanded of him whether it were true that he had such skill in feat or not ? And he denied not but that
he had indeed. Yea, said she, but I would have such a one made as should have most vehement and speedy
operation to despatch the eater thereof. That can I do, quoth he; and forthwith made her such a one."
The painter enters, and his reward, it appears, is to be Susan Mosbie. The painter is a
dangerous and wicked person, but he speaks of his art and of its inspiration with a high
enthusiasm :
" For, as sharp-witted poets, whose sweet verse
Make heavenly gods break off their nectar-draughts,
And lay their ears down to the lowly earth,
Use humble promise to their sacred muse ;
So we, that are the poets' favourites,
Must have a love. Ay, love is the painter's muse,
That makes him frame a speaking countenance,
A weeping eye that witnesseth heart's grief."
The conference is interrupted by the entrance of Arden, of whom Mosbie readily asks
a question about the abbey-lands. The following scene ensues, and it is an example of
the judgment with which the dramatist has adopted the passage from the ' Chronicle,'
that Arden " both permitted and also invited Mosbie very often to lodge in his house,"
without at the same time compromising his own honour :
"Arden. Mosbie, that question we'll decide anon.
Alice, make ready my breakfast, I must hence. j_.xrti AIJCB.
As for the lands, Mosbie, they are mine
By letters-patent of his majesty.
But I must have a mandat for my wife ;
They say you seek to rob me of her love :
Villain, what mak'st thou in her company ?
She 's no companion for so base a groom.
Mosbie. Arden, I thought not on her, I came to thee ;
But rather than I '11 put up this wrong
Franklin. What will you do, sir ?
Mosbie. Revenge it on the proudest of you both,
Then ARPEN druwt forth MOSBIE'S fwora
Arden. So, eirrah, you may not wear a sword,
The statute made against artificers forbids it.
2G3
PLAYS ASCPJBED TO SHAKSPEHE.
I warrant that I do.* Now use your bodkin,
Your Spanish needle, and your pressing-iron ;
For this shall go with me : And mark my words,
You, goodman botcher, 't is to you I speak,
The next time that I take thee near my house,
Instead of legs, I'll make thee crawl on stumps.
Mosbie. Ah, master Arden, you have injur'd me,
I do appeal to God and to the world. J
Franklin. Why, canst thou deny thou wert a botcher once
Mosbie. Measure me what I am, not what I once was.
Arden. Why, what art thou now but a velvet drudge,
A cheating steward, and base-minded peasant ?
Mosbie. Arden, now hast thou belch'd and vomited
The rancorous venom of thy mis-sworn heart,
Hear me but speak : As I intend to live
With God, and his elected saints in heaven,
I never meant more to solicit her,
And that she knows ; and all the world shall see :
I lov'd her once, sweet Arden ; pardon me :
I could not choose ; her beauty fir'd my heart ;
But time hath quenched these once-raging coals ;
And, Arden, though I frequent thine house,
'T is for my sister's sake, her waiting-maid,
And not for hers. Mayst thou enjoy her long I
Hell fire and wrathful vengeance light on me
If I dishonour her, or injure thee !
Arden. With these thy protestations,
The deadly hatred of my heart 's appeas'd,
And thou and I '11 be friends if this prove true.
As for the base terms that I gave thee late,
Forget them, Mosbie ; I had cause to speak,
When all the knights and gentlemen of Kent
Make common table-talk of her and thee.
Mosbie. Who lives that is not touched with slanderous tongues ?
Franklin. Then, Mosbie, to eschew the speech of men,
Upon whose general bruit all honour hangs,
Forbear his house.
Arden. Forbear it ! nay, rather frequent it more :
The world shall see that I distrust her not.
To warn him on the sudden from my house
Were to confirm the rumour that is grown."
The first direct attempt of Alice upon her husband's life is thus told by the chroni-
cler :
" Now, Master Arden purposing that day to ride to Canterbury, his wife brought him his breakfast,
which was wont to be milk and butter. He, having received a spoonful or two of the milk, misliked the
taste and colour thereof, and said to his wife, Mistress Alice, what milk have you given me here ? Where-
withal she tilted it over with her hand, saying, I ween nothing can please you. Then he took horse and
rode towards Canterbury, and by the way fell into extreme sickness, and so escaped for that time."
In the tragedy the incident is exactly followed. Upon parting with her husband the dis-
sembling of Alice is heart-sickening, but the scene is still managed naturally and con-
sistently.
There is no division of this play into acts and scenes, but it is probable that the first
act ends with the departure of Arden for London. Another agent appears upon the
scene, whose motives and position are thus described in the 'Chronicle:'
* I justify that which I do.
264
ARDEN OF FEVERSHAM.
" After this hia wife fell in acquaintance with one Greene, of Feversham, servant to Sir Anthom
Ager, from which Greene Master Arden had wrested a piece of ground on the back side of the Abbey of
Feversham, and there had great blows and great threats passed betwixt them about that matter. There-
fore she, knowing that Greene hated her husband, began to practise with him how to make him away ;
and concluded that, if he could get any that would kill him, he should have ten pounds for a reward."
The manner in which the guilty wife practises with this revengeful man is skilfully wrought
out in the tragedy. She sympathises with his supposed wrongs, she tells a tale of her own
injuries, and then she proceeds to the open avowal of her purpose. Greene is to procure
agents to murder her husband, and his reward, besides money, is to be the restoration of
his lands. She communicates her proceedings to Mosbie, but he reproaches her for her
imprudence in tampering with so many agents.
The course of the ' Chronicle ' continues to be followed with much exactness. The
scene changes to the road for London, and the following description is then dramatized. It
is so curious a picture of manners, as indeed the whole narrative is, that we need scarcely
apologize for its length :
" This Greene, having doings for his master Sir Anthony Ager, had occasion to go up to London, where
his master then lay, and, having some charge up with him, desired one Bradshaw, a goldsmith of Fever-
sham, that was his neighbour, to accompany him to Gravesend, and he would content him for his pains.
This Bradshaw, being a very honest man, was content, and rode with him. And when they came to
Rainhamdown they chanced to see three or four servingmen that were coming from Leeds ; and therewith
Bradshaw espied, coming up the hill from Rochester, one Black Will, a terrible cruel ruffian, with a sword
and a buckler, and another with a great staff on his neck. Then said Bradshaw to Greene, We are happy
that there cometh some company from Leeds, for here cometh up against us as murdering a knave as
any is in England ; if it were not for them we might chance hardly escape without loss of our money and.
lives. Yea, thought Greene (as he after confessed), such a one is for my purpose ; and therefore asked,
Which is he ? Yonder is he, quoth Bradshaw, the same that hath the sword and buckler ; his name is
Black Will. How know you that ? said Greene. Bradshaw answered, I knew him at Boulogne, where we
both served ; he was a soldier, and I was Sir Richard Cavendish's man ; and there he committed many
robberies and heinous murders on such as travelled betwixt Boulogne and France. By this time the other
company of servingmen came to them, and they, going altogether, met with Black Will and his fellow.
The servingmen knew Black Will, and, saluting him, demanded of him whither he went? He answered, By
his blood (for his use was to swear almost at every word), I know not, nor care not; but set up my staff,
and even as it falleth I go. If thou, quoth they, will go back again to Gravesend, we will give thee thy
supper. By his blood, said he, I care not; I am content; have with you: and so he returned again with
them. Then Black Will took acquaintance of Bradshaw, saying, Fellow Bradshaw, how dost thou?
Bradshaw, unwilling to renew acquaintance, or to have aught to do with so shameless a ruffian, said,
Why, do ye know me ? Yea, that I do, quoth he ; did not we serve in Boulogne together ? But ye must
pardon me, quoth Bradshaw, for I have forgotten you. Then Greene talked with Black Will, and said,
When ye have supped, come to mine host's house at such a sign, and I will give you the sack and sugar.
By his blood, said he, I thank you ; I will come and take it, I warrant you. According to his promise
he came, and there they made good cheer. Then Black Will and Greene went and talked apart from
Bradshaw, and there concluded together, that if he would kill Master Arden he should have ten pounds
for his labour. Then he answered, By his wounds, that I will if I may know him. Marry, to-morrow
in Paul's I will show him thee, said Greene. Then they left their talk, and Greene bad him go home to
his host's house. Then Greene wrote a letter to Mistress Arden, and among other things put in these
words, We have got a man for our purpose ; we may thank my brother Bradshaw. Now Bradshaw, not
knowing anything of this, took the letter of him, and in the morning departed home again, and delivered
the letter to Mistress Arden, and Greene and Black Will went up to London at the tide."
The scene in the play seizes upon the principal points of this description, but the varia-
tions are those of a master. Bradshaw, it seems, is a goldsmith, and he is involved in a
charge of buying some stolen plate. He thus describes the man who sold it him, and we
can scarcely avoid thinking that here is the same power, though in an inferior degree, which
produced the description of the apothecary in Romeo and Juliet :
265
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
" Will. What manner of man was he ?
Brad. A lean-faced writhen knave,
Hawk-nos'd and very hollow-eyed ;
With mighty furrows in stormy brows ;
Long hair down to his shoulders curl'd ;
His chin was bare, but on his upper lip
A- mutchado, which he wound about his ear.
Will. What apparel had he ?
Brad. A watchet satin doublet all to-torn,
The inner side did bear the greater show :
A pair of threadbare velvet hose seam-rent ;
A worsted stocking rent above the shoe ;
A livery cloak, but all the lace was off;
'Twas bad, but yet it serv'd to hide the plate."
One of the sources of the enchaining interest of this drama is to be found in the repeated
escapes of Arden from the machinations of his enemies. We have seen the poison fail, and
now the ruffian, whom no ordinary circumstances deterred from the commission of his
purpose, is to be defeated by an unforeseen casualty. The 'Chronicle' says,
" At the time appointed Greene showed Black Will Master Ar Jen walking in Paul's. Then said Black
Will, What is he that goeth after him ? Marry, said Greene, one of hia men. By his blood, said Black
Will, I will kill them both. Nay, said Greene, do not so, for he is of counsel with us in this matter.
By his blood, said he, I care not for that ; I will kill them both. Nay, said Greene, in any wise do not
so. Then Black Will thought to have killed Master Arden in Paul's churchyard, but there were so many
gentlemen that accompanied him to dinner, that he missed of his purpose."
The dramatist presents the scene much more strikingly to the senses, in a manner which
tells us something of the inconveniences of old London. The ruffians are standing before
a shop ; an apprentice enters saying
" 'T is very late, I were best shut up my stall, for here will be old * filching when the press cornea
forth of Paul's."
The stage-direction which follows is : " Then lets he down his window, and it breaks
Black Will's head." The accident disturbs the immediate purpose of the ruffians. The
character of Black Will is drawn with great force, but there is probably something of a
youthful judgment in making the murderer speak in high poetry :
" I tell thee, Greene, the forlorn traveller,
Whose lips are glued with summer-scorching heat,
Ne'er long'd so much to see a running brook
As I to finish Arden's tragedy."
The other ruffian is Shakebag, and in the same way he speaks in the language which a
youthful poet scarcely knows how to avoid summoning from the depths of his own imagi-
nation :
" I cannot paint my valour out with words :
But give me place and opportunity,
Such mercy as the starven lioness,
When she is dry suck'd of her eager young,
Shows to the prey that next encounters her,
On Arden so much pity would I take."
The propriety of putting poetical images in the mouths of the iow agents of crime cannot
exactly be judged by looking at such passages apart from that by which they are sur
* Old excessive.
266
ARDEN OF FEVERSHAM.
rounded. There is no comedy in ' Ardeu of Feversham.' The character and events
are lifted out of ordinary life of purpose by the poet. The ambition of a young writer
may have carried this too far, but the principle upon which he worked was a right one.
He aimed to produce something higher than a literal copy of everyday life, and this con-
stitutes the essential distinction between ' Arden of Feversham,' and the ' Yorkshire
Tragedy,' as between Shakspere and Heywood, and Shakspere and Lillo. In the maturity
of his genius Shakspere did not vulgarize even his murderers. At the instant before the
.issault upon Bauquo, one of the guilty instruments of Macbeth says, in the very spirit of
poetry,
" The west yet glimmers with some streaks of day :
Now spurs the lated traveller apace,
To gain the timely inn."
Early in the drama, as we have seen, Alice proposes to her husband's servant to make
away with his master. The circumstance has come to the knowledge of Greene, who,
after the defeat of the plan through the apprentice's shutter, has to devise with his ruffians
another mode of accomplishing Arden's death. The 'Chronicle' thus tells the story
" Greene showed all this talk to Master Arden's man, whose name was Michael, which ever after stood
ia doubt of Black Will, lest he should kill him. The cause that this Michael conspired with the rest
against his master was, for that it was determined that he should marry a kinswoman of Mosbie's.
After this, Master Arden lay at a certain parsonage which he held in London, and therefore his man
Michael and Greene agreed that Black Will should come in the night to the parsonage, where he should
find the doors left open that he might come in and murder Master Arden."
The scene in which Michael consents to this proposal, with great reluctance, is founded
upon the above text. We have a scene of Arden and Franklin, before they go to bed, in
which Arden is torn with apprehension of the dishonour of his wife. There is great
power here ; but there is something of a higher order in the conflicting terrors of Michael
when he is left alone, expecting the arrival of the pitiless murderer :
" Conflicting thoughts, encamped in my breast,
Awake me with the echo of their strokes ;
And I, a judge to censure either side,
Can give to neither wished victory.
My master's kindness pleads to me for life,
With just demand, and I must grant it him
My mistress she hath forc'd me with an oata,
For Susan's sake, the which I may not break,
For that is nearer than a master's love :
That grim-fac'd fellow, pitiless Black Will,
And Shakebag stern, in bloody stratagem
(Two rougher ruffians never liv'd in Kent)
Have sworn my death if I infringe my vow
A dreadful thing to be consider'd of.
Methinks I see them with their bolster'd hair,
Staring and grinning in thy gentle face,
And, in their ruthless hands their daggers drawn
Insulting o'er thee with a peck of oaths,
Whilst thou, submissive, pleading for relief
Art mangled by their ireful instruments !
Methinks I hear them ask where Michael is,
And pitiless Black Will cries, ' Stab the slave ,
The peasant will detect the tragedy.'
The wrinkles of his foul death-threatening face
Gape open wide like graves to swallow men :
My death to him is but a merriment ;
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERK
And he will murder me to make him sport.
lie comes ! he comes ! Master Franklin, help ;
Call up the neighbours, or we are but dead."
This in a young poet would not only be promise of future greatness, but it would be the
greatness itself. The conception of this scene is wholly original. The guilty coward,
driven by the force of his imagination into an agony of terror so as to call for help, and thus
defeat the plot in which he had been an accomplice, is a creation of real genius. The
transition of his fears, from the picture of the murder of his master to that of himself, has a
profundity in it which we seldom find except in the conceptions of one dramatist. The
narrative upon which the scene is founded offers us a mere glimpse of this most effective
portion of the story :
" This Michael, having his master to bed, left open the doors according to the appointment. His
master, then being in bed, asked him if he had shut fast the doors, and he said Yea ; but yet afterwards,
fearing lest Black Will would kill him as well aa his master, after he was in bed himself he rose again,
and shut the doors, bolting them fast."
In the drama the ruffians arrive, and are of course disappointed of their purpose by the
closing of tht, doors. They swear revenge against Michael, but he subsequently makes
his peace by informing them that his master is departing from London, and that their
purpose may be accomplished on Raiuhamdown.
The scene now changes, with a skilful dramatic management, to exhibit to us the guilty
pair at Feversham. Mosbie is alone, and he shows us the depth of his depravity in the
fallowing soliloquy :
" Mosbie. Disturbed thoughts drive me from company,
And dry my marrow with their watchfulness :
Continual trouble of my moody brain
Peebles my body by excess of drink,
And nips me as the bitter north-east wind
Doth check the tender blossoms in the spring.
Well fares the man, howe'er his catea do taste,
That tables not with foul suspicion ;
And he but pines among his delicates
Whose troubled mind is stuff' d with discontent.
My golden time was when I had no gold ;
Though then I wanted, yet I slept secure ;
My daily toil begat me night's repose,
My night's repose made daylight fresh to me :
But since I climb'd the top-bough of the tree,
And sought to build my nest among the clouds,
Each gentle stary * gale doth shake my bed,
And makes me dread my downfall to the earth.
But whither doth contemplation carry me ?
The way I seek to find where pleasure dwells
Is hedg'd behind me, that I cannot back,
But needs must on, although to danger's gate.
Then, Arden, perish thou by that decree ;
For Greene doth heir the land, and weed thee up
To make my harvest nothing but pure corn ;
And for his pains I'll heave him up a while,
And after smother him to have his wax ;
Such bees as Greene must never live to sting.
Then is there Michael, and the painter too,
Chief actors to Arden's overthrow,
Star// stirring. Our word star is supposed to b3 derived from the &nglo-buxcr., ttir-an, to move.
268
ARDEN OF FEVERSHAM.
Who, when they see rne sit in Arden's seat,
They will insult upon me for my meed,
Or fright me by detecting of his end :
I '11 none of that, for I can cast a bone
To make these curs pluck out each other's throat,
And then am I sole ruler of mine own :
Yet mistress Arden lives, but she 'a myself,
And holy church-rites make us two but one.
But what for that ? I may not trust you, Alice !
You have supplanted Arden for my sake,
And will extirpen me to plant another :
'T is fearful sleeping in a serpent's bed ;
And I will cleanly rid my hands of her.
But here she comes ; and I must natter her.
[Here enters ALICE.'
The unhappy woman has already begun to pay the penalty of her sin ; she has momenta
of agonizing remorse, not enduring, however, but to be swept away again by that tempest
of passion which first hurried her into guilt. The following scene is, we think, unmatched
by any other writer than Shakspere in a play published as early as 1592, perhaps written
several years earlier. It might have been written by Webster or Ford, but they belong
to a considerably later period. It possesses in a most remarkable degree that quiet
strength which is the best evidence of real power. Except in Shakspere, it is a strength
for which we shall vainly seek in the accredited writings of any dramatic poet who, as far
as we know, had written for the stage some ten years before the close of the sixteenth
century :
" Mosbie. Ungentle Alice, thy sorrow is my sore ;
Thou know'st it well, and 't is thy policy
To forge distressful looks to wound a breast
Where lies a heart that dies when thou art sad ;
It is not love that loves to anger love.
Alice. It is not love that loves to murder love.
Mosbie. How mean you that ?
Alice. Thou know'st how dearly Arden loved me.
Mosbie. And then
Alice. And then conceal the rest, for 'tis too bad,
Lest that my words be carried with the wind,
And publish'd in the world to both our shames !
I pray thee, Mosbie, let our spring-time wither ;
Our harvest else will yield but loathsome weeds :
Forget, I pray thee, what has pass'd betwixt us,
For now I blush and tremble at the thoughts.
Mosbie. What, are you chang'd ?
Alice. Ay ! to my former happy life again ;
From title of an odious strumpet's name,
To honest Arden's wife, not Arden's honest wife.
Ah, Mosbie ! 'tis thou hast rifled me of that,
And made me slanderous to all my kin :
Even in my forehead is thy name engraven
A mean artificer ; that low-born name !
I was bewitch' d wo- worth the hapless hour
And all the causes that enchanted me !
Mosbie. Nay, 'f thou ban, let me breathe curses forth :
And if you stand so nicely at your fame,
Let me repent the credit I have lost.
I have neglected matters of import
That would have stated me above thy state ;
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
Forslow'd advantages, anc" spurn'd at time ;
Ay, Fortune's right hand Mosbie hath forsook,
To take a wanton giglot by the left.
I left the marriage of an honest maid,
Whose dowry would have weigh'd down all thy wealth,
Whose beauty and demeanour far exceeded thee :
This certain good I lost for changing bad,
And wrapp'd my credit in thy company.
I waa bewitch'd that is no theme of thine,
And thou, unhallow'd, hast enchanted me.
But I will break thy spells and exorcisms.
And put another sight upon these eyes,
That show'd my heart a raven for a dove.
Thou art not fair ; I view'd thee not till now :
Thou art not kind ; till now I knew thee not :
And now the rain hath beaten off thy gilt,
Thy worthless copper shows thee counterfeit.
It grieves me not to see how foul thou art,
But mads me that ever I thought thee fair.
So, get thee gone, a copesmate for thy hinds ;
I am too good to be thy favourite.
Alice. Ay, now I see, and too soon find it true,
Which often hath been told me by my friends,
That Mosbie loves me not but for my wealth,
Which, too incredulous, I ne'er believ'd.
Nay, hear me speak, Mosbie, a word or two :
I '11 bite my tongue if it speak bitterly.
Look on me, Mosbie, or else I'll kill myself ;
Nothing shall hide me from thy stormy look.
If thou cry war, there is no peace for me,
I will do penance for offending thee,
And burn this prayer-book, where I here use
The holy word that hath converted me.
See, Mosbie, I will tear away the leaves,
And all the leaves, and in this golden cover
Shall thy sweet phrases and thy letters dwell,
And thereon will I chiefly meditate,
And hold no other sect but such devotion.
Wilt thou not look ? Is all thy love o'erwhelm'd ?
Wilt thou not hear ? What malice stops thine ears ?
Why speak' st thou not? What silence ties thy tongnf t
Thou hast been sighted as the eagle is,
And heard as quickly as the fearful hare,
And spoke as smoothly as an orator,
When I have bid thee hear, or see, or speak.
And art thou sensible in none of these ?
Weigh all my good turns with this little fault,
And I deserve not Mosbie's muddy looks ;
A fence of trouble is not thicken'd still ;
Be clear again ; I '11 no more trouble thee.
Mosbie. fie, no ; I am a base artificer ;
My wings are feather*d for a lowly flight :
Mosbie, fie ! no, not for a thousand pound
Make love to you why 't is unpardonable
We beggars must not breathe where gentles are !
Alice. Sweet Mosbie is as gentle as a king,
And I too blind to judge him otherwise :
Flowers sometimes spring in fallow lands,
Weeds in gardens ; roses grow on thorns ;
270
ARDEN OF FEVERSHAM.
So, whatsoe'er my Mosbie's father was,
Himself is valued gentle by his worth.
Mosbie. Ah ! how you women can insinuate
And clear a trespass with your sweetest tongue !
I will forget this quarrel, gentle Alice,
Provided I '11 be tempted so no more."
The man who wrote that scene was no ordinary judge of the waywardness and wicked-
ness of the human heart. It would be difficult to say that Shakspere at any time could
have more naturally painted the fearful contest of a lingering virtue with an overwhelming
passion.
We have seen the conspiracy to murder Arden on Rainhamdowu. The devoted
man again escapes by accident, aud the ' Chronicle ' thus briefly records the circum-
stance :
" When Master Arden came to Rochester, his man, still fearing that Black Will would kill him with
his mastei', pricked his horse of purpose and made him to halt, to the end he might protract the time and
tarry behind. His master asked him why his horse halted. He said, I know not. Well, quoth his master,
when ye come at the smith here before (between Rochester and the hill-foot over against Chatham) re-
jiove his shoe, and search him, and then come after me. So Master Arden rode on; and ere he came at
she place where Black Will lay in wait for him, there overtook him divers gentlemen of his acquaintance,
who kept him company ; so that Black Will missed here also of his purpose."
The dramatist shows us Greene and the two ruffians waiting for their prey, and the
excuse of Michael to desert his master. Arden and Franklin are now upon the stage ; and
the dialogue which passes between them is a very remarkable example of the dramatic
skill with which the principal characters are made to sustain an indifferent conversation,
but which is still in harmony vrith the tone of thought that pervades the whole drama.
Arden is unhappy in his domestic circumstances, and he eagerly listens to the tale of
another's unhappiness. The perfect ease with which this conversation is managed
appears to us a singular excellence, when we regard the early date of this tragedy :
" Frank. Do you remember where my tale did cease ?
Arden. Ay, where the gentleman did check his wife.
Frank. She being reprehended for the fact,
Witness produc'd that took her with the deed,
Her glove brought in which there she left behind,
And many other assured arguments,
Her husband ask'd her whether it were not so.
Arden. Her answer then ? I wonder how she look'd,
Having forsworn it with such vehement oaths,
And at the instance so approv'd upon her.
Frank. First did she cast her eyes down to the earth,
Watching the drops that fell amain from thence ;
Then softly draws she forth her handkercher,
And modestly she wipes her tear stain'd face ;
Then hemm'd she out, to clear her voice should Beam.
And with a majesty address'd herself
To encounter all their accusations :
Pardon me, master Arden, I can no more ;
This fighting at my heart makes short my wind.
Arden. Come, we are almost now at Rainhamdown :
Your pretty tale beguiles the weary way ;
I would you were in case to tell it out."
This "fighting at the heart," of which Franklin complains, is an augury of ill.
Black Will and Shakebag are lurking around them ; but the " divers gentlemen " of
271
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
Arden's acquaintance arrive. Lord Cheinie and his men interrupt the murderers'
purpose. Arden and his friend agree to dine with the nobleman the next day. They
reach Feversham in safety. The occurrences of the next day are thus told in the
' Chronicle : '
"After that Master Arden was come home, he sent (as he usually did) his man to Sheppy, to Sir Thomas
Cheinie's, then lord warden of the Cinque Ports, about certain business, and at his coming away he had a
letter delivered, sent by Sir Thomas Cheinie to his master. When he came home, his mistress took the
letter and kept it, willing her man to tell his master that he had a letter delivered him by Sir Thomas
Cheinie, and that he had lost it ; adding that he thought it best that his master should go the next morning
to Sir Thomas, because he knew not the matter : he said he would, and therefore he willed his man to be
stirring betimes. In this mean while, Black Will, and one George Shakebag, his companion, were kept
in a storehouse of Sir Anthony Ager's, at Preston, by Greene's appointment ; and thither came Mistress
Arden to see him, bringing and sending him meat and drink many times. He, therefore, lurking there,
and watching some opportunity for his purpose, was willed in any wise to be up early in the morning, to
ae in wait for Master Arden in a certain broom-close betwixt Feversham and the ferry (which close he
must needs pass), there to do his feat Now Black Will stirred in the morning betimes, but missed
the way, and tarried in a wrong place.
"Master Arden and his man coming on their way early in the morning towards Shornelan, where Sir
Thomas Cheinie lay, as they were almost come to the broom-close, his man, always fearing that Black Will
would kill him with his master, feigned that he had lost his purse. Why, said his master, thou foolish
knave, couldst thou not look to thy purse but lose it ? What was in it ? Three pounds, said he. Why, then,
go thy ways back again, like a knave (said his master), and seek it, for being so early as it is there is no man
stirring, and therefore thou mayst be sure to find it; and then come and overtake me at the ferry. But
nevertheless, by reason that Black Will lost his way, Master Arden escaped yet once again. At that time
Black Will yet thought he should have been sure to have met him homewards ; but whether that some
of the lord warden's men accompanied him back to Feversham, or that being in doubt, for that it was late,
to go through the broom-close, and therefore took another way, Black Will was disappointed then also."
The incident of the visit to Lord Cheinie is, as we have seen, differently managed by the
dramatist. The escape of Ardeu on this occasion is very ingeniously contrived. A
sudden mist renders it impossible for the ruffians to find their way. Black Will thus
describes his misadventure :
" Mosbie. Black Will and Shakebag, what make you here ?
What ! is the deed done ? is Arden dead ?
Will. What could a blinded man perform in arms f
Saw you not how till now the sky was dark,
That neither horse nor man could be discern'd ?
Yet did we hear their horses as they pass'd."
As Arden and Franklin return they are intercepted by Read, a sailor, who accuses
Ardeu of a gross injustice, in depriving him of a piece of land. This incident is founded
upon a statement of the chronicler, in accordance with the superstition of the times,
that where the murdered body of Arden was first laid the grass did not grow for two
years, and that of this very field he nad wrongfully possessed himself :
"Many strangers came in that mean time, beside the townsmen, to see the print of his body there on the
ground in that field ; which field he had, as some have reported, most cruelly taken from a woman that had
been a widow to one Cooke, and after married to one Richard Read, a mariner, to the great hindrance of
her and her husband, the said Read; for they had long enjoyed it by a lease, which they had of it for many
years, not then expired ; nevertheless he got it from them. For the which the said Read's wife not only
exclaimed against him in shedding many a salt tear, but also cursed him most bitterly even to his face,
wishing many a vengeance to light upon him, and that all the world might wonder on him."
There is surely great power in the following passage ; and the denunciation of the sailor
comes with a terrible solemnity after the ' manifold escapes to which we have been
witness :
272
ARDEN OF FEVERSHAM.
"Read. What ! wilt thou do me wrong and threaten me too ?
Nay, then, I'll tempt thee, Ardeu ; do thy worst.
God 1 I beseech thee show some miracle
On thee or thine, in plaguing thee for this :
Tl'at plot of ground which thou detainest from me,
I speak it in an agony of spirit,
Be ruinous and fatal unto thee !
Either there be butcher'd by thy dearest friends,
Or else be brought for men to wonder at,
Or thou or thine miscarry in that place,
Or there run mad and end thy cursed days.
Frank. Fie, bitter knave ! bridle thine envious tongue ;
For curses are like arrows shot upright,
Which falling down light on the shooter's head.
Read. Light where they will, were I upon the sea,
As oft I have in many a bitter storm,
And saw a dreadful southern flaw at hand)
The pilot quaking at the doubtful storm,
And all the sailors praying on their knees,
Even in that fearful time would I fall down,
And ask of God, whate'er betide of me,
Vengeance on Arden, or some misevent,
To show the world what wrong the carle hath done.
This charge I'll leave with my distressful wife ;
My children shall be taught such prayers as these j
And thus I go, but leave my curse with thee."
We have next a scene in which, by the device of Alice, Mosbie and Black Will fasten
a pretended quarrel upon Arden and his friend; but Mosbie is wounded, and Black
Will runs away. A reconcilement takes place through the subtilty of the wife. Arden
invites Mosbie with other friends to supper, and the conspirators agree that their deed
of wickedness shall be done that night. The Chronicler briefly tells the story:
" They conveyed Black Will into Master Arden's house, putting him into a closet at the end of his par-
lour. Before this they had sent out of the house all the servants, those excepted which were privy to
the devised murder. Then went Mosbie to the door, and there stood in a nightgown of silk girded
about him, and this was betwixt six and seven of the clock at night. Master Arden, having been at e
neighbour's house of his, named Dumpkin, and having cleared certain reckonings betwixt them, came
home, and, finding Mosbie standing at the door, asked him if it were supper-time ? I think not (quoth
Mosbie), it is not yet ready. Then let us go and play a game at the tables in the mean season, said
Master Arden. And so they went straight into the parlour : and as they came by through the hall, his
wife was walking there, and Master Arden said, How now, Mistress Alice ? But she made small answer
to him. In the mean time one chained the wicket-door of the entry. When they came into the parlour,
Mosbie sat down on the bench, having his face toward the place where Black Will stood. Then Michael,
Master Arden's man, stood at hia master's back, holding a candle in hia hand, to shadow Black Will,
that Arden might by no means perceive him coming forth. In their play, Mosbie said thus (which
Beemed to be the watchword for Black Will's coming forth), Now may I take you, sir, if I will. Take
me ? quoth Master Arden ; which way ? With that Black Will stepped forth, and cast a towel about
his neck, so to stop his breath and strangle him. Then Mosbie, having at his girdle a pressing iron of
fourteen pounds weight, struck him on the head with the same, so that he fell down, and gave a great
groan, insomuch that they thought he had been killed."
The tragedy follows, with very slight variation, the circumstances here detailed. The
guests arrive; but Alice betrays the greatest inquietude: she gets rid of them one by
one, imploring them to seek her husband, and in the mean while the body is removed.
The dramatist appears" here to have depended upon the terrible interest of the circum-
stances more than upon any force of expression in the characters. The discovery of the
murder follows pretty closely the narrative of the Chronicler :
SOP. VOL. T ' 278
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
" Here enter the Mayor and the Watch.
Alice. How now, master Mayor ? have you brought my
husband home ?
Mayor. I saw him come into your house an hour ago.
Alice. You are deceiv'd ; it was a Londoner.
Mayor. Mistress Arden, know you not one that is call'd
Black Will ?
Alice. I know none such ; what mean these questions ?
Mayor. I have the council's warrant to apprehend him.
Alice. I am glad it is no worse. {Aside.
Why, master Mayor, think you I harbour any such ?
Mayor. We are informed that here he is ;
And therefore pardon us, for we must search.
Alice. Ay, search and spare you not, through every room
Were my husband at home you would not offer this.
Here enter FRANKLIN.
Master Franklin, what mean you come so sad ?
Frank. Arden, thy husband, and my friend, is slain.
Alice. Ah ! by whom ? master Franklin, can you tell!
Frank. I know not, but behind the abbey
There he lies murder'd, in most piteous case.
Mayor. But, master Franklin, are you sure 't is he ?
Frank. I am too sure; would God I were deceiv'd 1
Alice. Find out the murderers ; let them be known.
Frank. Ay, so they shall ; come you along with us.
Alice. Wherefore]
Frank. Know you this hand-towel and this knife ?
Susan. Ah, Michael ! through this thy negligence,
Thou hast betrayed and undone us all. [Aside.
Mich. I was so afraid, I knew not what I did ;
I thought I had thrown them both into the well. [Aside.
Alice. It is the pig's blood we had to supper.
But wherefore stay you ? find out the murderers.
Mayor. I fear me you'll prove one of them yourself.
Alice. I one of them ? what mean such questions ?
Frank. I fear me he was murder'd in this house,
And carried to the fields ; for from that place,
Backwards and forwards, may you see
The print of many feet within the snow ;
And look about this chamber where we are,
And you shall find part of his guiltless blood,
For in his slip-shoe did I find some rushes,
Which argue he was murder'd in this room.
Mayor. Look in the place where he was wont to sit :
See, see his blood ; it is too manifest.
Alice. It is a cup of wine that Michael shed.
Mich. Ay, truly.
Frank. It is his blood which, strumpet, thou hast shed ;
But, if I live, thou and thy complices,
Which have conspired and wrought his death,
Shall rue it."
f n a subsequent scene the unhappy woman makes confession :
" Mayor. See, Mistress Arden, where your husband lies.
Confess this foul fault, and be penitent.
Alice. Arden, sweet husband, what shall I say ?
The more I sound his name the more he bleeds,
Thifi blood condemns me, and in gushing forth
874
ARDEN OF FEVERSHAM.
Speaka as it falls, and asks me why I did it.
Forgive me, Arden ! I repent me now ;
And would my death save thine thou shouldst not die.
Rise up, sweet Arden, and enjoy thy love,
And frown not on me when we meet in heaven :
In heaven I love thee, though on earth I did not."
The concluding scene shows us the principal culprits condemned to die :
" Mayor, Leave to accuse each other now,
And listen to the sentence I shall give :
Bear Mosbie and his sister to London straight,
Where they in Smithfield must be executed :
Bear Mistress Arden unto Canterbury,
Where her sentence is she must be burnt :
Michael and Bradshaw in Feversham
Must suffer death.
Alice. Let my death make amends for all my sin.
Mosbie. Fie upon women, this shall be my song."
After the play Franklin, in a sort of epilogue, somewhat inartificially tells us that Shake-
bag was murdered in South wark, and Black Will burnt at Flushing ; that Greene was
hanged at Osbridge, and the painter fled. Bradshaw, according to the ' Chronicle * and
the dramatic representation, was an innocent person. The drama concludes with the
following apologetical lines :
" Gentlemen, we hope you '11 pardon this naked tragedy,
Wherein no filed points are foisted in
To make it gracious to the ear or eye ;
For simple truth is gracious enough,
And needs no other points of glozing stuff."
These lines appear to us as an indication that the author of ' Arden of Feversham,' who-
ever he might be, was aware that such a story did not call for the highest efforts of
dramatic art. It was a " naked tragedy," " simple truth," requiring " no filed
points " or " glozing stuff." It appears to us, however, to stand upon very different
grounds from the ' Yorkshire Tragedy.' It is a higher attempt in art than that little
play. It involves more conflicting passion. It is not such a mere endeavour to present
a series of exciting facts to the senses of an audience. It was in all probability written
twenty years before the ' Yorkshire Tragedy;' and this is a most important circumstance
in considering whether Shakspere was at all concerned in it. To a very young man,
whose principles of art were not formed, and who had scarcely any models before him,
this tragic story might have appeared not only easy to be dramatized, but a worthy sub-
ject for his first efforts. We have to consider, too, how familiar the fearful narrative
must have been to the young Shakspere. The name of his own mother was Arden;
perhaps the Kentish Arden had some slight relationship with her family; but it is evi-
dent that the play originally bore the name of Arden of Feversham, as if it were to
mark the distinction between that family and the Ardens of Wilmecote. The tale, too,
was narrated at uncommon length in the ' Chronicle ' with which Shakspere was very
early familiar. There is considerable inequality in the style of this play, but that
inequality is not sufficient to lead us to believe that more than one hand was engaged in
it. The dramatic management is always skilful; the interest never flags; the action
steadily goes forward ; there are no secondary plots ; and the little comedy that we find
is not thrust in to produce a laugh from a few barren spectators. The writer, we think,
was familiar with London, which is not at all inconsistent with the belief that it belongs
2T5
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
the youth of Shakspere. Still, the utter absence of external evidence must have left
the matter exceedingly doubtful even if the tragedy had possessed higher excellences
than belong to it. It was never attributed to Shakspere by any of his contemporaries ;
and yet it must have been a popular play, for it was reprinted forty years after its
publication. Without doubt there may have been some writer, of whose name and
works we know nothing, to whom this play may have been assigned; but if it be
improbable that Shakspere had written it, it is equally improbable that any of the
known dramatists who had attained a celebrity in 1592 should have written it. It has
none of the characteristics of any one of them their extravagance of language; their
forced passion; their overloading of classical allusions; their monotonous versification.
Its power mainly lies in its simplicity. The unhappy woman is the chief character in
the drama ; and it appears to us that the author especially exhibits in " Mistress Arden "
that knowledge of the hidden springs of human guilt and weakness which is not to be
found in the generalities of any of the early contemporaries of Shakspere. Still we
must be understood as not attempting to pronounce any decided opinion upon the
question of authorship. We neither hold with the German critics, whose belier
approaches to credulity in this and other cases, nor with the English, who appear to
consider, in most things, that scepticism and sound judgment are identical.
THE REIGN
KING EDWARD III,
KING EDWARD III.
' THE Raigne of King Edward the third : As it hath bin sundrie times plaied about the
Citie of London/ was first published in 1596. It was entered on the registers of the
Stationers' Company, December 1, 1595. The play was reprinted iu 1599, and, judging
from other entries iu the Stationers' registers, also in 1609, 1617, and 1625. From
that time the work was known only to the collectors of single plays, till, in 1760, Capell
reprinted ijt in a volume entitled ' Prolusions, or Select Pieces of Ancient Poetry,' as
" A play thought to be writ by Shakespeare." The editor of that volume thus speaks of
the play, in his preface : " But what shall be said of the poem that constitutes the
second part ? or how shall the curiosity be satisfied which it is probable may have been
raised by the great name inserted in the title-page? That it was indeed written by
Shakespeare, it cannot be said with candour that there is any external evidence at all :
something of proof arises from resemblance between the style of his earlier perform-
ances and the work in question ; and a more conclusive one yet from consideration
of the time it appeared in, in which there was no known writer equal to such a play :
the fable of it too is taken from the same books which that author is known to have
279
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
followed in some other plays, to wit, Holinshed's ' Chronicle,' and a book of novels called
' The Palace of Pleasure.' But, after all, it must be confessed that its being his work
is conjecture only, and matter of opinion ; and the reader must form one of his own,
guided by what is now before him, and by what he shall meet with in perusal of tha
piece itself." Capell was not a person to offer any critical reasons for his own belief ;
but the opinions of several able critics in our own time would show that he was not to
be laughed at, as Steevens was inclined to laugh at him, for rescuing this play from the
hands of the mere antiquarians.* The anonymous critic whom we have often quoted
says, " Capell was the first who directed attention to this play, as perhaps Shakspeare's ;
and it is in every respect one of the best dramas of its time. It is very unequal, and its
plot is unskilfully divided into two parts ; but through most scenes there reign a pointed
strength of thought and expression, a clear richness of imagery, and an apt though
rough delineation of character, which entitle it to rank higher than any historical play of
the sixteenth century, excepting Shakspeare's admitted works of this class, and Marlowe's
'Edward II.' "t The opinion of Ulrici is very full and decided upon the author-
ship of ' Edward III.,' and we may as well present it at once to the reader in its general
bearings.
" The play of ' Edward III. and the Black Prince,' <fcc., is entered not less than four
times in the register of the Stationers' Company ; first, on Dec. 1, 1595 ; and lastly, on
Feb. 23, 1625. It was first printed in 1596, and reprinted in 1599, both editions being
without the name of the author. Of any later edition I have no knowledge. Both
these early editions, being anonymous, can, however, prove nothing. But even if the
later editions were equally without the announcement of the author, this certainly rather
striking fact may be satisfactorily explained by the nature of the piece itself. In the
first two acts we find many bitter attacks upon the Scots, inspired by English patriotism :
these were thoroughly in place during Elizabeth's lifetime, who, it is well known, loved
her successor not much better than she did his mother, and ever stood in a guarded atti-
tude against Scotland. To James I., on the contrary, these passages must have given
offence. But Shakspere was indebted to James for many kindnesses ; and he has praised
and celebrated him in several of his plays. Thus, in order to avoid wounding his sense
of gratitude, he may either have expressly denied the paternity of Edward III., or have
refused to recognise it, and abandoned to its fate a piece that perhaps did not satisfy him
upon other grounds. And in this way it may be also explained how a poem, which bears
Shakspere 's stamp so evidently, should have been overlooked or intentionally omitted by
his friends Heminge and Condell, the editors of the first folio. That the piece probably
belongs to Shakspere's earlier labours (without doubt two years at least before the
date of its first being printed), is evident from the language and versification, from the
many rhymed passages, but more particularly from the composition, which, if we consider
the piece as one whole, is incoutestably faulty. For the first two acts clearly stand alone
much too independently ; internally only partially united, and not at all externally, with
the following three acts. In the first part the point of the action turns upon the love of
the king for the beautiful Countess of Salisbury, whom he has released from the besieging
Scottish army. The whole of this connection is no farther mentioned in the following
part ; it comes to a total conclusion at the end of the second act where the king, con-
quered, and at the same time strengthened, by the virtuous greatness of the countess,
* Steevens, in a note upon the entry in the Stationers' register, says " This is ascribed to Shak-
syeare by the compilers of ancient catalogues." This was one of the modes in which Steevens thought
it clever to insult Capell by a contemptuous neglect.
t Edinburgh Review, vol. Ixxi., p. 471.
280
EDWARD III.
renounces his passion, and becomes again the master of himself. The countess then
disappears wholly from the scene, which is changed to the victorious campaign of
Edward III. and his heroic son the Black Prince. The play thus falls into two different
Parts. But the fault which this involves wholly vanishes immediately that we take the
two halves for two different pieces, united into a whole, in the same manner as the two
Parts of Henry IV. Everything then rounds itself into a complete and beautiful
historical composition, which is throughout worthy of the great poet."
Of the value of this opinion of the very able German critic before us we shall endea-
vour to lead our readers to form their own judgment. If they come to the conclusion
that the play is not Shakspere's, they will at least acquire a familiarity with some
striking scenes and passages which are little known to English readers. The early
editions are very rare ; and Capell's volume is by no means a common book.
The view which Ulrici has taken that ' The Reign of Edward III.' must be considered
as a play in two parts is perfectly just. But it must also be borne in mind that Shak-
spere has himself furnished us no example of such a complete division of the action in
any one historical play which he has left us. The two Parts of Henry IV. comprised
two distinct plays, each complete in itself, each performed on a separate day, but eacn
connected with the other by a chorus which fills up the gap of time. So the three Parts
of Henry VI. and Richard III. are perfectly separate, although essentially connected.
The plan pursued in the ' Edward III.' is, to say the least, exceedingly inartificial. If the
writer of this play had possessed more dramatic skill, he might have made the severance
of the action less abrupt. As it is, the link is snapped short. In the first two acts we
have the Edward of romance, a puling lover, a heartless seducer, a despot, and then
a penitent. In the three last acts we have the Edward of history, the ambitious hero,
the stern conqueror, the affectionate husband, the confiding father. The one portion of
the drama pretty closely follows the apocryphal and inconsistent story in ' The Palace
of Pleasure,' how " A King of England loved a daughter of one of his noblemen, which
was Countess of Salisbury." And here the author has certainly produced some powerful
scenes, and considerably improved upon the fable which he in great part followed. In the
latter portion of the play he has Froissart before him ; and, dealing with those incidents
which were calculated to call forth the highest poetical efforts, such as the battle of
Poitiers and the siege of Calais, the dramatist is strikingly inferior to the fine old
chronicler. When Shakspere dealt with heroic subjects, as in his Henry V., he kept
pretty closely to the original narratives; but he breathed a life into the commonest
occurrences, which leaves us to wonder how the exact could be so intimately blended with
the poetical, and how that which is the most natural should, through the force of a few
magical touches, become the most sublime. We do not trace this wonderful power in
the play before us : talent there certainly is, but the great creative spirit is not visible.
The play opens with Robert of Artois explaining to Edward III. the claims which he
has to the crown of France through his mother Isabelle. This finished, the Duke of
Lorraine arrives to summon Edward to do homage to the King of France for the duke-
dom of Guienne. The scene altogether reminds us of the second scene of the first act
of Henry V., where the Archbishop of Canterbury expounds the Salic law, and the
ambassadoi's of France arrive with an insolent message to Henry from the Dauphin. The
parallel scenes in both plays have some resemblance to the first scene of King John,
where Chatillon arrives with a message from France. It is probable that the Henry V.
of Shakspere was not written till after this play of ' Edward III. ;' and the King John,
as we now have it, might probably be even a later play: but the original King John, in
tvro Parts, belongs, without doubt, to an earlier period than the 'Edward III..' and the
231
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
same resemblance in this scene holds good with that play. Upon the departure of
Lorraine, the rupture of the league with the Scots is announced to Edward, with the
further news that the Countess of Salisbury is besieged in the castle of Roxburgh. The
second scene shows us the countess iipon the walls of the castle, and then King David of
Scotland enters, and thus addresses himself to Lorraine :
" Dav. My lord of Lorraine, to our brother of France
Commend us, as the man in Christendom
Whom we most reverence and entirely love.
Touching your embassage, return," and say,
That we with England will not enter parley,
Nor never make fair weather, or take truce ;
But burn their neighbour towns, and so persist
With eager roads beyond their city York.
And never shall our bonny riders rest ;
Nor rusting canker have the time to eat
Their light-borne snaffles, nor their nimble spurs ;
Nor lay aside their jacks of gymold mail ;
Nor hang their staves of grained Scottish ash
In peaceful wise upon their city walls ;
Nor from their button'd tawny leathern belts
Dismiss their biting whinyards, till your king
Cry out ' Enough ; spare England now for pity.'
Farewell : and tell him, that you leave us here
Before this castle ; say, you came from us
Even when we had that yielded to our hands."
If this speech be not Shakspere's, it is certainly a closer imitation of the freedom of his
versification, and the truth and force of his imagery, than can be found in any of the
historical plays of that period. We do not except even the ' Edward II.' of Marlowe, in
which it would be difficult to find a passage in which the poetry is so little conventional as
the lines which we have just quoted. And this brings us to the important consideration of
the date of ' Edward III.' Ulrici holds that it was written at least two years before it was
published. We cannot see the reason for this opinion. It was entered on the Stationers'
registers ou the 1st of December, 1595, and we have pretty good evidence in many
cases that such entry was concurrent with the time of the original performance. If the
'Edward III.,' then, was first produced in 1595, there can be no doubt that several of
Shakspere's historical plays were already before the public the Henry VI., and Richard
III., in all probability the Richard II. Bearing this circumstance in mind, we can
easily understand how a new school of writers should, in 1595, have been formed,
possessing, perhaps, less original genius than some of the earlier founders of the drama,
but having an immense advantage over them in the models which the greatest of those
founders had produced. Still this consideration does not wholly warrant us in hastily
pronouncing the play before us not to be Shakspere's. As in the case of ' Arden of
Feversham,' we have to look, and we look in vain, for some known writer of the period
whose works exhibit a similar combination of excellences.
The Countess of Salisbury is speedily relieved from her besiegers by the arrival of
Edward with his army. The king and the countess meet, and Edward becomes her
guest. His position is a dangerous one, and he rushes into the danger. There is a very
long and somewhat ambitious scene, in which the king instructs his secretary to describe
his passion in verse. It is certainly not conceived in a real dramatic spirit. The action
altogether flags, and the passion is very imperfectly developed in such au outpouring
of words. The next scene, in which Edward avows his passion for the countess, is
conceived and executed with far more success :
282
EDWARD III.
" Con. Sorry I am to see my liege so sad :
What may thy subject do, to drive from thee
This gloomy consort, sullen melancholy ?
Edw. Ah, lady, I am blunt, and cannot straw
The flowers of solace in a ground of shame :
Since I came hither, countess, I am wrong" d.
Cow. Now, God forbid, that any in my house
Should think my sovereign wrong ! Thrice gentle Hfigr,
Acquaint me with your cause of discontent.
Edw. How near then shall I be to remedy ?
Cou. As near, my liege, as all my woman's power
Can pawn itself to buy thy remedy.
Edw. If thou speak'st true, then have I my redrew :
Engage thy power to redeem my joys,
And I am joyful, countess ; else, I die.
Cou. I will, my liege.
, Edw. Swear, countess, that thou wilt.
Cou. By heaven, I will.
Edw. Then take thyself a little way aside ;
And tell thyself a king doth dote on thee :
Say, that within thy power it doth lie
To make him happy ; and that thou hast sworn
To give me all the joy within thy power :
Do this, and tell me when I shall be happy.
Cou. All this is done, my thrice dread sovereign :
That power of love, that I have power to give,
Thou hast with all devout obedience ;
Employ me how thou wilt in proof thereof.
Edw. Thou hear'st me say that I do dote on thee.
Cou. If on my beauty, take it if thou canst ;
Though little, I 'do prize it ten times less :
If on my virtue, take it if thou canst ;
For virtue's store by giving doth augment :
Be it on what it will, that I can give,
And thou canst take away, inherit it.
Edw. It is thy beauty that I would enjoy.
Cou. 0, were it painted, I would wipe it off,
And dispossess myself, to give it thee :
But, sovereign, it is solder'd to my life :
Take one, and both ; for, like an humble shadow,
It haunts the sunshine of my summer's life ;
Edw. But thou mayst lend it me, to sport withal
Cou. As easy may my intellectual soul
Be lent away, and yet my body live,
As lend my body, palace to my soul.
Away from her, and yet retain my soul.
My body is her bower, her court, her abbey,
And she an angel, pure, divine, unspotted ;
If I should lend her house, my lord, to thee,
I kill my poor soul, and my poor soul me."
The Earl of Warwick, father to the Countess of Salisbury, is required by Edward, upon
his oath of duty, to go to his daughter, and command her to agree with his dishonour-
able proposals. This very unnatural and improbable incident is found in the story of
' The Palace of Pleasure ; ' but it gives occasion to a scene of very high merit a little
wordy, perhaps, but still upon the whole natural and effective. The skill with which
the father is made to deliver the message of the king, and to appear to recommend a
283
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
compliance with his demands, but so at the same time as to make the guilty purpose
doubly abhorrent, indicates no common power :
" War. How shall I enter in this graceless errand ?
I must not call her child ; for where 's the father
That will, in such a suit, seduce his child?
Then, Wife of Salisbury, shall I DO begin ?
No, he 's my friend ; and where is found the friend
That will do friendship such endamagement ?
Neither my daughter, nor my dear friend's wife.
I am not Warwick, as thou think'st I am,
But an attorney from the court of hell ;
That thus have hous'd my spirit in his form,
To do a message to thee from the king.
The mighty king of England dotes on thee :
He, that hath power to take away thy life,
Hath power to take thine honour; then consent
To pawn thine honour, rather than thy life ;
Honour is often lost, and got again ;
But life, once gone, hath no recovery.
The sun, that withers hay, doth nourish grass ;
The king, that would distain thee, will advance thoo.
The poets write that great Achilles' spear
Could heal the wound it made : the moral is
What mighty men misdo, they can amend.
The lion doth become his bloody jaws,
And grace his foragement, by being mild
When vassal fjar lies trembling at his feet.
The king will in hi^ glory hide thy shame ;
And those, that gaze on him to find out thee,
Will loae their eyesight, looking in the sun.
What can one drop of poison harm the sea,
Whose hugy vastures can digest the ill,
And make it lose his operation ?
The king's great name will temper thy misdeeda,
And give the bitter potion of reproach
A sugar'd sweet and most delicious taste :
Besides, it is no harm to do the thiug
Which without shame could not be left undone.
Thus have I, in his majesty's behalf,
Apparel'd sin in virtuous sentences,
And dwell upon thy answer in his suit.
Cou. Unnatural besiege ! Woe me, unhappy,
To have escap'd the danger of my foes,
And to be ten times worse invir'd by friends I
Hath he no means to stain my honest blood,
But to corrupt the author of my blood,
To be his scandalous and vile solicitor ?
No marvel, though the branches be infected,
When poison hath encompassed the root :
No marvel, though the leprous infant die,
When the stern dam envenometh the dug.
Why, then, give sin a passport to offend,
And youth the dangerous rein of liberty .
Blot out the strict forbidding of the law ;
And cancel every canon that prescribes
A shame for shame, or penance for offence.
No, let me die, if his too boist'rous will
264
EDWARD III.
Will have it so, before I will consent
To be an actor in his graceless lust.
War. Why, now thou speak'st as I would have thee sp Jtk :
And mark how I unsay my words again.
An honourable grave is more esteem'd
Than the polluted closet of a king :
The greater man, the greater is the thing,
Be it good, or bad, that he shall undertake :
An unreputed mote, flying in the sun,
Presents a greater substance than it is :
The freshest summer's day doth soonest taint
The loathed carrion that it seems to kiss :
Deep are the blows made with a mighty axe :
That sin doth ten times aggravate itself
That is committed in a holy place :
An evil deed, done by authority,
Is sin and subornation : Deck an ape
In tissue, and the beauty of the robe
Adds but the greater scorn unto the beast.
A spacious field of reasons could I urge,
Between his glory, daughter, and thy shame :
That poison shows worst in a golden cup ;
Dark night seems darker by the lightning flash ;
Lilies, that fester, smell far worse than weeds ;
And every glory that inclines to sin,
The shame is treble by the opposite.
So leave I, with my blessing in thy bosom ;
Which then convert to a most heavy curse,
When thou convert'st from honour's golden name
To the black faction of bed-blotting shame ! [Exit.
Cou. I'll follow thee : And, when my mind turns so,
My body sink my soul in endless woe ! [Exit."
There is a line in the latter part of this scene which is to be found also in one of Shak-
spere's Sonnets the ninety-fourth :
" Lilies, that fester, smell far worse than weeds."
In our Illustrations of the Sonnets we express a decided opinion that the line was
original in the sonnet, and transplanted thence into this play. The point was material
in considering the date of the sonnet, but it throws no light either upon the date of this
play or upon its authorship.*
During the tempest of Edward's passion, the Prince of Wales arrives at the Castle
of Roxburgh, and the conflict in the mind of the king is well imagined :
" Edw. I see the boy. 0, how his mother's face,
Moulded in his, corrects my stray'd desire,
And rates my heart, and chides my thievish eye ;
Who, being rich enough in seeing her,
Yet seeks elsewhere : and basest theft is that
Which cannot check itself on poverty.
Now, boy, what news ?
Pri. I have assembled, my dear lord and father,
The choicest buds of all our English blood,
For our affairs in France ; and here we come,
To take direction from your majesty.
Edw. Still do I see in him delineate
His mother'* visage; those his eyes are hers,
* See Poems.
286
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
Who, looking wistly on me, made me blush ;
For faults against themselves give evidence :
Lust is a fire ; and men, like lanthorns, show
Light lust within themselves, even through themselves
Away, loose silks of wavering vanity !
Shall the large limit of fair Brittany
By me be overthrown ? and shall I not
Master this little mansion of myself ?
Give me an armour of eternal steel ;
I go to conquer kings : and shall I then
Subdue myself, and be my enemy's friend ?
It must not be. Come, boy, forward, advance !
Let's with our colours sweep the air of France.
Lod. My liege, the countess, with a smiling cheer
Desires access unto your majesty. [Advancing from the door and whispering him
Edw. Why, there it goes ! that very smile of hers
Hath ransom'd captive France ; and set the king,
The dauphin, and the peers, at liberty.
Go, leave me, Ned, and revel with thy friends. [Exit Prince."
The countess enters, and with the following scene suddenly terminates the ill-starred
passion of the king :
" Edw. Now, my soul's playfellow t art thou come,
To speak the more than heavenly word of yea,
To my objection in thy beauteous love ?
Cou. My father on his blessing hath commanded
Edw.. That thou shalt yield to me.
Cou. Ay, dear my liege, your due.
Edw. And that, my dearest love, can be no less
Than right for right, and tender love for love.
Cou. Than wrong for wrong, and endless hate for hate.
But, sith I see your majesty so bent,
That my unwillingness, my husband's love,
Your high estate, nor no respect respected
Can be my help, but that your mightiness
Will overbear and awe these dear regards,
I bind my discontent to my content,
And, what I would not, I '11 compel I will ;
Provided that yourself remove those lets
That stand between your highness' love and mine.
Edw. Name them, fair countess, and, by heaven, I will
Cou. It is their lives, that stand between our love,
That I would have chok'd up, my sovereign.
Edw. Whose lives, my lady ?
Cou. My thrice loving liege,
Your queen, and Salisbury my wedded husband ,
Who living have that title in our love,
j That we cannot bestow but by their death.
Edw. Thy opposition is beyond our law.
Cou. So is your desire : If the law
Can hinder you to execute the one,
Let it forbid you to attempt the other :
I cannot think you love me as you say,
Unless you do make good what you have sworn.
Edw. No more ; thy husband and the queen shall dift
Fairer thou art by far than Hero was ;
Beardless Leander not so strong as I :
He sworn an easy current for his love :
286
EDWARD III.
But I will, through a belly spout of blood,
Arrive that Sestos where my Hero lies.
Cou. Nay, you'll do more ; you'll make the river too,
With their heart-bloods that keep our love asunder,
Of which, my husband, and your wife, are twain.
Edw. Thy beauty makes them guilty of their death,
And gives in evidence, that they shall die ;
Upon which verdict, I, their judge, condemn them.
Cou. perjur'd beauty ! more corrupted judge !
When, to the great star-chamber o'er our heads,
The universal sessions calls to count
This packing evil, we both shall tremble for it.
Edw. What says my fair love ? is she resolute ?
Cou. Resolute to be dissolv'd ; and, therefore, this,-
Keep but thy word, great king, and I am thine.
Stand where thou dost, I '11 part a little from thee,
And see how I will yield me to thy hands.
[Turning suddenly upon him, and showing two dagger*
Here by my side do hang my wedding knives :
Take thou the one, and with it kill thy queen,
And learn by me to find her where she lies ;
And with the other I'll despatch my love,
Which now lies fast asleep within my heart :
When they are gone, then I'll consent to love.
Stir not, lascivious king, to hinder me ;
My resolution is more nimbler far,
Than thy prevention can be in my rescue,
And, if thou stir, I strike ; therefore stand still,
And hear the choice that I will put thee to :
Either swear to leave thy most unholy suit,
And never henceforth to solicit me ;
Or else, by heaven [kneeling], this sharp-pointed knife
Shall stain thy earth with that which thou wouldst stain,
My poor chaste blood. Swear, Edward, swear,
Or I will strike, and die, before thee here.
Edw. Even by that Power I swear, that gives me now
The power to be ashamed of myself,
I never mean to part my lips again
In any word that tends to such a suit.
Arise, true English lady ; whom our isle
May better boast of, than e 'er Roman might
Of her, whose ransack 'd treasury hath task 'd
The vain endeavour of so many pens :
Arise ; and be my fault thy honour's fame,
Which after ages shall enrich thee with.
I am awaked from this idle dream."
The remarks of Ulrici upon this portion of the play are conceived upon his usual
principle of connecting the action and characterization of Shakspere's dramas with the
development of a high moral, or rather Christian, principle. Ho is sometimes carried
too far by his theory, but there is something far more satisfying in the criticism of his
Bchool than in the husks of antiquarianism with which we have been too long familiar :
" We see, in the first two acts, how the powerful king (who in his rude greatness, in his
reckless iron energy, reminds us of the delineations of character in the elder King John,
Henry VI., and Richard III.) sinks down into the slough of common life before the
virtue and faithfulness of a powerless woman ; how he, suddenly enchained by an un-
worthy passion, abandons his great plans in order to write verses and spin intrigues.
287
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
All hunvan greatness, power, and splendour, fall of themselves, if not planted upon the
soil of genuine morality ; the highest energies of mankind are not proof against the
attacks of sin, when they are directed against the weak unguarded side this is the sub-
stance of the view of life here taken, and it forms the basis of the first Part. But true
energy is enabled again to elevate itself; it strengthens itself from the virtues of others,
which by God's appointment are placed in opposition to it. With this faith, and with
the highest, most masterly, deeply-penetrating, and even sublime picture of the far greater
energy of a woman, who, in order to save her own honour and that of her royal master, is
ready to commit self-murder, the second act closes. This forms the transition to the follow-
ing second Part, which shows us the true heroic greatness, acquired through self-conquest,
not only in the king, but also in his justly celebrated sou. For even the prince has also
gone through the same school : he proves this, towards the end of the second act, by hia
quick silent obedience to the order of his father, although directly opposed to his wishes."
In the third act we are at once in the heart of war ; we have the French camp, where
John with his court hears of the arrival of Edward's fleet, and the discomfiture of his
own. The descriptions of these events are, as we think, tedious and overstrained ; at any
rate they are undramatic. The writer is endeavouring to put out his power, where the
highest power would be wasted. There is less ambition, but much more force, in the
following speech of a poor Frenchman who is flying before the invaders :
" Fly, countrymen, and citizens of France !
Sweet-flow'ring peace, the root of happy life,
Is quite abandon'd and expuls'd the land :
Instead of whom, ransack-constraining war
Sits like to ravens on your houses' tops ;
Slaughter and mischief walk within your streets,
And, unrestrain'd, make havoc as they pass :
The form whereof even now myself beheld,
Now, upon this fair mountain, whence I came.
For so far as I did direct mine eyes,
I might perceive five cities all on fire,
Corn-fields, and vineyards, burning like an oven ;
And, as the leaking vapour in the wind
Turned aside, I likewise might discern
The poor inhabitants, escap'd the flame,
Fall numberless upon the soldiers' pikes :
Three ways these dreadful ministers of wrath
Do tread the measures of their tragic inarch ;
Upon the right hand comes the conquering king,
Upon the left his hot unbridled son,
And in the midst our nation's glittering host ;
All which, though distant, yet conspire in one
To leave a desolation where they come."
Before the battle of Cressy we have an interview between the rival kings. The d'ebate
is not managed with any very great dignity on either side. Upon the retiring of John
and his followers, the Prince of Wales is solemnly armed upon the field :
" And, Ned, because this battle is the first
That ever yet thou fought' st in pitched field,
As ancient custom is of martialists,
To dub thee with the type of chivalry,
In solemn manner we will give thee arms."
The famous incident of the battle of Cressy, that of the king refusing to send succour to
his gallant son, is thus told by Froissart :
288
EDWARD III.
" They with the prince sent a messenger to the king, who was on a little windmill hill ; then the
knight said to the king, ' Sir, the Earl of Warwick, and the Earl of Oxford, Sir Reynold Cobhfua, and
other, such as be about the prince your son, are fiercely fought withal, and are sore handled, wherefore
they desire you, that you and your battle will come and aid them, for if the Frenchmen increase, as
they doubt they will, your son and they shall have much ado.' Then the king said, ' Is my son dead or
hurt, or on the earth felled ?' ' No, sir,' quoth the knight, ' but he is hardly matched, wherefore he hath
need of your aid.' ' Well,' said the king, ' return to him and to them that sent you hither, and say to
them, that they send no more to me for any adventure that falleth, as long as my son is alive ; and also
say to them, that they suffer him this day to win his spurs, for, if God be pleased, I will this journey
be his, and the honour thereof, and to them that be about him.' Then the knight returned again to them,
and showed the king's words, the which greatly encouraged them, and repined in that they had sent to
the king as they did."
The dramatist has worked out this circumstance with remarkable spirit ; it is, we think,
the best business scene in the play not overwrought, but simple, and therefore most
effective : "Drums. Enter King EDWARD and AUDLET.
Edw. Lord Audley, whiles our son is in the chase,
Withdraw your powers unto this little hill,
And here a season let us breathe ourselves.
And. I will, my lord. [Exit AODLET. Retreat.
Edw. Just-dooming heaven, whose secret providence
To our gross judgment is unscrutable,
How are we bound to praise thy wondrous works,
That hast thia day giv'n way unto the right,
And made the wicked stumble at themselves !
Enter ARTOIS, hastily.
Art. Rescue, king Edward ! rescue for thy son 1
Edw. Rescue, Artois ? what, is he prisoner ?
Or, by violence, fell beside his horse ?
Art. Neither, my lord ; but narrowly beset
With turning Frenchmen, whom he did pursue,
As 't is impossible that he should 'scape,
Except your highness presently descend.
Edw. Tut ! let him fight ; we gave him arms to-day.
And he is labouring for a knighthood, man.
Enter DERBY hastily.
Der. The prince, my lord 1 the prince ! 0, succour urn ;
He's close encompass' d with a world of odds !
JSdw. Then will he win a world of honour too,
If he by valour can redeem him thence :
If not, what remedy ? We have more sons
Than one, to comfort our declining age.
Re-enter AUDLEY hastily.
Aud. Renowned Edward, give me leave, I pray,
To lead my soldiers where I may relieve
Your grace's son, in danger to be slain.
The snares of French, like emmets on a bank,
Muster about him ; whilst he, lion-like,
Entangled in the net of their assaults,
Franticly rends, and bites the woven toil :
But all in vain, he cannot free himself.
Edw. Audley, content ; I will not have a man,
On pain of death, sent forth to succour him :
This is the day ordain'd by destiny
To season his green courage with those thoughts
That, if he break'th out Nestor's years on earth,
Will make him savour still of this exploit
SOP. VOL. U 28 *
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
Der. Ah ! but he shall not live to see those days.
Edw. Why, then his epitaph is lasting praise.
Aud. Yet, good my lord, "t is too much wilfulness
To let his blood be spilt, that may be sav'd.
Ed w. Exclaim no more ; for none of you can tell
Whether a borrow'd aid will serve, or no ;
Perhaps he is already slain, or ta'en :
And dare a falcon when she 's in her flight,
And ever after she'll be haggard-like :
Let Edward be deliver'd by our hands,
And still, in danger, he'll expect the like ;
But if himself himself redeem from thence,
He will have vanquish'd, cheerful, death and fear,
And ever after dread their force no more
Than if they were but babes, or captive slaves.
Aud. 0, cruel father ! Farewell, Edward, then !
Der. Farewell, sweet prince, the hope of chivalry !
Art. 0, would my life might ransom him from death !
Edw. But, soft ; methinks I hear [Retreat sownded.
The dismal charge of trumpets' loud retreat :
All are not slain, I hope, that went with him ;
Some will return with tidings, good, or bad.
Flourish. Enter Prince EDWARD in triumph, bearing in
his hand his shivered lance; his sword and battered ar-
mour borne before him, and the body of the King of
BOHEMIA, wrapped in the colours : Lords run and
embrace him.
Aud. joyful sight ! victorious Edward lives !
Der. Welcome, brave prince !
Edw. Welcome, Plantagenet ! "
There is a fine scene where the Prince of Wales is surrounded by the French army
before the battle of Poitiers : but it is something too prolonged and rhetorical ; it has not
the Shaksperian rush which belongs to such a situation. One specimen will suffice,
where the prince exhorts his companion-in-arms, old Audley, to fly from danger :
"Now, Audley, sound those silver wings of thine,
And let those milk-white messengers of time
Show thy time's learning in this dangerous time :
Thyself art bruis'd and bent with many broils,
And stratagems forepast with iron pens
Are texed in thine honourable face ;
Thou art a married man in this distress,
But danger woos me as a blushing maid ;
Teach me an answer to this perilous time.
Aud. To die is all as common as to live,
The one hi choice, the other holds in chase ;
For, from the instant we begin to live,
We do pursue and hunt the time to die :
First bud we, then we blow, and after seed ;
Then presently we fall ; and, as a shade
Follows the body, so we follow death.
If then we hunt for death, why do we fear it ?
Or, if we fear it, why do we follow it ?
If we do fear, with fear we do but aid
The thing we fear to seize on us the sooner :
If we fear not, then no resolved proffer
Can overthrow the limit of our fate :
390
EDWARD III.
For, whether ripe, or rotten, drop we shall,
As we do draw the lottery of our doom.
Pri. Ah, good old man, a thousand thousand armours
These words of thine have buckled on my back ;
Ah, what an idiot hast thou made of life,
To seek the thing it fears ! and how disgrac'd
The imperial victory of murdering death !
Since all the lives his conquering arrows strike
Seek him, and he not them, to shame his glory.
I will not give a penny for a life,
Nor half a halfpenny to shun grim death ;
Since for to live is but to seek to die,
And dying but beginning of new life :
Let come the hour when He that rules it will !
To live, or die, I hold indifferent." .
The victory of Poitiers ensues ; but previous to the knowledge of this triumph, the
celebrated scene of the surrender of Calais is thus dramatized :
"Enter from the town, six Citizens in their shirts, and
bare-footed, with halters about their necks.
Cit. Mercy, king Edward ! mercy, gracious lord !
Edw. Contemptuous villains ! call ye now for truce ?
Mine ears are stopp'd against your bootless cries :
Sound drums ; [alarum] draw, threat "ning swords !
1 (7. Ah, noble prince,
Take pity on this town, and hear us, mighty king !
We claim the promise that your highness made ;
The two days' respite is not yet expir'd,
And we are come, with willingness, to bear
What torturing death, or punishment, you please,
So that the trembling multitude be sav'd.
Edw. My promise ? well, I do confess as much :
But I require the chiefest citizens,
And men of most account, that should submit ;
You, peradventure, are but servile grooms,
Or some felonious robbers on the sea,
Whom, apprehended, law would execute,
Albeit severity lay dead in us :
No, no, ye cannot overreach us thus.
2 C. The sun, dread lord, that in the western fall
Beholds us now low brought through misery,
Did in the orient purple of the morn
Salute our coming forth, when we were known ;
Or may our portion be with damned fiends.
Edw. If it be so, then let our covenant stand ;
We take possession of the town in peace :
But, for yourselves, look you for no remorse j
But, as imperial justice hath decreed,
Your bodies shall be dragg'd about these walls,
And after feel the stroke of quartering steel :
This is your doom : Go, soldiers, see it done.
Que. Ah, be more mild unto these yielding men j
It is a glorious thing to 'stablish peace ;
And kings approach the nearest unto God,
By giving life and safety unto men:
As thou intendest to be king of France
So let her people lire to call thee king
U 2 291
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
For what the sword cuts down, or fire hath spoil d,
Is held in reputation none of ours.
Edw. Although experience teach us this is tnja,,
That peaceful quietness brings most delight
When most of all abuses are controll'd,
Yet, insomuch it shall be known, that we
As well can master our affections,
As conquer other by the dint of sword,
Philippe, prevail ; we yield to thy request ;
These men shall live to boast of clemency,
And, tyranny, strike terror to thyself."
This assuredly we think is not what Shakspere would have made of such a situation.
How altogether inferior is it in the higher requisites of poetry to the exquisite narrative
of Froissart !
" Then the barriers were opened, the burgesses went towards the king, and the captain entered again
into the town. When Sir Walter presented these burgesses to the king, they kneeled down, and held up
their hands and said, ' Gentle king, behold here we six, who were burgesses of Calais and great
merchants ; we have brought the keys of the town and of the castle, and we submit ourselves clearly
into your will and pleasure, to save the residue of the people of Calais, who have suffered great pain.
Sir, we beseech your grace to have mercy and pity on us through your high noblesse.' Then all the earls
and barons and other that were there wept for pity. The king looked felly on them, for greatly he hated
the people of Calais for the great damage and displeasures they had done him on the sea before. Then
he commanded their heads to be stricken off. Then every man required the king for mercy, but he
would hear no man in that behalf. Then Sir Walter of Manny said, ' Ah, noble king, for God's sake
refrain your courage; ye have the name of sovereign noblesse; therefore, now do not a thing that should
blemish your renown, nor to give cause to some to speak of you villainously ; every man will say it is
a great cruelty to put to death such honest persons, who by their own wills put themselves into your
grace to save their company.' Then the king wryed away from him and commanded to send for the
hangman, and said, ' They of Calais had caused many of my men to be slain, wherefore these shall die
in like wise.' Then the queen, being great with child, kneeled down, and, sore weeping, said, 'Ah, genU"
sir, sith I passed the sea in great peril I have desired nothing of you ; therefore, now I humbly require
you, in the honour of the son of the Virgin Mary, and for the love of me, that ye will take mercy of
these six burgesses.' The king beheld the queen, and stood still in a study a space, and then said, ' Ah,
dame, I would ye had been as now in some other place; ye make such request to me that I cannot deny
you, wherefore I give them to you to do your pleasure with them.' Then the queen caused them to
be brought into her chamber, and made the halters to be taken from their necks, and caused them to
be new clothed, and gave them their dinner at their leisure, and then she gave each of them six nobles,
and made them to be brought out of the host in safeguard, and set at their liberty."
The concluding scene, in which the Prince of Wales offers up to the Most High a
prayer and thanksgiving, is imbued with a patriotic spirit, but it has not the depth aud
discrimination of Shakspere's patriotism :
" Now, father, this petition Edward makes :
To Thee, [kneels] whose grace hath been his strongest shield,
That, as thy pleasure chose me for the man
To be the instrument to show thy power,
So thou wilt grant, that many princes more,
Bred and brought up within that little isle,
May still be famous for like victories !
And, for my part, the bloody scars I bear,
The weary nights that I have watch'd in field,
The dangerous conflicts I have often had,
The fearful menaces were proffer'd me,
The heat, and cold, and what else might displease,
I wish were now redoubled twenty-fold ;
So that hereafter ages, when they read
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EDWARD III.
The painful traffic of my tender youth,
Might thereby be inflam'd with such resolve.
As not the territories of France alone,
But likewise Spain, Turkey, and what countries else
That justly would provoke fair England's ire,
Might, at their presence, tremble, and retire ! "
We have thus presented to our readers some of the most striking passages of this play
It does not, in our opinion, bear the marks of being a very youthful performance of any
man. Its great fault is tameness ; the author does not rise with the elevation of his
subject. To judge of its inferiority to the matured power of Shakspere, dealing with a
somewhat similar theme, it should be compared with the Henry V. The question then
should be asked, Will the possible difference of age account for this difference of power ?
We say possible, for we have no evidence that the ' Edward III.' was produced earlier than
1595, nor have we evidence that the Henry V., in some shape, was produced later. Ulrici
considers that this play forms an essential introduction to that series of plays commencing
with Richard II. If Shakspere wrote that wonderful series upon a plan which necessarily
included Henry V., we think he would advisedly have omitted Edward III. ; for the
main subject of the conquest of France would be included in each play. The concluding
observation of Ulrici is " Truly, if this piece, as the English critics assert, is not Shak-
spere's own, it is a shame for them that they have done nothing to recover from forgek
fulness the name of this second Shakspere, this twin-brother of their great poet." Rest
ing this opinion upon one play only, the expression "twin -brother" has somewhat an
unnecessary strength. Admitting, which we do not, that the best scenes of this play dis-
play the same poetical power, though somewhat immature, which is found in Shakspere's
historical plays, there is one thing wanting to make the writer a " twin-brother," which
is found in all those productions. Where is the comedy of ' Edward III.'? The heroic of
Shakspere's histories might be capable of imitation ; but the genius which created Falcon-
bridge, and Cade, and Pistol, and Fluellen (Falstaff is out of the question), could not be
approached.
GEORGE-A-GREENK
FAIR EM.
MUCEDORUS. .
GEOEGE-A-GEEENE.
' A PLEASANT conceyted Comedie of George-a-Greene, the Pinner of Wakefield,' bears
upon the title-page that it was acted by the servants < f the Earl of Sussex. The earliest
edition known is that of 1599. In Henslowe's Diary we have an entry of ' George-a-
Greene' being; played by the Earl of Sussex his men on the 28th of December, 1593.
This play was formerly ascribed (amongst others by Winstanley) to John Heywood, the
friend of Sir Thomas More. Such an opinion argues the most complete ignorance of the
state of our language, and of dramatic poetry especially, at the time when John Heywood
wrote. No English critic, we believe, ever thought of assigning the play to Shakspere ;
but the Germans, finding it reprinted in Dodsley's collection as the work of an un-
known author, seize upon it as another production of the great English dramatist,
rescued by them from the wallet of Time. Tieck translates it. He remarks" It is
traditionally said that the 'Pinner of Wakefield' is a play of Shakspero's. I must
297
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
acknowledge for myself that any tradition would have more weight than the narrow-
minded criticisms of the English editors, which, proceeding wholly on false premises,
naturally take little notice of such productions. If it is by Shakspere it must be an
early work." We know not where the tradition is to be found, and indeed the play is
now pretty confidently assigned to Robert Greene. It is included in Mr. Dyce's edition
of his works, for a reason thus given :
" It has been thought right to include in the present collection ' George-a-Greene, the Pinner of
Wakefield,' 1599, "in consequence of the following MS. notes having been found on the title-page of
a copy of that piece, which was formerly in the library of Mr. Rhodes :
' Written by a minister who acted the piners pt in it himself. Teste, W. Shakespeare.
' Ed. Juby * saith it was made by Ho. Greene.'
These two memoranda are by different persons, and in handwriting of about the time when the play
was printed. The probability of Greene's having been ' a minister ' we have noticed before."
This evidence is not absolutely decisive as to the authorship of the play, but, conjoined
with the internal evidence, we have no doubt that Mr. Dyce exercised a sound discretion
in printing it in his collection of Greene's dramatic works.
Tieck, having translated the play in his "Alt Englisches Theater, oder Supplemente
zum Shakspere,' as one of " those dramas which Shakspere produced in his youth,
and which Englishmen, through a misjudging criticism and a tenderness for his fame
(as they thought), have refused to recognise," is of course decided in his opinion as to
the merits of this performance. He says, " It seems to me a model of a popular
comedy (Volks-comodie people's comedy); the cheerful joy ousness, that never overflows
but keeps within the bounds of moderation, and does us good; the merry clown; the
agreeable character of the principal person, whose official zeal and heroic courage are so
nicely softened down with a few milder features; and the genius which plays through
the whole; everything is such that Shakspere himself would have no cause to be
ashamed of this, though we cannot show any other piece of his worked out in a similar
style." The criticism of Horn is more temperate. George-a-Greene, the hero of the
play, " equals, in his invincibility, waggery, and love of jesting, our Siegfried in the
' Niebelungen.' " He acknowledges, however, that there is not a trace of humour in the
performance, and that there is a great want of dramatic art in the construction. To say
nothing of the feebleness of the blank verse, we believe that the entire absence of wit or
humour in the comic parts, and the inartificial management of the incidents, decide at
once that the play could not belong to Shakspere at any period of his life. There is a rude
activity in the working out of the plot, but no real creative power. That any high
poetical power was not in the writer does not require, we think, a very laboured proof.
One example of this deficiency of the higher quality may suffice. There is an incident
in the play founded on the fine old ballad of ' The Jolly Pinder of Wakefield,' which
undoubtedly was in existence before 1593, and, compared with that ballad, the tameness
of the dramatic version of it appears to us very striking. We will give a passage from
each :
BALLAD OF THE JOLLY PINDER.
"In Wakefield there lives a jolly pinder,
In Wakefield all on a green,
In Wakefield all on a green :
There is neither knight nor squire, said the pinder,
Nor baron that is so bold,
Nor baron that is so bold,
GEORGE-A-GREENE.
" Oeo. Back again, you foolish travellers,
For you are wrong, and may not wend this way.
Rob. That were great shame. Now, by my soul,
proud sir,
We be three tall yeomen, and thou art but one.
Come, we will forward despite of him.
An actor who wrote a play in conjunction with Rowley.
GEORGE-A-GREENE.
Dare make a trespass to the town of Wakefield,
But his pledge goes to the pinfold, &c.
Ail this beheard three witty young men,
'T was Robin Hood, Scarlet, and John ;
With that they espied the jolly pinder,
As he sat under a thorn.
Now turn again, turn again, said the pinder,
For a wrong way you have gone ;
For you have forsaken the king's highway,
And made a path over the corn.
that were a shame, said jolly Robin,
We being three, and thou but one ;
The pinder leapt back then thirty good foot,
'Twas thirty good foot and one.
He leaned his back fast unto a thorn,
And his foot against a stone,
And there he fought a long summer's day,
A summer's day so long,
Till that their swords on their broad bucklers
Were broke fast into their hands.
Hold thy hand, hold thy hand, said bold Robin
Hood,
And my merry men, every one ;
For this is one of the best pinders
That ever I tried with sword.
And wilt thou forsake thy pinder 's craft,
And live in the green-wood with me !
' At Michaelmas next my cov'nant comes out,
When every man gathers his fee.' "
Geo. Leap the ditch, or I will make you skip.
What, cannot the highway serve your turn,
But must you make a path over the corn ?
Rob. Why, art thou mad? dar'st thou encountei
three?
We are no babes, man, look upon our limbs.
Oeo. Sirrah,
The biggest limbs have not the stoutest hearts.
Were ye as good as Robin Hood, and his three
merry men,
I'll drive you back the same way that ye came.
Be ye men, ye scorn to encounter me all at once
But be ye cowards, set upon me all three,
And try the pinner what he dares perform.
Scar. Were thou as high in deeds
As thou art haughty in words,
Thou well mightst be a champion for a king :
But empty vessels have the loudest sounds,
And cowards prattle more than men of worth.
Geo. Sirrah, darest thou try me ?
Scar. Ay, sirrah, that I dare.
[They fight, and GEORGE- A-GREEN beats him.
Much. How now? what, art thou down?
Come, sir, I am next.
[They fight, and GEOKQE- A-GREEN beats him.
Rob. Come, sirrah, now to me : spare me not,
For I'll not spare thee.
Oeo. Make no doubt, I will be as liberal to thee.
[They fight; ROBIN HOOD stays.
Rob. Stay, George, for here I do protest,
Thou art the stoutest champion that ever I
Laid hands upon.
Geo. Soft you, sir; by your leave, you lie,
You never yet laid hands on me.
Rob. George, wilt thou forsake Wakefield,
And go with me ?
Two liveries will I give thee every year,
And forty crowns shall be thy fee. '
The principal action of ' George-a-Greene ' is founded upon an old romance which
describes an insurrection of nobles in the time of Richard I., which was resisted and
finally put down by the Pinder of Wakefield; that is, the keeper of the pinfolds. The
best scene in the play is where Sir Nicholas Mannering comes before the justices of
Wakefield to demand provisions for the rebels. George-a-Greene undertakes to speak
for his townsmen; and, on being asked " Who art thou?" thus replies:
" Why, I am George-a-Qreene,
True liegeman to my king,
Who scorns that men of such esteem as these
Should brook the braves of any traitorous squire.
You of the bench, and you, my fellow-friends,
Neighbours, we subjects all unto the king ;
We are English born, and therefore Edward's friends,
Vow'd unto him even in our mother's womb,
Our minds to God, our hearts unto our king ;
Our wealth, our homage, and our carcases
Be all king Edward's. Then, sirrah, we have
Nothing left for traitors but our sworda,
Whetted to bathe them in your bloods, and die
Against you, before we send you any victuals."
299
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
The Richard of the romance has become, it is thus seen, the Edward of the play. The
writer has puzzled Mr. Grose, the antiquarian, with this change, the good man wisely
arguing that Robin Hood and Edward IV., whom he supposes to be king of the piece,
did not live at the same time. He concludes, therefore, that the drama has slight founda-
tion in history. We quite agree with him. In the scene before the justices George-
a-Greene makes Mannering eat his commission, seals and all. This is an incident of
the old romance, which was transferred, as our readers will recollect, to the play of ' Sir
John Oldcastle;' and was a practical joke which Robert Greene himself played off upon
an apparitor. After this feat the Pinder of Wakefield goes forward with his club
chivalry. As the crowning work of some stratagems he kills one if the rebel lords, and
takes the other two prisoners ; he fights, as we have seen, with Robin Hood, Scarlet, and
John; and he soundly beats the shoemakers of Bradford, in the presence of King
Edward and the King of Scots, who are come in disguise to see the rustic hero. George-
a-Greene of course arrives at riches and honour; and, as during the play we have occa-
sional glimpses of his being in love, the king rewards him also with his mistress:
" Edw. George-a-Greene, give me thy hand ;
There is none in England that shall do thee wrong.
Even from my court I came to see thyself;
And now I see that fame speaks nought but truth.
Geo. 1 humbly thank your royal majesty.
That which I did against the earl of Kendal,
It was but a subject's duty to his sovereign,
And therefore little merits such good words.
Edw. But ere I go, I '11 grace thee with good deeds.
Say what king Edward may perform,
And thou shalt have it, being in England's bounds.
Geo. I have a lovely leman,
As bright of blee as is the silver moon,
And old Grime, her father, will not let her match
With me, because I am a pinner,
Although I love her, and she me, dearly.
Edw. Where is she ?
Geo. At home at my poor house,
And vows never to marry unless her father
Give consent, which is my great grief, my lord.
Edw. If this be all, I will despatch it straight;
I '11 send for Grime, and force him give his grant !
He will not deny king Edward such a suit."
We have no doubt that this little play was amusing enough to an uncritical audience;
but to seek for the hand of Shakspere amongst these coarse and feeble scenes is sa
fruitless as to look for Claudes and Correggios amongst the alehouse signs.
EAIE EM.
IN the ' Theatrum Poetarum ' of Edward Phillips we have the following notice of the
authorship of this play : " Robert Green, one of the Pastoral Sonnet-makers of Qu.
Elizabeth's time, contemporary with Dr. Lodge, with whom he was associated in the
writing of several comedies, namely, ' The Laws of Nature,' ' Lady Alimony,' ' Libe-
rality and Prodigality,' and a masque called ' Luminalia ; ' besides which he wrote alone
the comedies of ' Friar Bacon ' and ' Fair Emme.' " Langbaine contradicts this state-
ment, as far as regards Greene's association with Lodge ; but he admits the assertion
regarding ' Friar Bacon,' and says nothing of ' Fair Em.' Mr. Dyce thinks that it is
possible that Greene might have written ' Fair Em.' ' A Pleasante Comedie of Faire
Em, the Miller's Daughter of Manchester, with the Love of William the Con-
queror. As it was sundry times publiquely acted in the Honourable Citie of London,
by the right Honourable the Lord Strange his seruants,' was published in 1631. Possibly
this may not have been the first edition, and the play may be as early as the time of
Greene ; but of this we are greatly inclined to doubt. The versification does not often
301
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO. SHAKSPERE.
exhibit that antiquated structure which we occasionally meet with in Greene and 1m
contemporaries. The dramatic movement is more lively and skilful than we find in the
conduct of Greene's pieces. The plot, which is a double one, has much of the com-
plexity of Beaumont and Fletcher. We have little doiibt that the play belongs to a
period subsequent to the death of Shakspere. Upon what principle the German critics
have assigned it to Shakspere we are at a loss to say. Tieck, who has translated the
' Fair Em,' calls it a youthful production of our poet, and Horn agrees with him. Ulrici
dissents from this opinion. The play is lively enough, with a good deal of talent.
Although a legend of love-stories, it has the remarkable merit, for that period, of being
conducted without offence to propriety. What comedy there is in it is altogether vapid
and ridiculous. Let us hastily run through the plot, giving a few extracts.
The story carries us back to the days of William the Conqueror. There is a tilting-
match, in whicn the king is victor ; but he has on a sudden " cast away his staff," and
left the field. Lubeck, a Danish knight, has borne upon his shield the picture of a
beautiful woman ; and the king has fallen in love with the picture, which is a portrait of
Blanche, a daughter of the King of Denmark. The amorous monarch immediately
delegates his authority to certain lords, and sets out for the Danish court to behold and
obtain the object of his passion. The miller and his daughter, fair Em, now present
themselves. He is no real miller, but Sir Thomas Goddard. Weighty circumstances
compelled him to this course of life ; and his daughter submits to her change of fortune
with a becoming resignation. The father thus counsels the maiden :
"Miller. Thanks, my dear daughter; these, tliy pleasant words,
Transfer my soul into a second heaven :
And in thy settled mind, my joys consist,
My state reviv'd, and I in former plight.
Although our outward pomp be thus abas'd,
And thrall' d to drudging, stayless of the world,
Let us retain those honourable minds
That lately govern'd our superior state,
Wherein true gentry is the only mean
That makes us differ from true millers born :
Though we expect no knightly delicates,
Nor thirst in soul for former sovereignty,
Yet may our minds as highly scorn to stoop
To base desires of vulgar's worldliness,
As if we were in our precedent way.
And, lovely daughter, since thy youthful years
Must needs admit as young affections,
And that sweet love unpartial perceives
Her dainty subjects through every part,
In chief receive these lessons from my lips,
The true discoverers of a virgin's due ;
Now requisite, now that I know thy mind
Something inclin'd to favour Manvile's suit,
A gentleman, thy lover in protest :
And that thou mayst not be by love deceiv'd,
But try his meaning, fit for thy desert,
In pursuit of all amorous desires,
Regard thine honour. Let not vehement sighs.
Nor earnest vows importing fervent love,
Render thee subject to the wrath of lust ;
For that, transform'd to former sweet delight,
Will bring thy body and thy soul to shame.
Chaste thoughts and modest conversations,
302
FAIR EM.
Of proof to keep out all enchanting vows,
Vain sighs, forced tears, and pitiful aspects,
Are they that make deformed ladies fair ;
Poor wretch ! and such enticing men
That seek of all but only present grace,
Shall, in perseverance of a virgin's due,
Prefer the most refusers to the choice
Of such a soul as yielded what they thought."
Our readers will scarcely think that the commonplaces of this very long speech savour
of Shakspere. The miller's man now presents himself as a suitor to fair Em ; and
having learn the necessity for concealment, she rather evades than repulses his advances.
But she is not long destined to equivocate with the clown. Manvile, Valingford, and
Mouutney, all lords of William's court, come separately, disguised, to woo the maiden.
Manvile's suit, as we have learnt by her father's speech, was somewhat favoured. He
overhears the two other lords communicating their love for the same object, and agreeing
to unite their efforts to obtain her, leaving the rest to chance. Manvile, of course, becomes
jealous ; and he thus reproaches his mistress :
" Two gentlemen attending on duke William,
Mountney and Valingford as I heard them nam'd,
Ofttimes resort to see and to be seen,
Walking the street fast by thy father's door,
Whose glancing eyes up to windows cast
Give testes of their masters' amorous heart.
This, Em, is noted, and too much talk'd on ;
Some see it without mistrust of ill,
Others there are that, scorning, grin thereat,
And saith, there goes the miller's daughter's wooers.
Ah me ! whom chiefly and most of all it doth concern,
To spend my time in grief, and vex my soul,
To think my love should be rewarded thus,
And for thy sake abhor all womankind."
The lover departs in a rage, and Mountney comes to prefer his suit. The fair Em
resolves to vindicate her constancy ; and to this admirer, therefore, she feigns deafness.
In a subsequent scene Valingford approaches her ; and to him, upon the same principle
of stratagem, she affects to be blind, " by mishap on a sudden." Mountney and Valing-
ford meet and quarrel ; but their mutual accusations bring about the conviction that the
lady has deceived them both. The action advances, by Manvile complaining to the
miller of his daughter's conduct ; and Mountney and Valingford appear on the scene
to demand of the miller how it is that Ein has become blind and deaf. The miller
replies,
" Marry, God forbid ! I have sent for her. Indeed,
she hath kept her chamber this three days. It were no
little grief to me if it should be so.
Man. This is God's judgment for her treachery."
Em is led on by the miller's man, whom she has persuaded to assist her in maintaining
the pretences she has assumed. Her stratagem is successfully supported, to the grief of
her father, and the conviction of the rest. Mauvile exclaims
" Both blind and deaf ! then she is no wife for me ;
And glad I am so good occasion is happen'd."
Mountney also gives her up with considerable indifference ; but Valingford resolves to
stay and prosecute his love, still suspecting there may be a "feigned invention."
Manvile seeks another love Elner, the daughter of a wealthy merchant ; but Valingford
303
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
declares that no misfortune can alter the constancy of his affection ; and Em, learning the
faithlessness of her former lover, discloses the conduct she has pursued.
During the progress of this, the main portion of the plot, we have a succession of
scenes alternating with those in which the miller's daughter is concerned, exhibiting
the history of the love adventures of the disguised king at the Danish court. William
is disappointed in the reality of the lady, with whose picture he became enamoured.
But he as readily falls in love with Mariana, a Swedish captive, the chosen fair of the
Marquis of Lubeck. Blanche, however, the Danish king's daughter, falls in love with
William ; and we have then a pretty succession of jealousies and quarrels, which ter-
minate in William carrying off the princess to England, masked, and disguised as Mariana.
Upon their arrival in England, the king and his fair companion fall into the hands of
some barons who are in arms. The mistakes are of course cleared up ; and the King of
Denmark offers his daughter to the King of England, who has resumed his state. He
has to decide upon the claims of the fair Em, and of Elner, to the hand of Man vile.
The scene on this occasion is perhaps the best passage in the play :
" Em. I lov'd this Manvile so much, that still methought,
When he was absent, did present to me
The form and feature of that countenance
Which I did shrine an idol in my heart :
And never could I see a man, methought,
That equall'd Manvile in my partial eye.
Nor was there any love between us lost,
But that I held the same in high regard,
Until repair of some unto our house,
Of whom my Manvile grew thus jealous,
As if he took exception I vouchsaf 'd
To hear them speak, or saw them when they camo ;
On which I straight took order with myself,
To avoid the scruple of his conscience,
By counterfeiting that I neither saw nor heard :
Any ways to rid my hands of them.
All this I did to keep my Manvile's love,
Which he unkindly seeks for to reward.
Man. And did my Em, to keep her faith with me,
Dissemble that she neither heard nor saw ?
Pardon me, sweet Em, for I am only thine.
Em. Lay off thy hands, disloyal as thou art 1
Nor shalt thou have possession of my love,
That canst so finely shift thy matters off.
Put case I had been blind, and could not see,
As oftentimes such visitation falls,
That pleaseth God, which all things doth dispose ;
Shouldst thou forsake me in regard of that ?
I tell thee, Manvile, hadst thou been blind,
Or deaf, or dumb, or else what impediments
Might befal to man, Em would have lov'd, and kept,
And honour'd thee ; yea, begg'd, if wealth had fail'd,
For thy relief.
Man. Forgive me, sweet Em.
Em: I do forgive thee with my heart,
And will forget thee too, if case I can ;
But never speak to me, nor seem to know me.
Man. Then farewell frost :
Well fare a wench that will :
Now, Elner, I am thy own, my girl.
FAIR EM.
Elner. Mine, Manvile ? thou never shalt be mine ;
I so detest thy villainy,
That whilst I live I will abhor thy company."
This issue of the contest produces a singular effect upon the King of England. He
determines that " women are not general evils ; " and so he accepts the hand of Blanche.
Valingford is united to the fair Em, and Sir Thomas Goddard is restored to his rank
and fortune.
It is exceedingly difficult for us to understand how a man of great ability, like Tieck,
perfectly conversant with the dramatic art and style of Shakspere sometimes going far
beyond Shakspere's own countrymen in sound as well as elevated criticism should fancy
that a play like this could have been written by our great poet. Whatever merit it pos-
sesses, and it is certainly in some respects a lively and spirited performance, arises out of
the circumstance that the author had good models before him. But we look in vain for
all that sets Shakspere so high above his contemporaries ; his wit, his humour, his poetry,
his philosophy, his intimate knowledge of man, his exquisite method. Scenes such as
these pass before our eyes like the tricks of the fantoccini. There is nothing of vitality
in them ; they
" Come like shadows, so depart."
SUP. VOL. X 305
MUCEDOBUS.
THE first known edition of this '' comedy" is that of 1598 : ' A most pleasant Comedy
of Mucedorus, the Kings Sonne of Valentia, and Amadine the Kings Daughter of
Arragon. With the merry Conceits of Mouse.' There are repeated reprints of this play
up to 1639, denoting an extraordinary popularity; and, what is more remarkable, the
piece is revived after the Restoration, and the edition before us of 1668 is " Amplifyed
with new Additions, as it was Acted before the King's Majestic at White -hall on Shrove-
sunday night." A more rude, inartificial, unpoetical, and altogether effete performance
the English drama cannot, we think, exhibit. Popularity, however, is not obtained by
mere accident. Mediocrity and positive stupidity will often command it, but in the
case of ' Muoedorus' it appears to us that the piece was expressly adapted for a very com-
mon audience. Whilst the highest and the best educated of the land were captivated by
tvhakspere and Jonson, there must necessarily have been rude farces and melodramas for
S06
MUCEDORUS,
theatres lower than the Globe and Blackfriars. There were strolling companies, too,
who in many cases were unable to procure copies of the best plays, and who would justly
think that other wares than poetry and philosophy would be demanded in the barn of the
alehouse or in the hall of the squire. We have a curious example of the long-during
popularity of ' Mucedorus.' After the suppression of the theatres in 1647, clandestine
performances in London were put down by provost-marshals and troopers. But in the
country the wandering players sometimes dared to lift their heads ; and as late as 1653
a company went about playing ' Mucedorus.' They had acted in several villages in the
neighbourhood of Oxford, but, upon the occasion of its performance at Witney, an acci-
dent occurred, by which several persons lost their lives, and others were wounded. A
pamphlet immediately appeared from the pen of an Oxford divine, showing that this
calamity was an example of the Divine vengeance against stage performances. But
' Mucedorus,' as we have seen, had a higher popularity in reserve. It was revived for the
entertainment of the King's Majesty, the tastes of whose court were pretty much upon a
level with those of the Witney peasants and blanket-makers ; and, what is not the least
wonderful part in the history of this comedy, " very delectable and full of conceited
mirth," some one rises up and says it is written by Shakspere. The tradition is handed
down in old catalogues ; and the Germans apply themselves seriously to discuss the point,
whether a play which is too silly to be ascribed to any known writer of the time, might
not be a youthful performance of the great poet himself.
To attempt any detailed analysis of the story of ' Mucedorus' would be a waste of time.
Mucedorus, the Prince of Valentia, has heard of the beauty of Amadine, the Princess of
Aragon, and he resolves to go in disguise to her father's court. The shepherd-prince, upon
his arrival in Aragon, immediately saves the princess from the attack of a bear, who has
rushed upon her, when in company with Segasto, a sort of lover, who takes to his heels in
a very ungallant style. The lady, of course, falls in love with the shepherd, and the
shepherd is very soon turned out of the court for his own presumptuous love. But the
princess resolves to run away with him, and they appoint to meet and live in the forest,
unscared by hunger or by bears. A wild man of the woods, however, seizes upon the lady ;
but Mucedorus, disguised as a hermit, very opportunely kills the wild man. The King of
Valentia comes to look after his son. The lovers return to court. The gentleman who
ran away from the bear withdraws his claims to the princess, and the whole terminates
with great felicity. We can easily understand how such a story would be popular, and
how any surplusage of wit or poetry would have lessened its popularity. The serious ad-
ventures are relieved by the constant presence of a clown, who, to do him justice, is never
guilty of the slightest cleverness, but produces a laugh by his exquisite stupidity. One
specimen of the poetry will suffice. Mucedorus, clothed as a hermit, meets Bremo, the
wild man of the woods, who has got Amadine safe in his grasp ; and, justly considering
that a wild man of the woods must be an excellent judge of rhetoric, and liable to be
moved to pity by the force of fine words, thus addresses him :
" In time of yore, when men like brutish beasts
Did lead their lives in loathsome cells and woods,
And wholly gave themselves to witless will,
A rude unruly root, then man to man became
A present prey ; then might prevail' d,
The weakest men went to walls ;
Right was unknown, for wrong was all in all.
As men thus liv*d in their great courage,
Behold, one Orpheus came (as poets tell),
And them from rudeness unto reason brought,
fl07
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
Who, led by reason, soon forsook the woods ;
Instead of caves, they built them castles strong,
Cities and towns were founded by them then :
Glad were they they found such ease ;
And in the end they grew to perfect amity.
Weighing their former wickedness,
They term'd the time wherein they lived then
A golden age, a good golden age.
Now, Bremo (for BO I heard thee call'd),
If men which liVd tofore, as thou dost now,
Wild in woods, addicted all to spoil,
Returned were by worthy Orpheus' means,
Let me (like Orpheus) cause thee to return
From murther, bloodshed, and such-like cruelties :
What, should we fight before we have a cause ?
No, let's live, and love together faithfully :
I '11 fight for thee."
There are one or two passages in ' Mucedorus ' which indicate some poetical power, but
;hey are inappropriate to the situation and character. Whenever we compare Shakspere
with other writers, the difference which, perhaps, upon the whole makes the most abiding
impression is the marvellous superiority of his judgment
THE BIRTH OF MERLIN.
THE MERRY DEVIL OF EDMONTON.
THE BIRTH OF MERLIN.
THE first known edition of this play was published in 1662, under the following title :
' The Birth of Merlin : or, The Childe hath found his Father : as it hath been several
times Acted with great Applause. Written by William Shakespear and William Rowley.'
Of this very doubtful external evidence two of the modern German critics have applied
themselves to prove the correctness. Horn has written a criticism of fourteen pages upon
' The Birth of Merlin,' which he decides to be chiefly Shakspere's, possessing a high
degree of poetical merit with much deep-thoughted characterization. Tieck has no
doubt of the extent of the assistance that Shakspere gave in producing this play : " This
piece is a new proof of the extraordinary riches of the period, in which such a work was
unnoticed among the mass of intellectual and characteristic dramas. The modern
English, whose weak side is poetical criticism, have left it almost to accident what shall
be aioii*? revived id we seldom see, since Dodsley, who proceeded somewhat moro
311
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
carefully, any reason why one piece is selected and others rejected." He adds,
" None of Rowley's other works are equal to this. What part has Shakspere in it? has
he taken a part? what induced him to do so? can only be imperfectly answered, and
oy supposition. Why should not Shakspere for once have written for another theatre
than his own? Why should he not, when the custom was so common, have written in
companionship with another though less powerful poet?" Ulrici takes a different, and,
as we think, a much juster view. The play, he holds, must have been produced late in
Shakspere's life. If he had written in it at all he would have put out his matured
strength. All the essentials, plan, composition, and character, belong to Rowley.
Peculiarities of style and remarkable turns of thought are not sufficient to furnish
evidence of authorship, for they are common to other contemporary poets. It is not
very easy to trace the exact progress of William Rowley. He was an actor in the
company of which Shakspere was a proprietor. We find his name in a document of
1616, and again in 1625. The same bookseller that published 'The Birth of Merlin'
associated his name with other writers of eminence besides Shakspere. He is spoken of
by Langbaine as "an author that flourished in the reign of King Charles I. ;" but there
is no doubt that he may be considered as a successful writer in the middle period of
James I. It is impossible to think that he could have been associated with Shakspere
in writing a play until after Shakspere had quitted the stage ; and we must, therefore,
bear in mind that Rowley's supposed associate was at that period the author of Othello
and Lear, of Twelfth Night and As You Like It.
A few years after the accession of James I. the fondness of the court for theatrical
entertainments, and the sumptuousness of the masks that were got up for its especial
delight, appear to have produced a natural influence upon the public stage, in rendering
some of the pieces performed more dependent upon scenery and dresses and processions
than in the later years of Elizabeth. 'The Birth of Merlin' belongs to the class of
chow-plays; and the elaboration of that portion which is addressed merely to the eye
las imparted a character to those scenes in which the imagination is addressed through
the dialogue. There is an essential want of refinement as well as of intellectual force,
partly arising from this false principle of art, which addresses itself mainly to the
senses. We have a succession of incidents without any unity of action. The human
interest and the supernatural are jumbled together, so as to render each equally unreal.
Extravagance is taken for force, and what is merely hideous is offered to us as sublime.
The story, of course, belongs to the fabulous history of Britain. Its movements are so
complicated that we should despair of tracing it through its scenes of war and love, and
devilry and witchcraft. The Britons are invaded by the Saxons, but the British army is
miraculously preserved by the power of Anselm, a hermit. The Saxons sue for peace
to Aurelius, the King of Britain, but the monarch suddenly falls in love with Artesia,
the daughter of the Saxon general, and marries her, against the wishes of all his court.
Uter Pendragon, the brother of Aurelius, has been unaccountably missing, and he, it
seems, had fallen in love with the same lady during his rambles. Upon the return of
Prince Uter to his brother's court, the queen endeavours to obtain from him a declara-
tion of unlawful attachment. Her object is to sow disunion amongst the Britons, to
promote the ascendancy of the Saxons. She is successful, and the weak Aurelius joins
his invaders. During the progress of these events we have love episodes with the
daughters of Donobert, a British nobleman. The character of Modestia, one of the
daughters, who is resolved to dedicate herself to a religious life, is drawn with consider-
able skill, and she expresses herself with a quiet strength which contrasts advantageously
with the turmoil around her :
312
THE BIRTH OF MERLIN.
" Noble and virtuous ! could I dream of marriage,
I should affect thee, Edwin. Oh, my soul,
Here "s something tells me that these best of creatures,
These models of the world, weak man and woman,
Should have their souls, their making, life, and being,
To some more excellent use : if what the sense
Calls pleasure were our ends, we might justly blame
Great Nature's wisdom, who rear'd a building
Of so much art and beauty, to entertain
A guest so far incertain, so imperfect :
If only speech distinguish us from beasts,
Who know no inequality of birth and place,
But still to fly from goodness ; oh ! how base
Were life at such a rate. No, no ! that Power
That gave to man his being, speech, and wisdom,
Gave it for thankfulness. To Him alone
That made me thus, may I thence truly know,
I'll pay to Him, not man, the love I owe."
The supernatural part of this play is altogether overdone, exhibiting no higher skill
in the management than a modern fairy spectacle for the Easter holidays. Before
Merlin appears we have a Saxon magician produced who can raise the dead, and he
makes Hector and Achilles come into the Saxon court very much after the fashion of
the apparition of Marshal Saxe in the great gallery at Dresden (see Wraxall's
' Memoirs '). The stage direction for this extraordinary exhibition is as follows :
"jEfoferPBOXlMUS, bringing in HECTOR, attired and armed
after the Trojan manner, with target, sword, and battle-axe ;
a trumpet before him, and a Spirit in flame-colours with a
torch : at the other door, ACHILLES, with his spear and fal-
chion, a trumpet, and a Spirit in black before him ; trum-
pets sound alarm, and they manage their weapons to begin the
fight, and after some charges the Hermit steps between them,
at which, seeming amazed, the Spirits tremble."
That the poet who produced the cauldron of the weird sisters should be supposed to
have a hand in this child's play is little less than miraculous itself. But we soon cease
to take an interest in mere Britons and Saxons, for a clown and his sister arrive at court,
seeking a father" for a child which the lady is about to present to the world. After some
mummery which is meant for comedy, we have the following stage-direction : " Enter
the Devil in man's habit richly attired, his feet and his head horrid;" and the young lady
from the country immediately recognises the treacherous father. After another episode
with Modestia and Edwin, thunder and lightning announce something terrible ; the birth
of Merlin has taken place, and his father the Devil properly introduces him reading a
book and foretelling his own future celebrity. We have now prophecy upon prophecy
and fight upon fight, blazing stars, dragons, and Merlin expounding all amidst the din.
We learn that Artesia has poisoned her husband, and that Uter has become King Pen-
dragon. The Saxons are defeated by the new king, by whom Artesia, as a murderess,
is buried alive. In the mean time the Devil has agaiu been making some proposals to
Merlin's mother, which end greatly to his discomfiture, for his powerful son shuts him
up in a rock. Merlin then, addressing his mother, proposes to her to retire to a solitude
he has prepared for her, "to weep away the flesh you have offended with;" 'and when
you die," he proceeds,
" I will erect a monumenf
Upon the verdant plains of Salisbury,
No king shall have so high a sepulchre,
With pendulous stones, that I will hang by art
313
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
j Where neither lime nor mortar shall be used,
A dark enigma to the memory,
For none shall have the power to number them ;
A place that I will hallow for your rest ;
Where no night-hag shall walk, nor were-wolf tread,
Where Merlin's mother shall be sepulchred."
As this is a satisfactory account of the origin of Stonehenge, we might here conclude ;
but there is a little more to tell of this marvellous play. Uter, the triumphant king,
desires Merlin to
" show the full event,
That shall both end our reign and chronicle."
Merlin thus consents :
" What Heaven decrees, fate hath no power to alter :
The Saxons, sir, will keep the ground they have,
And by supplying numbers still increase,
Till Britain be no more : So please your grace,
I will, in visible apparitions,
Present you prophecies, which shall concern
Succeeding princes, which my art shall raise,
Till men shall call these times the latter days. [MERLIN strikes.
Hautboys. Enter a King in armour, his shield quartered
with, thirteen crowns. At the other end enter divers Princes,
who present their crowns to him at his feet, and do him
homage ; then enters Death, and strikes him ; he, growing
sick, crowns CONSTANTINE."
This Merlin explains to represent liter's son, Arthur, and his successor; at which the
prince, much gratified, asserts,
" All future times shall still record this story,
Of Merlin's learned worth, and Arthur's glory."
THE MERRY DEVIL OE EDMONTON.
WE close our imperfect record of the plays ascribed to Shakspere with the performance
of a true poet, whoever he may be.
' The Merry Deuill of Edmonton : As it hath been sundry times acted by his Maiesties
Servants, at the Globe on the Banke-side,' was originally published in 1608. Qn the
22d October, 1607, there is an entry of the title of the play on the Stationers' registers;
but on the 5th April, 1608, we have a more precise entry of "A book called the Lyfe
and Deathe of the Merry Devill of Edmonton, with the pleasant pranks of Smugge the
Smyth, Sir John, and mine Hoste of the George, about their stealing of venison. By
T. B." This was, in all probability, a second Part. Steevens says, " The initial letters
at the end of this entry sufficiently free Shakspeare from the charge of having been its
author." It has been supposed that these initials represent Tony, or Antony, Brewer,
a dramatic writer of the time of James I., high lauded by some of his contemporaries.
Kirkman, a bookseller, first afti.v<yl Shakspere's name to it in his catalogue. In 'The
315
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
Companion to the Playhouse,' published in 1764, it is stated, upon the authority of a labo-
rious antiquaiy, Thomas Coxeter, who died in 1747, to have been written by Michael
Dray ton ; and in some posthumous papers of another diligent inquirer into literary history,
Oldys, the same assertion is advanced. Charles Lamb, who speaks of this play with a
warmth of admiration which is probably carried a little too far and which, indeed, may in
some degree be attributed to his familiarity with the quiet rural scenery of Enfield, Walt-
ham, Cheshunt, and Edmonton, in which places the story is laid says, " I wish it could
be ascertained that Michael Dray ton was the author of this piece : it would add a worthy
appendage to the renown of that panegyrist of my native earth ; who has gone over her
soil (in his Polyolbion) with the fidelity of a herald, and the painful love of a son ; who
has not left a rivulet (so narrow that it may be stepped over) without honourable mention ;
and has animated hills and streams with life and passion above the dreams of old mytho-
logy."* 'The Merry Devil' was undoubtedly a play of great popularity. We find
from the account-books of the Revels at Court, that it was acted before the King in the
same year, 1618, with Twelfth Niglxt and A Winter's Tale. In 1616, Ben Jonson, in
his Prologue to ' The Devil is an Ass,' thus addresses his audience :
" If you '11 come
To see new plays, pray you afford us room,
And show this but the same face you have done
Your dear delight, The Devil of Edmonton."
Its popularity seems to have lasted much longer; for it is mentioned by Edmund
Gayton, in 1654, in his ' Notes on Bou Quixote.' t The belief that the play was Shak-
spere's has never taken any root in England. Some of the German critics, however,
adopt it as his without any hesitation. Tieck has translated it ; and he says that it
undoubtedly is by Shakspere, and must have been written about 1600. It has much of
the tone, he thinks, of The Merry Wives of Windsor, and " mine host of the George "
and " mine host of the Garter " are alike. It is surprising that Tieck does not see that the
one character is, in a great degree, an imitation of the other. Shakspere, in the abund-
ance of his riches, is not a poet who repeats himself. Horn declares that Shakspere's
authorship of ' The Merry Devil ' is incontestable. Ulrici admits the bare possibility of
its being a very youthful work of Shakspere's. The great merit, on the contrary, of the
best scenes of this play consists in their perfect finish. There is nothing careless about
them ; nothing that betrays the very young adventurer ; the writer is a master of his
art to the extent of his power. But that is not Shakspere's power.
Fuller, in his ' Worthies,' thus records the merits of Peter Fabel, the hero of this play :
" I shall probably offend the gravity of some to insert, and certainly curiosity of others
to omit, him. Some make him a friar, others a lay gentleman, all a conceited person, who,
with his merry devices, deceived the Devil, who by grace may be resisted, not deceived
by wit. If a grave bishop in his sermon, speaking of Brute's coming into this land,
said it was but a bruit, I hope I may say without offence that this Fabel was but a fable,
supposed to live in the reign of King Henry the Sixth." His fame is more confidingly
recorded in the Prologue to ' The Merry Devil : '
" 'T is Peter Fabel, a renowned scholar,
Whose fame hath still been hitherto forgot
By all the writers of this latter age.
In Middlesex his birth and his abode,
* Specimens of English Dramatic Poets.
+ Collier's 'Annals of the Stage,' vol. iii. p. 417.
816
THE MERRY DEVIL OF EDMONTON.
Not full seven miles from this great famous city;
That, for his fame in sleights and magic won,
Was call'd the Merry Fiend of Edmonton.
If any here make doubt of such a name,
In Edmonton, yet fresh unto this day,
Fix'd in the wall of that old ancient church,
His monument remaineth to be seen ;
His memory yet in the mouths of men,
That whilst he liv'd he could deceive the devil."
The Prologue goes on to suppose him at Cambridge at the hour when the term of
his compact with the fiend is run out. We are not here to look for the terrible
solemnity of the similar scene in Marlowe's Faustus ; ' but, nevertheless, that before ua
is written with great poetical power. Coreb, the spirit, thus addresses the magician :
" Coreb. Why, scholar, this is the hour my date expires ;
I must depart, and come to claim my due.
Fdbel. Hah ! what is thy due 1
Coreb. Fabel, thyself.
Fabel. let not darkness hear thee speak that word
Lest that with force it hurry hence amain,
And leave the world to look upon my woe :
Yet overwhelm me with this globe of earth,
And let a little sparrow with her bill
Take but so much as she can bear away,
That, every day thus losing of my load,
I may again, in time, yet hope to rise."
While the fiend sits down in the necromantic chair Fabel thus soliloquizes :
" Fabel. that this soul, that cost so dear a price
As the dear precious blood of her Kedeemer,
Inspir'd with knowledge, should by that alone,
Which makes a man so mean unto the powers,
Ev'n lead him down into the depth of hell ;
When men in their own praise strive to know more
Than man should know 1
For this alone God cast the angels down.
The infinity of arts is like a sea,
Into which when man will take in hand to sail
Farther than reason (which should be his pilot)
Hath skill to guide him, losing once his compass,
He falleth to such deep and dangerous whirlpools,
As he doth lose the very sight of heaven :
The more he strives to come to quiet harbour,
The farther still he finds himself from land.
Man, striving still to find the depth of evil,
Seeking to be a God, becomes a deviL"
But the magician has tricked the fiend ; the chair holds him fast, and the condition of
release is a respite for seven years. The supernatural part of the play may be said here
to end ; for although throughout the latter scenes there are some odd mistakes produced by
the devices of Fabel, they are such as might have been accomplished by human agency,
and in fact appear to have been so accomplished. Tieck, observes, " It is quite in Shak-
spere's manner that the magical part becomes nearly superfluous." This, as it appears
to us, is not in Shakspere's manner. In Hamlet, in Macbeth, in the Midsummer-
Night's Dream, in The Tempest, the magical or supernatural part is so intimately allied
with the whole action that it impels the entire movement of the piece. Shakspere knew
too well the soundness of the Horatian maxim,
" Nee Deus intorsit nisi dignus viudice nodus,"
317
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPLRE.
to produce a ghost, a witch, or a fairy, without necessity. However, the magical part
here finishes ; and we are introduced to the society of no equivocal mortal, the host of
the George, at Waltham. Sir Arthur Clare, his wife Dorcas, his daughter Millisent, and
his son Harry, arrive at the inn, where the host says, " Knights and lords have been
drunk in my house, I thank the destinies." This company have arrived at the George to
meet Sir Richard Mounchensey, and his son Raymond, to whom Millisent is betrothed ;
but old Clare informs his wife that he is resolved to break off the match, to send his
daughter for a year to a nunnery, and then to bestow her upon the son of Sir Ralph
Jerningham. Old Mounchensey, it seems, has fallen upon evil days :
" Clare. For look you, wife, the riotous old knight
Hath overrun his annual revemie,
In keeping jolly Christmas all the year :
The nostrils of his chimneys are still stuff* d
With smoke more chargeable than cane-tobacco ;
His hawks devour his fattest hogs, whilst simple,
Hia leanest curs eat his hounds' carrion.
Besides, I heard of late his younger brother,
A Turkey -merchant, hath sure suck'd the knight,
By means of some great losses on the sea ;
That (you conceive me) before God, all's nought,
His seat is weak ; thus, each thing rightly scann'd,
You'll see a flight, wife, shortly of his land."
Pabel, the kind magician, who has been the tutor to Raymond, arrives at the same time
with the Mounchensey party. He knows the plots against his young friend, and he is
determined to circumvent them :
" Raymond Mounchensey, boy, have thou and I
Thus long at Cambridge read the liberal arts,
The metaphysics, magic, and those parts
Of the most secret deep philosophy ?
Have I so many melancholy nights
Watch'd on the top of Peter-house highest tower,
And come we back unto our native home,
For want of skill to lose the wench thou lov'st ?
We'll first hang Envil* in such rings of mist
As never rose from any dampish fen ;
I'll make the brined sea to rise at Ware,
And drown the marshes unto Stratford-bridge :
I'll drive the deer from Waltham in their walks,
And scatter them, like sheep, in every field.
We may perhaps be cross'd ; but if we be,
He shall cross the devil that but crosses me."
Harry Clare, Ralph Jerningham, and Raymond Mounchensey, are strict friends ; and
there is something exceedingly delightful in the manner in which Raymond throws
away all suspicion, and the others resolve to stand by their friend whatever be the
intrigues of their parents :
" Jern. Raymond Mounchensey, now I touch thy grief
With the true feeling of a zealous friend.
And as for fair and beauteous Millisent,
With my vain breath I will not seek to slubber
Her angel-like perfections : but thou know'st
That Essex hath the saint that I adore :
Where'er did'st meet me, that we two were jovial,
But like a wag thou hast not laugh' d at me,
Envil Enfield.
818
THE MERRY DEVIL OF EDMONTON.
Aud with regardless jesting mock'd my love t
How many a sad and weary summer's night
My sighs have drunk the dew from off the earth,
And I have taught the nightingale to wake,
And from the meadows sprung the early lark
An hour before she should have list to sing :
I have loaded the poor minutes with my moans,
That I have made the heavy slow-pac'd hours
To hang like heavy clogs upon the day.
But, dear Mounchensey, had not my affection
Seiz"d on the beauty of another dame,
Before I'd wrong the chase, and leave the love
Of one so worthy, and so true a friend,
I will abjure both beauty and her sight,
And will in love become a counterfeit.
Moun. Dear Jerningham, thou hast begot my life,
And from the mouth of hell, where now I sate,
I feel my spirit rebound against the stars ;
Thou hast conquer'd me, dear friend, in my free soul,
There time, nor death, can by their power control.
Fabel. Frank Jerningham, thou art a gallant boj ;
And were he not my pupil, I would say,
He were as fine a metall'd gentleman,
Of as free spirit, and of as fine a temper,
As is in England ; and he is a man
That very richly may deserve thy love.
But, noble Clare, this while of our discourse,
What may Mounchensey's honour to thyself
Exact upon the measure of thy grace ?
Young Clare. Raymond Mounchensey, I would have the know.
He does not breathe this air, whose love I cherish,
And whose soul I love, more than Mounchensey's :
Nor ever in my life did see the man
Whom, for his wit and many virtuous parts,
I think more worthy of my sister's love.
But since the matter grows unto this pass,
I must not seem to cross my father's will ;
But when thou list to visit her by night,
My horse is saddled, and the stable door
Stands ready for thee ; use them at thy pleasure.
In honest marriage wed her frankly, boy,
And if thou gett'st her, lad, God give thee joy.
Moun. Then, care away ! let fate my fall pretend,
Back'd with the favours of so true a friend."
Charles Lamb, who gives the whole of this scene in his ' Specimens,' speaks of it
rapturously: " This scene has much of Shakspeare's manner in the sweetness and
good-natureduess of it. It seems written to make the reader happy. Few of our
dramatists or novelists have attended enough to this. They torture and wound us
abundantly. They are economists only in delight. Nothing can be finer, more
gentlemanlike, and noble, than the conversation and compliments of these young men.
How delicious is Raymond Mouncheusey's forgetting, in his fears, that Jerningham haa
a 'saint in Essex;' and how sweetly his friend reminds him!"
The ancient plotters, Clare and Jerningham, are drawn as very politic but not over-
wise fathers. There is, however, very little that is harsh or revolting in their natures.
They put out their feelers of worldly cunning timidly, and they draw them in with con-
iderable apprehension when they see danger and difficulty before them. All this is iu
819
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
harmony with the thorough good-humour of the whole drama. The only person who is
angry is old Mounchensey :
" Clare. I do not hold thy offer competent ;
Nor do I like the assurance of thy land,
The title is so brangled with thy debts.
Old Mown, Too good for thee : and, knight, thou know'st it well,
I fawn'd not on thee for thy goods, not I,
'T was thine own motion ; that thy wife doth know.
Lady Clare. Husband, it was so ; he lies not in that.
Clare. Hold thy chat, quean.
Old Mown. To which I harken'd willingly, and the rather,
Because I was persuaded it proceeded
From love thou bor'st to me and to my boy ;
And gav'st him free access unto thy house,
Where he hath not behaVd him to thy child
But as befits a gentleman to do ;
Nor is my poor distressed state so low
That I '11 shut up my doors, I warrant thee.
Claire. Let it suffice, Mounchensey, I mislike it ;
Nor think thy son a match fit for my child.
Old Mown. I tell thee, Clare, his blood is good and clear
As the best drop that panteth in thy veins ;
But for this maid, thy fair and virtuous child,
She is no more disparag'd by thy baseness,
Than the most orient and the precious jewel,
Which still retains his lustre and his beauty,
Although a slave were owner of the same."
For his "frantic and untamed passion" Fabel reproves him. The comic scenes which
now occur are exceedingly lively. If the wit is not of the highest order, there is real fun
and very little coarseness. We are thrown into the midst of a jolly set, stealers of venison
in Enfield Chase, of whom the leader is Sir John, the priest of Enfield. His humour
consists of applying a somewhat pious sentence upon every occasion " Hem, grass and
hay we are all mortal let's live till we die, and be merry, and there's an end." Mine
host of the George is an associate of this goodly fraternity. The comedy is not over-
loaded, and is very judiciously brought in to the relief of the main action. We have
next the introduction of Millisent to the Prioress of Cheston (Cheshunt) :
" Lady Clare. Madam,
The love unto this holy sisterhood,
And our confirm'd opinion of your zeal,
Hath truly won us to bestow our child
Rather on this than any neighbouring cell.
Prioress. Jesus' daughter ! Mary's child !
Holy matron ! woman mild !
For thee a mass shall still be said,
Every sister drop a bead ;
And those again succeeding them
For you shall sing a requiem.
Sir Arthur. Madam, for a twelvemonth's approbation,
We mean to make this trial of our child.
Your care, and our dear blessing, in mean time,
We pray may prosper this intended work.
Prioress. May your happy soul be blithe,
That so truly pay your tithe :
He that many children gave,
'T is fit that he one child should have.
320
THE MERRY DEVIL OF EDMONTON.
Then, fair virgin, hear my spell,
For I must your duty tell.
Millisent. Good men and true, stand together,
And hear your charge.
Prioress. First, a mornings take your book,
The glass wherein yourself must look ;
Your young thoughts, so proud and jolly,
Must be turn'd to motions holy ;
For your busk attires, and toys,
Have your thoughts on heavenly joys :
And for all your follies past,
You must do penance, pray, and fast.
You must read the morning mass,
You must creep unto the cross,
Put cold ashes on your head,
Have a hair-cloth for your bed.
Bind your beads, and tell your needs,
Your holy aves, and your creeds :
Holy maid, this must be done,
If you mean to live a nun."
The sweetness of some of these lines argues the practised poet. Indeed the whole play
K remarkable for its elegance rather than its force ; and it appears to us exactly such a
performance as was within the range of Drayton's powers. The device of Fabel pro-
ceeds, in the appearance of Raymond Mounchensey disguised as a friar. Sir Arthur Clare
has disclosed to him all his projects. The "holy young novice" proceeds to the priory as
a visitor sent from Waltham House to ascertain whether Millisent is about to take the veil
'from conscience and devotion." The device succeeds, and the lovers are left together:
" Moun. Life of my soul ! bright angel !
Millisent. What means the friar ?
Moun. Millisent ! 't is I.
Millisent. My heart misgives me ; I should know that voice.
You ? who are you? the holy Virgin bless me !
Tell me your name ; you shall ere you confess me,
Moun. Mounchensey, thy true friend.
Millisent. My Raymond ! my dear heart !
Sweet life, give leave to my distracted soul
To wake a little from this swoon of joy.
By what means cam'st thou to assume this shape f
Moun. By means of Peter Fabel, my kind tutor,
Who, in the habit of friar Hildersham,
Frank Jerningham's old friend and confessor,
Plotted by Frank, by Fabel, and myself,
And so deliver'd to Sir Arthur Clare,
Who brought me here unto the abbey-gate,
To be his nun-made daughter's visitor.
Millisent. You are all sweet traitors to my poor old father.
my dear life, I was a dream'd to-night,
That, as I was praying in my psalter,
There came a spirit unto me, as I kneel'd,
And by his strong persuasions tempted me
To leave this nunnery : and methought
He came in the most glorious angel shape
That mortal eye did ever look upon.
Ha ! thou art sure that spirit, for there's no form
Is in mine eye so glorious as thine own.
Mo\m. thou idolatress, that dost this worship
To him whose likeness is but praise of thee 1
SUP. VOL. Y 821
PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPERE.
Thou bright unsetting star, which, through this veil,
For very envy mak'st the sun look pale.
Millisent. Well, visitor, lest that perhaps my mother
Should think the friar too strict in his decrees,
I this confess to my sweet ghostly father ;
If chaste pure love be sin, I must confess,
I have offended three years now with thee.
Moun. But do you yet repent you of the same ?
Millisent. I' faith I cannot.
Moun. Nor will I absolve thee
Of that sweet sin, though it be venial :
Yet have the penance of a thousand kisses ;
And I enjoin you to this pilgrimage :
That in the evening you bestow yourself
Here in the walk near to the willow -ground,
Where I '11 be ready both with men and horse
To wait your coming, and convey you hence
Unto a lodge I have in Enfield Chase :
No more reply if that you yield consent :
I see more eyes upon our stay are bent.
Millisent. Sweet life, farewell ! 't is done, let that suffice ;
What my tongue fails, I send thee by mine eyes."
The votaress is carried off by her brother and Jerningham ; but in the darkness of the
night they lose their way, and encounter the deer-stealers and the keepers. A friendly
forester, however, assists them, and they reach Enfield in safety. Not so fortunate are
Sir Arthur and Sir Ralph, who are in pursuit of the unwilling nun. They are roughly
treated by the keepers, and, after a night of toil, find a resting-place at Waltham. The
priest and his companions are terrified by their encounters in the Chase : the lady in
white, who has been hiding from them, is taken for a spirit ; and the sexton has seen a
vision in the church- porch. The morning however arrives, and we see " Sir Arthur Clare
and Sir Ralph Jerningham trussing their points, as newly up." They had made good their
retreat, as they fancied, to the inn of mine host of the George, but the merry devil of
Edmonton had set the host and the smith to change the sign of the house with that
of another inn ; and at the real George tha lovers were being happily married by the
venison-stealing priest, in the company of their faithful friends. Sir Arthur and Sir
Ralph are, of course, very angry when the truth is made known ; but reconcilement and
peace are soon accomplished :
" Fabel. To end this difference, know, at first I knew
What you intended, ere your love took flight
From old Mounchensey : you, sir Arthur Clare,
Were minded to have married this sweet beauty
To young Frank Jerningham. To cross this match
I us'd some pretty sleights, but, I protest,
Such as but sat upon the skirts of art ;
No conjurations, nor such weighty spells
As tie the soul to their performancy ;
These, for his love who once was my dear pupil,
Have I effected. Now, methinks, 't is strange
That you, being old in wisdom, should thus knit
Your forehead on this match ; since reason faik,
No law can curb the lover's rash attempt ;
Years, in resisting this, are sadly spent :
Smile then upon your daughter and kind son,
And let our toil to future ages prove,
The Devil of Edmonton did good in love.
322
THE MERRY DEVIL OF EDMONTON.
Sir Arthur. Well, 't is in vain to cross the providence :
Dear son, I take thee up into my heart ;
Rise, daughter, this is a kind father's part.
Host. Why, sir George, send for Spindle's noise presently :
Ha ! ere 't be night I '11 serve the good duke of Norfolk.
Sir John. Grass and hay, mine host ; let 's live till we die,
and be merry, and there 's an end."
We lament with Tieck that the continuation of the career of ' the merry devil ' is
possibly lost. We imagine that we should have seen him expiating his fault by doing as
much good to his fellow mortals as he could accomplish without the aid of necromancy.
Old Weever, in his ' Funeral Monuments,' has no great faith in his art magic : " Here
(at Edmonton) lieth interred under a seemelie Tome, without Inscription, the Body of
Peter Fabell (as the report goes) upon whom this Fable was fathered, that he by his
wittie devises beguiled the devill : belike he was some ingenious conceited gentleman,
who did use some sleighty trickes for his owne disports. He lived and died in the raigne
of Henry the Seventh, saith the booke of his merry pranks."
END OF THE ASCRIBED PLAYS.
APPENDIX.
i.
DEDICATION, ADDRESS, AND COMMENDATORY VERSES,
PREFIXED TO THE EDITIONS OF 1623 AND 1632.
II.
A HISTORY OF OPINION ON THE WRITINGS OF
SHAKSPERE.
I.
DEDICATION, ADDEESS, AND COMMENDATOEY
VEESES.
DEDICATION TO THE FIRST EDITION.
To the Most Noble and incomparable pair of Bre-
thren, William Earl of Pembroke, &c., Lord
Chamberlain to the King's most excellent Ma-
jesty, and Philip Earl of Montgomery, &c.,
Gentlemen of his Majesty's Bedchamber ;
both Knights of the most noble Order of the
Garter, and our singular good Lords.
RIGHT HOSOUBABLE,
WHILST we study to be thankful in our par-
ticular for the many favours we have received from
your LL., we are fallen upon the ill fortune to
mingle two the most diverse things that can be
fear, and rashness, rashness hi the enterprise, and
fear of the success. For when we value the places
your HH. sustain, we cannot but know then- dig-
nity greater than to descend to the reading of these
trifles : and while we name them trifles we have
deprived ourselves of the defence of our Dedica-
tion. But, since your LL. have been pleased to
think these trifles something heretofore, and have
prosecuted both them and their author living with
so much favour ? we hope that (they outliving him,
and he not having the fate, common with some, to
be executor to his own writings) you will use the
like indulgence toward them you have done unto
their parent. There is a great difference whether
any book choose his patrons or find them ; this hath
done both. For so much were your LL. likings of
the several parts when they were acted, as before
they were published the volume asked to be yours.
We have but collected them, and done an omce to
the dead to procure his orphans guardians, with-
out ambition either of self-profit or fame, only to
keep the memory of so worthy a friend and fellow
alive as was our Shakespeare, by humble offer of
his plays to your most noble patronage. Wherein,
as we have justly observed no man to come near
your LL. but with a kind of religious address, it
nath been the height of our care, who are the pre-
senters, to make the present worthy of your HH.
by the perfection. But. there, we must also crave
our abilities to be considered, my Lords. We can-
not go beyond our own powers. Country hands
reach forth milk, cream, fruits, or what they have ;
and many nation (we have heard) that had not
gums and incense, obtained their requests with a
leavened cake. It was no fault to approach their
by what means they could ; and the most,
though meanest, of things are made more precious
when they are dedicated to temples. In that
name, therefore, we most humbly consecrate to
your HH. these remains of your servant Shake-
speare ; that what delight is in them may be ever
your LL., the reputation his ? and the iaults ours,
if any be committed by a pair so careful to show
then- gratitude both to the living and the dead, as is
Your Lordships' most bounden,
JOHN HEMINGE,
HENBY CONDELL.
ADDRESS
TO THE GREAT VARIETY OF READERS.
FROM the most able to him that can but spell ;
there you are numbered. We had rather you were
weighed. Especially when the fate of all books
depends upon your capacities, and not of your
heads alone, but of your purses. Well ! it is now
public, and you will stand for your privileges we
know to read and censure. Do so, but buy it
first. That doth best commend a book, the .sta-
tioner says. Then, how odd soever your brains be,
or your wisdoms, make your licence the same, and
spare not. Judge your six-pen'orth, your shilling's
worth, your five shillings worth at a time, or
higher, so you rise to the just rates, and welcome.
But, whatever you do, buy. Censure will not drive
a trade, or make the jack go. And though you be
a magistrate of wit, and sit on the stage at lilack-
friars or the Cockpit to arraign plays daily, know
these plays have had their trial already, and stood
out all appeals, and do now come forth quitted
rather by a decree of court than any purchased
letters of commendation.
It had been a thing, we confess, worthy to have
been wished, that the author himself had lived to
have set forth and overseen his own writings. But
since it had been ordained otherwise, and he by
death departed from that right, we pray you do not
envy his friends the office of their care and pain to
have collected and published them ; and so to have
published them as where (before) you were abused
with divers stolen.and surreptitious copies, maimed
and deformed by the frauds and stealths of injurious
impostors that exposed them : even those are now
offered to your view cured, and perfect of their
limbs: and all the rest absolute in their numbers,
327
COMMENDATORY VERSES.
as he conceived them. Who, as he was a happy
imitator of nature, was a most gentle expresser of
it. His mind and hand went together ; and what
he thought, he uttered with that easiness that we
have scarce received from him a blot in his papers.
But it is not our province, who only gatner his
works, and give them you, to praise him. It is
yours, that read him. And there we hope, to your
divers capacities, you will rind enough both to
draw and hold you : for his wit can no more lie
hid than it could be lost. Read him, therefore ;
and again, and again: And if then you do not
like him, surely you are in some manifest danger
not to understand him. And so we leave you to
other of his friends, whom if you need can be
your guides ; if you need them not, you can lead
yourselves and others. And such readers we wish
him.
JOHN HEMINGE,
HENBY CONDELL.
COMMENDATORY VERSES.
TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED, THE AUTHOR,
MR. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,
AND WHAT HE HATH LEFT US.
To draw no envy (Shakespeare) on thy name,
Am I thus ample to thy book and feme :
While I confess thy writings to be such
As neither man nor muse can praise too much.
'T is true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways
Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise :
For seeliest ignorance on these may fight,
Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right ;
Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance
The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance ;
Or crafty malice might pretend this praise,
And think to ruin where it seem'd to raise.
These are, as some infamous bawd or whore
Should praise a matron ; what could hurt her more ?
But thou art proof against them, and indeed
Above th' ill fortune of them, or the need.
I therefore will begin. Soul of the age !
The applause ! delight ! the wonder of our stage !
My Shakespeare, rise ! I will not lodge thee by
Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie
A little further to make thee a room :
Thou art a monument without a tomb,
And art ah' ve still while thy book doth live,
And we have wits to read, and praise to give.
That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses,
I mean with great, but disproportion'd muses :
For if I thought my judgment were of years,
I should commit thee surely with thy peers.
And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine,
Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line.
And though thou hadst small Lathi and less Greek,
From thence to honour thee I would not seek
For names ; but call forth thund'riiig ^Eschylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles to us,
Paccuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,
To life again, to hear thy buskin tread
And shake a gtage. Or, when thy socks were r,?.,
Leave thee alone for the comparison
228
Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome
Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.
Triumph, my Britain ! thou hast one to show
To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe !
He was not of an age, but for all time !
And all the Muses still were in then- prime,
When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm
Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm !
Nature herself was proud of his designs,
* And joy"d to wear the dressing of his lines !
Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit,
As since she will vouchsafe no other wit.
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please>
But antiquated and deserted lie,
As they were not of Nature's family.
Yet must I not give Nature all : thy art,
My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part.
For though the poet's matter nature be,
His art doth give the fashion : and that he
Who casts to write a living line must sweat
(Such as thine are), and strike the second heat
Upon the Muses' anvil : turn the same
(And himself with it) that he thinks to frame ;
Or, for the laurel he may gain a scorn,
For a good poet's made as well as born :
And such wert thou. Look how the father's face
Lives in his issue ; even so the race
Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly shines
In his well-torned and true-filed lines :
In each of which he seems to shake a lance,
As brandish'd at the eyes of ignorance.
Sweet Swan of Avon ! what a sight it were
To see thee in our waters yet appear,
And make those flights upon the banks of Thames
That so did take Eliza and our James !
But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere
Advanc'd, and made a constellation there !
Shine forth, thou star of poets, and with rage,
Or influence, chide or cheer the drooping stage ;
Whick since thy flight from hence hath mourn'd
like night,
And despairs day, but for thy volume's light.
BEN JONSON.
UPON THE LINES AND LIFE OF THE FAMOUS
SCENIC POET,
MASTER WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
THOSE hands, which you so clapp'd, go now and
wring,
You Britons brave, for done are Shakespeare's
His days are done that made the dainty plays
Which make the globe of heav'n and earth to rung.
Dried is that vein, dried is the Thespian spring,
Turn'd all to tears, and Phoebus clouds his rays :
That corpse, that coffin now bestick those bays
Which crpwn'd him poet first, then poets' king.
If tragedies might any prologue have
All those he made would scarce make one to this
Where fame, now that he gone is to the grave
(Death's public tiring-house), the Nuncius is ;
For though his Mne of life went soon about,
The life yet of his lilies shall never out.
HUGH HOLLAND.
COMMENDATORY VERSES.
TO THE MEMORY OP THE DECEASED AUTHOR.,
MASTER W. SHAKESPEARE.
SHAKESPEARE, at length thy pious fellows give
The world thy works : thy works, by which outlive
Thy tomb, thy name must. When that stone is rent,
And time dissolves thy Stratford monument,
Here we alive shall view thee still. This boo*,
When brass and marble fade, shall make thee look
Fresh to all ages ; when posterity
Shall loath wkat'a new, think all is prodigy
That is not Shakespeare's, every line, each verse,
Here shall revive, redeem thee from thy hearse.
Nor fire, nor cankering age, as Naso said
Of his, thy wit-fraught book shall once invade.
Nor shall I e'er believe or think thee dead
(Though miss'd) until our bankrout stage be sped
(Impossible) with some new strain to outdo
Passions of Juliet and her Romeo ;
Or till I hear a scene more nobly take
Than when thy half-sword parleying Romans spake.
Till these, till any of thy volumes rest,
Shall with more fire, more feeling, be express'd,
Be sure, our Shakespeare, thou canst never die,
But, crown'd with laurel, live eternally.
L. DIGGES.
TO THE MEMORY OF M. W. SHAKESPEARE.
WE wonder"d (Shakespeare) that thou went'st so
soon
From the world's stage to the grave's thing-room.
We thought thee dead, but this, thy printed worth,
Tells thy spectators that thou went'st but forth
To enter with applause. An actor's art
Can die. and live to act a second part.
That's but an exit of mortality ;
This, a re-entrance to a plaudite.
I. M.
UPON THE EFFIGIES OF MY WORTHY FRIEND,
THE AUTHOR,
MASTER WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,
AND HIS WORKS.
SPECTATOR, this life's shadow is, to see
The truer image, and a livelier he.
Turn, reader. But, observe his comic vein,
Laugh, and proceed next to a tragic strain,
Then weep ; so when thou find'st two contraries,
Two different passions from thy rapt soul rise,
Say (who alone effect such wonders could)
Rare Shakespeare to the life thou dost behold.
AN EPITAPH ON THE ADMIRABLE DRAMATIC
POET, W. SHAKESPEARE.-
WHAT need my Shakespeare for his honour'd bones
The labour of an age in piled stones,
Or that his hallow'd relics should be hid
Under a star-ypointing pyramid?
Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,
What need'st thou such dull witness of thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Has built thyself a lasting monument :
For whilst, to th' shame of slow-endeavouring art,
Thy easy numbers flow, and that each part
* This epitaph of Milton, and the succeeding poem, be-
long to the second folio, of 1532.
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took,
Then thou, our fancy of herself bereaving,
Dost make us marble with too much conceiving,
And so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie,
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.
ON WORTHY MASTER SHAKESPEARE
AND HIS POEMS.
A MIND reflecting ages past, whose clear
And equal surface can make things appear
Distant a thousand years, and represent
Them in their lively colours' just extent :
To outrun hasty time, retrieve the fates,
Roll back the heavens, blow ope the iron gates
Of death and Lethe, where, confused, lie
Great heaps of ruinous mortality :
In this deep dusky dungeon to discern
A royal ghost from churls ; by art to learn
The physiognomy of shades, and give
Them sudden birth, wond'ring how oft they live ;
What story coldly tells, what poets feign
At second hand, and picture without brain
Senseless and soulless shows : To give a stage
(Ample and true with life) voice, action, age,
As Plato's year and new scene of the world,
Them unto us, or us to them had hurl'd :
To raise our ancient sovereigns from their hearse,
Make kings his subjects, by exchanging verse ;
Enlive their pale trunks, that the present age
Joys in their joy, and trembles at their rage :
Yet so to temper passion, that our ears
Take pleasure in their pain : and eyes in tears
Both weep and smile ; fearful at plots so sad,
Then laughing at our fear ; abus'd, and glad
To be abus'd, affected with that truth
Which we perceive is false ; pleas' d hi that ruth
At which we start ; and by elaborate play
Tortufd and tickled ; by a crablike way
Time past made pastime, and in ugly sort
Disgorging up his ravine for our sport :
While tne Plebeian Imp, from lofty throne,
Creates and rules a world, and works upon
Mankind by secret engines ; now to move
A chilling pity, then a rigorous love:
To strike up and stroke down both joy and ire ;
To steer tlr affections ; and by heavenly fire
Mould us anew. Stolen from ourselves
This and much more which cannot be express'd
But by himself, his tongue, and. his own breast,
Was Shakespeare's freehold, which his cunning
brain
Improv'd by favour of the ninefold train.
The buskin'd Muse, the Comic Queen, the grand
And louder tone of Clio ; nimble hand,
And nimbler foot, of the melodious pair ;
The silver-voiced Lady ; the most fair
Calliope, whose speaking silence daunts,
And she whose praise the heavenly body chants.
These jointly woo'd him, envying one another
(Obey'd by all as spouse, but lord as brother),
And wrought a curious robe of sable grave,
Fresh green, and pleasant yellow, rea most brave,
And constant blue, rich purple, guiltless white,
The lowly russet, and the scarlet bright ;
Branch' d and embroidered like the painted spring,
Tach leaf match' d with a flower, and each string
Of golden wire, each line of silk ; there run
Italian works whose thread the sisters spun ;
329
COMMENDATORY VERSES
And there did sing, or seem to sing, the choice
Birds of a foreign note and various voice.
Here hangs a mossy rock ; there plays a fair
But chiding fountain purled : not the air,
Nor clouds, nor thunder, but were living drawn,
Not out of common tiffany or lawn,
But fine materials, which the Muses know,
And only know the countries where they grow.
Now when they could no longer him enjoy,
In mortal garments pent ; death may destroy,
They say, his body, but his verse shall live.
And more than nature takes, our hands shall give :
In a less volume, but more strongly bound.
Shakespeare shall breathe and speak, with laurel
crown' d
Which never fades. Fed with Ambrosian meat
In a well-lined vesture rich and neat.
So with this robe they clothe him, bid him wear it,
For time shall never stain, nor envy tear it.
The friendly admirer of his endowments,
I. M. S.
THE NAMES OF THE PRINCIPAL ACTORS IS
ALL THESE PLAYS.
William Shakespeare.
Richard Burbage.
John Hemminge.
Augustine Phillips
William Kempt.
Thomas Poope.
George Bryan.
Henry CondelL
William Slye.
Richard Cowly.
John Lowine.
Samuel Crosse.
Alexander Cooke.
Samuel Gilburne.
Robert Armin.
William Ostler.
Nathan Field.
John Underwood.
Nicholas Tooley.
William Ecclestone,
Joseph Taylor.
Robert Eenfield.
Robert Goughe.
Richard Robinson,
John Shancke.
John Rice.
A HISTORY OF OPINION
ON THB
WETTINGS OF SHAKSPERE,
THE rank as a writer which Shakspere took
amongst his contemporaries is determined by a
few decided notices of him. These notices are as
ample and as frequent as can be looked for in an
age which had no critical records, and when
writers, therefore, almost went out of their way to
refer to their literary contemporaries, except for
purposes of set compliment. We believe that, as
early as 1591, Spenser called attention to Shak-
spere, as
" the man whom Nature self had made
To mock herself, and Truth to imitate ;"
describing him also as
" that same gentle spirit, from whose pen
Large streams of honey and sweet nectar flow."*
We know that the envy of Greene, in 1592,
pointed at him as "an absolute Johannes fac-
totum, in his own conceit the only Shake-scene in
a country ;" and we receive this bitterness of the
unfortunate dramatist against his more successful
rival as a tribute to his power and his popularity.
We consider that the apology of Chettle, who had
edited the posthumous work of Greene containing
this effusion of spite, was an acknowledgment of
the established opinion of Shakspere's excellence
as an author : " Divers of worship have reported
his uprightness of dealing, which argues his ho-
nesty, and his facetious grace in writing, that
approves his art." This was printed hi 1592, and
yet the man who had won this reluctant testimony
to his art, by " his facetious grace in writing," is
held by modem authorities to have then been only
a botcher of other men's works, as if " facetious
grace " were an expression that did not most hap-
pily mark the quality by which Shakspere was
then most eminently distinguished above all his
See Note A.
contemporaries, his comic power, his ability
above all others to produce
" Fine Counterfesance, and unhurtful Sport,
Delight, and Laughter, deck'd in seemly sort."
But passages such as these, which it is morally im-
possible to apply to any other man '.than Shakspere,
are still only indirect evidence of the opinion
which was formed of him when he was yet a very
young writer. But a few years later we encounter
the most direct testimony to his pre-eminence. He
it was that in 1598 was assigned his rank, not by
any vague and doubtful compliment, not with any
ignorance of what had been achieved by other
men ancient and modern, but by the learned dis-
crimination of a scholar ; and 'that rank was with
Homer, Hesiod, Euripides, JSschylus, Sophocles,
Pindar, Phocylides, and Aristophanes amongst
the Greeks ; Virgil, Ovid, Horace, Silius-Italicus,
Lucan, Lucretius, Ausonius, and Claudian amongst
the Lathis ; and Sidney, Spenser, Daniel, Drayton,
Warner, Marlowe, and Chapman amongst the
English, According to the same authority, it was
" hi mellifluous and honey-tongued Shakspeare "
that " the sweet witty soul of Ovid lives." This
praise was applied to his Venus and Adonis, and
other poems. But, for his dramas, he is raised
above every native contemporary and predecessor :
" As Plautus and Seneca are accounted the best
for Comedy and Tragedy among the Latins ; so
Shakspeare among the English is the most excellent
in both kinds for the stage." These are extracts
with which many of our readers must be familiar.
They are from 'The Wits' Commonwealth' of
Francis Meres, " Master of Arts of both Universi-
ties;" a book largely circulated, and mentioned
with applause by contemporary writers. The au-
thor delivers not these sentences as his own pecu-
liar opinion ; he speaks unhesitatingly, as of a fact
admitting no doubt, that Shakspere, among the
881
A HISTORY OF OPINION
English, is the most excellent for Comedy and
Tragedy. Does any one of the other " excellent"
dramatic writers of that day rise up to dispute the
assertion, galling perhaps to the self-love of some
amongst them ? Not a voice is heard to tell Fran-
cis Meres that he has overstated the public opinion
of the supremacy of Shakspere. Thomas Hey-
wood, one of this illustrious band, speaks of Meres
as an approved good scholar ; and says that his ac-
count of authors is learnedly done.* Heywood
himself, indeed, in lines written long after Shak-
spere's death, mentions him in stronger terms of
praise than he applies to any of his contempora-
ries.t Lastly, Meres, after other comparisons of
Shakspere with the great writers of antiquity and
of his own time, has these words, which nothing
but a complete reliance upon the received opinion
of his day could have warranted him in applying
to any living man : " As Epius Stolo said that the
Muses would speak with Hautus' tongue, if they
would speak Latin ; so I say that the Muses would
speak with Shakespeare's fine filed phrase, if they
would speak English."
Of the popularity of Shakspere in his own day
the external evidence, such as it is, is more decisive
than the testimony of any contemporary writer. He
was at one and the same time the favourite of the
people and of the Court. There is no record what-
ever known to exist of the public performances of
Shakspere's plays at his own theatres. Had such
an account existed of the receipts at the Blackfriars
and the Globe as Henslowe kept for his company,
we should have known something precise of that
popularity which was so extensive as to make the
innkeeper of Bosworth, " full of ale and history,"
derive his knowledge from the stage of Shak-
spere :
" For when he would have said, King Richard
died,
And call'd, A horse, a horse! he Burbage cried." t
But the facts connected with the original publica-
tion of Shakspere's plays sufficiently prove how
eagerly they were for the most part received by the
readers of the drama. From 1597 to 1600, ten of
these plays were published from authentic copies,
undoubtedly with the consent of the author. The
system of publication did not commence before
1597 ; and, with four exceptions, it was not con-
tinued beyond 1600. Of these plays there were
published, before the appearance of the collected
edition of 1623, four editions of Richard II., six of
* " Here I might take fit opportunity to reckon up all our
English writers, and compare them with the Greek, French,
Italian, and Latin poets, not only in their pastoral, histo-
rical, elegiacal, and heroical poems, but in their tragical and
comical subjects, but it was my chance to happen on the like,
learnedly done by an approved good scholar, in a book called
' Wits' Commonwealth, 1 to which treatise I wholly refer you,
returning to our present subject." Apology for Actors, 1612.
* Hierarchy of Blessed Angels, 1G35.
4. Bishop Corbet, who died in 1635.
332
The First Part of Henry IV., six of Richari III..
four of Romeo and Juliet, six of Hamlet, besides
repeated editions of the plays which were surrep-
tiously published the maimed and imperfect co-
pies described by the editors of the first folio. Of
the thirty-six plays contained hi the folio of 1623,
only one-half was published, whether genuine or
piratical, in the author's lifetime ; and it is by no
means improbable that many of those which were
originally published with his concurrence were not
permitted to be reprinted, because such publication
might be considered injurious to the great theatrical
property with which he was connected. But the
constant demand for some of the plays is an evi-
dence of their popularity which cannot be mis-
taken ; and is decisive as to the people's admiration
of Shakspere. As for that of the Court, the testi-
mony, imperfect as it is, is entirely conclusive :
" Sweet Swan of Avon ! what a sight it were
To see thee in our waters yet appear,
And make those flights upon the banks of Thames
That so did take Eliza and our James,"
is no vague homage from Jonson to the memory of
his "beloved friend," but the record of a fact.
The accounts of the revels at Court, between the
years 1588 and 1604, the most interesting period
in the career of Shakspere, have not been disco-
vered in the depositories for such papers. We
have indeed memoranda of payments to her Ma-
jesty's players during this period, but nothing
definite as to the plays represented. We know
not what " so did take Eliza ;" but we are left in
no doubt as to the attractions for " our James." It
appears from the Revels Book that, from Hallow-
mas-day 1604 to the following Shrove Tuesday,
there were thirteen plays performed before the
King, eight of which were Shakspere's, namely
Othello, The Merry Wives of Windsor, Measure
for Measure, The Comedy of Errors, Love's La-
bour's Lost, Henry V., and the Merchant of Ve-
nice twice, that being " again commanded by the
King's Majesty." Not one of these, with the pos-
sible exception of Measure for Measure, was re-
commended by its novelty. The series of the same
accounts is broken from 1605 to 1611 ; and then
from Hallowmas-night to Shrove Tuesday, which
appears to have been the theatrical season of the
Court, six different companies of players contribute
to the amusements of Whitehall and Greenwich by
the performance of twelve plays. Of five which
are performed by the King's players two are by
Shakspere The Tempest, and The Winter's Tale.
If the records were more perfect, this proof of the
admiration of Shakspere in the highest circle
would no doubt be more conclusive. As it is, it
is sufficient to support this general argument.*
During the life of Shakspere his surpassing
* ' Extracts from the Accounts of the Revels at Court,"
by Peter Cunningham.
ON THE WRITINGS OF SHAKSPERE.
popularity appears to have provoked no expression
of envy from his contemporaries, no attempt to
show that his reputation was built upon an un-
solid foundation. Some of the later commentators
upon Shakspere, however, took infinite pains to
prove that Jonson had ridiculed him during his
life, and disparaged him after his death. Every
one knows Fuller's delightful picture of the con-
vivial exercises in mental strength between Jonson
and Shakspere: "Many were the wit-combats
between Shakspeare and Ben Jonson. I behold
them like a Spanish great galleon and an English
man-of-war. Master Jonson, like the former, was
built far higher in learning, solid but slow in his
performances ; Shakspeare, like the latter, less in
bulk, but lighter in sailing, could turn with all
tides, tack about, and take advantage of all winds
by the quickness of his wit and invention." Few
would imagine that a passage such as this should
have been produced to prove that there was a
quarrel between Jonson and Shakspere ; that the
wit-combats of these intellectual gladiators were
the consequence of their habitual enmity. By the
same perverse misinterpretation have the commen-
tators sought to prove that, when Jonson, in his
prologues, put forth his own theory of dramatic
art, he meant to satirize the principles upon which
Shakspere worked. It is held that in the prologue
to ' Every Man hi his Humour,' acted in 1598 at
Shakspere's own theatre, Jonson especially ridi-
cules the historical plays of Henry VI. and Ri-
chard III. :
" with three rusty swords,
And help of some few foot and half-foot words,
Fight over York and Lancaster's long jars,
And in the tiring-house bring wounds to scars."
There is in another author a similar ridicule, and
stronger, of the inadequacy of the stage to present
a battle to the senses :
" We shall much disgrace
With four or five most vile and ragged foils,
Right Ul-dispos'd hi brawl ridiculous
The name of Agincourt."
But Shakspere himself was the author of this pas-
sage ; and he was thus the satirist of himself, as
much as Jonson was his satirist, when he com-
pared in his prologue the comedy of manners with
the historical and romantic drama which had then
such attractions for the people. Shakspere's Chorus
to Henry V., from which we have made the last
extract, was written the year after the performance
of Jonson's play. We recognise in it a candid ad-
mission of the good sense of Jonson, which at once
shows that Shakspere was the last to feel the criti-
cism as a personal attack. Nothing, in truth, can
be more absurd than the attempts to show, from
supposed allusions in Jonson, that he was an
habitual detractor of Shakspere. The reader will
find these " proofs of Jonson's malignity'' brought
forward, and dismissed with the contempt that
they deserve, in a paper appended to Gifford's
' Memoir of Jonson.' The same acute critic had
the merit of pointing oat a passage in Jonson's
' Poetaster,' which, he says, " is as undoubtedly
true of Shakspere as if it were pointedly written
to describe him." He further says, " It is evi-
dent that throughout the whole of this drama
Jonson maintains a constant allusion to himself
and his contemporaries," and that, consequently,
the lines in question were intended for Shaks-
pere :
" That which he hath writ
Is with such judgment labour'd and distill'd
Through all the needful uses of our lives,
That, could a man remember but his lines,
He should not touch at any serious point,
But he might breathe his spirit out of him.
His learning savours not the school-like gloss
That most consists in echoing words and terms,
And soonest wins a man an empty name ;
Nor any long or far-fetch'd circumstance
Wrapp d hi the curious general'ties of art ;
But a direct and analytic sum
Of all the worth and first effects of art.
And for his poesy, 'tis so ramm'd with life,
That it shall gather strength of life, with being,
And live hereafter more admir'd than now." *
The private opinion of Jonson with regard to
Shakspere would not be so much a reflection of the
popular judgment as that of the critical few who
would apply the testa of ancient art, not only to
the art of Shakspere, but to the art of that great
body of writers who had founded the English
drama upon a broader foundation than the pre-
cepts of Aristotle. The art of Jonson was opposed
to the art of Shakspere. He satisfied the few, but
the many rejected him. There is a poem on Jon-
son's Sejanus,' which shows how his learned
harangues paraphrases for the most part of the
ancient writers were received by the English
people :
" When in the Globe's fair ring, our world's best
stage,
I saw Sejanus, set with that rich foil,
I look'd the author should have borne the spoil
Of conquest from the writers of the age :
But when I view'd the people's beastly rage,
Bent to confound thy grave and learned toil,
That cost thee so much sweat and so much oil,
My indignation I could hardly assuage."
It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that Jonson,
in his free conversations with Drummond of Haw-
thornden, in January, 1619, should say that " Shak-
spere wanted art." When Jonson said this he
was in no laudatory mood. Drummond heads his
record of the conversation thus : " His censure of
The Poetwter, Act v., Scene j.
333
A HISTORY OF OPINION
the English poets was this." Censure is here, of
course, put for opinion ; although Jonson's opinions
are by no means favourable to any one of whom
he speaks. Spenser's stanzas pleased him not, or
his matter ; Sir John Harrington's ' Ariosto,' under
all translations, was the worst : Abraham France
was a fool ; Sidney did not keep a decorum in
making every one speak as well as himself ; Shak-
spere wanted art. And so, during two centuries,
a mob of critics have caught up the word, and with
the most knowing winks, and the most profound
courtesies to each other's sagacity, have they echoed
" Shakspere wanted art." But a cunning inter-
polator, who knew the temper of the critics, the
anonymous editor of Gibber's ' Lives of the Poets,'
took the " heads of a conversation " between Jon-
son and Drummond, prefixed to Drummond's
works in 1711, and bestowed a few finishing
touches upon them, after his own fashion. And
thus, to the great joy of the denouncers of anachron-
isms, and other Shaksperean absurdities, as they
are pleased to call them, we have read as follows for
a hundred years : " He said, Shikespear wanted
Art, and sometimes Sense; for, in one of his plays, he
brought in a number of men, saying they had suf-
fered shipwrack in Bohemia, where is no sea near
by 100 miles." Jonson, indeed, makes the obser-
vation upon the shipwreck in Bohemia, but without
any comment upon it. It is found in another part
of Drummond's record, quite separate from " Shak-
spere wanted art ;" a casual remark, side by side
with Jonson's gossip about Sidney's pimpled face
and Raleigh's plagiaries. It was probably men-
tioned by Jonson as an illustration of some prin-
ciple upon which Shakspere worked ; and in the
same way " Shakspere wanted art" was in all like-
lihood explained by him, in producing instances
of the mode in which Shakspere's art differed from
his (Jonson's) art. It is impossible to receive Jon-
son's words as any support of the absurd opinion
so long propagated that Shakspere worked without
labour and without method. Jonson's own testi-
mony, delivered five years after the conversation
with Drummond, offers the most direct evidence
against such a construction of his expression :
" Yet must I not give Nature all : thy art,
My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part.
For though the poet's matter Nature be,
His art doth give the fashion : and that he
Who casts to write a living line must sweat
(Such as thine are), and strike the second heat
Upon the Muses' anvil : turn the same
fAnd himself with it) that he thinks to frame ;
Or, for the laurel, he may gain a scorn,
For a good poet 's made as well as born :
And such wert thou."
There can be no difficulty in understanding Jon-
Bon's dispraise of Shakspere, small as it was, when
we look at the different characters of the two men.
In his 'Discoveries,' written in his last years.
334
there is the following passage : " I remembei
the players have often mentioned it as an honoiir
to Shakespeare, that in his writing, whatsoever he
penned, he never blotted out a line. My answer
hath been, Would he had blotted a thousand.
Which they thought a malevolent speech. I had
not told posterity this, but for then- ignorance, who
chose that circumstance to commend their friend
by wherein he most faulted ; and to justify mine
own candour ; for I loved the man, and do honour
his memory, on this side idolatry, as much as any.
He was, indeed, honest, and of an open and free
nature ; had an excellent phantasy, brave notions,
and gentle expressions ; wherein he flowed with
that facility, that sometimes it was necessary he
should be stopped : Sufflaminandus erat, as Augus-
tus said of Haterius. His wit was in his own
power ; would the rule of it had been so too."
The players had said, in their preface to the first
folio " His mind and hand went together ; and
what he thought he uttered with that easiness that
we have scarce received from him a blot in his
papers." Jonson, no doubt, alludes to this asser-
tion. But we are not, therefore, to understand
that Shakspere took no pains in perfecting what,
according to the notion of his editors, he delivered
with such easiness. The differences between the
earlier and the later copies of some of his plays
show, as we have repeatedly pointed out, the un-
remitting care and the exquisite judgment with
which he revised his productions. The expression
"without a blot" might, nevertheless, be perfectly
true ; and the fact, no doubt, impressed upon the
minds of Heminge and Condell what they were
desirous to impress upon others, that Shakspere
was a writer of unequalled facility " as he was a
happy imitator of nature, he was a most gentle
expresser of it." Jonson received this evidence of
facility as a reproof to his own laborious mode of
composition. He felt proud, and wisely so, of the
commendations of his admirers, that his works cost
him much sweat and much oil ; and when the
players told him that Shakspere never blotted out
a line, he had his self-satisfied retort, " Would he
had blotted a thousand." But this carelessness,
as it appeared to Jonson, this exuberant facility,
as the players thought, was in itself no proof that
Shakspere did not elaborate his works with the
nicest care. The same thing was said of Fletcher
as of him. Humphrey Moseley, the publisher of
Beaumont and Fletcher's works hi 1647, says
" Whatever I have seen of Mr. Fletcher's own hand
is free from interlining, and his friends affirm he
never writ any one thing twice." But the stationer
does not put this forth as any proof of carelessness,
for he most judiciously adds, " It seems he had
that rare felicity to prepare and perfect all first in
his own brain, to shape and attire his notions, to
add or lop off before he committed one word to
ON THE WRITINGS OF SHAKSPERE.
writing, and never touched pen till all was to stand
as firm and immutable as if engraven in brass or
marble." This is the way, we believe, in which
all works of great originality are built up. If
Shakspere blotted not a line, it was because he
wrote not till he had laid the foundations, and
formed the plan, and conceived the ornaments, of
his wondrous edifices. The execution of the work
was then an easy thing ; and the facility was the
beautiful result of the previous labour.
But if Jonson expressed himself a little petu-
lantly, and perhaps inconsiderately, about the boast
of the players, surely nothing can be nobler than
the hearty tribute which he pays to the memory of
Shakspere : " I loved the man, and do honour his
memory, on this side idolatry, as much as any."
Unquestionably this is language which shows that
the memory of Shakspere was cherished by others
even to idolatry ; so that Jonson absolutely adopts
an apologetical tone in venturing an observation
which can scarcely be considered disparaging " he
flowed with that facility, that sometimes it was ne-
cessary he should be stopped." It was the facility
that excited Jonson's critical comparison of Shak-
spere with himself ; and it was in the same way
that, -when he wrote his noble verses ' To the Me-
mory of my Beloved Mr. William Shakespeare and
what he hath left us,' he could not avoid drawing
a comparison between his own profound scholarship
and Shakspere' s practical learning :
" If I thought my judgment were of years,
I should commit thee surely with thy peers,
And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine,
Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line.
And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek,
From thence to honour thee I will not seek
For names : but call forth thund'ring Eschylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles to us,
Pacuvius, Accius, mm of Cordova dead,
To live again, to hear thy buskin tread,
And shake a stage : or, when thy socks were on,
Leave thee alone for the comparison
Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome
Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.
Nature herself was proud of his designs,
And joy'd to wear tne dressing of his lines !
Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit,
As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please ;
But antiquated and deserted lie,
As they were not of Nature's family."
The interpretation of this passage is certainly not
difficult. Its general sense is expressed by Gifford :
" Jonson not only sets Shakspeare above his
contemporaries, but above the ancients whose works
himself idolized, and of whose genuine merits he
was perhaps a more competent judge than any
scholar of his age." * The whole passage was un-
questionably meant for praise, whatever opinion
might be implied in it as to Shakspere's learning.
Looking to the whole construction and tendency of
the passage, it may even be doubted whether Jonson
intended to express a direct opinion as to Shak-
spere's philological attainments. If we paraphrase
the passage according to the common notion, it
reads thus : And although you knew little Latin
and less Greek, to honour thee out of Lathi and
Greek I will not seek for names. According to this
construction, the poet ought to have written, be-
cause " thou hadst small Latin," Sic. But without
any violence the passage may be read thus : And
although thou hadst in thy writings few images
derived from Latin, and fewer from Greek authors,
I will not thence (on that account) seek for names
to honour thee, but call forth thundering JSschy-
ius, &c. It is perfectly clear that Jonson meant to
say, and not disparagingly, that Shakspere was not
an imitator. Immediately after the mention of
Aristophanes, Terence, and Plautus, he adds,
" Yet must I not give Nature all."
The same tone of commendation was taken in
Shakspere's tune by other writers. Digges says
that he neither borrows from the Greeks, imitates
the Latins, nor translates from vulgar languages.
Drayton has these lines :
" Shakespeare, thou hadst as smooth a comic vein,
Fitting the sock, and in thy natural brain
As strong conception ? and as clear a rage,
As any one that tramck'd with the stage." t
To argue from such passages that the writers meant
to reproach Shakspere as an ignorant or even as an
unlearned man, hi the common sense of the word,
was an absurdity that was not fully propounded to
the world till the discovery of Dr. Farmer, that,
because translations existed from Latin, Italian,
and French authors in the time of Shakspere, he
was incapable of consulting the originals. This
profound logician closes his judicial sentence with
the following memorable words, which have be-
come the true faith of the antiquarian critics up to
this hour : " He remembered perhaps enough of
his schoolboy learning to put the Hig, hag, hog,
into the mouth of Sir Hugh Evans ; and might
pick up in the writers of the time, or the course of
his conversation, a familiar phrase or two of French
or Italian." There is, however, a contemporary
testimony to the acquirements of Shakspere which
is of somewhat higher value than the assertions of
any master " of all such reading as was never read "
of one, himself a true poet, who holds that all
Shakspere's excellences were his freehold, but that
his cunning brain unproved his natural gifts :
"This and much ir-ore which wmot be "ex
press'd
But by himself, bis tongue and his own breast,
Was Shakespeare's freehold, which his cunniny'brain
Imprvrfd by favour of the ninefold train.
The buskin'd Muse, the Comic Queen, the grand
And louder tone of Clio ; nimble hand
And nimbler foot, of the melodious pair ;
The silver-voiced Lady ; the most fair
Calliope, whose speaking silence daunts.
And she whose praise the heavenly body chants ;
These jointly woo'd him, envying one another.
(Obey'd by all as spouse, but lord as brother,)
And wrought a curious robe of sable grave,
Fresh green, and pleasant yellow, red most brave,
And constant blue, rich purple, guiltless white,
The lowly russet, and the scarlet bright ;
Branch'd and embroider" d like the painted spring,
Each leaf match'd with a flower, and each string
Of golden wire, each line of silk ; there run
Italian works whose thread the sisters spun ;
And there did sing, or seem to sing, the choice
Birds of a foreign note and various voice.
Here hangs a mossy rock ; there plays a fair
But chiding fountain purled : not the air,
Nor clouds, nor thunder, but were living drawn,
Not out of common tiffany or lawn,
But fine materials, which the Muses ki.ow,
And only know the countries where they grow." *
But if the passage which we have previor^ly quoted
from 'The Poetaster' be, as Gifford so plausibly
imagined, intended for Shakspere, it is decisive as
to Jonson's own opinion of his great fr. end's ac-
quirements : it is the opinion of every nun, now,
who is not a slave to the authority of the smallest
minds that ever undertook to measure t'.e vast
poetical region of Shakspere with their litti > tape,
inch by inch :
" His learning savours not the school-like gloss
That most consists in echoing words and terms,
And soonest wins a man an empty name."
[ Jon son. J
* Commendatory Verses, ' On Worthy Master Shake-
(feare and his Poems,' by I. M. S.
336
The verses of Jonson, prefixed to the folio of
1623, conclude with these remarkable lines :
" Shine forth, thou star of poets, and with rage,
Or influence, chide, or cheer, the drooping stage ,
Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourn'd
like night,
And despairs day, but for thy volume's light."
From 1616, the year of Shakspere's death, to 1623,
the date of the first edition of his collected works,
Jonson himself had written nothing for the stage.
Beaumont had died the year before Shakspere;
but Fletcher alone was sustaining the high repu-
tation which he had won with his accomplished
associate. Massinger had been in London from
1606, known certainly to have written in conjunc-
tion with other dramatists before the period of
Shakspere's death, and, without doubt, assisting
to fill the void which he had left, for ' The Bond-
man' appears in the list of the Master of the Re-
vels in 1623. The indefatigable Thomas Heywood
was a writer for the stage from the commencement
of the seventeenth century to the suppression of
the theatres. Webster was a poet of Shakspere's
own theatre, immediately after his death, and a
leading character in ' The Duchess of Malfi ' was
played by Burbage. Rowley produced some of
his best works at the same period. Chapman had
not ceased to write. Ford was known as a rising
poet. Many others were there of genius and learn-
ing who at this particular time were struggling for
the honours of the drama, and some with great
success. And yet Jonson does not hesitate to say
that since the death of Shakspere the stage mourns
like night. Leonard Digges, writing at the date of
the publication of the folio, says of Shakspere's
dramas,
" Happy verse, thou shalt be sung and heard,
When hungry quills shfdl be such honour barr'd.
Then vanish, upstart writers to each stage,
You needy poetasters of this age ! "
This man speaks authoritatively, because he speaks
the public voice. But it is not with the poetasters
only that he compares the popularity of Shakspere ;
he tells us that the players of the Globe live by him
dead ; and that prime judgments, rich veins,
" have far'd
The worst with this deceased man compar'd ; "
and he then proceeds to exhibit the precise cha
racter of the popular admiration of Shakspere :
" So have I seen, when Caesar would appear,
And on the stage at half sword parley were
Brutus and Cassius, 0, how the audience
Were ravish'd ! with what wonder they went
thence !
When, some new day, they would not brook a line
Of tedious, though well-labour'd, Catiline ;
Seianus too was irksome : they priz'd more
ON THE WRITINGS OF SHAKSPERE.
' Honest ' lago, or the jealous Moor.
And though the Fox and subtle Alchymist,
Long intermitted, could not long be miss'd,
Though these have sham'd all th' ancients, and
might raise
Their author's merit with a crown of bays,
Yet these sometimes, even at a friend's desire
Acted, have scarce defray'd the sea-coal fire
And door-keepers : when, let but Falstaff come,
Hal, Poins, the rest, you scarce shall have a room,
All is so pester'd : Let but Beatrice
And Benedict be seen, lo ! in a trice
The cockpit, galleries, boxes, all are full.
To hear Malvolio, that cross-garter'd gull.
Brief, there is nothing in his wit-fraught book,
Whose sound we would not hear, on whose worth
look:
Like old-coin'd gold, whose lines in every page
Shall pass true current to succeeding age."
We have said enough, we think, tt sYicv how in-
considerate is the assertion that Shakspere's " pre-
eminence was not acknowledged by his contempo-
raries." Should this fact, however, be still thought
to be a matter of opinion, we will place the opinion
of a real critic, not the less sound for being an en-
thusiastic admirer, against this echo of the babble
of the cold and arrogant school of criticism that
still has its disciples and its imitators : " Clothed
hi radiant armour, and authorized by titles sure
and manifold as a poet, Shakspeare came forward to
demand the throne of fame, as the dramatic poet
of England. His excellences compelled even his
contemporaries to seat Mm on that throne, although
there were giants in those days contending for tlte
same honour." *
* Coleridge's ' Literary Remains,' vol. ii., p. 53.
NOTE TO I.
THE belief was implicitly adopted by Dryden and
Rowe, that the reputation of Shakspere as a comic
poet was distinctly recognised by Spenser in 1591.
Shakspere's great contemporary, in a poem en-
titled ' The Tears of the Muses,' originally pub-
lished in that year, describes, hi the ' Complaint '
of Thalia, the Muse of Comedy, the state of the
drama at the time hi which he is writing :
"Where be the sweet delights of learning's treasure,
That wont with comic stock to beautify
The painted theatres, and fill with pleasure
The listeners' eyes, and ears with melody ;
In which I late was wont to reign as queen,
And mask hi mirth with graces well beseen ?
! all is gone ; and all that goodly glee,
Which wont to be the glory of gay wits,
Is lay'd a-bed, and nowhere now to see ;
And in her room unseemly Sorrow sits,
With hollow brows and grissly countenance,
Marring my joyous gentle dalliance.
And him beside sits ugly Barbarism,
And brutish Ignorance, ycrept of late
Out of dread darkness of the deep abysm,
Where being bred, he light and heaven does hate ;
They in the minds of men now tyrannize,
And the fair scene with rudeness foul disguise.
All places they with folly have possess'd,
And with vain toys the vulgar entertain ;
But me have banished, with all the rest
That whilom wont to wait upon my train,
Fine Counterfesance, and unhurtful Sport,
Delight, and Laughter, deck'd in seemly sort."
SUP. VOL. Z
Spenser was in England in 1590-1, and it is pro-
bable that ' The Tears of the Muses ' was written
hi 1590, and that the poet described the prevailing
state of the drama hi London during the tune of
his visit. We have tolerable evidence that the
performances of the company at the Blackfriars
Theatre, of which Shakspere was then a share-
holder, were exceptions to the character of the ge-
neral performances. But there were several other
theatres in London. In some of these their licence
to entertain the people was abused by the intro-
duction of matters connected with religion and
politics ; so that hi 1589 Lord Burghley not only
directed the lord mayor to inquire what companies
of players had offended, but a commission was ap-
pointed for the same purpose. How Shakspere's
company proceeded during this inquiry has been
made out most clearly by the valuable document
discovered at Bridgewater House by Mr. Collier,
wherein they disclaim to have conducted them-
selves amiss.
In this petition, Shakspere, a sharer hi the
theatre, but with others below him in the list, says,
and they all say, that " they have never brought
into their plays matters of state and religion."
The public mind in 1589-90 was furiously agitated
by " matters of state and religion." A controversy
was going on which is now known as that of Mar-
tin Afarprelate, in which the constitution and dis-
cipline of the church were most furiously attacked
in a succession of pamphlets ; and they were de-
fended with equal violence and scurrility. Izaak
Walton says, " There was not only one Martin
Marprelate, but other venomous books daily printed
837
A HISTORY OF OPINION
and dispersed books that were so absurd and scur-
rilous, that the graver divines disdained them an
answer." Walton adds, " And yet these were
grown into high esteem with the common people,
till Tom Nashe appeared against them all, wno was
a man of a sharp wit, and the master of a scoffing,
satirical, merry pen." Connected with this con-
troversy, there was subsequently a more personal
one between Nashe and Gabriel Harvey ; but they
were each engaged in the Marprelate dispute.
Nashe was a writer for the theatre, and so was John
Lyly, the author of one of the most remarkable
pamphlets produced on this occasion, called ' Pap
with a Hatchet.' Harvey, it must be observed, was
the intimate friend of Spenser ; and in a pamphlet
which he dates from Trinity Hall, November 5,
1589, he thus attacks the author of ' Pap with a
Hatchet.' the more celebrated Euphuist, whom Sir
Walter Scott's novel has made familiar to us :
" I am threatened with a bable, and Martin me-
naced with a comedy a fit motion for a jester and
a player to try what may be done by employment
of his faculty. Babies and comedies are parlous
fellows to decipher and discourage men (that is the
point) with their witty flouts and learned jrks,
enough to lash any man out of countenance. Nay,
if you shake the painted scabbard at me, I have
done ; and all you that tender the preservation of
your good names, were best to please Pap-Hatchet,
and fee Euphues betimes, for fear lest he be moved,
or some' one of his apes hired, to make a play of
you, and then is your credit quite undone for ever
and ever. Such is the public reputation of their
plays. He must needs be discouraged whom they
decipher. Better anger an hundred other than two
such that have the stage at commandment, and can
furnish out vices and devils at their pleasure." *
We thus see that Harvey, the friend of Spenser,
is threatened by one of those who " have the stage
at commandment " with having a play made of
him. Such plays were made in 1589, and Nashe
thus boasts of them in one of his tracts printed in
1589 : "Methought Vetug Comcedia began to prick
him at London in the right vein, when he brought
forth Divinity with a scratched face, holding of her
heart as if sne were sick, because Martin would
have forced her ; but missing of his purpose, he left
the print of his nails upon her cheeks, and poisoned
her with a vomit, which he ministered unto her to
make her cast up her dignities." Lyly, taking the
same side, writes, " Would those comedies might
be allowed to be played that are penned, and then
I am sure he [Martin Marprelate] would be deci-
phered, and so perhaps discouraged.'" Here are the
very words which Harvey has repeated, " He must
needs be discouraged whom they decipher." Har-
vey, in a subsequent passage of the same tract,
refers to this prostitution of the stage to party
purposes in very striking words: "The stately
tragedy scorneth the trifling comedy, and the trifling
comedy flouteth the new ruffianism." These circum-
stances appear to us very remarkable, with refer-
ence to the state of the drama about 1590 ; and
we hope that we do not attach any undue import-
ance to them from the consideration that we were
the first to point out their intimate relation with
Spenser's ' Tears of the Muses,' and the light which, ...
* Pierce's ' Supererogation.' Reprinted in ' Arcliaica,'
p. 137.
as it appeals to us, that poem thus viewed throws
upon the dramatic career of Shakspere.*
The four stanzas which we have quoted from
Spenser are descriptive, as we think, of a period of
the drama, when it had emerged from the semi-
barbarism by which it was characterised, " from
the commencement of Shakspere's boyhood, till
about the earliest date at which his removal to
London can be possibly fixed."t This description
has nothing in common with those accounts of the
drama which have reference to this " semi-barba-
rism." Nor does the writer of it belong to the
school which considered a violation of the unities of
time and place as the great defect of the English
theatre. Nor does he assert his preference of the
classic school over the romantic, by objecting, as
Sir Philip Sidney objects, that " plays be neither
right tragedies nor right comedies, mingling kings
and clowns." There had been, according to Spenser,
a state of the drama that would
" Fill with pleasure
The listeners' eyes, and ears with melody."
Can any comedy be named, if we assume that Shak-
spere had, in 1590, not written any, which could
be celebrated ana by the exquisite versifier of
' The Fairy Queen 'for its " melody" ? Could
any also be praised for
" That goodly glee
Which wont to be the glory of gay wits " ?
Could the plays before Shakspere be described by
the most competent of judges the most poetical
.mind of that age next to Shakspere as abound-
ing in
" Fine Counterfesance, and unhurtful Sport,
Delight, and Laughter, deck'd in seemly sort" ?
We have not seen such a comedy, except some
three or four of Shakspere's, which could have
existed before 1590 ; we do not believe there is
such a comedy from any other pen. What, ac-
cording to the ' Complaint' of Thalia, has banished
such comedy? " Unseemly Sorrow," it appears, has
been fashionable ; not the proprieties of tragedy,
but a Sorrow
" With hollow brows and grissly countenance ;"
the violent scenes of blood which were offered for
the excitement of the multitude, before the tragedy
of real art was devised. But this state of the
drama is shortly passed over. There is something
more defined. By the side of tin's false tragic sit
" ugly Barbarism and brutish Ignorance." These
are not the barbarism and ignorance of the old
stage ; they are
" Ycrept of late
Out of dread darkness of the deep abysm."
They "now tyrannize ; " they now "disguise" the
fair scene "with rudeness." This description was
published in 1591 ; it was probably written in
1590. The Muse of Tragedy, Melpomene, had
previously described the "rueful spectacles" of
" the stage." It was a stage which had no " true
tragedy." But it had possessed
" Delight, and Laughter, deck'd in seemly sort."
* Life of Shakspere in ' Store of Knowledge.'
t Edinburgh Review, vol. Ixxi., p. 469.
ON THE WRITINGS OF SHAKSPERE.
Now " the trifling comedy flouteth the new ruffian-
ism." The words of Gabriel Harvey and Edmund
Spenser agree in this. The bravos that " have the
stage at commandment can furnish out vices and
devils at their pleasure," says Harvey. This de-
scribes the Vettts Comcedia the old comedy of
which Nashe boasts. Can there be any doubt that
Spenser had this state of things in view when he
denounced the
" Ugly Barbarism,
And brutish Ignorance, ycrept of late
Out of dread darkness of the deep abysm " ?
He denounced it in common with his friend Har-
vey, who, however he partook of the controversial
violence of his time, was a man of learning and
eloquence ; and to whom only three years before
he had addressed a sonnet of which the highest
mind in the country might have been proud.
But we must return to the ' Thalia.' The four
stanzas which we have quoted are immediately fol-
lowed by these four others :
" All these, and all that else the comic stage
With season'd wit and goodly pleasure grac'd,
By which man's life in his likest image
Was limned forth, are wholly now defac'd ;
And those sweet wits, which wont the like to frame,
Are now despis'd, and made a laughing game.
And he, the man whom Nature self had made
To mock herself, and Truth to imitate,
With kindly counter, under mimic shade,
Our pleasant Willy, ah ! is dead of late :
With whom all joy and jolly merriment
Is also deaded, and in dolour drent.
Instead thereof scoffing Scurrility,
And scornful Folly, with Contempt, is crept,
Rolling in rhymes of shameless ribaldry,
Without regard or due decorum kept ;
Each idle wit at will presumes to make,
And doth the Learned's task upon him take.
But that same gentle spirit, from whose pen
Large streams of honey and sweet nectar flow,
Scorning the boldness of such base-born men,
Which dare their follies forth so rashly throw,
Doth rather choose to sit in idle cell
Than so himself to mockery to sell."
Here there is something even stronger than what
has preceded it, in the direct allusion to the state
of the stage in 1590. Comedy had ceased to be an
exhibition of " seasoned wit " and " goodly plea-
sure :" it no longer showed " man's life in his likest
image." Instead thereof there was " Scurrility"
"scornful Folly" "shameless Ribaldry;" and
"each idle wit"
" dotli the Learned's task upon him take."
It was the task of " the Learned " to deal with the
high subjects of religious controversy the " mat-
ters of state and religion," with which the stage
nad meddled. Harvey had previously said, in the
tract quoted by us, it is " a godly motion, when
interlude leave penning their pleasurable plays to
become zealous ecclesiastical writers." He calls
Lyly more expressly, with reference to this med-
dling, "the foolmaster of the theatre." In this
state of things the acknowledged head of the comic
stage was silent for a time :
" HE, the man whom Nature self had made
To mock herself, and Truth to imitate,
With kindly counter, under mimic shade,
Our pleasant WILLY, ah ! is dead of late."
And the author of ' The Fairy Queen ' adds,
" But that same gentle spirit, from whose pen
Large streams of honey and sweet nectar flow,
Scorning the boldness of such base-born men,
Which dare their follies forth so madly throw,
Doth rather choose to sit in idle cell
Than so himself to mockery to sell."
The love of personal abuse had driven out real
comedy ; and there was one who, for a brief season,
had left the madness to take its course. We can-
not doubt that
" HE, the man whom Nature self had made
To mock herself, and Truth to imitate,"
was William Shakspere. Mr. Collier, in his ' His-
tory of Dramatic Poetry,' says of Spenser's ' Tha-
lia,' " Had it not been certain that it was written
at so early a date, and that Shakespeare could not
then have exhibited his talents and acquired repu-
tation, we should say at once that it could be meant
for no other poet. It reads like a prophetic anti-
cipation, which could not have been fulfilled by
Shakespeare until several years after it was pub-
lished. Mr. Collier, when he wrote this, had not
discovered the document which proves that Shak-
spere was a sharer in the Blackfriars Theatre at
least a year before this poem was published. Spen-
ser, we believe, described a real man, and real facts.
He made no " prophetic anticipation ;" there had
been genuine comedy in existence ; the ribaldry
had driven it out for a season. The poem has re-
ference to some temporary degradation of the stage ;
and what this temporary degradation was is most
exactly defined by the public documents of the pe-
riod, and the writings of Harvey, Nashe, and Lyly.
The dates of all these proofs correspond with mi-
nute exactness. And who then is "our pleasant
Willy" according to the opinion of those who
would deny to Shakspere the title to the praise of
the other great poet of the Elizabethan age ? It is
John Lyly, says Malone the man whom Spenser's
bosom friend was, at the same moment, denouncing
as " the foolmaster of the theatre." We say, ad-
visedly, that there is absolutely no proof that
Shakspere had not written The Two Gentlemen of
Verona, The Comedy of Errors, Love's Labour's
Lost, The Taming of the Shrew, and All's Well
that Ends Well, amongst his comedies, before
1590 : we believe that he alone merited the high
praise of Spenser ; that it was meant for him.
Z 2
SS3
A HISTORY OF OPINION
II.
" SHAKESPEAR was not so much' esteemed, even
during his life, as we commonly suppose ; and
after his retirement from the stage he was all but
forgotten." * So we read in an authority too mighty
to enter upon evidence. The oblivion after his
retirement and death is the true pendant to the
neglect during his life. When did the oblivion
begin ? It could scarcely have existed when, in 1623,
an expensive folio volume of many hundred pages
was published, without regard to the risk of such
an undertaking and it was a risk, indeed, if the
author had been neglected and was forgotten. But
the editors of the volume do not ask timidly for
support of these neglected and forgotten works.
They say to the reader, " Though you be a magis-
trate of wit, and sit on the stage at Blackfriars or
the Cockpit, to arraign plays daily, know these
plays have had their trial already, and stood out all
appeals." Did the oblivion continue when, in 1632,
a second edition of this large work was brought
out ? There was one man, certainly a young and
ardent scholar who was not amongst the ob-
livious. John Milton was twenty-four years of age
when these verses were published :
" AN EPITAPH ON THE ADMIRABLE DRAMATIC
POET, W. SHAKESPEARE.
"What need my Shakespeare for his honour'd bones
The labour of an age in piled stones,
Or that his hallo w'd relics should be hid
Under a star-ypointing pyramid ?
Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,
What need'st thou such dull witness of thy name ?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Hast built thyself a lasting monument.
For whilst to th' shame of slow-endeavouring art
Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took,
Then thou, our fancy of herself bereaving,
Dost make us marble with too much conceiving,
And so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie,
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die."
The author of these lines could not have known
the works of the "admirable dramatic poet" while
that poet was in life ; but sixteen years after his
death he was the dear son of memory, the great
heir of fame ; his bones were honoured, his relics
were hallowed, his works were a lasting monument,
his book was priceless, his lines were oracular,
Delphic. Is this oblivion? But it may be said
that Milton was a young enthusiast, one who saw
farther than the million ; that the public opinion
of a writer (and we are not talking of his positive
excellence, apart from opinion) must be sought for
* Life of Shakespear in 'Lardner's Cyclopaedia."
340
[Milton, when young.]
iu the voice of the people, or at any rate in that of
the leaders of the people. How are we to arrive
at the knowledge of this expression ? We can only
know, incidentally, that an author was a favourite
either of a king or of a cobbler. We know that
Shakspere was the favourite of a king, in these
times of his oblivion. A distinguished writer says,
" The Prince of Wales had learned to appreciate
Shakspeare, not originally from reading him, but
from witnessing the court representations of his
plays at Whitehall. Afterwards we know that he
made Shakspeare his closet companion, for he was
reproached with doing so by Milton." * The con-
cluding words are founded upon a mistake of the
passage in Milton. Charles is not reproached with
reading Shakspere. The great republican does not
condemn the king for having made the dramatic
poet the closet companion of his solitudes ; but,
speaking of the dramatic poet as a well-known
author with whom the king was familiar, he cites
out of him a passage to show that pious words
might be found in the mouth of a tyrant. The
passage not only proves the familiarity of Charles
with Shakspere, but it evidences also Milton's
familiarity ; and, what is of more importance, the
familiarity even of those stern and ascetic men to
whom Milton was peculiarly addressing his opinions.
The passage of the ' Iconoclastes ' is as follows :
" Andronicus Comnenus, the Byzantine emperor,
;hough a most cruel tyrant, is reported by Nicetas
to have been a constant reader of Saint Paul's
ipistles ; and by continual study had so incorpo-
rated the phrase and style of that transcendent
apostle into all his familiar letters, that the iniita-
* Mr. De Quincey's ' Life of Shakspeare ' in the ' Ency-
clopaedia Britannica.'
ON THE WRITINGS OF SHAKSPERE.
tiun seemed to vie with the original, YTet this
availed not to deceive the people of that empire,
who, notwithstanding his saint's vizard, tore him
to pieces for his tyranny. From stories of this
nature, both ancient and modern, which abound,
the poets also, and some English, have been in this
point so mindful of decorum as to put never more
pious words in the mouth of any person than of a
tyrant. I shall not instance an abstruse author,
wherein the king might be less conversant, but one
whom we well know was the closet companion of
these his solitudes, William Shakespeare, who in-
troduces the person of Richard the Third, speaking
in as high a strain of piety and mortification as is
uttered in any passage of this book,* and sometimes
to the same sense and purpose with some words hi
this place : ' I intended,' saith he, ' not only to
oblige my friends, but my enemies.' The like saith
Richard, Act n., Sftene i.
' I do not know that Englishman alive
With whom my soul is any jot at odds,
More than the infant that is born to-night ;
I thank my God for iny humility.'
Other stuff of tkis sort may be read throughout the
whole tragedy, wherein the poet used not much
licence in departing from the truth of history, which
delivers him a deep dissembler, not of his affections
only, but of religion." It was a traditionary blun-
der, which Warton received and transmitted to
his successors, that Milton reproached Charles with
reading Shakspere, and thus inferred that Shak-
spere was no proper closet companion. The passage
has wholly the contrary tendency; and he who
thinks otherwise may just as well think that the
phrase " other stuff of this sort " is also used dis-
paragingly.
[Charles I.]
A few years before that is in 1645 Milton
had offered another testimony to Shaksne 11 *} in his
' L' Allegro,' then published :
Milton here re-ferc to me first 'section ot the ' Eikon
Bnoilike.'
" Then to the well-trod stage anon,
If Jonson's learned sock be on,
Or sweetest Shakespear, Fancy's child,
Warble his native wood-notes wild."
Milton was not afraid to publish these lines, even
after the suppression of the theatres by his own
political party. That he went along with them in
their extreme polemical opinions it is impossible to
believe ; but he would nevertheless be careful not
to mention, in connexion with the stage, names of
any doubtful eminence. He was not ashamed to
say that the learning of Jonson, the nature of
Shakspere, had for him attractions, though the
stage was proscribed. This contrast of the distin-
guishing qualities of the two men is held to be one
amongst the many proofs of Shakspere's want of
learning ; as if it was not absolutely essential to the
whole spirit and conception of the passage that the
learning of Jonson, thus pointed out as his leading
quality, should be contrasted with the higher quality
of Shakspere that quality which was assigned him
as the greatest praise by his immediate contem-
poraries his nature. No one can doubt of Milton's
affection for Shakspere, and of his courage in avow-
ing that affection, living as he was in the heat of
party opinion which was hostile to all such excel-
lence. We have simply " Jonson's learned sock ;"
but the "native wood-notes wild " of Shakspere are
associated with the most endearing expressions. He
is " sweetest Shakespear," he is " Fancy's child."
In his later years, after a life of contention and
heavy responsibility, Milton still clung to his early
delights. The ' Theatrum Poetarum,' which bears
the name of his nephew Edward Phillips, is held
to have received many touches from Milton's pen.*
At any rate it is natural that it should represent
Milton's opinions. It is not alone what is here said
of Shakspere, but of Shakspere in comparison with
the other great dramatic poets of his age, that is
important. Take a few examples :
" BENJAMIN JONSON, the most learned, judicious,
and correct, generally so accounted, of our Eng-
lish comedians, and the more to be admired for
being so, for that neither the height of natural
parts, for he was no Shakespear, nor the cost of
extraordinary education, for he is reported but a
bricklayer's son, but his own proper industry and
addiction to books, advanced him to this perfec-
tion : in three of his comedies, namely, ' The Fox,'
' Alchymist,' and ' Silent Woman,' he may be com-
pared, in the judgment of ^earned men, for de-
corum, language, and well humouring of the parts,
as well with the chief of the ancient Greek and
Latin comedians as the prime of modern Italians,
who have been judged the best of Europe for a
happy vein in comedies, nor is his ' Bartholomew
Fair ' much short of them ; as for his other comts
The Theatrum Poetanun' was published in 1675, the
year after Milton's death
341
A HISTORY OF OPINION
dies, ' Cyi.thia's Revels,' ' Poetaster,' and the rest,
let the name of Ben Jonson protect them against
whoever shall think fit to be severe in censure
against them : the truth is, his tragedies ' Sejanus '
and ' Catiline ' seem to have in them more of
an artificial and inflate than of a pathetical and
naturally tragic height."
" CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, a kind of second
Shakespear (whose contemporary he was), not
only because like him he rose from an actor to be
a maker of plays, though inferior both in fame and
merit; but also because, in his begun poem of
' Hero and Leander,' he seems to have a resem-
blance of that clean and unsophisticated wit which
is natural to that incomparable poet."
" GEORGE CHAPMAN, a poetical writer, flourishr
ing in the reigns of Queen Elizabeth and King
James, in that repute both for his translations of
' Homer ' and ' Hesiod,' and what he wrote of his
own proper genius, that he is thought not the
meanest of English poets of that time, and parti-
cularly for his dramatic writings."
" JOHN FLETCHER, one of the happy triumvirate
(the other two being Jonson and Shakespear) of
the chief dramatic poets of our nation in the last
foregoing age, among whom there might be said
to be a symmetry of perfection, while each excelled
in his peculiar way : Ben Jonson, in his elaborate
pains and knowledge of authors; Shakespear in
his pure vein of wit, and natural poesy height;
Fletcher in a courtly elegance and genteel fami-
liarity of style, and withal a wit and invention so
overflowing, that the luxuriant branches thereof
were frequently thought convenient to be lopped
off by his almost incomparable companion Francis
Beaumont."
" WILLIAM SHAKESPEAR, the glory of the Eng-
lish stage ; whose nativity at Stratford-upon-Avon
is the highest honour that town can boast of: from
an actor of tragedies and comedies, he became a
maker ; and such a maker, that, though some others
may perhaps pretend to a more exact decorum and
economy, especially in tragedy, never any expressed
a more lofty and tragic height, never any repre-
sented nature more purely to the life ; and where
the polishments of art are most wanting, as pro-
bably his learning was not extraordinary, he
pleaseth with a certain wild and native elegance ;
and in all his writings hath an unvulgar style,
as well in his Venus and Adonis, his Rape of
Lucrece, and other various poems, as in his
dramatics."
Half a century had elapsed, when these critical
opinions were published, from the time when Ben
Jonson had apostrophized Shakspere as " soul of
the age." Whatever qualification we may here
find in the praise of Shakspere, it is unquestion-
able that the sritic sets him above all his contem-
poraries. Benjamin Jonson was " learned, judi-
342
cious, and correct ;" but " he was no Shakespear."
Marlowe was " a kind of a second Shakespear;"
and his greatest praise is, that " he seems to have
a resemblance of that clean and unsophisticated
wit which is natural to that incomparable poet."
Chapman is " not the meanest " of his time.
Fletcher is " one of the happy triumvirate, the
other two being Jonson and Shakespear ;" but the
. peculiar excellence of each is discriminated in a
way which leaves no doubt as to which the critic
meant to hold superior. But there are no mea-
sured words applied to the character of Shakspere.
He is " the glory of the English stage " " never
any expressed a more lofty and tragic height, never
any represented nature more purely to the life."
We can understand what a pupil of Milton, bred
up in his school of severe study and imitation of
the ancients, meant when he says, "Where the
polishments of art are most wanting, as probably
his learning was not extraordinary, he pleases with
a certain wild and native elegance." Here is no
accusation that the learning was wholly absent ;
and that this absence produced the common effects
of want of cultivation. Shakspere, "in all his
writings, hath an unrulgar style." In the preface
to this valuable little book which preface is a
composition eloquent enough to have been writ-
ten by Milton himself there is a passage which
is worthy of special observation in connection
with what we have already quoted : " If it were
once brought to a strict scrutiny, who are the
right, genuine, and true-born poets, I fear me our
number would fall short, and there are many that
have a fame deservedly for what they have writ,
even in poetry itself, who, if they came to the test,
I question how well they would endure to hold
open their eagle eyes against the sun : wit, inge-
nuity, and learning ha verse, even elegancy itself,
though that comes nearest, are one thing, true
native poetry is another ; in which there is a certain
air and spirit, which perhaps the most learned and
judicious in other arts do not perfectly apprehend,
much less is it attainable by any study or industry ;
nay, though all the laws of heroic poem, all the
laws of tragedy were exactly observed, yet still this
tour entregeant, this poetic energy, if I may so call
it, would be required to give life to all the rest,
which shines through the roughest, most unpolished
and antiquated language, and may haply be want-
ing hi the most polite and reformed. Let us ob-
serve Spenser, with all his rusty obsolete words,
with all his rough-hewn clouterly verses ; yet take
him throughout, and we shall find in him a graceful
and poetic majesty: in like manner, Shakespear,
in spite of all his unfiled expressions, his rambling
and indigested fancies the laughter of the critical,
yet must be confessed a poet above many that go
beyond him in literature some degrees." Taking
the whole passage in connection, and looking also
ON THE WRITINGS OF SHAKSPERE.
Rt the school of art in which the critic was bred, it
ib impossible to receive this opinion as regards
Shakspere in any other light than as one of entlm-
siastic admiration It is important to note the
period in which this admiration was puolicly ex-
pressed. It was fifteen years after the Restoration
of Charles II., when we had a new school of poetry
and criticism in England ; when the theatres were
in a palmy state as far as regarded courtly and
public encouragement. The natural association of
these opinions with those of Milton's youth has
led us to leap over the interval which elapsed be-
tween the close of the Shaksperean drama and
the rise of the French school. We desired to show
the continuity of opinion hi Milton, and in Mil-
ton's disciples, that had prevailed for forty years ;
during a large portion of which civil war and po-
lemical strife had well nigh banished poetry and
the sister arts from England ; and dramatic poetry,
especially, was proscribed by a blind fanaticism,
wholly and irredeemably, without discrimination
between its elevating and its debasing influence
upon the public morals. Milton himself had left
" a calm and pleasing solitariness, fed with cheer-
ful and confident thoughts, to embark in a troubled
sea of noises and hoarse disputes." Let us retrace
our steps, and glance a little at the prelude to this
period.
In 1633 was published the celebrated ' Histrio-
Mastix, the Player's Scourge,' of William Prynne.
In the epistle dedicatory to the benchers of Lin-
coln's Inn, he says that about seven years before
he had set down all the play-condemning passages
which he recollected in the Fathers and other
authors, and that he had since enlarged the in-
tended bulk of this discourse, " because I saw the
number of players, play-books, play-haunters, and
play-houses still increasing, there being above forty
thousand play-books printed within these two
years, as stationers inform me." In his address
to the Christian Reader he has a distinct allusion
to the popularity of Shakspere's collected works :
" Some play-books since I first undertook this sub-
ject are grown from quarto into folio, which yet
bear so good a price and sale that, I cannot but
with grief relate it, they are now new printed in
far better paper than most octavo or quarto bibles,
which hardly find such vent as they." The two
folio editions of Shakspere are the only play-books
grown from quarto to folio to which the zealous
Puritan can allude, with the exception of Jonson's
own edition of his plays, completed in 1631 ; those
of Beaumont and Fletcher were not collected till
1647. The very fact of the publication of the two
first folios of Shakspere is a proof of his popularity
with general readers. They were not exclusively
the studies of the scholar, such as Milton, or of the
play-haunters whom Prynne denounces. A letter
in the Bodleian Library, written by a Dr. James,
about this period, testifies how generally they were
read : " A young gentle lady of your acquaintance,
having read the works of Shakspere, made me this
question," &c. * When the London theatres were
provided with novelties in such abundance that,
according to Prynne, " one study was scarce able
to hold the new play-books," the plays of Shak-
spere were still in such demand for the purposes
of the stage, that bis successors in the theatrical
property of the Globe and Blackfriars found it
their interest to preserve the monopoly of their
performance (which they had so long enjoyed), by
a handsome gratuity to the Master of the Revels'.
There is this entry in the office-book of Sir Henry
Herbert, in 1627 : " Received from Mr. Heming,
in their company's name, to forbid the playing of
Shakespeare's plays to the Red Bull Company,
five pounds." The people clearly had not yet for-
gotten the " delight and wonder of the stage."
Fletcher, Massinger, Shu-ley, were newer favour-
ites ; but the people could not forget Shakspere.
Neither was he forgotten by the great. In the
very year of the publication of Prynne's book
when St. James's and Whitehall were brilliant
with the splendid revelries of an elegant Court,
and the Queen herself took part in the masques
and pageantries, the indecent allusion to which
cost Prynne his ears the name of Shakspere was
as familiar to the royal circle as in the days of
James. From the seventeenth of November to the
sixth of January, there were eight performances
at St. James's and Whitehall, three of which
were plays of Shakspere : namely, Richard III.,
Taming of the Shrew, and Cymbeline ; and Sir
Henry Herbert records of the last, " well liked by
the King."t These office accounts have great
lacunae; but, wherever we find them during the
reign of Charles, there we fin<J a record of the
admiration of Shakspere.
!
[Prynne.J
See Mr. Halliwell's 'Character of Falstaff,' p. 19.
t See Malone's ' Historical Account of the English Stag*,
343
A HISTORY OF OPINION
Dryden lived near enough to tLe times of Charles I.
to be good evidence as to the judgment which the
higher circles formed of Shakspere. After the Re-
storation he was intimate with men who had moved
in those circles. His ' Essay on Dramatic Poesy,'
which was first printed in 1668, contains the fol-
lowing passage, which has been often cited. Dry-
den is speaking in his own person, in an imaginary
conversation in which the Earl of Dorset bears a
part : " To begin, then, with Shakspeare. He was
the man who of all modern, and perhaps ancient
poets, had the largest and most comprehensive soul.
All the images of nature were still present to him,
and he drew them not laboriously, but luckily :
when he describes anything, you more than see it,
you feel it too. Those who accuse him to have
wanted learning give him the greater commenda-
tion : he was naturally learned ; he needed not the
spectacles of books to read Nature ; he looked in-
wards, and found her there. I cannot say he is
everywhere alike ; were he so, I should do him
injury to compare him with the greatest of man-
kind. He is many times flat, insipid, his comic
wit degenerating into clenches, his serious swelling
into bombast. But he is always great when some
great occasion is presented to him ; no man can
say he ever had a fit subject for his wit, and did
not then raise himself as hiph above the rest of
poets,
Quantum lenta solent inter viburna cupressi.
The consideration of this made Mr. Hales of Eton
say that there was no subject of which any poet
ever writ, but he would produce it much better
done in Shakspeare ; and, however others are now
generally preferred before him, yet the age wherein
he lived, which had contemporaries with him,
Fletcher and Jonson, never equalled them to him
in their esteem : and in the last king's court, when
Ben's reputation was at highest, Sir John Suck-
ling, and with him the greater part of the courtiers,
set our Shakspeare far abore him." No testimony
can be more positive than this, that the two greatest
contemporaries of Shakspere never equalled him
in the public estimation during his own time : and
that in the succeeding period of Charles I., when
the reputation of Jonson was at the highest, Suck-
ling, one of the wittiest and sprightliest of men,
and the greater part of the courtiers, set Shakspere
far above him. But it was not the gay alone, ac-
cording to Dryden, who thus reverenced Shak-
Bpere. He tells us what was the opinion of " Mr.
Hales of Eton." John Hales, a Fellow of Eton,
is known as the " learned " Hales, and the " ever-
memoralle" Hales; and of him Aubrey says,
"When the court was at Windsor the learned
courtiers much delighted in his company." His
opinion of Shakspere is given with more particu-
larity by Gildon, in an Essay addressed to Dryden
344
in 1694, in which he appeals to Dryden himself as
the relater of the anecdote. It is not because Gil-
don is satirized in ' The Dunciad ' that lu's veracity
is to be questioned :* " But to give the world some
satisfaction that Shakspeare has had as great vene-
ration paid his excellence by men of unquestioned
parts as this I now express for him, I shall give
some account of what I have heard from your
mouth, sir, about the noble triumph he gained over
all the ancients, by the judgment of the ablest
critics of that time. The matter of fact, if my
memory fail me not, was this. Mr. Hales of Eton
affirmed that he would show all the poets of an-
tiquity outdone by Shakspeare, in all the topics and
commonplaces made use of in poetry. The enemies
of Shakspeare would by no means yield him so
much excellence ; so that it came to a resolution of
a trial of skill upon that subject. The place agreed
on for the dispute was Mr. Hales's chamber at Eton.
A great many books were sent down by the ene-
mies of this poet ; and on the appointed day my
Lord Falkland, Sir John Suckling, and all the
persons of quality that had wit and learning, and
interested themselves in the quarrel, met there;
and upon a thorough disquisition of the point, the
judges chosen by agreement out of this learned
and ingenious assembly unanimously gave the pre-
ference to Shakspeare, and the Greek and Roman
poets were adjudged to vail at least their glory in
that to the English hero."
From the death of Shakspere to the shutting
up of the theatres in 1642, a period is embraced of
twenty-six years. We have seen the prodigious
activity in the production of novelties which ex-
isted ten years before the suppression of the
theatres. There is too much reason to know that
the stage had acquired a more licentious tone after
Shakspere's time ; and although the Puritans were
over-zealous in their indiscriminating violence
against all theatrical performances, there is just
cause to believe that the senses of the people were
stimulated by excitements of plot and character,
mingled with profane and licentious language,
much more than in the days when Shakspere
rested for his attractions on a large exhibition of
natural passion and true wit ; and when he pro-
duced play after play, history, comedy, tragedy
" works truly excellent and capable of enlarging the
understanding, warming and purifying the heart,
and placing in the centre of the whole being the
germs of noble and manlike actions." + The nation
was much divided then, as it was long afterwards,
between the followers of extreme opinions in
morals the over-strict on one hand, the wholly
careless on the other. Prynne tells us that upon
his first arrival in London he had " heard and seen
in four several plays, to which the pressing impor-
See Gifford's 'Memoirs of Jonson,' p. cclx.
+ Coleridge.
ON THE WRITINGS OF SHAKSPEEE.
tuiiity of some ill acquaintance drew me whiles I
was yet a novice, such wickedness, such lewdness,
as then made my penitent heart to loathe, my con-
science to abhor, all stage-plays ever since." Prynne
left Oxford and came to London after 1620.
Fletcher was then the living idol of the theatre ;
and any one who is acquainted with his plays, full
of genius as they are, must admit that Prynne had
too much cause for his disgust. In the office-book
of Sir Henry Herbert, in 1633, we find the follow-
ing curious entry: "The comedy called 'The
Young Admiral,' being free from oaths, profane-
ness, or obsceneness, hath given me much delight
and satisfaction in the reading, and may serve for
a pattern to other poets." The play was Shirley's.
But six months after there is a still more curious
entry in the same book : "This morning, being the
9th of January, 1633, [1634] the king was pleased
to call me into his withdrawing-chamber to the
window, where he went over all that I had crossed
in Davenant's play-book, and, allowing of faith
and slight to be asseverations only, and no oaths,
marked them to stand, and some other few things,
but in the greater part allowed of my reformations.
This was done upon a complaint of Mr. Endymion
Porter's, in December. The king is pleased to take
faith, death, slight, for asseverations, and no oaths,
to which I do humbly submit as my master's judg-
ment ; but under favour conceive them to be oaths,
and enter them here, to declare my opinion and
submission." But it was not the striking out of
the asseverations, or even of the oaths, which
could purify the plays of that period. Their prin-
cipal demoralizing power consisted hi their false
representations of human character and actions.
Take for example "the frightful contrasts," as they
have justly been called, between the women of
Beaumont and Fletcher and those of Shakspere.
He kept at all tunes in the high road of life. He
" has no innocent adulteries, no interesting incests,
no virtuous vice; he never renders that amiable
which religion and reason alike teach us to detest,
or clothes impurity in the garb of virtue, like Beau-
mont and Fletcher, the Kotzebues of the day."*
But this very truth and purity of Shakspere must
have greatly diminished his attractions, amidst a
crowd who wrote upon opposite principles. Nothing
but the unequalled strength of his artistical power
3ould have preserved the unbroken continuance of
his supremacy.
And this leads us to the consideration of another
cause why the popular admiration of him would
have been diminished and interrupted within a very
few years after his death, and certainly long before
the suppression of the tneatres, if his excellences
had not so completely triumphed over every im-
pediment to his enduring popular fame. His plays
were to a certain extent mixed up with the reputa-
* Coleridge's 'Literary Remains,' vol. ii., p. "9.
tion of the actors by whom they were originally
represented. In that curious play 'The Return
from Parnassus,' which was acted by the students
in St. John's College, Cambridge, hi 1606, and
which was clearly written by an academical person
inclined to satirize the popular poets and players
of his day, Kempe is thus made to address two
scholars who want lessons hi the histrionic art .
"Be merry, my lads ; you have happened upon the
most excellent vocation in the world for money ;
they come north and south to bring it to our play-
house ; and for honours, who of more report than
Dick Burbage and Will Kempe ? He is not counted
a gentleman that knows not Dick Burbage and
Will Kempe: there's not a country wench that
can dance Sellenger's Round, but can talk of Dick
Burbage and Will Kempe." Here we have a tes-
timony to the wide-spread popularity of two of the
original representatives of Shakspere's clowns and
heroes. Kempe died before Shakspere; Burbage
within three years after him. Burbage is almost
identified with some of Shakspere's greatest cha-
racters, and especially with Richard III. ; and yet
the attraction of the great tragic plays died not
with Burbage. Before the suppression of the
theatres this actor had his immediate successors ;
and during the eighteen years hi which the theatres
were closed, the original hits and points of the
Richards, and Hamlets, and Macbeths, and Lears,
were diligently recorded, and immediately after the
Restoration actors again arose, ambitious to realize
the mighty conceptions of the great master of the
dramatic art. During the period when the theatres
were shut, the readers of plays would still be nu-
merous, and they probably would be most found
among the younger men who had a vivid recol-
lection of the representations of the successors
of Shakspere. We can understand what the
later taste was by the mode hi which Shirley, in
his preface to the collected edition of Beaumont
and Fletcher, in 1647, speaks of these writers :
"Whom but to mention is to throw a cloud
upon all former names, and benight posterity ; this
book being, without flattery, the greatest monu-
ment of the scene that tune and humanity have
produced, and must live, not only the crown and
sole reputation of our own, but the stain of all
other nations and languages : for it may be boldly
averred, not one indiscretion hath branded this
paper in all the lines, this being the authentic wit
that made Blackfriars an academy, where the three
hours' spectacle, while Beaumont and Fletcher
were presented, was usually of more advantage to
the hopeful young hen-, than a costly, dangerous,
foreign travel, with the assistance of a governing
monsieur or signer to boot ; and it cannot be de-
nied but that the young spirits of the tune, whose
birth and quality made them impatient of the
sourer ways of education, have, from the attentive
845
A HISTORY OF OPINION
Hearing these pieces, got ground in point of wit
and carriage of the most severely employed stu-
dents, while these recreations were digested into
rules, and the very pleasure did edify. How many
passable discoursing dining wits stand yet in good
credit, upon the bare stock of two or three of these
single scenes ! " This is a low estimate of the power
and capacity of the drama ; and one which is a suffi-
cient evidence of a declining taste amongst those who
were perforce contented with reading plays during
the silence of the stage. From " the greatest monu-
ment of the scene that time and humanity have
produced" was to be learned what was of more
advantage "than a costly, dangerous, foreign
travel." Hence were to be acquired "wit and
carriage," and "dining wits stand yet in good
credit" by passing off the repartees of these dra-
matists as their own. Shirley knew the character
of those whom he addressed in this preface. In
the contentions of that tragical age few of the
serious thinkers would open a play-book at all.
To the gay cavaliers Beaumont and Fletcher would
perhaps be more welcome than Shakspere ; and
Shirley tells us the grounds upon which they were
to be admired. But assuredly this is not oblivion
of Shakspere.
III.
[Davenant.]
THE theatres were thrown open at the Restora-
tion. Malone, in his ' Historical Account of the
English Stage,' informs us that "in the latter end
of the year 1659, some months before the restora-
tion of King Charles II., the theatres, which had
been suppressed during the usurpation, began to
revive, and several plays were performed at the
Red Bull in St. John's Street, in that and the fol-
lowing years, before the return of the King." He
then adds, that in June, 1660, three companies
seem to have been formed, including that of the
Red Bull ; and he enters into a history of the con-
tests between the Master of the Revels, and Killi-
grew and Davenant, who had received a patent
from the King for the exclusive performance of
dramatic entertainments. It is scarcely necessary
for us to pursue the details of this contest, which,
as is well known, terminated in the permanent
establishment of two theatres only in London,
Malone has ransacked the very irregular series of
papers connected with the office of Sir Henry Her-
346
bert, who appears to have kept an eye upon thea-
trical performances with a view to demanding his
fees if he should be supported by the higher powers.
From these and other sources, such as the List of
Downes, the prompter, of the principal plays acted
by Killigrew's company, Malone infers that "such
was the lamentable taste of those times that the
plays of Fletcher, Jonson, and Shirley were much
oftener exhibited than those of Shakspeare." The
plays acted by this company, as he collects from
these documents, were Henry IV., Merry Wives
of Windsor, Othello, and Julius Caesar. At
Davenant's theatre, which boasted of the great
actor Betterton, we learn from Malone that the
plays performed were Pericles, Macbeth, The
Tempest, Lear, Hamlet, Rorneo and Juliet, Henry
VIII, Twelfth Night, Taming of the Shrew,
Henry V. Malone does not do justice to the
value of his own documents, for, when he gives us
one list, he points out that there are only three
plays of Sliakspere "a melancholy proof" of his
decline ; and at another list he shakes his head,
reciting "the following plays of Shakspeare, and
these only" Now it appears to us that, if any proof
were wanting of the wonderful hold which Shak-
spere had taken of the English mind, under cir-
cumstances the most adverse to his continued
popularity, it would be found in these imperfect
lists, which do not extend over more than eight or
nine years. Here are absolutely fourteen plays of
Shakspere revived for that is the phrase in an
age which was prolific of its own authors, adapting
themselves to a new school of courtly taste. All
the indirect testimony, however meagre, exhibits
the enduring popularity of Shakspere. Killi-
grew's new theatre in Drury Lane is opened with
Henry IV. Within a few months after the Re-
storation, when heading and hanging are going
forward, Pepys relates that he went to see Othello.
ON THE WRITINGS OF SHAKSPERE.
In 1661 he is attracted by Romeo and Juliet ; and
iu 1662 we have an entry in his Diary, with his
famous criticism : " To the King's Theatre, where
we saw Midsummer's Night's Dream, which I had
never seen before, nor shall ever again, for it is
the most insipid ridiculous play that ever I saw in
my life." Here, upon unquestionable authority,
we have a fifteenth play added to the fourteen pre-
viously cited. But why need we search amongst
such chance entries for evidence of the reputation
of Shakspere immediately after the Restoration?
Those who talk of Shakspere as emerging some
century ago into celebrity after having fallen into
neglect for a lengthened period ; those who flip-
pantly affirm that " the preface of Pope was the
first thing that procured general admiration for his
works," are singularly ignorant of the commonest
passages of literary history. To the vague and
random assertions and assumptions, whether old
or new, about the neglect into which Shakspere
had fallen as a popular dramatist, may be opposed
the most distinct testimony of one especially who
was a most accurate and minute chronicler of the
public taste. Colley Gibber, who himself became
an actor, in 1690, in the one privileged company of
London of which Betterton was the head a com-
pany formed out of the united strength of the two
companies which had been established at the Re-
storation describes the state of the stage at the
period of the first revival of dramatic performances :
" Besides then: being thorough masters of their art,
these actors set forward with two critical advan-
tages, which perhaps may never happen again in
many ages." One of the advantages he mentions,
but a secondary one, was, " that before the Restora-
tion no actresses had ever been seen upon the
English stage." But the chief advantage was " their
immediate opening after the so long interdiction
of plays during the civil war and the anarchy that
followed it." He then goes on to say, " What eager
appetites from so long a fast must the guests of
those tunes have had to that high and fresh variety
of entertainments ! " Provided by whom ? By the
combined variety of Jonson, and Fletcher, and
Massinger, and Ford, and Shirley, and a host of
other writers, whose attractive fare was to be pre-
sented to the eager guests after so long a fast ? No.
The high entertainment and the fresh variety was
to be provided by one man alone, the man who
we are told was neglected hi his own age, and for-
gotten in that which came after him. " What eager
appetites from so long a fast must the guests of
those times have had to that high and fresh variety
of entertainments which Shakespeare had left pre-
pared for them I Never was a stage so provided. A
hundred years are wasted, and another silent cen-
tury well advanced,* and yet what unborn age shall
Gibber is writing as late as 1 740.
say Shakespeare has his equal ! How many shining
actors have the warm scenes of his genius given to
posterity !" Betterton is idolized as an actor, aa
much as the old man venerates Shakspere : " Bet-
terton was an actor, as Shakespeare was an author,
both without competitors ; formed for the mutual
assistance and illustration of each other's genius.
How Shakespeare wrote all men who have a taste for
nature may read, and know ; but with what higher
rapture would he still be read, could they conceive
how Betterton played him ! " Whenever Cibber
speaks of Better-ton's wondrous excellence, it is
always in connection with Shakspere : " Should I
tell you that all the Othellos, Hamlets, Hotspurs,
Macbeths, and Brutuses whom you may have seen
since his tune have fallen far short of him, this still
should give you no idea of his particular excel-
lence." For some years after the Restoration it
seems to have been difficult to satiate the people
with the repetition of Shakspere's great characters
and leading plays, in company with some of the
plays of Jonson and Fletcher. The two compa-
nies had an agreement as to their performances :
" All the capital plays of Shakespeare, Fletcher,
and Ben Jonson were divided between them by the
approbation of the court, and their own alternate
choice. So that, when Hart was famous for
Othello, Betterton had no less a reputation for
Hamlet." Still the test of histrionic excellence
was Shakspere. So far from Shakspere being
neglected at this period, it is almost evident that
the performance of him was overdone ; for every
one knows that a theatrical audience, even in the
largest city, is, in a considerable degree, composed
of regular frequenters of the theatre, and that no-
velty is therefore an indispensable requisite to con-
tinued success. The plays of Shakspere were better
acted by the company of which Betterton was the
head than by the rival company; and this, according
to Cibber, led to the introduction of a new taste :
" These two excellent companies were both pros-
perous for some few years, till their variety of
plays began to be exhausted. Then, of course, the
better actors (which the King's seem to have been
allowed) could not fail of drawing the greater
audiences. Sir William Davenant, therefore, master
of the Duke's company, to make head against
their success, was forced to add spectacle and
music to action ; and to introduce a new species
of plays, since called dramatic operas, of which
kind were ' The Tempest,' ' Psyche,' ' Circe,' and
others, all set off with the most expensive decora-
tions of scenes and habits, with the best voices
and dancers.
" This sensual supply of sight and sound coming
in to the assistance of the weaker party, it was
no wonder they should grow too hard for sense and
simple nature, when it is considered how many more
people there are that can see and hear than think
347
A HISTORY OF OPINION
and judge. So wanton a change of the public
taste, therefore, began to fall as heavy upon the
King's company as their greater excellence in
action had before fallen upon their competitors.
Of which encroachment upon wit several good
prologues hi those days frequently complained."
There can be no doubt that most of the original
performances of Shakspere, immediately after the
Restoration, were given from his unsophisticated
text. The first improvements that were perpetrated
upon this text resulted from the cause which Gibber
has so accurately described. Davenant, to make
head against the success of the King's company,
" was forced to add spectacle and music to action."
What importance Davenant attached to these
novelties we may learn from the description of the
opening scene of ' The Enchanted Island,' that
alteration of The Tempest, by himself and Dryden,
to which Cibber refers : " The front of the stage
is opened, and the band of twenty-four violins,
with the harpsicals and theorbos which accompany
the voices, are placed between the pit and the stage.
While the overture is playing, the curtain rises, and
discovers a new frontispiece joined to the great
pilasters on each side of the stage. This frontis-
piece is a noble arch, supported by large wreathed
columns of the Corinthian order ; the wreathings
of the columns are beautified with roses wound
round them, and several Cupids flying about them.
On the cornice, just over the capitals, sits on either
side a figure, with a trumpet in one hand and a
palm in the other, representing Fame. A little
farther on the same cornice, on each side of a com-
pass-pediment, lie a lion and a unicorn, the sup-
porters of the royal arms of England In the
middle of the arch are several angels holding the
king's arms, as if they were placing them in the
midst of that compass-pediment. Behind this is
the scene, which represents a thick cloudy sky, a
very rocky coast, and a tempestuous sea in per-
petual agitation. This tempest (supposed to be
raised by magic) has many dreadful objects in it,
as several spirits in horrid shapes flying down
amongst the sailors, then rising in the air. And
when the ship is sinking, the whole house is dark-
ened, and a shower of fire falls upon 'em. This
is accompanied with lightning, and several claps
of thunder, to the end of the storm."
In the alterations of this play, which were made
in 1669, and which continued to possess the Eng-
lish stage for nearly a century and a hah , it is
impossible now not to feel how false was the taste
upon which they were built. Dryden says of this
play that Davenant, to put the last hand to it,
" designed the counterpart to Shakespeare's plot,
namely, that of a man who had never seen a wo-
man ;, that by this means those two characters of
innocence and love might the more illustrate and
commend each other." Nothing can be weaker
348
and falser in art than this mere duplication of an
idea. But still it was not done irreverently. The
Prologue to this altered Tempest (of his own part
of which Dryden says, " I never writ anything with
more delight") is of itself an answer to the asinine
assertion that Dryden, in common with the public
of his day, was indifferent to the memory of
Shakspere :*
"As when a tree's cut down, the secret root
Lives underground, and thence new branches shoot;
So, from old Shakespear's honour'd dust, this day
Springs up and buds a new reviving play.
Shakespear, who (taught by none) did first impart
To Fletcher wit, to labouring Jonson art.
He, monarch like, gave those his subjects law,
This did his love, and this his mirth digest :
One imitates him most, the other best.
If they have since out-writ all other men,
'Tis with the drops which fell from Shakespear's pen.
The storm which vanish'd on the neighb ring shore
Was taught by Shakespear's Tempest first to roar.
That innocence and beauty which did smile
In Fletcher, grew on this Enchanted Isle.
But Shakespear's magic could not copied be,
Within that circle none durst walk but he.
I must confess 't was bold, nor would you now
That liberty to vulgar wits allow,
Which works by magic supernatural things :
But Shakespear's pow'r is sacred as a king's.
Those legends from old priesthood were receiv'd,
And he then writ, as people then believ'd."
Of Dryden's personal admiration of Shakspere,
of his profound veneration for Shakspere, there is
abundant proof. He belonged to the transition
period of English poetry. His better judgment
was sometimes held in subjection to the false taste
that prevailed around him. He attempted to found
a school of criticism, which should establish rules
of art differing from those which produced the
drama of Shakspere, and yet not acknowledging the
supremacy of the tame and formal school of the
French tragedians. He did not perfectly under-
stand the real nature of the romantic drama. Ho
did not see that, as in all other high poetry, sim-
plicity was one of its great elements. He was
of those who would " gild refined gold." But foi
genial hearty admiration of the great master of the
romantic drama no one ever went beyond him.
Take, for example, the conclusion of his preface to
All for Love :' " In my style I have professed to
imitate the divine Shakespear ; which that I might
perform more freely, I have disencumbered myself
from rhyme. Not that I condemn my former way,
but that this is more proper to my present purpose.
* Lardner's Cyclopaedia, Sec.
ON THE WRITINGS OF SHAKSPERE.
hope 1 need not to explain myself that I have not
copied my author servilely. Words and phrases
must of necessity receive a change in succeeding
ages. But 'tis almost a miracle that much of his
language remains so pure ; and that he who began
dramatic poetry amongst us, untaught by any, and,
as Ben Jonson tells us, without learning, should
by the force of his own genius perform so much,
that in a manner he has left no praise for any who
came after him."
Dryden had the notion, in which Shaftesbury fol-
lowed him, that the style of Shakspere was obsolete,
although we have just seen that he says, "'Tis
almost a miracle that much of his language remains
so pure." Yet with this notion, which he puts
forward as an apology for tampering with Shak-
spere, he never ceases to express his admiration of
him ; and, what is of more importance, to show
how general was the same feeling. The preface
to Troilus and Cressida thus begins : " The poet
^Eschylus was held in the same veneration by the
Athenians of after ages as Shakspeare is by us."
In this preface is introduced the ' Grounds of
Criticism in Tragedy,' in which the critic applies a
variety of tests to the art of Shakspere, which only
show that he did not understand the principles
upon which Shakspere worked : but still there is
everywhere the most unqualified admiration ; and
in the prologue to the altered play, which, being
addressed to the people, could scarcely deal, with
such rules and exceptions for the formation of a
judgment, we have again the most positive testi-
mony to the public sense of Shakspere. This
prologue is "spoken by Mr. Betterton, representing
the ghost of Shakspeare."
" See, my lov'd Britons, see your Shakespear rise,
An awful ghost confessed to human eyes !
Unnam'd, methinks. distinguish'd I had been
From other shades, by this eternal green,
Above whose wreaths the vulgar poets strive,
And with a touch their wither'd bays revive.
Untaught, unpractis'd, in a barbarous age,
I found not, but created first, the stage.
And, if I drain'd no Greek or Latin store,
' T was, that my own abundance gave me more.
On foreign trade I needed not rely,
Like fruitful Britain, rich without supply.
In this my rough-drawn play you shall behold
Some master-strokes, so manly and so bold,
That he, who meant to alter, found 'em such,
He shook ; and thought it sacrilege to touch.
Now, where are the successors to my name ?
What bring they to fill out a poet's fame?
Weak, short-liv d issues of a feeble age ;
Scarce living to be christen'd on the stage!"
With these repeated acknowledgments of Shak-
spere's supremacy, it is at first difficult to under-
stand how, in 1665, Dryden should have written,
" others are now generally preferred before him."
The age, as he himself tells us, differed in this
respect from that of Shakspere's own age, and also
from that of Charles I. He says, in the same
'Essay on Dramatic Poesy,' speaking of Beaumont
and Fletcher, "Their plays are now the most
pleasant and frequent entertainments of the stage,
two of theirs being acted through the year for one
of Shakespear's or Jonson's." But this is not ne-
glect or oblivion of Shakspere. We learn pretty
clearly from Dryden, though he does not care to
say so, for that would have been self-condemnation,
that a licentiousness which was not found in Shak-
spere was an agreeable thing to a licentious au-
dience: "They" (Beaumont and Fletcher) "un-
derstood and imitated the conversation of gentle-
men much better, whose wild debaucheries, and
quickness of wit in repartees, no poet before them
could paint as they have done. .... They
represented all the passions very lively, but above
all love." The highest things in Shakspere can
only be fitly appreciated by a people amongst
whom there is a high moral tone, capable of un-
derstanding and of originating the highest poetical
things. With all their faults, the ages of Elizabeth
and James possessed this tone ; and it is impossible
now to estimate how greatly Shakspere contributed
to its preservation. But nine years after the
Restoration there was no public principle in
England, and little private honour. The keenest
relish for Shakspere most probably existed out of
the Court; and Betterton, in all likelihood, felt
the applause of the pit more truly valuable than
that of the king's box. One thing is perfectly clear :
that when Dryden is addressing the people, he
speaks of Shakspere as their especial favourite.
He is tken "your Shakspere." The crafty and
prosaic Pepys, on the contrary, no doubt expressed
many a courtier's sentiment about Shakspere. In
the entry of his Diary of August 20th, 1666,
we have, "To Deptford by water, reading Othello,
Moor of Venice, which I ever heretofore esteemed
a mighty good play; but having so lately read
' The Adventures of Five Hours,' it seems a mean
thing." 'The Adventures of Five Hours,' a tragi-
comedy, by Sir Samuel Tuke, was a translation
from the Spanish, which Echard commends for its
variety of plots and intrigues. We can easily
understand how Pepys and "my wife's maid"
counted Othello a mean thing in comparison with
it. Pepys shows us pretty clearly the sort of
audience that in that day was called fashionable,
and the mode in which they displayed their interest
in a theatrical entertainment: "My wife and I
to the King's playhouse, and there saw 'The
Island Princess,' the first time I ever saw it ; and
it is a pretty good play, many good things being
in it, and a good scene of a town on fire. We sat
in an upper box, and the jade Nell came and sat in
the next box ; a bold merry slut, who lay laughing
there upon people." Again : " To the King's house
to 'The Maid's Tragedy ;' but vexed all the while
349 .
A HISTORY OF OPINION
with two talking ladies and Sir Charles Sedley ;
yet pleased to hear their discourse, he being a
stranger." We can easily imagine that the "jade
Nell" and tie "talking ladies" were the repre-
sentatives of a very large class, who preferred
"other plays" to those of'Shakspere.
'The Grounds of Criticism in Tragedy,' to
which we have alluded, contains a more condensed
view of Dryden's opinions of Shakspere than any
other of his Prefaces. We present it therefore,
with some unimportant omissions, as the summary
of the judgment of the highest critical authority of
this period, when the public taste had been cor-
rupted with music and spectacle, and comedies of
licentious intrigue abounded, hi company with
the rhyming tragedies of Dryden himself, and the
ranting bombast of his inferior rivals. This Essay
first appeared in 1679 :
" Tragedy is thus defined by Aristotle (omitting
what I thought unnecessary in his definition) : it
is an imitation of one entire, great, and probable
action ; not told, but represented ; which, by mov-
ing in us fear and pity, is conducive to the purging
oftthose two passions in our minds. More largely
thus : Tragedy describes or paints an action, which
action must have all the proprieties above named.
First, it must be one, or single ; that is, it must not
be a history of one man's life suppose of Alex-
ander the Great, or Julius Caesar but one single
action of theirs. This condemns all Shakespear's
historical plays, which are rather chronicles re-
presented than tragedies ; and all double action
of plays The natural reason of this
rule is plain ; for two different independent actions
distract the attention and concernment of the
audience, and consequently destroy the intention of
the poet. If his business be to move terror and
pity, and one of his actions be comical, the other
tragical, the former will divert the people, and
utterly make void his greater purpose. There-
fore, as in perspective, so in tragedy, there must
be a point of sight in which all the lines termi-
nate ; otherwise the eye wanders, and the work is
false
" As the action ought to be one, it ought as such
to have order in it ; that is, to have a natural be-
ginning, a middle, and an end. A natural begin-
ning, says Aristotle, is that which could not neces-
sarily have been placed after another thing ; and
so of the rest. This consideration will arraign all
plays after the new model of Spanish plots, where
accident is heaped upon accident, and that which
is first might as reasonably be last ; an inconve-
nience not to be remedied but by making one
accident naturally produce another, otherwise it is
a farce, and not a play.
" The following properties of the action are sc
easy that they need not my explaining. It ought
to be great, and to consist of great persons, to
3f>0
distinguish it from comeay, where the action is
trivial, and the persons of inferior rank. The last
quality of the action is, that it ought to be pro-
bable, as well as admirable and great. It is not
necessary that there should be historical truth in
it; but always necessary that there should be a
likeness of truth, something that is more than barely
possible, probable being that which succeeds or
happens oftener that it misses. To invent, there-
fore, a probability, and to make it wonderful, is
the most difficult undertaking in the art of poetry :
for that which is not wonderful is not great, and
that which is not probable will not delight a rea-
sonable audience. This action, thus described,
must be represented, and not told, to distinguish
dramatic poetry from epic. But I hasten to the
end, or scope, of tragedy, which is to rectify or
purge our passions, fear and pity.
' To instruct delightfully is the general end of
all poetry; philosophy instructs, but it performs
its work by precept, which is not delightful, or
not so delightful as example. To purge the pas-
sions by example is therefore the particular in-
struction wlu'ch belongs to tragedy. Rapin, a
judicious critic, has observed, from Aristotle, that
pride and want of commiseration are the most
predominant vices in mankind : therefore, to cure
us of these two, the inventors of tragedy have
chosen to work upon two other passions, which
are fear and pity. We are wrought to fear by
their setting before our eyes some terrible example
of misfortune which happened to persons of the
highest quality; for such an action demonstrates
to us that no condition is privileged from the turns
of fortune ; this must of necessity cause terror in
us, and consequently abate our pride. But when
we see that the most virtuous, as well as the great-
est, are not exempt from such misfortunes, that
consideration moves pity in us, and insensibly
works us to be helpful to, and tender over, the dis-
tressed, which is the noblest and most godlike of
moral virtues. Here it is observable that it is
absolutely necessary to make a man virtuous, if
we desire he should be pitied. We lament not,
but detest, a wicked man : we are glad when we
behold his crimes are punished, and that poetical
justice is done upon him. Euripides was censured
by the critics of his time for making his chief cha-
racters too wicked : for example, Phaedra, though
she loved her son-in-law with reluctancy, and that
it was a curse upon her family for offending Venus,
yet was thought too ill a pattern for the stage.
Shall we therefore banish all characters of villainy ?
I confess I am not of that opinion : but it is ne-
cessary that the hero of the play be not a villain ;
that is, the characters which should move our pity
ought to have virtuous inclinations and degrees of
moral goodness in them. As for a perfect character
of virtue, it never was in nature, and therefore
ON THE WRITINGS OF SHAKSPERE.
there can be no imitation of it : but there are
allays of frailty to be allowed for the chief persons,
yet so that the good which is in them shall out-
weigh the bad, and consequently leave room for
punishment on the one side, and pity on the other.
" After all, if any one will ask me whether a tra-
gedy cannot be made upon any other grounds than
those of exciting pity and terror in us, Bossu, the
best of modern critics, answers thus in general :
That all excellent arts, and particularly that of
poetry, have been invented and brought to perfec-
tion by men of a transcendent genius ; and that
therefore they who practise afterwards the same
arts are obliged to tread in their footsteps, and to
search in their writings the foundation of them ;
for it is not just that new rules should destroy the
authority of the old
" Here therefore the general answer may be given
to the first question, how far we ought to imitate
Shakespear and Fletcher in their plots ; namely,
that we ought to follow them so far only as they
have copied the excellences of those who invented
and brought to perfection dramatic poetry ; those
things only excepted which religion, customs of
countries, idioms of languages, &c., have altered in
the superstructures, but not in the foundation of
the design.
" How defective Shakespear and Fletcher have
been in all their plots, Mr. Eymer has discovered
in his 'Criticisms:' neither can we, who follow
them, be excused from the same or greater errors ;
which are the more unpardonable in us, because we
want their beauty to countervail our faults
" The difference between Shakespear and Flet-
cher in their plotting seems to be this that Shake-
spear generally moves more terror, and Fletcher
more compassion. For the first had a more mas-
culine, a bolder, and more fiery genius ; the second,
a more soft and womanish. In the mechanic beau-
ties of the plot, which are the observation of the
three unities time, place, and action they are
both deficient ; but Shakespear most. Ben Jon-
son reformed those errors in his comedies, yet one
of Shakespear's was regular before him ; which is,
The Merry Wives of Windsor
" After the plot, which is the foundation of the
play, the next thing to which we ought to apply
our judgment is the manners ; for now the poet
comes to work aboveground. The groundwork in-
deed is that which is most necessary, as that upon
which depends the firmness of the whole fabric ;
yet it strikes not the eye so much as the beauties
or imperfections of the manners, the thoughts, and
the expressions.
" The first rule which Bossu prescribes to the
writer of an heroic poem, and which holds too by
the same reason in all dramatic poetry, is to make
the moral of the work ; that is, to lay down to
yourself what that precept of morality shall be
which you would insinuate into the people ; as,
namely, Homer's (which I have copied in my
' Conquest of Granada ') was, that union preserves
a commonwealth, and discord destroys it ; Sopho-
cles, in his ' (Edipus,' that no man is to be ac-
counted happy before his death. It is the moral
that directs the whole action of the play to one
centre, and that action or fable is the example built
upon the moral, which confirms the truth of it to
our experience. When the fable is designed, then,
and not before, the persons are to be introduced,
with their manners, characters, and passions.
" The manners in a poem are understood to be
those inclinations, whether natural or acquired,
which move and carry us to actions, good, bad, or
indifferent, in a play ; or which incline the persons
to such or such actions
" But as the manners are useful in this art, they
may be all comprised under these general heads :
First, they must be apparent ; that is, in every cha-
racter of the play some inclinations of the person
must appear ; and these are shown in the actions
and discourse. Secondly, the manners must be
suitable or agreeing to the persons ; that is, to the
age, sex, dignity, and the other general heads of
manners. Thus, when a poet has given the dignity
of a king to one of his persons, hi all his actions and
speeches that person must discover majesty, mag-
nanimity, and jealousy of power ; because these are
suitable to the general manners of a king. The
third property of manners is resemblance ; and this
is founded upon the particular characters of men,
as we have them delivered to us by relation or his-
tory ; that is, when a poet has the known character
of this or that man before him, he is bound to
represent him such, at least not contrary to that
which fame has reported him to have been
" The last property of manners is, that they be
constant and equal ; that is, maintained the same
through the whole design
" From the manners the characters of persons are
derived ; for indeed the characters are no other than
the inclinations, as they appear hi the several per-
sons of the poem : a character being thus defined
that which distinguishes one man from another.
Not to repeat the same things over again which
have been said of the manners, I will only add
what is necessary here. A character, or that wliich
distinguishes one man from all others, cannot be
supposed to consist of one particular virtue, or vice,
or passion only ; but it is a composition of quali-
ties which are not contrary to one another in the
same person. Thus, the same man may be liberal
and valiant, but not liberal and covetous ; so in a
comical character, or humour, (which is an inclina-
tion to this or that particular folly,) Falstaff is a liar
and a coward, a glutton and a buffoon, because all
these qualities may agree in the same man ; yet it
is still to be observed that one virtue, vice, and
351
A HISTORY OF OPINION
passion ought to be shown in every man, as pre-
dominant over all the rest ; as covetousness in
Crassus, love of his country in Brutus ; and the
same in characters which are feigned.
" The chief character or hero in a tragedy, as I
have already shown, ought in prudence to be such
a man, who has so much more in him of virtue than
of vice, that he may be left amiable to the audience,
which otherwise cannot have any concernment for
his suiferings ; and it is on this one character that
the pity and terror must be principally, if not
wholly, founded ; a rule which is extremely neces-
sary, and which none of the critics that I know
have fully enough discovered to us ; for terror and
compassion work but weakly when they are divided
into many persons
" By what has been said of the manners, it will
be easy for a reasonable man to judge whether the
characters be truly or falsely drawn in a tragedy; for
if there be no manners appearing in the characters,
no concernment for the persons can be raised ; no
pity or horror can be moved but by vice or virtue,
therefore without them no person can have busi-
ness in the play. If the inclinations be obscure,
it is a sign the poet is in the dark, and knows not
what manner of man he presents to you, and con-
sequently you can have no idea, or very imperfect,
of that man ; nor can judge what resolutions he
ought to take, or what words or actions are proper
for him. Most comedies made up of accidents or
adventures are liable to fall into this error ; and
tragedies with many turns are subject to it ; for the
manners never can be evident where the surprises
of fortune take up all the business of the stage, and
where the poet is more in pain to tell you what hap-
pened to such a man than what he was. It is one of
the excellences of Shakespear, that the manners of
his persons are generally apparent, and you see their
bent and inclinations. Fletcher comes far short of
him in this, as indeed he does almost in everything.
There are but glimmerings of manners in most of
his comedies, which run upon adventures ; and in
his tragedies, ' Hollo,' ' Otto,' the ' King and No
King,' ' Melantius,' and many others of his best, are
but pictures shown you in the twilight ; you know
not whether they resemble vice or virtue, and they
are either good, bad, or indifferent, as the present
scene requires it. But of all poets this commenda-
tion is to be given to Ben Jonson, that the man-
ners even of the most inconsiderable persons in his
plays are everywhere apparent.
" By considering the second quality of manners,
which is, that they be suitable to the age, quality,
country, dignity, &c., of the character, we may
likewise judge whether a poet has followed nature.
In this kind Sophocles and Euripides have more
excelled among the Greeks than ^schylus ; and
Terence more than Plautus among the Romans. . . .
The present French poets are generally accused,
852
that, wheresoever they lay the scene, or in whaf-
soever age, the manners of their heroes are wholly
French. Racine's Bajazet is bred at Constanti-
nople, but his civilities are conveyed to him by
some secret passage from Versailles into the Se-
raglio. But our Shakespear, having ascribed to
Henry the Fourth the character of a king and of
a father, gives him the perfect manners of each
relation, when either he transacts with his son or
with his subjects. Fletcher, on the other side, gives
neither to Arbaces, nor to his king in ' The Maid's
Tragedy,' the qualities which are suitable to 'a mo-
narch To return once more to Shakespear :
no man ever drew so many characters, or generally
distinguished them better from one another, ex-
cepting only Jonson. I will instance but in one, to
show the copiousness of his invention ; it is that
of Caliban, or the monster, in The Tempest. He
seems there to have created a person which was not
in nature a boldness which at first sight would
appear intolerable ; for he makes him a species of
himself, begotten by an incubus on a witch ; but
this, as I have elsewhere proved, is not wholly be-
yond the bounds of credibility at least the vulgar
still believe it. We have the separated notions of
a spirit and of a witch (and spirits, according to
Plato, are vested with a subtile body ; according to
some of his followers, have different sexes) ; there-
fore, as from the distinct apprehensions of a horse
and of a man imagination has formed a Centaur,
so from those of an incubus and a sorceress Shake-
spear has produced his monster. Whether or no
his generation can be defended I leave to philo-
sophy ; but of this I am certain, that the poet has
most judiciously furnished him with a person, a
language, and a character which will suit him, both
by father's and mother's side : he has all the dis-
contents and malice of a witch and of a devil, be-
sides a convenient proportion of the deadly sins
gluttony, sloth, and lust are manifest ; the dejected-
ness of a slave is likewise given him, and the igno-
rance of one bred up in a desert island. His person
is monstrous, as he is the product of unnatural lust ;
and his language is as hobgoblin as his person : in
all things he is distinguished from other mortals.
The characters of Fletcher are poor and narrow in
comparison of Shakespear's : I remember not one
which is not borrowed from him, unless you will
except that strange mixture of a man in the ' King
and No King.' So that in this part Shakespear is
generally worth our imitation ; and to imitate Flet-
cher is but to copy after him who was a copier.
" Under this general head of manners, the pas-
sions are naturally included as belonging to the
characters. I speak not of p ; ty and of terror, which
are to be moved in the audience by the plot, but of
anger, hatred, love, ambition, jealousy, revenge,
&c., as they are shown in this or that person of the
play. To describe these naturally, and to move
ON THE WRITINGS OF SHAKSPERE.
tnera artfully, is one of the greatest commendations
which can be given to a poet. To write pathetic-
ally, says Longinus, cannot proceed but from a
lofty genius. A poet must be born with this
quality; yet, unless he help himself by an acquired
knowledge of the passions, what they are in their
own nature, and by what springs they are to be
moved, ne will be subject either to raise them where
they ought not to be raised, or not to raise them
by the just degrees of nature, or to amplify them
beyond the natural bounds, or not to observe the
crisis and turns of them in their cooling and decay :
all which errors proceed from want of judgment in
the poet, and from being unskilled in the principles
of moral philosophy.
" It is necessary therefore for a poet, who would
concern an audience by describing of a passion, first
to prepare it, and not to rush upon it all at once
" The next necessary rule is, to put nothing into
the discourse which may hinder your .moving of
the passions. Too many accidents, as I have said,
encumber the poet as much as the arms of Saul did
David ; for the variety of passions which they pro-
duce are ever crossing and justling each other out
of the way. He who treats of joy and grief together
is in a fair way of causing neither of those effects.
There is yet another obstacle to be removed, which
is pointed wit, and sentences affected out of season ;
these are nothing of kin to the violence of passion.
No man is at leisure to make sentences and similes
when his soul is in an agony
" If Shakespear be allowed, as I think he must,
to have made his characters distinct, it will easily
be inferred that he understood the nature of the
passions ; because it has been proved already that
confused passions make undistinguishable charac-
ters. Yet I cannot deny that he has his failings ;
but they are not so much in the passions themselves
as in his manner of expression : he often obscures
his meaning by his words, and sometimes makes it
unintelligible. I will not say of so great a poet that
he distinguished not the blown puffy style from true
sublimity, but I may venture to maintain that the
fury of his fancy often transported him beyond the
bounds of judgment, either in coining of new words
and phrases, or racking words which were in use
into the violence of a catachresis. It is not that I
would explode the use of metaphors from passion,
for Longinus thinks them necessary to raise it ; but
to use them at every word, to say nothing without
a metaphor, a simile, an image, or description, is,
I doubt, to smell a little" too strongly of the buskin.
I must be forced to give an example of expressing
passion figuratively ; but that I may do it with respect
to Shakespear, it shall not be taken from anything
of his : it, is an exclamation against fortune, quoted
in his Hamlet, but written by some other poet :
' Out, out, thou strumpet Fortune ! all you gods,
in general synod, take away her power,
SIT. Tor.. 2 A
Break all the spokes and fellies from her wheel,
And bowl the round nave down the hill of heaven
As low as to the fiends.'
And immediately after, speaking of Hecuba, when
Priam was killed before her eyes :
' The mobbled queen,' &c.
" What a pudder is here kept in raising the ex-
pression of trifling thoughts ! Would not a man
have thought that the poet had-been bound prentice
to a wheelwright for his first rant ? and had fol-
lowed a ragman for the clout and blanket in the
second ? But Shakespear does not often thus ;
for the passions in his scene between Brutus and
Cassiusare extremely natural, the thoughts are such
as arise from the matter, and the expression of
them not viciously figurative. I cannot leave this
subject before I do justice to that divine poet, by
giving you one of his passionate descriptions : it is
of Richard the Second, when he was deposed and
led in triumph through the streets of London by
Henry Bullingbrook. The painting of it is so
lively and the words so moving, that I have scarce
read anything comparable to it in any other lan-
guage. Suppose you have seen already the fortu-
nate usurper passing through the crowd, and fol-
lowed by the shouts and acclamations of the people;
and now behold King Richard entering upon the
scene. Consider the wretchedness of his condition,
and his carriage in it, and refrain from pity if you
can:
' As in a theatre, the eyes of men,' &c.
" To speak justly of this whole matter, it is
neither height of thought that is discommended,
nor pathetic vehemence, nor any nobleness of ex-
pression in its proper place ; but it is a false mea-
sure of all these, something which is like them and
is not them : it is the Bristol stone which appears
like a diamond ; it is an extravagant thought instead
of a sublime one ; it is roaring madness instead of
vehemence ; and a sound of words instead of sense.
If Shakespear were stripped of all the bombast in
his passions, and dressed in the most vulgar words,
we should find the beauties of his thoughts remain-
ing ; if his embroideries were burnt down, there
would still be silver at the bottom of the melting-
pot But I fear (at least let me fear it for myself)
that we who ape his sounding words have nothing
of his thought, but are all outside ; there is not so
much as a dwarf within our giant's clothes. There-
fore let not Shakespear suffer for our sakes ; it is
our fault who succeed him in an age which is more
refined, if we imitate him so ill that we copy his
failings only, and make a virtue of that in our writ-
ings which in his was an imperfection.
" For what remains, the excellency of that poet
was, as I have said, in the more manly passions ;
Fletcher's in the softer: Shakespear writ better
353
HISTORY OF OPINION,
Letwixt man and man, Fletcher betwixt man and
woman ; consequently the one described friendship
better, the other love : yet Shakespear taught
Fletcher to write love ; and Juliet and Desdernona
are originals. It is true the scholar had the softer
s^ul, but the master had the kinder. Friendship is
both a virtue and a passion essentially : love is a
passion only in its nature, and is not a virtue but
hv accident. Good nature makes friendship, but
effeminacy love. Shakespear had an universal
mind, which comprehended all characters and pas-
sions ; Fletcher a more confined and limited : for
though he treated love in perfection, yet honour,
ambition, revenge, and generally all the stronger
passions, he either touched not or not masterly. To
onclude all, he was a limb of Shakespear."
[liryden.J
' Ihe Grounds of Criticism in Tragedy' is held
by Dr. Johnson to be an answer to the ' Tra-
gedies of the last Age considered and examined,'
by the celebrated Thomas Rymer. Rymer's book
was originally published in 1678 ; and Dryden's
Preface to Troilus and Cressida, in which the
supposed answer is contained, appeared in the fol-
lowing year. Rymer is generally known as the
learned editor of the vast collection of national
documents, arranged and published by him in his
official capacity of Historiographer Royal, under
the name of ' Fcedera.' But this publication was
\ot commenced till 1703, and for many years pre-
ious he had been a miscellaneous writer in polite
/iterature. In 1678 he produced a tragedy en-
titled ' Edgar.' It is almost painful to consider
that an author to whose gigantic labours all stu-
dents of English history are so deeply indebted
should have put forth the most ludicrous criticisms
upon Shakspere that oxist in the English language.
In ' The Tragedies considered' he proposes to exa-
mine " the choicest and most applauded English
tragedies of this last age ; as ' Rollo,' ' A King and
no King,' ' The Maid's Tragedy,' by Beaumont
354
and Fletcher ; Othello, and Julius Cresar, by
Shakespear ; and ' Catiline,' by worthy Ben." But
at this period he did not carry through his design.
The whole of this book is devoted to the three
plays of Beaumont and Fletcher. It would be be-
side our purpose to show how he disposes of them ;
but the following passage will exhibit the nature
of his judgment : " I have thought our poetry of
the last age as rude as our architecture. One
cause thereof might be that Aristotle's ' Treatise
of Poetry' has been so little studied amongst us."
The completion of Rymer's plan was deferred for
fifteen years. In 1693 appeared ' A Short View
of Tragedy ; its original excellency and corruption.
With some Reflections on Shakespear and other
Practitioners for the Stage.' This second treatise
thus begins : " What reformation may not we ex-
pect now that in France they see the necessity for
a chorus to their tragedies ! . . . The chorus was the
root and original, and is certainly always the most
necessary part, of tragedy." It would be exceed-
ingly unjust to Rymer to collect the disjecta meni-
6ra of his criticism upon, or rather abuse of, Shak-
spere, without exhibiting what were his own no-
tions of dramatic excellence ; and certainly in the
whole range of the ludicrous there are few things
more amusing than his solemn scheme for a tragedy
on the subject of the Spanish Armada, in imitation
of ' The Persians oi zEschylus. We cannot resist
the temptation of presenting it to our readers :
" The place, then, for the action may be at Ma-
drid, by some tomb, or solemn place of resort ; or,
if we prefer a turn in it from good to bad fortune,
then some drawing-room in the palace near the
king's bed-chamber.
" The time to begin, twelve at night.
" The scene opening presents fifteen grandees of
Spain, with their most solemn beards and accou-
trements, met there (suppose) after some ball, or
other public occasion. They talk of the state of
affairs, the greatness of their power, the vastness of
their dominions, and prospect to be infallibly, ere
long, lords of all. With this prosperity and goodly
thoughts transported, they at last form themselves
into the chorus, and walk such measures, with
music, as may become the gravity of such a chorus.
" Then enter two or three of the cabinet council,
who now have leave to tell the secret that the
preparations and the invincible Armada was to
conquer England. These, with part of the chorus,
may communicate all the particulars the provi-
sions, and the strength by sea and land ; the cer-
tainty of success, the advantages by that accession ;
and the many tun of tar-ban-els for the heretics.
These topics may afford matter enough, with the
chorus, for the second act.
" In the third act, these gentlemen of the cabinet
cannot agree about sharing the preferments of
England, and a mighty broil there is amongst
ON THE WRITINGS OF SHAKSPERE.
them." One will not be content unless he is King
of Man ; another will be Duke of Lancaster. One,
that had seen a coronation in England, will by all
means be Duke of Aquitaine, or else Duke of
Normandy. And on this occasion two competitors
have a juster occasion to work up and show the
muscles of their passion than Shakespear's Cassius
and Brutus. After, the chorus.
"The fourth act may, instead of Atossa, present
some old dames of the court, used to dream dreams,
and to see sprites, in their night-rails and fore-
head-cloths, to alarm our gentlemen with new ap-
prehensions, which make distraction and disorders
sufficient to furnish out this act
" In the last act the king enters, and wisely dis-
courses against dreams and hobgoblins, to quiet
their minds : and, the more to satisfy them, and
take off their fright, he lets them to know that
St. Loyola had appeared to him, and assured him
that all is well. This said, comes a messenger of
the ill news ; his account is lame, suspected, he
sent to prison. A second messenger, that came
away long after, but had a speedier passage : his
account is distinct, and all their loss credited. So,
in fine, one of the chorus concludes with that of
Euripides, Thus you see the gods bring things to
pass often otherwise than was by man proposed."
After this, can we wonder that the art of Thomas
llymer is opposed to the art of William Shakspere ?
Let us hear what he says of Othello " of all the
tragedies acted on our English stage, that which is
said to bear the bell away." He first gives the
fable, of which the points are, the marriage of
Othello, the jealousy from the incident of the
handkerchief, and the murder of Desdemona. The
facetious critic then proceeds :
" Whatever rubs or difficulty may stick on the
bark, the moral, sure, of this fable is very instruc-
tive.
" First, This may be a caution to all maidens of
quality how, without their parents' consent, they
run away with blackamoors.
" Secondly, This may be a warning to all good
wives, that they look well to their linen.
" Thirdly, This may be a lesson to husbands,
that, before their jealousy be tragical, the proofs
may be mathematical."
The whole story of Othello, we learn, is founded
upon " an improbable lie :"
" The character of that state (Venice) is to em-
ploy strangers in their wars ; but shall a poet
thence fancy that they will set a negro to be their
general, or trust a Moor to defend them against the
Turk ? With us a blackamoor might rise to be a
trumpeter ; but Shakespear would not have him
less than a lieutenant-general With us a Moor
might marry some little drab, or small-coal wench :
Shakespear would provide him the daughter and
heir of some great lord or privy-councillor ; and
2 A 2
all the town should reckon it a very suitable
match : yet the English are not bred up with that
hatred and aversion to the Moors as are the Vene-
tians, who suffer by a perpetual hostility from
them,
Littora littoribus contraria . . .
Nothing is more odious in nature than an im-
probable lie ; and, certainly, never was any play
fraught, like this of Othello, with improbabilities."
We next are told that "the characters or man-
ners, which are the second part in a tragedy, are not
less unnatural and improper than the fable was
improbable and absurd." From such characters
we are not to expect thoughts "that are either
true, or fine, or noble;" and further, "in the
neighing of a horse, or in the growling of a mastiff',
there is a meaning, there is as lively expression,
and, may I say, more humanity, than many times
hi the tragical flights of Shakespear." The
crowning glory of the treatise is the mode in
which the critic disposes of the scene between
Othello and lago in the third act :
" Then comes the wonderful scene where lago,
by shrugs, half-words, and ambiguous reflections,
works Othello up to be jealous. One might think,
after what we have seen, that there needs no great
cunning, no great poetry and address, to make the
Moor jealous. Such impatience, such a rout for a
handsome young fellow, the very morning after
her marriage, must make him either to be jealous,
or to take her for a changeling below his jealousy.
After this scene it might strain the poet's skill to
reconcile the couple, and allay the jealousy. lago
now can only actum agere, and vex the audience
with a nauseous repetition. Whence comes it,
then, that this is the top scene the scene that
raises Othello above all other tragedies in our
theatres ? It is purely from the action, from the
mops and the mows, the grimace, the grins and
gesticulation. Such scenes as this have made all
the world run after Harlequin and Scaramuccio."
The conclusion of this prodigious piece of criticism
must conclude our extracts from Thomas Rymer :
" What can remain with the audience to carry
home with them from this sort of poetry, for their
use and edification ? How can it work unless (in-
stead of settling the mind, and purging our pa
sions) to delude our senses, disorder our thoughts,
addle our brain, pervert our affections, hair our
imaginations, corrupt our appetite, and fill our
head with vanity, confusion, tintamarre, and
jingle-jangle beyond what all the parish-clerks of
London, with their Old Testament farces and in-
terludes, in Richard the Second's time, could ever
pretend to? Our only hopes, for the good of their
souls, can be, that these people go to the playhouse
as they do to church, to sit still, look on oneanother,
make no reflection, nor mind the play more than
they would a sermon. There is in this play ecma
356
A HISTORY OF OPINION
burlesque, some humour and ramble of comical
wit, some show, and some mimicry to divert tlie
spectators : but the tragical part is plainly none
other than a bloody farce, without salt or savour."
We cannot agree with the author of an able
article in 'The Retrospective Review,' that "these
attacks on Shakespear are very curious, as evincing
how gradual has been the increase of his fame;"
that " their whole tone shows that the author was
not advancing what he thought the world would
regard as paradoxical or strange ;" that "he speaks
as one with authority to decide." So far from
receiving Rymer's frenzied denunciations as an
expression of public opinion, we regard them as the
idiosyncrasies of a very singular individual, who is
furious in the exact proportion that the public
opinion differs from his own. He attacks Othello
and Julius Caesar, especially, because Betterton
had for years been drawing crowds to his per-
formance in those tragedies. He is one of those
who glory in opposing the general opinion. In
his first book he says, " With the remaining trage-
dies I shall also send you some reflections on that
' Paradise Lost' of Milton's, which some are pleased
to call a poem." Dryden, the great critical authority
of his day, before whose opinions all other men
bowed, had in 1679 thus spoken of the origin of
his great scene between Troilus and Hector : " The
occasion of raising it was hinted to me by Mr.
Betterton ; the contrivance and working of it was
my own. They who think to do me an injury by
saying that it is an imitation of the scene betwixt
Brutus and Cassius, do me an honour by supposing
I could imitate the incomparable Shakespear."
Dryden then goes on to contrast the modes in which
Euripides, Fletcher, and Shakspere have managed
the quarrel of two virtuous men, raised to the ex-
tremity of passion, and ending in the renewal of
their friendship ; and he says, " The particular
groundwork which Shakespear has taken is incom-
parably the best." This decision of Dryden would
in those days dispose of the matter as a question of
criticism. But out comes Rymer, who, in opposi-
tion to Dryden's judgment and Better-ton's ap-
plause, tells us that Brutus and Cassius here act
the part of mimics ; are bullies and buffoons ; are
to exhibit " a trial of skill in huffing and swagger-
ing, like two drunken Hectors for a twopenny
reckoning." It may be true that " the author was
not advancing what he thought the world would
regard as paradoxical and strange ;" for it is the
commonest of self-delusions, even to the delusions
of insanity, to believe that the whole world agrees
with the most extravagant mistakes and the
strangest paradoxes : and when Rymer, upon his
critical throne, " speaks as one with authority to
decide," his authority is as powerless as that of the
madman in Hogarth, who sits in solitary naked-
ness upon his straw, with crown on head and
356
sceptre in hand. Rymer is a remarkable example
of an able man, in his own province, meddling with
that of which he has not the slightest true concep-
tion. He is, perhaps, more denuded of the poetical
sense than any man who ever attempted to be a
critic in poetry : but he had real learning. Shak-
spere fell into worse hands after Rymer. The
" Man Mountain" was fastened to the ground by
the Lilliputians, and the strings are only just now
broken by which he was bound.
In the quotations which we have given from
Dryden it may be seen how reverently criticism
was based upon certain laws which, however false
might be their application, were nevertheless held
to be tests of the merit of the highest poetical pro-
ductions. Dryden was always balancing between
the rigid application of these laws and his own
hearty admiration of those whose art had rejected
them. If he had been less of a real poet himself,
he might have become as furious a stickler for the
canons of the ancients as Rymer was. With all
lu's occasional expressions of hatred towards the
French school of tragedy, he was unconsciously
walking in the circle which the fashion of his age
had drawn around all poetical invention. It was
assuredly not yet the fashion of the people ; for they
clung to the school of poetry and passion with a
love which no critical opinions could wholly subdue.
It was not the fashion of those who had drunk their
inspiration from the Elizabethan poets. It was not
the fashion of Milton and his disciples. Hear
how Edward Phillips speaks of Corneille in 1675 :
"Corneille, the great dramatic writer of France,
wonderfully applauded by the present age, both
among his own countrymen and our Frenchly-
affected English, for the amorous intrigues which
if not there before, he commonly thrusts into his
tragedies and acted histories ; the imitation whereof
among us, and of the perpetual colloquy in rhyme,
hath of late very much corrupted our English
stage." It was the spread of this fashion amongst
the courtly litterateurs of the day that gave some
encouragement to the extravagance of Rymer. The
solemn harangues about decorum in tragedy, the
unities, moral fitness, did not always present the
ludicrous side, as it did in this learned madman,
who sublimated the whole affair into the most de-
licious absurdity. We love him for it. His appli-
cation of a "rule" to Fletcher's 'Maid's Tragedy'
is altogether such a beautiful exemplification of his
mode of applying his critical knowledge, that we
cannot forbear one more quotation from him : " If
I mistake not, in poetry, no woman is to kill a
man, except her quality gives her the advantage
above him ; nor is a servant to kill the master, nor
a private man, much less a subject, to kill a king ;
nor on the contrary. Poetical decency will not
suffer death to be dealt to each other by such per-
sons whom the laws of duel allow not to enter *'
ON THE WRITINGS OF SHAKSPERE.
lists together." Rymer never changed his opinions.
The principles upon which he founded his first
book were carried to a greater height of extrava-
gance in his second. Dryden, on the contrary,
depreciates Shakspere, though timidly and doubt-
fully, in his early criticisms, but warms into higher
and higher admiration as he grows older. The
'Defence of the Epilogue to the Conquest of
Grenada,' written in 1672, presents a curious con-
trast to ' The Grounds of Criticism.' He was then
a young poet, and wanted to thrust aside those who
stood in the way of his stage popularity : " Let any
man who understands English read diligently the
works of Shakespear and Fletcher ; and I dare
undertake that he will find in every page some
solecism of speech, or some notorious flaw in sense :
and yet these men are reverenced when we are
not forgiven. But the times were
ignorant in which they lived. Poetry was then,
if not in its infancy among us, at least not arrived
to its vigour and maturity ; witness the lameness
of their plots." This was the self-complacency
which the maturer thoughts of a vigorous mind
corrected. But nothing could correct the critical
obstinacy of Rymer. Dryden' s poetical soul mount-
ed above the growing feebleness of his age's cri-
ticism, till at last, when he attempted to deal with
Shakspere in the spirit of his age, he became a
worshipper instead of a mocker :
" And those who came to scoff remain'd to pray."
The age laid its leaden sceptre upon the smaller
minds, and especially upon those who approached
Shakspere with a cold and creeping admiration.
Of such was Charles Gildon. In 1694 he appeared
in the world with ' Some. Reflections on Mr. Ry-
mer's Short View of Tragedy, and an Attempt at a
Vindication of Shakespear.' It would be a waste
of time to produce the antagonist of Rymer armed
cap-d-pie, and set these two doughty combatants
in mortal fight with their sacks of sand. It will be
sufficient for us to quote a few passages from Gil-
don's ' Essay on the Art, Rise, and Progress of the
Stage,' 1710, by way of showing, what indeed may
be inferred from Rymer's own book, that the peo-
ple were against the critics : " 'T is my opinion
that, if Shakespear had had those advantages of
learning which the perfect knowledge of the an-
cients would have given him, so great a genius as
his would have made him a very dangerous rival
in fame to the greatest poets of antiquity ; so far
am I from seeing how this knowledge could either
have curbed, confined, or spoiled the natural ex-
cellence of his writings. For though I must always
think our author a miracle for the age he lived in,
yet I am obliged, in justice to reason and art, to
confess that he does not come up to the ancients
in all the beauties of the drama. But it is no small
honour to him, that he has surpassed them in the
topics or commonplaces. And to confirm the
victory he obtained on that head at Mr. Hales's
chamber, at Eton, I shall, in this present under-
taking, not only transcribe the most shining, but
refer the reader to the same subjects in the Latin
authors. This I do that I might omit nothing that
could do his memory that justice which he really
deserves : but to put his errors and his excellences
on the same bottom is to injure the latter, and give
the enemies of our poet an advantage against him,
of doing the same ; that is, of rejecting his beauties,
as all of a piece with his faults. This unaccountable
bigotry of the town to the very errors of Shake-
spear was the occasion of Mr. Rymer's criticisms,
and drove him as far into the contrary extreme. I
am far from approving his manner of treating our
poet ; though Mr. Dryden owns that all, or most,
of the faults he has found are just ; but adds this
odd reflection : And yet, says he, who minds the
critic, and who admires Shakespear less ? That
was as much as to say, Mr. Rymer has indeed made
good his charge, and yet the town admired his
errors still : which I take to be a greater proof of
the folly and abandoned taste of the town than
of any imperfections in the critic ; which, in my
opinion, exposed the ignorance of the age he lived
in ; to which Mr. Rowe very justly ascribes most
of his faults. It must be owned that Mr. Rymer
earned the matter too far, since no man that has
the least relish of poetry can question his genius ;
for, in spite of his known and visible errors, when
I read Shakespear, even in some of his most
irregular plays, I am surprised into a pleasure so
great, that my judgment is no longer free to see
the faults, though they are never so gross and
evident. There is such a witchery in him {hat
all the rules of art which he does not observe,
though built on an equally solid and infallible
reason, vanish away in the transports of those
that he does observe, so entirely as if I had never
known anything of the matter." The rules o
art ! It was the extraordinary folly of the age
which produced these observations to believe that
Shakspere realized his great endeavours without
any rule at all, that is, without any method. Ry-
mer was such a thorough believer in the infallibility
of these rules of art, that he shut his eyes- to the
very highest power of Shakspere, because it did
not agree with these rules. Gildon believed in the
power, and believed in the rules at the same time :
hence his contradictions. " The unaccountable
bigotry of the town to the very errors of Shake-
spear" was the best proof of the triumphant pri-
vilege of genius to abide in full power and tran-
quillity amidst its own rules. The small poets,
and the smaller critics, were working upon' me-
chanic rules. When they saw in Shakspere some-
thing like an adherence to ancient rules of art,
they cried out, Wonderful power of nature ! When
367
A HISTORY OF OPINION
they detected a deviation, they exclaimed, Pitiable
calamity of ignorance ! It is evident that these cri-
tics could not subject the people to their laws ; and
they despise the ignorant people, therefore, as they
pity the ignorant Shakspere. Hear Gildon again :
"A judicious reader of our author will easily
discover those defects that his beauties would make
him wish had been corrected by a knowledge of
the whole art of the drama. For it is evident that,
by the force of his own judgment, or the strength
of his imagination, he has followed the rules of art
in all those particulars in which he pleases. I
know that the rules of art have been sufficiently cla-
moured against by an ignorant and thoughtless sort
of men of our age ; but it was because they knew
nothing of them, and never considered that with-
out some standard of excellence there could be no
justice done to merit, to which poetasters and poets
must else have an equal claim, which is the highest
degree of barbarism. Nay, without an appeal to
these very rules, Shakespear himself is not to be
distinguished from the most worthless pretenders,
who have often met with an undeserved applause,
a'nd challenge the title of great poets from their
success." We will only anticipate for a moment
the philosophical wisdom of a later school of criti-
cism, to supply an answer to Gildon : " The spirit
of poetry, like all other living powers, must of ne-
cessity circumscribe itself by rules, were it only to
unite power with beauty. It must embody in
order to reveal itself ; but a living body is of ne-
cessity an organized one ; and what is organization
but the connection of parts in and for a whole, so
that each part is at once end and means ?"*
The redoubted John Dennis was another of the
antagonists of Rymer. He carried heavier metal
than Gildon ; but he nevertheless belonged to the
cuckoo school of " rules of art." He had a just
appreciation of Shakspere as far as he went ; and
a few of his judgments certainly deserve a place in
this History of Opinion : " Shakespear was one
of the greatest geniuses that the world ever saw
for the tragic stage. Though he lay under greater
disadvantages than any of his successors, yet had
he greater and more genuine beauties than the
best and greatest of them. And what makes the
brightest glory of his character, those beauties
were entirely his own, and owing to the force of
his own nature ; whereas his faults were owing
to his education, and to the age that he lived
in. One may say of him as they did of Homer
that he had none to imitate, and is himself
inimitable. His imaginations were often as just
as they were bold and strong. He had a na-
tural discretion which never could have been
taught him, and his judgment was strong and pe-
netrating. He seems to have wanted nothing but
time and leisure for thought, to have found out
* Coleridge.
358
those rules of which he appears so ignorant. His
characters are always drawn justly, exactly, gra-
phically, except where he failed by not knowing
history or the poetical art. He has for the most
part more fairly distinguished them than any of
nis successors have done, who have falsified them,
or confounded them, by making love the predo-
minant quality in all. He had so fine a talent
for touching the passions, they are so lively in
him, and so truly in nature, that they often touch
us more without their due preparations than those
of other tragic poets who have all the beauty of
design and all the advantage of incidents. His
master-passion was terror, which he has often
moved so powerfully and so wonderfully, that we
may justly conclude that, if he had had the advan-
tage of art and learning, he would have surpassed
the very best and strongest of the ancients. His
paintings are often so beautiful and so lively, so
graceful and so powerful, especially where he uses
them in order to move terror, that there is nothing
perhaps more accomplished in our English poetry.
His sentiments, for the most part, in his best tra-
gedies, are noble, generous, easy, and natural, and
adapted to the persons who use them. His ex-
pression is in many places good and pure after a
hundred years ; simple, though elevated graceful,
though bold and easy, though strong. He seems
to have been the very original of our English tra-
gical harmony ; that is, the harmony of blank
verse, diversified often by dissyllable and trisyllable
terminations. For that diversity distinguishes it
from heroic harmony, and, bringing it nearer to
common use, makes it more proper to gain atten-
tion, and more fit for action and dialogue. Such
verse we make when we are writing prose ; we make
such verse in common conversation. If Shakespear
had these great qualities by nature, what would
he not have been if he had joined to so happy
a genius learning and the poetical art !"
It was this eternal gabble about rules of art,
this blindness to the truth that the living power of
Shakspere had its own organization, that set the
metre-mongers of that day upon the task of im-
proving Shakspere. Dennis was himself one of
the great improvers. Poetical justice was one of
the rules for which they clamoured. Duncan and
Banquo ought not to perish in Macbeth, nor Des-
demona in Othello, nor Cordelia and her father in
Lear, nor Brutus in Julius Csesar, nor young Ham-
let hi Hamlet. So Dennis argues : " The good
and the bad perishing promiscuously in the best
of Shakespear's tragedies, there can be either none
or very weak instruction in them." In this spirit
Dennis himself sets to work to remodel Coriolanus :
" Not only Aufidius, but the Roman tribunes
Sicinius and Brutus, appear to me to cry aloud
for poetic vengeance; for they are guilty of two
faults, neither of which ought to go unpunishc* 1 '
ON THE WRITINGS OF SHAKSPERE.
Dennis is not only a mender of Shakspere's cata-
strophes, but he applies himself to make Shak-
spere's verses all smooth and proper, according to
the rules of art. One example will be sufficient.
lie was no common man who attempted to reduce
the following lines to classical regularity :
"Boy! False hound!
If you have writ sour annals true, 't is there,
That, like an eagle in sf dovecote, I
Flutter' d your Voices in Corioli.
Alone I did it Boy!"
John Dennis has accomplished the feat :
" This boy, that, like an eagle in a dovecote,
Flutter'd a thousand Volsces in Corioli.
And did it without second or acquittance,
Thus sends their mighty chief to mourn in hell"
The alteration of The Tempest by Davenant
and Dryden was, as we have mentioned, an attempt
to meet the taste of the town by music and spec-
tacle. Shadwell went farther, and turned it into
a regular opera; and an opera it remained even
in Garrick's time, who tried his hand upon the
same experiment. Dennis was a reformer both in
comedy and tragedy. He metamorphosed The
Merry Wives of Windsor into ' The Comical Gallant,'
and prefixed an essay to it on the degeneracy of
the taste for poetry. Davenant changed Measure
for Measure into ' The Law against Lovers.' It
is difficult to understand how a clever man and.
something of a poet should have set about his
work after this fashion. This is Shakspere's Isa-
bella :
" Could great men thunder
As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet,
For every pelting, petty officer,
Would use his heaven for thunder : nothing' but
thunder.
Merciful Heaven !
Thou rather, with thy shaip and sulphurous bolt,
Splitt'st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak,
Tuan the soft myrtle."
This is Davenant's :
" If men could thunder
As great Jove does, Jove ne'er would quiet be ;
For every choleric, petty officer,
Would use his magazine in heaven for thunder :
We nothing should but thunder hear. Sweet
Heaven !
Thou rather with thy stiff and sulph'rous bolt
Dost split the knotty and obdurate oak,
Than the soft myrtle."
' The Law against Lovers' was in principle one of
the worst of these alterations ; for it was a hash of
two plays of Measure for Measure, and of Much
Ado about Nothing. This was indeed to destroy
the organic life of the author. But it is one of
the manifestations of the vitality of Shakspere that,
going about then* alterations in the regular Avay,
according to the rules of art, the most stupid and
prosaic of his improvers have been unable to de-
prive the natural man of his vigour, even by theii
most violent depletions. His robustness was too
great even for the poetical doctors to destroy it.
Lord Lansdowne actually stripped the flesh off
Shylock, but the anatomy walked about vigorously
for sixty years, till Macklin put the muscles on
again. Colley Cibber turned King John intc
' Papal Tyranny,' and the stage King John was
made to denounce the Pope and Guy Faux for a
century, till Mr. Macready gave us back again the
weak and crafty king in his original truth of cha-
racter. Nahum Tate deposed the Richard II. of
Shakspere wholly and irredeemably, turning him
into ' The Sicilian Usurper.' How Cibber manu-
factured Richard III. is known to all men. Durfey
melted down Cymbeline with no slight portion of
alloy. Tate remodelled Lear, and such a Lear !
Davenant mangled Macbeth ; but we can hardly
quarrel with, him for it, for he gave us the music
of Locke in company with his own verses. It has
been said, as a proof how little Shakspere was once
read, that Davenant's alteration is quoted in ' The
Tatler' instead of the original. This is the rea-
soning of Steevens ; but he has not the candour
to tell us, that in 'The Tatler,' No. Ill, there
is a quotation from Hamlet, with the following
remarks : " This admirable author, as well as the
best and greatest men of all ages and of ah 1 nations,
seems to have had his mind thoroughly seasoned
with religion, as is evident by many passages hi
his plays, that would not be suffered by a modern
audience." Steevens infers that Steele, or Addison,
was not a reader of Shakspere, because Macbeth is
quoted from an acted edition ; and that, therefore,
Shakspere was not read generally. If a hurried
writer in a daily paper (as ' The Tatler ' was) were
to quote from some acted editions at the pre-
sent day he might fall into the same error; and
yet he might be an ardent student of Shakspere,
in a nation of enthusiastic admirers. The early
Essayists offer abundant testimonies, indeed, of
their general admiration of the poet. In No. 68
of 'The Tatler' he is "the great master who
ever commands our tears." In No. 160 of 'The
Spectator" Shakspere is put amongst the first
ilass of great geniuses, in company with Homer ,
and this paper contains a remarkable instance of a
juster taste than one might expect from the author
of ' Cato :' " We are to consider that the rule of
observing what the French call the bienseance in an
allusion has been found out of later years, and in
the colder regions of the world ; where we could
make some amends for our want of force and
spirit, by a scrupulous nicety and exactness in our
compositions."* In 'The Spectator,' 419, amongst
* Mr. Deduincey is certainly mistaken when he tayathat
" Addison lias never in one instance quoted or made any ro-
ference to Shakspear." No. 160 bears the signature of C.,
and immediately follows 'The Vision of Mirza,' bearing the
same signature.
359
A HISTORY OF OPINION
the papers on ' The Pleasures of the Imagination,'
Shakspere's delineations of supernatural beings
are thus mentioned: "Among the English,
Shakspeare has incomparably excelled all others.
That noble extravagance of fancy, which he had
in so great perfection, thoroughly qualified him to
touch this weak superstitious part of his reader's
imagination ; and made him capable of succeed-
ing where he had nothing to support him be-
sides the strength of his own genius. There is
something so wild, and yet so solemn, in the
speeches of his ghosts, fairies, witches, and the
like imaginary persons, that we cannot forbear
thinking them natural, though we have no rule
by which to judge of them ; and must confess, if
there are such beings in the world, it looks highly
probable they should talk and act as he has repre-
sented them."
We have again an instance of Addison's good
taste in his remarks upon the critical notions of
poetical justice, which he calls " a ridiculous doc-
trine in modern criticism." Of the best plays
which end unhappily he mentions Othello, with
others, and adds, "King Lear is an admirable
tragedy of the same kind, as Shakspeare wrote it ;
but as it is reformed according to the chimerical
notion of poetical justice, in my humble opinion it
has lost half its beauty." All this exhibits a better
taste than we find in Gildon and Dennis ; and it
certainly is very remarkable that Addison, who in
his own tragedy was laboriously correct, as it was
called, should have taken no occasion to comment
upon the irregularities of Shakspere. Mr. De
Quincey says of Addison, " The feeble constitution
of the poetic faculty as existing in himself forbad
his sympathising with Shakespear." The feebleness
of the poetic faculty makes the soundness of the
judgment more conspicuous.
[Dennis."
IV.
THE commencement of the eighteenth century
produced the first of the critical editions of Shak-
spere. In 1709 appeared 'Shakespeare's Plays
Revised and Corrected, with an Account of his Life
and Writings, by N. Rowe.' We should mention
that the third edition of Shakspere's Comedies,
Histories, and Tragedies, in folio, appeared in
1664 It has been said that the greater number of
the copies of this edition were destroyed in the Fire
of London; and a writer whom we must once
more quote says, " During a whole century, only
four editions of his complete works, and these
small, were published ; and there would only have
been three, but for the destructive Fire of London
in 1666."* The destruction by the fire is just as
much proved as the smallness of the edition. One
of our best bibliographers, Mr. Lowndes, whose
' Bibliographer's Manual ' is a model of accuracy,
doubts the statement of the destruction by the fire,
" though it has been frequently repeated." Upon
the face of it the statement is improbable. If it
were a good speculation to print the book two
years before the fire, and the stock so printed had
* Life of Shakespear in 'Lardner's Cyclopaedia.'
360
been destroyed in the fire, it would have been an
equally good speculation to have reprinted it im-
mediately after the fire ; and yet the fourth edition
did not appear till 1685. Some of the copies of
the third edition bear the date of 1663 ; and we
have no doubt that the book was then generally
published ; for Pepys, under the date of December
10th, 1663, has a curious bibliographical entry:
" To St. Paul's Churchyard, to my bookseller's,
and could not tell whether to lay out my money
for books of pleasure, as plays, which my nature
was most earnest in ; but at last, after seeing
Chaucer, Dugdale's 'History of Paul's,' Stow's
' London,' Gesner, ' History of Trent,' besides
Shakespeare, Jonson, and Beaumont's plays, I at
last chose Dr. Fuller's 'Worthies,' ' The Cabbala,
or Collections of Letters of State,' and a little book,
' Delices de Hollande,' with another little book or
two, all of good use or serious pleasure ; and
' Hudibras,' both parts, the book now in greatest
fashion for drollery, though I cannot, I confess, see
enough where the wit lies." These two folio edi-
tions supplied the readers of Shakspere for more
than forty years, but we are not hence to conclude
ON THE WRITINGS OF SHAKSPERE.
that he was neglected. Of Ben Jonson during the
same period there was only one edition ; of Beau-
mont and Fletcher only one ; of Spenser only one.
Rowe's edition of Shakspere, we doubt not, sup-
plied a general want. Its critical merits were but
small. The facts of the ' Life' which he prefixes
have been sufficiently noticed by us hi another
place. The opinions expressed in that ' Life' are
few, and are put forth with little pretension. As
might be expected, they fully admit the excellence
of Shakspere, but they somewhat fall into the be-
setting sin of attempting to elevate his genius by
depreciating his knowledge : " It is without con-
troversy that in his works we scarce find any
traces of anything that looks like an imitation of
the ancients. The delicacy of his taste, and the
natural bent of his own great genius (equal, if not
superior, to some of the best of theirs), would
certainly have led him to read and study them
with so much pleasure, that some of their fine
images would naturally have insinuated them-
selves into, and been mixed with, his own writings ;
so that his not copying at least something from
them may be an argument of his never having
read them. Whether his ignorance of the ancients
were a disadvantage to him or no, may admit of a
dispute : for though the knowledge of them might
have made him more correct, yet it is not impro-
bable but that the regularity and deference for
them, which would have attended that correctness,
might have restrained some of that fire, impetu-
osity, and even beautiful extravagance, which we'
admire in Shakspeare : and I believe we are better
pleased with those thoughts, altogether new and
uncommon, which his own imagination supplied
him so abundantly with, than if he had given us
the most beautiful passages out of the Greek and
Latin poets, and that in the most agreeable man-
ner that it was possible for a master of the English
language to deliver them." Rowe also falls into
the notion that Shakspere did not arrive at his
perfection by repeated experiment and assiduous
labour, a theory which still has its believers:
" It would be without doubt a pleasure to any
man, curious in things of this kind, to see and
know what was the first essay of a fancy like Shak-
speare's. Perhaps we are not to look for his be-
ginnings, like those of other authors, among their
least perfect writings ; art had so little, and nature
so large a share in what he did, that, for aught I
know, the performances of his youth, as they were
the most vigorous, and had the most fire and
strength of imagination in them, were the best.
1 would not be thought by this to mean that his
fancy was so loose and extravagant as to be inde-
pendent on the rule and government of judgment ;
but that what he thought was commonly so great,
so justly and rightly conceived in itself, that it
wanted little or no correction, and was immediately
approved by an impartial judgment at the first
sight." He then enters into a brief criticism of
some of the leading plays. In speaking of The
Tempest, he mentions the observation upon the
character of Caliban " which three very great men
concurred in making " telling us in a note that
these were Lord Falkland, Lord Chief- Justice
Vaughan, and Mr. Selden " That Shakspeare
had not only found out a new character in his
Caliban, but had also devised and adapted a new
manner of language for that character." Of Shak-
spere's plays, with reference to their art, he thug
speaks : " If one undertook to examine the
greatest part of these by those rules which are
established by Aristotle, and taken from the model
of the Grecian stage, it would be no very hard task
to find a great many faults; but as Shakspeare
lived under a kind of mere light of nature, and had
never been made acquainted with the regularity of
those written precepts, so it would be hard to judge
him by a law he knew nothing of. We are to
consider him as a man that lived in a state of
almost universal licence and ignorance : there was
no established judge, but every one took the
liberty to write according to the dictates of his own
fancy. When one considers that there is not one
play before him of a reputation good enough to
entitle it to an appearance on the present stage, it
cannot but be a matter of great wonder that he
should advance dramatic poetry so far as he did."
A second edition of Rowe's ' Shakspeare ' ap-
peared in 1714.
Lllowe.J
In 1725 Pope produced his edition, magnificent
as far as printing went, in six volumes quarto. Of
its editorial merits we may say a few words when
we have to speak of Theobald. His Preface is a
masterly composition, containing many just views
elegantly expressed. The criticism is neither pro-
found nor original ; but there is a tone of quiet
sense about it which shows that Pope properly
appreciated Shakspere's general excellence. lie
361
A HISTORY OF OPINION
believes, m common with most of his time, that
this excellence was attained by intuition ; and that
the finest results were produced by felicitous acci-
dents :
" If ever any author deserved the name of an
original it was Shakspeare. Homer himself drew
not his art -so immediately from the fountains of
nature; it proceeded through Egyptian strainers
and channels, and came to him not without some
tincture of the learning, or some cast of the models,
of those before him. The poetry of Shakspeare
was inspiration indeed : he is not so much an
imitator as an instrument of Nature ; and it is
not so just to say that he speaks from her, as that
she speaks through him.
" His characters are so much Nature herself, that
it is a sort of injury to call them by so distant a
name as copies of her. Those of other poets have
a constant resemblance, which shows that they re-
ceived them from one another, and were but mul-
tipliers of the same image ; each picture, like a
mock-rainbow, is but the reflection of a reflection.
But every single character in Shakspeare is as much
an individual as those in life itself; it is as impos-
sible to find any two alike ; and such as from their
relation or affinity in any respect appear most to be
twins, will, upon comparison, be found remarkably
distinct. To this life and variety of character we
must add the wonderful preservation of it ; which
is such throughout his plays, that, had all the
speeches been printed without the very names of
the persons, I believe one might have applied them
with certainty to every speaker.
" The power over our passions was never pos-
sessed in a more eminent degree, or displayed in so
different instances. Yet all along there is seen no
labour, no pains to raise them ; no preparation to
guide our guess to the effect, or be perceived to
lead toward it ; but the heart swells, and the tears
burst out, just at the proper places : we are sur-
prised the moment we weep ; and yet upon reflec-
tion find the passion so just, that we should be
surprised if we had not wept, and wept at that
very moment.
" How astonishing it is again that the passions
directly opposite to these, laughter and spleen, are
no less at his command ! That he is not more a
master of the great than of the ridiculous in human
nature ; of our noblest tendernesses, than of our
vainest foibles ; of our strongest emotions, than of
our idlest sensations !
" Nor does he only excel in the passions ; in the
coolness of reflection and reasoning he is full as
admirable. His sentiments are not only in general
the most pertinent and judicious upon every sub-
ject ; but, by a talent very peculiar, something be-
tween penetration and felicity, he hits upon that
particular point on which the bent of each argu-
mnt turns, or the force of each motive depends.
362
This is perfectly amazing from a man of no educa-
tion or experience in those great and public scenes
of life which are usually the subject of his thoughts ;
so that he seems to have known the world by intui-
tion, to have looked through human nature at one
glance, and to be the only author that gives grounu
for a very new opinion that the philosopher, and
even the man of the world, may be born as well as
the poet."
These are the excellences of Shakspere ; but
Pope holds that he has as great defects, ana he
sets himself to excuse these by arguing that it
was necessary to please the populace He then
proceeds :
"To judge, therefore, of Shakspeare by Aristotle's
rules, is like trying a man by the laws of one coun-
try who acted under those of another. He wrote to
the people, and wrote at first without patronage
from the better sort, and therefore without aims of
pleasing them ; without assistance or advice from
the learned, as without the advantage of education
or acquaintance among them ; without that know-
ledge of the best models, the ancients, to inspire
him with an emulation of them ; in a word, with-
out any views of reputation, and of what poets are
pleased to call immortality ; some or all of which
have encouraged the vanity, or animated the am-
bition, of other writers.
" Yet it must be observed, that, when his per-
formances had merited the protection of his prince,
and when the encouragement of the court had
succeeded to that of the town, the works of his
riper years are manifestly raised above those of his
former. The dates of his plays sufficiently evidence
that his productions improved hi proportion to the
respect he had for his auditors. And I make no
doubt this observation would be found true in every
instance, were but editions extant from which we
might learn the exact time when every piece was
composed, and whether wrote for the town or the
court.
"Another cause (and no less strong than the
former) may be deduced from our poet's being a
player, and forming himself first upon the judg-
ments of that body of men whereof he was a
member. They have ever had a standard to them-
selves, upon other principles than those of Aristotle.
As they li ve by the majority, they know no rule but
that of pleasing the present humour, and complying
with the wit in fashion a consideration which
brings all their judgment to a short point. Players
are just such judges of what is right as tailors are
of what is graceful. And in this view it will be
but fair to allow that most of our author's faults
are less to be ascribed to his wrong judgment as a
poet than to his right judgment as a player."
Of Shakspere's learning his editor thus speaks :
" As to his want of learning it may be necessary
to say something more : there is certainly a vast.
ON THE WRITINGS OF SHAKSPERE.
difference netween learning and languages. How
far he was ignorant of the latter I cannot deter-
mine ; but it is plain he had much reading at least,
if they will not call it learning. Nor is it any
great matter, if a man has knowledge, whether be
has it from one language or from another. No-
thing is more evident than that he had a taste of
natural philosophy, mechanics, ancient and modern
history, poetical learning, and mythology : we find
him very knowing in the customs, rites; and man-
ners of antiquity The manners of
other nations in general, the Egyptians, Venetians,
French, &c., are drawn with equal propriety. What-
ever object of nature or branch of science he either
speaks of or describes, it is always with competent
if not extensive knowledge : Ms descriptions are
still exact ; all his metaphors appropriated, and re-
markably drawn from the true nature and inherent
qualities of each subject. When he treats of ethic
or politic, we may constantly observe a wonderful
justness of distinction as well as extent of compre-
hension. No one is more a master of the poetical
story, or has more frequent allusions to the various
parts of it. Mr. Waller (who has been celebrated
for this last particular v , has not shown more learn-
ing this way than ShaKspeara ....
" I am inclined to think this opinion proceeded
originally from the zeal of the partisans of our au-
thor and Ben Jonson, as they endeavoured to exalt
the one at the expense of the other. It is ever the
nature of parties to be in extremes ; and nothing
is so probable as that, because Ben Jonson had
much the more learning, it was said on the one
hand that Shakspeare had none at all ; and because
Shakspeare had much the most wit and fancy, it
* was retorted on the other that Jonson wanted both.
Because Shakspeare borrowed nothing, it was said
that Ben Jonson borrowed everything. Because
Jonson did not write extempore, he was reproached
with being a year about every piece ; and because
Shakspeare wrote with ease and rapidity, they
cried, he never once made a blot. Nay, the spirit
of opposition ran so high, that whatever those of
the one side objected to the other was taken at the
rebound, and turned into praises, as injudiciously
as their antagonists before had made them objec-
tions."
Much of Pope's Preface is then occupied with
illustrations of his opinion that Shakspere's works
have come down to us defaced with innumerable
blunders and absurdities which are not to be attri-
buted to the author. We cannot at all yield our
consent to this opinion, which goes upon the as-
sumption, that, whenever there is an obscure pas-
sage ; whenever "mean conceits and ribaldries"
are found ; whenever " low scenes of mobs, ple-
beians, and clowns " are very prominent ; there the
players have been at work ; and he thus argues
upon the assumption : " If we give in to this
[Pope.]
opinion, how many low and vicious parts and
passages might no longer reflect upon this great
genius, but appear unworthily charged upon him !
And even in those which are really his, how many
faults may have been unjustly laid to his account
from arbitrary additions, expunctions, transposi-
tions of scenes and lines, confusion of characters
and persons, wrong application of speeches, cor-
ruptions of innumerable passages by the igno-
rance and wrong corrections of them again by
the impertinence of his first editors ! From one
or other of these considerations I am verily per-
suaded that the greatest and the grossest part of
what are thought his errors would vanish, and
leave his character in a light very different from
that disadvantageous one in which it now appears
to us." There is a larger question even than this
that Pope propounds. Are these parts and pas-
sages low and vicious? Have we these corrup-
tions and imperfections ? We believe not. Pope
accepted Shakspere in the spirit -of his time, and
that was not favourable to the proper understand-
ing of him. His concluding observations are cha-
racteristic of his critical power: "I will con-
clude by saying of Shakspeare, that, with all his
faults, and with all the irregularity of his drama,
one may look upon his works, in comparison of
those that are more finished and regular, as upon
an ancient majestic piece of Gothic architecture
compared with a neat modem building ; the latter
is more elegant and glaring, but the former is
more strong and more solemn. It must be al-
lowed that in one of these there are materials
enough to make many of the other. It has much
the greater variety, and much the nobler apart-
ments ; though we are often conducted to them by
dark, odd, and uncouth passages. Nor does the
whole fail to strike us with greater reverence,
though many of the parts are childish, ill-placed,
and unequal to its grandeur."
In 1726, Lewis Theobald published a tract
SC3
A HISTORY OF OPINION
entitled ' Shakespear Restored, or Specimens of
Blunders Committed and Unamended in Pope's
Edition of this Poet' In Pope's second edition of
Shakspere, which appeared in 1728, was inserted
this contemptuous notice : " Since the publica-
tion of our first edition, there having been some
attempts upon Shakspeare published by Lewis
Theobald (which he would not communicate during
the time wherein that edition was preparing for
the press, when we, by public advertisements, did
request the assistance of all lovers of this author),
we have inserted, in this impression, as many
of 'em as are judged of any the least advantage to
the poet ; the whole amounting to about twenty-
five words." In the same year came out ' The
Dunciad,' of which Theobald was the hero :
" High on a gorgeous seat that far outshone
Henley's gflt tub, or Flecknoe's Irish throne,
Great Tibbald nods."
In a few years Theobold was deposed from this
throne, and there, then, " Great Cibber sate." The
facility with which Theobald was transformed to
Cibber is one of the many proofs that Pope threw
his darts and dirt about him at random. But
Theobald took a just revenge. In 1733 he pro-
duced an edition of Shakspere, in seven volumes
octavo, which annihilated Pope's quartos and duo-
decimos. The title-page of Theobald's Shakspere
bore that it was " collated with the oldest copies,
and corrected, with Notes." Pope's edition was
not again reprinted in London ; but of Theobald's
there have been many subsequent editions, and
Steevens asserts that of his first edition thirteen
thousand copies were sold. Looking at the advan-
tage which Pope possessed in the pre-eminence of
his literary reputation, the preference which was
BO decidedly given to Theobald's editions is a
proof that the public thought for themselves in the
matter of Shakspere. Pope was not fitted for the
more laborious duties of an editor. He collated,
indeed, the early copies, but he set about the
emendation of the text in a manner so entirely
arbitrary, suppressing passage after passage, upon
the principle that the players had been at work
here, and a blundering transcriber there, that no
reader of Shakspere could rely upon the integrity
of Pope's version. Theobald states the contrary
mode in which he proceeded :
" Wherever the author's sense is clear and dis-
coverable (though, perchance, low and trivial), I
have not by any innovation tampered with his text,
out of an ostentation of endeavouring to make him
speak better than the old copies have dona
" Where, through all the former editions, a pas-
sage has laboured under flat nonsense and invin-
cible darkness, if, by the addition or alteration of
a letter or two, or a transposition in the pointing,
I have restored to him both sense and sentiment,
364
such corrections, I am persuaded, will need no
indulgence.
" And whenever I have taken a greater latitude
and liberty in amending, I have constantly endea-
voured to support my corrections and conjectures
by parallel passages and authorities from himself,
the surest means of expounding any author what-
soever."
Dr. Johnson accurately enough describes the
causes and consequences of Pope's failure :
" Confidence is the common consequence of suc-
cess. They whose excellence of any kind has been
loudly celebrated are ready to conclude that their
powers are universal. Pope's edition fell below his
own expectations, and he was so much offended,
when he was found to have left anything for others
to do, that he passed the latter part of his life in
a state of hostility with verbal criticism." But
Johnson does not exhibit his usual good sense and
knowledge of mankind when he attributes Theo-
bald's success to the world's compassion. He calls
him weak and ignorant, mean and faithless, petu-
lant and ostentatious ; but he affirms that this
editor, " by the good luck of having Pope for his
enemy, has escaped, and escaped alone, with repu-
tation, from this undertaking. So willingly does
the world support those who solicit favour against
those who command reverence ; and so easily is he
praised whom no man can envy." This is mere
fine writing. The real secret of Theobald's success
is stated by Johnson himself: "Pope was suc-
ceeded by Theobald, a man of narrow comprehen-
sion and small acquisitions, with no native and
intrinsic splendour of genius, with little of the
artificial light of learning, but zealous for minute
accuracy, and not negligent in pursuing it. He
collated the ancient copies, and rectified many
errors. A man so anxiously scrupulous might
have been expected to do more, but what little he
did was commonly right." It was because Theo-
bald was " anxiously scrupulous," because he did
not attempt "to do more" than an editor ought to
do, that he had the public support. Nearly every
succeeding editor, in his scorn of Theobald, his
confidence in himself, and, what was the most in-
fluential, his want of reverence for his author, en-
deavoured to make Shakspere " speak better than
the old copies have done." Each for a while had
his applause, but it was not a lasting fame.
There is little in Theobald's Preface to mark the
progress of opinion on the writings of Shakspere.
Some parts of this Preface are held to have been
written by Warburton ; but, if so, his arrogance
must have been greatly modified by Theobald's
judgment. There is not much general remark
upon the character of the poet's writings ; but what
we find is sensibly conceived and not inelegantly
expressed. We shall content ourselves with ex-
tracting one passage : " In how many points of
ON THE WRITINGS OF SHAKSPERE.
sight must we be obliged to gaze at this great poet !
In how many branches of excellence tb consider
and admire him ! Whether we view him on the
side of art or nature, he ought equally to engage
our attention : whether we respect the force and
greatness of his genius, the extent of his knowledge
and reading, the power and address with which he
throws out and applies either nature or learning,
there is ample scope both for our wonder and
pleasure. If his diction and the clothing of his
thoughts attract us, how much more must we be
charmed with the richness and variety of his images
and ideas ! If his images and ideas steal into our
souls and strike upon our fancy, how much are
they improved in price when we come to reflect
with what propriety and justness they are applied
to character ! If we look into his characters, and
how they are furnished and proportioned to the
employment he cuts out for them, how are we
taken up with the mastery of his portraits ! What
draughts of nature ! What variety of originals,
and how differing each from the other!"
Undeterred by the failure of Pope in his slash-
ing amputations, Sir Thomas Hanmer appeared,
in 1744, with a splendid edition in six volumes
quarto, printed at the Oxford University Press.
Nothing can be more satisfactory than the p'aper
and the type. The work was intended as a monu-
ment to the memory of Shakspere ; one of the
modes in which the national homage was to be ex-
pressed : " As a fresh acknowledgment hath lately
oeen paid to his merit, and a high regard to his
name and memory, by erecting his statue at a
public expense ; so it is desired that this new edi-
tion of his works, which hath cost some attention
and care, may be looked upon as another small
monument designed and dedicated to his honour."
Capell, who came next as an editor, says truly of
Hanmer that he "pursues a track in which it
is greatly to be hoped he will never be followed in
the publication of any authors whatsoever, for this
were in effect to annihilate them if carried a little
further." Collins's ' Epistle to Sir Thomas Han-
mer on his Edition of Shakspeare's Works ' is an
elegant though not very vigorous attempt to express
the universal admiration that the people of Eng-
land felt for the great national poet. The verse-
honicOge to Shakspere after the days of Milton had
no very original character. The cuckoo-note with
which these warblers generally interspersed their
varied lays was the echo of Milton's " wood-notes
wild," which they did not perceive had a limited
application to some particular play As You Like
It, for instance. In Howe's prologue to 'Jane
Shore' we have,
" In such an age immortal Shakspeare wrote,
By no quaint rules nor hamp'ring critics taught;
With rough majestic force he mov'd the heart,
And strength and nature made amends for art."
Thomson asks
" For lofty sense,
Creative fancy, and inspection keen
Through the deep windings of the human heart,
Is not wild Shakspeare thine and nature's boast?'
T. Seward, addressing Stratford, says,
" Thy bard was thine unschool'd."
Collins's Epistle begins thus, speaking of the works
of Shakspere :
" Hard was the lot those injui-'d strains endur'd,
Unown'd by science."
But Collins, in many respects a true poet, has a
higher inspiration in his invocations of the great
master of the drama than most of his fellows :
" more than all in powerful genius bless'd,
Come, take thine empire o'er the willing breast !
Whate'er the wounds this youthful heart shall feel,
Thy songs support me, and thy morals heal.
There every thought the poet's warmth may raise,
There native music dwells in all the lays."
To Hanmer succeeded Warburton, with a new
edition of Pope enriched with his own most ori-
ginal notes. If it were not painful to associate
Shakspere, the great master of practical wisdom,
with a critic who delights in the most extravagant
paradoxes, we might prefer the amusement of
Warburton's edition to toiling through the heaps of
verbal criticism which later years saw heaped up.
Warburton, of course, belonged to the school of
slashing emendators. The opening of his preface
tells us what we are to expect from him :
"It hath been no unusual thing for writers,
when dissatisfied with the patronage or judgment
of their own times, to appeal to posterity for a fair
hearing. Some have even thought fit to apply to
it in the first instance, and to decline acquaint-
ance with the public till envy and prejudice had
quite subsided. But of all the trusters to futurity,
commend me to the author of the following poems,
who not only left it to time to do him justice as
it would, but to find him out as it could : for, what
between too great attention to his profit as a player,
and too little to his reputation as a poet, his works,
left to the care of door-keepers and prompters,
hardly escaped the common fate of those writings,
how good soever, which are abandoned to their
own fortune, and unprotected by party or cabal
At length, indeed, they straggled into light ; but
so disguised and travestied, that no classic author,
after having run ten secular stages through the
blind cloisters of monks and canons, ever came
out in half so maimed and mangled a condition."
There is little in Warburton's preface which
possesses any lasting interest, perhaps with the
exception of his defence against the charge that
editing Shakspere was unsuitable to his clerical
profession :
365
HISTORY OF OPINION
" The great Saint Chiysostom, a name conse-
crated to immortality by his virtue and eloquence,
is known to have been so fond of Aristophanes as
to wake with him at his studies, and to sleep with
him under his pillow ; and I never heard that this
was objected either to his piety or his preaching,
not even in those times of pure zeal and primitive
religion. Yet, in respect of Shakspeare's great
sense, Aristophanes's best wit is but buffoonery ;
and in comparison of Aristophanes's freedoms,
Shakspeare writes with the purity of a vestal. . . .
Of all the literary exercitations of speculative men,
whether designed for the use or entertainment of
the world, there are none of so much importance,
or what are more our immediate concern, than
those which let us into the knowledge of our na-
ture. Others may exercise the reason, or amuse
the imagination ; but these only can improve the
heart, and form the human mind to wisdom. Now,
in this science our Shakspeare is confessed to oc-
cupy the foremost place, whether we consider the
amazing sagacity with which he investigates every
hidden spring and wheel of human action, or his
happy manner of communicating this knowledge,
m the just and living paintings which he has given
us of all our passions, appetites, and pursuits.
These afford a lesson which can never be too often
repeated, or too constantly inculcated; and to
engage the reader's due attention to it hath been
one of the principal objects of this edition.
"As this science (whatever profound philoso-
phers may think) is, to the rest, in things, so, in
words (whatever supercilious pedants may talk),
every one's mother-tongue is to all other languages.
This hath still been the sentiment of nature and
true wisdom. Hence, the greatest men of anti-
quity never thought themselves better employed
'than in cultivating their own country idiom."
(.VTarbuiton.]
v.
IT was in the year 1741 that David Garrick at once
leaped into eminence as an actor, such as had not
been won by any man for half a century. He was
the true successor of Betterton, Harris, and Bur-
bage. His principal fame was, however, like
theirs, founded upon Shakspere. But it is a mis-
take to imagine that there had not been a constant
succession of actors of Shakspere's great characters,
from the death of Betterton to Garrick's appear-
ance. His first character in London was Richard
III. He made all the great parts of Shakspere
familiar to the play-going public for five-and-thirty
years. ' The Alchymist ' and the ' Volpone ' of Ben
Jonson were sometimes pkyed; 'The Chances,'
and ' Rule a Wife and Have a wife,' of Beau-
mont and Fletcher ; but we are told by Davies, in
his ' Dramatic Miscellanies,' that, of their fifty-
four plays, only these two preserved their rank on
the stage. This is a pretty convincing proof of what
the public opinion of Shakspere was in the middle
of the last century. The Prologue of Samuel
Johnson, spoken by Garrick at the opening of
Drury-lane Theatre in 1747, is an eloquent ex-
pression of the same opinion :
" When Learning's triumph o'er her barbarous foea
First rear'd the stage, immortal Shakspeare rose ;
Each change of many-colour 5 d life he drew,
Exhausted worlds, and then imagin'd new :
Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign,
And panting Time toil'd after him in vain.
His powerful strokes presiding truth impress'd,
And unresisted passion storm'd the breast
" Then Jonson came, instructed from the school,
To please in method, and invent by rule ;
His studious patience and laborious art
By regular approach essay'd the heart :
Cold approbation gave the lingering bays ;
For those who durst not censure scarce could praise.
A mortal born, he met the gen'ral doom,
But left, like Egypt's kings, a lasting tomb.
" The wits of Charles found easier ways to fame,
Nor wish'd for Jonson's art, or Shakspeare's farce.
Themselves they studied ; as they felt, they writ :
Intrigue was plot, obscenity was wit
Vice always found a sympathetic friend ;
They pleas'd their age, and did riot aim to menil.
Yet bards like these aspir'd to lasting praise,
And proudly hop'd to pimp in future days.
Their cause was gen'ral, their supports were strong
Their slaves were willing, and their reign was long
Till Shame regain'd the post that Sense betray'd.
And Virtue' call'd Oblivion fo her aid.
ON THE WRITINGS OF SHAKSPERE.
" Then, crush'd by rules, and weaken'd as refin''},
For years the pow'r of Tragedy declin'd ;
Froiii bard to bard the frigid caution crept,
Till declamation roafd whilst passion slept :
Yet still did Virtue deign the stage to tread,
Philosophy remain'd though Nature fled.
But forc'd, at length, her ancient reign to quit,
She saw great Faustus lay the ghost of Wit ;
Exulting Folly hail'd the joyous day,
And pantomime and song confirm' d her sway."
It is tolerably evident, from the whole tenor of
this celebrated prologue, that of the early drama-
tists Shakspere reigned upon the stage supreme,
if not almost alone. It has been the fault of actors,
and the flatterers of actors, to believe that a dra-
matic poet is only known to the world through
their lips. Garrick was held to have given life to
Shakspere. The following inscription on Gar-
rick's tomb in Westminster Abbey has been truly
held by Charles Lamb to be "a farrago of false
thoughts and nonsense:"
" To paint fair Nature, by divine command,
Her magic pencil in his glowing hand,
A Shakspeare rose ; then, to expand his fame
Wide o'er this breathing world, a Garrick came.
Though sunk to death the forms the Poet drew,
The Actor's genius bade them breathe anew ;
Though, like the bard himself in night they lay,
Immortal Garrick call'd them back to day :
And till Eternity with power sublime
Shall mark the mortal nour of hoary Time,
Shakspeare and Garrick like twin stars shall shine,
And earth irradiate with a beam divine."
[Garrick.]
Up to the end of the first half of the eighteenth
century, when, according to the epitaph, thepoet's
forms were sunk in death and lay in night, there"
had been thirteen editions of Shakspere's collected
works, nine of which had appeared during the pre-
ceding forty years. Of Ben Jonson there had been
three editions in the seventeenth century, and one
in the eighteenth ; of Beaumont and Fletcher two
in the seventeenth century, and one in the eigh-
teenth. Yet, absurd and impertinent as it may be
to ta\k of immortal Garrick calling the plays of
Shakspere back to day, it cannot be denied that
the very power of those plays to create a school of
great actors was hi itself a cause of their extension
amongst readers. The most monstrous alterations,
perpetrated with the worst taste, and with the
most essential ignorance of Shakspere's art, were
still in some sort tributes to his power. The
actors sent many to read Shakspere with a true
delight ; and then it was felt how little he needed
the aid of acting, and how much indeed of his
highest excellence could only be received into the
mind by reverent meditation.
In 1765 appeared, hi eight volumes octavo,
'The Plays of William Shakspeare, with the
Corrections and Illustrations of various Comment-
ators : to which are added Notes by Samuel John-
son.' This was the foundation of the variorum
editions, the principle of which has been to select
from all the commentary, or nearly all, that has
been produced, every opinion upon a passage,
however conflicting. The respective value of the
critics who had preceded him are fully discussed
by Johnson in the latter part of his Preface :
it will be unnecessary for us to enter upon this
branch of the subject, wlu'ch was only of tempo-
rary interest But the larger portion of Johnson's
Preface not only to a certain extent represents the
tone of opinion in Johnson's age, but is written
with so much pomp of diction, with such apparent
candour, and with such abundant manifestations
of good sense, that, perhaps, more than any other
production, it has influenced the public opinion
of Shakspere up to this day. That the influence
has been for the most part evil, we have no hesi-
tation hi believing. Before proceeding to state
the grounds of this belief we think it right to re-
print the greater part of this celebrated compo-
sition all, indeed, that permanently belongs to
tcie subject of our poet :
DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE.
" THAT praises are without reason lavished on
the dead, and that the honours due only to excel-
lence are paid to antiquity, is a complaint h'kely to
be always continued by those who, being able to
add nothing to truth, hope for eminence from the
heresies of paradox ; or those who, being forced
by disappointment upon consolatory expedients,
are willing to hope from posterity what the present
age refuses, and flatter themselves that the regard
which is yet denied by envy will be at last bestowed
by time.
" Antiquity, like every other quality that attracts
the notice of mankind, has undoubtedly votaries
that reverence it, not from reason, but from preju-
dice. Some seem to admire indiscriminately what-
ever has been long preserved, without considering
that time has sometimes co-operated with chance ;
all perhaps are more willing to honour past f han
367
A HISTORY OF OPINION
present excellence ; and the mind contemplates
genius through the shades of age, as the eye sur-
veys the sun through artificial opacity. The great
contention of criticism is to find the faults of the
moderns and the beauties of the ancients. While
an author is yet living, we estimate his powers by
his worst performance ; and when he is dead, we
rate them by his best.
" To works, however, of which the excellence is
not absolute and definite, but gradual and compa-
rative ; to works not raised upon principles demon-
strative and scientific, but appealing wholly to
observation and experience, no other test can be
applied than length of duration and continuance of
esteem. What mankind have long possessed they
have often examined and compared ; and if they
persist to value the possession, it is because fre-
quent comparisons have confirmed opinion in its
favour. As among the works of nature no man
can properly call a river deep, or a mountain high,
without the knowledge of many mountains and
many rivers ; so, in the productions of genius, no-
thing can be styled excellent till it hath been com-
pared with other works of the same kind. Demon-
stration immediately displays its power, and has
nothing to hope or fear from the flux of years ; but
works tentative and experimental must be estimated
by their proportion to the general and collective
ability of man, as it is discovered in a long succes-
sion of endeavours. Of the first building that was
raised, it might be with certainty determined that
it was round or square ; but whether it was spa-
cious or lofty must have been referred to time.
The Pythagorean scale of numbers was at once dis-
covered to be perfect ; but the poems of Homer we
yet know not to transcend the common limits of
human intelligence, but by remarking that nation
after nation, and century after century, has been
able to do little more than transpose his incidents,
new name his characters, and paraphrase his senti-
ments.
" The reverence due to writings that have long
subsisted arises therefore not from any credulous
confidence in the superior wisdom of past ages, or
gloomy persuasion of the degeneracy of mankind,
but is the consequence of acknowledged and indu-
bitable positions, that what has been longest known
has been most considered, and what is most consi-
dered is best understood.
" The poet of whose works I have undertaken
the revision may now begin to assume the dignity
of an ancient, and claim the privilege of established
fiune and prescriptive veneration. He has long
outlived his century, the term commonly fixed as
the test of literary merit. Whatever advantages
he might once derive from personal allusions, local
customs, or temporary opinions, have for many
fears been lost ; and every topic of merriment, or
motive of sorrow, which the modes of artificial life
368
afforded him, now only obscure the scenes which
they once illuminated. The effects of favour and
competition are at an end ; the tradition of his
friendships and his enmities has perished ; his
works support no opinion with arguments, nor
supply any faction with invectives ; they can neither
indulge vanity nor gratify malignity ; but are read
without any other reason than the desire of plea-
sure, and are therefore praised only as pleasure is
obtained : yet, thus unassisted by interest or pas-
sion, they have passed through variations of taste
and changes of manners, and, as they devolved
from one generation to another, have received new
honours at every transmission.
" But because human judgment, though it be
gradually gaining upon certainty, never becomes
'infallible ; and approbation, though long continued,
may yet be only the approbation of prejudice or
fashion ; it is proper to inquire by what peculiari-
ties of excellence Shakspeare has gained and kept
the favour of his countrymen.
" Nothing can please many and please long, but
iust representations of general nature. Particular
manners can be known to few, and therefore few
only can judge how nearly they are copied. The
irregular combinations of fanciful invention may
delight a while, by that novelty of which the com-
mon satiety of life sends us all in quest ; the plea-
sures of sudden wonder are soon exhausted, and
the mind can only repose on the stability of truth.
" Shakspeare is, above all writers, at least above
all modern writers, the poet of nature ; the poet
that holds up to his readers a faithful mirror of
manners and of life. His characters are not mo-
dified by the customs of particular places, unprac-
tised by the rest of the world ; by the peculiarities
of studies or professions, which can operate but
upon small numbers ; or by the accidents of tran-
sient fashions or temporary opinions : they are the
genuine progeny of common humanity ; such as
the world will always supply, and observation will
always find. His persons act and speak by the in-
fluence of those general passions and principles by
which all minds are agitated, and the whole system
of life is continued in motion. In the writings of
other poets a character is too often an individual ;
in those of Shakspeare it is commonly a species.
" It is from this wide extension of design that so
much instruction is derived. It is this which fills
the plays of Shakspeare with practical axioms and
domestic wisdom. It was said of Euripides, that
every verse was a precept ; and it may be said of
Shakspeare, that from his works may be collected
a system of civil and economical prudence. Yet
his real power is not shown in the splendour of
particular passages, but by the progress of his fable
and the tenor of his dialogue ; and he that tries to
recommend him by select quotations will succeed
like the pedant in Hierocles, who, when he offered
ON THE WRITINGS OF SHAKSPERE.
his house t sale, carried a brick in his pocket as a
specimen.
" It will not f asilybe imagined how much Shak-
speare excels in accommodating his sentiments to
real life, but by com paring him with other authors.
It was observed of the ancient schools of declama-
tion, that the more diligently they were frequented,
the more was the student disqualified for the world,
because he found nothing there which he should
ever meet in any other place. The same remark
may be applied to every stage but that of Shak-
speare. The theatre, when it is under any other
direction, is peopled by such characters as were
never seen, conversing in a language which was
never heard, upon topics which will never arise in
the commerce of mankind. But the dialogue of
this author is often so evidently determined by the
incident which produces it, and is pursued with so
much ease and simplicity, that it seems scarcely to
claim the merit of fiction, but to have been gleaned
by diligent selection out of common conversation
and common occurrences.
" Upon every other stage the universal agent is
love, by whose power all good and evil is distri-
buted, and every action quickened or retarded. To
bring a lover, a lady, and a rival into the fable ; to
entangle them in contradictory obligations, perplex
them with oppositions of interest, and harass them
with violence of desires inconsistent with each
other ; to make them meet in rapture, and part in
agony ; to fill their mouths with hyperbolical joy
and outrageous sorrow ; to distress them as nothing
human ever was distressed ; to deliver them as
nothing human ever was delivered, is the business
of a modern dramatist. For this, probability is
violated, life is misrepresented, and language is
depraved. But love is only one of many passions ;
and, as it has no great influence upon the sum of
life, it has little operation in the dramas of a poet
who caught his ideas from the living world, and
exhibited only what he saw before him. He knew
that any other passion, as it was regular or exor-
bitant, was a cause of happiness or calamity.
" Characters thus ample and general were not
easily discriminated and preserved, yet perhaps no
poet ever kept his personages more distinct from
each other. I will not say, with Pope, that every
speech may be assigned to the proper speaker, be-
cause many speeches there are which have nothing
characteristical ; but, perhaps, though some may be
equally adapted to every person, it will be difficult
to find any that can be properly transferred from
the present possessor to another claimant. The
choice is right, when there is reason for choice.
" Other dramatists can only gain attention by
hypeibolical or aggravated characters, by fabulous
and unexampled excellence or depravity, as the
vriters of barbarous romances invigorated the
reader by a giant and a dwarf ; and he that should
SUF. VOL. 2 B
form his expectations of human affairs frcm the
play, or from the tale, would be equally deceived.
Shakspeare has no heroes ; his scenes are occupied
only by men, who act and speak as the reader
thinks that he should himself have spoken or acted
on the same occasion ; even where the agency is
supernatural, the dialogue is level with life. Other
writers disguise the most natural passions and most
frequent incidents, so that he who contemplates
them in the book will not know them in the world :
Shakspeare approximates the remote, and familiar-
izes the wonderful ; the event which he represents
will not happen, but, if it were possible, its effects
would probably be such as he has assigned ; and it
may be said that he has not only shown human
nature as it acts in real exigences, but as it would be
found in trials to which it cannot be exposed.
" This therefore is the praise of Shakspeare, that
his drama is the mirror of life ; that he who has
mazed his imagination, in following the phantoms
which other writers raise up before him, may here
be cured of his delirious ecstasies, by reading
human sentiments in human language ; by scenes
from which a hermit may estimate the transactions
of the world, and a confessor predict the progress
of the passions.
" His adherence to general nature has exposed
him to the censure of critics who form their judg-
ments upon narrower principles. Dennis and
Rymer think his Romans not sufficiently Roman ;
and Voltaire censure his kings as not completely
royal. Dennis is offended that Menenius, a se-
nator of Rome, should play the buffoon ; and Vol-
taire perhaps thinks decency violated when the
Danish usurper is represented as a drunkard. But
Shakspeare always makes nature predominate over
accident; and if he preserves the essential character,
is not very careful of distinctions superinduced and
adventitious. His story requires Romans or kings,
but he thinks only on men. He knew that Rome,
like every other city, had men of all dispositions ;
and, wanting a buffoon, he went into the senate-
house for that which the senate-house would cer-
tainly have afforded him. He was inclined to
show an usurper and a murderer not only odious,
but despicable ; he therefore added drunkenness to
his other qualities, knowing that kings love wine
like other men, and that wine exerts its natural
power upon kings. These are the petty cavils of
petty minds ; a poet overlooks the casual distinc-
tion of country and condition, as a painter, satisfied
with the figure, neglects the drapery.
" The censure which he has incurred by mixing
comic and tragic scenes, as it extends to all his
works, deserves more consideration. Let the fact
be first stated, and then examined.
" Shakspeare's plays are not in the rigorous and
critical sense either tragedies or comedies, but
compositions of a distinct kind ; exhibiting the real
8(59
A HISTORY OF OPINION
state of sublunary nature, which partakes of good
and evil, joy and sorrow, mingled with endless
variety of proportion and innumerable modes of
combination ; and expressing the course of the
world, in which the loss of one is the gain of
another ; in which, at the same time, the reveller
is hastening to his wine, and the mourner burying
his friend ; in which the malignity of one is some-
times defeated by the frolic of another ; and many
mischiefs and many benefits are done and hindered
without design.
" Out of this chaos of mingled purposes and
casualties, the ancient poets, according to the laws
which custom had prescribed, selected, some the
crimes of men, and some their absurdities ; some
the momentous vicissitudes of life, and some the
lighter occurrences ; some the terrors of distress,
and some the gaieties of prosperity. Thus rose
the two modes of imitation known by the names
of tragedy and comedy, compositions intended to
promote different ends by contrary means, and
considered as so little allied, that I do not recollect
among the Greeks or Romans a single writer who
attempted both.
" Shakspeare has united the powers of exciting
laughter and sorrow not only in one mind, but in
one composition. Almost all his plays arc divided
between serious and ludicrous characters, and, in
the successive evolutions of the design, sometimes
produce seriousness and sorrow, and sometimes
levity and laughter.
" That this is a practice contrary to the rules of
criticism will be readily allowed ; but there is
always an appeal open from criticism to nature.
The end of writing is to instruct ; the end of poetry
is to instruct by pleasing. That the mingled drama
may convey all the instruction of tragedy or comedy
cannot be denied, because it includes both in its
alternations of exhibition, and approaches nearer
than either to the appearance of life, by showing
how great machinations and slender designs may
promote or obviate one another, and the high and
the low co-operate in the general system by un-
avoidable concatenation.
" It is objected that by this change of scenes the
passions are interrupted in their progression, and
that the principal event, being not advanced by a
due gradation of preparatory incidents, wants at
last the power to move, which constitutes the per-
fection of dramatic poetry. This reasoning is so
specious, that it is received as true even by those
who in daily experience feel it to be false. The
interchanges of mingled scenes seldom fail to pro-
duce the intended vicissitudes of passion. Fiction
cannot move so much but that the attention may
be easily transferred ; and though it must be al-
lowed that pleasing melancholy may be sometimes
interrupted by unwelcome levity, yet let it be
considered likewise that melancholy is often not
370
pleasing, and that the disturbance of one man may
be the relief of another ; that different auditors
have different habitudes ; and that, upon the whole,
all pleasure consists in variety.
" The players, who in their edition divided our
author's works into comedies, histories, and tra-
gedies, seem not to have distinguished the three
kinds by any very exact or definite ideas.
" An action which ended happily to the principal
persons, however serious or distressful through its
intermediate incidents, in their opinion constituted
a comedy. This idea of a comedy continued long
amongst us, and plays were written, which, by
changing the catastrophe, were tragedies to-day
and comedies to-morrow.
" Tragedy was not in those times a poem of
more general dignity or elevation than comedy ; it
required only a calamitous conclusion, with which
the common criticism of that age was satisfied,
whatever lighter pleasure it afforded in its pro-
gress.
" History was a series of actions, with no other
than chronological succession, independent on each
other, and without any tendency to introduce or
regulate the conclusion. It is not always very
nicely distinguished from tragedy. There is not
much nearer approach to unity of action in the
tragedy of Antony and Cleopatra than in the his-
tory of Richard the Second. But a history might
be continued through many plays ; as it had no
plan, it had no limits.
" Through all these denominations of the drama,
Shakspeare's mode of composition is the same ; an
interchange of seriousness and merriment, by
wliich the mind is softened at one time and exhi-
larated at another. But, whatever be his purpose,
whether to gladden or depress, or to conduct the
story, without vehemence or emotion, through
tracts of easy and familiar dialogue, he never fails
to attain his purpose ; as he commands us, we laugh
or mourn, or sit silent with quiet expectation, in
tranquillity without indifference.
" When Shakspeare's plan is understood, most of
the criticisms of Rymer and Voltaire vanish away.
The play of Hamlet is opened, without impropriety,
by two centinels ; lago bellows at Brabantio's win-
dow, without injury to the scheme of the play,
though in terms which a modern audience would
not easily endure ; the character of Polonius is
seasonable and useful ; and the Gravediggers them-
selves may be heard with applause.
" Shakspeare engaged in dramatic poetry with
the world open before him ; the rules of the ancients
were yet known to few ; the public judgment was
unformed ; he had no example of such fame as
might force him upon imitation, nor critics of such
authority as might restrain his extravagance : he
therefore indulged his natural disposition, and his
disposition, as Rymer has remarked led turn to
ON THE WRITINGS OF SHAKSPERE.
comedy. In tragedy he often writes with great
appearance of toil and study what is written at
last with little felicity ; but in his comic scenes he
seems to produce without labour what no labour
can improve. In tragedy he is always struggling
after some occasion to be comic, but in comedy he
seems to repose, or to luxuriate, as in a mode of
thinking congenial to his nature. In his tragic
scenes there is always something wanting, but his
comedy often surpasses expectation or desire. His
comedy pleases by the thoughts and the language,
and his tragedy for the greater part by incident and
action. His tragedy seems to be skill, his comedy
to be instinct.
" The force of his comic scenes has suffered little
diminution from the changes made by a century
and a half in manners or in words. As his per-
sonages act upon principles arising from genuine
passion, very little modified by particular forms,
their pleasures and vexations are communicable to
all times and to all places ; they are natural, and
therefore durable ; the adventitious peculiarities of
personal habits are only superficial dyes, bright and
pleasing for a little while, yet soon fading to a dim
tinct, without any remains of former lustre : but
the discrimination of true passion are the colours
of nature ; they pervade the whole mass, and can
only perish with the body that exhibits them. The
accidental compositions of heterogeneous modes
are dissolved by the chance which combined them ;
but the uniform simplicity of primitive qualities
neither admits increase nor suffers decay. The
sand heaped by one flood is scattered by another,
but the rock always continues hi its place. The
stream of time, which is continually washing the
dissoluble fabrics of other poets, passes without
injury by the adamant of Shakspeare.
" If there be, what I believe there is, in every
nation, a style which never becomes obsolete, a
certain mode of phraseology so consonant and con-
genial to the analogy and principles of its respective
language as to remain settled and unaltered, this
style is probably to be sought in the common in-
tercourse of life, among those who speak only to
be understood, without ambition of elegance. The
polite are always catching modish innovations, and
the learned depart from established forms of speech,
in hope of finding or making better ; those who
wish for distinction forsake the vulgar, when the
vulgar is right ; but there is a conversation above
grossness and below refinement, where propriety
resides, and where this poet seems to have ga-
thered his comic dialogue. He is therefore more
agreeable to the ears of the present age than any
other author equally remote, and among his other
excellences deserves to be studied as one of the
original masters of our language.
" These observations are to be considered not
as unexceptionably constant, but as containing
2 B 2
general and predominant truth. Shakspeare's fa-
miliar dialogue is affirmed to be smooth and clear,
yet not wholly without ruggedness or difficulty ; as
a country may be eminently fruitful, though it has
spots unfit for cultivation : bis characters are praised
as natural, though then- sentiments are sometimes
forced, and their actions improbable ; as the earth
upon the whole is spherical, though its surface is
varied with protuberances and cavities.
" Shakspeare with his excellences has likewise
faults, and faults sufficient to obscure and over-
whelm any other merit. I shall show them in the
proportion in which they appear to me, without
envious malignity or superstitious veneration. No
question can be more innocently discussed than a
dead poet's pretensions to renown; and little re-
gard is due to that bigotry which sets candour
higher than truth.
" His first defect is that to which may be im-
puted most of the evil in books or in men. He
sacrifices virtue to convenience, and is so much
more careful to please than to instruct, that he
seems to write without any moral purpose. From
liis writings, indeed, a system of social duty may be
selected, for he that thinks reasonably must think
morally ; but his precepts and axioms drop casually
from him ; he makes no just distribution of good or
evil, nor is always careful to show in the virtuous a
disapprobation of the wicked ; he carries his per-
sons indifferently through right and wrong, and at
the close dismisses them without further care, and
leaves their examples to operate by chance. This
fault the barbarity of his age cannot extenuate ;
for it is always a writer's duty to make the world
better, and justice is a virtue independent on time
or place.
" The plots are often so loosely formed that a
very slight consideration may improve them, and
so carelessly pursued that he seems not always
fully to comprehend his own design. He omits
opportunities of instructing or delighting which
the train of his story seems to force upon him, and
apparently rejects those exhibitions which would
be more affecting for the sake of those which are
more easy.
" It may be observed that in many of his plays
the latter part is evidently neglected. When lie
found himself near the end of his work, and in
view of his reward, he shortened the labour to
snatch the profit. He therefore remits his efforts
where he should most vigorously exert them, and
his catastrophe is improbably produced or imper-
fectly represented.
" He had no regard to distinction of time or
place, but gives to one age or nation, without
scruple, the customs, institutions, and opinions of
another, at the expense not only of likelihood, but
of possibility. These faults Pope has endeavoured,
with more zeal than judgment, to transfer to hia
371
A HISTORY OF OPINION
imagined interpolators. We need not wonder to
find Hector quoting Aristotle, when we see the
loves of Theseus and Hippolyta combined with the
Gothic mythology of fairies. Shakspeare, indeed,
-fras not the only violator of chronology, for in the
same age Sidney, who wanted not the advantages
of learning, has, in his ' Arcadia,' confounded the
pastoral with the feudal times ; the days of inno-
cence, quiet, and security, with those of turbulence,
violence, and adventure.
" In his comic scenes he is seldom very success-
ful when he engages his characters hi reciprocations
of smartness and contests of sarcasm ; their jests
are commonly gross, and their pleasantry licen-
tious ; neither his gentlemen nor his ladies have
much delicacy, nor are sufficiently distinguished
from his clowns by any appearance of refined
manners. Whether he represented the real conver-
sation of his time is not easy to determine. The
reign of Elizabeth is commonly supposed to have
been a time of stateliness, formality, and reserve ;
yet, perhaps, the relaxations of that severity were
not very elegant. There must, however, have been
a! ways some modes of gaiety preferable to others,
and a writer ought to choose the best.
" In tragedy his performance seems constantly
to be worse as his labour is more. The effusions
of passion, which exigence forces out, are for the
most part striking and energetic ; but whenever
he solicits his invention, or strains his faculties,
the offspring of his throes is tumour, meanness,
tediousness, and obscurity.
" In narration he affects a disproportionate pomp
of diction, and a wearisome train of circumlocu-
tion, and tells the incident imperfectly in many
words, which might have been more plainly de-
livered in few. Narration in dramatic poetry is
naturally tedious, as it is unanimated and inactive,
and obstructs the progress of the action ; it should
therefore always be rapid and enlivened by fre-
quent interruption. Shakspeare found it an encum-
brance, and, instead of lightening it by brevity,
endeavoured to recommend it by dignity and
splendour.
" His declamations or set speeches are commonly
cold and weak, for his power was the power of
Nature; when he endeavoured, like other tragic
writers, to catch opportunities of amplification, and,
:nstead of inquiring what the occasion demanded,
to show how much his stores of knowledge could
supply, he seldom escapes without the pity or
resentment of his reader.
"It is incident to him to be now and then
entangled with an unwieldy sentiment, which he
cannot well express and will not reject ; he strug-
gles with it a ^hile, and, if it continues stubborn,
comprises it in words such as occur, and leaves it
to be disentangled and evolved by those who have
more leisure to bestow upon it.
372
" Not that always where the language is intri-
cate the thought is subtle, or the image always
great where the line is bulky ; the equality of
words to things is very often neglected, and trivial
sentiments and vulgai ideas disappoint the atten-
tion, to which they are recommended by sonorous
epithets and swelling figures.
" But the admirers of this great poet have most
reason to complain when he approaches nearest to
his highest excellence, and seems fully resolved to
sink them in dejection and mollify them with
tender emotions by the fall of greatness, the danger
of innocence, or the crosses of love. What he
does best he soon ceases to do. He is not long
soft and pathetic without some idle conceit or con-
temptible equivocation. He no sooner begins to
move than he counteracts himself, and terror and
pity, as they are rising in the mind, are checked
arid blasted by sudden frigidity.
" A quibble is to Shakspeare what luminous
vapours are to the traveller; he follows it at all
adventures ; it is sure to lead him out of his way,
and sure to engulf him in the mire. It has some
malignant power over his mind, and its fascinations
are irresistible. Whatever be the dignity or pro-
fundity of his disquisition, whether he be enlarging
knowledge or exalting affection, whether he be
amusing attention with incidents or enchaining it
in suspense, let but a quibble spring up before
him, and he leaves his work unfinished. A quibl >le
is the golden apple for which he will always turn
aside from his career, or stoop from his elevation.
A quibble, poor and barren as it is, gave him such
delight, that he was content to purchase it by the
sacrifice of reason, propriety, and truth. A quibble
was to him the fatal Cleopatra for which he lost
the world, and was content to lose it.
" It will be thought strange that, in enumerating
the defects of this writer, I have not yet mentioned
his neglect of the unities ; his violation of those
laws which have been instituted and established
by the joint authority of poets and of critics.
" For his other deviations from the art of writing
I resign him to critical justice, without making
any other demand in his favour than that which
must be indulged to all human excellence that
his virtues be rated with his failings ; but from the
censure which this irregularity may bring upon
him, I shall, with due reverence to that learning
which I must oppose, adventure to try how I can
defend him.
" His histories, being neither tragedies nor
comedies, are not subject to any of then: laws ;
nothing more is necessary to all the praise which
they expect than that the changes of action be so
prepared as to be understood, that the incidents be
various and affecting, and the characters consistent,
natural, and distinct. No other unity is intended,
and therefore none is to be sought.
ON THE WRITINGS OF SHAKSPERE.
" In his other works he has well enough pre- |
served the unity of action. He has not, indeed, '
an intrigue regularly perplexed and regularly un-
ravelled ; he does not endeavour to hide his design
only to discover it, for this is seldom the order of
real events, and Shakspeare is the poet of Nature :
but his plan has commonly what Aristotle requires
a beginning, a middle, and an end ; one event
is concatenated with another, and the conclusion
follows by easy consequence. There are, perhaps,
some incidents that might be spared, as in other
poets there is much talk that only fills up time
upon the stage ; but the general system makes
gradual advances, and the end of the play is the
end of expectation.
" To the unities of time and place he has shown
no regard ; and perhaps a nearer view of the prin-
ciples on which they stand will diminish their
value, and withdraw from them the veneration
which, from the tune of Corneille, they have very
generally received, by discovering that they have
given more trouble to the poet than pleasure to
the auditor.
" The necessity of observing the unities of time
and place arises from the supposed necessity of
making the drama credible. The critics hold it
impossible that an action of months or years can
be possibly believed to pass in three hours ; or that
the spectator can suppose himself to sit in the
theatre, while ambassadors go and return between
distant kings, while armies are levied, and towns
besieged, while an exile wanders and returns, or
till he whom they saw courting his mistress shall
lament the untimely fall of his son. The mind
revolts from evident falsehood, and fiction loses
its force when it departs from the resemblance of
reality.
" From the narrow limitation of time necessarily
arises the contraction of place. The spectator,
who knows that he saw the first act at Alexandria,
cannot suppose that he sees the next at Rome, at
a distance to which not the dragons o/ Medea
could in so short a time have transported him;
he knows with certainty that he has not changed
his place ; and he knows that place cannot change
itself; that what was a house cannot become a
plain ; that what was Thebes can never be Per-
sepolis.
" Such is the triumphant language with which
a critic exults over the misery of an irregular poet,
nnd exults commonly without resistance or reply.
It is time therefore to tell him, by the authority of
Shakspeare, that he assumes, as an unquestion-
able principle, a position which, while his breath
is forming it into words, his understanding pro-
nounces to be false. It is false that any represen-
tation is mistaken for reality ; that any dramatic
fable in its materiality was ever credible, or for a
single moment was ever credited.
" The objection arising from the impossibility of
passing the first hour at Alexandria and the next
at Rome, supposes that when the play opens the
spectator really imagines himself at Alexandria,
and believes that his walk to the theatre has been
a voyage to Egypt, and that he lives in the days of
Antony and Cleopatra. Surely he that imagines
this may imagine more. He that can take the
stage at one time for the palace of the Ptolemies,
may take it in half-an-hour for the promontory of
Actium. Delusion, if delusion be admitted, has
no certain limitation ; if the spectator can be once
persuaded that his old acquaintance are Alexander
and Caesar, that a room illuminated with candles
is the plain of Pharsalia, or the banks of Granicus,
he is in a state of elevation above the reach of
reason or of truth, and from the heights of empy-
rean poetry may despise the circumscriptions of
terrestrial nature. There is no reason why a mind
thus wandering in ecstasy should count the clock,
or why an hour should not be a century in that
calenture of the brains that can make the stage
a field.
" The truth is, that the spectators are always in
their senses, and know, from the first act to the last,
that the stage is only a stage, and that the players
are only players. They come to hear a certain
number of lines recited with just gesture and ele-
gant modulation. The lines relate to some action,
and an action must be in some place ; but the dif-
ferent actions that complete a story may be in
places very remote from each other ; and where is
the absurdity of allowing that space to represent
first Athens and then Sicily, which was always
known to be neither Sicily nor Athens, but a
modern theatre ?
" By supposition, as place is introduced, time
may be extended ; the time required by the fable
elapses for the most part between the acts ; for, of
so much of the action as is represented, the real
and poetical duration is the same. If in the first
act preparations for war against Mithridates are
represented to be made in Rome, the event of the
war may, without absurdity, be represented in the
catastrophe as happening in Pontus ; we know
that there is neither war nor preparation for war ;
we know that we are neither in Rome nor Pontus ;
that neither Mithridates nor Lucullus are before
us. The drama exhibits successive imaginations of
successive actions, and why may not the second
imitation represent an action that happened years
after the first, if it be so connected with it that
nothing but time can be supposed to intervene i
Time is, of all modes of existence, most obsequious
to the imagination ; a lapse of years is as easily
conceived as a passage of hours. In contemplation
we easily contract the time of real actions, and
therefore willingly permit it to be contracted when
we only see their imitation.
373
A HISTORY OF OPINION
" It will be asked how the drama moves, if it is
not credited. It is credited with all the credit due
to a drama. It is credited, whenever it moves, as
a just picture of a real original ; as representing to
the auditor what he would himself feel if he were
to do or suffer what is there feigned to be suffered
or to be done. The reflection that strikes the heart
is not that the evils before us are real evils, but
that they are evils to which we ourselves may be
exposed. If there be any fallacy, it is not that we
fancy the players, but that we fancy ourselves,
unhappy for a moment ; but we rather lament the
possibility than suppose the presence of misery, as
a mother weeps over her babe when she remembers
that death may take it from her. The delight of
tragedy proceeds from our consciousness of fiction ;
if we thought murders and treasons real they would
please no more.
" Imitations produce pain or pleasure not be-
cause they are mistaken for realities, but because
they bring realities to mind. When the imagina-
tion is recreated by a painted landscape, the trees
are not supposed capable to give us shade, or the
fountains coolness ; but we consider how we should
be pleased with such fountains playing beside us,
and such woods waving over us. We are agitated
in reading the history of Henry the Fifth, yet no
man takes his book for the field of Agincourt. A
dramatic exhibition is a book recited witli con-
comitants that increase or diminish its effect.
Familiar comedy is often more powerful on the
theatre than in the page ; imperial tragedy is
always less. The humour of Petruchio may be
heightened by grimace ; but what voice or what
gesture can hope to add dignity or force to the
soliloquy of Cato 1
" A play read affects the mind like a play acted.
It is therefore evident that the action is not sup-
posed to be real ; and it follows that between the
acts a longer or shorter time may be allowed to
pass, and that no more account of space or duration
is to be taken by the auditor of a drama than by
the reader of a narrative, before whom may pass in
an hour the life of a hero or the revolutions of an
empire.
" Whether Sliakspeare knew the unities, and
rejected them by design, or deviated from them by
happy ignorance, it is, I think, impossible to decide
find useless to inquire. We may reasonably sup-
]>ose that when he rose to notice he did not want
the counsels and admonitions of scholars and cri-
tics, and that he at last deliberately persisted in a
practice which he might have begun by chance.
As nothing is essential to the fable but unity of
action, and as the unities of time and place arise
evidently from false assumptions, and, by circum-
scribing the extent of the drama, lessen its variety,
I cannot think it much to be lamented that they
were not known by him, or not observed ; nor, if
374
such another poet could arise, should I \ery vehe-
mently reproach him that his first act passed at
Venice and his next in Cyprus. Such violations
of rules merely positive become the comprehen-
sive genius of Sliakspeare, and such censures are
suitable to the minute and slender criticism of
Voltaire :
' Non usque adeo permiscuit imis
Longus summa dies, ut non, si voce Metelli
Serventur leges, malint a Cxsare tolli.'
" Yet, when I speak thus slightly of dramatic
rules, I cannot but recollect how much wit and
learning may be produced against me ; before such
authorities I am afraid to stand, not that I think
the present question one of those that are to be
decided by mere authority, but because it is to
be suspected that these precepts have not been so
easily received but for better reasons than I have
yet been able to find. The result of my inquiries,
in which it would be ludicrous to boast of impar-
tiality, is, that the unities of time and place are not
essential to a just drama ; that, though they may
sometimes conduce to pleasure, they are always tc
be sacrificed to the nobler beauties of variety and
instruction ; and that a play, written with nice
observation of critical rules, is to be contemplated
as an elaborate curiosity, as the product of super-
fluous and ostentatious art, by which is shown
rather what is possible than what is necessary.
" He that, without diminution of any other
excellence, shall preserve all the unities unbroken,
deserves the like applause with the architect who
shall display all the orders of architecture in a
citadel without any deduction from its strength:
but the principal beauty of a citadel is to exclude
the enemy ; and the greatest graces of a play are
to copy nature and instruct life.
" Perhaps what I have here not dogmatically
but deliberately written may recall the principles
of the drama to a new examination. I am almost
frighted at niy own temerity ; and, when I estimate
the fame and the strength of those that maintain
the contrary opinion, am ready to sink down in
reverential silence ; as ^Eneas withdrew from the
defence of Troy, when he saw Neptune shaking
the wall, and Juno heading the besiegers.
" Those whom my arguments cannot persuade
to give their approbation to the judgment of Shak-
speare, will easily, if they consider the condition of
his life, make some allowance for his ignorance.
" Every man's performances, to be rightly esti-
mated, must be compared with the state of the age
in which he lived, and with his own particular
opportunities ; and though to a reader a book be
not worse or better for the circumstances of the
author, yet, as there is always a silent reference of
human works to human abilities, and as the inquiry
how far man may extend his designs, or how high
ON THE WRITINGS OF SIIAKSPERE.
he may rate his native force, is of far greater dig-
nity than in what rank we shall place any particular
performance, curiosity is always busy to discover
the instruments as well as to survey the workman-
ship, to know how much is to be ascribed to ori-
ginal powers, and how much to casual and adventi-
tious help. The palaces of Peru and Mexico were
certainly mean and incommodious habitations, if
compared to the houses of European monarchs ;
yet who could forbear to view them with astonish-
ment who remembered that they were built with-
out the use of iron ?
"The English nation, in the time of Shak-
speare, was yet struggling to emerge from barba-
rity. The philology of Italy had been transplanted
hither in the reign of Henry VIII. ; and the
learned languages had been successfully cultivated
by Lilly, Linacre, and More; by Pole, Cheke,
and Gardiner; and afterwards by Smith, Clerk,
Iladdon, and Ascham. Greek was now taught to
boys in the principal schools ; and those who
united elegance with learning, read, with great
diligence, the Italian and Spanish p cts. But
literature was yet confined to professe-l scholars,
or to men and women of high rank. The public
was gross and dark ; and to be able to read and write
was an accomplishment still valued for its rarity.
" Nations, like individuals, have their infancy.
A people newly awakened to literary curiosity,
being yet unacquainted with the true state of
things, knows not how to judge of that which is
proposed as its resemblance. Whatever is remote
from common appearances is always welcome to
vulgar as to childish credulity ; and of a country
unenlightened by learning the whole people is
the vulgar. The study of those who then aspired
to plebeian learning was laid out upon adventures,
giants, dragons, and enchantments. ' The Death
of Arthur' was the favourite volume.
"The mind which has feasted on the luxurious
wonders of fiction has no taste of the insipidity of
truth. A play which imitated only the common
occurrences of the world would, upon the admirers
of ' Palmerin' and ' Guy of Warwick,' have
made little impression ; he that wrote for such an
audience was under the necessity of looking round
for strange events and fabulous transactions, and
that incredibility, by which maturer knowledge is
offended, was the chief recommendation of writings
to unskilful curiosity.
"Our author's plots are generally borrowed
from novels ; and it is reasonable to suppose that
he chose the most popular, such as were read by
many, and related by more ; for his audience could
not have followed him through the intricacies of
the drama had they not held the thread of the
story in their hands.
" The stories which we now find only in remoter
authors were in his time accessible and familiar.
The fable of As You Like It, which is supposed
to be copied from Chaucer's ' Gamelyn,' was a
| little pamphlet of those times ; and old Mr. Gibbet
remembered the tale of Hamlet in plain English
prose, which the critics have now to seek in Saxo
Grammaticus.
" His English histories he took from English
chronicles and English ballads ; and as the ancient
writers were made known to his countrymen by
versions, they supplied him with new subjects ; he
dilated some of Plutarch's ' Lives'* into plays, when
they had been translated by North.
" His plots, whether historical or fabulous, are
always crowded with incidents, by which the at-
tention of a rude people was more easily caught
than by sentiment or argumentation ; and such is
the power of the marvellous, even over those who
despise it, that every man finds his mind more
strongly seized by the tragedies of Shakspere than
of any other writer ; others please us by particular
speeches, but he always makes us anxious for the
event, and has, perhaps, excelled all but Homer in
securing the first purpose of a writer, by exciting
restless and unquenchable curiosity, and compelling
him that reads his work to read it through.
" The shows and bustle with which his plays
abound have the same original. As knowledge
advances, pleasure passes from the eye to the ear,
but returns, as it declines, from the ear to the eye.
Those to whom our author's labours were exhi-
bited had more skill in pomps or processions than
in poetical language, and perhaps wanted some
visible and discriminated events, as comments on
the dialogue. He knew how he should most
please; and whether his practice is more agree-
able to nature, or whether his example has preju-
diced the nation, we still find that on our stagn
something must be done as well as said, and inac
tive declamation is very coldly heard, howevej
musical or elegant, passionate or sublime.
" Voltaire expresses his wonder that our au-
thor's extravagances are endured by a nation
which has seen the tragedy of ' Cato.' Let him
be answered, that Addison speaks the language of
poets, and Shakspeare of men. We find in ' Cato'
innumerable beauties which enamour us of its
author, but we see nothing that acquaints us with
human sentiments or human actions : we place it
with the fairest and the noblest progeny which
judgment propagates by conjunction with learn-
ing ; but Othello is the vigorous and vivacious off-
spring of observation impregnated by genius. ' Cato'
affords a splendid exhibition of artificial and ficti-
tious manners, and delivers just and noble senti-
ments, in diction easy, elevated, and harmonious ;
but its hopes and fears communicate no vibration
to the heart ; the composition refers us only to the
writer ; we pronounce the name of Cato, but we
think on Addison.
375
HISTORY OF OPINION
" The work of a correct and regular writer is a
garden accurately formed and diligently planted,
varied with shades, and scented with flowers : the
composition of Shakspeare is a forest, in which
oaks extend then- branches, and pines tower in the
air, interspersed sometimes with weeds and bram-
bles, and sometimes giving shelter to myrtles and
to roses; filling the eye with awful pomp, and
gratifying the mind with endless diversity. Other
poets display cabinets of precious rarities, minutely
finished, wrought into shape, and polished into
brightness. Shakspeare opens a mine which con-
tains gold and diamonds in inexhaustible plenty,
though clouded by incrustations, debased by impu-
rities, and mingled with a mass of meaner minerals.
" It has been much disputed whether Shak-
speare owed his excellence to his own native force,
or whether he had the common helps of scholastic-
education, the precepts of critical science, and the
examples of ancient authors.
" There has always prevailed a tradition that
Shakspeare wanted learning, that he had no regu-
lar education, nor much skill in the dead lan-
guages. Jonson, his friend, aflirms that he had
small Latin and less Greek ; who, besides that he
had no imaginable temptation to falsehood, wrote
at a time when the character and acquisitions of
Shakspeare were known to multitudes. His evi-
dence ought therefore to decide the controversy,
unless some testimony of equal force could be
opposed.
"Some have imagined that they have discovered
deep learning in imitations of old writers ; but the
examples which I have known urged were drawn
from books translated in his time, or were such
easy coincidences of thought as will happen to all
who consider the same subjects, or such remarks
on life or axioms of morality as float in conversa-
tion, and are transmitted through the world in pro-
verbial sentences.
" I have found it remarked that, in this import-
ant sentence, ' Go before, I '11 follow,' we read a
translation of ' I prae, sequar.' I have been told
that when Caliban, after a pleasing dream, says,
' I cried to sleep again,' the author imitates Ana-
creon, who had, like every other man, the same
wish on the same occasion.
" There are a few passages which may pass for
imitations, but so few, that the exception only con-
firms the rule ; he obtained them from accidental
quotations, or by oral communication ; and, as he
used what he had, would have used more if he had
obtained it.
" The Comedy of Errors is confessedly taken
from the 'MenEechmi' of Plautus ; from the only
play of Plautus which was then in English. What
can be more probable than that he who copied that
would have copied more, but that those which
Were not translated were inaccessible ?
376
"Whether he knew the modern languages is un-
certain. That his plays have some French scenes
proves but little ; he might easily procure them to
be written, and probably, even though he had
known the language in the common degree, he
could not have written it without assistance. In
the story of Romeo and Juliet he is observed to
have followed the English translation, where it
deviates from the Italian ; but this, on the other
part, proves nothing against his knowledge of the
original. He was to copy, not what he knew him-
self, but what was known to his audience.
" It is most likely that he had learned Latin
sufficiently to make him acquainted with construc-
tion, but that he never advanced to an easy perusal
of the Roman authors. Concerning his skill in
modern languages I can find no sufficient ground
of determination ; but as no imitations of French
or Italian authors have been discovered, though the
Italian poetry was then high in esteem, I am in-
clined to believe that he read little more than
English, and chose for his fables only such tales as
he found translated.
" That much knowledge is scattered over his
works is very justly observed by Pope, but it is
often such knowledge as books did not supply.
He that will understand Shakspeare must not be
content to study him in the closet, he must look
for his meaning sometimes among the sports of tne
field, and sometimes among the manufactures of
the shop.
" There is, however, proof enough that he was a
very diligent reader ; nor was our language then so
indigent of books but that he might very liberally
indulge his curiosity without excursion into foreign
literature. Many of the Roman authors were trans-
lated, and some of the Greek ; the Reformation had
filled the kingdom with theological learning ; most
of the topics of human disquisition had found
English writers ; and poetry had been cultivated,
not only with diligence, but success. This was a
stock of knowledge sufficient for a mind so capable
of appropriating and improving it.
" But the greater part of his excellence was the
product of his own genius. He found the English
stage in a state of the utmost rudeness ; no essays
either in tragedy or comedy had appeared, from
which it could be discovered to what degree of de-
light either one or other might be carried. Neither
character nor dialogue were yet understood. Shak-
speare may be truly said to have introduced them
both amongst us, and in some of his happier scenes
to have carried them both to the utmost height.
" By what gradations of improvement he pro-
ceeded is not easily known ; for the chronology of
his works is yet unsettled. Rowe is of opinion
that ' perhaps we are not to look for his beginning,
like those of other writers, in his least perfect
works ; art had so little, and nature so large a
ON THE WRITINGS OF SHAKSPERE.
share in what he did, that, for aught I know,' says
he, ' the performances of his youth, as they were
the most vigorous, were the best' But the power
of nature is only the power of using to any certain
purpose the materials which diligence procures, or
opportunity supplies. Nature gives no man know-
ledge, and, when images are collected by study and
experience, can only assist in combining or applying
them. Shakspeare, however favoured by nature,
could impart only what he had learned; and as
he must increase his ideas, like other mortals, by
gradual acquisition, he, like them, grew wiser as
he grew older, could display life better as he knew
it more, and instruct with more efficacy as he was
himself more amply instructed.
" There is a vigilance of observation and accuracy
of distinction which books and precepts cannot con-
fer ; from this almost all original and native excel-
lence proceeds. Shakspeare must have looked upon
mankind with perspicacity, in the highest degree
curious and attentive. Other writers borrow their
characters from preceding writers, and diversify
them only by the accidental appendages of present
manners ; the dress is a little varied, but the body
is the same. Our author had both matter and form
to provide ; for, except the characters of Chaucer,
to whom I think he is not much indebted, there
were no writers in English, and perhaps not many
in other modern languages, which showed life in
its native colours.
" The contest about the original benevolence or
malignity of man had not yet commenced. Specu-
lation had not yet attempted to analyse the mind,
to trace the passions to their sources, to unfold the
seminal principles of vice and virtue, or sound the
depths of the heart for the motives of action. All
tho.se inquiries which, from that time that human
nature became the fashionable study, have been
made, sometimes with nice discernment, but often
with idle subtlety, v.ere yet unattempted. The
tales with which the infancy of learning was satis-
fied exhibited only the superficial appearances of
action, related the events, but omitted the causes,
and were formed for such as delighted in wonders
rather than in truth. Mankind was not then to
be studied in the closet ; he that would know the
world was under the necessity of gleaning his own
remarks, by mingling as he could in its business
and amusements.
" Boyle congratulated himself upon his high
birth, because it favoured his curiosity, by facili-
tating his access. Shakspeare had no such advan-
tage ; he came to London a needy adventurer, and
lived for a time by very mean employments. Many
works of genius and learning have been performed
in states of life that appear very little favourable
to thought or to inquiry ; so many, that he who
considers them is inclined to think that he sees
enterprise ami perseverance predominating over all
external agency, and bidding help and bin lerance
vanish before them. The genius of Shakspeare
was not to be depressed by the weight of poverty,
nor limited by the narrow conversation to which
men in want are inevitably condemned; the en-
cumbrances of his fortune were shaken from his
mind, ' as dew-drops from a lion's mane.'
" Though he had so many difficulties to en-
counter, and so little assistance to surmount them,
he has been able to maintain an exact knowledge
of many modes of life and many casts of native
dispositions ; to vary them with great multiplicity ;
to mark them by nice distinctions ; and to show
them in full view by proper combinations. In this
part of his performances he had none to imitate,
but has himself been imitated by all succeeding
writers ; and it may be doubted whether from all
his successors more maxims of theoretical know-
ledge, or more rules of practical prudence,
can be collected, than he alone has given to his
country.
" Nor was lus attention confined to the actions
of men ; he was an exact surveyor of the inanimate
world; his descriptions have always some pecu-
liarities, gathered by contemplating things as they
really exist. It may be observed that the oldest
poets of many nations preserve their reputation,
and that the following generations of wit, after a
short celebrity, sink into oblivion. The first, who-
ever they be, must take their sentiments and de-
scriptions immediately from knowledge; the re-
semblance is therefore just, their descriptions are
verified by every eye, and their sentiments acknow-
ledged by every breast. Those whom their fame
invites to the same studies copy partly them and
partly nature, till the books of one age gain such
authority as to stand in the place of nature to
another, and imitation, always deviating a little,
l>ecomes at last capricious and casual. Shakspeare,
whether life or nature be his subject, shows plainly
that he has seen with his own eyes ; he gives the
image which he receives, not weakened or dis-
torted by the intervention of any other mind ; the
ignorant feel his representations to be just, and
the learned see that they are complete.
" Perhaps it would not be easy to find any
author, except Homer, who invented so much as
Shakspeare, who so much advanced the studies
which he cultivated, or effused so much novelty
upon his age or country. The form, the character,
the language, and the shows of the English drama
are his. ' He seems,' says Dennis, ' to have been
the very original of our English tragical harmony,
that is, the harmony of blank verse, diversified
often by dissyllable and trisyllable terminations.
For the diversity distinguishes it from heroic har-
mony, and by bringing it nearer to common use
makes it more proper to gain attention, and more
fit for action and dialogue. Such verse we make
377
A HISTORY OF OPINION
when we are writing prose ; wo make such verse in
common conversation/
" I know not whether this praise is rigorously
just. The dissyllable termination, which the critic
rightly appropriates to the drama, is to be found,
though, I think, not in ' Gorboduc,' which is con-
fessedly before our author, yet in ' Hieronymo,' of
which the date is not certain, but which there is
reason to believe at least as old as his earlier plays.
This, however, is certain, that he is the first who
taught either tragedy or comedy to please, there
being no theatrical piece of any older writer, of
which the name is known, except to antiquaries
and collectors of books, which are sought because
they are scarce, and would not have been scarce
had they been much esteemed.
" To him we must ascribe the praise, unless
Spenser may divide it with him, of having first
discovered to how much smoothness and harmony
the English language could be softened. lie has
speeches, perhaps sometimes scenes, which have
all the delicacy of Howe, without his effeminacy.
He endeavours indeed commonly to strike by the
force and vigour of his dialogue, but he never exe-
cutes his purpose better than when he tries to
soothe by softness.
" Yet it must be at last confessed that, as we
owe everything to him, he owes something to us ;
that if much of his praise is paid by perception and
judgment, much is likewise given by custom and
veneration. We fix our .yes upon his graces, and
turn them from his deformities, and endure in him
what we should in another loathe and despise. If
we endured without praising, respect for the father
of our drama might excuse us ; but I have seen,
in the book of some modern critic, a collection of
anomalies, which show that he has corrupted lan-
guage by every mode of depravation, but which
his admirer has accumulated as a monument of
honour.
" He has scenes of undoubted and perpetual ex-
cellence, but perhaps not one play which, if it
were now exhibited as the work of a contemporary
writer, would be heard to the conclusion. I am
indeed far from thinking that his works were
wrought to his own ideas of perfection ; when they
were such as would satisfy the audience, they satis-
fied the writer. It is seldom that authors, though
more studious of fame than Shakspeare, rise much
above the standard of their own age; to add a
little to what is best will always be sufficient for
present praise, and those who find themselves
exalted into fame are willing to credit their en-
comiasts, and to spare the labour of contending
with themselves."
It was observed by Warburton, in 1747, that the
fit criticism for Shakspere was not such " as may
be raised mechanically on the rules which Dacier,
Rapin, and Bossu have collected from antiquity ;
378
[Johnson.]
and of which such kind of writers as Rymer, Gil-
don, Dennis, and Oldmixon, have only gathered
and chewed the husks." But he goes on to infer
that " crude and superficial judgments on books
and things " had taken the place of the older me-
chanical criticism ; and that there was " a deluge
of the worst sort of critical jargon that which
looks most like sense." The rules of art, as they
were called, having been rejected as inapplicable
to Shakspere, a swarm of writers arose who con-
sidered that he was to be judged without the ap-
plication of any general principles at all. They
held that he wrote without a system ; that the al>
sence of this system produced his excellences and
his faults ; that his absurdities were as striking as
his beauties; that he was the most careless and
hasty of writers ; and that therefore it was the
business of all grave and discreet critics to warn
the unenlightened multitude against his blunders,
his contradictions, his violations of sense and de-
cency. This was the critical school of individual
judgment, which has lasted for more than a cen-
tury amongst us ; and which, to our minds, is a
far more corrupting thing than the pedantries of
all the Gildons and Dennises, who have ate paper
and drunk ink. Before the publication of John-
son's preface (which, being of a higher order of
composition than what had previously been pro-
duced upon Shakspere, seemed to establish fixed
rules for opinion), the impertinencics which were
poured out by the feeblest minds upon Shakspere's
merits and demerits surpass all ordinary belief.
Mrs. Charlotte Lennox, in whose ' Shakespear Il-
lustrated ' Johnson himself is reputed to have had
some hand, is an average specimen of the inso-
lence of that critical jargon " which looks most
like sense." This work was published in 1753.
A passage or two will show the sort of style in
which this high-priestess of criticism delivered her
oracles :
Romeo and Juliet. 11 Shakespear makes Romeo,
ON THE WRITINGS OF SHAKSPERE.
in the midst of his affliction for the death of his
wife, and while the horrible design of killing him-
self was forming in his mind, give a ludicrous de-
tail of the miserable furniture of a poor apothecary's
shop ; a description, however beautiful in itself, is
here so ill-timed and so inconsistent with the con-
dition and circumstances of the speaker, that we
cannot help being shocked at the absurdity."
Cymbeline. " It would be an endless task to
take notice of all the absurdities in the plot, and
unnatural manners in the characters, of this play.
The whole conduct of the play is absurd
and ridiculous to the last degree ; and with all the
liberties Shakespear has taken with time, place,
and action, the story, as he has managed it, is
more improbable than a fairy tale."
The Winter's Tale. " It has been mentioned, as
a gieat praise to Shakespear, that the old paltry
story of ' Dorastus and Fawnia ' served him for
A Winter's Tale ; but if we compare the conduct
of the incidents in the play with the paltry stoiy
on which it is founded, we shall find the original
much less absurd and ridiculous The novel
has nothing in it half so low and improbable as this
contrivance of the statue ; and, indeed, wherever
Shakespear has altered or invented, his Winter's
Tale is greatly inferior to the old paltry story that
furnished him with the subject of it."
Hamlet. " The violation of poetical justice is
not the only fault that arises from the death of
Uumlet ; the revenging his father's murder is the
sole end of all his designs, and the great business
of the play ; and the noble and fixed resolution
of Hamlet to accomplish it makes up the most
shining part of his character ; yet this great end is
delayed till after Hamlet is mortally wounded. He
stabs the king immediately upon the information
of his treachery to himself. Thus his revenge be-
comes interested, and he seems to punish his uncle
rather for his own death than the murder of the
king his father."
Richard II." This play affords several other
instances in which Shakespear's inattention to the
history is plainly proved ; and is therefore the less
pardonable, as the subject of it is not one entire
action, wrought up with a variety of beautiful inci-
dents, which at once delight and instruct the mind,
but a dramatic narration of historical facts, and a
successive series of actions and events, which are
only interesting as they are true, and only pleasing
as they are gracefully told."
Henry VIII. 11 The fate of this Queen, or that
of Cardinal Wolscy, each singly afforded a subject
for tragedy. Shakespear, by blending them in the
same piece, has destroyed the unity of his fable ;
divided our attention between them ; and, by add-
ing many other unconnected incidents, all foreign
to his design, has given us an irregular historical
drama, instead of a finished tragedy."
Much Ado about Nothing. " This fable, absurd
and ridiculous as it is, was drawn from the fore-
going story, ' Gerievra,' in Ariosto's ' Orlando Fu-
rioso,' a fiction which, as it is managed by the
epic poet, is neither improbable nor unnatural ;
but by Shakespear mangled and defaced, full of
inconsistencies, contradictions, and blunders. The
defaming a lady, by means of her servant per-
sonating her at her chamber-window, is the subject
pursued by both. Shakespear, by changing the
persons, altering some of the circumstances, and
inventing others, has made the whole an impro-
bable contrivance ; borrowed just enough to show
his poverty of invention, and added enough to
prove his want of judgment."
Nothing can be a greater proof of the advance of
some critical knowledge amongst us than the shud-
dering with which all persons of decent informa-
tion now regard such utter trash. Mrs. Lennox
was evidently a very small-minded person attempt-
ing to form a judgment upon a very high subject.
But it was not only the small minds which uttered
such babble in the last century. Samuel Johnson
himself, in some of his critical opinions upon indi-
vidual plays, is not very far above the good lady
whom he patronized. What shall we think of
the prosaic approbation of A Midsummer-Night's
Dream ? " Wild and fantastical as this play is, all
the parts in their various modes are well written."
What of his praise of Romeo and Juliet ? " His
comic scenes are happily wrought, but his pathetic
strains are always polluted with some unexpected
depravations." What of the imputed omissions in
As You Like It ? " By hastening to the end of
this work, Shakspeare suppressed the dialogue be-
tween the usurper and the hermit, and lost an
opportunity of exhibiting a moral lesson in which
he might have found matter worthy of his highest
powers." What of the pompous see-sawing about
Macbeth '(" It has no nice discriminations of
character. The danger of ambition is
well described The passions are di-
rected to their true end. Lady Macbeth is merely
detested ; and though the courage of Macbeth pre-
serves some esteem, yet every reader rejoices at his
fall." What, lastly, shall we say to the bow-wow
about Cymbeline ?" To remark the folly of the
fiction, the absurdity of the conduct, the confusion
of the names and manners of different times, and
the impossibility of the events in any system of
life, were to waste criticism upon unresisting im-
becility upon faults too evident for detection, and
too gross for aggravation." All that we can in truth
say of these startling things is this that this
learned, sensible, sometimes profound, and really
great man, having trampled upon the unities and
other tests of poetical merit, the fashion of Drydei f s
age, but not of his own, is perpetually groping about
in the mists of his private judgment, now pursuing
37'J
A HISTORY OF OPINION
a glimmering of light, now involved in outer dark-
ness. This system of criticism upon Shakspere
was rotten to the foundation. It was based upon
au extension and a misapplication of Ben Jonson's
dogmatic assertion " He wanted art." The art of
Shakspere was not revealed to the critics of the last
century. Let us hoar one to whom the principles
of this art were revealed : " It is a painful truth,
that not only individuals, but even whole nations,
are ofttinies so enslaved to the habits of their
education and immediate circumstances, as not to
judge disinterestedly even on those subjects the
very pleasure arising from which consists in its
disinterestedness, namely, on subjects of taste and
polite literature. Instead of deciding concerning
their own modes and customs by any rule of
reason, nothing appears rational, becoming, or
beautiful to them but what coincides with Ute pe-
culiarities of their education. In this narrow circle
individuals may attain to exquisite discrimination,
as the French critics have done in their own litera-
ture ; but a true critic can no more be such, with-
out placing himself on some central point, from
which he may command the whole, that is, some
general rule, which, founded in reason, or the fa-
culties common to all men, must therefore apply to
each, than an astronomer can explain the move-
ments of the solar system without taking his stand
in the sun." * Samuel Johnson proposes to in-
quire, in the preface before us, "by what pecu-
liarities of excellence Shakspeare has gained and
kept the favour of his countrymen." He answers
the question at considerable length, by displaying
what he holds to be the great peculiarity of his
excellence : " Shakspeare is, above all writers, at
least above all modern writers, the poet of nature ;
the poet that holds up to his readers a faithful
mirror of manners and of life This, there-
fore, is the praise of Shakspeare that his drama is
the mirror of life." Such is the leading idea of the
critic. He sees nothing higher in Shakspere than
an exhibition of the real. " He who has mazed his
imagination in foUowing the phantoms which other
writers raise up before him may here be cured of his
delirious ecstasies, by reading human sentiments in
human language ; by scenes from which a hermit
may estimate the transactions of the world, and
a confessor predict the progress of t ic passions."
When Johnson is unable to trace this actual pic-
ture of life in Shakspere, when he perceives any
deviations from the regular " transactions of the
world," or the due " progress of the passions,"
then he is bewildered ; and he generally ends in
blaming his author. The characteristic excellence,
he says, of the tragedy of Hamlet is " variety." Ac-
cording to his notion that in all Shakspere's dramas
we find " an interchange of seriousness and merri-
* Coleridge's ' Literary Remains,' vol. ii., p. 63.
S80
ment, by which the niind is softened at one time
and exhilarated at another," he holds that " the
pretended madness of Hamlet causes much mirth."
But, in the conduct of the plot, the business of life
and the course of the passions do not proceed with
the regularity which he desires : " Of the feigned
madness of Hamlet there appears no adequate
cause Hamlet is, through the whole
piece, rather an instrument than an agent. After
he has by the stratagem of the play convicted the
king, he makes no attempt to punish him. . . .
The catastrophe is not very happily produced."
Where is the mistake in all this ? It is in taking ;i
very limited view of the object and scope of Art.
" It is its object and aim to bring within the circlf
of our senses, perceptions, and emotions, every-
thing which has existence in the mind of man. Art
should realize in us the well-known saying, Nihil
humani a me alienum puto. Its appointed aim is.
to awake and give vitality to all slumbering feel-
ings, affections, and passions ; to fill and expand
the heart ; and to make man, whether developed or
undeveloped, feel in every fibre of his being all that
human nature can endure, experience, and bring
forth in her innermost and most secret recesses all
that has power to move and arouse the heart of man
in its profoundest depths, manifold capabilities,
and various phases ; to garner up for our enjoyment
whatever, in the exercise of thought and imagina-
tion, the mind discovers of high and intrinsic merit,
the grandeur of the lofty, the eternal, and the tme,
and present it to our feeling and contemplation.
In like manner, to make pain and sorrow, and even
vice and wrong, become clear to us ; to bring the
heart into immediate acquaintance with the awful
and the terrible, as well as with the joyous and
pleasurable ; and lastly, to lead the fancy to hover
gently, dreamily, on the wing of imagination, and
entice her to revel in the seductive witchery of its
voluptuous emotion and contemplation. Art should
employ this manifold richness of its subject-matter
to supply on the one hand the deficiencies of our
actual experience of external life, and on the other
hand to excite in us those passions which shall
cause the actual events of life to move us more
deeply, and awaken our susceptibility for receiving
impressions of all kinds." *
This is something higher than Johnson's notion
of Shakspere's art higher as that notion was than
the mechanical criticism of the age which preceded
him. But the inconsistencies into which the critic
is betrayed show the narrowness and weakness of
his foundations. The drama of Shakspere is " a
mirror of life ;" and yet, according to the critic, it
is the great sin of Shakspere that he is perpetually
violating " poetical justice." Thus Johnson says,
* We quote this from a very able article in the 'Brftisti
and Foreign Review,' on HpppJ's 'Esthetics.' The passage
'
ON THE WRITINGS OF SHAKSPERE.
in the preface, " He makes no just distribution of
good or evil, nor is always careful to show in the
virtuous a disapprobation of the wicked ; he carries
his persons indifferently through right and wrong,
and at the close dismisses them without further
care, and leaves their examples to operate by
chance." Johnson could not have avoided seeing
that, if Shakspere had not carried his persons " in-
differently through right and wrong," he would not
have exhibited " the real state of sublunary nature."
But there was something much higher that Shak-
spere would not then have done. Had he gone upon
the principle of teaching an impracticable and there-
fore an unnatural theory of rewards and punish-
ments in human affairs, if he had not intended that
" his precepts and axioms" should "drop casually
from him," he would have lost his supereminent
power of gradually raising the mind into a compre-
hension of what belongs to the spiritual part of our
nature ; of exciting a deep sympathy with strong
emotion and lofty passion ; of producing an expan-
sion of the heart, which embraces all the manifest-
ations of human goodness and human sorrow ;
and, what is more, which penetrates into the abysses
of guilt and degradation, and shows that there is no
true peace, and no real resting-place, for what sepa-
rates us from our fellow-men and from our God.
This is not to be effected by didactic precepts not
dropped casually; by false representations of the
course of worldly affairs and the workings of man's
secret heart. The mind comprehends the whole
truth, when it is elevated by the art of the poet into
a fit state for its comprehension. The whole moral
purpose is then evolved, through a series of deduc-
tions in the mind of him who is thus moved. This
is the highest logic, because it is based upon the
broadest premises. Rymer sneers at Shakspere
when he says that the moral of Othello is, that
maidens of quality should not run away with black-
amoors. The sarcasm only tells upon those who
demand any literal moral in a high work of art.
Because Johnson only saw in Shakspere's dramas
" a mirror of life," he prefers his comedy to his
tragedy. " His tragedy seems to be skill, his
comedy to be instinct." When the poet is work-
ing with grander materials than belong to the
familiar scenes of life, however natural and uni-
versal, the critic does not see that the region of
literal things is necessarily abandoned that skill
must be more manifest in its effects. We are then
in a world of higher reality than every-day reality.
" In tragedy he often writes with great appear-
ance of toil and study what is written at last with
little felicity." This now strikes the most superfi-
cial student of Shakspere as monstrous. We open
' Irene,' and we understand it. " He omits oppor-
tunities of instructing or delighting which the train
of his story seems to force upon him, and apparently
"ejects those exhibitions which would be more
affecting for the sake of those which are more easy."
It is a great privilege of the art of Shakspere, that
in his most tragical scenes he never takes us out
of the region of pleasurable emotions. It was his
higher art, as compared with the lower art of
Otway. He does reject " those exhibitions which
would be more affecting," but not " for the sake
of those which are more easy." Let any one try
which is the more easy, " to touch a soul to the
quick, to lay upon fear as much as it can bear, to
wean and weary a life till it is ready to drop," as
Charles Lamb describes the tragic art of Webster ;
or to make a Desdemona, amidst the indignities
which are heaped upon her, and the fears which
subdue her soul, move tranquilly in an atmosphere
of poetical beauty, thinking of the maid that
" had a song of willow ;
An old thing 't was, but it express'd her fortune,
And she died singing it."
It is a rude conception which Johnson has of
Shakspere's art when he says of the play of Ham-
let " The scenes are interchangeably diversified
with merriment and solemnity The pre-
tended madness of Hamlet causes much mirth ;
the mournful distract'on of Ophelia fills the heart
with tenderness ; and every personage produces
the effect intended." True. But it was no in-
tended effect of the madness of Hamlet to cause
" much mirth." Every word that Hamlet utters
has something in it which sounds the depths of our
intellectual being, because every word is consistent
with his own character, which, of all poetical cre-
ations, sends us most to search into the mysteries
of our own individual natures. This, if we un-
derstand it aright, is poetry. But Johnson says,
" Voltaire expresses his wonder that our author's
extravagances are endured by a nation which has
seen the tragedy of ' Cato.' Let him be answered,
that Addison speaks the language of poets, and
Shakspeare of men. We find in ' Cato ' innumerable
beauties which enamour us of its author, but we
see nothing that acquaints us with human senti-
ments or human actions ; we place it with the
fairest and noblest progeny which judgment pro-
pagates by conjunction with learning ; but Othello
is the vigorous and vivacious offspring of observa-
tion, impregnated with genius." If Addison speaks
" the language of poets," properly so called, ' Cato'
w poetry. If Shakspere speaks the language of
men, as distinct from the language of poets, Othello
is not poetry. It needs no further argument to
show that the critic has a false theory of the poeti-
cal art. He has here narrowed the question to an
absurdity.
We may observe, from what Johnson says of " the
minute and slender criticism of Voltaire," that the
English critics fancied that, doing Shaksi>ere ample
justice themselves, they were called upon to defend
381
A HISTORY OF OPINION
him from the mistaken criticisms of a foreign
school. Every Englishman, from the period of
Johnson, who has fancied himself absolved from
the guilt of not admiring and understanding Shak-
spere has taken up a stone to cast at Voltaire.
Those who speak of Voltaire as an ignorant and
tasteless calumniator of Shakspere forget that his
hostility was based upon a system of art which he
conceived, and rightly so, was opposed to the sys-
tem of Shakspere. He had been bred up in the
school of Corneille and Racine, the glories of his
countrymen ; and it is really a remarkable proof of
the vigour of his mind that he tolerated so much
as he did in Shakspere, and admired so much ; in
this respect going farther perhaps than .many of
our own countrymen of no mean reputation, such
as Shaftesbury and Bolingbroke in 1730. In his
' Discourse on Tragedy,' prefixed to ' Brutus,' and
addressed to Bolingbroke in that year, he says,
" Not being able, my lord, to risk upon the French
stage verses without rhyme, such as are the usage
of Italy and of England, I have at least desired
to transport to our scene certain beauties of yours.
7
[Voltaire.]
It is true, and I avow it, that the English theatre
is very faulty. / have heard from your mouth that
you have not a good tragedy. But in compensation
you have some admirable scenes in these very
monstrous pieces. Until the present time almost
all the tragic authors of your nation have wanted
that purity, that regular conduct, those bienseances
of action and style, that elegance, and all those
refinements of art, which have established the
reputation of the French theatre since the great
Corneille. But the most irregular of your pieces
have one grand merit it is that of action." In the
same letter we have his opinion of Shakspere, which
is certainly not that of a cold critic, but of one
who admired even where he could not approve, and
blamed as we had teen accustomed to blame :
382
" With what pleasure have I seen in London your
tragedy of Julius Cjcsar, which for a hundred and
fifty years has been the delight of your nation ! 1
assuredly do not pretend to approve the barbarous
irregularities with which it abounds. It is only
astonishing that one finds not more of them in a
work composed in an age of ignorance, by a man
who even knew not Latin, and who had no master
but his own genius. But in the midst of so many
gross faults, with what ravishment have I seen
Brutus," &c. All this is perfectly intelligible, and
demands no harsher censure than we have a right
to apply to Dryden, who says nearly as strong
things, and writes most of his own tragedies in
the spirit of a devoted worshipper of the French
school. In 1761, some thirty years after his letter
to Bolingbroke, Voltaire writes ' An Essay on the
English Theatre,' in which he expresses the won-
der, which Johnson notices, that the nation which
has ' Cato' can endure Shakspere. In this essay he
gives a long analysis of Hamlet, in which, without
attempting to penetrate at all into the real idea of
that drama, he gives such an account of the plot as
may exaggerate what he regards as its absurdities.
He then says, " We cannot have a more forcible
example of the difference of taste among nations.
Let us, after this, speak of the rules of Aristotle,
and the three unities, and the bienseances, and the
necessity of never leaving the scene empty, and
that no person should go out or come in with-
out a sensible reason. Let us talk, after this, of
the artful arrangement of the plot, and its natural
development ; of the expressions being simple and
noble ; of making princes speak with the decency
which they always have, or ought to have ; oi
never violating the rules of language. It is clear
that a whole nation may be enchanted without
giving oneself such trouble." No one can be more
consistent than Voltaire in the expression of his
opinions. It is not the individual judgment of
the man betraying him into a doubtful or varying
tone, but his uniform theory of the poetical art,
which directs all his censure of Shakspere ; and
which therefore makes his admiration, such as it
is, of more value than the vague homage of those
who, despising, or affecting to despise, Voltaire's
system, have embraced no system of their own,
and thus infallibly come to be more dogmatical,
more supercilious, in their abuse, and more creep-
ing in their praise, than the most slavish disciple
of a school wholly opposed to Shakspere, but con-
secrated by time, by high example, and by national
opinion. The worst things which Voltaire has
said of Shakspere are conceived in this spirit, and
therefore ought not in truth to offend Shakspere's
warmest admirers. " He had a genius full of
power and fruitfulness, of the natural and the sub-
lime" this is the praise. The dispraise is linked
to it ;_ Without the least spark of good taste, and
ON THE WRITINGS OF SHAKSPERE.
wit'iout the sliglitest knowledge of rules." We
may dissent from this, but it is not fair to quarrel
\\ ith it. He then goes on : " I will say a hazard-
ous thing, but true, that the merit of this author
h-us mined the English theatre. There are so many
fine scenes, so many grand aud terrible passages,
spread through his monstrous farces which they
call tragedies, that his pieces have always been
represented with extreme success." * We smile at
the man's power of ridicule when he travesties a
plot of Shakspere, as in the dissertation prefixed to
' Semiramis.' But lu's object is so manifest that
of the elevation of his own theory of art that he
cannot outrage us. For what is his conclusion?
That Shakspere would have been a perfect poet if
he had lived in the time of Addison.f
The famous ' Letter to the Academy,' in 1776,
was the crowning effort of Voltaire's hostility to
Shakspere. In that year was announced a com-
plete translation of Shakspere ; and several of the
plays were published as a commencement of the
undertaking. France, according to Grimm, was
in a ferment. The announcement of this trans-
lation appears to have enraged Voltaire. It said
that Shakspere was the creator of the sublime art
of the theatre, which received from his hands ex-
istence and perfection ; and, what was personally
offensive, it added that Shakspere was unknown
in France, or, rather, disfigured. Voltaire tells the
Academy that Tie was the first who made Shak-
spere known in France, by the translation of some
of his passages ; that he had translated, too, the
Julius Caesar. But he is indignant that the new
translators would sacrifice France to England, in
paying no homage to the great French dramatists,
whose pieces are acted throughout Europe. He
notices, then, the four plays which they have trans-
kited ; and calls upon them, of course in his tone
of exaggeration and ridicule, to render faithfully
certain passages which they have slurred over.
But Voltaire avows' the support which he receives
from the English themselves in his condemnation
of what he holds to be the absurdities of Shakspere,
quoting from Marmontel in this matter : " The
English have learned to correct and abridge Shak-
spere. Garrick has banished from his scene the
gravediggers in Hamlet, and has omitted nearly
all the fifth act." Voltaire then adds, "The
translator agrees not with this truth ; he takes the
part of the gravediggers ; he would preserve them
as a respectable monument of an unique genius."
The critic then gives a scene of ' Hajazet,' contrast-
ing it with the opening scene of Romeo and Ju-
liet. " It is for you," he says to the Academicians,
" to decide which method we ought to follow
that of Shakspere, the god of tragedy, or of
Racine, iu a similar way he contrasts a passage
* Lettres Philosophiques. T,ettre 18.
t Dictionnaire Philosopliique.
j Correspondance, 3" partie, tome 1"
in Corneille and Lear : " Lei the Academicians
judge if the nation which has produced ' Iphig6nie'
and 'Athalie' ought to abandon them, to behold
men and women strangled upon the stage, street-
j porters, sorcerers, buffoons, and drunken priests
I if our court, so long renowned for its politeness
and its taste, ought to be changed into an alehouse
and a wine-shop." In this letter to the Academy
Voltaire loses his temper and his candour. He is
afraid to risk any admiration of Shakspere. But
this intolerance is more intelligible than the apo-
logies of Shakspere's defenders in England.* We
must confess that we have more sympathy with
Voltaire's earnest attack upon Shakspere than
with Mrs. Montagu's maudlin defence. Take a
specimen : " Our author, by following minutely
the chronicles of the times, has embarrassed his
dramas with too great a number of persons and
events. The hurlyburly of these plays recom-
mended them to a rude, illiterate audience, who,
as he says, loved a noise of targets. His poverty,
and the low condition of the stage (which at that
time was not frequented by persons of rank),
obliged him to this complaisance ; and, unfor-
tunately, he had not been tutored by any rules
of art, or informed by acquaintance with just and
regular dramas." ^ She gives a speech of Lear,
and says, " Thus it is that Shakspeare redeems the
nonsense, the indecorums, the irregularities of his
plays." Again, in her criticism on Macbeth : -
" Our author is too much addicted to the obscure
bombast much affected by all sorts of writers in
that age There are many bombast
speeches in the tragedy of Macbeth, and these are
the lawful prize of the critic." The exhibition of
the fickle humour of the mob in Julius Ca?sar is
not to be " entirely condemned." " The quarrel
between Brutus and Cassius does not, by any
means, deserve the ridicule thrown upon it by the
French critic ; . . . . but it rather retards than
brings forward the catastrophe, and is useful only
in setting Brutus in a good light." One more ex-
tract from Mrs. Montagu, and we have done : " It
has been demonstrated with great ingenuity and
candour that he was destitute of learning : the age
was rude and void of taste ; but what had a still
more pernicious influence on his works was, that
the court and the universities, the statesmen and
scholars, affected a scientific jargon. An obscurity
of expression was thought the veil of wisdom and
"knowledge : and that mist, common to the morn
and eve of literature, which in fact proves it is
not at its high meridian, was affectedly thrown
over the writings, and even the conversation, of
the learned, who often preferred images distorted
or magnified, to a simple exposition of ther
Following the valuhble Essay, "ShakspcreiH Germany, "
by Mr. Ramsay, we shall offer a few remarks upon thp
altered state of opinion upon Shakspere in the Franc* of the
present time. <'. K.
t Essay on the Writings and Genius of Shakspere.
383
A HISTORY OF OPINION
thoughts. Shakspeare is never more worthy of
the true critic's censure than in those instances in
which he complies with this false pomp of man-
ner. It was pardonable in a man of his rank not
to be more polite and delicate than his contempo-
raries ; but we cannot so easily excuse such supe-
riority of talents for stooping to any affectation."
This half-patronizing, half-vindicating tone is very
well meant ; and we respect Mrs. Montagu for
coming forward to break a lance with the great
European critic : but the very celebrity of Shak-
sjXire's " fair warrior" is one of the proofs that
there was no real school of criticism amongst us.
[Mrs. Montagu.]
Apologies for Shakspere, lamentations over his
defects, explanations of the causes of them, rude
age, unlettered audience, the poet himself working
without knowledge, all this, the invariable lan-
guage of the English critics, is eagerly laid hold
of, not only to justify the hostility of Voltaire,
but to perpetuate the reign of a system altogether
opposed to the system of Shakspere, up to the
present hour. M. Villemain, in the new edition
of his ' Essay upon Shakspeare,' published hi 1839,
gives us as much interjectional eulogy of our
national poet as might satisfy the most eager appe-
tite of those admirers who think such praise worth
anything. The French critic, of nearly a century
later than Voltaire, holds that Shakspere has no
other system than his genius. It is in this chaos
that we must seek his splendour. His absurdities,
his buffooneries, belong to the gross theatre of
his period. In judging Shakspere, we must reject
the mass of barbarism and false taste with which
he is surcharged. But then, apart from any
system, " quelle passion ! quelle poesie ! quelle
eloquence!" "This rude and barbarous genius
discovers an unknown delicacy hi the development
of his female characters." And why ? " The taste
which is so often missing in him is here sup-
plied by a delicate instinct, which makes him even
384
anticipate what was wanting to the civilization
of his tune." The critic reposes somewhat on
English authority : " Mrs. Montagu has repellen
the contempt of Voltaire by a judicious criticism
of some defects of the French theatre, but she
cannot palliate the enormous extravagances of
the pieces of Shakspere. Let us not forget, she
says, that these pieces were played in a miserable
inn before an unlettered audience, scarcely emerg-
ing out of barbarism."* But Mrs. Montagu is
not alone in this. Others, as angry with Voltaire,
as prodigal of their admiration of Shakspere
quietly surrender what Voltaire really attacks, for-
getting that his praises have been nearly as strong,
and sometimes a little more judicious, than their
own. Hear Martin Sherlock apostrophizing Shak-
spere :
" Always therefore study Nature.
" It is she who was thy book, Shakspeare ; it
is she who was thy study day and night ; it is she
from whom thou hast drawn those beauties which
are at once the glory and delight of thy nation.
Thou wert the eldest son, the darling child, of
Nature ; and, like thy mother, enchanting, asto-
nishing, sublime, graceful, thy variety is inex-
haustibla Always original, always new, thou art
the only prodigy which Nature has produced.
Homer was the first of men, but thou art more
than man. The reader who thinks this eulogium
extravagant is a stranger to my subject. To say
that Shakspeare had the imagination of Dante,
and the depth of Machiavel, would be a weak en-
comium : he had them, and more. To say that he
possessed the terrible graces of Michael Angelo,
and the amiable graces of Correggio, would be a
weak encomium : he had them, and more. To the
brilliancy of Voltaire he added the strength of De-
mosthenes ; and to the simplicity of La Fontaine,
the majesty of Virgil. But, say you, we have
never seen such ' a being.' You are in the right ;
Nature made it, and broke the mould."
This is the first page of ' A Fragment on Shak-
speare ' (1786). The following is an extract from
the last page : " The only view of Shakspeare was
to make his fortune, and for that it was necessary to
fill the playhouse. At the same time that he caused
a duchess to enter the boxes, he would cause her
servants to enter the pit. The people have always
money ; to make them spend it, they must be di-
verted ; and Shakspeare forced his sublime genius
to stoop to the gross taste of the populace, as Sylla
jested with his soldiers."
David Hume, to the charm of whose style
most readers once surrendered their judgment,
thus writes of Shakspere : " Born in a rude
age, and educated in the lowest manner, with-
out any instruction either from the world or from
Essai sur Shakspeare, Paris. 1839.
ON THE WRITINGS OF SHAKSPERE.
books." The consequence of this national and
individual ignorance was a necessary one : " A
reasonable propriety of thought he cannot for any
time uphold." What right have we to abuse Vol-
taire, when we hear this from an English writer of
the same period? We fully agree with Schlegel in
this matter : " That foreigners, and Frenchmen in
particular, who frequently speak in the most strange
language of antiquity and the middle ages, as if
cannibalism had been first put an end to in Europe
by Louis XIV., should entertain this opinion of
Shakspere, might be pardonable ; but that Eng-
lishmen should adopt such a calumniation of that
glorious epoch of their history, in which the found-
ation of their greatness was laid, is to me incom-
prehensible." * But it is not wholly incompre-
hensible. Schlegel has in part explained it : " I
have elsewhere examined into the pretensions of
modern cultivation, as it is called, which looks
down with such contempt on all preceding ages.
I have shown that it is all little, superficial, and
unsubstantial at bottom. The pride of what has
been called the present maturity of human reason
has come to a miserable end ; and the structures
erected by those pedagogues of the human race
have fallen to pieces like the baby-houses of chil-
dren." So far, of the critical contempt of the age
of Shakspere. Schlegel again, with equal truth,
lays bare the real character of the same critical
opinions of the poet himself: " It was, generally
speaking, the prevailing tendency of the time
which preceded our own, a tendency displayed
also in physical science, to consider what is pos-
sessed of life as a mere accumulation of dead parts ;
to separate what exists only in connexion and can-
not otherwise be conceived, instead of penetrating
to the central point, and viewing all the parts as
BO many irradiations from it. Hence, nothing is
so rare as a critic who can elevate himself to the
contemplation of an extensive work of art. Shak-
spere's compositions, from the very depth of pur-
pose displayed in them, have been exposed to the
misfortune of being misunderstood. Besides, this
prosaical species of criticism applies always the
* lectures on Dramatic Literature, Black's Translation.
poetical form to the details of execution ; but, in so
far as the plan of the piece is concerned, it never
looks for more than the logical connexion of causes
and effects, or some partial and trivial moral by
way of application ; and all that cannot be recon-
ciled to this is declared a superfluous, or even a
detrimental addition. On these principles we must
equally strike out most of the choral songs of the
Greek tragedies, which also contribute nothing
to the development of the action, but are merely
an harmonious echo of the impression aimed at by
the poet. In this they altogether mistake the rights
of poetry and the nature of the romantic drama,
which, for the very reason that it is and ought tc
be picturesque, requires richer accompaniments
and contrasts for its main groups. In all art and
poetry, but more especially in the romantic, the
fancy lays claim to be considered as an independent
mental power governed according to its own laws."
In these quotations from Schlegel we are par-
tially anticipating a notice of the progress of opi-
nion in Germany on the subject of Shakspere. The
translation of SchlegeFs work in 1815, in conjunc-
tion with the admirable lectures of Coleridge, gave
a new direction amongst the thinking few to our
national opinion of Shakspere. Other critics of a
higher school than our own race of commentators
had preceded Schlegel in Germany ; and it would
be perhaps not too much to say that, as the reverent
study of Shakspere has principally formed their
aesthetic school, so that aesthetic school has sent us
back to the reverent study of Shakspere. He lived
in the hearts of the people, who knew nothing of
the English critics. The learned, as they were called,
understood him least. Let the lovers of truth re-
joice that their despotism is over. The history of
Shaksperean opinion in Germany is a large and
a most interesting subject. We are happy in being
able to append to this Essay a sketch of that his-
tory, prepared by an assiduous perusal of the Ger-
man translators and critics, by Mr. A. Ramsay, our
friend and fellow-labourer during twenty years, to
whose judgment we are indebted for many valuable
suggestions during the progress of this edition of
the great object of our " affectionate reverence."
"UP. Vor. 2 C
835
VI.
ICapell.]
THE history of critical opinion upon Shakspere,
in England, has now brought us to what may be
called the second race of commentators.
The English editors of Shakspere have cer-
tainly brought to their task a great variety of qua-
lities, from which combination we might expect
some very felicitous results. They divide them-
selves into two schools, which, like all schools,
have their subdivisions. Bowe, Pope, Theobald,
Hanmer, Johnson, belong to the school which did
not seek any very exact acquaintance with our
early literature, and which probably would have
despised the exhibition, if not the reality, of anti-
quarian and bibliographical knowledge. A new
school arose, whose acquaintance with what has
been called black-letter literature was extensive
enough to produce a decided revolution in Shak-
sperean commentary. Capell, Steevens, Malone,
Reed, Douce, are the representatives of the latter
school. The first school contained the most bril-
liant men ; the second, the most painstaking com-
mentators. The dullest of the first school, a
name hung up amongst the dunces by his rival
editor, poor ' piddling Tibbald,' was unquestion-
ably the best of the first race of editors. Rowe
was indolent ; Pope, flashy ; Warburton, para-
doxical ; Johnson, pedantic. Theobald brought
his common sense to the task ; and has left us,
we cannot avoid thinking, the best of all the con-
jectural emendations. Of the other school, the
real learning, and sometimes sound judgment, of
Capell, is buried in an obscurity of thought and
Mt
style, to say nothing of his comment being
printed separately from his text, which puts all
ordinary reading for purposes of information at
complete defiance. Of Steevens and Malone, they
have had, more or less, the glory of having linked
themselves to Shakspere during the last half-cen-
tury. Reed and Chalmers were mere supervisors
and abridgers of what they did
The edition of Capell was published in ten
small octavo volumes, three years after that of
Johnson that is, in 1768. His preface is printed
in what we call the variorum editions of Shak-
spere, but Steevens has added to it this depre-
ciating note : " Dr. Johnson's opinion of this
perft rmance may be known from the following
passage in Mr. BoswelFs ' Life of Dr. Johnson : '
' If the man would have come to me, I would have
endeavoured to endow his purpose with words, for,
as it is, he doth gabble monstrously.' " Certainly
" the man " does write a most extraordinary style ;
and it is impossible to do full justice to his edition,
from the great bulk of the notes and various read-
ings " being published in a separate form," with
references to previous editors so obscure and per-
plexed, that few would take the trouble to attempt
to reach his meaning. Capell was a man of for-
tune ; and he devoted a life to this labour, dying
in the midst of it. Steevens never mentions him
but to insult liim ; and amongst the heaps of the
most trashy notes that encumber the variorum
editions, raked together from the pamphlets of
every dabbler in commentary, there is perhaps not
one single-minded quotation from Capell. John
Collins, the publisher of his posthumous Notes
and Various Readings, brings a charge against
Steevens which may account for this unrelenting
hostility to a learned and amiable man labouring
in a pursuit common to them both. He says that
Capell's edition " is made the groundwork of what
is to pass for the genuine production of these
combined editors " (Johnson and Steevens). This,
he says, may be proved by a comparison of their
first edition of 1773 with that of Johnson's of
765, Capell's having been published during the
interval. He then proceeds further in the charge :
" But the re-publication of their work, as it ' is
revised and augmented,' makes further advances
upon the same plan, abounding with fresh matter
and accumulated evidence in proof of the industry
with which the purloining trade has been pursued,
and of the latitude to which it has been extended,
in each of the above-mentioned particulars. For,
ON THE WRITINGS OF SHAKSPERE.
differing as it dues from its former self in number-
less instances, in all of them it is still found to
agree with that edition, which, we are gravely told
in so many words by the apparent manager of the
business, ' has not been examined beyond one
play.' "
But there was another cause of the hostility of
Steevens and his school of commentators. Farmer
was their Coriphseus. Their souls were prostrate
before the extent of his researches, in that species
of literature which possesses this singular advan-
tage for the cultivator, that, if he studies it in an
original edition, of which only one or two copies
are known to exist (the merit is gone if there is
a baker's dozen known), he is immediately pro-
nounced learned, judicious, laborious, acute. And
this was Farmer's praise. He wrote ' An Essay on
the Learning of Shakspeare,' which has not one
passage of solid criticism from the first page to the
last, and from which, if the name and the works of
Shakspere were to perish, and one copy an unique
copy is the affectionate name for these things
could be miraculously preserved, the only inference
from the book would be that William Shakspere
was a very obscure and ignorant man, whom some
misjudging admirers had been desirous to exalt
into an ephemeral reputation, and that Richard
Fanner was a very distinguished and learned man,
who had stripped the mask off the pretender. The
first edition of Farmer's pamphlet appeared in
1767.
[Farmer]
Capcll, who had studied Shakspere with fiur more
accuracy than this mere pedant, who never pro-
duced any literary performance in his life except
this arrogant pamphlet, held a contrary opinion to
Farmer:" It is our firm belief that Shakspeare
was very well grounded, at least in Latin, at school.
It appears, from the clearest evidence possible, that
his father was a man of no little substance, and
very well able to give him such education ; which,
2 C2
perhaps, he might be inclined to carry further, by
sending him to a university ; but was prevented in
this design (if he had it) by his son's early mar-
riage, winch, from monuments and other like evi-
dence, it appears with no less certainty must have
happened before he was seventeen, or very soon
after : the displeasure of his father, which was the
consequence of this marriage, or else some excesses
which he is said to have been guilty of, it is pro-
bable, drove him up to town ; where he engaged
early in some of the theatres, and was honoured
with the patronage of the Earl of Southampton :
his Venus and Adonis is addressed to that Earl in
a very pretty and modest dedication, in which he
calls it ' the first heire of his invention ;' and ushers
it to the world with this singular motto :
' Vilia miretur vulgus, mihi flavus Apollo
Pocula Castalia plena ministret aqua ;'
and the whole poem, as well as his Lucrece, which
followed it soon after, together with his choice of
those subjects, are plain marks of his acquaintance
with some of the Latin classics, at least, at that
time. The dissipation of youth, and, when that
was over, the busy scene in which he instantly
plunged himself, may very well be supposed to
have hindered his making any great progress in
them ; but that such a mind as his should quite
lose the tincture of any knowledge it had once
been imbued with cannot be imagined : accord-
ingly we see that this school-learning (for it was
no more) stuck with him to the last ; and it was
the recordations, as we may call it, of that learning
which produced the Latin that is in many of his
plays, and most plentifully in those that are the
most early : every several piece of it is aptly intro-
duced, given to a proper character, and uttered
upon some proper occasion ; and so well cemented,
as it were, and joined to the passage it stands in, as
to deal conviction to the judicious, that the whole
was wrought up together, and fetched from his
own little store, upon the sudden, and without
study.
" The other languages which he has sometimes
made use of that is, the Italian and French are
not of such difficult conquest that we should think
them beyond his reach. An acquaintance with the
first of them was a sort of fashion in his time.
Surrey and the sonnet-writers set it on foot, and it
was continued by Sidney and Spenser : all our
poetry issued from that school ; and it would be
wonderful indeed if he, whom we saw a little
before putting himself with so much zeal under the
banner of the Muses, should not have been tempted
to taste at least of that fountain to which of all his
other brethren there was such a continual resort :
let us conclude, then, that he did taste of it ; but.
happily for himself, and more happy for the world
that enjoys him now, he did not find it to his relish,
887
A HISTORY OF OPINION
and threw away the cup. Metaphor apart, it is
evident that he had some knowledge of the Italian
perhaps just as much as enabled him to read a
novel or a poem, and to put some few fragments
of it, with which his memory furnished him, into
the mouth of a pedant or fine gentleman.
" How or when he acquired it we must be con-
tent to be ignorant , but of the French language he
was somewhat a greater master than of the two
that have gone before ; yet, unless we except their
novelists, he does not appear to have had much
acquaintance with any of their writers ; what he
has given us of it is merely colloquial, flows with
great ease from him, and is reasonably pure.
Should it be said he had travelled for it, we know
not who can confute us."
The principle of Capell's edition, as described
by himself in the title-page, was to give the plays
of Shakspere as " set out by himself in quarto,
( r by the players, his fellows, in folio." His in-
troduction consists of an analysis of the value of
these various authorities ; and he discriminates
very justly between those plays in quarto which
" have much resemblance to those in the folio,"
and those which were " first drafts or else imper-
fect and stolen copies." His text is formed upon
this discriminating principle, not attaching an
equal value to all the original copies in quarto, or
superseding the text of the folio by thrusting in
passages out of the first drafts and imperfect copies.
To say that his text is the result invariably of a
sound judgment would be to say too much ; and
indeed some of his emendations approach a little
to the ridiculous. But we have no hesitation in
saying that it is a better text, because approaching
more nearly to the originals, than that of many of
those who came after him, and went on mending
and mending for half a century till the world was
tired with the din of their tinkering. The race
which succeeded him was corrupted by flattery.
Take a specimen : " Shakspeare's felicity has
been rendered complete in this age. His genius
produced works that time could not destroy : but
some of the lighter characters were become illegible ;
these have been restored by critics whose learning
and penetration have traced back the vestiges of
superannuated opinions and customs. They are
now no longer in danger of being effaced." * These
critics had an accurate perception of part of their
duty when they set out upon then- work. The
first labour of Steevens, which preceded the edi-
tion of Capell by two years, was to reprint in
fac-simile "twenty of the plays of Shakspeare,
being the whole number printed in quarto during
his lifetime, or before the Restoration ; collated
where there were diiferent copies, and pub-
lished from the originals." Most accurately did
Mrs. Montagu : Introduction.
388
he execute this laborious duty. We have collated,
directly, or by the employment of persons upon
whose care we could implicitly rely, these re-im-
pressions by Steevens ; and, with the exception,
npon an average, of half a dozen of the minutest
deviations in each play, we are as well contented
with our copy for all purposes of utility as if we
possessed the rarest edition of the most self-satis-
fied collector. The two great public libraries of
England, the British Museum and the Bodleian,
possess all the originals. The next progressive
movement of Steevens was still in the same safe
path. He became united with Johnson in the edi-
tion of 1773. In his advertisement he says, " The
labours of preceding editors have not left room for
a boast that many valuable readings have been re-
trieved ; though it may be fairly asserted that the
text of Shakspeare is restored to the condition in
which the author, or rather his first publishers,
appear to have left it, such emendations as were
absolutely necessary alone admitted." He defines
what are absolutely necessary, such as a supply
of particles when indispensable to the sense. He
rejects with indignation all attempts to tamper with
the text by introducing a syllable in aid of the
metre. He declines suggestions of correspondents
" that might have proved of great advantage to a
more daring commentator." Upon such safe foun-
dations was the edition of 1773 reared. In 1778 it
was " revised and augmented," and in 1785 it was
reprinted with additions by Isaac Reed, Steevens
having declined the further care of the work.
Steevens also in 1779 rendered an acceptable ser-
vice to the students of our dramatic history, by
the publication of ' Six old plays, on which Shak-
speare founded his Measure for Measure, Comedy
of Errors, Taming the Shrew, King John, King
Henry IV., King Henry V., and King Lear.' In
1780 Malone appeared as an editor of Shakspere.
He came forward with ' A Supplement ' to the
edition of 1778, in which he republished the poems
[Steevens.]
ON THE WRITINGS OF SHAKSPERE.
of Shakspere, and the seven doubtful plays which
had been printed as his in the third and fourth
folios. The encouragement which he had received
induced him, in 1790, when Steevens had retired
from his editorial labours in connexion with the
booksellers' edition, to publish a complete edition
of his own, but which was still a variorum edition,
" with the corrections and illustrations of various
commentators." In this first appeared his ' Disser-
tation on the Three Parts of Henry VI.,' and his
' Historical Account of the English Stage.' Malone
professes the same anxiety to adhere to the genuine
text of Shakspere as Steevens had professed be-
fore him ; but he opened a wide field for editorial
licence, in his principle of making up a text out of
the folio edition and the previous quartos ; and, to
add to the apparent value of his own labours, he
exaggerated, as others have since done, the real
value of these quartos : " They in general are
preferable to the exhibition of the same plays in
the folio ; for this plain reason, because, instead
of printing these plays from a manuscript, the
editors of the folio, to save labour, or from some
other motive, printed the greater part of them
from the very copies which they represented as
maimed and imperfect, and frequently from a
late, instead of the earliest, edition ; in some in-
stances with additions and alterations of their
own." Those of our readers who have paid atten-
tion to our observations on the " State of the
Text" which precede each play will know that
this is not an accurate statement of the question ;
for the large additions to the folio copy when com-
pared with the quartos, the careful emendations,
and even the omissions, which are seldom without
some sound apparent reason, could not have been
the additions and alterations of the editors of the
folio, but must have been the result of the author's
labours, perhaps during a series of years. It ap-
pears from Malone's preface that a feeling was
gaining ground that the constant accession of notes
to Shakspere was becoming an evil : " The ad-
mirers of this poet will, I trust, not merely pardon
the great accession of new notes in the present
edition, but exannne them with some degree of
pleasure. An idle notion has been propagated that.
Shakspeare has been buried under his commenta-
tor* ; and it has again and again been repeated by
the tasteless and the dull, ' that notes, though often
necessary, are necessary evils.' .... During the
era of conjectural criticism and capricious innova-
tion, notes were indeed evils ; while one page was
covered with ingenious sophistry hi support of
some idle conjecture, and another was wasted in
its overthrow, or in erecting a new fabric equally
unsubstantial as the former While our
object is to support and establish what the poet
wrote, to illustrate his phraseology by comparing
it with that of his contemporaries, and to explain
his fugitive allusions to customs long since disused
and forgotten, while this object is kept steadily
in view, if even every line of his plays were accom-
panied with a comment, every intelligent reader
would be indebted to tie industry of him who
produced it. Such uniformly has been the object
of the notes now presented to the public. Let us
then hear no more of this barbarous jargon con-
cerning Shakspeare's having been elucidated into
obscurity, and buried under the load of his com
mentators." There is a great deal of truth in this ;
but it is not all the truth. Malone disagrees with
the following observation of Johnson : " It is not
(he remarks) very grateful to consider how little
the succession of editors has added to this author's
power of pleasing. He was read, admired, studied,
and imitated, while he was yet deformed with all
the improprieties which ignorance and neglect
could accumulate upon him." The new editor,
with a pardonable complacency towards his calling,
says, " He certainly was read, admired, studied,
and imitated, at the period mentioned ; but surely
not in the same degree as at present. The suc-
cession of editors has effected this ; it has made
him understood ; it has made him popular ; it has
shown every one who is capable of reading how
much superior he is not only to Jonson and
Fletcher, whom the bad taste of the last age from
the tune of the Restoration to the end of the cen-
tury set above him, but to all the dramatic poets
of antiquity." Jonson and Fletcher were not set
above Shakspere, as we have demonstratively
shown, from the time of the Restoration to the
end of the century.* But even if they were,
it was not the succession of editors that had
made Shakspere popular. A plain reprint of
Shakspere without a single note, but with the
spelling modernized, would have made him more
popular than all the critical editions which the
eighteenth century had produced. Malone says
that during that century " thirty thousand copies
of Shakspere have been dispersed through Eng-
land." The number would have been quadrupled
if Shakspere had been left to his own unaided
power. Much of what the commentators did, espe-
cially in the illustration of Shakspere's phraseology
and the explanation of his fugitive allusions, they
did well. But they must needs be critics, without
having any system of criticism more profound
than the easy task of fault-finding ; and thus they
rendered Shakspere less popular than he would
have been in an age when criticism was little un-
derstood, and men's eyes were dazzled by an array
of names to support some flippant remark upon
Shakspere's want of art, some exhibition of his
We have pleasure in directing attention to a very able
article in ' The Spectator ' newspaper (August 14, 1S41), fora
complete demolition of the gross assertions of Mr. D'Israeli.
on the 'neglect of Shakspere, put forth in his 'Amenities oJ
Literature.'
389
A HISTORY OF OPINION
ignorance, some detection of his anaclironisms,
some discovery of a quibble beyond the plain
meaning of the word. It is scarcely possible to
read a scene of the variorum ' Shaksperes ' without
feeling the utter want of a reverent spirit towards
the author. These things sank more deeply into
the minds of the readers of Shakspere than the
general expressions of the commentators' admira-
tion ; which after all seemed little more than com-
pliments to themselves in their association with the
poet. Schlegel, we cannot but acknowledge, has
stated the truth with tolerable exactness: "Like
Dante, Shakspere has received the indispensable
but cumbersome honour of being treated like a
classical author of antiquity. The oldest editions
have been carefully collated, and where the read-
ings seemed corrupted many improvements have
beeu attempted ; and the whole literature of his
age has been drawn forth from the oblivion to
which it has been consigned, for the sake of ex-
plaining the phrases, and illustrating the allusions,
of Shakspere. Commentators have succeeded one
another in such numbers, that their labours, with
the critical controversies to which they have given
rise, constitute of themselves a library of no incon-
siderable magnitude. These labours are deserving
of our praise and gratitude ; and more especially
the historical inquiries into the sources from which
Shakspere drew his materials, and into the former
state of the English stage. But with respect to
the criticisms which are merely of a philological
nature, I am frequently compelled to differ from
the commentators ; and where they consider him
merely as a poet, endeavour to pronounce upon his
merits, and to enter into his views, I must separate
myself from them entirely. I have hardly ever
found either truth or profundity in their observa-
tions ; and these critics seem to me to be but
stammering interpreters of the general and almost
idolatrous admiration of his countrymen."*
We open a play at a venture, to see how far in
the spirit of a modest appreciation of themselves,
and an earnest admiration of their author, the
editors laboured to render Shakspere popular. It
is Hamlet. Let us put down a few of their anno-
tations :
" Angry parle. This is one of the affected words
introduced by Lyly." STEEVENS.
" A mote it is, &c. These lines are in the en-
larged quarto of 1604. Many of its (Hamlet's) ab-
surdities as well as beauties arose from the quantity
added after it was first written." STEEVENS.
" Shall I strike at it with my partizan. I am
unwilling to suppose that Shakspeare could ap-
propriate these absurd effusions to Horatio."
STEEVENS.
" / am too much i' the turn. I question whether
* Lectures on Dramatic Literature, Black's Translation,
ol. H., p. 103.
390
a quibble between sun and son be not here in-
tended." FARMER.
" To school in Wittenberg." The anachronism is
first pointed out by MALONE ; and then we are
told by RITSON that Shakspere derived his know-
ledge of this famous university from a trumpery
book called ' The Life of Jack Wilton.'
" Nemean. The right prosody is accidental."-
MALONE.
11 Rest, rest, perturbed spirit." The skill dis-
played in the management of the Ghost is con-
trasted with his management of other preternatural
beings : " They are but weak and inefficacious
pageants." STEEVENS.
Conclusion of Scene I. Act II. " The poet's ill
and obscure expression seems to have been caused
by his affectation of concluding the scene with a
couplet." JOHNSON.
" Being a god kissing carrion." Warburton's
reading being given : " This is a noble emendation,
which almost sets the critic on a level with the
author." JOHNSON.
" The satirical rogue says here that old men hare
grey beards " Warburton says that the allusion is
to Juvenal, Satire 10. " If Shakspeare had read
Juvenal he could not have wrongly accented Post-
humus." FARMER.
" Now might I do it, &c. This speech is too hor-
rible to be read or to be uttered." JOHNSON. " Yet
some moral may be extracted from it, as all his
subsequent calamities were owing to this savage
refinement of revenge." M. MASON.
" Heaven's face doth glow, &c. In Shakspeare's
licentious diction the meaning may be." &c.
MALONE.
End of Act IV. " Shakspeare has been unfor-
tunate hi his management of the story of this play,
the most striking circumstances of which arise so
early in its formation as not to leave him room for
a conclusion suited to the importance of its begin-
ning. After this last interview with the Ghost, the
character of Hamlet has lost all its consequence."
STEEVENS.
" Nature is fine in love; and where 't is fine
It sends some precious instance of itself
After the thing it lores.
" These lines are not in the quarto, and might
have been omitted in the folio without great loss,
for they are obscure and affected." JOHNSON.
" It was that very day that young Hamlet was
born. The poet in the fifth act had forgotten what
he wrote in the first." BLACKSTONE.
" There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will.
" Dr. Farmer informs me that these words are
merely technical. A wool-man, butcher, and
dealer in skewers, lately observed to him that his
nephew (an idle lad) could only assist him in
making them ; ' He could rough-hew them, but
I was obliged to shape their ends' To shape
ON THE WRITINGS OF SHAKSPERE.
the ends of wool-sicewera, i. e. to point them, re-
quires a degree of skill ; any one can rough-
hew them. Whoever recollects the profession of
Shakspeare's father will admit that his son might
be no stranger to such terms. I have frequently
seen packages of wool pinned up with skewers."
STEEVENS.
Concluding Remarks. " The poet is accused
of having shown little regard to poetical justice,
and may be charged with equal neglect of poetical
probability. The apparition left the regions of
the dead to little purpose ; the revenge which he
demands is not obtained but by the death of him
that was required to take it ; and the gratification
which would arise from the destruction of an
usurper and a murderer is abated by the untimely
death of Ophelia, the young, the beautiful, the
harmless, and the pious." JOHNSON.
" Hamlet cannot be said to have pursued his
ends by very warrantable means ; and if the poet,
when he sacrificed him at last, meant to have en-
forced such a moral, it is not the worst that can
be deduced from the play. .... Hamlet seems
to have been hitherto regarded as a hero not un-
deserving the pity of the audience ; and because
no writer on Shakspeare has takei: the pains to
point out the immoral tendency of his character."
STEEVENS.
The editors of the first collection of the works of
Shakspere, in their ' Address to the great Variety
of Readers,' say " Read him therefore ; and again,
and again : and if then you do not like him, surely
you are in some manifest danger not to understand
him." This was advice that could not have pro-
ceeded from any common mind. The foundation
of a right understanding of Shakspere is love.
Steevens read again and again without love, and
therefore without understanding. Boswell, the
editor of Malone's posthumous edition, speaking
of Steevens's note on Hamlet from which we have
given an extract, says that Steevens has expressed
himself " with as much asperity as if he had had
a personal quarrel with the author." Steevens had
a pettifogging mind, without a particle of lofty
feeling, without imagination, without even a logical
apprehension of the small questions to which he
applied himself. But he was wonderfully laborious.
Knowing nothing of the principles of philosophical
criticism, he spared no pains in hunting up illus-
trative facts ; he dabbled in classical learning so as
to be able to apply a quotation with considerable
neatness ; and he laboured his style into epigram-
matic smartness which passed for wit. The vicious
style of the ' Letters of Junius ' was evidently his
model ; and what that cowardly libeller had been
in the political world, Steevens was ambitious to
be in the literary. He very often attacked, under
a mask, those with whom he mixed in intimate
companionship ; till at last his name became a
byword for meanness and malignity. It was im-
possible that such a man could have written about
Shakspere without displaying " as much asperity
as if he had had a personal quarrel with him."
And yet he was to be pitied. Like Hamlet, he had
a task laid upon him above his powers. Early in
life he attached himself to literature and literary
pursuits, not from any necessity, for his fortune
was ample, but with a real and sincere devotion.
He attached himself to Shakspere. He became
an editor of Shakspere. He was associated with
Johnson in the preparation of an edition, and
what he did in his own way was far superior to
what his colleague had effected without him. He
gave a new tone to the critical illustration of Shak-
spere, by bringing not only the elegant literature of
Shakspere's own age to compare with him, but by
hunting over all the sweepings of the book-stalls of
the same age, to find the application of a familiar
allusion, or the meaning of an uncommon word.
But he became ambitious to show his power of writ-
ing, as well as his diligence. If we turn over the vari-
orum editions, and light upon a note which contains
something like a burst of genial admiration for
the author, we find the name of Warburton affixed
to it. Warburton's intellect was capacious enough
for love of Shakspere. But he delighted in deco-
rating his opinions with the tinsel of his own para-
doxes. Steevens was the man to pull oft' the tinsel ;
but he did it after the fashion in which the lace was
stripped from Brother Jack's coat : " Courteous
reader, you are given to understand that zeal is
never so highly obliged as when you set it a-tearing ;
and Jack, who doated on that quality in himself,
allowed it at this time its full swing. Thus it hap-
pened that, stripping down a parcel of gold lace a
little too hastily, he rent the main body of his coat
from top to bottom ; and whereas his talent was not
of the happiest in taking up a stitch, he knew no
better way than to darn it again with packthread
and a skewer."* The zeal for tearing increased
with Steevens. He retired for fifteen years from
the editorship of Shakspere, to recreate himself in
the usual way in which such minds find diversion -
by anonymous attacks upon his literary contempo
raries. But in 1793 he returned with renewed
vigour to his labour of love, the defacing of Shak-
spere. Malone, in the interval, had been working
hard, though perhaps with no great talent, in the
endeavour to preserve every vestige of his author.
He was successful, and Steevens was thenceforward
his enemy. He would no longer walk in the path
that he had once trod. He rejected all his old
conservative opinions. In his edition of 1793, he
sets out in his Advertisement with the following
well-known manifesto against a portion of the
works of Shakspere, the supposed merit or demerit
of which, it i perfectly evident, must have been
Tale of a Tub.
891
A HISTORY OF OPINION
applied as a standard for other poi turns of Shak-
spere's poetical excellence : " We have not re-
printed the Sonnets, &c., of Shakspeare, because
the strongest Act of Parliament that could be
framed would fail to compel readers into their ser-
vice; notwithstanding these miscellaneous poems
have derived every possible advantage from the
literature and judgment of their only intelligent
editor, Mr. Malone, whose implements of criticism,
like the ivory rake and golden spade in Prudentius,
are on this occasion disgraced by the objects of their
culture. Had Shakspeare produced no other works
than these, his name would have reached us with
as little celebrity as time has conferred on that of
Thomas Watson, an older and much more elegant
sonnetteer." Brother Jack is here not only tear-
ing the coat, but throwing the waistcoat into the
fire. Let us hear how he means to deal with the
coat itself: " But, as we are often reminded by our
' brethren of the craft ' that this or that emendation,
however apparently necessary, is not the genuine
text of Shakspeare, it might be imagined that we
had received this text from its fountain-head, and
were therefore certain of its purity. Whereas few
literary occurrences are better understood than
that it came down to us discoloured by ' the vari-
ation of every soil ' through which it had flowed,
and that it stagnated at last in the muddy reservoir
of the first folio : in plainer terms, that the vitia-
tions of a careless theatre were seconded by those
of as ignorant a press. The integrity of dramas
thus prepared for the world is just on a level with
the innocence of females nursed in a camp and
educated in a bagnio. As often, therefore, as we
are told that, by admitting corrections warranted
by common sense and the laws of metre, we have
not rigidly adhered to the text of Shakspere, we
shall entreat our opponents to exchange that phrase
for another ' more germane,' and say, instead of it,
that we have deviated from the text of the pub-
lishers of single plays in quarto, or their suc-
cessors, the editors of the first folio ; that we have
sometimes followed the suggestions of a Warbur-
ton, a Johnson, a Farmer, or a Tyrwhitt, in pre-
ference to the decisions of a Hemings or a Condell,
notwithstanding their choice of readings might have
been influenced by associates whose high-sounding
names cannot fail to enforce respect, viz. William
Ostler, John Shanke, William Sly, and Thomas
Poope." Again : " It is time, instead of a timid
and servile adherence to ancient copies, when
(offending against sense and metre) they furnish
no real help, that a future editor, well acquainted
with the phraseology of our author's age, should be
at liberty to restore some apparent meaning to his
corrupted lines, and a decent flow to his obstructed
versification. The latter (as already has been ob-
served) may be frequently effected by the expulsion
of useless and supernumerary syllables, and an
392
occasional supply of such as might fortuitously have
been omitted, notwithstanding the declaration of
Hemings and Condell, whose fraudulent preface
asserts that they have published our author's plays
' as absolute in their numbers as he conceived
them.' Till somewhat resembling the process
above suggested be authorized, the public will ask
in vain for a commodious and pleasant text of
Shakspeare. Nothing will be lost to the world on
account of the measure recommended, there being
folios and quartos enough remaining for the use of
antiquarian or critical travellers, to whom a jolt
over a rugged pavement may be more delectable
than an easy passage over a smooth one, though
they both conduct to the same object."
And this, then, is the text of Shakspere that
England has rejoiced in for half a century ! These
are the labours, whether of correction or of critical
opinion, that have made Shakspere " popular." The
critical opinions have ceased, we believe, to have
any effect except amongst a few pedantic persons,
who fancy that it is cleverer to dispraise than to
admire. But the text as corrupted by Steevens is
that which was generally put into the hands of
the readers of Shakspere. The number of edi-
tions of the text alone of Shakspere printed
during the first half of this century was by no
means inconsiderable ; and of these editions there
ffere many thousand copies year by year supply-
ing the large and increasing demand for a know-
ledge of our greatest poet. With very few ex-
ceptions, indeed, all these editions were copies of
some edition whose received text is considered as
a standard, even to the copying of .typographical
errors. That received text, to use the words of the
title-page of what is called the trade edition, is
" From the text of the corrected copies left by the
late George Steevens, Esq., and Edmund Malone,
Esq." If we were to suppose, from tin's title, that
Steevens and Malone had agreed together to leave
a text for the benefit of posterity, we should be
signally deceived. The received text is that pro-
duced by Steevens, when he fancied himself " at
liberty to restore some apparent meaning to Shak-
speare's corrupted lines, and a decent flow to his
obstructed versification." Malone was walking in
his own track, that of extreme caution, and an
implicit reliance on the very earliest copies. The
text of his edition of 1821, though deformed with
abundant marks of carelessness, is an honest text,
if we admit the principle upon which it is founded.
But the text of Steevens, in which the peculiar
versification of Shakspere especially, its freedom,
its vigour, its variety of pause, its sweetness, its
majesty, are sacrificed to what he called " polished
versification," was received for nearly half a
century as the standard text.
Hayley, the head of the school of English poetry
" in the most high and palmy state " of Steevens,
ON THE WRITINGS OF SHAKSPERE.
IMalone.]
wrote his epitaph, which concludes with these
lines :
" This tomb may perish, but not so his name
Who shed new lustre upon Shakspeare's fame."
This may run by the side of Johnson's praise of a
sermonizing note of Warburton : " It almost sets
the critic on a level with the author." Steevens,
shedding new lustre upon Shakspere ! Warburton,
almost upon a level with Shakspere ! Thus men
talked in those days, when their notion of poetry
was simply that it was not prose. Something in
which the mechanical form was to be obviously
distinguished from other forms of composition
a sermon, an essay was poetry. They looked for
no inner life in poetry, no organization of its own,
that should determine its form. They looked for
eight or ten syllable verse, for blank verse or couplet.
They looked for syllabic regularity in Shakspere,
and a moral. When they found not the moral they
shook their heads. When they found what they
called " superfluous syllables" in Shakspere's lines,
out went the syllables, by carrying over a word to
the next line, sometimes of two, sometimes of three
syllables. If there was a gap left, it was filled up
with rubbish. The excess of the second line was
carried over to the third, till a halting-place was
found or made. This was mending the metre.
Mending the moral was not quite so easy to the
editors ; they left that task to the players, who, to
do them justice, were in no degree slow to set
about the work with the most laudable emulation
of the labours of the critics. They cut out a scene
here, and put in another there. Lear was to end
with a jig, and Hamlet with a song. The manager-
botchers, however, hi time grew timid. They
wanted new Tates to make new happy endings,
but the age of George III. was not luxuriant
enough to produce such daring geniuses. The
managers, therefore, were obliged to be content
*rith the glorious improvements of the seventeenth
century in all essentials. But they did what they
could. Shakspere's songs were poor, simple things ;
they had no point ; not much about love in them ;
nothing of Wyalty ; and so Shakspere's comedies
were always presented with new songs by the
salaried poet cf " the house," for " the house "
kept a poet, as the maker of razor-strops did in
those days. But Garrick, the twin-star of Shak-
spere
' Shakspeare and Garrick like twin-stars shall shine,
And earth irradiate with a beam divine"
had many a twinkle of his own. In the ' Biogra-
phia Dramatica' we have a list of thirty-nine plays
t>y Garrick : " He is well known to have been
the author of the following, some of which are ori-
ginals, and the rest translations or alterations
from othei authors, with a design to adapt them to
the present taste of the public." (A predecessor
printed upon the title of a tragedy of which in
a similar way he was " the author," ' King Lear, a
Tragedy: byNahumTate.') Garrick's Shaksperean
authorship was confined to Romeo and Juliet, The
Fairies (Midsummer-Night's Dream), The Tempest,
Catherine and Petrucio (Taming of the Shrew),
Florizel and Perdita (Winter's Tale), Cymbeline,
Hamlet. This was pretty well for a twin-star. Is
it uncharitable to infer that the Stratford Jubilee
in 1769 was something as much for the honour of
David Garrick as of William Shakspere ? On this
memorable occasion the corporation of Stratford
opened their proceedings by thus addressing Gar-
rick : " Sir, you who have done the memory of
Shakspere so much honour are esteemed the fittest
person to be appointed the first steward of his
jubilee." The ode upon dedicating the town-hall,
and erecting a statue to Shakspere, was written by
Garrick, as well as spoken by him. It is quite as
good as birthday odes used to be. It would be
beyond our limits to describe the effect which this
ode produced ; how rapturous was the public din-
ner ; how brilliant were the transparencies in the
hall ; and how appropriate were the characters of
the masquerade, at which a thousand persons were
present. Garrick spoke an oration in honour of
Shakspere, and thus he honours him : " We get
knowledge from Shakspeare, not with painful la-
bour, as we dig gold from the mine, but at leisure,
and with delight, as we gain health and vigour
from the sports of the field. A picture frequently
pleases which represents an object that in itself is
disgustful. Teniers represents a number of Dutch
boors drunk and quarrelling in a wretched hovel,
and we admire the piece for a kind of relative
beauty, as a just imitation of life and nature : with
this beauty we are struck in Shakspeare ; we know
his originals, and contemplate the truth of his copy
with delight."
This is the narrow view of the art of Shakspero
303
A HISTORY OF OPINION, &c.
which Johnson impressed upon his pupil. We
read on, and we are bewildered. Slightingly have
we spoken of Garrick, because we felt that to do
what he has done with the masterpieces of Shak-
spere, and especially with Hamlet, was to show
that he did not understand them. But there is
something in this ' Oration in Honour of Shakspere,'
spoken by him at Stratford in 1769, and written
by him, as it is said, which shows to us that the
author of that oration, or parts of that oration,
was far in advance of the critical opinions of his
day. Let us present a consecutive passage which
immediately follows that already transcribed :
" It was happy for Shakspeare, and for us, that in
his time there was no example by the imitation of
which he might hope to be approved. He painted
nature as it appeared to his own eye, and not from
a transcript of what ivas seen in nature by another.
The genius looks not upon nature, but through it ;
not at the outline only, but at the differences,
nice and innumerable, within it; at ah 1 that the
variation of tints, and the endless combinations of
light and shade, can express. As the power of
perception is more, more is still perceived in the
inexhaustible varieties of life ; but to copy only
what another has seen is to render superior per-
spicacity vain ; and neither the painter nor the
poet can hope to excel who is content to reflect a
reflection, and to seek for nothing in nature which
others have not found.
" But there are beauties in Shakspeare not re-
lative powers that do not imitate, but create. He
was as another Nature : he represents not only
actions that were not performed, but beings that
do not exist; yet to these beings he assigns not
only faculties, but character ; he gives them not
only peculiar dispositions, but characteristic modes
of expressing them : they have character, not
merely from the passions and understandings, but
from situation and habit ; Caliban and Ariel, like
Shallow and Falstaff, are not more strongly dis-
tinguished in consequence of different natures than
of different circumstances and employments.
" As there was no poet to seduce Shakspeare
into imitation, there was no critic to restrain his
extravagance ; yet we find the force of his own
judgment sufficient to riin his imayination, and to
reduce to system the new world which he made.
" Does any one now inquire whether Shakspeare
was learned? Do they mean whether he knew
how to call the same thing by several names?
for learning, with respect to languages, teaches no
more ; learning, in its best sense, is only nature
at the rebound ; it is only the discovery of what is ;
and he who looks upon nature with a penetrating
eye derives learning from the source. Rules of
poetry hare been deduced from examples, and not
examples from rules : as a poet, therefore, Shak-
speare did not need books ; and in no instance in
394
which ho needed them as a philosopher or historian
does he appear ignorant of what they teach.
" His language, like his conceptions, is strongly
marked with the characteristic of nature ; it is
bold, figurative, and significant ; his terms, rather
than his sentences, are metaphorical ; he calls an
endless multitude a sea, by a happy allusion to
the perpetual succession of wave to wave ; and he
immediately expresses opposition by taking up
arms, which, being fit in itself, he was not soli-
citous to accommodate to his first image. This is
the language in which a figurative and rapid con-
ception will always be expressed : this is the lan-
guage both of the prophet and the poet, of native
eloquence and divine inspiration.
" It has been objected to Shakspeare that he
wrote without any moral purpose ; but I boldly
reply that he has effected a thousand. He has
not, indeed, always contrived a series of events
from the whole of which some moral precept may
be inferred ; but he has conveyed some rule of con-
duct, some principle of knowledge, not only in
almost every speech of his dialogue, but in every
incident, character, and event."
We would attempt to deprive no man of his
fame ; but the passage which we have just tran-
scribed appear to us so contrary to the habits i>t
thought which Garrick must have acquired from
his theatrical practice, so opposed to the recorded
opinions to which he was in the habit of looking
up almost with slavish reverence, that we cannot
receive the records of the Stratford Jubilee as evi-
dence that he wrote it. What was the manu-
facturer df Shakspere's plays into farces, and
operas, and tragedies with moral endings, to be
the first man in England to discover that Shak-
spere was a creator ; that he lived in a world of his
own creation ; that the practice of art went before
the rules ; that the question of his learning was to
be settled contrary to the way in which the pedants
of criticism had settled it, by the proof that his
knowledge was all-abundant ; that his judgment
was sufficient to rein his imagination ; that he
worked upon system, and was therefore an artist
in the highest sense of the word ; that what has
been called the confusion of his metaphors was the
language both of the prophet and the poet ; that
his moral purpose was to be collected incidentally,
not only through informal speeches, but in 'every
character and event ? The beginning and the end
of Garrick's oration is commonplace. Here is a
flood of light shed upon the English opinion of
Shakspere. Was there any man in England, at
that time, whose philosophy was large enough,
whose knowledge was comprehensive enough, to
allow him to think thus ? Was there any man in
England who dared so to express himself, in the
face of authorities who had so recently propounded
a totally different system? There was but one
(Scrailuru Juullee.J
man that we can dream of, and he was Edmund
Burke. We cannot think that Garrick wrote these
sentences. We can hardly think that he knew
the full force of what he was uttering.
It would he a dreary task to attempt to trace all
that was published about Shakspere from the date
of Johnson's first edition to the close of the eigh-
teenth century. A few out of the heap of these
forgotten emanations of the critical mind, the mul-
titude of which proves the strong direction of the
national admiration, may not be unprofitably no-
ticed. Johnson, when he has dismissed Shakspere
from the shackles of the unities, says, " I am
almost frighted at my own temerity." He dreaded
the advocates of a contrary opinion, " as ^Eneas
withdrew from the defence of Troy when he saw
Neptune shaking the wall." A Neptune arrived
from Scotland, in the shape of ' Cursory Remarks
on Tragedy.' This work, though it dropped into
oblivion, was the performance of W. Richardson,
4 Professor of Humanity in the University of Glas-
gow.' A small specimen will suffice : " With an
impartiality which becomes every man that dares
t<. think for himself, let us allow him (Shakspere)
great merit as a comic writer, greater still as a poet,
but little, very little, as a tragedian
And is then poor Shakespeare to be excluded from
the number of great tragedians ? He is ; but let
him be banished, like Homer from the republic of
Plato, with marks of distinction and veneration ;
and may his forehead, like the Grecian bard's, be
bound with an honourable wreath of ever-blooming
flowers." There can be no doubt of the paternity of
this production. The same Professor of Humanity
in the University of Glasgow produced, in the same
year, ' A Philosophical Analysis and Illustration of
some of Shakespeare's Characters ; ' and this book
has gone, with the appendage of new characters,
through many editions ; and is allied, moreover,
to Essays on this and that Shaksperean thing, and
a " perilous shot " indeed in ' An Essay on the
Faults of Shakespeare.' We shall give no more
than a sentence : " I am inclined to believe, and
shall now endeavour to illustrate, that the greatest
blemishes in Shakespeare have proceeded from his
want of consummate taste. Having no perfect dis-
cernment, proceeding from rational investigation,
of the true cause of beauty in poetical composition,
he had never established in his mind any system of
regular process, or any standard of dramatic excel-
lence." Yet this solemn person, who thinks that
Shakspere had never established in his mind any
system of regular process, had no perfect discern-
ment of the true cause of l-caut v, lias the temerity to
395
A HISTORY OF OPINION
a tlte a book of four hundred pages on his dramatic
characters. Something of a very different descrip-
tion was produced three years after : ' An Essay on
the Dramatic Character of Sir John Falstaff.' The
author was Maurice Morgann, once Under Secre-
tary of State. The book is far above the age. The
author is a thinker, and one who has been taught
to think by Shakspere. Take an example : " In
the groups of other poets, the parts which are not
seen do not in fact exist Those cha-
racters in Shakespeare which are seen only in jiart
are yet capable of being unfolded and understood
in the whole; every part being in fact relative,
and inferring all the rest." The ' Remarks on Some
of the Characters of Shakespeare,' by Thomas
\Vhately, published in 1785, is something different
from the performance of the Scotch professor. What
could induce his eminent relation, who republished
it in 1839, to write thus 1 " Mr. Whately, it should
be observed, is merely pointing out that such and
such speeches do indicate character ; not that they
were, in each case, written with that desiyn. If,
then, they really are characteristic, the criticism is
fully borne out, whatever may have been the de-
sign of Shakespeare. I doubt whether Shakespeare
ever had any thought at all of making his person-
ages speak characteristically. In most instances,
I conceive probably in all he drew characters
correctly, because he could not avoid it; and would
never have attained, in that department, such ex-
cellence as he has, if he had made any studied
efforts for it And the same, probably, may be
said of Homer, and of those other writers who have
excelled the most in delineating characters." Was
the ' Paul preaching at Athens,' with the Apostle
characterised in his majesty, the sceptic in his
doubt, and the enthusiast in his veneration, (cha-
racters marked as deeply as the Richard and Mac-
beth upon which the relation of the Archbishop of
Dublin writes,) was this produced by Raffaelle
because he could not avoid it ? We would willingly
give an extract or two from this clever book, but
its republication renders such unnecessaiy. There
is one more work, and one only, to which we may
point as being superior to the ordinary criticism of
that age "the butterwoman's rank to market."
It is Mr. Winter's ' Specimen of a Commentary on
Shakspeare,' published in 1794. We have often
quoted it, which may be sufficient to mention for
our present purpose.
Amidst the crowd of writers, from the middle to
the end of the eighteenth century, who were adding
to the mass of comment upon Shakspere, whether
in the shape of essay, letter, poem, philosophical
analysis, illustration, there was one who, not espe-
cially devoting himself to Shaksperean criticism,
had a considerable influence in the gradual form-
ation of a sound national taste. The ' Reliques
of Ancient English Poetry,' by Thomas Percy,
396
originally published in 1765, showed to the world
that there was something in the early writers be-
yond the use to wliich they had been applied by
Shakspere's commentators. In these fragments it
would be seen that England, from the earliest
times, had possessed an inheritance of real poetry ;
and that he who had breathed a new life into the
forms of the past, and had known how to call up
the heroes of chivalry, to
" Enlive their pale trunks, that the present age
Joys in their joy, and trembles at their rage,"-
was not without models of earnest passion and
noble simplicity in the ancient ballads. The pul>-
lication of these ' Reliques ' led the way, though
slowly, to the study of our elder poets ; and every
advance in this direction was a step towards the
more extended knowledge, and the better under-
standing, of Shakspere himself. Percy, in one
part of his first volume, collected " such ballads as
are quoted by Shakespeare, or contribute in any
degree to illustrate his writings." He did this
with his usual good taste ; and every one knows
with what skill he connected in the tale of ' The
Friar of Orders Grey' those "innumerable little
fragments of ancient ballads " which we find dis-
persed through the plays of Shakspere. In his
introduction to this division of his work he gives
some very sensible observations upon the origin of
the English stage. In the following remarks on
the Histories of our poet he takes a different, and
we think a juster, view of their origin and purpose
than Malone and the other commentators. Al-
though Percy puts his own opinions cautiously, if
net timidly, it is clear that he had higher notions
of Shakspere as an artist than those who were
arrogating to themselves the merit of having made
him "popular." He who holds that it is " the
first canon of sound criticism to examine any work
by whatever rule the author prescribed for his own
observance" is not far from a right appreciation
of Shakspere : " But while Shakespeare was the
favourite dramatic poet, his Histories had such
superior merit, that he might well claim to be the
chief, if not the only, historic dramatist that kept
possession of the English stage ; which gives a
strong support to the tradition mentioned by Gil-
don, that, in a conversation with Ben Jonson, our
bard vindicated liis historical plays, by urging
that, as he had found ' the nation in general very
ignorant of history, he wrote them in order to
instruct the people bi this particular.' This is
assigning not only a good motive, but a very
probable reason, for his preference of this species
of composition ; since we cannot doubt but his
illiterate countrymen would not only want sucn
instruction when he first began to write, notwith-
standing the obscure dramatic chroniclers who pre-
ceded him, but also that they would highly profit
ON THE WRITINGS OF SHAKSPERE.
cy his admirable Lectures on English History so
kmg as he continued to deliver them to his audience.
And, as it implies no claim to his being the first
who introduced our chronicles on the stage, I see
not why the tradition should be rejected.
' Upon the whole, we have had abundant proof
that both Shakespeare and his contemporaries con-
sidered his Histories, or Historical Plays, as of a
legitimate distinct species, sufficiently separate from
Tragedy and Comedy ; a distinction which de-
serves the particular attention of his critics and
commentators, who, by not adverting to it, deprive
him of his proper defence and best vindication for
his neglect of the unities and departure from the
classical dramatic forms. For, if it be the first
canon of sound criticism to examine any work by
whatever rule the author prescribed for his own
observance, then we ought not to try Shakespeare's
Histories by the general laws of tragedy or comedy.
Whether the rule itself be vicious or not is another
inquiry : but certainly we ought to examine a
work only by those principles according to which
it was composed. This would save a deal of im-
pertinent criticism."
' The History of English Poetry,' by Thomas
Warton, published in 1774, was another of those
works which advanced the study of our early litera-
ture in the spirit of elegant scholarship as opposed
to bibliographical pedantry. Warton was an ardent
lover of Shakspere, as we may collect from several
little poems ; but he was scarcely out of the tram-
mels of the classical school. His education had
taught him that Shakspere worked without art,
and indeed he held that most of the Elizabethan
poets so worked : " It may here be added that
only a few critical treatises, and but one 'Art
of Poetry ' were now written. Sentiments and
images were not absolutely determined by the
canons of composition ; nor was genius awed by
the consciousness of a future and final arraign-
ment at the tribunal of taste. A certain dig-
nity of inattention to niceties is now visible in
our writers. Without too closely consulting a cri-
terion of correctness, every man indulged his own
mpriciousness of invention. The poet's appeal
was chiefly to his own voluntary feelings, his
jwn immediate and peculiar mode of conception.
And this freedom of thought was often expressed
in an undisguised frankness of diction ; a cir-
cumstance, by the way, that greatly contributed
to give the flowing modulation which now marked
the measures of our poets, and which soon de-
generated into the opposite extreme of disso-
nance and asperity. Selection and discrimina-
tion were often overlooked. Shakespeare wandered
in pursuit of universal nature. The glancings of
nis eye are from heaven to earth, from earth to
aeaven. We behold him breaking the barriers of
imaginary method. In tl e same scene he de-
scends from his meridian of the noblest tragic
sublimity to puns and quibbles, to the meanest
merriments of a plebeian farce. In the midst of
his dignity he resembles his own Richard II.,
the skipping Icing, who sometimes, discarding the
state of a monarch,
' Mingled his royalty with carping fools.'
He seems not to have seen any impropriety in the
most abrupt transitions, from dukes to buffoons,
from senators to sailors, from counsellors to con-
stables, and from kings to clowns. Like Virgil's
majestic oak
' Quantum vertice ad auras
JStherias, tantum radice in Tartara tendit.' "
All this is prettily said ; but it would not have
been said if Warton had lived half a century later.
Scattered about the periodical 'Essayists' are
many papers on Shakspere, worth consulting by
the student, which, if not very valuable in them-
selves, indicate at least the progress of opinion.
Joseph Warton, in ' The Adventurer,' where he
reviews The Tempest and Lear, is a great stickler
for the unities. Mackenzie, in ' The Mirror,' has
a higher reverence for Shakspere, and a more phi-
losophical contempt for the application of the
ancient rules to works having their own forms of
vitality. Cumberknd, in ' The Observer,' con-
trasts Macbeth and Richard III.; and he compares
Shakspere with ^schylus in a way which exhibits
the resources of his scholarship and the elegance
of his taste. All the fragmentary critical opinions
upon Shakspere, from the time of Johnson's
Preface to the end of the century, exhibit some
progress towards the real faith ; some attempt to
cast off not only the authority of the ancient rules
of art, but the smaller authority of that lower
school of individual judgment, which the Shak-
sperean commentators had been propping up, as
well as they could, upon their own weak /shoulders.
Coleridge has well described their pretensions
to authority: "Every critic, who has or has
not made a collection of black-letter books, in
itself a useful and respectable amusement, puts
on the seven-league boots of self-opinion, and
strides at once from an illustrator into a supreme
judge, and, blind and deaf, fills his three-ounce
phial at the waters of Niagara ; and determines
positively the greatness of the cataract to be nei-
ther more nor less than his three-ounce phial has
been able to receive." Such a critic was Mr.
Francis Douce ; who has been at the pains of
making a formal essay ' On the Anachronisms
and some other Incongruities of Shakspeare.'
The words by which Mr. Douce describes these
are, of course, " absurdities," " blunders," " dis-
tortions of reality," " negligence," " absurd vio
397
A HISTORY OF OPINION
lations of historical accuracy." Some concessions
are, however, made by the critic: " His bestowing
the epithet of gipsy on Cleopatra is whimsical ; but
may, perhaps, admit of defence." It is perfectly
clear that a man who talks thus has not the slight-
est philosophical comprehension of the objects of
Art, and the mode in which Art works. The do-
main of the literal and the ideal is [held to be one
and the same. It is truly said of the formative arts,
by a living painter who knows the philosophy of
his own art as much as he excels in its practice,
that " a servile attention to the letter of descrip-
tion, as opposed to its translatable spirit, accuracy
of historic details, exactness of costume, &c., are
not essential in themselves, but are valuable only
in proportion as they assist the demands of the art,
or produce an effect on the imagination. This
may sufficiently explain why an inattention to
these points, on the part of great painters (and
poets, as compared with mere historians), has in-
terfered so little with their reputation." *
One of the critics upon Shakspere has sought
to apologize for his anachronisms or "absurdi-
ties " by showing the example of the greatest of
painters, that of Raffaelle, in the ' Transfiguration:'
"The two Dominicans on their knees are as
shocking a violation of good sense, and of the
unities of place, of time, and of action, as it is pos-
sible to imagine." It is clear that Martin Slier-
lock, who writes thus, did not understand the art
of Raffaelle. This was the spirit of all criticism
upon painting and upon poetiy. The critic never
laboured to conceive the great prevailing idea of
"the maker" in either art. He had no central
point from which to regard his work. The great
painters, especially in their treatment of religious
compositions, had their whole soul permeated with
the glory and beauty of the subjects upon which
they treated. Their art was in itself a worship of
the Great Infinite Idea of beauty and truth. The
individual forms of humanity, the temporary
fashions of human things, were lifted into the
region of the universal and the permanent. The
Dominicans on their knees in the ' Transfiguration '
were thus the representatives of adoring mor-
tality during the unfolding to the bodily sense of
heavenly glory. Who can see the anachronism,
as it is called, till a small critic points it out ? Art
changes the very nature of those elements by which
the imagination is affected. She touches them,
and the things are propertied for her use. What
is mean, separately considered, is harmonized by
her into greatness ; what is rude, into beauty ;
what is low, into sublimity. We fear that it was
A want of comprehending the high powers and
privileges of Art, whether in poetry or painting,
* Preface to Kugler's 'History of Painting,' by C. L.
astlake, Eq., R.A.
398
that made the 'Shakspere Gallery,' which, to-
wards the end of the last century, was to raise up
an historic school of painting amongst us, a lament-
able failure. The art of painting in England was
to do homage to Shakspere. The commercial
boldness of a tradesman built a gallery hi which
the Reynoldses, and Wests, and Romneys, and
Fuselis, and Northcotes, and Opies, might conse-
crate, by the highest efforts of painting, the inspi-
ration which was to be borrowed from Shakspere.
The gallery was opened ; the works were muni-
ficently paid for ; they were engraved ; the text
of Shakspere was printed in larger type than the
world had ever seen, to be a fit vehicle for the
engravings. People exclaimed that Italy was
outdone. With half-a-dozen exceptions, who can
now look upon those works and not feel that the
inspiration of Shakspere was altogether wanting ?
It is not that they violate the proprieties of cos-
tume, which are now better understood ; it is not
that we are often shocked by the translation of
a poetical image into a palpable thing like the
grinning fiend in Reynolds's ' Death of Beaufort ;'
but it is that the Shaksperean inspiration is not
there. Lord Thurlow is reported to have said, in
his coarse way, to one not wanting in talent,
" Romney, before you paint Shakspere, do, for
God's sake, read him." But the proper reading
of Shakspere was not the fragmentary reading
which Thurlow probably had in his mind. The
picturesque passages are to be easily discovered by
a painter's eye ; but these are the things which
most painters will literally translate. Shakspere is
always injured by such a literal translation. Deeply
meditated upon, his scenes and characters float
before the mind's eye in forms which no artifices
of theatrical illusion, no embodiments of painting
and sculpture, have ever presented. If such
visions are to be fixed by the pencil, so as to
elevate our delight and add to our reverence of the
great original, that result must be attained by such
a profound study of the master, as a whole, as may
place him hi the light of the greatest of suggestive
poets, instead of one whose details are to be en-
feebled by a literal transcript.
We have little of importance left to notice
before we reach the close of the eighteenth century,
about which period we ought to rest. Opinions
upon our contemporaries, except very general ones,
would be as imprudent as misplaced. Perhaps we
should notice in a few words the extraordinary
forgeries of William Henry Ireland. We consider
them as the result of the all-engrossing character
of Shaksperean opinion in the days of the rival-
ries and controversies of Steevens and Malone, of
Ritson and Chalmers :
"Take Markham's Armoury, John Taylor's Sculler,
Or Sir Giles Goosecap, or ptover.biaf Fuller ;
ON THE WRITINGS OF SHAKSPERE.
With Upton, Fabell, Dodypoll the nice,
Or Gibbe our cat, White Devils, or Old Vice ;
Then lead your readers many a precious dance,
Capering with Banks's ' Bay Horse in a Trance :'
The ' Housewife's Jewel' read with care exact,
Wit from old Books of Cookery extract ;
Thoughts to stew'd prunes and kissing comfits suit,
Or the potato, vigour-stirring root ;
And then, returning from that antique waste,
Be hail'd by Parr the Guide of Public Taste."*
A clever boy, who had a foolish father whose ad-
miration of Shakspere took the form of longing,
with an intensity which Mrs. Pickle could not
have equalled, for the smallest scraps of Shak-
spere's writing, thought he would try his hand at
the manufacture of a few such scraps a receipt ;
a mortgage-deed ; a Protestant Confession of Faith
by William Shakspere, to be placed in opposition
to another forgery of a Roman Catholic Confession
of Faith. This precious production thus concludes :
" cheryshe usse like the sweete Chickenne
thatte under the covert ofte herre spreadynge
Winges Receyves herre lyttle Broode ande hover-
ynge overre themme keepes theuiuie hannlesse
and in safetye." Learned men came to read the
confession of faith, and one affirmed that it was
finer than anything in the Church Liturgy. Witty
conundrums succeeded ; letters to Anne Hath-
away ; memorandums connected with the theatre ;
a new edition of King Lear, with the author's last
alterations ; and, to crown the whole, an original
play, ' Vortigern, and Rowena.' The boy was evi-
dently imbued with the taste of his time, and
really fancied that he could mend Shakspere.
Hear one of his confessions : " In King Lear
the following lines are spoken by Kent after the
King's death :
" ' I have a journey, sir, shortly to go :
My master calls, and I must not say no.'
As I did not conceive such a jingling and un-
meaning couplet very appropriate to the occasion,
I composed the following lines :
Thanks, sir ; but I go to that unknown land
That chains each pilgrim fast within its soil ;
By living men most shunn'd, most dreaded.
Still my good master this same journey took :
He calls me ; I am content, and straight obey :
Then, farewell, world ! the busy scene is done :
Kent liv'd most true, Kent dies most like a man."
The documents were published in the most ex-
pensive form. All the critics in the land came to
look upon the originals. Some went upon their
knees and kissed them. The " black-letter dogs "
began to tear each other in pieces about their au-
thenticity. Hard names were given and returned ;
dunce and blockhead were the gentlest vitupera-
tions. The whole controversy turned upon the
colour of the ink, the water-mark of t\i n . paper,
* Pursuits of Literature.
the precise mode of superscription to a letter, tho
contemporary use of a common word, the date of
the first use of promissory notes, the form of a
mortgage. Scarcely one of the learned went boldly
to the root of the imposture, and showed that
Shakspere could not ha"e written such utter trash.
The case of Chatterton was altogether a different
one. There, indeed, was high genius wrongfully
employed ; but the enthusiastic admiration of the
thing produced might well shut the eyes of the
most acute to the inconsistencies which surrounded
it. Not so with the new treasures which William
Henry Ireland discovered from the pen of Shak-
spere. The>eopk, however, settled the question.
The play was brought out at Drury Lane : and the
prologue by Sir James Bland Burgess is another
instance of the mode in which the poetasters and
witlings venerated Shakspere :
" From deep oblivion snatch'd, this play appears :
It claims respect, since Shakspeare's name it bears ;
That name, the source of wonder and delight,
To a fair hearing has at least a right.
We ask no more. With you the judgment lies :
No forgeries escape your piercing eyes !
Unbiass'd, then, pronounce your dread decree,
Alike from prejudice or favour free.
If, the fierce ordeal pass'd you chance to find
Rich sterling ore, though rude and vmirfin'd,
Stamp it your own, assert your poet's fame,
And add fresh wreaths to Shakspeare's honour'd
name."
The people did pronounce their " dread decree.''
When Mr. Kemble uttered the line
" And when this solemn mockery is o'er"
" the most discordant howl echoed from the pit
that ever assailed the organs of hearing." Shak-
spere waa vindicated.
[Coleridge.]
At the beginning of the nineteenth century a
new school of criticism began to establish itself
amongst us. Charles Lamb and William Hazlitt
399
A HISTORY OF OPINION, <kc.
led the way in approaching Shakspere, if not
wholly in t'ae spirit of Esthetics, yet with love,
with deep knowledge, with surpassing acuteness,
with unshackled minds. But a greater arose. A
new era of critical opinion upon Shakspere, as
propounded by Englishmen, may be dated from
the delivery of the lectures of Samuel Taylor
Coleridge, at the Surrey Institution, in 1814.
What that great man did for Shakspere during
the remainder of his valuable life can scarcely be
appreciated by the public. For his opinions were
not given to the world in formal treatises and
ponderous volumes. They were fragmentary ; they
were scattered, as it were, at random ; many of
them were the oral lessons of that wisdom and
knowledge which he poured out to a few admiring
disciples. But they have had their effect. For
ourselves, personally, \ve owe a debt of gratitude
to that illustrious man that can never be repaid.
If, during the progress of this edition, we have
been enabled to present Shakspere to the popular
mind under new aspects, looking at him from a
central point, which should permit us, however
imperfectly, to comprehend something of his won-
drous SYSTEM, we owe the desire so to understand
him ourselves to the germs of thought which are
scattered through the works of that philosopher ; to
whom the homage of future times will abundantly
compensate for the partial neglect of his contem-
poraries. We desire to conclude this outline of
the opinions of others upon the works of Shak-
spere, in connexion with the imperfect expression
of our own sense of those opinions, Tith the
name of
COLERIDGE.
SHAKSPEBE IN GERMANY.
Sip. VOL. 2 D
SHAKSPEEE IN GERMANY.
Of the native drama of Germany, Tieck has said*
that " it had ever wanted an opportunity of cre-
ating and forming a truly national stage. If actors
and their art are perhaps at present overvalued, they
were as unduly contemned in the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries. They were merely strollers.
With few exceptions, the theatre was the amuse-
ment of the populace only ; and when learned men
began to direct their attention to the wretched state
of the drama, they commenced by utterly destroy-
ing the little nationality which it possessed. Upon
this nationality true poets could and would have
formed a genuine German theatre. To establish
a system of false criticism, and to recommend an
imitation of the French stage as the only means
of benefiting their own, was the aim of these
writers ; and this before they themselves had pro-
duced any standard poetical works." The ill effects
of this influence Tieck laments as having existed
ever since ; the contest which has arisen in favour
of Sliakspere and nature having, with few excep-
tions, only produced an hermaphrodite between
the two systems, and naturalized " everything that
can be called bad taste and wretchedness."
Better things might have been anticipated from
the connexion anciently subsisting between the
English and German stages, of which Tieck inci-
dentally asserts the existence. He says, " The
Whitsun plays excepted, the comedies and trage-
dies of Hans Sachs can scarcely be reckoned as
dramatic works ; they are either religious or secular
tales or novels, related in dialogue, without any
attempt at effect; the plots are introduced and com-
posed without any art, and very seldom show any
trace of characterization. His latter years corre-
spond with the youth of Shakspere.t Jacob- Ayrer,
who lived and wrote after Sachs, made a very con-
siderable advance in the dramatic art. The date
of Ayrer's birth is not known, but it appears that
Le was originally engaged in trade at Niirmberg
Alt-Engliscbes Theater, preface to vol. i.
+ Sachs lived from 1494 to f576j he was one of the most
prolific of wrilerg.
2D2
in Bavaria, but afterwards studied law in the
Gymnasium at Bamberg, where he became Hof-
und-Stadt-gerichts Prokurator (proctor in the
superior and city law courts). As a zealous Pro-
testant he was forced to leave Bamberg, and re-
turned to Nurmberg in ] 594, where he acquired a
like position. He is stated to have died in 1618,
but Karl Godecke believes that 1605 is more
probable.* Of his published works there is a
fine copy in the Library of the British Museum,
with the following title: 'Opus Theatricum.
Dreissig ausbundtige schone Komedien und
Tragedien von allerhand denckwiirdigen alten
Bomischen Historien und andern politischen
Geschichten und Gedichten. Sampt noch andern
nechs-und-dreissig schonen lustigen und kurzwei-
ligen Fastnacht und Possen Spielen. Durch wei-
knd den erbarn und wohlgelahrten Herrn Jacobum
Ayrer, Notarium Publicum und Gerichts Procu-
ratern zu Nurmberg seeligen, aus mancherlei alten
Poeten und Scribenten zu seiner Weil und Lust,
mit sonderm Fleiss zusammen colligirt, und hi
Deutsche Keimen Spillweiss verfasset, das man
alles Personlich agirn kann. Sampt einem dazu
gehorigen Register. Gedruckt zu Nurmberg durch
Balthasar Scherfien. Anno 1618.' t It is a folio,
paged in leaves, and the first series of Comedies
and Tragedies contains 464 leaves, or 928 pages ;
the Fastnacht- and Possen-spiele contain 167
leaves, separately paged, and has at the end
' Gedruckt zu Nurmberg durch Balthasar Scherff,
im Jahr 1610.' There is no appearance of the
latter portion of the book having been printed
earlier than the preceding part, and the date may
have been a typographical error.
Ayrer, or the person who drew up the title, it
Grundriss rur Geschichte der deutsclien Dichtung.
f Thirty excellent and beautiful Comedies and Tragedies,
from various memorable old Roman historians, narrated
and versified. With yet other thirty-six beautiful, merry,
and entertaining Carnival Plays and Farces. By the )aU
honourable and learned Herr Jacob Ayrer, formerly Notary
Public and Proctor in Nurmberg, at his leisure and humour,
with great diligence collected together, and composed
theatrically, to that all may personally perform them.
408
SHAKSPEEE IN GEEMANY.
will be seen, was not overburdened with modesty.
The "beautiful" and "entertaining" will be
found with difficulty in these productions, which
in their style resemble those of Hans Sachs, with
less art and liveliness, but with more plot and
action, a coarse characterisation suited to a not
very intelligent popular audience, some natural
simplicity, with considerable roughness. In some
minor respects they have a slight resemblance
to the dramas of the period before Shakspere,
paying no respect to the unities, having any num-
ber of acts varying from four to nine, and having
an intermixture of the serious and comic. All
are written in octo-syllabic rhymed verse, and
some of the farces are in the manner of the Eng-
lish ballad opera, that is, with songs introduced,
to be sung to popular melodies. Episodes are
frequent ; in many instances there is little or no
plot, but a succession of events almost entirely
independent of each other. Ayrer is fond of love
scenes, the personages descanting at great length
to each other, and occasionally addressing each
other in song ; in the ' Beautiful Phoenicia ' there
are two songs, one of sixty lines, and another of
110 lines. He now and then aims at the pathetic,
but seldom rises above the frightful ; and in his
tragedies the most striking characteristic is the
prevalence of disagreeable and bloody actions. It
is not possible to fix the date of the production
of Ayrer's plays. Gottsched, according to Karl
Schmitt,* gives 1585 as the date of Julius Redi-
vivus, but the authority for the statement is not
given. The Preface expands the title, claims a
moral purpose in the work, states that Ayrer was
an exemplary citizen both in official and private
life, that for poetry " he had an especially excel-
lent genius, and a felix, nay, a divinum ingenium"
and announces the existence of forty other pieces
that are to "follow shortly." The promise was
not fulfilled. But in the Royal Library at Dresden
there is a MS. copy of twenty -two of Ayrer's dra-
matic pieces, of which nineteen appear in the
' Opus Theatricum,' and three are yet unpub-
lished ; to some of these the dates are affixed,
and are of three years only 1595, 1596, and
1598, the last occurring most frequently. This
collection, however, is not an autograph, but appa-
rently a carefully and well-written transcript, by
more than one copyist. ' The Beautiful Sidea ' is
not found in this collection. We subjoin a list of
the published Tragedies and Comedies :
1 to 5. Tragedy. First Part. The Foundation
of Rome, and how it acquired great power, in six
A.ets, with thirty characters. This is the title of
the first of a series of three tragedies and two
* Jacob Ayier, ctn Heitrag zur Geschichte rtos dcutschc.ti
Diamas. Marburg, 185J
-.104
comedies on the history of Rome, the materials
taken from Livy.
6. The tragedy of the Emperor Otto III. and
his wife.
7. The comedy of Julius Red"" /ivus, from N.
Frischling.
8. The tragedy and whole history of the foun-
dation of Bamberg, and institution of its bishopric
and conventual establishments; this is in nine
Acts, with seventy-two characters.
9. The tragedy and shameful death of the
Turkish Emperor Mahomet, of his taking of Con-
stantinople, and his extreme cruelty.
10. The comedy of King Theodore of Rome,
and his spoiled children.
11. Tragedy of the Greek Emperor of Constan-
tinople, and his daughter Pelimperia.
12 to 14. Comedy of Hugdieterich, tragedies of
the Emperor Otnitt and Wolf Dieterich, three
dramas on old German stories.
15. Tragedy of Theseus.
16 to 19. Three comedies and a tragedy on
Valentine and Orson.
20 and 21. Tragedy of the beautiful Melusina
and her son Geoffrey.
22. Comedy of the Sultan of Babylon and the
Knight Torillo of Pavia.
23. Comedy of the faithful Ramo, son of the
Sultan of Babylon.
24. Comedy of Edward III. of England and
Elipsa, wife of William Montagu and born
Countess of Varucken.
25. The King of Cyprus.
26. Comedy of the Pattern for Female Chastity
and honour ; or the Beautiful Phoenicia and Earl
Tymbre of Coliseon.
27. Comedy of Two Brothers of Syracuse.
28. Comedy of the Beautiful Sidea.
29. Comedy of an old rake and an usurer.
30. Comedy of two princely counsellors, and
how they were deceived by two maidens.
There is nothing to call for especial notice in
the Farces ; they are chiefly expansions of jests,
with very little wit : the first two are taken from
the Cento Novello.
Shortly after the appearance of Ayrer's work
there was published in Germany, but the place of
publication is not stated, 'Engelische Comedien
und Tragedien : das ist sehr schone, herrliche.
und auserlesene Geist- und Welt-liche Comedi und
Tragedi Spiel. Sampt dem Pickelhering welche
wegen ihrer artigen Inventionen, kurzweiligen,
auch theils wahrhafftigen Geschichte halber, von
den Engellandern in Deutschland, an Konig-
lichen- Chur- und Fiirstlichen Hofen, auch in vor-
nehmen Reichs- See- und Handel-Stadten, seynd
agiret und gehalten worden, und zuvor nie in
Driick ausgangen. An jetzo, alien der Conuedi
SHAKSPERE IN GERMANY.
and Tragedi, Liebhabern und Andern zu lieb
und gefallen der Qestalt in offene Driick gegeben ;
dass sie leicht daraus Spiellweiss widerumb ange-
richt und zur Ergetzlichkeit und Erquickung
des Gemiiths gehalten werden konnen.' * The
collection contains seventeen pieces, of which the
titles are :
VOL. 1.
Queen Esther, a comedy [though Haman is
hanged J.
The Prodigal Son, a comedy.
Fortunatus, a comedy.
A King of England's Son and a King of Scot-
hind's Daughter, a comedy.
Sidonia and Theagere, a comedy.
Somebody and Nobody, a comedy.
Julius and Hyppolita, a tragedy.
Titus Andronicus and the Courteous Emperor,
a tragedy.
The Beautiful Maria and Old Hanrey, a farce.
Vol. II.
The Power of Cupid, a comedy.
Aminta and Silvio, a comedy.
Proof of Faithful Love, a comedy.
King Montalor's Unlawful Love and its Punish-
ment, a tragedy.
Then follow some Part Songs, with the music.
Rosalina and Lictanus, a tragedy.
Untimely Curiosity, a tragedy.
Schmitt says Gottsched assigns the date of
1624 to this very curious and rare collection, and
so did Tieck, but believes that it first appeared in
1620, and later in two volumes, but that the copy
in the Berlin Library has no title, and therefore
he cannot decide as to the date. He is partly
right only ; for the original was in two volumes, and
is not in one square volume, as has been stated
in England, but of small 16mo, without pagina-
tion or printer's name. There is a copy in the
Library of the British Museum, in which the
jitle to the first volume is as we have given it,
and dated 1620, while the second volume has a
somewhat varied title, ' Liebeskarnpff, oder ander
Theil der Engelischen Comoedien und Tragoedien.'
The remainder of the title is like that of the first
volume, and the date to this is 1630. The print-
ing is of the rudest character type of different
sizes in the same speech, and paper of the most
indifferent sort.
and princely courts, as also In the chief imperial, sea, and
commercial towns, and which have never before been pro-
duced in print ; now published to please and delight all
lorers of comedies and tragedies and others, given in print
In a dramatic form, and easily fitted to be acted, BO as to
repay the cost and refresh the mind.
But there was an earlier writer in connexion
with what is called the early English school,
though his productions are less numerous than
those we have mentioned. Duke Henry Julius of
Brunswick, who was born in 1563, and died in
1613, has left four plays, viz. the tragi-comedy of
Susanna, the tragedy of the Profligate Son, the
comedy of Viucentius Ladislaus, and the tragedy
of the Adulteress.* In ' Susanna ' a Clown is
introduced, of an English fashion. The ' Profligate
Son ' is a tragedy full of horrors ; the son murder-
ing father, mother, and cousin, sees afterwards
their heads in the dishes on his dining-table, and
is at length carried off by their ghosts. In ' Vin-
centius Ladislaus,' the position! of Beatrice and
Benedict in ' Much Ado about Nothing' are
slightly indicated. The ' Adulteress ' contains a
scene closely resembling the escape of Falstaff in
the buck-basket : the jealous husband, about to
set fire to his house, in order to burn his wife's
lover, is induced by her to allow her at least to
save her linen, and assists to carry him out con-
cealed beneath it ; which adventure is afterwards
related by the lover to the disguised husband ;
but the affair ends tragically, for the husband goes
mad and the wife is strangled by devils. Later,
another, Andreas Gryphius, born in 1616, died in
1664, has a similar relation. Gryphius wrote
many poems and some dramas. In his works
there is a melancholy tone of thought, and a
bitterness that distinguishes him from his con-
temporaries. His Charles Stuart is indeed the
earliest attempt at the true historical drama, and
is not without merit. In Peter Squinz he reminds
one of part of the ' Midsummer Night's Dream,'
which he is said not to have been acquainted with,
but which is not easily to be proved.
We have enumerated these early works because
a question has been raised how far they may
have been borrowed from Shakspere and the early
English dramatists, or whether Shakspere may
not have borrowed from them. The titles given
in the list will show how very few could possibly
be of English origin, or have given help to English
authors. Tieck, as early as 1811 (as we men-
tioned in our first edition), pointed out Ayrer as
the first who had adopted this new style. " Some
of his plays are imitations from the older Eng-
lish," says he, " and he has even introduced into
many of them a Jack Fool, which he expressly
calls the English fool, and which is directly
formed on the model of their dramatic clown :
indeed, we find among his works an adaptation of
Hieronymo, or the Spanish Tragedy ; " entitled
Of Henry Julius, Mr. A. Cohn give* an Interesting
account. Perhaps we may be allowed to add, that this
Essay was prepared, before the appearance of Mr. Cohn's
book ; which, however was too valuable to pass unnoticed.
We have carefully acknowledged whatever we have bor-
rowed.
405
SHAKSPERE IN GERMANY.
'a Ayrer ' The Emperor of Constantinople. ' He
guesses the work may contain others, and he sub-
sequently indicated the Beautiful Sidea and the
Beautiful Phoenicia as resembling The Tempest
and Much Ado about Nothing ; and this resem-
blance of Ayrer's Beautiful Sidea to The Tempest
was noticed in the Introductory Notice to that
play in the first edition of the Pictorial Shakspere,
with Mr. Thoms's statement. Mr. Albert Cohn,
in his very clever work, entitled (like our own
Essay, of more than twenty years' standing)
' Shakspere in Germany,' 1865, asserts that The
Tempest has been borrowed from the Beautiful
Sidea, or at least that Ayrer's play was produced
" long before The Tempest." The last assertion
is most probably correct. The Sidea is one of six
excellent translations given in Mr. Cohn's valu-
able and pains-taking volume. It is by Professor
Thomas Solly, in rhyme like the original, and will
enable any English reader to judge how much
Shakspere was indebted to the German author
The incidents are correctly stated by Mr. Thorns
in the extract given from him in the play (Pict.
Shak. vol. ii. pp. 395-6) ; but characterization
and plot are entirely different. One prince is sub-
dued by another, and is forced to take an oath
to cede his dominions to the conqueror ; but he
secretly declares that he will use all possible
"rank und tuck" stratagem and trickery to be
revenged. Sidea, a grown-up woman, laments
that
" Vor hat ich viel die um mich erworben,
Jetzt muss es sein einsam erstorben."
Before would lovers round me sigh,
But now unwedded must I die.
Prof. Soltys Trans.
and her father exclaims, " Halt maul ; das dich
Jupiter schend." Hold thy tongue ! may Jupiter
dishonour thee ! while Sidea strikes the young
prince, calls him " an idle hound," and almost im-
mediately offers to marry him. Not striking like-
nesses, we think, to Prospero and Miranda. For the
resemblance of the incidents we should rather guess
at a common though unknown source, or they may
cave come through the English actors. At least
tnere is no borrowing of anything essentially dra-
matic on the part of Shakspere. The comedy of
Edward III. and the Countess of Varucken (evi-
dently intended for Warwick) has far more resem-
blance to the old English play of Edward III. , as
it embodies the idea of the unsuccessful passion of
the monarch for the Countess, her resolute main-
tenance of her honour, and the happy termina-
tion, but it contains no part of the succeeding
portion of the English play relating to the wars
in France. The closest approximation, we think,
is afforded by the ' King of Cyprus,' which, in
the plot, proceeds almost step for step with the
1 Dumb Knight,' a play by Lewis Machin, printed
406
in 1608, and published in the fourth volume of
Dodsley's Old Plays, but Machin's play was founded
on incidents borrowed from Bandello's Novels.
It is difficult to understand how the second col-
lection should have been called English Comedies
and Tragedies. Out of sixteen pieces there are
but three that recall any recollection of English
dramas, and this but slightly. The Titus Andro-
nicus is supposed to be founded upon an earlier
play than we now possess, from which it differs
essentially. In the ' Julius and Hyppolita ' is
found an incident similar to one in the ' Two
Gentlemen of Verona,' a false friend supplants an
accepted lover by means of forged letters ; there
is a clown who is greedy but not witty ; the de-
ceived friend kills his rival and himself, the lady
preceding him in committing suicide. Somebody
and Nobody has merely the general idea of the old
English play with the like title. Mr. Thoms's
account of this volume appears to have been taken
altogether from Tieck, and he seems not to have
been aware of the existence of the copy in the
British Museum, for he wishes that Tieck had re-
printed the ' Julio and Hyppolita,' saying, " as it
is in all probability a translation of an earlier
English play than Shakespeare's ' Two Gentlemen
of Verona,' ... in order that some idea might
have been found of the materials out of which
Shakespeare fashioned what his last editor pro-
nounces ' his first complete comedy,' or if the sup-
position be correct that an earlier English play,
existed on the same subject .... it will be but
reasonable to conjecture that it was to such a play,
and not to the ' Diana ' of George Montemayor, that
Shakespeare was indebted for his plot." * Had
he examined the play in this volume his good taste
would have led him, we think, to acknowledge
that there is no resemblance to the plots of Shak-
spere in this play or any of them, but merely a
few similarities of incidents, as in the instance hew
brought forward.
It cannot fail to be observed that most of the
resemblances consist of incidents derivable from
common sources, and that Shakspere's n?une or
indeed, that of any other English author never
occurs. There are no separate dates to the pub-
lished plays of Ayrer, but the ' Sidea ' is arranged
last but two of the thirty published in 1618.
Mr. Cohn thinks that all were composed between
1593 and 1605. He may be correct as to the
whole, but there is nothing to show that the
' Beautiful Sidea ' was of the date ' circa 1595,' as
stated on the title of the translation. As there
is no doubt that English actors were in Germany
several years before the date of any of the above-
named works, may not they have brought back
dramatic scraps from their foreign associates,
* Notelets on Shakspere, 1865.
SHAKSPERE IN GERMANY.
which may have been appropriated by play-
wrights here, without an acquaintance with the
entire piece? Under a similar mode of borrow-
ing, we believe that the same actors in many
instances, gave the plot of an English drama
some now unknown to us which the German
writers filled up in form essentially different from
that in which it appeared on the English stage,
but in which were adopted, however rudely, the
principles and treatment of what is styled the
English School.
Of the six old plays, of which translations are
given in Mr. Cohn's volume, the ' Beautiful Sidea '
and the 'Beautiful Phoenicia,' are from Ayrer's
volume. 'Julius and Hyppolita' and 'Titus
Andronicus ' are from the first volume of English
Comedies and Tragedies ; ' Hamlet ' is from the
copy of an old German manuscript of uncertain
date ; and ' Romeo and Juliet ' from the copy of a
play acted in Germany by English actors, in 1626.
The last two plays are undoubtedly framed after
the plays of Shakspere of the like titles, but in
both cases the poetry and the characterization are
pretty effectively suppressed.
Tieck, as early as 181 1, pointed out that, " at the
beginning of the seventeenth century, we find in
Germany a company who called themselves the
English comedians ; they visited different places,
and particularly Dresden, where they principally
performed pieces copied from those of Shakspere's
contemporaries or immediate predecessors, and even
by himself-" * Since the period of Tieck's investi-
gations fresh sources of information respecting the
diffusion of the English drama, and the presence
of English actors in Germany, have been dis-
covered. The Earl of Leicester took over a com-
pany of actors to the Netherlands in 1 585. They or
some of their companions may have gone to Ger-
many, and upon this fact Dr. William Bell main-
tains that Shakspere himself was there between
1586 and 1589. He says, " As Shakspere, on ac-
count of repeatedly-punished poaching had com-
mitted a fault, which at home was a felony," [which
it was not f] he was forced to fly his country ; and
he conjectures that " Will, my Lord of Leicester's
jesting player," mentioned in a letter of Sir Philip
Sidney, and addressed to Secretary Walsingham in
1586, was Shakspere. Mr. Brace, with far more
probability, supposes Kernpe to have been meant.
Dr. Bell supports his opinion that Shakspere must
have been in Germany, from his use of certain
words, that he says are German one instance
will suffice' Whoop, jug, I love thee' (Lear), he
says is from the German Juch hey (huzza), and
that he (Shakspere), also uses hey in ' Hey, nonny,
nonny.' J A similar conjecture has been derived
Vorrede zum Alt Englisches Theater, p. xii.
t See ' Biography,' p. *OS.
j Shakespeare's Puck and his Folk-lore. By Dr. Wm.
Bell. Vol. 11 The first volume was published in 1853 ;
tba second and third volumes t'ear no date.
from an old German chronicle, which gives an
account of an English company performing at
Miinster, which is thus translated in the Athenaeum
of July 30, 1864: "On the 26th November,
1599, there came here eleven Englishmen, all
young and lively fellows except one, who was
tolerably old and directed everything. These men
acted five days at the Rathhaus, and gave five
different comedies in the English language. They
had various instruments with them, which they
played, lutes, cithers, viols, pipes, &c. ; they
danced many strange dances, which are not usual
here, at the beginning and end of the comedies.
They had a clown with them, who made many farces
and tricks in German while the. actors were chang-
ing their dress between the acts, so as to make the
people laugh. They were not allowed to stay
longer than six days by the Rath, and when those
days were up they had to go. In the five days
they made much money from those who wanted to
hear and see them, for each had to pay a shilling."
The conjecture is that one of the company wa
Shakspere. There appears to us nothing what-
ever to lead to such a conclusion. The character
of the performance seems not in accord with what
we should expect from Shakspere, and as the
Atken&um observes, he being then thirty-five,
he would neither suit the description of " young
and lively," nor "tolerably old." But above all,
this was the period when Shakspere was in his
greatest activity as an author.
Mr. J. 0. Halliwell has shown that William
Kempe was certainly in Germany in September,
1610, from an entry of his return from that
country in a MS. (Sloane 392, fol. 401) ; and in a
tract called ' A Run-Awayes Answer to a Booke
called A Rodde for Run-Awayes,' printed in 1625,
quoted by Mr. Collier in his ' Memoirs of the
Principal Actors in the Plays of Shakespeare,' in
which some players, addressing Henry Condell,
say, " We can be bankrupts on this side, and
gentlemen of a company beyond the sea. We
burst at London, and are pieced up at Rotterdam."
A. Glaser, in his 'Geschichte des Theaters zu
Braunschweig,' (History of the Theatre in Bruns-
wick) 1861, informs us that in 1597 there were
English actors in the service of Duke Henry Julius,
the author already mentioned. From the name of
one of them, Thomas Sackeviel, who was an
especial favourite at court, it is rendered probable
that these comedians were not Germans who per-
formed English pieces, but that they were of
English birth. Mr. Cohn also notices a letter
dated 1611, preserved in the archives of Darm-
stadt, which states that the writer had seen " a
German comedy called the Jew of Venice, taken
from the English," and which he thinks must refer
to Shakspere's Merchant of Venice. At Dresden,
Herr Furstenau, the musical director to the royal
court, searching for materials among the old re-
407
SilAKSPEKE IN GEKMANY.
cords for his history of the musical and theatrical
entertainments of the former Electors, ascertained
that from 1600 onwards, there were English come-
dians in Dresden and in other German courts. As
early as 1600 the Dowager Electress of Saxony,
Sophia of Brandenburg, had English comedians
in her pay, and there were visits of other compa-
nies to the town. In a record of the marriage in
1627, of Sophia Eleanor of Saxony with George
Landgrave of Hesse, it is stated that the court
removed to Torgau, accompanied by the following
actors. Robert and the Pickelhering (Merry An-
drew), with two youths ; Jacob the Hessian and
Edward ; Aaron the dancer ; Thomas the Jung-
frau (i. e. who took female parts) ; John and Wil-
liam the wardrobe keepers ; the Englishman, the
Red-head, with four youths. Mr. Cohn adds that
the Landgrave Maurice of Hesse retained English
actors in his service till 1613, and that " in the
year 1599 English actors and musicians played
at Hildesheim [in Hanover], and indeed in the
English language." * He has also traced English
players in about twenty different places in Ger-
many during this period, besides others in Holland,
Denmark, and Poland. He also attributes the
adoption of prose in the dialogue of some of the
early German dramas to the influence of the
English.
One of Herr Fiirstenau's t most interesting dis-
coveries was a MS. Journal, of which the Baron
von Friesen says : J " I was enabled to examine
this source of information lying readily to my
hand, and from it I have been able to form a list
of thirty-two pieces, which, from May 31 to De-
cember 5, 1626, had been represented by the so-
called English comedians." . . . "Among the
thirty-two pieces which were represented in forty-
two performances, there were four which, from the
title, unquestionably refer to Shakspere, namely,
Eomeo and Juliet, on June 2 and September 29 ;
Julius Caesar, acted on June 8 ; Hamlet, Prince
of Denmark, on June 24 ; [this was probably the
Hamlet reproduced by Mr. Cohn], and Lear, King
of England, on September 26th. A fifth piece,
under the title of ' Comedy of Joseph, the Jew,
in Venice,' acted on July 13 and November 5, can
only be held as doubtfully the same as the Mer-
chant of Venice." Many other pieces are identi-
fied by their titles in the dramas by Marlow,
Greene, Kyd, and others ; but it is singular that
only two, Queen Esther and the Prodigal Son, are
contained in the Engelische Coinedien. From the
* Conn's Shakespeare in Germany, p. Ixi.
IMoritz Fiirstenau, ' Zur Geschichte der Musik und des
Theaters am Hofe der KurfUrsten von Sachsen,' Dresden,
1861.
J Briefe iiber Shakspere's Hamlet. Von Hermann Frei-
herr von Friesen. Leipzig, 1864. To this nobleman we have
been indebted for much information and suggestion in the
compilation of this Essay.
408
English form of all the titles, it might almost lead to
the belief that in their representation before a court,
with an educated audience, they might have been
performed in English. Tieck, however, believed,
and Mr. Cohn coincides with kim, that they were
uniformly translated.
Mr. Cohn gives some interesting notices of the
existence of the drama in Germany at an earlier
period than has generally been assigned to it ; but
this does not belong to our subject, and we there-
fore merely refer to that valuable work. He then
points out the impulse given to the visits of
English players to Germany, but he rejects as we
had done, the notion that Shakspere himself had
ever been one of them. Nevertheless, the visi-
tors to the Elector of Saxony in 1586, comprised
the names of Tomas Pabst and Georg Beyzandt.
Thomas Pope (Pabst), there can be little doubt,
was Shakspere's colleague, and Beyzandt is con-
jectured with much probability by Mr. Cohn to
have been George Bryant, also a member of the
Blackfriars Company. May not these and other
individuals have given Shakspere some slight
notion of the contents of Ayrer's volume of plays ?
Upon the breaking out of the Thirty Years'
War, this intimacy with England and its drama
appears to have suddenly and entirely ceased, at the
precise time when it might have been most advan-
tageous to Germany ; and German poetry of all
kinds, from the period of its first national poets
and the Minnesingers, gradually submitted itself
to the domination of French taste, and acknow-
ledged the system and the laws which it prescribed.
Soon after the commencement of the eighteenth
century, however, German poetry began to show
symptoms of reviving independence, though the
first impulse came from without. J. J. Bodmer, a
native of Zurich, felt and lamented the want of
distinctive character in the literature of his native
language, which, formed in the school of Gottsched,
Gellert, and Weiss, followed slavishly and heavily
in the footsteps of its French models. Bodmer, a
thorough Greek and Latin as well as English
scholar, made an attack on this school, in 1 728, in
his 'Anklage wegen des verderbten Geschmacks'
(Denouncement of Depraved Taste), and he was
ably seconded in other critical works by his friend
Breitinger. Gottsched, then the predominating
literary authority, opposed these new principles ot
criticism with extreme violence and considerable
skill, and, supported by his adherents, a war of
pamphlets and journals raged for years.t But
Bodmer had recourse to stronger weapons than
critical arguments. He translated Homer and
Milton into German, and published a collection of
* A sketch of the liistory of this controveisj was jml>-
lished by Gottlob Schlegel, of Riga, in 1764.
SHAKSPERE IN GERMANY.
the old romantic ballads of Germany. His doc-
trines triumphed, though slowly ; and all the sub-
sequent writers of any eminence were more or less
influenced by his opinions.
These controversies inevitably led the attention
of literary men back again to England and Shak-
spere, as it was thence that the opponents of the
French style drew some of the strongest supports
for their new theories ; and there has probably
never been an instance in which a foreign author
had been so completely adopted into, and had so
much influence upon, the national literature of a
country, as in the case of Shakspere in Germany.
The first literary announcement of Shakspere to
the German public is stated by Eschenburg to have
been hi Morhof 's ' Instructions in the German
Language,' published in 1G82, when, in a chapter
on English poetry, he is barely named, the author
at the same time stating he had not read him or
Beaumont and Fletcher. In 1700 he is again
mentioned by Benthem, in his ' State of the Eng-
lish Church and Schools,' as among the most dis-
tinguished English authors ; but all he says of him,
and that only in a second edition of his work, is
" Wm. Shakspere was bom at Stratford-upon-Avon,
in Warwickshire. His learning was but small, and
therefore it was the more admired that he was so
excellent a poet. He had an intellectual spirit,
was full of jest, and so successful in both tragedy
and comedy that he could have moved Heraclitus
to laughter, and made Dernocritus weep." Even in
Jocher's ' Dictionary of Learned Men,' published
in 1740, in a short article of eight or ten lines on
Shakspere, it is stated " He had a jocular mind,
but could also be very earnest : he excelled in tra-
gedy ; and had many ingenious and subtle contro-
versies with Ben Jonson, in which neither of them
were gainers."
From such sources it may well be believed that
a true knowledge of .Shakspere was not diffused
either rapidly or extensively ; but it did ad-
vance, and in 1741 a translation of Julius
Csesar was published from the pen of Caspar
William von Bork, a minister of state in Prussia.
Eschenburg states him to have been a clever man,
but not a " fortunate translator." He thought it
necessary to advertise his readers that the work
was undertaken for an employment during sickness,
and he adds that his author " does not understand
the laws of the stage, and on that account he will
not waste a word with any man in justification of
this tragedy." The version is in rhymed Alex-
andrines. We are unwilling to encumber our
pages with a specimen of the German translation,
though it might be amusing to some of our readers.
It is sufficient to say that, though the general ideas
remain, the vitality is extinguished. It is Julius
Caesar in a shroud of French manufacture.
Shortly after its appearance, Johann Elias Sehle-
gel (the uncle of the two more celebrated writers
of that name) undertook to recommend Shakspere
to the attention of the German public; but he did so
in a very lukewarm and unsatisfactory manner. He
considers the poet as having much talent, but as
rude and uneducated ; and one who, though he had
uttered many exquisite things, knew nothing of
rules and taste, and of course too often offended
against both. As a specimen he thought it worth
his while to retranslate the speech of Antony over
the dead body of Caesar, also in Alexandrines, as
not being close enough in the translation by Bork.
It is certainly better, but not much ; and both might
be easily mistaken as translations from the French,
so completely is the force of expression lost, and
the sense enfeebled. Even to these moderate
opinions Gottsched and his school were of course
violently opposed. Schlegel had been the disciple
and friend of Gottsched, but this did not prevent
him and his followers from condemning the inno-
vator with great acrimony, nor from endeavouring
to smother the favourable impression he had made
by a load of heavy jokes and shallow pedantry.
But a long step had been gained ; the subject had
become interesting, even through the ill-temper
of those who had the public ear ; men could no
longer be entirely ignorant of Shakspere, and began
to suspect that at least excellent matter was to be
found in him.
After these not very successful attempts, no other
drama of Shakspere's appeared in a German form
until Wieland undertook the task of presenting him
complete in 1762-66 if we except Romeo and
Juliet, published anonymously at Basle, in 17- r >8,
in ' Modern Specimens of the English Stage,' and
which is stated to have possessed little or no merit.
But the interval between 1741 and 1764 had been
well employed. Lessing, indeed, did but little
directly in favour of Shakspere, but the vigour of
his attacks on the French academical dramatic
rules, the sound reasoning, the fluent yet biting
wit of his criticisms on the works of their great
models, particularly Corneille, and Voltaire their
living champion, removed much prejudice and
many difficulties out of the way of a favourable
reception of a translation ; while his own play of
'Miss Sara Sampson,' 1754, the first domestic
tragedy of his country, though severely criticised
by his countrymen, as a nondescript mixture of
English novels and tragedies, made itself thoroughly
felt and understood by his audience, notwithstand-
ing the proofs given by the critics that it ought
not to have done so. This tragedy, though perhaps
the best specimen of the kind produced in Germany,
unless we may except the little sketch of Werner's,*
itself a close copy from Lillo's ' Fatal Curiosity,'
is far more German than English, both in its ex-
aggerated sentimentality instead of deep feeling,
Der Vierumlzwanzigste Februar.
403
SHAKSPERE IN GERMANY.
him its somewhat questionable morality. Notwith-
standing all these objections, it was a most suc-
cessful transition from the formal abstractions and
didactic essays of the French (miscalled classic)
dramatic school, to that of breathing and really
human characters, and animated dialogue or conver-
sation, of which Lessing had acquired a knowledge
and adopted from Shakspere. The attempt how-
ever was considered dangerous at the time, even
by liberal critics ; and Moses Mendelssohn, in a
letter to Lessing, dated Nov. 13, 1755, * inquires
how he got on with his domestic tragedy for he
will not, he says, call it by its name and warns
him that the name will probably throw a Leipzig
audience into fits of laughter ; adding, as he sup-
poses his advice will not be heeded, " Very well :
I will then have the pleasure of laughing myself
with the audience in the pit, and of seeing you
blaze up at every distinct shout."
The other plays of Lessing, particularly ' Minna
Ton Barnhelm,' a comedy, 1766, and 'Emilia
Galotti,' a tragedy, written in 1763, but not finally
completed till 1772, were all formed upon the same
principles ; but his poetical genius was not of a
very high or creative order. The most favourable
specimen of his powers is doubtless displayed in
'Nathan the Wise' (1779); but this is rather a
dramatic poem than a drama, though possessing
more power as well as more delicacy of charac-
terization than any other of his dramatic pieces,
and with fewer defects. We have already re-
marked that the impulse hi favour of the English
school of dramatic art was given more by hia
criticisms on that of the French than by liis own
performances. These criticisms appeared, hi their
most concentrated form, in the ' Hamburgische
Dramaturgic ; ' a work partly, if not wholly, sup-
ported by the managers of the Hamburg theatre,
who, in April, 1767, endeavoured to create a
German National Theatre, not in any political
sense, but with regard to its morals and manners.
"We are altogether sworn imitators of everything
foreign ; and particularly the humble followers of
the never-enough-to-be-admired French. Every-
thing that comes to us from the other side of the
Rhine is beautiful, charming, dearest, godlike ; we
will rather disbelieve our eyes and ears than find it
otherwise; we will rather be persuaded to take
rudeness for freedom, impudence for grace, grimace
for expression, a tinkling of rhyme for poetry,
howling for music, than to doubt in the slightest
degree of the superiority of this amiable people,
this first nation in the world, as they are used very
modestly to call themselves, in everything that is
good, and beautiful, and elevated, and becoming.' : f
The work took the form of criticism on the dramas
represented, with a few remarks occasionally on the i
* Briefwechseln mil Mendelssohn; Lessing^ Werke, vo), '
xxviii p. 13, Carlsruhe edit. 1825.
410
actors. The scheme seems to nave had very imper-
' feet success with the public; the German plays
were not popular, although Lessing speaks well
of some productions of this class. Translations or
close adaptations from the French were evidently
preferred ; and the bitter though witty severity of
Lessing's criticisms upon them is not a little re-
markable, in relation to the fact of the publication
being supported at the expense of the managers of
the theatre.
It must be premised that Lessing repudiated the
idea of Shakspere wanting art ; and that his objec-
tion to the French school was on account of what
he considered its cold artificiality. Of their theory
he remarks, " It is one thing to settle rules, and
another thing actually to observe them. The
French have done the first, the ancients only seem
to me to have attended to the latter.
" Unity of action was the first dramatic law of
the ancients ; unity of time and of place were alike
only its consequences, which they would scarcely
have observed more severely than was necessarily
required, but for the introduction of the Chorus.
Since their action must have a crowd of witnesses,
and as that crowd always remained the same, which
could neither remove far from their residences, nor
remain from them longer than common curiosity
would customarily induce them, it was almost im-
possible to do otherwise than fix the action to a
single place, and confine the time to one and the
same day. To this constraint they subjected them-
selves in good faith, but with a flexibility, a com-
prehension, that, seven times out of nine, gained for
them far more than they lost ; for they forced this
compulsion to be the occasion of so simplifying the
action, of so carefully rejecting everything super-
! fluous, that they brought then- essential materials
I to be nothing but the ideal of this action, which
^directly and happily assumed that form which re-
: quired the fewest additions of circumstances of time
. and place.
" The French, on the contrary, who had no taste
for the true unity of action, who had been accus-
tomed to the wild intrigue of the Spanish drama
!>efore they became acquainted with the simplicity
of the Greek, considered the unities of time and of
place not as consequences of that unity, but as in
themselves indispensable requisites for the repre-
sentation of an action, to which even their full and
intricate plots must accommodate themselves with
a severity that would only have been required by
the adoption of the Chorus, though this they had
wholly repudiated. But as they found how diffi-
cult, indeed frequently how impossible, this would
be, they came to an agreement with the tyrannical
rules which they had not courage enough completely
t Lessings Werke, Dramaturgic, vol. xiii. p. 346, Curls-
rnhe edit. 1824.
SHAKSPERE IN GERMANY.
to renounce. Instead of one particular place, they
introduced an indefinite place, in which one may
imagine now this, now that ; sufficient if these
places did not lie too wide asunder, and that none
required any peculiar decoration, but that the same
decoration should suit the one as well as the other.
Instead of the unity of a day, they substituted the
unity of duration ; and a certain time, in which one
heard nothing of the rising or setting of the sun, in
which nobody went to bed, at least not oftener than
once, however much and whatever various events
might happen therein, they agreed to consider as a
single day.
" No one would have condemned them for this;
for incontestably it yet permitted them to produce
some excellent pieces : and the old proverb says,
' Bore the plank where 't is thinnest.' But we must
also allow our neighbour to bore. We must not
always point the thickest corner, the knottiest
point, to him, and cry, 'Bore it there; that's
where I bore it!' Thus exclaim all the French
critics, particularly when they treat of the dra-
matic pieces of Englishmen. What an outcry they
make about their regularity, which they have for
themselves so infinitely lightened ! " *
As a sample of the style in which the French
school and its more eminent followers are handled
by Lessing, in reference to one of the greatest im-
puted irregularities of the English drama, we give
a translation of his notice of Voltaire's ' Semiramis,'
which had been produced on the Hamburg stage,
April 29, 1767:
" This tragedy was produced on the French
stage in 1748, was received with great applause,
and to a certain extent made an epoch in its his-
tory. After Voltaire had published Ms Zaire
and Alzire, his Brutus and Csesar, he became
strengthened in his opinion that the tragic poets
of his country had in some pieces far excelled
those of the ancient Greeks. We French, he says, j
might have taught the Greeks a more skilful ex-
position [of the fable], and the art of arranging
the scenes, so that the stage should never remain
empty, and no one enter or depart without a
reason. From us they might have learned hov
male and female rivals should converse in witty
antitheses, how the poet should dazzle and asto-
nish us with a crowd of sparkling and elevated
thoughts. From us they might have learned' 0,
to be sure, what is there that every one might not
have learned from the French 1 Here and there,
certainly, a foreigner wr-o had read a little of the
ancients might have humbly begged permission
to have been of a different opinion. He might,
perhaps, have objected that all these advantages of
the French had very little influence upon the real
object of tragedy ; that they were beauties which
the simple grandeur of the ancients contemned.
Dramaturgic, Wcrke, vol. xii. op. 314-16.
Yet of what use is it to object to anything from
M. Voltaire? He speaks, and we believe. One
single thing he regretted that their great master-
pieces were not produced upon the stage with
sufficient splendour, to which effect the Greeks
had devoted the first attempts of their imitative
arts. The theatre at Paris, an old tennis-court,
ornamented in the worst taste, where in a dirty
pit the standing auditors press and crowd against
each other, justly offends him ; and still more the
barbarous custom of admitting spectators on the
stage, where they scarcely leave the actors suffi-
cient room for their requisite movements. He
was convinced that this indecorum merely had pre-
vented much which, in a more open, convenient,
and handsome theatre, would, without doubt, have
been ventured upon. To give a proof of this he
prepared his 'Semiramis.' A queen who assem-
bles the nobility of her kingdom in order to dis-
close her marriage to them a ghost that ascends
out of his tomb to prevent incest, and to revenge
himself upon his murderer this tomb, into which
a fool enters in order to come out a criminal all
this was indeed something entirely novel to the
French. It made as much noise upon the stage,
required as much pomp and as many changes of
scenery, as they had been hitherto accustomed to
only in an opera. The poet believed that he had
produced a model of an entirely distinct species,
although perhaps not prepared expressly for the
French stage, such as it then was, but for it as he
wished it to be ; yet even upon that same stage
' Semiramis ' was at once played as well as it was
probably capable of being played. At the first re-
presentation the spectators still sat upon the stage ;
and we might have seen an old-fashioned ghost
appear in a very fashionable circle; but on its
repetition this unseemliness was remedied, the
actors cleared then- stage ; and what was then an
exception in favour of so extraordinary a piece
has become, after a time, the ordinary arrange-
ment. But it was principally the stage at Paris
for which ' Semiramis ' made an epoch in this re-
spect ; for in the provinces generally the spectators
remained firm to the old custom, and preferred
giving up all illusion rather than forego the right
of being able to tread upon the trains of Zaire and
Meropa
" The appearance of a ghost was so bold a
novelty in a French tragedy, and the poet who
ventured it justified himself on such peculiar
grounds, that it may reward the labour of bestow-
ing a few moments upon them :
" ' People cry out and write on all sides,' says
M. Voltaire, 'that we no longer believe in ghosts,
and that the appearance of the dead before the
eyes of an enlightened nation can be considered
as nothing else than childish. What ! ' he adds ;
' all antiquity has believed in these wonders, and
411
SHAKSPERE IN GERMANY.
shall it not be granted to us to follow in the steps
of the ancients ? What ! our religion has sanc-
tified these extraordinary manifestations of Provi-
dence, and shall it be deemed ridiculous in us to
renew them?'
" These outcries, methinks, are more rhetorical
than well-founded. Above all things, I wish to
avoid bringing religion into discussion here. In
matters of taste and criticism principles derived
from it may be very good to silence an adversary,
but not much adapted to convince him. Of reli-
gion, as religion, nothing may here be decided
upon ; only as a species of the traditions of anti-
quity can its evidence be of any value, and of no
more than any other evidence of antiquity, and
consequently we have nothing to do with it here,
except as with other records of antiquity.
" Very well : all antiquity has believed in
ghosts. The ancient dramatic poets were, then,
justified in availing themselves of this belief. If
we find introduced by one of them the reappear-
ance of the dead, it would be unreasonable to
judge by our better understanding. But have,
therefore, the moderns those dramatic poets who
participate in this better understanding the same
right ? Certainly not. But if he lays his plot in
these old credulous times ? Not even then. For
the dramatic poet is no historian ; he does not
relate what was formerly believed to have hap-
pened, but he lets it once again take place before
our eyes, and this not on account of its mere
historic truth, but with another and much higher
intention. Historical truth is not his object, but
only the means to his object ; he desires to deceive
us, and to move us by the illusion. Thus, if it is
true that we no longer believe in ghosts if this
scepticism must necessarily prevent the deception
if it is impossible that we can sympathise with-
out being deceived the dramatic poet counteracts
himself, if notwithstanding he dresses out for us
such incredible fables : all the art he may bestow
on such things is wholly lost.
" Consequently Is it indeed not allowed con-
sequently to produce ghosts or spiritual appear-
ances upon the stage 1 Is this source of terror and
pathos consequently dried up for us ? No : this
loss to Poetry would be too great ; and has she not
examples in herself of genius having defied all our
philosophy, and known how to make things fearful
to our imagination, which appear ridiculous or
silly to our colder reason ? The consequence must
therefore be otherwise, and the deduction be
merely falsa We believe no longer in ghosts !
Who says so ? Or, rather, what Joes it mean ?
Does it mean we have at last attained to so much
intelligence, that we are able to prove the impossi-
bilityof such things; thatcertain irrefragable truths,
with which the belief in ghosts stands in direct op-
position, have been so universally recognised, ar"
412
even with the vulgarest man so ever and conti-
nually present, that to him everything that conflicts
therewith must appear necessarily ridiculous and
in bad taste ? This it cannot mean. ' We believe
no longer in ghosts ' can thus only mean, in this
j case (upon which almost as much can be said in
favour as against, which is not decided and cannot
be decided), that the present ruling manner of
thinking has given the preponderance to the rea-
sons against such a belief; some few have this
manner of thinking, and many desire to appear to
have it ; these make the outcry, and give the tone ;
the mass keep silence, hold themselves indifferent,
and think now this, now that ; hi broad daylight
hear ghosts laughed at with pleasure, and talk of
them with terror in the gloomy night.
" But this acceptation of not believing in ghosts
cannot and ought not to restrain the poet from
making use of them. The seeds of belief exist in
us all, and most abundantly in those for whom he
principally writes. It depends only on his art to
cause these seeds to germinate ; only on a certain
power of giving the reasons for their reality, even
in the swiftness of their passage. If he has this
power, in common life we may believe what we
ourselves will, in the theatre we must believe what
the poet wills.
" Such a poet is Shakspere, and Shakspere almost
alone and only. Before his ghost in Hamlet our
hair stands on end, whether it covers a credulous
or incredulous brain. M. Voltaire does not wisely
to bepraise himself upon his ghost ; it makes him-
self and his ghost of Ninus ridiculous.
" Shakspere's spirit comes actually from the other
world so we are made to think. It comes at the
most solemn hour, in the shuddering stillness of
night, with the full accompaniment of all the
gloomy secret notions, when and with which we,
even from our nurses' arms, are accustomed to
think of ghosts and expect to see them. But Vol-
taire's ghost is not even fit for a bugbear with which
to frighten children ; it is the scarcely disguised
comedian, who has nothing, says nothing, does
nothing, to make it believable that he is what he
declares himself to be. On the contrary, all the
circumstances under which he appears disturb the
illusion, and betray the creation of a frigid poet
who would willingly deceive and affright us, but
does not know how to set about it. Let us only con-
sider this : In broad daylight, in the midst of an
assembly of the states of the realm, announced by
a thunder-clap, Voltaire's ghost walks forth from his
grave before them. Where did Voltaire ever hear of
ghosts being so bold ? What old woman could not
have told him that ghosts abhor the sunshine, and
do not willingly visit large parties ? Voltaire, how-
ever, actually knew all this, but was too timid and
too vain to make use of such vulgar notions. He
would show us a ghost, but it should be a ghost of
SHAKSPERE IN GERMANY.
a much nobler species ; and through this ennobling
all is destroyed. A ghost, that presumes to do
things that are opposed to all precedent and good
manners among ghosts, I cannot believe to be a
genuine ghost, and here everything that is not
required for the illusion destroys the effect of the
whole.
" If Voltaire had even given any thought as to
the stage effect, he would have felt on that side
also the unfitness of allowing a ghost to appear
before the eyes of a crowd. Every one in that case
ought to express at the instant of its appearance
the same fear and terror, but each should express
them in a different manner, if the scene is not
to have the frigid symmetry of a ballet. Now,
let any manager train for once a herd of dull /#</.-
rantts, and, even if they are most happily fitted
(to each other and to their parts), let us consider
how their various expressions of the same feelings
would divide the attention, and will draw it from
the principal personages. If these are to make the
proper impression upon us, we must not only be
able to see them, but it were good that we saw
none but them. With Shakspere it is Hamlet only
who is admitted to an intercourse with the ghost ;
in the scene with his mother, she neither sees nor
hears the ghost. Our attention is thus entirely
fixed upon him ; and the more signs of a mind dis-
tracted by affright and horror we discover in him,
the more ready are we to accept the appearance
which produces such marked effects in him for that
which it purports to be. The ghost acts upon us
far more through Hamlet than of itself. The im-
pression which it makes upon him passes over to
us, and the effect is too momentary and too strong
to admit of any doubts as to the extraordinary
cause. How little has Voltaire understood of this
stroke of art ! There is some affright at his ghost,
but not much : Semiramis exclaims once, ' Heaven !
I die ! ' and the others make no more ceremony
with him than they would have made with a friend,
supposed to be far distant, who should suddenly
enter the room.
" One other difference I must yet notice which
I find between thp ghosts of the English and
French poets. Voltaire's ghost is merely a poetic
machine, which is only introduced to remove the
difficulties in the plot ; in itself it interests us not
in the slightest degree. On the contrary, Shak-
spere's ghost is a real acting personage, in whose
fate we sympathise ; it awakens terror, but at the
same time compassion.
" This difference originates, without doubt, from
the different manner of thinking in the two poets
as to ghosts in general. Voltaire considered the
re-appearance of the dead as a miracle ; Shakspere
as a merely natural event. Which of the two
believed most philosophically there is no need to
inq-iire ; but Shaksperc thought most poetically.
The spirit of Ninus never occurred to Voltaire as
a being who, even in the grave, could be capable
of pleasant or unpleasant feelings, and for whom
we could feel compassion : he intended merely to
teach that the highest Power, in order to bring
crimes to light and punishment, would make an
exception to its eternal laws.
" I will not say that it is an error when the
dramatic poet constructs his fable so as to explain
or confirm some great moral truth ; but I may say
that such a construction is not at all necessary;
that there may be very instructive pieces which
tend to illustrate no such single maxims ; and that
it is wrong to consider the moral address at the
end, which is found in many of our older tragedies,
as if the whole piece had been written on its
account.
" If, therefore, the ' Semiramis ' of M. Voltaire
has no other merit than this, for which he takes so
much credit to himself, namely, that we may
learn from it to venerate the highest justice, which,
in order to punish extraordinary crimes, chooses
extraordinary means, ' Semiramis,' in my eyes,
would be but an indifferent piece, particularly as
this moral is not very edifying. For incontestably
it is far more befitting to the wisest Being not to
need these extraordinary courses, and that we
should think the reward of the good and the punish-
ment of the wicked to be interwoven by him with
the common chain of events." *
Through all Lessing's works Voltaire's dramas
and criticisms are treated with the same unsparing
severity ; nor do the opinions and practice of other
French writers (with the exception of Diderot)
Palitot, the two Corneilles, Moliere, and Madame
Dacier fare much better, though to none does he
appear so hostile as to Voltaire. Voltaire he con-
sidered as a bad specimen and a violent defender
of his national drama, which Lessing knew was too
frequently imitated by, and too certain to vitiate
the taste of, his countrymen.
Lessing's intimate friends were also thoroughly
imbued with opinions similar to his own. Moses
Mendelssohn says that Voltaire considers all nature
to be comprised in the fashionable world Bon-
tonnerie. And in a letter tx> Lessing, in 1755, he
writes," Is not Voltaire's ' Orphan of China ' a
pitiable thing ? There is even less of plot in it
than in ' Esther,' which. Voltaire himself has
blamed for this defect. ' Genghis ' has even less
of character than ' Xerxes.' ' Athalie ' has an
almost similar plot. But what a dillerence between
Racine and Voltaire ! How clever, how masterly
is the work of the one, and how clumsy that of
the other ! " Lessing had a powerful successor in
J. G. Herder, born 1744, who pointed out and in-
sisted on the distinction between natural and arti-
ficial poetry, and whose collection of popular
Dramaturgic, Weike, vol. *n
413
SHAKSPERE IN GERMANY.
produced at that time in England on both sides of
this much-contested question. He himself ob-
serves incidentally that much classical knowledge
was floating about, and that even pastry-cooks
were experienced mythologists ; summing up his
opinion thus : " The truth lies probably in the
middle. The opinion that Shakspere had an inti-
mate knowledge of both ancient and modern lan-
guages, and was well read in their best writers, is
incontestably going too far ; and they are equally
in error who maintain that he was a complete
stranger to them." * Sect. 3 is ' On the Genius
of Shakspere ;' Sect. 4, ' On his Defects ;' Sect. 5,
' On the State of the Stage in Shakspere's time ;'
Sect. 6, ' On the Classification and Chronology of
the Plays ;' Sect. 7, ' On the English Editions and
Editors ;' Sect. 8, ' Oil the Critical Essays, &c.,
concerning the Poet and his Editors ;' Sect. 9,
' A List of the Adaptations, Imitations, and Trans-
lations of Shakspere's Plays ;' and Sect. 10, 'On
Shakspere's Poems, with a Selection from them
in English and German.' Many of these sections
contain little more than a catalogue raisonnee of
what had appeared in England, and this must
have made a great addition to German knowledge
of the sources of information for obtaining a true
idea of the real nature of Shakspere. In his
original criticism he displays no very great degree
of excellence, and has fallen into many erroneous
notions, particularly as to the female characters of
Shakspere ; the tragedy heroines, he affirms, are
kept far in the background, while "in comedy
the ladies are neither more nor less than merry
wives, plain orderly matrons, in whom chastity
and good faith are the best qualities." This he
attributes to the state of female society in England.
How such ideas could be entertained it ia difficult
to imagine. These errors have arisen partly from
his imperfect knowledge of the early English lite-
rature and manners, partly from his dependence
on the English commentators, but chiefly from a
want of high poetical feeling : still he evinces a
love and reverence which he certainly did not
acquire from his English studies, and a desire to
appreciate the excellences of his author. Much of
Eschenburg's criticism is adopted bodily, and often
without any direct acknowledgment, from English
writers ; and from them he learned to " speak by
the card" in dispraise of Shakspere. One of his
passages which reads most pithily hi the German, is
a literal translation of the paragraph from Thomas
Warton, quoted in the ' History of Opinion,' p. 397.
Gerstenberg, who had been praised for his own
dramatic productions by Lessing, and who was
thoroughly capable of appreciating Shakspere,
boldly announced himself as his admirer about this
* Eschenburg, ' Ueber William Shakspeare :' Zurich edit
I8VC, p. ;y
time ;* and awakened the fears of those who were
willing to tolerate Shakspere as a mark of their
own extended knowledge, but by whom any appli-
cation of his principles, or any praise resting on a
just conception and feeling of his excellences, ap-
peared dangerous. He was accordingly attacked
by Garve, and by Weisse in his anonymous reviews ;
but Leasing 5 s known opinion of Gerstenberg's
merit in some measure protected him. Not so
with Herder, whose ' Blatter von deutscher Art
und Kunst' appeared in 1772. Weisse, although
he had commended Shakspere hi his own tragedies
of the Gottsched school (perhaps to conciliate the
dreaded Lessing), bitterly reproached Herder with
praising Shakspere immoderately, and thereby
opening the doors to an utter want of taste. Sub-
sequently he took occasion to warn his countrymen
against the example of Shakspere, and to blame
Eschenburg's translation as dangerous, in an article
in ' The Library of the Fine Arts.' t
In 1774, Lenz produced his ' Remarks on the
Theatre,' with an Appendix of some of Shakspere's
dramas. J " He had a truly poetical, though not
powerful genius ; and his translation of Love's
Labour 's Lost is replete with the most genial feel-
ing. It was, however, not merely received with
coldness, but that sprightly comedy, blooming with
'the brightest colours of humour, was cried down as
an overwitty and distasteful production, and for his
no light labour he received the reward of being
considered very odd, and without taste."
Up to this tune we thus see that, from the
revival of the study of English literature, all the
most eminent men of Germany had advocated the
superiority of Shakspere and our dramatic art, or
passively submitted to its influence ; for the efforts
of its opponents, however smart and sarcastic in
the conflict, were wholly unable to prevent the
growing predilection in its favour in the minds
of then- countrymen. These effects were shown
more frequently, and perhans more strongly, in
the productions and incidental remarks of their
native writers, than hi direct dissertations on
the subject ; and we have thus to add a name of
European celebrity that of G6the; He had be-
come acquainted with Herder at Strasburg, and on
his return home, in his twenty-fourth year, he
composed his tragedy of ' Gotz von Berlichingen,'
vhich wos published in 1773. This is not the
place to discuss the literary merits of Gothe, and
we shall therefore only remark that to us ' Gotz von
Berlichingen,' in spite of some defects hi the con-
struction of the plot, and some youthful exube-
* Briefe iiberdie Merkwiirdigkeiten derLitteratur Sch let-
wig, 1766-8. In 1767 his celebrated tragedy of ' Ugolii c
was also published.
t Bibliothek der Schonen Wissenschaften.
t Anmerkungen libers Theater, nebst angehengtem Stuck j
Shaksperes. Leipzig, 1774.
f Horn, i. IS.
SHAKSPERE IN GERMANY.
ranees, appears to he the boldest d. signed, the
most fully characterised, and the most dramatic of
any of his plays, and to contain many truly Shak-
sperian touches. It was attacked by the critics
expressly as being an imitation of Shakspere,
and they alleged that such imitations were cor-
rupting the German taste. Wieland replied that
the faults of imitators are not to be fastened
upon Shakspere. " He stands by himself. His
works, in which nature has so g-eat and art so
small a part, will be for ever the enjoyment of
all readers of undepraved feelings ; they aie acted,
read, felt, studied, but are not to be imitated, ex-
cept as faithful copies of nature." (Briefe an einen
jungen Dichter.) But Goethe was an universal
genius ; though he loved and admired Shakspere,
yet all his dramas after this were constructed
on ever-varying principles, and in but a few of
them does he again approach the English school,
except in some measure in the familiarity of the
dialogue. Count Egmont and Clavigo are per-
haps the nearest ; while in his ' Stella,' a domestic
piece that may be included in the same category,
he has produced one of those hermaphrodites in-
veighed against by Tieck, in which improbability,
untruth to nature,* exaggerated sentimentality,
and crime are presented to our view, and recom-
mended to our sympathies, under circumstances
and in language of no common power. In this
line he led the way for Kotzebue. Gothe's only
other contribution to the just appreciation of Shak-
Bpere was his famous criticism on Hamlet, in hk
' VVUhelm Meister's Apprenticeship.'
[G8the.]
Schiller closely followed upon Gothe. In 1781
was published, and in 1782 was acted, 'The
* 'Stella' is said to be founded in fact, but it is not the
.MS untrue to nature in a poetical and dramatic some.
SUP. VOL. 2 E
Bobbers.' Abounding with most serious faults of
taste and of execution indeed the worst yet most
famous of all his plays the rough vigour, the
earnestness and vitality, the daring boldness, and
even the false philosophy and morality, combined
to insure it a favourable reception ; and its effect
upon the German mind, though much exaggerated,
was doubtless extraordinary. W. Schlegel has
spoken of it as a direct imitation of some parts of
Richard III. ;* but we think it unfair so to regard
it. There is no attempt at mere imitation of any of
Shakspere's characters, situations, or peculiarities
of style, but an evident and partially successful
desire to seize upon his manner considered as a
whole. Its popularity, however, exceeded its real
importance in the dramatic literature of his country,
and was perhaps even detrimental to it. It had
succeeded by its innate strength, and in spite of its
defects ; but the defects were far more within the
reach of imitation than the excellences ; indeed the
latter were by many unappreciated, or the former
mistaken for them. A swarm of Ritterschau-
spielen t were produced by the examples of ' Go'tz
von Berlichingen ' and ' Die Rauber,' and written
" after the manner of Shakspere," of little or no
value in themselves, and leading to gross miscon-
ceptions of Shakspere's true character. Unlike
Gothe, Schiller remained true to his first impres-
sions, and all his other dramas (except ' The Bride
of Messina '), however varying in form, are all more
or less of the school of Shakspere, only marked by
the difference of their respective minds. Schiller's
other works, particularly his lyrical ballads, con-
tain many testimonies of the esteem he continued
to feel for English literature in general. While
poet to the theatre at Mannheim, in 1783, he also
translated Macbeth, which was then acted.
But perhaps a wider, though not so perfect a
knowledge of Shakspere, was imparted to the
German public by the adaptation of his dramas to
the national stage. In this work by far the most
effective was F. L. Schroder, the manager of the
Hamburg theatre. "This man," says Horn,
"whom the general voice has recognised as a
truly great actor and an intelligent man, had
already long felt within what narrow limits the
half-German and half-French productions of an
earlier period confined his splendid talents, in
which thoughts and passions were almost never
represented, but related only in lamentations or
declamation*. A favourable destiny led him to
Shakspere's works, and in them he discovered a
world of riches, full of character, of animated
thoughts and passions. His whole devotion was
now turned towards this poet, and everything
* It appears to us that the characters or Karl nnd Franz
have more probably been suggested by Fielding's Tom
Jones and Blifil.
t Literally, knightly plays ; but it mean* dramas rppro
tenting events occurring during the middle ages.
4J7
SHAKSPERE IN GERMANY.
truly great in his own mimic art was in future to
receive its chief nourishment from Mm. The poet
Shakspere, in his endless charms and sweetness,
certainly remained to him unknown, as Schroder,
particularly in his latter years, entertained the
strange opinion that an acting play should by no
means be poetical, but the dramatist, the charac-
tf.riser, was to him invaluable, and as such he now
sought to adapt him to the German stage. The
delightful and varying melody of the language
and versification was severely wrested from him ;
almost everything that moral or sesthetical critics
had chosen to consider as exuberances was at
once rudely cut away as with a gardener's knife ;
and even the conduct and catastrophe of the piece
sometimes altered. What remained were, to be
sure, no more than shadows of Shakspere; but
yet these shadows, more animated than hundreds
of spouting heroes of later times, were delightful
and instructive appearances upon our stage, par-
ticularly when some distinguished actors, and
above all Schroder himself, devoted themselves
with a hearty love of the poet to the representa-
tion of them. For the German stage this com-
menced a new epoch, real talent had opportuni-
ties of distinguishing itself : for to a great degree
there are no mere nonentities, no characterless
characters ; everything is truly and exactly worked
out or sketched. For the common routine and
.mechanical readiness, even for melodious voices
or acquired plausible declamation, there was
little occasion, as these parts required to be acted
acted in the true sense of the word. Men like
Schroder, Fleck, and other masters of our stage,
felt this thoroughly, and rejoiced in this splendid
poet ; while others openly or secretly opposed them-
selves to him, because they felt that their common
art and artifices could not reach him.
" The public showed themselves not insensible
to the beauties of the poet ; and we will not reckon
too severely with them that they only recognised
separate beauties, as they had no opportunities of
seeing or hearing his complete perfection. They
allowed themselves to be charmed with his power-
ful fancy, enjoyed single characters and isolated
bits of humour, which the too often mischievously
obliterating pen had allowed to remain. They
were kind-hearted enough to be pleased that
Hamlet although he is almost inwardly dead
should remain externally alive, should ascend the
throne, and, after a decent hesitation, should pro-
mise to govern happily and wisely ; and they re-
joiced when the adapter would be much wiser
than the poet, and framed the fate of Lear and
Cordelia more pleasantly at the conclusion. Not
less success had Macbeth and Othello; but this
art in The Taming of the Shrew, Measure for
Measure (adapted by Schroder), The Merchant of
V'onicft (by the same), and Julius Osar (brought
418
upon the stage by Dalberg with great care and
splendour), would not correspond with their
taste." *
About the same time Burger, best known ii
England as the author of the ballad of ' Leonora,'
was induced by Schroder to undertake a transla-
tion of Macbeth. In his preface to the play Burger
states as follows :
" Our celebrated actor Schroder, who wished to
introduce the tragedy of Macbeth on the stage at.
Hanover in 1777, applied to me to translate for
him those scenes in which the witches appeared,
and I did so. He afterwards wished me to com-
plete the whole piece ; but I, who had never seen
ten plays acted in my life, had not sufficient con-
fidence in my own knowledge and power. He
provided me, therefore, not only with a new
arrangement of the scenes, but with an almost
complete version of the whole piece, mostly
compiled from the translations of Wieland and
Eschenburg, placing it at my free disposal to deal
with it as I would. This I have generally fol-
lowed, but not always. In the prose parts, in
which no one but Shakspere himself could have
given word for word, I have availed myself of that
translation, where no better sense, or more feeling
of the power of the original, or the maintaining of
my own manner, language, and style, lias com-
pelled me to deviate from it.
"My attempt will not, I hope, be deemed a
sacrilege. This temple is so full that much may
be wanted without being missed. Moreover, I
have destroyed nothing, but only left somewhat
behind in the treasury, from which those who are
not satisfied with what they find in this may re-
cover whatever more they may please. Of my
own poor efforts I have only to say that I wish it
may not appear as a beggar's patch upon the purple
mantle of Shakspere.
" But my Macbeth was not ready at the time
when Schro'der required it (and he had often
iu - ged me for it), and it has remained lying by me
almost the whole time that so many other good
Macbeths have appeared, of which, however, 1
have seen none but that by Wagner. Schroder
has now no longer any occasion to require mine.
Nevertheless the world is wide enough, so that
this may well find a place amongst others, with
which it willingly takes its chance, without crowd-
ing; lor I issue it by no means with the proud
assumption that it may be something peculiar, or
even better adapted for representation than tho
Macbeths hitherto acted, but because many of my
friends have been pleased with the incantation-
scenes, often applied for them, and it became to
me a trouble to copy them out. I know and feel
well enough what is required in a play, the highest
work of the dramatic art, and that it is beyond the
* Horn, Einleitun?, pp. 21-26.
SHAKSPERE IN GERMANY.
reach of my powers. At this acknowledgment
nine hundred and ninety-nine out of a thousand
of our modern drarnatisers will no doubt laugh
loudly and heartily.
" Of the incantation-scenes I have only a few
words to add. I have, indeed, never seen a re-
presentation of Macbeth myself, but I am told that
this play, and particularly those scenes, have not
produced that delight which is the object of all
dramatic art, and which we might still more ex-
pect in a piece which may almost unconditionally
be asserted to be full of such beauties as to excel
everything that the human mind has produced, or
ever will produce. I am certainly a poor, but not,
perhaps, the very poorest among the worms of
earth ; but my genius even in its happiest, lightest,
most powerful, and God-devoted hours crouches
as deeply beneath the elevation and greatness of
the scenes before and after the deed in the second
act, as my body beneath the sun in the heavenly
system. But whether that effect is attributable to
the text, to the scenery, or to the declamation, I
cannot say. The incantation-scenes may, accord-
ingly as they are conducted, as easily damage as
increase the effect of the whole. But at no time
can it be allowed to regard them as weeds ex-
tended over every field, as the high and deeply-
learned Dr. Johnson, and other aesthetical philoso-
phisers (philosofunkeln) of his sort, gossip about.
According to my belief, these verses ought not to
be sung nor spoken at an actor's will in any sort
of declamation, but delivered as a recitative, ac-
cording to musical notes. Whether this will ever
happen here or elsewhere I know not."
The translation is dedicated to his friend Biester,
as a remembrance of the hours at Gottingen,
" When we together enjoyed ourselves with a kind
of religious extacy over the greatest of all poetical
geniuses that ever has been, or ever will be."
Burger's translation is in a measured prose, ex-
cept the incantation-scenes. Notwithstanding his
professed reverence for Shakspere, and his own
undoubted talents, he appears here only as one of
those adapters who "would be much wiser than
the poet." In this text, selected and made up, the
liberties taken are enormous, and to one acquainted
with the original it appears rather a parody than a
translation. We are induced to give the second
scene of the first act of this ' Macbeth ' (so early
he begins his improvements) as a specimen of his
labours, to which we affix a literal translation.
(ACT I. SCENE I.)
Enter a Body-guard of the KING'S on one side, and a bleeding Soldier on the other.
Noise of a battle behind the Scenes.
Trabant. Wer bist du?
Soldat. Hoch lebe der Konig von Schottland !
Trab. 1st das Feindes blut, oder dein eignes ?
Sol. Beides.
Trab. Wie steht's um die Schlacht?
Sol. So, dass du zu spat kommst, sie gewinnen
zu helfen.
Trab. well !
Sol. Nicht o weh! Victoria! die Schlacht ist
gewonnen.
Trab. Victoria? So muss ich gleich zuriick zum
Konige. Er ist nicht weit, und hat mich auf kund-
schaft ausgesandt. Nun wiinschte ich mir ein paar
Schwalbenfliigel. Lebwohli [Wittgehn.
Sol. Holla ! nicht so hurtig, Herr.
Trab. Nun?
Sol. Ich bitt' Euch, was wollt Ihr wohl dem
Kb'nige sagen?
Trab. Das die Schlacht gewonnen ist.
Sol. Ich hab' aber'gelogen !
Trab. Gelogen, Kerl? So bist du ja bei deinen
Wunden noch ein yerzweifelter Spatzmacher.
Sol. Ei, wenn sie nun auch gewonnen ist, so
konnte Euresgleichen doch wohl fur einen braven
Soldaten so viel Geduld in den Ohren haben, ein
Bitzchen Erzahlung von seiner mitgefochtenen
Schlacht anzuhoren. Es spart Euch ohnehin auch
die Miihe, den Weg zwei Mai zu messen, wenn Ihr
dem Konige etwas umstandlichere Naehricht ab-
statten konnt.
Trab. Nun so sag' her, Freund ; aber mach's kurz.
Sol. Nicht ein Haar breit kurzer als es ist. Lange
stand's nun fierlich so so ! mit der Schlacht. Sie
wollte nicht von der Stelle, recht wie ein Schwim-
2 E 2
Guard. Who art thou?
Soldier. Long live the king of Scotland !
Guard. Is that enemies' blood, or thine own ?
Sol. Both.
Guard. How stands it with the fight?
Sol. So that thou comest too late to help to
win it.
Guard. 0, woe !
Sol. Not woe ! Victoria ! the battle is won.
Guard. Victory? Then I must directly back to
the king. He is not far from hence, and has de-
spatched me after intelligence. How I wish now
for a pair of swallow's wings. Fare-well ! [Going.
Sol. Holla ! not in such a hurry, good sir.
Guard. Now, then?
Sol. I prithee, what is it you will tell the king?
Guard. That the battle is won.
Sol. But I have been lying !
Guard. Lying, rascal f then thou art indeed,
with thy wounds, a desperate joker.
Sol. Ay, if now it is won, such as you might
well have so much patience in your cars as to listen
to a bit of a narrative from an old soldier of his
battle. It would spare you also the fatigue of
measuring the way twice, if you were able to give
to the king a somewhat circumstantial rclati"U
of it.
Guard. Well, say on, friend ; but make it short
Sol. Not a hair's-breadth shorter than it is.
Long stood it, certainly, but so so with the battla
They moved not from the spot, like a iwhnmei
SHAKSPERE IN GERMANY.
truly great in his own mimic art was in future to
receive its chief nourishment from him. The poet
Shakspere, in his endless charms and sweetness,
certainly remained to him unknown, as Schroder,
particularly in his latter years, entertained the
strange opinion that an acting play should by no
means be poetical, but the dramatist, the charac-
ffrisei; was to him invaluable, and as such he now
sought to adapt him to the German stage. The
delightful and varying melody of the language
and versification was severely wrested from him ;
almost everything that moral or festhetical critics
had chosea to consider as exuberances was at
once rudely cut away as with a gardener's knife ;
and even the conduct and catastrophe of the piece
sometimes altered. What remained were, to be
sure, no more than shadows of Shakspere ; but
yet these shadows, more animated than hundreds
of spouting heroes of later times, were delightful
and instructive appearances upon our stage, par-
ticularly when some distinguished actors, and
above all Schroder himself, devoted themselves
with a hearty love of the poet to the representa-
tion of them. For the German stage this com-
menced a new epoch, real talent had opportuni-
ties of distinguishing itself : for to a great degree
there are no mere nonentities, no characterless
characters ; everything is truly and exactly worked
out or sketched. For the common routine and
mechanical readiness, even for melodious voices
or acquired plausible declamation, there was
little occasion, as these parts required to be acted
acted in the true sense of the word. Men like
Schroder, Fleck, and other masters of our stage,
felt this thoroughly, and rejoiced in this splendid
poet ; while others openly or secretly opposed them-
selves to him, because they felt that their common
art and artifices could not reach him.
" The public showed themselves not insensible
to the beauties of the poet ; and we will not reckon
too severely with them that they only recognised
separate beauties, as they had no opportunities of
seeing or hearing his complete perfection. They
allowed themselves to be charmed with his power-
ful fancy, enjoyed single characters and isolated
bits of humour, which the too often mischievously
obliterating pen had allowed to remain. They
were kind-hearted enough to be pleased that
Hamlet although he is almost inwardly dead
should remain externally alive, should ascend the
throne, and, after a decent hesitation, should pro-
mise to govern happily and wisely ; and they re-
joiced when the adapter would be much wiser
than the poet, and framed the fate of Lear and
Cordelia more pleasantly at the conclusion. Not
less success had Macbeth and Othello ; but this
art in The Taming of the Shrew, Measure for
Measure (adapted by Schroder), The Merchant of
Vflnicft (by the same), and Julius 0;osar (brought
418
upon the stage by .Dalberg with great care and
splendour), would not correspond with their
taste." *
About the same time Burger, best known in
England as the author of the ballad of ' Leonora,'
was induced by Schroder to undertake a transL-
tion of Macbeth. In his preface to the play Burger
states as follows :
" Our celebrated actor Schroder, \vho wished to
introduce the tragedy of Macbeth on the stage at,
Hanover in 1777, applied to me to translate for
him those scenes in which the witches appeared,
and I did so. He afterwards wished me to com-
plete the whole piece ; but I, who had never seen
ten plays acted in my life, had not sufficient con-
fidence in my own knowledge and power. He
provided me, therefore, not only with a new
arrangement of the scenes, but with an almost
complete version of the whole piece, mostly
compiled from the translations of Wieland and
Eschenburg, placing it at my free disposal to deal
with it as I would. This I have generally fol-
lowed, but not always. In the prose parts, in
which no one but Shakspere himself could have
given word for word, I have availed myself of that
translation, where no better sense, or more feeling
of the power of the original, or the maintaining of
my own manner, language, and style, has com-
pelled me to deviate from it.
"My attempt will not, I hope, be deemed a
sacrilege. This temple is so full that much may
be wanted without being missed. Moreover, 1
have destroyed nothing, but only left somewhat
behind in the treasury, from which those who are
not satisfied with what they find in this may re-
cover whatever more they may please. Of my
own poor efforts I have only to say that I wish it
may not appear as a beggar's patch upon the purple
mantle of Shakspere.
"But my Macbeth was not ready at the time
when Schroder required it (and he had often
urged me for it), and it has remained lying by me
almost the whole time that so many other good
Macbeths have appeared, of which, however, 1
have seen none but that by Wagner. Schroder
has now no longer any occasion to require mine.
Nevertheless the world is wide enough, so that
this may well find a place amongst others, with
which it willingly takes its chance, without crowd-
ing ; lor I issue it by no means with the proud
assumption that it may be something peculiar, or
even better adapted for representation than tho
Macbeths hitherto acted, but because many of my
friends have been pleased with the incantation-
scenes, often applied for them, and it became to
me a trouble to copy them out. I know and feel
well enough what is required in a play, the highest
work of the dramatic art, and that it is beyond the
* Horn, Einleitung, pp. 21-26.
SHAKSPERE IN GERMANY.
reach of my powers. At this acknowledgment
nine hundred and ninety-nine out of a thousand
of our modem dramatisers will no doubt laugh
loudly and heartily.
" Of the incantation-scenes I have only a few
words to add, I have, indeed, never seen a re-
presentation of Macbeth myself, but I am told that
this play, and particularly those scenes, have not
produced that delight which is the object of all
dramatic art, and which we might still more ex-
pect in a piece which may almost unconditionally
be asserted to be full of such beauties as to excel
everything that the human mind has produced, or
ever will produce. I am certainly a poor, but not,
perhaps, the very poorest among the worms of
earth ; but my genius even in its happiest, lightest,
most powerful, and God-devoted hours crouches
as deeply beneath the elevation and greatness of
the scenes before and after the deed in the second
act, as my body beneath the sun in the heavenly
system. But whether that effect is attributable to
the text, to the scenery, or to the declamation, I
cannot say. The incantation-scenes may, accord-
ingly as they are conducted, as easily damage as
increase the effect of the whole. But at no time
can it be allowed to regard them as weeds ex-
tended over every field, as the high and deeply-
learned Dr. Johnson, and other gesthetical philoso-
phisers (philosofiinkeln) of his sort, gossip about.
According to my belief, these verses ought not to
be sung nor spoken at an actor's will in any sort
of declamation, but delivered as a recitative, ac-
cording to musical notes. Whether this will ever
happen here or elsewhere I know not."
The translation is dedicated to his friend Biester,
as a remembrance of the hours at Gottingen,
" When we together enjoyed ourselves with a kind
of religious extacy over the greatest of all poetical
geniuses that ever has been, or ever will be."
Burger's translation is in a measured prose, ex-
cept the incantation-scenes. Notwithstanding his
professed reverence for Shalcspere, and his own
undoubted talents, he appears here only as one of
those adapters who "would be much wiser than
the poet." In this text, selected and made up, the
liberties taken are enormous, and to one acquainted
with the original it appears rather a parody than a
translation. We are induced to give the second
scene of the first act of this ' Macbeth ' (so early
he begins his improvements) as a specimen of his
labours, to which we affix a literal translation.
(ACT I. SCENE I.)
Enter a Body-guard of the KING'S on one side, and a bleeding Soldier on the other.
Noise of a battle behind the Scenes.
Trabant. Wer bist du?
Suldat. Hoch lebe der Konig von Schottland !
Trab. 1st das Feindes blut, oder dein eignes ?
Sol. Beides.
Trab. Wie steht's urn die Schlacht?
Sol. So, dass du zu spat kommst, sie gewinnen
zu helfen.
Trab. weh !
Sol. Nicht o weh! Victoria! die Schlacht ist
gewonnen.
Trab. Victoria? So muss ich gleich zuriick zum
Konige. Er ist nicht weit, und hat mich auf kund-
schaft ausgesandt. Nun wiinschte ich mir ein paar
Schwalbenflugel. Lebwohl! [Will gehn.
Sol. Holla ! nicht so hurtig, Herr.
Trab. Nun?
Sol. Ich bitt' Euch, was wollt Ihr wohl dem
Konige sagen?
Trab. Das die Schlacht gewonnen ist.
Sol. Ich hab' aber'gelogen !
Trab. Gelogen, Kerl ? So bist du ja bei deinen
VVunden noch ein yerzweifelter Spatzmacher.
Sol. Ei, wenn sie nun auch gewonnen ist, so
konnte Euresgleichen doch wohl fur einen braven
Soldaten so viel Geduld in den Ohren haben, ein
Bitzchen Erzahlung von seiner mitgefochtenen
Schlacht anzuhoren. Es spart Euch ohnehin auch
die Miihe, den Weg zwei Mai zu messen, wenn Ihr
dem Konige etwas umstandlichere Nachricht ab-
statten konnt.
Trab. Nun so sag' her, Freund ; aber mach's kurz.
Sol. Nicht ein Haar breit kurzer als es ist. Lange
stand's nun fierlich so so ! mit der Schlacht. Sie
wollte nicht von der Stolle, recht wie ein Schwim-
t K 2
Guard. Who art thou?
Soldier. Long live the king of Scotland !
Guard. Is that enemies' blood, or thine own ?
Sol. Both.
Guard. How stands it with the fight?
Sal. So that thou comest too late to help to
win it.
Guard. 0, woe !
Sol. Not woe ! Victoria ! the battle is won.
Guard. Victory? Then I must directly back to
the king. He is not far from hence, and has de-
spatched me after intelligence. How I wish now
for a pair of swallow's wings. Farewell ! [Going.
Sol. Holla ! not in such a hurry, good sir.
Guard. Now, then?
Sol. I prithee, what is it you will tell the king?
Guard. That the battle is won.
Sol. But I have been lying !
Guard. Lying, rascal? then thou art indeed,
with thy wounds, a desperate joker.
Sol. Ay, if now it is won, such as you might
well have so much patience in your ears as to listen
to a bit of a narrative from an old soldier of his
battle. It would spare you also the fatigue of
measuring the way twice, if you were able to give
to the king a somewhat circumstantial rclati"ii
of it.
Guard. Well, say on, friend ; but make it short
Sol. Not a hair's-breadth shorter than it is.
Long stood it, certainly, but so so with the battle.
They moved not from the spot, like a iwhnme?
410
SHAKSPERE IN GERMANY.
mer, der dem reissenden Strom engegen arbeitet.
Der unbiiudige Macdonald, recht zum Rebellen
geschaffen, wollte sammt seiner Bande schlech-
terdings siegen. Fortuna schien auch in der that
seine Hure zu seyn. Aber umsonst! Der unii-
berwindiche Macbeth achtete weder ihn, noch
seine Hure, hieb sich mit blutigem rauchenden
Sch\verte bis an den Schurken, und liess nicht
eher ab, als bis er ihn zum Wirbel bis auf s Kinn
zerspalten hatte.
The remainder of the description of the battle is
in the same style, and the close of the scene with
Rosse is altogether omitted. Nor are the choruses,
upon which Burger chiefly prides himself, rendered
much more faithfully, though it cannot be denied
that he has thrown great spirit and effect into
them. We suppose the arbitrary and absurd
changes were made with the idea of adapting the
play more popularly for the German stage ; but if
so, it does not say much for the general advance of
German opinion as to the true merits of Shak-
spere.
Amid much bickering and many efforts among
authors of minor importance, a just appreciation
and a more correct knowledge of Shakspere was
gradually and rapidly extending. In 1796 Fried-
rich von Schlegel, with his brother August Wil-
liclm, the descendants of a family long illustrious
in the literary annals of their country, commences
a periodical work called the ' Athenaeum.' They
were assisted in it by Novalis (F. von Hardenbergj
and Ludwig Tieck. It was an attempt to reform
the literary taste of their countrymen, and was suc-
ceeded by ' Kritiken und Charakteristiken,' having
the same object, in which they attacked the then
popular dramatic poets, Kotzebue and Iffland ;
but their aim was rather to encourage a national
style than imitation even of Shakspere and the
English drama, though they were referred to as
good models. In 1797 August Wilhelm Schlegel
commenced his translation of Shakspere, which
appeared in successive volumes to the number of
nine, but which he did not complete. Of this
translation it is almost impossible to speak too
highly ; but we shall have occasion again to refer
to it at a later period, in our notice of Tieck.
It however made Shakspere a German work, and
from that time his predominance was thoroughly
felt and acknowledged. But this was not all Schle-
gel did for Shakspere and his countrymen. In 1808
he delivered a series of lectures at Vienna on
' Dramatic Art and Literature,' in which Shak-
Epere for the first time had the advantage of a
criticism at once acute and profound, discrimina-
tive and genial, learned and unpedantic. The effect
produced was immense.* The lectures have been
In the concluding paragraph of ' The History of Opinion,'
420
who labours against the raging stream. The tin-
tameable Macdonald, well fitted to be a rebel,
would absolutely conquer with his band. Fortune
indeed seemed to be his whore. But in vain ! the
unconquerable Macbeth regarded neither him nor
his whore, struck with bloody-smoking sword til)
he reached the rascal, whom he left not till he had
cloven his skull from crown to chin.
excellently translated by Dr. Black. They have
been quoted sufficiently often in the course of our
work, and are so generally known, as to render
quotation almost unnecessary ; but we cannot re-
frain from giving one or two passages as to an
opinion which had become too common in Eng-
land, namely, that Shakspere " wanted art," that
he was an uncultivated genius.
"If the assertion were founded, all that distin-
guishes the works of the greatest English and
Spanish dramatists, a Shakspere and a Calderon,
ought to rank them beneath the ancients; they
would in no manner be of any importance for
theory, and could at most appear remarkable, on the
assumption that the obstinacy of these nations, in
refusing to comply with the rules, might have af-
forded more ample scope to the poets to display
their native originality, though at the expense of
art. But even this assumption will, on a more
narrow examination, appear extremely doubtful.
The poetic spirit requires to be limited, that it may
move within its range with a becoming liberty, as
has been felt by all nations on the first invention
of metre : it must act according to laws derivable
from its own essence, otherwise its strength will
be evaporated in boundless variety.
" The works of genius cannot therefore be al-
lowed to be without form : but of this there is no
danger. That we may answer this objection of
want of form, we must first come to an understand-
ing respecting the meaning of form, which most
critics, and more especially those who insist on a
stiff regularity, understand merely in a mechanical
and not in an organical sense.
"Form is mechanical when, through external
influence, it is communicated to any material
merely as an accidental addition without reference
to its quality : as, for example, when we give a par-
ticular shape to a soft mass that it may retain the
same after its induration. Organical form, again,
is innate: it unfolds itself from within, and ac-
quires its determination along with the complete
ridge had expounded the same leading principles of criticism
in lectures at the Royal Institution, as early as 1804. (See
' Literary Remains,' vol. ii. p. 203.) The merit of originating
these opinions has been assigned by some to Coleridge by
others to Schlegel. Coleridge's own testimony ought to be
decisive in the matter as regards Schlegel. He has as un-
equivocally given his testimony to the high merit of Lessing-
" It was Lessing who first proved to all thinking men-
even to Shakspere's countrymen the true nature of hii
apparent irregularities." (See ' Biographia LIteraria.' vol &
p. 256.) editor.
SHAKSPERE IN GERMANY
development of the germ. We everywhere dis-
cover sucli forms in nature throughout the whole
range of living powers, from the crystallization of
salts and minerals to plants and flowers, and from
them to the human figure. In the fine arts, as
well as in the province of Nature, the highest
artist, all genuine forms are organical, that is, de-
termined by the quality of the work. In a word,
the form is nothing but a significant exterior, the
speaking physiognomy of each thing, disfigured by
no destructive accidents, which gives a true evi-
dence of its hidden essence. Hence it is evident
that the spirit of poetry, which, though imperish-
able, wanders as it were through different bodies,
so often as it is newly born in the human race,
must, from the instrumental substance of an altered
age, be fashioned into a body of a different con-
formation. The forms vary with the direction of
the poetical sense ; and when we give to the new
kinds of poetry the old names, and judge of them ac-
cording to the ideas conveyed by these names, the
application of the authority of classical antiquity
which we make is altogether unjustifiable. No
one should be tried before a tribunal to which he
does not belong. We may safely admit that the
most of the dramatic works of the English and
Spaniards are neither tragedies nor comedies in
the sense of the ancients; they are romantic
dramas. That the stage of a people who, in its
foundation and formation, neither knew nor wished
to know anything of foreign models will possess
many peculiarities, and not only deviate from, but
even exhibit a striking contrast to, the theatre of
other nations who had a common model for imi-
tation before their eyes, may be very easily sup-
posed, and we should only be astonished were it
otherwise. But when in two nations, differing, in
a physical, moral, political, and religious respect,
so widely as the English and Spanish, the stages
which arose at the same time, without being
known to each other, possess, along with external
and internal diversities, the most striking features
of affinity, the attention of the most thoughtless
must be turned to this phenomenon ; and the con-
jecture will naturally occur to him, that the same,
-)r at least a kindred, principle must have prevailed
n the development of both."
The above extract explains Schlegel's opinion,
ncit entirely novel when he first pronounced it,
and now generally adopted in Germany as the
theory of the school of dramatic art in England, of
which he looked upon Shakspere as the founder :
in one other passage we will give Schlegel's view
of the peculiar characteristics and qualities of Shak-
spere individually.
" To me he appears a profound artist, and not a
blind and wildly luxuriant genius. I consider,
generally speaking, all that has been said on this
subject as a mere fabulous story, a blind and ex-
travagant error. In otner arts the assertion refutes
itself; for in them acquired knowledge is an indis-
pensable condition before anything can be per-
formed. But even in such poets as are usually
given out for careless pupils of Nature, without any
art or school for discipline, I have always found,
on a nearer consideration, when they have really
produced works of excellence, a distinguished
cultivation of the mental powers, practice in art,
and views worthy in themselves, and maturely
considered. This applies to Homer as well as
Dante. The activity of genius is, it is true, natural
to it, and in a certain sense unconscious ; and
consequently the person who possesses it is not
always at the moment able to render an account of
the course which he may have pursued, but it by
110 means follows that the thinking power had not
a great share in it. It is from the very rapidity
and certainty of the mental process, from the ut-
most clearness of understanding, that thinking in
a poet is not perceived as something abstracted
does not wear the appearance of meditation : that
idea of poetical inspiration, which many lyrical
poets have brought into circulation, as if they were
not in their senses, and like Pythia, when possessed
by the divinity, delivered oracles unintelligible to
themselves (a mere lyrical invention), is least of
all applicable to dramatic composition, one of the
productions of the human mind which requires the
most exercise of thought. It is admitted that
Shakspere has reflected, and deeply reflected, on
character and passion, on the progress of events
and human destinies, on the human constitution,
on all the things and relations of the world : this
is an admission which must be made, for one alone
of thousands of his maxims would be a sufficient
refutation of whoever should attempt to deny it
So that it was only then respecting the structure of
his own pieces that he had no thought to spare ?
This he left to the dominion of chance, which
blew together the atoms of Epicurus ? But sup-
posing that he had, without the higher ambition
of acquiring the approbation of judicious critics
and posterity, without the love of art which endea-
vours at self-satisfaction in a perfect work, merely
laboured to please the unlettered crowd : this very
object alone, and the theatrical effect, would have
led him to bestow attention to the conduct of his
pieces. For does not the impression of a drama
depend in an especial manner on the relation of
the parts to each other? And however beautiful
a scene may be in itself, will it not be at once re-
probated by spectators merely possessed of plain
sense, who give themselves up to nature, whenever
it is at variance with what they are led to expect
at that particular place, and destroys the interest
which they have already begun to take? The
comic intermixtures may be considered as a sort of
interlude for the purpose of refreshing the spectators
421
SHAKSFERE IN GERMANY.
after the straining of their minds in following
the more serious parts, if no better purpose can
be found for them ; but in the progress of the
main action, in the concatenation of the events,
the poet must, if possible, display even more su-
periority of understanding than in the composition
of individual character and situations, otherwise
he would be like the conductor of a puppet-show
who has confused the wires so that the puppets,
from their mechanism, undergo quite different
movements from those which he actually intended."
Schlegel found a most able. and active coadjutor
in Ludwig Tieck, who, born in 1773, had early
acquired a taste for English literature, and for
Shakspere. So early as 1796 he had translated The
Tempest, and written an Essay on Shakspere' s
Treatment of the Supernatural. He pursued his
studies vigorously in this direction, until it was
said of him, by a writer hi one of the early volumes
of ' Blackwood's Magazine,' that he knew more of
Shakspere, and the contemporaneous literature of
his time, than any other foreigner, if not any
Englishman. Tieck early held the opinion that
Shakspere wst only to be thoroughly comprehended
by a knowledge of the older English dramas, and
in this pursuit he arrived at the conclusion that
several of these plays were by Shakspere himself.
Under this impression he published, in 1814 and
I s * Hi, his ' Alt-Englisches Theater, oder Supple-
inente zum Shakspere,' containing, in two volumes,
translations of the old plays of the 'King John'
of 1591, ' The Pinner of Wakefield,' ' Pericles,'
' Locrine,' ' The Merry Devil of Edmonton,' and
the old ' Lear.' In 1823 and 1829 followed
' Shakspere's Vorschule,' containing Greene's
' History of Friar Bacon,' ' Arden of Feversham,'
' The Lancashire Witches' of Thomas Heywood,
the ' Fair Em,' ' The Tyrant' of Massinger,* and
' The Birth of Merlin.' All of these plays, except
those otherwise appropriated, he ascribed to Shak-
spere, and the soundness of his conclusions has
already been questioned in the course of this
work. We must, however, guard the reader against
the belief that his judgment was formed under
any unconsciousness of the real worth of the
pieces. Tieck's error arose from carrying too far
the conviction that Shakspere's genius, like that of
other mortals, required, and had received, cultiva-
tion and practice before he could have produced
Ms masterpieces. He also believed, and justly,
that Shakspere began writing much earlier than
had been generally admitted ; he was, therefore,
never willing to take for granted that the badness
Massiivjer's play with this title described by Gilford
as having been destroyed by Warburton, the Somerset
herald's cook; but Tieck found the present one, with the
rine of 'The Tyrant; or the Second Maid's Tragedy,' in a
manuscript with two other plays, in the collection of the
Marquess of Lansdown, which he believes to be the same as
tne one mentioned by Gifford, and Massinger's earliest pro-
duction.
422
of a piece was proof sufficient of its not being
Shakspere's, particulaily when there was any ex-
ternal evidence in its favour. In his excellent pre-
faces to these two works he has certainly displayed
the most ingenious advocacy of their claims ; and, as
a specimen of his manner of treating them, we will
give a few lines in reference to the ' Fair Em :'
" But why may not this very weak attempt be a
hasty youthful work of the great poet ? It becomes
more probable every day to me that he came to
London much earlier than is generally admitted
If he was there in 15S4 or 15S5, and inclination or
necessity had driven him to write for the stage,
without announcing his name, such a sketch as
this, defective in character, language, and inven-
tion, might well be the work of a youth who,
without study or learning, apparently not called to
be a poet, gave to the theatre, which it certainly
neither honoured nor held for any great prize,
a magic-lantern exhibition, without substance or
vitality. For Marlowe or Greene, to whom some
would attribute this piece, it seems to me altogether
too bad and insignificant, for even if in the first
scene, and in the introduction, there is some re-
semblance to the play of ' Roger Bacon,' it is
wholly wanting in the poetical feeling, the light-
ness and pleasantness of that old drama."
[Tieck.]
The fallacy here clearly arises from not making
due allowances for what are essentially character-
istics of Shakspere's mind. Shakspere might and
did write earlier than has been generally admitted,
and not so excellently as at later periods ; but,
though " defective in chan cter, language, and in-
vention," he could at no time have been " wholly
wanting in poetical feeling." In truth, the repud i-
ation by English editors of much that was un-
doubtedly Shakspere's seems to have provoked the
German critics generally to assign all the anony-
mous dramas of the period to his pen, under the
loose argument, " If not his, who could have
SHAKSPERE IN GERMANY.
written them?" Of the general subject of Shak-
spere lie thus speaks in the preface to the ' Alt-
Knglisches Theater:' " Since Schlegel's masterly
translation of Shakspere the time appears to have
at length arrived in which to correct our views
witli regard to this poet, and to allow us to hope
that, through the study of these masterpieces, the
German genius may be inspired with true notions
of art, so that from henceforth a school may arise
on which mav be founded a really national drama,
which, while it approaches to the great English
dm ma, may preserve its own individuality, without
imitating what is merely adventitious, or, at least,
nut abandoning itself to empty mannerism. Much,
however, as Schlegel has enlightened our views
respecting these great works, a deep and well-
directed study of this poet is nevertheless required;
ai id fur that purpose it is imperatively necessary to
be acquainted with those works which existed
before and coeval with him, works which had ex-
cited the feelings of the nation, together with those
plays which he himself produced in his youth, but
which his countrymen, through a misjudging criti-
cism, and from a desire to protect (as they thought)
his fame, have refused to recognise." For this
latter purpose the two works named were published,
;.nd in them he promised a larger and more com-
plete work upon the life and character of Shakspere,
a promise which, though frequently repeated, he
unfortunately never fulfilled. '
In the mean time a more striking proof of the
growing estimation of Shakspere was afforded by
the appearance, at intervals, from 1818 to 1829, of
a translation of his dramas, by John Henry Voss,
who had already earned an European reputation by
his translations of Homer, Hesiod, Aristophanes,
and other classical writers, together with his sons,
Henry and Abraham. They were not, however,
so successful with the British dramatist as the
father had been with the classical poets ; and
though the translation is close, and occasionally
happy, yet their own countrymen condemned it,
as being too literal, harsh, affected, pedantic, and
miidiomatic, which judgment, notwithstanding an
ingenious defence of it by Henry Voss, in 1819,
appears to have been confirmed. Tieck speaks of
it as " the Shakspere of those celebrated authors,
who, in a German never spoken, endeavour,
stammeringly, to imitate the accidental harshnesses
and obscurities of the poet, even where they are
not found in the original." Horn, however, says,
" We everywhere recognise in it distinguished
philological power, and a thorough preparation for
the task ; although it must be acknowledged that
wenot unfrequently missasatisfyingvitality, colour,
and tone." The alleged defects are such as a
foreigner can scarcely pretend to decide upon, but
we could refer to a passage, for instance the song
of ' Hark, hark, the lark," in Cymbeline aivJ the
scene in The Merchant of Venice between I<oreiuso
and Jessica, Act v. Scene i., which we think would
justify a milder sentence.
To return to Tieck. In 1825 he commenced
the revisal and completion of Schlegel's transla-
tion of the plays of Shakspere, which was con-
cluded in 1833. In this edition he had the merit
of first adopting the folio of 1623 as the standard,
and declared fierce war against the conjectural and
arbitrary emendations and annotations of the com-
mentators, particularly against Steevens ; and his
defences or explanations <.f the original readings,
of which examples occur in this edition, are fre-
quently happy and ingenious. This translation it
was attempted to make as close as possible, even to
the structure of the versification, to the hemistichs,
and the rhymed endings of speeches. The only li-
berty professedly allowed was in the comic scenes, in
which, as literal translations would have destroyed
the jokes, others were substituted, occasionally
with success, but sometimes otherwise. For some
of these he apologises, mentioning Love's Labour's
Lost as the one with which the greatest freedom
had been taken. He at once associated himself
with the Count Wolf von Baudissin, and one whose
name, he says, he is desired not to give. Of the
whole it may be sufficient to say. that it fully
maintained the reputation acquired by those
already published by Schlegel, iu which also many
of the readings were improved.
In 1826 Tieck also published his ' Dramatur-
gisches Blatter,' containing much 'sound dramatic
criticism, but chiefly on German subjects, the ex-
ceptions being Romeo and Juliet, and Lear, as re-
presented on the German stage, and remarks upon
some of the characters in Hamlet : the appendix to
the work contains remarks upon several of the
plays of Shakspere which he had seen performed
in London, and on the acting of Kemble and Kean
in some of the characters. In 1828, in two no-
vellettes, called 'Das Fest zu Kenilworth' and
' Dichterleben,' he gave a fanciful delineation of
the early life of Shakspere. In the Festival at
Kenilworth he represents Shakspere's father as a
stern, melancholy, unprosperous wool-merchant,
violently repressing the son's inclination for read-
ing poetry, and refusing his consent to the young
Shakspere visiting Kenilworth. By means, how-
ever, of his mother, and Anne Hathaway, " a tell
handsome girl of twenty," the visit is made, and
Tieck gives to Shakspere a part similar to that
performed by Flibbertigibl>et in Sir W. Scott's
' Kenilworth.' He enacts the echo to seme of
Gaecoigne's verses as a satyr, in place of a lad
taken suddenly ill, and through an accidental cir-
cumstance is introduced to and favourably noticed
by the queen. In the ' Dichterleben,' or ' Poet
Life,' he has represented the introduction of Shak-
spere into London society, and given fanciful
423
SHAKSPERE IN GERMANY.
sketches of the lives and deaths of Marlowe and
Greene, with slight notices of Peele, Nashe, and
;i few others. Of these we shall say nothing;
Imt we quote the following extract from the
Utter part of a speech given to Shakspere, an un-
known modest young man in black, supposed to
ue an attorney's clerk, expressing his ideas re-
specting the use of materials for historical plays,
in opposition to some extravagant opinions of
Marlowe on the subject, partly in reference to
his ' Edward II.' : In the associations connected
with the love of our country, he argues, " when
it unites itself with the deepest reverence for the
governor, as it is now granted us in England to
honour our sublime queen, there springs from
these various powers and feelings such a mira-
culous tree of life and splendour, that I can imagine
no interest, no invented fiction, no love or passion,
which could enter into comparison with this high
inspiration. Here at once the poet finds his ma-
terials advancing towards him in most gorgeous
splendour, if he will but recognise them. Whose
heart beats not higher when he hears of Cressy and
Agincourt ? What pictures of the third Edward,
the fifth Henry, the Civil War of the Roses, the
honest Gloster, the haughty Warwick, the terrible
Richard ! or the giant figure of Gaunt, near the
too inconsiderate and unfortunate Richard of Bor-
deaux ! the Black Prince, whom even the foe names
with respect ! Cceur-de-Lion, and his greater father,
the luckiest and unluckiest of mighty monarchs !
What wonders have even we ourselves seen within
a few short years, when a foreign tyrant, with a
nonstrous armada floated to our very thresholds !
What feelings welled and rushed at that time
through the land, in valleys, woods, and mountain !
What wishes and prayers ! Young and old press-
ing cheerfully but with beating hearts into the
valiant ranks to fall or conquer ! Oh, then, then
we truly felt, without requiring it to be spoken,
what a noble good, what a jewel, higher than all
other earthly treasures, was our country. And when
our queen, in the full splendour of her majesty,
with love and grace, presented herself armed and on
horseback to the shouting crowd of the country's
defenders, when with her own mouth she spoke of
the common danger, of the terrible foe from whom
only Heaven and the union of the enthusiastic
sons of the land could deliver us, who, that
had ever experienced this highest moment of
existence, could ever forget it ? Still, high as this
imperishable feeling had raised us, we seemed
all but lost, if, fortunately, salvation had not
reached us immediately from heaven. Yes, Eliza-
beth, Howard, Drake, Raleigh, and all those names
who in those fateful days ruled and fought, must
t>e pronounced with gratitude as long as an English
voi<:e shall sound in this happy island ! Pardon
my emotion : and this, honoured sir, is it not a
424
world for the poet ?" Though Tieck, following the
common authorities, has in these two tales adopted
the belief of Shakspere' s early poverty, yet he had
the sagacity to discover that the Stratford grammar-
school was not likely to turn him out an unedu-
cated man. He also ascribes to his mother his
knowledge of old legends, histories, and ballads,
and so far the formation of his poetic character ;
and to his beautiful wife the fostering encourage-
ment of it ; while at the close of the tale he is
represented as the friend and the associate of the
Earl of Southampton.*
During the period from the commencement of
Voss's translation, the number of criticisms, dis-
quisitions, essays, and attempts at translations
of Shakspere become too numerous to allow of
our doing more than noticing the most eminent.
In 1822 Franz Horn published his ' Shaksperes
Schauspiele erlautert,' a masterly work, from which
some slight specimens have been given among the
plays of this edition. We shall therefore only give
here his general character of Shakspere, and his
theory of criticism as applied to the poet. Of
Shakspere he says, " Ever since I have been able
to think and feel, I have recognised Shakspere as
the first among all poets ; the richest and deepest,
the most instructive and delightful, the most mys-
terious and the clearest, and to whom I devoted
myself with ever new reverence and love."
" Criticism (poetical) is nothing without Poesy ;
not near, not above, but out of her ; she can teach
Poesy nothing that she has not first learned from
her; but when she becomes acquainted with her
capabilities she will foresee and understand more
than Poesy herself knew. She is then Poesy her-
self, or, if we will, the daughter of Poesy, and her
perpetuator. She receives the divine fixed prin-
ciples at second-hand ; but they are not on that
account the less divine, and they would not have
been accepted if they had not already been believed
in and recognised as such. It is self-evident also
that she must exercise a power of correction, be-
cause she only can exercise it; since Poesy, the
original creator, in a charming carelessness of all
that opposes her, can only truly enjoy herself, in her
own purity. The beautiful (so may criticism speak)
should exist, the hateful ought certainly not to
exist ; and judgment (or criticism) is therefore
not only allowable, but necessary, although cer-
tainly a time may be imagined in which the mere
exhibition of the beautiful shall destroy its op-
posing deformity. The beautiful, considered in its
perfection, is ever also the good and the true, and
genuine poetry cannot exist without the inmost
* The life of Shakspere has been made the subject of
another fiction by Kb'nig, entiiK-d ' William's Dicliten und
Trachten,' 1839, of which a second edition was published in
1850, under the title of ' William Shakspere. Bin Roman.' It
is a tale of the conspiracy of E^stx, in which Shakspere is in-
troduced. It has HtiW characterization, and is long aud dull.
SHAKSPKRE IN GERMANY.
union of these elements of its life. He to whom
life does not appear as itself the highest poetry,
that is, as in the mortal representing the immortal,
will never comprehend clearly the thoughts and
history of mankind. In Shakspere, poetry, virtue,
truth, life, and history, is altogether one : he is
therefore not only a great poet in the usual sense
of the word but also for every thinking being an
instructive author ; the best expounder of the scrip-
tural text, ' The earth is everywhere the Lord's.'
He is the true eagle, who knows how to fly with
both wings, and to move them harmoniously. In
him there is no mistake between earnestness and
jest, between the idea and the appearance, the will
and the ability ; for, as deep a thinker as a faultless
artist, he always knew how to harmonize every-
thing within its limits, and even while he excited
us, or wounded our feelings, he had always kindly
provided for our restoration to quiet repose."
Preface, viL x.
In 1836 another translation of Shakspere's
plays was published at Vienna, by Julius Korner
of Scheeberg. In his preface he says, " It may
perhaps be asked why, since the immortal Eng-
lishman, in detached pieces and collectively, has
already become naturalized among us by means of
the most excellent translations, why another at-
tempt in German ? Why give in a newer form
what Schlegel and Tieck have already introduced
into German literature with the stamp of their
master-hands ? With the utmost esteem for these
masters, which no one can feel more deeply than
the present writer, it may be allowed him to say
that every translation of this powerful genius
is, and will continue to be, only a more or less
close approximation to the original ; that, from
the various-mindedness of the poet, whether in
jest or earnest, in trembling fear or complete en-
joyment, in harshness or tenderness, alike great,
original, and abundant, one translator may suc-
ceed better in this, another in that, because more
or less adapted to his own individuality; and
particularly because the frequently occurring play
upon words, belonging to the taste of that age,
gives to every new translator opportunities of
making a happier imitation than his predecessors.
To this may be added that, from deference to
the present taste, perhaps even from that shame-
facedness, the value of whose double meaning
Schleiermacher* has made so clear to every unpre-
judiced person, these two masters frequently leave
out, qualify, or obscure certain phrases, and thus
abridge or alter the original. While we, as we
are not about to prepare an edition, in uswm Del-
pkini, in this translation take up the same founda-
tion which the poet himself promised for the drama
in respect to the time represented, namely, to show
In his ' Confidential Letters to Lucinda," a novel by F.
fon Srhlegel.
SUP. VOL. 2 E.*
' its form and pressure.' In one word, this unpa-
ralleled gigantic spirit, like the Indian Brahma,
readily takes on him divers incarnations, of which
none may perhaps succeed in imbibing and re-
flecting all his fulness and splendour." He adds
that his work is " the last among those forms in
which this god nas walked over Germany's
plains."
He also lays down the principle that a translator
should be only a translator, and not an interpreter,
and affirms that, though much has been agitated
as to corruptions of texts, much labour bestowed
on explanations of customs, manners, &c. &a,
which themselves are not always clear, much bold
guessing and arbitrary alteration, yet that some
difficulties are consequences of the poet's origin-
ality, rapidity, peculiar combinations, and genial
disposition. " As in this work it was our wish to
give Shakspere only, without the ballast of his an-
notators, these difficulties are only so far overcome,
these obscurities so far cleared up, as could be
done by the language. The incomparable Briton
is not generally to be read as we read Kotzebue
or Clausen ; whoever approaches him feels himself
moved by something elevated a reverence-com-
manding spirit stands before him, who requires
attentive consideration, and even a self-collected-
ness : it is the same also in attempting .the trans-
ference of this and similar works of genius, and
not so much the easy fluency which, for the con-
venience of the tongues of actors, has been made
the principal object." He adds that Herr Menzel,
in the ' Litteraturblatt zum Morgenblatt,' says
lyrical poems should be smooth, but " in poems
in which the extension, elevation, and import
ance of the prevailing thoughts allow rather of
a certain hardness of expression than a weakening
of the thought or the omission of any essential
feature, a beauty which is acquired through en-
feebling or abated vigour is bought too dearly."
In pursuance of his plan the translation is effected
by himself, Dr.Heinrich Do'ring, Beauregard Pandin
(whose real name was K. F. von Jariges), G. Regis,
Dr. Georg Nicolas Biirmann, and the Sonnets by
Karl Richter. But this " last form in which this god
walked the plains of Germany" was not lonfc the
last. In 1836-7 a miniature edition was published
nt Leipzig by a still more numerous band of con-
tributors twelve in number. This work has
neither preface nor notes. As far as we may be
allowed to judge, both these translations are very
close and spirited. It is curious, however, to
observe the different modes in which peculiarities
of dialect are rendered, as in the cases of Sir Hugh
Evans, and the Peasant in Lear; and also the variety
of expression in the language of the different trans-
lations, even when all are close and satisfactory.
In 1839 appeared Dr. Herman Ulrici's work,
' Ueber Shakspeare's Drimatischc Kunst, und scin
425
SHAKSPERE IN GERMANY.
Verhiiltniss zu Cakleron and Go'the." From this
work several specimens of his criticisms on par-
ticular dramas have been given, and it will be only
necessary to add somewhat of his general ideas of
Shakspere, his art, and his times. In the intro-
ductory divisions he gives a sketch of the history
of the English drama to the time of Shakspere,
of the literary characters of Marlowe and Greene,
of Shakspere'a life and times, and of Shakspere's
dramatic style and poetical view of the world.*
In the first division, as the foreigner had no new
facts to add, there is little to notice for an Eng-
lishman, though containing a concise and per-
spicuous statement well worthy the attention of
his countrymen. His materials being taken from
English authors, he has generally adopted their
opinions. We shall, therefore, only give from
this part his opinion as to the impress given by
the time to the form of the English drama. Of
the principles upon which the popular drama was
constructed, he says, " It is as unfair as contrary
to history to allow no place in the history of art
to the earlier attempts to form the modem drama
upon the old classical model, or to wish to deny
to the latter any influence upon the development
of the former. It had this influence, partly nega-
tive, as it helped to cleanse the artistic materials
from all sorts of excrescences and disfigurements,
to purify the air from the miasma contributed by
ecclesiastical and political contemporary histories,
and thence to support art in its efforts to attain
independence : partly more general, as it awakened
and required the perception for the artistical form
in composition and dramatic development. It
was certainly in every way fortunate that it had
no greater influence ; that it was introduced too
early and with too little power, in a great measure
also in a form too contemptible, to have con-
tributed much to the formation of the popular
taste ; for there can be no doubt that the unrea-
soning slavish imitation of the ancient models
destroyed the French and, to a considerable
degree, the Italian national theatres. The Eng-
lish popular poets took no concern about the
rules of Aristotle. They followed their own
course freshly and freely, while they constantly
adopted, illustrated, and laboured only upon the
living elements, the intellectual formation of the
people themselves, with the awakened feeling of
artistical form, acquired, consciously or uncon-
sciously, from the study of the ancients. Their
object was to seize and chain the attention of the
people : they were thence constrained to approach
them closely, but at the same time somewhat
elevated above them ; they must, above all things,
address themselves to matters lying near the
people's hearts, to materials well understood, to
Shaksp are's Iramatisches Styl und Poetische Welt-
anschauung.
426
universal human motives and interest ; to apply
these in the most effective manner, and thence to
satisfy more and more the requisitions of art : this
was their object. This is the object of all artistic
development, in the uninterrupted prosecution ol
which the highest and best is to be reached. Only
in a path of such a naturally-formed conformation
could a Shakspere have arisen." P. 22.
In the second division, ' Shakspere's Life anu
Times,' Ulrici has followed the commonly re-
ceived statements of Shakspere's history, the
poverty of his father his acting as woolstapler
and butcher his imperfect education his deer-
stealing* his unhappy marriage. In all these
matters Ulrici was, of course, at the mercy of the
previous English writers on the subject. He had,
and acknowledged that he had, no new facts to
communicate, and he took upon trust what he
had no means of controverting. Believing, there-
fore, that Shakspere laboured under all these
disadvantages, he looked around for the circum-
stances that might compensate for them ; he
found them in the state of his country, and the
period in which he lived when " the merry Old
England was yet in full bloom."
Ulrici advocates the theory of there being four
or five periods of Shakspere's life, distinguishable
in his productions, each becoming more earnest in
thought, and more condensed in language, till, in
the last period, they became "dark and bitter,"
and that " these serious views of life, this frame
of mind and soul, with the, to him, dreary
worldly activity of the capital, and his own posi-
tion therein, may, by degrees, have disgusted him,
and have been the reasons for his leaving London,
in 1614, and retiring to his native town ;" though
he alludes to the affection he had always shown
for the place, "probably," he adds, "from at-
tachment to his family." Here, he says, "he
lived a couple of years in lonely rural leisure, pro-
bably without any distinct exercise of his former
calling." Shakspere's character and feelings he
endeavours to describe from his works, particu-
larly the Sonnets ; but we shall quote nothing
further from this division than the following retro-
spect of Shakspere's life :
"When we throw a glance over the external
public life that Shakspere led as an actor and a
* Adopting this and other apocryphal stories, he is com-
pelled to make a theory to account for, and partly to excuse
them, which he does thus: "It seems that the fertility of
fancy, the undirected desires and impulses, disturbed fluc-
tuations of intellectual activity, which so frequently charac-
terise the young poet, led Shakspere into many irregularitiei
and extravagances. Who does not know, either from his
own experience or that of others, the tormenting uneasiness
arising from a continual struggle betwixt the irrepressible
impulses of a soaring, determined, and inspired mind, and
the external claims of depressing, unsuitable, and inimical
circumstances ? Who would then cast the first stone, even
if it were true that some dissolute young men with whom
he was acquainted had frequently induced him to join them
in their poaching expeditions f" &c. &c.
SHAKSPERE IN GERMANY.
poet, we see before us, in the four or five periods
which he passed through, a natural, progressive,
and organic whole, that, probably even without
any external co-operating circumstances, would
have formed itself thus and no otherwise. De-
ducting the interruption of his poetical activity
which arose from Ben Jonson's opposition,* his
external life, after the first youthful indiscre-
tion and their consequences had been mastered,
flowed indeed quietly and peacefully, though not
without brightness and elevation. It was a ge-
nuine poetical life, wholly devoted to poetical
matters, and to the ever-higher-ascending deve-
lopment of his art. Shakspere was neither a
minister, nor a professor, nor even an official of
any sort ; he was neither a court poet, nor a mem-
ber of any literary union or society of arts. He
was nothing but himself, neither more nor less
than a poet. This undisturbed freedom, this self-
dependence and self-contentedness, was the found-
ation of his greatness. Like Sophocles, to whom,
in many respects, he bore the nighest spiritual
relationship, he stood, self-supported, upon the
boundary-line of two periods, upon a soil richly
blooming with art, amidst a great, a noble, a ci-
vilised nation. He desired nothing but what his
art required and warranted ; he wished for nothing
but to promulgate openly what he perceived around
him in the world and in himself: the magnifi-
cence and goodness of God in nature and in his-
tory, the whole depth of the human mind, the
courage and despondency of the heart, the immea-
surable heights and basenesses of human nature.
In which, like Sophocles, while he endeavoured
to portray the purely human, the highest and the
greatest were drawn from himself.
" For Shakspere was not only a great poet, he
was a great and noble man. He could not be the
one without the other. ' Worthy, noble, and be-
loved,' are the expressions which everywhere or-
nament his name when used by his contempora-
ries. It is certainly very significant, that upon
a man of so splendid a genius, who, if fortunately
not liable to be otherwise envied, was yet the
most celebrated poet of his time, the patronised
of two crowned heads, the friend and favourite
of great and powerful men, envy was in no si-
tuation to throw the slightest stain. That his
whole external life had throughout flown so noise-
lessly and irreproachably, without any important
circumstances or vicissitudes, shows the quiet,
broad, majestical stream of his intellectual deve-
lopment the clear heavenly ether in which, gene-
rally, his soul must have been surrounded. This is
to be rated so much the higher, because, in a
spirit like Shakspere's, with such immense means
and powers, even sin and our sinful nature, with
* This is a theory as baseless as many others which have
shaped the common notion of Shakspre's career.
its desires and affections, must have been ex-
tremely powerful. If we hear in his poems of the
monstrous eruptions of passion, the deep, pene-
trating tones of feeling, the surging and rushing of
the affections, the many-figured play of a rich and
glowing fancy, we must admit that the poet must
have felt in himself what he has represented with
such lively truth, or at least have borne the germs
of them in his own breast. The moral power,
which, nevertheless, never lost its dominion, thus
becomes so much the more worthy of our admi-
ration." *
The following are the opinions of Ulrici on the
much-disputed point of Shakspere's scholastic at-
tainments : " Shakspere's moral and religious
strength of character, the energy of his will, the
profundity of his genius, the power of his creative
fancy, was at length, there can be no doubt, ac-
companied by a corresponding mass of know-
ledge. The old prejudice, that he was a rude, un-
formed natural poet, begins now to be weakened
even among the English critics themselves. It
stood, indeed, upon much too weak a foundation.
At first men allowed themselves to be imposed
upon by the continued reproach of want of learn-
ing, science, and education made against him by
Ben Jonson, and others like him, without con-
sidering that between the learning of Ben Jonson
and vulgar ignorance there might be a large num-
ber of marked degrees. Ben Jonson, from his
literary rank, might be in the right when he stated
Shakspere had ' little Latin and less Greek,' and
yet it might be no contradiction, when Aubrey, and
also Rowe, who collected a vast number of tradi-
tional stories, anecdotes, and traits of character,
said that he understood Latin well. The one ap-
plied the measure of an extreme philology, the
others the common and popular one. Shakspere
might thus be very well able to read the Roman
poets and prose-writers in the originals, without
our being justified in considering Jonson guilty of
a falsehood ; for between the merely reading and
understanding of a language and the possession of
a tnoroughly scientific knowledge of it there is
an immeasurable difference. In the same way it
stands with French, and probably with Italian.
The first is evidently shown in Henry V., a suffi-
cient proof, which Drake has even superfluously
established, on all sides. That to a mind like
Shakspere's it must have been easy to acquire
Italian so as to read and understand it, is obvious
from its near relationship to the French and Latin ;
and that he actually did so is rendered probable
from the materials of many of his plays being taken
from Italian novels, and he must have soon felt
that this language, whose literature at that time was
the richest in the world, was almost indispensable
to his poetical activity." He then proceeds to de-
Ulrici, 109-111.
427
SHAKSPERE IN GERMANY.
fend Shakspere from the charge of ignorance in
geographical and other matters, and to prove that
he possessed a most extensive general knowledge.
Mr. Carlyle, in his remarkable work on the French
Revolution, has called Shakspere "a blossom of
Catholicism." * Ulrici, on the contrary, main-
tains that it was Protestantism that produced
Shakspere, and endeavours to prove it from a com-
parison with Calderon. His distaste of Popery,
and his predilection for Protestantism, he considers
manifested in King John, particularly the early
play, which he holds to be genuine, and in Henry
VIII., but admits he partook not of the puritanical
feeling beginning to prevail in his time. He has
also a peculiar theory as to the pervading spirit of
Christianity which, he contends, animates all his
dramas. His reasoning is much too lengthy to be
given here ; we will, therefore, supply but a short
extract as a specimen of his matter :
" Shakspere's invention, composition, charac-
terization, and language all that we call his dra-
matic style though kept subordinate by his vivid
ideas of dramatic art, first appear in full and dis-
tinct peculiarity in his conception of the relation-
ship between God and the world, in which, for the
first time, nature, life, and the course of events,
obtain their true significancy. This is his poetical
view of the world. It is, in its essential substance,
wholly rooted in Christianity and its principles,
as a deeper insight into his works will convince
every one. In the Christian view of the world,
the principle that ' Character and Fate are synony-
mous ideas' has, for the first time, its full, even
though somewhat partial, truth ; for by Christianity
is mankind first truly made free. According to
the belief of the ancient classical writers, Fate,
though sustained and developed by the will and
acts of men, stood opposed to his freedom as an
unalterable necessity." This view Ulrici supports
by quoting many of the Grecian dramas. "In
the Christian view of the world, on the contrary,
there is no government of fate. God, his love and
iustice, rules over all worldly affairs ; and God is
a pure, living, self-acting personality and freedom,
who therefore voluntarily circumscribes himself,
who himself wills the freedom of mankind, and
leaves them to develop themselves independently ;
and while he concedes to the human spirit, because
it is and ought to be a spirit, its free causality, its
creative self-activity, itself and its conduct is re-
strained, partly by the objective formation of the
relations, as well as the consequences and effects, of
human actions ; partly, after the fall, through be-
coming himself a man, restoring to mankind the
* The passage it a striking one, and we therefore append
it here "Nay thu too, if Catholicism, with and against
Feudalism (but not against nature and her bounty), gave us
English a Shakspere, and era of Shakspere, and so pi od need
a blossom of Catholicism, it was not till after Catholicism
itself, 8u far as law could abolish it, had been abolished here."
428
only possibility of deliverance and salvation ; an<?
for this purpose from within produces outwards
the organic union of the divine spirit and bodily
substance in Christ with the freedom of human
action. Thus fate is here in accordance with the
action and general ideas of the course of the world's
history. Man is indeed lord of his fate, and yet
his fate at the same time is a divine dispensation.
An indissoluble organic unity and interchangeal >le
effect is thus represented. The course of historical
development is conditionate on the will and ac-
tions of man, but they are at the same time only
permitted by the eternal counsels of God : the
fates of the acting personages must be determined
step by step, by their own characters, by theii
freedom of will and action ; at the same time, also,
out of the circumstances and opinions of the world,
historically considered, and, also at the same time,
from the unlimited power of God over the world-
the ordinances of God. All these causes, which al-
ternately limit and extend each other, must, in their
organic working, come equally into immediate
view. Their discord, which in the ancient drama
makes itself everywhere felt, and is especially dis-
played outwardly, is here contemplated in its in-
ternal deliverance, and must be represented as
continually delivering itself and as delivered. God
himself desires the reconciliation of these oppo-
sites, which in the classical view of the world are
in discordance with each other : the reconciliation
exists objectively ; mankind is reconciled, and the
disunion can only occur therefore in the hearts of
individuals, in whose particular cases the universal
godlike reconciliation is required ; the deliverance
of these can thus also be effected only from within,
outwardly, through the combined influences of all
these causes. This, however, requires necessarily
that abundance of forms and features, the most
exact and complete characterization, the various
representations of ideas, as well as the bounding
activity and concentration of the action and the
language, by which the modern drama, and Shak-
spere in particular, is distinguished." Pp. 160-2.
This specimen of the important point of view
which can be taken of the drama by a religious
man will be sufficient ; but in reviewing the plays
themselves, Ulrici suffers himself to be often led
away to the belief that Shakspere was preach-
ing a Protestant sermon, when he was only, no
doubt, working out an intellectual and moral pro-
blem not coldly as a metaphysician, but dramatic-
ally, because the good and the true are the natural
and the effective.
In this sketch we do not pretend to enumerate
all who have written upon Shakspere, nor even
all who have written well, hut only those whom
we think have had, or are likely to have, some
influence on the German mind.
This influence has been exercised in various
SIIAKSPERE IN GERMANY.
ways : sometimes by popularising the knowledge
of Shakspere's works by cheap editions; some-
times by the translation of a single play, with
a dissertation on its characteristics ; and some-
times by works merely critical, of considerable
bulk, and often of much merit, of which speci-
mens have already been given from SchlegeL,
Horn, Ulrici, &c. Of the translations of the
whole of the dramas, the first we need name is
that by Joseph Meyer, published between 1824
and 1834, in numbers, at Gd. each play. Meyer
himself translated only thirteen of the plays, the
others were made by H. Boring, and the poems
and the spurious plays were by R. S. Schneider.
In the Life of Shakspere, contained in the Intro-
duction, Meyer follows implicitly the old myths of
Shakspere's early life, saying, after Aubrey " he
followed, for some years, the trade of a slaughter-
man (Schldch/ermcitter), and, as Ats contemporaries
faithfully assure us, with more than the usual
ability." Thus does a tale improve !
Bottger's edition in 16mo. was issued in single
plays at Gd. each ; and in this work he was
assisted by L. Petz, Th. Mugge, E. Ortlepp,
A. Fischer, Karl Simrock, L. Hilsenberg, Th.
Oelckers, W. Lampadius, E. Susemihl, H. Coring,
and E. Thein ; the translations are on the whole
well done. It was first published in 1836-9, and
has been more than once reprinted. One of the
contributors, E. Ortlepp, issued a complete trans-
lation of his own, and in 1840 a supplement,
containing the Doubtful and Ascriled Plays, with
Dissertations on the Characterization of Shakspere.
The translation of P. Kaufmann, commenced
in 1830 with Macbeth and Lear, was never com-
pleted, and includes only Othello and Cymbeline,
published in 1832 ; the Merry Wives of Windsor,
the Two Gentlemen of Verona, and Much Ado
about Nothing, in 1835 ; and ceased in 1836 ; in
which year were issued All's Well that Ends
Well, the Comedy of Errors, and Love's Labour's
Lost. The translator, who had previously distin-
guished himself by a happy rendering of a large
selection from the poems of Burns, was equally
successful with Shakspere ; all the dramas are
satisfactorily translated ; that of Lear has been
thought by some as the best version that has yet
appeared ; and it has been more than once pub-
lished separately.
In 1843-47 A. Keller and M. Rapp issued a
new translation, with explanatory notes, in 16mo.,
in thirty-seven parts or eight volumes, which was
very tolerably executed, and reached a second
edition in 1854. Its most noticeable peculiarity
is in the titles of several of the plays, as the
Mischievous Windsor Women, the Friends of
Oporto (Two Gentlemen of Verona), a Tale by
the Fireside (Winter's Tale), &c., an effort appa-
rently to distinguish themselves from other trans-
lators by their singularity. In 1856 another
translation, by Ph. Reclam, also in 16mo., was
commenced, and has been completed, but it calls
for no special notice.
In 1856 Dr. F. Jencken published the transla-
tion of six of Shakspere's plays. The selection
certainly shows some ambition ; they were Ham-
let, Julius Caesar, Romeo and Juliet, Othello,
Lear, and Macbeth. The translator was blind at
the time of his undertaking the task, and his
motive for doing so was a belief in the essential
difference of the two languages : the English, as
he says, having, "even in what we term the
sphere of ideality," a practical and realistic tone,
that leaves its colouring on the poetical images ;
in the German the translation gives not merely
an altered sound, but an altered and frequently a
wholly different significance and importance. In
this there is some truth ; but the translator has
not succeeded in giving a version superior to those
previously existing.
Dr. 0. Fiebig, in 1857, published a 'College
Shakspere,' taking as his text Bowdler's ' Family
Shakspere,' which he says has the great merit of
having " extirpated the offensive expressions of
the great English poet without any injury to the
context or any visible scar or blank in the compo-
sition." This we think is a sufficiently bold
assertion ; but it was intended, as is stated, for
those students in a college at Leipzig who are
acquiring the English language, and is accom-
panied by a quantity of useful explanatory notes
for that purpose.
English editions of Shakspere have also been
published in Germany. The most noticeable is
that by N. Delius, who in 1841 published Mac-
beth, a reprint of the folio of 1623, with the
variations of those of 1632, 1664, and 1674 given
as foot-notes, and the whole was completed in eight
volumes in 1864. It is accompanied by explana-
tory and critical remarks in German, and many
ingenious new readings have been suggested, some
of which have been adopted by English editors.
N. Delius is a thoroughly good English scholar,
and for 'Germans reading the plays in the ori-
ginal language his work is invaluable. He has
written much and well upon Shakspere ; but in
his 'Tieck'sche Shakespeare- Kritick bcleuchtet'
(Bonn, 1846), he has indulged in a captious
tone against that translation that might have
been well spared. He has pointed out errors no
doubt, but they are for the most part of very
little importance ; and occasionally in doing this
he has himself fallen into a mistake. Herr Delius
makes it matter of complaint that Tieck has not
availed himself of the labours of J. P. Collier,
C. Knight, and A. Dyce, in his later editions ;
and also that " translated by Schlegel and Tieck "
is deceptive, as Tieck did not translate. He also
129
SHAKSPERE IN GERMANY.
blames him for his harsh judgment of the English
critics who disbelieved Shakspere's authorship of
Henry VI. Part 1. and who thought the Second
and Third Parts were originally written by some
other pen, and he says that Tieck's opinion " at
no time was generally maintained." Tieck had
said of Hamlet " this work certainly belongs to
the earliest period of the poet. The first produc-
tion has probably never been printed." Delius
says that this " was one of those vague guesses
too often found in Tieck, and for which he had
no foundation." But speaking of the quarto of
1603, he adds, that " this was a youthful work of
the young poet is a belief adopted by Mr. Knight
in his edition, and by the critic in the Edinburgh
Review, but for which they advance nothing more
than sufficient to make it probable." Delius, how-
ever, in his Introduction to Hamlet (English edi-
tion, 1854), altogether adopts the conclusion arrived
at by Mr. Knight. Of the smaller fault-finding
we refrain from giving any specimen. Together
with the plays Delius has given the Poems, and
he says of the Sonnets that in the first edition they
Beern thrown together accidentally. He prints them
according to this arrangement, but gives a list of
them as arranged in the edition of 1640, and
notices Mr. A. Brown's division of them into
series. Among his other works may be mentioned
the ' Mythus von W. Shakespeare. Eine Kritik
der Shakespeareschen Biographieen,' 1851 , in which
he compliments the Editor of the Pictorial Shaks-
pere as having been the first to show the worth-
lessness of the idle tales that had encumbered the
lives of the poet ; a ' Shakespeare-Lexikon,' in
an 8vo. volume, published in 1852 ; and an Essay
on the MS. Corrections on the folio of 1632 pro-
pounded by J. P. Collier, which he refuses to
accept as an authority. Mr. Collier's text after
this corrected folio has, however, been reprinted
in Germany.
A useful work for German readers is that of
Dr. Schmidt of Dantzig, ' Sacherklarende Anmer-
kungen zu Shaksperes Dramen,' published in
1842, consisting chiefly of a selection from the
notes of the English variorum editions, with ex-
planations of particular idioms, and the supply
occasionally of a passage omitted, or asserted to
be imperfectly given, in Tieck and Schlegel's
translations, to which work it forms a sort of
Appendix. Another, of more general interest, is
that of P. H. Sillig, the ' Shakespeare Literature
to the middle of 1854, containing lists of all' the
editions of Sliakspere ; of all the translations in
German, French, Dutch, and Italian, whether of
collections or of single plays ; and of all essays,
illustrations, commentaries, &c.' The list dis-
plays a thorough knowledge of the subject down
to the date at which it closes.
Of single plays with commentaries explana-
430
ti< us, and critical remarks, the examples re
almost innumerable. We can but mention Pro-
fessor Tycho Mommsen's Romeo and Juliet, with
his critical remarks on the earlier and later texts ;
an English text of the Taming of the Shrew,
with notes by R. Kohler in 1864, which is accom-
panied by the reprint of a German translation
I published in 1672, under the title of Kunst iiber
alle Kiinste, ein bos Weib gut zu machen ; an
I excellent edition of Hamlet in 1857, by Karl
Elze, with some judicious remarks ; ' Letters upon
Hamlet,' 1864, by the Baron von Friesen, a search-
ing investigation of the date of the play, and of
the general characterization ; and Karl Simrock's
' Remarks on the Plots of Shakespeare's Plays,'
which has been reproduced by Mr. J. 0. Halliwell
in the publications of the Shakspeare Society.
The latest of these new translations has been
begun in 1865 as a portion of a ' Bibliothek
auslandischer Klassiker,' which is to include trans-
lations of the standard works of all languages,
and of which have already appeared Dante's
Divina Comedia, Tegner's Frithiofs Saga, the
novels of Topfer and Bjornsen ; and Moliere,
Rousseau, Le Sage, Ariosto, Tasso, Boccaccio,
Alfieri, Cervantes, the Cid, Milton, Swift, Pope,
Goldsmith, Macpherson's Ossian, Burns, Walter
Scott, &c. &c. are to follow. The translators of
Shakspere have hitherto been W. Jordan, Ludwig
Seeger, Karl Simrock, and Franz Dingelstedt,
In the Hamlet, Romeo and Juliet, and Macbeth,
Tieck's version is adopted, in many lines un-
altered, in many others with the change of a word
or two, sometimes for the better, but not always ;
and on the whole we may rest well contented with
the old version.
Shakspere's Poems and Sonnets have been re-
peatedly translated ; the Venus and Adonis and
Rape of Lucretia first by Albrecht in 1783 ; and
since by Schumacher, Bauernfeld, Schneider,
Richter, Ortlepp, Wagner, Laclimann (the Son-
nets only), and Freiligrath (the Venus and Adonis
and Rape of Lucretia only). The Sonnets and
the Passionate Pilgrim by G. Regis is on the
whole the closest and considered to be the best,
and with the introduction and explanatory re-
marks displays a commendable industry and a true
feeling of the author. It was published in 1836,
in 16mo. in the ' Shakespeare- Almanack,' and has
been eclipsed in form at least by the translation
of the Sonnets by Fr. Bodenstedt in Svo. in 1862.
In this a new arrangement has been adopted, for
which a satisfactory reason is promised in the
introduction, but which he has omitted to give,
and though not inelegant, is far from being so
close to the original as that of Regis. It will
nevertheless give to the German public a wider
acquaintance with these Poems than they hav
hitherto possessed.
SHAKSPERE IN GERMANY.
But with all these repeated efforts at trans-
lation, that of the dramas edited by Tieck re-
mains the most popular and therefore the most
influential. There have now been eight editions
published. In the sixth, published in 1853-54,
it was first publicly announced who was the third
person to whom Tieck alludes in his parting
address at the close of the first edition " often
have the three fellow-labourers assembled together
to improve their common work." It was then first
stated that Dorothea, Tieck's eldest daughter,
had contributed Coriolanus, the Two Gentlemen
of Verona, Timon of Athens, the Winter's Talc,
Cymbeline, and Macbeth ; Count Wolff von Bau-
dissin had furnished King Henry VIII., King \
Lear, Antony and Cleopatra, Titus Andronicus, j
Othello, Troilus and Cressida, the Comedy of !
Errors, All's Well that Ends Well, Love's La- [
bour's Lost, the Taming of the Shrew, Much Ado
about Nothing, the Merry Wives of Windsor,
and Measure for Measure ; the remainder were
those which Schlegel had prepared ; except that
Pericles was not included in the first edition, nor
has it been added in the later editions, neither was
it included in the translation of Voss. This is
very singular, as Tieck has translated it in his
' Alt Englisches Theater,' in which he expresses
nimself as having no doubt of its being an early
vork of Shakspere. The influence exercised by
Tieck over German opinion was probably more
extended by his readings of Shakspere, which he
gave in his own house at Dresden for many years,
Mid which were attended not only by intelligent
Germans but by foreigners of all nations, than
by his publications. A listenei to many of these
readings (the Baron von Friesen) says " By the
fulness and flexibility of his voice, by the cer-
tainty and delicacy with which he governed every
sound without the slightest appearance of effort
or constraint, and by the warmth and depth of
the poetical feelings with which he rose to the
most elevated expression of passion, or sunk to
the most delicate shadowing of the tenderest
emotion, the dramas of Shakspere, which he de-
livered in succession, appeared the animated
images of an harmonious organism. We forgot
the want of scenery, and saw only the speaking
Character alive before us." Nor was the English
influence on German literature limited to the
example of Shakspere ; other examples from
our older dramatists were likewise translated,
besides those we have mentioned by Tieck. In
1831 E. von Billow issued translations of Grim
the Collier of Croydon, Edward II. and the Jew
^'f Malta ; and in 1836 Count von Baudissin gave
to the world a selection from ' Ben Jonson and
his School,' containing specimens from Jonson,
Massinger, and Beaumont and Fletcher ; with
notices of the manners, customs, and peculiarities
of the period, a work of great value for a German
reader, and which was certainly derived from the
example and received the assistance of Tieck.*
The amount of critical labour bestowed on
Shakspere within the last few years is enormous.
In the literary publications occasional papers
appear. Some have considerable merit ; others,
and the more numerous, are superficial or alto-
gether erroneous. Only one fact is encouraging,
that none now venture to speak of Shakspere as
merely an uncultivated natural genius. The critics
of the school of Coleridge, Schlcgel, and Tieck have
entirely annihilated that belief. On the whole,
there is little that is of importance in the modern
criticism ; where it is new, it is too frequently
marked by ill-nature directed against either the
adherents or the opposers of what is called the
romantic schools, and this is said to have been origi-
nally commenced by Delius in his attack on Tieck.
In 1837 and 1842 H. Th. Rotscher in Essays
on Lear and Romeo and Juliet, given in his
Essays on Philosophy and Art, endeavours to
show, but very unsatisfactorily, that Shakspere had
formed a system of philosophy, and that it is assimi-
lated to that of Hegel ; in 1844, a Cycle of Dramatic
Characters ; in 1859, Critical and Dramatic Essays ;
and in 1864, Shakspere in his highest character-
form explained and developed. In this he takes a
wider view and in a more liberal spirit, and has
shown much diligence and good taste in pointing
out the manner in which Shakspere's characters
should be represented. ' Shakspere im Verhaltniss
zur deutschen Poesie, ihsbesondere zur politischen,"
hy Dr. Fricdrich Theodore Vischer, published at
Stuttgardt in 1861, in the New Series of the
' Kritische Gange,' is a valuable and highly popular
contribution to Shaksperian literature.
Professor F. Kreyssig published in 1858 and
1862, Lectures on Shakspere, his Times, and his
Works. It is extremely well written, displays
great industry in investigating the sources of the
dramas, a sincere and intelligent appreciation of
the dramatist, and has become a popular work
with the reading public, but it betrays a too un-
disguised depreciation of the so-called romanticists.
The term romantic is scarcely used now in the
sense in which Lessing used it. It is alleged that
the romanticists lay too much weight on imagi-
nation and feeling, and thus not only neglect
all principles of regularity of form, but also too
* It may be worth mentioning, that another work, alia
published in 183fi, under the title of ' Vier Schaupie)e, von
Shakespeare; iibersetzt von L. Tieck,' was, in fact, the
work of Baudissin. It contained Edward 111.. Thomas
Lord Cromwell, Sir John Oldcastle, and the London Pro-
digal. Tieck liad given liis assistance, and saw If through
the press. He was to have furnished a pn-face, naming
(lie real translator; but Ihe printer and publisher hurried
the vvoik, mid before the preface ieacli-.d them, the work
hX been issued to the public under Tieck's nam*, to ths
surprise <>( I"''" editor and translator.
SHAKSPERE IN GERMANY.
frequently indulge in the expression of their own
peculiar emotions. Long since Gothe had marked
the distinction : " I should define the classic by
the word healthy, the romantic by the word sickly.
In this sense the Niebelungen Lied is as much a
classic as the Iliad. Most modem productions are
not romantic because they are new, but because
they are weak, morbid, and sickly, and the old are
not classics because they are old, but because they
are strong, fresh, healthy, and cheerful." * The
adversaries of the romanticists also add that, with
unrestrained imaginations, feelings, and sensations
in poetry and literature, obscurity, complications,
and untruth to nature are produced, and they
accuse the romanticists with peculiar emphasis that
they mistake or leave unnoticed the spirit of the
time in its social and political aspect of advance.
Now, il we remember who, in the tnie sense of the
word, really deserve the name of romanticists and
except Tieck and the two Schlegels there are but
few prominent writers we must feel convinced
that these reproaches are unfounded ; on the
other hand, if the swarm of writers, now with
much and now with but little justification, are
reckoned amongst them, we shall certainly find
many names to whom the reproach of an obsciire
crowding of thoughts or a sickly sentimentality
may justly apply. But party spirit does not dis-
tinguish thus ; and the name of romanticist is
used as betokening an adherent of a disagreeable
and old-fashioned school. This conclusion acts ill
on the criticism of Shakspere, for it was from the
romanticists proper that the earlier enlightened
judgments proceeded upon Shakspere and the true
character of his dramas. The opposers of the
romanticists are sometimes styled classicists, but
in truth they are realists.
In 1863-4 Dr. and Professor J. L. F. Flathe
issued two volumes upon ' Shakespeare und seine
Wirklichkeit.' He quotes Gothe, who has said :
" Shakspeare offers us golden apples in silver
dishes. We get the silver dishes by studying his
works, but unfortunately we have nothing better
than potatoes to put into them."t It is painful
to have this sentence of Gothe's made the ground-
work of an attack on all preceding critics, and the
conscientious labours of so many learned and in-
dustrious men condemned. The German aesthetic
is disserted on and highly praised, but without
any novelty ; he adopts many of the opinions of
those he attacks ; he adds little or nothing to
the knowledge of Shakspere ; and the whole is
tedious. Surely we have here a specimen of the
potatoes without the silver dish.
The only other critical work we shall notice
is that of Gervinus, first published in four volumes
* 'Eckermann's Conversations with Gttthe ,' translated
by 8. M. Fuller, 1839, p. 285.
t Ibid, p. 157.
432
in 1849-50, of which a third edition was issued in
1862, and of which an English translation has
been given to the public. Gervinus was a well
known author ; he possesses an easy style, is fre-
quently eloquent, and he had been persecuted for
his liberal opinions in politics ; consequently it is
no wonder that his work was at once popular. Bui
we cannot avoid thinking that it has been greatly
over-praised. In his analyzation of the plays and
the principal characters he is often acute, but he is
also often super-subtle. The marks of a too fluent
pen are constantly observable ; and there is an
air of superficiality over the whole. As one in-
stance we may quote the treatment, in his first
edition, of the Three Parts of Henry VI., in
which, resting on Malone, he decided against the
First Part having been written by Shakspere, as
well as against the early copies of the Second and
Third Parts, and asserts that Shakspere has only
touched up these two parts; adding dogmati-
cally in a note, " Tieck's belief that these pieces
were by Shakspere in an older and original form
is now participated in by no one," ignoring the
fact that they have been included in every Ger-
man translation of the collected plays, and passing
unnoticed the Essay on the Three Parts of King
Henry VI., and King Richard III., published in
the first edition of the Pictorial Shakspere. In the
translation of the last edition of Gervinus by Miss
F. E. Bunnett, he is made to say : "The two last
Parts of Henry VI. are worked up by Shakspeare
from an existing original, which may have early
suggested to our Poet the idea, not alone by ad-
ditions to appropriate them to his stage, but also
to append to them the whole series of his histories,
and this not only with regard to the Parts, but
even to the leading idea. For the First Part, on
the contrary, we possess no sources ; in its tenour
it is but very slightly united with the two last
Parts, and this union was not originally contained
in the piece From Malone's ample disserta-
tion upon the Three Parts of Henry VI., until
Dyce, all authorship of this first Part is in
England generally refused to our Poet." He then
proceeds to show that scenes might be expunged
without loss, and that when Tieck and Ulrici so
highly praise the trilogy, he says, " they betray
that they do not distinguish between matter and
form, and that they have not compared the chron-
icles which these dramas follow with the poetical
version. There cannot be much question of plan
and composition in a piece which simply follows,
with a few exceptions and errors, the course of the
chronicle, which, like the chronicle, unfolds in
succession the various layers of the matter, and
brings forward a series of scenes which, as the
anecdotes of the armourer and the lame Simpcox,
stand in very slight connexion with the great
course of the whole." In the translation, how-
SIIAKSPERE IN GERMANY.
ever, the note is omitted, that "the belief is now
participated in by no one." Of the whole, the
Baron von Friesen writes in a MS communica-
tion: "One can scarcely believe that the clear,
and in my opinion convincing, Essay of Charles
Knight upon the subject, can have been wholly
unknown to him. Should this have been actually
the case, he should have remembered the contra-
diction of the older commentators though given
with less energy and less authority Steevens, for
instance, and that the subject required a much
more earnest consideration. For an author of the
position and the celebrity of Gervinus could not or
should not but have known that this inquiry is of
the highest importance for a true judgment of the
general poetical character of Shakspere." Ger-
vinus's knowledge of Shakspere's times, and the
manners and ideas then prevalent, are evidently
slight. We will only add that his attacks on the
idealists or romanticists are continuous, and that
he assumes that Shakspere uniformly prefers
action as a principle in his writings, and in his
development of character ; this is what he mainly
endeavours to establish. This, however, is taking
a very narrow view of the poet, who has, indeed,
generally abundant action, and also meditation,
passion, wit, and imagination. But as the book is
accessible to the English reader, we here quit the
subject. We may add that Karl Simrock has no
such high idea of Malone's merits as Gervinus
has. In his translation of Macbeth he notices
the arbitrary divergences of Malone and others
from the folio of 1623, and compliments Mr. Knight
on having been the first to revert to it as the best
authority.
The ' Aufsatze iiber Shakespeare,' by C. Ilebler,
published in 1865, are a series of clever Essays on
the various plays, in which he discusses the
opinions of many of his predecessors in his own
country Tieck and others with much acute-
ness, and, where not displaying too much of the
German super-subtleness, a true feeling of the
Shakspere characteristics and a well-balanced
judgment.
What has been the influence of so diligent a
study of Shakspere on the literature of Germany,
is too wide a subject for our present purpose ; but
we may be allowed to remark, that beyond freeing
its writers from the fetters of the old classical and
French schools, no very evident elevation of their
modern drama has been manifested. Oehlenschlil-
ger was a Dane by birth, but he wrote some of his
dramas in German, and translated others, and they
are far above anything produced by a native author,
except perhaps those by Grillparzer. Both authors
have no doubt received a colour from the diffusion
of a knowledge of Shakspere ; but neither were
disciples, though Oehlenschliiger admitted the
beauties of his works, which he thought, however,
STJP. VOL. 2 F
were mixed with many faults ; and his dramas,
though full of exalted poetry, are certainly not
Shaksperian. Grillparzer is even less to be con-
sidered as a follower : he is a romanticist, with
great poetical power ; but fancy takes the place of
reality, and plots and characters are unnatural,
and sometimes repulsive : the ' Ahnfrau ' affords
a good specimen of his defects and excellences.
There are, however, some dramatists who, with
inferior poetical power to Oehlenschlager and Grill-
parzer, perhaps come nearer to Shakspere than
either. J. M. R. Lenz, whom we have mentioned
favourably as a critic, was also a dramatist, and
his plays, published after his death, in 1828, by
Tieck, have considerable merit. Heinrich von
Kleist, who died by his own hand at the age of
thirty-five, in 1811, was the most richly gifted.
Some of his characters are sharply delineated,
and, though often placed in improbable situations,
are naturally developed and well expressed. His
plays still retain possession of the German stage.
' Der Zerbrochene Krug ' (the Broken Pitcher) is
a comedy, the plot turning on the difficulty of
identifying in a law court the man who broke the
pitcher. The plot is very intricate, and though
ingeniously wrought out, scarcely sufficient to
keep up an interest through five long acts. ' Prinz
Friedrich von Homburg' is much more natural,
and is well worked out. ' Katharine of Heilbronn,'
with some good characterization and poetical
power, is damaged by the extravagance of the
plot. A German Count and the daughter of an
armourer have a vision, on the night of St. Syl-
vester, in which a cherub introduces each to the
other, as in the tale of Kamur-ez-Zeman and the
Princess Budoor in the ' Arabian Nights.' Acci-
dentally meeting in reality, they of course fall in
love, the maiden with the most devoted attach-
ment, the Count with a determination to resist
the impulse, on account of the lowness of her
birth, and because he had been led to suppose his
future bride was to be the daughter of an Emperor.
The maid, of exquisite beauty, pursues the Count
on foot wherever he goes, though she has to sleep
with his horses. The old armourer believes that
this is produced by the magical art of the Count,
and appeals him before the Vehm-gericht, who are
represented, in a tedious protracted act, as sitting
in judgment : the girl is returned to her father.
The Count prepares to marry a most attractive
lady, whose "teeth belong to a girl of Munich,
whose hair is ordered from France, whose glowing
cheeks are derived from the mines of Hungary, and
whose shape, so much admired, is due to a chemise
manufactured by a smith out of Swedish iron."
Katharine becomes acquainted with the design of
a rival for this lady's hand, to attack them at
night ; on foot she crosses mountains and floods
to convey the letter with the intelligence ; she is
433
SIIAKSPERE IN GERMANY.
harshly repulsed, threatened with the whip ; ulti-
mately the letter is received, but too late to pre-
vent the sudden attack and the firing of the
residence. While the fire is raging, the bride
expectant remembers that something to her of
great importance is in her room, which the flames
are just reaching, and Katharine undertakes to
fetch it. She goes, the danger becomes imminent,
the Count, against the remonstrances of his
affianced bride, would rush to save her, but the
house sinks in ruins. Katharine disappears for a
while, and the Count laments her : when she re-
appears, conducted by the cherub, wholly un-
scathed. After this, she is acknowledged before
the Vehm-gericht by the Emperor, as his ille-
gitimate daughter, proclaimed Princess of Swabia,
and married to the Count. His ' Herrmanns-
sclilacht ' is of a very superior character, though
perhaps he makes his hero, Hermann (the Arminius
of Tacitus) too much of an intriguer, and compli-
cates the plot by making the Roman legate, Ven-
tidius, the attempted seducer of Thusnilda, the
wife of Herrmann. The dialogues are spirited,
and the blank verse is not inharmonious, though
in English it would be deemed very irregular.
Christian Dietrich Grabbe was distinguished by
a comprehensive grasp, but often attempted more
than, with all his real power, he could manage.
His plots include great periods of time. ' Herzog
Theodor von Gothland ' is full of horrors ; ' Frie-
drich Barbarossa ' and ' Kaiser Heinrich der
Sechste' are more strictly historical, and have long
been considered as decidedly Shaksperian ; but the
dialogues, which are partly in verse and partly in
prose, fall far below Shakspere's. His versification
is inharmonious, and his prose is epigrammatic,
concise, with powerful thoughts occasionally, but
not a natural or characteristic mode of speaking.
The ' Hermannsschlacht,' published in 1838, has
power, but is inferior to Kleist's, and, like most of
his works, is injured by capricious defects of taste,
of a sort which, in a criticism upon Shakspere, he
condemns as faults. But he says, with some
justice, that the German dramatist is unfor-
tunately placed ; " if he writes in the spirit of
Shakspere, the assumed highest model of German
dramatists, it is said, ' The man is an imitator,
and how much he falls short of his master ! ' If,
on the contrary, he is bold enough to write in his
own fashion, he fares even worse ; for then he is
at once judged to be in the wrong road, and is
advised ' to study truth and nature, not in them-
selves, but in their only mirror, in Shakspere.' "
In this criticism, he explains his own aspirations :
it was to form not an English or Shaksperian
school, but a truly German one. His life, like his
works, was irregular, and he died, in 1836, at the
eje of thirty-five.
Karl Lebrecht Immermann, who died in 1810.
was also much indebted to Shakspere. The ' An-
dreas Hofer ' and ' Alexis ' have each considerable
merit ; the first appealing to his country's feelings,
and well depicting the patriotism of the hero ; the
second is the Russian tragedy of the execution of
Alexis, the son of Peter the Great ; it forms a
trilogy, Die Bojaren, Das Gericht von St. Peters-
burg, and Endoxia. Immermann also wrote
other dramatic pieces, both tragedies and comedies,
all decidedly belonging to the English school ; the
comedies, however, being scarcely equal in merit
to the tragedies. As dramatist and novel-writer,
Immermann has had considerable influence on
the literature of his country, having introduced
several authors to the public at Diisseldorf, the
theatre of which town he raised to a high celebrity
by his efforts.
There are others who may be mentioned with
approbation, whose dramas yet appear upon the
stage : Julius Neofen, Friedrich von Uechtritz,
Freiherrn Munch von Bellinghausen, and others.
Shakspere's plays are performed on the various
German stages as frequently perhaps more
frequently as upon our own; but we believe
never unmutilated, and sometimes disfigured ;
not excepting Weimar, when, upon the solemni-
zation of the tercentenary, a series of the His-
torical Plays were represented on the theatre
from Richard I. to Henry VIII. on successive
evenings, and were very numerously attended.
They were produced under the direction of Ilerr
Dingelstedt, the manager, who at the same time
was the instituter of the Sliakspere Society, of
which the avowed object is to extend the know*
ledge and facilitate the understanding of Shak-
spere's works. The first Year-Book of the Society
has been published, and contains ingenious Essays
by Ulrici, M. Bernays, A. F. Rio, and others.
Karl Simrock, in his introduction to his trans-
lation of Macbeth,* says, " Schiller and Shak-
spere have become the favourites of the German
nation ; from the prince to the townsman and
the peasant, their works are found in every one's
hands, their golden words in every one's memory."
Shakspere's influence lias doubtless extended into
other branches of literature, especially into the
novel, but probably in this the direction has been
more due to the example of Sir Walter Scott ;
but for the whole, whatever it may be, the
Germans are mainly indebted to the labours of
Lessing, Schlegel, and Tieck.
* Shakspere als Vermittler zweier Nationen, Macbeth,
ein Probestuck. Stuttgart. 1842.
ALEXANDER RAMSAY.
481
SHAKSPERE IN PRANCE.
"WE had intended, as the reader might infer from
a note at page 383, to have taken a brief but
general view of the altered state of opinion in
France in relation to Shakspere. Although the
subject presents many interesting features, there
is considerable difficulty in dealing with it suc-
cinctly. The admiration, founded upon know-
ledge of our poet, is not established as in Germany.
The critical opinion of France is still in a transi-
tion state. Those who are almost extravagant in
their idolatry, such as Victor Hugo, do not look
at the attributes of the divinity they worship
from the same point of view as fehe Germans, and
differ very considerably in sesthetical principles
from the later school of English criticism. We
must, therefore, in addition to what has been said
in the fifth section of our " History of Opinion,"
request our readers to be satisfied with the follow-
ing- meagre notice.
The progress, and present state, of opinion in
France upon Shakspere, have been very ably
treated by Mr. G. II. Lewes, in a recent article in
the Westminster Review. In the " Nouvelle Bio-
graphic Gen6rale " (torn, xliii. 1864), there is an
elaborate biography of our national poet, which in
itself sufficiently indicates how very much the
mistakes and prejudices of French criticism have
been abated how Corneille and Racine and
Moliere can be admired, without declaring Shak-
spere " ignorant et barbare." The writer of that
biography, having noticed the translation of Le
Tourneur, and the pretended imitations of Dueis,
says : " M. Guizot, by the Preface to his version
of Le Tourneur ; M. Villemain, by his bio-
graphical labours ; M. Benjamin Laroches, by a
translation more exact than those which had pre-
ceded him ; and M. Franpois- Victor Hugo, by a
version perfectly faithful and liberal, have con-
tributed to make known in France a poet more
admired than underatood."
2 F 2
436
INDEXES
PLAYS AND POEMS OF SHAKSPERE.
EXPLANATION.
IT has been found convenient to arrange the references under two heads.
THE FIRST INDEX is for the most part GLOSSARIAL, but it also refers to explanations
which are more diffuse in their character. The words which are in Italic are those which
may be explained briefly, and often by the addition of another word, approaching to a
synonyme, which gives the sense. The words in Roman, principally referring to objects,
customs, and ancient and proverbial expressions, require a more lengthened explanation,
which will be found under the passages referred to, either in a foot-note (designated by n)
or an illustration (designated by i).
THE SECOND INDEX is of the DRAMATIS PERSONS, showing the names of the Charac-
ters which occur in each Play, and the particular Act and Scene in which each appears.
The references are not made to Volume and Page, but to PLAY, Act and Scene. The
POEMS are referred to by their titles. All the references are abridged as follows :
G. V. Two Gentlemen of Verona.
L. L. L. Love's Labour's Lost.
M. W. Merry Wives of Windsor.
C. E. Comedy of Errors.
T. S. Taming of the Shrew.
M. N. D. A Midsummer Night's Dream.
M. V. The Merchant of Venice.
A. W. All's Well that Ends Well.
M. A. M uch Ado about Nothing.
T. N. Twelfth Night.
A. L. As You Like It.
M. M. Measure for Measure.
W. T. A Winter's Tale.
T. Tempest.
J. King John.
R. S. King Richard II.
H. 4, F. P. King Henry IV., Part I.
H. 4, S. P. King Henry IV., Part II.
H. F. King Henry V.
H. 6, F. P. King Henry VI., Part I.
H. 6, S. P. King Henry VI., Part II.
H. 6, T. P. King Henry VI., Part III.
R. T.
H. E.
R. J.
H.
Cy.
o.
T. Ath.
L.
M.
T. C.
Cor.
J. C.
A. C.
V. A.
Luc.
So.
L. C.
P.P.
T. And.
P.
T. N. K.
King Richard III.
King Henry VIII.
Romeo and Juliet.
Hamlet.
Cymbeline.
Othello.
Timon of Athens.
King Lear.
Macbeth.
Troilus and Cressida.
Coriolanus.
Julius Caesar.
Antony and Cleopatra.
Venus and Adonis.
Lucrece.
Sonnets.
A Lover's Complaint.
The Passionate Pilgrin..
Titus Andronicus.
Pericles.
Two Noble Kinsmen.
These two Indexes comprise all that are properly references to the woi'ks of Shakspere.
A word, or a sentence, is desired to be referred to, when the passage in which it occurs
requires explanation. In the foot-notes, or the illustrations, such explanation is to be
found, the Index citing the passage to which reference is made ; and thus showing, at one
view, how words are employed in peculiar senses, either varying or alike in distinct
plays. In like manner, the name of a character is to be found, in connection with the
act and scene of each play. But it is obvious that a large portion of the Commentary of
this edition that which is comprised in the Introductory and Supplementary Notices, and
in the Historical Illustrations is thus excluded from the Index ; and this exclusion is
rendered necessary, partly from the great extent to which the references would run, even
if they were confined to names of persons and books, and partly from the extreme
difficulty of digesting into the form of an index those matters which are purely critical
and speculative.
438
I N D E X. I.
ADA
X he. M. A. iii. S, n (and In many other passages).
How if a will not stand f
Abhor, technu-al use of the word. H. E. ii. 4, .
I utterly abhor, yea, from my soul
Refuse you for my judge.
Abhorred disgusted. H. v. 1, ,
And now how abhorred my imagination is !
Abide (v.) sojourn. W. T. iv. 2, n.
There's no virtue whipped out of the court; they
cherish it to make it stay there; and yet it will no
more but abide.
Abraham Cupid. R. J. ii. I, n.
Young Abraham Cupid, he that shot so trim
When king Cophetua lov'd the beggar-maid.
Abridgement pastime. M. N. D. v. 1, n.
Say, what abridgement have you for this evening !
Abroad not at hand far off. Cy. iii. 5, n.
Your means abroad,
You have me rich.
Absey-boi>kA. B C book. J. i. 1, n.
And then comes answer like an Absty-book.
Abstract. A. C. iii. 6, n.
Being an abstract 'tween his lust and him.
Aby (v.) suffer for. M. N. D. iii. 2, n.
Thou shall aby it.
Accept consent to certain articles of a treaty. H. F. v. 2, n.
We will, suddenl}',
Pass our accept and peremptory answer.
Accommodation. H. 4, S. P. iii. 2, .
A soldier-like word.
According to the trick according to the fashion of banter
and exaggeration. M. M. v. 1, n
I spoke it but according to the trick.
Achievement. H. F. in. 5, n.
He'll drop his heart into the sink of fear,
And, for achievement, offer us his ransom.
Achieves her goodness. A. W. i. 1, n.
She derives her honesty, and achieves her goodness.
Achilles and Hector. T C. iii. 3, i.
I have a woman's longing,
An appetite that I am sick withal,
To see great Hector in his weeds of peace.
1 Accidence of Armourie,' passage from. H. v. 1 , i.
Was he a gentleman ?
Acknown. O. iii. 3, n.
Be not acknotvn on't.
Acquaintance used in the singular as a noun of multitude.
O. ii. 1, n.
How does my old acquaintance of this isle?
Acquaint ynu it-it It the perfect apt/ -inform yourselves with
a most careful inquiry. M. iii. 1, n.
Acquaint you with the perfect tpy o" the time,
The moment on 't.
Actaeon, story of. T. N. i. 1. i.
And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds,
E'er since pursue me.
Actors, profits of. H. iii. 2, i.
A fellowship in a cry of players.
Aclure action. L. C. n.
Are errors of the blood, none of the mind ;
Love made them not; with acture they may be,
Where neither party is nor true nor kind.
Addition. L. ii. 2, n.
One whom I will beat into clamorous whining, if
thou deniest the least syllable of thy addition.
Addrcss'd prepared. A. L. v. 4, n.
Duke Frederick, hearing how that every dev
Men of great worth resorted to this forest,
Address'd a mighty power.
Address'd prepared. H. 4, S. P. iv. 4, n.
Our navy is address'd, our power collected.
Address'd prepared. Luc. n.
At length address'd to answer bis desire.
Address'd ready. J. C. iii. 1, n.
He is address'd; press near and second him.
Addrest ready. M. N. D. v. 1, n.
So please your grace, the prologue is addrest.
Adriatic. T. S. i. 2, .
Were she as rough
As are the swelling Adriatic seas.
Advantage used as a verb H. F. iv. 1, n.
Whose hours the peasant best advantages.
Advertisements. M. A. i. 1, t.
He set up his bills.
Advice government, municipal or civil. Luc. n.
Advice is sporting while infection breeds.
Advisedly attentively. Luc. n.
The picture she adv sedly perus'd.
Afar off in a remote degree. W. T. ii. 1, n.
He who shall speak for her is afar off guilty
But that he speaks.
Affect (v.) incline towards ; metaphorically, love. L. L. f.
i. 2, n.
I do affect the very ground.
Affect the letter affect a Iteration. L. L. L. iv. 2, .
I will something affect the letter, for it argues facility.
Affect a sorrow, than to have. A. W. i. 1, n.
Let it be rather thought you affect a sorrow, than l
have.
Affection affectation. L. L. L. v. 1, n.
Witty without affection.
Affection imagination. W. T. i. 2, n.
Affection I thy intention stabs the centre.
Affection master of passion. M. V. iv. 1, n.
For affection,
Master of passion, sways it to the mood
Of what it likes, or loathes.
A/ectioned affected. T. N. ii. 3, n.
An affeclioned ass, that cons state without book.
Affeer'd. M. iv 3, n.
Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure,
For goodness dares not check thee! wear thou thj
wrongs,
The title is affeer'd.
Affront encounter. Cy. v. 3, .
There was a fourth man, in a silly habit,
That gave the affront with them.
Affront (v.) encounter, confront. H. iii. I, it.
That he, as 'twere by accident, may here
Affront Ophelia.
Affy (v.) betroth. H. 6, S. P. iv. 1. n.
For daring to affy a mighty lord
Unto the daughter of a worthless king.
Agninst your sacri-d person aught again>t your lacrfd
person H. E. ii. 4, n.
If, in the course
And process of this time, you can report,
And prove it too, against mine honoui aught,
My bond to wedlock, or my love and duty.
Against your sacred person, in God's namo.
Turn me away.
Agata. M. A. iii. 1, n.
An agate very vilelv cut.
I! LI
AGA
INDEX. I.
ANT
Agate. H. 4, S. P. i. 2, n.
I was never manned with an agate till now.
Age's steepy night. So. Ixiii. n.
When his youthful morn
Hath travell'd on to age's steepy night.
Age seniority. T. And. i. 1, n.
Then let my father's honours live in me,
Nor wrong mine age with this indignity.
Aglet-baby. T. S. i. 2, n.
Al arry him to a puppet, or an aglet-baby.
Agnize (v.) confess, acknowledge. O. i. 3, n.
I do agnize
A natural and prompt alacrity
I find in hardness.
Aigre sharp, sour. H. i. 5, n.
It doth posset
And curd, like aiyre droppings into milk,
The thin and wholesome blood.
Aim purpose. G. V. iii. 1, n.
But, fearing lest my jealous aim might err.
4im conjecture. O. i. 3, n.
As in these cases where the aim reports.
Aimed at guessed at. G. V. iii. 1, n.
But, good my lord, do it so cunningly,
That my discovery be not aimed at.
Air appearance. H. 4, F. P. iv. 1, n.
The quality and air of our attempt
Brooks no division.
Alcides' shoes. J. ii. 1, i.
As great Alcides' shoes upon an ass.
Alder liefest dearest of all. H. 6, S. P. i. 1, n.
Will you, mine alder-liefest sovereign.
A le rural festival. G. V. ii. 5, n.
As go to the ale with a Christian.
All the world a stage, parallels with. A. L. ii. 7, i.
All amort dispirited. T. S. iv. 3, n.
What, sweeting, all amort 7
All-a-mort dispirited. H. 6, F. P. iii. 2, n.
Now where 's the bastard's braves, and Charles his
gleeks ?
What, all-a-amort?
Alia ttoccata -Italian term of art for the thrust with a
rapier. R. J. iii. 1, n.
Alia ttoccata carries it away.
All-hallownsnmmersummerm November. H.4.F. P.i 2,n.
Farewell, thou latter spring! Farewell, AU-hallowii
summer !
Ail-to entirely, altogether. V. A. n.
Adonis lives, and Death is not to blame;
It was not she that called him ail-to naught.
Allow (v.) approve. W. T. iv. 1, n.
Of this allow,
If ever you have spent time worse ere now.
Allow (v.) approve. Luc. n.
Who, wondering at him, did his words alluw.
Alluw (v.) approve. So. cxii. n.
So you o'ergreen my bad, my good allow.
Altar at St. Edmundsbury. J. v. 4, '.
Upon the altar at St. Edmundsbury.
A ^ r . l ^y co "rse for Tyre pursue not the coutse for Tyre.
P. iii. 1, n.
Thither, gentle mariner;
Alter thy course for Tyre.
Althea's dream. H. 4, S. P. ii. 2, n.
Away, you rascally Alt/tea's dream.
Althea. H. 6, S. P. i. 1, .
The fatal brand Allhea burn'd,
Unto the prince's heart of Calydon.
Am, have, and will be. H. E. iii. 2, n.
For your highness' good I ever labour'd
More than mine own ; that am, have, and will 62.
Amaimon. H. 4, F. P. ii. 4, j.
He of Wales, that gave Amaimon the bastinado.
Amaze (v.) confuse. A. L. i. 2, n.
You amaze me, ladies.
Ambassadors sent from Antony to Octavius Caesar, from
Aorth's ' Plutarch.' A. C. iii. 10, i.
Let him appear that's come from Antony.
America, discovery of. C. E. iii. 2, i.
Where America the Indies?'
440
Amiss fault. So. xxxv. n.
Myself corrupting, salving thy aitiia.
Amiss fault. So. cli. n.
Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,
Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prova.
Amurath the Third. H. 4, S. P. v. 2. i
Not Amuratn an Amurath succeeds.
Anachronisms in King John. J. i. 1, i.
The thunder of my cannon shall be heard.
Anchor Anchoret. H. iii. 2, n.
An anchor's cheer in prison be my scope.
Ancient bearer of the ensign. H. 4, S. P. ii. 4, n.
Sir, ancient Pistol's below.
Andirons. Cy. ii. 4, j.
Her andirons
(I had forgot them) were two winking Cupids.
Andren. H. E. i. 1, n.
Met in the vale of Andren.
Andrew name of a ship. M. V. i. 1, n.
And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand.
Angel on English coins. M. V. ii. 7, i.
A coin that bears the figure of an angel.
Angel coin. H. 4, S. P. i. 2, n.
Your ill angel is light.
Angel bird. T. N. K. i. 1, n.
Not an angel of the air,
Bird melodious, or bird fair,
Be absent there.
Angerlyzngrily. G. V. i. 2, n.
How angerlij I taught my brow to frown.
Angle gull. T. S.iv. 2, n.
But at last I spied
An ancient angle coming down the hill.
A nswer statement of objections to certain articles of a
treaty. H. F. v. 2, n.
We will, suddenly,
Pass our accept and peremptory answer.
Answer me declin'd. A. C. iii. 11, n.
I dare him therefore
To lay his gay comparisons apart,
And answer me declin'd.
Anthropophagi and headless men. O. i. 3, j.
The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads
Do grow beneath their shoulders.
Antipathies. M. V. iv. 1, i.
Some men there are, &c.
Antony, from North's ' Plutarch.' J. C. ii. 1, i,
Let Antony and Csesar fall together.
Antony,Octavius, and Lepidus, conference of. from North's
' Plutarch.' J. C. iv. 1, i.
These many then shall die.
Antony and Cleopatra, amusements of, from North's ' Piu-
tarch.' A. C. i. 1, i.
To-night we '11 wander through the streets, &c.
Antony and Octa via, marriage of, from North's ' Plutarch
A. C. ii. 2, t.
Thou hast a sister by the mother's side.
Antony's cook, from North's ' Plutarch.' A. C. ii 2, i.
Eight wild boars roasted whole at a breakfast.
Antony and Cleopatra, first meeting of, from North's ' Pin
tarch.' A. C. ii. 2, i.
When she first met Mark Antony, &c.
Antony's angling, from North's ' Plutarch.' A. C. ii. 5, .
'Twas merry when
You wager'd on your angling, &c.
Antony, Caesar, and Pompey, meetings of, from Noith's
' Plutarch.' A.C. ii. 6, .
Your hostages I have, so have you mine, &c.
Antony and Cleopatra at Alexandria, from North's ' Plu-
tarch.' A. C. iii. 6, i.
I' the market-plai-e, on a tribunal silver'd,
Cleopatra and himself in chairs of gold
Were publicly enthron'd.
Antony's preparations for battle, from North's ' Plutarch '
A. C. iii. 7, t.
noble emperor, do not fight by sea.
Antc,iy's reception of Casar's messenger, from North'a
'Plutarch.' A. C. iii. 11, i.
A messenger from Caesar.
Antony's challenge to Caesar, from North's ' Plutarch '
A - c : J v - !' ' Let the old ruffian know,
1 have many other ways to die, &c.
ANT
INDEX. I.
AW
Antony's speech to his servants, from North's Plutarch.'
A. C. iv. 2, i.
Call forth my household servants.
Antony, desertion of, by the god Hercules, from North's
Plutarch.' A. C. iv. 3, i.
Peace, what noise ?
Antony, defeat of, from North's ' Plutarch.' A. C. iv. 10, i.
This foul Egyptian hath betrayed me.
Antony's last speech to Cleopatra, and death, from North's
' Plutarch.' A. C. iv. 13, .
Charmian, I will never go from hence.
Ape expression of kindly familiarity applied to a young
man. R. J. ii. 1, n.
The ape is dead, and I must conjure him.
Ape-bearer. W. T. iv. 2, .
An ape-bearer.
Apostle-spoons. H. E. v. 2, i.
You'd spare your spoons.
Apothecary, Romeo's description of. R. J. v. 1, i.
1 do remember an apothecary.
Apparel, fashions of. M. A. ii. 3, ".
Carving the fashion of a new doublet.
Appay'd satisfied, pleased. Luc. n.
But sin ne'er gives a fee,
He gratis corr.es; and thou art well appiiy'd
As well to hear as grant what he hath said.
Apperil. T. Ath. i. 2, n.
Let me stay at thine apperil, Timon.
Apprehension opinion. H. G, F. P. ii. 4, n.
To scourge you for this apprehension.
Approbation probation. M. M. i. 3, n.
This day my sister should the cloister enter,
And there receive her approbation.
Approbation proof. W. T. ii. 1, n.
Which was as gross as ever touch'd conjecture,
That lack'd sight only, nought for approbation.
Approve our ei/es confirm what we have seen. H. i. 1, n.
That, if again the apparition come,
He may approve our eyes, and speak to it.
Approv'd proved. G. V. v. 4, n.
O, 'tis the curse in love, and still approv'd,
When women cannot love, where they're belov'd.
Apricocks apricots. R. S. iii. 4, n.
Go, bind thou up yon dangling apricocks.
April-day spring-time of life. T. Ath. iv. 3, n.
She, whom the spital-house and ulcerous sores
Would cast the gorge at, this embalms and spices
To the April-day again.
Are arms which are arms. P. i. 2, n.
From whence an issue I might propagate,
Are arms to princes, and bring joys to subjects.
Argosy ship. T. S. ii. 1, n.
Besides an argosy
That now is lying in Marseilles road.
Argument conversation. M. A. iii. 1, n.
For shape, for bearing, argument, and valour.
Argument subject-matter. A. L. iii. 1, .
I should not seek an absent argument
Of my revenge, thou present.
Arm him take him in your arms. Cy. iv. 2, n.
Come, arm him.
Arm-gaunt. A. C. i. 5, n.
And soberly did mount an arm-gaunt steed.
Arm your prize offer your arm to the lady you have won.
T. N. K. v. 3, n.
Arm your jirize :
I know you will not lose her.
Aroint thee, explanation of. L. iii. 4, i.
Aroint thee, witch, aroint thee.
Aroint. M. i 3. n. See L. iii. 4, '.
' Aroint thee, witch!' the rump-fed ronyon cries.
A-rotti one after the other. C. E. v. 1, n.
Beaten the maids a-row, and bound the doctor.
Arras. H. 4, F. P. ii. 4, t.
Go hide thee behind the arras.
Arrest before judgment. C. E. iv. 2, i.
One that before the judgment, carries poor souls to
hell.
Arriie Hie arrive at the. J. C. i. 2, n.
But ere we could arrive the point propos'd.
Arthur's show. H. 4, S. P. iii. 2, i.
I remember at Mile-end green (when I lay at Cle
ment's inn), I was then sir Dagonet at Arthur'i thuv.
Articulated exhibited in articles. H. 4, F. P. v. 1, n.
These things, indeed, you have articulated^
Proclaim'd at market-crosses.
Artificial ttrife contest of art with nature. T. Ath. i. I , n,
Artificial ttrife
Lives in these touches, livelier than life.
Arundel, escape of Thomas son of the earl of. R. S. ii. I , i.
The son of Richard, earl of Arundel,
That late broke from the duke of Exeter.
As bid as to bid. J. iv. 2, n.
Or turn'd an eye of doubt upon my face
As bid me tell my tale in express words.
As how with a train of circumstances. A. L. iv. 3, n.
Tears our recountments had most kindly bath'd,
As how I came into that desert place.
As our good wills. Cor. ii. 1, n.
It shall be to him then, as our good willi :
A sure destruction.
Ask of ask for. M. W. i. 2, n.
Ask of doctor Caius' house.
Aspersion sprinkling. J. iv. 1, n.
No sweet aspersion shall the heavens let fall
To make this contract grow.
Assay of the deer. J. ii. 2, i.
And, like a jolly troop of huntsmen, come
Our lusty English, all with purpled hands.
Assineao ass. J. C. ii. 1, n.
An assinego may tutor thee.
Association of ideas, Mr. Whiter's theory of. R. J. .. 3, i.
Read o'er the volume of young Paris' face.
Assum'd thit age put on these appearances of age. Cy. v.
5, n.
He it is that hath
Assum'd this age.
Assured affianced. C. E. iii. 2, n.
I was assured to her.
Assur'd affianced. J. ii. 2, n.
That I did so, when I was first assur'd.
Astonished him stunned him with the blow. H. F. v. 1, n.
Enough, captain; you have astonished him.
Astrinijer falconer. A. W. v. 1, .
Enter a gentle Astringer.
At each. L. iv. 6, n.
Ten masts at each make not the altitude
Which thou hast perpendicularly fell.
At liberty of his own unrestrained will. H. 4, F. P. v. 2, n
Never did I hear
Of any prince so wild at liberty.
Alone together unite. A. L. v. 4, n.
Then is there mirth in heaven,
When earthly things made even
Atone together.
Atone you make you In concord. R. S. i. 1, .
Since we cannot atone you, you shall see
Justice design the victor's chivalry.
Atone (v.) to make at one. Cy. i. 5, n.
I was glad I did atone my countryman and you.
Atone (v.) be reconciled. Cor. iv. 6, n.
He and Aufidius can no more atone,
Than violentest contrariety.
Attended waited for. H. 6, T. P. iv. 6, n.
And the lord Hastings who attended him
In secret ambush on the forest side.
Aumerle, duke of. R. S. i. 3, .
Away with me like me. H. 4, S. P. iii. 2, .
She never could away with me.
Awfulin the sense of lawful. G. V. iv. 1, n.
Thrust from the company of awful men.
Awful reverential. H. 4, S. P. iv. 1, n.
We come within our awful banks again,
And knit our powers to the arm of peace.
Awkward wind epithet used by Marlowe and Draylon.
H. 6, S. P. iii. 2, n.
And twice by awkward winil from England's tar.k
Drove back again unto my native clii.ic.
Awless not inspiring awe. J. i. 1, n.
Against whose fiery and unmatched force
The au'less lion could not wage the light.
441
AYE
INDEX.- I.
BED
Aye remaining lampt constantly burning lamps. P. iii. 1, n.
Where, for a monument upon thy bones,
And aye-remaining lamps.
B.
Baccare go back. T. S. ii. 1, n.
Baccare! you are marvellous forward.
Badge of fame to slander's livery. Luc. n.
At least I give
A badge of fame to slander's livery;
A dying life to living infamy.
Bagpipes. M. V. iv. 1, i.
hagpipe.
Bagpipe. H. 4, F. P. i. 2, i.
The drone of a Lincolnshire bagpipe.
liailiff, dress of the. C. E. iv. 2, t.
A fellow all in buff.
Dailiff, dog-like attributes of the. C. E: iv. 2, .
A hound that runs counter, and yet draws dry-foot well.
L'alconies on the stage. R. J. iii. 5, .
Juliet's chamber.
Baldrick belt. M. A. i. 1, n.
Or hang my bugle in an invisible baldrick.
Bale ruin. Cor. i. 1 , n.
Rome and her rats are at the point of battle,
The one side must have bale.
Baleful baneful. H. 6, F. P. v. 4, n.
By sight of these our baleful enemies.
Balk pass over. T. S. i. 1, n.
Balk logic with acquaintance that you have.
BaWd heaped up. H. 4, F. P. i. 1, n.
Ten thousand bold Scots, two-and-twenty knights,
Balk'd in their own blood, did sir Walter see
On Holmedon's plains.
Ballad. H. 4, S. P. iv. 3, t.
I will have it in a particular ballad.
Ballow pole. L. iv. 6, n.
Or ise try whether your costard or my hallow be the
harder.
Bond-bond. C. E. iv. 2, n. (See R. S. i. 1, n.)
Tell me, was he arrested on a band I
Band bond. R. S. i. 1, n.
Hast thou, according to thy oath and band,
Brought hither Henry Hereford, thy bold son!
Banishment, law of. R. S. i. 3, .
Our part therein we banish.
Bank'd their towns sailed along their banks. J. v. 2, n.
Have I not heard these islanders shout out,
Vive le roy ! as I have bank'd their tou-ns?
Bans curses. L. ii. 3, n.
Sometime with lunatic bans, sometime with prayers.
arbasone\il spirit in the ' Daemonology.' H. F. ii. 2, n.
1 am not Barbason, you cannot conjure me !
Barbed caparisoned. R. T. i. 1 , .
And now instead of mounting barbed steeds.
Barbers' shops. A. W. ii. 2, .
It is like a barber's chair.
Bare the raven's eye. Cy. ii. 2, n.
Swift, swift, you dragons of the night, that dawning
May bare the raven's eye!
Barm yeast. M. N. D. ii. 1, n.
And sometime make the drink to bear no barm.
Barne child. W. T. iii. 3, n.
Mercy on 'a, a borne, a very pretty barne I
Baronets, order of. O. iii. 4, i.
The hearts of old gave hands :
But our new heraldry is hands, not hearts.
Base prison-base (the game). G. V. i. 2, rj.
Indeed, I bid the base for Proteus.
Base-court lower court. R. S. iii. 3, n.
My lord, in the base-court he doth attend.
Baset coverings for the thighs. P. ii. 1.
A pair of bases.
B '.stard, whom the oracle allusion to the tale of OZdipus.
T. Ath. iv. 3, n.
Think it a bastard, whom the oracle
Hath doubtfully pronounc'd thy tiiroat shall cut,
And mince it sans remorse.
Bat club. L. C. n.
So slides he down upon his grained l/at.
442
Bate strife, debate. M. W. i. 4, n.
And, I warrant you, no tell-tale, ncr no breeit-Aafe
Bate. H. F. iii. 7, n.
'Tis a hooded valour; and, when it appears, it win
bate.
Bate-breeding strife-breeding. V. A. n.
This sour informer, this bate-breeding spy.
Bated. H. 4, F. P. iv. 1, n.
All furnish'd, all in arms :
All plum'd, like es;ridges that with the wind
Bated.
Batler bat used in washing linen in a stream. A. L. ii.4, n.
I remember the kissing of her bailer.
Battle-knights, creation of. J. i. 1, i.
A soldier, by the honour-giving hand
Of Cceur-de-Lion knighted in the field.
Battles upon the stage. H. F. i. Chorus, i.
But pardon, gentles all.
Barian character in the morris-dance. T. N. K. iii. 5, n.
Enter Gerrold, four Countrymen (and the Bavian}.
Bavin brushwood. H. 4, F. P. iii. 2, n.
He ambled up and down
With shallow jesters and rash batin wits.
Baynard's castle. R. T. iii. 5, i.
If you thrive well, bring them to Baynard's cattle.
Be moved have compassion. G. V. ii. 1, n.
be not like your mistress ; be moved, be moved.
Be naught awhile. A. L. i. 1, n.
Marry, sir, be better employed, and be naught au'hilt.
Be comfortable become susceptible of comfort. A. L.ii.6,n.
For my sake, be comfortable; hold death awhile at ths
arm's end.
Be borne to be borne. R. J. iv. 1, n.
In thy best robes uncover'd on tiie bier,
Be borne to burial in thy kindred's grave,
Thou shall be borne to that same ancient vault.
Be circumslanc'd yield to circumstances. O. iii. 4, n.
'T is very good: I must be circumstanc'd.
Beadsman. G. V. i. 1, .
1 will be thy beadsman, Valentine.
Beacon to this under globe. L. ii. 2, n.
Approach, thou beacon to this under globe,
That by thy comfortable beams I may
Peruse this letter!
Bear-baiting. M. W. i. 1 , .
I have seen Sackerson loose.
Bearing-cloth mantle with which a child is covered whi-n
carried to the church to be baptized. W. T. iii. 3, n.
Look thee, a bearing-cloth for a squire's child !
Bear a brain have a memory. R. J. i. 3, n.
My lord and you were then at Mantua:
Nay, I do bear a brain.
Bear-garden on the Bankside. H. E. v. 3, t.
Paris-garden.
Beards. H. F. iii. 6, .
A beard of the general's cut.
Bears (v.) figures, is seen. M. M. iv. 4, n.
For my authority bears of a credent bulk
Bears (the Nevils). H. 6, S. P. v. 1, n.
Call hither to the stake my two brave 'ears.
Beat on a crown axe intent on a crown. H.6, S.P. ii. 1, n.
Thine eyes and thouglits
Beat on a crown.
Seated participle of the verb to beat. So. Ixii. n.
But when my glass shows me myself indeed,
Seated and chopp'd with tann'd antiquity.
Beauty pronounced booty. H. 4, F. P. i. 1, n.
Let not us that are squires of the night's body be
called thieves of the day's beauty.
Beaver helmet.' H. 4, F. P. iv. 1, n.
I saw young Harry with his beaver on.
Beaver. H. i. 2, n. See H. 4, S. P. iv. 1. i.
He wore his beaver up.
Beavers. H. 4, S. P. iv. 1, i.
Their beavers down.
Becomed becoming. R. J. iv. 2, n,
And gave him -what becumcd love I might,
Not stepping o'er the bounds of modesty.
Bedded jet jet imbedded or set. L. C. n.
A thousand favours from a maund she drew
Of amber, crystal, and of bedded jet.
BED
INDEX. I.
BLO
Bedfellow, H. F. ii. 2, i
Nay, but the man that was his bedfellow.
Bedlam beggars. L. ii. 3, t.
The country gives me proof and precedent
Of Bedlam beggars.
Beetle. LI. M. in. 1, i.
The poor beetle, that we tread upon,
In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great
As when a giant dies.
Beggars. G. V. ii. 1, i.
Beggar at Hallowmas.
Beggar's nurse and Caiar's death. A. C. v. 2, n.
Which sleeps, and never palates more the dung,
The beggar's nurse and C&snr's.
Beguil'd masked with fraud. Luc. n.
So beguiFd
With outward honesty, but yet defil'd
With inward vice.
Behaviour conduct. J. i. 1, n.
Thus, after greeting, speaks the king of France,
In my behaviour, to the majesty,
The borrow'd majesty of England here.
Beholding beholden. H. E. iv. 1, n.
Had I not known those customs,
I should have been beholding.
Belee'd and calm'd terms of navigation. O. i. 1, n.
Must be belee'd and calm'd
By debitor and creditor.
Bellona's bridegroom. M. i. 2, n.
The thane of Cawdor began a dismal conflict :
Till that Belluna's bridegroom, lapp d in proof,
Confronted him with self-comparisons
Belly and the members, fable of. Cor. i. 1, '.
Make edicts for usury, to support usurers
Btmoiled bemired. T. S. iv. 1, .
How she was bemoiled.
Benvolio's falsehood. R. J. iii. 1, .
Affection makes him false.
Bergamo, sailmakers of. T. S. v. 1, i.
A sailmaker in Bergamo.
Bertjomask dance an Italian dance. M. N. D. v. 1, .
Hear a Bergomask dance, between two of our company.
Besmirch (v.) sully. H. i. 3. n.
And now no soil, nor cautel, doth beimirch
The virtue of his will.
BcstilFd dissolved. H. i. 2, n.
Whilst they, bestilCd
Almost to jelly with the act of fear,
Stand dumb, and apeak not to him.
Bestow'd stowed, deposited. C. E. i. 2, n.
In what safe place you have bestow'd my money.
Beitratight distraught, distracted. T. S. Induction, 2, n
What 1 I am not bestraught.
Betecm (v.} pour forth. M. N. D. i. 1, n.
Beteem them from the tempest of mine eyes.
Beteem (v.) allow, suffer. H. i. 2, n.
So loving to my mother,
That he might not beteem the winds of heaven
Visit her face too roughly.
Better skill with better skill. Luc. n.
For burthen-wise I'll hum on Tarquin still,
While thou on Tereus descant'st belter skill.
Bevel bent in an angle. So. cxxi. n.
I may be straight, though they themselves be bevel.
Bevis of Southampton. H. 6, S. P. ii. 3, .
As Bevis of Southampton fell upon Ascapart.
Bevy. H. E. i. 4, n.
None here he hopes
In all this noble bevy, has brought with her
Cne care abroad.
Bewray (v.) discover. H. C, T. P. i. 1, n.
Here comes the queen, whose looks bewray her anger.
Bewray (v.) reveal. L. ii. I, n.
He did bewray his practice.
Beyond bryond further than beyond. Cy. iii. 2, n.
O, not like me;
For mine's beyond beyond.
Bttonians term of contempt. H. 6, S. P. iv. 1, n.
Great men oft die by vile bezoniant.
Hias of the world. J. ii. 2, n.
Commodity, the bias of the world.
Bid the wind a base challenge the wind to speed. V A. n
To bid the wind a bate he now prepares.
Bilboes bar of iron with fetters attached to it. H. v. 2, n-
Methought, I lay
Worse than the routines in the bilboes.
Bills. M. A. iii. 3, n.
We are like to prove a goodly commodity, being
taken up of these men's billt.
Bills. H. 6, S. P. iv. 7, n.
My lord, when shall we go to Cheapside, and take up
commodities upon our bills t
Bills. T. Ath. iii. 4, n.
Phi. All our bill*.
Tim. Knock me down with *em.
Bills on their necks. A. L. 1. 2, n.
With bills on their necks, ' Be it known unto all men
by these presents.'
Bills placed on Junius Brutus' statue. J. C. i. 3, i.
Good Cinna, take this paper, &c.
Bird-bolts. M. A. i. 1, i.
Challenged Cupid at the flight: and my uncle's fool,
reading the challenge, subscribed for Cupid, and chal
lenged him at the bird-bolt.
Birds of Italy. M. V. v. 1, t.
The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark, &c.
Birds, deceiv'd with painted grapes. V. A. n.
Even as poor birds, deceiv'd with painted grapet
Do surfeit by the eye.
Birnam wood. M. v. 4, i.
Siward. What wood is this before us T
Menlelh. The wood of Birnam.
Birth-hour's blot corporal blemish. Luc. n.
Worse than a slavish wipe, or birth-hour's blot.
Bishop, costume of. H. 4, S. P. iv. 1, .
Whose white investments figure innocence.
Bisson blind. Cor. ii. 1, n.
What harm can your bisson conspectuities glean on'
of this character?
Biting the thumb. R. J. i. 1, i.
I will bite my thumb at them.
Slack dark. G. V. iv. 4, n.
That now she is become as black as I.
filack swarthy, dark. M. A. iii. 1, n.
If fair-faced,
She would swear the gentleman should be her sistei
If black, why, nature, drawing of an antic,
Made a foul blot.
Black Monday, origin of. M. V. ii. 5, i.
Black Monday.
Blasts used as a verb neuter. Luc. n.
O rash false heat, wrapp'd in repentant cold,
Thy hasty spring still blasts, and ne'er grows old I
Blenches deviations. So. ex. n.
These blenches gave my heart another youth,
And worse essays prov'd thee my best of love.
Blessed thistle, supposed virtues of. M. A. iii. 4, i.
Carduus benedictus.
Blessing the marriage-bed. M. N. D. v. 2, i.
To the best bride-bed will we.
Blessing, begging of. H. iii. 4, .
And when you are desirous to be bless'd,
I'll blessing beg of you.
Block. L. iv. 6, n.
This a good block I
Blood-letting. R. S. i. 1, i.
Our doctors say, this is no month to bleed.
Blood will I draw. H. 6, F. P. i. 5, .
Blood will I draw on thee, thou art a witch,
And straightway give thy soul to him tliou serr'st.
Blood natural disposition. T. Ath. iv. 2, 11. (See Cy. i. I, .)
Strange, unuMial blood,
When man's worst sin is, he does too much good I
Bloodless. H. 6, S. P. iii. 2, n.
Oft have I seen a timely-parted ghost,
Of ashy semblance, meagre, pale, and bloottleit,
Being all descended to the labouring heart
Blossoms young men, flower of the nobility. L n.
Whose rarest havings made the blotsomt Jote.
Blow .v.i swells. A. C. iv. 6, .
This bl <! my heart.
443
BLU
INDEX. I.
BRU
Blue of heaven's own tinct. Cy. ii. 2, n.
The enclosed lights now canopied
Under these windows, white and azure, lac'd
With blue of heaven's own tinct.
Board (v.) address. T. N. i. 3, n.
Accost, is, front her, board her, woo her, assail her.
.Boarded accosted. A. W. v. 3, n.
Certain it is I lik'd her,
And boarded her i' the wanton way of youth.
Boarded accosted. M. A. ii. 1, n.
I would he had boarded me.
Boar's Head Tavern. H. 4, F. P. ii. 4, i.
Eastcheap ; a room in the Boar's Head Tavern.
Bob rap. A. L. ii. 7, n.
He that a fool doth very wisely hit
Doth very foolishly, although he smart,
Not to seem senseless of the bob.
Bodg'd. H. 6, T. P. i. 4, n.
But, out, alas !
We todg'd again.
Bodkin small sword. H. iii. 1, n.
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin.
Bolingbroke. R. S. i. 1, .
Then, Bolingbroke.
Boll"n swollen. Luc. n.
Here one being throng'd bears back, all boll'n and red.
Bolter'd begrimed, besmeared. M. iv. 1, n.
For the blood-6oM<?r'<i Banquo smiles upon me.
Bombast from bombagia; cotton wool used as stuffing.
L. L. L. v. 2, n.
As bombast, ar.d as lining to the time.
Bonneted. Cor. ii. 2, n. (See O. i. 2, n.)
And his ascent is not by. such easy degrees as those
who, having been supple and courteous, to the people,
bonneted, without any further deed to have them at all
into their estimation and report.
Book of songs and sonnets. M. W. i. 1, i.
I had rather than forty shillings, I had my 600* of
songs and sonnets here.
Book, sense of the term. H. 4, F. P. iii. 1, '.
By that time will our book I think be drawn.
Book uncross'd. Cy. iii. 3, n.
Such gains the cap of him that makes him fine,
Yet keeps his book uncross'd.
Boot into the bargain. R. T. iv. 4, .
The other Edward dead, to quit my Edward ;
Young York he is but 6oo/, because both they
Match not the high perfection of my loss.
Boot advantage. M. M. ii. 4, .
Could I, with boot, change for an idle plume.
Boot compensation. R. S. i. 1, n.
Norfolk, throw down, we bid ; there is no boot.
Boots G. V. i. 1, i.
Nay, give me not the boots.
Board (v.) accost. H. ii. 2, n.
I '11 6oord him presently.
Bores wounds, thrusts. H. E. i. 1, n.
At this instant
He bores me with some trick.
Borne in Aa?;d encouraged by false hopes. M. iii. 1, n.
How you were borne in hand; how cross'd.
Borrower's cap. H. 4, S. P. ii. 2, .
The answer is as ready as a borrower's cap.
Bosom wish, heart's desire. M. M. iv. 3, n.
And you shall have your bosom on this wretch.
Boson boatswain. T. i. 1, n.
Where is the master, boson t
Bound boundary, obstacle. T. Ath. i. 1, n.
Our gentle flame
Provokes itself, and, like the current, flies
Each bound it chafes.
Bourn boundary. L. iv. 6, n.
From the dread summit of this chalky bovrn.
Bowls. L. L. L. v. 2, .
A very good bowler.
Brack dog of a particular species. T. S. Induction, 1, n.
Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my hounds :
Biach Merriman.
Brack female harrier. L. iii. 6, n. (See L. i. 4, n.)
Hound or spaniel, brack or lyrn.
444
Braid crafty. A. \V. iv. 2, n.
Since Frenchmen are so braid,
Marry that will, I'll live and die a maid.
Brakes of ice. M. M. ii. 1, n.
Some run from brakes of ice, and answer none
Brass. H. F. iv. 4, n.
Thou damned and luxurious mountain goat,
Offer'st me brass f
Brave bravado. J. v. 2, n.
There end thy brace, and turn thy face in peace.
Braved made fine. T. S. iv. 3, n.
Thou hast braved many men.
Bravery finery. A. L. ii. 7, n.
His bravery is not on my cost.
Brawls. L. L. L. iii. 1, i.
A French brawl.
Break up (v.) open. M. V. ii. 4, n.
An it shall please you to break up this.
Break with Aim break the matter to him. G. V. i. 3, n.
Now will we break with him.
Break the parle begin the parley. T. And. v. 3, n.
Rome's emperor, and nephew, break the pa>le.
B '-e.;st voice. T. N. ii. 3, n.
By my troth, the fool has an excellent breast.
Brjath'd. T. Ath. i. 1, n.
Breath'd as it were.
To an untirable and continuate goodness.
Bieathe in your watering take breath when ycu are drink-
ing. H. 4, F. P. ii. 4, n.
When you breathe in your watering, they cry hem I
Uribe. Cy. iii. 3, n.
O this life
Is nobler, than attending for a check ;
Richer, than doing nothing for a bribe.
D^ide-cup. T. S. iii. 2, i.
A health, quoth he.
Brief letter. H. 4, F. P. iv. 4, n.
Bear this sealed brief,
With winged haste, to the lord marshal.
Bring me out put me out. A. L. iii. 2, n.
Ros. Sweet, say on.
Celia. You bring me out.
Bring i> call to the drawers for more wine. H. 4, F. P. L
2, n.
Got with swearing lay by; and spent with crying
bring in.
Bristol. R. S. iii. 1, i.
Srize gad fly. T. C. i. 3, n.
The herd hath more annoyance by the lirizi
Than by the tiger.
Sr'.ze gad-fly. A. C. iii. 8, n.
The brize upon her, like a cow in June.
Brock badger. T. N. ii. 5, n.
Marry, hang thee, brock /
Brogues rude shoes. Cy. iv. 2, n.
And put
My clouted brogues from off my feet.
Broken with communicated with. H. E. v. 1, n.
With which they mov'd
Have broken with the king.
Brooch <ui ornament. R. S. v. 5, n.
And love to Richard
Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world.
Brooch' d adorned. A. C. iv. 13, n.
Not the imperious show
Of the full-fortun'd Caesar ever shall
Be brooch'd with me.
Brother father. M. M. iii. 2, n.
And you, good brother father.
Brother Cassius. J. C. ii. 1, n.
Sir, 't is your brother Cassius at the door.
Brnughtyou Ccesarhome? did you accompany Caesar home
J. C. i. 3, n.
Good even, Casca : brought you Casar home f
Brown bills bills for billmen, infantry. L. IT. 6, n.
Bring up the brown bills.
Brownists. T. N. iii. 2, t.
I had as lief be a Brownist as a politician.
Bruit report. H. 6, T. P. iv. 7, n.
Brother, we will proclaim you out of hand ;
The bruit thereof will bring you many frisnds.
BRU
INDEX. I.
CAN
Brutus and Cassius, from North's ' Plutarch. 1 J. C. i. 2, .
Will you go see the order of the course ?
Brutus and Portia, from North's ' Plutarch. 1 J. C. ii. 1, i.
Let not our looks, &c.
Brutus and Antony, orations of, from North's 'Plutarch.'
J. C. iii. 2, .
Enter Brutus and Cassius, and a throng of citizens.
Brutus thenight before the battle, from North's ' Plutarch.'
J. C. v. 1, i.
Be thou my witness that, against my will, &c.
Brutus, death of, from North's 'Plutarch.' J. C. v. 5, i.
Come, poor remains of friends, &c.
Buckle (v.) bend. H. 4, S. P. i. 1, n.
And as the wretch, whose fever-weaken'd joints,
Like strengthless hinges, buckle under life.
Bucklersbury. M. W. iii. 3, .
Bucklersbury in simple time.
Rugs hobgoblins. T. S. i. 2, n.
Tush! tush! fear boys with bugs.
Bugs terrors. Cy. v. 3, n.
Those that would die or ere resist are grown
The mortal bugs o' the field.
Bulk. O. v. 1, n.
Here, stand behind this bulk.
Bulk the whole body. Luc. .
May feel her heart, poor citizen, distress'd,
Wounding itself to death, rise up and fall,
Beating her bulk, that his hand shakes withal.
Bully-rook. M. W. i. 3, n.
What says my bully-rook?
Bumbards ale-barrels. H. E. v. 3, n.
And here ye lie baiting of bumbards, when
Ye should do service.
Buryonet helmet. A. C. i. 5, n.
The demi-Atlas of this earth, the arm
And burgonet of men.
Burn daylight waste time. M. W. ii. 1, n.
We burn daylight: here, read, read.
Burst broken. T. S. Induction, 1, n.
Pay for the glasses you have burst.
Burton Heath. T. S. Induction, 2, i.
Old Sly's son of Burton Heath.
Busky bosky, woody. H. 4, F. P. v. 1, n.
How bloodily the sun begins to peer
Above yon busky hill.
But unless. T. S. iii. 1, n.
For but I be deceiv'd,
Our fine musician groweth amorous.
But one, except one. A. W. ii. 3, n.
To each of you one fair and virtuous mistress
Fall, when love please, marry to each but one.
But poor a thousand crowns. A. L. i. 1, n.
It was upon this fashion bequeathed me by will, but
poor a thousand crowns.
But justly but as justly. A. L. i. 2, n.
If you do keep your promises in love
Sat justly as you have exceeded all promise,
Your mistress shall be happy.
But except. J. iii. 1, n.
But on this day, let seamen fear no wrack.
But now just now. H. 6, S. P. iv. 9, n.
But now is Cade driven back, his men dispers'd.
But thou love me so thou do but love me. R. J. ii. 2, n.
And, but thou love me, let them find me here.
Butt. T. i. 2, n. Where they prepar'd
A rotten carcase of a butt.
Butter-woman's rank to market. A. L. iii. 2, n.
It is the right butter-woman's rank to market.
Buxom obedient, disciplined. H. F. iii. 6, n.
Bardolph, a soldier firm and sound of heart,
Of buxom valour, &c.
Buz interjection of ridicule. T. S. ii. I, n.
Should be? should? buz I
By nature by the impulses of nature. C. E. i. 1, n.
Witness that my end
Was wrought by nature, not by vile offence.
By day and night always, constantly. L. i. 3, .
By day and night he wrongs me.
Sy peeping clandestinely peeping. Cy. 1. 7, n.
Then, by-peeping in an eye,
Base and unlusirous as thi j smoky light.
By him by his house. J. C. ii. 1, n.
Now, good Metellus, go along by him.
Bt/'rlakin by ourladykir,; our little lady. M. N. D.iii. 1,.
Bi/'rtukin, a parlous fear.
Byron's ' Bride of Abydos,' lines from. A. L. iv. 1, i.
Good youth, he went but forth to wash him in the
Hellespont, and, being taken with the cramp, wcs
drowned.
Byron's ' Stanzas for Music.' M. M. iii. 1, i.
For all thy blessed youth, &c.
C.
Caddis-garter gaiter of ferret. H. 4, F. P. ii. 4, n.
Puke-stocking, caddis- gartes, smooth-tongue, Stc.
Cade cask. H. 6, S. P. iv. 2, n.
Cade. We, John Cade, so termed of our supposed
father,
Dick. Or rather, of stealing a cade of herrings.
Ctesarandhis fortune, passage in ' Plutarch.' H. 6, F. P.
1. 2, i.
Now am I like that proud insulting ship
Which Ctesar and his fortune bare at once.
Caesar's fear of Cassius, from North's ' Plutarch.' J. C. i.
2, i.
Let me have men about me that are fat, &c.
Caesar, offer of the crown to, from North's ' Plutarch.' J.C.
i. 2, .
Ay, Casca; tell us what hath chanc'd to-day.
Csesar, assassination of, from North's ' Plutarch.' J. C. iii.
1, i.
All the senators rise.
Ceesar's grief for the death of Antony, from North's ' Plu-
tarch.' A. C., v. 1, .
Wherefore is that? and what art thou that dar'st
Appear thus to us ?
Caesar's interview with Cleopatra, from North's' Plutarch."
A. C. v. 2. .
Which is the queen of Egypt?
Caitilf. R. S. i. 2, .
And throw the rider headlong in the lists,
A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford!
Calen o Custure me. H. E. iv. 4, n.
Quality ! Calen o Custure me. Art thou a gentleman ?
Caliver small musket. H. 4, S. P. iii. 2, n.
Put me a caliver into Wart's hand.
Calkins horse-shoes, turned up to prevent flipping. T.
N. K. v. 4, n.
On this horse is Arcite,
Trotting the stones of Athens, which the calkins
Did rather tell than trample.
Call. J. iii. 4, n.
If but a dozen French
Were there in arms, they would be as a call
To train ten thousand English to their side.
Call there call it. A. W. ii. 3, .
What do you call there.
Callet. H. 6, T. P. ii. 2, n.
A wisp of straw were worth a thousand crowns,
To make this shameless collet know herself.
Calling name. A. L. i. 2, n.
I am more proud to be Sir Rowland's son,
His youngest son; andwould not change that calling
To be adopted heir to Frederick.
Calm used by Hostess for qualm. H. 4, S. P. il. 4, n.
Sick of a culm.
Calphurnia's dreams, from North's ' Plutarch.' J. C. ii. 2, i.
Thrice hath Calphurnia in her sleep cried out, Sec.
Calves'-guts. Cy. ii. 3, .
It is a voice in her ears, which horse-hairs and calret
guts, nor the voice of unpaved eunuch to boot, can nevei
amend.
Camelot. L. ii. 2, i.
Goose, if I had you upon Sarum plain,
I'd drive ye cackling home to Camelot.
Campanella, passage from, with parallel references to Mil
ton and Coleridge. M. V. v. 1, i.
Sit, Jessica, &c.
ta knows. P. P. n.
Let the priest in surplice white,
That defunctive music con.
440
CAN
INDEX. I.
CEN
Can for additions began as additions. L. C. n.
All aids, themselves made fairer by their place,
Can for additions.
Canary. L. L. L. iii. 1, '.
Canary to it.
Candle-wasters bookworms. M. A. v. 1, n.
Make misfortune drunk
With candle-wasters
Cane-coloured beard. M. W. i. 4, i.
A little yellow beard; a cane-coloured beard.
Canker. G. V. i. 1, i.
In the sweetest bud
The eating canker dwells.
Canker dog-rose. M. A. i. 3, i.
I had rather be a canker in a hedge than a rose in his
grace.
Canker dog-rose. H. 4, F. P. i. 3, n.
To put down Richard, that sweet lovely rose,
And plant this thorn, this canker, Bolingbroke.
Canker-blooms flowers of the canker or dog-rose. So. lix. n.
The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye
As the perfumed tincture of the roses.
Cannibals, imaginary nation of. T. ii. 1, t.
No kind of traffic, &c.
Cannibals used by Pistol for Hannibals. H. 4, S. P. ii. 4, n.
Compare with Coesars and with cannibals.
Canon. H. i. 2, n.
His canon "gainst self-slaughter.
Cantle corner. H. 4, F. P. iii. 1, n.
And cuts me, from the best of all my land,
A huge half-moon, a monstrous cantle out.
Cantle portion. A. C.iii. 8, n. (See H. 4, F. P. iii. 1, .)
The greater cantle of the world is lost
With very ignorance.
Cantons cantos. T. N. i. 5, n.
Write loyal cantons of contemned love.
Capable able to receive. A. L. iii. 5, n.
Lean upon a rush,
The cicatrice and capable impressure,
Thy palm some moment keeps.
Capitulate (v.) settle the heads of an agreement. H. 4,
F. P. iii. 2, n.
The archbishop's grace of York, Douglas, Mortimer,
Capitulate against us, and are up
Capocchia shallow skonce, loggerhead. T. C. iv. 2, n.
Alas, poor wretch ! a poor capocchia!
Captain used adjectively for chief. So. Hi. n.
Like stones of worth they thinly placed are,
Or captain jewels in the carcanet.
Captious and intenible capable of receiving.but not of retain-
ing. A. W. i. 3, n.
Yet, in this captious and intenible sieve,
I still pour in the waters of my love.
Capulet's feast, season of. R. J. i. 2, i.
This night I hold an old accustom'd feast.
Carack vessel of heavy burden. O. i. 2, n.
'Faith, he to-night hath boarded a land carack.
Carbonado rasher on the coals. H. 4, F. P. v. 3, n.
Let him make a carbonado of me.
Carcanet chain, necklace. C. E. iii. 1, n.
To see the making of her carcanet.
Carcanet necklace. So. Iii. .
Or captain jewels in the carcanet.
Card of ten proverbial expression. T. S. ii. 1, ..
Yet I have fac'd it with a card of ten.
Card. H. v. I, n.
We must speak by the card, or equivocation will undo
us.
Carded. H. 4, F. P. iii. 2, n.
Carded his state ;
Mingled his royalty with carping fools.
Cards. .T. v. 2, i.
Have I not here the best cards for tbe game t
Careen a term of the manege. M. W. i. 1, n
And so conclusions passed the careers.
Carl churl. Cy. v. 2, n.
Could this carl,
A very drudge of nature's, have subdued me.
Carloi churl, peasant. A. L. iii. 5, n.
And he hath bought the cottage, and the bounds
That the old carlot once was master of.
446
Carpet. P. iv. 1, n.
The purple violets, and marigolds,
Shall as a carpet hang upon thy grave.
Carpet knights. T. N. iii. 4, t.
He is knight, dubbed with unhatched rapier, ocd on
carpet-consideration.
Carpets laid. T. S. iv. 1, n.
The carpets laid, and everything in order.
Carping jesting. H. 4, F. P. iii. 2, n.
Mingled his royalty with carping fools.
Carriages in the time of Shakspere. A. W. iv. 4, t.
Our waggon is prepar'd.
Carriages. J. v. 7, '.
Many carriages.
Carrying coals. R. J. i. 1, i.
Gregory, o" my word, we "11 not carry caais.
Case skin. T. N. v. 1, n.
When time hath sow'd a grizzle on thy case.
Case outside. M. M. ii. 4, n.
O form!
How often dost thou with thy case, thy habit,
Wrench awe from fools !
Case of lives several lives. H. F. iii. 2, n.
For mine own part, I have not a case of lives.
Case outward show. L. C. n.
Accomplish'd in himself, not in his case.
Cassius and Brutus, quarrel between, from North's ' Plu-
tarch.' J. C. iv . t.
Most noble brother, you have done me wrong.
Cassius, death of, from North's 'Plutarch.' J. C. v, iii.i.
Fly further off, my lord.
Castilian. M. W. ii. 3, n.
Thou art a Castilian.
Castiliano-vulgo. T. N. i. 3, n.
What, wench? Castiliano-vulgo for here comes sir
Andrew Ague-face.
Castle stronghold, power. T. And. iii. 1, n.
And rear'd aloft the bloody battle-axe,
Writing destruction on the enemy's castle.
Catalan. M. W. ii. 1, n.
I will not believe such a Cataian.
Cat and bottle. M. A. i. 1, .
Hang me in a bottle like a cat. and shoot at me.
Cat i' the adage. M. i. 7, n.
Letting I dare not wait upon I would,
Like the poor cat i' the adage.
' Catch that catch can,' notice of the work. A. L. iv. Z, '.
What shall he have that kill'd the deer?
Catling lute-string. R. J. iv. 5, n.
What say you, Simon Calling?
Caucasus, origin of the name of. R. S. i. 3, i.
The frosty Caucasus.
Cable you come cause on which you come. R. S. i. 1, n
As well appeareth by the cause you come.
Causeless. A. W. ii. 3, n.
To make modern and familiar things supernatural
and causeless.
Cautel crafty way to deceive. H. i. 3, n.
And now no soil, nor cautel, doth besmirch
The virtue of his will.
Cautelotts wary, circumspect. J. C. ii. 1, n.
Swear priests, and cowards, and men cautelous.
Cautels deceitful purposes. L. C. n.
In him a plenitude of subtle matter,
Applied to cautels, all strange forms receives.
Caviarie. H. ii. 2, t.
'T was caviarie to the general.
Cawdor Castle. M. i, 3, i.
Thane of Cawdor.
Cease (v. used actively) stop. H. 6, S. P. v. 2, n.
Now let the general trumpet blow his blast.
Particularities and petty sounds
To cease.
Ceilings ornamented. Cy. ii. 4, i.
The roof o' the chamber
With golden cherubims is fretted
Censure (v.) give an opinion. G. V. i. 2, n
Should censure thus on lovely gentlemen.
Censure opinion. H. G, F. P. ii. 3, n,
To give their censure of these rare reports.
UEN
INDEX. -I.
CIC
f ensure opinion. H. 6, S. P. j. 3, n.
Madam, the king is old enough himself
To give his ctnsure.
Censure opinion. P. ii. 4, n.
Whose death 's, indeed, the strongest in our censure.
Censure (v.* judge. H. 6, F. P. v. 5, n.
If you do censure me by what you were.
Censure comparison. H. E. i. 1, .
And no discerner
Durst wag his tongue in censure.
Censure well approve. H. 6, S. P. Hi. 1, n.
Say, you consent, and censure well the deed.
Censur'd septenced. M. M. i. n.
Isab. Doth he so
Seek his life?
Lucio. Hath censur'd him already.
Censures opinions. E. T. ii. 2, n.
Will you go
To give your censures in this weighty business?
Censures judges, estimates. So. cxlviii. n.
Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled,
That censures falsely what they see aright /
Cerns concerns. T. S. v. I, n.
What cerns it you if I wear pearl and gold ?
Chairs. J. iv. 1, i.
Fast to the chair.
Challenge, legal use of the word. H. E. ii. 4, n.
And make my challenge
You shall not be my judge.
Change reverse. A. L. i. 3, n.
And do not seek to take your change upon you.
Change the cod's head for the salmon's tail exchange the
more delicate fare for the coarser. O. ii. 1, .
She that in wisdom never was so frail,
To change the cod's head for the salmon's tail.
Change (v.) vary, give a different appearance to. A. C.
i. -2, n.
O, that I knew this husband, which, you say, must
change his horns with garlands 1
Changeling a child changed. W. T. iii. 3, n.
This is some changeling.
Channeling child procured in exchange. M. N. D. ii. 1, n.
She never had so sweet a changeling.
Channel kennel. H. 6, T. P. ii. 2, n.
As if a channel should be call'd the sea.
Chapman & seller. L. L. L. ii. 1, n.
Base sale of chapmen's tongues.
Character description. W. T. iii. 3, n.
There lie; and there thy character.
Character handwriting. L. ii. 1, n.
Ay, though thou didst produce
My very character.
Characters the help of letters. R. T. iii. 1, .
I say, without characters, fame lives long.
Characts inscriptions, official designations. M. M. v. I, n.
So may Angelo,
In all his dressings, characls, titles, forms,
Be an arch villain.
Char'd. T. N. K. iii. 2,n.
How stand I then 1
All 's char'd when he is gone.
Chares work. A. C. iv. 13, n.
By such poor passion as the maid that milks,
And does the meanest charet.
Charge burthen. P. i. 2, n.
Let none disturb us : why should this charge of
thoughts,
The sad companion, dull-ey'd Melancholy,
By me so us'd a guest.
Chariest most cautious. H. i. 3, .
The chariest maid is prodigal enough,
If she unmask her beauty to the moon.
Charing Cross. H. 4, F. P. ii. 1, i.
Chariot drawn by lion, at the baptism of Henry Prince of
Scotland. M. N. D. iii. 1, i.
A lion among ladies is a most dreadful thing.
Chariot of night. M. N. D. iii. 2, i.
For night's swift dragons cut the clouds t'u^ fast.
Charles' wain constellation of the Great bear. H. 4, F. P.
i. l,n.
Charles' wain is over the new chimney.
Charm'd. Cy. v. 3, n.
I, in mine own woe charm'd,
Could not find death where I did hear him groan.
Charnel-house R. J. iv. 3, .
As in a vault.
Charneco name of a wine. H. 6, S. P. ii. 3, .
Here's a cup of charneco.
Chaucer's Troilus and Cressida.' M. V. v. 1, i.
Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls.
Chaucer's ' Knight's Tale.' M. N. D. i. 1, i.
Hippolyta, I woo'd thee with my sword.
Chaucer's ' Knight's Tale.' M. N. D. iii. 2, i.
Even till the eastern gate.
Chaucer's ' Knight's Tale.' M. N. D. iv. 2, i.
Go one of you, find out the forester.
Chaucer's description of Hector and Troilus. T. C. i. 2 I.
That 's Hector, &c.
Chaucer's description of the parting of Troilus and Cressirta
T. C. iv. 4, *.
Be thou but true of heart.
Chaucer's ' Troilus and Cressida,' extract from. T. C. v. 2,
Here, Diomed, keep this sleeve.
Chaudron entrails. M. iv. 1, n.
Add thereto a tiger's chaudrr,n,
For the ingredients of our caldron.
Cheater escheater. M. W. i. 3, .
I will be cheater to them.
Cheater. H. 4, S. P. ii. 4, n. (See M. W. i. 4, n.)
He's no swaggerer, hostess; a tame cheater.
Cheer face. M. N. D. iii. 2, n.
All fancy sick, and pale of cheer.
Cheer countenance. H. 6, F. P. i. 2, n.
Methinks your looks are sad, your cheer appall'd.
Chertsey, monastery of. R. T. i. 2, i.
Come now, toward Chertsey with your holy load.
Cheveril glove kid glove, easy-fitting glove. T. N. iii. 1,
A sentence is but a cheveril glove to a good wit.
Cheveril kid-skin. H. E. ii. 3, n.
The capacity
Of your soft cheveril conscience would receive,
If you might please to stretch it.
Cheveril kid-skin. R. J. ii. 4, n.
O, here's a wit of chereril, that stretches from an
inch narrow to an ell broad.
Chewet. H.4, F. P. v. 1, .
Peace, chewet, peace.
Chide (v.) rebuke, resound. H. F. ii. 4, n.
That caves and womby vaultages of France
Shall c/tide your trespass, and return your mock.
Chief eminence, superiority. H. i. 3, n.
And they in France of the best rant and station
Are of a most select and generous chief in that.
Child. W. T. iii. 3, n.
A boy, or a child, I wonder I
Childing producing. M. N. D. ii. 2, fi.
The childing autumn.
China dishes. M. M. ii. 1, '.
They are not China dishes, but very good dishe.
Chiromancy. M. V. ii. 2, i.
Go to, here 's a simple line of life.
Chivalry, usages of. Luc. n.
Yea, though I die, the scandal will survive,
And be an eyesore in my golden coat ;
Some loathsome dash the herald will contrive,
To cipher me how fondly I did dote.
Choppine. H. ii. 2, i.
By the altitude of a choppine.
Chopping French French which changes the meaning of
words. R. S. v. 3, n.
The chopping French we do not understand.
Christendom christening. J. iv. 1, n.
By my Christendom,
So I were out of prison, and kept sheep,
I should be as merry as the day is long.
Christom child. H. F. ii. S, n.
A made a finer end, and went away, an it had been
any christom child.
Chuffs swollen, pampered gluttoni. II . 4, F. P. ii. >, .
Ye fat chuffs.
Cicero, from N.rth's ' Plutarch.' J. C. ii. I, i.
But what of Cicero f
447
C1D
INDEX. I.
COM
Cide decide. So. xlvi. n.
To 'cide this title is impannelled
A 'quest of thoughts.
Cinna, the poet, death of, from North's ' Plutarch.' J. C.
iii. 3, i.
Enter Cinna, the poet.
Circ'ummui'd walled round. M. M. iv. 1, .
He hath a garden circummur'd with brick.
rircumstttnce,in two senses: 1. circumstantial deduction;
2. position. G. V. i. 1, n.
So, by your circumstance, I fear, you'll prove.
Circumstance circumlocution. O. i. 1, n.
With a bombast circumstance,
Horribly stuff 'd with epithets of war,
Nonsuits my mediators.
Cittern-head head of a cittern or guitar. L. L. L. v. 2, n.
Hoi. What is this ?
Boyet. A cittern-head.
Citizens to their dens. A. C. v. 1, n.
The round world
Should have shook lions into civil streets,
And citizens to their dem.
City feasts. A. W. ii. 5, i.
Like him that leaped into the custard.
Civil grave. T. N. iii. 4, n.
He is sad, and civil.
Civil decorous. L. C. B.
Shook off my sober guards, and cinV fears
Clamour your tongues. W. T. iv. 3, n.
Clamour your tongues, and not a word more.
Clap thyself my love. W. T. i. 2, n.
Ere I could make thee open thy white hand,
And clap thyself my lore.
Classical allusions. T. S. i. 1, i.
O yes, I saw sweet beauty in her face,
Such as the daughter of Agenor had.
Clean kam nothing to the purpose. Cor. iii. 1 , .
This is clean kam.
Clear-stories clerestories. T. N. iv. 2, n.
And the clear-stories towards the south-north are as
lustrous as ebony.
Clear thy crystals dry thine eyes. H. F. ii. 3, n.
Go, clear thy crystals.
Cleave to my consent unite yourself to my fortunes. M.
ii. 1, n.
If you shall cleare to my consent, when't is
It shall make honour for you.
Cleft the root (in archery). See Cleave the pin. G. V. v.
4, n.
How oft hast thou with perjury cleft the root!
Cleopatra, flight of, from North's Plutarch.' A. C. iii. S, i.
Naught, naught, all naught !
Cleopatra taken by Proculeius, from North's ' Plutarch.'
A. C. v. 2, i.
Guard her till Caesar come.
Cleopatra, death of, from North's ' Plutarch.' A. C. v. 2, i.
Caesar through Syria
Intends his journey.
Clinquant bright with gingling ornaments. H. E. i. I, .
To-day, the French,
All clinquant, all in gold, like heathen gods,
Shone down the English.
Clothier's yard. L. iv. 6, n.
That fellow handles his bow like a crow-keeper:
draw me a clothier's yard.
Clubs, bills, and partizans. R. J. i. 1, i.
Clubs, bills, and partizans, strike! beat them down.
Coaches. M. W. ii. 2, .
Coach after coach.
Coasteth advanceth. V. A. n.
And all in haste she coatteth to the cry.
Coats in heraldry. M. N. D. iii. 2, i.
Two of the first, like coats in heraldry.
Cock-shut time cock-roost time, time at which the cock
goes to rest. R. T. v. 3, n.
Thomas the earl of Surrey, and himself,
Much about cock-shut time, from troop to troop,
Went through the army.
Tock and pye, swearing by. H. 4, S. P. v. 1, i.
By cock find pye.
448
Cock-a-hoop. R. J. i. 5, n.
You "11 make a mutiny among my guestt 1
You will set cock-a-hoop.
Cock cock-boat. L. iv. 6, .
And yon tall anchoring bark,
Diminish'd to her cock.
Cockle weed amongst the corn. Cor. iii. 1, n.
We nourish 'gainst our senate
The cockle of rebellion, insolence, sedition.
Cockney. L. ii. 4, i.
Cry to it, nuncle, as the cockney did to the ec^.
Coffer of Darius. H. 6, F. P. i. G, n.
Her ashes in an urn more precious
Than the rich-jewell'd coffer oj Darius.
Cffin crust of a pie. T. S. iv. 3, n.
A custard-co^Sn, a bauble, a silken pie.
CoJJin crust of a pie. T. And. v. 'J, n.
And with your blood and it I '11 make a paste,
And of the paste a coffin I will rear.
CoJ/in coffer. P. iii. 1, .
Bid Nestor tiring me spices, ink, and paper.
My casket and my jewels ; and bid Nicander
Bring me the satin coffin.
Cog (v.) term applied to dice. L. L. L. v. 2, n.
Since you can cog, I '11 plaj no more with you.
Cngnizance badge. H. 6, F. P. ii. 4, n.
This pale and angry rose,
As cognizance of my blood-drinking hate,
AVill 1 for ever, and my faction, wear.
Colbrand and Guy of Warwick, combat of. J. i. 1, i.
Colurand the giant.
Cold unmoved. H. F. i. 2, n.
All out of work, and cold for action.
Coleridge, passage from ' Literary Remains. A. L i. 1, i.
Of all sorts enchantingly beloved.
Coleridge's ' Essay on Method,' passage from. n. }, S. P
ii. 1,<.
Marry, if thou wert an honest man, &c.
Coleridge, passage from. R. J. ii. 2, i.
Well, do not swear, &c.
Coleridge, extract from. R. J. ii. 4, '.
Why, is not this better now than groaning for love ?
Coleridge's remarks on Shakspere's philosophy of present;
ments. R. J. iii. 5, .
God 1 I have an ill-divining soul.
Collection consequence deduced from premises. Cy. v. 5, n
When I wak'd, I found
This label on my bosom ; whose containing
Is so from sense in hardness, that I can
Make no collection of it.
Collied black, smutted. M. N. D. i. 1, n.
Brief as the lightning in the collied night.
Collied blackened, discoloured. O. ii. 3, n.
And passion, having my best judgment collied,
Assays to lead the way.
Collins's dirge to Fidele. Cy. iv. 2, i.
We have done our obsequies.
Colour'd hat and cloak. T. S. i. 1, n.
Tranio, at once
Uncase thee, take my colour'd hat and cloak.
Colours deceits. H. G, F. P. ii. 4, n.
1 love no colours.
Colt (v.) trick. H. 4, F. P. ii. 2, n.
What a plague mean ye to colt me thus?
Combinate betrothed. M. M. iii. 1, n.
Her combinate husband, this well-seeming Anpelo.
Combined bound. M. M. iv. 3, n.
I am combined by a sacred vow.
' Come o'er the Bourn, a songe betwene the Queen's M
jestie and Englande.' L. iii. 6, i.
Come o'er the buurn, Bessy, to me.
Comforting encouraging. W. T. ii. 3, n.
Yet that dares
Less appear so, in comforting your evils,
Than such as most seems yours.
Commings meetings in assault. H. iv. 7, n.
We '11 make a solemn wager on your camming*.
Commodity interest. J. ii. 2, n.
That smooth-faced gentleman, tickling commodity.
Common and several. L. L. L. ii. 1, n.
My lips are no common, though several they be.
COM
INDEX. I.
CON
Common make common, interchange thoughts. H. iv. 5, n.
Laertes, 1 must common with your grief.
Compact of credit credulous. C. E. iii. 2, n,
Being compact of credit, that you love us.
Can/pact compounded, made up of. A. L. ii. !*, ft.
If he, compact of jars, grow musical,
We shall have shortly discord in the spheres.
Compact confederate. L. ii. 2, n.
When he, compact., and nattering his displeasure,
Tripp'd me behind.
Companies companions. M. N. D. i. 1, n.
To seek new friends and stranger companies.
Companies companions. H. F. i. 1, n.
His companies unletter'd, rude, and shallow.
Companion fellow. Cy. ii. 1, n.
It is not fit your lordship should undertake every
companion that you give offeuce to.
Company companion. A. W. iv. 3, n.
I would gladly have him see his company anatomized.
Compass (v.) used ambiguously. G. V. iv. 2, n.
Sil, What is your will!
Pro. That I may compass yours.
Compassed window bow window. T. C. i. 2, .
She came to him the other day into the compassed
window.
Compass'daxcheA. V. A. n.
His braided hanging mane
Upon his compos fd crest now stand on end.
Compassionate complaining. R. S. i. 3, n.
It boots thee not to be compassionate.
Competitors confederates. T. N. iv. 2, n.
The competitors enter.
Competitors associates. R. T. iv. 4, n.
And every hour more competitors
Flock to the rebels.
Complain of good breeding complain of the want of good
breeding. A. L. iii. 2, .
That he that hath learned no wit by nature nor art
may complain of good breeding.
Complain myself the French se plaindre. R. S. i. 2, n.
Where then, alas I may I complain myself t
Complain' 'd formerly used without a subjoined preposition.
Luc. n.
And by chaste Lucrece' soul that late complain'd
Her wrongs to us.
Complement extern outward completeness. O. i. 1, .
For when my outward action doth demonstrate
The native act and figure of my heart
In complement extern, 't is not long after
But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve.
Complements ceremonies. L. L. L. i. 1, n.
A man of complements.
Compliment respect for forms. R. J. ii. 2, n.
But farewell compliment.
Compose (v.) agree, come to agreement. A. C. ii. 2, n.
If we compose well here, to Parthia.
Composition agreement. M. M. v. 1, n.
Her promised proportions
Came short of composition.
Comptible accountable, ready to submit. T. N. i. 5, n.
Good beauties, let me sustain no scorn j I am very
eomptible even to the least sinister usage.
Concave as a covered goblet. A. L. iii. 4, n.
1 do think him as concave as a covered goblet.
Conceited characters fanciful figures worked. L. C. .
Oft did she heave her napkin to her eync,
Which on it had conceited characters.
Conceited ingenious, imaginative. Luc. n.
Threat'ning cloud-kissing Ilion with annoy i
Which the conceited painter drew so proud.
Conclusions to be as kisses. T. N. v. 1, n.
So that, conclusions to be as kisses, if your four nega-
tives make your two affirmatives, why. then the worse
for my friends and the better for my fues.
Conclusions experiments. Cy. i. 6, .
Is t not meet
That I did amplify my judgment in
Other conclusions?
Condition temper. A. L. i. 2, n.
Yet such is now the duke's condition
That he misconstrues all that you have don*-
fcui. VOL. 2 Q
Condition temper. H. 4, F. P. i. 3, n.
I will from henceforth rather be myself,
Mighty, and to be fear'd, than ay condition.
Condition fat. T. Ath. i. 1, n.
This throne, this Fortune, and this hill, mcthiuks,
With one man beckon'd from the rest below,
Bowing his head against the steepy mount
To climb his happiness, would be well expreis'd
In our condition.
Conduct conductor. Luc. n.
The wind wars with his torch, to make him stay,
And blows the smoke of it into his face,
Extinguishing his conduct in this case.
Conduits. W. T. v. 2, i.
Weather-bitten conduit.
Coney-catching thieving. M. W. i. 1, n.
Your coney-catching rascals, Bardolph, Nym, ant
Pistol.
Confession's seal seal of confession. H. E. i. 2, .
Whom after under the confession'* seal
He solemnly had sworn.
Confound (v.) destroy. A. C. iii. 2, n.
What willingly he did confound he wail'd.
Confounded destroyed. H. F. iii. 1, n.
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base.
Confounds destroys. Luc. n.
And one man's lust these many lives confounds.
Consent (v.) concur. A. L. v. 1, .
All your writers do consent that ipse is he.
Consented. H. 6, F. P. i. 1 , n.
But have consented unto Henry's death.
Considerate stone. A. C. ii. 2, n.
Go to then; your considerate st one.
Consign'd confirmed, ratified. H. 4, S. P. iv. 1, n.
And present execution of our wills
To us, and to our purposes, consign'd.
Consist stands on. P. i. 4, n.
Welcome is peace, if he on peace consist.
Consuls, elections of, from North's ' Plutarch.' Cor. iii. 1 i.
Are these your herd I
Contain (v.) retain. M. V. v. 1, n.
Or your own honour to contain the ring.
Contemn me this contemptuously refuse this favour. V. A.n
What am I, that thou shouldst contemn me this I
Content. A. L. i. 8, n.
Now go in we content
To liberty, and not to banishment.
Content with my harm resigned to any evil. A. L. iii. 2, a
Glad of other men's good, content with my harm.
Content acquiescence. V. A. n.
Forc'd to content, but never to obey.
Continents banks. M. N. D. ii. 2, .
That they have overborne their continents.
Continuate uninterrupted. O. iii. 4, n.
But I shall, in a more continuate time,
Strike off this score of absence.
Contrary feet. J. iv. 2, . (See G. V. ii. 3, .)
Standing on slippers (which his nimble haste
Had falsely thrust upon contrary feet).
Contrive wear away. T. S. i. 2, n.
Please ye we may contrive this afternoon.
Convented summoned. H. E. v. 1, .
To-morrow morning to the council-board
He be convented
Convents serves, agrees, is convenient. T. N. v. 1, H.
When that is known, and golden time convents,
A solemn combination shall be made
Of our dear souls.
Conversion change of condition. J. i. 1, n.
Foi new-made honour doth forget men's names ;
'T is too respective, and too sociable,
For your conversion.
Convert (v.) turn. T. Ath. iv. 1, n.
To general filths
Convert o' the instant, green virginity
Convertite convert. J. v. 1, n.
But, since you are a gentle convertile.
Convey (v.) manage. L. i. 2, n.
Convey the business as I shall find means.
Cvnvnyancc theft. H. 6, F. P. i. 3, n.
Since Henry's death I fear there is conrfya i,i.
CON
INDEX. I.
ORE
Cinveyanie juggling, artifice. H. 6, T. P. iii. 3, n.
I make king Lewis behold
Thy sly conveyance.
Conveyers fraudulent appropriates of property, jugglers.
R. S. iv. i. .
Soling. Go, some of you, convey him to the Tower.
K. Rich. O good I convey? Conveyers are you all.
Convicted overpowered. J. iii. 4, n.
A whole armada of convicted sail
Is scatterM and disjoin'd from fellowship.
Convince (v.) overcome. Cy. i. 5, n.
Your Italy contains none so accomplished a courtier
to convince the honour of my mistress.
Convince (v.) overpower. M. i. 7, n.
His two chamberlains
Will I with wine and wassel so convince.
Convince (v.) overcome. P. i. 2, n.
But in our orbs we'll live so round and safe,
That time of both this truth shall ne'er convince.
cooks. R. J. iv. 2, i.
Sirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cookt.
Copatain hat high-crowned hat. T. S. v. 1, n.
A scarlet cloak! and a copatain hat I
Cope(v.) encounter. A. L. ii. 1, n.
I love to cope him in these sullen fits.
Corollary surplus number. T. iv. 1, n.
Bring a corollary,
Rather than want a spirit.
Cords', knives', drams' precipitance. T. N. K. i. 1, .
None fit for the dead :
Those that with cords', knives', drams' precipitance,
Weary of this world's light, have to themselves
Been death's most horrid agents.
Corlolanus, love of, for his mother. Cor. i. 3, .
I pray you, daughter, sing.
Coriolanus standing for the consulship, from North's ' Plu-
tarch.' Cor. ii. 2, i.
It then remains,
That you do speak to the people.
Coriolanus, condemnation of, from North's 'Plutarch.
Cor. iii. 3, i.
First, hear me speak.
Corlolantts, banishment of, from North's ' Plutarch.' Cor.
iii. 3, i.
Our enemy is banish'd.
Coriolanus, departure of, from Rome, from North's 'Plu-
tarch.' Cor. iv. 1, .
Come, leave your tears.
Coriolanus, reconcilement of, with Aufidius, from North's
' Plutarch." Cor. iv. 4, .
A goodly city is this Antium.
Coriolanus, mission of ambassadors to, from North's ' Plu-
tarch.' Cor. v. 1, i.
He would not seem to know me.
Coriolanus, intercession of the mother and wife of, from
North's ' Plutarch.' Cor. v. 3, i.
My wife comes foremost.
Coriolanus, death of, from North's ' Plutarch.' Cor. v. 5, .
Hail, lords ! I am retum'd your soldier.
Corporal of his field. L. L. L. iii. 1 , n.
Am 1 to be a corporal of hit field t
Corpse, bleeding, superstition respecting. R. T. i. 2, i.
Dead Henry's wounds
Open their congealed mouths, and bleed afresh !
Corsive corrosive H. 6, S. P. iii. 2, n.
Away ! though parting be a fretful cursive,
It is applied to a deathful wound.
Coitard head. L. L. L. iii. 1, n.
Here's a costard broken in a shin.
Costermonger times times of petty traffic. H. 4, S. P. i. 2, n.
Virtue is of so little regard in these costermonger times.
Coted quoted. L. L. L. iv. 3, n.
Her amber hair for foul have amber coted.
Coted overtook, went side by side. H. ii. 2, n.
We coted them on the way.
Cotswold Hills, sports on. M. W. i. 1, i.
I heard say he was outrun on Cattail.
Coucheth causes to couch. Luc. n.
This said, he shakes aloft his Roman blade,
Which, like a falcon towering in the skies,
Coucheth the fowl below with his wing's shade.
450
Countenance behaviour, bearing. A. L. i. 1, n.
The something that nature gave me, his countenanci
seems to take from me.
Countenance false appearance. M. M. v. 1, .
Unfold the evil which is here wrapp'd up
In countenance.
Counter. A. L. ii. 7, i.
What, for a counter, would I do but good ?
Counter upon a wrong scent. H. 4, S. P. i. 2, n,
You hunt counter, hence! avauntl
Counterfeit likeness or copy. Luc. n.
The poor counterfeit of her complaining.
Counterfeit portrait. So. xvi. n.
Much liker than your painted counterfeit.
Counterfeit portrait. So. liii. n.
Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit
Is poorly imitated after you.
Counterpoints counterpanes. T. S. ii. 1, n.
In ivory coffers I have stuffd my crowns;
In cypress chests my arras, counterpoint!.
Counties nobles. J. v. 1, n.
Our discontented counties do revolt.
Countries in her face. C. E. iii. 2, .
I could find out countries in her.
Country-base game of prison-bars, or prison-base. Cy. T.
3, n. Lads more like to run
The country-base, than to commit such slaughter.
Cou-plement union. So. xxi. n.
Making a covplement of proud compare,
With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems.
Couplets of the dove. H. v. 1, i.
Anon, as patient as the female dove, &c.
Court of guard enclosed space where a guard is held. H. 6,
F. P. ii. 1, n.
Let us have knowledge at the court of guard.
Court cupboard. R. J. i. 5, i.
Remove the court cupboard.
Courtesies makes his courtesy. T. N. ii. 5, n.
Toby approaches ; courtesies there to me.
Courtship paying courtesies. O. ii. 1, n.
Ay, smile upon her, do; I will gyve thee in thine
own courtship.
Cousin kinsman. R. J. i. 5, n.
Nay sit, nay sit, good cousin Capulet.
Cousins relations, kinsfolks. R. T. ii. 2, n.
My pretty cousins, you mistake me both.
Cowl-staff used for carrying a basket. M. W. iii. 3, n.
Where's the cowl-staff f
Coy (v.) caress. M. N. D. iv. 1, n.
While I thy amiable cheeks do coy.
Cozier botcher. T. N. ii. 3, n.
Ye squeak out your cozier'* catches without any miti-
gation or remorse of voice.
Cranking bending. H. 4, F. P. ilL 1, n.
See how this river comes me cranking in.
Cranks (v.) winds. V. A. n.
With what care
He cranks and crosses, with a thousand doubles.
Crare small vessel. Cy. iv. 2, n.
To show what coast thy sluggish crare
Might easiliest harbour in.
Crave our acquaintance. T. N. K. ii. 2, n.
Envy of ill men
Crave our acquaintance.
Craven. T. S. ii. 1, n.
No cock of mine, you crow too like a craven.
Credent credible. W. T. i. 2, n.
Then 't is very credent.
Credit belief, thing believed. T. N. iv. 3, n.
And there I found this credit
That he did range the town to seek me out.
Credit his own lie. T. i. 2, n.
Like one
Who having unto truth, by telling of it.
Made such a sinner of his memory,
To credit his own lie.
Cresset-light. H. 4, F. P. iii. 1, i.
Burning cressets.
Crest. M. M. ii. 4, n.
Let's write good angel on the devil's horn,
'T is not the devil's crett.
CRO
INDEX. -I.
DEA
Crooked age. R. S. ii. 1, n
And thy unkindness be like crooiced age,
To crop at once a too long wither'd flower.
Crosby-house. R. T. iii. 1, .
At Crosby-house there shall you find us both.
Crossa coin. L. L. L. i. 2, .
lie speaks the mere contrary, crosses love not him.
Crosi piece of money stamped with a cross. A. L. ii. 4, n.
I should bear no cross, if I did bear you ; for, I think,
you have no money in your purse.
Cross-gartering. T. N. ii. 5, i.
Wished to see thee ever cross-gartered.
Crow-keeper one who keeps crows from corn. L. iv. 6, n.
That fellow handles his bow like a crow-keeper.
Crowned swords. H. F. ii. Chorus, i.
And hides a sword, from hilts unto the point,
With crowns imperial, crowns and coronets.
Crush'd overpowered. H. F. i. 2, .
It follows then, the cat must stay at home :
Yet that is but a crus/i'd necessity ;
Since we have locks to safeguard necessaries.
Cruzadoes. O. iii. 4, i.
I had rather have lost my purse
Full of cruzadoes.
Cry aim. M. W. iii. 2, n. (See Note to G. V. iii. 1.)
To these violent proceedings all my neighbours shall
cry aim.
Cry aim. J. ii. 1, n. (See G. V. iii. 1, .)
It ill be seems this presence, to cry aim
To these ill-tuned repetitions.
Cry of clubs. H. E. v. 3, i.
Who cried out, clubs I
Cry sleep to death destroy sleep. L. ii. 4, n.
Or at their chamber door I '11 beat the drum,
Till it cry sleep to death.
Cry'd game. M. W. ii. 3, n.
Cry'd game t said I well f
Crystal. H. 6, F. P. i. 1, n.
Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky.
Cuckoo and hedge-sparrow. H. 4, F. P. v. 1, i.
As that ungentle gull the cuckoo'i bird
Useth the sparrow.
Cunning knowing, learned. T. S. i. 1, n.
For to cunning men
I will be very kind, and liberal.
Cunning skilful. H. 4, F. P. ii. 4, n.
Wherein cunning, but in craft 1
Cunning -wisdom. T. Ath. v. 5, n.
Shame that they wanted cunning, in excess,
Hath broke their hearts.
Cunning knowledge. P. iii. 2, n.
Virtue and cunning were endowments greater
Than nobleness and riches.
Cupid and Vulcan. M. A. i. 1, .
Cupid is a good hare-finder, and Vulcan a rare carpenter.
Cupid's bow. R. J. i. 4, t.
We '11 have no Cupid hoodwink'd with a scarf.
Curb (v.) bend. H. iii. 4, n.
Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg;
Yea, curb and woo, for leave to do him good.
Curiosity niceness, delicacy. T. Ath. iv. 3, n.
They mocked thee for too much curiosity.
Curiosity exact scrutiny. L. i. 1, n.
For qualities are so weighed, that curiosity in neither
can make choice of cither's moiety.
Curiosity fastidiousness. L. i. 2, n.
Wherefore should I
Stand in the plague of custom; and permit
The curiosity of nations to deprive me.
Curious scrupulous. T. S. iv. 4, n.
For curious I cannot be with you.
Curled hair. Luc. n.
Let him have time to tear his curled hair.
Current rush. H. 4, F. P. ii. 3, n.
And all the current of a heady fight.
Curry favel. H. 4, S. P. v. 1, .
I would curry with master Shallow.
Curst- -shrewish. L. L. L. iv. 1, n.
Do not curst wives hold that self-sovereignty?
2O2
Curst shrewish. M. N. D. iii. 2, n.
I was never curil.
I have no gift at all in shrewishness.
Curst crabbed. T. N. iii. 2, n.
Be curst and brief.
Curst mischievous. W. T. iii. 3, n.
They are never curst, but when they are hungry.
Curtall-dog. M. W. ii. 1, n.
Hope is a curtall-dng in some affairs.
Cust-alorum abridgment of Custos Rotulorum. M.W. i. 1, n.
Slender. In the county of Gloster, justice of peace, and
corum.
Shallow. Ay, cousin Slender, and Cust-alorum.
Cut and long-tail. M. W. iii. 4, n.
Ay, that 1 will, come cut and long-tail.
Cut horse. T. N. ii. 3, n.
If thou hast her not i' the end, call me cut.
Cypress. T. N. ii. 4, n.
And in sad cypress let me be laid.
Cyprus. T. N. iii. 1, n. (See T. N. ii. 4, n.)
A cyprus, not a bosom,
Hides my heart.
Cyprus, invasion of, by the Turks in 1570. O. i. J, i.
The Turkish preparation makes for Rhodes.
Cyprus, notice of. O. ii. 1, i.
A sea-port town in Cyprus,
D.
Daff to put aside. M. A. v. 1, n.
Canst thou so daff me 1
Dafts puts me aside. O. iv. 2, n.
Every day thou dafts me with some device.
Dagger of lath. H. 4, F. P. ii. 4, n.
If I do not beat thee out of thy kingdom with a dagger
of lath.
Dagger, mode of wearing. R. J. v. S, n.
O, Heaven ! O, wife ! look how our daughter bleeds
This dagger hath mista'en, for, lo! his house
Is empty on the back of Montague,
And is mis-sheathed in my daughter's bosom.
Damask-coloured. T. N. i. 3, n.
A damask-coloured Stock.
Dancing horse. L. L. L. i. 2, /'.
The dancing horse will tell you.
Danger -power. M. V. iv. 1, n.
You stand within his danger, do you not f
Danger power. V. A. .
Come not within bis danger by thy will.
Daniel's ' Civil Wars.' H. 4, S. P. iv. 4, i.
Hath wrought the mure, &c.
Danish intemperance. H. i. 3, i.
The king doth wake to-night, &c.
Danskers Danes. H. ii. 1, n.
Inquire me first what Danskers are in Paris.
Dar k house house which is the seat of gloom and discontent.
A. W. ii. 3, n. War is no strife
To the dark house, and the detested wife I
Darraign (v.) prepare. H. 6, T. P. ii. 2, n.
Darraign your battle, for they are at hand.
Datchet-mead. M. W. iii. 3, i.
Send him by your two men to Datchet-mead.
Dateless endless, having no certain time of expiration.
So. xxz. n.
For precious friends hid in death's dateltu night.
Day-woman. L. L. L. i. 2, n.
She is allowed for the day-woman.
Day of season seasonable day. A. W. v. 3, n.
I am not a day of season.
Dead waste. H. i. 2, n. (See T. i. 2, n.)
In the dead waste and middle of the night.
Dealt on lieutenantrymade war by lieutenant*. A. C. lit
9, n. He alone
Dealt on lieutenantry, and no practice had
In the brave squares of war.
Dear. T. N. v. 1, n. (See R. T. i. 3, n, and H. i. t, .)
Whom thou in terms so bloody, and so dear,
Hast made thine enemies.
Dear harmful. R. S. i. 8, n.
The sly slow hours shall not determinate
The dateless limit of thy dear cxiU
451
DEA
INDEX. I.
DIS
Ojar caute important business. L, iv. 3, n.
Some dear caute
Will in concealment wrap me up awhile.
Nearer merit more valued reward. R. S. i. 3, .
A dearer merit, not so deep a maim
As to be cast forth in the common air,
Have I deserved at your highness" hands.
Dearest best. L. L. L. ii. 1, n.
Summon up your dearest spirits.
Dearest greatest. H. i. 2, . (See R. S. i. 3, n.)
'Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven.
Dearest. So. xxxvii. n.
So I, made lame by fortune's clearest spite.
Dearling used in a plural sense. O. i. 2, n.
So opposite to marriage, that she shunn'd
The wealthy curled dearling of our nation.
Dearly extremely. A. L. i. 3, n.
My father hated his father dearly.
Death and the Fool. M. M. iii. 1, .
Merely, thou art death's fool.
Deck pack of cards. H. 6, T. P. v. t, n.
But whiles he thought to steal the single ten,
The king was slily finger'd from the deck.
Deck'd. T. i. 2, n.
When I have declc'd the sea with drops full salt.
Deer, tears of the. A. L. ii. 1, i.
The big round tears
Cours'd one another down his innocent nose
In piteous chase.
Defeat thy favour change thy countenance. O. i. 3, n.
Defeat thy favour with an usurped beard.
Defeatures want of beauty. C. E. ii. 1, n.
Then is he the ground
Of ny defeatures.
Defect of judgment. Cy. iv. 2, n.
Being scarce made up,
I mean, to man, he had not apprehension
Of roaring terrors, for defect of judgment,
As oft the cause of fear.
Defend forbid. M. A. ii. 1, n.
God defend the lute should be like the case.
Defunct functional. O. i. 3, n.
Nor to comply with heat the young affects,
In my defunct and proper satisfaction.
Delations secret accusations. O. iii. 3, n.
They re close delations, working from the heart,
That passion cannot rule.
Delighted. M. M. iii. 1, n.
And the delighted spirit
To bathe hi fiery floods.
Deliverance, legal. H. 4, S. P. ii. 1, i.
I do desire deliverance, &c.
Demanded of demanded by. H. iv. 2, n.
Besides, to be demanded of a sponge.
Demerits merits. O. i. 2, n.
And my demerits
May speak, unbonneted, to as proud a fortune
As this that I have reach'd.
Demerits merits. Cor. i. 1, n.
Opinion, that so sticks on Marcius, shall
Of his demerits rob Cominius.-
Demoniacs. L. iii. 4, i.
That hath laid knives under his pillow.
Denay'd denied. H. 6, S. P. i. 3, n.
Then let him be denay'd the regentship.
Denied you had in him no right denied you had in him a
right. C. E. iv. 2,n.
First, he denied you had in him no right.
Depart (v.) part. T. N. K. ii. 1, n.
I may depart with little, while I live.
Derne solitary. P. iii. Gower, n.
By many a derne and painful perch.
Descant (in music) variation. G. V. i. 2, n.
And mar the concord with too harsh a descant.
Desdemona's handkerchief. O. iii. 4, i.
That handkerchief.
design (v.) designate, point out, exhibit. R. S. i. 1, n.
Since we cannot atone you, you shall see
Justice design the victor's chivalry.
Despised arms arms which we despise. R. S. ii. 3, n.
Frighting her pale-fac'd villages with war,
And ostentation of despised arms ?
452
Destruction of Troy,' extract from. T. C. iv. ]>, 1.
We must give up to Diomede's hand
The lady Cressida.
' Destruction of Troy,' extract from. T. C. iv. S, 1
Thou art, great lord, my father's sister's son.
' Destruction of Troy,' extract from. T. C. v. 5, i .
Go, go, my servant, take thou Troilus' horse.
' Destruction of Troy,' extract from. T. C. v. 9, t.
Rest, sword, &c.
Determine come to an end. Cor. v. 3, n.
I purpose not to wait on fortune till
These wars determine.
Determin'd ended.. H. 4, S. P. iv. 4, n.
Now, where is he that will not stay so long
Till his friend sickness hath determin'd me.
Devil of the old Mysteries. M. N. D. iii. 2, i.
Ho, ho I ho, ho I
Dew. Luc. n.
But as the earth doth weep, the sun being set.
Di-dapper dabchick. V. A. n.
Like a di-dapper peering through a wave.
Dial. A. L. ii. 7, i.
And then he drew a dial from his poke.
' Dialogue on Taste,' specimen of criticism in. H. 4, P.P..,
3, t.
Who then affrighted.
Diana's priest. Cy. i. 7, n.
Should he make me
Live like Diana's priest.
Did comply was complaisant. H. V. 2, n.
He did comply with his dug, before he sucked it.
Dido. M. V. v. 1, t. In such a night
Stood Dido with a willow in her hand.
Difference heraldic distinction. M. A. i. 1, n.
Let him bear it for a difference between himself anl
his horse.
Differing discordant. Cy. iii. 6, n.
Laying by
That nothing gift of differing multitudes.
Diffused wild. M. W. iv. 4, n.
Let them from forth a saw-pit rush at once
With some diffused song.
Dig-you-den-comi-ption of 'give you good e'en.' L.L.L.iv.l,n,
God dig-you-den all!
Digges's prognostication. M. N. D. iii. 1, .
Look in the almanac ; find out moonshine.
Digression transgression. Luc. .
Then my digression is so vile, so base.
Dint impression. J. C. iii. 2, n.
And I perceive you feel
The dint of pity.
Disable (v.) detract from. A. L. iv. 1, n.
Disable all the benefits of your own country.
Disabled impeached. A. L. v. 4, n. (See A. L. iv. 1, n.)
If again, it was not well cut, he disabled my judgment
Discandering dissquandering, squandering. A. C. iii. 11, n.
Together with my brave Egyptians al!.
By the discandering of this pelleted sform,
Lie graveless.
Discourseof reason discursionof reason, faculty of pursuing
a train of thought. H. i. 2, n.
O Heaven! a beast, that wants disburse of reason
Would have mourn'd longer.
Discourse. H. iv. 4, n. (See H. i. 2, n.)
Sure, He, that made us with such large discount
Discourse of thought. O. iv. 2, n.
If e'er my will did trespass 'gainst his love,
Either in discourse of thought, or actual deed.
Disease uneasiness. H. 6, F. P. ii. 5, .
First, lean thine aged back against mine arm:
And, in that ease, I'll tell thee my disease.
Dislike displease. R. J. ii. 2, n.
Juliet. Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague
Rom. Neither, fair maid, if either thee dislike,
Dismes tenths. T. C. ii. 2, n.
Every tithe soul, 'mongst many thousand dismei
Dispark'd my parks. R. S. iii. 1, n.
While you have fed upon my seignories,
Dispark'd my parks, and fill'd my forest woods.
Dispos'd made terms with. A. C. iv. 12, n.
You did suspect
She had dispos'd with Caesar.
DIS
INDEX. I.
ECH
Disputable disputatious. A. L. ii. 5, n.
He is too disreputable for my company.
Dissemble (v.) disguise. T. N. iv. 2, n.
Well, I'll put it on, and I will dissemllt myself in 't.
Distain'd unstained. C. E. ii. 2, n.
I live distain'd, thou, undishonoured.
Distemper'd. H. 4, S. P. iii. 1, n.
It is but as a body yet diste.mper'd,
Which to his former strength may be restor'd.
Detractions detachments. A. C. iii. 7, n.
His power went out in such distraction!,
As beguil'd all spies.
Diverted b load affections alienated and turned out of their
natural course. A. L. ii. 3, n.
I rather will subject me t ; the malice
Of a diverted blood, and bloody brother.
Division (in music). R. J. iii. 5, n.
Some say, the lark makes sweet division ;
This doth not so, for she divideth us.
Do withal help it. M. V. iii. 4, n.
I could not do withal.
Do extend Aim -appreciate his good qualities. Cy. i. 1, .
1 do extend him, sir, within himself.
Does yet depend is yet depending. Cy. iv. 3, n.
But our jealousy
Does yet depend.
Dogs of war. H. F. i. Chorus, i.
Leash'd in like hounds, should famine, sword, and fire.
Dollars pronounced dolours. M. M. i. 2, n.
Lucio. I have purchased as many diseases under her
roof as come to
2 Gent. To what, I pray 1
Lucio. Judge.
2 Gent. To three thousand dollars a year.
Dole lot. W. T. i. 2, n.
Happy man be his dole.
Dolours. L. ii. 4, .
Thou shalt have as many dolours for thy daughters,
as thou canst tell in a year.
Dolts. A. C.iv. 10, n.
Most monster-like, be shown
For poor'st diminutives, for dot-is.
Domestic fools. M V. i.l, {.
Let me play the fool.
Domestic fools. A. W. i. 3. .
What does this knave here. &c.
Domitian, coin of. Cy. iv. 2, '.
I saw Jove's bird, the Roman eagle.
Done destroyed. V. A. n.
Are on the sudden wasted, thaw'd, and done.
Done destroyed. Luc. n.
happiness enjoy'd but of a few !
And, if possess'd, as soon decay'd and done.
Double. O. i. 2, .
And hath, in his effect, a voice potential,
As double as the duke's.
Double set. O. ii. 3, n.
He '11 watch the horologe a double set,
If drink rock not his cradle.
Doubt (v.) awe. H. F. iv. 2, n.
And doubt them with superfluous courage.
Dout (v.) extinguish. H. i. 4. n.
The dram of ill
Doth all the noble substance often dottt,
To his own scandal.
Doves, presents of. M. V. ii. 2, i.
1 have here a dish of doves.
Dower gift. O. iv. 1, n.
Now, if this suit lay in Bianca's dower.
Dowle feather, particle of down. T. iii. S, n.
As diminish
One dowle that 's in my plume.
Drawers waiters. H. 4, F. P. ii. 4, I.
Tom, Dick, and Francis.
Drawn drawn out into the field. Luc. n.
Before the which is drawn the power of Greece
Dream of Andromache, presaging. T. C. v. 8, i.
My dreams will, sure, prove ominous to the day.
Dress (v.) set in order, prepare. II. F. iv. 1, n.
Admonishing
That we should dress us fairly for our end.
Drew I drew. L. ii. 4, n.
Having more man than wit about me, drew.
Drink the free air live, breathe. T. Ath. i. 1, .
Make sacred even his stirrup, and through him
Drink the free air.
Ducat. G. V. i. 1, i.
Not so much as a ducat.
Ducdame. A. L. ii. 5, i.
Ducdame, ducddme, ducddme.
Dudgeon handle of a dagger. M. ii. 1, n.
And on thy blade, and dudgeon, gouti of blood.
Due pay as due. H. 6, F. P. iv. 2, n.
This is the latest glory of thy praise,
That I, thy enemy, due thee withal.
Duelling. R. J. ii. 4, .
A duellist, a duellist.
Duke. M. N. D. i. 1, n.
Happy be Theseus, our renowned duke.
Duke commander. H. F. iii. 2, n.
Abate thy rage, great duke I
Dumb show. H. iii. 2, i.
The dumb show enters.
JOump a mournful elegy. G. V. iii. 2, n.
Tune a deploring dump.
Dump. R. J. iv. 5, n. (See G. V. iii. 2, n.)
play me some merry dump, to comfort me.
Dumps melancholy airs. Luc. n.
Relish your nimble notes to pleasing ears ;
Distress like dumps when time is kept with teari.
' Dun is in the mire.' R. J. 1. 4, i.
Tut ! dun 's the mouse.
Dunsinane Hills. M. v. 5, i.
As I did stand my watch upon the hill.
Dupp'd did up. H. iv. 5, n.
Then up he rose, and donn'd his clothes,
And dupp'd the chamber-door.
Dure (v.) endure. T N. K.i. 3, n.
Yet I wish him
Excess and overflow of power, an 't might be,
To dure ill-dealing fortune.
Dusty death. M. v. 5, n.
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death.
Dwell (v.) continue. M. V. i. 3, n.
1 "11 rather dwell in my necessity.
E.
Eager sour, sharp. H. 6, T. P. ii. 6, n.
If so thou think'st, vex him with eager word*.
Eager sour. So. cxviii. n.
With eager compounds we our palate urge.
Eanlings lambs just dropped. M. V. i. 3, n.
That all the eanlings which were streak'd and pied
Ear (v.) plough. R. S. iii. 2, n.
And let them go
To ear the land.
Ear (v.) plough. V. A. Dedication.
Never after ear so barren a land.
Earl Marshal of England. P.. S. i. 3, i.
Ears, tingling of. M. A. iii. 1, i.
What fire is in mine ears f
Earth inheritance, possession. R. S. iii. 2, n.
So, weeping, smiling, greet I thec, my earth.
Earth-treading stars. R. J. i. 2, n.
Earth-treading stars that make
Dark heaven light.
Earthly happier. M. N. D. i. 1, n.
But earthly happier is the rose distill'd.
Earthquake. H. 4, F. P. iii. 1, i.
The goats ran from the mountains.
Earthquake of 1580. R. J. i. 3, i.
'T is since the earthquake now eleven yean.
Easy used adverbially. II. 6, S. P. iii. 1, n.
My lords, these faults are easy, quickly answer d.
Lche eke out. P. iii. Cower, n.
And time, that is so briefly spent,
With your fine fancies quaintly eche.
453
EDU
INDEX. I.
EXP
Education of women. T. S. ii. 1 , i.
And this small packet of Greek and Latin book.
Edward shovel-board*. M. W. i. 1, t.
Two Edward shovel-boards, that costmetwo shillings
and twopence apiece.
Edward III.'s seven sons. R. S. i. 2, .
Edwarffs seven tons.
Edward III.'s tomb. R. S. iii. 3, I.
By the honourable tomb he swears,
That stands upon your royal grandsire's bones.
Efleit quickest. M. A. iv. 2, n.
Yea, marry, that 's the eftest way.
Eggs for money. W. T. i. 2, i.
Will you take eggs for mvney?
Egypt the queen of Egypt. A. C. i. 3, n.
I prithee, turn aside, and weep for her ;
Then bid adieu to me, and say the tears
Belong to Egypt.
Egyptian soothsayer, fromNorth's 'Plutarch.' A. C.ii. 3, .
Say to me
Whose fortunes shall rise higher, Caesar's or mine ?
Eight and six alternate verses of eight and six syllables.
M. N. D. iii. 1, n.
It shall be written in eight and six.
Eld old age, old people. M. M. iii. 1, n.
And doth beg the alms
Of palsied eld.
Element constituent quality of mind. H. E. i. 1, n.
One, certes, that promises no element
In such a business.
Ely Place. R. T. iii. 4, i.
My lord of Ely, when I was last in Holborn,
I saw good strawberries in your garden there.
Embarquements embargoes. Cor. i. 10, n.
The prayers of priests, nor times of sacrifice,
Embarquementl all of fury.
Embossed swollen. T. S. Induction, 1, n.
The poor cur is embosser!.
Embossed exhausted. A. W. iii. 6, n.
But we have almost embossed him.
Embossed swollen, puffed up. H. 4, F. P. iii. 3, n.
Why, thou whoreson, impudent, embossed rascal.
Empiricutick. Cor. ii. 1, n.
The most sovereign prescription in Galen is but em-
piricutick.
Enchantingly beloved beloved to a degree that looks like
enchantment. A. L. L 1, n.
Full of noble device ; of all sorts enchantingly beloved.
Engag'd retained as a hostage. H. 4, F. P. iv. 3, n.
Suffer" d his kinsman March
(Who is, if every owner were well plac'd,
Indeed his king) to be engag'd in Wales.
England, defenceless state of. H. F. i. 2, .
My great grandfather
Never went with his forces into France, &c.
English travellers, ignorance of. M. V. i. 2, t.
He hath neither Latin, French, nor Italian.
English bottoms. J. ii. 1, i.
A braver choice of dauntless spirits,
Than now the English '-attorns have waft o'er,
Did never float upon the swelling tide.
Engross (v.) make gross. R. T. iii. 7, n.
Not sleeping, to engross his idle body,
But praying, to enrich his watchful soul.
Ensconce (v. (fortify. So. xlix. n.
Against that time do I ensconce me here.
Entertainment engagement for pay. Cor. iv. 3, n.
The centurions, and their charges, distinctly billeted,
already in the entertainment.
Entrance mouth, surface. H. 4, F. P. i. 1, n.
No more the thirsty entrance of this soil
Shall daub her lips with her own children's blood.
Enrious malicious. H. 6, S. P. ii. 4, n.
With envinus looks still laughing at thy shame.
Envy malice. M. V. iv. 1, n.
And that no lawful means caa carry me
Out of his envy's reach.
Ephesus, unlawful arts of. C. E. ii. 2, i.
This is the fairy land.
Erclet Hercules. M. N. D. i. 2, n.
This is Erclet' vein, a tyrant's vein.
454
Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay. So. Ixviii. n.
(SeeM. V. iii. i.)
To live a second life on second head,
Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay.
Eros, death of, from North's ' Plutarch.' A. C. iv. 12, '.
My mistress lov'd thee, &c.
Erring wandering. A. L. iii. 2, n.
Runs his erring pilgrimage.
Erring wandering, unsettled. O. i. 3, n.
Betwixt an erring barbarian.and supersubtle Venetian
Escoted paid. H. ii. 2, n.
Who maintains them 1 how are they escoted t
Esil. H. v. 1, i.
Woul't drink up Esil.
Esperance motto of the Percy family. H. 4, F.JP. ii. 3, it.
That roan shall be my throne.
Well, I will back him straight : Esperance !
Esperance. H. 4, F. P. v. 2, n. (See H. 4, F. P. ii. 3, n.)
Now, Esperance ! Percy ! and set on.
Espials spies. H. 6, F. P. i. 4, n.
The prince's espials have informed me.
Essay trial, examination. L. i. 2, n.
He wrote this but as an essay or taste of my v fartue.
Estate (v.) settle. A. L. v. 2, n.
All the revenue that was old sir Rowland's, will I
estate upon you.
Estimation conjecture. H. 4, F. P. i. 3, n.
I speak not this in estimation,
As what I think might be.
Eton. M. W. iv. 6, .
With him at Eton
Immediately to marry.
Enridged. L. iv. 6, n.
Horns whelk'd, and wav'd like the enridgci sea.
Even equal, indifferent. W. T. iii. 1, n.
Which shall have due course,
Even to the guilt, or the purgation.
Even Christian fellow Christian. H. v. 1, n.
And the more pity, that great folk should have coun-
tenance in this world to drown or hang themselves,
more than their even Christian.
Even (v.) make even. T. N. K. i. 4, n.
But those we will dispute which shall invest
You in your dignities, and even each thing
Our haste does leave imperfect.
Ever strike continue to strike. Cor. i. 2, n.
'T is sworn between us we shall ever sirike
Till one can do no more.
' Every Man out of his Humour.' A. L. ii. 7, '.
Let me see wherein
My tongue hath wrong'd him.
Evils. M. M. ii. 2, n.
Shall we desire to raze the sanctuary,
And pitch our evils there ?
Exchange. 5. V. ii. 2, i.
Why, then, we'll make exchange.
Excommunication, ceremony of. J. iii. 3, i.
Bell, book, and candle shall not drive me back.
Excrements hair, nails, feathers, &c. H. iii. 4, n
Your bedded hair, like life in excrement!,
Starts up, and stands on end.
Exempt released, acquitted. C. E. ii. 2, n.
Be it my wrong, you are from me exempt.
Exempt excluded. H. 6, F. P. ii. 4, n.
Corrupted, and exempt from ancient gentry.
Exeter, John duke of. R. S. v. 3, .
Our trusty brother-in-law.
Exhibition stipend. G. V. i. 3, n.
What maintenance he from his friends receives,
Like exhibition thou shall have from me.
Exhibition allowance. L. L 2, n.
And the king gone to-night ! prescrib'd his power
Confin'd to exhibition t
Exigent end. H. 6, F. P. ii. 5, n.
These eyes, like lamps whose wasting oil is spent,
Wax dim. as drawing to their exigent.
Expedient. J. ii. 1, n.
His marches are expedient to this town.
Expedient prompt, suitable. R. S. i. 4, n.
Expedient manage must be made, my liege.
XEP
INDEX. T.
FAR
Expedient expeditious. H. 6, S. P. iii. 1, n.
A breach that craves a quick expedient stop.
Expedient expeditious. R. T. i. 2, n.
I will with all expedient duty see you.
Expediently promptly. A. L. iii. 1, .
Do this expediently, and turn him going.
Expense expenditure. L. ii. 1, n.
'T is they have put him on the old man's death,
To have ih' expense and waste of his revenues.
Expense passing away. S. xxx. n.
And moan the expense of many a Tanish'd sight.
Expiate. R. T. iii. 3, n.
Make haste, the hour of death is expiate.
Express (v.) make known. T. N. ii. 1, n.
Therefore it charges me in manners the rather to
express myself.
Exstijflicate exaggerated, extravagant. O. iii. 3, n.
When I shall turn the business of my soul
To such exsujflicate and blow'd surmises.
Extent stretch. T. N. iv. 1 , n.
Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway
In this uncivil and unjust extent
Against thy peace.
Extent legal term. A. L. iii. 1, n.
Making extent upon his house and lands.
Extended seized upon. A. C. i. 2, .
Labienus
(This is stiff news) hath, with his Parthian force,
Extended Asia from Euphrates.
Extracting absorbing. T. N. v. 1, n.
A most extracting frenzy of mine own
From my remembrance clearly banish'd his.
Extravagant wandering, unsettled. O. i. 1, n.
Tying her duty, beauty, wit, and fortunei,
In an extravagant and wheeling stranger.
Eyas-musket sparrow-hawk. M. W. iii. 3, n.
How now, my eyas-musket.
Eye tinge, shade. T. ii. 1, n.
Ant. The ground, indeed, is tawny.
Scb. With an eye of green in 't.
Eye character. H. i. 3, n.
Do not believe his vows, for they are brokers ;
Not of the eye which their investments show,
But mere implorators of unholy suits.
Eysell vinegar. So. cxi. n.
I will drink
Portions of eysell, 'gainst my strong infection.
F
Fa, sol, la, mi. L. i. 2, {.
O, these eclipses do portend these divisions ! fa, sol,
la, mi.
Faced- made facings to. T. S. iv. 3, n.
Thou hast faced many things.
Factions in Jerusalem. J. ii. 2, '.
The mutines of Jerusalem.
Factious. J. C. i. 3, n.
"Be factious for redress of all these griefs
Fudge (v.) agree, fit. L. L. L. v. 1, n.
We will have, if this fadge not, an antic.
Fadge (v.) suit, agree. T. N. ii. 2, n.
How will this fadge?
Fadinys a dance. W. T. iv. 3, I.
With such delicate burthens of 'Dildos and 'Fadings. '
Fain glad. H. 6, S P. ii. 1, ra.
Yea, man and birds are fain of climbing high.
Fair (used substantively) beauty. C. E. ii. 1, n.
My decayed fair
A sunny look of his would soon repair.
Fair beauty. M. N. D. i. 1 , n.
Demetrius loves your fair.
Fair beauty. A. L. iii. 2, n.
Let no face be kept in mind,
But the fair of Rosalind.
Fair beauty. V. A. n.
Having no fair to lose, you need not fear.
Fair- -beauty. So. xvi. n.
Neither in inward worth, nor outward fair.
Fair beauty. So. Ixviii. n.
Before these bastard si^ns of fair were borne.
Fair clear. T. N. K. iv. 2, n.
The circles of hia eyes show fair within him
Fair vestal allusion to Elizabeth. M. N. D. ii. 2 i.
My gentle Puck, come hither : Thou remember'st, &c
Faith confidence in a friend. M. A. 1. 1, u.
He wears his faith but as the fashion of his hat.
Falconry. R. J. Ii. 2, i.
O for a falconer's voice,
To lure this tassel-gentle back again !
Fall used as a verb active. C. E. ii. 2, n.
As easy mayst thou fall
A drop of water in the breaking gulf.
Fall(\.) M. N. D.v.l, n.
And, as she fled, her mantle she did fall.
Fall (used as an active verb). T. N. K. i. 1, n.
Her twinning cherries shall their sweetness fall
Upon thy tasteful lips.
Fall (v.) let fall. M. V. i. 3, .
Did in eaning time
Fall particolour'd lambs.
Fall (v. a.) let fall. M. M. ii. 1, n.
And rather cut a little,
Than fall and bruise to death.
Falli-\ets fall. O. iv. 1, n.
Each drop she falls would prove a crocodile.
Fallt lets fall. Luc. .
For eveiy tear he falls a Trojan bleeds.
Fall cadence. T. N. i. 1, i.
That strain again ; it had a dying fall.
Falls on the other. M. i. 7, n.
I have no spur
To prick the sides of my intent, but only
Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself,
And falls on the other.
False beards and hair. M. N. D. iv. 2, >'.
Good strings to your beards.
False hair. M. V. iii. 2, i.
The scull that bred them in the sepulchre.
False used as a verb. Cy. ii. 3, n. (See C. E. ii. 2, n.)
'T is gold
Which buys admittance; oft it doth; yea, and niakej
Diana's rangers fa Ise themselves.
Palsing participle of the verb to false. C. E. 1 . i..
Nay, not sure, in a thing falsing.
Fan, fashion of R. J. ii. 4, i,
My fan, Peter.
Fancy love. M. N. D. i. 1, n.
Wishes, and tears, poor fancy's followers.
Fancy love. W. T. iv. 3, n.
Cam. Be advised.
Flo. lam; and by my fancy.
Fancy love. H. 6, F. P. v. 3, n.
Yet so my fancy may be satisfied,
And peace established between these realms.
Fancy love. P. P. n.
Let reason rule things worthy blame,
As well as fancy partial might.
Fancy used in two senses: 1, love; 2, humour. M. A.
iii. 2, n.
Claud. Yet, say I, he is in love.
D.Pedro. There is no appearance of fancy in him,
unless it be a fancy that he hath to strange disguises.
Fancy one possessed by love. L. C. n.
Towards this afflicted fancy fastly drew.
Fancy's slave love's slave. Luc. .
A martial man to be soft fancy's slave.
Fangled. Cy. v. 4, n.
Be not, as is ourfanyled world, a garment
Nobler than that it covers.
Fantastical belonging to fantasy, imaginary. M. i. i, n.
Are ye fantastical, or that indeed
Which outwardly ye show f
Fap cant word for drunk. M. W. 1. 1, n.
And being fap, sir, was, as they say, cashier'c 1 ..
Farced title H. F. iv. 1, n.
The farced title running 'fore the king.
' Farewell, dear heart,' ballad of. T. N. ii. S, i.
Fiirewll, dear heart, since I must needs be gone.
Farmer's ' Essay on the Learning of Shakspeare," rti
from, H. F. v. 2, i.
Notre tres cher filz, tic.
456
FAS
INDEX. I.
FLA
Fashions farcins, or farcy. T. S. iii. 2, n.
Infected with the fashions.
Favour features, appearance, countenance. M. N. D. i. 1, n.
Sickness is catching ; O, were favour so,
Yours'would I catch, fair Hermia, ere I go.
Favour countenance. A. W. i. 1, re.
Of every line and trick of his sweet favour.
Favour appearance. H. F. v. 2, n.
Which to reduce into our former favour
You are assembled.
Favour appearance. J. C. i. 3, n.
And the complexion of the element
In favour's like the work we have in hand.
Favour countenance. J. C. ii. 1, n.
And half their faces buried in their cloaks,
That by no means I may discover them
By any mark of favour.
Favour countenance. So. cxiii. n.
For if it see the rud'st or gentlest sight,
The most sweet favour, or deformed'st creature.
Favours features, countenances. R. S. iv. 1, .
Yet I well remember
The favours of these men.
Favours features. H. 4, F. P. iii. 2, re.
And stain my favours in a bloody mask.
Fear no colours. T. N. i. 5, n.
He that is well hanged in this world needs to fear no
colours.
Fear (v. a.) affright. M. M. ii. 1, n.
We must not make a scarecrow of the law,
Setting it up to fear the birds of prey.
Fear (v.) affright. H. 6, T. P. iii. 3, n.
Thou seest what's past, go fear thy king withal.
Fear me make me afraid. H. 4, S. P. iv. 4, n.
The people fear me.
Fear matter or occasion of fear. H. 4, S. P. i. 1, n.
Thou shak'st thy head; and hold's! it fear, or sin,
To speak a truth.
Fears (v.) used in the active sense. T. S. v. 2, n.
Pet. Now, for my life, Hortensio/ear* his widow.
Wid. Then never trust me if I be afeard.
Fearful guard guard that is the cause of fear. M. V. i. 3, n.
See to my house, left in the fearful guard
Of an unthrifty knave.
Feated. Cy. i. 1, n.
A sample to the youngest ; to th' more mature
A glass that feated them.
Feature (form or fashion) applied to the body as well as
the face. G. V. ii. 4, n.
He is complete in feature, and in mind.
Fi'derary confederate. W. T. ii. 1, n.
Camillo is
A federary with her.
Fee-simple. M. W. iv. 2, n.
If the devil have him not in fee-simple, with fine and
recovery.
Feeders servants. A. C. iii. 11, n.
To be abus'd
By one that looks on feeaers.
Feeding pasture. W. T. iv. 3, n.
They call him Doricles ; and boasts himself
To have a worthy feeding.
F ell skin. L. v. 3, n.
The good years shall devour them, flesh and fell,
Ere they shall make us weep.
Fellow companion. T. N. iii. 4, n.
Fellow ! not Malvolio, nor after my degree, but Jclluw
Fen pestilential abode. Cor. iv. 1, n.
Though I go alone,
Like to a lonely dragon, that his fen
Makes fear'd and talk'd of more than seen.
Feodary. M. M. ii. 4, re.
Else let my brother die,
If not a feodary, but only he
Owe, and succeed thy weakness.
Feodary. Cy. iii. 2, n. (See H. 4, F. P. i. .)
Senseless bauble,
Art thou a feodary for this act, and look'st
So virgin-like without!
Fere companion, husband. T. And. iv. 1, n.
And swear with me, as with the woful fere,
Anil father of that chaste dishonour'd dame.
468
Feres. H. 4, F. P. i. 3, re.
Indent with feres,
When they have lost and forfeited themielre.i.
Fern-seed. H. 4, F. P. ii. 1, i.
We have the receipt of fern-seed.
Fet fetched. H. F. iii. 1, n.
On, on, you nobless English,
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof !
Fet fetched. H. 6, S. P. ii. 4, n.
To see my tears, and hear my deep-/ei groans.
Fewer low. H. F. iv. 1, re.
So! in the name of Cheshu Christ, speak fewer.
Fierce violent, excessive. T. Ath. iv. 2, n.
O, the fierce wretchedness that glory brings us !
Fife. M. V. ii. 5, i.
The wry-neck'd flf&
Fife. O. iii. 3, i.
The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife.
Fights short sails, fighting sails. M. W. ii. 2, n.
Clap on more sails ; pursue, up with yovafightt.
Figo. H. F. iii. 6, n. (See R. J. i. 1, .)
And figo for thy friendship.
File number. M. M. iii. 2, n.
The greater fileoi the subject held the duke to be wis-;.
File. M. iii. 1, n.
Now if you have a station in the file,
Not in the worst rank of manhood, say it.
Filed polished. L. L. L. v. 1, n.
His discourse peremptory, his tongue filed.
Pil'd defiled. M. iii. 1 , n.
For Banquo's issue have I fil'd my mind.
Fil'd up gave the last polish to. So. Ixxxvi. n.
But when your countenance fil'd up his line,
Then lack'd I matter.
Fills thills, shafts. T. C. iii. 2, n.
An you draw backward, we'll put you i' the fills.
Find his title deduce a title. H. F. i. 2, n.
Hugh Capet also, who usurp'd the crown
Of Charles the duke of Loraine, sole heir male
Of the true line and stock of Charles the great,
To find his title with some shows of truth, &c.
Find him not find him not out. H. iii. 1, n.
If she find him nut,
To England send him.
Fine conclusion. M. A. i. 1, n.
And the fine is (for the which I may go the fn er) I
will live a bachelor.
Fine(v.y sentence. M. M. ii. 2, n.
Mine were the very cipher of a function,
To fine the faults whose fine stands in record,
And let go by the actor.
Fine (v.) to bring to an end. Luc. n.
Time's office is to fine the hate of foes.
Fineless endless. O. iii. 3, n.
But riches, fineleis, is as poor as winter,
To him that ever fears he shall be poor.
Fire-new bran-new. L. L. L. i. 1, n.
A man of fire-new words.
Fire-drake. H. E. v. 3, n.
That fire-drake did I hit three times on the head.
First and second cause. L. L. L. i. 2, . (See R. J. ii. 4.)
The first and second cause will not serve my turn.
First-born of Egypt. A. L. ii. 5, n.
I'll rail against all the first-born of Egypt.
First noblest. Cor. iv. 1, re.
1>ly first son,
Whither wilt thou go ?
Fitted subjected to fits. So. cxix. .
How have mine eyes out of their spheres been jUttf.
Fixed candlesticks. H. F. iv. 2, i.
The horsemen sit likened candlestick^
With torch-staves in their hands.
Fixed figure for the time of scorn. O. iv. 2, n.
But, alas ! to make me
The fixed figure for the time of scorn
To point his slow and moving finger at.
Flap-dragoned it. W. T. iii. 3, n.
To see how the sea fiap-dragoncd it.
Flask soldier's powder-horn. L. L. L. v. S, .
The carv'd-bone face on a fla.sk.
FLA
INDEX. I.
FOR
Flaw sudden gust of wind. H. 6, S. P. iii. 1, .
Calm the fury of this mad-bred flaw.
Flaws. M. M. ii. 3, n.
A gentlewoman of mine,
Who, falling in the flaws of her own youth,
Hath blister'd her report.
F lawt crystallizations upon the ground moist with the
morning dew. H. 4, S. P. iv. 4, n.
As humorous as winter, and as sudden
A3 flaws congealed in the spring of day.
Flaws fragments. L. ii. 4, .
But this heart
Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws.
Flaws violent blasts. V. A. n.
Sorrow to shepherds, woe unto the birds,
Gusts and foul flaws to herdmen and to herds.
Flecked dappled. R. J. ii. 3, n.
And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels
From forth day's path.
Fleet float. A. C. iii. 11, n.
Our sever*d navy too,
Have knit again, and fleet, threat'ning most sealike.
Flemish drunkard. M. W. ii. 1, i.
This Flemish drunkard.
Fletcher's ' Faithful Shepherdess.' M. N. D. ii. 2, i.
You spotted snakes.
Florentius' love. T. S. i. 2, .
Be she as foul as was Florentius' love.
Flourish (v.) bestow propriety and ornament. M. M. iv.
1, .
The justice of your title to him
Doth flourish the deceit.
Flying at the brook hawking at waterfowl. H.6, S.P. ii. \,n.
Believe me, lords, for flying at the brook,
I saw not better sport these seven years' day.
Foil leaf of metal used in setting jewellery. R. S. i. 3, n.
The sullen passage of thy weary steps
Esteem a foil, wherein thou art to set
The precious jewel of thy home-return.
Fuining thrusting. M. A. v. 1, n.
Sir boy, I'll whip you from your foining fence.
Foizon plenty. T. ii. 1, n.
All foizon, all abundance,
To feed my innocent people.
Foizon of the year autumn, or plentiful season. So. liii. n.
Speak of the spring, and. foizon of the year.
Follow'd driven. A. C. v. 1, n.
O Antony I
I have follow'd thee to this.
Fully wickedness. Luc. n.
Or tyrant fully lurk in gentle breasts.
Fond indulgent. M. V. iii. 3, n.
I do wonder,
Thou naughty jailor, that thou art so fond
To come abroad with him at his request.
Fond foolish. Luc. n.
True grief is fond and testy as a child.
Fond foolish. So. iii. n.
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
Of his self-love.
Fool-begg'd patience. C. E. ii. l,n. (See L. L. L. v. 2, i.)
This fool-berjg'd patience in thee will be left.
Fools (court). L. i. 4, i.
Here 's my coxcomb.
Fools. L. L. L. v. 2, i.
You cannot beg us.
For catching cold lest they should catch cold. G.V.ii.2,n.
Yet here they shall not lie for catching cold.
For, O, for, O, the hobby-horse is forgot. H. iii. 2, n. (See
L. L. L. iii. 1, .)
Whose epitaph is, ' For, 0, for, 0, the hobby-horse is
forgot.
For the hcaventa petty oath. M. V. ii. 2, n.
Away ! says the fiend, for the hcavmt.
for two ordinaries during two ordinaries at the same table.
A. W. ii. 3, n.
1 did think thee, for two ordinaries, to be a pretty
wise fellow,
for because. A. W. iii. 5, n.
He stole from France,
As 't is reported, for the king had married hiir
Against his liking.
For because. M. M. Ii. 1, n.
You may not so extenuate hia offence,
for I have had such faults.
Fur on account of. T. i. 1, n.
I'll warrant him for drowning.
For in consequence of. H. 6, S. P. iv. 7, *.
These cheeks are pale for watching for your pood
for because. Cy. iv. 2, n.
Play judge and executioner, all himself,
For we do fear the law.
For on account of, because of. M. iii. 1, n.
Yet I must not,
For certain friends that are both his and mine.
For because. So. xl. n.
I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest.
For inequality. M. M. v. 1, n.
Do not banish reason
For inequality.
For coining. L. iv. 6, .
No, they cannot touch me for coining.
For instead of. H. v. 1, .
For charitable prayers,
Shards, flints, and pebbles, should be thrown on her
Force (v.) enforce. H. E. iii. 2, n.
If you will now unite in your complaints
And force them with a constancy, the cardinal
Cannot stand under them.
Force (v.) value, regard. Luc. n.
For me, I force not argument a straw.
Fore-slowdelay, loiter. H. 6, T. P. ii. 3, n.
Fore-slow no longer, make we hence amain.
Fore-done destroyed. L. v. 3, n.
Your eldest daughters have fore-done themselves,
And desperately are dead.
Fare-does destroys, undoes. H. ii. I, n.
This is the very ecstacy of love ;
Whose violent property fore-does itself.
Foreign commercial laws. C. K. i. 1, i.
It hath in solemn synods been decreed,
Both by the Syracusans and ourselves,
To admit no traffic to our adverse towns :
Nay, more, If any, born at Ephesus,
Be seen at any Syracusan marts and fairs,
Again, If any Syracusan born,
Come to the bay of Ephesus, he dies,
His goods confiscate to the duke's dispose,
Unless a thousand marks be levied,
To quit the penalty, and to ransom him.
Forestall'd remission pardon supplicated, not offered freely.
H. 4, S. P. v. 2, n.
And never shall you see that I will beg
A ragged and forestall'd remission.
Forfeit (v.) transgress. M. M. iii. 2, n.
Double and treble admonition, and still forfeit in the
same kind.
Forfeiters. Cy. iii. 2, n.
Though forfeitert you cast in prison, yet
You clasp young Cupid's tables.
Forgetive inventive. H. 4, S. P. iv. 3, n.
Makes it apprehensive, quick, forgetive.
Forked heads the heads of barbed arrows. A. L. ii. I
Should, in their own confines, with forked heads
Have their round haunches gor'd.
Formal reasonable. T. N. ii. 5, n.
Why, this is evident to any formal capacity.
Form'd as marble will. Luc. n.
For men have marble, women waxen minds,
And therefore are they farm' A as marble wilt.
Farmer entign ensign in the van. J. C. v. 1, n.
Coming from S.irdis, on our former ensign
Two mighty eagles fell.
Forres, moors near. M. i. 2, i.
Camp near Forres.
Forres, town of. M. i. 4, i.
Forres. A room in the Palace.
Forspent wearied out. H. 4, S. P. L 1, n.
After him, came spurring hard,
A gentleman almost forspent with speed.
Forspent wearied. H. 6, T. P. it 3, H.
Forspent with toil, as runners with a race.
Fonpoke spoKcn against. A. C. ill. 7, n.
Thou hast forspoke my being in Iheie
457
FOB
INDEX. I.
GEN
fortune ckance. T. N. K. ii. 2, n.
Arcite shall have & fortune,
If he dare make himself a worthy lover.
Forty pence I lay forty pence. H. E. ii. 3, n.
How tastes it? is it bitter? forty pence, no.
Forwearied wearied. J. ii. 1, n.
Your king, whose labour" d spirits
Forwearied in this action of swift speed,
Craves harbourage within your city walls.
Foul homely. A. L. iii. 3, n.
I am not a slut, though I thank the gods I am foul.
Fouler. Cor. iv. 7, n.
One fire drives out one fire ; one nail, one nail ;
Rights by rights fouler.
Fountains. T. S. v. 2, .
A woman mov'd is like a fountain troubled.
Fourteen years' purchase. T. N. iv. 1, n.
These wise men that give fools money get themselves
a good report after fourteen years' purchase.
Fox, Mr., strange tale of. M. A. i. 1, .
Like the old tale, my lord : ' it is not so, nor 't was not
so ; but indeed, God forbid it should be so."
Fox sword. H. F. iv. 4, n.
Thou diest on point of fox.
Foysons abundant provision. M. iv. S, n.
Scotland hatnfoysons to fill up your will.
Frame ordinance, arrangement. M. A. iv. 1, n.
Chid I for that at frugal nature's frame?
Frampold fretful, uneasy. M. W. ii. 2, n.
She leads a \eryframpold life with him.
Franciscan order of friars. R. J. v. 2, .
Going to find a barefoot brother out.
Frank sty. H. 4, S. P. ii. 2, n.
Doth the old boar feed in the old frank.
Franklins. Cy. iii. 2, '.
A franklin's housewife.
Fraughting constituting the fraught, or freight. T. i. 2, n.
The fraughting souls within her.
Free maids. T. N. ii. 4, n.
And ihefree maidi, that weave their thread with bones,
Do use to chant it.
Free expressions, old mode of. R. J. i. 4, i.
Of this sir reverence, love.
Free free from offence. H. ii. 2, n.
Make mad the guilty, and appal the free.
Frescoes at Grove House. H. 4, S. P. ii. 1, .
The German hunting in water-work.
Frets. T. S. ii. 1, n. (See Hamlet, iii. 2, n.)
I did but tell her she mistook her frets.
Frets wires fixed across the finger-board of a lute or guitar.
H. iii. 2, n.
Call me what instrument you will, though you can
fret me, you cannot play upon me.
Friar Tuck. G. V. iv. 1, i.
Robin Hood's fat friar.
' Friar of Orders Grey.' T. S. iv. 1 , .
It was the/rior of orders grey.
Frogmore. Duel of Dr. Caius and Sir H. Evans, place of.
M. W. ii. 3, i.
Go about the fields with me through Frogmore.
From tun to sun from the rising to the setting of the sun.
R. S. iv. 1, n.
And spur thee on with full as many lies
As may be holla'd in thy treacherous ear
From sun to sun.
Prom before, a short distance off. P. iii. Gower, n.
The cat, with eyne of burning coal,
Now couches from the mouse's hole.
Front (v.) face. H. E. i. 2, n.
And front but in that file
Where others tell steps with me.
Frontier. H. 4, F. P. i. 3, n.
And majesty might never yet endure
The moody frontier of a servant brow.
Frontiers forts. H. 4, F. P. ii. 3, n.
Of palisadoes, frontiers, parapets.
Froth and live. M. W. i. 3, n.
Let me see thee froth and live.
Fruit to that great feast. H. ii. 2, n.
My news shall be the fruit to that great feast
4S8
Frush (v.) break to pieces. T. C. v. 6, .
I like thy armour well ;
I '11 frush it and unlock the rivets all.
Fulftll'd completely filled. Luc. n.
O, let it not be held
Poor women's faults that they are so fulfill' 'd
With men's abuses.
Fulfilling bolts bolts filling full. T. C. Prologue, n.
With massy staples
And corresponsive and fulfilling bolts.
Full of knight. M. W. iv. 2, n.
Pray Heaven it be not full of knight again.
Full quite. W. T. i. 2, n.
Thou wan t'st a rough pash, and the shoots that I hava.
To be /unlike me.
Full of bread. H. iii. 3, n.
He took my father grossly, full of bread;
With all his crimes broad blown, as fresh as May.
Ful via, death of, from North's 'Plutarch.' A. C. i. 2, t.
Fulvia thy wife first came into the field.
Furbish (v.) polish. R. S. i. 3, n.
And furbish new the name of John of Gaunt.
Fust (v.) become mouldy. H. iv. 4, n.
Gave us not
That capability and godlike reason
To fust in us unus'd.
G.
Gadshill. H. 4, F. P. i. 2, .
But, my lads, my lads, to-morrow morning, by four
o'clock, early at Gadshill.
Gait progress, the act of going. H. i. 2, n.
To suppress
His further gait herein.
Galliard, coranto, sink-a-pace. T. N. i. 3, '.
Why dost thou not go to church in a gallinrd, and
come home in a coranto? sink-a-pace.
Galliard ancient dance. H. F. i. 2, n.
There's nought in France
That can be with a nimble galliard won.
Galliasses vessels of burthen. T. S. ii. 1, n.
Besides two galliasscs
And twelve tight galleys.
Gallimaufry confused heap. W. T. iv. 3, n.
And they have a dance which the wenches say is a
gallimaufry of gambols.
Gallow (v.) scare. L. iii. 2, n.
Gallon; the very wanderers of the dark.
Gamester adventurer at a game. A. L. i. 1, n.
Now will I stir this gamester.
Gamut. T. S. iii. 1, .
Gamut I am, the ground of all accord.
Gaping pig. M. V. iv. 1, n.
Some men there are -love not a gaping pig.
Gaping shouting. H. E. v. 3, n.
Ye rude slaves, leave your gaping.
Garboils disorders, commotions. A. C. i. S, n.
Look here, and at thy sovereign leisure read.
The garboils she awak'd.
Garden guerdon. L. L. L. iii. 1, n.
Gordon remuneration.
Garters. G. V. ii. 1, .
He being in love, could not see to garter his hose.
Gate got, procured. L. C. n.
Who, glaz'd with crystal, gate the glowing roses
That flame through water which their hue encloses
Gaudy night night of rejoicing. A. C. iii. 11, n.
Let 's have one other gaudy night.
Gauntlet. H. 4, S. P. i. 1, i.
Scaly gauntlet.
Gave was inclined to, made a movement towards. L. C. n.
These often bath'd she in her fluxive eyes,
And often kiss'd, and often gave to tear.
G. or matter. M. V. i. I, n.
I '11 grow a talker for this gear.
Geek person derided. T. N. v. 1, n.
And made the most notorious geek and gull,
That e'er invention play'd on.
General people. M. M. ii. 4, n.
The general, subject to a well-wish'd king,
Quit their own part.
GEN
INDEX. I.
GOW
Generous used in its Latin sense. M. M. iv. 6, n.
The generout and gravest citizens.
Gentle high-born, noble. T. i. 2, n.
He 's gentle, and not fearful!
Gentle well-born. Luc. n.
Or tyrant folly lurk in gent 'e breasts.
German clocks. L. L. L. iii. 1, i.
Like a German clock.
Germens seeds of matter. L. iii. 2, . '
Crack nature's mould, all germens spill at once.
(fermins seeds of matter. M. iv. 1, n.
Though the treasure
Of nature's germins tumble all together.
Gest. W. T. i. 2, n.
' To let him there a month, behind the gest
Prefixed for's parting.
Get within him close with him. C. E. v. 1, n.
Some get within him, take his sword away.
Get her love to part prevail upon her love that we may part.
A. C. i. 2, .
I shall break
The cause of our expedience to the queen,
And get her love to part.
Ghebers. L. L. L. iv. 3, t.
That, like a rude and savage man of Tnde.
Ghost of Banquo. M. iii. 4, i.
Enter the ghost oj Banquo, and sits in Macbeth's place.
Ghosts they have deposed ghosts of those whom they have
deposed. R. S. iii. 2, n.
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed.
Gift-cat. H. iii. 4, n.
For who, that's but a queen, fair, sober, wise,
Would from a paddock, from a bat, a gib,
Such dear concernings hide?
Gibcat male cat. H. 4, P. P. i. 2, n.
I am as melancholy as a gibcat, or a lugged bear.
Giglot. Cy. iii. 1, n.
giglot fortune '.
Giglots wantons. M. M. v. 1, n.
Away with those yiglots too.
Gilded loam. R. S. i. 1, n.
Men are but gilded loam or painted clay.
GUly'vors gillyflowers. W. T. iv. 3, n.
The fairest flowers o' the season
Are our carnations and streak'd gilly'vori.
Gimmal-bit double-bit. H. F. iv. 2, n.
And in their pale dull mouths the gimmal-bit
Lies foul with chaw'd grass.
Gimmers. H. 6, F. P. i. 2, n.
1 think, by some odd gimmers or device,
Their arms are set like clocks, still to strike on.
Ging gang. M. W. iv. 2, n.
There 's aknot, a ging, a pack, a conspiracy against me.
Gird (v.) scoff, jeer. H. 4, S. P. i. 2, n.
Men of all sorts take a pride to gird at me.
Gird. Cor. i. 1, n.
Being mov'd, he will not spare to gird the gods.
Give you good night God give you good night. H. i. 1, n.
Give you goad night.
Give away thyself in paper be ruined by the securities you
give. T. Ath. i. 2, n.
Thou giv'st so long, Timon, I fear me, thou wilt givt
away thyself in paper.
Glamis Castle. M. i. 3, i.
Thane of Glamis.
Glasses. H. 4, S. P. ii. 1, i.
Glasses, glasses.
Glassy margents of such books. Luc. n. (See R. J. i. i.)
Nor read the subtle-shining secrecies
Writ in the glassy margenti of such buoks.
Gleek (v.) joke. M. N. D. iii. 1, n.
Nay, I can gleek upon occasion.
Gloster, Eleanor Bohun, duchess of. R. S. i. '1 i.
Duchess of Gloster.
Gloves. G. V. ii. 1, i.
Sir, your glove.
Gloves, perfumed. W. T. iv. 3, .
A pair of sweet glove*.
Glow-worm. M. N. D. iii. 1, i.
And light them at the fiery glow-worm's eyes.
Gloze (v.) explain, expound. H. F. i. 2, n.
Which Salique land the French unjustly gloze
To be the realm of France.
Glut (v.) swallow. T. i. 1, n.
Though every drop of water swear against it,
And gape at wid'st to glut him.
Go to the world marry. A. W. i. 2, n.
If I may have your ladyship's good will to go to fAi
world.
God of Love, old song of. M. A. v. 2, i.
The god of love.
God 'ild youGoA yield you, give you recompense. A. L.
iii. 3, n.
God'ild you for your last company.
God 'ield you God requite you. H. iv. 5, n.
Well, God 'ield you.
God before God being my guide. H. F. iii. 6, .
Yet, God before, tell him we will come on.
God-<:yld. M. i. 6, n.
Herein I teach you,
How you shall bid God-eyld us for your pains,
And thank us for your trouble.
Godfathers jurymen so called. M. V. iv. 1, n.
In christening, thou shall have two godfathers;
Had I been judge, thou shouldst have had ten more.
Goes every one to the world every one is married. M. A.
ii. 1, re.
Thus goes every one to the world but I, and I am sun-
burned.
Goitres. T. iii, 3, .
Mountaineers
Dew-lapp'd like bulls.
Gold noble of Richard II. R. S. i 1, .
Eight thousand noulet.
Gelding's Translation of Ovid's ' Metamorphoses,' passage
in. Cy. i. 4, i.
I would have broke mine eye-strings.
Good. Cor. i. 1.
We are accounted poor citizens ; the patricians, good.
Gsod dee* indeed. W. T. i. 2, n.
Yet, good deed, Leontes,
I love the not a jar o' the clock behind
What lady she her lord.
Good den good evening. J. i. 1, n.
Good den, sir Richard.
Good kissing carrion. H. ii. 2, .
For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog being i
good kissing carrion.
Good life alacrity, energy, spirit. T. iii. 3, n.
So with good life,
And observation strange.
Good my glass used metaphorically. L. L. L. iv. 1, n.
Here, good my glass, take this for telling true.
Good my complexion 1 small oath. A. L. iii. 2, n.
Good my complexion I dost thou think, though I am
caparisoned like a man, &c.
Good old Mantuan. L. L. L. iv. 2, n.
Ah, good old Mantuan I
Good year. M. A. i. 3, n. (See L. v. 3, .)
What, the good year, my lord \
Good years. L. v. 3, n.)
The good years shall devour them, flesh and fell,
Ere they shall make us weep.
Goodwin Sands. M. V. iii. 1, i.
The Goodwins, I think they call the place.
Gondola. M. V. ii. 8, i.
That in a gondola were seen together.
Gondolier. O. i. 1, i.
Transported with no worse,
& gondolier.
Gor'd wounded. So. ex. n.
Gor'd mine own thoughts, sold cheap what i mo I
dear.
Gormandize, origin of the word. M. V. il V i.
Thou shall not gormandize.
Gossamer. L. iv. 6, i.
Hadst thou been aught but gossamer.
Gower's ' Confessio Amantis.' M. V. v. 1, i.
In such a night
Medea gather'd the enchanted herbs.
Gower's ' Confessio Amantis,' extracts from. P. i. *.
Gower'f 'Confessio Amantii,' extract! from P. U. *.
Ifit
GOW
INDEX. I.
HAR
Gower's ' Confessio Amantis,' extracts from. P. Hi. i.
Gower's ' Confessio Amantis,' extracts from. P. iv. i.
Gower's ' Confessio Amantis,' extracts from. P. v. .
Gourd, fullam, high, low cant terms for false dice. M. W.
i. 3, n.
Let vultures gripe thy guts! for gourd and fullam
holds.
And high and low beguile the rich and poor.
Graces, metrical. M. M. i. 2, i.
Lucio. I think thou never wast where grace was said.
2 Gent. No? a dozen times at least.
1 Gent. What? in metre?
Gracious beautiful. So. Ixii. n.
Methinks no face so gracious is as mine.
Grain, high price of. H. 4, F. P. U. 1, i.
Never joyed since the price of oats rose.
Grand-guard armour for equestrians. T. N. K. iii. 6. n.
Arc. You care not for a grand-guard.
Pal. No, no ; we '11 use no horses.
Grange lone farm-house. O. i. 1, n.
What tell'st thou me of robbing? this is Venice;
My house is not a grange.
Grates offends. A. C. i. 1, .
Att. News, my good lord, from Rome
Ant. Grates me.
Gravedigger"s song. H. y. 1 , i .
In youth, when I did love, did love.
Grave (v.) engrave. V. A. n.
And being steel'd, soft sighs can never grave it.
Graymalkin cat. M. i. 1, n.
I come, Graymalkin.
' Green Sleeves.' M. W. ii. 1, i.
Green sleeves.
Green-ey'd monster. O. iii. 3, n.
O, beware.'my lord, of Jealousy;
It is the green-ey'd monster which doth mock
The meat it feeds on.
Greenly unwisely. H. iv. 5, n.
And we have done but greenly,
In hugger-mugger to inter him.
Gregory Nazianzen's poem. M. N. D. iii. 2, i.
O, and is all forgot ?
Grey used as blue. V. A. n.
Mine eyes are grey, and bright, and quick in turning.
Grief, in two senses : 1. bodDy pain: 2. mental sorrow.
H. 4, S. P. i. 1, n.
Even so my limbs,
Weaken'd with grief, being now enrag'd with grief.
Griefs grievances. H. 4, F. P. iv. 3, n.
He bids you name your griefs.
Griefs grievances, H. 4, S. P. iv. 1, n.
And find our griefs heavier than our offences.
Griefs grievances. J. C. iv. 2, n.
Speak your griefs softly.
Grise step. T. N. iii. 1, .
Viola. I pity you.
Olivia. That 's a degree to love.
Via. No, not a grise.
Gn'ze step, degree. T. Ath. iv. 3, n.
For every grize of fortune
Is smooth 'd by that below.
Groat of Richard II. R. S. v. 5, t.
The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear.
Growing to me accruing to me. C. E. iv. 1, n.
Even just the sum that I do owe to you
Is growing to me by Antipholus.
Grunt loud lament. -H. iii. 1, n.
To grunt and sweat under a weary life.
Gnjpe bird of prey. Luc. n.
Like a white hind under the grype's sharp claws.
Gualtree forest. H. 4, S. P. iv. 1, i.
'Tis Gualtree forest, an't shall please your grace.
Guard (v.) border, ornament. J. iv. 2, n.
Therefore, to be possess'd witli double pomp,
To guard a title that was rich before.
Guarded ornamented, fringed. M. V. ii. 2, n.
Give him a livery
More guarded than his fellows.
G uarded trimmed. M. A. i. 1, n.
The body of /our discourse is sometimes guarded with
fragments.
460
Guarded faced, bordered. H. 4, S. P. iv. I, n.
Led on by bloody youth, guarded with rage.
Guards hem of a garment. L. L.-L. iv. 3, n.
O, rhymes are guards on wanton Cupid's hose.
Guarini's ' Pastor Fido.' A. L. i. 1, i.
Fleet the time carelessly, as they did in the golden
world.
Guiled deceiving. M. V. iii. 2, n.
Thus ornament is but the gulled shore
To a most dangerous sea.
Guiltless blood-shedding shedding guiltless blood. H. 6, S.
P. iv. 7, n.
These hands are free from guiltless blood-shedding.
Guilty to guilty of. C. E. iii. 2, n.
But, lest myself be guilty to self-wrong.
Gules red, in the language of heraldry. H. ii. 2, n.
Head to foot
Now is he total gules.
Gull. H. 4, F. P. v. 1, n,
As that ungentle gull, the cuckoo's bird.
H.
Hack be common. M. W. ii. 1, n.
These knights will hack.
Htggard term of falconry; wild. O. iii. 3, .
If I do prove her haggard,
Though that her jesses were my dear heartstrings,
I 'd whistle her off.
Haggards of the rock. M. A. iii. 1, .
Coy and wild
As haggards of the rocJc.
Halcyon beaks. L. ii. 2, n.
Turn then- halcyon beaks
With every gale and vary of their masters.
Halfpence used for small particles, or divisions. M. A, ii.
3, n.
O, she tore the letter into a thousand halfpence.
Half-faced groats. J. i. 1, .
A half-faced groat.
Half-faced sun device of Edward III. H. 6, S. P. iv. I , n.
Whose hopeful colours
Advance our half-faced sun, striving to shine.
Halidom holiness. G. V. iv. 2, n.
By my halidom, I was fast asleep.
Hallowmas first of November. R. S. v. 1, n.
She came adorned hither like sweet May,
Sent back like Hallowmas, or short 'st of day.
Hang hog. M. W. iv. 1, n.
Hang hog is Latin for bacon.
Hang'd by the walls. Cy. iii. 4, t.
And, for I am richer than to be hany'd by the walit,
I must be ripp'd.
Hand fire-arms. A. W. iii. 2, i.
Smoky muskets.
Handkercher handkerchief. J. iv. 1, n.
I knit my handkercher about your brows.
Handiest in thy discourse. T. C. i. 1, n.
Handiest in thy discourse, O that her hand,
In whose comparison all whites are ink,
Writing their own reproach.
Handsaw heron. H. ii. 2, n.
I know a hawk from a handsaw.
Hannibal. H. 6, F. P. i. 5, n.
A witch, by fear, not force, like Hannibal,
Drives back our troops, and conquers as she lists.
Happies makes happy. So. vi. .
That use is not forbidden usury,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan.
Harlot hireling. C. E. v. 1, n.
While she with harlot feasted in rny house.
Harmuir. M. i. 3, '.
A heath.
Harold, outrage committed on the body of. H. 4, F. P. v. 4, i
With a new wound in yoxr thigh.
Harpy. T. iii. 3, .
Enter Ariel, like a harpy.
Hun ied vexed, tormented. A. C. iii. 3, n.
I repent me much.
That so I harried him
HAR
INDEX. I.
no
Harrows. H. i. 1, n.
It harrows me with fear and wonder.
Hat, penthouse like. L. L. L. Hi. 1, L
With your hat, penthouse-like.
ffath put himself he hath put himself. L. ii. 4, n.
T is his own blame; hath put himself from rest.
Hats. M. A. L 1, I.
He wears his faith but as the fashion of his hat ; it
ever changes with the next block,
llaughmond Hill. H. 4, P. P. v. 1, i.
How bloodily the sun begins to peer
Above yon busky hill.
Haughty lofty, spirited. H. 6, P. P. iii. 4, n.
These haughty words of hers
Have batterM me like roaring cannon-shot.
Hautboy. H. 4, S. P. iii. 2, .
The case of a treble hautboy was a mansion to him.
Have done we, his successors, have done. M. W. i. 1, n.
Ay, that I do ; and have done any time these three
hundred years.
Have 7 if I have. H. 6, S. P. v.l,n.
A sceptre shall it have, have I a soul,
On which I'll toss the fleur-de-luce of France.
Have their free voices have sent their free voices. H. E.
ii. 2, n. All the clerks,
I mean the learned ones, in Christian kingdoms
Have their free voices.
Have uncheclc'd theft have their theft uncheck'd. T. Ath.
iv. 3, n.
The laws, your curb and whip, in their rough power
Have uncheck'd theft.
Have what shall have no end. So. ex. n.
Now all is done, have what shall have no end.
Having possession. A. L. iii. 2, n.
Your having in beard is a younger brother's revenue.
Having estate. W. T. iv. 3, .
Of what having, breeding 1
Havings. L. C. i.
Whose rarest havings made the blossoms dote.
Havock no quarter. J. C. iii. 1, n.
Cry ' Havock,' and let slip the dogs of war.
Hawks' bells. A. L. iii. 3, .
The falcon her bells.
He not look'd. A. C. iii. 4, n.
Most narrow measure lent me,
When the best hint was given him : he not look'd,
Or did it from his teeth.
Headly headstrong, rash, passionate. H. F. iii. 3, n.
The cool and temperate wind of grace
O'erblows the filthy and contagious clouds
Of headly murther, spoil, and villany.
Heart's attorney. V. A. n.
But when the heart's attorney once is mute,
The client breaks, as desperate in his suit.
Heat heated. T. N. i. 1, n.
The element itself, till seven years heal,
Shall not behold her face at ample view.
Heat heated. 3. iv. 1, n.
The iron of itself, though heat red-hot.
Heavy dark. O. v. 1, n.
'Tis heavy night.
Hector's challenge in Chapman's ' Homer." T. C. i. 3, i.
Kings, princes, lords, &c.
Hector, death of, from Chapman's ' Homer. T. C. iv. 5, i.
Tell me, you heavens, in which part of his body
Shall I destroy himt
Hector's horse. T. C. v. 5, i.
Now here he fights on Galathe his horse.
Hector, death of. T. C. v. 9, i.
Strike, fellows, strike.
Heers. M. W. ii. 1, n.
Will you go on, heers t
Hefts heavings. W. T. ii. 1, .
He cracks his gorge, his sides,
With violent heftt.
Helmed steered through. M. M. iii. 2, *.
And the business he hath helmed, must, upon a war-
ranted need, give him a better proclamation.
Helpless that afford no help. V. A. n.
As those poor birds that helpless berries saw.
Hemp. C. E. iv. 4, i.
Here's that, I warrant you will pay them all.
Henbane. H. i. S, *.
With juice of cursed hebenon.
Henchman page. M. N. D. ii. 2, n.
I do but beg a little changeling boy,
To be my henchman.
Henry of Monmouth. R. S. v. 3, I.
Can no man tell of my unthrifty son f
Henry V., character of. H. F. i. 1, .
Hear him but reason in divinity.
Hent (v.) take hold of. W. T. iv. 2, n.
And merrily hent the stile-a.
Hent grasp. H. iii. 3, .
Up, sword; and know thou a more horrid hent.
Her affections what she affected, liked. T. N. K. i. 3, fi
Her affections (pretty
Though happily her careless wear) I follow 'd
For my most serious decking.
Her need the need we have of her. W. T. iv. 3, n.
And most opportune to her need, I have
A vessel rides fast by.
Her noble suit in court noble suit made to her in court
L. C. n.
Lo; this device was sent me from a nun,
Or sister sanctified of holiest note ;
Which late her noble suit in court did shun.
Her sweet perfections. T. N. L 1, n.
When liver, brain, and heart,
Those sovereign thrones, are all supplied, and flll'd,
(Her sweet perfections,) with one self king I
Heralds. H. F. iii. 6, i.
There's for thy labour, Montjoy.
Herb-grace. H. iv. 5, .
There "s rue for you ; and here 's some for me : we
may call it herb-grace o' Sundays.
Here used as a noun. L. L 1, n.
Thou losest here, a better where to find.
Hereby as it may happen. L. L. L. i. 2, .
That 's hereby.
Hermits beadsmen.bound to pray for a benefactor. M.i.G.n
And the late dignities heap'd up to them,
We rest your hermits.
Herne's Oak. M. W. v. 1, t.
Be you in the park about midnight, at Uernc'i oafc.
Hide the false seems true. M. M. v. 1, .
But let your reason serve
To make the truth appear where it seems hid ;
And hide the false seems true.
Hide fox name of a boyish sport. H. iv. 2, .
Hide fox, and all after.
Higher upper. A. W. ii. 1, .
Let higher Italy
(Those bated, that inherit but the fall
Of the last monarchy) see that you come,
Not to woo honour, but to wed it.
Hild held. Luc. . O, let it not be hild
Poor women's faults that they are so fulfill'd.
Hilding mean-spirited person. T. 8. ii. 1, n. (See II. 4,
S. P. i. 1, n.
For shame, thou hilding, of a devilish spirit.
Hilding cowardly, spiritless. H. 4, S. P. i. 1, .
He was some hilding fellow, that had stolen
The horse he rode on.
His its. V. A. .
And all this dumb play had his acts made plain
With tears, which, chorus-like, her eyes did rain.
Hit its. V. A. ft.
And hearing him, thy power had lost ftw power.
Hit grand sea the grand sea that he (the dew-drop) arose
from. A. C. iii. 10, n.
I was of late as petty to his ends
As is the morn-dew on the myrtle-leaf
To his grand sea.
His honesty rewards him in itself. T. Ath. i. I, n.
X-im. Tne man * 8 honest.
Old Ath. Therefore he will be, Timon :
His honesty rewards him in itself.
His subject those subject to him. H. i. 2, n.
The lists, and full proportions, are all made
Out of his subject.
Hit the white term in archery. T. S. v. 2, n.
'T was I won the wager, though you hit tht u-hitt
Jin stop. A. C. iv. 2, .
I/o, ho, hoi
HOB
INDEX. I.
ILL
Hob, nob at random, come what will. T. N. Ui. 4, n.
Hob, nob, is his word.
Hobb> -horse. L. L. L. ill 1, i.
The hobby-horse is forgot
Hnist with his own petar blown up with his own engine.
H, iii. 4, n.
For't is the sport, to have the engineer
Hoist with his own petar.
Hold a goodly manor. A. W. iii. 2, .
I know a man that had this trick of melancholy fco/d
a goodly manor for a song.
Hold, or cut bow-strings. M. N. D. i. 2, n.
Enough. Hold, or cut bow-strings.
Hold, therefore hold, therefore, our power. M. M. i. 1 , n'
Hold, therefore, Angelo;
In our remove, be thou at full ourself.
Holding burden of the song. A. C. ii. 7, n.
Then the boy shall sing ;
The holding every man shall bear, as loud
As his strong sides can volley.
Holla enough, soft, no more of that. V. A. n.
What recketh he his rider's angry stir,
His flattering 'holla,' or his ' Stand, I say ' ?
Holy wells. G. V. iv. 2, i.
At saint Gregory's well.
Holy crosses in Italy. M. V. v. 1, ".
She doth stray about
By holy crosses.
Honesty liberality. T. Ath. iii. 1, n.
Every man has his fault, and honesty is his.
Honey-seed used by Hostess for homicide. H.4,S.P.ii. 1, n.
O thou honey-seed rogue ; thou art a honey-seed.
Honeysuckle used by Hostess for homicidal. H. 4, S. P.
ii i, n.
thou honeysuckle villain; wilt thou kill God's
officers, and the king's ?
Honorificabilitudinitatibus. L. L. L. v. 1, .
Not so long by the head as honorificabilitudinitatibus.
Honour a style of nobility. V. A. Dedication.
1 leave it to your honourable survey and your honour
Hoodman comes allusion to the game of blindman's buff,
formerly called hoodman-blind. A. W. iv. 3, n.
Hoodman-blind blindman's buff. H. iii. 4, n.
What devil was 't
That thus hath cozen'd you at hoodman-blind .'
Hope (v.) expect. A. C. ii. 1, .
I cannot hope
Cffisar and Antony shall well greet together.
Hopes expectations. H. 4, F. P. i. 2, n.
By how much better than my word I am,
By so much shall I falsify men's hopes.
Hopes not surfeited to death. O. ii. 1, n.
Therefore my hopes, not surfeited to death,
Stand in bold cure.
Horse used in the plural. T. S. iii. 2, n.
Petrucio. Grumio, my horse.
Grumio. Ay, sir, they be ready.
Horse, qualities of the. T. S. iii. 2, i
His horse hipped.
louse representative of the family. L. ii. 4, n.
Ask her forgiveness f
Do you but mark how this becomes the house ?
Household's grave. T. N. K. i. 5, n.
This funeral path brings to your household's grave.
Houses in 1577. H. v. 1, t.
Imperial Caesar.
How the wheel becomes it how well is this ditty adapted to
be sung by spinners at the wheel. H. iv. 5, n.
You must sing, Down-a-down, an you call him a-
down-a. O how the wheel becomes it I
However in whatsoever way. G. V. i. 1, n.
However, but a folly bought with wit.
Hoxes hamstrings. W. T. i. 2, n.
Which hoxes honesty behind, restraining
From course requir"d.
Hugger-mugger a confused state, disorderly. H. iv. 5, n.
And we have done but green'y,
In hugger-mugger to inter him.
Human mortals. M. N. D. ii. 2, n.
The human mortals want.
462
Humourof forty fancies a collection of oallads. T.S.iii.2,.
An old hat, and The humour of forty fancies pricked
in 't for a feather.
Humorous capricious. A. L. i. 2, .
The duke is humorout.
Humorous full of humours. H. 4, S. P. iv. 4, n.
As humorous as winter, and as sudden
As flaws congealed in the spring of day.
Humorous dewy, vaporous. R. J. ii. 1, n.
Come, he hath hid himself among these trees,
To be consorted with the humorous night.
Humphrey Hower. R. T. iv. 4, .
Duchess. What comfortable hour canst thou name.
That ever grac'd me in thy company t
K. Rich. 'Faith, none, but Humphrey Hower, that
call'd your grace
To breakfast once, forth of my company.
Hundred Merry Tales. M. A. ii. 1, *.
That I had my good wit out of the ' Hundred Merry
Tales.'
Hungarian. M. W. i. 3, n.
base Hungarian wight !
Hunts-up, song of. R. J. iii. 5, .
Hunting thee hence with hunts-up to the day.
Hurly loud noise. H. 4, S. P. iii. 1, n.
That, with the hurly, death itself awakes.
Hurly-burly uproar, tumultuous stir. M. \.\,n.
When the hurly-burly 's done,
When the battle 's lost and won.
Husband M. M. iii. 2, n.
You will turn good husband now, Pompey ; you will
keep the house.
Husbandry frugality. M. ii. 1, .
There's husbandry in heaven,
Their candles are all out.
Hurtled clashed. J. C. ii. 2, .
The noise of battles hurtled in the air.
Hymn attributed to St. Ambrose, passage from. H. i. 1, i.
The cock that is the trumpet to the morn.
Hyperion. H. i. 2, .
Hyperion to a satyr.
I.
I will I shall. C. E. iv. 1, n.
Perchance, / will be there as soon as you.
/ care no more for I care as much for. A. W. i. 3, n,
O, were you both our mothers,
/ care no more for than I do for heaven,
So I were not his sister.
Ice-brook's temper. O. v. 2, n.
It is a sword of Spain, the ice-brook's temper.
Iceland dog. H. F. ii. 1, .
Thou prick-ear'd cur of Iceland.
Ides of March, from North's ' Plutarch.' J. C. i. 2, i.
Beware the ides of March.
Idle useless, fruitless. C. E. ii. 2, n.
Usurping ivy, briar, or idle moss.
Idle sterile, barren. O. i. 3, .
Antres vast, and deserts idle.
Idle talk. A. C. v. 2, n.
Sir, I will eat no meat, I '11 not drink, sir ;
If idle talk will once be necessary,
1 '11 not sleep neither.
If I were a woman allusion to men acting female parts.
A. L. v.4, .
If I were a woman, I would kiss as many of you a*
had beards that pleased me.
//virtues of. A. L. v. 4, n. (See R. J. ii. 4, .)
Your if is the only peace-maker, much virtue in if.
If not denounc'd against us if there be no especial denun
ciation against us. A. C. iii. 7, n.
If not denounc'd against us, why should not we
Be there in person 1
Ilium. T. C. i. 2, i.
When were you at Ilium t
Ill-inhabited ill-lodged. A. L. iii. 3, n.
O, knowledge ill-inhabited! worse than Jove in fl
thatched house!
Ill-erected erected for evil. R. S. v. 1, .
Julius Caesar's ill-erected tower.
Ill ill-usage. H. 6, F. P. ii. 5, n.
Either to be restored to my blood.
Or make my ill the advantage of my good.
IMA
INDEX. I.
INN
Images. H. 4, F. P. iv. 1, n.
Glittering in golden coats, like imayei.
' Imagines mortes.' R. S. iii. 2, i.
There the antic sits,
Scoffing his state, and grinning at bis pomp.
Imbar. H. F. i. 2, n.
And rather choose to hide them in a net,
Than amply to imbar their crooked titles.
Immunity barbarity. H. 6, F. P. v. 1, .
It was both impious and unnatural,
That such immunity and bloody strife
Should reign among professors of one faith.
Imogen's cookery, Mrs. Lenox's remarks on. Cy. iv. 2, i.
He cut our roots in characters,
And sauced our broths as Juno had been sick.
Imp a. shoot, a graft, applied to a child. L. L. L. i. 2, n.
The self'same thing, dear imp.
Imp (v.) engraft, insert. R. S. ii. 1, n.
Imp out our drooping country's broken wing.
Impartial very partial. M. M. v. 1, n.
Come, cousin Angelo,
In this I'll be impartial; be you judge
Of your own cause.
Impawn (v.)- engage. H. F. i. 2, a.
Therefore take heed how you impawn our person.
Imperseverar.t most perseverant. Cy. iv. 1, n.
Yet this imperseverant thing loves him in my despite.
Impertinent used by Launcelot for pertinent. M. V.ii.2, n.
The suit is impertinent to myself,
iinpeticos thy gratillity. T. N. ii. 3, n.
I did impeticos thy gratillity ; for Malvolio's nose is
no whipstock.
Impitious unpitying. H. iv. 5, n.
The ocean, overpeering of his list,
Eats not the flats with more impitioui haste,
Than young Laertes.
Impleach'd interwoven. L. C. n.
And lo 1 behold these talents of their hair,
With twisted metal amorously impleach'd.
Importance importunity. T. N. v. 1, n.
Maria writ
The letter, at Sir Toby's great importance.
Importance importunity. J. ii. 1, n.
At our importance hither is he come.
Importance import. W. T. v. 2, n.
The wisest beholder, that knew no more but seeing,
could not say if the importance were joy or sorrow.
Importance import. Cy. i. 5, n.
Upon importance of so slight and trivial a nature.
Important importunate. M. A. ii. 1, n.
If the prince be too important, tell him there is
measure in everything.
Impote command. G. V. iv. 3, n.
According to your ladyship's impote.
Impossible slanders. M. A. ii. 1, n.
His gift is in devising impossible slandert.
In into. R. T. i. 2, n.
But first I'll turn von fellow in his grave.
In during. P. i. Gower, n.
And lords and ladies, in their lives.
Have read it for restoratives.
I n at the window. J. i. 1 , .
Something about, a little from the right,
In at the window, or else o'er the hatch.
In blood -term of the forest. H. 6, F. P. iv. 2, n.
If we be English deer, be then in blood.
In good time very well. M. M. iii. 1, n.
Duke. Leave me a while with the maid; my nund
promises with my habit no loss shall touch her by my
company.
Prov. In good time.
In great measun abundantly. M. A. i. 1, n.
Leon. Did he break out into tears ?
Mess. In great meaiure.
In lieu in consideration of, in exchange for. T. i. 2, n.
Which was, that he, in lieu o' the premises
Of homage, and I know not how much tribute,
Should presently extirpate me and mine.
In place there present. H. 6, T. P. iv. 1, .
But what said Henry's queen ?
For I have heard that sue was there in place.
In print with exactness. G. V. ii. 1, n.
All this I speak in print.
In that because. M. A. v. 4, n.
But in that thou art like to be my kinsman, live un
bruised, and love my cousin.
In their poor praise he humbled in their poor praise he being
humbled. A. W. i. 2, n.
Making them proud of his humility,
In their poor praise he humbled.
In ute lent on interest. M. V. iv. 1, n.
He will let me have
The other half in ute.
In your booki in your favour. M. A. i. 1, n.
I see, lady, the gentleman is not in your booki.
Incenif.d incited. R. T. iii. 1, n.
Think you, my lord, this little prating York
Was not incensed by his subtle mother,
To taunt and scorn you thus opprobriously t
Incontinent immediately. A. L. v. 2, n.
They have made a pair of stairs to marriage, which
they will climb incontinent.
Incony knowing. L. L. L. iii. 1, n.
My sweet ounce of man's flesh ! my incony Jew.
Increase produce. M. N. D. ii. 2, n.
The mazed world,
By their increase, now knows not which is which.
Index. H. iii. 4, n.
Ah me, what act,
That roars so loud, and thunders in the index t
Indies, Linschoten's map of. T. N. iii. 2, i.
He does smile his face into more lines than are in the
new map with the augmentation of the Indies.
Indifferent knit particoloured knitting. T. S. iv. 1, n.
Their garters of an indifferent knit.
Indifferently tolerably well. H. iii. 2, n.
We have reformed that indifferently with us, sir.
Indigest disordered, indigested state of affairs. J. v. 7, n.
You are born
To set a form upon that indigest.
Induction. H. 4, F. P. iii. 1, n.
These promises are fair, the parties sure,
And our induction full of prosperous hope.
Inexecrable most execrable. M. V. iv. 1, n.
O, be thou damn'd, inexecrable dog 1
Infection. V. A. n.
And as they last, their verdure still endure,
To drive infection from the dangerous year.
Infestion. R. S. ii. 1, n.
This fortress, built by Nature for herself,
Against infestion and the hand of war.
Infinite infinity. G. V. ii. 7, n.
And instances of infinite of love.
Informonthat give information on that point. A.W.ir.l. i.
Inform on thai.
Informal without sense. M. M. v. 1, n.
These poor informal women are no more
But Instruments of some more mightier member
Ingag'd pledged. A. W. v. 3, n.
I stood ingag'd.
/noe- contriver, designer. O. ii. 1, n.
One that excels the quirks of blazoning pens,
And in the essential vesture of creation
Does tire the ingener.
Inhabit then. M. iii. 4, n.
And dare me to the desert with thy sword ;
If trembling I inhabit then, protest me
The baby of a girl.
Inhabitable uninhabitable. R. S. i. 1, n.
Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps,
Or any other ground inhabitable.
Inherit (v.) obtain possession. G. V. ill. t, n.
This, or else nothing, will inherit her.
Inherit us cause us to receive. R. S. 1. 1, .
It must be great, that can inherit ui.
So much as of a thought of ill in liim.
Inkhorn mate. H. 6, F. P. ill. 1,
So kind a father of the cominonWMI,
To be disgraced by an inkhorn mate
Inn dwelling. R. S. v. 1, n.
Thou most beauteous inn,
Why should hard favour"d grie/bc lodg'd in thet J
463
INS
INDEX. I.
JUD
Insane root henbane. M. i. 3, n.
Or have we eaten on the insane root,
That takes the reason prisoner?
Imconce it defend it, fortify it. C. E. ii. 2, n.
I must get a sconce for my head, and insconceittoo.
Instance example, corroboration. R. T. iii. 2, n.
Tell him, his fears are shallow, without instance.
Instance* solicitations, inducements. H. iii. 2, n.
The instances that second marriage move
Are base respects of thrift, but none of love.
Instruction. O. iv. 1, n.
Nature would not invest herself in such shadowing
passion, without some instruction.
Insurrection of the Roman plebeians against the patricians,
Plutarch'* account of. Cor. i. 1, .
Suffer us to famish, and their storehouses crammed
with grain.
Intend (v.) direct. M. N. D. iii. 2, n.
For if thou dost intend
Never so little show of love to her.
Intend to sell. T. C. iv. 1, n.
We '11 not commend what we intend to tell.
Intending pretending. R. T. iii. 5, n.
Tremble and start at wagging of a straw,
Intending deep suspicion.
Intending pretending. Luc. n.
Intending weariness with heavy spright.
Inlendments intentions. V. A. n.
And now her sobs do her intendments break.
Intention eagerness of attention. W. T. i. 2, n.
Affection 1 thy intention stabs the centre.
Interess'd. L. i. 1, n.
To whose young love
The vines of France and milk of Burgundy
Strive to be interess'd.
Intituled having a title to, or in. Luc. n.
But beauty, in that white intituled,
From Venus' doves doth challenge that fair field.
Intrinse closely tied. L. ii. 2, n.
Which are too intrinse t' unloose.
Invention imagination. M. M. ii. 4, n.
Whilst my invention, hearing not my tongue,
Anchors on Isabel.
Invit'd invisible. L. C. n.
The diamond, why 't was beautiful and hard,
Whereto his invis'd properties did tend.
Invisible unlocked at, disregarded. J. v. 7, n.
Death, having prey'd upon the outward parts,
Leaves them invisible.
In ward intimate. M. M. iii. 2, n,
Sir, I was an inward of his.
Inward intimate, in confidence. R. T. iii. 4, n.
Who is most inward with the noble duke,
lona, cathedral at. M. ii. 4, t.
Ross. Where is Duncan's body ?
Macauff. Carried to Colmes-kill.
Irish rhyme. A. L. iii. 2, .
I was never so be-rhymed since Pythagoras' time,
that I was an Irish rat.
Irlct is irksome to. A. L. ii. 1, n.
And yet it irTci me the poor dappled fools,
Being native burghers of this desert city,
Should, in their own confines, with forked heads
Have their round haunches gor'd.
Irregulous irregular, disorderly. Cy. iv. 2, n.
Conspir'd with that irregulous devil, Cloten.
1 It was a lover,' song of. A. L. v. 3, .
It was a lover and his lass.
Italian gardens. M. V. v. 1, t.
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank !
Italian nights. M. V. v. 1, i.
The night, methinks, is but the daylight sick.
Italian division of time. R. J. ii. 4, :'.
Is it good den ?
Italian mode of interment. R. J. iv. 1, .
In thy best robes uncovered on the bier.
Iteration repetition. H. 4, F. P. i. 2, n.
O thou hast damnable iteration.
'Ivanhoe,' reference to. R. S. i. 2, .
Be Mowbray's sins so heavy in his bosom.
464
Jack-a-Lent pappet thrown at in Lent. M. W. iii. 3, .
You little Jack-a-Lent.
' Jack Drum's entertainment.' A. W. iii. 6, '.
Jack u' the clock automaton that strikes the hours. R. 9
v. 5, .
While I stand fooling here, his Jack o' the clock.
Jack. R. T. iv. 2, n.
Because that, like a jack, thou keep'st the stroke
Betwixt thy begging and my meditation.
Jack (at bowls). Cy. ii. 1, n.
When I kissed the jack, upon an up-cast to be hi:
away !
Jacks leathern drinking vessels. T. S. iv. 1, n.
Be the jacks fair within, the Jills fair without.
Jacks small hammers, moved by the keys, which strike
the strings of a virginal. So. cxxviii. n.
Do I envy those jacks, that nimble leap
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand.
Jades. H. F. iii. 7, n.
He is, indeed, a horse ; and all other jades you may
call beasts.
Jades. H. 6, S. P. iv. 1, n.
And now loud-howling wolves arouse the jades
That drag the tragic melancholy night.
Janus, two-headed. M. V. i. 1, .
Now, by two-headed Janus.
Jape belonging to a buffoon, a japer. T. N. K. iii. 5, n.
Ye most coarse frieze capacities, ye jape judgments
Jar o' the clock tick of the pendulum. W. T. i. 2, n.
I love thee not a jar o' the clock behind
What lady she her lord.
Jauncing jaunting, hurriedly moving. R. S. v. 5, n.
Spur gall'd, and tired by jouncing Bolingbroke.
Jay of Italy. Cy. iii. 4, n.
Some jay of Italy,
Whose mother was her painting, hath betray'd him.
' Jephthah, Judge of Israel,' passage from the ballad of.
H. ii. 2, t.
One fair daughter, and no more.
Jerkins. G. V. ii. 4, i.
My jerkin is a doublet.
Jerusalem chamber. H. 4, S. P. iv. 4, i.
In that Jerusalem shall Harry die.
Jesses term of falconry, footstraps. O. iii. 3, n.
If I do prove her haggard,
Though that her jesses were my dear heartstrings,
I 'd whistle her off, and let her down the wind
To prey at fortune.
Jest a. mask, or pageant. R. S. i. 3, n.
As gentle, and as jocund, as to jest,
Go I to fight.
Jews, toleration of, in Venice, and practice of usury b>
M. V. i. 3, .
He lends out money gratis, and brings down
The rate of usance here with us in Venice.
Jews in Venice. M. V. ii. 2, .
Which is the way to master Jew's t
Jig ludicrous interlude. H. ii. 2, n.
He 's for a jig, or a tale of bawdry, or he sleeps.
Jills cups of metal. T. S. iv. 1, n.
Be the jacks fair within, the j ills fair without.
' Jog on, jog on.' W. T. iv. 2, .
Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way.
John-a-dreams heavy, lethargic fellows. H. ii. 2, n.
Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause,
And can say nothing.
Johnson's criticism on Edgar's description of the cliff. L.
6, . How fearful
And dizzy 't is to cast one's eyes so low I
Joint ring, Dryden's description of. O. iv. 3, i.
A. joint ring.
Joy used as a verb. R. S. ii. 3, n.
The present benefit which I possess :
And hope to joy, is little less in joy,
Than hope enjoy'd.
Judicious judicial. Cor. v. 5, n.
His last offences to ui
Shail have judicious hearing.
JUM
INDEX. I.
LAU
Jump (v.) risk. Cor. iii. 1, n.
And wish
To jump a body with a dangerous physic
That's sure of death without it.
Jump just, exactly. T. N. K. i. 2, n.
Where not to be even jump
As they are.
Just merely. T. And. iv. 2, n.
Ay, jutt a verse in Horace ; I know it well.
Just occasion. A. L. iv. 3, n.
And nature, stronger than his just occasion,
Made him give battle to the lioness.
Justicer. Cy. y. 5, n.
Some upright justicer.
Jutty (v.) jut over. H. F. iii. 1, n.
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base.
K.
Katherine of France. H. F. iii. 4, '.
Alice, tu es este, &c.
Keech. H. E. i. 1, .
I wonder
That such a kef ch can with his very bulk
Take up the rays o' the beneficial sun.
Keel (v.) scum. L. L. L. v. 2, n.
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
Keep (v.) restrain. G. V. iv. 4, n.
A cur cannot keep himself in all companies.
Keep (v.) care for. M. M. iii. 1, n.
Reason thus with life :
If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing
That none but fools would keep.
Keep (v.) dwell. V. A. n.
And sometime where earth-delving conies keep.
Keeps dwells. M. M. i. 4, n.
And held in idle price to haunt assemblies,
Where youth, and cost, and witless bravery keep*.
Kendal green livery of Robin Hood. H. 4, F. P. ii. 4, n.
Three misbegotten knaves in Kendal green came at
my back.
Kenilworth, pageants at. M. N. D. iii. 1, i.
Let him name his name ; and tell them plainly he is
Snug the joiner.
Kerne. H. F. iii. 7, i.
A kerne of Ireland.
Kernes. H. 6, S. P. iv. 9, n. (See M. i. 2, .)
Of gallowglasses and stout kernes.
Kernes and gallowglasses. M. i. 2, i. (See H. 6, S. P. i v. 9, n. )
Of kernes and gallowglasses is supplied.
Ketch cask. H. 4, F. P. ii. 4, n.
Thou whoreson, obscene, greasy tallow-*?/**.
Key-cold cold as a key. Luc. n.
And then in key-cold Lucrece" bleeding stream.
Kill ancient word of onset in the English army. L. iv. 6, n.
And when I have stolen upon these sons-in-law,
Then kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill.
KillingworthKeralvrorih. H. 6, S. P. iv. 4, n.
My gracious lord, retire to Killingworth.
Kind kindly affections. A. L. iv. 3, n.
Whether that thy youth and kind
Will the faithful offer take
Of me, and all that I can make.
Kind natural. Luc. n.
Conceit, deceitful, so compact, so kind.
Kindle (v.) instigate. A. L. i. 1, fi.
Nothing remains but that I kindle the boy thither.
Kindly naturally. T. S. Induction 1, n.
This do, and do it kindly, gentle sirs.
Kindly gird re-proof meant in kindness. H. 6, F. P. iii. 1, n.
Sweet king I the bishop hath a kindly gird.
' King Cophetua,' ballad of. H. J. ii. 1, '.
When king Cophetua lov'd the beggai-maid.
King's wards. A. W. i. 1, '.
To whom I am now in ward.
Kings, of our fear. J. ii. 2, n.
We do lock
Our former scruple in our strong-barrM gatei,
Kings, of our fear.
King's chamber. R. T. iii. 1, .
Welcome, sweet prince, to London, to your chamber.
SUP. VOL. 2 H
King's evil, cure of. M. iv. 3, '.
Hanging a golden stamp about their necks.
Kiit, as a form of affiancing. R. S. v. 1 , n. (See G. V. il. I, i.}
Let me unkiss the oath 'twixt thee and me ;
And yet not so, for with a kits 't was made.
Kissing cherries. M. N. D. iii. 2, i.
Thy lips, those kissing cherries.
Knee used as a verb. Cor. v. 1, n.
A mile before his tent fall down, and knet
The way into his mercy.
Knight, use of the term. Cy. iii. 1, t.
Thy Caesar knighted me.
Knight of the sun. H. 4, F. P. i. 2, .
Phoebus, he, that wandering knight so fair.
Knot-grass a. low reptant herb. M. N. D. iii. 2, n.
You minimus, of hind 'ring knot-grass made.
Knots beds. R. S. iii. 4, n.
Her fruit-trees all unprun'd, her hedges ruin'd.
Her knots disorder'd.
Knotted gardens. L. L. L. i. 1, i.
Curious knotted garden.
Labras lips. M. W. i. 1, n.
Words of denial in thy labras here.
Lace (v.) embellish, ornament. So. Ixvii. n.
That sin by him advantage should achieve,
And lace itself with his society.
Laced mutton. G. V. i. 1, n.
I, a lost mutton, gave your letter to her, a laced mutton,
Lad of the castle. H. 4, F. P. i. 2, n.
My old lad of the castle.
Lady of the Strachy. T. N. ii. 5, .
The lady of the Strachy married the yeoman of the
wardrobe.
Lady of my earth. R. J. i. 2, .
She is the hopeful lady of my earth.
Lady brack female harrier. L. i. 4, n.
Truth's a dog must to kennel ; he must be whipp'd
out, when the lady brack may stand by the fire and stink.
Laid on with a trowel coarsely. A. L. i. 2, n.
Well said ; that was laid on with a trowel.
Lamentation of the French. H. F. v. Chorus, i.
As yet the lamentation of the French, &c.
Land-damn. W. T. ii. 1, n.
Would I knew the villain,
I would land-damn him.
Lanterns, ancient. M. A. iii. 3, i.
Bear you the lantern.
Lapwing. C. E. iv. 2, .
Far from her nest, the lapwing cries away.
Lash'd with woe. C. E. ii. 1, .
Why, headstrong liberty is lash'd with woe.
Latch them lay hold of them. M. iv. 3, n.
But I have words
That would be howl'd out in the desert air,
Where hearing should not latch them.
Latch (v.)-lay hold of. ' So. xciii. .
For it no form delivers to the heart
Of bird, of flower, or shape, which it doth latch.
Latch'd licked, o'er. M. N. D. iii. 2, n.
But hast thou yet latch'd the Athenian's eyes
With the love juice.
Late lately. R. T. iii. 1, n.
Too late he died, that might have kept that title.
Late, five thousand. T. Ath. ii. 1, n.
And late, five thousand.
Late recently. Luc. n. I did give that life
Which she too early and too late hath ipill'd.
^/(.(/obstructed, hindered. A. C. iii. 8, *.
I am so lated in the world, that I
Have lost my way for ever.
Latin. T. S. L 2, i.
Nay, ,'t is no matter what he 'leges in Lattn.
Latlen 6i/6o-sword of thin latten plate. M. W. L 1, .
I combat challenge of this latten bilbo.
Laugh mortal. M. M. ii. 2, n.
Like an angry ape,
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven,
As make the angels weep : who, with our ipleen*
Would all themselves lauyh mortal.
465
LAU
INDEX.- 1.
LIN
Lawich'd lanced. L. ii. 1, n.
With his prepared sword, he charges home
My unprovided body, launch'd mine arm.
Laund lawn, plain among trees. H. 6, T. P. iii. 1, n.
For through this laund anon the deer will come.
Laund lawn. V. A. n.
And homeward through the dark laund runs apace.
Laund'ring washing. L. C. n.
Laund'ring the silken figures in the brine
That season'd woe had pelleted in tears.
Laundry launder or laundress. M. W. i. 2, n.
His cook, or his laundry.
Laurel, used adjectively. A. C. i. 3, n.
Upon your sword
Sit laurel victory.
Lavoltas. H. F. iii. 5, i.
They bid us to the English dancing-schools,
And teach lavoltas high.
Law and heraldry. H. i. 1, n.
Who, by a seal'd compact,
Well ratified by law and heraldry.
Lay by stop. H. 4, F. P. i. 2, n.
Got with swearing lay by.
Lead apes*in hell die unmarried. T. S. ii. 1, n.
I must dance barefoot on her wedding-day,
And, for your love to her, lead opes in hell.
League, war of the. C. E. iii. 2, i.
Making war against her heir.
Leasing falsehood. T. N. i. 5, n.
Now, Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou
speakest well of fools !
Leave (v.l part with. G. V. iv. 4, n.
It seems you lov'd her not to lea'-e her token.
Leare licence. V. A. n.
Chiefly in love, whose leave exceeds commission.
Leaven'd. M. M. i. 1, n.
We have with a leavcn'd and prepared choice
Proceeded to you.
Leek, custom of wearing the. H. F. v. 1, i.
Why wear your leek to-day? St. Davy's day is past.
Leer feature. A. L. iv. 1, n.
But he hath a Rosalind of a better leer than you.
Leer complexion, hue. T. And. iv. 2, n.
Here's a young lad fram'd of another leer.
Lsese (v.) lose. So. v. n.
But flowers distill'd, though they with winter meet,
Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.
Left on your right hand being, as you pass, left. A. L. iv.
3, n.
The rank of osiers, by the murmuring stream,
Left on your right hand.
'Leges alleges. T. S. i. 2, n.
Nay 't is no matter what he 'leges in Latin.
Leiger resident ambassador. M. M. iii. 1, n.
Intends you for his swift ambassador,
Where you shall be an everlasting leiger.
Lenten sparing. H. ii. 2, n.
What lenten entertainment the players shall receive
from you.
L'envoy. L. L. L. iii. 1, n.
No F envoy, no f envoy, no salve, sir, but a plantain.
Less than kind. H. i. 2, n.
King. But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son,
Ham. A little more than kin, and less than kind.
Lesser linen. W. T. iv. 2, n.
My traffic is sheets ; when the kite builds, look to
lesser linen.
Let them work. M. M. i. \,n.
Then, no more remains :
But that, to your sufficiency as your worth, is able ;
And let them work.
Let (v.) stay. W. T. i. 2, n.
I'll give him my commission,
To let him there a month.
Let (v.) forbear. Luc. n.
When Collatine unwisely did not let
To praise the clear unmatched red and white.
Let (v.) obstruct. Luc. n.
Who with a lingering stay his course doth let.
Lets hinders. G. V. iii. i, n.
What lets, but one may enter at her window'
466
Lets obstructs. H. i. 4, n.
Unhand me, gentlemen;
By Heaven, I '11 make a ghost of him that lets me
Lett'st slip. H. 4, F. P. i. 3, n.
Before the game 's a-foot thou still letl'st slip
Letter syllable. Cy. iv. 3, n.
1 heard no letter from my master.
Letters, formal conclusions of. M. A. i. 1, i.
Ere you flout old ends any further.
Letters, ancient forms of conclusions to. Luc. n.
So I commend me from our house in grief.
Level aim. W. T. iii. 2, n.
My life stands in the .eiel of your dreams,
Which I lay down.
Levy. H. 4, F. P. i. 1, n.
Forthwith a power of English shall we lei y.
Lewd wicked. R. S. i. 1, n.
The which he hath detain'd for lewd employments
Lewdly wickedly. H. 6, S. P. ii. 1, n.
A sort of naughty persons, lewdly bent.
Liliburd leopard. L. L. L. v. 2, n.
Witli libbard's head on knee.
Liberal licentiously free. M. A. iv. 1, n.
Who hath, indeed, most like a liberal villain.
Liberal licentious. O. ii. 1, n.
Is he not a most profane and liberal counsellor f
Liberal unrestrained, uncontrolled. O. v. 2, n.
No, I will speak as liberal as the north.
Licence to kill (beasts during Lent). H. 6, S. P. iv. 3, n.
The Lent shall be as long again as it is; and thou shall
have a licence to kill for a hundred lacking one.
Lie (v.) reside. L. L. L. i. 1, .
She must lie here on mere necessity.
Lie for you be imprisoned in your stead. R. T. i. I, n.
I will deliver you or else lie for you.
Liffest- dearest. H. 6, S. P. iii. 1, n.
And, with your best endeavour, have stirr'd up
My liefest liege to be mine enemy.
Lies sojourns, dwells. T. N. iii. 1, n.
The king lies by a beggar, if a beggar dwell near him.
Lies dwells. H. 6, F. P. ii. 2, n.
To visit her poor castle where she lie*.
Lifter thief. T. C. i. 2, n.
Is he so young a man, and so old a lifter t
Ligarius, from North's ' Plutirch.' J. C. ii. 1, .
Here is a sick man, &c.
Light o' love. G. V. i. 2, .
Best sing it to the tune of Light o' love.
' Light o' love.' M. A. iii. 4, .
Clap us into 'Light o' lore.'
Lightly commonly. R. T. Mi. 1, n.
Short summers liyhily have a forward spring.
Like
probable. M. M. v. 1, n.
O, that it were as like as it is true !
Likeness comeliness. M. M. iii. 2, n.
How may likeness, made in crimes,
Making practice on the times.
Likes pleases. G. V. iv. 2, n.
How do you, man ? the music likes you not.
Liking substance. H. 4, F. P. iii. 3, n.
Well, I'll repent, and that suddenly, while I am in
some liking.
Limbeck alembic, part of a vessel through which distilled
liquor passes. M. i. 7, n.
And the receipt of reason
A limbeck only.
Limited legalized. T. Ath. iv. 3, n.
For there is boundless theft
In limited professions.
Limited appointed. M. ii. 3, n.
I'll make so bold to call,
For 't is my limited service.
Limits calculations, estimates. H. 4, F. P. L 1, n.
And many limits of the charge set down
But yesternight.
Lin'd delineated. A. L. iii. 2, n.
All the pictures, fairest lin'd,
Are but black to Rosalind.
Line. T. iv. 1, i.
Come, hang them on this lint.
LIN
INDEX. I.
MAH
Hue genealogy. H. F. ii. 4, n.
He sends you this most memorable line,
In every branch truly demonstrative ;
Willing you overlook this pedigree.
Linen, price of. H. 4, F. P. iii. 3, .
Holland of eight shillings an ell.
Llnet courses, humours. M. W. iv. 2, n.
Your husband is in his old lines again.
Linstock match. H. F. iii. Chorus, n.
And the nimble gunner
With linstock now the devilish cannon touches.
Lion in Book of Job. M. M. i. 4, i.
Even like an o'ergrown lion in a cave
That goes not out to prey.
Lions make leopards tame. R. S. i. 1, n.
Give me his gage : Lions make leopards tame.
Litt limit, bound. T. N. iii. 1, n.
I am bound to your niece, sir : I mean, she is the Hit
of my voyage.
List bound, barrier. O. iy. 1, n.
Confine yourself but in a patient list.
Lists limits. M. M. i. 1, n.
Your own science
Exceeds, in that, the lists of all advice.
Litters. J. v. 3, t.
To my litter, straight.
Little miniature. A L. iii. 2, n.
The quintessence of every sprite
Heaven would in lillle show.
Little world. R. S. v. 5, n.
And these same thoughts people this little world.
Live in thy tongue and heart. M. M. i. I, n.
Mortality and mercy in Vienna
Live in thy tongue and heart.
Livelihood liveliness, cheerfulness. R. T. iii. 4, .
What of his heart perceive you in his face,
By any livelihood he show'd to-day 1
Livery suing out of, the nature of. R. S. ii. 1, i.
Call in the letters-patent that he hath
By his attorneys-general to sue
His livery.
Livery. H. 4, F. P. iv. 3, . (See R. S. ii. 1, i.)
He came but to be duke of Lancaster,
To sue his livery.
Livery coats. H. 6, F. P. i. 3, i.
Blue-coats to tawny -coats.
Living actual, positive. A. L. iii. 2, n.
I drave my suitor from his mad humour of love, to
a living humour of madness.
Living estate, means of living. L. i. 4, n.
If I gave them all my living, I 'd keep my coxcombs
myself.
Load-star. M. N. D. i. 1, t.
Your eyes are load-stars.
Lob looby, lubber. M. N. D. ii. 1, n.
Farewell, thou lob of spirits, I '11 be gone.
Loclcram coarse linen. Cor. ii. 1, .
The kitchen malkin pins
Her richest lockram 'bout her reechy neck.
Loggats. H. v. 1, i.
To play at loggats with them.
Lombardy. T. S. i. 1, t.
Fruitful Lombardy,
The pleasant garden of great Italy.
Long of you through you. L. L. L. ii. 1, n.
'Tis long of you, that spur me with such questions.
Long one long reckoning. H. 4, S. P. ii. 1, .
A hundred mark is a long one of a poor lone woman
to bear.
Longing (used as a substantive). M. M. ii. 4, n.
As to a bed
That longing had been sick for.
Lord have mercy on us inscription on houses visited with
the plague. L. L. L. v. 2, n.
Write ' Lord have mercy on us ' on those three ;
They are infected, in their hearts it lies.
Lord's sake. M. M. iv. 3, n.
And I think forty more; all doers in our trade, and
are now for the Lord's sake.
Lurdship authority. M. N. D. i. 1, n.
Ere 1 will yield my virgin patent up
Unto his lordship.
2 H2
Loss exposure. W. T. ii. 3, n.
Poor thing, condemn'd to lass !
Lost caused to be lost. T. N. ii. 2, n.
That, methought, her eyes had lost her tongue.
Lotstoblan/cs the whole numberto a proportion. Cor. v 2
It is l:,ls to blanks
My name hath touch'd your ears.
Louvre. H. F. ii. 4, i.
He'll make your Paris Louvre shake for it.
Love used as the queen of love. C. E. iii. 2, n.
Let love, being light, be drowned if she sink
Lover mistress. M. M. i. 5, n.
Your brother and his lover have embrac'd.
' Lover's Complaint,' ballad of. O. IT. 3, i.
She had a song of willow.
Lovers companions, friends. T. N. K. v. 4, n.
Lead your lady off;
And call your lovers from the stage of death,
Whom I adopt my friends !
Lowted treated with contempt. H. 6, F. P. iv. 3, .
And I am lowted by a traitor villain.
Lozel one that has cast off his own good and welfare W
T. ii. 3, n.
Lozel, thou art worthy to be hang'd,
That wilt not stay her tongue.
Lucilius, capture of, from North's ' Plutarch.' J. C. v. 4, i
Kill Brutus, and be honour'd in his death.
Lucrece, seal of. T. N. ii. 5, i.
The impressure her Lucrece.
Lucrece, Shakspere's. Cy. ii. 2, *.
Our Tarquin thus
Did softly press the rushes.
Lucy family, arms of. M. W. i. 1 , t.
The luce is the fresh fish ; the salt fish is an old coat
Ludlow Castle. R. T. ii. 2, i.
Me seemeth good, that, with some little train,
Forthwith from Ludlow the young prince be fet.
Lud's town. Cy. iii. 1, i.
The fam'd Cassibelan, who was once at point
(O giglot fortune !) to master Caesar's sword,
Made Lud's town with rejoicing fires bright.
Luke's iron crown. R. T. iv. 1, f.
Were red-hot steel, to sear me to the brain.
Lunatics, treatment of. T. N. iii. 4, .
We '11 have him in a dark room, and bound.
Lupercalian feast, from North's ' Plutarch.' J. C. i. 2. .
Our elders say, &c.
Lurch'd. Cor. ii. 2, n.
And, in the brunt of seventeen battles since,
He lurch'd all swords o' the garland.
Lush. T. ii. 1, n.
How lush and lusty the grass looks 1
Lustick lusty. A. W. ii. 3, .
Par. Here comes the king.
Lafeu. Lustick, as the Dutchman says.
Lutestring. M. A. iii. 2, i.
His jesting spirit, which is now crept into a lutestring.
Lydgate's description of Priam's palace. Luc. n.
And little stars shot from their fixed places, Stc.
Lylys ' Euphues and his England,' passage from. H. P.
i. 2, .
So work the honey-bees.
Lyly's 'Alexander andCampaspe,' passage from. Cy. ii. X. i
Hark, hark, the lark.
Lym limmer, hunting-dog. L. iii. 6, n.
Hound or spaniel, brach or lym.
M.
Macbeth's castle at Inverness. M. i. i, i.
Macduff's castle at Fife. M. iv. 2, i.
Maculate stained. L. L. L. i. 2, n.
Most maculate thoughts.
Mad wild. H. 6, F. P. v. 3, n.
Mad, natural graces that extinguish art.
Made against you closed cgainst you. C. E. iii I, n,
Why at this time ihe doors are male against yc
Afagnificoes nobles of Venice. M. V. IT. 1. n.
Enter Duke, with magnificats.
Mahomet. H. 6, F. P. i. 2, *.
Win Alaiiomet inspired with a uovef
MAI
INDEX. I.
MEI
Jf tin mainland. L. iii. 1, n.
Or swell the curled waters 'bove the main.
Main of light mass, flood of light. So. Ix. .
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity.
fake the doors make fast the doors. A. L. iv. 1, n.
Make the doon upon a woman's wit.
Make (v.) make up. A. L. iv. 3, .
Will the faithful offer take
Of me, and all that I can make.
Make invent. M. M. i. 5, n.
Itab. Sir, make me not your story.
Make it. H. iii. 2, n.
And there is much music, excellent voice, in this
little organ ; yet cannot you make it.
Makeless mateless. So. ix. n.
The world will wail thee, like a makelett wife.
Makes not up does not conclude, decide. L. i. 1, n.
Election makes not up in such conditions.
Malkin. Cor. ii. 1, .
The kitchen malkin pins
Her richest lockram 'bout her reechy neck.
Mallei mallard. H. 4, S. P. ii. 4, .
There is no more conceit in him than is in a mallet.
Malt-worms drunkards. H. 4, F. P. ii. 1, n.
None of these mad, mustachio, purple-hued malt-
worm*.
Mammering doubting, hesitating. O. iii. 3, n.
I wonder in my soul,
What you would ask me that I should deny,
Or stand so mammering on.
Mammett puppets. H. 4, F. P. ii. 3, n.
This is no world
To play with mammets, and to tilt with lips.
Man my haggard tame my wild hawk. T. S. iv. 1, n.
Another way I have to man my haggard.
Man in the moon. M. N. D. v. 1, '.
Myself the man i' th' moon do seem to be.
Manacle. T. i. 2, .
I '11 manacle thy neck and feet together.
Manage management, government. J. i. 1, n.
Which now the manage of two kingdoms must
With fearful bloody issue arbitrate.
Mandrngyra mandrake, a powerful opiate. O. iii. 3, n.
Not poppy, nor mandragora,
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world.
Mane. O. ii. 1, n.
The chidden billow seems to pelt the clouds ;
Thewind-shak'dsurge, withhigli andmonstrousmarif.
Mane used as a plura 1 noun. V. A. n.
His braided hanging mane
Upon Lis compass'd crest now stand on end.
Manes of horses, superstition respecting. R. J. i. 4, i.
This is that very Mab
That plats the manes of horses in the night.
Mankind masculine. W. T. ii. 3, n.
A mankind witch !
Mankind woman with the roughness of a man. Cor.iv.2, n.
Sic. Are you mankind t
Vol. Ay, fool : Is that a shame 1
Manner. L. L. L. i. 1, n.
The manner of it is, I was taken with the manner.
Manner, taken with the taken with a stolen thing in hand.
H. 4, F. P. ii. 4, n. (See L. L. L. i. 1, n.)
Thou stolest a cup of sack eighteen years ago, and
wert taken with the manner.
Manners morals. A. L. iii. 2, n.
If thou never saw'st good manners, then thy manners
must be wicked.
Mansions, old mode of building. H. E. v. 2, i.
At a window above.
Mantua, notice of. R. J. v. '.
March-pane almond-cake. R. J. i. 5, n.
Good thou, save me a piece of march-pane.
Marches boundaries, borders. H. F. i. 2, n.
They of those marches, gracious sovereign,
Shall be a wall sufficient to defend
Our inland from the pilfering borderers.
Sfark cross. R. J. iii. 2, .
God save the mark I
468
Mark used as an interjection. O. ii 3, n.
He hath devoted and given up himself to the con
templation, mar*, and devotement of her parts an<!
graces.
Marlowe's ' Passionate Shepherd.' M. W. iii. 1, t.
To shallow rivers, to whose falls.
Marlowe's ' Hero and Leander,' lines from. A. L. iii. 3, i.
Dead shepherd ! now I find thy saw of might ;
' Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight?'
Marseilles pronounced as a trisyllable. A. W. iv. 4, n.
His grace is at Marseilles ; to which place
We have convenient convoy.
Martians, house of the, from Plutaroh. Cor. ii. 3, i.
What stock he springs of.
Martltmas llth of November. H. 4, S. P. ii. 2, n.
And how doth the martlemat, your master f
Masks. G. V. iv. 4, i.
Sun-expelling mask.
Masks. R. J. i. 1, i.
These happy masks, that kiss fair ladies' brows,
Being black, put us in mind they hide the fair.
Master person. L. L. L. iv. 2, n.
Good morrow, master person.
Master of fence. M. W. i. 1, i.
At sword and dagger with a master of fence.
Mastick. T. C. i. 3, n.
When rank Thersites opes his mastick jaws.
Mated made senseless. C. E. iii. 2, .
Not mad, but mated ; how, I do not know.
Mated amated, dismayed. M. V. i. n.
My mind she has mated, and amaz'd my sight.
Mated confounded. V. A. n.
Her more than haste is mated with delays.
Material fool fool with matter in him. A. L. iii. 3, n.
A material fool I
Matei destroys, confounds. H. 6, S. P. iii. 1, .
For that is good deceit
Which mates him first that first intends deceit.
Maund basket. L. C. n.
A thousand favours from a maund she drew.
May-day. M. N. D. i. 1, i.
To do observance to a m-'/rn of May.
Mazes. T. iii. 3, i.
Here's a maze trod, indeed,
Through forthrights and meanders.
Mual 'd compounded. M. M. iv. 2, n.
Were he meal 'd
With that which he corrects, then were he tyrannous
Mean (in music) tenor. G. V. i. 2, n.
There wanteth but a mean to fill your song.
Mean (in music) an intermediate part. L. L. L. v. 2, n.
Nay, he can sing
A mean most meanly.
Means tenors, intermediate voices. W. T. iv. 2, t.
Means and basses.
Means resources, powers, capacities. L. iv. 1, n.
Full oft 'tis seen
Our meant secure us ; and our mere defects
Prove our commodities.
Meant love meant as love. R. J. iii. 5, n.
But thankful even for hate, that is meant lore.
Measure grave dance. L. L. L. v. 2, n.
To tread a measure with you on this grass.
Measure. R. J. i. 4, i.
We'll measure them a measure.
Measures solemn dances. J. iii. 1, n.
Clamours of hell, be measures to our pomp.
Measures grave dances. V. A. n.
Teaching decrepit age to tread the metuurei.
Med'cine potable. H. 4, S. P. iv. 4, n.
Other less fine in carat is more precious,
Preserving life in med' cine potable.
Medea, Ovid's invocation of. T. v. 1, i.
Ye elves of hills.
Meeds merits. H. 6, T. P. ii. 1, n.
Each one already blazing by our meeds.
Meet even. M. A. i. 1, *.
He '11 be meet with you, I doubt it not.
Meiny retinue, attendants. L. ii. 4, n
They summon'd up thir mtiny. straight took horse
MEN
INDEX. I.
MON
Mendicancy, laws for the suppression of. L. iii. 4, '.
Whipped from tything to tything, and stocked, pu-
nished, and imprisoned.
Menial servants and porters of Italy. R. J. iv. 4, .
Enter servants with spits, logs, and baskets.
Merchant merchant-vessel. T. ii. 1, n.
The masters of some merchant, and the merchant,
Have just our theme of woe.
Merchant, used in opposition to gentleman. R. J. ii. 4, i.
What saucy merchant was this?
Mercy reference to Ecclesiasticus. M. V. iv. 1, i.
The quality of mercy is not strain'd.
Mere sole, unmixed, absolute. M. M. v. 1, n.
Upon his mere request.
Mere absolute. H. E. iii. 2, .
To the mere undoing
Of all the kingdom.
Mere entire. O. ii. 2, n.
Certain tidings now arrived, importing the mere per-
dition of the Turkish fleet.
Mere absolute, certain. P. iv. 3, n.
Seldom but that pity begets you a good opinion, and
that opinion a mere profit.
Were absolute. T. N. K. ii. '>, n.
I see two comforts rising, two mere blessings.
Mered marked, limited. A. C. iii. 11, n.
At such a point,
When half to half the world oppos'd, he being
The mered question.
Merely absolutely. T. i. 1, n.
We are merely cheated of our lives by drunkards.
Merely entirely. A. C. iii. 7, n.
The horse were merely lost.
Mermaid synonymous with syren. V. A. n.
Thy mermaid 'i voice hath done me double wrong.
Messes. W. T. 1. 2, .
Lower mettes.
Metal of India. T. N. ii. 5, n.
How now, my metal of India.
Metaphysical supernatural. M. i. 5, n.
All that impedes thee from the golden round,
Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem
To have thee crown'd withal.
Methinks, already. W. T. v. 3, n.
Would I were dead, but that, mcthinks, already
What was he that did make it ?
Mettle temper, disposition. T. N. v. 1, n.
So much against the mettle of your sex.
Mew'd term of falconry. R. J. iii. 4, n.
To-night she 'a mew' a up to her heaviness.
Micher truant. H. 4, F. P. ii. 4, n.
Shall the blessed sun of heaven prove a michert
Miching mallecho. H. iii. 2, n.
Marry, this is miching mallecho; it means mischief.
Middleton's ' Witch.' M. iv. 1, i.
Black spirits, &c.
Might. M. N. D. v. 1, n.
Noble respect takes it in might, not merit.
Might power. P. P. .
Let reason rule things worthy blame,
As well as fancy, partial might.
Mile-end. A. W. iv. 3, n. (See H. 4, S. P. iii. i.)
He had the honour to be the officer at a place there
called Mile-end.
Mill sixpences. M. W. i. 1, .
Seven groats in mill sixpence!.
Milton, notice of a passage in. R. J. ii. 3, i.
The earth, that's nature's mother, is her tomb.
Mimic actor. M. N. D. iii. 2, n.
And forth my mimic comes.
Mine enemy. R. S. i. 3, n.
Norfolk, so far as to mine enemy.
Mineral mine, compound mass of metals. H. i< , n.
Like some ore,
Among a mineral of metals b
Shows itself pure.
Mines undermines, seeks to destroy. A. L. I. 1, n.
And, as much as in him lies, mines my gentility with
ray education.
Mingled damask. A. L. iii. 5, n.
Bet*ixt the constant red, and mingled damatk.
Misconster misconstrue. H. 6, P. P. ii. 3, n.
Be not dismay'd, fair lady; nor ai ; tcnmt.r
The mind of Talbot.
Miter wretch, miserable creature. H. 6, F. P. v. 4, a
Decrepit miter! base, ignoble wretch I
Mitcreate spurious. H. F. i. 2, n.
With opening titles miacreate, whose right
Suits not in native colours with the truth.
Misprising undervaluing. M. A. iii. 1, n.
Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes,
Misprising what they look on.
Miu amiss, fault. V. A. n.
He says she is immodest, blames her miu.
Missingly missing him. W. T. iv. 1, n.
But I have, missingly, noted he is of late much retired
from court.
Mistaken misapprehended. H. E. i. 1, n.
I am sorry
To hear this of him; and could wish he were
Something mistaktn in't.
Mo more. Luc. n.
Why should the private pleasure of some one
Become the public plague of many mo t
Mo more. L. C. n.
Found yet mo letters sadly penn'd in blood.
Mobled muffled up. H. ii. 2, n.
The mobled queen.
Mock-water. M. W. ii. 3, n.
Ah, monsieur Mock-water.
Model thing formed, or fashioned. R. S. iii. 2, .
And that small model of the barren earth,
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.
Modena, battle near, from North's ' Plutarch.' A. C. L4, t
When thou once
Wast beaten from Modena, &c.
Modern common. A. C. v. 2, n.
As we greet modern friends withal.
Modern trite, common. So. Ixxxiii. ft.
That you, yourself, being extant, well might show
How far a modern quill doth come too short.
Modo and Malm. L. iii. 4, i.
The prince of darkness is a gentleman ;
Modo he's called, and Mahu.
Moiety. H. 4, F. P. iii. 1, n.
Methinks, my moiety, north from Burton here,
In quantity equals not one of yours.
Moiety small portion, share. L. i. 1, n. (See H. 4, F. F.
iii. 1, n.)
Curiosity in neither can make choice of cither's moiety.
Moiety portion. Luc. Dedication.
But a superfluous moiety.
Moiety portion. So. xlvi. n.
And by their verdict is determined
The clear eye's moiety, and the dear heart's part.
Moist star moon. H. i. 1, n.
And the moist ttar,
Under whose influence Neptunfs empire stands.
Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse.
Moll Cutpurse. T. N. i. S, i.
Like mistress Mall's picture.
Mome blockhead. C. E. iii. 1, n.
Home, malt-horse, capon, coxcomb, idiot, patch 1
Monarch. A. W. i. 1, n. (See L. L. L. iv. 1, .)
And you, monarch.
Monarch of the north. H. 6, F. P. v. S, n.
You speedy helpers, that are substitutes
Under the lordly monarch of the north,
Appear.
Monarcho. L. L. L. iv. 1, i.
A Monarcho.
Monopolies in the reign of Elizabeth. L. 1. 4, i.
If I had a monopoly out, they would have part on t
Montagues and Capulets, badges of. R. J. i. I, <
Here comes of the house of the Montagues.
Montanto term of the fencing-school. M. A. i. 1, .
Is signior Montanto returned from the warf
Month's mind. O. V. i. 2, n.
I see you have a month's mind to them.
Monument of the victory. H. G, S. P. iy 3. .
This monument of the riclnry will I bear.
4(59
MOO
INDEX. I.
NEE
Itjud- -caprice. A. W. v. 2, n.
I am now, sir, mud-died in fortune's mood.
Moods manner. H. i. 2, n.
Together with all forms, mood*, shows of grief.
Moon used in the sense of month. P. P. n.
To spite me now, each minute seems a moon.
Moor-ditch. H. 4, F. P. i. 2, i.
The melancholy of Moor-ditch
Moors in Venice. O. i. 1, .
The thick-lips.
Moralize comment. V. A. n.
Unlike myself thou hear'st me moralize.
Moralize (v .) interpret. Luc. n.
Nor could she moralize his wanton sight.
More gratulate more to be rejoiced in. M. M. v. 1, it.
There 's more behind that is more gratulate.
More and less great and small. H. 4, S. P. i. I , n.
And more and less do flock to follow him.
More and less greater and less. M. v. 4, n.
Both more and less have given him the revolt.
Morisco. H. 6, S. P. iii. 1, n.
I have seen him
Caper upright like a wild morisco.
Morning's love. M. N. D. iii. 2, i.
I with the morning's love have oft made sport.
Morning, description of, in 'Venus and Adonis.' R. J. iii.
i. i.
It was the lark, the herald of the morn.
Moms-dance. A. W. ii. 2, i.
A morris for May-day.
Mcrris-pike pike of the Moors. C. E. iv. 3, n.
He that sets up his rest to do more exploits with his
mace than a morris-pike.
Mart o' the deer note of the hunter's horn at the death of
the deer. W. T. i. 2, n.
And then to sigh, as 't were
The mart o' the deer.
Mortal in folly extremely foolish. A. L. ii. 4, n.
As all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love
mortal in fully.
M ortal deadly. O. ii. 1, n.
As having sense of beauty do omit
Their mortal natures, letting go safely by
The divine Desdemona.
Mortal deadly. V. A. n.
Like to a mortal butcher, bent to kill.
Mortified man hermit, one indifferent to the concerns of
the world. M. v. 2, n.
For their dear causes
Would, to the bleeding and the grim alarm,
Excite the mortified man.
Mortise kole of one piece of timber fitted to receive the
tenon of another. O. ii. 1, n.
What ribs of oak, when mountains melt on them,
Can hold the mortise?
Mot motto. Luc. n.
And Tarquiu's eye may read the mot afar.
Motion puppet-show. G. V. ii. 1, .
O, excellent motion! O, exceeding prppet!
Motion puppet-show. W. T. iv. 2, >.
A motion of the prodigal son.
Motion dumb show. Luc. n.
For then the eye interprets to the ear
The heavy motion that it doth behold.
Motions impulses. H. E. i. 1, n.
(Whom from the flow of gall I name not, but
From sincere motions.)
Motions. H. iii. 2, n. (See G. V. ii. 1, n.)
I could interpret between you and your love, if I
could see the puppets dallying.
Motley fool. So. ex. .
Alas, 't is true, I have gone here and there,
And made myself a motley to the view.
Mount Mount Misenum. A. C. ii. 4, n.
We shall,
As I conceive the journey, be at the Mount
Before you, Lepidus.
Afounte-1 -term of falconry. H. F. iv. 1. H.
His affections are higher mojnted than ours.
Mouiet mouths. H. ii. '2, n
Those that would make mowti at him.
470
Moys. H. F. iv. 4, n.
fr. Sol. O, pardonnez moy.
Pitt. Say'st thou me so? is that a ton of mnysf
Much Orlando a great deal of Orlando. A. L. iv. ;i. .
Is it not past two o'clock? and here much Orlando.
Much expression of contempt. H. 4 : S. P. ii. 4, n.
What with two points on your shoulder ? much !
Much ironical and contemptuous expression. T. Ath. i.
2. n.
3 Lord. I promise you, my lord, you mov'd me much.
A pern. Much I
Mufflers. M. W. iv. 2, i.
I spy a great peard under her muffler.
Mulmutius. Cy. iii. 1, t.
Mulmutius made our laws, &c.
Murdering piece cannon. H. iv. 5, n.
This.
Like to a murdering piece, in many place*
Gives me a superfluous death.
Mure wall. H. 4, S. P. iv. 4, n.
The incessant care and labour of his mind
Hath wrought the mure, that should confine it in
Muscovites, costume of. L. L. L. v. 2, '.
And are apparell'd thus,
Like Muscovites, or Russians.
Muse (v.) wonder. H. 6, S. P. iii. 1, n.
I muse my lord of Gloster is not come.
Music a source of discord amongst the commentators upon
Shakspere. M. V. v. 1, i.
The man that hath no music in himself.
Music to hear. So. viii. .
Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly ?
Musicians. R. J. iv. 4, i.
Musicians! O, musicians!
Musit. T. N. K. iii. 1, n. (See V. A, n.)
You hear the horns :
Enter your musit, lest this match between us
Be cross'd ere met.
Musits. V. A. n.
The many musits through the which he goes
Are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes.
Muss scramble. A. C. iii. 11, n.
Like boys into a muss, kings would start forth,
And cry ' Your will?"
Mutines mutineers. H. v. 2, n.
Methpught I lay
Worse than the mutines in the bilboes.
My cake is dough proverbial expression. T. S. v. 1.
My cake is dough; but I "11 in among the rest.
My some rich jewel some rich jewel of my own. T. N ii.
5, .
Or play with my some rich jewel.
My part in him advertise. M. M. i. 1, n.
But I do bend my speech
To one that can my part in him advertise.
Mysttries artificial fashions. H. E. i. 3, .
Is 't possible the spells of France should juggle
Men into such strange mysteries?
N.
Napkin handkerchief. O. iii. 3, .
Des. Let me but bind it hard, within this hour
It will be well.
Oth. Your napkin is too little.
Napkin handkerchief. L. C. n.
Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne.
Napless threadbare. Cor. ii. 1, n.
Nor on him put
The napless vesture of humility.
Nashe's Life of Jacke Wilton.' H. E i. 3, n.
Of fool, and feather.
Nature's productions, philosophy of the use or abuse of.
Cy. i. 6, i.
Whiles yet the dew's on ground, gather those flowers.
Nature's copy. M. iii. 2, n.
But in them nature's copy 's not eterne.
Nautical knowledge of Shakspere. T. i. 1, .
Boatswain, &c.
Ntedless needing not. A. L. ii. 1, n.
First for liis weeping into the needless stream.
NEE
INDEX. I.
OBS
Ketlds needles. M. N. D. iii. 2, n.
Have with our neelds created both one flower.
Neeld needle. Luc. n.
And griping it, the neeld his finger pricks.
ffe'tr the near never the nearer. R. S. v. 1, .
Weep thou for me in France, I for thee here ;
Better far off, than near, be ne'er the near.
Keif fist. M. N. D. iv. 1, n.
Give me your neif.
Neif fist. H. 4, S. P. ii. 4, n. (See M. N. D. iv. 1, .)
Sweet knight, I kiss thy neif.
Ne/iketoteno. used generally for a relative. H. 6, F. P.
ii. 5, n.
Plan. . Declare the cause
My father, earl of Cambridge, lost his head.
Mor. That cause, fair nephew, that imprison'd me.
Nephews grandsons. O. i. 1, n. (See R. T. iv. 1, .)
You "11 have your nephews neigh to you.
Nether- stocks stockings. L. ii. 4, n.
When a man is over-lusty at legs, then he wears
wooden nether-stocks.
New made regenerate. M. M. ii. 2, n.
And mercy then will breathe within your lips
Like man new made.
' News from Scotland,' passage from. M. i. 3, i.
But in a sieve 1 '11 thither sail.
Next nearest. A. W. i. 2, n.
And 1 speak the truth the next way.
Nice affected. A. L. iv. 1, n.
Nor the lady's [melancholy], which is nice.
Nice weak. H. 4, S. P. i. 1, n.
Hence, therefore, thou nice crutch.
Nice slight. R. J. iii. 1, n.
Bade him bethink
How nice the quarrel was.
Nice trivial. R. J. v. 2, n.
The letter was not nice, but full of charge
Of dear import.
Nick reckoning. G. V. iv. 2, n.
He loved her out of all nick.
Nicks him like a fool. C. E. v. 1, n.
His man with scissars nicks him like a fool.
Niece grand-daughter. R. T. iv. 1, n.
Who meets us here? my niece Plantagenet.
Night-rule night-revel. M. N. D. iii. 2, n.
What night-rule now about this haunted grove.
Nightly gulls him with intelligence. So. Ixxxvi. n.
He, nor that affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence.
Nights of the early summer of the north of Europe. H.i. 1, i.
But, look, the morn, &c.
Nile, rise of the. A. C. ii. 7, .
They take the flow o' the Nile, &c.
Nine worthies. L. L. L. v. 2, i.
Pageant of the nine worthies.
Nine men's morris. M. N. D. ii. 2, i.
The nine men's morris is filled up with mud.
Nine years old during nine years. M. M. iv. 2, n.
One that is a prisoner nine years old.
Nine moons w^stedmnz months unemployed. O. i. 3, n.
For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith,
Till now some nine moons wailed they have us'd
Their dearest action in the tented field.
Nopoynt the double negative of the French. L. L. L. ii. 1, n.
Biron. Will you prick 't with your eye f
Rosaline. No poynl, with my knife.
jVo more say no more. T. L 2, n.
Ariel. My liberty.
Pro. Before the time be out ? no more.
No manner penon no sort of person. R. T. iii. 5, .
Give order, that no manner person
Have, any time, recourse unto the princes.
No reason can sound his state in safety. T. Ath. ii. 1, n.
It cannot hold ; no reason
Can sound Ids state in safety.
No deal in no degree. P. P. n.
My shepherd's pipe can sound no deal.
Noblest English English nobility. H. F. iii. 1, n.
On, on, you noblest English.
Nobody. T. iii. 2, i.
The picture of Nnl/odf/.
Noise band of musicians. H. 4. S. P. ii. 4, n.
And see if thou canst find out Sneak's noise ; mistreat
Tear-sheet would fain have some music.
Noise music of the hautboys. M. iv. 1, n.
Why sinks that cauldron, and what noise is this?
Non-payment penalty for. V. A. n.
Say, for non-payment that the debt should double,
Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble?
None for me none, on my part. R. S. i. 4, n.
'Faith, none for me.
Nonce once, the one thing in question. H. 4, F. P. i. 2, n
I have cases of buckram for the nonce.
Nook-shotteu. H. F. iii. 5, n.
In that nook-shotten isle of Albion.
Noontide prick point of noon. Luc. n.
Ike he arrive his weary noontide-prick.
Nor here, nor here, nor what ensues. Cy. iii. 2, n.
I see before me, man ; nor here, nor here,
Nor what ensues, but have a fog in them.
Not thinking on being forgotten. K. iii. 2, n.
Or else shall he suffer not thinking on.
Note knowledge. L. iii. 1, n.
Sir, I do know you ;
And dare, upon the warrant of my note,
Commend a dear thing to you.
Notfd weed dress known and familiar, through being
always the same. So. Ixxvi. n.
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in a noted weed ?
Nott-patedwitti the hair cut close. H. 4, F. P. ii. 4, n.
Wilt thou rob this leathern jerkin, crystal button,
nott-pated, agate-ring.
Nourish. H. 6, F. P. i. 1, n.
Our isle be made a nourish of salt tears.
Novum a game at dice. L. L. L. v. 2, n.
Abate a throw at novum, and the whole world again
Cannot prick out five such, take each one in his vein
Now my dear lady. T. i. 2, n.
Bountiful Fortune,
Now my di'ar lady, hath many enemies
Brought to this shore.
Nowl noil, head. M. N. D. iii. 2, .
An ass's nowl I fixed on his head.
tfumber'd numerous, numberous. Cy. i. 7, .
And the twinn'd stones
Upon the number'd beach.
If umber's altered the number of the metrical feet ii tMtreii
T. N. ii. 5, n.
What fo'lows? the number's altered!
Numb'ring clock. R. S. v. S, n.
I wasted time, and now doth Time waste me,
For now hath Time made me his numb'ring clock.
Nurture education. A. L. ii. 7, n.
Yet am I inland bred,
And know some nurture.
Nuthook. M. W. i. 1, n.
If you run the nulhook's humour on me.
0.
Oaths upon the sword. H. i. 5, {.
Upon my sword.
Oberon and Titania. M. N. D. it. 2, i.
Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.
Objected proposed, suggested. H. 6, F. P. ii. 4, n.
Good master Vemon, it is well objected.
Obsequious performing obsequies. H. 6, T. P. ii. 5, *
My sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell ;
And so obsequious will thy father be.
Obsequious funereal. H. i. 2, n.
And the survivor bound
In filial obligation, for some term
To do obsequious sorrow.
Obsequious funereal. So. xxxi. n.
How many a holy and obsrquintt . tear
Hath dear religious love stolen from mine eye ?
Obsequiously performing obsequies. R. T. 1. 2, .
While I awhile obsegitiuuslij lament
The untimely fall of virtuous Lancaster.
Observed as they flew. L. C. n.
And had let go by
The swiftest hours observed as they flew.
471
OBS
INDEX. I.
OVE
Obstacle obstinate. H. 6, F. P. v. 4, n.
Fie, Joan ! that thou wilt be so obstacle .'
Octavia and Octavius Caesar, meeting of, from North's
' Plutarch.' A. C. iii. 4, i.
A more unhappy lady, &c.
Odd-even. O. i. 1, n.
At this odd-even and dull watch c' the night.
O'erparted not equal to a part. L. L. L. v. 2, n.
A little o'erparted.
O'er-raught over-reached. C. E. i. 1, n.
The villain is o'er-raught of all my money.
O'er-look'd enchanted. M. V. iii. 2, n.
Beshrew your eyes,
They have o'er-look 'd me.
O'er-died re-died. W. T. i. 2, n.
But were they false
As o'er-died blacks.
O'er straw' d o'erstrewed. V. A. n.
The bottom poison, and the top o'erstraw'd
With sweets that sha.l the truest sight beguile.
(Jet circles. M. N. D. iii. 2, n.
Than all yon fiery oes, and eyes o f light.
Of all loves. M. W. ii. 2, n.
Send her your little page, of all loves.
Of all loves. M. N. D. ii. 3.
Speak, of all loves.
Of season when in season. M. M. ii. 2, n.
Even for our kitchens
We kill the fowl of season.
Of your answer for you to answer. M. M. ii. 4, n.
You granting of my suit,
If that be sin, I '11 make it my mom prayer
To have it added to the faults of mine,
And nothing of your answer.
Of with. M. i. 2, n.
From the western isles
Of kernes and gallowglasses is supplied.
Of rashness on account of rashness. A. C. ii. 2, .
If Cleopatra heard you, your reproof
Were well deserved of rashness.
Of all 'say'd yet of all who have essayed yet. P. i. 1, n.
Of all 'say'd yet, mayst thou prove prosperous.
Off-capp'd. O. i. 1, n.
Three great ones of the city,
In personal suit to make me his lieutenant,
Off-capp'd to him.
Offering assailing. H. 4, F. P. iv. 1, n.
We of the offering side
Must keep aloof from strict arbitrement.
Office business. T. i. 1, n.
A plague upon this howling ! they are louder than the
weather, or our office.
Officer* of night night guard. O. i. 1, n.
And raise some special officers of night.
Offices of a mansion. R. S. i. 2, i.
Unpeopled offices.
Offices rooms of hospitality. T. Ath. ii. 2, n.
When all our offices have been oppress'd
With riotous feeders.
Old news rare news. T. S. iii. 2, n.
Master, master ! news, old news.
Old coil great bustle. M". A. v. 2, n.
Yonder 's old coil at home.
Old-faced ancient old patched-up standard. H. 4, P.P. iv.2,n.
Ten times more dishonourable ragged than an old-
faced ancient.
Oid utis extreme merriment. H. 4, S. P. ii. 4, n.
By the mass, here will be old utis.
Old wold. L. iii. 4, n.
Swithold footed thrice the old.
Omen portentous event. H. i. 1, n.
As harbingers preceding still the fates,
And prologue to the omen coming on.
Omens and prodigies, from North's 'Plutarch.' J. C. i. 3, i.
A common slave, &c.
On a day.' L. L. L. iv. 3, .
On a day, &c.
On let us go on. W. T. v. 3, n. It is requir'd
You do awake your faith : Then, all stand still.
On: Those that think it is unlawful business
I am about, let them depart.
472
On hit knee down on his knee. Cor. ii. 2, n.
Tarquin's self he met,
And struck him on his knee.
On of. J. C. i. 2, n.
And be not jealous on me, gentle Brutus.
Once this once for all. C. E. iii. 1, n.
Once this, Your long experience of her wisdom
Once once for all. M. A. i. I, n.
'T is once, thou lovest.
Once sometimes. H. E. i. 2, n.
What we oft do best
By sick interpreters, once weak ones, is
Not ours, or not allow'd.
One pronounced on. G. V. ii. 1, n.
Vol. Not mine ; my gloves are on.
Speel. Why, then this may be yours, for this is but
one.
Oneyers. H. 4, F. P. ii. 1, n.
Burgomasters and great oneyert.
Opalgem whose colours change when viewed in different
lights. T. N. ii. 4, n.
Thy mind is a very opal.
Open room. M. M. ii. 1, n.
It is an open room, and good for winter.
Ophelia's songs, music of. H. iv. 5, i.
How should I your true love know
From another one ?
Opinion reputation. H. 4, F. P. v. 4, n.
Thou hast redeem'd thy lost opinion.
Opinion reputation. T. N. K. iii. 6, n.
Might breed the ruin of my name's opinion.
Opposite with of a different opinion. T. N. ii. 5, n.
Be opposite with a kinsman.
Opposite adversary. M. M. iii. 2, a.
Or you imagine me too unhurtful an opposite.
Or gold in heraldry. Luc. n.
Virtue would stain that or with silver white.
Or e'er before, sooner than. T. i. 2, n.
1 would
Have sunk the sea within the earth, or e'er
It should the good ship so have swallow'd.
Or e'er before. J. iv. 3, n.
Two long days' journey, lords, or e'er we meet.
Orbs fairy-rings. M. N. D. ii. 1, n.
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green.
Order rule, canon of ecclesiastical authority. H. v. 1, n.
Her death was doubtful ;
And, but that great command o'ersways the order,
She should in ground unsanctified have lodg'd.
Ordnance. H. 4, F. P. ii. 3, i.
Of basilisks, of cannon, culverin.
Orgulous proud. T. C. Prologue, n.
The princes orgulous, their high blood chaf 'd.
Ostent display. M. V. ii. 2, n.
Use all the observance of civility,
Like one well studied in a sad ostent
To please his grandam.
Ouphes goblins. M. W. iv. 4, n.
Like urchins, ouphes, and fairies.
Out of *ll whooping beyond all measure. A. L. iii. 2, n.
And yet again wonderful, and after that out of all
whooping.
Out three years old quite three years old. T. L 2, n.
Then thou wast not
Out three years old.
Out of all cess excessively. H. 4, F. P. ii 1, n.
The poor jade is wrung in the withers out of all ce*s.
Out went the candle. L. i. 4, n.
So, out went the candle, and we were left darkling.
Out complete. Cor. iv. 5, n.
Thou hast beat me out,
Twelve several times.
Overflown flooded, drowned. M. N. D. iv. 1, H.
I would be loth to have you overflown with a honey
bag.
Oversee this will. Luc. n.
Thou, Collatine, shalt oversee this will.
Overture for the wars. Cor. i. 9, n.
May these same instruments, which you profane,
Never sound more, when drums and trumpets shall
I' the field prove flatterers ! Let courts and cities t>8
OVI
INDEX. I.
PAT
Made all of false-fac'd soothing, where steel grows
soft
As the parasite's silk !
Let them be made an overture for the wars I
Ovid's ' Metamorphoses,' passage in. W. T. iv. 3, .
O Proserpina!
For the flowers now that frighted thou lett'st fall
From Dis's waggon.
Ow'd owned. R. T. iv. 4, .
The slaughter of the prince that ow'd that crown.
Ow'd owned, his own. L. C. n.
O. that sad breath his spongy lungs bestow'd,
O, all that borrow'd motion, seeming ow'd.
Owe possess. L. L. L. i. 2, n.
For still her cheeks possess tie same,
Which native she doth owe.
Cwe own. C. E. iii. 1, n.
Out from the house I owe.
Owe (v.) possess. T. N. i. 5, n.
Ourselves we do not owe;
What is decreed must be.
Owe, and succeed thy weakness. M. M. ii. 4, n.
Else let my brother die,
If not a feodary, but only he
Owe, and succeed thy weakness.
Owe own. So. Ixx. n.
Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.
Owe (v.) own. P. v. 1, n.
Where were you bred T
And how achiev'd you these endowments, which
You make more rich to owe f
Owes owns. J. ii. 1, n. Be pleased then
To pay that duty, which you truly owe,
To him that owes it.
Owest ownest. L. i. 4, n.
Lend less than thou owest.
Ox-yokes. A. L. iii. 3, .
The ox hath his bow.
Oyet proclamation (pronounced as a monosyllable). M. W.
v. 5, .
Crier Hobgoblin, make the fairy ayes.
P.
Pack (v.) contrive, arrange. T. And. iv. 2, n.
His child is like to her, fair as you are :
Go pack with him, and give the mother gold.
Packings intrigues. L. iii. 1, n.
Either in snuffs and packings of the dukes.
Paddock toad. H. iii. 4, n.
For who, that "s but a queen, fair, sober, wise
Would from a paddock, from a bati a gib,
Such dear concernings hide?
Paddoclt toad. M. i. 1, n.
Paddock calls.
Padua. T. S. i. 1, t.
Fair Padua, nursery of arts.
Pageants. G. V. iv. 4, t. At Pentecost,
When all our pageants of delight were play'd.
Painted cloth. A. L. iii. 2, *.
I answeryou rig\\tpaintedcloth, from whence you have
studied your questions.
Painted cloth. Luc. n. (See A. L. iii. i.)
Who fears a sentence or an old man's saw
Shall by a painted cloth be kept in awe.
Paiocke coin of about three farthings value. H. iii. 2, n.
And now reigns here
A very, very paiocke.
Pair of bases armour for the leg. P. ii. 1, n.
I yet am unprovided
Of a pair of busts.
Pale (v.) impale, encircle. H. 6, T. P. i. 4, n.
And wUl you pale your head in Henry's glory f
PalliamentTObe. T. And. i. 2. n.
This palliament of white and spotless hue.
Pap of hatchet. H. 6, S. P. iv. 7, n.
Ye shall have a hempen caudle then, and the pap of
natchet.
Papers (v.). H. E. i. 1, n.
And his own letter
(The honourable board of council out)
Must fetch him in the papert.
' Paradise Lost.' M. N. D. i. 1, i.
Ah me ! for aught that ever I could read.
Parcel-gilt partially gilt. H. 4, S. P. ii. 1, n
Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet.
Parish top. T. N. i. 3, .
Till his brains turn o' the toe like a parish top.
Parle speech. G. V. i. 2, n.
That every day with parle encounter me.
Parling speaking. Luc. n.
But she, that never cop'd with stranger eyes,
Could pick no meaning from their parting look*.
ParJott* perilous. M. N. D. iii. 1, n.
By 'r lakin, a parlous fear.
Parlous perilous. A. L. iii. 2, n.
Thou art in & parlous state, shepherd.
Parlout perilous. R. J. i. 3, n.
It had upon its brow
A bump as big as a young cockrel's stone ;
A parlous knock.
Part I had in Gloster's blood my consanguinity to Gloster
R. S. i. 2, n.
Alas ! the part I had in Gloster's blood
Doth more solicit me than your exclaims.
Part with depart with. C. E. iii. 1, n.
In debating which was best, we shall part with neither.
Partake (v.) take part. So. cxlix. n.
Canst thou, O cruel 1 say I love thee not,
When I, against myself, with thee partake t
Partaker confederate. H. 6, F. P. ii. 4, n.
For your partaker Poole, and you yourself,
I'll note you in my book of memory.
Parted shared. H. E. v. 2, n.
I had thought
They had parted so much honesty among them.
Particular letter of detail. H. 4, S. P. iv. 4, n.
Here at more leisure may your highness read ;
With every course, in his particular.
Partingof Antony and his friends, from North's 'Plutarch
A. C. iii. 9, .
Friends, come hither.
Parthians. Cy. i. 7, '.
Or, like the Parthian, I shall flying fight.
Parts parties, party. H. 6, S. P. v. 2, n.
Reigns in the hearts of all our present parts.
Pash. W. T. i. 2, .
Thou want'st a rough pash, and the shoots that I have
To be full like me.
Pass on condemn, adjudicate. M. M. ii. 1, n.
What know the laws,
That thieves do pass on thieves ?
Passage. A. W. i. 1, n.
O, that had ! how sad a passage 't is !
Passed surpassed. M. W. i. 1, n.
The women have so cried and shrieked at it, that i
passed.
Passed -was excessive. T. C. i 2, n.
All the rest so laughed that it passed.
Passes passages. M. M. v. 1, n.
When I perceive your grace, like power divine,
Hath look'd upon my passes.
Passes excels, goes beyond common virtues. T. Ath. i. I, n.
A most incomparable man; breath'd, as it were
To an untirable and c out innate goodness :
He passe*.
Passing surpassing. H. 6, T. P. v. 1, n.
O passing traitor perjur'd, and unjust I
Passionate given up to grief. J. ii. 2, n.
She is sad and passionate.
Passy-measures pavin. T. N. v. 1, n.
Then he's a rogue and a pasty-measures parin; I hate
a drunken rogue.
Patch pretender. C. E. iii. 1, n.
Coxcomb, idiot, patch.
Patch fool. M. V. ii. 5, n.
The patch is kind enough.
Patch a quarrel. A. C. ii. 2, n.
If you'll patch a quarrel,
As a matter whole you have to make it with,
It must not be with this.
Patched fool fool in a particoloured coat. M. N. D. iv. 1, r..
But man is but a. patched fool.
473
PAT
INDEX. I.
TIL
Patient (used as a verb). T. And. i. 2, n.
Patient yourself, madam, and pardon me.
Panne small flat dish used in the service of the altar. M.
V. v. 1, .
Lock how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold.
Path (v.> walk on a trodden way, move forward amidst
observation. J. C. ii. 1, n.
For if thou path thy native semblance on.
Pa.icas fxilliibrit few woids. T. S. Induction, 1, n.
Therefore paucas pallabris.
Paul's walk. H. 4, S. P. i. 2, i.
I bought him in Paul's. &c.
Paved fountain. M. N. D. ii. 2, n.
By paved fountain, or by rushy brook.
Pax. H. F. iii. 6, .
But Exeter hath given the doom of death,
For pax of little price.
Pay down for our offence by tveijhl pay the full price of our
offence. M. M. i. 3, n.
Tims can the demi-god, Authority,
Make us pay down for our offence by weight.
Pearl* down tleevet pearls set on down the sleeves. M. A.
iii. 4, n.
Set with pearls down sleeve*.
Peat -pet, spoiled child. T. S. i. 1, n.
A pretty peat : 't is best
Put ringer in the eye -an she knew why.
Peel" d shaven. H. 6, F. P. i. 3, n.
PeeCd priest, dost thou command me to be shut out!
' Peg-a-Ramsey.' T. N. ii. 3, .
Malvolio 'a a Peg-a-Ramsey, and ' Three merry men
we be.'
Peevish silly. C. E. iv. 1, n.
Why, thou peevish sheep !
Peise (v.) weigh. R. T. v. 3, n.
Lest leaden slumber peise me down to-morrow.
Petted poised. J. ii. 2, n.
The world, who of itself is peised well,
Made to run even.
Peize (v.) keep in suspense, upon thebalance. M. V. iii. 2, n.
I speak too long ; but 't is to peize the time.
Pelican. H. iv. 5, t.
Like the kind, life-rend'ring pelican.
Pelleted formed into pellets, or small balls. L. C. n.
Laund'ring the silken figures in the brine
That season'd woe had pelleted in tears.
Pelt (v.) be clamorous. Luc. n.
Another smother'd seems to pelt and swear.
Pelting petty, contemptible. M. N. D. ii. 2, n.
Have every pelting river made so proud.
Pelting paltry, petty. R. S. ii. 1, n.
Like to a tenement, or pelting farm.
Peltiny petty, of little worth. L. ii. 3, n. (See R. S. ii. 1, n.)
Poor pelting villages, sheep-cotes, and mills.
Pelting petty. T. C. iv. 5, n.
We have had pelting wars, since you refus'd
The Grecians' cause.
Penalty of Adam A. L. ii. 1, n.
Here feel we not the penalty of Adam.
Penitent in the sense of doing penance. C. E. i. 2, n.
But we, that know what 'tis to fast and pray,
Are penitent for your default to-day.
Pense pronounced as a dissyllable. M. W. v. 5, n.
And Honi soil qui mal y pense, write.
Pensioners. M. W. ii. 2, i.
Nay, which is more, pensioners.
Pensioners courtiers. M. N. D. ii. 1, n.
The cowslips tall her pensioners be.
Pennies. M. W. ii. 2, .
I will not lend thee a penny.
Penner case for holding pens. T. N. K. iii. 5, *.
At whose great feet I offer up my penner.
Pennyworth of sugar. H. 4, F. P. ii. 4, n. (SeeH. 4, F. P. i.
2, i.)
To sweeten which name of Ned I give thee this penny-
worth of sugar.
Pepper gingerbread spice gingerbread. H. 4, F. P. iii. 1, n.
And leave in sooth,
And such protest of pepper gingerbread,
To velvet-guards, and Sunday-citizens.
474
Perfect assured. W. T. iii. 3, n.
Thou art p rfect then, our ship hath vouch'd upoL
The (ieserts of Bohemia?
Perfect assured. Cy. iii. 1, n.
I am perfect
That the Pannonians and Dalmatians, for
Their liberties, are now in arms.
Perfuming rooms. M. A. i. 3, i.
Smoking a musty room.
Periapts amulets, charms. H. 6, F. P. v. 3. n.
Now help, ye charming spells, and periapts.
Period-end. M. W. iv. 2, n.
There would be no period to the jest.
Perish used actively. H. 6, S. P. iii. 2, n.
Because thy flinty heart, more hard than they,
Might in thy palace perish Margaret.
Periwig. G. V. iv. 4, i. A colour'd periwig.
Perjure wearing papers. L. L. L. iv. 3, n.
He comes in like a perjure wearing papers.
Perspectives. R. S. ii. 2, '.
Like perspectires, which, rightly gaz'd upon,
Show nothing but confusion, ey'd awry,
Distinguish form.
Pervert (v.)- avert. Cy. ii. 4, n.
Let's follow him, and pervert the present wrath
He hath against himself.
Peruse (v.) examine. H. iv. 7, n.
He, being remiss,
Most generous, and free from all contriving
Will not peruse the foils.
Pew-fellow companion, occupiers of the same seat. R. T
iv. 4, n. This carnal cur
Preys on the issue of his mother's body,
And makes her pew-fellow with others' moan.
Pheere companion, mate. P. i. Gower, n.
This king unto him took zpheere,
Who died and left a female heir.
Pheese(v.} to beat. T. S. Induction 1, n.
I '11 pheese you, in faith.
Philip ? sparrow ! J. i. 1, n.
Gur. Good leave, good Philip.
Bail. Pnilip? sparrow!
Phill-horsehoise in the shafts. M. V. ii. 2, n.
Thou hast got more hair on thy chin than Dobbin my
phill-hurse has on his tail.
Philosopher's two stones. H. 4, S. P. iii. 2, n.
And it shallgohard,butl willmakehima/)A//oo/jAr'j
two stones to me.
Phraseology of the time of Elizabeth. H. i. 2, t.
More than the scope
Of these dilated articles allow.
Pick (v.> pitch. Cor. i. 1, n.
As high
As I could pick my lance.
Picked trimmed. L. L. L. v. 1, .
He is too picked.
Picked spruce, affected, smart. H. v. 1, n.
The age is grown so picked.
Picked man of countries. J. i. I, n.
Why. then I suck my teeth, and catechise
My picked man of countries.
Pickers and stealers hands. H. iii. 2, n.
So I do still, by these pickers and stealert.
Pickt-hatch. M. W. ii. 2, n.
To your manor of Pickt-hatch go.
Picture person. G. v. ii. 4, .
'T is but her picture I have yet beheld.
Pierced penetrated. O. i. 3, n.
I never yet did hear
That the bruis'd heart was pierced through the ear
Pight settled, pitched. L. ii. 1, .
When I dissuaded him from his intent,
And found him pight to do it.
Pilcher scabbard. R. J. iii. 1, n.
Will you pluck your sword out of his pilcher t
Pil'd esteem'd. H. 6, F. P. i. 4, n.
And craved death,
Rather than I would be so pil'd esteem'd.
Pilgrims. G. v. ii. 7, '.
A true devoted pilgrim.
Pill'd peeled. M. V. i. 3, n.
The skilful shepherd pill'd me certain wands.
PIL
INDEX. I.
PRA
Pillorv. G. V. iv, 4, .
I have stood on the pillory.
Pin centre of a target. R. J. ii. 4, n.
The very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy's
butt-shaft.
Pin and web. W. T. i. 2, n. (See L. Hi. 4, .)
And all eyes blind
With the pin and web.
Pinch'd painted. G. V. iv. 4, n.
AnApinch'd the lily-tincture of her face.
Pinch'd petty, contemptible. W. T. ii. 1, .
He has discover 1 d my design, and I
Remain a pinch' 'd thing.
Pinnace small vessel attached to a larger. M. W. i. 3, n.
Sail like my pinnace to these golden shore*.
Pioned and twilled brims. T. iv. 1, n.
Thy banks with pioned and twilled brims,
Which spongy April at thy best betrims.
Pipe-wine. M. W. iii. 2, n.
I think I shall drink in pipe-wine first with him.
Pipes of corn. M. N. D. ii. 2, .
Playing on pipes of corn.
Pittie-ward. M. W. iii. 1, n.
Marry, sir, the pittie-ward, the park- ward.
Place abiding-place. A. L. ii. 3, n.
This is no place, this house is but a butchery.
Placet honours. W. T. i. 2, n.
Thy places shall
Still neighbour mine.
Plantain-leaf. R. J. i. 2, i.
Y our plantain-leaf is excellent for that.
Planclied planked, made of boards. M. M. iv. 1, n.
And to that vineyard is a planched gate.
Plantagenet. J. i. 1, .
Arise sir Richard, and Plantagenet-
Plate armour. H. F. iv. Chorus, '.
With busy hammers closing rivets up.
Plates pieces of silver money. A. C. v. 2, n.
Realms and islands were
As plates dropp'd from his pocket
Platforms plans. H. 6, F. P. ii. 1, n.
And lay new platforms to endamage them.
Platonism. H. F. i. 2, i.
For government, &c.
Plausibly with expressions of applause, with acclamation.
Luc. ii.
The Romans plausibly did give consent
To Tarquin's everlasting banishment.
Play-pheeri playfellows. T. N. K. iv. 3, n.
Learn what maids have been her companions andy//ny-
pheers.
Play t/ie men behave like men. T. i. 1, n.
Where's the master? Play the men.
Pleach'd folded. A. C. iv. 12, n.
Thy master thus with pleach'd arms.
Please you wit be pleased to know. P. iv. 4, n.
Now please you wit
The epitaph is for Marina writ.
Pligh ted plaited, folded. L. i. 1, n.
Time shall unfold what plighted cunning hides.
Plot - spot. H. 6, S. P. ii. 2, n.
And, in this private plot, be we the first
That shall salute our rightful sovereign.
Pluck off descend. H. E. ii. 3, n.
Old Lady. What think you of a duchess? have you
limbs
To bear that load of title ?
Anne. No, in truth.
Old Lady. Then you are weakly made: Pluck off a
little ;
1 would not be a young count in your way,
For more than blushing conies to.
Plurisy abundance. H. iv. 7, n.
For goodness, growing to a plurisy,
Dies in his own too much.
Plurisy fulness. T. N. K. v. 1, n. (See H. iv. 7, n.)
That heal'st with blood
The earth when it is sick, and cur's! the world
Of the plurisy of people.
Plutarch's description of the prowess of Coriolanus. Cor. i.
3, i.
To a cruel war I sent him ; from whence he returned,
hii brows bound with oak.
Plutarch's narrative of the war against the Voices. Cor. i. 4, l
Before Corioli.
Pockets. G. V. iii. 1, i.
Even in the milk-white bosom of thy love.
Pockets in stays. H. ii. 2, . (See G. V. iii. 1, i.)
In her excellent white bosom these.
Poesy motto. H. iii. 2, n.
Is this a prologue, or the poesy of a ring !
Point particular spot. M. iv. 3, .
With ten thousand warlike men,
All ready at a point.
Point-device minutely exact A. L. iii. 2, n. (See T. N. ii
5, .)
You are rather point-device in your accoutrements.
Point-device exactly. T. N. ii. 5, n.
I will be point-device, the very man.
Point-devise nice to excess. L. L. L. v. J, .
Such insociable and point-devise companions.
Poisons, laws respecting the sale of. R. J. v. 1, i.
Whose sale is present death in Mantua.
Poize balance. O. iii. 3, .
Nay, when I have a suit
Wherein I mean to touch your love indeed,
It shall bevfull of poize and difficult weight,
And fearful to be granted.
Poking-sticks. W. T. iv. 3, .
Poking-sticks of steel.
Polackt Poles. H. i. 1, n.
He smote the sledded Polacks on the ice.
Polled cleared. Cor. iv. 5, n.
He will mow all down before him, and leave his pas
sage polled.
Pomander. W. T. iv. 3, .
Pomander.
Pomegranate-tree. R. J. iii. 5, i.
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree.
Pomewater a species of apple. L. L. L. iv. 2, n.
Ripe as a pomewater.
Poor fool is hang'd. L. v. 3, n.
And my poor fool is hang'd I No, no, no life.
Poor John hake, dried and salted. R. J. i. 1, n.
'T is well thou art not fish; if thouhadst. thouhad*t
been poor John.
Port state, show. T. S. i. 1, n.
Keep house, and port, and servants, as I should.
Port appearance, carriage. M. V. i. 1, n.
By something showing a more swelling port.
Portable. M. iv. 3, n.
All these are portable
With other graces weigh'd.
Portage port-holes. H. F. iii. 1, n.
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let it pry through the portage of the head,
Like the brass cannon.
Possess Iv.) inform. T. N. ii. 3, n.
Possess us, possess us, tell us something of him.
Possess'd informed. M. V. i. 3, n.
Is he yet possets' d
How much you would.
Possess'd informed. M. M. iv. 1, n.
And that I have possess' d him, my most stay
Can be but brief.
Possess'd. R. S. ii. 1, n.
Deposing thee before thou wert possess' d,
Which art possess'd now to depose thyself.
Possessions; in two senses: 1, lands ; 2, mental endowments
G. V. v. 2, n.
Tliurio. Considers she my possessions t
Proteus. O, ay ; and pities them.
Thurio. Wherefore?
Proteus. That they are out by lease.
Post indeed. C. . i. 2, n.
If I return, I shall be post indeed.
Powder-flask. R. J. iii. 3, i.
Like powder in a skill-less soldier's flask.
Power of medicine, experiments upon the. C'y . i. 6, i.
Your highness
Shall from this practice but make hard your heart
Practice craft, subornation. M. M. v. 1, n.
Or else thou art suborn'd against his honour
In hateful practice.
475
PRA
INDEX. I.
PUN
Practice artifice. H. E. i. 1, n.
I shall perish
Under device anS practice.
Prank' d up- -dressed splendidly, decorated. W. T. iv. 3, n.
And me, poor lowly maid,
Most goddess-like prank' d up.
Prayers cross. M. M. ii. 2, n.
Amen:
For I am that way going to temptation,
Where prayers cross.
Precise. M. M. iii. 1, n.
The precise Angelo.
Precisian. M. W. ii. J , n.
Though love use reason for his precisian.
Preferred offered. M. N. D. iv. 2, .
The short and the long is, our play is preferred.
Premises of homage circumstances of homage premised. T.
i. 2, n.
In lieu o' the premises
Of homage, and I know not how much tribute.
Presence. J. i. 1, n.
Lord of thy presence, and no land beside.
Presents of wine. M. W. ii. 2, i.
Hath sent your worship a morning's draught of sack.
Prest ready. M. V. i. 1, .
And I am prest unto it.
Preit ready. P. iv. Gower, n.
The pregnant instrument of wrath
Prest for this blow.
Prester John. M. A. ii. 1, t.
Bring you the length of Prester John's foot.
Pretence design. G. V. iii. 1, .
Hath made me publisher of this pretence.
Pretence design. W. T. iii. 2, n.
The pretence thereof being by circumstances partly
laid open.
Pretence purpose. L. i. 2, n.
I dare pawn down my life for him that he hath writ
this to feel my affection to your honour, and to no
other pretence of danger.
Pretend intend. H. 6, F. P. iv. 1, n.
And none your foes but such as shall pretend
Malicious practices against his state.
Pretend (v.) propose. M. ii. 4, n.
What good could they pretend t
Pretended intended. G. V. ii. 6, n.
Of their disguising, and pretended flight.
Pretended proposed. Luc. n.
Reward not hospitality
With such black payment as thou hast pretended.
Prevented anticipated, gone before. T. N. iii. 1, n.
I will answer you with gait and entrance : But we are
prevented.
Prevented gone before, anticipated. H. 6, F. P. iv. 1, n.
But that I am prevented,
I should have begg'd I might have been employ'd.
Price of sheep. H. 4, S. P. iii. 2, t.
A score of good ewes may be worth ten pounds.
Prick-song music pricked, or noted down. R. J. ii. 4, n.
He fights as you sing prick-song.
Pricket. L. L. L. iv. 2, i.
'T was a. pricket.
Prince of cats. R. J. ii. 4, n.
Ben. Why, what is i'ybalt?
Mer. More than prince of cats.
Principals strongest timbers of a building. P. iii. 2, n.
Sir, our lodgings, standing bleak upon the sea,
Shook as the earth did quake;
The very principals did seem to rend,
And all to topple.
Princox coxcomb. R. J. i. 5, .
You are aprincox; go.
Prizer. A. L. ii. 3, n.
The bony prizer of the humorous duke.
Probal probable. O. ii. 3, n.
When this advice is free, I give, and honest,
Probal to thinking, and indeed the course
To win the Moor again ?
Process summons. A. C. i. 1, n.
Where 's Fulvia's process f
476
Procures. P. P. n.
My curtail dog, that wont to have play'd,
Plays not at all, but seems afraid;
With sighs so deep,
Procures to weep,
In howling-wise, to see my doleful plight.
Prodigious preternatural. J. iii. 1, n.
Lame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigioui.
Preface much good may it do you. H. 4, S. P. v. 3, n
Master page, good master page, sit : prof ace I
Profession declaration of purpose. A. W. ii. 1 , n.
With one, that, in her sex, her years, profession.
Projection forecast, preparation. H. F. ii. 4, n.
So the proportions of defence are fill'd;
Which, of a weak and niggardly projection,
Doth like a miser spoil his coat with scantii.g
A little cloth.
Prologue arm'd. T. C. Prologue, .
And hither am I come
A prologue arm'd.
Prologue, subjects of, noticed. H. E. i. t.
Promis'd end end of the world foretold in the Scripture*
L. v. 3, n.
Kent. Is this the promts' d end!
Edg. Or image of that horvor?
Prompture suggestion. M. M. ii. 4, .
I '11 to my brother :
Though he hath fallen by prompture of the blood.
Prone humble. M. M. i. 3, n.
For in her youth
There is a prone and speechless dialect
Such as moves men.
Prone forward. Cy. v. 4, n.
Unless a man would marry a gallows, and beget young
gibbets, I never saw one so prone.
Prone having inclination or propensity, self-willed, head-
strong. Luc. n.
O, that prone lust should stain so pure a bed!
Propagation. M. M. i. 3, n.
Only for propagation of a dower
Remaining in the coffer of her friends.
Proper-false handsome-false. T. N. ii. 2, n.
How easy is it for the proper-false
In women's waxen hearts to set their forms !
Properties a theatrical phrase. M. N. D. i. 2, n.
In the mean time I will draw a bill of properties.
Prophecies. L. iii. 2, i.
When priests are more in word than matter.
Proposed purposed. H. iv. 4, n.
Ham. Good sir, whose powers are these 1
Cap. They are of Norway, sir.
Ham. How propos'd, sir?
Protest (v.) declare openly. T. Ath. iv. 3, n.
Do villainy, do, since you protest to do 't
Like workmen.
Proud to be so valiant proud of being so valiant. Cor. L 1,
The present wars devour him : he is grown
Too proud to be io valiant.
Provost keeper of prisoners. M. M. ii. 1, n.
Enter Angelo, Escalus, a Justice, Provost.
Pruning preening, trimming up. L. L. L. iv. 3, n.
Or spend a minute's time.
In pruning me.
Public show*. T. ii. 2, i.
Were I in England now, &c.
Puck. M. N. D. ii. 1, i.
That shrewd and knavish sprite,
Call'd Robin Good-fellow.
Pudder pother. L. iii. 2, .
Let the great gods,
That keep this dreadful pttdder o'er our head.
Pugging. W. T. iv. 2, n.
Doth set my pugging tooth on edge.
Puke-stocking puce stocking. H. 4, F. P. ii. 4, *
Nott-pated, agate ring, puke-stocking.
Pull in resolution. M. v. 5, n.
I pull in resolution, and begin
To doubt the equivocation of the fiend.
Pump shoe. R. J. ii. 4, n.
Why, then is my pump well flowered.
Pun (v.) pound T. C. ii. 1, n.
He would pun thee into shivers with his fist.
PUP
INDEX. T.
RAG
Pupil age young age. H. 4, F. P. ii. 4, n.
Since the old days of goodman Adam, to tne pupil age
of this present twelve o'clock at midnight.
Purchate theft. H. 4, F. P. M. 1, .
Thou shall have a share in our purchase.
Puritans. T. N. ii. 3, i.
Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there
shall be no more cakes and ale ?
Puritans, allusion to. A. W. i. 3, i.
Though honesty be no puritan, yet it will do no
hurt; it will wear the surplice of humility over the
black gown of a big heart.
Purl'd. Luc. n.
Thin winding breath, which purl'd up to the sky.
Purpose conversation. M. A. iii. 1, n.
There will she hide her,
To listen our purpose.
Push thrust, defiance. M. A. v. 1, .
And made a push at chance and sufferance.
Put on (v.) instigate. Cy. v. 1, n.
Gods ! if you
Should have ta'en vengeance on my faults, I never
Had lived to put on this.
Pul to know cannot avoid knowing. M. M. i. 1, n.
Since I am put to know, that your own science.
Puts the period often from his place. Luc. n.
She puts the period often from his place,
And 'midst the sentence so her accent breaks.
Putter-out. T. iii. 3, n.
Which now we find
Each putter-out of five for one will bring us
Good warrant of.
rultest-up puttest aside. R. J. iii. 3, n.
But, like a misbehav'd and sullen wench,
Thou puttest-up thy fortune and thy love.
Putting on incitement. M. M. iv. 2, .
Lord Angelo, belike, thinking me remiss in mine
office, awakens me with this unwonted putting on.
Puttock worthless species of hawk. Cy. i. 2, n.
I chose an eagle,
And did avoid aputlock.
Puzzel dirty drab. H. 6, F. P. i. 4, .
Pucelle or puzzel, dolphin or dogfish,
Your hearts 1 '11 stamp out with my horse's heels.
Pyramides plural of pyramid, used as a quadrisyllable.
A. C. v. 2, n. Rather make
My country's high pyramides my gibbet.
' Pyramus and Thisbe,' a new sonnet of. M. N. D. v. 1, .
This palpable gross play.
Q.
Quail (v.) slacken. A. L. ii. 2, n.
And let not search and inquisition quail
1 o bring again these foolish runaways.
Qualify (v.) moderate. M. M. iv. 2, n.
He doth with holy abstinence subdue
That in himself, which he spurs on his power
To qualify in others.
Qualily kind. H. 4, F. P. iv. 3, n.
Because you are not of our quality,
But stand against us like an enemy.
Quarrel arrow. H. E. ii. 3, n.
Yet, if that quarrel, fortune, do divorce
It from the bearer.
Quarry prey. M. i. 2, n.
And fortune, on his damned quarry smiling,
Show'd like a rebel's whore.
Quart d'ecue. French piece of money. A. W. iv. 3, n.
Sir, for a quart d'ecu he will sell the fee simple of his
salvation.
Quarter-staff play. L. L. L. v. 2, .
I will not fight with a pole, like a northern man.
Quat. O. v. 1, n.
I have rubb'd this young quat almost to the sense.
Queazy delicate, ticklish. L. ii. 1, n.
And I have one thing, of a queazy question,
Which 1 must act.
CweH murder. M. i. 7, n.
Who shall bear thfr guilt
Of our great quell f
Quern handmill. M. N. D. ii. 1, n.
And sometimes labour in the quern.
Q.irst inquest, jury. So. xlvi. .
To 'cide this title is impannelled
A quest of thoughts.
Question discourse. A. L. iii. 4, n.
I met the duke yesterday, and had much q*<-ilit>*
with him.
Questionable capable of bein; questioned. H. i. 4, n.
Thou com'st in such a questionable shape,
That I will speak to thee.
Questioned conversed. Luc. .
For, after supper, long he questioned
With modest Lucrece.
Questioning discoursing. A. L. v. 4, n.
Whiles a wedlock hymn we sing,
Feed yourselves with questioning.
Quests inquisitions. M. M. iv. 1, n.
These false and most contrarious quests
Upon thy doings.
Quick alive. H. v. 1, n.
Be buried quick with her, and so will I.
Quick winds lie still. A. C. i. 2, .
O, then we bring forth weeds
When our quick winds lie still ;*a.n<l our ills told us,
Is as our earing.
Quiddits quiddities, subtleties. H. v. 1, n.
Where be his quiddits now f
Quillet, quodlibet argument without foundation. L. L. L.
iv. 3, n.
Some tricks, some quillets, how to cheat the devil.
Quillets quidlibets, frivolous distinctions. H. v. 1, n.
Where be his quiddits now, his quillets f
Quintain. A. L. i. 2, i.
My better parts
Are all thrown down ; and that which here stands up
Is but a quintain, a mere lifeless block.
Quit (v.) requite, answer. H. F. iii. 2, n.
And I sail quit you with gud leve, as I may pick
occasion.
Quits- requites. M. M. v. 1, n.
Well, Angelo, your evil quits you well.
Quiver nimble. H. 4, S. P. iii. 2, n.
There was a little quiver fellow, and he wouK
manage you his piece thus.
Quote (v.) mark. G. V. ii. 4, n.
And how quote you my folly f
Quote pronounced cote. G. V. ii. 4, .
I quote it in your jerkin.
Quote (v.) observe. R. J. i. 4, n.
What curious eye doth quote deformities.
Quote (v.) observe. Luc. n.
Yea, the illiterate, that know not how
To 'cipher what is writ in learned books,
Will quote my loathsome trespass in my looks.
Quoted observed, noted. H. ii. 1, n.
I am sorry that with better heed and judgment
I had not quoted him.
Quotes observes, searches through. T. And. iv. 1, .
See, brother, see ; note how she quotes the leave*.
R.
R, the dog's letter. R. J. ii. 4, i.
R is for the dog.
Rabatoes, or neck-ruff. M. A. iii. 4, 4.
Troth, I think your other rabato were better.
Rack (v. ) strain, stretch, exaggerate. M. A. iv. 1, n
That what we have we prize not to the worth,
Whiles we enjoy it ; but being lack'd and lost,
Why, then we rack the value.
Rack small feathery cloud. T. iv. 1, n.
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind.
Rack vapour. So. xxxiii. n.
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celestial face.
Ragged broken, discordant. A. L. ii. 5, n.
My voice is ragged; I know I cannot please you.
Ragged contemptible. Luc. n. (See H. 4, P. 8. i. 1, n.)
Thy smoothing titles to a ragged name.
477
RAG
INDEX I.
REN
Raggeftt most broken, torn. H. 4, S. P. i. 1, n.
And approach
The ragged'st hour that time and spite dare bring.
Rain (v.) pour down. M. V. iii. 2, n.
in meisure rain thy joy.
Raite upiheorgant of her fantasy elevate her fancy. M.W.
v. 5, n.
Raiie up the organs of her fantasy.
Rakes. Cor. i. 1, *.
Let us revenge this with our pikes, ere we become
raket.
Rjnu battering-rams. H. E. iv. 2, .
Like rams
In the old time of war.
Rang'd orderly ranged, parts entire and distinct. A. C. i.
1, n.
Let Rome in Tiber melt ! and the wide arch
Of the rang'd empire fall !
Rank full. V. A. .
Rain, added to a river that is rank,
Perforce will force it overflow the bank.
Rapier anachronism respecting. R. S. iv. 1, n.
I will turn thy falsehood to thy heart,
Where it was forged, with my rapier's point.
Rapiers. M. W. ii. 1, i.
I have heard the Frenchman hath good skill in his
rapier.
flap* transports. Cy. i. 7, n.
What, dear sir,
Thus raps you t
Rapture fit. Cor. ii. 1, n.
Your prattling nurse
Into a rapture lets her baby cry.
Rascal term given to young deer, lean and out of season.
A. L. iii. 3, a.
The noblest deer hath them as huge as the rascal.
Rascal-like like a lean deer. H. 6, F. P. iv. 2, n.
Not rascal-like, to fall down with a pinch.
Ras'd erased. P. i. 1, n.
Her face the book of praises, where is read
Nothing but curious pleasure, as from thence
Sorrow were ever ras'd.
Raught reached. L. L. L. iv. 2, n.
And raught not to five weeks.
Raught taken away. H. 6, S. P. ii. 3, n.
His lady banish'd, and a limb lopp'd off;
This staff of honour raught.
Raught reached. H. 6, T. P. i. 4, .
Come, make him stand upon this molehill here,
That raught at mountains with outstretch'd arms.
Rat-in (v.) devour gteedily. M. M. i. 3, n.
Like rats that ravin down their proper bane.
Rayed covered with mire, sullied. T. S. iv. 1, n.
Was ever man so oeaten t was ever man so rayed 1
Razed slashed. H. iii. 2, .
With two provincial roses on my razed shoes.
Razes roots. H. 4, F. P. ii. 1, n.
I have a gammon of bacon, and two razes of ginger.
Re, fa. R. J. iv. 5, n.
I will carry no crotchets : I '11 re you, I '11 fa you.
Read (v.) discover. H. 4, F. P. iv. 1, n.
For therein should we read
The very bottom and the soul of hope.
Read counsel, doctrine. H. i. 3, ft.
Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads,
And recks not his own read.
Rear-mice bats. M. N. D. ii. 3, n.
Some war with rear-mice, for their leathern wings.
Rear of our birth. W. T. iv. 3, n.
My good Camillo,
She is as forward of her breeding, as
She is i' the rear of our birth.
Rarty early. T. N. K. iv. 1, n.
Brother. I'll bring it to-morrow.
Daugh, Do, very rearly.
Reason (v.) converse. R. T. ii. 3, n.
You cannot reason almost with a man
That looks not heavily and full of dread.
Reason'd discoursed. M. V. ii. 8, .
I reason'd with a Frenchman yesterday.
Rebeck three-stringed violin. R J. iv. S, n.
What say you, Hugh Rebeck
478
Receiving comprehension. T. N. iii. 1,
To one of your receit iny
Enough is shown.
Recheat huntsman's note to recal the hounds. M A.Li.n
I will have zrecheat winded in my forehead.
Record (v.l sing. G. V. v. 4, n.
Tune my distresses, and record my woes.
Recorder flageolet, or small English flute. H. iii. 2, .
Enter one with a recorder.
Records makes music, sings. P. 4, Gower, n.
She sung, and made the night-bird mute,
That still records with moan.
Red lattice phrases alehouse terms. M. W. ii. 2, n.
Your cat-a-mountain looks, your red lattice fihrattt
Redbreast. Cy. iv. 2, i.
'1 he ruddock would, &c.
Reduce (v.) bring back. R. T. v. 4, n.
Abate the ed^-e of traitors, gracious Lord,
That would reduce these bloody days again.
Reechy begrimed, smoky. M. A. iii. 3, n.
Like Pharaoh's soldiers in the recchy painting.
Refell'd refuted. M. M. v. 1, n.
How I persuaded, how I pray'd, and kneel'd,
How he refell'd me.
Refuse, technical use of the word. H. E. ii. 4, .
I utterly abhor, yea, from my soul
Refuse you for my judge.
Regards considerations. L. i. 1, n.
Love 's not love,
When it is mingled with regards that stand
Aloof from the entire point.
Regiment. R. T. v. 3, n.
The earl of Pembroke keeps his regiment.
Regiment government, authority. A. C. iii. 6, .
And gives his potent regiment to a trull.
Regreels salutations. M. V. ii. 9, n.
From whom he brin^eth sensible regreels.
Reguerdon recompense. H. 6, F. P. iii. 1, n.
And in reguerdon of that duty done,
I girt thee with the valiant sword of York.
Relapse of mortality. H. F. iv, 3, .
Break out into a second course of mischief,
Killing in relapse of mortality.
Remember'd reminded. So. cxx. n.
O that our night of woe might have remembcr'U
My deepest sense, hovr hard true sorrow hits !
Remiss inattentive. H. iv. 7, n.
He, being remiss,
Most generous, and free from all contriving.
Remorse compassion A. L. i. 3, n.
It was your pleasure, and your own remorss.
Remorse pity, tenderness. J. C. ii. 1, .
The abuse of greatness is when it disjoins
Remorse from power.
Remorse tenderness. V. A. n.
' Pity,' she cries, ' some favour some remorst '
Remorseful compassionate. G. V. iv. 3, n.
Valiant, wise, remorseful, well accomplish'd.
Remov'd distant. M. N. D. i. 1, n.
From Athens is her house remov'd seven leagues.
Removed remote. A. L. iii. 2, n.
Your accent is something finer than you could par
chase in so removed a dwelling.
Removes stages. A. W. v. 3, n.
Here 's a petition from a Florentine,
Who hath, for four or five removes, come short
To tender it herself.
Render (v.) represent. A. L. iv. 3, n.
O, I have heard him speak of that same brother,
And he did render him the most unnatural
That liv'd 'mongst men.
Reneayues renounces. A. C. i. 1, n.
His captain's heart,
Which in the scuffles of great fights hath burst
The buckles on his breast, reneagties all temper.
Renege (v.) deny. L. ii. 2, .
Renege, affirm, and turn their halcyon beak*.
Renew me with your eyes. Cy. iii. 2, .
Justice, and your father's wrath, should he take me
in his dominion, could not be so cruel to me, an
you, O the dearest of creatures, would even rneu> me
with your eyes.
REP
INDEX. T.
RU1
Repeal recall. Luc. n.
1 sue for exil'd majesty's repeal.
Repetition of lines. L. L. L. iv. 3, i.
For when would you, my liege, or you, or you.
Repine (used as a substantive). V. A. n.
Were never four such lamps together mix'd,
Had not his clouded with his brows' repine.
Report, to his great worthiness my report compared to his
great worthiness. L. L. L. ii. 1, n.
And much too little of that good I saw,
Is my report, to his great worthiness.
Reproof disproof. H. 4, F. P. iii. 3, n.
Yet such extenuation let me beg,
As, in reproof of many tales devis'd.
Repugn (v.) resist. H. 6, F. P. iv. 1, n.
When stubbornly he did repugn the truth,
About a certain question in the law.
Reserve (v.) preserve. So. xxxii. .
Referee them for my love, not for their rhyme
Reserve (v.) preserve. So. Ixxxv. n.
While comments of your praise, richly compil'd,
Reserve their character with golden quill.
Reserve (v.) preserve. P. iv. I, n.
Walk, aud be cheerful once again ; reserve
That excellent complexion which did steal
The eyes of young and old.
Itesulve be firmly persuaded. H. 6, F. P. i. 2, n.
Resolve on this : Thou shall be fortunate
If thou receive me for thy warlike mate.
Respect circumspection. V. A. n.
Like the proceedings of a drunken brain.
Full of respect, yet nought at all respecting.
Respect prudence. Luc. n.
Respect and reason wait on wrinkled age '.
Respective having relation to. G. V. iv. 4, n.
What should it be, that he respects in her,
But I can make respective in myself.
Respective regardful. M. V. v. 1, n. ,
You should have been respective, and have kept it.
Respectively respectfully. T. Ath. iii. 1, n.
You are very respectively welcome, sir.
Resty rusty, spoiled for want of use. Cy. iii. 6, n.
Resty sloth
Finds the down pillow hard.
Retail'd retold. R. T. iii. 1, n.
Metliinks, the truth should live from age to age,
As 't were retail'd to all posterity.
Retires retreats. H. 4, F. P. ii. 3, n.
And thou hast talk'd
Of sallies and retire*.
Retiring used in the sense of coming back again. Luc. n.
One poor retiring minute in an age
Would purchase thee a thousand thousand friends.
Revolution change of circumstances. A. C. i. 2, n.
The present pleasure,
By revolution lowering, does become
The opposite of itself.
Reworded echoed. L. C. n.
From off a hill whose concave womb reworded
A plaintful story from a sistering vale.
Rhodope's, or Memphis. H. 6, F. P. i. 6, n.
A statelier pyramis to her I'll rear,
Than Rhodope's, or Memphis, ever was.
Rialto, the. M. V. i. 3, .
What news on the Rialto t
Richard Cceur-de-Lion and the lion, combat of. J. i. 1. i.
The awless lion could not wage the fight,
Nor keep his princely heart from Richard's hand.
Richest coat highest descent. L. C. n.
For she was sought by spirits of richest coat.
Rides the wild mare playp at see-saw. H. 4, S. P. ii. 4, n.
And rides the wild iv>re with the boys.
Rigol ringed circle. H. 4. S. P. iv. 4, .
This is a sleep,
That from this golden rigol hath divorc'd
So many English kings.
Rigol circle. Luc. n.
About the mourning and congealed face
Of that black blood a watery riyol goes.
Rim. H. F. iv. 4, n.
For I will fetch thy rim out at thy throat.
Ring'ets green tour fairy-rings. T. v. 1, n.
You demi-piippets that
By moonshine do the green tour ringltti m.iVe,
Whereof the ewe not bites.
Rites. H. v. 1, n.
Yet here she is allow'd her virgin ritet.
Rivage shore. H. F. iii. Chorus, n.
You stand upon the rivage, and behold
A city on the inconstant billows dancing.
Rivals partners, companions. H. i. 1, n.
If you do meet Horatio and Marcellus,
The rivals of my watch.
Road open harbour. G. V. ii. 4, n.
I must unto the road to disembark.
Roaming. H. i. 3, n. Tender yourself more dearly ;
Or, (not to crack the wind of the poor phrase,
Roaming it thus,) you '11 tender me a fool.
Roaring devil i' the old play. H. F. iv. 4, n. (See H. 4, S.
P. iii. 2, i.)
Bardolph and Nym had ten times more valour than
this roaring devil i' the old play.
Roasted pig in Bartholomew fair. H. 4, S. P. ii. 4, .
Bartholomew boar-pig.
Robe of durance. H. 4, F. P. i. 2, n.
And is not a buff jerkin a most sweet robe of durance!
Romage. H. i. 1, n.
This post-haste and rootage in the land.
Roman law, Shakspere's acquaintance with. A. L. ii. 5, i.
Nay, I care not for their names ; they owe me nothing.
Romances of chivalry. L. L. L. i. J, i.
In high-born words, the worth of many a knight
From tawny Spain, lost in the world's debate.
Romans. H. 4, S. P. ii. 2, n.
I will imitate the honourable Romans in brevity.
' Romaunt of the Rose,' antithetical peculiarities of. R. J.
i 1, i.
O brawling love ! O loving hate 1
Rome pronounced room. J. iii. 1, n.
G, lawful let it be,
That I have room with Rome to curse awhile !
Rondure circumference. So. xxi. n.
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare
That heaven's air in his huge rondure hems.
Ronyon. M. i. 3, n. (See A. L. it 2, .)
The rump-fed ronyon cries.
Roof of the theatre. H. 6, F. P. i. 1, t.
Hung be the heavens with black.
Rose-cheek'd Adonis an expression found in Marlowe's poeia
of ' Hero and Leander.' V. A.
Rose-cheek'd Adonis hied him to the chase.
Rosemary, for remembrance. H. iv. 5, n.
There 's rosemary, that 's for remembrance.
Round a piece of music printed in 1609. T. S. iv. 1, i.
Jack, boy 1 ho, boy !
Round with you in two senses : 1. plain-spoken ; 2. in allu
sion to the game of football. C. E. ii. 1, n.
Am I so round with you, as you with me,
That like a football you do spurn me thus t
Rounded surrounded. T. iv. 1, n.
We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
Rounding telling secretly. W. T. i. 2, n.
They're here with me already; whispering, rounding.
Royal faiths faiths due to a king. H. 4, S. P. iv. 1, n.
That were our royal faiths martyrs in love.
Royal merchant. M. V. iv. 1, n.
Enough to press a royal merchant down.
Roynish mangy, scurvy. A. L. ii. 2, .
My lord, the royniih clown.
Rather horned cattle. T. A. iv. 3, n.
It is to the pasture lands the rother'i sides,
Ruff top of a loose boot, turned over. A. W. iii. 2, n.
Why, he will look upon his boot, and sing ; mend the
ruff, and sing.
Ruffling. T. S. iv. 3, n.
To deck thy body with his ruffling treasure.
Ruffs. W. T. iv. 3, t.
Peking-sticks of steel.
Ruin the ruin which princes inflict. H.- E. iii. 2, .
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have.
RUL
INDEX. I.
SFA
Rule conduct, method of life. T. N. ii. S, n.
You would not give means for thi uncivil rule.
Rushes. H. 4, F. P. iii. 1, i.
On the wanton rushes lay you down.
Rushes, custom of strewing. R. J. i. 4. i.
Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels.
Ruth pity. Cor. i. 1, n.
Would the nobility lay aside their ruth.
S.
Sables. H. iii. 2, i
I'll have a suit of tables.
Sacred accursed. T. And. ii. 1, n.
Come, come, our empress, with her sacred wit,
To villainy and vengeance consecrate.
Sacred subjects, Shakspere's treatment of. A. W. i. 2, i.
His plausive words
He scatter'd not in ears, but grafted them,
To grow there, and to bear.
Sad serious. G. V. L 3, n.
Tell me, Panthino, what sad talk wan that T
Sad serious. M. A. i. 3, n.
The prince and Claudio, hand in hand, in lad con-
ference.
Sad grave, gloomy. R. S. v. 5, n.
Where no man ever comes, but that sad dog
That brings me food.
Sad grave. Luc. n.
Sad pause and deep regard beseem the sage.
Sadness seriousness. H. 6, T. P. iii. 2, n.
But, mighty lord, this merry inclination
Accords not with the sadness of my suit.
Safe. M. L 4, n. And our duties
Are to your throne and state, children and servants ;
Which do but what they should, by doing everything
Safe toward your love and honour.
Safe (v.) render safe. A. C. i. 8, n.
And that which most with you should safe my going,
Is Fulvia's death.
Safd made safe. A. C. iv. 6, n.
Best you safd the bringer
Out of the host.
Sage grave, solemn. H. v. 1, n.
We should profane the service of the dead,
To sing sage requiem, and such rest to her,
As to peace-parted souls.
Sttgg (v.) sink down. M. v. S, n.
And the heart I bear
Shall never sagg with doubt, nor shake with fear.
Sagtttary the arsenal. O. i. 1, n.
Lead to the Sagiltary the raised search.
Sagittary, description of, by Lydgate. T. C. v. 5, .
The dreadful Sagittary
Appals our numbers.
Sallet helmet. H. 6, S. P. iv. 10, n.
Many a time, but for a sallet, my brain-pan had been
cleft with a brown-bill.
Sallet salad, herb which is eaten salted. H. 6, S. P. iv.10, n.
And now the word sallet must serve me to feed on.
Sallets ribaldry. H. ii. 2, .
One said, there were no sallets in the lines, to make
the matter savoury.
Salt-cellars. G. V. iii. 1, i.
The cover of the salt hides the salt.
Same heap, mass. T. C. ii. 2, n.
Nor the remainder viands
We do not throw in unrespective same.
Samphire. L. iv. 6, . Half way down
Hangs one that gathers samphire; dreadful trade!
Sand-blind having an imperfect sight. M. V. ii. 2, n.
Who, being more than sand-blind.
Satyrs' dance. W. T. iv. 3, '.
Made themselves all men of hair.
Savoy Palace. R. S. i. 2. i.
Duke of Lancaster's palace.
Sawn- sown. L. C. n.
For on his visage was in little drawn,
What largeness thinks in paradise was sawn.
Say assay. L. v. 3, n. (See L. i. 2, n.)
And that thy tongue some say of breeding breathes.
480
Scale 't. Cor. i. 1, n. I shall tell you
A pretty tale ; it may be you have heard it ;
But since it serves my purpose, I will venture
To scale' t a little more.
Scales used as a singular noun. R. J. i. 2, n.
But in that crystal scales, let there be weigh'd.
Scaling. Cor. ii. 3, n. (See Cor. i. 1, n.)
But you have found,
Scaling his present bearing with his past,
That he's your fixed enemy.
Scaligers, family of the. R. J. v. 3, t.
Some shall be punished.
ScaH-scald. M. W. iii. 1, .
This same scall, scurvy, cogging companion.
Scambling disorderly. H. F. i. 1, n.
But that the scambling and unquiet time
Did push it out of further question.
Scamels. T. ii. 2, n.
And sometimes I'll get thee
Young scamelt from the rock.
Scarfed bark vessel gay with streamers. M. V. iii. 6, n,
The scarfed baric puts from her native bay.
Scarre rock, precipitous cliff. A. W. iv. 2, n.
Men make ropes in such a scarre.
Scath harm. H. 6, S. P. ii. 4, .
And had I twenty times so many foes,
And each of them had twenty times their power,
All these could not procure me any scath.
Scath (v.) injure. R. J. i. 5, n.
This trick may chance to scath you.
Scathful harmful, destructive. T. N. v. 1, n.
With which such scathful grapple did he make.
Sconce fortification. H. F. iii. 6, n.
At such and such a sconce, at such a breach.
Scope of nature. J. iii. 4, n.
No natural exhalation in the sky,
No scope of nature, no distemper* d day,
No common wind, no customed event,
But they will pluck away his natural course.
Scotland, contests of, with England. C. E. iii. 2, f.
Where Scotland ?
Scrimers fencers. H. iv. 7, n.
The scrimers of their nation,
He swore, had neither motion, guard, nor eye.
Scrip a written paper. M. N. D. i. 2, n.
Call them generally, man by man, according to the
scrip.
Scroyles persons afflicted with king's evil. J. ii. 2, n.
By Heaven, these scroyles of Anglers flout you, kingi
Sca/fo-shoals offish. T. C. v. 5, n.
And there they fly, or die, like scaled sculls,
Before the belching whale.
Sea of wax. T. Ath. i. 1, n. My free drift
Halts not particularly, but moves itself
In a wide sea of wax.
Seal, nethod of attaching to a deed. R. S. v. 2, n.
What seal is that that hangs without thy bosom f
Seal of my petition. T. C. iv. 4, n.
Grecian, thou dost not use me courteously,
To shame the seal of my petition to thee
In praising her.
Seals. H. iii. 3, n.
How in my words soever she be shent,
To give them seals, never, my soul, consent !
Search out of the calendar, and nobody look after it. P. u.
1, n.
If it be a day fits you, search out of the calendar, ant.
nobody look after it.
Sear"d hopes. Cy. ii. 4, n.
In these sear'd hopes,
I barely gratify your love.
Season (v.) to preserve by salting. A. W. i. 1, n.
'Tis the best brine a maiden can season her praise in
Season (v.) salt, preserve. T. N. i. 1, n.
All this, to season
A brother's dead love, which she would keep fresh.
Season, ungenial, of 1593 and 1594. M. N. D. ii. 2, .
Therefore, the winds, piping to us in vain.
Seasons used as a verb. Cy. i. 7, n.
Bless'd be those,
How mean soe'er, that have their honest wills,
Wriich seasons comfort.
SEA
INDEX. I.
SHI
Seat throne. H. F. i. 2, n.
We never valued this poor teat of England.
Secondary stage in old theatres. O. v. 2, .
A bedchamber.
Secondary stage, the. T. N. K. ii. 2, n. (See O. v. .)
Seconds. So. cxxv., n.
And take thou my oblation, poor but free,
Which is not mix'd with seconds, knows no art.
Sect in horticulture, cutting. O. i. 3, n.
Whereof I take this, that you call love, to be a sect
or scion.
Sectional rhyme, example of. M. N. D. iii. 2, .
Shall seem a dream, and fruitless vision.
Secular tunes adapted to versions of the psalms. W. T. iv.
2, i.
Sings psalms to hornpipes.
Sec urity legal security, surety. M. M. iii. 2, n.
There is scarce truth enough alive to make societies
secure ; but security enough to make fellowships
accursed.
Seeing used as a noun. W. T. ii. 1, n.
That lack'd sight only, nought for approbation,
But only seeing.
Seel with wanton dulness. O. i. 3, n.
No, when light-wing'd toys
Of feather'd Cupid seel with wanton dulness
My speculative and offlc'd instrument.
Seeling blinding. M. iii. 2, n.
Come, seeling night,
Skarf up the tender eye of pitiful day.
Seeming specious resemblance. M. A. iv. 1, n.
Hero. And seem'd I ever otherwise to you ?
Claud. Out on the seeming.
Seeming seemly. A. L. v. 4, .
Bear your body more seeming.
Seen versed. T. S. i. 2, n,
Well seen in music.
Seen with mischief's eyes. P. i. 4, n.
my distressed lord, ev'n such our griefs are ;
Here they're but felt, and seen with mischief's eyes,
But like to groves, being topp'd, they higher rise.
Self king. T. N. i. 1, n.
All supplied, and fill'd,
(Her sweet perfections,) with one self king !
Self-sovereignty self-sufficiency. L. L. L. iv. 1, n.
Do not curst wives hold that self-sovereignty ?
Selling a bargain. L. L. L. iii. 1, i.
The boy hath sold him a bargain.
Seniory seniority. R. T. iv. 4, n.
If ancient sorrow be most reverent,
Give mine the benefit of seniory.
Sense sensibility. O. ii. 3, n.
1 had thought you had received some bodily wound;
there is more sense in that than in reputation.
Sense impression upon the senses. O. iii. 3, n.
What sense had I in her stolen hours of lust?
Separable separating. So. xxxvi. n.
In our two loves there is but one respect,
Though in our lives a separable spite.
Sere affection of the throat, by which the lungs are tickled.
H. ii. 2, .
The clown shall make those laugh whose lungs are
tickled o' the sere.
Serious hours private hours. C. E. ii. 1, .
And make a common of my serious hours.
Servant. G. V. ii. 1, i. *
Sir Valentine and servant.
Sesey. L. iii. 4, n.
Still through the hawthorn blows the cold wind: Says
suum, mun, nonny, dolphin my boy, boy, Sesey ; let
him trot by.
Sessa be quiet. T. S. Induction 1, n.
Sessal
Set (v.) in two senses: 1. compose; and, used with by,
make account of. G. V. i. 2, .
Give me a note : your ladyship can set.
Julia. As little by such toys as may be possible.
fat term used at tennis. L. L. L. v. 2, n.
A set of wit well play'd.
Set a watch. H. 4, F. P. i. 2, n.
Now shall we know if Gadshill have set a watch.
Set her two courses. T. i. 1, .
Set her two courses ; off to sea again, lay her off.
Sor. VOL. 2 I
Set on stirred up. Cor. iii. 1, n.
The people are abus'd tut on.
Several plot. So. cxxxvii. n. (See L. L. L. ii. I, n.}
Why should my heart think that a several plot,
Which my heart kno'vs the wide world's common
place ?
Severals details. H. F. i. 1, n.
The several*, and unhidden passages,
Of his true titles to some certain dukedoms,
Serving-man. L. iii. 4, n.
A serving-man, proud in heart and u.ind.
Shadow of poor Buckingham. H. E. i. I, n.
I am the shadow of poor Buckingham ;
Whose figure even this instant clouds put on,
By dark'ning my clear sun.
Shakspere and Hogarth, Lamb's parallel between. T. Ath.
i. 1, .
Follow his strides, his lobbies fill with tendance.
Shakspere's Cliff. L. iv. 1, '.
There is a cliff, whose high and bending head
Looks fearfully in the confined deep.
Shakspere's grammar, objections to. R. J. ii. 3, i.
Both our remedies
Within thy help and holy physic lies.
Shakspere's knowledge of art. Cy. v. 5, t.
Postures beyond brief nature.
Shall be thought where shall be thought. R. T. iii. 1, n.
Your highness shall repose you at the Tower :
Then where you please, and shall be thought most fit
For yur best health and recreation.
Shame decency. O. i. 1, n.
For shame put on your gown.
Shapes our ends. H. v. 2, i.
There 's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will.
Shard, meaning of. Cy. iii. 3, i.
The sharded beetle.
Shard-borne beetle beetle borne on its shards, or scaly
wing-cases. M. iii. 2, n. (See Cy. iii. 3, i.)
The shard-borne beetle, with his drowsy hums.
Shards rubbish. H. v. 1, n.
For charitable prayers,
Shards, flints, and pebbles should be thrown on her.
She lov'd me well, deliver' d it to me she lov'd me well, who
delivered it to me. G. V. iv. 4, n.
Deliver it to madam Silvia:
She lov'd me well, deliver' d it to me.
She 's my good lady used ironically. Cy. ii. 3, .
Your mother too :
She 's my good lady.
She to scant her duty she knows to scant her duty. L. ii. 4, n.
You less know how to value her desert,
Than she to scant her duty.
Sheav'd made of straw. L. C. n.
For some, untuck'd, descended her sheav'd hat,
Hanging her pale and pined cheek beside.
Sheep pronounced ship. G. V. i. 1, .
And I have play'd the sheep, in losing him.
Sheep pronounced ship. C. E. iv. 1, n.
Why, thou peevish sheep,
What ship of Epidamnum stays for me I
Sheer pure. R. S. v. 3, n.
Thou sheer, immaculate, and silver fountain.
Shent roughly handled. M. W. i. 4, .
We shall all be sh,'itt.
Shent reproved. T. N. iv. 2, n.
I am shunt for speaking to you.
Shent rebuked, hurt. H. iii. 3, n.
How in my words soever she be shent.
Shent rebuked. T. C. ii. 3, .
He shent our messengers.
Shenl rebuked. Cor. v. 2, .
Do you hear how we are shent for keeping your great-
ness back ?
Sheriff's post. T. N. i. 5, i.
He says he'll stand at your door like a sheriff's post.
Sherris-sack. H. 4, F. P. i. 2, i.
Sir John Sack-and-Sugar.
Ships of Antony nd Csar, from North'* ' Plutarch
A. C. iii. 7, i.
Your 3iiips are not well mann'd.
481
SHO
INDEX. I.
SOR
Shoal. M. i. ", n.
But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,
We *d jump the life to come.
Shoes. G. V. ii. 3, .
This left shoe.
Shooting deer. L. L. L. iv. 1, i.
Where is the bush
That we must stand and play the murtherer in ?
Shove-groat. H. 4, S. P. ii. 4, i.
A shove-groat shilling.
Show'd his visage his visage show'd. L. C. .
Yet show'd his visage by that cost more dear.
Shrew pronounced as shrow. T. S. v. 2, n.
HOT. Now go thy ways, thou hast tam'd a curst shrew.
Luc. 'T is a wonder, by your leave, she will be tam'd
so.
Shriv ing-time time of shrift, or confession. H. v. 2, n.
He should the bearers put to sudden death,
Not shriving-time allow'd
Shylock origin of the name. M. V. i. 3, i.
Shylock.
Sib kin. T. N. K. i. 2, n.
The blood of mine that 's lib to him be suck'd
From me with leeches.
Side-sleeves ample long sleeves. M. A. iii. 4, n.
Side-sleeves, and skirts, round underbome with a
blueish tinsel.
Sides. M. ii. 1, n.
Thus with his stealthy pace,
With Tarquin's ravishing sides, towards his design
Moves like a ghost.
Siege seat. M. M. iv. 2, n.
Upon' the very siege of justice
Siege throne, elevated seat. O. i. 2, n.
I fetch my life and being
From men of royal siege.
Slghtlest unsightly. J. iii. 1, n.
Full of un pleasing blots and sightless stains.
Simplicity folly. So. lx:vi. n.
And simple truth miscall'd simplicity.
Simular counterfeit. L. iii. 2, n.
Thou perjurM, and thouimu/ar of virtue.
Single pointless. H. 4, S. P. i. 2, n.
Your chin double ? your wit single t
Sir a. title of priests. M. W. i. 1, t.
Sir Hugh, persuade me not.
Sir John title of a priest. H. 6, S. P. i. 2, n.
Sir John t nay, fear not, man.
Sir Nob. J. i. T, n.
I would give it every foot to have this face ;
It would not be sir Nob in any case.
Sir reverence. C. E. iii. 2, n. (See R. J. i. i.)
May not speak of, without he say sir reverence.
Sir Robert his sir Robert's, sir Robert's shape. J. i. 1, >.'.
Madam, an if my brother had my shape,
And I had his, sir Robert his, like him.
Sirrah used familiarly, not contemptuously. H. 4, F. P.
i. 2, n.
And, sirrah, I have cases of buckram.
Sit you out a term of the card-table. L. L. L. i. I, n.
Well, sit you out ; go home, Biron ; adieu !
Sithence since. Cor. iii 1, n.
Have you inform'd them sithence ?
Sixpenny strikers petty footpads, robbers for sixpence.
H. 4, F. P. ii. 1, n.
I am joined with no foot land-rakers, no long-staff
sixpenny strikers.
Sizes allowances. L. ii. 4, n.
To cut off my train,
To bandy hasty words, to scant my sizes.
Skir (v.) scour. M. v. 3, n.
Send out more horses, skir the country round.
Skogan. H. 4, S. P. iii. 2, i.
I saw him break Skogan't head at the court gate.
Sleare unwrought silk. M. ii. 2, n.
Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care.
' Sleeper Awakened.' T. S. Induction, 1, i.
What think you, if he were convey'd to bed?
Sleided silk. L. C. n.
Found yet mo letters sadly penn'd in blood,
With sleided silk feat and affectedly
Enswath'd, and seal'd to curious secresy.
482
Slip. R. J. ii. 4, i.
What counterfeit did I give you f
The slip, sir, the slip.
Smilets. L. iv. 3, n. Those happy smilett
That play'd on her ripe lip.
Smiling at grief. T. N. ii. 4, .
She sat, like patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief.
Smirched smutched, smudged. M. A. iii. 3, n.
Like the shaven Hercules in the smirched wc/m-eatec
tapestry.
Smithfield. H. 4, S. P. i. 2, i.
A horse in Smilhfield.
Smooth (v.) flatter. P. i. 2, n.
Seem'd not to strike, but smooth.
Smoothing flattering. Luc. n.
Thy smoothing titles to a ragged name.
Sneaped checked. Luc. n.
And give the sneaped birds more cause to sing.
Sneck up. T. N. ii. 3, n.
We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck tip .'
Snuff, aromatic powders used as. H. 4, F. P. L 3, n. (See
L. iii. 1, n.)
Who, therewith angry, when it next came there
Took it in snuff.
Snuffs dislikes. L. iii. 1, n.
What hath been seen,
Either in snuffs and packings of the dukes.
So Antony loves so that Antony loves. A. C. i. 3. n.
I am quickly ill, and well,
So Antony loves.
So his case was like his case was so like. C. E. i. 1,
That his attendant (so his case was like,
Reft of his brother, but retain'd his name).
So much of earth and water wrought. So. xliv. n.
But that, so much of earth and water wrought,
I must attend time's leisure with my moan.
.So i/- spot. H. i. 3, fz.
And now no soil, nor cautel, doth besmirch
The virtue of his will.
Soils defilements, taints. A. C. i. 4, n.
Yet must Antony
No way excuse his soils.
Solidity earth. H. iii. 3, n.
Yea, this solidity, and compound mass.
Solre solution. So. Ixix. n.
But why thy odour matcheth not thy show,
The solve is this, that thou dost common grow.
Same nature some impulses of nature. R. J. iv. 5, n.
For though some nature bids us all lament,
Yet nature's tears are reason's merriment.
Sometimes formerly. M. V. i. 1, n.
Sometimes from her eyes
I did receive fair speechless messages.
Songs in old comedies. L. L. L. iii. 1, i.
Concolinel.
Songs, fragments of old. H. 4, S. P. v. 3, i.
Do nothing but eat, and make good cheer.
Soon at five o'clock about five o'clock. C. E. i. 1 .
Soon at five o'clock,
Please you, I'll meet with you upon the man.
Sooth truth. W. T. iv. 3, n.
He looks like sooth.
Sooth assent. R. S. iii. 3, n.
Should take it off again
With words of sooth.
Sore excessively much. M. V. v. 1, n.
I'll fear no other thing
So sore, as keeping safe Nerissa's ring.
Sorrow wag. M. A. v. 1, n.
And, 'sorrow wag' cry; hem, when he should groaii.
Sort (v.) choose. G. V. iii. 2, n.
To sort some gentlemen well skill'd in music.
Sort condition, kind. M. A. i. 1, n.
Leon. How many gentlemen have you lost 'r \hii
action ?
Mess. But few of any sort, and none of name.
Sort -company. R. S. iv. 1, n.
But they can see a sort of traitors here.
Sort company. H. 6, S. P. ii. 1, n.
A sort of naughty persons, lewdly bent
SOR
INDEX. I.
STA
Sort (v.) assign, appropriate. Luc. n.
When wilt thou tort an our great strifes to end f
Sorteth consorteth. V. A. n.
And sometime turteth with a herd of deer.
Scud expression of fatigue. T. S. iv. 1, n.
Sit down, Kate, and welcome.
Soud, toud, toud, soud i
Soul-fearing. J. ii. 2, .
Till their soul-fearing clamours have brawTd down
The flinty ribs of this contemptuous city.
Sound (v.) swoon. A. L. v. 2, n.
Did your brother tell you how I counterfeited to sound t
Sounds. Luc. n.
Deep sounds make lesser noise than shallow fords.
South Sea of discovery. A. L. iii. 2, n.
One inch of delay more is a South Sea of discovery.
Sowle (v.) pull out. Cor. iv. 5, n.
He '11 go, he says, and totele the porter of Rome gates
by the ears.
Spuak him far carry your praise far. Cy. i. 1, .
You speak him far.
Speak sad brow, and true maid speak with a serious coun-
tenance, and as a true maid. A. L. iii. 2, n.
Nay, but the devil take mocking; speak sad brow,
and true maid.
Speed issue. W. T. iii. 2, n.
The prince your son, with mere conceit and fear
Of the queen's speed, is gone.
Sperr up. T. C. Prologue, n.
Sperr up the sons of Troy.
Spider. W. T. ii. 1, .
There may be in the cup
A spider steep'd.
Spirit of seme sensibility of touch. T. C. i. 1, n.
To hose soft seizure
The cygnet's down is harsh, and spirit of tense
Hard as the palm of ploughman.
Spirit that appeared to Brutus, from North's ' Plutarch.'
J. C. iv. 3, i.
How ill this taper burns.
Spirits all of comfort. A. C. iii. 2, n.
The elements be kind to thee, and make
Thy spirits all of comfort
Spleen passion, caprice. M. N. D. i. 1, n.
That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth.
Spotted stained, impure. M. N. D. i. 1, n.
Upon this spatted and inconstant man.
Sprag quick. M. W. iv. 1, n.
He is a good sprag memory.
Spring beginning. M. N. D. ii. 2, n.
And never, since the middle summer's spring.
Spring bud, young shoot. V. A. n.
This canker that eats up love's tender spring.
Spring, return of. R. J. i. 2, t.
Such comfort as do lusty young men feel.
Springs shoots, saplings. Luc. n.
To dry the old oak's sap, and cherish springs.
Spurs. Cy. iv. 2, n. I do note
That grief and patience, rooted in him both,
Mingle their spurs together.
Spurs, fashions of. H. 4, S. P. i. 1, .
Up to the rowel-head.
Squander'd abroad scattered. M. V. i. 3, n.
And other ventures he hath, squander'd abroad.
Square (v.) quarrel. M. N. D. ii. 1, n.
They never meet in grove, or green,
By fountain clear, or spangled starlight sheen,
But they do square.
Squarer quarreller. M. A. i. 1, n.
Is there no young sguarer now that will make a
voyage with him to the devil f
Squire esquierre, a rule. L. L. L. v. 2, n.
Do not you know my laly's foot by the squire f
Squire foot-rule. W. T. iv. 3, n.
And not the worst of the three but Jumps twelve
foot and a half by the squire.
S,j, ,ire rule. H. 4, F. P. ii. 2, n.
If I travel but four foot by the squire.
St. Colme's Inch, notice of. M. i. 2, i.
St. George. J. ii. 1, i.
St. George, that swindg'd, &c.
St. Martin's summer fine weather in November, prosperitj
after misfortune. H. 6, F. P. i. 2, .
Expect St. Martin's summer, halcyon days.
Since I have entered into these wars.
St. Nicholas. G. V. iii. 1, i.
St. Nicholas be thy speed.
St. Nicholas' clerks thieves. H. 4, F. P. ii. 1, n. (See G
V. iii. .)
If they meet not with St. Nicholas" clerics I '11 give
thee this neck.
Stage action. H. iii. 4, t.
Look here, upon this picture, and on this.
Stage, construction of the old. L. iii. 7, i.
Where is thy lustre now I
Stage, construction of the old. M. ii 2, i.
Who's there? what, hoa!
Stage-costume, old. M. V. ii. 1, i.
Stage-directions. T. S. i. 1, t.
The Presenters above speak.
Stage-directions. H. E. i. 1, n.
Enter the Duke of Buckingham.
Stage, internal roof of the. M. i. S, i.
Come, thick night, &c.
Staggers uncertainty. A. W. ii. 3, n.
Or I will throw thee from my care for ever,
Into the staggers, and the careless lapse
Of youth and ignorance.
Stain tincture, slight mark. A. W. i. 1, n.
You have some stain of soldier in you.
Slain used as a verb neuter. So. xxxiii. n.
SUDS of the world may*tai, when heaven's sun stainet h.
Staineth used as a verb neuter. So. xxxiii. n.
Sunsoftheworldmaystain.when heaven's sun stainelh.
Stale stalking-horse. C. E. ii. 1, .
Poor I am but his stale-
Stale thing stalled, exposed for common sale. T. S. i. 1, n
To make a stale of me amongst these mates.
Stale stalking-horse. H. 6, T. P. iii. 3, n.
Had he none else to make a stale but met
Stalking-horses. M. A. U. 3, i.
Stalk on, stalk on: the fowl sits.
Stalks goes warily, softly. Luc. n.
Into the chamber wickedly he stalks.
Stand, ho pass-word. J. C. iv. 2, n.
Bru. Stand, ho!
Luc. Give the word, ho I and stand.
Slant! my god lord be my good lord. H. 4, S. P. iv. 3, n.
When you come to court, stand my good lord.
Standing. T. Ath. i. 1, n.
How this grace
Speaks his own standing.
Standing and truckle beds. M. W. iv. 5, i.
His standing bed and truckle bed.
Stannyel common hawk. T. N. ii. 5, n.
And with what wing the stannyel checks at it '
Stark stiff. Cy. iv. 2, n.
Bel. How found you him ?
Arv. Stark, as you see.
Starkly stiffly. M. M. iv. 2, n.
As fast lock'd up in sleep, as guiltless labour
When it lies starkly in the traveller's bones.
Start tome other where go somewhere else. C. E. ii. 1, n
How if your husband start some other where I
State canopied chair, throne. T. N. ii. 5, n.
Having been three months married to her, sitting in
my state.
Station manner of standing, attitude. H. iii. 4, .
A station like the herald Mercury,
New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill.
Station act of standing. A. C. iii. 3, n.
Her motion and her station are as one.
Slatuas pictures. R. T. iii. 7, n.
But, like dumbstatuas, or breathing stones,
Star'd each on other, and look'd deadly pale.
Statue used as a picture. G. V. iv. 4, n.
My substance should be statue in thy stead.
Statues, painted W. T. v. 3, i.
The ruddiness upon her lip vi wet.
Statute security, obligation. So. cxxxiv. n.
The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take,
Thou usurer, that putt'st forth all to use.
48.H
S'TA
INDEX. I.
SUP
'. tatute-caps. L. L- L. v.2, i.
Better wits have worn plain statute-caps.
Stay interruption. J. ii. 2, n.
Here 's a stay.
Stayers of sand. M. V. iii. 2, n.
Whose hearts are all as false
As stayers of sand.
Stays detains. A. L. i. 1, n.
Stays me here at home unkept.
Stel'rt. Luc. n.
To find a face where all distress is stel'd.
Sternage steerage, course. H. F. iii. Chorus, n.
Grapple your minds to sternage of this navy.
Slerv'd starved. M. V. iv. 1, a.
Are wolfish, bloody, sterv'd, and ravenous.
Stickler arbitrator. T. C. v. 9, n.
And *<JcA/er-like the armies separate.
Stigmatical branded in form. C. E. iv. 2, .
Stigmatical in making ; worse in mind.
Stigmaticl:one upon whom a stigma has been set. H. 6,
S. P. v. 1, n
Foul stigmatick, that's more than thou canst tell.
Stigmatick one on whom a stigma has been set. H. 6, T.
P. ii. 2, n. (See H. 6, S. P. v. 1, n.)
But like a foul mis-shapen stigmatick.
Still-peering appearing still. A. W. iii. 2, .
Move the still-peering air.
That sings with piercing.
Stint stop. P. i. 2, n.
With hostile forces he '11 o'erspread the land,
And with the stint of war will look so huge.
Stinted stopped. R. J. i. 3, n.
And, pretty fool, it stinted, and said Ay.
Stitne pronounced stithy. H. iii. 2, n.
And my imaginations are as foul
As Vulcan's stithe.
Stock stocking. G. V. iii. 1, n.
When she can knit him a stock.
Stock- stocking. T. S. iii. 2, n.
With a linen stock on one leg.
Slock stocking. T. N. i. 3, n.
A damask-coloured stock.
Stocks. G. V. iv. 4, t.
I have sat in the stocks.
Stone at Scone. M. ii. 4, .
And gone to Scone
To be invested.
Stone-bow. T. N. ii. 5, .
O, for a stone-bow.
Stone jugs and no seal'd quart?. T. S. Induction 2, n.
Because she brought itonejugs and no seal'd quarts.
Stoop. J. iii. 1, n.
For grief is proud, and makes his owner stoop.
Sloop term of falconry. H. F. iv. 1, n.
And though hia affections are higher mounted than
ours, yet, when they stoop, they stoop with the like wing_
Stout healthy. T. Ath. iv. 3, n.
Pluck stout men's pillows from below their heads.
Straight straight ways, forthwith. H. v. 1, n.
1 Clown. Is she to be buried in Christian burial, that
wilfully seeks her own salvation t
2 Clown. I tell thee, she is ; and therefore make her
grave straight.
Straight immediately. T. Ath. ii. 1, n.
Give my horse to Timon,
Ask nothing, give it him, it foals me. straight,
And able horses.
Strain humour, disposition. M. W. ii. 1 , n.
Unless he know some strain in me.
Strain lineage. M. A. ii. I, n.
He is of a noble strain, of approved valour.
Strangeness coyness, bashfulness. V. A. n.
Measure my strangeness with my unripe yi3?rs.
Stranger foreigner. H. E. ii. 3, n.
Alas, poor lady!
She 's a stranger now again.
Strappado, punishment of. H. 4, F. P. ii. 4, i.
At the strappado.
Stratagem military movement. H. 4, S. P. i. 1, n
Every minute now
Should be the father of some stratagem.
484
Stratagems disastrous events. H. 6, T. P. ii 6 u.
What ttratagemt, how fell, how butcherly.
Stricture strictness. M. M. i. 4, *.
Lord Angelo
(A man of stricture and firm abstinence).
Strike (v.) lower sail. R. S. ii. 1, n.
We see the wind sit sore upon our sails,
And yet we strike not, but securely perish.
Strondt strands, shores. H. 4, F. P. i. 1, .
And breathe short-winded accents of new broils
To be commenc'd in strondt afar remote.
Strong escape escape effected by strength. C. E. v. I, n.
I wot not by what strong escape.
Strong in, astern. P. iii. 1, .
Per. That 's your superstition.
1 Sail. Pardon us, sir; with us at sea it hath been
still observed j and we are strong in, astern.
Stuff baggage. C. E. iv. 4, n.
Therefore away, to get our stuff aboard.
Stuff matter, material, substance. O. i. 2, n.
Yet do I hold it very stuff o' the conscience,
To do no contriv'd murther.
Stuffed stored, furnished. M. A. i. 1, n.
Stuffed with all honourable virtues.
Subject used as a plural noun. P. ii. 1, n.
How from the finny subject of the sea
The fishers tell the infirmities of men.
Subscribes submits, acknowledges as a superior. So.cvu. n
My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribe!,
Since spite of him I '11 live in this poor rhyme.
Success succession. W. T. i. 2, n.
Than our parents' noble names,
In whose success we are gentle.
Success succession. H. 4, S. P. iv. 2, n.
And so, success of mischief shall be bom.
Success succession, consequence. O. iii. 3, n.
Shotild you do so, my lord,
My speech should fall into such vile success
Which my thoughts aim'd not.
Suggest (v.) prompt. R. S. i. 1, n.
That he did plot the duke of Gloster's death j
Suggest his soon-believing adversaries.
Suggest (v.) tempt. So. cxl. n.
Two loves I have, of comfort and despair,
Which like two spirits do suggest me still.
Suggested tempted. G. V. iii 1, n.
Knowing that tender youth is soon suggested
Suggested tempted. Luc. n.
Perchance his boast of Lucrece" sovereignty
Suggested this proud issue of a king.
Suggestions temptations. L. L. L. i. 1, n.
Suggestions are to others as to me.
Suggestions temptations. A. W. iii. 5, n.
A filthy officer he is in those suggestions for the
young earl.
Suggests excites. H. E. i. 1, n.
Suggests the king our master
To this last costly treaty.
Suicide of Sir James Hales. H. v. 1, .
Crowner's-quest law.
Suit request. A. L. ii. 7, n.
It is my only suit.
Suit court solicitation. R. J. i. 4, n.
Sometimes she gallops o'er a courtier's nose,
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit.
Suited clothed. L. iv. 7, n.
Be better suited;
These weeds are memories of those worser hourf .
Suitor pronounced as shooter. L. L. L. iv. 1, n.
Who is the snitor f
San of Ycrk allusion to the cognisance of Edward IV.
R. T. i. 1, n.
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York.
Superstitions respecting drowned men. T. N. ii. 1, i.
If you will not murther me for my love, let me be
your servant.
Supplications in the quill written supplications. H. G.
S. P. i. 3, n.
And then we may deliver our supplications in the gull!.
SUR
INDEX. I.
TEN
Sur-rtin'd over-reined, over-worked. H. F. iii. 5, n.
Can sodden water,
A drench for tur-rein'd jades, their barley-broth,
Decoct their cold blood to such valiant heat !
Sutpect suspicion. So. Ixx. .
The ornament of beauty is inspect.
Swashers. R. J. i. 1, i.
Gregory, remember thy swashing blow.
Sif ashing making a noise of swords against targets. A. L.
i. 3, B.
We "11 have a sicashing and a martial outside.
Swear his thought over over-swear his thought. W. T. i. 2, a.
Swear his thought over
By each particular star in heaven.
Swears only. J. iii. 1, n.
The truth thou art unsure
To swear, swears only not to be forsworn.
Sweeting name of an apple. R. J. iL 4, n.
Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting.
Sword-belts. H. v. 2, .
The carriages, sir, are the hangers.
Sword even like a dancer. A. C. iii. 9, n.
He, at Philippi, kept
His sword even like a dancer.
Sword worn by a dancer. A. W. ii. 1, n.
Till honour be bought up, and no sword worn
But one to dance with.
Swords, inscriptions upon. H. 4, S. P. ii. 4, i.
Si fortuna, &c.
Swom brother. R. S. v. 1, n.
I am sworn brother, sweet,
To grim necessity.
S noun (it swoons. Luc. n.
Here manly Hector faints, here Troilus sici'unds.
Sycamore groves. R. J. i. 1, .
Underneath the grove of sycamore.
Sympathetic vibration (in music). So. viii. n.
Mark how each string, sweet husband to another,
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering.
Sympathies mutual passion. R. S. iv. I, n.
If that thy valour stand on sympathies.
T.
Table- tablet. A. W. i. 1, n.
To sit and draw
His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls
In our heart's table.
Table the tabular surface upon which a picture is painted.
So. xxiv. n.
Mine eye hath play'd the painter, and hath stell'd
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart.
Table-book, or tables. G. V. ii. 7, i.
The table wherein all my thoughts
Are visibly character'd.
Ta'en out copied. O. iii. 3, n.
I '11 have the work ta'en out
Ta'en up made up. A. L. v. 4, n.
Touch. I have had four quarrels, and like to have
fought one.
Jag. And how was that ta'en up ?
Tailors, singing of. H. 4, F. P. iii. 1, i.
'T is the next way to turn tailor.
Take (v.) understand. H. F. ii. 2, n.
For I can lake, and Pistol's cock is up.
Take a house take the shelter of a house. C. E. v. , n.
RUB, master, run ; for God's sake, take a home.
Take a muster take an account, a muster-roll. H. 4, F. P.
iv. 1, n.
Come, let us lake a muster speedily.
Take in (v.) subdue. Cor. i. 2, n.
Which was,
To take in many towns, ere, almost, Rome
Should know we were afoot.
Take in gain by conquest. A. C. iii. 7, n.
He could so quickly cut the Ionian sea,
And take in Toryne.
Take me with you let me know your meaning. II. 4, F. P.
ii. 4, n.
I would your grace would lake me with you.
Whom m?an your grace (
'Take, oh take those lips away,' on the authorship of. M. M.
iv. 1, i.
Take, or lend. Cy. iii. 6, n.
If anything that 's civil, sjeak; if savage
Take, or lend.
Take thy old cloak about thee,' ballad of. O. ii 3, i
King Stephen was a worthy peer.
Takes seizes with disease. M. W. iv. 4, n.
And there he blasts the tree, and takes the cattle.
Takes seizes with disease. H. i. 1, n.
Then no planets strike,
No fairy take*, nor witch hath power to charm,
rating malignant influence. L. iii. 4, n.
Bless thee from whirlwinds, star-blasting, and taking I
Taking to the head taking the sovereign's chief title. R. S.
iii. 3, n.
To shorten you
For taking so the head.
Taking up buying up on credit. H. 4, S. P. i. 2, .
If a man is thorough with them in honest taking ttji.
then they must stand upon security.
Talents something precious. L. C. n.
And lo! behold these talents of their hair
With twisted metal amorously impleach'd.
Tall stout, bold. T. N. i. 3, n.
He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria.
Tame snake. A. L. iv. 3, .
I see, love hath made thee a tame make.
' Taming of a Shrew' old play. T. S. Induction, 1, i.
Before an alehouse on a heath.
' Taming of a Shrew," scene in the old play of. T. S. ii. 1, i.
Good morrow, Kate.
' Taming of a Shrew,' scene from the old play of. T. S. iii. 2, i
I must away to-day, &c.
' Taming of a Shrew,' scene in the old play of. T. S. iv. 1, i.
Where be these knaves J
' Taming of a Shrew,' scene from old play of. T. S. iv. 3, i.
No, no ; forsooth, I dare not for my life.
' Taming of a Shrew,' scene from old play of. T. S. iv. 3, i.
Come, tailor, let us see these ornaments, &c.
' Taming of a Shrew,' scene from old play of. T. S. iv. 5, i.
Good Lord, how bright and goodly shines the moon ! &c.
' Taming of a Shrew,' scene from old play of. T. S. v. 2, i.
Exeunt.
Tapestry. R. S. i. 2, i.
Unfurnish'd walls.
Tarleton and his tabor. T. N. iii. 1, i.
Dost thou live by thy tabor t
Tarre (v.) exasperate. J. iv. 1, .
And, like a dog that is compell'd to fight,
Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on.
Tarre (v.) exasperate. H. ii. 2, n. (See J. iv. 1, .)
And the nation holds it no sin to tarre them to con
troversy.
Task the earth. R. S. iv. 1, n.
I task the earth to the like, forsworn Aumerle.
ri'ci-taxed H. 4, F. P. iv. 3, n.
And in the neck of that, task'd the whole state.
Taste (v.> try. T. N. iiL 1, n.
Taste your legs, sir; put them to motion.
Taxation satire. A. L. i. 2, n.
You'll be whipp'd for taxation one of these days.
Taxing censure, reproach. A. L. ii. 7, n.
July taxing like a wild goose flies
Unclaim'd of any man.
Teen sorrow. T. i. 2, .
O, my heart bleeds
To think o' the teen that I have turn'd you to.
Teen sorrow. R. T. iv. 1, n.
Eighty odd years of sorrow have I seen.
And each hour's joy wrack'd with a week of teen.
Teen sorrow. R. J. i. 3, n.
I '11 lay fourteen of my teeth.
And yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but four
Teen grief. V. A. n.
My face is full of shame, my heart of teen.
Teengriet. L. C. n.
Not one whose flame my heart so much as warm'd
Or my affection put to the smallest teen.
Ten bones ancient adjuration. Ii. 6, S. P. i. 3, .
By these ten bones, my lords.
485
TEN
INDEX. I.
TIM
Ten commandments. H. 6, S. P. i. 3, n.
Could I come near your beauty with my nails,
I'd set my ten commandments in your face.
Ten shillings value of the royal. H. 4, F. P. i. 2, n.
Thou earnest not of the blood royal, if thou darest not
stand for ten shilling!.
Tench. H. 4, F. P. ii. 1, i.
Stung like a tench.
Tender (T.) heed, regard. Luc. n.
Then for thy husband and thy children's sake,
Tender my suit.
Tender-hefted nature nature which may be held by tender-
ness. L. ii. 4, n.
Thy tender-hefted nature shall not give
Thee o'er to harshness.
Tennis-balls. M. A. iii. 2, n.
The old ornament of his cheek hath already stuffed
tennis-balls.
Tennyson, Mr., poem by. M. M. iii. 1, <'.
At the moated grange resides this dejected Mariana.
Tents. J. ii. 2, i.
She is sad and passionate, at your highness' tent.
Terms. T. N. ii. 4, f.
Light airs and recollected termt.
Terms. M. M. i. 1, .
Our city's institutions, and the terms
For common justice.
Terms of law-courts. H. 4, S. P. v. 1, i.
The wearing out of six fashions (which is four terms,
or two actions).
Testern. G. V. i. 1 , .
You have testeru'd me.
Than then. Luc. n.
And their ranks began
To break upon the galled shore, and than
Retire again.
Tharoorough thirdborough, peace-officer. L. L. L. i. I, n.
I am his grace's tharborough.
That art not what thou 'rt sure of. A. C. ii. 5, n.
that his fault should make a knave of thee,
That art not what thou 'rt sure of.
That poor retention. So. cxxii. n.
That poor retention could not so much hold,
Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score.
1 hat praise which Collating d th owe that object of praise
which Collatine doth possess. Luc. n.
Therefore that praise which Collatine doth owe,
Enchanted Tarquin answers with surmise.
That 't off that is nothing to the matter. Cor. ii. 2, n.
That' so/, that's off ;
1 would you rather had been silent.
The fifth, if I. L. L. L. v. 1, .
The fifth, if I.
The rich golden shaft. T. N. i. 1, n.
How will she love when the rich golden shaft
Hath kill'd the flock of all affections else
That live in her !
Theatrical entertainments at the universities. H. ii. 2, i.
Seneca cannot be too heavy.
Thee me thee to me. So. xliii. n.
All days are nights to see, till I see thee,
And nights, bright days, when dreams do show th eeme.
Theorick theory. H. F. i. 1, n.
So that the art and practick part of life
Must be the mistress to this theorick.
1 There dwelt a man in liabylon.' T. N. ii. 3, .
There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady.
There is a kind of character in thy life. M. M. i. 1 , n.
There i> a kind of character in thy life,
That to the observer doth thy history
Fully unfold.
Therefore ice meet not now we do not meet now on that
account. H. 4, F. P. i. 1, n.
And bootless 'tis to tell you we will go;
Therefore we meet not now.
Thersites, from Chapman's 'Homer.' T. C. ii. 1, n.
The plague of Greece upon thee, &c.
Theseus. M. N. D. v. 1, t.
The battle with the Centaurs.
Things. T. S. iv. 3, n.
With ruffs, and cuffs, and farthingales, and things.
486
Thinks all is urit he spoken can thinks all he can speak
is as holy writ. P. ii. Gower, n.
Is still at Tharsus, where each man
Thinks all is writ he spoken can.
Thirdbnrough petty constable. T. S. Induction, 1, n.
I must go fetch the thirdborough.
This brave o'erhanging. H. ii. 2, n.
This most excellent canopy, the air, look vou this
brave o'erhangingthis majestical roof fretted with
golden fire.
This'lonysthe text this belongs to the text. P. ii. Gower, n.
Pardon old Gower; this 'longs the text.
This present. T. N. i. 5, n.
Look you, sir, such a one I was tliis present.
This tim- remov'd this time in which I was ret ote or
absent from thee. So. xcvii. .
And yet this time remoc'd was summer's time.
Those eyes ador'd them those eyes which adored them.
P. ii. 4, n.
For they so stunk,
That all thnse eyes ador'd them ere th^ir fall,
Scorn now their hand should give them burial.
Thou art raw. A. L. iii. 2, n.
God make incision in thee ! thou art raw.
' Thou knave,' catch of. T. N. ii. 3, i.
Let our catch be, ' Thou knave.'
Thrasonical from Thraso, the boasting soldier of Terence
L. L. L. v. 1, n.
Behaviour vain, ridiculous, and llirascnnical.
Three-farthing silver pieces. J. i. 1, i.
Look, where three-farthings goes.
Three-man beetle. H. 4, S. P. i. 2, .
Fillip me with a three-man beetle.
Three-men's songs. \V. T. iv. 2, i.
Three-man song-men all.
Three-pile rich velvet. W. T. iv. 2, n.
I have served prince Florizel, and, in my time, wore
three-pile.
Threne funeral song. P. P. n.
Whereupon it made this threat
To the phoenix and the dove.
Thrice-crowned queen of night. A. L. iii. 2, n.
And thou, thrice-crowned queen of night.
Thrift a frugal arrangement. H. i. 2, n.
Thrift, thrift, Horatio ! the funeral bak'd meats
Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.
Through the sight I bear in things to lore through my pre-
science in knowing what things I should love. t.C.iii. 3,H.
Appear it to your mind,
That, through the siijht 7 bear in things to loci,
I have abandon'd Troy.
Thy heart my wound thy heart wounded as mine is. V. A. n.
Would thou wert as I am, and I a man,
My heart all whole as thine, thy heart my wound.
2i 'kle uncertain. H. 6, S. P. i. 1, n.
The state of Normandy
Stands on a tickle point.
Tied. H. E. iv. 2, n.
One, that by suggestion
Tied all the kingdom.
Tightly briskly, cleverly. M. W. i. 3, n.
Bear you these letters tightly.
Tike common dog, mongrel. H. F. ii. 1, n.
Base tike, call'st thou me host?
Tike worthless dog. L. iii. 6, n. (See H. F. ii. 1, n.,
Hound or spaniel, brach or lym ;
Or bobtail tike, or trundle-tail.
Tilly-fally. H. 4, S. P. ii. 4, n.
Tilly-fally, sir John, never tell me.
Tilt-yard. H. 4, S. P. iii. 2, .
He never saw him but once in the tilt-yard.
Tilts and tournaments. G. V. i. 3, i.
There shall he practise tilts and tournaments.
Time tune. M. iv. 3, n.
This time goes manly.
Timeless untimely. R. S. iv. 1, n.
The bloody office of his timeless end.
Timely-parted ghost body recently parted the soul. H
S. P. iii. 2, n.
Oft have I seen a timely-parted ghost.
Time's chest. So. Ixv. n.
Shall Time's Beit jewel from Time's chest lie hio f
TIM
INDEX. I.
TRI
Timon, account of, in North's translation of ' Plutarch.'
T. Ath. iii. 6, i.
Burn, house; sink, Athens! henceforth hated be
Of Timon, man, and all humanity.
Timon of Athens, account of, in ' The Palace of Pleasure.'
T. Ath. v. 2, .
I have a tree which grows here in my close.
Tir'd satiated, glutted. Luc. n.
What he beheld on that he firmly doted,
And in his will his wilful eye he tir'd.
Tired caparisoned. L. L. L. iv. 2, n.
The tired horse his rider.
Tired attired. V. A. n.
And Titan, 'tired in the midday heat,
With burning eye did hotly overlook them.
Tires tears, preys. V A. n.
Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast,
Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh, and bone.
Tiring attiring. C. E ii. 2, .
The money that he spen Is in tiring.
T is given with welcome that 't is given with welcome. M.
iii. 4, n.
The feast is sold
That is not often vouch'ii, while 't is a making,
'T is given with welcome.
T is in his buttons. M. W. iii 2, n.
He will carry 't : 't is in his buttons.
Tithe. M. M. iv. 1, n.
Our corn 's to reap, for yet our tithe 's to sow.
Title-leaf. H. 4, S. P. i. '., n.
Yea, this man's brow, like to a title-leaf,
Foretells the nature of a tragic volume.
To a wastefn' 1 euck from a wasteful cock, from the scene
of extravagance. T. Ath. ii. 2, n.
I have retir'd me to a wasteful cock,
And set mine eyes at flow.
To clo in slander. M. M. i. 4, .
And yet my nature never in the fight
To dn in slander.
To fear a thing to terrify. O. i. 2, n.
Of such a thing as thou, to fear, not to delight.
To go in the song to join in the song. M. A. i. 1, n.
Come, in what key shall a man take you, to go in the
song ?
To his shape in addition to his shape. J. i. 1, n.
And, to his nhape, were heir to all this land.
To-pineh. M. W. iv. 4, n.
And fairy-like, to-pinch the unclean knight.
To slack so as to slack. R. J. iv. 1, n.
And I am nothing slow, to slack his haste.
To-spend. J. v. 2, n.
Where these two Christian armies might combine
The blood of malice in a vein of league,
And not lo-spend it so unntighbourly.
To the warm sun. L. ii. 2, n.
Good king, that must approve the common saw;
Thou out of heaven's benediction com'st
To the warm sun.
To you on you. T. Ath. i. 2, n.
I'll call to you.
Toad-stones. A. L. ii. 1, ;'.
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head.
Toasts and butter Londoners, eaters of buttered toasts.
H. 4, F. P. iv. 2, n.
I pressed me none but such toasts and butler.
Tods of wool. W. T. iv. 2, i.
Every 'leven wether toils.
Token'd pestilence. A. C. iii. 8, n.
Eno. How appears the fight ?
Scar. On our side like the token' d pestilence,
Where death is sure.
Toll for this. A. W. v. 3, n.
I will buy me a son-in-law in a fair, and toll for /An:
I '11 none of him.
Tomboys. Cy. i. 7, n.
To be partner'd
With tomboys.
Tmi'iue English language. H. 4, F. P. iii. 1, .
I framed to the harp
Many an Kn;:lMi ditty, lovely well,
And gave the tnnyue a helpful ornament.
Too fine too full of finesse. A. W. v. 3, H.
But thou art too fine in thy evidence.
Too tale a week somewhat too late. A. L. ii. 3, n.
At seventeen years many their fortunes seek ;
But at fourscore it is too late a meek.
Too much i* the sun. H. i. 2, .
King. How is it that the clouds still hang on you f
Ham. Not so, my lord, I am too much f the sun.
Took away being taken away. Luc. .
First red as roses that on lawn we lay,
Then white as lawn, the roses took away.
Toothpick, custom of using. J. i. 1, t.
Now your traveller
He and his toothpick.
Topmast, striking of. T. i. 1, f.
Down with the topmast.
Torch-bearer. R. J. i. 4, i
Give me a torch.
Toss (v.) toss upon a pise. K. 4, F. P. iv. 2, n.
P. Hen. I did never see such pitiful rascals.
Fal. Tut, tut ; good enough to toss : food for powder
roer'_tottering. R. S. iii. 3, n.
From this castle's totter'd battlements.
Touch touchstone. R. T. iv. 2, .
Now do I play the touch,
To try if thou be current gold, indeed.
Touch touchstone. T. Ath. iv. 3, n.
O thou touch of hearts !
Touch more rare high feeling. Cy. i. 2, n.
I
Am senseless of your wrath ; a touch more rare
Subdues all pangs, all fears.
Touches traits. A. L. iii. 2, .
Of many faces, eyes, and hearts,
To have the touches dearest priz'd.
Toward in preparation. H. i. 1, n.
What might be toward, that this sweaty haste
Doth make the night joint-labourer with the day f
Towards ready, at hand. R. J. i. 5, .
We have a trifling foolish banquet towards.
Trade habitual course, path trodden. H. E. v. 1, n. (Set
R. S. iii. 4, n.)
Stands in the gap and trade of more preferments,
With which the time will load him.
Trajan's column, bas-relief on. Cy. v. 2, i.
Enter at one door Lucius, lachimo, and the Roman
army.
Tranect tow-boat. M. V. iii. 4, .
Unto the tranect, to the common ferry.
Trash. T. i. 2, n. Whom to advance, and whom
To trash for overtopping.
Trash of Venice, whom I trace. O. ii. 1, n.
If this poor trash of Venice, whom I trace
For his quick hunting.
Travel. G. V. i. 3, i.
In having known no travel, &c.
Tray-trip. T. N. ii. 5, i.
Shall I play my freedom at tray-tri/i t
Treachers cheaters, tricksters. L. i. 2, n.
Knaves, thieves, and treachers.
Trenchers. G. V. iv. 4, i.
He steps me to her trencher.
Trial by combat. R. S. i. 1 , i.
Hast thou, according to thy oath and band f
Tribulation of Tower Hill. H. E. v. 3, .
The tribulation of Tower Hill, or the limbs of Limr
house.
Trick peculiarity. A. W. i. 1, *.
Of every line and trick of his sweet favour.
Trick peculiarity. J. i. 1, n.
He hath a trick of Cceur-de-Lion's face
Trick'd painted. H. ii. 2, n.
Horridly trick'd
With blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, sons
Trip the pace of the fairy. M. N. D. v. 2, i.
Sing and dance it trippingly.
Triplethird. A. C. i. 1, .
And you shall see in him
The triple pillar of the world transform'd
Into a strumpet's fool.
Triplex triple time in music. T. N. v. 1, n.
The triplex, sir, is a good tripping measure.
487
TRI
INDEX. I.
UKL
Triuir,ph. M. N. D. i. I, re. (See G. V. v. 4, i.)
But I will wed thee in another key,
With pomp, with triumph, and with revelling.
Triumphs. G. V. v. 4, i.
Triumphs, mirth, and rare solemnity.
Troilus's reproach to Helenus. T. C. ii. 2, .
You are for dreams and slumbers, brother priest.
Trophies. H. iv. 5, i.
No trophy, sword, nor hatchment, o'er his bones.
Tropically figuratively. H. iii. 2, n.
The mouse-trap. Marry, how? Tropically.
Troth-plight betrothed. H. F. ii. 1, n.
And, certainly, she did you wrong; for you were
troth-plight to her.
Trotting paritor officer of the ecclesiastical court who
carries out citations. L. L. L. iii. 1, n.
Sole imperator, and great general
Of trotting par itors.
Trou madame. W. T. iv. 2, i.
Trol-my-dames.
Trow I trow. M. A. iii. 4, n.
What means the fool, trow f
' Troy Book.' T. C. iii. 3, i.
Expos'd myself,
From certain and possess'd conveniences,
To doubtful fortunes.
Truckle-bed. R. J. ii. 1, i.
I '11 to my truckle-bed.
True-love knots. G. V. ii. 7, ;.
I'll knit it up in silken strings,
With twenty odd-conceited true-love knots.
True-love showers. H. iv. 5, n.
Which bewept to the grave did not go,
With true-love showers.
True men. H. 4, F. P. ii. 2, n.
The thieves have bound the true men.
Trundle-tail worthless dog. L. iii. 6, n.
Or bobtail tike, or trundle-tail.
Trunks of the Elizabethan age. T. N. iii. 4, i.
Empty trunks, o'erflourish'd by the devil.
Truth honesty. M. V. iv. 1, n.
That malice bears down truth.
Tucket-sonaunce. H. F. iv. 2, n.
Then let the trumpets'sound
The tucket-sonaunce and the note to mount.
Tumbler. L. L. L. iii. 1, i.
And wear his colours like a tumbler's hoop.
Turk Gregory-Pope Gregory VII. H. 4, F. P. v. 3, n.
Turk Gregory never did such deeds in arms as I
have done this day.
Turn (v.) modulate. A. L. ii. 5, n.
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat.
Turn Turk with me deal with me cruelly. H. iii. 2, n.
If the rest of my fortunes turn Turk with me.
Turn your eyes towards the napes of your necks. Cor. ii.
1, n.
O, that you could turn your eyes towards the napes of
your necks, and make but an interior survey of your
good selves.
Turning the buckle behind. M. A. v. 1, '.
If he be [angry], he knows how to turn his girdle.
Turquoise, virtue of. M. V. iii. I, j.
It was my turquoise.
Twelve score twelve score yards. H. 4, S. P. ii. 4, re.
And, I know, his death will be a march of twelve score.
Twelve score twelve score yards. H. 4, S. P. iii. 2, .
He would have clapp'd i' the clout at twelve score.
Twiggen wicker. O. ii. 3, n.
I '11 beat the knave into a twiggen bottle.
Twire. So. xxviii. n.
When sparkling stars /wire not, thou gild'st the even.
Two broken points. T. S. iii. 2, n.
An old rusty sword ta'en out of the town armoury,
with a broken hilt, and chapeles^ ; with two broken
points.
u.
Umber'd face. H. F. iv. Chorus, i.
Each battle sees the other's uml.cr'd jace.
488
i Unadvised unknowing. Luc. re.
Here friend by friend in bloody channel lies,
And friend to friend gives unadvised wounds.
Unavoided not to be avoided. H. 6, F. P. iv. 5, n.
A terrible and unavoided danger.
Unbated not blunted. H. iv. 7, n.
You may choose
A sword undated, and in a pass of practice
Requite him for your father.
Unbolt (v.) unfold, explain. T. Ath. i. 1, re.
Pain. How shall I understand you ?
Poet. I '11 unbolt to you.
Unbonneted. O. i. 2, n. And my demerits
May speak unbonneted, to as proud a fortune
As this that I have reach'd.
Unchary on't. T. N. iii. 4, re.
I have said too much unto a heart of stone.
And laid mine honour too unchary on't.
Uncurrent gold. H. ii. 2, i.
Your voice, like a piece of uncurrent gold, cracked
within the ring.
Under-fiends fiends below. Cor. iv. 5, n.
I will fight
Against my canker'd country, with the spleen
Of all the under-fiends.
Undergoes passes under. M. A. v. 2, n.
But I must tell thee plainly, Claudio undergoes my
challenge.
Understand them stand under them. C. E. ii. 1, n.
Nay, he struck so plainly I could too well feel
his blows ; and withal so doubtfully that I could scarce
understand them.
Undertaker one who undertakes another's quarrel. T. N
iii. 4, n.
Nay, if you be an undertaker, I am for you.
Unear'd unploughed. So. iii. n.
For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry ?
Uneaihnot easily. H. 6, S. P. ii. 4, n.
Uneath may she endure the flinty streets,
To tread them with her tender-feeling feet.
Unejcpressive inexpressible. A. L. iii. 2, n.
The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she.
Unfair (v.) deprive of fairness or beauty. So. v u.
Those hours that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
Will play the tyrants to the very same,
And that unfair which fairly doth excel.
Unfurnish'd unsurrounded by the other features. M. V.
iii. 2, re. But her eyes,
How could he see to do them? having made one,
Methinks it should have power to steal both his,
And leave itself unfurnish'd.
Unhair'd unbearded. J. v. 2, n.
This unhair'd sauciness and boyish troops,
The king doth laugh at.
Unhappy unlucky, mischievons. A. W. iv. 5, .
A shrewd knave, and an unhappy.
Unhoused unmarried. O. i. 2, re.
But that I love the gentle Desdemona,
I would not my unhoused free condition
Put into circumscription.
Unhousel'd, disappointed, unanel'd not having received
thecommunion, not prepared, without the administration
of extreme unction. H. i. 5, n.
Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin,
Unhousel'd, disappointed, unanel'd.
Unimproved unreproved. H. i. 1, .
Young Fortinbras,
Of unimproved mettle hot and full.
Union rich pearl. H. v. 2, n.
And in the cup an union shall he throw.
Unkind unnatural. A. L. ii. 7, n.
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude.
Unkind. V. A. re.
O, had thy mother borne so hard a mind
She had not brought forth thee, but died unkind.
Unless except. Cor. v. 1, n.
So that all hope is vain,
Unless his noble mother, and his wife,
Who, as I hear, mean to solicit him.
UNL
INDEX. I.
VEN
Unloose it from their bond. Luc. n.
Those that much covet are with gain so fond,
That what they have not, that which they possess
They scatter and unloose it from their bond.
Unmann'd term of falconry. R. J. iii. 2, n.
Hood my unmann'd blood bating in my cheeks,
With thy black mantle.
Unquestionable not to be questioned, not to be conversed
with. A. L. iii. 2, n.
An unquestionable spirit, which you have not.
Unready undressed. H. 6, F. P. ii. 1, n.
How now, my lords ? what, all unready so ?
Unrecalling not to be recalled. Luc. n.
And ever let his unrecalling crime
Have time to wail the abusing of his time.
Unrespected unregarded. So. xliii. n.
For all the day they view things unrespected.
Unrespective inconsiderate. R. T. iv. 2, n.
I will converse with iron-witted fools,
And unrespective boys.
Unscissor'd shall this hair of mine remain. P. iii. 3, .
Till she be married, madam,
By bright Diana, whom we honour all,
Unscissor'd shall this hair of mine remain,
Though I show will in 't.
Unsisting never at rest. M. M. iv. 2, n.
That spirit 's possess'd with haste,
That wounds the unsisting postern with these strokes.
Unstate. L. i. 2, n.
I would unstate myself, to be in a due resolution.
Unthread. J. v. 4, n.
Unthread the rude eye of rebellion.
Until your date expire until you die. P. iii. 4, n.
Where you may 'bide until your date expire.
Un traded unused, uncommon. T. C. iv. 5, n.
Mock not, that I affect the untraded oath.
Untrimm'd undecorated. So. xviii. w.
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd.
Untrue (used as a substantive.) So. cxiii. n.
Incapable of more, replete with you,
My most true mind thus maketh mine untrue.
Untwine. Cy. iv. 2, n.
And let the stinking elder, grief, untwine
His perishing root with the increasing vine.
Unwappen'd. T. N. K. v. 4, .
We come tow'rds the gods
Young, and unwappen'd.
Unyoke finish your work. H. v. 1, n.
Ay, tell me that, and unyoke.
Upon command at your pleasure A. L. ii. 7, .
And therefore sit you dowr. in gentleness,
And take upon command what help we have.
Upon the hip. M. V. i. 3, n.
If I can catch him once upon the hip.
Urchin-snouted with the snout of the urchin, or hedge-
hog. V. A. n.
But this foul, grim, and urchin-snouted boar.
Usances usury. M. V. i. 3, i.
You have rated me
About my moneys, and my usances.
Us'd deported. H. E. iii. 1, n.
And, pray, forgive me,
If I have us'd myself unmannerly.
Use interest of money. M. M. i. 1, n.
She determines
Herself the glory of a creditor,
Both thanks and use.
Usurer's chain ornament of a wealthy citizen, or gold-
smith. M. A. ii. 1, n.
About your neck, like an usurer's chain.
Usurers, practices of. M. M. iv. 3, t.
He 's in for a commodity of brown paper.
Utterance a. outrance. Cy. iii. 1, n.
Of him I gather'd honour ;
Which he to seek of me again, perforce,
Behoves me keep at utterance.
Utterance combat- a-ou trance. M.iii.l,n. (SeeCy.iii. 1,.)
Come, fate, into the list,
And champion me to the utterance !
Utler'dput forth. L. L. L. ii. 1, n.
Not iittfr'd by base sale of chapmen's tongues
Uttered heavenly expelled put out by the power of heaven.
M. A. v. 4, n.
Till death be uttered,
Heavenly, heavenly.
V.
Faded faded, vanished. R. S. i. 2, n.
Is hack'd down, and his summer leaves all vaded
Faded faded. P. P. n.
Sweet rose, fair flower, untimely pluck'd, soon vadci.
rail (v.) lower. M. M. v. 1, .
Vail your regard
Upon a wrong'd, I would fain have said, a maid I
Fail (v.) bow down. Cor. iii. 1, n.
If he have power,
Then vail your ignorance.
VaiPd lowered. V. A. n.
Here overcome, as one full of despair,
She vail' d her eyelids.
Vailing causing to fall down. L. L. L. v. 2, it.
Are angels vailing clouds.
Vailing letting down. M. V. i. 1, n.
Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs.
Vails lowers. V. A. .
He vails his tail, that, like a falling plume,
Cool shadow to his melting buttock lent.
Vain light of tongue. C. E. iii. 2, n.
'Tis holy sport, to be a little vain.
Valiant manly. H. ii. 2, n.
Thy face is valiant since I saw thee last.
Validity value. A. W. v. 3, .
O, behold this ring,
Whose high respect, and rich validity.
Validity value, worth. L. i. 1, n.
No less in space, validity, and pleasure,
Than that conferr'd on Goneril.
Vantage opportunity. Cy. i. 4, n.
Imogen. When shall we hear from him t
Pisanio. Be assur'd, madam,
With his next vantage.
Varlet servant. T. C. i. 1, n.
Call here my varlet, I'll unarm again.
Vassals. A. C. i. 4, n.
Leave thy lascivious vassals.
Vast great space. W. T. i. 1, n.
Shook hands, as over a vast.
Vast of night. T. i. 2, n. (See H. i. 2, n.)
Urchins
Shall for that vast of night that they may work
All exercise on thee.
Vastly like a waste. Luc. n.
Who like a late-sack'd island vastly stood
Bare and unpeopled.
Vaunt- van. T. C. Prologue, .
That our play
Leaps o'er the vaunt and firstlings of those broils.
Vaward van. H. 6, F. P. i. 1, n.
He being in the vaward, (plac'd behind,
With purpose to relieve and follow them,)
Cowardly fled, not having struck one stroke.
Veil full purpose (v.) conceal the full extent of his pui
pose. M. M. iv. 6, .
Yet I am advis'd to do it ;
He says, to veil full purpose.
Velure velvet. T. S. iii. 2, n.
And a woman's crupper of velure.
Velvet-guards. H. 4, F. P. iii. 1, .
To velvet-guards, and Sunday-citizens.
Venetian houses, furniture of. T. S. ii. 1, .
I will unto Venice,
To buy apparel 'gainst my wedding-day.
My house within the city
Is richly furnished with plate and gold.
Venetian galleys. M. V. i. 1, 1.
Argosies with portly sail.
Venew. L. L. L. v. 1, i.
Venew of wit.
Venetv'dest most decayed, most mouldy. T. C. ii. 1, t*.
Speak then, thou venew'deit leaven, speak.
rengeance mischief. A. L. iv. 3, n.
Whiles the eye of man did woo me,
That could d no vengeance to me.
VEN
INDEX. I.
WEE
Venice, climate of. T. S. iv. 1, i.
Curt. Who is that calls so coldly?
Gru. A piece of ice.
Venice, grass in. M. V. i. 1, i.
Plucking the grass to know where sits the wind.
Venice, public places in. M. V. i. 3, i.
Venice, notion of the mainland in. M. V. ii. 2, t.
I will run as far as God has any ground.
Venice, ferries at. M. V. ii. 4, t.
Unto the tranect, to the common ferry,
Which trades to Venice.
Venice, residences in. O. i. 1, .
To start my quiet.
Ventidius, from North's ' Plutarch.' A. C. iii. 1, i.
Now, darting Parthia, &c.
Ventures. M. V. i. ], .
My ventures are not in one bottom trusted.
Venus and Adonis, passage from. R. J. ii. 4, .
Therefore do nimble-pinioned doves draw love.
Verbal plain. Cy. ii. 3, n.
You put me to forget a lady's manners,
By being so verbal.
Verona, notice of. R. J. i. '.
Very true. G. V. iii. 2, n.
Especially against his very friend.
Vice Iniquity. R. T. iii. 1, i.
Thus, like the formal Vice Iniquity.
Vice of kings. H. iii. 3, n. (See H. 4, S. P. iii. 2, i.)
A vice, of kings :
A cutpurse of the empire and the rule.
Vice's dagger. H. 4, S. P. iii. 2, .
And now is this Vice's dagger become a squire.
Vild vile. M. N. D. i. 1 , n.
Things base and vild.
Villnin, in two senses : 1. worthless fellow; 2. one of mean
birth. A. L. i. 1, n.
Oliver. Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain ?
Orlando. I am no villain : I am the youngest son of
Sir Rowland de Bois.
Villainies of man will set him clear. T. Ath. iii. 3, n.
The devil knew not what he did when he made man
politic ; he cross'd himself by 't : and I cannot think,
but, in the end, the villainies of man will set him clear.
Viol-da-gambo bass viol. T. N. i. 3, '.
Viol-de-gumboys.
Violent thefts. T. C. v. 3, n. Do not count it holy
To hurt by being just: it is as lawful,
For we would give much, to count violent theft*
And rob in the behalf of charity.
Virgil's './Eneid.' H. 4, S. P. Induction, i.
Upon my tongues continual slanders ride.
Virginalling. W. T. i. 2, i.
Still virginalling
Upon his palm.
Virtue go virtue to go. M. M. iii. 2, n.
Pattern in himself to know,
Grace to stand, and virtue go.
Vizaments advisements. M. W. i. 1, n.
Take your viziments in that.
Void of appointment without preparation of armour or
weapons. T. N. K. iii. 1, n.
I'll prove it in my shackles, with these hands
Void of appointment.
Vows of chastity. G. V. iv. 3, i.
Upon whose grave thou vow'dst pure chastity.
Vox. T. N. v. 1, n.
An your ladyship will have it as it ought to be, you
must allow vox.
' Vulgar Errors,' Sir Thomas Brown's. T. C. ii. 3, t.
The elephant hath joints, &c.
Vulgarly publicly. M. M. v. 1, n.
To justify this worthy nobleman,
So vulgarly and personally accus'd.
W.
Waftt waves, signs. H. i. 4, n.
Look, with what courteous action
It wafts you to a more removed ground.
WalJcing-sticks. M. A. v. 4, i.
There is no staff more reverend than one tipped with
born.
490
Wall-newt and the water the wall-newt, and the water
newt. L. iii. 4, n.
The toad, the tadpole, the wall-newt, and the water.
Walter commonly pronounced Water. H. 6, S. P. iv. 1,
A cunning man did calculate my birth,
And told me that by Water I should die.
Yet let not this make thee be bloody-minded;
Thy name is Gualtier, being rightly sounded.
War proclaimed by Caesar against Cleopatra, from North's
' Plutarch.' A. C. iii. 7, i.
'T is said in Rome.
Warden name of a pear. W. T. iv. 2, .
I must have saffron, to colour the warden pies.
Warder truncheon, or staff of command. R. S. i. 3, n.
Stay, the king hath thrown his warder down.
Ware, bed of. T. N. iii. 2, i.
Big enough for the bed of Ware in England.
Warkworth Castle. H. 4, S. P. Induction, i.
This worm-eaten hold of ragged stone.
Warn (v.) summon. R. T. i. 3, n.
And sent to warn them to his royal presence.
Warn(v.) summon. J. C. v. 1, n.
They mean to warn us at Philippi here.
Warrior applied to a lady. O. ii. 1,
Oth. O my fair warrior !
Warrior. O. iii. 4, n. (See O. ii. I, n.)
I was (unhandsome warrior as I am)
Arraigning his unkindness with my soul.
Warriors for the working-day soldiers ready for work, not
dressed up for a holiday. H. F. iv. 3, n.
We are but warriors for the working-day.
Wars (in the time of Elizabeth). G. V. i. 3, i.
Some to the wars, &c.
Wasp-tongue peevish and mischievous tongue. H. iv. F. P.
i. 3, n.
Why, what a wasp-tongue and impatient fool.
Wasps. G. V. i. 2, t.
Injurious wasps ! to feed on such sweet honey.
Watch watch-light, night-candle. R. T. v. 3, .
Give me a watch.
Watch-case. H. 4, S. P. iii. 1, n.
And leav'st the kingly couch,
A watch-case, or a common 'larum bell.
Watch him tame. O. iii. 3, n.
My lord shall never rest;
I'll watch him tame, and talk him out of patience.
Watch in Italy. R. J. v. 3, .
The watch is coming.
Watches. T. N. ii. 5, i.
Wind up my watch. '
Watchmen, ancient. M. A. iii. 3, i.
Have a care that your bills be not stolen.
Water-galls. Luc. n.
These water-galls in her dim element
Foretell new storms to those already spent.
Wax (v.) grow. L. L. L. v. 2, n.
That was the way to make his godhead wax.
Waxen penetrable. R. S. i. 3, n.
And with thy blessings steel my lance's point,
That it may enter Mowbray's waxen coat.
Waxen epitaph. H. F. i. 2, n.
Not worshipp'd with a waxen epitaph.
Way of common trade. R. S. iii. 3, n.
Or I'll be buried in the king's highway,
Some way uf c mmnn trade, where subjects' feet
May hourly trample on their sovereign's head.
Way of life. M. v. 3, n.
My way of life
Is fallen into the sear and yellow leaf.
' We three,' picture of. T. N. ii. 3, .
How now, my hearts ? Did you never see the picture
of we three ?
Weak evils causes of weakness. A. L. ii. 7, n.
Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger.
Weary exhausted. A. L. ii. 7, w.
Till that the weary very means do ebb.
Web and the pin dimness of sight, cataract. L. iii 4, n.
He gives the web and the pin, squints the eye, and
makes the hare-lip.
Weed garment. Luc. n.
That spots and stains love's modest snow-white ewcil
WEE
INDEX. I.
WIN
ffeei garment. So. ii. n.
Thy youth's proud livery, so gaz'd on now,
Will be a tatterM weed, of small worth held.
Weeds. G. V. ii. 7, .
Such treed*
As may beseem some well-reputed page.
Weeds. Cor. ii. 2, n.
As weeds hefore
A vessel under sail.
Weet (v.) know. A. C. i. 1, n.
In which I bind,
On pain of punishment, the world to weet
We stand up peerless.
Weigh oat outweigh. H. E. iii. 1, n.
They that must weigh out my afflictions,
They that my trust must grow to, live not here.
Weird. M. i. 3, n.
The weird sisters, hand in hand,
Posters of the sea and land.
Welkin blue. W. T. i. 2, n,
Look on me with your welkin eye.
Well. W. T. v. 1, n.
What were more holy
Than to rejoice the former queen is well !
Well appeared rendered apparent. Cor. iv. 3, .
But your favour is well appeared by your tongue.
Well believe Mis be well assured of this. M. M. ii. 2, n.
Well believe this,
No ceremony that to great ones "longs, &c.
Well-liking in good condition. L. L. L. v. 2, n.
Well-liking wits they have.
Welsh hook. H. 4, F. P. ii. 4, .
A Welsh hook.
Were invincible could not be mastered. H. 4, S. P. iii. 2, n.
He was so forlorn, that his dimensions to any thick
sight were invincible.
Westminster, William de Colchester, abbot of. R. S. v. 6, .
Hath yielded up his body to the grave.
Whales' bone tooth of the walrus. L. L. L. v. 2, n.
To show his teeth as white as whales' bone.
What a fall Fortune does the thick-lips owe what a fall does
Fortune owe the thick lips. O. i. 1, n.
What a fall Fortune does the thick lips owe,
If he can carry't thus.
What he would not. Cor. v. 1. n.
What he would do,
He sent in writing after me, what he would nut;
Bound with an oath to yield to his conditions.
What in rest you have. J. iv. 2, n.
If, what in rest you have, in right you hold.
Whaterer hare whatever things have. Cor. i. 2, n.
Whatever have been thought on in this state.
When expression of impatience. T. i. 2, n.
Come forth, I say : there's other business for thee :
Come, thou tortoise ! it-hen !
Tf'Aert expression of impatience. R. S. i. 1, n.
When, Harry? when?
Obedience bids, I should not bid again.
When expression of impatience. J. C. ii. 1, n.
When, Lucius, when I Awake, I say! What, Lucius!
' When daisies pied.' L. L. L. v. 2, i.
When daisies pied, and violets blue.
Whenax when. So. xlix. n.
ll'/ienns thy love hath cast his utmost sum,
Call'd to that audit by advis'd respects.
Wlier' wherefore. L. ii. 1, .
Hark, the duke's trumpets ! I know not wher' he comes
ti'/i<-'r whether. So. lix. n.
Whether we are mended, or whe'r tetter they,
Or whether revolution be the some.
Where whereas. G. V. iii. 1, n.
And, where I thought the remnant of mine age.
Where whether. J. i. 1, n.
But where I be as true begot, or no,
That still I lay upon my mother's head.
Where wheeas. H. 6, S. P. iii. 2, 11.
Where, from thy sight, I should be raging mad,
And cry out for thee to close up mine eyes.
Where used as a noun. L. i. 1, n.
Thou losest here, a better where to find.
Where whereas. L. i. 2, n.
Where, if you violently proceed against him, mis-
taking his purpose, it would make a great gap in your
own honour.
Where whereas. Luc. n.
Where now I have no one to blush with me.
Where whereas. P. ii. 3, n.
Where now his son's like a glow-worm in the night.
Where is the life title of a sonnet. T. S. iv. 1, n.
Where is the life that late I led ?
' Where the bee sucks.' T. v. 1, i.
Where their appointment we may best discover. A. C. iv
10, n. Our foot
Upon the hills adjoining to the city,
Shall stay with us : order for sea is given
They have put forth the haven :
Where their appointment we may best discover.
Whereas where. H. 6, S. P. i. 2, n.
You do prepare to ride unto St. Alban's,
Whereat the king and queen do mean to hawk.
Whereas where. P. i. 2, n.
I went to Antioch,
Whereas thou know'st, against the face of death,
I sought the purchase of a glorious beauty.
Wherein in that. A. L. i. 2, n.
Punish me not with your hard thoughts, wherein I
confess me much guilty to deny so fair and excellent
ladies anything.
Wherein went he in what dress did he go. A. L. iii. 2, n.
How looked he I Wherein went he f
Which now you censure him which now you censure him for.
M. M. ii. 1, n.
Err'd in this point which now you censure him.
Which often, thus, correcting thy stout heart. Cor. iii
i, n. Waving thy head,
Which often, thus, correcting thy stout heart,
Now humble as the ripest mulberry.
Whiffler. H. F. v. Chorus, i.
Like a mighty whiffier 'fore the king.
Whipping, custom of. A. W. ii. 2, i.
Do you cry, ' O Lord, sir,' at your whipping
White death paleness of death. A. W. ii. 3, n.
Let the white death sit on thy cheek for ever.
Whiter, Mr., explanation of the passage, A. L. iiL 2, .
Helen's cheek, but not her heart
Cleopatra's majesty ;
Atalanta's better part ;
Sad Lucretia's modesty.
Whitsun morris-dance. H. F. ii. 4, i.
Were busied with a Whitsun morris-dance.
Whitsters launders. M. W. iiL 3, n.
Carry it among the whitsters in Datchet meaa.
Whose unwished yoke to whose unwished yoke M. N. D.
i. 1, n. Whose unwished yoke
My soul consents not to give sovereignty.
Widowhood property to which a widow is entitled T. 8.
ii 1, n.
And, for that dowry, I '11 assure her of
Her widowhood.
fTiW-weald. H. 4, F. P. ii. 1, n.
There 's a franklin in the wild of Kent hath brought
three hundred marks with him in gold.
Wild-goose chase. R. J. ii. 4, .
Wilderness wildness. M. M. iii. 1, n.
For such a warped slip of wilderness
Ne'er issued from his blood.
Will be his fire. Cor. ii. 1, n.
This, as you say, suggested
At some time when his soaring insolence
Shall teach the people, (which time shall not wint,
If he be put upon 't, and that's as easy
At to set dogs on sheep,) will be his fire
To kindle their dry stubble.
Willfindemployment will find employment for. H.E. ii. 1, n
And generally, whoever the king favours,
The cardinal instantly will find employment.
Will to her consent will in proportion to her consent. R. J.
L 2, n.
My will to her consent is but a part.
Wimpled veiled. L. L. L. iii 1, n.
This wimpled, whining, purblind, waywa/d boy.
Wincot. T. S. Induction, 2, .
The fat ale-wife of Wincot.
491
WIN
INDEX. I.
ZEA
Wintering -winding. T. if..1, .
You nymphs called Naiads, of the winaering brooks.
Windows eyelids. V. A. n.
Her two blue window* feintly she upheaveth.
Windsor forest. H. 4, S. P. iv. 4, i.
I think he's gone to hunt, my lord, at Windsor.
Windsor, state of, in the time of Henry IV. M. W. i. 1, i.
Never a woman in Windsor knows more of Anne's
mind than I do.
Winter's pale. W. T. iv. 2, n.
For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale.
Wise-woman witch. M. W. iv. 5, n.
Was 't not the wise-woman of Brentford ?
Wish him commend him. T. S. i. 1, .
I will wish him to her father.
Wistly wistfully. R. S. v. 4, .
And speaking it, he wistly looked on me.
Wit mental power in general. M. V. ii. 1, n.
If my father had not scanted me,
And hedg'd me by his wit, to yield myself.
Wit understanding. J. C. iii. 2, n.
For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth.
' Wit, whither wilt ? ' A. L. iv. 1, n.
A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might say,
' Wit, whither wiltf
Witchcraft, law against, by James I. O. i. 3, i.
The bloody book of law
You shall yourself read in the bitter letter.
With tempering. V. A. n.
What wax so frozen but dissolves with tempering,
And yields at last to every light impression?
With the manner in the fact. W. T. iv. 3, n.
If you had not taken yourself with the manner.
With what encounter so uncurrent. W. T. iii. 2, n.
Since he came
With what encounttr to uncurrent I
Have strain'd to appear thus.
Without knives. T. Ath. i. 2, ".
Methinks, they should invite them without knives
Wits senses. M. A. i. 1, n.
In our last conflict, ftur of his five wits went halting
off.
Wits, the. A. L. i. 2, n.
The dulness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits.
Witty of sound judgment, of good undewtanding. H. 6,
T. P. i. 2, n. For they are soldiers,
Witty, courteous, liberal, full of spirit.
Woe to his correction woe compared to his correction. G. V.
ii. 4, n.
There is no woe to his correction.
Wolfish. Cor. ii. 3, n.
Why in this wolfish gown should I stand here ?
Woman of the world married. A. L. v. 3, n.
I hope it is no dishonest desire, to desire to be a
wiman of the world.
Woman-tired hen-pecked. W. T. ii. 3, n.
Thou dotard, thou art woman-tired.
Women actors. M. N. D. i. 2, i.
You shall play it in a mask.
Wont are accustomed. H. 6, F. P. i. 4, n.
How the English, in the suburbs close intrench'd,
Wont, through a secret grate of iron bars
In yonder tower, to overpeer the city.
Wood mad, wild. G. V. ii. 3, n.
Like a wood woman.
Wood wild, mad. M. N. D. ii. 2, n.
And here am I and wood within this wood.
Wood mad. H. 6, F. P. iv. 7, n.
How the young whelp of Talbot's, raging wood,
Did flesh his puny sword in Frenchmen's blood.
Wood mad. V. A. n.
Life-poisoning pestilence, and frenzies wood
Woodbine. M. N. D. iv. 1, n.
So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle gently
entwist.
Woodman hunter. M. W. v. 5, n.
Am I a woodman t ha !
Woolward wanting a shirt. L. L. L. v. 2, n.
I go woolward for penance.
Woosel-cock. M. N. D. iii. 1, '.
The woosel-cock, so black of hue.
With orange-tawny bill.
492
Worm. M. M. iii. 1, n.
For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork
Of a poor worm.
Worth fortune, wealth. T. N. iii. 3, n.
But, were my worth, as is my conscience, firm.
' Worth a Jew's eye.' M. V. ii. 5, t.
Will be worth a Jew's eye.
Worth the whistle. L. iv. 2, n.
I have been worth the whittle.
Worts generic name of cabbages. M. W. i. 1, .
Good worts I good cabbage !
Would it would. A. W. i. 1, n.
Had it stretched so far, would have made nat^<
immortal.
Wound twisted round. T. ii. 2, n.
Sometime am I
All wound with adders.
Wrack wreck. O. ii. 1, .
A noble ship of Venice
Hath seen a grievous wrack and sufferance.
Wreak revenge. Cor. iv. 5, n.
Then if thou hast
A heart of wreak in thee, that will revenge
Thine own particular wrongs.
Wren of nine. T. N. iii. 2, n.
Look where the youngest wren of nine comes.
Wretch. O. iii. 3, n.
Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul
But I do love thee.
rrrilhled wrinkled. H. 6, F. P. ii. 3, n.
It cannot be this weak and writhled shrimp
Should strike such terror to his enemies.
Wrying deviating from the right path. Cy. v. 1, n.
How many
Must murther wives much better than themselves,
For wrying but a little !
Y.
fare ready, nimble. M. M. iv. 2, n.
You shall find me yare.
Yare nimble. A. C. iii. 11, n.
A halter'd neck, which does the hangman thank,
For being yare about him.
Yarely quickly, readily. T. i. 1, n.
Fall to 't yarely, or we run ourselves aground.
Yeoman bailiff's follower. H. 4, S. P. ii. 1, n.
Where's your yeoman t
Yield (v.) reward. A. C. iv. 2, n.
Tend me to-night two hours, I ask no more,
And the gods yield you for 't.
Yonder generation. M. M. iv. 3, n.
Ere twice the sun hath made his journal greeting
To yonder generation, you shall find
Y iur safety manifested.
York, duchess of. R. S. v. 2, .
You areallow'd you are an allowed fool. L. L. L. v. 2, .
Go, you are allow'd.
You are too young in this. A. L. i. 1, n.
Come, come, elder brother, you are too young ir. this.
You are senseless be you senseless. Cy. ii. 3, n.
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.
Ytu priority you of priority. Cor. i. I, n.
We must follow you;
Right worthy you priority.
Younger youngling. M. V. ii. 6, n.
How like a younger, or a prodigal.
Your eyes. A. L. i. 2, n.
If you saw yourself with your eyes, or knew yourself
with your judgment.
Your gaskins fall. T. N. i. 5, n.
Clown. But I am resolved on two points.
Maria. That if one break the other will hold ; or, if
both break, your gaskins fall.
z.
Zeal, now melted. J. ii. 2 , n.
Lest zeal, now melted, by the w indy breath
Of soft petitions, pity, and remorse.
Cool and congeal again to what it was
I N D E X. II.
PERSONS REPRESENTED PLAYS. APPEARANCES.
AARON, a Moor T. And. . . Act i. So. 2; ii. 1, 3, 4 j iii. 1; iv. 2; T. 1, 8,
Abergavenny, Lord H. E i. 1.
Abhorson, an executioner M. M iv. 2, 3.
Abram, servant to Montague R. J i. 1.
Achilles, a Grecian commander T. C ii. 1, 3; iii. 3; iv. 5; T. 1, 5, 6, 7, 9.
Adam, servant to Oliver A. L i. 1 ; ii. 3, 6, 7.
Adrian, a lord T ii. 1 ; iii. 3 ; v. 1.
Adriana, wife to Antipholus of Ephesus C. E. . . . ii. 1, 2; iv. 2, 4; v. 1.
JEgeon, a merchant of Syracuse C. E i. 1 ; v. 1.
jEmilia, wife to jEgeon, an Abbess at Ephesus . . . C. E v. 1.
.lEmilius, a noble Roman T. And. . . . iv. 4 ; v. 1, 3.
.SJneas, a Trojan commander T. C i. 1, 2, 3; iv. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5; v. 2, 11.
Agamemnon, the Grecian general T. C i. 3 ; ii. 3; iii. 3; iv. 5 ; v. 1, 5, 10.
Agrippa, friend of Caesar A. C ii. 2, 4, 7; iii. 2, 6; iv. 1, 6, 7; v. 1.
Ague-cheek, Sir Andrew T. N i. 3; ii. 3, 5; iii. I, 2, 4; iv. 1 ; v. 1.
Ajax, a Grecian commander T. C ii. 1, 3; iii. 3j iv. 5; v. 1, 5, 6, 10.
Alarbus, son to Tamora T. And. . . . i. 2.
Albany, Duke of L i. 1, 4; iv. 2 ; v. 1, 3.
Alcibiades, an Athenian general T. Ath. . . . i. 1, 2; ii. 2; iii. 5 ; iv. 3 ; v. 5.
Alencon, Duke of H. 6, F. P. . . i. 2, 6; ii. 1 ; iii. 2, 3 ; iv. 7; v. 2, 4.
Alexander, servant to Cressida . . T. C i. 2.
Alexas, an attendant on Cleopatra A. C i. 2, 3, 5; ii. 5; iii. 3; iv. 2.
Alice, a lady attending on the Princess Katherine . . H. F iii. 4 ; v. 2.
Alonzo, King of Naples T i. 1; ii. 1 ; iii. 3; v. 1.
Ambassador H. ..... v. 2.
Ambassadors to the King of England H. F i. 2.
Amiens, a lord, attending upon the Duke in his A. L ii. 1, 5, 7 ; v. 4.
banishment.
Andromache, wife to Hector T. C. . v. 3.
Andronicus, Marcus, brother to Titus Andronicus . . T. And. . . . i. 1, 'l\ ii. 2, 5; iii. ], 2; iv. J, 3; v. 2, 8.
Andronicus, Titus, a noble Roman T. And. . . . i. 2; ii. 2, 4; iii. 1, 2; iv. 1, 3j v. 2, 3.
Angelo, a goldsmith C. E iii. 1, 2; iv. 1 ; v. 1.
Angelo, the deputy [in the Duke's absence] . . . . M. M i. 1 ; ii. 1, 2, 4; iv. 4; v. 1.
Angus, a nobleman of Scotland M i. 3, 4, 6 ; v. 2, 4, 7.
Anne, Lady, widow of Edward Prince of Wales, son to R. T i. 2; iv. 1.
King Henry VI. ; afterwards married to the Duke
of Gloster.
Antenor, a Trojan commander T. C i. 2; iv. 1, 8, 4.
Antigonus, a Sicilian lord W. T ii. 1, 3 ; iii. 3.
Antiochus, king of Antioch P i. 1.
Antipholus of Ephesus, twin-brother to Antipholus of C. E. ... iii. 1 j iv. 1, 4; v. 1.
Syracuse, but unknown to him, and son to JEgeon
and jEmilia.
Antipholus of Syracuse, twin-brother to Antipholus of C. E. . . . . i. 2 ; ii. 2 j iii. 2 ; iv. 8, 4; v. 1
Ephesus, but unknown to him, and son to JEgeon
and /Emilia.
Antonio, father to Proteus G. V.
Antonio, the Merchant of Venice M. V.
Antonio, brother to Leonato M. A.
Antonio, a sea-captain, friend to Sebastian . . . . T. N.
Antonio, brother to Prospero, and usurping Duke of T.
3.
1,3; ii. 6; iii. 3; iv. 1 ; T. I
2; ii. 1; v. 1, 4.
i. 1; iii. 3, 4; v. 1.
. 1 j ii. 1 j iii. 3 ; T. 1.
Milan.
Antonius, Marcus, a triumvir after the death of Julius J. C i. 2 j ii. 2 ; iii. 1, 2 ; iv. 1 ; v. 1, 4, 0.
Antony, Mark, a triumvir A. C . . i. 1, 2, 3; ii. 2, 3, 6, 7; iii. 2, 4, 7, 8, 9, 11; iv
2, 4, 5, 7, 8, 10, 12, 18.
Apemantus, a churlish philosopher T. Ath. . . . i. 1, 2; ii. 2; iv. 8.
Apothecary ... R. J. . . . . v. 1.
493
INDEX. II.
PERSONS REPRESENTED. PLAYS APPEARANCES.
Aichidamus, a Bohemian lord W. T. . . . Act i. Sc. 1.
Arcite, in love with Emilia T. N. K. . . i. 2 ; ii. 1, 2, 3, 5; iii. 1, 3, 5,6; v. 1, 3, 4
Ariel, an airy spirit T i. 2; ii. 1 ; iii. 2, 3 ; iv. 1 j v. 1.
Armado, Don Adriano de, a fantastical Spaniard . . , L. L. L. . . . i. 2; iii. 1 ; v. 1, 2.
Arragon, Prince of M. V. . . . ii. 9.
Artemidorus, a sophist of Cnidos J. C ii. 3 ; iii. 1.
Arthur, Duke of Bretagne, son of Geffrey, late Duke of J. . . . . ii. lj iii. 1, 2, 3; iv. 1, 3.
Bretagne, the elder brother of King John.
Arviragus, son to Cymbeline, disguised under the name Cy. ... iii. 3, 6 ; iv. 2, 4 ; v. 2, 3, 5.
of Cadwal, supposed son to Belarius.
Astringer, a gentle A. W v. 1, 3.
Athenian, an old T. Ath. . . i. 1.
Attendant on the young Prince Mamillius W. T ii. 3.
Audrey, a country wench A. L iii. 3 ; v. 1, 3, 4.
Aufidius, Tullus, general of the Voices Cor i. 2, 8, 9 ; iv. 5, 7 ; v. 2, 3, 5.
Aumerle, Duke of, son to the Duke of York . . . . R. S i. 3, 4 ; ii. 1 ; iii. 2, 3 ; iv. 1 ; v. 2, 3
iustria, Archduke of J ii. 1,2; iii. 1.
Autolycus, a rogue . . . W. T. . . iv. 2, 3 ; v. 2.
Auvergne, Countess of H. 6, F. P. . . ii. 3.
Bagot, a creature to King Richard . ,. R. S i. 4 ; ii. 1, 2; iv. 1.
Balthazar, a merchant C. E iii. 1.
Balthazar, servant to Portia M. V iii. 4.
Balthazar, servant to Don Pedro M. A i. 1; ii. 1,3.
Balthazar, servant to Romeo R. J i. 1; v. 1.3.
Banquo, a general of the King's army M i. 3, 4, 6; ii. 1, 3; iii. 1, 3.
Baptista, a rich gentleman of Padua T. S i. 1 ; ii. 1 ; iii. 2; iv. 4; v. 1, 2.
Bardolph, follower of Falstaff M. W i. 1, 3; ii. 2; iii. 5 ; iv. 3, 5.
^ardolph H. 4, F. P. . . ii. 2, 4 ; iii. 3 ; iv. 2.
Bardolph, Lord, an enemy to the King H. 4, S. P. . . i. 1, 3.
Bardolph H. 4, S. P. . . ii. 1, 2, 4; iii. 2 ; iv. 3; v. 1, 3, 6
Bardolph, formerly servant to Falstaff, now a soldier in H. F ii. 1, 3 ; iii. 2.
King Henry's army.
Barnardine, a dissolute prisoner M. M iv. 3; v. 1.
Bassanio, friend to Antonio M. V i. 1, 3; ii. 2; iii. 2; iv. 1 ; v. 1.
Basset, of the Red Rose, or Lancaster faction . . . H. 6, F. P. . . iii. 4;iv. 1.
Bassianus, brother to Saturninus T. And. . . . i. 1,2; ii. 2, 3.
Bastard of Orleans H. 6, F. P. . . i. 2 ; ii. 1 ; iii. 2, 3 ; iv. 7 ; v. 4.
Bates, a soldier in King Henry's army H. F iv. 1.
Beatrice, niece to Leonato M. A i. 1 ; ii. 1, 3 ; iii. 1, 4; iv. 1 ; v. 2, 4.
Beaufort, Cardinal, Bishop of Winchester, great-uncle H. G, S. P. . . i. 1, 3 j ii. 1 ; iii. 1, 2, 3.
to the King.
Bedford, Duke of, brother to the King H. F. . . . i. 2; ii. 2 ; iii. 1 ; iv. 1, 3; v. 2.
Bedford,Duke of, uncle to the King,and regent of France H. 6, F. P. . . i. 1 ; ii. 1, 2; iii. 2.
Belarius, a banished lord, disguised under the name of Cy iii. 3, 6 ; iv. 2, 4 ; v. 2, 3, 5.
Morgan.
Belch, Sir Toby, uncle of Olivia T. N i. 3, 5; ii. 3, 5; iii. 1, 2, 4; iv. 1, 2 ; v. I
Benedick, a young lord of Padua, favourite of Don Pedro M. A i. 1; ii. 1, 3; iii. 2 ; iv. 1 ; v. 1, 2, 4.
Benvolio, nephew to Montague, and friend to Romeo . R. J i. 1, 2, 4; ii. 1, 4; iii. 1.
Berkeley, Earl R. S ii. 3.
Bernardo, an officer H i. 1, 2.
Bertram, Count of Rousillon A. W i. 1, 2 ; ii. 1, 3, 5; iii. 3, 5, 6 ; iv. 2, 3 ; v.
Bianca, daughter to Baptista, and sister to Katherina T. S i. 1 ; ii. 1 ; iii. 1,2; iv. 2 ; v. 1, 2.
Bianca, a courtezan O iii. 4; iv. 1; v. 1.
Biondello, servant to Lucentio T. S i. 1, 2; ii. 1 ; iii. 2; iv. 2, 4 ; v. 1, 2.
Biron, Lord, attending on the King L. L. L. . . . i. 1 ; ii. 1 ; iii. 1 ; iv. 3; v. 2.
Blanch, daughter to Alphonso King of Castile, ard J ii. 1,2; iii. 1.
niece to King John.
Blount, Sir James R. T v. 2.
Blunt, Sir Walter H. 4, F. P. . . i. 1, 3; iii. 1 ; iv. 3 ; v. 1, 3.
Bolingbroke, Henry, Duke of Hereford, son to John of R. S i. 1, 3; ii. 3; iii. 1, 3; iv. 1 ; v. 3. C.
Gaunt, afterwards King Henry IV.
Bolingbroke, a conjuror; and a spirit raised by him H. G, S. P. . . i. 4 ; ii. 3.
Bona, sister to the French Queen H. G, T. P. . . iii. 3.
Borachio, follower of Don John M. A i. 3; ii. I, 2; Ui. 3; iv. 2 ; v. 1.
Bottom, the weaver M. N. D. . . . i. 1; iii. 1; iv. 1, 2.
Bouchier, Cardinal, Archbishop of Canterbury . . . R. T iii. 1.
Boult, servant to the Pander P. ..... iv. 3, 6.
Bourbon, Duke of H. F iii. 5; iv. 5.
Boy M. A. . . . ii. 3.
Boy, servant to Nym, Bardolph, and Pistol . . . . H. F ii. 1, 3; iii. 2 ; iv. 4.
Boy R. J i. 2..
494
INDEX. II.
PERSONS REPRESENTED. PLAYS. APPEARANCES.
Boyet, a lord attending on the Princess of France . . L. L. L. . . . Act ii. Sc. 1 ; iv. 1 j v. 2.
Brabantio, a senator ; father to Desdemona . . . . O i. 1, 2, 3.
Brakenbury, Sir Robert, Lieutenant of the Tower . . R. T i. l,4;iv. 1.
Brandon H. E i. 1.
Brother to the Gaoler T. N. K. . . iv. 1.
Brutus, Decius, a conspirator against Julius Caesar . J. C i. 2 ; ii. ), 2 ; Hi. 1.
Brutus, Marcus, a conspirator against Julius Caesar . J. C ii. 1, 2; iii. 1, 2j iv. 2, J ; v. 1, 2, 3, 4, 6.
Brutus, Junius, a tribune of the people Cor i. 1 ; ii. 1, 2, 3; iii. 1, 3; iv. 2, 6 ; v. 1.
Buckingham, Duke of ; of the King's party . . . . H. 6, S. P. . . i. 1, 3, 4 ; ii. 1 j iii. 1; iv. 4, 8, 9; v. 1.
Buckingham, Duke of R. T i. 3; ii. 1, 2; iii. 1, 2, 4, 5, 7; iv. 2; v. 1.
Buckingham, Duke of H. E i. 1 ; ii. 1.
Bull-calf, a recruit H. 4, S. P. . . iii. 2.
Bullen, Anne, Maid of Honour to Queen Katherine ; H. E i. 4 ; ii. 3.
afterwards Queen.
Burgundy, Duke of H. F ii. 4; v. 2.
Burgundy, Duke of H. 6, F. P. . . i. 2 ; ii. 1, 2 ; iii. 2, 3 ; iv. 7; v 2.
Burgundy, Duke of L. . . . . i. 1.
Bushy, a creature to King Richard R. S i. 4; ii. 1, 2; iii. 1.
Butts, Doctor, physician to the King H. E v. 2.
Cade, Jack, a rebel H. 6, S. P. . . iv. 2, 3, 6, 7, 8, 10.
Caesar, Julius J. C i. 2 ; ii. 2 ; iii. 1.
Caesar, Octavius,a triumvir afterthe death of JuliusCaesar J. C iv. 1 ; v. 1, 5.
Caesar, Octavius, a triumvir A. C i. 4; ii. 2, 3, 6, 7; iii 2, 6, 8, 10 j iv. 1, 6, 10
v. 1,2.
Caius. Dr., a French physician M. W. . . . i. 4; ii. 3 ; iii. 1, 2, 3; iv. 2, 5 ; v. 3, 5.
Caliban, a savage and deformed slave T i. 2; ii. 2; iii. 2 ; iv. 1; v. 1.
Calphurnia, wife to Caesar J. C i. 2 j ii. 2.
Cambridge, Earl of, a conspirator against the King . . H. F. . . . . ii. 2.
Camillo, a Sicilian lord W. T. . . . i. 1, 2 ; iv. 1, 3; v. 3.
Campeius, Cardinal H. E. - . ii. 2, 4; iii. 1.
Canidius, lieutenant-general to Antony A. C iii. 7, 8.
Canterbury, Archbishop of H. F i. 1, 2.
Caphis, servant to one of Timon's creditors .... T. Ath . . ii. 1, 2.
Captain, a Sea, friend to Viola T. N. . . . i. 2.
Captain of a band of Welshmen R. S. . . . ii. 4.
Captain ... H iv. 4.
Captain, a Roman Cy iv. 2.
Captain T. And. . . i. 2.
Captain, Sea, Master, and Master's Mate . . . . H. 6, S. P. . . iv. 1.
Captains, two British . Cy. . v. 3.
Capucius, ambassador from the Emperor CharJes V. . H. E. . . . iv. 2.
Capulet R. J. , . . . i. 1, 2, 5 ; iii. 1, 4, 5 j iv. 2, 4, 5; v. 3.
Capulet, Lady, wife to Capulet . . R. J . . . . i. 1, 3 ; iii. 1, 4, 5 ; iv. 2, 3, 4, 5; v. 3
Carlisle, Bishop of R. S iii. 2, 3 ; iv. 1 ; v. 6.
Casca, a conspirator against Julius Caesar J. C. . . . i. 2, 3; ii. 1, 2 ; iii. 1.
Cassandra, daughter to.Priam ; a prophetess . . . . T. C ii. 2 ; v. 3.
Cassio, lieutenant to Othello O i. 2; ii. 1, 3 j iii. 1, 3, 4; iv. 1 j v. 1, 2.
Cassius, a conspirator against Julius Caesar . . . . J. C i. 2, 3 ; ii. 1 j iii. 1, 2 ; iv. 2, 3; v. 1, 3.
Catesby, Sir William R. T. . , . i. 3; iii. 2, 5, 7 j iv. 2, 4; v. 3, i.
Cathness, a nobleman of Scotland M v. 2, 4, 7.
Cato, young, a friend to Brutus and Cassius . . . . J. C. . . . v. 3, 4.
Celia, daughter to Frederick A. L. , . . . i. 2. 3; ii. 4; iii. 2, 4, 5 ; iv. 1, 3; v. 4.
Ceres, a spirit T. . . . . iv. 1.
Cerimon, a lord of Ephesus P "> 2, 4 ; v. 3.
Chalcas, a Trojan priest taking part with the Greeks . T. C. . . . . iii. 3 ; v. 2.
Chamberlain, Lord H. E. . . . i. 3, 4; ii. 2, 3; iii. 2; v. 2, 3.
Chancellor, Lord H. E v. 2.
Charles, wrestler to Frederick A. L 1. 1, 2.
Charles VI., King of France H. F ii. 4 ; iii. 5 ; v. 2.
Charles, Dauphin, and afterwards King of France . . H. 6, F. P. . . i. 2, 5, 6; ii. 1 ; iii. 2, iv. , v. 2, 4.
Charmian, an attendant on Cleopatra A. C i. 2, 3,5; ii. 5; iii. 3, 9, 11; iv.2, 4, 11, 13; r.
Chatillon, ambassador from France to King John . . J i. 1 ; ii. 1.
Chiron, son to Tamora T. And. . . . i. 2; ii. 1, 2, 3, 5; iv. 2, 4 v. 2.
Chorus H. F i. ii. iii. iv. v.
Chorus K" J 5 -
Cicero, a senator J. C. .... i. 2, 3.
Cinna, a conspirator against Julius Cassar J. C i. S; ii. 1, 2; iii. 1
Cinna, a pcet ' C iii- S.
Citizen ot Antium Cor iv. 4.
Clarence, Thomas, Duke of H. 4, 8. P. . . iv. 4;v. 2.
195
INDEX. II.
PERSONS REPRESENTED. PLAYS. APPEARANCES.
Clarence, George, Duke of, brother to Edward IV. . . R. T Act i. So. 1, 4.
Claudio, a young lord of Florence, favourite of Don Pedro M. A i. 1 ; ii. 1,3; Ui.2; iv. 1 ; v. I, 3, 4.
Claudio, a young gentleman M. M i. 3; iii. 1 ; iv. 2; v. 1.
Claudius, King of Denmark H i. 2; ii. 2 ; iii. 1, 2, 3; iv. 1, 3, 5, 7 ; v. 1. i.
Claudius, a servant to Brutus J. C iv. 3.
Cleomenes, a Sicilian lord W. T. . . , . iii. 1, 2; v. 1.
Cleon, Governor of Tharsu s P. i. 4 ; iii. 3 ; iv. 4.
Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt A. C i. 1, 2, 3, 5 ; ii. 5 ; iii. 3, 7, 9, 11 ; iv. 2, 4, 8
10, 11, 13; v. 2.
Clerk of Chatham H. 6, S. P. . . iv. 2.
Clifford, Lord, of the King's party H. 6, S. P. . . iv. 8, 9; v. 1, 2.
Clifford, young, son to Lord Clifford H. 6, S. P. . . v. 1, 2.
Clifford, Lord, a lord on King Henry's side . . . . H. 6, T. P. . . i. 1, 3, 4; ii. 2, 4, 6.
Clitus, a servant to Brutus J- C v. 5.
Cloten, son to the Queen by a former husband . . . Cy i. 3; ii. 1, 3; iii. 1, 5 ; iv. 1, 2.
Clown, servant to the Countess of Rousillon . . . . A. W i. 3; ii. 2, 4; iii. 2; iv. 5; v. 2.
Clown, servant to Olivia T. N i. 5; ii. 3, 4; iii. 1 ; iv. 1, 2; v. 1
Clown M. M i. 2 ; ii. 1 ; iii. 2 ; iv. 2, 3.
Clown, son to the old shepherd W. T iii. 3 ; iv. 2, 3 ; v. 2.
Clown, servant to Othello O. . . . iii. J , 4.
Clown A. C v. 2.
Clown T. And. . . . iv. 3, 4.
Cobweb, a fairy M. N. D. . - iii. 1 ; iv. 1
Colevile, Sir John, an enemy to the King H. 4, S. P. . . iv. 3.
Cominius, a general against the Voices ...... Cor i. 1, 6, 9j ii. 1, 2 ; iii. 1, 2, 3 ; iv. 1, 6; v. 1.
Conrade, follower of Don John M. A. . . i. 3; iii. 3 ; iv. 2 ; v. 1.
Conspirators with Aufidius Cor v. 5.
Constable of France H. F ii. 4; iii. 5, 7 ; iv. 2, 6.
Constance, mother to Arthur J ii. 1 ; iii. 1, 4.
Cordelia, daughter to Lear L. . . . . i. 1 ; iv. 4, 7 ; v. 2, 3.
Corin, a shepherd A. L ii. 4 ; iii. 2, 4, 5 ; v. 1 .
Coriolanus, Caius Marcius, a noble Roman .... Cor i. 1, 4, 5, 6, 8, 9; ii. 1, 2, 3 ; iii. 1,2, 3; iv. 1
4, 5; v. 2, 3, 5.
Cornelius, a courtier H. . . . i. 2 ; ii. 2.
Cornelius, a physician Cy i. 6; v. 5.
Cornwall, Duke of L i. 1 ; ii. 1, 2, 4 ; iii. 5, 7.
Costard, a clown L. L. L. . . i. 1, 2; iii. 1 ; iv. 1, 2 ; v. 1, 2
Court, a soldier in King Henry's army H. F iv. 1.
Courtezan C. E. ... iv. 3, 4; v. 1.
Courtier H v. 2.
Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury H. E ii. 4; v. 1, 2, 4.
Cressida. daughter to Chalcas T. C i. 2 ; iii. 2 ; iv. 2, 4, 5 ; v. 2.
Crier H. E. . . . ii. 4.
Cromwell, servant to Wolsey H. E. . . . iii. 2 ; v. 2.
Cupid and Maskers T. Ath. . . . i. 2.
Curan, a courtier L ii. 1.
Curio, a gentleman attending on the Duke T. N i. 1, 4; ii. 4.
Curtis, servant to Petrucio T. S iv. 1.
Cymbeline, King of Britain Cy i. 2 ; ii. 3 ; iii. 1, 5; iv. 3 ; v. 2 3, 5
Dancer, a speaker of the epilogue H. 4, S. P. . Epilogue.
Dardanius, a servant to Brntus J. C v. 5.
Daughter to the Gaoler, in love with Palamon . . . T. N. K. . . . ii. 1, 4, 6; iii. 2, 4, 5 ; iv. 1, 3- v. 8.
Daughter of Clarence R. T ii. 2; iv. 1.
Daughter to Antiochus P i. 1.
Davy, servant to Shallow H. 4, S. P. . . v. 1, 3.
Deiphobus, son to Priam T. C iv. 1, 3, 4.
Demetrius, in love with Hermia M. N. D. . . . i. 1 ; ii. 2, 3 ; iii. 2; iv. 1 ; v. i.
Demetrius, friend of Antony A. C i. 1.
Demetrius, son to Tamora T. And. . . . L 2 ; ii. 1, 2, 3, 5; iv. 2, 4; 2.
Dennis, servant to Oliver A. L i. 1.
Denny, Sir Anthony H. E v. 1.
Dercetas, friend of Antony A. C iv. 12; v. 1.
Desdemona, wife to Othello O i. 3 ; ii. 1, 3; iii. 3, 4; iv. 1, 2, 3 , v. 2.
Diana, daughter to the Widow A. W iii. 5; iv. 1, 4 ; v. 1, 3.
Diana P v. 2.
Dick, a follower of Jack Cade H. 6, S. P. . . iv. 2, 3, 6, 7.
Diomedes, a Grecian commander T. C ii. 3; iii. 3 ; iv. 1, 3, 4, 5 ; v. 1, 2, 4, 5. 6, 10.
Diomedes, an attendant on Cleopatra A. C iv. 12, 13.
Dion, a Sicilian lord W. T iii. 1,2; v. 1.
Dionyza, wife to Cleon P i. 4; iii. 3 ; iv. 1, 4.
496
INDEX. II.
PERSONS REPRESENTED. PLAYS. APPEARANCES.
Doctor, an English M Act. iv. Sc. 3.
Doctor, a Scotch M v. 1, 3.
Dogberry, a city officer . . . M. A iii. 3, 5 ; iv. 2; v. 1.
Dolabella, friend of Caesar A. C iii. 10; v. 1, 2.
Donalbain, son to Duncan M i. 2, 4, 6 ; ii. 3.
Door-keeper of the council-chamber H. E v. 2.
Dorcas, a shepherdess W. T iv. 3.
Dorset, Marquis of, son to King Edward's queen . . R. T i. 3; ii. 1, 2; iv. 1.
Douglas, Archibald, Earl of H. 4, F. P. . . iv. 1, 3; v. 2, 3, 4.
Drornio of Ephesus, twin-brother to Drornio of Syracuse, C. E i. 2 ; ii. 1 ; iii 1 ; iv. 1, 4; v. 1.
and attendant on Antipholus of Ephesus.
Dromio of Syracuse, twin-brother to Dromio of Ephesus, C. E i. 2; ii. 2; iii. 1, 2: iv. 1, 2, 3, 4; v. 1.
and attendant on Antipholus of Syracuse.
Duke, father to Silvia G. V ii. 4; iii. 1, 2; v. 2, 4
Duke, living in exile A. L ii. 1, 7; v. 4.
Dull, a constable L. L. L. . . . i. 1, 2; iv. 2; v. 1.
Dumain, a lord attending on the King L. L. L. . . . i. 1 ; ii. 1 ; iv. 3 ; v. 2.
Duncan, King of Scotland M i. 2, 4, 6.
Edgar, son to Gloster . . . .. L i. 2; ii. 1, 3; iii. 4, 6; iv. 1, fl; v. 1. 2, 3.
Edmund, Earl of Rutland, son to the DuVe of York . H. 6, T. P. . . i. 3.
Edmund, bastard son to Gloster L. i. \, 2; ii. 1, 2; iii. 3, 5, 7; iv. 2; v. 1, 3.
Edward, son to the Duke of Jfork H. 6, 8. P. . . v. 1.
Edward, Earl of March, afterwards King Edward IV., H. 6, T. P. . . i. 1, 2 j ii. 1, 2, 3, 6 ; iii. 2; iv. 1, 5, 7; v. I, 3
son to the Duke of York. 3, 4, 5, 7.
Edward, Prince of Wales, son to Henry VI H. 6, T. P. . . i. 1 ; it 2, 5; Ui. 3; v. 4, 5.
Edward IV., King R. T ii. 1.
Edward, Prince of Wales, afterwards King Edward V., R. T iii. 1.
son to Edward IV.
Egeus, father to Hermia M. N. D. . . . i. 1 ; iv. 1.
Enamour, agent for Silvia in her escape G. V iv. 3; v. 1.
Elbow, a simple constable M. M ii. 1 ; iii. 2.
Elinor, the widow of King Henry II., and mother of J i. 1; ii. I, 2; iii. 1, 3.
King John.
Elizabeth, queen to King Edward IV R. T i. 3j ii. 1, 2, 4; iv. 1, f.
Ely, Bishop of H. F i. 1, 2.
Emilia, a lady attending on the Qaeen W. T ii. 2.
Emilia, wife to lago O ii. 1 ; iii. 1, 3, 4; iv. 2, 3; v. 1, 2.
Emilia, sister to Hippolyta T. N. K. . . . i. 1, 3; ii. 2, 5 ; iii. 5, 6; iv. 2; v. 1, 3, 4.
Enobarbus, Domitius, friend of Antony A. C ii. 2; ii. 2, 6, 7; iii. 2, 5, 7, 8, 11 j iv. 2, 6, 9
Eros, friend of Antony A. C iii. 5, 9; iv. 4, 5, 7, 12.
Erpingham, Sir Thomas, an officer in King Henry's army H. F iv. 1.
Escalus, an ancient lord [joined with Angelo in the depu- M. M. . . . i. 1 ; ii. 1; iii. 2; iv. 4; v. 1
tat ion].
Escalus, Prince of Verona R. J i. 1 ; iii. 1 ; v. 3.
Escanes, a lord of Tyre P i. 3; ii. 4.
Essex, Geffrey Fitz-Peter, Earl of, chief justiciary of J i. 1.
England.
Euphronius, an ambassador from Antony to Caesar . A. C iii. 10, 11.
Evans, Sir Hugh, a Welsh parson M. W i. 1, 2; iii. 1, 2, 3; iv. 1, 2, 4, 5; v. 4, 5.
Exeter, Duke of. uncle to the King H. F i. 2; ii. 2, 4; iii. 1 ; iv. 3, 6, 7, 8; v. 2.
Exeter,ThomasBeaufort,Dukeof,great-uncletotheKing H. 6, F. P. . . i. 1 ; iii. 1 ; iv. 1 j v. 1, 5.
Exeter, Duke of, a lord on King Henry's side . . . . H. 6, T. P. . . i. 1 ; ii 6 ; iv. 8.
Exton, Sir Pierce of R. S v. 4, 5, 6.
Fabian, servant to Olivia T. N ii. 5; iii. 2, 4; iv. 1 ; v. 1.
Falstaff, Sir John M. W i. 1, 3; ii. 2; iii. 3, 5, iv. 2, 5 j v. 1, 5.
Falstaff, Sir John H. 4, F. P. . . i. 2 ; ii. 2, 4; iii. 3; iv. 2 ; v. 1, 3, 4.
Falstaff H. 4, S. P. . . i. 2; ii. 1, 4; iii. 2 ; iv. 3; v. 1, 3, 5.
Fang, a sheriffs officer H. 4. S. P. . . ii. 1.
Fastolfe, Sir John H. 6, F. P. . . iii. 2; iv. 1.
Father that has killed his son H. 0, T. P. . . ii. 5.
Faulconbridge, Robert, son of Sir Robert Faulconbridge J i. 1.
Faulconbridge, Philip, half-brother to Robert Faulcon- J i. 1 ; ii. 1, 2 ; iii. 1, 2 3- iv. 2, 3 ; v. I, 2, ( T.
bridge, bastard son to King Richard I.
Faulconbridge, Lady, mother to the Bastard and Robert J i. 1.
Faulconbridge.
Feeble, a recruit H. 4, 8. P. . . iii. 2.
Fcnton , M. W i. 4: iii. 4; iv. 6; v. 5.
Ferdinand, King of Navarre L. L. L. . . . i. 1 ; ii. 1 ; iv. S; v. 2.
Ferdinand, son to the King of Naples T i. 1, 2 ; Iii. 1 ; iv. 1 ; v. 1.
Snp. VOT,. 2 K 4ft7
INDEX. II.
PERSONS REPRESENTED PLAYS. APPEARANCES
Fitzwater, Lord . . E.. S Act iv. Sc. 1 ; v. 6.
Flaminus, servant to Timon T. Ath. . . . ii. 2 ; iii. 1, 4.
Flavius, steward to Timon T. Ath. . . . i. 2 ; ii. 2 ; iii. 4 ; iv. 2, 3 ; v. 2.
I-'lavius, a tribune J. C i. 1.
Fleance, son to Banquo M it 1 , iii. 3.
Florence, Duke of A. W iii. 1, 3.
Florizel, son to Polixenes W. T iv. 3; v. 1,3.
Fluellen, an officer in King Henry's army H. F Hi. 2, 6; iv. 1, 7 ; v. 1.
Flute, the bellows-mender M. N. D. . . . i. 1 ; Hi. 1 j iv. 2.
Fool T. Ath. ... it. 2.
Fool L i. 4, 5 ; ii. 4 ; iii. 2, 4, 6.
Ford, Mr., a gentleman dwelling at Windsor . . . . M. W ii. 1, 2 ; iii. 2, 3, 5 ; iv. 2, 4 ; v. 5.
Ford, Mrs - M. W i. 1: ii. 1 ; iii. 3 ; iv. 2, 4; v. 3, 5.
Forester , . L. .. L. . . . iv. 1.
Fortinbras, Prince of Norway H iv. 4; v. 2.
France, Princess of t. L. L. . . . ii. 1 ; iv. 1 ; v. 2.
France, King of A. W i. 2 ; ii. 1, 3; v. 3.
France, King of L i. 1.
Francisca, a nun M. M i. 5.
Francisco, a lord T ii. 1 ; iii. 3 ; v. 1.
Francisco, a soldier H LI.
Frederick, brother to the Duke, and usurper of his A. L. . . . . i. 2, 3; ii. 2; iii. 1.
dominions
Friar M. A iv. 1 ; v. 4.
Friends to the Gaoler T. N. K. . . . iv. 1.
Froth, a foolish gentleman M. M ii. 1.
Gadshill . . . : H. 4, F. P. . . ii. 1, 2, 4.
Gallus, friend of Caesar A. C v. 1, 2.
Gaoler W. T ii. 2.
Gaoler T. N. K. . . . ii. 1, 2; iv. U 3; v. 2.
Gaolers, two Cy v. 4.
Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester H. E. . . . . ii. 2 ; v. 1 , 2.
Gargrave, Sir William H. 6, F. P. . . i. 4.
Garter King-at-Arms H. E v. 4.
Gaunt, John of, Duke of Lancaster, uncle to the King R. S i. i, 2, 3; ii. 1.
General of the French forces in Bordeaux H. 6, F. P. . . iv. 2.
Gentleman attending on the Chief-Justice H. 4, S. P. . . i. 2.
Gentleman, French, friend to Philario Cy i. 5.
Gentleman, attendant on Cordelia L iv. 3, 6.
Gentlemen, two fantastic M. M i. 2, 3.
Gentlemen, two, prisoners with Suffolk ...... H. 6, S. P. . . iv. 1.
Gentlemen, three H. E. . . . ii. 1 ; iv. I.
Gentlemen, two, of Cymbeline's court Cy i. 1 ; ii. 1.
Gentlewoman, attending on Lady Macbeth . . . . M v. 1.
Gentlewoman, attending on Virgilia Cor. . . i. 3.
George, a follower of Jack Cade ........ H. 6, S. P. . iv. 2, 7.
George, afterwards Duke of Clarence, son to the Duke H. 6, T. P. . ii. 2, 3, 6 : iii. 2 ; iv. 1, 2, 6, 8 ; r. 1, 3, 4 5, 7.
of York.
Gerrold, a schoolmaster T. N. K. . . . iii. 5.
Gertrude, Queen of Denmark, and mother of Hamlet H. . . . i. 2 ; ii. 2 ; iii. 1, 2, 4 ; iv. 1, 5, 7 ; v. 1, 2
Ghost of Hamlet's father H i. 1,4, 5; iii. 4.
Glansdale, Sir William H. 6, F. P. . i. 4.
Glendower, Owen H. 4, F. P. iii. 1.
Gloster, Duchess of R. S. . . .2.
Gloster, Duke of, brother to the King H. F. . i. 2; iii. 1, 6; iv. 1, 3, 7, 8 ; v. 2.
Bloster, Duke of, uncle to the King, and Protector . H. 6, F. P. . i. 1, 3; iii 1, 4; iv. 1 ; v. 1, 5.
Gloster, Humphrey, Duke of, uncle to the King . . H. 6, S. P. . i 1, 2, 3; ii. 1, 3, 4; iii. 1.
Gloster, Eleanor, Duchess of H. 6, S. P. . . i. 2, 3, 4; ii. 3, 4.
Gloster, Richard, Duke of, brother to Edward IV., R. T. . . . i. 1,2, 3; ii. 1, 2; iii 1, 4, 5, 7; iv. 2, 3, 4; v.3, 4
afterwards King Richard III.
Gloster, Earl of L i. 1, 2; ii. 1, 2, 4 ; iii. 3, 4, 6; iv. 1, 6 ; v. 2.
Gobbo, Old, father to Launcelot M. V ii. 2.
Goneril, daughter to Lear L i 1, 3, 4; ii. 4; iii. 7j iv. 2 ; v 1,3.
Gonzalo, an honest old counsellor of Naples . . . . T i. 1; ii 1; iii. 3; v. 1.
Goths T. And. . . . v. 1.
Governor of Harfleur H. F iii. 3.
Governor of Paris H. 6. F. P. . . iv. 1.
Gower, of the King's party H. 4, S. P. . . ii. 1.
Cower, aa officer in King Henry's army H. F iii. 2, 6 ; iv. 1, 7, 8; v. 1.
Gower, as Chorus P i. ; ii. j iii. ; iv. 4 ; v. 2.
498
INDEX. II.
PERSONS REPR ESENTED. PLAYS. APPEARANCES.
Grandpre, a French lord H. P Act iv. Sc. 2.
Gratiano, friend to Antonio and Bassanio M. V i. 1 ; ii. 2, 4, 6 ; iii. 2 ; iv. 1 2 v 1
Gratiano, brother to Brabantio O v. 1, 2.
Green, a creature to King Richard R. S i. 4; ii. 1, 2 ; iii. 1.
Gregory, servant to Capulet R. J i. 1.
Gremio, a suitor to Bianca T. S i. 1, 2; ii. 1 ; iii. 2 v. 1 2.
Grey, Lord, son to King Edward's Queen R. T i. 3 ; ii. 1 j iii. S.
Grey, Sir Thomas, a conspirator against the King . . H. V ii. 2.
Grey, Lady, afterwards Queen to Edward IV. . . . H. 6, T. P. . . iii. 2; iv. 1, 4; v. 7.
Griffith, gentleman-usher to Queen Katherine . . . H. E ii. 4 ; iv. 2.
Grumio, servant to Petrucio T. 8 i. 2; iii. 2 ; iv. 1, 3; v. 2.
Guards, two Volcian Cor v. 2.
Guiderius, son toCymbeline, disguised under the name Cy iii. 3, 6; iv. 2, 4 ; v. 2, 3, 5.
of Polydore, supposed son to Belarius.
Guildenstern, a courtier H ii. 2; iii. 1, 2, 3; iv. 1, 2, 3, 4.
Guildford, Sir Henry H. E i. 4.
Gurney, James, servant to Lady Faulconbridge . . . J LI.
Hamlet, son to the former, and nephew to the present H i. 2, 4, 5 ; ii. 2 ; iii. 1, 2, 3 4 iv 2 3 4 T 1 2.
King.
Harcourt, of the King's party H. 4, S. P. . . iv. 4.
Hastings, Lord, an enemy to the King H. 4, S. P. . . i. 3 ; iv. 1,2.
Hastings, Lord ; of the Duke of York's party . . . H. 6, T. P. . . iv. 1, 5, 7 ; v. 7.
Hastings, Lord R. T i. 1, 3; ii. 1, 2 ; iii. 1, 2, 4.
Hecate M iii. 5.
Hector, son to Priam T. C i. 2; ii. 2; iv. S; v. 1, 3, 4, 6, 9.
Helen, woman to Imogen Cy ii. 2.
Helen, wife to Menelaus T. C iii. ].
Helena, in love with Demetrius M. N. D. . . . i. 1 ; ii. 2, 3 ; iii. 2; iv. 1; v. 1.
Helena, a gentlewoman protected by the Countess . . A. W i. 1, 3; ii. 1, 3, 4, 5; iii. 2, 5, 7 ; iv. 4 j v. 1, 3.
Helenus, soa to Priam T. C i. 2 ; ii. 2.
Helicanus, a lord of Tyre P i. 2, 3 ; ii. 4 j v. 1, 2, 3.
Henry, Prince, son to King John j afterwards King J r. 7.
Henry III.
Henry IV., King H. 4, F. P. . . i. 1, 3 ; iii. 1 ; v. 1, 4, 5.
Henry, Prince of Wales, son to the King H. 4, F. P. . . i. 2 ; ii. 2, 4; iii. I, 3; iv. 2; v. 1, 3, 4, 5.
Henry IV., King H. 4, S. P. . . iii. 1 ; iv. 4.
Henry, Prince of Wales; afterwards King Henry V. . H. 4, S. P. . . ii. 2, 4; iv. 4; v. 2, 5.
Henry V., King H. F i. 2; ii. 2; iii. 1, 3, 6; iv. 1, 3, 6, 7, 8; v. 2.
Henry VI., King H. C, F. P. . . iii. I, 4; iv. 1 ; v. 1, 5.
Henry VI., King H. 6, S. P. . . i. 1, 3; ii. 1, 3; iii. 1, 2, 3; iv. 4, 9; v. 1, 2.
Henry VI., King H. 6, T. P. . . i. 1 j ii. 2, 5; iii. 1 ; iv. 6, 8; v. 6.
Henry VIII., King H. E i. 2, 4; ii. 2, 4; iii. 2 ; v. 1, 2, 4.
Herald H. F iv. 8.
Herald . . H. 6, S. P. . . ii. 4.
Herald L v. 3.
Herald O ii. 2.
Herald, a Roman . . Cor ii. 1.
Herald T. N. K. . . . i. 4.
Herbert, Sir Walter R. T v. 2.
Hermia, daughter to Egeus, in love with Lysander . M. N. D. . . . i. 1 ; ii. S ; iii. 2 ; iv. 1 ; v. I.
Hermione, Queen to Leontes W. T i. 2; ii. 1; iii. 2; v. 3.
Hero, daughter to Leonato M. A i. 1 ; ii. 1 ; iii. 1,4; iv. 1; v. 4.
Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons, betrothed to Theseus M. N. D. . . . i. 1 ; iv. 1 ; v. 1.
Hippolyta, bride to Theseus T. N. K. . . . i. 1, 3; ii. 5; iii. 5, 6; iv. 2 ; v. 1, 3, 4.
Holofernes, a schoolmaster L. L. L. . . . iv. 2; v. 1, 2.
Horatio, friend to Hamlet H i. 1, 2, 4, 5 ; iii. 2; iv. 5, 6; v. 1, 2.
Horner, Thomas, an armourer H. 6, 8. P. . . i. 3 ; ii. 3.
Horteiuio, a suitor to Bianca T. S i. I, 2; ii. 1 j iii. 1, 2; iv. 2, 3, 5; v. 2.
Hortensius, servant to one of Timon's creditors . . T. Ath. . . . iii. 4.
Host, where Julia lodges G. V iv. 2.
Host of the Garter Inn M. W L 3 ; ii. 1, Z; iii. 1, 2; iv. 3, 5, 6.
Hubert de Burgh, chamberlain to the King . . . . J ii. 2; iii. 2, 3; iv. 1, 2, 3; v. 3, 6.
Hume, a priest H. 6, S. P. . . i. 2, 4 ; ii. 3.
Humphrey, Prince, of Gloster, afterwards created H. 4, S. P. . . iv. 4; v. 2.
(2 Henry V.) Duke of Gloster.
Huntsman, a H. 6, T. P. . . iv. 5.
Hymen, person representing A. L v. 4.
lachimo, a Roman, friend to Posthuraus
la^o, ancient to Othello
Alexander, a Kentish gentlemen .
Cy i. 5, 7; ii. 2, 4; v. 2, .
O i. 1, 2, 3; ii. 1, 3; iii. 1, 2, 3,4; IT. 1.3; v.t.2.
H. C,S. P. . . iv. 10; v. 1.
4P9
INDEX. II.
PERSONS REPRESENTED. PLAYS. APPEARANCES.
Imogen, daughter to Cymbeline by a former queen . . Cy Act i. Se. 2, 4, 7 ; u. 2, 3; iii. 2, 4. 0; iv. 2;
v. 2, 5.
Iras, an attendant on Cleopatra A. C i. 2, 3, 5 ; ii. 5 ; iii. 3,9,11: iv. 2, 11, 13; v. 2.
Iris, a spirit T iv. 1.
Isabel, queen of France H. F v. 2.
Isabella, sister to Claudio M. M i. 5; ii. 2, 4; iii. 1 ; iv. 1,3, 6; v. i.
Jamy, an officer in King Henry's army H. F iii. 2.
Jaquenetta, a country wench L. L. L. . . . i. 2 ; iv. 2.
Jaques, a lord, attending upon the Duke in his ban- A. ii ii. 5, 7; iii. 2, 3; iv. 1,2; v. 4.
ishment.
Jaques, son of Sir Rowland de Bois A. L v. 4.
Jessica, daughter to Shylock M. V ii. 3, 5, 0, iii. 2, 4, 5; v. 1.
Jeweller. T. Ath. . . . i. 1.
John, Don, bastard brother to Don Pedro M. A i. 1, 3 ; ii. 1, 2 ; iii. 2; iv. 1.
John, King J i. 1 ; H. 1, 2; iii. 1, 2, 3; iv. 3; . 1, 3, I.
John, Prince, of Lancaster, son to the King . . . . H. 4, F. P. . . v. 1, 4, 5.
John, Prince, of Lancaster, afterwards created (2 H. 4, S. V. . . iv. 2, 3, 4; v. 2, 5.
Hen. V.) Duke of Bedford.
John, a follower of Jack Cade H. 6, S. P. . . iv. 2, 7.
John, Friar, a Franciscan R. J v. 2.
Jourdain, Margery, a witch H. 6, S. P. . . i. 4 ; ii. 3.
Julia, a lady of Verona, beloved of Proteus . . . . G. V i. 2 ; ii. 2, 7 ; iv. 2, 4 j v. 2, 4.
Juliet, beloved of Claudio M. M -i. 3; ii. 3; v. 1.
Juliet, daughter to Capulet R. J i. 3, 5; ii. 2, 5, 8 ; iii. 2, 5 ; iv. 2, 3 ; v. 3.
Juno, a spirit T iv. 1.
Justice, a M. M ii. I.
Katherina, the Shrew, daughter to Baptista . . . . T. S i. 1 ; ii. 1 ; iii. 2; iv. 1, 3, 5 ; v. 1 2.
Katherine, Lady, attending on the Princess . . . . L. L. L. . . . ii. 1 ; iv. 1 ; v. 2.
Katherine, daughter of Charles and Isabel . . . . H. F iii. 4 j v. 2.
Katherine. Queen, wife to King Henry, afterwards H. E i. 2; ii. 4; iii. 1; iv. 2.
divorced.
Keeper to Mortimer H. 6, F. P. . . ii. 5.
Keepers, two H. 6, T. P. . . iii. 1.
Kent, Earl of L i. 1, 4, S ; ii. 2, 4; iii. 1, 2, 4, 6; iv. 3, 7 ; v. S.
Knights, six valiant T. N. K. . . . v. 1, 4.
La Pucelle, Joan, commonly called Joan of Arc . . H. 6, F. P. . . i. 2. 5, 6 ; ii. 1 ; iii. 2, 3 : iv. 7 ; v. 2, 3.
Ladies, two, attending on the Queen ... . . W. T ii. 1.
Lady attending on the Queen R. S iii. 4.
Lady, friend to Anne Bullen H. E ii. 3; v. 1.
Laertes, son to Polonius H i. 2, 3; iv. 5, 7 ; v. 1, 2.
Lafeu, an old lord A. W i. 1, 2; ii. 1, 3, 5 ; iv. 5 ; v. 2, 3.
Langley, Edmund of, Duke of York, uncle to the King R. S ii. 1, 2, 3 ; iii. 1, 3 ; iv. 1 ; v, 2, 3, C.
Launce, a clownish servant to Proteus G. V ii. 3, 5; iii. 1 ; iv. 4.
Launcelot Gobbo, a clown, servant to Shylock . . . M. V ii. 2, 3, 5 ; iii. 5 ; v. 1.
Laurence, Friar, a Franciscan R. J ii. 3, 6 ; iii. 3 ; iv. 1, 6; v. 2, 3.
Lavinia, daughter to Titus Andronicus T. And. . . . i. 2; ii. 2, 3; iii. 1, 2; iv. 1 ; v. 2, 3.
Lawyer H. 6, F. P. . . ii. 4.
Le Beau, a courtier attending upon Frederick . . . A. L i. 2.
Lear, King of Britain L i. 1, 4, 5 ; ii. 4; iii. 2, 4, 6 ; iv. 6, 7 ; v. 2, 3.
Lenox, a nobleman of Scotland M i. 2, 4, 6; ii. 3 ; iii. 1, 4, 6; iv. 1 ; v. 2, 4, J.
Leonardo, servant to Bassanio M. V ii. 2.
Leonato, governor of Messina M. A i. 1, 2 ; ii. 1, 3; iii. 2, 5 ; iv. 1 ; v. 1, 4.
Leonine, servant to Dionyza P iv. 1, 2.
Leontes, King of Sicilia W. T i. 2; ii. 1, 3; iii. 2 ; v. 1, 3.
Lewis, the Dauphin J ii. 2 j iii. 1, 4 ; v. 2, 5.
Lewis, the Dauphin H. F ii. 4; iii. 5, 7; iv. 2, 5.
Lewis XI., King of France H. 6, T. P. . . iii. 3.
Lepidus, Marcus .flLmilius, a triumvir after the death J. C iii. 1 ; iv. 1.
of Julius Caesar.
Lepidus, M. jEinilius, a triumvir A. C i. 4 ; ii. 2, 4, 6, 7 ; iii. 2.
Lieutenant of the Tower H. 6, T. P. . . iv. 6.
Lieutenant to Aufidius Cor iv. 7.
Ligarius, a conspirator against Julius Caesar . . . . J. C ii. 1, 2.
Lincoln, Bishop of H. E H. 4.
Lion, in the Interlude M. N. D. . . . v. 1.
Ludovico, kinsman to Brabantio O iv. 1, 3 ; v. 1, 2.
Longaville, Lord, attending on the King L. L. L. . . . i. 1 ; ii. 1 ; iv. S ; v. ?.
Lord, a Sicilian W. T v. 1.
Lord Chief-Justice of the King's Bench H. 4, S. P. . . i. 2 ; ii. 1 ; v. 2, 5.
500
INDEX. IT.
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
PLAYS.
APPEARANCES.
Lord Mayor of London R. T Act iii. Sc. 1, 5, 7.
Lords that serve with Bertram In the Florentine war . A. W iL 1, 3; iii. 1, 6; iv. 1, 8.
Lorenzo, in love with Jessica M. V i. 1 ; ii. 4, 8; Hi. 2, 4, 5; 7. 1.
Lovel, Lord R. T iii. 4, 5.
Lovell, Sir Thomas H. E i. 2, 3, 4; ii. 1 ; iii. 2; v. I.
Luce, servant to Adriana C. E iii. 1.
Lucentio, son to Vincentio, in love with Bianca . . . T. 8 i. 1, 2; ii. 1 ; iii. 1, 2; iv. 2, 4 j v. 1, 2.
Lucetta, waiting-woman to Julia G. V i. 2 ; ii. 7.
Luciana, sister to Adriana . . . C. E ii. 1, 2; iii. 2 ; iv. 2, 4; v. 1.
Lucilius, servant to Timon T. Ath. . . . i. 1.
Lucilius, a friend to Brutus and Cassias J. C iv. 2, 3 ; v. 1, 3, 4, 5.
Lucio, a fantastic . . . M. M i. 2, 3, 5; ii. 2; iiL 2; iv. 3; v. I.
Lucius, a flatterer of Timon T. Ath. . . . i. 2 ; iii. 2.
Lucius, servant to one of Timon's creditors .... T. Ath. . . . iii. 4.
Lucius, Caius, general of the Roman forces .... Cy iii. 1, S ; Iv. 2 ; v. 2, 5.
Lucius, a servant to Brutus J. C ii. 1, 4; iv. 2, 3.
Lucius, son to Titus Andronicus T. And. . . . i. 2; ii. 2, 4; iii. 1 ; v. 1, 3.
Lucius, young, a boy, son to Lucius T. And. . . . iii. 2 ; iv. 1, 2, 3 ; T. 3.
Lucullus, a flatterer of Timon T. Ath. . . . i. 2; iii. 1.
Lucy, Sir William H. 6, F. P. . . iv. 3, 4, 7.
Lychorida, nurse to Marina P iii. 1, 3.
Lysander, in love with Hennia M. N. D. . . .. i. 1 ; ii. 3 ; iii. 2 ; iv. 1 ; v. 1.
Lysimachus, governor of Mitylene P iv. 6 j v. 1, 2, 3.
Macbeth, a general of the King's army M i. 3, 4, 5, 7 ; ii. 1,2, 3; iii. 1, 2, 4; iv. 1 v. 3, 5, 7
Macbeth, Lady M i. 5, 6, 7; ii. 2, 3; iii. 1, 2, 4; v. 1.
Macduff, a nobleman of Scotland M i. 6; iL 3, 4; iv. 3; v. 4, 6, 7.
Macduff, Lady M iv. 2.
Macmorris, an officer in King Henry's army . . . . H. F iii. 2.
Malcolm, son to Duncan M i. 2, 4, 6 ; ii. 3 ; iv. 3 ; v. 4. 6, 7.
Malvolio, steward to Olivia T. N i. 5; ii. 2, 3, 5; iii. 4; iv. 2; v. 1.
Mamilius, son to Leontes W. T i. 2; ii. 1.
Man, old, tenant to Gloster L iv. 1.
Man, an old M ii. 4.
Marcellus, an officer H i. 1, 2, 4, 5.
March, Edmund Mortimer, Earl of H. 4, F. P. . . iii. 1.
March, Edmund Mortimer, Earl of H. 6, F. P. . . ii. 5.
Marcius, young, son to Coriolanus Cor v. 3.
Mardian, an attendant on Cleopatra A. C i. 5; ii. 5; iv. 11, 12.
Margarelon, a bastard son of Priam T. C v. 8.
Margaret, gentlewoman attending on Hero M. A ii. 1 ; iii. 1 , 4 ; 7. 2.
Margaret, daughter to Reignier, afterwards married to H. 6, F. P. . . v. 3.
King Henry.
Margaret, Queen to King Henry H. 6, S. P. . . i. 1, 3; ii. 1, 3; iii. 1, 2; iv. 4, 9; v. 1, 2.
Margaret, Queen H. 6, T. P. . . i. 1, 4; ii. 2, 5; iii. 3; v. 4, 5.
Margaret, widow to King Henry VI R. T i. 3 ; iv. 4.
Maria, a lady attending on the Princess L. L. L. . . . ii. 1 ; iv. 1 ; v. 2.
Maria, Olivia's woman T. N i. 3, 5; ii. 3, 5 j iii. I, 2, 4; iv. 2.
Mariana, neighbour and friend to the Widow .... A. W iii. S.
Mariana, betrothed to Angelo M. M iv. 1, 6; v. 1.
Marina, daughter to Pericles and Thaisa P iii. 3; iv. 1, 3; v. 1, 2, 3.
Mariner W. T iii. S.
Marshal, Lord, and another Lord R. S i. 3 ; ir. 1.
Marshal P ii. 3.
Martext, Sir Oliver, a vicar A.I, iii. 3.
Martius, son to Titus Andronicus . . T. And. . . . i. 2; ii. 2, 4; iii. 1.
Marullus, a tribune J. C LI.
Master of a ship, Boatswain, and Mariners T i. 1 ; 7. 1.
Master-Gunner of Orleans, and hi Son H. 6, F. P. . . i. i7.
Mayor of London H. 6, F. P. . . i. 3j iii. 1.
Mayor of St. Alban's H. 6, 8. P. . ii. 1.
Mayor of York H. 6, T. P. . . iv. 7.
Mecaenas, friend of Caesar A. C ii. 2, 4, 6, 7; iii. 6; iv. 1 ; v. I, t.
Melun, a French lord J. v. 2, 4.
Menas, friend of Pompey A. C ii. 1, C, 7.
Menecrates, friend of Pompey A. C ii. 1.
Menelaus, brother to Agamemnon T. C L 3; iii. 3; iv. 5; v. 1, 8, 10.
Menenius Agrippa, friend to Coriolanus Cor i. 1; ii. 1, 2, 3 ; iii. 1, 2, S ; iv. 1, 2, 6 ; v. 1, 1, 4.
Menteth, a nobleman of Scotland M v. 2, 4, 7.
Mercade, a lord attending on the Princess of France . L. L. L. . . . v. 2.
Merchant, friend to Antipholus of Syracuse . . . . C. E i. 2 ; iv. 1 ; v. 1.
501
INDEX. II.
PERSONS REPRESENTED. PJLAYS. APPEARANCES,
Merchant T. Ath. . . . Act i. Sc. 1.
Mercutio, kinsman to the Prince, and friend to Romeo R. J i. 4; ii. 1, 4 ; iii. 1.
Messala, a friend to Brutus and Cassius J. C iv. 3; v. 1, 2, 3, 5.
Messenger T. And. . . . iii. 1.
Metellus Cimber, a conspirator against Julius Caesar . J. C ii. 1, 2 ; iii. 1
Michael, Sir, a friend of the Archbishop H. 4, F. P. . . iv. 4.
Michael, a follower of Jack Cade H. 6, S. P. . . iv. 2.
Mirando, daughter to Prospero T i. 2; iii. 1; iv. 1; v. 1.
Montague, Marquis of ; of the Duke of York's party . H. 6, T. P. . . i. 1, 2; ii. 1, 6 ; iv. 1, 6, 8; v 1.
Montague R. J i. 1 ; iii. 1 i v. S.
Montague, Lady, wife to Montague ... . . . R. J i. 1 ; iii. 1.
Montano, Othello's predecessor in the government of O ii. 1, 3; v. 2.
Cyprus
Montgomery, Sir John ... H. 6, T. P. . . iv. 7.
Montjoy, a French herald H. F iii. 6 j iv. S, 7
Moonshine, in the Interlude M. N. D. . . . v. 1.
Mopsa, a shepherdess W. T iv. 3.
Morocco, Prince of M. V. . . . ii. 1, 7.
Mortimer, Lady, daughter to Glendower, and wife to H. 4, F. P. . . iii. 1.
Mortimer.
Mortimer, Sir John, uncle to the Duke of York . . . H. 6, T. P. . . i. 2.
Mortimer, Sir Hugh, uncle to the Duke of York . . H. 6, T. P. . . i. 2.
Morton, domestic of Northumberland H. 4, S. P. . . i. 1.
Morton, John, Bishop of Ely R. T. . . . iii. 4.
Moth, page to Armado L. L. L. . . . i. 2; iii. 1 ; v. 1, 2.
Moth, a fairy M. N. D. . . . iii. 1.
Mouldy, a recruit H. 4, S. P. . . iii. 2.
Mowbray, Lord, an enemy to the King H. 4, S. P. . . i. 3; iv. 1, 2.
Murderers, two H. 6, S. P. . . iii. 2.
Musicians, three R. J iv. 5.
Mustard-seed, a fairy M. N. D. . . . iii. 1 ; iv. 1.
Mutius, son to Titus Andronicus T. And. . . . i. 2.
Nathaniel, Sir, a curate L. L. L. . . . iv. 2; v. 1,2.
Nerissa, waiting-maid to Portia M. V i. 2; ii. 1, 9; iii. 2, 4; iv. 1, 2; v. 1.
Nestor, a Grecian commander T. C i. 3; ii. 3; iii. 3; iv. 5; v. 1, 5, 10.
Nobleman, a H. 6, T. P. . . iii. 2.
Norfolk Robert Bigot, Earl of J iv. 3; v. 2, 4, 7.
Norfolk, Mowbray, Duke of R. S i. 1, 3.
Norfolk, Duke of; of the Duke of York's party . . . H. 6, T. P. . . i. 1 ; ii. 2.
Norfolk, Duke of R. T v. 3, 4.
Norfolk, Duke of H. E i. 1, 2; ii. 2; iii. 2; v. 4.
Northumberland, Earl of R. S ii. 1, 3; iii. 1, 3; iv. 1 j v. 1, 6.
Northumberland, Henry Percy, Earl of H. 4, F. P. . . i. 3.
Northumberland, Earl of; an enemy to the King . . H. 4, S. P. . . i. 1 ; ii. 3.
Northumberland, Lady H. 4, S. P. . . ii. 3.
Northumberland, Earl of; a lord on King Henry's side H. 6, T. P. . . i. 1, 4 ; ii. 2.
Nurse to Juliet R. J i. 3, 5; ii. 2, 4, 5- iii. 2, 3, 5 ; iv. 2, 8, 4, 6.
Nurse and a black child T. And. . . iv. 2.
Nym, follower of Falstaff M. W i. 1, 3;ii. 1.
Nym, formerly servant to Falstaff, now a soldier in H. F ii. 1, 3; iii. 2.
King Henry's army.
Nymphs T. . . . . iv. 1.
Oberon, king of the fairies M. N. D. . . . ii. 2, 3 ; iii. 2; iv. 1 ; v. 2.
Octavia, sister to Caesar, and wife to Antony . . . . A. C ii. 3 ; iii. 2, 4, 6.
Officer R. J iii. 1.
Officer employed by Edmund L v. 3.
Officers of a court of judicature W. T iii. 2.
Oliver, son of Sir Rowland de Bois A. L i. 1 ; iii. 1 ; iv. 3 ; v. 2, 4.
Olivia, a rich countess T. N L S; iii. 1, 4; iv. 1, 3; v. 1.
Ophelia, daughter of Polonius H i. 3; ii. 1 ; iii. 1, 2 ; iv. 5.
Orlando, son of Sir Rowland de Bois A. L i. 1, 2; ii. 3, 6, 7; iii. 2; iv. 1 ; v. 2, 4.
Orleans, Duke of H. F iii. 7 ; iv. 2, 5.
Orsino, Duke of Illyria T. N i. 1, 4; ii. 4; v. 1.
Osric, a courtier H v. 2.
Oswald, steward to Goneril L i. 3, 4; ii. 2, 4; iii. 7; iv. 2, 5, 6.
Othello, the Moor O i- 2, 3; ii. 1, 3; iii. 2, 3, 4; iv. 1, 2, 3; T. 1, 8
Outlaws with Valentine G. V iv. 1 ; v. 3, 4.
Overdone, Mistress, a bawd M. M i. 2 ; iii. 2.
Oxford, Earl of; a lord on King Henry's side . . . H. 6, T. P. . . iii. 3 ; iv. 2, 6, 8 ; v. 1, 2, 4, 5.
Oxford, Earl of R. X v. 2, 3.
502
INDEX. II.
PERSONS REPRESENTED. PLAYS. APPEARANCES.
Page, Mr., a gentleman dwelling at Windsor . . . . M. W. . . . Act i.Sc. 1; ii 1; iiL 1, 2, 3, 4; iv. 2, 4; T. t,
Page, Mrs M. W L 1 ; ii 1 ; iii. 2, 3, 4; iv. 1, 2, 4; T. 3, 5.
Page, Mrs. Anne M. W Ll;iiL4jv. 5.
Page, William, a boy, son to Mr. Page M. \V. . . iv. 1.
Page A. W i 1.
Page H. 4, S. P. . . L 2; ii. 1, 2, 4; v. 1, 3, 5.
Page to Gardiner H. E T. 1.
Page to Paris R. J T. 3.
Page T. Ath. . . . ii. 2.
Painter T. Ath. . . . L 1 ; v. I.
Palamon, in love with Emilia T. N. K. . . . L 2; ii. 1, 2; iii. 1, 3, 6; v. 1, 4.
Pandarus, uncle to Cressida T. C . . . . L 1, 2j iii. 1, 2 ; iv. 2, 4; v. 3, 11.
Pander P iv. 3, 6.
Pandulph, Cardinal, the Pope's legate J. . . . . . UL 1, 4; v. 1, 2.
Panthino, servant to Antonio G. V i. 3 ; ii. 3.
Paris, a young nobleman, kinsman to the Prince . . R. J i. 2 ; iii. ) ; iv. 1, 5 ; v. 3.
Paris, son to Priam T. C i. 2; ii. 2 ; iii. 1 ; iv. 1, 3, 4, 8.
Parolles, a follower of Bertram A. W i 1. 2 ; ii. 1, 3, 4, 5 ; iii. 5, 6; iv. 1, S , v 2. 3
Patience, woman to Queen Katherine H. E iii. 1 ; iv. 2.
Patroclus, a Grecian commander T. C ii. 1, 3; iii. 3; iv. 5; v. 1.
Paulina, wife to Antigonus W. T ii. 2, 3 ; iii. 2 ; v. 1, 3.
Peas-blossom, a fairy M. N. D. . . . iii. 1 ; iv. 1.
Pedant, an old fellow sent up to personate Vincentio . T. S iv. 2, 4; v. 1, 2.
Pedro, Don, Prince of Arragon M. A L 1 ; ii. 1, 3 ; iii. 2 ; iv. 1 ; v. 1, 3, 4.
Pembroke, William Mareshall, Earl of J i. 1 ; ii. 1 ; iv. 2, 3 ; v. 2, 4, 7.
Pembroke, Earl of; of the Duke of York's party . . H. 6, T. P. . . iv. 1.
Percy, Henry, son to the Earl of Northumberland . . R. S ii. 3; iii. 1, 3; iv. 1; v. 3, 8.
Percy, Henry, surnamed Hotspur, son to the Earl of H. 4, F. P. . . L 3 ; ii. 3; iii. 1 ; iv. 1, 3; v. 2, 3, 4.
Northumberland.
Percy, Lady, wife to Hotspur, and sister to Mortimer H. 4, F. P. . . ii. 3; iii. 1.
Percy, Lady H. 4, S. P. . . u. 3.
Perdita, daughter to Leontes and Hennione . . . . W. T ii. 3; iiL 3; iv. 3; v. 1, 3.
Pericles, Prince of Tyre P i. 1, 2, 4; ii. 1, 3, 5; iiL 1, 3; v. 1, 2, S.
Perithous, an Athenian general T. N. K. . . . i. 1, 3 ; ii. 5; iii. 5, 6; iv. 2; v. 1, 3, 4.
Peter, a friar M. M iv. 5, 6 ; v. 1.
Peter of Pomfret, a prophet J iv. 2.
Peter, servant to Horner H. 6, S. P. . . i. 3 ; ii. 3.
Peter R. J ii. 4, 5 ; iv. 5.
Peto H. 4, F. P. . . ii. 2, 4
Peto, an attendant on Prince Henry H. 4, S. P. . . ii. 4.
Petrucio, a gentleman of Verona, a suitor to Katherine T. S i. 2; ii. 1 ; iii. 2; iv. 1, 3, 5; v. 1, 2.
Phebe, a shepherdess A. L iiL 5 ; v. 2, 4.
Philario, a Roman, friend to Posthumus Cy i. S ; ii. 4.
Philip, King of France J ii. 1, 2; Ui. 1, 4.
Philo, friend of Antony A. C. . . . . i. 1.
Philostrate, master of the revels to Theseus . . . . M. N. D. . . . i. 1 ; v. 1.
Philotus, servant to one of Timon's creditors . . . . T. Ath. . . . iii. 4.
Phrynia, mistress to Alcibiades T. Ath. . . . iv. 3.
Physician L iv. 4, 7.
Pinch, a schoolmaster, and a conjurer C. E. . . . . iv. 4.
Pindarus, servant to Cassius J. C iv. 2 ; v. 3.
Pisanio, gentleman to Posthumus Cy L 2, 4, 6, 7; ii. 3; iii. J, 4 5; iv. S; T. K
Pistol, follower of Falstaff M. W. . . . . i. 1, 3 j ii. 1, 2; v. 5.
Pistol H. 4, 8. P. . . ii. 4 j v. 3, 5.
Pistol, formerly servant to Falstaff, now a soldier in H. F ii. 1, S; iii. 2, 6; iv. 1, 4; . 1.
King Henry's army.
Plantagenet, Richard, eldest son of Richard, lat* Earl H. 6, F. P. . . U. 4, 5j iii. 1 ; Iv 1, 3, v. i, 4.
of Cambridge, afterwards Duke of York.
Poet T. Ath. . . . i. 1 ; v. 1.
Poet J. C Iv. 3.
Poins H. 4, F. P. . . L 2 ; ii. 2, 4 ; Hi. 3.
Poins, an attendant on Prince Henry H. 4, S. P. . . ii. 2, 4.
Polixenes, King of Bohemia W. T L 2 ; iv. 1, 3; T. S.
Polonius, lord chamberlain H i.2, 3 j U. I, 2- iii. 1, 1, 8, 4.
Pompeius, Seztus A. C ii. 1, 6, 7.
Popilius Lena, a senator J. C iiL 1.
Porter H. 4, 8. P. ..LI.
Porter H. 6, F. P. . . ii. 3.
Porter, and his man H. E v. 3.
Porter M iL 3.
Portia, a rich heiress M. V i. 2 ; ii. 1, 7, 9 ; iii. 2, 4 ; iv. 1, 2 i T. U
503
INDEX. II.
PERSONS REPRESENTED. PLAYS. APPEARANCES.
Portia, wife to Brutus J. C Act i. Sc. 2; ii. 1, 4.
Posthumus, Leonatus, husband to Imogen .... Cy i. 2, 5 ; ii. 4, 5 ; v. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.
Priam, King of Troy T. C ii. 2; v. 3.
Priest R. T iii. 2.
Proculeius, friend of Csesar A. C v. 1, 2.
Prospero, the rightful Duke of Milan T i. 2; iii. 1, 3; iv. 1 ; v. 1.
Proteus G. V i. 1, 3; ii. 2, 4, 6; iii. 1, 2 ; iv. 2, 4; v. 2, 4.
Provost , M. M i. 3; ii. 1, 2, 3; iii. 1, 2; iv. 2, 3; v. 1.
Publius, a senator J. C ii. 2; iii. 1.
Piiblius, son to Marcus the tribune T. And. . . . iv. 3 ; v. 2.
Puck, or Robin-Goodfellow, a fairy M. N. D. . . . ii. 1, 2, 3; iii. 1, 2; iv. 1 ; v. 2.
Pyramus, in the Interlude M. N. D. . . . iii. 1; v. 1.
Queen to King Richard R. S ii. 1,2; iii. 4; v. 1.
Queen, wife to Cymbeline . . . , Cy i. 2, 6; ii. 3; iii. 1, 5.
Queens, three T. N. K. . . . i. 1, 4, 5.
Quickly, Mrs M. W i. 4; ii. 1, 2; iii. 4, 5; iv. 1, 5; v. 1, 6.
Quickly, Mrs., hostess of a tavern in Eastcheap . . . H. 4, F. P. . . ii. 4; iii. 3.
Quickly, hostess H. 4, S. P. . . ii. 1, 4; v. 4.
Quickly, Pistol's wife, an hostess H. F ii. 1, 3.
Quince, the carpenter . . M. N. D. . . . i. 1 ; iii. 1 ; iv. 2.
Quintus, son to Titus Andronicus . ....... T. And. . . . i. 2; ii. 2, 4; iii. 1.
Rambures, a French lord H. F iii. 7; iv. 2, 5.
Ratcliff, Sir Richard R. T ii. 2; iii. 3,4, 5; iv. 3, 4; v. 3.
Reapers T iv. 1.
Regan, daughter to Lear L i. 1 ; ii. 1, 2, 4; iii. 7; iv. 5 ; v. 1, 3.
Reignier, Duke of Anjou, and titular King of Naples . H. 6, F. P. . . i. 6 ; ii. 1 ; v. 3, 4.
Reynaldo, servant to Polonius H ii. ) .
Richard II., King R. S i. 1, 3, 4; ii. 1 ; iii. 2, 3; iv. 1 ; v. 1, 5.
Richard, son to the Duke of York H. 6, S. P . . v. 1, 2, 3.
Richard, afterwards Duke of Gloster, son to the Duke of H. 6, T. P. . . i. 1, 2; ii. 1, 2, 3, 4, 6 ; iii. 2, iv. I, 5,7; v. I
York. 3, 4, 5, 6, 7.
Richmond, Henry, Earl of, a youth H. 6, T. P. . . iv. 6.
Richmond, Henry, Earl of, afterwards King Henry VII. R. T iv. 2, 3, 4.
Rivers, Lord, brother to Lady Grey H. 6, T. P. . . iv. 4.
Rivers, Earl, brother to King Edward's Queen . . . R. T i. 3; ii. 1, 2; iii. 3.
Robin, page to Falstaff M. W i. 3 ; ii. 2 ; iii. 2, 3.
Roderigo, a Venetian pentleman . O i. 1, 2, 3 ; ii. 1, 3 ; iv. 2; v. 1.
Rogero, a Sicilian gentleman W. T v. 2.
Romans T. And. . . . v. 3.
Romeo, son to Montague R. J i. 1, 2, 4, 5 ; ii. 1, 2, 3, 4, 6 ; iii. 1, 3, 5 ; v. 1 3,
Rosalind, daughter to the banished Duke A. L i. 2, 3 ; ii. 4 j iii. 2, 4, 5 j iv. 1, 3 ; v. 2, 4.
Rosaline, a lady attending on the Princess L. L. L. . . . ii. 1 ; iv. 1 ; v. 2.
Ross, Lord v . . R. S ii. 1, 3 ; iii. 1.
Rosse, a nobleman of Scotland M i. 2, 3, 4, 6 ; ii. 4 ; iii. 1, 4 ; iv. 2, 3 ; v. 4, 7.
Rosencrantz, a courtier H. ...... ii. 2 ; iii. 1, 2, 3,; iv. 1, 2, 3, 4.
Rotheram, Thomas, Archbishop of York R. T ii. 4.
Rousillon, Countess of, mother to Bertram . . . . A. W. . . . . i. 1, 3; ii. 2 ; iii. 2, 4 ; iv. 5 ; v. 3.
Rugby, servant to Dr. Cams M. W i. 4; ii. 3 ; iii. 1, 2.
Rumour H. 4, S. P. . . i. Induction.
Salarino, friend to Antonio and Bassanio M. V i. 1 ; ii. 4, 6, 8; iii. 1, 3 ; iv. 1.
Salisbury, William Longsword, Earl of J i. 1 ; iii. 1 ; iv. 2, 3 ; v. 2, 4, 7.
Salisbury, Earl of R. S ii. 4 ; iii. 2, 3.
Salisbury, Earl of H. F iv. 3.
Salisbury, Earl of H. 6, F. P. . . i. 4.
Salisbury, Earl of; of the York faction H. 6, S. P. . . i. 1, 3 ; ii. 2, 3 ; iii. 2, 3 ; v. 1, 8.
Sampson, servant to Capulet R. J i. I.
Sands, Lord H. E L 3, 4; ii. 1.
Saturninus, son to the late Emperor of Rome . . . . T. And. . . . i. 1, 2 ; ii. 2, 4; iv. 4 j v. 8.
Say, Lord H. 6, S. P. . . iv. 4, 7.
Scales, Lord, Governor of the Tower H. 6, S. P. . . iv. 5.
Scarus, friend of Antony A. C iii. 8 ; iv. 7, 8, 10.
Scroop, Sir Stephen R. S iii. 2, 3.
Scroop, Archbishop of York H. 4, F. P. . . iv. 4.
Scroop, Lord, a conspirator against the King . . . . H. F ii. 2.
Sebastian, a young gentleman, brother to Viola . . . T. N ii. 1 ; iii. 3; iv. 1, 3; v. 1.
Sebastian, brother to Alonso T i. 1 ; ii. 1 ; iii. 3; v. 1.
Secretaries to Wolsey H. E i. 1.
504
INDEX. II.
PERSONS REPRESENTED. PLAYS. APPEARANCES.
Seleucui, an attendant on Cleopatra A. C Act v. Sc. 2.
Sempronius, a flatterer of Timon T. Atli. . . . i. 2; iii. 3.
Senators, two O i. S.
Serjeant, a French H. 6, F. P. . . ii. 1.
Serjeant-at-Arms H. E -i. 1.
Servant to the old shepherd W. T iv. 3.
Servant of Isidore, one of Tlmon'i creditors . . .- . T. Ath. . . . ii. 2.
Servant to Paris T. C iii. 3.
Servant to Troilus T. C i. J.
Servant to Diomedes T. C v. 5.
Servant to Emilia T. N. K. . . . ii. 2.
Servants to Varro, one of Timon's creditor* . . . . T. Ath. . . . ii. 2 ; iii. 4.
Servants to Cornwall L iii. 7.
Servilius, servant to Timon T. Ath. . . . ii. 2 ; iii. 2, 4.
Sexton, a M. A iv. 2; T. 1.
Sayton, an officer attending on Macbeth M v. 3, 6.
Shadow, a recruit H. 4, 8. P. . . iii. 2.
Shallow, a country justice M. W i. 1 ; ii. 1, 3; iii. 1, 2, 4; i. 2j T. 2
Shallow, a country justice H. 4, S. P. . . iii. 2; T. 1, S, 5.
Shepherd, an aid, reputed father to Perdita . . . . W. T. . . > . iii. 3; iv. 8; v. 2.
Shepherd, an old, father to Joan la Pucelle . . . . H. 6, F. P. . . T. 4.
Sheriff of Wiltshire R. T v. 3.
Shylock, a Jew M. V i. 3 ; ii. 6; iii. 1, 3 ; iv. 1.
Sicinius Velutus, a tribune of the people Cor i. 1 ; ii. 1, 2, 3; iii. 1, 3; iv. 2, 6 ; t. I, i
Silence, a country justice H. 4, S. P. . . iii. 2; T. 3.
Silius, an officer in Ventidius's army A. C iii. 1.
Silvia, the Duke's daughter, beloved of Valentine . . G. V ii. I, 4; iv. 2, 4; v. 1, S, 4.
Simonides, King of Pentapolis .' P ii. 2, 3, 5.
Simpcox, an impostor H. 6, S. P. . . ii. 1.
Simple, servant to Slender M. W. ... LI, 2, 4; iii. 1 ; iv. 5.
Siward, Earl of Northumberland, general of the English M v. 4, 6, 7.
forces.
Siward, Young, son to Siward Earl of Northumberland. M v. 4, 7.
Slender, cousin to Shallow M. W i. 1 ; ii. 3 ; iii. 1, 2, 4 ; v. X, 6
Smith, the weaver, a follower of Jack Cade . . . . H. 6, S. P. . . iv. 2, 6, 7.
Snare, a sheriff's officer H. 4, S. P. . . ii. 1.
Snout, the tinker M. N. D. . . . i. 1 i iii. 1 j iv. 2.
Snug, the joiner M. N. D. . . . i. 1 ; iii. I ; iv. 2.
Solanio, friend to Antonio and Bassanio M. V i. 1 ; it 4, 8; iii. 1, 2; iv. 1.
Soldier M i. 2.
Solinus, Duke of Ephesus C. E. ....;. 1 ; v. 1.
Somerset, John Beaufort, Earl of ; afterwards Duke . H. 6, F. P. . . ii. 4 ; iii. 1 ; iv. 1, 4.
Somerset, Duke of; of the King's party H. 9, 8. P. . . i. 1, 3 ; iii. 1, 2; iv. 9; v. 2.
Somerset, Duke of; a lord on King Henry's tide . . H. 8, T. P. . . iv. 1, 2, 6; v. 1, 2, 4, S.
Somerville, Sir John H. 6, T. P. . . T. 1.
Son that has killed his father H. 6, T. P. . . ii. 5.
Son to Clarence R. T ii. 2.
Son to Macduff M iv. 2.
Soothsayer J. C i. 2 ; ii. 4; Iii. 1.
Soothsayer A. C j. 2 ; U. 2.
Southwell, a priest H. 6, 8. P. . . i. 4;ii. 3.
Speed, a clowniih servant to Valentine 6. V 1. 1 ; ii. 1, 4, 6; iii. 1 ; iv. I.
Stafford, Sir Humphrey H. 6, S. P. . . IT. 2, 3.
Stafford, William H. 6, S. P. . . iv. 2, I.
Stafford, Lord ; of the Duke of York'* party . . . . H. 6, T. P. . . iv. 1.
Stanley, Sir John H. 6, 8. P. . . ii. 4.
Stanley, Sir William H. 6, T. P. . . IT. fl.
Stanley, Lord R. T i. 3; ii. 1, 2; iii. 2, 4; iv. 1, 2, 4, ; v I, i
Starveling, the tailor M. N. D. . . . i. 1 ; iii. 1 ; ir. 2.
Stephano, servant to Portia M. V T. 1.
Stephano, a drunken butler T ii. 2 ; iii. 2 ; iv. 1 ; v. 1.
Steward, servant to the Countess of Rotuilion . . . A. W i. 3 ; iii. 4.
Strangers, three T. Ath. . . . iii. 2.
Strato, a servant to Brutui J. C v. 3, 5.
Suffolk, Earl of H. 6, F. P. . . U. 4; ill. 1 ; iv. 1; T. I, t.
Suffolk, Duke of; of the King's party H. 6, S. P. . . i. 1, 3; ii. 1, 3; iii. 1, 2; IT. 1 ; v. 1.
Suffolk, Duke of H. E i. 2; ii. 2; ill. 2; v. 1, 2, 4.
Surrey, Duke of R. S iv. 1.
Surrey, Earl of H. ..... iii. 2 ; v. 2
Surrey, Earl of, son to the Duke of Norfolk . . . . R. T v. 3.
SUP. VOL. 2 L **
INDEX. II
PERSONS REPRESENTED. PLAYS. APPEARANCES.
Surveyor to the Duke of Buckingham H. E Act i. Sc. 2.
Sylvius, a shepherd A. L ii. 4 ; iii. 5 j iv. 3 ; v. 2, 4.
Talbot, Lord, afterwards Earl of Shrewsbury . . . . H. 6, F. P. . . i. 4, 5 ; ii. 1, 2 ; iii. 2, 3, 4 ; iv. 1, 2, 5, 6, 7
Talbot, John, son of Lord Talbot . . . . '. . . H. 6, F. P. . . iv. 5, 6, 7.
Tamora, Queen of the Goths T. And. . . . i. 1 ; ii. 2, 3, 4 ; iv. 4 ; v. 2, 3.
Taurus, lieutenant-general to Caesar A. C. . . t . iii. 8.
Tear-sheet, Doll H. 4, 8. P. . . ii. 4; v. 4.
Thaisa, daughter to Simonides P ii. 2, 3, 5 ; iii. 2, 4, v. 3,
Thaliard, servant to Antiochus P L 1, 3.
Thersiteg, a deformed and scurrilous Grecian . . . T. C. .... ii. 1, 3; iii. 3; v. 1, 2, 4, 8.
Theseus, Duke of Athens M. N. D. . . . i. 1 ; IT. 1 ; T. 1.
Theseus, Duke of Athens T. N. K. . . . i 1, 4; ii. 5 ; iii 5, Cj iv. 2 j y. 1, 3, 4.
Thisbe, in the Interlude M. N. D. . . . iii. 1 ; v. 1.
Thomas, a friar M. M i. 4.
Thurio, a foolish rival to Valentine G. V ji. 4; iii. 1, 2; iv. 2; v. 2, 4.
Thyreus, friend of Caesar A. C iii. 10, 11.
Timandra, mistress to Alcibiades T. Ath. . . . iv. 3.
Time, as Chorus W. T iv. Chorus.
Timon, a noble Athenian T. Ath. . . . i. 1, 2 ; ii. 2 ; iii. 4, 6; iv. 1, S; v. 1, 2.
Titania, Queen of the Fairies M. N. D. . . . ii. 2, 3 ; iii. 1 ; iv. 1 ; v. 2.
Titinius, a friend to Brutus and Cassius J. C iv. 2, 3 ; v. 1, 3.
Titus, servant to one of Timon's creditors T. Ath. . . . iii. 4.
Titus Lartius, a general against the Voices .... Cor i. 1, 4, 5, 7, 8 ; ii. 1 ; iii. 1.
Touchstone, a clown A. L i. 2 j ii. 4 ; iii. 2,3; v. 1 , 3, 4.
Tranio, servant to Lucentio T. S. . . . i. 1, 2 ; ii. 1 ; iii. 2; iv. 2, 4; v. 1, 2.
Travers, domestic of Northumberland H. 4, S. P. . . i. 1.
Trebonius, a conspirator against Julius Caesar . . . J. C ii. 1, 2; iii. 1.
Tribune T. And. . . . v. 3.
Trinculo, a jester T ii. 2; iii. 2; iv. 1 ; v. 1.
Troilus, son to Priam T. C i. 1, 2; ii. 2; iii. 2 ; iv. 2, 3, 4, 5 ; v. 1 2 3, t
6, 11.
Tubal, a Jew, friend to Shylock M. V iii. 1.
Tutor to Rutland H. 6, T. P. . . i. 3.
Tybalt, nephew to Lady Capulet R. J i. 1, 5; iii. 1.
Tyrrel. Sir James R. T iv. 2, 3.
Ulysses, a Grecian commander T. C i. 3 ; ii. 3; iii. 3; iv. 5 ; v. 1, 2, t.
Uncle to Capulet R. J i. 5.
Ursula, a gentlewoman attending on Hero M. A ii. 1 ; iii. 1, 4 j v. 2, 4.
Urswick, Sir Christopher, a priest R. T iv. 5.
Valentine G.V i. 1; ii. 1, 4; iii. 1 ; iv. 1 ; v. 4.
Valentine, a gentleman attending on the Duke . . . T. N i. 1, 4.
Valeria, friend to Virgilia Cor i. 3; ii. 1; v. 3.
Valerius, a Theban nobleman T. N. K. . . . t 2.
Varrius, friend of Pompey A. C ii. 1.
Varro, a servant to Brutus J. C 1. 4,
Vaughan, Sir Thomas R. T iii. 9.
Vaux H. 6, S. P. . . iii. 2.
Vaux, Sir Nicholas H. E ii. 1.
Venice, Duke of M. V iv. 1.
Venice, Duke of O i. S.
Ventidius, one of Timon's false friends T. Ath. . . . i. 2.
Ventidius, friend of Antony A. C ii. 2, 3; iii. I.
Verges, a city officer M. A iii. 3, 5 ; iv. 2 ; v. 1.
Vernon, Sir Richard H. 4, F. P. . . iv. 1, 3 ; v. 2, 5.
Vernon, of the White Rose, or York faction . . . . H. 6, F. P. . . ii. 4; iii. 4; iv. 1.
Vincentio, an old gentleman of Pisa T. S iv. 5 ; v. 1, 2.
Vincentio, the Duke M. M i. 1, 4; ii. 3; iii. 1, 2j iv. 1, 2, 8, 8.
Viola, in love with the Duke T. N i. 2, 4, 5; ii. 2, 4; iii. 1, 4; v. 1.
Violenta, neighbour and friend to the Widow .... A. W iii. 5.
Virgilia, wife to Coriolanus Cor i. 3 ; ii. 1 j iv. 1, 2; v. 3.
Volumnia, mother to Coriolanus Cor i. 3; ii. 1; iii. 2; iv. 1, 2; v. S.
Vjlumnius, a friend to Brutus and Cassius . . . . J C v. 3, 5.
Voltimand, a courtier H i. 2 ; ii. 2.
Wall, in the Interlude M. N. D. . . . v. 1.
Walter Whitmore H.6.S. P. . . iv. 1.
Wart, a recruit . . H. 4, S. P. . . iii. 2.
Warwick, Earl of j of the King'f party . . . . , . H. 4, S. P. . . iii. 1 ; iv. 4; v. ?..
606
INDEX. TI.
PERSONS REPRESENTED. PLAYS. APPEARANCES.
Warwick, Earl of H. F Act i. Sc. 2 j iv. 7, 8; v. 2.
Warwick, Earl of H. 6, F. P. . . i. 1 ; ii. 4; iii. 1 ; iv. 1 ; v. 4.
Warwick, Earl of; of the York faction H. 6, 8. P. . . i. 1, 3; ii. 2; iii. 2, 3; v. 1, 2, S.
Warwick, Earl of; of the Duke of York's party . . . H. 6, T. P. . . i. 1 ; ii. 1, 2, 3, 6 ; iii. 3 ; iv. 2, 6, 8; v. 1, S.
Westminster, Abbot of R. S iv. 1.
Westmoreland, Earl of, friend to the King . . . . H. 4, F. P. . . i. 1 ; iv. 2 ; v. 4, 5.
Westmoreland, Earl of ; of the King's party .... H. 4, S. P. . . iv. 1, 2, 3, 4; v. 2.
Westmoreland, Earl of H. F i. 2 ; ii. 2 j iv. S ; v. 2.
Westmoreland, Earl of; a lord on King Henry's side . H. 6, T. P. . . i. 1.
Widow T. S v. 2.
Widow of Florence, an old A. W iiL 6, 7; iv. 4; v. 1, 3.
Wife to Simpcox H. 6, S. P. . . ii. 1.
Wife to the Pander P iv. 3, 6.
William, a country fellow, in love with Audrey . . . A. L v. 1.
Williams, a soldier in King Henry's army . . . . H. F iv. 1, 7, 8.
Willoughby, Lord R. S ii. 1, 3; iiL 1.
Winchester, Henry Beaufort, Bishop of, great-uncle to H. 6, F. P. . . i. 1, 3, 5; iii. 1 j iv. 1 ; v 1, 4.
the King, and afterwards Cardinal.
Witches, three M L 1, 8; iii. 5; iv. 1.
Wolsey; Cardinal H. E. . . . . L 1, 2, 4; ii. 2, 4; iii. 1, .
Woodville, Lieutenant of the Tower H. 6, F. P. . . L 3.
Wooer to the Gaoler's Daughter T. N. K. . . . ii. 1 ; iv. 1, 3 j v. 2.
Worcester, Thomai Percy, Earl of H. 4, F. P. ,. . i. 3 ; iii. I ; iv. 1, 3 j v. S, 6.
York, Duchess of R. S v. 2, 3.
York, Scroop, Archbishop of, an enemy to the King . H. 4, 8. P. . . L 3 j iv. 1, 2.
York, Duke of, cousin to the King H. F iv. 3.
York, Richard Plantagenet, Duke of H. 6, S. P. . . i. 1, 3, 4 ; ii. 2, 3 ; iii. 1 ; v. I, a.
York, Richard Plantagenet, Duke of H. 6, T. P. . . L 1, 2, 4.
York, Richard, Duke of, son to Edward IV B, T ii. 4;iii. 1.
York, Duchegsof.motherto King Edward IV., Clarence, R. T ii. 2, 4; iv. 1, 4.
and (i loiter
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