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 I 
 
 "dramatic WORKS: 
 
 WITH 
 
 A LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 AND A SELECTION OF 
 
 NOTES, CRITICAL, HISTORICAL, AND EXPLANATORY, 
 
 BT THE 
 
 REV. W. HARNESS, A.M. 
 
 OF CHRIST'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 TO WHICH ARE ADDED, THE AUTHOR'S POEMS. 
 
 IN EIGHT VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED AND SOLD BY J. F. DOVE, 
 ST. JOHN'S SQUARE. 
 
 1830.
 
 
 SHAKSPEARE'S 
 DRAMATIC WORKS. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE i 
 
 SHAKSPEARE'S WILL Ixxv 
 
 CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER OF KIS PLAYS Ixxxi 
 
 EDITIONS OF HIS WORKS Ixxxii 
 
 PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPEARE Ixxxvii 
 
 ACCOUNT OF THE SEVERAL PORTRAITS IxxxU 
 
 COMMENDATORY VERSES xcii 
 
 ROWR'S PREFACE cxriii 
 
 POPE'S PREFACE cxxvii 
 
 JOHNSON'S PREFACE cxU 
 
 TEMPEST . 1 
 
 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 79 
 
 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 147
 
 ro Jiir. 
 
 REV. HP:NRY hart MILMAN, 
 
 PROFESSOR OF POETRY l\ TIIL L.MVERSITY OF OXFORD, ' 
 AND RECTOR OF ST. MARY'S, READING, 
 
 THIS EDITION 
 
 OF IHE 
 
 DRAMATIC WORKS OF SHAKSPEARE 
 
 IS INSCRIBED, 
 
 AS A MEMORIAL OF 
 MANY VKARS OF UNINTERRUPTED KINDNESS AND REGARD, 
 
 HIS AFFliCTIONATE FRIEND, 
 
 THE EDITOR.
 
 ADVER'JISEMENT. 
 
 I X preparing this edition of the Plays ofShakspeare 
 for the press, the editor has generally followed the 
 text of Johnson and Steevens, from which he has 
 only in a very few instances departed, either to re- 
 store the original reading, or admit the approved 
 emendation of some eminent commentator. 
 
 An attempt has been made in the notes to form 
 "that judicious and frugal selection" from the volu- 
 minous commentary of the Variorum Shakspeare 
 which was recommended by Steevens himself;* and 
 use has occasionally been made of other sources of 
 information. Unless the note is merely glossarial, 
 the authority is always stated. 
 
 In the Biographical Memoir the editor has endea- 
 voured to collect and arrange all the circumstances 
 relative to the life of Shakspeare which are to be 
 found in the pages of Rowe, Johnson, Malone, and 
 others, and to lay them before the reader in a con- 
 nected narrative. 
 
 It may perhaps be objected, that to edite the works 
 of a dramatic writer, is an occupation inconsistent 
 witli the more important avocations incumbent on a 
 minister of religion. If there really do exist any 
 impropriety in a clergyman's superintending the pub- 
 lication ofShakspeare — the poet, the historian, and 
 » Ref.d's Sliaksjtoarc, vol. i. 11.
 
 Vlll ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 the philosopher^ — the editor trusts that in the pre- 
 sent case the offence is more than extenuated by the 
 circumstances in which he was placed : he had no 
 pastoral charge entrusted to him during any part of 
 the time the work was in progress ; he sacrificed no 
 professional duty to the performance of it ; he was 
 suddenly and most unexpectedly compelled, by claims 
 of a domestic nature, to occupy himself in some li- 
 terary labour which would produce an immediate 
 return ; and he had high authority for engaging in 
 the task that was proposed to him ; for he attempted 
 what Jortin had, at one period of his life, entertained 
 a design of executing, and he was countenanced by 
 the examples of Dr. Farmer and Bishop Warburton.
 
 EiigxaviecLlyE.Scrtv'eiL. 
 
 Td 
 
 
 "/u: 
 
 /// ///^y u£a^./- /ycY.j. 
 
 LanSeti Fu.h.lSZJ,hv Saimdrrj Ic OttUr. Conduit Srrca.iaid Gee.Oiwie X- C- Pcubrn
 
 THE LIFE 
 
 OF 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 The name of Shakspeare, which is mentioned by 
 Verstegan, among those "syrnames imposed upon 
 the first bearers of them for valour and feats of 
 arms,"* is one of great antiquity in the woodland dis- 
 tricts of Warwickshire. The family, thus honour- 
 ably distinguished, appears to have received its 
 origin either at Rowington or Lapworth. Long be- 
 fore the genius of our great dramatic poet had ren- 
 dered their name a subject of national interest, the 
 Shakspeares were established among the more af- 
 fluent inhabitants of those villages, and thence seve- 
 ral individuals of the race, from time to time, removed 
 and became settlers in the principal places of the 
 county. 
 
 After the most indefatigable researches Malone 
 found himself unable to trace the particular branch 
 of the family from which Shakspeare himself de- 
 scended, beyond his immediate ancestor ; but it is 
 mentioned by Rowe, as being " of good figure and 
 fashion,'"' in the town of Stratford. This statement 
 
 * Restitution of Decayed Intelligence, 4to. 1605. p. 294.. 
 '' Rowf/s Life of Shakspeare. 
 VOL. I. b
 
 11 THE LIFE OF 
 
 is supported by the authority of a document, pre- 
 served in the College of Heralds, conferrino; the grant 
 of a coat of arms on John Shakspeare, the father 
 of the poet, in which the title o^ gentleman is added 
 to his denomination ; audit is stated, that "his great 
 grandfather had been rewarded by king Henry the 
 Seventh, for his faithful and approved services, with 
 lands and tenements given him in those parts of 
 Warwickshire, where they have continued by some 
 descents in good reputation and credit."" 
 
 If Shakspeare's father inherited any portion of the 
 estate which the royal munificence had thus con- 
 ferred on his ancestor, it was insufficient for his 
 wants ; and he was obliged to have recourse to trade, 
 to increase the narrow measure of his patrimony. 
 The traditional accounts that have been received 
 respecting him are consistent in describing him as 
 engaged in business, though they disagree in the 
 nature of the employment which they ascribe to 
 him. In the MS. notes which Aubrey had collected 
 for a life of the poet, it is affirmed, that '' his father 
 was a butcher;" while on the other hand, it is stated 
 by Rowe that he was " a considerable deg-ler in 
 wool." The truth of the latter report it is scarcely 
 possible to doubt. It was received from Betterton 
 
 ' Grant of arms to John Shakspeare, made 1 599. Malone, who 
 always appears to have had a double object in his researches, 
 first, to discredit all received opinions respecting our poet and 
 his family, and secondly, to introduce some fanciful conjecture 
 of his own, suggests that these expressions relate not to the 
 ancestor of John Shakspeare, but to the ancestor of his wife. 
 His arguments are not devoid of plausibility; but what certainty 
 can we ever hope to obtain in the consideration of remote events, 
 if the express authority of cotemporary official documents is to 
 be set aside by the questionable conjectures of the antiquarian.
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. Ill 
 
 the player, whose veneration for the poet induced 
 him to make a pilgrimage to Warwickshire, that he 
 might collect all the information respecting the ob- 
 ject of his enthusiasm which remained among his 
 townsmen, at a time when such prominent facts as 
 the circumstances and avocation of his parents could 
 not yet have sunk into oblivion.'' It is, indeed, not 
 improbable that both these accounts may be correct. 
 " Few occupations," observes Malone, " can be named 
 which are more naturally connected with each 
 other." Dr. Farmer has shewn that the two trades 
 were occasionally united f or if they were not thus 
 exercised together by the poet's father, his having 
 adopted them separately at different periods of his 
 life, is not inconsistent with the changeful character 
 of his circumstances. The new notion of John 
 Shakspeare's having been a glover, which has been 
 advanced in Malone's last edition of our author's works, 
 I have no hesitation in dismissinof. It is neither 
 supported by tradition, nor probability; and the brief 
 minute which the laborious editor discovered in the 
 bailiff's court at Stratford, must have referred to some 
 other of the innumerable John Shakspeares, whom 
 we find mentioned in the wills and registers of the 
 time. 
 
 The father of Shakspeare married, probably about 
 the year 1555 or 155G, Mary, the daughter of Robert 
 Arden, of Willingcote, in the county of Warwick; 
 by which connexion he obtained a small estate in 
 
 '' Betterton was born in 1635. Shakspeare's youngest daugh- 
 ter lived till 16fi2, and his grand-daughter till 1670; and many 
 of his relatives and connexions, the Harts and the Hathaways, 
 were surviving at the time of Butterton's visit to Stratford. 
 
 * See Reed's Slnihsptair, vol. 18. p. 346, 347. Steevens' 
 note. 
 
 b2
 
 IV THE LIFE OF 
 
 land, some property in money/ and such accessiori' 
 of respectability as is derived from an equal and 
 honourable alliance. The family of Mary Arderiy 
 like his own, was one of great antiquity in the coun- 
 ty, and her ancestors also had been rewarded for 
 their faithful and important services by the gratitude 
 of Henry the Seventh. The third child, and the 
 eldest son of this union, was the celebrated subject 
 of the present memoirs. 
 
 William Shakspeare was born on the 23d of 
 April, 1564, and baptized on the 26th of the same 
 month. 
 
 At the time of the birth of his illustrious offspring, 
 John Shakspeare evidently enjoyed no slight degree 
 of estimation among his townsmen. He was already 
 a member of the corporation, and for two successive 
 years, had been nominated one of the chamberlains 
 of Stratford.^ From this time he began to be chosen 
 in due succession to the highest municipal offices of 
 the borough. In 1569, he was appointed to dis- 
 charge the important duties of high bailiff; and was 
 subsequently elected and sworn chief alderman for 
 the year 1571. 
 
 During this period of his life, which constitutes 
 the poet's years of childhood, the fortune of Master 
 John Shakspeare — for so he is uniformly designated 
 in the public writings of the borough, from the time 
 of his acting as high bailiff — perfectly corresponded 
 with the station which we find him holding among 
 his townsmen. His charities rank him with the 
 second class of the inhabitants of Stratford. In a 
 
 •^ The whole was worth little more than 100/. at that time 
 considered a fair provision for a daughter. 
 
 8 He was admitted to the corporation probably in 1557. He 
 •was elected chamberlain in 1561.
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. V 
 
 subscription for the relief of the poor, 1564, out of 
 twenty-four persons, twelve gave more, six the same, 
 and six less than the poet's father; and in a second 
 subscription, of fourteen persons, eight gave more, 
 five the same, and one less. So early as 1556, he 
 held the lease of tv/o houses in the town, one in 
 Green Hill, and the other in Henley Street; in 1570 he 
 rented fourteen acres of land, called Ington Meadow; 
 and we find him, four years afterwards, becoming 
 the purchaser of two additional houses in Henley 
 Street, with a garden and orchard attached to each. 
 
 In this season of prosperity, Mr. John Shakspeare 
 was not careless of the abilities of his child. His 
 own talents had been wholly unimproved by educa- 
 tion, and he was one of the twelve, out of the nine- 
 teen aldermen of Stratford, whose accomplishments 
 did not extend to being able to sign their own names. 
 This circumstance, by the bye, most satisfactorily 
 establishes the fact, that he could not have written 
 the confession of faith which was found in repairing 
 the roof of his residence at Stratford.'' But, whatever 
 were his own deficiences, he was careful that the 
 talents of his son should not suffer from a similar 
 ncQ-lect of education. William was placed at the 
 Free School of Stratford : it is not uninteresting to 
 know the names of the instructors of Shakspeare. 
 They have been traced by the minute researches of 
 
 ■"'From the sentiment and tlie lan;2;nage, tliis confession ap- 
 pears to be the effusion of a Roman Catliolic mind, and was 
 probably drawn up by some Roman Catholic priest. If these 
 premises be granted, it will follow, as a fair dednction, that the 
 family of Shakspeare were Roman Catholics." (.'/lalmcrs' Apo- 
 logi/, p. 198. The paper was found in 1770, and communicated 
 to Malone; but are not the ollieial situations held by Shak- 
 speare's father in the borough conclusive against the opinion 
 ^vhich Mr. Chalmers has grounded upon it?
 
 VI THE LIFE OF 
 
 Malone. Mr. Thomas Hunt, and Mr. Thomas Jen- 
 kins, were successively the masters of the school, from 
 1572 to 1580, which must have included the school- 
 boy days of our poet. 
 
 At this time, Shakspeare would have possessed 
 ample means of obtaining an access to all those books 
 of history, poetry, and romance, with which he seems 
 to have had so intimate an acquaintance, and which 
 were calculated to attract his early taste, and ex- 
 cite the admiration of his young and ardent fancy; 
 and he might also thus early have become imbued 
 with a taste for the drama, by attending the per- 
 formances of the different companies of players, the 
 comedians of the Queen, of the Earl of Worcester, 
 of Lord Leicester, and of other noblemen, who were 
 continually making the Guildhall of Stratford, the 
 scene of their representations. But he was soon 
 called to other cares, and the discharge of more 
 serious duties. The prosperity of his father was not 
 of permanent duration. In 1578, Mr. John Shak- 
 speare mortgaged the estate which he had received 
 from his wife; in the following year he was exempt- 
 ed from the contribution of four-pence a week for the 
 poor, which was paid by the other aldermen; and 
 that this exception in his favour was made in con- 
 sequence of the pecuniary embarrassments under 
 which he was known to labour, is manifest from his 
 having been at the same period reduced to the ne- 
 cessity of obtaining Mr. Lambert's security for the 
 payment of a debt of five pounds, to Sadler, a baker. 
 This depression of his circumstances is alluded to by 
 Rowe, and attributed to the expences incidental to a 
 large and increasing family; but in this statement, 
 the real cause of his difficulties is mistaken. It has 
 been ascertained, by the diligence of Malone, Jthat
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. Vll 
 
 the family of Shakspeare's father was by no means 
 numerous; for of his eight children, five only attain- 
 ed to years of maturity.' The decay of his aifairs 
 was the natural consequence of the decline of the 
 branch of trade in which he was engaged. As a 
 woolstapler, Mr. John Shakspeare had flourished as 
 long as the business itself was prosperous ; and with 
 its failure, his fortunes had fallen into decay. He be- 
 came involved in the gradual ruin which fell on the 
 principal trade of the place, and which, in 1590, drew 
 from the bailitf and burgesses of Stratford, a suppli- 
 cation to the Lord Treasurer Burghley, lamenting the 
 distresses of the town; " for want of such trade as 
 heretofore they had by clothifige, and making of yarne, 
 ymploying and mayntayninge a number of poore 
 people by the same, which now live in great penury 
 and miserie, by reason they are not set at worke, as 
 before they have been."'' 
 
 In this unfavourable state of the affairs of his fa- 
 mily, Shakspeare was withdrawn from school; " his 
 assistance was wanted at home."' It was, I should 
 imagine, at this juncture, that his father, no longer 
 able to secure a respectable subsistence for his wife 
 
 ' His family consisted of four sons and four daughters. Joax, 
 died in infancy : Margaret, when only four months old. Wil- 
 liam, was the poet: of Gilbert, nothing is known but the date 
 of his baptism, and that he lived till after the restoration of Charles 
 the Second: Joan, married William Hart, a hatter, at Stratford ; 
 she died in 164^, leaving three sons: and in 1794, one of Shak- 
 speare's two houses, in Henley Street, was the property of Thomas 
 Hart, a butcher; the sixth in descent from Joan. Ann, died in in- 
 fancy. Richard, was buried in 1612-13. Edmund, wasaplayer 
 at the Globe ; ho lived in St. Saviour's, and was buried in the 
 church of that parish, on the 31st of December, 1607. 
 
 Skottowe's LiffofShnkspcurc, vol. i.p. 7, 8. 
 
 '' Supplication to Lord Treasurer Hur<ihlcy, Nov. 9, 1,')90, pre- 
 served in the chamber at Stratford. 
 
 ' Howk's Lifr of Shrikfiprarc.
 
 Vlll THE LIFE OF 
 
 and children, by his original trade as a woolstapler, 
 had recourse to the inferior occupation of a butcher; 
 and, if the tale be founded in fact, which Aubrey 
 says, " he was told heretofore by some of his neigh- 
 bours," then it must have been, that Shakspeare be- 
 gan to exhibit his dramatic propensities, and " when 
 he killed a calfe, would do it in a high style, and 
 make a speech."" , 
 
 The assistance, however, which the poet rendered 
 his father in his business, was not of long duration. 
 He had just attained the age of eighteen, when he 
 married. The object of this early attachment was 
 Anne, the daughter of Richard Hathaway, a substan- 
 tial yeoman, in the neighbourhood of his native town. 
 She was eight years older than her husband; and 
 Oldys, without stating his authority, in one of bis 
 MSS. mentions her as beautiful J" It may be feared, 
 that this marriage was not perfectly happy. From the 
 celebrated passage in Twelfth Night, concluding with, 
 
 " Then let thy love be younger than thyself, 
 Or thy affection cannot hold the bent," 
 
 we may suspect that Shakspeare, at the time of writing 
 this, which was probably his last, play, had lived to re- 
 pent his too early marriage, and the indulgence of an 
 affection so much "misgrafted in respect of years. "° 
 Such is the conjecture of Malone; but it is hardly fair 
 to apply personally to the poet the general maxims 
 that may be discovered in his works. His daughter Su- 
 sanna was born in the following year. The parish regis- 
 ter of Stratford informs us that within eighteen months 
 afterwards his wife bore twins, a son and daughter, who 
 were baptized bythe names of Hamnet and Judith; and 
 
 '" Aubrey's MS. Ashmol. Oxon. 
 " Bosw ell's Shakspeare. Note to the 93d Sonnet, 
 ° Boswell's Shakspeare, vol. 2. p. 112.
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. IX 
 
 thus, when little more than twenty, Shakspeare had 
 already a wife and three children dependant on his 
 exertions for support. 
 
 Malone supposes that our author was at this time 
 employed in an attorney's office, and gives a long list 
 of quotations from his works, which shew how fami- 
 liarly he was acquainted with the terms and the usages 
 of the law, in support of his conjecture. As there are 
 no other grounds for entertaining such a supposition; 
 as testimony of the same nature, and equally strong, 
 mio-ht be adduced to prove that Shakspeare was a 
 member of almost every other trade or profession, for 
 he was ignorant of none ; and as the legal knowledge 
 which he displays might easily have been caught up 
 in conversation, or indeed from experience in the quirks 
 and technicalities of the law, during the course of his 
 own and liis father's difficulties; I have little hesitation 
 in classing this among the many ingenious, but unsound 
 conjectures of the learned editor, and adopting the tra- 
 dition of Aubrey respecting the avocation of this por- 
 tion of his life. To satisfy the claims that were mul- 
 tiplying around him, Shakspeare endeavoured to draw 
 upon his talents and acquirements as the source of his 
 supplies, and undertook the instruction of children.'' 
 
 The portion of classical knowledge that he brought 
 to the task, has given occasion for much controversy, 
 wliicli it is now impossible to determine. Tlie school 
 at which he was educated, produced several indivi- 
 duals, among the cotemporaries of our great poet, 
 who were not deficient in learning;'" and, though he 
 
 p " He understood Latin pretty well, for he had been in ///.v 
 youwcr years u schoolmaster in the country." — Aubrey. 
 
 1 Malone shews that the Quineys, Stratford men, and edu- 
 cated at the same school, wore familiarly conversant with l-itiii, 
 and even corresponded in that lan;^uagc. Boswlll's edition of 
 Mahnc's S/iaksprarr, vol. ii. p. 182.
 
 X THE LIFE OF 
 
 was prematurely withdrawn from their companion- 
 ship, it would be difficult to believe, that with his 
 quickness of apprehension, he could have mingled 
 for any considerable time in their course of study, 
 without attaining a proportionate share of their infor- 
 mation. " He understood Latin pretty well," says 
 Aubrey; and this account corresponds exactly with 
 the description of his friend Ben Jonson, who speaks 
 of him as one possessed " of little Latin and less 
 Greek." Dr. Farmer, indeed, has proved, that trans- 
 lations of all the classics to which Shakspeare has 
 referred, were already in circulation before he wrote ; 
 and that in most of his allusions to Greek and Latin 
 authors, evident traces are discoverable of his having 
 consulted the translation instead of the original. But 
 this fact establishes very little: it might have pro- 
 ceeded from indolence, or from the haste of composi- 
 tion, urging him to the readiest sources of information, 
 rather than from any incapacity of availing himself 
 of those which were more pure, but less accessible. 
 That he should appear unlearned in the judgment of 
 Jonson, who, perhaps, measured him by the scale of 
 his own enormous erudition, is no imputation on his 
 classical attainments. A man may have made great 
 advances in the knowledge of the dead languages, 
 and yet be esteemed as having " little Latin and less 
 Greek," by one who had reached those heights of 
 scholarship, which the friend and companion of Shaks- 
 peare had achieved. It is a proof that his acquire- 
 ments in the classic languages were considerable, or 
 Jonson would scarcely have deemed them of sufficient 
 value to beat all numbered among his qualifications. 
 As to French, it is certain that he did not deal with 
 translations only; for the last line of one of his most 
 celebrated speeches, the Seven Ages of Man, in As 
 you like it, is imitated from a poem called the Hen-
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. XI 
 
 riade, which was first published in 1594, in France, 
 and never translated. Gamier, the author of it, is 
 describing the appearance of the ghost of Admiral 
 Coligny, on the night after his murder, at the mas- 
 sacre of St. Bartholomew, and introduces the follow- 
 ing passage : 
 
 Sans picds, sans mains, sans nez, sans oreilles, sans ycux, 
 Meurfri de tuutes parts J 
 
 The verse of Shakspeare, 
 
 Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing, 
 
 scarcely exceeds the rules of legitimate translation; 
 and the introduction and repetition of the French 
 preposition, indicates that the coincidence was inten- 
 tional, and stands as an acknowledgment of the imi- 
 tation. Mr. Capel Lofft has, perhaps, very fairly 
 estimated the real extent of Shakspeare's literary ac- 
 quirements: " He had what would now be consider- 
 ed a very reasonable proportion of Latin ; he was not 
 wholly ignorant of Greek ; he had a knowledge of the 
 French, so as to read it with ease; and I believe not 
 less of the Italian. He was habitually conversant in 
 the chronicles of his country. He had deeply im- 
 bibed the Scriptures." — And again, in speaking of his 
 V€7ius and Adonis, and the Rape of Lucreece, which 
 were the first published efforts of Shakspeare's genius, 
 Mr. Loff't continues : " I think it not easy, with due 
 attention to these poems, to doubt of his having ac- 
 quired, when a boy, no ordinary facility in the classic 
 language of Rome; and, when Jonson said he had 
 • less Greek,' had it been true that he had none, it 
 would have been as easy for the verse as for the sen- 
 timent, to have said ' ;/£> Greek.'* 
 
 With these qualifications for the task, Shakspeare 
 
 ■■ Ccnsura Litter aria, vol. 9. p. 288. 
 • Aphorisms from Shakspeare. I at rod. p. 12, I, 'J. 24.
 
 Xll THE LIFE OF 
 
 applied himself to tlie labour of tuition. But both 
 the time and the habits of his life, rendered himpe- 
 culiarly unfit for the situation. The gaiety of his dis- 
 position naturally inclined him to society; and the 
 thoughtlessness of youth prevented his being suffici- 
 ently scrupulous about the conduct and the characters 
 of his associates. " He had by a misfortune, com- 
 mon enough to youngfellows, fallen into ill company," 
 says Rowe;* and the excesses into which they seduced 
 him, were by no means consistent with that serious- 
 ness of deportment and behaviour which is expected 
 to accompany the occupation that he had adopted. 
 The following anecdote of these days of his riot, is 
 still current at Stratford, and the neighbouring village 
 of Bidford. I give it in the words of the author from 
 whom it is taken. Speaking of Bidford, he says, 
 *' there were antiently two societies of village-yeo- 
 manry in this place, who frequently met under the ap- 
 pellation of Bidford topers. It was a custom of these 
 heroes to challenge any of their neighbours, famed 
 for the love of good ale, to a drunken combat : among 
 others, the people of Stratford were called out to a 
 trial of strength, and in the number of their cham- 
 pions, as the traditional story runs, our Shakspeare, 
 who forswore all thin potations, and addicted him- 
 self to ale as lustily as Falstaff to his sack, is said to 
 have entered the lists. In confirmation of this tradi- 
 tion, we find an epigram written by Sir Aston Cockayn, 
 and published in his poems in 1658, p. 124; it runs 
 thus : — 
 
 TO MR. CLEMENT FISHER, OF WINCOT. 
 
 Shakspeare, your Wincot ale hath much renown'd, 
 That fox'd a beggar so (by chance was found 
 
 ' Lj/e of Shakspeare.
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. XIU 
 
 .Sleeping) that there needed not many a word 
 To make him to believe he was a lord : 
 But you affirm (and in it seems most eager), 
 'Twill make a lord as drunk as any beggar. 
 Bid Norton brew such ale as Shakspeare fancies 
 Did put Kit Sly into such lordly trances : 
 And let us meet there (for a fit of gladness), 
 And drink ourselves merry in sober sadness. 
 
 " When the Stratford lads went over to Bidford, 
 they found the topers were gone to Evesham fair; 
 but were told, if they wished to try their strength with 
 the sippers, they were ready for the contest. This 
 being acceded to, our bard and his companions were 
 staggered at the first outset, when they thought it ad- 
 viseable to sound a retreat, while the means of retreat 
 were practicable; and then had scarce marched half 
 a mile, before they were all forced to lay down more 
 than their arms, and encamp in a very disorderly and 
 unmilitary form, under no better covering than a large 
 crab-tree; and there they rested till morning. 
 
 " This tree is yet standing by the side of the road. 
 If, as it has been observed by the late Mr. T. Warton, 
 the meanest hovel to which Shakspeare has an allu- 
 sion interests curiosity, and acquires an importance, 
 surely the tree which has spread its shade over him, 
 and sheltered him from the dews of the night, has a 
 claim to our attention. 
 
 " In the morning, when the company awakened 
 our bard, the story says, they intreated him to return 
 to Bidford, and renew the charge; but this he de- 
 clined, and lookinground upon the adjoiningvillages, 
 exclaimed, ' No ! I have had enough ; I have drank with 
 
 Piping Pehworth, Dancing Marston, 
 Haunted Ilillbro', Hungry Grafton, 
 Dudging Exiiall, Papist AVicksford, 
 Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bidford.'
 
 XIV THE LIFE OF 
 
 " Of the truth of this story, I have very little 
 doubt ; it is certain, that the crab-tree is known all 
 round the country, by the name of Shakspeare's crab ; 
 and that the villages to vv^hich the allusion is made, 
 all bear the epithets here given them : the people of 
 Pebworth are still famed for their skill on the pipe 
 and tabor: Hillborough is now called Haunted Hillbo- 
 rough; and Grafton is notorious for the poverty of 
 its soil."" 
 
 The above relation, if it be true, presents us with 
 a most unfavourable picture of the manners and 
 morals prevalent among the youth of Warwickshire, 
 in the early years of Shakspeare ; and it fills us 
 with regret, to find our immortal poet, with faculties 
 so exalted, competing the bad pre-eminence in such 
 abominable contests. It is some relief to know that, 
 though he erred in uniting himself with such gross 
 associations, he was the first to retreat from them in 
 disgust. 
 
 We can scarcely, at the present day, form a correct 
 and impartial judgment of a subsequent offence, in 
 which these mischievous connexions involved him as 
 a party. The transgression, weighty as it would now 
 be considered, appears to admit of great extenuation, 
 on account of the manners and sentiments that pre- 
 vailed at the time ; and when we contemplate the con- 
 sequences to which it led, we find it difficult to con- 
 demn with much severity of censure, the occasion by 
 which Shakspeare was removed from the intercourse 
 of such unworthy companions, and by which those 
 powerful energies of intellect were awakened in one, 
 who might otherwise, perhaps, have been degraded 
 in the course of vulgar sensualities, to an equality with 
 
 "Ireland's Picturesque Views, p. 229 — 233.
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. XV 
 
 his associates, or have attained to no higher distinc- 
 tion than the applauses of a country town. 
 
 One of the favourite amusements of the wild com- 
 panions with whom Shakspeare had connected him- 
 self, was the stealing of " deer and conies." This viola- 
 tion of the rights of property, must not, however, be 
 estimated with the rigour which would at the present 
 day attach to a similar offence. In those ruder ages, 
 the spirit of Robin Hood was yet abroad, and deer 
 and coney -stealing, classed, with robbing orchards, 
 among the more adventurous, but ordinary levities of 
 youth. It was considered in the light of an indis- 
 cretion, rather than of a criminal offence; and in this 
 particular, the young men of Stratford were counte- 
 nanced by the practice of the students of the Univer- 
 sities.'' In these hazardous exploits, Shakspeare was 
 not backward in accompanying his comrades. The 
 person in whose neighbourhood, perhaps on whose 
 property," these encroachments were made, was of all 
 others the individual from whose hands they were 
 
 " Wood, speaking of Dr. John Thornborough, bishop of 
 Worcester, and liis kinsman, Robert Pinkey, says, " they seldom 
 gave themselves to their books, but spent their time in the fenc- 
 ing-schools and dancing-schools, in «^fa/i«^(/ffr, d^nd. conies, &c." 
 
 At /lot. O.ioit. 1. 371. 
 
 * Malone disputes the deer's having been stolen from Sir Thomas 
 Lucy. Possibly the " deer and conies" were not stolen from 
 him ; and he was only the magistrate that committed and 
 punished the offenders. Nothing, however, can be more uniform 
 than tlie tradition that *' deer and conies" were really stolen from 
 some one, by Shakspeare and his friends. Mr. Jones, who died 
 in 1703, aged upwards of ninety, and who lived at Turbich, a 
 viWage about eighteen miles from Stratford, related the story to 
 Mr. Thomas Wilks, and " remembered to have heard it from 
 several old people." — Betterton was told it at Stratford, and com- 
 municated itto Rowe. — Oldys has the same story; — so has Davies, 
 whose additions to Fulman's Notes for a Life of Shakspeare were 
 made in 1690.
 
 XVl THE LIFE OF 
 
 least likely to escape with impunity in case of detec- 
 tion. Sir Thomas Lucy was a puritan ; and the se- 
 verity of manners which has always characterised 
 this sect, would teach him to extend very little indul- 
 gence to the excesses of Shakspeare and his wilful 
 companions. He was besides a game-preserver : in his 
 place as amember of parliament, he had been an active 
 instrument in the formation of the game laws v' and the 
 trespasses of our poet, whether committed on the de- 
 mesne of himself or others, were as offensive to his pre- 
 dilections as to his principles. Shakspeare and his 
 compeers were discovered, and fell under the rigid 
 lash of Sir Thomas Lucy's authority and resentment. 
 The knight attacked the poet with the penalties of the 
 law; and the poet revenged himself by sticking the 
 following satirical copy of verses on the gate of the 
 knight's park. 
 
 COPY OF THE VERSES ON SIR THOMAS LUCY. 
 
 . " A parliement member, a justice of peace, 
 
 At home a poore scarecrowe, in London an asse ; 
 If Lucy is Lowsie, as some volke misscall it, 
 Synge Lowsie Lucy whatever befall it. 
 
 He thinks hymself greate, yet an asse in hys state, 
 We allowe bye his eares but with asses to mate; 
 If Lucy is Lowsie, as some volke misscall it, 
 Synge Lowsie Lucy whatever befall it. 
 
 He's a haughty proud insolent knighte of the shire, 
 At home nobodye loves, yet iheres many him feare ; 
 If Lucy is Lowsie, as some volke misscall it, 
 Synge Lowsie Lucy whatever befall it. 
 
 To the sessions he went, and dyd sorely complain. 
 His parke had been rob'd, and his deer they were slain; 
 This Lucy is Lowsie, as some volke misscall it, 
 Synge Lowsie Lucy whatever befall it. 
 
 y D'EwEs's Journal, p. 363.
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. XVU 
 
 He sayd 'twas a ryot, his men had been beat, 
 His venson was stole, and clandestinely eat ; 
 See Lucy is Lowsie, as some volke misscall it, 
 Synge Lowsie Lucy whatever befall it. 
 
 Soe haughty was he when the fact was^confess'd, 
 He said 'twas a crime that could not bee redress'd; 
 Soe Lucy is Lowsie, as some volke misscall it, 
 Synge Lowsie Lucy whatever befall it. 
 
 Though Lucies a dozen he paints in his coat, 
 His name it shall Lowsie for Lucy bee wrote ; 
 For Lucy is Lowsie, as some volke misscall it, 
 Synge Lowsie Lucy whatever befall it. 
 
 If a iuvenile frolick he cannot forgive. 
 We'll synge Lowsie Lucy as long as we live; 
 And Lucy the Lowsie a libel may call it, 
 We'll synge Lowsie Lucy whatever befall it."' 
 
 It would appear that the above song, the-first effort 
 we have received of our author's poetical talents, was 
 not his only attempt at this kind of retaliation. It is 
 said, in a book called a Manuscript Historij of the 
 Stage^ which is supposed by Malone to have been 
 written between 1727 and 1730, " that the learned 
 Mr. Joshua Barnes, late Greek professor of the Uni- 
 versity of Cambridge, baiting about forty years ago 
 at an inn in Stratford, and hearing an old woman 
 singing part of the abovesaid song, such was his re- 
 spect for Mr. Shakspeare's genius, that he gave her 
 a new gown for the two following stanzas in it; and, 
 could she have said it all, he would (as he often said 
 in company, when any discourse has casually arose 
 about him), have given her ten guineas. 
 
 * One verse of this pasquinade was retained by memory, and 
 transmitted by Mr. Jones, to Oldys and Capel. The entire song 
 was recently discovered in a chest of drawers, that formerly be- 
 longed to Mrs. Dorothy Tyler, of Shottcry, near Stratford, who 
 died in 1778, at the age of eighty. Malone considers the whole 
 a forgery. The last stanza is indeed of a very suspicious ap- 
 pearance. 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 XVlll THE LIFE OF 
 
 " Sir Thomas was too covetous, 
 To covet so much deer; 
 When horns enough upon his head 
 Most plainly did appear. 
 
 Had not his worship one deer left ? 
 
 What then? He had a wife, 
 Took pains enough to find him horns, 
 
 Should last him during life," 
 
 The volume in which this anecdote is found, is 
 not much to be relied upon; for the author has been, 
 in several instances, detected as too credulous in re- 
 ceiving the reports of others, or as actually criminal, 
 in giving the reins to his imagination, and supply- 
 ing the v/ant of facts by the resources of his inven- 
 tion. The verses, however, which prove not to have 
 been, as was originally supposed, part of the first 
 satirical effusion, but the fragment of another jeu 
 d'espnt of the same kind, and on the same subject, 
 sufficiently authenticate themselves. The quibble on 
 the word ^feer, is one that was familar with our author;* 
 and, says Whiter, the lines " may be readily con- 
 ceived to have proceeded from our young bard, before 
 he was removed from the little circle of his native 
 place.'"' Besides, the author of the book in which 
 they were first published must have possessed an in- 
 trepidity of falsehood unparalleled in the history of 
 literary forgeries, if he had dared, so soon after the 
 death of Joshua Barnes, to advance a story of this 
 kind as a notorious fact, when, had it been a fiction, 
 any of the professor's friends would have had an op- 
 portunity of contradicting him. Malone considers 
 these verses, as well as the first, a forgery ; and cites 
 the epitaph erected by Sir Thomas Lucy, in praise of 
 
 » Henry VI. part 1. act IV. scene 2., and Henry IV. part 1. 
 act V. scene 4. 
 
 •" Specifnenofa Commentary on Shakspcare, p. 94.
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. XIX 
 
 his wife, as evidence of their spuriousness. Exag- 
 gerated censure, is the very essence of a satire : ex- 
 aggerated praise is the universal characteristic of the 
 epitaph. Each is equally wide of the truth : it is 
 probable, that the real character of Lady Lucy neither 
 warranted the panegyric of her husband, nor the se- 
 verity of Shakspeare. But it would, at the present 
 day, puzzle the ingenuity of an Q^dipus, to deter- 
 mine which was most likely to afford the fairest esti- 
 mate of her worth. 
 
 The contest between Shakspeare and Sir Thomas 
 Lucy was unequal ; and the result was such as might 
 have been anticipated, from the disproportion that ex- 
 isted between the strength and weapons of the op- 
 posing parties. The poet might irritate by his wit; 
 but the magistrate could wound by his authority. It 
 is recorded by Mr. Davies, that the knight " had him 
 oitivhipt, and sometimes imprisoned, and at last made 
 him fly his native country."'^ That the severity was 
 undue, there can be little room for doubting. Every 
 contemporary, who has spoken of our author, has been 
 lavish in the praise of his temper and disposition. 
 " The gentle Shakspeare" seems to have been his dis- 
 tinguishing appellation. No slight portion of our en- 
 thusiasm for his writings, may be traced to the fair pic- 
 ture which they present of our author's character : we 
 love the tenderness of heart — the candour and open- 
 ness, and singleness of mind — the largeness of senti- 
 ment — the liberality of opinion, which the whole te- 
 nor of his works prove him to have possessed : his 
 faults seem to have been the transient aberrations of 
 a thoughtless moment, which reflection never failed 
 to correct. The ebullitions of high spirits might mis- 
 lead him ; but the principles and the aff'ections never 
 « Fulman's MSS. vol. XV. Art. Shakspeare. 
 c 2
 
 XX THE LIFE OF 
 
 swerved from what was right. Against such a person, 
 the extreme severity of the magistrate should not have 
 been exerted. His youth — his genius — his accom- 
 plishments — his wife and children, should have mi- 
 tigated the rigour of the authority that was armed 
 against him. The powerful enemy of Shakspeare was 
 not to be appeased : the heart of the Puritan or the 
 game-preserver, is very rarely " framed of penetra- 
 ble stuff." Our author fled from the inflexible per- 
 secutions of his opponent, to seek a shelter in the 
 metropolis; and he found friends, and honour, and 
 wealth, and fame; where he had only hoped for an 
 asylum. Sir Thomas Lucy remained to enjoy the 
 triumph of his victory; and he yet survives, in the cha- 
 racter of Justice Shallow, as the laughing stock of 
 posterity, and as another specimen of the exquisite 
 skill, with which the victim of his magisterial autho- 
 rity was capable of painting the peculiarities of the 
 weak and the vain, the arrogant and the servile.'' 
 
 About the year 1587, in the twenty-third of his 
 age, Shakspeare arrived in London. It is not pos- 
 sible to discover the inducements which led our poet, 
 after his flight from Stratford, to seek his home and 
 his subsistence in the neighbourhood of a theatre. 
 Probably, in the course of their travels, he might 
 have formed an acquaintance with some of the per- 
 formers, during the occasional visits which they had 
 made to Stratford. Heminge and Burbage, dis- 
 tinguished performers of the time, were both War- 
 wickshire men, and born in the vicinity of Stratford. 
 
 ** There can be no doubt, that Justice Shallow was designed 
 as the representative of the knight. If the traditional authority 
 of this fact were not quite satisfactory, the description of his 
 coat of arms, in the first scene of The Merry Wives of Windsor, 
 which is, with very slight deviation, that of the Lucies, would be 
 sufficient to direct us to the original of the portrait.
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEAUE. XXI 
 
 Greene, another celebrated comedian of the day, was 
 the townsman, and he is thought to have been the re- 
 lation, of Shakspeare. On arriving- in the metropolis, 
 these were perhaps his only acquaintance, and they se- 
 cured his introduction to the theatre. It seems how- 
 ever agreed, that his first occupation there was of the 
 very lowest order. One tradition relates, that his origi- 
 nal office was that of call-boy, or prompter's attend- 
 ant; whose employment it is, to give the performers 
 notice to be ready to enter, as often as the business 
 of the play requires their appearance on the stage:^ 
 while another account, which has descended in a 
 very regular line from Sir William D'Avenant to Dr. 
 Johnson, states, that Shakspeare's first expedient 
 was to wait at the door of the playhouse, and hold 
 the horses of those who rode to the theatre, and had 
 no servants to take charge of them during the hours 
 of performance. It is said, "that he became so con- 
 spicuous in this office, for his care and readiness, 
 that in a short time, every man as he alighted called 
 for Will Shakspeare ; and scarcely any other waiter 
 was trusted with a horse, while Will Shakspeare 
 could be had. This was the first dawn of better 
 fortune. Shakspeare finding more horses put into 
 his hand than he could hold, hired boys to wait under 
 his inspection, who, when Will Shakspeare was sum- 
 moned, were immediately to present themselves, / 
 am Shakspeare's hoy, sir. In time, Shakspeare found 
 higher employment, but as long as the practice of 
 riding to the playhouse continued, the waiters that 
 held the horses retained the appellation of Shak- 
 speare s boys.' That the above anecdote was really 
 
 " Ma LONE. Rcefr.s Shakspeare, vol. i. p. 63. 
 ' Johnson. Reed's Shakspeare, vol. i. p. 120. One reason al- 
 ledgcd for discrediting this account, is, its having appeared first
 
 XXll IHE LIFE OF 
 
 communicated by Pope, there is no room to doubt. 
 This fact Dr. Johnson states upon his own authority, 
 and coming from such a source, the story is certainly 
 deserving of more respect than the commentators have 
 been inclined to attach to it. It w^as originally re- 
 lated by D'Avenant, vv^ho, if the frequenters of the 
 theatre had ever been in the habit of riding to the 
 play, must have remembered the time ; and if at that 
 time, the lads who took charge of the horses were, 
 as he affirmed, called Shakspeare's boys, that circum- 
 stance is the strongest possible corroboration of the 
 story. But it was known to Rowe, and rejected by 
 him ; and Steevens advances this omission as a proof 
 that our author's first biographer considered the 
 anecdote incredible, and wholly undeserving his at- 
 tention. Rowe's suppression of the fact may however 
 have originated in some other cause than his sus- 
 picion of its truth. Might he not have been actu- 
 ated by that absurd spirit of refinement, which is only 
 too common among the writers of biography, as well 
 as history, and which induces them to conceal or 
 misrepresent every occurrence which is at all of a 
 humiliating nature, and does not accord with those 
 false and effeminate notions so generally entertained 
 respecting the dignity of that peculiar class of com- 
 position? But, however inferior the situation which 
 Shakspeare occupied on first entering upon his dra- 
 in Gibber's Lives of the Poets, a book of no authority. But the 
 general inaccuracy of that work, ought not, in the present in- 
 stance, to be considered as impugning the credibility of its narra- 
 tion. The book was, in fact, written by Shiells, the amanuensis 
 of Dr. Johnson, and he, most probably, picked up from his 
 employer this piece of original information. Johnson, in his 
 edition of Shakspeare, repeated it, without any allusion to Shiell's 
 work, as having come to him immediately from Pope, and in 
 apparent ignorance of its ever having been printed before.
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. XXIU 
 
 matic career, his talents were not long buried in 
 obscurity. He rapidly rose to the highest station in 
 the theatre; and, by the power of his genius, raised 
 our national dramatic poetry, then in its merest in- 
 fancy, to the highest state of perfection which it is 
 perhaps capable of reaching. 
 
 It is impossible for any art to have attained a more 
 rapid growth, than was attained by the art of dra- 
 matic writing in this country. The people had, in- 
 deed, been long accustomed to a species of exhibi- 
 tion, called MIRACLES, or mysteries,^ founded on 
 
 s The most ancient as well as most complete collection of 
 this kind is, The Chester Mysteries, which were written not by 
 Ralph Higden, as was supposed by Warton, Malone, and others, 
 but by an earlier ecclesiastic of the Abbey of Chester, named 
 Randall, and were first represented between the years 1268 and 
 1276. The following extract is from MSS. Harl. 2013, &c. 
 " Exhibited at Chester in the year 1327, at the expense of the 
 different trading companies of that city. The fall of Lucifer , by 
 the Tanners. The Creation, by the Drapers. The Deluge, by the 
 Dyers. Abraham, Mekhiscdeck, and Lot, by the Barbers. Moses, 
 Balak, 3ind Balaam, hy the Cappers. The Salutation and Nativity, 
 by the Wrightes. The Shepherds feeding their Flocks by Night, by 
 the Painters and Glaziers, The three Kings, hy the Vintners. The 
 Oblation of the three Kings, by the Mercers. The killing of the Inno- 
 cents, hy the Goldsmiths. The Pui-iJication,hy the Blacksmiths. 
 The Temptation, by the Butchers. The Last Supper, by the Bakers. 
 The Blind Men and Lazarus, by the Glovers. Jesus and the Lepers, 
 by the Corvcsarys. Christ's Passion, by the Bowyers, Fletchers, 
 and Ironmongers. Descent into Hclfhy the Cooks and Innkeepers. 
 The Resurrection, by the Skinners. The Ascension, by the Taylors. 
 The Election of St. Mathias, sending of the Holy Ghost, S,c. by the 
 Fishmongers. Antichrist, by the Clotiiiers. Day of Judgment, by 
 the Websters. The reader will perhaps smile at some of these com- 
 binations. This is the substance and order of the former part of the 
 play. God enters creatingt he world: he breathes life into Adam, 
 leads him into Paradise, and opens his side while sleeping. Adam 
 and Eve appear naked, and not ashamed, and the old serpent 
 enters, lamenting his fall. He converses with Eve. She eats of the
 
 XXIV THE LIFE OF 
 
 sacred subjects, and performed by the ministers of 
 religion themselves, on the holy festivals, in or near 
 the churches, and designed to instruct the ignorant 
 in the leading facts of sacred history. From the oc- 
 casional introduction of allegorical characters such 
 as Faith, Death, Hope, or Sin, into these religious 
 dramas, representations of another kind, called mo- 
 ralities,'' had by degrees arisen, of which the 
 
 forbidden fruit, and gives part to Adam. They propose, accord- 
 ing to the stage-direction, to make themselves snbligacula a folUs 
 quihus tegamus pudenda. Cover their nakedness with leaves, and 
 converse with God. God's curse. The serpent exit hissing. 
 They are driven from Paradise by four angels and the cherubim 
 with a flaming sword. Adam appears digging the ground, and 
 Eve spinning. Their children Cain and Abel enter: the former 
 kills his brother. Adam's lamentation. Cain is banished," &c. — 
 W ART o^'s History of English Poetry, vol. i. p. 243. 
 
 Indulgences were granted to those who attended the repre- 
 sentation of these mysteries. 
 
 ^ We have a curious account in a book entitled. Mount Tabor, oi~ 
 private Exercises of a Penitent Sinner, by R. W. [R. WiUis,] Esq. 
 published in the year of his age 15, Anno Domini, 1639; an extract 
 from which will give the reader a more accurate notion of the 
 old Moralities, than a long dissertation on the subject. 
 
 «' UPON A STAGE-PLAY WHICH I SAW WHEN I WAS A CHILD. 
 
 "In the city of Gloucester the manner is (as I think it is in 
 other like corporations), that when players of interludes come to 
 towne, they first attend the Mayor, to enforme him what noble- 
 man's servants they are, and so to get licence for their publike 
 playing; and if the Mayor like the actors, or would shew respect 
 to their lord and master, he appoints them to play their first play 
 before himself, and the Alderman and Common-Counsell of the 
 city ; and that is called 'the Mayor-'s play ; where every one that 
 will, comes in without money, the Mayor giving the players a 
 reward as hee thinks fit to shew respect unto them. At such a play, 
 my father tooke me with him and made me stand between his 
 leggs, as he sate upon one of the benches, where we saw and 
 heard very well. The play was called The Cradle of Security, 
 wherein was personated a king or some great prince, with his
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEAKL. XXV 
 
 plots were more artificial, regular, and connected, and 
 which were entirely formed of such personifications; 
 but the first rough draught of a regular tragedy and 
 comedy that appeared, Lord Sackville's Gorboduc, 
 
 courtiers of several kinds, among which three ladies were in 
 special grace with him ; and they keeping him in delights and 
 pleasures, drew him from his graver counsellors, hearing of ser- 
 mons, and listening to good councell and admonitions, that in 
 the end they got him to lye down in a cradle upon the stage, 
 where these three ladies joyning in a sweet song, rocked him 
 asleepe, and he snorted againe; and in the mean time closely 
 conveyed under the cloaths wherewithal! he was covered, a vizard, 
 like a swine's snout, upon his face, with three wire chains fastened 
 thereunto, the other end whereof being holden severally by those 
 three ladies ; who fall to singing againe, and then discovered 
 his face, that the spectators might see how they had transformed 
 him, going on with their singing. Whilst all this was acting, 
 there came forth of another doore at the farthest end of the 
 stage, two old men; the one in blew, with a Serjeant at armes, 
 his mace on his shoulder ; the other in red, with a drawn sword 
 in his hand, and leaning with the other hand upon the other's 
 shoulder; and so they went along with a soft pace round about 
 by the skirt of the stage, till at last they came to the cradle, when 
 all the court was in the greatest jollity ; and then the foremost 
 old man with his mace stroke a fearfull blow upon the cradle ; 
 wherewith all the courtiers, with the three ladies, and the vizard, 
 all vanished; and the desolate prince starting up bare-faced, 
 and finding himself thus sent for to judgement, made a lament- 
 able complaint of his miserable case, and so was carried away 
 by wicked spirits. This prince did personate in the Morall, the 
 wicked of the world; the three ladies, Pride, Covetousness, and 
 Luxury; the two old men, the end of the world, and the last 
 judgment. This sight took such impression in me, that when I 
 came towards man's estate, it was as fresh in my memory, as 
 if I had seen it newly acted." 
 
 The writer of this book appears to have been born in the same 
 year with our great poet (1664). Supposing him to have been 
 seven or eight years old when he saw this interlude, the exhi- 
 bition must have been in 1.571, or 1572. 
 
 M A LON E, Hutonj of the Eni^lhh Siage.
 
 XXVI THE LIFE OF 
 
 and Still's Gammer Gurtons Needle, were not pro- 
 duced till within the latter half of the sixteenth 
 century, and but little more than twenty years pre- 
 vious to Shakspeare's arrival in the metropolis." 
 
 About that time, the attention of the public began 
 to be more generally directed to the stage; and it 
 throve admirably beneath the cheerful beams of po- 
 pularity. The theatrical performances which had, 
 in the early part of the reign of Elizabeth, been ex- 
 hibited on temporary stages, erected in such halls or 
 apartments as the actors could procure, or, more 
 generally, in the yards of the great inns, while the 
 spectators surveyed them from the surrounding win- 
 dows and galleries, began to be established in more 
 convenient and permanent situations. About the year 
 1569, a regular playhouse, under the appropriate 
 name of The Theatre, was built. It is supposed to 
 have stood somewhere in Blackfriars; and three 
 vears after the commencement of this establishment, 
 yielding to her inclination for the amusements of the 
 theatre, and disregarding the remonstrances of the 
 Puritans, the queen granted license and authority to 
 the Servants of the Earl of Leicester, " to use, exer- 
 cise, and occupie, the arte and facultie of playinge 
 commedies, tragedies, interludes, stage-playes, as well 
 for the recreation of our lovinge subjects, as for our 
 solace and pleasure, when we shall thinke good to 
 see them, throughoute our realme of England." From 
 this time, the number of theatres encreased with the 
 ripening taste, and the increasing demands of the 
 people. Various noblemen had their respective 
 companies of performers, who were associated as 
 their servants, and acted under their protection ; and 
 
 ' Gorboduc was produced in 1562. Gammer Gurfon, in 1566.
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. XXVll 
 
 durino- the period of Shakspeare's theatrical career, 
 not less than seven principal playhouses were open 
 in the metropolis. 
 
 Of these the Globe, and the playhouse in Black- 
 friars, were the property of the company to which 
 Shakspeare was himself attached, and by whom all 
 his productions were exhibited. The Globe, appears 
 to have been a wooden building of a considerable 
 size, hexagonal without, and circular within; it was 
 thatched in part, but a large portion of the roof was 
 open to the weather. This was the company's sum- 
 mer theatre, and the plays were acted by day-light : 
 at the Blackfriars, on the contrary, which was the 
 winter theatre, the top was entirely closed, and the 
 performances were exhibited by candle-light. In 
 every other respect, the economy and usages of these 
 houses appear to have been the same, and to have 
 resembled those of every other contemporary theatre. 
 With respect to the interior arrangements, there 
 were very few points of difference between our mo- 
 dern theatres, and those of the days of Shakspeare. 
 The terms of admission, indeed, were considerably 
 cheaper; to the boxes, the entrance was a shilling, to 
 the pit and galleries only sixpence.'' Sixpence, also, 
 was the price paid for stools upon the stage; and these 
 seats, as we learn from Decker's Gulfs Hornbook, 
 were peculiarly aifccted by the wits and critics at 
 the time. The conduct of the audience was less re- 
 strained by the sense of public decorum, and smoking 
 tobacco, playing at cards, eating and drinking, were 
 generally prevalent among them: tlic hour of per- 
 
 '' These prices appear latterly to have risen to two shillings and 
 half a crown for the best places. Tiie prices at the Blackfriars, 
 were higher than at the ('lobe. 
 
 Reed's Shakspcair, vol. iii. p. 78.
 
 XXVlll THE LIFE OF 
 
 formance also was earlier; the play beginning at first 
 at one, and afterwards at three o'clock, in the after- 
 noon. During the time of representation, a flag was 
 unfurled at the top of the theatre ; and the floor of the 
 stage (as was the case with every floor at the time, 
 from the cottage to the palace), was strewn with 
 rushes. But in other respects, the ancient theatres 
 seem to have been very nearly similar to those 
 of modern times: they had their pit, where the in- 
 ferior class of spectators — ihe groundlings — vented 
 their clamorous censure or approbation; they had 
 their boxes, and even their private boxes, of which 
 the right of exclusive admission was hired by the 
 night, for the more wealthy and refined portion of 
 the audience ;' and there were again the galleries, or 
 scaffolds above the boxes, for those who were con- 
 tent to purchase inferior accommodation at a cheaper 
 rate. On the stage, the arrangements appear to have 
 been nearly the same as at present, the curtain di- 
 vided the audience from the actors; which, at the 
 third sounding, not indeed of the bell, but of the 
 trumpet, was drawn for the commencement of the 
 performance. Malone has puzzled himself and his 
 readers, in his account of the ancient theatre, by the 
 supposition that there was a permanent elevation of 
 about nine feet, at the back of the stage, from which, 
 in many of the old playls, part of the dialogue was 
 spoken; and that there was a private box on each 
 side of this platform. Such an arrangement would 
 
 ' " A little pique happened betwixt the Dukeof Lenox, and the 
 Lord Chamberlain, about a box, in a new play at the Blackfriars, 
 of which the Duke had got the key; which if it had come to be 
 debated betwixt them, as it was once intended, some heat or per- 
 haps other inconvenience might have happened." — Letter from 
 Mr. Garrard, dated Jan. 25th, 1535. Straff. Letters, vol. i. 
 p. 511.
 
 WILLIAM SU AKSPEARE. XXIX 
 
 have precluded the possibility of all theatrical illu- 
 sion; and it seeras an extraordinary place to fix upon 
 as a station for spectators, where they could have 
 seen nothing but the backs and trains of the per- 
 formers. But as Malone himself acknowledges the 
 spot to have been inconvenient, and that "it is not 
 very easy to ascertain the precise situation were these 
 boxes really were;""' it may be presumed, from our 
 knowledge of the good sense of our forefathers, that, 
 if indeed such boxes existed at all, they certainly 
 were not where the historian of the English stage 
 has placed them. Malone was possessed with an 
 opinion, that the use of scenes was unknown in the 
 early years of our national drama, and he was per- 
 haps not unwilling to adopt such a theory respecting 
 the distribution of the stage as would effectually 
 preclude the supposition that such aids to the imagi- 
 nation of the audience had ever been employed. 
 That he was in error respecting the want of painted 
 scenery, I cannot help suspecting, even against the 
 high authority of Mr. Gifford." As to his perma- 
 nent platform, or upper stage, he may, or may not, 
 be correct in his opinion ; all that is certain upon 
 this subject is, that his quotations do not authorize 
 the conclusion that he has deduced from them; and 
 only prove that in the old, as in the modern theatre, 
 when the actor was to speak from a window, or ap- 
 pear upon a balcony, or on the walls of a fortress, 
 the requisite ingenuity was not wanting to contrive an 
 adequate representation of the place. But, with re- 
 gard to the use of scenery, it is scarcely possible, from 
 the very circumstances of the case, that such a con- 
 trivance should have escaped our ancestors. All the 
 
 ■" Reed's Shakespeare, voL iii. p. 83. note 9. 
 " Massinirer, \o\. i. p. 103.
 
 XXX THE LIFE OF 
 
 materials were ready to their hands ; they had not to 
 invent for themselves, but to adapt an old invention 
 to their own purposes: and at a time when every 
 better apartment was adorned with tapestry; when 
 even the rooms of the commonest taverns were 
 hung with painted cloths ; while all the essentials of 
 scenery were continually before their eyes, we can 
 hardly believe our forefathers to have been so defi- 
 cient in ingenuity, as to suppose that they never 
 should have conceived the design of converting the 
 common ornaments of their walls into the decorations 
 of their theatres. But, the fact appears to be, that the 
 use of scenery was almost coexistent with the intro- 
 duction of dramatic representations in this country. 
 In the Chester Mysteries, written in 1268, and which 
 are the most ancient and complete collection of the 
 kind that we possess, we have the following stage 
 direction: "Then Noe shall go into the arke with 
 all his familye, his wife excepte. The arke must be 
 boarded round about, and upon the hordes all the 
 beastes andfowles hereafter rehearsed must be painted, 
 that their wordes maye agree with the pictures."" 
 In this passage then, is a distinct reference to a 
 painted scene ; and it is not likely, that, in the lapse 
 of three centuries, while all other arts were in a state 
 of rapid improvement, and the art of dramatic writing 
 perhaps more rapidly and successfully improved than 
 any other, the art of theatrical decoration should 
 have alone stood still. It is not improbable that 
 their scenes were few ; and that these were varied 
 as occasion might require, by the introduction of dif- 
 ferent pieces of stage furniture. Mr. Gifford, who 
 adheres to Malone's opinion, says, "a table with 
 a pen and ink thrust in, signified that the stage was 
 ° Reed's Shakespeare, vol.iii. p. 15.
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. XXXI 
 
 a counting house; if these were withdrawn, and two 
 stools put in their places, it was then a tavern ;"p and 
 this might be perfectly satisfactory, as long as the 
 business of the play was supposed to be passing 
 within doors, but when it was removed to the open 
 air, such meagre devices would no longer be suffi- 
 cient to guide the imagination of the audience, and 
 some new method must have been adopted to indi- 
 cate the place of action. After giving the subject con- 
 siderable attention, I cannot help thinking that Stee- 
 vens was right in rejecting the evidence of Malone, 
 strong as it may in some instances appear ; and con- 
 cluding that the spectators were, as at the present day, 
 assisted in following the progress of the story, by 
 means of painted and moveable scenery. This opinion 
 is confirmed by the ancient stage directions. In the 
 folio Shakspeare, of 1623, we read, " Enter Brutus, 
 in his orchard.'' "Enter Timon, in the woodsT 
 " Enter Timon, from his cave.'' In Coriolanus : 
 "Marcius follows them to the gates, and is shut in." 
 Innumerable instances of the same kind might be 
 cited, to prove that the ancient stage was not so 
 defective in the necessary decorations as some anti- 
 quarians of great authority would represent. "It 
 may be added," says Steevens, " that the dialogue of 
 Shakspeare has such perpetual reference to objects 
 supposed visible to the audience, that the want of 
 scenery could not have failed to render many of the 
 descriptions uttered by his speakers absurd and 
 laughable. Banquo examines the outside of Inver- 
 ness castle with such minuteness, that he distin- 
 guishes even the nests which the martins had built 
 under the projecting parts of its roof. Romeo, 
 standing in a garden, points to the tops of fruit-trees 
 " Maswigcr, yo\.'\. p. 103.
 
 XXXll THE LIFE OF 
 
 gilded by the moon. The prologue speaker to the 
 the Second Part of King Henry IV, expressly shews 
 the spectators, 'this worm-eaten hold of ragged stone,' 
 in which Northumberland was lodged. lachimo takes 
 the most exact inventory of every article in Imogen's 
 bed-chamber, from the silk and silver of which her 
 tapestry was wrought, down to the cupids that sup- 
 port her andirons. Had not the inside of this apart- 
 ment, with its proper furniture, been represented, 
 how ridiculous must the action of lachimo have ap- 
 peared! He must have stood looking out of the 
 room for the particulars supposed to be visible with- 
 in it. In one of the parts of King Henry VI, a can- 
 non is discharged against a tower ; and conversations 
 are held in almost every scene from different walls, 
 turrets, and battlements." Indeed, must not all the 
 humour of the mock play in the Midsummer Night's 
 Dream have failed in its intent, unless the audi- 
 ence before whom it was performed were accustomed 
 to be gratified by the combination of all the embel- 
 lishments requisite to give effect to a dramatic repre- 
 sentation, and could therefore estimate the absurdity 
 of those shallow contrivances, and mean substitutes 
 for scenery, which were devised by the ignorance of 
 the clowns?'' 
 
 •i This question appears to be set at rest by the following ex- 
 tracts of expenses from the Book of Reeds, the oldest that exists, 
 in the office of the auditors of the Imprest. " The Cullorery 
 William Lyzard, for gold, sylver, and sundry other cullers by 
 him spent, in painting the houses that served for the playes and 
 players at the coorte, with their properties and necessaries inci- 
 dent, &c. 13/. 16*. Id. 
 
 Paper for patternes, and for leaves of trees, and other garnish- 
 ing, 4 reams, 245. 
 
 Mrs. Dane, the lynnen dealer, for canvass to paynte for houses 
 for the players, and other properties, as monsters, great hollow 
 trees, and such other, twenty dozen ells, 12/.
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. XXXlll 
 
 In only one respect do I perceive any material dif- 
 ference, between the mode of representation at the 
 time of Shakspeare, and at present. In his day, 
 the female parts were performed by boys:"" this 
 custom, which must in many cases have materially 
 injured the illusion of the scene, was in others of 
 considerable advantage. It furnished the stage with 
 a succession of youths regularly educated to the art, 
 and experienced to fill the parts appropriate for their 
 age. It obviated the necessity of obtruding performers 
 before the public in parts that were unsuited to their 
 time of life. When the lad had become too tall for 
 Juliet, he was prepared to act, and was most admir- 
 ably calculated in age to assume, the character of the 
 ardent Romeo: when the voice had "the mannish 
 crack," that rendered the youth untit to appear as 
 the representative of the gentle Imogen, he was 
 skilled in the knowledge of the stage, and capable of 
 doing justice to the princely sentiments of Arviragus 
 or Guiderius. 
 
 Such then was the state of the stage when Shak- 
 speare entered into its service, in the double capacity 
 of actor and author. As an author, though Dryden 
 says, that 
 
 "Shakspeare's own muse his Pericles first bore,"' 
 
 William Lyzarde, for syze, cullers, pottes, nayles, and pensills, 
 used and occupied upon the payntinge of seven cities, one villadge, 
 one countrey house, one battlement, nine axes, a braunche, lillyes, 
 and a raounte for Christmas three holidays, 4/. 15.9. %d. 
 
 There are several other references to "paynting great clothes 
 of canvas," which were evidently neither more nor less, than 
 moveable canvass scenes. 
 
 See RoswELi/s .S7/flA-.s/;crt;T, vol. iii. p. 304 — 409. 
 
 ■■ The fust woman who appeared in a regular drama, on a 
 public stage, performed the part of Desdemona, about the year 
 1660. Her name is unknown. — Reed's Shakspeare, vcl, iii. p. 1 33. 
 ' Prologue to the Tragedy of Circe. 
 
 VOL. I. d
 
 XXXIV THE LIFE OF 
 
 it is most probable that Titus Andronicus was the 
 earliest dramatic effort of his pen. Shakspeare 
 arrived in London about the year 1587, and ac- 
 cording to the date of the latter play, as intimated 
 by Ben Jonson, in his introduction to Bartholomew 
 Fair^ we find it to have been produced immediately 
 after his arrival. That Titus Andronicus is really 
 the work of Shakspeare, it would be a defiance to all 
 contemporary evidence to doubt. It was not only 
 printed among his works, by his friends, Heminge 
 and Condell, but is mentioned as one of his tragedies 
 by an author," who appears to have been on such 
 terms of intimacy with him, as to have been admitted 
 to a sight of his MS. sonnets. Against this testi- 
 mony, the critics have nothing to oppose but the ac- 
 cumulated horrors of its plot; the stately march of 
 its versification; and the dissimilarity of its style 
 from the other efforts of Shakspeare's genius. It 
 does not strike me that these arguments are sufficient 
 to lead us to reject the play as the composition of 
 our great dramatist. He was, perhaps, little more 
 than three-and-twenty years of age when it was com- 
 posed. The plays which at the time had possession 
 of the stage, of which very few had been written, 
 and not above fifteen are extant," supposing An- 
 
 ' In the year 1614, he speaks of it as a play which had then 
 been exhibited " five-and-twenty or thirty years." 
 " Meres, Palladis Tamia, 
 
 ! 
 
 " Jcolastus 1540. Arraignment of Paris 
 
 Gorboduc 1561. Sapko and Phaon J> 1584. 
 
 Damon and Pythias 1 562. Alexander and Campaspe . 
 
 Tancred and Gismund • • • 1568. Misfortunes of Arthur- • • 1587. 
 
 Camhi/ses, before 1570. Jeronimo "1 
 
 Appius and Virginia ^ Spanish Tragedy > • • . • 1588. 
 
 Gam Gurtons Needle 5 ' Tambnrlaine j 
 
 Fromos and Cassandra ' " 1578. Titus Andronicus 1589. 
 
 Reed's Shakspeare, vol. iii. p. 3, 4. note.
 
 -WILLIAM SHAKSPEAHE. XXXV 
 
 drmiiciis to have been produced in 1589, were all of 
 the same bombastic and exaggerated character ; and 
 the youthful poet naturally imitated the popular 
 manner, and strove to beat his contemporaries with 
 their own weapons. However tiresome the tragedy 
 may be to us, it was a great favourite at its first ap- 
 pearance. It was full of barbarities that shock the 
 refined taste ; but these formed a mode of exciting 
 the interest of the audience which was very com- 
 monly had recourse to by the play-writers of the 
 age, and from which Shakspeare never became fully 
 weaned, even at a period when his judgment was 
 matured ; as we may learn from the murder of Mac- 
 (luff's children, the hamstringing of Cassio, and the 
 plucking out the eyes of Gloucester. The versification 
 and language of the play, is certainly very different 
 from those of Othello, of Hamlet, of Macbeth, or Lear. 
 The author had not yet acquired that facility of com- 
 position for which he was afterwards distinguished. 
 He wrote with labour, and left in every line the trace 
 of the labour with which he wrote. He had not yet 
 discovered (and it was he who eventually made the 
 discovery), that the true language of nature and of 
 passion is that which passes most directly to the 
 heart : but it is not with the works of his experienced 
 years, that this "bloody tragedy" should be compared ; 
 if it be, we certainly should find a difficulty in ad- 
 mitting that writings of such opposite descriptions, 
 could be the cflusions of the same intellect; but, 
 compare this tragedy with the other works of his 
 youth, and the difficulty vanishes. Is it improbable 
 that the author of the Venus and Adonis, and 
 the Rape of Lucrece, should, on turning his atten- 
 tion to the stage, produce as heavy and monotonous 
 a performance as the Titus Andronicus'^. 
 
 a 2
 
 XXXVl THE LIFE OF 
 
 I have been rather more diffuse upon this subject^ 
 than the nature of the present notice would appear to 
 warrant, because it affords the means of ascertaining 
 the time when Shakspeare commenced writer for the 
 stage. If Titus A7idronicus be really his, as I sup- 
 pose, he became an author immediately on finding 
 himself in the service of the theatre. His first play, 
 though we now despise and reject it, was the best 
 play that had been presented to the public ; and im- 
 mediately placed him in the first ranks of the pro- 
 fession, and among the principal supports of the 
 company to which he was attached. 
 
 PericleSy if the work of Shakspeare, was probably 
 his next dramatic production. Dryden has most un- 
 equivocally attributed this play to Shakspeare, and 
 he was also commended as its author, in 1646, by 
 S. Shepherd, in a poem called Time displayed. It is 
 true that it was omitted by Heminge and Condell, 
 in their collection of our poet's works ; but this may 
 have proceeded from forgetfulness, and it was only by 
 an afterthought, that Troilus and Cressida escaped a 
 similar fortune. How far Pet^icles, as originally 
 written, was, or was not, worthy the talents of Shaks- 
 peare, we have no means of judging. The only 
 editions of this tragedy that have come down to us, 
 are three spurious quartos, of which the text was 
 printed from copies taken by illiterate persons 
 during representation, and published without any 
 regard to the property or the reputation of the author, 
 to impose on the curiosity of the public. The Peri- 
 cles of Shakspeare may have been a splendid com- 
 position, and yet not have shewn so in the garbled 
 editions of the booksellers. We may estimate the 
 injuries that Pericles received, by the injuries which 
 we know were inflicted upon Hamlet on its first
 
 WILLIAM SIIAKSPEAUE. XXXVll 
 
 issuing, after such a process, from the press. In the 
 first edition of Hamlet, 1603, there is scarcely a trace 
 of the beauty and majesty of Shakspeare's work. 
 Long passages, and even scenes, are misplaced ; 
 grammar is set wholly at defiance ; half lines fre- 
 quently omitted, so as to destroy the sense; and 
 sentences brought together without any imaginable 
 connexion. Sometimes the transcriber caught the 
 expression, but lost the sentiment ; and huddled the 
 words together, without any regard to the meaning 
 or no-meaning that they might happen to convey : at 
 other times he remembered the sentiment, but lost the 
 expression ; and considered itno presumption to supply 
 the lines of Shakspeare with doggerel verses of his 
 own. Such were, for the most part, the early quarto 
 impressions of our author's plays: and it is not diffi- 
 cult to conceive, that Pericles, which seems to have suf- 
 fered more than any other play in passing through the 
 ignorant and negligenthands of the transcriber and the 
 printer, might have been originally the work of Shaks- 
 peare, without retaining in its published form any 
 distino-uishino; characteristics of the magic hand that 
 framed it. To attempt tracing the literary life of our 
 great dramatist were a work of unprofitable toil. I 
 have given in the appendix (No. 2.) the list of his 
 plays, according to the order in which Chalmers, 
 Malonc, and Dr. Drake suppose them to have been 
 composed: but the grounds of their conjectures are 
 so uncertain, that little reliance can be placed in 
 them, and all we really know upon the subject, is what 
 we learn from Meres,' that previously to the year 
 1598, that is, within twelve years after his attaching 
 himself to the theatre, Shakspeare had not only pub- 
 
 " Valliidis Tamia, or Second part of IFit's Common Place Book\ 
 by Francis Mercs, and printed at London, 1598.
 
 XXXVUl THE LIEE OF 
 
 lished his two poems, the Ve}2us and Adonis, and the 
 Rape of Lucrece; but had already written Titus 
 Andronicus, King John, Richard the Second, Henri/ 
 the Fourth, Richard the Third, Romeo and Juliet, 
 The Midsummer Night's Dream, Tivo Gentlemen of 
 Vero?ia, The Comedy of Erroi^s, The Loves Labour 
 Lost, The Love's Labour Won,^ and The Merchant 
 of Venice. He had also written a great number of his 
 Sonnets, and the minor pieces of poetry which were 
 collected and printed by Jaggart, in 1599, under the 
 somewhat affected title of the Passiotiate Pilgrim. 
 After this, we have no means of ascertaining the suc- 
 cession in which the plays of Shakspeare were com- 
 posed. 
 
 Very early in his dramatic career, he appears to 
 have attained to a principal share in the direction 
 and emoluments of the theatres to which he was at- 
 tached. His name stands second in the list of 
 proprietors of the Globe, and Blackfriars, in the li- 
 cense granted to them by James the First in 1603: 
 and his industry in supporting these establishments 
 •was indefatigable. Besides the plays which were 
 entirely of his own composition, or which he so 
 completely rewrote as to make them his own, he 
 seems to have been frequently engaged in revising, 
 and adding to, and remodelling the works of others.* 
 This task, however beneficial to the interests of his 
 theatre, and necessary to give attraction to the pieces 
 themselves, was viewed with an eye of jealousy by 
 the original authors ; and Robert Greene, in his 
 
 • There is no such play extant as Lovers Labour Won. Dr. 
 Farmer supposes this to have been another name for All's Well 
 that Ends Well. 
 
 ' As was the case with Henry the Sixth ; and probably many 
 other plays that have not come down to us.
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. XXXIX 
 
 Groatsworth of Wit, himself a writer for the stage, 
 in admonishinof his fellow- dramatists to abandon 
 their pursuit, and apply themselves to some more 
 profitable vocation, refers them to this part of our 
 author's labours with no little asperity. " Trust 
 them not (i. e. the players), for there is an upstart 
 crow beautified with our feathers, that with his 
 tyger's heart wrapt in a player's hide, supposes he is 
 as well able to bombaste out a blank-verse as the 
 best of you; and being an absolute Johannes fac- 
 totum, is in his own conceit the only Shak-scene in a 
 country/' This sarcasm, however, was nothing more 
 than the unwarranted effusion of a dissolute and dis- 
 appointed spirit. Greene was a bad man. The 
 pamphlet from which the above passage is extracted 
 was published after his death by Henry Chettle ; and 
 the editor, after he had given it to the world, was so 
 satisfied of the falsehood of the charo:es insinuated 
 against our author, that he made a public apology 
 for his indiscretion in the preface to a subsequent 
 pamphlet of his own, entitled, Kind HarCs Dreame; 
 lamenting that he had not omitted, or at least mode- 
 rated, what Greene had written against Shakspeare, 
 and adding, " I am as sorry as if the original fault 
 had been my fault; because myself have seen his de- 
 meanour, no less civil than he excelleth in the qualitie 
 he professes : besides divers of worship have reported 
 his uprightness of dealing, ivhich argiies his honestie, 
 and his facetious grace in writing, that approves 
 his arty 
 
 It may be conceived from the abundance of his 
 works, of which, perhaps, very many have been lost, 
 that our author's facility of composition must have 
 been extremely great; and, on this point, we have 
 the contemporary testimony of his sincere, kind-
 
 Xl THE LIFE OF 
 
 hearted, generous, and mucli slandered friend, Ben 
 Jonson, who writes in his Discoveries, " I remember 
 the players have often mentioned it as an honour to 
 Shakspeare, that in 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 their 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 fancy, brave 
 notions, and gentle expressions; wherein he flowed 
 w^ith that felicity, that sometimes it was necessary he 
 should be stopped : Sufflaminandus erat, as Augustus 
 said of Haterius. His wit was in his own power; 
 would the rule of it had been so too. Many times 
 he fell into those things which could not escape 
 laughter; as when he said, in the person of Caesar, 
 one speaking to him, 
 
 * Caesar, thou dost me wrong.' 
 
 '-' He replied : 
 
 ' Csesar did never wrong, but with just cause.'" 
 
 " and such like, which were ridiculous. But he re- 
 
 " In the present copies we read — Julius Csesar, act iii. sc. 1. 
 
 Know, Ccesar doth not wrong ; nor without cause. 
 Will he be satisfied. 
 
 and so the speech ends with a defective Hne. The original pas- 
 sage, we may presume, ran as Jonson has quoted it : 
 
 Know, Ccesar doth not wrong, but with just cause ; 
 Nor without cause, will he he satisfied. 
 
 The line was attacked by the formidable criticism of Jonson, and 
 the offending words withdrawn.
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. • xU 
 
 deemed his vices with his virtues; there was ever 
 more in him to be praised than to be pardoned."" 
 
 But Shakspeare was not only an author but an 
 actor. In this union of the two professions he was 
 not singular; his friend, Ben Jonson, resembled him 
 in this. With respect to the merits of Shakspeare 
 as a performer, there has existed some doubt. From 
 the expression used in Rowe's Life, it would appear 
 that he had been but indifferently skilled in the infe- 
 rior half of his double vocation, and never attempted 
 any parts superior to the Ghost in Hamlet; but the 
 words of Chettle, speaking of him as " one excellent 
 in the qualitie he professes,'' confirm the account of 
 Aubrey, that " he did act exceedingly well.'' That 
 he understood the theory of his profession is mani- 
 fest from the invaluable instructions which he has 
 written, for the use of all future actors, in the third 
 act of Hamlet. His class of characters was proba- 
 bly not very extensive. If the names of the per- 
 formers prefixed to the early editions of Every ISIaii 
 in his Humour were arrang^ed in the same order as 
 the persons of the drama, which was most probably 
 the case, he was the original representative of Old 
 Knoivell; and an anecdote preserved by Oldys would 
 also make it appear that he played Adam in As you 
 like it. " One of Shakspeare's brothers,^ who lived 
 to a good old age, even some years after the restora- 
 tion of Charles the Second, would, in his younger 
 days, come to London to visit his brother Will, as he 
 called him, and l)e a spectator of him as an actor in 
 some of his own plays. This custom, as his bro- 
 ther's fame enlarged, and his dramatic entertainments 
 grew the greatest support of our principal, if not of 
 all our theatres, he continued it seems so long after 
 
 " Ben Jonson's Discoveries. ' (lilbert.
 
 xlii THE LIFE OF 
 
 his brother's death as even to the latter end of his 
 own life. The curiosity at this time of the most 
 noted actors (exciting them) to learn something from 
 him of his brother, &c. they justly held him in the 
 highest veneration. And it may be well believed, 
 as there was, besides, a kinsman and descendant of 
 the family, who was then a celebrated actor among 
 them (Charles Hart. See Shakspeare's Will). This 
 opportunity made them greedily inquisitive into 
 every little circumstance, more especially in his dra- 
 matick character, which his brother could relate of 
 him. But he, it seems, was so stricken in years, 
 and possibly his memory so weakened with infirmi- 
 ties (which might make him the easier pass for a man 
 of weak intellects), that he could give them but little 
 light into their enquiries; and all that could be re- 
 collected from him of his brother Will in that station 
 was, the faint, general, and almost lost ideas he had 
 of having once seen him act a part in one of his own 
 comedies, wherein, being to personate a decrepit old 
 man, he wore a long beard, and appeared so weak 
 and drooping and unable to walk, that he was forced 
 to be supported and carried by another person to a 
 table, at which he was seated among some company, 
 who were eating, and one of them sung a song."^ 
 From this it would appear, that the class of charac- 
 ters to which the histrionic exertions of Shakspeare 
 were confined, was that of elderly persons ; parts, 
 rather of declamation, than of passion. With a 
 countenance which, if any one of his pictures is a 
 genuine resemblance of him, we may adduce that 
 one as our authority for esteeming capable of every 
 variety of expression; with a knowledge of the art 
 that rendered him fit to be the teacher of the first 
 > Reed's Shakspeare, vol. i. 122.
 
 AVILLIA.M SllAKSPEAKE. xliii 
 
 actors of his day, and to instruct Joseph Taylor in 
 the character of Hamlet, and John Lowine in that of 
 King Henry the Eighth;'' with such admirable qua- 
 lifications for pre-eminence, we must infer that no- 
 thino- but some personal defect could have reduced 
 him to limit the exercise of his powers, and even in 
 youth assume the slow and deliberate motion, which 
 is the characteristic of old age. In his minor poems 
 we, perhaps, trace the origin of this direction of his 
 talents. It appears from two places in his Sonnets, 
 that he was lamed by some accident. In the 37th 
 sonnet he writes — 
 
 " So I made lame by Fortune's dearest spite." 
 
 And, in the 89th, he again alludes to his infirmity, 
 and says — 
 
 " Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt." 
 
 This imperfection would necessarily have rendered 
 him unfit to appear as the representative of any cha- 
 racters of youthful ardour, in which rapidity of move- 
 ment or violence of exertion were demanded; and 
 would oblige him to apply his powers to such parts 
 as were compatible with his measured and impeded 
 action. Malone has most ineflBciently attempted to 
 explain away the palpable meaning of the above 
 lines; and adds, " If Shakspeare was in truth lame, 
 he had it not in his power to halt occasionalhi for this 
 or any other purpose. The defect must have been 
 fixed and permanent." Not so. Surely, many an 
 infirmity of the kind may be skilfully concealed ; or 
 only become visible in the moments of hurried 
 movement. Either Sir Walter Scott or Lord Byron 
 mif>-ht, without any impropriety, have written the 
 
 ' Roscius Atiglicanus, commonly called, Downcs the Prompter's 
 Book.
 
 xliv THE LIFE OF 
 
 verses in question. They would have been appli- 
 cable to either of them. Indeed, the lameness of 
 Lord Byron was exactly such as Shakspeare's might 
 have been; and I remember as a boy, that he se- 
 lected those speeches for declamation, which would 
 not constrain him to the use of such exertions, as 
 might obtrude the defect of his person into notice. 
 
 Shakspeare's extraordinary merits, both as an 
 author and as an actor, did not fail of obtaining for 
 him the fame and the remuneration that they de- 
 served. He was soon honoured by the patronage of 
 the young Lord Southampton, one of the most amia- 
 ble and accomplished noblemen of the court of Eli- 
 zabeth, and one of the earliest patrons of our national 
 drama.* To this distinguished person our author 
 dedicated, " the first heir of his invention,"*^ the 
 poem of Venus and Adonis, in 1593. This was 
 within five years after Shakspeare arrived in Lon- 
 don ; and, in the following year, he inscribed the 
 Rape of Lucrece to the same nobleman, in terms 
 which prove that the barriers imposed by difference 
 of condition had become gradually levelled, and 
 that, between these young men, the cold and formal 
 intercourse of the patron and the client had been 
 rapidly exchanged for the kinder familiarity of 
 friendship. The first address is respectful ; the 
 second affectionate. When this intimacy began 
 Shakspeare was in his twenty-seventh, and Lord 
 Southampton in his twentieth year; a time of life 
 when the expansion of our kindness is not restrained 
 
 » " My Lord Southampton and Lord Rutland came not to the 
 
 court; the one doth but veryseldome : they pass away the time 
 
 in London, merely ingoing to plays every day."- — Rowland Whyte's 
 
 Letter to Sir Robert Sidney, 1599. Sydney Papers, vol, ii. p. 132. 
 
 '' Dedication to Venus and Adonis.
 
 AVILLIAM SIIAKSPEARE. xlv 
 
 by any of those apprehensions and suspicions which, 
 in after-life, impede the developement of the aftec- 
 tions; and when, in the enthusiastic admiration of 
 excellence, we hasten to seek fellowship with it, and 
 disregard every impediment to free communication 
 which may be opposed by the artificial distinctions of 
 society. The superiority of Shakspeare's genius 
 raised him to a level with his friend. Lord South- 
 ampton allowed the gifts of Nature to claim equal 
 privilege with the gifts of Fortune; and the splendid 
 present of a thousand pounds, which our great poet 
 received from him, was bestowed and accepted in 
 the true spirit of generosity; as coming from one, 
 who was exercising to its noblest uses the power of 
 his affluence, and received by one whose soul was 
 lar2;e enough to contain the sense of oblioration with- 
 out any mixture of petty shame or any sacrifice of 
 independence. The name of Henry Wriothesley, 
 Earl of Southampton, should be dear to every Eng- 
 lishman, as the first patron — the youthful friend — 
 and author of the fortunes of Shakspeare. 
 
 The authority for believing that this magnificent 
 present was made — which is equivalent to at least 
 five thousand pounds at the present day — is the best 
 that can be obtained respecting the events of our 
 author's life ; that of Sir William D'Avenant. " It 
 was given," he says, " to complete a purchase." 
 Malone doubts the extent of the earl's munificence — 
 and what does he not doubt? He says, " no such 
 purchase was ever made."'' This is a mere gratui- 
 tous assumption ; for it is evident that Shakspeare 
 had a very considerable property in two principal 
 theatres, which must have been obtained by pur- 
 chase, and could not have been obtained for an in- 
 
 '• BoswELi/s Shakspeare, vol. ii. p. 480.
 
 xlvi THE LIFE OF 
 
 considerable sum ;^ nor by any means that our author 
 could of himself have procured, by the most inde- 
 fatigable exertions of his talents and economy. At 
 a time when the most successful dramatic repre- 
 sentation did not produce to its author so much as 
 twenty pounds, and generally little more than ten/ 
 when, as an actor, his salary would have amounted 
 to a mere trifle ; and when, as we have before seen, 
 the circumstances of his father could not have aided 
 him by any supplies from home, it is only by adopt- 
 ing D'Avenant's statement, and admitting the muni- 
 ficence of Lord Southampton, that we can account 
 for the sudden prosperity of Shakspeare. But, says 
 Malone, "it is more likely that he presented the 
 poet with a hundred pounds in return for his dedica- 
 tions."^ And this instance of liberality, which is so 
 creditable to Shakspeare and his patron — to him who 
 merited, and the high-spirited and noble youth who 
 comprehended and rewarded his exalted merit — is to 
 be discredited, because such an ardour of admiration 
 does not square with the frigid views of probability 
 entertained by the aged antiquarian in the seclusion 
 of his closet ! 
 
 The fortunes of Shakspeare were indeed rapid in 
 their rise; but he did not selfishly monopolize the 
 emoluments of his success. On being driven from 
 
 ^ The Globe was, perhaps, worth about 500/. ; the Blackfriars 
 somewhat more ; but this was the least valuable portion of the 
 concern. The scenery, the properties, and the dresses, must 
 have been worth infinitely more. In Greene's Groates worth of 
 Wit, a player is introduced, boasting that his share in the 
 stage apparel could not be sold for two hundred pounds. Shak- 
 speare was also the purchaser of property at Stratford so early 
 as 1597. 
 
 ' Gifford's Massinger, vol. i. p. 64. 
 f Boswell's Shakspeare, vol. ii. p. 478.
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEAUK. xlvii 
 
 Stratford, he left, as we have seen, a father in reduced 
 circumstances, and a wife and children M'ho were to 
 be supported by his labours. We may confidently 
 assert, on a comparison of facts and dates, that the 
 spirit of Shakspeare was not of a niggard and undif- 
 fusive kind. The course of his success is marked by 
 the returning prosperity of his family. In 1578, his 
 father was unable to pay, as a member of the corpo- 
 ration, his usual contribution of four-pence a-week to 
 the poor; and in 1588, a distress was issued for the 
 seizure of his goods, which his poverty rendered nu- 
 gatory; for it was returned, " Johannes Shakspeare 
 nihil habet unde distributio potest levari."^ Yet, 
 from this state of poverty, we find him within ten 
 years rising with the fortunes of his child; cheered 
 and invigorated by the first dawning of his illustri- 
 ous son's prosperity; and in 1590, applying at the 
 Herald's Office for a renewal of his grant of arms,*" 
 and described as a Justice of the Peace, and one pos- 
 sessing^ lands and tenements to the amount of 500/. 
 That this restoration of Mr. John Shakspeare's aff'airs 
 originated in the filial piety of his son, appears evi- 
 dent, from our knowledge that the branch of traflfiic 
 with which his circumstances in life were inseparably 
 connected, was at that period in its most extreme 
 state of depression.' 
 
 The kindness of Shakspeare was not restricted to 
 his family ; and the only letter which remains out of 
 the many he must have received, is one from his 
 townsman, Richard Quiney, requesting, in terms 
 that speak him confident of success, the loan of 
 
 * Register of the BailijT'S Court of Strafford. 
 •^ They were originally granted to him in 1569, while high- 
 bailiff of the town. 
 
 ' Supplication to the Lord Treasurer Burghley, 1590.
 
 Xlviii THE LIFE OF 
 
 thirty pounds, a sum in those days by no means in- 
 considerable.'' 
 
 Pecuniary emolument and literary reputation were 
 not the only reward that our poet received for his 
 labours : the smiles of royalty itself shone upon him. 
 " Queen Elizabeth," says Rowe, " gave him many 
 gracious marks of her favour;'*' and so delighted was 
 she with the character oiFalstaff, that she desired our 
 author to continue it in another play, and exhibit him 
 in love. To this command we owe The Merry Wives of 
 Windsor. Dennis adds, that, from the Queen's eager- 
 ness to see it acted, "she commanded it to be finished 
 in fourteen days, and was afterwards, as tradition tells 
 us, very well pleased with the representation.""" If 
 Queen Elizabeth was pleased to direct the course of 
 our author's imag-ination, with her successor he was a 
 distinguished favourite ; and James the First, whose 
 talents and judgment have deserved more respect than 
 they have received, wrote him a letter with his own 
 hand, which was long in the possession of Sir W. 
 D'Avenant." Dr. Farmer supposes this letter to have 
 been written in return for the compliment paid the mo- 
 narch in Macbeth; but he has overlooked an equally 
 probable occasion. The Tempest was written for the 
 festivities that attended the marriage of the Princess 
 Elizabeth with the Prince Palatine; and was per- 
 
 ^ This Letter is preserved in BostoeWs Shakspeare, vol. ii. 
 p. 485. ' Life of Shakspeare. 
 
 " Epistle Dedicatory to the Comical Gallant. 
 
 " James was the patron of Jonson and of Shakspeare; he pos- 
 sessed himself no inconsiderable talent for poetry. See Bos- 
 well's Shakspeare, vol. ii. p. 481, 482. He was called a pedant; 
 *' but," says Mr. D'Israeli, '' he was no more a pedant than the 
 ablest of his contemporaries ; nor abhorred the taste of tobacco, 
 nor feared witches, more than they did: he was a great wit, a 
 most acute disputant," &c. — Calamities of Authors, vol. ii. p. 245.
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. xHx 
 
 formed at court in the beginning of the year 1613. 
 In the island Princess, Miranda, Shakspeare un- 
 doubtedly designed a poetic representative of the 
 virgin and high-born bride; in the royal and learned 
 Prospero, we may trace a complimentary allusion to 
 the literary character and mysterious studies of her 
 royal father ; and it is at all events as likely that the 
 letter of James to Shakspeare should have had 
 reference to The Tempest, as to Macbeth. Our 
 author seems to have formed a far more correct esti- 
 mate of the talents of his sovereign, than that which 
 we have blindly received and adopted on the autho- 
 rity of his political enemies, the Non-conformists; 
 and in a MS. volume of poems, which was purchased 
 by Boswell, the following complimentary lines are 
 preserved. 
 
 SHAKSPEARE UPON THE KING. 
 
 " Crownes have their compass, length of dayes their date, 
 Triumphes their tombs, felicity her fate : 
 Of more than earth cann earth make none partaker; 
 But knowledge makes the king most like his Maker."" 
 
 Tims honoured and applauded by the great, the 
 intercourse of Shakspeare with that bright band 
 and company of gifted spirits, which ennobled 
 the reigns of Elizabeth and James by their writings, 
 must have been a source of the hio^hest intellectual 
 delight. The familiarity with which they seem to 
 have communicated ; the constant practice of uniting 
 their powers in the completion of a joint produc- 
 tion; the unenvying admiration with which they re- 
 joiced in the triumphs of their literary companions, 
 and introduced the compositions of one another to 
 the world by recommendatory verses, present us 
 
 " Bos well's Shakspeare, vol. ii. p. 481. 
 
 VOL. I. e
 
 1 THE LIFE OF 
 
 with such a picture of kind and gay and intelligent 
 society, as the imagination finds it difficult to enter- 
 tain an adequate conception of. " Sir Walter Ra- 
 leigh, previously to his unfortunate engagement 
 with the wretched Cobham and others, had insti- 
 tuted a meeting of heaux esprits at the Mermaid, a 
 celebrated tavern in Friday-street. Of this club, 
 which combined more talent and genius, perhaps, 
 than ever met together before or since, our author 
 was a member ; and here, for many years, he regu- 
 larly repaired with Ben Jonson, Beaumont, Fletcher, 
 Selden, Cotton, Carew, Martin, Donne, and many 
 others, whose names, even at this distant period, 
 call up a mingled feeling of reverence and respect. 
 Here, in the full flow and confidence of friendship, 
 the lively and interesting * wit combats' took place 
 between Ben Jonson and our author; and hither, 
 in probable allusion to them, Beaumont fondly lets 
 his thoughts wander, in his letter to Jonson, from 
 the country. 
 
 " ' What things have we seen 
 
 Done at the Mermaid! heard words that have been 
 So nimble, and so full of subtle flame, 
 As if that every one from whom they came, 
 Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, &c."'p 
 
 The " wit combats'" alluded to in this interesting 
 passage are mentioned by Fuller, who, speaking of 
 Shakspeare, says, '' Many were the wit combates 
 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, lesser in 
 
 *• Gifford's Ben Jonson, vol. i. p. Ixv, Ixvi.
 
 WILLIAM SHAkSPEARE. 11 
 
 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.'"' 
 
 Of these encounters of the keenest intellects not a 
 vestige now remains. The memory of Fuller, per- 
 haps, teemed with their sallies; but nothing on 
 which we can depend has descended to us. The 
 few traditionary tales that remain, are without any 
 authority; but, such as they are, I present them to 
 the reader as Dr. Drake has collected them.' 
 
 Shakspeare was godfather to one of Ben Jon- 
 son's children; and after the christening, being in 
 deep study, Jonson came to cheer him up, and asked 
 him, why he was so melancholy? " No faith," Ben, 
 says he, " not I ; but I have been considering a great 
 while what should be the fittest gift for me to bestow 
 upon my godchild, and I have resolved at last." I 
 prithee what? says he. " I'faith, Ben, I'll e'en give 
 her a dozen good Latin (latten') spoons, and thou 
 shalt translate them." 
 
 " The above," says Archdeacon Nares, " is a plea- 
 sant raillery enough on Jonson's love for translating." 
 The second is not so worthy of preservation. " Mr. 
 Ben Jonson and Mr. William Shakspeare being 
 merrie at a tavern, Mr. Jonson begins this for his 
 epitaph : 
 
 * Here lies Ben Jonson, 
 Who was once one * 
 
 " He gives it to Mr. Shakspeare to make up, who 
 presently writtc, 
 
 "> Worthies, folio edition, p. 111. 126. 
 ■■ Shakspeare and his Times, vol. ii. p. 593. 
 • Latfen, i. e. brass. The anecdote is from the Harl. MSS. 
 No. 6305. 
 
 c2
 
 lii 
 
 THE LIFE OF 
 
 ' That, while he liv'd was a slow thing, 
 And now, being dead, is no-thing.'" 
 
 " This stuff," adds Mr. Gifford, " is copied from the 
 Ashmole MS. 38."' 
 
 The next may be said to be rather of a 'better leer.' 
 " Verses by Ben Jonson and Shakspeare, oc- 
 casioned by the motto to the Globe Theatre — Totus 
 mu7idus agit histrionem. 
 
 JONSOIV. 
 " If, but ^tage actors, all the world displays, 
 Where shall we find spectators of their plays?" 
 
 SHAKSPEARE. 
 " Little, or much, of what we see, we do ; 
 We are all both actors and spectators too."" 
 
 The intimacy of Shakspeare and Ben Jonson is 
 alluded to in the following letter, written by G. 
 Peel, a dramatic poet, to his friend Marie: — 
 
 ' FRIEND MARLE, 
 
 ' I never longed for thy company more than 
 last night. We were all very merrye at the Globe, 
 when Ned Alleyn did not scruple to affyrme plea- 
 santely to thy friend Will, that he had stolen his 
 speeche about the qualityes of an actor's excellencye, 
 in Hamlet hys tragedye, from conversations many- 
 fold whych had passed between them, and opinyons 
 given by Alleyn touchinge the subject. Shakspeare 
 did not take this talke in good sorte; but Jonson put 
 an end to the strife, wittylie remarking, This affaire 
 needeth no contentione ; you stole it from Ned, no 
 doubt; do not marvel : have you not seen him act 
 tymes out of number? G. Peel.' 
 
 ' Gifford's Ben Jonson, vol. i. p. Ixxx. 
 " Poetical Characteristics, vol. i. MS. some time in the Harleian 
 Library.
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. lui 
 
 The first appearance of this Letter was in the 
 Annual Register for 1770, whence it was copied 
 into the Biographia Britannica, and in both these 
 works it commences in the following manner : " I 
 must desyre that my syster hyr watche, and the 
 cookerie book you promysed, may be sente bye the 
 man. — I never longed, &c." " Of the four, this is the 
 only anecdote worth preserving ; but," concludes Dr. 
 Drake, " I apprehend it to be a mere forgery." 
 
 The names of Shakspeare and Ben Jonson, as 
 friends, and the most successful cultivators of our 
 early dramatic literature, are so intimately connected, 
 that the life of one involves the frequent mention of 
 the other. Indeed, it is reported by Rowe, that 
 Shakspeare was the original means of introducing 
 the works of Jonson to the stage. " Jonson, alto- 
 gether unknown to the world, had offered one of his 
 plays to the players, in order to have it acted ; and 
 the persons into whose hands it was put, after having 
 turned it carelessly and superciliously over, were just 
 upon returning it to him with an ill-natured answer, 
 that it would be of no service to their company, 
 when Shakspeare luckily cast his eye upon it, and 
 found something so well in it, as to engage him first 
 to read it through, and afterwards to recommend 
 Jonson and his writings to the public."'' — This anec- 
 dote is disputed by Mr. Gilford. He proves that in 
 1598, when Every JMan in It is Humour, the first ef- 
 fort of Jonson's genius which we are acquainted with, 
 was produced, " its author was as well known as 
 Shakspeare, and, perhaps, better."^ Very true; but 
 this does not in the least impugn the credibility of 
 Rowc's tradition. It is nowhere asserted, that Every 
 
 * Roxvcs Life of Sliuksptaic. ' Bin Joiudii, vol. i. p. xliii.
 
 liv THE LIFE OF 
 
 Man in his Humour was the play which thus at- 
 tracted the attention of Shakspeare ; all arguments 
 therefore deduced from the situation held by Jon- 
 son in the literary world, at the time that comedy 
 was first acted, are perfectly invalid. The perform- 
 ance which recommended him to Shakspeare was 
 most probably a boyish effort, full of talent and in- 
 experience, which soon passed from the public mind, 
 but not sooner than the author wished it to be for- 
 gotten; which he had the good sense to omit in the 
 collection of his works published in 1616, and which, 
 perhaps, he only remembered with pleasure from its 
 having been the means of introducing him to the 
 friendship of his great contemporary. 
 
 But whatever cause might have originated the mu- 
 tual kindness which subsisted between these two ex- 
 cellent and distinguished men, it is certain that an 
 intimacy the most sincere and affectionate really did 
 subsist between them. On the part of Jonson, indeed, 
 the memorial of their attachment has been handed 
 down to us in expressions as strong and unequivocal 
 as any which the power of language can combine. 
 He speaks of Shakspeare, not indeed as one blinded 
 to the many defects by which the beauty of his pro- 
 ductions was impaired, but with such candour and 
 tenderness, as every reasonable man would desire at 
 the hands of his friends, and in terms which secured 
 a credit to his commendations, by shewing that they 
 were not the vain effects of a blind and ridiculous 
 partiality. Jonson writes, " / love the man, and do 
 honour his memory, on this side idolatry, as much as 
 any.'' And it is from his Elegy, To the Memory of 
 his beloved Master William Shakspeare, that we have 
 derived the two most endearing appellations, the
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. Iv 
 
 *' Gentle ShakapeareJ' and " Sweet Swan of Avon;'^ 
 by which our poet has been known and charac- 
 terized for nearly two centuries/ 
 
 It must appear extraordinary, that in opposition 
 to such decisive proofs of the kindness entertained 
 by Jonson for our author, his memory should have 
 been persecuted for the last century by the most un- 
 founded calumnies, as if he had been the insidious 
 and persevering enemy of his reputation. The rise 
 and progress of this slander, which has been pro- 
 pagated through every modern edition of Shak- 
 speare's works, is not wholly undeserving of our at- 
 tention. Rowe, indeed, has the following anecdote, 
 which he relates perhaps on the authority of Dryden, 
 that " in a conversation between Sir John Suckling, 
 Sir William DAvenant, Endymion Porter, Mr. Hales 
 of Eton, and Ben Jonson, Sir John Suckling, who 
 was a professed admirer of Shakspeare, had under- 
 taken his defence against Ben Jonson with some 
 warmth; Mr. Hales, who had sat still for some time, 
 told them, that, '\i Mr. Shakspeai^e had not read the 
 ancients, neither had he stolen any thing from them; 
 and that if he ivould produce anyone topic finely treated 
 by any one of them, he would undertake to shew some- 
 thing upon the same subject at least as %vell written by 
 Shakspeaix.'^ This anecdote was written nearly a 
 hundred years after the death of our author, and 
 more than seventy after the death of Jonson. Even 
 supposing all the circumstances to be correct," it only 
 represents Jonson as maintaining an opinion in con- 
 versation which he has printed in his Discoveries, 
 that " many times Shakspeare fell into those things 
 
 ' Gifford's Ttcn JoJisun, vol. viii, p. 33'2, note. 
 * Which is very doubtful. See Gu ford's Ben Jonson, vol. i. 
 p. cclix.
 
 Ivi THE LIFE OF 
 
 which could not escape laughter," and arguing, 
 that a deeper knowledge of the classic writers would 
 have improved his genius, and taught him to lop 
 away all such unseemly exuberances of style. It 
 shews the most learned poet of his time, or, perhaps, 
 of any time, honestly asserting the advantages that a 
 poet may derive from variety of learning; but this is 
 all; and it supposes no undue or unfriendly attempt 
 in Jonson to depreciate the fame of Shakspeare. In- 
 deed no hint of the existence of any difference or un- 
 kindness between those celebrated individuals is to be 
 found in any contemporary author. Dryden thought 
 Jon son's Verses to Shakspeare sparing and invidious; 
 but to this opinion Pope very justly recorded his dis- 
 sent ; and wondered that Dryden should have held it. 
 Rowe in the first edition of his Life of Shakspeare, 
 insinuates a doubt of the sincerity of Jonson's friend- 
 ship ; before the publication of his second edition he 
 found cause to reject a suspicion so injurious to the 
 reputation of Jonson, and had the honesty to erase 
 the passage from his work. The words, however, 
 did not escape the vigilance ofMalone: they were 
 re-printed, and the sentiment re-adopted ; and, as if 
 it were more valuable to the commentators, from hav- 
 ing been condemned by its author, their united la- 
 bours and ingenuity have been indefatigably em- 
 ployed in inventing and straining evidence to sup- 
 port an insinuation, which was too carelessly disse- 
 minated, and too silently withdrawn. Rowe should 
 have made such an explicit recantation of his error, 
 as might have repaired the ill he had occasioned, and 
 guarded the good name of one of our greatest poets 
 against the revival of the calumny: this he unfor- 
 tunately omitted ; and he thus left the character of 
 Jonson bare to the senseless and gratuitous malignity
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. Ivii 
 
 of every puny spirit, that chose to amuse its spleen 
 by insulting the memory of the mighty dead. For 
 years, the friend and eulogist of Shakspeare was 
 aspersed as envious^ and ungrateful in almost every 
 second note of every edition of our author's works ; 
 and it is only lately that the judicious exertions of 
 Gilchrist and of GifFord have exposed the fallacy 
 of such unwarranted imputations, and demonstrated, 
 beyond the possibility of future doubt, that " Jon- 
 son and Shakspeare were friends and associates, till 
 the latter finally retired — that no feud, no jealousy, 
 ever disturbed their connexion — that Shakspeare was 
 pleased with Jonson, and that Jonson loved and ad- 
 mired Shakspeare."'' 
 
 But courted, praised, and rewarded as he was, the 
 stage, as a profession, was little fitted to the dispo- 
 sition of our poet. In his Sonnets^" which afford us 
 
 '' Gifford's Ben Jonson, vol. i. p. ccli. in which work the 
 question ofJonson's supposed malignity is most satisfactorily 
 discussed and disproved. 
 
 ■= Mr. Boswell doubts whether we are justified in referring to 
 the Sonnets of Shakspeare, as containing any true intimations re- 
 specting the life and feelings of the author ; but I believe very 
 few have looked into the volume, without conceiving that these 
 short poems were flung off at different periods of the poet's life, 
 from his boyhood till his forty-fifth year, when he consented to 
 their publication, as they were elicited , by circumstances. Bos- 
 well defends his position by asserting, that the language of many 
 of the Sonnets is not applicable to what we know of Shak- 
 speare. He instances the 73d, which he says " is such, as could 
 scarcely, without violent exaggeration, be applicable to a man 
 of forty-five."* — To me it appears to be just such a description 
 of that age when the prime of life is past, and no more remains 
 
 " but twilight of such day, 
 
 As after sun-set fadcth in the west." 
 as a poet would naturally be inclined to give. But we must 
 not believe that these poems allude to the actual state of 
 
 * Bos well's Shakspeare^ vol. xx. 220.
 
 Iviii THE LIFE OF 
 
 the only means of attaining' a knowledge of his sen- 
 timents upon the subject, we find him lamenting the 
 nature of his life with that dissatisfaction, which 
 every noble spirit would necessarily suffer, in a state 
 of unimportant labour and undignified publicity. In 
 the hundred and tenth he exclaims, 
 
 " j4las, His true I have gone here and there, 
 And made myself a motley^ to the view." 
 
 And again, in the hundred and eleventh ; with evi- 
 dent allusion to his being obliged to appear on the 
 stage, and write for the theatre, he repeats, 
 
 " O, for my sake, do you with fortune chide 
 The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, 
 That did not better Jor my life provide, 
 Than public means, which public manners breeds." 
 
 With this distaste for a course of life, to which ad- 
 versity had originally driven him, it is not extraor- 
 dinary to find that he availed himself of the first mo- 
 ment of independence, to abandon the histrionic part 
 of his double profession. This occurred so early as 
 1604. After that time his name never appears on 
 the lists of performers which were attached to the ori- 
 ginal editions of the old plays, Ben Jonson's Sejanus, 
 which came out in 1603, is the last play in which he 
 is mentioned as a performer. As a writer for the stage, 
 and part proprietor of two principal theatres, he was 
 
 Shakspeare's existence, for they speak of his " harmful deeds," 
 of something from which " his name had received a brand," 
 and of the " impression which vulgar scandal stampt upon 
 his brow." But where is the man who has not offences to 
 repent of? Why are we to suppose Shakspeare alone immacu- 
 late? And would it not be continually urged as a reproach by the 
 cal'5mnious voice of Envy against the favoured friend of South- 
 ampton, that he had been obhged to fly his country in poverty 
 and disgrace ? 
 
 ** Motley, i. e. a fool, a buffoon.
 
 M'lLLIAM SHAKSPEARE. llX 
 
 obliged to be much in London ; but he never took 
 root and settled there. His family always resided at 
 Stratford, and thither he once a year repaired to them. 
 In the privacy of his native town all the affections of 
 his heart appear to have been "garnerd up;" and 
 there, from his beginning to reap the wages of suc- 
 cess, he deposited the emoluments of his labours, and 
 hoped to find a home in his retirement. In 1597, he 
 purchased New Place, a house which he repaired and 
 adorned to his own taste, and which remained in the 
 family till the death of his grand-daughter, Lady 
 Barnard ; and in the garden of which he planted the 
 celebrated mulberry-tree, which was so long an object 
 of veneration as the flourishing memorial of the poet. 
 To the possession of New Place, Shakspeare succes- 
 sively added in the course of the following eight 
 years, an estate of about one hundred and seven acres 
 of land, and a moiety of the great and small tithes of 
 Stratford.*^ 
 
 It was in one of his periodical journeys from Lon- 
 don to Stratford, that " one midsummer nio;ht" he met 
 at Crendon, in Bucks, with the original of Dogberry. 
 
 'The house at Stratford that Shakspeare had consecrated by his 
 residence, exists no longer. New Place descended from his daugh- 
 ter Susanna, to his grand-daughter, Mrs. Nash, afterwards Lady 
 Barnard ; and tliere, during the civil wars, that lady and her 
 husband in 1643, received Henrietta Maria, the queen of Charles 
 the First, who sojourned with them for three weeks. After 
 passing through the hands of several intervening proprietors, it 
 fell into the possession of Sir Hugh Clopton, who pulled down 
 the ancient house, and built one more elegant on the same spot. 
 This was in its turn destroyed by the Rev. Mr. Gastrell, because 
 he conceived himself assessed too highly; and it was by the 
 same barbarous hands, that the colcI)rated mulberry-tree, which 
 Shakspeare himself had planted, was cut down, because he 
 found himself inconvcnienccd,by the visitors, who were drawn by 
 admiration of the poet, to visit the classic ground on which it stood.
 
 Jx 
 
 THE LIFE OF 
 
 Aubrey says, that the constable was still alive about 
 1642. " He and Ben Jonson did gather humours 
 of men wherever they came;"^ and as the constable 
 of Crendon sat for the picture o{ Dogberry, so we are 
 told, on the authority of Bowman the player, that 
 part of Sir John Falstaff's character was drawn from 
 a townsman of Stratford, " who either faithlessly 
 broke a contract, or spitefully refused to part with 
 some land for a valuable consideration, adjoining to 
 Shakspeare's house. '"^ Oldys has recorded in his 
 MS. another anecdote connected with these jour- 
 neys of our poet to Stratford, which I shall give 
 in his own words. — '• If tradition may be trusted, 
 Shakspeare often baited at the Crown Inn or Tavern 
 in Oxford, in his journey to and from London. The 
 landlady was a woman of great beauty and sprightly 
 wit, and her husband, Mr. John Davenant (after- 
 wards mayor of that city), a grave, melancholy man; 
 who, as well as his wife, used much to delight in 
 Shakspeare's pleasant company. Their son, young 
 Will. Davenant (afterwards Sir William), was then a 
 little school-boy in the town, of about seven or eight 
 years old, and so fond also of Shakspeare, that when- 
 ever he heard of his arrival, he would fly from school 
 to see him. One day, an old townsman observing the 
 boy running homeward, almost out of breath, asked 
 him whither he was posting in that heat and hurry. 
 He answered, to see his _gW- father Shakspeare. 
 There's a good boy, said the other, but have a care 
 that you don't take God^s name in vain. This story 
 Mr. Pope told me at the Earl of Oxford's table, upon 
 occasion of some discourse which arose about Shak- 
 speare's monument, then newly erected in West- 
 
 ^ Aubrey. MS. Mm. Ashmol. 
 ' Reed's Shakspeare, vol. 1. p. 130.
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. Ixi 
 
 minster Abbey; and he quoted Mr. Betterton, the 
 player, for his authority.'" This tale is also men- 
 tioned by Anthony Wood ; and certain it is, that the 
 traditionary scandal of Oxford, has always spoken of 
 Shakspeare as the father of D'Avenant ■} but it im- 
 putes a crime to our author, of which we may, with- 
 out much stretch of charity, acquit him. It origi- 
 nated in the wicked vanity of D'Avenant himself, 
 who disdaining- his honest but mean descent from the 
 vintner, had the shameless impiety to deny his father, 
 and reproach the memory of his mother by claiming 
 consanguinity with Shakspeare. 
 
 We are informed by a constant tradition, that a few 
 years previous to his death, our author retired from 
 the theatre, and spent his time at Stratford, " in ease, 
 retirement, and the conversation of his friends." This 
 event appears to have taken place about the close of 
 1613. He had his wife and family about him ; he 
 was surrounded by familiar scenes and faces; and 
 he was in possession of a property of about 300/. 
 a-year, equal to much more than 1 000/. at present ;' 
 and which must have been fully adequate to his 
 modest views of happiness. 
 
 The anecdotes that are in circulation respecting 
 this portion of his life, are few, trivial, and very pro- 
 bably unfounded in fact; but, such as they are, I 
 have collected them, rather that nothino: connected 
 with the name of Shakspeare should be omitted in this 
 edition, than from any regard for their intrinsic 
 value. 
 
 A story, preserved by the tradition of Stratford, 
 
 ' Reed's Shakspeare, vol. i. p. 124, 125. 
 '' Reed's Shakspeare, note ix. p. 126, 127. 
 ' I take Gildon's estimate of his fortune rather than Malone's^ 
 as it agrees with Aubrey's.
 
 X 11 THE LIFE OF 
 
 and which, according to Malone, " was related fifty 
 years ago to a gentleman of that place, by a person 
 upwards of eighty years of age, whose father was 
 contemporary with Shakspeare," may not improperly 
 be attributed to this portion of his life. It is said, 
 that as Shakspeare was leaning over the hatch of a 
 mercer's door at Stratford, a drunken blacksmith, 
 with a carbuncled face, reeled up to him and de- 
 manded, 
 
 *' Now, Mr. Shakspeare, tell me if you can, 
 The difference between a youth and a young man?" 
 
 to which our poet instantly rejoined : 
 
 " Thou son of fire, with thy face like a maple. 
 The same difference as between a scalded and coddled 
 apple." 
 
 " A part of the wit," says Dr. Drake, " turns upon 
 the comparison between the blacksmith's face, and a 
 species of maple, the bark of which is uncommonly 
 rough, and the grain undulated and crisped into a 
 variety of curls.""* 
 
 Rowe relates, that he had a particular intimacy 
 with Mr. Combe, " an old gentleman noted there- 
 abouts for his wealth and usury : it happened, that 
 in a pleasant conversation amongst their common 
 friends, Mr. Combe told Shakspeare, in a laughing 
 manner, that he fancied he intended to write his 
 epitaph, if he happened to outlive him; and since he 
 could not know what mio;ht be said of him when he 
 was dead, he desired it might be done immediately; 
 upon which Shakspeare gave him these four verses: 
 
 ' Ten in the hundred lies here ingrav'd ; 
 'Tis a hundred to ten his soul is not sav'd: 
 If any man ask, who lies in this tomb? 
 Oh! ho! quoth the devil, 'tis my John-a-Combe.' 
 
 " Drake's Shakspeare and his Times, vol. i. p. 66.
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. Ixiii 
 
 " But the sharpness of the satire is said to have stung 
 the man so severely, that he never forgave it."" 
 Aubrey narrates the story differently, and says, " that 
 one time as Shakspeare was at the tavern at Strat- 
 ford, Mr. Coombes, an old usurer, was to be buried, 
 he makes there this extempore epitaph upon him: 
 
 " Ten in the hundred the devil allows. 
 But Combe will have ^ti;e/i'e,he swears and he vows: 
 If any one ask, who lies in this tomb? 
 Hah! quoth the devil, 'tis my John-a-Combe." 
 
 Dr. Drake considers Aubrey's version of the event 
 as the most probable. In some of its circumstances, 
 Rowe's account is contradicted ; for it is certain, that 
 Shakspeare and Combe continued friends till the 
 death of the latter; who left him 5/. as a token of 
 kind remembrance in his will ; and that no feud after- 
 wards arose between our poet and the relations of 
 Combe, seems pretty evident from Shakspeare's hav- 
 ing bequeathed his sword to Mr. Thomas Combe, the 
 nephew of the usurer. 
 
 In addition to the above ludicrous verses, two epi- 
 taphs of a serious character have been ascribed to 
 Shakspeare by Sir William Dugdale, which are pre- 
 served in a collection of epitaphs at the end of 
 the Visitation of Salop. Among the monuments 
 in Tongue Church, in the county of Salop, is one 
 erected in remembrance of Sir Thomas Stanly, 
 knight, whom Malone supposes to have died about 
 1600. The tomb stands on the north side of the 
 chancel, supported with Corinthian columns. " It 
 hath two figures of men in armour lying on it, one 
 below the arches and columns, the other above them; 
 and besides a prose inscription in front, the monu- 
 
 " Reed's Shakspeare, vol. i. p. 77 — 80.
 
 XIV THE LIFE OF 
 
 ment is enriched by the following verses of Shak- 
 
 speare. 
 
 Written on the east end of the tomb: 
 
 " Aske who lyes here, but do not weepe ; 
 He is not dead, he doth but sleepe. 
 This stony register is for his bones, 
 His fame is more perpetual than these stones : 
 And his own goodness, with himself being gone. 
 Shall live, when earthly monument is none." 
 
 Written on the west end thereof: 
 
 '* Not monumental stone preserves our fame, 
 Nor skye-aspiring pyramids our name. 
 The memory of him for whom this stands, 
 Shall out-live marble, and defacer's hands. 
 When all to time's consumption shall be given, 
 Stanley,for whom this stands, shall stand in heaven." 
 
 Besides these inscriptions for the monument of 
 
 Sir Thomas Stanly, which we have the authority of 
 
 Dugdale, a Warwickshire man, and who spent the 
 
 greater part of his life in that county, for attributing 
 
 to our author; we find another epitaph ascribed to 
 
 him in a manuscript volume of poems by William 
 
 Herrick, and others. The volume, which is in the 
 
 hand-writing of the time of Charles the First, is 
 
 among Rawlinson's Collections, in the Bodleian 
 
 Library, and contains the following epitaph: 
 
 " When God was pleas'd, the world unwilling yet, 
 Elias James to Nature payd his debt, 
 And here reposeth: as he liv'd, he dyde; 
 The saying in him strongly verifide, — 
 Such life, such death: then, the known truth to tell, 
 He liv'd a godly life, and dyde as well. 
 
 " Wm. Shakspeare." 
 
 There was a family of the surname of James, for- 
 merly resident at Stratford, to some one of whom the 
 above verses were probably inscribed.
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. IxV 
 
 The life of our poet was now drawing towards its 
 close; and he was soon to require from the hands of 
 others those last honours to the dead, which, while 
 alive, he had shewn himself so ready to contribute. His 
 eldest and favourite daughter, Susanna, had been 
 married as early as 1607, to Dr. Hall, a physician of 
 considerable skill and reputation in his profession, 
 who resided at Stratford; and early in 1616, his 
 youngest daughter, Judith, married Mr. Thomas 
 Quiney, a vintner of the same place. This ceremony 
 took place on February the 10th. On the twenty- 
 fifth of the following month, her father made his 
 will — being, according to his own account, inperfect 
 health and memorif — and a second month had not 
 elapsed before Shakspeare was no more. He died on 
 the twenty-third of April, 1616, and on his birth- 
 day, having completed his fifty-second year. " It is 
 remarkable," says Dr. Drake, " that on the same day 
 expired, in Spain, his great and amiable contempo- 
 rary Cervantes; and the world was thus deprived, 
 nearly at the same moment, of the two most original 
 writers which modern Europe has produced."" 
 
 Of the disease by which the life of our poet was 
 thus suddenly terminated, we are left in ignorance. 
 His son-in-law, Dr. Hall, left for publication a manu- 
 script collection of cases, selected from not less than 
 a thousand diseases ; but the earliest case recorded is 
 dated 1617, and thus all mention is omitted of the 
 only one which could have secured to his work any 
 permanent interest or value. 
 
 On the second day after his decease, the remains of 
 Shakspeare were interred on the north side of the 
 chancel of the "Treat church of Stratford. Here a 
 monument containing a bust of the poet, was erected 
 
 ° Drake's Shakspeare and his Times, vol. ii. p. Gil, 
 VOL. I. f
 
 Ixvi THE LIFE OF 
 
 to his memory.^ He is represented under an arch, 
 in a sitting posture, a cushion spread before him, with 
 a pen in his right hand, and his left rested on a 
 scroll of paper. The following Latin distich is 
 engraved under the cushion : 
 
 Judicio Pylium, genio Socratem, arte Maronem, 
 Terra tegit, populus mceret, Olympus habef. 
 
 The first syllable in Socratem is here made short, 
 which cannot be allowed. Perhaps we should read 
 Sophockm. Shakspeare is then appositely compared 
 with a dramatick author among the ancients : but 
 still it should be remembered, that the eulogium is 
 lessened while the metre is reformed ; and it is well 
 known, that some of our early writers of Latin poetry 
 were uncommonly negligent in their prosody, espe- 
 cially in proper names. The thought of this distich, 
 as Mr. Toilet observes, might have been taken from 
 The Faery Queene of Spenser.'' 
 
 To this Latin inscription on Shakspeare, should 
 be added the lines which are found underneath it on 
 his monument: 
 
 " Stay passenger, why dost thou go so fast? 
 Read, if thou canst, whom envious death hath plac'd 
 Within this monument; Shakspeare, with whom 
 Quick nature dy'd; whose name doth deck the tomb 
 Far more than cost; since all that he hath writ 
 Leaves living art but page to serve his wit." 
 " Obiit An°. Dni. 1616. 
 ^t. 53, die 23 Apri." 
 
 And on his grave-stone underneath, is inscribed : 
 
 " Good friend, for Jesus' sake, forbear 
 To dig the dust inclosed here. 
 Blest be the man that spares these stones, 
 And curst be he that moves ray bones." 
 
 p See Appendix, No. 5, 
 "Book 2. c. 9. St. 48, and c. 10. St. 3.
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. Ixvil 
 
 The tomb at Stratford is not the only monumental 
 tribute that has been raised to the honour of Shak- 
 speare. A cenotaph was subsequently erected to his 
 memory in Westminster Abbey, by the direction of 
 the Earl of Burlington, Pope, Dr. Mead, and Mr. 
 Martyn. This monument, which cost three hundred 
 pounds, was the work of Scheemaker, after a design 
 by Kent, and was opened in January, 1741 ; one 
 hundred and twenty-five years after the death of our 
 author. The dean and chapter of Westminster gave 
 the ground, and the expenses of the statuary were 
 defrayed by a benefit at each of the London theatres. 
 The receipts of Drury Lane exceeded two hundred 
 pounds; at Covent Garden they did not amount to 
 more than half that sum. 
 
 Of the genius of Shakspeare it were in this place 
 superfluous to write: that task has been performed 
 by others ; and is sufficiently discussed in the en- 
 suing discourses of Rowe, and Pope, and Johnson; 
 but of his disposition and moral character, it may not 
 be uninteresting to give the following passage from 
 Dr. Drake: — "To these tradition has ever borne the 
 most uniform and favourable testimony. And, in- 
 deed, had she been silent on the subject, his own 
 works would have whispered to us the truth ; would 
 have told us, in almost every page, of the gentleness, 
 the benevolence, and the goodness of his heart. For, 
 though no one has exceeded him in painting the 
 stronger pa.ssions of the human breast, it is evident 
 that he delighted most in the expression of loveliness 
 and simplicity, and was ever willing to descend from 
 the loftiest soarings of imagination, to sport with in- 
 nocence and beauty. Though ' the world of spirits 
 and of nature,' says the admirable Schlegel, 'had 
 laid all their treasures at his feet: in strength a dcnii- 
 
 f2
 
 Ixviii THE LIFE OF 
 
 god, in profundity of view a prophet, in all-seeing 
 wisdom a protecting spirit of a higher order, he yet 
 lowered himself to mortals, as if unconscious of his 
 superiority, and was as open and unassuming as a 
 child; 
 
 " That a temper of this description, and combined 
 with such talents, should be the object of sincere and 
 ardent friendship, can excite no surprise. ' I loved 
 the man,' says Jonson, with a noble burst of enthu- 
 siasm, ' and do honour his memory on this side ido- 
 latry, as much as any. He was, indeed, honest; and 
 of an open and free nature ;' and Rowe, repeating 
 the uncontradicted rumour of times past, has told 
 us, — ' that every one, who had a true taste of merit, 
 and could distinguish men, had generally a just value 
 and esteem for him;' adding, ' that his exceeding 
 candour and good-nature must certainly have in- 
 clined all the gentler part of the world to love him.' 
 
 " No greater proof, indeed, can be given of the 
 felicity of his temper, and the sweetness of his 
 manners, than that all who addressed him, seem to 
 have uniformly connected his name with the epithets 
 worthy^ gentle, or beloved; nor was he backward in 
 returning this esteem, many of his sonnets indicating 
 the warmth with which he cherished the remem- 
 brance of his friends. Thus the thirtieth opens with 
 the following pensive retrospect: — • 
 
 * When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 
 I summon up remembrance of things past, 
 
 I sigh 
 
 For precious friends, hid in death's dateless night.' 
 
 " And in the thirty-first he tenderly exclaims : — 
 
 * How many a holy and obsequious tear, 
 Hath dear religious love stolen from mine eye, 
 As interest of the dead!'
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. Ixix 
 
 '' Another very fascinating feature in the character 
 of Shakspeare, was the almost constant cheerfuhiess 
 and serenity of his mind: he was ' verie good com- 
 pany,' says Aubrey, ' and of a very ready, and plea- 
 sant, and smooth witt.' In this, as Mr. Godwin has 
 justly observed, he bore a striking resemblance to 
 Chaucer, who was remarkable for the placidity and 
 cheerfulness of his disposition; nor can there, pro- 
 bably, be a surer indication of that peace and sun- 
 shine of the soul which surpasses all other gifts, than 
 this habitual tone of mind. 
 
 " That Shakspeare was entitled to its possession 
 from his moral virtues, we have already seen ; and 
 that, in a religious point of view, he had a claim to 
 the enjoyment, the numerous passages in his works, 
 which breathe a spirit of pious gratitude and devo- 
 tional rapture, will sufficiently declare. In fact, 
 upon the topic of religious, as upon that of ethic 
 wisdom, no pi'ofane poet can furnish us with a greater 
 number of just and luminous aphorisms; passages 
 which dwell upon the heart, and reach the soul; for 
 they have issued from lips of fire, from conceptions 
 worthy of a superior nature, from feelings solemn 
 and unearthly. ''"^ 
 
 Of the descendants of Shakspeare there is not one 
 remaining. Hanmet, his only son, died in child- 
 hood. His eldest daughter, Mrs. Hall, survived her 
 father upwards of thirty years; and if the inscription 
 of her tomb present us with a fair estimate of her 
 talents and her virtues, she was the worthy child of 
 Shakspeare.' She left one daughter only, w^ho is 
 
 '' Drake's Shakspeare and his Tmes,vo\. li. p. 014 — 616. 
 ' " Here lyeth the body of Susanna, wife to John Hall, Gent. 
 y'' daughter of William Shakspeare, Gent. Slic deceased the 
 nth of July, A". U)49, aged 66."
 
 IXX THE LIFE OF 
 
 mentioned in our poet's will, as his "wzece Elizabeth." 
 This lady was twice married ; to Thomas Nashe, Esq. 
 and afterwards to Sir John Barnard, of Abington, 
 near Northampton, but had no issue by either hus- 
 band. Judith, the other daughter of our poet, was 
 the mother of several children; of which the eldest, 
 with an honest pride in that maiden name, which her 
 father's genius had rendered illustrious, was christ- 
 ened Shakspeare; but none of her offspring arrived 
 at years of maturity. 
 
 It must strike every one as extraordinary, that the 
 writings of a poet so distinguished should have been 
 handed down to us in so corrupt and imperfect a 
 state ; and that so little should be known with any 
 degree of certainty respecting the author of them. 
 Shakspeare himself appears to have been entirely 
 careless of literary fame. In his early works he was 
 
 ** Witty above her sexe, but that's not all. 
 Wise to salvation was good Mistriss Hall. 
 Something of Shakspeare was in that, but this 
 Wholly of him with whom she's now in blisse. 
 Then, passenger, hast ne're a teare, 
 
 To weepe with her that wept with all : 
 That wept, yet set herselfe to chere 
 Them up with comforts cordiall. 
 " Her love shall live, her mercy spread, 
 When thou hast ne'er a teare to shed." 
 " The foregoing English verses, which are preserved by Dug- 
 dale, are not now remaining, half of the tombstone having been 
 cut away, and another half stone joined to it, with the following 
 inscription on it: — ' Here lyeth the body of Richard Watts, of 
 Ryhon-ClifFord, in the parish of Old Stratford, Gent, who de- 
 parted this life the 23d of May, Anno Dom. 1707, and in the 
 4fith year of his age.' This Mr, Watts, as I am informed by the 
 Rev. Mr. Davenport, was owner of, and lived at the estate of 
 Ryhon-Clifford, which was once the property of Dr. Hall. 
 
 " Mrs. Hall was buried on the 1 6th July, 1649, as appears 
 from the register of Stratford." — M alone.
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. Ixxi 
 
 sufficiently cautious in superintending their progress 
 through the press ; and the Vefius and Adonis, the Rape 
 ofLucrece, and the Titus Andronicus, were presented to 
 the public with as much typographical accuracy as any 
 volumes of the time. He was at first not indifferent to 
 celebrity as an author ; but it was a mere youthful 
 vanity, and having attained the object of his ambition, 
 and perceived its worthlessness, he afterwards only 
 considered his genius and his improved skill in com- 
 position as the means of acquiring independence for 
 his family, and securing an early retirement from the 
 anxieties of public life. He wrote only for the theatre ; 
 his purpose was answered, if his pieces were suc- 
 cessful on the stage ; and he was perfectly careless of 
 the manner in which his most splendid productions 
 were disfigured in surreptitious and defective editions, 
 and his most exquisite passages rendered ridiculous 
 by the blunders of ignorant transcribers. The plays 
 that were printed in his lifetime, with the exception 
 of Titus Andronicus, had all issued from the press 
 under circumstances the most injurious to the repu- 
 tation of their author, without his revision or super- 
 intendence, and perhaps without his consent or know- 
 ledge; and when, eight years after his death, his 
 friends Heming^e and Condell undertook the collec- 
 tionand publicationof his works, it is scarcely possi- 
 ble that the MSS. from which the edition was print- 
 ed should have been the genuine MSS. of Shakspcare. 
 Those had most probably perished in the fire that de- 
 stroyed the Globe Theatre in 1G13; and the first folio 
 was made lip from the playhouse copies, and deformed 
 by all the omissions and the additions which had 
 been adopted to suit the imperfections or the caprice 
 of the several performers. — If Shakspcare still ap- 
 pears to us the first of poets, it is in spite of every 
 possible disadvantage, to which his own sublime
 
 Ixxii THE LIFE OF 
 
 contempt of applause had exposed his fame, from 
 the ignorance, the negligence, the avarice, or the 
 officiousness of his early editors/ 
 
 To these causes it is to be ascribed that the writings 
 of Shakspeare have come down to us in a state more 
 imperfect than those of any other author of his time, 
 and requiring every exertion of critical skill to illus- 
 trate and amend them. That so little should be known 
 with certainty of the history of his life, was the natural 
 consequence of the events which immediately follow- 
 ed his dissolution. It is true, that the age in which he 
 flourished was little curious about the lives of literary 
 men : but our ignorance must not wholly be attri- 
 buted to the want of curiosity in the immediate suc- 
 cessors of the poet. The public mind soon became 
 violently agitated in the conflict of opposite opinions. 
 Every individual was called upon to take his stand as 
 the partisan of a religious or political faction. Each 
 was too intimately occupied with his personal inte- 
 rest to find leisure for so peaceful a pursuit as tracing 
 the biography of a poet. If this was the case during 
 
 ? It may be perceived that many passages must have been 
 corrupted beyond the reach of restoration, by comparing the 
 following lines from Lear, which the ingenuity of the commenta- 
 tors has fortunately been able to set right, with the original text: 
 
 " ■ I am ashamed 
 
 That thou hast power to shake my manhood thus : 
 That these hot tears, which break from me perforce, 
 Should make thee worth them. — Blasts and fogs upon thee ! 
 The untented woundings of a father's curse 
 Pierce every sense about thee ! — Old fond eyes, 
 Beweep this cause again, I'll pluck you out, 
 And cast you, with the waters that you lose, 
 To temper clay." 
 The first edition reads the first line correctly, and continues, 
 " that these hot tears, that break from me perforce, should make 
 the worst blasts and fogs when the vnfender woundings of a father's 
 curse, peruse every sense about the old fond eyes, beweep this cause 
 again," &c.
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. Ixxiil 
 
 the time of civil commotion, under the puritanical 
 dynasty of Cromwell the stage was totally destroyed ; 
 and the life of a dramatic author, however eminent 
 his merits, would not only have been considered as 
 a subject undeserving of inquiry, but only worthy of 
 contempt and abomination. The genius of Shakspeare 
 was dear to Milton and to Dryden ; to a few lofty minds 
 and gifted spirits; but it was dead to the multitude of 
 his countrymen, who, in their foolish bigotry, would 
 have considered their very houses as polluted, if they 
 had contained a copy of his works.* After the res- 
 toration, these severe restrictions were relaxed, and, 
 as is universally the case, the counteraction was cor- 
 respondent to the action. The nation suddenly ex- 
 changed the rigid austerity of Puritanism for the ex- 
 treme of profligacy and licentiousness. When the 
 drama was revived, it existed no long^er to inculcate 
 such lessons of morality as were enforced by the 
 contrition of Macbeth^ the purity of Lsabe.l, or the 
 suffering constancy of Imogen ; but to teach modesty 
 to blush at its own innocence, to corrupt the heart 
 by pictures of debauchery, and to exalt a gay selfish- 
 ness and daring sensuality above all that is noble in 
 principle and honourable in action. At this period 
 Shakspeare was forgotten. He wrote not for such 
 profligate times. His sentiments would have been 
 met by no correspondent feelings in the breasts of 
 such audiences as were then collected within the 
 walls of the metropolitan theatres, composed of men 
 who came to hear their vices flattered ; and of women 
 masked, ashamed to shew their faces at representa- 
 tions which they were sufliciently abandoned to de- 
 light in. The jesting, lyinn;-, bold intriguing rake, 
 
 * Even in the reign of Elizabeth, the enmity against the stage 
 was tarried to a great extent; play-hooks were burnt privately 
 by the bishops, and imbliely by llir Puritans.
 
 Ixxiv THE LIFE OF 
 
 whom Shakspeare had rendered contemptible in 
 LuciOj and hateful in lachimo, was the very cha- 
 racter that the dramatists of Charles's time were 
 painting after the model of the court favourites, and 
 representing in false colours, as a deserving object 
 of approbation. French taste and French morals 
 had banished our author from the stage, and his 
 name had faded from the memory of the people. 
 Tate, in his altered play of King Lear, mentions the 
 original in his dedication as an obscure piece : the 
 author of the Tatler, in quoting some lines of Mac- 
 beth, cites them from the disfigured alteration of 
 D'Avenant. The works of Shakspeare were only 
 read by those whom the desire of literary plunder in- 
 duced to pry into the volumes of antiquated authors, 
 with the hopes of discovering some neglected jewels 
 that might be clandestinely transplanted to enrich 
 their own poverty of invention; and so little were 
 the productions of the most gifted poet that ever ven- 
 tured to embark on the varying waters of the imagi- 
 nation known to the generality of his countrymen, 
 that Otway stole the character of the Nurse and all 
 the love scenes of Romeo and Juliet, and published 
 them as his own, without the slightest acknowledg- 
 ment of the obligation, or any apprehension of detec- 
 tion. A better taste returned ; but when, nearly a cen- 
 tury after the death of Shakspeare, Rowe undertook to 
 superintend an edition of his Plays, and to collect the 
 Memoirs of his Life ; the race had past away from whom 
 any certain recollections of our great national poet 
 might have been gathered ; and nothing better was 
 to be obtained than the slight notes of Aubrey, the 
 scattered hints of Oldys, the loose intimations which 
 had escaped from D'Avenant; and the vague reports 
 which Betterton had gleaned in his pilgrimage to 
 Stratford.
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 No. I. 
 SHAKSPEARE'S WILL, 
 
 FROM THE ORIGINAL 
 
 IN THE OFFICE OF THE PKEROGATIVE COURT OF CANTERBURY. 
 
 Vicesimo quinto die Martii,^ Anno Regni Domini nostri Jacohi nunc 
 Regis Anglice, S,-c. decimo quarto, et Scotice quadragesimo nono. 
 Anno Domini 1616. 
 
 In the name of God, Amen. I William Shakspeare, of Strat- 
 ford-upon-Avon, in the county of Warwick, gent, in perfect 
 health and memory (God be praised !) do make and ordain this 
 my last will and testament in manner and form following ; that 
 is to say : 
 
 First, I commend my soul into the hands of God my Creator, 
 hoping, and assuredly believing through the only merits of Jesus 
 Christ my Saviour, to be made partaker of life everlasting ; and 
 my body to the earth whereof it is made. 
 
 Item, I give and bequeath unto my daughter Judith, one hun- 
 dred and fifty pounds of lawful English money, to be paid unto 
 her in manner and form following: that is to say, one hundred 
 pounds in discharge of her marriage portion within one year aftev 
 my decease, with consideration after the rate of two shillings in 
 the pound for so long time as the same shall be unpaid unto her 
 after my decease ; and the fifty pounds residue thereof, upon her 
 surrendering of, or giving of such sufficient security as the over- 
 seers of this my will shall like of, to surrender or grant, all her 
 estate and right that shall descend or come unto her after ray 
 decease, or that she now hath, of, in, or to, one copyhold tene- 
 ment, with the appurtenances, lying and being in Stratford-upon- 
 Avon aforesaid, in the said county of Warwick, being parcel or 
 
 =< Oiir ])opI's will apjicars to iiavc l)oen drawn up in Fcbiiiarv, (liongli not exe- 
 cuted till ilic foliowin;; niontli ; ("or Ffliniarij was (irst written, and afterwards 
 Atruck out, and March written over it. — Malonk.
 
 Ixxvi SHAKSPEARE'S WILL. 
 
 holden of the manor of Rowington, unto my daughter Susanna 
 Hall, and her heirs for ever.'' 
 
 Item, I give and bequeath unto my said daughter Judith one 
 hundred and fifty pounds more, if she, or any issue of her body, 
 be living at the end of three years next ensuing the day of the 
 date of this my will, during which time my executors to pay her 
 consideration from my decease according to the rate aforesaid : 
 and if she die within the said term without issue of her body, 
 then my will is, and I do give and bequeath one hundred pounds 
 thereof to my niece "^ Elizabeth Hall, and the fifty pounds to be 
 set forth by my executors during the life of my sister Joan Hart, 
 and the use and profit thereof coming, shall be paid to my said 
 sister Joan, and after her decease the said fifty pounds shall re- 
 main amongst the children of my said sister, equally to be di- 
 vided amongst them; but if my said daughter Judith be living 
 at the end of the said three years, or any issue of her body, then 
 my will is, and so. I devise and bequeath the said hundred and 
 fifty pounds to be set out by my executors and overseers for the 
 best benefit of her and her issue, and the stock not to be paid 
 unto her so long as she shall be married and covert baron ; but 
 my will is, that she shall have the consideration yearly paid unto 
 her during her life, and after her decease the said stock and 
 consideration to be paid to her children, if she have any, and if 
 not, to her executors or assigns, she living the said term after my 
 decease : provided that if such husband as she shall at the end 
 of the said three years be married unto, or at any [time] after, do 
 sufficiently assure unto her, and the issue of her body, lands an- 
 swerable to the portion by this my will given unto her, and to be 
 adjudged so by my executors and overseers, then my will is, that 
 the said hundred and fifty pounds shall be paid to such husband 
 as shall make such assurance, to his own use. 
 
 Item, I give and bequeath unto my said sister Joan twenty 
 pounds, and all my wearing apparel, to be paid and delivered 
 within one year after my decease ; and I do will and devise unto 
 her the house, with the appurtenances, in Stratford, wherein she 
 dwelleth, for her natural life, under the yearly rent of twelve- 
 pence. 
 
 ^ This was found to be unnecessary, as it was ascertained that the copyhold 
 descended to the eldest daughter by the custom of the manor. — Ma lone, edit. 
 1821. 
 
 ^ to my niece — ] Elizabeth Hnli was our poet's grand-daughter. So, in 
 
 Olhello, Act T. sc. 1. lago says to Brabantio : " You'll have your nephews neigh 
 to you ;" meaning his grand-children.— Malone.
 
 SHAKSPEARE'S WILL. Ixxvii 
 
 Item, I give and bequeath unto her three sons, William Hart, 
 Hart/ and Michael Hart, five pounds a piece, to be paid 
 
 within one year after mjfdecease. 
 
 I(em, I give and bequeath unto the said Elizabeth Hall all my 
 plate (except my broad silver and gilt bowl '=), that I now have at 
 the date of this my will. 
 
 Item, I give and bequeath unto the poor of Stratford aforesaid 
 ten pounds; to Mr. Thomas Combe "^ my sword; to Thomas 
 Russel, esq. five pounds ; and to Francis Collins ^ of the borough 
 of Warwick, in the county of Warwick, gent, thirteen pounds 
 six shillings and eight-pence, to be paid within one year after 
 my decease. 
 
 Item, I give and bequeath to Hamlet [Hamnet] Sadler *■ twenty- 
 six shillings eight-pence, to buy him a ring ; to William Rey- 
 nolds, gent, twenty-six shilling eight-pence, to buy him a ring ; 
 to my godson, William Walker,' twenty shillings in gold ; to 
 Anthony Nash,-* gent, twenty-six shillings eight-pence ; and to 
 
 Ifart,^ It is singular tliat neither Sliakspeare nor any of liis family 
 
 sboald have recollected the Christian name of his nephew, who was born at 
 Stratford but eleven years before the making of bis will. His Christian name 
 was Thomas; and be was baptized in that town, July 24. 160.5. — Malone. 
 
 " excq)t mil broad silver and gilt bowl.'\ This bowl, as we afterwards fiud, 
 
 onr poet bequeathed to bis daughter Judith. 
 
 f Mr. Tliomas Comfce,] This gentleman was baptized at Stratford, Feb. 9, 
 
 1588-9, so that he was twenty-seven years old at the time of Shakspeare's death. 
 He died at Stratford in July 16.57, aged 68 ; and bis elder brother William died 
 at the same place, Jan. 30, 1666-7, aged 80. Mr. Thomas Combe by his will, 
 made June 20, 1656, directed his executors to convert all his personal property 
 into money, and to lay it out in the purchase of lands, to be settled on William 
 Combe, the eldest son of John Combe of Allchurcb in the county of Worcester, 
 gent, and his heirs-male; remainder to bis two brothers successively. W^here, 
 therefore, our poet's sword has wandered, I have not been able to discover. I 
 have taken the trouble to ascertain the ages of Shakspeare's friends and relations, 
 and the time of their deaths, because we are thus enabled to judge bow far the 
 traditions concerning him which were communicated to Mr. Rowe in the begin- 
 ning of this century, are worthy of credit.— Malone. 
 
 K Jo Francis Cullius — ] This gentleman, was, I believe, baptized at War- 
 wick. He died the year after our poet, and was buried at Stratford, Sept. 27, 
 1617, on which day he died. — Malom-, edit. 1821. 
 
 •• to Hamnet SadUr,] This gctitlcman was godfather to Shakspeare's only 
 
 son, who was called after him. Mr. Sadler, I believe, was born about the year 
 15.50, and dicil at .Stratford-upon-Avon, in October 162-1. His wife, Judith 
 Sadler, who was godmother to .Shakspeare's younijesl daughter, was buried 
 there, March 2.3, 161.5- 14. Our poet probably was godfather to their son Wil- 
 liam, who was baptized at Stratford, Feb. 5, 1597-8- — Mai.one. 
 
 ' to mtj godson, WtUiam Walker,'] William, the son of Henry Walker, 
 
 was baptized at Stratford, Oct. 16, 1608. F mention this circumstance, because 
 it ascertains that onr author was at his native town in the autumn of that year. 
 Mr. William Walker was buried at Strull'ord, March 1, 167'.»-80. — Mai.one. 
 
 i to Anlhonii Kash,~\ He was father of Mr. Thomas Nash, who married our 
 
 poet's grand-daughter, Flizabelh Hall. He lived, I believe, at Welcombe, 
 where his estate lay ; and was buried at Stratford, Nov. 18, 1622. — Malone.
 
 Ixxviii SHAKSPEARE'S WILL. 
 
 Mr. John Nash,'' twenty-six shillings eight-pence; and to my 
 fellows, John Hemynge, Richard Burbage, and Henry Cundell,' 
 twenty-six shillings eight pence apiece, to buy them rings. 
 
 Item, I give, will, bequeath, and devise, unto my daughter, 
 Susannah Hall, for better enabling of her to perform this my will, 
 and towards the performance thereof, all that capital messuage 
 or tenement, with the appurtenances, in Stratford aforesaid, 
 called The New Place, wherein I now dwell, and two mes- 
 suages or tenements, with the appurtenances, situate, lying, and 
 being in Henley-street, within the borough of Stratford afore- 
 said ; and all my barns, stables, orchards, gardens, lands, tene- 
 ments, and hereditaments whatsoever, situate, lying, and being, 
 or to be had, received, perceived, or taken, within the towns, 
 hamlets, villages, fields, and grounds of Stratford-upon-Avon, 
 Old Stratford, Bishopton, and Welcombe," or in any of them, in 
 the said county of Warwick ; and also all that messuage or te- 
 nement, with the appurtenances, wherein one John Robinson 
 dwelleth, situate, lying, and being, in the Blackfriars in London 
 near the Wardrobe :" and all other my lands, tenements, and he- 
 reditaments whatsoever : to have and to hold all and singular 
 the said premises, with their appurtenances, unto the said Su- 
 sanna Hall, for and during the term of her natural life; and af- 
 ter her decease to the first son of her body lawfully issuing, and 
 
 '' to Mr. John Nash,'] This gentleman died at Stratford, and was baried 
 
 Ibere, Nov. 10, 1623.— Ma lone. 
 
 1 to my fellows John Hemynge, Richard Burbage, and, Henry Cundell,'^ 
 
 These oar poel's/eJiowsdid not very long survive him. Burbage died in March, 
 1619 ; Cundell in December, 1627 ; and Heminge in October, 1613. — Malone. 
 
 " Old Stratford, Bishopton, and Welcombe,^ The lands of Old Stratford, 
 
 Bishopton, and Welcombe, here devised, were, in Shakspeare's time, a continua- 
 tion of one large field, all in the parish of Stratford. Bishopton is two miles 
 from Stratford, and Welcombe one. For Bishopton, Mr. Theobald erroneously 
 printed Bushaxton, and the error has been continued in all the subsequent editions. 
 The word in .Shakspeare's original will is spelt Bushopton, the vulgar pronuncia- 
 tion of Bishopton. 
 
 I searched the Indexes in the Rolls Chapel from the year 1589 to 1616, with 
 the hope of finding an enrolment of the purcliase-deed of the estate here devised 
 by our poet, and of ascertaining its extent and value; but it was not enrolled 
 daring that period, nor could I find any inquisition taken after his death, by 
 which its value might have been ascertained. I suppose it was conveyed by the 
 former owner to Shakspeare, not by bargain and sale, but by a deed of feoflfment, 
 which it was not necessary to enroll. — Malone. 
 
 ° that messuage or tenement — in the Blackfriars in London near the Ward- 
 robe ;] This was the house which was mortgaged to Henry Walker. 
 
 By the Wardrobe is meant the King's Great Wardrobe, a royal house, near 
 Puddle-Wharf, purchased by King Edward the Third from sir John Beanchamp, 
 who built it. King Richard III. was lodged in this house, in the second year of 
 his reign. See Stowe's Survey, p. 693, edit. 1618. After the fire of London 
 this office was kept in the Savoy : but it is now abolished. — Malone.
 
 SHAKSPEARE'S WILL. Ixxix 
 
 to the heirs-males of the body of the said first son lawfully issuing • 
 and for default of such issue, to the second son of her body law- 
 fully issuing, and to the heirs-males of the body of the said se- 
 cond son lawfully issuing ; and for default of such heirs, to the 
 third son of the body of the said Susanna lawfully issuing, and 
 to the heirs-males of the body of the said third son lawfully 
 issuing ; and for default of such issue, the same so to be and 
 remain to the fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh sons of her body, 
 lawfully issuing one after another, and to the heirs-males of the 
 bodies of the said fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh sons lawfully 
 issuing, in such manner as it is before limited to be and remain 
 to the first, second, and third sons of her body, and to their heirs- 
 males ; and for default of such issue, the said premises to be and 
 remain to my said neice Hall, and the heirs-males of her body 
 lawfully issuing ; and for default of such issue, to my daughter 
 Judith, and the heirs-males of her body lawfully issuing ; and for 
 default of such issue, to the right heirs of me the said William 
 Shakspeare for ever. 
 
 Item, I give unto my wife my second best bed,with the furniture.* 
 Item, I give and bequeath to my said daughter, Judith, my 
 broad silver gilt bowl. All the rest of my goods, chattels, leases, 
 plate, jewels, and household stuff" whatsoever, after my debts 
 and legacies paid, and my funeral expenses discharged, I give, 
 devise, and bequeath to my son-in-law, John Hall, gent, and my 
 daughter, Susanna, his wife, whom I ordain and make executors 
 of this my last will and testament. And I do entreat and appoint 
 the said Thomas Russell, esq, and Francis Collins, gent, to be 
 overseers hereof. And do revoke all former wills, and publish 
 this to be my last will and testament. In witness whereof I 
 have hereunto put my hand, the day and year first above written. 
 
 By me WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 
 Witness to the publishing hereof. 
 
 Fra. Collyns, 
 
 Julius Shaw, 
 
 John Robinson, 
 
 Hamnct Sadler, 
 
 Robert Whatcott. 
 
 o my second liest Ixd, with the J\irmlure.'\ Tlius Sliakspearc's original will. 
 
 It appears, in the original will of Shakspeare (now in the Prerogativc-oOice, 
 Doctors' Commons), that lie had forgot his wife ; the legacy to her being ex- 
 pressed hy an interlineation, as well as those to Heminge, Burbage, and Coridell. 
 
 The will is written on three sheets of paper, the last two of which arc un- 
 doubtedly subscribed with Shakspeare's own hand. The (irst indeed has \\\% 
 name in the margin, hiil it ditrers somewhat in impelling as well as manner, from 
 the two signatures that follow. — Mai.onk and Sxt evens.
 
 Ixxx SHAKSPEARE'S WILL. 
 
 Probatum fuit test amentum suprascriptum apud London, coram Ma- 
 gistro William Byrde, Legufn Doctore, Sfc. vicesimo secundo die 
 mensis Junii, Anno Doinini, 1616; jnramento Johannis Hall 
 unius ex. cui, SfC. de bene, SfC. jurat, reservata potestate, ^c- 
 Susannoe Hall, alt. ex. ^x. earn cum venerit, SfC. petitur, SfC.
 
 APPENDIX, Ixxxi 
 
 No. 2. 
 
 CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER 
 
 IN WHICH 
 
 THE PLAYS OF SHAKSPEARE 
 
 ARE SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN, ACCORDING TO THE 
 
 ARRANGEMENTS OF 
 
 CHALMERS, MALONE, AND DR. DRAKE. 
 
 Chalmers and Malone reject Titus Andronkus, and Pericles, as 
 spurious. Dr. Drake does not notice the former play, but, on 
 the authority of Dryden, admits the latter as genuine, and sup- 
 poses it to have been produced in 1590. The dates which they 
 severally ascribe to the remaining plays are as follows : 
 
 Chalmers. Malone. Dr. Drake. 
 
 1. The Comedy of Errors 1591 1592 1591 
 
 2. Love's Labour's Lost 1592 1594 1591 
 
 3. Romeo and Juliet 1592 1596 1593 
 
 4. Henry VL the First Part 1593 1589 1592 
 
 5. Henry VL tiie Second Part 1595 1591 1592 
 
 6. Henry VI. the Third Part 1595 1591 
 
 7. The Two Gentlemen of Verona- -. .1595 1591 1595 
 
 8. Richard TIL 1595 1593 1595 
 
 9. Richard H. 1596 1593 1596 
 
 10. The Merry Wives uf Windsor . . . .1596 1601 1601 
 
 11. Henry IV. the First Part 1596 1597 1596 
 
 12. Henry IV. the Second Part 1597 1599 1596 
 
 13. Henry V. 1597 1599 1599 
 
 14. The Merchant of Venice 1597 1594 1597 
 
 15. Hamlet 1597 1600 1597 
 
 16. King John 1598 1596 1598 
 
 17. A Midsummer-Night's Dream 1598 1594 1593 
 
 18. The Taming of the Shrew 1598 1596 1594 
 
 19. All's Well that Ends "Well 1599 1606 1598 
 
 20. Much Ado About Nothing 1599 1600 1599 
 
 i!l. As You Like It 1599 1599 1600 
 
 22. Troilus and Cressida 1600 1602 1601 
 
 ^3. TimoN of Athens 1601 1610 1602 
 
 24. The Winter's Tale 1601 1611 1610 
 
 25. Measure for Measure 1004 1603 1603 
 
 26. Lear 1605 1605 1604 
 
 27. Cymheline 1606 1609 1605 
 
 28. Macbelh 1606 1606 1606 
 
 29. Julius Cicsar 1607 1607 1607 
 
 30. Antony and Cleopatra 1608 1608 1608 
 
 31. Coriolanus 1609 1610 1609 
 
 52. The Tempest 161 j 1611 1611 
 
 33. The Twelfth Night 1613 1607 1613 
 
 34. Henry VIH. 1613 160.? 1602 
 
 36. Othello 1614 1604 1612 
 
 VOL. I. g
 
 Ixxxii APPENDIX. 
 
 No. 3. 
 
 EDITIONS OF SHAKSPEARE'S WORKS. 
 
 Of the following plays, editions were printed during the life 
 time of Shakspeare. 
 
 EARLY QUARTOS. 
 
 Titus Andronicas 1600 • • • 1611 
 
 Pericles 1609 
 
 Henry VI. Parts 2 and 3 
 
 Richard II. 1597. . .1598. . .1608- • -1615 
 
 Richard III. 1597. . .1598- • .1602- • .1612 
 
 Romeo and Juliet 1597. . .1599" . -1609 
 
 Love's Labour Lost 1598 
 
 Henry IV. the First Part 1598. • .1599. • -1604. . .1608. • .1613 
 
 Henry IV. the Second Part • .1600 
 
 Henry V 1600- • .1602- • -1608 
 
 Merchant of Venice 1600 
 
 Midsummer-Night's Dream • -1600 
 Much Ado About Nothing • • • 1600 
 Merry "Wives of W^indsor . • -1602 
 
 Hamlet 1603- . .1604. • .1605. • .1607. • -1609 
 
 Lear 1608 
 
 Troilus and Cressida 1609 
 
 Othello ' no date. 
 
 The above are the only dramatic productions of our Author 
 which were published during his lifetime. All of them were 
 sent into the world imperfectly ; some printed from copies sur- 
 reptitiously obtained by means of inferior performers, who, de- 
 riving no benefit from the theatre, except their salary, were un- 
 interested in the retention of copies, which was one of the chief 
 concerns of our ancient managers ; and the rest, as Hamlet in 
 its first edition, The Merry Wives of Windsor^ Romeo and Juliet^ 
 Henry the Fifth, and the two Parts of Henry the Fourth, appear to 
 have been published from copies inaccurately taken by the ear 
 during representation, without any assistance from the originals 
 belonging to the playhouses. 
 
 FOLIOS. 
 
 As Shakspeare had himself shewn such an entire disregard 
 for posthumous reputation as to omit pubUshing a collected 
 edition of his works, an attempt was made to atone for his neglect 
 by his friends Heminge and Condell, about eight years after
 
 APPENDIX. ixxxiii 
 
 his death, who published, in 1623, the only authentick edition of 
 his works. 
 
 The title page is as follows : 
 
 " Mr. William Shakspeare's Comedies, Histories, and Trage- 
 dies. Published according to the true original Copies, 1623, 
 Fol. Printed at the Charges of W. Jaggard, Ed. Blount, 
 J. Smethweeke, and W. Apsley. 
 
 The Dedication of the Players, prefixed to the Jirst folio, 1623. 
 
 To the most Noble and Incomparable Paire of Brethren, William 
 Earle of Pembroke, &c. Lord Chamberlaine to the Kings most 
 Excellent Majesty, and Philip Earle of Montgomery, &c. 
 Gentleman of his Majesties Bed-chamber. Both Knights of 
 the Most Noble Order of the Garter, and our singular good 
 Lords. 
 
 Right Honourable, 
 Whilst we studie to be thankful in our particular, for the 
 many favors we have received from your L. L. we are falne upon 
 the ill fortune, to mingle two the most diverse things that can 
 bee, feare and rashnesse ; rashnesse in the enterprize, and feare of 
 the successe. For, when we valew the places your H. H. sus- 
 taine, we cannot but know their dignity greater, then to descend 
 to the reading of these trifles : and, while we name them trifles, 
 we have depriv'd ourselves of the defence of our Dedication. 
 But since your L. L. have been pleas'd to thinke these trifles 
 some-thing, heeretofore ; and have prosequuted both them, and 
 their Authour living, with so much favour : we hope that (ihey 
 out-living him, and he not having the fate, common with some, 
 to be excquutor to his owne writings) you will use the same in- 
 dulgence toward them, you have done unto their parent. There 
 is a great difference, whether any booke choose his Patrones, or 
 finde them : This hath done both. For, so much were your L. L. 
 likings of the severall parts, when they were acted, as before 
 they were published, the Volume ask'd to be yours. Wc have but 
 collected them, and done an office to the dead, to procure his 
 Orphanes, Guardians ; without ambition either of selfc-profit, oi 
 fame : onely to keepe the memory of so worthy a Friend, and 
 Fellow alive, as was our Shakespeare, by humble oflTer of his 
 playes, to your most noble patronage. Wherein, as we have 
 justly observed, no man to come neere your L. L. but with a 
 kind of religious addresse, it hath biu the lieight of our care, 
 
 g2
 
 Ixxxiv APPENDIX. 
 
 who are the Presenters, to make the present worthy of your H. H. 
 by the perfection. But, there we must also crave our abiUties 
 to be considered, my Lords. We cannot go beyond our owne 
 powers. Country hands reach foorth milke, creame, fruites, or 
 what they have : and many Nations (we have heard) that had 
 not gummes and incense, obtained their requests with a leavened 
 Cake. It was no fault to approch their Gods by what meanes 
 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 H. H. these 
 remaines of your servant Shakespeare; that what delight is 
 in them may be ever your L. L. the reputation his, and the faults 
 ours, if any be committed, by a payre so carefull to shew their 
 gratitude both to the living, and the dead, as is 
 
 Your Lordshippes most bounden, 
 
 John Heminge, 
 Henry Condell. 
 
 The Preface of the Players. Prefixed to the first folio edition, 
 published in 1623. 
 
 To the great variety of Readers, 
 
 From the most able, to him that can but spell : there you are 
 number'd. We had rather you were weigh'd. Especially, when 
 the fate of all Bookes depends upon your capacities : arid not of 
 your heads alone, but of your purses. Well ! it is now publique, 
 and you wil stand for your priviledges wee know : to read, and 
 censure. Do so, but buy it first. That doth best commend a 
 Booke, the Stationer saies. Then, how odde soever your braines 
 be, or your wisdomes, make your licence the same, and spare 
 not. Judge your sixe-pen'orth, your shillings 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 Jacke go. And though you be a Ma- 
 gistrate of wit, and sit on the -Stage at Black-Friers, or the 
 Cock-pit, to arraigne Playes daihe, know, these Playes have 
 had their triall alreadie, and stood out all Appeales ; and do now 
 come forth quitted rather by a Decree of Court, than any pur- 
 chas'd Letters of commendation. 
 
 It had bene a thing, we confesse, worthie to have bene wished, 
 that the Author himselfe had lived to have set forth, and over- 
 seen his owne writings ; But since it hath bin ordain'd otherwise, 
 and he by death departed from that right, we pray you, doe not
 
 APPENDIX. Ixxxv 
 
 envie his Friends, the office of their care and paine, to have col- 
 lected and pubhsh'd them ; and so to have pubhsh'd them, as 
 where (before) you were abus'd with divers stolne, and surrepti- 
 tious copies, maimed and deformed by the frauds and stealthes 
 of injurious impostors, that expos'd them : even those are now 
 offer'd to your view cur'd, and perfect of their Hmbes; and all 
 the rest, absolute in their numbers, as he conceived the : Who, 
 as he was a happie imitator of Nature, was a most gentle ex- 
 presser of it. His mind and hand went together ; and what he 
 thought, he uttered with that easinesse, that wee have scarse re- 
 ceived from him a blot in his papers. But it is not our province, 
 who onely gather his works, and give them you, to praise him. 
 It is yours that reade him. And there we hope, to your divers 
 capacities, you will finde enough, both to draw, and hold you : 
 for his wit can no more lie hid, then it could be lost. Reade 
 him, therefore ; and againe, and againe : And if then you doe 
 not like him, surely you are in some manifest danger, not to un- 
 derstand him. And so we leave you to other of his Friends, 
 whom if you need, can bee your guides : if you neede them not, 
 you can leade yourselves, and others. And such readers we wish 
 him. 
 
 John Heminge, 
 Henrie Condell. 
 
 Steevens, with some degree of probabihty, supposes these 
 prefaces to be the productions of Ben Jonson, 
 
 In 1632, the works of Shakspeare were reprinted in folio by 
 Thomas Cotes, for Robert Allot. Of this edition Malone speaks 
 most contemptuously, though many of the errors of the first are 
 corrected in it, and he himself silently adopted 186 of its correc- 
 tions without acknowledging the debt. The judgment passed by 
 Steevens on this edition is, " Though it be more incorrectly 
 printed than the preceding one, it has likewise the advantage of 
 various readings, which are not merely such as reiterature of 
 copies will naturally produce. The curious examiner of Shak- 
 speare's text, who p(jssesscs the first of these, ought not to be 
 unfurnished with the second." 
 
 The third folio was printed in 1664, for P. C.'' And a fourth, 
 for H. Herringham, E. Brewster, and II. Bentley, in 1682. 
 
 " As to these impressions," says Steevens, " they arc little 
 
 I' This rJition is more scarce than even that of i62'3 ; most of llie copies 
 liavin;; bceu destroyed in llic lire orLoiidun, 1C66.
 
 Ixxxvi APPENDIX. 
 
 better than waste paper, for they differ only from the preceding^ 
 ones by a larger accumulation of errors." 
 
 These are all the ancient editions of Shakspeare. 
 
 MODERN EDITIONS. 
 
 Octavo, Rowe's, London, 1709, 7 vols. 
 
 Duodecimo, Rowe's, ditto, 1714, 9 ditto. 
 
 Quarto, Pope's, ditto, 1725, 6 ditto. 
 
 Duodecimo, Pope's, ditto, 1728, 10 ditto. 
 
 Octavo, Theobald's, ditto, 1733, 7 ditto. 
 
 Duodecimo, Theobald's, ditto, 1740, 8 ditto. 
 
 Quarto, Hanmer's, Oxford, 1744, 6 ditto. 
 
 Octavo, Warburton's, London, 1747, 8 ditto. 
 
 Ditto, Johnson's, ditto, 1765, 8 ditto. 
 
 Ditto, Steevens's, ditto, 1766, 4 ditto. 
 
 Crown 8vo. Capell's, 1768, 10 ditto. 
 
 Quarto, Hanmer's, Oxfoi'd, 1771, 6 ditto. 
 
 Octavo, Johnson and Steevens, London, 1773, 10 ditto. 
 
 Ditto, second edition, ditto, 1778, 10 ditto. 
 
 Ditto (published by Stockdale), 1784, 1 ditto. 
 
 Ditto, Johnson and Steevens, 1785, third edition, revised 
 
 and augmented by the editor of Dodsley's Collection 
 
 of old Plays (i. e. Mr. Reed), 10 ditto. 
 Duodecimo (published by Bell), London, 1788, 20 vols. 
 Octavo (pubhshed by Stockdale), 1790, 1 ditto. 
 Crown Svo. Malone's, ditto, 1790, 10 ditto. 
 Octavo, fourth edition, Johnson and Steevens, &c. ditto, 
 
 1793, 15 ditto. 
 Octavo, fifth edition, Johnson and Steevens, by Reed, 1803, 
 
 21 ditto. 
 The dramatick Works of Shakspeare, in 6 vols, 8vo. with 
 
 Notes, by Joseph Rann, A. M. Vicar of St. Trinity, in 
 
 Coventry. — Clarendon Press, Oxford. 
 
 Vol.i. 1786 
 
 Vol. ii. 1787 
 
 Vol. iii. 1789 
 
 Vol. iv. 1791 
 
 I'^y: }1794 
 
 Vol, VI. 5 
 
 The Plays and Poems of William Shakspeare, with the cor-
 
 APPENDIX. Ixxxvii 
 
 rections and illustrations of various commentators : compre- 
 hending a Life of the Poet, and an enlarged history of the stage, 
 by the late Edward Malone, 1821. This edition was superin- 
 tended by the late Mr. Boswell. 
 
 No. 4. 
 PLAYS ASCRIBED TO SHAKSPEARE, 
 
 EITHER BY THE EDITORS OF THE TWO LATER FOLIOS, OR BY THE 
 COMPILERS OF ANCIENT CATALOGUES. 
 
 Locrine. 
 
 Sir Jvhn Oldcastle. 
 
 Lord Cromwell. 
 
 The London Prodigal. 
 
 The Puritan. 
 
 The Yorkshire Tragedy. 
 
 These were all printed as Shakspeare's in the third folio, 1664, 
 without having the slightest claim to such a distinction. Steevens 
 thought that the Yorkshire Tragedy might probably be a hasty 
 sketch of our great Poet ; but he afterwards silently abandoned 
 this opinion. We find from the papers of Henslowe'' that Sir 
 John Oldcastle was the work of four writers — Munday, Drayton, 
 Wilson, and Hathway. It is impossible to discover to whom the 
 rest are to be attributed. 
 
 Some other plays, with about equal pretensions, have likewise 
 been given to our Author. 
 
 The Arraignment of Paris, which is known to have been writ- 
 ten by George Peele. 
 
 The Birth of Merlin, the work of Rowley, although in the title- 
 page, 1662, probably by a fraud of the bookseller, it is stated 
 to be the joint production of Rowley and Shakspeare. 
 
 Edward the Third. This play Capell ascribed to Shakspeare, 
 for no other reason but that he thought it too good to be the 
 work of any of his contemporaries. 
 
 Fair Emma. There is no other ground for supposing this play 
 to be among our author's productions, than its having been met 
 
 'I \\f appears In liavu lieen ()r()prif lor of llit Rose Tlicairo, near the hank side in 
 Soullnvark. Thu MSS. alluilcd to wore found at Dulwicli College.
 
 Ixxxviii APPENDIX. 
 
 with in a volume, which formerly belonged to Charles II. which 
 is lettered on the back, SHAKSPEARE, Vol. I. 
 
 The Merry Devil of Echnonton, entered on the Stationers' 
 books as Shakspeare's about the time of the restoration ; but 
 there is a former entry, in 1608, in which it is said to be written 
 by T. B. whom Malone supposes to have been Tony or Antony 
 Brewer. 
 
 Mucedorus. The real autlior unknown. Malone conceives 
 that he might be R. Greene. 
 
 Shakspeare is supposed to have had a share in two other 
 plays, and to have assisted Ben Jonson in Sejanus, and Fletcher 
 in the Two Noble Kinsmen. If he was the person who united 
 with Jonson in the composition of Sejanus, which Mr. GifFord 
 very reasonably doubts, no portion of his work is now remaining. 
 The piece, as originally written, was not successful ; and the pas- 
 sages supplied by the nameless friend of Jonson were omitted 
 in publication. The fact of his having co-operated with Fletcher 
 in the Two Noble Kinsmen has been much discussed ; Pope fa- 
 vours the supposition that Shakspeare's hand may be discovered 
 in the tragedy : Dr. Warburton expresses a belief that our great 
 Poet wrote " the first act, but in his worst manner." All the rest 
 of the commentators, without exception, agree in rejecting this 
 opinion ; and attribute the origin of the tale to the pufF of a 
 bookseller, who found his profit in uniting the name of Shak- 
 speare with that of Fletcher on publishing the play. The judg- 
 ment of the majority appears in this case to be the most correct. 
 
 No. 5. 
 
 PORTRAITS OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 It has been doubted whether any original Portrait of our Au- 
 thor really exists ; the two which have been engraved for this 
 edition of his works are those, which we have the best grounds 
 for admitting as resemblances of Shakspeare. 
 
 1. The engraving from the monument of Stratford, is deserv- 
 ing of the greatest regard. One of the first artists in this coun- 
 try, has given an opinion, coinciding with the common tradition 
 of Stratford, that the original bust was taken from a cast after 
 death : if this were the case it must aflPord an exact representa- 
 tion of the features, though it would no longer retain the living
 
 APPENDIX. Ixxxix 
 
 expression, of Shakspeare. This monument was raised very soon 
 after his decease, and is alluded to in Digges' verses, prefixed to 
 the first folio of 1623. 
 
 The bust was originally coloured ; and tradition conveys to 
 us the knowledge that the eyes were of a light hazel colour, the 
 hair and beard auburn. The doublet in which he was dressed 
 was of scarlet, over which was thrown a loose black gown with- 
 out sleeves, such as the students of law wear at dinner in the 
 Middle Temple Hall. 
 
 This monument was repaired, and the colours faithfully re- 
 stored, in 1748, by Mr. John Hale, an artist of Stratford. This 
 was done at the suggestion, and by the liberality, of Mr. Ward, 
 the maternal grandfather of Mrs. Siddons, who, to create a fund 
 for the occasion, gave a benefit-play at the Town-Hall of Strat- 
 ford, on the 9th of September, 1746. The play was Othello, and 
 the Rev. Joseph Greene wrote an address, grounded on the fa- 
 mous prologue of Pope to the tragedy of Cato, which Mr, Ward 
 delivered to an audience properly glorying in their townsman. 
 
 In 1793, Malone, with an aft'ectation of refined taste, which 
 we cannot but lament and condemn, had the whole figure painted 
 white as it now appears. 
 
 2. The second picture of Shakspeare which we have given, is 
 a fac simile of the engraving by Martin Droeshout, which was 
 prefixed to the first edition of our Author's works in 1623. Ben 
 Jonson testifies to the resemblance; and the following verses, 
 from his pen, were printed in the Volume on the page fronting 
 the Portrait; 
 
 TO THE READER. 
 
 This figure, that those here see put, 
 It was for gentle Shakspeare cut ; 
 Wherein the graver had a strife 
 With nature, to out-doo the life : 
 O, could he but have diawiichis wit 
 As well in brassc, as he has hit 
 His face ; the print would then surpasse 
 All that was ever writ in brasse. 
 But, since he cannot, reader, looke 
 Not on his picture, but his book. 
 
 3. Another generally received portrait is the Chandos portrait, 
 now at Stowe, in the possession of the Duke of Buckingham. 
 This was once the property of Sir WiUiam Davcnant, and was
 
 xc APPENDIX. 
 
 copied for Dryden by Kneller/ After the death of Davenant, 
 1663, it was bought by Betterton the actor : when he died, Mr. 
 Robert Keck, of the Inner Temple, gave Mrs. Barry thr^ actress 
 forty guineas for it. From Mr. Keck it passed to Mr. NicoU of 
 Southgate, whose only daughter married the Marquis of Carnar- 
 von. Shakspeare was probably about the age of forty-three when 
 this portrait was painted. Steevens questions its authenticity : 
 but without any sufficient grounds ; it resembles both the heads 
 that accompany the present work, in the extreme length of the 
 upper lip, and the high forehead. 
 
 4. The Felton head, from which the print prefixed to Reed's 
 Shakspeare is taken, was purchased of Mr. Wilson, a picture 
 dealer in St. James's Square, by Mr. S. Felton, of Drayton, in 
 Shropshire. It is on wood, and Steevens wished to persuade the 
 world that it was the architype of Droeshout's engraving. But 
 there was a very strong suspicion entertained that Steevens knew 
 it to be a modern fabrication ; that he was well acquainted with 
 the history of its manufacture ; and *' that there was a deeper 
 meaning in his words, when he tells us, he was instrumental in 
 procuring it, than he would wish to have generally understood."* 
 
 5. A miniature by Nicholas Hilliard, in the possession of Sir 
 James Bland Burgess. This is said to have been painted for 
 Mr. Somerville of Edstone, who lived in habits of intimacy with 
 Shakspeare. It descended from father to son, as a relic in the 
 Somerville family, till Lord Somerville gave it to his daughter, 
 the mother of Sir James Bland Burgess. It was missing for se- 
 veral years, and recovered in 1813. It is engraved as the fron- 
 tispiece to the third volume of Boswell's Shakspeare. 
 
 6. A head by Cornelius Jansen, in the collection of the Duke 
 of Somerset. This is a beautiful head; it is dated 1610, set. 
 forty-six; and in a scroll over the head are the two words ut ma- 
 gus, which very personally apply to Shakspeare. The two words 
 are extracted from the famous Epistle of Horace to Augustus, the 
 first of the second book : the particular passage is this : 
 
 Ille per exteiitum fanem mibi posse videtar 
 Irepoela; meum qai pectus inaniter angit, 
 Irritat, ranlcet, falsis terroribus implet, 
 Ut Magus ; et inodo roe Thebis, modo ponit Athenis. 
 
 All this is certainly applicable to Shakspeare. Jansen, it ap- 
 pears, was in England about the time the picture is supposed to 
 
 ^Tbe copy is al Wenlworth Castle, in the possessiou of Lord Fitzwilliain. 
 » Boswell's Shakspeare, Advertisement, vol. i.
 
 APPENDIX. xci 
 
 have been painted ; and was employed by Lord Southampton, 
 the friend and patron of Shakspeare. For him also, this picture 
 might have been executed. It originally belonged to Mr. Jennens, 
 of Gopsal, in Leicestershire. By his direction a mezzotinto was 
 taken from it by Earlom. There is no more known of the pic- 
 ture. It represents such a man as we might well imagine Shak- 
 speare to have been ; but is not sufficiently like the bust of the 
 Stratford monument, or the head prefixed to the first folio, for us 
 to admit it, without considerable doubt, as a genuine portrait of 
 our Author. 
 
 It is remarkable that a copy of this picture, which is in the 
 possession of Mr. Croker, was lately discovered behind the 
 pannel of a wainscot, in one of the houses lately pulled down 
 near the site of Old Suffolk-street. 
 
 In drawing out the above account of the portraits of Shak- 
 speare, I have been much indebted to the work of Mr. Boaden, 
 entitled. An Inquiry into the Authenticity of the Various Pictures 
 and Prints of Shakspeare.
 
 No. 6. 
 
 ANCIENT AND MODERN 
 
 COMMENDATORY VERSES 
 
 ON 
 
 SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 On William Shakspeare, ivho died in April, 1616.' 
 
 Renowned Spenser, lie a thought more nigh 
 
 To learned Chaucer ; and rare Beaumont lie 
 
 A little nearer Spenser, to make room 
 
 For Shakspeare, in your three-fold, four-fold tomb. 
 
 To lodge all four in one bed make a shift 
 
 Until doomsday ; for hardly will a fift 
 
 Betwixt this day and that by fate be slain, 
 
 For whom your curtains may be drawn again. 
 
 But if precedency in death doth bar 
 
 A fourth place in your sacred sepulchre. 
 
 Under this carved marble of thine own. 
 
 Sleep, rare tragedian, Shakspeare, sleep alone. 
 
 Thy unmolested peace, unshared cave. 
 
 Possess, as lord, not tenant, of thy grave; 
 
 That unto us and others it may be 
 
 Honour hereafter to be laid bv thee. — William Basse. 
 
 ' William Basse, according to Wood [Alhen. Oxon. vol. ii. p. 812], " was of 
 Moreton, near Thame in Oxfordshire, and was sometime a retainer to the Lord 
 Wenman of Thame Park." There are some verses by him in Annalia Dubrensia, 
 4to. 1636 ; and in Bathurst's Life and Remains, by the Reverend Thomas War- 
 ton, 8vo. 1761, there is a poem by Dr. Bathurst " to Mr. William Basse, upon 
 the intended publication of his Poems, Jan. 13, 16.51." The volume never, I be- 
 lieve, appeared ; but there is in the collection of Richard Slater, Esq. a volume 
 of MS. poems by Basse, entitled Polyhymnia, containing six copies of verses on 
 various subjects.
 
 POEMS ON SHAKSPEARE. xciii 
 
 To the Memory of my Beloved the Author ^ Mr. William 
 Shakspeare, and what he hath left us. 
 
 To draw no envy, Shakspeare, on thy name, 
 And I thus ample to thy book, and fame ; 
 While I confess thy writings to be such, 
 As neither man, nor muse, can praise too much : 
 'Tis true, and all men's suffrage : but these ways 
 Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise : 
 For seeliest ignorance on these may light, 
 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 the ill fortune of them, or the need: 
 I, therefore, will begin : — Soul of the age, 
 The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage, 
 My Shakspeare, 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 alive 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." 
 
 " our Lvi.Y <)ufs/iiiic,] Lyly wrote nine plays iliirinj; the reign of Queen 
 
 Elizabeth, viz. Alexander and Carnpaspe, T. C; Endyniion, C; (Jalatea, C. ; 
 Loves MttainorphosiK, Dram. Past. ; Maids MetainorphosiM, 0. ; IMolher lioinbie, 
 C. ; My das, C. ; Saplio and I'hao, C. ; anil >Vonian in the Moon, C. To the pe- 
 dantry of this author perhaps we are indebted for the first attempt to polish an"! 
 reforni our lanf^iin^e. See his Euphues and his Unjrlnnd. — Stf.evens. 
 
 V or sportiiif^ l^y'l'] '' appears from Heywood's Aetor's \'indication, that 
 
 Thomas Kyd was the author of the Spanish Trajjedy. The late Mr. Hawkins was 
 of opinion that Soliinan and Perseda was by the same hand. The only piece, how- 
 erer, which has descended to as, even with the initial letters of his name allixed 
 to it, is I'ompey the Creat his fair Cornelia's Trajjcdy, which was first published 
 in 1.S94, and, with some alteration in the title-page, again in l.'>?5. This is no 
 more Iban a translation from Robert Gamier, a French poet, who distinguished
 
 xciv POEMS ON SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 And though thou hadst small Latin, and less Greek, 
 
 From thence to honour thee, I would not seek 
 
 For names ; but call forth thund'ring ^schylus, 
 
 Euripides, and Sophocles, to us, 
 
 Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordoua dead, 
 
 To life 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. 
 
 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 their prime, 
 
 When like Apollo he came forth to warm 
 
 Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm. 
 
 Nature herself was pi'oud 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 Shakspeare, 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 : 
 
 himself during the reigns of Charles IX. Henry III. and Henry IV. and died at 
 Mons in 1602, in the 56th year of his age. — Steevens. 
 
 " or Marlowe's mighty line.] Marlowe was a performer as well as an 
 
 author. His contemporary Hey wood, calls him the best of our poets. He wrote 
 six tragedies, viz. Dr. Faustus's Tragical History; King Edward II.; Jew of 
 Malta ; Lu.st's Dominion ; Massacre of Paris ; and Tamburlaioe the Great, io two 
 parts. He likewise joined with Nash in writing Dido Queen of Carthage, and 
 had begun a translation of Musaeus's Hero and Leander, which was finished by 
 Ciiapman, and published in 1606. — Steevens.
 
 POEMS ON SHAKSPEARE. xcv 
 
 And such wevt thou. Look, how the father's face 
 
 Lives in his issue ; even so the race 
 
 Of Shakspeare's mind, and manners, brightly shines 
 
 In his well-torned and true-filed hnes ; 
 
 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 ; 
 
 Which, 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 Scenick Poet 
 Master William Shakspeare. 
 
 Those hands which you so clapp'd, go now and wring, 
 You Britains brave ; for done are Shakspeare's days ; 
 Ilis days are done that made the dainty plays, 
 
 Which made the globe of heaven and earth to ring : 
 
 Dry'd is that vein, dry'd is the Thespian string. 
 Turn'd all to tears, and Phoebus clouds his rays ; 
 That corpse, that coffin, now bestick those bays. 
 
 Which crown'd him poet first, then poet's king. 
 If tragedies might any prologue have, 
 
 All those he made would scarce make one to this ; 
 Where fame, now that he is gone to the grave, 
 
 (Death's public tiring-house) the Nuntius is : 
 For, though his line of life went soon about, 
 The life yet of his lines shall never out. — Hugh Holland. 
 
 To the Memory of the deceased Author, Master William 
 
 Sha/cspciirc. 
 
 Shakspeare, at length thy pious fellows give 
 The world thy works ; thy works, by which outlive 
 " See Wood's Albenre Oxnn. edit. 1721, vol. i. p SSS.— Steevens.
 
 xcvi POEMS ON SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Thy tomb, thy name must : when that stone is rent, 
 
 And time dissolves thy Stratford monument, 
 
 Here we alive shall view thee still ; this book, 
 
 When brass and marble fade, shall make thee look 
 
 Fresh to all ages, when posterity 
 
 Shall loath what's new, think all is prodigy 
 
 That is not Shakspeare's, every line, each verse, 
 
 Here shall revive, redeem thee from thy herse. 
 
 Nor fire, nor cank'ring age, — as Naso said 
 
 Of his, — thy wit-fraught book shall once invade : 
 
 Nor shall I e'er believe or think thee dead. 
 
 Though raiss'd, until our bankrout stage be sped 
 
 (Impossible) with some new strain to out-do 
 
 Passions " of Juliet, and her Romeo ;" 
 
 Or till I hear a scene more nobly take, 
 
 Than when thy half-sword parlying Romans spake : 
 
 Till these, till any of thy volume's rest, 
 
 Shall with more fire, more feeling be express'd, 
 
 Be sure, our Shakspeare, thou canst never die, 
 
 But, crown'd with laurel, live eternally. — L. Digges.^ 
 
 To the Memory of Master W. Shakspeare. 
 
 We wonder'd, Shakspeare, that thou went'st so soon 
 From the world's stage to the grave's tiring-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 hve to act a second part: 
 That's but an exit of mortality. 
 This a re-entrance to a plaudite. — J. M.* 
 
 Upon the Effigies of my worthy Friend, the Author, Master 
 William Shakspeare, and his Works. 
 
 Spectator, this life's shadow is ; — to see 
 This truer image, and a livelier he, 
 
 y See Wood's Athenae Oxonienses, vol. i. p, 599, and 600. edit. 1721. His 
 translation of Claudian's Rape of Proserpine was entered on the Stationers' books, 
 Oct. 4, 1617 — Steevens. 
 
 It was printed in tbe same year. — Malone. 
 
 » Perhaps John Marston, — Steevens.
 
 POEMS ON SHAKSPEARE. xcvii 
 
 Turn reader: but observe his comick 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 Shakspeare to the life thou dost behold.* 
 
 On worth]/ Master Shakspeare, 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 that 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 soul-less shews : 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 herse, 
 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 tlieir 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 in thai truth 
 At which we start, and, by elaborate play, 
 Tortur'd and tickl'd ; by a crab-like way 
 
 * The verses Grst appeared in the folio, 163'2. There is no nsme ascribed i? 
 them. — Malonf.. 
 
 VOL. I. h '
 
 xcviii POEMS ON SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Time past made pastime, and in ugly sort 
 Disgorging up his ravin for our sport : — 
 — While the plebeian imp, from lofty throne, 
 Creates and rules a world, and works upon 
 Mankind by secret engines ; now to move 
 A chiUing pity, then a rigorous love ; 
 To strike up and stroke down, both joy and ire ; 
 To steer the affections ; and by heavenly fire 
 Mold us anew, stoln from ourselves :• 
 
 This, — and much more, which cannot be express'd 
 But by himself, his tongue, and his own breast, — 
 Was Shakspeare's freehold ; which his cunning brain 
 Improv'd by favour of the nine-fold train : 
 The buskin'd muse, the comick 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. 
 Those jointly woo'd him, envying one another; — 
 Obey'd by all as spouse, but lov'd 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, 
 Not clouds, nor thunder, but were living drawn ; 
 Nor 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 hand shall give ;
 
 POEMS ON SHAKSPEARE. xcix 
 
 In a less volume, but more strongly bound, 
 
 Shakspeare 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, 
 
 J. M. S." 
 
 A Remembrance of some English Poets. By Richard 
 Barnfield, 1598. 
 
 And Shakspeare thou, whose honey-flowing vein 
 (Pleasing the world), thy praises dotli contain, 
 Whose Venus, and whose Lucrece, sweet and chaste, 
 Thy name in fame's immortal book hath plac'd, 
 Live ever you, at least in fame live ever! 
 Well may the body die, but fame die never. 
 
 England's Mourning Garment, Sfc. By Henry Chettle. 1603. 
 
 Nor doth the silver-tongued Melicert 
 
 Drop from his honied muse one sable tear, 
 
 To mourn her death that graced his desert, 
 And to his laies open'd her royal ear. 
 
 Shepherd, remember our Elizabeth, 
 
 And sing her Rape, done by that Tarquin, death. 
 
 To Master W. Shakspeare. 
 
 Shakspeare, that nimble Mercury thy brain 
 
 Lulls many-hundred Argus eyes asleep. 
 So fit for all thou fashionest thy vein, 
 
 At the horse-foot fountain thou hast drunk full deep. 
 Virtue's or vice's theme to ihee all one is ; 
 
 Who loves chaste life, there's Lucrece for a teacher : 
 Who list read lust, there's Venus and Adonis, 
 
 True model of a most lascivious lecher. 
 
 b Probably, Jasper Mayne, Student. He was born iu the year 1604, and be- 
 came a member of Christ Church, in Oxford, in 162,?, where he was soon after- 
 wards elected a student. In iGiJB he took « bachelor's degree, and in June, 1631, 
 thai of a Master of Axis. These verses first appeared in tbe folio, 1632. — 
 Mai ONE. 
 
 h 2
 
 POEMS ON SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Besides, in plays thy wit winds like Meander, 
 
 When needy new composers borrow more 
 Than Terence doth from Plautus or Menander : 
 
 But to praise thee aright, I want thy store. 
 Then let thine own works thine own worth upraise, 
 And help to adorn thee with deserved bays. 
 
 Epigram 92, in an ancient collection entitled Run and a 
 great Cast, 4<o. by Tho. Freeman, 1614. 
 
 Extract from Michael Drayton's " Elegy to Henry Reynolds, 
 Esq. of Poets and Poesy. 
 
 Shakspeare, thou hadst as smooth a comick vein, 
 Fitting the sock, and in thy natural brain 
 As strong conception, and as clear a rage, 
 As any one that traffick'd with the stage. 
 
 An Epitaph on the Admirable Dramatick Poet, W. Shakspeare." 
 
 What needs my Shakspeare for his honour'd bones, 
 The labour of an age in piled stones ; 
 Or that his hallow'd reliques should be hid 
 Under a star-ypointing pyramid ? 
 Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, 
 What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name ? 
 Thou, in our wonder and astonishment. 
 Hast built thyself a live-long monument : 
 For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring art, 
 The easy numbers flow ; and that each heart 
 Hath, from the leaves of thy unvalued book, 
 Those Delphick lines with deep impression took ; 
 Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving. 
 Dost make us marble with too much conceiving ; 
 And, so sepulcher'd, in such pomp dost lie. 
 That kings, for such a tomb, would wish to die. 
 
 John Milton.'' 
 
 ''■ This poem is one of those prefixed to the folio edition of our author's plays, 
 1632, anfl therefore is the first of Milton's pieces that was pnblished. It appeared, 
 however, without even the initials of his name. — Steevens. 
 
 <• These verses were written by Milton in the year 1630. Notwithstanding this 
 just eulogium, and thoagh the writer of it appears to have been a very diligent 
 reader of the works of oar poet, from whose rich garden he has plucked many a 
 flower, in the true spirit of sour puritanical sanctity he censured King Charles I. 
 for having made this " great heir of fame" the closet companion of his solitudes. 
 See his Riconoclastes. — Mai,one.
 
 POEMS ON SHAKSPEARE. ci 
 
 Upon Master William Shakspeare, the deceased Author. 
 
 Poets are born, not made. When I would prove 
 This truth, the glad remembrance I must love 
 Of never-dying Shakspeare, who alone 
 Is argument enough to make that one. 
 First, that he was a poet, none would doubt 
 That heard the applause of what he sees set out 
 Imprinted ; where thou hast (I will not say, 
 Reader, his works, for, to contrive a play, 
 To him 'twas none,) the pattern of all wit, 
 Art without art, unparallel'd as yet. 
 Next nature only help'd him, for look thorough 
 This whole book,* thou shalt find he doth not borrow. 
 One phrase from Greeks, nor Latins imitate, 
 Nor once from vulgar languages translate ; 
 Nor plagiary-like from others gleane. 
 Nor begs he from each witty friend a scene, 
 To piece his acts with : all that he doth write 
 Is pure his own ; plot, language exquisite. 
 But O what praise more powerful can we give 
 The dead, than that, by him, the kings-men live, 
 His players ; which should they but have shar'd his fate, 
 (All else expir'd within the short term's date,) 
 How could The Globe have prosper'd, since through want 
 Of change, the plays and poems had grown scant, 
 But, happy verse, thou shalt be sung and heard. 
 When hungry quills shall be such honour barr'd. 
 Then vanish, upstart writers to each stage. 
 You needy poetasters of this age! 
 Where Shakspeare liv'd or spake, Vermin, forbear! 
 Lest with your froth ye spot them, come not near! 
 But if you needs must write, if poverty 
 So pinch, that otherwise you starve and die; 
 On God's name may the Bull or Cockpit have 
 Your lame blank verse, to keep you from the grave. 
 Or let new Fortune's' younger brethren see, 
 What they can pick from your lean industry. 
 
 • Tb(! Fortune company, I find from .Sir Henry Herbert's Manuscript, removed 
 lo tlie Red ]Sull, and tlio I'rince's coinpan; to the Fortune, in the year 1640; 
 these verses therefore could not have been written so early as 16'23. — Ma lone. 
 
 f This, 1 btlitve, alludes to some of the company of The Fortune playhouse, 
 who removed to the Hod IJull. .See a Prolojjue on the removing; of the late Foi- 
 tnnc playi-i s lo (lie Hull. Tutham's Fancies Theatre, 16'10. — Malone.
 
 cii POEMS ON SHAKSPEARE, 
 
 I do not wonder when you offer at 
 
 Black-friars, that you suffer; 'tis the fate 
 
 Of richer veins ; prime judgments, that have far'd 
 
 The worse, with this deceased man compar'd. 
 
 So have I seen, when Caesar would appear, 
 
 And on the stage at half-sword parley were 
 
 Brutus and Cassius, O how the audience 
 
 Were ravish'd ! with what wonder they went thence I 
 
 When, some new day, they would not brook a line 
 
 Of tedious, though well-labour'd, Catiline ; 
 
 Sejanus too, was irksome ; they priz'd more 
 
 " Honest" lago, or the jealous Moor. 
 
 And though the Fox and subtil Alchymist, 
 
 Long intermitted, could not quite be mist, 
 
 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 Benedick be seen, lo ! in a trice 
 
 The cock-pit, 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. 
 
 But why do I dead Shakspeare's praise recite ? 
 
 Some second Shakspeare must of Shakspeare write ; 
 
 For me 'tis needless : since an host of men 
 
 Will pay, to clap his praise, to free my pen.* 
 
 Leon. Digges. 
 
 An Elegy on the death of that famous Writer and Actor 
 Mr. William Shakspeare. 
 
 I dare not do thy memory that wrong, 
 Unto our larger griefs to give a tongue. 
 
 S These verses are prelixed to a spurious edition of Shakspeare's poems, in 
 )!ni!tll octavo, printed in J<»iO. — Malone.
 
 POEMS ON SHAKSPEARE. ciii 
 
 I'll only sigh in earnest, and let fall 
 
 My solemn tears at thy great funeral. 
 
 For every eye that rains a show'r for thee, 
 
 Laments thy loss in a sad elegy, 
 
 Nor is it fit each humble muse should have 
 
 Thy worth his subject, now thou art laid in grave. 
 
 No, it's a flight beyond the pitch of those, 
 
 Whose worthless pamphlets are not seen in prose. 
 
 Let learned Jonson sing a dirge for thee, 
 
 And fill our orb with mournful harmony : 
 
 But we need no remembrancer ; thy fame 
 
 Shall still accompany thy honour'd name 
 
 To all posterity : and make us be 
 
 Sensible of what we lost, in losing thee: 
 
 Being the age's wonder ; whose smooth rhymes 
 
 Did more reform than lash the looser times. 
 
 Nature herself did her own self admire, 
 
 As oft as thou wert pleased to attire 
 
 Her in her native lustre ; and confess, 
 
 Thy dressing was her chiefest comeliness. 
 
 How can we then forget thee, when the age 
 
 Her chiefest tutor, and the widow'd stage 
 
 Her only favorite in thee, hath lost. 
 
 And Nature's self, what she did brag of most? 
 
 Sleep then, rich soul of numbers ! whilst poor we 
 
 Enjoy the profits of thy legacy ; 
 
 And think it happiness enough, we have 
 
 So much of thee redeemed from the grave, 
 
 As may suffice to enlighten future times 
 
 With the bright lustre of thy matchless rhymes. '^ 
 
 In Memory of our famous Shakspeare. 
 
 Sacred Spirit, whiles thy lyre 
 
 Echoed o'er the Arcadian plains, 
 Even Apollo did admire, 
 
 Orpheus wonder'd at thy strains : 
 Plautus sigh'd, Sophocles wept 
 
 Tears of anger, for to hear, 
 After they so long had slept. 
 
 So bright a genius should appear ; 
 
 '' These anorivmous versus are )>r«ffise(l likewise to SbakKp<-.'ii''''> l'i>«sm», loJO. 
 
 -M Al.OSI .
 
 civ POEMS ON SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Who wrote his hnes with a sun-beam, 
 More durable than time or fate : — 
 
 Others boldly do blaspheme, 
 
 Like those that seem to preach, but prate. 
 
 Thou wert truly priest elect, 
 
 Chosen darling to the Nine, 
 Such a trophy to erect 
 
 By thy wit and skill divine. 
 
 That were all their other glories 
 
 (Thine excepted) torn away, 
 By thy admirable stories 
 
 Their garments ever shall be gay. 
 
 Were thy honour'd bones do lie, 
 
 (As Statins once to Maro's urn,) 
 Thither every year will I 
 
 Slowly tread, and sadly mourn. — S. Sheppard.' 
 
 To Shakspeare. 
 
 Thy Muse's sugred dainties seem to us 
 Like the fam'd apples of old Tantalus : 
 For we (admiring) see and hear thy strains. 
 But none I see or hear those sweets attains.^ 
 
 To Mr, William Shakspeare. 
 
 Shakspeare, we must be silent in thy praise, 
 'Cause our encomions will but blast thy bays. 
 Which envy could not ; that thou didst do well, 
 Let thine own histories prove thy chronicle.'' 
 
 In Remembrance of Master William Shakspeare. Ode. 
 
 1. 
 Beware, delighted poets, when you sing, 
 To welcome nature in the early spring, 
 
 * This author published a small volume of epigrams in 1651, among which this 
 poem in memory of Shakspeare is found. — Malone. 
 
 J These verses are taken from Two Bookes of Epigrammes and Epitaphs, by 
 Thomas Bancroft, Lond. 1639, 4to. — Holt White. 
 
 ^ From Wits Recreations, &c. 12mo. 1640. — Steevens.
 
 POEMS ON SHAKSPEARE. cv 
 
 Your numerous feet not tread 
 The banks of Avon ; for each flow'r, 
 As It ne'er knew a sun or show'r, 
 
 Hangs there the pensive head. 
 
 II. 
 
 Each tree, whose thick and spreading growth hath made 
 Rather a night beneath the boughs than shade, 
 
 Unwilling now to grow, 
 Looks like the plume a captain wears, 
 Whose rifled /a//s are steep'd i' the tears 
 
 Which from his last rage flow. 
 
 III. 
 
 The piteous river wept itself away 
 Long since, alas ! to such a swift decay, 
 
 That reach the map, and look 
 If you a river there can spy, 
 And, for a river, your mock'd eye 
 
 Will find a shallow brook. 
 
 William D'Avenant. 
 
 And if you leave us too, we cannot thrive, 
 I'll promise neither play nor poet live 
 Till ye come back : think what you do ; you see 
 What audience we have : what company 
 To Shakspeare comes? whose mirth did once beguile 
 Dull hours, and buskin'd, made even sorrow smile : 
 So lovely were the wounds, that men would say, 
 They could endure the bleeding a whole day. — Shirley. 
 
 See, my lov'd Britons, see your Shakspeare rise, 
 An awful ghost, confess'd to human eyes ! 
 Unnam'd, methinks, distinguish'd I had been 
 From other shades, by this eternal green. 
 About whose wreaths the vulgar poets strive, 
 And with a touch their withcr'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, 
 'Twas, that my own abundance gave mc more:
 
 cvi POEMS ON SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 On foreign trade I needed not rely. 
 
 Like fruitful Britain rich without supply. — Drydejj. 
 
 Shakspeare, who (taught by none) did first impart 
 To Fletcher wit, to labouring Jonson art : 
 He, monarch-like, gave those his subjects law, 
 And is that nature which they paint and draw. 
 Fletcher reach'd that which on his heights did grow. 
 While Jonson crept and gathered all below. 
 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 that fell from Shakspeare's pen. — Ibid. 
 
 Our Shakspeare wrote too in an age as blest, 
 The happiest poet of his time, and best ; 
 A gracious prince's favour cheer'd his muse, 
 A constant favour he ne'er fear'd to lose : 
 Therefore he wrote with fancy unconfin'd, 
 And thoughts that were immortal as his mind. — Otway. 
 
 Shakspeare, whose genius to itself a law. 
 
 Could men in every height of nature draw. — Rowe. 
 
 In such an age immortal Shakspeare wrote, 
 By no quaint rules nor hamp'ring criticks taught; 
 With rough majestic force he mov'd the heart. 
 And strength and nature made amends for art. — Ibid. 
 
 To claim attention and the heart invade, 
 Shakspeare but wrote the play th' Almighty made. 
 Our neighbour's stage-art too bare-fae'd betrays, 
 'Tis great Corneille at every scene we praise ; 
 On Nature's surer aid Britannia calls, 
 Nor think of Shakspeare till the curtain falls; 
 Then with a sigh returns our audience home. 
 From Venice, Egypt, Persia, Greece, or Rome. — Young.
 
 POEMS ON SHAKSPEARE. cvi 
 
 Shakspeare, the genius of our isle, whose mind 
 (The universal mirror of mankind) 
 Express'd all images, enrich'd the stage, 
 But sometimes stoop'd to please a barb'rous age. 
 When his immortal bays began to grow, 
 Rude was the language, and the humour low. 
 He, like the god of day, was always bright ; 
 But rolling in its course, his orb of light 
 Was sullied and obscur'd, though soaring high, 
 With spots contracted from the nether sky, 
 But whither is the advent' rous muse betray'd ? 
 Forgive her rashness, venerable shade ! 
 May spring with purple flowers perfume thy urn, 
 And Avon with his greens thy grave adorn ! 
 Be all thy faults, whatever faults there be, 
 Imputed to the times, and not to thee ! 
 
 Some scions shoot from this immortal root, 
 Their tops much lower, and less fair the fruit. 
 Jonson the tribute of my verse might claim. 
 Had he not strove to blemish Shakspeare's name. 
 But like the radiant twins that gild the sphere, 
 Fletcher and Beaumont next in pomp appear. — Fenton. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Thomson. 
 
 Pride of his own, and wonder of this age, 
 Who first created, and yet rules the stage, 
 Bold to design, all-powerful to express, 
 Shakspeare each passion drew in every dress: 
 Great above rule, and imitating none; 
 Rich without borrowing. Nature was his own. — Mallet. 
 
 Shakspeare (whom you and every playhouse bill 
 Style the divine, the matchlrss, what you will,) 
 For gain, not glory, wing'd his roving flight. 
 And grew immortal in his own despight. — Pope.
 
 cviii POEMS ON SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Aji Inscription for a Moniitnent of Shakspeare-. 
 
 O youths and virgins : O declining eld : 
 O pale misfortune's slaves : O ye who dwell 
 Unknown, with humble quiet; ye who wait 
 In courts, or fill the golden seats of kings : 
 O sons of sport and pleasure : O thou wretch 
 That weep'st for jealous love, or the sore wounds 
 Of conscious guilt, or death's rapacious hand, 
 Which left thee void of hope : O ye who roam 
 In exile; ye who through the embattled field 
 Seek bright renown ; or who for nobler palms 
 Contend, the leaders of a publick cause ; 
 Approach : behold this marble. Know ye not 
 The features ? Hath not oft his faithful tongue 
 Told you the fashion of your own estate, 
 The secrets of your bosom ? Here, then, round 
 His monument with reverence while ye stand, 
 Say to each other : " This was Shakspeare's form; 
 " Who walk'd in every path of human life, 
 " Felt every passion ; and to all mankind 
 " Doth now, will ever, that experience yield 
 '« Which his own genius only could acquire." — Akenside. 
 
 when lightning fires 
 
 The arch of heaven, and thunders rock the ground, 
 
 When furious whirlwinds rend the howling air. 
 
 And ocean, groaning from his lowest bed. 
 
 Heaves his tempestuous billows to the sky ; 
 
 Amid the mighty uproar, while below 
 
 The nations tremble, Shakspeare looks abroad 
 
 From some high cliiF superior, and enjoys 
 
 The elemental war. Ibid. 
 
 From the Remonstrance oj" Shakspeare, 
 
 Supposed to have been spoken at the Theatre-Koyal, when the 
 French Comedians were acting by subscription. 
 
 What though the footsteps of my devious muse 
 The measured walks of Grecian art refuse ?
 
 POEMS ON SHAKSPEARE. cix 
 
 Or though the frankness of my hardy style 
 Mock the nice touches of the critick's file ? 
 Yet what my age and climate held to view 
 Impartial I survey'd, and fearless drew. 
 And say, ye skilful in the human heart, 
 Who know to prize a poet's noblest part, 
 What age, what clime, could e'er an ampler field 
 For lofty thought, for daring fancy yield ? 
 I saw this England break the shameful bands 
 Forg'd for the souls of men by sacred hands ; 
 I saw each groaning realm her aid implore ; 
 Her sons the heroes of each warlike shore ; 
 Her naval standard, (the dire Spaniard's bane,) 
 Obey'd through all the circuit of the main. 
 Then too great commerce, for a late-found world. 
 Around your coast her eager sails unfurl'd : 
 New hopes, new passions, thence the bosom fir'd; 
 New plans, new arts, the genius thence inspir'd; 
 Thence every scene which private fortune knows, 
 In stronger life, with bolder spirit, rose. 
 
 Disgrac'd I this full prospect which I drew? 
 My colours languid, or my strokes untrue ? 
 Have not your sages, warriors, swains, and kings, 
 Coiifess'd the living draught of men and things ? 
 What other bard in any clime appears. 
 Alike the master of your smiles and tears ? 
 Yet have I deign'd your audience to entice 
 With wretched bribes to luxury and vice ? 
 Or have my various scenes a purpose known, 
 Which freedom, virtue, glory, might not own? — [bul. 
 
 When learning's triumph o'er her barb'rous foes 
 First rear'd the stage, immortal Shakspeare rose ; 
 Each change of many-colour'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 pow'rful strokes presiding truth impress'd. 
 And unresisted passion storm'd the breast. — .Johnson,
 
 ox POEMS ON SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Upon Shakspeares Monument at Stratford-upon-Avon. 
 
 Great Homer's birth seven rival cities claim ; 
 Too mighty such monopoly of fame. 
 Yet not to birth alone did Homer owe 
 His wond'rous worth ; what Egypt could bestow, 
 With all the schools of Greece and Asia join'd, 
 Enlarg'd the immense expansion of his mind: 
 Nor yet unrival'd the Mseonian strain ; 
 The British eagle' and the Mantuan Swan 
 Tow'r equal heights. But happier Stratford, thou 
 With incontested laurels deck thy brow ; 
 Thy bard was thine unschooVd, and from thee brought 
 More than all Egypt, Greece, or Asia taught ; 
 Not Homer's self such matchless laurels won ; 
 The Greek has rivals, but thy Shakspeare none. 
 
 T. Seward. 
 
 I 
 
 From Epistle to Sir Thomas Hamner on his Edition of 
 Shakspeare' s Works. 
 
 Hard was the lot those injur'd strains endur'd, 
 Unown'd by science, and by years obscur'd: 
 Fair fancy wept ; and echoing sighs confess'd 
 A fix'd despair in every tuneful breast. 
 Not with more grief the afflicted swains appear, 
 When wintry winds deform the plenteous year ; 
 When lingering frosts the ruin'd seats invade 
 Where Peace resorted, and the Graces play'd. 
 
 Each rising art by just gradation moves. 
 Toil builds on toil, and age on age improves : 
 The muse alone unequal dealt her rage. 
 And grac'd with noblest pomp her earliest stage. 
 Preserv'd through time, the speaking scenes impart 
 Each changeful wish of Phsedra's tortur'd heart ; 
 Or paint the curse, that mark'd the Theban's" reign, 
 A bed incestuous, and a father slain. 
 With kind concern our pitying eyes o'erflow. 
 Trace the sad tale, and own another's woe. 
 
 To Rome remov'd, with wit secure to please, 
 The comick sisters kept their native ease. 
 
 ' Milton. " The CEdipns of Sophocles.
 
 POEMS ON SHAKSPEARE. cxi 
 
 With jealous fear declining Greece beheld 
 
 Her own Menander's art almost excell'd. 
 
 But every Muse essay 'd to raise in vain 
 
 Some labour'd rival of her tragick strain ; 
 
 Illyssus' laurels, though transferr'd with toil, 
 
 Dropp'd their fair leaves, nor knew th' unfriendly soil. 
 
 As arts expir'd, resisted Dulness rose ; 
 Goths, priests, or Vandals, — all were learning's foes. 
 Till Julius" first recall'd each exil'd maid, 
 And Cosmo own'd them in the Etrurian shade : 
 Then deeply skill'd in love's engaging theme, 
 The soft Provencial pass'd to Arno's stream : 
 With graceful ease the wanton lyre he strung ; 
 Sweet flow'd the lays, — but love was all he sung. 
 The gay description could not fail to move ; 
 For, led by nature, all are friends to love. 
 
 But heaven, still various in its works, decreed 
 The perfect boast of time should last succeed. 
 The beauteous union must appear at length. 
 Of Tuscan fancy, and Athenian strength : 
 One greater Muse Eliza's reign adorn. 
 And even a Shakspeare to her fame be born. 
 
 Yet ah ! so bright her morning's opening ray, 
 In vain our Britain hop'd an equal day. 
 No second growth the western isle could bear, 
 At once exhausted with too rich a year. 
 Too nicely Jonson knew the Critick's part; 
 Nature in him was almost lost in art. 
 Of softer mould the gentle Fletcher came. 
 The next in order, as the next in name. 
 W^ith pleas'd attention 'midst his scenes we find 
 Each glowing thought, that warms the female mind ; 
 Each melting sigh, and every tender tear, 
 The lover's wishes, and the virgin's fear. 
 His every strain the Smiles and Graces own ;" 
 But stronger Shakspeare felt for man alone :■' 
 Drawn by his pen, our ruder passions stand 
 Th' unrivall'd picture of his early hand. 
 
 ■ Jalias II. Iho immediate predecessor of Leo X. 
 " Tlicir cliaracters arc thus distinguished by Mr. Dryden. 
 P Collins must surely have forgotten Oplielin, Imogen, Juliet, Desdemona, 
 Be.itrice, and Rosalind, or never would be have said thai hejelljor man alone.
 
 cxii POEMS ON SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 With gradual steps,'' and slow, exacter France 
 Saw Art's fair empire o'er her shores advance : 
 By length of toil a bright perfection knew 
 Correctly bold, and just in all she drew: 
 Till late Corneille, with Lucan's'' spirit fic'd, 
 Breath'd the free strain, as Rome and He inspir'd: 
 And classick judgment gain'd to sweet Racine 
 The temperate strength of Maro's chaster line. 
 
 But wilder far the British laurel spread, 
 And wreathes less artful crown our poet's head. 
 Yet He alone to every scene could give 
 The historian's truth, and bid the manners live. 
 Wak'd at his call I view, with glad surprize, 
 Majestic forms of mighty monarchs rise. 
 There Henry's trumpets spread their loud alarms. 
 And laurell'd Conquest waits her hero's arms. 
 Here gentle Edward claims a pitying sigh. 
 Scarce born to honours, and so soon to die! 
 Yet shall thy throne, unhappy infant, bring 
 No beam of comfort to the guilty king; 
 The time shall come,^ when Gloster's heart shall bleed 
 In life's last hours, with horror of the deed : 
 When dreary visions shall at last present 
 Thy vengeful image in the midnight tent: 
 Thy hand unseen the secret death shall bear, 
 Blunt the weak sword, and break the oppressive spear. 
 
 Where'er we turn, by fancy charm'd, we find 
 Some sweet illusion of the cheated mind. 
 Oft, wild of wing, she calls the soul to rove 
 With humbler nature, in the rural grove ; 
 Where swains contented own the quiet scene. 
 And twilight fairies tread the circled green : 
 Dress'd by her hand, the woods and valleys smile. 
 And Spring diffusive decks the inchant3d isle. 
 
 O more than all in powerful genius blest, 
 Corae, take thine empire o'er the willing breast! 
 
 1 About the time of Shakspeare, the poet Hardy was in great repute in France. 
 He wrote, according to Fontenelle, six hundred plajs. The French poets after 
 him applied themselves in general to the correct improvement of the stage, which 
 was almost totally disregarded by those of our own country, Jonson excepted. 
 
 ■" The favourite author of the elder Corneille. 
 
 » Turno tempus erit, magno cum optaverit eroptum 
 IiitHctiim Pallanta, &c.
 
 POEMS ON SHAKSPEARE. c.xiii 
 
 Whate'er the wounds this youthful licart shall feel, 
 
 Thy \vronp:s support me, and thy morals heal. 
 
 There every thought the poet's warmth may raise, 
 
 There native music dwells in all the lays. 
 
 O might some verse with happiest skill persuade 
 
 Expressive Picture to adopt thine aid ! 
 
 What wondrous draught might rise from every page! 
 
 What other Raphaels charm a distant age! 
 
 Methinks even now 1 view some free design, 
 Where breathing Nature lives in every line : 
 Chaste and subdued the modest lights decay, 
 Steal into shades, and mildly melt away. 
 — And see, where Antony,' in tears approv'd, 
 Guards the pale relicts of the chief he lov'd : 
 O'er the cold corse the warrior seems to bend. 
 Deep sunk in grief, and mourns his murder'd friend ! 
 Still as they press, he calls on all around. 
 Lifts the torn robe, and points the bleeding wound. 
 
 But who is he," whose brows exalted bear 
 A wrath impatient, and a fiercer air? 
 Awake to all that injur'd worth can feel. 
 On his own Rome he turns the avenging steel. 
 Yet shall not war's insatiate fury fall 
 (So heaven ordains it) on the dostin'd wall. 
 See the fond mother, 'midst the plaintive train, 
 Hung on his knees, and prostrate on the plain ! 
 Touch'd to the soul, in vain he strives to hide 
 The son's affection in the Roman's pride; 
 O'er all the man conflicting passions rise. 
 Rage grasps the sword, while Pity melts the eyes. 
 
 Collins. 
 
 Methinks I see with Fancy's magick eye, 
 The shade of Shakspearc, in yon azure sky. 
 On yon high cloud behold the bard advance, 
 Piercing all nature with a sin}j,le glance : 
 In various attiludes around hiui stand 
 The Passions, waiting for his dread command. 
 First kneeling Love before his feet appears. 
 And musically sighing melts in tears. 
 
 ' Spt> (lie tr:i(;i;ily uf Julius ('u'sar. 
 
 " Ciiridlaiiuh. Si-f Mi- S|ni.i:i'. iliiiliijne iiii lln' OdysM'j'. 
 
 VOL. 1.
 
 cxiv POEMS ON SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Near him fell Jealousy with fury burns. 
 
 And into storms the amorous breathings turns; 
 
 Then Hope with heavenward look, and Joy draws near, 
 
 While palsied Terror trembles in the rear. 
 
 Such Shakspeare's train of horror, and delight, &c. 
 
 Smart. 
 
 What are the lays of artful Addison, 
 Coldl'y correct, to Shakspeare's warblings wild? 
 Whom on the winding Avon's willow'd banks 
 Fair Fancy found, and bore the smiling babe 
 To a close cavern : (still the shepherds shew 
 The sacred place, whence with religious awe 
 They hear, returning from the field at eve. 
 Strange whisp'ring of sweet musick through the air :) 
 Here, as with honey gather'd from the rock, 
 She fed the little prattler, and with songs 
 Oft sooth'd his wond'ring ears ; with deep delight 
 On her soft lap he sat, and caught the sounds. 
 
 Joseph Warton. 
 
 Here, boldly mark'd with every living hue. 
 Nature's unbounded portrait Shakspeare drew : 
 But chief, the dreadful group of human woes 
 The daring artist's tragick pencil chose ; 
 Explor'd the pangs that rend the royal breast, 
 Those wounds that lurk beneath the tissued vest. 
 
 Thomas Warton. 
 
 Monody^ written near Stratford-upon-Avon. 
 
 Avon, thy rural views, thy pastures wild. 
 The willows that o'erhang thy twilight edge, 
 Their boughs entangling with the embattled sedge ; 
 Thy brink with watery foliage quaintly fring'd. 
 Thy surface with reflected verdure ting'd ; 
 Sooth me with many a pensive pleasure mild. 
 But while I muse, that here the Bard Divine 
 Whose sacred dust yon high-arch'd isles inclose, 
 Where the tall windows rise in stately rows.
 
 POEMS ON SHAKSPEARE. cxv 
 
 Above tb' embowering shade, 
 
 Here first, at Fancy's fairy-circled shrine. 
 
 Of daisies pied his infant offering made ; 
 
 Here playful yet, in stripling years unripe, 
 
 Fram'd of thy reeds a shrill and artless pipe : 
 
 Sudden thy beauties, Avon, all are fled. 
 
 As at the waving of some magick wand ; 
 
 An holy trance my charmed spirit wings. 
 
 And awcful shapes of leaders and of kings, 
 
 People the busy mead, 
 
 Like spectres swarming to the wisard's hall ; 
 
 And slowly pace, and point with trembling hand 
 
 The wounds ill-cover'd by the purple pall. 
 
 Before me Pity seems to stand, 
 
 A weeping mourner, smote with anguish sore 
 
 To see Misfortune rend in frantick mood 
 
 His robe, with regal woes embroider'd o'er. 
 
 Pale Terror leads the visionary band. 
 
 And sternly shakes his sceptre, dropping blood. — Ibid. 
 
 Far from the sun and summer gale, 
 In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid, 
 What time, where lucid Avon stray'd, 
 To him the mighty mother did unveil 
 Her awful face : The dauntless child 
 Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smil'd. 
 This pencil take (she said) whose colours clear 
 Richly paint the vernal year ; 
 Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy ! 
 This can unlock the gates of joy ; 
 Of horror that, and thrilling fears, 
 Or ope the sacred source of sympathetick tears. — Gray. 
 
 Next Shakspcare sat, irregularly great, 
 And in his hand a magick rod did hold. 
 Which visionary beings did create. 
 And turn the foulest dross to purest gold ; 
 Whatever spirits rove in earth or air, 
 Or bad or good, obey his dread command ; 
 To his behests these willingly repair, 
 
 i2
 
 cxvi POEMS ON SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Those aw'd by terrors of his magick wand, 
 The which not all their powers united might withstand. 
 
 Lloyd. 
 
 Oh, where's the bard, who at one view 
 Could look the whole creation through, 
 Who travers'd all the human heart, 
 Without recourse to Grecian art? 
 He scorn'd the rules of imitation, 
 Of altering, pilfering and translation, 
 Nor painted horror, grief, or rage, 
 From models of a former age : 
 The bright oi'iginal he took, 
 And tore the leaf from nature's book. 
 *Tis Shakspeare. — Ibid. 
 
 In the first seat, in robe of various dies, 
 A noble wildness flashing from his eyes. 
 Sat Shakspeare. — In one hand a wand he bore, 
 For mighty wonders fam'd in days of yore ; 
 The other held a globe, which to his will 
 Obedient turn'd, and own'd a master's skill : 
 Things of the noblest kind his genius drew. 
 And look'd through nature at a single view : 
 A loose he gave to his unbounded soul. 
 And taught new lands to rise, new seas to roll ; 
 Call'd into being scenes unknown before, 
 And, passing nature's bounds, was something more. 
 
 Churchill. 
 
 Yes ! jealous wits may still for empire strive. 
 Still keep the flames of critick rage alive : 
 Our Shakspeare yet shall all his rights maintain, 
 And crown the triumphs of Ehza's reign. 
 Above controul, above each classick rule 
 His tutress nature, and the world his school. 
 On daring pinions borne, to him -was given 
 Th* aerial range of Fancy's brightest Heaven, 
 To bid rapt through o'er noblest heights aspire. 
 And wake each passion with a muse of fire. —
 
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 POEMS ON SHAKSPEARE. cxvii 
 
 Revere his genius — To the dead be just, 
 And spare the laurels, that o'ershade the dust. — 
 Low sleeps the bard, in cold obstruction laid, 
 Nor asks the chaplet from a rival's head. 
 O'er the drear vault. Ambition's utmost bound, 
 Unheard shall Fame her airy trumpet sound! 
 Unheard alike, nor grief, nor transport raise, 
 Thy blast of censure, or thy note of praise ! 
 As Raphael's own creation grac'd his hearse,^ 
 And sham'd the pomp of ostentatious verse. 
 Shall Shakspeare's honours by himself be paid, 
 And nature perish ere his pictures fade. 
 
 Keate to Voltaire, 1768. 
 
 V Tlie transGguration, tbat well known picture of Raphael, was carried before 
 his body to tlie grave, doing more real honour to his memory than either his epi- 
 taph in the Pautheoii, the famous distich of Cardinal Bembo, or all the other adu- 
 latory verses written on the same occasion. — Keate.
 
 ROWERS PREFACE/ 
 
 The plays of Shakspeare are properly to be distinguished 
 only into comedies and tragedies. Those which are called his- 
 tories, and even some of his comedies, are really tragedies, with 
 a run or mixture of comedy amongst them.** That way of tragi- 
 
 » TLe first part of this preface is merely biographical, and is here omitted as 
 the few facts which it contains are inserted in the preceding life of oar author. 
 
 b are really tragedies, with a run or mixture of comedy amongst them."] 
 
 Heywood, onr author's contemporary, has stated the best defence that can be 
 made for his intermixing lighter with the more serious scenes of his dramas : 
 
 " It may likewise be objected, why amongst sad and grave histories I have here 
 and there inserted fabulous jests and tales savouring of lightness. I answer, I 
 Lave therein imitated our historical, and comicttZ^Joefs, that write to the stage, who, 
 lest the auditory should be dulled with serious courses, which are merely weighty 
 and material, in every act present some Zany, with his mimick action to breed in 
 the less capable mirth and laughter ; for they that write to all, must strive to please 
 all. And as such fashion themselves to a multitude diversely addicted, so I to 
 an universality of readers diversely disposed." Pref. to History of WomeD, 
 1624.— Malone. 
 
 The criticks who renounce tragi-comedy as barbarous, I fear, speak more from 
 notions which they have formed in their closets, than any well-built theory de- 
 duced from experience of what pleases or displeases, which ought to be the foun- 
 dation of all rules. 
 
 Even supposing there is no aflfectation in this refinement, and that those criticks 
 have really tried and purified their minds till there is no dross remaining, still 
 this can never be the case of a popular audience, to which a dramatick represen- 
 tation is referred. 
 
 Dryden in one of his prefaces condemns his own conduct in the Spanish Friar ; 
 but, says he, I did not write it to please myself, it was given to the publick. 
 Here is an involuntary confession that tragi-comedy is more pleasing to the au- 
 dience ; I would ask then, upon what ground it is condemned? 
 
 This ideal excellence of uniformity rests upon a supposition that we are either 
 more refined, or a higher order of beings than we really are : there is no provision 
 made for what may be called the animal part of our minds. 
 
 Though we should acknowledge this passion for variety and contrarieties to be 
 the vice of our nature, it is still a propensity which we all feel, and which he who 
 undertakes to divert us must find provision for. 
 
 We are obliged, it is true, in our pursuit after science, or excellence in any 
 art, to keep our minds steadily fixed for a long continuance ; it is a task we im- 
 pose upon ourselves : but I do not wish to task myself in my amusements. 
 
 If the great object of the theatre is amusement, a dramatick work mast possess 
 every means to produce that effect; if it gives instruction by the by, so much its 
 merit is the greater ; but that is not its principal object. The ground on which 
 it stands, and which gives it a claim to the protection and encouragement of civi- 
 lized society, is not because it enforces moral precepts, or gives instruction of 
 any kind ; but from the general advantage that it produces, by habituating the 
 mind to find its amusement in intellectual pleasures ; weaning it from sensuality, 
 and by degrees filing off, smoothing, and polishing, its rugged corners. — Sir J. 
 Reynolds.
 
 ROWE'S PREFACE. cxix 
 
 comedy was the common mistake of that age, and is indeed be- 
 come so agreeable to the English taste, that, though the severer 
 criticks among us cannot bear it, yet the generality of our au- 
 diences seem to be better pleased with it than with an exact 
 tragedy. The Merry Wives of Windsor, The Comedy of Errors, 
 and The Taming of a Shrew, are all pure comedy ; the rest, 
 however they are called, have something of both kinds. It is 
 not very easy to determine which way of writing he was most 
 excellent in. There is certainly a great deal of entertainment in 
 his comical humours ; and though they did not then strike at all 
 ranks of people, as the satire of the present age has taken the 
 liberty to do, yet there is a pleasing and well-distinguished va- 
 riety in those characters which he thought fit to meddle with. 
 FalstafFis allowed by every body to be a master-piece ; the cha- 
 racter is always well sustained, though drawn out into the length 
 of three plays ; and even the account of his death given by his 
 old landlady Mrs. Quickly, in the first Act of Henry the Fifth, 
 though it be extremely natural, is yet as diverting as any part of 
 his life. If there be any fault in the draught he has made of this 
 lewd old fellow, it is, that though he has made him a thief, lying, 
 cowardly, vain-glorious, and in short, every way vicious, yet he 
 has given him so much wit as to make him almost too agree- 
 able ; and I do not know whether some people have not, in re- 
 membrance of the diversion he had formerly afforded them, been 
 sorry to see his friend Hal use him so scurvily, when he comes 
 to the crown in the end of The Second Part of Henry the Fourth. 
 Amongst other extravagancies, in the Merry Wives of Windsor 
 he has made him a deer-stealer, that he might at the same time 
 remember his Warwickshire prosecutor, under the name of Jus- 
 tice Shallow ; he has given him very near the same coat of arms 
 which Dugdale, in his Antiquities of that country, describes for 
 a family there, and makes the Welsh parson descant very plea- 
 santly upon them. That whole play is admirable ; the humours 
 are various and well opposed; the main design, which is to cure 
 Ford of his unreasonable jealousy, is extremely well conducted. 
 In Twelfth Night there is something singularly ridiculous and 
 pleasant in the fantastical steward Malvolio. The parasite and 
 the vain-glorious in Parolles, in All's Well that Ends Well, is as 
 good as any thing of that kind in Plautus or Terence. Pctru- 
 chio, in The Taming of the Shrew, is an uncommon piece of 
 humour. The conversation of Benedick and Beatrice, in Much 
 Ado about Nothing, and of Rosalind, in As You Like It, have
 
 cxx ROWE'S PREFACE. 
 
 much wit and sprightliness all along. His clowns, without which 
 character there was hardly any play writ in that time, are all 
 very entertaining : and, I believe, Thersites in Troilus and Cres- 
 sida, and Apemantus in Timon, will be allowed to be master- 
 pieces of ill-nature, and satirical snarling. To these I might add, 
 that incomparable character of Shylock the Jew, in The Mer- 
 chant of Venice ; but though we have seen that play received 
 and acted as a comedy,'^ and the part of the Jew performed by 
 an excellent comedian, yet I cannot but think it was designed 
 tragically by the author. There appears in it such a deadly 
 spirit of revenge, such a savage fierceness and fellness, and such 
 a bloody designation of cruelty and mischief, as cannot agree 
 either with the style or characters of comedy. The play itself, 
 take it altogether, seems to me to be one of the most finished of 
 any of Shakspeare's. The tale, indeed, in that part relating to 
 the caskets, and the extravagant and unusual kind of bond givea 
 by Antonio, is too much removed from the rules of probability ; 
 but taking the fact for granted, we must allow it to be very 
 beautifully written. There is something in the friendship of An- 
 tonio to Bassanio very great, generous, and tender. The whole 
 fourth Act (supposing, as I said, the fact to be probable,) is ex- 
 tremely fine. But there are two passages that deserve a parti- 
 cular notice. The first is, what Portia says in praise of mercy, 
 and the other on the power of musick. The melancholy of 
 Jaques, in As You Like It, is as singular and odd as it is divert- 
 ing. And if, what Horace says, 
 
 " Difficile est proprie coinmunia dicere," 
 
 it will be a hard task for any one to go beyond him in the de- 
 scription of the several degrees and ages of man's life, though 
 the thought be old, and common enough. 
 
 " i All the world's a stage. 
 
 And all tbe men and women merely players ; 
 They have their exits and their entrances. 
 And one man in his time plays many parts. 
 His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant. 
 Mewling and puking in his nurse's arms : 
 And then, the whining school-boy with his satchel, 
 
 •^ hut though we have seen that play received attd acted as a comedy,'] In 
 
 1701 Lord Lansdown produced his alteration of The Merchant of Venice, at the 
 theatre in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, under the title of The Jew of Venice, and ex- 
 pressly calls it a comedy. Shylock was performed by Mr. Dogget. — Reed. 
 
 And such was the bad tasle of our ancestors, that this piece continued to be a 
 stock-play from 1701 to Feb. 14, 1741, when the Merchant of Venice was exhi- 
 bited, ybr ihejirst time, at the theatre in Drury-Lanc, and Mr. Mackliti made his 
 first appearance in the character of Shylock. — Maloni;.
 
 ROWE'S PREFACE. cxxi 
 
 And sbining morning face, creeping like snail 
 
 Unwillingly to school. And then, the lover 
 
 Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad 
 
 Made to his mistress' eye-brow. Then, a soldier ; 
 
 Fall of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard. 
 
 Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel. 
 
 Seeking the bubble reputation 
 
 Ev'ti in the camion's month. And then, the jastice ; 
 
 In fair round belly, witli good capon lin'd, 
 
 With eyes severe, and beard of formal cat, 
 
 Full of wise saws and modern instances ; 
 
 And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts 
 
 Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon : 
 
 With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side ; 
 
 His youthful hose, well sav'd, a world too wide 
 
 For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly voice, 
 
 Turning again low'rd childish treble, pipes 
 
 And whistles in his sound : Last scene of all. 
 
 That ends this strange eventful history. 
 
 Is second childishness, and mere oblivion ; 
 
 Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans lasle, sans every thing." 
 
 His images are indeed every where so lively, that the thing 
 he would represent stands full before you, and you possess every 
 part of it. I will venture to point out one more, which is, I think, 
 as strong and as uncommon as any thing I ever saw ; it is an 
 image of Patience. Speaking of a maid in love, he says, 
 
 " She never tolil her love. 
 
 But let concealment, like a worm i' th' bud, 
 Feed on her damask cheek : she pin'd in thought. 
 And sate like Patience on a monument, 
 Smiling at Grief." 
 
 What an image is here given ! and what a task would it have 
 been for the greatest masters of Greece and Rome to have ex- 
 pressed the passions designed by this sketch of statuary! The 
 style of his comedy is, in general, natural to the characters, and 
 easy in itself; and the wit most commonly sprightly and pleas- 
 ing, except in those places where he runs into doggrel rhymes, 
 as in The Comedy of Errors, and some other plays. As for his 
 jingling sometimes, and playing upon words, it was the common 
 vice of the age he lived in : and if we find it in the pulpit, made 
 use of as an ornament to the sermons of some of the gravest di- 
 vines of those times, perhaps it may not be thought too light for 
 the stage. 
 
 But certainly the greatness of this author's genius does no 
 where so much appear, as where he gives his imagination an 
 entire loose, and raises his fancy to a flight above mankind, and 
 (he limits of the visible world. Such are his attempts in The 
 Tempest, A Midsumincr-Nii^htV Dream, Macbeth, and Hamlet.
 
 cxxli ROWE'S PREFACE. 
 
 Of these, The Tempest, however it comes to be placed the first 
 by the publishers of his works, can never have been the first 
 written by him : it seems to me as perfect in its kind, as almost 
 any thing we have of his. One may observe, that the unities 
 are kept here, with an exactness uncommon to the liberties of his 
 writing; though that was what, I suppose, he valued himself 
 least upon, since his excellencies were all of another kind. I am 
 very sensible that he does, in this play, depart too much from 
 that likeness to truth which ought to be observed in these sort of 
 writings ; yet he does it so very finely, that one is easily drawn 
 in to have more faith for his sake, than reason does well allow of. 
 His magick has something in it very solemn and very poetical: 
 and that extravagant character of Caliban is mighty well sus- 
 tained, shows a wonderful invention in the author, who could 
 strike out such a particular wild image, and is certainly one of 
 the finest and most uncommon grotesques that ever was seen. 
 The observation, which, I have been informed, three very great 
 men concurred in making** upon this part, was extremely just; 
 that Shakspeare had not only found out a new character in his Ca- 
 liban, but had also devised and adapted a new manner of language 
 for that character. 
 
 It is the same magick that raises the Fairies in A Midsum- 
 mer-Night's Dream, the Witches in Macbeth, and the Ghost in 
 Hamlet, with thoughts and language so proper to the parts they 
 sustain, and so peculiar to the talent of this writer. But of the 
 two last of these plays I shall have occasion to take notice, among 
 the tragedies of Mr. Shakspeare. 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 accord- 
 ing to the dictates of his own fancy. When one considers, that 
 
 ^ ■ which, I have been informed, three very great men concurred in making — ] 
 
 Lord Falkland, Lord C. J. Vangban, and Mr. Selden. Rowe. 
 
 Dryden was of tlie same opinion. " His person (says he, speaking of Caliban,) 
 is monstrous, as he is the product of unnatural lust, and his language is as hob- 
 goblin a<: his person: in all things he is distinguished from other mortals." Preface 
 to Troilus and Cressida. Malone.
 
 ROWE'S PREFACE. cxxiii 
 
 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 dramatick 
 poetry so far as he did. The fable is what is generally placed 
 the first, among those that are reckoned the constituent parts of 
 a tragick or heroick poem ; not, perhaps, as it is the most difficult 
 or beautiful, but as it is the first properly to be thought of in the 
 contrivance and course of the whole ; and with the fable ought 
 to be considered the fit disposition, order, and conduct of its se- 
 veral parts. As it is not in this province of the drama that the 
 strength and mastery of Shakspeare lay, so I shall not undertake 
 the tedious and ill-natured trouble to point out the several faults 
 he was guilty of in it. His tales were seldom invented, but ra- 
 ther taken either from the true history, or novels and romances : 
 and he commonly made use of them in that order, with those 
 incidents, and that extent of time in which he found them in the 
 authors from whence he borrowed them. So The Winter's Tale, 
 which is taken from an old book, called The Delectable History 
 of Dorastus and Fawnia, contains the space of sixteen or seven- 
 teen years, and the scene is sometimes laid in Bohemia, and 
 sometimes in Sicily, according to the original order of the story. 
 Almost all his historical plays comprehend a great length of time, 
 and very different and distinct places : and in his Antony and 
 Cleopatra, the scene travels over the greatest part of the Roman 
 empire. But in recompence for his carelessness in: this point, 
 when he comes to another part of the drama, the manners of his 
 characters, in acting or speaking what is proper for them, and fit 
 to be shown by the poet, he may be generally justified, and in 
 very many places greatly commended. For those plays which he 
 has taken from the English or Roman history, let any man com- 
 pare them, and he will find the character as exact in the poet as 
 the historian. He seems indeed so far from proposing to himself 
 any one action for a subject, that the title very often tells you, it 
 is The Life of King John, King Richard, &c. What can be more 
 agreeable to the idea our historians give of Henry the Sixth, than 
 the picture Shakspeare has drawn of him? His manners are 
 every where exactly the same with the story ; one finds liini still 
 described with simplicity, passive sanctity, want of courage, 
 weakness of mind, and easy submission to the governance of an 
 imperious wife, or prevailing faction ; though at the same time the 
 poet does justice to his good qualitios, and moves the pity of his 
 audience for him, by showing him pious, disinterested, a con-
 
 cxxiv ROWE'S PREFACE. 
 
 temner of the things of this world, and wholly resigned to the 
 severest dispensations of God's providence. There is a short 
 scene in the second Part of Henry the Sixth, which I cannot but 
 think admirable in its kind. Cardinal Beaufort, who had mur- 
 dered the Duke of Gloucester, is shown in the last agonies on 
 his death-bed, with the good king praying over him. There is so 
 much terror in one, so much tenderness and moving piety in the 
 other, as must touch any one who is capable either of fear or 
 pity. In his Henry the Eighth, that prince is drawn with that 
 greatness of mind, and all those good qualities which are attri- 
 buted to him in any account of his reign. If his faults are not 
 shown in an equal degree, and the shades in this picture do not 
 bear a just proportion to the lights, it is not that the artist wanted 
 either colours or skill in the disposition of them ; but the truth, 
 I believe, might be, that he forbore doing it out of regard to 
 Queen Elizabeth, since it could have been no very great respect 
 to the memory of his mistress, to have exposed some certain 
 parts of her father's life upon the stage. He has dealt much 
 more freely with the minister of that great king ; and certainly 
 nothing was ever more justly written, than the character of Car- 
 dinal Wolsey. He has shown him insolent in his prosperity ; 
 and yet, by a wonderful address, he makes his fall and ruin the 
 subject of general compassion. The whole man, with his vices 
 and virtues, is finely and exactly described in the second scene 
 of the fourth Act. The distresses likewise of Queen Katharine, 
 in this play, are very movingly touched ; and though the art of 
 the poet has screened King Henry from any gross imputation of 
 injustice, yet one is inclined to wish, the Queen had met with a 
 fortune more worthy of her birth and virtue. Nor are the man- 
 ners, proper to the persons represented, less justly observed, in 
 those characters taken from the Roman history ; and of this, the 
 fierceness and impatience of Coriolanus, his courage and disd^n 
 of the common people, the virtue and philosophical temper of 
 Brutus, and the irregular greatness of mind in M. Antony, are 
 beautiful proofs. For the two last especially, you find them ex- 
 actly as they are described by Plutarch, from whom certainly 
 Shakspeare copied them. He has indeed followed his original 
 pretty close, and taken in several little incidents that might have 
 been spared in a play. But, as I hinted before, his design seems 
 most commonly rather to describe those great men in the several 
 fortunes and accidents of their lives, than to take any single 
 great action, and form his work simply upon that. However,
 
 ROWE'S PREFACE. cxxv 
 
 there are some of his pieces, where the fable is founded upon one 
 action only. Such are more especially, Romeo and Juliet, Ham- 
 let, and Othello. The design in Romeo and Juliet is plainly the 
 punishment of their two families, for the unreasonable feuds and 
 animosities that had been so long kept up between them, and 
 occasioned the effusion of so much blood. In the management of 
 this story, he has shown something wonderfully tender and pas- 
 sionate in the love-part, and very pitiful in the distress. Ham- 
 let is founded on much the same tale with the Electra of Sopho- 
 cles. In each of them a young prince is engaged to revenge the 
 death of his father, their mothers are equally guilty, are both 
 concerned in the murder of their husbands,'' and are afterwards 
 married to the murderers. There is in the first part of the Greek 
 tragedy something very moving in the grief of Electra; but, as 
 Mr. Daeier has observed, there is something very unnatural and 
 shocking in the manners he has given that princess and Orestes in 
 the latter part. Orestes imbrues his hands in the blood of his own 
 mother; and that barbarous action is performed, though not imme- 
 diately upon the stage, yet so near, that the audience hear Clytem- 
 nestra crying out to TEgysthus for help, and to her son for mercy : 
 while Electra her daughter, and a princess (both of them characters 
 that ought to have appeared with more decency), stands upon the 
 stage, and encourages her brother in the parricide. What horror 
 does this not raise! Clytemnestra was a wicked woman, and 
 had deserved to die ; nay, in the truth of the story, she was killed 
 by her own son; but to represent an action of this kind on the 
 stage, is certainly an offence against those rules of manners pro- 
 per to the persons, that ought to be observed there. On the con- 
 trary, let us only look a little on the conduct of Shakspeare. 
 Hamlet is represented with the same piety towards his father, and 
 resolution to revenge his death, as Orestes; he has the same 
 abhorrence for his mother's guilt, which, to provoke him the more, 
 is heightened by incest: but it is with wonderful art and justness 
 of judgment, that the poet restrains him from doing violence to 
 his mother. To prevent any thing of that kind, he makes his fa- 
 ther's Ghost forbid that part of his vengeance : 
 
 " Hut howsoever tliou pursu'st this act, 
 Taint not tiiy mind, nor let tliy soul contrive 
 Against thy niolher aaglit ; Icavo lior to heaven, 
 And (o tiiose tiiurns that in her boiioui lodge, 
 To prick and sting her." 
 
 c are both concerned in the murder of' their husbands,'^ It does not appear 
 
 that Hamlet's mother was concernrd in the death of her husband. — M alone.
 
 cxxvi ROWE'S PREFACE. 
 
 This is to distinguish rightly between horror and terror: The lat- 
 ter is a proper passion of tragedy. But the former ought always 
 to be carefully avoided. And certainly no dramatick writer ever 
 succeeded better in raising terror in the minds of an audience 
 than Shakspeare has done. The whole tragedy of Macbeth, but 
 more especially the scene where the King is murdered, in the se- 
 cond Act, as well as this play, is a noble proof of that manly 
 spirit with which he writ ; and both show how powerful he was, 
 in giving the strongest motions to our souls that they are ca- 
 pable of.
 
 MR. POPE S PREFACE. 
 
 FIRST PUBLISHED 1725. 
 
 It is not my design to enter into a criticism upon this author; 
 though to do it effectually, and not superficially, would be the 
 best occasion that any just writer could take, to form the judg- 
 ment and taste of our nation. For of all English poets, Shak- 
 speare must be confessed to be the fairest and fullest subject for 
 criticism, and to afford the most numerous, as well as most conspi- 
 cuous instances, both of beauties and faults of all sorts. But this 
 far exceeds the bounds of a preface, the business of which is only 
 to give an account of the fate of his works, and the disadvantages 
 under which they have been transmitted to us. We shall hereby 
 extenuate many faults Avhich are his, and clear him from the im- 
 putation of many which are not : a design, which, though it can 
 be no guide to future criticks to do him justice in one way, will 
 at least be sufficient to prevent their doing him an injustice in 
 the other. 
 
 I cannot however but mention some of his principal and cha- 
 racteristic excellencies, for which (notwithstanding his defects) 
 he is justly and universally elevated above all other dramatick 
 writers. Not that this is the proper place of praising him, but 
 because I would not omit any occasion of doing it. 
 
 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 iEgyptian 
 strainers and channels, and came to him not without some 
 tincture of the learning, or some cast of the models, of those be- 
 fore 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 received thcra from one another, and were but multipliers
 
 cxxviii MR. POPE'S PREFACE. 
 
 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 
 impossible 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 possessed 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 pre- 
 paration to guide or 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 surprised the moment we weep ; and 
 yet upon reflection find the passion so just, that we should be 
 surprised if we had not wept, and wept at that very moment. 
 
 How astonishing is it again, that the passions directly oppo- 
 site 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 vain- 
 est foibles ; of our strongest emotions, than of our idlest sen- 
 sations ! 
 
 Nor does he onl}' 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 subject ; but by a talent very peculiar, something between 
 penetration and felicity, he hits upon that particular point on 
 which the bent of each argument turns, or the force of each 
 motive depends. This is perfectly amazing, from a man of no 
 education 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 intuition, to have looked through 
 human nature at one glance, and to be the only author that 
 gives ground for a very new opinion, that the philosopher, and 
 even the man of the world, may be born, as well as the poet. 
 
 It must be owned, that with all these great excellencies, he 
 
 » Addison, in tbe 273d Spectator, has delivered a similar opinion respecling 
 Homer : " There is scarce a speech or action in the Iliad, which the reader may 
 not ascribe to the person who speaks or acts, without seeing his name at the head 
 of it."— Steevens.
 
 MR. POPE'S PREFACE. cxxix 
 
 has almost as great defects ; and that as he has certainly writ- 
 ten better, so he has perhaps written worse, than any other. But 
 I think I can in some measure account for these defects, from 
 several causes and accidents ; without which it is hard to ima- 
 gine that so large and so enlightened a mind could ever have 
 been susceptible of them. That all these contingencies should 
 unite to his disadvantage seems to me almost as singularly un- 
 lucky, as that so many various (nay contrary) talents should meet 
 in one man, was happy and extraordinary. 
 
 It must be allowed that stage-poetry, of all other, is more 
 particularly levelled to please the populace, and its success more 
 immediately depending upon the convnon suffrage. One cannot 
 therefore wonder, if Shakspeare, having at his first appearance 
 no other aim in his writings than to procure a subsistence, di- 
 rected his endeavours solely to hit the taste and humour that 
 then prevailed. The audience was generally composed of the 
 meaner sort of people ; and therefore the images of life were to 
 be drawn from those of their own rank : accordingly we find, 
 that not our author's only, but almost all the old comedies have 
 their scene among trndesmcn and mechanicks : and even their 
 historical plays strictly follow the common old stories or vulgar 
 traditions of that kind of people. In tragedy, nothing was so 
 sure to surprize and cause admiration, as the most strange, un- 
 expected, and consequently most unnatural, events and inci- 
 dents ; the most exaggerated thoughts ; the most verbose and 
 bombast expression ; the most pompous rhymes, and thundering 
 versification. In comedy, nothing was so sure to please, as 
 mean buffoonery, vile ribaldry, and unmannerly jests of fools and 
 clowns. Yet even in these our author's wit buoys up, and is 
 borne above his subject : his genius in those low parts is like 
 some prince of a romance in the disguise of a shepherd or pea- 
 sant; a certain greatness and spirit now and then break out, 
 which manifest his higher extraction and qualities. 
 
 It may be added, that not only the common audience had no 
 notion of the rules of writing, but few even of the better sort 
 piqued themselves upon any great degree of knowledge or nicety 
 that way ; till Ren Jonson getting possession of the stage, 
 brought critical learning into vogue: and that this was not done 
 without difficulty, may appear from tliosc fVequcnt lessons (and 
 indeed almost declamations) wliich lie was forced to prefix to his 
 first plays, and put into the mouths of liis actors, the g'cx, chorus, 
 &c. to remove the prejudices, and inform the judgment of his 
 
 VOL. I. k
 
 cxxx MR. POPE'S PREFACE. 
 
 hearers. Till then, our authors had no thoughts of writing on 
 the model of the ancients : their tragedies were only histories in 
 dialogue ; and their comedies followed the thread of any novel 
 as they found it, no less implicitly than if it had been true history. 
 
 To judge therefore of Shakspeare by Aristotle's rules, is like 
 trying a man by the laws of one country, who acted under those 
 of another. He writ to the people; and writ at first without pa- 
 tronage 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 knowledge of the best of models, the an- 
 cients, to inspire him with an emulation of them ; in a word, 
 without 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 ambition of other writers. 
 
 Yet it must be observed, that when his performances had me- 
 rited 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 im- 
 proved, in proportion to the respect he had for his auditors. 
 And I make no doubt this observation will 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 
 writ 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 judgments of that body of men whereof he was a 
 member. They have ever had a standard to themselves, upon 
 other principles than those of Aristotle. As they live 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 grace- 
 ful. 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. 
 
 By these men it would be thought'' a praise to Shakspeare, 
 that he scarce ever blotted a line. This they industriously pro- 
 pagated, as appears from what we are told by Ben Jonson in his 
 Discoveries, and from the preface of Hcminge and ConJell to the 
 '' " was thoaght"— Orig. Edit.
 
 MR. POPE'S PREFACE. cxxxi 
 
 first folio edition. But in reality (however it has prevailed) 
 there never was a more groundless report, or to the contrary of 
 which there are more undeniable evidences. As, the comedy of 
 The Merry Wives of Windsor, which he entirely new writ; The 
 History of Henry the Sixth, which was first published under the 
 title of The Contention of York and Lancaster ; and that of Henry 
 the Fifth, extremely improved; that of /fam/cf enlarged to almost 
 as much again as at first, and many others.* I believe the com- 
 mon opinion of his want of learning proceeded from no better 
 ground. This too might be thought a praise by some, and to 
 this his errors have as injudiciously been ascribed by others. 
 For 'tis certain, were it true, it would concern but a small part 
 of them ; the most are such as are not properly defects, but su- 
 perfoetations ; and arise not from want of learning or reading, 
 but from want of thinking or judging : or rather (to be more just 
 to our author) from a compliance to those wants in others. As 
 to a wrong choice of the subject, a wrong conduct of the inci- 
 dents, false thoughts, forced expressions, &c. if these are not to 
 be ascribed to the foresaid accidental reasons, they must be 
 charged upon the poet himself, and there is no help for it. But 
 I think the two disadvantages which I have mentioned (to be 
 obliged to please the lowest of the people, and to keep the worst 
 of company) if the consideration be extended as far as it reason- 
 ably may, will appear sufficient to mislead and depress the great- 
 est genius upon earth. Nay, the more modesty with which such 
 a one is endued, the more he is in danger of submitting and con- 
 forming to others, against his own better judgment. 
 
 But as to his want of learning, it may be necessary to say some- 
 thing more : there is certainly a vast difference between learning 
 and languages. How far he was ignorant of the latter, I cannot 
 determine ; 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 he has it from one language or from 
 another. Nothing is more evident than that he had a taste of 
 natural philosophy, mechanicks, ancient and modern history, 
 poetical learning, and mythology: wc find him very knowing in 
 the customs, rites, and manners of antiquity. In Curio/anus and 
 Julius Ccesar, not only the spirit, hut manners of the Romans are 
 
 * Those varifttions in The Merry Wivrs of Wiiulfuir and Hamlet, are not to l)e 
 atlrilxitfd to alterations ninde by llic nnllior, •iul)sequeDlljr to rcpresenlation ; hut 
 to the inaniicr in wliich the (Ir-I iniperfiTt co|iies of tlicse plays were surrcpli- 
 tiously obtained, and printed. Willi respect to King Henry the Sixth, the play 
 was only altered hy SliakMprare, and was written by anollier. 
 
 k 2
 
 cxxxii MR. POPE'S PREFACE. 
 
 exactly drawn ; and still a nicer distinction is shown between 
 the manners of the Romans in the time of the former, and of 
 the latter. His reading in the ancient historians is no less con- 
 spicuous, in many references to particular passages : and the 
 speeches copied from Plutarch in Coriolanus'^ may, I think, as 
 well be made an instance of his learning, as those copied from 
 Cicero in Catiline, of Ben Jonson's. The manners of other na- 
 tions in general, the Egyptians, Venetians, French, &c. are 
 drawn with equal propriety. Whatever object of nature, or 
 branch of science, he either speaks of or describes, it is always 
 with competent, if not extensive knowledge : his descriptions 
 are still exact ; all his metaphors appropriated, and remarkably 
 drawn from the true nature and inherent qualities of each sub- 
 ject. When he treats of ethick or politick, we may constantly 
 observe a wonderful justness of distinction, as well as extent of 
 comprehension. No one is more a master of the pohtical story, 
 or has more frequent allusions to the various parts of it : Mr. 
 Waller (who has been celebrated for this last particular) has not 
 shown more learning this way than Shakspeare. We have trans- 
 lations from Ovid published in his name,'' among those poems 
 which pass for his, and for some of which we have undoubted 
 authority (being published by himself, and dedicated to his no- 
 ble patron the earl of Southampton): he appears also to have 
 been conversant in Plautus, from whom he has taken the plot of 
 one of his plays; he follows the Greek authors, and particularly 
 Dares Phrygius, in another (although I will not pretend to say 
 in what language he read them). Tlie modern Italian writers of 
 novels he was manifestly acquainted with ; and we may conclude 
 him to be no less conversant with the ancients of his own coun- 
 try, from the use he has made of Chaucer in Troiltis and Cressida, 
 and in The Two Noble Kinsmen, if that play be his, as there goes 
 a tradition it was (and indeed it has little resemblance of Fletcher, 
 and more of our author than some of those which have been re- 
 ceived as genuine). 
 
 I am inclined to think this opinion proceeded originally from 
 the zeal of the partizans of our author and Ben Jonson ; as they 
 endeavoured to exalt the one at the expence 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 more learning, 
 
 <^ These, as (lie rpader will find in tlie notes on llial piay, Shakspeare drew from 
 Sir Thomas North's translation, l.i79.—lNf alone. 
 «* They were written by Thomas Heywood.
 
 MR. POPE'S PREFACE. cxxxiii 
 
 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 Shak- 
 speare borrowed nothing, it was said that Ben Jonson borrowed 
 every thing. 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 
 antagonist before had made them objections. 
 
 Poets are always afraid of envy ; but sure they have as much 
 reason to be afraid of admiration. They are the Scylla and 
 Charybdis of authors ; those who escape one, often fall by the 
 other. Pessimum genus inimicorum laudantes, says Tacitus ; and 
 Virgil desires to wear a charm against those who praise a poet 
 without rule or reason: 
 
 " si ultra placitam If^udarit, baccare frontem 
 
 Cingite, ne vati noceat ." 
 
 But however this contention might be carried on by the partizans 
 on either side, I cannot help thinking these two great poets were 
 good friends, and lived on amicable terms, and in offices of so- 
 ciety with each other. It is an acknowledged fact, that Ben 
 Jonson was introduced upon the stage, and his first works en- 
 couraged, by Shakspeare. And after his death, that author 
 writes. To the incmory of his beloved IFilliam Skakspcai'e, which 
 shows as if the friendship had continued through life. I cannot 
 for my own part find any thing invidious or sparing in those 
 verses, but wonder Mr. Dryden was of that opinion. He exalts 
 him not only above all his contemporaries, but above Chaucer 
 and Spenser, whom he will not allow to be great enough to be 
 ranked with him ; and challenges the names of Sophocles, Eu- 
 ripides, and TEschylus, nay, all Greece and Rome at once to 
 equal him : and (which is very particular) expressly vindicates 
 him from the imputation of wanting art, not enduring that all his 
 excellencies should be attributed to nature. It is remarkable 
 too, that the praise he gives him in his Discoveries seems 
 to proceed from ^ pcrsonal/dndncss ; he tells us, that he loved the 
 man, as well as honoured his memory ; celebrates the honesty, 
 openness, and frankness of his temper; and only distinguishes, 
 as he reasonably ought, between the real merit of the author,
 
 cxxxiv MR. POPE'S PREFACE. 
 
 and the silly and derogatory applauses of this players. Ben 
 Jonson might indeed be sparing in his commendations (though 
 certainly he is not so in this instance) partly from his own nature, 
 and partly from judgment. For men of judgment think they do 
 any man more service in praising him justly, than lavishly. I 
 say, I would fain believe they were friends, though the violence 
 and ill-breeding of their followers and flatterers were enough to 
 give rise to the contrary report. I would hope that it may be with 
 parties, both in wit and state, as with those monsters described 
 by the poets ; and that their heads at least may have something 
 human, though their bodies and tails are wild beasts and serpents. 
 
 As I believe that what I have mentioned gave rise to the opi- 
 nion of Shakspeare's want of learning; so what has continued 
 it down to us may have been the many blunders and illiteracies 
 of the first publishers of his works. In these editions their ig- 
 norance shines in almost every page ; nothing is more common 
 than ^c^«5 tertia, Exit o?nnes, Enter three Witches solus. ^ Their 
 French is as bad as their Latin, both in construction and spelling: 
 their very Welsh is false. Nothing is more likely than that those 
 palpable blunders of Hector's quoting Aristotle, with others of 
 that gross kind, sprung from the same root : it not being at all 
 credible that these could be the errors of any man who had the 
 least tincture of a school, or the least conversation with such as 
 had. Ben Jonson (whom they will not think partial to him) al- 
 lows him at least to have had some Latin ; which is utterly incon- 
 sistent with mistakes like these. Nay, the constant blunders in 
 proper names of persons and places, are such as must have pro- 
 ceeded from a man, who had not so much as read any history in 
 any language ; so could not be Shakspeare's. 
 
 I shall now lay before the reader some of those almost innu- 
 merable errors, which have risen from one source, the ignorance 
 of the players, both as his actors, and as his editors. When the 
 nature and kinds of these are enumerated and considered, I dare 
 to say that not Shakspeare only, but Aristotle or Cicero, had 
 their works undergone the same fate, might have appeared to 
 want sense as well as learning. 
 
 It is not certain that any one of his plays was published by 
 himself. During the time of his employment in the theatre, se- 
 veral of his pieces were printed separately in quarto. What 
 
 •= Enter three Witches solus.'] This blunder appears to be of Mr. Pope's own in- 
 vention. It is not to be found in anj one of the four folio copies of Macbeth, and 
 there is no quarto edition of it extant. — Steevjins.
 
 MR. POPE'S PREFACE. cxxxv 
 
 makes me think that most of these were not published by him, is 
 the excessive carelessness of the press : every page is so scan- 
 dalously false spelled, and almost all the learned and unusual 
 words so intolerably mangled, that it is plain there either was 
 no corrector to the press at all, or one totally illiterate. If any 
 were supervised by himself, I should fancy The Txco Parts of 
 Henry the Fourth, and Midsummer-Night' s Dream might have 
 been so : because I find no other printed with any exactness : 
 and (contrary to the rest) there is very little variation in all the 
 subsequent editions of them. There are extant two prefaces to 
 the first quarto edition of Troilus and Cressida in 1609, and to 
 that of Othello; by which it appears, that the first was published 
 without his knowledge or consent, and even before it was acted, 
 so late as seven or eight years before he died : and that the latter 
 was not printed till after his death. The whole number of ge- 
 nuine plays, which we have been able to find printed in his life- 
 time, amounts but to eleven. And of some of these, we meet 
 with two or more editions by different printers, each of which 
 has whole heaps of trash different from the other; which I should 
 fancy was occasioned by their being taken from different copies 
 belonging to different playhouses. 
 
 The folio edition (in which all the plays we now receive as his 
 were first collected) was published by two players, Heminge and 
 Condell, in 1623, seven years after his decease. They declare, 
 that all the other editions were stolen and surreptitious, and affirm 
 theirs to be purged from the errors of the former. This is true 
 as to the literal errors, and no other ; for in all respects else it 
 is far worse than the quartos. 
 
 First, because the additions of trifling and bombast passages 
 are in this edition far more numerous. For whatever had been 
 added, since those quartos, by the actors, or had stolen from their 
 mouths into the written parts, were from thence conveyed into 
 the printed text, and all stand charged upon the author. He 
 himself complained of this usage in Hamlet, where he wishes that 
 those who play the clouiis would speak no more than is set down for 
 them. (Act III. sc. ii.) But as a proof that he could not escape 
 it, in the old editions of Romeo and Juliet there is no hint of a 
 great number of the mean conceits and ribaldries now to be found 
 there. In others, the low scenes of mobs, plebeians, and clowns, 
 are vastly shorter than at present : and I have seen one in par- 
 ticular (which seems to have belonged to the playhouse, by 
 having the parts divided with lines, and the actors names in the
 
 cxxxvi MR. POPE'S PREFACE. 
 
 margin) where several of those very passages were added in a 
 written hand, which are since to be found in the foHo. 
 
 In the next place, a number of beautiful passages, which are 
 extant in the first single editions, are omitted in this: as it seems 
 without any other reason, than their willingness to shorten some 
 scenes : these men (as it was said of Procrustes) either lopping, 
 or stretching an author, to make him just fit for their stage. 
 
 This edition is said to be printed from the original copies; I 
 believe they meant those which had lain ever since the author's 
 days in the playhouse, and had from time to time been cut, or 
 added to, arbitrarily. It appears that this edition, as well as the 
 quartos, was printed (at least partly) from no better copies than 
 the prompter' s-book, or piece-meal parts written out for the use of 
 the actors: for in some places their verys names are through 
 carelessness set down instead of the Pcrso7ice Dramatis; and in 
 others the notes of direction to the property-men for their move- 
 ables ; and to the plai/ers for their entries, are inserted into the 
 text'' through the ignorance of the transcribers. 
 
 The plays not having been before so much as distinguished by 
 Acts and Scenes, they are in this edition divided according as 
 they played them ; often where there is no pause in the action, 
 or where they thought fit to make a breach in it, for the sake of 
 musick, masques, or monsters. 
 
 Sometimes the scenes are transposed and shuffled backward 
 and forward ; a thing which could no otherwise happen, but by 
 their being taken from separate and piece-meal written parts. 
 
 Many verses are omitted entirely, and others transposed; from 
 whence invincible obscurities have arisen, past the guess of any 
 commentator to clear up, but just where the accidental ghmpse 
 of an old edition enlightens us. 
 
 Some characters were confounded and mixed, or two put into 
 one, for want of a competent number of actors. Thus in the 
 quarto edition of Midsummer-NighC s Dream (Act V.) Shakspeare 
 introduces a kind of master of the revels called Pkilostrate ; all 
 
 g Much Ado ahout Nothing, Act II : " Enter Prince Leonato, Claudio,and Jack 
 Wilson," instead of Balthasar. And in Act IV. Cowley and Kemp constantly 
 through A whole scene. — Edit. fol. of 1623, and 1632. — Pope. 
 
 •> Such as 
 
 " M}' queen is niarder'd ! Ring the little hell." 
 
 " — His nose grew as sharp as a pen, and a table of green fields ;" which last 
 words are not in tlie quarto. — Pope. 
 
 There is no such line in any play of Shakspeare, as that quoted above by Mr. 
 Pope. — Malone. Nor are these two lines quoted by Pope in any edition of his 
 preface which has fallen in our way.— C.
 
 MR. POPE'S PREFACE. cxxxvii 
 
 whose part is given to another character (that of Egeus) in the 
 subsequent editions ; so also in Hamlet and King Lear. This too 
 makes it probable that the prompter's books were what they 
 called the original copies. 
 
 From liberties of this kind, many speeches also were put into 
 the mouths of wrong persons, where the author now seems 
 chargeable with making them speak out of character ; or some- 
 times perhaps for no better reason, than that a governing player, 
 to have the moutliing of some favourite speech himself, would 
 snatch it from the unworthy lips of an underling. 
 
 Prose from verse they did not know, and they accordingly 
 printed one for the other throughout the volume. 
 
 Having been forced to say so much of the players, I think I 
 ought injustice to remark, that the judgment, as well as condi- 
 tion of that class of people, was then far inferior to what it is in 
 our days. As then the best playhouses were inns and taverns, 
 (the Globe, the Hope, the Red Bull, the Fortune, &c.) so the 
 top of the profession were then mere players, not gentlemen of 
 the stage: they were led into the buttery by the steward;' not 
 placed at the lord's table, or lady's toilette : and consequently 
 were entirely deprived of those advantages they now enjoy in the 
 familiar conversation of our nobility, and an intimacy (not to say 
 dearness) with people of the first condition. 
 
 From what has been said, there can be no question but had 
 Shakspcare published his works himself (especially in his latter 
 time, and after his retreat from the stage), we should not only be 
 certain which are genuine, but should find in those that are, the 
 errors lessened by some thousands. If I may judge from all the 
 distinguishing marks of his style, and his manner of thinking and 
 writing, I make no doubt to declare that those wretched plays, 
 I'ericlcs, Locrinc, Sir John Oldcastk, Yorkshire Tragcdj/, Lord 
 Crovmcll, The Puritan, London Prodigal, and a thing called The 
 Douhle I'alshood,^ cannot be admitted as his. And I should con- 
 
 ' Mr. Popo probably recollccled the following lines in The Taming ofllw Shrew, 
 spoken by u lord, who is giving dircctionH to bis servant concerning some players: 
 " (fO, sirrah, take llieni to tlie huttcrij, 
 
 And give tlioni friendly welcome, every one." 
 
 Bat he secius not to have observed thiil tiic players hero introdnred were 
 strollers; and there is no reason to suppose that our author, lleniinge, Hnrbagc, 
 Lowin, &c. who were licensed by King James, were treated in this manner. — 
 Mai. ON I,. 
 
 k The Double FaUhood, or The Distressed lA^ters, a play acted at Drory Lane, 8vo. 
 1727. This piece was produced by Mr. Theobald as a performance of Shakspeare'.>i. 
 But it is not mentioned in any of the old rditicin-i ol Pope's Trcfacc. It is not in 
 Warburtnn'n edition, and whon it crept in, I have not been able to discover. — C
 
 cxxxviii MR. POPE'S PREFACE. 
 
 jecture of some of the others (particularly Love's Labour's Lostf 
 The Winter's Tale, Comedy of Errors, and Titus Andronicus,) that 
 only some characters, single scenes, or perhaps a few particular 
 passages, were of his hand. It is very probable what occasioned 
 some plays to be supposed Shakspeare's, was only this ; that 
 they were pieces produced by unknown authors, or fitted up for 
 the theatre while it was under his administration ; and no owner 
 claiming them, they were adjudged to him, as they give strays 
 to the lord of the manor : a mistake which (one may also ob- 
 serve) it was not for the interest of the house to remove. Yet 
 the players themselves, Heminge and Condell, afterwards did 
 Shakspeare the justice to reject those eight plays in their edi- 
 tion ; though they were then printed in his name,' in every body's 
 hands, and acted with some applause (as we learn from what 
 Ben Jonson says of Pericles in his ode on the New Inn). That 
 Titus Andronicus is one of this class I am the rather induced to 
 believe, by finding the same author openly express his contempt 
 of it in the Induction to Bartholomew Fair, in the year 1614, when 
 Shakspeare was yet living. And there is no better authority for 
 these latter sort, than for the former, which were equally pub- 
 lished in his life-time. 
 
 If we give into this 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, trans- 
 positions of scenes and lines, confusion of characters and per- 
 sons, wrong application of speeches, corruptions of innumerable 
 passages by the ignorance, and wrong corrections of them again 
 by the impertinence of his first editors ? From one or other of 
 these considerations, I am verily persuaded, 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 disad- 
 vantageous one, in which it now appears to us. 
 
 This is the state in which Shakspeare's writings lie at present; 
 for since the above-mentioned folio edition, all the rest have im- 
 plicitly followed it, without having recourse to any of the former, 
 or ever making the comparison between them. It is impossible 
 to repair the injuries already done him; too much time has 
 elapsed, and the materials are too few. In what I have done I 
 have rather given a proof of my willingness and desire, than of 
 
 ' His name was affixed only lo four of Ihcin. — Malone.
 
 MR. POPE'S PREFACE. cxxxix 
 
 my ability, to do him justice. 1 have discharged the dull duty 
 of an editor, to my best judgment, with more labour than I ex- 
 pect thanks, with a religious abhorrence of all innovation, and 
 without any indulgence to my private sense or conjecture. The 
 method taken in this edition will show itself. The various read- 
 ings are fairly put in the margin, so that every one may compare 
 them ; and those I have preferred into the text are constantly ex 
 fide codicum, upon authority. The alterations or additions, which 
 ►Shakspeare himself made, are taken notice of as they occur. 
 Some suspected passages, which are excessively bad (and which 
 seem interpolations by being so inserted that one can entirely 
 omit them without any chasm, or deficience in the context) are 
 degraded to the bottom of the page ; with an asterisk referring 
 to the places of their insertion. The scenes are marked so dis- 
 tinctly that every removal of place is specified ; which is more 
 necessary in this author than any other, since he shifts them 
 more frequently : and sometimes, without attending to this par- 
 ticular, the reader would have met with obscurities. The more 
 obsolete or unusual words are explained. Some of the most 
 shining passages are distinguished by commas in the margin; and 
 where the beauty lay not in particulars, but in the whole, a star 
 is prefixed to the scene. This seems to me a shorter and less 
 ostentatious method of performing the better half of criticism 
 (namely, the pointing out an author's excellencies) than to fill a 
 whole paper with citations of fine passages, with gfHcr«/ applauses, 
 or cmpti/ exclamations at the tail of them. There is also subjoined 
 a catalogue of those first editions, by which the greater part of 
 the various readings and of the corrected passages are autho- 
 rized; most of which are such as carry their own evidence along 
 with them. These editions now hold the place of originals, and 
 are the only materials left to repair the deficiencies or restore 
 the corrupted sense of the author: 1 can only wish that a greater 
 number of them (if a greater were ever published) may yet be 
 found, by a search more successful than mine, for the better ac- 
 comphshment of this end. 
 
 I will conclude by saying of Shakspearc, 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 majestick piece of Gothkk archi- 
 tecture, compared with a neat modern building: the latter is 
 more elegant and glaring, but the former is more strong and 
 more solemn. It must be allowed that in one of these there are
 
 cxl MR. POPE'S PREFACE. 
 
 materials enough to make many of the other. It has much the 
 greater variety, and much the nobler apartments ; 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, and ill-placed, and un- 
 equal to its grandeur."" 
 
 ™ The following passage by Mr. Pope stands as a preface to the various read- 
 ings at the end of the 8th volume of his edition of Shakspeare, 1728. For the 
 notice of it lam indebted to Mr. Chaliner's Supplementary Apology, p. 261. — 
 Reed. 
 
 " Since the publication 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 
 publick advertisements, did request the assistance of all lovers of this author), 
 we have inserted, in this impression, as many of 'em as are judg'd of any the least 
 advantage to the poet; the whole amounting to about fwentt/-^i)e words. 
 
 " But to the end every reader may judge for himself, we liave annexed a com- 
 pleat list of the rest ; which if he shall think trivial, or erroneous, either in part, or 
 in whole; at worst it can spoil but a half sheet of paper, that chances to be left 
 vacant here. And we purpose for the future, to do the same with respect to any 
 other persons, who thro' candor or vanity, shall communicate or publish, the least 
 things tending to the illustration of our author. We have here omitted nothing 
 but pointings and mere errors of the press, which I hope the corrector of it has 
 rectify'd ; if not, I cou'd wish as accurate an one as Mr. Th. [if he] had been at 
 that trouble, which I desired Mr. Tonson to solicit him to undertake. — A. P."
 
 DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE/ 
 
 That praises are without reason lavished on the dead, and that 
 the honours due only to excellence are paid to antiquity, is a 
 complaint likely to be always continued by those, who, being 
 able to add nothing to truth, hope for eminence from the here- 
 sies 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 re- 
 gard which is yet denied by envy, will be at last bestowed by 
 time. 
 
 Antiquity, like every other quality that attracts the notice of 
 mankind, has undoubtedly votaries that reverence it, not from 
 reason, but from prejudice. Some seem to admire indiscrimi- 
 nately whatever has been long preserved, without considering 
 that time has sometimes co-operated with chance; all perhaps 
 are more willing to honour past than present excellence: and 
 the mind contemplates genius through the shades of age, as the 
 eye surveys the sun through artificial opacity. The great con- 
 tention of criticism is to find the faults of the moderns, and the 
 beauties of the ancients. While an author is yet living, we esti- 
 mate 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 comparative ; to works not raised upon 
 principles demonstrative and scientifick, 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 vahic the possession, it is because fretjuent 
 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, nothing can be 
 styled excellent till it has been compared with other works of 
 
 » First printed separately in 1705.
 
 cxlii DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. 
 
 the same kind. Demonstration 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 pro- 
 portion to the general and collective ability of man, as it is dis- 
 covered in a long succession of endeavours. Of the first build- 
 ing that was raised, it might be with certainty determined that it 
 was round or square; but whether it was spacious or lofty must 
 have been referred to time. The Pythagorean scale of numbers 
 was at once discovered to be perfect; but the poems of Homer 
 we yet know not to transcend the common limits of human in- 
 telligence, but by remarking, that nation after nation, and cen- 
 tury after century, has been able to do little more than transpose 
 his incidents, new name his characters, and paraphrase his sen- 
 timents. 
 
 The reverence due to writings that have long subsisted, arises 
 therefore not from any credulous confidence in the superior wis- 
 dom of past ages, or gloomy persuasion of the degeneracy of 
 mankind, but is the consequence of acknowledged and indubita- 
 ble positions, that what has been longest known has been most 
 considered, and what is most considered 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 fame and prescriptive veneration. He 
 has long outlived his century,* the term commonly fixed as the 
 test of literary merit. Whatever advantages he might once de- 
 rive from personal allusions, local customs, or temporary opi- 
 nions, have for many years been lost; and every topick of mer- 
 riment or motive of sorrow, which the modes of artificial life af- 
 forded him, now only obscure the scenes which they once illu- 
 minated. 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 pleasure, and are therefore praised only as pleasure 
 is obtained ; yet, thus unassisted by interest or passion, they have 
 passed through variations of taste and changes of manners, and, 
 as they 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, 
 
 •"'Est vetDs atque probus, centum qui perficit annos." Hor, — Steevens.
 
 DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. cxliii 
 
 though long continued, may yet be only the approbation of pre- 
 judice or fashion ; it is proper to inquire, by what pecuharities of 
 excellence Shakspeare has gained and kept the favour of his 
 countrymen. 
 
 Nothing can please many, and please long, but just represen- 
 tations of general nature. Particular manners can be known to 
 few, and therefore few only can judge how nearly they are co- 
 pied. The irregular combinations of fanciful invention may de- 
 light awhile, by that novelty of which the common satiety of life 
 sends us all in quest ; but the pleasures 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 
 modified by the customs of particular places, unpractised 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 transient fashions or temporary opinions: they are the ge- 
 nuine progeny of common humanity, such as the world will al- 
 ways supply, and observation will always find. His persons act 
 and speak by the influence of those general passions and princi- 
 ples 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 instruc- 
 tion is derived. It is this which fills the plays of Shakspeare 
 with practical axioms and domestick 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 ceconomical 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 pe- 
 dant in Hierocles, who, when he offered his house to sale, car- 
 ried a brick in his pocket as a specimen. 
 
 It will not easily be imagined how much Sliakspoarc excels in 
 accommodating his sentiments to real life, but by comparing him 
 with other authors. It was observed of the ancient schools of de- 
 clamation, that the more diligently they were frequented, the 
 more was the student discpialified for the world, because he found
 
 cxliv DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE, 
 
 nothing there which he should ever meet in any other place. 
 The same remark may be applied to every stage but that of 
 Shakspeare. The theatre, when it is under any other direction, 
 is peopled by such characters as were never seen, conversing in 
 a language which was never heard, upon topicks 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 distributed, and every action quicken- 
 ed 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 hyperboli- 
 cal joy and outrageous sorrow; to distress them as nothing hu- 
 man 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 exhorbitant, was a 
 cause of happiness or calamity. 
 
 Characters thus ample and general were not easily discrimi- 
 nated and preserved, yet perhaps no poet ever kept his person- 
 ages 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 characteris- 
 tical : but, perhaps, though some may be equally adapted to every 
 person, it will be difficult to find any that can be properly trans- 
 ferred from the present possessor to another claimant. The 
 choice is right, when there is reason for choice. 
 
 Other dramatists can only gain attention by hyperbolical or 
 aggravated characters, by fabulous and unexampled excellence 
 or depravity, as the writers of barbarous romances invigorated 
 the reader by a giant and a dwarf; and he that should form his 
 expectation of human affairs from the play, or from the tale,
 
 DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. cxlv 
 
 would be equally deceived. Shakspeare has no heroes; his 
 scenes are occupied only by men, who act and speak as the rea- 
 der thinks that he should himself have spoken or acted on the 
 same occasion ; even where the agency is supernatural, the dia- 
 logue is level with life. Other writers disguise the most natural 
 passions and most frequent incidents; so that he who contem- 
 plates them in the book will not know them in the world : Shak- 
 speare approximates the remote, and familiarizes the wonder- 
 ful ; the event which he represents will not happen, but if it 
 were possible, its effects would probably be such as he has as- 
 signed ;*= and it may be said, that he has not only shown hu- 
 man 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 Shakespeare, that his drama is 
 the mirror of life ; that he who has mazed his imagination, in fol- 
 lowing the phantoms which other writers raise up before him, 
 may here be cured of his delirious ecstacies, by reading human 
 sentiments in human language ; by scenes from which a her- 
 mit 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 criticks, who form their judgments upon narrower principles. 
 Dennis and Rymer think his Romans not sufficiently Roman, 
 and Voltaire censures his kings as not completely royal. Den- 
 nis is offended, that Menenius, a senator of Rome, should play 
 the buffoon; and Voltaire perhaps thinks decency violated when 
 the Danish usurper is represented as a drunkard. But Shak- 
 speare always makes nature predominate over accident; and if 
 he preserves the essential character, is not very careful of dis- 
 tinctions superinduced and adventitious. His story requires Ro- 
 mans or kings, but he thinks only on men. He knows 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 certainly 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 quali- 
 ties, 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 distinction of country 
 
 "' Qiiaerit qiiotl niisqaam esl jrnliiiDi, repent tamen, 
 l'':i(-it illiid vrrisimili" qtiod infticlin'inm '■>!." 
 
 Plriiili, /'.n'lidn/uj, Art I. ?*r. iv. Steevkns. 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 cxivi DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. 
 
 and condition, as a painter, satisfied with the figure, neglects the 
 drapery. 
 
 The censure which he has incurred by mixing comick and tra- 
 gick scenes, as it extends to all his works, deserves more con- 
 sideration. Let the fact be first stated, and then examined. 
 
 Shakspeare's plays are not in the rigorous and critical sense 
 either tragedies or comedies, but compositions of a distinct kind; 
 exhibiting the real state of sublunary nature, which partakes of 
 good and evil, joy and sorrow, mingled with endless variety of 
 proportion and innumerable modes of combination ; and ex- 
 pressing 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 hast- 
 ing to his wine, and the mourner burying his friend; in which 
 the malignity of one is sometimes defeated by the frolick of an- 
 other : and many mischiefs and many benefits are done and hin- 
 dered without design. 
 
 Outof this chaos of mingled purposes and casualties, the ancient 
 poets, according to the laws which custom had prescribed, se- 
 lected some the crimes of men, and some their absurdities; some 
 the momentous vicissitudes of life, and some the lighter occur- 
 rences ; some the terrors of distress, and some the gaieties of 
 prosperity. Thus rose the two modes of imitation, known by 
 the names o( tragedy and comedy, compositions intended to pro- 
 mote 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. 
 
 Shakspearehas united the powers of exciting laughter and sor- 
 row not only in one mind, but in one composition. Almost all his 
 plays are 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 criti- 
 cism to nature. The end of writing is to instruct; the end of 
 poetry to instruct by pleasing. That the mingled drama may 
 convey all the instruction of tragedy or comedy cannot be de- 
 nied, 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 pro- 
 mote or obviate one another, and the high and the low co-ope- 
 rate in the general system by unavoidable concatenation. 
 
 It is objected, that by this change of scenes the passions are
 
 DR. JOHNSON'S PREFx\CE. cxlvil 
 
 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 perfec- 
 tion of dramatick 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 
 produce the intended vicissitudes of passion. Fiction cannot 
 move so much, but that the attention may be easily transferred ; 
 and though it must be allowed that pleasing melancholy be some- 
 times interrupted by unwelcome levity, yet let it be considered 
 likewise, that melancholy is often not pleasing, and that the dis- 
 turbance 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 tragedies, seem not to have distin- 
 guished the three kinds, by any very exact or definite ideas. 
 
 An action which ended happily to the principal persons, how- 
 ever serious or distressful through its intermediate incidents, in 
 their opinion constituted a comedy. This idea of a comedy con- 
 tinued 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 dig- 
 nity or elevation than comedy ; it required only a calamitous con- 
 clusion, with which the common criticism of that age was satis- 
 fied, whatever lighter pleasure it afforded in its progress. 
 
 History was a series of actions, with no other than chronologi- 
 cal succession, independent on each other, and without any ten- 
 dency to introduce and regulate the conclusion. It is not al- 
 ways very nicely distinguished from tragedy. There is not much 
 nearer approach to unity of action in the tragedy o( Anfu/iy and 
 Clcupalra, than in the history of Richard the Second. But a his- 
 tory might be continued through many plays; as it had no plan, 
 it had no limits. 
 
 Through all these denominations of the drama, Shakspearc's 
 mode of composition is tl>e same ; an interchange of seriousness 
 and merriment, by which the mind is softened at one time, and 
 exhilarated at another. But whatever be his purpose, whether 
 to gladden or depress, or to conduct the story, without vehe- 
 mence or emotion, through tracts of easy and familiar dialogue, 
 he never fails to attain his purpose ; as he commands us, we 
 
 12
 
 cxlviii DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. 
 
 laugh or mourn, or sit silent with quiet expectation, in tranquil- 
 lity 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 window, without injury to the scheme of the play, 
 though in terms which a modern audience would not easily en- 
 dure; the character of Polonius is seasonable and useful; and 
 the Gravediggers themselves may be heard with applause. 
 
 Shakspeare engaged in dramatick poetry with the world open 
 before him; the rules of the ancients were yet known to few; 
 the publick judgment was unformed; he had no example of such 
 fame as might force him upon imitation, nor critics of such au- 
 thority as might restrain his extravagance: he therefore indulged 
 his natural disposition, and his disposition, as Rymer has re- 
 marked, led him to comedy. In tragedy he often writes with 
 great appearance of toil and study, what is written at last with 
 little felicity ; but in his comick scenes, he seems to produce 
 without labour, what no labour can improve. In tragedy he is 
 always struggling after some occasion to be comick, but in co- 
 medy he seems to repose, or to luxuriate, as in a mode of think- 
 ing congenial to his nature. In his tragick scenes there is always 
 something wanting, but his comedy often surpasses expectation 
 or desire. His comedy pleases by the thoughts and the lan- 
 guage, and his tragedy for the greater part by incident and ac- 
 tion. His tragedy seems to be skill, his comedy to be instinct. 
 
 The force of his comick scenes has suffered little diminution 
 from the changes made by a century an a half, in manners or in 
 words. As his personages act upon principles arising from ge- 
 nuine passion, very little modified by particular forms, their plea- 
 sures and vexations are communicable to all times and to all 
 places; they are natural, and therefore durable; the adventi- 
 tious peculiarities of personal habits, are only superficial dies, 
 bright and pleasing for a little while, yet soon fading to a deep 
 tinct, without any remains of former lustre; but the discrimina- 
 tions 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 simplici- 
 ty of primitive qualities neither admits increase, nor suffers de- 
 cay. The sand heaped by one flood is scattered by another, 
 but the rock always continues in its place. The stream of time,
 
 DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. cxlix 
 
 which is continually washing the dissoluble fabricks 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 congenial to the analogy and principles of its re- 
 spective language, as to remain settled and unaltered: this style 
 is probably to be sought in the common intercourse of life, 
 among those .who speak only to be understood, without ambi- 
 tion of elegance. The polite are always catching modish inno- 
 vations, and the learned depart from established forms of speech, 
 in hope of finding or making better; those who wish for distinc- 
 tion forsake the vulgar, when the vulgar is right : but there is a 
 conversation above grossness and below refinement, where pro- 
 priety resides, and where this poet seems to have gathered his 
 comick dialogue. He is therefore more agreeable to the ears of 
 the present age than any other author equally remote, and among 
 his other excellencies deserves to be studied as one of the origi- 
 nal masters of our language. 
 
 These observations are to be considered not as unexception- 
 ally constant, but as containing general and predominant truth. 
 Shakspeare 's familiar 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 cultiva- 
 tion: his characters are praised as natural, though their senti- 
 ments 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 excellencies has likewise faults, and faults 
 sufficient to obscure and overwhelm 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 regard is due to that bigotry which sets can- 
 dour higher than truth. 
 
 His first defect is that to which may be imputed 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 his writings 
 indeed a system of social duty may be selected, for he that 
 thinks reasonably must think morally ; but his precepts and ax- 
 ioms drop casually from liim ; he makes no just distribution of 
 good or evil, nor is always careful to show in the virtuous a dis-
 
 cl DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. 
 
 approbation of the wicked ; he carries his persons indifferently 
 through right or 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 con- 
 sideration 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 aifecting, 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 he 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 imperfectly 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 expence not only of likelihood, but 
 of possibility. These faults Pope has endeavoured, with more 
 zeal than judgment, to transfer to his imagined interpolators. 
 We need not to wonder to find Hector quoting Aristotle, when 
 we see the loves of Theseus and Hyppolyta combined with the 
 Gothick mythology of fairies. Shakspeare, indeed, was not the 
 only violator of chronology, for in the same age Sidney, who 
 wanted not the advantages of learning, has, in his Arcadia, con- 
 founded the pastoral with the feudal times, the days of inno- 
 cence, quiet, and security, with those of turbulence, violence, 
 and adventure."* 
 
 <l Shakspeare's improprieties and anachronisms are venial in comparison willi 
 those of contemporary writers. Lodge in liis True Tragedie of Mariiis and Syl- 
 la, 1594, has mentioned the Bazars of Falermn and St. Paul's Steeple, and has in- 
 troduced a Frenchman named Don Pedro, who, in consideration of receiving/orfy 
 crowns, undertakes to poison Mariiis. Stanjhurst, the translator of four books 
 of Virgil, in 1582, compares Choroebus to a Bedlamite, szys, that old Priam gird- 
 ed on his sword Morglay; and makes Dido tell iEueas, that she should have been 
 contented had she been brought to bed even of a Cockney. In the tragedy of 
 Herod and Antipater, by Gervase Markhara and William Sampson, who were both 
 scholars, is the following passage : " Though cannons roar, yet you must not be 
 deaf." Spenser mentions cloth made at Lincoln during the ideal reign of K. Ar* 
 Ibar, and has adorned a castle at the same period " with cloth of Arras or of 
 Totire." Chaucer introduces guns in the time of Anthony and Cleopatra, and
 
 DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. dU 
 
 In his coraick scenes, he is seldom very successful, when he 
 engages his characters in reciprocations of smartness and con- 
 tests of sarcasm ; their jests are commonly gross, and their 
 pleasantry licentious; neither his gentlemen nor his ladies have 
 much delicacy, nor are sufficiently distinguished from his clowns 
 by any appearance of refined manners. Whether he represented 
 the real conversation of his time is not easy to determine; the 
 reign of Elizabeth is commonly supposed to have been a time of 
 stateliness, formality, and reserve, yet perhaps the relaxations 
 of that severity were not very elegant. There must, however, 
 have been always some modes of gaiety preferable to others, and 
 a writer ought to choose the best. 
 
 In tragedy his performance seems constantly to be worse, as 
 his labour is more. The effusions of passion, which exigence 
 forces out, are for the most part striking and energetick ; but 
 whenever he solicits his invention, or strains his faculties, the 
 offspring of his throes is tumour, meanness, tediousness, and ob- 
 scurity. 
 
 In narration he affects a disproportionate pomp of diction, and 
 a wearisome train of circumlocution, and tells the incident im- 
 perfectly in many words, which might have been more plainly 
 delivered in few. Narration in dramatick poetry is naturally te- 
 dious, as it is unanimated and inactive, and obstructs the pro- 
 gress of the action ; it should therefore always be rapid, and en- 
 livened by frequent interruption. Shakspeare found it an in- 
 cumbrance, and instead of lightening it by brevity, endeavoured 
 to recommend it by dignity and splendor. 
 
 His declamations or set speeches are commonly cold and weak, 
 for his power was the power of nature ; when he endeavoured, 
 like other tragick writers, to catch opportunities of amplification, 
 and instead of inquiring what the occasion demanded, to show 
 how much his stores of knowledge could supply, he seldom es- 
 capes without the pity or resentment of his reader. 
 
 It is incident to him to be now and then entangled with an un- 
 wieldly sentiment, which he cannot well express, and will not re- 
 ject; he struggles with it a while, and if it continues stubborn, 
 comprises it in words such as occur, and leaves it to be disentan- 
 gled and evolved by those who have more leisure to bestow up- 
 on it. 
 
 (at Mr. Warton lias observed), Salvator Ro»a places a cannon at llie cnlraiicc 
 of llio Uiit of Holofernes. — Steevkn* from tlic notes to TuelJ'th night, Act v. 
 S, J., and Henrif VI. \u '2. Act iv. S. 7.
 
 clii DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. 
 
 Not that always where the language is intricate, 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 vulgar ideas disappoint the attention, to which 
 they are recommended by sonorous epithets and sweUing figures. 
 
 But the admirers of this great poet have most reason to com- 
 plain 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 in- 
 nocence, or the crosses of love. What he does best, he soon 
 ceases to do.* He is not long soft and pathetick without some 
 ide conceit, or contemptible equivocation. He no sooner begins 
 to move, than he counteracts himself; and terror and pity, as 
 they are rising in the mind, are checked and blasted by sudden 
 frigidity. 
 
 A quibble is to Shakspeare, what luminous 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 irresisti- 
 ble. Whatever be the dignity or profundity of his disquisitions, 
 whether he be enlarging knowledge, or exalting affection, whe- 
 ther he be amusing attention with incidents, or enchanting it in 
 suspense, let but a quibble spring up before him, and he leaves 
 his work unfinished. A quibble is the golden apple for which 
 he will always turn aside from his career, or stoop from his ele- 
 vation, A quibble, poor and barren as it is, gave him such de- 
 light, that he was content to purchase it by the sacrifice of rea- 
 son, propriety, and truth. A quibble was to him the fatal Cleo- 
 patra 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 esta- 
 blished by the joint authority of poets and of criticks. 
 
 For his other deviations from the art of writing, I resign him 
 to critical justice, without making any other demand in his fa- 
 vour, 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 re- 
 
 « " Bat the admirers of this great poet have never less reason to indulge their 
 hopes of supreme excellence, than when he seems fullj 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. He is not long, soft, and pathetick, 
 &(:." • Orig. Edit. 1765.
 
 DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. cliii 
 
 verence 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 their 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. 
 
 In his other works he has well enough preserved the unity of 
 action. He has not, indeed, an intrigue perplexed and regularly 
 unravelled; he does not endeavour to hide his design only to 
 discover it, for this is seldom the order of real events, and Shak- 
 speare 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 ad- 
 vances, and the end of the play is the end of expectation, 
 
 To the unities of time and place he has shown no regard:' 
 and perhaps a nearer view of the principles on which they stand 
 will diminish their value, and withdraw from them the venera- 
 tion which, from the time of Corneille, they have very generally 
 received, by discovering that they have given more trouble to 
 the poet, than pleasure to the auditor. 
 
 The necessity of observing the unities of time and place arises 
 from the supposed necessity of making the drama credible. The 
 criticks hold it impossible, that an action of months or years can 
 be possibly believed to pass in three hours; or that the specta- 
 tor can suppose himself to sit in the theatre, while ambassadors 
 go and return between distant kings, while armies are levied and 
 
 ' Unities of time or place. Such trespasses, in respect of dramatic onitj, will 
 appear venial to thoso who read the once famous Ljlj's Endymion. This nuthor 
 was applauded and liberally paid l)y Queen Cli'/.abelli; two acts of his piece 
 comprise the space of forty years, Endymion lying down to sleep at the end cl 
 the second and waking in the first scene of Uielifth, after a nap of that uiiconnnon 
 length. Lyiy has likewise been guilty of much greater absurdities than ever 
 Shakipearc committed; for he supposes tiiat Endymion's hair, features, and per- 
 son were changed by age during his steep, while nil the other personages of tho 
 drama remained without alteration. In the Couirttir of Patient drissel, 1603. 
 written by Thomas Ui'kker, Henry Cheltle, and William Haugbton, (Jrissel is 
 in the first act married, and soon afterwards brought to bed of twins, a son and a 
 daughter; and the daughter in the fifth act is produced in the scene as a woman 
 old enough to bo married. — Steevens and Malone, Notes to Winter'i Talc. 
 Act iv.
 
 cliv DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. 
 
 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 con- 
 traction 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 of Medea could, 
 in so short a time, have transported him; he knows with certain- 
 ty that he has not changed his place ; and he knows that place 
 cannot change itself; that what was a house cannot become a 
 plain; that what was Thebes can never be Persepolis. 
 
 Such is the triumphant language with which a critick exults 
 over the misery of an irregular poet, and exults commonly without 
 resistance or reply. It is time therefore to tell him, by the au- 
 thority of Shakspeare, that he assumes, as an unquestionable 
 principle, a position, which, while his breath is forming it into 
 words, his understanding pronounces to be false. It is false, that 
 any representation is mistaken for reality ; that any dramatick 
 fable in its materiality was ever credible, or, for a single mo- 
 ment, 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 Alexan- 
 dria, and believes that his walk to the theatre has been a voyage 
 to Egypt, and that he lives in the days of Anthony and Cleopa- 
 tra. Surely he that imagines this may imagine more. He that 
 can take the stage at one time for the palace of the Ptolomies, 
 may take it in half an hour for the promontory of Actium. De- 
 lusion, if delusion be admitted, has no certain limitation ; if the 
 spectator can be once persuaded, that his old acquaintance are 
 Alexander and Csesar, 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 empyrean poetry, may despise the circumscriptions of 
 terrestrial nature. There is no reason why a mind thus wander- 
 ing in ecstacy 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
 
 DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. civ 
 
 stage, and that the players are only players. They come to hear 
 a certain number of lines recited with just gesture and elegant 
 modulation. The lines relate to some action, and an action 
 must be in some place; but the different actions that complete a 
 story may be 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, prepara- 
 tions for war against Mithridates are represented to be made in 
 Rome, the event of the war may, without absurdity, be repre- 
 sented, 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 LucuUus are before us. The drama exhibits successive 
 imitations of successive actions, and why may not the second 
 imitation represent an action that happened years after the first ; 
 if it be so connected with it, that nothing but time can be sup- 
 posed to intervene? Time is, of all modes of existence, most 
 obsequious to the imagination ; a lapse of years is as easily con- 
 ceived as a passage of hours. In contemplation we easily con- 
 ti-act the time of real actions, and therefore willingly permit it to 
 be contracted when we only see their imitation. 
 
 It will be asked, how the drama moves, if it is not credited. It 
 is credited with all the credit due to a drama. It is credited, 
 whenever it moves, as a just picture of a real original ; as re- 
 presenting 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 arc evils to which wc ourselves 
 may be exposed. If there be any fallacy, it is not that wc 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 remem- 
 bers that death may take it from her. The delight of tragedy 
 proceeds from our consciousness of fiction ; if wc thought mur- 
 ders and treasons real, they would please no more. 
 
 Imitations produce pain or pleasure, not because they are 
 mistaken for realities, but because they bring realities to mind.
 
 clvi DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. 
 
 When the imagination 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 draraatick 
 exhibition is a book recited with concomitants 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 ? 
 
 A play read, affects the mind like a play acted. It is there- 
 fore evident, that the action is not supposed to be real ; and it 
 follows, that between the acts a longer or 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 Shakspeare knew the unities, and rejected them by 
 design, or deviated from them by happy ignorance, it is, I think, 
 impossible to decide, and useless to inquire. We may reason- 
 ably suppose, that, when he rose to notice, he did not want the 
 counsels and admonitions of scholars and criticks, 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 circumscribing the extent of the 
 drama, lessen its variety, I cannot think it much to be lamented, 
 that they were not known by him, or not observed : nor, if such 
 another poet could arise, should I very vehemently reproach him, 
 that his first act passed at Venice, and his next in Cyprus. Such 
 violations of rules merely positive, become the comprehensive 
 genius of Shakspeare, and such censures are suitable to the mi- 
 nute and slender criticism of Voltaire : 
 
 " Non usque adeo permiscuit imis 
 LoDgus samma dies, ut non, si voce Metelli 
 Serventur leges, malint a Caesare toUi." 
 
 Yet when I speak thus slightly of dramatick rules, I canno t 
 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 de-
 
 DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. clvii 
 
 cided 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 in- 
 quiries, in which it would be ludicrous to boast of impartiality, 
 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 to 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 superfluous and ostentatious art, by which is 
 shown, rather what is possible, than what is necessary. 
 
 He that, without diminution of any other excellence, shall pre- 
 serve 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 prin- 
 cipal beauty of a citadel is to exclude the enemy ; and the great- 
 est 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 examin- 
 ation. I am almost frighted at my 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 ^neas withdrew from the defence of Troy, when he saw Nep- 
 tune shaking the wall, and Juno heading the besiegers.^ 
 
 Those whom my arguments cannot persuade to give their 
 approbation to the judgment of Shakspeare, will easily, if they 
 consider the condition of his life, make some allowance for his 
 ignorance. 
 
 « The bare mention of the dramatic anilies is apt to excite revoUing ideas of 
 pedantry, arts of poetry, and French criticism. With none of these do I wish to 
 annoy the reader. I conceive that it may be said of these nnities, as of (ire and 
 water, that they are good servants but bad masters. In perfect rigour (hey were 
 never imposed by the Greeks, and they would be still heavier shackles if they were 
 closely rivelted on our own drama : it would be worse than useless to confine 
 dramatic action literally and immoveably to one spot, or its imaginary time to the 
 time in which it is represented. On the other hand, dramatic time and place 
 cannot surely admit of iniklinite expansion. It would be better, for the sake of 
 illusion and probability, to clinni;e the scene from Winilsnr to London, than from 
 London to Pekin ; it would look more like reality if a messenger, who went and 
 returned in th« course of the play, told us of having performed a journey often 
 or twenty, rather than of a thousand miles, and if the spectator had neither that 
 nor any other circumstance lo make him ask how so much could be performed in 
 so short a time. 
 
 In an al)stract view of dramatic art, its principles must appear lo lie nearer lo 
 unity than to the opposite extreme of disunion, in our conceptions of time and 
 place. Giving up the law of unify in its literal rigour, there is still a latitude of 
 its application which may preserve perfection and harmony in the drama. — 
 Cami-ueil. Essay on English Pnetry, vol. i. p. 123.
 
 clviii DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. 
 
 Every man's performances, to be rightly estimated, must be 
 compared to 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 abi- 
 lities, and as the enquiry, how far man may extend his designs, 
 or how high he may rate his native force, is of far greater dignity 
 than in what rank we shall place any particular performance, 
 curiosity is always busy to discover the instruments, as well as 
 to survey the workmanship, to know how much is to be ascribed 
 to original powers, and how much to casual and adventitious 
 help. The palaces of Peru or Mexico were certainly mean and 
 incommodious habitations, if compared to the houses of Eu- 
 ropean monarchs ; yet who could forbear to view them with asto- 
 nishment, who remembered that they were built without the use 
 of iron ? 
 
 The English nation, in the time of Shakspeare, was yet strug- 
 gling to emerge from barbarity. The philology of Italy had been 
 transplanted hither in the reign of Henry the Eighth ; and the 
 learned languages had been successfully cultivated by Lilly, 
 Linacre, and More ; by Pole, Cheke, and Gardiner ; and after- 
 wards by Smith, Clerk, Haddon, and Ascham. Greek was now 
 taught to boys in the principal schools ; and those who united 
 elegance with learning, read, with great diligence, the Italian and 
 Spanish poets. But literature was yet confined to professed 
 scholars, or to men and women of high rank. The publick was 
 gross and dark ; and to be able to read and write, was an ac- 
 complishment 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 credu- 
 lity ; and of a country unenlightened by learning, the whole peo- 
 ple is the vulgar. The study of those who then aspired to ple- 
 beian 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 fic- 
 tion, has no taste of the insipidity of truth. A play which imitated 
 only the common occurrences of the world, would, upon the ad- 
 mirers of Palmerin and Guy of Warwick, have made little impres- 
 sion ; he that wrote for such an audience was under the neces-
 
 DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. cltx 
 
 sity of looking round for strange events and fabulous transac- 
 tions, and that incredibility, by which maturer knowledge is of- 
 fended, 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 Gameli/n, was a 
 little pamphlet of those times ; and old Mr. Gibber remembered 
 the tale of Hamlet in plain English prose, which the criticks 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 sub- 
 jects ; he dilated some of Plutarchs lives into plays, when they 
 had been translated by North. 
 
 His plots, whether historical or fabulous, are always crouded 
 with incidents, by which the attention 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 il, that 
 every man finds his mind more strongly seized by the tragedies 
 of Shakspeare than of any other writer ; others please ni by par- 
 ticular speeches, but he always makes us anxious for the event, 
 and has perhaps excelled all but Homer in securing the first pur- 
 pose 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 exhibited 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 agreeable to nature, or 
 whether his example has prejudiced the nation, we still find that 
 on our stage something must be done as well as said, and inac- 
 tive declamation is very coldly heard, however musical or ele- 
 gant, passionate or sublime.
 
 tjlx DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. 
 
 Voltaire expresses his wonder, that our author's extravagancies 
 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 Ca^o innumerable beauties 
 which enamour us of its author, but we see nothing that ac- 
 quaints us with human sentiments or human actions; we place 
 it with the fairest and the noblest progeny which judgment pro- 
 pagates by conjunction with learning ; but Othello is the vigorous 
 and vivacious offspring of observation impregnated by genius. 
 Cato affords a splendid exhibition of artificial and fictitious man- 
 ners, and delivers just and noble sentiments, 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. 
 The work of a correct and regular writer is a garden accu- 
 rately formed and diligently planted, varied with shades and 
 scented with flowers : the composition of Shakspeare is a forest, 
 in which oaks extend their branches, and pines tower in the air, 
 interspersed sometimes with weeds and brambles, and sometimes 
 giving shelter to myrtles and to roses ; filling the eye with awful 
 pomp, and gratifying the mind with endless diversity. Other 
 poets display cabinets of precious rarities, minutely finished, 
 wrought into shape, and polished into brightness. Shakspeare 
 opens a mine which contains gold and diamonds in unexhaustible 
 plenty, though clouded by incrustations, debased by impurities, 
 and mingled with a mass of meaner minerals. 
 
 It has been much disputed, whether Shakspeare owed his ex- 
 cellence to his own native force, or whether he had the common 
 helps of scholastick 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 regular education, nor much skill in the 
 dead languages. Jonson, his friend, affirms, that he had small 
 Latin, and less Greek ; who, besides that he had no imaginable 
 temptation to falsehood, wrote at a time when the character and 
 acquisitions of Shakspeare were known to multitudes. His 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 many imitations of old writers ; but the examples which I have 
 known urged, were drawn from books translated in his time; or 
 were such easy coincidences of thought, as will happen to all
 
 DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. clxi 
 
 who consider the same subjects ; or such remarks on life or 
 axioms of morality as float in conversation, and are transmitted 
 through the world in proverbial sentences. 
 
 I have found it remarked, that in this important sentence, Go 
 before, rilfoUoxc, we read a translation of, / prcc, sequar. I have 
 been told, that when Caliban, after a pleasing dream, says, I 
 cried to sleep again, the author imitates Anacreon, who had, like 
 every other man, the same wish on the same occasion. 
 
 There are a few passages which may pass for imitations, but 
 so few, that the exception only confirms the rule ; he obtained 
 them from accidental quotations, or by oral communication, and 
 as he used what he had, would have used more if he had ob- 
 tained it. 
 
 The Comedy of Errors is confessedly taken from the Mencechmi 
 of Plaiitus ; 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? 
 
 Whether he knew the modern languages is uncertain. That 
 his plays have some French scenes proves but little ; he might 
 easily procure them to be written, and probably, even though he 
 had known the language in the common degree, he could not 
 have written it without assistance. In the story of Romeo and 
 Juliet he is observed to have followed the 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 himself, but what was known to his 
 audience. 
 
 It is most likely that he had learned Latin sufficiently to make 
 him acquainted with construction, but that he never advanced to 
 an easy perusal of the Roman authors. Concerning his skill in 
 modern languages, I can find no sufficient ground of determina- 
 tion ; but as no imitations of French or Italian authors have been 
 discovered, though the Italian poetry was then high in esteem, I 
 am inclined 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 mean- 
 ing sometimes among the sports of the field, and sometimes 
 among the manufactures of the shop. 
 
 VOL. I. m
 
 clxii DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. 
 
 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 appro- 
 priating and improving it. 
 
 But the greater part of his excellence was the product of his 
 own genius. He found the Enghsh 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 delight ei- 
 ther one or other might be carried. Neither character nor dia- 
 logue were yet understood. Shakspeare may be truly said to 
 have introduced them both amongst us, and in some of his hap- 
 pier scenes to have carried them both to the utmost height. 
 
 By what gradations of improvement he proceeded, is not 
 easily known ; for the chronology of his works is yet unsettled. 
 Rowe is of opinion, that perhaps we are not to look for his begin- 
 7iingf like those of other writers, in Ms least perfect works ; art had 
 so littlCf and 7iatwe so large a 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 encrease 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 confer ; from this almost all 
 original and native excellence 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 acci- 
 dental appendages of present manners ; the dress is a little va- 
 ried, but the body is the same. Our author had both matter and
 
 DK. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. clxiii 
 
 form to provide ; for, except the characters of Chaucer, to whom 
 I think he is not much indebted, there were no writers in Enghsh, 
 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. Speculation 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 those enqui- 
 ries, which from that time that human nature became the fa- 
 shionable study, have been made sometimes with nice discern- 
 ment, but often with idle subtilty, were yet unattempted. The 
 tales, with which the infancy of learning was satisfied, exhibited 
 only the superficial appearances of action, related the events, 
 but omitted the causes, and were formed for such as delighted 
 in wonders rather than in truth. Mankind was not then to be 
 studied in the closet ; he that 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 facilitating his access. Shakspeare had 
 no such advantage ; 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 enquiry ; so many, 
 that he who considers them is inclined to think that he sees en- 
 terprize and perseverance predominating overall external agency, 
 and bidding help and hindrance 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 incumbrances of his fortune were 
 shaken from his mind, as dcxc drops from a /ions mane. 
 
 Though he had so many difficulties to encounter, and so little 
 assistance to surmount them, he has been able to obtain an exact 
 knowledge of many modes of life, and many casts of native dis- 
 positions ; 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 Jionc to 
 imitate, but has himself been imitated by all succeeding writers ; 
 and it may be doubted, whether from all his successors more 
 maxims of theoretical knowledge, or more rules of practical pru- 
 dence, can be collected, than he alone has given to his country.
 
 clxiv DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. 
 
 Nor was his attention confined to the actions of men ; he was 
 an exact surveyor of the inanimate world ; his descriptions have 
 always some peculiarities, 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, whoever they be, must take their sentiments and descrip- 
 tions immediately from knowledge ; the resemblance is therefore 
 just, their descriptions are verified by every eye, and their senti- 
 ments acknowledged by every breast. Those whom their fame 
 invites to the same studies, copy partly them, and partly nature^ 
 till the books of one age gain such authority, as to stand in the 
 place of nature to another, and imitation, always deviating a 
 little, becomes at last capricious and casual. Shakspeare, whe- 
 ther 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 distorted by the intervention of any other mind ; the 
 ignorant feel his representations to be just, and the learned see 
 that they are complete. 
 
 Perhaps it would not be easy to find any author, except Ho- 
 mer, who invented so much as Shakspeare, who so much ad- 
 vanced the studies which he cultivated, or effused so much no- 
 velty upon his age or country. The form, the characters, the 
 language, and the shows of the English drama are his. He 
 4ecr«5, says Dennis, to have been the very original of our EngUsh 
 tragical harmony, that is, the harmony of blank verse, diversified 
 often by dissyllable and trissyllable terminations. For the diversity 
 distinguishes it from heroick harmony, and by bringing it nearer to 
 common use makes it more proper to gain attention, and more Jit for 
 action and dialogue, iiuch verse we make when we are writing 
 prose ; we make such verse in common conversation. 
 
 I know not whether this praise is rigorously just. The dissyl- 
 lable termination, which the critick rightly appropriates to the 
 drama, is to be found, though, I think, not in Gorboduc, which 
 is confessedly 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 earliest plays. This however is certain, that he is 
 the first who taught either tragedy or comedy to please, there 
 being no theatrical piece of any older writer, of which the name 
 is known, except to antiquaries and collectors of books, which 
 
 ^ It appears to have been acted before 1590.
 
 DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. clxv 
 
 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 
 nad harmony the English language could be softened. He has 
 speeches, prehaps sometimes scenes, which have all the delicacy 
 of Rowe, without his effeminacy. He endeavours indeed com- 
 monly to strike by the force and vigour of his dialogue, but he 
 never executes his purpose better than when he tries to soothe 
 by softness. 
 
 Yet it must be at last confessed, that as we owe every thing 
 to him, he owes something to us ; that, if much of his praise is 
 paid by perception and judgment, much is likewise given by 
 custom and veneration. We fix our eyes upon his graces, and 
 turn them from his deformities, and endure in him what we 
 should in another loath or despise. If we endured without 
 praising, respect for the father of our drama might excuse us; 
 but I have seen, in the book of some modern critick, a collection 
 of anomalies, which show that he has corrupted language by 
 every mode of depravation, but which his admirer has accumu- 
 lated as a monument of honour. 
 
 He has scenes of undoubted and perpetual excellence, but 
 perhaps not one play, which, if it were now exhibited as the 
 work of a contemporary writer, would be heard to the conclusion. 
 I am indeed far from thinking, that his works were wrought to 
 his own ideas of perfection ; when they were such as would sa- 
 tisfy the audience, they satisfied the writer. It is seldom that 
 authors, though more studious of fame than Shakspeare, rise 
 much above the standard of their own age ; to add a little to 
 what is best will always be sufficient for present praise, and those 
 who find themselves exalted into fame, are willing to credit their 
 encomiasts, and to spare the labour of contending with them- 
 selves. 
 
 It does not appear, that Shakspeare thought his works worthy 
 of posterity, that he levied any ideal tribute upon future times, 
 or had any further prospect, than of present popularity and pre- 
 sent profit. When his plays had been acted, his hope was at an 
 end ; he solicited no addition of honour from the reader. He 
 therefore made no scruple to repeat the same jests in many dia- 
 logues, or to entangle different plots by the same knot of per- 
 plexity, which may be at least forgiven him, by those who recol- 
 lect, that of Congreve's four comedies, two are concluded by a
 
 clxvi DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. 
 
 marriage in a mask, by a deception, Avhich perhaps never hap- 
 pened, and which, whether likely or not, he did not invent. 
 
 So careless was this great poet of future fame, that, though he 
 retired to ease and plenty, while he was yet little declined into the 
 vale of years, before he could be disgusted with fatigue, or dis- 
 abled by infirmity, he made no collection of his works, nor de- 
 sired to rescue those that had been already published from the 
 depravations that obscured them, or secure to the rest a better 
 destiny, by giving them to the world in their genuine state. 
 
 Of the plays which bear the name of Shakspeare in the late 
 editions, the greater part were not published till about seven 
 years after his death, and the few which appeared in his life are 
 apparently thrust into the world without the care of the author, 
 and therefore probably without his knowledge. 
 
 Of all the publishers, clandestine or professed, the negligence 
 and unskilfulness has by the late revisers been sufficiently shown. 
 The faults of all are indeed numerous and gross, and have not 
 only corrupted many passages perhaps beyond recovery, but 
 have brought others into suspicion, which are only obscured by 
 obsolete phraseology, or by the writer's unskilfulness and affec- 
 tation. To alter is more easy than to explain, and temerity is a 
 more common quality than dihgence. Those who saw that they 
 must employ conjecture to a certain degree, were willing to in- 
 dulge it a little further. Had the author published his own 
 works, we should have sat quietly down to disentangle his intri- 
 cacies, and clear his obscurities ; but now we tear what we can- 
 not loose, and eject what we happen not to understand. 
 
 The faults are more than could have happened without the 
 concurrence of many causes. The style of Shakspeare was in 
 itself ungrammatical, perplexed, and obscure ; his works were 
 transcribed for the players by those who may be supposed to 
 have seldom understood them ; they were transmitted by co- 
 piers equally unskilful, who still multiplied errors ; they were 
 perhaps sometimes mutilated by the actors, for the sake of short- 
 ening the speeches : and were at last printed without correction 
 of the press. 
 
 In this state they remained, not as Dr. Warburton supposes, 
 because they were unregarded, but because the editor's art was 
 not yet applied to modern languages, and our ancestors were 
 accustomed to so much negligence of English printers, that they 
 could very patiently endure it. At last an edition was under- 
 taken by Rowe ; not because a poet was to be published by a
 
 DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. chvii 
 
 poet, for Rowe seems to have thought very little on correction or 
 explanation, but that our author's works might appear like those 
 of his fraternity, with the appendages of a life and recommenda- 
 tory preface. Rowe has been clamorously blamed for not per- 
 forming what he did not undertake, and it is time that justice be 
 done him, by confessing, that though he seems to have had no 
 thought of corruption beyond the printer's errors, yet he has 
 made many emendations, if they were not made before, which 
 his successors have received without acknowledgment, and 
 which, if they had produced them, would have filled pages and 
 pages with censures of the stupidity by which the faults were 
 committed, with displays of the absurdities which they involved, 
 with ostentatious expositions of the new reading, and self-con- 
 gratulations on the happiness of discovering it. 
 
 As of the other editors I have preserved the prefaces, I have 
 likewise borrowed the author's life from Rowe,' though not 
 written with much elegance or spirit ; it relates, however, what 
 is now to be known, and therefore deserves to pass through all 
 succeeding publications. 
 
 The nation had been for many years content enough with Mr. 
 Rowe's performance, when Mr. Pope made them acquainted 
 with the true state of Shakspeare's text, showed that it was ex- 
 tremely corrupt, and gave reason to hope that there were means 
 of reforming it. He collated the old copies, which none had 
 thought to examine before, and restored many lines to their in- 
 tegrity; but by a very compendious criticism, he rejected what- 
 ever he disliked, and thought more of amputation than of cure. 
 
 I know not why he is commended by Dr. Warburton for dis- 
 tinguishing the genuine from the spurious plays. In this choice 
 he exerted no judgment of his own ; the plays which he received, 
 were given by Heraings and Condel, the first editors ; and those 
 which he rejected, though, according to the licentiousness of the 
 press in those times, they were printed during Shakspeare's life, 
 with his name, had been omitted by his friends, and were never 
 added to his works before the edition of 1664, from which they 
 were copied by the later printers. 
 
 This was a work which Pope seems to have thought unworthy 
 of his abilities, being not able to suppress his contempt of tht 
 dull dutii of an editor. He understood but iialf liis undertaking. 
 
 ' " Of Howe, as of nil the editors, I liavr |iicscrved tlie preface, and Lave 
 likewise rttaiticil Ibc aullior'.-. life." Orijj. Jidil. 17(35.
 
 clxviii DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. 
 
 The duty of a collator is indeed dull, yet, like other tedious tasks, 
 is very necessary ; but an emendatory critick would ill discharge 
 his duty, without qualities very different from dulness. In pe- 
 rusing a corrupted piece, he must have before him all possibili- 
 ties of meaning, with all possibilities of expression. Such must 
 be his comprehension of thought, and such his copiousness of 
 language. Out of many readings possible, he must be able to 
 select that which best suits with the state, opinions, and modes 
 of language prevailing in every age, and with his author's parti- 
 cular cast of thought, and turn of expression. Such must be his 
 knowledge, and such his taste. Conjectural criticism demands 
 more than humanity possesses, and he that exercises it with most 
 praise, has very frequent need of indulgence. Let us now be 
 told no more of the dull duty of an editor. 
 
 Confidence is the common consequence of success. They 
 whose excellence of any kind has been loudly celebrated, are 
 ready to conclude, that their powers are universal. Pope's edi- 
 tion fell below his own expectations, and he was so much of- 
 fended, when he was found to have left any thing for others to 
 do, that he passed the latter part of his life in a state of hostility 
 with verbal criticism. 
 
 I have retained all his notes, that no fragment of so great a 
 writer may be lost ; his preface, valuable alike for elegance of 
 composition and justness of remark, and containing a general 
 criticism on his author, so extensive that little can be added, and 
 so exact, that little can be disputed, every editor has an interest 
 to suppress, but that every reader would demand its insertion. 
 
 Pope was succeeded by Theobald, a man of narrow compre- 
 hension, and small acquisitions, with no native and intrinsick 
 splendor of genius, with little of the artificial light of learning, 
 but zealous for minute accuracy, and not negligent in pursuing 
 it. He collated the ancient copies, and rectified many errors. 
 A man so anxiously scrupulous might have been expected to do 
 more, but what little he did was commonly right. 
 
 In his report of copies and editions he is not to be trusted 
 without examination. He speaks sometimes indefinitely of co- 
 pies, when he has only one. In his enumeration of editions, he 
 mentions the two first fohos as of high, and the third folio as of 
 middle authority; but the truth is, that the first is equivalent to 
 all others, and that the rest only deviate from it by the printer's 
 negligence. Whoever has any of the folios has all, excepting those
 
 DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. clxlx 
 
 diversities which mere reiteration of editions will produce. I col- 
 lated them all at the beginning, but afterwards used only the first. 
 
 Of his notes I have generally retained those which he retained 
 himself in his second edition, except when they were confuted 
 by subsequent annotators, or were too minute to merit preserva- 
 tion. I have sometimes adopted his restoration of a comma, 
 without inserting the panegyrick in which he celebrated himself 
 for his achievement. The exuberant excrescence of his diction 
 I have often lopped, his triumphant exultations over Pope and 
 Rowe I have sometimes suppressed, and his contemptible osten- 
 tation I have frequently concealed ; but I have in some places 
 shown him, as he would hav • shown himself, for t e re der's 
 diversion, that the inflated emptiness of some notes may justify 
 or excuse the contraction of the rest. 
 
 Theobald, thus weak and ignorant, thus mean and faithless, 
 thus petulant and ostentatious, by the good luck of having Pope 
 for his enemy, has escaped, and escaped alone, with reputation, 
 from this undertaking. So 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. 
 
 Our author fell then into the hands of sir Thomas Hanmer, 
 the Oxford editor, a man, in my opinion, eminently qualified by 
 nature for such studies. He had, what is the first requisite to 
 emendatory criticism, that intuition bv which the poet's inten- 
 tion is immediately discovered, and that dexterity of intellect 
 which despatches its work by the easiest means. He had un- 
 doubtedly read much: his acquaintance with customs, opinions, 
 and traditions, seems to have been large ; and he is often learn- 
 ed without show. He seldom passes what he does not under- 
 stand, without an attempt to find or to make a meaning, and 
 sometimes hastily makes what a little more attention would have 
 found. He is solicitous to reduce to grammar, what he could not 
 be sure that his author intended to be grammatical. Shakspcare 
 regarded more the series of ideas than of words; and his lan- 
 guage, not being designed for the reader's desk, was all that he 
 desired it to be, if it conveyed his meaning to the audience. 
 
 Hanmer's care of the metre has been too violently censured. 
 He found the measure reformed in so many passages, by the si- 
 lent laliours of some editors, with the silent acquiescence of the 
 rest, that he thought himself allowed to extend a little further the 
 licence, which had already been carried so far without reprehen- 
 sion; and of his corrections in general, it must be confessed, that
 
 clxx DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. 
 
 they are often just, and made commonly with the least possible 
 violation of the text. 
 
 But, by inserting his emendations, whether invented or bor- 
 rowed, into the page, without any notice of varying copies, he 
 has appropriated the labour of his predecessors, and made his 
 own edition of little authority. His confidence, indeed, both in 
 himself and others, was too great ; he supposes all to be right 
 that was done by Pope and Theobald ; he seems not to suspect 
 a critick of fallibility, and it was but reasonable that he should 
 claim what he so liberally granted. 
 
 As he never writes without careful enquiry and diligent consi- 
 deration, I have received all his notes, and believe that every 
 reader will wish for more. 
 
 Of the last editor it is more difficult to speak. Respect is due 
 to high place, tenderness to living reputation, and veneration to 
 genius and learning; but he cannot be justly offended at that 
 liberty of which he has himself so frequently given an example, 
 nor very solicitous what is thought of notes which he ought 
 never to have considered as part of his serious employments, 
 and which, I suppose, since the ardour of composition is remit- 
 ted, he no longer numbers among his happy effusions. 
 
 The original and predominant error of his commentary, is ac- 
 quiescence in his first thoughts ; that precipitation which is pro- 
 duced by consciousness of quick discernment; and that confi- 
 dence which presumes to do, by surveying the surface, what la- 
 bour only can perform, by penetrating the bottom. His notes 
 exhibit sometimes perverse interpretations, and sometimes im- 
 probable conjectures; he at one time gives the author more pro- 
 fundity of meaning than the sentence admits, and at another 
 discovers absurdities, where the sense is plain to every other 
 reader. But his emendations are likewise often happy and just: 
 and his interpretation of obscure passages learned and sagacious. 
 
 Of his notes, I have commonly rejected those, against which 
 the general voice of the publick has exclaimed, or which their 
 own incongruity immediately condemns, and which, I suppose, 
 the author himself would desire to be forgotten. Of the rest, to 
 part I have given the highest approbation, by inserting the offer- 
 ed reading in the text; part I have left to the judgment of the 
 reader, as doubtful, though specious; and part I have censured 
 without reserve, but I am sure without bitterness of malice, and, 
 I hope, without wantonness of insult. 
 
 It is no pleasure to me, in revising my volumes, to observe
 
 DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. dxxi 
 
 how much paper is wasted in confutation. Whoever considers 
 the revolutions of learning, and the various questions of greater 
 or less importance, upon which wit and reason have exercised 
 their power, must lament the unsuccessfulness of enquiry, and 
 the slow advances of truth, when he reflects, that great part of 
 the labour of every writer is only the destruction of those that 
 went before him. The first care of the builder of a new system is 
 to demolish the fabricks which are standing. The chief desire 
 of him that comments an author, is to show how much other 
 commentators have corrupted and obscured him. The opinions 
 prevalent in one age, as truths above the reach of controversy, 
 are confuted and rejected in another, and rise again to reception 
 in remoter times. Thus the human mind is kept in motion without 
 progress. Thus sometimes truth and error, and sometimes con- 
 trarieties of error, take each other's place by reciprocal invasion. 
 The tide of seeming knowledge which is poured over one gene- 
 ration, retires and leaves another naked and barren ; the sudden 
 meteors of intelligence, which for a while appear to shoot their 
 beams into the regions of obscurity, on a sudden withdraw their 
 lustre, and leave mortals again to grope their way. 
 
 These elevations and depressions of renown, and the contra- 
 dictions to which all improvers of knowledge must for ever be 
 exposed, since they are not escaped by the highest and brightest 
 of mankind, may surely be endured with patience by criticks and 
 annotators, who can rank themselves but as the satellites of their 
 authors. How canst thou beg for life, says Homer's hero'' to 
 his captive, when thou knowest that thou art now to sufter only 
 what must another day be suftered by Achilles? 
 
 Dr. Warburton had a name sufficient to confer celebrity on 
 those who could exalt themselves into antagonists, and his notes 
 have raised a clamour too loud to be distinct. His chief assail- 
 ants are the autliors of The Canons of Criticism,^ and of The Rc- 
 xisal ()J'S/i<ili.s])c(irc''s T<.r/;™ of whom one ridicules his errors with 
 airy petulance, suitable enough to the levity of the controversy; 
 the other attacks them with gloomy malignity, as if he were 
 dragging to justice an assassin or incendiary. The one stings 
 like a Hy, sucks a little blood, takes a gay flutter, and returns 
 for more; the other bites like a viper, and would be glad to leave 
 inflammations and gangrene bcliind him. When I think on one, 
 with his confederates, I remember the danger of Coriulunus, who 
 
 ""' Achilles." Oiig. Edit. 17(55. 
 'Mr. Edwnrds. "> Mr. HcalJi.
 
 clxxii DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. 
 
 was afraid that girls with spits, and boys with stones, should slay 
 him in puny battle : when the other crosses my imagination, I re- 
 member the prodigy in Macbeth : 
 
 " A falcon tow'ring in his pride of place. 
 Was bj a mousing owl hawk'd at and kill'd." 
 
 Let me however do them justice. One is a wit, and one a 
 scholar. They have both shown acuteness sufficient in the dis- 
 covery of faults, and have both advanced some probable inter- 
 pretations of obscure passages ; but when they aspire to conjec- 
 ture and emendation, it appears how falsely we all estimate our 
 own abilities, and the little which they have been able to per- 
 form might have taught them more candour to the endeavour sof 
 others. 
 
 Before Dr. Warburton's edition, Critical Observations on Shak- 
 ^eare had been published by Mr. Upton, a man skilled in lan- 
 guages, and acquainted with books, but who seems to have had 
 no great vigour of genius or nicety of taste. Many of his expla- 
 nations are curious and useful, but he likewise, though he pro- 
 fessed to oppose the licentious confidence of editors, and adhere 
 to the old copies, is unable to restrain the rage of emendation, 
 though his ardour is ill seconded by his skill. Every cold em- 
 pirick, when his heart is expanded by a successful experiment, 
 swells into a theorist, and the laborious collator at some unlucky 
 moment frolicks in conjecture. 
 
 Critical, historical, and explanatory Notes have been likewise 
 published upon Shakspeare by Dr. Grey, whose diligent perusal 
 of the old English writers has enabled him to make some useful 
 observations. What he undertook he has well enough perform- 
 ed, but as he neither attempts judicial nor emendatory criticism, 
 he employs rather his memory than his sagacity. It were to be 
 wished that all would endeavour to imitate his modesty, who 
 have not been able to surpass his knowledge. 
 
 I can say with great sincerity of all my predecessors, what I 
 hope will hereafter be said of me, that not one has left Shak- 
 speare without improvement, nor is there one to whom I have not 
 been indebted for assistance and information. Whatever I have 
 taken from them, it was my intention to refer to its original au- 
 thor, and it is certain, that what I have not given to another, I 
 believed when I wrote it to be my own. In some perhaps I have 
 been anticipated; but if I am ever found to encroach upon the 
 remarks of any other commentator, I am willing that the honour,
 
 DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. clxxiii 
 
 be it more or less, should be transferred to the first claimant, for 
 his right, and his alone, stands above dispute; the second can 
 prove his pretensions only to himself, nor can himself always 
 distinguish invention, with sufficient certainty, from recollection. 
 
 They hove all been treated by me with candour, which they 
 have not been careful of observing to one another. It is not easy 
 to discover from what cause the acrimony of a scholiast can na- 
 turally proceed. The subjects to be discussed by him are of 
 very small importance; they involve neither property nor liber- 
 ty; nor favour the interest of sect or party. The various readings 
 of copies, and different interpretations of a passage, seem to be 
 questions that might exercise the wit, without engaging the pas- 
 sions. But whether it be, that small things make mean men proud, 
 and vanity catches small occasions ; or that all contrariety of 
 opinion, even in those that can defend it no longer, makes proud 
 men angry ; there is often found in commentaries a spontaneous 
 train of invective and contempt, more eager and venomous than is 
 vented by the most furious controvertist in politicks against those 
 whom he is hired to defame. 
 
 Perhaps the lightness of the matter may conduce to the vehe- 
 mence of the agency; when the truth to be investigated is so 
 near to inexistence, as to escape attention, its bulk is to be 
 enlarged by rage and exclamation: that to which all would be 
 indifferent in its original state, may attract notice when the fate of 
 a name is appended to it. A commentator has indeed great'tempt- 
 ations to supply by turbulence what he wants of dignity, to beat 
 his little gold to a spacious surface, to work that to foam which 
 no art or diligence can exalt to spirit. 
 
 The notes which I have borrowed or written are either illustra- 
 tive, by which difficulties are explained; or judicial, by which 
 faults and beauties are remarked; or emendatory, by which de- 
 pravations are corrected. 
 
 The explanations transcribed from others, if I do not subjoin 
 any other interpretation, I suppose commonly to be right, at least 
 I intend by acquiescence to confess, that I have nothing better 
 to propose. 
 
 After the labours of all the editors, I found many passages 
 which appeared to me likely to obstruct the greater number of 
 readers, and thought it my duty to facilitate their passage. It is 
 impossible for an expositor not to write too little for some, and too 
 much for others. He can only judge what is necessary by his 
 own experience; and how long soever he may deliberate, will at
 
 clxxiv DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. 
 
 last explain many lines which the learned will think impossible 
 to be mistaken, and omit many for which the ignorant will want 
 his help. These are censures merely relative, and must be 
 quietly endured. I have endeavoured to be neither superfluously 
 copious, nor scrupulously reserved, and hope that 1 have made 
 my author's meaning accessible to many, who before were fright- 
 ed from perusing him, and contributed something to the publick, 
 by diffusing innocent and rational pleasure. 
 
 The complete explanation of an author not systematick and 
 consequential, but desultory and vagrant, abounding in casual 
 allusions and light hints, is not to be expected from any single 
 scholiast. All personal reflections, when names are suppressed, 
 must be in a few years irrecoverably obliterated; and customs, 
 too minute to attract the notice of law, such as modes of dress, 
 formalities of conversation, rules of visits, disposition of furniture, 
 and practices of ceremony, which naturally find places in fami- 
 liar dialogue, are so fugitive and unsubstantial, that they are not 
 easily retained or recovered. What can be known will be 
 collected by chance, from the recesses of obscure and obsolete 
 papers, perused commonly with some other view. Of this know- 
 ledge every man has some, and none has much; but when an 
 author has engaged the publick attention, those who can add any 
 thing to his illustration, communicate their discoveries, and time 
 produces what had eluded diligence. 
 
 To time I have been obliged to resign many passages, which, 
 though I did not understand them, will perhaps hereafter be ex- 
 plained, having, I hope, illustrated some, which others have neg- 
 lected or mistaken, sometimes by short remarks, or marginal di- 
 rections, such as every editor has added at his will, and often by 
 comments move laborious than the matter will seem to deserve ; 
 but that which is most difficult is not always most important, and 
 to an editor nothing is a trifle by which his author is obscured. 
 
 The poetical beauties or defects I have not been very diligent 
 to observe. Some plays have more, and some fewer judicial ob- 
 servations, not in proportion to their difference of merit, but be- 
 cause I give this part of my design to chance and to caprice. 
 The reader, I behave, is seldom pleased to find his opinion anti- 
 cipated; it is natural to delight more in what we find or make, 
 than in what we receive. Judgment, like other faculties, is im- 
 proved by practice, and its advancement is hindered by submis- 
 sion to dictatorial decisions, as the memory grows torpid by the 
 use of a table-book. Some initiation is however necessary: of
 
 DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. clxxv 
 
 all skill, part is infused by precept, and part is obtained by 
 habit : I have therefore shown so much as may enable tlie candi- 
 date of criticism to discover the rest. 
 
 To the end of most plays I have added short strictures, con- 
 taining a general censure of faults, or praise of excellence; in 
 which I know not how much I have concurred with the current 
 opinion; but I have not, by any affectation of singularity, de- 
 viated from it. Nothing is minutely and particularly examined, 
 and therefore it is to be supposed, that in the plays which are 
 condemned there is much to be praised, and in those which are 
 praised much to be condemned. 
 
 The part of criticism in which the whole succession of editors 
 has laboured with the greatest diligence, which has occasioned 
 the most arrogant ostentation, and excited the keenest acrimony, 
 is the emendation of corrupted passages, to which the publick 
 attention having been first drawn by the violence of the conten- 
 tion between Pope and Theobald, has been continued by the 
 persecution, which, with a kind of conspiracy, has been since 
 raised against all the publishers of Shakspeare. 
 
 That many passages have passed in a state of depravation 
 through all the editions is indubitably certain ; of these, the re- 
 storation is only to be attempted by collation of copies, or saga- 
 city of conjecture. The collator's province is safe and easy, the 
 conjecturer's perilous and difficult. Yet as the greater part of 
 the plays are extant only in one copy, the peril must not be 
 avoided, nor the difficulty refused. 
 
 Of the readings which this emulation of amendment has hi- 
 therto produced, some from the labours of every publisher I 
 have advanced into the text; those are to be considered as in my 
 opinion sufficiently supported ; some I have rejected without 
 mention, as evidently erroneous ; some I have left in the notes 
 without censure or approbation, as resting in equipoise between 
 objection and defence ; and some, which seemed specious but 
 not right, I have inserted with a subsequent animadversion. 
 
 Having classed the observations of others, I was at last to try 
 what I could substitute for their mistakes, and how I could sup- 
 ply their omissions. I collated such copies as I could procure, 
 and wished for more, but have not found the collectors of these 
 rarities very communicative. Of the editions which chance or 
 kindness put into my hands I have given an enumeration, that 
 I may not be blamed for neglecting what I liad not the power 
 to do.
 
 clxxvi DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. 
 
 By examining the old copies, I soon found that the later pub- 
 lishers, with all their boasts of diligence, suffered many passages 
 to stand unauthorized, and contented themselves with Rowe's 
 regulation of the text, even where they knew it to be arbitrary, 
 and with a little consideration might have found it to be wrong. 
 Some of these alterations are only the ejection of a word for one 
 that appeared to him more elegant or more intelligible. These 
 corruptions I have often silently rectified ; for the history of our 
 language, and the true force of our words, can only be preserved, 
 by keeping the text of authors free from adulteration. Others, 
 and those very frequent, smoothed the cadence, or regulated the 
 measure; on these I have not exercised the same rigour; if only 
 a word was transposed, or a particle inserted or omitted, I have 
 sometimes suffered the line to stand ; for the inconstancy of the 
 copies is such, as that some liberties may be easily permitted. 
 But this practice I have not suffered to proceed far, having re- 
 stored the primitive diction wherever it could for any reason be 
 preferred. 
 
 The emendations, which comparison of copies supplied, I have 
 inserted in the text; sometimes, where the improvement was 
 slight, without notice, and sometimes with an account of the rea- 
 sons of the change. 
 
 Conjecture, though it be sometimes unavoidable, I have not 
 wantonly nor licentiously indulged. It has been my settled 
 principle, that the reading of the ancient books is probably true, 
 and therefore is not to be disturbed for the sake of elegance, 
 perspicuity, or mere improvement of the sense. For though 
 much credit is not due to the fidelity, nor any to the judgment of 
 the first publishers, yet they who had the copy before their eyes 
 were more likely to read it right, than we who read it only by 
 imagination. But it is evident that they have often made strange 
 mistakes by ignorance or negligence, and that therefore some- 
 thing may be properly attempted by criticism, keeping the mid- 
 dle way between presumption and timidity. 
 
 Such criticism I have attempted to practise, and where any 
 passage appeared inextricably perplexed, have endeavoured to 
 discover how it may be recalled to sense, with least violence. 
 But my first labour is, always to turn the old text on every side, 
 and try if there be any interstice, through which light can find 
 its way ; nor would Huetius himself condemn me, as refusing 
 the trouble of research, for the ambition of alteration. In this 
 modest industry, I have not been unsuccessful. I have rescued
 
 DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. clxxvii 
 
 many lines from the violations of temerity, and secured many 
 scenes from the inroads of correction. I have adopted the Roman 
 sentiment, that it is more honourable to save a citizen, than to 
 kill an enemy, and have been more careful to protect than to 
 attack. 
 
 I have preserved the common distribution of the plays into acts, 
 though I believe it to be in almost all the plays void of authority. 
 Some of those which are divided in the later editions have no divi- 
 sion in the first folio, and some that are divided in the folio have no 
 division in the preceding copies. The settled mode of the theatre 
 requires four intervals in the play, but few, if any, of our author's 
 compositions can be properly distributed in that manner. An act 
 is so much of the drama as passes without intervention of time, or 
 change of place. A pause makes a new act. In every real, and 
 therefore in every imitative action, the intervals may be more or 
 fewer, the restriction of five acts being accidental and arbitrary. 
 This Shakspeare knew, and this he practised ; his plays were 
 written, and at first printed in one unbroken continuity, and 
 ought now to be exhibited with short pauses, interposed as often 
 as the scene is changed, or any considerable time is required to 
 pass. This method would at once quell a thousand absurdities. 
 
 In restoring the author's works to their integrity, I have con- 
 sidered the punctuation as wholly in my power ; for what could 
 be their care of colons and commas, who corrupted words and 
 sentences? Whatever could be done by adjusting points, is 
 therefore silently performed, in some plays with much diligence, 
 in others with less ; it is hard to keep a busy eye steadily fixed 
 upon evanescent atoms, or a discursive mind upon evanescent 
 truth. 
 
 The same liberty has been taken with a few particles, or other 
 words of slight effect. I have sometimes inserted or omitted 
 them without notice. I have done that sometimes which the 
 other editors have done always, and which indeed the state of 
 the text may sufficiently justify. 
 
 The greater part of readers, instead of blaming us for passing 
 trifles, will wonder that on mere trifles so much labour is expend- 
 ed, with such importance of debate, and such solemnity of dic- 
 tion. To these I answer with confidence, that they are judging 
 of an art which they do not understand ; yet cannot much re- 
 proach them with their ignorance, nor promise that they would 
 become in general^ by learning criticism, more useful, happier, 
 or wiser. 
 
 VOL. I. ■ n
 
 clxxviii DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. 
 
 As I practised conjecture more, I learned to trust it less ; and 
 after I had printed a few plays, resolved to insert none of my 
 own readings in the text. Upon this caution I now congratulate 
 myself, for every day encreases my doubt of my emendations. 
 
 Since I have confined my imagination to the margin, it must 
 not be considered as very reprehensible, if I have suffered it to 
 play some freaks in its own dominion. There is no danger in 
 conjecture, if it be proposed as conjecture ; and while the text re- 
 mains uninjured, those changes maybe safely offered, which are 
 not considered even by him that offers them as necessary or safe. 
 If ray readings are of Httle value, they have not been osten- 
 tatiously displayed or importunately obtruded. I could have 
 written longer notes, for the art of writing notes is not of diffi- 
 cult attainment. The work is performed, first by railing at the 
 stupidity, negligence, ignorance, and asinine tastelessness of the 
 former editors, showing, from all that goes before and all that 
 follows, the inelegance and absurdity of the old reading; then 
 by proposing something, which to superficial readers would seem 
 specious, but which the editor rejects with indignation ; then by 
 producing the true reading, with a long paraphrase, and con- 
 cluding with loud acclamations on the discovery, and a sober 
 wish for the advancement and prosperity of genuine criticism. 
 
 All this may be done, and perhaps done sometimes without 
 impropriety. But I have always suspected that the reading is 
 right, which requires many words to prove it wrong ; and the 
 emendation wrong, that cannot without so much labour appear 
 to be right. The justness of a happy restoration strikes at once, 
 and the moral precept may be well applied to criticism, quod du- 
 bitas nefeceris. 
 
 To dread the shore which he sees spread with wrecks, is na- 
 tural to the sailor. I had before my eye, so many critical ad- 
 ventures ended in miscarriage, that caution was forced upon me. 
 I encountered in every page wit struggling with its own sophis- 
 try, and learning confused by the multipHcity of its views. I was 
 forced to censure those whom I admired, and could not but re- 
 flect, while I was dispossessing their emendations, how soon the 
 same fate might happen to my own, and how many of the read- 
 ings which I have corrected may be by some other editor de- 
 fended and established. 
 
 " Critics I saw, thai others' names efface. 
 And fix their own, with laboar in the place; 
 Their own, like others, soon their place resign'd, 
 Or disappear'*!, and left the first behind." Pope.
 
 DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. clxxix 
 
 That a conjectural critick should often be mistaken, cannot 
 be wonderful, either to others, or himself, if it be considered, 
 that in his art there is no system, no principal and axiomatical 
 truth that regulates subordinate positions. His chance of error 
 is renewed at every attempt ; an oblique view of the passage, a 
 slight misapprehension of a phrase, a casual inattention to the 
 parts connected, is sufficient to make him not only fail, but fail 
 ridiculously; and when he succeeds best, he produces perhaps 
 but one reading of many probable, and he that suggests another 
 will always be able to dispute his claims. 
 
 It is an unhappy state, in which danger is hid under pleasure. 
 The allurements of emendation are scarcely resistible. Con- 
 jecture has all the joy and all the pride of invention, and he that 
 has once started a happy change, is too much delighted to con- 
 sider what objections may rise against it. 
 
 Yet conjectural criticism has been of great use in the learned 
 world; nor is it my intention to depreciate a study, that has ex- 
 ercised so many mighty minds, from the revival of learning to 
 our own age, from the Bishop of Aleria" to English Bentley. 
 The critics on ancient authors have, in the exercise of their sa- 
 gacity, many assistances, which the editor of Shakspeare is con- 
 demned to want. They are employed upon grammatical and 
 settled languages, whose construction contribute so much to 
 perspicuity, that Homer has fewer passages unintelligible than 
 Chaucer. The words have not only a known regimen, but inva- 
 riable quantities, which direct and confine the choice. There 
 are commonly more manuscripts than one ; and they do not 
 often conspire in the same mistakes. Yet Scaliger could confess 
 to Salmasius how little satisfaction his emendations gave him. 
 lUitdunt nobis conjccturcc nostroc, quarum nos pudct, postcaquam in 
 meliores codices incidimvs. And Lipsius could complain, that cri- 
 ticks were making faults, by trying to remove them, Ut ohm vi- 
 tiis, ita nunc rcmcdiis laboratuv. And indeed, when mere con- 
 jecture is to be used, the emendations of Scaliger and Lipsius, 
 notwithstanding their wonderful sagacity and erudition, arc often 
 vague and disputable, like mine or Theobald's. 
 
 Perhaps I may not be more censured for doing wrong, than 
 for doing little ; for raising in the publick expectations, which at 
 last I have not answered. The expectation of ignorance is in- 
 
 " Jolin Andreas. He wai* secrclary In the Vatican library (luring ttie papacies 
 of Paul II. iiriil Sixlii.s l\'. Hi- |>iili1i.sli('(l lliTodoliis, Stral)o, Livy, Aiiliis Oi'lliiis, 
 ^c. he died at Alt'ri.i in Corsica, I 19.J. — .Sikevins.
 
 clxxx DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. 
 
 definite, and that of knowledge is often tyrannical. It is hard to 
 satisfy those who know not what to demand, or those who de- 
 mand by design what they think impossible to be done. I have 
 indeed disappointed no opinion more than my own ; yet I have 
 endeavoured to perform my task with no slight solicitude. Not 
 a single passage in the whole work has appeared to me corrupt, 
 which I have not attempted to restore ; or obscure, which I have 
 not endeavoured to illustrate. In many I have failed like others ; 
 and from many, after all my efforts, I have retreated, and con- 
 fessed the repulse. I have not passed over, with affected su- 
 periority, what is equally difficult to the reader and to myself, 
 but where I could not instruct him, have owned my ignorance. 
 I might easily have accumulated a mass of seeming learning 
 upon easy scenes; but it ought not to be imputed to neghgence, 
 that where nothing was necessary, nothing has been done, or that, 
 where others have said enough, I have said no more. 
 
 Notes are often necessary, but they are necessary evils. Let 
 him, that is yet unacquainted with the powers of Shakspeare, 
 and who desires to feel the highest pleasure that the drama can 
 give, read every play from the first scene to the last, with utter 
 negligence of all his commentators. When his fancy is once on 
 the wing, let it not stoop at correction or explanation. When 
 his attention is strongly engaged, let it disdain alike to tiu-n 
 aside to the name of Theobald and of Pope. Let him read on 
 through brightness and obscurity, through integrity and cor- 
 ruption ; let him preserve his comprehension of the dialogue, and 
 his interest in the fable. And when the pleasures of novelty have 
 ceased, let him attempt exactness, and read the commentators. 
 
 Particular passages are cleared by notes, but the general effect 
 of the work is weakened. The mind is refrigerated by interrup- 
 tion ; the thoughts are diverted from the principal subject ; the 
 reader is weary, he suspects not why; and at last throws away 
 the book which he has too diligently studied. 
 
 Parts are not to be examined till the whole has been surveyed ; 
 there is a kind of intellectual remoteness necessary for the com- 
 prehension of any great work in its full design and in its true pro- 
 portions; a close approach shows the smaller niceties, but the 
 beauty of the whole is discerned no longer. 
 
 It is not very grateful to consider how little the succession of 
 editors has added to this author's power of pleasing. He was 
 read, admired, studied, and imitated, while he was yet deformed 
 with all the improprieties which ignorance and neglect could ac-
 
 DR. JOHNSON'S PREFACE. dxxxi 
 
 cumulate upon him ; while the reading was yet not rectified, nor 
 his allusions understood; yel then did Dryden pronounce, "that 
 Shakspeare 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 any thing, you more 
 than see it, you feel it too. Those, who accuse him to have 
 wanted learning, give him the greater commendation ; he was 
 naturally learned; he needed not the spectacles of books to read 
 nature; he looked inwards, and found her there, I cannot say 
 he is every where alike ; were he so, I should do him injury to 
 compare him with the greatest of mankind. He is many times 
 flat and insipid; his comick wit degenerating into clenches, his 
 serious swelling into bombast. But he is always great, when 
 some great occasion is presented to him ; no man can say, he 
 ever had a fit subject for his wit, and did not then raise himself 
 as high above the rest of poets, 
 
 ' Qaantum lenta solent inter vibarna cupressi.' " 
 
 It is to be lamented, that such a writer should want a com- 
 mentary ; that his language should become obsolete, or his sen- 
 timents obscure. But it is vain to carry wishes beyond the con- 
 dition of human things; that which must happen to all, has hap- 
 pened to Shakspeare, by accident and time; and more than has 
 been suffered by any other writer since the use of types, has 
 been suffered by him through his own negligence of fame, or per- 
 haps by that superiority of mind, which despised its own per- 
 formances, when it compared them with its powers, and judged 
 those works unworthy to be preserved, which the critics of fol- 
 lowing ages were to contend for the fame of restoring and ex- 
 plaining. 
 
 Among these candidates of inferior fame, I am now to stand 
 the judgment of the publick: and wish that I could confidently 
 produce my commentary as equal to the encouragement which I 
 have had the honour of receiving. Every work of this kind is by 
 its nature deficient, and I should feel little solicitude about the 
 sentence, were it to be pronounced only by the skilful and the 
 learned.
 
 THE TEMPEST.
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 There was no edition of this play previous to the first folio of the Autlior's 
 works, in 1623. — It was one of the very latest of liis productions : Mr. Malone 
 supposes it to have been written in the year 1611 ; — but it was most probably 
 produced in the latter part of 1612, or the beginning of 1613, as we find from 
 Mr. Vertue's MSS. that it " was acted by John Heniing and the rest of tlie 
 King's company, before Prince Charles, the Lady Elizabeth, and tlie Prince 
 Palatine Elector, in the beginning of the year 1613." — The Prince Palatine 
 was married to the Lady Elizabeth in February 1613, and this exquisite poem, 
 which relates the loves of a young prince and princess, and introduces a 
 pageant of spirits to crown them with 
 
 Honour, riches, marriage-blessing, 
 Long continuance, and increasing, 
 
 was not improbably composed on the occasion of their royal nuptials ; as we 
 know that it made a part of the splendid festivities in celebration of them. 
 Mr. Malone imagines in this play a reference to the shipwreck of Sir George 
 Somers on the Island of Bermuda. I cannot follow him in tracing tne resem- 
 blance. — It is difficult to perceive the connexion between a tempest in the 
 Mediterranean and a hurricane in the Atlantic ; — or between the wreck of an 
 English ship, with her crew of adventurous navigators on the coast of Ber- 
 muda, and the loss of an Italian vessel, conveying the king of Naples and 
 tlie duke of Milan from a royal marriage in Tunis, on an imaginary island 
 near the coast of Africa. — The only circumstance I can discover in the ac- 
 counts of Sir George Somers's shipwreck, which Shakspeare appears to have 
 had in his mind in writing this play, is the only circumstance that none of the 
 commentators have noticed, though it is related in a volume to which they 
 have all referred, viz. Stith's History of Virginia. — The assumption of royal 
 authority by Stephano, and the scenes between that character and Caliban and 
 Trinculo, may have been suggested by the event related in the following pas- 
 sage. — When Sir George Somers left the Island of Bermuda in the year 1699, 
 " Christopher Carter, Edward Waters and Edward Chard remained behind. Sir 
 George's vessel being once out of sight, these three lords, and sole inhabitants of 
 all these islands, began to erect their little commoiiwealth, with eiiual power 
 and brotherly regency, building a house, preparing the ground, planting their 
 com, and such seeds and fruits as they had, and providing other necessaries 
 and conveniences. Then making search among the crannies ;uid comers of 
 tliose craggy rocks, wliat the ocean, from the world's creation had thrown up 
 .among them, besides divers smaller pieces, they happened upon the largest 
 block of Ambergris, that had ever been seen or heard of in one lump. It 
 weighed fourscore pounds, and is said, itself alone, liesides the others, t() 
 have been then worth nine or ten thousand pounds. And now being rich, they 
 grewsorioty and ambitious, that these three forlorn men, above three thousand 
 miles from their native country, and with little probability of ever seeing it 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 TEMPEST. 
 
 again, fell out for the superiority and rule ; and their competition and quarrel 
 grew so high, that Chard and Waters, being of the greater spirit, had appointed 
 to decide the matter in the field. But Carter wisely stopped their arms, 
 choosing rather to bear with such troublesome rivals, than, by being rid of 
 them, to live alone." — Stith's Virginia, p. 120. — If Shakspeare in composing his 
 play had any recollection of the above event, The Tempest could not have been 
 written till after the year 1612, when the story was brought to England by 
 Captain Matthew Somers. This gentleman was nephew of Sir George Somers ; 
 he accompanied his uncle both in his first and second visit to the Bermudas, 
 and, after his death on the Island, returned to England with the body. 
 
 Collins the poet informed Thomas Warton, that the subject of this play was 
 taken from a novel called Aurelio and Isabella ; but this information has 
 proved to be incorrect. — The memory of Collins became confused in his last 
 melancholy illness, and he probably gave the name of one novel for another. — 
 A circumstance which he added, may perhaps lead to the discovery of the 
 real tale : — the principal character of the romance, answering to Shaks- 
 peare's Prospero, was a chemical necromancer, who had bound a spirit, like 
 
 Ariel, to perform his services. Mr. Boswell relates, that a friend of his had 
 
 met with an Italian novel which corresponded with Collins's description. 
 
 Malone, Steevens, and Blackstone have discovered, in the following words 
 from the Induction to Ben Jonson's Bartholomew Fair — " If there be never a 
 servant-monster in the fair, who can help it V an allusion to the character of 
 Caliban, and another proof of that malignity against our Author which they have 
 chosen to impute to the great contemporary and personal friend of Shakspeare. 
 — This subject is fully discussed in the Life prefixed to the present edition, and 
 only mentioned here, to shew on how slight authority this absurd falsehood 
 has been propagated ; and as another instance to prove, that to the theories of a 
 commentator, as to the dreams of jealousy, " trifles light as air, are confirma- 
 tions strong as proofs of holy writ."
 
 PERSONS REPRESENTED * 
 
 Alonso, KingofNo.Tphs. 
 
 Sebastian, his Brother. 
 
 Prospero, the rightful Duke ©/"Milan. 
 
 Antonio, his brother, the usurping Duke o/* Milan. 
 
 Ferdinand, Son to the King of Naples. 
 
 GoNZALo, an honest old Counsellor o/' Naples. 
 
 Adrian, ) 7^ , 
 
 Francisco,; ^"'■^^- 
 
 Caliban, a savage and deformed Slave. 
 
 Trinculo, a Jester. 
 
 Stephano, a drunken Butler. 
 
 Master of a Ship, Boatswain, and Mariners. 
 
 Miranda, Daughter to Prospero. 
 
 Ariel, an airy Spirit. 
 
 Iris, 
 
 Ceres, 
 
 Juno, 
 
 Nymphs, 
 
 Reapers, 
 
 1 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 > Spirits. 
 
 Other Spirits attending on Prospero. 
 Scene, the Sea, with a Ship; afterward an uninhabited Island. 
 
 * This enumeration of persona is taken from the folio 1 623. 
 
 Steevens.
 
 TEMPEST. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — On a Ship at Sea. 
 
 A Storm with Thunder and Lightning. 
 
 Enter a Ship-master and a Boatswain. 
 
 Mast. Boatswain, — 
 Boats. Here, Master : What cheer ? 
 Mast. Good : speak to the mariners : fall to't yarely," 
 or we run ourselves aground : bestir, bestir. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Mariners. 
 
 Boats. Heigh, my hearts ; cheerly, cheerly, my hearts ; 
 yare, yare : take in the top-sail ; Tend to the master's 
 whistle. — Blow till thou burst thy wind,'' if room enough ! 
 
 Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Ferdinand, 
 GoNZALO, and others. 
 
 Alon. Good boatswain, have care. Where's the mas- 
 ter? Play the men. 
 
 Boats. I pray now, keep below. 
 
 Ant. Where is the master, boatswain ? 
 
 Boats. Do you not hear him ? You mar our labour. — 
 Keep your cabins. — You do assist the storm. 
 
 Gon. Nay, good, be patient. 
 
 Boats. When the sea is. Hence ! What care these 
 roarers for the name of king ? To cabin : silence : trouble 
 us not. 
 
 Gon. Good ; yet remember whom thou hast aboard. 
 
 Boats. None that I more love than myself. You are 
 
 ■ yareiv,] i. o. readily, nimbly. 
 
 *> Blow till thflu hurst thij wind, if room enou/^h!] The boatswain hero alludes 
 to the manner in which the wind is represented in old prints and pictures, 
 and addressing liim as a real beinij, says that he may blow till his lungs are 
 rent — till he is broken-winded — if there were but sea-room enough. — 
 Stk£ven3 and Sktmocii.
 
 6 TEMPEST. 
 
 a counsellor ; if you can command these elements to 
 silence, and work the peace of the present/ we will not 
 hand a rope more ; use your authority. If you cannot, 
 give thanks you have lived so long, and make yourself 
 ready in your cabin for the miscliance of the hour, if it so 
 hap. — Cheerly, good hearts. Out of our way, I say. [Exit. 
 Gon.^ I have great comfort from this fellow : methinks, 
 he hath no drowning mark upon him : his complexion is 
 perfect gallows. Stand fast, good fate, to his hanging ! 
 make the rope of his destiny our cable, for our own doth 
 little advantage .' If he be not born to be hanged, our case 
 is miserable. lExeunt. 
 
 Re-enter Boatswain. 
 
 Boats. DoAvn with the topmast ; yare ; lower, lower ; 
 bring her to try with main-course.* [il fry within.] A 
 plague upon this howling ! they are louder than the wea- 
 ther, or our ofl&ce. — 
 
 Re-enter Sebastian, Antonio, and Gonzalo. 
 
 Yet again ? what do you here ? Shall we give o'er, and 
 drown ? Have you a mind to sink ? 
 
 Seb. A pox o' your throat ! you bawling, blasphemous, 
 incharitable dog ! 
 
 Boats. Work, you then. 
 
 Ant. Hang, cur, hang ! you whoreson, insolent noise- 
 maker, we are less afraid to be drowned than thou art. 
 
 Gon. I'll warrant him from drowning : though the ship 
 were no stronger than a nut-shell, and as leaky as an un- 
 stanched wench.^ 
 
 Boats. Lay her a-hold, a-hold :s set her two courses :^ 
 off to sea again, lay her off. 
 
 « of the present,'] i.e. of the present instant. 
 
 * Gonzalo.'\ It may be observed of Gonzalo, that, being the only good man 
 that appears with the king, he is the only man that preserves his cheerfulness 
 in the wreck, and his hope on the island. — Johnson. 
 
 e bring her to try with main-course.] This phrase occurs in Smith's Sea 
 
 Grammar, 1627, 4to.underthe article Howtohandle aShipin a Storme: "Let us 
 lie at Trie with our main course ; that is, to hale the tacke aboord, the sheat 
 close aft, the holing set up, and the helme tied close aboord." — Steeveks. 
 
 ' unstanched,"] this word means both leaky and incontinent. 
 
 ? Lay her a-hold, a-hold ;] i. e. bring her to lie as near the wind as she can, 
 in order to keep clear of the land, and get her out to sea. — Steevens. 
 
 ^ — ■ — Set her two courses:] The courses are the main-sail and fore-sail.
 
 ACT I.— SCENE I. 7 
 
 Enter Mariners, wet. 
 
 Mar. All lost ! to prayers, to prayers ! all lost ! [Exeinit . 
 
 Boats. What, must our mouths be cold ? 
 
 Gon. The king and prince at prayers ! let us assist 
 For our case is as theirs. [them, 
 
 Seb. I am out of patience. 
 
 Ant. We are merely cheated of our lives by drunkards. — 
 This wide-chapped rascal ; — 'Would, thou might'st lie 
 The washing of ten tides ! [drowning, 
 
 Go?i. He'll be hanged yet ; 
 
 Though every drop of water swear against it. 
 And gape at wid'st to glut him." 
 
 [A confused noise within.'] Mercy on us ! We split, we 
 split! — Farewell, my wife and children! Farewell, bro- 
 ther ! We split, we split, we split ! — 
 
 Ant. Let's all sink with the king. [Exit. 
 
 Seb. Let's take leave of him. [Exit. 
 
 Gon. Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for 
 an acre of barren ground ; long heath, brown furze, any 
 thing : The wills above be done ! but I would fain die a 
 dry death. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE n. 
 
 The Island: before the Cell o/Trospero. 
 
 Enter Vrosve-ro rt//c? Miranda. 
 
 Mira. If by your art, my dearest father, you have'' 
 Put tlie wild waters in this roar, allay them : 
 The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch. 
 But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek, 
 Dashes the fire out. O, I have suffer'd 
 With those that I saw sutler ! — A brave vessel 
 Who had no doubt some noble creatures in her, 
 Dash'd all to pieces !— O, the cry did knock 
 An-ainst my very heart ! Poor souls ! tliey perish'd 
 
 » to glut /lim.] To swallow him. 
 
 '' It is rem;irki'd by ]^r. Wart (in in tlic A<lvoiiturcr, Nnmlioi 9:?, tliat hythis 
 first line of Mirandii, the iVl liaa artfully acciuuinteJ us with the magical 
 power of I'rospcro.
 
 8 TEMPEST. 
 
 Had I been any god of power, I would 
 Have sunk the sea within the earth, or e'er* 
 It should the good ship so have swallowed, and 
 The freighting souls within her. 
 
 Pro. Be collected ; 
 
 No more amazement : tell your piteous heart. 
 There's no harm done. 
 
 Mira. O, woe the day ! no harm ?" — 
 
 Pro. I have done nothing but in care of thee, 
 (Of thee, my dear one ! thee, my daughter !) who 
 Art ignorant of what thou art, nought knowing 
 Of whence I am ; nor that I am more better"* 
 Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell. 
 And thy no greater father. 
 
 Mira. More to know 
 
 Did never meddle with my thoughts. ° 
 
 Pro. 'Tis time . 
 
 I should inform thee farther. Lend thy hand. 
 And pluck my magic garment from me. — So ; 
 
 ILai/s down his Matitle^ 
 Lie there my art.— Wipe thou thine eyes ; have comfort. 
 The direful spectacle of the wreck, which touch'd 
 The veiy virtue of compassion in thee, 
 I have with such provision in mine art 
 So safely order'd, that there is no soul — 
 No, not so much perdition as a hair. 
 Betid to any creature in the vessel 
 Which thou heard'st cry, which thou saw'st sink.— 
 
 Sit down ; 
 For thou must now know further. 
 
 Mira. You have often 
 
 Begun to tell me what I am ; but stopp'd 
 
 ! or e'er,] i. e. sooner than — In which sense the elder authors constantly 
 
 employ these two words. ' 
 
 ■n no harm?] In attributing this exclamation to Miranda, I have ventured 
 
 to make an alteration in the text, which, 1 believe, every reader has discovered 
 the propriety of, and Dr. Johnson considered as desirable. 
 
 " ""^'« I'etter.] Mr. Todd shews that Steevens was wrong in calling this 
 
 mode of expression ungrammatical.—" Formerly," he says, " a double degree of 
 comparison was used, as most basest, by Sir Thomas More ; most affablest. by 
 Ben Jonson ; most straitest. Acts xxvi. 5 ; more braver, by Shakspeare."— ATot/j 
 to the Grammar of Todd's Dictionary. 
 
 " meddle with my thoughts.] Trouble my thoughts.
 
 ACT I.— SCENE II. 9 
 
 And left me to a bootless inquisition ; 
 Concluding, Stay, not yet. — 
 
 Pro. The hour's now come ; 
 
 The very minute bids thee ope thine ear ; 
 Obey, and be attentive. — Can'st thou remember 
 A time before we came unto this cell ? 
 I do not think thou can'st ; for then thou wast not 
 Out three years old.P 
 
 Mira. Certainly, sir, I can. 
 
 Pro. By what ? by any other house, or person ? 
 Of any thing the image tell me, that 
 Hath kept with thy remembrance. 
 
 Mira. 'Tisfaroff; 
 
 And rather like a dream, than an assurance 
 That my remembrance warrants : Had 1 not 
 Four or five women once, that tended me ? 
 
 Pro. Thou hadst, and more, Miranda : But how is it. 
 That this lives in thy mind ? What see'st thou else 
 In the dark backward and abysm of time ? 
 If thou remember 'st aught, ere thou cam'st here. 
 How thou cam'st here, thou may'st. 
 
 Mira, But that I do not. 
 
 Pro. Twelve years since, Miranda, twelve years since,'' 
 Thy father was the duke of Milan, and 
 A prince of power. 
 
 Mira. Sir, are not you my father ? 
 
 Pro. Thy mother was a piece of virtue, and 
 She said — thou wast my daughter ; and thy father 
 Was duke of Milan ; and his only heir 
 A princess no worse issued.' 
 
 Mira. O, the heavens ! 
 
 What foul play had we, that we came from thence ? 
 
 Or blessed was't, we did ? 
 
 Pro. Both, botli, my girl j 
 
 p Out three years old.'] Quite three years old. 
 
 •\ Twelve years since, Mirniuld, twelve years sinrr.] Tlie word yenrs is in the 
 first instance used as a (lissyllal)lc, and aftcrwanl as a niouosyllalilc. — This li- 
 cense was common iu the age of Shaksjjeare. — lu Sidney's Arcadia are the 
 following lines. 
 
 And shall she die? — Shall cruel fier kill 
 Those heamcs that set so many hearts on fire? — Stehvens. 
 • no varrse issHcd.'\ Of the bauie \x\^\\ dcsccut.
 
 10 TEMPEST. 
 
 By foul play, as thou say'st, were we heav'd thence ; 
 But blessedly holp hither. 
 
 Mira. O, my heart bleeds 
 
 To think o'the teen" that I have turn'd you to. 
 Which is from my remembrance ! Please you, farther. 
 
 Pro. My brother, and thy uncle, call'd Antonio, — 
 I pray thee, mark me, — that a brother should 
 Be so perfidious ! — he whom, next thyself. 
 Of all the world I lov'd, and to him put 
 The manage of my state ; as, at that time. 
 Through all the signiories it was the first. 
 And Prospero the prime duke ; being so reputed 
 In dignity, and, for the liberal arts. 
 Without a parallel : those being all my study. 
 The government I cast upon my brother. 
 And to my state grew stranger, being transported. 
 And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle — 
 Dost thou attend me ? 
 
 Mira. Sir, most heedfully. 
 
 Pro. Being once perfected how to grant suits. 
 How to deny them ; whom to advance, and whom 
 To trash for over-topping :" new created 
 The creatures that were mine ; I say, or chang'd them. 
 Or else new-form 'd them ; having both the key^ 
 Of officer and oflace, set all hearts i'th'state. 
 To what tune pleas'd his ear ; that now he was 
 The ivy, which had hid my princely trunk. 
 And suck'd my verdure out on't. — Thou attend'st not : 
 
 Mira. O good sir, I do. 
 
 Pro. I pray thee, mark me, 
 
 I thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated 
 To closeness, and the bettering of my mind 
 With that, which, but by being so retired, 
 O'er-priz'd all popular rate, in my false brother 
 Awak'd an evil nature : and my trust, 
 
 " teen] — sorrow. 
 
 ^ To tras/i] i. e. to keep back. — A trash is a term still in use among hunters, and 
 signifies a piece of leather, couples, or any other weight fastened round the 
 neck of a dog, when his speed is superior to the rest of the pack, and he over- 
 lops them. 
 
 y key'] — for tuning the spinet or virginal, now called a tuning-hammer. 
 
 SiK J. Hawkins.
 
 ACT I.— SCENE II. 11 
 
 Like a good parent/ did beget of him 
 
 A falsehood, in its contrary as great 
 
 As my trust was ; which had, indeed, no limit, 
 
 A confidence sans bound. He being thus lorded, 
 
 Not only with what my revenue yielded. 
 
 But what my power might else exact, — like one, 
 
 Who having, unto truth, by telling of it. 
 
 Made such a sinner of his memory, 
 
 To credit his own lie,* — he did believe 
 
 He was indeed the duke ; out of the substitution. 
 
 And executing the outward face of royalty. 
 
 With all prerogative : — Hence his ambition 
 
 Growino;, — Dost hear ? 
 
 Mira. Your tale, sir, would cure deafness. 
 
 Pro. To have no screen between this part he play'd. 
 And him he play'd it for, he needs will be 
 Absolute Milan : Me, poor man ! — my library 
 Was dukedom large enough ; ** of temporal royalties 
 He thinks me now incapable : confederates 
 (So dry he was for sway) with the king of Naples, 
 To give him annual tribute, do him homage ; 
 Subject his coronet to his crown, and bend 
 The dukedom, yet unbow'd, (alas, poor Milan !) 
 To most ignoble stooping. 
 
 Mira. O the heavens ! 
 
 Pro. Mark his condition, and the event : then tell me. 
 If this might be a brother. 
 
 Mira. I should sin 
 
 To think but nobly of my grandmother : 
 Good wombs have borne bad sons. 
 
 » Like a good parent, &c.] Alluding to the observation, thai a father above 
 the common rate of men has commonly a son below it. Heroxim Jilii tuna:. 
 
 Johnson. 
 
 » like 07ie, 
 
 Who huving, unto truth, hy lelliiig of it, 
 Made such a sinnci' of his memory. 
 
 To credit his own lie,] This sentence is involved. Lie is the correlative 
 to which it TfltTS ; the meaiiinf^ is this — " Antonio, like one, wlio having 
 made his memory such a sinner to truth, as to credit his own lie by the 
 habit of telling it, — from fullilliiij^ tJic oflices of the duke, bc(;an to believe him- 
 self the duke." 
 
 b Liirge cnouf^h,] i. e. Iar|,'e enou};h /n)-. 'J'his elliptical form of cipressiou 
 is common with our autlior — in Henry the Eighth we have, 
 
 Whoever the king removes 
 
 The cardinal inslanily will find enijiloynient. [ ^'• ]
 
 12 TEMPEST. 
 
 Pro. Now the condition. 
 
 This king of Naples, being an enemy 
 To me inveterate, hearkens my brother's suit ; 
 Which was, that he in heu o'the premises, — 
 Of homage, and 1 know not how much tribute, — 
 Should presently extirpate me and mine 
 Out of the dukedom ; and confer fair Milan, 
 With all the honours, on my brother : Whereon, 
 A treacherous army levied, one midnight 
 Fated to the purpose, did Antonio open 
 The gates of Milan ; and, i'the dead of darkness. 
 The ministers for the purpose hurried thence 
 Me, and thy crying self. 
 
 Mira. Alack, for pity 1 
 
 I, not rememb'ring how I cry'd out then. 
 Will cry it o'er again : it is a hint. 
 That wrings mine eyes to't. 
 
 Pro. Hear a little farther. 
 
 And then I'll bring thee to the present business 
 Which now's upon us ; without the which, this story 
 Were most impertinent. 
 
 Mira. Wherefore did they not 
 
 That hour destroy us ? 
 
 Pro. Well demanded, wench ; 
 
 My tale provokes that question. Dear, they durst not ; 
 (So dear the love my people bore me) nor set 
 A mark so bloody on the business ; but 
 With colours fairer painted their foul ends. 
 In few, they hurried us aboard a bark ; 
 Bore us some leagues to sea ; where they prepar'd 
 A rotten carcase of a boat, not rigg'd. 
 Nor tackle, sail, nor mast ; the very rats 
 Instinctively had quit it : there they hoist us. 
 To cry to the sea that roar'd to us ; to sigh 
 To the winds, whose pity, sighing back again. 
 Did us but loving wrong. 
 
 Mira. Alack ! what trouble 
 
 Was I then to you ! 
 
 Pro. O ! a cherubim 
 
 Thou wast, that did preserve me ! Thou didst smile.
 
 ACT I.— SCENE II. 13 
 
 Infused with a fortitude from heaven, — 
 When I have djeck'd the sea " with drops full salt ; 
 Under my burden groan'd, — which rais'd in me 
 An undergoing stomach, ^ to bear up 
 Against what should ensue. 
 
 Mira. How came we ashore ? 
 
 Pro. By Providence divine. 
 Some food we had, and some fresh water, that 
 A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo, 
 Out of his charity, (who being then appointed 
 Master of this design,) did give us ; with 
 Rich garments, linens, stuffs, and necessaries. 
 Which since have steaded much ; so, of his gentleness. 
 Knowing I lov'd my books, he furnish'd me. 
 From my own library, with volumes that 
 I prize above my dukedom. 
 
 Mira. 'Would I might 
 
 But ever see that man ! 
 
 Pro. Now I arise : — 
 
 Sit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow. 
 Here in this island we arrived ; and here 
 Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit 
 Than other princes can, that have more time 
 For vainer hours, and tutors not so careful. 
 
 Mira. Heavens thank you for't! And now, I pray you, sir, 
 (For still 'tis beating in my mind,) your reason 
 For raising this sea-storm ? 
 
 Pro. Know thus far forth. — 
 
 By accident most strange, bountiful fortune. 
 Now my dear lady, "^ hath mine enemies 
 Brought to this shore : and by my prescience 
 I find my zenith doth depend upon 
 A most auspicious star; whose influence 
 If now I court not, but omit, ray fortunes 
 Will ever after droop. — Here cease more questions; 
 
 c (leck'd the tea,'] deck, and to deg^, aro words in daily use in the north 
 
 of England, in the sense of to spriul^Iu. Keeo. — May not this contested word 
 bo a misprint for dew'd? 
 
 <• undergoini^ itomach,'] — i. e. an enduring courage ; stomach, which is 
 
 generally employed in a bad sense, for stubbornness of spirit, is here used in a 
 good sense, for fortitude and resolution. 
 
 • My good lady, — My aunpicioug mistress.
 
 14 TEMPEST. 
 
 Thou art inclin'd to sleep ; 'tis a good dulness. 
 And give it way ; — I know thou can'st not choose. — 
 
 [Miranda sleeps. 
 Come away, servant, come : I am ready now ; 
 Approach, my Ariel ; come. 
 
 Enter Ariel. 
 
 Ari. All hail, great master ! grave sir, hail ! I come 
 To answer thy best pleasure ; be't to fly. 
 To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride 
 On the curl'd clouds ; to thy strong bidding, task 
 Ariel, and all his quality/ 
 
 Pro. Hast thou, spirit, 
 
 Perform'd to point s the tempest that I bade thee ? 
 
 Art. To every article. 
 I boarded the king's ship ; now on the beak,'» 
 Now in the waist,» the deck, in every cabin, 
 I flam'd amazement : Sometimes, I'd divide. 
 And burn in many places ; on the top-mast 
 The yards and bowsprit, would I flame distinctly. 
 Then meet, and join : Jove's lightnings, the precursors 
 O'the dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary 
 And sight-out-running were not : The fire, and cracks 
 Of sulphurous roaring, the most mighty Neptune 
 Seem'd to besiege, and make his bold waves tremble. 
 Yea, his dread trident shake. 
 
 Pro. My brave spirit ! 
 
 Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil 
 Would not infect his reasoa ? 
 
 Ari. Not a soul 
 
 But felt a fever of the mad, and play'd 
 Some tricks of desperation. All, but mariners, 
 Plung'd in the foaming brine, and quit the vessel. 
 Then all a-fire with me. The king's son, Ferdinand, 
 With hair up-staring,— then like reeds, not hair,— 
 Was the first man that leap'd ; cried. Hell is empty, 
 And all the devils are here. 
 
 ^ M his quality,'] i. e. all his compeers. 
 
 to point,'] i. e. exactly ; translated from the French a point. 
 ■ tlie beak,] The forecastle. 
 
 i the waist,] The part of the vessel between the quarter-deck and the 
 
 forecastle.
 
 ACT I.— SCENE II. 15 
 
 Pro. Why, that's my spirit ! 
 
 But was not this nigh shore ? 
 
 Art. Close by, my master. 
 
 Pro. But are they, Ariel, safe ? 
 
 Ari. Not a hair perish'd ; 
 
 On their sustaining garments not a blemish. 
 But fresher than before : and, as thou bad'st me. 
 In troops I have dispers'd them 'bout the isle : 
 The king's son have 1 landed by himself; 
 Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs. 
 In an odd angle of the isle, and sitting. 
 His arms in this sad knot. 
 
 Pro. Of the king's ship. 
 
 The mariners, say, how thou hast disposed. 
 And all the rest o'the fleet ? 
 
 Ari. Safely in harbour 
 
 Is the king's ship ; in the deep nook, where once 
 Thou call'dst me up at midnight to fetch dew 
 From the still-vex'd Bermoothes'' there she's hid : 
 The mariners all under hatches stow'd ; 
 Whom, with a charm join'd to their suffer'd labour, 
 I have left asleep : and for the rest o'the fleet. 
 Which I dispers'd, they all have met again ; 
 And are upon the Mediterranean flote,' 
 Bound sadly home for Naples ; 
 Supposing that they saw the king's ship wreck'd. 
 And his great person perish. 
 
 Pro. Ariel, thy charge 
 
 Exactly is perform'd ; but there's more work : 
 What is the time o'the day ? 
 
 Ari. Past the mid season, 
 
 At least two glasses." 
 
 * still-vej'd Bermoothes,'^ The epithet still-vei'd refers to the troubled 
 
 and agitated state of the sea, rovind the liennudas. — •" They liatl.at all times, 
 been infamous and terrible to mariners for the ^vTeck. of many Spanish, Dutch, 
 and French vessels ; tln-y were, therefore, with the usual elc^'ance of tlie sea 
 style, called by many the Isle oj Devils, and were esteemed the hell and pur- 
 gatory of seamen, the most dangerous, unfortunate, and forlorn placo iu the 
 world." — Stilb's llisUrrtj of Virginia, p. IM. 
 
 ' flole,'\ wave, from the French _//o(. 
 
 •" At least two glasses.^ These words, in the old copies are given to Prosi>ero, 
 an arrangement which rej)rescnteil him as answering his own ijuestion. — In 
 attributing them to Ariel, 1 have adopted the emendation proposed by Upton.
 
 16 TEMPEST. 
 
 Pro. The time 'twixt six and now. 
 
 Must by us both be spent most preciously. 
 
 Ari. Is there more toil? — Since thou dost give me 
 pains. 
 Let me remember thee what thou hast promis'd. 
 Which is not yet perform'd me. 
 
 Pro. How now? moody? 
 
 What is't thou can'st demand ? 
 
 Ari. My liberty. 
 
 Pro. Before the time be out ? no more. 
 
 Ari. I pray thee 
 
 Remember, I have done thee worthy service ; 
 Told thee no lies, made no mistakings, serv'd 
 Without or grudge, or grumblings : thou didst promise 
 To bate me a full year. 
 
 P7'o. Dost thou forget" 
 
 From what a torment I did free thee ? 
 
 Ari. No. 
 
 Pro. Thou dost ; and think'st 
 
 n Dost thou forget — ] That the character and conduct of Prospero may be 
 understood, something must be known of the system of enchantment, which 
 supplied all the marvellous found in the romances of the middle ages. This 
 system seems to be founded on the opinion that the fallen spirits, having dif- 
 ferent degrees of guilt, had different habitations allotted them at their expul- 
 sion, some being confined in hell, some (as Hooker, who delivers the opinion 
 of our poet's age, expresses it) dispersed in air, some on earth, some in water, 
 others in caves, dens, or minerals under the earth. Of these, some were more 
 malignant and mischievous than others. The earthy spirits seem to have 
 been thought the most depraved, and the aerial the less vitiated. Thus Pros- 
 pero observes of Ariel : 
 
 thou wast a spirit too delicate 
 
 To act her earthy and ahhorr'd commands. 
 Over these spirits a power might be obtained by certain rites performed or 
 charms learned. This power was called The black art, or knowledge of enchant- 
 ment. The enchanter being (as king James observes in his Demonology), one 
 who commands the devil, whereas the witch serves him. Men who thought best of 
 this art, the existence of which was, I am afraid, believed very seriously, held 
 tliat certain sounds and characters had a physical power over spirits, and com- 
 pelled their agency ; others who condemned the practice, which in reality was 
 surely never practised, were of opinion with more reason, that the power of 
 charms arose only from compact, and was no more than the spirits voluntarily 
 allowed them for the seduction of man. The art was held by all, though not 
 equally criminal, yet unlawful, and therefore Casaubon, speaking of one who 
 had commerce with spirits, blames him, though he imagines him one of the 
 best kind, who dealt with them by way of command. Thus Prospero repents of 
 his art in the last scene. The spirits were always considered as in some mea- 
 sure enslaved to the enchanter, at least for a time, and as serving with unwill- 
 ingness ; therefore Ariel so often begs for liberty ; and Caliban observes, that 
 the spirits serve Prospero with no good will, but hate himrootedty. — Johnson.
 
 ACT I.— SCENE II. 17 
 
 It much to tread the ooze of the salt deep ; 
 To run upon the sharp wind of the north ; 
 To do me business in the veins o'the earth. 
 When it is bak'd with frost. 
 
 ^ri. I do not, sir. 
 
 Pro. Tliou liest, malio;nant thins; •' Hast thou foriiot 
 The foul witch Sycorax, who, with ao-e, and envy, 
 Was grown into a hoop ? hast thou forgot her ? 
 
 Ari. No, sir. 
 
 Pro. Thou hast : Where was she born ? 
 
 speak ; tell me. 
 
 Ari. Sir, in Argier." 
 
 Pro. O, was she so ? I must. 
 
 Once in a month, recount what thou hast been. 
 Which thou forget'st. This damn'd witch, Sycorax, 
 For mischiefs manifold, and sorceries terrible 
 To enter human hearing, from Argier, 
 Thou know'st, was banish'd ; for one thing she did,'' 
 They would not take her life : Is not this true? 
 
 Ari. Ay, sir. 
 
 Pro. This blue-ey'd hag was hither brought \\4th child, 
 And here was left by the sailors : Thou, my slave. 
 As tliou report'st thyself, wast then her servant : 
 And, for thou wast a spirit too delicate 
 To act her earthy and abhorr'd commands. 
 Refusing her grand bests, she did confine thee. 
 By help of her more potent ministers. 
 And in her most unmitigable rage. 
 Into a cloven pine ; within which rift 
 Imprison'd, thou didst painfully remain 
 A do7xn years; within which space she died. 
 And left thee there ; where thou didst vent thy groans. 
 As fast as mill-wheels strike : Then was this island, 
 
 " in Argier.] Argier is tLo ancient English name for Algiers. 
 
 P for one thiug she did.] Mr. Boswill very justly remarks upon these 
 
 words, that they support the supposiiica of Shakspearc's having taken tho 
 suhjett of this i>lay from some pojiuhir story of his tinj<>, in wliic h the circum- 
 stance tliat saved the life of Sycorax was rehited, hut towhieli Shakspeare has 
 not thought it necessary to .allude. — In a recent number of the I^ndon Ma- 
 gazine, it is suggested, that the one thing which saved the life of Sycorax w;is 
 her pregnancy, :us it was in all countries illegal to i)ut witches to du'ath in 
 that state. 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 18 TEMPEST. 
 
 (Save for the son that she did litter here, 
 
 A freckled whelp, hag-born,) not honour'd with 
 
 A human shape. 
 
 Ari. Yes ; Caliban her son. 
 
 P7V. Dull thing, I say so ; he, that Caliban, 
 Whom now I keep in service. Thou best know'st 
 What torment I did find thee in : thy groans 
 Did make wolves howl, and penetrate the breasts 
 Of ever-angry bears ; it was a torment 
 To lay upon the damn'd, which Sycorax 
 Could not again undo ; it was mine art, 
 When I arriv'd, and heard thee, that made gape 
 The pine, and let thee out. 
 
 Ari. I thank thee, master. 
 
 Pro. If thou more murmur'st, I will rend an oak. 
 And peg thee in his knotty entrails, till 
 Thou hast howl'd away twelve winters. 
 
 Ari. Pardon, master : 
 
 I will be correspondent to command. 
 And do my spiriting gently. 
 
 Pro. Do so ; and after two days 
 
 I will discharge thee. 
 
 Ari. That's my noble master ! 
 
 What shall I do ? say what ? what shall I do ? 
 
 Pro. Go, make thyself like to a nymph o'the sea;'' 
 Be subject to no sight but mine ; invisible 
 To every eye-ball else. Go, take this shape. 
 And hither come in't : hence, with diligenge. [Exit Ariel. 
 Awake, dear heart, awake ! thou hast slept well ; 
 Awake ! 
 
 Mira. The strangeness of your story put 
 Heaviness in me. 
 
 Pro. Shake it off: Come on ; 
 
 We'll visit Caliban, my slave, who never 
 Yields us a kind answer. 
 
 1 Steevens complains that there is not a sufficient cause for Ariel's assuming 
 this shape, since he was to be invisible to all eyes but his. — There is no such 
 inconsistency. — Ariel is to assume a disguise which may prevent his being 
 known by any other eye than Prospero's, as his ministering angel. — Lord 
 
 t'HEDWOHTH.
 
 ACT I.— SCENE ir. 19 
 
 Mirfi. 'Tis a villain, sir, 
 
 I do not love to look on. 
 
 Pro. But, as 'tis. 
 
 We cannot miss him :■" he does make our fire, 
 Fetch in our wood ; and serves in offices 
 That profit us. What ho ! slave ! Caliban ! 
 Thou earth, thou ! speak. 
 
 Cal. [within.] There's wood enough within. 
 
 Pro. Come forth, I say; there's other business for thee: 
 Come forth, thou tortoise ! when ?^ 
 
 Re-enter Ariel, like a Water-Ni/mph. 
 Fine apparition ! my quaint Ariel, 
 Hark in thine ear. 
 
 Ari. My lord, it shall be done. [Exit. 
 
 Pro. Thou poisonous slave, got by the devil himself 
 Upon thy wicked dam, come forth ! 
 
 E?iter Caliban.* 
 Cal. As wicked dew as e'er my mother brush'd 
 
 With raven's featlier from unwholesome fen. 
 
 Drop on you both ! a south-west blow on ye. 
 
 And blister you all o'er. 
 
 Pro. For this, be sure, to-night thou shalt have cramps. 
 
 Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up ; urchins ' 
 
 f We cannot miss him :'\ We cannot do without him. 
 
 *■ when ?] This expression of impatience is not unfrequent in our old 
 
 dramas, we have it in Julius Ca;sar, " When, Decius, when?" 
 
 ' Dr. Farmer has observed, that the name of Caliban is formed from trans- 
 posing the letters of the word canibal. — I cannot here forbear presenting the 
 reader with M. Schlegel's admirable description of this earth-born monster : 
 " Caliban est une esp^ce de singe lourd et t-pais, auquel le langage humain et 
 un peu de raisonnement ont M pret^s. II est l&che, faux, servile, il se rijouit 
 du mal, et cependant il ne resemble point a. ces sc^l^rats de la lie du peuple 
 que Shaksj)ear a peints quelquefois. 11 est rude, mais il n'cst ])afl vulgaire. 11 
 est, dans son genre un etre po6tique. II semble (]u'il ait saisi tout ce (|u'il y a 
 dans If langage de dissonant, de dur, de d<icluraut pour en composer son voca- 
 bulaire, de mcme ([u'il n'a empreint son imagination que de ce qui est nuisible, 
 repoussant et mescjuinement infonne, dans I'immense vari6t6 de la nature. 
 Le monde magique des esprits, rassembl^s par la baguette de Prospero, n'a 
 jete ()u'une faible reverberation dans son amc.comme un rayon de Iunii6re, qui 
 tombe dans^jne cavemc obscure, ne peut ni I'eclairer ni la rcchauffer, et no 
 fait qu'en Clever des vapeurs pestilentielles. Tonte la peinture de ce monstre 
 est d'une v6rit6 profonde et soutenue,et malgr^ la difformitt de I'objet, ellen'a 
 rien qui blesse le sentiment, parco que la dignity de la nature humaine ne s'y 
 trouve point compromise." — Court de Littemture Dramatiqiie, vol.iii. p. 41, 42. 
 
 ' nrchim] — BeingB of the fairy race, and ai)parently of a malevolent na- 
 ture. — The word urchin is perhaps synon>Tnous with elf. It is frequently ap- 
 plied to mischievous children. — It is very evident, from the context, that in 
 
 c2
 
 20 TEMPEST. 
 
 Shall, for that vast of night that they may work," 
 All exercise on thee : thou shalt be pinch'd 
 As thick as honey-combs, each pinch more stinging 
 Than bees that made them. 
 
 Cal. I must eat my dinner. 
 
 This island's mine, by Sycorax my mother. 
 Which thou tak'st from me. When thou camest first. 
 Thou strok'dstme, andmad'stmuchof me; would'st give me 
 Water with berries in't ; and teach me how 
 To name the bigger light, and how the less. 
 That burn by day and night : and then I lov'd thee. 
 And shew'd thee all the qualities o'the isle. 
 The fresh springs, brine pits, barren place, and fertile ; 
 Curs'd be I that I did so I'' — All the charms 
 Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you ! 
 For I am all the subjects that you have. 
 Which first was mine own king ; and here you sty me 
 In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me 
 The rest of the island. 
 
 Pro. Thou most lying slave. 
 
 Whom stripes may move, not kindness : I have us'd thee. 
 Filth as thou art, with human care ; and lodg'd thee 
 In mine own cell, till thou did'st seek to violate 
 The honour of my child. 
 
 Cal. O ho, O ho ! — 'would it had been done ! 
 Thou did'st prevent me ; I had peopled else 
 This isle with Calibans. 
 
 Pro. Abhorred slave ; 
 
 Which any print of goodness will not take. 
 Being capable of all ill ! I pitied thee, 
 
 this place the word could never mean hedgeliog, as some of the commen- 
 tators have interpreted it. 
 
 " for that vast of night tluit they may work,'] The va&t of vight means 
 
 the night which is naturally empty and deserted, without action ; or when all 
 things lying in sleep and silence, makes the world appear one great uninha- 
 bited waste. — So in Hamlet: 
 
 " in the dead waste and middle of the night." 
 
 It should be remembered, that, in the pneumatology of former ages, these 
 particulars were settled with the most minute exactness, and the different kinds 
 of visionary beings had different allotments of time suitable to the variety or 
 consequence of their employments. During these spaces, they were at liberty 
 to act, but were always obliged to leave off at a certain hour, that they might 
 not interfere in that portion of night which belonged to others. — Steevkns. 
 
 ^ Curs'd be I that 1 did so !] 1 have adopted the reading of the second folio.
 
 ACT I.— SCENE II. 21 
 
 Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hour 
 One thing or other : when thou did'st not, savage. 
 Know thine own nieaning,y but would'st gabble like 
 A thing most brutish, I endow'd thy purposes 
 Witli words that made them known : But thy vile race,'' 
 Though thou did'st learn, had that in't which good natures 
 Could not abide to be with : therefore wast thou 
 Deservedly confin'd into this rock. 
 Who had'st deserv'd more than a prison. 
 
 Cal. You taught me language ; and my profit on't 
 Is, I know how to curse : the red plague rid you,' 
 For learning me your language ! 
 
 Pro. Hag-seed, hence ! 
 
 Fetch us in fuel ; and be quick, thou wert best. 
 To answer other business. — Shrug'st thou, malice ? — 
 If thou neglect'st, or dost unwillingly 
 ^Vhat I command, I'll rack thee with old cramps ; 
 Fill all thy bones with aches -^ make thee roar 
 That beasts shall tremble at thy din. 
 
 Cal. No, pray thee ! — 
 
 I must obey : his art is of such power, \^Aside. 
 
 It would control my dam's god, Setebos,'^ 
 And make a vassal of him. 
 
 Pro. So, slave ; hence ! 
 
 [Exit CalibaiN. 
 
 Re-enter Ariel invisible, 'playing and singing; Ferdi- 
 nand following him . 
 Ariel's Song. 
 Come unto these yellow sands. 
 And then take hands : 
 
 y Know thine cwn meaiiiitfr,'] Tlio following expression of Addison's, in .'iSPtli 
 j)a|)er of llic S|(pct:itor, may |)rove the ijosl coniiuent on this i):i,ssaj,'e. " Tho 
 Hottentots liavinf; no laupuage among them, hut a confused gabhle, which is 
 ■neither well nndm-ilcod hij thfiusehes or others. — Stkkvens. 
 
 » rufp,] — iu this place signifies nature — or inhom riualities. 
 
 * the Tfd pluf^ui^ rid i/iii<,] Tlie fr_vsi)if/(/s was anciently called tlie red 
 
 pldouc. — Stkevens. The word ri(/, means todrstroij, — Malone. 
 
 ^ • nc/ics;] 'I'his word is here written as a dissyllalile, and was commonly 
 
 pronounced as such I'vcn so late as the time of Swift, — who writes, 
 " Old fir/ifs throb, your hollow tooth will rage." — City Shmuer. 
 
 * mij (lam'f i^od, Setehos,] Rlr. Warner has observed, on the authority of 
 
 John Biirhnt, that " the Paluf^ons are reported to <lread a great honied devil 
 called >>«.'/;().«." — Fa II Mr. It. We learu from Magellan's voyage, that Setehos 
 was the supreme god of lim PatagODS. — ToLLfci.
 
 22 TEMPEST. 
 
 Courfsied when you have, and kissd,^ 
 
 (The wild waves whist, )^ 
 Foot itfeatly here and there ; 
 And, sweet sprites, the burden bear. 
 
 Hark, hark ! 
 Bur. Bowgh, wowgh. [dispersedly , 
 
 The watch-dogs bark : 
 Bur. Bowgh, wowgh. [dispersedly. 
 
 Hark, hark ! I hear 
 The strain of strutting chanticlere 
 Cry, Cock-a-doodle-doo. 
 
 Fer. Where should this music be ? i'the air, or the earth ? 
 It sounds no more : — and sure it waits upon 
 Some god of the island. Sitting on a bank 
 Weeping again the king my father's wreck. 
 This music crept by me upon the waters ; 
 Allaying both their fury, and my passion. 
 With its sweet air : thence I have foliow'd it. 
 Or it hath drawn me rather : — But 'tis gone. 
 No, it begins again. 
 
 Akiel sings. 
 
 Full fathom Jive thy father lies;^ 
 
 Of his bones are coral made ; 
 Those are pearls, that loere his eyes : 
 
 Nothing of him that doth fade, 
 But doth suffer a sea-change 
 Into something rich and strange. 
 Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: 
 Hark ! now I hear them, — ding-dong, bell. 
 
 [Burden ding-dong. 
 
 Fer. The ditty does remember my drown'd father : — 
 
 d Court'sied when you have, and kiss'd,] As was anciently done at the begin- 
 ning of some dances. — 
 
 " I were unmannerly to take you out 
 And not to kiss you." — Henry Eighth, 
 « The wild waves ti'/iist,] — being silent. 
 
 ' Full fathom five thy father lies; &c.] The songs in this play, Dr. Wilson, 
 who reset and published two of them, tells us, in his Court Ayres, or Ballads, 
 published at Oxford, 1660, that " TuU fathom five," and " Where the bee sucks," 
 had been first set by Robert Johnson, a composer, contemporary with Shak- 
 speare . — B u r n i; y .
 
 ACT L— SCENE II. 23 
 
 This is no mortal business, nor no sound 
 
 That the earth owes :s — I hear it now above me. 
 
 Pro. The fringed curtains of thine eye advance 
 And say, what thou seest yond'. 
 
 Mira. Whatis't? a spirit? 
 
 Lord, how it looks about ! Believe me, sir. 
 It carries a brave form : — But 'tis a spirit. 
 
 Pro. No, wench ; it eats and sleeps, and hath such senses 
 
 As we have, such : This gallant, which thou seest. 
 
 Was in the wreck ; and but he's something stain'd 
 
 With grief — that's beauty's canker — thou might'st call him 
 
 A goodly person. He hath lost his fellows. 
 
 And strays about to find them. 
 
 Mira. I mifrht call him 
 
 o 
 
 A thing divine ; for nothing natural 
 I ever saw so noble. 
 
 Pro. It goes on, I see, \^Aside. 
 
 As my soul prompts it : — Spirit, fine spirit ! I'll free thee 
 W^ithin two days for this. 
 
 Fer. Most sure, the goddess 
 
 On whom these airs attend ! — Vouchsafe, my prayer 
 May know, if you remain upon this island ; 
 And that you will some good instruction give, 
 How I may bear me here : My prime request. 
 Which I do last pronounce, is, O you wonder ! 
 If you be maid or no ?'' 
 
 Mira. No wonder, sir ; 
 
 But, certainly a maid. 
 
 Fer. My language ! heavens ! — 
 
 I am the best of them that speak this speech. 
 Were 1 but where 'tis spoken. 
 
 Pro. How ! the best ? 
 
 What wert thou, if the king of Naples heard thee? 
 
 Fer. A single thing, as 1 am now, that wonders 
 To hear thee speak of Naples : He docs hear me i 
 And that he does, I weep : myself am Naples ; 
 
 K flUM.-] — owns. 
 
 h maid or noi'] — 'ITjis is thorpiidinp of (lio throe first folios ; in the fourth, 
 
 »»'(f/ewas printed liy mistALe. 'I'hi.* trior was fancilully supported by Warhur- 
 ton, and continued by Malpne.
 
 24 TEMPEST. 
 
 Who with mine eyes, ne'er since at ebb, beheld 
 The king my father wrecked. 
 
 Mira. Alack, for mercy 1 
 
 Fer. Yes, faith, and all his lords ; the duke of Milan, 
 And his brave son,' being twain. 
 
 -Pro. The duke of Milan, 
 
 And his more braver daughter, could control thee,*" 
 If now 'twere fit to do't : — At the first sight {Aside. 
 
 They have chang'd eyes ; — Delicate Ariel, 
 I'll set thee free for this ! — A word, good sir ; 
 I fear you have done yourself some wrong :' a word. 
 
 Mira. Why speaks my father so ungently ? This 
 Is the third man that e'er I saw ; the first 
 That e'er I sigh'd for. — Pity move my father 
 To be inclin'd my way ! 
 
 Fer. O, if a virgin. 
 
 And your affection not gone forth, I'll make you 
 The queen of Naples. 
 
 -Pro. Soft, sir ; one word more. — 
 
 They are both in either's powers ; but this swift business 
 I must uneasy make, lest too light winning {Aside. 
 
 Make the prize light. — One word more ; I charge thee. 
 That thou attend me : thou dost here usurp 
 The name thou ow'st™ not ; and hast put thyself 
 Upon this island, as a spy, to win it 
 From me, the lord on't. 
 
 Fer. No, as I am a man. 
 
 Mira. There's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple : 
 If the ill spirit have so fair a house. 
 Good things will strive to dwell with't. 
 
 "ro. ^ Follow me. — 
 
 [To Ferd. 
 Speak not you for him ; he's a traitor. — Come, 
 I'll manacle thy neck and feet together : 
 
 his brave son,'] We here meet with another proof, that this play was 
 
 taken from some novel, in which the son of the duke of Milan was one of the 
 characters ; but whom Shakspeare appears to have rejected as unnecessary 
 to his plot. — No such personage appears. 
 
 ^ control thee,'] Confute, or unanswerably contradict thee. 
 
 ^ —-— done yourself some wro7?o;;]_ uttered a falsehood, and thus wroneed 
 your honour. ° 
 
 "■ - — -ouj'il] — own'st.
 
 ACT I.— SCENE II. 25 
 
 Sea-water shalt thou drink, thy food shall be 
 
 The fresh-brook muscles, wither'd roots, and husks 
 
 Wherein the acorn cradled ; Follow. 
 
 Fer. No ; 
 
 1 will resist such entertainment, till 
 Mine enemy has more power. [He draivs. 
 
 Mira. O dear father. 
 
 Make not too rash a trial of him, for 
 He's gentle, and not fearful." 
 
 Pro. What, I say. 
 
 My foot my tutor ! Put thy sword up, traitor ; 
 Who mak'st a shew, but dar'st not strike, thy conscience 
 Is so possess'd with guilt : come ; from thy ward ; 
 For I can here disarm thee Avith this stick. 
 And make thy weapon drop. 
 
 Mira. Beseech you, father ! 
 
 Pro. Hence ; hang not on my garments. 
 
 Mira. Sir, have pity ; 
 
 I'll be his surety. 
 
 Pro. Silence ! one word more 
 
 Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee. What ! 
 An advocate for an impostor ? hush ! 
 Thou think 'st there are no more such shapes as he. 
 Having seen but him and Caliban : Foolish wench ! 
 To the most of men this is a Caliban, 
 And they to him are angels. 
 
 Mira. My affections 
 
 Are then most humble ; I have no ambition 
 To see a goodlier man. 
 
 Pro. Come on ; obey : [To Ferd. 
 
 Thy nerves are in their infancy again. 
 And have no vigour in them. 
 
 Fer. So they are : 
 
 My spirits, as in a dream, are all bound up." 
 My fatlier's loss, the weakness which I feel, 
 The wreck of all my friends, or this man's threats. 
 To whom I am subdurd, are but light to me, 
 
 " not fenrftd.'\ i. c. courageous. 
 
 " Nil spirits, tis in a ilreum, arc all linuiid uji. | Alluding to a common sfiisa- 
 tion in dreams • when wo etrumjic, but cannot nin,6trike, &.c. — Wahuuuton.
 
 26 TEMPEST. 
 
 Might I but through my prison once a day 
 Behold this maid : all corners else o'the earth 
 Let liberty make use of; space enough 
 Have I, in such a prison. 
 
 Pro. It works : — Come on. 
 Thou hast done well, fine Ariel ! — Follow me. — 
 
 [To Ferd. and Mir. 
 Hark, what thou else shalt do me. [To Ariel. 
 
 Mira. Be of comfort ; 
 
 My father's of a better nature, sir. 
 Than he appears by speech ; this is unwonted. 
 Which now came from him. 
 
 Pro. Thou shalt be as free 
 
 As mountain winds ; but then exactly do 
 All points of my command. 
 
 Ari. To the syllable. 
 
 Pro. Come, follow : speak not for him. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — Another part of the Island. 
 
 Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Gonzalo, 
 Adrian, Francisco, and others. 
 
 Gon. 'Beseech you, sir, be merry : you have cause 
 (So have we all) of joy ; for our escape 
 Is much beyond our loss ; Our hint of woeP 
 Is common ; every day, some sailor's wife. 
 The masters of some merchant,'' and the merchant. 
 Have just our theme of woe : but for the miracle, 
 I mean our preservation, few in millions 
 Can speak like us : then wisely, good sir, weigh 
 Our sorrow with our comfort. 
 
 P hint of woe'] Any danger from which one has escaped, may very pro- 
 perly be termed a hint of woe. — M. Mason. 
 
 1 The masters of some mercltant, &c.] Thus the old copy. If the passage be 
 not corrupt, (as I suspect it is), we must suppose that by masters our author 
 means the owners of a merchant ship, or the officers to whom the navigation of 
 it had been trusted. 1 suppose, however, that our author wrote — • 
 
 " The mistress of some merchant," &c. 
 Mistress was anciently spelt — maistresse or muistres. Hence, perhaps, arose the 
 present typographical error. — Steevens. I have given Mr. Steevens's note en- 
 tire, though the line appears to me to be perfectly correct as it stands. The 
 masters I understand to mean ship-owners ; the merchant is the peraon hired 
 to navigate their vessel, and conduct their traflfic.
 
 ACT II.— SCENE I. 27 
 
 J Ion. Pr'ythee, peace. 
 
 Seb. He receives comfort like cold porridge. 
 
 Ant. The visitor'' vf'\\\ not give him o'er so. 
 
 Seb. Look, he's winding up the watch of his wit ; 
 By and by it will strike. 
 
 Gon. Sir, — 
 
 Seb. One:— Tell. 
 
 Gon. When every grief is entertain'd, that's ofFer'd, 
 Comes to the entertainer — 
 
 Seb. A dollar. 
 
 Gon. Dolour comes to him indeed ; you have spoken 
 truer than you purposed. 
 
 Seb. You have taken it wiselier than I meant you 
 should. 
 
 Gon. Therefore, my lord, — 
 
 Ant. Fye, what a spendthrift is he of his tongue ! 
 
 Alon. I pr'ythee spare. 
 
 Gon. Well, I have done ; But yet — 
 
 Seb. He will be talking. 
 
 Ant. Which of them, he, or Adrian, for a good wager, 
 first begins to crow ? 
 
 Seb. The old cock. 
 
 Ant. The cockrel. 
 
 Seb. Done : the wager ? 
 
 Ant. A laughter. 
 
 Seb. A match. 
 
 Adr. Though this island seem to be desert, — 
 
 Seb. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Ant. So, you've pay'd.' 
 
 Adr. Uninhabitable, and almost inaccessible, — 
 
 Seb. Yet, 
 
 Adr. Yet— 
 
 Ant. He could not miss it. 
 
 ' The visitor — ] Gonzalo gives not only advice but comfort, and is there- 
 fore properly called The viiitor, like others who visit tlie sick or distressed to 
 give them consolation. In some of the protestant cbuicbcs there is a kind of 
 oflBcers termed consolators for the sick. — Johnson. 
 
 • you've p((i/Vi.J The meaning is this: Antonio lays a wager with Se- 
 bastian, that Adrian would crow hcfore Gonzalo, and the w.ager was a laugh- 
 ter. Adrian speaks first, so Antonio is the winner. Sebastian laughs at what 
 Adrian hads.iiil, and Antonio immediately acknowledges tliat by his laughing 
 he has paid the bet.— M. Mason.
 
 28 TEMPEST. 
 
 Adr. It must needs be of subtle, tender, and delicate 
 temperance/ 
 
 Ant. Temperance was a delicate wench." 
 
 Seb. Ay, and a subtle ; as he most learnedly delivered. 
 
 Adr. The air breathes upon us here most sweetly. 
 
 Seb. As if it had lungs, and rotten ones. 
 
 Atit. Or, as 'twere perfumed by a fen. 
 
 Gon. Here is every thing advantageous to life. 
 
 Ant. True ; save means to live. 
 
 Seb. Of that there's none, or little. 
 
 Gon. How lush^ and lusty the grass looks ? how green ? 
 
 Ant. The ground, indeed, is tawny. 
 
 Seb. With an eye of green in't." 
 
 Ant. He misses not much. 
 
 Seb. No ; he doth but mistake the truth totally. 
 
 Gon. But the rarity of it is (which is indeed almost be- 
 yond credit) — • 
 
 Seb. As many vouch'd rarities are. 
 
 Go7i. That our garments, being, as they were, drenched 
 in the sea, hold, notwithstanding, their freshness, and 
 glosses ; being rather new dy'd, than stain'd with saltwater. 
 
 Ant. If but one of his pockets could speak, would it 
 not say, he lies ? 
 
 Seb. Ay, or very falsely pocket up his report. 
 
 Gon. Methinks our garments are now as fresh as when 
 we put them on first in Afric, at the marriage of the 
 king's fair daughter Claribel to the king of Tunis. 
 
 Seb. 'Twas a sweet marriage, and we prosper well in 
 our return. 
 
 Adr. Tunis was never graced before with such a para- 
 gon to their queen. 
 
 Gon. Not since widow Dido's time. 
 Ant. Widow ? a pox o'that ! How came that widow in ? 
 Widow Dido ! 
 
 Seb. What if he had said widower iEneas too ? good 
 lord how you take it ! 
 
 ' "^nd deZicafe temperance.] or temperature. — Steevens. 
 
 " Temperance teas a delicate wench.'] In the puritanical times it was usual to 
 christen children from the titles of religious and moral virtues. — Steevens. 
 « How lush, &c.] Lush here signifies rank. 
 > With an eye of green ih'*.] An eye is a email shade of colour. — Steevens-.
 
 ACT II.— SCENE I. 29 
 
 Adr. Widow Dido, said you ? you make me study of 
 that : She was of Carthage, not of Tunis. 
 
 Gon. This Tunis, sir, was Carthage. 
 
 Adr. Carthage ? 
 
 Gon. I assure you, Carthage. 
 
 Ant. His word is more than the miraculous harp.^ 
 
 Seb. He hath rais'd the wall, and houses too. 
 
 Ant. What impossible matter will he make easy next? 
 
 Seb. I think he will carry this island home in his pocket, 
 and give it his son for an apple. 
 
 Ant. And sowing the kernels of it in the sea, bring fortli 
 more islands. 
 
 Gon. Ay ? 
 
 Ant. Why, in good time. 
 
 Gon. Sir, we were talking that our garments seem now 
 as fresh, as when we were at Tunis at the marriage of your 
 daughter, who is now queen. 
 
 Ant. And the rarest that e'er came there. 
 
 Seb. 'Bate I beseech you, widow Dido. 
 
 Ant. O, widow Dido; ay, widow Dido. 
 
 Gon. Is not, sir, my doublet as fresh as the first day I 
 wore it ? I mean, in a sort. 
 
 Atit. That sort was well fish'd for. 
 
 Gon. When I wore it at your daughter's marriage ? 
 
 Alon. You cram these words into mine ears, against 
 The stomach of my sense : 'Would I had never 
 Married my daughter there ! for, coming thence. 
 My son is lost ; and, iu my rate, she too. 
 Who is so far from Italy remov'd, 
 1 ne'er again shall see her. O thou mine heir 
 Of Naples and of Milan, what strange fish 
 Hath made his meal on thee ! 
 
 Fran. Sir, he may live ; 
 
 I saw him beat the surges under him, 
 And ride upon their backs ; he trod the water. 
 Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted 
 The sur^e most swohi tliat met him ; his buhl iioad 
 'Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oar'd 
 
 1 lUe miraculous /m;/'. j AUudiug to tLu wouduib of Aiupliioii'.s iiiiisic. — 
 
 Stelvenb.
 
 30 TEMPEST. 
 
 Himself with his good arms in lusty stroke 
 To the shore, that o'er his wave-worn basis bow'd. 
 As stooping to relieve him ; I not doubt. 
 He came alive to land. 
 
 Alon. No, no, he's gone. 
 
 Seb. Sir, you may thank yourself for this great loss ; 
 That would not bless our Europe with your daughter. 
 But rather lose her to an African ; 
 Where she, at least, is banish'd from your eye. 
 Who hath cause to wet the grief on't. 
 
 Alon. Pr'ythee, peace. 
 
 Seb. You were kneel'd to, and importun'd otherwise 
 By all of us ; and the fair soul herself 
 Weigh'd,^ between lothness and obedience, at 
 Which end o'the beam she'd bow. We have lost your son, 
 I fear, for ever. Milan and Naples have 
 More widows in them of this business' making, 
 Than we bring men to comfort them. The fault's 
 Your own. 
 
 Alon. So is the dearest of the loss. 
 
 Gon. My lord Sebastian, 
 
 The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness. 
 And time to speak it in ; you rub the sore. 
 When you should bring the plaster. 
 
 Seb. Very well. 
 
 Ant. And most chirurgeonly. 
 
 Gon. It is foul weather in us all, good sir. 
 When you are cloudy. 
 
 Seb. Foul weather ? 
 
 Ant. Very foul. 
 
 Gon. Had I a plantation of this isle, my lord, — 
 
 Ant. He'd sow it with nettle-seed. 
 
 Seb. Or docks, or mallows. 
 
 Gon. And were the king of it. What would I do ? 
 
 Seb. 'Scape being drunk, for want of wine. 
 
 Gon- I'the commonwealth I would by contraries 
 Execute all things : for no kind of traffic 
 Would I admit ; no name of magistrate ; 
 Letters should not be known ; riches, poverty, 
 
 * WeigWd,'\~-deliberuted.
 
 ACT II.—SCENE I. 31 
 
 And use of service, none : contract, succession, 
 
 Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none -^ 
 
 No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil : 
 
 No occupation ; all men idle, all ; 
 
 And women too ; but innocent and pure : 
 
 No sovereignty -^ — 
 
 Seb. And yet he would be king on't. 
 
 Ant. The latter end of his commonwealth forgets the 
 beginning.'' 
 
 Gon. All things in common nature should produce 
 Without sweat or endeavour ; treason, felony. 
 Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine, 
 Would I not have ; but nature should bring forth, 
 Of its own kind, all foizon,*^ all abundance. 
 To feed my innocent people. 
 
 Seb. No marrying 'mong his subjects ? 
 
 Ant. None, man ; all idle ; whores, and knaves. 
 
 Gon. I would with such perfection govern, sir. 
 To excel the golden age. 
 
 Seb. 'Save his majesty ! 
 
 A7it. Long live Gonzalo ! 
 
 Gon. And, do you mark me, sir ? — 
 
 Alon. Pr'ythee, no more : thou dost talk nothing to me. 
 
 Gon. I do well believe your highness ; and did it to 
 minister occasion to these gentlemen, who are of such sen- 
 sible and nimble lungs, that they always use to laugh at 
 
 nothino;. 
 
 A lit. 'Twas you we laugh'd at. 
 
 * I havp given the text according to Malone's edition, which is also that of 
 the first foho. 
 
 *> Shakspcare has here closely followed a passage in Montaigne's Essays, 
 translated by John Florio, fol. 1603 : — " It is a nation, would I answer Plato, 
 that hath no kind of trafficke, no knowledge of letters, no intelligence of num- 
 bers, no name of magiitrale, nor oj politic iuperioritie ; no tise oj service, of rirhrs, 
 or of povertie, no contracts, no successions, no partitions, no occupation, hut idle ; 
 no respect of kindred, but common ; no apparel, but nature ; no iisu of corn, 
 wine, or metal. The very words that imj>ort lying, falsehood, treason, dissimu- 
 latioDs, covetousness, en vie, detraction, ;uid pardon, were never heard among 
 them." — This passage was pointed out by INlr. Capel. IMontaigne is speaking 
 of a newhi-discovered country, which he calls " Antartick France." 
 
 *^ The latter (nd of his conimonuealth Jorgrts titi' Ixgintiiug.l^ All lliis dialopfuo 
 is a fine satire on the Utopian treatises of government, and (Ik^ inipr-acticahle 
 inconsistent schemes therein recommended. — W a h burton. 
 
 all foizoii,] Foison.oT foizon, eif;nifics yi\cnty,uhertni : and sometimes 
 
 moisture, or juice of grass.
 
 32 TEMPEST. 
 
 Gon. Who, in this kind of merry fooling, am nothing 
 to you : so you may continue, and laugh at nothing still. 
 
 Ant. What a blow was there given ? 
 
 Seb. An it had not fallen flat-long. 
 
 Gon. You are gentlemen of brave mettle : you would 
 lift the moon out of her sphere, if she would continue in it 
 five weeks without changing. 
 
 Enter Ariel invisible, playing solemn music.^ 
 
 Seb. We would so, and then go a bat-fowhng. 
 
 Ant. Nay, good my lord, be not angry. 
 
 Gon. No, I warrant you ; I will not adventure my dis- 
 cretion so weakly. Will you laugh me asleep, for I am 
 very heavy ? 
 
 Ant. Go sleep, and hear us. 
 
 [All sleep but Alon. Seb. and Ant. 
 
 Alan. What, all so soon asleep ! I wish mine eyes 
 Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts : I find. 
 They are inclin'd to do so. 
 
 Seb. Please you, sir. 
 
 Do not omit the heavy offer of it : 
 It seldom visits sorrow i when it doth. 
 It is a comforter. 
 
 Ant. We two, my lord. 
 
 Will guard your person, while you take your rest. 
 And watch your safety. 
 
 Alon. Thank you : wondrous heavy. — 
 
 [Alonso sleeps. Exit Ariel. 
 
 Seb. What a strange drowsiness possesses them ! 
 
 Ant. It is the quality o'the cHmate. 
 
 Seb. Why 
 
 Doth it not then our eyelids sink ? I find not 
 Myself dispos'd to sleep. 
 
 j\^jif^ Nor I ; my spirits are nimble. 
 
 They fell together all, as by consent ; 
 They dropp'd, as by a thunder-stroke. What might. 
 Worthy Sebastian?— O, what might?— No more :— 
 And yet, methinks, I see it in thy face, 
 
 e Enter Ariel, &c. plat^ing solemn music.'\ This stage-direction does not 
 mean to tell us that Arielhimself was the Jidicen ; but that solemn music at- 
 tended bis appearance, or was au accompaniment to his entry — Steevens.
 
 ACT II.— SCENE I. 33 
 
 What thou should'st be : the occasion speaks thee ; and 
 My strong imagination sees a crown 
 Dropping upon thy head. 
 
 Seb. What, art thou waking ? 
 
 Ant. Do you not hear me speak ? 
 
 Seb. I do ; and, surely, 
 
 It is a sleepy language ; and thou speak'st 
 Out of thy sleep : What is it thou didst say ? 
 This is a strange repose, to be asleep 
 With eyes wide open ; standing, speaking, moving, 
 And yet so fast asleep. 
 
 Ant. Noble Sebastian, 
 
 Thou lett'st thy fortune sleep — die rather ; wink'st 
 Whiles thou art waking. 
 
 Seb. Thou dost snore distinctly •■, 
 
 There's meaning in thy snores. 
 
 Ant. I am more serious than my custom : you 
 Must be so too, if heed me ; which to do. 
 Trebles thee o'er.*^ 
 
 Seb. Well ; I am standing water. 
 
 Ant. I'll teach you how to flow. 
 
 Seb. Do so : to ebb, 
 
 Hereditary sloth instructs me. 
 
 Ant. O, 
 
 If you but knew, how you the purpose cherish, 
 Whiles thus you mock it ! how, in stripping it. 
 You more invest it !^ Ebbing men, indeed, 
 
 f I am more serious than my rKstom : yf^ii- 
 
 Must he so too, if heed me; which to do. 
 
 Trebles thee o'er.] The meaning of this passage seems to be — You must 
 put o» more than your usual seriousness, if you are disposed to pay a proper 
 attention to my proposal ; which attention if you bestow it, will in the end make 
 you thrice what you are. Seba.-itian is already brother to the throne; but l)eing 
 made a king by Antonio's contrivance (would be, according to our author's 
 idea of greatness), thrice the man he was before. In this sense he would bo 
 trebled o'er. — Malomk. 
 
 K It you hut knew, how yon the purpose cherish, 
 
 Whiles thus yon mock it ! how, in stripping it , 
 
 Yon more invest it!] A judicious critic, in The Edinhurgh Magazine, foi 
 Nov. 1786, offers the following illustration of (his obscure passage. " Sebas- 
 tian introduces the simile of water. Ft is taken \ip by /Vntonio, who says he 
 will teach his stagnant water to flow. ' — It has already learned to ebb, say« 
 Sebastian. To which Antonio replies. ' 0, if yon hut knetr how much even that 
 mttaphor, which you use injest, encourages to the design which I hint at ; how, in 
 stripping the words of their common meaning, and using them Jiguratively, you 
 adapt tlitm to ymir own situtition !' — Stkfvp.ns. 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 TEMPEST. 
 
 Most often do so near the bottom run, 
 By their own fear, or sloth. 
 
 Seb. Pr'ythee say on : 
 
 The setting of thine eye, and cheek, proclaim 
 A matter from thee ; and a birth, indeed. 
 Which throes thee much to yield. 
 
 Ant. Thus, sir : 
 
 Although this lord of weak remembrance,'' this 
 (Who shall be of as little memory. 
 When he is earth'd), hath here almost persuaded 
 (For he's a spirit of persuasion only. 
 Professes to persuade') the king, his son's alive ; 
 'Tis as impossible that he's undrown'd. 
 As he that sleeps here swims. 
 
 Seb. I have no hope 
 
 That he is undrown'd. 
 
 Ant. O, out of that no hope. 
 
 What great hope have you ! no hope, that way, is 
 Another way so high a hope, that even 
 Ambition cannot pierce a wink beyond,'' 
 But doubts discovery there. Will you grant, with me. 
 That Ferdinand is drown'd ? 
 
 Seb. He's gone. 
 
 Ant. Then tell me. 
 
 Who's the next heir of Naples ? 
 
 Seb. Claribel. 
 
 Ant. She that is queen of Tunis : she that dwells 
 Ten leagues beyond man's life ; she that from Naples 
 Can have no note ; unless the sun were post 
 (The man i'the moon's too slow), till new-born chins 
 Be rough and razorable ; she, from whom' 
 We were all sea-swallow'd, though some cast again ; 
 
 h this lord of weak remembrance.^ This lord, who, being now in his do- 
 tage, has outlived his faculty of remembering ; and who, once laid in the 
 ground, shall be as little remembered himself, as he can now reraember other 
 things. — Johnson. 
 
 ' For he's a spirit of persuasion only, 
 Professes to persuade.'] The obscurity in this passage arises from a miscon- 
 ception of the word he's, which is not an abbreviation of he is, but oi he has ; 
 and from the elliptical omission of who before pvif esses. — M.Mason. 
 
 ^ a wink beyond,] That this is the utmost extent of the prospect of am- 
 bition, the point where the eye can pass no farther. — ^Johnson. 
 
 I slie, from whom — ] i. e. in coming from wliom* — Ma lone.
 
 ACT II.— SCENE I. 35 
 
 And, by that, destin'd to perform an act, 
 Whereof what's past is prologue ; what to come. 
 In yours and my discharge. 
 
 Seb. What stuff is this ? — How say you ? 
 
 'Tis true, my brother's daughter's queen of Tunis : 
 So is she heir of Naples ; 'twixt which regions 
 There is some space. 
 
 Ant. A space whose eveiy cubit 
 
 Seems to cry out. How shall Ihat Claribel 
 Measure us back to Naples ? — Keep in Tunis, 
 And let Sebastian wake ! — Say, this were death 
 That now hath seiz'd them ; why, they were no worse 
 Than now they are : There be, that can rule Naples, 
 As well as he that sleeps ; lords, that can prate 
 As amply, and unnecessarily. 
 As this Gonzalo ; I myself could make 
 A chough'" of as deep chat. O, that you bore 
 The mind that I do ! what a sleep were this 
 For your advancement ! Do you understand me ? 
 
 Seb. Methinks, I do. 
 
 Ant. And how does your content 
 
 Tender your own good fortune ? 
 
 Seb. I remember. 
 
 You did supplant your brother Prospero. 
 
 Ant. True : 
 
 And, look, how well my garments sit upon me ; 
 Much feater than before : My brother's servants 
 Were then my fellows, now they are my men. 
 
 Seb. But, for your conscience — 
 
 Ant. Ay, sir; where lies that? if it were a kybe, 
 'Twould put me to my slipper : But I feel not 
 This deity in my bosom ; twenty consciences. 
 That stand 'twixt me and Milan, candied be they. 
 And melt, ere they molest ! Here lies your brother. 
 No better than the earth he lies upon. 
 If he were that which now he's like, that's dead : 
 Whom I with this obedient steel, three inches of it. 
 Can lay to bed forever : whiles you, doing thus, 
 To the perpetual wink for aye might put 
 
 '■ A chough — ] Is ,1 bird of the jack-daw kind. 
 
 i> 2
 
 36 TEMPEST. 
 
 This ancient morsel, this sir Prudence, who 
 Should not upbraid our course. For all the rest. 
 They'll take suggestion, as a cat laps milk ; 
 They'll tell the clock to any business that 
 We say befits the hour. 
 
 Seb. Thy case, dear friend. 
 
 Shall be my precedent ; as thou got'st Milan, 
 I'll come by Naples. Draw thy sword : one stroke 
 Shall free thee from the tribute which thou pay'st ; 
 And I the king shall love thee. 
 
 Atit. Draw together : 
 
 And when I rear my hand, do you the like. 
 To fall it on Gonzalo. 
 
 Seb. O, but one word. 
 
 [They converse apart. 
 
 Music. Re-enter Ariel, invisible. 
 
 Ari. My master through his art foresees the danger 
 That you, his friend, are in ; and sends me forth, 
 (For else his projects die,) to keep them living." 
 
 [Sings in Gonzalo's ear. 
 
 While you here do snoring lie 
 Open-ey^d conspiracy 
 
 His time doth take : 
 If of life you keep a care, 
 Shake off slumber, and beware: 
 
 Awake! Aivake ! 
 
 Ant. Then let us both be sudden. 
 
 Gon. Now, good angels, preserve the king ! [They awake. 
 
 Alon. Why, how now, ho ! awake ! Why are you drawn?" 
 Wherefore this ghastly looking ? 
 
 Gon. What's the matter ? 
 
 Seb. Whiles we stood here securing your repose, 
 Even now, we heard a hollow burst of bellowing 
 Like bulls, or rather lions ; did it not wake you ? 
 It struck mine ear most terribly. 
 
 " (Far ehe his projects die), to keep them living.'] i. e. he has sent me forth to 
 keep his projects alive, which else would be destroyed by the murderof Gon- 
 zalo. — Malone. 
 
 • drawn?] Having your swords drawn.
 
 ACT II.- SCENE II. 37 
 
 A/on. I heard nothing. 
 
 Jrit. O, 'twas a din to fright a monster's ear; 
 To make an earthquake ! sure it was the roar 
 Of a whole herd of lions. 
 
 ji/on. Heard you this, Gonzalo ? 
 
 Gon. Upon mine honour, sir, I heard a humming, 
 And that a strange one too, which did awake me : 
 I shak'd you, sir, and cry'd ; as mine eyes open'd, 
 1 saw their weapons drawn : — there was a noise. 
 That's verity. 'Tis best we stand upon our guard ; 
 Or that we quit this place ; let's draw our weapons. 
 
 Alon. Lead off this ground; and let's make farther search 
 For my poor son. 
 
 Gon. Heavens keep him from these beasts ! 
 
 For he is, sure, i'the island. 
 
 Alon. Lead away. 
 
 Ari. Prospero, my lord, shall know what I have done : 
 
 [Aside. 
 So, king, go safely on to seek thy son. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Another part of the Island. 
 
 Enter Caliban, with a burden of Wood. 
 
 A noise of Thunder heard. 
 
 Cat. All the infections that the sun sucks up 
 From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall, and make him 
 By inch-meal a disease ! His spirits hear me. 
 And yet I needs must curse. But they'll nor pinch, 
 Fright me with urchin shows, pitch me i'the mire. 
 Nor lead me, like a fire-brand, in the dark 
 Out of my way, unless he bid them ; but 
 For every trifle are they set upon me : 
 Sometimes like apes, that moe? and chatter at me. 
 And after, bite me ; then like hedge-hogs, which 
 Lie tumbling in my bare-foot way, and mount 
 Their pricks at my foot-fiill ; sometime am I 
 All wound with adders, who, with cloven tongues. 
 Do hiss me into madness :— Lo ! now ! lo ! 
 
 p lUiit moc, &c.] i. c. malkC mouths.
 
 38 TEMPEST. 
 
 Enter Trinculo. 
 
 Here comes a spirit of his ; and to torment me. 
 For bringing wood in slowly ; I'll fall flat ; 
 Perchance, he will not mind me. 
 
 Trin. Here's neither bush nor shrub, to bear off any- 
 weather at all, and another storm brewing ; I hear it sing 
 i'the wind : yond' same black cloud, yond' huge one, looks 
 like a foul bumbard "^ that would shed his liquor. If it 
 should thunder, as it did before, I know not where to hide 
 my head ; yond' same cloud cannot choose but fall by 
 pailfuls. — What have we here? a man or a fish? Dead 
 or alive ? A fish : he smells like a fish ; a very ancient and 
 fish-like smell ; a kind of, not of the newest, Poor-John. 
 A strange fish ! Were I in England now, (as once I was), 
 and had but this fish painted,'' not a holiday fool there 
 but would give a piece of silver; there would this monster 
 make a man :* any strange beast there makes a man : 
 when they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, 
 they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian.* Legg'd like 
 a man ! and his fins like arms ! Warm, o'my troth ! I do 
 now let loose my opinion, hold it no longer ; this is no 
 fish, but an islander, that hath lately suffered by a thun- 
 der-bolt. [Thunder.'] Alas ! the storm is come again : my 
 best way is to creep under his gaberdine ;» there is no 
 other shelter hereabout : Misery acquaints a man with 
 
 <i bumbard'] — A tankard. — Prince Henry calls FalstaiFa huge bumbard 
 
 of sack. — Mr. Upton's proposition of reading//t// iox foul, is perhaps right. 
 
 r this fish painted, ~\ — To exhibit fishes, either real or imaginary, was 
 
 very common about the time of our author. — In the office-book of Sir Henry 
 Herbert, MS. we find, " A license to James Scale, to shew a strange fish for 
 half a yeare, the 3d of September, 1632." — Malone. 
 
 9 make a man ;] That is, make a man's fortune. — Johnson. 
 
 • dead Indian.'] This perhaps alludes to the Indians brought home by 
 
 Sir Martin Frobisher. Queen Elizabeth's original instructions to him, MS. 
 " concerning his voyage to Cathaia," &c. contain the following article : — 
 
 " You shall not bring home above three or four persons of that country, the 
 which shall be of divers ages, and shall be taken in such sort as you may, but 
 avoid offence to that people." — The fate of the first savage taken by him, 
 in compliance with this command, is ascertained. — " Whereupon when the 
 savage found himself in captivitie, for very choler and disdain, he bit his 
 tongue in twain within his mouth: notwithstanding, he died not thereof, but 
 lived until he came in Englande, and then he died of cold which he had taken at 
 sea." — Steevens. 
 
 " his gaberdine ;] A gaberdine is properly the coarse frock or outward 
 
 garment of a peasant. Spanish, gaberdina. — Steevens.
 
 ACT II.— SCENE II. 39 
 
 strange bedfellows. I will here shroud, till the dregs of 
 the storm be past. 
 
 Enter Stephano, singing: a Bo tie i)i /lis hand. 
 
 Ste. / sha/l no more to sea, to sea, 
 Here shall I die ashore ; — 
 
 This is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man's funeral : 
 Well, here's my comfort. [Diinks. 
 
 The master, the swabber,'' the boatswain, and I, 
 
 The gunner, and his mate, 
 Lov'd Mall, Meg, and Marian, and Margery, 
 
 But none of us car d for Kate: 
 
 For she had a tongue with a tang. 
 
 Would cri/ to a sailor. Go, hang : 
 She lovd not the savour of tar nor of pitch. 
 Yet a tailor might scratch her where-e'er she did itch ; 
 
 Then to sea, boys, and let Jier go hang. 
 
 This is a scurvy tune too : But here's my comfort. 
 
 [^Drinks. 
 
 Cal. Do not torment me : O ! 
 
 Ste. What's the matter ? Have we devils here ? Do 
 you put tricks upon us with savages, and men of Inde ? 
 Ha ! 1 have not 'scap'd drowning, to be afeard now of 
 your four legs ; for it hath been said, as proper a man as 
 ever went on four legs, cannot make him give ground : 
 and it shall be said so again, while Stephano breathes at 
 nostrils. 
 
 Cal. The spirit torments me : O ! 
 
 Ste. This is some monster of the isle, with four legs ; 
 who hath got, as I take it, an ague : Where the devil 
 should he learn our language? 1 will give him some relief, 
 if it be but for that. — If I can recover him, and keep him 
 tame, and get to Naples with him, he's a present for any 
 emperor that ever trod on neat's-leather. 
 
 Cal. Do not torment me, pr'ythee ; 
 I'll bring my wood home faster. 
 
 Ste. He's in his fit now ; and does not talk after the 
 wisest. He shall taste of my bottle : if he have never 
 
 * fwitbbtr,'] — ilcck-.iwrepcr.
 
 40 TEMPEST. 
 
 drunk wine afore, it will go near to remove his fit : if I 
 can recover him, and keep him tame, I will not take too 
 much''' for him : he shall pay for him that hath him, and 
 that soundly. 
 
 Cal. Thou dost me yet but little hurt ; thou wilt 
 Anon, I know it by thy trembling ;^ 
 Now Prosper works upon thee. 
 
 Ste. Come on your ways ; open your mouth : here is 
 that which will give language to you, cat \^ open your 
 mouth : this will shake your shaking, I can tell you, and 
 that soundly : you cannot tell who's your friend : open 
 your chaps again. 
 
 Trin. I should know that voice : It should be — But he 
 is drowned ; and these are devils : O ! defend me ! — 
 
 Ste. Four legs, and two voices ; a most delicate mon- 
 ster ! His forward voice ^ now is to speak well of his 
 friend ; his backward voice is to utter foul speeches, and 
 to detract. If all the wine in my bottle will recover him, 
 I will help his ague : Come, — Amen !'' I will pour some 
 in thy other mouth. 
 
 Trin. Stephano, — 
 
 Ste. Doth thy other mouth call me ? Mercy ! mercy ! 
 This a devil, and no monster : I will leave him ; I have 
 no long spoon.** 
 
 Trin. Stephano ! — if thou beest Stephano, touch me, 
 and speak to me ; for I am Trinculo ; — be not afeard, — thy 
 good friend Trinculo. 
 
 Ste. If thou beest Trinculo, come forth ; Til pull thee 
 by the lesser legs : if any be Trinculo's legs, these are 
 they. Thou art very Trinculo, indeed : How cam'st thou 
 to be the siege of this moon-calf? Can he vent Trinculos ? 
 
 "■ I will not take tuo much for him .] However great the price for which I 
 
 sell him, it will not be too much. 
 
 " / know it by thy trembling ;] This tremor is always represented as the 
 
 fffect of being possessed by the devil. So in the Comedy of Errors, Act IV. 
 Scene IV. " Mark how he treinhles in his extacy." — Steevens. 
 
 y cat ;] — in allusion to the old proverb, Good liquor will make a cat speak. 
 
 Steevens. 
 
 ^ His forward voice, &c.] The person of Fame was anciently described in 
 
 this manner.— So, in Penelope's Web, by Greene, 1601: " Fame hath two 
 faces, readie as well to backbite as to flatter."— Steevens. 
 
 * Amen!] i. e. stop your draught — come to a conclusion. — Steevens. 
 
 »> I have no long spoon.] Alluding to the proverb, A long sjioun to tat with the 
 devil, — Steevens.
 
 ACT II.— SCENE II. 41 
 
 Trhi. I took him to be killed with a thunderstroke : — 
 But art thou not drowned, Stephano 1 I hope now, thou 
 art not drowned. Is the storm overblown? I hid me 
 under the dead moon-calf's gaberdine, for fear of the storm : 
 And art thou living, Stephano ? O Stephano, two Neapo- 
 litans 'scaped ! 
 
 Sfe. Pr'ythee, do not turn me about ; my stomach is 
 not constant. 
 
 Cal. These be fine thmgs, an if they be not sprites. 
 That's a brave god, and bears celestial liquor : 
 I will kneel to him. 
 
 Ste. How did'st thou 'scape ? how cam'st thou hither ? 
 swear by this bottle, how thou cam'st hither. I escaped 
 upon a butt of sack, which the sailors heaved overboard, 
 by this bottle ! which I made of the bark of a tree, with 
 mine own hands, since I was cast a-shore. 
 
 CaL I'll swear, upon that bottle, to be thy 
 True subject ; for the liquor is not earthly. 
 
 Ste. Here, swear then how thou escap'dst. 
 
 Trin. Swam a-shore, man, like a duck ; I can swim 
 like a duck, I'll be sworn. 
 
 Ste. Here, kiss the book : Though thou canst swim like 
 a duck, thou art made like a goose. 
 
 Trin. O Stephano, hast any more of this ? 
 
 Ste. The whole butt, man ; my cellar is in a rock by 
 the sea-side, where my wine is hid. — How now, moon-calf? 
 how does thine ague ? 
 
 CaL Hast thou not dropped from heaven ? 
 
 Ste. Out o'the moon, I do assure thee : I was the man 
 in the moon, when time was. 
 
 Cal. I have seen thee in her, and I do adore thee ; 
 My mistress shewed me thee, and thy dog, and thy bush. 
 
 Ste. Come, swear to that ; kiss the book : I will furnish 
 it anon with new contents : swear. 
 
 Trin. By this good light, this is a very shallow mon- 
 ster : — 1 afeard of him ? — a very weak monster : — The man 
 i'the moon ? — a most poor credulous monster : Well drawn, 
 monster, in good sooth. 
 
 Cnl. I'll shew thee every fertile inch o'the island ; 
 And I will kiss thy foot : I pr'ythee, be my god.
 
 42 TEMPEST. 
 
 Trill. By this light, a most perfidious and drunken 
 monster : when his god's asleep, he'll rob his bottle. 
 
 Cal, I'll kiss thy foot : I'll swear myself thy subject. 
 
 Ste. Come on then ; down and swear. 
 
 Trin. I shall laugh myself to death at this puppy-headed 
 monster : a most scurvy monster ! I could find in my heart 
 to beat him, — 
 
 Ste. Come, kiss. 
 
 Tnn. — but that the poor monster's in drink : An abo- 
 minable monster ! 
 
 Cal. I'll shew thee the best springs ; I'll pluck thee 
 berries ; 
 I'll fish for thee, and get thee wood enough. 
 A plague upon the tyrant that I serve ! 
 I'll bear him no more sticks, but follow thee. 
 Thou wond'rous man. 
 
 Trin. A most ridiculous monster ; to make a wonder of 
 a poor drunkard. 
 
 Cal. I pr'ythee, let me bring thee where crabs grow ; 
 And I with my long nails will dig thee pig-nuts ; 
 Shew thee a jay's nest, and instruct thee how 
 To snare the nimble marmozet ; I'll bring thee 
 To clust'ring filberds, and sometimes I'll get thee 
 Young sea-mells"" from the rock : Wilt thou go with me ? 
 
 Ste.. I pr'ythee now, lead the way, without any more 
 talking. — Trinculo, the king and all our company else 
 being drowned, we will inherit here. — Here ; bear my bot- 
 tle. Fellow Trinculo, we'll fill him by and by again. 
 
 Cal. Farewell, master: farewell, farewell. 
 
 [Sings drunkenly. 
 Trin. A howling monster ; a drunken monster. 
 
 Cal. No more dams Til make for fish : 
 Nor fetch in firing 
 At requiring. 
 Nor scrape trenchering, nor wash dish ; 
 'Ban 'Ban, Ca — Caliban, 
 Has a new m.aster — Get a new man. 
 
 '^ iea-melW] The old reading was scamels. Mr. Theobald very judici- 
 ously corrected it to sea-mells ; which, in Lincolnshire, is the name applied to 
 all the smaller species of Gulls — JMalone. Perhaps the author's word was 
 sea-mew.
 
 ACT III.— SCENE I. 43 
 
 Freedom, hey-day ! hey-day, freedom ! freedom, hey-day, 
 freedom ! 
 Ste. O brave monster ! lead the way. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. — Before Prospero's Cell. 
 
 Enter Ferdinand, hearing a log. 
 
 Fer. There be some sports are painful ; and their labour 
 Delio-ht in them sets off: some kinds of baseness 
 Are nobly undergone ; and most poor matters 
 Point to rich ends. This my mean task 
 Would be as heavy to me, as odious ; but 
 The mistress, which I serve, quickens what's dead. 
 And makes my labours pleasures : O, she is 
 Ten times more gentle than her father's crabbed : 
 And he's compos'd of harshness. I must remove 
 Some thousands of these logs, and pile them up. 
 Upon a sore injunction : My sweet mistress 
 Weeps when she sees me work ; and says, such baseness 
 Had ne'er like executor. — I forget.** — 
 But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labours ; 
 Most busy-less, when I do it. 
 
 Enter Miranda, and PROSPERoafa distance. 
 
 Mira. Alas, now ! pray you 
 
 Work not so hard ; I would the lightning had 
 Burnt up those logs, that you are enjoin'd to pile ! 
 Pray, set it down, and rest you : when this burns, 
 'Twill weep for having wearied you : My father 
 Is hard at study ; pray now, rest yourself; 
 He's safe for these three hours. 
 
 Fer. O most dear mistress. 
 
 The sun will set, before I shall discharge 
 What I must strive to do. 
 
 Mira. If you'll sit down. 
 
 d I forget.] Perhaps he means to Bay, I forget my tatk ; but whatever 
 
 be the sense and or for would seem more proper in the next line than Init, — 
 Malone.
 
 44 TEMPEST. 
 
 ril bear your logs the while : Pray, give me that ; 
 I'll carry it to the pile. 
 
 Fer. No, precious creature : 
 
 I had rather crack my sinews, break my back. 
 Than you should such dishonour undergo. 
 While I sit lazy by. 
 
 Mira. It would become me 
 
 As well as it does you : and I should do it 
 With much more ease ; for my good will is to it. 
 And yours it is against. 
 
 Pro. Poor worm ! thou art infected ; 
 
 This visitation shews it. 
 
 Mira. You look wearily. 
 
 Fer. No, noble mistress : 'tis fresh morning with me. 
 When you are by at night. I do beseech you, 
 (Chiefly, that I might set it in my prayers). 
 What is your name ? 
 
 Mira. Miranda : — O my father, 
 
 I have broke your hest* to say so ! 
 
 Fer. Admir'd Miranda ! 
 
 Indeed, the top of admiration ; worth 
 What's dearest to the world ! Full many a lady 
 I have ey'd with best regard ; and many a time 
 The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage 
 Brought my too diligent ear : for several virtues 
 Have I lik'd several women ; never any 
 With so full soul, but some defect in her 
 Did quarrel with the noblest grace she ow'd. 
 And put it to the foil : But you, O you. 
 So perfect and so peerless, are created 
 Of every creature's best. 
 
 Mira. I do not know 
 
 One of my sex ; no woman's face remember. 
 Save, from my glass, mine own ; nor have I seen 
 More that I may call men, than you, good friend. 
 And my dear father : how features are abroad, 
 I am skill-less of ; but, by my modesty 
 (The jewel in my dower), I would not wish 
 Any companion in the world but you ; 
 
 * fiest — ] For 6£/i«s< ; i. e. command.
 
 ACT III.— SCENE I. 45 
 
 Nor can imagination form a shape, 
 Besides yourself, to like of: But I prattle 
 Something too wildly, and my father's precepts 
 I therein do forget. 
 
 Fer. I am, in my condition, 
 
 A prince, Miranda ; I do think, a king , 
 (I would, not so !) and would no more endure 
 This wooden slavery, than to sutler 
 The flesh-fly blow my mouth. — Hear my soul speak ; — 
 The very instant that I saw you, did 
 My heart fly to your service ; there resides, 
 To make me slave to it ; and for your sake. 
 Am I this patient log-man. 
 
 Mira. Do you love me ? 
 
 Fer. O heaven, O earth, bear witness to this sound. 
 And crown what I profess with kind event. 
 If I speak true ; if hollowly, invert 
 What best is boded me, to mischief! I, 
 Beyond all limit of what else i'the world ,*^ 
 Do love, prize, honour you. 
 
 Mira. I am a fool, 
 
 To weep at what I am glad of. 
 
 Pro. Fair encounter 
 
 Of two most rare affections ! Heavens rain grace 
 On that which breeds between them ! 
 
 Fer. Wherefore weep vou ? 
 
 Mira. At mine unworthiness, that dare not ofter 
 What I desire to give ; and much less take. 
 What I shall die to want : But this is trifling; 
 And all the more it seeks^ to hide itself. 
 The bijitrer bulk it shews. Hence, bashful cunning- 
 And prompt me, plain and holy innocence ! 
 I am your wife, if you will marry me ; 
 If not, I'll die your maid : to be your fellow 
 You may deny me ; but I'll be your servant. 
 Whether you will or no. 
 
 ' of what else i'the wor/rf,] i.e. of aught oUe, of whatuoerer etne there 
 
 is in the world. — Malonf. 
 
 t it iteks,"] i. e. her love seek.s.
 
 46 TEMPEST. 
 
 Fer. My mistress, dearest. 
 
 And I thus humble ever. 
 
 Mir a. My husband then? 
 
 -Fer. Ay, with a heart as wilhng 
 As bondage e'er of freedom : here's my hand. 
 
 Mira. A nd^ mine, with my heart in't : And now farewell. 
 Till half an hour hence. 
 
 Fe7\ A thousand! thousand! 
 
 [Exeunt Fer. and Mir. 
 
 Pro. So glad of this as they, I cannot be, 
 Who are surpris'd with all; but my rejoicing 
 At nothing can be more. I'll to my book; 
 For yet, ere supper time, must I perform 
 Much business appertaining. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Another part of the Island. 
 
 Enter Stephano a«c? Trinculo; CaTuIban following 
 
 with a bottle. 
 
 Ste. Tell not me ; — when the butt is out, we will drink 
 water ; not a drop before : therefore bear up, and board 
 'em :^ Servant-monster, drink to me. 
 
 Trin. Servant-monster? the folly of this island ! They 
 say, there's but five upon this isle : we are three of them ; 
 if the other two be brained like us, the state totters. 
 
 Ste. Drink, servant-monster, when I bid thee ; thy eyes 
 are almost set in thy head. 
 
 Trin. Where should they be set else ? he were a brave 
 monster indeed, if they were set in his tail. 
 
 Ste. My man-monster hath drowned his tongue in sack : 
 for my part, the sea cannot drown me: I swam, ere I 
 could recover the shore, five-and-thirty leagues, off and 
 on, by this light. — Thou shalt be my lieutenant, monster, 
 or my standard. 
 
 Trin. Your lieutenant, if you hst; he's no standard.' 
 
 ■bear up, and board 'em;] A metaphor alluding to a chase at sea. — Sir 
 
 J, Hawkins 
 
 * or my standard 
 
 Trin. Ymr lieutenant, if you list ; he's no standard.] There is a quibble here 
 between standard, an ensign, and sfo/idurd, a fruit-tree that grows without sup- 
 port. — Steevens.
 
 ACT III.— SCENE II. 47 
 
 Sle. We'll not run, monsieur monster. 
 
 Trin. Nor go neither; but you'll lie, like dogs ; and yet 
 say nothing neither. 
 
 Ste. Moon-calf, speak once in thy life, if thou beest a 
 good moon-calf. 
 
 Cal. How does thy honour? Let me lick thy shoe: I'll 
 not serve him, he is not valiant. 
 
 Trin. Thou liest, most ignorant monster; I am in case 
 to justle a constable : why, thou deboshed fish thou,*" was 
 there ever a man a coward, that hath drunk so much sack 
 as I to-day? Wilt thou tell a monstrous lie, being but 
 half a fish, and half a monster? 
 
 Cal. Lo, how he mocks me! wilt thou let him, my lord? 
 
 Trin. Lord, quoth he! — that a monster should be such 
 a natural ! 
 
 Cal. Lo, lo, again ! bite him to death, I pr'ythee. 
 
 Ste. Trinculo, keep a good tongue in your head ; if you 
 prove a mutineer, the next tree — The poor monster's my 
 subject, and he shall not suffer indignity. 
 
 Cal. I thank my noble lord. Wilt thou be pleased 
 To hearken once aoain to the suit 1 made thee? 
 
 Ste. Marry will I: kneel and repeat it; I will stand, 
 and so shall Trinculo. 
 
 Enter Ariel, invisible. 
 
 Cal. As I told thee before, I am subject to a tyrant. 
 A sorcerer, that by his cunning hath cheated me 
 Of this island. 
 
 j^ri. Thou liest. 
 
 Cal. Thou liest, thou jesting monkey, thou; 
 
 I would, my valiant master would destroy thee: 
 I do not lie. 
 
 Ste. Trinculo, if you trouble hiiu any more in ins tale, 
 by this hand, I will supplant some of your teeth. 
 
 Trin. Why, I said nothing. 
 
 Ste. Mum then, and no more. — [To Caliban.] 
 Proceed. 
 
 Cal. I say, by sorcery he got this isle; 
 
 k t/iou deboshed y^/i dwu,] the same as debauched. — Steevevs.
 
 48 TEMPEST. 
 
 From me he got it. If thy greatness will 
 Revenge it on him — for, I know thou dar'st ; 
 But this thing dare not, 
 
 Ste. That's most certain. 
 
 Cal. Thou shalt be lord of it, and I'll serve thee. 
 
 Ste. How now shall this be compassed? Canst thou 
 bring me to the party? 
 
 Cal. Yea, yea, my lord; I'll yield him thee asleep. 
 Where thou mayest knock a nail into his head . 
 
 Art. Thou liest, thou canst not. 
 
 Cal. What a pied ninny's this ?' Thou scurvy patch ! — 
 I do beseech thy greatness, give him blows. 
 And take his bottle from him : when that's gone, 
 He shall drink nought but brine ; for I'll not shew him 
 Where the quick freshes are. 
 
 Ste. Trinculo, run into no farther danger : interrupt the 
 monster one word farther, and, by this hand, I'll turn my 
 mercy out of doors, and make a stock-fish of thee. 
 
 Trill. Why, what did I ? I did nothing ; I'll go farther off. 
 
 Ste. Didst thou not say, he lied ? 
 
 Ari. Thou liest. 
 
 Ste. Do I so? take thou that. [Strikes hitn.] As you 
 like this, give me the lie another time. 
 
 Irin. I did not give the lie: — Out o' your wits, and 
 
 hearing too? A pox o' your bottle! this can sack, and 
 
 drinking do. — A murrain on your monster, and the devil 
 take your fingers ! 
 
 Cal. Ha, ha, ha! 
 
 Ste. Now, forward with your tale. Pr'ythee stand far- 
 ther off. 
 
 Cal. Beat him enough : after a little time, 
 I'll beat him too. 
 
 Ste. Stand farther. — Come, proceed. 
 
 Cal. Why, as I told thee, 'tis a custom with him 
 I'the afternoon to sleep : there thou may'st brain him, 
 Having first seiz'd his books ; or with a log 
 Batter his skull, or paunch him with a stake, 
 
 • What a pied ninny's this?"] It should be remembered, that Trinculo ii^o 
 sailor, but a. jester ; and is so called in the ancient dramatis peisona. He there- 
 fore wears the party-coloured dress of one of these characters. — Stekvens.
 
 ACT III.— SCENE II. 49 
 
 Or cut his wezand with thy knife : Remember, 
 
 First to possess his books ; for without them 
 
 He's but a sot, as I am,'" nor hath not 
 
 One spirit to command : They all do hate him, 
 
 As rootedly as I : Burn but his books ; 
 
 He has brave utensils, (for so he calls them,) 
 
 Which, when he has a house, he'll deck withal. 
 
 And that most deeply to consider, is 
 
 The beauty of his daughter ; he himself 
 
 Calls her a nonpareil : I never saw a woman, 
 
 But only Sycorax my dam, and she ; 
 
 But she as far surpasseth Sycorax, 
 
 As great'st does least. 
 
 Ste. Is it so brave a lass ? 
 
 Cal. Ay, lord ; she will become thy bed, I warrant. 
 And bring thee forth brave brood. 
 
 Ste. Monster, I will kill this man : his daughter and I 
 will be king and queen ; (save our graces !) and Trinculo 
 and thyself shall be viceroys : — Dost thou like the plot. 
 Trinculo ? 
 
 Trin. Excellent. 
 
 Ste. Give me thy hand ; I am sorry I beat thee : but, 
 while thou livest, keep a good tongue in thy head. 
 
 Cal. Within this half hour will he be asleep ; 
 Wilt tliou destroy him then ? 
 
 Ste. Ay, on mine honour. 
 
 Ari. This will I tell my master. 
 
 Ca/. Thou mak'st me merry : I am full of pleasure ; 
 Let us be jocund : Will you troll the catch " 
 You taught me but while-ere ? 
 
 Ste. At thy request, monster, I will do reason, any rea- 
 son : Come on, Trinculo, let us sing. [Sings. 
 
 Remember, 
 
 First tn pouess his bookn ; for uithnni them 
 
 lie's hvl a sot, as I tim,] In tin? old romnnccs the .sorcerer is .ilways fur- 
 nisliedwitb :i biu-ik, by rcndini; ccrt:iin jinrt.t of wliicb lio is enabled tosuniniun 
 to bis aid whatever (l:i'iiion.<< r>r spirits be has occasion to enijdoy. When he is 
 deprived of bis book, bis power ceases. Our autlior nii^bt have observed this 
 circumstance nincli insisteil on in tlie Oi/iini/ii luinniiorntnof Hoyardo : and also 
 in Harrington's translation of the Oytau<ln i'urioso, 1.'>yi.— Mai.onk. 
 
 " troll the catch — ] To troll a catch, is to di.sniiss it trippingly from the 
 
 tnilt^liC. — SlEKVf NS. 
 
 VOL. 1. E
 
 50 TEMPEST. 
 
 Flout 'em, and shout 'ew, and shout 'em, andjlout 'em ; 
 Thought is free. 
 
 Cal. That's not the tune. 
 
 [Ariel plays the tune on a tabor and pipe. 
 
 Sfe. What is this same ? 
 
 Trin. This is the tune of our catch, played by the pic- 
 ture of No-body." 
 
 Ste. If thou beest a man, shew thyself in thy likeness : 
 if thou beest a devil, tak't as thou list. 
 
 Trin. O, forgive me my sins ! 
 
 Ste. He that dies, pays all debts : I defy thee : — Mercy 
 upon us ! 
 
 Cal. Art thou afeard ? 
 
 •S'^e. No, monster, not I. 
 
 Cal. Be not afeard ; the isle is full of noises. 
 Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not. 
 Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments 
 Will hum about mine ears ; and sometimes voices. 
 That, if I then had wak'd after long sleep. 
 Will make me sleep again : and then, in dreaming, 
 The clouds, methought, would open, and shew riches 
 Ready to drop upon me ; that, when I wak'd, 
 I cry'd to dream again. 
 
 Ste. This will prove a brave kingdom to me, where I 
 shall have my music for nothing. 
 
 Cal. When Prospero is destroyed. 
 
 Ste. That shall be by and by : I remember the story. 
 
 Trin. The sound is going away : let's follow it, and after, 
 do our work. 
 
 Ste. Lead, monster ; we'll follow. — I would, I could see 
 this taborer : he lays it on. 
 
 Trin. Wilt come? I'll follow, Stephano.p [Exeunt. 
 
 the picture of No-body.] A ridiculous figure, sometimes represented 
 
 on signs, but the allusion is here to the print of No-bodu, prefixed to the ano- 
 nymous comedy of "No-body and Some-body ; without date, but printed before 
 the year 1600. — RIalone. 
 
 P Wilt come? rilfollow, Slephuno.'] The-words— Wilt cornel should be added 
 to Stephano's speech. I'll follow, is Trinculo's answer, — Ritson.
 
 ACT III.— SCENE III. 61 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Another part of the Island. 
 
 Enter Ahofi so, Sebastian, Antonio, Gonzalo, 
 Adrian, Francisco, and others. 
 
 Gon. By'r lakin,'' I can go no further, sir; 
 My old bones ache : here's a maze trod, indeed. 
 Through forth-rights and meanders ! l^y your patience, 
 I needs must rest me. 
 
 ^lon. Old lord, I cannot blame thee. 
 
 Who am myself attach'd with weariness, 
 To the dulling of my spirits : sit down, and rest. 
 Even here I will put off my hope, and keep it 
 No longer for my flatterer : he is drown'd. 
 Whom thus we stray to find ; and the sea mocks 
 Our frustrate search on land : Well, let him go. 
 
 j4nt. I am right glad that he's so out of hope. 
 
 [Aside to Sebastian. 
 Do not, for one repulse, forego the purpose 
 That you resolv'd to effect. 
 
 Seb. The next advantasfe 
 
 Will we take thoroughly. 
 
 Ant. Let it be to-night ; 
 
 For, now they are opj)ress'd with travel, they 
 Will not, uor cannot, use such vigilance. 
 As when they are fresh. 
 
 Seb. I say, to-night : no more. 
 
 Solemn and strange Music; and Prospero above, invi- 
 sible,' Enter several strange shapes, bringing in a Ban- 
 quet ; thei/ dance about it with gentle actiotis of salutation ; 
 and inviting the King, d^c. to eat, they depart. 
 
 Alon. What harmony is this ? My good friends, hark ! 
 Gon. Marvellous sweet music ! 
 .Alon. Give us kind keepers, heavens ! Whatwere these ? 
 Seb. A living drollery :' Now I will believe, 
 
 1 By'r lakin,'\ i. c Tlif diminutive only of our I.idy, \.o. lady kin. — Stf.kvfns. 
 
 ' inii»i/(/c.] In the wardrol)P of tlio Lord .Vdininirs men, — (i.e. coinpanv 
 
 of comedians ), l.'t''R, was, " a rohe for to };oo tmifihelL" 
 
 * A biifg drolk-ry :] Shows, railed drollerxc%, were in Shakspeare's tiraw 
 
 e2
 
 52 TEMPEST. 
 
 That there are unicorns ; that, in Arabia 
 
 There is one tree, the phcenix' throne ;' one phcenix 
 
 At this hour reigning there. 
 
 Ant. I'll believe both ; 
 
 And what does else want credit, come to me, 
 And I'll be sworn 'tis true : Travellers ne'er did lie. 
 Though fools at home condemn them. 
 
 Gon. If in Naples 
 
 I should report this now, would they believe me ? 
 If I should say, 1 saw such islanders, 
 (For, certes, these are people of the island). 
 Who though they are of monstrous shape, yet, note. 
 Their manners are more gentle-kind, than of 
 Our human generation you shall find 
 Many, nay, almost any. 
 
 Pro. Honest lord. 
 
 Thou hast said well ; for some of you there present. 
 Are worse than devils. {^Aside. 
 
 Alon. I cannot too much muse," 
 
 Such shapes, such gesture, and such sound, expressing 
 (Although they want the use of tongue), a kind 
 Of excellent dumb discourse. 
 
 Pro. Praise in departing.' [Aside. 
 
 Fran. They vanish'd strangely. 
 
 Seb. No matter, since 
 
 They have left their viands behind ; for we have sto- 
 machs. — 
 Will't please you taste of what is here ? 
 
 Alon. Not I. 
 
 Gon. Faith, sir, you need not fear : when we were boys. 
 Who would believe that there were mountaineers,"* 
 
 performed by puppets only. — StebVens. A living drollery, i. e. a drollery not 
 represented by wooden machines, but by personages who are alive. — Malone. 
 
 < one tree, the phoenix' throne;'] In Florio's Italian Dictionary, 1598 : 
 
 " Rasin, a tree in Arabia, whereof there is but one found, and upon it the phoe- 
 nix sits." — Malone. 
 
 " too much muse,] To muse, in ancient language, is to admire, to 
 
 wonder. — Steevens. 
 
 V Praise in departing.'] i. e. Do not praise your entertainment too soon, lest 
 you should have reason to retract your commendation. — Steevens. 
 
 w that there were mountaineers, &c.] Whoever is curious to know the 
 
 particulars of these mountaineers, may consult Maundeville's Travels, printed 
 in 1503, by Wynken de Worde ; it is still a kno^vn truth that the inhabitants 
 of the Alps have been long accustomed to such tumours. — Steevens.
 
 ACT III.— SCENE III. 63 
 
 Dew-lapp'd like bulls, whose throats had hanging at them 
 Wallets of flesh ? or that there were such men. 
 Whose heads stood in their breasts?'' which now we tiud, 
 Each putter-out of one for five,^ will bring us 
 Good warrant of. 
 
 Alo7i. I will stand to, and feed. 
 
 Although my last : no matter, since I feel 
 The best is past : — Brother, my lord the duke. 
 Stand to, and do as we. 
 
 Thunder and lightning. Enter Ariel like a harpij ; claps 
 his wings upon the table, atul, zvith a quaint device, the 
 banquet vanishes. 
 
 Ari. You are three men of sin, whom destiny 
 (That hath to instrument this lower world,^ 
 And what is in't), the never-surfeited sea 
 Ilath caused to belch up ; and on this island 
 Where man doth not inhabit ; you 'mongst men 
 Being most unfit to live. I have made you mad ; 
 
 \_SeeiTig Alon. Seiu &.c. draw their swords 
 And even with such like valour, men hang and drown 
 Their proper selves. You fools ! I and my fellows 
 Are ministers of fate ; the elements. 
 Of whom your swords are temper'd, may as well 
 Wound the loud winds, or with bemock'd-at stabs 
 Kill the still-closing waters, as diminish 
 
 J' Whose heads sImhI in their breastsJ] This intelligence our autlior might have 
 received from I'liny, b. v. c. 8 : 'The Blenimyi, by report, have no heads, but 
 mouth and eyes both in their breasts." — Steevens. — Or he might have re- 
 ceived it from Hackluyt's Voyages, 1.59;i : "On that branch which is called 
 Caora are a nation of jicoph', whose heads appear not above their shoulders, 
 and their mouths in the middle of their breasts." — Mai.one. 
 
 y putter oitt of one for Jiveyrhis is the correction of Malone — and is ap- 
 proved by Mr. Gilford, lien Jimson, vol. ii. p. 72. The old copy reads " each 
 l)Utter out of live for one." In the travelliii;; age of Sliakspeare it was a practice 
 with those whoenga„'ed in long and hazardous e.x|)editioiis,lo place out a sum 
 of money on condition of receiving it back trebh'd, iinadruiilcd, or as here 
 (juiutupbil, on theconii)Ktion of their exjii'dition. To this there are innun)e- 
 lable allusions injour old writers. In the HuU, by Shirley, it forms a jirincipal 
 incident of the play. — As voyages became more frn|Uent, and tin; dangers of 
 them conse(|ucntly better understood, the odds fell ; and Uie adventurers were 
 content to take three to one ujion their return. — I'his note is from Mr. GifVord's 
 edition of /{fii Jmisi'ii, vol. ii. p. 7'2. 
 
 ' (77i</t halh til instrument t/iis lotvcr worlil, ls.c.\ i.e. that makes use of this 
 world, and every thing in it, as it5 iitUrnmcntt to bring about its ends. 
 
 Si RBVI'NS.
 
 64 TEMPEST. 
 
 One dowle that's in my plume ;^ my fellow-ministers 
 
 Are like invulnerable : if you could hurt. 
 
 Your swords are now too massy for your strengths, 
 
 And will not be uplifted : But remember 
 
 (For that's my business to you), that you three 
 
 From Milan did supplant good Prospero ; 
 
 Expos'd unto the sea, which hath requit it, 
 
 Him, and his innocent child : for which foul deed 
 
 The powers, delaying, not forgetting, have 
 
 Incens'd the seas and shores, yea, all the creatures. 
 
 Against your peace : Thee, of thy son, Alonso, 
 
 They have bereft ; and do pronounce by me, 
 
 Ling'ring perdition (worse than any death 
 
 Can be at once), shall step by step attend 
 
 You, and your ways ; whose wraths to guard you from 
 
 (Which, here, in this most desolate isle ; else falls 
 
 Upon your heads), is nothing, but heart's sorrow. 
 
 And a clear life ensuino-,'' 
 
 He vanishes in thunder: then, to soft music, enter the Shapes 
 again, and dance with mops and mowes,'^ and carry out the 
 table. 
 
 Pro. [aside.'l Bravely the figure of this harpy hast thou 
 Perform'd my Ariel ; a grace it had, devouring : 
 Of my instiuction hast thou nothing 'bated, 
 In what thou hadst to say : so, with good life. 
 And observation strange, my meaner ministers 
 Their several kinds have done :^ my high charms work. 
 And these, mine enemies, are all knit up 
 In their distractions : they now are in my power ; 
 And in these fits I leave them, whilst I visit 
 
 a ■ dowle that's in my plume ;] a dowle is the siugle particle of the down 
 
 of a feather. 
 
 b but heart's sorrow. 
 
 And a clear life ensuing.'] i. e. repentance and subsequent purity of life. 
 
 «■ mops and mowes ;] These words appear synonymous, they imply to 
 
 make antics and grimaces generally, the expression is not confined to gestures 
 expressive of contempt and derision, as may be seen from the use of the same 
 words in Act IV. Scene I. of this play. Dr. Johnson supposes this mop to be 
 a corruption of moc/c. — Mowe, though out of use in this country, is still retained 
 in Scotland. 
 
 ^ ivith good life, 
 
 Their several kindi have done :] i. e. Have performed their several functions 
 to the very life.
 
 ACT III.— SCENE III. 65 
 
 Young Ferdinand (whom they suppose is drown'd). 
 And his and my loved darhng. 
 
 [Exit 1? R o ST ERo from above. 
 
 Gon. I'the name of something holy, sir, why stand you 
 In this strange stare ? 
 
 Alon. O, it is monstrous ! monstrous ! 
 
 Methought the billows spoke, and told me of it ; 
 The winds did sing it to me ; and the thunder. 
 That deep and dreadful oroan-pipe, pronounc'd 
 The name of Prosper ; it did bass my trespass. 
 Therefore my son i'the ooze is bedded ; and 
 ril seek him deeper than e'er plummet sounded. 
 And with him there lie mudded. [Exit. 
 
 Seb. But one fiend at a time, 
 
 I'll fight their les-ions o'er. 
 
 Ant. Ill be thy second. 
 
 [Exeunt Seb. and Ant. 
 
 Gon. All three of them are desperate ; their great guilt. 
 Like poison given' to work a great time after, 
 Now 'gins to bite the spirits : — I do beseech you 
 That are of suppler joints, follow them swiftly. 
 And hinder them from what this ecstacy^ 
 May now provoke them to. 
 
 Adr. Follow, I pray you. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. — Before Prospero's Cell. 
 
 Enter Pkosimiu), Ferdinand, a;/(/ Miranda. 
 
 Pro. If I have too austerely punish'd you. 
 Your compensation makes amends ; for I 
 
 ' Likf poison given, ti.c.] Tlio n.'itivrs of Africa liave been supposod to be 
 possessed of the secret how to temper jjoisons with sucli art .xs not to operate 
 till several years after they were administered. — Their drugs were then ascer- 
 tain in their effects, as subtle in their |)rei)aratioii. So in the celelirated libel 
 called Leicester's Commonwealth ; " I hi'ard liim once myself in piibli<|ue act 
 at Oxford, and that in presence of my I^rd of I^'icestcr, maintain, that poison 
 mi|;ht be so tempered and given, as it shouKl not appear presently, and jet 
 should kill the party afterwards at what lime should be appointed." — StttvENS. 
 
 ' eotacrj] .\lienation of mind.
 
 56 TEMPEST. 
 
 Have given you here a thread of mine own life,^ 
 
 Or that for which I live ; whom once again 
 
 I tender to thy hand : all thy vexations 
 
 Were but my trials of thy love, and thou 
 
 Hast strangely stood the test : here, afore heaven, 
 
 I ratify this my rich gift. O Ferdinand, 
 
 Do not smile at me, that I boast her off. 
 
 For thou shalt find she will outstrip all praise. 
 
 And make it halt behind her. 
 
 Fer. I do believe it. 
 
 Against an oracle. 
 
 Pro. Then, as my gift, and thine own acquisition 
 Worthily purchas'd, take my daughter : But 
 If thou dost break her virgin knot before 
 All sanctimonious ceremonies may 
 With full and holy rite be minister'd. 
 No sweet aspersion shall the heavens let fall 
 To make this contract grow : but barren hate, 
 Sour-ey'd disdain, and discord, shall bestrew 
 The union of your bed with weeds so loathly. 
 That you shall hate it both : therefore, take heed. 
 As Hymen's lamps shall light you. 
 
 Fer. As I hope 
 
 For quiet days, fair issue, and long life. 
 With such love as 'tis now ; the murkiest den. 
 The most opportune place, the strong'st suggestion 
 Our worser Genius can, shall never melt 
 Mine honour into lust ; to take away 
 The edge of that day's celebration. 
 When I shall think, or Phcebus' steeds are founder'd. 
 Or night kept chain'd below. 
 
 Pro. Fairly spoke : 
 
 Sit then, and talk with her, she is thine own. — 
 What, Ariel ; my industrious servant Ariel ! 
 
 Enter Ariel. 
 Ari. What would my potent master ? here I am. 
 
 g a thread nf mine own Ufe,'] Is a fibre of mine own life. Prospero con- 
 siders himself as the parent tree, and his daughter as a fibre of himself.— The 
 use of the thread in this sense, is found in Markham's English Husbandman, 
 edit. 163.^. p. 116: "Cut off all the maine rootes, within half a foot of the tree, 
 only the small thriddes, or twist rootes, you shall not cut at all." — Tollf.t.
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE I. 57 
 
 Pro. Thou and thy meaner fellows your last service 
 Did worthily perform ; and I must use you 
 In such another trick : go, bring the rabble. 
 O'er whom I give thee power, here, to this place : 
 Incite them to quick motion ; for I must 
 Bestow upon the eyes of this young couple 
 Some vanity'' of mine art ; it is my promise. 
 And they expect it from me. 
 
 j4ri. Presently ? 
 
 Pro. Aye, with a twink. 
 
 Ari. Before you can say, Come, and go, 
 And breathe twice ; and cry, so, so ; 
 Each one, tripping on his toe. 
 Will be here with mop and mowe ; 
 Do you love me master ? no. 
 
 Pro. Dearly, my delicate Ariel : Do not approach. 
 Till thou dost hear me call. 
 
 Ari. Well I conceive. [^Exit. 
 
 Pro. Look, thou be true ; do not give dalliance 
 Too much the rein : the strongest oaths are straw 
 To the fire i'the blood : be more abstemious. 
 Or else, good night, your vow ! 
 
 Fer. I warrant you, sir. 
 
 The white cold virgin snow upon my heart 
 Abates the ardour of my liver. 
 
 Pro. Well.— 
 
 Now come, my Ariel : bring a corollary,' 
 Rather than want a spirit : appear, and pertly. — 
 No tongue ;'' all eyes ; be silent. \.^^]Jt music. 
 
 A Masque. Enter Iris. 
 
 Iris. Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas 
 Of wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats, and |)ease ; 
 Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep. 
 And flat meads thatch 'd with stover,' them to keep ; 
 
 '' lauity] — illusion. 
 
 ' corollarti,] — mon; than sufficient. 
 
 k j\'i) lonmie ; J Those who arc present at incantntiona arc obliged to be strictly 
 silent, "eLsc," as we are afterward told, "the spell in marred." — Joii.MiOn. 
 ' ' ■ itova,] — rank, coarse j,'ra8s.
 
 68 TEMPEST. 
 
 Thy banks with peonied and twilled brims,™ 
 
 Which spongy April at thy liest betrims. 
 
 To make cold nymphs chaste crowns ; and thy broom 
 
 groves. 
 Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves, 
 Being lass-lorn," thy pole-clipt vineyard ; 
 And thy sea-marge, steril, and rocky-hard. 
 Where thou thyself dost air : The queen o'the sky. 
 Whose watery arch, and messenger, am I, 
 Bids thee leave these ; and with her sovereign grace. 
 Here on this grass-plot, in this very place. 
 To come and sport ! — Here, peacocks, fly amain. — 
 
 [Juno descends." 
 Approach, rich Ceres, her to entertain. 
 
 E7iter Ceres. 
 
 Cer. Hail, many-colour'd messenger, that ne'er 
 Dost disobey the wife of Jupiter ; 
 Who, with thy saffron wings, upon my flowers 
 Diffusest honey-drops, refreshing show ers ; 
 And with each end of thy blue bow dost crown 
 My bosky acres,? and my unshrubb'd down. 
 Rich scarf to my proud earth; Why hath thy queen 
 Summon'd me hither, to this short-grass'd green? 
 
 Iris. A contract of true love to celebrate ; 
 And some donation freely to estate 
 On the bless'd lovers. 
 
 Cer. Tell me heavenly bow. 
 
 If Venus, or her son, as thou dost know. 
 Do now attend the queen? since they did plot 
 The means, that dusky Dis my daughter got, 
 
 m twilled] This is the old reading, which Steevens changed to lilied. — 
 
 Twill appears to have been the lost name of some flower, in Ovid's banquet of 
 Sense, by Chapman, 1625 — 
 
 " And cup-like twill-pants strew'd in Bacchus' bowers." 
 
 1 lass-lorn ;] Forsaken of his mistress. — Stkevens. 
 
 " Here, jieacocks, fly amain.— [Jiuio descends.] This reading and stage direc- 
 tion, I have restored from the first folio. — Here, peacocks, Jly amain, is the call 
 of Iris to the birds. They obey her voice, and begin to descend with the car 
 of Juno, which does not, however, reach the stage, till Ceres says, " Great Juno 
 comes, &c." 
 
 P My bosky acres, &c.] Fields divided from each other by hedge-rows.— 
 
 SltEVtNS.
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE 1. 69 
 
 } 
 
 Her and her blind boy's scandal'd company 
 I have forsworn. 
 
 Iris. Of her society i 
 
 Be not afraid ; I met her deity ^ 
 
 Cutting the clouds towards Paphos ; and her son 
 Dove-drawn with her : here thought they to have done 
 Some wanton charm upon this man and maid. 
 Whose vows are, that no bed-rite shall be paid 
 Till Hymen's torch be lighted : but in vain ; 
 Mars's hot minion is return'd again ; 
 Her waspish-headed son has broke his arrows. 
 Swears he will shoot no more, but play with sparrows, 
 And be a boy right out. 
 
 Cer. Highest queen of state. 
 
 Great Juno comes : I know her by her gait. 
 
 Enter Juno. 
 
 Jnn. How does my bounteous sister? Go with me. 
 To bless this twain, that they may prosperous be. 
 And honour'd in their issue. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Jun. Honour, riches, marriage-blessing, 
 
 Lo7ig continuance, and increasing. 
 
 Hourly joys he still upon you ! 
 
 Juno sings her blessings on yon. 
 Cer. Earth's increase, andfoison plenty, 
 
 Barns, and garners never empty ; 
 
 Vines, with clustering bunches growing ; 
 
 Plants, with goodly burden bowing ; 
 
 Spring come to you, at the farthest, 
 
 In the very end oj harvest ! 
 
 Scarcity, and want, shall shun you ; 
 
 Ceres' blessing so is on you. 
 
 Fer. This is a most majestic vision, and 
 Harmonious charmingly : May I be bold 
 To think these spirits? 
 
 Pro. Spirits, which by mine art 
 
 I have from their confines call'd to enact 
 My present fanciei..
 
 60 TEMPEST. 
 
 Fer. Let me live here ever ; 
 
 So rare a wonder'd father, and a wife. 
 Make this place paradise. 
 
 [Juno and Ceres whisper, and send Iris on employment. 
 
 Pro. Sweet now, silence; 
 
 Juno and Ceres whisper seriously ; 
 There's something else to do : hush, and be mute. 
 Or else our spell is marr'd. [brooks. 
 
 Iris. You nymphs, call'd Naiads, of the wand'ring 
 With your sedg'd crowns, and ever-harmless looks. 
 Leave your crisp channels,i and on this green land 
 Answer your summons : Juno does command : 
 Come, temperate nymphs, and help to celebrate 
 A contract of true love ; be not too late. 
 
 Enter certain 'Nymphs. 
 
 You sun-burn'd sicklemen, of August weary. 
 Come hither from the furrow, and be merry ; 
 Make holy-day : your rye-straw hats put on. 
 And these fresh nymphs encounter every one 
 In country footing. 
 
 Enter certain Reapers, properly habited ; they join loith the 
 Nymphs in a graceful dance; towards the end ichereof 
 Prospero starts suddenly, and speaks ; after which, to a 
 strange, hollow, and confused noise, they heavily vanish. 
 
 Pro. [aside.] I had forgot that foul conspiracy 
 Of the beast Caliban, and his confederates. 
 Against my life ; the minute of their plot 
 Is almost come. — [to the Spirits.] Well done; — avoid; — 
 no more. 
 
 Fer. This is strange : your father's in some passion 
 That works him strongly. 
 
 Mira. Never till this day. 
 
 Saw I him touch'd with anger so distemper'd. 
 
 Pro. You do look, my son, in a mov'd sort. 
 As if you were dismay'd : be cheerful, sir ; 
 Our revels now are ended : these our actors. 
 As I foretold you, were all spirits, and 
 
 1 crispfl i. e. circling, winding.
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE I. 61 
 
 Are melted into air, into thin air : 
 
 And, like the baseless fabric of this vision. 
 
 The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces. 
 
 The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 
 
 Yea, all which it inherit,'" shall dissolve : 
 
 And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, 
 
 Leave not a wreck behind :^ We are such stuff 
 
 As dreams are made of, and our little life '''~' 
 
 Is rounded with a sleep. — Sir, I am vex'd ; 
 
 Bear with my weakness ; my old brain is troubled. 
 
 Be not disturb 'd with my infirmity. — 
 
 If you be pleas'd, retire into my cell. 
 
 And there repose ; a turn or two I'll walk. 
 
 To still my beating mind. 
 
 Fer. Mira. We wish your peace. \^Exeunt. 
 
 Pro. Come with a thought: — I thank you : Ariel, come. 
 
 Enter Ariel. 
 
 Ari. Thy thoughts I cleave to : What's thy pleasure ? 
 
 Pro. Spirit, 
 
 We must prepare to meet with Caliban. 
 
 Ari. Ay, my commander; when I presented Ceres, 
 I thought to have told thee of it ; but I fear'd. 
 Lest I might anger thee. 
 
 Pro. Say again, where didst thou leave these varlets ? 
 
 Ari. I told you, sir, they were red-hot with drinking : 
 So full of valour, that they smote the air 
 For breathinir in their faces : beat the ground 
 For kissing of their feet ; yet always bending 
 Towards their project : Then I beat my tabor, 
 At which, like unback'd colts, they prick 'd their ears, 
 Advanc'd their eyelids, lifted up their noses. 
 As they smelt nmsic ; so I charm'd their ears. 
 That, calf-like, they my lowing follow 'd, through 
 
 •■ all which it inherit,] i. e. all who possess, who dwell ujinn it. — 
 
 Malone. 
 
 » wrecl;,] ]Vreck I have hero substituted for rarA:, which is the word in the 
 
 first folio, and which a])pears to have been, in the days of Shakspearc, no un- 
 usual way of spelling ^rrcrk. In Fletcher's Wife for a .Month, we tind, " Vou 
 may snatch him uj) by l>arcels like a sea-rack." — If is very true that nir/v means 
 a bcdv of cloud a in mi'tioii, but 1 cannot conceive the sense of the " Worlil's dis- 
 snlvitif; uwau, and not leaving a cottr^e of' rlouils in motion behind it," wliicli is tlie 
 interpretation of the passage according to the reading generally adojjted.
 
 62 TEMPEST. 
 
 Tooth'd briars, sharp furzes, pricking gorse,' and thorns. 
 Which enter'd their frail shins : at last I left them 
 I'the filthy mantled pool beyond your cell. 
 There dancing up to the chins, that the foul lake 
 O'erstunk their feet. 
 
 Pro. This was well done, my bird ; 
 
 Thy shape invisible retain thou still : 
 The trumpery in my house, go, bring it hither. 
 For stale to catch these thieves." 
 
 Art. I go, I go. [Exit. 
 
 Pro. A devil, a born devil, on whose nature 
 Nurture can never stick ; on whom my pains. 
 Humanely taken, are "' all lost, quite lost : 
 And as, with age, his body uglier grows. 
 So his mind cankers : I will plague them all. 
 
 Re-enter Ariel loaden tvith glistering Apparel, Sfc. 
 Even to roaring : — Come, hang them on this line. 
 
 Prospeeo and Ariel remain invisible. Enter Caliban, 
 Stephano, and Trinculo, all wet. 
 
 Cal. Pray you, tread softly, that the blind mole may not 
 Hear a foot fall :™ we now are near his cell. 
 
 Ste. Monster, your fairy, which, you say, is a harm- 
 less fairy, has done little better than played the Jack 
 with us. 
 
 Trin. Monster, I do smell all horse-piss, at which my 
 nose is in great indignation. 
 
 Ste. So is mine. Do you hear, monster? If I should 
 take a displeasure against you ; look you, — 
 
 ' gorse,'] furze. 
 
 " For stale to catch these thieves.'^ Stale is a word in fowling, and is used to 
 mean a bait or decoy to catch birds. — Steevens. 
 
 " a»-e] — I have adopted Mr. Malone's hint, and read are all lost, in- 
 stead of all, all lost. 
 
 " the blind mole may not 
 
 Hear a foot fall :'\ This quality of hearing, which the mole is supposed 
 to possess in so high a degree, is mentioned in Euphues, 4to. 1581, p. 64: 
 " Doth not the lion for strength, the turtle for love, the ant for labour, excel 
 man? Doth not the eagle see clearer, the vulture smell better, the moale heare 
 lightlierV — Reed. 
 
 * has done little better than played the Jack icith us.} i. e. He has played 
 
 Jack with a lantern ; has led us about like an ignis fatuus, by which travellers 
 are decoyed into the mire. — Johnson.
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE I. 63 
 
 Trill. Thou wert but a lost monster. 
 Cal. Good my lord, give me thy favour still : 
 Be patient, for the prize I'll bring thee to 
 Shall hoodwink this mischance : therefore, speak softly, 
 All's hush'd as midnight yet. 
 
 Trin. Ay, but to lose our bottles in the pool, — 
 Ste. There is not only disgrace and dishonour in that, 
 monster, but an infinite loss. 
 
 Trin. That's more to me than my wetting : yet this is 
 your harmless fairy, monster. 
 
 Ste. I will fetch off my bottle, though I be o'er ears for 
 my labour, 
 
 Cal. Pr'ythee, my king, be quiet : Seest thou here. 
 This is the mouth o'the cell : no noise, and enter. 
 Do that good mischief, which may make this island 
 Thine own for ever, and I, thy Caliban, 
 For aye thy foot-licker. 
 
 Ste. Give me thy hand : I do begin to have bloody 
 thoughts. 
 
 Trin. O king Stephano ! O peer! O worthy Stephano! 
 look, what a wardrobe here is for thee ! 
 
 Ca/. Let it alone, thou fool ; it is but tvash. 
 Trin. O, ho, monster; we know what belongs to a 
 frippery :'' — O king Stephano ! 
 
 Ste, Put off that gown, Trinculo ; by this hand, 
 I'll have that gown. 
 
 Trin. Thy grace shall have it. 
 
 Cal. The dropsy drown this fool ! what do you mean. 
 To doat thus on such luggage ? Let it alone, 
 And do the murder first : if he awake. 
 From toe to crown he'll fill our skins with pinches \ 
 Make us strange stuff. 
 
 Ste. Be you quiet, monster. — Mistress line, is not this 
 my jerkin? Now is the jerkin under the line;' now, jer- 
 kin, you are like to lose your hair, and prove a bald jerkin. 
 Trin. Do, do: We steal by line and level, an't like your 
 grace. 
 
 J _/ii))/)eny .]— .*\n pid rlotlips shop. 
 
 I iinHer Ihe tine : ) An :illiisiiiii to what often happena to people who pa*.'* 
 
 the linp. T\\r violent fevers which they contract in that hot climate, make 
 them lose their hair. — Kdwakdv
 
 64 TEMPEST. 
 
 Ste. I thank thee for that jest: here's a garment for't: 
 wit shall not go unrewarded, while I am king of this coun- 
 try : Steal by line and level, is an excellent pass of pate ; 
 there's another garment for't. 
 
 Trin. Monster, come, put some lime* upon your fingers, 
 and away with the rest. 
 
 Cal. I will have none on't : we shall lose our time. 
 And all be turn'd to barnacles,'' or to apes 
 With foreheads villainous low. 
 
 Ste. Monster, lay-to your fingers ; help to bear this 
 away, where my hogshead of wine is, or I'll turn you out 
 of my kingdom : go to, carry this. 
 
 Trin. And this. 
 
 Ste. Ay, and this. 
 
 A noise of Hunters heard. Enter divers Spirits, in shape of 
 hounds, and hunt them about. Prospero and Ariel, 
 setting them on. 
 
 Pro. Hey, Mountain, hey I 
 
 Ari. Silver! there it goes. Silver! 
 
 Pro. Fury, Fury! there Tyrant, there! hark, hark! 
 
 [Cal. Ste. and Trin. are driven out. 
 Go, charge my goblins that they grind their joints 
 With dry convulsions ; shorten up their sinews 
 With aged cramps ; and more pinch-spotted make them. 
 Than pard, or cat ©'mountain. 
 
 Ari. Hark, they roar. 
 
 Pro. Let them be hunted soundly : At this hour 
 Lie at my mercy all mine enemies : 
 Shortly shall all my labours end, and thou 
 Shalt have the air at freedom : for a little. 
 Follow, and do me service. [Fxeunt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene L — Before the Ce// o/" Prospero. 
 
 Enter Prospero in his magic robes; and Ariel. 
 
 Pro. Now does my project gather to a head : 
 My charms crack not; my spirits obey; and time 
 
 * liTne] — bird-lime. '° bamacle,1 The clakis or tree-goose.
 
 ACT v.— SCENE I. 65 
 
 Goes upright with his carriage.' How's the day ? 
 
 Ari. On the sixth hour ; at which time, my lord. 
 You said our work should cease. 
 
 Pro. I did say so. 
 
 When first I rais'd the tempest. Say, my spirit, 
 How fares the king and his followers? 
 
 Ari. Confin'd together 
 
 In the same fashion as you gave in charge ; 
 Just as you left them, sir ; all prisoners 
 In the lime-grove which weather-fends your cell ; 
 They cannot budge, till your release. The king, 
 His brother, and yours, abide all three distracted ; 
 And the remainder mournino; over them. 
 Brim-full of sorrow and dismay ; but chiefly 
 Him you term'd, sir, the good old lord, Gonzalo ; 
 His tears run down his beard, like winter's drops 
 From eaves of reeds : your charm so strongly works them. 
 That if you now beheld Ihem, your affections 
 Would become tender. 
 
 Pro. Dost thou think so, spirit ? 
 
 Ari. Mine would, sir, were I human. 
 
 Pro. And mine shall. 
 
 Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling 
 Of their afflictions ? and shall not myself. 
 One of their kind, that relish all as sharply, 
 Passion'd'^ as they, be kindlier mov'd than thou art? 
 Though with their high wrongs I am struck to the quick. 
 Yet, with my nobler reason, 'gainst my fury 
 Do I take part : the rarer action is 
 In virtue than in vengeance : they being penitent, 
 The sole drift of my purpose doth extend 
 Not a frown farther : CIo, release them, Ariel ; 
 My charms 111 Ijivak, their senses I'll restore, 
 And they shall be themselves. 
 
 Ari. ' I "II fetch them, sir. [Exit. 
 
 <■ and time 
 
 Goes nprizlit "'i''' '"> nirringr.] Alludiiip; to one carrj-inR a burthen. 'nii.-» 
 critical period of niy life prmecds as I could wikIi. Time brings forward all 
 the expected events, without faltering; under his burthen. — Stf.f.vens. 
 
 '< Pd.wi.inV/] — In the old io].y jnisfion. 1 fin<l the reading I hare adopted, m 
 Warton's critique on this play, Adventurer, Number 97. 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 TEMPEST. 
 
 Pro. Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves ; 
 And ye, that on the sands with printless foot 
 Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him. 
 When he comes back ; you demi-puppets, that 
 By moon-shine do the green-sour ringlets make. 
 Whereof the ewe not bites ; and you, whose pastime 
 Is to make midnight-mushrooms; that rejoice 
 To hear the solemn curfew*^ by whose aid 
 (Weak masters though ye be) I have bedimm'd 
 The noon-tide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds. 
 And 'twixt the green sea and the azur'd vault 
 Set roaring war : to the dread rattling thunder 
 Have I given fire, and rifted Jove's stout oak 
 With his own bolt : the strong-bas'd promontory 
 Have I made shake ; and by the spurs pluck 'd up 
 The pine and cedar : graves, at my command. 
 Have waked their sleepers ; oped, and let them forth 
 By my so potent art : But this rough magic 
 I here abjure : and, when I have requir'd 
 Some heavenly music (which even now I do). 
 To work mine end upon their senses, that 
 This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff. 
 Bury it certain fathoms in the earth. 
 And deeper than did ever plummet sound, 
 I'll drown my book. \^Solem?i music. 
 
 He-enter Ariel : after him, Alonso, with a frantic gesture, 
 attended by Gonzalo; Sebastian arid Antonio in 
 like manner, attended 63/ Adrian and Francisco : they 
 all enter the circle which Prospero had made, and there 
 stand charmed ; which Prospero observing, speaks. 
 
 A solemn air, and the best comforter 
 
 To an unsettled fancy, cure thy brains. 
 
 Now useless, boil'd within thy skull ! There stand. 
 
 For you are spell-stopp'd. 
 
 Holy Gonzalo, honourable man. 
 Mine eyes, even sociable to the shew of thine. 
 Fall fellowly drops.^ — The charm dissolves apace j 
 And as the morning steals upon the night. 
 Melting the darkness, so their rising senses
 
 ACT v.— SCENE I. 67 
 
 Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle 
 
 Their clearer reason. — O my good Gonzalo, 
 
 My true preserver, and a loyal sir 
 
 To him thou foUow'st ; I will pay thy graces 
 
 Home, both in word and deed. — Most cruelly 
 
 Didst thou, Alonso, use me and my daughter : 
 
 Thy brother was a furtherer in the act ; — 
 
 Thou'rt pinch'd for't now, Sebastian. — Flesh and blood. 
 
 You brother mine, that entertain'd ambition, 
 
 Expell'd remorse and nature ;" who, with Sebastian, 
 
 (Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong,) 
 
 Would here have kill'd your king ; I do forgive thee, 
 
 Unnaturnl though thou art ! — Their understanding 
 
 Begins to swell ; and the approaching tide 
 
 Will shortly fill the reasonable shores, 
 
 That now lie foul and muddy. Not one of them. 
 
 That yet looks on me, or would know me : — Ariel, 
 
 Fetch me the hat and rapier in my cell ; [Exit Ariel. 
 
 I will dis-case me, and myself present. 
 
 As I was sometime Milan : — q^uickly, spirit ; 
 
 Thou shalt ere long be free. 
 
 Ariel re-enters, sivging, and helps to attire Prospero. 
 
 Ari. Where the bee sucks, there suck I ; 
 In a cowslip^ s hell I lie : 
 There I couch when owls do cry. 
 On the bat's back I dofiy. 
 After summer, merrily : 
 Merrily, merrily, shall I live noiv, 
 Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. 
 
 Pro. Why, that's my dainty Ariel : I shall miss thee ; 
 But yet thou shalt have freedom : so, so, so. — 
 To the king's ship, invisible as thou art : 
 There shalt thou find the mariners asleep 
 Under the hatches ; the master, and the boatswain. 
 Being awake, enforce them to this place ; 
 And presently, I pr'ythee. 
 
 <• remorse n»fi nature ;] Reumrse is by our .luthor .iiid ilie contrinporary 
 
 writers generally used for pity, or tfiiilfriii>s.<. of hciirt. Natinr is natural aflec- 
 tiou. — Maionr 
 
 f2
 
 68 TEMPEST. 
 
 Ari. I drink the air^ before me, and return 
 Or e'er your pulse twice beat. [Exit Ariel. 
 
 Gon. All torment, trouble, wonder, and amazement 
 Inhabits here : Some heavenly power guide us 
 Out of this fearful country ! 
 
 Pro. Behold, sir king. 
 
 The wronged duke of Milan, Prosper© : 
 For more assurance that a living prince 
 Does now speak to thee, I embrace thy body ; 
 And to thee, and thy company, I bid 
 A hearty welcome. 
 
 Alon. Whe'rs thou beest he, or no. 
 
 Or some enchanted trifle to abuse me. 
 As late I have been, I not know : thy pulse 
 Beats, as of flesh and blood ; and, since I saw thee. 
 The affliction of my mind amends, with which, 
 I fear, a madness held me : this must crave 
 (An if this be at all) a most strange story. 
 Thy dukedom I resign -^ and do entreat 
 Thou pardon me my wrongs : — But how should Prosper© 
 Be living, and be here ? 
 
 Pro. First, noble friend. 
 
 Let me embrace thine age ; whose honour cannot 
 Be measur'd, or confin'd. 
 
 Gon. Whether this be. 
 
 Or be not, I'll not swear. 
 
 Pro. You do yet taste 
 
 Some subtilties o'the isle,' that will not let you 
 Believe things certain : — Welcome, my friends all : — 
 But you, my brace of lords, were I so minded, 
 
 [Aside to Seb. and Ant. 
 I here could pluck his highness' frown upon you, 
 
 f I drink the air — ] To drink the air — is an expression of swiftness of the 
 same kind as to devour the way in K. Henry IV. — Johnson. 
 
 S Whe'r'] — whether. 
 
 •» Thy dukedom I resign ;] The duchy of Milan being through the treachery 
 of Antonio made feudatory to the crown of Naples, Alonso promises to resign 
 his claim of sovereignty for the future. — Stf.evens. 
 
 ' You do yet taste 
 Some subtilties o'the isle,'] This is a phrase adopted from ancient cookery 
 and confectionary. When a dish was so contrived as to appear unlike what 
 it really was, they called it a suhtilty. Dragons, castles, trees, &c. made out 
 of sugar, had the like denomination. — Steevkns.
 
 ACT v.— SCENE I. 69 
 
 And justify you traitors ; at this time 
 I'll tell no tales. 
 
 Seb. The devil speaks in him. \^Aside. 
 
 Pro. No : 
 
 For you, most wicked sir, whom to call brother 
 Would even infect my mouth, I do forgive 
 Thy rankest fault ; all of them ; and require 
 My dukedom of thee, which, perforce, I know. 
 Thou must restore. 
 
 Alon. If thou beest Prosper©, 
 
 Give us particulars of thy preservation : 
 How thou hast met us here, who three hours since 
 Were wreck'd upon this shore ; where I have lost. 
 How sharp the point of this remembrance is ! 
 My dear son Ferdinand. 
 
 Pro. I am woe for't, sir. 
 
 Alon. Irreparable is the loss ; and patience 
 Says, it is past her cure. 
 
 Pro. I rather think, 
 
 You have not sought her help ; of whose soft grace 
 For the like loss, I have her sovereign aid. 
 And rest myself content. 
 
 Alon. You the like loss ? 
 
 Pro. As great to me, as late ;'' and, supportable' 
 To make the dear loss, have I means much weaker 
 Than you may call to comfort you ; for I 
 Have lost my daughter. 
 
 Alon. A daughter? 
 
 O heavens ! that they were living both in Naples, 
 The king and queen there ! that they were, I wish 
 Myself were mudded in that oozy bed 
 Wliere my son lies. When did you lose your daughter ? 
 
 Pro. In this last tempest. I perceive these lords 
 At this encounter do so much luhnire, 
 Tiiat lliey devour their reason ; luid scarce lliiiik 
 Their eyes do offices of truth, these"' words 
 
 •• At great lo mc, as Utte ;] My loss is as great as yours, and lias as latily li;ij)- 
 peiied to nic. — Johnson. 
 
 ' iiippurttihle — ] 'Ihis is tlie ori^illal rcailirif;, wliicli iho modern editors 
 
 have changed lo \MUMe for the sake of tlie metre. 
 
 "• l/i«e--] I liave admitted tlie emendation of Malone's anouynious
 
 70 TEMPEST. 
 
 Are natural breath : but, howsoe'er you have 
 
 Been justled from your senses, know for certain. 
 
 That 1 am Prospero, and that very duke 
 
 Which was thrust forth of Milan ; who most strangely 
 
 Upon this shore, where you were wreck 'd, was landed. 
 
 To be the lord on't. No more yet of this ; 
 
 For 'tis a chronicle of day by day, 
 
 Not a relation for a breakfast, nor 
 
 Befitting this first meeting. Welcome, sir; 
 
 This cell's my court ; here have I few attendants. 
 
 And subjects none abroad : pray you, look in. 
 
 My dukedom since you have given me again, 
 
 I will requite you with as good a thing ; 
 
 At least, bring forth a wonder, to content ye, 
 
 As much as me my dukedom. 
 
 The entrance of the Cell opens, and discovers Ferdinand 
 and Miranda playing at chess. 
 
 Mir a. Sweet lord, you play me false. 
 
 Fer. No, my dearest love, 
 
 I would not for the world. 
 
 Mira. Yes, for a score of kingdoms," you should 
 And I would call it fair play. [wrangle, 
 
 Alon. If this prove 
 
 A vision"of the island, one dear son 
 Shall I twice lose. 
 
 Seb. A most high miracle ! 
 
 Fer. Though the seas threaten, they are merciful : 
 1 have curs'd them without cause. 
 
 [Ferd. kneels to Alonso. 
 
 Alon. Now all the blessings 
 
 Of a glad father compass thee about ! 
 Arise, and say how thou cam'st here. 
 
 correspondent, and substituted these for their. — The doubts of the lords did not 
 concern themselves, but Prospero : they think that their eyes do not see a living- 
 man before them — and that the words which Prospero is uttering are not na- 
 tural breath, 
 
 " Yes, for a score of kingdoms, &c.] I take the sense to be only this : Ferdi- 
 nand would not, he says, play her false for the world ; Yea, answers she, I 
 would allow you to do it for something less than the world, for tumty kiiij^dfltris, 
 and I wish you well enough to allow you, after a little wraniile, that your play 
 was fair. So, likewise. Dr. Grey. — JoiiNfON.
 
 ACT v.— SCENE I. 71 
 
 Mira. O ! wonder 
 
 How many goodly creatures are there here ! 
 How beauteous mankind is ! O brave new world, 
 That has such people in't ! 
 
 Pro. 'Tis new to thee. 
 
 AloH. What is this maid, with whom thou wast at play ? 
 Your eld'st acquaintance cannot be three hours : 
 Is she the goddess that hath sever'd us, 
 And brought us thus together ? 
 
 Fer. Sir, she's mortal ; 
 
 But, by immortal providence, she's mine ; 
 I chose her, when I could not ask my father 
 For his advice ; nor thought I had one : she 
 Is daughter to this famous duke of Milan, 
 Of whom so often I have heard renown. 
 But never saw before ; of whom I have 
 Received a second life, and second father 
 This ludy makes him to me. 
 
 A Ion. I ani hers : 
 
 But O, how oddly will it sound, that I 
 Must ask my child forgiveness ! 
 
 Pro. There, sir, stop ; 
 
 Let us not burden our remembrances w ith 
 A heaviness that's gone. 
 
 Oo,i. I have inly wept. 
 
 Or should have spoke ere this. Look down, you gods. 
 And on this couple drop a blessed crown ; 
 For it is you, that have chalk'd forth the way 
 Which brought us hither! 
 
 Alon. I say. Amen, Gonzalo ! 
 
 Gon. Was Milan thrust from Milan, that his issue 
 Should become kings of Naples ? O, rejoice 
 Beyond a common joy ; and set it down 
 Willi gold on lasting pillars : In one voyage 
 Did Claribel her husband hnd at Tunis ; 
 And Ferdinand, her brother, found a wife. 
 Where he himwelf was lost; Prospero his dukedom. 
 In a poor isle ; and all of us, ourselves. 
 When no man was his own. 
 
 jilon. (Jivc me your hands : 
 
 [7'o Flr. and Min.
 
 72 TEMPEST. 
 
 Let grief and sorrow still embrace his heart. 
 That doth not wish you j oy ! 
 
 Gon. Be't so ! Amen \ 
 
 Re-enter Ariel, tvith the Master mid Boatswain, 
 amazedly followmg. 
 
 look, sir, look, sir ; here are more of us ! 
 
 1 prophesied, if a gallows were on land. 
 
 This fellow could not drown : Now, blasphemy. 
 That swear'st grace o'erboard, not an oath on shore ? 
 Hast thou no mouth by land ? What is the news ? 
 
 Boats. The best news is, that we have safely found 
 Our king, and company ; the next, our ship, — 
 Which, but three glasses since, we gave out split, — 
 Is tight and yare, and bravely rigg'd, as when 
 We first put out to sea. 
 
 Ari. Sir, all this servicer 
 
 Have I done since I went. > Aside. 
 
 Pro. My tricksy spirit ! * 
 
 Alon. These are not natural events ; they strengthen 
 From strange to stranger : — Say, how came you hither ? 
 
 Boats. If I did think, sir, I were well awake, 
 I'd strive to tell you. We were dead of sleep," 
 And (how, we know not,) all clapp'd under hatches, 
 Where, but even now, with strange and several noises 
 Of roaring, shrieking, howling, gingling chains. 
 And more diversity of sounds, all horrible. 
 We were awak'd ; straitway, at liberty : 
 Where we, in all her trim, freshly beheld 
 Our royal, good, and gallant ship ; our master 
 Cap'ring to eye her : On a trice, so please you. 
 Even in a dream, were we divided from them. 
 And were brought moping hither. 
 
 Ari. Was't well done ? 
 
 Pro. Bravely, my diligence.'^ Thou shalt be free. 
 
 Alon. This is as strange a maze as e'er men trod : 
 And there is in this business more than nature 
 Was ever conduct of :p some oracle 
 Must rectify our knowledge. 
 
 " dead of sleep,] Tims tlie old copy. Modern editors — asleep. Mr 
 
 Malone has substituted " on sleep," as the ancient English phraseology. 
 p conduct of:] conductor of. 
 
 f Aside.
 
 ACT v.— SCENE 1. 73 
 
 Pro. Sir, my liege. 
 
 Do not infest your mind with beating on 
 The strangeness of this business : at pick'd leisure. 
 Which shall be shortly, single I'll resolve you 
 (Which to you shall seem probable,)i of every 
 These happen'd accidents: till when, bs cheerful. 
 And think of each thing well. — Come hither, spirit; \_Aside. 
 Set Caliban and his companions free : 
 Untie tlie spell. [^Exit Ariel.] How fares my gracious sir? 
 There are yet missing of your company 
 Some few odd lads, that you remember not. 
 
 Re-enter Ariel, driving in Caliban, Stephano, and 
 Trinculo, in their stolen Apparel. 
 
 Ste. Every man shift for all the rest, and let no man 
 take care for himself; for all is but fortune : — Coragio, 
 bully-monster, Coragio ! 
 
 Trin. If these be true spies which I wear in my head, 
 here's a goodly sight. 
 
 Cal. O Setebos, these be brave spirits, indeed ! 
 How fine my master is ! I am afraid 
 He will chastise me. 
 
 Seb. Ha, ha; 
 
 What things are these, my lord Antonio! 
 Will money buy them? 
 
 Ant. Very hke; one of them 
 Is a plain fish,"" and, no doubt, marketable. 
 
 Pro. Mark but the badges of these men, my lords, 
 
 Then say, if they be true :' — This mis-shapen knave, 
 
 His mother was a witch ; and one so strong 
 
 1 (IVIiich (,) ynu ahall ieem probable,)] 1 will inform you how all thesB 
 wondorful accidents have happened; which, though they now appear to you 
 strange, will then seem probable. — Malonk. 
 
 f Is a plain fish,] i. e. " Is evidently a fish." It is not easy to determine 
 the shape which our author desipicd to bestow on his monster. That he has 
 hands, legs, &c. we gather from the rem.arks of Trinculo, and other circum- 
 stances in the play. How then is he plainlr/ a fish ? Perhaps Shakspeare him- 
 self had no settled ideas respecting the form of Caliban. — M. Mason aiui 
 Steevens. 
 
 • true :] That is, honest. A true muu is, in the language of that time, 
 
 opposed to a thief, — Johnson.
 
 74 TEMPEST. 
 
 That could control the moon, make flows and ebbs. 
 And deal in her command, without her power :* 
 These three have robb'd me : and this demi-devil 
 (For he's a bastard one,) had plotted with them 
 To take my life: two of these fellows you 
 Must know, and own; this thing of darkness I 
 Acknowledge mine. 
 
 Cal. I shall be pinch'd to death. 
 
 Alon. Is not this Stephano, my drunken butler? 
 
 Seb. He is drunk now: where had he wine? 
 
 Alon. And Trinculo is reeling ripe : Where should they 
 Find this grand liquor that hath gilded them?" — 
 How cam'st thou in this pickle? 
 
 Trin. I have been in such a pickle, since I saw you 
 last, that, I fear me, will never out of my bones : I shall 
 not fear fly-blowing.'' 
 
 Seb. Why, how now, Stephano ? 
 
 Ste. O touch me not ; I am not Stephano, but a cramp. 
 
 Pro. You'd be king of the isle, sirrah ? 
 
 Ste. I should have been a sore one then. 
 
 Alon. This is as strange a thing as e'er I look'd on. 
 
 [Pointing to Caliban. 
 
 Pro. He is as disproportioned in his manners. 
 As in his shape: — Go, sirrah, to my cell; 
 Take with you your companions ; as you look 
 To have my pardon, trim it handsomely. 
 
 Cal. Ay, that I will ; and I'll be wise hereafter. 
 And seek for grace : What a thrice-double ass 
 Was I, to take this drunkard for a god. 
 And worship this dull fool ? 
 
 ' And deal in her command, without her power ;]— exercises the command of 
 the moon, without being empowered by her so to do ; — or, commands the ebbs 
 and flows of the sea with an usurped authority. 
 
 u grand liquor that hath gilded theml] Dr. Warburton supposes that there 
 
 is an allusion here to the grand elixir, the Aurum potabile of the alchymists, 
 which, they pretend, would restore youth, and confer immortality. — The phrase 
 of being gilded was commonly used to express intoxication ; as in the Chances 
 of Fletcher, — "Duke. Is she not drunk, too? Whore. A little ^^jWed o'er, sir; 
 — old sack, old sack, boy." — Dr. Warburton may be right ; but I believe that 
 gilded was merely used in the sense in which we now use disguised, when 
 speaking of a drunken person, without any farther allusion. 
 
 X f.y-blawiug.^ This pickle alludes to their plunge into the stinking 
 
 pool : and pickling preserves meat from^y-feW'tn^.-'-STEEVENs.
 
 ACT v.— SCENE I. 75 
 
 Pro. Go to ; away ! 
 
 Ahn. Hence, and bestow your luggage where you 
 found it. 
 
 Seb. Or stole it, rather. [Exeunt Ca-l.Ste. a?tdT rih. 
 
 Pro. Sir, I invite your highness, and your train. 
 To my poor cell ; where you shall take your rest 
 For this one night ; which (part of it,) I'll waste 
 With such discourse, as, I doubt not, shall make it 
 Go quick away : the story of my life. 
 And the particular accidents, gone by. 
 Since I came to this isle : And in the morn, 
 ril bring you to your ship, and so to Naples, 
 Where I have hope to see the nuptial 
 Of these our dear-beloved solemniz'd ; 
 And thence retire me to my Milan, where 
 Every third thought shall be my grave. 
 
 Ahn. I long 
 
 To hear the story of your life, which must 
 Take the ear strangely. 
 
 Pro. I'll deliver all ; 
 
 And promise you calm seas, auspicious gales. 
 And sail so expeditious, that shall catch 
 Your royal fleet far off. — My Ariel ; — chick, — 
 That is thy charge ; then to the elements 
 Be free, and fare thou well \— [aside.] Please you, draw 
 near. [Exeunt.
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 SPOKEN BY PROSPERO, 
 
 Now my charms are all overthrown. 
 And ivhat strength I have's mine own ; 
 Which is most faint: now 'tis true, 
 I must be here confin'd hy you. 
 Or sent to Naples : Let me not. 
 Since I have my dukedom got, 
 And pardon d the deceiver, divell 
 In this bare island, hy your spell; 
 But release me from my bands, 
 With the help of your good hands. 
 Gentle breath of yours my sails 
 Must fill, or else my project fails. 
 Which was to please : Now I want 
 Spirits to enforce, art to enchant ; 
 And my ending is despair. 
 Unless I be reliev'd by prayer ; 
 Which pierces so, that it assaults 
 Mercy itself, and frees all faults. 
 jJs you from crimes would pardon' d be. 
 Let your indulgence set mefree.^ 
 
 1 1t is observed of The Tempest, that its plan is regular ; this the author of 
 The Revisal thinks, what I think too, an accidental effect of the story, not in- 
 tended or regarded by our author. But, whatever might be Shakspeare's in- 
 tention in forming or adopting the plot, he has made it instrimiental to the 
 production of many characters, diversified with boundless invention, and pre- 
 served with profound skill in nature, extensive knowledge of opinions, and 
 accurate observation of life. In a single drama are here exhibited princes, 
 courtiers, and sailors, all speaking in their real characters. There is the 
 agency of airy spirits, and of an earthly goblin. The operations of magic, the 
 tumults of a storm, the adventures of a desert island, the native effusion of un- 
 taught affection, the punishment of guilt, and the final hajjpiness of the pair 
 for whom our passions and reason are equally interested. — Johnson. 
 
 The unity of time is strictly observed in this jjlay. The fable scarcely takes 
 up a greater number of hours than are employed in the representation : and
 
 ( 77 ) 
 
 from the verj* particular care which our autlior takes to point out this circum- 
 stance in so many passages, it should seem that it was not accidental, but de- 
 signed to shew tie cavillers of the time, that he too could \vrite a play within 
 all the strictest laws of regularity, when he chose to load himself with the 
 critic's fetters. — Alonso says, 
 
 " If thou beest Prospero, 
 
 Give us particulars of thy preservation : 
 
 How thou hast met us here, who three hours since 
 
 Were wreckt upon tliis shore." — 
 The boatswain marks the progress of the day again j 
 
 " Which but three glasses since," &c. 
 At the beginning of the fifth act the duration of the time employed on the stage 
 is particularly ascertained ; 
 
 "Pro. How's the day 1 
 Ari. On the sixth hour." 
 And they again refer to a passage in the first act : 
 
 " Pro. What is the time of the day ? 
 Ari. Past the mid season, at least two glasses." — Steevens. 
 It may be farther added to the above observation of Steevens, that the 
 unities of action and of place are as exactly observed as the unity of time. 
 " In this play," says Dr. VVarton, Adventurer, Number 97, " the action is one, 
 great, and entire, tlie restoration of Prospero to his dukedom ; this business is 
 transacted in the compass of a small island, and in or near the cave of Pros- 
 pero."
 
 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 
 
 TnrnE was no edition of tliis play, till that of the year 16'23 ; but it must have 
 been written much earlier, as it is mentioned by Meres, in his Wit's Treasury, 
 which was published in 1598. — Mr. IMalone considers this play as Shakspeare's 
 first production. — The internal evidence is against such a supposition. It has 
 neither the beauties or the faults — the exuberance or the inequalities — that ge- 
 nerally distinguish the inexperienced efforts of a rich and original genius. — 
 The general tone of the comedy, though occasionally relieved by passages of 
 much grace and sweetness, is that of smooth, elegant", dull mediocrity. It is 
 rejected as entirely spurious by Hanmer and Upton : and though the quibbles 
 of Speed, the folly of Launce, and some delightful lines scattered here and 
 there in the serious scenes of the play, aie so perfectly in the manner of Sliak- 
 speare, as to convince the reader that it had undergone his revision and im- 
 provement, I cannot help believing it inqmssible that our great Dramatist 
 could have been the author of a work, in which the characters are so entirely 
 devoid of individuality, the dialogue so elaborately heavy, so smootlily tame, 
 and so little varied with the changes of situation. Dr. Johnson thinks dif- 
 ferently, and says, " When I read this play 1 cannot but think that I find, both 
 in the serious and ludicrous scenes, the language and sentiments of Shak- 
 speare. It is not, indeed, one of his most powerful effusions ; it has neither 
 many diversities of character, nor striking delineations of life ; but it abounds 
 in yvaifAai beyond most of his plays, and few have more lines or passages, 
 which, singly considered, are eminently beautiful. I am yet inclined to be- 
 lieve that it was not very successful, and suspect that it has escaped corrup- 
 tion, only because, being seldom played, it was less exposed to the hazards of 
 transcription." 
 
 The story of Proteus and Julia, has been resembled to a story in the Diana, 
 of George of Montemayor, which according to IMrs. Lenox, was translated in 
 Shakspeare's time. — The incident of Valentine'sjoining the robbers is also sup- 
 posed to be taken from the Arcadia of Sir Philip Sidney, book 1. chap 6. 
 where Pyrocles consents to head the Helots.— Both these adventures are com- 
 mon in tale and history, and, if not already prepared to the author's hand, 
 might have been invented without any great stretch of imagination.
 
 PERSONS REPRESENTED. 
 
 DuA;e o/' Milan, Father to Silvia. 
 Valentine, > ^ ^, ^,. 
 
 Proteus, \ ^^'^^^^^^'^ of Verona. 
 
 Antonio, Father to Proteus. 
 Thurio, a foolish rival to Valentine. 
 Eglamour, agent for Silvia, hi her escape. 
 Speed, a clownish servant to Valentine. 
 Launce, servant to Proteus. 
 Panthino, servant to Antonio. 
 Host, where Julia lodges in Milan. 
 Out-laivs. 
 
 Julia, a Lady o/" Verona, beloved by Proteus. 
 Silvia, the Duke's Daughter, beloved by Valentine. 
 Lucetta, waiting-woman to Julia. 
 
 Servants, Musicians. 
 
 Scene, sometimes in Verona ; sometimes in Milan ; and 
 on the frontiers q/' Mantua. 
 
 Of these characters the old copy has — Prot/teus ; but this is merely the an- 
 tiquated mode of spelling Proteus. Shakspeare's character was so called, 
 from his disposition to change; and Panthino, in the enumeration of charac- 
 ters in the old copy, is called Punthion, but in the play, always Panthino.
 
 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — An open Place in Verona. 
 Enter Valentine and Proteus. 
 
 Val. CyEASE to persuade, my loving Proteus ; 
 Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits ; 
 Wer't not, affection chains thy tender days 
 To the sweet glances of thy honour'd love, 
 I rather would entreat thy company. 
 To see the wonders of the world abroad, 
 Than, living dully sluggardiz'd at home. 
 Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness.* 
 But, since thou lov'st, love still, and thrive therein. 
 Even as I would, when I to love begin. 
 
 Pro. Wilt thou be gone? Sweet Valentine, adieu ! 
 Think on thy Proteus, when thou, haply, seest 
 Some rare note-worthy object in thy travel : 
 Wish me partaker in thy happiness. 
 When thou dost meet good hap ; and, in thy danger. 
 If ever danger do environ thee. 
 Commend thy grievance to my holy prayers. 
 For I will be thy bead's-man, Valentine. 
 
 Val. And on a love-book pray for my success. 
 
 Pro. Upon some book 1 love, Til pray for thee. 
 
 I al. riiat's on some shallow story of deep love. 
 How young Leander cross'd the Hellespont. 
 
 » shapelesi idlonoss.] Tin- (■xiiTi'.«Bio» is finv, :i8 implying tliat i,ltenesi 
 
 pTPvenLs tli(> giving any fonii or character to Uie manners. — vVahuuuton. 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 Pro. That's a deep story of a deeper love ; 
 For he was more than over shoes in love. 
 
 Vol. 'Tis true ; for you are over boots in love. 
 And yet you never swam the Hellespont. 
 
 Pro. Over the boots ? nay, give me not the boots.** 
 
 Vol. No, I'll not, for it boots thee not. 
 
 Pro. What? 
 
 Val. To be 
 
 In love, where scorn is bought with groans ; coy looks. 
 With heart-sore sighs ; one fading moment's mirth. 
 With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights; 
 If haply won, perhaps a hapless gain ; 
 If lost, why then a grievous labour won ; 
 However, but a folly'' bought with wit. 
 Or else a wit by folly vanquished. 
 
 Pro. So, by your circumstance, you call me fool. 
 
 Val. So, by your circumstance,^ I fear you'll prove 
 
 Pro. 'Tis love you cavil at; I am not love. 
 
 Val. Love is your master, for he masters you : 
 And he that is so yoked by a fool, 
 Methinks should not be chronicled for wise. 
 
 Pro. Yet writers say, As in the sweetest bud 
 The eating canker dwells, so eating love 
 Inhabits in the finest wits of all. 
 
 Val. And writers say. As the most forward bud 
 Is eaten by the canker ere it blow. 
 Even so by love the young and tender wit 
 Is turn'd to folly ; blasting in the bud. 
 Losing his verdure even in the prime. 
 And all the fair effects of future hopes. 
 But wherefore waste I time to counsel thee. 
 That art a votary to fond desire ? 
 Once more adieu : my father at the road 
 Expects my coming, there to see me shipp'd. 
 
 *> nay, give me not the boots.] A proverbial expression, though now dis- 
 used, signifying, don't make a laughing-stock of me ; don't play upoa me. — 
 Theobald. 
 
 <= However, hut a folly, &c.] This love will end in a, foolish action, to produce 
 which you are long to spend your wit, or it will end in the loss of your wit, 
 which will be overpowered by the folly of love. — Johnson. 
 
 <l circnmstance,'] In the first line the word means circumstantial deduction, 
 
 in the second it means conduct. — M alone.
 
 ACT I.— SCENE I. 83 
 
 Pro. And thither will I bring thee, Valentine. 
 
 Vol. Sweet Proteus, no ; now let us take our leave. 
 At Milan, let me hear from thee by letters. 
 Of thy success in love, and what news else 
 Betideth here in absence of thy friend ; 
 And I likewise will visit thee with mine. 
 
 Pro. All happiness bechance to thee in Milan ! 
 
 Val. As much to you at home ! and so, farewell. 
 
 [Exit Valentine. 
 
 Pro. He after honour hunts, I after love : 
 He leaves his friends, to dignify them more ; 
 I leave myself, my friends, and all for love. 
 Thou, Julia, thou hast metamorphos'd me; 
 Made me neglect my studies, lose my time. 
 War with good counsel, set the world at nought ; 
 Made wit with musing weak, heart sick with thought. 
 
 *b 
 
 Enter Speed. 
 
 Speed. Sir Proteus, save you: Saw you my master? 
 
 Pro. But now he parted hence, to embark for Milan. 
 
 Speed. Twenty to one then, he is shipp'd already ; 
 And I have play'd the sheep,* in losing him. 
 
 Pro. Indeed a sheep doth very often stray. 
 And if the shepherd be awhile away. 
 
 Speed. You conclude that my master is a shepherd then» 
 and I a sheep ? 
 
 Pro. I do. 
 
 Sj)eed. Why then my horns are his horns, whether I 
 wake or sleep. 
 
 Pro. A silly answer, and fitting well a sheep. 
 
 Speed. This proves me still a sheep. 
 
 Pro. True ; and thy master a shepherd. 
 
 Speed. Nay, that I can deny by a circumstance. 
 
 Pro. It shall go hard, but I'll prove by it another. 
 
 Speed. The shepherd seeks the siieep, and not the sheep 
 
 "^ sheep in /m/iiij /ii'i/i.] 'I'lio jest, such as it is, may cscajip tlw reader, 
 
 unless he recollect that in Warwickshire, Worcestershire, IK refonishire, and 
 probably in some other counties, a sh<!ep is pronounced a iltip. The two wordu 
 seem to have been used indiscriminately, and confounded. — Mai one. 
 
 G 2
 
 84 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 the shepherd ; but I seek my master, and my master seeks 
 not me : therefore, I am no sheep. 
 
 Pro. The sheep for fodder follow the shepherd, the 
 shepherd for food follows not the sheep ; thou for wages 
 followest thy master, thy master for wages follows not 
 thee : therefore, thou art a sheep. 
 
 Speed. Such another proof will make me cry baa. 
 
 Pro. But dost thou hear? gav'st thou my letter to 
 Julia ? 
 
 Speed. Ay, sir : I, a lost mutton, gave your letter to 
 her, a laced mutton \^ and she, a laced mutton, gave me, 
 a lost mutton, nothing for my labour ! 
 
 Pro. Here's too small a pasture for such a store of 
 muttons. 
 
 Speed. If the ground be overcharged, you were best 
 stick her. 
 
 Pro. Nay, in that you are a stray ;s 'twere best pound 
 you. 
 
 Speed. Nay, sir, less than a pound shall serve me for 
 carrying your letter. 
 
 Pro. You mistake ; I mean the pound, a pinfold. 
 
 Speed. From a pound to a pin ? fold it over and over, 
 'tis threefold too little for carrying a letter to your lover. 
 
 Pro. But what said she ? [Speed nods.] Did she nod ? 
 
 Speed, l.^ 
 
 Pro. Nod, I ; why, that's noddy.' 
 
 Speed. You mistook, sir ; I say, she did nod : and you 
 ask me, if she did nod ; and I say, I. 
 
 Pro. And that set together, is — noddy. 
 
 Speed. Now you have taken the pains to set it together, 
 take it for your pains. 
 
 f laced mutton ;] A cant expression for a ■prostitute. — Mutton means the 
 
 same ; why, I am not prepared to say. The term, however, being once esta- 
 blished, a laced mutton might only mean one finely dressed in lace. — In this pas- 
 sage the phrase is jocularly joined with lost mutton, or lost sheep. It is not 
 impossible that lost sheep, applied to such females, might be the original notion, 
 from which the others came, by jocular perversion. — Archdeacon Nabes's 
 Glossary, 
 
 e ■ a stray ;] A stray sheep. 
 
 •• /.] i.e. aye. — Such was the old way of writing and pronouncing the word, 
 and it afforded great scope and temptation for punning. 
 
 ' why , that's noddy .'] A silly fellow.
 
 ACT I.— SCENE I. 85 
 
 Pro. No, no, you shall have it for bearing the letter. 
 
 Speed. Well, I perceive, I must be fain to bear with you. 
 
 Pro. Why, sir, how do you bear with me ? 
 
 Speed. Marry, sir, the letter very orderly ; having 
 nothing but the word, noddy, for my pains. 
 
 Pro. Beshrevv me, but you have a quick wit. 
 
 Speed. And yet it cannot overtake your slow purse. 
 
 Pro. Come, come, open the matter in brief: What said 
 she? 
 
 Speed. Open your purse, that the money, and the mat- 
 ter, may be both at once delivered. 
 
 Pro. Well, sir, here is for your pains : What said she ? 
 
 Speed. Truly, sir, I think you'll hardly win her. 
 
 Pro. Why ? Could'st thou perceive so much from her? 
 
 Speed. Sir, I could perceive nothing at all from her ; 
 no, not so much as a ducat for delivering your letter: And 
 beino- so hard to me that brought your mind, I fear she'll 
 prove as hard to you in telling your mind.'' Give her no 
 token but stones; for she's as hard as steel. 
 
 Pro. What, said she nothing ? 
 
 Speed. No, not so much as — take this for thy pains. To 
 testify your bounty, I thank you, you have testern'd me ;' 
 in requital whereof, henceforth carry your letters your- 
 self: and so, sir, I'll commend you to my master. 
 
 Pro. Go, go, be gone, to save your ship from wreck; 
 Which cannot perish, having thee aboard, 
 Being destined to a drier death on shore : — 
 I must go send some better messenger ; 
 I fear, my Julia would not deign my lines. 
 Receiving them from such a worthless post. \^Exeunt. 
 
 k tellitif^ your mind.^ In the second folio your became by mistake altered 
 
 to hef, and all the editors except Malone have repeated the corruption. — The 
 sense is — if she was so hard to me, who was the hearer of your mind, 1 fear 
 she will prove no less so to you iti tlie act of telling' your mind, when you ad- 
 dress her in person. The oppiosition is between broui^lil .and telliiij^. Malone. 
 
 1 — . — you hate testern'd me ;] You have gratified me with a tester, teitern, 
 or le$te:t, that is, with a sixpence. — Johnson. The value of this (oin was dif- 
 ferent at diftercnt times. In Henry the Ki^hth's day."? it w.xs worth l'2d. ; — in 
 the reit,'n of Minry the Sixth it w.is l)rou;;hl down to '.'d., and then to6d., which 
 still retains the name. — MjiLONt and H. \\ hite.
 
 m TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The same. Garden o/" Julia's house. 
 EjUer Julia and Lucetta. 
 
 Jul. But say, Lucetta, now we are alone, 
 Would'st thou then counsel me to fall in love ? 
 
 Luc. Ay, madam ; so you stumble not unheedfully. 
 
 Jul. Of all the fair resort of gentlemen. 
 That every day with parle encounter me. 
 In thy opinion, which is worthiest love ? 
 
 Luc. Please you, repeat their names, I'll shew my mind 
 According to my shallow simple skill. 
 
 Jul. What think'st thou of the fair sir Eglamour ? 
 
 Luc. As of a knight well-spoken, neat and fine ; 
 But, were I you, he never should be mine. 
 
 Jul. What think'st thou of the rich Mercatio ? 
 
 Luc. Well, of his wealth ; but of himself, so, so. 
 
 Jul. What think'st thou of the oentle Proteus ? 
 
 Luc. Lord, lord ! to see what folly reigns in us ! 
 
 Jul. How now ! what means this passion at his name ? 
 
 Luc. Pardon, dear madam; 'tis a passing shame. 
 That I, unworthy body as I am. 
 Should censure"' thus on lovely gentlemen. 
 
 Jul. Why not on Proteus, as of all the rest ? 
 
 Luc. Then thus, of many good I think him best. 
 
 Jul. Your reason ? 
 
 Luc. I have no other but a woman's reason ; 
 I think him so, because I think him so. 
 
 Jul. And would'st thou have me cast my love on him ? 
 
 Luc. Ay, if you thought your love not cast away. 
 
 Jul. Why, he of all the rest hath never mov'd me. 
 
 Luc, Yet he of all the rest, I think, best loves ye. 
 
 Jul. His little speaking shews his love but small. 
 
 Luc. Fire, that is closest kept, burns most of all. 
 
 Jul. They do not love, that do not shew their love. 
 
 Luc. O, they love least, that let men know their love. 
 
 Jul. I would, I knew his mind. 
 
 •" censure — ] Pass judgment on.
 
 ACT I.— SCENE II. 87 
 
 Lttc. Peruse this paper, madam. 
 
 Jul. To Julia, — Say, from whom ? 
 
 Luc. That the contents will shew. 
 
 Jul. Say, say ; who gave it thee ? 
 
 Luc. Sir Valentine's page; and sent, I think, from 
 Proteus : 
 He would have given it you, but I, being in the w^ay. 
 Did in your name receive it : pardon the fault, I pray. 
 
 Jul. Now, by my modesty, a goodly broker !" 
 Dare you presume to harbour w^anton lines ? 
 To whisper and conspire against my youth ? 
 Now, trust me, 'tis an office of great worth. 
 And you an officer fit for the place. 
 There, take the paper, see it be return'd ; 
 Or else return no more into my sight. 
 
 Luc. To plead for love deserves more fee than hate. 
 
 Jul. Will you be gone ? 
 
 Luc. That you may ruminate. [Exit. 
 
 Jul. And yet, I would, I had o'erlook'd the letter. 
 It were a shame to call her back again. 
 And pray her to a fault for which I chid her. 
 What fool is she, that knows I am a maid. 
 And would not force the letter to my view ? 
 Since maids, in modesty, say No, to that 
 Which they would have the profferer construe, Ay. 
 Fie, fie ! how wayward is this foolish love, 
 That, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse, 
 And presently, all humbled, kiss the rod ! 
 How churlishly I chid Lucetta hence. 
 When willingly I would have had her here ! 
 How angerly I taught my brow to frown. 
 When inward joy eiiforc'd my heart to smile ! 
 My penance is, to call Lucetta buck, 
 And ask remission for my folly past : — 
 What ho ! Lucetta ! 
 
 Rc-culcr Lie ETTA. 
 Luc. What would your ladyship I 
 
 n Irroktr !^ It appears to me that ftro/cfr horc does not mean mntili-maker, 
 
 as Johnsou iiitcrpretg it, hut has itH common acceptation, of one inho trunsiicli 
 hiisinas fcr another, — Lucetta having received tlie letter iu Julia's name.
 
 88 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 Jul. Is't near dinner-time? 
 
 Luc. I would it were ; 
 
 That you might kill your stomach on your meat," 
 And not upon your maid. 
 
 Jul. What is't that you 
 
 Took up so gingerly ? 
 
 Luc. Nothing. 
 
 Jul. Why didst thou stoop then ? 
 
 Xwc. To take a paper up that I let fall. 
 
 Jill. And is that paper nothing ? 
 
 Luc. Nothing concerning me. 
 
 Jul. Then let it lie for those that it concerns. 
 
 Luc. Madam, it will not lie where it concerns. 
 Unless it have a false interpreter. 
 
 Jul. Some love of yours hath writ to you in rhyme. 
 
 IjUC. That I might sing it, madam, to a tune : 
 Give me a note : your ladyship can set. 
 
 Jul. As little by such toys as may be possible: 
 Best sing it to the tune of Light o'love. 
 
 Luc. It is too heavy for so light a tune. 
 
 Jul. Heavy ? belike, it hath some burden then. 
 
 Luc. Ay ; and melodious were it, would you sing it. 
 
 Jul. And why not you ? 
 
 Luc. I cannot reach so high. 
 
 Jul. Let's see your song ; — How now, minion ? 
 
 Luc. Keep tune there still, so you will sing it out : 
 And yet, me thinks, I do not like this tune. 
 
 Jul. You do not ? 
 
 Luc. No, madam; it is too sharp. 
 
 Jul. You, minion, are too saucy. 
 
 Luc. Nay, now you are too flat. 
 And mar the concord with too harsh a descant :P 
 There wanteth but a meani to fill your song. 
 
 Jul. The mean is drown'd with your unruly base. 
 
 Luc. Indeed, I bid the base for Proteus."^ 
 
 * stomach on your meat,"] Stomach was used for passion or obstinacy. — 
 
 Johnson. 
 
 P descant,"] signified formerly what we now denominate variations. — 
 
 Malone. 
 
 1 a mean, &c.] i.e. the tenor in music. 
 
 ■■ J hid the base — ] To bid a base, means to run fast, challenging another 
 
 to pursue. — Archdeacon Naris.
 
 ACT I.— SCENE II. 89 
 
 Jul. This babble shall not henceforth trouble me. 
 Here is a coil with protestation ! — [7ea;-s the letter. 
 
 Go, get you gone ; and let the papers lie : 
 You would be fingering them, to anger me. 
 
 Luc. She makes it strange; but she would be best 
 pleas'd 
 To be so anger'd with another letter. [Exit. 
 
 Jul. Nay, would I were so anger'd with the same ! 
 
 hateful hands, to tear such loving words ! 
 Injurious wasps ! to feed on such sweet honey. 
 And kill the bees, that yield it, with your stings ! 
 I'll kiss each several paper for amends. 
 
 And, here is writ — kind Julia ; — unkind Julia ! 
 As in revenge of thy ingratitude, 
 
 1 throw thy name against the bruising stones. 
 Trampling contemptuously on thy disdain. 
 Look, here is writ — love-wounded Proteus : — 
 Poor wounded name ! my bosom, as a bed. 
 
 Shall lodge thee, till thy wound be throughly heal'd ; 
 
 And thus I search it with a sovereign kiss. 
 
 But twice, or thrice, was Proteus written down : 
 
 Be calm, good wind, blow not a word away. 
 
 Till I have found each letter in the letter. 
 
 Except mine own name ; that some whirlwind bear 
 
 Unto a rugged, fearful, hanging rock. 
 
 And throw it thence into the raging sea ! 
 
 Lo, here in one line is his name twice writ, — 
 
 Poor forlorn Proteus, passionate Proteus, 
 
 To the sweet Julia; that I'll tear away ; 
 
 And yet I will not, sith so prettily 
 
 He couples it to his complaining names; 
 
 Thus will I fold them one upon another ; 
 
 New kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will. 
 
 Re-enter Lucetta. 
 
 Luc. Madam, dinner's ready, and your father stays. 
 Jul. Well, let us go. 
 
 Lnc. What, shall these pa|)ers like lie tell-tales here? . 
 Jul. If you respect them, best to take them up.
 
 90 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 Luc. Nay, I was taken up for laying them down : 
 Yet here they shall not lie, for catching cold/ 
 
 Jul. I see, you have a month's mind to them.* 
 
 Luc. Ay, madam, you may say what sights you see ; 
 I see things too, although you judge I wink. 
 
 Jul. Come, come, will't please you go ? [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 The same. A room m Antonio's House, 
 
 Enter Antonio and Panthino. 
 
 Ant. Tell me, Panthino, what sad" talk was that. 
 Wherewith my brother held you in the cloister ? 
 
 Pan. 'Twas of his nephew Proteus, your son. 
 
 Ant. Why, what of him ? 
 
 Pan. He wonder'd, that your lordship 
 
 Would suffer him to spend his youth at home ; 
 While other men, of slender reputation," 
 Put forth their sons to seek preferment out ; 
 Some, to the wars, to try their fortune there ; 
 Some, to discover islands far away ;" 
 Some, to the studious universities. 
 For any, or for all these exercises. 
 He said, that Proteus, your son, was meet : 
 And did request me, to importune you. 
 To let him spend his time no more at home. 
 Which would be great impeachment to his age, 
 In having known no travel in his youth. 
 
 » Yet liere they shall not lie, for catching cold.] i. e. lest they should catch cold. 
 
 ' a month's mind.'] i. e. A celebration in remembrance of dead persons a 
 
 month after their decease ; — and to this sense of the words all the commenta- 
 tors refer, though it is very evident that the phrase cannot be used in this 
 place with any such signification ; it here implies an eager desire or Imiging, and 
 is not unfrequently employed in tliat sense at the present day. It is the inge- 
 nious conjecture of John Crofts, esq. of York, who published a few detached 
 remarks on Shakspeare, that the expression when thus applied, alludes to " a 
 woman's longing," which usually takes place (or at least commences) in the first 
 month of pregnancy. — Nares's Glossary. 
 
 ° Sad,] i. e. grave, serious. 
 
 " r)/' slender reputation,] i. e. who are thought slightly of. 
 
 " .Some, to discover islands far away ;] In Shakspeare's time, voyages for the 
 discovery of the islands of America were much in vogue. And we find in the 
 journals of the travellers of that time, that the sons of noblemen, and of others 
 of the best families in England, went very frequently on these adventures. — 
 WariiUrton.
 
 ACT I.— SCENE III. 91 
 
 Ant. Nor need'st thou much importune me to that 
 Whereon this month I have been hammering. 
 I have consider'd well his loss of time ; 
 And how he cannot be a perfect man. 
 Not being try'd, and tutor'd in the world : 
 Experience is by industry achieved. 
 And perfected by the swift course of time : 
 Then, tell me, whither were I best to send him? 
 
 Pan. I think, your lordship is not ignorant. 
 How his companion, youthful Valentine, 
 Atteijds the emperor in his royal court .^ 
 
 Ant. I know it well. 
 
 Pan. 'Twere good, I think, your lordship sent him 
 There sliall he practise tilts and tournaments, [thither : 
 Hear sweet discourse, converse with noblemen ; 
 And be in eye of every exercise. 
 Worthy his youth and nobleness of birth. 
 
 Ant. I like thy counsel ; well hast thou advis'd : 
 And, that thou may'st perceive how well I like it. 
 The execution of it shall make known ; 
 Even with the speediest execution 
 I will dispatch him to the emperor's court. 
 
 Pan. To-morrow, may it please you, Don Alphonso, 
 With other gentlemen of good esteem. 
 Are journeying to salute the emperor. 
 And to commend their service to his will. 
 
 Ant. Good company ; with them shall Proteus go : 
 And, in good time, — now will we break with him. 
 
 Enter Proteus. 
 Pro. Sweet love ! sweet lines ! sweet life ! 
 
 T Attends the emperor in his royal ccurf.] Shakspeare has been guilty of no mis- 
 take in placing tlie emperor's court at .Milan in this play. Several of the first 
 Gennan emperors held their courts there occasionally, it being, at that time, 
 their immediate property, and the chief town of their luUian dominions. Some 
 of them were crowned kings of Italy at Milan, before they received the imperial 
 crown at Rome. Nor has the poet fallen into any contradiction by giving a 
 duke to Milan at the oame time that the emperor held his court there. The 
 first dukes of that, and all the other great cities in Italy, were not sovereign 
 princes, as they rifterwanl became , but were merely governors, or viceroys, 
 under the emi)erors, and removable at their pleasure. Sucli was the Dnhe of 
 Milan mentioned in this play. .Mr. M. Mason adds, that " during iIk; wars 
 in Italy between P'rivncis 1. and Charles \'. the latter frequently ret>ided at 
 Milan." — JsTtEvtN.s.
 
 92 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 Here is her hand, the agent of her heart ; 
 Here is her oath for love, her honour's pawn : 
 O, that our fathers would applaud our loves. 
 To seal our happiness with their consents ! 
 
 heavenly Julia ! 
 
 Ant. How now ? what letter are you reading there ? 
 
 Pro. May't please your lordship, 'tis a word or two 
 Of commendation sent from Valentine, 
 Deliver'd by a friend that came from him. 
 
 Ant. Lend me the letter ; let me see what news. 
 
 Pro. There is no news, my lord ; but that he writes 
 How happily he lives, how well-belov'd. 
 And daily grac'd by the emperor ; 
 Wishing me with him, partner of his fortune. 
 
 Ant. And how stand you affected to his wish ? 
 
 Pro. As one relying on your lordship's will. 
 And not depending on his friendly wish. 
 
 Ant. My will is something sorted with his wish : 
 Muse not that I thus suddenly proceed \ 
 For what I will, I will, and there an end. 
 
 1 am resolv'd, that thou shalt spend some time 
 With Valentinus in the emperor's court ; 
 What maintenance he from his friends receives. 
 Like exhibition^ shalt thou have from me. 
 To-morrow be in readiness to go : 
 
 Excuse it not, for I am peremptory. 
 
 Pro. My lord, I cannot be so soon provided; 
 
 Please you, deliberate a day or two. 
 
 Ant. Look, what thou want'st, shall be sent after thee : 
 
 No more of stay ; to-morrow thou must go. — 
 
 Come on, Panthino ; you shall be employ 'd 
 
 To hasten on his expedition. \^Exeunt Ant. and Pan. 
 
 Pro. Thus have I shunn'd the fire, for fear of burning ; 
 
 And drench'd me in the sea, where I am drown'd : 
 
 I fear'd to shew my father Julia's letter. 
 
 Lest he should take exceptions to my love ; 
 
 And with the vantage of mine own excuse 
 
 Hath he excepted most against my love. 
 
 O, how this spring of love resembleth 
 
 • eihihUion — ] i. e. allowance.
 
 ACT II.— SCENE I. 93 
 
 The uncertmn glory of an April day ; 
 Which now shows all the beauty of the sun. 
 And by and by a cloud takes all away ! 
 
 Re-enter Panthino. 
 
 Pan. Sir Proteus, your father calls for you ; 
 He is in haste, therefore, I pray you, go. 
 
 Pro. Why, this it is ! my heart accords thereto ; 
 And yet a thousand times it answers, no. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — Milan. An Apartment in the Duke's Palace. 
 
 Enter Valentine and Speed. 
 
 Speed. Sir, your glove. 
 
 Val. Not mine ; my gloves are on. 
 
 Speed. Why, then this may be yours, for this is but one.' 
 
 Val. Ha ! let me see : ay, give it me, it's mine : — 
 Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine ! 
 Ah Silvia ! Silvia ! 
 
 Speed. Madam Silvia ! madam Silvia ! 
 
 Val. How now, sirrah ? 
 
 Speed. She is not within hearing, sir. 
 
 Val. Why, sir, who bade you call her? 
 
 Speed. Your worship, sir; or else I mistook. 
 
 Val. Well, you'll still be too forward. 
 
 Speed. And yet I was last chidden for being too slow. 
 
 Val. Go to, sir; tell me, do you know madam Silvia? 
 
 Speed. She that your worship loves ? . 
 
 Val. Why, how know you that I am in love? 
 
 Speed. Marry, by these special marks : First, you have 
 learned, like sir Proteus, to wreath your arms like a male- 
 content; to relish a love-song, like a Robin-red-breast; 
 to walk alone, like one that had the pestilence ; to sigh, 
 like a school-boy that had lost his A B C ; to wccj), like a 
 young wencii thai had l)uried her grandam ; to fast, like 
 
 » btU one.] It seems from this passage that the word one was ancic-ntly 
 
 pronounced as if writtrn on. Tlio ijiiiliMe is lost by thf change of tin- pro- 
 nunciation. M AI.ONt.
 
 94 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 one that takes diet ;'' to watch, like one that fears rob- 
 bing; to speak puling, like a beggar at Hallowmas.'^ You 
 were wont, when you laughed, to crow like a cock; when 
 you walked, to walk like one of the lions ; when you 
 fasted, it was presently after dinner; when you looked 
 sadly, it was for want of money : and now you are meta- 
 morphosed with a mistress, that, when I look on you, I 
 can hardly think you my master. 
 
 Val. Are all these things perceived in me ? 
 
 Speed. They are all perceived without you. 
 
 Val. Without me? they cannot. 
 
 Speed. Without you ? nay, that's certain, for, without 
 you were so simple, none else would :*^ but you are so 
 without these follies, that these follies are within you, and 
 shine through you like the water in an urinal ; that not 
 an eye, that sees you, but is a physician to comment on 
 your malady. 
 
 Val. But tell me, dost thou know my lady Sylvia ? 
 
 Speed. She, that you gaze on so, as she sits at supper ? 
 
 Val. Hast thou observed that? even she I mean. 
 
 Speed. Why, sir, I know her not. 
 
 Val. Dost thou know her by my gazing on her, and yet 
 knowest her not ? 
 
 Speed. Is she not hard favoured, sir ? 
 
 Val. Not so fair, boy, as well favoured. 
 
 Speed. Sir, I know that well enough. 
 
 Val. What dost thou know ? 
 
 Speed. That she is not so fair, as (of you) well favoured. 
 
 Val. I mean, that her beauty is exquisite, but her favour 
 infinite. 
 
 Speed. That's because the one is painted, and the other 
 out of all count. 
 
 Val. How painted ? and how out of count ? 
 
 b takes, diet ;] Is under a regimen. 
 
 c llallffwmah.] The mass or feast day oi All-hallows, that is All-saints. — 
 
 It was a custom on this day, and in Staffordshire some traces of it are said still 
 to continue, for the poor people to go from parish to parish asouUng, i. e. beg- 
 ging and puling (or singing small, as the word puling is explained by Bailey) for 
 soul-cakes, and singing a song which they call the soider's-song. Several of these 
 terms clearly point out the condition of this benevolence, which was, that the 
 beggars should pray for the souls of the giver's departed friends on the ensuing 
 day, November 2, which was the feast of All Souls. — Tollet and Nares. 
 
 <i none else rvould:'] None else would he so simple. — Johnson.
 
 ACT II.— SCENE I. 95 
 
 Speed. Marry, sir, so painted to make her fair, tliat no 
 man 'counts of her beauty. 
 
 Val. How esteemest thou me ? I account of her beauty. 
 
 Speed. You never saw her since she was deformed . 
 
 Val. How long hath she been deformed ? 
 
 Speed. Ever since you loved her. 
 
 Val. I have loved her ever since I saw her ; and still I 
 see her beautiful. 
 
 Speed. If you love her, you cannot see her. 
 
 Val. Why? 
 
 Speed. Because love is blind. O, that you had mine 
 eyes ; or your own eyes had the lights they were wont to 
 have, when you chid at sir Proteus for going ungartered. 
 
 Fal. What should I see then ? 
 
 Speed. Your own present folly, and her passing defor- 
 mity : for he, being in love, could not see to garter his 
 hose ; and you, being in love, cannot see to put on your 
 hose. 
 
 Val. Belike, boy, then you are in love ; for last morn- 
 ing you could not see to wipe my shoes. 
 
 Speed. True, sir ; I was in love with my bed : I thank 
 you, you swinged me for my love, which makes me the 
 bolder to chide you for yours. 
 
 Val. In conclusion, I stand affected to her. 
 
 Speed. I would you were set ;' so, your affection would 
 cease. 
 
 Val. Last night she enjoined me to write some lines to 
 one she loves. 
 
 Speed. And have you ? 
 
 I' al. I have. 
 
 Speed. Arc they not lamely writ ? 
 
 Pal. No, boy, but as well as 1 can do them ; — Peace, 
 here she comes. 
 
 Enter Silv ia. 
 
 Speed. O excellent motion ! O exceeding pup))et ! now 
 will he interpret to her/ 
 
 e I would you nere let ;]—Scl , \a for seaUil, in opposition to stavtl, in the 
 preceding line. — M. Mason. 
 
 ' ejcellenl motion! l<c.] — Molinn signified, in Shaks|)care'stinie,;'ii;'/icf, 
 
 or ]mppet-ihow. — Now will he interpret (« her. '['he person who di-livcri'il from 
 bc'liinil the concoalinp curtain tli(' words appointed to tlie jiarts represented 
 by the puppets, was said lo l»e their interpreter.
 
 96 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 Fal. Madam and mistress, a thousand good-morrows. 
 
 Speed. O, give you good even ! here's a million of man- 
 ners. [^Aside. 
 
 Sil. Sir Valentine and servant, to you two thousand. 
 
 Speed. He should give her interest, and she gives it 
 him. 
 
 Val. As you enjoin'd me, I have writ your letter. 
 Unto the secret nameless friend of yours ; 
 Which I was much unwilling to proceed in. 
 But for my duty to your ladyship. 
 
 Sil. I thank you, gentle servant : 'tis very clerkly done. 
 
 Val. Now trust me, madam, it came hardly off; 
 For, being ignorant to whom it goes, 
 I writ at random, very doubtfully. 
 
 Sil. Perchance you think too much of so much pains ? 
 
 Val. No, madam ; so it stead you, I will write. 
 Please you command, a thousand times as much : 
 And yet, — 
 
 Sil. A pretty period ! Well, I guess the sequel ; 
 And yet I will not name it : — and yet I care not ; — 
 And yet take this again ; — and yet I thank you ; 
 Meaning henceforth to trouble no more. 
 
 Speed. And yet you will ; and yet another yet. [Aside. 
 
 Val. What means your ladyship ? do you not like it ? 
 
 Sil. Yes, yes ; the lines are very quaintly writ : 
 But since unwillingly, take them again ; 
 Nay, take them. 
 
 Val. Madam, they are for you. 
 
 Sil. Ay, ay, you writ them, sir, at my request ; 
 But I will none of them ; they are for you : 
 I would have had them writ more movingly. 
 
 Val. Please you, I'll write your ladyship another. 
 
 Sil. And, when it's writ, for my sake read it over : 
 And, if it please you, so : if not, why, so. 
 
 Val. If it please me, madam ! what then ? 
 
 »S7/. Why, if it please you, take it for your labour. 
 And so good morrow, servant. [Exit Silvia. 
 
 Speed. O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible. 
 As a nose on a man's face, or a weathercock on a steeple ! 
 My master sues to her; and she hath taught her suitor. 
 He being her pupil, to become her tutor.
 
 ACT II.— SCENE I. 97 
 
 O excellent device ! was there ever heard a better ? 
 That my master, being scribe, to himself should write the 
 letter ? 
 Fa/. How now, sir ? what are you reasoning with your- 
 self? 
 
 Speed. Nay, I was rhyming; 'tis yon that have the 
 reason. 
 
 Val. To do what ? 
 
 Speed. To be a spokesman from madam Silvia. 
 VaL To whom? 
 
 Speed. To yourself: why, she wooes you by a figure. 
 Fa/. What figure ? 
 Speed. By a letter, I should say. 
 Val. Why, she hath not writ to me ? 
 Speed. What needs she, when she hath made you write 
 to yourself? Why, do you not perceive the jest? 
 Pal. No, believe me.' 
 
 Speed. No believing you indeed, sir : But did you per- 
 ceive her earnest. 
 
 Val. She gave me none, except an angry word. 
 Speed. W'hy, she hath given you a letter. 
 P al. That's the letter 1 writ to her friend. 
 Speed. And that letter hath she deliver'd, and there an end.s 
 I al. I would it were no worse. 
 Speed. I'll warrant you, 'tis as well : 
 For often you have writ to her ; and she, in modesty, 
 Or else for want of idle time, could not again reply ; 
 Or fearing else some messenger, that might her mind discover. 
 Herself hath taught her love himself to write unto her lover. — 
 
 All this I speak in print;'' for in print I found it. — 
 Why muse you, sir? 'tis dinner time. 
 
 Val. I have dined. 
 
 Speed. Ay, but hearken, sir ; though the cameleon Love 
 can feed on the air, F am one that am nourished by my 
 victuals, and would fain have meat ; O, be not like your 
 mistress; be moved, be moved. [Exeunt. 
 
 uud there nii eml.] — And that's fhf ronclusion of the matter. 
 
 '' All this 1 speiik ill print ; ] In jiriiit mpaiin prrjcrt ; — as in lU'ii .'onson's Kvery 
 Man ill liis Humour " O, you are a j^allaiit in pritit now, hrotlier." — Vou arr 
 a perfect, complete gallant. 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Verona. A Room in Julia's House. 
 Enter Proteus and Julia. 
 
 Pro. Have patience, gentle Julia. 
 
 Jul. I must, where is no remedy. 
 
 Pro. When possibly I can, I will return. 
 
 Jul, If you turn not, you will return the sooner : 
 Keep this remembrance for thy Julia's sake. 
 
 {^Giving a Ring. 
 
 Pro. Why then we'll make exchange ; here, take you this. 
 
 Jul. And seal the bargain with a holy kiss. 
 
 Pro. Here is my hand for my true constancy ; 
 And when that hour o'er-slips me in the day. 
 Wherein I sigh not, Julia, for thy sake. 
 The next ensuing hour some foul mischance 
 Torment me for my love's forgetfulness ! 
 My father stays my coming ; answer not ; 
 The tide is now : nay, not thy tide of tears ; 
 That tide will stay me longer than I should : [Exit Julia . 
 Julia, farewell. — What ! gone without a word ? 
 Ay, so true love should do : it cannot speak ; 
 For truth hath better deeds, than words, to grace it. 
 
 Enter Panthino. 
 
 Pan. Sir Proteus, you are staid for. 
 Pro. Go ; I come, I come : — 
 Alas ! this parting strikes poor lovers dumb. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 The same. A Street. 
 
 Enter Launce, leading a Dog. 
 
 Laun. Nay, 'twill be this hour ere I have done weeping ; 
 all the kind of the Launces have this very fault : I have 
 received my proportion, like the prodigious son, and am 
 going with sir Proteus to the Imperial's court. I think. 
 Crab my dog be the sourest-natured dog that lives : my 
 mother weeping, my father wailing, my sister crying, our
 
 ACT II.— SCENE III. 99 
 
 maid howling, our cat wringing her hands, and all our 
 house in a great perplexity, yet did not this cruel-hearted 
 cur shed one tear ; he is a stone, a very pebble-stone, and 
 has no more pity in him than a dog : a Jew would have 
 wept to have seen our parting ; why, my grandam having 
 no eyes, look you, wept herself blind at my parting. Nay, 
 I'll shew you the manner of it : This shoe is my father : — 
 ho, this left shoe is my father; — no, no, this left shoe is 
 my mother ; — nay, that cannot be so neither : — yes, it is 
 so, it is so ; it hath the worser sole ; This shoe, with the 
 hole in it, is my mother, and this my father : A vengeance 
 on't ! there 'tis : now, sir, this staff is my sister ; for look 
 you, she is as white as a lily, and as small as a wand : this 
 hat is Nan, our maid ; I am the dog : — no, the dog is him- 
 self, and I am the dog, — O, the dog is me, and I am my- 
 self; ay, so, so. Now come I to my father; Father, your 
 blessing; now should not the shoe speak a word for weep- 
 ing ; now should I kiss my father ; well, he weeps on ; — 
 now come I to my mother, (O, that she could speak now!) 
 like a wood woman ;' — well, I kiss her ; — why, there 'tis ; 
 here's my mother's breath up and down ; now come I to 
 my sister ; mark the moan she makes : now the dog all 
 this while sheds not a tear, nor speaks a word ; but see 
 how I lay the dust with my tears. 
 
 Enter Panthino. 
 
 Pan. Launce, away, away, aboard ; thy master is 
 shipped, and thou art to post after with oars. What's 
 the matter? why weep'st thou, man? Away, ass; you 
 will lose the tide, if you tarry any longer. 
 
 Laun. It is no matter if the ty'd were lost ; for it is the 
 iiiikindest ty'd that ever any man ty'd. 
 
 l*ati. WJKit's the unkindtst tide? 
 
 Laun. Why, he that's ty'tl here ; Crab, my dog. 
 
 Pan. Tut, man, I mean thou'lt lose the flood: and, in 
 losing the flood, lose thy voyage; and, in losing thy 
 voyage, lose thy master; and. in !■ sing thy master, lose 
 
 ' uiutil uvmtin ;J i.e. .1 imui unman. Tlie dcsignjition is still retained in 
 
 Scotland. 
 
 II 2
 
 100 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 thy service ; and, in losing thy service, — Why dost thou 
 stop my mouth ? 
 
 Laun. For fear thou should'st lose thy tongue. 
 
 Pan. Where should I lose my tongue ? 
 
 Laun. In thy tale. 
 
 Pa7i. In thy tail ? 
 
 Laun. Lose the tide, and the voyage, and the master, 
 and the service, and the tide ! — Why, man, if the river 
 were dry, I am able to fill it with my tears ; if the wind 
 were down, I could drive the boat with my sighs. 
 
 Pan. Come, come away, man; I was sent to call thee. 
 
 Laun. Sir, call me what thou darest. 
 
 Pan. Wilt thou go ? 
 
 Laun. Well, I will go. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Milan. An Apartment in the Duke's Palace. 
 Enter Valentine, Silvia, Thueio, and Speed. 
 
 Sil. Servant — 
 
 Fal. Mistress? 
 
 Speed. Master, sir Thurio frowns on you. 
 
 Val. Ay, boy, it's for love. 
 
 Speed. Not of you. 
 
 Val. Of my mistress then. 
 
 Speed. 'Twere good, you knocked him. 
 
 Sil. Servant, you are sad. ' 
 
 Val. Indeed, madam, I seem so. 
 
 Thu. Seem you that you are not? 
 
 Val. Haply, I do. 
 
 Thu. So do counterfeits. 
 
 Val. So do you. 
 
 Thu. What seem I, that I am not? 
 
 Fa/. Wise. 
 
 Thu. What instance of the contrary? 
 
 Val. Your folly. 
 
 Thu. And how quote you my folly?'' 
 
 ^ /jow quote 1/0 It m\t foUifT\ To quote is to observe. Valentine in his 
 
 answer plays upon the word, which was pronounced as if written coat. — It fre- 
 quently was spelt cote. — Malone.
 
 ACT II.— SCENE IV. 101 
 
 f^al. I quote it in your jerkin. 
 
 Thu. My jerkin is a doublet. 
 
 Val. Well, then, I'll double your folly. 
 
 Thu. How? 
 
 Sil. What, angry, sir Thurio? do you change colour? 
 
 Val. Give him leave, madam ; he is a kind of cameleon. 
 
 Thu. That hath more mind to feed on your blood, than 
 live in your air. 
 
 Val. You have said, sir. 
 
 Thu. Ay, sir, and done too, for this time. 
 
 Fal. I know it well, sir; you always end ere you begin. 
 
 «SV/. A fine volley of words, gentlemen, and quickly 
 shot off. 
 
 Val. 'Tis indeed, madam; we thank the giver. 
 
 Sil. Who is that, servant ? 
 
 Val. Yourself, sweet lady ; for you gave the fire : sir 
 Thurio borrows his wit from your ladyship's looks, and 
 spends what he borrows, kindly in your company. 
 
 2'hu. Sir, if you spend word for word with me, 1 shall 
 make your wit bankrupt. 
 
 Val. I know it well, sir : you have an exchequer of 
 words, and, I think, no other treasure to give your fol- 
 lowers ; for it appears by their bare liveries, that they live 
 by your bare words. 
 
 Sil. No more, gentlemen, no more; here comes my 
 father. 
 
 Enter Duke. 
 
 Duke. Now, daughter Silvia, you are hard beset. 
 Sir Valentine, your father's in good health : 
 What say you to a letter from your friends 
 Of much good news ? 
 
 Val. My lord, I will be thankful 
 
 To any happy messenger from thence. 
 
 Duke. Know you Don Antonio, your countryman V 
 
 Val. Ay, my good lord, I know the gentleman 
 To be of worth, and worthy estimation. 
 And not without desert so well reputed. 
 
 ' KiiiV'ijuii Don /\ultiiiio, your roinitrvwdu?'] Sliaks|ir;irc, when In- here s]>e;iks 
 of Don Antonio, ;in<l in a foinit-r srciif of Don Aljilionso, forgi'ls ili;il In- is 
 writing of Iialiims, ami not of Spaniards.
 
 102 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 Duke. Hath he not a son ? 
 
 Val. Ay, my good lord ; a son, that well deserves 
 The honour and regard of such a father. 
 
 Duke. You know him well ? 
 
 Val. I knew him, as myself; for from our infancy 
 We have convers'd, and spent our hours together : 
 And though myself have been an idle truant, 
 Omittino- the sweet benefit of time, 
 To clothe mine age with angel-like perfection ; 
 Yet hath sir Proteus, for that's his name. 
 Made use and fair advantage of his days ; 
 His years but young, but his experience old ; 
 His head unmellow'd, but his judgment ripe ; 
 And, in a word, (for far behind his worth 
 Come all the praises that I now bestow,) 
 He is complete in feature,'" and in mind, 
 With all good grace to grace a gentleman. 
 
 Duke. Beshrew me, sir, but, if he make this good. 
 He is as worthy for an empress' love. 
 As meet to be an emperor's counsellor. 
 Well, sir ; this gentleman is come to me. 
 With commendation from great potentates ; 
 And here he means to spend his time awhile ; 
 I think, 'tis no unwelcome news to you. 
 
 Val. Should I have wish'd a thing, it had been he. 
 
 Duke. Welcome him then according to his worth j 
 Silvia, I speak to you : and you, sir Thurio : — 
 For Valentine, I need not 'cite him to it : 
 I'll send him hither to you presently. [Exit Duke. 
 
 Val. This is the gentleman, I told your ladyship. 
 Had come along with me, but that his mistress 
 Did hold his eyes lock'd in her crystal looks. 
 
 Sil. Belike, that now she hath enfranchis'd them 
 Upon some other pawn for fealty. 
 
 Fal. Nay, sure, I think, she holds them prisoners still. 
 
 Sil. Nay, then he should be blind ; and, being blind. 
 How could he see his way to seek out you ? 
 
 "' featurCil Is here used for form or jterson in general, as in Spenser, 
 
 F. Q. 3. ix. 
 
 " She also doft her heavy haberjeon, 
 Which the iairjealurc of her Jimbs did hide.''
 
 ACT II.— SCENE IV. 103 
 
 Val. Why, lady, love hath twenty pair of eyes. 
 Thu. They say, that love hath not an eye at all. 
 Fal. To see such lovers, Thurio, as yourself; 
 Upon a homely object love can wink. 
 
 Enter Proteus. 
 
 Sil. Have done, have done ; here comes the gentleman. 
 
 Fa/. Welcome, dear Proteus ! — Mistress, I beseech you. 
 Confirm his welcome with some special favour. 
 
 Sil. His worth is warrant for his welcome hither. 
 If this be he you oft have wish'd to hear from. 
 
 P^al. Mistress, it is : sweet lady, entertain him 
 To be my fellow-servant to your ladyship. 
 
 Sil. Too low a mistress for so hisrh a servant. 
 
 Pro. Not so, sweet lady ; but too mean a servant 
 To have a look of such a worthy mistress. 
 
 Val. Leave off discourse of disability : — 
 Sweet lady, entertain him for your servant. 
 
 Pro. My duty will I boast of, nothing else. 
 
 Sil. And duty never yet did want his meed ; 
 Servant, you are welcome to a worthless mistress. 
 
 Pro, I'll die on him that says so, but yourself. 
 
 Sil. That you are welcome ? 
 
 Pro. No ; that you are worthless. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Ser. Madam, my lord your father would speak with you. 
 
 Sil. I'll wait upon his pleasure. [£a,iV Servant.] Come, 
 sir Thurio, 
 Go with me : — Once more, new servant, welcome : 
 I'll leave you to confer of home-affairs ; 
 When you have done, we look to hear from you. 
 
 Pro. We'll both attend upon your ladyship. 
 
 [Exeunt Silvia, Tiiumo, a7id Speed. 
 
 Val. Now, tell me, how do all from whence you came ? 
 
 Pro. Your friends are well, and have them much com- 
 
 Val. And how do yours ? [mended. 
 
 Pro. I left them all in health. 
 
 Val. How does your lady ? and how thrives your love ? 
 
 Pro. My tales of love wore wont to weary you ; 
 I know, you joy not in a love-discourse.
 
 104 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 Val. Ay, Proteus, but that life is alter'd now. 
 I have done penance for contemning love ; 
 Whose high imperious thoughts have punish'd me 
 With bitter fasts, with penitential groans, 
 With nightly tears, and daily heart-sore sighs ; 
 For, in revenge of my contempt of love. 
 Love hath chac'd sleep from my enthralled eyes. 
 And made them watchers of mine own heart's sorrow. 
 O, gentle Proteus, love's a mighty lord; 
 And hath so humbled me, as, I confess. 
 There is no woe to his correction," 
 Nor, to his service, no such joy on earth ! 
 Now, no discourse, except it be of love ; 
 Now can I break my fast, dine, sup, and sleep. 
 Upon the very naked name of love 
 
 Pro. Enough ; I read your fortune in your eye : 
 Was this the idol that you worship so ? 
 
 Val. Even she; and is she not a heavenly saint? 
 Pro. No; but she is an earthly paragon. 
 Val. Call her divine. 
 
 Pro. I will not flatter her. 
 
 Val. O, flatter me; for love dehghts in praises. 
 Pro. When I was sick, you gave me bitter pills ; 
 And I must minister the like to you. 
 
 Val. Then speak the truth by her ; if not divine. 
 Yet let her be a principality," 
 Sovereign to all the creatures on the earth. 
 Pro. Except my mistress. 
 
 Val. Sweet, except not any ; 
 
 Except thou wilt except against my love. 
 Pro. Have I not reason to prefer mine own? 
 Val. And I will help thee to prefer her too : 
 She shall be dignified with this high honour, — 
 To bear my lady's train ; lest the base earth 
 Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss. 
 And, of so great a favour growing proud, 
 
 " no woe to his correctinn,^ No misery equal to the pains of love. The 
 
 idiom is not uncommon. 
 
 " a principality ,'\ i. e. One invested with sovereignty — the word has the same 
 
 sense in St. Paul's Epistle to the Romans, chap. viii. ver. 38.
 
 ACT II.— SCENE IV. IO5 
 
 Disdain to root the summer-swelling flovver,P 
 And make rough winter everlastingly. 
 
 Pro. Why, Valentine, what braggardism is this ? 
 
 Val. Pardon me, Proteus : all I can, is nothing 
 To her, whose worth makes other worthies nothiu"' ; 
 She is alone. 
 
 Pro. Then let her alone. 
 
 Fa/. Not for the world : why, man, she is mine own; 
 And I as rich in having such a jewel. 
 As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, 
 The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold. 
 Forgive me, that I do not dream on thee. 
 Because thou seest me dote upon my love. 
 My foolish rival, that her father likes. 
 Only for his possessions are so huge. 
 Is gone with her along; and I must after. 
 For love, thou know'st, is full of jealousy. 
 
 Pro. But she loves you ? 
 
 Val- Ay, we are betroth'd; 
 
 Nay, more, our marriage hour, 
 With all the cunnin"; manner of our flisrht, 
 Determin'd of: how I must climb her window; 
 The ladder made of cords ; and all the means 
 Plotted; and 'greed on, for my happiness. 
 Good Proteus, go with me to my chamber. 
 In these affairs to aid me with thy counsel. 
 
 Pro. Go on before ; I shall inquire you fortii : 
 I must unto the road,*" to disembark 
 Some necessaries that I needs must use ; 
 And then I'll presently attend you. 
 
 Va/. Will you make haste? 
 
 Pro. I will.— [Exit Val. 
 
 Even as one heat another heat expels, 
 Or as one nail by strength drives out another, 
 So the remembrance of my former love 
 Is by a newer object quite forgotten. 
 It is her mien, or \'altiitiiius' praise, 
 
 P 8ummor-8wollinpy/otrfr,] i. e. The flower which swells in siiiniiRr, till 
 
 il •'xpanils itself into hloom. — Sikv vkns. 
 
 •• the roud.J I'lic liiivcn, where hhijis ruieat uiiclior. -.Mai um..
 
 106 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 Her true perfection, or my false transgression, 
 
 That makes me, reasonless, to reason thus? 
 
 She's fair; and so is Julia, that I love; — 
 
 That I did love, for now my love is thaw'd ; 
 
 Which, like a waxen image 'gainst a fire. 
 
 Bears no impression of the thing it was. 
 
 Methinks, my zeal to Valentine is cold ; 
 
 And that I love him not, as I was wont : 
 
 O ! but I love his lady too, too much ; 
 
 And that's the reason I love him so little. 
 
 How shall I dote on her with more advice,"" 
 
 That thus without advice begin to love her ? 
 
 'Tis but her picture I have yet beheld. 
 
 And that hath dazzled my reason's light ; 
 
 But when I look on her perfections. 
 
 There is no reason but I shall be blind. 
 
 If I can check my erring love, I will ; 
 
 If not, to compass her I'll use my skill. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 The same. A Street. 
 
 Enter Speed a7id Launce. 
 
 Speed. Launce ! by mine honesty, welcome to Milan. 
 
 Laun. Forswear not thyself, sweet youth; for I am not 
 welcome. I reckon this always — that a man is never un- 
 done, till he be hanged ; nor never welcome to a place, till 
 some certain shot be paid, and the hostess say, welcome. 
 
 Speed. Come on, you mad-cap, I'll to the alehouse with 
 you presently ; where, for one shot of five-pence, thou shalt 
 have five thousand welcomes. But, sirrah, how did thy 
 master part with madam Julia ? 
 
 Laun. Marry, after they closed in earnest, they parted 
 very fairly in jest. 
 
 Speed. But shall she marry him? 
 
 Laun. No. 
 
 Speed. How then ? shall he marry her ? 
 
 Laun. No, neither. 
 
 "^ "^^i''' more advice,'] i. e. On further knowledge.
 
 ACT II.— SCENE V. 107 
 
 Speed. What, are they broken? 
 
 Laim. No, they are both as whole as a fish. 
 
 Speed. Why then, how stands the matter with them ? 
 
 LauH. Marry, thus ; when it stands well with him, it 
 stands well with her. 
 
 Speed. What an ass art thou? I understand thee not. 
 
 Laiin. What a block art thou, that thou can'st not? 
 My staff understands me. 
 
 Speed. What thou say'st? 
 
 Laun. Ay, and what I do, too; look thee, I'll but lean, 
 and my staff understands me. 
 
 Speed. It stands under thee, indeed. 
 
 Laun. Why, stand under and understand is all one. 
 
 Speed. But tell me true, will't be a match ? 
 
 Lamt. Ask my dog : if he say, ay, it will; if he say, no, 
 it will ; if he shake his tail, and say nothing, it will. 
 
 Speed. The conclusion is then, that it will. 
 
 Laun. Thou shalt never get such a secret from me, but 
 by a parable. * 
 
 Speed. 'Tis well that I get it so. But, Launce, how 
 say'st thou, that my master is become a notable lover ?' 
 
 Laun. I never knew him otherwise. 
 
 Speed. Than how ? 
 
 Laun. A notable lubber, as thou reportest him to be. 
 
 Speed. Why, thou whoreson ass, thou mistakest me. 
 
 Laun. Why, fool, I meant not thee ; I meant thy master. 
 
 Speed. I tell thee, my master is become a hot lover. 
 
 Laun. Why, I tell thee, I care not though he burn him- 
 self in love. If thou wilt go with me to the alehouse, so ; 
 if not, thou art an Hebrew, a Jew, and not worth the name 
 of a Christian. 
 
 Speed. Why ? 
 
 Laun. Because thou hast not so much charity in thee, 
 as to go to the ale ' with a Christian : Wilt thou go ? 
 
 Speed. At thy service. [Exeunt. 
 
 » hmo tay'U thou, that mii master is become a notable Liver?] i. e. What 
 
 say'st thou to tliia circumstance, — namely, that my master is become a notable 
 lover ? — M. Mason. 
 
 I tlie ale ] Ales were niprry meetings instituted in country places. 
 
 — SrEEVtNs. I suspect that hero, for a/«— wc ought to read alehouic, as 
 above.
 
 108 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 The same. An Apartment in the Palace. 
 
 Tenter Proteus. 
 
 Pro, To leave my Julia, shall I be forsworn ; 
 To love fair Silvia, shall I be forsworn ; 
 To wrong my friend, I shall be much forsworn ; 
 And even that power which gave me first my oath. 
 Provokes me to this threefold perjury. 
 Love bade me swear, and love bids me forswear : 
 
 sweet suggesting love, if thou hast sinn'd. 
 Teach me, thy tempted subject, to excuse it. 
 At first I did adore a twinkling star. 
 
 But now I worship a celestial sun. 
 
 Unheedful vows may heedfully be broken ; 
 
 And he wants wit, that wants resolved will 
 
 To learn his wit to exchange the bad for better. — 
 
 Fye, fye, unreverend tongue ! to call her bad. 
 
 Whose sovereignty so oft thou hast preferr'd 
 
 With twenty thousand soul-confirming oaths. 
 
 1 cannot leave to love, and yet I do ; 
 
 But there I leave to love, where I should love. 
 
 Julia I lose, and Valentine I lose : 
 
 If I keep them, I needs must lose myself; 
 
 If I lose them, thus find I by their loss. 
 
 For Valentine, myself: for Juha, Silvia. 
 
 I to myself am dearer than a friend ; 
 
 For love is still most precious in itself: 
 
 And Silvia, witness heaven, that made her fair ! 
 
 Shews Julia but a swarthy Ethiope. 
 
 I will forget that Julia is alive, 
 
 Rememb'ring that my love to her is dead ; 
 
 And Valentine I'll hold an enemy. 
 
 Aiming at Silvia as a sweeter friend. 
 
 I cannot now prove constant to myself. 
 
 Without some treachery used to Valentine : — 
 
 This night, he meaneth with a corded ladder 
 
 To climb celestial Silvia's chamber-window ;
 
 ACT II.— SCENE VII. 109 
 
 Myself in counsel, his competitor:" 
 
 Now presently I'll give her father notice 
 
 Of their disguising, and pretended " flight ; 
 
 Who, all enrag'd, will banish Valentine; 
 
 For Thurio, he intends, shall wed his daughter : 
 
 But, Valentine being gone, I'll quickly cross, 
 
 By some sly trick, blunt Thurio's dull proceeding. 
 
 Love, lend me wings to make my piirpose swift. 
 
 As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift ! [Exit. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 
 Verona. A Room in Julia's House. 
 Enter Julia and Lucetta. 
 
 Jul. Counsel, Lucetta ! gentle girl, assist me ! 
 And, even in kind love, I do conjure thee, — 
 Who art the table wherein all my thoughts 
 Are visibly character'd and engrav'd, — 
 To lesson me ;' and tell me some good mean, 
 How, with my honour, I may undertake 
 A journey to my loving Proteus. 
 
 Lj(c. Alas ! the way is wearisome and long. 
 
 Jul. A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary 
 To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps ; 
 Much less shall she, that hath love's wings to fly ; 
 And when the flight is made to one so dear. 
 Of such divine perfection, as sir Proteus. 
 
 Luc. Better forbear, till Proteus make return. 
 
 Jul. O, know'st thou not, his looks are my soul's food? 
 Pity the dearth that I have pined in. 
 By longing for that food so long a time. 
 Didst thou but know the inly touch of love. 
 Thou would'st as soon go kindle tire with snow, 
 As seek to quench the fire of love with words. 
 
 Luc. I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire ; 
 But qualify the fire's extreme rage, 
 
 " competitur :^ Here means partner, or confederate: it is 80 employed 
 
 in Twelfth Night, where the Clown says, seeing Maria and Sir Toby approach, 
 — " The comi)etitors enter." — Stkevkss. 
 
 » pretenited-] Intended; from the Freni'h prttcndre, wliicli has tlic 
 
 same sigMilKation. — M. .Mason.
 
 no TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason. 
 
 Jul. The more thou dam'st it up, the more it burns ; 
 The current, that with gentle murmur glides. 
 Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage ; 
 But, when his fair course is not hindered. 
 He makes sweet music with the enamell'd stones. 
 Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge 
 He overtaketh in his pilgrimage ; 
 And so by many winding nooks he strays. 
 With wiUing sport, to the wild ocean. 
 Then let me go, and hinder not my course : 
 I'll be as patient as a gentle stream, 
 And make a pastime of each weary step. 
 Till the last step have brought me to my love ; 
 And there I'll rest, as, after much turmoil, 
 A blessed soul doth in Elysium. 
 
 Luc. But in what habit will you go along ? 
 
 Jul. Not like a woman ; for I would prevent 
 The loose encounters of lascivious men : 
 Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds 
 As may beseem some well-reputed page. 
 
 Luc. Why then, your ladyship must cut your hair. 
 
 Jul. No, girl ; I'll knit it up in silken strings. 
 With twenty odd-conceited true-love knots : 
 To be fantastic, may become a youth 
 Of greater time than I shall show to be. 
 
 Luc. What fashion, madam, shall I make your breeches ? 
 
 Jul. That fits as well, as^ — " Tell me, good my lord, 
 " What compass will you wear your farthingale ?" 
 Why, even that fashion thou best lik'st, Lucetta. 
 
 Luc. You must needs have them with a cod-piece, madam. 
 
 Jul. Out, out, Lucetta ! that will be ill-favour'd. 
 
 Luc. A round hose, madam, now's not worth a pin. 
 Unless you have a cod-piece to stick pins on. 
 
 Jul. Lucetta, as thou lov'st me, let me have 
 What thou think'st meet, and is most mannerly : 
 But tell me, wench, how will the world repute me. 
 For undertaking so unstaid a journey? 
 I fear me, it will make me scandaliz'd. 
 
 Luc. If you think so, then stay at home, and go not.
 
 ACT III.— SCENE I. Ill 
 
 Jul. Nay, that I will not. 
 
 Luc. Then never dream on infamy, but go. 
 If Proteus like your journey, when you come. 
 No matter who's displeas'd, when you are gone : 
 I fear me, he will scarce be pleas'd withal. 
 
 Jul. That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear : 
 A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears. 
 And instances of infinite of love,^ 
 Warrant me welcome to my Proteus. 
 
 it/c. All these are servants to deceitful men. 
 
 Jul. Base men, that use them to so base effect ! 
 But truer stars did govern Proteus' birth : 
 His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles ; 
 His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate; 
 His tears, pure messengers sent from his heart; 
 His heart as far from fraud, as heaven from earth. 
 
 Luc. Pray heaven, he prove so, when you come to him ! 
 
 Jul. Now, as thou lov'st me, do him not that wrong. 
 To bear a hard opinion of his truth : 
 Only deserve my love, by loving him; 
 And presently go with me to my chamber. 
 To take a note of what I stand in need of. 
 To furnish me upon my longing journey.^ 
 All that is mine I leave at thy dispose. 
 My goods, my lands, my reputation; 
 Only, in lieu thereof, dispatch me hence: 
 Come, answer not, but to it presently ; 
 I am impatient of my tarriance. [Lxeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 Scene I. — Milan. An Ante-room in the Duke's Palace. 
 
 Enter Uuke, Thukio and Protkus. 
 
 Duke. Sir Thurio, give us leave, I pray, awhile; 
 
 We have some secrets to confer about. [Exit Thurio. 
 
 Now, tell me, Proteus, what's your will with me? 
 
 nf infinite of loie,'\ I have retained the original reading. Infinite was 
 
 commonly used as a substantive; the old reading is therefore perfect both in 
 verse and metre. 
 
 * longing jinirney.^ i. c. a journey passed in longing for its completion. 
 
 — M. Mason.
 
 112 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 Pro. My gracious lord, that which I would discover. 
 The law of friendship bids me to conceal : 
 But, when I call to mind your gracious favours 
 Done to me, undeserving as I am. 
 My duty pricks me on to utter that 
 Which else no worldly good should draw from me. 
 Know, worthy prince, sir Valentine, my friend. 
 This night intends to steal away your daughter ; 
 Myself am one made privy to the plot. 
 I know, you have determin'd to bestow her 
 On Thurio, whom your gentle daughter hates ; 
 And should she thus be stolen away from you. 
 It would be much vexation to your age. 
 Thus, for my duty's sake, I rather chose 
 To cross my friend in his intended drift. 
 Than, by concealing it, heap on your head 
 A pack of sorrows, which would press you down, 
 Being unprevented, to your timeless grave. 
 
 Duke. Proteus, I thank thee for thine honest care; 
 Which to requite, command me while I live. 
 This love of theirs myself have often seen. 
 Haply, when they have judged me fast asleep; 
 And oftentimes have purpos'd to forbid 
 Sir Valentine her company, and my court : 
 But, fearing lest my jealous aim" might err, 
 And so, unworthily, disgrace the man, 
 (A rashness that I ever yet have shunn'd,) 
 I gave him gentle looks ; thereby to find 
 That which thyself hast now disclos'd to me. 
 And, that thou may'st perceive my fear of this. 
 Knowing that tender youth is soon suggested, 
 I nightly lodge her in an upper tower. 
 The key whereof myself have ever kept ; 
 And thence she cannot be convey 'd away. 
 
 Pro. Know, noble lord, they have devis'd a mean 
 How he her chamber-window will ascend. 
 And with a corded ladder fetch her down ; 
 For which the youthful lover now is gone. 
 And this way comes he with it presently ; 
 
 a jealous aim,'] i. e. Suspicious guess.
 
 ACT III.— SCENE I. 113 
 
 Where, if it please you, you may intercept him. 
 But, good my lord, do it so cunningly. 
 That my discovery be not aimed at; 
 For love of you, not hate unto my friend. 
 Hath made me pubUsher of this pretence,'' 
 
 Duke. Upon mine honour, he shall never know 
 That I had any light from thee of this. 
 
 Pro. Adieu, my lord; sir Valentine is coming. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Valentine. 
 
 Duke. Sir Valentine, whither away so fast? 
 
 Val. Please it your grace, there is a messenger 
 That stays to bear my letters to my friends. 
 And I am going to deliver them. 
 
 Duke. Be they of much import ? 
 
 Val. The tenor of them doth but signify 
 My health, and happy being at your court. 
 
 Duke. Nay, then no matter ; stay with me a while ; 
 I am to break with thee of some affairs. 
 That touch me near, wherein thou must be secret. 
 Tis not unknown to thee, that I have sought 
 To match my friend, sirThurio, to my daughter. 
 
 Val. I know it well, my lord ; and, sure, the match 
 Were rich and honourable ; besides, the gentleman 
 Is full of virtue, bounty, worth, and qualities 
 Beseeming such a wife as your fair daughter: 
 Cannot your grace win her to fancy him? 
 
 Duke. No, trust me ; she is peevish, sullen, froward, 
 Proud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty; 
 Neither regarding that she is my child. 
 Nor fearing me as if I were her father : 
 And, may I say to thee, this pride of hers. 
 Upon advice, hath drawn my love from her; 
 And, where'' I thought the remnant of mine age 
 Should have been cherish'd by her child-like duty, 
 I now am full resolved to take a wife, 
 And turn her out to who will take her in : 
 Then let her beauty be her wedding-dower; 
 
 •> ipreUnre.'\ Intent ; in the first art, wp have In pretend for to intend. 
 
 c where — ] for whereai, a sense in which it is often used by our old 
 
 writerB. 
 
 VOL. I. 1
 
 114 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 For me and my possessions she esteems not. 
 
 Val. What would your grace have me to do in this ? 
 
 Duke. There is a.lady, sir, in Milan, here. 
 Whom I affect ; but she is nice, and coy. 
 And nought esteems my aged eloquence : 
 Now, therefore, would I have thee to my tutor, 
 (For long agone I have forgot to court : 
 Besides, the fashion of the time is chang'd;) 
 How, and which way, I may bestow myself, 
 
 Val. Win her with gifts, if she respect not words ; 
 Dumb jewels often, in their silent kind. 
 More than quick words, do move a woman's mind. 
 
 Duke. But she did scorn a present that I sent her. 
 
 Val. A woman sometimes scorns what best contents her : 
 Send her another ; never give her o'er ; 
 For scorn at first makes after-love the more. 
 If she do frown, 'tis not in hate of you. 
 But rather to beget more love in you : 
 If she do chide, 'tis not to have you gone ; 
 For why, the fools are mad, if left alone. 
 Take no repulse, whatever she doth say : 
 For, get ^ou gone, she doth not mean, away: 
 Flatter, and praise, commend, extol their graces ; 
 Though ne'er so black, say, they have angels' faces. 
 That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man. 
 If with his tongue he cannot win a woman. 
 
 Duke. But she, I mean, is promis'd by her friends 
 Unto a youthful gentleman of worth ; 
 And kept severely from resort of men. 
 That no man hath access by day to her. 
 
 Val. Why then I would resort to her by night. 
 Duke. Ay, but the doors be lock'd, and keys kept safe. 
 That no man hath recourse to her by night. 
 
 Val. What lets,** but one may enter at her window ? 
 Duke. Her chamber is aloft, far from the ground ; 
 And built so shelving, that one cannot climb it 
 Without apparent hazard of his life. 
 
 Val. Why then, a ladder, quaintly made of cords. 
 To cast up, with a pair of anchoring hooks, 
 
 ^ What lets,'] i. e. itihat hinders.
 
 ACT III.-SCENE I. 115 
 
 Would serve to scale another Hero's tower. 
 So bold Leander would adventure it. 
 
 Duke. Now, as thou art a gentleman of blood, 
 Advise me where I may have such a ladder. 
 
 Vol. When would you use it ? pray, sir, tell me that. 
 
 Duke. This very night ; for love is like a child. 
 That longs for every thing that he can come by. 
 
 Val. By seven o'clock I'll get you such a ladder. 
 
 Duke. But, hark thee ; I will go to her alone ; 
 How shall I best convey the ladder thither '( 
 
 Val. It will be light, my lord, that you may bear it 
 Under a cloak, that is of any length. 
 
 Duke. A cloak as long as thine will serve the turn? 
 
 Val. Ay, my good lord. 
 
 Duke. Then let me see thy cloak : 
 ril get me one of such another length. 
 
 Val. Why, any cloak will serve the turn, my lord. 
 
 Duke. How shall I fashion me to wear a cloak ? 
 I pray thee, let me feel thy cloak upon me. — 
 What letter is this same? What's here? — To Silvia? 
 And here an engine fit for my proceeding ! 
 I'll be so bold to break the seal for once. [Reads. 
 
 My thoughts do harbour with my Silvia nightly ; 
 
 And slaves they are to me, that send themjiying: 
 O, could their master come and go as lightly, 
 
 Himself would lodge, where senseless theij are lying. 
 My herald thoughts in thy pure bosom rest them; 
 
 While I, their king, that thither them importune. 
 Do curse the grace that with such grace hath bless'd them, 
 
 Because myself do want my servants^ fortune: 
 I curse myself , for they are sent by me,^ 
 That they should harbour where their lord should be. 
 What's here ? 
 Silvia, this night J will cn/'ranchise thee: 
 
 'Tis so; and lure's the ladder for the purpose. 
 
 Why, Phaeton, (for thou art Merops' son,/ 
 
 for tliiy are sent In ;iie,] For, has the sense of for thai, siuee. 
 
 Johnson. 
 
 f Meroiii son,] Tliou art Pliai-ton in tliy rashness, but without his pre- 
 tensions ; tliou art not the son of a divinity, but a terra- filiiis, a low-born 
 wretch ; Merops is thy true father, with whom Thaetou was falsely reproached. 
 JonNsoN. 
 
 1 O
 
 116 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 Wilt thou aspire to guide the heavenly car. 
 
 And with thy daring folly burn the world ? 
 
 Wilt thou reach stars, because they shine on thee ? 
 
 Go, base intruder ! over-weening slave ! 
 
 Bestow thy fawning smiles on equal mates ; 
 
 And think, my patience, more than thy desert. 
 
 Is privilege for thy departure hence : 
 
 Thank me for this, more than for all the favours 
 
 Which, all too much, I have bestow'd on thee. 
 
 But if thou linger in my territories 
 
 Longer than swiftest expedition 
 
 Will give thee time to leave our royal court. 
 
 By heaven, my wrath shall far exceed the love 
 
 I ever bore my daughter, or thyself. 
 
 Begone, 1 will not hear thy vain excuse. 
 
 But, as thou lov'st thy life, make speed from hence. 
 
 [Exit Duke. 
 Val. And why not death, rather than living torment ? 
 To die, is to be banish'd from myself; 
 And Silvia is myself: banish'd from her. 
 Is self from self: a deadly banishment ! 
 What light is light, if Silvia be not seen ? 
 What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by? 
 Unless it be to think that she is by. 
 And feed upon the shadow of perfection. 
 Except I be by Silvia in the night. 
 There is no music in the nightingale ; 
 Unless I look on Silvia in the day. 
 There is no day for me to look upon : 
 She is my essence ; and I leave to be. 
 If I be not by her fair influence 
 Foster'd, illumin'd, cherish'd, kept alive. 
 I fly not death, to fly his deadly doom :s 
 Tarry I here, I but attend on death ; 
 But fly I hence, I fly away from life. 
 
 EnterVnoTEVs and Launce. 
 Pro. Run, boy, run, run, and seek him out. 
 
 2 fly his deadly doom :] I shall not escape death by flying from the 
 
 execution of his sentence. — To fly, for in flying, is a Gallicism. — Johnsom.
 
 ACT 111.— SCENE I. 117 
 
 LauH. So-ho ! so-ho ! 
 
 Pro. What see'st thou ? 
 
 Laun. Him we go to find : there's not a hair on's head, 
 but 'tis a Valentine. 
 
 Pro. Valentine ? 
 
 Val. No. 
 
 Pro. Who then ? his spirit ? 
 
 Vol. Neither. 
 
 Pro. What then? 
 
 Val. Nothing. 
 
 Laun. Can nothing speak. ? master, shall I strike ? 
 
 Pro. Whom would'st thou strike ? 
 
 Laun. Nothing;. 
 
 Pro. Villain, forbear. 
 
 Laun. Why, sir, I'll strike nothing : I pray you, — 
 
 Pro. Sirrah, I say, forbear : Friend Valentine, a word. 
 
 Val. My ears are stopp'd, and cannot hear good news. 
 So much of bad already hath possess'd them. 
 
 Pro. Then in dumb silence will I bury mine. 
 For they are harsh, untuneable and bad. 
 
 Val. Is Silvia dead ? 
 
 Pro. No, Valentine. 
 
 Fal. No Valentine, indeed, for sacred Silvia ! — 
 Hath she forsworn me ? 
 
 Pro. No, Valentine. 
 
 Val. No Valentine, if Silvia have forsworn me ! — 
 What is your news ! 
 
 Laun. Sir, there's a proclamation that you are vanish'd. 
 
 Pro. That thou art banished, O, that's the news ; 
 From hence, from Silvia, and from me thy friend. 
 
 Val. O, I have fed upon this woe already. 
 And now excess of it will make me surfeit. 
 Doth Silvia know that I am banished ? 
 
 Pro. Ay, ay ; and she hath offer'd to the doom, 
 (Which, unrcvers'd, stands in ettectual force,) 
 A sea of melting pearl, which some call tears : 
 Those at her father's churlish feet she tender'd ; 
 With thorn, upon her knees, her humble self; 
 Wringing her hands, whose whiteness so became them. 
 As if 1)11 f now they waxed pale for woe :
 
 118 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 But neither bended knees, pure hands held up. 
 Sad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding tears. 
 Could penetrate her uncompassionate sire ; 
 But Valentine, if he be ta'en, must die. 
 Besides, her intercession chaf d him so. 
 When she for thy repeal was suppliant. 
 That to close prison he commanded her. 
 With many bitter threats of 'biding there. 
 
 Val. No more ; unless the next word that thou speak'st. 
 Have some malignant power upon my life : 
 If so, I pray thee, breathe it in mine ear. 
 As ending anthem of my endless dolour. 
 
 Pro. Cease to lament for that thou can'st not help. 
 And study help for that which thou lament'st. 
 Time is the nurse and breeder of all good. 
 Here if thou stay, thou can'st not see thy love ; 
 Besides, thy staying will abridge thy life. 
 Hope is a lover's staff; walk hence with that. 
 And manage it against despairing thoughts. 
 Thy letters may be here, though thou art hence : 
 Which, being writ to me, shall be deliver'd 
 Even in the milk-white bosom of thy love.'^ 
 The time now serves not to expostulate : 
 Come, I'll convey thee through the city gate ; 
 And, ere I part with thee, confer at large 
 Of all that may concern thy love-affairs : 
 As thou lov'st Silvia, though not for thyself. 
 Regard thy danger, and along with me. 
 
 Val. I pray thee, Launce, an if thou seest my boy. 
 Bid him make haste, and meet me at the north-gate. 
 
 Pro. Go, sirrah, find him out. Come, Valentine. 
 
 Val. O my dear Silvia, hapless Valentine ! 
 
 [Exeunt Valentine and Proteus. 
 
 Lauji. I am but a fool, look you ; and yet I have the 
 wit to think, my master is a kind of knave : but that's all 
 one, if he be but one knave.' He lives not now, that knows 
 
 *■ Even in the milk-white bosom of thy love.] — It should be known, that wo- 
 men anciently had a pocket in the fore part of their stays, in which they not 
 only carried love-letters and love-tokens, but even their money and materials 
 for needle-work. In many parts of England the rustic damsels still observe 
 the same i)ractice. — Steevens. 
 
 ' if he be but one knave.] — There have been many conjectures on the
 
 ACT III.— SCENE 1. 119 
 
 me to be in love : yet I am in love ; but a team of horse 
 shall not pluck that from me ; nor who 'tis I love, and yet 
 'tis a woman : but what woman, I will not tell myself; and 
 yet 'tis a milk-maid ; yet 'tis not a maid, for she hath had 
 gossips :■' yet 'tis a maid, for she is her master's maid, and 
 serves for wages. She hath more qualities than a water- 
 spaniel, — which is much in a bare Christian. Here is the 
 cat-log [pulling out a paper] of her conditions. Imprimis, 
 She can fetch and carry. Why a horse can do no more ; 
 nay, a horse cannot fetch, but only carry ; therefore is she 
 better than a jade. Item, She can milk ; look you, a sweet 
 virtue in a maid with clean hands. 
 
 Enter Speed. 
 
 Speed. How now, signior Launce, what news with your 
 mastership. 
 
 Laun. With my master's ship ? why it is at sea. 
 Speed. Well, your old vice still ; mistake the word : 
 What news then in your paper? 
 
 Laun. The blackest news that ever thou heard'st. 
 Speed. Why man, how black. 
 Laun. Why, as black as ink. 
 Speed. Let me read them. 
 
 Laun. Fye on thee, jolt-head ; thou can'st not read. 
 Speed. Thou liest, I can. 
 
 Laun. I will try thee : tell me this : Who begot thee? 
 Speed. Marry, the son of my grandfather. 
 Laun. O illiterate loiterer ! it was the son of thy grand- 
 mother: this proves, that thou can'st not read. 
 Speed. Come fool, come : try me in thy paper. 
 Imuu. There: and saint Nicholas be thy speed !' 
 Speed. Imprimis, She can milk. 
 Laun. Ay, that she can. 
 Speed. Item, She breivs good ale. 
 
 meaning of this pasBage. Mr. EdwanU's explanation appears the most ra- 
 tional — " if he bt! the only knave," — if I myself be not found to be another. 
 
 k for ihe hath had ^owsips :] Ginsips not only signify those who answer for 
 
 a child in baptism, but the, tattling; women who attend lyings-in. — Stfkvens. 
 
 ' Saint NichoUts l>e thii speed !] This saint presided over scholars, and parti- 
 cularly srhool-boys, who were therefore called St. Nickolas't clerks. He was 
 a learned bishop.
 
 120 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 Laun. And thereof comes the proverb, — Blessing of 
 your heart, you brew good ale. 
 
 Speed. Item, She can seiv. 
 
 Laun. That's as much as to say, can she so ? 
 
 Speed. Item, She can knit. 
 
 Laun. What need a man care for a stock with a wench, 
 when she can knit him a stock. 
 
 Speed. Item, She can wash and scour. 
 
 Laun. A special virtue ; for then she need not be washed 
 and scoured. 
 
 Speed. Item, She can spin. 
 
 Laun. Then may I set the world on wheels, when she 
 can spin for her living. 
 
 Speed. Item, She hath many nameless virtues. 
 
 Laun. That's as much as to say, bastard virtues ; that, 
 indeed, know not their fathers, and therefore have no names. 
 
 Speed. Here follow her vices. 
 
 Laun. Close at the heels of her virtues. 
 
 Speed. Item, She is not to be kissed fasting, in respect of her 
 breath. 
 
 Laun. Well, that fault may be mended with a breakfast: 
 Read on. 
 
 Speed. Item, She hath a sweet mouth. 
 
 Laun. That makes amends for her sour breath. 
 
 Speed. Item, She doth talk in her sleep. 
 
 Laun. It's no matter for that, so she sleep not in her 
 talk. 
 
 Speed. Item, She is slow in words. 
 
 Laun. O villany, that set this down among her vices ! 
 To be slow in words, is a woman's only virtue : I pray 
 thee, out with't ; and place it for her chief virtue. 
 
 Speed. Item, She is proud. 
 
 Laun. Out with that too ; it was Eve's legacy, and 
 cannot be ta'en from her. 
 
 Speed. Item, She hath no teeth. 
 
 Laun, I care not for that neither, because I love 
 crusts. 
 
 Speed. Item, She is curst. 
 
 Laun. Well ; the best is, she hath no teeth to bite. 
 
 Speed. She will often praise her liquor.
 
 ACT III.— SCENE I. 121^ 
 
 Laun. If her liquor be good, she shall: if she will not, 
 I will ; for good things should be praised. 
 
 Speed. Item, She is too liberal. 
 
 Laun. Of her tongue she cannot ; for that's writ down 
 she is slow of: of her purse she shall not; for that I'll 
 keep shut : now of another thing she may ; and that can- 
 not I help. Well, proceed. 
 
 Speed. Item, She hath more hair than wit, and more faults 
 than hairs, and more wealth than faults. 
 
 Laun. Stop there ; I'll have her : she was mine, and 
 not mine, twice or thrice in that last article : Rehearse 
 that once more. 
 
 Speed. Item, She hath more hair than wit,'^ — 
 
 Laun. More hair than wit, — it may be ; I'll prove it : 
 The cover of the salt hides the salt,*^ and therefore it is 
 more than the salt ; the hair, that covers the wit, is more 
 than the wit; for the greater hides the less. What's next? 
 
 Speed. — And more faults than hairs, — 
 
 Laun. That's monstrous : O, that that were out ! 
 
 Speed. — And more wealth than faults. 
 
 Laun. Why, that word makes the faults gracious : Well, 
 I'll have her : And if it be a match, as nothing is impos- 
 sible, — 
 
 Speed. What then ? 
 
 Laun. Why, then will I tell thee, — that thy master 
 stays for thee at the north gate. 
 
 Speed. For me ? 
 
 Laun. For thee ? ay : who art thou ? he hath staid for 
 a better man than thee. 
 
 Speed. And must I go to him ? 
 
 Laun. Thou must run to him, for thou hast staid so 
 long, that going will scarce serve the turn. 
 
 Speed. Why didst not tell me sooner? 'pox of your 
 love-letters ! [Exit. 
 
 e She hath more hair than wit,] An oUl English provcrh, orii^inating 
 
 according to Nares in a vague notion, that abunthiuce of hair denoted a lack 
 of brains. 
 
 '1 the cover of the salt hides the salt,] It may perhaps !)(■ necessary tooli- 
 
 serve, that tho omamenled saltcellar, winch used to stand in the centre of tho 
 table, in the days of our ancestors, was always supplied with a cover, to keep 
 the contents clean.
 
 122 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 Laun. Now will he be swinged for reading my letter : 
 An unmannerly slave, that will thrust himself into secrets ! 
 — I'll after, to rejoice in the boy's correction. lExif. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The same. A Room in the Duke's Palace. 
 
 Enter Duke and Thurio; Proteus behind. 
 
 Duke. Sir Thurio, fear not, but that she will love you. 
 Now Valentine is banish'd from her sio-ht. 
 
 Thu. Since his exile she hath despis'd me most. 
 Forsworn my company, and rail'd at me. 
 That I am desperate of obtaining her. 
 
 Duke. This weak impress of love is as a figure 
 Trenched in ice j* which with an hour's heat 
 Dissolves to water, and doth lose his form. 
 A little time will melt her frozen thoughts. 
 And worthless Valentine shall be forgot. — 
 How now, sir Proteus ? Is your countryman. 
 According to our proclamation, gone ? 
 
 Pro. Gone, my good lord. 
 
 Duke. My daughter takes his going grievously. 
 
 Pro. A little time, my lord, will kill that grief. 
 
 Duke. So I believe ; but Thurio thinks not so. — 
 Proteus, the good conceit I hold of thee, 
 (For thou hast shewn some sign of good desert,) 
 Makes me the better to confer with thee. 
 
 Pro. Longer than I prove loyal to your grace. 
 Let me not live to look upon your grace. 
 
 Duke. Thou know'st, how willingly I would effect 
 The match between sir Thurio and my daughter. 
 
 Pro. I do, my Lord. 
 
 Duke. And also, I think, thou art not ignorant 
 How she opposes her against my will. 
 
 Pro. She did, my lord, when Valentine was here. 
 
 Duke. Ay, and perversely she persevers so. 
 What might we do, to make the girl forget 
 The love of Valentine, and love sir Thurio ? 
 
 * Trenched in tee ;] i. e. Cut, carved in ice. From trancher, to cut.— Johnson.
 
 ACT III.— SCENE II. 123 
 
 Pro. The best way is, to slander Valentine 
 With falsehood, cowardice, and poor descent ; 
 Three things that women highly hold in hate. 
 
 Duke. Ay, but she'll think, that it is spoke in hate. 
 
 Pro. Ay, if his enemy deliver it : 
 Therefore it must, with circumstance, be spoken 
 By one, whom she esteemeth as his friend. 
 
 Duke. Then you must undertake to slander him. 
 
 Pro. And that, my lord, I shall be loth to do : 
 'Tis an ill office for a gentleman ; 
 Especially, against his very friend.^ 
 
 Duke. Where your good word cannot advantage him. 
 Your slander never can endamage him ; 
 Therefore the office is indifferent. 
 Being entreated to it by your friend. 
 
 Pro. You have prevail'd, my lord : if I can do it. 
 By aught that I can speak in his dispraise. 
 She shall not long continue love to him. 
 But say, this weed her love from Valentine, 
 It follows not that she will love sir Thurio. 
 
 Thu. Therefore, as you unwind her loves from him. 
 Lest it should ravel, and be good to none. 
 You must provide to bottom it on me : 
 Which must be done, by praising me as much 
 As you in worth dispraise sir Valentine. 
 
 Duke. And, Proteus, we dare trust you in this kind ; 
 Because we know, on Valentine's report. 
 You are already love's firm votary. 
 And cannot soon revolt and change your mind. 
 Upon this warrant shall you have access. 
 Where you with Silvia may confer at large ; 
 For she is lumpish, heavy, melancholy, 
 And, for your friend's sake, will be gUid of you ; 
 Wliore you may temper her, by your persuasion, 
 To hate young Valentine, and love my friend. 
 Pro. As much as I can do, 1 will effect : — 
 
 f his very/rienJ.l Very is immediate, 
 
 « as iiPH unwind Iter Ime — ] As you wind oil" lior love from liim, mako 
 
 mc the hottiym on wliic h you wind it. Tho liovisewife's trnu for a ball of thread 
 wound upon a central body, is a bottom of thread. — Johnson.
 
 124 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 But you, sir Thurio, are not sharp enough j 
 You must lay lime, to tangle her desires. 
 By wailful sonnets, whose composed rhymes 
 Should be full fraught with serviceable vows. 
 
 Duke. Ay, much is the force of heaven-bred poesy. 
 
 Pro. Say, that upon the altar of her beauty 
 You sacrifice your tears, your sighs, your heart : 
 Write, till your ink be dry ; and with your tears 
 Moist it again ; and frame some feeling line. 
 That may discover such integrity :'' 
 For Orpheus' lute was strung with poets' sinews ; 
 Whose golden touch could soften steel and stones. 
 Make tigers tame, and huge leviathans 
 Forsake unsounded deeps to dance on sands. 
 After your dire lamenting elegies. 
 Visit by night your lady's chamber-window. 
 With some sweet concert : to their instruments 
 Tune a deploring dump ;' the night's dead silence 
 Will well become such sweet complaining grievance. 
 This, or else nothing, will inherit her.'' 
 
 Duke. This discipline shows thou hast been in love. 
 
 Thu. And thy advice this night I'll put in practice : 
 Therefore, sweet Proteus, my direction-giver. 
 Let us into the city presently 
 To sort some gentlemen well skill'd in music : 
 I have a sonnet, that will serve the turn. 
 To give the onset to thy good advice. 
 
 Duke. About it, gentlemen. 
 
 Pro. We'll wait upon your grace, till after supper ; 
 And afterward determine our proceedings. 
 
 Duke. Even now about it : — I will pardon you. [Exeunt. 
 
 h such integrity :"] Such integrity may TaeRn such ardour and sincerity 
 
 as would be manifested by practising the directions given in the four preceding 
 lines. — Stef.vens. 
 
 ' dump ;] — A melancholy strain in music, either vocal or instrumental. 
 
 ^ will inherit her.'\ — Obtain possession of her. — Steevens.
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE I. 125 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. — A Forest near Mantua. 
 
 Enter certain Out-laws. 
 
 1 Out. Fellows, stand fast ; I see a passenger. 
 
 2 Out. If there be ten, shrink not, but down with 'em. 
 
 Enter Valentine and Speed. 
 
 3 Out. Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about you ; 
 If not, we'll make you sit, and rifle you. 
 
 Speed. Sir, we are undone ! these are the villains 
 That all the travellers do fear so much. 
 f^al. My friends,— 
 
 1 Out. That's not so, sir ; we are your enemies. 
 
 2 Out. Peace ; we'll hear him. 
 
 3 Out. Ay, by my beard, will we ; 
 For he's a proper man. 
 
 Vat. Then know, that I have little wealth to lose ; 
 A man I am, cross'd with adversity : 
 My riches are these poor habiliments. 
 Of which if you should here disfurnish me. 
 You take the sum and substance that I have. 
 
 2 Out. Whither travel you ? 
 Val. To Verona. 
 
 1 Out. Whence came you ? 
 Val. From Milan. 
 
 3 Out. Have you long sojourn'd there ? 
 
 Val. Some sixteen months ; and longer might have staid, 
 If crooked fortune had not thwarted me. 
 
 1 Out. What, were you banish'd thence? 
 Val. I was. 
 
 2 Out. For what oflence ? 
 
 Val. For that which now torments me to rehearse : 
 I kill'd a man, whose death I iniicli repent; 
 But yet I slew Iiim iiiaiifully in fight. 
 Without false vantag*e, or base treachery. 
 
 I Out. Why ne'er repent it, if it were done so : 
 But were you banish'd for so sma,n a fault ?
 
 126 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 Val. I was, and held me glad of such a doom. 
 
 1 Out. Have you the tongues ? 
 
 Val. My youthful travel therein made me happy ; 
 Or else I often had been miserable. 
 
 3 Out. By the bare scalp of Robin Hood's fat friar,' 
 This fellow were a king for our wild faction. 
 
 1 Out. We'll have him : sirs, a word. 
 
 Speed. Master, be one of them ; 
 
 It is an honourable kind of thievery. 
 Val. Peace, villain ! 
 
 2 Out. Tell us this : Have you any thing to take to ? 
 Fal. Nothing, but my fortune. 
 
 3 Out. Know then, that some of us are gentlemen. 
 Such as the fury of ungovern'd youth 
 
 Thrust from the company of awful men :" 
 Myself was from Verona banish'd, 
 For practising to steal away a lady, 
 An heir, and near allied unto the duke. 
 
 2 Out. And I from Mantua, for a gentleman. 
 Whom, in my mood," I stabb'd unto the heart. 
 
 1 Out. And I, for such like petty crimes as these. 
 But to the purpose, — (for we cite our faults. 
 
 That they may hold excus'd our lawless lives,) 
 And, partly, seeing you are beautified 
 With goodly shape ; and by your own report 
 A linguist ; and a man of such perfection. 
 As we do in our quality much want ; — 
 
 2 Out. Indeed, because you are a banish'd man. 
 Therefore, above the rest, we parley to you : 
 
 Are you content to be our general ? 
 
 To make a virtue of necessity, 
 
 And Hve, as we do, in this wilderness ? 
 
 3 Out. What say'st thou? wilt thou be of our consort? 
 Say, ay, and be the captain of us all : 
 
 We'll do thee homage, and be rul'd by thee. 
 Love thee as our commander, and our king. 
 
 1 Robin Hood's fat friar,'] Friar Tuck, who was confessor and com- 
 panion to this noted out-law. — Steevens. 
 
 m awful men:] Dr. Farmer recommends lawful men. — But awftd men is 
 
 sense, and means, /u<i of awe for the institutions of civil society. — ■Ritson. 
 
 '1 in my mood,] i. e. in my wrath.
 
 ACT IV.—SCENE II. 127 
 
 1 Out. But if thou scorn our courtesy, thou diest. 
 
 2 Out. Thou shalt not hve to brag what we have off'er'd. 
 Val. I take your offer, and will live with you ; 
 
 Provided that you do no outrages 
 On silly women, or poor passengers. 
 
 3 Out. No, we detest such vile base practices. 
 Come, go with us, we'll bring thee to our crews. 
 And shew thee all the treasure we have got ; 
 
 Which, with ourselves, all rest at thy dispose. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Milan. Court of the Palace. 
 Enter Proteus. 
 Pro. Already have I been false to Valentine, 
 And now I must be as unjust to Thurio. 
 Under the colour of commending him, 
 I have access my own love to prefer: 
 But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy. 
 To be corrupted with my worthless gifts. 
 When I protest true loyalty to her. 
 She twits me with my falsehood to my friend : 
 When to her beauty I commend my vows. 
 She bids me think, how I have been forsworn 
 In breaking faith with Julia whom I lov'd: 
 And, notwithstanding all her sudden quips," 
 The least whereof would quell a lover's hope. 
 Yet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love. 
 The more it grows, and fawneth on her still. 
 But here comes Thurio : now must we to her window. 
 And give some evening music to her ear. 
 
 Enter Tiiunio and Musicians. 
 Thu. llow now, sir Proteus? are you crept before us? 
 Pro. Ay, gentle Thurio j for, you know, that love 
 Will creep in service wiiere it cannot go.P 
 
 Thu. Ay, but I hope, sir, that you love not here. 
 Pro. Sir, but I doj or else I would be hence. 
 
 " ■ ' sudden quips,'] 'Hat is, hasty passionate reproaches and scoffs. — 
 
 Johnson. 
 
 P i/oii ktimr, that love 
 
 Will creep in service nlurc it cannot go.] Kindness will creep where it ran- 
 not f^ang, is a ScotlisU proverb. — Reed.
 
 128 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 Thu. Whom? Silvia? 
 Pro. Ay, Silvia, — for your sake. 
 Thu. I thank you for your own. Now, gentlemen. 
 Let's tune, and to it lustily a while. 
 
 Enter Host, at a distance; and Julia in boy's clothes. 
 
 Host. Now, my young guest! methinks you're ally- 
 cholly ; I pray you, why is it ? 
 
 Jul. Marry, mine host, because I cannot be merry. 
 
 Host. Come, we'll have you merry: I'll bring you 
 where you shall hear music, and see the gentleman that 
 you ask'd for. 
 
 Jul. But shall I hear him speak ? 
 
 Host. Ay, that you shall. 
 
 Jul. That will be music. [Music plays. 
 
 Host. Hark! Hark! 
 
 Jul. Is he among these ? 
 
 Host. Ay : but peace, let's hear 'em. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Who is Silvia ? what is she. 
 
 That all our sivains commend her ? 
 Holy, fair, and zvise is she ; 
 
 The heavens such grace did lend her, 
 That she might admired be. 
 
 Is she kind, as she is fair? 
 
 For beauty lives with kindness. 
 Love doth to her eyes repair, 
 
 To help him of his blindness; 
 And, being help'd, inhabits there. 
 
 Then to Silvia let us sing, 
 That Silvia is excelling ; 
 She excels each mortal thing. 
 
 Upon the dull earth dwelling : 
 To her let us garlands bring. 
 Host. How now ? are you sadder than you were before ? 
 How do you, man? the music likes you not. 
 Jul. You mistake ; the musician likes me not. 
 Host. Why, my pretty youth ? 
 Jid. He plays false, father.
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE 11. 129 
 
 Host. How? out of tune on the strings? 
 
 Jul. Not so; but yet so false, that he grieves my very 
 heart-strings. 
 
 Host. You have a quick ear. 
 
 Jul. Ay, I would I were deaf! it makes me have a slow 
 heart. 
 
 Host. I perceive you delight not in music. 
 
 Jul. Not a whit, when it jars so. 
 
 Host. Hark, what fine change is in the music ! 
 
 Jul. Ay; that change is the spite. 
 
 Host. You would have them always play but one thing? 
 
 Jul. I would always have one play but one thing. But, 
 host, doth this sir Proteus, that we talk on, often resort 
 unto this gentlewoman? 
 
 Host. I tell you what Launce, his man, told me, he 
 loved her out of all nick." 
 
 Jul. Where is Launce? 
 
 Host. Gone to seek his dog; which, to-morrow, by his 
 master's command, he must carry for a present to his lady. 
 
 Jul. Peace ! stand aside ! the company parts. 
 
 Pro. Sir Thurio, fear not you; I will so plead. 
 That you shall say, my cunning drift excels. 
 
 Thu. Where meet we? 
 
 Pro. At saint Gregory's well. 
 
 Thu. Farewell. [Exeunt Thurio and Musicians. 
 
 Silvia appears above, at her window. 
 
 Pro. Madam, good even to your ladyship. 
 
 Sil. 1 thank you for your music, gentlemen : 
 Who is that, that spake? 
 
 Pro. One, lady, if you knew his pure heart's truth. 
 You'd quickly learn to know him by his voice. 
 
 Sil. Sir Proteus, as I take it. 
 
 Pro. Sir l^roteus, gentle lady, and your servant. 
 
 Sil. What is your will ? 
 
 Pro. That I may compass yours. 
 
 Sil. You have your wish ; my will is even this, — 
 That presently you hie you home to bed. 
 Thou subtle, perjur'd, false, disloyal man! 
 
 " i)i(< i_>/"(i// nick.] Hovond all rockonint,' or count. Rpckoiiiuijs are 
 
 k»'|)t U[)oii iiirkeil or notched sticks or tallies. — WtnnuiiioN. 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 Think'st thou, I am so shallow, so conceitless, 
 To be seduced by thy flattery, 
 That hast deceiv'd so many with thy vows? 
 Return, return, and make thy love amends. 
 For me, — by this pale queen of night I swear, 
 I am so far from granting thy request. 
 That I despise thee for thy wrongful suit ; 
 And by and by intend to chide myself. 
 Even for this time I spend in talking to thee. 
 
 Pro. I grant, sweet love, that I did love a lady ; 
 But she is dead. 
 
 Jul. 'Twere false, if I should speak it ; 
 For, I am sure, she is not buried. [Aside. 
 
 Sil. Say, that she be ; yet Valentine, thy friend. 
 Survives ; to whom, thyself art witness, 
 I am betroth 'd : And art thou not asham'd 
 To wrong him with thy import6nacy. 
 
 Pro. I likewise hear, that Valentine is dead. 
 
 Sil. And so, suppose, am I ; for in his grave 
 Assure thyself, my love is buried. 
 
 Pro. Sweet lady, let me rake it from the earth. 
 
 Sil. Go to thy lady's grave, and call her's thence ; 
 Or, at the least, in her's sepulchre thine. 
 
 Jul. He heard not that. [Aside. 
 
 Pro. Madam, if your heart be so obddrate. 
 Vouchsafe me yet your picture for my love. 
 The picture that is hanging in your chamber ; 
 To that I'll speak, to that I'll sigh and weep : 
 For, since the substance of your perfect self 
 Is else devoted, I am but a shadow; 
 And to your shadow I will make true love. 
 
 Jul. If 'twere a substance, you would, sure, deceive it. 
 And make it but a shadow, as I am. [Aside. 
 
 Sil. I am very loth to be your idol, sir ; 
 But, since your falsehood shall become you wellP 
 To worship shadows, and adore false shapes. 
 Send to me in the morning, and I'll send it : 
 And so, good rest. 
 
 since i/oiir taUelwod -luiU Itectiine lyoit laill, &c.J The mode of ex- 
 
 pression liere is very loose ; hut the sentence means, that " it well became liis 
 falsehood to worship false shapes." 
 
 1
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE III. 131 
 
 Pro. As wretches have o'ernight. 
 
 That wait for execution in the morn. 
 
 [Exeitnt Proteus ; and Silvia, /"rom above. 
 
 Jul. Host, will you go? 
 
 Host. By my halidom,** I was fast asleep. 
 
 Jul. Pray you, where lies sir Proteus ? 
 
 Host. Marry, at my house: Trust me, I think, 'tis al- 
 most day. 
 
 Jul. Not so ; but it hath been the longest night 
 That e'er I watch'd, and the most heaviest. [Exew///. 
 
 SCENE \\\.— The same. 
 
 Enter Eg l amour. 
 
 Egl. This is tlie hour that madam Silvia 
 Entreated me to call, and know her mind ; 
 There's some great matter she'd employ me in. — 
 Madam, madam ! 
 
 Silvia appears above, at her window. 
 
 Sil. Who calls ? 
 
 Egl. Your servant, and your friend ; 
 
 One that attends your ladyship's command. 
 
 Sil. Sir Eglamour, a thousand times good-morrow. 
 
 Egl. As many, worthy lady, to yourself. 
 According to your ladyship's impose, 
 I am thus early come, to know what service 
 It is your pleasure to command me in. 
 
 Si/. O Eglamour, thou art a gentleman, 
 (Think not I flatter, for, I swear, I do not,) 
 Valiant, wise, remorsefid, well accomj)lish'fl. 
 Thou art not ignorant, what dear good will 
 I bear unto the banish 'd Valentine ; 
 Nor how my father would enforce me marry 
 Vain Thurio, whom my very soul abhorr'd. 
 Thyself hast loved ; and I have heard thee say. 
 No grief did ever come so near thy heart, 
 As when thy lady and thy true love died. 
 Upon whose grave thou vow'dst pure chastity.' 
 
 1 halidom,] — Holim-xs, f;utli, sanctily. 
 
 f Ujmn tuhosr, f^rare ihou vuw'dtt ;iH»f chablily.] Il w.ih cominoD in former 
 agPB for widowers and widows to make vowb of cbaslity in houour of ihcir 
 
 K 2
 
 132 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 Sir Eglamour, I would to Valentine, 
 
 To Mantua, where I hear he makes abode ; 
 
 And, for the ways are dangerous to pass, 
 
 I do desire thy worthy company. 
 
 Upon whose faith and honour I repose 
 
 Urge not my father's anger, Eglamour, 
 
 But think upon my grief, a lady's grief; 
 
 And on the justice of my flying hence, 
 
 To keep me from a most unholy match, 
 
 Which heaven and fortune still reward with plagues. 
 
 I do desire thee, even from a heart 
 
 As full of sorrows as the sea of sands. 
 
 To bear me company, and go with me : 
 
 If not, to hide what 1 have said to thee. 
 
 That I may venture to depart alone. 
 
 Egl. Madam, I pity much your grievances ; 
 Which since I know they virtuously are plac'd, 
 I give consent to go along with you ; 
 Recking as little^ what betideth me 
 As much I wish all good befortune you. 
 When will you go ? 
 
 Sil. This evening coming. 
 
 Egl. Where shall I meet you ? 
 
 Sil. At friar Patrick's cell. 
 
 Where I intend holy confession. 
 
 Egl. I will not fail your ladyship : 
 Good-morrow, gentle lady. 
 
 Sil. Good-morrow, kind sir Eglamour. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE lY .—The same. 
 
 Enter Launce, with his Dog. 
 
 When a man's servant shall play the cur with him, look 
 you, it goes hard : one that I brought up of a puppy; one 
 
 deceased wives or husbands. In Dugdale's Antiquities of WarwicksJnre, page 
 1013, there is the form of a commission by the bishop of the diocese for taking 
 a vow of chastity made by a widow. It seems, that besides observing the 
 TOW, the widow was, for life, to wear a veil and a mourning habit. Some 
 such distinction we may suppose to have been made in respect of male vota- 
 rists ; and therefore this circumstance might inform the players how sir Egla- 
 mour should be drest ; and will account for Silvia's having chosen him as 
 a person in v horn she could confide without injury to her own character.— 
 Stfevens. 
 
 * Kecking] i.e. carivgfor.
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE IV. 133 
 
 that I saved from drowning, when three or four of his bhnd 
 brothers and sisters went to it ! I have taupht him — even 
 as one would say precisely. Thus I would teach a dog. I 
 was sent to deliver him, as a present to mistress Silvia, 
 from my master ; and I came no sooner into the dining- 
 chamber, but he steps me to her trencher, and steals her 
 capon's leg. O, 'tis a foul thing, when a cur cannot keep 
 himself in all companies ! I would have, as one should 
 say, one that takes upon him to be a dog indeed, to be, as 
 it were, a dog at all things. If 1 had not had more wit than 
 he, to take a fault upon me that he did, I think verily he 
 had been hanged for't ; sure as I live, he had suffered 
 for't : you shall judge. He thrusts me himself into the 
 company of three or four gentleman-like dogs, under the 
 duke's table : he had not been there (bless the mark) a 
 pissing while ; but all the chamber smelt him. Out with 
 the dog, says one; What cur is that? says another ; Whip 
 him out, says a third; Hang him up, says the duke. I, 
 having been acquainted with the smell before, knew it 
 was Crab ; and goes me to the fellow that whips the dogs : 
 Friend, quoth I, j/o« ?neau to ivhip the dog ? Ay, marry, do J, 
 quoth he. You do him the more tvrong, quoth I, 'twas I 
 did the thing ynu wot of. He makes me no more ado, but 
 whips me out of the chamber. How many masters would 
 do this for their servant .' Nay, I'll be sworn, I have sat 
 in the stocks for puddings he hath stolen, otherwise he 
 had been executed : I have stood on the pillory for geese 
 he hath killed, othenvise he had suffered for't : thou 
 think'st not of this now ! — ^Nay, I remember the trick you 
 served me, when I took my leave of madam Silvia ; did 
 not I bid thee still mark me, and do as I do ? When did'st 
 thou see me heave up my leg, and make water against a 
 gentlewoman's farthingale? diflst thou ever see me do 
 such a trick .' 
 
 Enter Proteus andJvLW. 
 
 Pro. Sebastian is thy name? I like thee well. 
 And will employ thee in some service presently. 
 .III/. In what you please: — I will do what I can. 
 
 ' keep himself — ] i. r. restrain himself.
 
 134 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 P7'o. I hope thou wiltl — How now, you whoreson 
 peasant? [To Launce. 
 
 Where have you been these two days loitering? 
 
 Lauti. Marry, sir, I carried mistress Silvia the dog you 
 bade me. 
 
 Pro. And what says she to my little jewel? 
 
 Laun. Marry, she says, your dog was a cur ; and tells 
 you, currish thanks is good enough for such a present. 
 
 Pro. But she received my dog ? 
 
 Laun. No, indeed, she did not : here have I brought 
 him back again. 
 
 Pro. What, didst thou offer her this from me ? 
 
 Laun. Ay, sir ; the other squirrel was stolen from me 
 by the hangman's boys in the market-place : and then I 
 offered her mine own ; who is a dog as big as ten of yours, 
 and thei'efore the gift the greater. 
 
 Pro. Go, get thee hence, and find my dog again, 
 Or ne'er return again into my sight. 
 Away, I say : Stay'st thou to vex me here ? 
 A slave, that, still an end," turns me to shame. 
 
 [^Exit Launce. 
 Sebastian, I have entertained thee. 
 Partly, that I have need of such a youth. 
 That can with some discretion do my business. 
 For 'tis no trusting to yon foolish lowt ; 
 But, chiefly, for thy face, and thy behaviour ; 
 Which (if my augury deceive me not) 
 Witness good bringing up, fortune, and truth : 
 Therefore know thou, for this I entertain thee. 
 Go presently, and take this ring with thee. 
 Deliver it to madam Silvia : 
 She loved me well, deliver'd it to me. 
 
 Jul. It seems, you loved her not, to leave her token:" 
 She's dead, belike. 
 
 Pro. Not so ; I think, she lives. 
 
 JuL Alas ! 
 
 Pro. Why dost thou cry, alas ? 
 
 " itill an end,'\ i. e. almost perpetually — without intermission. — Gif- 
 
 roRD's Massinger, vol. iv. 282. 
 " to leave — ] means to part with or give away. — M. Mason.
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE IV. 135 
 
 Jul. I cannot choose but pity her. 
 
 Pro. Wherefore should'st thou pity her ? 
 
 Jul. Because, methinks, that she loved you as well 
 As you do love your lady Silvia : 
 She dreams on him, that has forgot her love ; 
 You dote on her that cares not for your love. 
 'Tis pity, love should be so contrary ; 
 And thinking on it makes me cry, alas ! 
 
 Pro. Well, give her that ring, and therewithal 
 This letter ;— that's her chamber. — Tell my lady, 
 I claim the promise for her heavenly picture. 
 Your messag-e done, hie home unto mv chamber, 
 Where thou shalt find me sad and solitary. 
 
 [Exit PllOTKUS. 
 
 Jul. How many women would do such a message? 
 Alas, poor Proteus ! thou hast entertain'd 
 A fox, to be the shepherd of thy lambs : 
 Alas, poor fool ! why do I pity him 
 That with his very heart despiseth me ? 
 Because he loves her, he despiseth me ; 
 Because I love him, I nnist pity him. 
 This ring I gave him, when he parted from me, 
 To bind him to remember my good will : 
 And now am 1 (unhappy messenger) 
 To plead for that, which 1 would not obtain ; 
 To carry that, which I would have refus'd ; 
 To praise his faith, which I would have disprais'd. 
 I am my master's true confirmed love; 
 But cannot be true servant to my master. 
 Unless I prove false traitor to myself. 
 Yet I will woo for him; but yet so coldly. 
 As, heaven it knows, I would not have him speed. 
 
 Enter Silvia, attended. 
 
 Gentlewoman, good day ! I pray you, be my mean 
 To bring me where to speak with madam Silvia. 
 
 Sil. What would you with her, if that 1 be she ? 
 
 Jul. If you be she, 1 do entreat your patience 
 To hear mr speak the message I am sent on. 
 
 Sil. Eroni whom ?
 
 136 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 Jul. From my master, sir Proteus, madam. 
 
 Sil. O ! — he sends you for a picture ? 
 
 Jul. Ay, madam. 
 
 Sil. Ursula, bring my picture there. \Picture brought. 
 Go, give your master this : tell him from me. 
 One Julia, that his changing thoughts forget. 
 Would better fit his chamber, than this shadow. 
 
 Jul. Madam, please you peruse this letter. 
 
 Pardon me, madam ; 1 have unadvis'd 
 Delivered you a paper that I should not ; 
 This is the letter to your ladyship. 
 
 Sil. 1 pray thee, let me look on that again. 
 
 Jul. It may not be ; good madam, pardon me. 
 
 Sil. There, hold. 
 I will not look upon your master's lines : 
 I know, they are stuff'd with protestations. 
 And full of new-found oaths ; which he will break. 
 As easily as 1 do tear his paper. 
 
 Jul. Madam, he sends your ladyship this ring. 
 
 Sil. The more shame for him that he sends it me j 
 For, I have heard him say a thousand times, 
 His Julia gave it him at his departure : 
 Though his false finger hath profan'd the ring, 
 Mine shall not do his Juha so much wrong. 
 
 Jul. She thanks you. 
 
 Sil. What say'st thou ? 
 
 Jul. I thank you, madam, that you tender her : 
 Poor gentlewoman ! my master wrongs her much. 
 
 Sil. Dost thou know her ? 
 
 Jul. Almost as well as I do know myself : 
 To think upon her woes, I do protest. 
 That I have wept an hundred several times. 
 
 Sil. Belike, she thinks that Proteus hath forsook her. 
 
 Jul. I think she doth, and that's her cause of sorrow. 
 
 Sil. Is she not passing fair ? 
 
 Jul. She hath been fairer, madam, than she is : 
 When she did think my master lov'd her well. 
 She, in my judgment, was as fair as you ; 
 But since she did neglect her looking-glass. 
 And threw her sun-expelling mask away.
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE IV. 137 
 
 The air hath starv'd the roses in her cheeks. 
 And pinch'd the hly-tincture of her face, 
 That now she is becoire as black as I. 
 
 Sil. How tall was she ? 
 
 Jul. About my stature : for, at Pentecost, 
 When all our pageants of delight were play'd. 
 Our youth got me to play the woman's part. 
 And I was trimm'd in madam Julia's gown ; 
 Which served me as fit, by all men's judgment. 
 As if the garment had been made for me ; 
 Therefore, I know she is about my height. 
 And, at that time, I made her weep a-good,^ 
 For I did play a lamentable part ; 
 Madam, 'twas Ariadne, passioning^ 
 For Theseus' perjury, and unjust flight; 
 Which I so lively acted with my tears. 
 That my poor mistress, moved therewithal, 
 Wept bitterly ; and, would I might be dead. 
 If I in thought felt not her very sorrow ! 
 
 Sil. She is beholden to thee, gentle youth ! — 
 Alas, poor lady ! desolate and left ! — 
 I weep myself, to think upon thy words. 
 Here, youth, there is my purse; I give thee this 
 For thy sweet mistress' sake, because thou lov'st her. 
 Farewell. [Exit Silvia. 
 
 Jul. And she shall thank you for't, if e'er you know 
 
 A virtuous gentlewoman, mild, and beautiful. [her. 
 
 I hope my master's suit will be but cold. 
 Since she respects my mistress' love so much. 
 Alas, how love can trifle with itself! 
 Here is her picture: Let me see; I think. 
 If I had such a tire, this face of mine 
 Were full as lovely as is this of hers : 
 And yet the painter flatter'd her a little, 
 Unless I flatter with myself too much. 
 Her hair is auburn, inine is perfect yellow : 
 If that be all the difference in his love, 
 I'll get me such a colour'd periwig. 
 
 ^ wfp/i a-(,'()ol,J i. (•. in Rood <-,inu'8l. I'oul de Imn, Vr. Siki.vi:n.s. 
 
 ' ''»"«5 Armdnr, piissionini; — ] To iiaaion i« used as » verb, l»y writers 
 
 contemporary with Shakspearc. — SrEEViNs.
 
 138 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 Her eyes are grey as glass ;'' and so are mine : 
 
 x-Vy, but her forehead's low,'' and mine's as high. 
 
 What should it be, that he respects in her. 
 
 But I can make respective*^ in myself. 
 
 If this fond love were not a blinded god ? 
 
 Come, shadow, come, and take this shadow up. 
 
 For 'tis thy rival. O thou senseless form, 
 
 Thou shalt be worshipp'd, kiss'd, lov'd, and ador'd ; 
 
 And, were there sense in his idolatry, 
 
 My substance should be statue in thy stead ."^ 
 
 I'll use thee kindly for thy mistress' sake. 
 
 That us'd me so ; or else, by Jove I vow, 
 
 I should have scratch'd out your unseeing eyes. 
 
 To make my master out of love with thee. [Exit. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene I. — The same. An Abbey. 
 
 Enter Eglamour. 
 
 Egl. The sun begins to gild the western sky ; 
 And now, it is about the very hour 
 That Silvia, at friar Patrick's cell, should meet me. 
 She will not fail ; for lovers break not hours. 
 Unless it be to come before their time ; 
 So much they spur their expedition. 
 
 Enter Silvia. 
 
 See, where she comes : Lady, a happy evening ! 
 
 Sil. Amen, amen ! go on, good Eglamour, 
 Out at the postern by the abbey-wall ; 
 I fear, I am attended by some spies. 
 
 Egl. Fear not : the forest is not three leagues off: 
 If we recover that, we are sure enough. [Exeunt. 
 
 a greu as glass ;] Grey was anciently used for blue,— wad is interpreted 
 
 ceruleus in Coles' Dictionary, 1679.— Maionk. 
 
 b her forehead's low,~\ A high forehead was in our author's time ac- 
 counted a feature eminently beautiful. — Johnson. 
 
 c respective — ] i. e. respectable. 
 
 <i s/f(>!/((' be statue — ] The word statue was used frequently without the 
 
 article a, which is here omitted, as is proved by several apposite quotations of 
 Steevens : — statue was formerly synonymous with portrait — in the same manner, 
 it is observed by Mr. Douce, a slaUic was frequently called a picture.
 
 ACT v.— SCENE 11. 139 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The same. An Apartment in the Duke's Palace. 
 Enter Thurio, Proteus, and Julia. 
 
 Thu. Sir Proteus, what says Silvia to thy suit? 
 
 Pro. O, sir, I find her milder than she was ; 
 And yet she takes exceptions at your person. 
 
 Thu. What, that my leg is too long? 
 
 Pro. No ; that it is too little. 
 
 Thu. I'll wear a boot, to make it somewhat rounder. 
 
 Pro. But love will not be spurr'd to what it loaths. 
 
 Thu. What says she to my face ? 
 
 Pro. She says, it is a fair one. 
 
 Thu. Nay, then the wanton lies ; my face is black. 
 
 Pro. But pearls are fair; and the old saying is, 
 Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies eyes.' 
 
 .Inl. 'Tis true, such pearls as put out ladies' eyes ; 
 For I had rather wink than look on them. [yhide. 
 
 Thu. How likes she my discourse? 
 
 Pro. Ill, when you talk of war. 
 
 Thu. But well, when I discourse of love, and peace ? 
 
 .ful. But better, indeed, when you hold your peace. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Thu. What says she to my valour? 
 
 Pro. O, sir, she makes no doubt of that. 
 
 Jul. She needs not, when she knows it cowardice. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Thu. What says she to my birth? 
 
 Pro. That you are well deriv'd. 
 
 Jul. True ; from a gentleman to a fool. [Aside. 
 
 Thu. Considers she my possessions ? 
 
 Pro. O, ay ; and pities them. 
 
 Thu. Wherefore ? 
 
 Jul. That such an ass should owe them. [Aside. 
 
 Pro. That they are out by lease.» 
 
 Jul. Here comes the duke. 
 
 f Black men are jjearls, is.c ] " A black man is a jewel in a fair woman's 
 pye," is one of Ray'n proverbial sciitj-iices. — jMai.onk. 
 
 B 77i(it they an; out by lease.) Hy Tburio's finsifisioin, he liimsclf inuler- 
 slandfl bis lands and estate : but Proteus chooses to lake the word likewise 
 in a figurative eensc, as signifying his weulal elldpxl)lnelll^ : and wlu'ii he says
 
 140 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 Enter Duke. 
 
 Duke. How now, sir Proteus ? how now, Thurio ? 
 Which of you saw sir Eglamour of late ? 
 
 Thu. Not I. 
 
 Pro. Nor I. 
 
 Duke. Saw you my daughter ? 
 
 Pro. Neither. 
 
 Duke. Why, then she's fled unto that peasant Valentine ; 
 And Eglamour is in her company. 
 'Tis true ; for friar Laurence met them both. 
 As he in penance wander'd through the forest : 
 Him he knew well, and guess'd that it was she ; 
 But, being mask'd, he was not sure of it : 
 Besides, she did intend confession 
 At Patrick's cell this even ; and there she was not : 
 These likelihoods confirm her flight from hence. 
 Therefore, I pray you, stand not to discourse. 
 But mount you presently ; and meet with me 
 Upon the rising of the mountain-foot 
 That leads towards Mantua, whither they are fled. 
 Dispatch, sweet gentlemen, and follow me. \^Exit. 
 
 Thu. Why, this it is to be a peevish'' girl. 
 That flies her fortune when it follows her : 
 I'll after ; more to be reveng'd on Eglamour, 
 ^''han for the love of reckless' Silvia. [^Exit. 
 
 Pro. And I will follow, more for Silvia's love. 
 Than hate of Eglamour that goes with her. [^Exit. 
 
 Jul. And I will follow, more to cross that love. 
 Than hate for Silvia, that is gone for love. \^Exit, 
 
 SCENE in. 
 
 Frontiers of Mantua. The Forest. 
 
 Enter Silvia, and Out-laws. 
 
 Out. Come, come ; 
 Be patient, we must bring you to our captain. 
 
 they are out by lease, he means they are no longer enjoyed by their master, 
 (who is a fool), but are leased out to another. — Lord Hailes. 
 
 ^ ]>tevhh—''\ foolish. 
 
 ' reckless — J i. e. careless, heedless.
 
 ACT v.— SCENE IV. 141 
 
 Sil. A thousand more mischances than this one 
 Have learn'd me how to brook this patiently. 
 
 2 Out. Come, bring her away. 
 
 1 Out. Where is the gentleman that was with her? 
 
 3 Out. Being nimble- footed, he hath out-run us. 
 But Moyses, and Valerius, follow him. 
 
 Go thou with her to the west end of the wood. 
 There is our captain : we'll follow him that's fled ; 
 The thicket is beset, he cannot 'scape. 
 
 1 Out. Come, I must bring you to our captain's cave; 
 Fear not; he bears an honourable mind, 
 And will not use a woman lawlessly. 
 
 *S'//. O Valentine, this I endure for thee. [ Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Another Part of the Forest. 
 
 Enter Valentine. 
 
 Val. How use doth breed a habit in a man ! 
 This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods, 
 I better brook than flourishing peopled towns : 
 Here can I sit alone, unseen of any, 
 And to the nightingale's complaining notes, 
 Tune my distresses, and record my woes.*" 
 O thou that dost inhabit in my breast, 
 Leave not the mansion so long tenantless ; 
 Lest, growing ruinous, the building fall. 
 And leave no memory of what it was ! 
 Repair me with thy presence, Silvia ; 
 Thou gentle nymph, cherish thy forlorn swain ! — 
 What hallooing, and what stir, is tiiis to-day ? 
 These are my mates, that make their wills their law. 
 Have some unhaj)py passenger in chase : 
 They love me well ; yet I have much to do. 
 To keep them from uncivil outrages. 
 Withdraw thee, Valentine; who's this comes here? 
 
 [Steps aside. 
 
 * record mv iwej.] To record anciently signified losing. To reroril is 
 
 a term still used hy bird-fanciers, to erpresM tlio first essays of a liird in sin^;- 
 ing. — Sir J. Havkins.
 
 142 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 Enter Proteus, Silvia, and Jvi.ia. 
 
 Pro. Madam, this service I have done for you, 
 (Though you respect not aught your servant doth,) 
 To hazard Hfe, and rescue you from him 
 That wou'd have forc'd your honour and your love. 
 Vouchsafe me, for my meed,' but one fair look ; 
 A smaller boon than this I cannot beg. 
 And less than this, I am sure, you cannot give. 
 
 Val. How hke a dream is this I see and hear ! 
 Love, lend me patience to forbear awhile. [Aside. 
 
 SiL O miserable, unhappy that I am ! 
 
 Pro. Unhappy, were you, madam, ere I came ; 
 But, by my coming, I have made you happy. 
 
 Sil. By thy approach thou mak'st me most unhappy. 
 
 Jul. And me, when he approacheth to your presence. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 SiL Had I been seized by a hungry lion, 
 I would have been a breakfast to the beast. 
 Rather than have false Proteus rescue me. 
 
 heaven be judge, how I love Valentine, 
 Whose life's as tender to me as my soul ; 
 And full as much, (for more there cannot be,) 
 
 1 do detest false perjur'd Proteus : 
 Therefore be gone, solicit me no more. 
 
 Pro. What dangerous action, stood it next to death. 
 Would I not undergo for one calm look ? 
 O, 'tis the curse in love, and still approv'd,™ 
 When women cannot love, where they're belov'd. 
 
 Sil. When Proteus cannot love where he's belov'd. 
 Read over Julia's heart, thy first best love. 
 For whose dear sake thou didst then rend thy faith 
 Into a thousand oaths ; and all those oaths 
 Descended into perjury, to love me. 
 Thou hast no faith left now, unless thou hadst two. 
 And that's far worse than none ; better have none 
 Than plural faith, which is too much by one : 
 Thou counterfeit to thy true fciend ! 
 
 1 wj/.meed,J i. c. rcwurd. 
 
 '" — — uyjiynvil,] i, e. experienced.
 
 ACT v.— SCENE IV. 143 
 
 Pro. In love, 
 
 Who respects friend ? 
 
 Sii. All men but Proteus. 
 
 Pro. Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving words 
 Can no way change you to a milder form, 
 I'll woo you like a soldier, at arms' end ; 
 And love you 'gainst the nature of love, force you. 
 
 Sil heaven ! 
 
 Pro. I'll force thee yield to my desire. 
 
 Val. Ruffian, let go that rude uncivil touch ; 
 Thou friend of an ill fashion ! 
 
 Pro. Valentine ! 
 
 Val. Thou common friend, that's without faith or love; 
 (For such is a friend now,) treacherous man ! 
 Thou hast beguil'd my hopes ; nought but mine eye 
 Could have persuaded me : Now I dare not say, 
 I have one friend alive ; thou would'st disprove me. 
 Who should be trusted, when one's own right hand 
 Is perjur'd to the bosom ? Proteus, 
 I am sorry, 1 must never trust thee more. 
 But count the world a stranger for thy sake. 
 The private wound is deepest : O time, most accurst ! 
 'Mono-st all foes, that a friend should be the worst ! 
 
 Pro. My shame and guilt confound me. — 
 Forgive me, Valentine : if hearty sorrow 
 Be a sufficient ransom for offence, 
 I tender it here ; I do as truly suffer. 
 As e'er I did commit. 
 
 Val. Then I am paid ; 
 
 And once again I do receive thee honest: — 
 Who by repentance is not satisfied. 
 Is nor of heaven, nor earth ; for these are pleas 'd : 
 By penitence the Eternal's wrath's appeas'd : — 
 And, that my love may appear plain and free. 
 All that was mine in Silvia, I give thee."^ 
 
 Jul. () me, unhappy ! [I'alnts. 
 
 " AU that wat mine in Sijlvia I i^ivc thee.\ "It is 1 think very odd." says 
 Pope, " to ^\\v lip liis mistress tlnin at onci- withmit any reason alleged." And 
 this opinion lias been repeated by Hamiier ami Steevens, Blackslone and 
 Malone. — Valentino acts in consisiemy wiih that liii;li, I'latonic notion ot 
 friendship, which is not uncommonly de^icribed in novels and romances as su- 
 perior to all afttctions of family or of sex, and which immediately jirompls him 
 to sacrifice his own happiness for the sake of his friend.
 
 144 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 Pro. Look to the boy. 
 
 Val. Why, boy ! why, wag ! how now ? what is the 
 Lookup; speak. [matter? 
 
 Jul. O good Sir, my master charg'd me 
 
 To deliver a ring to madam Silvia ; 
 Which, out of ray neglect, was never done. 
 
 Pro. Where is that ring, boy ? 
 
 Jul. Here 'tis : this is it. 
 
 [Gives a ring. 
 
 Pro. How ! let me see : 
 Why this is the ring I gave to Julia. 
 
 Jul. O, cry you mercy, sir, I have mistook ; 
 This is the ring you sent to Silvia. [Shews another ring. 
 
 Pro. But how cam'st thou by this ring ? at my depart, 
 I gave this unto Julia. 
 
 Jul. And Julia herself did give it me ; 
 And Julia herself hath brought it hither. 
 
 Pro. How ! Julia ! 
 
 Jul. Behold her that gave aim to all thy oaths," 
 And entertain'd them deeply in her heart : 
 How oft hast thou with perjury cleft the root?^ 
 O Proteus, let this habit make thee blush ! 
 Be thou asham'd, that I have took upon me 
 Such an immodest raiment ; if shame live 
 In a disguise of love : 
 It is the lesser blot, modesty finds. 
 Women to change their shapes, than men their minds. 
 
 Pro. Than men their minds ! 'tis true ; O heaven ! were 
 But constant, he were perfect : that one error [man 
 
 Fills him with faults ; makes him run through all sins : 
 Inconstancy falls off, ere it begins : 
 What is in Silvia's face, but I may spy 
 More fresh in Julia's with a constant eye ? 
 
 Val. Come, come, a hand from either : 
 Let me be blest to make this happy close ; 
 'Twere pity two such friends should be long foes. 
 
 Pro. Bear witness, heaven, 1 have my wish for ever. 
 
 Jul. And I mine. 
 
 ° gave aim — ] Was the object to which your oaths were aimed. 
 
 P cleft the root — ] i. e. The root of her heart. — Steevens supposes, that 
 
 there is an allusion here to the phrase of cleauing the pin in archery.
 
 ACT v.— SCENE IV. 145 
 
 Enter Out-laws, with Duke and Thurio. 
 
 Out. A prize, a prize, a prize ! 
 
 Val. Forbear, I say ; it is my lord the duke. 
 Your p-race is welcome to a man disgrrac'd. 
 Banished Valentine. 
 
 Duke. Sir Valentine ! 
 
 Thu. Yonder is Silvia ; and Silvia's mine. 
 Fal. Thurio give back, or else embrace thy death ; 
 Come not within the measure of my wrath : 
 Do not name Silvia thine ; if once again, 
 Milan shall not behold thee. Here she stands. 
 Take but possession of her with a touch ; — 
 I dare thee but to breathe upon my love. — 
 
 Thu. Sir Valentine, I care not for her, I ; 
 I hold him but a fool, that will endanger 
 His body for a girl that loves him not : 
 1 claim her not, and therefore she is thine. 
 
 Duke. The more degenerate and base art thou. 
 To make such means for her as thou hast done. 
 And leave her on such slight conditions. — 
 Now, by the honour of my ancestry, 
 I do applaud thy spirit, Valentine, 
 And think thee worthy of an empress' love. 
 Know then, I here forget all former griefs,'' 
 Cancel all grudge, repeal thee home again. — 
 Plead a new state in thy unrivall'd merit. 
 To which I thus subscribe, — sir Valentine, 
 Thou art a g(>ntieman, and well deriv'd ; 
 Take thou thy Silvia, for thou hast deserv'd her. 
 
 f''a/. I thank your grace ; the gift hath made me happy. 
 I now beseech you, for your daughter's sake, 
 To grant one boon that I shall ask of you. 
 
 Duke. I grant it, for thine own, whate'er it be. 
 
 VaL These banish'd nun, that I have kept withal, 
 Are men endued with worthy c|ualities ; 
 Forgive them what they have committed here. 
 And let them be recall'd from their exile : 
 
 1 all former {jricfs,] GrieJ'i in old laaguage frequently signilietl griev- 
 
 auca, wrongs. — Ma lone. 
 
 VOL. 1. L
 
 146 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 
 
 They are reformed, civil, full of good, 
 And fit for great employment, worthy lord. 
 
 Duke. Thou hast prevail'd ; I pardon them, and thee ; 
 Dispose of them, as thou know'st their deserts. 
 Come, let us go ; we will include all jars'" 
 With triumphs,^ mirth, and rare solemnity. 
 
 Val. And as we walk along, I dare be bold 
 With our discourse to make your grace to smile : 
 What think you of this page, my lord ? 
 
 Duke. I think the boy hath grace in him ; he blushes. 
 
 Val. I warrant you, my lord ; more grace than boy. 
 
 Duke. What mean you by that saying ? 
 
 Val. Please you, I'll tell you as we pass along. 
 That you will wonder, what hath fortuned. — 
 Come, Proteus ; 'tis your penance, but to hear 
 The story of your loves discovered : 
 That done, our day of marriage shall be yours ; 
 One feast, one house, one mutual happiness. [Exeunt.* 
 
 •■ include — ] i. e. conclude, or shut up. 
 
 ' With triumphs,] Triumphs in this and many other passages of Shakspeare, 
 signify masques and revels, &c. — Steevens. 
 
 ' In this play there is a strange mixture of knowledge and ignorance, of care 
 and negligence. ITie versification is often excellent, the allusions are learned 
 and just ; but the author convej'S his heroes by sea from one inland town to 
 another in the same country ; he places the emperor at Milan, and sends his 
 young men to attend him, but never mentions him more ; he makes Proteus, 
 after an interview with Silvia, say he has only seen her picture ; and if we may 
 credit the old copies, he has, by mistaking places, left his scenery inextricable. 
 The reason of all this confusion seems to be, that he took his story from a novel, 
 ■which he sometimes followed, and sometimes forsook, sometimes remembered, 
 and sometimes forgot. 
 
 That this play is rightly attributed to Shakspeare, I have little doubt. If 
 it be taken from him, to whom shall it be given "? This question may be asked 
 of all the disputed plays, except Titus Andronicus ; and it will be found more 
 credible, that Shakspeare might sometimes sink below his highest flights, than 
 that any other should rise up to his lowest. — Johnson. 
 
 Johnson's general remarks on this play are just, except that part in which 
 he arraigns the conduct of the poet, for making Proteus say, that he had only 
 seen the picture of Silvia, when it appears that he had had a personal interview 
 with her. This, however, is not a blunder of Shakspeare's, but a mistake of 
 Johnson's, who considers the passage alluded to in a more literal sense than 
 the author intended it. Sir Proteus, it is true, had seen Silvia for a few mo- 
 ments ; but though he could form from thence some idea of her person, he was 
 still unacquainted with her temper, manners, and the qualities of her mind. 
 He therefore considers himself as having seen her picture only. — The thought 
 is just, and elegantly expressed. — M. Mason.
 
 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 This play, which was probably written in the year 1600, was entered at 
 Stationers' Hall, by John Busby, Jan. 18, 1601. — The first perfect and entire 
 copy was published in the folio of 1623. — There had been previously two 
 mutilated quarto editions given to the public — one in the year 1602; the 
 other, 1619. — I agree with jMr. Boaden, in considering these to have been 
 printed from an imperfect copy, surreptitiously obtained from some person in 
 the employ of the theatre, or from transcription during the representation ; 
 and not, as has been supposed, from the rough draught of an original play, 
 which was afterward revised and enlarged by the author. — My reasons for 
 holding this opinion are, that the chasms which occur in the dialogue, are such 
 as would render the story of the play almost unintelligible: of this Mr. 
 Boaden quotes one instance, in Act 1. Sc. 4. where Dr. Caius says, " Sir 
 Hugh send a you," and immediately sends him a challenge ; in the folio, Mrs. 
 Quickly had before told him that Simple had come with a message from Par- 
 son Hugh ; but this piece of information being omitted in the first quarto edi- 
 tion, the Doctor's anger is rendered unintelligible ; — again, the quarto contains 
 many profane and gross expressions, which are omitted in the folio, and 
 which might be expected to exist in a copy made during representation from 
 the mouths of the players, who, we know from Shakspeare's own complaint 
 of them, were in the habit of uttering more of this kind of offensive matter 
 than was set down for them by the author ; — again, had the copy been fairly 
 obtained, with the consent of the author, in 1602, there would have been no 
 reason for the editor's reprinting the faulty and imperfect play in 1619, as he 
 would have had a legitimate claim to the finished AIS. 
 
 The events of the play are supposed to take place between the first and se- 
 cond parts of Henry the Fourth. — Falstaff is still in favour at court, and the 
 compliment of Ford on his warlike preparations, must allude to the good service 
 he had done at Shrewsbury. — The adventures of FalstaflF, in this play, bear 
 some resemblance to tlie Lovers of Pisa, a story in Turleton's Neivs out of Pur- 
 gatory, 
 
 Tlie tradition respecting the origin of this inimitable comedy is, that Queen 
 Elizabeth was so well pleased with the admirable cbaracter of Falstaff in The 
 Two Parts of Henrii IV. that, as Mr. Rowe informs us, she commanded Shak- 
 speare to continue it for one play more, and shew him in love. To this com- 
 mand we owe The Merri/ Wives of ]\'iitdsor ; which, Mr. (jildon says, [Rcmurks 
 on Shakspeare's Plays, 8vo. 1710,] he was very well assured our author finished 
 in a fortniglit. He (|uote8 no authority. The circumstance was first men- 
 tioned by Mr. Dennis. " This comedy, ' says he, in his Epistle Do<licatory to 
 The Comical Gallatii (an alteration of the present play), 1702, "was written 
 at her [Queen Eli/abeth's] command, and by her direction, and she was so 
 eager to see it acted, that she commanded it to be finished in fourteen days; 
 and wa.s afterward, as tradition tolls us, very well plea.«ed at the representa- 
 tion." The information, it is probable, came originally from Drydcn, who, 
 from his intimacy with Sir William Davenant, had an opportunity of learning 
 many particulars concerning our author. 
 
 I. 2
 
 PERSONS REPRESENTED. 
 
 Sir John Falstaff. 
 
 Fenton. 
 
 Shallow, a country/ Justice. 
 
 Slender, Cousin to Shallow. 
 
 Mr. Ford, i 
 
 Mr Page < ^^^ Gentlemen dwelling at Windsor. 
 
 William Page, a Boy, Son to Mr. Page. 
 
 aS/V Hugh Evans, « Welch Parson. 
 
 Dr. Caius, a French Physician. 
 
 Host of the Garter Inn. 
 
 Bardolph, ^ 
 
 Pistol, ?• Followers of FalstafF. 
 
 Nym, y 
 
 Robin, Page ^0 Falstaff. 
 Simple, Servant to Slender. 
 Rugby, Servant to Dr. Caius. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. 
 
 Mrs. Page. 
 
 Mrs. Anne Page, her Daughter, in love with Fenton. 
 
 Mrs. Quickly, servant to Dr. Caius. 
 
 Servants to Page, Ford, ^c. 
 Scene, Windsor ; and the Parts adjacent.
 
 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — Windsor. Before Page's House. 
 
 Enter Justice Shallow, Slendeb, and Sir Hugh 
 
 Evans. 
 
 Shal. Sir Hugh,* persuade me not; I will make a star- 
 chamber matter of it : if he were twenty sir John Falstaffs, 
 he shall not abuse Robert Shallow, esquire. 
 
 Skn. In the county of Gloster, justice of peace, and 
 coratn. 
 
 Shal. Ay, cousin Slender, and cust-alorum.^ 
 
 Slen. Ay, and ratolorum too; and a gentleman born, 
 master parson ; who writes himself armigero ;'' in any bill, 
 warrant, quittance, or obligation, armigero. 
 
 Shal. Ay, that we do ; and have done any time these 
 three hundred years. 
 
 Slen. All his successors, gone before him, have done't; 
 
 » Sir Hug/i,] The title Sir was formerly applied to priests and curates in 
 general ; for this reason : domimis, the academical title of a bachelor of arts, 
 wa« usually rendered hy Sir in Enfjiish, at the Universities ; so that a bachelor, 
 who in die books stood Dommus lirown, was in conversation called Sir Ikown. 
 This was in use in some colleges even in my memory. Therefore, as most 
 clerical persons had taken that first degree, it became usual to style them Sir. 
 —It is to be observed, that in this case, Sir is prefixed to the Christian name, 
 which differs from the University custom. Simames were little used, when 
 this practice began. — Auchdkacon Naues's Cloywry. 
 
 b cust-utorum.] This Dr. Johnson supposes to be a misprint for cxutos 
 
 rolulffrum. 
 
 c who tvrites himself armigero ;] Slender had seen the justice's attesta- 
 tions, signed " —jurat' coram mc. Roberto Shallow, armif^fro ;" and therefora 
 takes the ablative for the nominative case of Armiger, — Steevess.
 
 150 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 and all his ancestors, that come after him, may : they may 
 give the dozen white luces in their coat.'' 
 
 Shal. It is an old coat. 
 
 TLva. The dozen white louses do become an old coat 
 well; it agrees well, passant : it is a familiar beast to man, 
 and signifies — love.^ 
 
 Shal. The luce is the fresh fish ; the salt fish is an old 
 coat.^ 
 
 Slen. I may quarter, coz? 
 
 Shal. You may, by marrying. 
 
 JEva. It is marring, indeed, if he quarter it. 
 
 Shal. Not a whit. 
 
 F,va. Yes, py'r-lady ; if he has a quarter of your coat, 
 there is but three skirts for yourself, in my simple con- 
 jectures : but this is all one : If sir John FalstafF have 
 committed disparagements unto you, I am of the church, 
 ^nd will be glad to do my benevolence, to make atone- 
 ments and compromises between you. 
 
 Shal. The council shall hear it ; it is a riot.s 
 
 Eva. It is not meet the council hear a riot; there is no 
 fear of Got in a riot : the council, look you, shall desire to 
 hear the fear of Got, and not to hear a riot ; take your 
 vizaments in that. 
 
 Shal. Ha ! o'my life, if I were young again, the sword 
 should end it. 
 
 Eva. It is petter that friends is the sword, and end it : 
 and there is also another device in my prain, which, per- 
 
 d they may give the dosen white Itices in their coat.'] In this passage 
 
 Shakspeare is supposed to have jested on the arms of Sir Thomas Lucy, who 
 is said to have prosecuted him in his youth, and whose arms were three luces 
 hauriant, argent, in a field sprinkled with crosslets. 
 
 e a familiar beast to man, and signijies — love.'] It is an emblem of a true 
 
 friend, for it never leaves him in his distresses. 
 
 f The luce is the fresh fish ; the salt fish is an old coat.] Very many pages of 
 annotation have been written on these words. The meaning is simply this. — 
 *' The luce which Shallow bears in his arms is the pike, or fresh water luce ; 
 the salt fish — i. e. the salt-water luce, or cod, is also an old and respectable 
 coat." — The equivoque of Sir Hugh Evans, between luce and louse, is also 
 met with in the stanza of the old song against Sir Thomas Lucy, which is 
 given in the first volume, and, on the authority of Mr. Oldys, has generally 
 been attributed to Shakspeare. 
 
 5 The council shall hear it ; it is a riot.] By tlie council is only meant the 
 court of star-chamber, composed chiefly of the king's council sitting in camerA 
 stellatd, which took cognizance of atrocious riots. — Blackstone.
 
 ACT I.— SCENE I. 151 
 
 adventure, prings goot discretions with it : There is Anne 
 Page, which is daughter to master George Page, which is 
 pretty virginity. 
 
 Slen. Mistress Anne Page ? She has brown hair, and 
 speaks small like a woman. 
 
 Eva. It is that fery person for all the 'orld, as just as 
 you will desire ; and seven hundred pounds of monies, 
 and gold, and silver, is her grandsire, upon his death's- 
 bed, (Got dehver to a joyful resurrections !) give, when 
 she is able to overtake seventeen years old : it were a 
 good motion, if we leave our pribbles and prabbles, and 
 desire a marriage between master Abraham, and mistress 
 Anne Page. 
 
 Shal. Did her grandsire leave her seven hundred pound ? 
 
 Eva. Ay, and her father is make her petter penny. 
 
 Shal. I know the young gentlewoman ; she has good 
 gifts. 
 
 Eva. Seven hundred pounds, and possibilities, is good 
 gifts. 
 
 Shal. Well, let us see honest master Page : Is Falstaff 
 
 there ? 
 
 Eva. 'Shall I tell you a lie ? I do despise a liar, as I do 
 despise one that is false ; or, as I despise one that is not 
 true. The knight, sir John, is there ; and, I beseech you, 
 be ruled by your well-willers. I will peat the door \Jaiocks] 
 for master Page. What, hoa ! Got pless your house here ! 
 
 Enter Page. 
 
 Pane.. Who's there? 
 
 Eva. Here is Got's plessing, and your friend, and jus- 
 tice Shallow : and here young master Slender ; that per- 
 adventures, shall tell you another tale, if matters grow to 
 your likings. 
 
 Page. I am glad to see your worships well : I thank 
 you for my venison, master Shallow. 
 
 Shal. Master Page, I am glad to see you ; Much good 
 do it your good heart! I wished your venison better; it 
 was ill kill'd: — How doth good mistress Page? — and I 
 love you always with my heart, la ; with my heart.
 
 152 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 Page. Sir, I thank you. 
 
 Shal. Sir, I thank yovi ; by yea and no, I do. 
 
 Page. I am glad to see you, good master Slender. 
 
 Slen. How does your fallow greyhound, sir? I heard 
 say, he was out-run on Cotsale.^ 
 
 Page. It could not be judg'd, sir. 
 
 Slen. You'll not confess, you'll not confess. 
 
 Shal. That he will not ;— 'tis your fault, 'tis your fault :' 
 — 'Tis a good dog. 
 
 Page. A cur, sir. 
 
 Shal. Sir, he's a good dog, and a fair dog ; Can there 
 be more said ? he is good, and fair. Is sir John Falstaff 
 here ? 
 
 Page. Sir, he is within ; and I would I could do a good 
 office between you. 
 
 Eva. It is spoke as a Christians ought to speak. 
 
 Shal. He hath wrong'd me, master Page. 
 
 Page. Sir, he doth in some sort confess it. 
 
 Shal. If it be confess'd, it is not redress'd ; is not that 
 so, master Page ? He hath wrong'd me ; indeed, he hath ; 
 — at a word he hath ; — believe me ; Robert Shallow, es- 
 quire, saith, he is wrong'd. 
 
 Page. Here comes sir John. 
 
 ** Cotsak.'] He means Cotswold in Gloucestershire. In the beginning of 
 
 the reign of James the First, by royal permission, one Dover, a public-spirited 
 attorney of Barton on the Heath, in Warwickshire, instituted on the hills of 
 Cotswold an annual celebration of games, consisting of rural sports and exer- 
 cises. — The games were, chiefly, wrestling, leaping, pitching the bar, hand- 
 ling the pike, dancing of women, various kinds of hunting, and particularly 
 coursing the hare with gi-eyhounds. — At these sports Dover himself constantly 
 attended in person, well mounted, and dressed in a suit of his majesty's old 
 clothes. They were for above forty years frequented by all the nobility and 
 gentry for sixty miles round, till the grand rebellion abolished every liberal 
 establishment. — T. Wart ox. 
 
 Dr. Farmer supposes these games to have been very ancient, and only re- 
 vived by Dover in James's reign ; which is proved to have been the case, by 
 the title of Randolph's Eclogue — "On the noble assemblies revived on Cotswold 
 Hills by Mr. Robert Dover." — Tliese hills consist of large tracts of down, and 
 are famous for their fine turf. 
 
 ' 'tis your fault :] Fault was in Shakspeare's time commonly used for 
 
 miifortune. — " Poor Slender is one of Job's comforters ; he persists in remind- 
 ing Page, who evidently dislikes the subject, of his defeat: hence the good- 
 natured consolation of Shallow — He need not confess it, Cousin, — You were 
 wfortunate, &c."— Gifford's Massiiiger, vol. ii. 98.
 
 ACT I.— SCENE I. 153 
 
 Enter Sir John Falstaff, Bardolph, Nym, and 
 
 Pistol. 
 
 Fal. Now, master Shallow ; you'll complain of me to 
 the kins ? 
 
 Shal. Knight, you have beaten my men, killed my deer, 
 and broke open my lodge. 
 
 Fal, But not kiss'd your keeper's daughter ?"' 
 
 Shal. Tut, a pin ! this shall be answer'd. 
 
 Fal. I will answer it straight ; — I have done all this : — 
 That is now answer'd. 
 
 Shal. The council shall know this. 
 
 Fal. 'Twere better for you : — if t'were known in council, 
 you'll be laugh'd at. 
 
 Eva. Pauca verba, sir John, goot worts. 
 
 Fal. Good worts ! good cabbage.' — Slender, I broke 
 your head ; What matter have you against me ? 
 
 Slen. Marry, sir, I have matter in my head against you ; 
 and against your coney-catching rascals,™ Bardolph, Nym, 
 and Pistol. They carried me to the tavern, and made me 
 drunk, and afterward picked my pocket. 
 
 Bard. You Banbury cheese !° 
 
 Slen. Ay, it is no matter. 
 
 Fist. How now, Mephostophilus ?" 
 
 Slen. Ay, it is no matter. 
 
 Nym. Slice, I say ! pauca, pauca ;P slice ! that's my 
 humour. 
 
 k kiss'd your keeper's daughter?] Dr. Johnson supposes this and the 
 
 preceding sentence, to allude to some incident well known at the time. 1 
 suspect that the allusion is to some pnimlnr liallad, which the words of Shallow 
 unintentionally recall to the mind of (''alstatl', — and of which " and kissed the 
 keeper's daughter," was probably one of the lines. — I am convinced that I have 
 heard such a song. 
 
 ' (iood worts ! gnod cabbcige.'] Worts was the ancient name of all the cabbage 
 kind. 
 
 "' concti -catching rascals,] A cnneij-catcherwa.a, in the time of Elizabctli, 
 
 a common name for a cheat or a sharper. — Johnson. 
 
 n Yuu J5aid)ury cheese!] Vou ar'! like a Hanbury cheese, — nothing hut paring, 
 in allu.sion to the thin carcase of Slender. — Steevens. 
 
 " How now, Mephostophilus?] 'i'his is the name of the devil in .Marlowe's 
 play of Faust ns. 
 
 p pauca i'fr/i(i,] Are called in Every IVlaii in Ids Humour, tin: liencher's 
 
 Phrase. — Henchers were idle sots who spent their time, slecjiing and waking, 
 upon alehouse benches. — Mr. (iilVord, in his lien Jonh(Ui,vol. i. l(t.'!, supposes 
 (hat it might be " a kind of cab.'ilihtical \val( h-woid auu)ng ihemselTes, inti- 
 mating that the proper business of a drunkard w.is to drink and not talk." — 
 Whatever was the origin of the idirasc, it was one likely to have been fre<iuenl
 
 154 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 Slen. Where's Simple, my man ? — can you tell, cousin ? 
 
 Eva. Peace : I pray you ! Now let us understand : 
 There is three umpires in this matter, as I understand : 
 that is — master V2ige,JidcJicet, master Page ; and there is 
 myse\f,Jidelicet, myself; and the three party is, lastly and 
 finally, mine host of the Garter. 
 
 Page. We three, to hear it, and end it between them. 
 
 Eva. Fery goot : I will make a prief of it in my note- 
 book ; and we will afterwards 'ork upon the cause, with as 
 great discreetly as we can. 
 
 Fal. Pistol,— 
 
 Pist. He hears with ears. 
 
 Eva. The tevil with his tam ! what phrase is this. He 
 hears with ear? Why, it is affectations. 
 
 Fal. Pistol, did you pick master Slender's purse ? 
 
 Skn. Ay, by these gloves, did he, (or I would I might 
 never come in mine own great chamber again else,) of 
 seven groats in mill-sixpences,'' and two Edward shovel- 
 boards,' that cost me two shilling and two pence a-piece 
 of Yead Miller, by these gloves. 
 
 Fal. Is this true. Pistol ? 
 
 Eva. No ; it is false, if it is a pick-purse. 
 
 Pist. Ha, thou mountain-foreigner ! — Sir John and mas- 
 I combat challenge of this latten bilbo :' [ter mine. 
 
 Word of denial in thy labras* here ; 
 Word of denial : froth and scum, thou liest. 
 
 Slen. By these gloves, then 'twas he. 
 
 Ni/m. Be avised, sir, and pass good humours :" I will 
 
 in the mouth of Nym ; and proves Dr. Farmer to have been wrong in his de- 
 sign of transferring them to Sir Hugh Evans. 
 
 q vnll-sixpences,'] Milled money was invented by Antolne Burcher, in 
 
 France, and the first so struck in that country was about 1553. Elizabeth of 
 England coined milled money from about I5t)2, to 1572 ; when the use of the 
 mill was discontinued, on account of its expense, till 1623. — ^Archdeacon 
 Nares's Glossary. 
 
 r shovel-boards,'] Pieces of money, coined in the reign of King Edward, 
 
 and become so smooth as to be fit for playing the game of shovel-board.— The 
 game is described by Strutt, {Sports and Pastimes, p. 267.) 
 
 « I combat challenge of this latten bilbo:'] A latten bilbo means, I believe, no 
 more than a blade as thin as a lath — a vice's dagger. — Steevens,— Ln«e« was 
 an old word for brass, and Pistol sneeringly tells Slender, that he is a base and 
 useless weapon, as one of brass would be. 
 
 * labras — ] i. e. lips. 
 
 " pass gnod hum.oiirs :] To pass is to take care — humours is manners. — 
 
 " The word humour," says Mr. Whally, " was new, and the use, or rather abuse
 
 ACT I.— SCENE I. 155 
 
 say, marry y trap,"^ with you, if you run the nuthook's^ 
 humour on me : that is the very note of it. 
 
 Slen. By this hat, then he in the red face had it : for 
 though I cannot remember what I did when you made me 
 drunk, yet I am not altogether an ass. 
 
 Fal. What say you. Scarlet and John?^ 
 
 Bard. Why, sir, for my part, I say, the gentleman had 
 drunk himself out of his five sentences. 
 
 Eva. It is his five senses : fie, what the ignorance is ! 
 
 Bard. And being fap/ sir, was, as they say, cashier'd -^ 
 and so conclusions pass'd the careires.*^ 
 
 Slen. Ay, you spake in Latin then too ; but 'tis no 
 matter : I'll ne'er be drunk whilst I live again, but in ho- 
 nest, civil, godly company, for this trick : if I be drunk, 
 I'll be drunk with those that have the fear of God, and 
 not with drunken knaves. 
 
 Eva. So Got 'udge nie, that is a virtuous mind. 
 
 Fal. You hear all these matters denied, gentlemen ; you 
 hear it. 
 
 Enter Mistress Anne Page with Wine: Mistress Ford 
 and Mistress 1? AGE following. 
 
 Page. IS'ay, daughter, carry the wine in ; we'll drink 
 within. [£xiV Anne Page. 
 
 of it, was excessive. It was applied upon all occasions with as little judgment 
 as wit. Every coxcomb Lad it always in his mouth : and every particularity 
 he affected, was denominated by the name of his humour. To redress this 
 extravagance, Jonson, in the introductory scene to Every Man out of his Hu- 
 mour, has the following lines, in which he is exact in describing the true mean- 
 ing and proper application of the term : 
 
 " As when some one peculiar quality 
 
 Doth so possess a man, that it doth draw 
 All his affects, his spirits, and his powers. 
 In their confluxions, all to nm one way. 
 This may be truly said to bo a humour.'' 
 — The general abuse of this word is admirably exposed in Nym. — GiFronD's 
 Ben Jnttsoii, vol. ii. 16. 
 
 X jnarrij, trap,] A proverbial expression, as much as to say, ' By Mary, 
 
 you are caught." — Naues. 
 
 y Tii((/i<iofc — ] Metaphorically used for a bailiff: " I will say, marry, trap, 
 
 if you endeavour, like a bailiff, to bring me to justice." 
 
 t Scarlet and Johnl] The names of two of Hobin Hood's companions ; 
 
 but the humour consists in the allusion to Bardolph's red face. 
 » And being fap,] i. e. drimk. 
 
 •• cashiered ;] turned out. 
 
 c pati'd the cariercs.] To pat* tlu; cariere$ is to run the charge in a tour- 
 nament. — I believe this jargon was not intended to be understood ; but
 
 156 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 Skn. O heaven ! this is mistress Anne Page, 
 
 Page. How now, mistress Ford ? 
 
 Fal. Mistress Ford, by my troth, you are very well met ; 
 by your leave, good mistress. [kissing her. 
 
 Page. Wife, bid these gentlemen welcome : — Come, we 
 have a hot venison pasty to dinner ; come, gentlemen, I 
 hope we shall drink down all unkindness. 
 
 [^Exeunt all but Shal. Slender, and Evans. 
 
 Slen. I had rather than forty shillings, I had my book 
 of Songs and Sonnets here : — 
 
 Enter Simple. 
 
 How now. Simple ! Where have you been ? I must wait 
 on myself, must I ? You have not The Book of Riddles^ 
 about you, have you ? 
 
 Sim. Book of Riddles ! why, did not you lend it to Alice 
 Shortcake upon Allhallowmas last, a fortnight afore Mi- 
 chaelmas ? 
 
 Shal. Come, coz ; come, coz ; we stay for you. A 
 word with you, coz ; marry, this, coz ; There is, as 'twere, 
 a tender, a kind of tender, made afar off by sir Hugh here; 
 — Do you understand me ? 
 
 Slen. Ay, sir, you shall find me reasonable ; if it be so, 
 I shall do that that is reason. 
 
 Shal. Nay, but understand me. 
 
 Slen. So I do, sir. 
 
 Eva. Give ear to his motions, master Slender ; I will 
 description the matter to you, if you be capacity of it. 
 
 Slen. Nay, I will do as my cousin Shallow says : I 
 pray you, pardon me ; he's a justice of peace in his coun- 
 try, simple though I stand here. 
 
 Eva. But this is not the question ; the question is con- 
 cerning your marriage. 
 
 Shal. Ay, there's the point, sir. 
 
 Eva. Marry, is it; the very point of it; to mistress 
 Anne Page. 
 
 Steevenssays it means, "that he reeled about with a circuitous motion, like a 
 horse yassing a carter ;" — but if it means any thing, I suppose it is, that the end 
 was a quarrel. 
 
 ^ The Book of Riddles — ] This appears to have been a popular book . 
 
 and is enumerated with others in The English Courtier, and Country Gentleman.
 
 ACT I.— SCENE I. 157 
 
 Sle7i. Why, if it be so, I will marry her, upon any rea- 
 sonable demands; 
 
 Eva. But can you affection the 'oman ? Let us com- 
 mand to know that of your mouth, or of your lips ; for 
 divers philosophers hold, that the lips is parcel of the 
 mouth ; — Therefore, precisely, can you carry your good 
 will to the maid ? 
 
 Shal. Cousin Abraham Slender, can you love her ? 
 
 Slen. I hope, sir, — 1 will do, as it shall become one that 
 would do reason. 
 
 Eva. Nay, Got's lords and his ladies, you must speak 
 possitable, if you can carry her your desires towards her. 
 
 Shal. That you must: Will you, upon good dowry, 
 marry her ? 
 
 Slen. I will do a greater thing than that, upon your re- 
 quest, cousin, in any reason. 
 
 Shal. Nay, conceive me, conceive me, sweet coz ; what 
 I do, is to pleasure you, coz : Can you love the maid ? 
 
 Slen. I will marry her, sir, at your request ; but if there 
 be no great love in the beginning, yet heaven may decrease 
 it upon better acquaintance, when we are married, and 
 have more occasion to know one another : I hope, upon 
 familiarity will grow more contempt : but if you say, 
 marry her, I will marry her, that I am freely dissolved, 
 and dissolutely. 
 
 Eva. It is a fery discretion answer; save, the faul' is 
 in the 'ort dissolutely : the 'ort is, according to our mean- 
 ing, resolutely ; — his meaning is good. 
 
 Shal. Ay, I think my cousin meant well. 
 
 Slen. Ay, or else I would I might be hanged, la. 
 
 Re-enter Anne Page. 
 
 Shal. Here comes fair mistress Anne : — Would I were 
 young, for your sake, mistress Anne ! 
 
 Anne. The dinner is on the table ; my father desires 
 your worship's company. 
 
 Shal. I will wait on him, fair mistress Anne. 
 
 Eva. Od's plessed will! I will not be absence at the 
 grace. [Exeunt Shallow and Sir H. Evans. 
 
 Anne. Willi please your worship to come in, sir ?
 
 158 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 Slen. No, I thank you, forsooth, heartily ; I am very 
 well. 
 
 Anne. The dinner attends you, sir. 
 
 Slen. I am not a-hungry, I thank you, forsooth. Go, 
 sirrah, for all you are my man, go, wait upon my cousin 
 Shallow: [Exit Simple.] A justice of peace sometime 
 may be beholden to his friend for a man : — I keep but 
 three men and a boy yet, till my mother be dead : But 
 what though ? yet I live like a poor gentleman born. 
 
 Anne. I may not go in without your worship : they will 
 not sit, till you come. 
 
 Slen. Ffaith, I'll eat nothing ; I thank you as much as 
 though I did. 
 
 Anne. I pray you, sir, walk in. 
 
 Slen. I had rather walk here, I thank you; I bruised 
 my shin the other day with playing at sword and dagger 
 with a master of fence,^ three veneys*^ for a dish of stewed 
 prunes; and, by my troth, I cannot abide the smell of 
 hot meat since. Why do your dogs bark so ? be there 
 bears i'the town. 
 
 Anne. I think there are, sir ; I heard them talked of. 
 
 Slen. I love the sport well ; but I shall as soon quarrel 
 at it, as any man in England : — You are afraid, if you see 
 the bear loose, are you not ? 
 
 Anne. Ay, indeed, sir. 
 
 Slen. That's meat and drink to me now : I have seen 
 Sackersons loose, twenty times ; and have taken him by 
 the chain : but I warrant you, the women have so cried 
 and shriek'd at it, that it passed :'' — but women, indeed, 
 cannot abide 'em ; they are very ill-favoured rough things. 
 
 Re-enter Page. 
 
 Page. Come, gentle master Slender, come ; we stay for 
 you. 
 
 e a master of fence,] Master of defence, on this occasion, does not sim- 
 ply mean a professor of the art of fencing, but a person who had taken his 
 master's degree in it ; in this art there were three degrees, viz. a master's, a 
 provost's, and a scholar's. — Steevens. 
 
 f veneys,'] Venue's — French ; a hit. — Mai.one. 
 
 S Sackerson, — ] Sackersou, or Sacarson, was the name of a celebrated 
 
 bear at the bear-garden, called Paris-garden in Southwark. — Mr. Malone con- 
 jectures that the bear took his name from that of the keeper. 
 
 ^ pas$'d:'] i.e. was extraordinary.
 
 ACT I.— SCENE II. III. 159 
 
 Slen. ril eat nothing, I thank you, sir. 
 
 Page. By cock and pye,' you shall not choose, sir: 
 come, come. 
 
 Slen. Nay, pray you, lead the way. 
 
 Page. Come on, sir, 
 
 Slen. Mistress Anne, yourself shall go first. 
 
 Anne. Not I, sir; pray you, keep on. 
 
 Slen. Truly, I will not go first; truly, la : I will not do 
 you that wrong. 
 
 Anne. I pray you, sir. 
 
 Slen. I'll rather be unmannerly, than troublesome; you 
 do yourself wrong, indeed, la. lExeu?it. 
 
 SCENE II.— r^e same. 
 Enter Sir Hugh Evans and Simple. 
 
 Eva. Go your ways, and ask of doctor Caius' house, 
 which is the way : and there dwells one mistress Quickly, 
 which is in the manner of his nurse, or his dry-nurse, or 
 his cook, or his laundry, his washer, and his wringer. 
 
 Sim. Well, sir. 
 
 Eva. Nay, it is petter yet : give her this letter; for 
 
 it is a o'man that altogether's acquaintance with mistress 
 Anne Page: and the letter is, to desire and require her to 
 solicit your master's desires to mistress Anne Page : I 
 pray you, be gone; I will make an end of my dinner; 
 there's pippins and cheese to come. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 A Room in the Garter Inn. 
 
 Enter Falstaff, Host, BAunoLrn, Nym, Pistol, 
 
 and Robin. 
 
 Fal. Mine host of the Garter, — 
 
 Host. What says my bully-rook ?'' Speak scholarly, 
 and wisely. 
 
 I cork mid py,] (-'och, wa-s a vulj^ar comijition of tlip word Goil in fre- 
 quent use.- — Vye, was, in Popish times, the familiar name of the book in which 
 the manner of solemni/inj^ the offices of the churcli was ordained. — For this 
 interpretation I am indebted to Narls's GUtuary. 
 
 h bullu-rook — ] Mr. Steevens supposes that tliere is, "in the latter
 
 160 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 Fal. Truly, mine host, I must turn away some of my 
 followers. 
 
 Host. Discard, bully Hercules ; cashier : let them wag ; 
 trot, trot. 
 
 Fal. I sit at ten pounds a-week. 
 
 Host. Thou'rt an emperor, Caesar, Keisar,' and Pheezar. 
 I will entertain Bardolph ; he shall draw, he shall tap : 
 said I well, bully Hector ? 
 Fal. Do so, good mine host. 
 
 Host. I have spoke ; let him follov*^ : Let me see thee 
 
 froth, and lime :'" I am at a word ; follow. \_Exit Host. 
 
 Fal. Bardolph, follow him : a tapster is a, good trade : 
 
 an old cloak makes a new jerkin; a withered serving-man, 
 
 a fresh tapster : Go; adieu. 
 
 Bard. It is a life that I have desired ; I will thrive. 
 
 [^Exit Bard. 
 Pist. O base Gongarian wight !" wilt thou the spigot 
 wield ? 
 
 Nym. He was gotten in drink : Is not the humour con- 
 ceited? His mind is not heroic, and there's the humour of it. 
 Fal. I am glad, I am so acquit of this tinder-box ; his 
 thefts were too open ; his filching was like an unskilful 
 singer, he kept not time. 
 
 Nym. The good humour is, to steal at a minute's rest." 
 Pist. Convey, the wise it call : Steal ! foh ; a fico for 
 the phrase !p 
 
 Fal. Well, sirs, I am almost out at heels. 
 Pist. Why then, let kibes ensue. 
 
 Fal. There is no remedy ; I must coney-catch ; I must 
 shift. 
 
 part of this compound title, an allusion, to the rooks at the game of chess." 
 
 But it were a useless waste of time to seek the origin and explanation of all 
 the vulgar and obsolete cant expressions that fall from mine host of the Garter. 
 
 ' Kehar,'] Old spelling of Casar. 
 
 "> Let me see thee froth, and lime :] — Frothing beer and liming sack, were 
 tricks practised in the time of Shakspeare. The first was done by putting soap 
 into the bottom of the tankard when they drew the beer ; the other, by mixing 
 lime with the sack (i. e. sherry), to make it sparkle in the glass. — Steevens. 
 
 " Gongarian wight .']— This line of Pistol's is parodied from a line in 
 
 an old play—" O base Gongarian, wilt thou the distaff wield." Mr. Steevens 
 marked tlie passage down, but forgot to mark the play. 
 
 " ;- « minute's rest.'] The reading was probably a minim's rest. — Bar- 
 dolph did not keep time, says Falstaff; and Nym continues the metaphor;— a 
 minim's rest, of course, would mean expeditiously. 
 
 P a fico /or the phrase I] i. e. a. Jig for it.
 
 ACT I.— SCENE III. 161 
 
 Pist. YounsT ravens must have food. 
 
 FaL Which of you know Ford of this town ? 
 
 Pist. I ken the wight ; he is of substance good. 
 
 Fal. My honest lads, I will tell you what I am about. 
 
 Pist. Two yards, and more. 
 
 Fal. No quips now. Pistol ; Indeed I am in the waist 
 two yards about : but I am now about no waste ; I am 
 about thrift. Briefly, I do mean to make love to Ford's 
 wife ; I spy entertainment in her ; she discourses, she 
 carves,^ she gives the leer of invitation : I can construe 
 the action of her familiar style ; and the hardest voice of 
 her behaviour, to be English'd rightly, is, / am sir John 
 Falstaf's. 
 
 Pist. He hath studied her well, and translated her well; 
 out of honesty into English. 
 
 Nj/m. The anchor is deep :"■ Will that humour pass ? 
 
 Fal. Now, the report goes, she has all the rule of her 
 husband's purse ; slie hath legions of angels. 
 
 Pist. As many devils entertain; and. To her, hoy, say I. 
 
 Nym. The humour rises ; it is good : humour me the 
 angels. 
 
 Fal. I have writ me here a letter to her : and here an- 
 other to Page's wife ; who even now gave me good eyes 
 too, examin'd my parts with most judicious eyliads : some- 
 times the beam of her view gilded my foot, sometimes my 
 portly belly. 
 
 Pist. Then did the sun on dunghill shine. 
 
 Nyw. I thank thee for that humour. 
 
 Fal. O, she did so course o'er my exteriors with such a 
 greedy intention,' that the appetite of her eye did seem to 
 scorch me up like a burning glass ! Here's another letter 
 to her: she bears the purse too; she is a region in Guiana, 
 all gold and bounty. I will be cheater to them both, and 
 they shall be exchequers to me ;' they shall be my East 
 
 q i]ie carves,] It should be remembered, that anciently the younj; of both 
 
 sexes were instructed in carving, as a necessary accomplishment. — Sr^EVKNii. 
 
 ' The aiirhnr is deep .] This was probably some cant expression, of which it 
 is impossible to discern the sense : — Dr. .lohnson [iroposes to read, " Tlif au- 
 thor's deep," in reference to the iraHslntum mentioned by Pistol. 
 
 • inlentioii,] i. e. eagerness of desire. 
 
 ' / will be cheater In them hoth, iJtc.] By this is meant escheaton'i- , an officer 
 in the exchequer. — WAnuunTov. 
 
 VOL. 1. M
 
 162 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 and West Indies, and I will trade to them both. Go, bear 
 thou this letter to mistress Page ; and thou this to mis- 
 tress Ford : we will thrive, lads, we will thrive. 
 
 Pist. Shall I sir Pandarus of Troy become. 
 And by my side wear steel ? then, Lucifer take all ! 
 
 Nym. I will run no base humour : here take the hu- 
 mour letter ; I will keep the 'haviour of reputation. 
 
 Fal. Hold sirrah, \to Rob.] bear you these letters 
 tightly;" 
 Sail like my pinnace" to these golden shores. — 
 Rogues, hence, avaunt ! vanish like hailstones, go ; 
 Trudge, plod, away, o'the hoof; seek shelter, pack! 
 FalstafF will learn the Rumour of this age, 
 French thrift, you rogues ; myself, and skirted page. 
 
 [^Exeunt Falstaff and Robin. 
 
 Pist. Let vultures gripe thy guts ! for gourd, and ful- 
 1am holds. 
 And high and low beguile the rich and poor ;y 
 Tester I'll have in pouch, when thou shalt lack. 
 Base Phrygian Turk. 
 
 Nym. I have operations in my head, which be humours 
 of revenge. 
 
 Pist. Wilt thou revenge ? 
 
 Nym. By welkin, and her star ! 
 
 Pist. With wit, or steel ? 
 
 iVj/m. With both the humours, I : 
 I will discuss the humour of his love to Page. 
 
 Pist. And I to Ford shall eke unfold, 
 How FalstafF, varlet vile. 
 
 His dove will prove, his gold will hold. 
 And his soft couch defile. 
 
 " hear you these letters tightly ;] i. e. cleverly, adroitly. 
 
 * mil pinnace — ] A pinnace is a small vessel vi^ith a square stern, 
 
 having sails and oars, and carrying three masts ; chiefly used as a scout for 
 intelligence, and for landing of men. — Malone. 
 
 y for gourd, and fullam holds. 
 
 And high and low beguile the rich and poor ;'] Gourds were a species of 
 false dice ; probably bored internally, with a cavity left to give them a bias. 
 They were named in allusion to a gourd, which is scooped out. — Fullams were 
 another species of false dice, called /j(/iams from being full or loaded with some 
 heavy metal ; so as to produce a bias, and make them come high or loio, as they 
 were wanted. — The supposition that the fullams derived their name from be- 
 ing manufactured at FulHam, has not a shadow of probability. — Archdeacon 
 Narfs's Glossary, in loco.
 
 ACT I.— SCENE IV. ' 163 
 
 Nym. My humour shall not cool : I will incense Page 
 to deal with poison ; I will possess him with yellowness/ 
 for the revolt of mien* is dangerous ; that is my true hu- 
 mour. 
 
 Pist. Thou art the Mars of malcontents : I second thee ; 
 troop on. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 A Room in Dr. Caius's House. 
 Enter Mrs. Quickly, Simple, and Rugby. 
 
 Quick. What : John Rugby I — I pray thee, go to the 
 casement, and see if you can see my master, master Doc- 
 tor Caius : if he do, i'faith, and find any body in the 
 house, here will be an old abusing of God's patience, and 
 the king's English. 
 
 Kug. I'll go watch. [Exit Rugby. 
 
 Quick. Go ; and we'll have a possit for't soon at night, 
 in faith, at the latter end of a sea-coal fire. An honest, 
 willing, kind fellow, as ever servant shalUcome in house 
 withal ; and, I warrant you, no tell-tale, nor no breed- 
 bate :^ his worst fault is, that he is given to prayer ; he is 
 something peevish'^ that way ; but nobody but has his 
 fault; — but let that pass. Peter Simple, you say your 
 name is ? 
 
 Sim. Ay, for fault of a better. 
 
 Quick. And master Slender's your master ? 
 
 Sim. Ay, forsooth. 
 
 Quick. Does he not wear a great round beard, like a 
 glover's paring knife T'^ 
 
 Sim. No, forsooth : he hath but a little wee face, willi 
 a little yellow beard ; a Cain-coloured beard.* 
 
 Quick. A softly-sprightcd man, is he not ? 
 
 ' yellowness,'] i. o. JeiiLiuxy. 
 
 » the remit (f micu — ] i. i'. rliu)if^r <J' coutiteiiance. 
 
 •» no lireed -haic:] Hate is ;in obsolete word, signifying strife. 
 
 <^ peeriih — ] Foolish. 
 
 ■^ a glover's fmrhif^ knife?] The several figures into whicii they pnined 
 
 their beards, are mentioned by Taylor the \Vater])oet, in liis Whip of Pride: 
 in which he speaks of the beard like a <|iii(k-set liedge, and the hanimcr cut 
 or the Roman T. — Gifkoro's lien Jonsou, vol. ii. 201. 
 
 " a Cain-fi'/.)urr(i hairiL] Cain and .Iiidas, in the ta])eRtries and jiic- 
 
 turcs of old, were representeil with yrllou I c inls. -I'iiiiuiai n. 
 
 M 2
 
 164 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 . Sim. Ay, forsooth : but he is as tall a man of his hands/ 
 as any is between this and his head ; he hath fought with 
 a warrener. 
 
 Quick. How say you ? — O, I should remember him ; 
 Does he not hold up his head, as it were ? and strut in 
 his gait? 
 
 Sim. Yes, indeed, does he. 
 
 Quick. Well, heaven send Anne Page no worse fortune ! 
 Tell master parson Evans, I will do what I can for your 
 master : Anne is a good girl, and I wish — 
 
 Re-e?iter Rugby. 
 
 Rug. Out, alas ! here comes my master. 
 
 Quick. We shall all be shent :« Run in here, good young 
 man; go into this closet. [Shuts Simple m ^Ae c/ose^] 
 He will not stay long. — What, John Rugby ! John, what 
 John, I say ! — Go, John, go inquire for my master ; I 
 doubt, he be not well, that he comes not home : — and down, 
 down, adown-a, &c. [Sings. 
 
 * Enter Doctor Caius.*" 
 
 Caius. Vat is you sing ? I do not like dese toys ; Pray 
 you, go and vetch me in my closet un boitier verd ; a box, 
 a green-a box ; Do intend vat I speak ? a green-a box. 
 
 Quick. Ay, forsooth, I'll fetch it you. I am glad he 
 went not in himself: if he had found the young man, he 
 would have been horn-mad. [Aside. 
 
 Caius. Fe,fe,fe,fe! ma foi,il fait fort chaud. Jem' en 
 vais a la cour, — la grande affaire. 
 
 Quick. Is it this, sir ? 
 
 Caius. Ou]/ ; mette le au mon pocket ; Depeche, quickly : 
 — Vere is dat knave Rugby ? 
 
 Quick. What, John Rugby ! John ! 
 
 Rug. Here, sir. 
 
 * a tall man of his hands,'\ This phrase means quick-handed. See Florio's 
 Italian Dictionary, 1598. " Manesco — quick-handed ; a tall man of his hands." 
 Malone. 
 
 e shent,"] roughly treated. 
 
 »> Doctor Caius.] This character was probably a portrait. In Jacke of 
 
 Dover's Quest of Enquirie, 1604, a story called the Tool of Winsor, begins 
 thus : " Upon a time there was at Winsor a certain simple, outlandishe doctor of 
 physieke belonging to the Deane, &c.'' — Steevens.
 
 ACT I.— SCENE IV. 165 
 
 Caius. You are John Rugby, and you are Jack Rugby : 
 Come, take-a your rapier, and come after my heel to de 
 court. 
 
 Rug. 'Tis ready, sir, here in the porch. 
 
 Cains. By my trot, I tarry too long ; — Od's me ! Quay 
 foublit ? dere is some simples in my closet, dat I vill not 
 for -the varld I shall leave behind. 
 
 Quick. Ah ine ! he'll find the young man there, and be 
 mad ! 
 
 Caius. O diahle, diable! vat is in my closet ? — Villany ! 
 larron! [pulling Simple out.^ Rugby, my rapier. 
 
 Quick. Good master, be content. 
 
 Caius. Verefore shall I be content-a? 
 
 Quick. The young man is an honest man. 
 
 Caius. Vat shall de honest man do in my closet ? — dere 
 is no honest man dat shall come in my closet. 
 
 Quick. I beseech you, be not so flegmatick ; hear the 
 truth of it : He came of an errand to me from parson 
 Hugh. 
 
 Caius. Veil. 
 
 Sim. Ay, forsooth, to desire her to — 
 
 Quick. Peace, 1 pray you. 
 
 Caius. Peace-a your tongue : — Speak-a your tale. 
 
 Sim. To desire this honest gentlewoman, your maid, 
 to speak a good word to Mrs. Anne Page for my master, 
 in the way of marriage. 
 
 Quick. This is all, indeed, la ; but Fll ne'er put my fin- 
 ger in the fire, and need not. 
 
 Caius. Sir Hugh send-a you ? — Rugby, haillez me some 
 paper : Tarry you a little-a while. [Writes. 
 
 Quick. I am glad he is s'b quiet : if he had been tho- 
 roughly moved, you shoidd have heard him so loud, and 
 so melancholy ; — But notwithstanding, man, I'll do your 
 master what good I can ; and the very yea and the no is, 
 the French doctor, my master. — I may call him my mas- 
 ter, look you, for I keej) his house; and I wash, wring, 
 brew, bake, scour, dress meat and diiiik. nmke the beds, 
 and do all myself: — 
 
 Sim. 'Tis ;i great charge, to come under one body's 
 lumd.
 
 166 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 Quick. Are you avis'd o'that ? you shall find it a great 
 charge : and to be up early and down late ; — ^but notwith- 
 standing, (to tell you in your ear; I would have no words 
 of it ;) my master himself is in love with mistress Anne 
 Page: but notwithstanding that, — I know Anne's mind, 
 — that's neither here nor there. 
 
 Caius. You jack'nape; give-a dis letter to Sir Hugh ; 
 by gar, it is a shallenge : I vill cut his troat in de park ; 
 and I vill teach a scurvy jack-a-nape priest to meddle or 
 make : — you may be gone; it is not good you tarry here : 
 — by gar, I will cut all his two stones ; by gar, he shall 
 not have a stone to trow at his dog. [^Exit Simple. 
 
 Quick. Alas, he speaks but for his friend. 
 
 Caius. It is no matter-a for dat : — do not you tell-a me 
 dat I shall have Anne Page for myself? — by gar, I vill 
 kill de Jack Priest ;^ and I have appointed mine host of 
 de Jarterre to measure our weapon : — by gar, I vill myself 
 have Anne Page. 
 
 Quick. Sir, the maid loves you, and all shall be well : 
 we must give folks leave to prate : What, the good-jer !' 
 
 Cuius. Rugby, come to de court vit me : — By gar, if I 
 have not Anne Page, I shall turn your head out of my 
 door: — Follow my heels, Rugby. 
 
 [Exeunt Caius and Rugby. 
 
 Quick. You shall have An fools-head of your own. No, 
 I know Anne's mind for that: never a woman in Windsor 
 knows more of Anne's mind than I do ; nor can do more 
 than I do with her, I thank heaven. 
 
 Fent. [ivithin.'] Who's within there, ho? 
 
 Quick. Who's there, I trow ? Come near the house, I 
 pray you. 
 
 Enter Fen ton. 
 
 Fent. How now, good woman ; how dost thou ? 
 Quick. The better, that it pleases your good worship 
 to ask. 
 
 Fent. What news ? how does pretty mistress Anne ? 
 
 h Jack Pried;'] Jack, in our Author's days, was a common appellation 
 
 for every i)erson or thing familiarly or contemptuously spoken of 
 
 • W^/iat, t/fc good-jer! J Good-jer and good-vear, were in our author's time 
 common corruptions oi gotijere ; i. e. morbus gallicus. — Mat.one.
 
 ACT II.— SCENE I. 167 
 
 Quick. In truth, bir, and she is pretty, and honest, aiid 
 gentle ; and one that is your friend, I can tell you that by 
 the way : I praise heaven for it. 
 
 Fent. Shall I do any good, thinkest thou? Shall I not 
 lose my suit? 
 
 Quick. Troth, sir, all is in his hands above : but not- 
 withstanding, master Fenton, I'll be sworn on a book, 
 she loves you : — Have not your worship a wart above 
 your eye ? 
 
 Fent. Yes, marry, have I ; what of that ? 
 
 Quick. Well, thereby hangs a tale ; — good faith, it is 
 such another Nan ; — but, I detest, an honest maid as ever 
 broke bread : — We had an hour's talk of that wart ; — I 
 shall never laugh but in that maid's company ! — But, in- 
 deed, she is given too much to allicholly, and musing : 
 But for you — Well, go to. 
 
 Fent. Well, I shall see her to-day ; Hold, there's money 
 for thee ; let me have thy voice in my behalf: if thou seest 
 her before me, commend me — 
 
 Quick. Will I ? i 'faith, that we will : and I will tell your 
 worship more of the wart, the next time we have confi- 
 dence ; and of other wooers. 
 
 Fent. Well, farewell; I am in great haste now. [Exit. 
 
 Quick. Farewell to your worship. — Truly, an honest 
 gentleman ; but Anne loves him not ; for I know Anne's 
 mind as well as another does: — Out upon't ! what have 
 I forgot? [Exit. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — Before Page's House. 
 Enter Mistress Page, with a letter. 
 
 Mrs. Pu<rc. What ! have I 'scajj'd love-letters in the 
 holy-flay time of my beauty, and ;un I now a subject for 
 them ? Let me see : [ Rends. 
 
 Ask me IK) reason v:/ii/ I /ore you : J<u- t/iou^/i love use 
 reason for his precisian,'' he admits him not for his counsc/hr: 
 
 J prri-iiiiiii,] i.e. Uiic iilinliiuili or nj/niiuj. — Sucli is tlieiir.st .sciihc ;;ivoii 
 
 to tins word iit Johuboa's ])i(tion;iry, on ilic autliority ot' (Iuh pab«;igf ; of which
 
 168 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 You are not young, no more am I ; go to then, there's sympa- 
 thy: you are merry, so am I; Ha! ha! then there's more 
 sympathy: you love sack, and so do I ; Would you desire 
 better sympathy? Let it suffice thee, mistress Page, (at the 
 least, if the love of a soldier can suffice,) that I love thee. I 
 will not say, pity me, 'tis not a soldier-like phrase ; hut I say, 
 love me. By me. 
 
 Thine own true knight. 
 
 By day or night. 
 
 Or any kind of light. 
 
 With all his might. 
 
 For thee to fight, John Falstaff. 
 
 What a Herod of Jewry is this? — O wicked, wicked world ! 
 — one that is well nigh worn to pieces with age, to show 
 himself a young gallant ! What an unweighed behaviour 
 hath this Flemish drunkard'' picked (with the devil's name) 
 out of my conversation, that he dares in this manner assay 
 me ? Why, he hath not been thrice in my company ! — 
 What should I say to him? — I was then frugal of my 
 mirth : heaven forgive me ! — Why, I'll exhibit a bill in 
 the parliament for the putting down of fat men. How 
 shall I be revenged on him ? for revenged I will be, as 
 sure as his guts are made of puddings. 
 
 Enter Mistress Fokd. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Mistress Page! trust me, I was going to 
 your house. 
 
 Mrs. Page. And, trust me, I was coming to you. You 
 look very ill. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Nay, I'll ne'er believe that; 1 have to show 
 to the contrary. 
 
 Mrs. Page. 'Faith, but you do, in my mind. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Well, I do then ; yet, I say, I could show 
 you to the contrary : O, mistress Page, give me some 
 counsel ! 
 
 he himself proposed "an alteration, and wished to read physician instead of 
 precisian. 
 
 ^ Flemish drunknid—] This term of reproach was not used without 
 
 reason. — Sir John Smyth in Certain Discourses, &c. 4to. 1590, complains that the 
 English nation, once one of the most sober, had become corrupted by habits of 
 drinking healths and toasts, introduced from the Low Countries. — REtD.
 
 ACT II.— SCENE I. 169 
 
 Mrs. Page. What's the matter, woman? 
 
 Mrs. Ford. O woman, if it were not for one trifling re- 
 spect, I could come to such honour ! 
 
 Mrs. Page. Hang the trifle, woman ; take the honour : 
 What is it ? dispense with trifles ; — what is it ? 
 
 Mrs. Ford. If I would but go to hell for an eternal 
 moment, or so, I could be knighted. 
 
 Mrs. Page. What ?— thou liest !— Sir Alice Ford ! 
 
 These knights will hack ;' and so thou shouldst not alter 
 the article of thy gentry. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. We burn day -light :™ — here, read, read ; — 
 perceive how I might be knighted. — I shall think the 
 worse of fat men, as long as I have an eye to make differ- 
 ence of men's liking :" And yet he would not swear ; praised 
 women's modesty : And gave such orderly and well-be- 
 haved reproof to all uncomeliness, that I would have sworn 
 his disposition would have gone to the truth of his words ; 
 but they do no more adhere and keep place together than 
 the hundretli psalm to the tune of Green sleeves." What 
 tempest, I trow, threw this whale with so many tuns of 
 oil in his belly, ashore at Windsor ? How shall I be re- 
 venged on him? I think the best way were to entertain 
 him with hope, till the wicked fire of lust have melted 
 him in his own grease. — Did you ever hear the like? 
 
 Mrs. Page. Letter for letter; but that the name of Page 
 and Ford differs ! — To thy great comfort in this mystery 
 of ill opinions, here's the twin-brother of thy letter: but 
 let thine inherit first ; for, I protest, mine never shall. I 
 warrant, he hath a thousand of these letters, writ with 
 
 ' These kni^^htt uitl hack ; and so thou bhouUIst not alter the article of tliif 
 
 gentru.] These knif^hts will hack (that is, become cheap or vulgar), and there- 
 fore .sheadviseHher friend not <o stiUu her <;entrti hy becoming one. — T?LACKSTONt. 
 — Beiwf-en the time of King James's arrival at Berw-ick, in April, KiO.i, and 
 the '2(1 of May, he made two hundred and thirty-seven knights ; and in the 
 July following', between three and four hundred. It is probable that the play 
 before us was enlarged in that or the subsecjuent year, when tliis stroke of 
 satire must have been highly relished by the audience. — Ma lone. 
 
 '" We hiirn day-tight .] A proverbial phrase applicable to all superfluous 
 uctions. 
 
 " liking :] i. e. condition of bndv. 
 
 " Green ilceves.] An old, very popul.ir. anil most |>robably not a very 
 
 decent, song. The character of ihi- Lady (hicmleeves, was rather suspicious, 
 as green waa a colour long assumed by loose women. — The tune in Prior's time 
 was still used as a country dance.
 
 170 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 blank space for different names, (sure more,) and these 
 are of the second edition : He will print them out of doubt ; 
 for he cares not what he puts into the press, when he 
 would put us two. I had rather be a giantess, and lie 
 under mount Pelion. Well, I will find you twenty las- 
 civious turtles, ere one chaste man. 
 
 WIrs. Ford. Why this is the very same ; the very hand, 
 the very words : What doth he think of us ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. Nay, I know not : It makes me almost 
 ready to wrangle with mine own honesty. I'll entertain 
 myself like one that I am not acquainted withal ; for, 
 sure, unless he knew some strain in me, that I know not 
 myself, he would never have boarded me in this fury. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Boarding, call you it ? I'll be sure to keep 
 him above deck. 
 
 Mrs. Page. So will I ; if he come under my hatches, 
 I'll never to sea again. Let's be reveng'd on him : let's 
 appoint him a meeting ; give him a shew of comfort in his 
 suit ; and lead him on with a fine-baited delay, till he hath 
 pawn'd his horses to mine host of the Garter. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Nay, I will consent to act any villany 
 against him, that may not sully the chariness" of our ho- 
 nesty. O, that my husband saw this letter ! it would give 
 eternal food to his jealousy. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Why, look, where he comes ; and my good 
 man too ; he's as far from jealousy, as I am from giving 
 him cause ; and that, I hope, is an unmeasurable distance. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. You are the happier woman. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Let's consult together against this greasy 
 knight: Come hither. [Thet/ retire. 
 
 Enter Ford, Pistol, Page, and Nym. 
 
 Ford. Well, I hope, it be not so. 
 
 Pist. Hope is a curtail dogP in some affairs : 
 Sir John affects thy wife. 
 
 Ford. Why, sir, my wife is not young. 
 
 Pist. He wooes both high and low, both rich and poor. 
 Both young and old, one with another. Ford ; 
 
 " chariness — ] Scrupulousness. 
 
 P a curtail dog — ] A dog that misses his game.
 
 ACT II.— SCENE I. 171 
 
 He loves the gally-mawfry ji Ford, perpend. 
 
 Ford. Love my wife ? 
 
 Pist. With liver burning hot : Prevent, or go thou. 
 Like sir Actaeon he, with Ring-wood at thy heels : — 
 O, odious is the name ! 
 
 Ford. What name, sir ? 
 
 Pist. The horn, I say : Farewell. 
 Take heed ; have open eye ; for thieves do foot by night : 
 Take heed, ere summer comes, or cuckoo birds do sing. — 
 
 Away, sir corporal Nym. 
 
 Believe it. Page ; he speaks sense. [^Exit Pistol. 
 
 Ford. I will be patient ; I will find out this. 
 
 A'yw. And this is true ; [to Page.] I like not the hu- 
 mour of lying. He hath wronged me in some humours : 
 I should have borne the humoured letter to her ; but I 
 have a sword, and it shall bite, upon my necessity. He 
 loves your wife ; there's the short and the long. My 
 name is corporal Nym ; I speak, and I avouch. Tis true : 
 — my name is Nym, and FalstafF loves your wife. — Adieu ! 
 I love not the humour of bread and cheese ; and there's 
 the humour of it. Adieu. [Exit Nym. 
 
 Page. The humour of it, quoth 'a! here's a fellow frights 
 humour out of his wits. 
 
 Ford. [Aside.^ I will seek out Falstaff. 
 
 Page. I never heard such a drawling, affecting rogue. 
 
 Ford. [Abide.'] If I do find it, well. 
 
 Page. I will not believe such a Cataian,"" though the 
 priest o'the town commended him for a true man. 
 
 Ford. [Aside.] 'Twas a good sensible fellow: Well. 
 
 Page. How now, Meg ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. Wiiither go you, George? — Hark you. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. How now, sweet Frank ? why art thou me- 
 lancholy ? 
 
 Ford. I melancholy ! I am not melancholy. — Get you 
 home, go. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. 'Faith, thou hast some crotchets in thy 
 head now. — Will you go, mistress Page? 
 
 1 (^aU\i-maiiJ'rii ;] i. p. a medley. 
 
 f C'<i(rti<in,J A Cliiiicsc. — It became :i ciint name for 8hari)er; from the 
 
 description given iu old books of traveln of the dexterous thievinjj of (hat 
 people.
 
 172 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Have with you. — You'll come to dinner, 
 George? — Look, who comes yonder : she shall be our mes- 
 senger to this paltry knight. [Jside to Mrs. Ford. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Quickly. " 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Trust me, I thought on her : she'll fit it. 
 Mrs. Page. You are come to see my daughter Anne? 
 Quick. Ay, forsooth ; And, I pray, how does good mis- 
 tress Anne? 
 
 Mrs. Page. Go in with us, and see ; we have an hour's 
 talk with you. 
 
 [Exeunt Mrs. Page, Mrs. Ford, a}id Mrs. Quickly. 
 
 Page. How now, master Ford? 
 
 Ford. You heard what this knave told me ; did you not ? 
 
 Page. Yes ; And you heard what the other told me? 
 
 Ford. Do you think there is truth in them ? 
 
 Page. Hang 'em, slaves; 1 do not think the knight 
 would offer it : but these that accuse him in his intent 
 towards our wives, are a yoke of his discarded men : very 
 rogues, now they be out of service. 
 
 Ford. Were they his men ? 
 
 Page. Marry, were they. 
 
 Ford. I like it never the better for that. — Does he lie at 
 the Garter ? 
 
 Page. Ay, marry, does he. If he should intend this 
 voyage towards my wife, I would turn her loose to him ; 
 and what he gets of her more than sharp words, let it lie 
 on my head. 
 
 Ford. I do not misdoubt my wife ; but I would be loth 
 to turn them together : a man may be too confident : I 
 would have nothing lie on my head : I cannot be thus 
 satisfied. 
 
 Page. Look, where my ranting host of the Garter comes : 
 there is either liquor in his pate, or money in his purse, 
 when he looks so merrily. — How now, mine host ? 
 
 Enter Host, Shallow, ai}d Slender.' 
 
 Host. How now, bully-rook ! thou'rt a gentleman : ca- 
 valero-j ustice, I say. 
 
 ' I have added the name of Slender : Shallow presently says, there was
 
 ACT II.— SCENE I. 173 
 
 Shal, I follow, mine host, I follow. — Good even, and 
 twenty, good master Page ! Master Page, will you go with 
 us? we have sport in hand. 
 
 Host. Tell him, cavalero-justice ; tell him, bully-rook. 
 
 Shal. Sir, there is a fray to be fought, between sir Hugh 
 the Welch priest, and Caius the French doctor. 
 
 Ford. Good mine host o'the Garter, a word with you. 
 
 Host. What say'st thou, bully-rook ? [The 1/ go aside. 
 
 Shal. Will you [to Page] go with us to behold it? My 
 merry host hath had the measuring of their weapons 5 and 
 I think, he hath appointed them contrary places : for, be- 
 lieve me, I hear, the parson is no jester. Hark, I will tell 
 you what our sport shall be. 
 
 Host. Hast thou no suit against my knight, my guest- 
 cavalier ? 
 
 Ford. None, I protest : but I'll give you a pottle of 
 burnt sack to give me recourse to him, and tell him, my 
 name is Brook ; only for a jest. 
 
 Host. My hand, bully : thou shalt have egress and re- 
 gress ; said I well ? and thy name shall be Brook : It is a 
 merry knight. — Will you go cavalieres ?' 
 
 Shal. Have with you, mine host. 
 
 Page. I have heard, the Frenchman hath good skill in 
 his rapier. 
 
 Shal. Tut, sir, I could have told you more : In these 
 times you stand on distance, your passes, stoccadoes, and 
 I know not what ; 'tis the heart, master Page ; 'tis here, 
 'tis here. I have seen the time, with my long sword," I 
 would have made you four tall fellows" skip like rats. 
 
 Host. Here, boys, here, here ! shall we wag? 
 
 a time when " I could linve made you four tall follows skii) like rats." — 
 Now if Slender does not come in with Shallow and tlie Host, there are but 
 three persons for Shallow to address. 
 
 ' cavalieres?] — The folio reads An-hieres, which is nonsense. INIany 
 
 emendations have been proposed ; I have adopted that of Mr. Boaden, which 
 was approved by Malone as the best. 
 
 " w.V lt»ig sword,] Before the introduction of rapiers, the swords in 
 
 use were of an enormous lenj^th, and sometimes raised with both h.ands. — 
 Shallow, with an old man's vanity, censures the innovation by which lighter 
 weapons were ititruduced, tells what he could once have done with his /oh^' 
 sword, and ridicules the tenns an<l rules of the rajjier. — Johnson. 
 
 " tall /c//ou's—] A tall fellow, in the time of our author, meant a stout. 
 
 hold, or couriii^eous jiersou. — Steevfns.
 
 174 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 Page. Have with you : — I had rather hear them scold 
 than fight. [Exemit Host, Shallow, and Page. 
 
 Ford. Though Page be a secure fool, and stands so 
 firmly on his wife's frailty ,y yet I cannot put off my opi- 
 nion so easily : She was in his company at Page's house ; 
 and, what they made^ there, I know not. Well, I will 
 look further into't : and I have a disguise to sound Fal- 
 staff : If I find her honest, I lose not my labour; if she 
 be otherwise, 'tis labour well bestowed. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A Room in the Garter Inn. 
 Enter Falstaff and Pistol. 
 
 Fal. I will not lend thee a penny. 
 
 Pist. Why, then the world's mine oyster. 
 Which I with sword will open. — 
 I will retort the sum in equipage.* 
 
 Fal. Not a penny. I have been content, sir, you should 
 lay my countenance to pawn : I have grated upon my 
 good friends for three reprieves for you and your coach- 
 fellow, Nym -.^ or else you had looked through the grate, 
 like a geminy of baboons. I am damned in hell, for swear- 
 ing to gentlemen my friends, you were good soldiers, and 
 tall fellows : and when mistress Bridget lost the handle of 
 her fan,*^ I took't upon mine honour, thou hadst it not. 
 
 Pist. Didst thou not share ? hadst thou not fifteen 
 pence ? 
 
 Fal. Reason, you rogue, reason : Think'st thou I'll en- 
 danger my soul gratis? At a word, hang no more about 
 
 y his wife's frailty,'] Frailty means the natural weakness of woman — 
 
 " Frailty, thy name is woman," says Hamlet ; and Ford is of the same opinion. 
 
 ^ made — ] Obsolete for did. 
 
 » I will retort the sum in equipage.] Means, I will pay you again in stolen 
 goods. — Warburton. 
 
 b . your coach-fellow, Nym ;] i. e. he, who draws along with you ; who 
 
 is joined with you in all your knavery. — Malone. 
 
 « lost the handle of hcrfan,j It should be remembered, that fans, in our 
 
 author's time, were more costly than they are at present, as well as of a dif- 
 ferent construction. They consisted of ostrich feathers (or others of equal 
 length and flexibility), which were stuck into handles. The richer sort of these 
 were composed of gold, silver, or ivory, of curious workmanship. — Warton.
 
 ACT II.— SCENE II. 175 
 
 me, I am no gibbet for you : — go. — A short knife and a 
 throng :^ — to your manor of Pickt-hatch,^ go. — You'll not 
 bear a letter for me, you rogue ! — You stand upon your 
 honour ! — Why, thou unconfinable baseness, it is as much 
 as I can do, to keep the terms of my honour precise. I, 
 I, I myself sometimes, leaving the fear of heaven on the 
 left hand, and hiding mine honour in my necessity, am 
 fain to shuflfle, to hedge, and to lurch ; and yet you, rogue, 
 will ensconce your rags,*^ your cat-a-mountain looks, your 
 red-lattice phrases,^ and your bold-beating oaths, under 
 the shelter of your honour ! You will not do it, you ? 
 Pist. I do relent; What wouldst thou more of man? 
 
 Enter Robin. 
 
 Rob. Sir, here's a woman would speak with you. 
 Fal. Let her approach. 
 
 Enter Mistress Quickly. 
 
 Quick. Give your worship good-morrow. 
 
 Fal. Good-morrow, good wife. 
 
 Quick. Not so, an't please your worship. 
 
 Fal. Good maid, then. 
 
 Quick. I'll be sworn ; as my mother was, the first hour 
 I was born. 
 
 Fal. I do believe the swearer : What with me ? 
 
 Quick. Shall I vouchsafe your worship a word or two ? 
 
 Ftil. Two thousand, fair woman : and I'll vouchsafe 
 thee the hearino;. 
 
 Quick. There is one mistress Ford, sir ; — I pray, come 
 a little nearer this ways : — I myself dwell with master 
 doctor Caius. 
 
 «• A shirrt knife and a j/irong.] i. e. Go and practise your trade of cut-pnrse, 
 wherever you find a mnb. 
 
 <■ Pickt-hatch,] Was a celobratcd tavern in Turnl)uII Street, Cow Cross, 
 
 Clerkenwell : a haunt of the- worst part of botli sexes. — A liatili with jiikes upon 
 it, was a common mark of a bad house. — Aucii dkac on Naiiks's lUossary. 
 
 f ensconce—-] A sconce is a petty fortification. To entcnuce, tlierefore, 
 
 is to protect as with a fort. — Stkf.vlns. 
 
 t red-lattice phrases,] Your alehouse conversation. — Johnson. Red Inilice 
 at the doors and windows, were formerly the external denotements of an ale- 
 house. — Hence the j)resent chequers. — I'erhaps the reader will be surpriseil 
 to hear that shops, with the sign of the chequers, were common among the 
 Romans. See a view of the left-hand street of Pompeii (No. 9.), Jjresented 
 by Sir W. Hamilton to the Society of Antiquaries. — Steevens.
 
 176 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 Fal. Well, on : Mistress Ford, you say, — 
 
 Quick. Your worship says very true : I pray your wor- 
 ship, come a httle nearer this ways. 
 
 Fal. I warrant thee, nobody hears ; — mine own people, 
 mine own people. 
 
 Quick. Are they so ? Heaven bless them, and make them 
 his servants ! 
 
 Fal. Well : Mistress Ford ; — what of her ? 
 
 Quick. Why, sir, she's a good creature. Lord, lord ! 
 your worship's a wanton : Well, heaven forgive you, and 
 all of us, I pray ! 
 
 Fal. Mistress Ford ; — come, mistress Ford, — 
 
 Quick. Marry, this is the short and the long of it ; you 
 have brought her into such a canaries,'' as 'tis wonderful. 
 The best courtier of them all, when the court lay at Wind- 
 sor, could never have brought her to such a canary. Yet 
 there has been knights, and lords, and gentlemen, with 
 their coaches ; I warrant you, coach after coach, letter 
 after letter, gift after gift; smelling so sweetly, (all musk,) 
 and so rushling, I warrant you, in silk and gold ; and in 
 such aUigant terms ; and in such wine and sugar of the 
 best, and the fairest, that would have won any woman's 
 heart ; and, I warrant you, they could never get an eye- 
 wink of her. — I had myself twenty angels given me this 
 morning ; but I defy all angels, (in any such sort, as they 
 say,) but in the way of honesty : — and, I warrant you, 
 they could never get her so much as sip on a cup with 
 the proudest of them all : and yet there has been earls, 
 nay, which is more, pensioners ;' but, I warrant you, all 
 is one with her. 
 
 Fal. But what says she to me ? be brief, my good she- 
 Mercury. 
 
 Quick. Marry, she hath received your letter ; for the 
 which she thanks you a thousand times : and she gives 
 you to notify, that her husband will be absence from his 
 house between ten and eleven. 
 
 Fal. Ten and eleven ? 
 
 •' canaries,] Corrupted {oi quandaries. 
 
 ■ earls, nay, which is more, pensioners ;] Pensioners were gentlemen of 
 
 the band of pensioners, whose dress was remarkably splendid, and therefore 
 likely to attract the notice of Mrs. Quickly. — Malone.
 
 ACT II.— SCENE II. 177 
 
 Quick. Ay, forsooth ; and then you may come and see 
 the picture, she says, that you wot of ;^ — master Ford, her 
 husband, will be from home. Alas ! the sweet woman 
 leads an ill life with him; he's a very jealousy man: she 
 leads a very frampold"" life with him, good heart. 
 
 Fal. Ten and eleven : Woman, commend me to her ; I 
 will not fail her. 
 
 Quick. Why, you say well : But I have another mes- 
 senger to your worship : Mistress Page hath her hearty 
 commendations to you too ; — and let me tell you in your 
 ear, she's as fartuous a civil modest wife, and one (I tell 
 you) that will not miss you morning nor evening prayer, 
 as any is in Windsor, whoe'er be the other : and she bade 
 me tell your worship, that her husband is seldom from 
 home ; but, she hopes, there will come a time. I never 
 knew a woman so dote upon a man ; surely, I think you 
 have charms, la, yes, in truth. 
 
 Fa/. Not I, I assure thee; setting the attraction of my 
 good parts aside, I have no other charms. 
 
 Quick. Blessing on your heart for't ! 
 
 Fal. But, I pray thee, tell me this : has Ford's wife, 
 and Page's wife, acquainted each other how they love me? 
 
 Quick. That were a jest, indeed ! — they have not so little 
 grace, I hope : — that were a trick, indeed ! But mistress 
 Page would desire you to send her your little page, of all 
 loves;' her husband has a marvellous infection to the little 
 page : and, truly, master Page is an honest man. Never a 
 wife in Windsor leads a better life than she does ; do what 
 she will, say what she will, take all, pay all, go to bed when 
 she list, rise when she list, all is as she will ; and truly, 
 she deserves it : for if there be a kind woman in Windsor, 
 she is one. You must send her your page ; no remedy. 
 
 Fal. Why, I will. 
 
 Quick. Nay, but do so then : and, look you, he may 
 come and go between you both ; and, in any case, have a 
 nay-word,*" that you may know one another's mind, and 
 
 g wot nf;^ i. e. know of. •> /rnmpoW— ] Vetatiotis. 
 
 I to send Iter your little page, of all lores;] Of all loves, iu an adjuration 
 
 oulvi :»nd Bignifiea hu all means. — Stkf.vf.ns. 
 k a ?iai/-u'f>rrf,] i. e. a u'ntr/i-ii'urf/. 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 the boy never need to understand any thing : for 'tis not 
 good that children should know any wickedness : old 
 folks, you know, have discretion, as they say, and know 
 the world. 
 
 Fal. Fare thee well : commend me to them both : there's 
 my purse ; I am yet thy debtor. — Boy, go along with this 
 
 woman. This news distracts me ! 
 
 [Exeunt Quickly and Robin. 
 
 Pist. This punk is one of Cupid's carriers : — 
 Clap on more sails : pursue, up with your fights ;' 
 Give fire ; she is my prize, or ocean whelm them all ! 
 
 [Exit Pistol. 
 
 Fal. Say'st thou so, old Jack ? go thy ways ; I'll make 
 more of thy old body than I have done. Will they yet 
 look after thee ? Wilt thou, after the expence of so much 
 money, be now a gainer ? Good body, I thank thee : Let 
 them say, 'tis grossly done ; so it be fairly done, no matter. 
 
 Enter Babdolph. 
 
 Bard. Sir John, there's one master Brook below would 
 fain speak with you, and be acquainted with you ; and 
 hath sent your worship a morning's draught of sack. 
 
 Fal. Brook, is his name ? 
 
 Bard. Ay, sir. 
 
 Fal. Call him in ; [exit Bardolph.] Such Brooks are 
 welcome to me, that o'erflow such liqnor. Ah ! ah ! mis- 
 tress Ford and mistress Page, have I encompassed you ? 
 go to ; via ! ™ 
 
 Re-enter Bardolph, with Ford disguised. 
 
 Ford. Bless you, sir. 
 
 Fal. And you, sir : Would you speak with me ? 
 
 Ford. I make bold, to press with so little preparation 
 upon you. 
 
 Fal. You're welcome ; What's your will ? Give us 
 leave, drawer. [Exit Baud ohPu. 
 
 1 fghts;'] " are the wast-cloaths, which hang round about a ship, to hin- 
 der men from being seen in fight ; or any place wherein men may cover them- 
 selves, and yet use their arms." — Phillip's World of Worlds. 
 
 ■" w'a/] i.e. away! This interjection is Italian. — Antonini renders it 
 
 in Latin by eja, age. — Naties.
 
 ACT II.— SCENE II. 179 
 
 Ford. Sir, I am a gentleman that have spent much ; my 
 name is Brook. 
 
 Fal. Good master Brook, I desire more acquaintance 
 of you. 
 
 Ford. Good sir John, I sue for yours : not to charge 
 you ;" for I must let you understand, I think myself in 
 better pHght for a lender than you are : the which hath 
 something emboldened me to this unseasoned intrusion ; 
 for they say, if money go before, all ways do lie open. 
 Fal. Money is a good soldier, sir, and will on. 
 Ford. Troth, and I have a bag of money here troubles 
 me ; if you will help me to bear it, sir John, take all, or 
 half, for easing me of the carriage. 
 
 Fal. Sir, I know not how I may deserve to be your 
 porter. 
 
 Ford. I will tell you, sir, if you will give me the hearing. 
 Fal. Speak, good master Brook ; I shall be glad to be 
 your servant. 
 
 Ford. Sir, I hear you are a scholar, — I will be brief 
 with you ; — and you have been a man long known to me, 
 though I had never so good means, as desire, to make 
 myself acquainted with you. I shall discover a thing to 
 you, wherein I must very much lay open mine own imper- 
 fection : but, good sir John, as you have one eye upon my 
 follies, as you hear them unfolded, turn another into the 
 register of your own ; that I may pass with a reproof the 
 easier, sith" you yourself know, how easy it is to be such 
 an offender. 
 
 Fal. Very well, sir ; proceed. 
 
 Ford. There is a gentlewoman in this town, her hus- 
 band's name is Ford. 
 Fal. Well, sir. 
 
 Ford. I have long loved her, and 1 protest to you, be- 
 stowed much on her; followed her with a doting observ- 
 ance ; engrossed opportunities to meet her; fee'd every 
 slight occasion, that could but niggardly give me sight of 
 her ; not only bought many presents to give her, but have 
 given largely to many, to know what she would have 
 
 » not 10 charge voit ;] i. e. Not to be of charge or erpeme to you. 
 
 " silh — ] i, f. since. 
 
 N 2
 
 180 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 given: briefly, I have pursued her, as love hath pursued 
 me ; which hath been on the wing of all occasions. But 
 whatsoever I have merited, either in my mind, or in my 
 means, meed, I am sure, I have received none ; unless ex- 
 perience be a jewel: that 1 have purchased at an infinite 
 rate ; and that hath taught me to say this : 
 
 Love like a shadow Jiies, when substance love pursues ; 
 Pursuing that that Jiies, and flying what pursues. 
 
 Fal. Have you received no promise of satisfaction at 
 her hands ? 
 
 Ford. Never. 
 
 Fal. Have you importuned her to such a purpose ? 
 
 Ford. Never. 
 
 Fal. Of what quality was your love then ? 
 
 Ford. Like a fair house, built upon another man's 
 ground ; so that I have lost my edifice, by mistaking the 
 place where I erected it. 
 
 Fal. To what purpose have you unfolded this to me ? 
 
 Ford. When 1 have told you that, I have told you all. 
 Some say, that, though she appear honest to me, yet, in 
 other places, she enlargeth her mirth so far, that there is 
 shrewd construction made of her. Now, sir John, here is 
 the heart of my purpose : You are a gentleman of excel- 
 lent breeding, admirable discourse, of great admittance, 
 authentic in your place and person, 'generally allowed for 
 your many war-like, court-like, and learned preparations. p 
 
 Fal. O, sir ! 
 
 Ford. Believe it, for you know it : — There is money ; 
 spend it, spend it : spend more ; spend all I have ; only 
 give me so much of your time in exchange of it, as to lay 
 an amiable siege to the honesty of this Ford's wife : use 
 your art of wooing, win her to consent to you ; if any man 
 may, you may as soon as any. 
 
 Fal. Would it apply well to the vehemency of your af- 
 fection, that I should win what you would enjoy? Me- 
 thinks, you prescribe to yourself very preposterously. 
 
 of great admittance,'] Admitted to the higher company — Authentic in 
 
 ifour place and person, no counterfeit of rank and dignity — Generally allowed, 
 universally approved — Preparations, accomplishments.
 
 ACT II.— SCENE II. 181 
 
 Ford. O, understand my drift ! she dwells so securely 
 on the excellency of her honour, that the folly of my soul 
 dares not present itself; she is too bright to be looked 
 against. Now, could I come to her with any detection in 
 my hand, my desires had instance and argument to com- 
 mend themselves ; I could drive her then from the ward 
 of her purity, her reputation, her marriage vow, and a 
 thousand other her defences, which now are too strongly 
 embattled against me : What say you to't, sir John ? 
 
 Fal. Master Brook, I will first make bold with your 
 money ; next, give me your hand ; and last, as I am a 
 gentleman, you shall, if you will, enjoy Ford's wife. 
 
 Ford. O good sir. 
 
 Fal. Master Brook, I say you shall. 
 
 Ford. Want no money, sir John, you shall want none. '" 
 
 Fal. Want no mistress Ford, master Brook, you shall 
 want none, I shall be with her (I may tell you), by her 
 own appointment ; even as you came in to me, her assis- 
 tant, or go-between, parted from me : I say, I shall be with 
 her between ten and eleven; for at that time the jealous 
 rascally knave, her husband, will be forth. Come you to 
 me at night ; you shall know how I speed. 
 
 Ford. I am blest in your acquaintance. Do you know 
 Ford, sir. 
 
 Fal. Hang him, poor cuckoldy knave ! I know him 
 not ; — yet I wrong him, to call him poor ; they say, the 
 jealous wittolly knave hath masses of money ; for the 
 which his wife seems to me well-favoured. I will use her 
 as the key of the cuckoldy rogue's coffer ; and there's my 
 harvest-home. 
 
 Ford. I would you knew Ford, sir ; that you might 
 avoid him, if you saw him. 
 
 Fal. Hang him, mechanical salt-butter rogue! I will 
 stare him out of his wits ; 1 will awe him with my cudgel : 
 it shall hang like a meteor o'er the cuckold's horns : master 
 Brook, thou shalt know, I will predominate o'er the pea- 
 sant, and thou shalt lie with his wife. — Come to me soon at 
 night: — Ford's a knave, and I will aggravate iiis stile ;'^ 
 
 aggravate hit stile;'] — Stile is a phrase from the Herald's Office. Fal- 
 
 Staff means, he will add more titles to those he already enjoys. — Steev£ns
 
 182 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 thou, master Brook, shalt know him for knave and cuck- 
 old : come to me soon at night. [Exit. 
 Ford. What a damned epicurean rascal is this ! — My 
 heart is ready to crack with impatience. — Who says, this 
 is improvident jealousy? My wife hath sent to him, the 
 hour is fixed, the match is made. Would any man have 
 thought this ? — See the hell of having a false woman ! my 
 bed shall be abused, my coffers ransacked, my reputation 
 gnawn at ; and I shall not only receive this villanous 
 wrong, but stand under the adoption of abominable terms, 
 
 and by him that does me this wrong. Terms ! names ! 
 
 Amaimon sounds well ; Lucifer, well ; Barbason," well ; 
 yet they are devils' additions, the names of fiends : but 
 cuckold ! wittol-cuckold !' the devil himself hath not such 
 a name. Page is an ass, a secure ass ; he will trust his 
 wife, he will not be jealous ; I will rather trust a Fleming 
 with my butter, parson Hugh the Welchman with my 
 cheese, an Irishman with my aqua-vitae bottle, or a thief 
 to walk my ambling gelding, than my wife with herself : 
 then she plots, then she ruminates, then she devises : and 
 what they think in their hearts they may effect, they will 
 break their hearts but they will effect. Heaven be praised 
 for my jealousy ! — Eleven o'clock the hour ; — I will pre- 
 vent this, detect my wife, be revenged on Falstaff, and 
 laugh at Page. I will about it; better three hours too 
 soon, than a minute too late. Fie, fie, fie ! cuckold ! 
 cuckold ! cuckold ! [Exit. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Windsor Park. 
 
 Enter Caius and Rugby. 
 
 Caius. Jack Rugby ! 
 
 Rug. Sir. 
 
 Caius. Vat is de clock. Jack ? 
 
 ^ Amnimon — Lucifer — Barbason,'] The names of demons — of which Lucifer 
 is sufficiently well knov/n. — " Amaymon is the chief whose dominion is on the 
 north part of the infernal gulph; Barbatos is like Sagittarius, and hath thirty le- 
 gions under him." — Randle Hoz^mv.'s Academy of ArmottriiandBlaz(m,h. 2. c. 1. 
 
 s wittol-riic/co/d.'] One who knows his wife's falsehood, and is con- 
 tented with it : from wittaii. Sax. to know. — Ma lone.
 
 ACT II.— SCENE III. 183 
 
 Rug. 'Tis past the hour, sir, that sir Hugh promised to 
 meet. 
 
 Caius. By gar, he has save his soul, dat he is no come ; 
 he has pray his Pible veil, dat he is no come : by gar, 
 Jack Rugby, he is dead already, if he be come. 
 
 Rug. He is wise, sir: he knew, your worship would 
 kill him, if he came. 
 
 Caius. By gar, de herring is no dead, so as 1 vill kill 
 him. Take your rapier. Jack ; I vill tell you how I vill 
 kill him. 
 
 Rug. Alas, sir, I cannot fence. 
 
 Caius. Villany, take your rapier. 
 
 Rug. Forbear ; here's company. 
 
 Ejiter Host, Shallow, Slender, a}id Page. 
 
 Host. 'Bless thee, bully doctor. 
 
 Shal. Save you, master doctor Caius. 
 
 Page. Now, good master doctor ! 
 
 Slen. Give you good morrow, sir. 
 
 Caius. Vat be all you, one, two, tree, four, come for ? 
 
 Host. To see thee fight, to see thee foin,* to see thee 
 traverse, to see thee here, to see thee there ; to see thee 
 pass thy punto, thy stock," thy reverse, thy distance, thy 
 mont^nt. Is he dead, my Ethiopian? is he dead, my 
 Francisco ? ha, bully ! What says my iEsculapius ? my 
 Galen ? my heart of elder ? ha ! is he dead, bully Stale ? 
 is he dead ? 
 
 Caius. By gar, he is de coward Jack priest of the vorld ; 
 he is not show his face. 
 
 Host. Thou art a Castilian* king, Urinal ! Hector of 
 Greece, my boy ? 
 
 Caius. I pray you, bear vitness that me have stay six or 
 seven, two, tree hours for him, and he is no come. 
 
 Shal. He is the wiser man, master doctor : he is a curer 
 of souls, and you a curer of bodies; if you should fight, 
 
 ' to see thee foin,] To/oin was the ancient term for making a thrust in 
 
 fencinj^, or tilting. — Stkevkns. 
 
 " thxi stock,] Stock iis a corruption n{ stncata, Ital. from wliicli hmguage 
 
 the technical tomis th;it follow an- likewise a'lopted. — Stebvens. 
 
 * Ca.^tilian — J An opprobrious term, and perhaps a popular slur ujwn 
 
 the Spaniards, who were held in great contempt after the businc^'s of the Ar- 
 mada.— pAnMiiii.
 
 184 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 you go against the hairy of your professions ; is it not true, 
 master Page ? 
 
 Page. Master Shallow, you have yourself been a great 
 fighter, though now a man of peace. 
 
 Shal. Body kins, master Page, though I now be old, 
 and of the peace, if I see a sword out, my finger itches 
 to make one: though we are justices, and doctors, and 
 churchmen, master Page, we have some salt of our youth 
 in us ; we are the sons of women, master Page. 
 
 Page. 'Tis true, master Shallow. 
 
 Shal. It will be found so, master Page. Master doctor 
 Caius, I am come to fetch you home. I am sworn of the 
 peace ; you have shewed yourself a wise physician, and 
 sir Hugh hath shewn himself a wise and patient church- 
 man : you must go with me, master doctor. 
 
 Host. Pardon, guest justice : — A word, monsieur Muck- 
 water. 
 
 Caius. Muck-vater ! vat is dat ? 
 
 Host. Muck -water, in our English tongue, is valour, 
 bully. 
 
 Cains. By gar, then I have as much muck-vater as de 
 
 Englishman : Scurvy jack-dog priest ! by gar, me vill 
 
 cut his ears. 
 
 Host. He will clapper-claw thee tightly, bully. 
 
 Cains. Clapper-de-claw ! vat is dat ? 
 
 Host. That is, he will make thee amends. 
 
 Caius. By gar, me do look, he shall clapper-de-claw 
 me ; for, by gar, me vill have it. 
 
 Host. And I will provoke him to't, or let him wag. 
 
 Caius. Me tank you for dat. 
 
 Host. And moreover, bully, — But first, master guest, 
 and master Page, and eke cavalero Slender, go you through 
 the town to Frogmore. [Aside to them. 
 
 Page. Sir Hugh is there, is he ? 
 
 Host. He is there : see what humour he is in ; and I 
 will bring the doctor about by the fields : will it do well ? 
 
 Shal. We will do it. 
 
 Page. Shal. and Slen. Adieu, good master doctor. 
 
 [^Exeunt Page, Shallow, and Slender. 
 
 5' against t/ie hair, &c.] We now say, against the grain. — Steevens.
 
 ACT III.— SCENE I. 185 
 
 Caius. By gar, me vill kill de priest ; for he speak for a 
 jack-an-ape to Anne Page. 
 
 Host. Let him die : but, first, sheath thy impatience ; 
 throw cold water on thy choler : go about the fields with 
 me through Frog-niore ; I will bring; thee where mistress 
 Anne Page is, at a farm-house a feasting : and thou shalt 
 woo her : Cry'd game,^ said I well ? 
 
 Caius. By gar, me tank you for dat : by gar, 1 love 
 you ; and I shall procure-a you de good guest, de earl, de 
 knight, de lords, de gentlemen, my patients. 
 
 Host. For the which, I will be thy adversary towards 
 Anne Page ; said I well ? 
 
 Caius. By gar, 'tis good ; veil said. 
 
 Host. Let us wag then. 
 
 Caius. Come at my heels, Jack Rugby. [Exeutit. 
 
 ACT IIL 
 
 Scene I. — A Field near Frogmore. 
 Enter Sir Hugh Evans and Simple. 
 
 Eva. I pray you now, good master Slender's serving- 
 man, and friend Simple by your name, which way have 
 you looked for master Caius, that calls himself Doctor of 
 Physick ? 
 
 Sim. Marry, sir, the city-ward, the park -ward, every 
 way ; old Windsor way, and everyway but the town way. 
 r Eva. I most feheraently desire you, you will also look 
 that way. 
 
 Sim. I will, sir. 
 
 Eva. 'Pless my soul ! how full of cholers I am, and 
 trempling of mind ! — I shall be glad, if he have deceived 
 me : — how melancholies I am ! — I will knog his urinals 
 about his knave's costard, when I have good opportunities 
 for the 'ork — 'pless my soul ! [Sings. 
 
 I Criy'ri/jume,] This w certainly an erroneous reading : and the emen- 
 dation proposed is — Cry aim ! — The Host addresses himself to tlio bye-standers, 
 and desires them to cry nim .' to his proposition of the Doctor's j)rocoedii)g to 
 woo Anne Page. — " Aim! was an exclamation of encouragement used in arch- 
 ery by the idle L>ohers-pii, addressed to the person who waa about to shoot." — 
 GirronD's Maisi'iger, vol. ii. '2ii.
 
 186 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 To shallow rivers,'' to whose falls 
 Melodious birds sing madrigals ; 
 There will we make our peds oj" roses. 
 And a thousand fragrant posies. 
 To shallow 
 
 'Mercy on me ! I have a great dispositions to cry. 
 
 Melodious birds sing madrigals : — 
 
 When as I sat in Pabi/lon, 
 
 And a thousand vagr am posies. 
 To shallow 
 
 Sim. Yonder he is coming, this way, sir Hugh. 
 Eva. He's welcome : 
 
 To shallow rivers, to whose falls 
 
 Heaven prosper the right ! — What weapons is he ? 
 
 Sim. No weapons, sir : There comes my master, master 
 Shallow, and another gentleman from Frogmore, over the 
 stile, this way. 
 
 Eva. Pray you, give me my gown ; or else keep it in 
 your arms. 
 
 Enter Page, Shallow, and Slender. 
 
 Shal. How now, master parson ? Good-morrow, good sir 
 Hugh, Keep a gamester from the dice, and a good stu- 
 dent from his book, and it is wonderful. 
 
 Slen. Ah, sweet Anne Page ! 
 
 Page. Save you, good sir Hugh ! 
 
 Eva. 'Pless you from his mercy sake, all of you ! 
 
 Shal. What ! the sword and the word ! do you study 
 them both, master parson ? 
 
 Page. And youthful still, in your doublet and hose, this 
 raw rheumatic day ? 
 
 Eva. There is reasons and causes for it. 
 
 Page. We are come to you, to do a good office, master 
 parson. 
 
 Eva. Fery well : What is it ? 
 
 » To shallow rivers, &c.] This is part of a beautiful old song which was pub- 
 lished as Shakspeare's, with his sonnets, in the year 1599, by Jaggard. — It was 
 in the following year republished in England's Helicon, and attributed to Mar- 
 lowe, whose property it is supposed to be.
 
 ACT III.— SCENE I. 187 
 
 Page. Yonder is a most reverend gentleman, who belike, 
 having received wrong by some person, is at most odds 
 with his own gravity and patience, that ever you saw. 
 
 Shai. I have lived fourscore years, and upward ; I never 
 heard a man of his place, gravity, and learning, so wide of 
 his own respect. 
 
 Eva. What is he ? 
 
 Page. I think you know him; master doctor Caius, the 
 renowned French physician. 
 
 Eva. Got's will, and his passion of my heart ! I had as 
 lief you would tell me of a mess of porridge. 
 
 Page. Why? 
 
 Eva. He has no more knowledge in Hibocrates and 
 Galen, — and he is a knave besides ; a cowardly knave, as 
 you would desires to be acquainted withal. 
 
 Page. I warrant you, he's the man should fight with 
 him. 
 
 Slai. O, sweet Anne Page ! 
 
 Shal. It appears so, by his weapons : — Keep them asun- 
 der ; — here comes doctor Caius. 
 
 Enter Host, Caius, and Rugby. 
 
 Page. Nay, good master parson, keep in your weapon. 
 
 Shal. So do you, good master doctor. 
 
 Host. Disarm them, and let them question ; let them 
 keep their limbs whole, and hack our English. 
 
 Caius. I pray you, let-a me speak a word vit your ear : 
 Verefore vill you not meet a-me ? 
 
 Eva. Pray you, use your patience : In good time. 
 
 Caius. By gar, you are de coward, de Jack dog, John 
 ape. 
 
 Eva. Pray you, let us not be laughing-stogs to other 
 men's humours ; I desire you in friendship, and I will one 
 way or other make you amends : — I will knog your urinals 
 about your knave's cogscomb, for missing your meetings 
 and appointments. 
 
 Caius. Diable! — Jack Rugby, — mine host de Jarterre, 
 have I not slay for him, to kill him? have I not, at de 
 place I did appoint? 
 
 Eva. As I am a Christians soul, now, look you, this is
 
 188 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 the place appointed ; I'll be judgment by mine host of the 
 Garter. 
 
 Host. Peace, I say, Guallia and Gaul, French and 
 Welch ; soul-curer and body-curer. 
 
 Cains. Ay, dat is very good ! excellent ! 
 
 Host. Peace, I say ; hear mine host of the Garter. Am 
 I politic ? am I subtle ? am I a Machiavel ? Shall I lose 
 my doctor ? no ; he gives me the potions, and the mo- 
 tions. Shall I lose my parson? my priest? my sir Hugh? 
 no; he gives me the proverbs and the noverbs. — Give me 
 thy hand, terrestrial ; so : — Give me thy hand, celestial ; 
 
 so. Boys of art, I have deceived you both ; I have 
 
 directed you to wrong places ; your hearts are mighty, 
 your skins are whole, and let burnt sack be the issue. — 
 Come, lay their swords to pawn : — Follow me, lad of peace ; 
 follow, follow, follow. 
 
 Shal. Trust me, a mad host: — Follow, gentlemen, 
 follow. 
 
 Slen. O, sweet Anne Page ! 
 
 [Exeunt Shallow^, Slender, Page, and Host. 
 
 Caius. Ha ! do I perceive dat ? have you make-a de sot 
 of us? ha, ha! 
 
 Eva. This is well ; he has made us his vlouting-stog. 
 — I desire you, that we may be friends ; and let us knog 
 our prains together, to be revenge on this same scall,** 
 scurvy, cogging companion, the host of the Garter. 
 
 Caius. By gar, vit all my heart ; he promise to bring 
 me vere is Anne Page ; by gar, he deceive me too. 
 
 Eva. Well, I will smite his noddles : — Pray you, fol- 
 low. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The Street in Windsor. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Page and Robin. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Nay, keep your way, little gallant ; you 
 were wont to be a follower, but now you are a leader : 
 
 ** scall,'\ An old word of reproach ; — icall is a disease in the skin of 
 
 the head. — Nares's Glossary.
 
 ACT III.— SCENE IT. 189 
 
 Whether had you rather, lead mine eyes, or eye your mas- 
 ter's heels ? 
 
 Rob. I had rather, forsooth, go before you like a man, 
 than follow him like a dwarf. 
 
 Mrs. Page. O, you are a flattering boy ; now, I see, 
 you'll be a courtier. 
 
 Enter Ford. 
 
 Ford. Well met, mistress Page : Whither go you ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. Truly, sir, to see your wife ; Is she at 
 home ? 
 
 Ford. Ay ; and as idle as she may hang together, for 
 want of company : I think, if your husbands were dead, 
 you two would marry. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Be sure of that, — two other husbands. 
 
 Ford. Where had you this pretty weathercock ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. I cannot tell what the dickens his name is 
 my husband had him of : What do you call your knight's 
 name, sirrah ? 
 
 Rob. Sir John FalstafF. 
 
 Ford. Sir John Falstaff ! 
 
 Mrs. Page. He, he ; I can never hit on's name. — There 
 is such a league between my good man and he ! — Is your 
 wife at home, indeed ? 
 
 Ford. Indeed, she is. 
 
 Mrs. Page. By your leave, sir ; — I am sick till I see her. 
 
 [Exeunt Mrs. Page and Robin. 
 
 Ford. Has Page any brains? hath he any eyes? hath 
 he any thinking ? Sure, they sleep ; he hath no use of 
 them. Why, this boy will carry a letter twenty miles, as 
 easy as a cannon will shoot point-blank twelve score. He 
 pieces out his wife's inclination; he gives her folly motion, 
 and advantage : and now she's going to my wife, and 
 Falstaffs boy with her. A man may hear this shower 
 sing in the wind ! — and Falstati's boy with iier! — Good 
 plots ! — they are laid ; and our revolted wives share dam- 
 nation together. Well ; I will take him, then torture my 
 wife, pluck the borrowed veil of modesty from the so 
 seeming mistress Page, divulge Page iiiniself for a secure 
 and wilful Actseon ; and to these violent proceedings all
 
 190 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 my neighbours shall cry aim.' [Clock strikes.] The clock 
 gives me my cue, and my assurance bids me search ; there 
 I shall find Falstaff : I shall be rather praised for this, than 
 mocked ; for it is as positive as the earth is firm, that 
 Falstaflfis there : I will go. 
 
 Enter Page, Shallom^, Slender, Host, Sir Hugh 
 Evans, Caius, and Rugby. 
 
 Skal. Page, &c. Well met, master Ford. 
 
 Ford. Trust me, a good knot : I have good cheer at 
 home ; and, I pray you, all go w^ith me. 
 
 Shal. I must excuse myself, master Ford. 
 
 Slen. And so must I, sir ; we have appointed to dine 
 with mistress Anne, and I would not break with her for 
 more money than I'll speak of. 
 
 Shal, We have lingered about a match between Anne 
 Page and my cousin Slender, and this day we shall have 
 our answer. 
 
 Slen. 1 hope, I have your good will, father Page. 
 
 Page. You have, master Slender ; I stand wholly for 
 you : — but my wife, master doctor, is for you altogether. 
 
 Caius. Ay, by gar; and de maid is love-ame ; my nursh- 
 a Quickly tell me so mush. 
 
 Host. What say you to young master Fenton ? he ca- 
 pers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he writes verses, he 
 speaks holy day ,'^ he smells April and May : he will carry 't, 
 he will carry't ; 'tis in his buttons f he will carry't. 
 
 Page. Not by my consent, I promise you. The gen- 
 tleman is of no having : he kept company with the wild 
 prince and Poins ; he is of too high a region, he knows 
 too much. No, he shall not knit a knot in his fortunes 
 with the finger of my substance : if he take her, let him 
 take her simply ; the wealth I have waits on my consent, 
 and my consent goes not that way. 
 
 <^ shall cry aim.] i. e. shall encourage. — See note z. p. 185. of this 
 
 volume. 
 
 <* he speaks holyday,] i. e. his language is precise and delicate, and fit 
 
 for holyday use. 
 
 ^ 'tis in his buttons ;] Alluding to an ancient custom among the country 
 
 fellows, of trying whether they should succeed with their mistresses, by carry- 
 ing the bachelor's buttons (a plant of the Lychnis kind, whose flowers resemble 
 a coat button in form) in their pockets; and they judged of their good or bad 
 success by their growing or their not growing there. — Smith.
 
 ACT III.— SCENE III. 191 
 
 Ford. I beseech you, heartily, some of you go home 
 with me to dinner : besides your cheer, you shall have 
 sport; I will show you a monster. — Master doctor, you 
 shall go j — so shall you, master Page ; and you, sir Hugh. 
 
 Skal. Well, fare you well : — we shall have the freer 
 wooing- at master Page's. 
 
 [Exeunt Shallow and Slender. 
 
 Caius. Go home, John Rugby ; I come anon. 
 
 [Exit Rugby. 
 
 Host. Farewell, my hearts : I will to my honest knight 
 Falstaff, and drink canary with him. [Exit Host. 
 
 Ford, [oside.] I think, I shall drink in pipe-wine first 
 with him ; I'll make him dance.' Will you go, gentles ? 
 
 All. Have with you, to see this monster. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 A Room in Ford's House. 
 Enter Mrs. Ford and Mrs. Page. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. What, John ! what, Robert ! 
 
 Mrs. Page. Quickly, quickly : Is the buck-basket — 
 
 Mrs. Ford. I warrant: What, Robin, I say. 
 
 Enter Servants with a Basket. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Come, come, come. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Here, set it down. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Give your men the charge ; we must be 
 brief. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Marry, as I told you before, John and Ro- 
 bert, be ready here hard by in the brewhouse ; and when 
 I suddenly call you, come forth, and, (without any pause, 
 or staggering,) take this basket on your shoulders : that 
 done, trudge with it in haste, and carry it among the whits- 
 ters8 in Datchet mead, and there empty it in the muddy 
 ditch, close by the Thames side. 
 
 ' / ihall drink in pipe-wine first with him ; I'll make him dance. — ] Of 
 
 this passaj^e nothing; like a satisfactory inteq)rc(atioii has been given. — Fipe- 
 iDine in wine from the pipe and not from the bflttle, conHecjuently not so [^ood. 
 The dancing refers perhaps to the preceding words of tlie Host, catuirti mean- 
 ing both wine and a dance. 
 
 f the whitilers — ] i.e. the blanchers of linen. — Douce.
 
 192 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 Mrs. Page. You will do it ? 
 
 Mrs. Ford. I have told them over and over ; they lack 
 no direction: Be gone, and come w^hen you are called. 
 
 [Exeunt Servants. 
 Mrs. Page. Here comes little Robin. 
 
 Enter Robin. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. How now, my eyas-musket ?'' what news 
 with you ? 
 
 Rob. My master, sir John, is come in at your back- 
 door, mistress Ford ; and requests your company. 
 
 Mrs. Page. You little Jack-a-lent,' have you been true 
 
 to us ? 
 
 Rob. Ay, I'll be sworn : My master knows not of your 
 beincr here ; and hath threatened to put me into everlast- 
 ing liberty, if I tell you of it ; for, he swears, he'll turn me 
 
 away. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Thou'rt a good boy ; this secrecy of thine 
 shall be a tailor to thee, and shall make thee a new dou- 
 blet and hose. — I'll go hide me. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Do so : — Go tell thy master, I am alone. 
 Mistress Page, remember you your cue. [Exit Robin. 
 
 Mrs. Page. I warrant thee; if I do not act it, hiss me. 
 
 [Exit Mrs. Page. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Go to then; we'll use this unwholesome 
 humidity, this gross watry pumpion ; — we'll teach him to 
 know turtles from jays. 
 
 E)iter Falstaff. 
 
 Fal. Have I caught thee, wy heavenly jewel ?^ Why, now 
 let me die, for I have lived long enough ; this is the period 
 of my ambition ; O this blessed hour ! 
 
 Mrs. Ford. O sweet sir John ! 
 
 Fal. Mistress Ford, I cannot cog, I cannot prate, mis- 
 tress Ford. Now shall I sin in my wish : I would thy 
 husband were dead ; I'll speak it before the best lord, I 
 would make thee my lady. 
 
 b eyas-musket?] A young hawk of the male kind.— Eyas being a young 
 
 hawk— musfc«t a young male hawk. . t . i-i 
 
 i Jack-a-tent,] A Jack o lent was a puppet thrown at m Lent, like 
 
 shrove-cocks.— Steevens. , ^ ,• i-.i j 
 
 w Have I caught my heavenly jewel?] This is the first line of the second song 
 in Sidney's Astrophel and Stella.
 
 ACT III.— SCENE III. 193 
 
 Mrs. Ford. I your lady, sir John ! alas, I should be a 
 pitiful lady. 
 
 Fa/. Let the court of France show me such another ; I 
 see how thine eye would emulate the diamond : Thou hast 
 the right arched bent of the brow, that becomes the ship- 
 tire, the tire-valiant, or any tire of Venetian admittance." 
 
 Mrs. Ford. A plain kerchief, sir John : my brows be- 
 come nothing else ; nor that well neither. 
 
 Fal. Thou art a traitor to say so : thou would'st make 
 an absolute courtier ; and the firm fixture of thy foot 
 would give an excellent motion to thy gait, in a semi- 
 circled farthingale. I see what thou wert, if fortune thy 
 foe were not; nature is thy friend : Come, thou canst not 
 hide it. 
 
 3lrs. Ford. Believe me, there's no such thing in me. 
 Fal. What made me love thee ? let that persuade thee, 
 there's something extraordinary in thee. Come, 1 cannot 
 cog, and say, thou art this and that, like a many of these 
 lisping haw-thorn buds, that come like women in men's 
 apparel, and smell like Buckler's-bury° in simple-time ; 
 I cannot : but I love thee ; none but thee ; and thou de- 
 servest it. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Do not betray me, sir ; I fear, you love 
 mistress Page. 
 
 Fal. Thou niight'.st as well say, I love to walk by the 
 Counter gate;!* which is as hateful to me as the reek of a 
 lime-kiln. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Well, heavei-sknows, how I love you ; and 
 you shall one day find it. 
 
 Fal. Keep in that mind; I'll deserve it. 
 Mrs. Ford. Nay, I must tell you, so you do ; or else I 
 could not be in that mind. 
 
 RoO. [wil/iiii.] Mistress Ford, mistress Ford! here's 
 mistress Page at the door, sweating, and blowing, and look- 
 ing wildly, and would needs speak with you presently. 
 
 n iliat becomes the ship-tire, the tire-valiant, or any tire of Venetian ad- 
 mittance.] Ilcrul ilrcsst'S then in fashion with the celebrated Venetian beauties, 
 or approved by them. — N *nF<i. 
 
 o like huckiur'H-bury, i\c.] liuMer's-hnrii, in tlie time of Shakspeare, 
 
 was chiefly inhabited by drugj^isls, who sold ail kinds of herbs, green as well 
 aa dry. — SrKKVfcNS. 
 
 V Counter gate ;] The prison gate. 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 194 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 Fal. She shall not see me ; I will ensconce me behind 
 the arras. 
 
 Mi's. Ford. Pray you, do so : she*s a very tattling wo- 
 man. — [Fal STAFF hides himself. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Page and Robin. 
 
 What's the matter ? how now ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. O, mistress Ford, what have you done ? 
 You're shamed, you are overthrown, you are undone for 
 ever. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. What's the matter, good mistress Page ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. O well-a-day, mistress Ford ! having an 
 honest man to your husband, to give him such cause of 
 suspicion ! 
 
 Mrs. Ford. What cause of suspicion ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. What cause of suspicion ! — Out upon you ! 
 how am I mistook in you ! 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Why alas ! what's the matter ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. Yoiar husband's coming hither, woman, with 
 all the officers in Windsor, to search for a gentleman, that, 
 he says, is here now in the house, by your consent, to take 
 an ill advantage of his absence : You are undone. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Speak louder. — \_Aside.'\ — 'Tis not so, I hope. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Pray heaven it be not so, that you have 
 such a man here ; but 'tis most certain your husband's 
 coming with half Windsor at his heels, to search for such 
 a one. I come before to tell you : If you know yourself 
 clear, why I am glad of it : but if you have a friend here, 
 convey, convey him out. Be not amazed ; call all your 
 . senses to you ; defend your reputation, or bid farewell to 
 your good life for ever. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. What shall I do ? — There is a gentleman, 
 my dear friend ; and I fear not mine own shame, so much 
 as his peril : I had rather than a thousand pound, he were 
 out of the house. 
 
 Mrs. Page. For shame, never stand you had rather, and 
 you had rather; your husband's here at hand.^ — Bethink 
 you of some conveyance : in the house you cannot hide 
 him. — O, how have you deceived me!— Look, here is a 
 basket j if he be of any reasonable stature, he niay creep
 
 ACT III.— SCENE III. 195 
 
 in here ; and throw foul linen upon him, as if it were going 
 to bucking : Or, it is whiting-time, send him by your two 
 men to Datchet mead. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. He's too big to go in there : What shall 
 I do? 
 
 Re-enter Falstaff. 
 
 Fal. Let me see't, let me see't ! O let me see't ! I'll in, 
 I'll in ; follow your friend's counsel ; — I'll in. 
 
 Mrs. Page. What! sir John Falstaff! Are these your 
 letters, knio-ht? 
 
 Fal. I love thee, and none but thee ; help me away : 
 let me creep in here ; I'll never — 
 
 [lie goes into the Basket, they cover 
 him with foul linen. 
 Mrs. Page. Help to cover your master, boy : Cull your 
 men, mistress Ford : You dissemblino- knioht ! 
 
 Mrs. Ford. What John, Robert, John! [Exit Robin. 
 Re-enter Servants.] Go take up these clothes here, quickly ; 
 where's the cowl staff?'' look, how you drumble -,'' carry 
 them to the laundress in Datchet mead ; quickly, come. 
 
 Enter Ford, Page, Caius, and Sir Hugh Evans. 
 
 Ford. Pray you, come near : if I suspect without cause, 
 why then make sport at me, then let me be your jest; I 
 deserve it. — How now ? whither bear you this ? 
 
 Serv. To the laundress, forsooth. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Why, what have you to do whither they bear 
 it ? You were best meddle with buck-washintr. 
 
 Ford. Buck ? I would I could wash myself of the buck ! 
 Buck, buck, buck ? Ay, buck ; I warrant you, buck; and 
 of the season too, it shall appear. [Exeunt Servants with 
 the Basket.] Gentlemen, I have dreamed to-nifht : I'll 
 tell you my dream. Here, here, here be my keys : ascend 
 my chambers, search, seek, find out: I'll warrant, we'll 
 unkennel the fox : — Let me stop this way first: — so, now 
 uncape.' 
 
 •i ''le cowl-staff?] Is a staff ustd for carrying a largo tul) or basket with 
 
 two liandlfs. la lissfx the word cowl is yet used for a tub. — Malonf.. 
 
 ' drnmhie ;] i. c. are sluggish. In some places the drone is called the 
 
 drumble-hee. — Todd. 
 
 • uncajic] Tlie allusion in tlic forcgoiug sentence i.<» to the practice of 
 
 o 2
 
 196 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 Page. Good master Ford, be contented : you wron^ 
 yourself too much. 
 
 Ford. True, master Page. — Up, gentlemen ; you shall 
 see sport anon: follow me, gentlemen. [Exit. 
 
 Eva. This is fery fantastical humours, and jealousies. 
 
 Caius. By gar, 'tis no de fashion of France : it is not 
 jealous in France. 
 
 Page. Nay, follow him, gentlemen ; see the issue of his 
 search. [Exeunt Evans, Page, and CaIus. 
 
 3Irs. Page. Is there not a double excellency in this ? 
 
 Mrs. Ford. I know not which pleases me better, that 
 my husband is deceived, or sir John. 
 
 Mrs. Page. What a taking was he in, when your hus- 
 band asked what was in the basket ! 
 
 Mrs. Ford. I am half afraid he will have need of wash- 
 ing ; so throwing him into the water will do him a benefit. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Hang him, dishonest rascal ! I would all of 
 the same strain were in the same distress. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. I think, my husband hath some special sus- 
 picion of FalstafF's being here ; for I never saw him so. 
 gross in his jealousy till now. 
 
 3Ii's. Page. I will lay a plot to try that : And we will 
 yet have more tricks with FalstafF: his dissolute disease 
 will scarce obey this medicine. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Shall we send that foolish carrion, mistress 
 Quickly to him, and excuse his throwing into the water; 
 and give him another hope, to betray him to another pu- 
 nishment ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. We'll do it ; let him be sent for to-morrow 
 eight o'clock, to have amends. 
 
 Re-enter Foed, Page, Caius, and Sir Hugh Evans. 
 
 Ford. I cannot find him : may be, the knave bragged of 
 that he could not copipass. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Heard you that ? 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Ay, ay, peace : — You use me well, master 
 Ford, do you? 
 
 Ford. Ay, I do so. ~ ~ 
 
 stopping every hole at wliich a fox could enter, before they tincape or turn him 
 out of the bag in which he was brought. — I suppose every one has heard of a 
 bdg-fox. — SteevilNS.
 
 ACT III.— SCENE III. 197 
 
 M)-s. Ford. Heaven make you better than your thoughts. 
 
 Ford. Amen. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Youdoyourself mighty wrong, master Ford. 
 
 Ford. Ay, ay : I must bear it. 
 
 Eva. If there be any pody in the house, and in the 
 chambers, and in the coffers, and in the presses, heaven 
 forgive my sins at the day of judgment! 
 
 Cains. By gar, nor I too ; dere is no bodies. 
 
 Page. Fie, fie, master Ford! are you not ashamed? 
 What spirit, what devil suggests this imagination? I 
 would not have your distemper in this kind, for the wealth 
 of Windsor castle. 
 
 Ford. 'Tis my fault, master Page : I suffer for it. 
 
 Eva. You suffer for a pad conscience : your wife is as 
 honest a 'omans, as I will desires among five thousand, 
 and five hundred too. 
 
 Caius. By gar, I see 'tis an honest woman. 
 
 Ford. Well ; — I promised you a dinner : — Come, come, 
 walk in the park : I pray you, pardon me ; I will hereafter 
 make known to you, why I have done this. — Come, wife ; 
 — Come, mistress Page ; I pray you pardon me ; pray 
 heartily, pardon me. 
 
 Page. Let's go in, gentlemen : but, trust me, we'll mock 
 liim. I do invite you to-morrow morning to my house to 
 breakfixst ; after, we'll a birding together ; I have a fine 
 hawk for the bush : Shall it be so ? 
 
 Ford. Any thing. 
 
 Eva. If there is one, I shall make two in the company. 
 
 Cains. If therebe one or two, 1 shall make-a de turd. 
 
 Eva. In your teeth:' for shame. 
 
 Ford. Pray you go, master Page. 
 
 Eva. I pray you now, remembrance to-morrow on the 
 lousy knave, mine host. 
 
 Caius. Dat is good ; by gar, vit all my heart. 
 
 Eva. A lousy knave ; to have his gibes and his 
 mockeries. [Excioit. 
 
 ' In ytiiti- Iff til :] Those words ought not to he HUowed to disgrace the page : 
 tlify do not cxi.Ht in the folio ; and were tlirust into the text liy Tlieobald, from 
 till; inipcrfecl (juarto.
 
 198 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 A Room in Page's House. 
 Enter Fenton and Mistress Anne Page. 
 
 Fent. I see, I cannot get thy father's love ; 
 Therefore, no more turn me to him, sweet Nan. 
 
 Anne. Alas ! how then ? 
 
 Fent. Why, thou must be thyself. 
 
 He doth object, I am too great of birth ; 
 And that, my state being gall'd with my expence, 
 T seek to heal it only by his wealth : 
 
 Besides these, other bars he lays before me, 
 
 My riots past, my wild societies ; 
 And tells me, 'tis a thing impossible 
 I should love thee, but as a property. 
 
 Anne. May be he tells you true. 
 
 Fent. No, heaven so speed me in the time to come \ 
 Albeit, I will confess, thy father's wealth 
 Was the first motive that I woo'd thee, Anne : 
 Yet, wooing thee, I found thee of more value 
 Than stamps in gold, or sums in sealed bags ; 
 And 'tis the very riches of thyself 
 That now I aim at. 
 
 Anne. Gentle master Fenton, 
 
 Yet seek my father's love : still seek it, sir ; 
 If opportunity and humblest suit 
 Cannot attain it, why then. — Hark you hither. 
 
 [They converse apart. 
 
 Enter Shallow, Slender, and Mrs. Quickly. 
 
 Shal. Break their talk, mistress Quickly ; my kinsman 
 shall speak for himself. 
 
 Slen. I'll make a shaft or a bolt on't :" slid, 'tis but ven- 
 turing. 
 
 Shal. Be not dismay'd. 
 
 Slen. No, she shall not dismay me : I care not for that, 
 — ^but that I am afeard. 
 
 " Vll make a shaft or a botl on't :] — An old proverb. — Shaft, is an arrow sharp 
 and barbed — bolt, is an arrow with a blunt nob at the end of it.
 
 ACT III.— SCENE IV. 199 
 
 Quick. Hark ye ; master Slender would speak a word 
 with you. 
 
 Aii/ie. I come to him. — This is my father's choice. 
 O, what a world of vile ill-favour'd faults 
 Looks handsome in three hundred pounds a year ! [Aside. 
 Quick. And how does giood master Fenton ? Pray you, 
 a word with you. 
 
 >>haL Slie's coming ; to her, coz. O boy, thou hadst a 
 father ! 
 
 Slen. I had a father, mistress Anne ; — ^my uncle can 
 tell you good jests of him : — Pray you, uncle, tell mistress 
 Anne the jest, how my father stole two geese out of a pen, 
 good uncle. 
 
 Shal. Mistress Anne, my cousin loves you. 
 Skfi. Ay, that I do ; as well as I love any woman in 
 Glocestershire. 
 
 Shal. He will maintain you like a gentlewoman. 
 Slen. Ay, that I will, come cut and long-tail \^ under 
 the degree of a 'squire. 
 
 Shal. He will make you a hundred and fifty pounds 
 jointure. 
 
 Aline. Good master Shallow, let him woo for himself. 
 Shal. Marry, I thank you for it ; I thank you for that 
 good comfort. She calls you, coz : I'll leave you. 
 Anne. Now, master Slender. 
 Slen. Now, good mistress Anne. 
 Anne. What is your will ? 
 
 Slen. My will? od's heartlings, that's a pretty jest, in- 
 deed ! I ne'er made my will yet, I thank heaven ; I am 
 not such a sickly creature, I give heaven praise. 
 
 Anne. I mean, master Slender, what would you with me ? 
 
 Slen. Truly, for mine own ])art, I would little or nothing 
 
 with you : your father, and my uncle, have made motions: 
 
 if it be my luck, so : if not, happy man be his dole!'' They 
 
 X come cut and lov(;-tail ;] — This expression is common in the old plays. 
 
 In its oripinal sense, the phrase; means to include all kimls, cur-t.ul curs, 
 sporting dogs, and all otliers. Slender says, that he will maintain Aiiiie Page 
 like a /^enlleiccman, come uho uill to contend with him wider the degree of a squire. 
 This explanation isfrom AiiciintAfON Nahes's Glossaru — a book which is in- 
 valuahle to every reader of old Kii^lisli liti-rature. 
 
 y dole!] A share in any tWm^ distrihuted. — Happy man be his doU, — 
 
 i.e. let his lot bi; to esteem hiimielf a happy man. The phrase is very fre- 
 (|ucat in old writers.
 
 200 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 can tell you how things go, better than I can; You may 
 ask your father; here he comes. 
 
 Enter Page and Mrs. Page. 
 
 Page. Now, master Slender: — Love him, daughter 
 Anne. — 
 Why, how now ! what does master Fenton here ? 
 You wrong me, sir, thus still to haunt my house : 
 I told you, sir, my daughter is dispos'd of. 
 
 Fent. Nay, master Page, be not impatient. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Good master Fenton, come not to my child. 
 
 Page. She is no match for you. 
 
 Fent. Sir, will you hear me ? 
 
 Page. No, good master Fenton. 
 
 Come, master Shallow ; come, son Slender ; in : — 
 Knowing my mind, you wrong me, master Fenton. 
 
 \^Exeunt Page, Shallow, and Slender. 
 
 Quick. Speak to mistress Page. 
 
 Fent. Good mistress Page, for that I love your daughter 
 In such a righteous fashion as I do. 
 Perforce, against all checks, rebukes, and manners, 
 I must advance the colours of my love. 
 And not retire : Let me have your good will. 
 
 Anne. Good mother, do not marry me to yond' fool. 
 
 Mrs. Page. I mean it not ; I seek you a better husband. 
 
 Quicks That's my master, master doctor. 
 
 Anne. Alas, I had rather be set quick i'the eq,rth. 
 And bowl'd to death with turnips. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Come, trouble not yourself: Good master 
 I will not be your friend, nor enemy : [Fenton, 
 
 My daughter will I question how she loves you. 
 And as I find her, so am I affected ; 
 'Till then, farewell, sir: — She must needs go in: 
 Her father will be angry. [Exeunt Mrs. Page and Anne. 
 
 Fent. Farewell, gentle mistress ; farewell. Nan. 
 
 Quick. This is my doing now ; — Nay, said I, will you 
 cast away your child on a fool, and a physician? Look on 
 master Fenton : — this is my doing. 
 
 Fent. I thank thee ; and I pray thee, once to night^ 
 
 ^ once to-night — ] i. e. sometime to-night.
 
 ACT III.— SCENE V. 201 
 
 Give my sweet Nan this ring : There's for thy pains. 
 
 [Exit: 
 Quick. Now heaven send thee good fortune ! A kind 
 heart he hath : a woman would run through fire and water 
 for such a kind heart. But yet, I would my master had 
 mistress Anne : or I would master Slender had her ; or, 
 in sooth, I would master Fenton had her : I will do what 
 I can for them all three ; for so I have promised, and I'll 
 be as good as my word ; but speciously for master Fen- 
 ton. Well, I must of another errand to sir John FalstafF 
 from my two mistresses ; What a beast am I to slack it ? 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 A Room in the Garter Inn. 
 
 Enter Falstaff and Bardolph. 
 
 Fal. Bardolph, I say, — 
 
 Bard. Here, sir. 
 
 Fal. Go fetch me a quart of sack ; put a toast in't. 
 [Exit Bard.] Have I lived to be carried in a basket like 
 a barrow of butcher's offal ; and to be thrown into the 
 Thames ? Well, if I be served such another trick, I'll 
 have my brains ta'en out, and butter'd, and give them to 
 a dog for a new-year's gift. The rogues slighted me into 
 the river with as little remorse as they would have drowned 
 a bitch's blind puppies, fifteen i'the litter : and you may 
 know by my size, that I have a kind of alacrity in sink- 
 ing ; if the bottom were as deep as hell, I should down. 
 I had been drowned, but that the shore was shelvy and 
 shallow ; a death that I abhor; for the water swells a man; 
 and what a thing should I have been, when I had been 
 swelled ! I should have been a mountain of mununy. 
 
 Re-enter Bardolph, with the Wine. 
 
 Bard. Here's mistress Quickly, sir, to speak with you. 
 -Fal. Come, let me pour in some sack to the Thames 
 water ; for my belly's as cold, as if I had swallowed snow- 
 balls for pills lo cool flu- reins. Call her in. 
 
 Bard. Come in, woman.
 
 202 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Quickly. 
 
 Quick. By your leave ; I cry you mercy : Give your 
 worship good-morrow. 
 
 Fal. Take away these chalices : Go, brew me a pottle 
 of sack finely. 
 
 Bard. With eggs, sir ? 
 
 Fal. Simple of itself; I'll no pullet-sperm in my brew- 
 age. — [Exit Bardolph,] — How now ? 
 
 Quick. Marry, sir, I come to your worship from mis- 
 tress Ford. 
 
 Fal. Mistress Ford ! I have had ford enough : I was 
 thrown into the ford : I have my belly full of ford. 
 
 Quick. Alas the day! good heart, that was not her 
 fault : she does so take on with her men ; they mistook 
 their erection. 
 
 Fal. So did I mine, to build upon a foolish woman's 
 promise. 
 
 Quick. Well, she laments, sir, for it, that it would yearn 
 your heart to see it. Her husband goes this morning a 
 birding ; she desires you once more to come to her be- 
 tween eight and nine : I must carry her word quickly : 
 she'll make you amends, I warrant you. 
 
 Fal. Well, I will visit her : Tell her so ; and bid her 
 think, what a man is : let her consider his frailty, and then 
 judge of my merit. 
 
 Quick. I will tell her. 
 
 Fal. Do so. Between nine and ten, say'st thou ? 
 
 Quick. Eight and nine, sir. 
 
 Fal. Well, be gone : I will not miss her. 
 
 Quick. Peace be with you, sir ! [Exit. 
 
 Fal. I marvel, I hear not of master Brook ; he sent 
 me word to stay within : I like his money well. O, here 
 he comes. 
 
 Enter Ford. 
 
 Ford. Bless you, sir ! 
 
 Fal. Now, master Brook ? you come to know what hath 
 passed between me and Ford's wife ? 
 
 Ford. That, indeed, sir John, is my business.
 
 ACT III.— SCENE V. 203 
 
 Fal. Master Brook, I will not lie to you ; I was at her 
 house the hour she appointed me. 
 Ford. And how sped you, sir ? 
 
 Fal. Very ill-favouredly, master Brook. . 
 
 Ford. How so, sir ? Did she change her determination ? 
 Fal. No, master Brook ; but the peaking cornuto her 
 husband, master Brook, dwelling in a continual 'larum of 
 jealousy, comes me in the instant of our encounter, after 
 we had embraced, kissed, protested, and, as it were, spoke 
 the prologue of our comedy ; and at his heels a rabble of 
 his companions, thither provoked and instigated by his 
 distemper, and, forsooth, to search his house for his wife's 
 love. 
 
 Ford. What, while you were there ? 
 Fed. While I was there. 
 
 Ford. And did he search for you, and could not find 
 you? 
 
 Fal. You shall hear. As good luck would have it, 
 comes in one mistress Page ; gives intelligence of Ford's 
 approach ; and, by her invention, and Ford's wife's dis- 
 traction,* they conveyed me into a buck-basket. 
 Ford. A buck-basket ! 
 
 Fal. By the Lord, a buck-basket : rammed me in with 
 foul shirts and smocks, socks, foul stockings, and greasy 
 napkins ; that, master Brook, there was the rankest com- 
 pound of villanous smell, that ever offended nostril. 
 Ford. And how long lay you there ? 
 Fal. Nay, you shall hear, master Brook, what I have 
 suffered to bring this woman to evil for your good. Being 
 thus crammed in the basket, a couple of Ford's knaves, 
 his hinds, were called forth by their mistress, to carry me 
 in the name of foul clothes to Datchet-lane : they took 
 me on their shoulders ; met the jealous knave their master 
 in the door ; who asked them once or twice, what they 
 had iu their basket: 1 quaked for fear, lest the lunatic 
 knave would have searched it ; but fate, ordaining he 
 should be a cuckold, held his hand. Well: on went lie 
 for a search, and away went I for foul clotlies. But mark 
 
 i» diilracti\)n,\ Mr. JM. Mason reads dircciion.
 
 204 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 the sequel, master Brook : I suffered the pangs of three 
 several deaths : first, an intolerable fright, to be detected 
 with a jealous rotten bell-wether : next, to be compassed, 
 like a good bilbo,"^ in the circumference of a peck, hilt to 
 point, heel to head : and then, to be stopped in, like a 
 strong distillation, with stinking clothes that fretted in 
 their own grease : think of that, — a man of my kidney, — 
 think of that : that am as subject to heat as butter : a man 
 of continual dissolution and thaw ; it was a miracle, to 
 'scape suffocation. And in the height of this bath, when 
 I was more than half stewed in grease, like a Dutch dish, 
 to be thrown into the Thames, and cooled, glowing hot, in 
 that surge, like a horse-shoe ; think of that, — hissing hot, 
 — think of that, master Brook. 
 
 Ford. In good sadness, sir, I am sorry that for my sake 
 you have suffered all this. My suit then is desperate ; 
 you'll undertake her no more ? 
 
 Fal. Master Brook, I will be thrown into Mtno., as I 
 have been into Thames, ere I will leave her thus. Her 
 husband is this morning gone a birding : I have received 
 from her another embassy of meeting ; 'twixt eight and 
 nine is the hour, master Brook. 
 
 Ford. 'Tis past eight already, sir. 
 
 Fal. Is it ? I will then address me to my appointment. 
 Come to me at your convenient leisure, and you shall 
 know how I speed ; and the conclusion shall be crowned 
 with your enjoying her: Adieu. You shall have her, 
 master Brook ; master Brook, you shall cuckold Ford. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Ford. Hum ! ha ! is this a vision ? is this a dream ? 
 do I sleep ? Master Ford, awake ; awake, master Ford ; 
 there's a hole made in your best coat, master Ford. This 
 'tis to be married ! this 'tis to have linen, and buck- 
 baskets ! — Well, I will proclaim myself what I am : I will 
 now take the lecher ; he is at my house : he cannot 'scape 
 me ; 'tis impossible he should ; he cannot creep into a 
 half-penny purse, nor into a pepper-box ; but, lest the 
 
 '' liilhn,'] A bilbo is a Spanish blade, of wliich the excellence is flexible- 
 
 ness and elasticity, from Biiboa, a city of Biscay, where the best blades are 
 made.
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE I. 205 
 
 devil that guides liim should aid him, I will search impos- 
 sible places. Though what I am 1 cannot avoid, yet to 
 be what I would not, shall not make me tame : if I have 
 horns to make one mad, let the proverb go with me, I'll be 
 horn mad. [Exit, 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. — The Street. 
 Enter Mrs. Page, Mrs. Quickly, and \V\Lhl\^x. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Is he at master Ford's already, think'st 
 thou? 
 
 Quick. Sure, he is by this ; or will be presently : but 
 truly, he is very courageous mad, about his throwing 
 into the water. Mistress Ford desires you to come sud- 
 denly. 
 
 Mrs. Page. I'll be with her by and by ; I'll but bring 
 my young man here to school ; Look, where his master 
 comes ; 'tis a playing-day, I see. 
 
 Enter Sir Hugh Evans. 
 
 How now, sir Hugh ? no school to-day ? 
 
 Eva. No ; master Slender is let the boys leave to play. 
 
 Quick. Blessing of his heart ! 
 
 Mrs. Page. Sir Hugh, my husband says, my son profits 
 nothing in the world at his book ; I pray you, ask him 
 some questions in his accidence. 
 
 £vfi. Come hither, William ; hold up your head ; come. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Come on, sirrah : hold up your head ; an- 
 swer your master, bo not afraid. 
 
 Eva. William, how nrany numbers is in nouns? 
 
 Will. Two. 
 
 Quick. 'Iiiilv, I thought there Ii;h1 hftii one number 
 more ; because they say, od's nouns. 
 
 Eva. Peace \oiir t.ittling.^. What xsj'air. \\'iHi;ini ? 
 
 Will. Pulclicr. 
 
 Quick. P.mU'ats ! there are fairer things than poulcats, 
 sure.
 
 206 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 Eva. You are a very simplicity 'oman ; I pray you, 
 peace. What is lapis, William ? 
 
 WilL A stone. 
 
 Eva. And what is a stone, William. 
 
 Will. A pebble. 
 
 Eva. No, it is lapis; I pray you, remember in your 
 prain. 
 
 Will. Lapis. 
 
 Eva. That is good, William. What is he, William, that 
 does lend articles ? 
 
 Will. Articles are borrowed of the pronoun; and be 
 thus declined, Singulariter, nominativo, hie, hac, hoc. 
 
 Eva. Nomitiativo, hig, hag, hog ; — pray you, mark : ge- 
 nitivo, hujus : Well, what is your accusative case ? 
 
 Will. Acciisativo, hinc. 
 
 Eva. I pray you, have your remembrance, child ; Accu- 
 sativo, hing, hang, hog. 
 
 Quick. Hang hog is Latin for bacon, I warrant you. 
 
 Eva. Leave your prabbles, 'oman. What is the foca- 
 tive case, William ? 
 
 Will. O — vocativo, O. 
 
 Eva. Remember, William ; focative is, caret. 
 
 Quick- And that's a good root. 
 
 Eva. 'Oman, forbear. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Peace.- 
 
 Eva. What is your genitive case plural, William? 
 
 Will. Genitive case? 
 
 Eva. Ay. 
 
 Will. Genitive, — horuni, harum, horum. 
 
 Quick. 'Vengeance of Jenny^s case ! fie on her ! — never 
 name her, child, if she be a whore. 
 
 Eva. For shame, 'oman. 
 
 Quick. You do ill to teach the child such words : he 
 teaches him to hick and to hack," which they'll do fast 
 enough of themselves: and to call horum : — fie upon you ! 
 
 Eva. 'Oman, art thou lunatics? hast thou no under- 
 standings for thy cases, and the numbers of the genders ? 
 Thou art as foolish Christian creatures, as I would desires. 
 
 *^ — — *o ^ick and to hack,'] Mr. Steevcns with great probability supposes 
 these words to signify to do mischief.
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE II. 207 
 
 Mrs. Page. Pr'ythee hold thy peace. 
 
 Eva. Shew me now, WiUiam, some declensions of your 
 pronouns. 
 
 Will. Forsooth, I have forgot. 
 
 Eva. It is ki, ka, cod ; if you forget your kies, your kcBs, 
 and your cods, you must be preeches.*^ Go your ways, and 
 play, go. 
 
 Mrs. Page. He is a better scholar, than I thought he 
 was. 
 
 Eva. He is a good sprag^ memory. Farewell, mistress 
 Page. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Adieu, good sir Hugh. \^Exit sir Hugfi. 
 Get you home, boy. — Come, we stay too long. \^Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A Room in Ford's House. 
 Enter Falstaff aiid Mrs. Ford. 
 
 Fal. Mistress Ford, your sorrow hath eaten up my suf- 
 ferance : I see, you are obsequious in your love, and I 
 profess requital to a hair's breadth ; not only, mistress 
 Ford, in the simple office of love, but in all the accoutre- 
 ment, complement, and ceremony of it. But are you sure 
 of your husband now ? 
 
 Mrs. Ford. He's a birding, sweet sir John. 
 
 Mrs. Page, [within.] What hoa, gossip Ford ! what hoa ! 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Step into the chamber, sir John. 
 
 [Exit Falstaff. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Page. 
 
 Mrs Pase. How now sweetheart ? who's at home be- 
 side yourself? 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Why, none but mine own people. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Indeed. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. No, certainly ; — Speak louder. [Aside. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Truly, I am so glad you have nobody here. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Why ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. Wiiy, woman, your husband is in his old 
 
 d musl bf prccchcs.]' Must be breeched ; i. o. flogged : — to breech is to 
 
 c sprng — ] Sprack is still used in Somersetshire, in the sense of read y, 
 
 quick, ingenious. — Sprag is Sir Hugh's corrupt pronunciation. — Loud Cnnn- 
 
 WORTH.
 
 208 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 lunes^ again : he so takes on yonder with my husband ; so 
 rails against all married mankind ; so curses all Eve's 
 daughters, of what complexion soever ; and so buffets 
 himself on the forehead, crying Peer-out, peer-out !^ that 
 any madness, I ever yet beheld, seemed but tameness, ci- 
 vility, and patience, to this his distemper he is in now : 
 I am glad the fat knight is not here. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Why, does he talk of him ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. Of none but him ; and swears, he was car- 
 ried out, the last time he searched for him, in a basket : 
 protests to my husband, he is now here ; and hath drawn 
 him and the rest of their company from their sport, to make 
 another experiment of his suspicion : but I am glad the 
 knight is not here ; now he shall see his own foolery. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. How near is he, mistress Page ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. Hard by ; at street end ; he will be here 
 anon. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. I am undone ! — the knight is here. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Why, then you are utterly shamed, and he's 
 but a dead man. What a woman are you ? — Away with 
 Ijim, away with him ; better shame than murder. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Which way should he go? how should I 
 bestow him ? Shall I put him into the basket again ? 
 
 Re-enter Fa l staff. 
 
 Fal. No, I'll come no more i'the basket : May I not go 
 out ere he come ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. Alas, three of master Ford's brothers watch 
 the door with pistols, that none shall issue out ; otherwise 
 you might slip away ere he came. But what make you 
 here ? 
 
 Fal. What shall I do ? — I'll creep up into the chimney. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. There they always use to discharge their 
 birding pieces : Creep into the kiln-hole. 
 
 Fal. Where is it ? 
 
 Mrs. Ford. He will seek there, on my word. Neither 
 press, coffer, chest, trunk, well, vault, but he hath an ab- 
 
 ^ Innes — ] i. e. lunacy, frenzy. 
 
 s Peer-out, ■peer-out .'] Sliakspeare here refers to the practice of child- 
 ren, when tliey tall on a snail to put forth his horns — 
 Peer out, peer out, peer out of your hole. 
 Or else I'll beat you black as a coal. — Henley.
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE II. 209 
 
 stract for the remembrance of such places, and goes to 
 them by his note : There's no hiding you in the house. 
 
 Fal. I'll go out then. 
 
 Mrs. Page. If you go out in your own semblance, you 
 die, sir John. Unless you go out disguised, — 
 
 Mrs. Ford. How mi2;ht we disgruise him ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. Alas the day, I know not. There is no wo- 
 man's gown big enough for him ; otherwise he might put 
 on a hat, a muffler, and a kerchief, and so escape. 
 
 Fal. Good hearts, devise something : any extremity, 
 rather than a mischief. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. My maid's aunt, the fat woman of Brent- 
 ford,'' has a gown above. 
 
 Mrs. Page. On m^ word, it will serve him; she's as big 
 as he is : and there's her thrum'd hat, and her muffler too :' 
 Run up, sir John. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Go, go, sweet sir John : mistress Page, and 
 I, will look some linen for your head. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Quick, quick ; we'll come dress you straight : 
 put on the gown the while. [^Exit Falstaff. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. I would, my husband would meet him in 
 this shape : he cannot abide the old woman of Brentford ; 
 he swears she is a witch ; forbade her my house, and hath 
 threatened to beat her. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Heaven guide him to thy husband's cud- 
 gel ; and the devil guide his cudgel afterwards ! 
 
 Mrs. Ford. But is my husband coming ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. Ay, in good sadness, is he ; and he talks of 
 the basket too, howsoever he hath had intelligence. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. We'll try that ; for I'll appoint my men to 
 carry the basket again, to meet him at the door with it, as 
 they did last time. 
 
 '' wiiman of lirentford ,1 There are several ballads concerning som^ old 
 
 woman of hrenlfirrd. A l)Ook, vMvA Jijl of Uretintford'i 7c5((imfH(, was writ- 
 ten by Robert Copland, and was a work of established notoriety in the year 
 1575, when Lanehain mentioned it in his letter from Killingwortli Castle. — 
 That this was the person here alluded to, is evident from the early quarto, in 
 which we find, " ^Iy maid's aunt, Giliumof Brentford," bic. — Sttevens, Rit- 
 «0N, Henlfv, and ftlAi.oNE. 
 
 ' thrum'd hat ,1 A hat formed of the ihriims, or ends of a weaver's 
 
 warp, and con.setjuently very coarse. —Mii//i'r, a part of female attire, which 
 only covered the hnser half of the face. — tJTttviiNs and J)ouce. 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Nay, but he'll be here presently : let's go 
 dress him like the witch of Brentford. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. I'll first direct my men, what they shall do 
 with the basket. Go up, I'll bring linen for him straight. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Hang him, dishonest varlet ! we cannot 
 misuse him enough. 
 
 We'll leave a proof, by that which we will do. 
 
 Wives may be merry, and yet honest too : 
 
 We do not act, that often jest and laugh ; 
 
 'Tis old but true, Still swine eat all the draff. [Exit. 
 
 Re-enter Mrs. Ford, with two Servants. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Go, sirs, take the basket again on your 
 shoulders ; your master is hard at door ; if he bid you set 
 it down ; obey him : quickly, despatch. [Exit. 
 
 1 Serv. Come, come, take it up. 
 
 2 Serv. Pray heaven, it be not full of knight again. 
 1 Serv. I hope not ; I had as lief bear so much lead. 
 
 Enter Ford, Page, Shallow, Caius, and 
 Sir Hugh Evans. 
 
 Ford. Ay, but if it prove true, master Page, have you 
 any way then to unfool me again ? — Set down the basket, 
 
 villain: — Somebody call my wife: You, youth in a 
 
 basket, come out here ! — O, you panderly rascals ! there's 
 a knot, a ging,'' a pack, a conspiracy against me : Now 
 shall the devil be shamed. What ! wife, I say ! come, 
 come forth ; behold what honest clothes you send forth to 
 bleaching. 
 
 Page. Why, this passes !' Master Ford you are not to 
 go loose any longer ; you must be pinioned. 
 
 Eva. Why, this is lunatics ! this is mad as a mad dog ! 
 
 Shal. Indeed, master Ford, this is not well; indeed. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Ford. 
 
 Ford. So say I too, sir. — Come hither, mistress Ford ; 
 mistress Ford, the honest woman, the modest wife, the 
 
 " — — a ging,] dug was anciently used for gavg. 
 
 ' this passes !] This is beyond all bounds.— Sieevens.
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE II. 211 
 
 virtuous creature, tliat hath the jealous tool to her hus- 
 band ! — I suspect without cause, mistress, do I? 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Heaven be my witness, you do, if you sus- 
 pect me in any dishonesty. 
 
 Ford. Well said, brazen-face ; hold it out. Come 
 
 forth, sirrah. [Pulls the clothes out of the basket. 
 
 Page. This passes ! 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Are you not ashamed? let the clothes alone. 
 
 Ford. I shall find you anon. 
 
 Eva. 'Tis unreasonable ! Will you take up your wife's 
 clothes? Come away. 
 
 Ford. Empty the basket, I say. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Why, man, why, — 
 
 Ford. Master Page, as I am a man, there was one con- 
 veyed out of my house yesterday in this basket : Why 
 may not he be there again ? In my hoTise I am sure he is : 
 my intelligence is true ; my jealousy is reasonable: pluck 
 me out all the linen. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. If you find a man there, he shall die a flea's 
 death. 
 
 Page. Here's no man. 
 
 Shal. By my fidelity, this is not well, master Ford ; 
 this wrongs you. 
 
 Eva. Master Ford, you must pray, and not follow the 
 imaginations of your own heart: this is jealousies. 
 
 Ford. Well, he's not here I seek for. 
 
 Page. No, nor no where else, but in your brain. 
 
 Ford. Help to search my house this one time : if I find 
 not what I seek, show no colour for my extremity, let me 
 for ever be your table-sport; let them say of me. As jea- 
 lous as Ford, that searched a hollow walnut for his wife's 
 leman.'" Satisfy me once more ; once more search with me. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. What hoa, mistress Page ! come you, and 
 the old woman, down; my husband will come into the 
 chamber. 
 
 Ford. Old woman! What old woman's that? 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Why. it is my maid's aunt of Brentford. 
 
 Ford. A witch, a quean, an old cozening quean ! Have 
 
 tn Ji'ii toife't leman.] T^man, i.e. lover, is derived from Uef, Dutch, be- 
 loved, and ninn.— STF.r.VENs. 
 
 1' 2
 
 212 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 I not forbid her my house ? She comes of errands, does 
 she ? We are simple men ; we do not know what's brought 
 to pass under the profession of fortune-telling-. She works 
 by charms, by spells, by the figure, and such daubery" as 
 
 this is ; beyond our element : we know nothing. Come 
 
 down, you witch, you hag you ; come down, I say. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Nay, good, sweet husband; — good gentle- 
 men, let him not strike the old woman. 
 
 Enter Falstaff in women's clothes, led hy Mrs. Page. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Come, mother Prat, come, give me your 
 hand. 
 
 Ford. I'll prat her: Out of my door, you witch! 
 
 [beats him'] you rag, you baggage you polecat, you ron- 
 yon !» out! out ! I'll conjure you, I'll fortune-tell you. 
 
 [Exit Falstaff. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Are you not ashamed ? I think, you have 
 killed the poor woman. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Nay, he will do it : — 'Tis a goodly credit 
 for you. 
 
 Ford. Hang her, witch ! 
 
 Eva. By yea and no, I think, the 'oman is a witch in- 
 deed : I like not when a 'oman has a great peard ; I spy 
 a great peard under her muffler. 
 
 Ford. Will you follow, gentlemen ; I beseech you, fol- 
 low ; see but the issue of my jealousy : if I cry out thus 
 upon no trail,p never trust me when I open again. 
 
 Page. Let's obey his humour a little farther : Come, 
 gentlemen. 
 
 [Exeunt Page, Ford, Shallow, atid Evans. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Trust me, he beat him most pitifully. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Nay, by the mass, that he did not; he beat 
 him most unpitifully, methought. 
 
 Mrs. Page. I'll have the cudgel hallowed, and huno-o'er 
 the altar ; it hath done meritorious service. 
 
 " daubery — ] gross fahehood, and impositiun. 
 
 " ronyon /] Ronyon, applied to a woman, means, as far as can be traced, 
 
 much the same with scall or scab sjjoken of a man. From rogneux, French. 
 
 Johnson. 
 
 - P cry out thus upon no trail,] Trail is the scent left by the passage of 
 
 the game. To cry out, is to open or fcar/..— Johnson.
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE III. 213 
 
 Mrs. Ford. What think you ? May we, with the war- 
 rant of womanhood, and the witness of a good conscience, 
 pursue him with any further revenge? 
 
 Mrs. Page. The spirit of wantonness is, sure, scared out 
 of him ; if the devil have him not in fee-simple, with fine 
 and recovery,'' he will never, I think, in the way of waste, 
 attempt us again/ 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Shall we tell our husbands how we have 
 served him ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. Yes, by all means ; if it be but to scrape 
 the figures out of your husband's brains. If they can find 
 in their hearts, the poor unvirtuous fat knight shall be 
 any further afflicted, we two will still be the ministers. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. I'll warrant, they'll have him publicly 
 shamed ; and, methinks, there would be no period to the 
 jest, should he not be publicly shamed. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Come, to the forge with it then, shape it : I 
 would not have things cool. [^ExeuiU. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 A Room in the Garter Inn. 
 
 EiUer Host and Bardolph. 
 
 Bard. Sir, the Germany desire to have three of your 
 horses : the duke himself will be to-morrow at court, and 
 they are going to meet him. 
 
 IIosl. What duke sliould that be, comes so secretly? I 
 hear not of him in the court : Let me speak with the gen- 
 tlemen ; they speak English ? 
 
 Bard. Ay, sir ; I'll call them to you. 
 
 Host. They shall have my horses ; but I'll make them 
 pay, I'll sauce them : they have had my houses a week at 
 command ; I have turned away my other guests : they 
 must come off;' I'll sauce them: Come. [Exeunt. 
 
 1 if the devil have him not in fee-simple, with fine and recovery,] Fee- 
 simple is till- largest estate, and fine and recovery, the strongest assurance, known 
 to Eiiglisli l:iw. — lliTsos. 
 
 r wail ()/'u>iiJ(?,J Way of injur)'. 
 
 • come KJ} :] Pay u-ell, as we now say, come down with a sum of money.
 
 214 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 A Room in Ford's House. 
 
 Enter Page, Ford, Mrs. Page, Mrs. Ford, and 
 Sir Hugh Evans. 
 
 Eva. 'Tis one of the pest discretions of a 'oman as ever 
 I did look upon. 
 
 Page. And did he send you both these letters at an 
 instant ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. Within a quarter of an hour. 
 
 Ford. Pardon me, wife : Henceforth do what thou wilt ; 
 1 rather will suspect the sun with cold. 
 Than thee with wantonness : now doth thy honour stand. 
 In him that was of late an heretic. 
 As firm as faith. 
 
 Page. 'Tis well, 'tis well ; no more. 
 
 Be not as Extreme in submission. 
 As in offence ; 
 
 But let our plot go forward : let our wives 
 Yet once again, to make us public sport. 
 Appoint a meeting with this old fat fellow. 
 Where we may take him, and disgrace him for it. 
 
 Ford. There is no better way than that they spoke of. 
 
 Page. How ! to send him word they'll meet him in the 
 park at midnight ! fie, fie ; he'll never come. 
 
 Eva. You say, he has been thrown into the rivers ; and 
 has been grievously peaten, as an old 'oman : methinks, 
 there should be terrors in him, that he should not come ; 
 methinks, his flesh is punished, he shall have no desires. 
 
 Pase. So think I too. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Devise but how you'Uuse him when he comes. 
 And let us two devise to bring him thither. 
 
 Mrs. Page. There is an old tale goes, that Heme the 
 Sometime a keeper here in Windsor forest, [hunter. 
 
 Doth all the winter time, at still midnight. 
 Walk round about an oak, with great ragg'd horns ; 
 And there he blasts the tree, and takes* the cattle ; 
 And makes milch-kine yield blood, and shakes a chain 
 
 ' takci — ] i. e. hlaHs.
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE IV. 215 
 
 In a most hideous and dreadful manner : 
 
 You have heard of such a spirit ; and well you know, 
 
 The superstitious idle-headed eld" 
 
 Received, and did deliver to our age. 
 
 This tale of Heme the hunter for a truth. 
 
 Pa(re. Why, yet there want not many, that do fear 
 In deep of night to walk by this Heme's oak : 
 But what of this ? 
 
 ]\lrs. Ford. Marry, this is our device ; 
 That Falstaft' at that oak shall meet with us. 
 Disguised like Heme, with huge horns on his head. 
 Page. Well, let it not be doubted but he'll come. 
 And in this shape : When you have brought him thither. 
 What shall be done with him ? what is your plot ? 
 
 ]\lrs. Page. That likewise have we thought upon, and 
 Nan Page my daughter, and my little son, [thus : 
 
 And three or four more of their growth, we'll dress 
 Like urchins, ouphes," and fairies, green and white. 
 With rounds of waxen tapers on their heads. 
 And rattles in their hands ; upon a sudden. 
 As Falstaff, she, and I, are newly met. 
 Let them from forth a saw-pit rush at once 
 With some diffused song ; upon their sight. 
 We two in great amazedness will fly : 
 Then let them all encircle him about, 
 And, fairy-like, to pinch the unclean knight ; 
 And ask him, why, that hour of fairy revel. 
 In their so sacred paths he dares to tread. 
 In shape profane. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. And till he tell the truth, 
 
 Let the supposed fairies pinch him sound,*' 
 And bum liini with their tapers. 
 
 3[rs. Pa<re. The truth being known, 
 
 We'll all present ourselves ; dis-horn the spirit. 
 And mock him home to Windsor. 
 
 Ford. Tlu' children must 
 
 I5e practised well to this, or they'll ne'er do't. 
 
 u eld — J i. f. old people. 
 
 » urchins, elvfs,] Oiip/i— Teutonic for/niry. 
 
 » ;iinf'i litm sound, J i. e. spindly. Tlic adjective used adverbially.
 
 216 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 Eva. I will teach the children their behaviours ; and I 
 will be like a Jack-an-apes also, to burn the knight with 
 my taber. 
 
 Ford. That will be excellent. I'll go buy them vizards. 
 
 M?s. Page. My Nan shall be the queen of all the fairies. 
 Finely attired in a robe of white. 
 
 Page. That silk will I go buy ; — and in that time 
 Shall master Slender steal my Nan away, [Aside. 
 
 And marry her at Eton.- Go, send to FalstafF straight. 
 
 Ford. Nay, I'll to him again, in name of Brook : 
 He'll tell me all his purpose : Sure, he'll come. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Fear not you that : Go, get us properties,^ 
 And tricking for our fairies. 
 
 Eva. Let us about it : It is admirable pleasures, and 
 fery honest knaveries. 
 
 [Exeunt Page, Ford, and Evans. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Go, mistress Ford, 
 Send Quickly to sir John, to know his mind. 
 
 [Exit Mrs. FoRi>. 
 I'll to the doctor ; he hath my good will. 
 And none but he, to marry with Nan Page, 
 That Slender, though well landed, is an idiot j 
 And he my husband best of all affects : 
 The doctor is well money'd, and his friends 
 Potent at court ; he, none but he, shall have her. 
 Though twenty thousand worthier come to crave her. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 A Room in the Garter Inn. 
 Enter Host and Simple. 
 
 Host. What wouldst thou have, boor? what, thickskin? 
 speak, breathe, discuss : brief, short, quick, snap. 
 
 Sim. Marry, sir, I come to speak with sir John Falstaff 
 from master Slender, 
 
 Host. There's his chamber, his house, his castle, his 
 
 » properties,'] Properties are little incidental necessaries to a theatre, 
 
 exclusive of scenes and dresses. — Steevens.
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE V. 217 
 
 standing-bed, and truckle-bed j^' 'tis painted about with 
 the story of the prodigal, fresh and new : Go, knock and 
 call ; he'll speak like an anthropophaginiaii^ unto thee : 
 Knock, I say. 
 
 Sim. There's an old woman, a fat woman, gone up into 
 his chamber; I'll be so bold as stay, sir, till she come 
 down ; I come to speak with her, indeed. 
 
 Host. Ha! a fat woman! the knight maybe robbed: 
 I'll call. — Bully knight! Bully sir John! speak from thy 
 lungs military: Art thou there? it is thine host, thine 
 Ephesian,*^ calls. 
 
 Fal. [above.'] How now, mine host ? 
 
 Host. Here's a Bohemian-Tartar tarries the coming 
 down of thy fat woman ; Let her descend, bully, let her 
 descend ; my chambers are honourable : Fy e ? privacy ? fye ! 
 
 Enter Falstaff. 
 
 Fa!. There was, mine host, an old fat woman even now 
 with me; but she's gone. 
 
 Sim. Pray you, sir, was't not the wise woman of Brent- 
 ford ? 
 
 Fal. Ay, marry, was it, muscle-shell ;** What would you 
 with her? 
 
 Sim. My master, sir, my master Slender, sent to her, 
 seeing her go thorough the. streets, to know, sir, whether 
 one Nym, sir, that beguiled him of a chain, had the chain, 
 or no. 
 
 Fal. I spake with the old woman about it. 
 
 Sim. And what says she, I pray, sir? 
 
 Fal. Marry, she says, that the very same man, that be- 
 guiled master Slender of his chain, cozened him of it. 
 
 Sim. I would, I could have spoken with the woman 
 herself; I had other things to have spoken with her too, 
 from hiin. 
 
 * his standitig-betl, and truckle-bed :] Tho usual furniture of chambers 
 
 in that time was a standing-bed, under which was a trockle, truckle, or run- 
 ning-bed. In the standing-bed, lay the master ; in the truckle-bed lay the 
 servant. — Johnson. 
 
 •• antliropophaginian — ] A mock word, formed from (intltropophagi, 
 
 cannibals. 
 
 •^ thine Ephesian,] Tliis was a cant term of the time, probably signi- 
 fying a bottle companinu. 
 
 •^ musclc-iluU ; I So called, says Johnson, because he st.inds with his 
 
 mouth open.
 
 218 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 Fal. What are they? let us know. 
 
 Host. Ay, come; quick. 
 
 Sim. I may not conceal them, sir. 
 
 Fal. Conceal them, or thou diest. 
 
 Sim. Why, sir, they are nothing but about mistress 
 Anne Page ; to know, if it were my master's fortune to 
 have her, or no. 
 
 Fal. 'Tis, 'tis his fortune. 
 
 Sim. What, sir? 
 
 Fal. To have her, — or no : Go ; say, the woman told 
 me so. 
 
 Sim. May I be so bold to say so, sir? 
 
 Fal. Ay, sir Tike ;® who more bold ? 
 
 Sim. I thank your worship : I shall make my master 
 glad with these tidings. \_Exit Simple. 
 
 Host. Thou art clerkly, thou art clerkly, sir John : Was 
 there a wise woman with thee ? 
 
 Fal. Ay, that there was, mine host: one that hath 
 taught me more wit than ever I learned before in my life : 
 and I paid nothing for it, neither, but was paid*" for my 
 learning. 
 
 Enter Bardolph» 
 
 Bard. Out, alas, sir ! cozenage ! meer cozenage ! 
 
 Host. Where be my horses ? speak well of them, varletto. 
 
 Bard. Run away with the cozeners : for so soon as I 
 came beyond Eton, they threw me off", from behind one of 
 them, in a slough of mire ; and set spurs, and away, like 
 three German devils, three doctor Faustuses. 
 
 Host. They are gone but to meet the duke, villain: do 
 not say, they be fled ; Germans are honest men. 
 
 Fnter Sir Hugh Evans. 
 
 Exia. Where is mine host? 
 Host. What is the matter, sir ? 
 
 Eva. Have a care of your entertainments : there is a 
 friend of mine come to town, tells me, there is three cou- 
 
 « Tike ;] Great tike is still a term of reproach in Yorkshire. — Tike 
 
 means, either a dog of a common and large breed, or a heifer or buUodk — 
 or an insect that infests sheep and dogs. — Nares. 
 
 f to he paid — ]— Still, in the vulgar tongue, means to be beaten.
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE V. 219 
 
 zin germans, that has cozened all the hosts of Readings, 
 of Maidenhead, of Colebrook, of horses and money. I 
 tell you for good-will, look you: you are wise, and full of 
 gibes, and vlouting stogs ; and 'tis not convenient you 
 should be cozened : Fare you well. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Doctor Caius. - - 
 
 Caius. Vere is mine host de Jarterre? 
 
 Host. Here, master doctor, in perplexity, and doubtful 
 dilemma. 
 
 Caius. I cannot tell vat is dat : But it is tell-a me, dat 
 you make grand preparation for a duke de Jarmani/ : by 
 my trot, dere is no duke, dat de court is know to come ; 
 I tell you for good-vill : adieu. [Exit. 
 
 Host. Hue and cry, villain, go : — assist me, knight ; I 
 am undone : fly, run, hue and cry, villain ! I am undone ! 
 
 [Exeunt Host and Bardolph. 
 
 Fal. I would, all the world might be cozened ; for I 
 have been cozened, and beaten too. If it should come to 
 the ear of the court, how I have been transformed, and 
 how my transformation hath been washed and cudgelled, 
 they would melt me out of my fat, drop by drop, and liquor 
 fishermen's boots with me : I warrant, they would whip 
 me with their fine wits, till I were as crest-fallen as a dried 
 pear. I never prospered since I forswore myself atpn- 
 mero.^ Well, if my wind were but long enough to say my 
 prayers, I would repent. — 
 
 Enter Mrs. Quickly. 
 
 Now ! whence come you ? 
 
 Quick. From the two parties, forsooth. 
 
 Fal. The devil take one party, and his dam the other, 
 and so they shall be both bestowed ! I have sufl'ered more 
 for their sakes, more, than the villanous inconstancy of 
 man's disposition is able to bear. 
 
 Quick. And have they not suffered? Yes, I warrant; 
 speciously one of them ; mistress Ford, good heart, is 
 beaten black and blue, that you cannot see a white spot 
 about her. 
 
 n ^irimrip.') A game at cards.
 
 220 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 Fal. What tell'st thou me of black and blue ? I was 
 beaten myself into all the colours of the rainbow ; and I 
 was like to be apprehended for the witch of Brentford ; 
 but that my admirable dexterity of wit, my counterfeiting 
 the action of an old woman, delivered me, the knave con- 
 stable had set me i'the stocks, i'the common stocks, for a 
 witch. 
 
 Quick. Sir, let me speak with you in your chamber : 
 you shall hear how things go ; and, I warrant, to your 
 content. Here is a letter will say somewhat. Good 
 hearts, what ado here is to bring you together ! Sure one 
 of you does not serve heaven well, that you are so crossed. . 
 
 Fal. Come up into my chamber. \]i,xeunt. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 Another Room in the Garter Inn. 
 
 Enter Fenton and Host. 
 
 Host. Master Fenton, talk not to me ; my mind is 
 heavy, I will give over all. 
 
 Fent. Yet hear me speak ; Assist me in my purpose. 
 And, as I am a gentleman, I'll give thee 
 A hundred pound in gold, more than your loss. 
 
 Host. I will hear you, master Fenton; and I will, at the 
 least, keep your counsel. 
 
 Fent. From time to time I have acquainted you 
 With the dear love I bear to fair Anne Page ; 
 Who, mutually, hath answer'd my affection 
 (So far forth as herself might be her chooser,) 
 Even to my wish : I have a letter from her 
 Of such contents as you will wonder at ; 
 The mirth whereof^ so larded with my matter. 
 That neither, singly, can be manifested. 
 Without the show of both ; — wherein fat Falstaff 
 Hath a great scene: the image of the jest 
 
 [Shoiving the letter. 
 I'll show you here at large. Hark, good mine host : 
 To-night at Heme's oak, just 'twixt twelve and one, 
 
 h whereof — ] Was formerly used in the sense of thereof.
 
 ACT IV.— SCENE VI. 221 
 
 Must my sweet Nan present the fairy queen ; 
 The purpose why, is here ; in which disguise. 
 While other jests are something rank on foot,' 
 Her father hath commanded her to slip 
 Away with Slender, and with him at Eton 
 Immediately to marry : she hath consented : 
 Now, sir. 
 
 Her mother, even strong against that match. 
 And firm for doctor Caius, hath appointed 
 That he shall likewise shuffle her away. 
 While other sports are tasking of their minds. 
 And at the deanery, where a priest attends. 
 Straight marry her: to this her mother's plot 
 She, seemingly obedient, likewise hath 
 Made promise to the doctor; — Now thus it rests : 
 Her father means she shall be all in white ; 
 And in that habit, when Slender sees his time 
 To ttike her by the hand, and bid her go. 
 She shall go with him : her mother hath intended. 
 The better to denote her to the doctor, 
 (For they must all be mask'd and vizarded,) 
 That, quaint'' in green, she shall be loose enrob'd. 
 With ribbands pendant, flaring 'bout her head ; 
 And when the doctor spies his vantage ripe. 
 To pinch her by the hand, and, on that token. 
 The maid hath given consent to go with him. 
 
 Host. Which means she to deceive? father or mother? 
 
 Ihit. Both, my good host, to go along with me : 
 And here it rests, — that you'll procure the vicar 
 To stay for me at church, 'twixt twelve and one. 
 And, ill the lawful name of marrying. 
 To give our hearts united ceremony. 
 
 Host. Well, husband your device; I'll to the vicar: 
 Bring you the maid, you sludl not lack a ])riest. 
 
 Fciit. So shall I ever more be bound to tiiee ; 
 Besides, I'll make a present recompense. [Exeunt. 
 
 ' While other jesti are soinelhiitg rank on foot,] i.e. while tlu'y arc hotly pur- 
 suing other merriment of their own. — Stei'.vens. 
 
 I* quaint — J Formerly meant neat, elegant, a sense in which it is now 
 
 obsolete.
 
 222 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene I. — A Room in the Garter Inn. 
 Enter Falstaff and Mrs. Quickly. 
 
 Fal. Pr'ythee, no more prattling : — go. I'll hold : 
 
 This is the third time ; I hope, good luck lies in odd num- 
 bers. Away go ; they say, there is divinity in odd num- 
 bers,' either in nativity, chance, or death. — Away. 
 
 Quick. I'll provide you a chain ; and I'll do what I can 
 to get you a pair of horns. 
 
 Fal. Away, I say ; time wears : hold up your head, and 
 mince."' \_Exit Mrs. Quickly. 
 
 Enter Ford. 
 
 How now, master Brook ? Master Brook, the matter will 
 be known to-night or never. Be you in the park about 
 midnight, at Heme's oak, and you shall see wonders. 
 
 Ford. Went you not to her yesterday, sir, as you told 
 me you had appointed? 
 
 Fal. I went to her, master Brook, as you see, like a 
 poor old man : but I came from her, master Brook, like a 
 poor old woman. That same knave. Ford her husband, 
 hath the finest mad devil of jealousy in him, master 
 Brook, that ever governed phrenzy. I will tell you. — He 
 beat me grievously, in the shape of a woman ; for in the 
 shape of man, master Brook, I fear not Goliath with a 
 weaver's beam ; because I know also, life is a shuttle." I 
 am in haste ; go along with me ; I'll tell you all, master 
 Brook. Since I plucked geese," played truant and whip- 
 ped top, I knew not what it was to be beaten, till lately. 
 Follow me : I'll tell you strange things of this knave 
 Ford : on whom to-night I will be revenged, and I will 
 
 ' divinity in odd numbers,'] Alluding to Numero deus impare gaudet. — 
 
 Virgil, Eel. 8. — Steevens. 
 
 " mince.'\ Walk affectedly with short steps. 
 
 o li/'e is a shitltle,] An allusion to Job vii. 6. " My days axe swifter than 
 
 a weaver's shutlle." — Stkevkns. 
 
 o Since J plucked geese,] To strip a living goose of his feathers, was 
 
 formerly an act of puerile barbarity. — Steevens.
 
 ACT v.— SCENE II. III. 223 
 
 deliver his wife into your hand. — Follow : Strange things 
 in hand, master Brook ! follow. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Windsor Park. 
 Enter Page, Shallow, and Slender. 
 
 Page. Come, come ; we'll couch i'the castle-ditch, till 
 we see the lio-ht of our fairies. — Remember, son Slender, 
 my daughter. 
 
 Slen. Ay, forsooth ; I have spoke wnth her, and we 
 have a nay-word, how to know one another. I come to 
 her in white, and cry, miun; she cries, budget ;^ and by 
 that we know one another. 
 
 Shal. That's good too : but what needs either your 
 mum, or her budget? the white will decipher her well 
 enough. — It hath struck ten o'clock. 
 
 Page. The night is dark ; light and spirits will become 
 it well. Heaven prosper our sport ! No man means evil 
 but the devil, and we shall know him by his horns. Let's 
 away ; Ibllow me. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 The Street in Windsor. 
 Enter Mrs. Page, Mrs. Ford, and Dr. Caius. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Master doctor, my daughter is in green : 
 when you see your time, take her by the hand, away with 
 her to the deanery, and despatch it quickly : Go before 
 into the park ; we two must go together. 
 
 Caius. I know vat I have to do ; Adieu. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Fare you well, sir. [Exit Caius.] My 
 husband will not rejoice so much at the abuse of Falstaff, 
 as he will chafe at the doctor's marrying my daughter : 
 but 'tis no matter ; better a little chiding, than a great 
 deal of heart-break. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Where is Nan now, and her troop of fairies ? 
 and the Welch devil, Tlu;jli ? 
 
 P mum — budget,] A cant word, implying silence. — Nares.
 
 224 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 Mrs. Page. They are all couched in a pit hard by 
 Heme's oak,-! with obscured lights ; which at the very in- 
 stant of FalstafF's and our meeting, they will at once dis- 
 play to the night. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. That cannot choose but amaze him. 
 
 Mrs. Page. If he be not amazed, he will be mocked ; if 
 he be amazed, he will every way be mocked. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. We'll betray him finely. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Against such lewdsters, and their lechery. 
 Those that betray them do no treachery. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. The hour draws on ; To the oak, to the oak ! 
 
 ^Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Windsor Park. 
 
 Enter Sir Hugh Evans,«wc? Fairies . 
 
 Eva. Trib, trib, fairies ; come ; and remember your parts : 
 be pold, I pray you 5 follow me into the pit ; and when I 
 give th€ watch-'ords, do as I pid you ; Come, come ; trib, 
 trib. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 Another part of the Park. 
 
 Enter Falstaff disguised ; with a buck's head on. 
 
 Fal. The Windsor bell hath struck twelve ; the minute 
 draws on : Now, the hot-blooded gods assist me : — -Re- 
 member, Jove, thou wast a bull for thy Europa ; love set 
 on thy horns.— O, powerful love ! that, in some respects, 
 makes a beast a man ; in some other, a man a beast. — 
 You were also, Jupiter, a swan, for the love of Leda ; — 
 O, omnipotent love ! how near the god drew to the com- 
 plexion of a goose ? — A fault done first in the form of a 
 beast ; — O Jove, a beastly fault ! and then another fault 
 in the semblance of a fowl ; think on't, Jove ; a foul fault. 
 
 1 in a pit hard by Heme's oak,] An oak, which may be that alluded tO' 
 
 by Shakspeare, is still standing close to a j>it in Windsor forest. It is yet 
 shewn as the ouk of Heme. — Steevens.
 
 ACT v.— SCENE V. 225 
 
 — When gods have hot backs, what shall poor men do ? 
 For me, I am here a Windsor stag ; and the fattest, I 
 think, i'the forest : Send me a cool rut-time, Jove, or who 
 can blame me to piss my tallow ?' Who comes here ? 
 my doe ? 
 
 Enter Mrs. Ford and Mrs. Page. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Sir John ? art thou there, my deer ? my 
 male deer ? 
 
 Fal. My doe with the black scut ? — Let the sky rain 
 potatoes ; let it thunder to the tune of Green Sleeves ; 
 hail kissing-comfits, and snow eringoes ;* let there come 
 a tempest of provocation, I will shelter me here. 
 
 {^Embracing her. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Mistress Page is come with me, sweet- 
 heart. 
 
 Fal. Divide me like a bribe-buck, each a haunch : I 
 will keep my sides to myself, my shoulders for the fellow 
 of this walk,' and my horns I bequeath your husbands 
 Am I a woodman ? ha ! Speak I like Heme the hunter ? 
 — Why, now is Cupid a child of conscience ; he makes 
 restitution. As I am a true spirit, welcome ! 
 
 [Noise within. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Alas ! what noise? 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Heaven forgive our sins ! 
 
 Fal. What should this be ? 
 
 Mrs. Ford. } . "" rT-i. ^ 
 
 Mrs. Page. \ Away, away. [Theijrunoff. 
 
 Fal. I think, the devil will not have me damned, lest 
 the oil that is in me should set hell on fire ; he would never 
 else cross me thus. 
 
 >■ Send me a cml mt-time, &c.] This is all technical. In Turberville's Booke 
 of Hnnliiig, \b7h : " During tlio time of tlx-ir mi, the liarts live with small 
 sustenance. — The red mushroom hclpeth well to make them jtysse their grease, 
 they are then in so vehement heate." — Fahmeh- 
 
 • Potatoes, when first introduced into England, were supposed to be strong 
 provocatives. — Kiniug comjils, perfumed sugar-plums to sweeten the breath. — 
 Eringoes, like potatoes, were esteemed stimulatives. — Stf.evens. 
 
 t mv shoulders for the fellow of this walk,] A walk is that district in a 
 
 forest, lo which the jurisdiction of a particular keeper extends. — Mat ovf. To 
 'he keeper the ^hfliildirs, and humbles belong an ;i jierqnisite. — Gbey. 
 
 \oi,. I. Q
 
 226 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 Enter Si?- Hugh Evans, like a Satyr ; Mrs. Quickly, 
 and Pistol ; Anne Page, as the Fairy Queen, attended 
 by her Brother and others, dressed like Fairies, with waxen 
 tapers on their heads. 
 
 Qu."" Fairies, black, grey, green, and white. 
 You moon-shine revellers, and shades of night. 
 You orphan-heirs of fixed destiny," 
 Attend your office, and your quality. 
 Crier Hobgoblin, make the fairy o-yes. 
 
 Pist.^ Elves, list your names ; silence, you airy toys. 
 Cricket, to Windsor chimnies shalt thou leap : 
 Where fires thou find'st unrak'd, and hearths unswept. 
 There pinch the maids as blue as bilberry :^ 
 Our radiant queen hates sluts, and sluttery. 
 
 Fal. They are fairies ; he, that speaks to them, shall die : 
 I'll w^ink and couch : no man their w^orks must eye. 
 
 [Lies down upon his face. 
 
 Eva. Where's Pede 7 — Go you, and where you find a 
 That, ere she sleep, has thrice her prayers said, [maid. 
 Raise up the organs of her fantasy,^ 
 Sleep she as sound as careless infancy ; 
 But those as sleep, and think not on their sins. 
 Pinch them, arms, legs, back, shoulders, sides, and shins. 
 
 Qu. About, about : 
 Search Windsor castle, elves, within and out : 
 
 " Qii.] I think this speech has been falsely attributed to Mrs. Quickly. — It 
 •was evidently spoken by the person who played the part of Fairy Queen, which 
 was perhaps Anne Page — and has been given to Mrs. Quickly owing to an 
 error of the press ; by which in the first folio, we find Qui prefixed to the lines 
 instead of Que. 
 
 " You orphan-?ieirs of fixed destiny,'] Shakspeare uses the word heirs as syno- 
 nymous for children — they were orphans in respect of their real parents, from 
 whom they had been removed, and were now only dependent on destiny. 
 Such is the explanation of Dr. Farmer. I believe " orphan-heirs of destiny," 
 means that they were " bom without parents by a decree of destiny." 
 
 y Pist-I Mr. Malone considers these lines as ill-suited to Pistol ; and sup- 
 poses that from their having been delivered by the same performer, who had, 
 in the eaijly part of the play represented that character, his name thus crept into 
 the copies. — May not Pist. the abbreviation for Pistol, have been a typographi- 
 cal mistake for Puck ? 
 
 * us bilberry :] The bilberry is the whortleberry. 
 
 * Raise up the organs of her fantasy,] Inspire her virith holy and elevated 
 visions.
 
 ACT v.— SCENE V^ 227 
 
 Strew good luck, ouphes, on every sacred room ; 
 
 That it may stand till the perpetual doom, 
 
 In state as wholesome, as in state 'tis fit ; 
 
 Worthy the owner, and the owner it. 
 
 The several chairs of order look you scour 
 
 With juice of balm, and every precious flower :"• 
 
 Each fair instalment, coat, and several crest, 
 
 With loyal blazon, evermore be blest ! 
 
 And nightly, meadow-fairies, look, you sing. 
 
 Like to the Garter's compass, in a ring : 
 
 The expressure that it bears, green let it be. 
 
 More fertile-fresh than all the field to see ; 
 
 And, Honi/ soit qui mal y pense, write. 
 
 In emerald tufts, flowers purple, blue, and white ; 
 
 Like sapphire, pearl, and rich embroidery, -^ 
 
 Buckled below fair knighthood's bending knee : \ 
 
 Fairies use flowers for their charactery. * 
 
 Away ; disperse : But, till 'tis one o'clock. 
 
 Our dance of custom, round about the oak 
 
 Of Heme the hunter, let us not forget. 
 
 Eva. Pray you, lock hand in hand ; yourselves in order 
 And twenty glow-worms shall our lanterns be, [set : 
 
 To guide our measure round about the tree. 
 But, stay ; I smell a man of middle earth .*= 
 
 Fal. Heavens defend me fn^m that Welch fairy ! lest he 
 transform me to a piece of cheese ! 
 
 Pist. Vile worm, thou wast o'erlook'd even in thy birth : 
 
 Quick. With trial-fire touch me his finger-end : 
 If he be chaste, the flame will back descend. 
 And turn him to no pain ; but if he start. 
 It is the flesh of a corrupted heart. 
 
 Pist. A trial, come. 
 
 Eva. Come, will this wood take fire? 
 
 [T/tei/ burn him with their tapers. 
 
 Fal. Oh, oh, oh ! 
 
 b W'Uh juice of' halm and every precious Jloiier :] It was an article of anciont 
 luxury to rub tables, &.c. with aromatic herbs. — Pliny informs us that the 
 Romans did the same to drive away evil spirits. — Stf.evens. 
 
 c man n/ middle earth .] — Spirits were supposed to inhabit the ethereal 
 
 regions, and fairies to dwell underground.— Men therefore are in a iniJdl« 
 station. — .Tomnson. 
 
 <J2
 
 22S MERRY WIVES OF Wl^^DSOR 
 
 Qu. Corrupt, corrupt, and tainted in desire ! 
 About him, fairies ; sing a scornful rhyme ; 
 And, as you trip, still pinch him to your time. 
 
 Eva. It is right ; indeed he is full of lecheries and ini- 
 quity. 
 
 Song. Fi/e on sinful fantasy ! 
 
 Fye on lust and luxury! 
 
 Lust is but a bloody fire. 
 
 Kindled with unchaste desire, 
 
 Fed in heart ; whose flames aspire. 
 
 As thoughts do blow them, higher and higher. 
 
 Pinch him, fairies, mutually ; 
 
 Pinch him for his villany ; 
 Pinch him, and burn him, and turn him about, 
 Till candles, and star-light, and moon-shine, be out. 
 
 During this Song, the Fairies pinch FalstafF. Doctor Caius 
 comes one way, and steals away a Fairy in green ; Slender 
 another way, and takes off a Fairy in white ; and Fenton 
 comes, and steals away Mrs. Anne Page. A noise of hunt- 
 ing is made within. All the Fairies run away. FalstafF 
 pulls off his buck's head and rises. 
 
 Enter Page, Ford, Mrs. Page, and Mrs. Ford : they 
 
 lay hold on him. 
 
 Pnge. Nay, do not fly ; I think, we have watch'd you now ; 
 Will none but Heme the hunter serve your turn ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. I pray you, come ; hold up the jest no 
 higher : — 
 Now, good sir John, how like you Windsor wives ? 
 See you these, husband ? do not these fair yokes'* 
 Become the forest better than the town ? 
 
 Ford. Now, sir, who's a cuckold now ? — Master Brook, 
 FalstafF's a knave, a cuckoldy knave ; here are his horns, 
 master Brook : And master Brook, he hath enjoyed 
 
 "* 1/ofces — ] The second folio reads oaks ; and I agree with Mr. M. Mason 
 
 in considering it the right reading, llie horns of the deer on the head of Fal- 
 staff, are here alluded to — they so strongly resemble the branches of a tree, 
 that they are in French called bois; and Mrs. Page gives those on the head of 
 the wanton Knight the pompous appellation of oaka, from their peculiar height 
 and sue.
 
 ACT v.— SCENE V. 229 
 
 nothing of Ford's but his buck-basket, his cudgel, and 
 twenty pounds of money ; which must be paid to master 
 Brook ; his horses are arrested for it, master Brook. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Sir John we have had ill luck ; we could 
 never meet. I will never take you for my love again, but 
 I will always count you my deer. 
 
 Fal. I do begin to perceive, that I am made an ass. 
 
 Ford. Ay, and an ox too ; both the proofs are extant. 
 
 Fal. And these are not fairies ? I was three or four 
 times in the thought, they were not fairies ; and yet the 
 guiltiness of my mind, the sudden surprise of my powers, 
 drove the grossness of the foppery into a received belief, 
 in despite of the teeth of all rhyme and reason, that they 
 were fairies. See now, how wit may be made a Jack-a- 
 lent,' when 'tis upon ill employment. 
 
 Eva. Sir John Falstaff, serve Got, and leave your de- 
 sires, and fairies will not pinse you. 
 
 Ford. Well said, fairy Hugh. 
 
 Eva. And leave you your jealousies too, I pray you. 
 
 Ford. I will never mistrust my wife again, till thou art 
 able to woo her in good English. 
 
 Fa/. Have I laid my brain in the sun, and dried it, that 
 it wants matter to prevent so gross o'er-reaching as this ? 
 Am I ridden with a Welch goat too ? Shall I have a cox- 
 comb of frize?*^ 'Tis time I were choked with a piece of 
 toasted cheese. 
 
 Eva. Seese is not good to give putter ; your pelly is all 
 putter. 
 
 Fal. Sees and putter ! have I lived to stand at the 
 taunt of one that makes fritters of English ? This is enough 
 to be the decay of lust and late-walkins;, through the 
 realm. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Why, sir John, do you think, though we 
 would have thrust virtue out of our hearts by the head 
 and shoulders, and have given ourselves without scruple 
 to hell, that ever the devil could have made you our 
 delight? 
 
 « Jack-a-lentil — seems to have been a puppet, which was dressed in 
 
 rags, and thrown at in Lent, like Shrove-tide cocka. — Steevfns. 
 
 » n cpicomb of frize?) i. e. A fool's cap made out of Welch matenaU. 
 
 Wales was famous for this cloth. — Stbf.vens.
 
 230 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 Ford. What, a hodge-pudding ? a bag of flax ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. A puffed man? 
 
 Page. Old, cold, withered, and of intolerable entrails? 
 
 Ford. And one that is as slanderous as Satan? 
 
 Page. And as poor as Job ? 
 
 Ford. ^And as wicked as his wife ? 
 
 Eva. And given to fornications, and to taverns, and 
 sack, and wine, and metheglins, and to drinkings, and 
 swearings, and starings, pribbles and prabbles ? 
 
 Fal. Well, I am your theme : you have the start of me ; 
 I am dejected ; I am not able to answer the Welch flannel : 
 ignorance itself is a plummet o'er me ;s use me as you will. 
 
 Ford. Marry, sir, we'll bring you to Windsor, to one 
 master Brook, that you have cozened of money, to whom 
 you should have been a pander : over and above that you 
 have suffered, I think, to repay that money will be a biting 
 affliction. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Nay, husband, let that go to make amends : 
 Forgive that sum, and so we'll all be friends. 
 
 Ford. Well, here's my hand ; all's forgiven at last. • 
 
 Page. Yet be cheerful, knight : thou shalt eat a posset 
 to-night at my house ; where I will desire thee to laugh 
 at my wife, that now laughs at thee : Tell her, master Slen- 
 der hath married her daughter. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Doctors doubt that : if Anne Page be my 
 daughter, she is, by this, doctor Caius' wife. [Aside. 
 
 Enter Slender. 
 
 Slen. Whoo, ho! ho ! father Pao-e ! 
 
 Page. Son ! how now ? how now, son ? have you de- 
 spatched ? 
 
 Sle?i. Despatched! — I'll make the best in Glocester- 
 shire know on't; would I were hanged, la, else. 
 
 Page. Of what, son ? 
 
 Slen. I came yonder at Eton to marry mistress Anne 
 Page, and she's a great lubberly boy ; If it had not been 
 
 8 Ignorance itself is a plummet o'er me :] i. e. Serves to point out my obli- 
 quities. This is said in consequence of Evans's last speech. The allusion is 
 to the examination of a carpenter's -work by the plummet held over it ; of 
 y.'hich line sir Hugh is here represented as the lead. — Henley.
 
 ACT v.— SCENE V. 23i. 
 
 i'the church, I would have swinged him, or he should 
 have swinged me. If I did not think it had been Anne 
 Page, would I might never stir, and 'tis a post-master's 
 boy. 
 
 Page. Upon my life then you took the wrong. 
 
 Slen. What need you tell me that ? I think so, when I 
 took a boy for a girl : If I had been married to him, for 
 all he was in woman's apparel, I would not have had him. 
 
 Page. Why, this is your own folly. Did not I tell you, 
 how you should know my daughter by her garments ? 
 
 Slen. I went to her in white, and cry'd mum, and she 
 cry'd budget, as Anne and I had appointed ; and yet it 
 was not Anne, but a post-master's boy. 
 
 Eva. Jeshu ! Master Slender, cannot you see but marry 
 boys ? 
 
 Page. O, I am vexed at heart : What shall I do? 
 
 Mrs. Page. Good George, be not angry : I knew of 
 your purpose ; turned my daughter into green ; and, in- 
 deed, she is now with the doctor at the deanery, and there 
 married. 
 
 Enter Caius. 
 
 Caius. Vere is mistress Page ? By gar, I am cozened ; 
 I ha' married un garfon, a boy ; un paisan, by gar, a boy ; 
 it is not Anne Page : by gar, I am cozened. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Why, did you not take her in green? 
 
 Caius. Ay, be gar, and 'tis a boy : be gar, I'll raise all 
 Windsor. [Exit Caius. 
 
 Ford. This is strange : Who hath got the right Anne ? 
 
 Page. My heart misgives me : Here comes master 
 Fenton. 
 
 Enter Fenton and Anne Page. 
 
 How now , master Fenton ? 
 
 Anne. Pardon, good father ! good my mother, pardon ! 
 
 Page. Now, mistress ? how chance you went not with 
 master Slender ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. Why went you not with master doctor, maid? 
 
 Fent. You do amaze her:'' Hear the truth of it. 
 
 ii amaze hei- :] i, <•. Confound her by your quebUonc.
 
 232 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR, 
 
 YoTi would have uiairied her most shamefully, 
 
 Where there was no proportion held in love. 
 
 The truth is, she and I, long since contracted. 
 
 Are now so sure, that nothing can dissolve us. 
 
 The offence is holy, that she hath committed : 
 
 And this deceit loses the name of craft. 
 
 Of disobedience, or unduteous title ; 
 
 Since therein she doth evitate and shun 
 
 A thousand irreligious cursed hours. 
 
 Which forced marriage would have brought upon her. 
 
 Ford. Stand not amaz'd : here is no remedy ; — 
 In love, the heavens themselves do guide the state ; 
 Money buys lands, and wives are sold by fate. 
 
 Fal. I am glad, though you have ta'en a special stand 
 to strike at me, that your arrow hath glanced. 
 
 Page. Well, what remedy ?' Fenton, heaven give thee 
 
 joy •' 
 
 What cannot be eschew'd, must be embrac'd. 
 
 Fal. When night-dogs run, all sorts of deer arechas'd. 
 
 Fva. I will dance and eat plums at your wedding. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Well, I will muse no further : — Master 
 Fenton, 
 Heaven give you many, many merry days ! — 
 Good husband, let us every one go home. 
 And laugh this sport o'er by a country fire ; 
 Sir John and all. 
 
 Ford. Let it be so ; — Sir John, 
 To master Brook you yet shall hold your word ; 
 For he, to-night, shall lie with mistress Ford.'' [Exeunt. 
 
 ' Well, what remedy ?] In the first sketch of this play, on Fenton's bringing 
 in his wife, there is the following dialogue : — 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Come, Mrs. Page, I must be bold with you, 
 'Tis pity to part love that is so true, 
 
 Mrs. Page, [asft/e.] Although that I have missed in my intent, 
 Yet I am glad my husband's match is cross'd. 
 Here, Fenton, take her. 
 
 Evans, Come, master Page, you must needs agree. 
 
 Ford. I'faith, sir, come, you see your wife is pleas'd. 
 
 Page. I cannot tell, and yet my heart is eas'd ; 
 And yet it doth me good, the doctor miss'd. — 
 Come hither, Fenton, and come hither, daughter. — Johnson. 
 
 '' Of this play there is a tradition preserved by Mr. Rowe, that it was 
 written at the command of queen Elizabeth, who was so delighted with the cha- 
 racter of FaistafF, that she wished it to be diffused through more plays ; but
 
 ACT v.— SCENE V. 233 
 
 suspecting that it might palJ by continued uniformity, directed the poet to di- 
 versify his manner, by shewing him in love. No task is harder than that of 
 writing to the ideas of another. Shakspeare knew what the queen, if the story 
 be true, seems not to have known — that by any real passion of tenderness, the 
 selfish craft, the careless jollity, and the lazy luxury of Falstaff must have suf- 
 fered so much abatement, that little of his former cast would have remained. 
 Falstaff could not love, but by ceasing to be Falstaff. He could only counter- 
 feit love, and his professions could be prompted, not by the hope of pleasure, 
 but of money. Thus the poet approached as near as he could to the work en- 
 joined him ; yet having, perhaps, in the former plays, completed his own idea, 
 seems not to have been able to give Falstaff all his former power of enter- 
 tainment. 
 
 This comedy is remarkable for the variety and number of the personages, 
 who exhibit more characters appropriated and discriminated, than perhaps 
 can be found in any other play. 
 
 Whether Shakspeare was the first that produced upon the English stage 
 the effect of language distorted and depraved by provincial or foreign pronun- 
 ciation, 1 cannot certainly decide.* This mode of forming ridiculous charac- 
 ters can confer j)raise only on him who originally discovered it, for it requires 
 not much of eitber wit or judgment : its success must be derived almost wholly 
 from the player, but its power in a skilful mouth, even be that despises it, is 
 unable to resist. 
 
 The conduct of this drama is deficient ; the action begins and ends often, 
 before the conclusion, and the different parts might change places without in- 
 convenience ; but its general power, that power by which all works of genius 
 shall finally be tried, is such, that perhaps it never yet had reader or spectator 
 who did not think it too soon at the end. — Johnson. 
 
 • In The Three Ladies of London, 1584, is the character of an Italian mer- 
 chant, very strongly marked by foreign pronunciation. Dr. Dodypotl, in the 
 comedy which bears his name, is, like Caius, a French physician. This piece 
 appeared at least a year before The MeiTy Wives of Windsor, The hero of it 
 speaks such another jargon as the antagonist of sir Hugh, and like him is 
 cheated of his mistress. In several other pieces, more ancient tlian the ear- 
 liest of Shakspeare's, provincial characters are introduced. — Steevens. 
 
 END OF vol.. I. 
 
 Printed by .'. K. Dovr, St. Jolin's Square
 
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