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 H^nj .
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 By MR. AND MISS LAMB. 
 
 A NEW EDITION. 
 
 TO WHICH ARE NOW ADDED, 
 
 SCENES ILLUSTRATING EACH TALE. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES.— VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 CHARLES KNIGHT AND CO., 
 
 LUDGATE-STREET. 
 
 1844.
 
 London : Printed by W. Clowes and Sons, Stamford Street.
 
 f:tBRARY 
 tii^ffirvrERSITY 0¥ CALIFORMA 
 
 SANTA BARIJAir^ 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The ^ Tales from Shakspere,' by Mr. and Miss 
 Lamb, were originally designed for the use of 
 Young Persons. But, like several others of the 
 best books so addressed, they have become as attrac- 
 tive to adults as to those for whose use they were 
 originally intended. There is a constant exchange 
 going on between the best books for those of ma- 
 ture years, and the best books for young readers. 
 ' Robinson Crusoe ' and the ' Arabian Nights ' 
 were not written for children ; but what books can 
 compete with them in the delight which they 
 afford to children ? On the other hand the most 
 successful writers of books for the young have 
 constantly had the satisfaction of finding their per- 
 formances affording instruction and amusement to 
 
 the maturest understandings. Who attempts to 
 
 a 2
 
 IV ADVEKTISEMENT. 
 
 limit the perusal of Miss Edgeworth's stories, or 
 Scott's 'Tales of a Grandfather/ by the years 
 which a reader has numbered ? 
 
 The authors of the ' Tales from Shakspere,' in 
 their Preface state, that " The following Tales are 
 meant to be submitted to the young reader as an 
 introduction to the study of Shakspere, for which 
 purpose his Mords are used whenever it seemed 
 possible to bring them in ; and in whatever has 
 been added to give them the regular form of a con- 
 nected stor}^, diligent care has been taken to select 
 such words as might least interrupt the effect of 
 the beautiful English tongue in which he wrote : 
 therefore, words introduced into our language 
 since his time have been as far as possible avoided." 
 
 It is as "an Introduction to the study of Shak- 
 spere" that we offer a re-publication of these 
 Tales, to a more numerous class than that for which 
 they were written. But looking at this their pur- 
 pose of an introduction to the study of this greatest 
 of poets, we have now added to each Tale a few 
 Scenes, which may be advantageously read after 
 the perusal of the Tale, to furnish some notion 
 of the original excellence of the wonderful dramas 
 upon which the Tales are founded. Ko extract,
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. V 
 
 indeed, of single scenes can give a complete notion 
 of the powers of Shakspere ; for his dramatic art — 
 that of managing a plot with the most masterly 
 skill, so as to develop the incidents in the fittest 
 order, and exhibit the characters through their 
 actions — is amongst his highest excellences. But 
 to those who are unfamiliar with Shakspere these 
 extracts will excite a natural desire for a complete 
 acquaintance with his works. The wish with 
 which the authors of the Tales conclude their Pre- 
 face, is repeated by the present Editor, addressing 
 
 ALL EEADERS : 
 
 " What these Tales shall have been to the young 
 readers, that and much more it is the writers' wish 
 that the true Plays of Shakspere may prove to 
 them in older years — enrichers of the fancy, 
 strengtheners of virtue, a withdrawing from all 
 selfish and mercenary thoughts, a lesson of all 
 sweet and honourable thoughts and actions, to 
 teach courtesy, benignity, generosity, humanity : 
 for of examples, teaching these virtues, his pages 
 are full." 
 
 It is the hope of the Editor of this Series that 
 he may speedily be enabled to complete a compa- 
 nion work to these ' Tales,' for which he has made
 
 VI ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 some preparation, entitled * Histories from 
 Shakspere.' a celebrated German critic says, 
 " Happy for England that she possesses a poet who 
 so many years smce has spoken to her people as the 
 highest and most splendid teacher ! The full con- 
 sequences of his teaching have not yet been suffi- 
 ciently revealed ; they may perhaps never wholly 
 be exhibited. We, however, know that in Eng- 
 land a praiseworthy zeal for their country's history 
 prevails among the people. But who first gave 
 true life to that history ? " 
 
 C. K.
 
 vu 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE TEMPEST 3 
 
 A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM 33 
 
 A WINTER'S TALE 57 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 85 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT 109 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 141 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 165 
 
 CYMBELINE 191 
 
 KING LEAR 215 
 
 MACBETH 241
 
 ( 3 ) 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 There was a certain island in the sea, the only inhabit- 
 ants of which were an old man, whose name was Prospero, 
 and his daughter Miranda, a very beautiful young lady. 
 She came to this island so young, that she had no memory 
 of having seen any other human face than her father's. 
 
 They lived in a cave or cell made out ^f a rock ; it 
 was divided into several apartments, one of which Pros- 
 pero called his study ; there he kept his books, which 
 chiefly treated of magic, a study at that time much 
 affected by all learned men : and the knowledge of this 
 art he found very useful to him ; for being thrown by a 
 strange chance upon this island, which had been enchanted 
 by a witch called Sycorax, who died there a short time 
 before his arrival, Prospero, by virtue of his art, released 
 many good spirits that Sycorax had imprisoned in the 
 bodies of large trees, because they had refused to execute 
 her wicked commands. These gentle spirits were ever 
 after obedient to the will of Prospero. Of these Ariel 
 was the chief. 
 
 The lively little sprite Ariel had nothing mischievous 
 in his nature, except that he took rather too much plea- 
 sure in tormenting an ugly monster called Caliban, for 
 he owed him a grudge because he was the son of his old 
 enemy Sycorax. This Caliban, Prospero found in the 
 woods, a strange misshapen thing, far less human in form 
 than an ape ; he took him home to his cell, and taught 
 him to speak ; and Prospero would have been very kind 
 to him, but the bad nature which Caliban inherited from 
 
 b2
 
 4 TALES FEOM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 his mother Sycorax would not let him learn any thing 
 good or useful : therefore he was employed like a slave, 
 to fetch wood, and do the most laborious offices ; and 
 Ariel had the charge of compelling him to these services. 
 
 When Caliban was lazy and neglected his work, Ariel 
 (who was invisible to all eyes but Prospero's) would come 
 slily and pinch him, and sometimes tumble him down in 
 the mire ; and then Ariel, in the likeness of an ape, 
 would make mouths at him. Then swiftly changing his 
 shape, in the likeness of a hedgehog, he would lie tum- 
 bling in Caliban's way, who feared the hedgehog's sharp 
 quills would prick his bare feet. With a variety of such- 
 like vexatious tricks Ariel would often torment him, 
 whenever Caliban neglected the work which Prospero 
 commanded him to do. 
 
 Having these powerful spirits obedient to his will, 
 Prospero could by their means command the winds, and 
 the waves of the sea. By his orders they raised a violent 
 storm, in the midst of which, and struggling with the 
 wild sea-waves tliat every moment threatened to swallow 
 it up, he showed his daughter a fine large ship, which 
 he told her was full of living beings like themselves. 
 " O my dear father," said she, '' if by your art you have 
 raised this dreadful storm, have pity on their sad distress. 
 See ! the vessel will be dashed to pieces. Poor souls ! 
 they will all perish. If I had power, I would sink the 
 sea beneath the earth, rather than the good ship should 
 be destroyed, with all the precious souls within her." 
 
 " Be not so amazed, daughter Miranda," said Pros- 
 pero ; " there is no harm done. I have so ordered it, 
 that no person in the ship shall receive any hurt. What 
 I have done has been in care of you, my dear child. You 
 are ignorant who you are, or where you came from, and 
 you know no more of me, but that I am your father, and 
 live in this poor cave. Can you remember a time before 
 you came to this cell ? I think you cannot^ for you were 
 not then three years of age." 
 
 " Certainly I can, sir," replied Miranda. 
 
 *' By what?" asked Prospero ; "by any other house 
 or person ? Tell me what you can remember, my child."
 
 THE TEMPEST. 5 
 
 Miranda said, " It seems to me like the recollection of 
 a dream. But had I not once four or five women who 
 attended upon me ?" 
 
 Prospero answered, " You had, and more. How is it 
 that this still lives in your mind ? Do you remember 
 how you came here ?" 
 
 " No, sir," said Miranda, " I remember nothing more." 
 
 " Twelve years ago, Miranda," continued Prospero, 
 " I was duke of Milan, and you were a princess, and my 
 only heir. I had a younger brother, whose name was 
 Antonio, to whom I trusted everything ; and as I was 
 fond of retirement and deep study, I commonly left the 
 management of my state affairs to your uncle, my false 
 brother (for so indeed he proved). I, neglecting all 
 worldly ends, buried among my books, did dedicate my 
 whole time to the bettering of my mind. My brother 
 Antonio, being thus in possession of my power, began to 
 think himself the duke indeed. The opportunity I gave 
 him of making himself popular among my subjects 
 awakened in his bad nature a proud ambition to deprive 
 me of my dukedom : this he soon effected with the aid 
 of the king of Naples, a powerful prince, who was my 
 enemy." 
 
 " Wherefore," said Miranda, " did they not that hour 
 destroy us?" 
 
 " My child," answered her father, " they durst not, 
 so dear was the love that my people bore me. Antonio 
 carried us on board a ship, and when we were some 
 leagues out at sea, he forced us into a small boat, with- 
 out either tackle, sail, or mast : there he left us, as he 
 thought, to perish. But a kind lord of my court, one 
 Gonzalo, who loved me, had privately placed in the boat 
 water, provisions, apparel, and some books which I prize 
 above my dukedom." 
 
 " O my father," said Miranda, '' what a trouble must 
 I have been to you then !" 
 
 <' No, my love," said Prospero, " you were a little 
 cherub that did preserve me. Your innocent smiles made 
 me to bear up against my misfortunes. Our food lasted 
 till we landed on this desert island, since when my chief
 
 6 TALES raOM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 delight has been in teaching you, Miranda, and weli have 
 you profited by my instructions." 
 
 '•'■ Heaven thank you, my dear father," said Miranda. 
 " Now pray tell me, sir, your reason for raising this sea- 
 storm ?" 
 
 " Know then," said her father, " that by means of this 
 storm, my enemies, the king of Naples and my cruel 
 brother, are cast ashore upon tliis island." * 
 
 Having so said, Prosper© gently touched his daughter 
 with his magic wand, and she fell fast asleep ; for the 
 spirit Ariel just then presented himself before his master, 
 to give an account of the tempest, and how he had dis- 
 posed of the ship's company ; and though the spirits were 
 always invisible to iNIiranda, Prospero did not choose she 
 should hear him holding converse (as would seem to her) 
 with the empty air. 
 
 '• Well, my brave spirit," said Prospero to Ariel, 
 " how have you performed your task ?" 
 
 Ariel gave a lively description of the storm, and of the 
 terrors of the mariners ; and how the king's son, Fei- 
 dinand, was the first who leaped into the sea ; and his 
 father thought he saw this dear son swallowed up by the 
 waves and lost. " But he is safe," said Ariel, " in a cor- 
 ner of the isle, sitting with his arms folded, sadly lament- 
 ing the loss of the king his father, whom he concludes 
 drowned. Not a hair of his head is injured, and nis 
 princely garments, though drenched in the sea- waves, 
 look fi-esher than before." 
 
 " That's my delicate Ariel," said Prospero. '' Bring 
 him hither : my daughter must see this young prince. 
 Where is the king, and my brother ?" 
 
 "I left them," answered Ariel, "searching for Fer- 
 dinand, whom they have little hopes of finding, thinking 
 they saw him perish. Of the ship's crew not one is 
 missing ; though each one thinks himself the only one 
 saved ; and the ship, though invisible to them, is safe in 
 the harbour." 
 
 " Ariel," said Prospero, "thy charge is faithfully per- 
 formed ; but there is more work yet." 
 
 * See the Extract from Sb.akspere, No. I.
 
 THE TEMPEST. 7 
 
 '' Is there more work ?" said Ariel. *' Let me remind 
 you, master, you have promised me my liberty. I pray, 
 remember, I have done you worthy service, told you no 
 lies, made no mistakes, served you without grudge or 
 grumbling." 
 
 *' How now !" said Prosper©. " You do not recollect 
 what a torment I freed you from. Have you forgot the 
 wicked witch Sycorax, who with age and envy was almost 
 bent double ? Where was she born ? Speak ; tell me." 
 
 " Sir, in Algiers," said Ariel. 
 
 *' O, was she so'?" said Prospcro. " I. must recount 
 what you have been, which I find you do not remember. 
 This bad witch Sycorax, for her witchcrafts, too terrible 
 to enter human hearing, was banished from Algiers, and 
 here left by the sailors ; and because you were a spirit 
 too delicate to execute her wicked commands, she shut 
 you up in a tree, where I found you howling. This tor- 
 ment, remember, I did free you from." 
 
 " Pardon me, dear master," said Ariel, ashamed to 
 seem ungrateful ; *' I will obey your commands." 
 
 " Do so," said Prospero, " and I will set you free." 
 He then gave orders what further he would have him 
 do ; and away went Ariel, first to where he had left Fer- 
 dinand, and found him still sitting on the grass in the 
 same melancholy posture. 
 
 " O my young gentleman," said Ariel, when he saw 
 him, " I will soon move you. You must be brought, I 
 find, for the Lady Miranda to have a sight of your pretty 
 person. Come, sir, follow me." He then began singing, 
 
 " Full fathom five thy father lies : 
 
 Of his bones are coral made ; 
 Those are pearls that were 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." 
 
 This strange news of his lost father soon roused the 
 prince from the stupid fit into which he had fallen. He
 
 8 TALES FROM SHAKSP£B£. 
 
 fullowed in amazement the sound of Ariel's voice, tUl it 
 led him to Prospero and Miranda, who were sitting under 
 the shade of a large tree. Now Miranda had never seen 
 a man before, except her own father. 
 
 " Miranda," said Prospero, " tell me what you are 
 looking at yonder." 
 
 *' O father," said Miranda, in a strange surprise, 
 " surely that is a spirit ! Lord ! how it looks about ! 
 Believe me, sir, it is a beautiful creature. Is it not a 
 spirit ?" 
 
 "No, girl," answered her father; *' it eats, and 
 sleeps, and has senses such as we have. This young man 
 you see was in the ship. He is somewhat altered by 
 grief, or you might call him a handsome person. He 
 has lost his companions, and is wandering about to find 
 them." 
 
 Miranda, who thought all men had grave faces and 
 gray beards like her father, w^as delighted with the ap- 
 pearance of this beautiful young prince ; and Ferdinand, 
 seeing such a lovely lady in this desert place, and from 
 the strange sounds he had heard, expecting nothing but 
 wonders, thought he was upon an enchanted island, and 
 that Miranda was the goddess of the place, and as such 
 he began to address her. 
 
 She timidly answered, she was no goddess, but a simple 
 maid, and was going to give him an account of herself, 
 when Prospero interrupted her. He was well pleased to 
 find they admired each other, for he plainly perceived 
 they had (as we say) fallen in love at first sight : but to 
 try Ferdinand's constancy, he resolved to throw some 
 difl&culties in their way : therefore advancing forward, he 
 addressed the prince with a stern air, telling him, he 
 came to the island as a spy, to take it from him who was the 
 lord of it. " Follow me," said he, '^ I will tie you neck 
 and feet together. You shall drink sea- water ; shell-fish, 
 withered roots, and husks of acorns shall be your food." 
 *'No," said Ferdinand, "I will resist such entertain- 
 ment till I see a more powerful enemy," and drew his 
 sword ; but Prospero, waving his magic wand, fixed him 
 to the spot where he stood, so that he had no power to 
 move.
 
 THE TEMPEST. 9 
 
 Miranda hung upon her father, saying, " Why are you 
 so ungentle ? Have pity, sir ; I will be his surety. 
 This is the second man 1 ever saw, and to me he seems 
 a true one." 
 
 "Silence," said the father; "one word more will 
 make me chide you, girl ! What ! an advocate for an 
 impostor ! You think there are no more such fine men, 
 having seen only him and Caliban. I tell you, foolish 
 girl, most men as far excel this, as he does Caliban." 
 This he said to prove his daughter's constancy ; and she 
 replied, " My affections are most humble. I have no 
 wish to see a goodlier man." 
 
 " Come on, young man," said Prospero to the prince, 
 " you have no power to disobey me." 
 
 " I have not, indeed," answered Ferdinand ; and not 
 knowing that it was by magic he was deprived of all 
 power of resistance, he was astonished to find himself so 
 strangely compelled to follow Prospero : looking back on 
 Miranda as long as he could see her, he said, as he went 
 after Prospero into the cave, " My spirits are all bound 
 up, as if I were in a dream ; but this man's threats, and 
 the weakness which I feel, would seem light to me if 
 from my prison I might once a day behold this fair 
 maid." 
 
 Prospero kept Ferdinand not long confined within the 
 cell : he soon brought out his prisoner, and set him a se- 
 vere task to perform, taking care to let his daughter 
 know the hard labour he had imposed on him, and then 
 pretending to go into his study, he secretly watched 
 them both. 
 
 Prospero had commanded Ferdinand to pile up some 
 heavy logs of wood. Kings' sons not being much used 
 to laborious work, Miranda soon after found her lover 
 almost dying with fatigue. " Alas !" said she, " do not 
 work so hard ; my father is at his studies, he is safe for 
 these three hours : pray rest yourself." 
 
 " O my dear lady," said Ferdinand, " I dare not. I 
 must finish my task before I take my rest." 
 
 " If you will sit down," said Miranda, " I will carry 
 your logs the while." But this Ferdinand would by no 
 
 B 3
 
 10 TALES FROM SHAKSPEKE. 
 
 means agree to. Instead of a help Miranda became a 
 hindrance, for they began a long conversation, so that the 
 business of log-carrying went on very slowly. 
 
 Prospero, v, ho had enjoined Ferdinand this task merely 
 as a trial of his love, was not at his books, as his daughter 
 supposed, but was standing by them invisible, to overhear 
 what they said. 
 
 Ferdinand inquired her name, which she told him, 
 saying it was against her father's express command she 
 did so, 
 
 Prospero only smiled at this first instance of his daugh- 
 ter's disobedience, for having by his magic art caused his 
 daughter to fall in love so suddenly, he Mas not angry 
 that she showed her love by forgetting to obey his com- 
 mands. And he listened well pleased to a long speech 
 of Ferdinand's, in which he professed to love her above 
 all the ladies he ever saw. 
 
 In answer to his praises of her beauty, which he said 
 exceeded all the women in the world, she replied, *' I 
 do not remember the face of any woman, nor have I seen 
 any more men than you, my good friend, and my dear 
 father. How features are abroad, I know not ; but, be- 
 lieve me, sir, I would not wish any companion in the 
 world but you, nor can my imagination form any shape 
 but yours that I could like. But, sir, I fear I talk to 
 you too freely, and my father's precepts I forget." 
 
 At this Prospero smiled, and nodded his head, as much 
 as to say, *' This goes on exactly as I could wish ; my 
 girl will be queen of Naples." 
 
 And then Ferdinand, in another fine long speech (for 
 young princes speak in courtly phrases), told the inno- 
 cent Miranda he Mas heir to the crown of Naples, and 
 that she should be his queen. 
 
 " Ah ! sir," said she, " I am a fool to M^eep at M'hat I 
 am glad of. I M-ill answer you in plain and holy inno- 
 cence. I am your wife, if you Mill marry me."* 
 
 Prospero prevented Ferdinand's thanks by appearing 
 visible before them. 
 
 *' Fear nothing, my child," said he ; "I have over- 
 
 * Extract II.
 
 THE TEMPEST. 11 
 
 heard, and approve of all you have said. And, Ferdi- 
 nand, if I have too severely used you, I will make you 
 rich amends, by giving you my daughter. All your 
 vexations were but trials of your love, and you have nobly 
 stood the test. Then as my gift, which your true love 
 has worthily purchased, take my daughter, and do not 
 smile that I boast she is above all praise." He then, 
 telling them that he had business which required his pre- 
 sence, desired they would sit down and talk together till 
 he returned ; and this command Miranda seemed not at 
 all disposed to disobey. 
 
 When Prospero left them, he called his spirit Ariel, 
 who quickly appeared before him, eager to relate what 
 he had done with Prospero's brother and the king of 
 Naples. Ariel said, he had left them almost out of their 
 senses with fear, at the strange things he had caused 
 them to see and hear. When fatigued with wandering 
 about, and famished for want of food, he had suddenly 
 set before them a delicious banquet, and then, just as 
 they were going to eat, he appeared visible before them 
 in the shape of a harpy, a voracious monster with wings; 
 and the feast vanished away. Then, to their utter amaze- 
 ment, this seeming harpy spoke to them, reminding them 
 of their cruelty in driving Prosyjero from his dukedom, 
 and leaving him and his infant daughter to perish in the 
 sea ; saying, that for this cause these terrors were suffered 
 to afflict them. 
 
 The king of Naples, and Antonio the false brother, re- 
 pented the injustice they had done to Prospero; and 
 Ariel told his master he was certain their penitence was 
 sincere, and that he, though a spirit, could not but pity 
 them. 
 
 " Then bring them hither, Ariel," said Prospero : *' if 
 7ou, who are but a spirit, feel for their distress, shall not 
 I, who am a human being like themselves, have compas- 
 sion on them ? Bring them quickly, my dainty Ariel." 
 
 Ariel soon returned with the king, Antonio, and old 
 Gonzalo in their train, who had followed him, wondering 
 at the wild music he played in the air to draw them on 
 to his master's presence. This Gonzalo was the same
 
 12 TALES FROM SHASSPEHE. 
 
 who had so kindly provided Prospero formerly with books 
 and provisions, when his wicked brother left him, as he 
 thought, to perish in an open boat in the sea. 
 
 Grief and terror had so stupified their senses, that they 
 did not know Prospero. He first discovered himself to 
 the good old Gonzalo, calling him the preserver of his 
 life ; and then his brother and the king knew that he 
 was the injured Prospero. 
 
 Antonio with tears, and sad words of sorrow and true 
 repentance, implored his brother's forgiveness ; and the 
 king expressed his sincere remorse for having assisted 
 Antonio to depose his brother : and Prospero forgave 
 them ; and, upon their engaging to restore his dukedom, 
 he said to the king of Naples, ' ' I have a gift in store for 
 you too ;" and opening a door, showed him his son Ferdi- 
 nand playing at chess with JNIiranda. 
 
 Nothing could exceed the joy of the father and the son 
 at this unexpected meeting, for they each thought the 
 other drowned in the storm. 
 
 " O wonder !" said Miranda, " what noble creatures 
 these are ! It nmst surely be a brave world that has 
 such people in it." 
 
 The king of Naples was almost as much astonished at 
 the beauty and excellent gi-aces of the young Miranda 
 as his son had been. *' Who is this maid?" said he; 
 *' she seems the goddess that has parted us, and brought 
 us thus together." " No, sir," answered Ferdinand, 
 smiling to find his father had fallen into the same mistake 
 that he had done when he first saw i\Iiranda, " she is a 
 mortal, but by immortal Providence she is mine ; I chose 
 her when I could not ask you, my father, for your con- 
 sent, not thinking you were alive. She is the daughter 
 to this Prospero, who is the famous duke of iNlilan, of 
 whose renown I have heard so much, but never saw him 
 till now : of him I have received a new life : he has 
 made himself to me a second father, giving me this dear 
 lady." 
 
 *' Then I must be her father," said the king : " but 
 oh ! how oddly will it sound, that I must ask my child 
 forgiveness I "
 
 THE TEMPEST. 13 
 
 " No more of that," said Prosper© : " let us not re- 
 member our troubles past, since they so happily have 
 ended." And then Prospero embraced his brother, and 
 again assured him of his forgiveness ; and said that a wise, 
 overruling Providence had permitted that he should be 
 driven from his poor dukedom of Milan, that his daughter 
 might inherit the crown of Naples, for that by their 
 meeting in this desert island, it had happened that the 
 king's son had loved Miranda. 
 
 These kind words which Prospero spoke, meaning to 
 comfort his brother, so filled Antonio with shame and 
 remorse, that he wept and was unable to speak ; and the 
 kind old Gonzalo wept to see this joyful reconciliation, 
 and prayed for blessings on the young couple.* 
 
 Prospero now told them that their ship was safe in the 
 harbour, and the sailors all on board her, and that he and 
 his daughter would accompany them home the next 
 morning. " In the mean time," says he, " partake of 
 such refreshments as my poor cave afltbrds ; and for your 
 evening's entertainment I will relate the history of my 
 life from my first landing in this desert island." lie then 
 called for Caliban to prepare some food, and set the cave 
 in order ; and the company were astonished at the un- 
 couth form and savage appearance of this ugly monster, 
 who (Prospero said) was the only attendant he had to 
 wait upon him. 
 
 Before Prospero left the island, he dismissed Ariel 
 from his service, to the great joy of that lively little 
 spirit ; who, though he had been a faithful servant to his 
 master, was always longing to enjoy his free liberty, to 
 wander uncontrolled in the air, like a wild bird, under 
 green trees, among pleasant fruits, and sweet-smelling 
 flowers. " My quaint Ariel," said Prospero to the 
 little sprite when he made him free, *' I shall miss you ; 
 yet you shall have your freedom." Thank you, my dear 
 master," said Ariel ; " but give me leave to attend your 
 ship home with prosperous gales, before you bid farewell 
 to the assistance of your faithful spirit ; and then, master, 
 
 * Extract III.
 
 14 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 when I am free, how merrily I shall live 1" Here Ariel 
 sung this pretty song : 
 
 " Where the bee sucks, there "suck I ; 
 In a cowslip's bell I lie : 
 There I couch when owls do cry, 
 On the bat's back I do fly 
 After summer merrily. 
 Merrily, merrily shall I live now 
 Under the blossom that hangs on the bough." 
 
 Prosper© then buried deep in the earth his magical 
 books and wand, for he w^as resolved never more to make 
 use of the magic art. And having thus overcome his 
 enemies, and being reconciled to his brother and the king 
 of Naples, nothing now remained to complete his happi- 
 ness but to revisit his native land, to take possession of 
 his dukedom, and to witness the happy nuptials of his 
 daughter Miranda and Prince Ferdinand, which the king 
 said should be instantly celebrated with great splendour 
 on their return to Naples. At which place, under the 
 safe convoy of the spirit Ariel, they, after a pleasant 
 voyage, soon arrived.* 
 
 • Extract IV.
 
 ( 15 ) 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 Act I. — Scene II. — Prospero and Miranda. 
 
 Mira. If by your art, my dearest father, you have 
 Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them : 
 The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch, 
 But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek, 
 Dashes the fire out. O, I have suffer'd 
 With those that I saw suffer ! a brave vessel. 
 Who had no doubt some noble creature in her, 
 Dash'd all to pieces. O, the cry did knock 
 Against my very heart ! Poor souls ! they perish'd. 
 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 swallow'd, and 
 The fraughting ^ souls within her. 
 
 Pro. Be collected ; 
 
 No more amazement : tell your piteous heart, 
 There 's no harm done. 
 
 Mira. O, woe the day ! 
 
 Pro. No harm. 
 
 I have done nothing but in care of thee, 
 (Of thee, my dear one ! thee, my daughter !) who 
 Art ignorant of what thou art, 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. 
 
 ^ Or e'er — before, sooner than. 
 
 *= Fraughtino — constituting the fraught, or freight-
 
 1 6 TALES FHOM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 Pro. 'T is time 
 
 I should ififorin thee farther. Lend thy hand, 
 And pluck my magic garment from me. — So ; 
 
 ILai/s down his mantle. 
 Lie there my art, — Wipe thou Vnine eyes ; have comfort. 
 The direfid spectacle of the wrack, which touch'd 
 The very virtue of compassion in thee, 
 I have with such provision in mine art 
 So safely order'd, that there is no soul — 
 No, not so much perdition as an hair, 
 Betid to any creature in the vessel 
 Which thou heard'st cry, which thou saVst sink. Sit 
 
 down; 
 For thou must now know farther. 
 
 3Iira. You have often 
 
 Begim to tell me what I am ; but stopp'd 
 And left me to a bootless inquisition ; 
 Concluding, " Stay, not yet." — 
 
 Pro. The hour 's now come ; 
 
 The very minute bids thee ope thine ear ; 
 Obey, and be attentive. Canst thou remember 
 A time before we came unto this cell ? 
 I do not think thou canst ; for then thou wast not 
 Out three years old.* 
 
 Mira. Certainly, sir, I can. 
 
 Pro. By what ? by any other house, or person ? 
 Of anything the image tell me that 
 Hath kept with thy remembrance. 
 
 Mira. 'T is far off; 
 
 And rather like a dream than an assurance 
 That my remembrance warrants : Had I 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 I'^member'st aught ere thou cam'st here, 
 How thou cam'st here thou mayst. 
 
 3fira. But that I do not. 
 
 Pro. Twelve year since, Miranda, twelve year since 
 Thy father was the duke of Milan, and 
 A prince of power. 
 
 Mira. Sir, are not you my father ? 
 
 * Quite three years old.
 
 THE TEMPEST. 17 
 
 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 
 And 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, both, my girl ; 
 
 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 overtopping ; 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 office, 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 
 
 = Teen — sorrow. 
 
 •> A trash is a term to denote a piece of leather, couples, or any other 
 weight, fastened round the neck of a dog, when he overtops the rest of 
 the pack, when he hunts too quick.
 
 18 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 To closeness, and the bettering of my mind 
 
 With that, which, but by being so retir'd, 
 
 O'er-priz'd all popular rate, in my false brother 
 
 Awak'd an evil nature : and my trust. 
 
 Like a good parent, did beget of him 
 
 A falsehood, in its contrary as great 
 
 As my trust was ; which had, indeed, no limit, 
 
 A confidence sans bound. He being thus lorded. 
 
 Not only with what my revenue yielded. 
 
 But what my power might else exact, — like one 
 
 Who having unto truth, by telling of it, 
 
 Made such a sinner of his memory. 
 
 To credit his own lie, — he did believe 
 
 He Avas indeed the duke ; out of the substitution, 
 
 And executing the outward face of royalty, 
 
 With all prerogative : — Hence his ambition growing, — 
 
 Dost thou 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. 
 
 Pro. Now the condition. 
 
 This king of Naples, being an enemy 
 To me inveterate, hearkens my brother's suit ; 
 Which was, that he, in lieu * o' the premises 
 Of homage,^ and I know not how much tribute. 
 Should presently extirpate me and mine 
 
 * In lieu — in consideration of, in exchange for. 
 
 '' The premises of homage, &c. — the circumstances of homage pre- 
 mised.
 
 THE TEMPEST. 19 
 
 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 ! 
 
 I, not rememb'ring how I cried out then, 
 Will cry it o'er again : it is a hint, 
 That wrings mine eyes to 't. 
 
 Pro. Hear a little further. 
 
 And then I '11 bring thee to the present bvisiness 
 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 leagiies to sea ; where they prepar'd 
 A rotten carcase of a boat, not rigg'd, 
 Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats 
 Instinctively have 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. 
 Infused with a fortitude from heaven. 
 When I have deck'd a the sea with drops full salt ; 
 Under my burthen groan'd ; which rais'd in me 
 An undergoing stomach, to bear up 
 Against what should ensue. 
 
 Mira. How came we ashore ? 
 
 Pi-o. By Providence divine. 
 Some food we had, and some fresh water, that 
 
 * Deck'd. In the glossary of the Craven dialect we find that to deg 
 is to sprinkle.
 
 20 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo, 
 
 Out of his charity (-who being then appointed 
 
 blaster of this design) did give us ; with 
 
 Eich garments, linens, stuffs, and necessaries, 
 
 Which since have steaded much ; so, of his gentleness, 
 
 Kno-wing I lov'd my books, he fumish'd me, 
 
 From mine o^\'n library, with volvmies 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 arriv'd ; and here 
 Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit 
 Than other princess 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 't is 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 ray prescience 
 I find my zenith doth depend upon 
 A most auspicious star ; whose influence 
 If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes 
 Will ever after droop. — Here cease more questions : 
 Thou art inclin'd to sleep ; 't is a good dulness. 
 And give it way ; — I know thou canst not choose. 
 
 [Miranda sleeps. 
 Come away, servant, come : I am ready now ; 
 Approacli, my Ariel ; come. 
 
 * Now my dear lady. Fortune is now Prospero's bountiful lady.
 
 THE TEMPEST. 21 
 
 II. 
 
 Act III. — Scene I. — Enter Ferdinand, hearing a log. 
 
 Fer. There be some sports are painful ; and their labour 
 Delight 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 never like executor. I forget : 
 But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labours 
 Most busy-less when I do it. 
 
 Enter Miranda, and Prospero at a 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, 
 'T will 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 '11 sit down 
 
 I '11 bear your logs the while : Pray give me that ; 
 I '11 carry it to the pile. 
 
 Fer. No, precious creature: 
 
 I had rather crack my sinews, break my back. 
 Than you should such dishonour undergo. 
 While I sit lazy by. 
 
 Mira. It would become me 
 
 As well as it does you : and I should do it
 
 22 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 With much more ease ; for my ^ood -will is to it, 
 And yours it is against. 
 
 Pro. Poor w^orm ! thou art infected ; 
 
 This visitation shows it. 
 
 Mira. You look Trearily. 
 
 Ter. No, noble mistress ; 't is 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 eyed with best regard ; and many a time 
 The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage 
 Brought my too diligent ear : for several virtues 
 Have I lik'd several women ; never any 
 With so full soul, but some defect in her 
 Did quarrel with the noblest grace she oVd, 
 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 1 seen 
 INIore 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 ; 
 Nor can imagination form a shape. 
 Beside 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 I) and would no more endure 
 This wooden slavery, than to suffer 
 The flesh-fly blow my mouth. — Hear my soul speak : — 
 The very instant that I saw you, did 
 My heart fly to your service ; there resides, 
 To make me slave to it ; and for your sake 
 Am I this patient log-man.
 
 THE TEMPEST. 23 
 
 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 you ? 
 
 Mira. At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer 
 What I desire to give ; and much less take 
 What I shall die to want : but this is trifling ; 
 And all the more it seeks to hide itself, 
 The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning ! 
 And prompt me, plain and holy innocence ! 
 I am your wife, if you will marry me ; 
 If not, I '11 die your maid : to be your fellow 
 You may deny me ; but I '11 be your servant, 
 Whether you will or no. 
 
 Fer. My mistress, dearest, 
 
 And I thus humble ever. 
 
 Mira. My husband then 
 
 Fer. Ay, with a heart as willing 
 As bondage e'er of freedom : here 's my hand. 
 
 Mira. And mine, with my heart in 't : And now fare- 
 well, 
 Till half an hour hence. 
 
 Fer. A thousand ! thousand ! 
 
 \_Exeunt Fer. and Mir. 
 
 Pro. So glad of this as they I cannot be. 
 Who are surpris'd with all ; but my rejoicing 
 At nothing can be more. I '11 to my book ; 
 For yet, ere supper-time, must I perform 
 Much business appertaining. [_Kvit.
 
 24 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 III. 
 
 Act V. — ScENTE I. — Enter Prospero in his magic robes , 
 and Ariel. 
 
 Pro. Now does my project gather to a head : 
 My charms crack not ; my spirits obey ; and Time 
 Goes upright with his carriage. How's the day ? 
 
 Ari. Ou 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 's followers ? 
 
 Ari. Confin'd together 
 
 In the same fashion as you gave in charge 
 Just as you left them ; all prisoners, sir, 
 In the line-grove which weather-fends your cell ; 
 They cauuot budge till your release. The king, 
 His brother, and yours, abide all three distracted; 
 And the remainder mourning over them, 
 Brimfull of sorrow and dismay ; but chiefly 
 Him that you term'd, sir, " The good old lord, Gonzalo ;" 
 His tears run down his beard, like winter's drops 
 From eaves of reeds : your charm so strongly works them> 
 That if you now beheld them your 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 afllictions ? and shall not myself. 
 One of their kind, that relish all as sharply. 
 Passion as they, be kindlier mov'd than thou art ? 
 Though with their high wrongs I am strook 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 further : Go, release them, Ariel ; 
 My charms I '11 break, their senses I '11 restore, 
 And they shall be themselves. 
 
 Ai'i, I '11 fetch them, sir. lExit.
 
 THE TEMPEST. 25 
 
 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 moonshine 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 noontide 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 wak'd their sleepers ; op'd, 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 '11 break my staff. 
 Bury it certain fathoms in the earth. 
 And, deeper than did ever plummet sound, 
 I '11 drown my book. \_Solemn music. 
 
 Re-enter Ariel : after him, Alonso, with a frantic gesture, 
 attended by Gonzalo; Sebastian and Antonio in like 
 manner, attended bi/ Adrian and Francisco: theij 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 show of thine, 
 
 Fall fellowly drops. — The charm dissolves apace ; 
 
 And as the morning steals upon the night. 
 
 Melting the darkness, so their rising senses 
 
 Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle 
 
 Their clearer reason. — good Gonzalo, 
 
 My true preserver, and a loyal sir 
 
 To him thou follow'st, I will pay thy graces 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 26 TAI^S FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 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 art pinch'd for 't now, Sebastian. — Flesh and blood, 
 
 You brother mine, that entertaih'd ambition, 
 
 Expell'd remorse and nature ; who, with Sebastian, 
 
 (Whose iuM'ard pinches therefore are most strong,) 
 
 Would here have kill'd your king ; I do forgive thee, 
 
 Unnatural though thou art! — Their understanding 
 
 Begins to swell ; and the approaching tide 
 
 Will shortly fill the reasonable shores, 
 
 That now lie foul and muddy. Not one of them 
 
 That yet looks on me, or would know me : — Ariel, 
 
 Fetch me the hat and rapier in my cell ; [£!nY Ariel. 
 
 I will disease me, and myself present, 
 
 As I was sometime Milan : — quickly, spirit ; 
 
 Thou shalt ere long be free. 
 
 Ariel re-enters, singing, and helps to attire Prospe210. 
 
 Ari, Where the bee sucks, there suck I ; 
 
 In a cowslip's bell I lie • 
 There I couch when owis ao cry, 
 On the bat's back I do fly 
 After summer merrily: 
 Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, 
 Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. 
 
 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 prithee. 
 
 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 coimtry ! 
 
 Pro. Behold, sir king, 
 
 The wronged duke of Milan, Prospero : 
 For more assurance that a living prince 
 Does now speak to thee, I embrace thy body ; 
 And to thee, and thy company, I bid 
 A hearty welcome. 
 
 Alon. Whe'r thou beest he, or no.
 
 THE TEMPEST. 27 
 
 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 Prospero 
 
 Be living, and be here ? 
 
 Pro. First, noble friend. 
 
 Let me embrace thine age ; whose honour cannot 
 Be measur'd, or confin'd. 
 
 Go7i. Whether this be, 
 
 Or be not, I '11 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 Sebas. and Ant. 
 I here could pluck his highness' frown upon you, 
 And justify you traitors ; at this time 
 I '11 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. 
 
 Aloii. If thou beest Prospero, 
 
 Give us particulars of thy preservation : 
 How thou hast met us here, who three hours since 
 Were wrack'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 
 
 c2
 
 28 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 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? 
 
 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 
 
 Where my son lies. When did you lose your daughter ? 
 
 Pro, In this last tempest. I perceive these lords 
 At this encounter do so much admire, 
 That they devour their reason ; and scarce think 
 Their eyes do oifices of truth, their words 
 Are natural breath: but, howsoe'er you have 
 Been justled from your senses, know for certain 
 That I am Prospero, and that very duke 
 Which was thrust forth of Milan ; who most strangely 
 Upon this shore, whei'e you were wrack'd, was landed, 
 To be the lord on 't. No more yet of this ; 
 For 't is 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, 
 
 1 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 plai/ing at chess. 
 
 Mira. 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 wrangle, 
 And I would call it fair play. 
 
 Alon. If this prove 
 
 A vision of the island, one dear son 
 Shall I twice lose. 
 
 Seh. A most high miracle I 
 
 Fer. Though the seas threaten, they are merciful : 
 I have curs'd them without cause. [Fer. kneels to AiX)N, 
 
 Alon. Now all the blessings 
 
 Of a glad father compass thee about ! 
 Arise, and say how thou cam'st here.
 
 THE TEMPEST. 29 
 
 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. 'T is new to thee. 
 
 Alon. What is this maid, with whom thou wast at plaj ? 
 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 is 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 JNIilan, 
 Of whom so often I have heard renown, 
 But never saw before ; of whom I have 
 Receiv'd a second life, and second father 
 This lady makes him to me. 
 
 Alon. I am hers : 
 
 But O, how oddly will it sound that I 
 Must ask my child forgiveness ! 
 
 Fro. There, sir, stop ; 
 
 Let us not burthen our remembrances with 
 A heaviness that's gone 
 
 Gon. 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 I 
 
 IV. 
 
 Conclusion of Act V. — Prospero speaks to the King 
 of Naples. 
 
 Fro. 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) T'll waste 
 With such discourse, as, I not doubt, shall make it 
 Go quick away : the story of my life, 
 And the particular accidents gone by,
 
 30 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 Since I came to this isle : And in the morn 
 I '11 bring you to your ship, and so to Naples, 
 Where I have hope to see the nuptial 
 Of these our dear-belov'd solemnized ; 
 And thence retire me to my Milan, -vrhere 
 Every third thought shall be my grave. 
 
 Alon. I long 
 
 To hear the story of your life, "which must 
 Take the ear strangely. 
 
 Pro. I '11 deliver all ; 
 
 And promise you calm seas, auspicious gales. 
 And sail so expeditious, that shall catch 
 Your royal fleet far off. — My Ariel ; — chick, — 
 That is thy charge ; then to the elements 
 Be free, and fare thou well ! — [aside.] Please you, draw 
 near. \Exeunt.
 
 ( 33 ) 
 
 MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 There was a law in the city of Athens which gave to its 
 citizens the power of compelling- their daughters to many 
 whomsoever they pleased : for upon a daughter's refusing 
 to marry the man her father had chosen to be her hus- 
 band, the father was empowered by this law to cause her 
 to be put to death ; but as fathers do not often desire the 
 death of their own daughters, even though they do 
 happen to prove a little refractory, this law was seldom 
 or never put in execution, though perhaps the young 
 ladies of that city were not unfrequently threatened by 
 their parents with the terrors of it. 
 
 There was one instance, however, of an old man, whose 
 name was Egeus, who actually did come before Theseus 
 (at that time the reigning duke of Athens) , to complain 
 that his daughter Hermia, whom he had commanded to 
 marry Demetrius, a young man of a noble Athenian 
 family, refused to obey him, because she loved another 
 young Athenian, named Lysander. Egeus demanded 
 justice of Theseus, and desired that this cruel law might 
 be put in force against his daughter. 
 
 Hermia pleaded in excuse for her disobedience, that 
 Demetrius had formerly professed love for her dear friend 
 Helena, and that Helena loved Demetrius to distraction ; 
 but this honourable reason which Hermia gave for not 
 obeying her father's command, moved not the stern 
 Egeus. 
 
 Theseus, though a great and merciful prince, had no 
 
 c 3
 
 34 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 power to alter the laws of his country ; therefore he 
 could only give Hermia four days to consider of it : and 
 at the end of that time, if she still refused to marry Deme- 
 trius, she was to be put to deatii. 
 
 When Hermia was dismissed from the presence of the 
 duke, she went to her lover Lysander, and told him the 
 peril she was in, and that she must either give up him 
 and marry Demetrius, or lose her life in four days. 
 
 Lysander was in great affliction at hearing these evil 
 tidings ; but recollecting that he had an aunt who lived 
 at some distance from Athens, and that at the place 
 where she lived the cruel law could not be put in force 
 against Hermia (this law not extending beyond the 
 boundaries of the city), he proposed to Hermia, that she 
 should steal out of her father's house that night, and go 
 with him to his aunt's house, where he would marry her. 
 " I will meet you," said Lysander, " in the wood a few 
 miles without the city ; in that delightful wood, where 
 we have so often walked with Helena in the pleasant 
 month of May." 
 
 To this proposal Hermia joyfully agreed ; and she told 
 no one of her intended flight but her friend Helena. 
 Helena (as maidens will do foolish things for love) very 
 ungenerously resolved to go and tell this to Demetrius, 
 though she could hope no benefit from betraying her 
 friend's secret but the poor pleasure of following her 
 faithless lover to the wood ; for she well knew that De- 
 metrius would go thither in pursuit of Hermia. 
 
 The wood, in which Lysander and Hermia proposed to 
 meet, was the favourite haunt of those little beings known 
 by the name of Fairies. 
 
 Oberon the king, and Titania the queen, of the fairies, 
 with all their tiny train of followers, in this wood held 
 their midnight revels. 
 
 Between this little king and queen of sprites there 
 happened, at this time, a sad disagreement : they never 
 met by moonlight in the shady walks of this pleasant 
 wood, but they were quai'relling, till all their fairy elves 
 would creep into acorn-cups and hide themselves for 
 fear.
 
 A MIDSUMMER NIGHt's DREAM. 35 
 
 The cause of this unhappy disagreement was Titania's 
 refusing to give Oberon a little changeling boy, whose 
 mother had been Titania's friend ; and upon her death 
 the fairy queen stole the child from its nurse, and brought 
 him up in the woods. 
 
 The night on which the lovers were to meet in this 
 wood, as Titania was walking with some of her maids of 
 honour, she met Oberon, attended by his train of fairy 
 courtiers. 
 
 *' 111 met by moonlight, proud Titania," said the fairy 
 king. The queen replied, " What, jealous Oberon, is it 
 you ? Fairies, skip hence ; I have forsworn his com- 
 pany." " Tarry, rash fairy," said Oberon; "am not I 
 thy lord ? Why does Titania cross her Oberon ? Give 
 me your little changeling boy to be my page." 
 
 " Set your heart at rest," answered the queen ; " your 
 whole fairy kingdom buys not the boy of me." She then 
 left her lord in great anger. " Well, go your way," said 
 Oberon : " before the morning dawns I will torment you 
 for this injury." 
 
 Oberon then sent for Puck, his chief favourite and 
 privy counsellor. 
 
 Puck (or, as he was sometimes called, Robin Good- 
 fellow) was a shrewd and knavish sprite, that used to play 
 comical pranks in the neighbouring villages ; sometimes 
 getting into the dairies and skimming the milk, sometimes 
 plunging his light and airy form into the butter-churn, 
 and while he was dancing his fantastic shape in the churn, 
 in vain the dairy-maid would labour to change her cream 
 into butter : nor had the village swains any better suc- 
 cess ; whenever Puck chose to play his freaks in the 
 brewing copper, the ale was sure to be spoiled. When a 
 few good neighbours were met to drink some comfortable 
 ale together, Puck would jump into the bowl of ale in 
 the likeness of a roasted crab, and when some old goody 
 was going to drink, he would bob against her lips, and 
 spill the aJe over her withered chin ; and presently after, 
 when the same old dame was gravely seating herself to 
 tell her neighbours a sad and melancholy story. Puck 
 would slip her three-legged stool from under her, and
 
 36 TALES FKOM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 down toppled the poor old woman, and then the old 
 gossips would hold their sides and laugh at her, and swear 
 they never wasted a merrier hour. 
 
 " Come hither, Puck," said Oberon to this little merry- 
 wanderer of the night; "fetch me the flower which 
 maids call Love in Idleness ; the juice of that little purple 
 flower laid on the eyelids of those who sleep, will make 
 them, when they awake, dote on the first thing they see. 
 Some of the juice of that flower I will drop on the eye- 
 lids of my Titania when she is asleep ; and the first thing 
 she looks upon when she opens her eyes she will fall in 
 love with, even though it be a lion, or a bear, a meddling 
 monkey, or a busy ape ; and before I will take this 
 charm from off her sight, which I can do with another 
 charm I know of, I will make her give me that boy to be 
 my page." * 
 
 Puck, who loved mischief to his heart, was highly di- 
 verted with this intended frolic of his master, and ran to 
 seek the flower ; and M'hile Oberon was waiting the re- 
 turn of Puck, he observed Demetrius and Helena enter 
 the wood : he overheard Demetrius reproaching Helena 
 for following him, and after many unkind words on his 
 part, and gentle expostulations from Helena, reminding 
 him of his former love and professions of true faith to her, 
 he left her (as he said) to the mercy of the wild beasts, 
 and she ran after him as swiftly as she could. 
 
 The fairy king, who was always friendly to true lovers, 
 felt great compassion for Helena ; and perhaps, as Lysan- 
 der said they used to walk by moonlight in this pleasant 
 wood, Oberon might have seen Helena in those happy 
 times when she was beloved by Demetrius. However 
 tliat might be, when Puck returned with the little purple 
 flower, Oberon said to his favourite, " Take a part of 
 this flower : there has been a sweet Athenian lady here, 
 who is in love with a disdainful youth ; if you find him 
 sleeping, drop some of the love-juice in his eyes, but con- 
 trive to do it when she is near him, that the first thing 
 he sees when he awakes may be this despised lady. You 
 will know the man by the Athenian garments which he 
 
 * Extract 1.
 
 A MIDSUMMER NIGHT S DKEAM. 3/ 
 
 ■wears." Puck promised to manage this matter very dex- 
 terously ; and then Oberon went, unperceived by Titania, 
 to her bower, where she was preparing to go to rest. 
 Her fairy bower was a bank, where grew wild thyme, 
 cowslips, and sweet violets, under a canopy of woodbine, 
 musk-roses, and eglantine. There Titania always slept 
 some part of the night ; her coverlet the enamelled skin 
 of a snake, which, though a small mantle, was wide 
 enough to wrap a fairy in. 
 
 He found Titania giving orders to her fairies, how they 
 were to employ themselves while she slept. *' Some of 
 you," said her majesty, " must kill cankers in the musk- 
 rose buds, and some wage war with the bats for their 
 leathern wings, to make my small elves coats ; and some 
 of you keep watch that the clamorous owl, that nightly 
 hoots, come not near me : but first sing me to sleep." 
 Then they began to sing this song : — 
 
 You spotted snakes with double tongue, 
 Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen ; 
 Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong, 
 Come not near our Fairy Queen. 
 Philomel, with melody, 
 Sing in your sweet lullaby, 
 Lulla, lulla, lullaby ; luUa. lulla, lullaby : 
 Never harm, nor spell, nor charm, 
 Come our lovely lady nigh ; 
 So good night with lullaby. 
 
 When the fairies had sung their queen asleep with this 
 pretty lullaby, they left her, to perform the important 
 services she had enjoined them. Oberon then soitly drew 
 near his I'itania, and dropped some of the love-juice on 
 her eyelids, saying, 
 
 What thou seest when thou dost wake, 
 Do it for thy true-love take. 
 
 But to return to Herraia, who made her escape out of 
 her father's house that night, to avoid the death she was 
 doomed to for refusing to marry Demetrius. When she 
 entered the wood, she found her dear Lysander waiting
 
 38 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 for her, to conduct her to his aunt's house ; but before 
 they had passed half through the wood, Hermia was so 
 much fatigued, that Lysander, who was very careful of 
 this dear lady, who had proved her affection for him 
 even by hazarding her life for his sake, persuaded her to 
 rest till morning on a bank of soft moss, and lying down 
 himself on the ground at some little distance, they soon 
 fell fast asleep. Here they were found by Puck, who 
 seeing a handsome young man asleep, and perceiving that 
 his clothes were made in the Athenian fashion, and that a 
 pretty lady was sleeping near him, concluded that this 
 must be the Athenian maid and her disdainful lover 
 whom Oberon had sent him to seek ; and he naturally 
 enough conjectured that, as they were alone together, 
 she must be the first thing he would see when he awoke : 
 so without more ado, he proceeded to pour some of the 
 juice of the little purple flower into his eyes. But it so 
 fell out, that Helena came that way, and, instead of 
 Hermia, was the first object Lysander beheld when he 
 opened his eyes ; and, strange to relate, so powerful was 
 the love-charm, all his love for Hermia vanished away, 
 and Lysander fell in love with Helena. 
 
 Had he first seen Hermia when he awoke, the blunder 
 Puck committed would have been of no consequence, for 
 he could not love that faithful lady too well ; but for poor 
 Lysander to be forced by a fairy love-charm to forget his 
 own true Hermia, and to run after another lady, and 
 leave Hermia asleep quite alone in a wood at midnight, 
 was a sad chance indeed. 
 
 Thus this misfortune happened. Helena, as has been 
 before related, endeavoured to keep pace with Deme- 
 trius when he ran away so rudely from her ; but she 
 could not continue this unequal race long, men being 
 always better runners in a long race than ladies. Helena 
 soon lost sight of Demetrius ; and as she was wandering 
 about, dejected and forlorn, she arrived at the place 
 where Lysander was sleeping. "Ah!" said she, "this 
 is Lysander lying on the ground : is he dead or asleep r" 
 Then gently touching him, she said, " Good sir, if you 
 arc alive, awake." Upon this Lysander opened his eyes,
 
 A MIDSUMMER NIGHT's DREAM. 39 
 
 and (the love-charm beginning to work) immediately ad- 
 dressed her in terms of extravagant love and admiration ; 
 telling her, she as much excelled Hermia in beauty as a 
 dove does a raven, and that he would run through fire for 
 her sweet sake ; and many more such lover-like speeches. 
 Helena, knowing Lysander was her friend Hermia's lover, 
 and that he was solemnly engaged to marry her, was in 
 the utmost rage when she heard herself addressed in this 
 manner ; for she thought (as well she might) that Lysan- 
 der was making a jest of her. " Oh !" said she, " why 
 was I born to be mocked and scorned by every one ? Is 
 it not enough, is it not enough, young man, that I can 
 never get a sv>'eet look or a kind word from Demetrius ; 
 but you, sir, must pretend in this disdainful manner to 
 court me ? I thought, Lysander, you were a lord of 
 more true gentleness." Saying these words in great 
 anger, she ran away ; and Lysander followed her, quite 
 forgetful of his own Hermia, who was still asleep. 
 
 When Hermia awoke, she was in a sad fright at find- 
 ing herself alone. She wandered about the wood, not 
 knowing what was become of Lysander, or which way to 
 go to seek for him. In the mean time Demetrius, not 
 being able to find Hermia and his rival Lysander, and 
 fatigued with his fruitless search, was observed by O he- 
 ron fast asleep. Oberon had learnt by some questions he 
 had asked of Puck, that he had applied the love-charm 
 to the wrong person's eyes ; and now, having found the 
 person first intended, he touched the eyelids of the sleep- 
 ing Demetrius with the love-juice, and he instantly 
 awoke ; and the first thing he saw being Helena, he, as 
 Lysander had done before, began to address love-speeches 
 to her ; and just at that moment Lysander followed by 
 Hermia (for through Puck's unlucky mistake it was now 
 become Hermia's turn to run after her lover) made his 
 appearance ; and then Lysander and Demetrius, both 
 speaking together, made love to Helena, they being each 
 one under the influence of the same potent charm. 
 
 The astonished Helena thought that Dcmelrius, Ly- 
 sander, and her once dear friend Hermia, were all in a 
 plot together to make a jest of her.
 
 40 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 Hermia was as much surprised as Helena : she knew 
 not why Lysander and Demetrius, who both before loved 
 her, were now become the lovers of Helena ; and to Her- 
 mia the matter seemed to be no jest. 
 
 The ladies, who before had always been the dearest of 
 friends, now fell to high words together. 
 
 " Unkind Hermia," said Helena, " it is you have set 
 Lysander on, to vex me with mock praises ; and your 
 other lover Demetrius, who used almost to spurn me with 
 his foot, have you not bid him call me goddess, nymph, 
 rare, precious, and celestial '? He would not speak thus 
 to me, whom he hates, if you did not set him on to make 
 a jest of me. Unkind Hermia, to join with men in scorn- 
 ing your poor friend. Have you forgot our school-day 
 friendship ? How often, Hermia, have we two, sitting 
 on one cushion, both singing one song, with our needles 
 working the same flower, both on the sam.e sampler 
 wrought ; growing up together in fashion of a double 
 cherry, scarcely seeming parted ! Hermia, it is not 
 fi'iendly in you, it is not maidenly, to join with men in 
 scorning your poor friend." 
 
 " I am amazed at your passionate words," said Her- 
 mia : " I scorn you not ; it seems you scorn me." " Ay, 
 do," returned Helena, " persevere, counterfeit serious 
 looks, and make mouths at me when I turn my back ; then 
 wink at each other, and hold the sweet jest up. If you had 
 any pity, grace, or manners, you would not use me thus."* 
 
 While Helena and Hermia were speaking these angry 
 words to each other, Demetrius and Lysander left them, 
 to fight together in the wood for the love of Helena. 
 
 When they found the gentlemen had left them, they 
 departed, and once more wandered weary in the wood in 
 search of their lovers. 
 
 As soon as they were gone, the fairy king, w^ho with 
 little Puck had been listening to their quarrels, said to 
 him, " This is your negligence. Puck ; or did you do 
 this wilfully ?" " Believe me, khig of shadows," an- 
 swered Puck, " it was a mistake : did not you tell me I 
 should know the man by his Athenian garments ? How- 
 
 * Extract 11
 
 A MIDSUMMER NIGHT S DREAM. 41 
 
 ever, I am not sorry this has happened, for I think their 
 jangling makes excellent sport." " You heard," said 
 Oberon, " that Demetrius and Lysander are gone to seek 
 a convenient place to fight in. I command you to over- 
 hang the night vi^ith a thick fog, and lead these quarrel- 
 some lovers so astray in the dark, that they shall not be 
 able to find each other. Counterfeit each of their voices 
 to the other, and with bitter taunts provoke them to fol- 
 low you, while they think it is their rival's tongue they 
 hear. See you do this, till they are so weary they can 
 go no farther ; and when you find they are asleep, drop 
 the juice of this other flower into Lysander's eyes, and 
 when he awakes he will forget his new love for Helena, 
 and return to his old passion for Hermia ; and then the 
 two fair ladies may each one be happy with the man she 
 loves, and they will think all that has passed a vexatious 
 dream. About this quickly. Puck ; and I will go and 
 see what sweet love my Titania has found." 
 
 Titania was still sleeping, and Oberon seeing a clown 
 near her, who had lost his way in the wood, and was 
 likewise asleep : " This fellow," said he, " shall be my 
 Titania's true-love ;" and clapping an ass's head over the 
 clown's, it seemed to fit him as well as if it had grown 
 upon his own shoulders. Though Oberon fixed the ass's 
 head on very gently, it awakened him, and rising up, un- 
 conscious of what Oberon had done to him, he went to- 
 wards the bower where the fairy queen slept. 
 
 " Ah ! what angel is that I see ?" said Titania, open- 
 ing her eyes, and the juice of the little purple flower be- 
 ginning to take effect : " Are you as wise as you are 
 beautiful ?" 
 
 " Why, mistress," said the foolish clown, " if I have 
 wit enough to find the way out of this wood, I have 
 enough to serve my turn." 
 
 " Out of the wood do not desire to go," said the en- 
 amoured queen. " I am a spirit of no common rate. I 
 love you. Go with me, and I will give you fairies to 
 attend upon you," 
 
 She then called four of her fairies : their names were 
 Peas-blossom, Cobweb, Moth, and Mustard-seed.
 
 42 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 " Attend," said the queen, " upon this sweet gentle- 
 man ; hop in his walks, and gambol in his sight ; feed 
 him with grapes and apricots, and steal for him the honey- 
 bags from the bees. Come sit with me," said she to the 
 clown, " and let me play with your amiable hairy cheeks, 
 my beautiful ass ! and kiss your fair large ears, my gentle 
 
 joy !" 
 
 '' Where is Peas-blossom ?" said the ass-headed clown, 
 not much regarding the fairy queen's courtship, but very 
 proud of his new attendants. 
 
 " Here, sir," said little Peas-blossom. 
 
 " Scratch my head," said the clown. " Where is 
 Cobweb '?" 
 
 " Here, sir," said Cobweb. 
 
 *' Good Mr. Cobweb," said the foolish clown, " kill 
 me the red humble-bee on the top of that thistle yonder ; 
 and, good Mr. Cobweb, bring me the honey-bag. Do 
 not fi-et yourself too much in the action, Mr. Cobweb, 
 and take care the honey-bag break not ; I should be sorry 
 to have you overflown with a honey-bag. Where is 
 Mustard-seed ?" 
 
 " Here, sir," said Mustard-seed : " what is your 
 will ?" 
 
 " Nothing," said the clown, *' good Mr. Mustard-seed, 
 but to help Mr. Peas-blossom to scratch : I must go to a 
 barber's, Mr. Mustard-seed, for methinks I am marvel- 
 lous hairy about the face." 
 
 '* My sweet love," said the queen, " what will you 
 have to eat ? I have a venturous fairy shall seek the 
 squirrel's hoard, and fetch you some new nuts." 
 
 " I had rather have a handful of dried peas," said the 
 clown, who with his ass's head had got an ass's appetite. 
 " But, I pray, let none of your people disturb me, for 
 I have a mind to sleep." 
 
 " Sleep, then," said the queen, '' and I will wind you 
 in my arms. O how I love you ! How I dote upon 
 you !" 
 
 When the fairy king saw the cIowti sleeping in the 
 arms of his queen, he advanced within her sight, and re- 
 proached her with having lavished her favours upon an ass.
 
 A MIDSUMMER NIGHt's DREAM. 43 
 
 This she could not deny, as the clown was then sleep- 
 ing within her arms, with his ass's head crowned by her 
 with flowers. 
 
 When Oberon had teased her for some time, he again 
 demanded the changeling-boy ; which she, ashamed of 
 being discovered by her lord with her new favourite, did 
 not dare to refuse him. 
 
 Oberon, having thus obtained the little boy he had so 
 long wished for to be his page, took pity on the disgrace- 
 ful situation into which, by his merry contrivance, he had 
 brought his Titania, and threw some of the juice of the 
 other flower into her eyes ; and the fairy queen imme- 
 diately recovered her senses, and wondered at her late 
 dotage, saying how she now loathed the sight of the 
 strange monster. 
 
 Oberon likewise took the ass's head from off the clown, 
 and left him to finish his nap with his own fool's head 
 upon his shoulders. 
 
 Oberon and his Titania being now perfectly reconciled, 
 he related to her the history of the lovers, and their mid- 
 night quarrels ; and she agreed to go with him, and see 
 the end of their adventures.* 
 
 The fairy king and queen found the lovers and their 
 fair ladies, at no great distance from each other, sleeping 
 on a grass-plot ; for Puck, to make amends for his former 
 mistake, had contrived with the utmost diligence to bring 
 them all to the same spot, unknown to each other ; and 
 he had carefully removed the charm from off the eyes of 
 Ly Sander with the antidote the fairy king gave to him. 
 
 Hermia first awoke, and finding her lost Lysander 
 asleep so near her, was looking at him and wondering at 
 his strange inconstancy. Lysander presently opening 
 his eyes, and seeing his dear Hermia, recovered his rea- 
 son which the fairy-charm had before clouded, and with 
 his reason his love for Hermia ; and they began to talk 
 over the adventures of the night, doubting if these things 
 had really happened, or if they had both been dreaming 
 the same bewildering dream. 
 
 Helena and Demetrius were by this time awake ; and 
 
 • Extract III.
 
 44 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 a sweet sleep having quieted Helena's disturbed and 
 angry spirits, she listened with delight to the professions 
 of love which Demetrius still made to her, and which, to 
 her surprise as well as pleasure, she began to perceive 
 were sincere. 
 
 These fair night- wandering ladies, now no longer rivals, 
 became once more true friends ; all the unkind words 
 which' had passed were forgiven, and they calmly con- 
 sulted together what was best to be done in their pre- 
 sent situation. It was soon agreed that, as Demetrius 
 had given up his pretensions to Hermia, he should endea- 
 vour to prevail upon her father to revoke the cruel sen- 
 tence of death which had been passed against her. De- 
 metrius was preparing to return to Athens for this friendly 
 purpose, when they were surprised with the sight of 
 Egeus, Hermia's father, who came to the wood in pursuit 
 of his runaway daughter. 
 
 When Egeus understood that Demetrius would not 
 now marry his daughter, he no longer opposed her mar- 
 riage with Ly Sander, but gave his consent that they should 
 be wedded on the fourth day from that time, being the 
 same day on which Hermia had been condemned to lose 
 her life ; and on that same day Helena joyfully agreed to 
 marry her beloved and now faithful Demetrius. 
 
 The fairy king and queen, who were invisible specta- 
 tor of this reconciliation, and now saw the happy ending 
 of the lovers' history brought about through the good 
 offices of Oberon, received so much pleasure, that these 
 kind spirits resolved to celebrate the approaching nup- 
 tials with sports and revels throughout their fairy king- 
 dom.* 
 
 And now, if any are offended with this story of fairies 
 and their pranks, as judging it incredible and strange, 
 they have only to think that they have been asleep and 
 dreaming, and that all these adventures were visions 
 which they saw in their sleep : and I hope none of my 
 readers will be so unreasonable as to be offended with a 
 pretty harmless Midsummer Night's Dream. 
 
 * Extract IV.
 
 A midsummeu night s dream. 45 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 Act II. — Scene II. — Enter Oberon, on one side, with Ms 
 train, and Titania, on the other, with hers. 
 
 Obe. Ill met by mooulight, proud Titania. 
 
 Tita. What, jealous Oberon ? Fairy, skip hence ; 
 I have forsworn his bed and company. 
 
 Obe. Tarry, rash wanton. Am not I thy lord ? 
 
 Tita. Then I must be thy lady : But I know 
 When thou hast stolen away from fairy land, 
 And in the shape of Corin sat all day. 
 Playing on pipes of corn, and versing love 
 To amorous Phillida, Why art thou here, 
 Come from the farthest steep of India ? 
 But that, forsooth, the bouncing Amazon, 
 Your buskin'd mistress, and your warrior love, 
 To Theseus must be wedded ; and you come 
 To give their bed joy and prosperity. 
 
 Obe. How canst thou thus, for shame, Titania, 
 Glance at my credit with Hippolyta, 
 Knowing I know thy love to Theseus ? 
 Didst thou not lead him through the glimmering night 
 From Perigenia, whom he ravished ? 
 And make him with fair -^gle break his faith. 
 With Ariadne, and Antiopa ? 
 
 Tita. These are the forgeries of jealousy: 
 And never, since the middle summer's spring,^ 
 Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead. 
 By paved fountain,^ or by rushy brook, 
 Or on the beached margent of the sea. 
 To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, 
 But with thy brawls thou hast disturb'd our sport 
 
 ^ Middle summer's spring. The spring is tlie beginning— as the spring 
 of the day, a common expression in our early writers. The middle sum- 
 mer is the midsummer. 
 
 b Paved fountain — a fountain or clear stream, rushing over pebblfs.
 
 46 TALES FROM SHAKSPEKE. 
 
 Therefore, the winds, piping to us in vain. 
 
 As in revenge, have suck'd up from the sea 
 
 Contagious fogs ; which, falling in the land, 
 
 Have every pelting'' river made so proud, 
 
 That they have overborne their continents ;^ 
 
 The ox hath therefore stretch'd his yoke in vain. 
 
 The ploughman lost his sweat ; and the green corn 
 
 Hath rotted, ere his youth attain'd a beard : 
 
 The fold stands empty in the drowned field. 
 
 And crows are fatted with the murrain flock ; 
 
 The nine men's morris is fill'd up with mud ; "^ 
 
 And the quaint mazes in the wanton green, 
 
 For lack of tread, are undistinguishable ; 
 
 The human mortals want ; their winter here, 
 
 No night is now with hymn or carol bless'd : — 
 
 Therefore the moon, the governess of floods, 
 
 Pale in her anger, washes all the air, 
 
 That rheumatic diseases do abound : 
 
 And thorough this distemperature, we see 
 
 The seasons alter : hoary-headed frosts 
 
 Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose ; 
 
 And on old Hyems' chin, and icy crown. 
 
 An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds 
 
 Is, as in mockery, set : The spring, the summer, 
 
 The childing "^ autumn, angry winter, change 
 
 Their wonted liveries ; and the mazed world, 
 
 By their increase,^ now knows not which is which : 
 
 And this same progeny of evils comes 
 
 From our debate, from our dissension ; 
 
 We are their parents and original. 
 
 Obe. Do you amend it then : it lies in you : 
 Why shoxild Titania cross her Oberon ? 
 I do but beg a little changeling boy, 
 To be my henchman/ 
 
 * Pelting — petty, contemptible. 
 
 *> Continents — banks. A continent is that which contains. 
 
 c Upon the green turf of their commons the shepherds and plough- 
 men of England were wont to cut a rude series of lines, upon which 
 they arranged eighteen stones, divided between two players, who moved 
 them alternately, as at chess or draughts, till the game was finislied by 
 one of the players having all his pieces taken or impounded. This 
 was the nine men's morris. 
 
 d Childing — producing. 
 
 ^ Increase — produce. 
 
 ^ Henchman — a page; originally a horseman.
 
 A MIDSUMMER NIGHt's DREAM. 47 
 
 Tita. Set your heart at rest. 
 
 The fairy land buys not the child of me. 
 His mother was a vot'ress of my order : 
 And, in the spiced Indian air, by night, 
 Full often hath she gossip'd by my side ; 
 And sat with me on Neptune's yellow sands, 
 Marking th' embarked traders on the flood ; 
 When we have laugh'd to see the sails conceive, 
 And grow big-bellied, with the wanton wind : 
 Which she, with pretty and with swimming gait, 
 Following (her womb then rich with my young squire j. 
 Would imitate ; and sail upon the land, 
 To fetch me trifles, and return again. 
 As from a voyage, rich with merchandise. 
 But she, being mortal, of that boy did die ; 
 And, for her sake, I do rear up her boy : 
 And, for her sake, I will not part with him. 
 
 Ohe. How long within this wood intend you stay ? 
 
 Tita. Perchance, till after Theseus' wedding-day. 
 If you will patiently dance in our round. 
 And see our moonlight revels, go with us ; 
 If not, shun me, and I will spare your haunts. 
 
 Obe. Give me that boy, and I will go with thee. 
 
 Tita. Not for thy fairy kingdom. Fairies, away : 
 We shall chide downright, if I longer stay. 
 
 {^Exeunt TiTANiA and her train. 
 
 Ohe. Well, go thy way : thou shalt not from this grove. 
 Till I torment thee for this injury. 
 My gentle Puck, come hither : Thou remember'st 
 Since once I sat upon a promontory, 
 And heard a mermaid, on a dolphin's back. 
 Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath. 
 That the rude sea grew civil at her song ; 
 And certain stars shot madly from their spheres, 
 To hear the sea-maid's music. 
 
 Puck. I remember. 
 
 Ohe. That very time I saw (but thou couldst not). 
 Flying between the cold moon and the earth, 
 Cupid all arm'd ; a certain aim he took 
 At a fair vestal, throned by the west ; 
 And loos'd his love-shaft smartly from his bow, 
 As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts : 
 But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft 
 Quench'd in the chaste beams of the watery moon ;
 
 48 TALES mOM SH^VKSPERE. 
 
 And the imperial votaress passed on. 
 
 In maiden meditation, fancy free.* 
 
 Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell : 
 
 It fell upon a little western flower, — 
 
 Before, milk-white ; now, purple with love's wound, — 
 
 And maidens call it love-in-idleness. 
 
 Fetch me that flower ; the herb I show'd thee once ; 
 
 The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid, 
 
 Will make or man or woman madly dote 
 
 Upon the next live creature that it sees. 
 
 Fetch me this herb : and be thou here again. 
 
 Ere the leviathan can swim a league. 
 
 Puck. I '11 put a girdle round about the earth 
 In forty minutes. [ Exit Pucx. 
 
 II. 
 
 Act III. — Scene II. 
 
 Hel. Injurious Hermia ! most ungrateful maid ! 
 Have you conspir'd, have you with these contriVd 
 To bait me with this foul derision ? 
 Is all the counsel that we two have shar'd, 
 The sisters' vows, the hours that we have spent, 
 When we have chid the hasty-footed time 
 For parting us, — O, and is all forgot ? 
 All school-days' friendship, childhood innocence ? 
 We, Hermia, like two artificial gods. 
 Have with our needles created both one flower. 
 Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion, 
 Both warbling of one song, both in one key ; 
 As if our hands, our sides, voices, and minds, 
 Had been incorporate. So we grew together, 
 Like to a double cherry, seeming parted ; 
 But yet a union in partition, 
 Two lovely berries moulded on one stem : 
 So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart, 
 Two of the first, like coats in heraldry. 
 Due but to one, and crowned with one crest.^ 
 
 ^ This is an allusion to the unmarried state of Quceii KlizabeUi who 
 had received offers from prince and subject. 
 
 ^ There is a double comparison here — 1st, Of tlie two l)odies, rora-
 
 A MIDSUMMER NIGHt's DREAM. 49 
 
 And will you rent our ancient love asunder, 
 To join with men in scoi'ning your poor friend ? 
 It is not friendly, 't is not maidenly : 
 Our sex, as well as I, may chide you for it ; 
 Though I alone do feel the injury. 
 
 Her, I am amazed at your passionate words • 
 I scorn you not ; it seems that you scorn me. 
 
 Hel. Have you not set Lysander, as in scorn, 
 To follow me, and praise my eyes and face ? 
 And made your other love, Demetrius, 
 (Who even but now did spurn me with his foot,) 
 To call me goddess, nymph, divine, and rare. 
 Precious, celestial ? Wherefore speaks he this 
 To her he liates ? and wherefore doth Lysander 
 Deny your love, so rich within his soul. 
 And tender me, forsooth, aifection ; 
 But by your setting on, by your consent ? 
 What though I be not so in grace as you. 
 So hung upon with love, so fortunate ; 
 But miserable most, to love unlov'd ! 
 This you should pity, rather than despise. 
 
 Her. I understand not what you mean by this. 
 
 Hel. Ay, do, *persever, counterfeit sad looks, 
 Make mouths upon me when I turn my back ; 
 Wink each at other ; hold the sweet jest up : 
 This sport, well carried, shall be chronicled. 
 If you have any pity, grace, or manners, 
 You would not make me such an argument. 
 But, fare ye well : 't is partly mine own fault; 
 Which death, or absence, soon shall remedy. 
 
 pared to ttvo coats of heraldry ; and, 2ndly, Of the one heart, compared 
 to the one crest and the one owner. " Our bodies are two, but they are 
 as united under one heart, as two coats of arms (when quartered or im- 
 paled) are borne by one person under one crest."
 
 50 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 III. 
 
 Act TV. — Scene I. — Enter Titania and Bottom, Fairies 
 attending ; Oberon behind unseen. 
 
 Tita. Come, sit thee down upon this flowery bed, 
 While I thy amiable cheeks do coy,'' 
 And stick musk-roses in thy sleek smooth head, 
 And kiss thy fair large ears, my gentle joy. 
 
 Bot. Where 's Peas-blossom? 
 
 Peas. Eeady. 
 
 Bot. Scratch my head. Peas-blossom. — Where 's monsieur 
 Cobweb? 
 
 Cob. Ready. 
 
 Bot. Monsieur Cobweb; good monsieur, get your weapons 
 in your hand, and kill me a red-hipped humble-bee on the 
 top of a thistle ; and, good monsieur, bring me the honey- 
 bag Do not fret yourself too much in the action, monsieur ; 
 and, good monsieur, have a care the honey.bag break not ; 
 I would be loth to have you overflown ^ with a honey-bag, 
 signior. — Where 's monsieur Mustard-seed ? 
 
 Must. Ready. 
 
 Bot. Give me your neif,"^ monsieur Mustard-seed, Pray 
 you, leave your courtesy, good monsieur. 
 
 Must. What 's your will ? 
 
 Bot. Nothing, good monsieur, but to help caj'alero Cob- 
 web to scratch. I must to the barber's, monsieur ; for, me- 
 thinks, I am marvellous hairy about the face ; and I am 
 such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me I must 
 scratch. 
 
 Tita. What, wilt thou hear some mtisic, my sweet love ? 
 
 Bot. I have a reasonable good ear in music : let us have 
 the tongs and the bones. 
 
 Tita. Or say, sweet love, what thou desir'st to eat. 
 
 Bot. Truly, a peck of provender: I could munch your 
 good dry oats. ^lethinks I have a great desire to a bottle 
 of hay : good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow. 
 
 ^ To cm/ is here to caress. 
 ■» Overflown — flooded, drowned. c iVe'^-fist.
 
 A MIDSUMMER NIGHt's DREAM. 51 
 
 Tita. I have a venturous fairy that shall seek 
 The squirrel's hoard, and fetch thee new nuts. 
 
 Bot. I had rather have a handful, or two, of dried peas. 
 But, I pray you, let none of your people stir me ; I have an 
 exposition of sleep come upon me. 
 
 Tita. Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms. 
 Fairies, be gone, and be all ways away. 
 So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle 
 Gently entwist ; the female ivy so 
 Enrings the barky fingers of the elm.=* 
 O, how I love thee ! how I dote on thee ! [77/ey slccrp. 
 
 Oberon advances. Enter Puck. 
 
 Ohe. Welcome, good Eobin. See'st thou this sweet sight ? 
 Her dotage now 1 do begin to pity. 
 For meeting her of late, behind the wood. 
 Seeking sweet savours for tliis hateful fool, 
 I did upbraid her and fall out with her : 
 For she his hairy temples then had rounded 
 With coronet of fresh and fragrant flowers ; 
 And that same dew, which sometime on the buds 
 Was wont to swell like round and orient pearls. 
 Stood now within the pretty flow'rets' eyes. 
 Like tears that did their own disgrace bewail. 
 When I had, at my pleasure, taunted her. 
 And she, in mild terms, begg'd my patience, 
 I then did ask of her her changeling child ; 
 Which straight she gave me, and her fairy sent 
 To bear him to my bower in fairy land. 
 And now I have the boy, I will undo 
 This hateful imperfection of her eyes. 
 And, gentle Puck, take this transformed scalp 
 From off the head of this Athenian swain ; 
 That he awaking when the other do, 
 May all to Athens back again repair ; 
 And think no more of this night's accidents, 
 
 ^ GifTord pointed out the true meaning of this passage in his note 
 upon a parallel passage in Ben .lonson : — 
 
 " behold ! 
 
 How the blue bindweed doth itself enfold 
 With hmeijsuc'kle, and both these entwine 
 Tlieniselves with bryony and jessamine." 
 " In many of our counties," says GifFord, *' the woodbine is still tne 
 name for the great cviivulvulus." 
 
 d2
 
 52 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 But as the fierce vexation of a dream. 
 But first I will release the fairy queen. 
 
 Be thou, as thou wast wont to be ; 
 
 [Touching her eyes with an heib. 
 See, as thou wast wont to see : 
 Dian's bud o'er Cupid's flower 
 Hath such force and blessed power. 
 Now, my Titania, wake you, ray sweet queen. 
 
 Tita. My Oberon ! what visions have I seen ! 
 Methonght I was enamour'd of an ass. 
 Ohe. There lies your love. 
 
 Tita, How came these things to pass ? 
 
 0, how mine eyes do loathe his visage now ! 
 
 Obe. Silence a while.— Robin, take off this head. — 
 Titania, maisic call ; and strike more dead 
 Than common sleep, of all these five the sense. 
 Tita. Music, ho ! music ; such as charmeth sleep. 
 Puck. When thou wak'st, with thine own fool's eyes 
 
 peep. 
 Ohe. Sound, music. \_StiU music.'] Come, my queen, take 
 hands with me. 
 And rock the ground whereon these sleepers be. 
 Now thou and I are new in amitj' ; 
 And will, to-morrow midnight, solemnly, 
 Dance in duke Theseus' house triumphantly. 
 And bless it to all fair posterity : 
 There shall the pairs of faithful lovers be 
 Wedded, with Theseus, all in jollity. 
 Puck. Fairy king, attend, and mark ; 
 
 I do hear the morning lark. 
 Obe. Then, my queen, in silence sad. 
 Trip Ave after the night's shade : 
 We the globe can compass soon. 
 Swifter than the wand'ring moon. 
 Tita. Come, my lord ; and in our flight. 
 Tell me how it came this night, 
 That I sleeping here was found, 
 With these mortals on the ground. [Exeunt. 
 
 [Horns sound within.
 
 A MIDSUMMER NIGHt's DREAM. 53 
 
 IV. 
 
 Act V. — Scene II. — Enter Puck. 
 
 Puck. Now the hungry lion roars, 
 
 And the wolf behowls the moon ; 
 Whilst the heavy ploughman snores, 
 
 All with weary task fordone. 
 Now the wasted brands do glow, 
 
 Whilst the scritch-owl, scritching loud, 
 Puts the wretch, that lies in woe, 
 
 In remembrance of a shroud. 
 Now it is the time of night. 
 
 That the graves, all gaping wide, 
 Every one lets forth his sprite. 
 
 In the church-way paths to glide : 
 And we fairies, that do run 
 
 By the triple Hecate's team. 
 From the presence of the sun, 
 
 Following darkness like a dream, 
 Now are frolic ; not a mouse 
 Shall disturb this hallow'd house : 
 I am sent, with broom before. 
 To sweep the dust behind the door. 
 
 Enter Oberon and Titania, with th 
 
 eir iraxn. 
 
 Obe Through the house give glimmering light, 
 By the dead and drowsy fire ; 
 Every elf, and fairy sprite, 
 
 Hop as light as bird from brier ; 
 And this ditty, after me. 
 Sing, and dance it, trippingly. 
 
 Tita. First, rehearse this song by rote : 
 To each word a warbling note. 
 Hand in hand, with fairy grace. 
 Will we sing, and bless this place. 
 
 SONG, AND DANCE. 
 
 Obe. Now, until the break of day. 
 
 Through this house each fairy stray. 
 To the best bride-bed will we. 
 Which by us shall blessed be :
 
 54 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 And the issue there create 
 
 Ever shall be fortunate. 
 
 So shall all the couples three 
 
 Ever true in loving be ; 
 
 And the blots of Nature's hand 
 
 Shall not in their issue stand ; 
 
 Never mole, hare-lip, nor scar, 
 
 Nor mark prodigious, such as are 
 
 Despised in nativity, 
 
 Shall upon their children be. 
 
 With this field-dew consecrate, 
 
 Every fairy take his gait ; 
 
 And each several chamber bless, 
 
 Through this palace with sweet peace ; 
 
 Ever slaall in safety rest. 
 
 And the owner of it blest. 
 
 Trip away ; 
 
 Make no stay : 
 Meet me all by break of day. 
 
 [Exeunt Oberon, 'Titaxia, and Train.
 
 1^ I'r^c 
 
 "> 
 
 1 ^^i^Tl^Jii^ 
 
 . y
 
 57 ) 
 
 A. WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 Leontes, king- of Sicily, and his queen, the beautiful 
 and virtuous Hermione, once lived in the greatest har- 
 mony tog:ether. So happy was Leontes in the love of 
 this excellent lady, that he had no wish ungratified, ex- 
 cept that he sometimes desired to see again, and to pre- 
 sent to his queen, his old companion and school-fellow, 
 Polixenes, king of Bohemia. Leontes and Polixenes 
 were brought up together from their infancy, but being 
 by the death of their fathers called to reign over their 
 respective kingdoms, they had not met for many years, 
 though they frequently interchanged gifts, letters, and 
 loving embassies. 
 
 At length, after repeated invitations, Polixenes came 
 from Bohemia to the Sicilian court, to make his friend 
 Leontes a visit. 
 
 At first this visit gave nothing- but pleasure to Leontes. 
 He recommended the friend of his youth to the queen's 
 particular attention, and seemed in the presence of his 
 dear friend and old companion to have his felicity quite 
 completed. They talked over old times ; their school- 
 days and their youthful pranks were remembered, and 
 recounted to Hermione, who always took a cheerful part 
 in these conversations. 
 
 When, after a long stay, Polixenes was preparing to 
 depart, Hermione, at tiie desire of her husband, joined 
 her entreaties to his that Polixenes would prolong his 
 visit. 
 
 And now began this good queen's sorrow ; for Polixenes 
 refusing to stay at the request of licontes, was won over 
 
 D 3
 
 58 TALES FKOM SHARSPERE. 
 
 by Hermione's gentle and persuasive words to put off 
 his departure for some weeks longer. Upon this, although 
 Lcontes had so long known the integrity and honourable 
 principles of his friend Polixenes, as well as the excel- 
 lent disposition of his virtuous queen, he was seized with 
 an ungovernable jealousy. Every attention Hermione 
 showed to Polixenes, though by her husband's particular 
 desire, and merely to please him, increased the unfor- 
 tunate king's jealousy ; and from being a loving and a true 
 friend, and the best and fondest of husbands, Leontes 
 became suddenly a savage and inhuman monster. Send- 
 ing for Camillo, one of the lords of his court, and telling 
 him of the suspicion he entertained, he commanded him 
 to poison Polixenes. 
 
 Camillo was a good man ; and he, well knowing that 
 the jealousy of Leontes had not the slightest foundation 
 in truth, mstcad of poisoning Polixenes, acquainted him 
 with the king his master's orders, and agreed to escape 
 with him orit of the Sicilian dominions ; and Polixenes, 
 with the assistance of Camillo, arrived safe in his own 
 kingdom of Bohemia, where Camillo lived from that time 
 in the king's court, and became the chief friend and 
 favourite of Polixenes, 
 
 The flight of Polixenes enraged the jealous Leontes 
 still more ; he went to the queen's apartment, where the 
 good lady was sitting with her little son Mamillus, who 
 was just beginning to tell one of his best stories to amuse 
 his mother, when the king entered, and taking the child 
 away, sent Hermione to pj-ison. 
 
 Mamillus, though but a very young child, loved his 
 mother tenderly ; and when he saw her so dishonoured, 
 and found she was taken from him to be put into a prison, 
 he took it deeply to heart, and drooped and pined away 
 by slow degrees, losing his appetite and his sleep, till it 
 was thought his grief would kill him. 
 
 The king, when he had sent his queen to prison, com- 
 manded Cleomenes and Dion, two Sicilian lords, to go 
 to Del])hos, there to inquire of the oracle at the temple 
 of Apollo, if his queen had been unfaithful to him. 
 
 When Hennione had been a short time in prison, she
 
 A avikter's tale. 59 
 
 was brought to "bed of a daughter ; and the poor lady 
 received much comfort from the sight of her pretty baby, 
 and she said to it, " My poor httle prisoner, 1 am as 
 innocent as you are." 
 
 Hermione had a kind friend in the noble-spirited 
 Paulina, who was the wife of Antigonus, a Sicilian lord : 
 and when the lady Paulina heard her royal mistress was 
 brought to bed, she went to the prison where Hermione 
 was confined ; and she said to Emilia, a lady who at- 
 tended upon Hermione, " I pray you, Emilia, tell the 
 good queen, if her majesty dare trust me with her little 
 babe, I will carry it to the king its father ; we do not 
 know how he may soften at the sight of his innocent 
 child." " Most worthy madam," replied Emilia, " I 
 will acquaint the queen with your noble offer ; she was 
 wishing to-day that she had any friend who would venture 
 to present the child to the king." " And tell her," said 
 Paulina, " that I will speak boldly to Leontes in her 
 defence." " May you be for ever blessed," said Emilia, 
 "for your kindness to our gracious queen!" Emilia 
 then went to Hermione, who joyfully gave up her baby 
 to the care of Paulina, for she had feared that no one 
 tvould dare venture to present the child to its father. 
 
 Paulina took the new-born infant, and foi-cing herself 
 into the king's presence, notwithstanding her husband, 
 fearing the king's anger, endeavoured to prevent her, she 
 laid the babe at its father's feet, and Paulina made a 
 noble speech to the king in defence of Hermione, and 
 she reproached him severely for his inhumanity, and im- 
 plored him to have mercy on his innocent wife and child. 
 But Paulina's spirited remonstrances only aggravated 
 Leontes's displeasure, and he ordered her husband An- 
 tigonus to take her from his presence. 
 
 When Paulina went away, she left the little baby at 
 its father's feet, thinking, when he was alone with it, 
 he would look upon it, and have pity on its helpless 
 innocence. 
 
 The good Paulina was mistaken ; for no sooner was 
 she gone than the merciless father ordered Antigonus,
 
 60 TALES FEOM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 Paulina's husband, to take the child, and carry it out to 
 sea, and leave it upon some desert shore to perish. 
 
 Antigonus, unlike the good Camillo, too well obeyed 
 the orders of Leontes ; for he immediately carried the 
 child on ship-board, and put out to sea, intending to 
 leave it on the first desert coast he could find. 
 
 So firmly was the king persuaded of the guilt of Her- 
 mione, that he would not wait for the return of Cleomenes 
 and Dion, whom he had sent to consult the oracle of 
 Apollo at Delphos ; but before the queen was recovered 
 from her lying-in, and from her grief for the loss of her 
 precious baby, he had her brought to a public trial before 
 all the lords and nobles of his court. And when all the 
 gi'eat lords, the judges, and all the nobility of the land 
 were assembled together to try Hermione, and that un- 
 happy queen was standing as a prisoner before her sub- 
 jects to receive their judgment, Cleomenes and Dion 
 entered the assembly, and presented to the king the 
 answer of the oracle sealed up ; and Leontes commanded 
 the seal to be broken, and the words of the oracle to be 
 read aloud, and these were the words: — " Hermione is 
 innocent, Poli.renes blameless, Camillo a true subject, 
 Leontes a jealous tyrant, and the king shall live icithout 
 an heir if that zchich is lost be not found.'' The king 
 v.'ould give no credit to the words of the oracle : he said 
 it was a falsehood invented by the queen's friends, and 
 he desired the judge to proceed in the trial of the queen ; 
 but while Leontes was speaking, a man entered and told 
 him that the prince Mamillus, hearing his mother was to 
 be tried for her life, struck with gi-ief and shame, had 
 suddenly died. 
 
 Hermione, upon hearing of the death of this dear 
 affectionate child, who had lost his life in sorrowing for 
 her misfortune, fainted ; and Leontes, pierced to the 
 heart by the news, began to feel pity for his unhappy 
 qnieen, and he ordered Paulina, and the ladies who were 
 her attendants, to take her away, and use means for her 
 recovery. Paulina soon returned, and told the king that 
 Hermione was dead.
 
 A winter's tale. 61 
 
 When Leontes heard that the queen was dead, he 
 repented of his cruelty to her ; and now that he thought 
 his ill usage had broken Hermione's heart, he believed 
 her innocent ; and he now thought the words of the 
 oracle were true, as he knew " if that which was lost 
 was not found," which he concluded was his young 
 daughter, he should be without an heir, the young prince 
 Mamillus being dead ; and he would give his kingdom 
 now to recover his lost daughter : and Leontes gave him- 
 self up to remorse, and passed many years in mournful 
 thoughts and repentant grief. 
 
 The ship in which Antigonus carried the infant prin- 
 cess out to sea, was driven by a storm upon the coast of 
 Bohemia, the very kingdom of the good king Polixenes. 
 Here Antigonus landed, and here he left the little baby. 
 
 Antigonus never returned to Sicily to tell Leontes 
 where he had lel't his daughter, for as he was going back 
 to the ship, a bear came out of the Moods, and tore him 
 to pieces ; a just punishment on him for obeying the 
 wicked order of Leontes. 
 
 The child was dressed in rich clothes and jewels ; for 
 Hermione had made it very fine when she sent it to 
 Leontes, and Antigonus had pinned a ])aper to its mantle, 
 with the name of Perdita written thereon, and words 
 obscurely intimating its high birth and untoward fate. 
 
 This poor deserted baby "was found by a shepherd. 
 He was a humane man, and so he carried the little 
 Perdita home to his wife, who nursed it tenderly ; but 
 poverty tempted the shepherd to conceal the rich prize 
 he had found ; therefore he left that part of the country, 
 that no one might know where he got his riches, and 
 with part of Perdita's jewels he bought herds of sheep, 
 and became a wealthy shepherd. He brought up Per- 
 dita as his own child, and she knew not she was any 
 other than a shepherd's daughter. 
 
 The little Perdita grew up a lovely maiden ; and 
 though she had no better education than that of a shep- 
 herd's daughter, yet so did the natural graces she in- 
 herited from her royal mother shine forth in her untutored
 
 62 rAl.ES FROM SHAKSPEKE. 
 
 mind, that no one from her behaviour would have known 
 she had not been brought up in her father's court. 
 
 Polixenes, the king of Bohemia, had an only son, 
 whose name was Florizel. As' this young prince was 
 hunting near the shepherd's dwelling, he saw the old 
 man's supposed daughter ; and the beauty, modesty, and 
 queen-like deportment of Perdita caused him instantly to 
 fall in love ^vilh her. He soon, under the name ot 
 Doricles, and in the disguise of a private gentleman, be- 
 came a constant visiter at the old shepherd's house. 
 
 Florizel's frequent absences from court alarmed Po- 
 lixenes ; and setting people to watch his son, he dis- 
 covered his love for the shepherd's fair daughter. 
 
 Polixenes then called for Camillo, the faithful Camillo, 
 who had preserved his life from the fury of Leontes ; 
 and desired that he would accompany him to the house 
 of the shepherd, the supposed father of Perdita. 
 
 Polixenes and Camillo, both in disguise, arrived at the 
 old shepherd's dwelling while they were celebrating the 
 feast of sheep-shearing ; and though they were strangers, 
 yet at the sheep-shearing every guest being made wel- 
 cx)me, they were invited to walk in, and join in the 
 general festivity, 
 
 Notliing but mirth and jollity was going forward. 
 Tables were spread, and gi-eat preparations were making 
 for the rustic feast. Some lads and lasses were dancing 
 on the green before the house, while others of the young 
 men were buying ribands, gloves, and such toys, of a 
 pedler at the door. 
 
 AVhile this busy scene was going forward, Florizel and 
 Perdita sat quietly in a retired corner, seemingly more 
 pleased with the conversation of each other, than desirous 
 of engaging in the sports and silly amusements of those 
 around them. 
 
 The king was so disguised that it was impossible his 
 son could know him ; he therefore advanced near enough 
 to hear the conversation. The simple yet elegant manner 
 in which Perdita conversed with his son did not a little 
 surprise Polixenes : he said to Camillo, " This is the
 
 A winter's TALiE. 63 
 
 prettiest low-born lass I ever saw ; nothing she does or 
 says but looks like something greater than herself, too 
 noble for this place." 
 
 Camillo replied, " Indeed she is the very queen of 
 curds and cream." 
 
 " Pray, my good friend," said the king to the old 
 shepherd, " what fair swain is that talking with your 
 daughter?" "They call him Doricles," replied the 
 shepherd. "He says he loves my daughter; and to 
 speak truth, there is not a kiss to choose which loves 
 the other best. If young Doricles can get her, she 
 shall bring him that he little dreams of;" meaning 
 the remainder of Perdita's jewels ; which, after he had 
 bought herds of sheep with part of them, he had carefully 
 hoarded up for her marriage portion.^ 
 
 Polixenes then addressed his son. " How now, young 
 man !" said he : " your heart seems full of something 
 that takes off your mind from feasting. When I was 
 young, I used to load my love with presents ; but you 
 have let the pedler go, and have bought your lass no 
 toy." 
 
 The young prince, who little thought he was talking 
 to the king his father, replied, " Old sir, she prizes not 
 such trifles ; the gifts which Perdita expects from me are 
 locked up. in my heart." Then turning to Perdita, he 
 said to her, " O hear me, Perdita, before this ancient 
 gentleman, who it seems was once himself a lover ; he 
 shall hear M'hat I profess." Florizel then called upon 
 the old stranger to be a witness to a solemn promise of 
 marriage which he made to Perdita, saying to Polixenes, 
 " I ]iray you mark our contract." 
 
 " Mark your divorce, young sir," said the king, dis- 
 covering himself. Polixenes then reproached his son for 
 daring to contract himself to this low-born maiden, call- 
 ing Perdita " shepherd's brat, sheep-hook," and other 
 disrespectful names ; and threatening, if ever she suffered 
 his son to see her again, he would put her, and the old 
 shepherd her father, to a cruel death. 
 
 ^ Extract I.
 
 64 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 The king then left them in great wrath, and ordered 
 Camillo to follow him with prince Florizel. 
 
 When the king had departed, Perdita, whose royai 
 nature was roused by Polixenes's reproaches, said, 
 " Though we are all undone, I was not much afraid ; 
 and once or twice I was about to speak, and tell him 
 plainly that the selfsame sun which shines upon his 
 palace, hides not his face from our cottage, but looks 
 on both alike." Then sorrowfully she said, " But now 
 I am awakened from this dream, I will queen it no 
 farther. Leave me, sir ; I will go milk my ewes and 
 weep."* 
 
 The kind-hearted Camillo was charmed with the spirit 
 and propriety of Perdita's behaviour ; and perceiving 
 that the young prince was too deeply in love to give 
 up his mistress at the command of his royal father, he 
 thought of a way to befriend the lovers, and at the same 
 time to execute a favourite scheme he had in his mind. 
 
 Camillo had long known that Leontcs, the king of 
 Sicily, was become a true penitent ; and though Camillo 
 was now the favoured friend of king Polixones, he could 
 not help wishing once mere to see his late royal master 
 and his native home. He therefore proposed to Florizel 
 and Perdita, that they should accompany him to the 
 Sicilian court, where he would engage Leontes should 
 protect them, till, through his mediation, they could 
 obtain pardon from Polixenes, and his consent to their 
 marriage. 
 
 To this proposal they joyfully agreed ; and Camillo, 
 who conducted every thing relative to their flight, allowed 
 the old shepherd to go along with them. 
 
 The shepherd took with him the remainder of Perdita's 
 jewels, her baby clothes, and the paper which he had 
 found pinned to her mantle. 
 
 After a prosperous voyage, Florizel and Perdita, Ca- 
 millo and the old shepherd, an'ived in safety at the court 
 of Leontes. Leontes, who still mourned his dead Her-. 
 mione and his lost child, received Camillo with great 
 
 » Extract II.
 
 A WINTER S TALE 
 
 65 
 
 kindness, and gave a cordial welcome to prince Florizel. 
 But Perdita, whom Florizel introduced as his princess, 
 seemed to engross a,ll Leontes's attention : perceiving a 
 resemblance between her and his dead queen Hermione, 
 his grief broke out afresh, and he said, such a lovely 
 creature might his own daughter have been, if he had 
 not so cruelly destroyed her. " And then, too," said he 
 to Florizel, " I lost the society and friendship of your 
 brave father, whom I now desire more than my life once 
 again to look upon." 
 
 When the old shepherd heard how much notice the 
 king had taken of Perdita, and that he had lost a daugh- 
 ter, who was exposed in infancy, he fell to comparing 
 the time when he found the little Perdita, with the 
 manner of its exposure, the jewels and other tokens of its 
 high birth ; from all which it was impossible for him not 
 to conclude, that Perdita and the king's lost daughter 
 were the same. 
 
 Florizel and Perdita, Camillo and the faithful Paulina, 
 were present when the old shepherd related to the king 
 the manner in which he had found the child, and also 
 the circumstance of Antigonus's death, he having seen 
 the bear seize upon him. He showed the rich mantle in 
 which Paulina remembered Hermione had wrapped the 
 child ; and he produced a jewel which she remembered 
 Hermione had tied about Perdita's neck, and he gave up 
 the paper which Paulina knew to be the writing of her 
 husband ; it could not be doubted that Perdita was Leon- 
 tes' own daughter : but oh ! the noble struggles of Pau- 
 lina, between son*ow for her husband's death, and joy 
 that the oracle was fulfilled, in the king's heir, his long- 
 lost daughter, being found. When Leontes heard that 
 Perdita was his daughter, the great sorrow that he felt 
 that Hermione was not living to behold her child, made 
 him that he could say nothing for a long time, but, " O 
 thy mother, thy mother !" 
 
 Paulina interrupted this joyful yet distressful scene, 
 with saying to Leontes, that she had a statue, newly 
 finished by that rare Italian master, Julio Romano, which 
 was such a perfect resemblance of the queen, that would
 
 66 TALES FKOM SHAKSPESE. 
 
 his majesty be pleased to go to her house and look upon 
 it, he would almost be ready to think it was liermione 
 herself. Thither then they all went ; the king anxious 
 to see the semblance of his liermione, and Ferdita long- 
 ing to behold what the mother she never saw did look 
 like. 
 
 When Paulina drew back the curtain which concealed 
 this famous statue, so perfectly did it resemble Hermione, 
 that all the king's sorrow was renewed at the sight : for 
 a long time he had no ix)wer to speak or move. 
 
 "I like your silence, my liege," said Paulina; "it 
 the more shows your wonder. Is not this statue very 
 like your queen ?" 
 
 At length the king said, " O, thus she stood, even 
 \vith such majesty, when I first wooed her. But yet, 
 Paulina, Hermione was not so aged as this statue looks." 
 Paulina replied, " So much the more the carver's excel- 
 lence, who has made the statue as Hermione would have 
 looked had she been living now. But let me draw the 
 curtain, sire, lest presently you think it moves." 
 
 The king then said, "Do not draw the curtain! 
 Would I were dead ! See, Camillo, would you not 
 think it breathed ? Her eye seems to have motion in 
 it." "I must draw the curtain, my liege," said Pau- 
 lina. " You are so transported, you will persuade your- 
 self the statue lives." " O, sweet Paulina," said Leontes, 
 "make me think so twenty years together! Still me- 
 thinks there is an air comes from her. What fine chisel 
 could ever yet cut breath ? Let no man mock me, for I 
 wall kiss her." " Good my lord, forbear !" said Paulina. 
 " The ruddiness upon her lip is wet ; you will stain 
 your own with oily painting. Shall I draw the curtain ?" 
 " No, not these twenty years," said Leontes. 
 
 Perdita, who all this time had been kneeling, and be- 
 holding in silent admiration the statue of her matchless 
 mother, said now, " And so long could I stay here, look- 
 ing upon my dear mother." 
 
 " Either forbear this transport," said Paulina to Leon- 
 tes, " and let me draw the curtain ; or prepare yourself 
 for more amazement. I can make tlie statue move indeed ;
 
 A winter's tale. 67 
 
 ay, and descend from off the pedestal, and take you by 
 the hand. But then you will think, which I protest I 
 am not, that I am assisted by some wicked powers." 
 
 " What you can make her do," said the astonished 
 king, " I am content to look upon. What you can make 
 her speak, I am content to hear ; for it is as easy to make 
 her speak as move." 
 
 Paulina then ordered some slow and solemn music, 
 which she had prepared for the purpose, to strike up ; 
 and to the amazement of all the beholders, the statue 
 came down from off the pedestal, and threw its arms 
 around Leontes' neck. The statue then began to speak, 
 praying for blessings on her husband, and on her child, 
 the newly found Perdita. 
 
 No wonder that the statue hung upon Leontes' neck, 
 and blessed her husband and her child. No wonder ; for 
 the statue was indeed Hermione herself, the real, the 
 living queen. 
 
 Paulina had falsely reported to the king the death of 
 Hermione, thinking that the only means to preserve her 
 royal mistress's life ; and with the good Paulina, Her- 
 mione had lived ever since, never choosing Leontes 
 should know she was living, till she heard Perdita was 
 found ; for though she had long forgiven the injuries 
 which Leontes had done to herself, she could not pardon 
 his cruelty to his infant daughter. 
 
 His dead queen thus restored to life, his lost daughter 
 found, the long-sorrowing Leontes could scarcely support 
 the excess of his owti happiness. 
 
 Nothing but congratulations and affectionate speeches 
 were heard on all sides. Now the delighted parents 
 thanked prince Florizel for loving their lowly-seeming 
 daughter ; and now they blessed the good old shepherd 
 for preserving their child. Greatly did Camillo and 
 Paulina rejoice, that they had lived to see so good an 
 end of all their faithful services. 
 
 And as if nothing should be wanting to complete this 
 strange and unlooked-for joy, king Polixenes himself now 
 entered the palace. 
 
 When Polixenes first missed his son and Camillo,
 
 68 TALES TROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 knowing that Camillo had long wished to return to Si- 
 cily, he conjectured he should find the fugitives here ; 
 and, following them with all speed, he happened to ar- 
 rive just at this, the happiest moment of Leontes' life. 
 
 Polixenes took a part in the general joy ; he forgave 
 his friend Leontes the unjust jealousy he had conceived 
 against him, and they once more loved each other with 
 all the warmth of their first boyish friendship. And 
 there was no fear that Polixenes would now oppose his 
 son's marriage with Perdita. She was no " sheep-hook" 
 now, but the heiress of the crown of Sicily. 
 
 Thus have we seen the patient virtues of the long- 
 suffering Hermione rewarded. That excellent lady lived 
 many years with her Leontes and her Perdita, the hap- 
 piest of mothers and of queens.
 
 A winter's tale. 69 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 Act IV. — Scene III. — A Shepherd's Cottage. — Enter 
 Florizel and Peudita. 
 
 -F/o. These your unusual weeds to each part of you 
 I Do give a life : no shepherdess ; but Flora, 
 I Peering in April's front. This your sheep-shearing 
 \ Is as a meeting of the petty gods, 
 I And you the queen on 't. 
 
 j Per. Sir, my gracious lord, 
 
 ) To chide at your extremes it not becomes me ; 
 I O, pardon, that I name them : your high self, 
 ; The gracious mark o' the land, you have obscur'd 
 \ With a swain's wearing ; and me, poor lowly maid, 
 I Most goddess-like prank'd up : ^ But that our feasts 
 j In every mess have folly, and the feeders 
 j Digest it with a custom, I should blush 
 j To see you so attir'd ; sworn, I think, 
 I To show myself a glass. 
 I Flo. I bless the time 
 
 J When ray good falcon made her flight across 
 ; Thy father's ground. 
 
 j Per. Now Jove afford you cause ! 
 
 I To me, the difference forges dread ; your greatness 
 I Hath not been used to fear. Even now I tremble 
 i To think, your father, by some accident, 
 I Should pass this way, as you did : O, the fates ! 
 ( How would he look, to see his work, so noble, 
 I Vilely bound up ? What would he say ? Or how 
 I Should I, in these my borrow'd flaunts, behold 
 
 The sternness of his presence ? 
 
 Flo. Apprehend 
 
 Nothing but jollity. The gods themselves, 
 
 Humbling their deities to love, have taken 
 
 The shapes of beasts upon them : Jupiter 
 
 * Prank'd up — dressed splendidly, decorated.
 
 70 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 Became a bull, and bellow'd; tlie green Neptune 
 A ram, and bleated ; and the fire-rob'd god, 
 Golden Apollo, a poor humble s^vain, 
 As I seem uo^n- : Their transformations 
 Were never for a piece of beauty rarer ; 
 Nor in a way so chaste : since my desires 
 Eun not before mine honour; nor my lusts 
 Burn hotter than my faith. 
 
 Per. O but, sir. 
 
 Your resolution cannot hold, •n'hen 't is 
 Oppos'd, as it must be, by the power o' the king ; 
 One of these two must be necessities. 
 
 Which then will speak ; that you must change this purpose, 
 Or I my life. 
 
 Flo. Thou dearest Perdita, 
 
 With these forc'd thoughts, I prithee, darken not 
 The mirth o' the feast : Or I '11 be thine, my fair, 
 Or not my father's : for I cannot be 
 Mine own, nor anything to any, if 
 I be not thine : to this I am most constant. 
 Though destiny say No. Be merry, gentle ; 
 Strangle such thoughts as these, with anything 
 That you behold the while. Your guests are coming : 
 Lift up your countenance; as it were the day 
 Of celebration of that nuptial, which 
 We two have sworn shall come. 
 
 Per. O lady Fortune, 
 
 Stand you auspicious ! 
 
 Enter Shepherd, u-ith Polixentes {the King) and Camillo 
 disguised ; Clown, Mopsa, Dorcas, and others. 
 
 Flo. See, your guests approach : 
 
 Address 3-ourself to entertain them sprightly, 
 And let s be red with mirth. 
 
 Shep. Fie, daughter I when my old wife liv'd, upon 
 This day she was both pantler, butler, cook ; 
 Both dame and servant : welcom'd all ; serv'd all : 
 Would sing her song, and dance her turn ; now here 
 At upper end o' the table, new i' the middle ; 
 On his shoulder, and his ; her face o' fire 
 With labour ; and the thing she took to quench it, 
 She would to each one sip : You are retir'd 
 As if you Trere a feasted one, and not
 
 A winter's tale. 71 
 
 The hostess of the meeting : Pray you, bid 
 These unknown friends to us welcome : for it is 
 A way to make us better friends, more known. 
 Come, quench your blushes ; and present yourself 
 That which you are, mistress o' the feast : Come on. 
 And bid us welcome to your sheep-shearing, 
 As your good flock shall prosper. 
 
 Per. Sir, welcome ! [ To Pol. 
 
 It is my father's will I should take on me 
 The hostess-ship o' the day : — You 're welcome, sir ! 
 
 [7b Cam. 
 Give me those flowers there, Dorcas.— Eeverend sirs, 
 For you there 's rosemary, and rue ; these keep 
 Seeming, and savour, all the winter long : 
 Grace, and remembrance, be to you both, 
 And welcome to our shearing ! 
 
 Pol. Shepherdess, 
 
 (A fair one are you,) well you fit our ages 
 With flowers of winter. 
 
 Per. Sir, the year growing ancient, — • 
 
 Not yet on summer's death, nor on the birth 
 Of trembling winter, — the fairest flowers o' the season 
 Are our carnations, and streak'd gilly'vors," 
 Which some call nature's bastards : of that kind 
 Our rustic garden 's barren ; and I care not 
 To get slips of them. 
 
 Pol. Wherefore, gentle maiden, 
 
 Do you neglect them ? 
 
 Per. For I have heard it said, 
 
 There is an art which, in their piedness, shares 
 With great creating nature. 
 
 Pol. Say, there be ; 
 
 Yet nature is made better by no mean, 
 But nature makes that mean : so, over that art. 
 Which, you say, adds to nature, is an art 
 That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry 
 A gentler scion to the wildest stock ; 
 And make conceive a bark of baser kind 
 By bud of nobler race : This is an art 
 Which does mend nature, — change it rather : but 
 The art itself is nature. 
 
 " Gillyvors — gillyflowers.
 
 72 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 Per. So it is. 
 
 Pol. Then make your garden rich in gilly'vors. 
 And do not call them bastards. 
 
 Per. I'll not put 
 
 The dibble in earth to set one slip of them : 
 No more than, were I painted, I would wish 
 This youth should say, 't were well ; and only therefore 
 Desire to breed by me. — Here 's flowers for you ; 
 Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram ; 
 The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun, 
 And with him rises weeping ; these are flowers 
 Of middle summer, and, I think, they are given 
 To men of middle age : You are very welcome. 
 
 Cam. I should leave grazing, were I of your flock, 
 And only live by gazing. 
 
 Per. Out, alas ! 
 
 You 'd be so lean, that blasts of January 
 Would blow you through and through. — Now, my fairest 
 
 friend, 
 I would I had some flowers o' the spring, that might 
 Become your time of day ; and yours, and yours ; 
 That wear upon your virgin branches yet 
 Your maidenhoods growing : — O, Proserpina, 
 For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou lett'st fall 
 From Dis's waggon ! daffodils. 
 That come before the swallow dares, and take 
 The winds of March with beauty ; violets, dim, 
 But sweeter than the lids of Juno s eyes, 
 Or Cytherea's breath ; pale primroses. 
 That die unmarried, ere they can behold 
 Bright Phoebus in his strength, a malady 
 Most incident to maids ; bold oxlips, and 
 The crown-imperial ; lilies of all kinds, 
 The flower-de-luce being one ! O ! these I lack, 
 To make you garlands of; and, my sweet friend, 
 To strew him o'er and o'er. 
 
 Flo. What ! like a corse ? 
 
 Per. No, like a bank, for love to lie and play on ; 
 Not like a corse : or if, — not to be buried, 
 But quick, and in mine arms. Come, take your flowers : 
 Methinks, I play as I have seen them do. 
 In Whitsun' pastorals : sure, this robe of mine 
 Does change my disposition.
 
 MEASURE rOB MEASURE. 4 O 
 
 Eiagement, and she, turning to Mariana, said, " Little 
 have you to say to Angelo, when you depart from him, 
 but soft and low Remember now my brother /" 
 
 Mariana was that night conducted to the ap]X)inted 
 place by Isabel, who rejoiced that she had, as she sup- 
 posed, by this device preserved both her brother's life 
 and her own honour. But that her brother's life was 
 safe the duke was not well satisfied, and therefore at 
 midnight he again repaired to the prison, and it was well 
 for Claudio that he did so, else would Claudio have that 
 night been beheaded ; for soon after the duke entered 
 the prison, an order came from the cruel deputy, com- 
 manding that Claudio should be beheaded, and his head 
 sent to him by five o'clock in the morning. But the duke 
 persuaded the provost to put off the execution of Claudio, 
 and to deceive Angelo, by sending him the head of a 
 man who died that morning in the prison. And to pre- 
 vail upon the provost to agree to this, the duke, whom 
 still the provost suspected not to be any thing more or 
 greater than he seemed, showed the provost a letter 
 written with the duke's hand, and sealed with his seal, 
 which when the provost saw, he concluded this friar 
 must have some secret order from the absent duke, and 
 therefore he consented to spare Claudio ; and he cut off 
 the dead man's head, and carried it to Angelo. 
 
 Then the duke, in his own name, wrote to Angelo a 
 letter, saying that certain accidents had put a stop to his 
 journey, and that he should be in Vienna by the follow- 
 ing morning, requiring Angelo to meet him at the en- 
 trance of the city, there to deliver up his authority ; and 
 the duke also commanded it to be proclaimed, that if any 
 of his subjects craved redress for injustice, they should 
 exhibit their petitions in the street on his first entrance 
 into the city. 
 
 Early in the morning Isabel came to the prison, and 
 the duke, who there awaited her coming, for secret rea- 
 sons thought it good to tell her that Claudio was be- 
 headed ; therefore when Isabel inquired if Angelo had 
 sent the pardon for her brother, he said, " Angelo has 
 yelcased Claudio from this world. His head is off, and 
 
 YOL. II. E
 
 74 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 sent to the deputy.'' The much-grieved sister cried ouf^ 
 " O unhappy Claudio, wretched Isabel, injurious world^ 
 most wicked Angelo !" The seeming friar bid her take 
 comfort, and when she was become a little calm, he ac- 
 quainted her with the near prospect of the duke's return, 
 and told her in what manner she should proceed in pre- 
 ferring her complaint against Angelo ; and he bade her 
 not to fear if the cause should seem to go against her for 
 a while. Leaving Isabel sufficiently instructed, he next 
 went to Mariana, and gave her counsel in what manner 
 she also should act. 
 
 Then the duke laid aside his friar's habit, and in his 
 own royal robes, amidst a joyful crowd of his faithful 
 subjects assembled to greet his arrival, entered the city 
 of Vienna, where he was met by Angelo, who delivered 
 up his authority in the proper form. And there came 
 Isabel, in the manner of a petitioner for redress, and 
 said, " Justice, most royal duke ! I am the sister of one 
 Claudio, who for the seducing a young maid was con- 
 demned to lose his head. I made my suit to lord An- 
 gelo for my brother's pardon. It were needless to tel) 
 your grace how I prayed and kneeled, how he repelled 
 me, and how I replied ; for this was of much length. 
 The vile conclusion I now begin with gi'ief and shame 
 to utter. Angelo would not but by my yielding to his 
 dishonourable love release my brother ; and after much 
 debate within myself, my sisterly remorse overcame my 
 vu'tue, and I did yield" to him. But the next morning 
 betimes, Angelo, forfeiting his promise, sent a warrant 
 for my poor brother's head !" The duke affected to dis- 
 believe her story ; and Angelo said that grief for her 
 brother's death, who had suffered by the due course of 
 the law, had disordered her senses. And now another 
 suitor approached, which was JNIariana ; and jNIariana 
 said, " Noble prince, as there comes light from heaven, 
 and truth from breath, as there is sense in truth, and 
 truth in vutue, I am this man's wife, and, my good lotd, 
 the words of Isabel are false ; for the night she says she 
 was wath Angelo, I passed that night with him in the 
 garden-house. As this is true, let me in safety rise, or
 
 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 75 
 
 else for ever be fixed here a marble monument." Then 
 did Isabel appeal for the truth of what she had said to 
 friar Lodowick, that being the name the duke had as- 
 sumed in his disguise. Isabel and Mariana had both 
 obeyed his instructions in what they said, the duke in- 
 tending that the innocence of Isabel should be plainly 
 proved in that public manner before the whole city of 
 Vienna ; but Angelo little thought that it was from such 
 a cause that they thus differed in their story, and he 
 hoped from their contradictory evidence to be able to 
 clear himself from the accusation of Isabel ; and he said, 
 assuming the look of offended innocence, *' I did but 
 smile till now ; but, good my lord, my patience here is 
 touched, and I perceive these poor distracted women are 
 but the instruments of some greater one, who sets them 
 on. Let me have way, my lord, to find this practice 
 out." — " Ay, with all my heart," said the duke, " and 
 punish them to the height of your pleasure. You, lord 
 Escalus, sit with lord Angelo, lend him your pains to 
 discover this abuse ; the friar is sent for that set them on, 
 and when he comes, do with your injuries as may seem 
 best in any chastisement. I for a while will leave you, 
 but stir not you, lord Angelo, till you have well deter- 
 mined upon this slander." The duke then went away, 
 leaving Angelo well pleased to be deputed judge and 
 umpire in his own cause. But the duke was absent only 
 while he threw off" his royal robes and put on his friar's 
 habit ; and in that disguise again he presented himself 
 before Angelo and Escalus : and the good old Escalus, 
 who thought Angelo had been falsely accused, said to 
 the supposed friar, '* Come, sir, did you set these women 
 on to slander lord Angelo?" He replied, "■ Where is 
 the duke ? It is he should hear me speak." Escalus 
 said, " The duke is in us, and we will hear you. Speak 
 justly." — " Boldly at least," retorted the friar; and then 
 he blamed the duke for leaving the cause of Isabel in the 
 hands of him she had accused, and spoke so freely of 
 many corrupt practices he had observed, while, as he 
 said, he had been a looker-on in Vienna, that Escalus 
 threatened him with the torture for speaking words 
 
 e2
 
 76 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 against the state, and for censuring the conduct of the 
 duke, and ordered him to be taken away to prison. 
 Then, to the amazement of all present, and to the utter 
 (X)nfusion of Angelo, the supposed friar threw off his dis- 
 guise, and they saw it was the duke himself. 
 
 The duke first addressed Isabel, lie said to her, 
 '^ Come hither, Isabel. Your friar is now your prince, 
 but with my habit I have not changed my heart. I am 
 still devoted to your service." — '• O give me pardon," 
 said Isabel, " that I, your vassal, have employed and 
 troubled your unknown sovereignty." He answered that 
 he had most need of forgiveness from her, for not having 
 prevented the death of her brother — for not yet would 
 lie tell her that Claudio was living ; meaning first to 
 make a further trial of her goodness. Angelo now knew 
 the duke had been a secret witness of his bad deeds, and 
 he said, " O my dread lord, I should be guiltier than 
 my guiltiness, to think I can be undiscernible, when I 
 perceive your grace, like power divine, has looked upon 
 my actions. Then, good prince, no longer prolong my 
 shame, but let my trial be my own confession. Imme- 
 diate sentence and death is all the grace I beg." The 
 duke replied, " Angelo, thy faults are manifest. We do 
 condemn thee to the very block where Claudio stooped 
 to death ; and with like haste away ^^ith him ; and for his 
 possessions, Mariana, we do instate and widow you 
 withal, to buy you a better husband." — " O my dear 
 lord," said Mariana, " I crave no other, nor no better 
 man :" and then on her knees, even as Isabel had begged 
 the life of Claudio, did this kind wife of an ungrateful 
 husband beg the life of Angelo ; and she said, " Gentle 
 my liege, O good my lord ! Sweet Isabel, take my part ! 
 Lend me your knees, and all my life to come I will lend 
 you, all my life, to do you service !" The duke said, 
 " Against all sense you importune her. Should Isabel 
 kneel down to beg for mercy, her brother's ghost would 
 break his paved bed, and take her hence in horror." 
 Still Mariana said, " Isabel, sweet Isabel, do but kneel 
 by me, hold up your hand, say nothing ! I will speak 
 all. They say, best men are moulded out of faults, and
 
 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 77 
 
 for the most part become much the better for being a 
 little bad. So may my husband. Oh, Isabel, will you 
 not lend a knee?" The duke then said, " He dies for 
 Claudio." But much pleased was the good duke, when 
 his own Isabel, from whom he expected all gracious and 
 honourable acts, kneeled down before him, and said, 
 " Most bounteous sir, look, if it please you, on this man 
 condemned, as if my brother lived. I partly think a due 
 sincerity governed his deeds, till he did look on me. 
 Since it is so, let him not die ! My brother had but 
 justice, in that he did the thing for which he died." 
 
 The duke, as the best reply he could make to this 
 noble petitioner for her enemy's life, sending for Claudio 
 from his prison-house, where he lay doubtful of his des- 
 tiny, presented to her this lamented brother living ; and 
 he said to Isabel, " Give me your hand, Isabel ; for your 
 lovely sake I pardon Claudio. Say you will be mine, 
 and he shall be my brother too." 13y this time lord 
 Angelo perceived he was safe ; and the duke, observing 
 his eye to brighten up a little, said, " Well, Angelo, 
 look that you love your wife ; her worth has obtained 
 your pardon : joy to you, Mariana ! Love her, Angelo ! 
 I have confessed her, and know her virtue." Angelo 
 remembered, when dressed in a little brief authority, how 
 hard his heart had been, and felt how sweet is mercy. 
 
 The duke commanded Claudio to marry Juliet, and 
 offered himself again to the acceptance of Isabel, whose 
 virtuous and noble conduct had won her prince's heart. 
 Isabel, not having taken the veil, was free to marry ; and 
 the friendly offices, while hid under the disguise of a 
 humble friar, which the noble duke had done for her, 
 made her with grateful joy accept the honour he offered 
 her ; and when she became duchess of Vienna, the ex- 
 cellent example of the virtuous Isabel worked such a 
 complete reformation among the young ladies of that 
 city, that from that time none ever fell into the trans- 
 gression of Juliet, the repentant wife of the reformed 
 Claudio. And the mercy-loving duke long reigned 
 with his beloved Isabel, the happiest of husbands and of 
 princes.
 
 78 TALES TROM SHAKSPERE, 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Act II. — Scene II. — A Room in Angelo's House. 
 
 Enter Angelo. 
 
 Ang. Now, what 's the matter, provost ? 
 
 Frov. Is it your will Claudio shall die to-morrow ? 
 
 Ang. Did not I tell thee, yea ? hadst thou not order ? 
 Why dost thou ask again? 
 
 Prov. Lest I might be too rash : 
 
 Under your good correction, I have seen, 
 When, after execution, judgment hath 
 Repented o'er his doom. 
 
 Ang. Go to ; let that be mine : 
 
 Do you your oflBce, or give up your place, 
 And you shall well be spar'd. 
 
 Prov. I crave your honour's pardon.— 
 
 What shall be done, sir, with the groaning Juliet ? 
 She 's very near her hour. 
 
 Ang. Dispose of her 
 
 To some more fitter place ; and that with speed. 
 
 Ee-enter Servant. 
 
 Serv. Here is the sister of the man condemn'd, 
 Desires access to you. 
 
 Ang. Hath he a sister ? 
 
 Prov. Ay, my good lord ; a very virtuous maid, 
 And to be shortly of a sisterhood, 
 If not already. 
 
 Ang. Well, let her be admitted. [_Exit Servant. 
 
 See you, the fornicatress be remov'd ; 
 Let her have needfiil, but not lavish, means ; 
 There shall be order for it.
 
 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 79 
 
 Enter Lucio and Isabella. 
 
 Prov. Save your honour ! [Offering to retire. 
 
 Ang. Stay a little while. — [To Isab.] You are welcome : 
 What 's your will ? 
 
 Isab. I am a woeful suitor to your honour, 
 Please but your honour hear me. 
 
 Ang. Well ; what 's your suit ? 
 
 Isab. There is a vice that most I do abhor, 
 And most desire should meet the blow of justice ; 
 For which I would not plead, but that I must ; 
 For which I must not plead, but that I am 
 At war, 'twixt will, and will not. 
 
 Ang. Well ; the matter ? 
 
 Isab. I have a brother is condemn' d to die : 
 I do beseech you, let it be his fault, 
 And not my brother. 
 
 Prov. Heaven give thee moving graces ! 
 
 Ang, Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it ? 
 Why, every fault 's condemn'd, ere it be done : 
 Mine were the very cipher of a fimction. 
 To fine* the faults, whose fine stands in record, 
 And let go by the actor. 
 
 Isab. O just, but severe law ! 
 
 I had a brother then. — Heaven keep your honour ! 
 
 [^Retiring. 
 
 Lucio. [To Isab.]. Give 't not o'er so : to him again, en- 
 treat him ; 
 Kneel down before him, hang upon his gown ; 
 You are too cold : if you should need a pin. 
 You could not with more tame a tongue desire it : 
 To him, I say. 
 
 Isab. Must he needs die ? 
 
 Ang. Maiden, no remedy. 
 
 Isab, Yes ; I do think that you might pardon him, 
 And neither Heaven, nor man, grieve at the mercy. 
 
 Ang. I will not do 't. 
 
 Isab. But can you, if you would? 
 
 Ang. Look, what I will not that I cannot do. 
 
 Isab. But might you do 't, and do the world no wrong. 
 If so your heart were touch'd with that remorse 
 As mine is to him ? 
 
 Ang. He 's sentenc'd ; 't is too late. 
 
 * To fine is to sentence — to bring to an end.
 
 80 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 Lucio. You are too cold. [ To Isab. 
 
 Isah. Too late? "why, no; I, that do speak a word, 
 May call it back again : Well believe this,'* 
 No ceremony that to great ones 'longs, 
 Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword. 
 The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe, 
 Become them with one half so good a grace 
 As mercy does. 
 
 If he had been as you, and you as he, 
 You would have siipp'd like him ; but he, like yon. 
 Would not have been so stern. 
 
 Aug. Pray you, begone. 
 
 Isah. I would to Heaven I had your potency, 
 And you were Isabel ! should it then be thus ? 
 No ; I would tell what 't were to be a judge, 
 And what a prisoner. 
 
 Lucio. Ay, touch him ; there 's the vein. [^Aside. 
 
 Ancj. Your bi'other is a forfeit of the law, 
 And you but waste your words. 
 
 Isab. Alas ! alas ! 
 
 Why, all the souls that were, were forfeit once ; 
 And He that might the vantage best have took 
 Found out the remedy : How would you be. 
 If He, which is the top of judgment, should 
 But judge you as you are ? 0, think on that; 
 And mercy then Avill breathe within your lips, 
 Like man new made.^ 
 
 Aug. Be you content, fair maid ; 
 
 It is the law, not I, condemns your brother : 
 Were he my kinsman, brother, or my son. 
 It should be thus with him ; — he must die to-morrow. 
 
 Isab. To-morrow? O, that's sudden! Sparehim, spare him: 
 He 's not prepar'd for death ! Even for our kitchens 
 We kill the fowl of season f shall we serve Heaven 
 With less respect than we do minister 
 To our gross selves ? Good, good my lord, bethink you : 
 Who is it that hath died for this offence ? 
 There 's many have committed it. 
 
 Lucio. Ay, well said. 
 
 =* TVell believe this — be well assured of this. 
 
 •• This has, \ve think, reference to the fine allusion to the redemption 
 vhich has gone before: Think on that, and you will then be as mer- 
 ciful as a man rcrjenerate. 
 
 ' The fold of season — when in season.
 
 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 81 
 
 Aug. The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept : 
 Tliose many had not dar'd to do that evil, 
 If the first that did the edict infringe 
 Had answer'd for his deed ; now, 't is awake ; 
 Takes note of what is done ; and, like a prophet, 
 Looks in a glass, that shows what future evils 
 (Either now, or by remissness new-conceiv'd, 
 And so in progress to be hatch'd and born) 
 Are now to have no successive degrees. 
 But where they live, to end. 
 
 Isab. Yet show some pity. 
 
 Ang. I show it most of all, when I show justice ; 
 For then I pity those I do not know. 
 Which a dismiss'd offence would after gall ; 
 And do him right, that, answering one foul wrong, 
 Lives not to act another. Be satisfied ; 
 Your brother dies to-morrow ; be content. 
 
 Isab. So you must be the first that gives this sentence j 
 And he, that suffers : O, it is excellent 
 To have a giant's strength ; but it is tyrannous 
 To use it like a giant. 
 
 Lucio. That 's well said. 
 
 Isab. Could great men thunder 
 As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet. 
 For every pelting, petty officer 
 
 Would use his heaven for thunder : nothing but thunder. 
 Merciful Heaven ! 
 
 Thou rather, with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt, 
 Splitt'st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak. 
 Than the soft myrtle : But man, proud man I 
 Dress'd in a little brief authority ; 
 Most ignorant of what he 's most assur'd, 
 His glassy essence, — like an angry ape, 
 Plays such fantastic tricks before high Heaven, 
 As make the angels weep : who, with our spleens, 
 Would all themselves laugh mortal.^* 
 
 Lucio. O, to him, to him, wench: he will relent; 
 He 's coming, 1 perceive 't. 
 
 Prov. Pray Heaven, she win him ! 
 
 Isab. We cannot weigh our brother with ourself : 
 Great men may jest with saints : 't is wit in them ; 
 But, in the less, foul profanation. 
 
 ^ We understand this passage, — as they are angels, they weep at 
 foUv ; if tliey had our spleens, they ^oukl laugh, as naorfals. 
 
 E 3
 
 82 TALES FROM SnABLSPEKE. 
 
 Lucio. Thou 'rt in the right, girl ; more o' that. 
 
 Isah. That in the captain 's but a choleric word. 
 Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy. 
 
 Liicio. Art avis'd o' that ? more on 't. 
 
 Ang. Why do you put these sayings upon me ? 
 
 Isab. Because authority, though it err like others, 
 Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself. 
 That skins the vice o' the top : Go to your bosom ; 
 Knock there ; and ask your heart, what it doth know 
 That 's like my brother's fault : if it confess 
 A natural guiltiness, such as is his. 
 Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue 
 Against my brother's life. 
 
 Ang. She speaks, and 't is 
 
 Such sense, that my sense breeds with it. — Fare you well. 
 
 Isah. Gentle my lord, turn back. 
 
 Ang. I will bethink me : — Come again to-morrow. 
 
 Isah. Hark, how I '11 bribe you : Good my lord, turn 
 back. 
 
 Ang. How ! bribe me ? 
 
 Isah. Ay, with such gifts that Heaven shall share with you. 
 
 Lucio. You had marr'd all else. 
 
 Isah. Not with fond shekels of the tested gold, 
 Or stones, whose rates are either rich or poor 
 As fancy values them ; but with true prayers 
 That shall be up at heaven, and enter there, 
 Ere sunrise : prayers from preserved souls. 
 From fasting maids, whose minds are dedicate 
 To nothing temporal. 
 
 Ang. Well : come to me to-morrow. 
 
 Lucio. Go to : 't is well ; away. \_Aside to Isabel. 
 
 Isah. Heaven keep your honour safe ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Act in. — Scene I. — A Room in the Prison, 
 
 Enter Duke, Claudio, and Provost. 
 
 DuJie. So, then you hope of pardon from lord Angelo ? 
 Claud. The miserable have no other medicine,
 
 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 83 
 
 But only hope : 
 
 I have hope to live, and am prepar'd to die. 
 
 Duke. Be absolute for death ; either death, or life, 
 Shall thereby be the sweeter. Reason thus with life : 
 If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing 
 That none but fools would keep : a breath thou art, 
 (Servile to all the skiey influences,) 
 That dost this habitation, where thou keep'st. 
 Hourly afflict : merely, thou art death's fool ; 
 For him thou labour'st by thy flight to shun, 
 And yet runn'st toward him still : Thou art not noble ; 
 For all the accommodations that thou bear'st 
 Are nurs'd by baseness : Thou art by no means valiant ; 
 For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork; 
 Of a poor worm : Thy best of rest is sleep. 
 And that thou oft provok'st ; yet grossly fear'st 
 Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not thyself j 
 For thou exist* st on many a thousand grains 
 That issue out of dust : Happy thou art not : 
 For what thou hast not still thou striv'st to get ; 
 And what thou hast, forgetf st : Thou art not certain ; 
 For thy complexion shifts to strange effects. 
 After the moon : If thou art rich, thou art poor ; 
 For, like an ass whose back with ingots bows, 
 Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey, 
 And death unloads thee : Friend hast thou none ; 
 For thine own bowels, which do call thee sire, 
 The mere efiusion of thy proper loins, 
 Do curse the gout, serpigo, and the rheum, 
 For ending thee no sooner : Thou hast nor youth, nor age 
 But, as it were, an after-dinner's sleep. 
 Dreaming on both : for all thy blessed youth 
 Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms 
 Of palsied eld ; ^ and when thou art old, and rich, 
 Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty, 
 To make thy riches pleasant. What 's yet in this, 
 That bears the name of life ? Yet in this life 
 Lie hid more thousand deaths : yet death we fear. 
 That makes these odds all even. 
 
 Claud. I humbly thank you. 
 
 To sue to live, I find I seek to die ; 
 And seeking death find life : Let it come on. 
 
 * Eld, old age, or old people.
 
 84 TALES TKOM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 Enter Isabella. 
 
 Isab. "What, ho ! Peace here ; grace and good company ! 
 
 Prov. Who 's there ? come in : . the wish deserves a wel 
 come. 
 
 T>uke. Dear sir, ere long I '11 visit you again. 
 
 Claud. Most holy sir, I thank you. 
 
 Jsah. I\Iy business is a word or two with Claudio. 
 
 Prov. And very welcome. Look, signior, here 's your 
 sister. 
 
 Duke. Provost, a word with you. 
 
 Proo. As many as you please. 
 
 Duke. Bring me to hear them speak, where I may be 
 conceal'd. [Exeunt Duke and Prov. 
 
 Claud. Now, sister, what 's the comfort ? 
 
 Isab. Why, as all comforts are ; most good, most good 
 indeed : 
 Lord Angelo, having affairs to heaven, 
 Intends you for his swift ambassador, 
 Where you shall be an everlasting leiger : " 
 Therefore your best appointment make with speed ; 
 To-morroM- you set on. 
 
 Claud. Is there no remedy ? 
 
 Isab. None, but such remedy as, to save a head, 
 To cleave a heart in twain. 
 
 Claud. But is there any ? 
 
 Isab. Yes, brother, yoii may live ; 
 There is a devilish mercy in the judge, 
 If you '11 implore it, that will free your life, 
 But fetter you till death. 
 
 Claud. " Perpetual durance ? 
 
 Isab. Ay, just, perpetual durance : a restraint, 
 Though all the world's vastidity you had. 
 To a determin'd scope. 
 
 Claud. But in what nature? 
 
 Isab. In such a one as (you consenting to 't) 
 Would bark your honour from that trunk you bear, 
 And leave you naked. 
 
 Claud. Let me know the point. 
 
 Isab. 0, I do fear thee, Claudio ; and I quake, 
 Lest thou a feverous life shouldst entertain. 
 And six or seven winters more respect 
 Than a perpetual honour. Dar'st thou die ? 
 
 ^ A lei^rer ambassador means a resident ambassador.
 
 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 85 
 
 The sense of death is most in apprehension ; 
 And the poor beetle, that we tread upon, 
 In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great, 
 As when a giant dies. 
 
 Claud. Why give you me this shame ? 
 
 Think you I can a resolution fetch 
 From flowery tenderness ? If I must die, 
 I will encounter darkness as a bride, 
 And hug it in mine arms. 
 
 Isah. There spake my brother ; there my father's grave 
 Did utter forth a voice ! Yes, thou must die : 
 Thou art too noble to conserve a life 
 In base appliances. This outward-sainted deputy, — 
 Whose settled visage and deliberate word 
 Nips youth i' the head, and follies doth eramew 
 As falcon doth the fowl, — is yet a devil ; 
 His filth within being cast, he would appear 
 A pond as deep as hell. 
 
 Claud. The precise Angelo ? 
 
 Isah. O, 't is the cunning livery of hell, 
 The damned'st body to invest and cover 
 In precise guards ! Dost thou think, Claudio, 
 If I would yield him my virginity, 
 Thou might'st be freed ? 
 
 Claud. O, Heavens ! it cannot be. 
 
 Isah. Yes, he would give 't thee, from this rank offence, 
 So to offend him still : This night 's the time 
 That I should do Avhat I abhor to name. 
 Or else thou diest to-morrow. 
 
 Claud. Thou shalt not do 't. 
 
 Isah. 0, were it but my life, 
 I 'd throw it down for your deliverance 
 As fi'ankly as a pin. 
 
 Claud. Thanks, dear Isabel. 
 
 Isah. Be ready, Claudio, for your death to-morrow. 
 
 Claud. Yes. — Has he affections in him. 
 That thus can make him bite the law by the nose, 
 When he would force it ? Sure it is no sin •, 
 Or of the deadly seven it is the least. 
 
 Isah. Which is the least ? 
 
 Claud. If it were damnable, he, being so wise. 
 Why would he for the momentary trick 
 Be perdurably fin'd? — O Isabel ! 
 
 Isah. What says my brother ?
 
 86 TALES FROM SHAKSPEEE. 
 
 Claud. Death is a fearful thing. 
 
 Isab. And shamed life a hateful. 
 
 Claud. Ay, but to die, and go ive know not where ; 
 To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot ; 
 This sensible warm motion to become 
 A kneaded clod; and the delighted^ spirit 
 To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside 
 In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice ; 
 To be imprison'd in the' viewless winds, 
 And blown with restless violence round about 
 The pendent world ; or to be worse than worst 
 Of those, that lawless and incertain thoughts 
 Imagine howling ! — 't is too horrible ! 
 The weariest and most loathed worldly life, 
 That age, ach, penury, and imprisonment 
 Can lay on nature, is a paradise 
 To what we fear of death. 
 
 Isah. Alas ! alas ! 
 
 Claud. Sweet sister, let me live: 
 
 What sin you do to save a brother's life, 
 Nature dispenses with the deed so far, 
 That it becomes a virtue. 
 
 Isab. O, you beast ! 
 
 O, faithless coward ! O, dishonest wretch ! 
 Wilt thou be made a man out of my vice ? 
 Is 't not a kind of incest, to take life 
 From thine own sister's shame? What should I think? 
 Heaven shield, my mother play'd my father fair ! 
 For such a warped slip of wilderness^ 
 Ne'er issued from his blood. Take my defiance ; 
 Die ; perish ! might but my bending down 
 Eeprieve thee from thy fate, it should proceed : 
 I '11 pray a thousand prayers for thy death. 
 No word to save thee. 
 
 * Delighted. Does not the word {delighted) mean removed from the 
 regions of light, which is a strictly classic use of the prepositive particle 
 de, and very frequent in Shakspere ? 
 
 *> TVildei-ness — wildness.
 
 
 M 
 
 ===<\ 
 
 
 
 
 Ui 
 

 
 ( 89 ) 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU 
 WILL. 
 
 Sebastian and his sister Viola, a young gentleman and 
 lady of Messaline, M'ere twins, and (which was accounted 
 a great wonder) from their birth they so much resembled 
 each other, that, but for the difference in their dress, they 
 could not be known apart. They were both born in one 
 hour, and in one hour they were both in danger of pe- 
 rishing, for they were shipwrecked on the coast of Illyria 
 as they were making a sea-voyage together. The ship, 
 on board of which they w^ere, split on a rock in a violent 
 storm, and a very small number of the ship's company 
 escaped with their lives. The captain of the vessel, with 
 a few of the sailors that were saved, got to land in a small 
 boat, and with them they brought Viola safe on shore, 
 where she, poor lady, instead of rejoicing at her own de- 
 liverance, began to lament her brother's loss ; but the 
 captain comforted her with the assurance, that he had 
 seen her brother, when the ship split, fasten himself to a 
 strong mast, on which, as long as he could see anything 
 of him for the distance, he perceived him borne up above 
 the waves. Viola was much consoled by the hope this 
 account gave her, and now considered how she was to 
 dispose of herself in a strange country, so far from home ; 
 and she asked the captain if he knew anything of Illyria. 
 '* Ay, very well, madam," replied the captain, "fori 
 was born not three hours' travel from this place." — 
 " Who governs here ?" said Viola. The captain told 
 her, Illyria was governed by Orsino, a duke noble in 
 nature as well as dignity. Viola said, she had heard her 
 lather speak of Orsino, and that he was unmarried then.
 
 ^0 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 *' And he is so now," said the captain ; "or was so very 
 lately, for but a month ago I went from here, and then it 
 was the general talk (as you know what great ones do the 
 people will prattle of) that Orsino sought the love of fair 
 Olivia, a virtuous maid, the daughter of a count who 
 died twelve months ago, leaving Olivia to the protection 
 of her brother, who shortly after died also ; and for the 
 love of this dear brother, they say, she has abjured the 
 sight and company of men." Viola, who was herself in 
 such a sad affiiction for her brother's loss, wished she 
 could live with this lady, who so tenderly mourned a 
 brother's death. She asked the captain if he could intro- 
 duce her to Olivia, saying she would willingly serve this 
 lady. But he replied, this would be a hard thing to ac- 
 com])lish, because the lady Olivia would admit no person 
 into her house since her brother's death, not even the 
 duke himself. Then Viola formed another project in her 
 mind, which was, in a man's habit, to serve the Duke 
 Orsino as a page. It was a strange fancy in a young 
 lady to put on male attire, and pass for a boy ; but the 
 forlorn and unprotected state of Viola, who was young 
 and of uncommon beauty, alone, and in a foreign land, 
 must plead her excuse. 
 
 She having observed a fair behaviour in the captain, 
 and that he showed a finendly concern for her welfare, 
 intrusted him with her design, and he readily engaged 
 to assist her. Viola gave him money, and directed him 
 to furnish her with suitable apparel, ordering her clothes 
 to be made of the same colour and in the same fashion 
 her brother Sebastian used to wear, and when she was 
 dressed in her manly garb, she looked so exactly like he- 
 brother, that some strange errors happened by means oi 
 their being mistaken for each other ; for, as will after- 
 wards appear, Sebastian was also saved. 
 
 Viola's good friend, the captain, when he had trans- 
 formed this pretty lady into a gentleman, ha\;ing some 
 mterest at court, got her presented to Orsino under the 
 feigned name of Cesario. The duke was wonderfully 
 pleased with the address and graceful deportment of this 
 handsome youth, and made Cesario one of his pages, that
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 91 
 
 being the office Viola wished to obtain : and she so well 
 fulfilled the duties of her new station, and showed such a 
 ready observance and faithful attachment to her lord, 
 that she soon became his most favoured attendant. To 
 Cesario Orsino confided the whole history of his love for 
 the lady Olivia. To Cesario he told the long and un- 
 successful suit he had made to one who, rejecting his 
 long services, and despising his person, refused to admit 
 him to her presence ; and for the love of this lady who 
 had so urdcindly treated him, the noble Orsino, forsaking 
 the sports of the field and all manly exercises in which 
 he used to delight, passed his hours in ignoble sloth, 
 listening to the effeminate sounds of soft music, gentle 
 airs, and passionate love-songs ; and neglecting the com- 
 pany of the wise and learned lords with whom he used to 
 associate, he was now all day long conversing with young 
 Cesario. Unmeet companion no doubt his grave courtiers 
 thought Cesario was for their once noble master, the 
 great Duke Orsino. 
 
 It is a dangerous matter for young maidens to be the 
 confidants of handsome young dukes ; which Viola too 
 soon found to her sorrow, ibr all that Orsino told her he 
 endured for Olivia, she presently perceived she suffered 
 for the love of him ; and much it moved her wonder, that 
 Olivia could be so regardless of this her peerless lord and 
 master, whom she thought no one should behold without 
 the deepest admiration, and she ventured gently to hint 
 to Orsino, that it was pity he should affect a lady who 
 was so blind to his worthy qualities ; and she said, " If 
 a lady were to love you, my lord, as you love Olivia (and 
 perhaps there may be one who does), if you could not 
 love her in return, would you not tell her that you could 
 not love, and must she not be content with this answer ?" 
 But Orsino would not admit of this reasoning, for he 
 denied that it was possible for any woman to love as he 
 did. He said no woman's heart was big enough to hold 
 so much love, and therefore it was unfair to compare the 
 love of any lady for him, to his love for Olivia. Now 
 though Viola had the utmost deference for the duke's 
 opinions, she could not help thinking this was not quite
 
 92 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE, 
 
 true, for she thought her heart had full as much love in 
 it as Orsino's had ; and she said, " Ah, but I know, my 
 
 lord " " What do you know, Cesario ? " said Orsino. 
 
 " Too well I know," replied Viola, " what love women 
 may owe to men. They are as true of heart as Me are. 
 My father had a daughter loved a man, a? I perhaps, 
 were I a woman, should love your lordship." — " And 
 what is her history ? " said Orsino. " A blank, my lord," 
 replied Viola : " she never told her love, but let conceal- 
 ment, like a worm in the bud, prey on her damask cheek. 
 She pined in thought, and with a green and yellow- 
 melancholy, she sat like Patience on a monument, smil- 
 ing at grief." The duke inquired if this lady died of 
 her love, but to this question Viola returned an evasive 
 answer ; as probably she had feigned the story, to speak 
 ■words expressive of the secret love and silent grief she 
 suffered for Orsino. 
 
 While they were talking, a gentleman entered whom 
 the duke had sent to Olivia, and he said, " So please 
 you, my lord, I might not be admitted to the lady, but 
 by her handmaid she returned you this answer : Until 
 seven years hence, the element itself shall not behold her 
 face ; i)ut like a cloistress she will walk veiled, watering 
 her chamber with her tears for the sad remembrance of 
 her dead brother." On hearing this, the duke exclaimed, 
 *' O she that has a heart of this fine frame, to pay this 
 debt of love to a dead brother, how will she love, when 
 the rich golden shaft has touched her heart ! " And 
 then he said to Viola, '^ You know, Cesario, I have told 
 you all the secrets of my heart ; therefore, good youth, 
 go to Olivia's house. Be not denied access ; stand at 
 her doors, and tell her, there your fixed foot shall grow 
 till you have audience. "^ — " And if I do speak to her, 
 my lord, what then? " said Viola. '' O then," replied 
 Orsino, " unfold to her the passion of my love. Make 
 a long discourse to her of my dear faith. It will well 
 become you to act my woes, for she will attend more to 
 you than to one of graver aspect." 
 
 Away then went Viola ; but not -willingly did she 
 undertake this courtship, for she was to woo a lady to
 
 TWELFTH ISIGHT. 93 
 
 become a wife to him she wished to many : but having 
 undertaken the affair, she performed it with fidelity ; and 
 OHvia soon heard that a youth was at her door who in- 
 sisted upon being admitted to her presence. " I told 
 him," said the servant, " that you were sick : he said he 
 knew you were, and therefore he came to speak with you. 
 I told him that you were asleep : he seemed to have a 
 foreknowledge of that too, and said, that therefore he 
 must speak with you. What is to be said to him, lady ? 
 for he seems fortified against all denial, and will speak 
 with you, whether you will or no." Olivia, curious to 
 see who this peremptory messenger might be, desired he 
 might be admitted ; and throwing her veil over her face, 
 she said she would once more hear Orsino's embassy, not 
 doubting but that he came from the duke, by his impor- 
 tunity. Viola entering, put on the most manly air she 
 could assume, and aftecting the fine courtier language of 
 great men's pages, she said to the veiled lady, " Most 
 radiant, exquisite, and matchless beauty, I pray you tell 
 me if you are the lady of the house ; for I should be 
 sorry to cast away my speech upon another ; for besides 
 that it is excellently well penned, I have taken great 
 pains to learn it." — "Whence come you, sir?" said 
 Olivia, " I can say little more than I have studied," 
 replied Viola ; " and that question is out of my part." — 
 " Are you a comedian ? " said Olivia. " No," replied 
 Viola ; " and yet I am not that which I play ;" meaning, 
 that she, being a woman, feigned herself to be a man. 
 And again she asked Olivia if she were the lady of the 
 house. Olivia said she was ; and then Viola, having 
 more curiosity to see her rival's features, than haste to 
 deliver her master's message, said, " Good madam, let 
 me see your face." With this bold request Olivia was 
 not averse to comply ; for this haughty beauty, whom 
 the Duke Orsino had loved so long in vain, at first sight 
 conceived a passion for the supposed page, the humble 
 Cesario. 
 
 AVhen Viola asked to see her face, Olivia said, " Have 
 you any commission from your lord and master to nego- 
 tiate with my face '? " And then, forgetting her deter-
 
 94 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 mination to go veiled for seven long years, she drew aside 
 her veil, saying, " But I will draw the curtain and show 
 the picture. Is it not well done ? " Viola replied, " It 
 is beauty truly mixed : the red and white upon your 
 cheeks is by Nature's own cunning hand laid on. You 
 are the most cruel lady living, if you will lead these 
 g^races to the grave, and leave the world no copy." — " O, 
 sir," replied Olivia, " I will not be so cruel. The 
 world may have an inventory of my beauty. As, item^ 
 two lips, indifferent red ; item, two gray eyes, with lids 
 to them ; one neck ; one chin, and so forth. Were you 
 sent here to praise me ? " Viola replied, " I see what 
 you are : you are too proud, but you are fair. My lord 
 and master loves you, O such a love could but be re- 
 compensed, though you M^ere crow^ned the queen of 
 beauty ; for Orsino loves you with adoration and with 
 tears, with groans that thunder love, and sighs of fire." 
 — " Your lord," said Olivia, " knows well my mind. I 
 cannot love him ; yet I doubt not he is virtuous ; I know 
 him to be noble and of high estate, of fresh and spotless 
 youth. All voices proclaim him learned, courteous, and 
 valiant ; yet I cannot love him ; he might have taken his 
 answer long ago." — "If I did love you as my master 
 does," said Viola, " I would make me a willow cabin at 
 your gates, and call upon your name. I would write 
 complaining sonnets on Olivia, and sing them in the dead 
 of the night ; your name should sound among the hills, 
 and I would make Echo, the babbling gossip of the air, 
 cry out Olivia. O you should not rest between the ele- 
 ments of earth and air, but you should pity me." — " You 
 might do much," said Olivia : " what is your parentage '?" 
 Viola replied, " Above my fortunes, yet my state is well. 
 I am a gentleman." Olivia now reluctantly dismissed 
 Viola, saying, " Go to your master, and tell him, I can- 
 not love him. Let him send no more, unless perchance 
 you come again to tell me how he takes it." And Viola 
 departed, bidding the lady farewell by the name of Fair 
 Cruelty. When she was gone, Olivia repeated the words, 
 Above my fortunes^ yet my state is well. I am a gentle- 
 man. And she said aloud, " I will be sworn he is ; his
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 95 
 
 tongue, his face, his limbs, action, and spirit, plainly 
 show he is a gentleman." And then she wished Cesario 
 was the duke ; and perceiving the fast hold he had taken 
 on her affections, she blamed herself for her sudden love ; 
 but the gentle blame which people lay upon their own 
 faults has no deep root ; and presently the noble lady 
 Olivia so far forgot the inequality between her fortunes 
 and those of this seeming page, as well as the maidenly 
 reserve which is the chief ornament of a lady's character, 
 that she resolved to court the love of young Cesario, and 
 sent a servant after him with a diamond ring, under the 
 pretence that he had left it with her as a present fi*om 
 Orsino. She hoped by thus artfully making Cesario a 
 present of the ring, she should give him some intimation 
 of her design ; and truly it did make Viola suspect ; for 
 knowing that Orsino had sent no ring by her, she began 
 to recollect that Olivia's looks and manner were expres- 
 sive of admiration, and she presently guessed her master's 
 mistress had fallen in love with her. " Alas," said she, 
 '* the poor lady might as well love a dream. Disguise I 
 see is wicked, for it has caused Olivia to breathe as fruit- 
 less sighs for me, as I do for Orsino." 
 
 Viola returned to Orsino's palace, and related to her 
 lord the ill success of the negotiation, repeating the com- 
 mand of Olivia, that the duke should trouble her no 
 more. Yet still the duke persisted in hoping that the 
 gentle Cesario would in time be able to persuade her to 
 show some pity, and therefore he bade him he sliould go 
 to her again the next day. In the mean time, to pass 
 away the tedious interval, he commanded a song which 
 he loved to be sung ; and he said, " My good Cesario, 
 when I heard that song last night, methought it did re- 
 lieve my passion much. Mark it, Cesario, it is old and 
 plain. The spinsters and the knitters when they sit in 
 the sun, and the young maids that weave their thread 
 with bone, chant this song. It is silly, yet I love it, for 
 it tells of the innocence of love in the old times." 
 
 Viola did not fail to mark the words of the old song, 
 which in such true simplicity described the pangs of un- 
 requited love, and she bore testimony in her countenance
 
 96 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 of feeling what the song expressed. Her sad looks were 
 observed by Orsino, who said to her, " My life upon it, 
 Cesario, though you are so young, your eye has looked 
 upon some foce that it loves; has it not, boy?" — "A 
 little, Mith your leave," replied Viola. " And what kind 
 of woman, and of what age is she V" said Orsino. " Of 
 your age, and of your complexion, my lord," said Viola ; 
 M-hich made the duke smile to hear this fair young boy 
 loved a woman so much older than himself, and of a 
 man's dark complexion ; but Viola secretly meant Orsino, 
 and not a woman like him.^ 
 
 When Viola made her second visit to Olivia, she found 
 no difficulty in gaining access to her. Servants soon dis- 
 cover when their ladies delight to converse with handsome 
 young messengers ; and the instant Viola arrived, the 
 gates were thrown wide open, and the duke's page was 
 shown into Olivia's aj^artment with great respect ; and 
 when Viola told Olivia that she was come once more to 
 plead in her lord's behalf, this lady said, " I desired you 
 never to speak of him again ; but if you would undertake 
 another suit, I had rather hear you solicit, than nmsic 
 from the spheres." This was pretty plain speaking, but 
 Olivia soon explained herself still more plainly, and 
 openly confessed her love ; and when she saw displeasure 
 with perplexity expressed in Viola's face, she said, " O 
 what a deal of scorn looks beautiful in the contempt and 
 anger of his lip ! Cesario, by the roses of the spring, by 
 maidhood, honour, and by truth, I love you so, that, in 
 spite of your pride, I have neither wit nor reason to con- 
 ceal my passion." But in vain the lady wooed ; Viola 
 hastened from her presence, threatening never more to 
 come to plead Orsino's love ; and all the reply she made 
 to Olivia's fond solicitations was, a declaration of a reso- 
 lution Never to love- any ivoman. 
 
 No sooner iiad Viola left the lady than a claim was 
 made upon her valour. A gentleman, a rejected suil.or 
 of Olivia, who had learned how that lady had favoiired 
 the duke's messenger, challenged him to fight a duel. 
 What should poor Viola do, who, though she carried a 
 
 a Extract I.
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 97 
 
 unknown lady ; and, taking off her mask, she proved 
 to be no niece (as was pretended), but Leonato's very 
 daughter, the lady Hero herself. We may be sure that 
 this proved a most agreeable surprise to Claudio, who 
 thought her dead, so that he could scarcely for joy be- 
 lieve his eyes ; and the prince, who was equally amazed 
 at what he saw, exclaimed, " Is not this Hero, Hero 
 that was dead?" Leonato replied, " She died, my lord, 
 but while her slander lived." The friar promised them 
 an explanation of this seeming miracle, after the ceremony 
 was ended ; and was proceeding to marry them, when he 
 was interrupted by Benedick, who desired to be married 
 at the same time to Beatrice. Beatrice making some 
 demur to this match, and Benedick challenging her with 
 her love for him, which he had learned from Hero, a 
 pleasant explanation took place ; and they found they 
 had both been tricked into a belief of love, which had 
 never existed, and had become lovers in truth by the 
 power of a false jest : but the affection, which a merry 
 invention had cheated them into, was grown too powerful 
 to be shaken by a serious explanation ; and since Bene- 
 dick proposed to marry, he was resolved to think nothing 
 to the purpose that the world could say against it ; and 
 he merrily kept up the jest, and swore to Beatrice, that 
 he took her but for pity, and because he heard she was 
 dying of love for him ; and Beatrice protested, that she 
 yielded but upon great persuasion, and partly to save his 
 life, for she heard he was in a consumption. So these 
 two mad wits were reconciled, and made a match of it, 
 after Claudio and Hero were married ; and to complete 
 the history, Don John, the contriver of the villainy, was 
 taken in his flight, and brought back to Messina ; and a 
 brave punishment it was to this gloomy, discontented man, 
 to see the joy and feastings which,, by the disappoint- 
 ment of his plots, took place at the palace in Messina. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 98 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 Act I [I. — Scene I. — Leonato's Garden. 
 Enter Hero, iSIargaket, and Ursula. 
 
 Hero. Good Margaret, run thee to the parlour ; 
 There shalt thou find, my cousin Beatrice 
 Proposing with the prince and Claudio : 
 Whisper her ear, and tell her, I and Ursula 
 Walk in the orchard, and our whole discoui'se 
 Is all of her ; say, that thou overheard' st us ; 
 And bid her steal into the pleached bower, 
 Where honeysuckles, ripen'd by the sun, 
 Forbid the sun to enter ; — like favourites, 
 Made proud by princes, that advance their pride 
 Against that power that bred it : — there will she hide her. 
 To listen our purpose : >* This is thy office. 
 Bear thee well in it, and leave us alone. 
 
 Mara. I '11 make her come, I warrant you, presentlv. 
 
 \_Exit. 
 
 Hero. Now, Ursula, wheu Beatrice doth come, 
 As we do trace this alley up and down. 
 Our talk must only be of Benedick : 
 When I do name him, let it be thy part 
 To praise him more than ever man did merit : 
 My talk to thee must be, how Benedick 
 Is sick in love with Beatrice : Of this matter 
 Is little Cupid's crafty arrow made, 
 That only wounds by hearsay. Now begin ; 
 
 ^ Purpose, and propose, have the same meaning — that of conversation.
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHIKG. 99 
 
 Enter Beatrice, behind. 
 
 For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, runs 
 Close by the ground, to hear our conference. 
 
 Urs. The pleasantest angling is to see the fish 
 Cut with her golden oars the silver stream. 
 And greedily devour the treacherous bait : 
 So angle we for Beatrice ; who even now 
 Is couched in the woodbine coverture : 
 Fear you not my part of the dialogue. 
 
 Hero. Then go we near her, that her ear lose nothing 
 Of the false sweet bait that we lay for it. — 
 
 [ They advance to the bower. 
 No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful ; 
 I know, her spirits are as coy and wild 
 As haggards of the rock." 
 
 Urs. But are you sure 
 
 That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely ? 
 
 Hero. So says the prince, and my new-trothed lord. 
 
 Urs. And did they bid you tell her of it, madam ? 
 
 Hero. They did entreat me to acquaint her of it : 
 But I persuaded them, if they lov'd Benedick, 
 To wish him wrestle with affection. 
 And never to let Beatrice know of it, 
 
 Urs. Why did you so ? Doth not the gentleman 
 Deserve as full, as fortunate a bed, 
 As ever Beatrice shall couch upon ? 
 
 Hero. O God of love ! I know he doth deserve 
 As much as may be yielded to a man : 
 But Nature never fram'd a woman's heart 
 Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice : 
 Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes. 
 Misprising ^ what they look on ; and her wit 
 Values itself so highly, that to her 
 All matter else seems weak : she cannot love, 
 Nor take no shape nor project of affection, 
 She is so self-endeared. 
 
 Urs. Sure, I think so; 
 
 And therefore, certainly, it were not good 
 She knew his love, lest she make sport at it. 
 
 "■ The haggard was a wild and unsocial species of hawk, 
 b Mispi-ising — undervaluing. 
 
 F 2
 
 100 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 Hero. Why, you speak truth: I never yet saw man. 
 How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featur'd, 
 But she would spell him backward : if fair fac'd. 
 She would swear the gentleman should be her sister: 
 If black, "" why. Nature, drawing of an antic, 
 Made a foul blot : if tall, a lance ill-headed ; 
 If low, an agate very vilely cut : 
 If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds ; 
 If silent, why, a block moved with none. 
 So turns she every man the wrong side out; 
 And never gives to truth and virtue that 
 Which simpleness and merit purchaseth, 
 
 Urs. Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable. 
 
 Hero. No ; not to be so odd, and from all fashions. 
 As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable : 
 But who dare tell her so ? If I shoidd speak, 
 She would mock me into air ; O, she would laugh me 
 Out of myself, press me to death with wit. 
 Therefore let Benedick, like cover' d fire, 
 Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly : 
 It were a better death than die with mocks ; 
 Which is as bad as die with tickling. 
 
 Urs. Yet tell her of it; hear what she will say. 
 
 Hero. No ; rather I will go to Benedick, 
 And counsel him to fight against his passion : 
 And, truly, I '11 devise some honest slanders 
 To stain my cousin with : One doth not know 
 How much an ill word may empoison liking. 
 
 Urs. O, do not do your cousin such a wrong. 
 She cannot be so much without true judgment, 
 (Having so swift and excellent a wit 
 As she is priz'd to have,) as to refuse 
 So rare a gentleman as signior Benedick. 
 
 Hero. He is the only man of Italy, 
 Always excepted my dear Claudio. 
 
 Urs. I pray you be not angry with me, madam, 
 Speaking my fancy ; signior Benedick, 
 For shape, for bearing, argument,^ and valour. 
 Goes foremost in report through Italy. 
 
 Hero. Indeed, he hath an excellent good name. 
 
 * Black — as opposed to fair ; swarthy. 
 i" Argument — conversation-
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 101 
 
 Urs. His excellence did earn it, ere he had it. 
 When are you married, madam ? 
 
 Hero. Why, every day ; — to-morrow : Come, go in ; 
 I '11 show thee some attires ; and have thy counsel, 
 Which is the best to furnish me to-morrow. 
 
 Urs. She's ta'en, I warrant you; we have caught her, 
 madam. 
 
 Hero. If it proves so, then loving goes by haps : 
 Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps. 
 
 \Exeunt Hero and Ursula. 
 
 Beatrice advances. 
 
 Beat. What fire is in mine ears ? Can this be true ? 
 
 Stand I condemn'd for pride and scorn so much ? 
 Contempt, farewell ! and maiden pride, adieu ! 
 
 No glory lives behind the back of such. 
 And, Benedick, love on, I will requite thee ; 
 
 Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand ; 
 If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee 
 
 To bind our loves up in a holy band : 
 For others say thou dost deserve ; and I 
 Believe it better than reportingly. [-E«V, 
 
 II. 
 
 Act IV. — Scene I. 
 
 Friar. Hear me a little ; 
 For I have only been silent so long, 
 And given way unto this course of fortune, 
 By noting of the lady ; I have mark'd 
 A thousand blushing apparitions start 
 Into her face ; a thousand innocent shames 
 In angel whiteness bear away those blushes ; 
 And in her eye there hath appear'd a fire, 
 To burn the errors that these princes hold 
 Against her maiden truth : — Call me a fool ; 
 Trust not my reading, nor my observations. 
 Which with experimental seal doth warrant 
 The tenour of my book; trust not my age,
 
 102 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 My reverence, calling, nor divinity, 
 If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here 
 Under some biting error. 
 
 Leon. Friar, it cannot be : 
 
 Thou seest, that all the grace that she hath left 
 Is, that she will not add to her damnation 
 A sin of perjury ; she not denies it : 
 Why seek' St thou then to cover with excuse 
 That which appears in proper nakedness ? 
 
 Friar. Lady, what man is he you are accus'd of? 
 
 Hero. They know that do accuse me ; I know none : 
 If I know more of any man alive 
 Than that which maiden modest^' doth warrant, 
 Let all my sins lack mercy ! — O my father. 
 Prove you that any man with me conversed 
 At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight 
 Maintain'd the change of words with any creature, 
 Eefiise me, hate me, torture me to death. 
 
 Friar. There is some strange misprision in the princes. 
 
 Bene. Two of them have the very bent of honour ; 
 And if their wisdoms be misled in this. 
 The practice of it lives in John the bastard. 
 Whose spirits toil in frame of villainies. 
 
 Leon. I know not : If they speak but truth of her, 
 These hands shall tear her ; if they wrong her honour, 
 The proudest of them shall well hear of it. 
 Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine, 
 Njr age so eat up my invention. 
 Nor fortune made such havoc of my means, 
 Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends, 
 But they shall find, awak'd in such a kind. 
 Both strength of limb, and policy of mind. 
 Ability in means, and choice of friends. 
 To quit me of them throughly. 
 
 Friar. Pause awhile, 
 
 And let my counsel sway you in this case. 
 Your daughter here the princes left for dead ; 
 Let her awhile be secretly kept in. 
 And publish it that she is dead indeed : 
 Maintain a mourning ostentation ; 
 And on your family's old monument 
 Hang mournful epitaphs, and do all rites 
 That appertain imto a burial.
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 103 
 
 Leon. What shall become of this ? What will this do ? 
 
 Friar. Marry, this, well carried, shall on her behalf 
 Change slander to remorse ; that is some good : 
 But not for that dream I on this strange course. 
 But on this travail look for greater birth. 
 She dying, as it must be so maintain'd, 
 Upon the instant that she was accus'd, 
 Shall be lamented, pitied, and excus'd. 
 Of every hearer : For it so falls out. 
 That what we have we prize not to the worth 
 Whiles we enjoy it ; but being lack'd and lost. 
 Why then we rack » the value, then we find 
 The virtue that possession would not show us 
 Whiles it was ours : So will it fare with Claud io : 
 When he shall hear she died upon his words, 
 The idea of her life shall sweetly creep 
 Into his study of imagination ; 
 And every lovely organ of her life 
 Shall come apparell'd in more precious habit, 
 More moving-delicate, and full of life. 
 Into the eye and prospect of his soul. 
 Than when she liv'd indeed : — then shall he mourn, 
 (If ever love had interest in his liver,) 
 And wish he had not so accused her ; 
 No, though he thought his accusation true. 
 Let this be so, and doubt not but success 
 Will fashion the event in better shape 
 Than I can lay it down in likelihood. 
 But if all aim but this be levell'd false. 
 The supposition of the lady's death 
 Will quench the wonder of her infamy : 
 And, if it sort not well, you may conceal her 
 (As best befits her wounded reputation) 
 In some reclusive and religious life, 
 Out of all eyes, tongues, minds, and injuries. 
 
 Bene. Signior Leonato, let the friar advise you : 
 And though, you know, my inwardness and love 
 Is very much unto the prince and Claudio, 
 Yet, by mine honour, I will deal in this 
 As secretly and justly as your soul 
 Should with your body. 
 
 » Racli — strain, stretch, exaggerate : hence racft-rent.
 
 104 TALES FKOM SHAKSPEKE. 
 
 Leon. Being that I flow in grief, 
 
 The smallest twine may lead me. 
 
 Friar. 'T is well consented ; presently away ; 
 
 For to strange sores strangely they strain the cure. — 
 Come, lady, die to live : this wedding-day. 
 
 Perhaps, is but prolong' d; have patience, and endure. 
 
 III. 
 
 Act IV. — Scene II. — A Prison. 
 
 Enter Dogberry, Verges, and Sexton, in gowns ; and the 
 Watch, with Conrade and Borachio. 
 
 J)ogb. Is our whole dissem hly appeared ? 
 Verg. O, a stool and a cushion for the sexton ! 
 
 Sexton. Which be the malefactors ? 
 
 jJogb. Marry, that am I and my partner. 
 Verg. Nay, that 's certain ; we have the exhibition to ex- 
 amine. 
 
 Sexton. But which are the offenders that are to be ex- 
 amined ? let them come before master constable. 
 
 Dogb. Yea, marry, let them come before me. — What is 
 your name, friend ? 
 
 Bora. Borachio. 
 
 Dogb. Pray, write down, Borachio. Yours, sirrah ? 
 
 Con. I am a gentleman, sir, and my name is Conrade. 
 
 Dogb. Write down, master gentleman Conrade. — Masters, 
 do you serve God ? 
 
 Con., Bora. Yea, sir, we hope. 
 
 Dogb. Masters, it is proved already that you are little 
 better than false knaves ; and it will go near to be thought 
 so shortly. How answer you for yourselves ? 
 
 Con. Marry, sir, we say we are none. 
 
 Dogb. A marvellous witty fellow, I assure you; but I 
 will go about with him. — Come you hither, sirrah ; a word 
 in your ear, sir ; I say to you, it is thought you are false 
 knaves. 
 
 Bora. Sir, I say to you, we are none.
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 105 
 
 Dogh. Well, stand aside. — Fore God, they are both in a 
 tale : Have you writ down, that they are none ? 
 
 Sexton. Master constable, you go not the way to examine ; 
 you must call forth the watch that are their accusers. 
 
 Dogh. Yea, marry, that 's the eftest" way :— Let the watch 
 come forth : — Masters, I charge you, in the prince's name, 
 accuse these men. 
 
 1 Watch. This man said, sir, that don John, the prince's 
 brother, was a villain. 
 
 Dogh. Write down, prince John a villain : — Why, this is 
 flat perjury, to call a prince's brother villain. 
 
 Bora. Master constable, — 
 
 Dogh. Pray thee, fellow, peace ; I do not like thy look, I 
 promise thee. 
 
 Sexton. What heard you him say else ? 
 
 2 Watch. Marry, that he had received a thousand ducats 
 of don John, for accusing the lady Hero wrongfully. 
 
 Dogh. Flat burglary, as ever was committed. 
 Verg. Yea, by the mass, that it is. 
 Sexton. What else, fellow ? 
 
 1 Watch. And that count Claudio did mean, upon his 
 words, to disgrace Hero before the whole assembly, and not 
 marry her. 
 
 Dogh. O villain ! 
 Sexton. What else ? 
 
 2 Watch. This is all. 
 
 Sexton. And this is more, masters, than you can deny. 
 Prince John is this morning secretly stolen away ; Hero 
 was in this manner accused, in this very manner refused, 
 and upon the grief of this suddenly died. — Master constable, 
 let these men be bound, and brought to Leonato ; I will go 
 before, and show him their examination. ^Exit. 
 
 Dogh. Come, let them be opinioned. 
 
 Verg. Let them be in the hands — 
 
 Con. Off, coxcomb ! 
 
 Dogh. God 's my life ! where 's the sexton ? let him write 
 
 down, the prince's officer, coxcomb. Come, bind them : 
 
 Thou naughty varlet ! 
 
 Con. Away ! you are an ass, you are an ass. 
 
 Dogh. Dost thou not suspect my place ? Dost thou not 
 suspect my years ? — O that he were here to write me down, 
 
 " Eftest — quickest. 
 
 F 3
 
 106 TALES FKOM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 un ass ! but, masters, remember that I am an ass ; though it 
 be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass : — 
 No, thou villain, thou art full of piety, as shall be proved 
 upon thee by good witness. I am a wise fellow ; and, which 
 is more, an officer ; and, which is more, a householder ; and, 
 which is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any is in Mes- 
 sina ; and one that knows the law, go to ; and a rich fellow 
 enough, go to ; and a fellow that hath had losses ; and one 
 that hath two gowns and everything handsome about him : 
 — Bring him away. that I had been writ down, an ass ! 
 
 [_ExeunL-
 
 A^ yqV jSk^ n .
 
 C 109 ) 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 During the time that France was divided into provinces 
 (or dukedoms as they were called) there reigned in one 
 of these provinces an usurper, who had deposed and ba- 
 nished his elder brother, the lawful duke. 
 
 The duke, who was thus driven from his dominions, 
 retired with a few faithful followers to the forest of 
 Arden ; and here the good duke lived with his loving 
 friends, who had put themselves into a voluntary exile 
 for his sake, while their land and revenues enriched the 
 false usurper ; and custom soon made the life of careless 
 ease they led here more sweet to them than the pomp 
 and uneasy splendour of a courtier's life. Here they 
 lived like the old Robin Hood of England, and to this 
 forest many noble youths daily resorted from the court, 
 and did fleet the time carelessly, as they did who lived 
 in the golden age. In the summer they lay along under 
 the fine shade of the large forest trees, marking the play- 
 ful sports of the wild deer ; and so fond were they of 
 these poor dappled fools, who seemed to be the native 
 inhabitants of the forest, that it grieved them to be forced 
 to kill them to supply themselves with venison for their 
 food. When the cold winds of winter made the duke 
 feel the change of his adverse fortune, he would endure 
 it patiently, and say, " These chilling winds which blow 
 upon my body are true counsellors : they do not flatter, 
 but represent truly to me my condition ; and though 
 they bite sharply, their tooth is nothing like so keen as 
 that of unkhidness and ingratitude. I find that, how-
 
 110 TALES FROM SHAKSPEBE. 
 
 soever men speak against adversity, yet some sweet uses 
 are to be extracted from it ; like the jewel, precious for 
 medicine, which is taken from ttie head of the venomous 
 and despised toad." In this manner did the patient 
 duke draw a useful moral from every thing that he saw ; 
 and by the help of this moralizing turn, in that life of 
 his, remote from public haunts, he could find tongues in 
 trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, 
 and good in every thing. ^ 
 
 The banished duke had an only daughter, named Ro- 
 salind, whom the usurper, duke Frederick, when he 
 banished her father, still retained in his court as a com- 
 panion for his own daughter Celia. A strict friendship 
 subsisted between these ladies, which the disagreement 
 between their fathers did not in the least interrupt, Celia 
 striving by every kindness in her power to make amends 
 to Rosalind for the injustice of her own father in depos- 
 ing the father of Rosalind ; and whenever the thoughts 
 of her father's banishment, and her own dependence on 
 the false usurper, made Rosalind melancholy, Celia's 
 whole care was to comfort and console her. 
 
 One day, when Celia -was talking in her usual kind 
 manner to Rosalind, saying, " I pray you, Rosalind, my 
 sweet cousin, be merry," a messenger entered from the 
 duke, to tell them that if they wished to see a ^\Testling 
 match, which was just going to begin, they must come 
 instantly to the court before the palace ; and Celia, 
 thinking it would amuse Rosalind, agreed to go and 
 see it. 
 
 In those times wrestling, which is only practised now 
 by country cIowtis, was a favourite sport even in the 
 courts of princes, and before fair ladies and princesses. 
 To this wrestling match therefore Celia and Rosalind 
 went. They found that it was likely to prove a very 
 tragical sight ; for a large and powerful man, who had 
 long been practised in the art of wrestling, and had 
 slain many men in contests of this kind, was just going 
 to wrestle with a very young man, who, from his ex- 
 
 a Extract I.
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. Ill 
 
 ^remc youth and inexperience in the art, the beholders 
 all thought would certainly be killed. 
 
 When the duke saw Celia and Rosalind, he said, 
 " How now, daughter and niece, are you crept hither to 
 see the wrestling ? You will take little delight in it, 
 there is such odds in the men : in pity to this young 
 man, I would wish to persuade him from wrestling. 
 Speak to him, ladies, and see if you can move him." 
 
 The ladies were well pleased to perform this humane 
 office, and first Celia entreated the young stranger that 
 he would desist from the attempt ; and then Rosalind 
 spoke so kindly to him, and with such feeling considera- 
 tion for the danger he was about to undergo, that instead 
 of being persuaded by her gentle words to forego his 
 purpose, all his thoughts were bent to distinguish himself 
 by his courage in this lovely lady's eyes. He refused 
 the request of Celia and Rosalind in such graceful and 
 modest words, that they felt still more concern for him ; 
 he concluded his refusal with saying, " I am sorry to 
 deny such fair and excellent ladies any thing. But let 
 your fair eyes and gentle wishes go with me to my trial, 
 wherein if I be conquered, there is one shamed that was 
 never gracious ; if I am killed, there is one dead that is 
 willing to die : I shall do my friends no wron,g, for I 
 have none to lament me ; the world no injury, for in it I 
 have nothing; for I only fill up a place in the world 
 which may be better supplied when I have made it 
 empty." 
 
 And now the wrestling match began. Celia wished 
 the young stranger might not be hurt ; but Rosalind felt 
 most for him. The friendless state which he said he was 
 in, and that he wished to die, made Rosalind think that 
 he was like herself unfortunate ; and she pitied him so 
 much, and so deep an interest she took in his danger 
 while he was wrestling, that she might almost be said at 
 that moment to have fallen in love with him. 
 
 The kindness shown this unknown youth by these fair 
 and noble ladies gave him courage and strength, so that 
 he performed wonders ; and in the end completely con^
 
 112 TALES FEOM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 quered his antagonist, who was so much hurt, that for a 
 while he was unable to speak or move. 
 
 The duke Frederick was much pleased with the cou- 
 rage and skill shown by this young stranger ; and desired 
 to know his name and parentage, meaning to take him 
 under his protection. 
 
 The stranger said his name was Orlando, and that he 
 was the youngest son of sir Rowland de Boys. 
 
 Sir Rowland de Boys, the father of Orlando, had been 
 dead some years ; but when he was living, he had been 
 a true subject and dear friend of the banished duke : 
 therefore when Frederick heard Orlando was the son of 
 his banished brother's friend, all his liking for this brave 
 young man was changed into displeasure, and he left the 
 place in very ill humour. Hating to hear the very name 
 of any of his brother's friends, and yet still admiring the 
 valour of the youth, he said, as he went out, that he 
 wished Orlando had been the son of any other man. 
 
 Rosalind was delighted to hear that her new favourite 
 was the son of her father's old friend ; and she said to 
 Celia, " My father loved sir Rowland de Boys, and if I 
 had known this young man was his son, I would have 
 added tears to my entreaties before he should have ven- 
 tured." 
 
 The ladies then went up to him ; and seeing him 
 abashed by the sudden displeasure shown by the duke, 
 they spoke kind and encouraging words to him ; and Ro- 
 salind, when they were going away, turned back to 
 speak some more civil things to the brave young son of 
 her father's old friend ; and taking a chain from off her 
 neck, she said, " Gentleman, wear this for me. I am 
 out of suits with; fortune, or I would give you a more va- 
 luable present." 
 
 When the ladies were alone, Rosalind's talk being still 
 of Orlando, Celia began to perceive her cousin had fallen 
 in love with the handsome young wrestler, and she said 
 to "Rosalind, "Is it possible you should fall in love so 
 suddenly?" Rosalind replied, " The duke, my father, 
 loved his father dearly." " But," said Celia, " does it 
 therefore follow that vou should love his son dearly ? for
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 113 
 
 then I ought to hate him, for my father hated his father ; 
 yet I do not hate Orlando." 
 
 Frederick being enraged at the sight of sir Rowland 
 de Boys' son, which reminded him of the many friends 
 the banished duke had among the nobility, and having 
 been for some time displeased with his niece, because the 
 people praised her for her virtues, and pitied her for her 
 good father's sake, his malice suddenly broke out against 
 her ; and while Celia and Rosalind were talking of Or- 
 lando, Frederick entered the room, and with looks full 
 of anger ordered Rosalind instantly to leave the palace, 
 and follow her father into banishment ; telling Celia, 
 who in vain pleaded for her, that he had only suffered 
 Rosalind to stay upon her account. " I did not then," 
 said Celia, " entreat you to let her stay, for I was too 
 young at that time to value her ; but now that I know 
 her worth, and that we so long have slept together, rose 
 at the same instant, learned, played, and eat together, I 
 cannot live out of her company." Frederick replied, 
 " She is too subtle for you ; her smoothness, her very 
 silence, and her patience, speak to the people, and they 
 pity her. You are a fool to plead for her, for you will 
 seem more bright and virtuous when she is gone ; there- 
 fore open not your lips in her favour, for the doom which 
 I have passed upon her is irrevocable." 
 
 When Celia found she could not prevail upon her 
 father to let Rosalind remain with her, she generously 
 resolved to accompany her ; and, leaving her father's 
 palace that night, she went along with her friend to 
 seek Rosalind's father, the banished duke, in the forest ot 
 Arden. 
 
 Before they set out, Celia considered that it would be 
 unsafe for two young ladies to travel in the rich clothes 
 they then wore ; she therefore proposed that they should 
 disguise their rank by dressing themselves like country 
 maids. Rosalind said it w^ould be a still greater protec- 
 tion if one of them was to be dressed like a man ; and so 
 it was agrecil on quickly between them, that as Rosalind 
 was the tallest, she should wear the dress of a young 
 countryman, and Celia should be habited like a country
 
 114 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 lass, and that they should say they were brother and 
 sister, and Rosalind said she would be called Ganymede, 
 and Celia chose the name of Aliena. 
 
 In this disguise, and taking their money and jewels to 
 defray their expenses, these fair princesses set out on 
 their long travel ; for the forest of Arden was a long way 
 off, beyond the boundaries of the duke's dominions. 
 
 The lady Rosalind (or Ganymede as she must now be 
 called) with her manly garb seemed to have put on a 
 manly courage. The faithful friendship Celia had shown 
 in accompanying Rosalind so many weary miles, made 
 the new brother, in recompense for this true love, exert 
 a cheerful spirit, as if he were indeed Ganymede, the 
 rustic and stout-hearted brother of the gentle village 
 maiden, Aliena. 
 
 When at last they came to the forest of Arden, they 
 no longer found the convenient inns and good accommo- 
 dations they had met with on the road ; and being in 
 want of food and rest, Ganymede, who had so merrily 
 clieered his sister with pleasant speeches and happy re- 
 marks all the way, now owned to Aliena that he was so 
 weary, he could find in his heart to disgrace his man's 
 apparel, and cry like a woman ; and Aliena declared she 
 could go no farther ; and then again Ganymede tried to 
 recollect that it was a man's duty to comfort and console 
 a woman, as the weaker vessel ; and to seem courageous 
 to his new sister, he said, " Come, have a good heart, 
 my sister Aliena ; we are now at the end of our travel, 
 m the forest of Arden." But feigned manliness and 
 forced courage would no longer support them ; for though 
 they were in the forest of Arden, they knew not where 
 to find the duke : and here the travel of these weary 
 ladies might have come to a sad conclusion, for they might 
 have lost themselves, and perished for want of food ; but 
 providentially, as they were sitting on the grass almost 
 dying with fatigue and hopeless of any relief, a country- 
 man chanced to pass that way, and Ganymede once more 
 tried to speak with a manly boldness, saying, " Shepherd, 
 if love or gold can in this desert place procure us enter- 
 tainment, I pray you bring us where we may rest our-
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 116 
 
 selves ; for this young maid, my sister, is much fatigued 
 with travelling, and faints for vi^ant of food." 
 
 The man replied, that he was only a servant to a shep- 
 herd, and that his master's house was just going to be 
 sold, and therefore they would find but poor entertain- 
 ment ; but that if they would go with him, they should 
 be welcome to what there was. They followed the man, 
 the near prospect of relief giving them fresh strength ; 
 and bought the house and sheep of the shepherd, and 
 took the man who conducted them to the shepherd's 
 house to wait on them ; and being by this means so for- 
 tunately provided with a neat cottage, and well supplied 
 with provisions, they agreed to stay here till they could 
 learn in what part of the forest the duke dwelt. 
 
 When they were rested after the fatigue of their 
 journey, they began to like their new way of life, and 
 almost fancied themselves the shepherd and shepherdess 
 they feigned to be ; yet sometimes Ganymede remem- 
 bered he had once been the same lady Rosalind who had 
 so dearly loved the brave Orlando, because he was the 
 son of old sir Rowland, her father's friend; and though 
 Ganymede thought that Orlando was many miles distant, 
 even so many weary miles as they had travelled, yet it 
 soon appeared that Orlando was also in the forest of 
 Arden : and in this manner this strange event came to 
 pass. 
 
 Orlando was the youngest son of sir Rowland de Boys, 
 who, when he died, left him (Orlando being then very 
 young) to the care of his eldest brother Oliver, charging 
 Oliver on his blessing to give his brother a good educa- 
 tion, and provide for him as became the dignity of their 
 ancient house. Oliver proved an unworthy brother ; 
 and disregarding the commands of his dying father, he 
 never put his brother to school, but kept him at home 
 untaught and entirely neglected. But in his nature and 
 in the noble qualities of his mind Orlando so much re- 
 sembled his excellent father, that without any advantages 
 of education he seemed like a youth who had been bred 
 with the utmost care ; and Oliver so envied the fine per- 
 son and dignified manners of his untutored brother, that
 
 116 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 at last he wished to destroy him ; and to effect this he 
 set on people to persuade him to wrestle with the famous 
 wrestler, who, as has been before related, had killed so 
 many men. Now it was this cruel brother's neglect of 
 him which made Orlando say he wished to die, being so 
 friendless. 
 
 When, contrary to the wicked hopes he had formed, 
 his brother proved victorious, Oliver's envy and malice 
 knew no bounds, and he swore he would burn the cham- 
 ber where Orlando slept. He was overheard making 
 this vow by one that had been an old and faithful servant 
 to their father, and that loved Orlando because he re- 
 sembled sir Rowland. This old man went out to meet 
 him when he returned from the duke's palace, and when 
 he saw Orlando, the peril his dear young master was in 
 made him break out into these passionate exclamations : 
 " O my gentle master, my sweet master, O you memory 
 of old sir Rowland ! why are you virtuous ? why are you 
 gentle, strong, and A-aliant ? and why would you be so 
 fond to overcome the famous wrestler ? Your praise is 
 come too swiftly home before you." Orlando, wondering 
 what all this meant, asked him what was the matter. 
 And then the old man told him how his wicked brother, 
 envying the love all people bore him, and now hearing 
 the fame he had gained by his victory in the duke's pa- 
 lace, intended to destroy him, by setting fire to his 
 chamber that night ; and in conclusion, advised him to 
 escape the danger he was in by instant flight : and know- 
 ing Orlando had no money, Adam (for that was the 
 good old man's name) had brought out with him his own 
 little hoard, and he said, " I have five hundred crowns, 
 the thrifty hire I saved under your father, and laid by to 
 be provision for me when my old limbs should become 
 unfit for service ; take that, and he that doth the ravens 
 feed be comfort to my age ! Here is the gold ; all this 
 I give to you : let me be your servant ; though I look 
 old, I will do the service of a younger man in all your 
 business and necessities." "O good old man!" said 
 Orlando, " how well appears in you the constant service 
 of the old world ! You are not for the fashion of these
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 117 
 
 times. We will go along together, and before your 
 youthful wages are spent, I shall light upon some means 
 for both our maintenance." '"^ 
 
 Together then this faithful servant and his loved master 
 set out ; and Orlando and Adam travelled on, uncertain 
 what course to pursue, till they came to the forest of 
 Arden, and there they found themselves in the same dis- 
 tress for want of food that Ganymede and Aliena had been. 
 They wandered on, seeking some human habitation, till 
 they w^ere almost spent with hunger and fatigue. Adam 
 at last said, " O my dear master, I die for want of food, 
 I can go no farther !" He then laid himself down, 
 thinking to make that place his grave, and bade his dear 
 master farewell. Orlando, seeing him in this weak state, 
 took his old servant up in his arms, and carried him under 
 the shelter of some pleasant trees ; and he said to him, 
 " Cheerly, old Adam, rest your weary limbs here a 
 while, and do not talk of dying !" 
 
 Orlando then searched about to find some food, and he 
 happened to arrive at that part of the forest where the 
 duke was ; and he and his friends were just going to 
 eat their dinner, this royal duke being seated on the grass, 
 under no other canopy than the shady covert of some 
 large trees. 
 
 Orlando, whom hunger had made desperate, drew his 
 sword, intending to take their meat by force, and said, 
 '' Forbear, and eat no more; I must have your food!" 
 The duke asked him if distress had made him so bold, or 
 if he were a rude despiser of good manners ? On this 
 Orlando said he was dying with hunger ; and then the duke 
 told him he w\ts welcome to sit down and eat with them. 
 Orlando, hearing him speak so gently, put up his sword, 
 and blushed with shame at the rude manner in which he 
 had demanded their food. " Pardon me, I pray you," 
 said he : "I thought that all things had been savage 
 here, and therefore I put on the countenance of stern 
 command ; but whatever men you are, that in this desert, 
 under the shade of melancholy boughs, lose and neglect 
 
 " Extract 11.
 
 118 TALES FROM SH AKSPERE. 
 
 the creeping hours of time ; if ever you have looked on 
 better days ; if ever you have been where bells have 
 knolled to church ; if you have ever sat at any good man's 
 feast ; if ever from your eyelids you have wiped a tear, 
 and know what it is to pity or be pitied, may gentle 
 speeches now move you to do me human courtesy !" The 
 duke replied, " True it is that we are men (as you say) 
 who have seen better days, and though we have now our 
 habitation in this wild forest, we have lived in towns and 
 cities, and have with holy bell been knolled to church, 
 have sat at good men's feasts, and from our eyes have 
 wiped the drops which sacred pity has engendered : 
 therefore sit you down, and take of our refreshment as 
 much as will minister to your wants." " There is an old 
 poor man," answered Orlando, " who has limped after 
 me many a weary step in pure love, oppressed at once 
 with two sad infirmities, age and hunger ; till he be satis- 
 fied, I must not touch a bit." "Go, find him out, and 
 bring him hither," said the duke; " we will forbear to 
 eat till you return." Then Orlando went like a doe to 
 find its fawn and give it food ; and presently returned, 
 bringing Adam in his arms; and the duke said, "Set 
 down your venerable burthen ; you are both welcome :" 
 and they fed the old man, and cheered his heart, and he 
 revived, and recovered his health and strength again. 
 
 The duke inquu-ed who Orlando was ; and when he 
 found that he was the son of his old friend, sir Rowland 
 de Boys, he took him under his protection, and Orlando 
 and his old servant lived with the duke in the forest.a 
 
 Orlando arrived in the forest not many days after Gany- 
 mede and Aliena came there, and (as has been before re- 
 lated) bought the shepherd's cottage. 
 
 Ganymede and Aliena were strangely surprised to find 
 tlie name of Rosalind carved on the trees, and love-sonnets 
 fastened to them, all addressed to Rosalind ; and while 
 they were wondering how this could be, they met Or- 
 lando, and they perceived the chain which Rosalind had 
 given him about his neck. 
 
 » Extract III.
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 119 
 
 Orlando little thought that Ganymede was the fair 
 princess Rosalind, who, by her noble condescension and 
 favour, had so won his heart that he passed his whole 
 time in carving her name upon the trees, and writing 
 sonnets in praise of her beauty : but being much pleased 
 with the graceful air of this pretty shepherd -youth, he 
 entered into conversation with him, and he thought he 
 saw a likeness in Ganymede to his beloved Rosalind, but 
 that he had none of the dignified deportment of that 
 noble lady ; for Ganymede assumed the forward manners 
 often seen in youths when they are between boys and 
 men, and with much archness and humour talked to Or- 
 lando of a certain lover, "who," said he, " haunts our 
 forest, and spoils our young trees with carving Rosalind 
 upon their barks ; and he hangs odes upon hawthorns, 
 and elegies on brambles, all praising this same Rosalind. 
 If I could find this lover, I would give him some good 
 counsel that would soon cure him of his love." 
 
 Orlando confessed that he was the fond lover of whom 
 he spoke, and asked Ganymede to give him the good 
 counsel he talked of. The remedy Ganymede proposed, 
 and the counsel he gave him, was that Orlando should 
 come every day to the cottage where he and his sister 
 Aliena dwelt: "And then," said Ganymede, "I will 
 feign myself to be Rosalind, and you shall feign to court 
 me in the same manner as you would do if I was Rosa- 
 lind, and then I will imitate the fantastic ways of whim- 
 sical ladies to their lovers, till I make you ashamed of 
 your love ; and this is the way I propose to cure you." 
 Orlando had nq, great faith in the remedy, yet he agreed 
 to come every day to Ganymede's cottage, and feign a 
 playful courtship ; and every day Orlando visited Gany- 
 mede and Aliena, and Orlando called the shepherd Gany- 
 mede his Rosalind, and every day talked over all the fine 
 words and flattering compliments which young men de- 
 light to use when they court their mistresses. It does 
 not appear, however, that Ganymede made any progress 
 in curing Orlando of his love for Rosalind. 
 
 Though Orlando thought all this was but a sportive 
 play (not dreaming that Ganymede was his very Rosa-
 
 120 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 lind), yet the opportunity it gave him of saying all the 
 fond things he had in his heart, pleased his fancy almost 
 as well as it did Ganymede's, who enjoyed the secret jest 
 in knowing these fine love-speeches were all addressed to 
 the right pei'son. 
 
 In this manner many days passed pleasantly on with 
 these young people ; and the good-natured Aliena, seeing 
 it made Ganymede happy, let him have his own way, 
 and was diverted at the mock courtship, and did not care 
 to remind Ganymede that the lady Rosalind had not yet 
 made herself known to the duke her father, whose place 
 of resort in the forest they had learnt from Orlando. 
 Ganjinede met the duke one day, and had some talk with 
 him, and the duke asked of what parentage he came. 
 Ganymede answered, that he came of as good parentage 
 as he did ; which made the duke smile, for he did not 
 suspect the pretty shepherd-boy came of royal lineage. 
 Then seeing the duke look well and happy, Ganymede 
 was content to put off all further explanation for a few 
 days longer. 
 
 One morning, as Orlando was going to -vasit Gan\Tnede, 
 he saw a man lying asleep on the ground, and a large 
 green snake had twisted itself about his neck. The snake, 
 seeing Orlando approach, glided away among the bushes. 
 Orlando went nearer, and then he discovered a lioness lie 
 couching, with her head on the ground, with a cat-like 
 watch, waiting till the sleeping man awaked (for it is said 
 that lions will prey on nothing that is dead or sleeping). 
 It seemed as if Orlando was sent by Providence to free 
 the man from the danger of the snake and lioness ; but 
 when Orlando looked in the man's face, he perceived that 
 the sleeper, who was exposed to this double peril, was 
 his o'^Ti brother Oliver, who had so cruelly used him, 
 and had threatened to destroy him by fire ; and he was 
 almost tempted to leave him a prey to the hungry lioness ; 
 but brotherly affection and the gentleness of his nature 
 soon overcame his first anger against his brother ; and he 
 drew his sword, and attacked the lioness, and slew her, 
 and thus preserved his brother's life both from the venom- 
 ous snake and from the furious lioness : but before Orlando
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 121 
 
 could conquer the lioness, she had torn one of his arms 
 with her sharp claws. 
 
 While Orlando was engaged with the lioness, Oliver 
 awaked, and perceiving that his brother Orlando, whom 
 he had so cruelly treated, was saving him from the fury 
 of a wild beast at the risk of his own life, shame and re- 
 morse at once seized him, and he repented of his unworthy 
 conduct, and besought with many tears his brother's 
 pardon for the injuries he had done him. Orlando re- 
 joiced to see him so penitent, and readily forgave him : 
 they embraced each other ; and from that hour Oliver 
 loved Orlando with a true brotherly affection, though he 
 had come to the forest bent on his destruction. 
 
 The wound in Orlando's arm having bled very much, 
 he found himself too weak to go to visit Ganymede, and 
 therefore he desired his brother to go and tell Ganymede, 
 " whom," said Orlando, " I in sport do call my Rosalind," 
 the accident which had befallen him. 
 
 Thither then Oliver went, and told to Ganymede and 
 Aliena how Orlando had saved his life : and when he 
 had finished the story of Orlando's bravery, and his own 
 providential escape, he owned to them that he was Or- 
 lando's brother, who had so cruelly used him ; and then 
 he told them of their reconciliation. 
 
 The sincere sorrow that Oliver expressed for his of- 
 fences made such a lively impression on the kind heart of 
 Aliena, that she instantly fell in love with him ; and 
 Oliver observing how much she pitied the distress he told 
 her he felt for his fault, he as suddenly fell in love with 
 her. But while Love was thus stealing into the hearts of 
 Aliena and Oliver, he was no less busy with Ganymede, 
 who hearing of the danger Orlando had been in, and that 
 he was wounded by the lioness, fainted ; and when he 
 recovered, he pretended that he had counterfeited the 
 swoon in the imaginary character of Rosalind, and Gany- 
 mede said to Oliver, "Tell your brother Orlando how 
 well I counterfeited a swoon." But Oliver saw by the 
 paleness of his complexion that he did really faint, and 
 much wondering at the weakness of the young man, he 
 said, '• Well, if you did counterfeit, take a good heart, 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 122 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 and counterfeit to be a man." " So I do," replied 
 Ganymede, truly, " but I should have been a woman bv 
 right."* 
 
 Oliver made this visit a very long- one, and when at 
 last he returned back to his brother, he had much news 
 to tell him ; for besides the account of Ganymede's fainting 
 at the hearing that Orlando was wounded, Oliver told 
 him how he had fallen in love with the fair shepherdess 
 Aliena, and that she had lent a favourable ear to his suit, 
 even in this their first interview ; and he talked to his 
 brother, as of a thing almost settled, that he should marry 
 Aliena, saying, that he so well loved her, that he would 
 live here as a shepherd, and settle his estate and house at 
 home upon Orlando. 
 
 " You have my consent," said Orlando. *' Let your 
 wedding be to-morrow, and I will invite the duke and 
 his friends. Go and persuade your shepherdess to agree 
 to this : she is now alone ; for look, here comes her bro- 
 ther." Oliver went to Aliena; and Ganymede, whom 
 Orlando had perceived approaching, came to inquire after 
 the health of his wounded friend. 
 
 When Orlando and Ganymede began to talk over the 
 sudden love which had taken place between Oliver and 
 Aliena, Orlando said he had advised his brother to per- 
 suade his fair shepherdess to be man-ied on the morrow, 
 and then he added how much he could wish to be married 
 on the same day to his Rosalind. 
 
 Ganymede, who well approved of this arrangement, 
 said, that if Orlando really loved Rosalind as well as he 
 professed to do, he should have his wish ; for on the 
 morrow he would engage to make Rosalind appear in her 
 own person, and also that Rosalind should be willing to 
 marry Orlando. 
 
 This seemingly wonderful event, which, as Ganymede 
 was the lady Rosalind, he could so easily perform, he 
 pretended he would bring to pass by the aid of magic, 
 which he said he had learnt of an uncle who was a famous 
 magician. 
 
 • Extract IV.
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 123 
 
 The fond lover Orlando, half believing and half 
 doubting what he heard, asked Ganymede if he spoke in 
 sober meaning. " By my life I do," said Ganymede ; 
 " therefore put on your best clothes, and bid the duke 
 and your friends to your wedding ; for if you desire to be 
 married to-morrow to Rosalind, she shall be here." 
 
 The next morning, Oliver having obtained the consent 
 of Aliena, they came into the presence of the duke, and 
 with them also came Orlando. 
 
 They being all assembled to celebrate this double 
 marriage, and as yet only one of the brides appearing, 
 there was much of wondering and conjecture, but they 
 mostly thought that Ganymede was making a jest of 
 Orlando. 
 
 The duke, hearing that it was his own daughter that 
 was to be brought in this strange way, asked Orlando if 
 he believed the shepherd-boy could really do what he 
 had promised ; and while Orlando was answering that he 
 knew not what to think, Ganymede entered, and asked 
 the duke, if he brought his daughter, whether he would 
 consent to her marriage with Orlando. *' That I would," 
 said the d^ke, " if I had kingdoms to give with her." 
 Ganymede then said to Orlando, " And you say you will 
 marry her if I bring her here." " That I would," said 
 Orlando, " if I were king of many kingdoms." 
 
 Ganymede and Aliena then went out together, and 
 Ganymede throwing off his male attire, and being once 
 more dressed in woman's apparel, quickly became Rosa- 
 lind without the power of magic ; and Aliena, changing 
 her country garb for her own rich clothes, was with as 
 little trouble transformed into the lady Celia. 
 
 While they were gone, the duke said to Orlando, that 
 he thought the shepherd Ganymede very like his daughter 
 Rosalind ; and Orlando said, he also had observed the 
 resemblance. 
 
 They had no time to wonder how all this would end, 
 for Rosalind and Celia in their own clothes entered ; and 
 no longer pretending that it was by the power of magic 
 that she came there, Rosalind threw herself on her knees 
 before her father, and begged his blessing. It seemed 
 
 G 2
 
 124 TALES FROM SHAESPEBE. 
 
 SO wonderful to all present that she should so suddenly 
 appear, that it might well have passed for magic ; but 
 Rosalind would no longer trifle with her father, and told 
 him the story of her banishment, and of her dwelling in 
 the forest as a shepherd-boy, her cousin Celia passing as 
 her sister. 
 
 The duke ratified the consent he had already given to 
 the marriage ; and Orlando and Rosalind, Oliver and 
 Celia, were married at the same time. And though 
 their wedding could not be celebrated in this wild forest 
 with any of the parade or splendour usual on such occa- 
 sions, yet a happier wedding-day was never passed : and 
 while they were eating their venison under the cool 
 shade of the pleasant trees, as if nothing should be want- 
 ing to complete the felicity of this good duke and the 
 true lovers, an unexpected messenger arrived to tell the 
 duke the joyful news, that his dukedom was restored to 
 him. 
 
 The^ usurper, enraged at the flight of his daughter 
 Celia, and hearing that every day men of great worth re- 
 sorted to the forest of Arden to join the lawful duke in 
 his exile, much envying that his brother should be so 
 highly respected in his adversity, put himself at the head 
 of a large force, and advanced towards the forest, intend- 
 ing to seize his brother, and put him, with all his faithful 
 followers, to the sword ; but, by a wonderful interposition 
 of Providence, this bad brother was converted from his 
 evil intention ; for just as he entered the skirts of the 
 wild forest, he was met by an old religious man, a hermit, 
 with whom he had much talk, and who in the end com- 
 pletely turned his heart from his wicked design. Thence- 
 forward he became a true penitent, and resolved, relin- 
 quishing his unjust dominion, to spend the remainder ct 
 his days in a religious house. The first act of his newly- 
 conceived penitence was to send a messenger to his 
 brother (as has been related), to offer to restore to him 
 his dukedom, which he had usurped so long, and with it 
 the lands and revenues of his friends, the faithful fol- 
 lowers of his adversity. 
 
 This joyful news, as unexpected as it was welcome,
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 125 
 
 came opportunely to heighten the festivity and rejoicings 
 at the wedding of the princesses. Celia complimented 
 her cousin on this good fortune which had happened to 
 the duke, Rosalind's father, and wished joy very sin- 
 cerely, though she herself was no longer heir to the 
 dukedom, but by this restoration which her father had 
 made, Rosalind was now the heir : so completely was the 
 love of these two cousins unmixed with anything of 
 jealousy or envy. 
 
 The duke had now an opportunity of rewarding those 
 true friends who had stayed with him in his banishment ; 
 and these worthy followers, though they had patiently 
 shared his adverse fortune, were very well pleased to re- 
 turn in peace and prosperity to the palace of their lawful 
 duke.
 
 126 taLlES from shakspebe. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM SHAKSRERE. 
 
 Act II. — Scene I. — The Forest o/'Arden. 
 
 Enter Duke senior, Amiens, and other Lords, in the dress of 
 
 Foresters. 
 
 Zhike S. Now, my co-mates, and brothers in exile, 
 Hath not old custom made this life more sweet 
 Than that of painted pomp ? Are not these woods 
 More free from peril than the envious court ? 
 Here feel we not the penalty of Adam, 
 The seasons' difference, — as, the icy fang, 
 And churlish chiding of the winter's wii;d, 
 Which when it bites and blows upon my body, 
 Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say 
 This is no flattery, — these are counsellors 
 That feelingly persuade me what I am. 
 Sweet are the uses of adversity ; 
 Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous. 
 Wears } et a precious jewel in his head ; 
 And this our life, exempt from public haunt, 
 Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks. 
 Sermons in stones, and good in everything. 
 
 Ami. I would not change it : Happy is your grace 
 That can translate the stubbornness of fortime 
 Into so quiet and so sweet a style. 
 
 Duke S. Come, shall we go and kill us venison ? 
 And yet it irks me^ the poor dappled fools, — 
 Being native burghers of this desert city, — 
 Should, in their own confines, with forked heads ^ 
 Have their round haunches gor'd. 
 
 a Irlis me. This active use of the verb irk has become obsolete. TLe 
 meaning is obvious from the adjective, which we still retain, irksome. 
 b F(/rked heads— ths heads of barbed arrows.
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 127 
 
 1 Lord. Indeed, my lord. 
 
 The melaucholy Jaques grieves at that ; 
 And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp 
 Than doth your brother that hath banish' d you. 
 To-day, my lord of Amiens and myself 
 Did steal behind him, as he lay along 
 Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out 
 Upon the brook that brawls along this wood : 
 To the which place a poor sequester'd stag. 
 That from the hunters' aim had ta'en a hurt, 
 Did come to languish ; and, indeed, my lord, 
 The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans, 
 That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat 
 Almost to bursting ; and the big round tears 
 Cours'd one another down his innocent nose 
 In piteous chase : and thus the hairy fool, 
 Much marked of the melancholy Jaques, 
 Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook, 
 Augmenting it with tears. 
 
 Duke S. But what said Jaques ? 
 
 Did he not moralize this spectacle ? 
 
 1 Lord. O yes, into a thousand similes. 
 First, for his weeping into the needless * stream ; 
 " Poor deer," quoth he, " thou mak'st a testament 
 As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more 
 To that which had too much." Then being there alone, 
 Left and abandon' d of his velvet friend ; ^ 
 " 'T is right," quoth he ; " thus misery doth part 
 The flux of company :" Anon, a careless herd, 
 Full of the pasture, jumps along by him. 
 And never stays to greet him ; " Ay," quoth Jaques, 
 " Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens ; 
 'T is just the fashion : Wherefore do you look 
 Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there ?" 
 Thus most iuvectively he pierceth through 
 The body of the country, city, court. 
 Yea, and of this our life : swearing, that we 
 Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what 's worse. 
 To fright the animals, and to kill them up, "= 
 In their assign'd and native dwelling-place. 
 
 * Needless — needing not. 
 
 ^ Friend. The singular is often used for the plural wiih a seuHc 
 more abstracted, and ilierefore in many instances more poetical. 
 
 e Kill them up. In the same way' Shakspere has " Hatter up," — 
 «' stifle up," — " poisons up."
 
 128 
 
 TALES TKOM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 Duke S. And did you leave him in this contemplation? 
 
 2 Lord, We did, my lord, weeping and commenting 
 Upon the sobbing deer. 
 
 Duke S. Show me the place ; 
 
 I love to cope ^ him in these sullen fits, 
 For then he 's full of matter. 
 
 2 Lord, I '11 bring you to him straight. \_Exeunt 
 
 II. 
 
 Act II. — Scene III. — Before Oliver's House. 
 Enter Orlando and Adam, meeting. 
 
 Orl. Who 's there ? 
 
 Adam. What ! my young master ! — 0, my gentle master, 
 O, my sweet master, O you memory 
 Of old sir Rowland ! why, what make you here ? 
 Why are you virtuous ? Why do people love you ? 
 And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant ? 
 Why would you be so fond to overcome 
 The bony priser of the humorous duke ? 
 Your praise is come too swiftly home before you. 
 Know you not, master, to some kind of men 
 Their graces serve them but as enemies ? 
 No more do yours ; your vix-tues, gentle master. 
 Are sanctified and holy traitors to you. 
 O, what a world is this, when what is comely 
 Envenoms him that bears it ! 
 
 Orl. Why, what 's the matter ? 
 
 Adam. O unhappy youth. 
 
 Come not within these doors ; within this roof 
 The enemy of all your graces lives : 
 Your brother — (no, no brother ; yet the son — 
 Yet not the son ; I will not call him son — 
 Of him I was about to call his father) — 
 Hath heard your praises ; and this night he means 
 To burn the lodging where you use to lie, 
 And you within it : if he fail of that. 
 He will have other means to cut you off : 
 
 * Cope — encounter.
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 129 
 
 I overheard him and his practices. 
 
 This is no place,* this house is but a butchery ; 
 
 Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it. 
 
 Orl. Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go ? 
 
 Adam. No matter whither, so you come not here. 
 
 Orl. What, wouldst thou have me go and beg my food ? 
 Or, with a base and boisterous sword, enforce 
 A thievish living on the common road ? 
 This I must do, or know not what to do : 
 Yet this I will not do, do how I can ; 
 I rather will subject me to the malice 
 Of a diverted blood,** and bloody brother. 
 
 Adam. But do not so : I have five hundred crowns. 
 The thrifty hire I sav'd under your father, 
 Which I did store, to be my foster-nurse, 
 When service should in my old limbs lie lame, 
 And unregarded age in corners thrown ; 
 Take that : and He that doth the ravens feed, 
 Yea, providently caters for the sparrow. 
 Be comfort to my age ! Here is the gold ; 
 All this I give you : Let me be your servant ; 
 Though I look old, yet I am strong and l\isty : 
 For in my youth I never did apply 
 Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood : 
 Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo 
 The means of weakness and debility ; 
 Therefore my age is as a lusty winter. 
 Frosty, but kindly : let me go with you ; 
 I '11 do the service of a younger man 
 In all your business and necessities. 
 
 Orl. O good old man ; how well in thee appears 
 The constant service of the antique world, 
 When service sweat for duty, not for meed ! 
 Thou art not for the fashion of these times, 
 Where none will sweat, but for promotion ; 
 And having that, do choke their service up 
 Even with the having : it is not so with thee. 
 But, poor old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree, 
 That cannot so much as a blossom yield, 
 In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry : 
 But come thy ways, we '11 go along together : 
 
 "■ This is no place— this is no abiding-place. 
 
 *> A diverted blood — affections alienated and turned out of their na- 
 tural course; as a stream of water is said to be diverted, 
 
 g3
 
 130 
 
 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 And ere we have thy youthful -svages spent. 
 We '11 light upon some settled low content. 
 
 Adam. Master, go on ; and I will follow thee. 
 To the last ga^p, with truth and loyalty. — 
 From seventeen years till now almost fourscore 
 Here lived I, but now live here no more. 
 At seventeen years many their fortimes seek; 
 But at fourscore, it is too late a week :* 
 Yet fortune cannot recompense me better, 
 Thau to die well, and not my master's debtor. [Exeunt, 
 
 III. 
 
 Act II. — Scene VI. — TTie same. 
 
 Enter Orlando a)id Adam. 
 
 Adam. Dear master, I can go no further: O, I die for 
 food ! Here lie I down, and measure out my grave. Fare- 
 well, kind master. 
 
 Orl. Why, how now, Adam ! no greater heart in thee ? 
 Live a little ; comfort a little ; cheer thyself a little : If 
 this imcoiith forest yield anything savage, I will either be 
 food for it, or bring it for food to thee. Thy conceit is 
 nearer death than thy powers. For my sake, be comfort- 
 able,*^ hold death awhile at the arm's end : I will here be 
 with thee presently ; and if I bring thee not something to eat 
 I will give thee leave to die : but if thou diest before I come 
 thou art a mocker of my labour. Well said ! thou look'st 
 cheerly : and I '11 be with thee quickly.— Yet thou liest in 
 the bleak air : Come, I will bear thee to some shelter ; and 
 thou shalt not die for lack of a dinner, if there live any- 
 thing in this desert. Cheerly, good Adam ! [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene VII. — The same. — A table set out. 
 Enter Duke senior, Amiens, Lords, and others. 
 
 Duke S. I think he be transform'd into a beast ; 
 For I can nowhere find him like a man. 
 
 " Too late a week — an indefinite period, but still a short period ; 
 somewhat too late. 
 
 *> Be comfortable — become susceptible of comfort.
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 131 
 
 1 Lord, My lord, he is but even now gone hence ; 
 Here was he merry, hearing of a song. 
 
 Duke S. If he, compact^ of jars, grow musical, 
 We shall have shortly discord in the spheres : — 
 Go, seek him : tell him I would speak with him. 
 
 Enter Jaques. 
 
 1 Lord. He saves my labour by his own approach. 
 
 Duke S. Why, how now, monsieur ! what a life is thiSj 
 That your poor friends must woo your company ? 
 What ! you look merrily. 
 
 Jaq. A fool, a fool ! 1 met a fool i' the forest, 
 A motley fool ; a miserable world ; 
 As I do live by food, I met a fool ; 
 Who laid him down and bask'd him in the sun, 
 And rail'd on lady Fortune in good terms. 
 In good set terms, — and yet a motley fool. 
 " Good morrow, fool," quoth I : " No, sir," quoth he, 
 " Call me not fool, till Heaven hath sent me fortune :" 
 And then he drew a dial from his poke ; 
 And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye, 
 Says, very wisely, " It is ten o'clock : 
 Thus we may see," quoth he, " how the world wags : 
 'T is but an hour ago, since it was nine ; 
 And after one hour more, 't will be eleven ; 
 And so, from hour to hour, Ave ripe and ripe, 
 And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot, 
 And thereby hangs a tale." When I did hear 
 The motley fool thus moral on the time. 
 My lungs began to crow like chanticleer, 
 That fools should be so deep-contemplative ; 
 And I did laugh, sans intermission. 
 An hour by his dial. — O noble fool ! 
 A worthy fool ! — Motley 's the only wear. 
 
 Duke S. What fool is this ? 
 
 Jaq. O worthy fool !— One that hath been a courtier ; 
 And says, if ladies be but young, and fair, 
 They have the gift to know it : and in his brain, — 
 Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit 
 After a voyage, — he hath strange places cramm'd 
 With observation, the which he vents 
 
 Compact — compounded, made up of.
 
 132 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 In mangled forms ! — O, that I were a fool ! 
 I am ambitious for a motley coat. 
 
 Duke S. Tliou shalt have one. 
 
 Jaq. It is my only suit • ^ 
 
 Provided, that you weed your better judgments 
 Of all opinion that grows rank in them, 
 That I am wise. I must have liberty 
 Withal, as large a charter as the wind, 
 To blow on whom I please ; for so fools have : 
 And they that are most galled with my folly. 
 They most must laugh : And why, sir, must they so ? 
 The why is plain as way to parish church : 
 He that a fool doth very wisely hit 
 Doth very foolishly, although he smart. 
 Not to seem senseless of the bob :^ if not. 
 The wise man's folly is anatomiz'd 
 Even by the squand'ring glances of the fool. 
 Invest me in my motley ; give me leave 
 To speak my mind, and I will through and through 
 Cleanse the foul body of the infected world, 
 If they will patiently receive my medicine. 
 
 Duke S. Fie on thee ! I can tell what thou wouldst do. 
 
 Jaq. What, for a counter, would I do but good ? 
 
 Duke S. Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin : 
 For thou thyself hast been a libertine, 
 As sensual as the brutish sting itself; 
 And all the embossed sores, and headed evils, 
 That thou with licence of free foot hast caught, 
 Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world. 
 
 Jaq. Why, who cries out on pride, 
 That can therein tax any private party ? 
 Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea. 
 Till that the weary •= very means do ebb ? 
 What woman in the city do I name 
 When that I say. The city-woman bears 
 The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders ? 
 Who can come in, and say that I mean her. 
 When such a one as she, such is her neighbour ? 
 Or what is he of basest function, 
 That says, his bravery ^ is not on my cost, 
 (Thinking that I mean him,) but therein suits 
 His folly to the mettle of my speech ? 
 
 * Suit — request. b Bob — rap. 
 
 « Weary — exhausted. d Bravery — finery.
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 133 
 
 There then : How then ? what then ? Let me see wherein 
 My tongue hath wrong'd him : if it do him right, 
 Then he hath wrong'd himself; if he be free, 
 Why, then my taxing'' like a wild goose flies, 
 Unclaim'd of any man. — But who comes here ? 
 
 Enter Orlando, with his sword drawn. 
 
 Orl. Forbear, and eat no more. 
 
 Jaq. Why, I have eat none yet. 
 
 Orl. Nor shalt not, till necessity be serv'd. 
 
 Jaq. Of what kind should this cock come of? 
 
 Duke S. Art thou thus bolden'd, man, by thy distress ; 
 Or else a rude despiser of good manners. 
 That in civility thou seem'st so empty ? 
 
 Orl. You touch'd my vein at first ; the thorny point 
 Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the show 
 Of smooth civility : yet am I inland bred. 
 And know some nurture.^ But, forbear, I say ; 
 He dies that touches any of this fruit, 
 Till I and my affairs are answered. 
 
 Jaq, An you will not be answered with reason, I must 
 die. 
 
 Duke S. What would you have ? Your gentleness shall 
 force 
 ^lore than your force move us to gentleness. 
 
 Orl. I almost die for food, and let me have it. 
 
 Duke S. Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table 
 
 Orl. Speak you so gently ? Pardon me, I pray you : 
 I thought that all things had been savage here ; 
 And therefore put I on the countenance 
 Of stern commandment : But whate'er you are, 
 That in this desert inaccessible. 
 Under the shade of melancholy boughs. 
 Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time ; 
 If ever you have look'd on better days ; 
 [f ever been where bells have knoll'd to church ; 
 If ever sat at any good man's feast ; 
 If ever from your eyelids wip'd a tear. 
 And know what 't is to pity and be pitied ; 
 Let gentleness my strong enforcement be : 
 In the which hope, I blush, and hide my sword. 
 
 ^ Taking — censure, reproach. t* Nurture — education.
 
 l34 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 Diike S. True is it that we have seen better days ; 
 And have with holy bell been knoll'd to church ; 
 And sat at good men's feasts ; and wip'd our eyes 
 Of drops that sacred pity hath engender'd : 
 And therefore sit you down in gentleness. 
 And take upon command ^ what help we have, 
 That to your wanting may be minister'd. 
 
 Orl. Then, but forbear your food a little while, 
 Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn. 
 And give it food. There is an old poor man. 
 Who after me hath many a weary step 
 Limp'd in pure love ; till he be first suflfic'd, 
 Oppress'd with two weak evils,'' age and hunger, 
 I will not touch a bit. 
 
 Duke S. Go, find him out, 
 
 And we will nothing waste till you return. 
 
 Orl. I thank ye : and be bless'd for your good comfort ! 
 
 lExit. 
 
 Duke S. Thou seest, we are not all alone imhappy : 
 This wide and universal theatre 
 Presents more woeful pageants than the scene 
 Wherein we play in. 
 
 Jaq. All the world 's a stage. 
 
 And all the 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 the nurse's arms : 
 Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel, 
 And shining morning face, creeping like snail 
 Unwillingly to school : and then, the lover. 
 Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad 
 Made to his mistress' eyebrow : Then, a soldier ; 
 Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, 
 Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, 
 Seeking the bubble reputation 
 Even in the cannon's mouth: and then, the justice; 
 In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd. 
 With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, 
 Full of wise saws and modern instances, 
 And so he plays his part : The sixth age shifts 
 Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon ; 
 
 ^ Upon command — at your pleasure. 
 •> fFcak evils — causes of weakness.
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 135 
 
 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 toward 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 taste, sans everything. 
 
 Re-enter Orlando, ivith Adam. 
 
 DuTie S. Welcome : Set down your venerable burthen, 
 And let him feed. 
 
 Orl. I thank you most for him. 
 
 Adam. So had you need ; 
 I scarce can speak to thank you for myself. 
 
 Duke S. Welcome, fall to : I will not trouble you 
 As yet, to question you about your fortunes : — 
 Give us some music ; and, good cousin, sing. 
 
 Amiens sings. 
 SONG. 
 
 Blow, l)lo\v, thou winter wind, 
 
 Thou art not so unkind* 
 As mun's ingratitude ; 
 
 Thy tooth is not so keen. 
 
 Because thou art not seen, 
 Altliough thy breath be rude. 
 Heigh ho ! sing, heigh ho ! unto the green holly : 
 Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly ; 
 
 Then, heigh ho ! the holly ! 
 
 This life is most jolly. 
 
 Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, 
 Thou dost not bite so nigh 
 
 As benefits forgot ! 
 Tliough thou the waters warp,"* 
 Thy sting is not so sharp 
 As fiiend remember'd not. 
 Heigh ho ! sing, heigh ho ! &c. 
 
 Duke S. If that you were the good sir Rowland's son, — 
 As you have whisper'd faithfully you were ; 
 And as mine eye doth his effigies witness 
 
 ** Unkind — unnatural. 
 
 b fVarp. There was an old Saxon proverb, ff'inter shall warp water
 
 136 TALES TKOM SHAKSPEKE. 
 
 Most ti-uly Hmn'd, and living in your face, 
 
 Be truly -o-elcome hither : I am the duke 
 
 That lov'd your father : The residue of your fortune, 
 
 Go to my cave and tell me. — Good old man, 
 
 Thou art right -welcome as thy master is ; 
 
 Support him by the arm. — Give me your hand, 
 
 And let me all your fortunes understand. lExeu?it. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Act IV. — Scene III. 
 Enter Oliver. 
 
 OH. Good morro-sv, fair ones : Pray you, if you know 
 Where, in the purlieus of this forest, stands 
 A sheep-cote, fenc'd about with olive-trees ? 
 
 Cel. West of this place, down in the neighbour bottom, 
 The rank of osiers, by the murmuring stream, 
 Left on your right hand,^ brings you to the place : 
 But at this hour the house doth keep itself, 
 There 's none within. 
 
 Oli. If that an eye may profit by a tongue. 
 Then should I know you by description ; 
 Such garments, and such years : " The boy is fair, 
 Of female favour, and bestows himself 
 Like a ripe sister : the woman low. 
 And browner than her brother." Are not you 
 The owner of the house I did inquire for ? 
 
 Cel. It is no boast, being ask'd, to say, we are. 
 
 OH. Orlando doth commend him to you both ; 
 And to that youth, he calls his Rosalind, 
 He sends this bloody napkin : Are you he ? 
 
 Bos. I am : What must we understand by this ? 
 
 on. Some of my shame ; if you will know of me 
 What man I am, and how, and why, and where 
 This handkercher was stain' d. 
 
 Cel. I pray you, tell it 
 
 Oil. When last the young Orlando parted from you, 
 He left a promise to return again 
 
 * Left on your right luind — being, as you pass, left.
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 137 
 
 Within an hour ; and, pacing through the forest, 
 
 Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy 
 
 Lo, what befel ! he threw his eye aside, 
 
 And, mark, what object did present itself ! 
 
 Under an old oak, whose boughs were moss'd with age, 
 
 And high top bald with dry antiquity, 
 
 A wretched ragged man, o'ergrown with hair, 
 
 Lay sleeping on his back : about his neck 
 
 A green and gilded snake had wreath'd itself, 
 
 Who with her head, nimble in threats, approach'd 
 
 The opening of his mouth ; but suddenly 
 
 Seeing Orlando, it unlink'd itself, 
 
 And with indented glides did slip away 
 
 Into a bush : under which bush's shade 
 
 A lioness, with udders all drawn dry, 
 
 Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike watch, 
 
 When that the sleeping man should stir ; for 't is 
 
 The royal disposition of that beast. 
 
 To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead ; 
 
 This seen, Orlando did approach the man. 
 
 And found it was his brother, his elder brother. 
 
 Cel. O, I have heard him speak of that same brother ; 
 And he did render ^^ him the most unnatural 
 That liv'd 'mongst men. 
 
 on. And well he might so do. 
 
 For well I know he was unnatural. 
 
 Eos. But, to Orlando ; — Did he leave him there, 
 Food to the suck'd and hungry lioness ? 
 
 Oli. Twice did he turn his back, and purpos'd so : 
 But kindness, nobler ever than revenge. 
 And nature, stronger than his just occasion,^ 
 Made him give battle to the lioness. 
 Who quickly fell before him ; in which hurtling 
 From miserable slumber I awak'd. 
 
 Cel. Are you his brother ? 
 
 Bos. Was it you he rescued ? 
 
 Cel. Was 't you that did so oft contrive to kill him ? 
 
 Oli. 'T was I ; but 't is not I : I do not shame 
 To tell you what I was, since my conversion 
 So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am. 
 
 Ros. But, for the bloody napkin ? — 
 
 Oli. By and by, 
 
 ^ Render — represent. 
 
 *> Juat occasion — such reasonable ground as might have amply justi 
 fied, or given just occasion for, abandoning him.
 
 1 38 TAI.ES FROM SHAKSPEHB. 
 
 When from the first to last, betwixt us two, 
 
 Tears our recountments had most kindly bath'd, 
 
 As, how I came into that desert place ; — 
 
 In brief, he led me to the gentle duke, 
 
 AVho gave me fresh array and entertainment, 
 
 Committing me unto my brother's love ; 
 
 "Who led me instantly unto his cave. 
 
 There stripp'd himself, and here upon his arm 
 
 The lioness had torn some flesh away, 
 
 Which all this while had bled ; and now he fainted, 
 
 And cried, in fainting, upon Rosalind. 
 
 Brief, I recover'd him ; bound up his wound ; 
 
 And, after some small space, being strong at heart, 
 
 He sent me hither, stranger as I am, 
 
 To tell this story, that you might excuse 
 
 His broken promise, and to give this napkin, 
 
 Dyed in this blood, unto the shepherd youth 
 
 That he in sport doth call his Rosalind. 
 
 Cel. Why, how now, Ganymede ? sweet Ganymede ? 
 
 [RoSALIND/oiWtS. 
 
 on. Many will swoon when they do look on blood. 
 
 Cel. There is more in it : — Cousin — Ganymede ! 
 
 Oli. Look, he recovers. 
 
 Eos. I would I were at home. 
 
 Cel. We '11 lead you thither : — 
 I pray you, will you take him by the arm ? 
 
 Oli. Be of good cheer, youth : — You a man ? — 
 You lack a man's heart. 
 
 Ros. I do so, I confess it. Ah, sirrah, a body would think 
 this was well counterfeited : I pray you, tell your brother 
 how well I counterfeited. — Heigh ho ! 
 
 OIL This was not counterfeit ; there is too great testimony 
 in your complexion, that it was a passion of earnest. 
 
 Itos. Counterfeit, I assure you. 
 
 OIL Well, then, take a good heart, and counterfeit to be 
 a man. 
 
 Eos. So I do : but, i' faith, I should have been a woman 
 by right. 
 
 Cel. Come, you look paler and paler ; pray } ou, draw 
 homewards : — Good sir, go with us. 
 
 OIL That will I, for I must bear answer back 
 How you excuse my brother, Rosalind. 
 
 Eos. I shall devise something: But, I pray you, com- 
 mend my counterfeiting to him : — Will you go ? 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 _ ^.^ 
 
 wo • 
 
 GENTLEMEM 
 YERO^ A . 
 
 /J 
 
 M^
 
 ( 141 ) 
 
 THE 
 
 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 There lived in the city of Verona two young gentlemen, 
 whose names were Valentine and Proteus, between whom 
 a firm and uninterrupted friendship had long subsisted. 
 They pursued their studies together, and their hours of 
 leisure were always passed in each other's company, 
 except when Proteus visited a lady he was in love with ; 
 and these visits to his mistress, and this passion of Pro- 
 teus for the fair Julia, were the only topics on which 
 these two friends disagreed ; for Valentine, not being 
 himself a lover, was sometimes a little weary of hearing 
 his friend for ever talking of his Julia, and then he would 
 laugh at Proteus, and in pleasant terms ridicule the pas- 
 sion of love, and declare that no such idle fancies should 
 ever enter his head, greatly preferring (as he said) the 
 free and happy life he led, to the anxious hopes and 
 fears of the lover Proteus. 
 
 One morning Valentine came to Proteus to tell him 
 that they must for a time be separated, for that he was 
 going to Milan. Proteus, unwilling to paii; with his 
 friend, used many arguments to prevail upon Valentine 
 not to leave him; but Valentine said, " Cease to per- 
 suade me, my loving Proteus. I will not, like a sluggard, 
 wear out my youth in idleness at home. Home-keeping 
 youths have ever homely wits. If your affection were 
 not chained to the sweet glances of your honoured Julia,
 
 142 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 I would entreat you to accompany me, to see the wonders 
 of the world abroad ; but since you are a lover, love on 
 still, and may your love be prosperous !" 
 
 They parted with mutual expressions of unalterable 
 friendship. "Sweet Valentine, adieu!" said Proteus; 
 " think on me, when you see some rare object worthy 
 of notice in your travels, and wish me partaker of your 
 happiness." 
 
 Valentine began his journey that same day towards 
 Milan ; and when his friend had left him, Proteus sat 
 down to write a letter to Julia, which he gave to her 
 maid Lucetta to deliver to her mistress. 
 
 Julia loved Proteus as well as he did her, but she 
 was a lady of a noble spirit, and she thought it did not 
 become her maiden dignity too easily to be won ; there- 
 fore she affected to be insensible of his passion, and gave 
 him much uneasiness in the prosecution of his suit. 
 
 And when Lucetta offered the letter to Julia, she 
 would not receive it, and chid her maid for taking letters 
 from Proteus, and ordered her to leave the room. But 
 she so much wished to see what was written in the letter, 
 that she soon called in her maid again ; and when Lucetta 
 returned, she said, " What o'clock is it ?" Lucetta, who 
 knew her mistress more desired to see the letter than to 
 know the time of day, without answering her question, 
 again offered the rejected letter. Julia, angry that her 
 maid should thus take the liberty of seeming to know 
 what she really wanted, tore the letter in pieces, and 
 threw it on the floor, ordering her maid once more out 
 of the room. As Lucetta was retiring, she stopped to 
 pick up the fragments of the torn letter ; but Julia, who 
 meant not so to part with them, said, in pretended anger, 
 " Go, get you gone, and let the papers lie; you would 
 be fingering them to anger me." 
 
 Julia then began to piece together as well as she could 
 the torn fragments. She first made out these words, 
 *' Love- wounded Proteus ;" and lamenting over these 
 and such like loving words, which she made out though 
 they were all torn asunder, or. she said, wounded (the 
 expression *' Love- wounded Proteus " giving her that
 
 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 143 
 
 idea), she talked to these kind words, telling them she 
 would lodge them in her bosom as in a bed, till their 
 wounds were healed, and that she would kiss each several 
 piece, to make amends. 
 
 In this manner she went on talking with a pretty lady- 
 like childishness, till finding herself unable to make out 
 the whole, and vexed at her own ingratitude in destroy- 
 ing such sweet and loving words, as she called them, she 
 wrote a much kinder letter to Proteus than she had ever 
 done before. 
 
 Proteus was greatly delighted at receiving this favour- 
 able answer to his letter ; and while he was reading it, 
 he exclaimed, "Sweet love, SM^eet lines, sweet life!" 
 In the midst of his raptures he was interrupted by his 
 father. " How now!" said the old gentleman; " what 
 letter are you reading there ?" 
 
 " My lord," replied Proteus, " it is a letter from my 
 friend Valentine, at Milan." 
 
 " Lend me the letter," said his father: " let me see 
 what news." 
 
 " There are no news, my lord," said Proteus, greatly 
 alarmed, " but that he writes how well beloved he is of 
 the duke of Milan, who daily graces him with favours ; and 
 how he wishes me with him, the partner of his fortune." 
 
 "And how stand you affected to his wish ?" asked 
 the father. 
 
 " As one relying on your lordship's will, and not 
 depending on his friendly wish," said Proteus. 
 
 Now it had happened that Proteus's father had just 
 been talking with a friend on this very subject ; his friend 
 had said, he wondered his lordship suffered his son to 
 spend his youth at home, while most men were sending 
 their sons to seek preferment abroad ; " some," said he, 
 ** to the wars, to try their fortunes there, and some to 
 discover islands far away, and some to study in foreign 
 universities ; and there is his companion Valentine, he 
 is gone to the duke of Milan's court. Your son is fit for 
 any of these things, and it will be a great disadvantage 
 to him in his riper age not to have travelled in his 
 youth."
 
 144 TALES FKOM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 Proteus's father thought the advice of his friend was 
 very good, and upon Proteus telling him that Valentine 
 *' wished him with him, the partner of his fortune," he 
 at once determined to send his son to ^Slilan ; and with- 
 out giving Proteus any reason for this sudden resolution, 
 it being the usual habit of this positive old gentleman to 
 command his son, not reason with him, he said, " My 
 will is the same as Valentine's wish ;" and seeing his son 
 look astonished, he added, " Look not amazed, that I so 
 suddenly resolve you shall spend some time in the duke 
 of Milan's court ; for what 1 will I will, and there is an 
 end. To-mon'ovv be in readiness to go. Make no ex- 
 cuses ; for I am peremptory." 
 
 Proteus knew it was of no use to make objections to 
 his father, who never suffered him to dispute his will ; 
 and he blamed himself for telling his father an untruth 
 about Julia's letter, which had brought upon him the sad 
 necessity of leaving her. 
 
 Now that Julia found she was going to lose Proteus 
 for so long a time, she no longer pretended indifference ; 
 and they bade each other a mournful farewell, with many 
 vows of love and constancy. Proteus and Julia ex. 
 changed rings, which they both promised to keep for 
 ever in remembrance of each other ; and thus, taking a 
 sorrowful leave, Proteus set out on his jom-ney to Milan, 
 the abode of his friend Valentine.* 
 
 Valentine was in reality what Proteus had feigned to 
 his father, in high favour with the duke of Milan ; and 
 another event had happened to him, of which Proteus 
 did not even dream, for Valentine had given up the 
 freedom of which he used so much to boast, and was 
 become as passionate a lover as Proteus. 
 
 She who had wrought this wondrous change in Valen- 
 tine, was the lady Silvia, daughter of the duke of Milan, 
 and she also loved him ; but they concealed their love 
 from the duke, because although he showed much kind- 
 ness for Valentine, and invited him every day to his 
 
 * Proteus had a servant Launce, a comical fellow, who accompanied 
 him on his journey. Extract II, shows the feelings of Launce when he 
 is leaving home. — Ed.
 
 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 145 
 
 palace, yet he designed to marry his daughter to a young 
 courtier whose name was Thurio. Silvia despised this 
 Thurio, for he had none of the fine sense and excellent 
 qualities of Valentine. 
 
 These two rivals, Thurio and Valentine, were one 
 day on a visit to Silvia, and Valentine was entertaining 
 Silvia with turning everything Thurio said into ridicule, 
 when the duke himself entered the room, and told Va- 
 lentine the welcome news of his friend Proteus's arrival. 
 Valentine said, " If I had wished a thing, it would have 
 been to have seen him here !" and then he highly praised 
 Proteus to the duke, saying, " My lord, though I have 
 been a truant of my time, yet hath my friend made use 
 and fair advantage of his days, and is complete in person 
 and in mind, in all good grace to grace a gentleman." 
 
 " Welcome him then according to his worth," said the 
 duke. ''Silvia, I speak to you, and you. Sir Thurio ; 
 for Valentine, I need not bid him do so," They were 
 here interrupted by the entrance of Proteus, and Valen- 
 tine introduced him to Silvia, saying, " Sweet lady, 
 entertain him to be my fellow-servant to your ladyship." 
 
 When Valentine and Proteus had ended their visit, 
 and were alone together, Valentine said, " Now tell me 
 how all does from whence you came ? How does your 
 lady, and how thrives your love ?" Proteus replied, 
 " My tales of love used to weary you. I know you joy 
 not in a love discourse." 
 
 " Ay, Proteus," returned Valentine, " but that life 
 is altered now. I have done penance for condemning 
 love. For in revenge of my contempt of Love, Love 
 has chased sleep from my enthralled eyes. O gentle 
 Proteus, Love is a mighty lord, and hath so humbled 
 me, thdt I confess there is no woe like his correction, 
 nor no such joy on earth as in his service. I now like 
 no discourse except it be of love. Now I can break 
 my fast, dine, sup, and sleep, upon the very name of 
 love." 
 
 This acknowledgment of the change which love had 
 made in the disposition of Valentine was a great triumph 
 to his friend Proteus. But " friend " Proteus must be
 
 146 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 called no longer, for the same all-powerful deity Love, 
 of whom they were speaking (yea, even while they were 
 talking of the change he had made in Valentine), was 
 working in the heart of Proteus ; and he, who had till 
 this time been a pattern of true love and perfect friend- 
 ship, was now, in one short interview with Silvia, become 
 a false friend and a faithless lover ; for at the first sight of 
 Silvia, all his love for Julia vanished away like a dream, 
 nor did his long friendship for Valentine deter him from 
 endea^ ouring to supplant him in her affections ; and 
 although, as it will always be, when people of dispositions 
 naturally good become unjust, he had many scruples 
 before he determined to forsake Julia, and becoihe the 
 rival of Valentine, yet he at length overcame his sense 
 of duty, and yielded himself up, almost without remorse, 
 to his new unhappy passion. 
 
 Valentine imparted to him in confidence the whole 
 history of his love, and how carefully they had concealed 
 it from the duke her father, and told him, that, despair- 
 ing of ever being able to obtain his consent, he had 
 prevailed upon Sihia to leave her father's palace that 
 night, and go with him to Mantua ; then he showed 
 Proteus a ladder of ropes, by help of which he meant to 
 assist Silvia to get out of one of the windows of the 
 palace, after it was dark. 
 
 Upon hearing this faithful recital of his friend's dearest 
 secrets, it is hardly possible to be believed, but so it was, 
 that Proteus resolved to go to the duke, and disclose the 
 whole to him. 
 
 This false friend began his tale with many artful 
 speeches to the duke, such as that by the laws of friend- 
 snip he ought to conceal what he was going to reveal, 
 but that the gracious favour the duke had shown him, 
 and the duty he owed his grace, urged him to tell thai 
 which else no worldly good should draw from him. He 
 then told all he had heard from Valentine, not omitting 
 the ladder of ropes, and the manner in which Valentine 
 meant to conceal them under a long cloak. 
 
 The duke thought Proteus quite a miracle of integrity, 
 in that he preferred telling his friend's intention ratlier
 
 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 147 
 
 than he would conceal an unjust action ; hig-hly com- 
 mended him, and promised him not to let Valentine 
 know from whom he had learnt this intelligence, but by- 
 some artifice to make Valentine betray the secret himself. 
 For this purpose the duke awaited the coming of Valen- 
 tine in the evening, whom he soon saw hurrying towards 
 the palace, and he perceived somewhat was wrapped 
 within his cloak, which he concluded was the rope- 
 ladder. 
 
 The duke upon this stopped him, saying, " Whither 
 away so fast, Valentine ?" — " May it please your grace," 
 said Valentine, " chere is a messenger that stays to bear 
 my letters to my friends, and I am going to deliver 
 them." Now this falsehood of Valentine's had no better 
 success in the event than the untruth Proteus told his 
 father. 
 
 " Be they of much import ?" said the duke. 
 
 " No more, my lord," said Valentine, " than to tell 
 my father I am well and happy at your grace's court." 
 
 '' Nay, then," said the duke, " no matter ; stay with 
 me a while. I wish your counsel about some affairs that 
 concern me nearly." He then told Valentine an artful 
 story, as a prelude to draw his secret from him, saying, 
 that Valentine knew he. wished to match his daughter 
 with Thurio, but that she was stubborn and disobedient 
 to his commands, *' neither regarding," said he, " that 
 she is my child, nor fearing me as if I were her father. 
 And I may say to thee, this pride of hers has drawn my 
 love from her. I had thought my age should have been 
 cherished by her child-like duty. I now am resolved to 
 take a wife, and turn her out to whosoever will take her 
 in. Let her beauty be her wedding dower, for me and 
 my possessions she esteems not." 
 
 Valentine, wondering where all this would end, made 
 answer, " And what would your grace have me to do in 
 all this ?" 
 
 " Why," said the duke, "the lady I would wish to 
 marry is nice and coy, and does not much esteem my 
 aged eloquence. Besides, the fashion of courtship is 
 much changed since I was young : now I would willingly 
 
 h2
 
 148 TALES FROM SHAKSPEKE. 
 
 have you to be my tutor to instruct me how I am to 
 woo." 
 
 Valentine gave him a general idea of the modes oi 
 courtship then practised by young men, when they wished 
 to win a fair lady's love, such as presents, frequent visits, 
 and the like. 
 
 The duke replied to this, that the lady did refuse a 
 present which he sent her, and that she was so strictly 
 kept by her father, that no man might have access to her 
 by day. 
 
 " Why, then," said Valentine, " you must visit her 
 by night." 
 
 " But at night," said the artful duke, who was no\y 
 comins: to the drift of his discourse, " her doors are fast 
 locked: " 
 
 Valentine then unfortunately proposed, that the duke 
 should get into the lady's chamber at night by means 
 of a ladder of ropes, saying, he would procure him one 
 fitting for that purpose ; and in conclusion advised him 
 to conceal this ladder of ropes under such a cloak as that 
 which he now wore. " Lend me your cloak," said the 
 duke, who had feigned this long story on purpose to 
 have a pretence to get off the cloak ; so, upon saying 
 these words, he caught hold of Valentine's cloak, and 
 throwing it back, he discovered not only the ladder of 
 ropes, but also a letter of Silvia's, which he instantly 
 opened, and read ; and this letter contained a full account 
 of their intended elopement. The duke, after upbraid- 
 ing Valentine for his ingratitude in thus returning the 
 favour he had shown him, by endeavouring to steal away 
 his daughter, banished him from the court and city of 
 Milan for ever ; and Valentine was forced to depart that 
 night, without even seeing Silvia. 
 
 While Proteus at Milan was thus injuring Valentine, 
 Julia at Verona was regretting the absence of Proteus ; 
 and her regard for him at last so far overcame her sense 
 of propriety, that she resolved to leave Verona, and seek 
 her lover at Milan ; and to secure herself from danger on 
 the road, she dressed her maid Lucetta and herself in 
 men's clothes, and they set out in this disguise, and
 
 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 149 
 
 arrived at Milan soon after Valentine was banished from 
 that city through the treachery of Proteus. 
 
 Julia entered Milan about noon, and she took up her 
 abode at an inn ; and her thoughts being all on her dear 
 Proteus, she entered into conversation with the innkeeper, 
 or host, as he was called, thinking by that means to learn 
 some news of Proteus. 
 
 The host was greatly pleased that this handsome young 
 gentleman (as he took her to be), who, from his appear- 
 ance, he concluded was of high rank, spoke so familiarly 
 to him ; and being a good-natured man, he was sorry to 
 see him look so melancholy ; and to amuse his young 
 guest, he offered to take him to hear some line music, 
 with which, he said, a gentleman that evening was going 
 to serenade his mistress. 
 
 The reason Julia looked so very melancholy was, that 
 she did not well know what Proteus would think of the 
 imprudent step she had taken ; for she knew he had 
 loved her for her noble maiden pride and dignity of 
 character, and she feared she should lower herself in his 
 esteem ; and this it was that made her wear a sad and 
 thoughtful countenance. 
 
 She gladly accepted the offer of the host to go with 
 him, and hear the music ; for she secretly hoped she 
 might meet Proteus by the way. 
 
 But when she came to the palace whither the host 
 conducted her, a very different effect was produced to 
 what the kind host intended ; for there, to her heart's 
 sorrow, she beheld her lover, the inconstant Proteus, 
 serenading the lady Silvia with music, and addressing 
 discourse of love and admiration to her. And Julia 
 overheard Silvia from a window talk with Proteus, and 
 reproach him for forsaking his own true lady, and for 
 his ingratitude to his friend Valentine : and then Silvia 
 left the window, not choosing to listen to his music and 
 his fine speeches ; for she was a faithful lady to her 
 banished Valentine, and abhorred the ungenerous con- 
 duct of his false friend Proteus.* 
 
 » Extract III.
 
 150 TALES FROM SHAKSPEKE. 
 
 Though Julia was in despair at what she had just 
 witnessed, yet did she still love the truant Proteus ; and 
 hearing that he had lately parted with a servant, she 
 contrived with the assistance of her host, the friendly 
 innkeeper, to hire herself to Proteus as a page ; andv 
 Proteus knew not she was Julia, and he sent her with 
 letters and presents to her rival Silvia, and he even sent 
 by her the very ring she gave him as a parting gift at 
 Verona, 
 
 When she went to that lady with the ring, she was 
 most glad to find that Silvia utterly rejected the suit of 
 Proteus ; and Julia, or the page Sebastian as she was 
 called, entered into conversation with Silvia about Pro- 
 teus's first love, the forsaken lady Julia. She putting in 
 (as one may say) a good word for herself, said she knew 
 Julia ; as well sht might, being herself the Julia of 
 whom she spoke ; telling how fondly Julia loved her 
 master Proteus, and how his unkind neglect would grieve 
 her : and then she with a pretty equivocation went on : 
 *' Julia is about my height, and of my complexion, the 
 colour of her eyes and hair the same as mine :" and 
 indeed Julia looked a most beautiful youth in her boy's 
 attire, Silvia was moved to pity this lovely lady, who 
 was so sadly forsaken by the man she loved : and when 
 Julia offered the ring which Proteus had sent, refused it, 
 saying, " The more shame for him that he sends me that 
 ring ; I will not take it, for I have often heard him say 
 his Julia gave it to him. I love thee, gentle youth, for 
 pitying her, poor lady ! Here is a purse ; I give it you 
 for Julia's sake." These comfortable words coming from 
 her kind rival's tongue cheered the drooping heart of the 
 disguised lady. 
 
 But to return to the banished Valentine ; who scarce 
 knew which way to bend his course, being unwilling to 
 return home to his father a disgraced and banished man : 
 as he was wandering over a lonely forest, not far distant 
 from Milan, where he had left his heart's dear treasure, 
 the lady Silvia, he was set upon by robbers, who de- 
 manded his money. 
 
 Valentine told them, that he was a man crossed by
 
 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 151 
 
 adversity, that he was going into banishment, and that 
 he had no money, the clothes he had on being all his 
 riches. 
 
 The robbers, hearing that he was a distressed man, 
 and being struck with his noble air and manly behaviour, 
 told him, if he would live with them, and be their chiei!, 
 or captain, they would put themselves under his com- 
 mand ; but that if he refused to accept their offer, they 
 would kill him. 
 
 Valentine, who cared little what became of himself, 
 said, he would consent to live with them and be their 
 captain, provided they did no outrage on women or poor 
 passengers. 
 
 Thus the noble Valentine became, like Robin Hood, 
 of whom we read in ballads, a captain of robbers and 
 outlawed banditti ; and in this situation he was found by 
 Silvia, and in this manner it came to pass. 
 
 Silvia, to avoid a marriage with Thurio, whom her 
 father insisted upon her no longer refusing, came at last 
 to the resolution of following Valentine to Mantua, at 
 which place she had heard her lover had taken refuge ; 
 but in this account she was misinformed, for he still lived 
 in the forest among the robbers, bearing the name of 
 their captain, but taking no part in their depredations, 
 and using the authority which they had imposed upon 
 him in no other way than to compel them to show com- 
 passion to the travellers they robbed. 
 
 Silvia contrived to effect her escape from her father's 
 palace in company with a worthy old gentleman, whose 
 name was Eglamour, whom she took along with her for 
 protection on the road. She had to pass through the 
 forest where Valentine and the banditti dwelt ; and one 
 of these robbers seized on Silvia, and would also have 
 taken Eglamour, but he escaped. 
 
 The robber who had taken Silvia, seeing the teiTor 
 she was in, bid her not be alarmed, for that he was only 
 going to carry her to a cave where his captain lived, and 
 that she need not be afraid, for their captain had an 
 honourable mind, and always showed humanity to women. 
 Silvia found little comfort in hearing she was going to be
 
 152 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 carried as a prisoner before the captain of a lawless ban- 
 ditti. " O Valentine," she cried, " this I endure for 
 thee !" 
 
 But as the robber was conveying her to the cave of his 
 captain, he was stopped by Proteus, who, still attended 
 by Julia in the disguise of a page, having heard of the 
 flight of Silvia, had traced her steps to this forest. Pro- 
 teus now rescued her from the hands of the robber ; but 
 scarce had she time to thank him for the service he had 
 done her, before he began to distress her afresh with his 
 love-suit ; and while he was rudely pressing her to con- 
 sent to marry him, and his page (the forlorn Julia) was 
 standing beside him in great anxiety of mind, fearing lest 
 the great service which Proteus had just done to Silvia 
 should win her to show him some favour, they were all 
 strangely surprised with the sudden appearance of Valen- 
 line, who, having heard his robbers had taken a lady 
 prisoner, came to console and relieve her. 
 
 Proteus was courting Silvia, and he was so much 
 ashamed of being caught by his friend, that he was all 
 at once seized with penitence and remorse ; and he ex- 
 pressed such a lively sorrow for the injuries he had done 
 to Valentine, that Valentine, whose nature was noble 
 and generous, even to a romantic degree, not only forgave 
 and restored him to his former place in his friendship, 
 but in a sudden flight of heroism he said, " I freely do 
 forgive you ; and all the interest I have in Silvia, I give 
 it up to you." Julia, who was standing beside her master 
 as a page, hearing this strange offer, and fearing Proteus 
 would not be able with this new-found virtue to refuse 
 Silvia, fainted, and they were all employed in recovering 
 her : else would Silvia have been offended at being thus 
 made over to Proteus, though she could scarcely think 
 that Valentine would long persevere in this overstrained 
 and too generous act of friendship. When Julia re- 
 covered from the fainting fit, she said, " I had forgot, 
 my master ordered me to deliver this ring to Silvia." 
 Proteus, looking upon the ring, saw that it was the one 
 he gave to Julia, in return for that which he received 
 from her, and which he had sent by the supposed page
 
 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 153 
 
 to Silvia. *' How is this?" said he, "this is Julia's 
 rins^ : how came you by it, boy ?" Julia answered, 
 " Julia herself did give it me, and Julia herself hath 
 brought it hither." 
 
 Proteus, now looking earnestly upon her, plainly per- 
 ceived that the page Sebastian was no other than the 
 lady Julia herself: and the proof she had given of her 
 constancy and true love so wrought in him, that his 
 love for her returned into his heart, and he took again 
 his own dear lady, and joyfully resigned all pretensions 
 to the lady Silvia to Valentine, who had so well deserved 
 her. 
 
 Proteus and Valentine were expressing their happiness 
 in their reconciliation, and in the love of their faithful 
 ladies, when they were surprised with the sight of the 
 duke of Milan and Thurio, who came there in pursuit of 
 Silvia. 
 
 Thurio first approached, and attempted to seize Silvia, 
 saying, " Silvia is mine." Upon this Valentine said to 
 him in a very spirited manner, " Thurio, keep back : if 
 once again you say that Silvia is yours, you shall embrace 
 your death. Here she stands, take but possession of her 
 with a touch ! I dare you but to breathe upon my love." 
 Hearing this threat, Thurio, who was a great coward, 
 drew back, and said he cared not for her, and that none 
 but a fool would fight for a girl who lo ;ed him not. 
 
 The duke, who was a very brave man himself, said 
 now in great anger, " The more base and degenerate in 
 you to take such means for her as you have done, and 
 leave her on such slight conditions." Then turning to 
 Valentine, he said, " I do applaud your spirit, Valentine^ 
 and think you worthy of an empress's love. You shall 
 have Silvia, for you have well deserved her." Valentine 
 then with great humility kissed the duke's hand, and 
 accepted the noble present which he had made him of 
 his daughter with becoming thankfulness : taking occa- 
 sion of this joyful minute to entreat the good-humoured 
 duke to pardon the thieves with whom he had associated 
 in the forest, assuring him, that when reformed and 
 restored to society, there would be found among them 
 
 h3
 
 154 TALES TROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 many good, and fit for great employment ; for the most 
 of them had been banished, like Valentine, for state 
 offences, rather than for any black crimes they had been 
 guilty of. To this the ready duke consented : and now 
 nothing remained but that Proteus, the false friend, was 
 ordained, by way of penance for his love-prompted faults, 
 to be present at the recital of the whole story of his loves 
 and falsehoods before the duke ; and the shame of the 
 recital to his awakened conscience was judged sufficient 
 punishment ; which being done, the lovers, all four, re- 
 turned back to Milan, and their nuptials were solemnized 
 in the presence of the duke, with high triumphs and 
 feasting.* 
 
 a Extract IV.
 
 TWO GENTL,EMEN OF VERONA. 155 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 Act I. — Scene I.— Verona. 
 Enter Valentine and Pkoteus. 
 
 Val. Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus ; 
 Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits ; 
 Were 't not alFection 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 tliy 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 beadsman, Valentine. 
 
 Val. And on a love-book pray for my success ? 
 
 Pro. Upon some book I love, I '11 pray for thee. 
 
 Val. That 's on some shallow story of deep love, 
 How young Leander cross'd the Hellespont. 
 
 Pro. That 's a deep story of a deeper love ; 
 For he was more than over shoes in love. 
 
 Val. 'T is true ; for you are over boots in love, 
 And yet you never swom the Hellespont. 
 
 Pro. Over the boots ? nay, give me not the boots.a 
 
 » Nay, give me not the loots. It is concluded that the allusion is to 
 the instrument of torture called the boots.
 
 166 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 Val. No, I will 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 twentj' 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 '11 prove. 
 
 Pro. 'T is 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 f ^ol, 
 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. 
 
 Pro. And thither will I bring thee, Valentine. 
 
 Val. Sweet Proteus, no ; now let us take our leave. 
 To Milan let me hear from thee by letters. 
 Of thy success in love, and what news else 
 Betideth here in absence of thy friend ; 
 And I likewise will visit thee with mine. 
 
 Pro. All happiness bechance to thee in Milan ! 
 
 Val. As much to you at home I and so. farewell. 
 
 [Exit Valentine. 
 
 * However — in whatsoever way. 
 
 •> Circumstance. Proteus employs the word in the meaning of cir 
 attmstanttal deduction; — Valentine in tliat of pusitiux.
 
 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VEEONA, 157 
 
 II. 
 
 Act II. — Scene IIL — Tite same. A Street. 
 Enter Launce, leading a Dog. 
 
 Laun. Nay, 't will 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 
 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 '11 show you the manner of it : This shoe is my father ; — 
 no, this left shoe "^ is my father ; no, no, this left shoe is my 
 mother ; — nay, that cannot be so neither : — yes, it is so, it is 
 so ; it hath the worser sole. This shoe, with the hole in it, 
 is my mother, and this my father ; A vengeance on 't '. 
 there 't is : now, sir, this staff is my sister ; for, look you, 
 she is as white as a lily, and as small as a wand : this hat 
 is Nan, our maid ; I am the dog : — no, the dog is himself, 
 and I am the dog, — O, the dog is me, and I am myself; ay, 
 so, so. Now come I to my father ; " Father, your blessing ;" 
 now should not the shoe speak a word for weeping ; now 
 should I kiss my father ; well, he weeps on : — now come I 
 to my mother, (O, that she could speak now!) like a wood^ 
 woman;— well, I kiss her; — why, there 'tis; here's my 
 mother's breath up and down ; now come I to my sister ; 
 mark the moan she makes : now the dog all this while 
 sheds not a tear, nor speaks a word ; but see how I lay the 
 dust with my tears. 
 
 * This left slwe. A passage in • King John ' also shows that eacli foct 
 was formerly fitted with its shoe. 
 b IFood — mad, wild.
 
 15H TALES FROM SHAKSPEBE. 
 
 III. 
 
 Act IV.— Scene II. 
 
 Enter Host, and Jitlia in hoy's clothes, to a court of the 
 Palace, where Proteus and others are assembled. 
 
 Host. Now, my yonng gviest ! methinks you 're ally- 
 cholly ; I pray you, why is it ? 
 
 Jul. Marry, mine host, because I cannot be merry. 
 
 Host. Come, we '11 have you merry : I '11 bring you where 
 you shall hear music, and see the gentleman that you asked 
 for. 
 
 Jul. But shall I hear him speak ? 
 
 Host. Ay, that you shall. 
 
 Jul. That will be music. ^Music plays. 
 
 Host. Hark! hark! 
 
 Jxd. Is he among these ? 
 
 Host. Ay : but peace, let's hear 'em. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Who is Silvia ? what is she, 
 
 That all our swains commend her ? 
 Holy, fair, and wise is she, 
 
 The heaven such grace did lend her, 
 That she might admired he. 
 
 Is she kind as she is fair ? 
 
 For beauty lives with kindness : 
 Love doth to her eyes repair. 
 
 To help him of liis blindness; 
 And, being help'd, inhabits there. 
 
 Then to Silvia let us sing, 
 
 That Silvia is excelling; 
 She excels each mortal thing. 
 
 Upon the dull earth dwelling : 
 To her let us garlands bring. 
 
 Host. How now ? are you sadder than you were before ? 
 How do you, man ? the music likes* you not. 
 Jul. You mistake ; the musician likes me not. 
 Host. Why, my pretty youth ? 
 Jul. He plays false, father. 
 Host. How ? out of tune on the strings ? 
 
 * Lilies — pleases.
 
 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 159 
 
 Jul. Not so; but yet so false that he grieves my very 
 heartstrings. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Silvia appears above, at her window. 
 
 Pro. Madam, good even to your ladyship. 
 
 Sil. I thank you for your music, gentlemen : 
 Who is that, that spake ? 
 
 Pro. One, lady, if you knew his pure heart's truth, 
 You would quickly learn to know him by his voice. 
 
 Sil. Sir Proteus, as I take it. 
 
 Pro. Sir Proteus, gentle lady, and your servant. 
 
 •Sil. What 's 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 ! 
 Think'st thou, I am so shallow, so conceitless. 
 To be seduced by thy flattery. 
 That hast deceiv'd so many with thy vows ? 
 Eeturn, 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. 'T were false, if I should speak it ; 
 For I am sure she is not buried. ^ [^Adde. 
 
 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 importimacy ? 
 
 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 hers thence ; 
 Or, at the least, in hers sepulchre thine. 
 
 Jul. He heard not that \^Aside,
 
 160 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Act V. — Scene IV. — Valentine, Proteus, Silvla., and 
 Julia. 
 
 Vol. Thou common ft-iend, 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 wouldst disprove me, 
 Who should be trusted when one's own right hand 
 Is perjur'd to the bosom? Proteus, 
 I am sorry I must never trust thee more, 
 Ijut count the world a stranger for thy sake. 
 'Ilie private wound is deepest : O time most accurs'd ! 
 'Mongst all foes, that a friend should be the worst. 
 
 Pro. My shame, and guilt, confounds me. — 
 Forgive me, Valentine : if hearty sorrow 
 Be a sufficient ransom for offence, 
 I tender it here ; I do as truly suffer 
 As e'er I did commit. 
 
 Val. Then I am paid ; 
 
 And once agaiu 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. O me, unhappy ! \^Faints. 
 
 Pro. Look to the boy. 
 
 Val. Why, boy ! 
 
 Why, wag ! how now ? what *s the matter ? Look up ; 
 speak. 
 
 Jul. good sir, my master charged me to deliver a ring 
 to madam Silvia ; which, out of my neglect, was never 
 done. 
 
 Pro. Where is that ring, boy 1 
 
 Jul. Here 't is : this is it. [^Gives a ring. 
 
 Pro, How ! let me see : 
 Why, this is the ring I gave to Julia. 
 
 Jul. O, cry your mercy, sir, I have mistook ; 
 This is the ring you sent to Silvia. \ Shows another ring.
 
 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. IGl 
 
 Pro. But how earnest thou by this ring ? at my depart, I 
 gave this uuto 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 ? 
 
 Proteus, let this habit make thee blush I 
 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 ! 't is true ; O Heaven ! were* 
 man 
 But constant, he were perfect : that one error 
 Fills him with faults ; makes him run through all th' sins : 
 Inconstancy falls off ere it begins : 
 What is in Silvia's face, but I may spy 
 More fresh in Julia's with a constant eye ? 
 
 Val. Come, come, a hand from either : 
 Let me be bless'd to make this happy close ; 
 'T were pity two such friends should be long foes. 
 
 Pro. Bear witness, Heaven, I have my wish for ever. 
 
 Jul. And I mine. 
 
 Enter Outlaws, with Duke and Tetorio. 
 
 Out. A prize, a prize, a prize ! 
 
 Val. Forbear, forbear, I say ; it is my lord the duke. 
 Your grace is welcome to a man disgrac'd. 
 Banished Valentine. 
 
 Duke. Sir Valentine ! 
 
 Thu. Yonder is Silvia ; and Silvin, 's mine. 
 
 Val. Thurio, give back, or else embrace thy death; 
 Come not within the measure of my wrath : 
 Do not name Silvia thine ; if once again, 
 Milan shall not behold thee. Here she stands ; 
 Take but possession of her with a touch ; — 
 
 1 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 : 
 I claim her not, and therefore she is thine.
 
 162 TAI.ES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 Duhe. 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 gentleman, and well derived ; 
 Take thou thy Silvia, for thou hast deserv'd her. 
 
 Val. 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. 
 
 iJuhe. I grant it, for thine own, whatever it be. 
 
 Val. These banish'd men, that I have kept withal, 
 Are men endued with worthy qualities ; 
 Forgive them what they have committed here, 
 And let them be recall'd from their exile : 
 They are reformed, civil, full of good, 
 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 solemnit}^ 
 
 Val. And, as we Avalk along, I dare be bold 
 With our discourse to make your gTace 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 gi'ace than boy. 
 
 Duke. What mean you by that saying ? 
 
 Val. Please you, I '11 tell you as we pass along, 
 That you will wonder what hath fortuned. — 
 Come, Proteus ; 't is 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.
 
 s^ 
 
 THEIVIERCHAMT OF 
 
 VENICE
 
 ( 165 ) 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Shylock, the Jew, lived at Venice : he was an usurer, 
 who had amassed an immense fortune by lending money 
 at great interest to Christian merchants. Shylock, being 
 a hard-hearted man, exacted the payment of the money 
 he lent with such severity, that he was much disliked by 
 all good men, and particularly by Antonio, a young 
 merchant of Venice ; and Shylock as much hated Anto- 
 nio, because he used to lend money to people in distress, 
 and would never take any interest for the money he lent ; 
 therefore there was groat enmity between this covetous 
 Jew and the generous merchant Antonio. Whenever 
 Antonio met Shylock on the Rial to (or Exchange), he 
 used to reproach him with his usuries and hard dealings, 
 which the Jew would bear with seeming patience, while 
 he secretly meditated revenge. 
 
 Antonio was the kindest man that lived, the best con- 
 ditioned, and had the most unwearied spirit in doing 
 courtesies ; indeed he was one in whom the ancient Ro- 
 man honour more appeared than in any that drew breath 
 in Italy. He was greatly beloved by all his fellow-citi- 
 zens ; but the friend who was nearest and dearest to his 
 heart was Bassanio, a noble Venetian, who, having but a 
 small patrimony, had nearly exhausted his little fortune 
 by living in too expensive a manner for his slender means, 
 as young men of high rank with small fortunes are too 
 apt to do. Whenever Bassanio wanted money, Antonio 
 assisted him ; and it seemed as if they had but one heart 
 and one purse between them.
 
 166 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 One day Bassanio came to Antonio, and told liiui that 
 he wished to repau' his fortune by a wealthy marriage 
 with a lady whom he dearly loved, whose father, that 
 was lately dead, had left her sole heiress to a large 
 estate ; and that in her father's lifetime he used to visit 
 at her house, when he thought he had observed this lady 
 had sometimes from her eyes sent speechless messages, 
 that seemed to say he Mould be no unwelcome suitor ; 
 but not having money to furnish himself with an appear- 
 ance befitting the lover of so rich an heiress, he besought 
 Antonio to add to the many lav ours he had shown him, 
 by lending him three thousand ducats. 
 
 Antonio had no money by him at that time to lend his 
 friend ; but expecting soon to have some ships come home 
 laden with merchandise, he said he would go to Shylock, 
 the rich money-lender, and bon-ow the money upon the 
 credit of those ships. 
 
 Antonio and Bassanio went together to Shylock, and 
 Antonio asked the Jew to lend him three thousand ducats 
 upon an interest he should require, to be paid out of the 
 merchandise contained in his ships at sea. On this, Shy- 
 lock thought within himself, " If I can once catch him 
 on the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I beai* 
 him : he hates our Jewish nation ; he lends out money 
 gratis ; and among the merchants he rails at me and my 
 w^ell-eamed bargains, which he calls interest. Cursed 
 be my tribe if I forgive him !" Antonio finding he was 
 musing within himself and did not answer, and being im- 
 patient for the money, said, "Shylock, do you hear? 
 will you lend the money?" To this question the Jew 
 replied, " Signior Antonio, on the Rial to many a time 
 and often you have railed at me about my monies and 
 my usuries, and I have borne it with a patient shrug, for 
 sufferance is the badge of all our tribe ; and then you 
 have called me unbeliever, cut-throat dog, and spit upon 
 my Jewish garments, and spumed at me with your foot, 
 as if I was a cur. Well then, it now appears you need 
 my help ; and you come to me, and say, Shylock, lend 
 Tiie monies. Has a dog money ? Is it possible a cur 
 should lend thi'ee thousand ducats ? Shjdl I bend low 
 
 i
 
 MERCHANT OF VEXICE. 167 
 
 and say, Fair sir, you spit upon me on Wednesday last, 
 another time you called me dog, and for these courtesies 
 I am to lend you monies." Antonio replied, " I am as 
 like to call you so again, to spit on you again, and spurn 
 you too. If you will lend me this money, lend it not to 
 me as to a friend, but rather lend it to me as to an enemy, 
 that, if I break, you may with better face exact the pe- 
 nalty." — " Why, look you," said Shylock, " how you 
 storm ! I would be friends with you, and have your love. 
 1 will forget the shames you have put upon me. I will 
 supply your wants, and take no interest for my money." 
 This seemingly kind offer greatly surprised Antonio ; and 
 then Shylock, still pretending kindness, and that all he 
 did was to gain Antonio's love, again said he would 
 lend him the three thousand ducats, and take no interest 
 for his money ; only Antonio should go with him to a 
 lawyer, and there sign in merry sport a bond, that if he 
 did not repay the money by a certain day, he would for- 
 feit a pound of flesh, to be cut off from any part of his 
 body that Shylock pleased. 
 
 " Content," said Antonio : " I will sign to this bond, 
 and say there is much kindness in the Jew." 
 
 Bassanio said, Antonio should not sign to such a bond 
 for him ; but still Antonio insisted that he would sign it, 
 for that before the day of payment came, his ships would 
 return laden with many times the value of the money. 
 
 Shylock, hearing this debate, exclaimed, " O father 
 Abraham, what suspicious people these ChiTstians are ! 
 Their own hard dealings teach them to suspect the 
 thoughts of others. I pray you tell me this, Bassanio : ' 
 if he should break this day, what should I gain by the 
 exaction of the forfeiture? A pound of man's flesh, 
 taken from a man, is not so estimable, nor profitable nei- 
 ther, as the flesh of mutton or of beef. I say, to buy his 
 favour I offer this friendship : if he will take it, so ; if not, 
 adieu." 
 
 At last, against the advice of Bassanio, who, notwith- 
 standing all the Jew had said of his kind intentions, did 
 not like his friend should run the hazard of this shocking
 
 168 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 penalty for his sake, Antonio signed the bond, thinking 
 it really was (as the Jew said) merely in sport. 
 
 The rich heiress that Bassanio wished to marry lived 
 near Venice, at a place called Belmont : her name was 
 Portia, and in the graces of her person and her mind she 
 was nothing inferior to that Portia, of whom we read, 
 who was Cato's daughter, and the wife of Brutus. 
 
 Bassanio being so kindly supplied with money by his 
 friend Antonio, at the hazard of his life, set out for Bel- 
 mont with a splendid train, and attended by a gentleman 
 of the name of Gratiano. 
 
 Bassanio proving successful in his suit, Portia in a 
 short time consented to accept of him for a husband. 
 
 Bassanio confessed to Portia that he had no fortune, 
 and that his high birth and noble ancestry was all that 
 he could boast of; she, w^ho loved him for his worthy 
 qualities, and had riches enough not to regard wealth in 
 a husband, answered with a graceful modesty, that she 
 would wish herself a thousand times more fair, and ten 
 thousand times more rich, to be more worthy of him ; 
 and then the accomplished Portia prettily dispraised her- 
 self, and said she was an unlessoned girl, unschooled, un- 
 practised, yet not so old but that she could learn, and 
 that she would commit her gentle spirit to be directed 
 and governed by him in all things ; and she said, " My- 
 self and what is mine, to you and yours is now converted. 
 But yesterday, Bassanio, I was the lady of this fair man- 
 sion, queen of myself, and mistress over these servants ; 
 and now this house, these servants, and myself, are yours, 
 my lord ; I give them with this ring :" presenting a ring 
 to Bassanio. 
 
 Bassanio was so overpowered with gratitude and won- 
 der at the gracious manner in which the rich and noble 
 Portia accepted of a man of his humble fortunes, that he 
 could not express his joy and reverence to the dear lady 
 who so honoured him, by any thing but broken words of 
 love and thankfulness ; and taking the ring, he vowed 
 never to part with it. 
 
 Gratiano, and Nerissa, Portia's waiting-maid, were in
 
 MERCHANT Or VENICE. 1^ 
 
 attendance upon their lord and lady, when Portia so 
 gracefully promised to become the obedient wife of Bas- 
 sunio ; and Gratiano, wishing Bassanio and the generous 
 lady joy, desired permissioiji, to be married at the samv 
 time. f' 
 
 "■ With all my heart, Gratiano," said Bassanio, " if you 
 can get a wife." 
 
 Gratiano then said that he loved the lady Portia's fair 
 waiting gentlewoman, Nerissa, hnd that she had promised 
 to be his wife, if her lady married Bassanio. Portia 
 asked Nerissa if this was true. Nerissa replied, " Ma- 
 dam, it is so, if you approve of it." Portia willingly 
 consenting, Bassanio pleasantly said, " Then our Med- 
 ding-feast shall be much honoured by your maiTiage, 
 Gratiano." 
 
 The happiness of these lovers was sadly cj'ossed at this 
 moment by the entrance of a messenger, who brought a 
 letter from Antonio containing fearful tidings. When 
 Bassanio read Antonio's letter, Portia feared it was to 
 teil him of the death of some dear friend, he looked so 
 pale ; and inquiring what w^as the news which had so dis- 
 tressed him, he said, " O sweet Portia, here are a few 
 of the unpleasantest words that ever blotted paper : gentle 
 lady, when I first imparted my love to you, I freely told 
 vou all the wealth 1 had ran in my veins ; but I should 
 na^e told you that I had less than nothing, being in 
 debt." Bassanio then told Portia what has been here 
 related, of his bon-owing the money of Antonio, and^ of 
 Antonio's procuring it of Shylock the Jew, and of "the 
 bond by which Antonio had engaged to forfeit a pound 
 of flesh, if it was not repaid by a certain day : and then 
 Bassanio read Antonio's letter ; the words of which were, 
 " Sweet Bassanio, my ships are all lost, my bond to the 
 Jew is forfeited, and since in paying it is impossible 1 
 should live, I could wish to see you at my death ; not- 
 withstanding, use your pleasure ; if your love for me do 
 not persuade you to come, let not my letter" " O my 
 dear love," said Portia, " despatch all business, and bo 
 gone ; you shall have gold to pay the money twenty times 
 over, before this kind friend shall lose a hair by my Bas- 
 
 VOi. I, I
 
 170 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 sanio's fault ; and as you are so dearly bought, I will 
 dearly love you." Portia then said she would be married 
 to Bassanio before he set out, to give him a legal right to 
 her money ; and that same day they were married, and 
 Gratiano was also married to Nerissa ; and Bassanio and 
 Gratiano, the instant they were married, set out in great 
 haste for Venice, where Bassanio found Antonio in 
 prison. 
 
 The day of payment being past, the cruel Jew would 
 not accept of the money which Bassanio offered him, but 
 insisted upon having a pound of Antonio's flesh. A day 
 was appointed to try this shocking cause before the duke 
 of Venice, and Bassanio awaited in dreadful suspense the 
 event of the trial. 
 
 When Portia parted with her husband, she spoke 
 cheeringly to him, and bade him bring his dear friend 
 along with him when he returned ; yet she feared it 
 would go hard with Antonio, and when she was left 
 alone, she began to think and consider within herself, if 
 she could by any means be instrumental in saving the 
 life of her dear Bassanio's friend ; and notwithstanding, 
 when she wished to honour her Bassanio, she had said to 
 him with such a meek and wife-like grace, that she 
 would submit in all things to be governed by his superior 
 wisdom, yet being now called forth into action by the 
 peril of her honoured husband's friend, she did nothing 
 doubt her own powers, and by the sole guidance of her 
 own true and perfect judgment, at once resolved to go 
 herself to Venice, and speak in Antonio's defence. 
 
 Portia had a relation who was a counsellor in the law ; 
 to this gentleman, whose name was Bellario, she wrote, 
 and stating the case to him, desired his opinion, and that 
 with his advice he would also send her the dress worn 
 by a counsellor. When the messenger returned, he 
 brought letters from Bellario of advice how to proceed, 
 and also every thing necessary for her equipment. 
 
 Portia dressed herself and her maid Nerissa in men's 
 apparel, and putting on the robes of a counsellor, she 
 took Nerissa along with her as her clerk ; and setting out 
 immediately, they arrived at Venice on the very day of
 
 MERCHANT OF VENICE. 171 
 
 the trial. The cause was just going to be heard before 
 the duke and senators of Venice in the senate-house, 
 when Portia entered this high court of justice, and pre- 
 sented a letter from Bellario, in which that learned coun- 
 sellor wrote to the duke, saying, he would have come 
 himself to plead for Antonio, but that he was prevented 
 by sickness, and he requested that the learned young 
 doctor Balthasar (so he called Portia) might be per- 
 mitted to plead in his stead. This the duke granted, 
 much wondering at the youthful appearance of the stran- 
 ger, who was prettily disguised by her counsellor's robes 
 and her large wig. 
 
 And now began this important trial. Portia looked 
 around her, and she saw the merciless Jew ; and she saw 
 Bassanio, but he knew her not in her disguise. He was 
 standing beside Antonio, in an agony of distress and fear 
 for his friend. 
 
 The importance of the arduous task Portia had en- 
 gaged in gave this tender lady courage, and she boldly 
 proceeded in the duty slie had undertaken to perforai ; 
 and first of all she addressed herself to Shylock ; and 
 allowing that he had a right by the Venetian law to 
 have the forfeit expressed in the bond, she spoke so 
 sweetly of the noble quality of mercy ^ as would have 
 softened any heart but the unfeeling Shylock's ; saying, 
 that it dropped as the gentle rain from heaven upon the 
 place beneath ; and how mercy was a double blessing, it 
 blessed him that gave, and him that received it ; and how 
 it became monarchs better than their crowns, being an 
 attribute of God himself ; and that earthly power came 
 nearest to God's, in proportion as mercy tempered justice ; 
 and she bid Shylock remember that as we all pray for 
 mercy, that same prayer should teach us to show mercy. 
 Shylock only answered her by desiring to have the pe- 
 nalty forfeited in the bond. " Is he not able to pay the 
 money ?" asked Portia. Bassanio then offered the Jew 
 the payment of the three thousand ducats as many times 
 over as he should desire ; which Shylock refusing, and 
 still insisting upon having a pound of Antonio's flesh, 
 Bassanio begged the learned voung counsellor would en- 
 
 i2
 
 1V2 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 deavour to wrest the law a little, to save Antonio's life. 
 But Portia gravely answered, that laws once established 
 must never be altered. Shylock hearing Portia say that 
 the law might not be altered, it seemed to him that she 
 was pleading in his favour, and he said, " A Daniel 
 is come to judgment ! O wise young judge, how I do 
 honour you ! How much elder are you than your looks !" 
 
 Portia now desired Shylock to let her look at the 
 bond ; and when she had read it, she said, '' This bond 
 is forfeited, and by this the Jew may lawfully claim a 
 pound of flesh, to be by him cut off nearest Antonio's 
 heart." Then she said to Shylock, " Be merciful : take 
 the money, and bid me tear the bond." But no mercy 
 would the cruel Shylock show; and he said, " By my 
 soul I swear, there is no power in the tongue of man to 
 alter me." — *' Why then, Antonio," said Portia, " you 
 must prepare your bosom for the knife :" and while Shy- 
 lock was sharpening a long knife with great eagerness to 
 cut off the pound of flesh, Portia said to Antonio, " Have 
 you any thing to say '?" Antonio with a calm resigna- 
 tion replied, that he had but little to say, for that he had 
 prepared his mind for death. Then he said to Bassanio, 
 " Give me your hand, Bassanio ! Fare you well ! Grieve 
 not that I am fallen into this misfortune for you. Com- 
 mend me to your honourable wife, and tell her how I 
 have loved you !" Bassanio in the deepest afiiiction re- 
 plied, *' Antonio, I am married to a wife, who is as dear 
 to me as life itself; but life itself, my w^ife and all the 
 world, are not esteemed with me above your life : I 
 would lose ail, I would sacrifice all to this devil here, to 
 deliver you." 
 
 Portia hearing this, though the kind-hearted lady was 
 not at all offended with her husband for expressing the 
 love he owed to so true a friend as Antonio in these 
 strong terms, yet could not help answering, " Your wife 
 would give you little thanks, if she were present, to hear 
 you make this offer." And then Gratiano, who loved to 
 copy what his lord did, thought he must make a speech 
 like Bassanio's, and he said, in Nerissa's hearing, who 
 was writing in her clerk's dress by the side of Portia, " I
 
 MERCHANT OF VENICE. 173 
 
 have a wife, whom I protest I love ; I wish she were in 
 heaven, if she could but entreat some power there to 
 change the cruel temper of this currish Jew." " It is 
 well you wish this behind her back, else you would have 
 but an unquiet house," said Nerissa. 
 
 Shylock now cried out impatiently, " We trifle time; 
 I ])ray pronounce the sentence." And now all was 
 awful expectation in the court, and every heart was full 
 of grief for Antonio. 
 
 Fortia asked if the scales were ready to weigh the 
 flesh ; and she said to the Jew, " Shylock, you must have 
 some surgeon by, lest he bleed to death." Shylock, 
 whose whole intent was that Antonio should bleed to 
 death, said, "It is not so named in the bond." Portia 
 replied, "It is not so named in the bond, but what of 
 that ? It were good you did so much for charity." To 
 this all the answer Shylock would make, was, " I cannot 
 find it; it is not in the bond." "Then," said Portia, 
 "a ])ound of Antonio's flesh is thine. The law allows 
 it, and the court awards it. And you may cut this flesh 
 from off his breast. The law allows it, and the court 
 awards it." Again Shylock exclaimed, " O wise and 
 upright judge ! A Daniel is come to judgment !" And 
 then he sharpened his long knife again, and looking 
 eagerl}^ on Antonio, he said, " Come, prepare!" 
 
 " Tarry a little, Jew," said Portia ; " there is some- 
 thing else. This bond here gives you no drop of blood ; 
 the words expressly are, ' a pound of flesh.' If in the 
 cutting off the pound of flesh you shed one drop of 
 Christian blood, your lands and goods are by the law to 
 be confiscated to the state of Venice." Now as it was 
 utterly impossible for Shylock to cut off the pound of 
 flesh without shedding some of Antonio's blood, this wise 
 discovery of Portia's, that it was flesh and not blood that 
 was named in the bond, saved the life of Antonio ; and 
 all admiring the wonderful sagacity of the young coun- 
 sellor, who had so happily thought of this expedient, 
 plaudits resounded from every part of the senate-house ; 
 and Gratiano exclaimed, in the words which Shvlock
 
 174 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 had used, "O wise and upright judge I mark, Jew, a 
 Daniel is come to judgment !" 
 
 Shylock, finding himself defeated in his cruel intent, 
 said with a disappointed look, that he would take the 
 money ; and Bassanio, rejoiced beyond measure at Anto- 
 nio's unexpected deliverance, cried out, " Here is the 
 money!" But Portia stopped him, saying, "Softly; 
 there is no haste ; the Jew shall have nothing but the pe- 
 nalty : therefore prepare, Shylock, to cut off the flesh ; 
 but mind you shed no blood ; nor do not cut off more nor 
 less than just a pound ; be it more or less by one poor 
 scruple, nay if the scale turn but by the weight of a single 
 hair, you are condemned by the laws of Venice to die, 
 and all your wealth is forfeited to the senate." " Give 
 me my money, and let me go," said Shylock. " I have 
 it ready," said Bassanio : " here it is." 
 
 Shylock was going to take the money, when Portia 
 again stopped him, saying, "Tarry, Jew; I have yet 
 another hold upon you. By the laws of Venice, your 
 wealth is forfeited to the state, for having conspired 
 against the life of one of its citizens, and your life lies at 
 the mercy of the duke ; therefore down on your knees, 
 and ask him to pardon you." 
 
 The duke then said to Shylock, " That you may see 
 the difference of our Christian spirit, I pardon you your 
 life before you ask it ; half your wealth belongs to Anto- 
 nio, the other half comes to the state." 
 
 The generous Antonio then said, that he would give 
 up his share of Shy lock's wealth, if Shylock would sign 
 a deed to make it over at his death to his daughter and 
 her husband ; for Antonio knew that the Jew had an 
 only daughter, who had lately married against his con- 
 sent to a young Christian, named Lorenzo, a friend of 
 Antonio's, which had so offended Shylock, that he liad 
 disinherited her. 
 
 The Jew agreed to this : and being thus disappointed 
 in his revenge, and despoiled of his riches, he said, " I 
 am ill. Let me go home ; send the deed after me, and 
 I will sign over half my riches to my daughter." —
 
 MERCHANT OF VENICE. 175 
 
 '' Get thee gone then," said the duke, *' and sign it; 
 and if you repent your cruelty and turn Christian, the 
 state will forgive you the fine of the otlier half of your 
 riches."* 
 
 The duke now released Antonio, and dismissed the 
 court. He then highly praised the wisdom and inge- 
 nuity of the young counsellor, and invited him home to 
 dinner. Portia, who meant to return to Belmont before 
 her husband, replied, *' I humbly thank your grace, but 
 I must away directly." The duke said he was sorry he 
 had not leisure to stay and dine with him ; and turning 
 to Antonio, he added, " Reward this gentleman ; for hi 
 my mind you are much indebted to him." 
 
 The duke and his senators left the court ; and then 
 Bassanio said to Portia, " Most worthy gentleman, I 
 and my friend Antonio have by your wisdom been this 
 day acquitted of grievous penalties, and I beg you will 
 accept of the three thousand ducats due unto the Jew." 
 " And we shall stand indebted to you over and above," 
 said Antonio, " in love and service evermore." 
 
 Portia could not be prevailed upon to accept the 
 money ; but upon Bassanio still pressing her to accept of 
 some reward, she said, " Give me your gloves ; I will 
 wear them for your sake :" and then Bassanio taking off 
 his gloves, she espied the ring which she had given him 
 upon his finger : now it was the ring the wily lady 
 wanted to get from him to make a merry jest when she 
 saw her Bassanio again, that made her ask him for his 
 gloves ; and she said, when she saw the ring, " And for 
 your love I will take this ring from you." Bassanio was 
 sadly distressed, that the counsellor should ask him for 
 the only thing he could not part with, and he replied in 
 great confusion, that he could not give him that ring, 
 because it Mas his wife's gift, and he had vowed never to 
 part with it : but that he would give him the most va- 
 luable ring in Venice, and find it out by proclamation. 
 On this Portia affected to be affronted, and left the 
 court, saying, " You teach me, sir, how a beggar should 
 be answered." 
 
 ' Extract I.
 
 176 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 *' Dear Bassanio," said Antonio, " let him have the 
 ring ; let my love and the great service he has done for 
 me be valued against your wife's displeasure." Bassanio, 
 ashamed to appear so ungrateful, yielded, and sent Gra- 
 tiano after Portia with the ring ; and then the clerk Ne- 
 rissa, who had also given Gratiano a ring, she begged 
 his ring, and Gratiano (not choosing to be outdone in 
 generosity by his lord) gave it to her. And there was 
 laughing among these ladies to think, when they got 
 home, how they would tax their husbands with giving 
 away their rings, and swear that they had given them as a 
 present to some woman. 
 
 Portia, when she returned, was in that happy temper 
 of mind which never fails to attend the consciousness of 
 having performed a good action ; her cheerful spirits en- 
 joyed every thing she saw : the moon never seemed to 
 shine so bright before ; and M'hen that pleasant moon 
 was hid behind a cloud, then a light which she saw fiom 
 her house at Belmont as well pleased her charmed fancy, 
 and she said to Nerissa, " That light we see is burning 
 in my hall ; how far that little candle throws its beams ! 
 so shines a good deed in a naughty world :" and hearing 
 the sound of music from her house, she said, " Methinks 
 that music sounds much sweeter than by day.'"^ 
 
 And now Portia and Nerissa entered the house, and 
 dressing themselves in their own apparel, they awaited 
 the arrival of their husbands, who soon followed them 
 with Antonio ; and Bassanio presenting his dear friend 
 to the lady Portia, the congratulations and welcomings 
 of that lady were hardly over, when they perceived Ne- 
 rissa and her husband quarrelling in a corner of the room. 
 "A quarrel already V" said Portia. "What is the 
 matter?" Gratiano replied, " Lady, it is about a paltry 
 gilt ring that Nerissa gave me, with words upon it like 
 the poetry on a cutler's knife : Love me, and leave me 
 not." 
 
 ^ Shakspere makes Portia return home at the time when Lorenzo 
 and Jessica (the Jew's daughter), whom she had welcomed to her house, 
 were seated in the garden, looking at the beautiful sky. It is one of 
 the prettiest scenes in Shakspere. Extract II. — Ed.
 
 MERCHANT OF VENICE. 177 
 
 " What does the poetry or the value of the ring- sig- 
 nify ?" said Nerissa. " You swore to me, when I gave 
 it to you, that you would keep it till the hour of death ; 
 and now you say you gave it to the lawyer's clerk, I 
 know you gave it to a woman." — " By this hand," re- 
 plied Gratiano, " I gave it to a youth, a kind of boy, a 
 little scrubbed boy, no higher than yourself; he was 
 clerk to the young counsellor, that by his wise pleading 
 saved Antonio's life : this prating boy begged it for a fee, 
 and I could not for my life deny him," Portia said, 
 " You were to blame, Gratiano, to part with your wife's 
 first gift. I gave my lord Bassanio a ring, and I am 
 sm-e he would not part with it for all the world." Gra- 
 tiano, in excuse for his fault, now said, " My lord Bassa- 
 nio gave his ring away to the counsellor, and then the 
 boy, his clerk, that took some pains in writing, he begged 
 my ring." 
 
 Portia, hearing this, seemed very angry, and re*- 
 preached Bassanio for giving away her ring ; and she 
 said, Nerissa had taught her what to believe, and that 
 she knew some woman had the ring. Bassanio was very 
 unhappy to have so offended his dear lady, and he said 
 with great earnestness, " No, by my honour, no woman 
 had it, but a civil doctor, who refused three thousand 
 ducats of me, and begged the ring, which when I denied 
 him, he went displeased away. What could I do, sweet 
 Portia ? I was so beset with shame for my seeming in 
 gratitude, that I was forced to send the ring after him. 
 Pardon me, good lady ; had you been there, I think yon 
 would have begged the ring of me to give the worthy 
 doctor." 
 
 " Ah!" said Antonio, " I am the unhappy cause of 
 these quarrels." 
 
 Portia bid Antonio not to grieve at that, for that he 
 was welcome notwithstanding ; and then Antonio said, 
 " I once did lend my body for Bassanio's sake ; and but 
 for him to whom your husband gave the ring, I should 
 have now been dead. I dare be bound again, my soul 
 upon the forfeit, your lord will never more break his 
 faith with you." — " Then you shall be his surety," said 
 
 I 3
 
 178 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 Portia; '' give him this ring, and bid him keep it better 
 than the other." 
 
 When Bassanio looked at this ring, he "^as strangely 
 surprised to find it was the same he gave away ; and 
 then Portia told him, how she was the young counsellor, 
 and Nerissa was her clerk ; and Bassanio found, to his 
 unspeakable wonder and delight, that it was by the noble 
 courage and wisdom of his wife that Antonio's life was 
 saved. 
 
 And Portia again welcomed Antonio, and gave him 
 letters which by some chance had fallen into her hands, 
 which contained an account of Antonio's ships, that were 
 supposed lost, being safely arrived in the harbour. So 
 these tragical beginnings of this rich merchant's story 
 were all forgotten in the unexpected good fortune which 
 ensued ; and there was leisure to laugh at the comical ad- 
 venture of the rings, and the husbands that did not know 
 their own wives : Gratiano merrily swearing, in a sort of 
 rhyming speech, that 
 
 while he lived, he 'd fear no other thing 
 
 So sore, as keeping safe Nerissa's ring.
 
 MERCHANT OF VENICE. 179 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Act IV. — Scene I. — Venice. A Court of Justice. 
 
 Tlie Duias, the Magnificoes ; Antonio, Bassanio, Gratiano, 
 Salarino, Solanio, and others. 
 
 Enter Portia, dressed like a doctor of laws. 
 
 Duke. Give me your hand : Came you from old Bellario ? 
 
 For. I did, my lord. 
 
 Duke. You are welcome : take your place. 
 
 Are you acquainted with the difference 
 That holds this present question in the court ? 
 
 Por. I am informed throughly of the cause. 
 Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew ? 
 
 Duke. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth. 
 
 Por. Is your name Shylock ? 
 
 Shi/. Shylock is my name. 
 
 Por. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow ; 
 Yet in such rule that the Venetian law 
 Cannot impugn you, as you do proceed. — 
 You stand within his danger,* do you not ? [ 7y Ant. 
 
 Ant. Ay, so he says. 
 
 Por. Do you confess the bond ? 
 
 Ant. I do. 
 
 Por. Then must the Jew be merciful. 
 
 Sht/. On what compulsion must I ? tell me that. 
 
 Por. The quality of mercy is not strain'd ; 
 It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven 
 Upon the place beneath : it is twice bless'd ; 
 It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes 
 'T is mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes 
 
 " Dr. Jamieson says, — " In his davmger, under Ms dnwvger, in his 
 power as a captive.'' The old French danger frequently occurs as sig- 
 niiying power , dominion.
 
 180 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 The throned monarch better than his crown ; 
 
 His sceptre shows tlie force of temporal power, 
 
 The attribute to awe and majesty, 
 
 Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings : 
 
 But mercy is above this sceptred sway, 
 
 It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, 
 
 It is an attribute to God himself; 
 
 And earthly power doth then show likest God's 
 
 When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 
 
 Though justice be thy plea, consider this — 
 
 That in the course of justice, none of us 
 
 Should see salvation : we do pray for mercy ; 
 
 And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 
 
 The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much, 
 
 To mitigate the justice of thy plea ; 
 
 Which Tf thou follow, this strict court of Venice 
 
 Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there. 
 
 Shr/. INIy deeds upon my head ! I crave the law, 
 The penalty and forfeit of my bond. 
 
 For. Is he not able to discharge the money ? 
 
 Bass. Yes, here I tender it for him in the court ; 
 Yea, twice the sum : if that will not suffice, 
 I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er. 
 On forfeit of my hands, m j head, my heart : 
 If this will not suffice, it must appear 
 That malice bears down truth.'^ And I beseech you, 
 Wrest once the law to your authority : 
 To do a great right do a little wrong ; 
 And curb this cruel devil of his will. 
 
 For. It must not be ; there is no power in Venice 
 Can alter a decree established : 
 'T will be recorded for a precedent ; 
 And many an error, by the same example, 
 Will rush into the state : it cannot be. 
 
 Shi/. A Daniel come to judgment ! yea. a Daniel I 
 O wise young judge, how do I honour thee ! 
 
 For. I pray you, let me look upon the bond. 
 
 Shi/. Here 't is, most reverend doctor, here it is. 
 
 For. Shylock, there 's thrice thy money offer'd thee. 
 
 Shy. An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven : 
 Shall I lay perjury upon my soul ? 
 No, not for Venice. 
 
 For. Why, this bond is forfeit ; 
 
 » Truth is here used in the sense of honestv.
 
 MERCHANT OF VENICE. 181 
 
 And lawfully by this the Jew may claim 
 A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off 
 Nearest the merchant's heart : — Be merciful ; 
 Take thrice thy money ; bid me tear the bond. 
 
 Sill/. When it is paid according to the tenor. 
 It doth appear you are a worthy judge ; 
 You know the law, your exposition 
 Hath been most sound : I charge you by the law, 
 Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar, 
 Proceed to ju.dgment : by my soul I swear, 
 There is no power in the tongue of man 
 To alter me : I stay here on ray bond. 
 
 Ant. Most heartily I do beseech the court 
 To give the judgment. 
 
 Par. Why, then, thus it is : 
 
 You must prepare your bosom for his knife. 
 
 Shy. O noble judge ! O excellent young man ! 
 
 For. For the intent and purpose of the law 
 Hath fixll relation to the penalty, 
 Which here appeareth due upon the bond. 
 
 Shy. 'T is very true ; O wise and upright judge ! 
 How much more elder art thou than thy looks ! 
 
 Por. Therefore, lay bare your bosom. 
 
 Shy. Ay, his breast : 
 
 So says the bond ; — Doth it not, noble judge ? 
 Nearest his heart, those are the very words, 
 
 Por. It is so. Are there balance here to weigh the flesh ? 
 
 Shy. I have them ready, 
 
 Por. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge, 
 To stop his wounds, lest he should bleed to death. 
 
 Shy. Is it so nominated in the bond ? 
 
 Por. It is not so express' d ; but what of that? 
 'T were good you do so much for charity. 
 
 Shy. I cannot find it ; 't is not in the bond, 
 
 Por. Come, merchant, have you anything to say ? 
 
 Ant. But little ; I am arm'd, and well prepar'd, — 
 Give me your hand, Bassanio ; fare you well ! 
 Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you ; 
 For herein Fortune shows herself more kind 
 Than is her custom : it is still her use. 
 To let the wretched man outlive his wealth. 
 To view with hollow eye, and wrinkled brow. 
 An age of poverty ; from which lingering penance 
 Of such misery doth she cut me off.
 
 182 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 Commend me to your honourable wife : 
 Tell her the process of Antonio's end, 
 Say, how I lov'd you, speak me fair in death ; 
 And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge 
 Whether Bassanio had not once a love. 
 Repent not you that you shall lose your friend. 
 And he repents not that he pays your debt ; 
 For, if the Jew do cut but deep enouojh, 
 1 '11 pay it instantly with all my heart. 
 
 Bass. Antonio, I am married to a wife, 
 Which is as dear to me as life itself; 
 But life itself, my wife and all the world. 
 Are not with me esteem'd above thy life ; 
 I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all 
 Here to this devil, to deliver you. 
 
 Por. Your wife would give you little thanks for that, 
 If she were by, to hear you make the offer; 
 
 Gra. I have a wife, whom I protest I love ;" 
 I would she were in heaven, so she could 
 Entreat some power to change this currish Jew. 
 
 Ner. 'T is well you offer it behind her back ; 
 The wish would make else an unquiet house. 
 
 Shy. These be the Christian husbands : I have a daughter; 
 Would any of the stock of Barrabas 
 
 Had been her husband, rather than a Christian ! {^Aside. 
 We trifle time ; I pray thee pursue sentence. 
 
 Por. A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine ; 
 The court awards it, and the law doth give it. 
 
 Shy. Most rightful judge ! 
 
 Por. And you must cut this flesh from off his breast ; 
 The law allows it, and the court awards it. 
 
 Shy. Most learned judge ! — A sentence : come, prepare 
 
 Por. Tarry a little ; — there is something else. — 
 This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood ; 
 The words expressly are a pound of flesh : 
 Then take thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh ; 
 But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed 
 One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods 
 Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate 
 Unto the state of Venice. 
 
 Gra. O upright judge !— Mark, Jew ! — learned judcc ! 
 
 Shy. Is that the law ? 
 
 For. Thvself shall see the act :
 
 MERCHANT OF VENICE. 183 
 
 For, as thou urgest justice, be assur'd 
 
 Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest. 
 
 Gra. O learned judge ! — Mark, Jew ! — a learned judge ! 
 
 Shy. I take this oflfer then, — pay the bond thrice, 
 And let the Christian go. 
 
 Bass. Here is the money. 
 
 For. Soft. 
 The Jew shall have all justice ; — soft ; — no haste ; — 
 He shall have nothing but the penalty. 
 
 Gra. O Jew ! an upright judge, a learned judge ! 
 
 For. Therefore, prepare thee to cut off the flesh. 
 Shed thou no blood ; nor cut thou less, nor more, 
 But just a pound of flesh : if thou tak'st more. 
 Or less, than a just pound, — be it but so much 
 As makes it light, or heavy, in the substance, 
 Or the division of the twentieth part 
 Of one poor scruple, — nay, if the scale do turn 
 But in the estimation of a hair, — 
 Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate. 
 
 Gra. A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew ! 
 Now, infidel, I have thee on the hip. 
 
 For. Why doth the Jew pause ? take thy forfeiture. 
 
 Shij. Give me my principal, and let me go. 
 
 Bass. I have it ready for thee ; here it is. 
 
 For. He hath refus'd it in the open court ; 
 He shall have merely justice, and his bond. 
 
 Gra. A Daniel, still say I ; a second Daniel ! — 
 I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word. 
 
 Shy. Shall I not have barely my principal ? 
 
 For, Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture. 
 To be so taken at thy peril, Jew. 
 
 8hy. Why, then the devil give him good of it ! 
 I '11 stay no longer question. 
 
 For. Tarry, Jew ; 
 
 The law hath yet another hold on you. 
 It is enacted in the laws of Venice, — 
 If it be proVd against an alien, 
 That by direct or indirect attempts 
 He seek the life of any citizen, 
 The party 'gainst the which he doth contrive 
 Shall seize one half his goods ; the other half 
 Comes to the privy coffer of the state ; 
 And the offender's life lies in the mercy 
 Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice. 
 In which predicament, I say, thou stand'st:
 
 184 TAI^S FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 For it appears by manifest proceeding, 
 That, indirectly, and directly too, 
 Thou hast contriv'd against the very life 
 Of the defendant ; and thou hast incurr'd 
 The danger formerly by me rehcars'd. 
 Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the duke. 
 
 Gra. Beg that thou mayst have leave to hang thyself: 
 And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state. 
 Thou hast not left the value of a cord ; 
 Therefore, thou must be hang'd at the state's charge. 
 
 Duke. That thou shalt see the difference of our spirit, 
 I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it: 
 For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's ; 
 The other half comes to the general state, 
 Which humbleness may drive unto a fine. 
 
 For. Ay, for the state ; not for Antonio. 
 
 Shy. Nay, take my life and all, pardon not that : 
 You take my house, when you do take the prop 
 That doth sustain my house ; you take my life. 
 When you do take the means whereby I live. 
 
 For. What mercy can you render him, Antonio ? 
 
 Gra. A halter gratis ; nothing else, for God's sake. 
 
 Ant. So please my lord the duke, and all the court. 
 To quit the fine for one half of his goods 
 I am content, so he will let me have 
 The other half in use,* to render it, 
 Upon his death, unto the gentleman 
 That lately stole his daughter ; 
 Two things provided more, — That for this favour. 
 He presently become a Christian ; 
 The other, that he do record a gift. 
 Here in the court, of all he dies possess'd. 
 Unto his son Lorenzo and his daughter. 
 
 Duke. He shall do this ; or else I do recant 
 The pardon that I late pronounced here. 
 
 For. Art thou contented, Jew ; what dost thou say ? 
 
 Shy. I am content. 
 
 For. Clerk, draw a deed of gift. 
 
 Shy. I pray you give me leave to go from hence : 
 I am not well ; send the deed after me, 
 And I will sign it. 
 
 Duke. Get thee gone, but do it. 
 
 » In use— lent on interest.
 
 MERCHANT or VEKICE. 1S5 
 
 II. 
 
 Act V. — Scene I. — Belmont. Avenue to Portia's House, 
 Enter Lorenzo and Jessica. 
 
 Lor. The moon shines bright : — In such a night as this, 
 When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees, 
 And they did make no noise, — in such a night, 
 Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls, 
 And sigh'd his soul toward the Grecian tents. 
 Where Cressid lay that night. 
 
 Jes. In such a night, 
 
 Did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew ; 
 And saw the lion's shadow ere himself, 
 And ran dismay'd away. 
 
 Z,or. In such a night, 
 
 Stood Dido with a willow in her hand 
 Upon the wild sea-banks, and waft her love 
 To come again to Carthage. 
 
 Jes. In such a night, 
 
 Medea gather'd the enchanted herbs 
 That did renew old ^Eson. 
 
 Lor. In such a night, 
 
 Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew ; 
 And with an unthrift love did run from Venice, 
 As far as Belmont. 
 
 Jes. In such a night. 
 
 Did young Lorenzo swear he lov'd her well ; 
 Stealing her soul with many vows of faith 
 And ne'er a true one. 
 
 Lor. In such a night, 
 
 Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew, 
 Slander her love, and he forgave it her. 
 
 Jes. I would out-night you, did no body come : 
 But, hark, I hear the footing of a man. 
 
 Enter Stephano. 
 
 Lor. Who comes so fast in silence of the night ? 
 
 Steph. A friend. 
 
 Lor. A friend? what friend? your name, I pray yon, 
 friend. 
 
 Steph. Stephano is my name; and I bring word, 
 My mistress will before the break of day 
 Be here at Belmont ; she doth stray about
 
 186 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 By holy crosses, where she kneels and prays 
 For happy -vredlock hours. 
 
 Lor. Who comes ■with her ? 
 
 Steph. None, but a holy hermit, and her maid. 
 T pray you, is my master yet return'd ? 
 
 Lor. He is not, nor we have not heard from him. — 
 But go we in, I pray thee, Jessica, 
 And ceremoniously let us prepare 
 Some welcome for the mistress of the house. 
 Enter Launcelot (a Servant). 
 
 Laun. Sola, sola, wo ha, ho, sola, sola! 
 
 Lor. Who calls ? 
 
 Laun. Sola ! Did you see master Lorenzo, and mistress 
 Lorenzo ? sola, sola ! 
 
 Lor. Leave hollaing, man ; here. 
 
 Laun. Sola! Where? where? 
 
 Lor. Here. 
 
 Laun. Tell him there 's a post come from my master, 
 with his horn fiill of good news ; my master will be here 
 ere morning. [Exit. 
 
 Lor. Sweet soul, let 's in, and there expect their coming. 
 And yet no matter ; — Why should we go in ? 
 My friend Stephano, signify, I pray you, 
 Within the house, your mistress is at hand : 
 And bring your music forth into the air, [Exit Steph. 
 
 How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank ! 
 Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music 
 Creep in our ears ; soft stillness, and the night. 
 Become the touches of sweet harmony. 
 Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven 
 Is thick inlaid with patines ^ of bright gold. 
 There 's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st 
 But in his motion like an angel sings, 
 Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins : 
 Such harmony is in immortal souls ; 
 But whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
 Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. — 
 
 Enter Musicians. 
 Come, ho, and wake Diana with a hymn ; 
 With sweetest touches pierce your mistress ear, 
 And draw her home with music. 
 
 * Patines. A patine is the small flat disli or plate used in the service 
 of the altar.
 
 MERCHANT OF VENICE. IS/ 
 
 Jes. I am never merry -when I hear sweet music. 
 
 [Music. 
 
 Lor. The reason is your spirits are attentive : 
 For do but note a wild and wanton herd, 
 Or race of youthful and unhandled colts, 
 Fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing loud, 
 Which is the hot condition of their blood ; 
 If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound, 
 Or any air of music touch their ears. 
 You shall perceive them make a mutual stand. 
 Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze. 
 By the sweet power of music : Therefore, the poet 
 Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods ,• 
 Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage. 
 But music for the time doth change his nature ; 
 The man that hath no music in himself, 
 Nor is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds. 
 Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ; 
 The motions of his spirit are dull as night. 
 And his aifections dark as Erebus : 
 Let no such man be trusted. — Mark the music. 
 
 Enter Portia and Nerissa at a distance. 
 
 Pot. That light we see is burning in my hall. 
 How far that little candle throws his beams ! 
 So shines a good deed in a naughty world. 
 
 Ner. When the moon shone we did not see the candle. 
 
 For. So doth the greater glory dim the less : 
 A substitute shines brightly as a king. 
 Until a king be by ; and then his state 
 Empties itself, as doth an inland brook 
 Into the main of waters. Music ! hark ! 
 
 Ner. It is your music, madam, of the house. 
 
 For. Nothing is good, I see, without respect ; 
 Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day. 
 
 Ner. Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam. 
 
 For. The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark, 
 When neither is attended ; and, I think, 
 The nightingale, if she should sing by day, 
 When every goose is cackling, would be thought 
 No better a musician than the wren. 
 How many things by season season'd are 
 To their right praise and true perfection ! —
 
 188 TALES FHOM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 Peace ! How the moon sleeps with Endymion, 
 
 And would not be awak'd ! [Music ceases. 
 
 Lor. That is the voice, 
 
 Or I am much deceiVd, of Portia. 
 
 Par. He knows me, as the blind man knows the cuckoo, 
 By the bad voice. 
 
 Z,or. Dear lady, welcome home. 
 
 For. We have been praying for our husbands' welfare, 
 AYhich speed, we hope, the better for our words. 
 Are they return'd ? 
 
 Lor. Madam, they are not yet ; 
 
 But there is come a messenger before, 
 To signify their coming. 
 
 Por. Go in, Nerissa ; 
 
 Give order to my servants, that they take 
 No note at all of our being absent hence ; 
 Nor you, Lorenzo : — Jessica, nor you. 
 
 Lor. Your husband is at hand ; I hear his trumpet : 
 We are no tell-tales, madam ; fear you not. 
 
 Por. This night, methinks, is but the daylight sick. 
 It looks a little paler ; 't is a day 
 Such as the day is when the sun is hid.
 
 (pr'N\3L0^'^-^ 

 
 ( 191 ) 
 
 CYMBELINE. 
 
 During the time of Augustus Cassar, emperor of Rome, 
 there reigned in England (which was then called Britain) 
 a king whose name was Cymbeline. 
 
 Cymbeline's first wife died when his three children 
 (two sons and a daughter) were very young. Imogen, 
 the eldest of these children, was brought up in her 
 father's court ; but by a strange chance the two sons of 
 Cymbeline were stolen out of their nursery, when the 
 eldest was but three years of age, and the youngest quite 
 an infant : and Cymbeline could never discover what was 
 become of them, or by whom they were conveyed away. 
 
 Cymbeline was twice married : his second wife was a 
 wicked plotting woman, and a cruel step-mother to Imo- 
 gen, Cymbeline's daughter by his first wife. 
 
 The queen, though she hated Imogen, yet wished her 
 to marry a son of her own by a former husband (she also 
 having been twice married) : for by this means she hoped 
 upon the death of Cymbeline to place the crown of Bri- 
 tain upon the head of her son Cloten ; for she knew that, 
 if the king's sons were not found, the princess Imogen 
 must be the king's heir. But this design was prevented 
 by Imogen herself, who married without the consent or 
 even knowledge of her father or the queen. 
 
 Posthumus (for that was the name of Imogen's hus- 
 band) was the best scholar and most accomplished gentle- 
 man of that age. His father died fighting in the wars 
 for Cymbeline, and soon after his birth his mother died 
 also for grief at the loss of her husband. 
 
 Cymbeline, pitying the helpless state of this orphan, 
 took Posthumus (Cymbeline having given him that name
 
 192 TAU:S PROM SHAKSPEKE. 
 
 because he was bom after his father's death), and edu- 
 cated him in his own court. 
 
 Imogen and Posthumus were both taught by the same 
 masters, and were play-fellows from their infancy : they 
 loved each other tenderly when they were children, and 
 their affection continuing to increase with their years, 
 when they grew up they privately married. 
 
 The disappointed queen soon learnt this secret, for she 
 kept spies constantly in watch upon the actions of her 
 daughter-in-law, and she immediately told the king of the 
 marriage of Imogen with Posthumus. 
 
 Nothing could exceed the wrath of Cymbeline, when 
 he heard that his daughter had been so forgetful of her 
 high dignity as to marry a subject. He commanded Post- 
 humus to leave Britain, and banished him from his na- 
 tive country for ever. 
 
 The queen, who pretended to pity Imogen for the 
 grief she suffered at losing her husband, offered to pro- 
 cure them a private meeting before Posthumus set out on 
 his journey to Rome, which place he had chosen for his 
 residence in his banishment : this seeming kindness she 
 showed, the better to succeed in her future designs in 
 regard to her son Cloten ; for she meant to persuade 
 Imogen, when her husband was gone, that her marriage 
 was not laM'ful, being contracted without the consent of 
 the king. 
 
 Imogen and Posthumus took a most affectionate leave 
 of each other. Imogen gave her husband a diamond 
 ring, which had been her mother's, and Posthumus pro- 
 mised never to part with the ring ; and he fastened a 
 bracelet on the arm of his wife, which he begged she 
 would preserve with great care, as a token of his love : 
 they then bid each other farewell, with many vows of 
 everlasting love and fidelity. 
 
 Imogen remained a solitary and dejected lady in her 
 father's court, and Posthumus arrived at Rome, the place 
 he had chosen for his banishment. 
 
 Posthumus fell into company at Rome with some gay 
 young men of different nations, who were talking freely 
 of ladies : each one praising the ladies of his own country,
 
 CYMBELINE. 198 
 
 and his own mistress. Posthumus, who had ever his 
 own dear lady in his mind, affirmed that his wife, the 
 fair Imogen, was the most virtuous, wise, and constant 
 lady in the world. 
 
 One of these gentlemen, whose name was lachimo, 
 being offended that a lady of Britain should be so praised 
 above the Roman ladies, his country-women, provoked 
 Posthumus by seeming to doubt the constancy of his so 
 highly-praised wife ; and at length, after much alterca- 
 tion, Posthumus consented to a proposal of lachimo's, 
 that he (lachimo) should go to Britain, and endeavour to 
 gain the love of the married Imogen. They then laid a 
 wager, that if lachimo did not succeed in this wicked 
 design, he was to forfeit a large sum of money ; but if he 
 could win Imogen's favour, and prevail upon her to give 
 him the bracelet which Posthumus had so earnestly de- 
 sired she would keep as a token of his love, then the 
 wager was to terminate with Posthumus giving to lachi- 
 mo the ring, which was Imogen's love-present when she 
 parted with her husband. Such firm faith had Post- 
 humus in the fidelity of Imogen, that he thought he ran 
 no hazard in this trial of her honour. 
 
 lachimo, on his arrival in Britain, gained admittance, 
 and a courteous welcome from Imogen, as a friend of her 
 husband ; but when he began to make professions of love 
 to her, she repulsed him with disdain, and he soon found 
 that he could have no hope of succeeding in his disho- 
 nourable design. 
 
 The desire lachimo had to win the wager made him 
 now have recourse to a stratagem to impose upon Post- 
 I humus, and for this purpose he bribed some of Imogen's 
 i attendants, and was by them conveyed into her bed- 
 chamber, concealed in a large trunk, where he remained 
 shut up till Imogen was retired to rest, and had fallen 
 asleep ; and then getting out of the trunk, he examined 
 the chamber with great attention, and wrote down every 
 thing he saw there, and particularly noticed a mole which 
 
 She observed upon Imogen's neck, and then softly un- 
 loosing the bracelet from her arm, which Posthumus had 
 1 given to her, he retired into the chest again ; and the
 
 194 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 next day he set off for Rome with great expedition, and 
 boasted to Posthumus that Imogen had given him the 
 bracelet, and likewise permitted him to pass a night in 
 her chamber : and in this manner lachimo told his false 
 tale: "Her bedchamber," said he, "was hung with 
 tapestry of silk and silver, the story was the proud Cleo- 
 patra when she met her Antony^ a piece of work most 
 bravely wrought." 
 
 " This is true," said Posthumus ; " but this you might 
 have heard spoken of without seeing." 
 
 " Then the chimney," said lachimo, " is south of the 
 chamber, and the chimney-piece is Diana bathing ; never 
 saw I figures livelier expressed." 
 
 " This is a thing you might have likewise heard," said 
 Posthumus ; *' for it is much talked of." 
 
 lachimo as accurately described the roof of the cham- 
 ber, and added, " I had almost forgot her andirons ; they 
 were two winking Ctipids made of silver, each on one 
 foot standing." He then took out the bracelet, and said, 
 "Know you this jewel, sir? She gave me this. She 
 took it from her arm. I see her yet : her pretty action 
 did outsell her gift, and yet enriched it too. She gave 
 it me, and said, she prized it once ." He last of all de- 
 scribed the mole he had observed upon her neck. 
 
 Posthumus, who had heard the whole of this artful 
 recital in an agony of doubt, now broke out into the 
 most passionate exclamations against Imogen. He deli- 
 vered up the diamond ring to lachimo, which he had 
 agreed to forfeit to him, if he obtained the bracelet from 
 Imogen. 
 
 Posthumus then in a jealous rage wrote to Pisanio, a 
 gentleman of Britain, who was one of Imogen's attend- 
 ants, and had long been a faithful friend to Posthumus ; 
 and after telling him what proof he had of his wife's dis- 
 loyalty, he desired Pisanio would take Imogen to Mil- 
 ford- Haven, a sea-port of Wales, and there kill her. 
 And at the same time he wrote a deceitful letter to Imo- 
 gen, desiring her to go with Pisanio, for that finding he 
 could live no longer without seeing her, though he was 
 forbidden upon pain of death to return to Britain, he
 
 CYMBELLNE. 195 
 
 would come to Milford-Haven, at which place he begged 
 she would meet him. She, good unsuspecting lady, who 
 loved her husband above all things, and desired more 
 than her life to see him, hastened her departure with 
 Pisanio, and the same night she received the letter she 
 set out. 
 
 When their journey was nearly at an end, Pisanio, 
 who, though faithful to Posthumus, was not faithful to 
 serve him in an evil deed, disclosed to Imogen the cruel 
 Oi-der he had received. 
 
 Imogen, who, instead of meeting a loving and beloved 
 husband, found herself doomed by that husband to suffer 
 death, was afflicted beyond measure. 
 
 Pisanio persuaded her to take comfort, and wait with 
 patient fortitude for the time when Posthumus should see 
 and repent his injustice : in the mean time, as she refused 
 in her distress to return to her father's court, he advised 
 her to dress herself in boy's clothes for more security in 
 travelling ; to which advice she agreed, and thought in 
 that disguise she would go over to Rome, and see her 
 husband, whom, though he had used her so barbarously, 
 she could not forget to love. 
 
 When Pisanio had provided her with her new apparel, 
 he left her to her uncertain fortune, being obliged to re- 
 turn to court ; but before he departed he gave her a phial 
 of cordial, which he said the queen had given him as a 
 sovereign remedy in all disorders. 
 
 The queen, who hated Pisanio because he was a friend 
 to Imogen and Posthumus, gave him this phial, which 
 she supposed contained poison, she having ordered her 
 physician to give her some poison, to try its effects (as 
 she said) upon animals ; but the physician, knowing her 
 malicious disposition, would not trust her with real poi- 
 son, but gave her a drug which would do no other mis- 
 chief than causing a person to sleep with every appear- 
 ance of death for a few hours. This mixture, which 
 Pisanio thought a choice cordial, he gave to Imogen, de- 
 siring her, if she found herself ill upon the road, to take it ; 
 and so, with blessings and prayers for her safety and happy 
 deliverance from her undeserved troubles, he left her. 
 
 k2
 
 196 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 Providence strangely directed Imogen's steps to the 
 dwelling of her t^yo brothers, who had been stolen away 
 in their infancy. Belarius, who stole them away, was a 
 lord in the court of Cymbeline,. and having been falsely 
 accused to the king of treason, and banished from the 
 court, in revenge he stole away the two sons of Cymbe- 
 line, and brought them up in a forest, where he lived, 
 concealed in a cave. He stole them through rc.cnge, 
 but he soon loved them as tenderly as if they had been 
 his own children, educated them carefully, and they 
 grew up fine youths, their princely spirits leading them 
 to bold and daring actions ; and as they subsisted by 
 hunting, they were active and hardy, and were always 
 pressing their supjx)sed father to let them seek their for- 
 tune in the wars.'' 
 
 At the cave where these youths dwelt, it was Imo- 
 gen's fortune to arrive. She had lost her way in a large 
 forest, through which her road lay to Milford-Haven 
 (from which she meant to embark for Rome) ; and being 
 unable to find any place where she could purchase food, 
 she was with weariness and hunger almost dying ; for it 
 is not merely putting on a man's apparel that will enable 
 a young lady, tenderly brought up, to bear the fatigue 
 of wandering about lonely forests like a man. Seeing 
 this cave, she entered, hoping to find some one within of 
 ■whom she could procure food. She found the cave 
 empty, but looking about she discovei'ed some cold meat, 
 and her hunger was so pressing, that she could not wait 
 for an invitation, but sat down and began to eat. " Ah !" 
 said she, talking to herself, " I see a man's life is a te- 
 dious one : how tired am I ! for two nights together I 
 have made the ground my bed : my resolution helps me, 
 or I should be sick. When Pisanio showed me Milford- 
 Haven from the mountain-top, how near it seemed !" 
 Then the thoughts of her husband and his cruel mandate 
 came across her, and she said, " My dear Posthumus, 
 thou art a false one !" 
 
 The two brothers of Imogen, who had been hunting 
 with their reputed father Belarius, were by this time 
 
 a Extract I.
 
 CYMBELIXE. 197 
 
 returned home. Belarius had given them the names of 
 Polydore and Cadwal, and they knew no better, but sup- 
 posed that Belarius was their father ; but the real names 
 of these princes were Guiderius and Arviragus. 
 
 Belarius entered the cave first, and seeing Imogen, 
 stopped them, saying, ''Come not in yet; it eats our 
 victuals, or I should think that it was a fairy." 
 
 "What is the matter, sir?" said the young men. 
 '' By Jupiter," said Belarius again, " there is an angel 
 in the cave, or if not, an earthly paragon." So beau- 
 tiful did Imogen look in her boy's apparel. 
 
 She, hearing the sound of voices, came forth from the 
 cave, and addressed them in these words : " Good mas- 
 ters, do not harm me. Before I entered your cave, I had 
 thought to have begged or bought what I have eaten. 
 Indeed I have stolen nothing, nor would I, though I had 
 found gold strewed on the floor. Here is money for my 
 meat, which I would have left on the board when I had 
 made my meal, and parted with prayers for the pro- 
 vider." They refused her money with great earnest- 
 ness. *' I see you are angry with me," said the timid 
 Imogen ; " but, sirs, if you kill me for my fault, know 
 that I should have died if I had not made it." 
 
 "Whither are you bound?" asked Belarius, "and 
 what is your name ?" 
 
 " Fidele is my name," answered Imogen. " I have a 
 kinsman, who is bound for Italy ; he embarked at Milford- 
 Haven, to whom being going, almost spent with hunger, 
 I am fallen into this offence." 
 
 " Prithee, fair youth," said old Belarius, " do not 
 think us churls, nor measure our good minds by this 
 rude place we live in. You are well encountered ; it is 
 almost night. You shall have better cheer before you 
 depart, and thanks to stay and eat it. Boys, bid him 
 welcome." 
 
 The gentle youths, her brothers, then welcomed Imo- 
 gen to their cave with many kind expressions, saying 
 they would love her (or, as they said, liim) as a brother ; 
 and they entered the cave, where (they having killed 
 venison when they were hunting) Imogen delighted
 
 198 TALES FROM SHAKSPEKE. 
 
 them with her neat housewifery, assisting: them in pre- 
 paring their supper ; for though it is not the custom now 
 for young women of high birth to understand cookery, it 
 was then, and Imogen excelled in this useful art ; and, 
 as her brothers prettily expressed it, Fidele cut their 
 roots in characters, and sauced their broth, as if Juno 
 had been sick, and Fidele were her dieter. " And 
 then," said Polydore to his brother, " how angel-like he 
 sings I" 
 
 They also remarked to each other, that though Fidele 
 smiled so sweetly, yet so sad a melancholy did overcloud 
 his lovely face, as if grief and patience had together taken 
 possession of him. 
 
 For these her gentle qualities (or perhaps it was their 
 near relationship, though they knew it not) Imogen (or, 
 as the boys called her, Fidele) became the doting-piece 
 of her brothers, and she scarcely less loved them, think- 
 ing that but for the memory of her dear Posthumus, she 
 could live and die in the cave with these wild forest 
 youths ; and she gladly consented to stay with them, till 
 she was enough rested from the fatigue of travelling to 
 pursue her way to Milford-Haven. 
 
 When the venison they had taken was all eat^(l, and 
 they Avere going out to hunt for more, Fidele could not 
 accompany them, because she was unwell. Sorrow, no 
 doubt, for her husband's cruel usage, as well as the 
 fatigue of wandering in the forest, was the cause of her 
 illness. 
 
 They then bid her farewell, and went to their hunt, 
 praising all the way the noble parts and graceful de- 
 meanour of the youth Fidele.* 
 
 Imogen was no sooner left alone than she recollected 
 the cordial Pisanio had given her, and drank it oiF, and 
 presently fell into a sound and deathlike sleep. 
 
 When Belarius and her brothers returned from hunt' 
 ing, Polydore went first into the cave, and supposing her 
 asleep, pulled oft' his heavy shoes, that he might tread 
 softly and not awake her ; so did true gentleness spring 
 up in the minds of these princely foresters ; but he soon 
 
 ^ Extract II.
 
 CYMBELINE. 199 
 
 discovered that she could not be awakened by any noise, 
 and concluded her to be dead, and Polydore lamented 
 over her with dear and brotherly regret, as if they had 
 never from their infancy been parted. 
 
 Belarius also proposed to carry her out into the forest, 
 and there celebrate her funeral with songs and solemn 
 dirges, as was then the custom. 
 
 Imogen's two brothers then carried her to a shady 
 covert, and there laying her gently on the grass, they 
 sang repose to her departed spirit, and covering her over 
 with leaves and flowers, Polydore said, " While summer 
 lasts, and I live here, Fidele, I will daily strew thy sad 
 grave. The pale primrose, that flower most like thy 
 face ; the blue-bell, like thy clear veins ; and the leaf of 
 eglantine, which is not sweeter than was thy breath ; all 
 these will I strew over thee. Yea, and the furred moss 
 in winter, when there are no flowers to cover thy sweet 
 corse." 
 
 When they had finished her funeral obsequies, they 
 departed very sorrowful.'" 
 
 Imogen had not been long left alone, when, the effect 
 of the sleepy drug going off", she awaked, and easily 
 shaking ofl' the slight covering of leaves and flowers they 
 had thrown over her, she arose, and imagining she had 
 been dreaming, she said, " I thought I was a cave- 
 keeper, and cook to honest creatures ; how came I here, 
 covered with flowers?" Not being able to find her w^ay 
 back to the cave, and seeing nothing of her new compa- 
 nions, she concluded it was certainly all a dream ; and 
 once more Imogen set out on her weary pilgrimage, 
 hoping at last she should find her way to Milford-Haven, 
 and thence get a passage in some ship bound for Italy ; 
 for all her thoughts were still with her husband Posthu- 
 mus, whom she intended to seek in the disguise of a page. 
 
 But great events were happening at this time, of which 
 Imogen knew nothing ; for a war had suddenly broken 
 out between the Roman emperor Augustus Caesar, and 
 Cymbeline the king of Britain ; and a Roman army had 
 landed to invade Britain, and was advanced into the very 
 
 * Extract III.
 
 200 TALES TROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 forest over which Imogen was journeying. With this 
 army came Posthumus. 
 
 Though Posthumus came over to Britain with the Ro- 
 man army, he did not mean to fight on their side against 
 his own countrymen, but intended to join the army of 
 Britain, and fight in the cause of his king who had ba- 
 nished him. 
 
 He still believed Imogen false to him ; yet the death 
 of her he had so fondly loved, and by his own orders too 
 (Pisanio having written him a letter to say he had obeyed 
 his command, and that Imogen was dead), sat heav}- on 
 his heart, and therefore he returned to Britain, desiring 
 either to be slain in battle, or to be put to death by 
 Cymbeline for returning home from banishment. 
 
 Imogen, before she reached Milford-Haven, fell into 
 the hands of the Roman army ; and her presence and de- 
 
 EDrtment recommending her, she was made a page to 
 ucius, the Roman general. 
 
 Cymbeline's army now advanced to meet the enemy, 
 and when they entered this forest, Polydore and Cadwal 
 joined the king's army. The young men were eager to 
 engage in acts of valour, though they little thought they 
 were going to fight for their own royal father : and old 
 Belarius went with them to the battle. He had long 
 since repented of the injury he had done to Cymbeline 
 in carrying away his sons ; and having been a Marrior in 
 his youth, he gladly joined the army to fight for the king 
 he had so injured. 
 
 And now a great battle commenced between the two 
 armies, and the Britons would have been defeated, and 
 Cymbeline himself killed, but for the extraordinary valour 
 of Posthumus, and Belarius, and the two sons of Cym- 
 beline. They rescued the king, and saved his life, and 
 so entirely turned the fortune of the day, that the Bri- 
 tons gained the victory. 
 
 When the battle was over, Posthumus, who had not 
 ibund the death he sought for, surrendered himself up to 
 one of the officers of Cymbeline, willing to suffer the 
 death which was to be his punishment if he returned 
 from banishment.
 
 CYMBELINE. 
 
 201 
 
 Imogen and the master she served were taken pri- 
 soners, and brought before Cymbeline, as was also her 
 old enemy lachimo, who was an officer in the Roman 
 army ; and when these prisoners were before the king, 
 Posthumns was brought in to receive his sentence of 
 death ; and at this strange juncture of time, Belarius 
 with Polydore and Cadwal were also brought before 
 Cymbeline, to receive the rewards due to the great ser- 
 vices they had by their valour done for the king. Pisa- 
 nio, being one of the king's attendants, was likewise 
 present. 
 
 Therefore there were now standing in the king's pre- 
 sence (but with very different hopes and fears) Posthu- 
 mus, and Imogen, with her new master the Roman 
 general ; the faithful servant Pisanio, and the false friend 
 lachimo ; and likewise the two lost sons of Cymbeline, 
 with Belarius, who had stolen them away. 
 
 The Roman general was the first who spoke ; the rest 
 stood silent before the king, though there was many a 
 beating heart among them, 
 
 Imogen saw Posthumus, and knew him, though he 
 was in the disguise of a peasant ; but he did not know 
 her in her male attire : and she knew lachimo, and she 
 saw a ring on his finger which she perceived to be her 
 own, but she did not know him as yet to have been the 
 author of all her troubles : and she stood before her own 
 father a prisoner of war. 
 
 Pisanio knew Imogen, for it was he who had dressed 
 her in the garb of a boy, " It is my mistress," thought 
 he ; " since she is living, let the time run on to good or 
 bad." Belarius knew her too, and softly said to Cad- 
 wal, "Is not this boy revived from death?" — "One 
 sand," replied Cadwal, "does not more resemble an- 
 other than that sweet rosy lad is like the dead Fidele." — 
 **The same dead thing alive," said Polydore. " Peace, 
 peace," said Belarius ; " if it were he, I am sure he 
 would have spoken to us." — " But we saw him dead," 
 again whispered Polydore. "Be silent," replied Bela- 
 rius. 
 
 Posthumus waited in silence to hear the welcome sen- 
 
 k3
 
 202 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 tence of his own death ; and he resolved not to disclose 
 to the king that he had saved his life in the battle, lest 
 that should move Cymbeline to pardom him. 
 
 Lucius, the Roman general, who had taken Imogen 
 under his protection as his page, was the first (as has 
 been before said) who spoke to the king. He was a 
 man of high courage and noble dignity, and this was his 
 speech to the king : 
 
 ** I hear you take no ransom for your prisoners, but 
 doom them ail to death : I am a Roman, and with a Ro- 
 man heart will suffer death. But there is one thing for 
 which I would entreat." Then bringing Imogen before 
 the king, he said, " This boy is a Briton born. Let him 
 be ransomed. He is my page. Never master had a page 
 so kind, so duteous, so diligent on all occasions, so true, 
 so nurse-like. He hath done no Briton wrong, though 
 he hath served a Roman. Save him, if you spare no one 
 beside." 
 
 Cymbeline looked earnestly on his daughter Imogen. 
 He knew her not in that disguise ; but it seemed that all- 
 powerful Nature spake in his heart, for he said, " I have 
 surely seen him, his face appears familiar to me. I know 
 not why or wherefore I say. Live, boy ; but I give you 
 your life, and ask of me what boon you will, and I will 
 grant it you. Yea, even though it be the life of the 
 noblest prisoner I have." 
 
 " I humbly thank your highness," said Imogen. 
 
 What was then called granting a boon was the same 
 as a promise to give any one thing, whatever it might 
 be, that the person on whom that favour was conferred 
 chose to ask for. They all were attentive to hear what 
 thing the page would ask for ; and Lucius her master 
 said to her, " I do not beg my life, good lad, but I know 
 that is what you will ask for." — " No, no, alas !" said 
 Imogen, "I have other work in hand, good master; 
 your life I cannot ask for." 
 
 This seeming want of gratitude in the boy astonished 
 the Roman general. 
 
 Imogen then, fixing her eye on lachimo, demanded 
 no other boon than this : that lachimo should be made
 
 CTMBELINE. 
 
 203 
 
 to confess whence he had the ring he wore on his 
 finger. 
 
 Cynibelino granted her this boon, and threatened 
 lachimo with the torture if he did not confess how he 
 came by the diamond ring on his finger. 
 
 lachimo then made a full acknowledgment of all his 
 villainy, telling, as has been before related, the whole 
 story of his wager with Posthumus, and how he had suc- 
 ceeded in imposing upon his credulity. 
 
 What Posthumus felt at hearing this proof of the in- 
 nocence of his lady, cannot be expressed. He instantly 
 came forward, and confessed to Cymbeline the cruel 
 sentence which he had enjoined Pisanio to execute upon 
 the princess ; exclaiming wildly, " O Imogen, my queen, 
 my life, my wife ! O Imogen, Imogen, Imogen !" 
 
 Imogen could not see her beloved husband in this 
 distress without discovering herself, to the unutterable 
 joy of Posthumus, who was thus relieved from a weight 
 of guilt and woe, and restored to the good graces of the 
 dear lady he had so cruelly treated. 
 
 Cymbeline, almost as much overwhelmed as he with 
 joy, at finding his lost daughter so strangely recovered, 
 received her to her former place in his fatherly affection, 
 and not only gave her husband Posthumus his life, but 
 consented to acknowledge him for his son-in-law. 
 
 Belarius chose this time of jo}'- and reconciliation to 
 make his confession. He presented Polydore and Cadwal 
 to the king, telling him they were his two lost sons, 
 Guiderius and Arviragus. 
 
 Cymbeline forgave old Belarius ; for who could think 
 of punishments at a season of such universal happiness ? 
 To find his daughter living, and his lost sons in the 
 persons of his young deliverers, that he had seen so 
 bravely fight in his defence, was unlooked-for joy indeed ! 
 
 Imogen was now at leisure to perform good services 
 for her late master, the Roman general Lucius, whose 
 life the king her father readily granted at her request ; 
 and by the mediation of the same Lucius a peace was 
 concluded between the Romans and the Britons, which 
 was kept inviolate many years.
 
 204 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 How Cymbeline's wicked queen, through despau* of 
 bringing her projects to pass, and touched with remorse 
 of conscience, sickened and died, having first lived to see 
 her foolish son Cloten slain in a quarrel which he had 
 provoked, are events too tragical to interrupt this happy 
 conclusion by more than merely touching upon. It is 
 sufficient that all were made happy who were deserving ; 
 and even the treacherous lachimo, in consideration of his 
 villainy having missed its final aim, was dismissed without 
 punishment.
 
 CYMBELINE. 205 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Act III. — Scene HI. — Wales. A mountainous Country 
 with a Cave. 
 
 Enter Belabius, Guiderius, and Arviragus. 
 
 Bel. A goodly day not to keep house, with such 
 Whose roof 's as low as ours ! Stoop, boys : This gate 
 Instructs you how to adore the heavens ; and bows you 
 To a morning's holy office : The gates of monarchs 
 Are arch'd so high that giants may jet through 
 And keep their impious tutbans on, without 
 Good morrow to the sun. — Hail, thou fair heaven, 
 We house i' the rock, yet use thee not so hardly 
 As prouder livers do. 
 
 Gui. Hail, heaven ! 
 
 Arv. Hail, heaven ! 
 
 Bel. Now for our mountain sport : Up to yon hill, 
 Your legs are young ; I '11 tread these flats. Consider, 
 When you above perceive me like a crow. 
 That it is place which lessens and sets off; 
 And you may then revolve what tales I have told you 
 Of courts, of princes, of the tricks in war : 
 This service is not service, so being done, 
 But being so allow'd : To apprehend thus, 
 Draws us a profit from all things we see : 
 And often, to our comfort, shall we find 
 The sharded beetle in a safer hold 
 Than is the full-wing'd eagle. O, this life 
 Is nobler, than attending for a check ; 
 Richer, than doing nothing for a bribe ; 
 Prouder, than rustling in vinpaid-for silk : 
 Such gains the cap of him that makes him fine, 
 Yet keeps his book uncross'd : no life to ours. 
 
 Gui. Out of your proof you speak : we, poor unfleg'd.
 
 206 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE, 
 
 Have never ■wing'd from view o' the nest ; nor know not 
 
 What air 's from home. Haply, this life is best, 
 
 If quiet life be best ; sweeter to you. 
 
 That have a sharper known ; well corresponding 
 
 With your stiff age : but unto us it is 
 
 A cell of ignorance ; travelling abed ; 
 
 A prison for a debtor, that not dares 
 
 To stride a limit. 
 
 Arv. What should we speak of, 
 
 When we are old as you ? when we shall hear 
 The rain and wind beat dark December, how. 
 In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse 
 The freezing hours away ? We have seen nothing : 
 We are beastly ; subtle as the fox, for prey ; 
 Like warlike as the wolf, for what we eat : 
 Our valour is to chase what flies ; our cage 
 We make a quire, as doth the prison'd bird. 
 And sing our bondage freely. 
 
 Bel. How you speak ! 
 
 Did you but know the city's usuries, 
 And felt them knowingly : the art o' the court, 
 As hard to leave, as keep ; whose top to climb 
 Is certain falling, or so slippery that 
 The fear 's as bad as falling : the toil of the war, 
 A pain that only seems to seek out danger 
 I' the name of fame and honour : which dies i' the search ; 
 And hath as oft a slanderous epitaph 
 As record of fair act ; nay, many times, 
 Doth ill deserve by doing well ; what 's worse, 
 Must court'sy at the censure : — O, boys, this story 
 The world may read in me : My body 's mark'd 
 With Eoman swords ; and my report was once 
 First with the best of note • Cymbeline lov'd me ; 
 And when a soldier was the theme my name 
 Was not far off: Then was I as a tree 
 Whose boughs did bend with fruit: but, in one night, 
 A storm, or robbery, call it what you will, 
 Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves. 
 And left me bare to weather. 
 
 Giii. Uncertain favour ! 
 
 JBel. jNIy fault being nothing (as I have told you oft) 
 But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail'd 
 Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline 
 I was confederate with the Romans : so,
 
 CYMBELINE. 207 
 
 Follow'd my banishment ; and, this twenty years, 
 
 This rock and these demesnes have been my world : 
 
 Where I have liv'd at honest freedom ; paid 
 
 More pious debts to heaven, than in all 
 
 The fore-end of my time. — But, up to the mountains ; 
 
 This is not hunters' language : — He that strikes 
 
 The venison first shall be the lord o' the feast ; 
 
 To him the other two shall minister ; 
 
 And we will fear no poison, which attends 
 
 In place of greater state. I '11 meet you in the valleys. 
 
 '[Exeimt Gui. and Arv. 
 How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature ! 
 These boys know little they are sons to the king ; 
 Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive. 
 They think they are mine: and, though train'd up thus 
 
 meanly 
 r the cave, wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit 
 The roofs of palaces ; and nature prompts them, 
 In simple and low things, to prince it much 
 Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore, — ■ 
 The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, whom 
 The king his father call'd Guiderius, — Jove ! 
 When on my three-foot stool I sit, and tell 
 The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out 
 Into my story : say, — *' Thus mine enemy fell ; 
 And thus I set my foot on his neck " — even then 
 The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats, 
 Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture 
 That acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal, 
 (Once Arviragus,) in as like a figure 
 Strikes life into my speech, and shows much more 
 His own conceiving. Hark ! the game is rous'd ! — 
 O Cymbeline ! heaven, and my conscience, knows 
 Thou didst unjustly banish me : whereon. 
 At three, and two years old, I stole these babes y 
 Thinking to bar thee of succession, as 
 Thou reft' St me of my lands. Euriphile, 
 Thou wast their nurse ; they took thee for their mother, 
 And every day do honour to her grave : 
 Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call'd. 
 They take for natural father. The game is up, [_Exit.
 
 208 TALE5 rAOM SHAKSPESE, 
 
 II. 
 
 Act IV.— Scene II.— Before the Cave. 
 
 Enter, from the Cave, Belarius, Guidep^ius, Arviragcs, 
 and Imogen. 
 
 Bel. You are not -well : [ To Imogen.] remain here in 
 the cave ; 
 We *11 come to you after hunting, 
 
 Arv. Brother, stay here : [ To Imogen* 
 
 Are we not brothers ? 
 
 Imo. So man and man should be ; 
 
 But clay and clay differs in dignity, 
 "Whose dust is both alike. I am very sick. 
 
 Qui. Go you to Inxnting: I'll abide with him. 
 
 Imo. So sick I am not ; — yet I am not well : 
 But not so citizen a wanton, as 
 To seem to die, ere sick : So please you, leave me ; 
 Stick to your journal course ; the breach of custom 
 Is breach of all. I am ill ; but your being by me 
 Cannot amend me : Society is no comfort 
 To one not sociable : I am not very sick. 
 Since I can reason of it. Pray you, trust me here: 
 I '11 rob none but myself; and let me die, 
 Stealing so poorly. 
 
 Gul. I love thee; I have spoke it: 
 
 How much the quantity, the weight as much. 
 As I do love my father. 
 
 Bel. What? how? how? 
 
 Arv. If it be sin to say so, sir, I yoke me 
 In my good brother's fault : I know not why 
 I love this youth ; and I have heard you say, 
 Love's reason 's without reason : the bier at door, 
 And a demand who is 't shall die, I 'd say, 
 *' My father, not this youth." 
 
 Bel. O noble strain ! lAside, 
 
 worthiness of nature ! breed of greatness ! 
 Cowards father cowards, and base things sire base : 
 Nature hath meal and bran, contempt and grace. 
 
 1 'm not their father ; yet who this should be 
 Doth miracle itself, lov'd before me. — 
 
 'T is the ninth hour of the morn.
 
 CYMBELINE. 209 
 
 Arv. Brother, farewell. 
 
 Imo. I wish ye sport. 
 
 Arv. You health.— So please you, sir. 
 
 Imo. [Aside.'] These are kind creatures. Gods, what 
 lies I have heard ! 
 Our courtiers say all 's savage, but at court: 
 Experience, O, thou disprov'st report ! 
 The imperious seas breed monsters ; for the dish, 
 Poor tributary rivers as sweet fish. 
 I am sick still ; heart-sick : — Pisanio, 
 I '11 now taste of thy drug. 
 
 Gut. I could not stir him : 
 
 He said he was gentle, but unfortunate ; 
 Dishonestly afflicted, but yet honest. 
 
 Arv. Thus did he answer me : yet said, hereafter 
 I might know more. 
 
 Bel To the field, to the field :— 
 
 We '11 leave you for this time ; go in and rest. 
 
 Arv. We '11 not be long away. 
 
 Bel Pray, be not sick, 
 
 For you must be our housewife. 
 
 Imo. Well, or ill, 
 
 I am bound to you. 
 
 Bel. And shalt be ever. [Erit Imogen. 
 
 This youth, howe'er distress'd he appears, hath had 
 Good ancestors. 
 
 Arv. How angel-like he sings ! 
 
 Gui. But his neat cookery ! He cut our roots in cha- 
 racters ; 
 And sauced our broths, as Juno had been sick, 
 And he her dieter. 
 
 Arv. Nobly he yokes 
 
 A smiling with a sigh : as if the sigh 
 Was that it was, for not being such a smile ; 
 The smile mocking the sigh, that it would fly 
 From so divine a temple, to commix 
 With winds that sailors rail at. 
 
 Gui. I do note 
 
 That grief and patience, rooted in him both, 
 Mingle their spurs together. 
 
 Arv. Grow, patience ! 
 
 And let the stinking elder, grief, untwine 
 His perishing root with the increasing vine ! 
 
 Bel. It is great morning. Come ; away. —
 
 210 TALES FKOM SHAKSPEKE. 
 
 III. 
 
 Be-enter Arvlragus, bearing Imogen as dead in Ids arms. 
 
 Bel Look, here he comes, 
 And brings the dire occasion in his arms, 
 Of what we blame him for ! 
 
 Arv. ■ The bird is dead. 
 
 That we have made so much on. I had rather 
 Have skipp'd from sixteen years of age to sixty, 
 To have turn'd my leaping time into a crutch, 
 Than have seen this. 
 
 Gid. O sweetest, fairest lily I 
 
 My brother wears thee not the one-half so well. 
 As when thou grew'st thyself. 
 
 Bel. O, melancholy ! 
 
 "Who ever yet could sound thy bottom ? find 
 The ooze, to show what coast thy sluggish crare ' 
 Might easiliest harK.nr in ? — Thou blessed thing ! 
 Jove knows what man thou mightst have made ; but I, 
 Thou diedst, a most rare boy, of melancholy I 
 How found you him ? 
 
 Arv. Stark,^ as you see : 
 
 Thus smiling, as some fly had tickled slumber, 
 Not as death's dart, being laugh'd at : his right cheek 
 Reposing on a cushion. 
 
 Gid. Where? 
 
 Arv. O' the floor : 
 
 His arms thus leagued : I thought he slept ; and put 
 My clouted brogues'^ from off my feet, whose rudeness 
 Answer'd my steps too loud. 
 
 Gid. Why, he but sleeps : 
 
 If he be gone, he '11 make his grave a bed ; 
 With female fairies will his tomb be haunted. 
 And worms will not come to thee. 
 
 Arv. With fairest flowers, 
 
 Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, 
 I '11 sweeten thy sad grave : Thou shalt not lack 
 The flower that 's like thy face, pale primrose ; nor 
 
 '^ Crare is a small vessel ; and the word is often used by Holinshed 
 and by Drayton. 
 
 ^ Stark — stiff. <^ Brogues — rude slioes.
 
 CTMUELINE. 211 
 
 The azur'd hare-bell, like thy veins ; no, nor 
 The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, 
 Outsweeten'd not thy breath : the ruddock would, 
 With charitable bill (O bill, sore-shaming 
 Those rich-left heirs that let their fathers lie 
 Without a monument!) bring thee all this ; 
 Yea, and furr'd moss besides, when flowers are none. 
 To winter-ground thy corse. 
 
 Gui. Prithee, have done ; 
 
 And do not play in wench-like words with that 
 Which is so serious. Let us bury him. 
 And not protract with admiration what 
 Is now due debt. — To the grave. 
 
 Arv. Say, where shall 's lay him ? 
 
 Gui. By good Euriphile, our mother. 
 
 Arv. Be 't so : 
 
 And let us, Polydore, though now our voices 
 Have got the mannish crack, sing him to the ground, 
 As once our mother ; use like note, and words, 
 Save that Euriphile must be Fidele. 
 
 Gui. Cadwal, 
 I cannot sing : I '11 weep, and word it with thee : 
 For notes of sorrow, out of tune, are worse 
 Than priests and fanes that lie. 
 
 Arv. We '11 speak it then. 
 
 Bel. Great griefs, I see, medicine the less : for Cloton 
 Is quite forgot. He was a queen's son, boys : 
 And, though he came our enemy, remember 
 He was paid for that : Though mean and mighty, rotting 
 Together, have one dust ; yet reverence 
 (That angel of the world) doth make distinction 
 Of place 'tween high and low. Our foe was princely ; 
 And though you took his life, as being our foe, 
 Yet bury him as a prince. 
 
 Gui. Pray you, fetch him hither. 
 
 Thersites' body is as good as Ajax, 
 When neither are alive. 
 
 Arv. If you '11 go fetch him. 
 
 We '11 say our song the whilst. — Brother, begin. \_Exit Bel. 
 
 Gui. Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to the east : 
 My father hath a reason for 't. 
 
 Arv. 'T is true. 
 
 Gui. Come on then, and remove him. 
 
 Arv. So, — begin.
 
 212 TALES TROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Gui. Fear no more the heat o' the sun, 
 Nor the furious winter's raj^es ; 
 
 Thou thy worHly task hast done, 
 Home art gone and ta'en thy wages : 
 
 Golden lads and girls all must, 
 
 As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 
 
 ^rv. Fear no more the frown o' the great 
 Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ; 
 
 Care no more to clothe, and eat; 
 To thee the reed is as the oak : 
 
 The sceptre, learning, physic, must 
 
 All follow this, and come to dust. 
 
 (fi,i. Fear no more the liglitning flash; 
 Arv. Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; 
 Gui. Fear not slander, censure rash ; 
 Arv. Thou hast tinish'd joy and moan : 
 Bjth. All lovers young, all lovers must 
 Consign to thee, and come to dust. 
 
 Gui. No exorciser harm thee ! 
 ^JT. Nor no witchcraft charm thee ! 
 Gui. Ghost unlaid forbear thee ! 
 Arv. Nothing ill come near thee ! 
 Both. Quiet consummation have ; 
 And renowned be thy grave!
 
 "/\^^'V! ^
 
 ( 215 ) 
 
 KING LEAR. 
 
 Leak, king of Britain, had three daughters : Goneril, 
 wife to the duke of Albany ; llegan, wife to the duke of 
 Cornwall ; and Cordelia, a young maid, for whose love 
 the king of France and duke of Burgundy were joint 
 suitors, and were at this time making stay for that pur- 
 pose in the court of Lear. 
 
 The old king, worn out with age and the fatigues of 
 government, he being more than fourscore years old, de- 
 termined to take no further part in state affairs, but to 
 leave the management to younger strengths, that he 
 might have time to prepare for death, which must at no 
 long period ensue. With this intent he called his three 
 daughters to him, to know from their own lips which of 
 them loved him best, that he might part his kingdom 
 among them in such proportions as their affection for him 
 should seem to deserve. 
 
 Goneril, the eldest, declared that she loved her father 
 more than words could give out, that he was dearer to 
 her than the light of her own eyes, dearer than life and 
 liberty, with a deal of such profes,sing stuff, which is easy 
 to counterfeit where there is no real love, only a few 
 fine words delivered with confidence being wanted in 
 that case. The king, delighted to hear from her own 
 mouth this assurance of her love, and thinking truly that 
 her heart went with it, in a fit of fatherly fondness be- 
 stowed upon her and her husband one-third of his ample 
 kingdom. 
 
 Then calling to him his second daughter, he demanded
 
 216 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 what she had to say. Regan, who was made of the same 
 hollow metal as her sister, was not a whit behind in her 
 professions, but rather declared that what her sister had 
 spoken came short of the love which she professed to 
 bear for his highness ; insomuch that she found all other 
 joys dead, in comparison with the pleasure which she 
 took in the love of her dear king and father. 
 
 Lear blessed himself in having such loving children, 
 as he thought ; and could do no less, after the handsome 
 assurances which Regan had made, than bestow a third 
 of his kingdom upon her and her husband, equal in size 
 to that which he had already given away to Goneril, 
 
 Then tuniing to his youngest daughter Cordelia, 
 whom he called his joy, he asked what she had to say, 
 thinking no doubt that she would glad his ears with the 
 same lo\ing speeches which her sisters had uttered, or 
 rather that her expressions would be so much stronger 
 than theirs, as she had always been his darling, and fa- 
 voured by him above either of them. But Cordelia, 
 disgusted with the flattery of her sisters, whose hearts 
 she knew were far from their lips, and seeing that all 
 then- coaxing speeches were only intended to wheedle 
 the old king out of his dominions, that they and their hus- 
 bands might reign in his lifetime, made no other reply 
 but this, — that she loved his majesty according to her 
 duty, neither more nor less. 
 
 The king, shocked with this appearance of ingratitude 
 in his favourite child, desired her to consider her words, 
 and to mend her speech, lest it should mar her for- 
 tunes. 
 
 Cordelia then told her father, that he was her father, 
 that he had given her breeding, and loved her ; that she 
 returned those duties back as was most fit, and did obey 
 him, love him, and most honour him. But that she 
 could not frame her mouth to such large speeches as her 
 sisters hatl done, or promise to love nothing else in the 
 world. Why had her sistei-s husbands, if (as they said) 
 they had no love for anything but their father ? If she 
 should ever wed, she was sure the lord to whom she gave 
 her hand would want half her love, half of her care and
 
 KING LEAR. 217 
 
 duty ; she should never marry like her sisters, to love her 
 father all. 
 
 Cordelia, who in earnest loved her old father even 
 almost as extravagantly as her sisters pretended to do, 
 would have plainly told him so at any other time, in 
 more daughter-like and loving terms, and without these 
 qualifications which did indeed sound a little ungracious ; 
 but after the crafty flattering speeches of her sisters, 
 which she had seen draw such extravagant rewards, she 
 thought the handsomest thing she could do was to love 
 and be silent. This put her affection out of suspicion of 
 mercenary ends, and showed that she loved, but not for 
 gain ; and that her professions, the less ostentatious they 
 were, had so much the more of truth and sincerity than 
 her sisters*. 
 
 This plainness of speech, which Lear called pride, so 
 enraged the old monarch — who in his best of times 
 always showed much of spleen and rashness, and in whom 
 the dotage incident to old age had so clouded over his 
 reason, that he could not discern truth from flattery, nor 
 a gay painted speech from words that came from the 
 heart — that in a fury of resentment he retracted the third 
 part of his kingdom which yet remained, and which he 
 had reserved for Cordelia, and gave it away from her, 
 sharing it equally between her two sisters and their hus- 
 bands, the dukes of Albany and Cornwall : whom he 
 now called to him, and in presence of all his cour- 
 tiers, bestowing a coronet between them, invested them 
 jointly with all the power, revenue, and execution of 
 government, only retaining to himself the name of king ; 
 all the rest of royalty he resigned ; with this reservation, 
 that himself, with a hundred knights for his attendants, 
 M'as to be maintained by monthly course in each of his 
 daughters' palaces in turn. 
 
 So preposterous a disposal of his kingdom, so little 
 guided by reason, and so much by passion, filled all his 
 courtiers with astonishment and sorrow ; but none of 
 them had the courage to interpose between this incensed 
 king and his wrath, except the earl of Kent, who was 
 beginning to speak a good word for Cordelia, when the 
 
 VOL. I. 1
 
 218 TALES YROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 passionate Lear, on pain of death, commanded him to 
 desist ; but the good Kent was not so to be repelled. 
 He had been ever loyal to Lear, whom he had honoured 
 as a king, loved as a father, followed as a master ; and 
 had never esteemed his life further than as a pawn to 
 wage against his royal master's enemies, nor feared to 
 lose it when Lear's safety was the motive ; nor now that 
 Lear was most his own enemy, did this faithful servant of 
 the king forget his old principles, but manfully opposed 
 Lear, to do Lear good ; and was unmannerly only be- 
 cause Lear was mad. He had been a most faithful coun- 
 sellor in times past to the king, and he besought him now, 
 that he would see with his eyes (as he had done in many 
 weighty matters), and go by his advice still ; and in his 
 best consideration recall this hideous rashness : for he 
 would answer with his life, his judgment that Lear's 
 youngest daughter did not love him least, nor M'ere 
 those empty-hearted whose low sound gave no token of 
 hollowness. When power bowed to flattery, honour was 
 bound to plainness. For Lear's threats, what could he 
 do to him, whose life was already at his service ? That 
 should not hinder duty from speaking. 
 
 The honest freedom of this good earl of Kent only 
 stirred u}) the king's wrath the more, and like a frantic 
 patient who kills his physician, and loves his mortal dis- 
 ease, he banished this true servant, and allotted him but 
 five days to make his preparations for departure ; but if 
 on the sixth his hated person ^A'as found within the realm 
 of Britain, that moment was to be his death. And Kent 
 bade farewell to the king, and said, that since he chose to 
 show himself in such fashion, it was but banishment to 
 stay there ; and before he went, he recommended Cor- 
 delia to the protection of the gods, the maid who had so 
 rightly thought, and so discreetly spoken ; and only 
 wished that her sisters' large speeches might be answered 
 •with deeds of love : and then he went, as he said, to 
 shape his old course to a new country. 
 
 The king of France and duke of Burgundy were now 
 called in to hear the determination of Lear about his 
 youngest daughter, and to know whether they would
 
 KIXG LEAR. 219 
 
 persist in their courtship to Cordelia, now that she was 
 under her father's displeasure, and had no fortune but 
 her own person to recommend her : and the duke of 
 Burgundy declined the match, and would not take her to 
 wife upon such conditions ; but the king of France, un- 
 derstanding what the nature of the fault had been which 
 had lost her the love of her father, that it was only a 
 tardiness of speech, and the not being able to frame her 
 tongue to flattery like her sisters, took this young maid 
 by the hand, and saying that her virtues were a dowry 
 above a kingdom, bade Cordelia to take farewell of her 
 sisters, and of her father, though he had been unkind, 
 and she should go with him, and be queen of him and of 
 fair France, and reign over fairer possessions than her 
 sisters : and he called the duke of Burgundy in contempt 
 a waterish duke, because his love for this young maid 
 had in a moment run all away like water. 
 
 Then Cordelia, with weeping eyes, took leave of her 
 sisters, and besought them to love their father well, and 
 make good their professions : and they sullenly told her 
 not to prescribe to them, for they knew their duty ; but 
 to strive to content her husband, who had taken her (as 
 they tauntingly expressed it) as Fortune's alms. And 
 Cordelia with a heavy heai't departed, for she knew the 
 cunning of her sisters, and she wished her father in better 
 hands than she was about to leave him in, 
 
 Cordelia was no sooner gone, than the devilish dispo- 
 sitions of her sisters began to show themselves in their 
 true colours. Even before the expiration of the first 
 month, which Lear was to spend by agreement with his 
 eldest daughter Goneril, the old king began to find out 
 the difference between promises and performances. This 
 wretch having got from her father all that he had to 
 bestow, even to the giving away of the crown from off 
 his head, began to grudge even those small remnants of 
 royalty which the old man had reserved to himself, to 
 please his fancy with the idea of being still a king. She 
 could not bear to see him and his hundred knights. 
 Every time she met her father, she put on a frowning 
 countenance ; and when the old man wanted to speak 
 
 1.2
 
 220 TALES TROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 with her, she would feign sickness, or anything to be rid 
 of the sight of him ; for it was plain that she esteemed 
 his old age a useless burden, and his attendants an unne- 
 cessary expense : not only she herself slackened in her 
 expressions of duty to the king, but by her example, and 
 (it is to be feared) not without her private instructions, 
 her very servants aft'ected to treat him with neglect, and 
 would either refuse to obey his orders, or still more con- 
 temptuously pretend not to hear them. Lear could not 
 but perceive this alteration in the behaviour of his daugh- 
 ter, but he shut his eyes against it as long as he could, 
 as people commonly are unwilling to believe the unplea- 
 sant consequences which their own mistakes and obsti- 
 nacy have brought upon them. * 
 True love and fidelity are no more to be estranged by 
 ill^ than falsehood and hollow-heartedness can be conci- 
 liated by good usage. This eminently appears in the 
 instance of the good earl of Kent, who, though banished 
 by Lear, and his life made forfeit if he were found in 
 Britain, chose to stay and abide all consequences, as long 
 as there was a chance of his being useful to the king his 
 master. See to what mean shifts and disguises poor 
 loyalty is forced to submit sometimes ; yet it counts no- 
 thing base or unworthy, so as it can but do service where 
 it owes an obligation ! In the disguise of a serving man, 
 all his greatness and pomp laid aside, this good earl prof- 
 fered his services to the king, who not knowing him to 
 be Kent in that disguise, but pleased with a certain 
 plainness, or rather bluntness in his answers which the 
 earl put on (so different from that smooth oily flattery 
 which he had so much reason to be sick of, having found 
 the effects not answerable in his daughter), a bargain was 
 quickly struck, and Lear took Kent into his service by 
 the name of Caias, as he called himself, never suspecting 
 him to be his once great favourite, the high and mighty 
 earl of Kent. 
 
 This Caius quickly found means to show his fidelity 
 and love to his royal master ; for Goneril's steward that 
 same day behaving in a disrespectful manner to Lear, and 
 giving him saucy looks and language, as no doubt he was
 
 KJKG LEAR. 221 
 
 secretly encouraged to do by his mistress, Caius, not en- 
 during to hear so open an affront put upon his majesty, 
 made no more ado but presently tripped up his heels, 
 and laid the unmannerly slave in the kennel ; for which 
 friendly service Lear became more and more attached to 
 him. 
 
 Nor was Kent the only friend Lear had. In his 
 degree, and as far as so insignificant a personage could 
 show his love, the poor fool, or jester, that had been of 
 his palace while Lear had a palace, as it was the custom 
 of kings and great personages at that time to keep a fool 
 (as he was called) to make them sport after serious busi- 
 ness : this poor fool clung to Lear after he had given 
 away his crown, and by his witty sayings would keep up 
 his good humour, though he could not refrain sometimes 
 from jeering at his master for his imprudence, in un- 
 crowning himself, and giving all away to his daughters : 
 at which time, as he rhymingly expressed it, these 
 daughters 
 
 For sudden Joy did weep, 
 
 And he for sorrow sung, 
 That such a king should play bo-peep, 
 
 And go the fools among. 
 
 And in such wild sayings, and scraps of songs, of 
 which he had plenty, this pleasant honest fool poured 
 out his heart even in the presence of Goneril herself, in 
 n)any a bitter taunt and jest which cut to the quick : such 
 as comparing the king to the hedge-sparrow, who feeds 
 the young of the cuckoo till they grow old enough, and 
 then has its head bit off for its pains ; and saying, that an 
 ass may know when the cart draws the horse (meaning 
 that Lear's daughters, that ought to go behind, now 
 ranked before their father) ; and that Lear was no longer 
 Lear, but the shadow of Lear : for which free speeches 
 he was once or twice threatened to be whipped. 
 
 The coolness and falling off of respect which Lear had 
 begun to perceive, were not all which this foolish fond 
 father was to suffer from his unworthy daughter : she 
 now plainly told him that his staying in her palace was
 
 222 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 inconvenient so long as he insisted upon keeping up an 
 establishment of a hundred knights ; that this establish- 
 ment was useless and expensive, and only served to fill 
 her court with riot and feasting ; and she prayed him 
 that he would lessen their number, and keep none but 
 old men about him, such as himself, and fitting his age. 
 
 Lear at first could not believe his eyes or ears, nor 
 that it was his daughter who spoke so unkindly. He 
 could not believe that she who had received a crown 
 from him could seek to cut off his train, and grudge him 
 the respect due to his old age. But she persisting in 
 her undutiful demand, the old man's rage was so excited, 
 that he called her a detested kite, and said that she spoke 
 an untruth ; and so indeed she did, for the hundred 
 knights were all men of choice behaviour and sobriety of 
 manners, skilled in all particulars of duty, and not given 
 to rioting and feasting, as she said. And he bid his 
 horses to be prepared, for he would go to his other 
 daughter, Regan, he and his hundred knights : and he 
 spoke of ingratitude, and said it was a marble-hearted 
 devil, and showed more hideous in a child than the sea- 
 monster. And he cursed his eldest daughter Goneril so 
 as was terrible to hear ; praying that she might never 
 have a child, or if she had, that it might live to return 
 that scorn and contempt u})on her which she had shown 
 to him ; that she might feel how sharper than a serpent's 
 tooth it was to have a thankless child. And Goneril's 
 husband, the duke of Albany, beginning to excuse him- 
 self for any share which Lear might suppose he had in 
 the unkindness, Lear would not hear him out, but in a 
 rage ordered his horses to be saddled, and set out with 
 liis followers for the abode of Regan, his other daughter. 
 And Lear thought to himself how small the fault of 
 Cordelia (if it was a fault) now appeared, in comparison 
 with her sister's, and he wept ; and then he was ashamed 
 that such a creature as Goneril should have so much 
 power over his manhood as to make him weep. 
 
 Regan and her husband were keeping their court in 
 great pomp and state at their palace ; and Lear dispatched 
 his servant Caius with letters to his daughter, that she
 
 KESTG LEAR. 223 
 
 might be prepared for his reception, while he and his 
 train followed after. But it seems that Goneril had 
 been beforehand with him, sending letters also to Regan, 
 accusing her father of waywardness and ill humours, and 
 advising her not to receive so great a train as he was 
 bringing with him. This messenger arrived at the same 
 time with Caius, and Caius and he met : and who should 
 it be but Caius's old enemy the steward, whom he had 
 formerly tripped up by the heels for his saucy behaviour 
 to Lear ! Caius not liking the fellow's look, and suspect- 
 ing what he came for, began to revile him, and chal- 
 lenged him to fight, which the fellow refusing, Caius, in 
 a fit of honest passion, beat him soundly, as such a mis- 
 chief-maker and carrier of wicked messages deserved ; 
 which coming to the ears of Regan and her husband, 
 they ordered Caius to be put in the stocks, though he 
 was a messenger from the king her father, and in that 
 character demanded the highest respect: so that the 
 first thing the king saw when he entered the castle, was 
 his faithful servant Caius sitting in that disgraceful situa- 
 tion. 
 
 This was but a bad omen of the reception which he 
 was to expect ; but a worse followed, when upon inquiry 
 for his daughter and her husband, he was told they were 
 weary with travelling all night, and could not see him ; 
 and when lastly, upon his insisting in a positive and 
 angry manner to see them, they came to gi'eet him, 
 whom should he see in their company but the hated Go- 
 neril, who had come to tell her own story, and set her 
 sister against the king her father ! 
 
 This sight much moved the old man, and still more to 
 see Regan take her by the hand ; and he asked Goneril 
 if she was not ashamed to look upon his old white beard. 
 And Regan advised him to go home again with Goneril, 
 and live with her peaceably, dismissing half of his attend 
 dants, and to ask her forgiveness ; for he was old and 
 wanted discretion, and must be ruled and led by persons 
 that had more discretion than himself. And Lear showed 
 how preposterous that would sound, if he were to down 
 on his knees, and beg of his own daughter for food and
 
 224 TALES FROM SHAKSPEKE. 
 
 raiment, and he argned against such an unnatural de- 
 pendence, declaring his resolution never to return with 
 her, but to stay where he was with Regan, he and his 
 liundred knights ; for he said that she had not forgot the 
 half of the kingdom which he had endowed her with, 
 and that her eyes were not fierce like Goneril's, but 
 mild and kind. And he said that rather than return to 
 Goneril, with half his train cut off, he would go over to 
 France, and beg a wretched pension of the king there, 
 who had married his youngest daughter without a portion. 
 
 But he was mistaken in expecting kinder treatment of 
 Regan than he had experienced from her sister Goneril. 
 As if willing to outdo her sister in unfilial behaviour, 
 she declared that she thought fifty knights too many to 
 wait upon him : that five-and-twenty were enough. Then 
 Lear, nigh heart-broken, turned to Goneril, and said 
 that he would go back with her, for her fifty doubled 
 five-and-twenty, and so her love was twice as much as 
 Regan's. But Goneril excused herself, and said. What 
 need of so many as five-and-twenty ? or even ten ? or 
 +ive ? when he might be waited upon by her servants, or 
 her sister's servants ? So these two wicked daughters, 
 as if they strove to exceed each other in cruelty to their 
 old father who had been so good to them, by little and 
 little would have abated him of all his train, all respect 
 (little enough for him that once commanded a kingdom), 
 which was left him to show that he had once been a 
 king! Not that a splendid train is essential to happi- 
 ness, but from a king to a beggar is a hard change, from 
 commanding millions to be without one attendant ; and 
 it was the ingratitude in his daughters' denying it, more 
 than what he would sufier by the want of it, which 
 pierced this poor king to the heart ; insomuch, that with 
 this double ill usage, and vexation for having so foolishly 
 given away a kingdom, his wits began to be unsettled, 
 and while he said he knew not what, he vowed revenge 
 against those unnatural hags, and to make examples of 
 them that should be a terror to the earth ! 
 
 While he was thus idly threatening what his weak 
 arm could never execute, night came on, and a loud
 
 KING LEAB. 225 
 
 storm of thunder and lightning with rain ; and his daugh- 
 ters still persisting in their resolution not to admit his 
 followers, he called for his horses, and chose rather to 
 encounter the utmost fury of the storm abroad, than stay 
 under the same roof with these ungrateful daughters : 
 and they, saying that the injuries which wilful men pro- 
 cure to themselves are their just punishment, suffered 
 him to go in that condition, and shut their doors upon 
 him.** 
 
 The winds were high, and the rain and storm in- 
 creased, when the old man sallied forth to combat with 
 the elements, less sharp than his daughters' unkindness. 
 For many miles about there was scarce a bush ; and there 
 upOn a heath, exposed to the fury of the storm in a dark 
 night, did king Lear wander out, and defy the winds 
 and the thunder : and he bid the winds to blow the earth 
 into the sea, or swell the waves of the sea till they 
 drowned the earth, that no token might remain of any 
 such ungrateful animal as man. The old king was now 
 left with no other companion than the poor fool, who still 
 abided with him, with his merry conceits striving to out- 
 jest misfortune, saying, it was but a naughty night to 
 swim in, and truly the king had better go in and ask his 
 daughter's blessing : 
 
 But he that has a little tiny wit, 
 With heigh ho, the wind and the rain ! 
 Must make content with his fortunes fit, 
 Though the rain it raineth every day : 
 
 and swearing it was a brave night to cool a lady's pride. 
 Thus poorly accompanied this once great monarch was 
 found by his ever-faithful servant the good earl of Kent, 
 now transformed to Caius, who ever followed close at his 
 side, though the king did not know him to be the carl ; 
 and he said, "Alas! sir, are you here? creatures that 
 love night, love not such nights as these. This dreadful 
 storm has driven the beasts to their hiding places. Man's 
 nature cannot endure the affliction or the fear." And 
 Lear rebuked him and said, these lesser evils were not 
 
 » Extract I. 
 
 l3
 
 226 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 felt, where a greater malady was fixed. When the mind 
 is at ease, the body has leisure to be delicate ; but the 
 tempest in his mind did take all feeling else from his 
 senses, but of that which beat at his heart. And he 
 spoke of filial ingratitude, and said it was all one as if the 
 mouth should tear the hand for lifting food to it ; for pa- 
 rents were hands and food and every thing to children. 
 
 But the good Caius still persisting in his entreaties 
 that the king would not stay out in the open air, at last 
 persuaded him to enter a little wretched hovel which 
 stood upon the heath, where the fool first entering, sud- 
 denly ran back terrified, saying that he had seen a spirit. 
 But upon examination this spirit proved to be nothing 
 more than a poor Bedlam beggar, who had crept into 
 this deserted hovel for shelter, and with his talk about 
 devils frighted the fool, one of those poor lunatics who 
 are either mad, or fei^ to be so, the better to extort 
 charity from the compassionate country people, who go 
 about the country, calling themselves poor Tom and poor 
 Turlygod, saying, " Who gives any thing to poor 
 Tom ?" sticking pins and nails and sprigs of rosemary 
 into their arms to make them bleed ; and with such hor- 
 rible actions, partly by prayers and partly with lunatic 
 curses, they move or teiTify the ignorant country-folks 
 into giving them alms. This poor fellow was such a 
 one ; and the king seeing him in so wretched a plight, 
 with nothing but a blanket about his loins to cover his 
 nakedness, could not be persuaded but that the fellow- 
 was some father who had given all away to his daughters, 
 and brought himself to that pass : for nothing he thought 
 could bring a man to such wretchedness but the having 
 unkind daughters. 
 
 And from this and many such wild speeches which he 
 uttered, the good Caius plainly perceived that he was 
 not in his perfect mind, but that his daughters' ill usage 
 had really made him go mad. And now the loyalty of 
 this worthy earl of Kent showed itself in more essential 
 services than he had hitherto found opportunity to per- 
 fonn. For with the assistance of some of the king's at- 
 tendants who remained loyal, he had the person of his
 
 KLNG L£AE. 227 
 
 royal master removed at daybreak to the castle of Dover, 
 where his own friends and influence, as earl of Kent, 
 chiefly lay ; and himself embarking for France, hastened 
 to the court of Cordelia, and did there in such moving- 
 terms represent the pitiful condition of her royal father, 
 and set out in such lively colours the inhumanity of hei- 
 sisters, that this good and loving child with many tears 
 besought the king her husband, that he would give her 
 leave to embark for England with a sufficient power to 
 subdue these cruel daughters and their husbands, and re- 
 store the old king her father to his throne ; which being 
 granted, she set forth, and with a royal army landed at 
 Dover. 
 
 Lear having by some chance escaped from the guar- 
 dians which the good earl of Kent had put over him to 
 take care of him in his lunacy, was found by some of Cor- 
 delia's train, wandering about the fields near Dover, in a 
 pitiable condition, stark mad, and singing aloud to him- 
 self, with a crown upon his head which he had made of 
 straw, and nettles, and other wild weeds that he had 
 picked up in the corn-fields. By the advice of the phy- 
 sicians, Cordelia, though earnestly desirous of seeing her 
 father, was prevailed upon to put off the meeting, till, by 
 sleep and the operation of herbs which they gave him, 
 he should be restored to greater composure. By the aid 
 of these skilful physicians, to whom Cordelia promised all 
 her gold and jewels for the recovery of the old king, 
 Lear was soon in a condition to see his daughter. 
 
 A tender sight it was to see the meeting between this 
 father and daughter ; to see the struggles between the 
 joy of this poor old king at beholding again his once 
 darling child, and the shame at receiving such filial kind- 
 ness from her whom he had cast off for so small a fault in 
 his displeasure ; both these passions struggling with the 
 remains of his malady, which in his half-crazed brain 
 sometimes made him that he scarce remembered where 
 he was, or who it was that so kindly kissed him and 
 spoke to him : and then he would beg the standers-by not 
 to laugh at him, if he were mistaken in thinking this lady 
 to be his daughter Cordelia ! And then to see him fall
 
 228 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 on his knees to beg pardon of his child ; and she, good 
 lady, kneeling all the while to ask a blessing of him, and 
 telling him that it did not become him to kneel, but it 
 was her duty, for she was his child, his true and very 
 child Cordelia ! And she kissed him (as she said) to 
 kiss away all her sisters' unkindness, and said that they 
 might be ashamed of themselves, to turn their old kind 
 father with his white beard out into the cold air, when 
 her enemy's dog, though it had bit her (as she prettily 
 expressed it), should have staid by her fire such a night 
 as that, and warmed himself. And she told her father 
 how she had come from France with purpose to bring 
 him assistance ; and he said that she must forget and for- 
 give, for he was old and foolish, and did not know what 
 he did ; but that to be sure she had great cause not to 
 love him, but her sisters had none. And Cordelia said, 
 that she had no cause, no more than they had. 
 
 So we will leave this old king in the protection of this 
 dutiful and loving child, where, by the help of sleep and 
 medicine, she and her physicians at length succeeded 
 in winding up the untuned and jarring senses which the 
 cruelty of his other daughters had so violently shaken. 
 Let us return to say a word or two about those cruel 
 daughters. 
 
 These monsters of ingratitude, who had been so false 
 to their old father, could not be expected to prove more 
 faithful to their own husbands. They soon grew tired 
 of paying even the appearance of duty and affection, and 
 in an open way showed they had fixed their loves upon 
 another. It happened that the object of their guilty 
 loves was the same. It was Edmund, a natural son of 
 the late earl of Gloucester, who by his treacheries had 
 succeeded in disinheriting his brother Edgar, the lawful 
 heir, from his earldom, and by his wicked practices v.-as 
 now earl himself; a wicked man, and a fit object for the 
 love of such wicked creatures as Goneril and Regan. It 
 falling out about this time that the duke of Cornwall, 
 Regan's husband, died, Regan immediately declared her 
 intention of wedding this earl of Gloucester, which rous- 
 ing the jealousy of her sister, to whom as well as to
 
 KIXG LEAR. 229 
 
 Regan this wicked earl had at sundry times professed 
 love, Goneril found means to make away with her sister 
 by poison ; but being detected in her practices, and im- 
 prisoned by her husband the duke of Albany for this 
 deed, and for her guilty passion for the earl which had 
 come to his ears, she, in a fit of disappointed love and 
 rage, shortly put an end to her own life. Thus the jus- 
 tice of Heaven at last overtook these wicked daughters. 
 
 While the eyes of all men were upon this event, ad- 
 miring the justice displayed in their deserved deaths, the 
 same eyes were suddenly taken off from this sight to 
 admire at the mysterious ways of the same power in the 
 melancholy fate of the young and virtuous daughter, the 
 lady Cordelia, whose good deeds did seem to deserve a 
 more fortunate conclusion : but it is an awful truth, that 
 innocence and piety are not always successful in this 
 world. The forces which Goneril and Regan had sent 
 out under the command of the bad earl of Gloucester 
 were victorious, and Cordelia, by the practices of this 
 wicked earl, who did not like that any should stand be- 
 tween him and the throne, ended her life in prison. 
 Thus, Heaven took this innocent lady to itself in her 
 young years, after showing her to the world an illustrious 
 example of filial duty. Lear did not long survive this 
 kind child. 
 
 Before he died, the good earl of Kent, who had still 
 attended his old master's steps from the first of his 
 daughters' ill usage to this sad period of his decay, tried 
 to make him understand that it was he who had followed 
 him under the name of Caius ; but Lear's care-crazed 
 brain at that time could not comprehend how that could 
 be, or how Kent and Caius could be the same person ; 
 so Kent thought it needless to trouble him with explana- 
 tions at such a time ; and Lear soon after expiring, this 
 faithful servant to the king, between age and gi'ief for 
 his old master's vexations, soon followed him to the 
 grave.* 
 
 How the judgment of Heaven overtook the bad earl 
 of Gloucester, whose treasons were discovered, and him- 
 
 * Extract 11.
 
 230 TALES FROM SHAKSPEKE. 
 
 self slain in single combat with his brother, the lawful 
 earl ; and how Goneril's husband, the duke of Albany, 
 who was innocent of the death of Cordelia, and had never 
 encouraged his lady in her wicked proceedings against 
 her father, ascended the throne of Britain "after the 
 death of Lear, is needless here to narrate ; Lear and his 
 Three Daughters being dead, whose adventures alone 
 concern our story.
 
 KING LEAR. 231 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 Act II.— Scene IV. 
 
 Enter Cornwall, Regan, Glostek, and Servants. 
 
 Lear. Good morrow to you both. 
 
 Corn. Hail to your grace ' 
 
 [Kent is set at iiherty. 
 
 Beg. I am glad to see your highness. 
 
 Lear. Regan, I think you are : I know what reason 
 I have to think so ; if thou shoiddst not be glad, 
 I would divorce me from thy mother's tomb, 
 Sepulch'ring an adultress.— O, are you free ? [ To Kent. 
 Some other time for that. — Beloved Regan, 
 Thy sister 's naught : O Regan, she hath tied 
 Sharp-tooth'd unkindness, like a vulture, here,— 
 
 [^Points to his heart, 
 I can scarce speak to thee : thou 'It not believe. 
 With how deprav'd a quality — O Regan ! 
 
 Reg. I pray you, sir, take patience ; I have hope 
 You less know how to value her desert, 
 Than she to scant her duty.a 
 
 Lear. Say, how is that ? 
 
 Reg. I cannot think my sister in the least 
 Would fail her obligation : If, sir, perchance, 
 She have restrain'd the riots of your followers, 
 'T is on such ground, and to such wholesome end. 
 As clears her from all blame. 
 
 Lear. My curses on her ! 
 
 Reg. 0, sir, you are old ; 
 
 Nature in you stands on the very verge 
 
 » The construction here is involved, but the meaning is evident. 
 You less know how to value her desert than she knows to scant her 
 duty.
 
 a32 TALES FROM SHAKSPEKE. 
 
 Of her confine : you should be rul'd and led 
 By some discretion, that discerns your state 
 Better than you yourself: Therefore, I pray you, 
 That to our sister you do make return : 
 Say, you have wrong'd her. 
 
 Lear. Ask her forgiveness? 
 
 Do you but mark how this becomes the house ?* 
 " Dear daughter, I confess that I am old 
 Age is unnecessary^ : on my knees I beg, 
 That you '11 vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and food." 
 
 Reg. Good sir, no more ; these are unsightly tricks : 
 Return you to my sister. 
 
 Lear. Never, Regan: 
 
 She hath abated me of half my train ; 
 Look'd black upon me ; strook me with her tongue, 
 Most serpent-like, upon the very heart : — 
 All the stor'd vengeances of heaven fall 
 On her ingrateful top ! Strike her young bones, 
 You taking airs, with lameness ! 
 
 Corn. Fye, sir, fye ! 
 
 Lear. You nimble lightnings, dart your blinding flames 
 Into her scornful eyes ! Infect her beauty, 
 You fen-suck'd fogs, drawn by the powerful sun, 
 To fall and blister. 
 
 Reg. O the blest gods ! 
 
 So will you wish on me, when the rash mood 's on. 
 
 Lear. No, Regan, thou shalt never have my curse ; 
 Thy tender-hefted*^ nature shall not give 
 Thee o'er to harshness ; her eyes are fierce, but thine 
 Do comfort, and not burn : 'T is not in thee 
 To grudge my pleasures, to cut off my train. 
 To bandy hasty words, to scant my sizes,"^ 
 And, in conclusion, to oppose the bolt 
 Against my coming in : thou better know'st 
 The offices of nature, bond of childhood. 
 Effects of courtesy, dues of gratitude ; 
 
 » The house. Capell says, " This is one of the lines that mark 
 Shakspere: . . . tAe /io?«e; is an expression worthy his genius : fathers 
 are not the heads only of a house or a family, but its representatives ; 
 thev are the house, what aftects them affects the rest of its body." 
 
 b" Tender-hefted. Heft— haft, is that which is haved—held; and thus, 
 thy tender -hefted nature may be thy nature which may be held by ten- 
 derness. 
 
 « Sizes — allowances. A sizar in a college is one to whom certain 
 iizes or portions are allowed.
 
 KING LEAR. 233 
 
 Thy half o' the kingdom hast thou not forgot, 
 Wherein I thee endow'd. 
 
 Beg. Good sir, to the purpose. 
 
 \_Trumpets within. 
 
 Lear. Who put my man i' the stocks ? 
 
 Corn. What trumpet 's that ? 
 
 Enter Steward. 
 
 Reg. I know 't, my sister's : this approves her letter, 
 That'she would soon be here. — Is your lady come? 
 
 Lear. This is a slave, whose easy-borrow'd pride 
 Dwells in the fickle grace of her he follows : — 
 Out, varlet, from my sight ! 
 
 Corn. What means your grace ? 
 
 Lear. Who stock'd my servant ? Regan, I have good hope 
 Thou didst not know on 't. — Who comes here ? O heavens, 
 
 Enter Gonehil. 
 If you do love old men, if your sweet sway 
 Allow obedience, if you yourselves are old. 
 Make it your cause ; send down, and take my part ! — 
 Art not asham'd to look upon this beard ? — [ To Gon. 
 
 0, Regan, wilt thou take her by the hand ? 
 
 Gon. Why not by the hand, sir ? How have I offended ? 
 All 's not offence that indiscretion finds, 
 And dotage terms so. 
 
 Lear. O, sides, you are too tough ! 
 
 Will you yet hold ? — How came my man i' the stocks ? 
 
 Corn. I set him there, sir : but his own disorders 
 Deserved much less advancement. 
 
 Lear. You ! did you ? 
 
 Reg. I pray you, father, being weak, seem so. 
 If, till the expiration of your month, 
 You will return and sojourn with my sister. 
 Dismissing half your train, come then to me ; 
 I am now from home, and out of that provision 
 Which shall be needful for your entertainment. 
 
 Lear. Return to her, and fifty men dismiss'd ? 
 No, rather I abjure all roofs, and choose 
 To wage against the enmity o' the air ; 
 To be a comrade with the wolf and owl, — 
 Necessity's sharp pinch ! — Return with her ? 
 Why, the hot-blooded France, that dowerless took 
 Our youngest born, I could as well be brought
 
 234 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 To knee his throne, and, squire-like, pension beg 
 
 To keep base life afoot : — Keturn with her ? 
 
 Persuade me rather to be slave and sumpter 
 
 To this detested groom. [Looking on the Steward. 
 
 Gon. At your choice, sir. 
 
 Zea?: I prithee, daughter, do not make me mad; 
 I will not trouble thee, my child ; farewell : 
 We '11 no more meet, no more see one another: — 
 But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my daughter ; 
 Or, rather, a disease that 's in my flesh. 
 Which I must needs call mine ; thou art a boil, 
 A plague-sore, or embossed carbvmcle, 
 In my corrupted blood. But I '11 not chide thee ; 
 Let shame come when it will, I do not call it : 
 I do not bid the thunder-bearer shoot, 
 Nor tell tales of thee to high-judging Jove : 
 iSIend, when thou canst ; be better, at thy leisure : 
 I can be patient ; I can stay with Eegan, 
 I, and my hundred knights. 
 
 lieg. Not altogether so ; 
 
 I look'd not for you yet, nor am provided 
 For your fit welcome : Give ear, sir, to my sister ; 
 For those that mingle reason with your passion, 
 Must be content to think you old, and so — 
 But she knows what she does. 
 
 Zear. Is this well spoken ? 
 
 Jieg. I dare avouch it, sir : What, fifty followers ? 
 Is it not well ? What should you need of more ? 
 Yea, or so many? sith that both charge and danger 
 Speak 'gainst so great a number ? How, in one house, 
 Should many people, under two commands, 
 Hold amity ? 'T is hard; almost impossible. 
 
 Gon. Why might not you, my lord, receive attendance 
 From those that she calls servants, or from mine ? 
 
 Jieg. Why not, my lord ? If then they chanc'd to slack 
 you, 
 We could control them : If you will come to me, 
 (For now I spy a danger,) I entreat you 
 To bring but five-and-twenty ; to no more 
 Will I give place, or notice. 
 
 Lear. I gave you all — 
 
 Keg. And in good time you gave it. 
 
 Lear. Made you my guardians, my depositaries ; 
 But kept a reservation to be follow'd
 
 KING LEAR. 235 
 
 With such a number : What, must I come to you 
 With five-and-twenty, Regan ? said you so ? 
 
 Jieg. And speak 't again, my lord ; no more with me. 
 
 Lear. Those wicked creatures yet do look well-favour'd ! 
 When others are more wicked, not being the worst 
 Stands in some rank of praise : — I '11 go with thee ; 
 
 [To GONERIL. 
 
 Thy fifty yet doth double five-and-twenty, 
 And thou art twice her love. 
 
 Gon. Hear me, my lord ; 
 
 What need you five-and-twenty, ten, or five, 
 To follow in a house, where twice so many 
 Have a command to tend you ? 
 
 Reg. What need one ? 
 
 Lear. 0, reason not the need : our basest beggars 
 Are in the poorest thing superfluous : 
 Allow not nature more than nature needs, 
 Man's life is cheap as beast's : thou art a lady ; 
 If only to go warm were gorgeous, 
 Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear'st, 
 Which scarcely keeps thee warm. — But, for true need, — 
 You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need ! 
 You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, 
 As full of grief as age ; wretched in both ! 
 If it be you that stir these daughters' hearts 
 Against their father, fool me not so much 
 To bear it tamely ; touch me with noble anger ! 
 And let not women's weapons, water-drops. 
 Stain my man's cheeks ! — No, you unnatural hags, 
 I will have such revenges on you both, 
 That all the world shall — I will do such things — 
 What they are yet I know not ; but they shall be 
 The terrors of the earth. You think I '11 weep : 
 No, I '11 not weep — 
 
 I have full cause of weeping ; but this heart 
 Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws,"" 
 Gr ere 1 '11 weep : — O, fool, I shall go mad ! 
 
 [Exeunt Leak, Gloster, Kent, and Fool. 
 
 ^ Flaw. Douce conjectures that Jlaw might signify a frigme^it in 
 Shakspere's tirne, as well as a crack.
 
 236 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 II. 
 
 Act V. — Scene III. 
 
 Enter Lear, with Cordelia dead in his arms; Edgar, 
 Officer, and others. 
 
 Lear. Howl, howl, howl ! — O,' you are men of stones ; 
 Had I your tongues and eyes I 'd use them so 
 That heaven's vault should crack : — She 's gone for ever ! — 
 I know when one is dead, and when one lives ; 
 She is dead as earth : — Lend me a looking-glass ; 
 If that her breath will mist or stain the stone, 
 Why then she lives. 
 
 Kent. Is this the promis'd end ? * 
 
 Edg. Or image of that horror ? 
 
 Alb. Fall and cease ! 
 
 Lear. This feather stirs ; she lives ; if it be so, 
 It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows 
 That ever I have felt. 
 
 Kent. O my good master ! [Kneeling. 
 
 Lear. Prithee, away. 
 
 Edg. 'T is noble Kent, your friend. 
 
 Lear. A plague upon you, murderers, traitors all ! 
 I might have sav'd her ; now she 's gone for ever ! 
 Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little. Ha ! 
 What is 't thou saj-'st ? — Her voice was ever soft, 
 Gentle, and low ; an excellent thing in woman : — 
 I kill'd the slave that was a hanging thee. 
 
 OJf. 'T is true, my lords, he did. 
 
 Lear. Did I not, fellow ? 
 
 I have seen the day, with my good biting faulchion 
 I wordd have made them skip : I am old now. 
 And these same crosses spoil me. — Who are you ? 
 ^line eyes are not o' the best : — I '11 tell you straight. 
 
 Kejit. If fortune brag of two she lov'd and hated, 
 One of them we behold. 
 
 Lear. This is a dull sight. Are you not Kent ? 
 
 Kent. The same 
 
 Your servant Kent : Where is your servant Caius ? 
 
 Lear. He 's a good fellow, I can tell you that ; 
 He '11 strike, and quickly too : He 's dead and rotten. 
 
 = The promis'd end — the end of the world foretold in the Scriptures. 
 The " image of that horror" is the same as " the great doom's image" 
 of ' Macbeth.'
 
 KING LEAR. 
 
 237 
 
 Kent. No, my good lord ; I am the very man ;— 
 
 Lear. I '11 see that straight. 
 
 Kent. That, from your first of difference and decay, 
 Have follow'd your sad steps. 
 
 Lear. You are welcome hither. 
 
 Kent. Nor no man else ; all 's cheerless, dark, and dead- 
 ly-— 
 Your eldest daughters have fore-done themselves, 
 And desperately are dead. 
 
 Lear. Ay, so I think. 
 
 Alh. He knows not what he says ; and vain it is 
 That we present us to him. 
 
 Edg. Very bootless. 
 
 Enter an OflBcer. 
 
 Off. Edmund is dead, my lord. 
 
 Alh. That 's but a trifle here. — 
 
 You lords and noble friends, know our intent. 
 What comfort to this great decay may come 
 Shall be applied : For us, we will resign, 
 During the life of this old majesty, 
 To him our absolute power : — You, to your rights ; 
 
 [ To Edgar and Kent. 
 With boot, and such addition as your honours 
 Have more than merited. — All friends shall taste 
 The wages of their virtue, and all foes 
 The cup of their deservings. — 0, see, see ! 
 
 Lear. And my poor fool is hang'd ! No, no, no life : 
 Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life. 
 And thou no breath at all ? Thou 'It come no more. 
 Never, never, never, never, never ! — 
 Pray you undo this button: Thank you, sir. — 
 Do you see this ? Look on her, — look, — her lips, — 
 Look there, look there ! [^He dies. 
 
 Edg. He faints ! My lord, my lord, — 
 
 Kent. Break, heart ; I prithee, break ! 
 
 Edg. Look up, my lord. 
 
 Kent. Vex not his ghost: O, let him pass ! he hates him 
 That would upon the rack of this tough world 
 Stretch him out longer.
 
 u 
 
 jf^/: 
 
 X 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^H\ '^ ^ «
 
 ( 241 ) 
 
 MACBETH. 
 
 When Duncan the Meek reigned king of Scotland , there 
 lived a great thane, or lord, called Macbeth. This 
 Macbeth was a near kinsman to the king, and in great 
 esteem at court for his valour and conduct in the wars ; 
 an example of which he had lately given, in defeating a 
 rebel army assisted by the troops of Norway in terrible 
 numbers. 
 
 The two Scottish generals, Macbeth and Banquo, re- 
 turning victorious from this great battle, their way lay 
 over a blasted heath, where they were stopped by the 
 strange appearance of three figures like women, except 
 that they had beards, and their withered skins and wild 
 attire made them look not like any earthly creatures. 
 Macbeth first addressed them, when they, seemingly 
 offended, laid each one her choppy finger upon her 
 skinny lips, in token of silence ; and the first of them 
 saluted Macbeth with the title of thane of Glamis. The 
 general was not a little startled to find himself known by 
 such creatures ; but how much more, when the second of 
 them followed up that salute by giving him the title of 
 thane of Cawdor, to which honour he had no pretensions ; 
 and again the third bid him '' All hail! king that shalt 
 be hereafter!" Such a prophetic greeting might well 
 amaze him, who knew that while the king's sons lived he 
 could not hope to succeed to the throne. Then turning 
 to Banquo, they pronounced him, in a sort of riddling 
 terms, to be lesser than Macbeth and greater I not so 
 happy, hut much happier! and prophesied that though 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 242 TALES TROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 he should never reign, yet his sons after him should 
 be kings in Scotland. They then turned into air and 
 vanished ; by which the generals knew them to be the 
 weird sisters, or witches. 
 
 While they stood pondering on the strangeness of this 
 adventure, there arrived certain messengers from the 
 king, who were empowered by him to confer upon Mac- 
 beth the dignity of thane of Cawdor : an event so miracu- 
 lously corresponding with the prediction of the witches 
 astonished Macbeth, and he stood wrapped in amazement, 
 unable to make reply to the messengers ; and in that 
 point of time swelling hopes arose in his mind, that the 
 prediction of the third witch might in like manner have 
 its accomplishment, and that he should one day reign 
 king in Scotland. 
 
 Turning to Banquo, he said, " Do you not hope that 
 your children shall be kings, when what the witches pro- 
 mised to me has so wonderfully come to pass ?" " That 
 hope," answered the general, " might enkindle you to 
 aim at the throne ; but oftentimes these ministers of dark- 
 ness tell us truths in little things, to betray us into deeds 
 of greatest consequence." 
 
 But the wicked suggestions of the witches had sunk 
 too deep into the mind of Macbeth to allow him to attend 
 to the warnings of the good Banquo. From that time 
 he bent all his thoughts how to compass the throne of 
 Scotland. 
 
 Macbeth had a wife, to whom he communicated the 
 strange prediction of the weird sisters, and its partial 
 accomplishment. She was a bad ambitious woman, and 
 so as her husband and herself could arrive at greatness, 
 she cared not much by what means. She spurred on the 
 reluctant purpose of Macbeth, who felt compunction at 
 the thoughts of blood, and did not cease to represent the 
 murder of the king as a step absolutely necessary to the 
 fulfilment of the flattering prophecy. 
 
 It happened at this time that the king, who out of his 
 royal condescension would oftentimes visit his principal 
 nobility upon gracious terms, came to Macbeth's house, 
 attended by his two sons, Malcolm and Donalbain, and a
 
 MACBETH. 243 
 
 numerous train of thanes and attendants, the more to 
 honour Macbeth for the triumphal success of his wars. 
 
 The castle of Macbeth was pleasantly situated, and the 
 air about it was sweet and wholesome, which appeared 
 by the nests which the martlet, or swallow, had built 
 under all the jutting friezes and buttresses of the building-, 
 wherever it found a place of advantage ; for where those 
 birds most breed and haunt, the air is observed to be 
 delicate. The king entered well pleased wdtli the place, 
 and not less so with the attentions and respect of his 
 honoured hostess, lady Macbeth, who had the art of 
 covering treacherous purposes with smiles ; and. could 
 look like the innocent flower, while she was indeed the 
 serpent under it. 
 
 The king, being tired with his journey, went early to 
 bed, and in his state-room two grooms of his chamber 
 (as was the custom) slept beside him. He had been 
 unusually pleased with his reception, and had made pre- 
 sents before he retired to his principal officers ; and 
 among the rest, had sent a rich diamond to lady Mac- 
 beth, greeting her by the name of his most kind hostess. 
 
 Now was the middle of night, when over half the 
 world nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse men's 
 minds asleep, and none but the wolf and the murderer is 
 abroad. This was the time when lady Macbeth waked 
 to plot the murder of the king. She would not have 
 undertaken a deed so abhorrent to her sex, but that she 
 feared her husband's nature, that if was too full of the 
 milk of human kindness to do a contrived murder. She 
 knew him to be ambitious, but withal to be scrupulous, 
 and not yet prepared for that height of crime which 
 commonly in the end accompanies inordinate ambition. 
 She had won him to consent to the murder, but she 
 doubted his resolution ; and she feared that the natural 
 tenderness of his disposition (more humane than her own) 
 would come between, and defeat the purpose. So with 
 her own hands armed with a dagger, she approached the 
 king's bed ; having taken care to ply the grooms of his 
 chamber so with wine, that they slept intoxicated, and 
 careless of their charge. There lay Duncan, in a sound 
 
 M 2
 
 244 TALES FROM SHAKSPEKE. 
 
 sleep after the fatigues of his journey, and as she viewed 
 him earnestly, there was something in his face, as he 
 slept, which resembled her own father ; and she had not 
 the courage to proceed. 
 
 She returned to confer with her husband. His reso- 
 lution had begun to stagger. He considered that there 
 were strong reasons against the deed. In the first place, 
 he was not only a subject, but a near kinsman to the 
 king ; and he had been his host and entertainer that day, 
 whose duty, by the laws of hospitality, it was to shut the 
 door against his murderers, not bear the knife himself. 
 Then he considered how just and merciful a king this 
 Duncan had been, how clear of offence to his subjects, 
 how loving to his nobility, and in particular to him ; that 
 such kings are the peculiar cai*e of Heaven, and their 
 subjects doubly bound to revenge their deaths. Besides, 
 by the favom-s of the king, Macbeth stood high in the 
 opinion of all sorts of men, and how would those honours 
 be stained by the reputation of so foul a murder ! 
 
 In these conflicts of the mind lady Macbeth found her 
 husband, inclining to the better pai't, and resolving to 
 proceed no further. But she being a woman not easily 
 shaken from her evil purpose, began to pom- in at his 
 ears words which infused a portion of her own spirit into 
 his mind, assigning reason upon reason why he should 
 not shrink from what he had undertaken : how easy the 
 deed was ; how soon it would be over ; and how the 
 action of one short night would give to all their nights 
 and days to come sovereign sway and royalty ! Then 
 she threw contempt on his change of purpose, and accused 
 him of fickleness and cowardice ; and declai'ed that she 
 had given suck, and knew how tender it was to love the 
 babe that milked her ; but she would, while it was smiling 
 in her face, have plucked it from her breast, and dashed 
 its brains out, if she had so sworn to do it, as he had 
 sworn to perform that murder. Then she added, how 
 practicable it was to lay the guilt of the deed upon the 
 drunken sleepy grooms. And with the valour of her 
 tongue she so chastised his sluggish resolutions, that he 
 once more summoned up courage to the bloody business.
 
 MACBETH. 245 
 
 So, taking the dagger in his hand, he softly stole in 
 the dark to the room where Duncan lay ; and as he went, 
 he thought he saw another dagger in the air, with the 
 handle towards him, and on the blade and at the point of 
 it drops of blood ; but when he tried to grasp at it, it 
 was nothing but air, a mere phantasm proceeding from 
 his own hot and oppressed brain and the business he had 
 in hand. 
 
 Getting rid of this fear, he entered the king's room, 
 whom he dispatched with one stroke of his dagger. Just 
 as he had done the murder, one of the grooms, who slept 
 in the chamber, laughed in his sleep, and the other cried, 
 "Murder!" which woke them both; but they said a 
 short prayer; one of them said, " God bless us!" and 
 the other answered " Amen ;" and addressed themselves 
 to sleep again. Macbeth, who stood listening to them, 
 tried to say, " Amen," when the fellow said, " God 
 bless us !" but, though he had most need of a blessing, the 
 word stuck in his throat, and he could not pronounce it. 
 
 Again he thought he heard a voice which cried " Sleep 
 no more : Macbeth doth murder sleep, the innocent sleep, 
 that nourishes life." Still it cried, " Sleep no more," to 
 all the house, " Glamis hath murdered sleep, and there- 
 fore Cawdor shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall sleep no 
 more." 
 
 With such horrible imaginations Macbeth returned to 
 his listening wife, who began to think he had failed of his 
 purpose, and that the deed was somehow frustrated. He 
 came in so distracted a state, that she reproached him 
 with his want of firmness, and sent him to wash his hands 
 of the blood which stained them, while she took his 
 dagger, with purpose to stain the cheeks of the grooms 
 with blood, to make it seem their guilt. 
 
 Morning came, and with it the discovery of the murder, 
 which could not be concealed ; and though Macbeth and 
 his lady made great show of grief, and the proofs against 
 the grooms (the dagger being produced against them and 
 their faces smeared with blood) were sufficiently strong, 
 yet the entire suspicion fell upon Macbeth, whose in- 
 ducements to such a deed were so much more forcible
 
 246 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 than such poor silly grooms could be supposed to have ; 
 and Duncan's two sons fled. Malcolm, the eldest, sought 
 for refuge in the English court ; and the youngest, Donal- 
 bain, made his escape to Ireland, 
 
 The king's sons, who should have succeeded him, 
 having thus vacated the throne, Macbeth as next heir 
 was crowned king, and thus the prediction of the weird 
 sisters w^as literally accomplished. 
 
 Though placed so high, ^Macbeth and his queen could 
 not forget the prophecy of the weird sisters, that, though 
 Macbeth should be king, yet not his children, but the 
 children of Banquo, should be kings after him. The 
 thought of this, and that they had defiled their hands 
 with blood, and done so great crimes, only to place the 
 posterity of Banquo upon the throne, so rankled within 
 them, that they determined to put to death both Banquo 
 and his son, to make void the predictions of the weird 
 sisters, which in their own case had been so remarkably 
 brought to pass. 
 
 For this purpose they made a great supper, to which 
 they invited all the chief thanes ; and, among the rest, 
 with marks of particular respect, Banquo and his son 
 Fleance w'ere invited. The way by which Banquo was 
 to pass to the palace at night, was beset by murderers 
 appointed by Macbeth, who stabbed Banquo ; but in the 
 scuffle Fleance escaped. From that Fleance descended 
 a race of monarchs who afterwards filled the Scottish 
 throne, ending with James the Sixth of Scotland and the 
 First of England, under whom the two crowns of Eng- 
 land and Scotland were united. 
 
 At supper the queen, whose manners were in the 
 highest degree affable and royal, played the hostess with 
 a gracefulness and attention which conciliated e^ery one 
 present, and ^lacbeth discoursed freely with his thanes 
 and nobles, saying, that all that was honourable in the 
 country was under his roof, if he had but his good friend 
 Banquo present, whom yet he hoped he should rather 
 have to chide for neglect, than to lament for any mis- 
 chance. Just at these words the ghost of Banquo, whom 
 he had caused to be murdered, entered the room, and
 
 MACBETH. 247 
 
 placed himself on the chair which Macbeth was about to 
 occupy. Though Macbeth was a bold man, and one 
 that could have faced the devil without trembling-, at this 
 horrible sight his cheeks turned white with fear, and he 
 stood quite unmanned with his eyes fixed upon the ghost. 
 His queen and all the nobles, who saw nothing, but 
 perceived him gazing (as they thought) upon an empty 
 chair, took it for a fit of distraction ; and she reproached 
 him, whispering that it was but the same fancy which 
 had made him see the dagger in the air, when he was 
 about to kill Duncan. But Macbeth continued to see 
 the ghost, and gave no heed to all they could say, while 
 he addressed it with distracted words, yet so significant, 
 that his queen, fearing the dreadful secret would be dis- 
 closed, in great haste dismissed the guests, excusing the 
 infirmity of Macbeth as a disorder he was often troubled 
 with. 
 
 To such dreadful fancies Macbeth was subject. His 
 c(ueen and he had their sleeps afflicted with terrible 
 dreams, and the blood of Banquo troubled them not 
 more than the escape of Fleance, whom now they looked 
 upon as father to a line of kings, who should keep their 
 posterity out of the throne. With these miserable thoughts 
 they found no peace, and Macbeth determined once more 
 to seek out the weird sisters, and know from them the 
 worst. 
 
 He sought them in a cave upon the heath, where they, 
 who knew by foresight of his coming, were engaged in 
 preparing their dreadful charms, by which they conjured 
 up infernal spirits to reveal to them futurity. Their 
 horrid ingredients were toads, bats, and serpents, the 
 eye of a newt, and the tongue of a dog, the leg of a 
 lizard, and the wing of the night owl, the scale of a dragon, 
 the tooth of a wolf, the maw of the ravenous salt sea 
 shark, the mummy of a witch, the root of the poisonous 
 hemlock (this to have eftect must be digged in the dark), 
 the gall of a goat, and the liver of a Jew, with slips of 
 the yew tree that roots itself in graves, and the finger of 
 a dead child : all these were set on to boil in a great 
 kettle, or caldron, which, as fast as it grew too hot, was
 
 248 TALES FROM SHAKSPEEE. 
 
 cooled with a baboon's blood : to these they poured in 
 the blood of a sow that had eaten her young, and they 
 threw into the flame the grease that had sweaten from a 
 murderer's gibbet. By these charms they bound the 
 infernal spirits to answer their questions. 
 
 It was demanded of Macbeth, whether he would have 
 his doubts resolved by them, or by their masters, the 
 spirits. He, nothing daunted by the dreadful ceremonies 
 which he saw, boldly answered, " Where are they? let 
 me see them." And they called the spirits, which were 
 three. And the first arose in the likeness of an armed 
 head, and he called Macbeth by name, and bid him 
 beware of the thane of Fife ; for which caution Macbeth 
 thanked him ; for Macbeth had entertained a jealousy of 
 Macduff, the thane of Fife. 
 
 And the second spirit arose in the likeness of a bloody 
 child, and he called jNIacbeth by name, and bid him have 
 no fear, but laugh to scorn the power of man, for none of 
 woman born should have power to hurt him ; and he 
 advised him to be bloody, bold, and resolute. " Then 
 live, Macduff!" cried the king; " what need I fear of 
 thee ? but yet I will make assurance doubly sure. Thou 
 shalt not live ; that I may tell pale-hearted Fear it lies, 
 and sleep in spite of thunder." 
 
 That spirit being dismissed, a third arose in the form 
 of a child crowned, with a tree in his hand. He called 
 Macbeth by name, and comforted him against conspira- 
 cies, saying, that he should never be vanquished, until 
 the wood of Biniam to Dunsinane Hill should come 
 against him. "Sweet bodements ! good!" cried Mac- 
 beth ; "who can unfix the forest, and move it from its 
 earth-bound roots ? I see I shall live the usual period of 
 man's life, and not be cut off by a violent death. But 
 my heart throbs to know one thing. Tell me, if your 
 art can tell so much, if Banquo's issue shall ever reign in 
 this kingdom ?" Here the caldron sunk into the ground, 
 and a noise of music was heard, and eight shadows, like 
 kings, passed by Macbeth, and Banquo last, who bore a 
 glass which showed the figures of many more, and Ban- 
 quo all bloody smiled upon jMacbeth, and pointed to
 
 MACBETH. 249 
 
 them ; by which Macbeth knew that these were the pos- 
 terity of Banquo, who should reign after him in Scotland ; 
 and the witches, with a sound of soft music, and with 
 dancing, making a show of duty and w^elcome to Mac- 
 beth, vanished. And from this time the thoughts of 
 Macbeth were all bloody and dreadful. 
 
 The first thing he heard when he got out of the 
 witches' cave, was that Macduff, thane of Fife, had fled 
 to England, to join the army which was forming against 
 him under Malcolm, the eldest son of the late king, with 
 intent to displace Macbeth, and set Malcolm, the right 
 heir, upon the throne. Macbeth, stung with rage, set 
 upon the castle of Macduff and put his wife and children, 
 whom the thane had .left behind, to the sword, and ex- 
 tended the slaughter to all who claimed the least relation- 
 ship to Macduff. 
 
 These and such-like deeds alienated the minds of all his 
 chief nobility from him. Such as could, fled to join with 
 Malcolm and Macduff, who were now approaching with 
 a powerful army which they had raised in England ; and 
 the rest secretly wished success to their arms, though for 
 fear of Macbeth they could take no active part. His 
 recruits went on slowly. Every body hated the tyrant, 
 nobody loved or honoured him ; but all suspected him, 
 and he began to envy the condition of Duncan, whom he 
 had murdered, who slept soundly in his grave, against 
 whom treason had done its worst : steel ."nor poison, do- 
 mestic malice nor foreign levies, could hurt him any 
 longer. 
 
 While these things were acting, the queen, who had 
 been the sole partner in his wickedness, in whose bosom 
 he could sometimes seek a momentary repose from those 
 terrible dreams which afflicted them both nightly, died, 
 it is supposed by her own hands, unable to bear the re- 
 morse of guilt, and public hate ; by which event he was 
 left alone, without a soul to love or care for him, or a 
 friend to whom he could confide his wicked purposes. 
 
 He grew careless of life, and wished lor death ; but 
 the near approach of Malcolm's army roused in him what 
 remained of his ancient courage, and he determined to
 
 250 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 die (as he expressed it) ''with armour on his back." 
 Besides this, the hollow promises of the witches had 
 filled him with false confidence, and he remembered the 
 sayings of the spirits, that none of woman bom was to 
 hurt him, and that he was never to be vanquished till 
 Birnam wood should come to Dunsinane, which he 
 thousrht could never be. So he shut himself up in his 
 castle, whose impregnable strength Avas such as defied a 
 siege : here he sullenly waited the approach of Malcolm. 
 When, upon a day, there came a messenger to him, pale 
 and shaking with fear, almost unable to report that which 
 he had seen ; for he averred, that as he stood upon his 
 watch on the hill, he looked towards Birnam, and to his 
 thinking the wood began to move! " Liar and slave," 
 cried Macbeth; " if thou speakest false, thou shalt hang 
 alive upon the next tree, till famine end thee. If thy 
 tale be true, I care not if thou dost as much by me :" for 
 Macbeth now began to faint in resolution, and to doubt 
 the equivocal speeches of the spirits. He was not to fear 
 till Birnam wood should come to Dunsinane ; and now a 
 wood did move! " However," said he, " if this which 
 he avouches be true, let us arm and out. There is no 
 flying hence, nor staying here. I begin to be weary of 
 the sun, and wish my life at an end." With these des- 
 perate speeches he sallied forth upon the besiegers, who 
 had now come up to the castle. 
 
 The strange appearance which had given the mes- 
 senger an idea of a wood moving is easily solved. When 
 the besieging army marched through the wood of Birnam, 
 Malcolm, like a skilful general, instructed his soldiers to 
 hew down every one a bough, and bear it before him, by 
 way of concealing the true numbers of his host. This 
 marching of the soldiers with boughs had at a distance 
 the appearance which had frightened the messenger. 
 Thus were the words of the spirit brought to pass, in a 
 sense different from that in which ^lacbeth had under- 
 stood them, and one great hold of his confidence was 
 gone. 
 
 And now a severe skirmishing took place, in which 
 Macbeth, though feebly supported by those who called
 
 MACBETH. 251 
 
 themselves his friends, but in reality hated the tyrant and 
 inclined to the party of Malcolm and Macduff, yet fought 
 with the extreme of rage and valour, cutting to pieces all 
 who were opposed to him, till he came to where Mac- 
 duff was fighting. Seeing Macduff, and remembering the 
 caution of the spirit who had counselled him to avoid 
 Macduff above all men, he would have turned, but Mac- 
 duff, who had been seeking him through the whole fight, 
 opposed his turning, and a fierce contest ensued ; Mac- 
 duff giving him many foul reproaches for the murder of 
 his wife and children. Macbeth, whose soul was charged 
 enough with blood of that family already, would still 
 have declined the combat ; but Macduff still urged him 
 to it, calling him tyrant, murderer, hell-hound, and 
 villain. 
 
 Then Macbeth remembered the words of the spirit, 
 how none of woman born should hurt him ; and smiling 
 confidently he said to Macduff, ' ' Thou losest thy labour, 
 Macduff. As easily thou mayst impress the air with thy 
 sword, as make me vulnerable. I bear a charmed life, 
 which must not yield to one of woman born." 
 
 "Despair thy charm," said Macduff, "and let that 
 lying spirit, whom thou hast served, tell thee, that Mac- 
 duff was never bom of woman, never as the ordinary 
 manner of men is to be born, but was untimely taken, 
 from his mother." 
 
 " Accursed be the tongue which tells me so," said the 
 trembling Macbeth, who felt his last hold of confidence 
 give way ; ' ' and let never man in future believe the 
 lying equivocations of witches and juggling spirits, who 
 deceive us in words which have double senses, and while 
 they keep their promise literally, disappoint our hopes 
 with a different meaning. I will not fight with thee." 
 
 " Then live !" said the scornful Macduff; " we will 
 have a show of thee, as men show monsters, and a painted 
 board, on which shall be written, ' Here men may see 
 the tyrant ! ' " 
 
 " Never," said Macbeth, whose courage returned with 
 despair; "I will not live to kiss the ground before 
 young Malcolm's feet, and to be baited with the curses
 
 252 TALES FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 of the rabble. Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsi- 
 nane, and thou opposed to me, who wast never bom of 
 woman, yet will I try the last." With these frantic 
 words he threw himself upon Macduff, who, after a se- 
 vere struggle, in the end overcame him, and cutting off 
 his head, made a present of it to the young and lawful 
 king, Malcolm ; who took upon him the government 
 which, by the machinations of the usurper, he had so 
 long been deprived of, and ascended the throne of Dun- 
 can the Meek, amid the acclamations of the nobles and 
 the people.
 
 MACBETH. 253 
 
 EXTRACT FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 Act II. — Scene I. Court within Macbeth's Castle. 
 Enter Macbeth and a Servant with a torch. 
 
 Macb. Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready. 
 She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed. \_Exit Serv. 
 Is this a dagger which I see before me, 
 The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee : 
 I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. __ 
 Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible 
 To feeling, as to sight ? or art thou but 
 A dagger of the mind, a false creation. 
 Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain ? 
 I see thee yet, in form as palpable 
 As this which now I draw. 
 Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going, 
 And such an instrument I was to use. 
 Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses. 
 Or else worth all the rest : I see thee still ; 
 And on thy blade, and dudgeon,* gouts of blood. 
 Which was not so before. — There 's no such thing. 
 It is the bloody business which informs 
 Thus to mine eyes.— Now o'er the one half world 
 Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse 
 The curtain'd sleep : witchcraft celebrates 
 Pale Hecate's offerings ; and wither'd murther, 
 Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf. 
 Whose howl 's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, 
 With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design, 
 
 Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth, 
 
 Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear 
 Thy very stones prate of my where-about, 
 And take the present horror from the time, '_ 
 
 " Dudgeon — the handle of the dagger.
 
 254 TALES FEOM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 Which now suits with it. — Whiles I threat he lives: 
 Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. 
 
 [_A bell rings. 
 I go, and it is done ; the bell invites me. 
 Hear it not, Duncan ; for it is a knell 
 That summons thee to heaven, or to hell. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Lady Macbeth. 
 
 Lady M. That which hath made them drunk hath made 
 me bold : 
 What hath quench'd them hath given me fire : — 
 Hark ! Peace ! It was the owl that shriek'd, 
 The fatal bellman which gives the stern'st good night. 
 He is about it : The doors are open ; 
 
 And the surfeited grooms do mock their charge with snores : 
 I have drugg'd their possets. 
 That death and nature do contend about them, 
 Whether they live, or die. 
 
 Mach. [ Within J] Who 's there ? — what, hoa ! 
 
 Lady M. Alack ! I am afraid they have awak'd, 
 And 't is not done : — the attempt, and not the deed, 
 Confounds us : — Hark ! — I laid their daggers ready. 
 He could not miss them. — Had he not resembled 
 My father as he slept, I had done 't — My husband ! 
 
 Enter Macbeth. 
 
 Mach. I have done the deed : — Didst thou not hear a 
 noise ? 
 
 Lady M. I heard the owl scream, and the crickets cry. 
 Did not you speak ? 
 
 Mach. When ? 
 
 Lady M. Now. 
 
 Mach. As, I descended? 
 
 Lady M. Ay. 
 
 Mach. Hark!— 
 Who lies i' the second chamber ? 
 
 Lady M. Donalbain. 
 
 3Iach. This is a sorry sight. [Looking on his hands. 
 
 Lady AT. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight. 
 
 Mach. There 's one did laugh in his sleep. 
 And one cried, " Murther !" that they did wake each other-j 
 I stood and heard them : but they did say their prayers, 
 And address'd them again to sleep.
 
 MACBETH. 255 
 
 Lad}/ M. There are two lodg'd together. 
 
 Much. One cried, "God bless us!" and "Amen," the 
 other ; 
 As they had seen me, with these hangman's hands. 
 Listening their fear, I could not say, amen. 
 When they did say, God bless us. 
 
 Lady M. Consider it not so deeply. 
 
 Macb. But wherefore could not I pronounce, amen ? 
 I had most need of blessing, and amen 
 Stuck in my throat. 
 
 Lady M. These deeds must not be thought 
 
 After these ways ; so, it will make us mad. 
 
 Macb. Methought, I heard a voice cry, " Sleep no more ! 
 Macbeth does murther sleep, the innocent sleep ; 
 Sleep, that knits up the ravell'd sleave* of care. 
 The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, 
 Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, 
 Chief nourisher in life's feast." 
 
 Lady M. What do you mean ? 
 
 Macb. Still it cried, " Sleep no more \" to all the house : 
 " Glamis hath murther'd sleep : and therefore Cawdor 
 Shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall sleep no more !" 
 
 Lady M. Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy 
 thane, 
 You do unbend your noble strength, to think 
 So brainsickly of things : — Go, get some water, 
 And wash this filthy witness from your hand. — 
 Why did you bring these daggers from the place ? 
 They must lie there : Go, carry them ; and smear 
 The sleepy grooms with blood, 
 
 Macb. I '11 go no more : 
 
 I am afraid to think what T have done ; 
 Look on 't again I dare not. 
 
 Lady M. Infirm of purpose ! 
 
 Give me the daggers : The sleeping, and the dead, 
 Are but as pictures ; 't is the eye of childhood 
 That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, 
 I '11 gild the faces of the grooms withal. 
 For it must seem their guilt. [Exit. Knocking within. 
 
 Macb. Whence is that knocking ? 
 
 How is 't with me, when every noise appals me ? 
 What hands are here ? Ha ! they pluck out mine eyes ! 
 
 ^ Sleave — unwrought silk.
 
 256 TALES TROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood 
 Clean from my hand ? No ; this my hand will rather 
 The multitudinous seas incarnadine, 
 Making the green — one red. 
 
 He-enter Lady Macbeth. 
 
 Lady M. My hands are of your colour ; but I shame 
 To wear a heart so white. iKiiock.'] I hear a knocking 
 At the south entry : — retire we to our chamber : 
 A little water clears us of this deed : 
 How easy is it then ! Your constancy 
 Hath left you unattended. — [Knocking.'] Hark ! more knock- 
 ing: 
 Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us, 
 And show us to be watchers : — Be not lost 
 So poorly in your thoughts. 
 
 Macb. To know my deed, 't were best not know myself. 
 
 [Knock. 
 Wake Duncan with thy knocking ; I would thou couldst ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 END or VOLUME 
 
 London : Printed by "V\'illiam Ci,o'>vzs and Sons, Stamford Street.
 
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