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 N e: V; YORK, 
 
 27 Be elcmai.
 
 THE I 
 
 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 SHAKESPEARE, 
 
 FROM THE ORIGINAL TEXT: 
 
 CAREFULLY COLLATED AND COMPARED WITH THE EDITIONS OP 
 
 HALLIWELL, KNIGHT, AND COLLIER- 
 WITH HISTORICAL AND CRITICAL INTRODUCTIONS, AND NOTES TO EACH PLA^; 
 
 AND 
 
 A LIFE OF THE GREAT DRAMATIST, 
 
 Br CHARLES KNIGHT. 
 
 Illustr'atfb 
 
 WITH KEW AND FINELY EXECUTED STEEL ENGRAVINGS, CHIEFLY PORTRAITS 
 
 IN CHARACTER OF CELEBRATED AMERICAN ACTORS, DRAWN 
 
 FROM LIFE EXPRESSLY FOR THIS EDITION. 
 
 COINIEDIES. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 JOHNSON, FRY AND COMPANY, 
 
 27 BEEKMAN-STREET.
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, 
 By JOHNSON, FRY, AND COMPANY, 
 la the Clerk's Ofl^ of tho District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York
 
 A\ 
 V. f 
 
 I>REFA.CE. 
 
 Tide edition of Shakespeare's Complete Works now brought before the public, lias 
 peculiar claims upon popular appreciation. It unites so many of the qualities most to 
 be desired in such a book, whether for the library or the parlour table, that, in spite of 
 the expense which they have been at in producing it, the publishers cannot but believe 
 that they have supplied a want long felt in a country where the productions of him 
 who has been justly said to jjossess the Greatest Name in all literature, receive even a 
 wider and more intelligent admiration than in England itself. 
 
 It was the aim of the publishers to bring an edition of the works of him who wrote for 
 all time, issued in this elegant style and illustrated in the most attractive manner- 
 within the reach of the intelligent masses of this country ; and they feel that in the 
 appearance of this edition, in the excellence of its illustrations — each one of which is 
 not only of interest as the portrait of some distinguished Shakespearian actor, but as an 
 embodiment of one of the scenes of the great dramatist — they may take an honourable 
 pride, as being far in advance of those of any similar publication ever issued here. 
 
 But it was not only as a beautiful book, that the publishers desired that this edition 
 of Shakespeare's works should commend itself to public favour. Purity of text, and 
 such annotations as would explain all obsolete words and allusions, and make clear all 
 obscure passages in that text, were equally sought after by them. Tlie text was 
 therefore carefully collated by a competent Shakespearian scholar, with the editions of 
 the three most distinguished Shakespearian editors of the day — John Payne Colliek, 
 Charles Knight, and James Okohaed Halliwell ; and the notes are from the pen of 
 the latter gentleman and of other eminent commentators, — care being taken that while 
 they were amply sufficient to the elucidation of the text, they were neither so long as to 
 diveit the reader's attention, nor so numerous as to cumber the volumes. The same 
 care was taken with the historical and critical introductions, which contain the united
 
 vi PKKFAUE. 
 
 judgments of the most distinguished Shakespearian critics and antiquaries of the pasi 
 and present times. The Life is a condensation of Mr. Charles Knight's famous " Shake- 
 speare : A Biography," which, with all its interest, was overloaded with much superfluous 
 matter ; and the result is, that the reader, we may safely say, has here an edition 
 which unites elegance of form, richness and interest of illustration, pui'ity of text, and 
 valuable editorial matter, in a greater degree than any other that has ever been offered 
 to the American public.
 
 THE 
 
 fife iif l^illiaiii ll)iikri}{iiMirh 
 
 BY CHARLES KNIGHT. 
 
 On he 22d of August, 1485, there was a battle fought 
 for the crown of England, a short battle ending in a 
 decisive victory. The battle-field was Bosworth. Was 
 there in that victorious army of the Earl of Richmond 
 an Englishman bearing the name of Chacksper, or 
 Shakespeyre, or Schakespere, or Schakespeire, or Schak- 
 spere, or Shakcspere, or Shakspere,*^' — a martial name, 
 however spelt ? Of the warlike achievements of this 
 Shakspere there is no record : his name or his deeds 
 would have no interest for us unless there had been 
 born, eighty years after this battle-day, a direct de- 
 scendant from him— 
 
 " Whose niuse full of high thoui;ht> invention. 
 Doth like himself heroicallj/ sound ;"t — 
 
 a Shakspere, of whom it was also said — 
 
 *' He seems to shake a lance 
 As brandish 'd at the eyes of ignorance." $ 
 
 A public document bearing the date of 1596 affirms of 
 John Shakespeare, of Stratford-upon-Avon, the father 
 of William Shakespeare, that his " parent and late an- 
 tecessors were, for their valiant and faithful services, 
 advanced and rewarded of the most prudent prince 
 King Henry VII. of famous memory;" and it adds, 
 ' ' si thence which time they have continued at those 
 parts [Warwickshire] in good reputation and credit." 
 Another document of a similar character, bearing the 
 date of 1599, also affirms upon "creditable report," of 
 "John Shakspere, now of Stratford-upon-Avon, in the 
 county of Warwick, gentleman," that his "parent and 
 great-grandfather, late antecessor, for his faithful and 
 approved service to the late most prudent prince King 
 Henry VII. of fiimous memory, was advanced and re- 
 warded with lands and tenements, given to him in 
 those parts of Warwickshire, where they have contin- 
 
 • A list of the brethren and sisters of the Guild of Knowle, near 
 EcyiDgton, in 'Warwicltshire, exhibits a ^eat number of the name 
 cf Shalispere in that frali!rnity, from about 1460 to 1527; and the 
 cames are spa with the diversity ^ere given, Shakspere being 
 ttie latest. 
 
 t Spenser 
 
 X Ben JonsoD. 
 
 ued by some descents in good reputation and credit." 
 Such are the recitals of two several grants of arms to 
 John Shakspere, confirming a previous grant made to 
 him in 15G9. 
 
 The great-grandson of the faithful and ai)proved ser- 
 vant of Henry VII., John Shakespeare, was a burgess 
 of the corporation of Stratford, and was in all prol)?- 
 bility born about 1530. TTie family had continued in 
 those parts, " by some descents ;" but how they were 
 occupied in the business of life, what was their station 
 in society, how they branched out into other lines of 
 Shakespeares, we have no record. 
 
 In 1599 John Shakespeare a second time went to the 
 College of Arms, and, producing his own "ancient coat 
 of arms," said that he had "married the daughter ami 
 one of the heirs of Eobert Arden, of Wellingcote :'■ 
 and then the heralds saj' — "We have likewise uiion 
 one other escutcheon impaled the same with the ancient 
 arms of the said Arden of Wellingcote." They add that 
 John Shakespeare, and his children, issue, and posterity, 
 may bear and use the same shield of arms, single or 
 impaled. 
 
 The family of Arden was one of the highest antiquity 
 in Warwickshire. Dugdale traces its pedigree uninter- 
 ruptedly up to the time of Edward the Confessor. The 
 pedigree which Dugdale gives of the Arden family 
 brings us no nearer in the direct line to the mother of 
 Shakespeare than to Eobert Arden, her great-grand- 
 father : he was the third son of Walter Arden, who 
 married Eleanor, the daughter of John Hampden, of 
 Buckinghamshire ; and he was brother to Sir John 
 Arden, Squire for the body to Henry VII. Kobcrt's 
 son, also called Eobert, was groom of the chamber to 
 Henry VH. He married, and he had a son, also Eolien, 
 who married Agnes Webbe. Their youngest daughtt-i 
 was Mary, the mother of William Shakespeare. 
 
 High as was her descent, weallhy and i)owerfnl as 
 were the numerous branches of her family, Mary 
 Arden, we doubt not, led a life cf usefulness as well 
 as innocence, within her native forest hamlet. She 
 had three sisters, and they all, with their niothei
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Agnes, survived their father, who died in December, 
 1556. His will is dated the 24th of November in the 
 same year, and the testator styles himself "Robert 
 Arden, of Wylmcote, in the paryclie of Aston Camit- 
 low." MaiT, his youngest daughter, from superiority 
 of mind, or some other cause of lier father's confidence, 
 occupies the most prominent position in tlic will. She 
 has an undivided estate and a sum of money ; and, 
 from the crop being also bequeathed to her, it is evi- 
 dent that she was considered able to continue the 
 tillage. The estate thus bequeathed to her consisted 
 of about sixty acres of arable and pasture, and a house ; 
 and was called Asbies. 
 
 In the winter of 155G was Mary Arden left without 
 the guidance of a father, under this somewhat naked 
 roof-tree, now become her own. Her sister Alice was 
 to occupy another property in 'Wilmecote with her 
 mother, provided the widow would so consent ; and 
 she did consent. And so she lived a somewhat lonely 
 life, till a young yeoman of Stratford, who had probably 
 some acquaintance with her father, came to sit oftener 
 and oftener upon the wooden benches in the old hall — 
 a substantial yeoman, a burgess of the corporation in 
 1557 or 1558 ; and then in due season Mary Arden and 
 John Shakespeare were standing before the altar of the 
 parish churcli of Aston Cantlow, and the house and 
 lands of Asbies became administered by one who took 
 poEsession "by the right of the said Mary," who 
 thenceforward abided for half a century in the good 
 town of Stratford. 
 
 There have been endless theories, old and new, affir- 
 mations, contradictions, as to the worldly calling of 
 John Shakespeare. Tliere are ancient registers in 
 Stratford, minutes of the Common Hall, proceedings 
 of the Court-leet, pleas of the Court of Eecord, writs, 
 which have been hunted over with unwearied dili- 
 gence, and yet they tell us notliing, or next to noth- 
 ing, of John Shakespeare. Wiien lie was elected an 
 alderman in 1505, we can trace out the occupations of 
 his brotlicr aldermen, and readily come to the conclu- 
 sion that the municipal authority of Stratford was vest- 
 ed, as we may naturally suppose it to have been, in 
 the hands of substantial tradesmen, brewers, bakers, 
 butclicrs, grocers, victuallers, mercers, woollen-drapers. 
 Trying into tlie secrets of time, we are enabled to form 
 some notion of tlie literary acquirements of this wor- 
 shipful body. On rare, very rare occasions, the alder- 
 men and burgesses constituting tlie town council affixed 
 their signatures, for greater solemnity, to some order 
 of the court ; and on the 29th of September, in the sev- 
 enth of Elizabeth, upon an order tliat John Wlieeler 
 should take the office of bailiff, we have nineteen names 
 subscribed, aldermen and burgesses. There is some- 
 thing in this document which suggests a motive higher 
 
 than mere curiosity for calling up these dignitaries froui 
 their happy oblivion, saying to each, "Dost thou use 
 to write thy name ? or hast thou a mark to thyself like 
 an honest plain-dealing man ?" Alas! out of the nine- 
 teen seven only can answer, "I thank God I hav;! been 
 so well brought up that I can write my name." It is 
 a matter of controversy whether Julin Shakespeare was 
 one of the more clerkly corporators. We think he was ; 
 others believe he was not. In 1556, the year that Rob- 
 ert, the father of Mary Arden, died, John Shakespeare 
 was admitted at the court-leet to two copyhold estates 
 in Stratford. Tlie jurors of the leet present that George 
 Turnor had alienated to John Shakespeare and his heirs 
 one tenement, with a garden and croft, and other prem- 
 ises, in Grenchyll-street, held of the lord at an annual 
 quit-rent ; and John Shakespeare, who is present in 
 court and does fealty, is admitted to the same. Tlio 
 same jurors present that Edward West has alienated to 
 John Shakespeare one tenement and a garden adjacent 
 in Henley-street, who is in the same way admitted, 
 upon fealty done to the lord. Here then is John 
 Shakespeare, before Ids marriage, the purchaser of two 
 copyholds in Stratford, both with gardens, and one 
 with a croft, or small enclosed field. In 1570 John 
 Shakespeare is holding, as tenant under William Clop- 
 ton, a meadow of fourteen acres, w'it^ its appurtenance, 
 called Ingon, at the annual rent of eight pounds Tliis 
 rent, equivalent to at least forty pounds of our present 
 money, would indicate that the appurtenance included 
 a house, —and a very good house. This meadow of 
 Ingon forms part of a large property known by that 
 name near Clopton-house. When John Shakespeare 
 married, the estate of Asbies, within a short ride of 
 Stratford, came also into his possession. With these 
 facts before us, scanty as they are, can we reasonably 
 doubt that John Shakespeare was living upon his own 
 land, renting the land of others, actively engaged in 
 the business of cultivation, in an age when tillage was 
 becoming rapidly profitable. — so much so that men of 
 wealth very often thought it better to take the profits 
 direct than to share them with the tenant ? 
 
 And is all this, it may be said, of any importance in 
 looking at the life of AVilliara Sliakcspcaie — a man 
 who stands above all other individual men, above all 
 ranks of men ; in comparison with whom, in Iiis per- 
 manent influence upon mankind, generations of nobles, 
 fighting men, statesmen, princes, are but dust? It 
 is something, we think. It offers a better, because 
 a more natural, explanation of the circumstances 
 connected with the early life of the great poet than 
 those stories whicli would make liim of obscure birth 
 and servile employments. Take old Aubrey's story, 
 the shrewd learned gossip and antiquary, who sur- 
 vived Shakespeare some eighty years : — " Mr. William
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SUAKESPEARE. 
 
 Shakespeare was born at Stratford-upon-Avon, in the 
 county of Warwick. His father was a butcher, and I 
 
 liavc been told licretofore by some of tlio neighbours 
 Unit wlien lie wnsa boy he exercised liis father's trade ; 
 I>iit wlien lie killed a calf he would do it in a high 
 rityle, and make a speech. Tliere was at that time an- 
 otlicr butcher's son in this town that was held not at 
 all inferior to him for a natural wit, his acquaintance 
 and coctanean, but died young." The story, however, 
 has a variation. There was at Stratford, in the year 
 ir/JS, a ck.rk of the parish church, eighty years old, — 
 that is, he was three years old when William Shake- 
 speare died, — and he, pointing to the monument of the 
 poet, witli the pithy remark that he was the " best of 
 his family," proclaimed to a member of one of the 
 Inns of Court that this "Shakespeare was formerly in 
 this town bound apprentice to a butcher, but that he 
 ran from his master to London." His father was a 
 butcher, says Aubrey ; he was apprenticed to a butcher, 
 says the parish clerk. 
 
 Akin to the butcher's trade is that of the dealer in 
 wool. It is upon the authority of Betterton, the actor, 
 wlio, in the beginning of the last century, made a 
 journey into Warwickshire to collect anecdotes relating 
 to Shakespeare, that Kowe tells us that John Shake- 
 speare was a dealer in wool : — " His family, as appears 
 by the register and public writings relating to that 
 town, were of good figure and fashion there, and are 
 mentioned as gentlemen. His father, who was a con- 
 siderable dealer in wool, had so large a family, ten 
 children in all, that, though he was his eldest son, he 
 could give him no better education than his own em- 
 ployment." Tradition is here, we think, becoming a 
 little more assimilated with the truth. The considera- 
 ble dealer in wool might very well have been the 
 landed proprietor, the cultivator, that we believe John 
 Shakespeare to have been. Nor indeed was the inci- 
 dental business even of a butcher, a slayer and seller of 
 carcasses, incompatible with the occupation of a land- 
 holder. Harrison (1590), who mingles laments at the 
 increasing luxury of the farmer with somewhat contra- 
 dictory denouncements of the oppression of the tenant 
 by the landlord, holds that the landlord is monopo- 
 lizing the tenant's -profits : — " Most sorrovrful of all to 
 understand, ihat men of great port and countenance 
 are so far from suffering their farmers to have any gain 
 at all, that lliey themsdi'es become graziers, butchers, tanners, 
 suEEPMASTEiis, woodtneu, and Jenique quid non, thereby to 
 cai'ich themcelves, and bring all the wealth ftf the 
 country into their own hands, leaving the commonalty 
 weak, or as an idol mth broken or feeble arms, which 
 may in time of peace have a plausible show, but, when 
 necessity shall enforce, have an heavy and bitter 
 BCfiuel " Has not Harrison solved the mystery of 
 
 the butcher, and explained the tradition of the wool- 
 man ? 
 
 There is an entry in the Bailiffs Court of Stratford, 
 in 1555, which shows us one John Shakenpeare, a glover. 
 It docs not follow that if this record be of the father of. 
 William Shakespeare, a young man in 1.555, that he was 
 always a glover. If he were a glover in 1555, he waa 
 subsequently a holder of land- -a land proprietor.** 
 
 The Register of Baptisms of the parish of Stratfurd- 
 upon-Avon shows that Williajn, the son (;f John Shake- 
 speare, was baptized on the '26th April, 15G4. And when 
 born ? The want of such information is a defect in all 
 parish-registers. Bapti<iK. bo immediately followed 
 birth in those times, when infancy was surrounded 
 with greater dangers than in our own days of improved 
 medical science, that we may believe that William 
 Shakespeare first saw the light only a day or two pre- 
 vious to this legal record of his existence. There is no 
 direct evidence that he was born on the 23d of April, 
 according to the common belief. But there was proba- 
 bly a tradition to that effect ; for scmie years ago the 
 Rev. Joseph Greene, a master of the grammar-school at 
 Stratford, in an extract which he made from the Regis- 
 ter of Shakespeare's baptism, wrote in the margin, 
 " Born on the 2.jd." We turn back to the first year 
 of the registry, 1558, and we find the baptism of Joan, 
 daughter to John Shakespeare, on the 16th of Septem- 
 ber. Again, in 1562, on the 2d of December, Margaret, 
 daughter to John Shakespeare, is baptized. In the 
 entry of burials in 1503 we find, under date of April 
 30. that Margaret closed a short life in five months. 
 We look forward, and in 15G6 find the birth of another 
 son registered : — Gilbert, son of John Shakespeare, was 
 baptized on the 13th of October of that year. In 15G9 
 there is a registry of the baptism of a daughter, Joan, 
 daughter of John Shakespeare, on the 15th of April. 
 Thus, the registry of a second Joan leaves no reasona- 
 ble doubt that the first died, and that a favourite name 
 was preserved in the family. In 1571 another daugh- 
 ter was born,^ — Anne, daughter of Master Johij Shake- 
 speare, baptized on the 28th of September. In 1574 
 another son was baptized, — Richard, son of Master 
 John Shakespeare, on the 11th of March. The register 
 of sorrow and blighted hope shows that Anne was 
 buried on the 4th of April, 1579. The last entry, 
 wliich determines the extent of John Shakespeare's 
 family, is that of Edmund, son of Master John Shake- 
 speare, baptized on the 3d of May, 1580. Here, then, 
 we find that two sisters of William were removed by 
 death, probably before his birth. In two years and a 
 half another son, Gilbert, came to be his playmate ; 
 and when he was five years old that most precious gift 
 
 ♦ Seo pngc idi.
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 to a loving lioy was granted, a sister, who grew up with 
 him. Theu came anotlier sister, who faded untimely. 
 When he was ten years old he had another brother to 
 lead by the hand into the green meadows. When he 
 was grown into youthful strength, a boy of sixteen, his 
 youngest brother was born. William, Gilbert, Joan, 
 Eichard, Edmund, constituted the whole of the family 
 amongst whom John Shakespeare was to share his 
 means of existence. Rowe, we have already seen, 
 mentions the large family of John Shakespeare, ' ' ten 
 children in all." Malone has established very satis- 
 factorily the origin of this error into which Kowe has 
 fallen. In later years there was another John Shake- 
 speare in Stratford. In the books of the corporation 
 the name of John Shakespeare, shoemaker, can be 
 traced in 1586 ; in the register in 1584 we find him 
 married to Marg.;ry Roberts, who dies in 1587 ; he is, 
 without doubt, married a second time, for in 1589, 
 1590, and 1591, Ursula, Humphrey, and Philip are 
 born. It is unquestionable that these are not the chil- 
 dren of the fiither of William Shakespeare, for they are 
 entered in the register as the daugliter, or sons, of John 
 Shakespeare, without the style which our John Shake- 
 speare always bore after 15G9 — "Jlngister." There can 
 be u^ doubt that the mother of all the children of 
 Ufasier John Shakespeare was Mary Ardcn ; for in pro- 
 ceedings in Chancery in 1597 it is set forth that John 
 Shakespeare and his wife Mary, in the 20th Elizabeth, 
 1577, mortgaged her inheritance of Asbies. Nor can 
 there be a doubt that the children boin before 1569, 
 when he is styled John Shakespeare, without the hon- 
 ourable addition of Master, were also hfr children ; for 
 in 1599, when William Shakespeare is an ojiiilent man, 
 application is made to the College of Arms, that John 
 Shakespeare, and his issue and posterity, might use a 
 "shield of arms," impaled with the arms of Shake- 
 speare and Arden. This application would in all prob- 
 ability have been at the instance of John Shakespeare's 
 eldest son and heir. The history of the family up to 
 the period of William Shakespeare's manhood is as 
 clear as can reasonably be expected. 
 
 ITie year of William Shakespeare's birth was a fear- 
 ful year for Stratford. The plague raged with terrific 
 violence in the little town. It was the same epidemic 
 which ravaged Europe in tliat year ; which in the pre- 
 vious year liad desolated London, and still continued 
 there. The red cross was probably not on the door of 
 John Shakespeare's dwelling. " J'ortunately for man- 
 kind," says Malone, " it did not reach the house where 
 the infant Shakespeare lay ; for not one of that name 
 appears on the dead list." 
 
 Tlie parish of Stratford, then, was unquestionably 
 the birth-place o" William Shakespeare. But in what 
 pfirt of Stratford dwelt his parents in the year 1564 ? 
 
 It was ten years after this that his father became the 
 purchaser of two freehold houses in Henley-street — 
 houses which still exist. Nine years before William 
 Shakespeare was bom, his father had also purchaeed 
 two copyhold tenements In Stratford — one in Greenhill- 
 street, one in Henley-street. The copyhold house in 
 Henley-street, purchased in 1555, was unquestionaljly 
 not one of the freehold houses in the same street, pur- 
 chased in 1574 ; yet, from Malone' s loose way of stating 
 that in 1555 the lease of a house in Henley-street was 
 assigned to John Shakespeare, it has been conjectured 
 that he purchased in 1574 the house he had occupied 
 for many years. As he purchased two houses in 1555 
 in different parts of the town, it is not likely that he 
 occupied both ; he might not have occupied either 
 Before he purchased the two houses in Henley-street, 
 in 1574, he occupied fourteen acres of meadow-land, 
 with appurtenances, at a very high rent ; the property 
 is called Ingon meadow in the "Close Rolls." Dug- 
 dale calls the plp.ce where it was situated "Inge;" 
 saying that it was a member of the manor of Old Strat- 
 ford, "and signifyeth in our old English a meadow oi 
 low ground, the name well agreeing with its situation.' 
 It is about a mile and a quarter from the to%vn of Strat- 
 ford, on the road to Warwick. William Shakespeare, 
 then, might have been born at either of his father's 
 copyhold houses, in Greenhill-street, or in Henley- 
 street ; he might have been born at Ingon ; or his 
 father might have occupied one of the two freehold 
 houses in Henley-street at the time of the birth of his 
 eldest son. Tradition says that William Shakespeare 
 was born in one of these houses ; tradition points out 
 the very room in which he was born. Let us not dis- 
 turb the belief. To look upon that ancient house — 
 perhaps now one of the oldest in Stratford — pilgrim.n 
 have come from every region where the name of Shake- 
 speare is known. The property passed into a younger 
 branch of the poet's family ; the descendants of that 
 branch grew poorer and poorer ; they sold off its or- 
 chards and gardens ; they divided and subdivided it 
 into smaller tenements ; it became partly a butcher's 
 shop, partly a little inn. The external appearance was 
 greatly altered, and its humble front rendered still 
 humbler. The windows in the roof were removed ; 
 and the half which had become the inn received a new 
 brick casing. The central portion is that which is now 
 shown as the birth-place of the illustrious man — " the 
 myriad-minded." 
 
 The only qualifications necessary for the admission 
 of a boy into the Free Gramm.ar School of Stratford 
 were, that he should be a resident in the town, of seven 
 years of age, and able to read. The Grammar School 
 was essentially connected with the Corporation of Strat- 
 ford ; and it is impossible to imagine that, when tlie
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 son of John Shakespeare became qualified by age for 
 admission to a school where the best education of the 
 time was given, literally for nothing, his father, in that 
 year, being chief alderman, should not have sent him 
 to the school. We assume, without any hesitation, that 
 William Shakespeare did receive, in every just sense of 
 the word, the education of a scholar ; and as such edu- 
 cation was to be had at his own door, wo also assiune 
 that he was brought up at the Free Grammar School of 
 his own town. His earlier instruction would therefore 
 be a preparation for this school, and the probability is 
 that such instruction was given him at home. 
 
 A question arises, did William Shakespeare receive 
 Ills elementary instruction in Christianity from the 
 books sanctioned by the Reformed Church ? It has 
 been maintained that his father belonged to the Roman 
 Catholic persuasion. This belief rests upon the follow- 
 ing foundation. In the year 1770, Tliomas Hart, who 
 then inhabited one of the tenements iu Henley-street 
 v/hich had been bequeathed to his family by William 
 Shakespeare's grand-daughter, employed a bricklayer 
 to new tile the house ; and this bricklayer, by name 
 Moscly, found hidden between the rafters and the 
 tiling a manuscript consisting of six leaves stitched 
 together, which he gave to Mr. Peyton, an alderman 
 of Stratford, who sent it to Mr. Malone, through the 
 Rev. Mr. Devonport, vicar of Stratford. This paper, 
 whicli was first published by Malone in 1790, is printed 
 also in Reed's Shakespeare and in Dralce's " Shakespeare 
 and his Times." It consists of fourteen articles, pur- 
 porting to be a confession of faith of ' ' John Shakspear, 
 an unworthy member of the holy Catholic religion." 
 We liave no liesitation whatever in believing this docu- 
 ment to be altogether a fabrication. Malone, when he 
 first published the paper in his edition of Shakespeare, 
 said — "I have taken some pains to ascertain tlie au- 
 thenticity of this manuscript, and, after a very careful 
 inquiry, am perfectly satisfied that it is genuine." In 
 1790, however, in Iiis work on the Ireland forgeries, he 
 asserts — " I have since obtained documents tliat clearly 
 prove it could not have been the composition of any 
 one of our poet's family." We not only do not believe 
 that it was " the composition of any one of our poet's 
 family," but we do not believe that it is the work of a 
 Roman Catholic at all. That John Shakespeare was 
 what we popularly call a Protestant in the year 1568, 
 when his son William was four years old, may be 
 nhown by the clearest of proofs. He was in that year 
 the chief magistrate of Stratford ; he could not have 
 become so without taking the Oath of Supremacy, ac- 
 cording to the statute of the 1st of Elizabeth, 1558-9. 
 To refuse this oath was made punishable with forfeiture 
 nnd imprisonment, with the pains of prsemnnire and 
 high trcai^on. ' ' The conjecture," says Chalmers (speak- 
 
 ing in support of the authenticity of tliis confession of 
 faitli), " that Shakespean^'s family were Roman Cath- 
 olics is strengthened by the fact that his father do- 
 clincd to attend the corporation meetings, and was ut 
 last removed from the corporate body." He was re- 
 moved from the corporate body in 1585, with a distinci 
 statement of the reason for tliis removal — his non- 
 attendance when summoned to the halls. Acc<jnling 
 to this reasoning of Chalmers, John Shakespeare did 
 not hesitate to take the Oath of Supremacy when ho 
 wa« chief magistrate in 1564, but retired from the cor- 
 poration in 1685, where he might have remained with- 
 out ofl'ence to his own conscience or to others, being, 
 in the language of that day, a Popish recusant, to be 
 stigmatized as such, persecuted, and subject to the 
 most odious restrictions. If he left or was expelled 
 the corporation for liis religious opinions, he would, of 
 course, not attend tiie service of the church, for which 
 offence he would be liable, in 1585, to a fine of 20/. 
 per month ; and then, to crown the whole, in this his 
 last confession, spiritual will, and testament, he calb 
 upon all his khisfolks to assist and succour him after 
 his death " with the holy sacrifice of the mass," with a 
 promise that be "will not be ungrateful unto them for 
 so great a benefit," well knowing that by the Act of 
 1581 the saying of mass was punishable by a year's 
 imprisonment and a fine of 200 marks, and the hear- 
 ing of it by a similar imprisonment and a fine of 100 
 marks. The fabrication appears to us as gross as can 
 well be imagined. 
 
 To the grammar-school, then, with some preparation, 
 \ic hold that William Shakespeare goes, about the year 
 1571. His father is at this time, as we have said, chief 
 alderman of his town ; he is a gentleman, now, of re- 
 pute and authority ; he is Master John Shakespeare ; 
 and assuredly the worthy curate of the neighbouring 
 village of Luddington, Thomas Hunt, who was also the 
 schoolmaster, would have received his new scholar with 
 some kindness. As his "shining morning face" first 
 passed out of the main street into that olil court through 
 which the upper room of learning was to be reached, a 
 new life would be opening upon liim. The humble 
 minister of religion who was his first instructor has left 
 no memorials of his talents or his acquirements; and 
 in a few years another master came after liim, Thomas 
 Jenkins, also unknown to fame. All praise and honour 
 be to them ; for it is impossible to imagine that the 
 teachers of William Shakespeare were e-.-il instructors- 
 giving the boy husks instead of wholesome aliment. 
 They could not have been harsh and perverse instruc 
 tors, for such spoil the gentlest natures, and his was, 
 always gentle : — ' ' My gentle Shakespeare' ' is he called 
 by a rough but noble spirit — one in whom was all 
 honesty and genial friendship under a rude exterioi.
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 YlU wujirous abilities could not be spoiled even by 
 ifuoraut instructors. 
 
 Tiie first who attempted to wKto " Some Account of 
 tlie life of William Shakespeare," Eowe, says, "His 
 father, who wao a considerable doaler in v/ool, had so 
 large a family, ten children in all, thut, though he was 
 his eldest son, Le could give him no better education 
 than his own employment. He had bred him, it is 
 true, for some tin.e at a free-school, where, it is prob- 
 able, he acquired what Latin he was mnhter of; but 
 the narrowness of hij circumstances, and the want of 
 his assistance at home, forced his father to -withdraw 
 him from thence, and unhappily prevented his fu :ther 
 proficiency in that language." lliis statement, be it 
 remembered, was written one hundred and thirty years 
 after the event which it professes to record — the ea>ly 
 removal of William Sliakespeare from the freo-schooJ 
 to which he had been sent by his father.- We have no 
 hesitation in saying that the statement is manifestly 
 based upon two assumptions, both of which are incor- 
 rect : — Tlie first, that his father had a large family of 
 ten children, and was so narrowed in his circumstances 
 that he could not spare even the time of his eldest son, 
 he being taught for nothing ; and, secondly, that the 
 son, by his early removal from the school where he 
 acquired " -n-hat Latin he was master of," was prevented 
 attaining a " proficiency in that language," his works 
 manifesting "an ignorance of the ancients." It may 
 bo convenient that we should in this place endeavour 
 to dispose of both these assertions. 
 
 The family of John Shakespeare did not consist, as 
 we have already shown, of ten children. In the year 
 1578, when the school education of William may be 
 reasonably supposed to have terminated, and before 
 which period his "assistance at home" would rather 
 have been embai-rassing than useful to his father, the 
 family consisted of five children : W^illiam, aged four- 
 teen ; Gilbert, twelve ; Joan, nine ; Anne, seven ; and 
 Richard, four. Anne died early in the following j-ear ; 
 and, in 1580, Edmund, the youngest child, was born ;- 
 so that the fivmily never exceeded five living at the 
 same time. But still the circumstances of John Shakc- 
 (peare, even with five children, might have been strait- 
 ened. The assertion of Rowe excited the persevering 
 diligence of Malone ; and he has collected together a 
 series of documents from which he infers, or leaves the 
 reader to infer, tliat John Shakespeare and his family 
 gradually sunk from their station of respectability at 
 Stratford into the depths of poverty and ruin. The 
 sixth section of Malone's j>osthumous " Life"' is de- 
 voted to a consideration of this subject. It thus com- 
 mences ; "'ITic manufacture of gloves, which was, at 
 this period, a very flourishing one, both at Stratford 
 and Vorcestor (in which latter ciiy it is still carried on 
 
 with great success), however generally beneficial, shoul-J 
 seem, from whatever cause, to have afforded our poet's 
 father but a scanty maintenance." The assumption 
 that John Shakespeare depended for his " maintenance' ' 
 upon "the manufacture of gloves" rests entirely and 
 absolutely vpon one solitary entry in the books of the 
 Bailiffs Court at Stratford. We have seen the original 
 entry ; and though we are not learned enough in pale- 
 ography to pronounce whether the abridged word which 
 commences the third line describes the occupation of 
 John Shakespeare, this we know, that it does not con- 
 sist of the letters Glover, as Malone prints it, he at 
 the same time abridging the other words which are ab- 
 breviations in the record. No other entry in the same 
 book, and there are many, recites the occupation of 
 John Shakespeare ; but the subjects in dispute which 
 are sometimes mentioned in these entries look very un- 
 like the litigations of a glover, whether he be plaintiff 
 or defendant. For example, on the 19th of November, 
 1656, the year after the action against Malone's glover, 
 John Shakespeare is complainant against Henry Field 
 in a pita for unjustly detaining eighteen quarters of 
 grain. Thitj is scarcely the plea of a glover. But, 
 glover or not, he was a landed proprietor and an occu- 
 pier of land ; and he did not, therefore, in the j-cai 
 1578, depend upon the manufacture of gloves for "a 
 scanty maintenance." However, be his occupation 
 what it may, Malone affirms that "when our author 
 was about fourteen years old' ' the " distressed situa- 
 tion" of his father was evident: it rests "upon surer 
 grounds than conjecture." The Corporation books 
 have shown that on particular occasions, such as the 
 visitation of the plague in 15GI, John Shakespeare con- 
 tributed like others to the relief of the poor ; but now, 
 in January, 1577-8, he is taxed for the necessities of 
 the borough only to pay half what other aldermen 
 pay ; and in November of the same year, whilst other 
 aldermen are assessed fourpence weekly towards the 
 relief of the poor, John Shakespeare ' ' shall not be 
 taxed to pay anything." In 1579 the sum levied upon 
 him for providing soldiers at the charge of the borough 
 is returned, amongst similar sums of other persons, aa 
 "unpaid and unaccounted for." Finally, this unques- 
 tionable evidence of the books of the borougti shows 
 that this merciful forbearance of hia brother townsmen 
 was unavailing ; for, in an action brought against him 
 in the Bailiffs Com-t in the year 1580, he during these 
 seven years having gone on from bad to worse, the 
 return by the Serjeants at mace upon a warrant of dis- 
 tress is, that John Shakespeare has nothing upon ivhich 
 distress can be levied. There are other corroborative 
 proofs of John Shakespeare's poverty at this period 
 brought forward liy Malone. In this precise year, 157S, 
 he mortgages his wife's inheritance of Asbies to lil
 
 LIFE OF WJLLIAM SllAKiiSl'EAKE. 
 
 mund Lambert for forty pounds ; and, in tho same year, 
 the will of Mr. Roger Sadler of Stratford, to wliieh is 
 subjoined a list of debts due to him, shows that John 
 Shakespeare was indebted to him five [lounds, for which 
 euui Edmund Livmbert was a Eocurity, — "By which," 
 says Malone, "it appears that John Shakespeare was 
 then considered insolvent, if not as one depending 
 rather on the credit of others than on his own." It is 
 of little consequence to the present age to know wheiher 
 an alderman of Stratford, nearly three lumdrcd years 
 past, became unequal to maintain his social position ; 
 but to enable us to form a right estimate of the educa- 
 tion of William Shakespeare, and of the circumstances 
 in which he was placed at the most inlluential period 
 of his life, it may not be unprofitable to consiiler how 
 far these revelations of the private affairs of his father 
 support the case which Malone holds he has so triumph- 
 antly proved. The documents which he has brought 
 forward certainly do not constitute the wliole case ; 
 and, without lending ourselves to a spirit of advocacy, 
 we believe that the inferences which have been drawn 
 from them, and adopted by men of higher mark than 
 their original promulgator, are altogether gratuitous 
 and incongruous. We shall detain our readers a very 
 short time, whilst, implicitly adopting all these dis- 
 coveries (as they are called), — without attempting to 
 infer that some of the circumstances may apply to 
 another John Shakespeare, — we trace what we think a 
 more probable course of the fortunes of the alderman 
 of Stratford, until the period when his illustrious son 
 had himself become the father of a family. 
 
 In the year 1508 John Shakespeare was high bailiff 
 of Stratford. In 1571 he was chief alderman. The 
 duties of the first oflice demanded a constant residence 
 in Stratford. Beyond occasional attendance, the duties 
 of the second office would he few. In 1570 he is the 
 occupier of a small estate at Ingon, in the parish of 
 Stratford, two miles from the town, at a rent which 
 unquestionably shows that a house of importance was 
 attached to "the meadow." In 1574 he purchased 
 two freehold houses in Henley-street, with gardens and 
 orchards ; and he probably occupied one or both of 
 these. In 1578 he mortgaged the estate of Asbies to 
 Edmund Lambert, who also appears to have been 
 security for him for the sum of five pounds. At the 
 time, then, when Malone holds that John Shakespeare 
 Is insolvent, because another is his security for five 
 pounds, and that other the mortgagee of his estate, he 
 is also excused public payments because he is poor. 
 But he is the possessor of two freehold houses in Hen- 
 ley-street, bought in 1574. Malone, a lawyer by pro- 
 fos.-iiou, supposes that the money for which Asbies was 
 mortgaged went to pay the purchase of the Stratford 
 freeholds ; according to which theory, these freeholds 
 
 had been unpaid fur during four years, and the " good 
 and lawful money" was not "in hand" when the 
 vendor parted with the premises. We hold, and we 
 tliink more reasonably, that in 1578, when he mort- 
 gaged Asbies, John Shakespeare became the purchaser, 
 or at any rate the occupier, of lands in the parish of 
 Stratfor.i, but not in the borough ; and that, in either 
 case, the money for which Asbies wbr mortgaged was 
 the capit;il employed in this undertaking. The lands 
 Ti^hich were purchased by William Shakespeare of the 
 Combe family, in 1601, are described m the deed as 
 " Ij-ing or being within the parish, fields, or town of 
 Old Stretford." But the will of William Shakespeare, 
 he having become the heir-at-law of his father, devises 
 all his lands and tenements " within the towns, ham- 
 lets, villages, fields, and grounds of Stratford-upon- 
 Avon, Old Stratford, Bishopton, and Welcombe." Old 
 Stratford is a local denomination, essentially different 
 from Bishopton or Welcombe ; and, therefore, whilst 
 the lands purchased by the son in ICOl Blight be those 
 recited in the will as lying in Old Stratford, he might 
 have derived from his father the lands of Bisliopton and 
 Welcombe, of the purchase of which by himself wo 
 have no record. So, iu the same way, the tenements 
 referred to by the will as being in Stratford-upon-Avon, 
 comprised not only the great house purchased by him, 
 but the freeholds in Henley-street, which he inherited 
 from his father. Indeed it is expressly stated in a 
 document of 1590, a memorandum upon the grant of 
 arms in the Heralds' College to John Shakespeare, "he 
 hath lands and tenements, of good wealth and sub- 
 stance, 5001." The lands of Bishopton and Welcombe 
 are in the parish of Stratford, but not in the borough. 
 Bishopton was a hamlet, having an ancient chapel of 
 ease. We hold, then, that in the year 1758 John 
 Shakespeare ceased, though perhaps not wholly so, to 
 reside within the borough of Stratford. Other alder- 
 men are rated to pay towards the furniture of pikemen, 
 billmen, and archers, six shillings and eight-pence ; 
 whilst John Shakespeaie is to pay three shillings and 
 four-pence. Why less than other aldermen ? The next 
 entry but one, which relates to a brother alderman, 
 answers the question : — 
 
 " Bobert Bratt, nothing is rum place." 
 Again, ten months after, — " It is ordained that every 
 alderman shall pay weekly, towards the relief of the 
 poor, four-pence, save John Shakespeare and Robert 
 Bratt, who shall not be taxed to pay anything." Here 
 John Shakespeare is associated with Robert Bratt, who, 
 according to the previous entry, was to pay nothing in 
 this place ; that is, in the borough of Stratford, to which 
 the orders of the council alone apply. The return, in 
 1579, of Mr. Shakespeare as leaving unpaid the sum of 
 three shillings and three-pence, was the return upon a
 
 XIV 
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESrEARE. 
 
 levy for the borough, in which, although the possessor 
 of property, Ue might have ceased to reside. Seven 
 years after this comes the celebrated return to the war- 
 rant of distress, that John Shakespeare has nothing to 
 itistrain upon. The jurisdiction of the Bailiff's Court 
 of Stratford is wholly confined to the borough ; and 
 out of the borough tlie oiEcers could not go. We have 
 traced the course of this action in the bailifl-s books of 
 Stratford, beyond the entries which Malone gives us. 
 It continued before the court for nearly five months ; 
 proceeding after proceeding being taken upon it, with 
 a pertinacity on the part of the defendant which appears 
 far more like the dogged resLstance of a wealthy man 
 to a demand which he thought unjust, than that of a 
 man in the depths of poverty, seeking to evade a pay- 
 ment which must be ultimately enforced by the seizure 
 of his goods, or by a prison. The distringas, which the 
 oilicers of the borough of Stratford could uot execute, 
 was followed by a capias ; and then, no doubt, the debt 
 was paid, and the heavier fees of the lawyers discharged. 
 Further, in the very year of this action, John Shake- 
 speare ceases to be a member of the corporation ; and 
 the circumstances attending his withdrawal or removal 
 from that body are strongly confirmatory of the view 
 ive have taken. "I find," says Malone, "on inspect- 
 ing the records, that our poet' s father had not attended 
 at any hall for the seven preceding years." This is 
 perfectly correct. At these halls, except on the very 
 rarest occasions, the members attending do not sign 
 their names ; but after the entry of the preliminary 
 fonn by the town-clerk, — such as ' ' Stratford Burgus, 
 nd aulam ibid. tent. vi. die Septembris anno regni ilfiae 
 Klizabetha; vicesimo octavo,"- — the town-clerk enters 
 the names of all the aldermen and burgesses, and there 
 is a dot or other mark placed against the names of 
 those who are in attendance. The last entry in which 
 the name of John Shakespeare is so distinguished as 
 attending occurs in 1579. But at the hall held on the 
 Cth of September, in the 28th of Elizabeth, is this 
 entry: — "At this hall William Smythe and Kichard 
 Courtc are chosen to be aldermen in the place of John 
 Whelerand John Shaxsjiere ; for that Mr. Wheler doth 
 desyer to be put out of the companye, and Mr. Shax- 
 spere dotli not come to the halls when they be warned, 
 nor hath not done of long tyme." Is it not more 
 credible that, from the year 1579 till the year 1586, 
 when he was removed from the corporation, in all 
 piobability by his own consent, John Shakespeare was 
 tiot dwelling in the borough of Stratford, — that he bad 
 te.'ised to take an interest in its affairs, although he 
 W6» unwillmg to forego its dignities ; — than tliat during 
 tliise seven years ho was struggling witli hopeless 
 poverty ; that Ue allowed his brotlier aldermen and 
 btirgeBRoa to sit in judgment on his means of paying 
 
 the assessments of the borough ; that they consented 
 to reduce and altogether to discharge his assessment, 
 although be was the undoubted possessor of property 
 within the borough ; that he proclaimed his poverty 
 in the most abject manner, and proclaimed it untruly 
 whilst he held any property at all, and his lands were 
 mortgaged for a very inadequate sum, when the first 
 object of an embarrassed man would have been to have 
 upheld his credit by making an effort to meet every 
 public demand ? What is the most extraordinary thing 
 of all is, that he should have recovered this long humi- 
 liation so suddenly that, in 1596, he goes to the College 
 of Arms for additions to his annorial bearings, and 
 states that he is worth five hundred pounds in lands 
 and tenements. During this period he was unques- 
 tionably a resident in the parish of Stratford ; for the 
 register of that parish contains the entry of the burial 
 of a daughter in 1579, and the baptism of a son in 1580. 
 His grandchildren, also, are baptized in that parish in 
 1 583 and 1585. But his assessments in ' ' that place' ' — 
 the borough — are reduced in 1578, and wholly foregone 
 in 1579. He has ceased to be amenable to the borough 
 assessments. The lands of Welcombe and Bishopton, 
 we may fairly assiune, were his home. He has not 
 been dependent upon the trade of Stratford, whether 
 in gloves or wool. He is a cultivator, and his profits 
 are not very variable. His sou purchases a large quan- 
 tity of land in the same district a few years afterwards ; 
 and that son himself becomes a cultivator, even whilst 
 he is the most successful dramatist of his time. That 
 son has also his actions in the Bailiff's Court, as his 
 father had, for corn sold and delivered, of which more 
 hereafter. That son cleaves to his native place with a 
 love which no fame won, no pleasure enjoyed, in the 
 great capital, — the society of the great, the praises of 
 the learned, — can extinguish. Neither does that son 
 take any part in the affairs of the borough. He pur- 
 chases the best house in Stratford in 1597, but the 
 records of Stratford show that he had no desire for 
 local honours. The father, instead of sinking into 
 poverty, appears to us to have separated himself from 
 the concerns of the borough, and from the socfety of 
 the honest men who administered them. He probably 
 had not more happiness in his struggle to maintain the 
 rank of gentleman ; but that he did malce that struggle 
 is, we think, consistent with all the ciicunistances 
 upon record. That the children of William Shake- 
 speare should have been brought up at Stratford, — 
 that Stratford should have been his home, although 
 London was his place of necessary sojourn, — is, wc 
 think, quite incompatible with the belief that, at the 
 exact period when the poet was gaining rapid wealth 
 as a sharer in the Blackfriar's Theatre, the father waa 
 so reduced to the extremity of indigence that he had
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 nothing to distraiu upon in liis dwelling in the place 
 where he had dwelt for years, in competence and 
 honour. 
 
 Seeing, then, that at any rate in the year 1574, when 
 John Shakespeare purchased two freehold houses in 
 Stratford, it was scarcely necessary for him to withdraw 
 his son William from school, as Rowe has it, on account 
 of the narrowness of his circumstances (the education 
 at that school costing the father nothing), it is not dif- 
 ficult to believe that the son remained there till the 
 period when boys were usually withdrawn from gram- 
 mar-schooU In those days the education of the uni- 
 versity commenced much earlier than at present. Boys 
 intended for the learned professions, and more especially 
 for the church, commonly went to Oxford and Cam- 
 bridge at eleven or twelve years of age. If they were 
 not intended for those professions, they probably re- 
 mained at the grammar-school till they were thirteen 
 or fourteen ; and then they were fitted for being ap- 
 prenticed to tradesmen, or articled to attorneys, a nu- 
 merous and thriving body in those days of cheap liti- 
 gation. Many also wont early to the Inns of Court, 
 which were the universities of the law, and where there 
 was real study and discipline in direct connection with 
 the several Societies. To assume that William Shake- 
 speare did not stay long enough at the grammar-school 
 of Stratford to obtain a very fair ' ' proficiency in Latin, ' ' 
 with some knowledge of Greek, is to assume an absurd- 
 ity upon the fiice of the circumstances ; and it could 
 never have been assumed at all, had not Eowe, setting 
 out upon a <alse theory, that, because in the works of 
 Shakespeare ' ' we scarce find any traces of any thing 
 tliit looks like an imitation of the ancients," held that 
 therefore " his not copying at least something from them 
 may be an argument of his never having read them." 
 Opposed to this is the statement of Aubrey, much 
 nearer to the times of Shakespeare : "he understood 
 Latin pretty well." Rowe had been led into his illogi- 
 cal inference by the "small Latin and less Greek" of 
 Jonson ; the "old mother-wit" of Denham ; the "his 
 learning was very little" of Fuller ; the " native wood- 
 notes wild" of Milton, — phrases, every one of which is 
 to be taken with cofisiderable qualification, whether we 
 regard the peculiar characters of the utterers, or the 
 circumstances connected with the words themselves. 
 ITie question rests not upon the interpretation of the 
 dictum of this authority or that, but upon the indispu- 
 table fact that the very earliest writings of Shakespeare 
 are imbued with a spirit of classical antiquity, and that 
 the allusive nature of the learning that manifests itself 
 in thcra, whilst it offers the best proof of his familiarity 
 with the ancient writers, is a circumstance which has 
 misled those who never attempted to dispute the exist- 
 ence of thi! learning which was displayed in the direct 
 
 pedantry of his cimtemporarics. "If," said Hales of 
 Eton, " he luid not read the classics, he had likewise not 
 stolen from them." Marlowe, Greene, Peele, and all 
 the early dramatists, overload their plays with quota- 
 tion and mythological allusion. According to Hales 
 they steal, and therefore they have read. . He who uses 
 his knowledge skilfully is assmued not to have read. 
 
 It is not our intention here to enter upon a general 
 examination of the various opinions that have been 
 held .IS to the learning of Shakespeare, and the tenden- 
 cy of those opinions to show that he was without learn- 
 ing. We only desire to point out, by a very few obser- 
 vations, that the learning manifested in his early pro- 
 ductions does not bear out the assertion of Rowe that 
 his proficiency in the Latin language was interrupted 
 by his early removal from the free-school of Stratford. 
 His youthfid poem, ' Venus and Adonis,' the first heir 
 of his invention, is upon a classical subject. The ' Rape 
 of Lucrece' is founded upon a legend of the beginnings 
 of Roman history. Would he have ventured upon 
 these subjects had be been mifamiliar with the ancient 
 writers, from the attentive study of which he coidd 
 alone obtain the knowledge which would enable him 
 to treat them with propriety ? His was an age of sound 
 scholarship. He dedicates both jioems to a scholar, 
 and a patron of scholars. Does any one of his contem- 
 poraries object that these classical subjects were treated 
 by a young man ignorant of the classics ? Will the 
 most critical examination of these poems detect any 
 thing that betrays this ignorance ? Is there not the 
 most perfect keeping in both these poems, — an original 
 conception of the mode of treating these subjects, ad- 
 visedly adopted with the full knowledge of what might 
 be imitated, but preferring the vigorous painting of 
 nature to any imitation ? 'Love's Labour's Lo.st,' un- 
 doubtedly one of the earliest comedies, shows — upon 
 the principle laid down by Coleridge, that ' ' a young 
 author's first work almost always bespeaks his recent 
 pursuits" — that the habits of William Shakespeare 
 "had been scholastic, and those of a student." The 
 ' Comedy of Errors' is full of those imitations of the 
 ancients in particular passages which critics have in all 
 cases been too apt to take as the chief evidences of 
 learning. The critics of Shakespeare are puzzled by 
 these imitations ; and when they see with what skill ho 
 adopts, or amends, or rejects, the incidents of the 
 ' Menaschmi' of Plautus, they have no resource but to 
 contend that his knowledge of Plautus was derived 
 from a wretched translation, publisiied in all probabil- 
 ity eight or ten years after ' The Comedy of Errors' 
 was written. The three Parts of ' Henry VI.' are the 
 earliest of the historical plays. Those who dispute the 
 genuineness of the First part affirm that it contains 
 more allusions to mj-thology and classical authors than
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Shakespeare ever uses ; but, vith a most singular in- 
 consistency, in the passages of the Second and Third 
 Parts which they have chosen to pronounce as the ad- 
 ditions of Shaliespeare to the original plays of another 
 writer or writers, there are to be found as many allu- 
 sions to mythology and classical writers as in the part 
 which they deny to be his. We have observed upon 
 these passages that they furnish the proof that, as a 
 young writer, he possessed a competent knowledge of 
 the ancient authors, and was not unwilling to display 
 it; "but that, with that wonderful judgment which 
 was as remarkable as the prodigious range of his imagi- 
 native powers, he soon learnt to avoid the pedantry to 
 which inferior men so pertinaciously clung in the pride 
 of their scholarship." Eanging over the whole dra- 
 matic works of Shakespeare, whenever we find a classi- 
 cal image or allusion, such as in ' Hamlet,' — 
 
 '* A station like the herald Mercury, 
 New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill,'*— 
 
 the management of the idea is always elegant and 
 graceful ; and the passage may sustain a contrast with 
 the most refined imitations of his contemporaries, or of 
 Us own imitator, Milton. In his Roman plays he ap- 
 pears co-existent with his wonderful characters, and to 
 have read all the obscure pages of Roman history with 
 a clearer eye than philosopher or historian. When he 
 employs Latinisms in the construction of his sentences, 
 and even in the creation of new words, he does so with 
 singular facility and unerring correctness. And then, 
 we are to be told, he managed all this by studying bad 
 translations, and by copying extracts from grammars 
 and dictionaries ; as if it was reserved for such miracles 
 . of talent and industry as the Farmers and the Stcvenses 
 to read Ovid and Virgil in their original tongues, 
 whilst the dull Shakespeare, whether schoolboy or adult, 
 was to be contented through life with the miserable 
 translations of Arthur Golding and Thomas Pliaer." 
 We believe that his familiarity at least with the best 
 Roman writers was begun early, and continued late ; 
 and that he, of all boys of Stratford, would be the least 
 likely to discredit the teaching of Thomas Hunt and 
 Thomas Jenkins, the masters of the grammar-school 
 from 1672 till 1580. 
 
 There were other agencies than the grammar-school 
 at work in the direction of Shakespeare's inquiring boy- 
 hood. There are local associations connected with Strat- 
 ford which could not be without their influence in the 
 formation of his mind. Within the range of such a 
 boy's curiosity were the fine old historic towns of War- 
 wick and Coventiy, the sumptuous palace of Kenil- 
 worth, the grand monastic remains of Evesham. His 
 own Avon abounded with spots of singular beauty, quiet 
 
 • Bee a series nf l(.arneil and spirited papera by the Inte Pr. Ma- 
 pnn on FnrtnprV 'Essay,' printed in Frazer's Magazine, 1889. 
 
 hamlets, solitaiy woods. Nor was Stratford shut out 
 from the general world, as many country towns are. It 
 was a gi-eat highway ; and dealers with every variety 
 of merchandise resorted to its fairs. The eyes of Shake 
 speare must always have been open for oliservation. 
 When he was twelve years old EHzaljeth made'her cel- 
 ebrated progress to Lord Leicester's castle of Kenil- 
 worth. Was William Shakespeare at Kenil worth in 
 that summer of 1575, when the great Dudley entertained 
 the queen with a splendor which annalists have de- 
 lighted to record, and upon which one of our own days 
 has bestowed a fame more imperishable than that of 
 any annals ? Percy, speaking of the old Coventry Hock- 
 play, says, " Whatever this old play or storial show 
 was at the time it was exhibited to Queen Elizabeth, it 
 had probably our young Shakespeare for a spectator, 
 who was then in his twelfth year, and doubtless attend- 
 ed with all the inhabitants of the surrounding country 
 at these ' princely pleasures of Kenilworth,' wheuco 
 Stratford is only a few miles distant." The prepara- 
 tions for this celebrated entertainment were on so mag- 
 nificent a scale, the puiveyings must have been sc 
 enormous, the posts so unintermitting, that there had 
 needed not the flourishings of paragraphs (for the age of 
 paragraphs was not as yet) to have roused the curiosity 
 of all mid-England. In 1575, when Robert Dudley 
 welcomed his sovereign with a more than regal magni- 
 ficence, it is easy to believe that his ambition looked 
 for a higher reward than that of continuing a queen'n 
 most favored servant and counsellor. It appears to 
 us that the exquisite speech of Oberon in ' A Midsum- 
 mer Night's Dream' is founded upon a recollection of 
 what the youuj, Shakespeare hoard of the intent of the 
 princely pleasures of Kenilworth, and is associated with 
 some of the poetical devices which he might have there 
 beheld : 
 
 " Ohe. My irentle Puck, come hiltier: Thou remember'£t 
 Since once I sat upon a promontory. 
 And hearti a mermaid, on a dolphin's back. 
 Uttering such dulcet and h.irmonious breath. 
 That the rude sea grew civil at her sons: ; 
 And certain stars shot madly from their spheres. 
 To hear the sea-maid's music. 
 
 Pack, I remember. 
 
 Ohe. That very time I saw. (but thou conldst not,) 
 Flying: between tlie cold moon and the earth, 
 Cupid nil ftrm'd ; a certain aim he took 
 At a fair vestal, throned by the west: 
 And loos'd his love-shiift STiiartiy from his DOW, 
 As It should jiicrce slinntlrcd thousand licaria; 
 But I nii^rht see young Cu[)ld"s fiery sliaft 
 Qucnch'd in tlie chaste beams of the watery moon, 
 And tile iuilierial votaress passed on. 
 In mnidon meditaUoii, fancy free." 
 
 The most lemarkalile of the shows of Kenilworth we o 
 
 associated with the mythology and the romance of 
 
 lakes and se.as. "Triton, in likeness of a mermaid, 
 
 came towards the Queen's Majesty." " Arion appeared 
 
 sitting on a dolphin's back." So the quaint and really
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SUAKESPEARE. 
 
 poetical George Gascoigne, in his 'Brief Reliearsal, or 
 ratlier a true Copy of as much as was presented before 
 her Majesty at Kenilworth.' But the diffuse and most 
 entertaining coxcomb Lanuliara describes a song of 
 Arion with an ecstasy wliich may justify the belief that 
 tlie "dulcet and harmonious breath" of "the sea- 
 maid's music" might be the echo of the melodies heard 
 by the young poet as he stood beside the lake at Kenil- 
 worth : — " Now, Sir, the ditty in metre so aptly endited 
 to tlie matter, and after by voice deliciously delivered ; 
 the song, by a skilful artist into his parts so sweetly 
 sorted ; each part in his instrument so clean and sharply 
 touched ; every instrument again in his kind so excel- 
 lently tunable ; and this in the evening of the day, re- 
 sounding from the calm waters, where the presence of 
 her Majesty, and longing to listen, had utterly damped 
 all noise and din, the whole harmony conveyed in time, 
 tune, and temper thus incomparably melodious ; with 
 what pleasure (Master Martin), with what sliarpness of 
 conceit, with what lively delight this might pierce into 
 the hearers' hearts, I pray ye imagine yourself, as ye 
 may." If Elizabeth be the "fair vestal throned by the 
 west, " of which there can be no reasonable doubt, the 
 most appropriate scene of the mermaid's song would be 
 Kenilworth, and "that very time" the summer of 
 1575. There were other circumstances connected with 
 his locality which were favorable to the cultivation of 
 the dramatic spirit in the boy-poet. It requires not the 
 imagination of the romance-writer to assume that be- 
 fore William Shakespeare was sixteen, that is, before 
 the j'ear 1580, when the pageants at Coventry, with 
 one two rare exceptions, were finally suppressed, he 
 would be a spectator of one of these remarkable per- 
 formances, which were in a few years wholly to perish ; 
 becoming, however, the foundations of a drama more 
 suited to tlie altered spirit of the people, more univer- 
 sal in its range, — the drama of the laity, and not of 
 the chinch. The ancient accounts of the Chamberlain 
 of the borough of Stratford exhibit a number of pay- 
 ments made out of the funds of the corporation for 
 theatrical performances. In 1569, when John Shake- 
 speare was chief magistrate, there is a payment of nine 
 shillings to the Queen's players, and of twelve-pence to 
 the Earl of Worcester's players. In 1573 the Earl of 
 Leicester's players received six shillings and eight- 
 pence. In 1574 " my Lord of Warwick's players" have 
 a gratuity of seventeen shillings, and the Earl of 
 Worcester's players of five and seven-pence. In 1577 
 " my Lord of Leicester's players" receive fifteen shil- 
 lings, and "my Lord of Worcester's players" three and 
 four-iience. In 1579 and 1580 the entries are more 
 circumstantial : 
 
 " 1579. Ittm pnid to my Lord Strftn^e men tho xl"* day of Feb- 
 ruftry at tho comaundement of Mr. Bayliffe, v«. 
 
 3 
 
 P"* at the comnndemeiit of Mr. UBlifTe to the Coanlys uf F.-wox 
 pleura, xivs. \\d. 
 
 15H0. I''' to the Earle of Darbyes players at the comaundemon'. 
 of Mr. BsUITe, vilis. ivrf." 
 
 It thus appears that there had been three sets of play- 
 ers at Stratford within a short distance of the time 
 when William Shakespeare was sixteen years of age. 
 
 It is a curious circumstance that the most precise and 
 interesling account which we possess of one of the 
 earlieat of the theatrical performances is from tlie re- 
 collection of a man who was born in the same year as 
 William Shakespeare. In 1G33 R. W. (R. Willis), sta- 
 ting his age to be seventy-five, published a little vol- 
 ume, called ' Mount Tabor,' which contains a passage, 
 " upon a stage-play which I saw when I was a child," 
 which is essential to be given in any history or sketch 
 of the early stage : 
 
 " In the city of Gloucester the manner is (as I think 
 it is in other like corjxirations) that, when players of 
 interludes come to town, they first attend the mayor, 
 to inform him what nobleman's servants they are, and 
 so to get licence for their public playing ; and if the 
 mayor like the actors, or would show respect to their 
 lord and master, he appoints them to play their first 
 play before himself and the aldermen and common 
 council of the city ; and that is called the mayor's 
 play, where every one that will comes in without 
 money, the mayor giving the players a reward as ho 
 thinks fit, to show respect unto them. At such a play 
 my fether took me with him, and made me stand be- 
 tween his legs, as he sat upon one of the benches, 
 where we saw and heard very well. The play was 
 called ' The Cradle oi Security, ' wherein was persona- 
 ted a king or some great prince, with his courtiers of 
 several kinds, amongst which three ladieswere in special 
 grace with him, and they, keeping him in delights and 
 pleasures, drew him from his graver counsellors, hear- 
 ing of sermons, and listening to good counsel and ad- 
 monitions, that In the end they got him to lie down in 
 a cradle upon the stage, where these three ladies, 
 joining in a sweet song, rocked him asleep, that he 
 snorted again, and in the meantime closely conveyed 
 under the clothes wherewithal he was covered a vizard 
 like a swine's snout upon his face, with three wire 
 chains fastened thereunto, the other end whereof being 
 holden severally by those three ladies, who fell to sing- 
 ing again, and then discovered his face, that the spec- 
 tators might see how they had transformed him going 
 on with tlieir singing. Whilst all this was acting, there 
 came forth of another door at the farthest end of tho 
 stage two old men, the one in blue, with a sergennt-at- 
 arms his mace on his shoulder, the other in red, with a 
 drawn sword in his hand, and leaning with the other hand 
 upon the other's shoulder, and so they two went along 
 in a soft pace, round about by the skirt of the stage.
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SBAKESPEARE. 
 
 till .It last thev came to the cradle, when all the court 
 was ia greatest jollity, and then the foremost old man 
 with his mace stroke a fearful blow upon the cradle, 
 whereat all the courtiers, with the three ladies and the 
 vizard, all vanished ; and the desolate prince, starting 
 up barefaced, and finding himself thus sent for to judg- 
 ment, made a lamentable complaint of his miserable 
 case, and so was carried away by wicked spirits. This 
 prince did personate in the moral the wicked of the 
 world; the three ladies, pride, covetousncss, and lux- 
 ury ; the two old men, the end of the world and the 
 last judgment. This sight took such impression in me, 
 that when I came towards man's estate it was as fresh 
 in my memory as if I had seen it newly acted." 
 
 We now understand why the bailiff of Stratford paid 
 the players out of the public money. The first per- 
 formance of each company in this town was the bailiffs, 
 or chief magistrate's play ; and thus, when the father 
 of William Shakespeare was bailiff, the boy might have 
 stood ' ' between his legs as he sat upon one of the 
 benches." 
 
 Tlie hall of tlie Guild, which afterwards became the 
 Town Hall, was the occasional theaire of Stratford. It 
 is now a long room, and somewliat low, the building 
 being divided into two floors, the upper of which is 
 used as the Grammer School. The elevation for the 
 C'<jurt at one end of the hall would form the stage ; and 
 on one side is an ancient separate chamber to which the 
 performers would retire. With a due provision of 
 benches, about three hundred persons could be accom- 
 modated in this room ; and no doubt Mr. Bailiff would 
 be liberal in the issue of his invitations, so that Strat- 
 ford might not grudge its expenditure of five shillings. 
 
 It would appear from Willis's description that ' The 
 (Jradle of Security' w.is for the most part dumb show. 
 It is probable that he was present at its performance at 
 Gloucester when he was six or seven years of age ; it 
 evidently belongs to that class of moral plays which 
 were of the simplest construction. And yet it was i)op- 
 ular long after the English drama had reached its 
 highest eminence. When the pageants and mysteries 
 had been put down by the force of public opinion, when 
 spectacles of a dramatic character had ceased to be 
 employed as instnmicnts of religious instruction, the 
 professional players who had sprung up founded their 
 popularity for a long period upon the .ancient habits and 
 assiiciations of the people. Our drama was essentially 
 formed by a course of steady progress, and not by rapid 
 transition. We are accustomed to say that the drama 
 w:\8 created by Shakespeare, JIarlowe, Greene, Kyd, 
 and a few others of distinguished genius ; but they all 
 of them worked upon a foimdation which was ready for 
 them. The superstructure of real tragedy and comedy 
 Imd to bo erected upon the moral plays, the romances. 
 
 the histories, which were beginning to be popular in 
 the very first days of Queen Elizabeth, and continued 
 to be so, even in their very rude forms, be) ond the 
 close of her long reign. 
 
 The controversy upon the lawfulness of stage-plays 
 was a remarkable feature of the period which we are 
 now noticing ; and, as pamphlets were to that age what 
 newspapers are to ours, there can be little doubt that 
 even in the small literary society of Stratford the tracts 
 upon this subject might be well known. The dispute 
 about the Theatre was a contest between the holders of 
 opposite opinions in religion. The Puritans, who even 
 at that time were strong in their zeal if not in their 
 numbers, made the Theatre the especial object of their 
 indignation, for its unquestionable abuses allowed them 
 BO to frame their invectives that they might tell with 
 double force against every description of public amuse- 
 ment, against poetry in general, p.gaiust music, against 
 dancing, associated as they were ■with the excesses of 
 an ill-regulated stage. A 'Ireatise of John Northbrooke, 
 licensed for the press in 1577, is directed against " di- 
 cing, dancing, vain plays, or interludes." Gosson, who 
 had been a student of Christchurch, Oxford, had him- 
 self written two or three jilays previous to his publica- 
 tion, in 1579, of 'The School of Abuse, containing a 
 Pleasant Invective against Poets, Pipers, Players, Jest- 
 ers, and such-lite Caterpillars of a Commonwealth.' 
 This hook, written with considerable ostentation of 
 learning, and indeed with no common vigour and occa- 
 sional eloquence, defeats its own purposes by too large 
 an aim. Poets, whatever be the character of their 
 poetry, are the objects of Gosson's new-born hostility. 
 The three abuses of the time are held to be inseparable : 
 "As poetry and piping are cousin-germans, so piping 
 and |)laying are of great affinity, and all three chained 
 in links of abuse." If the young Shakespeare had liia 
 ambition turned towards dramatic poetry when he was 
 sixteen, that ambition was not likely to be damped by 
 Gosson's general declamation. 
 
 The earliest, and the most permanent, of poetical 
 associations are those which are impressed upon the 
 mind by localities which have a deep historical interest. 
 It would be difficult to find a district possessing more 
 striking remains of a jiast time than the neighbourhood 
 in which William Shakespeare spent his youth. The 
 poetical feeling which the battle-fields, and castles, and 
 monastic ruins of mid-England would excite in him, 
 may he reasonably considered to have derived an in- 
 tensity through the real history of these celebrated 
 spots being vague, and for the most part traditional. 
 The age of local historians has not yet arrived. The 
 moniunents of the past were indeed themselves much 
 more fresh and perfect than in the subsequent days, 
 when every tomb inscription was copied, and every
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SUAKESPEAKE. 
 
 mouldering document set forth. But in the year 1080, 
 if William Shakespeare desired to know, for example, 
 with some precision, the history which belonged to 
 those uoble towers of Warwick upon which he had often 
 gazed with a delight that scarcely reijuircd to be based 
 upon knowledge, he would look in vain for any guide 
 to his inquiries. Some old people might tell him that 
 they remembered their fathers to have spoken of one 
 John Rous, the son of Geffrey Rous of Warwick, who, 
 having diligently studied at Oxford, and obtained a 
 reputation for uncommon learning, rejected all ambi- 
 tious thoughts, shut himself up with his books in the 
 solitude of Guy's Cliff, and was engaged to the last in 
 writing the Chronicles of his country, and especially 
 the history of his native County and its f;i)mous Earls : 
 and there, in the quiet of that pleasant place, perform- 
 ing his daily offices of devotion as a chantry priest, in 
 tlie little chapel, did John Rous live a life of happy 
 industry till 1491. But the world in general deiived 
 little profit from his labours. Yet if the future Poet 
 sustained some disadvantage by living before the days 
 of antiquarian minuteness, he could still dwell in the 
 past, and people it with the beings of his own imagina- 
 tion. The Chroniclers would, however, afford him 
 ample materials to work into his own topography. 
 There was a truth which was to be found amidst all 
 the mistakes and contradictions of the annalists — the 
 great poetical truth, that the devices of men are insuffi- 
 cient to establish any permanent command over events ; 
 that crime would be followed by retribution ; that evil 
 passions would become their own tormentors ; that in- 
 justice could not be successful to the end ; that al- 
 though dimly seen and unwillingly acknowledged, the 
 great presiding Power of the world could make evil 
 work for good, and advance the general happiness out 
 of the particular misery. This was the mode, we be- 
 lieve, in which that thoughtful youth read the Chroni- 
 cles of his country, whether brief or elaborate. Looking 
 at them by the strong light of local association, there 
 %vould be local tradition at hand to enforce that univer- 
 sal belief in the justice of God's pro\'idence which is in 
 itself alone one of the many proofs of that justice. 
 . Hall, the chronicler, writing his history of 'Tlie 
 Families of Lancaster and York,' about seventy years 
 after the "continual dissension for the crown of this 
 noble realm" was terminated, says, — "What noble- 
 man liveth at this day, or what gentleman of any 
 ancient stock or progeny is clear, whose lineage hath 
 not been infested and plagued with this unnatural di- 
 vision ?" During the boyhood of William Shakespeare, 
 it cannot be doubted that he would meet with many a 
 gentleman, and many a yeoman, who would tell him 
 liow their forefathers had been thus ' ' infested and 
 plagued." The traditions of the most stirring events 
 
 of that contest would at tliis time 1 o about n cent .ry 
 old ; generally diluted in their interest by passing 
 thi'ough the lips of three or four generations, but occa- 
 sionally presented vividly to the mind of the inquiring 
 boy in tlie narration of some amongst the "hoary 
 headed eld' ' whose fathers had fought at Bosworth or 
 Tewksbury. Many of these traditions, too, would be 
 essentii 'ly local ; extending back even to the period 
 when the banished Duke of Hereford, in his bold march 
 
 " From R. venspurg to Cotflwold,'^ 
 gathered a host of followers in the counties of Der. 
 by, Kottingham, Leicester, Warwick, and Worcester. 
 Fields, where battles had been fought ; towns, where 
 parliaments had assembled and treaties had been rati- 
 fied ; castles, where the great leaders bad stood at bay, 
 or had sallied forth upon the terrified country — such 
 were the objects which the young poet would associate 
 with many an elaborate description of the chroniclers, 
 and many an interesting anecdote of his ancient neigh- 
 bours. It appears to us that his dramatic power was 
 early directed towards this long and complicated story, 
 by some principle even more exciting than its capabili- 
 ties for the purposes of the drama. It was the story, 
 we think, which was presented to him in the evening- 
 talk around the hearth of his childhood ; it was the 
 story whose written details were most accessible to him, 
 being narrated by Hall with a rare minuteness of pic- 
 turesque circumstance ; but it was a story also of which 
 his own district had been the scene, in many of its 
 most stirring events. Out of ten English Historical 
 Plays which were written by him, and some undoubt- 
 edly amongst his first performances, he has devoted 
 eight to circumstances belonging to this memorable 
 story. No other nation ever possessed such a history 
 of the events of a century, — a history in which the 
 agents are not the hard abstractions of warriors and 
 statesmen, liut men of fle.sh and blood like ourselves ; 
 men of passion, and crime, and virtue ; elevated per- 
 haps by the poetical art, but filled also, through that 
 art, with such a wondrous life, that we dwell amongst 
 them as if they were of our own day, and feel that they 
 must have spoken as he has made them speak, and act 
 as he has made them act. It is in vain that we are 
 told that some events are omitted, and some transposed ; 
 that documentary history does not exhibit its evidence 
 here, that a contemporary narrative somewhat militates 
 against the representation there, lire general truth of 
 this dramatic history cannot be shaken. It is a philo- 
 sophical history in the very highest sense of that some- 
 what abused term. It contains the philosophy that can 
 only be produced by the union of the noblest imagina- 
 tion with the most just and temperate judginent. It is 
 
 • "Elchard II.," Act 2, scene a
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 the loftiness of the poetical spirit wbicli has enabled 
 Shakespeare alone to write this history with impartial- 
 ity. Open the chroniclers, and we find the prejudices 
 of the Yorldst or the Lancastrian manifesting the in- 
 tensity of the old factious hatred. Who can say to 
 svhich faction Shakespeare belongs ? He has conipre- 
 hcnded the whole, whilst others knew only a part. 
 
 The last play of the series which belongs to the wars 
 of the Roses is unquestionably written altogether with 
 a more matured power than those which preceded it ; 
 yet the links which connect it with the other three 
 plays of the series ate so unbroken, the treatment of 
 character is so consistent, and the poetical conception 
 of the whole so uniform, that, whatever amount of 
 criticism may be yet in store to show that our view is 
 incorrect, we now confidently speak of them all as the 
 plays of Shakespeare, and of Shakespeare alone. Ma- 
 lured, especially in its wonderful exhibition of charac- 
 ter, as the 'Eichard III.' is, we cannot doubt that the 
 subject was very early familiar to the young poet's 
 mind. The Battle of Bosworth Field was the great 
 event of his own locality, which for a century had fixed 
 the government of England. The course of the Refor- 
 mation, and especially the dissolution of the Monaster- 
 ies, had produced great social changes, which were in 
 operation at the time in which William Shakespecvre 
 was born ; whose efi'ects, for good and for evil, he must 
 have seen working around him. as he grew from year 
 to year in knowledge and eJ^erience. But those events 
 were too.reci^nt, and indeed of too delicate a nature, to 
 assume the poetical aspect in his mind. They abided 
 still in tlie region of prejudice and controversy. It was 
 dangerous to speak of the great religious divisions of 
 the kingdom with a tolerant impartiality. History 
 could scarcely deal with these opinions in a spirit of 
 justice. Poetry, thus, which has regard to what is 
 permanent and universal, has passed by these mat- 
 ters, important as tlicy are. But the great event which 
 placed the Tudor family on the throne, and gave 
 England a stable government, however occasionally 
 distracted by civil and religious division, was an event 
 which would seize fast upon such a mind as that of 
 William Sliakespeare. His ancestor, there can be little 
 doubt, had been an adherent of the Earl of Eichmond. 
 For his faithful services to the conqueror at Bosworth 
 he was rewarded, as we are assured, by lands in War- 
 wicksliire. Tliat field of Bosworth wouki tliorefore 
 have to Iiim a family as well as a local interest. Burton, 
 tlic liistorian of Leicestershire, who was born about ten 
 years after William Shakespeare, tells us " that his 
 great-great-grandfather, John Hardwick, of Lindley, 
 near Boswortli, a man of very short stature, but active 
 and courageous, tenrlcrcd his service to Henry, with 
 acmo troops of horse, the night he lay at Atherston, 
 
 became his guiile to the field, advised him in the attack, 
 and how to profit by the sun and by the wind." Bur- 
 ton further says, writing in 1022, that the inbabitanla 
 living around the plain called Bosworth Field, more 
 properly the plain of Sutton, ' ' have many occurrences 
 and passages yet fresh in memory, by reason that some 
 persons thereabout, which saw the battle fought, were 
 living within less than forty years, of whidi persons 
 myself have seen some, and have heard of their dis- 
 closures, though related by the second hand." I'his 
 ' ' living within less than forty years' ' would take us 
 back to about the period which we are now viewing in 
 relation to the life of Shakespeare. But cer tainly there 
 is something over-marvellous in Burton's story, to 
 enable us to think that William Shakespeare, even as a 
 very young hoy, could have conversed with "some per- 
 sons thereabout" who had seen a battle fought in 1485. 
 That, as Burton more reasonably of himself says, he 
 might have "heard their discourses at second-band" is 
 probable enough. Bosworth Field is about thirty miles 
 from Stratford. Burton says that the plain derives its 
 name from Bosworth, ' ' not that this battle was fought 
 at this place (it being fought in a large, flat plain, and 
 spacious ground, three miles distant from this town, 
 between the towns of Shenton, Sutton, Dadlington, and 
 Stoke) ; but for that this town was the most worthy 
 town of note near adjacent, and was therefore called 
 Bosworth Field. That this battle was fought in this 
 plain appeareth by many remarkable places : By a little 
 mount cast up, where the common report is, that at 
 the first beginning of tlie battle Henry Earl of Rich- 
 mond made his paraenetical oration to his army ; by 
 divers pieces of armour, weapons, and other warlike 
 accoutrements, and by many arrowheads here found, 
 whereof, about twenty years since, at the enclosure of 
 the lordship of Stoke, great store were digged up, of 
 which some I have now (1622) in my custody, being of 
 a long, large, and big proportion, far greater than any 
 now in use ; as also by relation of the inhabitants, who 
 have many occurrences and passages yet fresh in mem- 
 ory." Burton goes on to tell two stories connected with 
 the eventful battle. The one was the vision of King 
 Ricliard, of " divers fearful ghosts running about him, 
 not suffering him to take any rest, still crying ' Re- 
 venge.' " Hall relates the tradition thus: — "The 
 fame went that he had the same night a dreadful and 
 a terrible dream, for it seemed to him, being asleep, 
 that he saw divers images like terrible devils, not 
 suffering him to take any quiet or rest." Burton 
 says, previous to his description of the drtam, "The 
 vision is reported to be in this manner." And certainly 
 his account of the fearful ghosts "still crying Revenge" 
 is essentially different from that of the dironiclcr. 
 Shakespeare has followed the more poetical account of
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SUAKESPEARE. 
 
 XS1 
 
 the oW Iix^l historian ; which, however, could not 
 bavo been known to liira : — 
 
 "Methought the souls of all that I have mnrther'J 
 Canio to my tent ; and every one ilhl threat 
 To-morrow's vengeance on the head of Kichard." 
 
 Did Shiikespeare obtain )iis notion from tlie same source 
 as liurton — from " relation of the inhabitants who have 
 manj- occurrences and passages yet fresh in memory ?" 
 The localities amidst which Shakespeare lived were, 
 as we have thus seen, highly favourable to his cultiva- 
 tion of a poetical reverence for antiquity. But his 
 unerring observation of the present prevented the past 
 becoming to him an illusion. He had always an 
 earnest patriotism ; he had a strong sense of the bless- 
 ings which had been conferred upon his own day through 
 the security won out of peril and suffering by the mid- 
 dle classes. The destruction of the old institutions, 
 after the first evil effects had been mitigated by the 
 finergy of the people, had diffused capital, and h:vd 
 caused it to be employed with more activity. But he, 
 who scarcely ever stops to notice the political aspects 
 of his own day, cannot forbear an indignant comment 
 upon the sufferings of the very poorest, which, if not 
 caused by, were at least coincident with, the great 
 spoliation of the property of the Church. Poor Tom, 
 " who is whipped from tithing to tithing, and stocked, 
 punished, and imprisoi>ed," was no fanciful portrait; 
 he was the creature of the pauper legislation of half a 
 century. Exhortations in the churches, "for the 
 furtherance of the relief of such as were in unfeigned 
 misery," were prescribed by the statute of the 1st of 
 Edward VI. ; but the same statute directs that the 
 unhappy wanderer, after certain forms of proving that 
 he has not offered himself for work, shall be marked V 
 with a hot iron upon his breast, and adjudged to be 
 ' ' a slave ' tor two years to him who brings him before jus- 
 tices of the peace ; and the statute goes on to direct the 
 slave-owner " to cause the said slave to work by beat- 
 ing, chaining, or otherwise," Three years afterwards 
 the statute is repealed, seeing that it could Lot be car- 
 ried into effect by reason of the multitude of vagabonds 
 and the extremity of their wants. The whipping and 
 the stocking were applied by successive enactments of 
 Elizabeth. Tlie gallows, too, was always at hand to 
 make an end of the wanderers when, hunted from 
 tithing to tithing, they inevitably became thieves. 
 Nothing but a compulsory provision for the mainten- 
 ance of the poor could then have saved England from a 
 fearful Jacquerie. It cannot reasonably be doubted 
 th.at the vast destruction of capital by the dissolution 
 of the monasteries threw for many years a quantity of 
 superfluous labour upon the yet unsettled capital of 
 the ordinary industry of the country. That Shake- 
 Bpearc had witnessed much of this misery is evident 
 
 from his constant disposition to descry ' a soul of 
 goodness in things evil." and from his indigiunt hatred 
 of tli(! heartlcssness of petty authority :— 
 
 " Thon rnacal beadlo, hold thy bloody hand." 
 
 And yet, with many social evils about him, the age oi" 
 Shakespeare's youth was one in wliich the peojile were 
 making a great intellectual progress. The poor were ill 
 provided for. The Church was in an unsettled state, 
 attacked by the natural restlessness of those who 
 looked upon the Eeformafion with regret and hatred, 
 and by the rigid enemies of its traditionary ceremonies 
 and ancient observances, who had sprung up in its 
 bosom. The promises which had been made that 
 education should be fostered by the State had utterly 
 failed ; for even the preservation of the universities, 
 and the protection and establishment of a few gram- 
 mar-schools, h.ad been unwillingly conceded by the 
 avarice of those daring statesmen who had swallowed 
 up the riches of the ancient establishment. The genial 
 spirit of the English yeomanry had received a check 
 from the intolerance of the powerful sect who frowned 
 upon all sports and recreations — -who despised the 
 arts — who held poets and pipers to be " caterpillars of 
 a commonwealth." But yet the wonderful stirring up 
 of the intellect of the nation had made it an age favour- 
 able for the cultivation of the highest literature ; and 
 most favourable to those who looked upon society, as 
 the young Shakespeare must have looked, in the spirit 
 of cordial enjoyment and practical wisdom. 
 
 Charlcote : — the name is familiar to every reader of 
 Shakespeare ; but it is not presented to the world under 
 the influence of pleasant associations with tlie world's 
 poet. The story, which was first told by Howe, must 
 be here repeated : — "An extravagance that he was 
 guilty of forced him both out of his country, and that 
 way of living which he had taken up ; and though it 
 seemed at first to be a blemish upon his good manners, 
 and a misfortune to him, yet it afterwards happily 
 proved the occasion of esertiBg one of the greatest 
 geniuses that ever was known in dramatic poetry. Ho 
 had, by a misfortune common enough to young fellows, 
 fallen into ill company, and, amongst them, some that 
 made a frequent practice of deer-stealing engaged him 
 more than once in robbing a park that belonged to Sir 
 Thomas Lucy, of Charlcote, near Stratford. For this 
 he was prosecuted by that gentleman, as he thought 
 somewhat too severely ; and, in order to revenge tliat 
 ill usage, be made a ballad upon him. And though 
 this, probably the first essay of his poetry, be lo9t, yet 
 it is said to have been so very bitter, that it redoubled 
 the prosecution against him to that degree, that he was 
 obliged to leave his business and family in Warwick-
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Bliire for some time, and shelter himself in London."" 
 The good old gossip Aubrey is wholly silent about the 
 deer-stealing and the flight to London, merely saying, 
 "This AVilliam, being inclined naturally to poetry and 
 acting, came to London, I guess about eighteen." But 
 there were other antiquarian gossips of Aubrey's age, 
 who have left us their testimony upon this subject. 
 llie Eeverend William Fulman, a fellow of Corpus 
 Christi College, Oxford, who died in 1CS8, bequeathed 
 his papei-s to the Reverend Eichard Davies of Sanford, 
 Oxford.shire ; and on the death of Mr. Davies, in 1707, 
 these papers were deposited in the library of Corpus 
 Christi. Fulman appears to have made some collec- 
 tions for the biography of our English pcets, and under 
 tlie name Shakespeare he gives the dates of his birth 
 and deatli. But Davies, who added notes to his friend's 
 manuscripts, affords us the following piece of informa- 
 tion: — ''He was much given to all unluckiness in 
 stealing venison and rabbits ; particularly from Sir 
 Lucy, who had him oft whipped, and sometimes im- 
 prisoned, and at last made him fly his native country, 
 to his great advancement. But his revenge was so 
 great, that he is his Justice Clodpate, and calls him a 
 great man, and that, in allusion to his name, bore three 
 louses rampant for his arms." The accuracy of this 
 chronicler, as to events supposed to have happened a 
 hinidred years before he wrote, may be inferred from 
 his correctness in what was accessible to him. Justice 
 Clodpate is a new character ; and the three louses ram- 
 pant have diminished strangely from the ' 'dozen white 
 luces" of Master Slender. In Mr. Davies' account we 
 have no mention of the ballad — through which, ac- 
 cording to Rowe, the young poet revenged his "ill 
 usage." But Capell, the editor of Shakespeare, found 
 a new testimony to that fact : ' ' The writer of his ' Life, ' 
 the first modern, [Rowe] speaks of a 'lost ballatl,' 
 which added fuel, lie says, to the knight's before-con- 
 reived anger, and ' redoubled the prosecution ;' and 
 calls the ballad ' the first essay of Shakespeare's poetry ;' 
 one stanza of it, which has the appearance of genuine, 
 was put into the editor's hands many years ago by an 
 ingenious gentleman (grandson of its preserver), with 
 this account of the way in which it descended to him : 
 Mr. Thomas Jones, who dwelt at Tarbick, a village in 
 Worccstersliire, a few miles from Stratford-on-Avon, 
 and died in the year 170.3, aged upwards of ninety, 
 remembered to have heard from several old people at 
 Stratford the story of Shakespeare's robbing Sir Thomas 
 r.iic.v''? park; and their account of it agreed with Mr. 
 Howe's, with tliis addition — tliat the ballad writen 
 against Sir Thomas by Sli.akespeare was stuck upon his 
 l<ark-gatc, which exasperated the knight to apply to a 
 
 ♦'Somo Accirant •>( tile LIfo or William ShaUespcor ' written 
 Dy Mr Kowo. 
 
 lawyer at Warwick to proceed against him. Mr. Jones 
 had put downin writing the first stanza of the balhid, 
 which was all he remembered of it, and Mr. Thomne 
 Wilkes (mj' grandfather) transmitted it to ray fathir 
 by memory, who also took it in writing." This, then, 
 is the entire evidence as to the deer-stealing tradition. 
 According to Rowe, the young Shakespeare was engaged 
 more than once in robbing a park, for which he was 
 prosecuted by Sir Tiiomas Lucy ; he made a ballad 
 upon his prosecutor, and then, being moie severely 
 pursued, fled to London. According to Davies, he was 
 much given to all unluckiness in stealing venison and 
 rabbits ; for which he was often whipped, sometimes 
 imprisoned, and at last forced to fly the country. Ac- 
 cording to Jones, the tradition of Rowe was correct a,>: 
 to robbing the park ; and the obnoxious ballad being 
 stuck upon the park-gate, a lawyer of Warwick w.as 
 authorized to prosecute the offender. The tradition is 
 thus full of contradictions upon the face of it. It 
 necessarily would be so, for each of the witnesses speaks 
 of circumstances tliat must have happened a hundred 
 years before his time. We must examine the credilii- 
 lity of the tradition therefore by inquiring what was the 
 state of the law as to the offence for which William 
 Shakespeare is said to ha^'e been prosecuted ; what wag 
 the state of public opinion as to the oiiecce ; and what 
 was the position of Sir Thomas Lucy as regarded his 
 immediate neighbours. 
 
 The law in operation at the period in question was 
 the .Sth of Elizabeth, chapter 21. The ancient fore.~.t- 
 laws had regard only to the possessions of the Crown : 
 and therefore in tlie 32nd of Henry VIII. an Act wni) 
 passed for the protection of " every inheritor and pos- 
 sessor of manors, land, and tenements," which made 
 the killing of deer, and the taking of rabbits and 
 hawks, felony. This Act was repealed in the 1st of 
 Edward VI. ; but it was quickly re-enacted in the 3rd 
 and 4th of Edward VI. (1549 and 1550), it being al- 
 leged that unlawful hunting prevailed to such an ex- 
 tent throughout the realm, in the royal and private 
 parks, that in one of the king's parks within a few 
 miles of London five liundred deer were slain in one 
 day. For the due piinishment of such off'ences the 
 taking of deer was again made felony. But the Act 
 was again repealed in the 1st of Mary. In the 5th of 
 Elizabeth it was attempted in Parliament once more to 
 make tlie offence a capital felony. But this was suc- 
 cessfully resisted ; and it was enacted tliat, if any jier- 
 son by night or by day " wrongfully or unlawfully 
 break or enter into any park empaled, or any other 
 several ground closed with wall, pale, or hedge, and 
 used for the keeping, breeding, and cherishing of deer, 
 and so wrongruUy haunt, drive, or chase out, or take, 
 kill, or slay any deer within any such empaled park.
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEAIIK 
 
 or cloeei ground with wall, pale, or other enclosure, 
 md used for deer as is aforesaid," ho shall suffer three 
 months' imprisonment, pay treble damag(!S to the party 
 oCfcndcd, and find sureties fur seven years' good be- 
 havi(nir. But there is a clause in this Act (1562 3) 
 which renders it doubtful whether the penalties for 
 taking deer could be applied twenty years after the 
 passing of the Act, in the case of Sir Thomas Lucy. 
 " Provided always, That this Act, or anything con- 
 taiued therein, extend not to any park or enclosed 
 ground hereafter to be made and used for deer, without 
 the grant or licence of our Sovereign Lady the Queen, 
 her heirs, successors, or progenitors." At the date of 
 this statute, Charlcote, it is said, was not a deer-park ; 
 was not an enclosed ground royally licensed. For the 
 space of forty-two years after the passing of this Act of 
 Elizabeth tliere was no remedy for deer-stealing 
 (except by action for trespass) in grounds not enclosed 
 at the passing of that Act. The statute of the Srd of 
 James I. recites that for offences within such grounds 
 there is no remedy provided by the Act of Elizabeth, 
 or by any other Act. It appears to us, however, that 
 Malone puts the case against the tradition too strongly 
 when he maintains that Charlcote was not a licensed 
 paik in 1562, and that, therefore, its venison continued 
 to be unprotected till the statute of James. The Act of 
 Elizabeth clearly contemplates any "several ground" 
 " closed with wall, pale, or hedge, and used for the 
 keeping of deer;" and as Sir Thomas Lucy built the 
 mansion at Charlcote in 1558,' it may reasonably be 
 supposed that at the date of the statute the domain of 
 Charlcote was closed with wall, pale, or hedge. Tlie 
 deer-stealing tradition, however, has grown more mi- 
 nute as it has advanced in age. Charlcote, according 
 to Mr, Samuel Ireland, was not the place of Shake- 
 speare's unlucky adventures. The Park of Fulbrooke, 
 he says, was the property of Sir Thomas Lucy : and he 
 gives us a drawing of an old house where the young of- 
 fender was conveyed after his detection. Upon the 
 Ordnance Map of our own day is the Deer Barn, where, 
 according to the same veracious tradition, the venison 
 was concealed. A word or two disposes of this part of 
 the tradition : Fulbrooke did not come into the pos- 
 session of the Lucy family till the grandson of Sir 
 Thomas purchased it in the reign of James I. We have 
 seen, then, that for ten years previous to the passing of 
 the Act of Elizabeth for the preservation of deer there 
 had been no laws in force except the old forest-laws, 
 which applied not to private property. The statute of 
 niizAbeth makes the bird-nesting boy, who climbs up to 
 the hawk's eyrie, as liable to punishment as the deer- 
 stealer. Tlie tidving of rabbits, as well as deer, was 
 felony by the statutes of Henry VIII. and Edward VI. ; 
 but from the time of Henry VIII. to James I. there was 
 
 no protection for rabbits : they were /era n/Uurct. Our 
 unhappy poet, therefore, could not be held to steal 
 rabbits, however fond he might be of hunting thorn ; 
 and certainly it would have been legally uii.'^afe for 
 Sir Thomas Lucy to have whipped him for such a 
 disposition. Pheasants and partridges were free for 
 men of all condition to shoot with gun or cross-bow, or 
 capture with hawk. There was no restriction against 
 taking hares except a statute of Henry VIII., which, 
 for the protection of hunting, forbade tracking them in 
 the snow. With this general right of sport it is scarcely 
 to be expected that the statute against the taking of 
 deer should be very strictly observed by the bold 
 yeomanry of the days of Elizabeth ; or that the offence 
 of a young man should have been visited by such 
 severe prosecution as shouhl have compelled him to fly 
 the. country. The penalty for the offence was a defined 
 one. The short imprisonment might have been painful 
 for a youth to bear, but it would not have been held 
 disgi-aceful. All the writers of the Elizabethan period 
 speak of killing a deer with a sort of jovial sympathy, 
 worthy the descendants of Eobin Hood. " I'll h:ne a 
 buck till I die, I'll slay a doe while I live," is the 
 maxim of the Host in ' The Merry Devil of Edmonton ;' 
 and even Sir John, the priest, reproves him not ; he 
 joins in the fun. With this loose state of public 
 opinion, then, upon the subject of venison, is it likely 
 that Sir Thomas Lucy would have pursued for such 
 an offence the eldest son of an alderman of Stratford 
 with any extraordiuary severity ? The knight was 
 nearly the most important person residing in the im- 
 mediate neighbourhood of Stratford. In 1578 he had 
 been High Sheriff. At the period when the deer- 
 stealing may be suppcsed to have taken place he was 
 seeking to be member for the county of Warwick, for 
 which he was returned in 1581. He was in the habit 
 of friendly intercourse with the residents of Stratford, 
 for in 1583 he was chosen as an arbitrator in a matter 
 of dispute by Hamnet Sadler, the friend of John Shake- 
 speare and of his son. All these considerations tend, 
 we think, to show that the improbable deer-stealing 
 tradition is based, like many other stories connected 
 with Shakespeare, on that vulgar love of the marvel- 
 lous which is not satisfied with the wonder which a 
 being eminently endowed himself presents, without 
 seeking a contrast of profligacy, or meanness, or igno- 
 rance in his early condition, amongst the tales of a rudo 
 generation who came after him, and, hearing of hie 
 fame, endeavoured to bring him as near as might be to 
 themselves. 
 
 In the sixteenth century young men married early. 
 In the middle ranks there was little' outfit required th 
 begin housekeeping. A few articles of useful furniture
 
 LIFE OF \MLUAM SUAKESPEAEE. 
 
 satisfieii their simple tastes ; and we doubt not there 
 ivfi.'s as much happiness seated on the wooden bench as 
 now on the silken ottoman, and as light hearts tripped 
 over the green rushes as upon the Persian carpet. A 
 si'-ver bowl or two, a few spoons, constituted the display 
 of the more ambitious ; but for use the treen platter 
 was at once clean and substantial, though the pewter 
 dish sometimes graced a solemn merry-making. Em- 
 ployment, especially agricultural, was easily obtained 
 by the industrious ; and the sons of the yeomen, whose 
 ambition did not drive them into the towns to pursue 
 commerce, or to the universities to try for the prizes of 
 professions, walked humbly and contentedly in the 
 same road as tlieir fathers had walked before them. 
 They tilled a little land with indifferent akill, and their 
 herds and flocks gave food and raiment to their house- 
 hold. Smrounded by the cordial intimacies of the 
 class to which he belonged, it is not difficult to under- 
 stand how William Shakespeare married early ; and the 
 very circumstance of his so maiTying is tolerably clear 
 evidence of the course of life in which he was brought 
 up. It has been a sort of fashion of, late years to con- 
 sider that Shakespeare was clerk to an attorney. 
 Thom;i.s Nash in 1589 published this sentence : " It is a 
 ccHuinon practice now-a-days, among a sort of shifting 
 companions, that run through every art and thrive by 
 none, to leave the trade of Noverini, whereto they were 
 Ijorn, and busy themselves with the endeavours of art, 
 that could scarcely latinize their neck-verse if they 
 Fhoidd have need ; yet ISnglish Seneca, read by can- 
 dlelight, yields many good sentences, as Blond is a 
 Beggar, and so forth : and, if you entreat him fair in 
 a, frosty morning, he will afford you whole Hamlets, 
 I should say handfuls, of tragical speeches." Tliis 
 qaouvtion is held to furnish the external evidence that 
 Shakespeare had been an attorney, by the connexion 
 here implied of ' ' the trade of Noverint' ' and ' ' whole 
 Hamlets." Noverint was the technical beginning of a 
 b(md. It is imputed, then, by Nash, to a sort of shift- 
 ing companioiLS, that, running through every art and 
 thriving by none, they attempt dramatic composition, 
 drawing their tragical speeches from English Seneca. 
 Docs this description apply to Shakespeare ? Was he 
 thriving by no art? In 1589 he was established in life 
 i\s a sharer in the Blackfriars Theatre. Does the use of 
 the iexm " whole Hamlets" fix the allusion upon him ? 
 It appears to us only to show that some tragedy called 
 ' Hamlet,' it may be Shakespeare's, was then in exist- 
 ence ; and that it was a play also at which Nash might 
 fneer as abounding with tragical speeches. But it does 
 not seem to us that there is any absolute connexion be- 
 tween the Noverint and the Hamlet. The external evi- 
 dence of this passage (and it is the only evidence of such 
 ncbarncter tluit hag been found) wholly fails, wo tliink, 
 
 in showing that Shakcsi^care was in 1589 repiited to 
 have been an attorney. But had he pursued this occu- 
 pation, either at Stratford or in London, it is tolerably 
 clear that there would have been ample external evi- 
 dence for the establishment of the fact. In those times 
 an attorney was employed in almost every transaction 
 between man and man, of any importance. l)ec;ils, 
 bonds, indentures, were much more common when 
 legal documents were untaxed, and legal assistance 
 was comparatively cheap. To every document attest- 
 ing witnesses were numerous ; and the attorney's clerk, 
 as a matter of course, was amongst the number. Such 
 papers and parchments are better secured against the 
 ravages of time than any other manuscripts. It ia 
 scarcely possible that, if Shakespeare had been an at- 
 torney's clerk, his name would not have appeared ia 
 some such document, as a subscribing witness.* No 
 such signature has ever been found. This fact appears 
 to us to dispose of Malone's confident belief that uiJon 
 Shakespeare leaving school he was placed for two or 
 three years in the office of one of the seven attorneys 
 who practised in the Court of Record in Stratford. 
 Malone adds, "The comprehensive mind of oiir poet, 
 it must be owned, embraced fdmost every object of na- 
 ture, every trade, and every art, the manners of every 
 description of men, and the general language of almost 
 every profession ; but his knowledge and application of 
 legal terms seem to me not merely such as might have 
 been acquired by the casual observation of his all-com 
 prehending mind ; it has the appearance of technical 
 skill ; and he is so fond of displaying it on all occasions, 
 that there is, I think, some ground for supposing that 
 he was early Initiated in at least the forms of law." 
 Malone then cites a number of passages exemplifying 
 Shakespeare's knowledge and application of legal terms. 
 Tlie theory was origiually propounded by Malone iu hia 
 edition of 1790 ; and it gave rise to many subsequent 
 notes of the commentators, pointing out these techni- 
 cal allusions. The frequency of their occurrence, and 
 the accuracy of their use, are, however, no proof to us 
 that Shakespeare was professionally a lawyer. Thero 
 is every reason to believe that the principles of law, 
 especially the law of real property, were much more 
 generally understood in those days than in our own, 
 Etlucated men, especially those who possessed property, 
 looked upon law as a science instsad of a mystery ; and 
 its terms were used in familiar speech instead of being 
 regarded as a technical jargon. When Hamlet says, 
 "This fellow might be in his time a great buyer ol 
 
 * >rr. "Wli-^Icr. of Ptr.itfonl, \inTin£r taken up the opinion many 
 years nco. upon the anppestion Of Miilonc. that Shnkespcaro might 
 have \)i-\"\ in iin attorney's oflke, ha.s availetl himself of his oppor- 
 tiinitlo lis :i ."olioltor to e.«ainlne luilnlreds of docnnienta of Sliako- 
 Bpeare's tin.e. in tho hopo of discovering his signature. The ox- 
 bmination wi-a altogether fruitless.
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 laud, with his statutes, his recognizances, his fines, his 
 (ioiililo voiiclieis, ■ his recoveries," he employs terms 
 with which every gentleman was familiar, because the 
 owner (if jiroperty was often engaged in a practical 
 aeinviintance with them. This general knowledge, 
 which it wovdd be very remarkable if Shakespeare had 
 tint acipiired, involves the use of the familiar law-terms 
 of Ids day,/ee simpU, fine and recmenj, entail, remainder, 
 escheat, mortgage. The commonest practice of the law, 
 such as a sharp boy would have learnt in two or three 
 casual attendances upon tlie Bailiff's Court at Stratford, 
 would ha\-e familiarized Shakespeare very early with 
 the words which are held to imply considerable tech- 
 nical knowledge — action, bond, warrant, bill, suit, plea, 
 arrest. It must not be forgotten that the terms of law, 
 however they may be technically applied, belong to the 
 habittial commerce of mankind ; they are no abstract 
 terms, but essentially deal with human acts, and in- 
 terests, and thoughts : and it is thus that, without any 
 fancifid analogies, they more readily express the feel- 
 ings of those who use them with a general significancy, 
 than any other words tliat the poet could apply. 
 
 We hold, then, that William Shakespeare, the son 
 of a possessor and cultivator of land, a gentleman by 
 descent, married to the heiress of a good family, com- 
 fortable in his worldly circumstances, married very 
 early the daughter of one in a similar rank of life, fmd 
 in all probability did not quit his native place when he 
 so mariied. The marriage-bond, which was discovered 
 a few years since, has set at rest all doubt as to the 
 name and residence of his wife. She is there described 
 as Anne Hathwey, of Stratford, iu the diocese of Wor- 
 cester, maiden. Kowe, in his "Life," says — " Upon his 
 leaving school he seems to have given entirely into that 
 way of living which his father proposed to him ; and 
 in order to settle iu the world, after a family manner, 
 he thought fit to marry while he was yet very young. 
 His wife was the daughter of one ■ Hathaway, said to 
 have been a substantial yeoman in the neighbourhood 
 of Stratford." At the hamlet of Shottery, which is in 
 thn jjarish of Stratford, the Hathaways had been settled 
 forty /ears before the period of Shakespeare's marriage ; 
 foT m the Warwickshire Surveys, in the time of Philip 
 and Mary, it is recited that John Hathaway held prop- 
 erty at Shottery, by copy of court-roll, dated 20th of 
 April, 34th of Henry VIII. (1543).° The Hathaway of 
 Shakespeare's time was named Richard ; and the inti- 
 macy between him and John Shakespeare is shown by 
 a precept in an action against Richard Hathaway, dated 
 1576, m which John Shakespeare is his bondman. Be- 
 Tore the discovery of the marriage-bond, Malone had 
 found a confirmation of the traditional account that 
 
 * The Shottery property, wiich wds cnlleil Hewland, remnioed 
 with the descendants of the Hathaways till 183S. 
 
 4 
 
 the maiden name of Shakespeare's wife was Hathaway ; 
 for Lady Barnard, the gr.and-daughter of Shakespeare, 
 makes bequests in her will to the children of Thomas 
 Hathaway, " her kinsman." But Malone doubts wheth- 
 er there were not other Hathaways than those of Shot- 
 tery, residents in the town of Stratford, an.l not in the 
 hatnlet included in the parish. This is possible. But, 
 on the other hand, the description in the marriage- 
 bond of Anne Hathaway, as of Stratford, is no proof 
 that she was not of Shottery ; for such a document 
 would necessarily have regard only to the parish of the 
 person described. Tradition, always valuable when it 
 is not opposed to evidence, has associated for many 
 years the cottage of the Hathaways at Shottery with 
 the wife of Shakespeare. Garrick purchased relics out 
 of it at the time of the Stratford Jubilee ; Samuel Ire- 
 laiid afterwards carried off what was called Shake- 
 speare's courting-ehair ; and there is still in the house 
 a very anient carved bedstead, which has been handed 
 down from descendant to descendant as an heirloom. 
 The house was no doubt once adequate to form a com- 
 fortable residence for a substantial and even wealthy 
 yeoman. It is still a pretty cottage, embosomed liy 
 trees, and surrounded by pleasant pastures ; and here 
 the young poet might have surrendered his prudence 
 
 to his affections : — 
 
 "As in the sweetest buds 
 The eating canker dwells, so eating Inve 
 Inhabits in the finest wits of all." 
 
 The very early marriage of the young man, with one 
 
 more than seven years his elder, has been supposed to 
 
 have been a rash and passionate proceeding. Upon 
 
 the face of "it, it appears an act that might at least be 
 
 reproved in the words which follow those we have just 
 
 quoted : — 
 
 " As the most forward bud 
 Is eaten by the c.inker ere it blow, 
 Even so by love tlio young and tender wit 
 Is turn'd to folly; blasling in the bud. 
 Losing his wrdure even in the prime. 
 And all the fair effects of future hopes." 
 
 Tills is the common consequence of precocious mar- 
 riages ; hut we are not therefore to conclude that " the 
 young and tender wit" of our Shakespeare was "turned 
 to folly" — that his "forward bud" was " eaten by the 
 canker" — tliat " his verdure" was lost "even in the 
 prime," by his marriage with Anne Hathaway before 
 he was nineteen. The Influence which this marriage 
 must have had upon his destinies was no doubt con- 
 siderable ; but it is too much to assume, as it has been 
 assumed, that it was an unhappy influence. All that 
 we really know of Shakespeare's family life warrants 
 the contrary supposition. We believe that the marriage 
 of Shakespeare was one of affection ; that there was no 
 disparity n the worldly condition of himself and the 
 object of his choice ; that it was with the consent of 
 friends ; that there were no circumstances connected
 
 KVl 
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SHxiKESPEAKE. 
 
 mth it which indicate that it was either iorced or clan- 
 destine, or urged on by an artful woman to cover her 
 apprehended loss of character. 
 
 There is every reason to believe that Shakespeare 
 -.vas remarkable for manly beauty : — " He was a hand- 
 Bome, well-shaped man," says Aubrey. According to 
 tradition, he played Adam in "As You Like It," and 
 the Ghost in " Hamlet." Adam says, — 
 
 " Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty." 
 Upon his personation of the Ghost, Mr. Campbell has 
 the following judicious remarks : — "It has been alleged, 
 in proof of his mediocrity, that he enacted the part 
 of his own Ghost, in ' Hamlet. ' But is the Ghost 
 in ' Hamlet a very mean character ? No ; though its 
 movements are few, they must be awfully graceful ; 
 and the spectral voice, though sulxlued and half-mono- 
 tonous, must he solemn and full of feeling. It gives us 
 an imposing idea of Shakespeare's stature and mien to 
 conceive him in '.his part. The English public, accus- 
 tomed to see their lofty nobles, their Essexes, and their 
 Raleighs, clad in complete armour, and moving under 
 it with a majestic air, would not have tolerated the 
 actor Shakespeare, unless he had presented an appear- 
 ance worthy of the buried majesty of Denmark." That 
 he performed kingly parts is indicated by these lines, 
 written, in 1611, by John Davies, in a poem inscribed 
 "To our English Terence, Mr. William Shakespeare :" — ■ 
 " Eome say. good Will, which I in sport do sing, 
 
 Hadst thou not piay'd some kingly parts in sport, 
 Thou hadst been a companion for a Iting, 
 And been a king among the meaner sort." 
 
 The portrait by Martin Droeshout, prefixed to the edi- 
 tion of 162.3, when Si^akespeare would be Ivel! remem- 
 bered by his friends, gjves a notion of a man of remark- 
 ably fine features, independent of the wonderful de- 
 velopement of forehead. The lines accompanying it, 
 which bear the signature B. I. (most likely Ben Jon- 
 son), attest the accuracy of the likeness. The Bust at 
 Stratford hears the same character. The sculptor was 
 Gerard Johnson. It was probably erected soon after 
 the poet's death ; for it is mentioned by Leonard Digges, 
 ill his verses upon the publication of Sliakespeare's col- 
 lected works by his " pious fellows." All the circum- 
 stances of v>\ Ich we have any knowledge imply that 
 Shakespeare at the time of his marriage, was such a 
 person as ndght well hitve won the heart of a mistress 
 whom tradition lias described as eminently beautiful. 
 Anne Hathaway at this time was of mature beauty. 
 Tlic inscription over her grave in the church of Strat- 
 ford-upon-Avon states that she died on " the Gth day of 
 August, 1623, being of the ago of 67 years." In Novem- 
 ber, 1582, therefore, she would be of the age of twenty- 
 six. This disparity of years between Shakespeare and 
 his wife has been, we think, somewhat too much dwelt 
 upon. Mulone holds tliat ' ' such a disproportion of 
 
 age seldom fails at a sulisequent period of life to l.>e 
 productive of unhappiness." Malone had, r.o doubt, 
 in his mind the belief that Shakespeare left his wift 
 wholly dependent upon her children, — a belief of which 
 we were the first to show the utter groundlessness.*^ 
 He suggests that in the " Midsummer-Night's Dream" 
 this disproportion is alluded to, and he quotes a speech 
 of Lysander in Act i. Scene i. of that play, not however 
 giving the comment of Hermia upon it. The lines in 
 the original stand thus ; — 
 
 " Lys. Ah me I for anght that ever I could read. 
 
 Could ever hear by tale or history, 
 
 Tlie course of true love never did run smooth : 
 
 But cither it wa-s different in blood; — 
 Her. O cross 1 too higli to be enthrall'd to lowl 
 Ly^. Or else mingrajf'ad, in respect of years ; — 
 Her. s[iite ! too old to be engag'd to young I 
 Lys. Or else it stood upon the choice of friends ; — 
 Uer. O liell I to choose love by another's eye [ 
 Lys. Or. if tliero were a sympathy in choice, 
 
 War, death, or sicltness did lay siege to it" 
 
 Difference in blood, disparity of years, the choosing o/ 
 friends, are opposed to sympathy in choice. But was 
 Sliakespeare's own case such as he would bear in mind 
 in making Hermia exclaim, " spite ! too old to be en- 
 gag'd to young!" ? The passage was in all probability 
 written about ten years after his marriage, when his 
 wife would still be in the prime of womanhood. Wlien 
 Mr. de Quincey,f therefore, connects the saying of 
 Parson Evans with Shakespeare's early love, — "I like 
 not when a woman has a great peard," — he scarcely 
 does justice to his own powers of obseivation and hi.-! 
 book-experience. The history of the most imaginative 
 minds, probably of most men of great ability, would 
 show that in the first loves, and in the early marriages, 
 of this class, the choice has generally fallen upon 
 women older than themselves, and this without any 
 reference to interested motives. But Mr. de Quinccy 
 holds that Shakespeare, " looking back on this part of 
 his youthful history from his maturest years, breathes 
 forth pathetic coufisels against the errors into which 
 his own inexperience had been ensnared. The disparity 
 of years between himself and his wife he notices in 
 a beautiful scene of the 'Twelfth Night.'" In this 
 scene Viola, di.sguiscd as a page, a very boy, one of 
 whom it is said — 
 
 " For they shall yet belie tliy happy years 
 That say thou art a man" — 
 
 is pressed by the Duke to own that his eye "hath stay'd 
 upon some favour." Viola, who is enamoiucd of the 
 Duke, punningly replies, — A little, by your favour;" 
 and being still pressed to describe the " kind of woman," 
 she says, of the Duke's " complexion" and the Dukc'i" 
 " years." Any one who in the stage representation of 
 
 • .See Posbcrlpt to "Twomh Nl'ilit," Pictoria Edltlou, provln? 
 tliat SilaUcsiicare's .vidow was provided for by dowor. 
 t Life uf Shakcsjicaro, in the " Encyclopicdio Uritannicfl."
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 the Duke should do otherwise than make him a grave 
 
 man of thii ty-live ol forty, a staki and dignified msui, 
 
 would not present Shakespeare's whole conception of 
 
 the character. There would be a difference of twenty 
 
 years between him and Viola. No wonder, then, that 
 
 the poet should make the Duke dramatically e.xclaim, — 
 
 " Tiio old, hy Heaven! Let still the woman tako 
 All elder tlian herself; so wears slie to him, 
 So sways she level ia her husbamfs liearL" 
 
 Anil wlieiefore ? — 
 
 "For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, 
 Our fencies are more giddy and uuflrm, 
 More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn. 
 Than women's are." 
 
 The pathetic counsels, therefore, which Shakespeare is 
 here supposed to breathe in his maturer years, have 
 reference' only to bis own giddy and unfirm fancies. 
 We are of opinion that, upon the general principle upon 
 which Shakespeare subjects his conception of what is 
 individually true to what is universally true, he would 
 have rejected instead of adopted whatever was peculiar 
 in his own experience, if it had been emphatically re- 
 commended to his adoption througli the medium of his 
 self-consciousness. Shakespeare wrote these lines at a 
 time of life (about 1602) when a slight disparity of 
 years between himself and his wife would Viave been a 
 very poor apology to his own conscience that his affec- 
 tion could not hold the bent ; and it certainly does 
 happen, as a singular contradiction to his supposed 
 " earnestness in pressing the point as to the inverted Ais,- 
 parity of years, which indicates pretty clearly an appeal 
 to the lessons of his personal experience,"* that at this 
 precise period lie should have retired from his constant 
 attendance upon the stage, purchasing land in his na- 
 tive place, and thus seeking in all probability the more 
 constant companionship of that object of his early choice, 
 of whom he is thus supposed to have expressed his dis- 
 taste. It appears to us that this is a tolerably convin- 
 cing proof that his affections could hold the bent, how- 
 ever he might dramatically and poetically have said, — 
 "Then let thy love be younf^er than thyself. 
 Or thy affection cannot lioUl the bent: 
 For women are as roses; whose fair flower, 
 Being onco display'd, doth fall that very hour." 
 
 The marriage-bontl of Shakespeare, which may be 
 seen in the Consistorial Court of Worcester, was first 
 published by Mr. Wheler in 1836, having been pre- 
 viously discovered by Sir E. Phillips. It consists of a 
 bond to the officers of the Ecclesiastical Court, in which 
 Fulk Satidells, of the county of Warwick, farmer, and 
 John Rychardson, of the same place, farmer, are bound 
 in the sum of forty pounds, &c. It is dated the 28th 
 day of November, in the 25th year of Elizabeth (1582). 
 The date of this marriage-bond, and the date of the 
 
 * ' EncycloptBdia Britannica ' 
 
 birth of Shakespeare's first child, have led to the bcdief 
 that the marriage was forced tipon a very young man 
 by tiie friends of a woman whom ho had injured. W» 
 believe that this is one of the cases in which we may 
 fill! into error by attempting to decide without knowings, 
 all tlie facts. We hold that the licence for matrimony, 
 obtained from the Consistorial Court at Worcester, was 
 a permission sought for under no extraordinary cir- 
 cumstances ;— still less that the yoimg man who was 
 about to marry was compelled to urge on the marriage 
 as a consequence of previous imprudence. We believf. 
 on the contrary, that the course pursued was strictly 
 in accordance with the customs of the time, and of the 
 class to which Shakespeare belon/;ed. The espousals 
 before witnesses, we have no doubt, were then con- 
 sidered as constituting a valid marriage, if followed up 
 withii} a limited time by the marriage of the Church ; 
 and these espousals might have taken place in Shake 
 speare's case, as in very many of the marriages of tho 
 middle classes of his time. However the Eeformed 
 Church might have endeavoured to abrogate this prac- 
 tice, it was unquestionablj' the ancient habit of the 
 people. It was derived from the Roman haw, the foun- 
 dation of many of our institutions. It prevailed for a 
 long period without offence. It still prevails in the 
 Lutheran Church. We are not to judge of the customs 
 of those days by our own, especially if our inferences 
 tave the effect of imputing criminality wliere the most 
 perfect innocence may have existed. 
 
 The course of Shakespeare's life for a year or so after 
 his marriage cannot be followed with any accuracj'. 
 Aubrey says, " This William, being inclined naturally 
 to poetry and acting, came to London, I guess about 
 eighteen, and was an actor at one of the play-houses, 
 and did act exceedingly well. Now Ben Jonson was 
 never a good actor, but an excellent instructor. He 
 began early to make Essays at Dramatic Poetry, which 
 at that time was very low, and his pl.ays took well." 
 Thus writes honest Aubrey, in the year .1680, in his 
 'Minutes of Lives,' addressed to his " worthy friend, 
 Mr. Anthony i Wood, Antiquary of Oxford." Of tlie 
 value of Aubrey's evidence we may form some opinion 
 from his own statement to his friend : — " 'T is a task 
 that I never thought to have undertaken till you im- 
 posed it upon me, saying that I was fit for it by reason 
 of my general acquaintance, having now not only lived 
 above half a century of years In the world, but have 
 also been much tumbled up and down in it ; which 
 hath made me so well known. Besides the modern ad- 
 vantage of coffeehouses in this great city, before which 
 men knew not how to be acquainted but with their 
 own relations or societies, I might add that I come oi 
 a longaivous race, by which means I have wiped some 
 feathers off the wings of time for several genorations.
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 ivliich does reach high." It must not be forgotten 
 that Aubi'er's account of Shakespeare, brief and imper- 
 fect as it is, is the earliest known to exist. His stoiy 
 of Shakespeare's coming to Loudon is a simple and 
 natural one, without a single marvellous circumstance 
 about it: — "This William, being inclined naturally to 
 poetry and acting, came to London." This, the elder 
 story, appears to up to hare much greater veri-simili- 
 tude than Kowe's, the later: — -"He was obliged to 
 leave his business and family in Warwickshire for some 
 time, and shelter himself in London." Aubrey, who 
 has picked up all the gossip ' ' of coifeehouses in this 
 great city," hears no word of Eowe's story, which 
 would certainly have been handed down amongst the 
 traditions of the theatre to Davenant and Shadwell, 
 from whom he does hear something : — " I have heard 
 Sir William Davenant and Mr. Thomas Shadwell (who 
 is counted the best comedian we have now) say, that 
 he had a most prodigious viit." Neither does he say, 
 nor indeed any one else till two centuries and a quarter 
 after Shakespeare is dead, that, " after four years' con- 
 jugal discord, he would resolve upon that plan of soli- 
 taiy emigration to the metropolis, which, at the same 
 time that it released him from the humiliation of do- 
 mestic feuds, succeeded so splendidly for his worldly 
 prosperity, and with a train of circumstances so vast 
 for all future ages. " -■ It is certainly a singular voca- 
 don for a wi-itei of genius to bury the legendary scan- 
 dals of the days of Eowe, for the sake of exhuming a 
 new scandal, which cannot be received at all without 
 the belief that the circumstance must have had a per- 
 manent and most evil influence upon the mind of the 
 unhappy man who thus cowardly and ignominiously is 
 lield to have severed himself from his duty as a hus- 
 band and a father. We cannot trace the e^l influence, 
 and therefore we reject the scandal. It has not even 
 t^ie slightest support from the weakest tradition. It is 
 founded upon an imperfect comparison of two docu- 
 ments, judging of the habits of that period by those of 
 our own day; supported by quotations from a dramatist 
 of wliom it would be difficult to affirm that he ever 
 wrote a line whicli had strict reference to his own feel- 
 ings and circumstances. 
 
 In the baptismal register of the pari.sh of Stratford 
 for 1 583 i.s the entry of tlie baptism of Susanna on the 
 26th May. This record necessarily implies the resi- 
 dence of the wife of William Shakespeare in the parish 
 of Stratford. Did he himself continue to reside in tliis 
 parish ? 1 here is no evidence of liis residence. His 
 nams ap|x;ar8 in no suit in the Bailiff's Court at this 
 period. He fills no municipal office, such as liis father 
 bad filled before him. But his wife continues to reside 
 
 ' Bacylopmdla BrlUnnldn.' 
 
 in the native place of her hu."band, surrounded by hil 
 relations and her own. His father and his mother no 
 doubt watch with anxious solicitude over the fortunes 
 of their first son. He has a brother, Gilbert, seventeen 
 years of age, and a sister of fourteen. His brotlier 
 Richard is nine years of age ; but Edmund is young 
 enough to be the playmate of his little Susanna. On 
 the 2nd February, 1585, there is anotlier entry in the 
 parochial register, of the baptism of Hamnet and Ju- 
 dith, son and daughter to William Shakespeare. While 
 he is yet a minor he is the father of three children 
 The circumstance of his minority may perhaps account 
 for the absence of his name from all records of court- 
 leet, or bailiffs court, or common- haU. He was neither 
 a constable, nor an ale-conner, nor an overseer, nor a 
 jury-man, because he was a minor. We cannot affirm 
 that he did not leave Stratford before his minority ex- 
 pired ; but it is to be inferred that, if he had continued 
 to reside at Stratford after he was legally of age, we 
 should have found traces of his residence in the records 
 of the town. If his residence was out of the borough, 
 as we have supposed his father's to have been at this 
 period, some trace would yet have been found of him, 
 in .all likelihood, within the parish. Just before the 
 termination of his minority we have an undeniable 
 record that he was a second time a father within the 
 parish. It is at this period, then, that we would place 
 his removal from Stratford ; his flight, according to 
 the old legend ; his solitaiy emigration, according to 
 the new discovery. That his emigration was even soli- 
 tary we have not a tittle of evidence. Rowe says that, 
 after having settled in the world in a family manner, 
 and continued in this kind of settlement for some time, 
 the extravagance of which he was guilty in robbing 
 Sir Thomas Lucy's park obliged him to leave his busi- 
 ness and family. He coidd not have so left, even .ac- 
 cording to the circumstances which were known to 
 Rowe, till after the birth of his son and daughter in 
 1585. But the story goes on : — -"It is at this time, and 
 upon this accideut, that he is said to have made his 
 first .acquaintance in tlie playhouse. He was received 
 into the company then in being, at first in a very mean 
 rank : but his admirable wit, and the natural turn of 
 it to the stage, soon distinguished him, if not as an ex- 
 triiordinary actor, yet as an excellent writer." Sixty 
 years after the time of Rowe the story .assumed a taore 
 circumstantial shape, ius far as regards the mean rank 
 which Shakespeare filled in his early connexion with 
 the theatre. Dr. Johnson adds one passage to the 
 'Life,' which he says " Mr. Pope related as communi- 
 cated to him by Mr. Rowe." It is so remarkable an 
 anecdote tluit it is somewliat surprising that Rowe did 
 not liinisclf add it to his own meagre .account : — 
 " In the time of Eiiaibeth, coaches being yet uncom-
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SUAKESPEARE. 
 
 S2U 
 
 moil, ami hircil eoaclica not a all iu use, those who 
 were too proud, too t«naer, or too idle to walk, went 
 on horseback to any distant business or diversion. 
 Many came on horseback to the play ; and wlien Shake- 
 speare fled to London from the terror of a criminal 
 prosecution, bis first expedient was to wait at the door 
 of the playhouse, and liold the liorses of those that 
 had no servants, that they might be ready again after 
 the performance. In this office he became so con- 
 spicuous for his care and readiness, that in a short time 
 every man as he alighted called for Will Shakespeare, 
 !ind scarcely any other waiter was trusted with a horse 
 while Will Shakespeare could be had. This was tlie 
 fii-st dawn of better fortune. Shakespeare, finding 
 more horses put into his hand than he could hold, hired 
 boys to wait under his inspection, who, when Will 
 Shakespeare was summoned, were immedi;i,tely to pre- 
 sent themselves — 'I am Shakespeare's boy. Sir.' In 
 thne, Shakespeare found higher employment ; but as 
 long as the practice of riding to the playhouse con- 
 tinued, the waiters that held the horses retained the 
 appellation of Shakespeare's hoys." 
 
 Steevens has attempted to impugn the credibility of 
 this anecdote by saying, — "Tliat it was, once the gen- 
 eral custom to ride on horseback to the play I am yet 
 to learn. The most popular of the theatres were on the 
 Eankside ; and we are told by the satiricil pamphleteers 
 of that time that the usual mode of conveyance to 
 these places of amusement was by water, but not a 
 single writer so much as hints at the custom of riding 
 to them, or at the practice of having horses held during 
 the hours of exhibition." Steevens is here iu error; 
 he has a vague notion — which is still persevered in witii 
 singular obstinacy, even by those who have now the 
 means of knowing that Shakespeare had acquired prop- 
 erty in the chief theatre, in 1589 — that the great dra- 
 matic poet had felt no inspiration till he was about 
 cight-and-twcnty, and that, therefore, his connexion 
 with the theatre began in the palmy days of the Globe 
 on the I'ankside — a theatre not built till 1593. To the 
 earlier theatres, if they were frequented by the gallants 
 of the Court, they would have gone on horses. They 
 did so go, as we learn from Dekker, long after the 
 Bankside theatres were established. The story first 
 appeared in a book entitled ' The Lives of the Poets,' 
 considered to be the work of Theophilus Gibber, but 
 said to be written by a Scotchman of the name of 
 Shiels, who was an amanuensis of Dr. Johnson. Shiels 
 had certainly some hand in the book ; and there we 
 find that Davenant told the anecdote to Betterton, who 
 ccmimunicated it to Row;;, who told it to Pope, who 
 told it tc Dr. Newton. Improbable as the story is as 
 it uuw 9 ands, there may be a scintillation of truth in 
 it, as in any traditions It is by no means impossible 
 
 that the Blackfiiars Theatre might have had Shake- 
 speare's boys to hold horses, but not Khukespt-aie him- 
 self. As a proprietor of the tlioatre, Shakespeare might 
 sagaciously perceive that its interest would be promoted 
 by the readiest accommodation being offered to its vis- 
 itors ; and further, with that worldly adroitness which 
 in him, was not incompatible with the exercise of the 
 highest genius, he might have derived an individual 
 profit by employing servants to perform this oflice. In 
 an age when horse-stealing was one of the commonest 
 occurrences, it would he a guarantee for the safe charge 
 of tire horses that they were committed to the care o( 
 the agents of one then well known in the world, — an 
 actor, a writer, a proprietor of tlie theatre. Such an 
 association with the author of ' Hamlet' must sound 
 most anti-poetical ; but the fact is scarcely less prosaic 
 than that the same wondrous man, about the period 
 when he wrote '.Macbelb,' had an action for debt in the 
 Bailiffs Court at Stratford, to recover thirty-five shill- 
 ings and tenpence for corn by him sold and delivered. 
 
 Familiar, then, with .theatrical exhibitions, such as 
 they were, from his earliest youth, and with a genius 
 so essentially dramatic that all other writers that the 
 world has seen have never approached him iu liis power 
 of going out of himself, it is inconsistent with proba- 
 bility that he should not have attempted some dramatic 
 composition at an early age. The theory that he wafc 
 first employed in repairing tho plays of others we hold 
 to he altogether untenable; supported only by a very 
 narrow view of the great essentials to a dramatic worlc, 
 and by verbal criticism, which, when carefully exam- 
 ined, utterly fails even in its own petty assumptions.^ 
 There can be no doubt that the three Parts of ' Henry 
 VI.' belong to the early stage. We believe them to be 
 wholly and absolutely the early work of Shakespeare. 
 But we do not necesfjarily hold that they were liis 
 earliest work ; for the proof is so clear of the continual 
 improvements and elaborations which he made in his 
 best productions, that it would be difficult to say that 
 some of the plays which have the most finished air, but 
 of which there were no early editions, may not he 
 founded upon very youthful compositions. Others may 
 have wholly perished ; thrown aside after a season ; 
 never printed ; and neglected by their author, to whom 
 new inventions would be easier than remodelling? of 
 pieces probably composed upon a false theory of art. 
 For it is too much to imagine that his first productions 
 would be wholly untainted by the taste of the period. 
 Some might have been weak delineations of life and 
 character, overloaded with mythological conceits and 
 pastoral affectations, like the plays of Lyly, which 
 were the Court fashion before 1590. Otheis might 
 
 • See our 'Essay on the Three Parts of Henry VI., «ul Richird 
 III..' Ill the Pictorial and Library editions.
 
 LIFE Of WILLIAM SUAKESrEAJlL. 
 
 have been pi ompteJ b^ tie fj,]s3 ambition to produce 
 etfect, which is the characie.-istic of ' Locrine,' and par- 
 tially so of ' Titus Andronicus.' But of one thing we 
 may be sure — that there would be no want of power 
 even in his first productions ; that real pqetry would 
 have gushed out of the bombatt, ar^d true wit sparkled 
 amidst the conceits. His first plays would, we think, 
 fall in with the prevailing desire of the people to learu 
 the histoiy of their country through the stage. If so, 
 they would certainly not exhibit the feebleness of some 
 of those performances which were popular about the 
 period of which we are now speaking, and which con- 
 tinued to be popular even after he had raost successfully 
 undertaken 
 
 "To raise oar ancient sovereigns from thtlf bearse." 
 The door of the theatre was not a difhcult one for him 
 to enter. It is a singular fact, that several of the most 
 eminent actors of this very period are held to have 
 been his immediate neighbours. We see no difficulty 
 in believing that the first step taken by him in a decis- 
 ion as interesting to ages unborn as important to him- 
 self, was the experimental one of rendering his personal 
 aid towards the proper performance of his first acted 
 play. We inverse the usual belief iu this matter. We 
 think that Shakespeare became an actor because he 
 was a dramatic writer, and not a dramatic writer be- 
 cause he was an actor. He very quickly made his way 
 to wealth and reputation, not so much by a handsome 
 person and pleasing manners, as by that genius which 
 left all other competitors far behind hira in the race 
 of dramatic composition ; and by that prudence which 
 taught him to combine the exercise of his extraordi- 
 nary powers with a constant reference to the course of 
 life he had chosen, not lowenng his art for the ad- 
 vancement of his fortune, but achieving his fortune 
 in showing what miglity things might be accomplished 
 by his art. 
 
 Amongst those innumerable by-ways in London 
 which are familiar to the hurried pedestrian, there is a 
 well-known line of streets, or rather lanes, teiuling 
 from the hill on which St. Paul's stands to the great 
 thoroughfare of Blackfrlars Bridge. Between Apothe- 
 caries' Hall and Printing-house Square is a short lane, 
 loading into an open sjjace called Playhouse Yard. It 
 is one of those shabby places of which so many in Lon- 
 don lie close to the glittering thoroughfares ; hut which 
 are known only to their own inliabitants, and have at 
 all times an air of quiet which seems like desolation. 
 'I'he houses of this little square, or yard, are neither 
 indent nor modem. Some of them were probably 
 built soon after the great fire of London ; for a few 
 present their gable fronts to the streets, and the wide 
 caHCmcnts of others have evidently been lilleil up and 
 tuodem Kwhcs inserted. But there iu nothing here, nor 
 
 Indeed in the whole precinct, with the excejition of th« 
 few yards of ancient wall, that has any pretension tc 
 belong to what may be called the antiquities of Lon- 
 don. In the heart of this precinct, close by the church 
 of a suppressed monastery, surrounded by the nev, 
 houses of the nobility, in the very spot which is now 
 known as Playhouse Yard, was built, in 1575, the Black- 
 friars I'heatre. 
 
 The history of the early stage, as it is to he deduced 
 fron statutes, and proclamations, and orders of council, 
 exhibits a constant succession of conflicts between the 
 civic authorities and the performers of plays. The act 
 of the 1-ilh of Elizabeth, "for the punishment of vaga- 
 bonds, and for relief of the poor and impotent," was 
 essentially an act of protection for the established com- 
 panies of players. We have here, for the first time, a 
 definition of rogues and vagabonds ; and it includes not 
 only those who can "give no reckoning how he or she 
 doth lawfully get his or her living," but "all fencers, 
 bearwards, common players in interludes, and min- 
 strels, not belonging to any baron of this realm, oi 
 towards any other honourable personage of greater de- 
 gree ; all jugglers, pedlers, tinkers, and petty chapmen ; 
 which said fencers, bearwards, common players lE 
 interludes, min*trels, jugglers, pedlers, tinkers, and 
 pettj- chapmen, shall wander abroad, and have nol 
 license of two justices of the peace at the least, whcreol 
 one to be of the quorum, where and in what shire they 
 shall happen to wander. ' ' The circumstance of helcug- 
 ing to any baron, or person of greater degree, was iu 
 itself a pretty large exception ; and if in those times ol 
 rising Puritanism the license of two justices of the peace 
 was not always to he procured, the large number of 
 companies enrolled as the servants of the nobility ofi'ers 
 sufficient evidence that the profession of a player was 
 not a persecuted one, but one expressly sanctioned by 
 the ruling powers, lliere was one company of players, 
 the Earl of Leicester's, which, within two yeara after 
 the legislative protection of this act, received a mora 
 important privilege from the Queen herself. In 1574 a 
 v.rit of privy seal was issued to the keeper of the great 
 seal, commanding him to set forth letters patent ad- 
 dressed to all justices, &c., licensing and authorizing 
 James Burbage, and four other persons, servants to the 
 Earl of Leicester, " to use, exercise, and occupy the art 
 and faculty of playing comedies, tragedies, interludes, 
 stageplays, and such other like as they have already 
 used and studied, or hereafter shall use and study, as 
 well for the recreation of our loving subjects, as for our ) 
 solace and pleasure, when we shall think good to sec 
 them." And they were to exhibit their performances 
 " as well within our Cily of lyondon and liberties of the 
 same," as " throughout our rcaliu of Kngland." With 
 out knowing how far the servants of the Earl of Leiciw
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 xxi) 
 
 ter might iiavc been molested by the aiithoiilies of the 
 City of Ijoiidon, in dcliancc of this iiateut, it is clear 
 that tin* patent was of rtsclf insufficient to insure their 
 Ivind reception within the city ; for it appears that, 
 ivithiu three mouths after the date of the patent, a let- 
 tor was written from the Privy Council to the Lord 
 llayor, directing him " to admit the comedy-players 
 witliin the city of London, and to be otherwise favour- 
 ably used." This mandate was probably obeyed ; but 
 in 1575 the Court of Common Council, without any 
 exception for the objects of the patent of 1574, made 
 certain orders, in the city language termed an act, 
 which assumed that the whole authority for the regu- 
 lation of plays was in the Ijord Mayor and Court of 
 Aldermen ; that they only could license theatrical ex- 
 ■ hibitious within the city ; and that the players whom 
 they did license should contribute half their receipts to 
 charitable purposes. The civic authorities appear to 
 have stretched their power somewhat too far ; for in 
 that very year James Burbage, and the other servants 
 of the Earl of Leicester, erected their theatre amidst 
 the houses of the great in the Blaclcfriars, within a 
 stone's throw of the city walls, but absolutely out of 
 the control of the city officers. The immediate neigli- 
 bours of the players were the Lord Chamberlain and 
 Lord Huusdon, as we learn from a petition against the 
 players from the inhabitants of the precinct. The pe- 
 tition was unavailing. The rooms which it states "one 
 Burbadge hath lately bought" were converted " into a 
 common playliouse ;" and within fourteen years from 
 the period of its erection William Shakespeare was one 
 of its proprietors. 
 
 The royal patent of 1574 authorized in the exercise 
 of their art and faculty " James Burbadge, John Fer- 
 kyn, John Lanliam, William Johnson, and Eobert Wil- 
 son," who are described as the servants of the Earl of 
 Leicester. Although on the early stage the characters 
 were frequently doubled, we can scarcely imagine that 
 these five persons were of themselves sufBcient to form 
 a company of comedians. They had, no doubt, subordi- 
 nate actors in their pay ; they being the proprietors or 
 shareholders in the general adventure. Of these five 
 original patentees four remained as the " sharers in the 
 Blackfriars Playhouse" in 1589, the name only of John 
 Perkyn being absent from the subscribers to a certifi- 
 cate to the Privy Cojmcil that the company acting at 
 the Blackfriars "have never given cause of displeasure 
 in tliat they have brought into their plays matters of 
 state and religion." This certificate— which bears the 
 date of November, 1589— exhil its to us the list of the 
 professional companions of Shakespeare in an early 
 Btagr of his career, though certainly not in the very 
 eailifcst. The certificate describes the persons sub- 
 ecribmg it as " her Majesty's poor players," and sets 
 
 forth that they are " all of tliem sharers in the Black- 
 friars Playliouse." Their names are presented in thf 
 following order ; — 1. James Burbadge. 2. IlichardBur- 
 badge. 3. John Laueham. 4. Thomas Greene. 6. 
 Robert Wilson. 6. John Taylor. 7. Anth. Wadeson. 
 8. Thomas Pope. 9. George Peele. 10. Augustine 
 Phillipps. 11. Nicholasi Towlcy. 12. William Shake- 
 speare. 13. William Kempc. 14. William Johnson. 
 15. Baptistc Goodale. IG. Robert Armyn. 
 
 It would not be an easy matter, without some know- 
 ledge of minute facts and a considerable effort of im- 
 agination, to form an accurate notion of that building 
 in the Blackfriars — rooms converted into a common 
 playhouse — in which we may conclude that the first 
 plays of Shakespeare were exhibited. The very ex- 
 pression used by the petitioners against Burbage's pro- 
 ject wordd implj' that the building was not very nicely 
 adapted to the purposes of dramatic representation. 
 Tlipy say, " which rooms the said Burbage is now alter- 
 ing, and nieaneth very shortly to convert and turn tho 
 same into a common playhouse." And yet we are not 
 to infer that the rooms were hastily adapted to their 
 object by the aid of a few boards and drapery, like the 
 barn of a strolling company. In 1590 the shareholders 
 say, in a petition to the Privy Council, that the theatre, 
 ' ' by reason of its having been so long built, hath fiillen 
 into great decay, and that, besides the reparation there- 
 of, it has been found necessary to make the same more 
 convenient for the entertainment of auditories coming 
 thereto." The structure, no doubt, was adapted to its 
 object without any very great regard to durability ; 
 and the accommodations, both for actors and audience, 
 were of a somev.hat rude nature. The Blackfriars was 
 a Tvinter theatre ; so that, differing from the Globe, 
 which belonged to the same company, it was, there 
 can be little doubt, roofed in. It appears surprising 
 that, in a climate like that of England, even a summer 
 theatre should be without a roof ; but the surprise is 
 lessened when we consider that, when the Globe was 
 built, in 1504, not twenty years had elapsed since plays 
 were commonly represented in the open yards of the 
 inns of London. The Belle Savage was amongst the 
 most famous of these inn-yard theatres ; and even the 
 present area of that inn will show how readily it might 
 be adapted for such performances. The Blackfriars 
 theatre was probably little more than a large space, 
 arranged pretty much like the Belle Savage yard, but 
 with a roof over it. Indeed, so completely were the 
 public theatres adapted after the model of the tem- 
 porary ones, that the space for the " gx-oundlings" lung 
 continued to be called the yard. One of the earliest 
 theatres, built probably about the same time as the 
 Blackfriars, was called the Curtain, from which we may 
 infer that the refinement of separating the iictors from
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 the auilieuce duiiufj tlie intervals of the representation 
 was at Ib'st peculiar to that theatre. 
 
 In the continuation of Stow's ' Chronicle,' by Eil- 
 ciunJ Howes, there is a very curious passage, which 
 carries us bacli from the period in which he was writing 
 (1631) for sixty years. He describes the destruction 
 of the Globe by fire in 1613, the burning of the Fortune 
 Playhouse four years after, the rebuilding of both the- 
 atres, and the erection of "a new fair playhouse near 
 the Whitefriars." He then adds, — "And this is the 
 seventeenth stage, or common playhouse, which hath 
 been new made within the space of threescore years 
 within London and the suburbs, viz. : five inns, or 
 coiuraon hostelries, turned to playhouses, one Cockpit, 
 St. Paul's singing-school, one in the Blackfriars, and 
 one in the Whitefriars, which was built last of all, in 
 the year one thousand six hundred twenty-nine. All 
 the rest not named were erected only for common play- 
 houses, besides the new-built Bear-garden, which was 
 built as well for plays, and fencers' prizes, as bull- 
 baiting ; besides one in former time at Newington 
 Butts. Before the space of threescore years abovesaid 
 I neither knew, heard, nor read of any such theatres, 
 set stages, or playhouses, as have been purposely built 
 within man's memory." It would appear, as far as we 
 can judge from the very imperfect materials which 
 exist, that in the early pei'iod of Shakespeare's con- 
 nexion with the Blackfriars it was the only private the- 
 atre. It is natural to conclude that the proprietors of 
 this theatre, being the Queen's servants, were the most 
 respectable of their vocation ; conformed to the ordi- 
 nances of the state with the utmost scrupulousness ; 
 endeavoured to attract a select audience rather than an 
 uncritical multitude ; and received higher prices for 
 admission than were paid at the public theatres. The 
 performances at the Blackfriars were for the most part 
 in the winter. Whether the performances were in the 
 day or evening, artificial liglits were used. The au- 
 dience in wliat we now call tlie pit (then also so called) 
 sat upon benclies, and did not stand, as in the yard 
 open to the sky of tire public playhouse. There were 
 small rooms corresponding with the private boxes of 
 existing theatres. A portion of the audience, including 
 those who aspired to the distinction of critics, sat upon 
 the stage. It is po.ssible, and indeed there is some evi- 
 dence, that the rate of admission varied according to 
 the attraction of the performance ; and we may be 
 pretty sure that a company like that of Sliakespeare'e 
 generally charged at a higher rate than llie larger the- 
 atres, wliich dependcil more upon tlie multitude. 
 
 At an early perio<l, but not so early as the date of 
 the certificate of 1089, which shows that Sliakcspeare 
 wo.? a sharer in the company acting at the Blackfriars, 
 be is mentioned by contemporaries. Henry Chcttle is 
 
 one of the very few persons who have left us any dis- 
 tinct memorial of Shakespeare. He appears to have 
 had some connexion with the'writers of liis time, in 
 preparing their manuscripts for the press. He so pre- 
 pared Greene's posthumous tract, 'The Groafs-worth 
 of Wit,' copying out the author's faint and blotted 
 sheets, written on his sick-bed. In this pamphlet of 
 Greene's an insult was ofl'ered to Shakespeare ; and it 
 would appear from the allusions of Chettle that he was 
 justly offended. Marlowe, also, resented, as well he 
 might, a charge of impiety which was levelled against 
 him. Chettle says, " With neither of tliem that take 
 offence was I acquainted." By acquaintance he means 
 companionship, if not friendship. He goes on, "And 
 with one of them I care not if I never bo." He is sup- 
 posed here to point at Marlowe. But to the other he 
 tenders an apology, in all sincerity : " The other, whom 
 at that time I did not so much spare as since I wish I 
 had, for that as I "nave moderated the heat of living 
 writers, and might have used my own discretion (espe- 
 cially in such a case), the author being dead, that I did 
 not I am as sorry as if the original fault had been my 
 fault ; because myself have seen his demeanour no less 
 civil than he excellent in the quality he professes : be- 
 sides, divers of worship have reported his uprightness 
 of dealing, which argues his honesty, and his facetious 
 grace in writing, that approves his art. " In the Induc- 
 tion to ' Cynthia's Revels' Ben Jonson makes one of 
 the personified spectators on the stage say, " I would 
 speak with your author ; where is he ?" It may be 
 presumed, therefore, that it was not uncommon for the 
 author to mix with that part of the audience ; and 
 thus Henry Chettle may be good evidence of the civil 
 demeanour of William Shakespeare. We may thus 
 imagine the young author composedly moving amidst 
 the throng of wits and critics that fill the stage. He 
 moves amongst them modestly, but without any false 
 humility. In worldly station, if such a consideration 
 could influence liis demeanour, he is fully their equal. 
 They are for the most part, as he himself is, actors, as 
 well as makers of plays. Phillips says Marlowe was an 
 actor. Greene Is reasonably conjectured to have been 
 an actor. Peele and Wilson were actors of Shake- 
 speare's own company ; and so was Anthosy Wadeson. 
 There can be little doubt that upon the early stage the 
 occupations for the most part went together. Tlie dia- 
 logue was less regarded than the action. A plot was 
 hastily got up, with rude shovfs and startling incidents. 
 The characters were little discriminated ; one actor 
 took tlie tyrant line, and another the lover ; and ready 
 words were at hand for the one to rant with and tlio 
 other to whine. The actors were not very solicitous 
 about the words, and often discharged their mimic 
 passions in extemporaneous eloquence. In a few jcarr
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 xxxiii 
 
 the necesf ity of pleasing more refined audiences changed 
 the economy of the stage. Men of liigh tiilcnt sought 
 the theatre iis a ready mode of maintenance by tlieir 
 writings ; but tlieir connexion witli tlie stage would 
 naturally begin in acting rather than in authorship. 
 Tlie managers, themselves actors, would tliink, and 
 perhaps rightly, that an actor would be the best judge 
 of dramatic effect. The rewards of authorship through 
 the mediinn of the press were in those days small in- 
 deed ; and paltry as was the dramatist's fee, the players 
 were far better paymasters than the stationers. To be- 
 come a sharer in a theatrical speculation offered a rea- 
 sonable chance of competence, if not of wealth. If a 
 sharer existed who was "excellent" enough in "the 
 quality" he professed to fill the stage creditably, and 
 added to that quality "a facetious grace in writing," 
 there is no doubt that with " uprightness of dealing" 
 he would, in such a company as that of the Blackfriars, 
 advance rapidly to distinction, and have the counte- 
 nance and friendship of "divers of worship." Those 
 of Shakespeare's early competitors who approached the 
 nearest to him in genius possessed not that practical 
 wisdom which carried him safely and honourably 
 through a life beset with some temptations. They 
 knew not the value of "government and modesty." 
 He lived amongst them, but we may readily conclude 
 that he was not of them. 
 
 In the spring of 1588, and through the summer also, 
 we may well believe th;U; Shakespeare abided in Lon- 
 don, whether or not he had his wife and children about 
 him. The course of public events was such that he 
 would scarcely have left the capital, even for a few 
 weeks. For the hearts of all men in the vast city were 
 mightily stirred; and whilst in that "shop of wai-" 
 might be heard on every side the din of " anvils and 
 hammers waking to fiishion out the plates and instru- 
 ments of armed justice,"" the poet had his own work 
 to do, in urging forward the noble impulse through 
 which the people, of whatever sect or whatever party, 
 willed that they would be free. It was the year of the 
 Anuada. 
 
 But, glorious as was the contemplation of the attitude 
 of England during this year, the very energy that had 
 called forth this noble display of patriotic spirit exhi- 
 bited itself in domestic controversy when the pressure 
 from without was removed. The same season that wit- 
 nessed the utter destruction of the armament of Spain 
 Baw London excited to the pitch of fury by polemical 
 disputes. It was not now the quarrel between Protest- 
 ant and Romanist, but between the National Ciiurch 
 anil Puritanism. The theatres, those new and power- 
 ful teachers, lent themselves to the controversy. In 
 some of these their licence to entertain the people was 
 • illlton : ' Speech for the Liberty of Unlicensed Printing' 
 
 abused by the introduction of matters connected with 
 religion and politics ; so that in 1589 Lord Burghlcy 
 not only directed the Lord Mayor to inquire what com" 
 panics of pla) ers had offended, but a commission was 
 appointed for the same purpose. How Shakespeare's 
 company proceeded during this inquiry has been made 
 out most clearly by the valuable document discovered 
 at Bridgewater Houst by Mr. Coilier, wherein they dis- 
 claim to have conducted themselves amiss. " 'i'he.se 
 are to certify your Right Honourable Lordships that her 
 Majesty's poor players, James Burbage, Richard Bur- 
 bage, John Laneham, Thomas Greene, Robert Wilson, 
 John Taylor, Anth. Wadcson, Thomas Pope, George 
 Peele, Augustine Phillipps, Nicholas Towley, William 
 Shakespeare, William Kem[)e, William Johnson, Bap- 
 tiste Goodale, and Robert Armyn, being all of them 
 sharers in the Blackfriars playhouse, have never given 
 cause of displeasure, in that they have brought into 
 their plays matters of state and religion, unfit to be 
 handled by them or to be presented before lewd specta- 
 tors : neither hath any complaint in that kind ever 
 been preferred against them or any of them. AVhere- 
 fore they trust most humbly in your Lordships' con- 
 sideration of their former good behaviour, being at all 
 times ready and willing to yield obedience to any com- 
 mand whatsoever your Lordships in your wisdom may 
 think in such case meet," &c. 
 
 "Nov. 1589." 
 
 In this petition, Shakespeare, a sharer in the theatre, 
 but with others below him in the list, says, and they 
 all say, that " they have never brought into their plays 
 matters of state and religion." The public mind in 
 1589-90 was furiously agitated by ' ' matters of state and 
 religion." A controversy was going on which is now 
 known as that of Martin Marprdale, in which the consti- 
 tution and discipline of the church were most furiously 
 attacked in a succession of pamphlets ; and they were 
 defended with equal violence and scurrility. The the- 
 atres took part in the controversy, as we learn from a 
 tract by Gabriel Harvey. 
 
 Shakespeare's great contemporary, Edmund Spenser, 
 in a poem entitled ' The Tears of the Muses," origin- 
 ally published In 1591, describes, in the 'Oomplaint' 
 of Thalia, the Muse of Comedy, the state of the drama 
 at the time in which he is writing : — 
 
 " Where be the sweet delisbts of learning's tronauro, 
 
 That wont with comic suck to beautify 
 The painted theatres, and till witli pleasure 
 
 The listeners' eyes, and ears witli melody; 
 In which I late was wont to reign as queeu. 
 And mask in mirth with graces well besecn? 
 
 O ! all is gone ; and all that goodly glee, 
 
 "Which wont to be the glory of gay wita, 
 l8 laid a-bed, and nowhere now to see; 
 
 And in her room unseemly Sorrow sitfl, 
 ■Witli hollow brows and griesly countenoacet 
 Marring my joyous gentle dallianca
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 And him Lesule sits ugly Barbarism, 
 
 And brutish Ignorance, ycrept of late 
 Out of dread darkness uf the deep abysm, 
 
 Where being bred, he light and lieaven (!oes bate; 
 They in tlie minds of men now t^'rannize. 
 And the f;iir scene with rudeness Ibul disguise. 
 
 Al! places tI:oy with folly liave possess'd, 
 
 And with vain toys the vulgar entertain ; 
 But me liave banished, with all the rest 
 
 That whilom wont to wait iipon my train, 
 Fine Counterfesance. and uuhurtful J^port, 
 Delight, and Laughter, deck'd in seemly sort'* 
 
 Spen-ser was in Euglaud in 1.590-91, and it is probable 
 that ' The Tears of the Muses' was written in 1590. 
 The four stanais which we have quotod are descrip- 
 tive, as we thiuli, of a period of the drama wlien it 
 had emerged from the semi-barbarism by which it was 
 characterized, "from the commencement of Shake- 
 speare's boyhood, till about the earliest date at which 
 liis removal to London can be possibly fixed."* This 
 description has nothing in common witli those accounts 
 of tlie drama whicli have reference to tliis ' ' semi-bar- 
 barism." Nor does the writer of it belong to the school 
 which considered a violation of the unities of time and 
 place as the great defect of the English theatre. Nor 
 does he assert his preference of the classic scliool over 
 the romantic, by objecting, as Sir Philip Sidney objects, 
 that " plays be neither right tragedies nor right come- 
 dies mingling kings and clowns." There had been, 
 jccording to Spenser, a state of the drama that would 
 
 *'Fill with pleasure 
 The listeners' eyes, and ears with melody." 
 
 Can any comedy be named, if we assume that Shake- 
 speare had, in 1590, not written any, which could be 
 celebrated — and by the exquisite versifier of ' The 
 Fairy Queen' — for its " melody" ? Could any also be 
 
 praised for 
 
 '* That goodly glee 
 Which wont to be the glory of gay wits" ? 
 
 Could the plays before Shakespeare be described by the 
 
 most competent of judges — the most poetical mind of 
 
 tliat age next to Shakespeare — as abounding in 
 
 "Fine Counterfesance, and unhjirtful Sport, 
 Delight, and Laughter, deck'd in seemly sort" ? 
 
 We ha\-e not seen such a comedy, except some three or 
 
 four of Shakespeare's, which could have existed before 
 
 1590. We do not believe there is such a comedy from 
 
 any other pen. What, according to the ' Complaint' 
 
 of Tlialia, has banished such comedy? "Unseemly 
 
 Sorrow, " it appears, has been fashionable ;— not the 
 
 proprieties of tragedy, but a Sorrow 
 
 " With hollow hrmea and grUsly coantenanco ;"— 
 
 the violent scenes of blooil which were ofi'ered for the 
 
 excitement of the multitude, before the tragedy of real 
 
 ftrt w;is devised. But this state of the drama is shortly 
 
 • 'Udlnburgh Review,' vol. Ixxl., p. 469. 
 
 passed over. Thert is something more define. By 
 the side of this false tragic sit " ugly Barbarism ■iuA 
 brutish Ignorance." These are not the barbarism and 
 ignorance of the old stage ; — they are 
 
 "Ycrept of late 
 Out of dread darkness of the deep abysm." 
 
 They " now tyrannize ;" they now "disguise" the fair 
 
 scene "with rudeness." The Muse of Tragedy, Mol- 
 
 pomene, had previously described the ' ' rueful ?peo- 
 
 tacles" of " the stage." It was a stage which had no 
 
 " true tragedy." But it had possessed 
 
 " Delight, and Laughter, deck'd in seemly sort." 
 
 The four stjinzas which we have quoted are imme 
 
 diately followed by these four others : — 
 
 *' All these, and all that else the comic stage 
 
 With season'd wit and goodly ple.isure graced. 
 Ey which man's life in his likest image 
 
 Was limned forth, are wholly now def;iced ; 
 And those sweet wits, which wont the like to fram^ 
 Are now despis'd, and made a laughing game. 
 
 And he, the man whom Nature self had mad'j 
 
 To mock herself, and Truth to imitate 
 With kindly counter, under mimic shade 
 
 Our pleasant Willy, ah ! is dead of late 
 With whom all joy and jolly merriment 
 Is also deaded, and in dolour drent 
 
 Instead thereof scoffing Scurrility, 
 And scornfnl Fully, witii Contempt, is crept, 
 
 Rolling in rhymes of shameless rib<ildry, 
 Without regard or due decorum kept; 
 
 Each idle wit at will presumes to make, 
 
 And doth the Learned's task upon him take. 
 
 But that same gentle spirit, from whose pen 
 Large streams of honey and sweet nectar flow. 
 
 Scorning the boldness of such b.ase-born men. 
 Which dire their lollies forth so rashly throw, 
 
 Doth rather choose to sit in idle coll 
 
 Than so himself to mockery to sell." 
 
 The love of personal abuse had driven out real comedy , 
 and there was one who, for a brief season, had left the 
 madness to take its course. We cannot doubt that 
 "Hb, the man whom Nature self had made 
 To mock herself, and Truth to imitate," 
 was William Sfiakcsj'care. 
 
 England was sorely visited by the plague in 1592 
 and 1593. The theatres were shut ; there were no 
 performances at Court. Shakespeare, we may believe, 
 during the long peiiod of the continuance of the plague 
 in London, had no occupation at the Blackfriars The- 
 atre ; and the pastimes of the Lord Chambeilain's ser- 
 vants were disjiensed with at the jialaccs. It is prob- 
 able that he was residing at his own Stratford. The 
 leisure, we think, afforded him opportunity rf preparing 
 the most important of that wonderful series of historical 
 dramas which unquestionably appeared within a few 
 years of this period ; and of pinducing some oilier 
 dramatic compositions of the highest order of poetical 
 excellence. It appears to us, looking at the piinted 
 labours of Shakespeare at this exact periixl, that thera
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEAEE, 
 
 was some pause in his professional occupation ; and 
 that many months' residence in Stratford, from tlie 
 nutumn of 1092 to tlie summer of 1593, enabled him 
 more svsti'matically to cultivate tliose liiglicr faculties 
 xliich placi!d him, even in tlie opiuiun of Uis coutem- 
 po'iiries, at tlic licail of the living' jjoets of England. 
 
 It is easy to believe that if any external impulse were 
 minting to stimulate the poetical amhition of Shake- 
 speare — to maUe him aspire to some higher character 
 tliau that of tlie most popular of dramatists — such might 
 be found in 1593 in the clear field which was left for 
 the exercise of his peculiar powers. Robert Greene 
 had died on the 3rd of September, 1592, leaving behind 
 Uim a sneer at the actor who aspired "to bombast out 
 a blank verse." Had his genius not been destroyed by 
 the wear and tear, and the corrupting influences, of a 
 profligate life, he never could have competed with the 
 mature Shakespeare. But as we know that " the only 
 Shake-scene in a country," at whom the unhappy man 
 presumed to scoflf, felt the insult somewhat deeply, so 
 we may presume he took the most eff'ectual means to 
 prove to the world that he was not, according to the 
 malignant insinuation of his envious compeer, "an up- 
 start crow beautified with our feathers." We believe 
 that in the gentleness of his nature, when he introduced 
 into 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' 
 
 " The thrice three Muses mourning for the death 
 Of learning late deceas'd in beggary," 
 
 lie dropped a tear upon the grave of Greene, whose de- 
 merits were to be forgiven in his misery. On the 1st of 
 June, 1593, Christopher Marlowe perished in a wretch- 
 ed brawl, " slain by Francis Archer," as the Register of 
 Burials of the parish of St. Nicholas, Deptford, informs 
 us. Who-was left of the dramatists that could enter 
 into competition with William Shakespeare, such as he 
 tlien was ? He was almost alone. The great disciples 
 of his school had not arisen. Jonson had not appeared 
 to found a school of a diff'erent character. It was for 
 him, thenceforth, to sway the popular mind after his own 
 fashion ; to disregard the obligation which the rivalry 
 of high talent might have imposed upon him of listen- 
 ing to other suggestions than those of his own lofty 
 art ; to make the multitude bow before that art, rather 
 than that it should accommodate itself to their habits 
 and prejudices. But at a period when the exercise of 
 the poetical power in connexion with the stage was 
 scarcely held amongst the learned and the polite in 
 irself to be poetry, Shakes]>eare vindicated his reputa- 
 tion ly tha publication of the 'Venus and Adonis.' 
 It was, he says, "the first heir of my invention." 
 There may he a doubt whether Shakespeare meant to 
 6ay literally that this was the first poetical work that 
 he had produced ; or whether he held, in deference to 
 some critical opinions, that his dramatic productions 
 
 coiddnotbc classed amongst the heirs ;f "invention." 
 We think that he meant to use the words literally; 
 and lliat he used them at a period when lie might 
 assinni>, witliout vanity, tliat ho had taken his rank 
 amongst the poets of his time. He dedicates to the 
 Earl of Southampton something that had not before 
 been given to the world. He calls his verses " un- 
 polished lines ;" he vows to take advantage of all idle 
 hours till he had honoured the young patron of the 
 Muses with "some graver labour." But invmiion was 
 received then, as it was afterwards, as the highest qua- 
 lity of the poet. Dryden says, — " A poet is a maker, 
 as the word signifies ; and he who cannot make, that 
 is, invent, hath his name for nothing." We consider, 
 therefore, that "my invention" is not the language of 
 one unknown to fame. He was exhibiting the powers 
 which he possessed upon a diflerent instrument than 
 that to which the world was accustomed ; but the world 
 knew that the power existed. We employ the word 
 genius always with reference to the inventive or creative 
 faculty. Substitute the word genius for invention, and 
 the expression used by Shakespeare sounds like arro- 
 gance. But t'ae substitution may indicate that the 
 actual expression could not have been used by one who 
 came forward for the first time to claim tlie honoura oi 
 the poet. It has been argued from tliis expression that 
 Shakespeare had produced nothing original before the 
 ' Venus and Adonis' — that up to the period of its pub- 
 lication, in 1593, he was only a repairer of the works of 
 other men. We hold that the expression implies the 
 direct contrary. 
 
 We have a distinct record when the theatres were 
 re-opened after the plague. The ' Diary' of Philip 
 Henslowe records that "the Earl of Sussex his men" 
 acted ' Huon of Bordeaux' on the 28th of December, 
 1593. Henslowe appears to have had an interest in 
 this company. It is probable that Shakespeare's theatre 
 of the Blackfriars was opened about the same period. 
 We have some evidence to show what was the duration 
 of the winter season at this theatre ; for the same diary 
 shows tliat from June, 1594, the performances of the 
 theatre at Newington Butts were a joint undertaking 
 by the Lord Admiral's men and the Lord Chamber- 
 lain's men. How long this association of two companies 
 lasted is not easy to determine ; but during the month 
 of June we have entries of the exhibition of ' Andro- 
 nicus,' of ' Hamlet," and of ' The Taming of a Shrew.' 
 No subsequent entries exhibit the names of plays which 
 have any real or apparent connexion with Shakespeare. 
 It appears that in December, 1593, Richard Burbage 
 entered into a bond with Peter Streete, a carpente.', fol 
 the performance on the part of Burbage of the cove- 
 nants contained in an indenture of agreement by which 
 Streete undertook to erect a new theatre for Burbage' 8
 
 IXXVl 
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESrEARE. 
 
 company. This was the famous Globe on the Bankside, 
 of wliich Shakespeare was unquestionably a proprietor. 
 We thus see that in 1594 there were new di.i_ancls to 
 be made upon his invention ; and we may reasonably 
 conclude that the reliance of Burbage and his other 
 fellows upon their poet's unequalled powers was one of 
 tl'.eir principal inducements to engage in this new en- 
 terprise. 
 
 In the midst of his professional engagements, which 
 doubtless were renewed with Increased activity after 
 their long suspension, Shakespeare published his ' Rape 
 of Lucrece.' He had vowed to take advantage of all 
 idle hours till he had honoured Lord Southampton 
 with some graver labour than the first heir of his inven- 
 tion. The ' Venus and Adonis' was entered in the 
 Registers of the Stationers' Company on the 18th of 
 April, 1593. The 'Lucrece' appears in the same Re- 
 gisters on the 9th of May, 1594. Tliat this elaborate 
 poem was wholly or in part composed in that interval 
 of leisure which resulted from the shutting of the 
 theatres in 1593 may be reasonably conjectured ; but 
 it is evident that during the year which had elapsed 
 between the publication of the first and the second 
 poem, Shakespeare had been brought into more in- 
 timate companionship witli his noble patron. The lan- 
 guage of the first dedication is that of distant respect, 
 the second is that of grateful friendship. At the period 
 when Shakespeare dedicated to him his ' Venus and 
 Adonis' Lord Southampton was scarcely twenty years 
 of age. He is supposed to have become intimate with 
 Shakespeare from the circumstance that his mother had 
 married Sir Thomas Heueage, who filled the office of 
 Treasurer of the Chamber, and in the discharge of his 
 official duties would be brought into frequent inter- 
 course with the Lord Chamberlain's players. This is 
 Drake's theory. The more natural belief appears to be 
 that he had a strong attachment to literature, and, 
 with the generous impetuosity of his character, did not 
 regaril the distinctions of rank to the extent with 
 which they were regarded by men of colder tempera- 
 ments and more worldly minds. Shakespeare appears 
 to have been the first amongst the writers of his day 
 that ofiFered a public tribute to the merits of the young 
 nobleman. Both the dedications, and especially that 
 of 'Lucrece,' are conceived in a modest and a manlj- 
 spirit, entirely different from the oi'dinary language of 
 literary adulation. There is evidence in the second 
 dedication of a higher sort of intercourse between the 
 two minds than consists with any forced adulation of 
 fti y kind, and especially with any extravagant compli- 
 ments to the learning and to the abilities of a superior 
 In rafik. Such testimonies are always suspicious ; and 
 prol)ably honest old Florio, when ho dedicated his 
 •■R^orld of Woids' to the Earl in 1598, shows pretty 
 
 correctly what the race of panegyrists expected in 
 return for their compliments : " In truth, I acknowl- 
 edge an entire debt, not only of my best knowledge, 
 but of all ; yea of more than I know, or can, to youi 
 bounteous lordship, in whose pay and patronage I have 
 lived some years ; to whom I owe and vow the years 1 
 have to live. But, as to me, and many more, the glori- 
 ous and gracious sunshine of your honour hath infused 
 light and life." ' There is an extraordinary anecdote 
 told by Rowe of Lord Southampton's munificence to 
 ■ Shakespeare, which seems to bring the poet somewhat 
 near to Florio' s plain-speaking association of pay and 
 patronage : — " What grace soever the Queen conferred 
 upon him, it was not to her only he owed the fortune 
 which the reputation of his wit made. He had the 
 honour to meet with many great and uncommon marks 
 of favour and friendship from the Earl of Southampton, 
 famous in the histories of that time for his friendship 
 to the unfortunate Earl of Essex. It was to that noble 
 loid that he dedicated his poem of ' Venus and Ador.is.' 
 There is one instance so singular in the magnificence of 
 this patron of Shakespeare's, that if I had not been as- 
 sured that the story was handed down by Sir William 
 D'Avenant, who was probably very well acquainted 
 with his afiiiirs, I should not have ventured to hav« 
 inserted ; that my Lord Southampton at one time gave 
 him a thousand pounds, to enable him to go througli 
 with a purchase which he heard he had a mind to. A 
 bounty very gi'eat, and very rare at any time, and al- 
 most equal to that profuse generosity the present age 
 has shown to Pi'ench dancers and Italian singers.' This 
 is one of the many instances in which we are not war- 
 ranted in rejecting a tradition, however we may look 
 suspiciously upon the accuracy of its details. D'Ave- 
 nant could scarcely be very well acquainted with Shake- 
 speare's affairs, for he was only ten years old when 
 Shakespeare died. The sum mentioned as the gift of 
 the young nobleman to the poet is so large, looking at 
 the value of money in those days, that it could scarcely 
 consist with the independence of a generous spirit to 
 bear the load of such a prodigality of bounty. The 
 notions of those days were, however, dilferent from 
 ours. Examples will readily suggest themselves of the 
 most lavish rewards bestowed by princes and nobles 
 upon great painters. They received such gifts witliout 
 any compromise of their intellectual dignity. It was 
 the same then with poets. According to the habits ol 
 the time Shakespeare might have received a large gift 
 from Lord Southampton, without any forfeiture of his 
 self-respect. Nevertheless, Rowo's story must still ap- 
 pear sutliciontly a|iocryphal : " My Lord Southampton 
 at one time gave him a thousand pounds, to enable liim 
 to go through with a pmchaso which ho heard he had 
 a mind to." It is not necessary to accoimt /or tho
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SIlAKESl'EAKE, 
 
 xTxni 
 
 gradual aoqulsitioii of property by Shakespeare tliat wo 
 rUouUI yield our assent to this tradition, witlunit some 
 qualilication. In 1589, wlien Ijord Soulliampton was a 
 lad at College, Shakespeare had already iicquircd that 
 property which was to be the foundation of his future 
 fortime. He was then a shareholder in the Blackfriars 
 Theatre. That the adventure was a, prosperous one, not 
 only to himself but to his brother shareholders, may be 
 inferred from the fact that four years afterwards they 
 began the building of another theatre. The Globe was 
 commenced In December, 1593 ; and being constructed 
 for the most part of wood, was ready to be opened, we 
 should imagine, in the summer of 1594. In 1596 the 
 same prosperous company were prepared to expend con- 
 siderable sums upon the repair and extension of their 
 original theatre, the Blackfriars. The name of Shake- 
 speare occupies a prominent position in the document 
 from which we collect this fact : it is a petition to the 
 Lords of the Privy Council from "Thomas Pope, Rich- 
 ard Burbadge, John Hemings, Augustine Philips, Wil- 
 liam Shakespeare, William Kempe, William Slye, 
 Nicholas Tooley, and others, servants lo the Eight 
 Honorable the Lord Chambtrlain to her Majesty;" and 
 it sets forth that they are " the owners and players of 
 the private theatre in the Blaokfriar.s ; that it hath 
 fallen into decay ; and that it has been found necessary 
 to make the same more convenient for the entertain- 
 ment of auditories coming thereto." It then states 
 what is important to the present question : — " To this 
 end your petitioners have all and each of them put 
 down sums of money according to tlieir shares in the 
 5aid theatre, and which they have justly and honestly 
 gained by the exercise of their quality of stage-players." 
 It then alleges that certain inhabitants of the precinct 
 had besought the Council not to allow the said private 
 house to remain open, " but hereafter to be shut up 
 and closed, to the manifest and great injury of your 
 petitioners, who have no other means whereby to main- 
 tain their wives and families, but by the exercise of 
 their quality as they have heretofore done." The 
 common proprietorship of the company in the Globe 
 and Blackfriars is also noticed: — "In the summer 
 season your petitioners are able to play at their new- 
 built house on the Bankside, called the Globe, but in 
 the winter they are compelled to come to the Black- 
 friars." If the winter theatre be shut up, they say 
 they will be "unable to practise themselves in any 
 plays or interludes when called upon to perform for the 
 recreation and solace of her Majesty and her honour- 
 able Court, as they have been heretofore accustomed. ' ' 
 Though the Registers of the Council and the Office- 
 Looks of the Treasurer of the Chamber are wanting for 
 this exact period, we have here the distinct evidence 
 of the intimate relation between Shakespeare's com- 
 
 jiany and the Court. The petitioners, in concluding 
 liy the iirayer that their " honourable Lordships will 
 grant permission to finish the reparations and altera- 
 tions they have begun," add as a reason for this favour 
 tliat they " have hitherto been well ordered in theii 
 behaviour and just in their dealings." The perform- 
 ances at the Blackfriars went on without interruption. 
 Shakespeare, in 1597, bouglit "all that capital messu- 
 age or tenement in Stratford called the New Place." 
 This appears to have boon his first investment in prop- 
 erty distinct from his theatrical speculations. The pur- 
 chase of the best house in his native town, at a period 
 of his life when his professional occupations could have 
 allowed him little leisure to reside in it, would ai)pear 
 to have had in view an early retirement from a pursuit 
 which probably was little agreeable to him. His power* 
 as a dramatic writer might be profitably exercised with 
 out being associated with the actor's vocation. We 
 know from other circumstances that at this period Strat- 
 ford was nearest to his heart. On the 24th of January, 
 1598, Mr. Abraham Sturley, an alderman of Stratford, 
 writes to his brother-in-law, Richard Quiney, then in 
 London : — " I would write nothing unto you now — but 
 come home. I pray God send you comfortably home. 
 This is one special remembrance, from your father's 
 motion. It seemeth by him that our countryman Mr. 
 Shakspere is willing to disburse some money upon 
 some odd yard land or other at Shottery, or near about 
 us. He thinketh it a very fit pattern to move him to 
 deal in the matter of our tithes. By the instructions 
 you can give him thereof, and by the friends he can 
 make therefore, we think it a fair mark for him to 
 shoot at, and not impossible to hit. It obtained, would 
 advance him indeed, and would do us much good." 
 We thus see that in a year after the purchase of New 
 Place, Shiikespeare's accumulation of money was going 
 on. The worthy alderman and his connexions appear 
 to look confidently to their countryman, Mr. Shake- 
 speare, to assist them in their needs. On the 4th of 
 November, in the same year, Sturley again •writes a 
 very long letter " to his most loving brother Mr. Rich- 
 ard Quiney, at the Bell, in Carter Lane, in London," 
 in which he says of a letter written by Quiney to him 
 on the 21st of October, that it imported, amongst other 
 matters, "that our countryman Mr. W. Shakspere 
 would procure us money, which I well like of, as I 
 shall hear when, and where, and how ; and I pray let 
 not go that occasion, if it may sort to any indifferent 
 conditions." Quiney himself at this very time writes 
 the following characteristic letter to his ' ' loving good 
 friend and countryman, Mr. William Shakspere:"— 
 " Loving countryman, I am bold of you as of a friend, 
 craving your help with thirty pounds upon Mr. Bushell 
 and my security, or Mr. Myttens ^ith me. Mr. Eoss-
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SHz\.KESPEARE. 
 
 W5ll is not come to London as yet, and I have especial 
 cause. Tou shall friend me much in helping me out 
 of all the dehts I owe in London, I thank God, and 
 much quiet to my mind which would not be indebted. 
 I am now towards the Court in hope your answer for 
 the dispatch of my business. You shall neither lose 
 credit nor money by me, the Lord willing ; and now 
 but persuade yourself so as I hope, and you shall not 
 need to feai' but with all hearty thankfulness I will 
 hold my time, and content your friend, and if we bar- 
 gain farther, you shall be the paymaster yourseii. My 
 time bids me to hasten to an end, and so I commit this 
 to your care and hope of your help. I fear I sliall not 
 be back this night from the Court. Haste. The Lord 
 be with you and with us all. Amen. From the Bell 
 in Carter Lane, the 25th October, 1598. Yours in all 
 kindness. Eye. Quiney." The anxious dependence 
 which these honest men appear to have upon the good 
 offices of their townsman is more satisfactory even 
 than the evidence which their letters afford of his 
 worldly condition. 
 
 In the midst of this prosperity the registers of the 
 parish of Stratford-upon-Avon present to us an event 
 which must have thrown a shade over the brightest 
 prospects. The burial of the only son of the poet is 
 recorded in 1596. Hamnet was born on the 2nd of 
 February, l.j85 ; so that at his death he was eleven 
 years and six months old. He was a tv,'in child ; and 
 It is not mdikely that he was constitutionally weak. 
 Some such cause interfered probably with the educa- 
 tion of the twin-sister Judith ; for whilst Susanna, the 
 elder, is recorded to have been " witty above her sex," 
 and wrote a firm and vigorous hand, as we may judge 
 from her signature to a deed in 1639, the mark of 
 Judith appears as an attesting witness to a conveyance 
 in 1611. 
 
 With the exception of this inevitable calamity, the 
 present period may probably be regarded as a happy 
 epoch in Shakespeare's life. He had conquered any ad- 
 verse circumstances by which his earlier career might 
 have been impeded. He had taken his rank among the 
 first minds of his age ; and, above all, his pursuits 
 . were so engi'ossing as to demand a constant exercise of 
 his faculties, and to demand tliat exercise in the cultiva- 
 tion of the highest and the most pleasurable flioughts. 
 This was the period to which belong the great histories 
 of 'Richard IL,' 'Richard IIL,' and 'Henry IV.,' and 
 the delicious comedies of the ' Merchant of Venice,' 
 'Much Ado about Nothing,' and 'Twelfth Night.' 
 Tliese productions afford the most abundant evidence 
 that the greatest of intellects was in the most healthful 
 possession of its powers. I'heso were not hasty adapta- 
 tions for the popular appetite, as we may well believe 
 some, of till' earlier plays were in their first shape ; but 
 
 highly- wrought performances, to which all the nreU.od 
 of his cultivated art had been strenuously applied. It 
 was at this period that the dramatic poet appears not to 
 have been satisfied with the applause of the Globe CI 
 the Blackfriars, or even with the gracious encourage- 
 ments of a refined Court. During three years he gave 
 to the world careful editions of some of these plays, as 
 if to vindicate the drama from the pedantic notion that 
 the Muses of tragedy and comedy did not meet their 
 sisters upon equal ground. ' Richard II.,' and 'Richard 
 HI.,' were published in 1597 ; ' Love's Labour's Lost, 
 and ' Henry IV., Part I.,' in 1598 ; ' Romeo and Juliet,' 
 corrected and augmented, in 1599; 'Henry IV., Part 
 II.,' the ' Merchant of Venice,' ' A Midsummer Night's 
 Dream,' and ' Much Ado about Nothing,' in 1600. 
 The system of publication then ceased. It no doubl 
 interfered with the interests of his fellows : and Shake- 
 speare was not likely to assert an exclusive interest, or 
 to gratify an exclusive pride, at the expense of his asso- 
 ciates. Cut his reputation was higher than that of any 
 otlier man, when only four of his plays were accessible 
 to the readers of poetry. In 1598 it was proclaimed, 
 not timidly or questionably, that " as Plautus and Sen 
 eca are accounted the best for tragedy and comedy 
 among the Latins, so Shakespeare, among the English, 
 is the most excellent in both kinds for the stage :" and 
 "As the soul of Euphorbus was thought to live in 
 Pythagoras, so the sweet witty soul of Ovid lives in 
 mellifluous and honey-tongued Shakespeare." It was 
 certainly not at this period of Shakespeare's life that 
 he wrote with reference to himself, unlocking his heart 
 to some nameless friend : — 
 
 " When in disirr.ice with fortune and men's eyes, 
 I nil alone bc-weep my outcast state." 
 Sonnets of Shakespeare were in existence in 1598, 
 when Meres tells us of " his sugared sonnets among his 
 private friends. ' ' We do not receive these Sonnets al- 
 together as evidences of Shakespeare's personal history 
 or feelings. We believe that the order in which they 
 were printed is an arbitrary one ; that some form a con- 
 tinuous poem or poems, that others are isolated in their 
 subjects and the persons to w^hom they arc addressed ; 
 that some may express the poet's personal feelings, that 
 others are wholly fictitious, dealing with imaginary 
 loves and jealousies, and not attempting to separate the 
 personal identity of the artist from the sentiments 
 which he expressed, and the situations which he delin- 
 eated. We believe that, taken as works of art, having 
 a certain degree of continuity, the Sonnets of Spenser, 
 of Daniel, of Drayton, of Shakespeare, although iu 
 many instances they might shadow forth real feelings 
 and be outpourings of the inmost heart, were presented 
 to the world as exercises of fancy, and were received by 
 the world as such. Even of those portions of these 
 remarkable lyrics which appear to have an obvious ref-
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 XXS1£ 
 
 eienee to the poet's feelings and circumstances, we can- 
 
 aot avoid rejecting tlie principle of continuity ; for they 
 
 clearly belong to different pericds of his life, if they are 
 
 the reflection of his real sentiments. We have the 
 
 playfulness of an early love, and the agonizing throes 
 
 of an unlawful passion. They speak of a period when 
 
 the writer had won no honour or substantial rewards — 
 
 " in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes," the period 
 
 of his youth, if the allusion was at all real : and yet 
 
 the writer is 
 
 " With time's Injurious hand crush'd and o'crworn." 
 
 One little dedicatory poem says, 
 
 *' Lord of my love, to whom In vassalage 
 Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit. 
 To thee I send this written embassage. 
 To witness duty, not to show my wit," 
 
 Another (and it is distinctly associated with what we 
 hold to be a continued little poem, wholly fictitious, in 
 which the poet dramatizes as it were the poetical char- 
 acter) boasts that 
 
 "Not mart)Ie, not the gilded monuments, 
 Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme." 
 
 Without attempting therefore to disprove that these 
 Sonnets were addressed to the Earl of Southampton, or 
 to the Earl of Pembroke, we must leave the reader who 
 fancies he can find in them a shadowy outline of Shake- 
 speare's life to form his own conclusion from their care- 
 fid perusal. '1'hey want unity and consistency too 
 much to be received as credible illustrations of this life. 
 The 71st to the 74th Sonnets seem bursting from a 
 heart oppressed with a sense of its own unworthiness, 
 and surrendeied to some overwhelming misery. There 
 is a line in the 74th which points at suicide. We 
 cling to the belief that the sentiments here expressed 
 arc essentially dramatic. In the 32nd Sonnet, where 
 we recognise the man Shakespeare speaking in his o%vn 
 modest and cheerful spirit, death is to come across his 
 " well-contented day ." We must place one sentiment in 
 opposition to th« other, and then tlie effect is neutral- 
 ized. The opinion which we have formed of the proba- 
 ble admixture of the artificial and the real in the 
 Sonnets arising from their supposed original fragmenta- 
 ry state, necessarily leads to the belief that some are 
 accurate illustrations of the poet's situationand feelings. 
 It is collected from these Sonnets, for example, that his 
 profession as a player was disagreeable to him ; and 
 this complaint is found amongst those portions which 
 may be separated from the series of verses which a.p- 
 pcar to us to he written in an artificial character. It 
 might be a{ldressed to any one of his family, or some 
 honoured friend, such as Lord Southampton ; — 
 
 " O, for my sake do yon with Fortune chide. 
 The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds. 
 That did not better for my life provide 
 Than public means, which public manners breeds. 
 
 Thence comes it that my name receives a brrjld. 
 And almost thence my nature is subdued 
 To what it works in, like the dyer's band." 
 
 But if from his professional occupation his nature vras 
 felt by him to be subdued to what it worked in,— U 
 thence his name received a brand, — if vulgar scandal 
 sometimes assailed him, — he had high thouglits to 
 console him, such as were never before imparted to 
 mortal. This was probably written in some period of 
 dejection, when his heart was ill at ease, and he looked 
 upon the world with a slight tinge of indifference, if 
 not of dislike. Every man of high genius has felt 
 something of this. It was reserved for the highest to 
 throw it off, " like devr-drops from the lion's mane." 
 But the profound self-abasement and despondency of 
 the 74th Sonnet, exquisite as the diction is, appear to 
 us Unreal, as a representation of the mental state of 
 William Shakespeare ; written, as it most probably v<.,'.. 
 at a period of his life when he revels and luxuriates (in 
 the comedies which belong to the close of the sixtenntb 
 century) in the spirit of enjoyment, gushing from a 
 heart full of love for his species, at peace with itself 
 and with all the world. 
 
 About the close of the year 1599, the Elackfriars 
 Theatre was remarkable for the constant presence of 
 two men of high rank, who were there seeking amuse- 
 ment and instruction as some solace for the bitter mor 
 tiflcations of disappointed ambition. " My Lord South 
 ampton and Lord Kutland came not to the Court ; the. 
 one doth but very seldom ; they pass away the time in 
 London merely in going to plays every day."* Essex 
 had arrived from Ireland on the 28th of September, 
 1599— not 
 
 " Bringing rebellion broached on his sword," — 
 
 not surrounded with swarms of citizens who 
 
 " Go forth, and fetch their conquering Cffisar in," 
 but a fugitive from his army ; one who in his desire for 
 peace had treated with rebels, and had brought down 
 upon him the censures of the Court ; one who knew 
 that his sovereign was surrounded with his persona! 
 enemies, and who in his reckless anger once thought to 
 turn his army homeward to compel justice at theii 
 hands-; one who at last rushed alone into the Queen's 
 presence, " full of dirt and mire," and found that he 
 was in the toils of his foes. From that Michaelmas 
 till the 2Gth of August, 1600, Essex was in the custody 
 of the Lord Keeper ; in free custody as it was termer!, 
 but to all intents a prisoner. It was at this period that 
 Southampton and Rutland passed " away the time in 
 London merely in going to plays every day." South- 
 ampton, in 1598, had married Elizabeth Vernon, a 
 cousin of Lord Essex. The marriage was without the 
 
 » Letter of Rowland Why te to Sir Robert 8yd.»ey, in th2 ' Syd 
 ney Papers.'
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEAKE. 
 
 consent of lUe Queen ; and tlierefore Southampton was 
 under the bar. of the Court, having been peremptorily 
 dismissed by Elizabeth from the office to which Essex 
 had api-ioiuted him in the exjiedition to Ireland. Kut- 
 laud w;is also connected with Essex by family ties, hav- 
 ing married the daughter of Lady Essex, by her iirst 
 husband, the accomplished Sir Philip Sidney. The 
 season when these noblemen sought recreation at the 
 Theatre was one therefore of calamity to themselves, 
 and to the friend who was at the head of their party in 
 the st;ite. At Shakespeare's theatre there were at this 
 period abundant materials for the highest intellectual 
 gratification. Of Shakespeare's own works we know 
 that at the opening of the seventeenth century there 
 were tnenty plays in existence. Thirteen (considering 
 'Henry IV.,' as two parts) are recorded by Meres in 
 15'J8 ; 'Much Ado About Nothing,' and 'Henry V.,' 
 (not in Meres' list), were printed ia 1600 ; and we have 
 to add the three parts of ' Henry TI.,' ' The Taming of 
 the Shrew,' and the original ' Hamlet,' which are also 
 wanting in Meres' record, but which were unquestion- 
 ably produced before this iieriod. We cannot with 
 extreme precision fix the date of any novelty from the 
 pen of Shakespeare when Southampton and Rutland 
 were amongst his daily auditors ; but there is every 
 reason to believe that 'As You Like It' belongs as 
 nearly as possible to this exact period. It is pleasant 
 to speculate upon the tranquillizing effect that might 
 have been produced upon the minds of the banished 
 courtiers by the exquisite philosophy of this most de- 
 licious play. It is pleasant to imagine Southampton 
 ■visiting Essex in the splendid prison of the Lord 
 Keeper's house, and there repeating to him from time 
 to time those lessons of wisdom that were to be found 
 in the woods of Arden. We could almost slide into 
 the belief that ' As You Like It' had an especial refer- 
 ence to the circumstances in which Essex and South- 
 ampton were placed in the spring of ICOO. There is 
 nothing desponding in its tone, nothing essentially mis- 
 anthropical in its philosophy. Jaques stands alone in 
 his railing against mankind. The healing influences of 
 nature fall sweetly and fruitfully upon the exiled Duke 
 and his co-mates. But, nevertheless, the ingratitude 
 of the world is emphatically dwelt upon, even amidst 
 the most soothing aspects of a pure and simple life 
 " under the greenwood tree." 
 
 The period at which Essex fell upon the block, and 
 Southampton was imder condemnation, must have been 
 a gloomy period in the life of Shakespeare. The friend- 
 ship of Southampton in all likelihood raised the humble 
 actor t» that just appreciation of liimself which could 
 alone prevent his nature being subdued to what it 
 worked in. Tliere had been a compromise between the 
 lne<iuaUty of rank and the inequality of intellect, and 
 
 the fruit had been a continuance and a strength-ining 
 of that "love" which seven years earlier had bein de- 
 scribedas " withoutend." Those ties were now broken 
 by calamity. UTie accomplished noble, a prisoner look- 
 ing daily for death, could not know the depth of the 
 love of his ' ' especial friend. "^ He was beyond the 
 reach of any service that his friend could render him. 
 All was gloom and uncertainty. It has been said, and 
 we believe without any intention to depreciate the 
 character of the great poet, that " There seems to have 
 been a period of Shakespeare's life when his heart was 
 ill at ease, and ill content with the world or his own 
 conscience ; the memory of hours mis-spent, the pang 
 of affection misplaced or unrequited, the experience of 
 man's worser nature, which intercourse with ill-chosen 
 associates, by choice or circumstance, peculiarly teaches ; 
 — these, as they sank down into the depths of his great 
 mind, seem not only to have inspired into it the con- 
 ception of Lear and Timon, but that of one primary 
 character, the censurer of mankind. "f The genius of 
 Shixkespeare was so essentially dramatic, that neither 
 Lear, nor Timon, nor Jaques, nor the Duke in ' Measure 
 for Measure, ' nor Hamlet, whatever censure of man- 
 kind they may express, can altogether be held to reflect 
 " a period of Shtdiespeare's life when his heart was ill 
 at ease, and ill content with the world." That period 
 is referred to the beginning of the seventeenth century, 
 to which the plays belong that ai-e said to exhibit these 
 attributes. J But from this period there is certainly a 
 more solemn cast of thought in all the works of the 
 great poet. The influence of time in the formation and 
 direction of the poetical power must yet be taken into 
 account, as well as any temper arising out of passing 
 events. Shakespeare was now thirty-seven years of 
 age. He had attained to the consciousness of his own 
 intellectual strength, and he had acquired by long 
 practice the mastery of his own genius. He had al- 
 ready learnt to direct the stage to higher and nobler 
 purposes than those of mere amusement. It might be 
 carried farther Into the teaching of tli6 highest philos- 
 ophy through the medium of the grandpst poetry. The 
 epoch which produced 'Othello,' 'Loar,' and 'Mac- 
 beth,' has been described as exhibitiog the genius of 
 Shakespeare in full possession and hshitual exercise of 
 power, "at its very point of culmination." 
 
 The year ICOl was also a year which brought to 
 Shakespeare a great domestic atffiction. His father died 
 on the 8lh of September of that year. It is impossible 
 not to feel that Shakespeare's family ruraugemcuts, im- 
 perfectly as we know them, had especial reference to 
 
 • Tho ;-xpressIon is nsed by 8outb(UMpton m his letter to Ixird 
 Elle&iiM-re iiiti.Hhicin? SlmkL'speAre anij Liu-baj^o iu 1C08. See Ccl- 
 Ilor's ■ Ni'vv 1M..-1S,' p. .■53. 
 
 + IlalliiniV • Literature -" " Europe,' /jl lii., p. C6S. 
 
 t Mr. .Hullaiu refers t: nnuiiol' in ilo altered *oi Ji
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 zli 
 
 the comfoit and honour of his pareutb. When he 
 bought New Pliice in 1597, his occupations then de- 
 manding his piesence in Loudon through great part of 
 tlie year, liis wife and cliildren, we may readily im- 
 agine, were under the same roof with liis fatlicr aud 
 mother. They had sighed over the declining health of 
 hif. little Hamnet, — they had watched over the growth 
 of his Susanna and Judith. If restricted means had at 
 any previous period assailed them, he had provided for 
 tlie comforts of their advanced age. Aud now that 
 father, the companion of his boyhood — he who liad led 
 him forth into the fields and had taught him to look at 
 nature with a practical eye — was gone. More materials 
 for deep thought in the year 1601. The Register of 
 Stratford attests the death of this earliest friend. 
 
 The fortieth volume of the registers of the Town 
 
 Council of Aberdeen contains some entries, which are 
 
 not without their reference to the life of Shakespeare : 
 
 " Nono Octobris ICOl. 
 
 "Ordinance to the dean of gild. 
 
 *'Tlie sainen day The prouest Bailleis and counsall ordanis the 
 ivme of tlirettie tua uierl^is to be gevin to ttie Kingis serwaados 
 presently in this burcbt..quiia playes comedeis and staise playes. 
 Be VL';isoun they ar recomniendit be his majesties speeiall letter 
 and hes played snm of tlieir comedies in this burclit and ordanis 
 the said svnie to be payit to tham be the dean of gild quhilk salbe 
 allowit in h!s comptis." 
 
 "22 Oct' 1601. 
 
 "The Quliilk day Sir Francis Hospitall of Ilaulszie Kiiycht 
 Frensolunan being recoinmendit be his majistie to the Prouest 
 Uailk'is and Counsall of this brocht to be favorablie Interteneit 
 with the grntilnien his majesties sernands efter specifeit quha war 
 direct to tills burcht be bis niajestie to accumpanie the said Frensh- 
 nian being ane nobillman of France cuniming only to this burclit 
 to sic the towne and cuntrie the said Frenshuian with the knightia 
 and gentillmen folowlng wcr all ressauit and admittit Burgesses of 
 Gild of tills burcht quha gawe tliair nithis in common form folowis 
 the names of thame that war admlltit burgesses 
 
 Sir Fratmis Hospitall of halzie knycbt 
 
 Sir rland IlarnJltoun of Schawfeild knycbt 
 
 Sir Jolim Grahame of orkill knycbt 
 
 Sir diihn Ramsay of Ester Barouie knycbt 
 
 iTames Hay James Auchterlony Robert Ker James Schaw 
 Tlioiiia.s foster James Gleghorne DauidDrummond Se- 
 riiitors t3 his Majestie 
 
 Monsieur de Scheyne Monsieur la Bar Seruitours to the said 
 Sir Francis 
 
 James Law 
 
 James Hamiltoun scrnitour to the said Sir Claud 
 
 Archibald Syiu Trumpeter 
 
 Laurence Fletcher comediane to his m^estie 
 
 Mr Dauid Wod 
 
 Johne Bronderstalnifl" 
 
 These documents present something more than the 
 facts, that a company of players, specially recommend- 
 ed by the King, were paid a gratuity from the Corpora- 
 tion of Aberdeen for their performances in that town, 
 ono of them subsequently receiving the freedom of the 
 b,..niugh. The provost, baillies, and council ordain 
 (h;it thirty-two marks should be given to the King's 
 servants then in that borough, who played comedies and 
 stage-plays. The circumstance that they are recom- 
 mended by the King's special letter is not so important 
 
 as the (icfjcription of them .as tlic King's servants. 
 Thirteen days after the entiy of the 9th of October, at 
 which first period these servants of the King had played 
 some of their comedies, Lawrence Fletcher, coin.'dian 
 to his Maje.sty, is admitted a burgess of guild of the 
 borough of Aberdeen — the greatest honour which the 
 Corporation could bestow. He is admitted to this hon- 
 our in company with a nobleman of France visiting 
 Aberdeen for the gratification of his curiosity, and re- 
 commended by the King to be favourably entertained ; 
 as well as with three men of rank, and others, who 
 were directed by his Majesty to accompany "the Goid 
 Frenchman." All the party are described in the docu- 
 ment as knights aud gentlemen. We have to inquire, 
 then, who was Lawrence Fletcher, comedian to his 
 Majesty ? Assuredly the King had not in his service a 
 company of Scotch players. In 1599 he had licensed a 
 company of English comedians to play at Edinburgh. 
 Fond as James was of theatrical exhibitions, he had 
 not the means of gratifying his taste, e.tcept through 
 the visits of English comedians. Scotland had no 
 drama in tlie proper sense of the word. We may safely 
 conclude that King James would have no Scottish com- 
 pany of players, because Scotland had no dramas to 
 play. 
 
 "Lawrence Fletcher, comedian to his Majesty," was 
 undoubtedly an Englishman ; and ' ' the King's servants 
 presently in this borough who play comedies and stage- 
 plays" were as certainly English players. There arc 
 not many facts known by which we can trace the 
 history of Lawrence Fletcher. He is not mentioned 
 amongst "the names of the principal actors in p.\\ 
 these plays, "which list is given in the first folio edition 
 of Shakespeare ; but he undoubtedly belonged to 
 Shakespeare's company. Augustine Phillipps, who, liy 
 his will, in 1605, bequeathed a thirty-shilling piece of 
 gold to his " fellow" William Shakespeare, also be 
 queathed twenty shillings to his " fellow" Lawrence 
 Fletcher. But there is more direct evidence than this 
 of the connexion of Fletcher with Shakespeare's com- 
 pany. The patent of James I., dated at Westminster 
 on the nineteenth of May, 1603, in favour of the players 
 .acting at the Globe, is headed " Pro Laurentio Fletcher 
 et Willielmo Shakespeare et aliis;" and it licenses and 
 autliorises the performances of ' ' Laurence Fletcher, 
 William Shakespeare, Kichard Burbage, Augustine 
 Phillipps, John Hemiugs, Henrie Condell, William Sly, 
 Kobert Armin, Richard Cowly, and the rest of their as- 
 sociates." The connexion in 1603 of Fletcher and 
 Shakespeare cannot be more distinctly established than 
 by this document. Chalmers says that Fletcher " was 
 placed before Shakespeare and Richard Burbage in King 
 James's license as much perhaps by accident its by do- 
 sign. ' ' The Aberdeen Register is evidence iigainst this
 
 xii) 
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 opinion. Lawrence Fletcher, comedian to his Majesty, 
 is ndmitted to honours which are not bestowed upon 
 tlie other King's servants who had acted plays in the 
 horongh of Aberdeen in ICOl. Lawrence Fletcher is 
 first named in the letters patent of 1603. It is evident, 
 we think, that he was admitted a burgess of Aberdeen 
 as the head of the company, and that he was placed 
 first in the royal license for the same reason. But there 
 is a circumstance, we apprehend, set forth in the Aber- 
 deen Eegisters which is not only important with refer- 
 fince to the question of Shakespeare having visited 
 Scotland, but which explains a remarkable event in the 
 history of the stage. The company rewarded by the 
 Corporation of Aberdeen on the 9th of October, 1601, 
 were not only recommended by his Majesty's special 
 letter, but they were the King's servants. Lawrence 
 Fletchei, according to the second entry, was comedian 
 to his Majesty. This English company, then, had re- 
 ceived an honour from the Scottish King, which had 
 not been bestowed upon them by the English Queen. 
 They were populai'ly termed the Queen's players about 
 1-j90 ; but subsequently, we find them invariably men- 
 tioned in the oflicial entries as the Lord Chamberlain's 
 servants. Mr. Collier, in noticing the license ' Pro 
 Laureutio Fletcher et Willielmo Shakespeare et aliis,' 
 says that the Lord Chamberlain's company " by virtue 
 of this instrument, in which they are termed ' our ser- 
 vants,' became the King's players, and were so after- 
 wards constantly distinguished." But the instrument 
 did not create Lawrence Fletcher, William Shakespeare, 
 and others, the King's servants : it recognises them as 
 Iho King's servants already appointed: "Know you 
 that we, of our special grace, certain knowledge, and 
 mere motion, have licensed and authorised, and by 
 these presents do license and authorise, these our ser- 
 vants," &c. They are licensed to use and exercise their 
 art and faculty "as well for the recreation of our lov- 
 ing subjects as for our solace and pleasure, when we 
 shall think good to see them." Tliey are " to show 
 and exercise publicly to their best commodity when the 
 infection of the plague shall decrease, within their now 
 usual house called the Globe," as in all other places. 
 The justices, mayors, sheriffs, and others to whom the 
 letters patent are a<Idressed, are called upon to aid and 
 assist them, and to do them courtesies ; and the instru- 
 ment thus concludes : "And also what further favour 
 you shall show to these our servants for our sake wc 
 Ehall take kindly at your hands." The terms of this 
 patent exhibit towards the players of the Globe a favour 
 and countenance, almost an affectionate solicitude for 
 their welfare, which is scarcely reconcilable with a be- 
 lief that they first became the King's players by virtue 
 of this instrument. James arrived in London, at the 
 Charte: House, on the 7l.t of May, 1603. He then re- 
 
 moved to the Tower, and subsequently to Greenwich 
 on the 13th. 'I'he Privy Seal, directing the lett<;r3 
 patent to Fletcher, Shakespeare, and others, is dated 
 from Greenwich on the 17th of May ; and in that doc- 
 ument the exact words of the patent are prescribed. 
 The words of the Privy Seal and of the patent un- 
 doubtedly imply some previous appointment of the 
 persons therein named as the King's servants. It ap- 
 pears scarcely possible that during the three days 
 which elapsed between James taking up his residence 
 at Greenwich, and the day on which the Privy Seal ia 
 issued, the Lord Chamberlain's servants, at the season 
 of the plague, should have performed before the King, 
 and have so satisfied him that he constituted them his 
 own servants. It would at first seem improbable that 
 amidst the press of business consequent upon the ac- 
 cession, the attention of the King should have been 
 directed to the subject of players at all, especially in 
 the selection of a company as his own servants, con- 
 trary to the precedent of the former reign. If these 
 players had been the servants of Elizabeth, their ap- 
 pointment as the servants of James might have been 
 asked as a matter of course ; but certain players were 
 at once to be placed above all their iirofessional breth- 
 ren, by the King's own act, carried into eft'ect within 
 ten days after his arrival within his new metropolis. 
 But all these objections are removed when we refer to 
 the facts opened to us by the council registers of Aber- 
 deen. King James the Sixth of Scotland had recom- 
 mended his servants to the magistrates of Aberdeen ; 
 and Lawrence Fletcher, there can be no doubt, was one 
 of those servants so recommended. The patent of 
 James the First of England directed to Lawrence 
 Fletcher, William Shakespeare, and others, eighteen 
 months after the performances at Aberdeen, is directed 
 to those persons as " our servants." It does not ap- 
 point them the King's servants, but recognises the 
 appointment as already existing. Can there be a rea- 
 sonable doubt that the appointment was originally 
 made by the King in Scotland, and subsisted when the 
 same King ascended the English throne ? Lawrence 
 Fletcher was admitted a burgess of Guild of the bo- 
 rough of Aberdeen as comedian to his Majesty, in 
 company with other persons who were servitors to his 
 Majesty. He received that honour, we may conclude, 
 as the hea<l of the company, also the King's servants. 
 We know not how he attained tliis distinction amongst 
 his fellows, but it is impossible to imagine that accident 
 so favoured him in two instances. The King's servant 
 who was most favoined at Aberdeen, and the King's 
 servant who is first in the patent iu 1003, was surely 
 placed in that position by the voice of his fellows, the 
 other King's servants. William Shakcspoari! is named 
 with him in a marked manner in the heading of the
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 xliU 
 
 patent. Srvoi of their fellows are also named, as dis- 
 tiii;{uisheJ from " the rest of their associates." 'I'here 
 can be no doubt of the identity of the Lawrence 
 Fletcher, the servant of James VI. of Scotland, and 
 the Liiwrence Fletcher, the servant of James I. of 
 Kngland. Can we doubt that the King's servants who 
 played comedies and stage-plays in Aberdeen, in 1001, 
 were, taken as a company, the King's servants who 
 were licensed to exercise the art and faculty of playing 
 throughout all the realm, in 1603 ? If these points are 
 evident, what reason have we to doubt that William 
 Shakespeare, the second named in the license of 1603, 
 was amongst the King's servants at Aberdeen hi 1601 ? 
 Every circumstance concurs in the likelihood that he 
 was of that number recommended by the King's 
 special letter ; and his position in the license, even 
 before Burbage, was, we may well believe, a compli- 
 ment to him who in 1601 had taught "our James" 
 something of the power and riches of the English 
 drama. Tliese circumstances give us, we think, war- 
 ranty to conclude that the story of Macbeth might 
 have been suggested to Shakespeai'e upon Scottish 
 ground ; that the accuracy displayed in the local de- 
 scriptions and allusions might have been derived from 
 a rapid personal observation ; and that some of the 
 peculiarities of his witchcraft imagery might have 
 been found in Scottish superstitions, and more espe- 
 cially in those which were rife at Aberdeen at the be- 
 ginning of the seventeenth century. 
 
 In May, 1602, Shakespeare made a large addition to 
 his property at Stratford by the purchase, from William 
 and John Combe, for the sum of three hundred and 
 twenty pounds, of one hundred and seven acres of 
 arable land in the town of Old Stratford. The inden- 
 ture, which is in the possession of Mr. Wheler of Strat- 
 ford, is dated the 1st of May, 1602. The conveyance 
 bears the signatures of the vendors of the property. 
 But although it concludes in the usual form, "The 
 parties to these presents having interchangeably set to 
 their hands and seals," the counterpart (also in the 
 poss>3Ssion of Mr. Wheler) has not the hand and seal of 
 the purchaser of the property described in the deed as 
 "William Shakspeie, of Stratford-upon-Avon, in the 
 countie aforesaide. Gentleman." The counterpart is 
 not signed, and the piece of wax which is affixed to it 
 is unimpressed with any seal. The acknowledgment 
 of possession is however recorded. The property is de- 
 livered to Gilbert Shakespeare to the use of William. 
 Gilbert was two years and a half younger than 'Viniliam, 
 and in all likelihood was the cultivator of the land 
 which the poet thus bought, or assisted their father in 
 the cultivation. 
 
 Amongst the few papers rescued from "time's de- 
 vouring maw" which enable us to trace Shakespeare's 
 
 career with any exactness, there is another which relates 
 to the acquisition of property in the same year. It is a 
 copy of Court Roll for the Manor of Ilowington, dated 
 the 28th of September, 1602, containing the surrender 
 by Walter Getley to the use of William Shakespeare of 
 a house in Stratford, situated in Walker-street. This 
 tenement was opposite Shakespeare's house of New 
 Place. It is now taken down ; it was in existence a 
 few years ago. This document, which is in the pos- 
 session of Mr. Hunt, the town-clerk of Stratford, also 
 shows that at the latter end of September, 1G02, Wil- 
 liam Shakespeare, the ptu-chaser of this property, w.ia 
 not at Stratford. It could not legally pass to him, 
 being a copyhold, till he had done suit and service in 
 the Lord's Court ; and the surrender therefore provides 
 that it should remain in the possession of the lord till 
 he, the purchaser, should apjiear. 
 
 In the September of 1002, the Earl of Worcester, 
 writing to the Earl of Shrewsbury, says, " We are frolic 
 here in Court, much dancing in the Privy Chamber of 
 country-dances before the Queen's Majesty, who is ex- 
 ceedingly pleased therewith." In the December she 
 was entertained at Sir Robert Cecil's house in the 
 Strand, and some of the usual devices of flattering 
 mummery were exhibited before her. A few months 
 saw a period to the frolic and the flattery. The last 
 entry in the books of the Treasurer of the Chamber 
 during the reign of Elizabeth, which pertains to Shake- 
 speare, is the following ; — melancholy in the contrast 
 between the Candlemas-Day of 1603, the 2nd of Feb- 
 ruary, and the following 24th of March, when Eliza- 
 beth died : — " To John Hemynges and the rest of hia 
 compauie, servaunts to theLorde Chamberleyne, uppon 
 the Councells Warraunte, dated at Whitehall the xxth 
 of Aprill, 1603, for their paines and expences in pre- 
 sentinge before the late Queenes Ma"' twoe playes, the 
 one uppon St. Stephens day at nighte, and thother upon 
 Candlemas day at night, for ech of which they were 
 allowed, by way of her Ma'" rewarde, tenne poundes, 
 amounting in all to xx"." 
 
 King James I. of England left his good city of Edin- 
 burgh on the 5th of April, 1603. He was nearly five 
 weeks on the road. On the 7th of May he was safely 
 lodged at the Charter House ; and one of his first acts 
 of authority was, as already noticed, after creating four 
 new peers, and issuing a proclamation against robbery 
 on the Borders, to order the Privy Seal for the patent 
 to Lawrence Fletcher, William Shakespeare, and others. 
 We learn from the patent itself that the King's servants 
 were to perform publicly "when the infection of the 
 plague shall decrease." It is clear that the King's 
 servants were not at liberty then to perform publicly. 
 How long the theatres were closed we do not exactly 
 know ; but a document is in existence, dated April 9th,
 
 xliv 
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 1604, directing the Lord Mayor of London, and Justices 
 of Middlesex and Surrey, " to permit and suffer the 
 three companies of players to the King, Queen, and 
 Prince to exercise their plays in their several and usual 
 houses." On the 20th of October, 1G03, Joan, the wife 
 of the celebrated Edward Alleyn, writes to her husband 
 from IjohdoQ, — "About us the sickness doth cease, and 
 likely more and more, by God's help, to cease. AH 
 the companies be come home, and well, for aught we 
 know." Her husband is hawkitg in the country, and 
 Ilenslowe, his partner, is at the Court. Shakespeare 
 is in London. Some one propounded a theory that 
 there was no real man called William Shakespeare, and 
 that the plays which passed with his name were the 
 works of Marlowe and others. Tliis very letter of good 
 Mrs. AJleyn shows that William Sliakespeare not only 
 lived, but went about prett)' much like other people, 
 calling common things by their common names, giving 
 advice about worldly matters in the way of ordinary 
 folk, and spoken of by the wife of his friend without 
 any wonder or laudiition, just as if he had written no 
 'Midsummer Night's Dream,' or 'Othello :' — " Aboute 
 a wseke a goe there came a youthe, who said he 
 was Mr. Francis Chaloner, who would have borrowed 
 
 x" to have bought things for and said he was 
 
 inown imto j'ou, and Mr. Shakespeare of the Globe, 
 
 who came said he knewe hym not, onely he 
 
 hcrde of hym that he was a roge so he was 
 
 glade we did not lend him the monney Eichard 
 
 Johnes [went] to seekt, and inquire after the fellow, 
 and said he had lent hym a horse. I feare me he 
 gulled hym, thoughe he gulled not us. The youthe 
 was a prety youthe, and hansome in appayrull : we 
 knowe not what became of hym."* But although 
 Shakespeare was in London on the 20th of October, 
 1603, it is tolerably clear that the performances at the 
 public theatres were not resumed till after the order 
 of the 9th of April, IGOl. In the Office Books of the 
 Treasurer of the Chamber there is an entry of a pay- 
 ment of thirty-two pounds upon the Council's warrant 
 dated at Hampton Court, February 8th, 1604, "by way 
 of his Majesty's free gift" to Richard Burbage, one of 
 his Maje.sty's comedians, "for the maintenance and 
 relief of himself and the rest of his company, being 
 ;irohibited to present any plays publicly in or near 
 Ijondon, by reason of gicat peril that might grow 
 '.lirough the extraordinary concourse and a,ssembly of 
 people, to a new increase of the plague, till it shall 
 pleriite God to settle the city in a more perfect health. "f 
 But though the public playhouses might be closed 
 through the fear of an " extraordinary concourse and 
 
 * Kroni tho pnpors In Dalwlch Collogo, printed In Mr Colller'0 
 Memoirs of Edward Alleyn 
 t CiinDtnghsm'B 'Kovols at C->urt,' p xxx7. 
 
 assembly of people," the King, a few months previous, 
 had sent for his own players to a considerable distance 
 to perform before the Court at Wilton. There is an 
 entry in the same Office Book of a payment of thirty 
 pounds to John Hemings " for the pains and expenses 
 of himself and the rest of his company in coming from 
 Mortlake in the county of Surrey unto the Court afoie- 
 said, and there presenting before his Majesty one play 
 on the 2nd of December last, by way of his Majesty's 
 reward." Wilton was the seat of William Herbert, 
 Earl of Pembroke, to whom it has been held that 
 Shakespeare's Sonnets were addressed. We do not 
 yield our assent to this opinion. But we know from 
 good authority that this nobleman, " the most uni- 
 versally beloved and esteemed of any man of that age," 
 (according to Clarendon,) befriended Shakespeare, and 
 that his brother joined him in his acts of kindness. 
 The dedication by John Heminge and Henry Condell, 
 prefixed to the first collected edition of the works of 
 Shakespeare, is addressed ' ' To the most noble and in- 
 comparable pair of brethren, William Earl of Pembroke, 
 and Philip Earl of Montgomery." In the submissive 
 language of poor players to their " singular good lords" 
 they say, "When we value the places your Honours 
 sustain, we cannot but know their dignity greater than 
 to descend to the reading of these trifles ; and while 
 we name them trifles, we have deprived ourselves of 
 the defence of our dedication. But since your Lord- 
 ships have been pleased to think these trifles some- 
 thing, heretofore ; and have prosecuted both them, and 
 their author living, mth so much favour : we hope 
 that (they out living him, and he not baring the fate, 
 common with some, to be executor to his own writings) 
 you will use the like indulgence toward them you have 
 done unto their parent." They subsequently speak of 
 their Loi'dships liking the several parts of the volume 
 when they were acted ; but their author was the object 
 of their personal regard and favour. The call to Wilton 
 of Shakespeare's company might probably have arisen 
 from Lord Pembroke' s desire to testify this favour. It 
 would appear to be the first theatrical performance 
 before James in England. Tlie favour of the Herberts 
 towards Shakespeare thus began early. The testimony 
 of the player-editors would imply that it lasted during 
 the poet's life. 
 
 At the Christmas of the same year the King had 
 taken up his residence at Hampton Court. It was 
 here, a little before the period when the Conf'jrtncc 
 on Conformity in Religion was begun, that the Queen 
 and eleven ladies of honour were presenting Iiauiel's 
 Masque ; and Shakespeare and his fellows performed 
 six plays before the King and Prince, receiving twenty 
 nobles for each play.* The patronage of the new King 
 * Cunningham's ' Bevels at Court,' p. cxxt.
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SH/VKESPEAUE. 
 
 to his servants, players acting at the Globe, seems to 
 have been constant and liberal. To Shakespeare this 
 must liave been a season of prosperity and of liononr. 
 The accession of tlie King gave liim somctliing better. 
 His early friend and patron Soutlianii)ton was released 
 from a long imprisonment. Enjoying the friendship 
 of Southampton and Pembrolie, wlio were constantly 
 about tlie King, their tastes may have led the monarch 
 to a just preference of tlie works of Shakespeare before 
 those of any other dramatist. The si.\ plays performed 
 before the King and Prince in tlie Christmas of 1003^ 
 at Hampton Court, were followed at the succeeding 
 Christmas by performances " at tlie Bauqueting-House 
 at Whitehall," in which the plays of Shakespeare were 
 preferred above tliose of every other competitor. There 
 were eleven performances by the King's players, of 
 which eight were plays of Sliakespeare. Jonson shared 
 this honour with him in the representation of 'Every 
 One in his Humour,' and 'Every One out of his Hu- 
 mour.' A single play by Heywood, another by Chap- 
 man, and a tragedy by an unknown author, completed 
 the list of these revels at Whitehall. It is told, Malone 
 Bays, "upon authority wliieh there is no reason to 
 doubt, that Kiiig James bestowed especial honour upon 
 Shakspere." The story is told in the Advertisement to 
 Lintot's edition of Sliakespeare's Poems — "That most 
 learned Prince, and great patron of learning, King 
 James the First, was pleased with his own hand to 
 write an amicable letter to Mr. Shakespeai'e ; which 
 letter, though now lost, remained long in the hands of 
 Sir William Davenant, as a credible person now living 
 can testify." Was the honour bestowed as a reward 
 for the compliment to the King in ' Macbeth,' or was 
 the compliment to the King a tribute of gratitude for 
 the honour ? 
 
 We have seen that in the year 1602 Shakespeare was 
 investing the gains of his profession in the purchase of 
 property at Stratford. It appears from the original 
 Fines of the Court of King's Bench, preserved in the 
 Chapter-house, that a little before the accession of 
 James, in 1603, Shakespeare had also purchased a mes- 
 suage at Stratford, with barns, gardens, and orchards, 
 of Hercules Underbill, for the sum of sixty pounds. 
 There can be little doubt that this continued acquisition 
 of property in his native place had reference to the ru- 
 ling desire of the poet to retire to his quiet fields and 
 the placid intercourse of society at Stratford, out of the 
 turmoil of his professional life and tlie excitement of 
 the companionship of the gay and the brilliant. And 
 yet it appears highly probable that he was encouraged, 
 at this very period, through the favour of those who 
 rightly esthnated )iis merit, to apply for an office wliich 
 would have brought him even more closely in con- 
 
 nexion with the Court, that of Master of the Queeu'e 
 Revels, to which office Samuel Daniel was appointed 
 It is not impossiljle lliat Sliakespeare looked to this ap- 
 pointment as a compensation for liis retirement from 
 tlie profession of an actor, retaining his interest, how- 
 ever, as a theatrical propiietor. Be that as it may, he 
 still carried forward his ruling purpose of the acquisi- 
 tion of property at Stratford. In IGOii he accomplished 
 a purchase wliich required a larger outlay than any 
 previous investment. On the 2)th of July, in the 
 third year of James, a conveyance was made by Ilalpb 
 Hubaud, Esq., to William Shakespeare, gentleman, ol 
 a moiety of a lease of the great and small titles of Strat- 
 ford, for the remainder of a term of ninety-two years, 
 and the amount of the purchase was four hundred and 
 forty pounds. There can be little doubt that he waH 
 the cultivator of his own land, availing himself of the 
 assistance of his brother Gilbert, and, in an earlier 
 period, probably of his father. An account in lSt)7 ol 
 the stock of malt in the borough of Slratforii. is said 
 to exhibit ten quarters in the possession of William 
 Shalvespeare, of Chapel Street Ward. New Place was 
 situated in Chapel Street. The purchase of a raoietj 
 of the tithes of so large a parish as Stratford might 
 require extensive arrangements for their collection. 
 Tithes in those days were more frequently collected h 
 kind than by a modus. But even if a modus was taker.., 
 it would require a knowledge of the value of agricul- 
 tural produce to farm the tithes with advantage. But 
 before the date of this purchase it is perfectly clear that 
 William Shakespeare was in the exercise of the trading 
 part of a fixrmer's business. He bought the hundred 
 and seven acres of land of John and William Combe in 
 May, 1602. In 160i a declaration was entered in the 
 Borough Court of Stratford, on a plea of debt, William 
 Shakespeare against Pliilip Rogers, for the sum of thirty- 
 five shillings and ten-pence, for corn delivered. The 
 precept was issued in the usual for-m upon this declara- 
 tion, the delivery of the corn being stated to have 
 taken place at several times in the first and secimd 
 years of James. There cannot be more distinct evi- 
 dence that William Shakespeare, at the very ]ieriwl 
 when his dramas were calling forth the rapturous ap- 
 plause of the new Sovereign and his Court, and when 
 he himself, as it would seem, was ambitious of a courtly 
 office, did not disdain to pursue the humble though 
 honourable occupation of a farmer in Stratford, and to 
 exercise his just riglits of property in connexion with 
 thiit occupaticra. We must believe that he looked for- 
 ward to the calm and healthful employment of the 
 eve.uiiig of his days, as a tiller of the land which his 
 father had tilled before him, at the same time woiking 
 out noble plans of poetical employment in his com- 
 parative leisme as the best scheme of life in his do
 
 xlvi 
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 clming years. The exs,ct period when he commenced 
 the complete realization of these plans is somewhat 
 doubtful. He had probably ceased to appear as an 
 sctor before 160•5^ If the date 1608 be correctly as- 
 signed to a letter held to be written by Lord Southamp- 
 ton, it is clear that Shakespeare was not then an actor, 
 for he is there described as " till o/' late an actor of good 
 account in the company, now a sharer in the same." 
 His partial freedom from his professional labours cer- 
 tainlj- preceded his final settlement at Stratford. 
 
 In the conveyance by the Combes to Shakespeare in 
 1602, he is designated as William Shakespeare of Strat- 
 ford-upon-Avon. The same designation holds in sub- 
 sequent legal documents connected with Stratford ; but 
 there is no doubt th.at, at the period of the conveyance 
 from the Combes, he was an actor in the company per- 
 forming at the Blaclcfriars and at the Globe ; and in 
 tracing therefore the " whereabout" of Shakespeare, 
 from the imperfect records which remain to us, we have 
 assumed that where the fellows of Shakespeare are to 
 be found, there is he to be also located. But in the be- 
 lief that before 1008 he had ceased to be an actor, we 
 are not required to assume that he was so constantly 
 with his company as before that partial retirement. His 
 interest would no doubt require his occasional presence 
 with them, for he continued to be a considerable pro- 
 prietor in theii' lucrative concerns. That prudence and 
 careful management which could alone have enabled 
 him to realize a large property out of his professional 
 pursuits, and at the same time not to dissipate it by his 
 agricultural occupations, appears to have been founded 
 npon an arrangement by which he secured the assistance 
 of his family, and at the same time made a provision 
 for them. AVe have seen that in 1602 his brother Gil- 
 bert was his representative at Stratford. Richard, who 
 was ten years bis junior, and who, <lying a year before 
 him, was buried at Stratford, would also appear to have 
 been resident there. His youngest brother Edmund, 
 sixteen years his junior, was, there can be little ques- 
 tion, associated with him in the theatre ; and he prob- 
 ably looked to hiin to attend to the management of 
 his property in London, after he retired from any active 
 attention to its conduct. But Edmund died early. He 
 lived in the parish of St. Saviour's, in all probability 
 at his brother's house in the Hberty of the Clink ; and 
 the register of burials of that parish has the following 
 record :— " 1607, December 31st, Edmond Shakespeare, 
 a player, in the church." The death of his brother 
 might probably have had a considerable influence upon 
 the habits of his life, and might have induced him to 
 dispose of all his theatrical property, as there is reason 
 to believe he did. several yeais before his death. Tlie 
 value fif a portion of this property has been ascertained, 
 08 far as it cun bo, upon an estimate for its sale ; and 
 
 by this estimate the amount of his portion, as com 
 pared with that of his co-proprietors, i; ilistinctly 
 shown. In 1608 the question of the jurisdiction of the 
 City in the Blackfriars, and especially with reference to 
 the playhouse, was brought before Lord Ellesmere, the 
 Chancellor. The proprietors of the'theatre remained 
 in undisturbed possession. Out of this attempt a ne- 
 gotiation appears to have arisen for the purchase of the 
 property by tlie City ; for amongst the documents con- 
 nected with tliis attempt of the Corporation is found a 
 paper headed, "For avoiding of the playhouse in the 
 precinct of the Blackfriars. ' ' The document states, in 
 conclusion, that " in the whole it will cost the Lord 
 Mayor and the citizens at the least 7000Z." Richard 
 Burbage claims lOOOZ. for the fee, and for his four 
 shares 933Z. 6s. M. Laz. Fletcher owns three shares, 
 which he rates at 700Z., that is, at seven years' pur- 
 chase. " W. Shakespeai'e asketh for the wardrobe and 
 properties of the same playhouse 500" , and for his four 
 shares the same as his fellowes Burbidge and Fletcher, 
 viz. 933" 6' 8'*." Herainge and Condell have each 
 two shares, Taylor and Lowiu each a share and a half ; 
 four more players each a half share ; which they all 
 value at the same rate. Tlie hired men of the com- 
 pany also claini recompense for their loss ; " and tho 
 widows and orphans of players who are paid by the 
 sharers at divers rates and proportions."' It thus ap- 
 pears that, next to Richard Burhage, Shakespeare was 
 the largest proprietor in the theatre ; that Burbage was 
 the exclusive owner of the real property, and Shake- 
 speare of the personal. If the valuation be con-t;ct, 
 Shakespeare's annual income derived from his shares in 
 the Blackfriars alone, was IZZl. 6s. 8rf. His wardrobe 
 and properties, being perishable matters, wei'e probably 
 valued at five years' purchase, giving him an additional 
 income of 100^ This income was derived from the 
 Blackfriars alone. His property in tlie Globe Tlieatre 
 was in all likelihood quite equal. He would, besides, 
 derive additional advantages as the author of new 
 plays. With a professional income, then, of 400Z. or 
 500^ per annum, which may be held to be equal to six 
 times the amount in our present money, it is evident 
 that Shakespeare possessed the means not only of a 
 liberal expenditure at his houses in London and at 
 Stratford, but from the same source was enabled to 
 realize considerable sums, which he invested in real 
 property in liis native jilace. All the records of Shake- 
 speare's professional life, and the results of his success 
 as exhibited in the accession of property, indicate a 
 steady and regular advance. They show us that per- 
 severance and industry were as much the characteristics 
 of the man as the greatness of his genius ; that he 
 
 •This vslunble docHincr.t WM disoovored by Mi. Oollifr, and 
 pubKsliod by hitn in his ' New Facta. 
 
 t
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SUAKESPEARE. 
 
 xtvi) 
 
 held with constancy to the course of life which ho had 
 early luUiptcd ; that year by year it affonlcd him in- 
 creased competence and wealth ; and that if In; had 
 the rare privilege of pursuing an occupation which 
 callc.I forth tlie highest exercise of his powers, ren- 
 dering it in every essential a pleasurable occupation, he 
 despised not the means by which he had risen : he 
 lived in a free and genial intercourse with his profes- 
 Bion:il brethren, and to the last they were his friends 
 and fellows. 
 
 Aubrey says of Shakespeare, " He was wont to go to 
 his native country once a-year." This statement, 
 wliicli there is no reason to disbelieve, has reference to 
 tlie period when Shakespeare was engaged as an actor. 
 Tliere is another account of Shakespeare's mode of life, 
 whicii does not contradict Aubrey, but brings down liis 
 tnfoi'mation to a later period. In the ' Diary of the 
 Rev. John Ward, Vicar of Stratford-upon-Avon,' the 
 manuscript of which was discovered in the library of 
 the Medical Society of London, we find the following 
 curious record of Shakespeare's later years : — " I have 
 heard that Mr. Shakespeare was a natural wit, without 
 any art at all ; hee frequented the plays all his younger 
 time, but in his elder days lived at Stratford, and sup- 
 [)lied the stage with two plays every year, and for itt 
 had an allowance so large, that hee spent att the rate of 
 lOOOZ. a-year, as I have heard." The Diary of John 
 Ward extends from 1648 to 1679 ; and it is in many 
 respects interesting, from the circumstance that he 
 united the practice of medicine to the performance of 
 liis duties as a parish priest. He was appointed to the 
 vicarage of Stratford in 1662. 
 
 It is evident that, although forty-six years had 
 elapsed since the death of Shakespeare, his memory 
 was the leading association with Stratford-upon-Avon. 
 After noticing that Shakespeare had two daughter's, we 
 find the entry presented above. It is just possible that 
 the new vicar of Stratford might have seen Shake- 
 speare's younger daughter Judith, who was born in 
 1585, and, having married Thomas Quiney in 1616, 
 lived to the age of seventy-seven, having been buried 
 on the 9th of February, 1662. The descendants of 
 Shakespeare' s family and of his friends surrounded tiie 
 worthy vicar on every side ; and he appears to have 
 thought it absolutely necessary to acquire such a knowl- 
 edge of the productions of the great poet as might qual- 
 ify him to speak of them in general society : — " He- 
 ro fimber to peruse Shakespeare's plays, and bee much 
 versed in.them, that I may not bee ignorant in that 
 matter." The honest vicar was not quite certain 
 whether the fame of Shakespeare was only a provincial 
 one, for he adds — " Whether Dr. Heylin does well, in 
 reckoning up the dramatick poets which have been fa- 
 mous in England, to omit Shakespeare?" The good 
 
 man is not altogether to be blamed for having previously 
 to 1GC2 been "ignorant" of Shakespeare's plays. He 
 was only thirty-three years of age ; and his jouth had 
 been passed in the stormy period when the Puritans 
 had weH nigh banished all literature, and especially 
 dramatic literature, from the minds of the people, in 
 tlieir intolerant proscription of all pleasure and recrea 
 tion. At any rate we may accept the statements of the 
 good vicar as founded upon the recollections of those 
 with whom he was associated in 1662. It is wholly 
 consistent with what we otherwise know of Sliake- 
 speare's life, that "he frequented the plays all hig 
 younger time." It is equally consistent that he "in 
 his elder days lived at Stratford." There is nothing im- 
 probable in the belief that he " supplied the stage ■with 
 two plays every year." The last clause <jf the sentence 
 is somewhat startling : — " And for it had an allowance 
 so large, that he spent at the rate of lOOOZ. a-year, as I 
 have heard." And yet the assertion must not be con- 
 sidered wholly an exaggeration. ' ' He spent at the 
 rate of lOOOZ. a-year," must mean the rate of the time 
 when Mr. Ward is writing. During the half-ceiitury 
 which had preceded the Restoration there had been a 
 more important decrease in the value of money than 
 had even taken place in the reign of Elizabetli. Dur- 
 ing that reign the prices of all commodities were con- 
 stantly rising ; but after the reduction of the legal rate 
 of interest from ten per cent, to eight in 1024, and 
 from eight to six in 1651, the change was still more re- 
 markable. Sir Josias Child, in 1688, savs that five! 
 hundretl pounds with a daughter, sixty years before, 
 wc:.s esteemed a larger portion than two thousand poun<ls 
 now. It would appear, therefore, that the thousand 
 a-year in 1862 was not more than one-third of the amount 
 in 1612 ; and this sum, from 3001. to 400Z. , was, as near 
 as may be, the amount which Shakespeare appears to . 
 have derived from his theatrical property. In all 
 probability he held that property during the greater 
 part of the period when he " s^ipplied the stage with 
 two plays every year ;" and this indirect remuneration 
 for his poetical labours might readily have been mis- 
 taken, fifty years afterwards, as "an allowance so 
 large" for authorship that the good -vicar records it as 
 a memorable thing. 
 
 It is established that ' Othello' was performed in 
 1602; 'Hamlet,' greatly enlarged, was published In 
 1604 ; ' Measure for Measure' was acted before the 
 Court on St. Stephen's night in the same year. If we 
 place Shakespeare's partial retirement from his profes- 
 sional duties about this period, and regard the playg 
 whose dates up to this point have not been fixed by any 
 authentic record, or satisfactory combination of circum- 
 stances, we have abundant work in reserve for the great 
 poet in the maturity of his intellect. 'Lear,' 'Moo-
 
 xh-iii 
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEAKE. 
 
 both,' ' Timon of Athens,' ' rroilusandCiessida,' ' Cym- 
 beline,' ' The Winter's Tale," 'The Tempest,' ' Henry 
 Vm.,' 'CoriolaniH,' ' Julius Cajsar,' 'Antony and Cleo- 
 patra, ' eleven of the noblest productions of the human 
 intellect, so varied in their character, — the deepest pas- 
 sion, the profoundest philosophy, the wildest romance, 
 the most comprehensive history — what a glorious la- 
 bour to fill the nine or ten remaining years of the life 
 of the man who had left his native fields twenty years 
 before to seek for advancement in doubtful and perilous 
 paths, — in a profession which was denounced by some 
 and despised by others, — amongst companions full of 
 genius and learning, but who had perished early in 
 their pride and their self-abandonment ! And he re- 
 turns wealthy and honoured to the bocom of those 
 who are dearest to him — his wife and daughters, his 
 motlier, his sisters and brothers. The companions of 
 bis boyhood are all around him. They have been use- 
 ful members of society in their native place. He has 
 constantly kept up his intercourse with them. They 
 have looked to him for assistance in their difficulties. 
 He is come to he one of them, to dwell wholly amongst 
 them, to take a deeper interest in their pleasures and 
 in their aires, to receive their s\'mpathy. He is come 
 to walk amidst his own fields, to till them, to sell their 
 produce. His labour will be his recreation. In the 
 activity of his body will the energy of Iiis intellect 
 find its support and its rest. His nature is eminently 
 fitted for action as well as contemplation. Were it 
 otherwise, he would have "bad dreams," like his own 
 Hamlet. Morbid thoughts may have come over him 
 " like a passing cloud ;" but from this time his mind 
 will be eminently healthful. The imagination and the 
 reason henceforth will be wonderfully balanced. Much 
 of this belongs to the progressive cliaracter of his under- 
 standing ; something to his favourable position. 
 
 With the exception of a playful piece of ridicule in 
 "The Merry Wives of Windsor,' we know not of a 
 single personality which can be alleged against Shake- 
 speare, in an age when his dramatic contemporaries, 
 especially, bespattered theiv rivals and their cricmies as 
 fiercely as any modern paragraph writer. But vulgar 
 opinion, which is too apt most easily to recognise the 
 power of talent in its ability to inflict pain, has assigned 
 to Shakespeare a performance which lias the quality, 
 extraordinary as regards himself, of possessing scurrility 
 without wit. 7t is something lower in the moral scale 
 even than the fabricated ballad upon Sir Thomas Lucy ; 
 for it exhibits a wanton and unprovoked outrage upon 
 /in unoffending neighbour, in the hour of convivial in- 
 tercourse. Kowc tells tlie story as if he thought he 
 were doing lionour to the genius of the man whose 
 good qualities he is at the same moment re.-ording : 
 " The latter part of his life was spent, as all men of 
 
 good sense will wish theirs may be — in case, retirement, 
 and the conversation of his friends. He had the good 
 fortune to gather an estate equal to his occasion, and, 
 in tliat, to his wish ; and is said to have spent some 
 years before his death at liis native Stratford. His \ 
 pleasurable wit and good nature engaged him in the 
 acquaintance, and entitled him to the friendship, of the 
 gentlemen of tlie neighbourhood. Amongst them, it is 
 a story still remembered in that country that lie had a 
 particular intimacy with Mr. Combe, an old gentlcraar 
 noted thereabouts for his wealth and usury : it hap 
 pened, that in a pleasant conversation amongst their 
 common friends, Mr. Combe told Shakespeare, in a 
 laughing manner, that he fancied he intended to write 
 his epitaph, if he happened to outlive him, and since ho 
 could not know what might be said of him when he was 
 dead, he desired it might be done immediately, upon 
 which Shakespeare gave him these four lines : — 
 ' Ten In the hundred lies here in^cv'd ; 
 
 'Tis a hiHidred to ten his soi'I ;s not sav'd. 
 
 If any man ask, Who lie'- In this tomb? 
 
 Oh ! Oh ! qaoLh the i\e\V, 'tis my John-a-Combe.' 
 
 But the sharpness of the satire is said to have stung the 
 man so severely, that he never forgave it." Certainly 
 this is an extraordinarj' illustration of Shakespeare's 
 "pleasurable wit and good nature" — of those qualities 
 which won for him the name of the "gentle Shake- 
 speare;" which made Jonson, stern enough to most 
 men, proclaim — ' ' He was honest, and of an open and 
 free nature," and that his " mind and manners" were 
 reflected in bis " well-turned and true-filed lines." 
 John-a-Combe never forgave the sharpness of the satire ! 
 And yet he bequeathed by his last ivill "To Mr. Wil- 
 liam Shakespeare, five pounds. ' ' Aubrey tells the story 
 with a difference : — "One time, as he was at the tavern 
 at Stratfovd-itpou-Avon, one Combes, an old rich usurer, 
 was to be buryed, he makes there this extemporary 
 epitaph ;" and then he gives the lines with a variation, 
 in which " vows" rhymes to " allows," instead of 
 "sav'd" to "ingrav'd." Of course, following out this 
 second story, the family of John Combe resented the 
 insult to the memory of their parent, who died in 1614 ; 
 and yet an intimacy subsisted between them even till 
 the death of Shakespeare, for in his own will he be- 
 queaths to the son of the usurer a remarkable token of 
 personal regard, the badge of a gentleman : — " To Mr. 
 Tlioraas Combe my sword." The whole story is a fab- 
 rication. Ten in the himdred was tlie old name of op- 
 probrium for one who lent money. To receive interest 
 at all was called usury. " That ten in the hundred was 
 gone to the devil," was an old joke, that shajied itseH 
 into epigrams long before'the death of John Combe ; 
 and in the ' Remains of Hichard Bralhwaite,' printed in 
 1018, we have the very epitajjh assigned to Shakespeare, 
 with a third set of variations, given as a notable piodiic
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 xlix 
 
 tion of tliis vohnninous writer: "Upon one John 
 C.imlje, of Stratforil-upon-Avon, a notable usurer, fast- 
 ened upon a Tombe that he had caused to be built in 
 his Lifetime." The lie direct is given by the will of 
 John Combe to this third version of the lines against 
 him ; for it directs that a convenient tomb shall be 
 erected one year after his decease. 
 
 The register of marriages at Stratford-upon-Avon for 
 the year 1G07 contains the entry o^ the marriage of 
 John Hall, gentleman, and Susanna Shakespeare, on 
 the 5th June. Susanna, the eldest daughter of Wil- 
 liam Shakespeare, was now twenty-four years of age. 
 John Hall, gentleman, a physician settled at Stratford, 
 was in his thirty-second year. This appears in every 
 respect to have been a propitious alliance. Sliake- 
 Bpeare received into his family a man of learning and 
 talent. 
 
 The season at which the marriage of Shakespeare's 
 elder daughter took place would appear to give some 
 corroboration to the belief that, at this period, he had 
 wholly ceased to be an actor. It is not likely that an 
 event to -him so deeply interesting would have taken 
 place during his absence from Stratford. It was the 
 season of performances at the Globe. It is at this 
 period that we can fix the date of ' Lear. ' That wonder- 
 ful tragedy was firtt published in 1G08 ; and the title- 
 page recites that " It w.as plaid before the King's Ma- 
 jesty at Wliite-Hall, uppon S. Stephen's Night ; in 
 Christmas Hollidaies." This most extraordinary pro- 
 duction might well have been the first fruits of a period 
 of comparative leisure ; when the creative faculty was 
 wholly untrammelled by petty cares, and the judgment 
 might be employed in Working again and again upon 
 the first conceptions, so as to produce such a master- 
 piece of consummate art without after labour. The next 
 season of repose gave birth to an effort of genius wholly 
 different in character ; hut almost as wonderful in its 
 profound sagacity and knowledge of the world, as ' Lear' 
 is unequalled for its depth of individual passions. 
 'Troll us and Cressida' was published in 1609. We 
 may well believe that the Sonnets were published in 
 1609, without the consent of their author. That the 
 appeai'ance of those remarkable lyrics should have an- 
 noyed him, by exposing, as they now appear in the eyes 
 of some to do, the frailties of his natui'e, we do not for 
 a moment believe. They would be received by his 
 family and by the world as essentially fictitious ; and 
 ranked with the productions of the same class with 
 ivhich the age abounded. 
 
 The year 1608 brought its domestic joys and ca- 
 lamities to Shakespeare. In the same font where he had 
 been baptized, forty- three years before, was baptized, 
 on the 21st of February, Ids grand-daughter, "Eliza- 
 liflh, daughter of John Hall. " In the same grave 
 
 where his father was laid in 1601, was buried his mother, 
 " Mary Shakespeare, widow," on the 9th of Sei)tcmber, 
 1008. She was the youngest daughter of Robert Aidcn, 
 who died in 1556. She was probably, therefore, about 
 seventy years of age when her sons followed her to tho 
 " house of all living." 
 
 Tliere is a memorandum existing, by Thomas Greene, 
 a contemporary of Shakespeare, residing at Stratford, 
 which, under the date of November 17th, 1014, has 
 this record : — " My cousin Shakespeare coming yester- 
 day to town, I went to see him how he did." We cito 
 this memorandum here, as an indication of Shakespeare' « 
 habit of occasionally visiting London : for Tliomaa 
 Greene v?as then in the capital, with the intent of op- 
 posing the project of an inclosure at Stratford. The 
 frequency of Shakespeare' s visits to London would essen- 
 tially depend upon the nature of his connexion with the 
 theatres. He was a permanent shareholder, as we have 
 seen, at the Blackfriars ; and no doubt at the Globe 
 also. His interests as a sharer might be diligently 
 watched over by his fellows ; and he might only have 
 visited London when he had a new play to bring for 
 ward, the fruit of his leisure in the country. But until 
 he disposed of his wardrobe and other properties, more 
 frequent dejnands might be made upon his personal 
 attendance than if he were totally free from the respon- 
 sibilities belonging to the charge of such an embarrass- 
 ing stock in trade. Mr. Collier has printed a memo- 
 randum in the handwriting of Edward Alleyn, fljited 
 April, 1612, of the payment of various sums " for the 
 Blackfryers," amounting to 599^ 6s. 8(/. Mr. Collier 
 adds, "To whom the money was paid is nowhere 
 stated ; but, for aught we know, it was to Shakespeare 
 himself, and just anterior to his departure from Lon- 
 don." The memorandum is introduced with the 
 observation, "It seems very likely, from evidence now 
 for the first time to be adduced, that Alleyn became the 
 purchaser of our great dramatist's interest in the thea- 
 tre, properties, wardrobe, and stock of the Blackfriars. ' ' 
 Certainly the document itself says nothing about pro- 
 perties, wardrobe, and stock. It is simply as follows ■ — 
 
 " 1612. 
 Money paid by me E. A. for tlie Black fryera 160 11 
 More for the Blackfryers . . . 12G li 
 
 More againe for the Leasse . . .310 11 
 
 Tbo writinges for the same, and other small 
 
 charges . S H 68. Sd." 
 
 More than h.alf of the entire sum is paid "again for the 
 lease." If the estimate "For avoiding of the Play- 
 house"'^" be not rejected as an authority, the conjec- 
 ture of Mr. Collier, that the property purchased by 
 Alleyn belonged to Shakespeare, is wholly untenable ; 
 for the Fee, val ued at a thousand pounds, was the pro 
 
 * See page xlvi.
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEAEE. 
 
 perty of Burbage, and to the owner of the Fee would 
 he paid the sum for the lease. Subsequent memoranda 
 by Alleyn show that he paid rent for the Blackfriars, 
 and expended sums upon the building — collateral proofs 
 tliat it was not Shakespeare's personal property that he 
 bought in April, 1612. There is distinct evidence fur- 
 nished by another document that Shakespeare was not 
 a resident in London in 1613 ; form an indenture exe- 
 cuted by him on the 10th of March in that year, for the 
 purchase of a dwelling-house in the precinct of the 
 Blackfriars, he is described as ' ' William Shakespeare of 
 Stratforde Upon Avon in the countie of Warwick gen- 
 tleman ;" whilst his fellow, John Hemyng, who is a 
 party to tlie same deed, is described as "of London, 
 gentleman." From the situation of the property it 
 would appear to have been bought either as an appurte- 
 nance to the theatre, or for some protection of the in- 
 terests of the shaiers. In the deed of 1602, Shake- 
 speare is also described as of Stratford-upon-Avon. It is 
 natural that he should be so described, in a deed for the 
 purchase of laud at Stratford ; but upon the same prin- 
 ciple, had he been a resident iu London in 1610, he 
 would have been described as of London in a deed for 
 the purchase of property in London. Yet we also look 
 upon this conveyance as evidence that Shakespeare had 
 in March, 1013, not wholly severed himself from his inte- 
 rest in the theatre. He is in London at the signing of 
 the deed, attending, probably, to the duties which still 
 devolved upon him as a sharer in the Blackfriars. He 
 is not a resident in London ; he has come to town, as 
 Thomas Greene describes in 1614, But we have no 
 evidence that he sold his theatrical property at all. 
 Certainly the evidence that he sold it to Edward Alleyn 
 may be laid aside in any attempt to fix the date of 
 Shakespeare's departure from London. 
 
 Every one agrees that during the last three or four 
 years of his life Shakespeare ceased to write. Yet we 
 venture to think that every one is in error. The opinion 
 is founded upon a belief that he only finally loft London 
 towards the close of 1613. We have shown, from his 
 purcliase of a large house at Stratford, his constant ac- 
 quisition of landed property there, his active engage- 
 ments in tlte business of agriculture, the interest which 
 he took in matters connected with his property in which 
 his neighbours had a common interest, that he must 
 have partially left London before tliis period. There 
 were no circumstances, as far as we can "oollect, to have 
 prevented him fiually leaving London several years 
 before 1613. But his biographers, having fi.xcd a period 
 for the termination of his connexion with the active 
 business of the theatre, assume that he became wholly 
 unemployed ; that ho gave himself up, as Rowe has de- 
 scribed, to "ease, retirement, and the conversation of 
 his friends. ' His income was enough, they say, to dis- 
 
 pense with labour ; and therefore he did not labour. 
 But when the days of leisure arrived, is it reasonabla 
 to beUeve that the mere h.abit of his life would not 
 assert its ordinary control ; that the greatest of intel- 
 lects would suddenly sink to the condition of an every- 
 day man — cherishing no high plans for the future, look- 
 ing back with no desire to equal and excel the work of 
 the past ? At the period of life when Chaucer began to 
 write the ' Canterbury Tales,' Shakespeare, according to 
 his biographers, was suddenly and utterly to cease to 
 write. We cannot believe it. Is tliere a parallel case 
 in the career of any great artist who had won for him- 
 self competence and fame ? Is the mere applause of the 
 world, and a sufficiency of the goods of life, " the end- 
 all and the be-all" of the labours of a mighty mind? 
 These attained, is the voice of his spiritual being to be 
 heard no more ? If those who reason thus could pre- 
 sent a satisfactory record of the dates of all Shake- 
 speare's works, and especially of his later works, we 
 should still cling to the belief that some fruits of the 
 last years of his liteiary industry had wholly peri.shed. 
 It is unnecessaiy, as it appears to us, to adopt any sucli 
 theory. Without the means of fixuig the precise date 
 of many particular dramas, we haveindisputable traces, 
 up to this period, of the appearance of at least five- 
 sixths of all Shakespeare's undoubted works. Are 
 there any dramas whose individual appearance is not 
 accounted for by those who have attempted to fix the 
 exact chronology of other plays ? There are such 
 dramas, and they form a class. They are the three 
 great Roman plays of ' Coriolanus,' ' Julius C;csar,' and 
 ' Autony and Cleopatra. ' 
 
 The happy quiet of Shakespeare's retreat was not 
 wholly undisturbed by calamity, domestic and public. 
 His brother Richard, who was ten years his junior, was 
 buried at Stratford on the 4th of February, 1613. Of 
 his father's family, his sister Joan, who had married 
 Mr. William Hart of Stratford, was probably the only 
 other left. There is no record of the death of his bro- 
 ther Gilbert ; but as he is not mentioned in the will of 
 William, in all likelihood he died before him. Oldys, 
 in his manuscript notes upon Langbaine, has a story 
 of "One of Shakespeare's younger brothers, who lived 
 to a good old age, even some years, as I compute, after 
 the restoration of King Charles II." Gilbert was bom 
 iu 1566 ; so that if he had lived some yeai's after the 
 restoration of Charles II. it is not surprising that " his 
 memory was weakened," as Oldys reports, and that ho 
 could give " the most noted actors" but " little satis- 
 faction in their endeavours to learn something from hiia 
 of his hriilber." Tlie story of Oldys is cleai'ly apocry- 
 phal, as fir as regards any brother of Shakespeare's 
 Tlicy wrvc a sluirt-livcd I'ace. His sister, indeed, sur- 
 vived him tliirty years. The family at New Place, at
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 this period, would be composed therefore of his wife 
 only, and his unmarried daughter Judith ; unless his 
 elder daughter and his son-in-law formed a part of the 
 Kxme household, with their only chihl Elizabeth, who 
 was bora in 1G08. The public calamity to which wo 
 have alluded was a great fire, which broke out at Strat- 
 ford on the 0th of July, 1614. That Shakespeare as- 
 sisted with all the energy of his character in alleviating 
 the miseries of this calamity, and in the restoration of 
 his town, we cannot doubt. In the same year we find 
 him taking some interest in the project of an inclosure 
 of the common-fields of Stratford. The inclosure would 
 probably l.ave improved his property, and especially 
 have incrci-sed the value of the tithes, of the moiety of 
 which he held a lease. The Corporation of Stratford 
 were opposed to the inclosure. They held that it would 
 be injurious to the poorer inhabitants, who were then 
 deeply suffering from the desolation of the fire ; and 
 they appear to have been solicitous that Sliakespcare 
 should take the same view of the matter as theiusolvcs. 
 His friend William Comlie, then high sheriff of the 
 comity, was a principal person engaged in forwarding 
 the inclosure. The Corporation sent their common 
 clerk, Thomas Greene, to London to oppose the project ; 
 and a meniorandum in his handwriting, which still 
 remains, exhibits the business-like manner in which 
 Shakespeare informed himself of the details of the plan. 
 The first memorandum is dated the 17 th of November, 
 1G14, and is as follows: — "My Cosen Shakspeare 
 corayng yesterday to town, I went to see how he did. 
 He told me that they assured him they ment to inclose 
 DO further than to Gospel Bush, and so npp straight 
 (leaving ont pt. of the Dyngles to the field) to the gate 
 in Clopton hedg, and take in Salisbury's peece ; and 
 that they mean in Aprill to svey. the land and then to 
 gyve s;itisfaccion, and not before : and ho and Mr. Hall 
 say they think yr. will be nothyng done at all." Mr. 
 Greene appears to have returned to Stratford in .about 
 a fortnight after the date of this memorandum, and 
 Shakespeare seems to have remained in London ; for ac- 
 cording to a second memorandum, which Is damaged 
 and partly illegible, an official letter was written to 
 Shakespeare by the-Corporation, accompanied by a pri- 
 vate letter from Mr. Greene, moving him to exert his 
 influence against this plan of the inclosure : — " 23 Dec. 
 A. Hall, Lres. wrytten, one to Mr. Manyring — another 
 to Mr. Shakspeare, with almost all tlie company's 
 hands to eyther. I also vrrytte myself to my Csn. Shak- 
 
 Bpoar, the coppyes of all our then also a note 
 
 of the inconvenyences wold ... by the inclosure." 
 Arthur Mannering, to whom one of these letters was 
 written by the Corporation, was officially connected 
 with the Lord Chancellor, and then residing at his 
 house ; and from the letter to him, which has been pre- 
 
 served, " it appears that he was appr''"'d of the injury 
 to be expected from the intended inclosure ; reminded 
 of the damage that Stratford, then ' lying in the ashes 
 of desolation,' hiul sustained from recent fires; and en 
 treated to forbear the inclosure." The letter to Shako 
 spearc has not been discovered. The fact of its h.aving 
 been written leaves no doubt of the importance which 
 was attached to his opinion by his neighbours. Truly 
 in his later years he had 
 
 " Honour, love, obedience, troops of frlen<j8." 
 
 The younger daughter of Shakespeare was married on 
 the 10th of February, 1616, to Thomas Quiney, as the 
 register of Stratford shows. Thomas Quiney was the 
 son of Richard Quiney of Stratford, whom we have 
 seen in 1.59S soliciting the kind offices of his loving 
 CQuntryman Shakespeare. Thomas, who was horn in 
 1588, was probably a well-educated man. The l.ast 
 will of Shakespeare would appear to have been prepared 
 in some degree vnth reference to this marriage. It is 
 dated the 2.5th of March, 1616 ; but the word " Janu- 
 arii " seems to have been first written and afterwards 
 struck out, " Martii" having been written above it. It 
 is not unlikely, and indeed it appears most probable, 
 that the document was prepared before the marriage of 
 Judith ; for the elder daughter is mentioned as Susanna 
 Hall, — the younger simply as Judith. To her, one 
 hundred pounds is bequeathed, and fifty pounds con- 
 ditionally. The life-interest of a further sum of one 
 hundred and fifty pounds is also bequeathed to her, 
 with remainder to her children ; but if she died without 
 issue within three years after the date of the will, the 
 hundred and fifty pounds was to be otherwise appro- 
 priated. We pass over the various legacies to relations 
 and friends to come to the bequest of the great bulk of 
 the property. All the real estate is devised to his 
 daughter Susanna Hall, for and during the term of 
 her natural life. It is then entailed upon her first son 
 and his heirs male ; and in default of such issue, to 
 her second son and his heirs male ; and so on : in de- 
 fault of such issue, to his gi'anddaughter Elizabeth Hall 
 (called in the language of the time his "niece") : and 
 in default of such issue, to his daughter Judith and her 
 heirs male. By this strict entailment it was manifestly 
 the object of Shakespeare to found a fiimily. Like 
 many other such purposes of short-sighted humanity, 
 the object was not accomplished. His elder d.aughter 
 had no issue but Elizabeth, .and she died childless. 
 The heirs male of Judith died before her. Tlie estates 
 were scattered after the second generation, and the de- 
 scendants of his sister were the only transmitters to 
 posterity of his blood and lineage. 
 
 " Item, I give unto my wife my seccnd-best bed, 
 with the furniture." This is the clause of the will 
 upon which, for half a century, all men believed that
 
 Ui 
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Shakespeare recollected his wife only to mark how little 
 he esteemed her, — to "cut her off, not indeed with a 
 shilling, hut with an old bed."* We had the satisfac- 
 tion of first showing the utter groundlessness of this 
 opinion ; and we here briefly repeat the statement 
 which we made in our Postscript to "Twelfth Night," 
 that the wife of Shakespeare was unquestionably pro- 
 vided for by the natural operation of the law of England. 
 His estates, with the exception of a copyhold tenement, 
 expressly mentioned in his will, were/rceAoW. Jlis vAfe 
 was entitled to dower. She was provided for amply, by the 
 dear and undeniable operation of the English law. Of the 
 houses and gardens which Shakespeare inherited from 
 his father, she was assured of the life-interest of a tliird, 
 should she sur\'ive her husband, the instant that old 
 John Shakespeare died. Of the capital messuage called 
 New Place, the best house in Stratford, which Shake- 
 speare purchased in 1597, she was assured of the same 
 life-interest, from the moment of the conveyance, pro- 
 vided it was a direct conveyance to her husband. That 
 it was so conveyed we may infer from the terms of the 
 conveyance of the lands in Old Stratford, and other 
 places, which were purchased by Shakespeare in 1002, 
 and were then conveyed "to the onlye proper use and 
 behoofe of the saide William Shakspere, his heires and 
 assignes, for ever. " Of a life-interest in a third of these 
 lands also was she assured. The tenement in Black- 
 friars, i)urchased in 1 614, was conveyed to Shakespeare 
 and three other persons ; and after his death was recon- 
 veyed hy those persons to the uses of his will, "for 
 and in performance of the confidence and trust in them 
 reposed by William Shakespeare deceased." In this 
 estate, certainly, the widow of our poet had not dower. 
 It has been remarked to us that even the express men- 
 tion of the second-best bed was anything b>it unkind- 
 ness and insult ; that the best bed was in all probabi- 
 lity an heir-loom : it might have descended to Shake- 
 speare himself from his father as an heir-loom, and, 
 as such, was tlie property of his own heirs. The best 
 bed was considered amongst the most important of 
 those chattels which went to the heir by custom with 
 the house.f 
 The will of Shakespeare thus commences : — "I, Wil- 
 
 • Malone. 
 
 t " .\Tid note tfcftt in 6ome places chnltela as hcir-Iooins (as the 
 beat bed, table, pot, pan. rart, and other dead clialtcls mi»veable) 
 may po to the hcii, and the heir in that caj^e may have an action 
 tyt *-hcin at the common law, and shall not .sue for theni in tbo 
 
 liam Shakespeare, of Stratford-upon-Avon, in the county 
 of Warwick, gent., in perfect health and memoiy, (G'^'d 
 be praised !) do make and ordain this my last will and 
 testament. ' ' And yet within one month of this declara- 
 tion William Shakespeare is no more : 
 
 OBUT ANO. Doi. 1616. ^T.Mis 53. die 23. ap. 
 
 Such is the inscription on his tomb. It is corroborated 
 by the register of his burial : — " April 25. Will Shak- 
 spere gent." Writing forty-six years after the event, 
 the vicar of Stratford says, "Shakspere, Drayton, and 
 Ben Jonson had a merry meeting, and, it seems, drank 
 too hard, for Shakspere died of a fever there contract- 
 ed." A tradition of this nature, surviving its object 
 nearly half a century, is not much to be relied on. But 
 if it were absolutely true, our reverence for Shakespeare 
 would not be diminished hy the fact that he accelerated 
 his end in the exercise of hospitality, according to the 
 manner of his age, towards two of the most illustrious 
 of his friends. The ' ' merry-meeting, "the last of many 
 social hours spent with the full-hearted Jonson and the 
 elegant Drayton, may be contemplated without a pain- 
 ful feeling. Shakespeare possessed a mind eminently 
 social — "he was of a free and generous nature." But, 
 says the tradition of half a century, "he drank too 
 hard" at this "merry meeting." We believe that this 
 is the vulgar colouring of a common incident. He 
 "died of a fever there contracted." The fever that is 
 too often the attendant upon a hot spring, when the 
 low grounds upon a river bank have been recently in- 
 undated, is a fever that the good people of Stratford 
 did not well understand at that day. The " merry 
 meeting' ' rounded off a tradition much more effectively. 
 Whatever was the immediate cause of his last illness, 
 we may well believe that the closing scene was full of 
 tranquillity and hope ; and that he who had sought, 
 perhaps more than any man, to look beyond the mate- 
 rial and finite things of the world, should rest at last 
 in the "peace which passeth all understanding" — in 
 that assured belief which the opening of his will has 
 expressed with far more than formal solemnity: — "1 
 commend my soul into the hands of God my creator, 
 hoping, and assuredly believing, through the only 
 meiits of Jesus Christ, my Saviour, to be madr par- 
 taker of life everlasting." 
 
 ecclesiastical court; hot the hoir-loom Is due t/ cratom, and not 
 
 by the common \tt\v."—Cok6 upon Littlettyn, 18 b. 
 
 r»in« , "jT . - . r ,M, - M. y . vi«l
 
 SHAKESPEARE'S WILL, 
 
 FROM THE ORIGINAL 
 
 m THE OFFICE OF TUB PKEKOOATIVE COURT OF CANTKKBnEI. 
 
 Vicesimo qairda die Mariii, Anno Regni Domini noslri Jacobi nunc Regis AnglicB, S(c, dtcimo quarto, el Sexico 
 quadragesimo nono. Anno Domini 1616. 
 
 In the name of God, Amen. I William Sbaliespeare of Stratford-upon-Avon, in the county of Warwick, gent.. 
 In perfect healtli and memory, (God be praised !) do make and ordain this my last will and testament in mtimci 
 and form following ; that is to say : 
 
 First, I commend my soul into the hands of God my creator, hoping, and assuredly believing, through the 
 only merits of Jesus Christ my Saviour, to be made partaker of live everlasting ; and my body to the earth 
 whereof it is made. 
 
 Item, I give and bequeath unto my daughter Judith, one hundred and fifty pounds of lawful English money, 
 to be paid unto her in manner and form following ; that is to say, one hundred pounds in discbarge of her 
 marriage portion within one year after my decease, with consideration after the rate of two shillings in the 
 pound for so long time as the same shall be unpaid unto her after my decease ; and the fifty pounds residue 
 thereof, upon her surrendering of, or giving of such sufficient security as the overseers of tliis my will shall liko 
 of, to surrender or grant, all her estate and right that shall descend or come unto her after my decease, or that 
 fihe now hath, of, in, or to, one copyheld tenement, with the appurtenances, lying and being in Stratford-\ipon- 
 Avon aforesaid, in the said county of Warwick, being parcel or holden of the manor of Rowingtou, unto my 
 daughter Susanna Hall, and her heirs for ever. 
 
 Item, I give and bequeath unto my said daughter Judith one hundred and tifty pounds more, ii' she, or any 
 issue of her body, be living at the end of three years next ensuing the day of the date of this my will, during 
 which time my executors to pay her consideration from my decease according to the rate aforesaid . and if she 
 die within the said term without issue of her body, then my will is, and I do give and bequeath one himdrcd 
 pounds thereof to my niece Elizabeth Hall, and the fifty pounds to be set forth by my executors during the 
 life of my sister Joan Hart, and the use and profit thereof coming, shall be paid to my »aia sister Joan, and 
 after her decease the said fifty pounds shall remain amongst the children of my said sister, equally to be divided 
 amongst them ; but if my said daughter Judith be living at the end of the said three yenrs, or any issue of her 
 body, then my will is, and so I devise and bequeath the said hundred and fifty pounds to be set out by my 
 executors and overseers for the best benefit of her and her issue, and the stock not lO De paid unto her so long 
 OS she sh.all be married and covert baron ; but my will is, that she shall have the consideration yearly paid unto 
 her during her life, and after her decease the said stock and consiileratiou to be paid to her children, if she 
 have any, and if not, to her executors or assigns, she living the said term after my decease : provided that if 
 such husband as she shall at the end of the said three years be married unto, or at any [time] after, do sutfi- 
 ciently assure unto her, and the issue of her body, lands answerable to the portion by this my will given unto 
 her, and tt' be adjudged so by my executors and overseers, then ray will is, that the said hundred and fifty 
 pounds shall be paid to such husband as shall make such assurance, to his own use. 
 
 Item, I give and bequeath unto my said sister Joan twenty pounds, and all my wearing apparel, to be paid 
 and delivered within one year after my decease ; and I do will and devise unto her the house, with the appni- 
 tenances, in Stratford, .wherein she dwelleth, for her natural life, under the yearly rent of twelve-pence. 
 
 Item, I give and bequeath unto her three sons, William Hart, Hart, and Michael Hart, five pounds 
 
 apiece, to be paid within one year after my decease. 
 
 Item, I give imd bequeath unto the said Elizabeth Hall all my plate, (except my broad silver and gilt bowl, J 
 that I now have at the date of this my will. 
 
 Item, I give and bequeath unto the poor of Stratford aforesaid ten pounds ; to Mr. Tliomas Combe my 
 Bword ; to Thomas Russel, esq., five pounds ; and to Francis Collins of the borough of Warwick, in the county 
 of Warwick, gent., thirteen pounds six shillings and eight-pence, to be paid within one year after my decease. 
 
 Item, I give and bequeath to Hamlet [Ihmnel] Sadler tv.-enty-six shillings eight-pence, to buy him a ring : 
 to William Reynolds, gent., twenty-six shillings eight-pence, to buy him a ring ; to my godson William Walk- 
 er, twenty shillings in gold ; to Anthony Nash, gent., twenty-six shillings eight-pence ; and to Mr. John Nash, 
 twenty-six shillings eight-pence ; and to my fellows, John Hemynge, Richard Burbage, and Henry CuniloU, 
 twenty-six shillings eight-pence apiece, to buy them rings.
 
 SHAKESPEARE'S WILL. 
 
 /ton, I give, will, bcqueatli, and devise, unto my daughter Susanna Hal'i, fcr better enabling of her to 
 perfomi this my will, and towards the performance thereof, all that capital messuage or tenement, with the 
 appurtenances, in Stratford aforesaid, called The New Place, wherein I now dwell, and two messuages or tene- 
 ments, with the appurtenances, situate, lying, and being in Henley-street, within the borough of Stratford 
 aforesaid ; and all my barns, stables, orchards, gardens, lands, tenements, and hereditaments whatsoever, 
 situate, lying, and being, or to be had, received, perceived, or taken, within the towns, hamlets, villages, iieldr., 
 and grounds of Stratford-upon-Avon, Old Stratford, Bishopton, and Welcombe, or in any of them, in the said 
 county of Warwick ; and also all that messuage or tenement, with the appurtenances, wherein one .lohn Robin- 
 son dwelleth, situate, lying and being, in the Blackfriars in London near the Wardrobe ; and all other my 
 lands, tenements, and hereditaments whatsoever ; to have and to bold all and singular the said premises, with 
 tlieir appurtenances, unto the said Susanna Hall, for and during the term of her natural life ; and after her 
 decease to the first son of her body lawfully issuing, and to the heirs males of the body of the said first son 
 lawfully issuing ; and for default of such issue, to the second son of her body lawfully issuing, and to the heirs 
 males of the body of the said second son lawfully issuing ; and for default of such heirs, to the third son o! 
 the bo'ly of tiie saii Susanna la^vfully issuing, and to the heirs males of the body of the said third son lawfully 
 issuing ; and for default of such issue, the same so to be and remain to the fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh 
 sous of her body, lawfully issuing one after another, and to the heirs males of the bodies of the said fourth, 
 fifth, sixth, and seventh sons lawfully issuing, in such manner as it is before limited to he and remain to the 
 first, second, and third sons of her body, and to their heirs males ; and for default of such issue, the said 
 premises to be and remain to my said niece Hall, and the heirs males of her body lawfully issuing; and foi 
 default of such issue, to my daughter Judith, and the heirs males of her body lawfully issuing ; and for default 
 of such issue, to the right heirs of me the said William Shakespeare for ever. 
 Item, I give unto my wife my second best bed, with the furniture. 
 
 Item, I give and bequeath to my said daughter Judith my broad silver gilt bowl. All the rest of my goods, 
 chattels, leases, plate, jewels, and household stuff whatsoever, after my debts and legacies paid, and my funeral 
 expenses discharged, I give, devise, and bequeath to my son-in-law, John Hall, gent., and my daughter Susanna 
 his wife, whom I ordain and make executors of this my last will and testament. And I do entreat and appoint 
 the said Thomas Eussel, esq., and Francis Collins, gent., to be overseers hereof. And do revoke all former 
 wills, and publish this to be my last will and testament. In witness whereof I have hereunto put my hand, 
 the day and year first above written. 
 
 By me WUiLIAM SHAKESPEAEE. 
 Witness to the publishing hereof, * 
 
 Fea. Collyns, 
 
 Julius Shaw, 
 
 Jons KoiiiNsoN, 
 
 Hajiset Sadler, 
 
 KOBEET WhAITCOTT. 
 
 Frdbalum fuU iestammlum mpraacrijptum apud London, coram Maijistro William Bijrde, Lequm Dodore, Sfc. vicfsant 
 sramdo die mensit Junii, Anno Domini 1C16 ; Juramaito Johaymis Hall vnius «x. aii, Sfc. de bene, Sfc Jut ^, 
 7f/(TvaUi poicstate, Sfc, Sti3ann(e Hall, alt a. S(c. c<im cum vincrit. S:c. petitur. Sec.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 « 
 
 I'AGS 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE yii 
 
 SHAKESPEARE'S WILL liiJ 
 
 Conuirifs. 
 
 1 ilH liJiiMl Jlibl • .••••••»»oso«*6e<»«3 0oeo«« 1 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 43 
 
 THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 81 
 
 MEASURE FOR MEASURE 137 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 187 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING i 221 
 
 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST 267 
 
 MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM 31f 
 
 MERCHANT OF VENICE 357 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT 403 
 
 TAMING OF THE SHREW 447 
 
 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 493 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, WHAT YOU WILL 637 
 
 WIN'] ER'S TALE 677
 
 i
 
 €\)[' €eiiitiej5i. 
 
 The stomi which vanish'd on the neighb'ring shore, 
 Was taught by Shakeiipcare's Temiiest first to roar. 
 
 Dbyben. 
 
 XYHfc-M the friends and fellow-players of Shakespeare, a few years after his untimely death, coUecte 
 his works into a folio volume, they commenced vath the romantic drama of the Tempest. Th 
 reasons which guided them in this arrangement are unkno^^-n; but, unless we imagine they followed no 
 particular order, printing the dramas somewhat capriciously after they had once determined on the 
 three grand divisions of Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies, — we may perhaps conclude the Tempest 
 occupies its prominent position from a superior degree of royal favour bestowed upon it, for it is well 
 kno'n-n to have been acted before the court, and its pecular construction would have adapted it to the 
 scenic contrivances of the masques which were produced so elaborately diu'uig the reign of the first 
 James and his successor. 
 
 Internal eridcncc, as far as can be judged from the imperfect history of Shakespeare's genius, 
 wotdd lead to the conclusion that the Tempest is one of his late works, or at least written at a somewhat 
 advanced period of life. The external evidence may be stated in a veiy few words. It appears 
 from the original account-book still preserved at the Audit Office, Somerset House, that it was 
 performed before James I. at "WTiitohaU on the first of November, 1611: — " HaUomas nyght was 
 presented att "Wliithall before the Kinges Ma"" a play called the Tempest." A marginal note informs 
 us that it was acted "by the King's players." This is the earliest notice of the play that has yet been 
 discovered, but it proves nothing beyond that it was in existence at that time, the entry of its 
 perfoiTuance in no way distinguisliing it as a new production. It was also played with success at the 
 Blnclrfriars" Tlieatre,* and it was again performed at Court early in the year 1613, before Prince Charles, 
 the Lady EKzabeth, and the Prince Palatine Elector, as appears from the MS. accounts of Lord 
 Harrington, Treasurer of the Chamber to .James I., preserved in the Bodleian Library. 
 
 This species of negative e\'idence is extremely valuable, saving us the necessity of producing 
 serious argument to controvert the specious reasoning of Chalmers and others, who would prove that 
 Shakespeare had a real storm in his mind when he wrote the play, and that a great tempest in England 
 in 1612 occasioned the selection of the title. Malone, a far more able critic than Chalmers, was yet 
 prejudiced in fiivoiu- of the received idea that an actual event was rcfcn-ed to, and wiotc a pamphlet to show 
 that the storm which dispersed the fleet of Sir George Somers and Sir Thomas Gates in July, 1 609, on their 
 passage with a large supply of provisions and men for the infant colony in Virginia, suggested this 
 etherial drama ; and this opinion, solely grounded on a few trifling similarities which the accounts of 
 
 * This intcrc"!tmg fnct is obtained from Diyden's preface to the Tempest, IC70. It nas escaped the notiee cf Knight 
 and Collier. -i
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 any two shipwrecks miglit possess, is re-echoed by so recent a writer as Mr. Collier. But even Ihc 
 notice of " the still -vexed Eennoothes," which of itself renders it quite certain that the Bermudas 
 ne.ver suggested the scene of the play,* might have been derived fi-om many an ear'icr autliority tluin 
 Joui'dain, who wrote an account of Somers" shipwreck pubhshod in 1610. Chalmers and Hunter insist 
 upon it that the information was deriveJ from llalcigh's Discoverie of Guiana, 1596; but sm'cly, in an 
 age when maritime adventures of every description were so popukffly interesting and so univer.sally 
 read, there can be no necessity for fixing on a particular book, for manj- others can be found which 
 mention the Bermudas as -being surrounded by stormy seas, and inhabited with spirits. Jourdain"s 
 account is entitled, " A Discovery of the Bermudas, otherwise called the Isle of Devils,'' and he says 
 that the "islands of the Bermudas; cs every man hwweth that hath hmrd or read of them, were never 
 inhabited by any Christian or tieathen people, but ever esteemed and reputed a most prodigious and 
 enchanted place, affording nothing but gusts, stoi'ms, and foul weather ; which made every navigator 
 and marinsr to avoid them as Scylla and Charybdis, or as they would shun the devil himself." Joordain 
 does not write as if this were a piece of recondite information, only to be met with in one other work. 
 
 The Briti.^h Museum contains a relic of Shakespeare, the only book with his autograph known to 
 Dsisi;, at least the only one of established aiitheuticitj^, wliich must ever be quoted in any enquii'y 
 relating to the date of the Tempest. This precious volume is a copy of Florio's translation of 
 Montaigne's Essays,, fol. 1603, and the poet's autograph is -WTitten on the fly-leaf opposite the titic in 
 clear bold characters. "We have indubitable proof that this work was read by Shakespeare, for there is 
 contained, at p. 102, Gonzalo's scheme for government in nearly the same w ords used in the play : — " It is 
 a nation, would I answere Plato, that hath no kiudc of traflike, no knowledge of letters, no 
 intelligence of numbers, no name of magistrate, nor of politilve superioritie; no use of service, of 
 riches, or of poverty ; no contracts, no successions, no dindcnees, no occupation, but idle ; no respect 
 of kindred, but common ; no apparell, but naturall ; no maniuing of lands ; no use of tvine, come, or 
 inetUe. The very words that import lying, falshood, ta'eason, dissimulation, covetousnes, envio, 
 deti-afltion and pardon, were never heard amongst them." This is undoubtedly more than acridentu, 
 similarity, Shalcespeare having done little more than rewrite the passage in verse : and we may, 
 therefore, conclude with great safety that the play was ivi'itten in or after 1603, the year this workwa.': 
 published. One critic, and one critic only, without attempting to deny the source of Gonziilo's speech, 
 anxious to establish an early date for the Tempest, says that Florio's work might have been seen by 
 Shakespeare in manuscript. But to reason on mere possibilities of this Idnd without evidence would 
 render mo.5t literary discu.ssions nugatory, and facts lilce the above are too rare vrith reference to 
 Shakespeare's dramas to be dismissed without the strongest reasons. 
 
 Ben Jonson, in the Prologue to Every Man in his Humour, acted in 1598, ridicules Uic old plays of 
 tlie sbdccnti century in a passage which has been supposed to aim at the Tempest, — 
 
 He rather prays you \vill be picas' d to see 
 One such to day, as other plays should he ; 
 Where neither chorus wafts you o'er the seas. 
 Nor creaking throne comes doxra the hoys t« please : 
 Nor nimble squib is seen to mal<o aieard 
 The gentlewomen ; nor roll'd bullet heard 
 To say, it thunders ; nor tempestuous drum 
 Bumbles to tell you when the storm doth come. 
 
 But the allusions are not suffic.'^ntly minute to mark one particular play, and that only. Even tlis 
 descent of a throne, the most marked indication, is foimd in anothcrf drama. "Hare Ben," however, 
 has something more definite iu liis Bartholomew Fair, 1614 : — " If there be never a servant- monster i 
 
 • This mistake has been, however, committed by two or three critics, and I am told it would now be worac tlian 
 Heresy in the Bennudas to doubt that they wore not the scone of the play. Hut the only notice of these islands in t)ie 
 Irama is when Ariel tells Prospero ho once called him up at midni.^ht to fetcii dew "from llie slill-ve-^'d 
 Bermoolhcs ;" and the enchanted island, therefore, could not possibly liave been the same locality. 
 i This fact, unlcnown to Mr. Knight, is derived from Lovelace's Liicaata- 
 2
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Ihc fail-, who can h(,'lp it. he says, nor a nest of antics ? He is loth to make Nature afraid in his phys, 
 like those that hrgct Tales, Tempests, and sucli like drolleries." Wo can scarcely doubt that Calibau is 
 intended by the servant-monster, tlic fille by which he is adtbesscd by Stcphano in Shakespeare's play; 
 and the whole passage is strikingly applicable to the 'Tempest, if wo sirppose it to be jocuhirly sOuded 
 (o by Jonson, not necessarily with an ill feeling, as assumed by the commentators. At the same tiino 
 wliile wcprcssing this belief, it must be recollected there were no doubt drolleries or puppet-shows 
 exhibited in Jonson's time at Bartliolomcw Fair of the kind here indicated. In connexion mth tlua 
 subject, I may mention that a curious early original bill describing a ■■'new droU, called the Tempest," 
 is preserved in the British Museum, and as it has neyer heen noticed by any of the critics, a copy of it 
 will probably not be unacceptable to the reader : — 
 
 " Never acted before. At Miller's Booth, over against tlie Cross-daggers near the Crorni Tavern, during the tijno oi 
 Bartholomew Fair, will he presented an excellent new droll, call'd The Tempest, or the Di.itresseil Lovers, with 'ho 
 Ei\glish hero, and the Island Princess, ^rith the comical Inimours of flie inchanted St;otchman, or Jockey and the three 
 witches : She^\-ing how a n«bleman of England was east away npon the Indian shore, and in his travel found the princess 
 of the country, with whom he fell in love, and after many dangers and perils, was manned to her : and his faithfiJ 
 Scotchman, who was saved with him, travelling thorow woods, fell in among witches, where betiveen 'em is abundance oi 
 comical diversion. There in the Tempest is Neptiuic, with his tritons, in his chariot drawn with sca-hoi'ses, and mermaids 
 tinging. With variety of entertainments performed by the best masters : the particulars would be too tedious to be 
 inserted here." 
 
 StiU more uncertain, as a criterion for cstalilishing a date, must be considered the notice of the 
 " (lead Indian" in act ii, sc. 2, for although Shakespeare alludes most probably to some celebrated 
 cxliibition of the day, yet as far as our research enables us to judge, there were several shows to which 
 his slight notice might possibly apply. I am induced to quote here at considerable length a remarkable 
 account of the sights of England in the year 1600, wiitton by Homy reachara, not only because it ia 
 an interesting piece and unnoticed by all editors, (even by Gifford, who woiild have found much iu i 
 to illustrate Jonson), but also as possibly containing a notice of the exliibition to which Shakespearo 
 alludes : — 
 
 ■WTiy doe the rude ■^^llgar so hastily post in a madnesse, 
 To gaze at trifles and toycs not worthy the viewing, 
 And thiuke them happy ; when may bo shew'd for a penny 
 The Fleet-streete Mandrakes, that heavenly Motion of Eltbam, 
 Westminster monuments, and Guild-hall huge Corinceus, 
 That horae of Windsor (of an Uniconie very likely) 
 The cave of Merlin, the skirts of old Tom a Lincobie 
 King Johns sword at Linne, ^^-ith the cup the Fraternity drinke in, 
 The Tombc of Beauckampe, and sword of Sir Giij/ a Warwicke : 
 The great long Dutchman, and roaring Marget a Bar\vicke, 
 The Mummied Princtji, and Cxsars wine yet i* Dover, 
 Saint James his Ginney Hens, the Cassawarway moreover, 
 The Beaver i' the Parke (strange beast as er'e any man saw) 
 Downe-shearing willowes with teeth as sharpe as a hand-eaw. 
 The Lance of John a Gaunt, and Brandons still i' the Towor : 
 The fall of Ninive, with Norwich built in an hower. 
 King Henries slip-shoes, the sword of valiant Edward ; 
 The Convetry Boares-shield, and fire-workes seen but to bedward- 
 Draies ship at Detford, King Kichards hed-sted i' Leyster, 
 The White Hall whale-bones, the silver Bason i' Chester ; 
 The live-caught Dog-fish, the Wolfe and Harry the Lyon, 
 * Hunks of the Beare-garden, to be feared, if he be nigh on. 
 
 In the time of Shakespeare, the knowledge of distant ootmtries and their history was but in its 
 iiiftincy ; so tliat a " mummied prince" might be, or pass for, a " dead Indian" with the sight-seers. At 
 all events, the conjecture is more probable (this is not saying much) than any produced by the 
 tommentators. From the records of Lewes, co. Sussex it appears that a company of vagrant showmoQ 
 
 3
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Exhibited something of the kind in that town, in 1 694, but whether dead or alive is not stated ; 
 " Expenses in playing the Indian t^vice, and in cleansing the rome ■n'lioar hee stands, in all 3.s. f>rl." 
 
 The notice uf the " strange nsh"' is stiH more vague. Scarcely a year passed without soraetlmig 
 of the land being exhibited, and the satire is therefore too general to be reduced to any particulal 
 appUcation. In 1068 appeared, " A most true and marvellous sti-aimge wonder, the lyke hath sel iom 
 been scene, of seventeen monstrous fisshes taken in SulTolke at Downam Brydge ;" and on the licgistera 
 of the Stationers' Company, for 1595, is entered an account of "a strange and hughe fishe dj-jn-en on 
 the sandes at Outhome in Holdemes in Februarye." Wolfe, also, in 1586, printed a broadside 
 containing an account of a monster fish found in the heart of a horse ! The custom of exhibiting 
 strange fishes was afterwards ridiculed by Maine, in his comedy of the City Match, ed. 1639, p. 23; 
 and many other allusions to the practice could no doubt be collected. "We do not attempt, then, to 
 draw any conclusion from such notices, and at present must be contented with the certainty that the 
 Tempest was written between the years 1603 and 1611, probably at a period inclining towards the 
 former date. 
 
 No one has yet discovered the romance on which the Tempest was founded, although that such a 
 tale exists either in Italian or Spanish can scarcely be doubted. Warton was informed by Collins that 
 it was to be found in an Italian novel, and a similar intimation was made to Boswell, but the name of 
 the work cannot now be ascertained. In the absence of this evidence, Malone has advanced the 
 pretensions of the sixth tragical tale of Tm-bervile, and Greene's comedy of Alphonsus, king of 
 Arragon, as having suggested part of the plot ; but the similarities he has pointed out are extremely 
 slender and tri'^-ial. I have scarcely any doubt, if, by any fortunate accident, the novel mentioned by 
 Collins should ever be recovered, we should discover in it most of the broad chcumstances of the plot 
 of the Tempest, and find that the poet has etherialized an ancient necromantic story. Prospero is a far 
 more virtuous magician than any we read of elsewhere ; and Ariel, in the original tale, more likely 
 resembled Mephistophilus than the delicate spirit represented in the play. As, in A Midsummer 
 Night's Dream, Shakespeare has made our pretty national i\iiry m}'thology more fanciful and more 
 poetical, so in the Tempest he has clothed necromancy ^rith the robes of virtue,* and made us 
 reverence a magician. 
 
 A German di-ama by Ayrer, published in 1618, entitled the 'Beautiful Sidea,' — Sidea correspond- 
 ing to Shakespeare's Miranda — is foimded on a tale containing striking similarities to the Tempest ; 
 but we cannot agree -ndth Mr. Thoms, who introduced this subject to English readers, in considering 
 it a version of an earlier di'ama on which Shakespeare founded his play. It is a well ascertained 
 fact that English actors perfonned in Germany in Shakespeare's time, and it is not unlikely Ayrer thus 
 borrowed in some measure from tlie plays they performed. f In addition to this German production, 
 an English ballad, called the ' Enchanted Island,' has also been brought forward as a claimant for the 
 honour of contributing to the tale of the Tempest ; but it is now generally acknowledged to bo a later 
 production, and founded on the play. In this ballad, the names and localities are changed, and tho 
 verbal similaiities to Shakespeare ai-e very few. Mii'anda's smile is transferred from the sea to 
 the isljind, — 
 
 When landed on th' Enchanted Isle, 
 His little Ida's morning smile 
 
 Made liim forget his woe , 
 And thus, within a cavern drear, 
 They lived for many a year i-fere, 
 
 For Heaven had will'd it so. 
 
 • It is for this reason we find old treatises on necromancy and mngic afford fewer illustrations of this play than 
 night otherwise have been expected. 
 
 t Shakespeare was very little known in Germany in the seventeenth centtiry, except in this way ; and Eschenhur.; 
 quotes tho earliest notice of him in that country from a book printed in 1682, and the second Irom Bonthem, who, 
 Lowevor, merely copies an earlier English writer. 
 4
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Ueraldo, the Prospcro of tho ballad, burns his book, breaks his " magic wand," and forsweare the art 
 of magic : — 
 
 From that day t'oitli the islo has been 
 By wandering sailors never seen — 
 
 Some say 'tis biuied dvop 
 Beneath the sea, wliich breaks and roars 
 Above its savage rocky shores, 
 
 Nor ere is known to sleep. 
 
 This accouiit of the fate of Prosporo's isUind is not unpoetical, and may safely be accepted Ly tbe 
 readers of Shakespeare. Mr. Hunter, however, tells a very ditfereut story. He says that if j'ou take 
 a m.ip (^reading the Tempest with a map !), and, tracing the line of Alonso's track, speculate on the 
 island on which Prospcro and Mii-anda may be supposed to have been cast, you will soon be persuaded 
 that island was Lampedusa. Mr. Hunter pursues the argument through many pag'CS; but our space 
 will not permit an estraot, and the reader will not reqidre one ; for he who reads tlie ' Tempest' 
 in a congenial spirit vnll scarcely be willing to have his imagination fettered by realities 
 Lampedusa may very possibly have been the scene of the original novel, but the management of 
 Shakespeare's di'ama leads us to believe the author himself intended an undefined vagueness 
 inconsistent with the introduction of any jjarticular island. 
 
 Soon after the Eestovation, Dryden produced an alteration of the Tempest, in whio! he introduced 
 a man who had never seen a woman, as a contrast to Miranda, who had never seen a man, and 
 famished Caliban with a sister- monster. He acknowledges to have received the assistance of 
 Davenant in this work, which was extremely successful ; but the puritj- of tlio original is entirely lost, 
 and the simple but noble-minded Miranda is converted into a character usuig language which bordera 
 on indelicacy. 
 
 Like the Midsummer Night's Dream, with which it has been classed, tlie Tempest is one of those 
 
 romantic dramas wliich defy analytical criticism, and would lose in effect by being subjected to a rigid 
 
 examination of realities. Although the unities are preserved, perhaps accidentallj-, not by design, no 
 
 play owes less allegiance to the exact sciences ; and the interest is not weakened by trivial incongniilies 
 
 in the author's conduct of time and space. A hag-born monster, a 3"oimg lady educated by a magiciiui 
 
 prince in a desolate island, and an attendant spmt, capable of the assumption of any form, who not 
 
 only treads the ooze of the salt deep, rtuis on the sharp -nind of the Iforth, works in the frosted earth, 
 
 and rides on the curled clouds, but in his lighter moods, rides on the bat's back or reposes in a 
 
 cowslip' s-bell, are singular materials for a di'ama, the simplicity of whose construction exhibits in 
 
 strong outline the boundless skill by whicli it is made so irresistibly attractive. It required the genius 
 
 of Shakespeare to reconcile these apparently discordant elements, and construct out of them an 
 
 harmonious stnieture. If, however, the reader imagines a defect exists, and agreeing with some critics 
 
 in the opinion that Ariel was not an " etherial featm-cless angel," observes an inconsistency in the 
 
 development of his character, let us entreat him to merge it into the romantic conduct of the plot, and 
 
 regard the whole di'ama as a pm-ely imaginative construction foi-med on the idea of retributive justice, 
 
 to which no one biit Shakespeare has made necromancy subservient without in some degree injuring 
 
 lihe cause of viituc. 
 
 5
 
 PEKSONS REPRESENTED, 
 
 AiGJTSO, King of Naples. 
 
 Avptars, Act I. so. 1. Act II. sc 1. Act III. ac. 3. 
 Act V. ac. 1. 
 
 SEDASTiAJf, hk brother. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1. Act II. sc. I. Act III. sc. 3. 
 Act V. sc. I. 
 
 Peospeeo, the rightful Duke of Milan. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 2. Act III. sc. 1; sc. 3. Act Vi. sc. 1. 
 Act V EC. 1. ; and Epilogue. 
 
 AirroNio, the usurping Dul:e of Milan, brother to 
 
 Prosporo. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1. Act II. sc. I. Act III. sc. 3. 
 Act V. ec. 1. 
 
 Ferbin-and, son to the King of Naples. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1; sc. 2. Act III. sc. 1. Act IV. sc. 1. 
 ActV. sc. 1. 
 
 GoNZALO, an honest old counsellor of Naples. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1. Act II. sc. 1. Act III. sc. 3. 
 Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 Adbian, a lord. 
 Appears, Act II. sc. 1. Act III. sc. 3. Act V. Bc. 1. 
 
 Francisco, a lord. 
 Appears, Act II. so. 1. Act III. sc. 3. Act V. ec. 1. 
 
 Caudah, a savage and deformed slave. 
 
 Appeartt, Act I. sc. 2. Act II. bc. 2. Act III. BC 2. 
 4ctlV. BO. 1. ActV. 80. 1. 
 
 Trtncuio, a jester. 
 
 Appears, Act II. sc. 2. Act III sc. 2. Act (V, 6C 1 
 
 Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 SiEPHANO, a drunken butler. 
 
 Appears, Act II. sc. 2. Act III. sc. 2. Act IV. so. 1. 
 Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 A ship-master, Boats^vain, ayid ilaiincrs. 
 
 Appear, Act I. sc. 1. Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 MrRAJTDA, daughter to Prospero. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 2. Act III. sc. 1. Act IV. sc. 1. 
 Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 AroEL, an airy spirit. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 2. Act II. sc. 1. Act III. so. 2; ec 3 
 Act IV. BC. 1. Act V. 80. 1. 
 
 Iris, a spirit. 
 Appears, Act IV. sc. 1. 
 
 Ceees, a spirit. 
 Appears, Act IV. sc. 1. 
 
 Jiuro, a spirit. 
 Appeals, Act IV. sc. 1. 
 
 Nymphs. 
 Appear, Act IV. so. 1. 
 
 Iveapcrs. 
 
 Appear, Act IV. sc. 1. 
 
 Other spirits attending on Prospero. 
 
 SCENE, — Tnu Sea, wrrn a Suip; iftebwa 
 AN Island.
 
 €\)t €nii|jf0l 
 
 ACT L 
 
 SCENE I. — Oil a Ship at Sea. A Storm, with 
 Thunder and Liffhininff. 
 
 Enter a Ship-master and a BoatswaiE. 
 Master. Boatswaiu ! 
 Boats. Here, master : What cheer ? 
 Master. Good, speak to the mariners :' fall to 't 
 j-orely, or we rim ouj'selvcs aground : bestir, besiir. 
 
 • [Exit. 
 
 Enter Mariners. 
 
 Boats. Heigh, my hearts ! cheerly, cheerlj-, my 
 
 hearts ; yare, yai-e ! Take in the topsail : Tend to 
 
 the master's whistle. — Blow, till thou bm'st thy 
 
 wind, if room enough ! 
 
 Enter AlONSO, SEBASTIAIf, AnTOMO, FEKDEfAND/ 
 
 GoNZALO, and others. 
 
 Alon. Good boatswain, have a care. "VMiere 's 
 the master .' Play the men.^ 
 
 Boats. I pray now, keep below. 
 
 Ant. AMierc is the master, boatswain ?* 
 
 Boats. Do you not hear him ? You mar our 
 labour : Keep your- cabins : You do assist the 
 stonn, 
 
 Gon. Nay, good, be patient. 
 
 Boats. WTien the sea is. Hence ! What care 
 these roarers for the name of king ? To cabin : 
 silence ! trouble us not. 
 
 fron. Good, yet remember whom thou hast 
 aboard. 
 
 Boats. None that I more love than myself. 
 Yiu are a counsellor ; if you can command these 
 
 elements to silence, and work the peace of the 
 
 present,' we will not hand a rope more ; use your 
 authority- If you cannot, give thanks you have 
 liv'd so long, and make youi'self ready in your 
 cabin for the mischance of the horn-, if it so hap. — 
 Cheerly, good hearts! — Out of our way, I say. [Exit. 
 Gon. I have great comfort from this fellow: 
 methinks he hath no drowning mai-k upon him; 
 his complexion is perfect gallows. Stand fa.st, 
 good fate, to his hanging ! make the rope of his 
 destiny om- cable, for om- own doth little advan- 
 tage ! If he be not bom to be hang'd, our case is 
 miserable. [Exeunt. 
 
 Re-enter Boatswain. 
 Boats. Down with the topmast; yare; lower, 
 lower ; bring her to try with main-course.' [^4 
 cry within.~\ A plague upon tliis howling ! they 
 are louder than the weather, or our office. — 
 
 Re-enter Sebastian, AKioino, and Gokzaio. 
 
 Y''et again ? what do you here ? Shall wo give 
 o'er, and drown r Have you a mind to sink ? 
 
 Seh. A pox o' yoiu- throat ! you bawling, blas- 
 phemous, incharitable dog ! 
 
 Boats. Work you, then. 
 
 Ant. Hang, cur, hang ! you whoreson, insolent 
 noise-maker, we are less afraid to be drown'd than 
 thou art. 
 
 Gon. I '11 warrant him for drowning,' ihoiigL 
 the ship were no stronger th;m a nut-sheU, and a 
 leaky as an unstanched wenoh.
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Boats. Lay her a-hold, a-hold :* set lier two 
 courses ;' off to sea again ; lay her off. 
 
 Elder Mariners, icet. 
 
 Mar. All lost ! to prayers, to prayers ! all lost ! 
 
 \Excunt. 
 
 Boats. TVTiat ! must our mouths be cold ? 
 
 Gon. The king and prince at prayers ! 
 Let 's assist them, for our case is as theirs. 
 
 Seh. I am out of patience. 
 
 Ant. We are merely'" cheated of our lives by 
 drunkai'ds. — 
 This -wide-chapp'd rascal; — '"Would thou mightst 
 
 lie drowning 
 The washing of tcu tides ! 
 
 Go;i. He 'U be hang'd 5'et, 
 
 Though every drop of water swear against it. 
 And gape at wid'st to glut" him. 
 
 ^^A confused noise uifhin. — 'Mercy on us! 
 We si^lit, ive sj)Iit ! — Farewell, my icife and cliildren! 
 — Farewell, Irother! — We split, ive split, we split .''] 
 
 Ant. Let 's all sink ivith th' king. \_E.i:it. 
 
 Seh. Let 's take leave of him. [^Exit. 
 
 Gon. Now would I give a thousand fiu-longs of 
 sea for an acre of baiTen ground; long heath, 
 brown furze, anything : The wills above be done ! 
 but I woidd faiu die a dry death. [_Exit. 
 
 SCEKE II. — The Enchanted Island, near the 
 Cell of Prospero. 
 
 Enter Peospeeo and Mihanda. 
 
 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 th' welkin's cheek. 
 Dashes the fire out. 0, I have suiFered 
 With those that I saw suffer ! a brave vessel, 
 Who had no doubt some noble creature in her, 
 Dash'd all to piet js. 0, the cry did knock 
 Against my vcrj- heart ! Poor souls ! they perish'd. 
 Had I been any gc J of poy.-cr, I would 
 Have simk the sea wdtliin the earth, or ere 
 It should the good ship so have swaUow'd, and 
 The freighting'- souls within her. 
 
 Fro. lie collected; 
 
 No more amazement : teU your piteous heart, 
 There '3 no harm doue. 
 
 Mira. 0, woe the day ! 
 
 Fn. No harm. 
 
 T have done nothiug but iu care of thee. 
 
 (Of thee, my dear one ! thee, my daughter !) wbc 
 Art ignorant of what thou art, Qought knowing 
 Of whence I am ; nor that I am more better'* 
 Than Prospero, master of a fidl poor cell. 
 And thy no greater fiither. 
 
 Mira. More to Imow 
 
 Did never meddle wth my thoughts. 
 
 Fro. 'T is time 
 
 I should inform thee further. Lend thy h;md, 
 And pluck my magic garment from me.— So : 
 
 \_Lays down his mantle. 
 Lie there, my art. — Wipe thou thine c)-es ; have 
 
 comfort. 
 Tlie direful spectacle of the wreck, which touoh'd 
 The very virtue of compassion in thoe, 
 I have with such pro^-ision in mine iu-t 
 So safel)^ ordered, that there is no soul" — 
 No, not so much perdition as an hair 
 Betid to any creature in the vessel, 
 'Wliich thou heard' st cry, which thou saw'st sink 
 Sit down ; for thou must now know liuthcr. 
 
 Mira. You have often 
 
 Begun to tell me what I am ; but stopp'd, 
 And left me to a bootless inquisition,'* 
 Concluding, "Stay; not yet." — 
 
 Fro. The horn- 's now come ; 
 
 The veiy minute bids thee ope thine ear ; 
 Obey, and he attentive. Canst thou remember 
 A time before we came unto this cell? 
 I do not think thou canst, for then thou wast noi 
 Out tlu-ee yeai-s old." 
 
 Mira. Certainly, su-, I can. 
 
 Pro. By what ? by any other house, or person ? 
 Of anything the image teU me, that 
 Hath kept nith thy remembrance. 
 
 Mira. 'T is far off; 
 
 And rather lilce a dream, than an assurance 
 That my remembrance warrants : Had I not 
 Fom- or livo women once, that tended mc ? 
 
 Fro. Thou hadst, and more, Mu'iUida : But how 
 is it 
 That tliis lives in thy mind ? Wiat see'st tliou 
 
 else 
 In the dark backward and ab3-sm" of time ? 
 If thou remember'st aught ere thou cam'st here, 
 How thou cam'st here thou may'st. 
 Mira. But that I do not. 
 
 Fr» Twelve year since, Mu'anda, twelve year 
 since 
 Thy father was the duke of Miiim, and 
 A prince of power. 
 
 Mira. Sir, are not you my father
 
 TU.K TKMPEST. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Pro. Thy mother ■was a piece of virtue, and 
 She siiiJ thou wast my daughter, and thy father 
 Was fluke of Milan ; and his only heir 
 A. princess, — no worse issued.'" 
 
 Mini. 0, the heavens 
 
 ^lial foul play had we, tliat we came from thence ? 
 Or lik'sscd was 't we did?" 
 
 J'ro. Both, both, my girl ; 
 
 By foul play, as thou say'st, were we heav'd 
 
 thence. 
 But blosaedly holp hither. 
 
 Mira. O, my hc;n t hleeds 
 
 To think o' th' teen'" that I have turn'd you to, 
 WTiich is fi-om my remembrance ! Please you, 
 further. 
 
 Fro. My brother, and thy imcle, ealUd ^Vntonio, — 
 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, 
 Throufjh all the signories it was the fu'st. 
 And Prospero the prime didie, being so reputed 
 In dignity ; and for the liberal arts 
 Without a pandlcl : those being all my study, 
 The government 1 east upon my brother. 
 And to my state grew stranger, being traniported 
 And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle — 
 Dost them attend me ? 
 
 Mira. Sir, most heodfully. 
 
 Pro. Being once perfected how to grant suits, 
 How to deny them ; who t' advance,-' and who 
 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' the state 
 To what tune plcas'd his ear ; that now he was 
 The i^•}' which had hid my }/rincely tnink, 
 And suck'd my verdm'c out on 't. — Thou attend'st 
 not. 
 
 llira. 0, good sii-, I do ! 
 
 Pro. I pray thee, mark me. 
 
 I thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated 
 To closeness, and the bettering of my mind 
 With that, which, but by being so retir'd, 
 O'erpriz'd all popular rate, in my false brother 
 Awak'd an evil nature : and my tiaist, 
 Like a good parent,^ did beget of him 
 A falsehood, in its contrar)' as great 
 As my trust was, — which had, indeed, no limit, 
 A confidence sans boimd. He being thus lorded, 
 Not only with what my revenue yielded, 
 
 But what my power might eke e.xact, — like one 
 Who having unto truth, by telling of it,^ 
 Made such a sinner of his memory, 
 To credit his own he, — he did believe 
 He was indeed the duke, out o' th' sulistitution, 
 And executing th' outward face of royalty 
 Witli all prerogative : — Hence his ambition grow- 
 in"^ ^— 
 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, ho needs wiU be 
 Absolute MUan. Me, poor man ! my Hbriuy 
 Was dukedom lai'ge enough ; of temponJ roj-alties 
 He thinks me now incapable : confederates 
 (So dry he was for sway-") with tli' king of Xapies 
 To give him annual tribute, do him homage, 
 Subject his coronet to his ci-own, and bend 
 The dukedom, yet imbow'd, (alas, poor MUim!) 
 To most ignoble stooping. 
 
 Mira. the heavens ! 
 
 Pro. Mark his condition, and th' event ; then 
 tell me. 
 If this might be a brother. 
 
 M/ra. I shoidd sin 
 
 To think but nobly of my graU'lmother : 
 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 Ueu" o' th' premises 
 Of homage, and I Icjiow not how ranch tribute, 
 Should presently extii-pate me and mine 
 Out of the dukedom, and confer fail- MUan, 
 With all the honours, on my brother : Whereon, 
 A treacherous army levied, one midnight, 
 Fated to the purpose, did .Antonio open 
 The gates of MUan ; and, i' th' dead of dai'knesB 
 The ministers for the purpose himied thence 
 Me, and thy ciying self. 
 
 Mira. Alack, for pity ! 
 
 I, not rememb'ring how I ci-y'd o-at tlicn, 
 WiU cry it o'er again : it is a hint * 
 
 That wrings mine eyes to 't. 
 
 Pro. Hear a little further, 
 
 And then I 'U bring thee to the present business 
 Which now 's upon 's; without the wiiich this 
 
 stoiy 
 Were most impertinent. 
 
 Mira. A^Tierefore did they not 
 
 That hour destroy us ?
 
 THK TEMPEST. 
 
 8CE>i: 13. 
 
 Pro. Well demanded, wench ; 
 
 My tale provokes that question. Dear, they diirst 
 
 not, — 
 So dear the love my people bore me, — nor set 
 A mark so bloody on the business ; but 
 Witli ooloui-s fairer painted theii- foul ends. 
 In few, they hunied us aboard a bark ; 
 Bore us some leagues to sea ; where they prepar'd 
 A rotten carcass of a boat,^ not rigg'd, 
 tCor tackle, sail, nor mast ; the very rats 
 Instinctively have quit it -P there they hoist us. 
 To cry to th' sea that rear'd to us ; to sigh 
 To the winds, whose pity, sighing back again. 
 Did us but loving wi'ong. 
 
 Mira. Alack ! what trouble 
 
 Was I then to you ! 
 
 Pro. ! a cherubim 
 
 Thou wast that did preserve me ! Thou didst 
 
 smile. 
 Infused with a fortitude from heaven, 
 (AVlien I have deck'd* the sea with drops fuU salt ; 
 Under my biu-then groan'd;) which rais'd in me 
 All uudergiiing stomach," to bear up 
 .\ffainst what sliould ensue. 
 
 Mira. How came we ashore ? 
 
 Pro. By Providence "divine.^- 
 Some food we had, and some fi-esh water, that 
 A noble Xeapolitan, Gonzalo, 
 Out of liis charity (wh») being then appointed 
 Master of this design) did give, us ; with 
 Rich garments, linens, stuffs, and necessaries. 
 Which since have steaded much. So, of his gentle- 
 ness, 
 Kno\ving I lov'd my books, he fumish'd me, 
 From mine own library, with volumes that 
 I prize above my dukedom. 
 
 Mira. Would I might 
 
 But ever see that man ! 
 
 Pro. Now I aiise : — 
 
 Sit still, and he;u' the last of our sea-soiTow. 
 Here in tliis island we arriv'd; and here 
 Have I, tlty schoolmaster, made thee more profit 
 Than other princess can, that have more time 
 Fur .vainer houm, 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 niising this sea-storm ? 
 
 Pro. Know thus far-forth." 
 
 By accident most Btrange, boimtiful Fortune, 
 Now my dear lady,'" liath mine enemies 
 liroiigbt to this shore : and, by my prescience, 
 
 JO 
 
 I find my zenith doth depend upon 
 A most auspicious star; whose influence 
 If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes 
 WUl ever after droop. — Here cease more qucsiions : 
 Thou ai-t incKn'd to sleep ; 't is a good dulncs?, 
 And give it way; — I know thou canst not chouse. 
 
 [MiEiiKDA sleeps 
 Come away, servant, come ! I am ready now ; 
 Approach, my Aiiel. Come ! 
 
 Enter Aklel, 
 
 Ari. AH haU, great master ! grave sir, hail ! 1 
 come 
 To answer thy best pleasure ; be 't to fly, 
 To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride 
 On the ciu'ld clouds; to thy strong bidding task 
 Ariel, and aU his quaUty. 
 
 Pro. Hast thou, spirit, 
 
 Perfoi-m'd to point ^ the tempest that I bade thee :' 
 
 Ari. To eveiy article. 
 I boarded the king's ship : now on the beak,'^ 
 Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin, 
 I flam'd amazement : Sometime I 'd divide, 
 And burn in manj' places ; on the topmast. 
 The }-ards and bowsprit, would I flame distinctly, 
 Then meet and join. Jove's lightnings, the pre- 
 cursors 
 0' the dreadfid tlumder-claps, more momentary 
 And sight-outrunning were not. The file and 
 
 cracks 
 Of sidphiu'ous roaring the most mighty Neptime 
 Seem to besiege, and malie his bold waves tr-mble 
 Yea, liis ch'ead trident shake ! 
 
 Pro. My brave spirit ! 
 
 Who was so fii'm, so constant, th.it tliis coU 
 Would not infect his reason ? 
 
 Ari. Kot a sold 
 
 But felt a fever of the mad, and play'd 
 Some tricks of d'«peration : AU but th' mariners 
 Pluug'd ill the foaming brine, and quit the vessel. 
 Then all a-fire with me : tlio king's son, Ferdi- 
 nand, 
 With hair up-stiu'ing, (then like reeds, not hair ) 
 Was the fiast man that lenp'd; ciy'd, 'HeU s 
 
 empty. 
 And aU the devils are here. 
 
 Pro. Wliy, that 's my spirit ! 
 
 But was not this nigh shore ? 
 
 Ari. Close by, my master. 
 
 Pro. But are they, Ariel, safe? 
 
 Ari. No't a hair pcrish'd ; 
 
 Oil their suetaining ganncnts" not a Hoinitih,
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 SCENK 11. 
 
 But freslier than before ! and, as thou bad'st mc, 
 In troops I liavo dispers'd thom 'bout the isle : 
 riie king's son have I landed by himself, 
 NSlioni I left cooling of the air with sighs, 
 in an odd angle of the isle, and sitting, 
 His arms in this sad knot.-'" 
 
 Pro. Of the king's sliip 
 
 The m-ai'iners, say lunv thou hast dispos'd, 
 And all the rest o' the fleet. 
 
 Ari. Safely in harbour 
 
 [s the king's ship ; in tlio deep nook, -where once 
 Thou eidl'dst mc up at midnight to fetch dew 
 From the still-vex'd Bermoothcs,™ there she's hid : 
 The mariners all under hatches stowed ; 
 Wio, \\'itli a chaiTii join'd to theii- sufFer'd laboiu', 
 I have loft asleep : and for the rest o' the fleet, 
 WTiioIi I dispers'd, they all haye met' again. 
 And are upon the Mediterranean flote. 
 Bound sadly home for Naples ; 
 Supposing that they saw the king's shifi wrcck'd. 
 And liis gi'eat person perish. 
 
 Pro. Ariid, thy ohai'ge 
 
 Exactly is pcrlbrm'd ; but there 's more work : 
 What is the time o' the day ? 
 Ari. Past the mid season. 
 
 Pro. At least two glasses. The time "twist six 
 and now 
 Must by us both be spent most preciously. 
 Ari. Is there more toil ? Since thou dost give 
 me pains, 
 Let me remember thee what thou hast promis'd, 
 \Mnch is not yet pcrform'd me. 
 
 Pro. How now, moody? 
 
 ^^'hat is 't thou canst demand ? 
 Ai'i. My libertj-. 
 
 Pro. Before the time be out ? no more i 
 Ari. I prithee 
 
 Remember I have done thee worthy scr^dce. 
 Told thee no lies, made thee no mistakings, serv'd 
 Without or grudge, or grumbhugs : thou didst 
 
 promise ' 
 To bate me a full year. 
 
 Pro. Dost thou forget 
 
 From \\-liat a torment I did free thee ? 
 Jri. No. 
 
 Pro. Thou dost ! and think'st it jnueh to tread 
 t'ne ooze 
 (If the s;ilt deep; 
 
 To run upon the sliai-p wind of the north ; 
 To do me business in the veins o' th' earth, 
 WTien it is hrJc'd with frost. 
 Ari. I do uot, sir. 
 
 Pro. Thou liest, malignant thing ! Hast thor 
 forgot 
 The foul witch Sycorax, wlio, with age and envy 
 Was grown into a hoop ? hast thou forgot her ? 
 
 Ari. No, sir. 
 
 Pro. Thou hast : Wlierc was she bom i Speak 
 tcU me. 
 
 Ari. Sir, in iVr'gicr." 
 
 Pro. ! was she so ? I must, 
 
 Once in a month, recoimt what thqu hast been, 
 AVTiich thou forget' st. This damned witch, Sy- 
 corax, 
 For mischiefs inanifold, and sorceries terrible 
 To enter himian hearing, from Argier, 
 Tliou know'st, was biuiish'd ; for one thing she did, 
 Tliey woidd not take her hfe. Is not this ti-ue ? 
 
 Ari. Ay, sir. 
 
 Pro. This blue-ey'd hag was hither brought 
 with child. 
 And here was left by the sailors : Tliou, my slave, 
 As tliou report' st thyself, wast then her servant : 
 And, for thou wast a spirit too delicate 
 To act her earthy and abhorr"d commands, ^ 
 Tlelusiug her grand bests, she did confine thee. 
 By help of her more potent ministers, 
 And in her most unmitigable rage. 
 Into a cloven pine ; \Wthin which rift 
 Imprison'd, thou didst painfully remain 
 A dozen years ; within wliich space she dy'd. 
 And left thee there ; where thou didst vent thy 
 
 groans. 
 As fast as mill-wheels strike. Then was this 
 
 island 
 (Save for the son that she did litter here, 
 A freclded whcln, hag-born) not honom''d with 
 A human shape. 
 
 Ari. Yes; Caliban, her son. 
 
 Pro. Dull thing, I say so, — he, that Caliban. 
 Whom now I keep in service. Thou best know'st 
 A\1iat torment I did find thee in : thy groans 
 Did make wolves howl, and penetrate the breasts 
 Of ever-angrj' bears : it was a torment 
 To lay upon the damn'd, w^hieh Sycorax 
 Could not again imdo ; it was mine art. 
 When I an-iv'd, and heard thee, that made gajK! 
 Tlie pine, and let thee out. 
 
 Ari. I thank thee, master. 
 
 Pro. If thou more miirmur'st, I wall rend sn 
 oak. 
 And peg thee in his knotty entrails, till 
 Thou hast liowl'd away twelve winters. 
 
 •An. Pardon, master! 
 
 U
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 [ will lie correspondent to command, 
 And do my spriting gently. 
 
 Pro. Do so ; and after two days 
 
 I ivill dischar'ge thee. 
 
 Ari. That 's my noble master ! 
 
 ^^^lat shall I do ? sa)' what, — what shall I do ? 
 
 Pro. Go make thyself like a npnph o' the sea ; 
 Be subject to no siglit but tliiuc and mine ; iml- 
 
 sible 
 T(. creiT eyeball else. Go, talce this shape, 
 .ind liither come in 't. Go ; hence, with diligence ! 
 
 \ Exit Ariel. 
 Awake, dear heart, awake ! thou liast slept well ; 
 Awake ! 
 
 Jiira. Tlie strangeness of 3-our story put 
 Heaviness in me. 
 
 Pro. Shake it off : Come on ; 
 
 \\c "U risit CaUban, my slave, who never 
 Yields us kind answer. 
 
 JJ/iVo. 'T is a viUain, sir, 
 
 I do not love to look on. 
 
 Pro. But, as 't is, 
 
 We cannot miss him :" he does rai.ke our fire, 
 Fetch in our wood, and serves in oflices 
 That profit us. ^^'nat ho ! slave ! Caliban ! 
 Thou earth, thou ! speak. 
 
 Cal. [ Within.'] There 's wood enough \\'itlun. 
 
 Pro. Come forth, I say ; there 's other buainoss 
 for thee : 
 Come, thou tortoise ! when ':*' 
 
 Re-enter AjiitL, like a ivater-nymph. 
 Fine apparition ! My quaint*'' Ariel, 
 Hark in thine ear. 
 
 Ari. My lord, '..'j sliaU be done. \_Exit. 
 
 Pro. Thou poisonous slave, got by the dc\dl 
 himself 
 (Jpon thy wiCKcd dam, come forth ! 
 
 Enter Calibak. 
 Cul. As wicked** dew as e'er my mother hnish'd 
 With raven's feather from unwholesome fen, 
 Drop on you both I a south-west blow on ye. 
 And blister you all o'er! 
 
 Pro. For this, be sure, to-night thou shalt have 
 cramps, 
 Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up ; m-chins*' 
 Shall, for that vast of night that they may work. 
 All exercise on thee : thou shalt be pinch'd 
 As thick as honeycrmb, each ])iii( li more stinging 
 Than bees that made them. 
 
 Cal. 1 must cat my dinner. 
 
 12 
 
 This island 's mine, bj' Sycorax my mother, 
 WTiich thou tak'st from me. Wlien thou cam's! 
 
 first. 
 Thou strok'dst me, and mad'st much of me ; wouldst 
 
 give me 
 Water with berries in 't ; and teach me how 
 To name the bigger light, and how the loss, 
 That bum by day and night : and then I lov'd 
 
 thee. 
 And shpw'd thee all the qualities 0' the isle, 
 The fresh springs, brine-pits, — baiTCii place, and 
 
 fertile ; 
 Curs'd be I that did so ! — AU the chai-ms 
 Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you ! 
 For I am all tlie subjects that you have, 
 '^Hiich first was mine ovra king : and here you 
 
 sty me 
 In this hard rock, wliilos you de keep from mc 
 The rest o' the island. 
 
 Pro. Thou most lying slave, 
 
 "WTiom stripes may move, not kindness : I have 
 
 us'd thee, 
 Filth as thou art, \\'ith human care ; and lodg'd 
 
 thee 
 In mine own cell, till thou diast seek to violatf) 
 The honour of my cluld. 
 
 Cal. ho ! ho 1 — 'would 't had l)ecn done i 
 Thou didst prevent me ; I had peopled else 
 T'nis isle with Calibans.' 
 
 Pro. A'ohoiTcd slave, 
 
 Which any print of goodness wilt not take, 
 Being capable of all iU ! I pitied thee. 
 Took pains to make thee speak, taught tlice racli 
 
 hour 
 One thing or other :*when thou didst not, savage, 
 Know thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble Hkc 
 A thing most brutisli, I endow'd thy pui-poscs 
 With words that made them known : But thy 
 
 ".■iW" race, 
 Thougli thou didst Icani, had that in 't which 
 
 good natures 
 Could not abide to be with ; therefore wast thou 
 Deservedly eoulin'd into this I'ock, 
 AMio hadst deserv'fl more than a prison. 
 
 Cal. You taught me language, imd my profit 
 
 on 't 
 Is, I know how to curse ! the red plague rid yc:.," 
 For learning me your language ! 
 
 Pro. Hag-seed, lu'nce I 
 
 Fetch us in fuel; and bo (juick, thou 'ert best, 
 To answer other business. Shi-ugg'st thou, in:dico 
 Jf tliou neglccfst, or dost unwillingly
 
 THE TExMPEST. 
 
 WTiat I comrnand, I'll rack theo witli old cramps ; 
 I'^ill all thy bones with aches ;" make thee roar, 
 That beasts shidl tremble at thy dm. 
 
 Cal. No, 'pray thee ! — 
 
 I itv st obey : his art is of such pow'r, \_Astdc. 
 It would control my dam's god, Setebos," 
 A nd make a vassal of him. 
 
 Vro. So, slave ; hence ! \_Exit Cai. 
 
 Re-enief Amei. invisible, playing and singing; 
 
 Ferdinaud following him. 
 AsrEL's Song. 
 
 Come unto these yeUow sands, 
 
 And then take hands : 
 Conrtsicd when yon have, and Uss'd, 
 
 The 'w-ild waves wliist,™ 
 Foot it fcatly here and there ; 
 
 And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear. 
 
 Bur. \_dispersedly.^^'] Hark, hark ! Bowgh, wowgh. 
 The watch-dogs bark ; 
 Bowgh, wowgh. 
 
 Ari. Hai-k, hark! I hear 
 
 The strain of strutting Chaniicleer 
 Cry, cock-a-diddle-dow.^- 
 
 Fcr "WTiere should this music bo? i" the air, 
 or the earth ? 
 It sounds no more : — and, sure, it waits upon 
 Rome god o' the island. Sitting on a b;ink. 
 Weeping again the king my father's wi'eck. 
 This music crept by me upon the waters, 
 Allaying both thc-ir fuiy, and my passion. 
 With its sweet air : thence I have follow'd it, 
 Or it hath drawn me rather : — But 't is gone ! 
 Nn, it begins again. 
 
 Arjxl sings. 
 Full fadom"' five thy father lies ; 
 
 Of his bonea lu'e c:.ral made ; 
 Those fire pearls that were his eyes : 
 
 Nothing of idin, that doth fade, 
 Tiut doth suffer a sca-ch^nge 
 Into somet]iinj7 rich and strange. 
 Sea-nymphs hourly ring his kneU : 
 
 [Burthen, ding-dong. 
 Hirk! now I hear them, — ding-dong, bell. 
 
 FfT. The ditty does remember my drown'd 
 father : — 
 This is no mortal business, nor no sound 
 That the earth owes :" — I hear it now above me. 
 
 Pro. The fringed curtains of thine eye advance, 
 Ajid say vi'hat thou seest yond. 
 
 Ifira. What is 't? a spirit? 
 
 Lord, how it looks about! Believe me, sir, 
 It carries a brave form : — IJut 't is a spirit. 
 
 Pro. No, wench ; it eats, and sleeps, and hatl 
 
 such senses 
 
 As we have, such. This gallant, which thou seest, 
 
 Was in the -(vi-eck ; and but he 's something stain'd 
 
 With grief, that 's beauty's canker, thou mightst 
 
 call him 
 A goodly person. He hath lost his fellows, 
 And strays about to find them. 
 
 3fira. I might call him 
 
 A thing divine ; for nothing natural 
 I ever saw so noble. 
 
 Fro. It goes on, I see, ^Aside 
 
 As my soul prompts it : — Spirit, fine spirit ! I 'U 
 
 free thee 
 Within two days for this. 
 
 Fsr. Most sure, the goddess 
 
 On whom these airs attend ! — Vouchsafe my pra/r 
 May know if you remain upon tl;is island ; 
 And that you wiU some good instruction give, 
 How I may bear me here : My prime request, 
 'V\luch I do last pronotmce, is, you wonder ! 
 If you be maid or no ?'''^ 
 
 Mira. No wonder, sir, 
 
 But certainly a maid. 
 
 Ft^r. My language ! heavens ! — 
 
 I am the best of them that speak this speech, 
 Were I but where 't is spoken. 
 
 Pro. How ! the best ? 
 
 'What wcrt thou, if the kmg of Naples heard thee ? 
 Fer. A single thing,^" as I am now, that wonders 
 To hear thee speak of Naples. He does hear mc ; 
 And, that he does, I weep : myself am Naples, 
 Wlio, with mine eyes, never since at ebb, beheld 
 The Icing, my father, wreck'd. 
 Mira. .Alack, for mercy : 
 
 Fer. Yes, faith, and all liis lords; the duke of 
 Milan, 
 Arid his brave son," being twain. 
 
 Pro. The duke of Milan, 
 
 And his more braver daughter, could control thee.'* 
 If now 't were fit to do 't : — At the fii'st sight 
 
 [Jsid,: 
 They have chang'd eyes : — Delicate ii-iel, 
 I '11 set thee free for this! — A word, good sir; 
 I fear you have done yourseK some wrong -a 
 word! 
 Mira Wliy speaks my father so ungently • ITiia 
 Is the third man that e'er I saw ; the firs' 
 That e'er I sigh'd for. Pity move my faO^er 
 To be inclin'd my way ! 
 
 Fer. 0, if a virgin, 
 
 And your afifection not gone forth, l '11 make yon 
 
 13
 
 ACT I. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 SCENE IL 
 
 Die queen of Naples. 
 
 Pro. Soft, sir ! one word more. — 
 
 Tliey are both, in cither's pow'rs; but this s\\'ift 
 
 business 
 I must uneasy make, lest too light -winning [Aside. 
 Make the prize light. — One word more ; I charge 
 
 thee 
 That thou attend me : thoii dost here usurp 
 The name thou ow'st not, and hast put thyself 
 Upon this island, as a spy, to win it 
 From me, the lord on 't. 
 
 Fer. No, as I am a man ! 
 
 Mira. There 's nothing ill can dwell in such a 
 temple : 
 If the ill spirit have so fiiir a house, 
 Good things will sb-ive to dwell with 't. 
 
 Pro. Follow me.~- \_To Feed. 
 
 Speak not you. for him ; he 's a traitor. — Come. 
 I '11 manacle^* thy neck and feet together : 
 Sea- water shalt thou diiok; thy food shall be 
 The fi-esh-brook muscles, wither'd roots, and husks 
 Wherein the acorn cradled : .Follow. 
 
 For. No; 
 
 I will resist such entertainment, till 
 Mine enemy has more power. 
 
 [Sc draws, and is charmed from moving. 
 
 Mira. dear father. 
 
 Make not too rash a trial of him, for 
 He 's gentle, and not fearful."" 
 
 Pro. "What! I say; 
 
 My foot my tutor 1°' Put thy sn-ord up, ti-aitor ! 
 ^Tio mak'st a show, but dar'st not sti-ike, — thy 
 
 conscience 
 Ts so possess'd with guilt : come from thy ward,^ 
 For I can hero disarm thee with this stick, 
 A.nd make thy weapon drop. 
 
 Mira. Beseech you, father ! 
 
 Pro . Hence '. liarig not on my garments. 
 
 Mira. Sir, have pity; 
 
 I '11 be his surety. 
 
 Pro. Silence ! one word moro 
 
 Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee. What ! 
 An advocate for an impostor ! husk ! 
 Thou thuik'st there ai'c no more such shapes as he, 
 Having seen but him and Caliban : Foolish wench ' 
 To the most of men this is a Caliban, 
 And they to him are angels. 
 
 Mira. My affections 
 
 Are then most humble ; I have no ambition 
 To see a goodlier man. 
 
 Pro. Come on; obey: [Tb Fekd 
 
 Thy neiTes are in their infancy again, 
 And have no vigour in them. 
 
 Fer. So they are : 
 
 My spirits, as in a di-eam, are all bound up. 
 My father's loss, the wcalcness which I feel. 
 The wreck of all my fiicnds, nor this man's threats, 
 To whom I am subdu'd, are but light to me, 
 Might I but thi'ough my prison once a day 
 Behold tills maid : all comers else o' tlie eart.h 
 Let liberty make use of; space enough 
 Have I in such a prison. 
 
 Pro. It works : — Come on. — 
 
 Thou hast done well, fine Ariel ! — Follow me. — 
 
 [To Feed, and Mm. 
 Hark, what thou else shalt do me. [_lh Aktel, 
 
 Mira. Be of comfort; 
 
 My father 's of a better nature, sir, 
 Than he appears by speech ; this is imwontod, 
 "Wliich now came fi-om him. 
 
 Pro. \_To Akiel.] Thou shalt be as free 
 As mountain winds : but then exactly do 
 All points of my command. 
 
 Art. To the syUable ! 
 
 Pro. Come, follow: speak not for him. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 14
 
 ACT n. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. — Another part of the Island. 
 
 Eule) AioNso, Sebastias, Antonio, Gonzaio, 
 Adrian, Fkancisco, and others. 
 
 Gon. 'Beseech you, sir, be merry: you have cause 
 (So have we all) of joy; for our escape 
 Is much beyonii our loss. Our hint of woe™ 
 Ts common : every day, some sailor's wife, 
 The masters of some merchant," and the merchant. 
 Have just oxir theme of woe : but for the miracle, 
 I mean our preservation, few in millions 
 Can speak like us : then wisely, good sir, weigh 
 Our sorrow with our comfort. 
 
 Alon. Prithee, peace. 
 
 Seh. He receives comfort like cold porridge. 
 
 Ant. The visitor wUl not give liim o'er so.^° 
 
 Sfh. Look; he's winding up the watch of his 
 wit ; by and by it -noil sti-ike. 
 
 Gon. Sir, — 
 
 Seh. One:— TeU. 
 
 Oon. When every grief is entertain'd that 's 
 offer'd. 
 Comes to the entertainer — 
 
 Seb. A dollar. 
 
 Gon. Dolour comes to him, indeed; you have 
 spoken truer than you purpos'd. 
 
 Seh. Tou have taken it wiselier than I meant 
 you sho;ild. 
 
 Gon. Therefore, my lord, — 
 
 A7if. Fie, what a Ependthrift is he of his tongue ! 
 
 Alon. I prithee, spai'o. 
 
 Gon. Well, I have done : But yet — 
 
 Seh. He wiU be talking. 
 
 Ani. YvTiich of them, ho or Adrian, for a good 
 P'ager, first begins to crow ? 
 
 Seh. The old cock. 
 
 Atit. The cockrel. 
 
 Seh. Done ! the wagor ? 
 
 Ant. A laughter. 
 
 Seh. A. match. 
 
 Adr Though this island seem to be desert, — 
 
 Sii. Ha, ha, l.a! — So, you 're paid."" 
 
 Adr. Uninhabitable, and almost inaccessible, — 
 
 Seh. Yet,— 
 
 Adr. Yet, — 
 
 Ant. Ho could not miss it. 
 
 Adr. It must needs be of subtle, tender, aal 
 delicate temperance."' 
 
 Ant. Temperance was a delicate wench. 
 
 Seh. Ay, and a subtle; as he most learnedly 
 deliver' d. 
 
 Adr. The air breathes upon us here most sweetly. 
 
 Seh. As if it had lungs, and rotten ones. 
 
 Ant. Or as 't were perfum'd by a fen. 
 
 Go7i. Here is everything advantageous to life. 
 
 Ant. True ; save means to Uve. 
 
 Seh. Of that there 's none, or little. 
 
 Gon. How lush and lusty*' the grass looks 
 how gi'cen ! 
 
 Ant. The ground, indeed, is tawny. 
 
 Seh. With an eye of green in 't. 
 
 Ant. He misses not much. 
 
 Seh. No; he doth but mistake the tiiith totally. 
 
 Gon. But the rarity of it is, which is indeed 
 almost beyond credit, — 
 
 Seh. As many vouch'd rarities are. 
 
 Gon. That our garments, being, as they were, 
 di-enoh'd in the sea, hold, notwithstanding, theii 
 freshness and glosses; being rather new dy'd, 
 than stain'd with salt water. 
 
 Ant. If but one of his pockets could speak, 
 would it not say, he lies ? 
 
 Seh. Ay, or very falsel}' pocket up his report 
 Go7i. Methinks our garments are now as fresh 
 as when we put them on first in Afric, at the 
 marriage of the king's fair daughter Clarib;-! to 
 the king of Tunis. 
 
 Seh. 'T was a sweet marriage, and we prospei 
 well in our return. 
 
 Adr. Tunis was never grac'd before with such 
 a paragon to their queen. 
 
 Gon. Not since widow Dido's time.'^^ 
 
 Ant. Widow ? a pox o' that ! How came that 
 widow in ? Widow Dido ! 
 
 Seh. "What if he had said, \vidower /Eneaa 
 too r good lord, how you tak-r it I 
 
 15
 
 THE TEMPEST 
 
 Jdr Widow I)ido, &aui you? you make me 
 study of that : She was of Carthago, not of Tunis. 
 
 Gon. This Tunis, sn-, wab Carthage. 
 
 Adr. Cartha£,(?? 
 
 Gon. I assTire you, Carthage. 
 
 diit. His vrosi is more than the miracxilous 
 haq).™ 
 
 Seb. He hatl i rais'd the -n-aU and houses too. 
 
 Ant. ^Vllat impossible matter mil he make 
 easy next ? 
 
 Seb. I thimt he will carry tliis island home in 
 his pocket, a.'-A give it his son for an apple. 
 
 Ani. And, sowing the kernels of it in the sea, 
 bring forth '/^ore islands. 
 
 Oon. Ay. 
 
 Ani. Why, in good time. 
 
 Gon. Sir, we were talking that our garments 
 Bcem now as fi-esh as when we were at Timis at 
 (-lie marriage of your daughter, who is now queen. 
 
 Ant. And the rarest that ere came there. 
 
 Seb. Bate, I beseech you, widow Dido. 
 
 Ant. 0, widow Dido ! ay, widow Dido ! 
 
 Gon. Is not, sir, my doiiblet as fi"esh as the 
 first day I wore it ? I mean, in a sort. 
 
 Ant. That sort was well fish'd for. 
 
 Go)i. When I wore it at your daughter's 
 marriage ? 
 
 Alon. You cram these words into mine cars, 
 against 
 ITie stomach of my sense." Would I had never 
 Married my daughter there ! for, coming thence, 
 My son is lost ; and, in my rate, she too, 
 Wlio is so far from Italy removed, 
 I ne'er again shall see her thou mine heir 
 Of ifaples and of Milan, what sti'ange fish 
 TIath made his meal on thee ? 
 
 Fran. Sir, he may live : 
 
 I saw him beat the siu'ges imder him. 
 And ride upon their barks; he trod the water, 
 A\Tiose enmity he flung aside, and breasted 
 The STU'ge most swoln that met him ; his bold 
 
 head 
 'Bovo the contentious waves he kept, and oar'd 
 Himself with his good anus in lusty stroke 
 To the shore, that o'er his wave-wom basis bowed, 
 As stooping to relieve him ; I not doubt, 
 lie came alive to land. 
 
 Alon. 'No, no, he 's gone. 
 
 Sch. Sir, you may thank yourself for this great 
 loss, 
 That wo\ild not bless our Europe with your 
 daughter, 
 IC 
 
 But rather lose her to an African ; 
 ^\^lere she, at least, is banish'd from your eye, 
 Who hath cause to wet the giief on 't." 
 Ahn. Prithee, peace. 
 
 Seb. You were kneel'd to, and imporlim'd oth' 
 wise. 
 By aU. of us ; and the fair soul herself 
 Weigh' d, between loatlmess and obedience, at 
 Which end the beam should bow.'^ We ha^ c lost 
 
 your son, 
 I fear, for ever : MUan and Naples have 
 More widows in them of this business' making, 
 Than we bring men to comfort them :" 
 The fault "s your own. 
 
 Ahn. So is the dear'st o' the loss. 
 Go7t. Mj' lord Sebastian, 
 
 The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness, 
 And time to speak it in ; you i-ub the sore, 
 Wlien you should bring the plaster. 
 Seb. Very well. 
 
 Ant. And most chimrgeonly. 
 Gon. It is fotil weather in us aU, good sir, 
 Wlien you ai'e cloudy. 
 
 Seb. Foui weather? 
 
 Ant. Very foul. 
 
 Gon. Had I plantation of this isle, my lord,- / 
 
 Atit. He 'd sow 't with nettle-seed. 
 
 Seh. Or docks, or mallows. 
 
 Goji. — and were the king on "t, Wliat woul 
 
 I do? 
 Seb. Scape being di-unk, for want of wine. 
 Gon. X' the commonwealth I woiud by con- 
 traiies 
 Execute aU things ; for no kind of traffic 
 Would I admit ; no name of magisti'ate ; 
 Letters should not be known : riches, poverty, ■ 
 And use of sendee, none ; contract, succession, 
 Boum, boimd of land, tilth, A-iney;u-d, nonp: 
 No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil : 
 No occupation ; all men idle, all, — 
 And women too ; but iimocent and pure : 
 No sovereignty : — 
 
 Seb. Yet he would be Icing on 't. 
 
 Ant. The latter end of his commonwealth for- 
 gets the beginning. 
 
 Gon. AU tilings in common nature should fir; 
 duce 
 Without sweat or endeavour: treason, felony. 
 Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engiu»;, 
 Would J not have ; but nature should bring 
 
 forth. 
 Of its o-mi kind, all foison,"' aU abundance.
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 BCITRE I. 
 
 To foed my innocent people. 
 
 Seh. No ruiirryiEg 'mong his subjects? 
 
 Ant. None, man; all idle; whores and knaves. 
 
 Gon. I wodld with such perfection govern, sir, 
 r c»cel the golden age. 
 
 Sib. Save his majesty ! 
 
 Ant. Long live Gonzalo ! 
 
 Gon. And, do you mark me, sir ? — 
 
 Aloti. Prithee, no more : thou dost talk nothing 
 to me. 
 
 Gon. I do well believe your higlmcss ; and did 
 it to minister occasion to these gentlemen, who 
 arc of such sensible and nimble lungs, that they 
 alwa3-s use to laugh at nothing 
 
 Ant. 'Twas you we laugh'd at. 
 
 Gon. Wlio, in this kind of merry fooling, am 
 nothing to you : so you may continue, and laugh 
 at nothing still. 
 
 Ant. Wliat a blow was there given ! 
 
 tSeb. Aa it had not ftill'n flat-long. 
 
 Goti. You are gentlemen of brave metal ;'' you 
 woxild lift the moon out of her sphere, if .she would 
 continue in it five weeks without changing. 
 
 Enter Aeiel (invisible) playing solemn music. 
 
 Seh. We would so, and then go a bat-fowl- 
 ing. 
 Ant. Nay, good my lord, be not angry. 
 Gon. No, I wan-ant you, I will not adventure 
 ray discretion so weakly. WiU you laugh mo 
 asleep, for I am very heavy ? 
 Ant. Go, sleep, and hear us. 
 
 [All sleep but Alon., Seb., and Ant. 
 Alon. "What, all so soon asleep ! I -wish mine 
 eyes 
 Would with themselves shut up my thoughts; 
 
 I find 
 They are inclin'd to do so. 
 
 Heh. Please you, sir, 
 
 Do not omit the heavy offer of it :" 
 It seldom visits sorrow ; when it doth, 
 It is a comforter. 
 
 Ant. We two, my lord. 
 
 Win guard your person, while you take your 
 
 rest, 
 And watch your safety. 
 Ahn. Thank you : wondrous heavy. 
 
 [AiON. sleeps. Exit Abiel. 
 Seh. What a strange drowsiness possesses them ' 
 Ant. It is the quality o' the climate. 
 Seb. Why 
 
 Doth it not then our eyelids sink? I find not 
 
 Myself dispos'd to sleep. 
 
 Ant. Nor 1 ; my spirits are nimbJe. 
 
 They fell together all, as by consent ; 
 They dropp'd, as by a thunder-stroke. Whst 
 
 might 
 Worthy Sebastian — 0, what might — No more:— 
 And yet, methinks, I see it in thy face, 
 What thou shouldst be : th' occasion speaks thee ; 
 
 and 
 My strong imagination sees a crown 
 Dropping upon thy head. 
 
 Seb. What ! art thou waking ? 
 
 A7it. D'", you not hear me speak ? 
 
 Seh. I do; and, surely, 
 
 It is a sleepy language ; and thou speak' st 
 Out of thy sleep : What is it thou didst say ? 
 This is a strange repose, to be asleep 
 With eyes wide open ; standing, speaking, moving, 
 And yet so fast asleep. 
 
 Ant. Noble Sebastian, 
 
 Thou lett'st thy fortune sleep, — die rather; 
 
 wLnk'st 
 Whiles thou art waking. 
 
 Seb. Thou dost snore distinctly ; 
 
 There's meaning in thy snores. 
 
 Ant. I am more serious than my custom : ytm 
 Must be so too, if heed me ; which to do, 
 Trebles thee o'er. 
 
 Seb. Well, I am standing water. 
 
 Ant. I '11 teach you how to flow. 
 
 Seb. Do so : to ebb 
 
 Hereditary sloth instructs me. 
 
 Ant. 0, 
 
 If you but knew how you the purpose cherish. 
 AMiilcs thus you mock it ! how, in stripping it 
 Tou more Ln-^est it! Ebbing men, indeed, 
 Most often do so near the bottom run. 
 By their OAvn fear, or sloth. 
 
 Seb. Prithee say on : 
 
 The setting of thine eye, and cheek, proclaim 
 A matter from thee; and a birth, indeed, 
 "Which throes thee much to yield. 
 
 Ant. Thus, sir : 
 
 Although this lord of weak remembrance, this. 
 ("Who shall be of as little memory, 
 "When he is earth'd) hath here almost persuaded 
 (For he 's a spirit of persuasion, only" 
 Professes to persuade) the king his son 's alive, — 
 'T is as impossible that he 's imdrown'd. 
 As he, that sleeps here, swims. 
 Seb. I have no hope 
 
 That he 's imdrown'd, 
 
 17
 
 r~ 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Ant. 0. out of that no hope, 
 
 What great hope have you ! no hope that way, is 
 Another way so high a hope, that even 
 Ambition cannot pierce a wink beyond, 
 iiut doubts discovery there. Will you grant with 
 
 me. 
 That Ferdinand is drown'd ? 
 
 Seb. He 's gone. 
 
 Ant. Then, tell me. 
 
 Who 's the next heir of Naples r 
 
 Seb. Claribel. 
 
 Ant. She that is queen of Tunis : she that 
 dwells 
 Ten leagues beyond man's life;" she that from 
 
 Naples 
 Can have no note, unless the 8\in were post, 
 (The man i' the moon's too slow,) — till new-bom 
 
 chins 
 Be rough and ruzorable : she that from whom 
 We all were sea-swaUow'd, though some cast 
 
 again, 
 (And by that destiny)™ to perform an act 
 Whereof what 's past is prologue ; what to come 
 In yours and my discharge. 
 
 Si^b. "What stuff is this ? — How say you ? 
 
 'T is true, my brother's daughter 's queen of 
 
 Tunis, — 
 So is she heir of Naples ; 'twixt which regions 
 There is some space. 
 
 Ant. A space whose ev'ry cubit 
 
 Seems to cry out, "How shall that Claribel 
 Measure us back to Naples?" — Keep in Tunis, 
 And let Sebastian wake ! — Say, this were death 
 That now hath seiz'd them ; why, they were no 
 
 worse 
 Than now they are : There be that can rule 
 
 Naples 
 As well as he that sleeps ; lords that can prate 
 As amply and unnecessarily 
 As this Gonzalo ; I myself could make 
 A chough*' of as deep chat. 0, that you bore 
 The mind that I do ! what a sleep were this 
 For your advancement ! Do you understand me ? 
 
 Seb. Metliinks I do. 
 
 Ant. And how does your content 
 
 Tender your own good fortune ? 
 
 Seb. I remember. 
 
 You did supplant your brother Prospero. 
 
 Ant. Tnie : 
 
 And look Iiow well my garments sit upon me. 
 Much feater than before. My brother's Bor\-ants 
 Were then my fellowo ; now they are my men. 
 18 
 
 Seb. But, for your conscience — 
 
 Ant. Ay, sir ; where lies that ? if '(, were a 
 
 kybe, 
 'T would put me to my slipper : But 1 feel not 
 This deity in my bosom ; twenty consciences. 
 That stand 'twixt me and Milan, candied be the\ 
 And melt ere they molest ! Here lies voi;i 
 
 brother. 
 No better than the earth he lies upon,- — 
 If he were that which now he 's like, that 's 
 
 dead. 
 Whom I, with this obedient steel, three inches 
 
 of it. 
 Can lay to Ijed for ever : whiles yoa, doing thus, ' 
 To the perpetual wink for aye might put 
 This ancient morsel,*- this sir Prudence, who 
 Should not upbraid our course. For all the rest. 
 They 'U take suggestion, as a cat laps milk ; 
 They 'U teU the clock to any business that 
 We say befits the hour. 
 
 Seb. Thy case, dear friend. 
 
 Shall be my precedent ; as thou gott'st Milan, 
 I '11 come by Naples. Draw thy sword : one 
 
 stroke 
 Shall free thee from the tribute which then 
 
 pay'st ; 
 And I the king shall love thee. 
 
 Ant. Draw together : 
 
 And when I rear my hand, do you the like, 
 To fall it on Gonzalo. 
 
 Sei. 0, but one word. 
 
 [2^«y converse apart. 
 
 Music. Re-enter AurBL, invisible. 
 
 An. My master through his art foresees the 
 danger 
 That you, his friend, are in ; and sends me forth, 
 (For else his project dies,) to keep them living.^' 
 \_Sinffs in Gonzalo's ear 
 
 While you here do snoring lie, 
 Open-ey'd Conspiracy 
 
 His time doth take : 
 If of Ufe you keep a care, 
 Shake oil' slumber, and beware: 
 
 Awake ! awake ! 
 
 Ant. Then let us botii be sudden. 
 
 Go7i. Now, good angels, preserve tlie king ! 
 
 {_27tty airako. 
 A Ion. Wliy, how now, ho ! awake ! Why are 
 you (ira^^T^ ?"* 
 Wlierefore this ghastly looking ? 
 Gon. What's the matter?
 
 THE TEMPKST. 
 
 BCENK IL 
 
 Scb. "WTulss we stood here securing your repose, 
 Even now, wo heard a hollow burst of bcUowing 
 Like bulls, or rather lions ; did it not wake you ? 
 It struok mine ear most terribly. 
 
 Alon. I heard notliing. 
 
 Ant. 0, 't w as a din to fright a monster's ear ; 
 To make an earthquake ! sure, it was the roar 
 Of a whole herd of lions. 
 
 Alon. Heard you this, Gonzalo ? 
 
 Gon. Upon mine honour, sir, I heard a hum- 
 ming, 
 And that a strange one too, which did awake me : 
 I ahak'd you, sir, and cry'd ; as mine eyes open'd, 
 T saw their weapons drawn : — there was a noise, 
 That 's verity : 'T is best we stand upon our 
 
 guard, 
 Or that we quit this place : let 's draw our 
 weapons. 
 
 Alon. Lead off this ground; and let 's make 
 further search 
 For my poor son. 
 
 Gon. Heavens keep him from these beasts ! 
 
 For he is, sure, i' the island. 
 
 Alon. Lead away. 
 
 An. Prospero (my lord) shall know what T have 
 
 done : [Aside. 
 
 So, king, go safely on to seek thy son. {JUxeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. — Another part of the Island. 
 
 Enter Calibak with a hurthen of wood. A jioise 
 of thunder /ward. 
 
 Cat. A4I the infections that the sun sucks up 
 From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall, and make him 
 By inch-meal a disease ! His spirits hear me. 
 And yet I needs must curse. But they 'U nor pinch, 
 Fright me with urchin shows, pitch me i' the mire, 
 Nor lead me, like a firebrand, in the dark 
 Out of my way, unless he bid them ; but 
 For every trifle are they set upon me : 
 Sometime like apes', that moo"-' and chatter at me. 
 And after, bite me ; then like hedgehogs, which 
 Lie tumbling in my barefoot way, and moimt 
 Their pricks™ at my footfall ; sometime am I 
 All wo'ind with adders, who, with cloven tongues. 
 Do hiaa me into madness : — Lo ! now ! lo ! 
 
 Enter Tbinctoo. 
 
 Here comes a spirit of his, and to torment mc, 
 For bringing wood in slowly : I'U faU flat ; 
 Perchance, he will not mind me. 
 
 Trin. Here 's neither bush nor slirub, to beai 
 oft' any weather at all, and another stonn bre'vving; 
 I hear it sing i' tlie wind : yond same black cloud, 
 yond huge one, looks like a foul bumbard" tliui 
 would shed his liquor. If it should thunder as 't 
 did before, I know not wliero to hide my head : 
 yond same cloud cannot choose but fall by pad- 
 fulls. — What have we here, — a man or a fish? Dead 
 or alive } A fish : he smells like a fish ; a very ancient 
 and fish-like smell ; a kind of Cnot of the newest) 
 Poor John; a strange fish 1 Were 1 in England now, 
 (as once I was, ) and had but this fish painted, not a 
 holiday fool there but would give a piece of silver : 
 there would this monster make a man;*® any strange 
 beast there makes a man : when they will not 
 give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay 
 out ten to see a dead Indian. Lcgg'd like a man ! 
 and his fins like arms ! Warm, o' my troth ! I do 
 now let loose my opinion, hold it no longer, — this 
 is no fish, but an islander, that hath latclj- sufficred 
 by a thunder-bolt. [Thunder.^ Alas ! the storm 
 is come again : my best way is to creep jmdcr his 
 gaberdine;*' there is no other shelter hereabouts 
 Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows. 
 I will here shroud till the dregs of the storm be 
 
 Enter Stephauo, singing ; a bottle in his hand. 
 
 Ste. I shall no more to sea, to sea. 
 
 Here shall I die ashore ; — 
 
 This is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man's fimera! : 
 Well, here 's my comfort. 
 
 \_Drinlcs and singi. 
 
 The master, the swabher, the boatswain, and I, 
 
 The gimncr, and his mate, 
 Lov'd Mall, lleg, and Marian, and Margery, 
 
 But none of us car'd for Kate : 
 
 For she had a tongue with a tang. 
 
 Would cry to a sailor, " Go hang ;" 
 She lov'd not the savour of tar nor of pitch. 
 Yet a tailor might scratch her where' ere she did itch: 
 
 Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang ! 
 
 This is a scurvy tune too : But here 's my comfort' 
 
 [Drinks. 
 
 Col. Do not torment me : ! 
 
 Ste. What 's the matter ? Have we devils here ? 
 Do you put tricks upon 's with salvages,'" and 
 men of Inde ? Ha ! I have not scap'd drowning, 
 to be afeard now of your four legs ; for it hath been 
 said. As proper a man as ever went on four legs 
 cannot make him give groimd : and it shall be said 
 BO again, while Stephano breathes at 'nostrils." 
 
 19
 
 THE TKMPEST. 
 
 SCENE U. 
 
 Cal. The spirit torments me : ! 
 
 Sle. Tliis is some monster of the isle, with four 
 legs, who hath got, as I take it, an ague. WTiere 
 the devil should he learn our language ? I will 
 g;ive him some relief, if it be hut for that : If I 
 can recover him, and keep him tame, and get to 
 Naples with him, he 's a present for any emperor 
 that ever trod on neat's leather. 
 
 Cal. Do not torment me, prithee ; I '11 bring 
 my wood home faster. 
 
 Ste. He 's in his fit now, and does not talk after 
 the wisest. He shall taste of my bottle : if he 
 have never drimk wine afore, it will go near to 
 remove his fit: if I can recover him, and keep 
 him tame, I will not take too much fer him:'- 
 he shall pay for hiui that hath him, and that 
 soundly. 
 
 Cal. Thou dost me yet but little hurt;'^ thou 
 wilt anon ; I know it, by thy trembling : Now 
 Prosper works upon thee. 
 
 Ste. Come on your ways ; open your mouth : 
 here is that which ^vUl give language to you, cat ; 
 open your mouth : this will shake your shaking, 
 I can tell you, and that soundly : you cannot tell 
 who 's your friend : open your chaps agaia. 
 
 TVin. I should know that voice : it should be — 
 but he is drown'd ; and these are devils : ! 
 defend me I — 
 
 Ste. Foiu- legs, and two voices ; a most delicate 
 monster ! His forward voice, now, is to speak well 
 of his fiiend ; his backward voice is to utter foul 
 speeches, and to detract. If all the wine in my 
 bottle win recover him, I will help his ague. 
 Come, — Amen ! I Tvill pour some in thy other 
 mouth. 
 
 Trin. Stephano ! — 
 
 Ste. Doth thy other mouth call me ? Mercy ! 
 Mercy ! This is a devil, and no monster : I will 
 leave him ; I have no long spoon.'* 
 
 Trin. Stephano ! — if thou beest Stephano, touch 
 me, and speak to me ; for I am Trinculo; — be not 
 afeard,- — thy good friend Trinc\ilo. 
 
 Ste. If thou beest Trinculo, come forth ; I '11 
 pull thee by the lesser legs : if any be Trinculo's 
 legs, these are they. Thou art very Trinculo, in- 
 deed ! How cam'st thou to be the siege of this 
 moon-calf ?'^ Can he vent Trinoulos ? 
 
 Trin. I took him to be Idll'd with a thunder- 
 stroke : — But art thou not drown'd, Stephano ? I 
 hepe, now, thou art not dro\vu"d. Is tlie stonn 
 overblown ? 1 hid me under tlie dead moon-calf b 
 gaberdine, for fear of the storm : And art thou 
 20 
 
 living, Stephano? Stephano, two Neapolitan! 
 scap'd ! 
 
 Ste. Prithee, do not turn me about; my stomach 
 is not constant. 
 
 Cal. These be fine things, an if they be nr! 
 sprites. 
 That 's a brave god, and bears celestial liquor : 
 I will kneel to him ! 
 
 Ste. How didst thou 'scape ? How cam'st thou 
 nithcr? swear, by this bottle, how thou cam'st 
 hither. I escap'd upon a butt of sack, which the 
 sailors heaved o'erboard, by this bottle ! which I 
 made of the bai'k of a tree, with mine own hands, 
 since I was cast ashore. 
 
 Cal. I 'U swear, upon that bottle, to be thy true 
 subject ; for the liquor is not earthly. 
 
 Ste. Here ; swear, then, how thou escap'dst. 
 
 Trin. Swam ashore, man, like a duck; I can 
 swim like a duck, I '11 be sworn. 
 
 Ste. Here, kiss the book : Though thou canst 
 Ewijn like a duck, thou art made like a goose. 
 
 D'in. Stephano, hast any more of this ? 
 
 Ste. The whole butt, man ; my eeUar is in a 
 rock by the sea-side, where mj^ wine is hid. How 
 now, moon-calf ? how does thine ague ? 
 
 Cal. Hast thou not dropp'd fi'om heaven ? 
 
 Ste. Out o' the moon, I do assui'e thee : I was 
 the man i' the moon, when time was. 
 
 Cal. I have seen thee in her, and I do adore 
 thee ; my mistress show'd me thee, and thy dog, 
 and thy bush. 
 
 Ste. Come, swear to that ; kiss the book : I will 
 furnish it anon with new contents : swear. 
 
 Trin. By this good light, this is a very shallow 
 monster ! — I afeai'd of him ! a very weak monster: 
 — The man i' the moon! — a most poor credidous 
 monster : Well di'awn, monster, in good sooth. 
 
 Cal. I '11 show thee every fertile inch o' the 
 island ; and I wiU kiss thy foot : I prithee be my 
 god! 
 
 Trin. By this light, a most perfidious and drun- 
 ken monster ! when 's god 's asleep, he '11 rob hia 
 bottle. 
 
 Cal. I 'U kiss thy foot : I 'U swear myself thy 
 subject. 
 
 Ste. Come on, then ; down, and swear. 
 
 Trin. I shall laugh myself to death at this 
 puppy-headed monster: a most scurvy monster! 
 I could find in my heart to beat him, — 
 
 Ste. Come, kiss. 
 
 IVin. — but that the poor monster 's in drink ; 
 An abominable monster !
 
 /,CT lU. 
 
 THE TEMPEST 
 
 SCENH I. 
 
 Cal. I '11 show thee the best springs ; I '11 pluck 
 
 thee berries ; 
 r 'II fish for thee, and get thee wood enough. 
 A plague upon the tyrant that I sen'e ! 
 \ 'II bear him no more sticks, but follow thee, 
 Thou wondrous man ! 
 
 Trin. A most ridiculous monster! to make a 
 wonder of a poor dnmkard. 
 
 Cal. I prithee let me bring thee where crabs 
 grow, 
 Ajid I with my long nails will dig thee pig-nuts, 
 Show thee a jay's nest, and instruct thee how 
 To snare the nimble marmozet; I "U bring thee 
 To clust'ring filberts, and sometimes I 'II get thee 
 Young scamels'' from the rock : Wilt thou go with 
 me? 
 
 Ste. I prithee, now, lead the way without any 
 
 more talking. — Trinculo, the king ani all oui 
 company else being drown'd, we wiU inherit here, 
 Here; bear my bottle. Fellow Trinculo, we 'U 
 fill him by and by again. 
 
 Cal. [^Sings Anmlcenhj.'] Farewell, master ; farewell 
 farewell ! 
 
 Trin. A howling monster ; a drunken monster 1 
 
 Cal. No more dams I '11 make for fish ; 
 Nor fetch in firing 
 At requiring. 
 Nor scrape trencher,^' nor wash dish : 
 'Ban, 'Ban, Ca — Caliban 
 Has a new master — Get a new man! 
 
 Freedom, hey-day! hey-day, freedom! freedom, 
 hey-day, freedom I 
 Stc. brave monster, lead the way ! \^Exmmt 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE 1.— Before Prospero's Cell. 
 
 Enter Feediuand, bearing a log. 
 
 Fer. There be some sports ai'o 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 wliich I serve quickens what 's dead. 
 And makes my labours pleasures : 0, she is 
 Ten times more gentle than her father 's crabbed ; 
 And he 's compas]d of harshness. I must remove 
 Some thousands of these logs, and pUe 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. 
 
 JSnUr MiBANDA, and Prospeeo at a distance. 
 Mira. Alas, now ! pray you 
 
 Woik not BO hard ; I would the lightning had 
 Burnt up those logs that you are cnjoiu'd to pile ! 
 Pray set it do^mi, ;md rest you : when this bums, 
 'T will weep for having wearied you." My fathei 
 Is hard at study : pray, now, rest yourself ; 
 He 's safe for these three hours. 
 
 Fer. most dear mistress ! 
 
 The sun will :, before I shall dischai'ge 
 Ttliat I must strive to do. 
 
 Mira. If you 'U sit down, 
 
 I 'U bear your logs the while : Pray give mo 
 
 that ; 
 I 'U carry it to the pUe. 
 
 Fer. No, precious creature ! 
 
 I had rather crack my sinews, break my back, 
 Than you should such dishonour undergo. 
 While I sit lazy by. 
 
 Mira. It would become me 
 
 As well as it does you : and I should do it 
 With much more ease ; for my good will is to it, 
 And yours it is against. 
 
 Pro. Poor worm ! thou art infected; 
 
 This visitation shows it. 
 
 Mira. You look wearily. 
 
 21
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 SCENE n. 
 
 Fer. No, noble jnistress ; 't is fresh moming 
 with me, 
 WTien you are by at night. I do beseech you, 
 (Chiefly, that I might set it in my prayers,) 
 "yhat is your name ? 
 
 Mira. Miranda : — my father, 
 
 I have broke your hest"" to say so ! 
 
 Fer. Admir'd Miranda ! 
 
 Indeed the top of admiration ; worth 
 What 's dearest to the world ! Full many a lady 
 I have ey'd with best regard, and many a time 
 Th' 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 soiil, but some defect in her 
 Did quarrel wdth the noblest grace she ow'd. 
 And put it to the foil : But you, you ! 
 So perfect, and so peerless, are created 
 Of every creature's best. 
 
 Mira. I do not know 
 
 One of my sex ; no woman's face remember, 
 Save, from my glass, mine own ; nor have I seen 
 More that I may call men, than you, good friend, 
 And my dear father : how features are abroad, 
 I am skill-lees 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, 
 Besides yourself, to like of. But I prattle 
 Something too wildly, and my father's precepts 
 I therein do forget. 
 
 Fer. T am, in my condition, 
 
 A prince, Miranda ; I do think, a king, — 
 (I would not so !) — and would no more endure 
 This wooden slaveiy, 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. 
 
 Mira. Do you love me ? 
 
 Fer. heaven ! 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, 
 Bcy^ond 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 
 
 22 
 
 Of two most rare affections ! Heavens rain grace 
 On that which breeds between them ! 
 
 Fer. Wherefore weep you ? 
 
 Mira. At mine unworthiness, that dare no' 
 oflfer 
 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 cun- 
 ning! 
 And prompt me, plain and holy innocence ! 
 I am your wife, if you will marry me ; 
 If not, I 'U die your maid : to be your fellow 
 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 ere of freedom : here's my hand. 
 
 Mira. And mine, with my heart in 't : An3 
 now, farewell. 
 Tin half an hour hence. 
 
 Fer. A thousand, thousand !"" 
 
 \_Fxeunt Fer. and Mnt 
 
 Pro. So glad of this as they I cannot be. 
 Who are surpris'd with ail ; but my rejoicing 
 At nothing can be more. I 'U to my book; 
 For yet, ere supper-time, must I perform 
 Much business appertaining. \_Exit 
 
 SCENE II.— Another part of tJic Island. 
 
 Enter Siephano and Tbinculo ; GkLTBKS following 
 with a bottle. 
 
 Ste. TeU not me ; — when the butt is out, wo 
 wiU drink water ; not a drop before : therefore 
 bear up, and board 'em : Servant-monster, drink 
 to me. 
 
 Trin. Servant-monster? the folly of this island! 
 They say there 's but five upon this isle : we are 
 three of them ; if th' other two be brain'd like us, 
 the state totters. 
 
 Ste. Drink, servant-monster, when I bid thee ; 
 thy eyes arc almost set in thy liead. 
 
 Trin. . Where should they be set else ? he were a 
 brave monster indeed, if they were set in his tail. 
 
 Ste. My mau-monstor hath (hown'd his tongue 
 in sack : for my part, the sea cannot drown me : I 
 swam, ere I could recover the shore, five-and- 
 thirty leagues, oflf and on, — by this light! Thou 
 shalt be my lieutenant, monster, or my standard.""
 
 ACT ni. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 dCENE n. 
 
 Tiin. Tour lieutenant, if you list ; he 's no 
 Btandard. 
 
 Ste. Wo 'U not run, monsieur monster. 
 
 Trin. Nor go noither : but you '11 lie like dogs, 
 and yet say nothing neither. 
 
 Ste. Moon-calf, speak once in thy life, if thou 
 beost a good moon-calf. 
 
 Cal. How does thy honour ? Let me lick thy 
 shoe : I '11 not serve him, he is not valiant. 
 
 TVin. Thou liest, most ignorant monster ; I am 
 in case to justle a constable : why, thou dobosh'd'"' 
 fish thou, was there ever man a coward that hath 
 drunk so much sack as I to-day ? WQt thou tell a 
 monstrous lie, being but half a fish, and lialf a 
 monster ? 
 
 Cal. Lo, how he mocks me ! wilt thou let him, 
 my lord ? 
 
 TVin. Lord, quoth he ! — that a monster should 
 be such a natural ! 
 
 Cal. Lo, lo, again ! bite him to death, I prithee. 
 
 Ste. Trinculo, keep a good tongue in your head ; 
 if you prove a mutineer, the next tree — The poor 
 monster 's my subject, and he shall not suffer 
 indignity. 
 
 Cal. I thank my noble lord. WUt thou be pleas'd 
 ' hearken once again to the suit I made to thee ? 
 Ste. Marry will I : kneel and repeat it ; I -o-iU 
 stand, and so shall Trinculo. 
 
 Enter Ariel, invisible. 
 
 Cal. As I told thee before, I am subject to a 
 tyrant; a sorcerer, that by his cunning hath 
 cheated mo of the island. 
 Ari. Thou liest ! 
 
 Cal. Thou liest, thou jesting monkey thou ; 
 I would my valiant master would destroy thee : 
 I do not lie. 
 
 Sie. Trinculo, if you trouble him any more in 's 
 tale, by this hand, I will supplant some of your teeth. 
 
 Trin. AVhy, I said nothing. 
 
 Ste. Mum then, -and no more. — \_To CAUBAif. 
 Proceed. 
 
 Cal. I say, by Korcery he got this isle ; 
 From me he got it. If thy greatness will 
 Revenge it on him — (for I know thou dar'st ; 
 Hut tlus thing dare not. — ) 
 
 Ste. That 's most certain. 
 
 Cal. Thou shalt be lord of it, and I'll serve thee. 
 
 Ste. How, now, shall this be compass'd ? Canst 
 thou bring me to the party ? 
 
 Cal. Yea, yea, my lord; 1 '11 yield him thee 
 asleep, 
 
 Where thou mayst knock a nail into nis head. 
 Ari. Thou liest ! thou canst not. 
 
 Cal. Wliat a pi'd ninny 's this !'™ Thou scurvy 
 patch ! — 
 I do beseech thy greatness, give him blows, 
 And take his bottle from him : when that 's gone, 
 He shall drink nought but briue ; for I 'U not 
 
 show him 
 Where the quick fi-eshes are. 
 
 Ste. Trinculo, nm into no further danger : in- 
 terrupt the monster one word further, and, by this 
 hand, I 'U turn my mercy out o' doors, and make 
 a stockfish of thee. 
 
 Trin. Why, what did I ? I did nothing ; I '11 
 go no further off."" 
 
 Ste. Didst thou not say he lied ? 
 
 Ari. Thou liest ! 
 
 Ste. Do I so? take thou that. [_Strika him 
 As you like this, give me the lie another time. 
 
 Trin. I did not give the lie : — Out o' youi • 
 
 wits, and hearing too ? A pox o' your bottle . 
 
 This can sack and drinking do I — A miurain on 
 your monster, and the devil take your fingers ! 
 
 Cal. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Ste. Now, forward mth your tale. Prithee 
 stand further off. 
 
 Cal. Beat him enough: after a little time, I'll 
 beat him too. 
 
 Sic: Stand further. — Come, proceed. 
 
 Cal. Why, as I told thee, 't is a custom with 
 
 him 
 
 I' the afternoon to sleep : there thou mayst brain 
 
 him, 
 Having first seiz'd his books ; or with a log 
 Batter his skuU, or paunch him with a stake. 
 Or cut his wezand with thy knife : Eemember 
 First to possess his books ; for, -without them. 
 He 's but a sot,'™ as I am, nor hath not 
 One spirit to command : They all do hate him 
 As rootcdly as I : Bum but his books ; 
 He has brave utensils, (for so he calls them,) 
 Which, when he has a house, he '11 deck withal. 
 And that most deeply to consider, is 
 The beauty of his daughter ; he himself 
 Calls her a nonpareil : I never saw a woman 
 But only Sycorax my dam, and she ; 
 But she as far surpasseth Syccrax, 
 As great' st does least. 
 
 Ste. Is it so brave a lass ? 
 
 Cal. Ay, lord ; she wiU become tliy bed, I 
 warrant. 
 And bring thee forth brave brood. 
 
 23
 
 ACT m. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 SCENE m. 
 
 Sto. ilonster, I vnil kill this man : his daughter 
 and I will be king and queen, (save our graces !) 
 nnd Tiinculo and thyself shall be viceroys. Dost 
 thou like the plot, Trinculo ? 
 
 Trin. Excellent! 
 
 S(e. Give me thy hand ; I am sorry I. beat 
 thee : but, while thou Uv'st, keep a good tongue in 
 thy head. 
 
 Cat. Within this half-hour wUl he be asleep ; 
 WUt thou destroy him then ? 
 
 Sle. Ay, on mine honour ! 
 
 Art. This will I teU my master. 
 
 Cal. Thou mak'st me meriy : I am full of 
 pleasure ; 
 Let us be jocund : TVHl you troll the catch 
 You taught me but wliile-ere ? 
 
 SU. At thy request, monster, I will do reason, 
 any reason : 
 Come on, Tiinculo, let us sing. [^Sings. 
 
 Flout 'em, and skout 'em;'<" and skout 'em, and flout 'em ; 
 Thought is free. 
 
 Cal. That 's not the tune. 
 
 [Ariel plai/s the tune on a tabor and pipe. 
 
 Sle. Wliat is tliis same ? 
 
 Trin. This is the tune of our catch, play'dby the 
 picture of Nobody."" 
 
 Ste. If thou beest a man, show thyself in 
 thy likeness : if thou beest a devil, take 't as thou 
 list. 
 
 2)-in. 0, forgive me my sins ! 
 
 Ste. He that dies, pays all debts ; I defy thee. 
 Mercy upon us ! 
 
 Cal. Art thou afeard ? 
 
 Ste. No, monster, not I. 
 
 Cal. Be not afeard ; the isle is fuU of noises, 
 Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt 
 
 not. 
 Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments 
 "Win hum about mine ears, and sometime voices, 
 That, if I then had wak'd after long sleep. 
 Win malce me sleep again : and then, in dream- 
 
 The clouds, mcthought, would open, and show 
 
 riches 
 Ready to drop upon me, that when I wak'd, 
 I cry'd to dream again. 
 
 Ste. This will prove a brave kingdom to me, 
 where I shall have my music for nothing. 
 Cal. Wlicn Prospcro is dc8tro}'"d. 
 Sto That shall be by and by : I remember the 
 story. 
 24 
 
 Trin. The sound is going iway : let 's follow it, 
 and after do our work. 
 
 Ste. Lead, monster ; wo '11 follow. — I would 1 
 could see this taborer : he lays it on. 
 
 Trin. Wilt come?'" I '11 follow Stcphaiio. 
 
 SCENE JIL—ATwiher part of the Islmd. 
 
 Enter Aionso, Sebastian, AJ^TO^^o, Gonzalo 
 Adeian, Fkaucisco, and others. 
 
 Gon. By 'r lakin,"^ I can go no further, sir; 
 My old bones ache : here 's a maze trod, indeed, 
 Through forth-rights"* and meanders ! by youi 
 
 patience, 
 I needs must rest mc. 
 
 Alon. Old lord, I cannot blame thee, 
 
 Who am myself attach'd with weariness. 
 To the dulling of my spirits : sit down and rest. 
 Even here I will put off my hope, and keep it 
 No longer for my flatterer : he is drown' d. 
 Whom thus we stray to find, and the sea mocks 
 Our frustrate search on land. Well, let him go. 
 
 Ant. I am right glad that he 's so out of hope. 
 
 \_Aside to Seb. 
 Do not, for one repulse, forego the purpose 
 That you resolv'd t' effect. 
 
 Seh. The next advantage 
 
 Will we take th'roughly. 
 
 Ant. Let it be to-night ; 
 
 For, now they are oppress'd wth travel, they 
 Win not, nor caimot, use such 'N'igilance, 
 As when they ai'e fi'esh. 
 
 Seh. I say, to-night : no more. 
 
 Solemn and strange mtisic ; and Peospkko ahove, 
 invisible. Enter several strange Shapes, liringirig 
 in a banquet; they dance about it with genMe 
 actions of salutation ; and, inviting tlw King and 
 the rest to eat, they depart. 
 
 Alon. What harmony is this ? my good friends, 
 hark ! 
 
 Gon. Man-ellous sweet music ! 
 
 Alon. Give us kind keepers, heavens ! Wlial 
 were tlieso ? 
 
 Seh. A living drollery :"* Now I will believe 
 That there are unicorns ; that in .\jabia 
 Tliorc is one tree, the phoenix' throne;"' one phonnix 
 At this hour reigning there. 
 
 Ant. I 'n believe l)otli ; 
 
 And what docs else want credit, come to me,
 
 ACT UL 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 gcran: ni. 
 
 A.nil I '11 be sworn 't is true: Travellers ne'er 
 
 did lie, 
 Though fools at home condemn them. 
 
 Gon. If in Niijilos 
 
 I should report this now, would they bslieve me ? 
 If I should say I saw such islanders, 
 (For, certc3, these are people of the i.sland,) 
 Who, though they are of monstrous shape, yet, note, 
 Their manners are more gentle, kind, than of 
 Our human generation you shall find 
 Many, — nay, almost any. 
 
 Fro. Honest lord, 
 
 Thou hast said well ; for some of you there present 
 Are worse than devils. [_Aside. 
 
 Alon. I cannot too much muse"" 
 Such shapes, such gesture, and such sound, 
 
 expressing 
 (Although they want the use of tongue) a kind 
 Of excellent dumb discourse. 
 Fro. Praise in departing. \_Aside. 
 
 Fran. They vanish'd strangely. 
 
 Seh. No matter, since 
 
 They have left their viands behind ; for we have 
 
 stomachs. — 
 Will '< please you taste of what is here ? 
 AUni. Not I. 
 
 Gmi. Faith, sir, you need not fear : When we 
 were boys, 
 Who would believe that there were mountaineers 
 Dew-lapp'd Hlce bulls, whose throats had hanging 
 
 at them 
 Wallets of flesh ? or that there were such men. 
 Whose heads stood in their breasts ? which now 
 
 we find. 
 Each putter-out at five for one'" will bring us 
 Good warrant of. 
 Alon. I will stand to, and feed, although 
 
 my last : 
 No matter, since I feel the best is past : — 
 Brother, my lord the duke ; — Stand to, and do as 
 we. 
 
 Thunder and lightning. Enter Akiel lilce a harpy. 
 Ha claps his wings upoti the table, and, with a 
 qttaint device, the banquet vanishes. ^'^^ 
 
 Ari. You are three men of sin, whom destiny 
 (That hath to instrament this lower world, 
 And what is in 't) the never-surfeited sea 
 Hath caus'd to belch up j-ou,'" and on this island. 
 Where man doth not inhabit, you 'mongst men 
 Being most unfit to Hve. I have made you mad ; 
 [^Soeing them draw their swords. 
 
 And even with such-like valour, men hang and 
 
 drown 
 Their proper selves. You fools ! I and my fellows 
 Are ministers of fate ; the elements, 
 Of whom your swords are tempcr'd, may as well 
 Woimd the loud winds, or with bemock'd-at stabs 
 Kill the still-closing waters, as diminish 
 One dowle™ that 's in my plume; my fellow- 
 ministers 
 Are like invulnerable. If you could hurt. 
 Your swords are now too massy for 3'our sti'cngths, 
 And will not bo uplifted. But, remember, 
 (For that 's my business to you,) that you three 
 From Milan did supplant good Prospcro : 
 Expos'd unto the sea; which hath requit it. 
 Him and his innocent child : for which foul deed 
 The powers, delajing, not forgetting, have 
 Incens"d the seas and shores, yea, all the creatures, 
 Against your peace. Thee, of thy son, Alonso, 
 They have bereft ; and do pronoimce, by me, 
 Ling'ring perdition (worse than any death 
 Can be at once) shall step by step attend 
 You and your ways ; whose .WTaths to guard you 
 
 from 
 (Which here, in this most desolate isle, else falls 
 Upon your heads) is nothing but heart's sorrow. 
 And a clear life ensuing. 
 
 Sie vanishes in thunder: then, to soft music, enter 
 the Shapes again, and dance with tnoch and mowcs- 
 and carry out the table. 
 
 Fro. Bravely the figure of this harpy hast thou 
 Pcrform'd, my Ariel ; a grace it had, devouring : 
 Of my instruction hast thou notliing bated, 
 In what thou hadst to say: so, with good life,'*' 
 And observation strange, my meaner ministers 
 Their several Idnds have done : my high charms 
 
 work. 
 And these, mine enemies, are all knit up 
 In their distractions : they now ai'o in mj' power , 
 And in these fits I leave them, while I visit 
 Young Ferdinand, (whom they suppose is drown' d,) 
 And his and mine lov'd darling.'^ 
 
 [.&('< Pbos. from ahfve, 
 
 Gon. T the name of something holy, sir, whj 
 stand you 
 In this strange stare ? 
 
 Alon. 0, it is monsti'ous ! monstrous! 
 
 Methought the billows spoke, and told me of it ; 
 The winds did sing it to me ; and the thmider, 
 That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounc'd 
 The name of Prosper ; it did bn.?e my trespass.'^ 
 
 25
 
 CT^ 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 SCENE 1 
 
 ITierefore ray son i' the ooze is bedded ; and 
 I '11 seek liiai deeper than ere plummet sounded, 
 And with him there lie mudded. 
 
 [Hxit. 
 Seb. But one fiend at a time ; 
 
 I "U fight their legions o'er. 
 Ani. I '11 be thy Becond. 
 
 [_£xeunt Seb. and Ann. 
 
 Gon. 
 
 thcil 
 
 All three of them are desperate ; 
 
 great guilt, 
 Like poison given to work a great time after. 
 Now 'gins to bite the spirits. I do beseech you, 
 That are of suppler joints, follow them s^viftly, • 
 And hinder them from what this ecstaoy'^-' 
 May now provoke them to. 
 
 Adr. FoUow, I pray you. [Exeunt 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE l.—Bef(yre Prospero's Cell. 
 
 Enter Peospero, FESDiNANn, and Mieanda. 
 
 Pro. If I have too austerely punish'd you, 
 Voiir compensation makes amends ; for I 
 Have given you here a thread of mine own life,'" 
 Or that for wliich I live ; who once again 
 I tender to thy hand. All thy vexations 
 Were but my trials of thy love, and thou 
 Hast strangely stood the test : hero, afore Heaven, 
 I ratify this my rich gift. Ferdinand, 
 Do not smile at me that I boast her off. 
 For thou shalt find she wiU outstrip aU praise, 
 And make it halt behind her. 
 
 Fer. I do believe it. 
 
 Against an oracle. 
 
 Pro. Then, as my gift, and thine own acquisition 
 Worthily purchas'd, take my daughter : But 
 If thou dost break her virgin knot, before 
 All sanctimonious ceremonies may 
 With fall and holy rite be minister'd, 
 No sweet aspersion'*' shall the heavens let fall 
 To make this contract grow : but barren hate, 
 Sour-ey'd disdain, and discord, shall bestrew 
 The union of your bed with weeds so loathly. 
 That you sliaU hate it both : therefore take heed, 
 As Hymen's lamps shall light you. 
 
 Fcr. As I hope 
 
 For quiet days, fair issue, and long life, 
 With such love as 't is now, the murkiest den, 
 Tlio most opporhme place, the strong' st suggestion 
 Our worser genius can, shall never melt 
 Mine honour into lust; to take away 
 2fi 
 
 The edge of that day's celebration, 
 
 When I shall think or Phoebus' steeds'" are 
 
 founder'd, 
 Or night kept chain'd below. 
 
 Pro. Fairly spoke : 
 
 Sit, then, and talk with her, she is thine own.— 
 What, Ariel ; my industrious servant, Ariel 1 
 
 Enter AiiEL. 
 
 Art. What would my potent master? here lam. 
 
 Pro. Thou and thy meaner fellows your lasl 
 service 
 Did worthily perform ; and I must use you 
 In such another trick : go, bring the rabble, 
 O'er whom I give thee power, here, to this place 
 Incite them to quick motion ; for I must 
 Bestow upon the eyes of this young couplo 
 Some vanity of mine art ; it is my promise, 
 And they expect it from me. 
 
 Ari. Presently ? 
 
 Pro. Ay, with a twink. 
 
 Ari. Before you can say. Come, and Go, 
 And breathe twice, and cry. So, so, — 
 Each one, tripping on his toe, 
 WiU be here ^vith mop and mowe : 
 Do you love me, master ? no ? 
 
 Pro. Dearly, my delicate Ariel. Do rat approach 
 Till thou dost hear me call. 
 
 Ari. Well, I conceive. \Exit. 
 
 Pro. Look thou be true : do not give dalliance 
 Too much the rein : the strongest oaths are straw 
 To the fire i' the blood : be more abstemious, 
 Or else, good night your vow I
 
 ACT r7. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Fer. I warrant you, sir. 
 
 The white cold virgin snow upon my heart 
 Abates the ardour of my liver.'-" 
 
 Pro. WeU.— 
 
 Now come, my Ariel : bring a corollary,™ 
 1 Either than want a spirit : appear, and pertly. — 
 ^o tongue, all eyes ; be silent. \_S0ft music. 
 
 A Masque. Enter Iris. 
 
 7m. Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas 
 Of wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats, and pease ; 
 Thy turfy mountains, where hve nibbling sheep. 
 And flat meads thatoh'd with stover,™ them to 
 
 keep ; 
 Thy banlcs with pioned and twilled brims. 
 Which spongy April at thy hest betrima. 
 To make cold njrmphs chaste crowns; and thy 
 
 broom-groves,'^' 
 Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves, 
 Being lass-lorn ; thy pole-chpp'd vineyard ; 
 And thy sea-marge, steril, and rooky-hard. 
 Where thou thyself dost air : The queen o' the 
 
 sky. 
 Whose wat'ry arch, and messenger, am I, 
 Bids thee leave these, and with her sovereign 
 
 grace, 
 
 [Jtino commences ?ier descent. '\ 
 
 Here on this grass-plot, in this very place, 
 To come and sport : her peacocks fly amain : 
 Approach, rich Ceres, her to entertain. 
 
 Unter Ceees. 
 
 Cer. Hail, many-colour'd messenget, that ne'er 
 Dost disobey the wife of Jupiter ; 
 Who, with thy saffron ■wings, upon my flow'rs 
 Diffusest honey-drops, refreshing show'rs ; 
 .And with each end of thy blue bow dost crown 
 My bosky''- acres, and my unshrubb'd down, 
 Rich scarf to my proud earth : Why hath thy queen 
 Summon'd me hither, to this short-grass'd green ? 
 
 Iris. A contract of true love to celebrate, 
 And some donation freely to estate 
 On the bless'd lovers. 
 
 Cer. Tell me, heavenly bow. 
 
 If S'onus, or her son, as thou dost know. 
 Do now attend the queen ? since they did plot 
 The means that dusky Dis my daughter got. 
 Her and her blind boy's scandal'd company 
 I have forsworn. 
 
 Iris. Of her society 
 
 Be not afraid ; I met her deity 
 
 Cutting the clouds towards Paphos, and her son 
 Dove-drawn with her : here thought they to havd 
 
 done 
 Some wanton charm upon this man and maid. 
 Whose vows are that no bed-rite shall be paid 
 Tin Hymen's torch be lighted : but in vain ! 
 Miir.s's hot minion is retum'd again ; 
 Her waspish-headed son has broke his arrows. 
 Swears he will shoot no more, but play with 
 
 sparrows. 
 And be a boy right out. 
 
 Cer. Highest queen of state, 
 
 Great Juno comes : I know her by her gait. 
 
 Juno descends. 
 
 Jim. How does my bounteous sister? Go with me. 
 To bless this twain, that they may prosperous be, 
 And honour'd in their issue. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Jun. Honour, riches, marriage blessing, 
 Long continuance, and increasing, 
 Hourly joys be still upon you ! 
 Juno sings her blessings on you. 
 
 Cer. Earth's increase, foison plenty, 
 Bams and gamers never empty ; 
 Vines, with clusf ring bunches growing ; 
 Plants with goodly burthen bowing ; 
 Spring come to you, at the farthest, 
 In the very end of harvest ! 
 Scarcity and want shall shun you ; 
 Ceres' blessing so is on you. 
 
 Fer. This is a most majestic vision, and 
 Harmonious charmingly:'^' ilay i De bold 
 To think these spirits ? 
 
 Fro. Spirits, which by mine art 
 
 I have from their confines'" caU'd, to enact 
 My present fancies. 
 
 Fer. Let me live here ever ; 
 
 So rare a wonder'd father, and a wise,"" 
 Makes this place Paradise. 
 
 [Juno and Ceres whisper, and send Iris 
 on empht/menf. 
 
 Fro. Sweet now, silence ; 
 
 Juno and Ceres whisper, seriously ; 
 There's something else to do. Hush, and be mut* 
 Or else our speU is marr'd.'^* 
 
 Iris. You nymphs caU'd Naiads, of the wind- 
 ing brooks,'^' 
 With yoiu- scgd'd crowns, and ever harmless looks, 
 Leave your crisp channels, and on this green land 
 Answer your summons : — Jimo does command :
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Come, temperate nymphs, and help tc celebrate 
 A contract of true love ■ be not too late. 
 
 Enter certain Nymphs. 
 You sim-bum'd sicklemen, of August weary, 
 Come hither from the furrow, and be merry ; 
 Make hoHday : your rye-straw hats put on, 
 And tliese fresh nymphs encounter every one 
 In country footing. 
 
 Enter certain Reapers, properly hahited ; they join 
 xi'iili the Nymphs in a graceful dance; towards 
 the end tohereoj, Peospeho starts suddenly, and 
 spealcs ; after which, to a strange, hollow, and 
 confused noise, they heavily vanish. 
 
 Pro. \_Aside.'] I had forgot that foul conspiracy 
 Of the beast Caliban, and his confederates. 
 Against my life ; the minute of their plot 
 Is almost come. — [To the Spirits.'\ Well done; — 
 avoid ; — no more ! 
 
 Fer. This is strange : your father 's in some 
 passion 
 That works him strongly. 
 
 Mira. Never tUl this day. 
 
 Saw I him touch'd with anger so distemper"d. 
 
 Pro. You do look, my son, in a mov'd sort. 
 As if you were dismay'd : be cheerful, sir : 
 Our revels now are ended. These our actors, 
 As I foretold you, were all spirits, and 
 Are melted into air, into thin air : 
 And, like the baseless fabric of this vision. 
 The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaots. 
 The solemn temples, the gi-eat globe itself. 
 Yea, all which it inherit,'''' shall dissolve ; 
 And, Uke tliis insubstantial pageant fided. 
 Leave not a wreck behind.'^' We ai-e such stuff 
 As dreams are made on, and our little life 
 Is rounded with a sleep. — Sir, I am vex'd ; 
 Bear with my weakness ; my old brain is troubled. 
 Be not disturb'd with my infii-mity : 
 If you bo pleas' d, retire into my cell. 
 And there repose ; a turn or two I '11 walk, 
 To stUl my beating mind. 
 
 Fer., Mira. We wish your peace. 
 
 [F!xeunt. 
 
 Pro. Come with a thought: — I thank thee : — 
 Ariel, come. 
 
 JEnter Ariel. 
 
 Ari. Thy thoughts I cleave to : What'c thy 
 
 pleasure ? 
 Pro. Spirit, 
 
 28 
 
 We must prepare to meet ^vith'^" Caliban. 
 
 Ari. Ay, my commander; when I presented 
 
 Ceres, 
 I thought to have told thee of it ; but I fear'd 
 Lest I might anger thee. 
 
 Pro. Say again, where didst thou leave thesi; 
 
 varlets ? 
 Ari. I told you, sir, they were red-hot witli 
 
 drinking : 
 So fiiU of valour, that they smote the air 
 Por breatliing in their foces ; beat the ground 
 For kissing of their feet ; yet always bending 
 Towards their project. Then I beat my tabor. 
 At which, like unback'd colts, they priok'd their 
 
 ears, 
 Advano'd their eyelids, lifted up their noses. 
 As they smelt music ; so I charm'd their ears. 
 That, calf-like, they my lowing follow'd through 
 Tooth'd briers, shai-p furzes, pricking goss'*' an^ 
 
 thorns. 
 Which enter'd their fraQ shins : at last I left them 
 I' the filthy mantled pool beyond your cell. 
 There dancing up to the chins, that the foul lake 
 O'erstunk their feet. 
 
 Pro. This was well done, my bird ; 
 
 Thy shape invisible retain thou still : 
 The trumpery in my house, go, bring it liither, 
 For stale'*" to catch these thieves. 
 
 Ari. I go, I go. [Uxit 
 
 Pro. A devil, a bom devU, on whose naUu-e 
 Nurture'" can never stick ; on whom my pains, 
 Humanely taken, aU, all lost, quite lost ! 
 And as, viith age his body uglier grows, 
 So his mind, cankers : I ^vill plague them all. 
 
 Re-enter Asiel, loaden with glistering apparel, SfC. 
 
 Even to roai-ing : — Come, hang them on this Unc 
 
 Pkospeeo ayid Ariel remain invisiile. Enter Cali- 
 ban, SiEriLANO, and Trinculo, all wet. 
 
 Cal. Pray you tread softly, that the blind mole 
 may not hear a foot fall : we now are near his 
 ceU. 
 
 Ste. Monster, your fuiiy, which you say is a 
 harmless fairy, has done little better than play'd 
 the Jack'" with us. 
 
 Trin. Monster, I do smcU all horse-piss, at 
 which my nose is i:i great indignation. 
 
 Ste. So is mine. Do you hear, monster.^ If I 
 should take a displeasure against j"ou ; look you, — 
 
 Din. Tliou Wert but a lost monster. 
 
 Cal. (ioud 111}- lord, give me thy favour still . 
 Bo patient, for the prize I '11 bring thee to
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Shall hoodwink this mischance : therefore, speak 
 
 softly ; 
 All 's hiish'd as midnight yet. 
 
 Trin. kj, but to lose our bottles in the pool, — 
 
 Ste. There is not only disgrace and dishonour 
 in that, monster, but an infinite loss. 
 
 IVin. That 's more to me than my wetting : yet 
 tliis is your harmless ftiiry, monster. 
 
 Ste. I will fetch off my bottle, though I be o'er 
 cars for my labour. 
 
 Cal. Prithee, my king, be quiet. Seo"st thou 
 here, 
 This is the mouth o' the cell : no noise, and enter. 
 Do that good mischief, which may make this 
 
 island 
 Thine own for ever, and I, thy Caliban, 
 For aye thy foot-licker. 
 
 Ste. Give me thy hand: I do begin to have 
 bloody thoughts. 
 
 Trin. king Stephano ! peer !'** worthy 
 Stephano ! look, what a wardj-obe here is for thee ! 
 
 Cal. Let it alone, thou fool ; it is but trash. 
 
 Trin. 0, ho, monster; we know what belongs 
 to a frippery :'*" — 0, king Stephano ! 
 
 Ste. Put off that gown, Trinculo ; by tliis hand, 
 I'LL have that gown. 
 
 Trin. Thy grace shall have it. 
 
 Cal. The di'opsy drown this fool ! what do you 
 mean. 
 To doat thus on such luggage ? Let 't alone,'" 
 And do the miirther first : if he awake, 
 From toe to crown he '11 fill our skins with 
 
 pinches, — 
 Make us strange stuff. 
 
 Ste. Be you quiet, monster. — Mistress line, is 
 not this my jerkin ? Now is the jerkin under the 
 lino : now, jerkin, you are like to lose your hfdr, 
 and prove a bald jerkin. 
 
 Trin. Do, do : "We steal by line and level, an 
 't like your giace. 
 
 Ste. I thank thee for that jtst : here "s a garment 
 for 't : ■(\'it shall not go unrewarded while I am 
 king of this country. 'Steal by line and level' is 
 an excellent pass of pate ; there 's another garmen 
 for 't. 
 
 Trin. Monster, come, put some lime upon your 
 fingers, and away with the rest. 
 
 Cal. I wUl have none on 't : we shall lose oiu 
 time 
 And all be tum'd to barnacles,"* or to apes 
 With foreheads -siUainous low. 
 
 Ste. Monster, lay-to your fingers ; help to bear 
 this away where my hogshead of wine is, or I '11 
 turn you out of my kingdom : go to, carry tliis. 
 
 Trin. And this. 
 
 Ste. Ay, and this. 
 
 A noixe of hunters heard. Enter divers Spirits, in 
 shape of dogs and hounds, hunting them alottt ; 
 Peospeeo and Ariei setting them on. 
 
 Pro. Hey, Mountain, hey ! 
 
 Ari. Silcer ! there it goes. Silver ! 
 
 Pro. Fury, Fury! there, Tyrant, there! hark, 
 
 hark ! 
 
 \_They are driven out. 
 
 Go, charge my goblins that they grind their joints 
 
 "With dry convulsions ; shorten up their sinews 
 
 With aged cramps ; and more pinch-spotted make 
 
 them, 
 
 Than pard or cat o' moimtain. 
 
 Ari. Hark, they roar. 
 
 Pro. Let them be hunted soundly : At this hour 
 Lie at my mercy aU. mine enemies : 
 Shortly shall all my laboiirs end, and thou 
 Shalt have the air at freedom : for a little, 
 Follow, and do me service. [^Eteiinl. 
 
 29
 
 ACT V. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCEISTE I.— Before the Cell of Prospero. 
 
 Enter Phospeeo in, his magic robes ; and Ariel. 
 
 Pro. Now does my project gather to a head : 
 My charms crack not; my spirits obey; and Time 
 Goes upright with his carriage. How 's the day ? 
 
 Ari. On the sixth hour ; at wliich 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 fores the king and 's followers ? 
 
 Ari. Confin'd together 
 
 In the same fashion as you gave in charge ; 
 Tust as you left them ; all prisoners, sir, 
 In the line-grove"' which weather-fonds your cell ; 
 They cannot budge tiU you release.'-* The king. 
 His brother, and yoirs, 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 ! 
 
 Ilast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling 
 Of their afflictions, and shall not myself, 
 One of their kind, that relish all as sharply'" 
 Passion as they, be kindlier 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 tlian in vengeance : they being penitent, 
 The sole drift of my purpose doth extend 
 Not a frown further. Go, release them, Ariel ; 
 My channs I '11 break, their senses I '11 restore. 
 And they shall be themselves. 
 
 Ari. T 'U fetch them. sir. lUxit. 
 
 3c 
 
 Pro. Ye elves of MUs, brooks, standing lakes, 
 
 and groves ; 
 And ye that, on the sands with printless foot. 
 Do chase the ebbing Neptime, and do fly him, 
 When he comes back ; you demi-puppets, that 
 By moonsliine 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, caU'd forth the mutinous winds. 
 And 'twixt the green sea and the azur'd vault 
 Set roaring war : to the dread rattHng thunder 
 Have I given fire, and rifted Jove's sjout oak 
 AVith 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 there 
 
 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 fadoms in the earth. 
 And, deeper than did ever plummet sound, 
 I "U drown my book. \_Solemn music. 
 
 Re-enter AaiEL : after him, Alonso, ivith a frantic 
 gesture, attended hy Goxzaxo ; Sebastian and 
 Antonio in like manner, attended ly Adrian ani 
 Fkancisco : they all enter the circle which Vnoi- 
 Tt.RO had made, and there stand charmed; whiih 
 Prospeso 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 speU-stopp'd. 
 Holy Gonzalo, honourable man. 
 Mine eyes, e'en sociable to the show of thine, 
 Fall fellowly drops. — The charm dissolves apncc ; 
 And as the morning steals upon the night,
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Melting the darlniess, 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 
 
 Home, both in word imd 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 entertain' d ambition, 
 Expell'd remorse'" and nature;'" who, with Se- 
 bastian, 
 (Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong,) 
 Would here have kiU'd your king ; I do forgive 
 
 thee. 
 Unnatural though thou art ! Their understanding 
 Begins to swell, and the approaching tide 
 Will shortly fill the reasonable shore, "' 
 That now lies 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 ; 
 
 [^&it Aetel. 
 I Till disease me, and myself present, 
 As I was sometime Milan : — quickly, spirit; 
 Thou shalt ere long be free. 
 
 AjiiEL re-enters, singing, and Iwlps to attire Peo- 
 
 SPEEO. 
 
 ji ri Where the bee sucks, there suck I ;'" 
 In a cowslip's bell I lie ; 
 There I couch when owls do cjy ; 
 On the bat's back I do fly 
 After summer merrily : 
 Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, 
 Under the blossom that hangs on the bougL 
 
 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 ar^ : 
 There shalt thou find ttie mariners asleep 
 Under the hatches; the master, and the boat- 
 swain. 
 Being awake, enforce them to this place ; 
 And presently, I prithee. 
 
 Art. I drink the air before me, and return 
 Or ere your pulse twice beat. \^£xit Aetel. 
 
 Oon. All torment, trouble, wonder, and amaze- 
 ment 
 Inhabits here : Some heavenly power guide us 
 Out of this fearful country ! 
 
 Pro. Behold, sir king. 
 
 The wronged duke of ililaii, I'rospero : 
 For more assurance that a living princo 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 Til' afHiction of my mind amends, with which, 
 I fear, a madness hold me : this must crave 
 (And if this be at all) a most strange story. 
 Thy dukedom I resign,"* and do entreat 
 Thou pardon me my -nTongs : — But how should 
 
 Prospero 
 Be living, and be here ? 
 
 Fro. First, noble friend. 
 
 Let me embrace thine age, whose honour cannot 
 Be mea.5iu''d, or confin'd. 
 
 Gon. Wliether this be, 
 
 Or be not, I 'U not swear. 
 
 Pro. You do yet taste 
 
 Some subtilties o' the isle, that will not let you 
 Believe things certain : — Welcome, my friend 
 
 aU:— 
 But you, my brace of lords, were I so minded, 
 
 \_AsitIe to Seb.\s. and Ant. 
 I here could pluck his highness' frown upon you, 
 And justify you traitors ; — at tliis time 
 I will tcU no tales. 
 
 Seh. The devil speaks in him. [_Asidt. 
 
 Pro. No :— 
 
 For you, most wicked sir, whom to call brother 
 Would even infect my mouth, I do forgive 
 Thy rankest fiiult ; aU of them ; and require 
 My dukedom of thee, which, perforce, I know 
 Thou must restore. 
 
 Aloti. If thou beest Prospero, 
 
 Give us particulars of thy preservation : 
 How thou hast met us here, whom three hours 
 
 since 
 Were wreok'd upon this shore ; where I have lost 
 (How sharp the point of this remembrance is!) 
 ily 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 whoet soft 
 grace 
 
 81
 
 ACT V. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 For the L'ke loss I have her sovereign aid, 
 And rest myself content. 
 
 Alon. You the like loss ? 
 
 I^ro. Xs great to me, as late ; and supportable 
 To make the dear loss, have I means much 
 
 weaker 
 Than you may call to comfort you ; for I 
 Save lost my daughter. 
 
 Ahn. A. daiighter? 
 
 heavens ! that they were living both in Kaples, 
 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 
 Tlieu- eyes do offices of truth, their words 
 Are natural breath : but, howsoe'er you have 
 Eeen justlcd from your senses, know for certain 
 That I am Prospero, and that very duke 
 Which was thrust forth of MUan ; who most 
 
 strangely 
 Upon this shore, where you were wreck' d, was 
 
 landed, 
 To be the lord on 't. No more yet of this ; 
 For '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, 
 Ajid 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 w uch as me my dukedom. 
 
 The entrance of the Cell opens, and discovers Eembi- 
 NAJTD and MnuNBA playing 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 woidd call it fair play. 
 A Ion. K this prove 
 
 A vision of the island, one dear son 
 Snail I twice lose. 
 
 Seb. A most high miracle ! 
 
 Fw. Though the seas threaten, they are mer- 
 citul ■ 
 I have cure'd them without cause. 
 
 [Ffnt. hiccls to At.on. 
 
 Alon. Now all the blessings 
 
 Of a glad father compass thee abcjut I 
 Arise, and say how thou cam'st here. 
 
 Mira. ! wonder ! 
 
 How many goodly creatures are there here I 
 How beauteous mankind is ! brave nc . 
 
 world. 
 That has such people in "t ! 
 
 Pro. 'T is new to thee. 
 
 Alon. What is this maid, with whom thou wast 
 at play ? 
 Your eld'st acquaintance cannot lie three hours ; 
 Is she the goddess that hath sevcrd us, 
 And brought us thus togetlier ? 
 
 Fer. Sir, she is mortal ; 
 
 But, by immortal providence, she 's mine ; 
 I chose her, when I coidd not ask my father 
 For his advice ; nor thought I had one. She 
 Is daughter to this famous duke of Milan, 
 Of whom so often I have heard renown. 
 But never saw before ; of whom I have 
 Eeceiv'd a second Kfe, and second father 
 This lady makes him to me. 
 
 Alon. I am her's : 
 
 But 0, how oddly wUl it sound that I 
 Must ask my child forgiveness ! 
 
 Pro. Tlicre, sir, stop ; 
 
 Let us not burden our remembrances \vit)i 
 A heaviness that 's gone. 
 
 Gon. I have iidy wept, 
 
 Or shoidd have spoke ere this. Look dowT., yoii 
 
 gods. 
 And on this couple drop a blessed crown ; 
 For it is you that have challc'd forth the way 
 Which brought us hither ! 
 
 Alon. I say, amen, Gonznlo ! 
 
 Oon. Was Milan tlu-ust fi'om Milan, that his 
 issue 
 Shoidd become kings of Naples ? 0, rejoice 
 Beyond a common joy, and set it down 
 With gold on lasting pillars. In one voyage 
 Did Claribcl her husband find at Tunis ; 
 And Ferdinand, her brother, found a wife, 
 Where he liimself was lost ; Prospero, his duke- 
 dom. 
 In a poor isle ; and all of us, ourselves, 
 Wlicn no man was his own.' ° 
 
 v/Ai«. Give mo your hands : 
 
 [ToYv.u. and liiR. 
 Let gi iet' and sorrow still embrace his heart 
 Tliat doth not wish you joy ! 
 
 Go7i. Be it so ! Amen ! 
 
 I
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 SCENB L 
 
 Re-enter ;VniEi,, loith the Master and Boatswain 
 ainazedhj following. 
 
 look, sir, look, tiir; hero are more of us ! 
 
 1 proplicsy'd, if a gallows were on laud, 
 
 Tills fellow could uot drown : uow, blasphemy. 
 That swciu'st gi'aoe o'erboard, not an oath on 
 
 sliore ? 
 Ifast thou no mouth by land? What is the 
 news ? 
 Boats. The best news is, that we have safely 
 found 
 Our king, and company : the next our ship, 
 Wliich, but three glasses since, we gave out split, 
 Is tight, and yare, and bravely rigg'd, as when 
 Wo lirst put out to sea. 
 
 Ari. Sir, all this service \ 
 
 Have I done since I went. > Aside. 
 
 Pro. My tricksy'^' spirit ! ) 
 
 Alon. These are not natm-al events; they 
 strengthen 
 From strange to stranger. Say, how came you 
 hither ? 
 Boats. If I did thinlf, sir, I 'were well awake, 
 I 'd strive to tell you. We were dead of sloop, 
 Ajid (^how we know not) all clapp'd under 
 
 hatches, 
 Wliere, but even now, wth sh'ange and several 
 
 noises 
 Of roaring, slu-ieking, howling, gingUng chains. 
 And more di versify'^ of sounds, all homble, 
 Wg were awak'd ; straightway, at liberty : 
 ■^Hiero we, in aU her trim,'" freshly beheld 
 Our royal, good, and gallant ship ; our master 
 Caf'riug to eye her : on a tiice, so please you, 
 E.'cn in a dream , were we divided from them. 
 And were brought moping hither. 
 
 Ari. Was 't well done ? \ 
 
 Pro. Bravely, my diligence ! Thou | Aside. 
 
 shalt be free. / 
 
 Alo''\ This is as strange a maze as ere men 
 trod, 
 And there is in this business more than nature 
 Was ever conduct'" of: some oracle 
 Must i-ectify our knowledge. 
 
 Pro. Sir, my Hege, 
 
 Do not infest your mind with beating on 
 The strangeness of this business : at pick'd lei- 
 sure. 
 \^'llich shall be shortly, single I '11 resolve you 
 (Which to you shall seem probable) of evciy 
 These happen'd accidents : till when, be cheerfiJ, 
 
 And think of each thing well. — Come hither, 
 spirit ; [Aside. 
 
 Set Caliban and his companions free • 
 
 Untie the spell. \JSxit Aexel.] How fares my 
 gracious sir ? 
 
 There arc yet missing of your company 
 
 Some few odd lads that you remember not. 
 
 Re-entor Ariel, drivinff in Caliban, SiEpnANO, 
 and Trinculo, in their stolen apparel. 
 
 Ste. Every man shift for all the rest, and let n« 
 man take care for himself ; for aU is but fortune ; — 
 Coragio, bidly-monstcr, Coragio ! 
 
 Trin. If these be tnie spies which I wear in my 
 head, here 's a goodly sight. 
 
 C'al. Setebos I these be brave spLrits, indeed I 
 How fine my master is ! I am afraid 
 He will chastise me. 
 
 Seb. Ha, ha ! 
 
 WHiat things ai'e these, my lord Antonio ? 
 WiU monej' buy them ? 
 
 Ant. Very like ; one of them 
 
 Is a plain fish,'"' and, no doubt, marketable. 
 
 Pro. Mark but the badges of these men, my 
 lords. 
 Then say if they be true:'" this mis-shapen 
 
 knave, — 
 His mother was a witch, and one so strong 
 That could control the moon, make flows and 
 
 ebbs. 
 And deal in her command, without her power : 
 These three have robb'd me : and this demi-devil 
 (For he 's a bastaj'd one) had plotted with them 
 To take my life : two of these fellows you 
 Must know, and own ; this thing of dai'kness I 
 Aclmowledge mine. 
 
 Cal. I shall be pinch'd to death ! 
 
 Alon. Is not this Stephano, my drunlen 
 butler ? 
 
 Seh. He is dnuik now : where had hj wine ? 
 
 Alon. And Trinculo is reeling ripe: ^Vhere 
 should they 
 Find this grand liquor that hath gilded them ? — 
 How cam'st thou in this pickle ? 
 
 Trin. I have been in such a pickle, since I saw 
 you last, that, I fear me, will neve." out of my 
 bones : I shall not fear fly-blowing. 
 
 Seh. ^\Tiy, how now, Stephano ? 
 
 Sto. 0, touch me not ; I am not Stephano, but 
 a cramp. 
 
 Pro. You 'd be king o' the isle, sin-ah ' 
 
 Ste. I should have been a sore one then. 
 
 S3
 
 ACT V" 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 SCENE L 
 
 Alon. This is a strange thing as e'er''' I look'd 
 on. [Pointing to Cal. 
 
 Pro. He is as disproportion" d in his manners 
 As in his shape : — Go, siiTah, to my cell ; 
 Take with you yoiu- companions ; as you look 
 To have my pardon, trim it handsomely. 
 
 Cal. Ay, that I wUl ; and I '11 be mse here- 
 after, 
 And seek for grace. What a thrice-douhle ass 
 Was I, to take this dnmkard for a god. 
 And ■worship this dull fool ! 
 
 Pro. Go to ; away ! 
 
 Alon. Hence, and bestow your luggage ■where 
 you found it. 
 
 Seh, Or stole it, rather. 
 
 \JExeu)it Cal., Ste., ayid Tnrs. 
 
 Pro. Sir, I in^-ite your highness, and your 
 train. 
 To my poor cell : ■where you shall take your rest 
 For this one night ; ■which (part of it) I '11 ■waste 
 With such disooua'se, as, I not doubt, shall 
 
 make it 
 Go quick a^way, — the story of my life, 
 And the particiilar accidents gone by. 
 Since I came to this isle : And in the mom 
 I 'U bring you to your ship, and so to Naples, 
 Where I have hope to sec the nuptial 
 Of these our dcar-belov'd solemnized ; 
 And thence retire me to my Milan, ■where 
 Erei-y thii-d thought shall be my grave. 
 
 Alon. ' I long 
 
 To hear the stoiy of your life, which must 
 
 Take the oar strangely. 
 ■34 
 
 Pro. I 'U deliver all ; 
 
 And promise you calm seas, auspicious gales, 
 And sail so expeditious, that shall catch 
 Tour royal fleet far oflf. — My Ariel, — cliick, — 
 That is thy charge ; — then to the elements 
 He free, and fare thou well ! — [aside\ Please yon, 
 draw near. \Exmnu 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 Spohen ly Peospeeo. 
 
 Now my charms are all o'ertlu"own. 
 And what strength I have 's mine owii ; 
 Which is most fiiint : now 't is tree, 
 I must be here confin'd by you. 
 Or sent to Naples. Let me not, 
 Since I have my dukedom got, 
 And pardon'd the deceiver, dwell 
 Li this bare island, by your spell ; 
 But release me from my bands, 
 With the help of your good hands. 
 Gentle breath of yours my sails 
 Must fill, or else my project fails, 
 Which was to please. Now I wai t 
 Spirits to enforce, art to enchant ; 
 And my ending is despair. 
 Unless I be rehev'd by prayer; 
 Which pierces so, that it assaults 
 Mercy itself, and fi-ees all faults. 
 As you from crimes woTild pardon'd oe, 
 Let your indxigence '^t mo free.
 
 NOTES TO THE TEMPEST. 
 
 ' GiKxl, speak to the manners. 
 
 Thu reader of Shakespeare will find it advantageous to 
 bear iii mind that tlie poet eontinually employs elliptical 
 expressions. Good, in this passage, is elliptical for good 
 friends. The master could scarcely tell the hoatswain 
 mat'ei-s were in a favoiu-ahle condition, though that is the 
 only meaning to bo derived from the piuictuation adopted 
 by Knight, Collier, and other modem editors. Wluil cheer 
 is an expletive, nearly equivalent to holloa in reply to a 
 smiuuons. Yarely, qiucldy, nimbly. — Blow, till thou burst 
 tliy wind, if room enough. This is said by the boatswain, 
 apostropliizing the storm, and may be explained, — Blow, 
 till thou burst thyself, if there be sutficient sea-room. 
 
 Rise, winds! 
 
 Blow till ye burst the air, and swell the seas, 
 
 That they may sink the stars ! 
 
 Fletcher's Double Marriage, 1647. 
 
 Mr. Holt, who wrote a tract on this play printed in 1749, 
 says, " the whole dialogue here, consisting of sea-terms and 
 phrases, tliough not quite perfect, is by much the best of 
 that kind ever introduced on the stage ; for unless when 
 Gonsalo mentions the cable, which is of no use but when 
 the sliip is at anchor, and hero it is plain they are under 
 sail, tliere is not one improperly used." It should, however, 
 be recollected that Gonzalo is not a sailor. Competent 
 judges have declared the description faidtless. 
 
 - Antonio, Ferdinand. 
 The first folio reads Anthonio and Ferdinando. In the 
 first of these instances, the h may perhaps be retaiaed, but 
 of course not admitted into the pronunciation, 
 
 ^ Play the men. 
 That is, behave like men. The plirase occurs in the 
 Bible, 2 Samuel, x. 12. 
 
 * Where is the jnaster, boatswain ? 
 Mr. Knight here roads boson, from the first folio, but Mr. 
 Dyce has clearly 6ho%vn this to be a more variation of form 
 arising from the unsettled state of our early orthography. 
 Besides, had it been a familiar form of the word, it might 
 have been employed by one sailor to another, but scarcely 
 jy a person of so exalted a station as An onio. 
 
 ^ Of the present. 
 That is, of the present time. 
 
 ' Bring her to try with main couTSi. 
 A sea-phrase. As the gale is increasing, tho topmast it 
 struck, to take the weight from aloft, make the ship drivo 
 less to leeward, and bear the mainsail under which the ship 
 is laid to. Smith, in his Sea Grammar, 1G27, explains it, 
 " to bale the lacke aboord, the sheate doee aft, the holing set 
 up, and the hebne tied close aboord." 
 
 ' I'll warrant him for drowning. 
 The preposition /or is here archaic in the absolute sense 
 o( from, not on account of, as Jlr. Knight explains it. There 
 is, therefore, no necessity for adopting Theobald's alteration. 
 from droicniny. 
 
 * Lay her a-hold, a-liold 1 
 The ship, having diiven near the shore, is brought to lie 
 as near the wind as she can, and tho mainsail is hauled up. 
 
 ^ Set her two courses. 
 Holt's pimctuation is here followed. Ho says, "the 
 courses meant are two of the three lowest and largest sails 
 of a ship, wliich are so called, because, as laigest, they 
 contribute most to give her way through the water, and 
 consequently enable her to feel her helm, and steer her 
 com-se better, than when they are not set or spread to the 
 wind." 
 
 ■° We are merely cheated. 
 Merely, i. e. absolutely ; wholly. It is the primitive 
 meaning, from the Latin merits. 
 
 " To glut him. 
 That is, to swallow him. It is scarcely necessary to 
 remark that Gonzalo is refening to the old proverb, — " He 
 that is born to be hanged will never be drowned." 
 
 •- The freighting souls within her. 
 Messrs. CoUierand Knight adopt the oiihography/rauji/i/- 
 ing fi-om the fii-st folio, which is merely the early form oi 
 tho word, and can scarcely be considered worth retaining. 
 We must make a \ride distinction between different words 
 and dili'erent fonns of words. 
 
 '■* / am more better. 
 The reader must recollect that these double comparatives 
 belonged to the grammar of Shakespeare's peri<d. 
 " That there ii no soul, — 
 Prospero here, speaking very rnergetically, breaks the
 
 NOIES TO IHE TEMPEST. 
 
 sentence. Wiy should I say soiil ? There ia not so much 
 perdition as a hair betid to any creatiu-e in the Tesscl. 
 
 '' Inquisition, L e. enquiry. "Toi-tuiing strangers with 
 inquisition after lis grace." Cynthia's Revels. 
 
 '* Out three years old. 
 
 That is, quite three years old. 
 
 '" Backwa 1 and abysm of time. 
 Backward, the past state. Abysm, abyss, from the 
 old French abysme. 
 
 18 And princess — no worse issued. 
 1 hare ventmed to arrange this speech differently from 
 toy predecessors. Prospero says his wife asserted Miranda 
 to be his daughter, and his only heir and pi-incess, no worse 
 descended. The passage, and thy father was Dithc of Milan, 
 is parenthetical, to bring the fact to his daughter's mind, 
 not an assertion that the Duchess herself would have con- 
 sidered it necessary to have added, or Prospero, speaking 
 for her. 
 
 13 Or blessed was 't we did. 
 That is, or was it a blessing that we did. 
 
 -" TTie teen that I have turn'd you to. 
 
 Teen, sorrow, trouble, grief. Tliis is a puie Anglo-Saxon 
 Tord, very common in old English. 
 
 -' Who ( advance. 
 This is no doubt Shakespeare's diction, being consonant 
 Bdth the graimuatical usage of Ms time. My text is from 
 die first folio. Modem editors adopt the later reading, whom 
 to advance. Knight and CoUier frequently depart from the 
 original, not sufficiently considering that the age of Shakes- 
 peare had a grammar of its o^vn, quite as systematic and 
 fiir more genuine than what we now use. 
 
 -- To trash for over-topping. 
 
 That is, whom to lop in case of over-topping. Trash is 
 ;in old gardening term for, to lop, and Dryden substitutes 
 the latter toiin, e\idently understanding it in that sense. 
 
 -3 Like a good parent. 
 
 Alluding to the old saying, — A wise father has often a 
 fooHsh son. 
 
 -^ \Mio having unto truth, by telling of it, ^c. 
 
 This sentence is confused, tho\igh the meaning is e\ident 
 ly transposition, — who having unto troth made such a 
 Erinner of his memory, to credit his own lie by teUing of it. 
 This is Mr. Knight's e.xplanation. The emendation, by 
 telling oft, perhaps rendere the line more consistent with 
 sense and metre ; but it is not impossible a line may be 
 irrecoverably lost, for the constniction appears, under any 
 explanation, to require some addition. The old edition 
 reads, into truth, and the passage woidd he similarly ex- 
 plained, — -w ho having, by telling of his own Me, made such 
 n sinner o( his memory, to credit it into truth. 
 
 " To have no screen, ^c. 
 Thai Is. to prevent the necessity of his acting a part. 
 
 " Dry he was for sway. 
 Dry is now a vulgarism for thirsty, and its metaphorical 
 aso here might at first sight perplex tlio casual reader. 
 3G 
 
 ^ In lieu o' iK premise*. 
 
 That is, in consideration for. 
 
 '* A rotten carcase of a boat. 
 
 The old editions imfortunately read butt for bout, and 
 Knight and Collier restore the e\'ident corruption to th-' 
 text in the sense of a wine-butt ! Mr. Dyce observes that i 
 butt large enough to contain Prospero and his daughter, 
 with the articles fui^nished by Gonzalo, must have been the 
 Great Tun of Heidelbiu'g borrowed for the occasion. The 
 editors omit the only feasible argument in favour of theii 
 restoration, that butt might possibly be used metaphorically 
 for a vessel no better than a cask. 
 
 ^3 Instinctively have quit it. 
 Dryden altered have to had, and his reading was followed 
 by many editors. There is no necessity for distm-bing the 
 original. Prospero uses the present tense to bring Iiis 
 naiTative more >dvidly to his hearer's mind. 
 
 ^^ Whe7i I have deck'd the sea. 
 We may probably use the tenn deck'd in the original 
 sense of covered. This seems preferable to the \'iolent 
 alteration degg'd, sprinkled, which is recommended by some 
 editors. Teai's, to be sm-e, are called melting pearls in the 
 Two Gentlemen of Verona, and might thus be metapho- 
 rically supposed to adorn the sea, but the image appears too 
 forced for Prospero to use in spealdng of his own. Although 
 Prospero could raise a Tempest,- he could not allay the 
 storm of Nature, and confesses his weakness by his tears. 
 
 " An undergoing stomach. 
 Stomach is here us 'd in the old sense of courage. Elyot- 
 in his Dictionarie, 1556, translates spiritus by this word. 
 
 32 j^j^ Providence divine. 
 Mr. Knight places a comma after this sentence, and says 
 the entii'e speech is an answer to Miranda's question. But 
 this is surely an error. By the aid of divine Providence 
 they reached the shore. The pro\'isions, garments and 
 books, furnished by Gonzalo, can scarcely be referred to the 
 same source, in a reply to the question asked by Miranda. 
 
 ^^ Know thus far-forth. 
 Far-forth, Uterally, far in advance. The phrase is here 
 equivalent to, know thus much. 
 
 " IVow my dear lady. 
 This refers to Fortune, who is now my dear lady, my 
 auspicious mistress. 
 
 '^ Perform d to point. 
 That is, perfectly. A French plu-ase. 
 
 '*'* A'oH? on the hi'ah, now in the waist 
 
 Beak, tl;e prow of a ship ; extremitas prora. Coles 
 
 Waist, the part between the quarter-deck and the forccaslle 
 
 " Sitstaining garments. 
 
 That is, enduring garments, garments which bore the 
 drenching of the sea. 
 
 ^** His anus in this sad knot. 
 Here Ariel of course folds his arms in imitation ol 
 Ferdinand's position.
 
 KOTES TO THE TKMPEST 
 
 "' 77i« slillrvex'd Bermoetltes. 
 The Bermudas were supposed to be inhabited by evil 
 tpirita. Dekker, in Uis Strange Horse Race, 1613, mentions 
 thorn as being " haunted, as all men know, -ft-itli hogs and 
 hnbgoblings," and adds, the " Boi-mudas called the Hand of 
 Divels by reason of the grunting of B\rijie heard from 
 cbenep to the sea." 
 
 Orcatnessc to me seem'd ever fidl of feare, 
 
 Wiieli -tlmu found'at false at thy arriving there ; 
 
 Of the BfTramlos the example such, 
 
 Where not a ship untiU this time durst touch, 
 
 Kept, as suppos'd, by hels infernall dogs,- 
 
 Oiir fleet found their most honest courteous hogs. 
 
 Coryafs Crudities, 1611. 
 
 '» Sir, in Argier. 
 
 An old name for Algiers. 
 
 ^^ We cannot miss him. 
 
 We cannot miss him, i. o., we cannot do without him, a 
 phrase, according to Malone, current in the midland coun- 
 ties. Mr. Collier says, " no similar use of it has been 
 pointed out in otlier writers." Palsgrave, however, gives 
 a very similar idiom in his Table of Verbes, f. 180 — "I 
 can nat want my gloves, je ne me puis passer sans mes 
 gans." So also Cotgrave, in v. Passer, " De cela je ne 
 puis passer, I can by no meanes want it, I cannot bee 
 without it." This form of expression is common enough 
 in America. 
 
 *- Come, thou tortoise ! when ? 
 When is a very common expression of great impatience | 
 in old plays. So in Julius Caesar, " When, Lucius, when?" 
 
 *^ Quaint, brisk, dexterous. (Fr. cointe.) 
 '* As wicked dew. 
 
 Wicked, i.e., baneful, pemicioua. His mother was a 
 witch, and the raven's feather was an article in her 
 laboratory. 
 
 *5 Urchins shall, for thai vast, Sfc. 
 Urchins is an archaic, and still used as a provincial, 
 terra for hedgehogs, but here may be employed for a kind of 
 spirits or fairies, who perhaps were supposed to assume that 
 shape. The term again occurs in the Merry Wives of 
 Windsor. For that vast of night, during that depth of 
 night. 
 
 *" But ihy vild race. 
 Vild is an old form of vile, and being necessary for the 
 verse in other places, should not be altered by the editors. 
 Race appears to mean natural dispo.':ition, a disposition 
 inherited from the mother. The word occurs in a similai' 
 ease in Measure for Measure, — " now I give my sensual 
 face the rein." 
 
 *' The red plague rid you. 
 Rid you, i.e., destroy you. 
 
 ** Aches. 
 In Shakespeare's time this substantive was always used 
 as a dissyllable. Kcmble was, perhaps, coiTect in hia 
 pronunciation, however much we may question his judg- 
 ment in persisting in the old form on the modem stage. 
 
 *» HTy dam's god, Setelim. 
 
 Setcbos was the supreme god of tlie Patagonians, and 
 although Sycorax was bom in Algiers, she might have been 
 descended from them. He is termed a " great dinTll" iii 
 Eden's History of Travayle, 1577, p. 434. 
 51 T7ic wild waves whist. 
 
 I think we must consider tliis line parenthetical, the wild 
 waves being silent. Mr. Knight suggests the pretty idea, 
 you have kissed the wild waves into silence ; but tlus in- 
 terpretation scai-eely suits the construction of the original. 
 
 " Dispersedly, in several places. " A rausick that seem'd 
 to come from all parts of the stage," Capell. 
 " Cry, cock-a-diddle-dow. 
 
 It seems preferable to preserve this version of the strain, 
 as printed in Uie first folio, to the modem one, it being 
 evidently intended to rhyme mth bowgh, wowgh. 
 53 Full fadom five ihy father lies. 
 
 Fadom, the old Anglo-Saxon foi-m of fathom. This is f 
 case, I apprehend, where it is not in an editor's discretion 
 to alter the original text. The alliteration in this line, and 
 in the previous song, is worth observation. 
 5* That the earth owes. 
 
 That is, owns, possesses. This archaic use of the wo;d 
 is fi-equent in Shakespeare. 
 
 5* If you be maid or no. 
 
 This is no doubt the correct reading, but it has been 
 differently explained. By some, that Ferdinand's immediate 
 and preternatural love for Miranda renders his prime request 
 the question whether the is unmanied. The only objection 
 I have to this is, that Mu-anda's reply would in that sense 
 possibly deti-act somewhat from the extreme pmity of her 
 character. Others think the enquiry is merely whether she 
 is a mortal or goddess. 
 
 ^ A single thing. 
 
 That is, a simple weak person. " My single state o 
 man." Single is used elsewhere by Shakespeare in the 
 same sense. 
 
 5' And his brave son. 
 
 This personage is not mentioned elsewhere in the play, 
 a circumstance which may perhaps be attributed to the tale 
 being taken from an early novel. 
 
 '8 Could control tliee. 
 
 That is, disprove or contradict. Coles ti-anslates conrrw.d 
 by, redarguo, conlradico. " I fear you have done yourself 
 some wrong," that is, says Steevens, I fear that in assert- 
 ing yourself to be King of Naples, you have uttered a 
 falsehood injurioue to your character. 
 
 5' ril manacle thy neck and ftet together. 
 
 That is, fasten them together with a manacle, ui an iron 
 instrument so foraied that when a prisoner was placed in it 
 he could not change his position. 
 
 5" He's gentle and not fearful. 
 Fearful has the two significations, timorous and tor- 
 midable. Here Miranda seems to imply he is not lo be 
 feared, and therefore that there was no necessity for " too 
 rash a trial," 
 
 3T
 
 NOTES TO THE TEMPEST. 
 
 *' Mij foot my tutor. 
 The term foot is appai-ently employed metaphorically for 
 Ills child. 
 
 «= Come from thj ward. 
 That is, thy posture of defence. 
 
 ^ Our hint of woe. 
 
 In other -n-ords, the woe which oiir misfortune hints or 
 siiggeeta to us. 
 
 ** The masters if some merchant. 
 
 That is, of sosao merchant vessel. The term is used in 
 Uio same sense by Dryden. 
 
 ^» The visitor will not give him o'er so. 
 
 The -visitor is Gonzalo, who is represented as consoler, 
 and therefore so called in allusion to the person who visits 
 and consoles the sick. 
 
 ^8 So, you're paid. 
 The wager laid was a latighter, and as Sebastian laughs 
 immediately affer Adrian commences speaking, he remarks 
 Ihat the wager is paid. In the old copies these words are 
 given to Antonio, but they clearly do not belong to him, as 
 it is he who wins the wager. 
 
 " Delicate ianperancc. 
 Steevens says temperance here means temperature, and 
 that the allusion in the next line is to the Puritanical custom 
 of christening children fiom the titles of religious and moral 
 virtues 
 
 ^^ Hoiv lush and lusty. 
 
 Lush is juicy, succulent. The term is apparently used for 
 moist by Topscll, in his Historic of Beasts, 1607, p. 343, 
 An eye of green, a shade or tint of gieen. 
 
 ^' Not since widow Dido's time. 
 Dr. Johnson supposes this alludes to the -n-idows their 
 wreck had made for a time ; but Dido's husband had been 
 murdered before she went to Carthage. 
 
 "" More than the miraculous harp. 
 Alluding to the story of Amphion, who was so incom- 
 parable a musician, that when he played upon a lute pre- 
 sented to him by Mercury, the stones which buUt Thebes 
 followed him to the place where they should be laid. 
 
 '1 The stomach of my sense. 
 Tlie stomach or appetite of my sense, i.e. my desire. 
 
 "2 Who hath cause to wet the grief on 't. 
 This line will be best understood by explaining who to 
 refer to eye. The rcl.atives who or which are frequently 
 used indiscriminately by Shakespeare. 
 
 '^ Which end tfie beam should how. 
 
 Tliu old copies read, which end o' th' beam should boa, 
 Jtcred generally to, which end o' the beam she'd bow. 
 EiUioi this reading, or tliat I linvo adopted, makes perfect 
 SCIUO. 
 
 38 
 
 '^ ]ifore icidows in them of this business* making, 
 Tlian we bring men to comfort them. 
 
 Sebastian means to say, there are more widows in Milan 
 and Naples than there are men preserved in the island 
 alluding to the others he supposes have perished. 
 
 "'^ Foison i.e. abimdance. The word occurs again at p. 27 
 It is from the Anglo-Norman ymsoji, but Collier and Knight . 
 print foizon and foison in this same play, blindly following 
 the un-iettled oithography of the time. 
 
 '* You are gentlemen of brave metal. 
 Metal in the original edition, is changed by modern 
 editors to mettle, but this latter word conveys a stronger 
 meaning than Shakespeare intended. Metal is used me- 
 taphorically for temper or disposition, and brave in the 
 ordinary old sense of fine or arrogant. 
 
 ''' The heavy offer of it. 
 
 Alluding of course to sleep, but the next line has a re- 
 lative ■n'ithout an antecedent. 
 
 '•^ For he's a spirit of persuasion. 
 
 The word who is understood before only, a mode of elision 
 we again meet with in the Two Gentlemen of VeroJia. The 
 sentence is rather obscure. His entire business ia the pro- 
 fession of persuasion. 
 
 '^ Teti leagues beyond man's life, 
 
 We have here one of the vexed questions whidi have 
 tormented critics for more than a centvuy. Some say it 
 implies a greater distance than the life of man is long 
 enough to reach ; others, that Man's Life is the name of n 
 place. It is perfectly clear Antonio wishes to express and 
 even exaggerate the distance between Naples and Tunis, iu 
 order to persuade Sebastian of tho possibility of his design, 
 
 " And by that destiny, Ifc. 
 This difficult passage receives no explanation at tho 
 hands of CoUier or Knight, but it surely requires a note. 
 The passage, and by that destiny, I suppose is spoken ellip- 
 ticaUy, and the sense of the whole will be, — though some 
 thrown on shore to perform a deed of which the past is 
 oiJy a prologue ; the future depends on what you and I are 
 to perform. The construction of the last line, in your's and 
 my discharge, is somewhat pecuhar, but seems preferable to 
 is yours, as Theobald reads, because it leaves the question 
 open to Sebastian's desires, whereas the latter would read aa 
 if he had quite determined on the course to be adopted. 
 
 'Choughs and rooks," 
 
 61 Chough, i.e. a jack-daw. 
 
 Macbeth. 
 
 82 Morsel, figuratively used for a small person, or perhaps 
 for any individual iu fanuliar language. The term occurs 
 again in Measure for Measure. 
 
 ^ To heep them living, 
 
 Malone's alteration in this line, his projects die, for hts 
 project dies, has been adopted. Some emendation must be 
 made, or them is inexplicable, unless, indeed, we refer it tc 
 Gomialo and the project
 
 NOTES TO THE TEMPEST. 
 
 *• IVhy are you draim ? 
 That is, why aro your swords drawn ? 
 
 ^ Moe, i.n. make mouths. "To mop, mow, jest,railo," 
 Declaration of Popish Impostures, 1603. 
 
 ** Pricks, L9. prickios. Wound, i.e. wrapped round, 
 
 *' A foul bumbard. 
 
 A bumbard was a largo Idnd of diiuldng-can. " That 
 huge bumbard of saci;," I Homy IV. 
 
 "8 Tli're would this monster make a man. 
 
 That is, make a man's fortune. The phrase occurs fre- 
 quently in Shakespeare. So in the old ballad of Eobin 
 Hcod and the Tinker,— 
 
 I have a warrant from tho king 
 
 To take him where I can ; 
 If you can tell me where he is, 
 
 I will make you a man. 
 
 " To creep under his gaberdine. 
 
 A gaberdine was a land of coarse cloak or mantle, worn 
 chiefly by peasants and Jews. 
 
 ^ Salmyes, i.e. sav.tges. It was the pi'onunciation of the 
 time, and should be preserved. 
 
 " Wiile Stephano breathes at ' yiostiils. 
 
 I linvo here followed the original edition in placing n 
 mark of elision after at, which is probably elliptical for 
 at hii. 
 
 ^ I leiR not lake too much for him. 
 
 A vulgar kind of ironical speaking, implying he will 
 lake as much as he can get. 
 
 ^^ TTiOH dost me yet but little hurt. 
 
 Dr. Grey tbinka Caliban always speaks in verse, and 
 arranges this speech as follows, — 
 
 Thou dost me yet hut little hurt ; thou wilt 
 Anon : I know it by thy trembling : 
 Now Prospro works so on thee. 
 
 Kotes on Shakespeare, ed. 1754, i. 19. Mr. Knight in 
 act iii. so. 2, says Caliban always speaks metrically, though 
 he arranges the above as prose ! In fact, if au editor can 
 make blaidc verse of the present speech, so he could of 
 every article in tie Times newspaper with equal facility. 
 
 8* / have no long spoon, 
 
 " He hath need of a long spoon that eateth with the 
 devU," )ld proverb. 
 
 " The siege of this mconcalf. 
 
 Mr. jollier erroneously explains siege by seat, though its 
 mcanirg (save reverence) is perfectly clear, and needs not 
 a note. A mooncalf is an imperfectly developed foetus, 
 Ijflro metaphorically applied to a misshapen monster. 
 
 ^ Young scamelsfrom the rock. 
 
 Holt, writing in 1749, says limpets are termed scams in 
 
 acme counties, and I have the authority of Mr. Croflon 
 
 r for asaortiDg that tho term is still retained in Ire- 
 
 land in that sense. Mr. Croft bears eiidenne to tho eame 
 effect, and Waldron, notes to the Sad Shepherd, p. 12G, 
 observes that a vessel called the Scammel m mentioned in 
 the Pennsylvanian Journal for July 1.5th, 1782. Thei^balJ 
 proposes to read stamiels, a species of hawk. 
 
 " Nor scrape trencher. 
 
 The early editions read trinchevimj, an obvious typogi-a- 
 phical blimder, which, though conected by Diydon, iji hii> 
 alteration of this play, and by Theobald, is unaccountatily 
 re-introduced by Knight and Collier. This blind adliercnco 
 to the old copies, in defiance of sense, cannot be judicious. 
 The only supposition on which the old reading can bo 
 made partially con'ect is that Shakespeare wrote trencheren, 
 tho old English plural ; but this is scarcely probable, and. 
 on the whole, we believe our reading to be tlie best. 
 In Shakespeare's time, when trenchers were used, they 
 were generally scraped, not washed. 
 
 °' Most busy-less when I do it. 
 
 The second folio reads, " most busy, least when 1 do it," 
 a reading adopted by several critics of the last centiuy, 
 and revived by Mr. Collier as original. The above is 
 Theobald's correction. Mr. Dyce characteii.'es Mr. Collier's 
 reading as " a corruption which outrages language, taste, 
 and common sense." 
 
 ^3 ^ Twill weep for having wearied you. 
 
 A beautiful allusion to the dewy vapour on grocn wood 
 when burning. 
 
 '°'' Hest, i.e. behest, command. ' 
 
 ;oi fpjiat else, i.e. whatever else, aught else. 
 
 i"- It seeks, i.e. affection seeks. 
 
 "" A thousand, thousand ! 
 That is, a thousand, thousand times farewell ! 
 
 "■* Standard, i.e. ensign. 
 
 los Thou dcbosh'd fish. 
 
 Dcbosh'd, lewd and debauched. This is more than a mere 
 variation of orthography, and should of course be preserved ; 
 and if the reader refers to Minsheu, he may conclude it 
 means rather more than debauched. 
 
 1(16 '\Yhat a pied ninm/s this f 
 Trinculo, the jester, w.is a domestic buffoon, and this 
 passage puts it beyond doubt that he should be habitfcl on 
 the stage in a suit of motley. 
 
 "" I'll go no further off. 
 
 The word no is taken from the second folio, and seems 
 necessary to the sense. Stephano wishes to get rid ol 
 Trinculo' 8 interruption, hut the latter is bent on listening 
 to Caliban, and as Stephano commands him to stand ftirtbet 
 off twice in a few lines, we may suppose some moveme'al 
 of the hand is here given to the same effect. 
 
 'M He's but a sot. 
 Sot is here used in the sense of fool, from tte French. 
 
 39
 
 NOTES TO THE TEMPEST. 
 
 "" T^oul 'em, and shout 'em. 
 
 Tho original, by an easy misprint-, reads cout for skout, 
 ond 51 r. Knight follows it, but does not tell ua the meaning 
 of the term. 
 
 "" The picture of Nobody. 
 
 Nobody ■vras once the subject of sign-boards. It was 
 usually represented by a picture of a head upon two legs, 
 with arms ; a physical realization. 
 
 "I Wilt come? 
 
 These words should be added to Stophano's speech, or 
 else they are intended to be addressed to Caliban. 
 
 112 jjy'r la'hin, diminutive of By our lady, a very common 
 ancient oath. 
 
 i'3 Through forth-rights and meanders. 
 
 That is, througli straight and wandering paths. The first 
 term occurs again in Troilus and Cressida. 
 
 m A living drollery. 
 A drollery or puppet-show represented by living 
 characters. 
 
 "5 There is one tree, the phanix' throne. 
 •' Phenbt is a bird, and there is but one of that Hnde in 
 all the wide worlds, therfore ignorant men wonder thereof; 
 and among fne Arabians, there this bird Phenix is bred. 
 He is called singularis, alone." Salman uppon Bartholome, 
 fol. Lond. 1582, fol. 183. 
 
 1'-^ Rfuse, i.e. wonder. 
 
 ^'^ J^ach nuti'er out at Jive for one. 
 
 It was the custom in Shakcspcai'e's time, when travelling 
 was not very safe, for persons to put out money before 
 going abroad, on condition of recei™ig back two, three, 
 foiu' or even five times the amount on theii' return, accord- 
 ing to tho supposed danger of the expedition. Shirley 
 makes an incident of this kind conspicuous in his play 
 called the Ball. It appears fi'om Haniarby Rich, that 
 three for one was paid even for a journey to Kome. Daviea 
 in his Epigrams, has one of considerable point on the prac- 
 tice of putting out : — 
 
 Lyc\is, which lately is to Venice gone. 
 Shall, if he do rctimi, gain three for one ; 
 But, ten to one, his knowledge and his wit 
 Will not be better'd or increas'd a whit. 
 
 We shall hear more of men with heads standing below the 
 ehoiJdcrs in Othello. 
 
 '" IVith a quaint device, the banquet vanishes. 
 
 ITiis means nothing more, as Mr. Dyce obseiTes, than 
 that the mechanist of the theatre was to do his best to 
 make it seem that the harpy had dcvoiu-ed the banquet. 
 
 11' To belch up you, 
 
 Mr. Collier omil.5 the last word, bnt erroneously, for 
 nothing is more common in the Klizabethan di-ama tlian 
 the duplication of tlic pronoun, and we have many instances 
 of it in Shakespeare. Tluit hath to instrument, Ifc., i.e. 
 that uses all the world as its instnimcnt or design for work. 
 This is one of tho finest speeches in tbc play, and its moral 
 effect should shield the whole from tho censure of tho 
 opponents of tho drama. 
 40 
 
 '-" Dowle, i.e. a foatJitr, or, perhaps, more rtrongly, j 
 single particle of down. 
 
 1*' Good life, i.e. good spirit, energy. 
 
 "• And his and mine lov'd dnrling. 
 Here both Collier and Knight alter the expressive ori^- 
 nal mine to my, in defiance of the usage of Shakespeare. 
 
 1-3 It did base my trespass. 
 
 That is, the thunder pronounced his crime in the deep 
 base sound. Spenserhas a similar image inhis/lzer/c' Queen, — ■ 
 
 The rolling sea, resoimding oft, 
 
 In his big base them fitly answered. 
 
 1-' Ecstacy, i.e. madness. It is used in the same senso 
 in Hamlet. 
 
 1-^ A third of mine otcn lifi. 
 
 Although I have very great doubts whether Theobald' 
 alteration thread should not be substituted for third, yet as 
 every old edition concurs in the latter reading, and tolerable 
 sense can be made of it, I have followed the first foUo. 
 Mr. Collier adopts the e.^lanation that Prospero has given 
 Ferdinand a thiid of his own life, a portion of his very 
 existence, in bestowing Miranda upon him. Can we 
 accept it in the sense that Prospero has bestowed a third 
 portion of his life on the care and education of M iranda ? 
 Shakespeare elsewhere uses thread of life in its strict classi- 
 cal sense, so that he would probably have written the thread, 
 had he intendcdto use that word. 
 
 1-* Aspersion, i.e. sprinkling, the primitive sense of tlic 
 term. 
 
 1-' Or Phabiis' steed.i. 
 
 It is almost rmnecessai-y to observe that the first or is 
 used here for eitJicr. 
 
 i-S The ardour of my liver. 
 
 In the physiology of oiu- ancestors, the liver was con- 
 sidered the seat of the passions 
 
 '-' Bring a corollary. 
 Corollary, a sui-plus number, (Fr.) i.e. bring more thiul 
 are sufficient rather than want any. Minshcu explains it, 
 the addition or advantage over measm-e. 
 
 ■'" Stover, properly applied to gi-ass fodder for cattle. 
 See my Dictionary of .•b-chaisnis, p. 81 -1. Not necessarily 
 coai'sc gi'ass, as stated by Mr. Collier. Twilled m tho neA 
 line has occasioned much controversy, and its exact mean- 
 ing does not appear to be ascertained. A reed is called a 
 twill in the North of England. Lass-lorn, forsalien by his 
 mistress. Pole-clypt vineyard, a&udmg to, ihv poles being 
 clipped or embraced by the vines. 
 
 131 A7id thy broom groves. 
 An old SrL.tch baUad represents a lover waiting for his 
 mistress in a Drooni-grovc, — 
 
 But let them say, or let them do, 
 
 'Tis a" ane to me, 
 For he's low down, he's in the broom,— 
 
 Is waiting for me. 
 
 1'- Boshy, i. o. shrubby, woody.
 
 NOTES TO THE TEMPEST. 
 
 '^ Harmonious charmingly. 
 
 Slialteapearo's construction, not requiring tlie laboured 
 oi'iiotation of the commentators. Coleridge writes, "beauti- 
 ful exceedingly." In the Midsummer Night's Dream wo 
 have " miserable most " for " most miaeraUc." 
 
 J3' From tlieir confine-'. 
 The second folio reads, all their confines. 
 
 "5 A wonder'd father and a mse. 
 
 The common phraseology of Shakespeai-o's time. This is 
 the old reading, adopted by Mr. Collier. Most editors read 
 wife ; but we may retain the original reading, though at 
 iii-st. sight not so apposite. Ferdinand is enraptm-cd with 
 the nia-siiue, and pays a merited compliment to Trospero. 
 A wonder'd father, tliat is, a father able to perform wonders. 
 
 1^" Be mute, or else our spell is inarr'd. 
 
 Silence was indispensably necessary during all magical 
 operations. The witch in Macbeth says of the armed head, — 
 Hear bis speech, but say thou nought. 
 
 "' Of Hie winding brooks. 
 
 ITie old copies corruptly read windring, and are ab- 
 Eolutely followed by Mr. Knight, althoiigh no one can 
 produce such a word in the old English language. See Mr. 
 Dyce's remarks on this editorial absurdity. 
 
 "''■ Inherit, i.e. possesseth. 
 
 '2'' Leave not a wreck behind. 
 
 1 will give my reason for preferring tcreck to the ordinary 
 leading rack. The latter is nerer found with the indefinite 
 article. Wreck is sometimes misprinted rack, as in the 
 early editions of Beaumont and Fletcher. See the argu- 
 ment fiu'ther discussed in my Dictionary of Archaisms, 
 p. 661. Back is applied to the thin vapoury clouds. So 
 Fletcher, — 
 
 shall I stray 
 
 In the middle air, and stay 
 
 The sailing rack, or nimbly take 
 
 Hold by the moon, and gently make 
 
 Suit to the pale queen of nig-ht, 
 
 For a beam to give theo light ) 
 
 '*' Meet with, i.e. counteract. 
 
 "' Gorse, a species of fiu-ze. Shakespeare here seems to 
 make a distinction between gorse and furze, but wo leam 
 from Gerard that in his time, as at present, the fonner was 
 only a proracial term for the other. 
 
 ^'^ Stale, i.e. a ti'ap ot decoy, 
 
 113 Jifurtttre, i.e. education. 
 
 , '" Played the Jack. 
 
 A common old proverbial phi-ase for playing the knave. 
 There is not necessarily an allusion to Jack o' Lantern, as 
 Mr. Collier supposes. 
 
 "5 O, King Stephana! O Peer! 
 
 The oldTjaUad here referred to is quoted in (JtheUo,^ 
 King Stephen was a worthy peer. 
 His breeches cost him but a crown. 
 
 e 
 
 "' We know what belongs to a frippery, 
 
 A fi-ippcry was a shop where old clothes were sold anJ 
 exchanged. Hon Jonson mentions ono in the Old Jewry. 
 
 '" Let 'I alone. 
 
 Theobald reads, let's along, but the old edition has lel'i 
 alone, and our tc.^ which is adopted by Hanmcr and 
 CoUier, is a less violent alteration. The original reading 
 can scarcely be right, though Stcevens explains it, — " Let 
 you and I only go to commit the murder, leaving Trinculo, 
 who is so solicitous about the trash of dress, behind us ;" 
 but Stephano was equally enraptured with the gown. 
 
 1** Barnacles ; the clakis or tree-goose is hero referred 
 to. Early writers beUeved that the bamadc-goose was 
 produced from the shell of the fish. 
 
 "' In the line-grove. 
 
 Line is the old term for the lime-tree, and should be 
 preserved. Mr. Himter has ingeniously conjectured that 
 when Prospero, in a previous scene, says to Ariel, who 
 comes in bringing the glittering apparel, " Come, KTiig 
 them on this line," he means on one of the line-trees near 
 his cell, which coiJd hardly have been mistaken if the v/ord 
 of tho original copies had been allowed to keep its place. I 
 am, however, convinced with Mr. Knight that the poet 
 intended a horse-hair line, and that the players are right in 
 hanging one across the stage, othenvise the " clumsy 
 joking" about the line, as Mr. Hunter calls a clever 
 dialogue, though replete with quibbling, would be abso- 
 lutely unintelligible. 
 
 !5o Till you release. 
 
 So the later folio. The first reads till your release, wliicb 
 does not appear to be grammatical. 
 
 '^' That relish all as sharply passion as thrj 
 That is, that relish or feel passion as deeply as they do 
 Tlie passage scarcely seems to require explanation, had not 
 Collier and Knight placed a comma in the middle of it, 
 intending, I suppose, that passion should be considered a 
 verb. 
 
 ^^' Midnight nuLshroonis. 
 
 The old edition has the fomi nni^^hrumps. Our author 
 probably means toadstocls. In Shakespeare's time, tho 
 term was applied both to toadstools, what we now term 
 mushrooms, and many kind of fungi. 
 
 ^^^ Weak masters though ye he. 
 
 Weak if left to your own giudancc, powerful when assist- 
 ing the designs of one able to direct. 
 
 '" Remorse, i.e. pity. 
 
 '55 Nature, i.e. natural affection. 
 
 ^^ Tlie reasonable shore. 
 
 So the old editions, which read ly for lies in the next 
 line. AH modem editors read shores. 
 
 '" Where the bee sucks. 
 
 This, and the song commencing. Full fadom fire, were 
 originally set to music by Robert Johnson, a composer 
 contemporary with Shakespeare. See a note by Burney in 
 
 41
 
 NOTES TO THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Ihc 1-arioriim edition, p. 61. Dr. Wilson also set them to 
 music, and Ida compositions are printed in his Cheerful 
 Ayres or Ballade, 1660. Wilson's music to the present 
 song w-ill also be found in Pluyford's Musical Companion, 
 Second Part, 1672, pp. 174 — 5. Lock's music to the 
 Tempest wss published in 1675, 4to. 
 
 '59 Thy dukedom I resign. 
 
 iVUuding to the duchy of MUan having been made tri- 
 butary to him by Antonio. 
 
 '5' For a score of kingdoms you should wrangle. 
 
 The term wrangle appears to be here equivalent to 
 playing falsely. This seems a less forced interpretation 
 tJian that given by Ur. Johnson. 
 
 160 B'Act no man was his own. 
 That is, when no man was himself or in his right senses. 
 
 " li-icksy, Le. quick, clever, elegant. 
 42 
 
 "2 And more diversity. 
 
 Here, and in some other places, the early editions read 
 mo, the old word for more. 
 
 '53 In alt her trim. 
 
 The old editions read, our trim, but the expression seems 
 more applicable to the slup than the crew. " The ship Li 
 in her trim," Comedy of Errors. 
 
 '" Conduct, i.e. conductor, guide. 
 
 " A plain fish, i.e. plainly a flflh. 
 
 '«« True, honest. 
 
 '^^ A strange thing as ere. 
 
 Mr. Knight, in his Pictorial Edition, reads, as strcmge a 
 tiling as e'er, which is only partially corrected in the 
 Library Edition, although the original is refencd to 1 Me 
 Collier rightly follows the fiist folio.
 
 €l)? €m €m\\n\m\ iif 'ilernnn. 
 
 TlUE Bima of Jorge de Montemayor was one of the books -which had the rare merit of escaping th6 
 Hamrs tliat consumed the greater portion of the Hbrary of Don Quixote. " I am of opinion we ought 
 not to burn it, but only take out that part of it wliich treats of the magician FeHcia and the enchanted 
 water, as also aU the longer poems, and let the work escape with its prose, and the honour of being the 
 first m that kind." The Diana deserved the praise of Cervantes, and it appears to have been extremely 
 popular in England daring the later years of the sixteenth century. It was translated by Bartholomew 
 Yonge somewhere about 1582 or 1583, by Thomas "Wilson in 1595 or 1596, mid parts of it were rendered 
 into Enghsh by Edward Fasten and the celebrated Sir Philip Sidney ;* but Yonge's versJon was the 
 only one published, and that did not appear till 1598, the year in which we first hear of the Two 
 Gentlemen of Verona in the pages of Meres. 
 
 Tlie fact of the popularity of the Diana in England at tliis period is of considerable importance, 
 for, although it would seem that Shakespeare could not have read the printed translation by Tongo 
 befcirc he composed the play, there are similarities between a story contained in Montemayor and the 
 di'ama too minute to be accidental. Mr. CoUier says the incident common to the two is only such as 
 might bo found in other romances, and limits the resemblance to the assumption of male attire by the 
 lady. But the most striking similitude is contained in the account of the incident of bringing the 
 letter, and the wayn^ardness of Julia; and I subjoin an extract from the Diana, which will exhibit 
 even several of Shakespeare's o^vn expressions, and prove that Mr. CoUier's opinion is quite untenable: — 
 
 " ■Wtcn ho had, therefore, by simdry signs, as by tilts and tourneys, and by prancing up and down upon his proud 
 genet before my vrindows, made it manifest that he ^ra3 in love -svith me, for at the first I did not so well perceive it, he 
 determined in the end to write a letter unto me ; and having practised divers times before with a maid of mine, and at 
 length, -n-ith many gifts and fair promises, gotten her good will and fiuiherance, he gave her the letter to deliver to me. 
 But to see tlic means that Eosina made unto me, for so was she called, the dutiful services and unwonted circumstances 
 before she did deliver it, the oaths that she sware unto me, and the subtle words and serious protestations she used, it was 
 a pleasant thing, and wojjby the noting. To whom, nevertheless, with an angry countenance I turned again, saying, If I 
 had not regard of mine own estate, and what hereafter might be said, I would malce this shameless face of thine be known 
 ever after for a mark of an impudent and bold minion ; but because it is the first time, let this suffice that I have said, and 
 give thee waniing to take heed of the second. 
 
 " Methinks I see now the crafty wench, how she held her peace, dissembling very cunningly the sorrow that she 
 conceived by my angry answer; for she feigned a counterfeit smiling, saying, Jesus! mistress, I gave it you, because yoii 
 might laugh at it, and not to move your patience with it in this sort ; for if I had any thought that it woidd have 
 provoked you to anger, I pray God he may show his wrath as great towards me as ever he did to the daughter of any 
 mother. And with this she added many words more, as she could do well enough, to pacify the feigned cnger and ill 
 opinion that I had conceived of her, and taking her letter with her, she departed from me. This having passed thus, I 
 
 • This fact, hitherto unnoticed, is obtained from the later editions of the Arcadia, 
 
 43
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEJf OF VEEONA. 
 
 begnn to imagine what might ensiie thereof, and love, methought, did pnt a certain desire into my mind to see the letter, 
 though modesty aad shame forbade me to ask it of my maid, especially for the words that had passed between us, as you 
 have heard. And so I continued all that day until night in Tarietie of many thotights ; but when Rosina came to help me 
 to bed, God knows how desirous I was to have her entreat me again to take the letter, but she would never speak unto 
 me about it, nor (as it seemed) did so much as once think thereof. Yet to try if by giving her some occxsion I might 
 prevail, I said unto her : And is it so, Rosina, that Don Felix- without any regard to mine htnour, dares wiite imto me 
 These are things, mistress, said she demurely to me again, that are commonly incident to love ; wherefore I beseech 
 you pardon me, for if I had thought to have angered you with it, I would have first pulled out the balls of mine eyes. 
 How eold my heart was at that blow, God knows, yet did I dissemble the matter, and suffer myself to remain that night 
 only with my desire, and with occasion of little sleep. And so it was, indeed, for that, methought, was the ongest and most 
 painful night that ever I passed. But when, with a slower pace than I desired, the wished day was come, the discreet 
 and subtle Rosina came into my chamber to help me to make me ready, in doing whereof of purpcee she let the letter 
 closely {secretit/) fall, which, when I perceived, — What is that fell iovm ? said I, let me see it. It is nothiiag, mistress, 
 said she. Come, come, let me see it, said I. What ! move me not, or else tell me what it is. Good Lord, misUess, said 
 she, why will you see it : it is the letter I would have giran you yesterday. Nay, that it is not, said 1 : wherefo"e show 
 it me. that I may see if you lie or no. I had no sooner oaid so, but she put it into my hands, saying, God never gi^ e ma 
 g-)od if it be any other thing ; and although I knew it well indeed, yei I said, '^Tiat .' this is not the same, for I know 
 tliat well enough, but it is one of thy lover's letters : I -mil read it, to see in what need he standeth of thy favour. 
 
 It is by no means impossible that the Two Gentlemen of Verona, as we now possess it, has 
 received additions fi-om its author's hands to what was perhaps originally a very meagre production. 
 This conjecture would well agree with what wc know to have been the dramatic usage of the time, 
 and it seems difficult to account on any other supposition for the use Shakespeare has made of the tala 
 of Felismena. The absolute origin of the entu-e plot has possibly to be discovered in some Italian 
 novel.* The en-or in the first folio of Pad\ia for ilHan in Act ii. So. 5 has perhaps to be referred to 
 some scene in the original novel. Tieck mentions an old German play founded on a tale similar to the 
 Two Gentlemen of Verona, but it has not yet been made accessible to English students, and we have no 
 moans of ascertaining how far the resemblance extends. 
 
 Should the original novel, supposing one to exist, ever be discovered, it will probably be found to 
 assimidate more to the ancient tales of perfect fiicndship than might be suspected from Sliakespeare'a 
 piay. In ventui-ing upon this conjecture, I have been guided in a great measure by the romantic 
 generosity of Valentine in the last act, which scarcely looks like a free result of the poet's own inven- 
 tion. It is quite true he might have foimd similar instances in several old friendship tale? but it 
 seems more natural to suppose he transferred it from the same source to which we ai-e indebted for the 
 play, than that (he incident was introduced from another copy. That any editor can have a douDt as 
 to Shakespeare's intention to represent Valentine's generosity so great, that, in the excess of his rapture 
 for the repentance of Proteus, he gives up to him all his right in Silvia, would be improbable, had we 
 not two iat« instances of attempts to explain the scene in a different manner ; I ut any interpretation 
 n-hich destroys the literal meaning of Valentine's gift, — 
 
 And that my love may appear plain and free, 
 All that was mine in Silvia I give thee. 
 
 renders Julia's exclamation, — "0 me unhappy!" — wliich immediately wUows, entirely unmeaning, 
 Mr. Collier thinks Valentine suspected Silvia's purity from her position with Proteus in the forest, and 
 is therefore gi\ing his friend a present no longer desii-able to himself! It would be difficult to imagine 
 a supposition that would more completely destroy the poetrj' and romance of Valentine's character. 
 
 The commentators have brouglit much curious learning t: illustrate the question of the date at 
 which this play was \\Tittcn ; but their arguments are for the most part founded on vague generidities, 
 such as notices of foreign adventure and classical allusions, not by any means sufficiently minute to 
 enable us to conclude any particular circumstances were intended by the author. Meres, in his Wits 
 
 t 
 
 • A similarity which has been pointed out bctu'cen the incident of Valentino timiing captain of the outlaws and a 
 story in the " Arcadia" is of the slightest kind ; but there is in that work an encomium on solitude which may bo compared 
 with Valentine's soliloquy in Act v. Sc. 4. 
 
 44
 
 THE TWO GEiNTLEMEN OF VEKOISA. 
 
 jyetwiry, 1598, says " Shakespeare among the English is the most excellent in both kinds r the stacre; 
 
 for comedy, witness his Oentlemen of Verona,, his Errors, &o." This is the earhest notice of the \A'\\ 
 that has come do\vTi to us ; but most critics bcHevo it to have been written several years before the 
 pubhcation of the Wits Treasv/ry, and Mr. Hudson (Lectures on Shakespeare, i. 220) appears to con- 
 sider it the poet's earliest dramatic work. 
 
 Although probably not quite tlie "first heir" of Shakespeare's dramatic invention, tlie Two 
 Gentlemen of Verona exhibits a deficiency of efifective situation, and to some extent a crudity of con- 
 struction, wliich would most likely have been avoided by a practised writer for the stage. But these 
 defects are tmnoticed by the reader in the richness of its poetical beauties and ovei-flowing humoiu-, — its 
 romimcc and pathos. The tale is based on love and friendship. Valentine is the ideal personification 
 of both, of pui'e love to Silvia, and romantic attachment to the fiiend of his youth. Proteus, on the 
 contraiy, selfish and sensual, suiters himself to be guided by his passions, and concludes his inconstancy 
 to his love with perfidious treacheiy to his fiiend. Valentine, noble and brave, but timid before the 
 mistress of his affections, adoiing Sihaa's glove, and too diffident even to intei-pret her stratagem of the 
 letter : Proteus, daring aU, and losing his integrity, in the excess of a tumultuous passion. If Shakes- 
 peare has painted these elements in an outline something too bold for the extreme refinement of the 
 present day, the error mast be ascribed to his era not to himseK; and if it be also objected to this play, 
 that the female characters are genns only of more powerful creations in Twelfth Night or Cymbchne, 
 the reader must bear in mind they are perhaps more suitable to the extreme simjilicity of t'ne story, 
 that tlie chief object of the dramatist is du-ected to the development of the characters of Valentine and 
 Protc:ns, and, above all, that the play should be judged by itself. There are few, indeed, who would 
 be williiiw to miss the Two Gentlemen of Verona, for it is, nevertheless, a gem, though it may not shine 
 qmte as brilliantly as some othei-s in the Shokesperian cabinet.
 
 PERSONS REPRESENTED. 
 
 DuKR OF MnAK, father to Silvia. 
 
 Appears, Act II. sc. 4. Act III. sc. 1 ; sc. 2. 
 Act V. sc. 2 ; 30. 4. 
 
 Vaienttne. 
 
 Appuirs, Act I. so. 1. Act II. sc. 1 ; sc. 4. Act III. bc. 1. 
 Act IV. sc. 1. Act V. EC. 4. 
 
 Peoteus. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1 ; so. 3. Act II. sc. 2 ; so. 4 ; so. 6. 
 
 Act III. so. 1 ; sc. 2. Act IV. sc. 2 . 
 
 Act V. sc. 2 ; sc. 4. 
 
 Antonio, father to Proteus. 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 3. 
 
 TnuEio, a foolish rival to Valentine. 
 
 Appears, Ai± II. so. 4. Act III. sc. 1 ; so. 2. Act IV. sc. 2. 
 ActV. sc. 2; sc. 4. 
 
 EoLAMOira, agent for Silvia in htr escape. 
 Appears, Act IV. sc. 2. Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 Speed, a clownish servant to Valentine. 
 
 Appears, Act I. so. I. Act 11. so. 1 ; sc. 4 ; sc- 6. 
 Act III. sc. 1. Act IV. sc. 1. 
 46 
 
 Latince, a cloufnish tenant to Protciis. 
 
 Appears, Act II. sc. J ; so. 5. Act III. so. 1 
 Act IV. sc. 2. 
 
 Pakihino, servant to Antonio. 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 3. Act II. sc. 2 ; sc. 3. 
 
 Host at the inn where Julia lodges. 
 Appears, Act IV. sc. 2. 
 
 Outlaws with Valentiae. 
 
 Appear, Act IV. so. 1. Act V. sc. 3 , sc. 4. 
 
 JtTLiA, beloved of Proteus. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 2. Act II. sc. 2; sc. 7. Act IV sc. 2. 
 Act V. sc. 2 ; sc. 4. 
 
 Silvia, leloved of Valentine. 
 
 Appears, Act II. sc. 1 ; sc. 4. Act TV. sc. 2. Act \ sc. I 
 BO. 3 ; 80. 4. 
 
 LucErrA, waiting-woman to Julia. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 2. Act II. ec. 7. 
 
 Servants, Musicians. 
 
 SCENE, — In Verona, in iliLAV, and on the 
 
 FEONTIElta of ilANTUA.
 
 €^t €m §mi\mni of Wnmt 
 
 ACT L 
 
 SCENE I. — An open place in Veroaa. 
 
 ^nter Vaientini; and PROiEua. 
 
 T'al. Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus ; 
 ilome-keeping youth have ever homely wits : 
 Wore 't not affection chains thy tender days 
 To the sweet glances of thy honour'd love, 
 I rather would'entreat thy company, 
 To see the wonders of the world abroad, 
 Than, living dully sluggardiz'd at home, 
 Wear out tliy youth with shapeless idleness. 
 But, since thou lov'st, love still, and tluive therein. 
 Even as 1 would, when I to love begin. 
 
 Fro. WUt 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 over danger do envii'on thee. 
 Commend thy grievance to my holy prayers, 
 For I "wUl 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 oross'd the Hellespont. 
 
 Fro. 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 yot you never sworn the Hellespont. 
 
 Fro. Over the hoots.' nay, give mo not the 
 boots. 
 
 Val. No, I wiU. not, for it boots thee not, — 
 
 Fro. ^Tiat ? 
 
 Val. To be in love, where scorn is bought with 
 groans; 
 Coy looks ^vith heart-sore sighs ; one fading mo- 
 ment's mirth 
 "With twenty watolrful, 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. 
 
 Fro. So, by your circumstance,* you call mo 
 fool. 
 
 Val. So, by your circumstance, I fear you '11 
 prove. 
 
 Fro. '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 fool, 
 Methinks should not be chi-onicled for wise. 
 
 Fro. 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 biid 
 Is eaten by the canker ere it blow, 
 Even so by love the yoimg and tender wit 
 Is turn'd to foUy ; blasting in the bud. 
 Losing his verdure even in the prime. 
 And all the fair effects of future hopes. 
 But wherefore waste I time to cc'.ms»>l thee, 
 
 17
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OE VERONA. 
 
 SCKNE 1. 
 
 That art a votaiy to fond desire ? 
 Once more adieu ! my father at the road" 
 Expects my ci/ming, there to see me shipp'd. 
 Pro. And thither will I hring tliee,' Valentine. 
 Pro. Sweet Proteus, no ; now let us take our 
 leave. 
 To MQaii let me hew from thee by letters, 
 01' thy success in love, and what news else 
 Bt'ii.leth here in absence of thy friend; 
 And I likewise will visit thee with mine. 
 
 Pro All happiness bei hanoe to thee in Milan ! 
 Vul. ks much to you at home ! and so, fare- 
 well. 
 
 [Exit Vaienthte. 
 Pro. ll>i after honom- hunts, I after love : 
 Be leaves his friends to dignify them more; 
 I leave myself, my friends, and all for love. 
 Thou, Julia, thou hast mctamorphos'd me, — 
 Hade me neglect my studies, lose my time, 
 War witli good counsel, set the world at nought ; 
 Made wit with musing weak, heart sick with 
 thought. 
 
 Enter Speed. 
 
 Speed. Sir Proteus, save you ! Saw you my 
 
 master ? 
 Pro. But near he parted hence, t" embark for 
 
 MUan 
 Speed. Twenty to one then he is shipp'd al- 
 ready. 
 Anil have play'd the sheep* in losing him. 
 pyo. Indeed a sheep doth vciy often stray. 
 An if the shepherd be awhile away. 
 
 S} eed. You conclude that my master is a shep- 
 herd, then, and I a sheep. 
 Pr.). I do. 
 Sptfd. Why, then my homs are Ids horns, 
 
 whether I wake or sleep. 
 Pro A siUy answer, and fitting well a sheep. 
 Speed. This proves me BtUl a sheep. 
 Pro. True ; and thy master a shepherd. 
 Speed Nay, that I can deny by a oii'cumstance. 
 Pro. \t shall go hard but I 'U prove it by 
 
 another. 
 Speed. I Ths shepherd seeks the sheep, and not 
 the sheej the shepherd; but I seek my master, 
 and my i.iaster seeks not me : therefore, I am no 
 sheep. 
 
 Pro. T.ho sheep for fodder follow the shepherd, 
 
 tlu! shefiherd for food follows not the sheep ; thou 
 
 for waf;(;s foUowest thy master, thy master for 
 
 wages follows not iheo : therefore, thou art a sheep. 
 
 4« 
 
 Speed. Such another proof wdU make me en' 
 
 'baa.' 
 Pro. But, dost thou hear ? gav'st thou my letter 
 
 to Julia ? 
 Speed. Ay, sir; I, a lost mutton, gave your 
 letter to her, a lac'd mutton ;° and she, a lac'd 
 mutton, gave me, a lost mutton, nothing for my 
 labour! 
 
 Pro. Here 's too small a pasture for such store 
 of muttons. 
 
 Speed. If the ground be overcliarg'd, you were 
 best stick her. 
 
 Pro. Nay, in that you are a-stray;" 't were 
 best 'pound you. 
 
 Speed. Nay, sir, loss than a poimd shall serve ■ 
 me for can-jing your letter. 
 
 Pro. You mistake ; I mean the pound, a pin- 
 fold. 
 Speed. From a pound to a pin ? fold it over and 
 over, 
 'T is threefold too little for cairying a letter to 
 your lover. 
 Pro. But what said she 'i 
 S^jeed. She did" — [lie nods.'] 
 Pro. Did she nod ? 
 Speed. I. 
 
 Pro. Nod, I ; why, that 's noddy. 
 Speed. You mistook, sir ; I say, she did nod : 
 and you ask me if she did nod ; and I say, I. 
 Pro. And that set together is — ^uoddy. 
 Speed. Now yoi: have taken the pains to set it 
 together, take it for your pains. 
 
 Pro. No, no, you shall have it for beaiing the 
 
 letter. 
 Speed. "Well, I perceive I must be fain to bear 
 
 %vith you. 
 Pro. "Why, sir, how do you bear with me ' 
 Speed. MaiTy, sir, the letter very orderly; 
 having nothing but thr trord, noddy, for my paina. 
 Pro. Beshi-ew me, but you have a quick wit. 
 Speed. And yet it cannot overtake your slow 
 
 purse. 
 Pro. Come, come, opeji the matter in lirief: 
 what said she ? 
 
 Speed. Open your purse, that the monoj-, and 
 the matter, may be both at once delivered. 
 
 Pro. "Well, sii', here is for your pains {ffiving 
 
 him money) : What said she ? 
 Speed. Truly, sir, I think you "U hardly win hw-. 
 Pro. "Wliy? Couldst tliou perceive so much 
 
 from her ? 
 Speed. Sir, I could perceive nothing at ail from
 
 ACT n. 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VEKONA. 
 
 SOEITE II. 
 
 her: no, not so much as a ducat for delivering 
 j'our letter : And being so hard to me that brought 
 your mind, I tear she '11 prove as hard to you ia 
 V.'lling your mind." Give her no token but stones, 
 .(jr she 's as hard as steel. 
 
 I'lo. Wliat I s;ud she nothing ? 
 
 Speed. No, not so much as — " Take this for thy 
 jiaius." To testify your bounty, I thank you, you 
 liave tostoru'd" me; iu reqmtal whereof, hence- 
 forth carry your letters yourscK: and so, sir, I 'U 
 uommcnd you to my master. \_Exit. 
 
 Pro. Go, go, be gone, to save your ship from 
 ■wreck, 
 Wliich cannot perish, having thee aboard, 
 13oing destin'd to a drier death on shore : — 
 I must go send'* some better messenger ; 
 I fear my Julia woidd not deign my hnes, 
 Receiving them fi-om such a worthless post.'" 
 
 \_Exit. 
 
 '^ SCENE II.— The same. Gm-den of 3vlia's House. 
 Jjiitsr JuuA and LrcEiiA. 
 
 Jul. But say, Lucetta, now we are alone, 
 Wouldst thou, then, counsel me to fall in love .' 
 Tmc. Ay, madam ; so you stumble not unheed- 
 
 fuUy. 
 Jul. Of all the fair resort of gentlemen, 
 That every day with parle'° encounter me, 
 in thy opinion which is worthiest love ? 
 
 Luc. Please you repeat their names, I '11 show 
 my mind 
 According to my shaUow simple skill. 
 
 Jul. What think' st thou of the fair sii- Egla- 
 
 mour? 
 Ltic. As of a knight well-spoken, neat and fine ; 
 But, were I you, he never should be mine. 
 Jul. AVhat think'st thou of the rich Mercatio ? 
 Luc. WeU of his wealth ; but of himself, so, so. 
 Jul. What think'st thou of the gentle Proteus ? 
 Luc. Lord, Lord ! to see what folly reigns iu us ! 
 Jul. How now ! what means this passion at his 
 
 name ? 
 Luc. Pardon, deaf madam ; 't is a passing 
 shame, 
 rhat T, -unworthy body as I am, 
 Should Lcn.sure" thus on lovely gentlemen. 
 Jul VVhy not on Proteu.*, as of all the rest ? 
 Lu^. Then thus : of many good I think him 
 
 best. 
 Jul. Tour reason? 
 
 Luc. 1 have no other but a woman's reason ; 
 I think him so, because I think him so. 
 7 
 
 Jul. And wouldst thou have me cast mv lovo on 
 
 him ? 
 Imc. Ay, if you thought your lovo not cast 
 
 away. 
 Jul. Why, he, of all the rest, hath never mov'd 
 
 me. 
 Iau!. Yet he, of all the rest, I think, best loves 
 
 ye. 
 Jul. His little speaking shows his love but small. 
 Luc. Fire that 's closest kept bums most of all. 
 Jul. They do not love that do not show theii' 
 
 love. 
 Luc. 0, they love least that lot men know their 
 
 love. 
 Jul. I would I knew Ids mind. 
 Luc. Peruse this paper, madam. 
 
 Jul. " To Julia," — Say, from whom ? 
 Luc. That the contents will show. 
 
 Jul. Say, say, who gave it thee. 
 Luc. Sii' Valentine's page ; and sent, I think, 
 from Proteus : 
 He woidd have given it you, but I, being in the 
 
 way. 
 Did in your name receive it; pai'don the fault. I 
 pray. 
 Jul. Now, by my modesty, a goodly broker ! " 
 Dare you presimie to harbour wanton lines ? 
 To whisper and conspire against my youth ? 
 Now, ti-ust me, 't is an office of great worth. 
 And you' an officer fit for the place. 
 There, take the paper ! see it be return' d, 
 Or else return no more into my sight. 
 
 Luc. To plead for love deserves more fee than 
 
 hate. 
 Jul. WiU ye be gone ? 
 
 Lmc. \_Aside.'\ That you may ruminate. [JSxit 
 Jul. And yet I would I had o'erlook'd the letter. 
 It were a shame to caU her back again. 
 And pray her to a fault for which I chid her. 
 "What fool is she, that Icnows I am a maid, 
 And would not force the letter to my view ! 
 Since maids, in modesty, say "No" to that 
 Which they woidd have the profferer oonstme 
 
 "Ay." 
 Fie, fie ! how waj^ward is this foolish love, 
 That, like a testy babe, wiU scratch the nurse, 
 And presently, all hirmbled, kiss the rod ! 
 How churlislily I chid Lucetta hence. 
 When -n-illingly I woidd have had her here ! 
 How angerly" I taught my brow to frown, 
 When inward joy enforc'd my heart to smile 
 My penance is, to call Lucetta back,
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VEEOjSTA. 
 
 And. isk remission for my folly past: — 
 What, ho! Luoetta! 
 
 Jle-enter Lttcetta. 
 
 Zm What would your ludyship ? 
 
 Jul. Is 't near dinner-time ? 
 
 Luc. I would it were ; 
 
 That yju might kiU your stomach™ on your meat, 
 Ajid not upon your maid. 
 
 Jul. What is 't that you took up so gingerly ? 
 
 Ltw. Nothing. 
 
 Jul. Why didst thou stoop then ? 
 
 Lkc. To take a paper up that I let fall. 
 
 Jul. And is that paper nothing ? 
 
 Lite. Nothing concerning me. 
 
 Jul. Then let it lie for those that it concerns. 
 
 Luc. Madam, it will not lie where it concerns. 
 Unless it have a false interpreter. 
 
 Jul. Some love of yours hath writ to you in 
 rhyme. 
 
 Luc That I might sing it. Madam, to a time : 
 Give me a note : your ladyslup can set — 
 
 Jul. As little by such toys"' as may be possible : 
 Best sing it to the tune of "Light o' love."'" 
 
 Licc. It is too heavy for so light a tune. 
 
 Jul. Heavy ? beKke it hath some burden then. 
 
 Luc. Ay; and melodious were it, would you 
 sing it. 
 
 Jul. And why not yoii ? 
 
 Luc. 1 cannot reach so high. 
 
 Jul. Let 's see your song : — How now, minion ? 
 
 Luc. Keep tune there still, so you wiU sing it 
 out : 
 And yet, methinks, I do not like this tune. 
 
 Jul. You do not ? 
 
 Luc. No, madam ; 't is too sharp. 
 
 Jul. You, minion, are too saucy. 
 
 Luc. Nay, now you are too flat. 
 And mar the concord -with too harsh a descant :" 
 There wanteth but a mean to fill your song. 
 
 Jul. The mean is di'own'd ^vith your imi'uly base. 
 
 Luc. Indeed, I bid the base for Proteus.^ 
 
 Jul. This babble shall not henceforth trouble me. 
 Here is a coU. with protestation ! — \_Tears the letter. 
 Go, get you gone, and let the papers lie : 
 You would he ting' ring them, to anger me. 
 
 Lac. She makes it strange; but she woiild he 
 best pleas'd 
 To be so anger'd with another letter. [_Sxit. 
 
 Jul Nay, would I were so anger'd with the same! 
 liatelul hand.s, to tear such loving words ! 
 liyurious wasps to feed on such sweet honey, 
 60 
 
 And kill the bees, that yield it, with your atings ' 
 
 I 'U kiss each several paper for amends. 
 
 Look, here is writ — " kind Julia :" — unldnd .Tulia 
 
 As in revenge of thy ingratitude^ 
 
 I throw thy name against the bruising stones. 
 
 Trampling contemptuously on thy disdain ! 
 
 And here is writ — " love- wounded Proteus :" — 
 
 Poor wounded name ! my bosom, as a bed. 
 
 Shall lodge thee, tiD thy wound be throughly 
 
 heal'd ; 
 And thus I search" it with a sovereign kiss. 
 But twice, or thrice, was Proteus written down. 
 Be calm, good wind, blow not a word away, 
 TUl I have found each letter in the letter. 
 Except mine own name : that some whirlwind bcai 
 Unto a ragged, fearful, hanging rock. 
 And tlii'ow it thence into the raging sea ! 
 Lo, here in one line is his name twice writ,— 
 " Poor forlorn Proteus, passionate Prote.is, — 
 To the sweet Julia ;" that I 'U tear away, — 
 And yet I ■noil not, sith so prettily 
 He couples it to his complaining names ; 
 Thus will I fold them one upon another : 
 Now kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will. 
 
 Re-enter Luceiia. 
 Lmc. Madam, dinner is ready, and your father 
 
 stays. 
 Jul. Well, let us go. 
 Zmc. "WTiat, shall these papers Ue like tell-tales 
 
 here ? 
 Jul. K you respect them, best to take them up, 
 Lm. Nay, I was taken up for laying them down : 
 Yet here they shall not lie, for catching cold.^ 
 Jul. I see you have a month's mind"'' to them. 
 Luc. Ay, madam, you may say what sights you 
 see ; 
 I see things too, although you juage I wink. 
 Jul. Come, come; wul 't please you go ? \_Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE HI.— The same. A Room in Antonio'! 
 House. 
 
 Enter Antonio and Panthino. 
 
 Ant. TeU me, Panthino, what sad talk^ was tliat 
 Wherewith my brother held you in the cloister ? 
 
 Pan. 'T was of his nephew Proteus, your son. 
 
 Ant. Why, what of him ? 
 
 Pan. He wonder'd that your lordship 
 
 Would suffer liim to spend his youth at home ; 
 Wliile other men, of slender reputation, 
 Put forth their sons to seek preferment out : 
 Some, to the wars, to try their fortune there ;
 
 ACT I 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Some, to discover islands far away , 
 Some, to the studious universities. 
 
 For an}', or for all these exercises, 
 
 Ho said that Proteus, your son, was meet ; 
 
 A nd did request me to importune you, 
 
 Co let him spend his time no more at homo, 
 
 Wliich would bo great impeachment to liis age, 
 
 1 11 liaving known no travel in his youth. 
 
 Ant. Nor necd'st thou much importune me to 
 that, 
 WTiereon this month I have been hammering. 
 I have consider'd well liis loss of time. 
 And how he cannot be a perfect man. 
 Not being tried and tutor'd in the world : 
 Experience is by industry aohiev'd, 
 .\j)d perfected by the s\vift course of time : 
 Then, tell me, whither were I best to send him ? 
 
 Pan. I think your lordship is not ignorant. 
 How his companion, youthful Valentine, 
 Attends the emperor in his royal court. 
 
 An,t. I know it well. 
 
 Pan. 'T were good, I think, your lordship sent 
 him thither : 
 There shall he practise tUts and tournaments, 
 Heiur sweet discourse, converse witli nnlilemen, 
 iVnd be in eye of every exercise 
 Worthy his j'outh and nobleness of birth. 
 
 Ant. I like thy coimsel ; well hast thou advis'd : 
 And, that thou ma}'st perceive how well I like it. 
 The execution of it shall make known : 
 Even with the speediest expedition, 
 I will despatch liim to the emperor's court. 
 
 Pan. To-morrow, may it please you, Don 
 Alphonso, 
 With other gentlemen of good esteem, 
 Are journeying to salute the emperor, 
 ind to commend their service to his ■will. 
 
 Ant. Good company; with them shall Proteus go : 
 And, — in good time." — 'Now will we break with 
 him.™ 
 
 £nter Peoteus. 
 
 Pro. Sweet love ! • sweet lines ! sweet life ! 
 Here is her hand, the agent of her heart ; 
 Here is her oath for love, her honour's pawn 
 0, that our fathers would applaud our loves, 
 Or seal our happiness with their consents ! 
 O, Ilavenly JuHa ! 
 
 Ant. How now ? what letter are you reading 
 there ? 
 
 Pro. May 't please your lordship, 'lis a word or 
 two 
 Of commendations sent from Valentine, 
 Dcliv3r'd by a friend that came from him. 
 
 Ant. Lend me the letter ; let me see what ne ws. 
 
 Pro. There is no news, my lord ; but that ho 
 writes 
 How happily ho lives, how well-belov'd, 
 And daily graced by the emperor ; 
 Wishing me with him, partner of his fortune. 
 
 Ant. And how stand you affected to his wish ? 
 
 Pro. As one relying on your lordship's will, 
 And not depending on his tnendly wish. 
 
 Ant. My will is something sorted ^^^th his ^vish 
 Muse not that I thus suddenly proceed. 
 For what I ^viU, I will, and there an end. 
 I am resolv'd that thou shalt spend some time 
 With Valcntinus in the emperor's court ; 
 What maintenance he from his friends receives, 
 Like exhibition^' thou shalt have from me. 
 To-morrow bo in readiness to go : 
 Excuse it not, for I am peremptory. . 
 
 Pro. My lord, I cannot be so soon provided ; 
 Please you, dehberate a day or two. 
 
 Atit. Look, what thou want'st shall be sent 
 after thee : 
 No more of stay ; to-morrow thou must go. — 
 Come on, Panthino ; j'ou shall be employ'd 
 To hasten on his expedition. \_Hxeunt Ant. and Fas. 
 
 Pro. Thus have I shunn'd the fire, for fear of 
 bm-ning. 
 And drench'd me in the sea, where I am drown'd 
 I fear'd to show my father Julia's letter. 
 Lest he should take exceptions to my love ; 
 And, with the vantage of mine own excuse, 
 Hath he excepted most against my love. 
 0, how this spring of love resembleth 
 
 The uncertain glory of an April day ; 
 WTiich now shows all the beauty of the sun, 
 And by and by a cloud takes all away ' 
 
 Re-mter Panthino. 
 
 Pan. Sir Proteus, your father colls for you ; 
 He is in haste ; therefore, I pray you, go. 
 
 Pro. Why, this it is ! my heart accords thereto; 
 And yet a thousand times it answers, No. [Exeunt 
 
 51
 
 ACT II. 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. — Milan. A JZoom in the Duke's palace. 
 
 Enter Vaienixnb and Speed. 
 
 Speed. \_PicMng xip a ghi^e.'] Sir, your glove? 
 Val. Not mine; my gloves are on. 
 
 Speed. Why, then this may be youi-s, for this 
 is but one.'^ 
 
 Val. Ha ! lot me see : ay, give it me, it's mine : 
 Sweet ornament, that decks a thing divine ! 
 Ah Silvia I SLl^-iai 
 
 Speed. [_C'alls.'] Madam Silvia! madam Silvia! 
 
 Val. How now, sirrah? 
 
 Speed. She is not within hearing, sir. 
 
 Val. Why, sir, who bade you call her? 
 
 Speed. Your worship, sir; or else I mistook. 
 
 V(d. Well, you'll still be too forward. 
 
 Speed. And yet I was last chidden for being too 
 slow. 
 
 Val. Go to, sir; tell me, do you know madam 
 Silvia? 
 
 Speed. She that your worship loves? 
 
 Val. Why, how know you that I am in love ? 
 
 Speed. MaiTy, by these special marks: Tii-st, 
 you have leai-n'd, like sir Proteus, to wreath 
 your anus like a malcontent; to relish a love-song, 
 Hke a robin-redbreast; to walk alone, like one that 
 had the pestilence; to sigh, like a schoolboy that 
 had lost his A. B.C.; to weep, like a yoimg wench 
 that had buried her grandam; to fast, like one that 
 takes diet;^ to watch, like one that fears robbing; 
 to speak puling, like a beggar at Hallo-miias. You 
 were wont, when you laughed, to crow like a cook 
 M'hen you walk'd, to walk like one of the lions 
 when you fasted, it was presently after dinner 
 when you look'd sadly, it was for want of money 
 and now you are metamorphos'd with a mistress, 
 that, when I look on you, I can hardly think you 
 my master. 
 
 Val. Are all these things perceiv'd in me? 
 
 Speed. Thoy are aU i)ercei\'d witliout ye. 
 
 Val. Witliout me Ihey cimnot. 
 
 Speed. Without jou? nay, that's certain, for 
 ndthout vou were so simple, none else would : but 
 52 
 
 you are so without these follies, that these follies 
 are within you, and shine through you like the 
 water in an urinal, that not an eye that sees you 
 but is a physician to comment on your malady. 
 
 Val. But teU me dost thou know my lady Silvia? 
 
 Speed. She that you gaze on so, as she sits at 
 supper? 
 
 Val. Hast thou observed that? even she I mean. 
 
 Speed. Why, sir, I know her not. 
 
 Val. Dost thou know her by my gazing on her, 
 and yet know'st her not? 
 
 Speed. Is she not hard-favour'd, sir? 
 
 Val. Not so fair, boy, as well favour'd. 
 
 Speed. Sir, I know that well enough. 
 
 Val. What dost thou knew? 
 
 Speed. Tliat she is not so fair as (of you ) we! I 
 favour'd. 
 
 Val. I mean, that her beauty is exquisite, but 
 her favour infinite. 
 
 Speed. That 's because the one is painted, and 
 the other out of all coimt . 
 
 Val. How painted? and how out of count? 
 
 Speed. Mari-y, sir, so painted, to make her fah, 
 that no man counts of her beauty. 
 
 Val. How esteem' st thou me? I account of her 
 beauty. 
 
 Speed. You never saw her since she was 
 deform'd. 
 
 Val. How long hath she been deform'd? 
 
 Speed. Ever since you lov'd her. 
 
 Val. I have lov'd her ever since I saw her; and 
 still I see her beautiful. 
 
 Speed. If you love her, you cannot see her. 
 
 Val. Why? 
 
 Speed. Because Love is bHnd. 0, that you had 
 mine eyes ; or your own eyes had the lights they 
 were wont to have, when you chid at sir Proteus 
 for going ungarter'd! 
 
 Val. Wliat should I see then ? 
 
 Speed. Your own present foUy, and her passing 
 (U'lbrmity: for ho, being in love, could not sec to 
 garter bis liose; and you, being in hvc cannot sec 
 to put on your hose.
 
 ACT U. 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VEKONA. 
 
 SCENK I. 
 
 Val. Belike, boy, then you are in love; for last 
 moming you could not see to wipe my shoes. 
 
 Speed. True, sii-; I was in love with ray bed: I 
 Ihauk you, you swing'd me for my love, which 
 Diakcs me the bolder to chide you for yours. 
 
 Val. In conclusion, I stand aifectcd to her. 
 
 Speed. I would you were sot; so your affection 
 would cease. 
 
 Val. Last night she enjoin'd me to write some 
 lines to one she loves. 
 
 Speed. And have you? 
 
 Val. I have. 
 
 Speed. Are they not lamely writ? 
 
 Val No, boy, but as well as I can do them; — 
 Peace! here she comes. 
 
 Enter Siltia. 
 
 Speed. excellent motion I'* exceeding pup- 
 pet! Now will he interpret to her. 
 
 Val. Madam and mistress, a thousand good- 
 morrows. 
 
 Speed. 0, 'give ye good ev'n! here's a million 
 of manners. \^Aside. 
 
 Sil. Sir Valentine and servant," to you two 
 thousand. 
 
 Speed. He should give her interest, and she 
 gives it him. 
 
 Val. As you enjoin'd me, I have vrrit your letter 
 Unto the sect-ot nameless fi-iond of yours; 
 Which I was much unwiUing to proceed in, 
 But for my duty to your ladyship. 
 
 Sil. I thank you, gentle servant, 't is very 
 clerkly done. 
 
 Val. Now trust me, madam, it came hardly off; 
 For, being ignorant to whom it goes, 
 I writ at random, very doubtfully. 
 
 Sil. Perchance you think too much of so much 
 pains? 
 
 Val. No, madam; so it stead you, I will write, 
 Please you command, a thousand times as much : 
 And yet, — 
 
 Sil. A pretty period!- Well, I guess the sequel; 
 And yet I wiU not' name it; — and yet I care not; — 
 And yet take this again; — and yet I thank you; 
 Meaning henceforth to trouble you no more. 
 
 Speed. And yet you will; and yet another yet. 
 
 \_Aside. 
 
 Val. What means yoiu- ladyship? do you not 
 like it? 
 
 Sil. Yes, yes ; the lines are very quaintly writ, 
 But since unwillingly, take them ngain: 
 Nay take them. 
 
 Val. Madam, they are for you. 
 
 Sil. Ay, ay, you writ them, sir, at my request 
 But I will none of them; they arc for you: 
 I would have had thciu wiit more movingly. 
 
 Val. Please you, I '11 ■«Tite your ladyshif. 
 another. 
 
 Sil. And when it 's writ, for my sake read it 
 over ; 
 And if it please you, so :*° if not, why, so. 
 
 Val. If it please me, madam ! wliat then ? 
 
 Sil. Why, if it please you, take it for your labour. 
 And so, good moirow, servant. [_£j:ii Silvia. 
 
 Speed. jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible, 
 As a nose on a man's face, or a weathercock on a 
 
 steeple ! 
 My master sues to her, and she hath taught her 
 
 suitor. 
 He being her pupU, to become her tutor. 
 excellent device ! was there over heai'd a better, 
 That my master, being scribe, to liimself shoidd 
 wiite the letter ? 
 
 Val. How now, sir? what, are you reasoning 
 with yourself? 
 
 Speed. Nay, I was rhyming ; 't is you that have 
 the reason.^' 
 
 Val. To do what? 
 
 Speed. To be a spokesman from madam Silvia. 
 
 Val. To whom? 
 
 Speed. To yourself: why, she woos you by a 
 figm-e. 
 
 Val. What figure? 
 
 Speed. By a letter, I should say. 
 
 Val. TVTiy, she hath not writ to me ? 
 
 Speed. What need she, when she hath made 
 you write to yourself? Why, do you not percoivo 
 the jest ? 
 
 Val. No, believe me. 
 
 Speed. No boheving j'ou, indeed, sir : but did 
 you perceive her earnest ? 
 
 Val. She gave me none, except an angry word. 
 
 Speed. Why, she hath given you a letter. 
 
 Val. That 's the letter I writ to her friend. 
 
 Speed. And that letter hath she dcUver'd, and 
 there an end.'' 
 
 Val. I would it were do worse. 
 
 Speed. I 'U warrant you 't is as well: 
 For often have you writ to her ; and she, in modesty, 
 Or else for want of idle time, could not again reply ; 
 Or fearing else some messenger, that might her mind discover 
 Herself hath taught her love himself to write imto her lover.— 
 AH this I speak in print,'' for in print I foimd it.— 
 Why muse you, sir ? 't is dinner-time. 
 
 53
 
 AM n. 
 
 THE TWO GENTLElLEaf OF VEEONA. 
 
 BCEMK II.' 
 
 Fal. 1 have din'd. 
 
 Speed. Ay, but hearken, sir ; though the came- 
 leon Love can feed on the air, I am one that am 
 nourish'd by my victuals," and would fain have 
 meat. 0, be not like your mistress ; be moved, 
 ie moved." _ l&emit. 
 
 SCEOT2 II. — ^Verona. A room in Julia's Some. 
 
 Enter Peoteus and Julia. 
 
 Pro. Have patience, gentle Julia. 
 
 Jul. I must, where is no remedy. 
 
 Pro. When possibly I can, I will return. 
 
 Jul. If you turn not, you will return the sooner : 
 Keep this remembrance for thy Julia's sake. 
 
 [ Giving a ring. 
 
 Pro. Why, then we 'U make exchange ; " here, 
 take you this. [ Giving her another. 
 
 Jul. And seal the bargain with a holy kiss. 
 
 Pro. Here is my hand for my true constancy ; 
 And when that horn- o'erslips me m the day, 
 WTierein I sigh not ' Jidia' for thy sake. 
 The next ensuing hour some foul mischance 
 Torment me for my love's forgetfulness ! 
 My father stays my coming ; answer not : 
 The tide is now : nay, not thy tide of tears ; 
 That tide wiU stay mo longer than I should : 
 
 \_Exit Julia. 
 Julia, farewell ! — Wliat ! gone -without a word ? 
 Ay, so true love should do : it cannot speak ; 
 For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it. 
 
 Enter Paxthijto. 
 Pan. Sir Proteus, you are stay'd for. 
 Pro. Go ; I come, I come : — 
 
 Mas ! this parting strikes poor lovers dumb. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III.— The same. A street. 
 
 Enter Lauxce, leading a dog. 
 Laim. Nay, 't wiU be this hour ere I have done 
 weeping ; all the kind of the Launccs have this 
 very fault. I have receiv'd 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-naturod dog that lives : my mother 
 weeping, my father walling, ray sister crjing, our 
 aiaid howling, our cat wringing her hands, and 
 sJl our house in a great perplexity, yet did not 
 this cruel-hearted cur shed one tear : he is a stone, 
 a verj' 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 'H 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 caiuiot 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 Uly, and aa 
 small as a wand : this hat is Nan, our maid ; I 
 am the dog : — no, the dog is himself, and I am the 
 dog, — 0! 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 ; wcU, 
 he weeps on. Now come I to my mother, (0, 
 that she could speak now like an old woman ;") — 
 well, I kiss her; — why, there 't is; here 's my 
 mother's breath up and down. Now come I to my 
 sister ; mark the moan she makes : now the dog 
 all this while sheds not a tear, nor speaks a word ; 
 but see how I lay the dust with my tears 
 
 Enter Panthino. 
 
 Pan. Launce, away, away, aboard! Thy master 
 is shipp'd, and thou art to post after with oars. 
 What 's the matter? why weep'st thou, man? 
 Away, ass ; you 'U lose the tide, if you taiTy any 
 longer. 
 
 Zaun. It is no matter if the ti'd were lost ; for 
 it is the unkindest ti'd that ever any man ti'd. 
 
 Pan. What 's the unkindest fide ? 
 
 Zaun. Why, he that 's ti'd here ; Crab, my dog. 
 
 Pa?i. Tut, man, I mean thou 'It lose the flood ; 
 and, in losing the flood, lose thy voyage; and, in 
 losing thy voyage, lose thy master ; and, in losing 
 thy master, lose thy service ; and, in losing thy 
 service, — Why dost thou stop my mouth ? 
 
 Zaun. For fear thou should' st lose thy tongue. 
 
 Pan. Where should I lose my tongue ? 
 
 Zaun. In thy tale. 
 
 Pan. In thy tail ? 
 
 Zaun. Lose the ti'd," and the voyage, and Ihe 
 master, and the service, and the tide ! — Why, 
 man, Lf the river were dry, I am able to fill it 
 with my tears ; if the wind were down, I co'.dd 
 drive the boat with my sighs. 
 
 Pan. Come, come away, man ; I was sent to 
 call thee. 
 
 Zaun, '^ir, call me what thou iar'st. 
 
 Pan. Wilt thou go? 
 
 Zaun. Well, I will go. [£xeuni
 
 
 ^CT 11. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. sckne iv. 
 
 .SCENE. IV .—Milan. A Room in the Duke's 
 
 Unter the DtTKE. 
 
 Palaee. 
 
 Duke. Now, daughter Silvia, you arc hai-d beset 
 
 
 Sir Valentine, your father is in good health : 
 
 Entei- VALENTrsTE, Sn,TiA, Tburio, and Speed. 
 
 What say you to a letter fi-om your friends 
 
 Sil. Servant! 
 
 Of much good news ? 
 
 Vul. Mistress. 
 
 Val. My lord, I wiU be thankful 
 
 Speed. Master, sir Thiirio frowns on you. 
 
 To any happy messenger from thence. 
 
 Val Ay, boy, it 's for love. 
 
 Bu/ce. Know ye Don Antonio,'' your coimtiyman? 
 
 Speed. Not of you. 
 
 Val. Ay, my good lord ; I know the gentleman 
 
 Val. Of my mistress, tlion. 
 
 To be of worth, and worthy estimation, 
 
 Speed. 'Twere good you laiock'd him. 
 
 And not without desert so wcU reputed. 
 
 Sil. Servant, you are sad. 
 
 Diike. Hath he not a son ? 
 
 Val. Indeed, madam, I seem so. 
 
 Val. Ay, my good lord ; a son that well deserves 
 
 T/iu. Seem you that you are not ? 
 
 The honour and regard of such a father. 
 
 Val. Haply I do. 
 
 DuJce. You know him well ? 
 
 TJiu. So do counterfeits. 
 
 Val. 1 knew him, as myself; for from our infancy 
 
 Val. So do you. 
 
 We have convcrs'd and spent our hours together : 
 
 77m. What seem I that I am not ? 
 
 And though myself have been an idle truant, 
 
 Val. Wise. 
 
 Omitting the sweet benefit of time 
 
 Thti. WTiat instance of the contrary ? 
 
 To clothe mine age with angel-like perfection, 
 
 Val. Your foUy. 
 
 Yet hath sir Proteus, for that 's his name, 
 
 Thu. And how quote'' you my folly.' 
 
 Made use and fair advantage of his days ; 
 
 Val. I quote it in your jerkin. 
 
 His years but young, but his experience old ; 
 
 Thu. My jerkin is a doublet. 
 
 His head luimellowed, but his judgment ripe ; 
 
 Val. Well, then, I 'U double youi" folly. 
 
 .\nd, in a word, (for far behind his worth 
 
 Thu. How? 
 
 Come aU the praises that I now bestow,) 
 
 Sil. MTiat, angry, sir Thurio? do you change 
 
 He is complete in feature," and in mind. 
 
 Dolour ? 
 
 With aU good grace to grace a gentleman. 
 
 Val. Give him leave, madam; he is a kind of 
 
 Duke. Beshrew me, sir, but if he make this good, 
 
 cameleon 
 
 He is as worthy for an empress' love. 
 
 Thu. That hath more mind to feed on your blood, 
 
 As meet to be an emperor's counsellor. 
 
 than live in your air. 
 
 Well, sir ; this gentleman is come to me. 
 
 Val. You have said, sir. 
 
 With commendation from great potentates ; 
 
 Thu. Ay, sir, and done too, for this time. 
 
 And here he means to spend his time awhile : 
 
 Val. I know it well, sir ; you always end ere 
 
 I think 't is no unwelcome news to you. 
 
 you begin. 
 
 Val. Should I have wish'd a thing, it had been he. 
 
 Sil. A fine volley of words, gentlemen, and 
 
 DuJce. Welcome him, then, according to his worth , 
 
 quickly shot off. 
 
 Silvia, I speak to you : and you, sir Thurio : — 
 
 Val. 'T is indeed, madam ; we thank the giver. 
 
 For Valentine, I need not cite him to it : 
 
 Sil. "Wlio is that, scn'ant ? 
 
 I wUl send him hither to you presently. 
 
 Val. Yourself, sweet lady ; ' for you gave the 
 
 [_£xit Duke. 
 
 fire : Sir Thmio borrows his wit from your lady- 
 
 Val. This is the gentleman I told your ladyship 
 
 ship's looks, and spends what he borrows kindly 
 
 Had come along with me, but that his mistress 
 
 in your company. 
 
 Did hold his eyes lock'd in her crystal looks. 
 
 TIiu. Sir, if you spend word for word with me. 
 
 Sil. Belike, that now she hath enfranchis'd them, 
 
 I shall make your wit banki'upt. 
 
 Upon some other pawn for fealty. 
 
 V'_d. I know it well, sir :" you have an exchequer 
 
 Val. Nay, sure, I think she holds them piisoncxs 
 
 of words, and, I think, no other treasure to give 
 
 stm. 
 
 your followers ; for it appears, by their bare live- 
 
 Sil. Nay, then, he should be blind ; and, being 
 
 ries, that they live by your bare words. 
 
 bUnd, 
 
 Sil. No more, gentlemen, no more ; here comes 
 
 How could he see his w&y to seek out you ? 
 
 my father. 
 
 Val. Why, lady, Love hath twenty pair of eyes 
 
 65 
 
 '" " ' 1
 
 AOT n. 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA- 
 
 TfiiL They say that Love hath not an eye at all — 
 Vol. To see such lovers, Thurio, as yourself; 
 tlpon a homely object Love can mnk. 
 
 Enter Pkoteus. 
 
 Sil. Have done, have done; here comes the 
 gentleman. \JExeunt Tmniio and Speed. 
 
 Val. "Welcome, dear Proteus! — Mistress, I be- 
 seech you 
 Confii-m Lis -wdoome with some special favour. 
 
 Sil. His -n-orth is warrant for his welcome hither, 
 If this be he you oft have wish'd to hear from. 
 
 Val. Mistress, it is : sweet lady, entertain him 
 To be my feUow-servant to your ladyship. 
 
 Sil. Too low a mistress for so high a servant ! 
 
 Pro. E'ot so, sweet lady ; but too mean a servant 
 To have a look of such a worthy mish-ess. 
 
 Val. Leave off discoiirse of disability : — 
 Sweet lady, entsrtain him for your servant. 
 
 Pro. My duty will I boast of, nothing else. 
 
 Sil. And duty never yet did want his meed ; 
 Servant, you are welcome to a worthless mistress. 
 
 Pro. I 'U die on him that says so, but yourself. 
 
 Sil. That you are welcome ? 
 
 Pro. That you ai-e worthless." 
 
 Re-enter Thtjeio. 
 
 Thu. Madam, my lord™ your father would speak 
 with you. 
 
 Sil. I wait upon his pleasxu-e. Come, Sir Thurio, 
 Go with me : — once more, new servant, welcome : 
 I 'U leave you to confer of home affairs ; 
 When vou have done, we look to heai' from you. 
 
 Pro. We '11 both attend upon your ladyship. 
 
 \Jixeunt Silvia and Thxtrio. 
 
 Val. Now, tcU mc, how do aU from whence you 
 came? 
 
 Pro. Your friends are well, and have them much 
 commended. 
 
 Val. And how do yours ? 
 
 Pro. I left them all in healtli. 
 
 Val. How does your lady ? and how thrive? 
 your love ? 
 
 Pro. My tales of love wore wont to weary yon 
 I know you joy not in a love-discourse. 
 
 Val. Ay, Proteus, but that life is altcrd now: 
 r have done penance for contemning Love, 
 Whose high imperious thoughts" have punish'd mf 
 With bitter fasts, with penitential groans. 
 With niglitly tears, and daily heart-soi-e sighs; 
 For, in revenge of my contempt of love, 
 Love hath cha.s'd sleep from my enthralled eyes, 
 
 nr. 
 
 And made them watchers of mine own heart's 
 
 sorrow. 
 0, gentle Proteus, Love's a mighty .crd; 
 And hath so hiunbled «ie, as, I confess. 
 There is no woe'- to his correction, 
 Nor to his service no such joy on earth! 
 Now, no discourse, except it be of love; 
 Now can I break my fast, dine, sup, and sleep, 
 Upon the very naked name of Love. 
 
 Pro. Enough; I read your fortune in your eye, 
 Was this the idol that you worship so? 
 
 Val. Even she; and is she not a heavenly 
 saint? 
 
 Pro. No; but she is an earthly paragon. 
 
 Val. Call her divine. 
 
 Pro. I win not flatter her. 
 
 Val. 0, flatter mc, for love delights in praises. 
 
 Pro. When I was sick, you gave me bitter piUs 
 And I must minister the like to you. 
 
 Val. Then speak the truth by her ; if not divine, 
 Yet let her be a principality,'' 
 Sovereign to all the creatures on the earth. 
 
 Pro. Except my mistress. 
 Val. Sweet, except not any; 
 
 Except thou wait except against my love. 
 
 Pro. Have I not reason to prefer mine own? 
 Val. And I will help thee to prefer her, too : 
 She shall be dignified with this high honour, — 
 To bear my lady's train, lest the base earth 
 Should from her vestui'e chance to steal a kiss. 
 And, of so great a favour growing proud. 
 Disdain to root the summer-swelling flower. 
 And ma]ce rough winter everlastingly. 
 
 Pro. T\Tiy, Valentine, what braggardism is 
 
 tills? 
 Val. Pardon me, Proteus: aU I can is nothing 
 To her, whose worth makes other worthies 
 
 nothing; 
 She is alone !** 
 
 Pro. Then let her alone. 
 Val. Not for the world: why, man, she ia miae 
 own ; 
 And I as rich in having such a jewel, 
 As twenty sea-s, if all their sand were pearl, 
 The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold. 
 Forgive me, that I do not di'eam on thee, 
 Because thou secst me dote upon my lovo. 
 My foolish rivid, that her father likes, 
 Only for his possessions are so huge. 
 Is gone with her along; and I nujst after, 
 For love, thou know'st, is full of jealousy 
 
 Pro. Hut she loves you?
 
 ACT IL 
 
 TKE TWO GENTLEMEN OIJ' VEEONA. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 Val. Ay, and wo aro betroth'd: Nay, more, our 
 marriage hour, 
 With all tbe cunning manner of our flight, 
 DettTinin'd of: how I must climb her window ; 
 The ladder made of cords; imd all the means 
 Plotted, and 'greed on, for my happiness. 
 Good Proteus, go with me to my chamber. 
 In these affairs to aid me -n-ith thy counsel. 
 
 Ffo. Go on before; I shall inquire. you forth: 
 I must imto the road, to disembark 
 Some necessaries that I needs must use; 
 Ajid then I'll presently attend you. 
 
 Val. Will you make haste? 
 
 Fro. I will.— [Ikit Vai. 
 
 Even as one heat another heat expels, 
 Or as one nail by strength drives out another, 
 So the remembrance of my former love 
 Is by a newer object quite forgotten. 
 Is it her mien, or Valentinus' praise," 
 Her true perfection, or my false transgression, 
 That makes mo, reasonless, to reason thus? 
 She is fair; and so is Julia, that I love — 
 That I did love, for now my love is thaw'd ; 
 Wliich, like a waxen image 'gainst a fire, 
 Bears no impression of the thing it was. 
 Methinks, my zeal to Valentine is cold, 
 And that I love him not, as I was wont: 
 ! but I love his lady too-too much, *' 
 And that's the reason I love him so little 
 How shall I dote on her with more advice," 
 That thus without advice begin to love her! 
 T is but her picture^' I have yet beheld. 
 And that hath dazzled my reason's light; 
 But when I look on her perfections, 
 There is no reason but I shall be bHnd. 
 If I can check my erring love, I wiU; 
 If not, to compass her I'U use my skill. l^Hxit. 
 
 SCENE V. A street in Milan. 
 Enter Speed mid LirrNCE. 
 Speed. Launoe! by mine honesty, welcome to 
 
 Milan. 
 Lmm. Forswear not thyself, sweet youth; for I 
 urn not welcome. I reckon this, always — that a 
 man is never undone, till he be hang'd; nor never 
 welcome t« a place, till some certain shot be paid, 
 and the hostess say, 'Welcome.' 
 
 Speed. Come on, you madcap, I'll to the ale- 
 house with you presently; where, for one shot of 
 five-pence, thou shalt have five thousand welcomes. 
 Hut, sirrah, how did thy master part with madam 
 Julia? 
 
 a 
 
 Zaun. Marry, after they clos'd in earnest, tliey 
 parted very fairly in jest. 
 
 Speed. But shall she marry him? 
 
 Zaun. No. 
 
 Speed. How then? Shall he marry her? 
 
 Zaun. No, neither. 
 
 Speed. What, are they broken ? 
 
 Zatm. No, they are both as whole as a fish. 
 
 Speed. Why, then, how stands the matter wtb 
 them? 
 
 Zaun. Marry, thus; when it stands well ■ndth 
 him, it stands well with her. 
 
 Speed. What an ass art thou! I understand 
 theo not. 
 
 Zaun. What a block art thou, that thou canst 
 not! My staff understands me. 
 
 Speed. 'Wliat thou say' st? 
 
 Zaun. Ay, and what I do, too: look thee, I'll 
 but lean, and my staff understands me.°° 
 
 Speed. It stands under thee, indeed. 
 
 Zjaun. Wliy, stand-under and imder-stand is aU 
 one. 
 
 Sjjeed. But tell me true, will 't be a match ? 
 
 Zaun. Ask my dog: if he say ay, it will; if he 
 say no, it will; if he shake his tail, and say no- 
 thing, it vriU. 
 
 Speed. The conclusion is then, that it wUl. 
 
 Zaun. Thou shalt never got such a secret fj'om 
 me, but by a parable. 
 
 Speed. 'T is well that I get it so. But, Launco, 
 how say'st thou, that my master is become a 
 notable lover? 
 
 Zaun. I never knew him otherwise. 
 
 Speed. Than how? 
 
 Zaun A notable lubber, as thou reportest him 
 to be. 
 
 Speed. Why, thou whoreson ass! thou mistak'st 
 
 me. 
 
 Zaun. Why, fool, I meant not thee, I meant 
 thy master. 
 
 Speed. I tell theo my master is become a hot 
 lover. 
 
 Zaun. Why, I tell thee, I care not though ho 
 bum himself iu love. If thou wUt go with mo 
 to the ale-house, so : if not, thou art a Hebrew, n 
 Jew, and not worth the name of a Christian. 
 
 Speed. T\Tiy? 
 
 Zaun. Because thou hast not so much charity m 
 thee as to go to the ale*" with a Christian : Wili 
 thou go ? 
 
 Speed. At thy service. [Kmint 
 
 67
 
 TKE TWO GENTLEMEN OE VEROiNA. 
 
 SCENE VI,— VTl. 
 
 t<CENE VI. — ilLaii. A Room in the Palace. 
 Enter Peotetjs. 
 
 Pro. To leave my Jiilia, shall I be forsworn ; 
 To love fair Silvia, shall I be forsworn ; 
 To -wrong my friend, I shall be much forsworn ; 
 And ev'n that pow'r, which gave me first my 
 
 oath, 
 Provokes me to this threefold peijury. 
 Love bade me swear, and Love bids me forswear : 
 
 sweet suggesting Love ! if thou hast sinn'd, 
 Teach me, thy tempted subject, to excuse it. 
 A.t fh'st I did adore a twinkling star, 
 
 But now I worship a celestial sun. 
 
 Unheedful vows may heedfully be broken ; 
 
 And he wants wit that wants resolved will 
 
 To Icaru his wif'' t' exchange the bad for better. — 
 
 Fie, fie, unreverend tongue ! to call her bad. 
 
 Whose sovereignty so oft thou hast preferr'd 
 
 With twenty thousand soul-confirming oaths. 
 
 1 cannot leave to love, and yet I do ; 
 
 But there I leave to love, where I should love. 
 
 Julia I lose, and Valentine I lose : 
 
 If I keep them, I needs must lose myself; 
 
 If-I lose them, thus find I by their loss. 
 
 For Valentine, myself ; for JuUa, SUvia. 
 
 I to myself am dearer than a friend, 
 
 For love is still most precious in itself : 
 
 Arid Silvia, (witness Heaven, that made her fair!) 
 
 Shows Julia but a swarthy Ethiope. 
 
 I will forget that Julia is alive, 
 
 Rememb'ring that my love to her is dead ; 
 
 And Valentine I 'U hold an enemy, 
 
 Aiming at Silvia as a sweeter friend. 
 
 I cannot now prove constant to myself, 
 
 Without some treachery us'd to Valentine : — 
 
 This night, he mcaneth with a corded ladder 
 
 To climb celestial Silvia's chamber--window, 
 
 Myself in counsel, his competitor -.^ 
 
 Now presently I '11 give her father notice 
 
 Of their disguising, and pretended flight ;■" 
 
 Who, all onrag'd, will banish Valentine, 
 
 For Thurio, he intends, shall wed his daughter : 
 
 But, Valentine being gone, I 'U quickly cross, 
 
 By some sly trick, blunt Thurio's duU proceeding. 
 
 Love, lend me wings to make ray purpose swift, 
 
 Aa thou hast lent me wit to plot tliis drift ! [Exit. 
 
 SCENE VII. — ^Verona. A Room in Julia's Home. 
 
 Enter Julia and Lucetta. 
 Jul. Counsel, Lucetta! gentle girl, assist me ! 
 And, ov'n in kind love, I do conjure thee," — 
 68 
 
 Who art the table" wherein all my thoughts 
 Are visibly character'd and engrav'd, — 
 To lesson me; and tell me some good mean. 
 How, witli my honour, I may undertake 
 A journey to my loving Proteus. 
 
 Lue. Alas! the way is wearisome and long. 
 Jul. A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary 
 To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps; 
 Much less shall she that hath Love's wings to fly; 
 And when the flight is made to one so dear, 
 Of such divine perfection, as sir Proteus. 
 
 Ltcc. Better forbear, till Proteus make return. 
 Jul. 0, know'st thou not, his looks are my soul a 
 food } 
 Pity the dearth that I have pined in. 
 By longing for that food so long a time. 
 Didst thou but know the inly touch of love, 
 Thou would' st as soon go kindle fire with snow, 
 As seek to quench the fire of love with words. 
 
 Luc. I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire. 
 But qualify the fu-e's extreme rage, 
 Lest it should bum above the bounds of reason. 
 Jul. The more thou damm'st it up, the more it 
 bums; 
 The current that with gentle murmur glides, 
 Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rogo; 
 But, when his fair course is not hindered, 
 He makes sweet music with th' enamell'd stones, 
 Giving a gentle kiss to eveiy sedge 
 He overtaketh in Ins pilgrimage ; 
 And so by many winding nooks he strays. 
 With willing sport, to the wild ocean. 
 Then let me go, and hinder not my course : 
 I 'U. be as patient as a gentle stream. 
 And make a pastime of each weary step, 
 TUl the last step have brought me to my love ; 
 And there I 'U rest, as, after much turmoil, 
 A blessed soul doth in Elysium. 
 
 Luc. But in what habit will you go along i 
 Jul. Not like a woman,for I would prevent 
 The loose encounters of lascivious men : 
 Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds 
 As may beseem some well-reputed page. 
 
 Ltw. Why, then yourlad\sliipmustoutyour hair. 
 Jul. No, girl ; I'll knit it up in silken strings,. 
 With twenty odd-conceited true-love knots : 
 To be fantastic may become a y ,iuth 
 Of gri\iter time than I shall sho,v to bo. 
 
 Luc. What fashion, madam, ehjl I make youi 
 
 breeches ? 
 Jul. Tliat fits as well as — '•' Tell me, ffood ray lord. 
 What compass will you wciir yom- farthingalo ? *'
 
 ACT III. 
 
 THE TWO GKNTLKMEN OF VKKUNA. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 V\'liy, ov'n -vrhat fashion thou best lik'st, Lucetta. 
 
 Lite. You must needs have them mth a cod-piece, 
 madam. 
 
 Jid. Out, out, Lucetta!" that \vill be ill- 
 favour'd. 
 
 Luc. A round hose, madam, now 's not worth 
 a piu, unless you have a cod-picco to stick 
 pins on. 
 
 Jul. Lucetta, as thou lov'st me, let mo have 
 What tliou think'st meet, and is most mauuoily. 
 But tell me, wench, how wiU the world repute 
 
 me, 
 For undertaking so unstaid a journey ? 
 [ fear mo it wiU make me scandaUz'd. 
 
 Lm. If you think so, then stay at home, and go 
 not. 
 
 Jid. Nay, that I will not. 
 
 Lm. Then never dream on infamy, but go. 
 Lf Proteus like youi- journey, when you come. 
 No matter who 's displeas'd when you are gone ; 
 I fear me he will scarce be pleas'd withal. 
 
 Jul. That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear : 
 K thousand oaths, an ocean of bis tears, 
 
 And instances of infinite** of lovo, 
 Wan'ant me welcome to my I'roteus. 
 
 Imc. All these are een'imts to deceitful 'o.'ia. 
 
 Jul. Base men, that use them to so base tffecf , 
 But truer stars did govern Proteus' birth : 
 His words are bonds. Ids oaths ai'e oracles ; 
 His love sincere, his thoughts immacidate ; 
 His tears, pure messengers sent from his heart; 
 His heart as far from fi'aud as lieaven from earth. 
 
 Luc. Pray heav'n he prove so, when you come 
 to him ! 
 
 Jul. Now, as thou lov'st me, do hira not that 
 wrong. 
 To bear a hard opinion of his truth : 
 Only deserve my love, by loving Iiim ; 
 And presently go with me to my chamber, 
 To take a note of what I stand in need of, 
 To fVimish me upon my longing journey. 
 All that is mine I leave at thy dispose, 
 ily goods, my lands, my reputation ; 
 Only, in lieu thereof, despatch me hence : 
 Come, answer not, but to it presently ; 
 I am impatient of my tarriance. [ficfwni 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. — Milan. An Ante-room in the Duke's 
 Pahme. 
 
 Enter Duke, TnuBto, and Peotetjs. 
 
 Duhe. Sir Thurio, give us leave, I pray, awhile ; 
 We have some secrets to confer about. 
 
 \_Exit Tmmio. 
 Now, tell me, Proteus, what 's your wHL with me? 
 
 Pro. ily grario«s lord, that which I would 
 discover, 
 The law of fiiendship bids me to conceal : 
 But, when I call to mind your gracious fevours 
 Done to me, undesemng as I am. 
 My duty pricks me on to utter that 
 "Which else no worldly good should draw from me. 
 Know, worthy prince, sir Valentine, my friend. 
 This night intends to steal away your daughter ; 
 Myself am one made privy to the plot. 
 I know you have detennin'd to bestow her 
 On Thurio, whom your gentle daughter hates ; 
 And should she thus be stol'n away from you, 
 It ^ould be much vexation to your age. 
 
 Thus, for my duty's sake, I rather choso 
 To cross my friend in his intended drift. 
 Than, by concealing it, heap on your head 
 A pack of sorrows, which would press you down 
 Being iinprevented, to your timeless gi-ave. 
 
 Buhc. Proteus, I thank thee for thine honest care 
 Which to requite, command me whUo I live. 
 This love of theirs myself have often seen, 
 Haply, when they have judg'd me fast asleep ; 
 And oftentimes have purpos'd to forbid 
 Sir Valentine her company, and my court : 
 But, fearing lest my jealous aim might err. 
 And so, unworthily, disgrace the man, 
 (A rashness that I ever yet have shunn'd,) 
 I gave liim gentle looks, thereby to find 
 That which thyself hast now disclos'd to me. 
 And, that thou mayst perceive my fear of this, 
 Knowing that tender youth is soon suggested," 
 I nightly lodge her in an upper tow'r. 
 The key whereof myself have ever kept; 
 And thence she cannot be convey'd away. 
 
 Pro. Know, noble lord, they have devis'd a mean 
 
 59
 
 ACT 111. 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEl^ OF VEKONA. 
 
 oOENK 1. 
 
 How he her chamber-window will ascend, 
 And with a corded ladder fetch her down ; 
 For which the youthful lover now is gone, 
 A-iid tliis way comes he with it presently ; 
 Where, if •'^ please you, you may intercept him 
 But, good my lord, do it &o cunningly, 
 That my discovery he not simed at ;™ 
 For love of you, not hate "xnto my friend, 
 Hath made me publisher of this pretence. 
 
 Buke. Upon mine honour, he shall never know 
 That I had any light from thee of this. 
 
 Pro. Adieu, my lord; sir Valentine is coming. 
 
 [_Exit. 
 
 Unter Vaientine. 
 
 Buhe. Sir Valentine, whither away so fast ? 
 Val. Please it your grace, there is a messenger 
 That stays to bear my letters to my Mends, 
 Ajid I am going to deliver them. 
 Bulce. Be they of much import ? 
 Val. The tenor of them doth but signify 
 My health, and happy being at your court. 
 
 Ihike. Nay, then, no matter ; stay with me a 
 while ; 
 I am to break with thee of some affairs, 
 That touch me near, wherein thou must be secret. 
 'T is not unkno^\'n to thee, that I liave sought 
 Tj match my fiiend, sir Thurio, to my daughter. 
 Vd. I know it well, my lord; and, sure, the 
 match 
 Were rich and honourable ; besides, the gentleman 
 Is fuU of virtue, bounty, worth, and qualities 
 Beseeming such a wife as your fair daughter : 
 Canjiot your grace -win her to fancy him ? 
 
 Bulce. No, trust me ; she is pee-i-ish, sullen, 
 froward. 
 Proud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty ; 
 Neither regarding that she is my child, 
 Nor fearing me as if I were her father : 
 And, may I say to thee, this pride of hers, 
 Upon advice, hath drawn my love from her ; 
 jViid, wlicre"' I thought the remnant of mine age 
 Shoidd ha'.'e been cherish'd by her chUd-hke duty, 
 I now am full resolv'd to take a wife, 
 And turn her out to who will talie her in : 
 Then let her beauty be her wedding-dow'r. 
 For me and my possessions she esteems not. 
 
 Val. "Wliat would your grace have me to do in this? 
 Buke. There is a lady, of Verona, here, 
 Wiora I affect ; but she is nice and coy. 
 And nought esteems my aged elo(juence : 
 tfow, tliorcfore, would I have thee to my tutor, 
 
 60 
 
 (For long agone I have forgot to court : 
 Besides, the fashion of the time is chang'd ;) 
 How, and which way, I may bestow myself 
 To be regarded in her sun-bright eye. 
 
 Val. Win her with gifts, if she respect not words 
 Dumb jewels often, in their silent kind, 
 More than quick words, do move a woman's mind 
 Buke. But she did scorn a present that I sent her. 
 Val. A woman sometime scorns what best con- 
 tents her : 
 Send her another ; never give her o'er ; 
 For scorn at first makes after-love the more. 
 If she do frown, 't is not in hate of you. 
 But rather to beget more love in you : 
 If she do chide, 't is not to have you gone ; 
 For why, the fools are mad, if left alone. 
 Take no repulse, whatever she doth say : 
 For "get you gone," she doth not mean " away?" 
 Flatter, and praise, commend, extol tlieir graces ; 
 Though ne'er so black, say they have angels' faces. 
 That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man, 
 If with his tongue he cannot win a woman. 
 
 Buke. But she I mean is promis'd by her friends 
 Unto a youthfol gentleman of worth. 
 And kept severe!}- from resort of men, 
 That no man hath access by day to her. 
 
 Val. Why, then I would resort to her by night 
 Buke. Ay, but the doors be loek'd, and key: 
 kept safe, 
 That no man hath recourse to her by night. 
 
 Val. WTiat lets" but one may enter at he: 
 
 window ? 
 Buke. Her chamber is aloft, far from the ground. 
 And built so sheh-ing, that one cannot cUmb it 
 Without apparent hazard of his hfe. 
 
 Val. WTiy, then, a ladder, quaintly made of cords 
 To cast up ■n'ith a pair of anchoring hooks, 
 Would serve to scale another Hero's tow'r. 
 So bold Leander would adventure it. 
 
 Buke. Now, as thou art a gentleman of blood 
 Advise me where I may have such a ladder. 
 Val. WTien would you use it? pray, sir, tcU me 
 
 that. 
 Buke. This very night ; for Love is like a child 
 That longs for everytliing that he can come by. 
 
 Val. By seven o'clock I 'U get you sutli a 
 ladder. 
 
 Buke. But, hark thee ; I will go to her alone ; 
 How shall I best convey the ladder thither ? 
 Val. It wiQ bo light, my lord, that you maj 
 bear it 
 Under a cloak that is of any length.
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VEEONA 
 
 SCOTS L 
 
 Duke. A cloak as long as thine will serve the 
 
 turn? 
 Val. Ay, my good lord. 
 Lttke. Then let me see thy cloak: 
 
 ['11 get me one of such another length. 
 
 Val. ^Tiy, any cloak will serve the tura, my 
 
 lord. 
 Dii.ke. How shall I fashion me to wear a cloak? — 
 r pray thee, let me feci thy cloak upon me. — 
 What letter is tliis same? Wlxat's here?— "To 
 
 SUvia"? 
 And here an engine fit for my proceeding! 
 rU be so bold to break the seal for once. [Reads. 
 "My thoujjlits do harbour with my Silvia nightly; 
 And slaves they are to me, that send them flying : 
 0, could their master come and go as lightly, 
 
 Hmiself would lodge where senseless they are lying. 
 My herald thoughto in thy pure bosom rest them ; 
 
 While I, their king, that thither them importune, 
 D ) curse the grace that with such grace hath bless'd them. 
 
 Because myself do want my servants' fortune : 
 I cm-se myself, for they are sent by me,''^ 
 That they should harbour where their lord should be." 
 
 What 's here ? 
 
 " Silvia, this night I will enfranchise thee :" 
 T is s; ; and here 's the ladder for the purpose. 
 Why, Phaeton, (for thou art Merops' son,) 
 Wilt thou aspire to guide the heavenly car, 
 AjkI with thy daring folly bum the world ? 
 Wilt thou reach stars, because they shine on thee ? 
 Go, base intruder ! overweening slave ! 
 Bestow thy fawning smiles on equal mates ; 
 And tliink my patience, more than thy desert, 
 Is privilege for thy departure hence : 
 Thank me for this, more than for all the favoirrs, 
 Whicli, aU too much, I have bestowed on thee. 
 But if [hou hnger in my territories, 
 Longer than swiftest expedition 
 Will give thee time to leave our royal court, 
 By heaven, my wrath shall far exceed the love 
 I ever bore my daughter, or thyself. 
 Be gone ! I wiU not hear thy vain excuse ; 
 
 But, as thou lov'st thy life, make speed from hence. 
 
 [_Exit DnEE. 
 Val. And why not death, rather than living 
 torment ? 
 
 To die, is to be banish'd from myself ; 
 
 And Sihia is myself : banish'd from her, 
 
 Is self from self : a deadly banishment ! 
 
 What light is light, if Silvia be not seen? 
 
 Wliat joy is joy, if SilWa be not by ? 
 
 Unless it be to think that she is by, 
 
 And feed upon the shadow of perfection. 
 
 Except I be by Silvia in the night, 
 There is no music in the nightingale ; 
 Unless I look on Silvia in the day. 
 There is no day for me to look upon : 
 She is my essence ; and I leave to bo, 
 If I be not by her fair influence 
 Foster'd, iUuinin'd, cherish'd, kept alive. 
 I fly not death, to fly his deadly doom :" 
 Tarry I here, I but attend on death; 
 But, fly I hence, I fiy away from Ufe. 
 
 Enter Photeus and Launcis. 
 
 Pro. Hun, boy ; run, run, ;md seek him out. 
 Laun. So-hough ! — so-hough ! " 
 Pro. "VMiat seest thou? 
 Laun. Him we go to find: 
 
 There's not a hair on's head, but 't is a Valeatina 
 Pro. Valentine? 
 Val. No. 
 
 Pro. Who then ? his spirit? 
 Val. Neither. 
 Pro. What then? 
 Val. Nothing. 
 
 Laun. Can nothing speak? Master, shall I strike ] 
 Pro. Who woidd'st thou strike? 
 Lann. Nothing. 
 Pro. Villain, forbear ! 
 Laiuu. Why, sir, I'U stiike notliing : I pray 
 
 you,— 
 Pro. Sirrah, I say, forbear: Friend Valentine, a 
 
 word. 
 Val. My ears are stopp'd, and cannot hear good 
 news, 
 So much of bad already hath possess'd them. 
 
 Pro. Then in dimib silence wiU I bury mine. 
 For they are harsh, untuneable, and bad. 
 Val. Is Silvia dead? 
 Pro. No, Valentine. 
 
 Val. No Valentine, indeed, for sacred Silvia! — 
 Hath she forsworn me? 
 Pro. No, Valentine. 
 
 Val. No Valentine, if Silvia have forsworn me! 
 What is your news? 
 
 Laun. Sir, there is a proclamation that you are 
 vanished. 
 
 Pro. That thou art banish'd, — 0, that's the news 
 From hence, from SUvia, and from me, thy friend 
 
 Val. 0, I have fed upon this woe already. 
 And now excess of it will make me surfeit. 
 Doth Silvia know that I am banished? 
 
 Pro. Ay, ay; and she hath ofiered to t'no doom 
 (Which, unrevers'd, stands in effectual force)
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A. sea of melting pearl, whieli some call tears: 
 Tliose at her father's chmHsh feet she tender'd; 
 With them, upon her knees, her humble self; 
 ■^''ringing her hands, whose whiteness so became 
 
 them. 
 As if but now they waxed pale for woe : 
 Uut neither bended knees, pure hands held up, 
 Sad sighs, deep gi-oans, nor silver-shedding tears. 
 Could penetrate her imcompassionate sire; 
 But ValentLQe, if he be ta"en, must die. 
 Besides, her intercession chaf'd him so, 
 fllicn slie for thy repeal was suppliant, 
 That to close prison he commanded her, 
 With many bitter threats of 'biding there. 
 
 Val. No more; imless the next word that thou 
 speak'st 
 llave some mab'gnant power upon my life : 
 If so, I pray thee, breathe it in mine ear, 
 As ending anthem of my endless dolour. 
 
 Pro. Cease to lament for that thou canst not help. 
 And study help for that which thou lament' st 
 Time is the nurse and breeder of all good. 
 Here if thou stay, thou canst not see thy love ; 
 Besides, thy staying will abridge thy life. 
 Hope is a lover ?_ 'taff; walk hence with that, 
 .\.x^^ manage it against despairing thoughts. 
 Thy letters may be here, though thou art hence : 
 Wliich, being ^rat to me, sh;dl be deUver'd 
 Even ia the milk-white bosom of thy love. 
 The time now serves not to expostulate : 
 Come, I'U. convey thee througli the city gate; 
 And, ere I part with thee, confer at large 
 Of all that may concern thy love-affairs: 
 As thou lov'st Silvia, though not for thyself, 
 Regard thy danger, and along with me. 
 
 T'al. I pray thee, Launce, an' if thou seest my 
 boy, 
 Bid him make haste, and meet me at the north 
 gate. 
 Fro. Go, sirrah, find him out. Come, Valentine. 
 Val. my deal- Silvia! hapless Valentine! 
 
 [^Uxeunt Valentixe and Pkoteus. 
 Zaun. I am but a fool, look you; and yet I have 
 the wit to think my master is a kind of a knave : 
 but that's iJl one, if he be but one knave.'" He 
 lives not now, that knows me to be in love : yet I 
 um in love; but a team of horse shall nut pluck 
 that Irom me; nor who 't is I love, and yet 't is a 
 woman : but what woman, I wiU not tell myself; 
 and yet "t is a mUk-maid; yet 't is nut a maid, 
 (or she hath had gossips:'" yet 't is a maid, lor she 
 .s hor master's maid, and serves for wages. She 
 CZ 
 
 hath more qualities than a water-spaniel, — which 
 is much in a bare Christian. Here is the catelog 
 \pulling Old a paper'] of her conditions. Impiimis, 
 "She can fetch and carry." WTiy, a horse can do 
 no more: nay, a horse cannot fetch, but only carrj-; 
 therefore is she better than a jade. Item, "She 
 can mUk;" look you, a sweet virtue in a maid with 
 clean hands. 
 
 Enter Speed. 
 
 Speed. How now, signior Launce 1 what news 
 ■ndth your mastership? 
 
 Laun. With my master's ship 1 why, it is at sea. 
 
 Speed. Well, your old vice still; mistake the 
 word : What news, then, in your paper ? 
 
 Laun. The black'st news that ever thou'heard'st. 
 
 Speed. Why, man, how black ? 
 
 Laun. WTiy, as black as ink. 
 
 Speed. Let me read them. 
 
 Laun. Fie on thee, jolt-head! thou canst not read. 
 
 Speed. Thou liest : I can. 
 
 Laun. I will try thee. Tell me this: Who begot 
 thee? 
 
 Speed. Marry, the son of my grandfather. 
 
 Laun. illiterate loiterer! it was the son of thy 
 grandmother: this proves that thou canst not road. 
 
 Speed. Come, fool, come : try me in thy paper. 
 
 Laun. There; and St Nicholas be thy speed I '^ 
 
 Speed. Item, "She can milk?"" 
 
 Laun. Ay, that she can. 
 
 Speed. Item, "She brews good ale." 
 
 Laun. And thereof comes the proverb, — Blessing 
 of your heart, you brew good ale. 
 
 Speed. Item, "She can sew." 
 
 Laun. That's as much as to say, can she so? 
 
 Speed. Item, " She can knit." 
 
 Laun. WTiat need a man care for a stock wi th a 
 wench, when she can knit him a stock?'* 
 
 Speed, Item, "She can wash and scour." 
 
 Laun. A special \-irtue; for then she need not 
 be wash'd and scour'd. 
 
 Speed. Item, "She can spin." 
 
 Laun. Then may I set the world on wheels, 
 when she can spin for her liraig. 
 
 Speed. Item, "She hath many nameless virtues." 
 
 Laun. That's as much as to say, bastard wtucs 
 that, indeed, know net thcii- fatliers, and therefore 
 have no names. 
 
 Speed. Here follow her vices. 
 
 Laun. Close at the heels of her vii-tues. 
 
 Speed. Item, "She is not to be fasting, in re- 
 spect of her breath."
 
 t^ 
 
 f^' 
 
 , ( 
 
 tMCWurrcu a:? iLaucc.
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VEROKA. 
 
 SCEITG li. 
 
 Ziiun. Well, that fault may be mended with a 
 breakfast. Read on. 
 
 Speed. Item, " She hath a sweet mouth." 
 
 Zaun. That makes amends for her sour breath. 
 
 Speed. Item, " She dotli talk in her sleep." 
 
 Zmm. It's no matter for ihat, so she sleep not 
 La her talk 
 
 Speed. 1 .6m, " She is slow in words." 
 
 Laim. villain," that set this down among 
 her vices ! To be slow in words is a woman's only 
 virtue : I pray thee, out with 't, and place it for 
 her chief virtue. 
 
 Speed. Item, " She is proud." 
 
 LauH. Out -svith that, too ; it was Eve's legacy, 
 and cannot be ta'en from her. 
 
 Speed. Item, " She hath no teeth." 
 
 Zaun. I eare not for that neither, because I 
 love crusts. 
 
 Speed. Itt^m, " She is curst." 
 
 Z^aun. Well; the best is, she hath no teeth to bite. 
 
 Speed. Item, " She will often praise her liquor."'^ 
 
 Zaun . If her liquor be good, she shall : if she 
 mH not, I will ; for good things sliould be 
 praised. 
 
 Speed. Item, " She is too liberal." 
 
 Zdiiu. Of her tongue she cannot, for that 's 
 u'rit down she is slow of : of her jjui'se she shall 
 not, for that I 'II keep shut: now of another 
 thing she may, and that cannot I help. Well, 
 proceed. 
 
 Speed. Item, " She hath more hair than wit, 
 and more faidts than hairs, and more wealth than 
 faults." 
 
 Zaun. Stop there ! I 'U have her ! She was 
 mine, and not mine, frndce or thrice in that last 
 article. Rehearse that once more. 
 
 Speed. Item, " She hath more hair than wit," — 
 
 Zaun. More hair thau wit, — it may be ; I 'U 
 prove it. The cover of the salt hides the salt," 
 and therefore it is more than the salt ; the hair 
 that covers the wit is more than the wit, for the 
 greater hides the less. What 's next ? 
 
 Speed. — " And more faults than hairs," — 
 
 Zaun. That 's monstrous : 0, that that were out ! 
 
 Speed. — " And more wealth than faults." 
 
 Zaun. Wliy, that word mak_'s tlie faults gracious: 
 Well, I 'H have her : Ani if it be a match, as 
 nothing is impossible, — 
 
 Speed. "What then ? 
 
 Zaun. Why, then v.-ill I tcU thee, — that thy 
 master stays for thoe at the north gate. 
 
 Speed Eor me ? 
 
 Zaun. For thoe ? ay : who art thou ? he hath 
 stay'd for a better man than thoe. 
 
 Speed. And must I go to him .' 
 
 Z,au». Thou must run to him, for thou hast 
 stay'd so long, that going wiU scarce serve the 
 turn. 
 
 Speed. Why didst not toll me sooner ? 'pox of 
 your love-letters ! [Hxii 
 
 Zaun. Now will he be swing'd for reading mj 
 letter ! An unmannerly slave, that will thrust 
 himself into secrets ! — 1 11 after, to rejoice in the 
 boy's correction. \_Exit. 
 
 SCENE II.— 7^ game. A Room in the Duke's 
 Palace. 
 
 Eni&r Duke and Tmrnio. 
 
 3uke. Sir Thurio, feiir not but that she wUl 
 love you. 
 Now Valentine is banish'd from her sight; 
 
 Thu. Since his exile, she hath despis'd me most, 
 Forsworn my company, and raU'd at me. 
 That I am desperate of obtaining her. 
 
 Z)uJce. This weak impress of love is as a figure 
 Trenched in ice," which with an hour's heat 
 Dissolves to water, and doth lose his foi-m. 
 A little time wiU melt her frozen thoughts. 
 And worthless Valentine shiJl be forgot. — 
 
 [^Enter Proteus 
 How now, sir Proteus ? Is your coimti'jTnan, 
 According to oui- proclamation, gone .' 
 
 Pro. Gone, my good lord. 
 
 Z)ul:e. My daughter takes his going grievously. '^ 
 
 Pro. A little time, my lord, -n-ill kill that grief. 
 
 Dulce. So I believe ; but Thurio thinks not so. — 
 Proteus, the good conceit I hold of thee, 
 (For thou hast shown some sign of good desert) 
 Makes me the better to confer with thee. 
 
 Pro. Longer than I prove loyal to your grace. 
 Let me not live to look upon your grace. 
 
 Bide. Thou know'st how wiUingly I would effect 
 The match between sir Thurio and my daughter. 
 
 Pro. I do, my lord. 
 
 Duke. And also, I think, thou art not ignorant 
 How she opposes her against my will. 
 
 Pro. She did, my lord, when Valentine was hero 
 
 Duke. Ay, and perversely she persevers so. 
 What might we do, to make the girl forget 
 The love of Valentine, and love sir Thurio ^ 
 
 Pro. The best way is, to slander Valentine 
 With falsehood, cowardice, and poor descent. 
 Three things that women highly hold in hate. 
 
 Bvh. Ay, but she'll think that it is spoke in hate. 
 
 63
 
 ACT III. 
 
 TIEE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VEEONA. 
 
 80KKT. n. 
 
 Pro. Ay, if his enemy deliver it : 
 Therefore it must with circumstance be spoken 
 By one whom she esteemeth as his friend. 
 
 Diih. Then you must undertake to slander him. 
 
 Fro. And that, my lord, I shall be loth to do : 
 T is an iU office for a gentleman, 
 Especially against his very** friend. 
 
 Dukn. "Where your good word cannot advantage 
 him, 
 Ycm' slander never can endamage him ; 
 Tnciefore the office is indifferent. 
 Being entreated to it by youi' friend. 
 
 Prt. Tou have prevail' d, my lord : if 1 can do it. 
 By aught that I can speak in his dispraise. 
 She shall not long conrinue love to him. 
 But say, this weed her love from Valentine, 
 It follows not that she will love sir Thurio. 
 
 TJiu. Therefore, as you unwind her love from him, 
 Lest it should ravel, and be good to none, 
 You must provide to bottom it on me f 
 Which must be done by praising mc as much 
 As you in worth dispraise sir Valentine. 
 
 Duke. And, Proteus, we dare tru<t you in this 
 kind ; 
 Because we know, on Valentine's report, 
 You are ah'eady Love's finn votary, 
 And cannot soon revolt and change your mind. 
 Upon this warrant shall you have access 
 Wliere you with Silvia may confer at large ; 
 For she is limipish, heavy, melancholy. 
 And. for your friend's sake, will be glad of you ; 
 \Vhere you may temper her, ** by your persuasion, 
 To hate young Valentine, and love my friend. 
 
 Pro. As much as I can do, I wiU effect : — 
 
 Be:', you, sir Thuri' ero not sharp enough ; 
 64 
 
 Tou must lay Hme, to tangle her desires, 
 By wailful sonnets, whose composed rhymes 
 Should be fall fraught with serviceable vows. 
 
 Jjuke. Ay, much is the force of heaven-bred 
 poesy. 
 
 Pro. Say that upon the altar of her beauty 
 Tou sacrifice your tears, your sighs, your heart : 
 Write till yoiu- ink be dry ; and with your tears 
 Moist it again ; and frame some feeling line. 
 That may discover such integrity : " 
 For Oi'pheus' lute was strung with poets' Biac\VB, 
 Whose golden touch could soften steel and etonos, 
 Make tigers tame, and huge leviathans 
 Forsake unsounded deeps to dance on sands. 
 After your dire lamenting elegies. 
 Visit by night your lady's chamber-window 
 With some sweet consort -.^ to their instruments 
 Tune a deploiing dump ;°' the night's dead silence 
 Win well become such sweet complaining grievance, 
 This, or else nothing, will inherit her. " 
 
 Duke. This discipline shows thou hast been in 
 love. 
 
 HTm. And thy advice this night I' U put in 
 practice. 
 Therefore, sweet Proteus, my direction-giver, 
 Let us into the city presently 
 To sort^^ some gentlemen well sldll'd in music ; 
 I have a sonnet that will serve the turn, 
 To give the onset to thy good advice. 
 
 Duke. About it, gentlemen. 
 
 Pro. We '11 wait upon your grace til] after 
 supper ; 
 And afterward determine our proceedings. 
 
 Duke. Even now about it ; I wiU pardon you." 
 
 i. Exeunt,
 
 rut; TWO (iENTMCMBN Ui' VKRO.NA 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Forest, noar Iklilan. 
 
 Enter certai7i Outlaws. 
 
 1 Out. Fellows, stand fast; I see a passenger. 
 
 2 Out. If there be tea, shrink not, but down 
 
 with 'em. 
 
 Enter Vaientdte and Speed. 
 
 Old. Stand, sir, and throw us that you have 
 
 about you: 
 if not, we '11 make you sit, and rifle you. 
 
 Speed. Sir, we are undone ! these are the villains 
 that aU the travellers do fear so much. 
 
 Val. My friends, — 
 
 1 Old. That's not so, sir; we are your enemies. 
 
 2 Out. Peace ! we "U hear him. 
 
 3 Out. Ay, by my beard, will we; for he is a 
 
 proper man ! '* 
 Val. Then know, that I have little wealth to lose; 
 A man I am, cross'd with adversity; 
 My riches are these poor habUiments, 
 Of whieli if you should hero disfumisu me, 
 Tou take the sum and substance that I have. 
 
 2 Old. Whither travel you? 
 Val. To Verona. 
 
 1 Out. "Whence came you? 
 Val. From Milan. 
 
 3 Out. Have you long sojoum'd there? 
 
 Val. Some sixteen months; and longer might 
 have etay'd. 
 If crooked fortune had not thwarted me. 
 
 1 Out. What, were you banish'd thence? 
 Val. I was. 
 
 2 Out. For what offence? 
 
 Tal. For that which now torments mo to 
 rehearse ; 
 1 kill'd a man, whose death I much repent; 
 But yet I slew him manfully in fight, 
 Without false vantage, or base treachery. 
 
 ' Out. Why, ne'er repent it, if it were done so: 
 But were you banish'd for so small a fault? 
 
 Val. I was, and held me glad of such a doom. 
 
 1 Out. Have you the tongues? 
 
 Val. My youthful travel therein made me happy; 
 Or else I had been often miserable. 
 
 3 Out. By the bare scalp of Eobin Hood's fat 
 friar," 
 This fellow were a king for our wild faction! 
 
 1 Out. AVe '11 have him; sirs, a word. 
 
 Speed. Master, be one of them; it's an honour- 
 able kind of thievery. 
 Val. Peace, villain! 
 
 2 Out. Tell us this: Have you anything to 
 
 tike to? 
 Val. Nothing but my fortime. 
 
 3 Out. Know, then, that some of us are gentlemen, 
 Such as the fury of imgovcm'd youth. 
 
 Thrust from the company of awful men:" 
 Myself was from Verona banished. 
 For practising to steal away a lady. 
 An heir, and near allied unto the duke. 
 
 2 Out. And I from Mantua, for a gentleman, 
 Whom, in my mood,'* I stabb'd unto the heart. 
 
 1 Out. And I, for such like petty crimes as these. 
 But to the purpose, — for we cite our faults, 
 That they may hold excus'd our lawless lives, 
 And, partly, seeing you are beautified 
 
 With goodly shape; and by your own report 
 A linguist; and a man of such perfection, 
 As we do in our quality much want. 
 
 2 Out. Indeed, because you are a banish'd man, 
 Tlierefore, above the rest, we parley to you: 
 
 Are you content to be our general? 
 
 To make a virtue of necessity, 
 
 And live, as we do, in this wilderness ? 
 
 3 Out. What say'st thou ? wilt thou be of our 
 
 consort ? 
 Say, ay, and be the captain of us all : 
 Wo 'U do thee homage, and be rul'd by tnee, 
 Love thee as our commander, and our king. 
 
 1 Out. But if thou scorn our courtesy, thou diest 
 
 2 Out. Thou shalt not live to brag what we 
 
 have offer'd. 
 Val. I take your offer, and will live with you. 
 Provided that you do no outrages 
 On sUly women, ^ or poor passengers.
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEiV OF VEKONA. 
 
 8 Out. I'so, -we detest sucli vilo base practices. 
 Come, go -n-itli us, we '11 bring thee to our crews, 
 And show thee all the ti'easure we have got ; 
 Wbich, with ourselves, all rest" at thy dispose. 
 
 [^Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE n.— Milan. The court of the Palace. 
 Enter Peoieus. 
 
 Pro. Abeady have I been false to Valentine, 
 And now I must be as unjust to Tiiurio. 
 Under the colour of commending him, 
 I have access my own love to prefer ; 
 But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, 
 To be comipted with my wortliless gifts. 
 When I protest true loyalty to her, 
 She twits me with my falsehood to my friend: 
 When to her beauty I commend my vows. 
 She bids me tuinli how I have been forsworn 
 In breaking fiith with Julia whom I lov'd : 
 And, notwithstanding all her sudden quips, '°° 
 P-ho least whereof would quell a lover" s hope, 
 yet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love. 
 The more it grows, and fiwneth on her still. 
 Cut here comes Tliurio : now must we to her 
 
 window, 
 And give some evening music to her ear. 
 
 Erder Tnunio and Musicians. 
 
 Tim. How now, sir Proteus; are you crept 
 before us? 
 
 Pro. Ay, gentle Thui-io ; for you know that love 
 Will creep in service where it cannot go. 
 
 Tim. Ay, but I hope, sir, that you love not here. 
 
 Pro. Sir, but I do; or else I would be hence. 
 
 Thu. T\Tio? Sil\-ia? 
 
 Pro. Ay, SUvia, — for your sake. 
 
 TIm. I thank j-ou for your own. Now, gentlemen, 
 Let's tune, and to it lustily awhile. 
 
 Enter Host, at a distance; and Julia, in lay's clothes. 
 
 Host. Now, my young guest! mcthinks yoTi 're 
 allyohoOy; I pray you, why is it ? 
 
 Jul. MaiTy, miae host, because I cannot be merry. 
 
 Host. Come, we '11 have you merry: I' 11 biing 
 you where you shall hear music, and see the gen- 
 tleman that you ask'd for. 
 
 Jul. But shall I hear him speak? 
 
 Host. Ay, that you shall. 
 
 Jul. That wUl be music ! \_Music plays. 
 
 Host. Hark! hark! 
 , Jul. Is he among these? 
 
 Host. Ay: but peace, let 's hear 'em. 
 06 
 
 SONG. 
 
 AVho is Silvia ? what is she. 
 
 That all our swains commend faer ? 
 Holy, fair, and wise is she, 
 
 The heaven such grace did lend her,^^' 
 That she might admired be. 
 Is she kind aa she is fair .* 
 
 For beauty lives with kindness • 
 Love doth to her eyes repair. 
 
 To help him of his blindness ; 
 And, being help'd, inhabits there. 
 Then to Silvia let us sing. 
 
 That Sil\'ia is cxceUiug ; 
 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 act. 
 
 Host. Why, my pretty youth ? 
 
 Jul. He plays false, father. 
 
 Host. How? out of tune on the strings? 
 
 Jul. Not so; but yet so false that he gi-ieves nn 
 very heart-stiings. 
 
 Host. You have a quick ear. 
 
 Jul. Ay, I would I were deaf! it makes in'- 
 have a slow heai't. 
 
 Host. I perceive you delight not in musis. 
 
 Jul. Not a whit, — when it jars so. 
 
 Host. Hark, what fine change is in the m .isii, ! 
 
 Jul. Ay, that change is the spite! 
 
 Host. You would have them always play but 
 one thing. 
 
 Jul. I would always have one play but one thing. 
 But, host, doth this sir Proteus, that we talk on. 
 Often resort imto this gentlewoman? 
 
 Host. I tell you what Launce, his man, told me, 
 he lov'd her out of aU nick.'"^ 
 
 Jul. WTiere is Launce? 
 
 Host. Gone to seek his dog ; which, to-morrow, 
 by his master's command, he must carry for a pre- 
 sent to his lady. 
 
 Jul. Peace! stand aside! the company parts. 
 
 Pro. Sir Thiu-io, fear not you ! I -n-ill so plead, 
 That you shall say my cunning drift cxcela. 
 
 Tim. Where meet we? 
 
 Pro. At saint Gregory's well. 
 
 Thit. Farewell. \_Exeunt Tkvkio snd Mmiciam 
 
 Silvia appears alove, at her window. 
 
 Pro. Madam, good ev'n to your ladyship 
 <S'i7. I thank you for your music, gentlemen: 
 WTio is that, tliat spake?
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VEEONA. 
 
 UCEXE JI. 
 
 Pro.. One, lady, if you knew his pure heart's 
 tnilh, 
 Tou vould nuiukly Icam to know him by his voice. 
 SU. Sir Proteus, as I take it. 
 Pro Sir Proteus, gcntlo lady, and your servant. 
 SU. "Wliat 's your will r 
 Pro. That I may compass youi-s."" 
 Sil. You have yoTir wish; my will is even this, — 
 That presently j'ou hie you homo to bed. 
 Thou subtle, pcrjur'd, false, disloyal man! 
 Think'st thou, I am so shallow, so conceitless. 
 To be seduced by thy flattery. 
 That hast dccciv'd so many with thy vows? 
 Return, retiuii, and make thy love amends. 
 For me, — ^by this pale queen of night I swear, 
 I am so flir froin granting thy request. 
 That I des])ise 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 f;Jse, if I should speak it; 
 For I am siu-e she is not buried. \^Asido. 
 
 SU. Say that she be; j-et Valentine, thj' friend 
 Survives; to whom, thyself art ■natness, 
 I am botroth'd : And art thou not asham'd 
 To ■rnong him with thy importunacy ? 
 Pro. I likewise hear that Valentine is dead. 
 SU. And so suppose am I; for in his grave 
 Assure thj-sclf my love is biuied. 
 Pro. Sweet lady, let me rake it from the earth. 
 Sil. Go to thy lady's grave, and call her's thence; 
 Or, at the least, in her's sepulchre thine. 
 
 Jul. He heard not that. [Aside. 
 
 Pro. Madam, if your heart bo so obdurate, 
 Vouchsafe me yet your picture for my love. 
 The pictm-e that is hanging in your chamber; 
 To that I '11 speak, to that I '11 sigh and weep: 
 For, since the substance of your perfect self 
 Is else devoted, I am but a shadow. 
 And to your shadow will I make true love. 
 Jul. If 't were a substance, you would, sure, 
 deceive it,' 
 A.nd make it but a shadow, as I am. [Aside, 
 
 Sil. I am verj- loth to be your idol, sir; 
 Hut, since your falsehood shall become you well 
 Td worship shadows, and adore false shapes. 
 Send to me in the morning, and I'll send it: 
 And 80, good rest. 
 
 Pro. As wi'etches have o'er night. 
 
 That wait for execution in the mom. 
 
 [Exeunt Peoteus; and Silvia, from above. 
 
 Jul. Host, will you go? 
 
 Host. By my halidora,'" I was fast asleep. 
 
 Jul. Pray you, where lies sir Proteus? 
 
 Host. Marry, at my house: Trust me, I think 
 't is almost day. 
 
 Jul. Not so; but it hath boon the longest night 
 That e'er I watch'd, and the most heaviest. 
 
 [Exeunt, 
 
 Enter Eglamouk. 
 
 Effl. This is the hour that madam Silvia 
 Entreated me to caU, and know her mind; 
 There's some great matter she'd employ mo in. — 
 Madam, madam! 
 
 Silvia appears above, at her tcindow. 
 
 Sil. TVTiocaUs? 
 
 E(jl. Tour servant, and your friend; 
 One that attends your ladyship's command. 
 
 Sil. Sir Eglamour, a thousand times good 
 moiTow. 
 
 Eijl. As many, worthy lady, to yourself. 
 According to your ladyship's impose,'"* 
 I am thus early come, to know what service 
 It is your pleasure to command me in. 
 
 Sil. Eglamour, thou art a gentleman, 
 (Think not I flatter, fur I swear I do not,) 
 Valiant, mse, remorseful,""' well accomplish'd. 
 Thou art not ignorant what dear good will 
 I bear unto the banish'd Valentine ; 
 Nor how my father would enforce me marry 
 Vain Thurio, whom my very soul abliorr'd. 
 Thyself hast lov'd; and I have heard thee say 
 No grief did ever come so near thy heart 
 As when thy lady and thy true love died. 
 Upon whose grave thou vow'dst pure chasti'',y. 
 Sir Eglamoui', I would to Valentine, 
 To Mantua, where, I hoar, he makes abode; 
 And, for the ways are dangerous to pass, 
 I do desire thy worthy company, 
 Upon whose faith and honour I repose. 
 Urge not my father's anger, Eglamour, 
 But think upon my grief, — a lady's grief, — 
 And on the justice of my fl}Tng hence. 
 To keep me from a most unholy match, 
 ViTiioh heaven, and fortune still reward with 
 
 plagues: 
 I do desire thee, even from a heai-t 
 As full of sorrows as the sea of sands. 
 To bear me company, and go with me : 
 
 67
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEXfEN OF VERONA. 
 
 If not, to hiile what I have said to thee. 
 That I may venture to depart alone. 
 
 Egl. iladam, I pity much your grievances ; 
 Wiich since I know they virtuously are plac'd, 
 I give consent to go along with you; 
 ReckiEg as little what betideth me, 
 As much I wish all good bcfortune you. 
 When will you go ? 
 
 Sil. This evening coming. 
 
 Egl. Where shall I meet you ? 
 
 Sil. At friar Patrick's cell. 
 
 Where I intend holy confession. 
 
 Egl. I will not fail your ladyship : 
 Good morrow, gentle lady. 
 
 Sil. Good morrow, kind sir Eglamour. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Elder Latince, with Ids dog. 
 
 Zaun. WTien a man's servant shall play the cur 
 with him, look you, it goes hard: one that I 
 brought up of a puppy ; one that I sav'd from 
 di'owning, when three or four of his blind brothers 
 and sisters went to it ! I have taught him — even 
 as one would say precisely. Thus I would teach a 
 dog. I was sent to deliver liim, as a present to 
 mistress SQvia, from my master ; and I came no 
 Eoouer into the dining-chamber, but he steps me 
 to her trencher,"" and steals her capon's leg. 0, 
 't is a foul thing when a ewe cannot keep himself 
 Ln all companies ! I would have, as one should 
 say, ouo that takes upon him to be a dog indeed, 
 to be, as it were, a dog at aU things. If I had 
 not had more wit than he, to take a favlt upon me 
 that he did, I tliink verily he had been hang'd 
 for 't ; sure as I live he had suffer'd for't: you 
 shall judge. He thrusts me himself into the 
 company of three or four gentleman-like dogs, 
 under the duke's table: ho had not been there 
 (bless the mark !) a pissing wliile, but aU the 
 chamber smelt him. "Out with the dog," says 
 one; "What cur is that?" says another; "Wliip 
 him out," says the third; "Hang him up," says the 
 dake. I, having been acquainted with the smell 
 before, know it was Crab; and goes me to the fel- 
 low that whips the dogs: "Friend," quoth I, 
 "you mean to whip the dog?" "Ay, marry, do I," 
 quoth he. "You do him the more wrong," quoth 
 I , ' 't was I did the thing you wot of." He 
 makes me no more ado,"" but wliips me out of the 
 chamber. How many masters would do this for 
 his servant? Nay, I'll bo sworn, I have satin 
 tho stocks for puddings he liath stol'n, otherwise he 
 
 68 
 
 had been executed: I have stood on the piUory for 
 geese he hath kill'd, otherwise he had sulTer'd for't: 
 thou think'st not of tliis now ! — Nay, I remember 
 the trick you serv'd me when I took my leave of 
 madam Silvia; did not I bid thee still mark me, and 
 do as I do? 'When didst thou see me heave up 
 my leg, and make water against a gentlewoman's 
 farthingale? didst thou ever see me do such a 
 trick ? 
 
 Enter Pboteus and Juija. 
 
 Fro. Sebastian is thy name? I like thee well, 
 And wiU employ thee in some service presently. 
 
 Jul. In what you please. — I 'U do what I can. 
 
 Pro. I hope thou wilt. — How now, you whore- 
 son peasant; [_To Launce. 
 "Where have you been these two days loitering ? 
 
 Lmm. Marry, su-, I carried mistress Silvia the 
 dog you bade me. 
 
 Pro. And what says she to my little jewel? 
 
 Laun. Marry, she says, your dog was a cur; and 
 tells you currish thanks is good enough for such a 
 present. 
 
 Pro. But she receiv'd my dog? 
 
 Laun. No, indeed, did she not: hero have 1 
 brought him back again. 
 
 Pro. "What, didst thou offer her this from me ? 
 
 Laun. Ay, sir; the other squirrel "" was stol'n 
 from me by the hangman's boys in the market- 
 place: and then I offer'd her mine own, who is a 
 dog as big as ten of yours, and therefore the gift 
 the greater. 
 
 Pro. Go, get thee hence, and find my dog again, 
 Or ne'er return again into my sight. 
 Away, I say: Stayest thou to vex me here? 
 A slave, that still an end"" tm-ns me to shame. 
 
 \_Exit Lacsck. 
 Sebastian, I have entertained thee. 
 Partly, that I have need of such a youth, 
 That can with some discretion do my business, 
 For 't is no ti^usting to yon foolish lout; 
 But, chiefly, for thy face and thy behaviour, 
 Wliich (if my augury deceive me not) 
 Witness good bringing up, fortune and truth : 
 Therefore know thee, for tliis I entertain thee. 
 Go presently, and take this ring with thee, 
 Deliver it to madam Silvia: 
 She lov'd me well,'" delivered it to me. 
 
 Jul. It seems }''ou lov'd not her to leave bei 
 token : 
 She is dead, belike? 
 
 Pro. Not so, I think she lives.
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF YEllONA. 
 
 BCEJfB LL 
 
 Jul. Alas! 
 
 Pro. Wty dost thou cry, iilas! 
 
 Jul. I cannot choose but pity her. 
 
 Pro. Wherefore shouldst thou pity her? 
 
 Jal. Because, methLuks, that she lov'd you as 
 weU 
 As you do love your lady Silvia: 
 She dreams on liim that has forgot her love; 
 Vou dote on her that cares not for your love. 
 'T i^ pity love should he so contrary, 
 And thinking on it makes mo cry, alas! 
 
 Pro. Well, give her that ring, and therewithal 
 This letter; — that's her chamber. — TeU my lady, 
 [ claim the promise for her heavenly picture. 
 Vour message done, hie home unto my chamber. 
 Where thou shalt find me, sad and solitary. 
 
 [Exit Pro. 
 
 Jul. How many women would do such a message ? 
 Alas, poor Proteus! thou hast entcrtain'd 
 A fox to be the shepherd of thy lambs: 
 Alas, poor fool! why do I pity him. 
 That with his very heart despiseth me? 
 Because he loves her, he despiseth me: 
 Because I love him, I must pitj- him, 
 niis ring I gave him, when he parted from me. 
 To bind him to remember my good will: 
 And now am I (unliappy messenger) 
 To plead for that, vrhich I would not obtain; 
 To carry that, which I woidd have refus'd; 
 To praise his faith, which I woidd have disprais'd. 
 I am my master's true confirmed love. 
 But cannot be time servant to my master, 
 Unless I prove false traitor to mj-self. 
 Yet win I woo for him, — but yet so coldly. 
 As, heaven it knows, I would not have him speed. 
 
 Eriter SrLvi.v, attended. 
 
 Gentlewoman, good day! I pray you, be my mean 
 To bring me where to speak with madam Silvia. 
 
 Sil. "^Miat would you with her, if that I be she? 
 
 Jul. If you be she, I do entreat your patience 
 To hear me speak the message I am sent on. 
 
 Sil. From whom? 
 
 Jul. From my master, sir Proteus, madam. 
 
 Sil. ! — he sends you for a picture ? 
 
 Jul. Ay, madam. 
 
 Sil. Ursida, bring my picture there. 
 
 \_The picture is brought. 
 tro, give your master this ; tell him, from me. 
 One Julia, that his changing thoughts forget. 
 Would better fit his chamj)cr, than this shadow. 
 
 Jul. iladara, please you peruse tliis letter. — 
 
 Pardon me, madam; I have unadvis'd 
 Deliver'd you a paper that I should not: 
 This is the letter to your ladyship. 
 
 Sil. I pray thee, let me look on that again. 
 
 Jul. It may not be, good madam, pardon rac. 
 
 Sil. There, hold 
 I will not look upon yoirr master's lines: 
 I know they arc studied with protestations, 
 And full of new-found oaths, which ho will break 
 As easily as I do tear his paper. 
 
 Jul. Madam, he sends your ladyship this ring. 
 
 Sil. The more shame for him that he sends i'. 
 me; 
 For, I have heard him say a thousand times. 
 His Julia gave it him at his departure : 
 Though his false finger have profan'd the ring, 
 Mine shall not do his Julia so much -^NTong. 
 
 Jul. She thanks you. 
 
 Sil. Wliat say'st thou ? 
 
 Jul. I thank you, madam, that you tender her ■ 
 Poor gentlewoman ! my master wrongs her much 
 
 Sil. Dost thou know her ? 
 
 Jul. Almost as well as I do know myself: 
 To think upon her woes I do protest 
 That I have wept a hundi'ed several times. 
 
 Sil. Belike, she thinks that Proteus hath for- 
 sook her. 
 
 Jul. I think she doth, and that "s her cause oi 
 
 SOITOW. 
 
 Sil. Is she not passing f;iir? 
 
 Jul. She hath been tairer, madam, than she is 
 When she did think my master lov'd her well, 
 She, in my judgment, was as fair as you ; 
 But since she did neglect her looking-glass, 
 And threw her sun-expeUiiig mask away. 
 The air hath starv'd the roses in her checks, 
 And pinch'd the lily-tincturo of her face,"* 
 That now she is become as black as I. 
 
 Sil. How tall was she ? 
 
 Jul. About my statiu-e : for, at Pentecost, 
 When aU our pageants of delight were play'd. 
 Our youth got me to play the woman's part. 
 And I was trimm'd in madam Julia's go-nn; 
 Which served me as fit, by all men's judgments 
 As if the ganuent had been made for me: 
 Therefore, I know she is about my height. 
 And, at that time, I made her weep a-good "=■ _ 
 For I did play a lamentable part; 
 Madam, 't was Ariadne, passioning 
 For Theseus' perjury and unjust flight, — 
 "\Miich I so lively acted with my tears. 
 That my poor mistress, moved therewithal, 
 
 69
 
 TKE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VEKONA. 
 
 SCEKE I. II. 
 
 Wept bitterly; and, would I miglit be dead, 
 If I in thought felt not her very sorrow ! 
 
 Sil. She is beholden to thee, gentle youth ! — 
 Alas, poor lady ! desolate and left ! — 
 I weep myself to think upon thy words. 
 Here, youth, there is my purse ; I give thee this 
 For thy sweet mistress' sake, because thou lov'st her. 
 Farewell. {^Exit Silvia. 
 
 Jul. And she shall thank you for 't, if e'er you 
 know her. 
 A virtuous gentlewoman, mild, and beautiful. 
 I hope my master's suit vriil be but cold, 
 Since she respects my misti'oss' love so much. 
 Alas, how love can trifle with itself ! 
 Here is her picture: Let me see; I think, 
 If I had such a tire, this face of mine 
 Were full as lovely as is this of hers : 
 And yet the painter flatter" d her a little, 
 
 Unless I flatter with myself too much. 
 
 Her hair is auburn, mine is perfect yellow: 
 
 If that be all the difference in liis love, 
 
 I' U got me such a colour'd periwig."' 
 
 Hei eyes are grey as glass;"* and so are mine: 
 
 Ay, but her forehead's low, and mine's as high. 
 
 "What should it be, that he respects in her, 
 
 But I can make respective"' in myself. 
 
 If this fond Love were not a blinded god? 
 
 Come, shadow, come, and take this shadow up. 
 
 For 't is thy rival. thou senseless form, 
 
 Thou shalt be worshipp'd, Idss'd, lov'd and ador d 
 
 And, were there sense in his idolatry, 
 
 lly substance should be statue"' in thy stead. 
 
 I 'U use thee kindly for thy mistress' sake, 
 
 That us'd me so; or else, by Jove I vow, 
 
 I should have scratch'd out your unseeaig eyes. 
 
 To make my master out of love with thee! [^Erit. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE l.—The same. An Alhey. 
 Enter Eglamofs. 
 
 Egl. The sun begins to gild the western sky. 
 And now it is about the very hour 
 That Silvia, at friar Patrick's ccU, should meet me. 
 She wiU not fail; for levers break not hours. 
 Unless it bo to come before their time ; 
 So much they spar their expedition. 
 
 Enter SIL■^^A. 
 
 See where she comes : Lady, a happy evening ! 
 
 S}'l. Amen, amen ! go on, good Eglamour, 
 Out at the postern by the abbey- wall; 
 I feav I am attended by some spies. 
 
 Egl. Fear not: the forest is not three leagues ofi': 
 If we recover that, we are sui'e enough. [_Exeu7it. 
 
 SCENE II. — The same. A Room in the Duke's 
 Palace. 
 
 Enter TuuKio, Pkoteus, and Julia. 
 
 TliU. Sir Proteus, what says Silvia to my suit? 
 Pro. 0, sir, I find her milder than she was; 
 And yet she takes exceptions at your person. 
 Tkd. WHiat, that my leg is too long ? 
 jRro. No, that it is too little. 
 70 
 
 TJm. I 'U wear a boot, to make it somcvrhai 
 rounder. 
 
 Jul. But Love will not be fpurr'd to what il 
 loathes. [_Aiide. 
 
 Tim. What says she to my face? 
 
 Pro. She says it is a fair one. 
 
 Tim. Nay, then the wanton lies ; my face is black. 
 
 Pro. But peails are fair ; and the old saying is. 
 Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies' eyes. 
 
 Jul. 'T is true, such pearls as put out ladies' eyes; 
 For I had rather wink than look on tliem. \_Ai>i(Je. 
 
 Tim. How likes she my discourse? 
 
 Pro. Ill, when you talk of war. 
 
 Thu. But well, when I discourse of love ami 
 peace? 
 
 Jul. But better, indeed, when you hold youi 
 peace. [Aside, 
 
 Tim. Wliat says she to my valour? 
 
 Pro. 0, sir, she makes no doubt of that. 
 
 Jul. Slie needs not, when she knows it oowardioo 
 
 [.Isiib 
 
 Thu. AMiat says she to my birth ' 
 
 Pro. That you are well deriv'd. 
 
 Jul. Ti-ue; from a gentleman to a fool. [Aside. 
 
 Thu. Considers she my possessions ? 
 
 Pro. 0, ay; and pities them. 
 
 Tim. 'Wherefore?
 
 TIIE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VEEONA. 
 
 SCE.NIi II :. — iV. 
 
 Jul. That micli an ass eliould owe them. \_Aside. 
 Pro. That they are out by lease.'" 
 Jul. Here comes the dulic. 
 
 Enter Duke. 
 
 Duke. How now, sir Troteus? how now, Thurio? 
 Which of you saw sir Eglamour of late? 
 
 Thu. Not I. 
 
 Pro. Nor I. 
 
 Duke. Saw you my daughter ? 
 
 Pro. Neither. 
 
 Buhe. AVhy, then, she's fled unto that peasant 
 Valentine ; 
 And Eglamour is in her company. 
 'T is true; for friar Laurence met them both, 
 As he in penance wander'd tlirough the forest: 
 Him lie Icnow well, and guess'd that it was she. 
 But, being mask'd, he was not sm-e of it: 
 Besides, she did intend confession 
 At Patrick's cell this even, and there she was not: 
 These likelihoods confi'in her flight from hence, 
 riiorcfoi'e, I pray you, stand not to discourse. 
 But mount you presently; and meet with me 
 Upon the rising of the mountain-foot 
 That leads towards Mantua, whither the}' are fled. 
 Despatch, sweet gentlemen, and follow me. \_Exit. 
 
 TIm. Why, this it is to be a peevish girl,'" 
 That flies her fortune when it follows her; 
 I '11 after, more to be reveng'd on Eglamour, 
 Tiuui for the love of reckless Silvia. \_Exit. 
 
 Pro. Ajid I will foUow, more for Silvia's love. 
 Than hate of Eglamour that goes -with her. \_Exit. 
 
 Jul. And I will foUow, more to cross that love. 
 Than hate for Silvia, that is gone for love. \_Exit. 
 
 SCENE lll.—ne Forest. 
 Enter Silvia and Outlaws. 
 
 1 Out. Come, come; be patient; we must bring 
 you to our captain. 
 
 Sil. A thousand more mischances than this one 
 Have leani'd me how to brook this patiently. 
 
 2 Out. Come, bring her away. 
 
 1 Oat. "NMicrc is the gentleman that was with 
 ■K-r ? 
 
 :3 Out. Eeing nimble-footed, he hath outrun us, 
 ii;it Moses and Valerius'™ follow him. 
 tin thou with her to the west end of the wood, 
 rheru is our captain: ^ve 'II follow Llm that's fled. 
 I'iie thicket is beset, he cannot 'scape. 
 
 1 Out. Come, I must bring you to our captain's 
 
 Fear not; he bears an honourable mind. 
 And will not use a woman lawlessly. 
 
 Sil. VtJenthie, tliis I endure fur thee. \^Exc'uni 
 
 SCENE IV.— Another part of the Forest. 
 Enter Valesidte. 
 Val. How use doth breed a habit in a man ; 
 This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods, 
 I better brook than flourishmg peopled towns : 
 Here can I sit alone, unseen of any, 
 And to the nightingale's complaining notes 
 Time my disti-esscs, and record my woes.'^' 
 
 thou that dost inhabit in my breast. 
 Leave not the mansion so long tcnantless; 
 Lest, gi-owing ruinous, the building fall. 
 And leave no momoiy of what it was ! 
 Eepair me with thy presence, Silvia; 
 
 Thou gentle nymph, cherish thy forlorn swain! 
 
 [_A noise outside. 
 What hallooing, and what stir, is this to-day? 
 These arc my mates, that make their wills their lav,--, 
 Have some unhappy passenger in chase : 
 They love me well; yet I have much to do, 
 To keep them from uncivil outrages. 
 Withdraw thee, Valentine; who's this comes here ! 
 
 \_Steps aside. 
 
 Enter Pkoteus, Silvia, and Julia. 
 
 Pro. Madam, this ser\-ice I have done for you, 
 Thougli you respect not aught yom' servant doth. 
 To hazard life, and rescue you from liim 
 That would have forc'd your honour and your love, 
 Vouchsafe me, for my meed, but one fair look; 
 A smaller boon than this I cannot beg. 
 And less than this, I am sure, you cannot give. 
 
 Val. How like a dream is this I see and hear! 
 Love, lend me patience to forbear awhile. [Aside. 
 
 Sil. miserable, unhappy that I am! 
 
 Pro. TJnliappy were you, madam, ere I came; 
 But, by my coming, I have made you happy. 
 
 Sil. By thy approach thou mak'st me most un- 
 happy. 
 
 Jul. And me, when he appro.achcth to yoiii 
 presence. {Aside. 
 
 Sil. Had I been seized by a hungry lion, 
 
 1 would have been a breakfast to the beast, 
 Eather than have false Proteus rescue me ! 
 0, heaven be judge how I love Valentine, 
 T\Tiose life 's as tender to me as my soul; 
 And full as much (for more there cannot bo) 
 I do detest false perjm-'d Proteus; 
 Therefore be gone, solicit me no more. 
 
 71
 
 THE TWO GENTLEilEiV OF VEEOIS'A. 
 
 80ENE IV. 
 
 Pro. What dangerous action, stood it next to 
 death, 
 Would I not undergo for one calm look? 
 0, 't is the curse in love, and still approv'd,"* 
 When women cannot love where they're belor'd. 
 SU. "When Proteus cannot love where he 's be- 
 lov'd. 
 Read over Julia's heart, thy first best love, 
 For whose dear sake thou didst then rend thy 
 
 faith. 
 Into a thousana oaths, ana all those oaths 
 Descended into perjury to love me. 
 Thou hast no ftiith left now, unless thou 'dst two, 
 And that 's far worse than none; better have 
 
 none 
 Than plural faith, which is too much by one ; 
 Thou counterfeit to thy true friend 1 
 
 Pro. In love 
 
 Who respects friend \ 
 
 Sil. All men but Proteus. 
 
 Pro. Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving words 
 Can no way change you to a milder form, 
 1 '11 woo you like a soldier, at arm's end ; 
 And love you 'gainst the nature of love, force you. 
 Sil. O heaven ! 
 
 Pro. I'll force thee yield to my desire. 
 
 Val. Ruffian, let go that rude uncivil touch ; 
 Tliou friend of an ill fashion I 
 Pro. Valentine ! 
 
 Val. Tliou common friend, that 's without faith 
 or love ; 
 (For such is a friend now ;) treacherous man ! 
 Thou hast beguil'd my hopes; nought but mine eye 
 Could have persuaded me: Now I dare not say 
 I have one friend alive ; thou would'st disprove me. 
 Who should be trusted, when one's r'ght hand "* 
 Is perjured to the bosom 1 Proteus, 
 1 am sorry I must never trust thee more, 
 But count the world a stranger for thy sake. 
 The private wound is deepest: O time most 
 
 accurs'd ! 
 'Mongst all foes that a friend should be the worst. 
 
 Pro. My shame and guilt confound mc.'" — 
 Forgive me, Valentino ; if hearty sorrow 
 Be a sufficient ransom for oflence, 
 I tender 't here ; I do as truly suffer 
 As e'er I did commit. 
 
 Val. Then I am paid , 
 And once again I do receive thee honest : — 
 Who by repentance is not satisfud 
 Is nor of heaven, nor earth, for these are plcas'd ; 
 By peniijnicc th' Eternal's wrath 's appeas'd. — 
 73 
 
 And, that my love may appear plain and free, 
 AH that was mine in Silvia I give thee. 
 Jul. me, unhappy! 
 
 \_Strv^gles to hide her griej 
 Pro. Look to the boy. 
 
 Fal. Wby, boy! 
 
 Why, wag! how now ? what's the matter ? Look 
 up; speak. 
 Jul. good sir, my master charg'd me to de- 
 liver a ring to madam Silvia; which, out of my 
 neglect, was never done. 
 
 Pro. Where is that ring, boy? 
 Jtil. Here 't is : this is it. {_Gkcs a ring 
 
 Pro. How ! let mo see : — ^Why, this is the mg 
 I gave to Julia. 
 
 Jul. 0, cry you mercy,'"'' sir, I have mistook ; 
 This is the ring you sent to Silvia. 
 
 [_Shcws another ring. 
 Pro. But how cam'st thou by this ring? at my 
 depart, I gave this unto Julia. 
 
 Jul. And Julia herself did give it me ; 
 And Julia herself hath brought it hitlier. 
 Pro. How! Julia! 
 
 Jul. Behold her that gave aim"' to all thy oaths. 
 And entertain'd them deeply in her heai-t: 
 How oft hast thou with perjury cleft the root? 
 Proteus let this habit make thee blush! 
 Bo 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; hea- 
 ven ! were man 
 But constant, he were perfect : that one error 
 Fills him with faults; makes him run thiwgh all 
 
 th' sins : 
 Inconstancy falls off ere it begins: 
 What is in Silvia's face, but I may spy 
 More fi'csh in Julia's with a constant eye? 
 Val. Come, come, a hand from either : 
 Let mo be bless'd to make this happy close ; 
 'T were pity two such friends should bo long foes. 
 Pro. Bear witness, heaven, I have my wisl 
 
 for ever. 
 Jul. And I mine. 
 
 Erder Outlaws, with the Duke and Thurio. 
 
 Out. A prize, a prize, a prize ! 
 Val. Forbear, forbear, I say; it is my lord the 
 duko
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 SCENB IV 
 
 Vour grace is welcome to a man disgrac'd, 
 Banished Valentine. 
 
 Diihe. Sir Valentine ! 
 
 Thu. Yonder is Silvia; and Silvia's mine. 
 
 Val. Thurio, give back, or else embrace thy 
 death; 
 Come not within the measure of my wrath : 
 Do not name Silvia thine ; if once again, 
 MUan shall nat behold thee. Here she stands; 
 Take but possession of her with a touch; — 
 I dare thee but to breathe upon my love. 
 
 Thu. Sir Valentine, I care not for her, I; 
 I hold him but a fool that will endanger 
 His body for a girl that loves him not : 
 I claim her not, and therefore she is thine. 
 
 Duke. The more degenerate and base art thou, 
 To make such means for her as thou hast done, 
 And leave her on such slight conditions. — 
 Now, by the honour of my ancestry, 
 I do applaud thy spirit, Valentine, 
 And think thee worthy of an empress' love! 
 Know then, I hero forget all former griefs. 
 Cancel all grudge, repeal thee home again. — 
 Plead a new state in thy unrivaU'd merit. 
 To which I thus subscribe, — Sir Valentine, 
 rhou art a gentleman, and well deriv'd; 
 TalvG thou thy Silvia, for thou hast deserv'd hw. 
 
 Val. I thank your glace; the gift hath made me 
 
 happy, 
 now besoeeh you, for vour daughter's sake, 
 
 10 
 
 To grant one boon that I shall ask ol you. 
 
 JDuke. I grant it, for thine own. whatc'er it 
 
 be. 
 Tal. These banish'd men, that I have kep' 
 withal, 
 Are men endu'd with worthy qualities : 
 Forgive them what they have committed here, 
 And let them be recall'd from their exile : 
 They arc reformed, civil, full of good. 
 And fit for great employment, worthy lord. 
 Bulce. Thou hast prevaU'd; I pardon them, and 
 thee; 
 Dispose of them, as thou Imow'st their deserts. 
 Come, let us go; we will include all jars 
 With triumphs, mirth, and rare solemnity. 
 
 Val. And, as we walk along, I dare be bold 
 With our discourse to make your grace to smUe: 
 What think you of this page, my lord ? 
 
 Duke. I think the boy hath grace in him; he 
 
 blushes. 
 Val. I warrant you, my lord, more grace than 
 
 boy. 
 Duh. 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 yoiu's; 
 One feast, ono iouse, one mutual happiacss. 
 
 [Exeunt 
 73
 
 NOTES TO THE TWO GEl^TLEMEN OE VEHONA. 
 
 ' / will be thy beads-man. 
 
 A bcada-man wag one who offered prayers for anoiher. 
 A loiig account of the term is given by Douce. 
 
 ' Pray for my success. 
 
 5fr Knight places a note of interrogation after thij, with 
 what object I am at a los3 to discover. The second folio 
 reads " i/<»/ success." 
 
 ' Give me not the boots. 
 
 A cx)mmou old familiar phrase, meaning, do not ridicule 
 nif. It is found in many of our dramatists, and in Cot- 
 grave ; but Mr. Knight not only adopts the absurdity of 
 referring it to the ancient species of torture called the 
 boots, but gives us a representation of the punishment, and 
 thinks Proteus means to say— do not torture me to confess 
 to those love-delinquencies of which you accuse me ! Even 
 the German critics, who are so fond of ingeniously finding 
 meanings for Shakespeare the author could never have 
 intended, will not, I suspect, ventui-e to adopt this explana- 
 tion. The very magnitude of the ahsui-dity renders it 
 diflicult to disprove it in adecjuate language, and the cor- 
 rection of tliis, with others of a similar kind for which wo 
 i,-e indebted to Jlr. Knight, must be left to the increasing 
 biowledge of the language used by Shakespeare. "// Itrj 
 Va baiUd belle, he hath sold him a bargalne, he hath given 
 him the boots, a gleeke or gudgeon," Cotgrave's Die. 
 
 * So, by your circumstance. 
 
 ■We have nere a play on the word circumstance. Proteus 
 u»es it in the sense of circumstance of words, Valentine in 
 that of circumstance of deeds or conduct. " To use great 
 circumstance of woordes, to goe about the bushe," Baret's 
 ("Jvearie, 1580. 
 
 ' The eating canker dwells. 
 
 Mr. Knight displays a good deal of learning, Arabic, 
 Hebrew, and Greek, on this word. It may, therefore, be 
 necessary to obsci-vc that the term, in Shakespeare's time, 
 was generally appUed to any kind of caterpillar. 
 
 « At the road. 
 
 A bay or open harbour for sliips. Coles translates it by 
 tinus. 'JTiP word occurs again in Act ii. Sc. 4. 
 14 
 
 1 Thither wiU Ib-ing thee. 
 
 That is, thither will I accompany thee. This phrass 
 also occurs in Hall's Chronicle, and, slightly modified, is 
 still in use in the North of England. 
 
 ^ And I have playd the sheep. 
 Sheep was pronounced like ship, and sometimes s imilar ly 
 spelt. I have noted the orthography ship for sheep several 
 times amongst the records of the Corponation of Stratford- 
 on-Avon. So the old proverb, " Lose not the sheep for a 
 ha'porth of tar," has been corrupted into, " spoil not the 
 ship for a ha'porth of tar," and is now usually imderstood 
 in the latter sense. 
 
 ' A lac'd mutloru 
 
 This was a common cant term for a courtezan. Speed, 
 in his eagerness to quibble, and remembering his recei^■ing 
 no pay, is not very complimentary. Mr. Knight remarks 
 that the designation is received by Proteus very patiently, 
 and seems to doubt its meaning in the above sense. But 
 the whole scene tends to exhibit Proteus as a mere sensual 
 lover, one bandying coarse allusions. AVe meet with 
 nothing of the kind in the subsequent dialogue between 
 Valentine and Speed. I fear Mr. Kiught, in his reasoning 
 on this play, has not sufficiently borne in mind the different 
 consistencies of the passions of the two lovers. 
 
 '" You are a-stray. 
 Another pun, depending on the adjective astray being 
 taken also as a substantive. A stray animal was called a stray 
 
 " Speed. She did. 
 
 Mr. Halliwell, has introduceJ this and the next line 
 spoken by Proteus, in preference to Theobald's alteration. 
 Some addition to the text is absolutely neocss.uy, and 
 TheobalJ's does not agi-ee with what Speed says after- 
 wards, — "You mistook, sir; I say, she did nod: and yoii 
 ask me if she did nod ; and I say, I." 
 
 '- In teltiny your mind. 
 That is, as hard to you when you tell your mind to her 
 i.e. address her. 
 
 " You have testem'd mc. 
 Given me a testem, a coin which appears to have fl'ic- 
 tuatcd in value, but which was in Shakeepef *'? time worth 
 sixponce, or thereabouts.
 
 NOTES TO THE TWO GENTLEMEN OE YEKONa. 
 
 ' ' / must go send. 
 
 Mr. Knight reads, without any authority, " I must go 
 find;" an ai'b'trary Tariation from the original quite un- 
 called for. 
 
 " Such a worthless post. 
 
 A post was a messenger who carried a letter, a postman 
 hcfore post-oiEces were established. 
 
 i« Every day with park. 
 
 Parle, speech ; used by Shakespeare both as a substan- 
 tive and verb. It was formerly used instead of parley. 
 
 " Should censure thus. 
 
 That 's, should pass opinion in this manner. The term 
 censure in this sense should be borao in mind by readers of 
 the old dramatists. 
 
 '8 A goodly broker. 
 
 A. broker was a go-between, and sometimes used in a 
 Btill worse sense. 
 
 ^^ Angerly. 
 
 The old adverb for angrily. It occurs again in Macbc''i, 
 and King John. "Argerly, irate, iracunde,'' Bartt's 
 Alvcarie, 1580 
 
 Stomach. 
 
 Passion or ill-temper. Lucetta plays upon the double 
 meaning of the word. It is also Xised for appetite. 
 
 -' As little by such toys. 
 
 That is, set as little by, keep as little account of. Julia 
 lakes up the last seutenee in a different sense. 
 
 " Light o' love. 
 
 A favourite old time, the music to which is given by 
 Hawkins. It is mentioned more particularly in Much Ado 
 About Nothing, iii. 4. 
 
 ^ With too harsh a descant. 
 
 " Descant signified formerly what we now denominate 
 variations," Malone. Blount defines it, " to run division 
 or variety with the voice upon a musical ground in tnie 
 measure; to sing off of a ground," — Glossographia, 16S1. 
 The mean is the tenor. 
 
 ^ / bid the base for Proteus. 
 
 Tliat is, I challenged him to pursue. The allusion is 
 probably to the old gapie of prisoners' base, now called 
 I'lisoners' Bars, a particular aceoimt of which is given by 
 Btrutt. 
 
 They after both, and boldly bad him base, 
 
 Spe7iser's Faerie Queene. 
 
 '' And thus I search it. 
 
 Search is here a technical term refciring to the wound. 
 " To search wounds, specitlo tentare vulnus," Coles. 
 
 -* For catching cold. 
 
 That is, lest they should catch cold. So in the fifty- 
 second sonnet, ,/b; blunting, i.e. for fear of blunting. 
 
 -' You have a month's mind to them. 
 
 A month's mind, a strong inclination. " I have a month's 
 mind to peep a little too," Ben Jonson's Magnetic Lady, 
 " It is perfectly nauseating," saj'B Gilford, " tc look at the 
 trash which always accompanies the mention t.f this woi'd 
 in the notes on our old draniatiat.s." 
 
 '9 What end tali. 
 
 That is, what serious talk. Sad was frequently used iii 
 this sense. 
 
 25 In good time. 
 
 This phi'ase, equivalent to a propos, is spoken at the 
 sight of I'roteus. " In good time, opportune," tiaret'e 
 Alvcarie, 1580. 
 
 *' Now will we break with hm. 
 
 Break the subject to him. " To brcalto talko or comnui- 
 nication, incidere sermonem," Baret, ibid. The phrase 
 occurs again in Much Ado About Xothing, i. 1. 
 
 3' Exhibition. 
 
 Allowance. The phrase is still used in the TTniversities. 
 " And then, widow, you must settle on yotir son an eshJn- 
 lion of forty pounds a year," Wycherley's Plain Dealer. 
 
 '- This is but one. 
 
 A play on words, one being anciently pronounced on or 
 vice versa. Lord Burghley often wrote on for one. 
 
 3' Like one tltat taiss diet. 
 
 Under the severe regimen fonnerly required for a disease 
 ^hich need not be particularly mentioned. 
 
 •'^ O excellent motion ! 
 
 A motion was a puppet-show. Exceeding puppet, n 
 great puppet. " That exceeding gyant," Gayton's Notes 
 upon Don Quixot, 1654, p. 33. Speed says that Valentine 
 \\-ill be the interpreter of the puppet-show. 
 
 35 Sir Valentine and servant. 
 
 Servant is here used for suitor or wooer, a common sense 
 of the word in old plays ; yet it woiJd seem to be merelj 
 used for admirer in act ii. se. 4. 
 
 3° 1/ it please you, so. 
 
 The reader will please to bear in mind that the word sn 
 constantly occurs iu all our old dramatis ts as a sort of ex- 
 pletive, nearly or quite equivalent to the modern, very well, 
 let it be so. This note is necessary, because it would apjieaj 
 Mr. Knight is not acquainted with this trite word as Sf: 
 used ; yet it should be known to the most casual reader o 
 old En-glish plays. 
 
 3' ' r is you that have the reason. 
 
 A story is told of a gentleman bringing a foolish tract in 
 manuscript to Sir Thomas More, to obtain his opinion upon 
 it. Su: Thomas strongly adrised him to put it into verse, 
 and it appears the author followed his recommendation. 
 " Xow it is somewhat like," said More, " new it i£ rhythm 
 before it was neither rhythm nor reason."
 
 KOTES TO THE TWO GENTLEMEN OE YEEONA. 
 
 '■ Ar.d there a.i end. 
 
 Equivalent to, one there' an end, as, indeed, the second 
 folio reads. Speed liies rhjniing. 
 
 '' Speak in print. 
 
 With cjtaetnees. " To do a thing in print, graphice et 
 eipiisitc ag!re," Coles. Speed Eays he is speaking with 
 exactness what he has read in print. 
 
 *^ Nourished by my victuals. 
 
 Of the same opinion was a character in Cartwright's 
 comedy of the Siege : — " We're no such subtle feeders as 
 to make meals on air, sup on a blast, and think a fresh 
 gale second course." 
 
 ** Be movedj be moved. 
 
 That is, be persuaded. "To move, suadeo," Coles. 
 Malone's explanation can scarcely be correct, for Sihia 
 certainly has some consideration for her lover. 
 
 *- We 'II make e ickange. 
 
 The exchange of rings was a solenm mode of private 
 contracts between lovers. The custom is again alluded to 
 in Turelfth Night. 
 
 ^ O, that &he could speak now like an old rcoinan 1 
 
 The old copies read a would woman, so evidently a corrup- 
 tion we are thrown upon conjecture. I-aunce is spcaMng 
 tere of the shoe, and to make the representation more 
 distinct, wishes it could speak like an old woman. Pope is 
 the author of this reading. Theobald conjectures, a wood 
 woman, an emendation he is very fond of, introducing it 
 again unnecessarily into the Merry Wives of Windsor, but 
 the subsequent part of the passage appears to agree better 
 with Pope's emendation. " Here's my motlier's breath vp 
 and down," i.e. exactly, in eveiy respect. The same phrase 
 occurs Lu Much Ado About Nothing, ii. 1. 
 
 " Lose the ti'd. 
 
 The original has tide, which must be exprci^sod by tid, 
 but Collier and Knight, not marldng the elision, have ren- 
 dered the joking more obscur'i. Mr. Knight here prints 
 tide, but the order would show tliis to be incorrect. 
 
 *' HoiD tpiite you my fully? 
 
 Quote, observe. The quibble is founded on quote being 
 pronounced cole or coat. It was often so spelt, a'.; in the 
 ifope of Lucrece, 1.591, Ap. Malone, 
 
 Will cote my loathsome trespass in my looks. 
 
 '° / know it well, sir, 
 
 Mr. Knight prints this speech as verse, and his arrange- 
 ment must for once be exhibited to the reader as i good 
 though by no means remarkable) specimen of that 
 foUtor's metre-tinkering, — 
 
 1 know it v.-ell, sir : you have an exchequer of words. 
 And, I think, no other treasure to give your followers ; 
 For it appear", by their bare liveries, 
 That they live by your bai'e words. 
 
 The cadence of tlie two last linos is admirable ! See 
 
 70 
 
 remarks on a similar perversion at p. 39. This has net 
 even the excuse of Dr. Johnson's earless vereiHer, — 
 " Lay your knife and your fork across your plate !" 
 
 " Know ye Do>i Antonio? 
 
 The second folio reads ynu, a variation which dee: ncl 
 well deserve a note, but Collier and Knight for gome reasor 
 have adopted it. 
 
 *' Complete in feature. 
 
 Feature is here applied to personal beauty generally, no', 
 merely to the face. " The featiue and fashion, or the pro- 
 portion and figure of the whole bodie," Baret's Alvearie, 
 1580. 
 
 ^^ That you are worthless. 
 
 Dr. Johnson reads, " No, that you are worthless," but 
 although this emendation may give greater power to the 
 reply, we are clearly not warranted in so wide a depanure 
 from the original without much greater necessity. Douce 
 says the measure is not defective, though the harmony is. 
 
 5° Madam, my lord. 
 
 This speech is assigned to a servant by Theobald, but is 
 rightly restored ly Collier and Knight to Thurio, who 
 either retires at the entrance of Proteus, and now re-enters, 
 or steps to the door and reeeivus the message. 
 
 *' Whose high imperious thoughts. 
 
 The impenal or commanding thoughts of love. " /ra- 
 pcriosus, imperious, lordoly, stately, full of comniaunde- 
 mentes," Elyot's Dictionarie, 1559. 
 
 '- Ao woe to. 
 
 That is, compared to. The idiom is common. So, in on 
 old ballad, — 
 
 There is no comfort in the world 
 To women that are kind. 
 
 *^ Let her be a principalluf. 
 "Principalities," says an old writer, "arc the second 
 order of the second hierarchy of angels." The term here 
 appears to be used in a more general sense. 
 
 ^ She IS alone. 
 That is, unique in her perfections. 
 
 *^ Is it her fnicn, or Valentinus praise. 
 
 The old copy is hopelessly coiTupt, reading, " It is mine 
 or Valentine's praise ;" and the second folio makes the 
 matter worse. The above is Blakcway's happy emendation, 
 and will be preferred by all readers of any taste to War- 
 burtou's, " Is it mine eye." Mien was formorly some- 
 times printed mine. 
 
 ^^ I love his lady too-t^io muc/t 
 
 This is Uio original reading, which, acccroing to Mr. 
 Halliwell, is a genuine compound c-rchaism, used botli as 
 nn adjective and adverb, meaning excessive or excessively. 
 He was Ihc first to notice this in the Papers of the Shako- 
 speare Society a few years ago, but the truth has been di>^ 
 nuted even against an overwiielniing amount of evidence, 
 BO dillicult is it to 23tabliab a novelty in tbece matterB.
 
 NOTES TO THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VEIiONA. 
 
 <" M'ith more advice. 
 
 With more consideration, on better knowledge of her. 
 
 !» Picture. 
 
 Ilero used figuratively for her person, whicb he has only 
 yet glanced at. 
 
 '' Mij staff understands me. 
 Thia absurd quibble was a favourite in the olden time, 
 nie coblers say in the bf.Uad, — 
 
 Our work doth th' owners understand; 
 Thus still we ai'e on the mending hand. 
 
 ^ Go to the ah. 
 
 That is, the ale-house, not the rural festival so called, 
 iiough the latter is the more ordinary meaning. " I am 
 the spirit of the dead man that was slain in thy company, 
 whoa we were drunk together at the ale," Greene's Looking 
 Glass for London and England. 
 
 °' To learn his wit. 
 
 To learn in the sense of, to teach, is common in old 
 nriters, and is still a provincial mode of expression. 
 
 *' His competitor. 
 
 His confederate or partner ; not rival, as stated by Dr. 
 J.hnson. The word is used in the same sense in Twelfth 
 Night, iv. 2. 
 
 " Pretended Jliyht. 
 
 lutended flight Shakespeare generally uses the word in 
 his sense. 
 
 ^ And, ev'n in kind love, I do conjure thee. 
 
 Mr. Knight alters the contracted ev'n of the first folio to 
 erf 71, to obt;iin the present pronunciation of conjure; but 
 Shakespeare has the accent on the first syllable of this 
 word in passages that decide the pronunciation. 
 
 " Who art the table. 
 Alluding to the tables or tablets universally used for 
 memoranda in Shakespeare's time. The poet elsewhere 
 writes, " unclasp the tables of thcii' thoughts." 
 
 ^ Farthingale. 
 
 The farthingale was properly the broad roll used for 
 maldng the gown ridiculously full about the hips, though 
 the term was sometimes applied to the gown itself when so 
 widened. See a drawing of one in Fairholt's Costume in 
 England, p. 256. Holmes, describing gowns of this fashion, 
 says they were " broad shouldered, narrow wasted, wide 
 breeched, and gathered in plaits and trusses to make it full 
 in the skirt. ' The codpiece, that monstrous appendage to 
 the male costume, is fully described by Bulwer. 
 
 " Out, Out, Lucetta! 
 Tnh is equivalent to, Jie, jie ! The exclamation is com- 
 aion in Shakespeare and all our old dramatists. 
 
 «8 Of infinite. 
 
 That is, of the infinity. " It is past the infinite of thought," 
 Mucb Ido About Nothing, ii. 3. 
 
 "' Is soon suggested. 
 
 That is, tempted. 'We have jiu^t had, " sweet suggest- 
 ing Love," ii. 6. 
 
 '° Be not aimtA at. 
 
 Aimed at, i.e. suspected. Jealous aim just previously il^ 
 jealous suspicion. Pretence, design. 
 
 " Wliere J lliought. 
 
 Whereas I thought. "Cum nihil proccipi posse dicamua, 
 where wo affirme that there can bo nothing prescribed," 
 Phraseologla Puerilis, 10G7. 
 
 "• What lets. 
 
 ■WTiat hinders. The verb let, to hinder, is very common 
 in early boo'ss, and occurs in Romans, i. 13. 
 
 "' ^or they are sent by me. 
 
 For, for that, because. llis thoughts rest in Silvia's 
 bosom, — referring to the custom of ladies canying letters 
 in a pocket in the fore part of their stays. Proteus after- 
 wards promises to deliver Valentine's letters " even in the 
 milk-white bosom of thy love." 
 
 As for ftlerops, a little below, the reader may be referred 
 to Ovid, TiTst. in. iv. 30, Metara. i. 763, ii 184. " Merops, 
 maritus Clj-menes, pater putativus Phaethontis et rex 
 Ethiopia?," not. ad ibid. 
 
 '* IJly not death, to fly his deadly doom. 
 
 I do not escape from Death by flying from his deadly 
 sentence. 
 
 '^ So-hough I sO'hough I 
 
 So the old copy, altered by modem editors to so-ho. The 
 original, however, expresses the old hunting cry when the 
 hare was found, and exhibits more clearly Launce's foolish 
 quibble. " So-howe, the hare ys fownde, boema, lepus est 
 inventus," Prompt. Parv. 
 
 "' That's aU one, if he be but one knave. 
 
 The copious notes on this passage in the variorum edition 
 show it was not understood by the commentators, and Mr. 
 Collier conjectures Launce is thinking of the four knaves oi 
 a pack of cards, a suggestion of which I cannot observe the 
 use or probability. Launce is merely as usual pumiing 
 and say J, " if he be but one knave, that's all one." 
 
 " For she hath had gossips. 
 
 Gossips were sponsors at baptism, and the women who 
 attended confinements. Launce's quibbles are sometimes 
 scarcely worth explanation. 
 
 '* Saint Nicholas be thy speed! 
 
 Saint Nicholas was a patron saint of scholars, thieves 
 sailors, and virgins ! Brand has a chapter abc it him, which 
 may be consulted by those who are curious ir such matters 
 He is of course here addressed as the patijn of scholars 
 " Be thy speed," a pun of Launce's on Speed's name. 
 
 " Item, she can milk. 
 All editors read imprimix, but the " cati-.og" was not 
 intended to blunder, however Launce and Speed might. I 
 
 77
 
 NOTES TO THE TWO GEN1XE5LEN OF VEHONA. 
 
 Uiink my altcraticn will be considered right by any one 
 who will carefully read the preceding speeches. 
 
 so She can knit him a stock. 
 
 That is, a stocking, or rather, as Mr. Fairholt says, a 
 covering fur the leg. 
 
 61 O villain. 
 
 This, and other speeches of Launce, are set down as 
 verse by Mr. Knight! 
 
 6- She wHl often praise her liquor. 
 
 That is, says Johnson, show how well she liies it by 
 drinking often. The same writer explains liberal, licentions 
 and gross in language. 
 
 ^ The cover of the salt hides the salt. 
 
 The salt was a large piece of plate, with a cover to keep 
 the salt clean, and was an important article on the table of 
 our ancestors. In Lady Shirley's will, 1G34, a silver salt 
 "of the value of fyve poundes" is mentioned. A salt- 
 cellar was a smaller and distinct article, and frequently 
 made of tin. 
 
 ** Trenched in ice. 
 
 That iS; cut or carved in ice. 
 
 " Takes his goi^g grievously. 
 
 That is, heavily, with grief. It is worthy of remark that 
 (i» second folio reads heavily, and Malone says some copies 
 3f Ihe first folio have the same reading ; but I have some 
 suspicion this is an error, arising perhaps from an imperfect 
 copy having been made up fi-oni the second edition. The 
 booksellers have played innimierable tricks with that " tri- 
 umjjhantly trading ai-ticle," the first folio Shakespeare. 
 
 ^ His very friend. 
 
 His true or imdoubted friend. Slassinger calls one of 
 his plays, A very woman. Perhaps undoubted is the best 
 explanation of the word as it is used in old plays. 
 
 *' To bottom it on me. 
 
 Alluding to the bottom of thread, or ball of thread 
 wound upon a cylindrical body. 
 
 '' You may temper her. 
 
 That is, mould her, like wax, to whatever shape you 
 please Malone. 
 
 '' Tliat may discover such integrity. 
 
 Integrity is here used for sincerity. This explanation 
 will rcnd(!r the passage much clearer. 
 
 00 \yiiji some srveel consort. 
 
 Consort.is the old word for concert. It is translated by 
 ccmcentus in Coles' Lat. Diet. It must not be confused 
 with consort in Act iv. sc. 1, which there merely means a 
 K>mpany. 
 
 "' A deploring dump. 
 
 4 dump woa a mournful piece of music. 
 78 
 
 « WiU inherit her. 
 
 That is, will obtain possession of her. The word OCCUIJ 
 in a similar sense in Titus Andronicus, ii, 3. 
 
 * To sort. 
 
 To choose or select 
 
 5' / wilt pardon you. 
 
 A conventional phrase. The Duke excuses their further 
 attendance. 
 
 ^^ He is a proper man. 
 
 A good-looking or well-proportioned man. "Proper ol 
 pretie," Barefs Alvearie, 1580. According to an old 
 ballad, — 
 
 Then said the prentices proper and tall, 
 
 For Essex's sake we ynil die all. 
 
 '° By the hare scalp of Robin Hood's fat friar. 
 
 The fat fiiar was of course Friar Tuck, one of Robin 
 Hood's merry companions. Skelton alludes to him in the 
 following lines, — 
 
 Another bade shave halfe my berde. 
 And boyes to the pylery gan me plucke, 
 And wolde have made me freer Tucke, 
 To preche cute of the pylery hole. 
 
 " The company of awful men, 
 
 Shakespeare in this, and in two other passag;fl, appears 
 to use awful in the sense of lawful. The term occurs Li a 
 similar sense in Vittoria Corombona, 1612. 
 
 '* JJTwm, in my mood. 
 
 Mood, without an adjective, generally used iu the soTise 
 of anger or resentment. For whom read who. 
 
 ^' On silly women. 
 
 Silly here means inoffensive, weak, timid. It is still used 
 in the Northern dialects. 
 
 '"" AU her sudden quips. 
 
 Quips are taunts, scoffi. This common word wui uui 
 require a second notice. ** Merrie quipps, or taimtcs wittily 
 spoken," Baret's Alvearie, 1.5S0. Coles translates quip by 
 scomma. 
 
 "" Such grace did lend licr. 
 
 Lend in this and several other passages is used in the 
 archaic sense, to give. (.\. S.) 
 
 '« Out of all nick. 
 
 Out cf all reckoning. Alluding, says 'Warl: arton, to the 
 ancient mode of reckoning on tallies. 
 
 "5 Ttiat I may compass yours. 
 
 Compass, perform. Tliis seems the most natural ex- 
 planation, and consonant with Silvia's reply. " Ho will 
 easily bo able to compass that, id autan facile C(mse(pii 
 poterit," Coles. Compass, however, in Act ii. Sc. 4. ovi' 
 dently means, to obtain.
 
 NOTES TO THE TWO GENTLEMEN OE VEEONA. 
 
 104 By my halidom. 
 
 An oath which had become provincial in Shakespeare's 
 time, und only occurs once in his plays. It is the Anglo- 
 Saiou hiilig-d(1m, sacrament. 
 
 105 Your ladyship's impose. 
 
 Impose, i.o. injunction, command. 
 
 1™ Remorseful, i.e. pitiful, or compassionate. 
 
 i"' He steps me to her trencher. 
 
 The pronoun me is here redundant. This idiom is Tcry 
 coiumnn in all old plays, and occurs frequently in Shakes- 
 peare. Keep himself, i.e. restrain himself. 
 
 1"' He makes me no more ado. 
 
 That is, he makes no more ado. This construction is 
 very common in Shakespeare. For his servant; so the old 
 copies, and no doubt Launee's phraseology. 
 
 ■"' The other squirrel. 
 
 Speaking ironically of Proteiis's dog, who was only one- 
 tenth the size of Launee's. 
 
 ii» Still an end. 
 
 That is, continually, perpetually. The phrase is TCry 
 common in old plays. 
 
 Ill Deliver'd it to me. 
 
 li'^o is imderstood before the verb. We have already 
 li.id 1 Bimilar eonsti-uction at p. 38, note "8. To leave, in 
 1 ho nest Une, i.e. to part with. 
 
 "2 And pinch' d the lily tincture of her face. 
 
 Tint or complexion. " The tincture of your neck is not 
 all so pure," Cynthia's Revels. Mr. Knight thinks pinch'd 
 means painted, an absurdity gathered, I suppose, from 
 Bi'cket's Shakespeare's Himself Ayain, ii. 300, a work 
 replete with the most childish eonjeetui'es. The word 
 never bore that signification in England, although Mr. 
 Becket pretended to discover it in Chaucer. 
 
 1" I made her weep a-good. 
 
 A-good, in good earnest, heartily. " This mery aunswer 
 made them ail laugheagood," Plutarch by North, 1579. 
 
 Ill A cohur'd periwig. 
 
 Periwigs were worn by ladies as well as gentlemen. 
 They were extremely fashionable about the year 1595. See 
 Fairholt's Costmne in England, p. 577. Ilolmes mentions 
 fivo diiferent kinds of periwigs. 
 
 ■1' Her eyes are grey as glass. 
 
 Cr.x*y eyes were formerly considered veiy beautiful, and 
 e;re frequently mentioned as cminenily attractive in the old 
 English metrical romances. 
 
 11^ I can make respective. 
 
 That is, I can make comparison of. Coles translates 
 respective by relativns. 
 
 1" My substance should be statue in thy stead. 
 
 That is, he should have my substance as a statue instead 
 of thee, "thou scnseloss form," the picture. Mr. Knight 
 seems to tlihJc statue is hero used for picture. Would no', 
 that explanation create a tautology ? It must, however, bu 
 admitted that the term »to<ue was often applied to a picture. 
 
 1" They are out by lease. 
 Lord Ilailcs says that by Tburio's posscssioiw, he himseU 
 understands his lands and estate. But Proteus chooses to 
 take the word likewise in a figurative sense, as moaning liii 
 mental endowments: and when he says tlicy are out by lease, 
 ho means they are no longer enjoyed by tlicir master (who 
 is a fool), but are leased out to another. 
 
 11' To be a peevish girl. 
 Peevish here, and in some other places, means /oo/m/i. 
 
 1-° Moses and Valerius. 
 The names of two of the outlaws. All editors follow the 
 old copy in reading Moyses, which was, however, merely an 
 old method of spelling Moses. The origmal edition of one 
 of Dra)'ton's poems is entitled, " Jloyses in a map of his 
 Miracles," 4to. 1604. Valerius is the assumed name of the 
 page in the story of Felismena. 
 
 1-1 And record my woes. 
 
 Becord, to sing. The word is frequently used in this 
 
 sense. 
 
 Who taught the nyghtyngaU to recorde besyly 
 Her strange entunys in sylence of the nyght ? 
 
 Interlude of Nature. n.A , 
 
 1-- And still approv'd. 
 Approv'd, i.e. esperieneod. 
 
 1-^ When one's right hand. 
 The second folio introduces now before this passage, 
 wliich I fear can scarcely be right, the word having occurred 
 just previously. Hanmer reads one's own, but the original 
 text does not necessarily require alteration. One's is pro- 
 bably intended to be a dissyllable. 
 
 1-1 My shame and guilt confound me. 
 Mr. Knight follows the old copies in reading confountk, 
 but if we do so in one instance, we should in aU, and he 
 has not hesitated to adopt the modem construction in nu- 
 merous other passages, where, in the original, the singula, 
 verb is joined with the plural substantive. 
 
 1-' Cry you mercy. 
 Equivalent to, I beg your pardon. This reading is more 
 usual than, cry your mercy, adopted by Collier and Knight, 
 My copy of the first folio reads you. 
 
 12H Behold her that gave am to. 
 To give aim to, to du-ect, a metaphor taken from archery. 
 Aim is here Julia, the object of all the oatlis. Cleft the root, 
 an allusion to cleaving the pin, which, says Douce, wa> 
 breakmg the nail which attached the mark to the butt. 
 
 i=" If shame live, ^c. 
 That is, says Johnson, if it be any eharao to ivsar a dis 
 guise for the purposes of love.
 
 €ljf Blfni[ 'B\m nf t^iniisnr. 
 
 DAHLY in the last century, eighty -six years after the death of Shakespeare, an unsrcceBsful 
 comedy was produced at Drury Lane Theatre, tmdcr the title of "The Comical Gallant." Tliis 
 play was heralded forth in the bills of the day as the -work of Mr. John Dennis, hut it was merely an 
 alteration of the ■ Merry Wives of "Windsor, ' and a veiy poor attempt at an improvement of that 
 admirable comedy. The dramatis persona: are much the same as in the Merry Wives, except that 
 Dennis had added one new character, the Host of the BuH, who is brother to Mrs. Ford ; and Fenton 
 is represented as her nephew. Dennis ha^ rewritten about half the dialogue, and materially changed 
 the conduct of the piece. He was, however, sufficiently well satisfied with its merits to undertake 
 fJie expense of printing; and it was accordingly published in the year 1702, with a long dedicatory 
 epistle, fi'om which I make the following extract, putting in Italics those portions to which I more 
 pnjticidarly wish to direct the reader's attention : — 
 
 " Wten I first commimicatcd the design which I had of altering thia comedy of Shakespcar, I found that I snould 
 tuTe two sorts of people to deal with, who would equally endeavour to obstruct my success. The ono believed it to he 
 1 1? a'hiiirable, that notiiing ought to be added to it ; the others fancied it to be so despicable, that any one's time would be 
 lost upon it. That this comedy was not despicable, I guess'd for several reasons ; First, / knew very well that it had plcas'd 
 me of the greatest queens that ever was in the world, great not only for her wisdom in the arts of government, but ft'i her 
 knowledge of polite learning, and her nice taste of the drama, for such a taste we may he sure she had, by the relish whici 
 she had of the ancients. This oomedy was written at her command, and by her direction, and she was so eager to see it 
 arted, that she commanded it to be fimi,hed in fourteen days ; and was afterwards, as tradition tells us, very well plea^d at 
 the representation. In the second place, in the reign of King Charles the Second, when people had an aduiirablo txsta of 
 comedy, all those men of extraordinary parts, who were the ornaments of that court, as the late Duke of Buckingham, 
 my Lord Normandy, my Lord Dorset, my late Lord Eochester, Sir Charles Sidlcy, Dr. Frazer, Mr. Sa^Tl, Mr. Buckley 
 were in love with the beauties of this comedy. In the third place, I thought that after so long an acquaintance as I had 
 witli the best comic poets, among the ancients and modems, I might depend in some measure upon my own judgment, 
 and I thought I foimd here three or four extraordinary characters, that were exactly dra\vn, and truly comical ; and that 
 I saw besides in it some as happy touches as ever were in comedy. Besides I had observed what success the character of 
 Fflktaff had had in the First Part of 'HaiTy the Fourth.' And as the Falstaff in the 'Merry Wives' is certainly supenor 
 to tnat of the Second Part of ' Harry the Fourth,' so it can hardly bo said to be inferior to that of the First." 
 
 This is the earliest notice we possess of the above curious tradition, and that Dennis has reported 
 it correctly seems to admit of little doubt. The reader will observe he gives no special reason why 
 the Queen commanded the poet to write the comedy, and I suspect it is this point that the subsequent 
 naiTators of the tradition have amplified without proper authority. Dennis, in the prologue to hia 
 play, again refers to the short space of time in which the Merry Wives was wriHen : — 
 
 " But Shakespear's play in fourteen, days was writ, 
 And in that space to make all just and fit. 
 Was an attempt surpassing human wit. 
 Yet our great Shakespeare's matchless muso wai? such, 
 None ere in so small a time perform'd so muclu" 
 " 81
 
 THE WERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 Eowe, in 1 709, gives a somewhat more circumstantial account. Speaking of Queen Elizabeth, he 
 Bays, "She was so well pleased with that admirable character of Falstaff in the two parts of Henry IV., 
 that she commanded him to continue it for one play more, and to show him in love; this is said to be I ho 
 occasion of his wtiting the Merry Wives of WLadsor. How weU she was obeyed, the play itself is an 
 udmii-able proof." Tills evidence is followed by Gildon's account of the same tradition,* who, in 1710, 
 jumbled an allusion to the amended play with an anecdote that properly belongs exclusively to the 
 Etctch, in the following words, — "The fairies in the fifth act make a handsome compUmsnt to the Queen, 
 ia her palace of Windsor, who had obliged him to write a play of Sir John Falstaff La love, and which 
 Tarn vert/ tcell assured he performed in a fortnight; a procUgious thing, when all is so weU contrived, 
 aud carried on without the least confusion." It wiU be perceived that, although GHdon is in fiict still 
 k«s precise than Eowe, yet Elizabeth could not very well have commanded Shakespeare to exliibit 
 the celebrated fat knight in love, if she had not been previously introduced to him in another chai'actcr 
 Pope, Theobald, and later editors, appear to have taken their versions of the tradition second- 
 hand fi'om Eowe. 
 
 The reader -n-iU probably be pleased with having the opportimity of consulting the evidenix; 
 hcie collected on tHs interesting subject, for much of the criticism on the external history of SLaio 
 speare's comedy depends upon the degree, of credit we may be disposed to give to it. It seems 
 imreasonable, in face of these authorities, to refuse the belief that the first sketch of the play was 
 wiitten at the request of Queen Elizabeth, and in a very brief space of time; altl.ough it is not impro- 
 bable that Eowe may have guessed at the reason of the royal command, and given us his gratuitou? 
 explanation of tlie imperfect anecdote related by Dennis. Nothing can be more likely than this sup- 
 position ; and, to say the least, it would be very unsafe to take Eowe's narrative for granted, and reason 
 upon it in the way in which Malone does. I would rather attempt to explain the traditioii, analyze 
 its various parts, and ascertain how far these are in accordance with the internal evidences in the jilays 
 in which Falstafi' and his companions are introduced, than build a theory upon it. It is on this 
 accoimt I am induced to hazard a conjecture which will satisfy aU the authenticated parts of the tra- 
 dition, b}' supposing anotlier reason for the play having been produced before the court at a very short 
 notice. 
 
 If we enquire what could have led our great dramatist to select Windsor for the scene of the love 
 adventures of Falstafi', believing the tradition that the play was written by command of the Queen, 
 does it appear an improbable conjecture to suppose that Elizabeth may have resided at Windsor at the 
 time, and that either he was induced to select the scene under the impression that his comedy might 
 be more favourably received from its local associations, or that her majesty may have commanded the 
 lord chamberlain's servants to exhibit a new play, the scene of which should be laid in the place where 
 she was then holding her court? The comedy was first published in 1602, but that edition contains 
 merely the author's original sketch. The amended play, as we now have it, and as it is presented to tlic 
 reader uj the following pages, appeared in the first folio in 1623. The title-page of the former tells v.s 
 that the ^y "hath been divers times acted by the Eight Honourable my Lord Chamberlain's servants, 
 Dotli lefore Her Majesty and elsewhere." The Queen, it is wcU known, had plays aud masques eslii- 
 liifed before her at Windsor Castle; and it appears to me that the following incident, wliich is intro- 
 duced both in the sketch and in the amended play, is almost sufficient of itself to show that niv con- 
 jrcture of its provincial composition is correct : — 
 
 " Doc. 'Where be my Host do gartyro ? 
 
 Host. hero sir in peqjiexitie. 
 
 Doc. I cannot tell vad be dad, 
 But bcgar I will tell you van ting, 
 Dear be a Garmaine Dulce come to do Court, 
 Has cosencd all do host of IJranford, 
 And EedJing : bcgar I tcU you for good \\"ill, 
 Ha, ha, mine Host, am I eucn met you. \_Exit, 
 
 • Whsn Mr. Knight says that Uowo adopted the more circumstantial tradition irom Gildon, he had probablj 
 forgotten tliat Rowe's accoimt was p'llilishcd some time before Gildon's was written. 
 82
 
 THE MEEIIY WIVES OE WINDSOE. 
 
 Enter Sir Hdoh. 
 " Sir Hit. Wliero is mine Host of tho gartyr ? 
 Now my Ilost, I would desire you looko you now, 
 To haue a caro of your entertainments, 
 For there is three sorts of coaen garmombles, 
 Is cosen all tho Host of Maidenhead & Headings, 
 Now you are an honest roan, and a scuruy beggerly lowsie knaue beside ; 
 And can point ^Tong places, 
 I tell you for good will, grate why mine Host" [Ed. 1602, -Ito.] 
 
 We have a more particular account of the same incident in the amended play. See act iv. so. 3 
 and BC. 5. The reader mil please to compare the account in those scenes -with the above- and if ^vc 
 agree with Mr. Knight in considering the incident as one of those local and temporary allusions which 
 Shakespeare seized upon to arrest tho attention of his audience, we shall find it become of "rcat imiior- 
 tanoe in determining the date of tho composition of the play. lu 1592, a German Duke did visit 
 Windsor, and Mr. Knight was fortunate enough to meet with an account of his visit, printed at 
 Tubingen in 1G02. It was the Duke of Wi'irtemburg, who travelled under the name of the Count 
 Mombeliard, accompanied by a considerable retinue. In the curious volume which contains the history 
 of the Duke's progress is printed a sort of passport from Lord Howard, addressed, as usual in such 
 documents, to all justices of the peace, mayors, and baiUfFs. Mr. Knight reprints it with the errors of 
 the German transcriber; but the original paper was probably as nearly as possible in the following form : — 
 
 " Whereas this nobleman, Counte Morabeliard, is to passe over contiye in England, into the Lowe Contryes, Ihiso 
 "halbe to wil and command you, in hir Majestyes name (for suehe is hir pleasure), to see him foumished with post horses 
 m his travail to the sea syde, and there to soke up such shippinge as shalbe fit for his transportacions, he payinge KctJ:ir,ge 
 for the same. For which this shalbe your sufficient warranto. So see that you faile not hereof, at youi- periUs. From 
 Bilieete the 2 of Septembre, 1592 (3i EU^.) 
 
 " Your fiiend, 
 
 "C. HOWAED.- 
 
 It may, perhaps, be a question whether the " cosen garmombles" of Sir Hugh Evanii apply only 
 to the cotmfs retinue, or include himself; but, in eitlier case, there appears to be little doubt that the 
 passages which relate to tho German duke have reference to the Duke of "Wurtcmburg's visit to 
 Windsor in the year 1592, — a matter to be forgotten in 1601, when Malone says tho sketch was 
 written • and not likely to be so particularly alluded to in 1596, the date assigned to it by Chabners. 
 " His "Tacc and suite," observes Mr. Knight, " must have caused a sensation at Windsor. Probably 
 mine host of the Garter had really made ' grand preparation for a dulie de Jarmany.' Was there any 
 dispute about the ultimate payment for the duke's horses, which he was authorised to have free of 
 L^xpense ? Did oui- host know of this privilege, when he said, ' they shall have my horses, but I 'U 
 make them pay?'" The count himseK would probably not have sanctioned a " cousenago" of this kind, 
 but his attendants would little scruple in availing themselves of the general privilege given to their 
 master by the English government. On the whole, we may conclude, with much safety, tliat the 
 Merri/ Wives was composed in the year 1592 or very soon afterwards, and perhaps fii-st acted in 1593, 
 in the January of wliich year Queen Elizabeth had a series of masques and plays performed before hex 
 Lt Windsor Castle. ' 
 
 Eegarding the chronology of the play as settled, a question arises in what point of view the 
 ^omedy must be considered in connection with the historical plays which possess several of the same 
 haracters A great variety of opinions have been expressed on this subject, and the reader who 
 Josii-ea to pursue the argument wiU find it fuUy discussed in the preface to an edition of the first 
 sketch of the play which I edited for the Shakespeare Society in 1842, and fi-om which most of the 
 preceding observations have been taken. The analysis of the characters I have there attempted is too 
 diffuse for our Umited space ; but it may be briefly stated that, after a very minute examination of Ihe 
 subject, I arrived at the conclusion that tho two parts of Henry IV., like the MeiTy Wives of Wmdsor,
 
 THE MEEEY WIVES OF WINDSOK. 
 
 originally existed in an unfinislied state, and that wlicn the first sketch of the latter was ■written, those 
 plays had not been altered and amended in the form in which they have come down to us. The 
 Falstaff of the two parts of Henry IV. was originally termed Oldcastle, and if we associate this 
 eii-curastance with the tradition recorded by Dennis, it will not be veiy difficult to suggest the great 
 probability that there was a circumstance in the poet's literary history, the exact nature of which ^^ ib 
 most likely never be revealed, but which would probably fulfil all the conditions of this, the most 
 perplexing problem ia Shaksperian criticism. 
 
 Shakespeare's first sketch of the play was pubUsbed in 1602, imder the quaint title of, "A most 
 plcasaimt and excellent conceited Comedie of Syr John Falstaffe, and the menie Wives of Windsor : 
 entemiixed with sundrie variable and pleasing humors of Syr Hugh the Welch Knight, Justice 
 Shallow, and hi^ wise Cousin, M. Slender: with the swaggering vaine of Auncient PistoU and Corporal! 
 Npn. Ey WiUiam Shakespeare. As it hath bene divers times acted by tlie right Honorable my Lord 
 Chamberlaines servants, both before her Majestic, and elsewhere. London, Printed by T. C. for 
 Arthiu- Johnson, and are to be sold at his shop ia Powles Church-yard, at the signe of the Flower de 
 Leuse and the Crowne, 1602." This was reprinted in 1619, with a few immaterial additions, the 
 blunders of the early copy being retained. It was most likely piratically published, but it is H. groat 
 interest, because we fijid in it, thougli in an imperfect form, the draught of the great poefs mory dnished 
 delineation. It is no slight advantage to be thus enabled to trace the progress of his pc»i"s ; and out 
 readers wiLL not object to have an opportunity of comparing the two copies in the scei ,o Heme's oak, 
 ivhich, as Mr. Knight justly observes, has no doubt been completely re-written : — 
 
 Qn.iKTO OF 1602. 
 
 Qui. Tou fairies that do liaimt these shady groves, 
 Look round about the wood if you can espy 
 .V mortal that doth haunt our sacred round : 
 If such a one you can espy, give him his due, 
 .\nd leave not Mil you pinch him black and blue. 
 Give them their charge, Puck, ero they pait away. 
 
 Sir Hugh. Come hither, Pean, go to the coimtry houses, 
 And when you find a slut that Kes asleep, 
 And all her dishes foul, and room unswept, 
 With your long nails pinch her till she ciy, 
 And swear to mend her sluttish housewifely. 
 
 Fat. I warrant you, I will perfonn your ■will. 
 
 Hu. ^Tiere is Pead ? Go you and see where b^rokers sleep, 
 .Vnd fox-eyed Serjeants, ■\vith then- mace, 
 Go lay the proctors in the street, 
 Jid pinch the lousy Serjeant's face : 
 ipare none of these when they are a-bed, 
 *ut such whose nose looks pluo and red. 
 
 Qui. Away, begone, his mind fulfil, 
 And look that none of you stand still. 
 Borne do that thing, some do this. 
 All do something, none amiss. 
 
 Sir Hugh. I smell a man of middle-earth. 
 
 Fal God bless me from that Welch fairy ! 
 
 Quic. Look every one about tins roimd, 
 ;Vnd if that any here be found, 
 For his presumption in this place. 
 Spare neither leg, arm, head, nor faoe. 
 
 Sir Hugh. See I liave spied one by good luck, 
 Ilia body man, his head a buck. 
 
 Fal. God send me good fortune now, and I care not. 
 
 Quick. Go straiglit, and do as I command, 
 Anrl t^'ike a taper in your liand, 
 And 8( t it to his fingers' ends, 
 And if you see it him offonds, 
 S4 
 
 FOLIO OF 1623. 
 
 Quick. Fairies, black, grey, green, and white, 
 Tou moonshine-revellers, and shades of night, 
 Tou orphan-heu"3 of fixed destiny, 
 Attend your oiEce and your quality. 
 Crier Hobgoblin, make the fairy eyes. 
 
 Fist. Elves, list your names ; sil mee, you airy toys. 
 Cricket, to Windsor ehimnies shalt thou leap : 
 Where fires thou find'st unrak'd, and hearths unswept 
 There pioch the matds as blue as bilberry : 
 Our radiant queen hates srats and sluttery. 
 
 Fal They arc fairies ; he that speaks to them shall die 
 I '11 ■5vink and couch : no man their works must eye. 
 
 l_Ll€S doum upon his face 
 
 Eva. Whore's Bead ? — Go you, and where you find a maid 
 That, ere she sleep, has thiice her prayers said, 
 Eaise \ip the organs of her fantasy. 
 Sleep she as soimd as careless infancy ; 
 But those as sleep and think not on their sins, 
 Pinch them, arms, legs, backs, shoulders, sides, and shins. 
 
 Quick. About, about ; 
 Search Windsor-castle, elves, mtliin and out : 
 Strew good luck, ouphcs, on every sacred room ; 
 That it may stand till the perpetual doom, ' 
 
 In state as wholesome, as in state 't is fit; 
 Wortliy tlie owner, and tlio owner it. 
 The several chairs of order look you scour 
 With juice of babn, and every precious flow'r: 
 Each fair instalment, coat, and sev'ral crest. 
 With loyal blazon evermore bo blest ! 
 And nightly, meadow-fairies, look you sing, 
 Like to the Garter's compass, in a ring ; 
 Th' eiprcssure that it be.ars green let it be. 
 More fertile-frcsh than .all the field to see ; 
 And, Honi soit qui vial y pense^ write, 
 In em'ruld tufis, floVrs pui-ple, blue, and wliite :
 
 THE MEERT WIVES OF WTITOSOK. 
 
 And that he starteth at the flame, 
 Then is he mortal, know his name : 
 [ f with an F it duth begin. 
 Why then bo sure he is full of sin. 
 About it then, and know the truth 
 Of this same metamorphosed youth. 
 
 Sir Iliiyk. Give mo the tapers, I will trj 
 S u' if that he lovi venerr. 
 
 [ 77iey put the tapers to Ms fingers, an I lit ilarts. 
 
 Sir Hii. It is right indeed ; he is full of lecheri js and 
 iujquitj". 
 
 Quic. A little distant from him stand, 
 And every or.c take hand in hand, 
 And compass him •vv'ithin a ring, 
 First pinch Jiim well, and after sing. 
 
 I/ike sapphire, pearl, and rich embroidery, 
 Buckled below fair knight-hood's bending kneo : 
 Fairies use (low'rs for their charactcry. 
 Away ; disperse : But, till 'tis one o'clock, 
 Our dance of custom, round about the oak 
 Of Heme the Hunter let us not forget. 
 
 Eva. I'rayyou, lock hand in hand; yourscKcs in orJor M 
 And twenty glow-worms shall our lanterns be. 
 To guide our measure round about the tree. 
 But, stay : I smell a man of middle-earth. 
 
 Fa!. Heavens defend me from that Wilch fairy. 
 Lest he transform mo to a piece of cheese ! 
 
 Pist. Villi worm, thou wast o'erlook'd even in thy birth 
 
 Quick. With trial-fire touch mo his finger end ; 
 If he be chaste, the flame will back deect^nd 
 And turn him to no pain ; but if ho start. 
 It is the flesh of a corrupted heart. 
 
 Pii:L A trial, come. 
 
 Mat, Come ; wiU this wood fake fire ? 
 
 \They hum hin, v;ith ihcir tapers. 
 
 F\il. Oh, oh, oh ! 
 
 Quiek. Corrupt, corrupt, and tainted in desire ! 
 About him, fairies ; sing a scornful rhyme ; 
 Alid, as you trip, still pinch him to your time. 
 
 Meres does not montion the 'Jlerry Wives' in his list of Shakespeare's comcdiea; and the earlies 
 r.otiso of the play yet disooveroJ is contained in the books of the Stationers' Company, early in 1602, 
 when the first sketch Tvas published. It was acted at court before King James I. in November, 1604, 
 as appears from an origuial book of accounts preserved at the Audit Office, Somerset House ; but as we 
 are not told whether it is the amended play or the sketch, this information is of little value. T believe 
 it, however, to have been the amended play, and that it was then new in that form. There are severid 
 allusions in the latter which serve to show that it was written after James' accession to the throne. 1 
 shall only aUudo to Chalmers' reasoning on what he considers to refer to Spenser's Faerie Uueene, and 
 his favourite Shakespearian evidence. Lodge's ' Devils Incarnate,' published in 1596, as far too vague and 
 uncertain for any feasible argument. Jlrs. Page's remark, "these knights will hack, and so thoti shouldsl 
 Qot alter the article of thy gentr}-," can only allude to the immense number of knights created by James 
 I., who is said on one occasion to have made fifty before breakfast. In the beginning of the year 1603, 
 he made two hundred and thirty-seven knights in the course of one month, and the order, in conso- 
 (juence, became so common as to bring it into general ridicule. In July, the same year, the court wcr< 
 to \V'indsor, and soon afterwards the festival of St. George was celebrated there with great solemnity. 
 The Prince of Wales, the Duke of Lennox, the Earl of Southampton, who was the poet's great friend 
 and patron, the Earl of Pembrook, and the Earl of !Marr, were installed Knig'nts of the Garter. Maloue 
 veiy reasonably conjectures that the fine poetical description of the insignia of the garter in the fifth 
 iot may allude to tliis occurrence; and they certainly woidd have had a peculiar grace, if the}' rcfeiTed 
 to such a solemnity. . 
 
 The text of om- edition is taken from the folio of 1623, ^rith a few passages derived from the first 
 sketch, where they appeared necessary to the sense, or were too good to be lost. But these additions 
 have been made with great caution, for it would be disputing the poet's own judgment in his rejections 
 to receive the quarto as an authority for the text, although, in particular instances, we may presume 
 sentences were accidentally omitted by the editors of the first folio. A few corrections have been 
 rlerived from an early manuscript copy of the play in my possession, entitled, " The ilen-y Wives of 
 Old Windsor." This volume is one of the two only known early manuscript copies of Sliakespeare'e 
 plays, and was written during the time of the commonwealth. 
 
 The plot of the " ileiTy Wives of Windsor" is partly taken fi-om the tale of the " Two Lovers of 
 Piiia" iu Tarllon's 'Xewes out of Puraratorie,' 1.590, which is borrowed from one of the novels of 
 
 So
 
 THE MERllY ^^T.TES OF WTNDSOK. 
 
 I 
 
 SlTajjarola. In this tale, a yovmg gallant falls in love with a doctor's wife, and, not tcins 
 acquainted with his person, consults him as to the best method of proceeding in his suit. The doctor 
 is thus enabled to intercept all his appointments. In the first instance, the lady conceals her lover in 
 a basket of feathers, in the next, between the ceilings of a room, and, lastly, in a box of deeds anil 
 valuable papers. The doctor may be compared with Ford in his jealousy, and in the causes ol ii. 
 
 As a specimen of broad domestic comedy, the ' Merry Wives of "Windsor' is unrivalled. It i- 
 replete with humour and incident, and has so little to do with fancy or romance, that the episode ol 
 the fairies in. "Windsor park creeps into luxuriant poetry apparently almost in opposition to the writer's 
 will. "We must regard the comedy as a reaUzation of the maimers and humours of Shakespeare's own 
 time, notwithstanding the few notices which connect it with the historical plays. "Windsor, and the 
 meiTy company to whom we are there introduced, belong to the reign of Queen Bess, and have no 
 connexion with the days of " the wild Prince and Pointz." Regarding it in this view, fuo play may 
 be considered one of the most successful delineations of "the humour of the age;" of men in the 
 habits in which they lived and moved in the poet's own time. A spirit of fun pervades the whole ; 
 even Ford's jealousy is a subject of pleasantry ; Mrs. Page's invitation makes Falstaff forget hi? 
 misfortunes ; and the curtain fails m the midst of merrrment and good humour. 
 86
 
 PERSONS REPRESENTED. 
 
 Sib John Faxstatf. 
 
 AppeuTs, Act I. 8c. 1 ; sc. 3. Act II. 8c. Z Act. III. sc. 3 ; 
 sc. 5. Act. IV. so. 2 ; so. 5. Act Y. so. 1 ; sc. 5. 
 
 Fenton, a courtier. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 4. Act III. sc. 4. Act IV. sc. 6. 
 
 Act V. sc. 5. 
 
 KODEET SnAIiOTT, EsQUTRE, d jUSticC of 
 
 Gloucestershire. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1. Act II. sc. 1 ; sc. 3. Act III. so, 1 ; 
 sc. 2 ; sc. 4. Act IV. sc. 2 . Act V. sc. 2. 
 
 Sleijbee, cousin to Shallow. 
 
 .Appears, Act I. sc. 1. Act II. sc. 3. Act III. sc. 1 ; sc. 2 ; 
 
 so. 4. Act V. so. 2 ; sc. 5. 
 
 Me, FEA.NCIS FoED, a gentleman dwelling at Windsor. 
 
 Appears, Act II. sc. 1; sc. 2. Act III. so. 2; so. 3; so. 5. 
 Act IV. sc. 2 ; 60. 4. Act V. so. 1 ; so. o. 
 
 Me. Geoege P,iGE, a gentleman dwelling at Windsor. 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1. Act II. sc. 1 ; so. 3. Act III. sc. 1 ; 
 sc. 2 ; sc. 3 ; sc. 4. Act IV. so. 2; sc. 4. Act V. sc. 2; sc. 5. 
 
 William Pa8e,« boy, son to Mr. Page. 
 Appears, Act IV. sc. 1. 
 
 Uvi.ni Evans, a Welsh priest : cm-ate aiid school- 
 master at Windsor. 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1 ; ec. 2. Act III. sc. 1 ; so. 2 ; sc. 3. 
 Alt IV. sc. 1 ; so. 2 ; 53. 4 ; so. 5. Act V. so. 4 ; sc. 5. 
 
 "Dk. Caius, a French physician. 
 
 Ivpears, Act I sc. 4. Act II. sc. 3. Act IIL sc 1 ; sc. 2 ; 
 
 so. 3. Act IV. sc. 2 ; sc. 5. Act V. sc. 3 ; so. 5. 
 
 Host of tho Garter Inn. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 3. Act II. sc. 1 ; sc. 3. Act III. ec ; 
 
 so 2. Act IV. nc. 3 . so. 5 ; sc. 6. 
 
 Baebolph, a follower of FalstafF. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1 ; so. 3. Act II. sc. 2. Act (II. sc. .0 
 Act IV. 80. 3 ; sc. 5. 
 
 Nnr, afolloicer of FalstafF. 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1 ; so. 3. Act II. sc. I. 
 
 Pistol, afolloicer of Falstaff. 
 
 Appears, Act I. so. 1 ; so. 3. Act II. sc. I ; sc 2. 
 
 Act V. EC. 5. 
 
 EoBiK, page to Falstaff, afterwards in Ih service oj 
 Mrs. Page. 
 
 Apjxars, Act I. sc. 3. Act II. sc. 2. Act JII. sc. 2 : ec. 3. 
 
 Petee SniPLE, servant to Slender. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1 ; sc. 2 ; sc. 4. Act III. Bc 1 
 
 A;t IV. sc. 6. 
 
 John Eugbt, servant to Dr. Cains. 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 4. Act 11. sc. 3. Act III. so. 1 ; sc 2. 
 
 Ml!S. FOED. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1. Act II. sc. I. A;t III. tc. Z, 
 Act. If sc. 2 ; sc. 4. Act V. sc. 3 ; sc 6. 
 
 Mks. Paoe. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1. Act II. sc. 1. Act III. sc 2- 
 60. S ; sc 4. Act 1 V. sc. ] ; so. 2 ; sc. 4. Art V. sc c ; sc, 5 
 
 Anne Page, daughter to Mrs. Page. 
 Appeal 1, kiiH.sQ 1. Act III. so. 4. Act V. sc. 5. 
 
 Mits. QciCKLT, servant to Dr. Cains. 
 
 Appears, Act I. so. 4. Act. II. sc. 1 ; sc. 2. Act III. sc 4 
 ec. !>. Act IV. sc. 1 ; sc. 5. Act V. sc. 1 ; sc. 5. 
 
 Sersants to Page, Ford, ^y. 
 
 SCtlNE, — Windsor, and its neighbourhood. 
 
 S7
 
 €\)^ Mtui] Wim of Wmkm. 
 
 ACT L 
 
 SCETSE I.— "Windsor. Garden Front of Page's 
 Jfotue. 
 
 Enter Justice Shallow, Slenbee, and Sib Hugh 
 EvAjrs. 
 
 Shal. Sir Hugh,' persuade me not; I Tvill make 
 a Star-chamber matter of it: if he -were twenty 
 Bir John Falstaifs, he shall not abuse Eobert Shal- 
 low, esquii-c. 
 
 Slen. In the county of Glostcr, justice of peace 
 and coram." 
 
 Shal. Ay, cousin Slender, and Cust-ahriim. 
 
 Slen. Ay, and ratolorum too; and a gentleman 
 bom, master parson; who writes hhnscM arrnigc)-o; 
 in any bill, wan-ant, quittance, or obligation, 
 armigero. 
 
 Shal. Ay, that I do; and have done any time 
 these three himdred yeai's.^ 
 
 Slen. AU liis successors, gone before him, have 
 donc't; and aU his ancestors, that come after liim, 
 may: they may give the dozen white luces* in 
 their coat. 
 
 Shal. It is an old coat. 
 
 Eva. The dozen white louccs do become an old 
 coat well; it agrees n-cU, passant: it is a familiar 
 beast to man, and signifies lore.' 
 
 Shal. The luce is tlie fresh fish; the salt fish is 
 an old coat. 
 
 Slen. I may quarter, ooz ? 
 
 Shal. You may, bj- iimrrung. 
 
 Eva. It is marring, indeed, if he quarter it. 
 88 
 
 Shal. iN'ot a whit. 
 
 Eva. Yes, py'r lady ; if he has a quarter cf you! 
 coat, there is but three sldrts for yourself, in bm 
 simple conjectures: but that is all one. If s^u 
 John Falstaff have committed disparagements unto 
 you, I am of the church, and will be glad to dc 
 my benevolence, to make atonements and compre- 
 mises between you. 
 
 Shal. The coimeil shall hear it ;'' it is a riot. 
 
 Eva. It is not meet the council hear a riot; 
 there is no fear -of Got in a riot : the comicil, look 
 you, shall desire to hear the fear of Got, and not 
 to hear a riot; take your vizaments' in that. 
 
 Shal. Ha! o' my life, if I were young again, the 
 sword should end it. 
 
 Eva. It is petter that friends is the sword, and 
 end it: and there is also another de^•ice in my 
 prain, which, peradventure, priugs goot discretions 
 with it: There is Anne Page, which is daughter 
 to master George Page, which is pretty ^-irginity. 
 
 Slen. Misti'ess Anne Page? She has browx 
 hail', and speaks small Kke a woman.' 
 
 Eva. It is that feiy person for all the "oild, as 
 just as you will desire ; and seven hundred po>f ds 
 of moneys, and gold, and silver, is her grandsire 
 upon his death's-bcd (Got deliver to a joj-ful resur- 
 rections!) give, when she is able to overtake seven- 
 teen years old: it were a goot motion if we leave 
 our pribbles and prabbles, and desire a marriage 
 between master Abraham and mistresi* Anne 
 Page.
 
 Acr 1. 
 
 THE MEEEY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 SM. Did licr grandsire leave licr sever, hun- 
 dred pound? 
 
 £fa. Ay, and her father is make her a potter 
 penny. 
 
 Shal. I know the young gentlewoman; she has 
 good gifts. 
 
 Era. Seven hundi-ed poimds and possibilities,' 
 is goot gifts. 
 
 SIui!. "Well, let us see honest master Page: Is 
 Falstaff tliere ? 
 
 Eta. Shall I tell you a ho? I do despise a liar 
 as I do despise one that is false; or as I despise 
 one that is not true. The knight, sir John, is 
 there; and, I beseech you, bo ruled by your well- 
 willers. I will peat the door [_liiocl's'] for master 
 Page. What, hoa, Got pless youi- house hero ! 
 
 Fuffo. \_WiiMn'] Who's there? 
 
 Era. Here is Got's plessing and your friend, and 
 justice Shallow: and here j'oung master Slender; 
 that, pcradventures, shaU tell you another tale, if 
 matters grow to your likings. 
 
 Etiter Page. 
 
 Paffe. I am glad to see your worships well : I 
 thank you for my venison, master Shallow. 
 
 Shal. Master Page, I am glad to see you; 
 much good do it yoiu- good heart! I wish'd your 
 venison better ; it was ill kiil'd : — How doth good 
 mistress Page ? — and I thank you always ■with 
 my licart, la ; with my heart. 
 
 Fai/e. Sir, I thank you. 
 
 Shal. Sir, I thank you; by yea and no, I do. 
 
 I'affC. 1 am glad to see you, good master 
 Slender. 
 
 Skn. How docs your fallow grey-hound, sir? I 
 heard say he was outrun on Cotsall."' 
 
 Page. It could not be judg'd, sir. 
 
 Slen. You'll not confess, you 'U not confess. 
 
 Shal. That he will not: — 't is your foult, 't is 
 your fault :" — 'T is a good dog. 
 
 Paje. A cur, sir. 
 
 Shal. Sir, he 's a good dog, and a fair dog ; can 
 there be more said? he is good and fail. Is sir 
 John Ealstaff here ? 
 
 Page. Sir, ho is within ; and I would I could do 
 a good office between j'ou. 
 
 Era. It is spoke as a Christians ought to speak. 
 
 Shal. He hath wrong'd me, master Page. 
 Page. Sii', he doth in some sort confess it. 
 
 Shal. If it bo ccnfesscd, it is not redressed ; is 
 iict that so, maste; Page ? He hath -wrong'd me; 
 
 12 
 
 indeed he hath ; — at a word he bath ; — believe mo; 
 Eobert Shallow, esquire, saith he is wTong'd. 
 Paff^. Here comes sir Jolm. 
 
 Enter Sib John Faistaff, Baedolph, Nvm, and 
 Pistol. 
 
 Fal. Now, master Shallow; you '11 complain of 
 me to the king ? 
 
 Shal. Knight, you have beaten my n,en, kiil'd 
 my deer, and broke open my lodge. 
 
 Eal. But not kiss'd your keeper's daughter." 
 
 Shal. Tut, a pin ! this shall be answcr'd. 
 
 Fal. 1 ^viU answer it sti-aight; — I have done all 
 this : — That is now answcr'd. 
 
 Shal. The council shall know this. 
 
 Fal. 'T were better for you, if it were known 
 in coiinsel ; " you 'U be laughed at. 
 
 Eva. Pauca rerha, sir John, goot worts. 
 
 Fal. Good worts! good cabbage." — Slender, I 
 broke your head ; what matter have you against 
 me? 
 
 Slen. Marry, sir, I have matter in my head 
 against you; and against your coney-catching" 
 rascals, Bardolph, Nym, and Pistol. They earned 
 me to the tavern and made me diimk, and after 
 wards picked my pocket. 
 
 Bard. You Banbury cheese ! '" 
 
 Slen. Ay, it is no matter. 
 
 Fist. How now, Mephistophilis ? 
 
 Slen. Ay, it is no matter. 
 
 Nijm. SKcc, I say ! pauca, 2)aitca ; slice ! that '"s 
 my hmnour. 
 
 Slen. Where 's Simple, my man ? — can you teU, 
 cousin ? 
 
 Eva. Peace : I pray you ! Now let us under- 
 stand : There is three umpires in this matter, as I 
 understand : that is — master Page, fidelicit, master 
 Pago; and there is mjsc\i, fidelicit, myself; and 
 the three party is, lastly and finally, mine host of 
 the Garter. 
 
 Page. AVe three, to hear it and end it between 
 them. 
 
 Eva. Fery goot : I will make a pricf of it in my 
 note-book; and we will afterwards 'ork upon the 
 cause, with as great discreetly as we can. 
 
 Fal. Pistol— 
 
 Pist. He hears -with cars! 
 
 Eva. The tevil and his tarn ! what phraf c is this, 
 " He hears with ear " ? "VMiy, it is affectations. 
 
 Fal. Pistol, did you pick master Slcnder's purse ? 
 
 Slen. Ay, by these gloves, did he, (or I would 
 I might never come in mine own great chamber
 
 THE MEiQlf WIVES OF "WINDSOK. 
 
 igain else,) of seTC-n groats in mill-sixpences," and 
 Vtto Edward shovel-boards, that cost me two shil- 
 ing and two pence a-piece of Ycad MOler, by these 
 gloves. 
 
 Fill. Is this true, Pistol ? 
 
 Era. No ; it is false, if it is a pick -purse. 
 
 Pist. Ha, thou mountain-foreigner !-:-Sir John 
 and master mine, 
 I combat challenge of this latten bObo : '* 
 Word of denial in thy labras here ; 
 Word of denial : froth and scum, thou liest ! 
 
 Skn. By these gloves, then 't was he. 
 
 Ki/m. Be avis'd, sir, and pass good humours; 
 I will say, "marry trap," with you, if you run 
 the nuthook's humour^' on me : that is the very 
 note of it. 
 
 Skn. By this hat, then, he xa. the red face had 
 it : for though I cannot remember what I did when 
 you made me drunk, yet I am not altogether an ass. 
 
 Fal. What say you, Scarlet and John ? *" 
 
 Bard. Why, sir, for my part, I say, the gentle- 
 man had drimlv liimself out of his five sentences. 
 
 Eva. It is his five senses : fie, wliat the igno- 
 rance is ! 
 
 Bard. And being fap,-' su-, was, as they say, 
 cashier'd ; and so conclusions pass'd the careers. 
 
 Sim. Ay, you spake in Latin then too; but 
 't is no matter: I 'U ne'er be drunk whilst I 
 live again, but in honest, ci\-il, godly company, for 
 tliis trick: K I bo drunk, I 'U be drunk with 
 those that have the fear of God, and not 'with 
 drunken knaves. 
 
 Era. So Got ' udge me, that is a virtuous mind. 
 
 Fal. You hear aU these matters deny'd, gentle- 
 !nen ; you hear it. 
 
 Enter Mistkess kss-E Page, ivith wine ; Mistbess 
 FoED and Mistress Page folloicing. 
 
 Page. Nay, daughter, carry the T\-ine in ; we '11 
 drink within. \_Exit Anxe Page. 
 
 Slen. Heaven ! this is mistress Anne Page. 
 
 Page. How now, mistress Ford ? 
 
 Fal. Mistress Ford, by my troth, you are very 
 well met : by yonr leave, good mistress.-' 
 
 \_Kisses her. 
 
 Page. Wife, bid these gentlemen welcome : Come, 
 wo have a hot venison pasty to dinner; come, gen- 
 tlemen, I hope we shall drink do■^^^l all unkindncss 
 [Exeunt all hut SnAi., Slen., and Evans. 
 
 Slen. I had rather than forty shUlings I had 
 my book of Songs and Sonnets here : — 
 
 90 
 
 Enter Simple. 
 How now. Simple ! Where have you been ? ] 
 must wait on myself, must I ? Tou have not Oic 
 ' Book of Eiddles ' about you,'^ have you ? 
 
 Sim. ' Book of Eiddles ' ? why, did you not Irnil 
 it to Alice Shortcake upon Allhallowmas last, a 
 fortnight afore Michaelmas ? 
 
 S/ial. Come, coz ; come, coz ; we stay for you. 
 A word with you, eoz : marry, this, coz ; — There 
 is, as 't were, a tender, a kind of tender, made afar 
 off, by sir Hugh here. Do you understand me ? 
 
 Slen. Ay, sii-, you shall find me reasonable ; if 
 it be so, I shall do that that is reason. 
 
 Shal. Nay, but understand me. 
 
 Slen. So I do, sir. 
 
 Era. Give car to his motions, master Slender: 
 I will description the matter to you, if you bu 
 capacity of it. 
 
 Slen. Nay, I will do as my cousin Shallow says : 
 I pray you, pardon me ; he 's a justice of peace in 
 his country, simple though I stand here. 
 
 Era. But that is not the question; the question 
 is concerning your marriage. 
 
 Shal. Ay, there 's the point, sir. 
 
 Eva. MaiTy, is it; the very point of it; to mis- 
 tress Anne Page. 
 
 Shn. "Wty, if it be bo, I will marry her, upon 
 any reasonable demands. 
 
 Era. But can you affection the 'oman? Let us 
 command to know that of your mouth or of your 
 lips ; for divers philosophers hold that the lips is 
 parcel of the mouth. Therefore, precisely, can you 
 carry your good will to the maid ? 
 
 Shal. Cousin Abraham Slender, can you love herr 
 
 Slen. I hope, sir, — I will do ns it shall become 
 one that would do reason. 
 
 Eva. Nay, Got's lords and his ladies, you must 
 speak possitable, if you can carrj- her your desires 
 towai'ds her. 
 
 Shal. That you must : Will you, upon good 
 doviy, marry her ? 
 
 Slen. I will do a greater t: ing than that, upon 
 your request, cousin, in any reason. 
 
 Shal. Nay, conceive mo, conceive me, sweet 
 coz ; what I do is to pleasiu-c you, coz : C;m yoi; 
 love the maid ? 
 
 Slen. I vnH marry her, sir, at your request ; but 
 if there be no great love in the beginning, yd 
 Heaven may decrease it upcai better acquaintance; 
 when we aro married and have more occasion tc 
 loiow one another, I hope, upon f kniiliaiity will 
 grow more content ;** but if you say, " maii-y her,'
 
 lar I 
 
 THE llERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 SCENE n. — m. 
 
 I will marry her, that I am freely dissolved, and 
 dissolutely. 
 
 Eca. It is a fery discretion answer; save, the 
 faiil' is in the 'ort dissolutely: the 'ort is, accor- 
 ding to our meaning, resolutely ; — his meaning is 
 good. 
 
 Shal. Ay, I think my cousin meant ■well. 
 
 Slon. Ay, or else I would I might he hang'd, la. 
 
 Re-enter Anne Page. 
 
 Shal. Here comes fair mistress Anne : — ^Would 
 I were yoimg for your sake, mistress Anno ! 
 
 Anne. The dinner is on the table; my father 
 desires your worship's company. 
 
 Slial. I will wait on him, fair mistress Anne. 
 
 JEva. Od's plessed will ! I wiU not be absence at 
 the grace. [Exe^mt Shal. and Evans. 
 
 Anne. WiU. 't please yoiu' worship to come in, 
 sir? 
 
 Slen. No, I thank you, forsooth, heartily ; I am 
 ver)' well. 
 
 Anrie. The dinner attends you, sir. 
 
 Slcn. I am not a-hungry, I thank you, forsooth. 
 Go, sirrah, for all you are my man, go, wait upon 
 my cousin Shallow : \_Exit Simple.] A justice of 
 peace sometime may be beholden to his fiiend for 
 a man : — I keep but three men and a boy yet, till 
 ray mother be dead : But what though ? yet I live 
 like a poor gentleman bom. 
 
 Anne. I may not go in without your worship : 
 they will not sit till you come. 
 
 Slen. I ' faith, I ' U eat nothing ; I thank you as 
 much as though I did. 
 
 Amie. I pray you, sir, waUc in. 
 
 Slen. I had rather walk here, I thank you ; I 
 bruis'd my shin th' other day with playing at 
 Bword and dagger with a master of fence,^ tlirce 
 veneys for a dish of stew'd prunes ; and, by my 
 h'oth, I cannot abide the smell of hot meat since. 
 ■WTiy do your dogs bark so ? be there bears i' the 
 town. 
 
 Anne. I think there are, sir; I heard them 
 talk'd of. 
 
 <?'«!. I love the sport well ; but I shall as soon 
 [uan-el at it, as any man in England : — You are 
 afraid if you see the bear loose, are you not ? 
 
 Anne. Ay, indeed, sir. 
 
 Slen. That 's meat and drink'' to me now : I 
 have seen Saokerson" loose twenty times; and 
 have taken liim by the chain : but, I warrant you, 
 the women have so cried and shriek' d at it, that it 
 
 pass'd: — ^but womcr, indeed, cannot abide em 
 they are very Ul-favour'd rough tilings. 
 
 lie-enter Page. 
 
 Page. Come, gentle master Slender, come; we 
 stay for you. 
 
 Slen. I '11 eat nothing, I thank you, sir. 
 
 Paje. By cock and pyc,''' you shall not choose, 
 sir: come, come. 
 
 Slen. Nay, pray you, lead tbA jray. 
 
 Page. Come on, su*. 
 
 Slen. Mistress Anne, yourself shall go first. 
 
 Anne. Not I, sir ; pray you, keep on. 
 
 Slen. Truly, I wUl not go first; truly, la: I 
 will not do you that wrong. 
 
 Anne. I pray you, sir. 
 
 Slen. I '11 rather be immannerly than trouble- 
 some ; you do yourself wrong, indeed, la. [^Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IT. — The lolhy in Page's Iwuse. 
 Enter Sir Hugh Etans and Simtle. 
 
 Eva. Go your ways, and ask of Doctor Cains' 
 house, which is the way:'" and there dwells one 
 mistress Quieldy, which is in the manner of his 
 nurse, or his dr-y nurse, or his cook, or his laimdry,^ 
 his washer, and his wringer. 
 
 Sim. Well, sir. 
 
 Eva. Nay, it is pettcr yet : — give her this letter; 
 for it is a 'oman that altogether 's acquaintance 
 ■nath mistress Anne Page : and the letter is, to desire 
 and require her to solicit your master's desires to 
 mistress Anne Page : I pray you, begone ; I wUl 
 make an end of my dinner ; there 's pippins and 
 cheese to come.^' [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III.— ^ Room in the Garter Inn. 
 
 Enter Faxstatf, Host, Eaedolph, Ntm, Pistol, 
 and PiOBiN. 
 
 Fal. Mine host of the Garter, — 
 East. What says my buUy-rook?'' Speak scho- 
 larly and wisely. 
 
 Fal. Truly, mine host, I must turn away some 
 
 of my followers. 
 
 Host. Discard, buUy Heiculos; cashier: let 
 
 them wag ; trot, trot. 
 
 Fal. I sit at ten pounds a-week." 
 
 Host. Thou 'li an emperor, Ca!sar, Keisar, and 
 Pheezar.'* I wiU entertain Bardolph; he shall 
 draw, he shall tap : said I well, bully Hector 
 
 Fal. Do so, good mine host. 
 
 91
 
 TKE MEEltY WIVES OF WINDSOK. 
 
 Hod, I ha^e spoke; let Imn follow : Let me see 
 thee froth and Kme : ^' I am at a word ; follow. 
 
 {_Exit Host. 
 
 Fill. Bardolph, follow him : a tapster is a good 
 trade : an old cloak makes a new jerkin ; a withcr'd 
 servingman a fresh tapster. Go ; adieu. 
 
 Bard. It is a life that I have desir'd ; I wul 
 Ihiive. 
 
 Pid. base Hungarian wight!'* wilt thou the 
 spigot wield ? \Exit Baed. 
 
 Nym. He was gotten in driak : Is not tlie 
 humour conceited? His mind is not heroic, and 
 there 's the humour of it. 
 
 Fal. I am glad I am so acquit of this tinder-box ; 
 his thefts were too open ; his filching was like an 
 unskilful singer, — ho kept not time. 
 
 Nijm. The good humour is to steal at a minim's 
 rest."' 
 
 Pid. ConYcy, the wise it call : Steal ! foh ; a 
 fico for the phrase ! ^* 
 
 Fal. "Well, sirs, I am almost out at heels. 
 
 Pid. Why, then let kibes ensue. 
 
 Fal. There is no remedy ; I must coney-catch ; 
 I must shift. 
 
 Pid. Young ravens must have food.'' 
 
 Fal. Which of you know Ford of this town ? 
 
 Pid. I ken the wight ; he is of substance good. 
 ^al. My honest lads, I ■will tell you what I am 
 about. 
 
 Pid. Two yards, and more. 
 
 Fal. No quips now. Pistol : Indeed I am in the 
 waist two yiu'ds about ; but I am now about no 
 waste ; " I am about thrift. Briefly, I do mean 
 to make love to Ford's vrife ; I spy entertainment 
 in her ; she discourses, she carves," she gives the 
 leer of invitation : I can construe the action of her 
 familiar style ; and the hardest voice of her beha- 
 viour, to be Euglish'd rightly, is, I am sir John 
 Falstaff's. 
 
 Pid. He hath studied licr will, and translated 
 her will, out of honesty into English.''- 
 
 Ntjm. The anchor is deep : Will that humour 
 pass? 
 
 Fal. Now, the report goes she has all the rule 
 of her husband's purse ; he hath a legion of angels. 
 
 Pid. As many de\-il.s entertain ;" and, "To her, 
 boy," say I. \_Adde. 
 
 Nijm. The humour rises ; it is good : humour 
 mo the angels. \_Asidc. 
 
 Fal. I have writ me here a letter to her : and 
 bero another to Page's wife ; who even now gave 
 '110 good eyes too ; cxamiu'd my parts with most 
 02 
 
 judicious eyeliads;** sometimes the beam of be/ 
 view gilded my foot, sometimes my portly bellj. 
 
 Pid. Then did the sim on dungluLL shine. 
 
 Nym. I thank thee for that humoui. \_Aside. 
 
 Fal. 0, she did so course o'er my exteriors with 
 such a greedy intention,*^ that the appetite of hcl 
 c-yo did seem to scorch me up like a hmmng-glass ! 
 Here 's another letter to her : she bears the purse 
 too ; she is a region in Guiana, all gold and bounty. 
 I ■\nU be cheater to them both," and they shidl be 
 exchequers to me; they shall be my East and 
 West Indies, and I will trade to them both. Go 
 bear thou this letter to mistress Page ; and thou 
 this to mistress Ford : we ■will thrive, lads, we \vill 
 thiive. 
 
 Pid. Shall I sir Pandarus of Troy become. 
 And by my side wear steel ? then, Lucifer take all! 
 
 Kym. I will run no base humour: here, take 
 the humour letter ! I will keep the 'haviour of re- 
 putation. 
 
 Fal. Hold, sirrah, [to PiOB.] bear you these let- 
 ters tightly;" 
 Sail like my pinnace'" to these golden shores. — 
 Eogucs, hence, avaunt! vanish uke hailstones ! go; 
 Tiiidge, plod away i' the hoof; seek shelter, pack \ 
 Falstalf win learn the humour of the age," 
 French thiift, you rogues; myself and skirted 
 page. 
 
 [Exeunt Falstatf and Kobin. 
 
 Pist. Let vultures gripe thy guts ! ^ for gourd 
 and fuilam hold," 
 And high and low beguile ^"^ the rich and poor ; 
 Tester I 'U have in pouch, when thou shalt lack, 
 Base Phrygian Turk ! 
 
 Nym. I have operations, which be humours of 
 revenge. 
 
 Pid. WO-t thou revenge? 
 
 Nym. By welldn, and her stai' ! 
 
 Pist. With wit, or steel ? 
 
 Nym. With both the humours, I: 
 I ^\^ll discuss the humour of this love to Ford. 
 
 Pid. And I to Page shall eke imfold, 
 How Falstatr, varlet vile. 
 His dove ^viLl prove, his gold wJl hold, 
 And his soft couch defile. 
 
 Nym. My humour shall not cool : I will in- 
 cense" Ford to deal with poison; I wnH possess hiiii 
 with yellowness, for the revolt of mine" is dange- 
 rous : that is my true humour. 
 
 Pid. Thou art the '^firs of malcontents : I se- 
 cond thee ; troop on. [Eiount
 
 TIIE MEIUIY "WIVES OF WINDSOlt. 
 
 ncEsv. n. 
 
 SCRISE IV. — A Room wDr. Caius's IToiise. 
 
 Unlet Mes. QtncKLT, SmrLE, and Rugby. 
 
 Quick. What : Jolm Eiigby ! — I pray thee, go 
 U) Iho oasemcnt, and see if you can see my master, 
 master doctor Caius, coming: if lie do, i' faith, 
 and find anybody in the house, here will be an 
 old abusing" of God"s patience and the king's 
 English. 
 
 -Riiff. I'll go watch. [_£j:it IIughy. 
 
 QuicT;. Go; and we'll have a posset for't soon at 
 night, in faith, at the latter end of a sea-coal flro. 
 Aji licnest, willing, kind fellow, as ever servant 
 shall come in house withal ; and, I warrant you, 
 no tell-tale, nor no breed-bate:™ his worst fault is 
 that he is given to prayer; he is something peevish 
 that way ;" but nobode but has his fault ; — but let 
 that pass. Peter Simple you say your name is ? 
 
 Sim. Ay, for fault of a better. 
 
 Quick. And master Slender's your master? 
 
 Sim. Ay, forsooth. 
 
 Quick. Does he not wear a great round beard, 
 like a glover's paring-knife?™ 
 
 Sim. No, forsooth : he hath but a little wee face, 
 uith a little yellow beard; a Cain coloured beard.'' 
 
 Quick. A softly- sprighted man, is he not ? 
 
 Sim. Ay, forsooth : but he is as tail a man of his 
 Imnds** as any is between this and his head; ho 
 hath fought with a warroncr. 
 
 Quick. How say you ? — 0, I shoidd remember 
 liiTu: does he not hold up his head, as it were, 
 and strut in his gait ? 
 
 Sim. Yes, indeed, does he. 
 
 Quick. "Well, heaven send Anne Page no worse 
 fortune ! Tell master parson Evans I will do what 
 I can for your master: Anno is a good gud, and 
 I wish — 
 
 Re-enter Eugbt. 
 
 Rug. Out, alas! hero comes my master. 
 
 Quick. "We shall all bo shent: °' Eun in here, good 
 young man ; go into this closet. \_Shuts Simple in 
 the closot.'] He will not stay long. — "What, John 
 Eugby ! John, what 'John, I say ! Go, John, go 
 inquire for my master; I doubt ho be not well, 
 that he comes not home : — And down, down, 
 adown-a, &c. [^Sings, 
 
 Miter DocTOu Caius. 
 
 Caius. Vat is you sing? I do not like dose 
 toys. Pray you, go and vetch me in my closet m» 
 hoitier verd, — a bos, a green-a box ; Do intend 
 vat I speak ? a green-a box. 
 
 Quick Ay, forsooth, I'll fetch it you. I (im 
 glad ho went not in himself: if he had found the 
 young man, lie would have been horn-mad. 
 
 [Asido 
 
 Caius. Fe, fe, fe, fc I ma foi, il fail fori ckaud 
 Je m'en vais d la cour, — la grandc affaire. 
 
 Quick. Is it this, sir? 
 
 Caius. Guy: metle h au mon pocket; D-peche, 
 quickly: — Vcre is dat knave Eugby? 
 
 Quick. "^Tiat, John Eugby! John! 
 
 Rug. Here, sir. 
 
 Cuius. You are John Eugby, and you are Jack 
 Eogoby:"- Come take-a your rapier, and comeaftei 
 my heel to the coui^;. 
 
 Rug. 'T is ready, sir, here in the porch. 
 
 Caius. Ey my trot, I tany too long; — Od's mo . 
 Qu'ayf ouhlie! dere is some simples in my closet, 
 dat I vOl not for the varld I shall leave behind. 
 
 Quick. All me ! he '11 find the young man there, 
 and bo mad ! 
 
 Caius. diahle, dialle! vat is in my closet? — 
 Villainy! larron! \_Pulling Simple oul.\ liugby, 
 my rapier. 
 
 Quick. Good master, be content. 
 
 Caius. Verefore shall I be contcnt-a ? 
 
 Quick. The young man is an honest man. 
 
 Caius. Vat shall do honest man do in my closet? 
 dere is no honest man"^ dat shall come in my 
 closet. 
 
 Quick. I beseech you bo not so liegmatick; hear 
 the tnitli of it : He came of an en'and to me fi'om 
 parson Hugh. 
 
 Caius. Veil. 
 
 Sim. Ay, forsooth, to desire her to — 
 
 Quick. Peace, I praj- you. 
 
 Ctiius. Poaco-a j'our tongue; — Spoak-a your talc 
 
 Sim. To desire this honest gentlewoman, youi 
 maid, to speak a good word to Mrs. Anne Page for 
 my master, in the way of marriage. 
 
 Quick. This is all, indeed, la; but I 'U ne'er pm 
 my finger in the fii-e, and need not. 
 
 Caius. Sir Hugh send-a you?' — Eugby, haillez me 
 some paper : Tany you a littlc-a while. [ JJlites. 
 
 Quick. I am glad he is so quiet : if he had been 
 
 throughly moved, you should have heard him so 
 
 loud and so melancholy. — Eut notmthstanding, 
 
 man, I 'U do for your master" what good I can: 
 
 and the very yea and the no is, the French doctor. 
 
 my master, — I may call him my master, look you 
 
 for I keep his house ; and I wash, wring, brew, 
 
 bake, scour, dress meat and drink, make the beds, 
 
 and do all myself: — 
 
 83
 
 Acr I. 
 
 THE MEHRY WIYES OF WIiNDSOE. 
 
 Sim. 'T is a great charge to come under one 
 body's hand. 
 
 Quick. Are you advis'd o' that ? " you shall find 
 it a great charge : and to be up early and down 
 late;— hut notwithstanding, (to tell you in your 
 ear; I would hare no words of it,) my master 
 himself is in love with mistress Anne Page : but 
 notwithstanding that, I know Anne's mind, — that's 
 neither here nor there. 
 
 Cuius. You jack 'nape; give-a dis letter to sir 
 Hugh ; by gar, it is a shallenge : I yiU cut his 
 treat ia de park; and I tuI teach a scurry jack-a- 
 nape priest to meddle or make:'^ — you may be 
 gone ; it is not good you tarry here : — by gar, I 
 viU cut all his two stones ; by gar, ho shaU not 
 have a stone to throw at his dog. [_&tt Sin. 
 
 Quick Alas, he speaks but for his friend. 
 C'aius. It is no matter-a vor dat : — do not you 
 tell-a me dat I shall have Anne Page for myself? 
 — by gar, I vill kill de Jack priest ; and I have 
 appointed mine host of de Jartcrre to measure our 
 weapon : — ^by gar, I vill myself have Anne Page. 
 Quiclc. Sii-, the maid loves you, and all shall he 
 well : we must give folks leave to prate : "\Miat 
 the good-jer '.^ 
 
 Cains. Eugby, come to the court vid me : — 
 By gar, if I have not Anne Page, I shall turn 
 your head out of my door: — FoUow my heehs, 
 Eugby. 
 
 \JExeunt Caius and Eugbt. 
 Quich You shall have An fool's-head of your 
 own. Xo, I know Anne's mind for that: never a 
 woman in Windsor knows more of Anne's mind 
 than I do : nor can do more than I do with her, I 
 lliank heaven. 
 
 Font. [TTiihin.'] Who's within, there? ho! 
 Quick. Who's there, I trow? Come near the 
 house, I pray you. 
 94 
 
 pretty mistress 
 
 is pretty, and 
 is your friend, 
 I praise heaven 
 
 Shall 
 
 Enter Peniok. 
 
 Fe7tt. How now, good woman; how dost thou? 
 
 QuicL The better that it pleases your good wor- 
 ship to ask. 
 
 Feni. "WTiat news? how does 
 Anne? 
 
 Quick. In truth, sir, and slie 
 honest, and gentle; and one that 
 I can tcU you that by the way; 
 for it. 
 
 Fenf. ShaU I do any good, think'st thou? 
 I not lose my suit ? 
 
 Quick. Troth, sir, all is ia. His hands above: but 
 notwithstanding, master Peaton, I 'U be sworn on 
 a book, she loves you: — Have not your worship a 
 wart above your eye? 
 
 Fent. Yes, marry, have I ; what of that ? 
 
 Quick. "Well, thereby hangs a tale ; — good faith, 
 it is such another Nan ; — ^but, I detest,^ an honest 
 maid as ever broke bread ; — We had an hour's talk 
 of that wart : — I shall never laugh but in that 
 maid's company! But, indeed, she is given too 
 much to aUicholy and musing: But for you — 
 Well, go to. 
 
 Fcftt. Well, I shaU see her to-day. Hold, 
 there's money for thee ; let me have thy voice in 
 my behalf: if thou seest her before me, commend 
 me. 
 
 Quick. Will I ? i' fixith, that I will f and I will 
 tell your worship more of the wart, the next time 
 we have confidence ; and of other wooers. 
 
 Fent. Well, fai-eweU; I am in great haste now. 
 
 ■ [Fxit. 
 
 Quick. PareweU. to your worship. — Truly, an 
 
 honest gentleman; but Anno loves him not; for I 
 
 know Anne's mind as well as ancther-does — On 
 
 upon 't ! what have I forgot ? [Frit
 
 ACT. II, 
 
 THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 sraarn i. 
 
 ACT 11. 
 
 SCENE l.—Be/oro Page's House. 
 
 Enter ITisteess Page, with a letter. 
 
 Mrs. Page. What; have I 'scap'd love-letters ia 
 the holiday time of my beauty, and am I now a 
 Bubject for them? Let me see : \Jleads. 
 
 " Ask me no reagpu why I love you ; for though Love use 
 reason for his precisian, ""he admits him not for his coun- 
 Ei'Uor : You are not young, no more am I ; go to, then, 
 there's S5Tnpathy : you a-o merry, so am I; Ha! ha! 
 'ilion there 's more sympathy ; you love sack, and so do I ; 
 Would you desire better sympathy? Let it suffice thee, 
 niisti'ess Page, (at the least, if the love of soldier can 
 suffice,) that I love thee. I will not say, pity me, 't ia 
 not a soldier-Uke phrase ; but I say, love mo. By me, 
 
 Thine own true kniglit. 
 
 By day or night," 
 
 Or any Idnd of light, 
 
 With all his might, 
 
 For thee to fight, John Falstaff." 
 
 Wliat a Ilerod of Jewry is this! — wicked, 
 wicked world ! — one that is well nigli worn to 
 pieces with age, to show liimseLf a young gallant! 
 What an. unweigbed behaviour hath tliis Flemish 
 drunkard pick'd (with the devil's name) out of my 
 eonvei-sation, that he dares in tliis manner assay 
 me? Why, he hath not been thrice in my com- 
 pany ! — ^What should I say to him ? — I was then 
 frugal of my mirth : — Heaven forgive me ! Wliy, 
 I '11 exliibit a bill in the parliament for the putting 
 down of men." How shall I be roveng'd on him? 
 for revcng'd I will be, as sure as his guts are made 
 of puddings. 
 
 Unter Mistress Ford 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Mistress Page ! trust me, I was going 
 to your house! 
 
 Mrs. Page. And trust me I was coming to you. 
 You look very ill. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Naj-, I'U ne'er believe that; I have 
 io show to the conti'ary. 
 
 Mrs. Page. 'Faith, but you do, in my mind. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Well, I do, then; yet, I say, I could 
 
 show you to the contrary. 0, mistress Pago, givij 
 me some counsel ! 
 
 Mrs. Page. Wliat 's the matter, woman ? 
 
 Mrs. Ford. woman, if it were not for one 
 trifling respect, I could come to such honour! 
 
 Mrs. Page. Hang the trifle, woman ; take the 
 honour. What is it? — dispense with trifles; — wh.at 
 is it ? 
 
 Mrs. Ford. If I would but go to hell for an 
 eternal moment or so, I could be knighted. 
 
 Mrs. Page. What? thou liest ! — Sir Ahco Ford ! 
 These knights wiU hack;™ and so thou shouldst 
 not alter the article of thy gpntiy. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. We bum daylight:" — here, read, 
 read : — perceive how I might be knighted. — 1 
 shall think the worse of fat men, as long as I 
 have an eye to make difference of men's liking : 
 And yet he would not swear; praised women's 
 modesty ; and gave such orderly and well-behaved 
 reproof to all uncomelincss, — that I would have 
 sworn his disposition would have gone to the truth 
 of his words : but they do no more adhere and keep 
 place together, than the himdredth psalm to the 
 tune of 'Green Sleeves.'" ^Miat tempest, I trow, 
 threw this whale, with so many tuns of oil in his 
 belly, ashore at AVindsor? How shall I be re- 
 venged on him ? I think the best way were to 
 entertain him with hope, tiU the ■n'ickcd fire of 
 lust have melted him in his own gi-ease. — Did you 
 ever hear the like ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. Letter for letter ; but that the name 
 
 of Page and Ford differs ! — To thy great comfcn 
 
 in this mystery of iU opinions, here 's the tw'.n- 
 
 brother of thy letter : but let tliine inherit first, 
 
 for I protest, mine never shall. I warrant ho 
 
 hath a thousand of these letters, '^ (sure more,) writ 
 
 with blank space for different names, and these are 
 
 of the second edition : He will print them out ot 
 
 doubt; for he cares not what he puts into the 
 
 press when he would put us two. I had rathet 
 
 be a giantess, and lie under moimt PcHon. WVH, 
 
 I will find you twenty lasci^-icus turtles, ere one 
 
 chaste man. 
 
 95
 
 ACT II. 
 
 THE MEREY ^IVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Wiy., this is tlie very same; the 
 very hand, the very words : A\Tiat doth he think 
 of TIS? 
 
 Mrs. Page. Nay, I know not: It makes me 
 ahnost ready to wrriigle with mine own honesty. 
 I '11 entertain myself like one that I am not ac- 
 quainted withal; for, sure, unless he know some 
 sti'ain'' in me, that I know not myself, he wonld 
 never have boarded me in this fuiy. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Boarding, call you it ? I '11 be sure 
 to keej) him above deck. 
 
 Mrs. Page. So wiU I ; if he come under my 
 hatches, I' 11 never to sea again. Let 's be reveng'd 
 on him : let 's appoint him a meeting ; give him a 
 bIiow of comfort in his suit ; and lead him on 
 ^dth a fine baited delay, till he liath pawn'd his 
 horses to mine host of the Garter. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. IS'ay, I will consent to act any vil- 
 lainy against him, that may not sully the chari- 
 ness of our honesty. 0, that my husband saw 
 this letter ! it would give eternal food to liis 
 jealousy. 
 
 Mrs. Page. "WTiy, look, where he comes; and 
 my good man too ; he 's as far from jealousj-, as I 
 am from giving him cause; and that, I hope, is 
 «n unmeasurable distance. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. You are the happier woman. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Let 's consult together against this 
 ^easy knight : Come hither. {Th^'J retire. 
 
 Enter Fonn, Pistol, Page, and N"nr. 
 
 Ford. 'W'ell, I hope it be not so.'' 
 
 Pist. Hope is a curtail" dog in some afiairs : 
 lir John affects thy mfe. 
 
 Ford. A\liy, sir, my ■wife is not yoimg. 
 
 Pist. He woos both high and low, both rich and 
 poor, 
 Both young and old, one with another. Ford ; 
 He loves the gally-ma^vfiy ; ™ Ford, perpend. 
 
 Ford. Love m.y wife ? 
 
 Pist. With liver buiTiing hot : Prevent, or go 
 thou. 
 Like sir Actteon he, with Eingwood at thy heels : — 
 0, odious is the name. 
 
 Ford. What name, sir? 
 
 Pist. The hora, I say : Farewell. 
 Talvc heed ; have open eye ; for thieves do foot by 
 
 night : 
 falio heed, o'-o summer comes, or cuckoo-birds do 
 
 tfl;lg.— 
 
 ,Vway, nir • orpon3 xvyin. — \_Aside to Page. 
 
 liclievo it, Page; ne speaks sense. \_Exit Vhtol. 
 «6 
 
 Ford. I will ce patient ; I will find out this. 
 
 ^■^ Aside. 
 
 Nym. And this is true ; [to Page.] I like not 
 the humour of lying. He hath wronged me in 
 some humours : I sliould have borne the humoui'd 
 letter to her ; but I have a sword, and it shall bite 
 upon my necessity.*' He loves your wife ; there's 
 the short and the long. My name is corporal 
 Nym ; I speak, and I avouch 't is true : — my 
 name is Nym, and Falstaff loves your wife. — 
 Adieu ! I love not the himiour of bread and cheese. 
 Adieu. [_Exit Nyii. 
 
 Page. "The humour of it," quoth 'a! here's a 
 fellow frights English out of his wits.*^ 
 
 Ford. I will seek out Falstaff. 
 
 Page. I never heard such a drawling affecting 
 roguc.*^ 
 
 Ford. If I do find it, weU ! 
 
 Page. I will not believe such a Catalan,** though 
 the priest o ' the to-mi commended him for a true 
 man. 
 
 Ford. 'T was a good sensible fellow: Well) 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Page. How now, Meg r 
 
 Mrs. Page. A^liither go you, George ? — Hai'k 
 you. / 
 
 Mrs. Ford. How now, sweet Frank ? why art 
 thou melancholy ? 
 
 Ford. I melancholy ! I am not melancholy. — 
 Get you home, go. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. 'Faith, thou hast some crotchets in 
 thy head now. — WLU you go, mistress Page ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. Have with you. — You 'U come to 
 dinner, George? Look, who comes yonder: she 
 shall be our messenger to this paltry knight. 
 
 [Aside to Mbs. Ford. 
 
 Enter Mbs. Quickly. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Trust me, I thought on her : she '11 
 fit it. 
 
 Mrs. Page. You are come to sec my daug-hter 
 Anne? 
 
 Qitich. Ay, forsooth. And I pray, how does 
 good nu.«trcs3 Anne ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. Go in with us and see ; wc have an 
 hour's tallc with you. 
 [Exeunt Mrs. Page, Mrs. Ford, and Mrs. Qrics. 
 
 Page. How now, master Ford ? 
 
 Ford. You heard what this knave told me; did 
 you not ? 
 
 Page. Yes. And you heard what tlie other 
 told me ?
 
 ACT IJ. 
 
 THE MEKKY WIVES OE WINDSOE. 
 
 BCXR£ a. 
 
 Ford. Do you think there is truth in them ? 
 
 Page. Hang 'em, slarcs ; I do not think the 
 knight would offer it : but these that accuse him 
 in liis intent towards our wives are a yoke of liis 
 discarded men : very rogues, now they be out of 
 service. 
 
 Ford. Were they his men r 
 
 Paffe. Marry were they. 
 
 Ford. I like it never the better for that. — Docs 
 he lie at the Gai-ter ? 
 
 Fui/e. Ay, marry, does he. If he should intend 
 this voyage toward my wife, I would turn her 
 loose to him ; and what he gets more of her than 
 shai-p words, let it lie on my head. 
 
 Ford. I do not misdoubt my wife ; — but I would 
 be loth to tiUTi them together. A man may be too 
 confident : I would have nothing He on my head : 
 I cannot be thus satisfied. 
 
 Fage. Look where my ranting host of the Garter 
 comes : there is either liquor in his pate, or money 
 in his purse, when he looks so merrily. — How now, 
 mine host ? 
 
 Fitter Host and Shallow. 
 
 ITost. How now, bully-rook ? thou ' rt a gentle- 
 man : cavalero-justice,*' I say ! 
 
 Shal. I follow, mine host, I follow. — Good even 
 and twenty,*" good master Page ! Master Page, 
 will you go with us ? we have sport in hand. 
 
 Host. Tell him, cavalero-justiee: teU him, bully- 
 rook. 
 
 Slial. Sir, there is a fray to be fought between 
 sir Hugh the "Welsh priest and Caius the French 
 doctor. 
 
 Ford. Good mine host o' the Garter, a word -n-ith 
 you. 
 
 Jlosi. What say"st thou, my bully-rook ? 
 
 {_Th^i/ go aside. 
 
 Shal Will you [to Page] go with us to be- 
 hold it ? My merry host hath had the measuring 
 of their weapons ; and, I think, hath appointed 
 them contrary places ; for, believe me, I hear the 
 parson is no jester. Hark, I viiH teU you what 
 our sport shall be. ' {_TIieg go aside. 
 
 Host. Hast thou no suit against my knight, my 
 guest-cavaher ? 
 
 Ford. l^Tone, I protest : but I 'U give you a 
 pottle of burnt sack to give me recoirrse to him, 
 and tell him my name is Brook : ^ only for a jest. 
 
 ITost. My hand, bully ; thou shalt have egress 
 and regress ; said I well ? and thy name shall be 
 Brook : It is a merry knight. WiU you go on, 
 sirs?** 
 
 13 
 
 Shal. Have with you, mine host. 
 
 Page. 1 have heard the Frenchman hath gooj 
 skill in liis rapier. 
 
 Shal. Tut, sir, I could have told you more : In 
 these times you stimd on distance, your passes 
 stoccadoes, and I know not what : 't is the heart, 
 master Page ; 't is here, 't is here. I have gceu 
 the time witli my long sword I would have made 
 you four tall fellows skip Kke rats. 
 
 ITost. Here, boys, here, here ! sliall we wag ? 
 
 Page. Have with you : — I had rather hear them 
 scold tlian fight. [Fxeunt Host, Seal, and Page. 
 
 Ford. Though Page be a secure fool, and stands 
 so firmly on his wife's frailty,"' yet I cannot put 
 off my opinion so easily : she was in his company 
 at Page's house ; and what they made there I know 
 not. Well, I -noQ look further into 't : and I have 
 a disguise to sound Falstaif. If I find her honest, 
 I lose not my labour ; if she be otherwise, 't is 
 labour well bestowed. \_Frit. 
 
 SCEXE II. — A Poom in the Garter Inn. 
 Enter Falsiatp and Pistol. 
 
 Fal. I wiU not lend thee a penny. 
 
 Pist. Wliy, then the world's mine oyster 
 "^Tiich I with sword will open : — 
 I -will retort the sum in equipage.*' 
 
 Fal. Not a penny. I have been content, sir, 
 you should lay my countenance to pawn : I have 
 grated upon my good friends for tlu'ce reprieves for 
 you and your coach-fellow," Nym ; or else you had 
 look'd through the grate, like a gominy of baboons. 
 I am danin'd in hell for swearing to gentlemen my 
 fiiends you were good soldiers and tall fellows ; and 
 when mistress Bridget lost the handle of her fan, I 
 took 't upon mine honour thou hadst it not. 
 
 Pist. Didst not thou share? hadst thou not 
 fifteen pence ? 
 
 Fal. Ecason, you rogue, reason : Think'st thou 
 I '11 endanger my soul gratis? At a word, hang 
 no more about me, I am no gibbet for you : — go. 
 — A short knife and a tlirong ; '^ — to your manor 
 of Pickt-hatch,*" go. — You '11 not bear a letter for 
 me, you rogue ! — You stand upon your honour 
 — Why, thou unconfinable baseness, it is as much 
 as I can do to keep the terms of my honour precise. 
 I, I, I myself sometimes, leaving the fear of hea- 
 ven on the left hand, and hiding mine honour in 
 my necessity, am fain to shuffle, to hedge, and to 
 lurch ; and yet you, rogue, will ensconce your rags, 
 your eat-a-mountain looks, your red-lattice plirases
 
 THE MEEEY WIVES OF WINDSOK. 
 
 SCENE B. 
 
 ind TO'ir blunderbuss oaths," under the shelter of 
 yom iionour ! You mil not do it, you ? 
 
 Pid. I do relent, 
 tnon ? 
 
 "SMiat -would thou more of 
 
 Enter Eobik. 
 
 Eob Sir, here "s a woman -would speak mth 
 you. 
 Fal. Let her approach. 
 
 Enter Mks. Quickly. 
 
 Quick. Give your -worship good mon-o-w. 
 
 Ihl. Good morro-«-, good -wife. 
 
 QiiicL Not so, an ' t please your -worsliip. 
 
 Fal. Good maid, then. 
 
 QuicL I '11 be sworn; 
 
 As my mother was, the first hour I was born. 
 
 Fa^. I do believe the swearer. What -with me ? 
 
 Qm'cJc. Shall I vouchsafe yo-ur worship a word 
 nr two ? 
 
 Fa!. Two thousand, fair woman : and I ' U 
 vouchsafe thee the hearing. 
 
 Qinclc. There is one mistress Ford, sir ; — I pray, 
 come a little nearer this ways: — I myself dweU 
 with master doctor C;uus. 
 
 F((I. Well, one mistress Ford,'* you say, — 
 
 Quick. Your worship says very true : I pray 
 voui- worship, come a little nearer this ways. 
 
 Fal. I waiTant thee, nobody hears ; — mine ovm 
 people, mine own people. 
 
 Quick. Are they so ? Heaven bless theln, and 
 make them his servants ! 
 
 Fal. \Vc]l : mistress Ford ; — what of her ? 
 
 Quick. Why, sir, she 's a good crcatm-c. Lord, 
 Lord ! your worship ' s a wanton ! Well, heaven 
 forgive you, and all of us, I pray ! 
 
 Fal. Mistress Ford ; — come, mistress Ford, — 
 
 Quick. Marry, this is the short and the long of 
 it ; you have brought her into such a canaries,"" as 
 't is wonderful. The best courtier of them all, 
 when the co-urt laj'- at AYindsor, could never have 
 brought her to such a canary. Yet there has been 
 knights, and lords, and gentlemen, -with their 
 coaches ; I warrant you, coach after coach, letter 
 after letter, gift after gift ; smelling so sweetly (all 
 musk), and so rasliling, I wan-ant you, in silk and 
 gold; and in such aUigant terms; and in such 
 wine and sugar of the best, and the fairest, that 
 would have won any woman's heart ; and, I war- 
 rant you, they could never get an eye-wink of her. 
 — I had myself twenty angels gi\ en mc this morn- 
 ing ; but I defy all angels, (in any such sort, as 
 
 they say,) but in the -way of honesty: — and, i 
 warrant you, they could never get her so much a.^ 
 sip on a cup with tlie proudest of them all : anr 
 yet there has been, earls, nay, which is more, pen 
 sioners;'' but, I warrant you, all is one with In 
 
 Fal. But what says she to me ? be brief, i.i, 
 good she-Mercury. 
 
 Quick, ilarry, she hath receiv'd your letter; for 
 the which she thanks you a thousand times : and 
 she gives you to notily', that her husband -nill be 
 absence from his house between ten and eleven. 
 
 Fal. Ten and eleven ? 
 
 Quick. Aj-, forsooth; and then you may come 
 and see the picture, she says, that you wot nf ; 
 master Ford, her husband, -will be from home. 
 Alas ! the sweet woman leads an ill life -with him ; 
 lie ' s a very jealousy man : she leads a very fi-am- 
 pold™ life with him, good heart. 
 
 Fal. Ten and eleven. Woman, commend mc to 
 her ; I will nrt faU her. 
 
 Quick. Why, you say well. But I have another 
 messenger to your worsliip : Mistress Page hath 
 her hearty commendations to you, too ; — and let me 
 tell you in your ear, she ' s as fartuous a ci-vil modes' 
 ■wife, and one (I tell you) that -wiU not miss yoi: 
 morning nor evening prayer, as any is in AVindsni. 
 whoe'er be the other: and she bade me te]l your 
 worship that her husband is seldom from home ; 
 but, she hopes, there will come a time. I never 
 knew a woman so dote upon a man ; surely, I think 
 you have charms, la; yes, in truth. 
 
 Fal. Not I, I assure thee ; setting the altractior 
 of my good parts aside, I have no other charms. 
 
 Quick. Blessing on your heart for 't ! 
 
 Fal. But, I pray thee, tell me this : has Ford's 
 -wife and Page's -wife acquainted each other how 
 they love me ? 
 
 Quick. That were a jest indeed ! — they have 
 not so little grace, I hope : — that were a trick 
 indeed ! — But mistress Page would desire you to 
 send her your little page, of all loves : '° her hus- 
 band has a marvellous infection to the little page ; 
 and, truly, master Page is an honest man. Never 
 a -wife in Windsor leads a better life than she docii 
 do what she wUl, say what she will, take aU, pay 
 all, go to bed when she list, rise when slie list, ru'l 
 is as she will; and, truly, she deserves it for it 
 there bo a kind woman in WinJsor, she is cue. 
 Y'ou must send her your page ; no re medy. 
 
 Fal. Wiy, I will. 
 
 Quick. Nay, but do so then : and, look you, be 
 may come and go between you both ; and in imy 
 
 »
 
 ACT n. 
 
 THE MEKIIY WIVES OF WINDSOR 
 
 SCENX u 
 
 vasii have a nay-word,"' that you may Know one 
 UQotlicr's mijid, and the boy never need to under- 
 stand anything; for 't is not good that children 
 should know any wickedness; old folk?, you 
 know, have discretion as they say, and Icnow the 
 '.vorld. 
 
 Fal. Fare thee well : commend me to them both : 
 
 there 's my purse ; I am yet thy debtor. — Boy, go 
 
 along with this woman. — This news distracts me! 
 
 \_&cunt Quickly and Eobin. 
 
 Tist. This punk is one of Cupid"s carriers : "" — 
 Clap on more sails ; pursue ; up with your fights ; "° 
 Give fire ! she is my prize, or ocean whelm them all ! 
 
 £j:it Pistol. 
 
 Fill. Say'st thou so, old Jack? go thy ways; 
 I 'U make more of thy old body than I have done. 
 Will they yet look after thee? Wilt thou, after 
 the expense of so much money, bo now a gainer ? 
 Good body, I thank thee ! Let them say, 't is 
 grossly done ; so it be fairly done, no matter. 
 
 F?iter Baedolph. 
 
 Bard. Sir John, there 's one master Brook below 
 w oidd fain speak with you, and be acquainted with 
 you; and hath sent your worship a morning's 
 draiight of sack.'™ 
 
 Fal. Brook is his nanie ? 
 
 JJard. Ay, sir. 
 
 Fal. CaU him in; [_Fj:it Bardolpii.] Such 
 Brooks are welcome to me, that o"erflow such 
 liquor. Ah ! ah ! mistress Ford and mistress Page, 
 have I encompass'd you ? go to ; via ! '°* 
 
 Ee-enter Bardolph, mth Fokd disguised. 
 
 Ford. Bless you, sir. 
 
 Fal. And you, sir. Would you speak with me ? 
 
 Furd. I make bold to press with so little prepa- 
 ration upon you. 
 
 Fal. You 're welcome. What 's your will ? 
 Give us leave, di-awer. \_Fxit Baedolph. 
 
 Ford. Sir, I am a gentleman that have spent 
 much ; my name is Brook. 
 
 Fal. Good master Brook, I desire more acquaint- 
 ance of you. 
 
 Ford. Good sir John, I sue for yours.: not to 
 charge you; for I must let you imderstand I think 
 myself In better plight for a lender than you are : 
 the wliich hath something embold'ned me to this 
 unseason'd intrusion : for they say, if money go 
 licfore, all ways do lie open. 
 
 Fal. Money is a good soldier sir and will on. 
 
 Ford. Troth, and I have a bag of money hem 
 troubles me : if you ^vill help to bear it, sir John, 
 take all, or half, for easing me of the carriage. 
 
 Fal. Sir, I know not how I may deserve to be 
 your porter. 
 
 Furd. I wiU tell you, sir, if you wiU give me 
 the hearing. 
 
 Fal. Speak, good master Brook ; I snail bo glad 
 to be your servant. 
 
 Ford. Sir, I hear you arc a schohu-, — I will bo 
 brief with you, — and you have been a man long 
 known to me, though I had never so good means, 
 as desire, to make myself acquainted with you. I 
 shall discover a thing to you, wherein I must very 
 much lay open mine own imperfection : but, good 
 sir John, as you have one ej'e upon my follies, as 
 you hear them unfolded, turn another into the 
 register of your own ; that I may pass with a re- 
 proof the easier, sith"" you yourself know how 
 easy it is to be such an offender. 
 
 Ful. Very well, sir ; proceed. 
 
 Ford. There is a gentlewoman in this to\\'n, her 
 husband's name is Ford. 
 
 Fal. WeU, sir ! 
 
 Ford. I have long lov'd her, and, I protest to 
 you, bestowed much on her ; followed her with a 
 doting observance ; engross'd opportunities to meet 
 her; fee'd every slight occasion that could but 
 niggardly give me sight of her ; not only bought 
 many presents to give her, but have giveu largely 
 to many, to know what she would have given ; "* 
 briefly, I have pursu'd her as love hath piu-sued 
 me, which hath been on the wing of all occasions. 
 But whatsoever I have merited, either in my mind, 
 or in my means, meed, I am sure, I have received 
 none; imless experience be a jewel; that I have 
 purchased at aa. infinite rate ; and that hath taught 
 me to say this : 
 
 " Love like a shadow flics, •when substance love pursues ; 
 Pursmng that that flies,"" and flying what pui-sues." 
 
 Fal. Have you receiv'd no promise of satisfac- 
 tion at her hands 
 
 Ford. Never. 
 
 Fal. Have you importun'd her to such a pur- 
 pose? 
 
 Ford. Never. 
 
 Fal. Of what quality was your love, then t 
 
 Ford. Like a fair house built on another man's 
 ground ; so that I have lost my edifice, by mis- 
 taking the place where I erected it. 
 
 Fal. To what ptirpose have you tmfolded thia 
 to me? 
 
 09
 
 THE MKKRY WIVES OF WINDSOK. 
 
 Ford. When I have told you that, I have told 
 j-ou aU. Some say^ that, though she appear honest 
 to mo, yet, in olher places, she enlargeth her mirth 
 so ftir that there is shi-ewd construction made of 
 her. No-w, sir John, here is the heart of my pur- 
 pose : Tou are a gentleman of excellent breeding, 
 admirable discourse, of great admittance,"" authen- 
 tic in your place aiivi poison, generally allow"d for 
 yoiu' many warlike, court-like, and learned prepa- 
 rations. 
 
 Fal. 0, sir ! 
 
 Ford. Believe it, for you know it : — There is 
 money ; spend it, spend it ; spend more ; spend all 
 I have ; only give me so much of your time in ex- 
 change of it, as to lay an amiable siege to the 
 honesty of this Ford's wife : use your art of woo- 
 ing ; win her to consent to you ; if any man may, 
 you may as soon as any. 
 
 Fal. Would it apply well to the vehemency of 
 your affection, that I should win what you would 
 enjoy ? Methinks, you prescribe to youi'self very 
 preposterously. 
 
 Ford. 0, understand my drift ! She dwells so 
 securely on the excellency of her honour, that the 
 foUy of my soul dares not present itself; she is too 
 oright to bo look'd against. Now, could I come 
 to her with any detection in my hand, my desires 
 liad instance and argument to commend them- 
 selves : I could drive her then from the ward of 
 her purity, her reputation, her marriage vow, and 
 a thousand other her defences, which now are too- 
 too strongly embattled against me. AMiat saj' you 
 to 't, sir John ? 
 
 Fal. Master Brook, I wiU first make bold ■n-ith 
 your money; next, give me your hand ; and last, 
 as I am a gentleman, you shall, if j-ou wUl, enjoy 
 Ford's wife. 
 
 Ford. good sii- 1 
 
 Fal. I say you shall. 
 
 Ford. "Want no money, sir John, you shall want 
 none. 
 
 Fal. Want no mistress Ford, master Brook, you 
 shaU want none. I sluiU be ■nith her, (I may tell 
 you,) by her own appointment; even as )-ou came 
 in to me, her assistant, or go-between, pai-ted fi'om 
 mo. I say I shall be with her between ten and 
 eleven ; for at tliat time the jealous rascally knave, 
 lior husband, will be forth. Come you to me at 
 night ; you shall know how I speed. 
 
 Fard. I am blcss'd in your acquaintance. Do 
 you know Ford, sir ? 
 
 Fal. Hang him, pour cuckoldly knave ! I know 
 
 100 
 
 him not : — yet I wrong him to call him poor ; 
 they say the jealous wittolly knave hath masses o'. 
 money; for the which his wife seems to me weU 
 favour'd. I will use her as the key of the cuckoldlj 
 rogue's coffer ; and there 's my harvest-home. 
 
 Ford. I would you knew Ford, sir, that you 
 might avoid him, if you saw him. 
 
 Fal. Hang liim, mechanical salt-butter rogue ! 
 I will stare him out of his wits ; I wUl awe him 
 with my cudgel : it shall hang like a meteor o'ei 
 vhe cuckold's horns. Master Brook, thou shall 
 know I will predominate over the peasant, and 
 thou shalt lie with his wife. — Come to me soon at 
 night : — Ford 's a knave, and I will aggravate his 
 style ; "" thou, master Brook, shalt know him for 
 knave and cuckold : — come to me soon at raght. 
 
 lE.cU. 
 
 Ford. "^Tiat a damn'd Epicurean rascal is this I — 
 my heart is ready to crack with impatience. — Who 
 says this is improvident jealousy ? My wife hath 
 sent to him, the hour is fix'd, the match is made. 
 Would any man have thought this ? — See the hell 
 of having a false woman ! My bed shall be abus'd, 
 my coffers ransack'd, my reputation gnawn at ; and 
 I shall not only receive this villainous wrong, but 
 stand under the adoption of abominable terms, and 
 by him that docs me this •«Tong. Terms ! names ! 
 — Amaimon soimds well ; "" Lucifer, well; Barba- 
 son, well ; yet they are de\-il'B additions, the names 
 of fiends I but cuckold ! wittol-cuckold ! the devil 
 himself hath not such a name. Page is an ass, a 
 secure ass ! he wiU trust his wife ; he will not be 
 jealous. I will rather trust a Fleming with my 
 butter, parson Hugh the W^elchman with my 
 cheese, an Irishman with my aqua-vitte bottle,'" 
 or a thief to walk my ambling gelding, than my 
 wife with herself: then she plots, then she rumi- 
 nates, then she devises ; and what they think in 
 their hearts they ma}- effect, they will brei'>k tlicii 
 hearts but they wdll effect. Heaven be prais'd foi 
 my jealousy ! — Eleven o'clock the hour. — I v.-ill 
 prevent this, detect my wife, be reveng'd on Fal- 
 staff, and laugh at Page. I wiU about it ; bettei 
 three houi's too soon than a minute too late Fie 
 fie, flc ! cuckold ! cuckold ! cuckold ! [ F.t if 
 
 SCENK III.— Afield near Windsor. 
 Enter Caius and Enenr. 
 
 Caius. Jack Rugby ! 
 
 Piug. Sir. 
 
 Caius. Vat is de clock, Jack?
 
 AOI II. 
 
 THE MERRY WIVES OE WLSDSOK. 
 
 8CSNB m. 
 
 Rug. "T is past the hour, sir, that sir Hugh 
 promis'd to meet. 
 
 Cuius. By gar, Le has save his soul, dat he is no 
 forao ; ho has pray his Piblc veil, dat he is no 
 come ; hy gar, Jack Rugby, he is dead already if 
 lie be come. 
 
 Rufjf. He is -wise, sir; he knew your worship 
 would kill him, if he came. 
 
 Cci'iis. By gar, de herring is no dead so as I vlll 
 kiU liim. Take your rapier, Jack ; I vill tell you 
 how I vill kill him. 
 
 Ji:<ff. Alas, sir, I cannot fence. 
 
 C'aiiis. YOlainy, take your rapier. 
 
 Bui;/. Forbear; here 's company. 
 
 Unter Host, Shailow, Slender, and Page. 
 
 Host. 'Bless thee, bully doctor. 
 
 Shal. Save you, master doctor Caius. 
 
 Page. 'Now, good master doctor. 
 
 Sleii. Give you good-raon-ow, sir. 
 
 C/n'tcs. Vat be all you, one, two, tree, four, come 
 for .> 
 
 Host. To see thee fight, to see thee foin,"- to see 
 thee traverse ; to see thee here, to see thee there ; 
 to see thee pass thy punto, thy stock, thy reverse, 
 (hy distance, thy monfant. Is he dead, my Ethi- 
 opian ? is he dead, my Francisco ? ha, bully ! 
 Wliat says ray ^sculapius ? my Galen ? my heart 
 of elder ? ha ! is he dead, bully Stale ? is he dead ? 
 
 Caius. By gar, he is de coward Jack priest of de 
 vorld ; he is not show his face. 
 
 Host. Thou art a Castilian,'" king Urinal I Hec- 
 tor of Greece, my boy ! 
 
 Caius. I pray you, bear vitness that me have 
 stay six or seven, two, tree hours for him, and he 
 is no come. 
 
 Shal. He is the wiser man, master doctor : he 
 is a curer of souls, and you a curor of bodies ; if you 
 should fight, you go against the hair of your pro- 
 fessions : is it not time, master Pago ? 
 
 Far/e. Master Shallow, you have yourself been a 
 great fighter, though now a man of peace. 
 
 ShaJ. Bodykins, master Page, though I now be 
 old, and of the peace, if I see a sword out, my finger 
 itches to make one : though we are justices, and 
 'loctors, and churchmen, master Page, we ha^e 
 some salt of our youth in u? ; we arc the sons of 
 (vomon, master Page. 
 
 Pflj/e 'T is true, master Shallow. 
 
 Sf/iL It will bo found so, master Page. Blaster 
 
 doctor Caius, I am come to fetch you home. I am 
 sworn of the peace; you have show'd yourself a 
 wise pliysician, and sir Hugh hath shown himseli' 
 a \vise and patient churchman . Y«u must go with 
 me, master doctor. 
 
 Host. Pai'don, guest-justice : — ah, monsicui 
 Mock- water.'" 
 
 Caius. Mock-vater ! vat is dat ? 
 
 Host. Mock-water, in our English tongue, is 
 valour, bully. 
 
 Caius. By gar, then I have as much mock-vater 
 as do Englishman: — Scurvy jack-dog priest! by 
 gar, me vill cut his cars. 
 
 Host. He win clapper-claw"' thee tightly, 
 bully. 
 
 Caius. Clapper-de-claw ! vat is dat .' 
 
 Host. That is, he ^vill make thee amends. 
 
 Cains. By gar, me do look he shall clapper-de- 
 claw me; for, by gar, me viU have it. 
 
 Host. And I will provoke him to 't, or let him 
 wag. 
 
 Cuius. Me tank you for dat. 
 
 Host And, moreover, bully, — iJut first, master 
 justice guest,'"' and master Page, and eke cavalcra 
 Slender, go you tlirough the town to Frograore. 
 
 [_Aside to them. 
 
 Page. Sir Hugh is there, is lie r 
 
 Host. He is there : see what humour he is in ; 
 and I will bring the doctor about by the fields : 
 will it do well ? 
 
 Shal. AVe \^-ill do it. 
 
 Page, Shal., and Slen. Adieu, good master doctor. 
 \_Exeunt Page, Shal, and Slen. 
 
 Cuius. By gar, me vill kiU de priest ; for he 
 speak for a jack-an-ape to Anne Page. 
 
 Host. Let him die : sheathe thy impatience ; 
 throw cold water on thy choler: go about the 
 fields with nie through Frogmore; I ■will bring 
 thco where mistress Ann Page is, at a farm-house, 
 a feasting : and thou shalt woo her. Cried I aim : '" 
 said I well ? 
 
 Caius. By gar, me dank you vor dat : b}' gar, 1 
 love you ; and I shall procurc-a you de good 
 guest, de earl, de knight, de lords, de gentlemen 
 my patients. 
 
 Host. For the which I will be thy adversary 
 toward Anne Page ; said I well ? 
 
 Caius. By gar, 't is good ; veil .■'.aid. 
 
 Host. Let us wag, then. 
 
 Caius. Come at my heels, Jack Rugby, \_lixount 
 
 101
 
 iL'X ru. 
 
 TILE MEEKY WIVES OF WINDSOK. 
 
 saurs. t 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. —Afield fiear Frogmore. 
 
 E?iter Sir Hugh Etans and SnrPLE. 
 
 Uvii. I pray you noTV, good master Slender" s 
 Berving-man, and friend Simple by yoiir name, 
 wliieh way have you look'd for master Caius, that 
 calls himself doctor of physic ? 
 
 Sim. Marry, sir, the Petty-ward, the Park- 
 ward,"' eveiy way; old Windsor way, and every 
 way but the town way. 
 
 J^ra. I most fehemontly desire you, you will 
 Iso look that way. 
 Sim. I will, sir. 
 
 Era. Pless mj' soul ! how full of cholers I am, 
 and ti'empling of mind ! — I shall be glad if he have 
 deceived me : — how melancholies I am ! I will 
 ^nog liis urinals about his loiave's costard, -nhen I 
 have good opportunities for the 'ork — pless mj- 
 3ouL! \_Sinffs. 
 
 To shallow rivers, to whose falls '^^ 
 JNlt'lndious birds sing niatii-i^als : 
 There wWl '.ve make our pcds of roses, 
 And a thousand fragrant posies. 
 To shallow — 
 
 ifercy on me ! I have a great dispositions to cry. 
 
 Melodious birds sing madrigals: 
 AVhenas I sat in I'abylon — ■•" 
 And a thousand vagrtm posies. 
 To shallow — 
 
 Sim. Yonder lie is coming, this way, sir Hugh. 
 
 £ia. He 's welcome : 
 
 To shallow rivers, to whoso falls,— 
 Heaven prosper the right! — AMiat weapons is he? 
 
 Sim. No weapons, sir : There comes my master, 
 master Shallow, and another gentleman from Frog- 
 more, over tlie stile, this way. 
 
 £r(i. Tniy you, give me my gown; or else keep 
 "t in your arms. 
 
 Enter P.\oE, Su.vLLow, and Slendkk. 
 
 Sluil. iiov.' now, masti-r jiarsou ? Good morrow, 
 
 good sir Ilunh. Keep a gamester from the dice, 
 li>' 
 
 and a good student from his book, and it is won 
 derful. 
 
 Sk}i. Ah, sweet .iVnnc Page ! 
 
 Pai/e. Save you, good sir Hugh ! 
 I Eiii. Pless you fi-om his mercy sake, all ol 
 i you : 
 
 j Shal. "V\Tiat ! the sword and the word ; do you 
 j study tliem both, master parson ? 
 
 Faffe. And youthful still, in your doublet and 
 hose, this raw rheumatic day ? 
 
 Eva. There is reasons and causes for it. 
 
 Paffe. We are come to you to do a good office, 
 master parson. 
 
 Em. Ferry well : What is it ? 
 
 Paffe. Y''ondcr is a most reverend gentleman, 
 who beUke, haWng received wrong by some p-rr 
 son, is at most odds with his own gravity auci 
 patience, that ever you saw. 
 
 Shal. I have lived fourscore years and upward ; 
 I ne^'cr heard a man of his place, gravity, and 
 learning, so wide of his own respect. 
 
 Ei-a. "What is ho ? 
 
 Faije. I think you kduw him ; master doctor 
 Caius, the reno^A-ned Irench physician. 
 
 Era. Got's wiU, and his passion of my heart ! 
 I had as lief you would teU me of a mess of por- 
 ridge. 
 
 Faf/e. Why? 
 
 Era. He has no more knowledge in Hibocrates 
 and Galen, — and he is a knave besides ; a cowardly 
 luiave, as you would desires ro be acquainted 
 withal. 
 
 Paqc. I warrant you, he 's tlie man should fight 
 with him. 
 
 Skn. 0, sweet Anne Page ! 
 
 S/ial. It appears so, by his weapons : — Keep 
 them asunder ; — here comes doctor Caius. 
 
 EitUr Host, Caics, and Eugby. 
 
 Pago. Nay, good master parson, keep in your 
 weapon. 
 
 Shal. So do you, good master doctor. 
 
 ITost. Disann them, and let them question ; let
 
 THE MEIUIY WIVES OF WINDSOE. 
 
 6CEN£ 11. 
 
 tlicra keep their limbs wholo, and hack our 
 English. 
 
 Caitts. I jiray you lot-a mo speali a word vit 
 your ear. Vercforo vill you not mcet-a me ? 
 
 Eva. Pray you, use your patience : in good 
 imo. 
 
 Cains. By gar, you are de coward, de Jack dog, 
 John ape. 
 
 Eva. Pray you, let us not be laughing-stogs to 
 other men's humours ; I desire you in friendship, 
 and I will one way or other make you amends : — 
 I will knog your urinal about your knave's cogs- 
 comb for missing your meetings and appoint- 
 ments. 
 
 Cains. Diablo .' — Jack Eugby, — mine host de Jar- 
 terre, have I not stay for him, to kiU him ? have I 
 not, at de place I did appoint? 
 
 Eta. As I am a Chiislians soul, now, look you, 
 this is the place appointed; I 'U bo judgment by 
 mine host of the Garter. 
 
 Host. Peace, I say, Gallia and Wallia ; '■' French 
 and Welch ; soul-curer and body-curer. 
 
 Caius. Ay, dat is very good ! excellent ! 
 
 Host. Peace, I say; hear mine host of the 
 Garter. Am I politic ? am I subtle ? am I a 
 Machiavel ? Shall I lose my doctor ? no ; he gives 
 me the potions, and the motions. Shall I lose my 
 parson ? my priest ? my sir Hugh ? no ; he gives 
 me the proverbs and the novorbs. — Give me thy 
 hand, terrestial ; so : — Give me thy hand, celes- 
 tial; so. — Boys of art, I have dcceiv'd you 
 both ; I have directed you to wrong places ; your 
 hearts are mighty, your skins are whole, and let 
 burnt sack be the issue. — Come, lay their swords 
 to pawn : — Follow me, lad of peace ; follow, follow, 
 follow. 
 
 Shal. Trast me, a mad host : — FoUow, gentle- 
 men, foUow. 
 
 Sim. 0, sweet Anne Page ! 
 
 \_Exeunt Shai., Slex., Page, and Host. 
 
 Caius. Ha ! do I perceive dat ? have you make-a 
 de sot'- of us ? ha, ha ! 
 
 Eva. This is well ; ' he has made us his vlouting- 
 Btog. — I desire you that we may be fiiends ; and 
 let us knog our prains together, to be revenge on 
 this same scaU, scurvy, cogging companion, the 
 Lost of the Garter. 
 
 Caius. By gar, vit all my heart ; ho promise to 
 bring me vore is Anne Page ; by gar, he deceive 
 me too. 
 
 Eva. WeU, I will smite his noddles: — Pray 
 you, follow. [Exeu7ii. 
 
 SCENE II.— 77(fl Street, in W.ndior. 
 
 Enter Mistress Page and Eobin. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Nay, keep your way, little gallant; 
 you were wont to be a follower, but now you arfl 
 a leader : Whether had you rather lead mine eyes, 
 or eye your master's heels ? 
 
 Iloh. I had rather, forsooth, go before you like o 
 man, than follow him like a dwarf. 
 
 Mrs. Page. you arc a flattering boy ; now, I 
 see you 'U be a courtier. 
 
 Enter Ford. 
 
 Ford. We'd met, mistress Page : Whither go 
 you ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. Truly, sir, to see your wife ; Is she 
 at home ? 
 
 Ford. Ay ; and as idle as she may hang toge- 
 ther, for want of company. I think if your hus- 
 bands were dead, you two woidd marry. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Be sure of that, — two other hus- 
 bands. 
 
 Ford. "\Miere had you tliis pi-etty weatliorcock ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. I cannot tell what the dickens lue 
 name is my husband had him of. "\Miat do you 
 call your knight's name, sirrah ? 
 
 Bob. Sir Jolm Fulstaff. 
 
 Ford. Sir John Falstaff ! 
 
 Mrs. Page. He, he ; I can never liit on 's name 
 — There is such a league between my good man 
 and he ! — Is your mfo at home, indeed ? 
 
 Ford. Indeed, she is. 
 
 Mrs. Page. By your leave, sir : — I am sick till 
 I see her. \_Exeunt llns. Page and PiOeix. 
 
 Ford. Has Page any brains : hath he an)" eyes ? 
 hath he any thinking ? Sure, they sleep ; lie hath 
 no use of them. "\Miy, this boy will carry a letter 
 twenty mile,''^ as easy as a cannon wUl shoot poiut- 
 blank twelve score. He pieces out his wife's in- 
 clination; he gives her foUy motion and advan- 
 tage : and now she 's going to my wife, and 
 Falstaff 's boy -n-ith her. A man may hear this 
 show'r sing in the wind I — and FalstafTs boy ■n'ith 
 lier!— Good plots !— they are laid;''^ and our 
 revolted -n-ives share damnation together. Well , 
 I wiU take him, then tortm-o my wife, pluck the 
 borrowed veil of raodestv- from the so seemijig 
 mistress Page, dividge Page himself for a secure 
 and wilful Aotaeon; and to these violent pro- 
 ceedings all my neighboui-s shall cry aim. yCloch 
 strikes.'] The clock gives me niy cue, and my 
 assurance bid*" me search : There I shall find Fal- 
 
 loa
 
 ACT in. 
 
 THE MEREY WIVES OF WLNUSUli. 
 
 SCENE lU 
 
 Staff : I shall be rather prais'd for this than mock'd ; 
 for it is as positive as the earth is firm'^ that Fal- 
 BtafF is there : I vrUl go. 
 
 Enter Page, Shallow, Slexbes, Eost, Sik Hugh 
 Evans, Cajus, and Eugbt. 
 
 Shal. Page, Sec. Well met, master Ford. 
 
 Ford. Trust me, a good knot : I have good 
 cheer at home ; and, I prpy you aU go with me. 
 
 Sltal. I must excuse myself, master Ford. 
 
 Slcn. And so must I, sir ; we have appointed to 
 dine with mistress Anne, and I would not break 
 ^ith her for more money than I 'U speak of. 
 
 Slid. We have Ungerd about a match between 
 Anne Page and my cousin Slender, and this day 
 we shall have our answer. 
 
 Slen. I hope I have your good wiU, father 
 Page. 
 
 Page. You have, master Slender ; I stand 
 whoUy for you : — but my 'n-ife, master doctor, is 
 for you altogether. 
 
 Cairn. Ay, by gar ; and de maid is love-a me : 
 my nursh-a Quickly tell me so mush. 
 
 Host. "Wliat say you to young master Fenton ? 
 he capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he 
 wiites verses, he speaks holiday,"' he smells April 
 and May : he will carry "t, he will carry 't ; 't is 
 in his buttons; he will carry 't. 
 
 Page. Not by my consent, I promise you. The 
 gentleman is of no having ; '-' he kept company 
 isath the wild prince and Pointz ; '^' he is of too 
 higli a region; he knows too much. No, he shall 
 not laiit a knot in his fortunes with the finger of 
 my substance ; if he take her, let him take her 
 simph- ; the wealth I have waits on my consent, 
 and my consent goes not that way. 
 
 Ford. I beseech you, heartily, some of you go 
 home with me to dinner : besides your cheer, you 
 shall have sport ; I will sliow you a monster. — 
 Master doctor, you shall go ; — so shall you, master 
 Page ; — and you, sir Hugh. 
 
 Shal. Well, fare you well : — we sliall liave the 
 freer wooing at master Page's. 
 
 \_Exeunt SnAL. snd Sles. 
 
 Cairn. Go home, John Paigby ; I come anon. 
 
 [Exit EUGBY. 
 
 IFost. Farewell, my hearts : I will to my honest 
 knight Falstiiff, and diink canary with liini.--' 
 
 \^Exit Host. 
 
 Ford. \_Af:ide.'\ I think I sliaU drink in pipe- 
 line fii'st with him ; I '11 make him dance. Will 
 you go, gentles ? 
 
 All. Have with you, to see tliis monster. 
 
 [Exeunt 
 
 SCEKE III — ^ Room in Ford's Eome. 
 
 Enter ITes. Foed and Mes. Page. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. What, John ! What, Eobert ! 
 Mrs. Page. Quickly, quickly : Is the buck- 
 basket — 
 
 Mrs. Ford. I warrant : — What, Eobin, I say ! 
 
 Enter Servants, with a basket. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Come, come, come. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Here, set it down. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Give your men the charge ; we must 
 be brief. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Marry, as I told you before, John, 
 and Eobert, be ready here hai-d by in the brew- 
 house ; and when I suddenly call j'ou, come forth, 
 and (without any pause or staggeiing) take this 
 basket on your shoidders : that done, trudge with 
 it in all haste, and carry it among the whitsters''' 
 in Datehet mead, and there empty it in the muddj 
 ditch, close by the Thames side. 
 
 Mrs. Page. You ■will do it? 
 
 Mrs. Ford. I ha' told them over and over ; 
 they lack no direction : Be gone, and come when 
 you are call'd. [^Exeunt Servants. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Hero comes little Eobin. 
 
 Fnter Eobin. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. How now, my eyas-mus'set ? '" 
 what news with }-ou ? 
 
 Pol. My master, sir John, is come in at yout 
 back door, mistress Ford ; and requests your com- 
 pany. 
 
 Mrs. Page. You little Jack-a-Lcnt,"- have you 
 been true to us ? 
 
 Pob. Ay, I 'U be sv.-orn : My master knows not 
 of your being here; and hath threat'ned to put 
 me into everlasting liberty if I tcU you of it : for, 
 he swears, he '11 turn me away. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Thou 'rt a good boy ; this secresy oi 
 thine shall be a tailor to thee, and shall make thcc 
 a new doublet and hose. I '11 go hide me. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Do so : — Go IcU thy master I am 
 alone. Mistress Page, remember you your cue. 
 
 \_Exit Eobin 
 
 Mrs. Page. I warrant thcc ; if I do not act it, 
 hiss me. l_E.i:it Mks. Page. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Go to then- wo '11 use tliia un- 
 
 I
 
 ACi m. 
 
 TILE MEllKY WIVES OF WIXDSOE. 
 
 BCUSK 
 
 ifLolesome humidity, tliia gross wat'ry piunpion. 
 We '11 teach him to know turtles from jays. 
 
 IJider Falstaff. 
 
 I'al. Have I caught thee, my heavenly jewel ? "' 
 Why, now let mo die, for I have liv'd long enough ; 
 tliis is the period of my ambition. this blessed 
 hour ! 
 
 Mrs. Ford. sweet sir John ! 
 
 Fell. Mistress Ford, I cannot cog,"* I cannot 
 prate, misti-css Ford. Now shall I sin in my wish : 
 I woiild thy liusband were dead. I 'U speak it 
 before the best lord, I would make thee my lady. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. I your lady, sir Jolm ! alas, I should 
 be a pitiful lady. 
 
 Fal. Let the court of France show me such 
 another. I see how thine eye would emulate the 
 diamond : Thou liast the right arched beauty of 
 the brow, that becomes the sliip-tire,"* the tire- 
 valiant, or any tire of Venetian admittance. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. A plain kerchief, sir John : my brows 
 become nothing else ; nor that wcU neither. 
 
 Fal. Thou art a tj'rant to say so : thou wouldst 
 make an absolute courtier ; and the firm fixture of 
 tliy foot would give an excellent motion to thy 
 ;ait, in a semicirclcd forthingale. I see what thou 
 wcrt, if Fortune thy foe were not. Nature tliy 
 friend: '^ Come, thou canst not hide it. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Believe me, there 's no such thing 
 in me. 
 
 Fal. Wliat made me love thee ? let that persuade 
 thee there 's something extraordinary in thee. 
 Come, I cannot cog, and say thou art this and 
 that, like a many of tlicse lisping hawthorn-buds, 
 that come like women iu men's apparel, and smeU 
 hke Bucklersbury in simple-time : "' I cannot : 
 but I love thee ; none but thee ; and thou de- 
 aerv'st it. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Do not betray me, sir. I fear you 
 love mistress Page. 
 
 Fal. TIiou mightst as well say I love to walk by 
 the Coimter-gate ; which is as hateful to me as the 
 reek of a lime lull."' 
 
 3Irs. Ford. Well, heaven knows how I love 
 you ; and j-ou shall one day find it. 
 
 Fal. Keep in that mind ; I 'U deserve it. 
 
 Jfrs. Ford. Nay, I must teU you, so you do ; 
 i>r else I coidd not be in that mind. 
 
 Rob. {^within.'] ilistress Ford, mistress Ford ! 
 
 h3rc 's mistress Page at the door, sweating, and 
 
 blowing, ;inl looking wildly, and woiild needs 
 
 -peak with you presently, 
 u 
 
 Fal. She shall not .sec me ; I ^rill ensconce rae 
 behind the arras."' 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Pray you, do so : she 's a rery tat- 
 tling woman. LFalsiatf hidia Jtimst-lJ 
 
 Enter Mistress Page and Kobi.v. 
 What 's tlie matter ? how now ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. mistress Ford, what liavo you 
 done? You 're sham'd, you're overthown, j'ou'ro 
 imdone for ever. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. What's the matter, good roietress 
 Page? 
 
 Mrs. Paye. weU-a-day, mistress Ford ! having 
 an honest man to your husband, to give him such 
 cause of suspicion! 
 
 Mrs. Ford. What cause of suspicion ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. What cause of suspicion? — Out upon 
 you ! how am I mistook in you ! 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Why, alas! what's the matter? 
 
 Mrs. Page. Your husband 's coming hither, wo- 
 man, with all tlie officers in Windsor, to search for 
 a gentleman that, he says, is here now in the house, 
 by your consent, to take an Ul advantage of his j 
 absence : you are imdone. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. 'T is not so, I hope. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Pray heaven it be not so, that you 
 have such a man here; but't is most certain yoiu 
 husband 's coming, with half Windsor at his heels, 
 to search for such a one. I come before to tell 
 you. If you know yourself clear, wliy, I am glad 
 of it: but if you have a friend here, convey, 
 convey him out. Be not amaz'd; call aU your 
 senses to you; defend your reputation, or bid fare 
 well to yoiu- good life for ever. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. What shall I do ? — There is a gentle- 
 man, my dear friend; and I fear not mine o\vn 
 shame so much as his peril : I had rather than a 
 thousand pounds he were out of the house. 
 
 Mrs. Page. For shame, never stand "you had 
 rather," and "you had rather;" your husband 'a 
 here at hand; bethink you of some conveyance: in 
 the house you cannot hide him. — 0, how have you 
 deceiv'd me ! — Look, here is a basket ; if he be of 
 any reasonable stature, he may creep in here ; and 
 throw foul linen upon him, as if it were going to 
 bucking: Or, it is whiting- time,'" send Mm by 
 your two men to Datchet mead. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. He s too big to go in there! 'VSIiat 
 shall I do? 
 
 Re-enter Fai,staff. 
 
 Fal. Let me see't, let me see't ! let me see 'ti 
 
 I'll in, I'll ki; follow your friend's counsel; — I'll in 
 
 105 
 
 _
 
 IKE ilEKKr WIVES OF WIXDSOK. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Wlat! Sir John Falstaff! Are 
 Ihese your letters, kniglit? 
 
 Fill. I love thee, and none hut thee : Help mo 
 away- let me creep in here; I'll niver — \_AMe. 
 [He goes into the lasted ; they cover Mm with 
 .foul linen. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Help to cover your master, hoy: Call 
 j'ou r men, mistress Ford : — You dissembling knight ! 
 
 Mrs. Ford. What ,101111, Eobert, John ! \_Exit 
 Romx. Re-enter Servants.] Go take up these 
 clothes here, quickly; whore's the cowl-staff?"' 
 look, how you drumhle ; carry them to the laim- 
 clress m Datchet mead; quickly, come. 
 
 Filter FosD, Page, Caius, and Siu Hugh Evans. 
 
 Ford. Pray you, come near: if I suspect with- 
 out cause, why then make sport at me; then let 
 me be your jest ; I deserve it. — How now ? whi- 
 ther bear you this? 
 
 Serv. To the laundress, forsooth. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. '\^Tiy, what have j'ou to do whither 
 thej' bear it? Tou were best meddle with buck- 
 washing."- 
 
 Ford. Buck? I would I could wash myself of 
 the buck! Buck, buck, buck? Ay, buck; I war- 
 rant )-oa, buck; and of the season too, it shal' 
 Bppeai'. \_Fxeunt Servants teith the iashi.'] Gen- 
 tlemen, I ha-^e dream'd to-night; I'LL tell you my 
 dream. Her 3, here, here be my keys: ascend my 
 thamhors, search, seek, find out: I '11 warrant we '11 
 unkennel the fox: — Let me stop this way first: 
 — \_locks tlie doorl — so now uncape.'" 
 
 Page. Good master Ford, be contented: j-ou 
 wrong yourself too much. 
 
 Ford. Tnie, master Page. — Up, gentlemen; you 
 shall see sport anon : follow me, gentlemen. \_Exit, 
 
 Eva. This is feny fantastical humoiu's and 
 jealousies. 
 
 Caius. By gar 't is no de fashion of France : it 
 is not jealous in France. 
 
 Page. Nay, follow him, gentlemen ; see the 
 issue of his search. 
 
 \_Exeimt Evaks, Page, and Caius. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Is there not a double excellency in 
 D-.i-j? 
 
 Mrs. Ford. I know not whieli pleases me better, 
 lint my husband ia deceived, or sir John. 
 
 2h-s. Page. AVhat a taking was he in, when 
 your husband ask'd what was in tlie basket! '" 
 
 Mrs. Ford. I am half afraid he will have need 
 of washing; so thro^-ing him into the water will 
 do hlmo btfOf'fit 
 
 1C6 
 
 Mrs. Page. Hang him, dis'nonest rascal ! I would 
 all of the same strain were in the same dish ess. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. I think my husband hath some 
 special suspicion of Falstaff's boing here; for 1 
 never saw him so gross in his jealousy till now. 
 
 Mrs. Page. I will lay a plot to try that; atd we 
 ^viU yet have more tricks with Falstaff : his disso- 
 lute disease will scarce obey this medicine. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Shall wo send that foolish carrion, 
 mistress Quickly, to him, and excuse his throwing 
 into the water; and give him another hope, to 
 betray him to another punishment? 
 
 Mrs. Page. We will do it; let him be sent for 
 to-morrow eight o'clock, to have amends. 
 
 Re-enter FoitD, Page, Caius, and Sra Hugh Evans. 
 
 Ford. I cannot find him : may be the knave 
 bragg'd of that he could not compass. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Heard you that? 
 
 Mrs. Ford. You use me well, master Ford, do 
 yon? 
 
 Ford. Ay, I do so. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Heaven make you better than your 
 thoughts ! 
 
 Ford. Amen! 
 
 Mrs. Page. You do yourself mighty wrong, mu- 
 ter Ford. 
 
 Ford. Ay, ay; I must bear it. 
 
 EiO-. If there be any pody in the house, and in 
 the chambers, and in the coffers, and in the presses, 
 heaven forgive my sins at the day of judgment ! 
 
 Caius. Be gar, nor I too; dere is no bodies. 
 
 Page. Fie, fie, master Ford! are you not asham'd 
 ^Miat spirit, what dovdl suggests this imagination 
 I would not ha' your distemper in tliis kind, for 
 the wealth of Windsor Castle. 
 
 Ford. 'T is my fault, master Page : I suffer for it. 
 
 Eva. You suffer for a pad conscinncc: j'our wife 
 is as honest a 'omans as I will desires among five 
 thousand, and five hundi-cd too. 
 
 Caius. By gar, I see 't is an honest woman. 
 
 Ford. Well ; — I promis'd you a dinner: — Come, 
 come, walk in the park: I pray you, pardon me; J 
 wiU hereafter make Imown to you why I Iwvc 
 done this. — Come, wife; — come, mistress Page ; '■ 
 pray you, pardon mo; pray heartily, pardon me. 
 
 Page. Let's go in, gentlemen; but, trust mt, 
 we '11 mock him. I do invite you to-morrow 
 morning to my house to breakfast: after, wo '11 
 a-birding'" together; I have n fine hawk for Uu 
 hush: Shall it bo so? 
 
 Ford. Anything.
 
 jCT III. 
 
 TJIE MERRY WIVES OF WlA'DSOil. 
 
 uijKNE rv. 
 
 Eva. If tlioro is one, I shsill make two iu tho 
 compnny 
 
 Cuius. II tliorc bo one or two, I eliall malcc-a 
 
 de lii-d. 
 
 Ford. Pray you go, master Page. 
 
 Eca. I pray you now, remembrance to-morrow 
 on the lousy knave, mine host. 
 
 Caius. Dat is good; by gar, -s-it all my heart. 
 
 Eia. A lousy knave ; to have his gibes and his 
 niockcncs. \_Ej:eunt. 
 
 SCEjSTE IY.— a Room in Page's Uoim. 
 Enter Fenton and Misthess Akne Page. 
 
 Fent. I see I cannot get thy fether's love; 
 Therefore no more turn me to hira, sweet Nan. 
 
 Anne. Alas! how then? 
 
 Fent. Wliy, thou must be thyself. 
 
 Ee doth object, I am too great of birth; 
 And that, my state being gall'd with my expense, 
 I seek to heal it only by his wealth : 
 Besides these, other bars he lays before me, — 
 My riots past, my wild societies ; 
 Ajid tells me, 't is a thing impossible 
 1 should love thee, but as a property. 
 
 Anne. May be, he tells you true. 
 
 Fent. No, heaven so speed me in my time to 
 come! 
 Albeit, I will confess thy father's wealth 
 Was the first motive that I woo'd thee, Anne: 
 Tet, wooing thee, I found thee of more value 
 Than stamps in gold, or sums in sealed bags ; 
 .\nd 't is the very riches of thyself 
 That now I aim at. 
 
 Anne. Gentle master Fenton, 
 
 Yet seek my father's love; still seek it, sir: 
 If opportunity and humblest suit 
 Cannot attain it, why then — Hark you hither. 
 
 [Tliey converse apart. 
 
 Enter Shallow, Slenbee, and Mes. Quickly. 
 
 Bhal. Break their talk, mistivss Quickly; my 
 kinsman shall speak for himself. 
 
 Sim. I '11 malce a shaft or a bolt on 't:'" slid, 't 
 ^s but vmturiiig. 
 
 ahal. Be not dismay'd. 
 
 Slen. No she shall not dismay me: I care not 
 lor that, — but that I am afeard. 
 
 Quick. Hark ye; master Slender would speak a 
 word with you. 
 
 An7w. I come to him. — This is my father's 
 choice. 
 
 0, what a world of vild ill-favour'd faults 
 Looks handsome in three hundred pounds a-yeor ! 
 
 \^Aside 
 
 Quick. And how docs good master Fenton? 
 Pray you, a word with you. 
 
 Slial. She 'a coming; to her, coz. boy, thou 
 hadst a father! 
 
 Slen. I had a father, nustress Anne ; — my uncle 
 can tell you good jests of him : — Pray you, uncle, 
 toU mistress Anne the jest, how my father stole 
 two geese out of a pen, good uncle. 
 
 SJial. Mistress jYnno, my cousin loves }'ou. 
 
 Slen. Ay, that I do ; as well as I lovo any 
 woman in Glostershire. 
 
 Shal. He will maintain you like a gentlewoman. 
 
 Slen. Ay, that I will, come cut and long-tail,"' 
 under the degree of a 'squire. 
 
 Shal. He win make you a hundred and fifty 
 pomids jointure. 
 
 Anne. Good master Shallow, lot him woo foi 
 himself. 
 
 Shal. Marry, I thank you for it ; I thank you 
 for that good comfort. She calls you, coz : I 'U 
 leave you. [lie steps atidt. 
 
 Anne. Now, master Slender. 
 
 Slen. Now, good mistress Anne. 
 
 Anne. "What is your will ? 
 
 Slen. My wU ? 'od's heartlings, that 's a pretty 
 jest, indeed ! I ne'er made my \viil yet, I thank 
 heaven ; I am not such a sickly creature, I give 
 heaven praise. 
 
 Anne. I mean, master Slender, what would you 
 with me ? 
 
 Slen. Tnily, for mine own part, I would little 
 or uotliing wth you. Y'our father, and my unole, 
 have made motions : Lf it bo my luck, so ; if not, 
 happy man be his dole ! "' They can tell you how 
 tilings go better than I can : Y'ou may ask your 
 father ; here he comes. 
 
 Enter Page and Misteess Page. 
 
 Page. Now, master Slender : — Love him, daugh- 
 ter Anne. — 
 "Why, how now ! what does master Fenton here ? 
 You wrong me, sir, thus still to haunt my houso 
 I told you, SU-, my daughter is dispos'd of 
 Fent. Nay, master Page, be not impatient. 
 Mrs. Page. Good master Fenton, come nut t:i my 
 
 chUd. 
 Page. She is no match for you. 
 Fent. Sir, will you hear me ? 
 Page. No, good master Fenton. 
 
 107
 
 THE MEllllY WIVES OF WES'DSUK. 
 
 BCEIfB V. 
 
 Come, master Sliallow ; come, son Slender, in : — 
 
 Knowing ray mind, you wrong me, master Fenton. 
 
 \_Exeunt Page, Siial., atid Slen. 
 
 Quick. Speak to mistress Page. 
 
 Fent Good mistress Page, for that I love your 
 daughter 
 In suih a righteous tlishion as I do, 
 Perforce, against all checks, rebukes, and manners, 
 £ must advance the colours of my love. 
 And not I'ctire : Let me have your good will. 
 
 Anw. Good mother, do not many me to yond' 
 fool. 
 
 ITrs. Page. I mean it not ; I seek you a better 
 husband. 
 
 Quick. That 's my master, master doctor. 
 
 Anne. Alas, I had rather be set quick i' the 
 earth, 
 And bowl'd to death with turnips.'" 
 
 Mrs. Page. Come, trouble not yourself. Good 
 master Fenton 
 [ wiU not be your friend, nor enemy : 
 My daughter wt.11 I question how she loves you, 
 And as I find her, so am I affected ; 
 Till then, fore well, sir : — She must needs go in; 
 Her father wUl be angry else.'^ 
 
 \_E.Tit ilas. Page and Axne. 
 
 Fent. Farewell, gentle mistress : farewell, Nan. 
 
 Qicich. This is my doing now. — Nay, said I, will 
 you cast away your child on a fool and a physi- 
 cian?'" Look on master Fenton : — this is my 
 doing. 
 
 Fent. I thank thee ; and I pray thee, once to- 
 night, "= 
 Give my sweet Nan this ring : Tliere 's for thy 
 pains. \_Exit. 
 
 Quick. Now heaven send thee good fortune ! A 
 kind heart he hath : a woman would run through 
 fire and water for such a kind heart. But yet, I 
 would my master had mistress Anne ; or I would 
 master Slender had her; or, in sooth, I -would 
 master Fenton had her : I will do what I can for 
 them all three ; for so I have promis'd, and I 'U be 
 03 good as my word ; but speciously for master 
 Fenton. "Well, I must of another errand to sir 
 Jjhn Falataff from my two mistresses. What a 
 jtasX am I to slack it ! \_Exit. 
 
 SCENE V. — A Room in the Garter Inn. 
 Enter Faistaff and Ba£dolfh. 
 Fdl. Bardolpb, I say, — 
 Bard. Here, sir. 
 f.d. Go fetch me a quart of sack ; put a toast 
 
 in 't. \_Exit Babd.] Have I liv'd to be carried 
 in a basket, Hlce a barrow of butcher's offal ; and 
 to be thrown in the Thames ? Well, if I be serv'd 
 such another trick, I "U liave my brains ta'en out, 
 and butter'd, and give them to a dog for a new year' 
 gift. The rogues slighted '" me into the river with 
 as little remorse as they would have drown'd a 
 bitch's blind puppies, fifteen i' the litter : and you 
 may know by my size that I have a kind of ala- 
 crity in sinking ; if the bottom were as deep as 
 heU, I should down. I had been drown'd, but that 
 the shore was shelvy and shallow, — a death that I 
 abhor ; for the water swells a man ; and what a 
 thing should I have been when I had been sweU'd I 
 I shoidd have been a mountain of miunmy.'*' 
 
 Re-enter Baedolpu tcitli, the wine. 
 
 JBard. Here's mistress Quickly, sir, to sjeak 
 with you. 
 
 Fal. Come, let me pour in some sack to the 
 Thames water; for my belly 's as cold as if I had 
 swallow'd snowballs for piUs to cool the reins. 
 Call her in. 
 
 Bard. Come in, woman. 
 
 Enter Mbs. Qcickly. 
 
 Quick. By your leave; I ciy you mercy : Give 
 your worship good morrow. 
 
 Fal. Take away these chalices : Go, brew me a 
 pottle of sack'" finely. 
 
 Bard. With eggs, sir ? 
 
 Fal. Simple of itself; I 'U no pullet-sperm in 
 my brewage. — \_Exit BAEDOLPn.] — How now? 
 
 Quick. ilaiTy, sir, I came to your worship from 
 mistress Ford. 
 
 Fal. Mistress Ford ! I have had ford enough ! I 
 was throwTi into the ford : I have my belly full oi 
 ford ! 
 
 Quick. Alas the day! good heart, that was not 
 her faidt: she does so take on with her men; they 
 mistook their erection. 
 
 Fal. So did I mine, to biuld upon a foolish 
 woman's promise. 
 
 Quick. Well, she laments, sir, for it, that it 
 would yearn your heart to see it. Her husband 
 goes this moiTiing a-birding : she desires you once 
 more to come to her between eight and nine. I 
 must carry her word quicldy: she'll make you 
 amends, I waiTant you. 
 
 Fal. WeU, I will \-isit lier. Tell Ler so; imd 
 bid her think what a man is : let her coiisiJor his 
 frailty, and then judge of my merit. 
 
 Quick. I will tell her. 
 
 ,
 
 /lOT m. 
 
 THE MEllKY WIVES OF WINDSOK. 
 
 BCESB V. 
 
 Fill. Do so. Between nine and ten, say'st thou ? 
 
 Quick. Eight and nine, sir. 
 
 Fill. Well, be gone : I will not miss her. 
 
 Quich Peace be vrith you, sir. \_Exit. 
 
 Fill. T marvel I hear not of maBtcr Urook; ho 
 f.'Ut mo -n-ord to Btay within: I like his money 
 well here be comes. 
 
 Enter roan. 
 
 Ford. Bless you, sir! 
 
 Fal. Now, master Brook? you come to know 
 what hath pass'd between me and Eord"s wife. 
 
 Ford. That, indeed, sir John, is my business. 
 
 Fal. Master Brook, I will not lie to you : I was 
 at her house the hour she appointed me. 
 
 Ford. And sped you, sir? 
 
 Fal. Very ill-favouredly, master Brook. 
 
 Ford. How so, sir ? Did she cliango her deter- 
 mination? 
 
 Fal. IS'o, master Brook ; but the peaking cor- 
 nuto her husband, master Brook, dwelling in a 
 continual 'larum of jealousy, comes me in the 
 instant of our encounter, after we had embraced, 
 kiss'd, protested, and, as it were, spoke the pro- 
 logue of our comedy ; and at his heels a rabble of 
 Ms eonipanions, thither provoked and instigated by 
 his distemper, and, forsooth, to search his house 
 Cor his wife's love. 
 
 Ford. Wliat, -while you were there? 
 
 Fal. 'Wliile I was tlicre. 
 
 Ford. And did he search for you, and could not 
 find you ? 
 
 Fal. You shall hear. As good luck would 
 have it, comes in oue mistress Page ; gives intelli- 
 genee of Eord's approach ; and, Ln her invention 
 and Ford's wife's distraction, they convey'd mo 
 into a buck-basket. 
 
 Ford. A buck-basket ? 
 
 Fal. By the Lord, a buck-basket!"^ — ^i-amm'd 
 me in with foul shirts and smocks, socks, foul 
 stockings, greasy napkins; that, master Brook, 
 there was the rankest compoimd of viUainous 
 smell that ever offended nostrU. 
 
 Ford. And how long lay you there ? 
 
 Fal. Nay, you shaU hear, master Brook, what 1 
 have suffer'd to bring this woman to evil for your 
 good. Being thus cramm'd in the basket, a couple 
 of Ford's knaves, his hinds, were eaU'd forth by 
 their mistress, to carry me in the name of foul 
 clotlies to Datchet-lane : they took me on their 
 ehoulderg ; met the jealous knave their master in 
 the door; who ask'd them once or t-n^ice what they 
 
 had in their bas1;et: I ([uak'd foi fear, lest the 
 lunatic knave woulil have search'd it; but fate, 
 ordaining he should be a cuckold, held his hand. 
 "Well : on went he for a searci, and away went I 
 for foul clothes. But mark the smjuel, master 
 Brook: I suffered the pangs of three several 
 deaths: first, an intolerable fright, to bo detected 
 with a jealous rotten bell-wether : ne.xt, to be 
 corapass'd like a good bilbo in the circumfcreneo of 
 a peek, hilt to point, heel to head: and then, to be 
 stopp'd in, lilce a strong distillation, with stinking 
 clothes that fretted in their own grease : think of 
 that, — a man of my kidney, — think of that ; that 
 am as subject to heat as butter; a man of con- 
 tinual dissolution and thaw; it was a miracle to 
 'scape suffocation. And in the height of this bath, 
 when I was more than half stew'd in grease, like 
 a Dutch dish, to be thrown into the Thames, and 
 cool'd, glowing hot, in that surge, like a horse 
 shoo; think of that, — hissing hot, — think of that, 
 master Brook. 
 
 Ford. In good sadness, sir, I am sorry that foi 
 my salve you have suffer'd all this. My suit thcr 
 is desperate; you "11 undertake her no more. 
 
 Fal. Master Brook, I will be thrown into Etna, 
 as I have been into Thames, ere I wiU leave her 
 thus. Her husband is this morning gone a-bird- 
 ing : I have received from her another ambassy of 
 meeting;'" 'twixt eight and nine is the hoirr, 
 master Brook. 
 
 Ford. 'T is past eight already, sir. 
 Fal. Is it? I wdll then address me'™ to my ap- 
 pointment. Come to me at your convenient lei- 
 sure, and you shall Icnow how I speed; and the 
 conclusion shall be crowned with your cnjojdng 
 her. Adieu. You shall have her, master Biook; 
 master Brook, you shall cuckold Ford. \_Exit. 
 
 Ford. Hum ! ha ! is this a vision ? is this a 
 dream ? do I sleep ? Master Ford, awake ; awake, 
 master Ford ; there 's a 'nolo made in your best 
 coat, master Ford. This 't is to be mai-ried ! this 
 't is to have linen and buck-baskets ! — Well, I 
 ■\viU proclaim myself what I am : I wiU now take 
 the lecher ; he is at my house ; he cannot 'scaj/e 
 me , 't is impossible he shoiild ; he cannot creep 
 into a halfpenny purse, nor into a peppei-bos; 
 but, lest the devil that guides him should aid him, 
 I wiU search impossible places. Though what i 
 am I cannot avoid, yet to be what I would not 
 shall not make mo tame. If I have hores to make 
 me mad,"' let the proverb go with me, — I 'U be 
 horn mad. \ E.vit 
 
 1-1!)
 
 THE MEEEY WIVES OF WDfDSOE, 
 
 8CJE3TO I. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCEKE l.—Tlie Strett. 
 
 Elite)' Mrs. Page, Mes. Qtticki,t, and "William. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Is he at master Ford's already, 
 Lliink'st thou ? 
 
 Quich. Siire he is hy this ; or -will be presently : 
 but truly he is very counigeous mad, about his 
 throvdng into the water. Mistress Ford desires 
 you to come suddenly. 
 
 Mrs. Pane. I '11 be with her by-and-by ; I '11 but 
 bring my young man here to school. Look, where 
 his master comes ; 't is a playing day, I see. 
 
 Enter Sin Hugh Evans. 
 
 [low now, sir Hugh ? no school to-day ? 
 
 Eva. No ; master Slender is let the boys leave 
 to play. 
 
 Quick. Blessing of his heart ! 
 Mrs. Page. Sir Hugh, my husband says my son 
 profits nothing in the world at his book. I pray 
 you, ask liim some questions in his accidence. 
 
 Eva. Come liither, "William ; hold up your head ; 
 come. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Come on, sirrah : hold up your head ; 
 answer j-our master, be not afraid. 
 
 Eva. "William, how many numbers is in nouns ? 
 
 Will. Two. 
 
 Quick. Ti-uly, I thought there had been one 
 number more ; because they say, odd's noims ! 
 
 Eva. Peace your tattlings. "WTiat is fair, "Wil- 
 liam ? 
 
 Will. Pulcher. 
 
 Quick. Polecats ! there are fairer things than 
 polecats, sure. 
 
 Eva. You are a very simplicity 'oman , I pray 
 50U, peace. "Wliat is lapis, William? 
 
 Will. A stone. 
 
 Eva. And what is a stone, WiUiam ? 
 
 Will. A pebble. 
 
 Eva. No, it is lapis; I prjy you reinomlier in 
 j-oiir praln. 
 
 Will. Lapii. 
 no 
 
 Eva. That is a good "William. Wliat is he, "Wil- 
 liam, that docs lend articles? 
 
 Will. Articles are borrowed of the pronoun; 
 and be thus declined, Singularitcr, nominativo, hie, 
 JuBC, hoc. 
 
 Eva. Kominativo, hig, hag, hog; — pray you 
 mark: genitivo, hiijus: "Well, what is your accusa- 
 tive case ? 
 
 Will. Accusitivo, hunc.'^^ 
 
 Eva. I pray you, have yoiu- remembrance, child ; 
 Accusitivo, hung, hang, hog. 
 
 Quick. Hang liog is Latin for bacon I warrant you. 
 
 Eva. Leave your prabbles, 'oman. "What is the 
 focative case, "William? 
 
 Will. — vocativo, 0. 
 
 Eva. Eemember, "William, focative is caret. 
 
 Quick. And that 's a good root. 
 
 Eva. 'Oman, forbear. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Peace. 
 
 Eva. "^Vhat is •^ov.r genitive case plural, "William? 
 
 Will. Genitive case ? 
 
 Eva. Ay. 
 
 Will. Genitivo, — horum, luiruni, horum. 
 
 Quick. 'Vengeance of Jenny's case! fie on her 
 — never name her, child, if she be a whore. 
 
 Eva. For shame, 'oman. 
 
 Quick. You do iU to teach the cliild such words: 
 he teaches him to hick and to hack, which thej- '11 
 do fast enough of themselves, and to call horum: 
 — fie upon you ! 
 
 Eva. 'Oman, art thou lunatics? hast thou no 
 understandings for thy cases, and the numbers of 
 the genders ? Thou art as foolish Cliristian crea- 
 tures as I would dcsii-cs. 
 
 Mrs Page. Prithee, hold thy peace. 
 
 Eva. Show me now, William, son e declensions 
 of your pronouns. 
 
 Will. Forsooth, 1 have forgot. 
 
 Eva. It is qui, qua, quod; if you forget your 
 guies, your quces, and youi- qiwds, you must be 
 preeches. Go your ways, and play, go. 
 
 Mrs. Page. He "b a better scliolar than I thought 
 ho ".vns.
 
 THE MEEIIY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 Eta. He is a good sprag memory."' Farewell, 
 mistress Page. 
 
 Mrs. Paje. Adieu, good sir Hugh. \_Esit Rni 
 IIuoii.] Get you home, boy. — Come, we stay too 
 Inig \_Excunt. 
 
 SCENE 11.—^ Room in Ford's Eouse. 
 Enter 'Fustayt and Mks. Foed. 
 
 Eal. Mistress Ford, your Borrow hath eaten up 
 my suflerancc. I see you are obsequious in your 
 love, and I profess requital to a hair's breadth; not 
 only, mistress Ford, in the simple office of love, 
 but in all the accoutrement, complement, and cere- 
 mony of it. But are you sure of your husband 
 now ? 
 
 Ifr.'i. Ford. He 's a-birding, sweet sir John. 
 
 Mrs. Page. \_Within.'] What hoa, gossip Ford! 
 what boa! 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Step into the chamber, sir John. 
 
 \_t!xit Falstaff. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Pagf. 
 
 Mrs. Fdrjc. How now, sweetheart? who 's at 
 "ome besides yourself? 
 
 Mrs. Fori. Why, none but mine own people. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Indeed ? 
 
 Mrs. Ford. No, certainly; — Speak louder. 
 
 \_Soflhj. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Truly, I am so glad you have 
 aobody here. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Wliy? 
 
 Mrs. Page. Wliy, woman, your husband is in 
 [lis old Knos '°- again : he so takes on yonder with 
 my husband; so rails against all married mankind; 
 so curses all Eve 's daughters, of what complexion 
 soever ; and so buffets himself on the forehead, 
 crj-ing " Peer-out, peer-out ! " that any madness 
 I ever yet beheld seem'd but tameness, civility, 
 and patience, to this his distemper he is in now ; 
 I am glad the fat knight is not here. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. ^\niy, does he talk of him ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. Of none but him; and swears ho 
 was carried out, the last time he searched for him, 
 in a basket : protests to my husband he is now 
 here; and hath drawn him and the rest of theii- 
 company from their sport, to make another expe- 
 liment of his suspicion ; but 1 am glad the knight 
 is not here : now he shall see his own foolery. 
 Mrs. Foi d. How near is he, mistress Page ? 
 M>s. Page. Hard by; at street end ; he will be 
 here aiion. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. I am undone ! — the knight is here. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Why, then you are utterly shani'd, 
 and he's but a dead man. Wliat a woman are 
 you! — Away with him, away witli him; bi'lt<'f 
 shame than murthcr. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Which way should ho go? how 
 should I bestow him ? ShaU I put him into the 
 basket again ? 
 
 Re-enter Falstaff. 
 
 Fal. No, I'lloome no more i' the basket. Hay 
 I not go out ere he come ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. Alas, throe of master Ford's bro- 
 thers watch the door with pistols,"' that none 
 shall issue out; otherwise you might slip away 
 ere he came. But what make you here ? 
 
 Fal. A^Tiat shall I do ? — I '11 creep up into the 
 chimney. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. There they always use to discharge 
 their birding-pieces : Creep into the kill hole. 
 
 Fal. Where is it ? 
 
 Mrs. Ford. He wiU seek there, on my word. 
 Neither press, coffer, chest, trunk, well, vault, but 
 he hath an abstract for the remembrance of such 
 places, and goes to them by his note : There is 
 no biding you in the house. 
 
 Fal. I '11 go out then. 
 
 Mrs. Page. If you go out in your own sem- 
 blance, you die, sir John. Unless you go out dis- 
 guis'd,— 
 
 Mrs. Ford. How might we disguise him? 
 
 Mrs. Page. Alas the day, I know not. There 
 is no woman's gown big enough for him ; other- 
 wise he might put on a hat, a muffler, and a 
 kercliief, and so escape. 
 
 Fal. Good hearts, devise something; any ex- 
 tremity, rather than a mischief. 
 
 Mrs. Ford, lly maid's aimt, the fat woman of 
 Brentford, has a gown above. 
 
 Mrs. Page. On my word, it will serve him; 
 she 's as big as he is : and there 's her tlirumm'd 
 hat, and her muffler too :'" Eun up, sir John. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Go, go, sweet sir Jolm : misti-ess 
 Page and I will look some linen for yoxir head. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Quick, quick ; we 'U come drt'ss you 
 straight : put on the go^Ti the wliile. \_Exit Fai,. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. I would my husband would meet 
 him in this shape : he cannot abide the old woman 
 of Brentford ; he swears she 's a witch ; forbade 
 her my house, and hath threatened to beat h^r. 
 
 3[rs. Page. Heaven guide him to thy liu.sbimd's 
 
 cudgel; and the devil guide his cudgel iJ'ter\T;ud3 ' 
 
 111
 
 THE MEEllY WIVES OF WlNDSOli. 
 
 scEite n. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. But is m^; husband coming ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. Ay, in good sadness is he ; and talks 
 of the basket too, howsoever he hath had intel- 
 ligence. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. \ie 'U try tliat ; for I 'U appoint 
 m\ men to carry the basket again, to meet him at 
 the door with it, as they did last time. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Nay, but he 'U be here presently : 
 let 's go dress him like the witch of Brentford. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. I 'U first direct my men what they 
 shall do -n-ith the basket. Go up; 1 'U biing linen 
 for him sti'aight. [Exit. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Hang him, dishonest varlet ! we 
 cannot misuse him enough. 
 
 We '11 leave a proof, by that whicli wo ^-iU do, 
 
 Wives may be merry, and yet honest too : 
 
 We do not act that often jest and laugh 
 
 'T is old but true. Still swine eat all the diaff. 
 
 \_Exit. 
 Re-enter 3Ies. Foed, with two Servants. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Go, sirs, take the basket again on 
 your shoulders ; yom- master is hard at door ; if 
 ho bid you set it down, obey him: quickly, de- 
 fpatch. [Exit. 
 
 1 Serv. Come, eome, take it up. 
 
 2 Serv. Pray heaven it be not fuU of knight 
 again. 
 
 1 Serv. I hope not ; I had as lief bear so much 
 lead. 
 
 Enter Toed, Page, Shallow, Caws, and Sm 
 Hron Evans. 
 
 Ford. Ay, but if it prove true, master Page, 
 have you any way then to unfool me again ? — Sot 
 down the basket, villains : — Somebody call my 
 wife : — Youth in a basket ! — 0, you panderly 
 rascals ! there 's a knot, a ging,'"' a pack, a con- 
 spiracy against me : Now shall the devil be sham'd. 
 Wliat ! wife, I say ! — Come, eome forth. Behold 
 what honest clothes you send forth to bleaching. 
 
 Page. "^Tiy, this passes ! Master Ford, you are 
 not to go loose any longer ; you must be pinion' d. 
 
 Eva. "NMiy, this is limatics ! this is mad as a 
 mad dog ! 
 
 Shal. Indeed, master Ford, tliis is not well ; 
 indeed. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Fonn. 
 
 Ford. So say I too, sir. — Come hither, mistress 
 Ford; mistress Ford, the honest woman, the 
 modest wife, the \-irtuous creature, that hath the 
 jealous fool to her husband ! — I suspect without 
 
 oause, mistress do 1 ? 
 
 11'2 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Heaven be my witness you do, if 
 you suspect me in any dishonesty. 
 
 Ford. Well saii'i, brazen-face! hold it out.— 
 Come forth, siiTah. 
 
 \ Pulls the clothes out of the hnktil 
 
 Page. Tliis passes ! 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Ai-e you not asham'd r let the clothes 
 alone. 
 
 Ford. I shall find you anon. 
 
 Eva. 'T is unreasonable ! Will you take up 
 yoiu- wife's clothes ? Come away. 
 
 Ford. Empty the basket, I say. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Why, man, why? 
 
 Ford. Master Page, as I am a man, there was 
 one convey'd out of my house yesterday in this 
 basket : Why may not he be there again ? In my 
 house I am sure he is : my intelligence is true : 
 my jealousy is reasonable. Pluck me out all the 
 linen. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. If you find a man there, he shaU die 
 a flea's death. 
 
 Page. Here 's no man here."''' 
 
 Slial. By my fidelity, this is not well, master 
 Ford ; this wrongs you. 
 
 Eva. Master Ford, you must pray, and not fol- 
 low the imaginations of y;ur own heart: tliis \t 
 jealousies. 
 
 Ford. Well, he 's not here I seek for. 
 
 Page. No, nor nowhere else, but in your brain. 
 
 Ford. Help to seai-ch my house this one time : 
 If I find not what I seek, show no colour for my 
 extremity; let me for ever be yoiir table-sport ; let 
 them say of me, As jealous as Ford, that search'd 
 a hollow walnut for his wife's leman.'" Satisfy 
 me once more ; once more search with me. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. What hoa, mistress Page ! come you, 
 and the old woman, down ; my husband wiU come 
 into the chamber. 
 
 Ford. Old woman ! What old woman 's that ? 
 
 Mrs. Ford. "\^Tiy, it is my maid's aunt, of Brent- 
 ford. 
 
 Ford. A ■^\-itch, a quean, an old cozening quean ! 
 Have I not forbid her my liouse ? She comes o. 
 en-ands, docs she ? Wo arc simple men ; we do 
 not know what 's brought to pass under the pro- 
 fession of fortuno-tcUing. She works by charms, 
 by spells, by tlic figure, and such dauhery as this is ; 
 beyond our element : we know nothing. — Come 
 down, you wituh, you hag you; come down, 1 
 say. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Kay, good, sweet husband;— good 
 gentlemen let him not strike the old womiui.
 
 TKE MEREY "WIVES OP WIJSDSOE. 
 
 SCENE m. — iV. 
 
 Enie)- Yalstavf in woman's clothes, led by Mrs. Page. 
 
 3Trs. Page. Come, mother Prat, come, give mo 
 j-our hand. 
 
 Ford. I'W prathav : — Out of my door, you witch, 
 [beats him,'] you rag, you baggage, you polecat, you 
 ronyon ! "' out ! out ! I '11 conjure you, I '11 for- 
 lune-tcll you. \_Exit Falstaff. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Are you not asham d ? I think you 
 have kill'd the poor woman. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Nay, ho ^vill do it : — 'T is a goodly 
 credit for you. 
 
 Ford. Hang her, witch ! 
 
 Eva. By yea and no, I think, the 'oman is a 
 witch indeed : I like not when a 'oman has a great 
 peard ; I spy a great peard under her muffler. 
 
 Ford. "Will you follow, gentlemen ? I beseech 
 you, follow ; see but the issue of my jealousy : if 
 I cry out thus upon no traU, never trust me when 
 I open again. 
 
 Page. Let 's obey his humoiu- a little furtlicr : 
 Come, gentlemen. 
 
 [Exeunt Page, Foed, Shai., and Eva. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Trust me, he beat him most pitifully. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Nay, by the mass, that he did not ; 
 lie brat him most unpitifuUy, methought. 
 
 Mrs. Page. I '11 have the cudgel haUow'd, and 
 hung o'er the altar; it hath done meritorious 
 semee. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. "Wliat think you ? May we, wth the 
 warrant of womanhood, and the witness of a good 
 conscience, pursue him with any further revenge ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. The spirit of wantonness is, sure, 
 scar'd out of him ; if the devil have him not in fee- 
 simple, with fine and recovery, he will never, I 
 think, in the way of waste,"' attempt us again. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Shall wo tell our husbands how we 
 have serv'd him ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. Yes, by all moans ; if it be but to 
 scrape the figures out of your husband's brains. 
 If they can find in their hearts the poor unvirtuous 
 fat knight shall bo any further afflicted, we two 
 \vill stUl be the ministers. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. I '11 warrant they '11 have him pub- 
 licly sham'd ; and, methinks, there would be no pe- 
 riod to the jest,"" should he not be publicly sham'd. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Come, to the forge with it then ; 
 shape it : I would not have things cool. \_Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III.— ^ Room in the Garter Inn. 
 
 Enter Host and Bakdolph. 
 Bard. Sir the Germans desire to have three of 
 
 13 
 
 your horses: the duke himself wiU be to-morrow 
 at court, and they are going to meet him. 
 
 Host. What dulce should that be comes so se- 
 cretly ? I hoar not of him in tho court. Let mo 
 speak with the gentlemen ; they speak English? 
 
 Jiard. Ay, sir; I 'U call them to you. 
 
 Most. They shall have my horses ; but I '11 make 
 them pay ; I '11 sauce them : they have had my 
 houses a week at command ; I have tuiTi'd away 
 my other guests : they must come off; "' I '11 sauco 
 them: Come. [Exeun/. 
 
 SCENE IT.— ^ Room in Ford's JTouse. 
 
 Enter Page, Foed. Mm. Pace, Mus. Ford, and 
 Sib Hugh Evaxs. 
 
 Em. 'T is one of the pest discretions of a 'oman 
 as ever I did look upon. 
 
 Page. And did he send you both these letters at 
 an instant ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. Within a quarter of an hour. 
 
 Ford. Pardon me, wife: Henceforth do what 
 thou wilt ; 
 I rather will suspect the sun with cold 
 Than thee with wantonness : now doth thy honour 
 
 stand, 
 In hiin that was of late an heretic. 
 As firm as faith. 
 
 Page. 'T is well, 't is well ; no more : 
 
 Be not as extreme in submission 
 As in ofi'ence ; 
 
 But let our plot go forward : let our wives 
 Yet once again, to make us public sport, 
 Appoint a meeting with this old fat fellow. 
 Where we may take him, and disgrace him for it. 
 
 Ford. There is no better way than that they 
 spoke of. 
 
 Page. How ! to send him word they '11 meet 
 him in the park at midnight ? Fie, fie ; he '11 
 never come. 
 
 Eva. You say, he has peen thrown in the rifers ; 
 and has peen grievously peaton, as an old 'oman ; 
 methinks, there should pe terrors in him that he 
 should not come ; methinks, his flesh is pxmish'd, 
 he shall have no desires. 
 
 Page. So think I too. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Devise but how you 'U use hira 
 when he comes. 
 And let us two devise to bring him thiiher. 
 
 Mrs. Page. There is an old tale goes, that 
 
 Heme the hunter. 
 
 Sometime a keeper here in Windsor forest' ' 
 
 113
 
 T1£E MERR^ WIVES OF WINDSOE. 
 
 8CENB V 
 
 Doth all the winter-time, at stUl midnight, 
 Wallc round about an oak, with great ragg'd 
 
 horns; 
 And there he blasts the tree, and takes the 
 
 cattle ; '" 
 And makes mUch-kine yield blood, and shakes a 
 
 chain 
 In a most hideous and dreadful manner : 
 Yoa have heard of such a spirit; and well you 
 
 know, 
 The superstitious idle-headed eld 
 Eeceiv'd, and did deKver to our age, 
 This tale of Heme the hunter for a truth. 
 
 Page. TVli}^, j-et there want not many that do 
 
 fear 
 In deep of night to walk by this Heme's oak : 
 But what of this ? 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Marry, this is our device; 
 
 That FalstafF at that oak shall meet with us, 
 Disguis'd like Heme, •with huge horns on his 
 
 head. 
 Paye. Well, let it not be doubted but he'll 
 
 come. 
 And in this shape : "When you have brought him 
 
 thither, 
 Wlat shall be done with him? what is your plot? 
 Mrs. Page. That likewise have we thought 
 
 upon, and thus : 
 Nan Page my daughter, and my little son, 
 And three or four more of their growth, we'll 
 
 dress 
 LOic urchins, ouplics,'"* and i;iii-ics, green and 
 
 white, 
 With rounds of waxen tapers on their heads, 
 And rattles in their hands; upon a sudden, 
 As F;Jstaff, she, and I, are newly met, 
 Let them from forth a sawpit rush at once 
 With some diffused song ; upon their sight, 
 We two in great amazedness will fly : 
 Then let them aU cneu'cle him about, 
 And, fairy-like, to-pineh the unclean knight ; 
 And ask him, why, that hour of fairy revel, 
 In their so sacred paths he dares to tread, 
 Id shape profane. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Ajid tUl ho tcU the tmth. 
 
 Let the supposed fairies pinch liim sound, 
 And bum him with their tapers. 
 
 Ifrs. Page. The truth being knoTNTi, 
 
 We '11 aU present ourselves ; dis-horn the spirit. 
 And mock liim home to Windsor. 
 
 Ford. The children must 
 
 Be practis'd well to this, or tliey'll ne'er do't. 
 114 
 
 Fva. I wiU teach the childi'en their behaviours 
 and I wUl be like a jack-an-apes also, to bum t!if 
 knight -witli my taber. 
 
 Ford. That •n-ill be excellent. I 'U go buy then; 
 vizards. 
 
 Mrs. Page. My Wan shaU be the queen of all 
 the fairies, 
 Finely attired in a robe of white. 
 
 Page. That sUk wiU I go buy! — and in that 
 time 
 Shall master Slender steal my Nan away, \_Aside. 
 And marry her at Eton. — Go, send to Falstoff 
 straight. 
 Ford. Nay, I '11 to him again, in name of Brook; 
 He '11 tell me aU his purpose : Sm-e, he 'U come. 
 Mrs. Page. Fear not you that : Go, get us pro- 
 perties,'" 
 And tricking fur our fairies. 
 
 Eva Let us about it : It is admirable pleasures, 
 and fery honest knaveries. 
 
 [_Exe'unt Page, Ford, and Evans. 
 Mrs. Page. Go, mistress Ford, 
 Send quickly to sir John, to know tiis mind. 
 
 [Exit Mus. Ford. 
 I'll to the doctor ; lie hath my good will. 
 And none but he, to marry with Nan Page. 
 That Slender, though well landed, is an idiot ; 
 And he my husband best of aU afTects : 
 The doctor is well money' d, and his friends 
 Potent at court ; he, none but he, shall have her. 
 Though twenty thousand wcrthier come to crave her. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 SCENE v.— ^ Room in the Garter Inn. 
 Enter Host and SrarLE. 
 
 IPost. WTiat wouldst thou have, boor? what, 
 thiokskin? speak, breathe, discuss; brief, short, 
 quick, snap. 
 
 Sim. Many, sir, I come to speak with sir John 
 Falstaff from master Slender. 
 
 ITost. There 's his chamber, his house, his castle, 
 his standing-bed, and truckle-bed ; "' 't is painted 
 about with the story of the prodigal, fresh and 
 new : Go, knock and call ; he 'U speak lilie an 
 Anthropophaginian unto thee : Knock, I say. 
 
 Sim. There 's an old woman, a fat woman, gone 
 up into his chamber : I 'U be so bold as stay, sir 
 till she come down; I come to speak with her 
 indeed. 
 
 Host. Ha! a fat woman 1 the knight may bu 
 robb'd : I 'U call.— Bully knight ! Bidly sir John ' 
 spe.nk from thy lungs military: Art thou there J 
 it is thine host, thine Ephesian,'" calla
 
 THE MEltllY WIVES OF WINDSOE, 
 
 Fal. \_aloi-e.'\ How now, mine host ? 
 
 Host. Hero 's a Bohcini'ui-Tartur tarries the 
 coming do-\vn of thy fat woman, ijct her descend, 
 biilly, let her descend ; my chambers are hononr- 
 nble : Fie ! privacy ? fie ! 
 
 Enter Faistapf 
 
 Fal. There was, mine host, a.\ old fat woman 
 even now with me ; but she 's gone. 
 
 Sim. Pray you, sir, was 't not tlie wise woman 
 of Brentford ' 
 
 Fill. Ay, marry, was it, muscle-shell : A^Tiat 
 would you ^^'ith licr ? 
 
 Sim. My master, sir, my master Slender, sent 
 to her, seeing her go tlu'ough the streets, to know, 
 sir, whether one NjTii, sir, that boguil'd him of a 
 chain, had the chain, or no. 
 
 Fal. I spake with the old woman about it. 
 
 Sim. And what says she, I pray, sir ^ 
 
 Fal. Marry, she says that the very same man 
 ihat beguil'd master Slender of his chain cozen'd 
 him of it. 
 
 Sim. I would I could have spoken with the 
 woman herself: I had other things to have spoken 
 with her too, from him. 
 
 Fal. What are they ? let us know. 
 
 Host. Ay, come ; quick. 
 
 Sim. I may not conceal them, sir. 
 
 Ilost. Conceal them, or thou diest. 
 
 Sim. \(\\j, sir, they were nothing but about 
 niistress Anne Page ; to know if it were my mas- 
 ter's forhme to have her, or no. 
 
 F(d. 'T is, 't is his fortune. 
 
 Sim. Wliat, sir ? 
 
 Fal. To have her,— or no : Go ; say, the woman 
 told me so. 
 
 Sim. May I be bold to say so, sir ? 
 
 Fal. Ay, sir Tike ; "° who more bold ? 
 
 Sim. I thank your worship : I shall make my 
 master glad with those tidings. [Exit Sim. 
 
 Host. Thou art clerkly, thou art clcrldy, sir 
 John : Was there a wise woman with thee ? 
 
 Fal. Ay, that there was, mine host; one that 
 hath taught me more wit than ever I leam'd 
 before in my life; and I paid nothiug for it 
 •loither, but was paid for my learning. 
 
 Enter BiiDoi.m. 
 
 Bard. Out, alas, sir ! cozenage ! mere cozenage. 
 Hod. Where \i« my horses? speak well of them, 
 •Tirletto. 
 
 Bard. Eun awav with the cozeners : for so soon 
 
 as I came beyond Eton, tliey threw mo off, froir 
 behind one of them, in a slough of mire ; and set 
 spurs and away, like three German devils, throe 
 doctor Faustuses. 
 
 Host. Tiiey are gone but to meet the duke, vil» 
 lain : do not say they bo fled ; Germans are honesi 
 men. 
 
 Enter Sib Hugh Evaks. 
 
 Eva. Where is mine host ? 
 
 Jlosi. What is the matter, sir ? 
 
 Eva. Have a care of your entertainments : thern 
 is a friend of mine come to town, tells mo there is 
 three coiiziu germans, that has conzen'd all the 
 hosts of Eoadings, of Maidenhead, of C'olcbrook, of 
 horses and money. I teU you for good-will, look 
 you : you are wise, and full of gibes and viouting- 
 stogs ; and 't is not convenient you should be 
 cozened : Fare you well. [Exit. 
 
 Enter De. Caixts. 
 
 Cains. Vere is mine host de Jarterre ? 
 
 Host. Here, master doctor, in pcri)lcxity, and 
 doubtful dilenima. 
 
 Caiits. I cannot tcU vat is dat : But it is teU-a 
 me, dat you midce grand preparation for a duke di 
 Jarmany : by my trot, dare is no duke dat de court 
 is know to come : I tell you for good vill : adieu. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Host. Hue and cry, villain, go : — assist me, 
 knight ; I am undone : fly, nm, hue and cry, 
 villain ! I am undone I [Exeunt Host and Bajsd. 
 
 Fal. I would all the world might be cozened : 
 for I have been cozened and beaten too. If it 
 should come to the ear of the coiu-t, how I have 
 been transformed, and how my transformation hath 
 been wash'd and cudgell'd, they would melt me out 
 of my fat, drop by drop, and liquor fishermen's 
 boots ■with me. I warrant, tho}- would whip me 
 ^vith their fine wits, till I were as crest-fall'n as a 
 dried pear. I never prospcr'd since I forswore 
 myself at primcro."' Well, if my wind were but 
 long enough to say my prayers, I would repent. — 
 
 Enter Mistress QtncKi-T. 
 Xow ! whence come you ? 
 
 Quick. From the two parties, forsooth. 
 
 Fal. The devil take one party, and his dam the 
 other, and so they shall be both bestowed ! I have 
 sufter'd more for their sakes, more than the vil- 
 lainous inconstancy of man's disposition is able to 
 bear. 
 
 Quicl;. And have not they sufTer'd ? Yes, J 
 
 115
 
 THE MERKY "WIVES OF WINDSOK. 
 
 SCSKE VI. 
 
 Hrarrant ; speciously one of them ; mistress Ford, 
 good heart, is beaten black and blue, that you can- 
 not see a -white spot about her. 
 
 Fal. "WTiat tcll'st thou me of black and blue ? I 
 was beaten myself into aU the colours of the rain- 
 bow ; and I was Kke to be apprehended for the 
 witch of Brentford ; but that my admii-able dex- 
 terity of wit, my counterfeiting the action of an old 
 woman, dcliver'd me, the knave constable had set 
 me i' th' stocks, i' the common stocks, for a witch. 
 
 Quick. Sir, let me speak with you in your cham- 
 ber : you shall hear how things go ; and, I war- 
 rant, to your content. Here is a letter will say 
 somewhat. Good hearts, what ado here is to bring 
 you together! Sure, one of you docs not serve 
 heaven well that j'ou are so crossed. 
 
 Fal. Come up into my chamber. \_Exeunt. 
 
 SCEIS'E VI. — Another Room in the Garter Inn. 
 Enter Fentox and Host. 
 
 Ilost. Master Fenton, talk not to me ; my mind 
 is heavy, I wiU give over all. 
 
 Fent. Yet hear me speak: Assist me in my 
 purpose, 
 And, as I am a gentleman, I 'U give thee 
 A hundred pound in gold, more than your loss. 
 
 Host. I will hear you, master Feuton; and I 
 will, at the least, keep your counsel. 
 
 Fent. From time to time I have acquainted you 
 With the dear love I bear to fair Anne Page ; 
 Who, mutually, hath answerd my affection, 
 (So far-forth as herself might be her chooser,) 
 Even to my wish : I have a letter from her 
 Of such contents as you will wonder at ; 
 The mirth whereof so larded with my matter. 
 That neither, singly, can bo manifested, 
 Without the show of botli, — wherein fat Falstaflf 
 Ilath a great scene : the image of the jest 
 I '11 show you here at large. Hark, good mine 
 host : 
 
 116 
 
 To-night, at Heme's oak, just 'twixt twelve and 
 
 one. 
 Must my sweet Nan present the fairy queen : 
 The purjrose why, is here ; in which disguise, 
 While other jests are something rank on foot, 
 Her father hath commanded her to slip 
 Away with Slender, and with him at Eton 
 Immediately to marry : she hath consented : 
 Now, sir. 
 
 Her mother, even strong against that match, 
 And firm for doctor Caius, hath appointed 
 That he shall like^vise shuffle her away, 
 "WTiile other sports are tasking of their minds, 
 And at the dean'ry, where a priest attends. 
 Straight marry her: to this her mother's plot 
 She, seemingly obedient, likewise hath 
 Made promise to the doctor. — Now thus it rests : 
 Her father means she shall be all in white ; 
 And in that habit, when Slender sees his time 
 To take her by the hand, and bid her go, 
 She shall go with him : her mother hath intended - 
 The better to denote her to the doctor, 
 (For they must all be mask'd and vizarded,) 
 That, quaint in green, she shall be loose enrob'd, 
 With ribands pendant, flaring 'bout her head; 
 And when the doctor spies his vantage ripe, 
 To pinch her by the hand, and, on that token. 
 The maid hath given consent to go with him. 
 Rod. Wliich means she to deceive ? father o« 
 
 mother ? 
 Frnit. Both, my good host, to go along with me : 
 And here it rests, — that you '11 procure the vicar 
 To stay for me at church, 'twixt twelve and one. 
 And, in the lawfid name of marrying. 
 To give our hearts united ceremony. 
 
 Hod. Well, husband your device ; I 'U to tlK 
 
 vicar: 
 Bring you the maid, you shall not lack a priest. 
 Fent. So shall I evermore be bound to thee ; 
 Besides, I '11 make a present recompense. 
 
 [ Exciini 
 
 ..— -"'.-^-"-^
 
 THE MEllliY WIVES OF WINDSOJi. 
 
 SCENE L — UL 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE l.—A Room in the Garter Inn. 
 Enter Falsiaff and Mes. Quickly. 
 
 Fal. Prithee, no more prattling: — go. I '11 
 hold:'*" This is the third time; I hope, good luck 
 liea in odd numbers. Away, go ; they say there 
 is divinity in odd numbers, either in nativity, 
 chance, or death. — Away. 
 
 Quick I 'U proWde you a chain : and I '11 do 
 what I can to get you a pair of horns. 
 
 Fal. Away, I say ; time wears : hold up your 
 head, and mince.'" l_Exit 3Ies. Quickly. 
 
 Enter Foiid. 
 
 How now, master Brook? Master Brook, the 
 matter will bo loiown to-night, or never. Be 
 you in the park about midnight, at Heme's oak, 
 and you shall see wonders. 
 
 Forif. "Went you not to her j-estcrday, sir, as 
 you told rae you had appointed? 
 
 Fal. I went to her, master Brook, as you see, 
 like a poor old man : but I came from her, master 
 Brook, like a poor old woman. That same knave. 
 Ford, her husband, hath the finest mad devil of 
 jealousy in him, master Brook, that ever govem'd 
 frenzy. I wiU teli you : — he beat me grievouslj-, 
 in the shape of a woman ; for in the shape of man, 
 master Brook, I fear not Goli;;h with a weaver's 
 beam ; because I know also, Kfe is a shuttle. I 
 am in haste ; go along with me ; I 'U tell you all. 
 master Brook. Since I pluck'd geese, played 
 iTuant, and whipp'd top, I knew not what 't was 
 to be beaten, tUl lately. Follow me : I 'U tell you 
 strange things of this knave Ford : on whom to- 
 night I wUl bo revenged, and I will deliver his 
 wife into your hand. — Follow: Strange things in 
 band, master Brook ! foUow. \_Fxeunt. 
 
 SCENE II.— Windsor Park. 
 Enter Page, Shallow, and Slemdee. i 
 
 I'affe. Come, come ; we '11 couch i' the castle- 
 ditch, till we see the light of our fairies. — Remem- 
 ber son Slender, my daughter. 
 
 Skn. Ay, forsooth ; I have spoke with her, Ln<l 
 we have a nay-word, how to know one another 
 I come to her in white, and cry wiMm,-"" she cries 
 ludf/el ; and by that wo know one another. 
 
 Shal. That 's good too : but what needs either 
 yonr mum, or licr liuhjet ? tlie white will decipher 
 her well enough. — It hath struck ten o'clock. 
 
 Poije. The night is dark ; light and spirits will 
 become it well. Heaven prosper our sport ! No 
 man means evU but the devil, and we shall know 
 him by his hoiT.s. Let's away; follow me. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III.— ^ street in Windsor. 
 Enter Mrs. Page, Mrs. Ford, and De. Caius. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Master doctor, my daughter is in 
 green : when you see your time, take her by the 
 hand, away with her to the dcancrr, and despatch 
 it quickly : Go before into the park; we two ma-it 
 go together. 
 
 Caius. I know vat I have to do : Adieu. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Fare you well, sir. [^Exit C.Arus.] 
 M}- husband will not rejoice so much at the 
 abuse of Falstaff, as he will chafe at the doctor's 
 marrj-ing my daughter: but 't is no matter; better 
 a little chiding, than a great deal of heartbreak. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Where is Nan now, and her troop 
 of fairies ? and the Welsh devil, Hugh ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. They are all couch'd in a pit hard 
 by Heme's oak, with obscm-'d liglits; which, at 
 the very instant of Falstaff's and our meeting, 
 they will at once display to the night. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. That cannot choose but amaze him. 
 
 Mrs. Page. If he bo not amaz'd, he wUl b< 
 mock'd ; if he be amaz'd, he will every way be 
 mock'd. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. We 'U betray him finely. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Against sucli lewdstcrs,'" and (hoil 
 Icchcrj-, 
 Those that betray them do no treachery. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. The hour draws on Tc the oak 
 to the oak I [Ejeutit. 
 
 117
 
 T3E ilEKfiY WIVES OF WLSTDSOR. 
 
 SCENIS tV.- 
 
 SCENE IV — Windsor Park. 
 
 Enter Sir Hugh Evaxs and Faeeies. 
 
 Eva. Trib, tiib, fairies; come; and remember 
 
 your parts : pe pold, I pray you ; follow mc into 
 
 the pit ; and -when I give the watch-'ords, do as I 
 
 [)id you ; Come, come ; trib, trib. ^^^Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE 1' .—Another part of the Park. 
 
 Enter Faxstaff, disguised ivith a htick's head on. 
 
 Fal. The Windsor bell hath struck twelve ; the 
 minute draws on : Now, the hot-blooded gods as- 
 sist me : — Kemember, Jove, thou wast a bull for 
 thy Europa ; love set on thy horns. powerful 
 love I that, in some respects, makes a beast a man ; 
 in some other, a man a beast. You were also, Jupi- 
 ter, a swan, for the love of Loda : — 0, omnipotent 
 love ! how ne.^^ the god drew to the complexion 
 of a goose ! — A fault done first in the form of a 
 Dcast ; — Jove, a beastly fault ! and then another 
 fault in the semblance of a fowl; think on't, Jove; a 
 foul fault. ^\nien gods have hot backs, what shall 
 poor men do ? For me, I am here a AVindsor 
 stag ; and the fattest, I think, i' the forest : Send 
 me a cool rat-time, '" Jove, or who can blame me 
 to piss my tallow ? who comes here ? my doe ? 
 
 Enter Mrs. Fokd and Mrs. Page. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Sir John ? art thou there, my deer ? 
 my male deer ? 
 
 Fal. My doe with the black scut ! — Let the sky 
 luLu potatoes;"^ let it thunder to the tune of 
 ' Green Sieves ;' hail Idssing-comfits, and snow 
 cringoes ; let there come a tempest of provocation, 
 I will shelter me here. \_Emlracing her. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Mistress Page is come with me, 
 sweetheart. 
 
 Fal. Divide me like a brib"d-buck,"'' each a 
 Imunch : I will keep my sides to myself, my 
 shoulders for the fellow of this walk, and my horns 
 I bequeath your husbands. Am I a woodman ? 
 lia ! Sjicak I like Heme the hunter ? — Wh}-, now 
 is Cupid a child of conscience ; he makes restitu- 
 tion. As I am a true spirit, welcome ! 
 
 \_NoiM within. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Alas ! what noise ! 
 
 Mrs. Ford. Heaven forgive our sins ! 
 
 Fal. What should this be ■: 
 
 Mrs. Ford. ( . , _ „, _ 
 
 ,, „ ! .'Vway, away! Iheti run off. 
 
 Mrs. Page. ) J' J l j m 
 
 Fal. I think th? de\-il will not have me damn'd, 
 
 lest the oil that's in me should set hcU on fire ; 
 
 he would never else cross mc thus 
 
 \18 
 
 ^«<er Sir Hugh EvAUS, like a satyr; Mas. Quick.,-/, 
 and Pistol ; Anne Page, as the Fairy Queen 
 attended Ig her brother and otheis, dressed lib 
 fairies, with waxen tapers on tlieir heads. 
 
 Atme. Fairies, black, grey, green, and white,''-' 
 You moonshine revellers, and shades of night, 
 You orphan heirs of fixed destiny,'** 
 Attend your office and your quality. 
 Crier Hobgoblin, make the fairy eyes. 
 
 Pist. Elves, list your names; silence, you airy 
 
 toys. 
 Cricket, to Windsor chimneys shalt thou leap : 
 AATicro fires thou find'st unrak'd, and heartlts 
 
 unswept, 
 There pinch the maids as blue as bilberry:"' 
 Our radiant queen hates sluts and sluttery. 
 
 Fal. They are fiiiries ; he that speaks to them 
 
 shall die : 
 I 'U wink and couch : no man their works must 
 
 eye. [_Zies down upon his face. 
 
 Eva. Where's Bead ? — Go you, and where yuu 
 
 find a maid, 
 That, ere she sleep, has thrice her prayers said. 
 Kaise up the organs of her fanttey,'*' 
 Sleep she as sound as careless infancj' ; 
 But those as sleep and think not on their sins, 
 Pinch them, arms, legs, backs, shoulders, side; 
 
 and shins. 
 Anne. About, about; 
 Search Windsor-castle, elves, within and out: 
 Sti'cw good luck, ouphes, on every sacred room ; 
 That it may stand till the pei-petual doom. 
 In state as wholesome, as in state 't is fit; 
 Worthy the owner, and the owner it. 
 The several chairs of order look you scour 
 With juice of balm, and every precious flower: 
 Each fair instalment, coat, and sev'ral crest, 
 With loyal blazon evermore be bless'd ! 
 And nightly, meadow-fairies, look, you sing, 
 Like to the Garter's compass, in a ring : 
 Th' expressure that it bears, green let it be, 
 More fertile-fresh than all the field to see ; 
 And, Hong soil qui mal g jyense, write, 
 In cmrold tuffs,'" flowers purple, blue, an^ 
 
 whit*: 
 Like sapphire, pearl, and rich cmbroideiy, 
 Buckled below fair knighthood's bending knee : 
 Fairies use flowers for their charactciy. 
 Away ; disperse : But till 't is one o'clock, 
 Our dance of custom, round about the oak 
 Of Heme the hunter, let us not forget.
 
 ACr V. 
 
 THE MEIUIY WIVES OF WINDSOE. 
 
 scim: V. 
 
 Ji'ra. Pray you, lock hand in hand ; yourselves 
 in order set : 
 And twenty glow-worms shall our lanterns bo, 
 To guide our measure round about tlie tree. 
 But, Btay : I smell a man of middle-earth.'*' 
 /"((/. Heavens defend me from that Welsh 
 fairy. 
 Lest he transfonn mo to a piece of cheese ! 
 Fist. Vild worm, thou wast o'erlook'd even in 
 
 thy birth. '^^ 
 Amie. With trial-fire touch me his finger-end. 
 If he be chaste, the flame will back descend. 
 And turn him to no pain ; but if he start, 
 ft is the flesh of a corrupted heart. 
 Fiat. A trial, come. 
 Uva. Come, will this wood take fire ? 
 
 \_They hum him tcith their tapers. 
 Fal. Oh, oh, oh ! 
 
 Anne. CoiTupt, comipt, and tainted in desire ! 
 \bout him, fairies ; sing a scomfid rhyme ; 
 Ind, as you trip, stiU pirich him to youi' time.'"' 
 SOXG. 
 Fie on sinful fantasy ! 
 Fie on lust and luxury !'•" 
 Lust is but a bloody fire, 
 Kindled with unchaste desire, 
 Fed in heart ; whose flames aspire. 
 As thoughts do blow them, Iiighcr and higher. 
 Pinch him, fairies, mutually ; 
 Pinch him for his villainy ; 
 Pinrh him, and bum him, and turn him about, 
 Tin candles, and stai'Ught, and moonshine be out. 
 
 Thiring this sonj tho fairies 2}inch FiLSTirF. 
 Doctor Catos comes one way, and steals a fairy 
 in green ; Slendeb another icay, and takes off a 
 fairy in white ; and Fenion cotnes, and steals 
 away Mits. Anne Page. A noise of hunting is 
 made within. All the fairies run away. Falstaff 
 pulls off his buck's head, and rises.'\ 
 
 Enter Page, Fokd, Mrs. Page, and Mrs. Fobd. 
 They lay hold on him. 
 
 Page. Nay, do not fly; I think, we have watch'd 
 you now : 
 Will none but Heme the hunter senx your turn ? 
 iilis. Page. I pray you, come ; hold up the jest 
 no higher : 
 •.ow, good sir John, how like you Windsor wives? 
 •cc you tlicse, husband ? do not those fair yokes'*' 
 Uecuine the forest better than the town ? 
 
 Ford. Now, sir, who 's a cuckold now ? — Mas- 
 ter Brook, Falstaff 's a knave, a ctiekoldly knave ; 
 here are Ids horns, master lirook : And masier 
 
 Brook, he hath enjoyed notliing of Fc^^'8 bat his 
 buck-basket, his cudgel, and twenty pounds Oi 
 money, which must be paid to mast(?r Urook ; his 
 horses are arrested for it, master Erook. 
 
 3Irs. Ford. Sir John, we have had ill luck ; W8 
 could never meet. I will never take you for my 
 love again, but I wUl always coimt you my deer. 
 
 Fd. I do begin to perceive that I am mado 
 an ass. 
 
 Ford. Ay, and an o.x too ; both the proofs are 
 extant. 
 
 Fal. And these are not fairies ? I was three or 
 four times in tho thought tliey were not fairies : 
 and yet tho guiltiness of my mind, the sudden sur- 
 prise of my powers, drove the grossness of tho 
 foppery into a receiv'd belief, in despite of the 
 teeth of aU rhjrme and reason, that they were 
 fairies. See now, how wit may bo made a Jack-a 
 lent, when 't is upon ill emplo}Tnent. 
 
 Eva. Sir John Falstaff, serve Got, and leave 
 your desires, and fairies wiU. not pinse you. 
 
 Ford. Well said, fair}- Hugh. 
 
 Eva. And leave you your jealousies too, 1 pra) 
 you. 
 
 Ford. I wiU never mistrust my wife again, till 
 thou art able to woo her in good English. 
 
 Fal. Have I laid ni)- brain in the sun, and 
 dried it, that it wants matter to prevent so grcra 
 o'errcaching as tliis ? Am I ridden with a Wtlch 
 goat too ? Sha'J I have a coxcomb of frize : '" 
 'T is time I were cliok'd with a piece of toasted 
 cheese. 
 
 Eva. Seese is not good to give putter ; j-oui 
 pelly is all putter. 
 
 Fal. Seese and putter ! liave I liv'd to stand at 
 the tatint of one that makes fritters of English ? 
 This is enough to be tlio dcoaj- of lust and htte- 
 walking through the realm. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Why, sir John, do you think, though 
 we would liave thrust ^-irtue out of our hearts by 
 the head and shoulders, and have given ourselves 
 without scruple to hell, that ever the devil could 
 have made you our delight ? 
 
 F'ord. What, a hodge-pudding : "* a bag of flax 
 
 Mrs. Page. A puff'd man ? 
 
 Page. Old, cold, wither" d, and of intolerable 
 entrails ? 
 
 Ford. And one that is as slanderous as tfaian ? 
 
 Page. And as poor as Job ? 
 
 Ford. And as wicked as his wife ? 
 
 Eva. And given to fornications, and to taverns 
 
 and sack, and wine, and mctheglins, and to diink 
 
 119
 
 THE MEJIEY WIVES OF WINDSOK. 
 
 BOESE V. 
 
 irigs, arid s^vcarings, and staiings, pribbles and 
 prabbles ? 
 
 Fal. "Well, I am your theme : you have the 
 start of me ; I am dejected ; I am not able to 
 answer the Welch flannel : ignorance itself is a 
 plummet o'er me ;'" use me as you ■will. 
 
 Ford, ilarry, sir, we '11 bring you to Windsor, 
 to one master Brook, that you have cozen' d of 
 money, to whom you should have been a pander : 
 over and above that you have sufFcr'd, I tliink, to 
 repaj- that money will be a biting affliction. 
 
 Faffe. Yet be cheerful, knight : thou shalt eat a 
 posset to-night at my house ; where I will desire 
 thee to laugh at my wife that now laughs at thee : 
 Tell her master Slender hath married her daughter. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Doctors doubt that ; if Anne Page 
 be my daughter, she is, by this, doctor Caius' wife. 
 
 \_Aside. 
 
 Enter Slender. 
 
 Slen. A^^loo,.ho! ho! father Page ! 
 
 Page. Son ! how now ? how now, son ? have 
 you despatch'd ? 
 
 Slen. Despatch'd ! — I 'li make the best in Glo- 
 ccstershu-e know on 't ; would I were hang'd, la 
 else. 
 
 Page. Of what, son ? 
 
 Slen. I came yonder at Eton to many mistress 
 Anne Page, and she 's a great lubberly boy. If it 
 had not been i' the church, I would have swing'd 
 him, or he shoiild have smng'd me. If I did not 
 think it had been Anne Page, would I might never 
 stir, and 't is a post-master's boy. 
 
 Page. Upon my life then you took the ■wrong. 
 
 Slen. What need you teU me that ? I think so, 
 when I took a boy for a girl : If I had been 
 married to him, for aU he was in woman's apparel, 
 I would not have had him. 
 
 Page. Why, this is j-our own foUy. Did not I 
 tell j-ou how you should know ray daughter by her 
 garments ? 
 
 Slen. I went to her in white, and cried mum, 
 and she cried liulget, as Anne and I had appointed ; 
 and j-et it was not Anne, but a post-master's boy ! 
 
 Jfrs. Page. Good George, be not angry : I knew 
 of your pui-pose ; tum'd my daughter into green ; 
 and, indeed, she is now witli th: doctor at the 
 tleanerj-, and there married. 
 
 Enter Caitts. 
 
 Cai'uf. Vere is mistr(»s Page ? I3c gar, 1 am 
 cozened; I ha' nianic^d iin garcon, a hoy: iw 
 
 79(, 
 
 paisan, be gar, a I oy ; it is not Anne Page : be 
 gar, I imi cozened. 
 
 Mrs. Page. "WTiy, did you take her in green ' 
 
 Caius. Ay, be gar, and 't is a boy ; be gar, I '11 
 raise all Windsor. [Exit Cah-s. 
 
 Ford. This is strange : Who hath got the ri ght 
 Anne ? 
 
 Page. My heart misgives me : Here comes mas- 
 ter Fenton. 
 
 E}iter Ffnton and Anne Page. 
 
 How now, master Fenton ? 
 
 Anne. Pardon, good father ! good my mother, 
 pai'don ! 
 
 Page. Now, mistress ? how chance you went 
 not with master Slender ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. Why went you not with mastei 
 doctor, maid ? 
 
 Fent. You do amaze™ her : Hear the truth 
 of it. 
 You would have married her most shamefully, 
 'UTiere there was no proportion held Li love. 
 The truth is, she and I, long since contracted. 
 Are now so sure that nothing can dissolve us. 
 Th' ofl'ence is holy that she hath oommitted : 
 And this deceit loses tlis name of craft, 
 Of disobedience, or undutcous title ; 
 Since therein she doth evitate and shun 
 A thousand iiTeligious cursed hours, 
 'Wliich forced marriage would have brought upon 
 her. 
 
 Ford. Stand not amaz'd : here is no remedj- : 
 In love, the heavens themselves do guide the state ; 
 Money buys lands, and wives are sold by fiite. 
 
 Fal. I am glad, though you have ta'en a special 
 stand to strike at me, that your arrow hath gianc'd. 
 
 Page. Well, what remedy ? Fenton, heaven 
 give thee joy ! 
 What cannot be esehew'd must he cmbi'ac'd. 
 
 Fal. AMicn night-dogs run, all sorts of deer are 
 chas'd. 
 
 Mrs. Page. Well, I will muse no further : mas- 
 ter Fcntcn, 
 Heaven give you many, many merry da3''8 ! 
 Good husband, let us every one go home, 
 And laugh this sport o'er by a country fire ; 
 Sir John and aU. 
 
 Ford. Let it be so : — Sir Jolm, 
 To master Erook you j-et shall hold your word • 
 For ho, to-night, shall lie with misiresR Ford. 
 
 lExeuju-
 
 NOTES TO THE MERRY AVIVES OF WINDSOR 
 
 ' Sir High, persuade me rot. 
 Clergymen foi-merly had the title of sir, from the Latin 
 dominies, to which any one is entitled who has taken the 
 degree of Bachelor of Arts. All priests were, in common 
 parlance. Sir Johns. The editor of the first sketch of the 
 [ilay, 1602, imi.ropcrly calls him "Syr llugh, the Welch 
 kniakt." 
 
 2 Justice of peace and coram. 
 
 Slender is generally spealcing by book, and here quotes 
 the legal form, coram being a common corruption of quorum, 
 A justice of quorum was so called from the words in the 
 commission, Quorum A. unum esse volumus. and he was of 
 gi-catcr dignity than those not cf the quorum, who could 
 not proceed without him. The corrupted form coram is 
 found in epitaphs, as in the chm'chos of Lacock, co. Wilts, 
 Tottenham, co. Bliddlese.^, itc. " And of the collections of 
 tlic sriatterings, a justice, tam Marti quam Mercuric, of 
 peace and coram," Pierce Pemiilessc, 1592. Cust-ahrum, 
 an abbreviation of custos rotutorum, the person who had the 
 care cf the rolls and records of the sessions and commission 
 jf the peace. Slender, not understanding this, ignorantly 
 says, " and ratolorum too ;" and adds that he signs himself 
 arrniijero. Ho had seen an indictment, " coram Roberto 
 Shallow armigcro et sociis suis custodibus pacis." 
 
 ^ Any time these three hundred years. 
 
 Mr. Kniglit thinks we are to understand Shallow as 
 wying, we (I and my ancestors) hare done so anytime 
 these three hundred years. Is it certain that Shakespeare 
 did not intend to raise a laugh at Shallow's expense, by 
 representing him as saying this literally in his anxiety to 
 boast of his ancestry ? Bishop Montagu mentions a person 
 who, in giving evidence on a question of tythes, swore, in 
 the bishop's healing, that he had known the place tytheablo 
 for three hundred years ! 
 
 The three hundred years mentioned by Shallow, accord- 
 ing to another authority, refer to the antiquity of the Lucy 
 familv, wlioso pedigree is deduced by Dugdale from the 
 ri-'igu of Richard I., a period of about four hundred years 
 before the play w as written ; but the family did not take 
 the name of Luey until the 34th of Ilcnry III., which 
 exactly corresponds viith the period .ibove stated. 
 
 * The dozen white luces. 
 There is here an e^ndent allusion to the family of the 
 '.ueyB of (iharleiKte, near Stratford-on-Avon. It wiis in 
 
 the park of this scat that Shakespeare is traditi inDll5 
 said to have stolen the deer : and on being persecuted oi 
 reprimanded by Sir Thomas Lucy on the occasion, he re- 
 venged himself by ^vriting a baUad commencing as follows, — 
 
 "A parliement member, a jn.stiee of peace. 
 At home a poor scare-crowe, at London an asso, 
 If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscalle it, 
 Then Lucy is lowsie whatever befall it : 
 He thinks himself greate, 
 • Yet an asso in his state. 
 
 We allow by his ears bat with asses to mate. 
 If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it, 
 Sing lowsie Lucy, whatever befall it." 
 
 These lines are as ancient as the time of Oldys, but are 
 undoubtedly not the genuine verses written by the poet. 
 The coat of the I.uey family contains three luces, not 
 twelve as blimderingly stated by Slender ; though the eeal 
 of one of the family, given by Dugdale, is quartered in 
 four divisions, with three fish in each. A luce is a pike, or. 
 more properly, a pike when full grown. This is the fresh 
 fish mentioned by Shallow, who is very anxious to explain 
 Evans' blunder, and therefore tells him the luce is the fresh 
 fish, but in his ancient coat of arms, a sea-water luce was 
 depicted. Shallow will not even have a fresh fieh in his 
 coat of aims, and hence the humour of his explanatoiy 
 observations. This explanation of the passage has not boon 
 suggested by any former editor. That there was a salt watei 
 luce appears from Stowe's Survey of London, 1598. who 
 mentions "luces of the sea." 
 
 5 A familiar beast lo man, and signifies love. 
 
 The compliment to this insect is not undesen'cd, being 
 one of the few animals that are eminent for fidelity to 
 man, never deserting, but being still more attached to him 
 in adversity. 
 
 ^ Tlie council shall hear it. 
 
 By the council is only meant the court of St-Ti-ehoinber, 
 composed chiefly of the king's council sitting in Camera 
 Stellata, which took cognizance of atrocious riots. Sir 
 John Harrington, in his Epigrams, IGIS, says, 
 
 " No man'el, men of such a sumptuous dyet 
 Were brought into the Star-Ch.-unber for a ryot" 
 
 Seo also the Magnetick Lady, act iii. sc. 4, and W.ilcne ! 
 Shakespeare by Boswell, riii. R, 13. 
 
 121
 
 NOTES TO THE MEllEY WniiS OF WINDSOR. 
 
 ' Take your vizaments in that. 
 
 \"lzaments, that is, adTisements or deliberations. " Having 
 i.n huge lake or portion of the sea in the niiddest of them, 
 which ia not Trithout perill to such as 'wnth small advisement 
 enter into the same," Harrisan's Description of Britaiue, 
 p. 33. 
 
 8 Ar.d speaks small like a woman. 
 To speak small was to speak in a gentle feminine voice. 
 "Somebody must cry 'murder" then, in a small voice," 
 Ben Jonson's Poetaster. So Chaucer, — 
 
 the company answered all. 
 
 With voice sweet entuncd, and so smaii, 
 That methought it the sweetest melody. 
 
 ^ Seven hundred pounds, and possibilities. 
 Pi smbJities is generally used for possessions. The M'ord 
 is well illustrated by a MS. in Dulwich College, dated 
 about 1610, being a letter from a suitor to a father for his 
 permission to woo the daughter, in which he says, — " I 
 ryette to you first this eisone, as Londoue fashcn is, to 
 mtrcte you that I may have yoiu- good will and your wiefs, 
 for if we geete the fathers good will first, then may wee 
 bolder spake to the dattcr, for my possebelctis is abel to 
 mantcyne her." 
 
 10 lie was outrun on Cotsall, 
 The Cotswold hills in Gloucestershire have long been 
 eminent for racing and coui'sing. An attorney of Barton on 
 the Heath of the name of Dover instituted annual amuse- 
 ments here in the time of James I., but the hills had 
 pre%'iou3jy obtained a sporting celebrity. One of them near 
 Campden is still called Dover's hill. A volume of poems on 
 these sports, entitled, " Annalia Dubrensia, upon the 
 yeerely Celebration of Mr. Eobert Dover's Olympick 
 Games upon Cotwold Hill?," appeared at London in 1636, 
 baving a representation of Dover on horseback in the lower 
 part of the frontispiece. The poet elsewhere mentions 
 "Will Squcle, a Cotswold man," as a famous swinge- 
 buckler. It is not generally kno-n-n that the Cotswold 
 games have been annually continued at "Viliitsuntide up to 
 the present time, the chief amusements being backsword- 
 playing, wrestling, horse, pony and donkey races for belts 
 and silver cups, purchased by subscription collected from 
 tho inhabitants of Campden, and the adjoining parishes, 
 the places where most of the competitors come from. 
 Some half century since, these people ranked high as 
 wrestlers and backsword pl.ayers, and the meeting w,a3 not 
 only looked forward to by them as the gi-eat holiday of tho 
 neighbourhood, but was well attended by all classes of 
 Bociety. Within tho last twenty years it has, however, 
 nmch deteriorated. It is true tliat backsword playing and 
 other amusements are still canicd on, but on a vci-y limited 
 Bcale ; and as the open fields of Weston Subedge are 
 abjut to bo enclosed, the present year (1850) has probably 
 Been the last vestige of the ' Cotswold Games.' 
 
 1' ' y is your fault. 
 That is, it is your misfortrino. I'auh is frequently used 
 in this sense by old writers. Shallow, v.'ith great kindness, 
 tries to console Pago in a matter to which Slender injudi- 
 niouflly persists in alluding. 
 122 
 
 '- But not hiss'd your keeper's daughter. 
 
 The commentators think this a burden of some oW 
 ballad. Sir Walter Scott gives us a different explanation 
 in his novel of ' Keiulworth ;' — 
 
 " Sussez. By my faith, I wish WUl Shakespeare no 
 harm. He is a stout man at quarter-staff, and single 
 falchion, though, as 1 am told, a halting ftUow : and he 
 stood, they say, a tough fight with the i angers of old Sii 
 Thomas Lucy, of Charlecot, when he broke his deer-park, 
 and kissed his keeper's daughter. 
 
 Elizabeth. That matter was he!.rd in council, and wc 
 will not have this fi;llow'3 offence exaggerate i — there was 
 no kissing in the matter, and the defendant put the denial 
 on record. 
 
 1^ lyit were knoivn in counsel. 
 Steevens suggests that Falstaff q\iibblc3 between council 
 and counsel. In this sense, Falstaff's meaning would be — 
 'Twere better for you if it were known only in secresy, i.e. 
 among yoiu' friends : a more public complaint would sub- 
 ject you to ridic-ule. llitson thinks the ordinary inter- 
 pretation just, but Malone adduces the spelling of the 
 words in the old quarto as an argument in favour ol 
 Steevens' reading; and, from a MS. mentioned by Malone, 
 it would seem that the equivoque was less strained then 
 than it appears to be now. 
 
 ^* Good worts .' good cabbage. 
 
 Worts wore any kind of pot-herbs, but here and in some 
 otlicr places, the term seems to apply only to coleworta oi 
 cabbages. " Jl'ourls, all kind of heaibcs that serve for thi 
 potte," Baret, 1580. 
 
 '5 Your coney-catching reseats. 
 Coney-catch, to cheat. An old cant term in common use 
 in Shakespeare's time. 
 
 '° You Banbury cheese. 
 
 Banbury cheese was remarkable for its thinness, and i:: 
 here very humorously applied to Slender. The elder Hcy- 
 wood obsen-es that he " never saw Banbury cheese thick 
 enough." The following receipt for malcing it, is extracted 
 from MS. Sloane 1201, a curious early miscellany presented 
 in the British Museum : — ■ 
 
 " To make Banbcry chese. Take a thin ches-fat, and 
 bote mylk as it comes from the cou, and ryn it forth withal 
 in somer t^Tue ; and kned your cruddz hot ones, and kned 
 them not to snial, bot brcko them ones with your hondez ; 
 and in somer tymc, salt tho cruddz nothj-ng, bot let the 
 chese lye iij. daycs imsalted, and then salt them ; and lav 
 oon upon another, but not to much salt ; and so shal they 
 gethir buftur. And in x\-)'ntur tynie in lyke wyse, bot then 
 bete your mylk, and salt your cruddz, for then it wil getbef 
 buttur of itself. Take the ^vnmge whey of the same mylk. 
 and let it stand a day or ij. til it have a ereiue, ard it slal 
 make as good buttur as any other." 
 
 Mephistophilis, the nan.e of tho spirit in tho old liiston 
 of Dr. Faustus. He had been made famous by Marlowe 
 
 1" Seven grmits in mill-siTpences. 
 
 Douce informs us that these sixpences were cometl ir 
 15G1, and were tlie fiist milled muncv used in tliis kiiigdam
 
 NOTES TO THE MERKY WIVES OF ■WINDSOR. 
 
 EdB'ard shovol -boards were the broad sliillings of Edward 
 VI., ofUn used at the game of shovel-board, an amusement 
 in \vfiich our poet participated, if we may buUovo the 
 tra.litiona of Stratford. The commentators are at consider- 
 able pains to account for tlie sum paid by Slender for these 
 shillings ; but it requires little sagacity to perceive that the 
 same person wio could aUinn that he lost seven groats in 
 Diill-sLxpences, would be vciy likely to commit another 
 eiTur of a similar kind. 
 
 Yciid Miller, that is, Edward JliUer. Yead or Yed is still 
 a pioviiiclal curt name for Edward. 
 
 '" I combat challenge of this latlen billio. 
 
 Pistol is comparing Slender \vith tie long and tliin 
 bUhoa blades, made of latejt, a hard metal resembling braes 
 in its coloiu-. The comparison is of older date, for in 
 Grange's Garden, 1577, we read, 
 
 " Hir husbandes wealth shall wasted be. 
 Upon hyr bUbowo boyes." 
 
 It may bo mentioned, as some difference of opinion eyjsts 
 among the commentators, that laten metal is thus defined in 
 the I'rjmplorium Parvuloriim, MS. Ilarl. 221, " Latone 
 metal, auricalcum." Cotgi-ave translates arcou, " a kind of 
 laten or copper, whereof kettles ai'e made." 
 
 Labras, lips. (Span.) Shakespeare might have met with 
 ihe word in the tale in Tarlton's Newcs out of Purgatorie, 
 1590, on which this comedy is supposed to be partially 
 founded. Marry trap, perhaps equivalent to, ' By Maiy, 
 you are caught;' but I have not met vsith the phrase 
 ebewhere. 
 
 i'^ /f you run the nuthook's humour on me. 
 
 That is, if you call me a thief. The nuthook was used 
 by the thief for hooking up articles through a ■window, a 
 practice which is again alluded to by Shakespeare. The 
 word humour was very fashionable in our author's time, and 
 used in a variety of ways, applied to every particularity of 
 character. A character in lien Jensen's ' Eveiy Man out 
 of his Humour' says of another, " 'SMiy, this fellow's dis- 
 course were nothing but for the word humour." The reply 
 is in the spirit of true comedy. " bear with him ; an he 
 should lack matter and words too, 'twere pitiful." 
 
 2" What say you, scarlet mtd John. 
 
 Falstaff here alludes to Eardolph's red face. Scarlet and 
 John, in the phraseology of the time, would be equivalent 
 to scarlet John. The commentators, however, say there is 
 an allusion to Eobin Hood's companions, mentioned in the 
 old ballad, — 
 
 All this be-heard three witty yoimg men, 
 Twas Robin Uo'od, Scarlet and John : 
 
 With that they espy'd the joUy pinder. 
 As he sat imder a thorn. 
 
 Bardolph's face became proverbial. There is a curious 
 passage in Gayton's 'Notes upon Don Qubcot;' fol. Lond. 
 1C.54, p. 48, — "If you -n-ill have names more known and to 
 the life, a llobin GoodfeUowes face, a Bardiilj,hs, a Fumifals 
 June face, or a Emdwcls face, wliich was the blessed-dest 
 that ever 1 saw " 
 
 ** And being ftip, ^'c. 
 Fap, i.e. intoxicated ; a cant term. Cashier' d, dismis'ed 
 sent out of the room. Barot, l.'iSO, ctplains carW.'t, "th( 
 short turning of a nimble torse, now this way, nowp tha 
 way." A dnmken man might, therefore, aiipropiialely bj 
 said to " pass the carriers." 
 
 ^- By your leave, good mistress. 
 Falstaff hero kisses her, the stage direction being au- 
 thorised by the quai-to of 1602. Kissing was formerly 
 more in fashion between acquaintances than it is now. In 
 'Westward for Smelts,' 1G20, a gentleman sent on a 
 message to a lady, whom he had never seen, "espied her in 
 the fields, to v.-hom he went and kissed her, a thing no 
 modest woman can deny. 
 
 " Tlie Book of Biddies. 
 
 The Book of Riddles was a verj' popular collection, and 
 was no doubt well kno\m to Shakespeare. It is mentioned 
 by Laneham, 157.5, and in the 'English Courtier,' 1.586; 
 but the earliest edition now preserved is dated 1629, a copy 
 of which is in the library of the Earl of Ellcsmere, 
 entitled, "The Booke of Merry Riddles, together with 
 proper Questions and mtty Proverbs, to make pleasant 
 pastime ; no lesse usefull then behovcfuU for any yong man i 
 or child, to know if he be quick-witted or no." An extract 
 from this very rare work, -nhieh has not been quoted by 
 any former editors, cannot fail to prove acceptable to our 
 readers ; 
 
 "Here beginneth the first Kiddle. 
 
 Two legs sat upon three legs, and had CLe leg in hei 
 band ; then in came foure legs, and bare away one leg; 
 then up start two legs, and threw three legs at foure legs, 
 and brought againe one leg. 
 
 Solution. — That is a woman with two legs sate on a 
 stoole with three legs, and had a leg of mutton in her 
 hand ; then came a dog that hath foure legs, and bare 
 away the leg of mutton; then up start the woman, and 
 threw the stoole with three legs at the dog with foure legs, 
 and brought againe tlie leg of mutton. 
 Tlie second Riddle. 
 He went to the wood and caught it. 
 He sate him downe ana snu^ht it ; 
 Because he could not finde it, 
 Home ■n-ith Idm he brought it. 
 
 Solution. — That is a thome ; for a man went to the 
 wood, and caught a thome in his foot ; and then he sat* 
 him down, and sought to have pulled it out, and because he 
 could not find it out, he must needs bring it home. 
 The iii. Riddle. 
 
 What work is that, the faster ye worke, longer it is ere 
 ye have done, and the slower ye worke, the sooner ye make 
 an end? 
 
 So/uft'oT!.— That is turning of a spit: f(-r if ye tiune 
 fast, it will be long ere the meat be rested, Lut if ye turn 
 slowly, the sooner it is rostcd. 
 
 The iv. Riddle. 
 
 What is that that shineth bright all day, and at night ij 
 ralced up in its owne diit ? 
 
 Solution. — That is the fire that bumett bright all the 
 
 dav, and at niiiht is rak'd up in his ashes. 
 
 Ii3
 
 NOTES TO THE MERRY WIVES OP WLNDSOIi. 
 
 The v. Biddte. 
 
 I have a tree rf great honor. 
 Which tree beareth both fruit and flower; 
 Twelve branches tills tree hath nake, 
 Fifty (sic) nests therein he make, 
 And evciT nest hath birds seaven; 
 Thanked be the King of Heaven ; 
 And every bird hath a divers name : 
 llow may all this together iiame ? 
 
 l>o!utian. — The tree is the yeare ; tlie twelve branches be 
 the tn-elve moneths; the fifty-two nests be the fifty-two 
 weekes ; the seven birds be the seven daycs in the weeke, 
 whereof every one hath a divers name." 
 
 Slendcr's ' book of songs and sonnets' was not necessarily 
 the colloction of Lord Surrey's published under that title. 
 It was customary at that time to have common-place books 
 of poetical scraps, and it is not unlikely that Slender may 
 refer to one of these. 
 
 " Allhallowmas last, a fortnight afore. Michaelmas," is, of 
 course, a blunder ; but, as it is put into the mouth of 
 Simple, it is probably intentional. 
 
 Parcel, i.e., a part or portion. 
 
 " Upon fumiliarily will grow more content. 
 
 So the first folio, and I am quite at a loss to account for 
 the iteration made by modem editors of contempt for 
 Content. Of course, either reading makes perfect sense ; 
 but it is more consistent with Slenders phraseology to 
 E-ppose he mistakes the word, than to regard the sentence 
 »s a mere misapplication of a well-known proverb. Heath 
 has well observed that the humour in cither ease is equally 
 good. 
 
 ^ With a master of fence. 
 
 .\ master of defence was properly one who had taken a 
 master's degree iu the science of fencing. The phrase was, 
 however, applied to any professor of the art. 
 
 Three veniea. Slender means to say that the wager for 
 which he played ^«as a dish of stewed primes, which wss 
 to be paid by him who received three hits. See Bullokar's 
 'English Expositor,' 1GI6; — " Venie, a touch in the body 
 at playing with weapons." Stccvens gives several instances 
 of the use of the word, but the above is quite sufficient. 
 Shakespeare uses the word mctaphorieaUy in another play. 
 
 ■■^ That 'y meat and diink to me. 
 
 A common s;iying, meaning great fondness for any- 
 thing. Touchstone, in " As You Like It," uses the same 
 phiase — " It is meat and diirJc to me to see a clown," and 
 a writer of our o\ra time, Jlr. Ijickeus, introduces it in 
 one of his novels, 
 
 -" / have seen Sacherson loose. 
 Tlic name of a celebrated bear in the garden at Soulh- 
 wark. lie is thus alluded to in the comedy of Sir Giles 
 Goosecap, 1G06 : — "I would ratlier have lost the dearest 
 friend that I ever lay with in my life ; by tliis light, never 
 Btir if he fought not with great Scckerson foiu- hours to 
 one, foremost lake up hindmost, and took so many loaves 
 fi-om him, tliat he starv'd liini presently : so that at last the 
 Jog (/luld do no more tlian a bear could do : and the bear 
 being heavy with hunger yo . know, fcdl upon t)io dog, 
 j-iikehi' baol . atd the dos; never stirr'd any more." 
 
 2s Jiy coch and -pye. 
 
 An oath, comprising a corruption of the name »t U'.c 
 Deity, and pie, the sacred book of offices. 
 
 "' Of Doctor Caius' houae which is the wai/. 
 
 That is, which is the way to Dr. Cains' house. Th 
 particles were often interchanged in this way. I veiy much 
 doubt whether Shakespeare had the learned founder of an 
 eminent Cambridge College in his mind when he gave a 
 name to thia character, who is, of course, intended as a 
 satire on the foreign physicians of the time, who were sc 
 fashionable and popular with tLe English gentry. Fanner, 
 however, says that the doctor was handed down as a sort of 
 Eosicrucian, and I have seen a MS. of his on magic and 
 astrology. In the " Merry Tales of Jack of Dovor,' ' 
 IGOl, a story told by "the fool of Windsor," begins thus : — 
 " Upon a time there was in Windsor a certain simple out- 
 lancUsh doctor of physick belonging to the dean," <S:c. The 
 character may then possibly have been drawn from life ; 
 and, as Shakespeare would scarcely have introduced the real 
 name into his play, he may have made qiute an arbitraiy 
 choice. 
 
 French doctors were common subjects for satire. Ga3rton 
 puts the following absurd speech into the mouth of one ol 
 them, as an illustration that medicine is not alike to all 
 constitutions : — " If te body be full of grosse humours, 
 and that it operates excessively, all de better for dat ; and 
 if the physick doe not stirre the patient, 'tis a good signe 
 that de grosse humours are not in te body, and so all te 
 better for dut too. 
 
 2^ Or his laimdri/. 
 
 Laundry for launder, a washer of clothes. 
 
 3^ There '5 pippjts and cheese to come. 
 
 It wxs formerly a common practice to conclude a repast 
 vdih fi'uit and cheese, both being placed on the table at the 
 same time. Taylor, the water-poet, thus alludes to the 
 custom : — 
 
 Contentions, emulations, and debate, 
 
 Th^se furnish forth his table in great state. 
 
 And then for picking-meat or daintie hits, 
 
 The second course is Actions, cases, icrits 
 
 Long Suits from Tcrme to termc, and Fi'ies and/CG', 
 
 At the last cast comes in for Fruit and chceae. 
 
 '- ^yhat says my bully-rook f 
 
 Bully-rook was a cant term, applied to a sharper. The 
 Ilost is not very choice in his language, but it is an odd 
 designation for liim to apply to Falstaff, even although the 
 fat knight was chiefly liWng by his wits. Ho uses it, 
 again, in act ii. sc. 2, in addressing Shallow and Fcrd. 
 
 ^^ I sit at ten pounds a wceh. 
 
 That is, 1 e.Npend ten pounds a week. This assiTlion 
 liowever, appears somewhat inconsistent with the circnm- 
 staneo afterwards recorded, that he shared fiftcin .pence 
 with Pistol wl'cn the lat'xr stole iho handle if Mistrcs? 
 Bridt^et's fan.
 
 Js'OTES TO TllK MEUKY WIVES OF WINDSUK. 
 
 "' Casar, Keinar, ami IVieezar. 
 
 Kcisar, tlie (Id English word for Ctosar, and goneially, 
 111 emperor. From tlje Anglo-Saxon, Cisure. riicczar Vi, 
 pcrliaps, a vorJ of arbitrary composition. Malcnu tliinlsa 
 it is a laado word from phccze, to boat. 
 
 3^ I^et me see theej'roth and lime. 
 According; to Stecvens, beer ^vds /rothed by putting soap 
 int3 the bottom of the taiJcard wlicn it was dravni ; and 
 Bacit was ma.lo to sparkle by mixing lime with it. Falstalf 
 elsewhere complains of limed sack. Mr. Knight adopts the 
 reading, " Let me see thee froth, and Hue." liatfiotli was 
 as technical a term as lime. 
 
 ^^ O base Hungarian wight .' 
 Hungarian was a cant term, generallj' applied in a con- 
 temptuous manner. The quarto of 1G02 reads Gongarian, 
 and Steevens quotes the following line from an old play, 
 here inserted by Shakespeare into the mouth of Pistol, who 
 is perpetually quoting " old ends," — 
 
 " base Gongarian ! wilt thou the distalT wield ?" 
 
 3^ Is to steal at a minute's rest. 
 That is, at a partieiJar moment favourable to the operator. 
 The plirase was, perhaps, derived from tournaments. Cvn- 
 veij, the technical cant term for, to steal. 
 
 ^^AJjcoJor the phrase! 
 Pistol here, no doubt, is supposed to make a Jig, or thrust 
 out the thumb between the first and second fingers, a sign 
 indicative of supreme contempt. 
 
 And when you come unto the wheel or gibbet, 
 Bidfwa for the world, and go out martyrs. 
 
 Shirley's Sisters, 1652. 
 
 Kilies are chilblains. 
 
 3^ Young rattens jnust hare food. 
 A similar expression is used by a braggadocio character 
 in the Poetaster, and may possibly be borrowed from Serip- 
 tuio. Pistol's language, according to Gilford, is made up of 
 bui'lesquo scraps from old plays. 
 
 *" But I am now about no waste. 
 
 The same play upon words ocou-s in Hcywood's "Epi- 
 
 granimes," 1562^ 
 
 "Where am I least, husband.' quoth he, in the wai.H; 
 ■Uliich comcth of this, thou art vengeance strait-lac'd. 
 Where am I biggest, wife ? in the waste, quoth she, 
 For all is waste in you, as far as I see." 
 
 And again in Shirley's comedy of "The Wedding," 1629— 
 " He is a great man indeed : something given to the wast, 
 for he lives within no reasonable compass." (Malone'3 
 Shaltcspcare, by Boswell, ^■iii. 38.) 
 
 *' She discourses, she carves. 
 Mr. Hunter has shown that carve, in Shakespeare's time, 
 was used in the sense of to woo ; but I am rather doubtful 
 of its application in this particular instance. It was 
 formerly esteemed a compUmcnt for a lady to carve at table 
 for a gentleman. So, in Vittoria Corombona, 1612, — 
 "Yoiu' husband is wcudrous discontented. — Vit. I did 
 notliing to displease him : I carved to him at supper time." 
 
 *- Out of honesty into Eiigliih. 
 
 The meaning of tlus speech is, Ho hath studied h(.T irill 
 and translated or explained her will out of her honesty iuta 
 a confession in plain English. Sliakespeare elsewhere lue 
 translate in the sense of, to explain. 
 
 The anchor is deep. Nym merely means to say thill 
 Fakstaffs sclicnies arc deeply laid. He is speaking ironically. 
 
 '•^ A.1 many devils entertain. 
 The old quarto reads, " as many devils attend her,' 
 which clearly shows the meanii:g here intended. Coleridge, 
 who, nolwitlistanding his great philosophical genius, waa 
 one of the worst verbal critics tliat ever lived, proposes to 
 read, — 
 
 As n'any iknila enter (or enter' d) ewinc ; 
 Alii to her, boy, say I. 
 
 and believes it to bo a somewhat profane, but not un- 
 Shakespearian, allusion to the legion in the Gospel of St 
 Luke! 
 
 ^' With most judicious ei/liads. 
 Ei/Uatls, sjK'It ilJmds in the first fjlio. It is, of course, 
 fi'om the French oeillade, a soft glance. 
 
 *^ ^\'ith such a greedy intention. 
 Intention is here used in the sense of a fixed or earnest 
 gazing. So Jonson,— 
 
 Like one that looks on ill-alTccted eyes, 
 Is liiut \\'ith mere intention on their follies. 
 
 ^'' / will be cheater to them both. 
 Cheater, i.e., escheator, an officer appointed by the Lord 
 Treasurer to make inquests of titles by escheat, oi tene- 
 ments that casually fell to a lord within his manor by 
 forfeitm-e. 
 
 *' Tightly, cleverly quickly 
 
 *^ Sail like my pinnace. 
 A pinnace ivas a light vessel built for speed, and generally 
 employed as a tender to a larger ship. According to Kolt, 
 it was chiefly used as a scout for intelligence, and for land- 
 ing of men. 
 
 ^^ T7te humour of the age. 
 
 The quarto of 1C0.3 reads the humour of this age, and the 
 folio, the honour of the age. Honour was often mi-sprinted 
 humour, as in Shhlcy's Witty Fair One, It. 6. By French 
 thrift, Falstaff alludes to the practice, which then had 
 recently been adopted, of maldng a richly-dressed page 
 answer the place of a band of retainers. Ben Jonson 
 deplores the change in one of his plays. 
 
 "And how are coach-makers and coach-men increased, 
 that fifty years ago were but few in number ; but now a 
 coachman and a foot-boy is enough, and more than every 
 knight is able to keep," — Kich's Honest'ie of this Age, 1614. 
 
 *' Let vultures gripe thy guts. 
 
 Clifford quotes this passage i.T one of his attacks on 
 Drvden, and the manner in which he introduces it is so 
 quaint and interiisting, I am induced to give a sorar'what 
 long extract from 'nis pamplilet : — 
 
 "To begin with your character of Alinanzor, w lich you 
 
 avow to have taken ft-t m the Achilles in Homer ; pray hear 
 
 125
 
 JS'UTES TO THE MEKEY WIVES OF WINDSOK. 
 
 what Famfanus StraJa says of such talljcrs as Mr. Dryden ; 
 JUiiUre soieo, cum video homines ah Jlomeri virtutibus 
 sircniie declinames, it quid vera irrepsit vitii. id avidi arri- 
 yientes. But I miglit have spared tliis quotation, and you 
 your avowing ; for this character might as well have been 
 (lorrowed from some of the stalls in Bedlam, or any of your 
 own hare-brained coxcombs, which you call heroes, and 
 persons of honour. I remember just such another fuming 
 Achilles in Shakespeare, one Ancient Pistol, whom ho 
 avows to be a man of so fiery a temper, and so impatient 
 of an injiuy, even from Sir John FalstafF, his captain and 
 a knight, that ho not only disobeyed his commands about 
 carrying a letter to Mrs. Page, but returned him an answer 
 as full of contumely, and in as opprobrious terms, as he 
 could imagine : 
 
 ' Let vultures gripe thy guts, for gourd and fullam holds, 
 And high and low beguUes the rich and poor. 
 Tester I'U have in pouch, when tliou shalt lack, 
 Base Phrygian Turk.' 
 
 " Let's see e'er an Abencerrago fly a higher pitch. Take 
 him at another turn, quaiTclling with Cori)oral Nj-m, an old 
 Zegri. The difference arose about mine hostess Quickly, 
 (for I would not give a rush for a man unless he be parti- 
 cular in matters of this moment;) they both aimed at her 
 body, but Abenccn-ago Pistol defies his rival in these words : 
 
 Fetch from the powdering-tub of infamy 
 
 That lazar lute of Cressid's kind, 
 
 Doll I'earsheet, she by name, and her espouse : I have, 
 
 and I will hold, 
 The quondam Quickly for the only she. 
 And pauca.' 
 
 There's enough. Does not this quotation sound as ■well as I ? 
 
 " Hut the four sons of Ammon, the three bold Eeachams, 
 ihe four London Prentices, Tamerlain, the Scythian Shep- 
 herd, Muleasses, Amurath, and Bajazel, or any raging Turk 
 at the Eed Bull and Foi-tune, might as well have been 
 urged by you as a pattern of your Almanzor, as the Achilles 
 m Homer ; but then our laureat had not passed for so 
 teamed a man as he desires his unlearned admirers should 
 esteem him. 
 
 " But I am strangely mistaken, if I have not seen tins 
 very Almanzor of yours in some disguise about this town, 
 and passing imder another name. Prithee tell me true, was 
 not this huff-cap once the Indian Emperor, and, at anotlier 
 time, did not he call himself Maximinc ? Was not Lynda- 
 raxa once called Almeria, I mean under Moatezuma the 
 Indian Emperor ? I protest and vow they are cither 
 tlie same, or so alike, that I can't for my heart distinguish 
 one from the other. You arc, therefore, a strange uncon- 
 Bciouable thief, that art not content to steal fiom others, 
 but do'st rob thy poor wretched self too." 
 
 ^' Guurd and J'ullam hold, 
 
 Goui-ds and fullams were species of faLie dice. The 
 jrmcr were not much in fashion in Shakespeare's time 
 being considered too liable to detection. Fullams m'e 
 described in the ' JIanifest Detection of Dice Play' to be 
 " square outward, yet within at the coracr with lead or 
 other ponderous ma '.er stcoped." Whalley supposes they 
 derived their name from Jeing diielly manufactured at 
 Fulliaiu. 
 
 12f 
 
 *- II'<jh and low begvile. 
 The dice were loaded to run high or low, and hence wen 
 called high men or low men. These are what Pistol alludeb to. 
 
 '^ / will incense Ford. 
 Tnccnsc, i.e. instigate. " lie ineenseth their hearti-s with 
 an exceeding desire of warrc, bdlnndi /urore corda czli- 
 miilat," Barct, 15S0. Yellowness, i.e. jealousy. The latter 
 term is very common 
 
 5* The revolt of mine. 
 Mien was sometimes spelt mine; but Pistol seems to 
 aUude to the sense of the above reading in his reply to 
 X}*m. Mr. Knight says the matter is not worth discussing. 
 Is t'uis the reverence to the original text of Shakespeare so 
 much insisted upon in the pages of that editor ? The earlv 
 quartos do not contain the passage. 
 
 ^^ Here will be an old abusing. 
 Old, i.e., famoiis, great ; a familiar term, still retained in 
 the dialect of 'Warwickshire. '* On Sunday, at masse, 
 there was olde ringing of bels, and old and yong came to 
 chm'ch to see the new roode," Tarlton's Newes out of 
 Purgatorie, 1590. 
 
 ^ Nor no breed-bate, 
 Breed-bate, or breed debate, a breeder or causer of strife. 
 
 5" Something peevish that way. 
 Peevish, that is, foolish. " Albemare kept a man-fool of 
 some forty years old in his house, who, indeed, was so 
 i\aturally peevish, as not Milan, hardly Italy, could match 
 liim for simp)icity," — God's Picvengc Against Adulteiy. 
 Malone, however, thinks it is here one of Mrs. Qidckly's 
 blunders for precise. Either explanation is probable. 
 
 '5 Lihe a glover's paring-knife. 
 A " great round bc.ird" was one of the simplest modes in 
 vcg;ae in those days of fantastic beai'ds. Taylor thus jocu- 
 laiiy alludes to the quick-sct-beard, — 
 
 And some, to set their loves desire on edge, 
 Are cut and prun'd like to a qiuck-set-hedge. 
 
 ^^ A Cain-coloured beard. 
 Cain and Judas were fi-equently represented in old 
 tapestries and pictures with coloured beai-ds, and hence 
 expressions like the above are supposed to be derived. 
 Middleton alludes to Abram-coloured and Judas-coloured 
 beards. A Judas-beard was red, as appears from Maiston'g 
 Insatiate Coimtess, 1G13, — " I ever thought by his red beard 
 he would prove a Judas." A Cain-colom-cd beard was a 
 yellow beai'd. 
 
 ^ He is as tali a man of his hands. 
 A provcrbiial phrase for a brave or valiant person. Tall 
 men were brave men. 'A man of his hands, homo strcmiui:, 
 impiger, manu jtromptus," Coles. iVarrencr, the keeper of 
 a wancu. 
 
 ^' We shall all be shent. 
 Shent anciently meant ruined, but in Sliakeepeare's time 
 it had oinaiued the sense of srcldcd. " .Ui, sir, tliat is suci 
 a secrete as I list net rcvtlo unto you hr doubt lest 1 l>e 
 shi'ni." Fulwell's Ar of Flnt'^erv, loTC.
 
 JSOTES TO THE MERllY WIVES OF VVINDSOK. 
 
 " And you are Jack Rcgoby. 
 i cdopl tlic method of spelling, liixjoby^ from the iirat 
 jlcoujh, repr. p. 25. The doctor seems to intend a pun on 
 his name ; otlierwise, the speech is ohuost unmeaning. 
 
 ^ Dere is no honest vum^ S)C. 
 
 This is, of course, a blunder of the doctor's at his own 
 expenoc, and implies he could not be an honest man. 
 
 " Do for your master. 
 
 The firet folio reads yoe corrected by the second folio to 
 for. Collier and Knight omit the word altogether. Wrinr), 
 i.e. wring his clothes. 
 
 '5 Are you avis' d o' Oiat? 
 
 A proverbial phrase, enuivalent to, Have you foimd out 
 that ? lias tliat occurred to you ? It is of frequent oc- 
 currence in old plays. 
 
 '" To meddle or make. 
 To meddle or make, i.e., to interfere. The phrase is still 
 Clu-rent in the North of Englaivd, and in Scotland, meddle 
 or mak. 
 
 ^1 What the good-jer I 
 
 An exclamation, the precise meaning of which has not 
 been Batisfactorily determined. It seems to be sometimes 
 equiTalent to, " Wiat the dev-il !" Narcs would derive it 
 ft oni the French goujere. Goodger is a term for the devil 
 in some pai'ts of Devonshire. " What a goodyer aU you, 
 'i.other," Isle of Gulls, 1606. 
 
 68 But, I detest. 
 
 -Mrs. Q-.uekly's mistake for protest. " Given too much to 
 allicholhj," i.e. melancholy, a provincial term still in use, 
 and often put into the mouths of uneducated choractcra in 
 old plays, 
 
 '^'^ I' faith, that I will. 
 The old editions read, tliat we will, an obrious blimder, 
 left unaltered by Knight and Collier. It is coiTccted in the 
 old manuscript copy of the play in my possession. 
 
 ■"> Though love use reason for his precisian. 
 
 This is an obscure passage. Dr. Johnson explains it, 
 " Though love, when he would submit to rcgulatioa, may 
 use reason as his precisi.an or dii'ector in nice cases, yet 
 when he is only eager to attain his end, he takes not reason 
 forliis coimsellor." The same writer proposed to read physi- 
 cian, an emendation receiving probability from a line in the 
 Sonnets, "My reason .the physician to my love." Mr. 
 Knight gives the word a meaning it never possessed in our 
 language. Puritans were usually termed precisians, but 
 here the term, if genuine, must mean one that limits or 
 vpstoalpa. 
 
 ^^ liy day or night. 
 
 An old proverbial phi-ase, equivalent to altvays. The 
 cuncl'.ision of FalstafTs letter may be compared with the 
 colophon at the end of Ca.xton'3 edition of Malory's Morte 
 d'Arthm-, 1495, wliich " was fynysshed the is. ycre of the 
 reygac of Kynge Edwardc the Fourth, — 
 
 — by Syr Tbomag Maleore knyght, 
 As Jhesu helpe hym fi^r his grete myghti', 
 As he is the eervaunt of Jhesu bothe day and ny^'hte. " 
 
 But perhaps Hhakcspcare was merely ridiculing this 
 Skcltonical mode of rhj-thm. 
 
 '- For the putting down of men. 
 Theobald introduced fat before men, a reading followed 
 by Mr. Collier ; but there is no real necessity for an altera- 
 tion of the original. Mrs. Page merely means to imply a 
 bill for repressing men's impertinence ; putting down beirfi 
 frequently used in tl)at sense. 
 
 " These knights will hack. 
 Alluding to the immense number of knights made by 
 the king. See the introduction to this play. A vcrv 
 curious unpublished anecdote, in connexion with tliis sub- 
 ject, is preserved in a MS. in the Bodleian Librar)-, entitled, 
 " The chai-acter of Sir Martin liamham, Knt., written by 
 his son Sir Francis, who was the father of the Lady Salkeld, 
 in whose closet it was found after her death :" — 
 
 "About this time, ICing James came to this crownc, to 
 whom Queen Elizabeth, by her constant sparing hand of all 
 sorts of honour, left great power of satisfaction and rewards 
 of that kind ; of which, amongst others, knighthood was 
 most pursued, as being that of which so many men were 
 then fittly capable. The King, hai-ing bin very bountifull 
 of that honor in his journey from Scotland to London, 
 most part of the gentlemen in the other parts of the king, 
 dom wore desirous to addresse themselves in that gencrall 
 fashion, and though in some particiJar men by the king's 
 favour, or mediation of some great men, that honour was 
 freely bestowed ; yet generally it was purchased att gi'cat 
 rates, as att 3 or 4 or 5 hundred pounds, according to the 
 circumstances of precedency and grace mth which it was 
 accompanied. Now Sir John Grey, my noble friend and 
 near allye, finding the way of knighting by favor somewhat 
 slack, and not allwayes ceitain, out of his affection to me, 
 att the kings first coming to London treated with a Scotch- 
 man, an acquaint.ancc of Ms, that for 80 lb. and some cour- 
 tesies which he should do him, my father and myself should 
 be knighted, and gave me present knowledge thereof that 
 it might be suddenly effected, with which I made my 
 father instantly acquainted, and told him tiat though I 
 doubted not to procure both our knighthoods without money 
 by the power of some great friends I had in court, yet 
 considering the obligation to them, and the time that would 
 be lost before that could certainly be effected, I thought it 
 would be a better way to make a speedy end of it att sc 
 small a charge, rather than to linger it out att uncertaintys, 
 att such a time as every man made hast to crowd in att the 
 now play of knighthood. Hereto my father made this 
 answer, that having by God's blessing an estate fit enough 
 for knighthood, and having managed those offices of creditt 
 which a countrey gentleman was capable of, he shoidl not 
 be unwilling to take that honor upon him, if he might have 
 it in such a fashion as that himself might hold it an honor, 
 but said he, ' if I pay for my knighthood, I shall never bo 
 called Sir Maitin, but I shall blush for shame to think how 
 I came by it ; if therefore it cannot be had freely, I am 
 resolved to content myself with my present condition ; and 
 for my wife,' said he, merrily, ' I will buy her a new gown 
 
 127
 
 NOTES TO THE MELEY WIVES OF WINDSOK. 
 
 i istoaci of a ladyship ; this is my resi ution for myself, and 
 Uiat which I think fittest for you.' Finding him thus 
 rcsolvod, I gave over that way, and made mcancs to my 
 z C'hle friend, the Lord of Pembrook, to procure my father 
 a free hnighthood, whiuh be readUy imdertook, and ap- 
 rcinted him a day to attend for it att Green\vich ; hut tha', 
 morning there came some ncwes out of Scotland that pitt 
 the King so out of humor, as made that time unfitt for it, ani 
 instantly after, it was published that the king would make 
 no more knights till the day of his coronation, as rcsol\"ing 
 to honour that day wHth a great proportion of that honor ; 
 on which day my father, by the favor of my Lord of Pem- 
 brook, had the honor of knighthood freely bestowed on 
 him, and was ranked before three foui-th parts of that 
 daycs numerous knighting." 
 
 "* TT'e burn daylight. 
 
 That is, we waste time. Lilly uses the phrase, to bum 
 tune, which would lead us to suppose it meant originally 
 notliing more than destroying time. Liking, constitution of 
 body. " If one be in better plight of bodie, or better 
 liking," Baret, loSO. 
 
 'Sblood! we hum daylight; they wiU think, anon, 
 We are afraid to see their glittering swords. 
 
 Hcywood's Edward IV. First Part. 
 
 " To the tune of ' Green Sleeves.' 
 
 Greeiuleves was a very popular old song. The words 
 have not come down to us, but it wo'Jd appear, fiora 
 several allusions in contemporary writers, they were grossly 
 indelicate. A great number of other songs were set to the 
 same time, which was aftei-warda long known as the tuno 
 of, " which nobody can deny." In the Stationers' Registers, 
 1580-1, is entered, " A new Northern dittye of the Lady 
 Groene-sleves ;" and, what is more to our purpose, in the 
 same year occurs, " Greene Sieves moralised to the Scrip- 
 ture, dcclaringe the manifold benefites and blessinges of 
 Rod bestowed on sinfull man." 
 
 ''' A thousand of these letters, sure more. 
 1 have ventiu-ed to transpose the two last words to their 
 present position. In other editions, they are placed after 
 different names, and are then incxpUeable. The compositor 
 might easily have transposed them fi-om one line to another 
 by a mistake not unusual in printing. An early MS. cor- 
 rection in a copy in the possession of Mr. Turmo reads, see 
 mine, but the above alteration appears to be less ^•ioleut 
 
 " Unless he hww some strain in me. 
 
 Strain, i.e. humour, disposition. It occurs again in this 
 play in the same sense, act iii. sc. 3. It is probably derived 
 from A. S. strynd, stock, race, breed, tribe. The chariness 
 vf our hiinesly, tlie caution which belongs to our honesty. 
 
 '8 Well, I hope it be not so. 
 
 It was, till lately, the universal practice to omit this dia- 
 logue in representation, and even now, it is only seldom 
 retained ; but it is necessary to the complete development 
 of this part of the plot, '\\nmt else is Uie use of the de- 
 rUiratiou of Pistol and Nym to lie revenged on J'ulstaiff 
 12S 
 
 ' Hope is a curtail dog in some affairs. 
 A curtail dog is a worthless dog, a dog without a tail 
 good for any sernce. " A curtald dogg, chien courtaud, ecu 
 a dire chien sans queue oit esqueue, bon a tout se/vice '' 
 nowcU's Lex. Tet. 16G0. 
 
 ^^ He loves the galhj-maipfry. 
 Gaily mawfry, the whole hotchpotch of the fair scs, 
 "A gallcmalfi-ie or hotchpotch,'' Baict, 1.580. Perpend, 
 consider attentively. 
 
 ^' // shall bile upon my necessity. 
 To bite was an old technical term for cutting with a 
 sword. Pistol says his sword shall cut, he will go to the 
 wars, when it is necessary to do so for his li\'ing. 
 
 ^~ Frights English out of his V}its. 
 Alluding to Nym's bombastic language. The quarto 
 reads humour instead of English. 
 
 ^3 Suck a drawling affecting rogue. 
 Affecting is merely the active participle used for the pas- 
 sive, several instances of which occur in Shakespeare and 
 contemporary writers. So we have in the Winter's Tale, 
 "Your discontenting father," for, "Your discontented ] 
 father." This would scarcely have seemed to require a | 
 note, had not Mr. Collier given an entirely erroneous 
 explanation of the line. 
 
 8* / wdl not believe such a Catalan. 
 Catalan, according to Stcevens, was an old cant term for 
 a sharper. 
 
 *^ Cavalero-Justice. 
 Ono of the cant compounds used by mine host, meanhig 
 my esquire justice. 
 
 ^ Good even and twenty. 
 
 That is, in the language of the time, twenty good evens 
 to you. 
 
 " And tell him my name is Brook. 
 Ford's assumed name is Brook in the quarto edition, and 
 Broom in the folio. Theobald says that we need no better 
 eridenee in favour of the reading of the quartos than the 
 pun that Falstaff makes on the name, when Brook sends 
 him some burnt sack ; but it may be objected that tliis pim 
 is almost entirely lost in the early edition. In favour of 
 the adopted reading in the amended play, the following 
 lines may be adduced, which appear to be intended to 
 rhyme — 
 
 " Nay, I'll to him agaui in name of Brome : 
 He "U tell me all his purpose : Sure, he '11 como." 
 These lines do not occur in the sketch of the play. 
 
 8* Will you go on, sirs f 
 The folio reads an-heirts, a hopeless corruption. Mr 
 Knight saj's the p-araTcl passage in the quarto is, " hoio 
 hoys, shall we wag ?" but these words are found a littlo 
 lower down in the foLo, and, in truth, the quarto has no 
 corresponding passage. The long s in old writing was 
 sometimes like the h, and if we suppose the author WTotc 
 on syrs, and bear in mind the chaiactor of peruiiniisliip i-i 
 that day, the coiTuption to an-heires wil not appea/ 
 imsoseiblc.
 
 NOTES TO TlIK MEllRY WIVES OF WINDSOK. 
 
 8' So firmly on his wifc'sfraiUy. 
 Uix trifea fraithj is an old mode of expression for hia 
 ^,->i'il wife. It is a singular kind of eonstniction, and 
 il.nuld lie carefully observed. What they made there, i.e. 
 n-hat Uiey did there. 
 
 '" / will retort tlie sum in equipage. 
 Tliis line is taken from the quartos, and is perhaps war- 
 ranted by Faktafl's reply. The tcnu equipuye appears, in 
 Shakespeare's time, to have been applied to any kind of 
 goods, and would here bo goods that Pistol could pilfer. 
 
 *' And your coach-fellow. 
 Coach-fellow, an intimate companion. The term is 
 generally employed in a contemptuous sense. Beu Jonson 
 has coach-horse, applied in a similar maimer. 
 
 ^- A short knife and a throng. 
 That is, a short knife and a crowd. " The eye of this 
 ivoif is as quick in his head as a cutpurso in a throng," 
 Overbury's Characters, 1616. 
 
 " To your manor of Pickt-hatch. 
 Tlicre is great humoxir in designating this place Pistol's 
 manor. Pickt-hateh was a notorious rendezvous for bad 
 characters in the cast of London, and is continually alluded 
 to by our early wiiters. Hedge, to shift dishonestly. Lurch, 
 to cheat. Cat-ainountain, from the Spanish gdto-montCs, 
 the wild cat. Red-lattice phraies, i.e. ale-house plu-ascs. 
 The anciont ale-houses were frequently distinguished by red 
 li'itticfs, and we have many allusions to them in old plays. 
 
 ^^ And your blunderbuss oaths. 
 The old editions read bold-beating oaths, an evident cor- 
 ruption, though retained by Messrs. Collier and Knight 
 without any observation. The present correction ia ob- 
 tained iVom the old play-house MS. copy of the play before 
 referred to. 
 
 *5 Wdt, one Mistress Ford. 
 The old copies read on, these two words being often 
 mistaken for each other Douce made the correction. 
 
 ^ Into such a canaries. 
 Sirs, (iuickly'3 eiTOr for quandaries. 
 
 " Nay, which is more, pensioners. 
 Alluding to the gentlemen pensioners attendant on the 
 sovereign. They were very splendidly dressed, and perhaps 
 on that account, superior to earls in Mrs. Quiekly's imagi- 
 uation. So, in A Midsummer Night's Dream, — 
 
 The cowslips taU her pensioners be ; 
 In their gold coats spots you see. 
 
 According to Holme's Acad. Arm. III. iii. p. 43, the 
 captain of the band of Gentlemen Pensioners had £1000 a 
 ye.TT ; but this was prokibly at a later period. 
 
 ™ A very frampold life. 
 Frampold^ \measy, troublesome. The term occm"s in old 
 writers in various shades of meaning. Kennett, MS. 
 Lansd. 1033, says it was used in his time m the sense of, 
 trelfid, peevish. " lU-wiil'd and frampled waspishnesa," 
 Bulk ar.d Sclvedgs of the World, 1674. 
 
 "o Your little page, of all love*. 
 Of all loves, a pretty quaint old r)hra.se, equivalent to, // 
 yuu love, on account of love, kc. The carliist instance cf it 
 I have met with occurs in the incditcd romance of Sil 
 Ferumbras, — 
 
 And saide to him, she mosto go 
 
 To viseten tlie prisoneria that daye, 
 
 And said, Sir,yyr alle loves, 
 Lete me thy prisoneres seno. 
 
 100 ^aij.word, i.e. a watch-word. 
 
 "" One of Cupiifs carriers. 
 
 Currier was applied to any sort of messenger ; a page. 
 
 102 l/p with your fights. 
 Fights arc e.^plained by Coles, in hia English Dictionaiy, 
 1676, to be, "coverts, any places where men may stand 
 imsccn and use their arms in a ship." Mr. Knight very 
 erroneously interprets it, short sails. 
 
 '"' A moryiing's draught of sack. 
 
 Morning-draughts of ale or sack were replaced in the 
 seventeenth century by coffee. Ilowel, in noticing Sir 
 Hemy Blount'a Organon Hulutis, 10.50, observes that, 
 " This cofFee-diink hath caused a great sobriety among all 
 n.itions : formerly apprentices, clerks, &c., used to take 
 their vwmivg draughbi in ale, beer, or wine, which often 
 made them unfit for business. Now they play the good- 
 fellows in tills w.akeful and civil drink. The worthy gentle- 
 man Sir' James Muddiford, who introduced the practice 
 hereof first in London, deserves much respect of the whole 
 nation." 
 
 It was formerly tne fashion for persona to introduce 
 themselves to strangers with a propitiatoi-y present of a cup 
 of WTnc, which preceded their appearance. A story is told 
 of Corbet and Jonson in MS. Ilarl. 6395, which mentions 
 an instance of tlus practice. " Ben Jonson was at a tavern, 
 in comes Bishop Corbet (but not so then) into tlie next 
 room. Ben Jonson calls for a quart of raw wine, and 
 gives it to the tapster. 'Sirrah!' says he, 'carry tliis to 
 the gentlemaa in the next chamber, and tell him I sacrifice 
 my service to him.' The fcUow did, and in those tcrnu. 
 'Friend,' says Bishop Corbet, 'I thank him for his love, 
 but prithee tell him from me that he is mistaken, for sacri- 
 fices are always burnt." Beu Jonson thus humorously 
 alludes to the custom in 'Bartholomew Fair,' — 
 
 Now, gentles, I take it, here is none of you so stupid, 
 But that you have heard of a little god of love call'd Cupir!; 
 >Mio, out of kindness to Leander, hearing he but saw her, 
 This present day and hour doth turn himself to a drawer. 
 And because he would have their first meeting to bo merry, 
 He strikes Hero in love to him with a pint of sherry; 
 Which he tells her from amorous Leander is sent her, 
 Who after him into the room of Hero doth venture. 
 
 '»* Go to ; via I 
 A cant phrase of ey-ultatiou or defiance. It occurs again 
 in Love's Labours Lost, v. 2. 
 
 '"' SitA, i.e. since, .'i. common archaism. 
 
 1"** To know what sne would have given. 
 That is, to know what Idud of presents she would prefoi 
 to be given to iier. 
 
 129
 
 r?-^ 
 
 NOTES TO THE MERPY WIVES OF Wl.NUSUii. 
 
 '<" Pursuing iluit that /lies. 
 
 I'ocaibly a misreading for "that which flies, but the 
 original text may be right, and should not, therefore, be 
 lUeturbed \rithout authority. A similar idea occurs in the 
 Wizard, a MS. play written about the year 16i0 : — 
 
 Never till now unkindc, unkinde as Death, 
 StiU slow and tedious unto those that seek 't, 
 Flj-ing away from her pursuer's eye. 
 And vdth all speed pursuing them that tie. 
 
 "" Of great admittance. 
 
 That is, says Stcevens, admitted into all or the greatest 
 companies. Allowed, approved. Amiable siege, a siege of 
 love. Instance, example. 
 
 'The ward of her purity, that is, the defence she at 
 present derives from her purity. 
 
 109 / will aggravate his style. 
 
 That is, add to his titles. This play is full of allusions 
 to cuckoldism, wliich are not always worth explanation for 
 renders of the present day. 
 
 1'^ Amaimon sounds well. 
 
 Amaimon and Barlr.;:c.u pre found in the old lists of 
 devils. " Amaymou L; the chief wliose dominion is on the 
 North part of the infernal gulf," Holme's Acad. Arm. II. i. 
 22 ; " Barhos is li!;e a lion ; under him are tliirty-six 
 legions," ibid. Witlul-cuchold, one who knows his wife's 
 fcilsehood, and does not hinder it. 
 
 "' An Irishman with mi/ aqua-vitce bottle. 
 
 Hey wood, in his " Challenge for Beauty," 1G36, mentions 
 the love of aiiua-viire as chai-actcristic of the Iiish : — 
 
 "The Briton he mcthegbu quaffs, 
 The Iriih aqna-vittc." 
 
 The Irish aqua-tHtu, says Malonc, was not brandy, but 
 usqmhaugh, for which Ireland has been long celebrated. 
 
 "- To see theefoin. 
 
 To foln was to make a slight wound on the skin in 
 fencing. This i? the old meaning of the word. Fencing 
 is now termed /oi'nmi/. To traverse, to pass thy pxmto, thy 
 stock, &c., were all technical phrases in fencing, fuUy ex- 
 plained in the books of the day on that popular science, 
 the stock appears to denote the stoccuta, commonly called 
 in England the stoccado, a species of thrust. Our space 
 will not permit us to enter more fully into the subject. 
 
 "- Tltou art a Cas'ilian. 
 
 A Castilian was originally a tei-m for a Spaniard, but 
 it was afterwards more generally applied. The Host 
 lakes advantage of the doctor's ignorance of the English 
 language, and apph'cs to him all kinds of inappropriate 
 imd ridiculous tenns, to the amusement of the by-standers. 
 King Urinal requires no explanation, alluding of course to 
 liis profession. Hector, a cant term for a sharper. Against 
 the luu'r, against the grain. 
 ISO 
 
 '" Ah, monsieur mochwatcr. 
 
 An allusion to the urinals, always used by physicians in 
 former days; or it may be much-water, a term applied to 
 the drain from dunghills. 
 
 "5 He will clapper-claw Oiee. 
 That is, beat thee. This word occurs also in "Tore 
 Tyler and his Wil'c : " — " I would clapper-claw thy bonee," 
 and earlier in a curious macaronic poem in MS. Lansd., 762. 
 
 I's Master justice guest. 
 The wori justice is here inserted on the authority of the 
 MS. It is not in the old copies. 
 
 11" Cried 1 aim ? Said I well? 
 
 Cried I aim, did I give you encouragement ? The phrase 
 is common in our old dramatists, and occurs agaia in this 
 play in Act iii. so. 2. The expression is said to be borrowed 
 from archery. All the old editions read, cried game, and the 
 quarto of 1602 has the impossible reading, — "and thou 
 shalt wear hir cried game." Supposing the copy read 
 cry'd I ayme, the error is very readily accounted for. See 
 Douce, p. 44. 
 
 118 The Fetty-ward, the Fa. k-u-ard. 
 
 These were probably names of localities in TN'indsor, 
 and a wood near Wimbledon is still called Pett; -wanL 
 Numerous streets in England have the prefix of petty 
 
 115 To shallow rivers, to whose falls. 
 
 It is scarcely ncccssaiy to observe that this is an I'xtruct 
 from the beautiful little ballad, attriouted to Marlowe, 
 entitled " The passionate Shepherd to his Love." Tiiert 
 are many copies of it, varying considerably from each other. 
 It is not geucraUy known that Dr. Wilson set it to music, 
 the original being in the Bodleian library. It was ex- 
 tremely popular in the time of Shakespeare, as may bt 
 gathered from the plentiful allusions in contemporar% 
 writers. " Doe you take me for a woman, that you comi 
 upon mee \vith a ballad of Come live with me and bo ii\y 
 Love." — Choices Change, and Change, or Conceits in 'Jtir 
 Colours, I60G, p. 3. 
 
 Come live with me, and be my love, 
 And we ^(111 all the pleasures prove 
 Th.at hills and valleys, dales and lieldB, 
 Woods, or steepy mountain yields. 
 
 And we ■will sit upon the rocks. 
 Seeing the sheplierds feed their flocks 
 By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
 Melodious birds sing madrigal^. 
 
 And I wUl make thee beds of rosos, 
 And a thousand fragrant posies ; 
 A cap of flowers, and a kirtle 
 Embroider' d all with leaves of myrtle. 
 
 A gown made of the ^ncst wool. 
 Which from our pretty lambs we pull 
 Fair-lined slippers for the cold, 
 With buckles of the jiuiest gohJ,
 
 KOTES TO T-tLli MEiiRY WIVES OF WINBHOR. 
 
 A belt of straw and ivy-buda, 
 With coral clasps ami amber studs; 
 And if these pleasures may thee move, 
 Come live with ine and be my love. 
 
 The shepherd-swains shall dance and aing 
 For thy <lelight each May-moniing : • 
 
 If theso delights thy mind may move, 
 Then live with me and be my love. 
 
 '-" Whenas I sat in I'abi/lun. 
 
 EvRM, in liis " trcmpling of mind," mixes the psalms 
 with the ballad. The present line is the commencement of 
 Ihe 137th psalm in the old version, ed. 1638, p. 93, — 
 
 'Wlienas wee sate in Babylon, 
 
 The rivers round abont, 
 And in remembrance of Sion, 
 
 The teares for griefe bui-st out. 
 
 "1 Gallia and WJlla. 
 The orig^al edition reads, Gallia ami Gaule. The cor- 
 icction is obtained from the early MS. in my possession. 
 
 ^-- Have yju inaka-a de sot. 
 Sol, i.e a fool. (French.! Scall, scald, a term of reproach. 
 
 '^^ Carry a letter twenty mile. 
 The singidar used for the plural, a common practice in 
 S'tiakcspcare's time, especially when speaking of time or 
 dJstince. Collier and Knight alter the original, but, with 
 sinf^ular inconsistency, in the ' Tempest' tbey retain Pros- 
 per&'a expression, "Twelve year since, Mu-anda," as in 
 he old text. 
 
 ^-* Tliey are laid. 
 Ttiat is, conti'ived or plotted. So seeming., so seemlv, 
 comely, or virtuous. 
 
 '-* As the earth is firm. 
 A proverbial phrase, in common use before the doctrines 
 of C^peniicus became popularly adopted. 
 
 '-° He speaks holiday. 
 
 That is, he speaks in good language suited to a holiday. 
 Steevens has observed a similar expression in Henry IV., — • 
 " With many hohday and lady terms," i.e. fine, affected 
 (erms. "We have, " in the holiday time of my beauty," in 
 act ii. EC. 1. 
 
 He smells April and May^ i.e. he smells of April and 
 May. The particle is frequently omitted, and several other 
 instances occur in Shakespeare. ' Tis in his buttons, equi- 
 valent to, " he Li the man for it. " 
 
 '-' The gentleman is of no hiving. 
 That is, he has no fortune. " Lie in a water-bearer's 
 house, — a gentleman of his havings I'' — Ben Jonson's Every 
 Man in his Humoiu-. 
 
 •-^ Tlie wild Frinct and Fointz. 
 So Poiiitz should be ^^^•itten, as in the old editions. The 
 name was no doubt taken fi'om some individual contemporary 
 with Shakespeare. In Dnlwich College is preserved a letf er 
 from one Anno Pojnitz, addressed to AUcync, the actjr, 
 "to request so much loidng kindenes att your hands to 
 lends me v. poundcs." 
 
 '-' And drink Canary with him. 
 Venner oaye, " Canario wine, which bcareth the name d 
 the islamli from whence it is brought, is of some termed t 
 sackc, with tliis adjunct, Bweetc,"— Kiu /lecta, 10'.'2. 
 liowell says that in his time, 1C34, it was much adultcrit<>d. 
 " I shidl drink in," is, of course, merely equivalent tu, "/ 
 shall drink." Falstaff will dance U) Ford's Jiiping. Canai-j' 
 was also tlie name of a dance, and hence the double quijble. 
 
 "" Among the whilsters in Datcltet mead. 
 Wiitstera were blanehera of linen. Bleachers are elill 
 termed whipsters in the North of England. 
 
 "' How now, my eyas musket f 
 An eyas was a young hawk of any kind, before it left the 
 nest. An eyas-musket was, therefore, a young span-ow- 
 hawk, and the tenn is here jocularly applied to tlie pagi. 
 132 Ygji iiiiig Jack-a-LenL 
 A Jack-a-lent was a stuffed puppet wliich boys used to 
 throw at dm-ing Lent. The term is here jnetaphorically 
 appUed to the page. Quarles writes, — 
 
 How like a Jack-a-Lent 
 
 He stands, for boys to spend their Shrove-tide throwo, 
 Or like a puppet made to frighten crows. 
 
 "'^ Have I eavght thee, my heavenly jewel t 
 This is a quotation from a song in Sir P. Sidney's " Af- 
 trophel and Stella," first printed in 1591, which commenccl 
 OS follows, — 
 
 Have I caught my heav'nly jewel, 
 Teaching sleep most fair to be .' 
 Now wiU I teach her that she, 
 
 AVhen she wakes, is too-too cruel. 
 
 '^' I cannot cog. 
 " Baliverner, to cog, foist, lye, t.ilkc idle, vainely, or I-: 
 no purpose," Cotgrave. 
 
 *35 That becomes the ship-tire. 
 The ship-tire is said to be an open flaimting head-diesG, 
 with scai-fs or ribands floatmg in the air !il:e streamers. 
 That, and the tu'e-valiant, if the latter be not a misprint 
 for tire-velvet, refer to fashions of head-dresses in Elizabeth's 
 time. 
 
 136 Nature thy friend. 
 We must understand being after Nature. This is l!oi' 
 well's explanation, and is no doubt correct. 
 
 13' Like Bucklershury in simple-time. 
 Bucklersbury, a street in London, near Cheapside, was 
 chiefly inhabited in Shakespeare's time by herbahsts ojai 
 di'uggists. 
 
 "s Tlie reek of a lime-kill. 
 Lime-kill is the archaic word for lime-kiln, and should 
 be preserved. The term is still in use in the North i i 
 England. We have kill-hole in act iv. se. 2. 
 
 133 / will ensconce me behind the arras. 
 The aiTas, or tapestry, was hung at some little dislance 
 from the walls, and was frequently uscrt us a mesr.s ci 
 concealment. 
 
 i-i" Whitinq-time, Le. bleaching time, 
 
 131
 
 NOTES TO THE 3IEIUIY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 1" Mliete's the cowl-stjfff 
 A po.a or staff used fur canying a tub or basket having 
 t\ro handles or eai-s, hold on the shouldci-s of two persons. 
 A cowl-stafF, vectis, palanga,' Coles. Drumble, i.e. to 
 e sU)w or sluggish. Tlie term is still in prorineial use. 
 
 ^*- You were best methlle with buch-washing. 
 In the process of bucking clothes, they placed them 
 upon a smooth board or table, and beat them with a 
 Hattoncd pole. A quantity of linen vashed at once was 
 railed a bnch, a t.ub full of linen in buck. Ilcnco, to wash 
 n buck, to w.ash a tub full of bucklinen, the plirase punned 
 iipun by Ford. 
 
 ^*^ So, now iijtcape. 
 According to Warburton, uncape is a term in fox-hunt- 
 ing, signifying, to dig the fo.\; out when earthed. Capcil 
 explains it, to lurn the dogs off. 
 
 ^^^ Wiiat ioas in the basket. 
 
 Ml the old copies read, " wlio was in the basket," which 
 15 tridently incorrect, for had it entered Ford's imagination 
 there was any one in that receptacle, he would of course 
 have discovered the trie^k. The speech, indeed, is altogether 
 an error, for Ford had not asked the question. 
 
 Carrion was a term of contempt, applied to an elderly 
 person. Wc meet with it again in the Jlcrchant of Vcuice, 
 hi. 1. 
 
 '" A-binUng, i.e. hawking. 
 
 "" /'// makt a shaft or a bolt on 't. 
 Tnat is, I will make something of it. The phrase was 
 proverbial. A shaft was a proper aiTow ; a Imli was a thick 
 short Tnc, with a knob at the end of it, only used for shoot- 
 ing birds. 
 
 '*' Come cut and long tail. 
 A curinis proverbial phrase, equivalent to, let anybody 
 come will) likes. So Ben Jonson, — 
 
 At Quintin i'e. 
 
 In honour of this bridaltoe, 
 
 Hath challenged either wide countee, 
 
 Come cut and long tail. 
 
 "* Happy man be his dole. 
 That is, happy bo liis dole or portion. The expression 
 was prcA'erbi.d. 
 
 "' And lyjwTd to death with turnips. 
 " AVouUl I had been set in the ground, all but the head 
 of me, and had my braii.s bowl'd at." Ben Jonson. 
 
 ijii Ilcr fatlier wilt he anijry eUe. 
 Tli'> woi'cl else is supplied from the manuscript in my 
 ytsscssion, and seems neccssarj' to the sense of the passage. 
 
 •^' On a fool and a physician. 
 Dr. Johnson suggests or m tlie ])lace of and, which would 
 certainly be more accui'ate, but l\Irs. Quickly is not vciy 
 pcrticiilar in her jihrascologj-. S!io addressed Page and his 
 wife, one of whom wishes to throw away his daughter on a 
 fniil, the other on a physii ian. " To bo a fool or a phy- 
 sician" was a common old proverb. 
 132 
 
 ^^- Once to-night. 
 That is, some time to-night This meaning of ths Tcnl 
 is not the common one, even in old writers. Sloth, to 
 neglect. 
 
 1^2 Xhe rogues slighted me. 
 Slighted, i.e. threw. This is one of the many obso 
 lote words entirely imnoticed in all former editions 
 Shalccspeare. Slighted, qu. threw me aside ? 
 
 ^^* A mountain of mummy. 
 Jnimmy, or what passed for it, was formerly sold by the 
 apothecaries as a medicine. It was esteemed for its aro- 
 matic qualities. Blount calls it, " a thing lilie pitch, sold by 
 apothecaries ; it is hot in the second degree, and good 
 against all bruisings, spitting of blond, and divers c:her 
 diseases." There were two kinds of mummy, the one said to 
 have been obtained from real Egyptian mummies, the other 
 being merely a composition chiefly made up of bitumen. 
 Fiilstaff here uses the term in a generic sense. 
 
 156 J^fcit) jjig (I pottle of sack. 
 Brew is eWdcntly here used in the sense of draw. Sock 
 was a Spanish white-wine ; in fact, all Spanish white- 
 v.-incs were termed sacks. The wine now so called ia 
 altogether of a different kind. 
 
 ^^^ By the Lord, a buek-basheil 
 There e^•idently requires an cjaiailation here, though 
 omitted in the folio, probably on account of the statute ci 
 James. The present reading is taken from the early quarto 
 
 *^^ Another ambassy of meeting. 
 Amhassy is tlie old foiiu of embassy, and is very conmior 
 in old works. 
 
 i^s / („;;/ jlici address mc. 
 That is, make myself ready, 
 
 '■'' To make me 7nad. 
 The old editions read, "To make one mad." Th? 
 blunder was corrected by Mr. Dyce, in his Bemarks, p. IC. 
 
 '"" Accusativo, hunc. 
 
 All editions read hinc, but the blunder could scarcely r.e 
 intended, especially as it is repeated by Evans. The boy 
 forgot to add, hanc, hoc, wJiich causes the latter to say, '' I 
 pray you, have your rcmcmbranec, child." Evans blunders 
 in his language, but not in his Latinity. Focatire is caret, 
 for vocativo caret. A few lines lower, the genitice of the 
 old editions has been altered to genitiro. Latin is generally 
 printed very incoiTcctly in old plays. 
 
 You must be preeches, i.e. you must bo breeched, or 
 flogged. "Cry like a breech'd boy," Beaumont and 
 Fhrteher. 
 
 '^' He is a good sprag memory. 
 
 Sprack, mispronounced by Evans sprag, is still in use 
 in the West of England in the sense of quick, actti'e, lircly 
 Lord Chcdwcrth says he lias oflen hcai'd in Wiltshire, " He 
 has a good sprack wit ;" and a sharp boy is termed a .-iprack 
 'un. liay has, " A .ipackt hid or wench, apt to Icani, inge- 
 nious," North Couiitrey AVords, 1G7-1, p. 44, no doubt 
 another form of the same word. 
 
 Olimptiou.H, serious. The word occm-s again in th'j same 
 Eoiise ill Hamlet.
 
 NOTES TO THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 ^^'- Your hushand is in his old lines again, 
 l^ineSy or, as it ig clsewlicrc epolt, luncs, is equivalent to, 
 Iuih-ii'3. The sketeh reads vei?t. 
 I'afti-s on, i.e. rages violently. 
 
 103 ]Valch the <luor with pistols. 
 Jaflcson ingeniously conjc'etures that we should read, 
 ' iratfh the door with Tistol, " tlius getting rid of the aria- 
 jiiroiiisin ; but tlio old text is undouiitctUy as it camo from 
 Shaktspeaie's pen. 
 
 '" Her thrumm'd hat, and her muffler Im. 
 
 A tlii-iimracd hat was a hat made of very eoarse woollen 
 cloth. The end of a weaver's warp is the thrum. "A 
 thrummed hat, bardocucullus," Coles. A muffler was made 
 of linen, and usually worn so that it covered part of the 
 face. 
 
 The wise woman of Brentford is called in the first sketeh 
 Gillian of lircntford, who was rather a celebrated character. 
 .\. work called, "Jyl of Brentford's Testament" was in 
 Captain Coxe's library, and two copies, I believe, and no 
 more, have descended to modern times— one in the Bodleian 
 Library, and another which passed through the hands of 
 Ritson and Ileber. Dame Gillian's legacies, although dis- 
 pensed with the utmost libci-ality, and in some respects 
 Tith judgment, were not, however, very acceptable. Ac- 
 cording tc the black-letter tract, she was hostess of a 
 respectable inn at Brentford, and, therefore, wo may 
 [resnme, suitable company for Jlistress Ford : — 
 
 At Brentford on the west of Lcmdon, 
 iV'ygh to a place tjiat called is Syun, 
 There dwelt a widow of a hondy sort. 
 Honest in sulistaunee and full of sport: 
 Daily she cowd with pastini and jestes. 
 Among her neyghboiu's and her gestes ; 
 She kept an inne of ryght good lodgjaig, 
 For all estates that thyder was com}nig. 
 
 This is on the supposition that Robert Copland, the writer 
 of this tract, did not invent the circumstances. The joke 
 of Gillian's legacy continued to a late period, for I find it 
 alluded to in " Ilariy MTiite liis humour," r2mo. Loud. 
 .060:— 
 
 The author in a rccorapenee, 
 
 To them tliat angry be. 
 Bequeaths a gift that 's cald 
 
 Old Gillian's legacie. ■ 
 
 Shakespeare was probably well acquainted with Brent- 
 ford, its celebrated inn, the ' Three Pigeons,' having dramatic 
 notoriety. It iii still standing, but the outside has been 
 much altered. In a little sandy pailoin' to the left of the 
 entrance is preserved- a small painting, dated 170-i, of a 
 table with guests seated round it, and the following 
 nscription, — • 
 
 "We are new beginners, and thrive we would fain ; 
 
 I am nonest Half of EediUng, my wife Suaane by name. 
 
 ^*^ A knot, a ijinfj, a pack. 
 
 A knot, i.e. a company, generally used in a bad sense. 
 ■ A knot of rogues, Jlagitiorum <irex," Coles. Ging, the 
 old form of gang. A pack was a conspired baud of pei-sons, 
 usually said when t!ie purpose was dishonest. TTtis passes, 
 this gcca beyond bounds. 
 
 The last word is supplied from tlic early M.S. copy cf ihf 
 play ill my possession ; but I am not sure it is abeolutelj 
 neeessaiy. 
 
 TViis wrongs you, i.e. tliis does you WTOiig, it injures y->\\i 
 ch:iraeter. 
 
 '" Hi-t V)ifi:'» ler.tan. 
 
 That is, his wife's lover. The word occurs again, ano 
 is a common archaism. 
 
 Daultery, i.e., deceit, triekerj-, from dauli, an old word, 
 to flatter or deceive. 
 
 1(19 Yi-u rag, — gou romjon ! 
 Both these are termj of groat contempt. The first occurs 
 again in ' Tiraon of Athena,' the sceofld in ' Macbeth.' 
 
 "" In the wag of waste. 
 The meaning of the passage is that, if the devil have 
 him not as an estate in fee simple, secured firmly by fine 
 and recovciT, and, therefore, possess liim as an absolute 
 property, he will not attempt again to ruin us by corrupting 
 our \'irtue. 
 
 '"" No period to thejist. 
 That is, no conclusion or end. " Let me moke the perioJ 
 to my cm-se," Richard III. 
 
 ^'^ I'hcg must come ojf. 
 Come off, i.e. pay ; a common plirase in ( arly plays. 
 We still say, come down with the mcjieg, a similar expres.=ien. 
 Sauce, to season ; here, metaphoricilly, t*i give it them. 
 
 . '"- Somei!ime a keeper here in Windsor forest. 
 It has been stated, I know not on what authority, thai 
 Heme was a keeper in Windsor Forest some time befort^ 
 the reign of Elizf.beth, that he iianged himself on the oak 
 from the dread of being disgraced for some olfence that he 
 had committfd, and tliat liis ghost was believed to haunt 
 the spot. No mention is made of the oak in the first 
 sketch of the play ; in which it is merely introduced as 
 follows, — 
 
 Oft have you heard since Home the hunter died, 
 That women, to affright their little childiTU, 
 Says that he wallts in siiape of a great stag. 
 
 ^^Tiere, it will he observed that the hunter's name h 
 Home; and a IIS. of the time of Heniy VIII., preseiwed 
 in the British Museum, mentions a " Ryeharde Home, 
 yeoman," in a list of persons who had hunted illegally in 
 the royal forests. This fact seems to give grounds foi 
 belie%Tng that the poet alludes to a genuine tale of thi 
 period, and tliat the incident is not one of his o«ni invention. 
 A variety of papers have been NVrittcn on the locality of 
 Heme's oak, but none of them with sufficient consideration 
 for the indefinite changes that must have taken plai'.o ir 
 Windsor I'aik since Shakespeare's time. The earliest loenl 
 notice occurs in a map published by W. Collier in 17t'2, 
 where "Sir John FalstafTs oak" is marked as being neai 
 Queen Elizabeth's Walk. It was removed at the close ol 
 tlie last eentuiy, but a new claimant to the honour of being 
 the real Simoii Pure is shown to the visitor. The following 
 lament " upon Heme's oak being cut down in the spiisg o* 
 
 133
 
 NOTES TO THE MEllRY WIVES OE WINDSOli 
 
 17 3o, • is extracted from a contcmpoiary ncwspape!, and is 
 ^"ilh prosei'ving for its own sake : — 
 
 •' Within this dell, fnr many an age, 
 
 Heme's oak uprear'd its antiiiue head : — 
 Oh ! raosl unhallow'd was the rage 
 ^Vhich tore it from its native bed '. 
 
 The stoiTn that stript the forest bare 
 Would yet refrain this tree to \VTOag, 
 
 And Time himself appear'd to spare 
 A fragment he had known so long. 
 
 'Twas marked with popular regard, 
 
 "WTien fam'd Elizabeth was queen ; 
 And Shakespeare, England's matchless hard, 
 
 ilade it the subject of a scene. 
 
 So honour" d, when in verdure drest. 
 To me the wither'd trunk was dear; 
 
 As, when the warrior is at rest, 
 Uis trophial armour men revere. 
 
 That nightly Heme walk'd round this oak, 
 
 "The superstitious eld receiv'd;" 
 And what icy of his outrage spoke, 
 
 The rising age in fear believ'd. 
 
 The hunter, in his morning range. 
 
 Would not the tree •n'ith Kghtncss view ; 
 
 To him. Heme's legend, passing strange. 
 In spite of scoffers, still seem'd tj'ue. 
 
 Oh, where were all the fairy erew 
 
 Who revels kept in days remote, 
 That round the oak no spell they drew, 
 
 Before the axe its libres smote ? 
 
 Could wishes hut ensure the power. 
 The tree again its head should rear ; 
 
 Shrubs fence it with a fadeless bower, 
 And these inscriptive lines appear : — 
 
 ' Here, as wild Avon's poet stray'd'^ 
 
 Hold ! — let me chock this feeble strain^ 
 The spot by Shakespeare sacred made, 
 A verse like mine would but profane ! " 
 
 .Ml Xicholson, the late eminent painter, in an original 
 letter in the possession of Mr Crofton Crokcr, gives the 
 undoubted authority of George III. himself, that the re- 
 mains of the real Heme's oak were removed by his own 
 order, given ciuite inadvertently. According to Mr. Nichol- 
 Eon, the soil of Windsor does not at all suit tlic oak ; so 
 liiat a tree which was old in Shakcspeai'c's time could 
 scarcely have been preserved to the present day. 
 
 '" And lakes t!ie cattle. 
 
 4 horse, when paralysed, was said to bo talien, Iho usual 
 beUef being that he was stricken by a planet or evil spirit. 
 Elil, age, old people, 
 
 "* Like urchins, oujikes, and fairies. 
 
 Uivhins were fairies that assumed the d^ape of urchins 
 01 liedgchogs. Ou/ilies, elfs. Diffused, varied, wild, irre- 
 gular. To-pinch, equivalent to pinch very much ; the pre- 
 fix to anciently annexed to verbs of Anglo-Saxon origin, 
 impljing destnicUcn or dctenoration, was used as a:i inten- 
 sativc, gi"ng more foroo t*) the signification. 
 134 
 
 '" Get us properties and tricking. 
 
 Properties are and were little incidental necessaries to a 
 theati'e, exclusive of scenes and dresses. Tricking, i.e. 
 dress. " Attifets, attires or tues, dressings, trickjugs, 
 attirals," Cotgrave. 
 
 Affects, loves. Thick-skin, a term of abuse or ridicule 
 applied to a foolish person. Snap, make haste. In Xorf'.lk, 
 to do anything snap is to do it quickly. 
 
 I'S His standing-bed, and ti nckU-led. 
 
 The standing-bed was for the master, and the latter, <i 
 lower couch, for the sen-ant, sometimes placed at t!ie fx>{ 
 and sometimes at the side of the other. Middleton B.en- 
 tions, " aa sweet a breasted page as ever lay at his master's 
 feet in a truckle-bed." The counterpane of the slauding- 
 bed was often very costly. Stowe mentions one of the 
 value of a thousand marks. 
 
 Anthropophaginian, a cannibal. 
 
 '" Thine host, thine Ephesian. 
 
 Ephesian is a cant term, apparently applied to a jovial 
 fellow. Bohemian Tartar, meaning Simple, on account 01 
 his wild or strange appearance. Muscle-shell, a joculai 
 allusion to the simpleton standing with his mouth open. 
 
 / may not conceal them. Simple here by mistake usea 
 cor-ceal for reveal, and Falstaff amuses himself by repeat- 
 ing the blunder. 
 
 ^'^ Ay, sir Tike. 
 
 The first folio reads, "Ay, sir, like," which is evident!; 
 
 a coiTuption. The quarto reads Tike, a clown. Howch 
 
 mentions "Yorkshire tikes," I'rov. p. 21. The tenu wat- 
 
 also applied to a dog. Clerkly, scholar-like. Paid, beaten. 
 
 '"3 Since I forswore myself at primcro. 
 
 Primcro was a game at cards, and said to bo the oldest 
 known in England. It is fully described in Duchats notes 
 on Rabelais. 
 
 T17i(7e other jests are something rank on foot, Le. whila 
 other jests are prevalent or numerous. 
 
 IS" ril hold. 
 That is, I will keep to my word. 
 
 '" Hold up your head, and mince. 
 Mince, i.e. irip away. "Walking and mincing as tncy 
 go," Isaiah, iii. IG. Coles translates it, Jununium incidcrc. 
 
 "*- / come to her in white, and cry 'mum.' 
 Mumbudget w.as a cant term for silence. So Cotgravo, 
 " Avoir le bee gele, to play mumbudget, to be tongue-tyod, 
 to say never a word." 
 
 i»3 Lewdsters, i.e lewd people. 
 
 18^ Send me a C(h}1 rut-time, 
 liut-time, breeding time. Any old book on hunting will 
 fully exphiin the terms here used. Scut, a tail. 
 
 '** Let the shy rain potatoes. 
 The esculents here mentioned were formerly conaidfrofl 
 strong provocatives. Massinger aiiudes to "comfits ol 
 i;:i«.igils to help our kisses."
 
 NOTES TO THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 
 
 '" Like a brlb'd biiLh. 
 
 S > the (ilJ copies, not bribe-buck, as printed liy Kiiiglit 
 iii'l Collier. Brib'd, i.e. stolen. "Ijrib'd signotts" are 
 mentioned in Rot. Pari., as quoted by Tyrwhitt, and Pals- 
 ifViive has, " I bribe, I pull, I pyll." 
 
 A wiilk was a particular keeper's district. Windsor 
 forest was parcelled out into walks, as appears from Norden's 
 iiap, 1G07. 
 
 Wodilman, a forester, according to Nares, whoso eliief 
 jccnpution was hunting. 
 
 '"' Fairies, black, grey, green, and while. 
 With considerable hesitation, I have followed Knight 
 and Collier in giving tliis and the other speeches to Anne, 
 as Queen of the Fairies. In all the old editions, they aro 
 given to Mrs. Quickly. It is contended they are not in 
 character with her language, but neither arc the words 
 attributed to Evans and Pistol. To be consistent, wo 
 should also alter the attribution of the latter. 
 
 '*' You orphan heirs of fixed destiny. 
 This is one of those difScult passages which Messrs. 
 Collier and Knight complacently pass over without remark. 
 I agree with Malono that Shakespeare, with a laxity not 
 unusual to him, uses heirs for chiklren. Fairies were chil- 
 djen of fixed destiny, and, according to the usual belief, in one 
 ix-spect of the same family as the 'NVhito Lady of Avenel, — 
 
 ** Happier than brief-dated man, 
 LiWng ten times o'er his span ; 
 Far less happy, for we have 
 Help nor hope beyond the grave." 
 
 Oijes is e\-idently a monosyllable. Unrak'd, a term 
 applied to fires, when they were not laked out. It is now 
 used differently in the provinces, but Shakespeare appai'ently 
 intends the ordinaiy meaning. 
 
 '^^ As blue as bilberry. 
 
 " 'SMiortle berries are called in England, whortes, whortlo 
 ben'ies, blackc-bemes, bill-berries, and bull-berries, and 
 in some places winbemes," Gerai'd's Herball, 1231. 
 
 The notion of death being the punishment of speaking 
 to fairies is aUuded to in the English translation of Huon 
 of Bo\udeaux, 4to. ICOl, eh. 21. 
 
 ^^" liaise up the organs of her fantasy. 
 That is, give her pleasant di'eanis. 
 
 •'" In emrold tuffs. 
 Emtold, i.e. emerald. Tuffs is an old word for tassels, 
 md I think modem editors are \vrong in introducing tufts, 
 another and not quite -an equivalent term. Florio trans- 
 lates affioccare, "to betassle, to tnffe, or hang with locks." 
 Character!,', "a writing by characters or by strango 
 marks," English Expositor, 1671. 
 
 "2 / smell a ma t of middle-earth. 
 
 MidiPc-eartli, an old English term lor tho world, but 
 nearly obsolete in Shakespeare's time. It is found in the 
 Coventry Mysteries, p. 30, — • 
 
 Tyl a maydon in mcdt/l-erlh bo borne, 
 Tnou ff'onde, I warn the liefom, 
 Xhonve here thi he.l xal be to-tom, 
 On wombo awey thou wcude. 
 
 ^^•* Thou ijabt o^erlook'd. 
 
 That is, overlooked by a witch. The term is still in use 
 in the sense of bewitched in the West of England. 
 
 ^^^ Still pinch him to your time. 
 
 Pinching was the usual pimishmeut inflicted by the fairies, 
 and especially on those who violated tho laws of chastity 
 So Fletcher, in the ' Faithful Shepherdess,' — 
 
 " Then must I watch, if any be 
 Forcing of a chastity ; 
 If I find it, then in hast 
 Give my wreathed horn a blast, 
 And the fairies all will run, 
 Wildly dancing by the moon. 
 And wiU pineli him to the bone. 
 Till his lustful thoughts be gone. ■ ' 
 
 "' Luxury, i.e. incontinence. Blucdy fire, equivalent to, 
 fire in thi blood. 
 
 ^^ Do nut these Jntr yokes, 
 
 Mrs. Page alludes to FalstafTs horns. It is rather diffi- 
 cult to account for the application of the term, unless it was 
 given to any protuberance. " A yoke, a couple ; also the 
 top or ridge of an hUl," Baret, 1580. 
 
 '5' Shall I have a coxcomb of frizef 
 A fool's cap made of frizc, a warm coarse kind ci cljth. 
 
 "* What, a hodge-pudding f 
 
 I have not met n-ith this term elsewhere. Is it con- 
 nected with hog-pudding, or haggas-pudding .' All editors 
 pass it over without remark. 
 
 *33 Ignorance itself is a plummet oer me. 
 
 That is, even ignorance is a v.-eight or plummet over mo. 
 which I cannot shake off ; or, the sounding-lead or pliunb 
 line, when let do^-n into the water, will be foimd higher 
 than I am. Either interpretation makes sense ; but ] 
 think the first is what was intended. Any lump of lead 
 was formerly termed a, plummet, as well as a plumb-line. 
 
 "* Amaze, Le, confound, confuse. 
 
 13
 
 3lUmu far Mmnit 
 
 Haste still pays haste, and leisure answers leisure ; 
 Like dotli quit like, and Measuhe still Foa Measitbs. 
 
 'rHE principal incident in tliis play, the infamous conduct of Angelo, has been related of a variety of 
 persons in different ages ; but the primary source of the plot adopted by Shakespeare is found 
 in the novels of Cinthio, Hecatommilhi, 1565, v. 8. In the novel of that writer, Juriste, governor of 
 Inspruck, a man renowned for wisdom and justice, sentenced a youth named Lodovico to death for 
 violation. Epitia, sister of Lodovieo, a virgin of exquisite beauty and highly accomplished, deeply 
 loved her brother, and determined to attempt his»deliverauce. Kneeling in tears before the feet of 
 Juriste, and pleading her brother's cause with pathetic eloquence, her graceful beauty, rendered 
 Btill more attractive by her position, enraptured the stem judge who had previously laughed to scorn 
 Mio power of love. In the excess of tumultuous passion, he makes the same proposal to her wliich 
 Angelo does to Isabella. It is rejected with iudiguation, but Epitia is not proof against the tears and 
 entreaty of her brother, and reluctantly yields to the wishes of Jimste under the solemn jiromise of 
 marriage. "What was her agony, then, to find that his vows were forgotten, and that Lodovico was 
 executed, notwithstanding the sacrifico she had made. She appeals to the emperor of the Romans, 
 before whom Juriste is convicted, compelled to marry her, and then sentenced to death. Epitia now 
 sues for her husband's life ; forgets her wrongs in her character as a wife ; and, ha\ing obtained her 
 prayer, continues the faithful partner of Juriste, who, on his part, is supposed to be reformed by her 
 unexampled virtue and generosity. 
 
 It may readily be supposed that a tale like this, though not weU suited to a very refined age, would 
 be likely to attract the attention of our early dramatists as containing the material for much effective 
 situation. We accordingly find that as early as 1578, George "Whetstone published a drama founded 
 on Cinthio's tale, under the quaint title of, "The right excellent and famous Historye of Promos and 
 Cassandra, divided into Commical Discourses : In tiio f3Tste Parte is showne the imsuffcrable abuse of a 
 lewde Magistrate, thS vertuous behaviours of a chaste Ladye, the imcontrowled leawdcncss of a favoured 
 Curtisan, and the undeserved Estimation of a pernicious Parasyte : In the second Parte is discoursed 
 the perfect Magnanimitye of a noble Kinge, in checking Vice and favouringe Yertue: A\Tierein is sho\\-nc 
 the Euyne and Overthrowe of dishonest Practises, with the Advauncement of upright Dealing." Tin' 
 following argument prefixed to this play will enable the reader to discover how far Shakespeare lias 
 deviated from Whetstone's plot : — 
 
 In tlie Cytio of Julio (sometimes under the dominion of Corrinus, King of Ilimgarie and Bocmia) there iras a law, 
 
 that what man so ever committed Adultery, should lose his head, and the woman offender should wcare some dis^ii»cj 
 
 apparell, during her Ufe, to make her infamouslyo noted. Tliis severe lawe, by the favovir of some mercifull magistrate. 
 
 became little regarded, until! the time of Lord Promos auctority : who, conrictiug a yong Gentleman named Ar.dnipo u- 
 
 IS 137
 
 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 
 
 mcontineney, iiondomned both him, and his minion, to the execution of this statute. Andrugio had a very vertuous anO 
 beawtifid Gentlewoman to hi3 Sister, named Cassandra : Ca-ssaudra, to enlarge her brothers life, submitted an huniblt 
 petition to the Lord Promos : Promos regarding her good behavours, and fantasying her great beawtie, was much 
 dflifhtcd M-ith the sweete order of her talke : and doying good, that evill might come thereof, for a time he repryved her 
 brother ; but, wicked man, touming his liking unto unlawfull lust, he sot downe the spoUe of her honour raunsome for hei 
 Brothers life : chaste Cassandra, abhorring both him and his sute, by no persuasion would yeald to this raunsome. But 
 in fine, wonne with the importunitye of hir Brother (pleading for life), upon these conditions she agrcede to Promos. 
 First that he should pardon her brother, and after marry her. Promos as feareles in promisse, as caielesse in performance, 
 with soUerane vowe, sygned her conditions : but worse then any Infydel, his will satisfyed, he perftrmed neither the one 
 uor the other : for to keepe his aucthoritye, unspotted with favour, and to prevent Cassandrae's clamors, he conunaunded 
 tlio Gayler secretly to present Cassandra with her brother's head. The Gayler, [touched] with the outcryes of Andnigio, 
 abhonyng Promos lewdencs, by the providence of God, provyded thus for his safety. He presented Cassandra with a 
 felons head newlie executed, who (being mangled, knew it not from her brother's, by the Gaylor, who was set at Ubertie) 
 vaa so agreeved at this trecherye, that at the pointe to kyl hersclfe, she spared that stroke to be avwiged of Promos 
 And, devisyng a way, she concluded to make her fortunes knowne imto the kynge. She (executinge this resolution) was 
 10 highly favoured of the king, that forthwith he hasted to do justice on Promos : whose judgment was, to marrye 
 Cassandra, to repaire her erased honour : which donne, for his hainous offence he should lose his head. Tliis marryage 
 eolompnised, Cassauilra, tyed in the greatest bondes of affection to her husband, became an earnest suter for his life : the 
 kinge (tendiinge the generall benefit of the common weale, before her special case, although ho favoured her much) 
 would not graunt her sute. Andj'ugio (disguised amonge the company) sorrowing the giiefe of his sister, bewrayde his 
 safetye, and craved pardon. The kinge, to renowne the vertues of Cassandra, pardoned both him and Promos. The 
 circumstaDcca of this rare Historye, in action lyvelye foloweth. 
 
 "WTietstone gave a prose version of the story in his "Heptameron," 1582, in a marginal note to -which 
 ho informs us that the play above-mentioned had not then been "presented upon .stage." The drama 
 of "Promos and Cassandra" is unquestionably the immediate source of Shakespeare's play, the deTia- 
 tiDus of Whetstone from Cinthio's having been adopted by the great dramatist. The youth is not 
 condemned for the greater crime, but for incoutinency after solemn affiance ; and the culprit is saved 
 &om execution by the substitution of another head. Shakespeare's grand improvement is the introduc- 
 tion of Mariana, whose part in the scene so infinitely purifies the tale. Some of the minor portions of 
 the bye-play in "Measure for Measure," and those the most distasteful to modem ears, were suggested 
 by scenes in "Promos and Cassandra." I will give an extract from the latter play, the scene corre- 
 Bpouding to the affecting interview between Isabella and Claudio, which will suffice to show the naturt 
 of the slender materials worked into beauty by the hand of Shakespeare : — 
 
 Andrugio. My Cassandra what newes, good sister showe. 
 
 Cassandra. All thinges conclude thy death, Andrugio : 
 Prepare thyselfe, to hope it ware in vaine. 
 
 Andrugio. My death, alas, what raysed this new 
 disdaync ? 
 
 Cassandra. Not Justice zeale in wicked Promos sure. 
 
 Andruqio. Swecte, shew tho cause I must this doome 
 indure. 
 
 Cassandra. If thou dost live, I must my honor lose 
 Thy raunsome is, to Promos fleslily wyll 
 That I do yielde : than which I rather chose 
 With torments sharpe mysclfe ho first should kyU. 
 Thus am I ber.t : thou seest thy death at hand : 
 would my life would satisfio his yre, 
 Cassandra then would cancell soone thy band ! 
 
 Andrugio. And may it be a judge of liis account 
 Can spot liis mindo with lawles love or lust? 
 But mor!, may ho doome any faiilt with death, 
 ^\^len in such faute he findes himselfe unjust ? 
 Byster, that wise men love we often sec, 
 .\nd where love niles, gainst tnomes doth raason spumo : 
 But who so loves, if he rejected be, 
 Uis passing love Ut peevi.sh liate will tume 
 Oearo sistei then note how my fortune standj 
 138 
 
 That Promos love, the like is ofl in use ; 
 
 And sith he crave this kindnesso at your hands, 
 
 Think this, if you his pleasure do refuse, 
 
 I, in his rage (poor wretch) shall sing Peccavi, 
 
 Here are two evyls, the best tarde to digest ; 
 
 But whereas things are driven unto necessity, 
 
 There are we byd, of both e^yls choose tJie least. 
 
 Cassandra. And of these e^dls the least, I hold, is death 
 To shun whose dait we can no meanc devise ; 
 Yet honor lives when death hath done his worst : 
 Thus fame then lyfe is of fiure more comprise. 
 
 Andrugio. Nay, Cassandra, if tliou thy selfe submyt. 
 To save my life, to Promos flcashly wyll, 
 Justice v.'yU say thou dost no cr)Tne commit, 
 For in forst faidtes is no intent of yll. 
 
 Cassandra. How so th' intent is construed in offenoo, 
 Tlie Proverbe sales that tenne good tumes lye dead, 
 And one yll deedo tenne tymcs beyond pretence 
 By envious tongues, report abrode doth spread. 
 Andrugio, so my fame shall vallewed bee ; 
 Dispite will blase my criine, but not the cause; 
 And thus, althougli I fa}'ne would set thee free, 
 Poor wench, I feare tlic gi"ypo of slaunder's pawew. 
 
 Axf'rugio. Nay swecte sister, more slaundei- 'voul J in£sme
 
 MEASURE FOR MEASURE;. 
 
 1'or.r spctlea lyfe to reave your bro'Jier's broatli, 
 
 Whi'ii you have power for to enlarge the Bame ; 
 
 Diioe in your handcs doth lye my life and death. 
 
 Way that I am the solfe-same flesh you are ; 
 
 Ihinlij, I once gone, our house will goe to wrack : 
 
 Knowo, forced faultes for slaundcr noede not care : 
 
 Louke you for blame, if I guaile through your lack. 
 
 ron>iJer well my great extremitie ; 
 
 If i.lherndse this doome I coidd revol:c, 
 
 I wiiidd not spare for any jebardye 
 
 To free thee, wench, from this same heavy yoke : 
 
 li\it ah, I se else no way saves my lifo. 
 
 And yet his hope may further thy consent ; 
 
 tic saydo, he maye percaso make thee his wyfe, 
 
 And 't is likelio ho cannot bo content 
 
 With one night's joye : if love be after seckes ; 
 
 And I discbarg'd, if thou aloofo then bo, 
 
 licforo he lose thy selfu that so he leekes, 
 No dought but he to niarryago wyll agree. 
 
 Cassandra. And shall I stickc to sttjupo to Prclnos wyll, 
 Since my brother injoycth lyfo thereby i 
 No, although it duth my credit kyll, 
 Ere tliat he should, my sclfe would chuse to dyo. 
 My Andrugio, take comfort in distrcsse, 
 Cassandra is wonno tliy raunsome great to payo ; 
 Such care she hath thy tlu'aldome to rcloaco 
 As she consentes her honor for to slay. 
 FarewcU, I must my virgin's weedes forsake, 
 And lyke a l*age to Promos lewdc repajTc. \Exf 
 
 Andrugio, My good slater, to God I tlice betake, 
 To whome I pray that comforte change tliy care. 
 
 Mr. Skottowo lias pointed out several similarities of sentiment in the old play and "ileosnre fo.: 
 Measure." Tliey are not, perhaps, extremely striking, but they show at all events the extent of the 
 poet's obligations, which are about as great as tliosc a sculptor owes to his block of marble. Mrs. 
 Collier considers that Shakespeare was not indebted to Whetstone for a single thought, nor for a casual 
 expression, excepting as far as similarity of situation may be said to have necessarily occasioned cor- 
 responding states of feeling, and cmplopnent of language. But this opinion, is, I think, put somewhat 
 too strongly. 
 
 We first hear of " Measure for Measure" as ha\-ing been performed at court on December 2Gth, lGO-1. 
 On the evening of that day, his Majesty's players acted it at AVhitehall. The original account-book 
 preserved at the Audit Office, Somerset House, edited bj- Mr. P. Cunningham, records that Mr. S/iaxber 
 (0 for another essay on the orthography of Shakespeare !) was " the poet which mayd the plaie." The 
 mtry is as follows : — " On St. Stivcns night in the hall a play calcd Mesur for Mesiir." It was first 
 printed in the folio of 1G23, but with many errors. In the preparation of our text, I have had th 
 [idv;mtago of comparing a copy with curious early MS. notes in the library of E. R. Tunno, Esq., 
 purchased by him at the sale of Mr. Dent's library, ii. 1270, for £6.5 2s. This valuable volume has 
 supplied several important corrections, which have every appearance of genuineness. Sir W. Davenant, 
 who wrote an alteration of the play entitled, "Law against Lovers," 1673, also made some useful 
 emendations. The alterations, however, in our text are not numerous ; and it will generally be found 
 to be a faithful copy of the first edition. 
 
 In the year 1700, an alteration of this comedy by Charles Gildon was published, under the title of, 
 " Measure for Measure, or Beauty the best Advocate, as it is Acted at the Theatre in Lincoln's Lin 
 fields : written originally by Mr. Shakespear, and now very much alter'd, with additions of several 
 entertainments of Musick," 4to. This performance is of very questionable merit, and the autlior hiia 
 mifortimatoly not recorded any traditions relating to the original drama that might have been then 
 current. In the com'se of the prologue, he says : — 
 
 Let neither dance nor musick be forgof. 
 Nor scenes, no matter for the sense or plot : 
 Such things we o\vn in Shakespcar's days might do, 
 But then his audience did not judge like you. 
 
 Miilone was of opinion that in the speech of (he Duke in Act i. So. 1, — 
 
 I love the pcopii., 
 
 But do not like to stage me to tiieii- eyes • 
 Though it do well, I do not relish well 
 Their loxid applause and ores vehement ; 
 Nor do I think the man of safe discretion 
 That does affect it 
 
 139
 
 MEASURE FOE MEASUKE. 
 
 ihcre is an allusion to the great dislike of James I. to popular applause. Knowing that the play was 
 acted before that sovereign soon after his accession to the tlirone, it certainly is not impossible that an 
 apology of this kind for a reserve which does not appear to have well pleased the English public, would 
 have been highly relished by the king. It might have been one of those 
 
 flights upon the river Thames, 
 
 That so did take Eliza and our James. 
 
 James had exhibited early in life a fondness for the " life removed." As early as the year 1586, h€ 
 ia th-as described by a contemporary, — " Generally, he soemeth desirous of peace, as appeareth by his 
 disposition and excrcis; viz., his great delight in hunting, his private delight in enditing poesies, and 
 in one or both of these commonly he spendeth the day, when he hath no public thing to do ; his desii-e 
 to withdraw himself from places of most access and company, to places of more solitude and repose, with 
 very small retinue." A similar taste pervaded his movements after he had ascended the throne of Great 
 liritain. " In his publick appe.irance," observes Wilson, " especially in his sports, the accesses of the 
 people made him so impatient, that lie often dispersed them with frowns, that we may not say with curses." 
 We have something stiU more definite in the account which Sir Simonds D' Ewes gives of the king's 
 conduct in his progress to Parliament in the year 1621, — " In the King's short progress from Whitehall 
 to Westminster, these passages following were accounted somewhat remarkable ; First, that he spake 
 often and lovingly to the people, standing thick and three-fold on all sides to behold him, ' God bless 
 ye ! God bless ye !' contrary to his former hasty and passionate custom, tchich often in his sudden distemper 
 would hid a plague on such as flocked to see him : Secondly, that though the -nindows were filled with 
 many great ladies as he rode along, yet that he spake to none of them but to the Marquis of Bucking- 
 ham's mother and wife, who was the sole daughter and heiress of the Earl of E'ltland : Thirdly, tlial 
 he spake particularly and bowed to the Count of Gondomar, the Spanish ambassador; and fourthly 
 that looking up to one window as he passed, fidl of gentlewomen or ladies in yellow bandf, he cried 
 
 out aloud, 'A take ye, are ye there?' at which being much ashamed, they all withdrew them 
 
 solves suddenly from the window." This graphic accoimt certainly confirms the possibility of Malone's 
 conjecture, which, however, it is scarcely necessary to obseiwe, is not founded on evidence. If it be 
 iidmittei another passage may be produced which also tends to the same conclusion, — 
 
 and even so 
 
 The general, subject to a wcll-wish'd king. 
 Quit their oxm part, and in ohsequious fondneoa 
 Croud to his presence, where their untaught love 
 Must needs appear offence. 
 
 Tlie other circumstances produced by Malone in support of his chronological argument are cithei 
 too trifling to be repeated, or are rendered valueless by the discovery that the play was acted at court 
 in 1604.* It is now generally believed to have been composed at the close of the year 1603, or eai-ly 
 'in 1604. 
 
 Mr. Hudson, in his verj- interesting and valuable "Lectures on Shakespeare," a work which exhibits 
 how carefuUy and pliilosophieally the plays of the great dramatist are studied in America, observes 
 that " Measure for Measiu-c is among the least attractive, yet most instructive, of Shakespeare's plays." 
 Coleridge terms it " the only painful part of liis genuine works " llazlitt observes " an original sin in 
 the nature of the subject, which prevents our taking a cordial interest in it." And nearly every crilie 
 has his say against tliis remarkable comedy. 
 
 Taking a view of the subject somewhat opposed to the opinion of Coleridge, it is necessary to sl.ile 
 the grounds on which I venture to differ from so eminent a psychological critic; and I think it will be 
 found, at the very commencement of the ai'gument, a serious error has been committed by nearly all 
 
 • Jt is amusing to obsorvo how very confident Ulrici is that it was not written before 1609, Tho interaal evidence 
 (a of htUe aviiil. 
 140
 
 M!<LASlJii£ FOR MEASDRB. 
 
 who have treated on the play in CFtimating the extent of the crime tor which Claudio was condemned 
 Ulrioi says he had "seduced his mistress before mamage." This is, however, erroneous. In Shakes- 
 peare's time, the ceremony of bctrothment was usually supposed to confer the power of matiimonia] 
 anion. Claudio obtained possession of Julietta on "a true contract;" and provided man-iagi; wa» cele- 
 bratcd within a reasonable time aftenvards, no criminality could bo alleged after the contract liad been 
 toiTaally made. So, likewise, the DiUte tells Mariana it was no sin to meet Angelo, for he was her 
 '• husband on a pre-contract." The story would bo more properly analyzed by representing Claudio's 
 ,iTor as venial, and Angclo's strictness so much the more severe, thus involving a greater antithesis in 
 his fall. The only painful scene in the play is the subject of the argument between Angelo and 
 Isabella ; but Shakespeare is not to be blamed for the direction it takes. On the contrary, he lias 
 infinitely purified a barbarous tale which the taste of the age authorized as a sulject of dramatic representa- 
 tion. The scenes between the lower characters woidd have been readily tolerated liy a female audience 
 in the time of the first James, and although they must now be passed over, we can hardly censure the 
 poet for not foreseeing' the extreme delicacy of a later age. The offences cliiefly consist of a few gross 
 words, which no one but literary antiquaries -will comprehend, and are purposely left without explana- 
 tion in the notes. 
 
 Bearing in mind that the improprieties of language above alluded to are faults of the age, not of 
 
 the poet's judgment, and that a similar apology may be advanced for the choice of subject, the moral 
 
 conveyed by " Measure for Measure" is <,f a deeply religious character. It exhibits in an outline of 
 
 ^'ondcrful power, how ineffective are the strongest resolutions of men against the insidious temptation 
 
 of beauty, when they are not flrralj' strengthened and guarded by religion. The prayers of Angelo 
 
 came from his lips, not from his heart, and he foU. Isabella, on the contrary, is prcseiTcd by virtue 
 
 grounded on religious faith. Her character is presented as nearly approaching perfection as is consistent 
 
 with possible reality; and we rejoice that such a being should be snatched from the gloomy cloister to 
 
 I xercise her mild influence in a more useful station. The minor characters complcto the picture of one 
 
 f tlie cliief phases of human life, tie conflict of incontinence and chastity. 
 
 141
 
 PERSONS KEPRESENTED. 
 
 VrscENTic, iJie Bulco. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1 ; sc. 3. Act II. sc. 3. Act. III. sc. 1 ; 
 
 sc. 2. Act IV. 6c. 1 ; sc. 2 ; sc. 3 : sc. 5. Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 AxGELO, the deputy [in the Duke's absence']. 
 
 ippears, Act I. sc. 1. Act II. sc. 1 ; sc. 2 ; sc. 4. Act IV. 
 
 sc. 4. Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 EscAECs, an ancient lord [joined teith Angelo in the 
 
 deputation]. 
 
 ippears, Act I. sc. 1. Act II. sc. 1. Act III. sc. 2. 
 
 Act IV. sc. 4. Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 CLiUDro, a young gentleman. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 2. Act III. sc. 1. Act IV. sc. 2. 
 
 Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 Ltjcio, a fantastic. 
 
 Appears Act I. sc. 2 ; sc. 4. Act II. sc. 2. Act III. sc. 2; 
 
 sc. 3. Act IV. sc. 3. Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 Two other like Gentlemen. 
 Appear, Act I. sc. 2 ; sc. 3. 
 
 Provost. 
 
 A]<pe3rB, Act 1. sc. 2. Act II. sc. 1 ; sc 2 ; sc. 3. Act III. 
 
 BC. 1 ; Bc. 2. Act IV. sc. 2 ; sc. 3. Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 Thomas, a friar. 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 3. 
 
 Peter, a friar. 
 Appco s, Act IV. sc. 5 ; sc. G. Act V. ic. 1. 
 
 A Justice. 
 Appea't; Act II. »c. 1. 
 
 Varbius. 
 Appears, Act IV. sc. 5. Act V. eo. 1. 
 
 Elbow, a simple constable. 
 Appears, Act II. sc. I. Act III. sc. 2. 
 
 Feotii, a foolish gentleman. 
 Appears, Act II. sc. 1. 
 
 Clowjt. 
 
 Appears, Act II. sc. 1. Act III. sc. 2. Act IV. bc 2 ; so 3 
 
 Abhokson, an executioner. 
 Appears, Act IV. sc 2 ; sc. 3. 
 
 Babnajidixe, a dissolute prisoner. 
 Appears, Act IV. sc. 3. Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 Isabella, sister to Claudio. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 4. Act II. sc. 2 ; sc. 4. Act lit. s^. i 
 
 Act. IV. sc. 1 ; sc. 3 ; sc. 6. Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 Majiiaxa, betrothed to Angela. 
 Appears, Act IV. sc. 1 ; sc. 6. Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 Juliet, beloved of Claudio. 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 2. Act II. sc. 3. Act V. 8o. 1. 
 
 Fraxcisca, a nun. 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 4. 
 
 Mistress Oveedoxe, a bawd. 
 Appears, Act L sc. 2. Act lU. sr, 2 
 
 Lardi, Gentlemen, Guards, Officers, and other 
 Attendants. 
 
 SCEXE,— VxENTfA.
 
 M^mm h jlWMt 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. — An apartment in the Duke's palace. 
 
 Enter Duke, Escaius, Lords, and Attendants. 
 
 Dnl-.e. Escalus, — 
 
 Escal. My lord. 
 
 Buhe. Of government the properties to unfold, 
 ^''ould seem in me t' affect speech and discourse ; 
 Since I am put to know' that your own science 
 Exceeds, in that, the lists of all advice 
 My strength can give you. Then no more re- 
 
 maius. 
 Put that to your sufficiency,^ as your worth is 
 
 able, 
 And let them work. The nature of our people. 
 Our city's institutions, and the terms' 
 For common justice, y' are as pregnant in, 
 As art and practice hath enriched any 
 That we rememher : There is our commission, 
 From which we would not have you warp. — CaU 
 
 hither, 
 [ say, bid come before us Angelo. 
 
 [Exit an attendant. 
 What figure of us think you he will bear ? 
 For you must know, wc have with special soul* 
 Elected him our absence to supply ; 
 Lent him our terror, dross'd him with oui' love ; 
 And given his deputation aU the organs 
 Of our ov.Ti pow'r : What think you of it ? 
 
 Escal. If any in Vienna be of worth 
 To undergo such ample grace and honour, 
 It is lord Angelo. 
 
 Enter Anoelo. 
 
 Dtike. Look, where he comes. 
 
 Ang. Always obedient to your grace's will 
 I come to know your plea'sure. 
 
 Bake. Angelo, 
 
 There is a kind of character in thy life, 
 That, to th' observer, doth thy history 
 FuUy unfold. Thyself and thy belongings 
 Are not thine own so proper,' as to waste 
 Thyself upon thy virtues, they on thee. 
 Heaven doth with us as we witli torches do ; 
 Not light them for themselves : for if our virtues 
 Did not ge forth of us, 't were all alike 
 As if -we had them not. Spirits are not finely 
 
 touch' d 
 But to iine issues :" nor Nature never lends 
 The smallest scruple of her excellence. 
 But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines 
 Herself the glory of a creditor, 
 lioth thanks and use.' But I do bend my speech 
 To one that can my part in him advertise ;" 
 Hold, therefore, Angelo:' [ Giving him the commission 
 In our remove, be thou at full ourself : 
 Mortality and mercy'" in Vienna 
 Live in thy tongue and heart. Old Escalus, 
 Though first in question," is thy secondary : 
 Take thy commission. 
 
 Ang. Now, good my loid. 
 
 Let there be some more test made of mj- mctd, 
 Before so noble and so groat a figure 
 Be stamp'd upon it. 
 
 143
 
 ACT L 
 
 MKASURB FOR MEASURE 
 
 SCENE U. 
 
 Dule. 1^0 more evasion : 
 
 We have with a leaven'd and prepared choice '- 
 Proceeded to you : therefore take your honours. 
 Our haste from hence is of so quick condition, 
 That it prefers itself, and leaves unquestion'd 
 Matters of needful value. "We shall -write to you, 
 As time and our conccmings shall importune, 
 How it goes with us ; and do look to know 
 ■^liat doth hefol you here. So, fare you well : 
 To th' hopeful execution do I leave you 
 Of your commissions. 
 
 Aiiff Yet, give leave, my lord. 
 
 That we may bring you something on the way. 
 
 Dulce. My haste may not admit it ; 
 Nor need you, on mine honour, have to do 
 With any scruple : your scope is as mine own, 
 So to enforce or qualify the laws 
 As to yotir soul seems good. Give me j-our hand; 
 I '11 privily away : I love the people, 
 But do not like to stage me to their eyes :'' 
 Though it do weU, I do not relish well 
 Their loud applause, and aves vehement; 
 Nor do I think the man of safe discretion 
 That does affect it. Once more, fare you well. 
 
 Atij. The heavens give safety to your purposes I 
 
 anneal. Lead forth, and bring you back in happi- 
 ness. 
 
 Dulce. I thank you : Fare you well. \_Hxit. 
 
 Escal. I shall desire you, sir, to give me leave 
 To have free speech -^nth you ; and it concerns 
 
 me 
 To look into the bottom of my place : 
 A pow'r I have ; but of what strength and nature 
 I am not yet instnictcd. 
 
 Ang. 'T is so with me : — Let us withdi-aw 
 together, 
 And we may soon our satisfaction have 
 Touching that point. 
 
 Eical. I 'U wait upon your honour. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II.— .4 Street in Vienna. 
 Enter Lucio and two Gentlemen. 
 Lucio. If the duke, with the other dukes, come 
 not to composition with the king of Hungary, 
 why, then all the dukes fall upon the king. 
 
 1 Gent. Heaven grant us its peace, but not the 
 king of Hungary's ! 
 
 2 Gent. Amen. 
 
 Lucio. Thou conclud'st like the sanctimonious 
 pirate, that went to sea with the ton command- 
 mcnts, but scrap'd on? out of the table. 
 114 
 
 2 Gent. Thou thaU not steal ? 
 Lucio Ay, that he raz'd. 
 
 1 Gent. Why, 't was a commandment to com- 
 mand the captain and all the rest from tlieir func- 
 tions; they put forth to steal. There's not, a 
 soldier of us all, that, in the thanksgiving before 
 meat," doth relish the petition well that prays for 
 peace. 
 
 2 Gent. I never heard any soldier dislike it. 
 Lucio. I believe thee; for I think thou nevei 
 
 wast where grace was said. 
 
 2 Gent. No ? a dozen times at Isast. 
 
 1 Gent. "\Miat ? in metre ^ 
 
 Lucio. In any proportion, or in any language. 
 
 1 Gent. I think, or in any religion. ■ 
 
 Lucio. Ay ! why not ? Grace is grace,'' despite 
 of all controversy : As for example : Thou thyself 
 art a wicked \-iUain, despite of all grace. 
 
 1 Gent. AYell, there went but a pair of sheais 
 between us. 
 
 Lucio. I grant ; as there may between the bsts 
 and the velvet. Thou art the list. 
 
 1 Gent. And thou the velvet : thou art good 
 velvet; thou 'rt a three-pU'd piece," I warrant 
 thee : I had as lief be a list of an English kersey, \ 
 as be pU'd, as thou art pil'd, for a French velvet. ] 
 Do I speak feelingly now ? 
 
 Lucio. I think thou dost; and, indeed, •with 
 most painful feeling of thy speech, I wiU, out of 
 thine own confession, loam to begin thy health ; 
 but wliUst I live, forget to drink after thee. 
 
 1 Gent. 1 think 1 have done rayseK wrong; 
 have I not ? 
 
 2 Gent. Yes, that thou hast; whether thou art 
 tainted or free. 
 
 Lucio. Behold, behold, where madam Mitigation 
 comes ! I have purchas'd as many diseases undei 
 her roof as come to — 
 
 2 Gent. To what, I pray? 
 
 Lucio. Judge. 
 
 2 Gent. To three thousand doUars" a year. 
 
 1 Gent. Ay, and more. 
 
 Lucio. A French crown more. 
 
 1 Gent. Thou art always figuring diseases in 
 me : but thou art full of error ; I am sound. 
 
 Lucio. Nay, not as one would say, healthy ; bv t 
 so sound as things that are hollow : thy bones ar? 
 hollow : impiety has made a feast of theo 
 
 Enter Mistkess Ovebboxe. 
 1 Gent. How now? 'Wliich of your hips haa 
 the most profound sciatica r
 
 Acr I. 
 
 MEASUllE FOR MEASURE. 
 
 SCnSNE 11, 
 
 Over. AVcU, well; there's one yonder arrested, 
 nnd carried to prison, was worth fivo thousand 
 of you all. 
 
 I Gent. A\nio 's that, I pray thee ? 
 
 Over, irarry, sir, that 's Claudio, signor Claudio. 
 
 1 Gent. Claudio to prison ! 't is not so. 
 
 Over. Nay, but I know 't is so : I saw him ar- 
 rested; saw him carried away; and which is more, 
 within these three days his head's to be chopp'd oiT. 
 
 Liicio. But, after all this fooling, I would not 
 have it so. Art thou sure of this ? 
 
 Over. I am too sure of it ; and it is for getting 
 madam Julietta ■\s'ith child. 
 
 Liicio. Beliere me, this may be: he promis'd to 
 meet mo two hours since, and he was ever precise 
 in promise-keeping. 
 
 2 Gent. Besides, you know, it draws something 
 near to the speech we had to such a purpose. 
 
 1 Gent. But, most of all, agreeing with the pro- 
 clamation. 
 
 Lueio. Away; let's go learn the truth of it. 
 
 \_Exeimt Lucio and Gentlemen. 
 
 Qve'-. Thus, what with the war, what with 
 the sweat," what with the gallows, and what with 
 ^cvi^rty, I am custom-slu"unk. How now? what's 
 (he news ■«ith you? 
 
 Enter Clown. 
 
 Clo. Ycmdcr man is carried co prison. 
 
 Over. Well ; what has he done ? 
 
 Clo. A woman. 
 
 Over. But what 's his offence r 
 
 Clo. Groping for trouts in a peculiar river. 
 
 Over. \^\a.t, is there a maid with child by him? 
 
 Clo. No; but there 's a woman with maid by 
 him. You have not heard of the proclamation, 
 have you? 
 
 Over. "Wliat proclamation, man ? 
 
 Clo. All houses in the suburbs of Vienna must 
 be pluck'd down. 
 
 Over. And whaf shall become of those in the 
 city ? 
 
 Clo. They shall stand for seed : thoy had gone 
 down too, but a wise burgher put in for them. 
 
 Over. But shall all our houses of resort in the 
 Tuburbs be pull'd down ? 
 
 Clo. To the ground, mistress. 
 
 Over. Why, hero 's a change, indeed, in the com- 
 monwealth I AVliat shall become of me ? 
 
 Clo. Come ; fear not you : good counsellors lack 
 no clients: though you change your place, you need 
 tioi change your ti'ade • I 'U be your tapster still. 
 
 Courage; there will be pity taken on you: j'ou 
 that have worn your eyes almost out in the ser- 
 vice, you ^"ill be considered 
 
 Over. What's to do here, Thomas Tapster* Let 'a 
 withdraw. 
 
 Clo. Here comes signer Claudio, led by tlie pro- 
 vost to prison: and there 's madam Juliet. 
 
 [ Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Provost, Claubio, Jrrr.iKT, and OFFicKK.'i 
 Lucio, and two Gentlemen. 
 
 Claud. Fellow, why dost thou show me thus to 
 th' world? 
 Bear mo to prison, where I am committed. 
 
 P)-o. I do it not in evil disposition. 
 But from lord Angelo by special charge. 
 
 Claud. Thus can the derai-god. Authority, 
 Make us pay down for our offence by weight." — 
 The word of heaven — on whom it -will, it will; 
 On whom it will not, so; yet still 't is just. 
 
 Lucio. WTiy, hov,- now, Claudio? whence comes 
 this restraint ? 
 
 Claud. From too much liberty, mv Lucio, 
 liberty : 
 As surfeit is the father of much fast, 
 So eveiy scope, by the immoderate use, 
 Turns to restraint. Our natures do purt'^o 
 (Like rats that ravin down their propoi lquc^) 
 A thirst)' e-^-il, and when we drink wo die. 
 
 Lueiu. If I could speak so wisely under an ar- 
 rest, I would send for certain of my creditors. 
 And yet, to say the truth, I had as lief have the 
 foppery of freedom as the morality of imprisonment. 
 — What 's thy offence, Claudio ? 
 
 Claud. What but to speak of would offend again. 
 
 L^teio. AAHiat! is 't murder? 
 No. 
 
 Lecher}' ? 
 Call it so. 
 
 Pro. Away, sir; you muse go. 
 
 Claud. One word, good friend : — Lucio, a woi-d 
 with you. [Takes him aside. 
 
 Lucio. A hundred, if they 'U do you any good. 
 — Is lechery so look'd »fter ? 
 
 Claud. Thus stands it with me : — Upon a tnie 
 contract, 
 I got possession of Julietta's bed ; 
 You know the lady ; she is fast my wife, 
 Save that wo do the denimciation lack 
 Of outward order : this we came not to, 
 Only for propagation of a dow'r^' 
 Remaining in the colfer of her friends ; 
 
 Claud. 
 Lucio. 
 Claud.
 
 MEASURE FOJl MEASUllE. 
 
 Flora -n-ho!!! we thought it meet to hide our love, 
 Till time had made them for us. But it chances, 
 The stealth jf our most mutual entertaimnent, 
 With character too gross, is \VTit on Juliet. 
 
 Zucio. With chUd, perhaps ? 
 
 Claud. Unhappily, even so. 
 
 And the new deputy now for the duke, — 
 Whether it he the fault and glimpse of newness;^ 
 Or whether that the body public be 
 A horse whereon the governor doth ride. 
 Who, newly in the seat, that it may know 
 He can command, lots it straight feel the spur ; 
 Whether the tp'anny be in his place, 
 Or in his eminence that iills it up, 
 I stagger in : — But this new governor 
 Awakes me all the em'olled penalties. 
 Which have, like unscoar'd armour, hung by th' 
 
 wall 
 So long, that nineteen zodiacs have gone round. 
 And none of them been worn ; and, for a name. 
 Now puts the drowsy and neglected act 
 Freshly on me : — 't is surely for a name. 
 
 Lucio. I wan-ant, it is : and thy head stands so 
 •ickle"^ on thy shoulders, that a milkmaid, if she 
 be in love, may sigh it off. Send after the duke, 
 and appeal to liim. 
 
 Claud. I have done so, but he 's not to be found. 
 1 prithee, Lucio, do me this kind scrrice ; 
 This day my sister should the cloister enter. 
 And there receive her approbation ; 
 Acquaint her with the danger of my state ; 
 Implore her in ray voice, that she make friends 
 To the strict deputy ; bid herself assay him ; 
 I have great hope in that : for in her youth 
 There is a prone and speechless dialect," 
 Such as moves men ; beside, she hath prosperous art 
 When slie wUl play with reason and discourse, 
 And well she can persuade. 
 
 Lucio. I pray she may : as well for the encou- 
 ragement of the like, which else would stand 
 under grievous imposition; as for the enjo3'ing of 
 thy life, who I would be sorry should be thus 
 foolishly lost at a game of ticktack.^ I 'U to her. 
 
 Claud. T thank you, good friend Lucio. 
 
 Lucio. Witliiu two hours. 
 
 Claud. Come, officer, away. {&eunt. 
 
 SCENE III.— ^ Monastery 
 
 JSnter Dcke and Friar Tnojr.vs. 
 
 Duhe. No, holy father; throw away that thought; 
 Believe not that the dribbling dart of love'^ 
 I tr. 
 
 Can pierce a complete bosom : wliy I desire theo 
 To give me secret harbour, hath a purpose 
 More grave and wrinkled than the aiius and iwh 
 Of burning youth. 
 
 Fri. May your grace speak of il 
 
 Duke. My holy sir, none better Imows than j'ou 
 How I have ever lov'd the life removed ; 
 And held in idle price to haimt assemblies, 
 Where youth, and cost, and witless bravery kepp." 
 1 have delivered to lord Angelo 
 (A man of stricture^ and firm abstinence) 
 My absolute power and place here in Vienna, 
 And he supposes me travell'd to Poland : 
 For so I have strew'd it in the comcon ear, 
 And so it is rcceiv'd. Now, pious sir, 
 Tou wUl demand of me why I do this 
 
 Eri. Gladly, my lord. 
 
 Duhe. We have strict statutes, and most biting 
 laws, 
 (The needful bits and curbs to headstrong steeds, > 
 Which for this foui'teen years wo have let sleep;" 
 Even like an o'ergrown lion in a cave. 
 That goes not out to prey. Now, as fi^nd fathci^ 
 Havicff bound up the thi'oat'ning twigs of hircb. 
 Only to stick it m their childrcn"s r.ight. 
 For terror, not to use, in ti;ne tlie rod 
 Becomes more mock'd than fear'd ; so our decrees 
 Dead to infliction, to themselves are dead ; 
 And liberty plucks justice by the nose ; 
 The baby beats the nurse, and quite athwart 
 Goes all decorum. 
 
 Fri. It rested in your grace 
 
 To unloose this tied-up justice when you pleas'd : 
 And it in you more di'eadful would have seem'd 
 Than in lord Angelo. 
 
 Duho. I do feai", too di-oadful : 
 
 Sith 't was my fault to give the people scope, 
 'T would be my tyranny to strike and gall them 
 For what I bid them do : For we bid this be done, 
 When evil deeds have theu- permissive pass, 
 And not the punishment. Tliercforc, indeed, mj 
 
 father, 
 I have on Angelo impos'd the office ; 
 Who may, in th' ambush of my name, strike liomo 
 And yet my nature never in the tight. 
 To do in slander."" And to behold liis sway, 
 I wiU, as 't were a brother of your order, 
 Visit both prince and people : therefore, I pritheo 
 Supply me v.-ith the nabit, and instruct me 
 How I may formally in person bear 
 Like a true friar. More reasons for this action. 
 At our more leisure shall I render j-ou ;
 
 LCI I. 
 
 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 
 
 Oiily this one : — Lord Aiigelo is precise ; 
 Btunds at a guard with envy ; '' scarce confesses 
 That his blood flows, or that his appetite 
 Is more U. oread than stone. Hence shall we see, 
 If power change piirpose, what our scemers be. 
 
 SCEIiE -iN.—The Nunnery of Si. Clare. 
 Enter Isabeha and Feancisca. 
 
 Isah. And have you nuns no further privileges ? 
 
 Fran. Are not tliese large enough ? 
 
 Isah. Yes, truly : I speak not as desiring more ; 
 But rather wishing a more strict restraint 
 Upon the sisterhood, the votarists of St. Clare. 
 
 Lucio. Ho ! Peace be in this place ! [ WitJiin. 
 
 Isah. Who 's that which calls ? 
 
 Fran. It is a man's voice : Gentle Isabella, 
 Turn you the key, and know his business of him ; 
 You may, I may not ; you arc yet unsworn : 
 When you have vow'd, you must not speak with 
 
 men, 
 But in the presence of the prioress : 
 Then, if you speak, you must not show your face ; 
 Or, if you show your face, you must not speak. 
 He calls again ; I pray you answer him. 
 
 \_Exit Fran. 
 
 Isal. Peace and prosperity ! Wlio is 't that calls? 
 
 Enter Lucio. 
 
 Lucio. Hail, virgin, if you be ; as tliose cheek- 
 roses 
 Proclaim you are no less ! Can you so stead me, 
 As bring me to the sight of Isabella, 
 A novice of this place, and the fair sister 
 To her mihappy brother Claudio ? 
 
 Isal. AVhy her unhappy brother ? let me ask ; 
 The rather, for I now must make you know 
 I am that Isabella, and his sister. 
 
 Lucio. Gentle and fair, your brother kindly 
 greetsyou : 
 Not to be weary with you, he 's in prison. 
 
 Isah. Woe me ! For what ? 
 
 Lucio. For that, which if myself might be his 
 
 (le should receive his punishment in thanks : 
 
 Lie halh got his Mend with child. 
 Imb. Sir, make me not your story.^ 
 Luc-io. 'T is true. I would not — though 't is 
 my familiar sin 
 
 With maids to seem the lapwing,^' and to jest, 
 
 I'ongue far from heart, — play with al' virsins so : 
 
 I hold you as a thing enskicd, and sainted ; 
 By your renouncement, an immortal spirit ; 
 And to be taUc'd with in sincerity. 
 As with a saint. 
 
 Isah. You do blaspheme the good, in mocking niB 
 
 Lucio. Do not believe it. Fewness and trutli, 
 't is thus : 
 Your brother and his lover have embrac'd : 
 As those that feed grow full ; as blossoming time,* 
 That from the seedness the bare fallow brings 
 To teeming foison ; even so her plenteous womb 
 Expresseth his full tilth and husbandry. 
 
 Isah. Some one with child by him r — Jly cousin 
 Juliet? 
 
 Lucio. Is she your cousin ? 
 
 Isah. Adoptedly; as schoolmaids change theii 
 . names. 
 By vain though apt affection. 
 
 Lucio. She it is. 
 
 Isah. 0, let him marry her I 
 
 Lucio. This is the point. 
 
 The duke is very strangely gone from hence; 
 Bore many gentlemen, myself being one, 
 In hand,^* and hope of action : but we do Icani 
 By those that know the very nerves of state, 
 His gi\ing-out was of an infinite distance 
 From his true-meant design. Upon his place, 
 And with full line of his authority, 
 Governs lord Angelo : a man whose blood 
 Is very snow-broth ; one who never feels 
 The want 3n stings and motions of the sense ; 
 But doth rebate and blunt liis natural edge 
 With profits of the mind, studj- and fast. 
 He (to give fear to use and liberty, 
 Which have, for long, run by the hideous law, 
 As mice by Hons) hath pick'd out an act. 
 Under •whose heavy sense yoiu- brother's life 
 Falls into foi'feit : he arrests him on it 
 And follows close the rigour of the statute, 
 To make him an example : all hope is gone. 
 Unless you have the grace by your fair prayer 
 To soften Angelo ; and that's my pith of business 
 'Twixt you and your poor brother. 
 
 Isah. Doth he so 
 
 Seek his Hfe r 
 
 Lucio. H' as censur'd him already,'' 
 
 And, as I hear, the provost hath a ■« arrant 
 For 's execution. 
 
 Isah. Alas ! what poor 
 
 Ability "s in me to do him good ? 
 
 Lucio. Assay the pow'r you have. 
 
 Isah. My power! Alas! I doubt— 
 
 147
 
 MEASUllE FOR iLEASUBE. 
 
 SCEXE I. 
 
 Lufio. Our doubts are traitors, 
 And make us lose the good we oft might -n-in, 
 B\- fearing to attempt. Go to lord Angelo, 
 Km\ let hira learn to know, when maidens sue, 
 Men give like gods ; but when they weep and kneel, 
 All their petitions are as freely theirs 
 As they themselves would owe them. 
 
 Isal. I '11 see what I can do. 
 
 Lucio. But speedily. 
 
 Isab. I ^viU. about it straight; 
 No longer staj-ing but to give the mother " 
 Notice of my atfair. I humbly thar_k you : 
 Commend me to my brother ; soon at night 
 I '11 send him certain word of my sucoes?. 
 
 Lucio. I take my leave of you. 
 
 Isah. Good sir, adieu. \Ilxeuni 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE 1. — A Eall in Angelo's Ebme. 
 
 Enter Asgelo, Escalus, a Justice, Pkovost," 
 Officeks, and other Aitenbanis. 
 
 Any. We must not make a scarecrow of the law, 
 Setting it up to fear" the birds of prey. 
 And let it keep one shape, tiU custom make it 
 Their perch, and not their terror. 
 
 Meal Ay, but yet 
 
 Let us be keen, and rather cut a little. 
 Than fall, and bruise to death, .ilas I this gentle- 
 man, 
 Wliom I would save, had a most noble father : 
 Let but your honour know, 
 ("WTiom I believe to be most straight in virtue,) 
 That in the working of your own affections, 
 Had time coher'd with place, or place with 
 
 wishing. 
 Or that the resolute acting of your blood " 
 , Could have attain'd th' effect of your own purpose, 
 Whether you had not sometime in your life 
 Err'd in this point which now you censure him, 
 And puU'd the law upon you. 
 
 Aitj. 'T is one thing to be tempted, Escalus, — 
 iVj.other thing to fall. I not deny, 
 Tl.n iurv passing on the prisoner's life, 
 K-jj, in the sworn twelve, have a thief or two 
 Gi.'ltier than him they tiy. ^Yha.t 's open made 
 To justice, that justice seizes; what know the 
 
 laws,'- 
 IThat thieves do pass on thieves? 'T is very 
 
 pregnant, 
 !l1ie jewel that we find, we stoop and take 't. 
 Because wc see it ; but wliat we do not see 
 We tread upon, and never think of it. 
 You may not so extenuate his offence. 
 For I have had such faults ; but ratlier tell ine 
 
 14« 
 
 When I, that ccusm-e him, do so offend, 
 
 Let mine own judgment pattern out my death. 
 
 And nothing come in partial. Sir, he must die. 
 
 Escal. Be it as your wisdom wUl. 
 
 Ang. '\\'Tiere is the provost? 
 
 Prov. Here, if it like your honour. 
 
 Ang. See that Claudio 
 
 Be executed by nine to-morrow morning: 
 Bring him his confessor, let him be prepar'd ; 
 For that 's theutmost of his pilgrimage. 
 
 [Exit Phov 
 
 Escal. Well, heaven forgive him ! and forgive 
 us all; 
 " Some rise by sin, and some by "irtue fall;"" 
 Some run thro' brakes of vice," and answer none; 
 And some condemned for a fault alone. 
 
 Enter Elbow, Froth, Clo^vn, Officebs, ^-c. 
 
 Elb. Come, bring them away : if these be good 
 people in a commonweal that do nothing but use 
 their abuses in common houses, I know no law ; 
 bring them away. 
 
 Ang. How now, sir! Wliat's your nanis? and 
 what's the matter? 
 
 Eli. If it please your honour, I am the poor 
 duke's constable, and my name is Elbow ; I do lean 
 upon justice, sir, and do bring in here before your 
 good honour two notorious benefiictors. 
 
 Ang. Benefactors ? Well ; what benefactors am 
 they ? are they not malefactors ? 
 
 Elb. If it please your honour, I know not well 
 what they are: but precise villains they are, that I 
 am sure of; and void of all profanation in the 
 world, fliat good Christians ouglit to have. 
 
 Escal. Tills comes off weU; here's a wse officer. 
 
 Ang. Goto: What quality are they of ? Elbow 
 is your name ? WTiy dost thou not speak, Elbow-'
 
 MEASUKE FOR MEASUim. 
 
 Clo lie eaanot, sir ; he 's out at elbow. 
 
 Aug. What arc 3-ou, sir? 
 
 Elh. lie, sir? a tapster, sir; parcel-bawd;" one 
 I hut serves a bad woman ; wlioso house, sir, was, as 
 I hey sa}', pluck'd down in the suburbs; ami now 
 ihe professes a hot-house,'"' which, I tiiiiik, is a very 
 ill house too. 
 
 Escal. How know you tliat ? 
 
 E!b. Jfy wife, sir, M'hom I detest before heaven 
 and yom- honour, — 
 
 Eiml. How ! thy wife ? 
 
 .Elh. Ay, sir; whom, I thank heaven, is an ho- 
 nest woman,— 
 
 Encal. Dost thou detest her therefore 
 
 Elb. I say, sir, I will detest myself also, as well 
 as she, that this house, if it be not a bawd's house, 
 It is pity of her life, for it is a nauglity house. 
 
 Excal. How dost thou know that, constable ? 
 
 Elb. Marry, sir, by my wife; who, if she had 
 been a woman cardinally given, might have been 
 oceus'd in fornication, adidter}', and all uncleau- 
 liness there. 
 
 Eical. By the woman's means ? 
 
 Elb. Ay, sir, by mistress Overdone's means: but 
 aa she spit in his faos, so she defi'd him. 
 
 Clo. Sir, if it please your honour, this is not so. 
 
 £lb. Prove it before these varlets here, thou 
 iionourablo man ; prove it. 
 
 Uscal. Do you bear how he misplaces ? 
 
 [To Ang. 
 Clo. Sir, she came in groat with child; and long- 
 ing (sa^ng your honour's revcr9nce) for stow'd 
 prunes ; sir, we had but two in the house, which 
 at that very distant time" stood, as it were, in 
 a. fruit-dish, a dish of some three-pence ; j'our 
 honours have seen such dishes; they are not 
 China dishes,'* but very good dishes. 
 
 Escal. Go to, go to ; uo matter for the dish, sir. 
 Clo. No, indeed, sir, not of a pin ; you are 
 therein in the right : but, to the point : as I say, 
 this mistress Elbow, being, as I say, with child, 
 and being great bellied, and longing, as I said, for 
 primes ; and ha\nng but two in the dish, as I said, 
 master Froth hero, this very man, having eaten 
 the rest, as I said, and, as I say, paying for them 
 very honestly ; — for, as you know, master Froth, 
 1 could not give you three-pence again. 
 F>-oth. No, indeed. 
 
 Clo. Very well : 3"ou being then, if you be re- 
 mcmber'd, cracking the stones of the 'foresaid 
 prunes. 
 
 Froth. Ay, so 1 did, indeed. 
 
 Clo. ^V'■hy, very well: I tolling you then, i'^ yoii 
 be roraember'd, that such a one, and such a one, 
 were past cure of the thing you wot of, unless 
 they kept very good diet, as I told you. 
 
 Frotlt. Ail this is true. 
 
 Clo. Why, verj- well then. 
 
 Escal. Come, you are a tedious fool : to the pur- 
 pose. — \Vliat was done to Elbow's wife, tliat lie 
 hath cause to complain of? Come me to what 
 was done to her. 
 
 Clo. Sir, your honoui' cannot come to that yet. 
 
 Escal. No, sir, nor I mean it not. 
 
 Clo. Sir, but you sliall come to it, by youi 
 honour's leave: And, I beseech you, look intc 
 master Froth nere, sir ; a man of fourscore pound 
 a- year ; \\'hose father died at Hallowmas : — Was 'l 
 not at Hallowmas, master Froth ? 
 
 Froth. All-haUond eve. 
 
 Clo. "WTiy, very weU; I hope here be truths. 
 He, sir, sitting, as I sa}', in a lower chair, sir; — 
 't was in the Bunch of Grapes," where, indeed, you 
 have a delight to sit : Have you not ? 
 
 Froth. I have so ; because it is an open room, 
 and good for winter. 
 
 Clo. Why, vciy well then ; — I h.cpe here be 
 truths. 
 
 Ant/. This will last out a night in EiLssia, 
 Wlien nights are longest tliere : I 'U take my leave. 
 And lea-\'c you to the hearing of the cause ; 
 Hoping 5'ou '11 find good cause to whip them all. 
 
 Escal. I tliink no less : Good morrow to yout 
 lordship. [E.vit Axo. 
 
 Now, sir, come on : 'SMiat was done to Elbow"; 
 wife, once more ? 
 
 Cli Ouzf su'? there was nothing done to her 
 on;e. 
 
 Elb. I beseech you, sir, ask him what this man 
 did to my wife. 
 
 Clo. I beseech your honour, ask me. 
 
 Escal. Well, sir: Whatdid this gentleman to her: 
 
 Clo. I beseech you, sir, look in this gentleman's 
 face : — Good master Froth, look upon his honour ; 
 't is for a good piirpose : Doth j-our honour mark 
 his face ? 
 
 Escal. Ay, sir, very Mcll. 
 
 Clo. Na}-, I beseech you, mark it well. 
 
 Escal. WeU, I do so. 
 
 Clo. Doth your honour see any harm in his face ? 
 
 Escal. ^\niy. no. 
 
 Clo. I '11 be suppos'd upon a book, Ids face is 
 the worst thing about him. Good then; if his face 
 be the worst thing about him, how could mai'.tcr 
 
 14fl
 
 ACT n. 
 
 MEASUEE FOE MEASUEE. 
 
 Froth do the constable's wife any harm ? I -would 
 know that of tout honour. 
 
 £scal. Ho 's in the right : Constable, what say 
 you to it ? 
 
 £lb. First, an' it like you, the house is a re- 
 s])cctod house; next, this is a respected fellow; 
 and his mistress is a respected woman. 
 
 Clo. By this hand, sir, his wife is a more re- 
 spected person than any of us aU. 
 
 £lb. Yarlet, thou liest; thou liest, wicked var- 
 .et : the time is yet to come that she was ever 
 respected with man, woman, or cliild. 
 
 Clo. Sir, she was respected with him before he 
 married with her. 
 
 £scal. "Wliich is the wiser here r Justice, or 
 iniquity :" — Is this true ? 
 
 nib. thou caitiff! thou rarlot! thou 
 wicked Hannibal ! I respected with her, before I 
 was manied to her ! If ever I was respected with 
 her, or she with me, let not your worship think 
 1110 the poor duke's officer: — Prove this, thou 
 wicked Hannibal, or I 'U have mine action of 
 batt'ry on thee. 
 
 Escal. If he took j-ou a box o' th' ear, j-ou 
 might have j-our action of slander too. 
 
 Elb. ilany, I thank your good worsliip for it : 
 What is 't your worship's pleasure I shall do with 
 this wicked caitiff t 
 
 Escal. Tnily, officer, because he hath some 
 offences in him that thou wouldst discover if thou 
 couldst, let him continue in his coiu'ses tUI thou 
 Icnow'st what they are. 
 
 Elb. Marry, I thank your worship for it : — Thou 
 eeest, thou wicked varlet now, what 's come upon 
 thee ; thou art to continue now, thou varlet ; thou 
 art to continue. 
 
 Escal. AAliero were you bom, friond ? [_ToYtmtu. 
 
 Froth. Here iu Vienna, sir. 
 
 Escal. Are you of fourscore pounds a-yoar ? 
 
 Froth. Yes, an 't please you, sir. 
 
 Escal. So. — What trade are you of, sir ? 
 
 \_To Clo. 
 
 Clo. A tapster ; a poor widow's tapster. 
 
 Eical. Your mistress's name ? 
 
 CUi. Mistress Overdone. 
 
 Eaciil. Hath she had any more than one husband ? 
 
 Clo. Nine, sir ; Overdone by the last. 
 
 Escal. Ifinc ! — Come hither to me, master Froth. 
 ^fn.ster Froth, I would not have you acquainted 
 with tapsters ; they will draw you, master Froth, 
 and you will hang them. Get you gone, and let 
 me hear no more of you. 
 
 Froth. I thank your worship : For mine ow 
 part, I never come into any room in a taphouse 
 but I am drawn in. 
 
 Escal. Well ; no more of it, master Froth : fare 
 well. \_Exit Feoth.] — Come you hither to me. 
 master tapster; what 's your name, master tapstei ' 
 
 Clo. Pompey. 
 
 Escal. What else ? 
 
 Clo. Bum, sir. 
 
 Escal. 'Troth, and your bam is the greatest 
 thing about you;^' so that, in the beastliest sense, 
 you are Pompey the Great. Pompey, 5'ou are 
 partly a bawd, Pompey, howsoever you colour if 
 in being a tapster. Are you not ? Come, tell me 
 true ; it shall be the better for you. 
 
 Clo. Tridy, sir, I am a poor fellow that would 
 live. 
 
 Escal. How would you live, Pompey ? by being 
 a bawd? Wliat do you think of the trade, Pom- 
 pey: is it a lawful trade? 
 
 Clo. If the law would allow it, sir. 
 
 Escal. But tiiC law will not allow it, Pompey : 
 nor it shall not I30 allowed in Vienna. 
 
 Clo. Does your worship moan to geld and spla\ 
 all the youth of the city? 
 
 Escal. No, I'ompcy. 
 
 Clo. Truly, sir, in my poor opinion, they will 
 to 't then. If your worship will take order for the 
 drabs and the ioiaves, you need not to fear the 
 bawds. 
 
 Escal. There are pretty orders beginning, I can 
 teU you. It is but heading and hanging. 
 
 Clo. If you head and hang all that offend that 
 way but for ten year together, you '11 be glad to 
 give out a commission for more heads. 1£ this law 
 hold in Vienna ten year, I '11 rent the fairest house 
 in it after three-pence a bay." If you Hve to see 
 this come to pass, say Pompey told you so. 
 
 Escal. Thank you, good Pompey : and, in 
 requital of your prophecy, hark you, — I advise 
 you, let me not find you before me again upon any 
 comphunt whatsoever, no, not for dwelling where 
 you do ; if I do, Pompey, I shall beat you to youi 
 tent, and prove a shrewd Ctesar to you; in plain 
 dealing, Pompey, I shall have you whipp'd : so for 
 this time, Pompey, faro you well. 
 
 Clo. I thank your worship for your good counsel, 
 but I shall foUow it as the tiesh and fortune shall 
 better determine. 
 
 \Vlii]) me ? No, no ; let carman whip his jade ; 
 Tho valiant heart 's not whipped out of his trade. 
 
 [Exit.
 
 AC'i n. 
 
 MEASURE EOll MEASITRE. 
 
 SCENE n. 
 
 Escal. Come Mthor to ni e, master Elbow ; come 
 bithur, master constublo. How long have you 
 been in this place of constable? 
 
 F.lh. Seven year and a half, sir. 
 
 Escal. I thought,, by your I'eadiness in the office, 
 ; ou had continued in it some time : You say, seven 
 years together ? 
 
 Elh. And a half, sir. 
 
 Escal. Alas ! it hath been great pains to you ! 
 They do you wrong to put you so oft upon 't : Are 
 there not men in j-our ward sufficient to serve it? 
 
 Elb. Faith, sir, few of any wit in such matters: 
 as they are chosen, they are glad to choose me for 
 them; I do it for some piece of money, and go 
 through with all. 
 
 Escal. Look you bring me in the names of some 
 six or seven, the most sufficient of your parish. 
 
 Elb. To your worship's house, sir ? 
 
 Esccil. To my house : Fare you wcU. 
 
 \_Exit Elbow. 
 Wliat's o'clock, think you? 
 
 Just. Eleven, sir. 
 
 Escal. I pray you home to dinner with me. 
 
 Jmt. I humbly thank you. 
 
 Escal. It grieves me for the death of Claudio ; 
 But there 's no remedj'. 
 
 Just. Lord Augelo is severe. 
 
 Escal. It is but needful : 
 
 Mercy is not itself, that oft looks so ; 
 Pardon is still the nurse of second woe : 
 But yet, — Poor Claudio ! — There is no remedy. 
 Come, sir. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. — Anotlter lioom m the same. 
 Enter Peovost and a Servajjt. 
 
 Serv. He 's hearing of a cause ; ho will come 
 straight. 
 1 'U tell him of you. 
 
 Prov. Pray you do. \_Exit Seevani.] I 'U 
 know 
 His pleasm'e; may be, he will relent. Alas, 
 He hath but as oftended in r, dream ! 
 AU sects, aU ages, smack of ;his vice; and ho 
 To die for 't — 
 
 Enter Angei.o. 
 
 Anq. Now, what 's the matter, provost? 
 
 ProLK Is it your wiU Claudio shall die to-morrow? 
 Any. Did not I teU thei?, yea ? hadst thou not 
 order ? 
 Wl\y 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. 
 
 Anr;. Go to ; let that be mine : " 
 
 Do you your office, or give up your place, 
 And you shall well be spar'd. 
 
 Prov. I crave your honour's pardon. — 
 
 What sliaU bo done, sir, with the groaning Juliet. 
 She 's very near her hour. 
 
 Anff. Dispose of her 
 
 To some more fitter place ; and that with speed. 
 
 Re-enter Seevant. 
 
 Serv. Here is the sister of the man condemt'd, 
 Desires access to you. 
 
 Ana. Hath he a sister ? 
 
 Prov. Ay, my good lord ; a very virtuous maid, 
 And to be shortly of a sisterhood. 
 If not ah'cady. 
 
 Ang. Well, let her be admitted. \_Exit SiaiT. 
 See you, the fornicatress be remov'd ; 
 Let her have needful, but not lavish, means ; 
 There shall be order fur 't. 
 
 Enter Lucio and Isaiieixa. 
 
 Prov. Save your honour ! [ Offering to retire. 
 
 Ang. Stay a little while. — \_To Isas.] T' are 
 welcome : What 's your will ? 
 
 Isah. T 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 tliat I must ; 
 For which I must not plead, but that I am 
 At war 'twixt wUl and will not. 
 
 Ang. WeU ; the matter ? 
 
 Isab. I have a brother is eondemn'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. 
 "V^Tiy, every fault 's eondemn'd, ere it te done : 
 Mine were the very cipher of a function. 
 To fine the faults," whose fine stands in record, 
 And let go by the actor. 
 
 Isah. just but severe law ! 
 
 I had a brother then. — Heaven keep your honoiir! 
 
 [Bctiring. 
 
 Lucio. \_To Isab.] Give't not o'er so: to hiin 
 again, entreat him ; 
 
 151
 
 MEASTJllE FOR MEASCEE. 
 
 KJneel down before him, hang upon his gown ; 
 You are too cold : if you should need a pin, 
 Ton could not with more tame a tongue desire it : 
 To him, I say. 
 
 Isah. Must he needs die ? 
 
 Jng. Maiden, no remedy. 
 
 Isah. Yea ; 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 ? 
 
 A7ig. Look, what I wiU not that I cannot do. 
 
 Isah. Bnt might you do 't, and do the world no 
 WTong, 
 If so your heart were touehM with that remorse '5 
 A.S mine is to him. ? 
 
 Anj. He 's sentenc'd ; 't is too late. 
 
 Lncio. You are too cold. [To Is.\n. 
 
 Isah. Too late? why, no ; I, that do speak a word. 
 May call it back again. AVell, 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 docs. If he had been as you 
 And you as he, j"ou would have slipp'd like him , 
 But he, like you, would not have been so stem. 
 
 Ang. Pray you, begone. 
 
 Isah. I would to heaven I had your potency, 
 And you were Isabel ! sliould it then be thus r 
 No ; I would tell what 't were to be a judge, 
 And what a prisoner. 
 
 Lucio. Ay, touch him ; there 's the vein. \_Asiile. 
 
 Ang. Your brotlier is a forfeit of the law, 
 And you but waste your words. 
 
 Isah. Alas! alas! 
 
 Why, all the souls that were, were forfeit once ; 
 And he, that might tlie vantage best have took, 
 Foimd out the rcmed}-. How would j'ou be. 
 If he, which is the top of judgment, should 
 But judge 3-ou as you are ? O, think on that; 
 And mercy then will breathe within your lips, 
 Like man new made.'" 
 
 Aug. Be you content, fair maid ; 
 
 It is the law, not I, condemns }"our brother : 
 Were he my kinsman, brother, or mj son. 
 It Bhould be thus Tiitli him; — lie must die to- 
 morrow. 
 
 Isah. To morrow ? 0, that 's sudden ! Spare 
 him, sp.irc him : 
 lie 's not ])rcpar'd for death ! Even for our 
 
 kitchens 
 We kill f he fnwl of Reason ;" shall we aeri-e heaven 
 1 *.i 
 
 With less respect than we do minister 
 
 To our gross selves ? Good, good my lord, If;lliinl 
 
 you : 
 'Wlio is it that hath di'd for this offence ? 
 There 's many have committed it. 
 
 Ziicio. Ay, ■well said. 
 
 Ang. The law hath not been dead, (hough i 
 hath slept: 
 Those many had not dar'd to do that evil, 
 If the first that did th" edict infringe 
 Had answer'd for his deed : now 't is awake ; 
 Takes note of what is done ; and, like a prophet, 
 Loolvs in a glass, that shows what future e\'ils 
 (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. 1 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 ; he content. 
 
 Isab. So j-ou must be the first that gives this 
 sentence. 
 And he that suffers. 0, it is excellent 
 To have a giant's strength ; but it is tyrannous 
 To use it like a giant. ' 
 
 Lucio. That 's -n-eU said. 
 
 Isah. Coidd great men thunder 
 As iTove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet, 
 For every pelting, petty officer" 
 Would use his heaven for thunder: nothing but 
 
 thunder, 
 llerciful heaven ! 
 
 Thou rather, with thy sharp and sulphm-ous bolt, 
 Splitt'st the unwedgeable and gnarled" oak, 
 Than the soft m3Ttle : But man, proud man ! 
 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 triclts before high heaven, 
 As make the angels weep : who, with our spleens, 
 Would all themselves laugh mortal. 
 
 Lucio. 0, to him, to him, wench ; he will relent 
 Ho 's coming, I perceive 't. 
 
 Prov. Pray heaven, she win him ! 
 
 Isab. We cannot weigh our brother with youi'- 
 self: 
 Great men may jest with saints : 't is \vit in tliem ; 
 But in the less fold profanation.
 
 i 
 
 m§ 
 
 liJ 
 
 [li? \iiuilrrj a^ J'^abrlUu .:.
 
 ACT ir. 
 
 MEASUItE FOll ilEASURE. 
 
 dcssx in. 
 
 Liicio. Thou 'it i' the right, g^rl; more o' that. 
 hah. That in the captain 's but a choleric word, 
 Which in the soldier is flat blasjihcmy. 
 Lucio. Art avis'd o' that ? more on 't. 
 Ang. Why do yon put these sayings upon me ? 
 Isah. 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, sucli as is his. 
 Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue 
 Against my brother's life. 
 
 Avg. \_Asi(ler\ She speaks, and 't is 
 Such sense, tliat my sense bi-eeds with it.'" — 
 Fare you well. 
 
 Isah. Gentle my lord, turn back. 
 
 Ang. I will bethink me : — Come again to- 
 
 moiTow. 
 rml. Hark, how I "11 bribe you : Good my lord, 
 
 turn back. 
 Ang. How ! bribe mo ? 
 Isch. Ay, with such gifts that heaven shall share 
 
 with you. 
 Lucio. You had man-'d all else. 
 hah. Not with fond shekels of the tested gold," 
 Or stones, whose rates are either rich or poor 
 As fcUicy values tliem ; 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. 
 
 Atig. Well : come to me to-morrow. 
 
 Lucio. Go to : 't is well ; away. 
 
 \_Asid-e to Isabel. 
 hab. Heaven keep your honour safe ! 
 Ang. Amen : 
 
 For I am that way going to temptation, [Aside. 
 Where prayers cross."' 
 
 Isah. At what hour to-morrow 
 
 Shall I attend your lordsliip ? 
 
 Ang. At any time 'fore noon. 
 
 Isah. Save your honom- ! 
 
 [_Ej:eunt Lucio, Isab., and Pkov. 
 
 Ang. From thee ; even from thy virtue ! — 
 
 ^Tiat 's this ? what 's this } Is this her fault, or 
 
 mine: 
 The tempter or the tempted, who sins most .'' Ha ! 
 Not slie; nor doth she tempt: but it is I, 
 That, lying by tlie violet in the sun, 
 Do, as tlic carrion does, not as the flow'r, 
 Col Mpt ■nnth virtuous ssason. Can it be. 
 
 20 
 
 That modesty may more betray our sense 
 
 Than woman's lightness? Having waste ground 
 
 enough. 
 Shall we desire to raze the sanctuary. 
 And pitch our evils there r" 0, fie, fie, fie ! 
 "Wliat dost thou, or what art thou, Angolo ? 
 Dost tliou desire her foully, for those tilings 
 That make her good ? 0, let her brother live : 
 Tliieves for their robbery have authority, 
 When judges steal themselves. What? do I love 
 
 her. 
 That I desire to hear her speak again, 
 And feast upon her eyes ? What is 't I dream on? 
 
 cunnuig enemy,*" that, to catch a saint, 
 
 With saints dost bait thy hook ! Most dangerous 
 Is that temptation, that doth goad us on 
 To sin in loWng virtue: never could the strumpet, 
 With her all double vigour, art, and naluro. 
 Once stir my temper ; but tliis virtuous maid 
 Subdues me quite : — Ever tiU now, 
 "WTien men were fond, I smil'd and wonder'd how 
 
 [i:xit 
 
 SCENE III.— ^ lioom in a Prison. 
 Enter Duse, habited like a Friar, and Pkovost. 
 
 Duh. Hail to you, provost ! so I think you are 
 Prov. I am the provost: 'ftTiat's your will, 
 
 good friar? 
 Duke. Botmd by my charity, and my bless'd 
 
 order, 
 
 1 come to visit the afflicted spirits 
 
 Here in the prison : do me the common right 
 To lot me see them, and to make me know 
 The nature of their crimes, that I may minister 
 To them accordingly. 
 
 Prov. I would do more than that, if more were 
 needful. 
 
 Unter Juliet. 
 
 Look, here comes one ; a gentlewoman of miuo, 
 
 Who, falling in the flames of her o^-n youth,'* 
 
 Hath blister'd her report : She is with child ; 
 
 And he that got it, scntenc'd : a young man 
 
 More fit to do another such off'ence, 
 
 Than die for this. 
 
 Duke. ^^^len must he dit > 
 
 Prov. As I do think, to-morrow. — 
 
 I have provided for you; stay a while, 
 
 And you shall be conducted. [To TrLizr. 
 
 Duke. Kepent you, fair one, of the sin you oany'. 
 
 Juliet. I do; and bear the shame most patiently 
 
 is.n
 
 MEASITRE FOR MEASUIIE. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Diih. I '11 teach you iiow you shall arraign your 
 couscience, 
 \nd try yoiir penitence, if it be sound, 
 Or hollowly put on. 
 JaUd. I '11 gladly learn. 
 
 Dithc. Love you the man that wrong'd you ? 
 Juliet. Yes, as I love the woman that wrong' d 
 
 him. 
 Duhe. So then, it seems, your most offenccful act 
 Was mutually committed ? 
 Juliet. Mutually. 
 
 Duke. Then was your sin of heavier kind than 
 
 his. 
 Juliet. I do confess it, and repent it, father. 
 I)uke. 'T is meet so, daughter : but lest you do 
 repent. 
 As that the sin hath brought you to this shame, — 
 Which sorrow is always toward ourselves, not 
 
 heaven ; 
 Showing, we woidd not spare heaven, as we love it, 
 But as we stand in fear : 
 
 Juliet. I do repent mo, as it is an evil ; 
 .•Vud take the shame with joy. 
 
 Buke. There rest, 
 
 tour partner, as I hear, must die to-morrow, 
 And I am going with instruction to him. — 
 Grace go with you I Benedicite ! \_Exit. 
 
 Juliet. Must die to-morrow ! 0, injurious love. 
 That respites me a life, whose very comfort 
 fs stiU a dying horror 1 
 Prov. 'T is pity of liira. [_Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV. — A Room in Augelo's House. 
 Enter Anoelo. 
 Ang. "When I would pray and think, I think 
 and pray 
 To several subjects. Heaven hath my empty words; 
 \Vhilst my invention,'" hearing not my tongue, 
 Anchors on Isabel. Heaven in my moutli. 
 As Lf I did but only chew his name ; 
 And m my heart, tlie strong and swelling evil 
 Of my conception. The state whereon I studied 
 Is like a good thing, being often read, 
 Grown sear'd and tedious;'" yea, my gravitj-, 
 Wherein (let no man hoar me) I take pride, 
 Could I, with boot, change for an idle plume, 
 Which the air beats for vain. O place ! form! 
 How often dost thou with thy case, thy habit, 
 Wrench awe from fools, and tic the wiser souls 
 To thy false seeming ! Blood, thou art blood : 
 [,et 's wi-itc good angel on the devil's horn, 
 T is not the devil's crest." 
 I. '■,4 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 How now! who 's there? 
 
 Ser. One Isabel, a sister, 
 
 Desires access to you. 
 
 Ang. Teach her the way. heavens ! 
 
 {_Exil 8orv 
 "Wliy does my blood thus muster to my heart, 
 Making both it unable for itself, 
 And dispossessing all my other parts 
 Of necessary fitness ? 
 
 So play the foolish throngs with one that s wounds; 
 Come all to help him, and so stop the air 
 By which he should rev-ive : and even so 
 The general, subject to a well-wish'd king 
 Quit their own part, and in obsequious fondness 
 Crowd to his presence, where their untaught love 
 Must needs appear offence. 
 
 Enter IsABEixi. 
 
 How now, fair maid ? 
 
 Isab. I am come to know your pleasure 
 
 Ang. That you might know it would much 
 
 better please me, 
 
 Than to demand what 't is. Your brother cannot 
 
 live, 
 
 Isab. Even so. — Heaven keep yo-ir honour ! 
 
 \_Retiring. 
 Ang. Yet may he live a while ; and, it may be, 
 As long as you, or I : yet he must die. 
 Isal. Under your sentence ? 
 Ang. Yea. 
 
 Isab. When r I beseech you that, in his reprieve. 
 Longer, or shorter, he may be so fitted. 
 That his soul sicken not. 
 
 Ang. Hal Fie, these filthy vices ! It were as 
 good 
 To pardon him that hath from nature stol'n 
 A man already made, as to remit 
 Their saucy sweetness, that do coin heaven's image 
 In stamps that are forbid : 't is all as er.sy 
 Falsely to take away a life true made. 
 As to put mettle in restrained means,"' 
 To make a false one. 
 
 Isab. 'Tis set down so in heaven, buf not in 
 
 earth. 
 Anq. Say you so? then I shall jioze you quickly 
 Which had you rather, that the most jiiet law 
 Now took your brother's life ; or, to redeem him. 
 Give up j'our body to such sweet unclcanncsB, 
 As shn that ho hath stain'd ? 
 
 Isab. Sir, believe this, 
 
 I had rather give mj' body than my soul.
 
 MEASUEE FOR MEASURE 
 
 scKNE rv. 
 
 Ang. I talk not of your sou! : Our compell'd 
 
 Bins 
 Stand more for number than for aocompt.''* 
 /s-rti. How say you ? 
 
 Aug. Nay, I '11 not warrant that ; for I can 
 speak 
 Against the thing I say. Answer to this ; — 
 [, now the voice of the recorded law, 
 Pronounce a sentence on your brother's life : 
 Might til ere not be a chaiitj'' in sin. 
 To save this brother's life r 
 
 Isal. Please you to do 't, 
 
 I "11 take it as a peril to my soul ; 
 It is no sin at all, but charity. 
 
 Ang. Pleas' d you to do 't, at peril of your soul, 
 Were equal poise of sin and charity. 
 
 hah. That I do beg his life, if it be sin, 
 Heaven let me bear it ! you granting of my suit. 
 If that be sin, I 'U make it my mom prayer 
 To liarc it added to the faidts of mine, 
 And notliing of your answer."' 
 
 Ang. Nay, but hear me : 
 
 Your sense pui jucs not mine : either you are 
 
 ignorant, 
 Or seem so crafty;™ and that 's not good. 
 
 Lab. Let me be ignorant, and in nothing good. 
 But graciously to know I am no better. 
 Ang. Thus wisdom wishes to appear most 
 bright. 
 When it does tax itself: as these black masks 
 Proclaim an enshield beauty" ten times louder 
 Tlian beauty could, displayed. — But mark me; 
 To be received plain, I 'U speak more gross : 
 Your brother is to die. 
 Isab. So. 
 
 Ang. And his offence is so, as it appears 
 Accountant to the law upon that pain.'* 
 Imh. True. 
 
 Ang. Admit no other way to save his life, 
 (As I subscribe not that, nor any other. 
 But in the case of question,) that you, his sister, 
 Finding yourself desir'd of such a person, 
 Whose credit with the judge, or o-\^ti groat place, 
 Ci:xdd fetch your brother from the manacles 
 Of the ;dl-binding law ; and tliat there were 
 No earthly mean to save him, but that either 
 I'ou must lay down the treasures of your body 
 To this supposed, or else to lot him suffer; 
 What would yen do ? 
 
 Isah. As much for my poor brother as myself: 
 That is^ were I under the terms of death, 
 1 h' miprossion of keen whips 1 'd wear as rubies, 
 
 And strip myself to death, as to a bed 
 
 That long I have been sick for, " ere I 'd yield 
 
 My body up to shame. 
 
 Ang. Then must your brother die. 
 
 Isah. And 't were the cheaper way : 
 Better it were a brotlier died at once, 
 Than that a sister, by redeeming liim. 
 Should die for ever. 
 
 Ang. Were not you, tlien, as cruel as the sentence 
 That you have slander'd so ? 
 
 Isab. Ignomy in ransom, *> and free pardon. 
 Are of two houses : lawful mercy 
 Is nothing kin to foul redemjition. 
 
 Ang. You seem'd of late to make tlie law a 
 tyrant ; 
 And rather prov'd the sliding of your brother 
 A meiTiment, than a vice. 
 
 Isab. 0, pardon me, my lord ; it oft falls out 
 To have what we would have, we speak not what 
 
 we mean : 
 I something do excuse the thing I hate, 
 For his advantage that I dearly love. 
 Ang. We are all frail. 
 Isah. Else let my brother die; 
 
 If not a feodary,*' but on.y he 
 Owe, and succeed thy weakness. 
 
 Ang. Nay, women are frail too. 
 
 Isab. Ay, as the glasses wliere they view them- 
 selves; 
 WTiich are as easy broke as they make forms. 
 Women 1 — Help heaven ! men their creation mar 
 In profiting by them.*- Nay, call us ten times frail 
 For we are soft as our complexions are. 
 And credidous to false prints. 
 
 Ang. I think it well : 
 
 And from this testimony of your own ses, 
 (Since, I suppose, we are made to be no stronger 
 Than faults may shake our frames, ) let me be bold ; — 
 I do arrest your words. Be that you are, 
 That is, a woman; if you be more, you 're none; 
 If you bo one, (as you are well express'd 
 By aU external warrants,) show it now, 
 By putting on the destin'd livery. 
 
 Isab. I have no tongue but one: gentle my lord, 
 Lot me entreat you spealc the former language. 
 Ang. Plainly, conceive I love you. 
 Isab. My brother did love Juliet; and you 
 teU me 
 That he shall die for 't. 
 
 Ang. He sh;dl not, Isabel, if you give mc 
 
 love. 
 Isab. I know, your virtue hath a license in 't, 
 
 ir.5
 
 acr m. 
 
 MEASUEE POK AIEASUEE. 
 
 BCl'NB I 
 
 Which seems a little fo Jer than it is, 
 To pluck on others.^ 
 
 An(j. Believe mo, on mine honour. 
 
 Sly words express my purpose. 
 
 Isal. Ha! little honour tip Le much believ'd. 
 And most pernicious purpose ! — Seeming, seem- 
 ing !— 
 [ will proclaim thee, Angolo; look for 'tl 
 Sign me a present pardon for my brother. 
 Or, ■n'ith an outstrctch'd throat, I '11 tell the world 
 
 aloud, 
 What man thou art. 
 
 Anfi. ^Mio will believe thee, Isabel ? 
 
 My unsoird name, th' austereness of my life. 
 My vouch against )'ou,'" and my place i' the state, 
 WiU so your accusation overweigh, 
 Tliat you shall stifle in your own report. 
 And smell of calumny. I have begun ; 
 And now I give my sensual race the rein : 
 Fit thy consent to my sharp appetite ; 
 Lay by all nicety, and prolixious blushes. 
 That banish what they sue for ; redeem thy brother 
 By yielding up thy body to my ■naU; 
 Or elss he must not only die the death, 
 
 But thy unkindneas shall his death draw out 
 To lingering sufferance : answer me to-raoriow 
 Or, by the affection that now guides me most, 
 I'll prove a tyrant to him. As for you, 
 Say what you can, my false o'erweighs your tru, 
 
 [Fxh 
 Isah. To whom should I complain? Did I til 
 this, 
 Who would believe me ? O periloua mouths, 
 That bear iu them one and the self-same tongue, 
 Either of condemnation or approof ! — 
 Bidding the law make court' sy to their will; 
 Hookmg both right and ^VTong to th' appetite. 
 To follow as it draws ! I'U to my brother : 
 Though he hath fiJl'n by prompture of the blood, 
 Yet hath he in him such a mind of honour. 
 That, had he twenty heads to tender do^vn 
 On t\^•euty bloody blocks, he d )-ield them ui>, 
 Before his sister should her body stoop 
 To such abhorr'd pollution. 
 Then, Isabel, Uve chaste, and, brother, die : 
 More than our brother is our chastity ! 
 I'll tell him yet of Angelo's request. 
 And fit his miad to death, for his soul's rest. [Exit 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCEJTE I.— ^ Room in ihe Prison. 
 
 Enter Duke, Claudio, and Pkovost. 
 
 Diilce. So, then you hope of pardon from lord 
 
 Angclo ? 
 Chud. The miserable have no other medicine, 
 LSut only hope : 
 
 I liave liope to live, and am i)rei)ar'd to die. 
 Buke. Be absolute for deatli f^ either death, or 
 
 life, 
 ShaU thereby be the sweeter. Ileapon thus with life : 
 If 1 do lose thee, I do lose a thing 
 That none but fools would keep : a breath tho'.i art, 
 (Servile to all the skiey influences,) 
 That dost this habitation, whc^re thou koep'st, 
 Hourly afllict : merely, thou art Death's fool f 
 For him fliou labour' st by thy fliglit to shun, 
 And j-etnmu'st toward lii instill. Thou art not noble. 
 For all til' accommodations that thou bear'st" 
 \r<> iiurs'd by baseness. Thou 'rl by no meaus 
 
 viUiant, 
 
 lAfl 
 
 For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork 
 Of a poor wonu. Thy best of rest is sleep, 
 And that thou oft provok'st ; yet grossly fear'st 
 Thy death, which is no more. Tliou art not thyself 
 For thou exist" St on many a thousand grains 
 That issue out of dust. Happy thou art not ; 
 For what thou hast not still thou striv'st to get, 
 And what thou hast, forgett'st. Thou art not eti 
 
 tain ; 
 For thy coMiplexion shifts to strange effects,"* 
 After the moon. If thou art rich, thou 'rt poor; 
 For, like an ass whoso back with ingots bows, 
 Thou bear'st th)' lieavj- riihes but a journey. 
 And Death imloads thee. Friend hast thou noue 
 For thine own bowel-;, which do i:all t\ec sire, 
 The mere effusion of thy proper loins. 
 Do curse tlie gout, serpigo, and the rheum, 
 For ending tliec no sooner. Thou hast nor youth, 
 
 nor age : 
 But, as it were, un after-dinncT's sleep, 
 Dreaming on both : for all thy blessed youth
 
 MEASURE FOE MEASURE. 
 
 flCEHB I. 
 
 Bi«omo8 as aged, and doth beg the alms 
 (it'piilsied cM f^ and when thou art old and rich, 
 riiou hast neither lieat, ailbction, limb, nor beauty. 
 To iiuike thy riches pleasant. What's yet in this, 
 Muit bears tho narao of life? Yet in this life 
 I ie hid more thousand deaths :" yet death wc fear, 
 J'hat makes these odds all even. 
 
 Claud. I humbly thank you. 
 
 To sue to live, I find I seek to die ; 
 '\ml. seeking death, find life: Let it come on. 
 
 Fjiitcr Isabella. 
 
 hah. What, ho ! Peace here ; grace and good 
 company ! 
 
 Prov 'Wlio 's there ? come in : the wish deserves 
 a welcome. 
 
 Dulce. Dear sir, ere long I '11 Aasit you again. 
 
 Claud. Most holy sir, I thank you. 
 
 hah. Jly business is a word or two with Claudio. 
 
 Prov. And very welcome. Look, signior, liere 's 
 your sister. 
 
 Bulie. Provost, a word with you. 
 
 Proe. As man}- as you please. 
 
 Dulce. Bring me to hear them speak, where I 
 may be conceal'd. 
 
 \_Excunt Duke and Peot. 
 
 C'/ajid. Now, sister, what 's the comfort r 
 
 Isab. A\Ti3^, as all comforts are ; most good, 
 most good indeed : 
 [.ord Angclo, having affairs to heaven. 
 Intends you for his swift ambassador. 
 Where you shall be an everlasting leigcr : " 
 Therefore your best appointment make with speed; 
 To-mon'ow 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, you 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 ? 
 
 Iiab. Ay, just, pei-petual durance ; a restraint. 
 Though aU 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 fi'om 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 peq)etual honour. Dar'st thou die ? 
 The sense of death is most in apprehension ; 
 And the poor beetle, that we tread upon," 
 In corporal siLfl'erancc finds a pang as great 
 As when a giant dies. 
 
 Claud. Why give you me this shomo f 
 
 Think you, I can a resolution fetch 
 From flow'ry tenderness ?" If I must die, 
 I will encounter darkness as a bride. 
 And hug it in mine anns; 
 
 Isab. 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 de- 
 puty,— 
 Whose settled visage and deKberate word 
 Nips youth i' the head, and follies doth emmeTV, 
 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 princely Angelo ?" 
 
 Isab. 0, 'tis the cunning livery of hell. 
 The damned' st body to invest and cover 
 In princely guards ! Dost thou think, Claudio, 
 If I would yield him my virginity, 
 Thou might' st be freed ? 
 
 Claud. 0, heavens ! it cannot be. 
 
 Isab. Yes, he would give 't thee, from this lani 
 offence,*' 
 So to offend him stUl. This night 's the time 
 That I should do what I abhor to name, 
 Or else thou diest to-morrow. 
 
 Claud. Thou shalt not do 't. 
 
 Isab. 0, were it but my Ufe, 
 I 'd tlirow it down for your deliverance 
 As frankly as a pin. 
 
 Claud. Thanks, dear Isabel. 
 
 Isab. Be ready, Claudio, for your death to- 
 morrow. 
 
 Claud. Yes. — Has he affections in him," 
 Tiiat thus can make him bite the law by th' nose, 
 When he would force it ? Sure it is no sin ; 
 Or of the deadly seven it is the least. 
 
 Isab. "\\niich is the least ? 
 
 Claud. If it were damnable, he, being so wiso, 
 Why woidd he for the momentary trick 
 Be perdurably" fin'd ? — Isabel ! 
 
 Isab. V«liat says my lu-other ? 
 
 Claud. Death is a fearful thing. 
 
 IS?
 
 MEASUHE FOP AlEASUEE. 
 
 semis 1. 
 
 Tsah. And shamed life a hateful. 
 
 Claud. Ay, but to die, and go we kaow not 
 ■where ; 
 To lie in cold obstruction," and to rot ; 
 This sensible -n-arm motion to become 
 A kneaded clod ; and the delighted spirit 
 To bathn in fiery floods, or to reside 
 In thrilling region'* 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 honible ! 
 The weariest and most loathed worldly life. 
 That age, oyih., penuiy, and imprisonment 
 Can lay on nature, is a paradise 
 To wliat we fear of death. 
 
 Isab. Alas ! alas ! 
 
 Claud. Sweet sister, let me live : 
 
 WTiat sin j-nu do to save a brother's life, 
 Nature dispenses with the deed so far, 
 That it becomes a virtue. 
 
 Isah. 0, you beast ! 
 
 0, faithless coward I 0, dishonest wretch ! 
 Wil*-. thou be made a man out of my vice ? 
 Is *t i:ot a kind of incest, to take life 
 From tliine own sister's shame ? "VYhat should I 
 
 think ? 
 Heaven shield my mcdier play'd my father fair ! 
 For such a wai-ped sUji of wilderness'"' 
 Ne'er issued from his blood. Take my defiance; 
 Die ! perish ! might but my bending down 
 Reprieve thee fi-om thy fate, it should proceed : 
 I 'U pray a thousand prayers for thy death, — 
 No word to save thee. 
 
 Claud. Nay, hear me, Isabel. 
 
 Isah. fie, fie, fie ! 
 
 Thy sin 't not accidental, but a trade : 
 Mercy to thee would prove itself a bawd ' 
 'T is best that thou diest quickly. \ Ooing. 
 
 Claud. hear me, Isabella. 
 
 Re-enter Duke. 
 
 Duke. Vouchsafe a word, young sister, but one 
 
 word. 
 hah. What is your will ? 
 Dulce. Might you dispense with your leisure, I 
 would by and by have some speech with you : the 
 Batisfaction I woidd re(juire is likewise j-our own 
 Tcneflt. 
 hab. I havn no superfiuous leisure ; my stay 
 ins 
 
 must be stolen out of other affairs; lut 1 M'il 
 attend you a whUe. 
 
 Bake. [_To Claudio, aside.] Son, I have ctcj- 
 heard what hath pass'd between you and you 
 sister. Angclo had never the purpose to con-ap 
 her; only he hath made an assay of her virtue, Ic 
 practise his judgment with the disposition oi 
 natures ; slie, liaving the truth of honour iu lier, 
 hath made him tliat gracious deni;il which he is 
 most glad to receive : I am confessor to Augelo, 
 and I know this to be true ; therefore prepare 
 yourself to death. Do not satisfy your resolution 
 ■with hopes that arc fidlible: to-mon-ow you must 
 die ; go to youi- knees, and make ready. 
 
 Claud. Let me ask my sister pardon. I am so 
 out of love with life, that I will sue to be rid of it. 
 
 I)uke. Hold you there : farewell. 
 
 \_Exit Claud. 
 
 Ee-enter Provost. 
 
 Provost, a word 'with you. 
 
 Prov. TVTiat 's your ■ndU, father? 
 
 Bahe. That now j-ou are come, you will be gone 
 Leave me a while with the maid ; my mind pro- 
 mises ■n'ith my habit no loss shall touch her by mj 
 company. 
 
 Prov. In good time.'°^ \_Exit Pkot. 
 
 Duke. The hand that hath made you fiiir liatb 
 made you good : the goodness tliat is cheap in 
 beauty makes beauty brief in goodness ; but grace, 
 being the soul of your complexion, shall keep the 
 body of it ever fair. The assault that Angela 
 hath made to you, fortune hath convey'd to my 
 understanding ; and, but that frailty hath example: 
 for liis falling, I should wonder at Angelo. How 
 ■will you do to content this substitute, and to save 
 your brother ? 
 
 Isal). I am now going to resolve him I liad 
 rather my brother die by the law, than my son 
 should be imlawfuUy born. But 0, l\ow much is 
 the good duke dccciv'd in Angelo I If ever he 
 return, and I can speak to him, I will open my 
 lips in vain, or discover his government. 
 
 Bulce. That shall not be much amiss : yet, a? 
 the matter now stands, lie will avoid j-onr accusu- 
 tion ; ho made trial of you only. — Therefore, fasten 
 your ear on my ad^^-isings ; to the love I have in 
 doing good. A remedy presents itself. [ do 
 make myself believe that you may most up- 
 rightcously do a poor wronged lady a merited 
 benefit ; redeem your brother fiom the angry law ; 
 do no stain to your o^vm g:i'aciou8 pcrsoi' ami
 
 iCT Ul. 
 
 MEASUEE FOU MEASUEE. 
 
 SCENE n. 
 
 much ploase the ahaent duke, if, peradvcnturc, he 
 sliiill ever retiim to have hearing of this business. 
 
 Isiib. Let nic hear you speak furtlier. I have 
 spirit to do anything that appears not foul in the 
 tnith of my spirit. 
 
 DicJce. Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful. 
 Have you not heard speak of Mariana, the sister 
 of Frederick, the great soldier, who miscarried at 
 sea? 
 
 Isal. I have heard of the lady, and good words 
 went with her niune. 
 
 Duke. She should this Angelo have man-ied ; 
 was affianced to her by oath, and the nuptiid ap- 
 pointed : between which time of the contract and 
 limit of the solemnity, her brother Frederick was 
 wreck'd at sea, having in that perished vessel the 
 dowry of his sister. But mark, how heavily this 
 befel to the poor gentlewoman : there she lost a 
 noble and renowned brother, in his love toward 
 her ever most kind and natm-al ; with him the 
 portion and sinew of her fortune, her mai'riage- 
 dowry; with both, her combinate husband, tliis 
 weU-seeming Angelo. 
 
 Isab. Can this be so? Did iVngelo so leave 
 ter ? 
 
 Duke. Left her in her tears, and dried not one 
 J them with liis comfort ; swallowed his vows 
 whole, prrtend'.ng in her discoveries of dishonour; 
 in few, bestow'd litr on her o-ma lamentation, which i 
 she yet wears for his sake ; and he, a marble to i 
 her tears, is washed with them, but relents not. 
 
 Isah. "Wliat a merit were it in death, to take 
 this poor maid from the world ! What corruption 
 in this life, that it will let this man live ! — But 
 how out of this can she avail ? 
 
 Duke. It is a rupture tliat you may easily heal ; 
 and the cure of it not onl}' saves your brother, but 
 keeps you from dishonour in doing it. 
 Isab. Show me how, good father. 
 Duke. Tliis fore-named maid liath yet in her 
 the continuance of her fii'st affection ; his unjust 
 unkindness, that in all reason should have quenched 
 her love, hath, like an impediment in the current, 
 made it more violent and unruly. Go you to 
 Angelo ; answer his requiring with a plausible 
 obedience ; agree with his demands to the point : 
 only refer yourself to this advantage,"" — first, that 
 your stay with liim may not be long ; that the 
 time n^.ay have all shadow and sdence in it ; and 
 the ].lace answei to convenience. This being 
 granted in course, and now follows aU : we shall 
 advise this wronged maid to stead up your ap- 
 
 pointment, go in your place ; if the cncountci 
 acknowledge itself hereafter, it ma)' compel him to 
 her recompense : and here, by thi.s, is your brot).i.r 
 saved, your honour untainted, the poor Mariana 
 advantaged, and tlie corrujit deputy scaled. T)ie 
 maid wLU I frame, and make fit for his attempt. 
 If you think well to carry this, as you may, tlie 
 doubleness of the benefit defends the deceit from 
 reproof. What think you of it ? 
 
 Isab. The image of it gives me content already ; 
 and, I trust, it will grow to a most prosperous 
 perfection. 
 
 Duke. It lies much in j-our holding up. Haste 
 you speedily to Angelo ; if for this night he en- 
 treat you to his bed, give him promise of satisfac- 
 tion. I will presently to St. Luke's ; there, at the 
 moated grange,'"' resides this dejected Jlariana. 
 At that place call upon me ; and despatch ^lith 
 Angelo, that it may be quickly. 
 
 Isuh. 1 thank you for this comfort: Fare you 
 well, good father. \_Exetcni 
 
 SCENE II.— 77w Street before the Prison. 
 
 Enter Duke, as a Friar ; to him Elbow, Clowh, 
 and Officeks. 
 
 Elb. Nay, if there be no remedy for it, but tlial 
 you wiU needs buy and sell men and women like 
 beasts, we shall have all the world drink brown 
 and wliite bastard.'"^ 
 
 Duke. 0, heavens ! what stuff" is here .'' 
 
 do. 'T was never meriy world, since, of two 
 usuries, the merriest was put down, and the worser 
 allow'd by order of law a fiu'rd gown to keep 
 him waiTn ; and furr'd with fox and lambskins too 
 to signify that craft, being riolier than iunoceney, 
 stands for the facing. 
 
 Elb. Come your way, sir: — Bless you, good 
 father friar. 
 
 Duke. And you, good brother fattier, ^^^ia^■ 
 offence hath this man made you, sir ? 
 
 Elh. Marry, sir, he hath offended the law ; and, 
 sir, we take him to be a thief too, sir ; for we 
 have found upon him, sir, a strange pick-loik 
 which we have sent to the deputy. 
 
 Duke. Fie, sirrah ; a bawd, a wicked bawd ! 
 The e\'il that thou causest to be done. 
 That is thy means to live. Do thou but thuik 
 "WTiat 't is to cram a maw, or clothe a back, 
 From such a filthy ^ce : say to thyself, — 
 From their abominable and beastly touclies 
 I drink, I eat, array myself, and live. 
 
 M\9
 
 MEASTJKE rOK MEASCIRE. 
 
 SCiiSV. li. 
 
 Canst thou belieye thy Imng is a life, 
 
 So stinkicgly depending ? Go, mend ; go, mend. 
 
 Clo. Indeed, it does stink in some sort, sir ; but 
 yet, sir, I would prove — 
 
 Duke. I^ay, if the devil have given thee proofs 
 for sin, 
 rhou wilt jjrove his. Take him to prison, officer. 
 Correction and instruction must both work. 
 Ere this rude beast will profit. 
 
 Elb. He must before the deputy, sir; he has 
 given him -warning : the deputy cannot abide a 
 whorcmaster : if he be a whoremonger, and comes 
 before him, he were as good go a mile on liis errand. 
 
 Duke. That we were all, as some would seem to 
 be, 
 From our foults, as faults from seeming, free !'°' 
 
 Enter Ltrcio. 
 
 Elb. His neck wiU come to your waist ; a cord, 
 Bir. 
 
 Clo. I spy comfort ; I cry, bail : Here 's a gen- 
 tleman, and a friend of mine. 
 
 Lueio. How now, noble Pompey ? '^Tiat, at the 
 wheels of Cassar ? Art thou led in triumph ? 
 What, is there none of Pygmalion's images, newly 
 made woman,"" to be bad now, for putting the 
 ,hand in tlie pocket and extracting it clutch'd? 
 \Vhat reply ? Ha ? T^Ti.at say'st thou to this tune, 
 matter, and method ? Is 't not dro-mi'd i' the last 
 rain?"® Ha? TMiat say'st thou, ti-ot? Is the 
 world as it was, man? AVhich is the way? Is it 
 sad, and few words ? Or how ? The trick of it ? 
 
 Duke. StiU thus and thus ! stiU worse ! 
 
 Litcio. How doth my dear morsel, thy mistress ? 
 Procures she still ? Ha ? 
 
 Clo. Troth, sir, she hath eaten up all her beef, 
 and she is herself in the tub. 
 
 Lucio. 'WTiy, 't is good; it is the right of it : it 
 must he so : Ever your fresh whore, and your 
 powder'd bawd ; an un.shunn'd consequence ; it 
 must be 30. Art going to prison, Pompey ? 
 
 Clo. Yes, faith, sir. 
 
 Lttsio. ^^^ly, 't is not amiss, Pompey : Fare- 
 well; go; sa}-, I sent thte thither. Eor debt, 
 Pompey, or how ? 
 
 Elb. For being a bawd, for being a bawd. 
 
 Lucio. WeU, then imprison him: If imprison- 
 ment be the due of a bawd, wliy, 't is his right : 
 Rawd is he, doubtless, and of antiquity too; bawd- 
 born. Furcwcll, good Pom;>ey : Commend me to 
 the pri.?on, Pompey. Yo;i will turn good husband 
 How, Pon-.i).:j ; you will lucp the liousu. 
 ifin 
 
 Clo. I hope, sir, your good worship vdYi. be mj 
 bail. 
 
 Lucio. No, indeed, will I not, Pompey ; it is not 
 the wear.'°^ I wLU pray, Pompey, to incrtaa 
 yoiir bondage : if you take it not patiently, whr, 
 your mettle is the more. Adieu, trusty Pompey.— 
 Bless you, friar. 
 
 Duke. And you. 
 
 Lucio. Does Bridget paint stm, Pompey ? Haf 
 
 Elb. Come your ways, sir ; come. 
 
 Clo. You will not bail me, tlien, sir ? 
 
 Lucio. Then, Pompey, nor now. — ^^Tiat ncwa 
 abroad, friar ? "Wliat news ? 
 
 Elb. Come your ways, sir ; come. 
 
 Lucio. Go, — to kennel, Pompey, go : 
 
 \_Excunt Elbow, Clo'^'n, and OfEcers. 
 What news, fiiar, of the dulce ? 
 
 Duke. I know none : Can you tell me of any ? 
 
 Lucio. Some say he is with the eirperor oi 
 Eussia ; othersome, he is in Home : But where is 
 lie, think you ^ 
 
 Duke. ^ know not where : but wheresoever, I 
 wish him well. 
 
 Lucio. It was a mad fantastical trick of him, to 
 steal from the state, and usurp the beggary he was 
 never bom to. Lord Angelo dukes it '\rcU ia his 
 absence; he puts transgression to 't. 
 
 Duke. He does weU in 't. 
 
 Lucio. A little more lenity to Iccheiy would do 
 no harm in liim : soraetliing too crabbed that way, 
 friar. 
 
 Duke. It is too general a -"ice, and severity must 
 cure it. 
 
 Lucio. Yes, in good sooth, tlie ^dce is of a great 
 kindred ; it is well allied : but it is impossible to 
 extirp it quite, friar, till eating and di-inking be 
 put down. They say, this Augelo was not made 
 by man and woman, after thi downright way of 
 creation : Is it true, think you ? 
 
 Duke. How should he be made, then ? 
 
 Lucio. Some report a sea-maid spawn'd him :— 
 Some, tliat he was begot between two stock-fishes: 
 — lint it is certain, that when he makes water his 
 urine is congeal'd ice ; that I know to be trie 
 and ho is a motion generative ; that's infallible. 
 
 Duke. You arc pleasant, sii" and speak apace. 
 
 Lucio. AVliy, what a ruthless tiling is this in 
 liim, for the rebellion of a codpiece to take away 
 the life of a man I "Would the duke, that is absent. 
 have done this ? Ere he woidd have hang'd a man 
 for the getting a :.undrtd bastards, he woidd bavc 
 paid for the nursing a thousand : He had some
 
 ACT HL 
 
 MEASUllE FOE MEASUllE. 
 
 feeling of the sport ; he knew the service, and 
 that instructed him to mercy. 
 
 Duhe. I never heard tiie absent duke much de- 
 tected for women ;"" he was not inolin'd that way. 
 
 Lmio. 0, sir, j'ou are dccciv'd. 
 
 Duke. 'T is not possible. 
 
 Lucio. "VVTio ? not the duke ? yes, yom beggar 
 of fifty; — and bis use was to put a ducat in her 
 flack-dish :'" the duke had crotchets in him : He 
 would be drunk too ; that let me infonn you. 
 
 Duke. You do him wrong, surely. 
 
 Lucio. Sir, I was an inward of his. A shy fel- 
 low was the duke: and, 1 believe, I luiow the 
 cause of his withdrawing. 
 
 Dulce. "What, I prithee, might be the cause ? 
 
 Lucio. No — pardon ; — 't is a secret must be 
 lock"d within the teeth and tlie lips : but this I can 
 lot you miderstand, — The greater file of the sub- 
 ject held the duke to be wise. 
 
 T>uke. Wise? why, no question but he was. 
 
 Lucio. A very superficial, ignorant, unweigh- 
 ing fellow. 
 
 Duke. Either this is envy in you, folly, or mis- 
 taking; the very stream of his life, and the busi- 
 ness he hath helmed, must, upon a warranted 
 Deed, give him a better proclamation. Let him 
 be but testimonied in his own bringings forth, 
 and he shall appear to the envious a scholar, a 
 statesman, and a soldier. Therefore, you speak 
 unsldlfully; or, if your knowledge be more, it is 
 much darken'd in yoiu- malice. 
 
 Lucio. Sir, I know him, and I love him. 
 
 Duke. Love talks with better knowledge, and 
 knowledge with dearer love. 
 
 Lucio. Come, sir, I know what I know. 
 
 Duke. I can hardly believe that, since you know 
 not what you speak. But, if ever the duke re- 
 turn (as our prayers are he may, ) lot me desire 
 you to make your answer before him : If it be 
 honest you have spoke, you have courage to main- 
 tain it : I am bound to call upon you : and, I 
 pray you, your name. 
 
 Lucio. Sir, my name is Lucio ; well known to 
 the duke. 
 
 Duke. He shall know you better, sir, if I may 
 live to report you. 
 
 I.ucio I fear you not. 
 
 TJukc. 0, you hope the duke wiU return no 
 Tiore; or you imagine me too unhurtful an oppo- 
 site.'" But, indeed, I can do you little harm: 
 you '11 forswear this again. 
 
 Lucio. I' 11 be hang'd first : thou art deceiv'd 
 
 in me, friar. But no more of this. Canst thou 
 tell if Claudio die to-morrow, or no ? 
 
 Buke. Why should he die, sir ? 
 
 Lucio. Why ? for filling a bottle with a tun- 
 dish. I would tlie duke we talk of were retum'd 
 again : this ungenitur'd agent will unpeople the 
 province with continenoy ; sparrows must not 
 build in his house-eaves, because tlioy are le- 
 cherous. The duke yet would have dark deeds 
 darkly answered ; he would never bring them to 
 light : would ho were retum'd ! Marry, this 
 Claudio is condemned for untrussing. Farewell, 
 good fi-iar ; I prithee, pray for me. The duke, I 
 say to thee again, would eat mutton on Fridays. 
 He 's now past it ; yet and I say to thee, he 
 would mouth with a beggar, though she smelt 
 brown bread and garlic :'" say, that I said so. 
 Farewell. \_Exit. 
 
 Duke. No might nor greatness in mortality 
 Can censure 'scape ; back-woimding calumny 
 The whitest virtue strilies. ^Tiat king so strong, 
 Can tie the gall up in the slanderous tongue ! 
 But who comes here ? 
 
 Enter Escaxus, Peovost, Misieess Oveedone, 
 and Officers. 
 
 Escal. Go, away with her to prison. 
 
 Over. Good my lord, be good to me; vou' 
 honour is accounted a merciful man : good my lord. 
 
 Escal. Double and treble admonition, and still 
 forfeit in the same kind?'" This would mak« 
 Merc)- swear, and play the tyrant. 
 
 Prov. A bawd of eleven years' continuance, may 
 it please your honour. 
 
 Over. My lord, this is one Lucio's information 
 against me : mistress Kate Keepdo\vn was with 
 child by him in the duke's time; he promis'd her 
 marriage; his child is a year and a quarter old, 
 come Philip and Jacob : I have kept it myself; 
 and see how he goes about to abuse me. 
 
 Escal. That fellow is a fellow of much Kcenco: 
 let him be caU'd before us. — ^Away with her to 
 prison: Go to; no more words. \_Exeunt Bawd 
 and Officers, ] Provost, my brother Angelo will 
 not be alter'd; Claudio must die to-moiTow : let 
 him be fumish'd with divines, and have all cha- 
 ritable preparation: if my brother wrought by 
 my pity, it should not be so with him. 
 
 Prov. So please you, this friar hath been with 
 him, and advis'd him for th' entertainment of 
 death. 
 
 Escal. Good even, good father. 
 
 ifll
 
 Aoi HI. 
 
 MEASTJEE rOR MEASURE. 
 
 SCtUlK U. 
 
 Duh. Bliss and goodness on you ! 
 
 Escal. Of whence are you ? 
 
 Luke. Not of this country, though my chance is 
 now 
 To use it for my time : I an> a brother 
 Of gracious order, late come from the see. 
 In special business from his hoUness. 
 
 Escal. AMiat news abroad i' the world ? 
 
 Buhe. None, but that there is so great a fever 
 on goodness, that the dissolution of it must cure it : 
 novelty is only in request; and as it is as d;mger- 
 ous"* to be aged iu any kind of course, as it is 
 virtuous to be constant in any undertaking ; there 
 is scarce truth enough alive to make societies 
 secure ; but security enough to make fellowships 
 accurs"d : much upon this riddle runs the wisdom 
 of the world. This news is old enough, yet it is 
 every day's news. I pray you, sir, of what dispo- 
 sition was the duke ? 
 
 Escal. One, that, above all other strifes, con- 
 tended especially to know himself. 
 
 Bulie. What pleasure was he given to ? 
 
 Escal. Eathcr rejoicing to see another merry, 
 than merry at anj-thing which profuss'd to make 
 him rejoice : a gentleman of all temperance. But 
 cave we him to his events, with a prayer they 
 may prove prosperous; and let me desire to know 
 how you find Ciaudio prepar'd. I am made to 
 imderstand that you have lent him visitation. 
 
 Ihihe. He professes to have received no sinister 
 mcasiu-e from his judge, but most willingly hum- 
 bles himself to the determination of justice : yet 
 had he framed to himself, by the insti-uction of his 
 frailly, many deceiving promises of life; which I, 
 by my good leisure, have discredited to him, and 
 Duw is he rcsolv'd to die. 
 162 
 
 Escal. You have paid the heavens youi fono- 
 
 tion, and the prisoner the very debt of your call- 
 ing. I have labour'd for the poor geLtlemun, tfl 
 the extremest shore of my modesty ; but my bro- 
 ther justice have I found so severe, that he hath 
 forc'd me to tell him, he is indeed — justice. 
 
 Duke. If his own life answer the straitnes? ol 
 his proceeding, it shall become him well ; wherein 
 if he chance to faU, he hath sentenc'd himself. 
 
 Escal. I am going to visit the prisoner ! Fare 
 you well. 
 
 Duke. Peace be with you ! 
 
 \_Exit Escal. and Pbov 
 He who the sword of heaven will bear 
 Should be as holy as severe ; 
 Pattern in himself to know, 
 Grace to stand, and virtue go ; "* 
 More nor less to others paying. 
 Than by self-offences weighing. 
 Shame to him, whose cruel striking 
 Kills for faults of his own liking ! 
 Twice treble shame on Angelo, 
 To weed my vice, and let his grow ! 
 0, what may man within him hide, 
 Though angel on the outward side ! 
 How may likeness wade in crimes,"' 
 Maliing practice on the times. 
 To draw ■with idle spiders' strings 
 Most ponderous and substantial things : 
 Craft against vice I must apply : 
 With Angelo to-night shall lie 
 His old betrothed, but despised ; 
 So disguise shall, by the disguised, 
 Pay with falsehood false exacting, 
 And perform aii old contraotirg.
 
 MKAsiUHh iuii Jii^AsUKir; 
 
 SCLNK 1. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SL'ENH I. — A Room in Mariana's Home. 
 
 Maeiana. discovered silting ; a Boy singing. 
 
 SONG. 
 Take, oh take those lips away, '■'' 
 
 That so sweetly were forsworn ; 
 And those eyes, the break of day, 
 
 Lii^hta that do mislead the mom ; 
 But my kisses bring again, 
 
 Bring again. 
 Seals of love, but seal'd in vain, 
 
 Scal'd in vain. 
 
 Mari. Break off thy song, and haste thee quick 
 away ; 
 lljre comes a man of comfort, whose advice 
 Ifath often still"d my brawling discontent. — 
 
 \_Exit Boy. 
 Enter Ddke. 
 
 CT)- you mercy, sir ; and well could wish 
 You had not found me here so musical : 
 Let me excuse me, and believe me so, — 
 My mirth it much displeas'd,"' but pleas'd my 
 woe. 
 
 Duke. 'Tis good : though music oft hath such a 
 charm, 
 To make bad good, and good provoke to liarm. 
 
 I pray you, t«U me, hath anybody inquird for mo 
 nere to-day ? much upon this time have I pro- 
 rais'd here to meet. 
 
 Mari. I'ou have not been inquir'd after : I have 
 sat here all day. 
 
 Enter Isabella. 
 
 Buhe. I do consttmtly believe you • — The time 
 is come, even now. I shall crave your forbear- 
 ance a little ; may be, I will call upon you anon, 
 or some advantage to yourself. 
 
 Mari. I am always bound to you. \_Exit. 
 
 Duke. Very well met, and welcome : 
 ^liat is the news from tliis good deputj' r 
 
 Isab. He hath a garden circummur'd with 
 brick, 
 \^Tiose western side is with a vineyard back'd ; 
 And to that vineyard is a planched gate, 
 
 Tliat makes his opening with this bigger key : 
 This other doth command a little door, 
 Which from the vineyard to the garden leads ; 
 There have I made my promise ujjon the 
 Heavy middle of the night to call upon him. 
 
 Duke. But shall you on )-our knowledge fiQil 
 this way ? 
 
 Isah. I have ta'cn a due and wary note upon i ; 
 With whispering and most guilty diligence, 
 In action all of precept,'-" lie did show me 
 The wa}- twice o'er. 
 
 Duke. Are there no other tokens 
 
 Between you 'greed, concerning her observance r 
 
 Isab. Jf 0, none, but only a rejiair i' the dark ; 
 And that I have possessed him, my most stay 
 Can be but brief: for I have made him know 
 I have a servant ct)mes with me along, 
 Tliat stays upon me ; ■whose persuasion is, 
 I come about m}' brother. 
 
 Duke. 'T is well borne up. 
 
 I Iiave not yet made known to Mariana 
 A v.'ord of tliis ; — What, ho ! within 1 come forth 
 
 Re-enter Maeiaxa. 
 
 I pray you be acquainted with this maid ; 
 Slie comes to do you good. 
 
 hah. I do desire the like. 
 
 Duke. Do you persuade yourself that 1 i-esi)Cff 
 
 you r 
 Mari. Good friar, I know j-ou do; and Lavr 
 
 found it. 
 Duke. Take then this your companion by thf 
 liaiid, 
 WHio liath a story ready for j"our ear : 
 r shall attend your leisure ; but make naste , 
 The vaporous night approaches. 
 
 Mari. WiU 't please you w;Jk aside ? 
 
 \_Exeunt Mai'.i. aiuL Isab. 
 Duke. place and greatness, millions jf lidsc' 
 eyes 
 Are stuck upon thee ! volumes of report 
 Itun with these false and most conti'arious qu rsts ^ 
 Upon thy doings ! thousand escapes of wit 
 
 163
 
 MEASURE rUK MEASUEE. 
 
 SCEJTK U. 
 
 Make thee the father of their idle dream, 
 And rack thee ia their fancies! — Welcome ! How! 
 agreed ? 
 
 Re-enter Mabiaxa and Isabella. 
 
 I^ah. She "11 take the enterprise upon her, 
 father. 
 If you advise it. 
 
 Buke. It is not my consent, 
 
 But my entreaty too. 
 
 Isab. Little have you to say, 
 
 Whau you depart from him, but, soft and low, 
 " Eemember now my brother." 
 
 Mari. Fear me not. 
 
 Duke. Kor, gentle dauglitcr, fear you not at all : 
 Ke is your husband on a pre-conti'act : 
 To biing you thus together, 't is no sin; 
 Sith that the justice of your title to him 
 Doth flourish the deceit. Come, let us go ; 
 Our com 's to reap, for yet our tithe 's to sow."^ 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE 11.— A Room in the Prison. 
 Enter Peovost and Chovrs. 
 
 Frov. Come hither, sirrah : Can you cut off a 
 man's head ? 
 
 Clo. If the man be a bachelor, sir, I can : but 
 if he be a mamed man, he 's his wife's head, and 
 I c<an never cut off a woman's head. 
 
 Prov. Come, sir, leave me your snatches,'^ and 
 p'eld me a direct answer. To-morrow morning 
 are to die Claudio and Barnardine. Here is in our 
 prison a common executioner, who in his office 
 lacks a helper: if you will take it on you to assist 
 him, it shall redeem you from your gyves ; if not, 
 you shall have your fiiU time of imprisonment, 
 and your deliverance with an unpitied whipping ; '■" 
 for you have been a notorious bawd. 
 
 Clo. Sir, I have been an unlawful bawd, time 
 out of mind; but yet I will be content to be a 
 lawful hangman. I would be glad to receive some 
 instniction from my fellow pai'tner. 
 
 Prov. What ho, Abhorson ! Where 's Abhorson, 
 th tre ? 
 
 Enter Adhobson. 
 
 Abhor. Do you call, sir ? 
 
 Prov. Sirrah, here 's a fellow wUl help you to- 
 morrow in your execution. If you think it meet, 
 tompoiind with liim by the year, and let him 
 ibidu here with you ; if not, use him for tlie 
 164 
 
 present, and dismiss him. He cannot plead hiE 
 estimation with you ; he hath been a bawd. 
 
 Abhor. A bawd, sir ? Fie upon him, he will dis- 
 credit our mystery. 
 
 Prov. Go to, sir ; you weigh equally ; a feather 
 will turn the scale. \_Exit. 
 
 Clo. Pray, sir, by your good favour, (for, surely, 
 sir, a good favour'" you have, but that you have 
 a hanging look,) do you call, sir, your oncupation 
 a mystery ? 
 
 Abhor. Ay, sir ; a mystery. 
 
 Clo. Paintuig, sir, I have heard say, is a 
 mystery ; and your whores, sir, being members of 
 my occupation, using painting, do prove my occu- 
 pation a mystery : but what mystery there should 
 be in hanging, if I should be hang'd I car::! 
 imagine. 
 
 Abhor. Sir, it is a mystery. 
 
 Clo. Proof: 
 
 Abhor. E\'eiy true man's apparel'-' fits joiu 
 thief— 
 
 Clo. If it be too little for your thief, your true 
 man tliinks it big enough ; if it be too big for youi 
 thief, your thief thinks it little enough : so e\cT} 
 true man's apparel fits yoiu' thief. 
 
 Re-enter Peotost. 
 
 Prov. Are you agreed ? 
 
 Clo. Sii; I wUl serve him ; for I do find your 
 hangman is a more penitent trade than your bawd; 
 he doth ofl'ner ask forgiveness. 
 
 Prov. You, siiTah, provide your block and youi 
 axe to-morrow four o'clock. 
 
 Abhor. Come on, bawd ; I wiU instruct thee in 
 my trade ; follow. 
 
 Clo. I do desu'c to learn, sir; and, I hope, i. 
 5-ou have occasion to use me for your own tui-n, 
 you shall find me yare : for, truly, sir, for yoiu 
 kindness I owe you a good turn. 
 
 Prov. Call hither Barnardine and Claudio : 
 
 l_Ejre:int Clown and Ajbhor, 
 Til' one has my pity ; not a jot the other. 
 Being a murtherer, though he were my brother. 
 
 Enter Claudio. 
 Look, here 's the warrant, Claudio, for thy death : 
 'T is now dead midnight, and by eight to-moiTOW 
 Thou must be made immortal. Where 's Barnar- 
 dine ? 
 Claud. As fast lock'd up in sleep, as guiltloas 
 labour 
 ■\Micn it lies starkly "" in the traveller's bones : 
 He will not wake.
 
 Acrr IT 
 
 MEASUEE FOR MEAStJEE. 
 
 Prov. Who can do good on him ? 
 
 Well, go, prepare yourself. But hark, what 
 noise ? \_Knocking within. 
 
 Heaven give your spirits comfort ! \_Exit Claub. 
 
 By and bv :— 
 I hope it is some pardon, or reprieve, 
 For the most gentle Claudio. — Welcome, father. 
 
 Enter Duke. 
 
 Buke. The best and wholsom'st spirits of the 
 night 
 Envelop you, good provost ! Who call'd here of 
 late? 
 
 Prov. None, since the curfew rung. 
 
 Duke. Not Isabel ! 
 
 Prov. No. 
 
 Duke. They will then, ere 't be long. 
 
 Prov. Wliat comfort is for Claudio ? 
 
 Dnke. There 's some in hope. 
 
 Prov. It is a bitter deputy. 
 
 Duke. Not so, not so ; his life is parallel'd 
 Even with the stroke and line of his great justice ; 
 He doth ■n'ith holy abstinence subdue 
 That in himself, which he spurs on his pow'r 
 To qualify in others : '^° were he moal'd'-' with that 
 Which he corrects, then were he tyrannous ; 
 But this being so, he 's just. — Now are they 
 come. — 
 
 \_Knocking wiiliin. — Peovost goei out. 
 This is a gentle provost : Seldom, when 
 The steeled gaoler is the friend of men. 
 How now? What noise? That sjarit 's posscss'd 
 
 with haste, 
 That wounds th' resisting postern '™ with these 
 strokes. 
 [Provost returns, speaking to one at the door. 
 
 Prov. There he must stay, until the officer 
 Arise to let him in; he is caU'd up. 
 
 Duke. Have you no countermand for Claudio yet. 
 But he must die to-morrow ? 
 
 Prov. None, sir, none. 
 
 Duke. As near the dawning, provost, as it is, 
 You shall hear more ere morning. 
 
 Prov. Happily 
 
 You something know; yet, I believe, there comes 
 No countermand; no such example have we: 
 Besides, upon the very siege of justice. 
 Lord Angelo hath to the pubUe ear 
 Profess'd the oontrary. 
 
 Enter a Messenger. 
 Duke. This is his lord's man."' 
 
 Prov. And here comes Claudio's pardon. 
 
 Mess. My lord hath sent you this note ; and bj 
 me this further charge, that you bw trve not from 
 the smallest article of it, neither in time, matter, 
 nor other circumstance. Good morrow ; for. as I 
 take it, it is almost day. 
 
 Prov. I shall obey him. [Exit Moss. 
 
 Duke. This is his pardon purchas'd by such in, 
 
 \_Aside. 
 For which the pardoner himself is in : 
 Hence hath offence his quick celerity, 
 Wlicn it is borne in high authority : 
 When vice makes mercy, mercy 's so extended, 
 That for the fault's love is th' offender friended. — 
 Now, sir, what news? 
 
 Prov. I told you : Lord Angelo, belike, think- 
 ing me remiss in mine office, awakens me with 
 this unwonted putting on: methinks, strangely; 
 for he hath not us'd it before. 
 
 Duke. Pray you, let 's hear. 
 
 Prov. [_Peads.'\ "AVhatsoever you may hear to the 
 contrary, let Claudio be executed by four of the clods; 
 and, in the afternoon, Bamardine : for my better satisfac- 
 tion, let me have Claudio's head sent me by fire. Let this 
 be duly performed ; with a thought, that more depends on 
 it than we must yet deUver. Thus fail not to do youi 
 office, as you wUl answer it at your perii" 
 What say you to this, sir ? 
 
 Duke. What is that Bamardine, who is to be 
 executed in th' afternoon ? 
 
 Prov. A Bohemian bom; but here nurs'd up 
 and bred: one that is a prisoner nine years old. 
 
 Duke. How came it, that the absent duke had 
 not cither deliver'd him to liis liberty, or executed 
 him? I have heard it was ever his manner to do so. 
 
 Prov. His friends still wrought reprieves foj 
 him : and, indeed, his fact, till now in the govern- 
 ment of lord Angelo, came not to an undoubtful 
 proof. 
 
 Duke. It is now apparent?"^ 
 
 Prov. Most manifest, and not denied by him- 
 self. 
 
 Duke. Hath he borne himself penitently in 
 prison? 
 How seems he to be touch'd? 
 
 Prov. A man that apprehends death no mora 
 dreadfully but as a drunken sleep ; careless, reck- 
 less, and fearless of what 's past, present, or to 
 come; insensible of mortfJity, and desperately 
 mortal."^ 
 
 Duke. He waits advice. 
 
 Prov. He will hear none; he hath evermore had 
 the liberty of the prison ; give him leave to escape 
 hence, he would not: drunk many times a day, if 
 
 165
 
 ACS rv. 
 
 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 
 
 not many days entirely drunk. 'We have very oft 
 awak'd him, as if to carrj- hiin to execution, and 
 show'd him a seeming warrant for it : it hath not 
 moved him at all. 
 
 Duke. More of him anon. There is -written in 
 jour hrow, provost, honesty and constancy: if I 
 read it not truly, my ancient skiU beguiles me ; 
 but in the boldness of my cunning, I wiU lay my- 
 r.elf iu hazard. Claudio, whom here you have 
 warrant to execute, is no greater forfeit to the law 
 than Angelo who hath senteno'd him. To make 
 you understand this in a manifested effect, I crave 
 but four days' respite; for the which you are to 
 do me both a present and a dangerous courtesy. 
 
 Frov. Pray, sir, in what ? 
 
 Duke. In the delaying death. 
 
 Prov. Alack! how may I do it? having the 
 hour limited, and an express command, under 
 penalty, to deliver his head in the view of Angelo? 
 I may make my case as Claudio's, to cross this in 
 tlie smallest. 
 
 Duke. By the vow of mine order I wan-ant you, 
 if my instmotions may be your guide. Let this 
 Barnardine be this morning executed, and his head 
 borne to Angelo. 
 
 Prov. Angelo hath seen them both, and wiU 
 discover the favour. 
 
 Duke. 0, death's a great disguiscr: and you 
 may add to it. Shave the head, and tie the beard; 
 and say, it was the desire of the penitent to be so 
 bar'd before his death. You know the course is 
 common. If anything fiiU to you upon this more 
 than thanks and good fortime, by the saint wliom 
 I profess, I win plead against it with my life. 
 
 Prov. Pardon me, good fatlier, it is against my 
 oath. 
 
 Duke. Were you sworn to the duke, or to the 
 deputy? 
 
 Prov. To him, and to liis substitutes. 
 
 Duke. You will flunk you have made no offence, 
 if the duke avouch the justice of your dealing? 
 
 Prov. But what likelihood is in that? 
 
 Duke. Not a resemblance, but a certainty. Yet 
 since I see you fearful, that neither my coat, in- 
 tegrily, nor persuasion, can with case attempt you, 
 I will go further tlian 1 meant, to pluck all fears 
 out of you. Look you, sir, here is the hand and 
 sea, erf the duke. You know the cliaracter, I 
 doubt not ; and the signet is not strange to you. 
 
 I'niv. I know them both. 
 
 Duke. The contents of this is the return of the 
 iuke; you shall anon over-read it at your pleasure : 
 160 
 
 where you shall find, -within these two days he 
 -will be here. This is a thing that Angelo knows 
 not: for he this very day receives letters of strange 
 tenor: perchance, of the duke's death; perchance 
 entering into some monastery; but, by chance 
 nothing of what is writ. Look, th' unfolding star 
 calls up the shepherd. Put not yourself into 
 amazement how these things should be : all diffi- 
 culties are but easy when they are known. Call 
 j'our executioner, and off with Barnardine's head : 
 I -wUl give him a present shrift, and advise him 
 for a better place. Yet you are amaz'd : but this 
 shall absolutely resolve you.'" Come away ; it is 
 almost clear dawn. \_£xeunt. 
 
 SCEIfE III. — Another Boom in the same. 
 
 Enter Clown. 
 
 Ch. I am as well acquahited here, as I was in 
 our house of profession : one would think it were 
 mistress Overdone's o-wn house, for here be many 
 of her old customers. First, here 's yoimg master 
 Rash ; he 's in for a commodity of brown paper''' 
 and old ginger, ninescore and seventeen poimds ; 
 of which he made five marks, ready money 
 marry, then, ginger was not much in request, for the 
 old women were all dead. Then is there here one 
 master Caper, at the suit of master Three-pile the 
 mercer, for some four suits of peach-colour'd satin, 
 which now peaches him a beggar. Then have we 
 here young Dizy, and young master Deep-vow, 
 and master Copper-spur, and master Starve-lackey, 
 the rapier and dagger man, and young Drop-heir 
 that killed lusty Pudding, and master Forthright, 
 the filter, and brave master Shoe-tie, the great tra- 
 veller, and -wild Half-can that stabb'd Pots, and, I 
 think, forty more; all great doers in our trade, 
 and are now for the Lord's sake.'^ 
 
 Enter Abhokson. 
 
 Abhor. Sirrah, bring Barnai'dine hither. 
 
 Clo. Master Barnardine ! you must rise and bo 
 hang'd, master Barnardine ! 
 
 Abhor. What ho, Barnardine ! 
 
 Barnar. \_Within.'\ A pox o' your throats! Who 
 makes tliat noise there ? A^liat are you ? 
 
 Clo. Your friends, sir, the hangmen. You 
 must be so good, sir, to rise and be put to deatli. 
 
 Barnar. [ Within.'] Away, you rogue, away ! I 
 aui sleepy 
 
 Abhor. TcUhim he must aw.ake, and that qmekly 
 too.
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 MEASUKE I'Olt MEASmiE. 
 
 SC3IIE m. 
 
 Clo. Pray, master Bamardino, awake till you 
 are executed, ar.d sleep afterwards. 
 
 Ab}u)r. Go in to liim, and fetch him out. 
 
 Clo. He is coming, sir, ho is coming ; I hear his 
 Btraw rustle. 
 
 Enter Barnaedine. 
 
 Ahhor. Is the axe iipon the block, sirrah ? 
 
 Clo. Very ready, sir. 
 
 Barnar. How now, Abhorson ? what 's tlie 
 news with you ? 
 
 Ahhor. Truly, sir, I would desire you to clap 
 into your prayers ; '" for, look you, the warrant 's 
 come. 
 
 Barnar. You rogue, I have been diioking all 
 night ; I am not fitted for 't. 
 
 Clo. 0, tho bettor, sir ; for ho that drinks aU 
 night, and is hanged betimes in the morning, may 
 sleep tho sounder all the next day. 
 
 Entir Duke. 
 
 Abhor. Look you, sir, here comes yoiu- ghostly 
 father. Do we jest now, think you ? 
 
 Dide. Sir, induced by my charit}', and hearing 
 how hastily you are to depart, I am come to ad- 
 vise you, comfort you, and pray with you. 
 
 Barnar. Eriar, not I; I have been drinking 
 hard all night, and I will have more time to pre- 
 pare me, or they shall beat out my brains Math 
 biUets : I will not consent to die this day, that 's 
 certain 
 
 Buke. 0, sir, you must ; and therefore, I be- 
 seech you, look forward on the jom-ney you shall 
 
 go 
 
 Barnar. I swear, I will not die to-day for any 
 man's persuasion. 
 
 Duhe. But hear you, — 
 
 Barnar. Not a word ; if you have anything to 
 Bay to me, come to my ward; for thence will not 
 I to-day. \_Exit. 
 
 Enter Peovost. 
 
 Ihike. Unfit to live, or die : 0, gravel heart ! — 
 After him, fellows ; bring him to the block. 
 
 \_Exeunt Abhorson and Clown. 
 
 Frm). Kow, sir, how do you find the prisoner ? 
 
 Duka. A creature unprepar'd, unmeet for death ; 
 And to transport him in the mind he is 
 Were damnable. 
 
 Frov. Here in the prison, father. 
 
 There died this morning of a cruel fever 
 One ICigozinc, i most notorious pirate, 
 
 A man of Claudio's years ; his beard, and head, 
 Just of his colour : ^\liat if we do omit 
 This reprobate, tiU he were well inclin'd ; 
 And satisfy the deputy with the visage 
 Of Piagozine, more like to Claudio ? 
 
 Duke. 0, 't is an accident that heaven provides 
 Despatch it presently; the hour draws on 
 Prefix'd by Ange.o : Sec this be done. 
 And sent according to command • whiles I 
 Persuade this rude wretch willingly to die. 
 
 Frov. This shall be done, good father, presently. 
 But Barnardine must die this afternoon ; 
 And how shall we continue Claudio, 
 To save me from the danger that might come, 
 If he were known alive ? 
 
 Buhe. Let this be done : — 
 
 Put them in secret holds, both Barnardine and 
 
 Claudio : 
 Ere twice the sim hath made his journal greeting 
 To yond generation,"' you shall find 
 Your safety manifested. 
 
 Frov. I am j-our free dependant. 
 
 BuJcc. Quick, despatch. 
 
 And send the head to Angelo. \_Exit Provost. 
 
 Now will I write letters to Angelo, — 
 The provost, he shall bear them, — whose contents 
 Shall witness to him I am near at home ; 
 And that by great injunctions I am boimd 
 To enter publicly : him I '11 desire 
 To meet me at the consecrated fount, 
 A league below the city ; and from thence. 
 By cold gradation and well-balanc'd form, 
 AYe shall proceed with Angelo. 
 
 Re-enter Provost. 
 
 Frov. Here is the head ; I 'U carry it myself. 
 
 Diikc. Convenient is it : Make a s-\vift return ; 
 For I would commune with you of such things 
 That want no ear but yom-s. 
 
 Frov. I '11 make all speed. \Eiit. 
 
 Isal. [Within.'\ Peace, ho, be here ! 
 
 Duke. The tongue of Isabel : — She 's come to 
 know, 
 If yet her brother's pardon be come hither : 
 But I ■\\ill keep her ignorant of her good. 
 To make her heavenly comforts of despaii' 
 When it is least expected. 
 
 Enter Isajieixa. 
 
 Isal. Ho, by your leave. 
 
 Duke. Good morning tc you, fair and gracious 
 daughter. 
 
 167
 
 r" 
 
 MEASUEE FOK MEASUliE. 
 
 SCENE n 
 
 Isab. The better, given me by so holy a man. 
 Hath yet the deputy sent my brother's pardon ? 
 
 Duke. He hath releas'd him, Isabel, from the 
 world ; 
 Eis head is off, and sent to Angelo. 
 
 Isah. Nay, but it is not so ! 
 
 Duke. It is no other : 
 
 Show your wisdom, daughter, in yo\ir close 
 patience. 
 
 Isah. 0, I will to him, and pluck out his eyes ! 
 
 Duke. You shall not be admitted to his sight. 
 
 Isah Unhappy Claudio ! Wretched Isabel ! 
 Injurious world ! Most damned Angelo I 
 
 Duke. This nor hurts him, nor profits you a jot ; 
 Forbear it therefore ; give your cause to heaven. 
 Mark what I say, which you shall find, 
 By every syllable, a faithful verity : 
 The duke comes home to-moiTow ; — nay, dry your 
 
 eyes; 
 One of our convent, and his confessor, 
 Gives me tliis instance. Already he hath can'ied 
 Notice to Escalus and Angelo, 
 Who do prepare to meet hiir at the gates, 
 There to give m 'iheir powe^'. If you can, pace 
 
 yoiu- wisdom 
 In that good path that I would wish it go; 
 And you shall have your bosom"' on this -nTetch, 
 3race of the duke, revenges to your heart, 
 And general honour. 
 
 Isah. I am directed by you. 
 
 Duke. This letter then to friar Peter give; 
 'T is that he sent me of the duke's return : 
 Say, by this token, I desire his company 
 At ilariana's house to-night. Her cause, and yours, 
 I '11 perfect him withal: and he shall bring you 
 Before tlie duke ; and to the head of Angelo 
 Accuse him home, and home. For my poor self, 
 I am combined "" by a sacred vow, 
 And shall be absent. Wend you with this letter : 
 Command these fretting waters from your eyes 
 With a light heart; trust not my holy order, 
 If I perveit yoir course. — Who 's hero? 
 
 Enter Lucio. 
 
 Lneio. Good even, friar : where 's the provost ? 
 
 Ihth. Not -natliin, sir. 
 
 Ludo. 0, pretty Isabella, I am pale at mine 
 heart, to see thine eyes so red: thou must bo 
 patient. I am fain to dine and sup with water 
 ond bran ; I dare not for my head fill my belly ; 
 one fruitful meal wo aid set mo to 't: But they say 
 tho duke will be hero to-moiTow. By my troth, 
 168 
 
 Isabel, I lov'd thy brother : if the old fantastical 
 duke of dark comers had been at home, he had 
 lived. \_Exit Isab 
 
 Duke. Sir, the duke is marvellous little be- 
 holden to your reports ; t ut the best is, he lives not 
 in them."' 
 
 Lucio. Friar, thou knowest not the duke so 
 wcU as I do : he 's a better woodman'" than thou 
 (ak'st him for. 
 
 Duke. Well, you '11 answer this one day. Fare 
 ye well. 
 
 Lucio. Nay, tarrj-; I '11 go along with thee ; I 
 can tell thee pretty tales of the duke. 
 
 Duke. You have told me too many of him 
 already, sir, if they be trae: if not true, none 
 were enough. 
 
 Lucio. I was once before him for getting a 
 wench with child. 
 
 Duke. Did you such a thing? 
 
 Lucio. Yes, marry, did I : but I was fain to for- 
 swear it ; they would else have married me to the 
 rotten medlar. 
 
 Duke. Sir, your company is fairer than honest : 
 Eest you well. 
 
 Lucio. By my troth, I 'U go with thee to the 
 lane's end. If bawdy talk ofl'cnd you, we "11 hav( 
 very little of it. Nay, friar, I am a kind of burr 
 I shall stick. [Excwit 
 
 SCENE IV. — A lioom in Angelo's House. 
 
 Enter Akgelo and Escaits. 
 
 Escal. Every letter he hath writ hath disvouoh'il 
 other. 
 
 Any. In most uneven and distracted manner. 
 His actions show much like to madness : pray 
 heaven, his wisdom bo not tainted! And why 
 meet him at the gates, and deKver our authori- 
 ties there ? 
 
 Escal. I guess not. 
 
 Anff. And why should we proclaim it in an 
 hoiu- before liis ent'ring, that, if any crave redress 
 of injustice, they should exhibit their petitions in 
 the street? 
 
 Escal. He shows his reason for that : to liavp 
 a despatch of complaints ; and to deliver us from 
 devices hereafter, which shall then have no puwei 
 to stand against us. 
 
 Atiff. Well, I beseech you, let it be proclaim'd: 
 Betimes i' tho mom I '11 call you at your house: 
 Give notice to such men of sort and suit. 
 As arc to meet him.
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 MEASUEE rOE MEASUIIE. 
 
 SCENE V. VI. 
 
 EbciiI. I shall, sir: fare yon well. 
 
 Ang. Good night. — [J&-8<EscAi. 
 
 This deed unshapes me quite, makes meunpregnant, 
 And dull to all proceedings. A deflowered maid! 
 And by an eminent body, that enforo'd 
 Tlie law against it ! — But that her tender shamo 
 Will not proclaim against her maiden loss, 
 How might she tongue me ! Yet reason dares her 
 
 no;'« 
 For my authority bears of a credent bulk, '" 
 That no particular scandal once can touch, 
 But it confounds the breather. He should have 
 
 liv'd. 
 Save that his riotous youth, with dangerous sense. 
 Might, in the times to come, have ta'en revenge. 
 By so receiving a dishonour' d life 
 With ransom of such shame. Would yet he had 
 
 Hv'd! 
 Alack ! when once our grace we have forgot. 
 Nothing goes right ; we would, and we would not. 
 
 lExit. 
 
 SCENE Y.— Fields without the Town. 
 
 Enter Duke in his own hahit, and Priar Petee. 
 
 DhJcc. These letters at fit time deliver me. 
 
 [^Giving letters. 
 The provost knows ova purpose, and our plot. 
 The matter being afoot, keep your instruction. 
 And hold you ever to your special drift ; 
 Though sometimes you do blench fi'om this to 
 
 that, "= 
 As cause doth minister. Go, call at Flavins' Louse, 
 And tell liim where I stay : give the Kke notice 
 To Valentinus, Rowland, and to Crassus, 
 And bid them bring the trumpets to the gate ; 
 B it fsend me Flavius first. 
 
 F. Fetor. It shaU be speeded well. 
 
 \Exit Fbuh 
 
 Enter Vakkips. 
 
 Dvke. I thank thee, Varrius; thou hast made 
 good haste : 
 Come, we will walk. There 's other of our friendb 
 "Will greet us here anon, my gentle Varrius. 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE Ti..— Street near the City Gate. 
 
 Enter Isabella and Mablana. 
 
 Tsah. To speak bo indirectly I am loth ; 
 I would say the truth ; but to accuse him so, 
 That is your part : yet I am advis'd to do it; 
 He says, to veil fuU purpose. 
 
 Mari. Be nil'd by him. 
 
 Isab. Besides, he tells me, that, if peradventurc 
 He speak against me on the adverse side, 
 I shc'uld not think it sti'ange ; for 't is a physic 
 That 's bitter to sweet end. 
 
 Mari. I would friar Peter — 
 
 Isab. 0, peace ! the friar is come. 
 
 Enter Friar Peteb. 
 
 F. Peter. Come, I have found you out a stand 
 
 most fit, 
 WTiere you may have such vantage on the duke, 
 He shall not pass you. Twice have the trumptis 
 
 sounded ; 
 The generous and gravest citizens 
 Have hent the gates, '" and very near upon 
 The Duke is eut'ring ; therefore, hence, away. 
 
 [ExfdKt 
 169
 
 ACT T. 
 
 MEASUKE FOR MEASUKE. 
 
 SCENE 1 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SUEJf E I. —A ptiMte Place near th City Gale. 
 Mahiana (veiled), Isabella, and Petes, at a dis- 
 tance. Enter ai opposite sides^^^ Duke, Varkius, 
 Lords ; Anqelo, Escalus, Lccio, Peovost, 
 Officers, and Citizens. 
 
 Duke. My very worthy cousin, fairly met : — 
 Our old and faithful friend, we are glad to see you. 
 Ang. and Escal. Happy return be to your royal 
 
 grace ! 
 Duhc. Many and hearty thankings to you both. 
 We have made inquiiy of you ; and we hear 
 Such goodness of your justice, that our soul 
 Cannot but yield you forth to public thanks. 
 Forerunning more requital. 
 
 Ang. Tou make my bonds stiU greater. 
 
 Duke. O, your desert speaks loud ; and I should 
 wrong it. 
 To lock it in the wards of covert bosom, 
 Wlieu it deserves with characters of brass 
 A. fortcd residence, 'gainst the tooth of time, 
 And razure of oblivion. Give me your hand, 
 And let the subject see, to make them know 
 That outward courtesies would fain proclaim 
 Favours that keep within. — Come, Escalus, 
 Vou must walk by us on our other hand ; 
 knA good supporters are you. 
 
 Friar Peteu and Isabella come forward. 
 
 F. Peter. Now is your time; speiJi loud, and 
 kneel before him. 
 
 Inah. Justice, royal duke ! Vail"' your regard 
 Upon a -WTong'd, I would fain have said, a maid ! 
 worthy prince, dishonour not your eye 
 By throwing it on any otlier oliject. 
 Till you have heard me in my true complaint, 
 \nd given me justice, justice, justice, justice ' 
 
 Duke, llolate your wrongs: In what? By 
 whom r Lo brief; 
 Here is Lord Angelo shall give you justice ! 
 Reveal yourself to him. 
 
 Ml. 0, worthy duke, 
 
 i'ou bid mo seek rcdcmptiDn of tlie devil : 
 Hour me yourself; lor tliat whicli I must speak 
 
 Must either punish me, not being belicv'd, 
 Or wring redress from you : hoar me, 0, hear me 
 here. 
 
 Ang. My lord, her wits, I fear me, are not firm : 
 She hath been a suitor to me for her brother 
 Cut off by course of justice ! 
 
 Isab. liy course of justice ! 
 
 Ang. And she will speak most bitterly and 
 strange. 
 
 Imh. Most sh-ango, but yet most truly, wll I 
 speak : 
 That Angelo 's forsworn ; is it not strange ? 
 That Angelo 's a miu'tliorer ; is 't not str.ango 
 That Angelo is an adulterous thief, 
 An hypocrite, a ^•irgin violator ; 
 Is it not strange, and strange ? 
 
 Duke. Xay, it is ten times strange. 
 
 Isah. It is not truer he is Angelo, 
 Than this is all as true as it is strange ; 
 Nay, it is ten times true ; for truth is truth 
 To th' eud of reck'ning. '*' 
 
 Duke. Away witli her ; — Poor sold, 
 
 She speaks this in th' infirmity of sense. 
 
 Isab. 0, prince, I conjure thee, as thoubeliov'st 
 There is another comfort than this world. 
 That thou neglect me not with that opinion 
 That I am toueh'd ■\\-ith madness ; make not im- 
 possible 
 That which but seems unlike : 't is not impossible 
 But one, the wicked" st caitiff on the ground. 
 May seem as shy, as grave, as just, as absolute, 
 As Angelo ; even so may Angelo, 
 In all his dressings, characts,'" titles, forms, 
 Be an arch- villain ; believe it, royal prince; 
 If he bo less, he 's nothing ; but be 's more, 
 Had I more name for badness. 
 
 Duke. ]}y mine honesty, 
 
 If .*he 1)0 mad, as I believe no other. 
 Her madness hath the oddest frame of sense, 
 Such a ilopcndiT.cy of thing on thing, 
 As c"er I heard in madness. 
 
 huh. 0, gracious duke, 
 
 Haq) not ou tliat : nor do not banish reason
 
 XCT V. 
 
 MEASUllE FOK MEASURE 
 
 SCMTB I. 
 
 For inequality; but let your reason serve 
 To make the truth appear where it seems hid, 
 Aud hide the false seems true."' 
 
 Bukt. Many that ai'e not mad, 
 
 Have, sure, more lack of reason. — What -would ye 
 say? 
 
 Isab I am the sister of one Claudio, 
 Condemn'dupon the act of fornication 
 To lose his head ; condemn'd by Angelo : 
 [, in probation of a sisterhood, 
 Was sent to by my brother : One Lucio, 
 As then the messenger; — 
 
 Lucio. That 's I, an 't like your grace : 
 
 I came to her from Claudio, and desir'd her 
 To try her gracious fortune with lord Angelo, 
 For her poor brother's pardon. 
 
 Isah. That 's he indeed. 
 
 Duke. You were nut bid to speak. 
 
 Lucio. No, my good lord ; 
 
 Nor wish'd to hold my peace. 
 
 Duke. I wish you now then ; 
 
 Pray you, take note of it : and when you have 
 A business for yourself, pray heaven you then 
 lie perfect. 
 
 Lucio. I warrant your honour. 
 
 Duke. The warrant "s for yourself ; take heed to 't. 
 
 Isol. This gentleman told somewhat of my tale. 
 
 Lucio. Eight. 
 
 Duke. It may be right ; but you are i' the wrong 
 Td speak before your time. — Proceed. 
 
 Imh. I went 
 
 To this pernicious caitiff deputy. 
 
 Duke. That 's somewhat madly spoken. 
 
 Isab. Pardon it ; 
 
 The phrase is to the matter. 
 
 Duke. Mended again : the matter: — Proceed. 
 
 Imh. In brief, — to set the needless process by 
 llow I persuaded, how I pray'd, and kneel'd. 
 How he refeU'd me, and how I repUed, 
 (For tliis was of much length); the vild conclusion 
 I now begin with grief and shame to utter : 
 He would not, but by gift of my chaste body 
 To his concupiscible intemperate lust, 
 Eclcase my brother ; and, after much d«batemcnt, 
 My sisterly remorse confutes mine honour, 
 .ind I did yield to him. Bat the next mom betimes. 
 His purpose surfeiting, he sends a warrant 
 For my poor brother's head. 
 
 Ikikc. This is most likely ! 
 
 Isah. 0, that it were as like as it is true ! 
 
 Duke. By heaven! fond wretch, thou know'st 
 not what thou spcak'st, 
 
 Or else thou art subom'd against his honour, 
 
 In liateful practice. First, his integrity 
 
 Stands \rithout blemish : — next, it imports no 
 
 reason. 
 That with such vehemency ho should pursue 
 Faults proper to himself: if ho had so offendett, 
 He would have weigh'd thy brother by himself. 
 And not have cut him off. Some one hath 8c( 
 
 you on ; 
 Confess the truth, and say by whose advice 
 Thou eam'st here to complain. 
 
 Lah. And is this aU ? 
 
 Then, oh, you blessed ministers above, 
 Keep me in patience ; and, with ripened time, 
 Unfold the evil which is hero wrapp'd up 
 In countenance ! — Heaven shield your grace from 
 
 woe, 
 As I, thus wrong' d, hence unbelieved go ! 
 
 Duke. I know you 'd fun be gone : — An officer 
 To prison with her ! Shall we thus permit 
 A blasting and a scandalous breath to fall 
 On him so near us ? This needs must be a 
 
 practice. '" 
 "\^^lo Ivnew of your intent, and coming hither ? 
 Isal. One that I woidd were here, frial 
 
 Lodowick. 
 Duke. A ghostly father, belike : who knows 
 
 that Lodowick ? 
 Liicio. My lord, I know him ; 't is a meddling 
 friar. 
 I do not like the man : had he been lay, my lord, 
 For certain words he spake against your grace 
 In youi' retirement, I had swing'd him soundly. 
 Duke. Words against me ? This 's a good fi-iar, 
 belike ! 
 And to set on this wretched woman here 
 Against our substitute ! — Let this friar be found. 
 Lucio. But yesternight, my lord, she and that 
 fi-iar 
 I saw them at the prison : a saucy friar, 
 A very scurvy fellow. 
 
 F. Peter. Blessed be your royal grace .' 
 
 I have stood by, my lord, and I have heard 
 Your royal cai- abus'd. Fii'st, hath this woman 
 Most wrongfully accus'd your substitute, 
 "Wlio is as free from touch or soil with her, 
 As she from one ungot. 
 
 Duke. We did oelicve no less. 
 
 Know you that friar Lodowick that she sjicaks of? 
 F. Deter. I know him for a mim divine and 
 holy; 
 Not scurvy, nor a temporary meddler, "" 
 
 171
 
 acT V. 
 
 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 
 
 SCK.Nt 1 
 
 As he 's reported by this gentleman ; 
 And, on my trust, a man that never yet 
 Did, as he vouches, misreport your grace. 
 Lucio. My lord, most villamously ; believe it. 
 F. Peter. Well, he in time may come to clear 
 himself; 
 But at this instant he is sick, my lord. 
 Of a strange fever. Upon his mere request, 
 (Being come to knowledge that there was complaint 
 Intended 'gainst lord Angelo), came I hither. 
 To speak, as from his mouth, what he doth know 
 Is true, and false ; and what he with his oath, 
 And all probation, will make up full clear, 
 Whensoever he 's convented. First, for this 
 
 woman ; 
 (To justify this worthy nobleman. 
 So vulgarly and personally accused). 
 Her shall you hear disproved to her eyes. 
 Till she herself confess it. 
 I>uke. Good friar, let 's hear it. 
 
 [Isabella «« carried off, guarded ; and 
 Makiana comes fonvard. 
 Do you not smUe at this, lord Angelo ? 
 
 heaven ! the vanity of wretched fools ! 
 Give us some scats. — Come, cousin Angelo ; 
 In this I 'U be impartial ; be you judge 
 
 Of your own cause. — Is this the ^vitness, friar ? 
 First, let her show her face ; and, after, speak. 
 
 Mari. Pardon, my lord ; I will not show my 
 face, 
 Until my husband bid me. 
 
 Duke. What, ai'e you married ? 
 
 Mari. "So, my lord. 
 
 Biile. Are you a maid ? 
 
 Mari. No, my lord. 
 
 Dnke. A widow then ? 
 
 Mori. Neither, my lord. 
 
 Duke. ^^Tiy, you 
 
 Arenothingthen: — Neither maid, widow, nor wife? 
 
 Lucio. My lord, she may be a punk ; for many 
 of thera are neither maid, widow, nor wife. 
 
 Duke. SUence that feUow : I would he had some 
 cause 
 To prattle for himself. 
 
 iMcio. Well, my lord. 
 
 Mari. My lord, I do confess I ne'er was mamed ; 
 And, I confess, besides, I am no maid : 
 
 1 liave known my husband ; yet my husband 
 
 knows not 
 That ever he knew me. 
 ' Lucio. lie was dnmk then, my lord ; it can be 
 00 better 
 
 172 
 
 Duke. For the benefit of silence, would thou wert 
 so too ! 
 
 Lucio. Well, my lord. 
 
 Duke. This is no witness for lord Angelo. 
 
 Mari. Now I come to 't, my lord : 
 She, that accuses him of fornication. 
 In self-same manner doth accuse my husband ; 
 And charges liim, my lord, with suiih a time, 
 Allien I 'U depose I had him in mine arms, 
 With all th' effect of love 
 
 Ang. Charges she more than me i 
 
 Mari. Not that I know. 
 
 Duke. Nor you say, your husband. 
 
 Mari. Why, just my lord, and that is Angelo, 
 Who thinks he knows that he ne'er knew my body 
 But knows he thinks that he knows Isabel's. 
 
 Ang. This is a strange abuse ; '** — Let 's see thj 
 face. 
 
 Mari. My husband bids me : now I will unmask, 
 
 \_UnveiUHg. 
 This is that face, thou cruel Angelo, 
 TVTiich once thou swor'st was worth the looking on : 
 This is the hand which, with a vow'd contract. 
 Was fast bclock'd in thine : this is the body 
 That took away the match from Isabel, 
 And did supply thee at thy garden-house, '" 
 In her imagin'd person. 
 
 Duke. Know you this woman 
 
 Lucio. Carnally, she says. 
 
 Duke. Sirrah, no more! 
 
 Lucio. Enough, my lord. 
 
 Ang. My lord, I must confess I know this 
 woman : 
 And, five years since, there was some speech c( 
 
 marriage 
 Betwixt myself and her ; which was broke off, 
 Partly, for that her promis'd proportions 
 Came short of composition;'^ but, in chief 
 For that her reputation was disvalued 
 In levity : since which time of five years, 
 I never spake with her, saw her, nor heard fi-om 
 
 her. 
 Upon my faith and honour. 
 
 Mari. Noble prince. 
 
 As there comes light from heaven, and words iron- 
 
 breath. 
 As there is sense in truth, and truth in virtue, 
 I am affianced this man's wife, as sti'ongly 
 As words covild m.ike up vows : and, my gooil lor.l 
 But Tuesday night last gone, in 's garden-liouse. 
 He knew me as a wife. As this is true, 
 Let mo in safety raise me from my luiees ;
 
 MEASFEE Foil MEASUllE. 
 
 Or else for ever be coniLsed here, 
 A marble monument ! 
 
 Anj. I did but smile till now ; 
 
 Now, good ray lord, give me the scope of justice ; 
 ily patience here is touch'd : I do perceive 
 These poor informal'" women are no more 
 Jiut instruments of some more mightier member, 
 Til at sets them on : Let me have way, my lord, 
 To tind this practice out. 
 
 Biike Ay, with my heart ; 
 And punish them to your height of pleasure. '" — 
 Thou foolish friar ; and thou pernicious woman, 
 Coiuj)act with her that 's gone ! think' st thou thy 
 
 oaths. 
 Though they would swear down each particular 
 
 saint, 
 Were testimonies against his worth and credit. 
 That 's seal'd in approbation ? — You, lord Escalus, 
 Sit with my cousin ; lend him your kind pains 
 To find out tliis abuse, whence 't is deriv'd : 
 There is another fiiar that set them on ; 
 IjcI him bo sent for. 
 
 F. Peter. Woidd he were here, my lord ; for 
 he, indeed. 
 Hath sot the women on to this complaint : 
 Your provost knows the place where he abides, 
 And he may fetch him. 
 
 Duke. Go, do it instantly. — \_Exit Peov. 
 And you, my noble and well- warranted cousin, 
 Whom it concerns to hear this matter forth, 
 Do with your injmics, as seems you best. 
 In any chastisement. I for a while 
 Will leave you ; but stir not you, till you have 
 Well determin'd upon these slanderers. 
 
 Escal. My lord, we '11 do it throughly.''" — 
 \_Ej:it Duke.] Signior Lucio, did not you say you 
 knew that fiiar Lodowick to be a dishonest 
 person ? 
 
 Litcio. Cucidlus lion facit monachtim : honest in 
 nothing, but in his clothes; and one that hath 
 spoke most villainous speeches of the duke. 
 
 Escal. We shall' entreat you to abide here till 
 he come, and enforce them against him : we shall 
 find tliis friar a notable fellow 
 
 Lucio. As any in Vienna, on my word. 
 Escal. Call that same Isabel here once again 
 to an Attendant] ; I would speak with her. Pray 
 you, my lord, give me leave to question ; you 
 bhall see how I '11 handle her. 
 
 Lucio. Not better than he, by her own report. 
 
 Escal. Say you ? 
 
 Lucio. ilarry, sir, I think if you handled her 
 
 privately, she would sooner confess : perchance, 
 publicly she '11 be asham'd. 
 
 Re-enter Officers, with Is.iDELiA ; the Duke in tht 
 TRixu'shabit, and Pnovosi. 
 
 Escal. I -will go darkly to work with her. 
 
 Lucio. That 's the way ; for women are light at 
 midniglit. 
 
 Escal. Come on, mistress [to 1s.U)Eli.a] : here 'fl 
 a gentlewoman denies all that you have said. 
 
 Lucio. My lord, here comes the rascal I spoke 
 of; here witli the provost. 
 
 Escal. In very good time : — speak not you to 
 him, tUl we call upon you. 
 
 Lucio. Mum. 
 
 Escal. Come, sir : Did you set these women on tt 
 slander lord Angelo ? They have oonfess'd you did. 
 
 Buhe. 'Tis false. 
 
 Escal. How ! know you where you are ? 
 
 I)v.he. Eespect to your great place ! and let the 
 devil 
 Be sometime honour'd for Ms burning throne ! 
 "Where is the duke ? 't is he should hear me speak. 
 
 Escal. The duke 's in us ; and we wHl hear you 
 speak : 
 Look you speak justly. 
 
 Biike. Boldly, at least. But, 0, poor 
 
 souls, \ 
 
 Come you to seek the lamb here of the fox 
 Good night to your redress. Is the duke gone ? 
 Then is your cause gone too. The duke 's unjusS 
 Thus to retort j'our manifest appeal, '"" 
 And put your trial in the villain's mouth. 
 Which here you come to accuse. 
 
 Lucio. This is the rascal ; this is he I spoke of. 
 
 Escal. Wliy, thou unreverend and unhallowed 
 friar ! 
 Is 't not enough thou hast subom'd these women 
 To accuse this worthy man ? but, in foul mouth. 
 And in the witness of his proper ear. 
 To call him \dllain ? and then to glance from him 
 To th' duke himself, to tax him with injustice } 
 Take him hence ; to th' rack with him : — We '11 
 
 touze you 
 Joint by joint, but we will know his purpose : 
 WTiat ! unjust ? 
 
 Diihe. Be not so hot ; the duke 
 Dare no more stretch this finger of mine, than he 
 Dare rack his own; his subject am I not. 
 Nor here provincial : '°' My business in this state 
 Made me a looker-on here in Vienna, 
 Where I have seen corrujition boil and bubble, 
 
 173
 
 MEASUllE FOE MEASUKE 
 
 rill it o'errun the stew : laws for all faults, 
 But faults so countenanc'd, that the strong statutes 
 Stand like the forfeits in a barber's shop, '" 
 As much in mock as mai'k. 
 
 Meal. Slander to th' state ! Away with him to 
 prison. 
 
 Any. "Wl'.at can you vouch against him, signior 
 Lucio ? 
 Is this the man that you did tell us of? 
 
 Licct'o. 'T is he, my lord. Come hither, good- 
 man baldpate : Do you know me r 
 
 Duie. 1 remember you, sir, by the sound of 
 your voice : I met you at the prison, in the 
 absence of the duke. 
 
 Liicio. 0, did you so r And do you remember 
 what you said of the duke 
 
 Duke. Host notedly, sir. 
 
 L'.'xio. Do you so, sir ? And was the duke a 
 desh monger, a fool, and a coward, as you then 
 reported him to be ? 
 
 Dulce. You must, sir, change persons with mo, 
 ere 3 on make that my report : you, indeed, spoke 
 so of him ; and much more, much worse. 
 
 Ltieio. thou damnable fellow ! Did not I 
 pluck thee hy the nose for thy speeches ? 
 
 Duke. I protest I love the duke, as I love myself. 
 
 Aug. Hark ! how the villain would close now, '^ 
 after his treasonable abuses. 
 
 E'ical. Such a fellow is not to be talk'd withal: — 
 Away with hitn to prison : — "Where is the 
 provost? — Away with him to prison; lay bolts 
 enough upon him : let him speak no more : — 
 Away with those giglots"" too, and with the other 
 confederate companion. 
 
 [j?7(« Pkovost lays hands on the Dcke. 
 
 Buhe. Stay, sir ; stay awhile. 
 
 Ang. What ! resists he ? Help liira, Lucio. 
 
 Lucio. Come, sir; come, sir; come, sir; foh, sir : 
 \Miy, you baldpatcd, lying rascal ! you must be 
 hooded, must you ? Show your knave's visage, with 
 a pox to you ! show your shcepbiting face, mid be 
 hang'd an hour ! "" Will 't not off? 
 
 [Pulls off the Feiae's /lood, and 
 discovers the Dcke. 
 
 Duke. Thou art the first knave that e'er mad'st 
 a duke. — 
 First, provost, let me bail these gentle three : — 
 Sueak not away, sir [to Locio] ; for the friar and you 
 Must have a word anon — lay hold on him. 
 
 Luviv. This may jjrovo worse than hanging. 
 
 Duke. Wliat you have spoke, I pardon ; sit 
 you dovn — [To Escalcs 
 
 1T4 
 
 We 'U borrow place of him — Sir, by your leave ; 
 
 [To Ano, 
 Hast thou or word, or wit, or impudence, 
 That yet can do thee offico ? If thou hast, 
 Sely upon it till my tale be heard, 
 And hold no longer out. 
 
 Ang. my dread lord, 
 
 I should be guiltier than my guiltiness, 
 To think I can be undiscernable, 
 T\Tien I perceive your grace, like pow'r divine 
 Hath look'd upon my passes.'" Then, good prince 
 No longer session hold upon my shame. 
 But let my trial be mine own confession : 
 Immediate sentence then, and sequent death. 
 Is all the grace I beg. 
 
 Duke. Come hither, !X[ariana : — 
 
 Say, wast thou e'er contracted to this woman 
 
 Ang. I was, my lord. 
 
 Duke. Go take her hence, and many her in 
 stantl}'. — 
 Do you the office, fi-iar; which, consummate, 
 Eeturn him here again : — Go with him, provost. 
 [Exeunt Ang., Maju., Peter, and Puov 
 
 Escal. My lord, I am more amaz'd at his dis 
 honour. 
 Than at the strangeness of it. 
 
 Duke. Come hitlier, Isabel : 
 
 Your friar is now your prince : As I was then 
 Advertising and holy to your busincse, 
 Not changing heart with habit, I am stiU 
 Attorncy'd at your service. 
 
 Isnh. give mo pardoD, 
 
 That I, your vassal, have employ'd and pain'd 
 Your unknown sovereignty. 
 
 Duke. You are paruou'd, Isabel : 
 
 And now, dear maid, be you as free to us. 
 Y'our brother's death, I know, sits at your heart; 
 And you may marvel why I obscur'd myself, 
 Labouring to save Ids life ; and would not rather 
 Make rash remonstrance of my hidden pow'r, 
 Than let him so to lost : most kind maid, 
 It was the swift celerity of his death, 
 Which I did think -Ki\\\ slower foot came on, 
 That bnun'd my puqjose : liut peace be with hiui 
 That life is better life, past f<aring death. 
 Than that which lives to fear : make it your comfort 
 So happy is j'our brother. 
 
 Re-enter Axoei.o, Mabiana, PiiTKii, and Provost. 
 
 Isab. I do, my lord. 
 
 Duke. For this new-married man approachina 
 here.
 
 nOI V. 
 
 MEASUliE FOli MEASURE. 
 
 BCENE I. 
 
 Whose salt imagination yet hath wrong'd 
 Your ^^■cll defended honour, you must pardon 
 For Mariana's sake : but as he adjudg'd your 
 
 brotlier, 
 (Being criminal, in double violation 
 Of sacred chastity, and of promise-breach, 
 Thereon dependent, for your brother's life,) 
 The very mercy of the law cries out 
 Most audible, even from his proper tongue, — 
 An Angelo for Claudio, death for death ! 
 Haste still pays haste, and leisure answers leisure ; 
 Like doth quit like, and Measure still /or Measure. 
 Then, Angelo, thy fault 's thus manifested: 
 WTiich, though thou wouldst deny, denies thee 
 
 vantage : 
 We do condemn tlice to the very block 
 Where Claudio stoop'd to death, and with like 
 
 haste ; 
 Away -nith him! 
 
 Mari. 0, my most gracious lord, 
 
 I hope you wUl not mock me with a husband ! 
 
 Bhke. It is your husband mock'd you with a 
 husband : 
 Consenting to the safeguard of your honour, 
 r thought your man-iage fit; else imputation, 
 For tliat he knew you, might reproach your life. 
 And choke your good to come : for his possessions, 
 Although by confiscation they are ours, 
 We do instate and widow you withal. 
 To buy you a better husband. 
 
 Mari. 0, my dear lord, 
 
 1 crave no other, nor no better man. 
 
 Dii,ke. Never crave him ; we are definitive. 
 
 Mari. Gentle my Uege, — \_Kneeling. 
 
 Duke. You do but lose your labour ; 
 
 Away with him to death. — Now, sir, [to Lucio] 
 to you. 
 
 Mari. 0, my good lord ! — Sweet Isabel, take 
 my part ; 
 Lend mo ycur knees, and aU my life to come 
 I 'II lend yon all my life to do you service. 
 
 Duke. Against all sense you do importune her : 
 Should she laieel down, in mercy of this fact, 
 Her brother's ghost his paved bed would break. 
 And take her hence in horror. 
 
 Mari. Isabel, 
 
 Sweet Isabel ! do yet but kneel by me ; 
 Hold up your hands, say nothing, I '11 speak all. 
 They say best men are moulded out of faults ; 
 And, for the most, become much more the better 
 For being u little bad : so may my husband. 
 0, Isabel ! will you not lend a knee ? 
 
 Duke. He dies for Claudio's death. 
 
 Isah. Most bounteous sir, [ Knculing 
 
 Look, if it please j-ou, on this man condenm'd, 
 As if ray brother liv'd : I partly think 
 A due sincerity governed his deeds. 
 Till he did look on me ; since it is so. 
 Let liim not die. My brotlicr had but jiistiw) 
 In tliat he did the thing for wliich he died : 
 For Angelo, 
 
 His act did not o'crtake his bad intent. 
 And must be buried but as an intent 
 That perish'd by the way: thoughts are no 
 
 subjects, — 
 Intents but merely thoughts. 
 
 Mari. Merely, my lord. 
 
 Duke. Your suit's unprofitable; stand up, Isay.- 
 I have bethought me of another fault : — 
 Provost, how came it Claudio was beheaded 
 At an unusual hour ? 
 
 Drov. It was commanded so. 
 
 Duke- Had you a special warrant for the deed ? 
 
 Prov. No, my good lord; it was by private 
 message. 
 
 Duke. For which I do discharge you of your 
 office : 
 Give up your kej's. 
 
 Drov. Pardon me, noble lord : 
 
 I thought it was a fault, but knew it not; 
 Yet did repent me, after more ad\-ice : 
 For testimony whereof, one in the prison, 
 That should by private order else have died, 
 I have reserv'd alive. 
 
 Duke. "What 's he ? 
 
 Frov. His name is Bamardmo. 
 
 Duke. I would thou hadst done so by Claudio.— 
 Go, fetch him hither ; let me look upon him. 
 
 \JExit PnovosT 
 
 Escal. I am soiry, one so learned and so wise 
 As you, lord Angelo, have stiU appeared, 
 Sliould slip so grossly, both in the heat of blood, 
 And lack of temper'd judgment afterward. 
 
 Anrj. I am sorry that such sorrow I procure: 
 And so deep sticks it in my penitent heart, 
 That I crave death more willingly than mercy ; 
 'T is my deserving, and I do entreat it. 
 
 .fie-m<«r Peovost, BAENAEDHfE, ClaubiOj and J ctllet 
 
 Duke. Which is that Bamardine ? 
 
 Prm. This, my lord. 
 
 Duke. There was a friar told me of this man :- 
 Sirrah, thou art said to have a stubborn soul, 
 That apprehends no further than this world, 
 
 175
 
 MEASUllE FOE MEASUEE. 
 
 Ajid squar's; thy life aooording. Thou 'rt 
 
 coniemn'd 
 But, for those earthly foults, I quit them all ; 
 Ajid pray thee, take this mercy to provide 
 lor better times to come: — Friar, advise him; 
 I leave him to your hand. — What muffled feUow 's 
 that? 
 Prov. This is another prisoner that I sav'd, 
 That should have di'd when Claudio lost liis head, 
 A3 like almost to Claudio as himself. 
 
 [ Unmuffles Claudio. 
 3ulce. If he be like your brother, [to Tsabkt.t.a.] 
 for his sake 
 Is he pardon'd : and, for your lovely sake, 
 (iive me your hand, and say j'ou -naU. be mine ; 
 He is my brother too : But fitter time for that. 
 By this, lord Angelo perceives he 's safe ; 
 Jlethinks, I see a quick'ning in his eye : — 
 Well, Anp-elc. your evil qmts you well : 
 Look that you love your wife ; her worth, worth 
 
 yours. — 
 I find an apt remission in myself, 
 .^nd yet here 's one in place I cannot pardon : — 
 You. sirrah [to Lucio], that knew me for a fool, a 
 
 coward, 
 One all of luxuiy, an ass, a madman ; 
 Wherein have I so deserv'd of vou. 
 That you extol me thus ? 
 
 Lucio. 'Faith, my lord, I spoke it but according 
 to the trick : If you wiU hang me for it, you may, 
 but I had rather it would please you I might be 
 whipp'd. 
 
 Diilcs. Wliipp'd first, sir, and hang'd after. 
 Procleim it. provost, round about the city; 
 116 
 
 If any woman's vrrong'd i'v thia lewd fellow, 
 (As I have heard him swear himself tliere 's one 
 WTiom he begot with child), let her appear. 
 And he shall marry her : the nuptial finish'd, 
 Let him be whipp'd and hang'd. 
 
 Lucio. I beseech your highness, do not marrj 
 me to a whore ! Yoiir highness said even now, I 
 made you a duke ; good my lord, do not recompense 
 me in making me a cuckold. 
 
 Buke. Upon mine honour, thou shalt marry her. 
 Thy slanders I forgive ; and therewithal 
 Eemit thy other forfeits : '" — Take him to prisoD : 
 And see our pleasure hereia executed. 
 
 Lucio. Marrying a punk, my lord, is pressing tc 
 death, whipping, and hanging. 
 
 Buke. Slandering a prince deserves it. — 
 She, Claudio, that you wrong'd, look you restora 
 Joy to you, Mmiana ! — love her, Angelo ; 
 I have confess'd her, and I know her virtue. 
 Thanks, good friend Escalus, for thy much goijd 
 
 ness: 
 There 's more behind that is more gratulate. 
 Thanks, provost, for thy care and secrecy ; 
 We shall employ thee in a worthier place : — 
 Forgive him, Angelo, that brought you home 
 The head of Eagozine for C'laudio's ; 
 Th' offence pardons itself. — Dear Isabel, 
 I have a motion much imports your good ; 
 Wliereto if you '11 a wHLing car incline. 
 What 'b mine is yours and what is youis '.s 
 
 mine: 
 So, bring us to our palace, where we 'U show 
 What 's yet behind, that 's meet you all should 
 know. [Eie^ml 
 
 \
 
 NOTES TO MEASURE FOK MEASURE. 
 
 I Si/tce lam put to know. 
 
 Til at is, since I am informed. It ia exactly equivalent to 
 Iho similar phrase, I am given to understand. "To put 
 gently into one's mind, institlare attqnid alicid,^' Baret, 15S0. 
 Li^!-! limits. 
 
 ' /V< that to your sufficiency. 
 
 Thrt original reads " But that to your sufficiency." 
 
 The Hue. however, is there evidently cormiited, and the 
 
 passage is confessed to be oue of the most obscure in 
 
 Shakespeare's -works. The best conjectural emendation 
 
 yet (ift'ereJ seems to be that of Rowe, -which is here 
 
 idopted. An old manuscript correction on a copy of 
 
 ■ L' play belouging to Mr. Tunno, gives, " But task to 
 
 iur suffioiencf '' « 
 
 ' TTie terns. 
 
 Terms of the law are explained by Jacob to be, " aiiifi- 
 cial or technical words, and terms of art particidarly used 
 ir. and adapted to the profession of the law." Preijnant, 
 ready, -veil informed. 
 
 * WitJi special sou!, 
 
 Tliat u, Tnth special mind, or thought. Ho wa3 the 
 ohcico of his heart. 
 
 ^ Tliy bdonghtgs are not thine own so proper. 
 
 Thv belongings or natiu-al endo^vments are not thine own 
 property. 
 
 ^ But to fine issues. 
 That ia, for gioat entls or p\u-pose3. 
 
 ^ Both thanks and vsc. 
 
 The passage ending with these words is one of the finest 
 ui the play, expressing man's responsibility in rmcquallcd 
 .jnguage. Use is, interest of money. " Use or commoditie 
 •f a thuig in the moane time, or usurie that riseth in the 
 mcane tijie," Barefs Alvearie, 1580. The double nega- 
 d-ve ia common in Shirkeapeare. 
 
 *• That can my part in mm advertise. 
 
 Tinv. !'-•. tt.3t is onivcrsant -with my dut}', which I now 
 icpnte to kirn. 
 
 ' JIolil, therefore, Angela. 
 
 Hold is here, as elsewhere, equivalent to, tahc it, Vih. 
 this, &c. The duke is offering the commission to An^elo. 
 FalstafF says, " Hold, sirrah, " when he gives the letlere 
 to Eoliin. This trite word is altogether misunderstood by 
 Jlr. Knight- 
 
 '" Mortality and mercy. 
 
 That is, the power of sentencing to death and the powoi 
 of exercising mercy. 
 
 '^ First in question. 
 That is, says Dr. Johnson, first called for ; first appointed. 
 
 *- With a leaven a and prepared choice, 
 
 "Leavened bread, panis fcrmentatus," Baret's Alvcoxie, 
 1.580. Here, fermented, a choice that has been left to fer- 
 ment, not hastily formed. Bring you something on the vxiy, 
 accompanying you part of the way; a phraso we ha-ve 
 aU'cady had in the Two Gentlemen of Verona, i. 1 . 
 
 •■^ To stage me to their eyes. 
 
 To show myself, as if 1 were on a stage or ocafTold. 
 Though it do well, even though it may bo politically useful. 
 
 " In the tluinhsgiving before meat. 
 
 Is this an en-or for after meat? The following ia one old 
 grace before meat, but perhaps not the one here alluded 
 to : — " Good Lord, blesse us, blcsse all thy creatures, send 
 down thy Holy Spirit into our hearts, so to direct us, that 
 we may looke for the spirituall food of our soulos, and 
 fijially everlasting peace, tlu-oug'a thy sonne, Jesua Christ 
 Amen." 
 
 '^ Grace is grace. 
 
 The discussion is whether the second gentleman has ever 
 heard grace. He replies, a dozen times at least. The first 
 then asks, if he heard it in metre. Lucio gives !iim a 
 ^xdder scope, and says, in any proportion (measure), or in 
 any language ; and the first gentleman, still more liberal, 
 adds, "in any reUgion. " Lucio approves of this, and says, 
 Grace is grace in all religions, notwithstanding reli^ioiw 
 controversy. There went but a pair of sheers i>etwecn ii.% 
 tliere was UttlG difference between us. This pl-jnae is ven' 
 common. 
 
 177
 
 2C0TES TO MEASUEE FOE MEASUEE 
 
 18 Tliou art a Oiree-piT d piece. 
 
 Three-piled velvet was the finest kind of velvet. The 
 quil'ble here is oa the word pilled, bald. The passage will 
 ot bear furtlier explanation ; and the allusions afterwards 
 efer to the disease here hinlcd at. 
 
 -' To Uiree thousand dollars a-year. 
 
 There is a quibble here upon dollars and dolours, simuar 
 to one in the Tempest, ii. 1. The first folio reads dollours. 
 The juking about the Freach crown and hoUow-bones is 
 OOt fit tc he explained. 
 
 '* W/.at with the sweat. 
 
 Alluding, periiaps, to the sweating sickness, a species 
 of plague ; or, possibly, to the disease before mentioned. 
 The old sense of peculiar is private. Malone's explanation 
 is certainly erroneous. Houses, used in a peculiar sense, 
 applied to those of b.id character, the same with "houses of 
 resort." Thomas Tapster is merely a generic name, applied 
 to a tapster; as we now term a footman, 'John Plush.' 
 All houses in the suburbs, alluding only to the bad houses. 
 
 " Pat/ down for our offence by weight. 
 
 That is, pay the full penalty, a met.iphor taken from 
 bartering by weight, wliieh is or ought to be exact. In the 
 next line, I have ventured to change the plural words to 
 the singular, thus clearing up a most obscure passage. 
 Compare Romans, ix. l.i, 18. 
 
 2' Like rets that ravin down their proper bane. 
 
 Eavin, i.e. devour. " A r.avener, a reveller, a glutton, 
 or devourer," Baret. We still use ravenous. 
 
 2' Only for propayation of a aow'r. 
 
 That is, the obtaining of a dower; a peculiar sense, if 
 the reading be correct. Sir W. Davenant alters the line to, — 
 Only for the assui-ance of a dowTy. 
 
 "- The fault and glimpse of newness. 
 
 The fault and glimpse, as Malone has correctly observed. 
 Is equivalent to the faulty glimpse. We have several 
 uistanccB of this mode of construction in Shakespeare. 
 
 23 Ticklf, i.e. ticklish. Approbation, probation or 
 no\iciato. 
 
 ■^ Tlterc is a prone and speechless dialect 
 
 Prime, quick, "-eady. " Prone, prone, readie, nimble, 
 quicke, wheeme, easily moving, " Cotgrave. " For use of 
 war BO prone and fit," Gorges' Lucan, \i. "Prone or apt," 
 Uowcll's Lex. Tet. 1G30. " A prone and speechless dia- 
 lect," is equivalent to, a ready dunib-moving stylo or 
 manner. Mr. Knight tliinks /jroHc means humble; but this 
 interpretation ia inconsistent with tbe future conduct of 
 loabellii. 
 
 " Lost at a game cf tick-tack. 
 
 Tick-tack was a complicated sort of backgammon, played 
 both with men and pegs. Tbe term is here used in anotlier 
 lenec, which need not bo explained. 
 178 
 
 "^ Tlie dribbling dart of love. 
 Dribbling, small; weak. Complete bosom, a br-aom com- 
 pletely armed, impervious to shafts. Remov'd, retired, 
 
 " And witless bravery keep. 
 Bravery, fine dress. Former editors real keeps, bit the 
 use of the plural substantive with the singtdar verb is so 
 common in the early editions of Shakespeare, it could not 
 be retained without offending the taste of modem readers. 
 Keep, i.e. reside. We again have, " this habitation wheru 
 thou hcep'st." It is still in provincial use, and in America. 
 Where do you keep now ? i.e. where is your place ol 
 business? Bartlett's Dictionary of Americanisms, p. 193. 
 
 -' A man of strictwe, and firm abstinence. 
 Stricture, i.e. strictness. 
 
 "' We have let sleep. 
 The folio reads slip, and Davenant made the corrocuon, 
 whicli is confirmed by another lijie where Angelo says, — 
 The law hath not been dead, tho' it hath slept. 
 
 3'* To do in slander. 
 That is, to work in slander, or to work surrounded by 
 slander. Malone justly observes the old reading fwht it 
 confirmed by the words ambush and strike. 
 
 3' Stands at a guard with emy. 
 That is, stands on his defence against the assaults of ezwy 
 
 2- Make me not your story. 
 
 That is, make not yoiir stoi-y. Few constructions ori 
 more common than placing the objective pronoun after the 
 verb redundantly. So Esealus says, "Como me to what 
 was done to her." Mr. Collier's explanation is altogethei 
 erroneous. 
 
 33 With maids to seem the la f wing. 
 
 Alluding to the practice of this bird, " who crielh most 
 where her nest is not," Lingua, 1G07. This is what 13 
 meant by "tongue far from heart." Compare Lilly's 
 'Alexander and Campaspe, ' 15S4, — "Not with Timocleo 
 you mean, wherein you resemble the lapmnp, who crie'Ji 
 most where her nest is not, and so to lead me from espying 
 your love for Campaspe, you cry Timoclea." 
 
 31 Fewness and truth. 
 
 That is, in .i few true words. Lover was formerly ap- 
 plied to either sex. 
 
 3' As blossoming time. 
 As blossoming time, tliat from the bare fallow bringe the 
 seed to teeming plenty, so &c. "The fallowe field, or tliiit 
 is tilled redy to be sowen," Baret'a Alvearic, 158'. 'J'iltl 
 is titlaije. 
 
 " Sore many gentlemen in hand. 
 
 Sore in hand, persuaded. The phrase is very oommou in 
 early writers. Full lair, fidl extent. 
 
 " Hoi ccnuur'd him. 
 
 That is, lie has passed sentence on hini. Tbe Buppreoaion 
 of tho personal pronoun io common.
 
 NOTES TO MEASURE EOli MEASUllE. 
 
 ^ Tit yire the mother. 
 That id, ihe abbess of the nunnery. 
 
 3' Pruvust, Officers, Sfc. 
 Tilt provost in this play appears to bo the governor of the 
 rison. The keeper ■<( the Savoy was ealied the Provost. 
 
 *" To fear the birds of prey. 
 "Cnfear, i.e. to make afraid. A few lines lower, to fall, 
 *hfi active sense, to make to fall, to full. So, iu ' Jane 
 
 ShnrO; — 
 
 , Our iiew-faiijlfd gcnti-y 
 
 Havc/iZ/'M their haughty crests. 
 
 ^' Tlte resolute iicting of yonr blood. 
 Mr. Knight reads our bloorl, a slavish adhcren .« to the 
 Did copies. Censure him, i.e. judge him for. 
 
 « What kn 
 
 ' the lau 
 
 The whole passage may thus be paraphrased. Justice 
 seizes that which is made open or accessible to justice. 
 How do the laws know that thieves pass judgment on 
 thieves i' Preanant, plain. For I have had, because I 
 have had. 
 
 ^ Some rise by sin and some by virtue fall. 
 There is a peculiarity in this line in the fii'st foHo, it 
 being printed entirely in Italics, as if it were a quotation, 
 E.r.d I have so marked it. The line may, perhaps, be found 
 in some contemporary poem. 
 
 ■" Some run thro' brakes of vice. 
 The original reads "from brakes of ice," which is inex- 
 plicable. Braises are thickets, and the meaning of the 
 speech is, — Some rise by sin, and some fall by wtue : 
 some go through thickets of ™e, and are not called to 
 account for it ; and some are condemned for a fault alone, 
 i.e. a single fault. The explanations given by Knight and 
 Collier do not maintain the antithes-is. 
 
 'Tis but the fate of place, and the rough brake 
 That \-utue must go tlirouijh. 
 
 Henry VIII., act i. sc. 2. 
 I am, however, doubtful whether we should not read, 
 ''from brakes of \'ice," taking brakes in the sense of 
 instruments of torture so called. The sense wi'Q. then be ; 
 "Some run from instrimients of torture, and answer no 
 questions." 
 
 *' Parcel bawd. 
 Partly a tapster, partly a bawd. 
 
 *'' She profe.<ises a hot-ho'u^e. 
 
 A hot-house was a bagnio, a house where people had 
 vipour-baths and their skin rubbed. Bad houses were kept 
 tmdei the specious name of hot-houses. See a notice of 
 thea in Ben Jonson'o ' Every Man out of his Ilumour. ' 
 
 *^ At that very distant time. 
 
 The second foho reads instant time, which destroys the 
 liumour of the clown's blunder. 
 
 ^^ China dishes. 
 
 China ihahcs are frequently mentioned in inventories of 
 the latter part of the sixteenth century, Minsheu, in his 
 
 'Dialogues in Spanish', 1599, explams China vuittaU to bi: 
 "the fine dishes of earth painted, such as are broughi fioai 
 Venice." He adds, "that which is broken thereof costj 
 more iu a yeere then the fashion of the pbtc." The ti-rui 
 may possibly be deiived from tlie Italian china, tramslaterf 
 by Florio, " Venus bason." 
 
 *' In the Bunch of Grapes. 
 
 It was usual in Shakespeare's time to distingiush roomi 
 by separate names. Thus Uenry Harte of Andover, whoso 
 will, proved in 1 JSG, is in the Prerogative Office, gives " to 
 William Harte one bedd with all the furniture in tlie 
 chamber called the Hallffe Moone." An open room merely 
 means a light, airy room, "good for winter." So Baret 
 loSO, "a lightsome and open place, illu^^ris et explicatu.^ 
 locus." 
 
 ^ Justice or iniijuity. 
 
 That is. the prosecutor or the criminal. There ia no 
 need of referring to tlie old moralities for the characters ol 
 Justice and Iniquity, .as the commentators do. Hannibal, 
 the constable's error for cannibal or animal } BatCry, a 
 law term for what is now termed an assaiJt. Klbow, oi 
 course, should have said slander. 
 
 5' The greatest thinij about you. 
 
 .Uludlng to the " monstrous hose" or breeches, formed} 
 worn. 
 
 ^- After three-pence a bay. 
 
 A bay was a principal division in the aicMtccturaJ 
 an-angement of a building. It seems out of ita place Ucvo, 
 and I half suspect the poet wrote day. 
 
 ^■^ Let that he mine. 
 That is. let that be my affair. 
 
 ^* To fine the faults. 
 
 That is, says Malone, to pronounce the fine or sentence 
 of the law. 
 
 ^^ Touch'd with that remorse. 
 
 liemorse, i.e. pity. 
 
 ^'' Like mint new made. 
 
 That is, like a new made man. Mercy will breathe 
 vrithin your lips, Like as you were a newly formed man, so 
 different will your nature and feelings be afterwards. 
 
 ^" The fowl of season. 
 
 The fowl that is in season. 
 
 ^^ But, where they live, to end. 
 
 Tlie old copies corruptly read, here they live. Maljor 
 made the correction. 
 
 " Every pelting petty officer 
 
 Pelting is equivalent to paltry. "Have every j citing 
 river made so proud," Midsummer JSight's Dream, iu 2. 
 
 Giarled, i.e. knotty. 
 
 179
 
 NOTES TO MEASU.^E FOE ILEASUllE. 
 
 " Most ignorant of lohat he 's most assjtr'd. 
 
 Tiis refers to his "glassy essence," his brittle and unccr- 
 Inin being. Were not man constantly forgetful of this 
 truth, pride would not be found when he is " dress'd in 
 i little brief authority." 
 
 *- TV7(A our spleens. 
 
 With our humours, not necessarily in a bad sense. 
 mortal, the adjective used adverbially. The angels, -with 
 uur (Uspositions, would all of tlicm laugh lilie mortals. Sir 
 W. Davenant wiites, " if they were mortal, and had spleens 
 ike us." We cannot weigh our brvihet with yourself, a 
 leading which is confirmed by a similar line in act v. 8C. 1. 
 
 ^ My sense breeds with it. 
 
 The word sense, in the second place, seems to be used for 
 'eeling. Shakespeare is marvellously fond of these jingling 
 cpctitions. 
 
 ^^ Fond shekels of the tested gold. 
 
 Fond, foolish. The folio reads sichles, an eld form of 
 ihekcls. "Tested gold," pure refined gold. Preserved 
 souls, the nuns whoso souls ai'e preserved from the impure 
 contact ^^'ith the world. 
 
 '^ Where prayers cross. 
 
 Tyrwliitt explains this by quoting a passage from the 
 Merchant of Venice : — " Let me say Amen betimes, lest the 
 devil iroas tliy prayer." 
 
 ^^ And pitch our evils there. 
 
 The meaning erf Angelo scarcely requires explanation, 
 but as Mr. Knight says the word eviU has here a " peculiar 
 aignification," alluding, I suppose, to Dr. Grey's foolish 
 conjecture that it stands for forica:, it may be as well to 
 relieve our poet from the charge. He merely saj's. Having 
 Bpare ground enough (alluding to light women), why 
 desire to invade the sanctuaiy of purity with our evil 
 actions. Here we have a sense congenial with the whole 
 Bpeech. The explanation adopted by Mr. Knight is impro- 
 bable and disgusting. 
 
 ''" O cunning enemy. 
 
 .Enemy is an old appellation of the dei'il. " The common 
 L'uemy of man," Macbeth, iii. 1. 
 
 ^^ In the flames of her own youth. 
 
 The old copy reads flawes. The correction Is made on 
 the authority of Sir W. Davent^nt. 
 
 ''^ Whilst my invention. 
 
 That is, imaginafi'on. "To invent, to imagine, " Caret, 
 680. 
 
 '** Grown seard and tedious. 
 
 Mciit cfjpics of the folio read fear'd, but altliough the 
 Etatti may be feared wlien studied with reluctance, the term 
 scarcely applies to " a good thing, being often lead." 
 Siar'd is, old and withered. The Earl of Ellcsmero'a copy 
 of the first folio confirms this reading. 
 180 
 
 ^' 'Tis not the devil's cresL 
 "Good angel" can never be the real motto of the devi- 
 though we may choose to ^vrite it on his honi. My name is 
 Angelo, but that does not mal^e me more like r. gooo angiO. 
 
 '- Witlt one that swonnds. 
 Swounds, i.e. swoons ; the old word, which should not bi 
 altered. Mr. Knight prints swoons here, and yet retains 
 swounded in Titus Andronicus, v. 1. It is exti-emely diffi- 
 cult for an editor to be consistent in all these minutiae, 
 modem critics having corrected the test so capriciously. 
 The general, i.e. the popiJace. 
 
 '^ As to put mettle in restrained means. 
 The Clime of murder is not more difficult than that foi 
 which Claudio is condemned. Isabella replies that although 
 this construction may be warranted by the di\ine law, tho 
 first is always considered more heinous on earth. 
 
 ~* Stand more for number than for accompt. 
 Tho sins that are forced upon us, although they incrcast; 
 the catalogue, are not accounted as great ciimes 
 
 "5 And nothing of your answer. 
 That is, and nothing for you to answer or be accountable 
 for. 
 
 "•^ Or seem so, crafty. 
 
 Generally altered to craftily, but without neces-sitr 
 Shalcespeare frequently uses the adjective adverbially. M 
 have voluntary for voluntarily in Troilus and Cressida. 
 
 '' Proclaim an enshield beauty. 
 A beauty covered as with a shield. Tyr-whitt supposes 
 tliese black mashs to allude to the masks worn by some of 
 the audience. 
 
 ■* Accountant to the law upon that pain. 
 Pain, i.e. punishment or penalty. Subscribe, agree to. 
 Question, conversation. Jn the loss of question is, perhaps, 
 equivalent to. For the sake of argument. To this supposed, 
 to this supposititious person. 
 
 " Thai long I have been sichfor. 
 The old copies read, "that longing have been sick for." 
 Davenant omits the passage. Trencher is misprinted trm- 
 chering in the Tempest, ii. 2. 
 
 ^ Ignomy in ransom. 
 
 Ignomy, .in old form of ignominy. So, in the Woakesi 
 
 goes to tho Wall, 1618,— 
 
 Oh, wher-efor'e stainc you vertue and renowne 
 AVith such foulo tcamics of ignony and shame. 
 
 *' If not afcodary. 
 Feodary is an old law term, metaphorically used by 
 Shakespeare in the sense of a participator or confederate 
 Tho sense of tire speech, which is siunewhat elliptical, ia 
 this. Angelo says, "We are all frail." Isabella answci-s, 
 " Let my brother die else ; if ho have no associate, but he 
 only (of nil men) owe (own or possess) and succeed (follow) 
 tliy weakness." In Lord KUosmcro'a copy of the fire! 
 folio, a MS. note reads i/iw weakness; a very poor conjeotum
 
 NOTES TU JIEASUKE I'Olt MEAStTlCE. 
 
 "- In jirnfiting htj them. 
 Men mar tlio ortiinatiou of woim^ii in taldng advantage 
 dI tlieiu. Credulous to false prints, accessible to false 
 Lmpressioas. 
 
 *' To pluck on otlters. 
 Your virtue hatU a license in it, and seems more licen- 
 tious than it is, to try others. 
 
 ^' My vouch against you. 
 That is, my assertion against yours. Sensual race, i.e. 
 disposition. Prolixious, delaying, reluctant. Prompiure, 
 temptation. A mind of honour, an honourable mind. 
 
 *' Be absolute for death. 
 That is, bo determined for death. 
 
 *« Tfiou art Death's fool. 
 Douce saw a play at a fair more than half a century ago, 
 in which skeleton Death was introduced, attended by a 
 olo^^'n or fool. The person who represented Death was 
 nabited in a close black vest, painted over with bones in 
 imitation of a skeleton. Douce possessed an early wood- 
 cut, belonging to the series of the Dance of Death, in 
 which the Fool is engaged in combat -n-ith his adversary, 
 and is actually buflfcting him with a bladder filled with 
 peas or small pebbles. Steeveus also informs us tliat about 
 a centuiy ago, a friend of his at Salisbiu^', during the time 
 of some public meeting, happened to call on a surgeon at 
 the very instant that the representative of Death was 
 brought in to bo let blood on account of a fall he had 
 had on the stage, while in pursuit of his antagonist, a 
 Merry Andi'ew, who very anxiously attended him (dressed 
 also in character) to the phlebotomist's house. A few days 
 ifterwards, the gentleman's curiosity on the subject being 
 aroused, he attended the performance, and described it to 
 consist entirely of Death's contrivances to surprise tlie 
 Merry Andi-esv, and of the efforts of the latter to elude the 
 stratagems of Death, by whom he was at last overpowered. 
 
 »' All ill accommodations that thou bear'st. 
 All the conveniences of ei^Hlized life are supplied by 
 mean labour. 
 
 ^^ TJii/ complexion shifts to stiange effects. 
 Thy disposition shifts to strange acts. The moon was 
 considered to have great influence on the changeable nature 
 cf man. 
 
 *" Eld, i.e. old age. • 
 
 30 More fkoasand deaths. 
 
 The original reads, mo, the old English word for more; 
 end it should, I think, both here and in other places be 
 retained : except that it would sound generally so harsh to 
 those who are familiarized with the modem form. 
 
 " An everlasting lieger. 
 Liegcr, a resident or ambassador at a foreign court ; here 
 nearly equivalent to a resident ambassador. 
 
 " To a determined scope. 
 A restraint which would confine you to one particular 
 cofleclion, though you had all the world. 
 
 ™ 77ic poor beetle tlutt we tread upon. 
 
 The sense of the passage is thi.s. Tlie pain of death til 
 man is chiefly contained in the apprehension of it : the 
 mere eoq)oreal suffering from a violent death, even if tha 
 sufferer be a giant, gives no more pain tlian a beetle feels 
 when wo crash the insect by treading upon it. The con- 
 straction of the last line, 'As when a giant dies,' is uA 
 grammatically perfect. The meaning intended to be con- 
 veyed is, "a% a giant does wlien ho dies." Often as this 
 speech is quoted, it is almost always constnied in a sense 
 that wUl not suit the context of the whole. Shakespeare is 
 expressing the slight and evanescent pain of the mere act 
 of death, not the inculcation of humanity to insects by 
 exaggerating the pain of their death. Naturalists must 
 excuse our contending the meaning of the poet is precisely 
 the reverse of the latter, and generally received, explanation. 
 
 "' From flowery tenderness. 
 
 Think you it is necessary to fortify my resolution by 
 arguments of the gentleness of my suffeiing ? IHmmew, tc 
 restrain, a metaphor taken from falconry. Cast, thrown out. 
 
 ^^ The princely Angela. 
 
 The first folio reads prenzie Angela, and three Unci 
 lower premie guards. The obvious coiTuption is alteicd to 
 princely in the edition of 163 '. Tieck sugj:ests precise, u: 
 which he is followed by Mr. Knight ; and that epithet is 
 applied to Angelo in act i. sc. 4. It cannot, however, be 
 Shaliespeare's word, as it docs not suit the rhythm in the 
 second instance. The ear will not admit of any substitute 
 where the accent is not on the first syllable. Princely 
 guardi, badges of royalty, laced, bordered, ornamented 
 robes. "A gard of a gannent cut, a hemme, a fringe," 
 Caret, 1580. Sir W. Davenant adopts the reading of the 
 second folio. 
 
 Si" Prom t^is rank offence. 
 
 On account of this rank offence, which you might repeat, 
 Ur, perhaps, this oS'ence, in which I have tlie liberty to 
 offend. 
 
 ^' Has he ajfections in hint. 
 
 lias he passions in him. 
 
 ^^ Perdurahly, i.e. everlastingly. " Perdurable, long last- 
 ing," Cockeram's English Dictionarie, IG'JO. 
 
 ^ To lie in cold obstruction. 
 
 "Obstruction, a stopping or shutting up," Cockeram's 
 English Dictionarie, 1626. 
 
 Cicero represents Scipio as saying that the spijifs of sen 
 sual livers were driven round the world, and not admitted 
 into heaven till after the unceasing motion of many ages:— 
 " Kam corum animi, qui se corporis voluptatibus dediderunt, 
 earumque se quasi ministros prxbuerunt, impulsuque libi- 
 diniun voluptatibus obedientium, Deorum et hominum jure 
 ■violavcrvmt, corporibus elapsi circum terrain ipsam voluten- 
 tur, nee hunc in locum, nisi mullis exagitati sceculis, re- 
 vertuntur." 
 
 And Chaucer has something of the same kind in h'; 
 ' Assemblie of Foules,'^ 
 
 181
 
 SOrEH TO MEASURE FOE 3IEASTIRE. 
 
 breakers of the lawe, sothe to saine, 
 
 And lickerou3 folke, after that they been dede, 
 Shall whirle about the wjrlde, alway in paiuc, 
 Till many a world be passed. 
 The numeroua explanations which nave been given of 
 the passage, "and the deUghted spirit," prove how very 
 little attention has been paid by editors to the gramma- 
 tical construction employed by the writers of Shakespeare's 
 time. The long note by Mr. Knight shows that the 
 word delighted was entirely misunderstood by that editor. 
 ft is merely the passive participle used fur the active, of 
 which we have numerous examples in the pages of the 
 great di-amatist. Delitjhled is here of course equivalent to, 
 dJightinrj, delightful, sweet, pleasant. So, in Othello, L 3,— 
 
 If virtue no delighted beauty lack, 
 
 Your son-in-law is far more fair than black. 
 
 1"" In thrilling region. 
 .So the old copies. Mr. Knight retains the regions of the 
 modem editors, but the original appears to me to be more 
 forcible, and it is, unquestionably, Shakespeare's diction. 
 Viewless, unseen, in\-isible. 
 
 101 Wilderness, i.e. wildncss. Defiance, refusal. Trade, 
 a custom, practice, or habit. 
 
 ^"- In good time. 
 A familiar phi-ase, equivalent to. So be it, very wcU. He 
 made trial oj you only, he will assert that he only made 
 trial of you. Limit of the solemnity, the time appointed 
 for the solemnity. Combinate, affianced, betrothed. 
 1™ Only refer yourself to this advantage. 
 That is, only betake yourself to this advantage. Scaled 
 is used in Holinshcd in the sense of scattered, diipersed ; 
 it may mean here, put to flight. 
 
 1°' At the moated grange. 
 "A grange or forme, colonia," Baret, 1.5S0. A grange 
 was a large farm-house, the chief one of a wealthy pro- 
 prietor. The religious houses, observes Mr. Uunter, had 
 gi-anges on most of their estates. The officer who resided 
 there, called the Grangiarius, superintended the farm, and 
 the produce was laid up at the grange. The grange in the 
 play was moated, therefore of some importance. This was 
 occasionally done for defence. They were weU-huilt stone- 
 houses, often of considerable extent and height, and being 
 frequently at a distance from the monastery or town, were 
 generally soUtary. In Lincolnsliirc, any lone farm-house 
 is termed a grange. " Graunye, a lone house in the comi- 
 trey," Cockeram's English Dictionarie, 1G26. 
 
 M-mana's solitude is well idealized in Mr. Tennj'son's 
 beatfiful poem: — 
 
 And ever when the moon was low, 
 
 And the shrill wirids were up and away, 
 In the white curtain fo and fro 
 
 She saw tlic gusty shallow sway. 
 But when the moon was very low. 
 And wild winds bound within their cell, 
 Tlie shadow of the poplar fell 
 Upon her bed, across \v'T bii'w. 
 
 She only said, " The night is dreary, 
 
 He Cometh not," she said; 
 She said, " I am a-wi,MiT, a-weory, 
 I would tliat 1 were dead. " 
 
 182 
 
 105 Brown and white bastard. 
 
 Bastard was a kind of,£weet Spanish wine, approach'mg 
 the muscade! wine in flavour, and perhaps made frcm a 
 bastard species of muscadine grape ; but the term, in mort 
 ancient times, appears to have been applied to all mixed 
 and sweetened wines. 
 
 i»s From ourfaulti, as faults from seeming, free. 
 That is, as free from faults, as from seeming to have faults. 
 
 i<" PygmaVwris images, newly-made woman. 
 The commentators have misunderstood this. It refers to 
 the common custom of the day of passing off women ol 
 bad character as new arrivals from the country. Pyg- 
 malion's image was a -sTrgin. 
 
 Kis 7s 't not droum'd i' the last rain? 
 
 A proverbial phrase, equivalent to, 'Is 't not lost,' re- 
 ferring to the reply wliich is not forthcoming. Trot, a term 
 of contempt, generally applied to an old woman, but here 
 said to Pompey on account of his profession. 
 
 II" It is not the wear. 
 That is, it is not the fashion. 
 
 11" Much detected for women. 
 
 Detected, suspected or charged. The wcrd is frequently 
 used m this sense by old writers. " So that he onely cf all 
 other kings in his time, was most detected with this vice of 
 lecherie," North's Plutarch, 1579. 
 
 Ill Clack-dish. 
 
 A diah, or rather box, with a moveable lid, carried by 
 beggars in former times, to attract notice by the noise 
 it n^ade. and to bring people to their doors. It was also 
 called a clap-dish, and Forby mentions a phrase still in use, 
 "his tongue moves like a beggar's clap-dish." Inward, au 
 intimate fncnd. Ttie greater file, the larger number. 
 Unweighing, inconsiderate. Helmed, steered through. 
 
 "■- Too unhurlful an opposite. 
 That is, too harmless au enemy. 
 
 113 She smelt brown bread and garlick. 
 That is, she smelt of brown bread and garUck. A com- 
 mon idiom. 
 
 Ill Still forfeit in the same kind. 
 
 That is, still transgi-ess in the same way. TTtis a Bail 
 make Mercy swear, this woiJd overcome even Mercy's mild 
 temper. " To make a saint swear," is still a common pro- 
 verbial phrase. 
 
 II'' As it is as dangerous. 
 
 Wo have here one of the numerous instances of redun- 
 dant articles to be met with in Shalicspeare. It is some- 
 what singiUar that, having been omitted for two centuries, 
 this aiticle should have been roetored by Mr. Collier, bul 
 with an erroneous explanation. Security, legal security 
 surety.
 
 NOTES TO MiaSUIiK l-'Oll MEASUliE, 
 
 "' Grace to stand, and virtue go. 
 
 7'o U understood before go. He should know a pattern 
 or example iii himselii ho should have grace to staud ami 
 ■.irtue to go. 
 
 "' How may likeness wade in crimes. 
 riie original roads made m crimes, and the four lines arc 
 'jniiiteUigible. I only giTe the above conjectural emenda- 
 tion, because some change seems to be absolutely neccssaiy. 
 The poet's true language has yet to be ascertained. Like- 
 ness alludes to the outward likeness of an angel, and the 
 sentence may be paraphrased thus, — How greatly may spe- 
 cious appearance wade in crimes, working deceitfully on 
 the age, to draw substantial actions with its idle web. 
 
 "' Take, oh take those lips away. 
 
 This song, with another stanza, is found in Beaumont and 
 Fletcher's 'Bloody Brother,' or 'Eollo,' 1640; but both 
 stanzas are imputed to Shakespeare in the IGIO edition of 
 his Poems, a work, however, of little authority. The song 
 is scarcely applicable to either of tlje plays in which it is 
 hitroduced, and, whatever we may thiiUc of the first stanza, 
 the second is hardly worthy of the great poet. There were 
 other writers of the time capable of producing the poem, 
 and from its appearing by itself in an anonymous collection, 
 with no author's name, in a MS. in the Ashmolean Museum 
 at Oxford, No. 47, I am inclined to believe the real author 
 of it has not been discovered. Dr. Wilson was the composer 
 of the old music to it, which is preserved in his MS. in 
 the Bodleian Libraiy. The second stanza is as follows :— 
 
 Hide, oh hide those hills of snow, 
 
 Which thy fi'ozen bosom bears. 
 On whose tops the pinks that grow 
 
 Are of those that Api-il weai-s : 
 But first set my poor heart fi'ee, 
 Boimd in those icy chains by thee. 
 
 I believe it is usually the custom, in representing this 
 play, to commence the fourth act at the speech beginning, 
 " Very well met;" a most injudicious arrangement, for tlie 
 lone situation of Mariana at the moated grange is one of 
 the finest softenings of the drama. The short scene between 
 the Duke and Friar Peter, act iv. sc. 5, has also been im- 
 properly omitted, rendering the subsequent conduct of the 
 latter quite inexplicable to the audience. 
 
 '" My mirth it much displecd d. 
 Tuat is, it took away any disposition I might have for 
 mirth, but soothed my. woe. Constantly, eertaiidy, always, 
 Circummured, walled around. Planched, wooden. 
 
 ^™ In action all oj precept. 
 
 That is, his teaching was accomplished entirely by action, 
 ;T by mute signs. Possess'd him, informed him. Stays, waits. 
 
 ^-* A/ost contrarious quests. 
 
 Quests, enquiries. Scapes, escapes, sallies. 
 
 "- For yet our tithe 's to sow. 
 
 Jchnson believes tithe to be right, and thinks that tlie 
 expression is proverbial, in which tithe is taken, by an easy 
 Tatonymy, for harvest. 
 
 ^^ Leave me your snatches. 
 
 That is, leave off your sharp answers. Gyvta aro fetters 
 
 '-' An unpitied whipping. 
 
 Uupitied is generally used by our old dramatists for un 
 merciful. According to Douce, it means here a whipping 
 that none shall pity, for the reason that immediately follows 
 
 '-' A good favour. 
 
 That is, a good countenance. 
 
 ^•^ Every true man's apparel. 
 
 A true man is, an honest man. The clown proved the oc- 
 cupation of the ladies to belong to the mystery or trade of 
 painters. Abhorson begins his proof, and the clown follows 
 it up that hia craft belongs to the mysteiy of tailors. He 
 doth oflener ask forgiveness, alluding to the ancient custom 
 of executioners asking pardon of the condemned before 
 they felled their axe. Yare, nimble, quick. 
 
 ^^^ When it lies starkly. 
 
 Starkly, i.e. stifSy. So in an old manuscript in the Bod- 
 leian Library, — 
 
 Nay, gude Josephe, com nere and behold, 
 This bluily lames body is starke and cold. 
 
 '-* To qualify in others. 
 
 That is, to temper or moderate. 
 
 '25 Were he meal'd. 
 
 Meal'd, sprinkled. Here metaphorically used for defiled 
 Wo meet with the term in the sense of smear' d in Gayton's 
 Notes on Don Qui-xote, lGo4, p. 95. 
 
 130 Y^^» resisting postern. 
 
 The original has unsisting, which is probably a eor* 
 ruption. Mr. Collier's folio of 1632 gives this very 
 acceptable correction of the error. Siege, a seat; a 
 dia'erent word from that which has occurreil in the 
 Tempest. 
 
 ^■^^ Tfiis is his lord's man. 
 
 So the original folio. Mr. Knight gives this speech to 
 the Provost, and the next to the Duke ; but surely the 
 Duke would be likely to know the messenger, who may be 
 supposed to belong to his court, and the Provost, after what 
 he had heard, might natm-ally thudc the missive was s 
 pardon. I follow the original. Putting on, spur, incite- 
 ment. One that is a prisoner nine years old, one that has 
 been a prisoner nine yeara. Fctct, deed, crime. 
 
 "- It is now apparent ? 
 
 This method of asking a question was commor. Mr. 
 Knight here again alters the original to " is it now apparent? " 
 
 '23 Desperately tiorial. 
 
 This apparently means, excessively attached to the affairs 
 of tliis world. Cunning, knowledge, sagacity. 
 
 '■^ Tliis shall absolutely resolve you. 
 This shall perfectly convince you. 
 
 183
 
 r — 
 
 KOTES TO MEASUiiE FOR MEASUKE. 
 
 i35 In for a commodity of brown paper. 
 
 Our Old dramatiita have many jocular allusions to the 
 heterogeneous articles the usurers compelled spendthrifts 
 to take as part of m(aiey advanced on security. The 
 practices of the money-lenders of Shakespeare's time are 
 thus minutely described by Nashe, in a pamphlet entitled 
 Chnst's Teares over Jerusalem, 1594 : " lie [a usurer] falls 
 acquainted with gentlemen, frequents ordinaries aud dieing- 
 houscs dayly, where, when some of them at play have lost 
 all their mouy, he is very diligent at hand, on their 
 chaincs and bracelets, or jewels, to lend them half the lvalue. 
 Now this is the nature of young gentlemen, that where 
 they have broke the ise, and borrowed once, they will 
 come again the second time ; and that these young foxes 
 know as well as the beggar knows his dish. But at the 
 second time of their coming, it is doubtful to say whether 
 they shall have money or no. The world growes hard, 
 and wee all are mortal ; let him make him any assurance 
 before a judge, and they shall have some hundred pounds 
 per consequence in silks and velvets. The third time 'if they 
 come, they shall have baser commodities : the fourti time, 
 lute-strings aud grey paper." 
 
 The practice is by no means obsolete in England at the 
 present day. I have heard of advances on bills being 
 partly made of bad wine, and in one instance of a load of 
 paving stones, which the hapless bonower was glad to give 
 away for the expcnce of removal. 
 
 136 j^g now for the Lord's sake. 
 
 That is, are now beggars. " Pordiosiros, men that aske 
 for God's sal;e, beggers," Jlinsheu's Dictionarie in Spanish, 
 1599. Or there may be an allusion to the ancient custom 
 of poor prisoners beggmg. Even within the present cen- 
 tury, the Fleet prison had a sort of iron cage, in which one 
 of the debtors on the poor side rattled a money-box, ex- 
 claiming, " Pray remember the poor debtors." In Shake- 
 speare's time, the cry was, " For the Lord's sake ; for the 
 Lord's sake ;" as appears from an early epigram quoted by 
 Malone. 
 
 1^' To clap into your prayers. 
 
 Tliat is, to enter into immediately, to commence your 
 flayers at once. 
 
 "' To yond generation. 
 
 It is now very early in the morning, and we may suppose 
 the Uulie here points to the stars. "Ere twice the evm 
 hath made his daily greeting to the stars of night." Ymd 
 is altered by Mr. Ivnight to yonder, but 1 saarcely think the 
 smendation necessary. 
 
 '39 Your hosrm on this icrelcf 
 
 That is, your heart's desire. Johnson. 
 
 "" 7 am combined by a sacred vow. 
 
 This is the neuter verb combine, answering to tlic Latin 
 sonjuro. I tin engaged cr bound down by a sacred vow. 
 Watd, to go. 
 
 1" Ife lives not in them. 
 
 Stccvcna cxplo'ina this, "His chaiacter depends not on 
 them," 
 
 184 
 
 "• He 's a ietter woodman, 
 
 'We have had this word in the Merry "Wives of "Windsor 
 V. 5. It seems here used in a metaphorical sense. 
 
 113 Yet reason doves her no. 
 
 The editoi-s have altogether misurderstood the idiom 31 
 this passage. Dares her no is equivalent to, dares her not, 
 and is consonant with tte gi-amraatical usage of the time. 
 
 1^1 My autliority oears off a credent bulk. 
 
 Explained by Dr. Johnson, "No scandal from any 
 priv.ite mouth can reach a man in my authority. " 
 
 115 You do blench from this to that. 
 
 Blench, to start or fly off. " Thaiuie shallow blenche at 
 a bergh," Piers Ploughm.in, cd. Wright, p. 112. To veii 
 full purpose, to conceal his full purpose. Generous, noble, 
 accompUshed. 
 
 '1' Have hent tlte gates. 
 
 Hent, seized, held. From the Anglo-Saxon- 
 
 117 Enter at opposite sides. 
 
 The origiu'il reads, "at several doors," alluding to the 
 doors on each side of our old primitive theatres, through 
 which the actors passed. 
 
 11® Vail your regard. 
 
 That is, lower yom' regaid. 
 
 •1' To th' end of rech'ning. 
 
 Equivalent to the modem pluase, to the end cf time- 
 Johnson's explanation is certainly erroneous. 
 
 15^ In all his dressi7igs, characts. 
 
 Literally, ornaments, inscriptions. 
 
 '5' And hide tJie false seems true. 
 
 That is, and hide the false which seems true. 'W^c havt. 
 already had examples of this elliptical mode of construction, 
 as in the Tempest. As that the messenger, perhaps an 
 ciTor for, Was then the tnessenger; but tlie old text n-i]l 
 make sense. The phrase is to the matter, i.e. suited to the 
 matter. liefell'd, refuted. liemorsc, pity. Li/ic, probable. 
 Fond, foolish. 
 
 '5- This needs must be a practice. 
 
 Practice, imlawful stratagem or deceit. " Is it possibl" 
 'uy herbs, stones, spells, incantation, enchantment, exorcism, 
 fire, metal, planets, or any practice, to plant affection where 
 it is not," Lilly's Eiidymion, 1591. Had he been lay, had 
 he belonged to tlie liiity. 
 
 153 2for a temporary medler. 
 
 Temporary perhaps means time-serving. Mere, a:8<iliito 
 Convcntcd, convened, (Lat.) Vulgarly, publi(;ly, amon^ 
 the common people. 
 
 "■' This is a itrangc abuse. 
 Abttse, deception, puzzle.
 
 JVOTES TO MEASURE FOK MEASUllh. 
 
 '5' At thy aarden-housc. 
 
 Oftrdcn-hoii8C8 were summer-houses. They arc fro* 
 ^liiiitly mentioned by our old dramatists as celebrated places 
 (or intriguoa. 
 
 ^^^ Came short of compositit^n, 
 
 ller foitur.e, wliioh was promised proportionate to mine, 
 fell short of the composition, that is, contract o' bargain. 
 lohnson. 
 
 '" Tliese poor informal ivonien. 
 
 h/vrma!, out cf their senses. 
 
 i*s To i^oui- height of pleasure. 
 
 So the old copies, to being equivalent to unto. 
 
 159 lyu 'II jg jj throughly. 
 
 Throughly, for thoroughly, and in many otiier instances, 
 13 tJie langiiage of the original. " Avanger, to fumisli 
 (Aroaj/i/y, to beare the whole charge of;" Cotg. Cucullusnon 
 facit monachum, the cowl does not make the monk; a 
 common old Latin proverb, which occurs again in Twelfth 
 Night, i. 5. 
 
 ^^^ To retort your viauifest appeal. 
 Xo refer back your open or public appeal. 
 
 "" Nor here provincial. 
 Does th?3 mean, not belonging to this proWnce ? 
 
 "'- Stand like the forfeits in a harltcrs shop. 
 
 The barber was a far more important person in former 
 Jays than he is now. Not only were trimming the hair, 
 drrang-ing the love-locks, and keeping the fantasiie beard in 
 order, import.int occupations, but he often joined the prac- 
 tice of bleeding and ehii'urgeiy to his other profession. "We 
 may reaiUly suppose, many of his customers had to exert 
 their patience in waiting for their turns, and forfeits origi- 
 nally necessary for keeping them in order, though they 
 afterwards became, disregarded. About the year 1750, Dr. 
 Kenriek saw a metrical bst of barber's forfeits in a shop in 
 Yorkshire, and the follovting is a copy of what the author 
 quoted from memoiy some years afterwards. They were 
 entitled "Rules for seemly Behaviour," — 
 
 First come, first serve : then come not late ; 
 Anil, when anived, keep yoiu- state : 
 For he, wlio fi'om these rules shall swerve, 
 Must pay the forfeits. So, observe : — 
 
 '\Alio enters here with hoots and spur's, 
 Must keep his nook ; f ir if he stirs. 
 And gives with armed heel a kick, 
 A pint he pays for every prick. 
 
 'Wlxo rudely takes another's turn, 
 A forfeit mug may manners learn. 
 
 Who rex crentless shall swear or eiu'se. 
 Must lug seven laithiugs from his pm-se. 
 
 ViTio checlcs the barber in his tale. 
 Must pay for each a pot of ale. 
 
 l^lio -nill or can not mras his hat. 
 While trinmiing, pays a piut for that. 
 
 Ami he wlio can or will not pay. 
 Shall hence be sent half-trimm'd away : 
 ■21 
 
 For, will he. ni!l he, if in fault. 
 
 He forfeit must in meal or malt. 
 
 But, mark, — who is alreads in drink, 
 
 TIk^ enrinikin must never cliidt. 
 The late Major Moor, an eminent Oriental scholar 
 bears witness to having seen forfeits similar to tlicaliovt 
 during the present century. See his SulTolk Worils 
 8vo., 182.J, p. 133. Ha said, however, that he had only 
 seen them in one shop. Forby says, barber's forfeits exisi 
 to tliis day. They are, according to that wiiter, penaltii'E 
 for handling the razors, &c.. off mces very lilcely to be com- 
 mitted by lounging clowns waiting for their turn to be 
 scraped on a Satm-day night They are still, as of old, 
 "more in mock than mark." Steeveas ill-natui-edly pro- 
 nounced the above to be a forgei-y. 
 
 The late Mr. Croft of York, in a very scarce pamphlet 
 privately printed, 'Annotations on Plays of Shakespear, 
 8vo. 1810, gives us the following ciuious information on 
 t'ois subject: — "The custom still prevails, and the table- 
 board of the articles hangs beliind the door, and are, viz.— 
 to talk of cutting throats; to weave a piece of hair; to 
 call powder flour ; or to meddle with anything on the shop- 
 board ; arc hold as forfeits. " Henley says he once saw a 
 list of barber's forfeits in Devonshire, "printed like Kin^ 
 Cliarles's Rales, though I cannot recollect the contents. " 
 
 This is a sort of subject which is very difficult to illus- 
 trate, when the custom has passed away. It was no doubt 
 a most common practice to institute forfeits for all infringe- 
 ments of rules not sufficiently important to obtain Ic^al 
 sanction, and on the wall of the belfiy in St. John's at 
 Chester are painted the forfeits in verse of the bell-ringei-s 
 of that ancient city, some of the lines of which correspcnd 
 with the above. The country people are fond of forfeits to 
 the present day, and in a stable in O.'d'ordshire the folio w- 
 iug lines are recorded, — 
 
 All you who come into this place. 
 
 To smoke among the straw. 
 Must pay a quart of ale at least. 
 Because it is the law. 
 The subject deserves a long note, the rather because the 
 reader will find no intelligible account in any previous 
 edition. 
 
 ••^^ Would close now. 
 
 A MS. note in a copy of the j/iay which I have seen, 
 reads ylozc, to flatter. 
 
 '"* Away with those gights too. 
 Giglot: arc women of light character. So in MS. Sloani 
 1210, XV. cent.— 
 
 Tho smallere nese, tho mo to the pott ; 
 Tho fayrere woman, tho more gygiott. 
 
 "^ And be hang'd an hour .' 
 An hour is merely a vidgar expletive. The passagi- is 
 equivalent to, and be hang'd. 
 
 ^^ Passes, fatdts. Consummate, being consummatid. 
 Advertising and holy, attentive and faithful. Atttmei/'d. 
 deputed. Jv'ce, generous. Braind, killed, destroyed 
 Proper, own. 
 
 ^""■^ Tliy other forfeits. 
 
 porfeifs, faults, crimes. More gratulafe, more pleasing 
 ' Gratulate, to shew one's joy in iinrther's felicity, 
 Cockerani's English Dietionarie, 1626 
 
 • 185
 
 €\)t Coiiiriiij oF 6rrars. 
 
 "piTE members of the HoBom^ble Society of Gray's Inn celebrated their Christmas revck in the 
 year 1594 with miusual spirit. Their hall was the abode of mock sovereignty, and the sports 
 n-hich anciently accompanied the Lord of l\Iisnile ; and the transactions of the revels were recorded 
 by a member of the society in a manuscript wliich was afterwards published in 1688, imder the title 
 of Gosta Grayorum.* The author of this account, in concluding the annals of one day's proceedings 
 eays, p, 22, — "After such sports, a ' Comedy of Errors,' like to Plauttis Ms ATenechnus, was played by 
 the players : so that night was begun and continued to the end in nothing but confusion and errors 
 whereupon it was ever afterwards called tlie Night of Errors. " 
 
 This notice of the play, which is not aUuded to by either Collier or Knight, is extremely curious, 
 proving that the ' Comedy of Errors,' in some form or other, was in existence in December, 1594. An 
 older play, called the 'Historic of Error,' was acted at Hampton Court on Jan. 1st, 1576-7, "enacted 
 by the children of Powles, " and has been conjectured to be the foimdation of Shakespeare's drama, 
 wliich is alluded to by Meres in 1598 under the simple title of "Errors." It may also be mentioned 
 that when the ' Comedy of Errors' was performed before James I. on December 28th, 1604, it is called 
 'the riaie of Errors," and the author's name Sliaxherd is written in the margin of the accoimt. If 
 we add to these circumstances the strong internal evidence that this is an early play, we shall be 
 disposed to arrive at the conclusion that Shakespeare's ' Comedy of Errors' was written in or before 
 1594, and that, in aU probability, he was indebted for his materials to the older play, entitled the 
 ' Histoiy of Error. ' 
 
 The Mencechni of Plautus was not translated into English, or rather no English translation of it 
 was printed, before 1595; but there are allusions in the 'Comedy of Errors,' which, if not taken from 
 the older play, appear to show the poet's familiarity with some of the Latin classics, not an improbable 
 supposition, it might be argued, in what Jlr. Knight calls " an age of grammar schools ;" but it liappens 
 someliow or other, that when we really approacli the sources used by Shakespeare, most of the learning 
 is generally to be traced to the older compositions, or, at least, to contemporary popidar works. Be 
 *liis as it may, there are no similarities of sufficient weight to enable us to decide that Shakespeare 
 borrowed direct from Plautus ; and, I tliink, several circumstances to show that he did not. Among 
 tlie Litter may be reckoned there being no reason assigned for the presence of ^Emilia, or for the curious 
 fact of the two Dromios having the same name ; oversights which are probably to be ascribed to the 
 earlier play, and unlikely to have been committed by a poet who was chiefly using invented materials. 
 Tlie incidents which are common to the ' Comedy of Errors' and the llcnaschmi are, principally, the 
 
 "It appears from the dedicatiou to lliia Trork, that it was printed in ftill from the ori^iial. The editor snys, " It woa 
 though*, necessary not to clip anythiny, which, though it may seem odd, yet natvj-ally begets a veneration upon Recount of 
 ilB ai.t:.~,uity. " 
 
 187
 
 OUMhUy OF ERRUK.S. 
 
 separation of the twin sons ; their pel feet similarity in speech, countenance, and name ; and tho accidents 
 happening to Menechmus and Antiphohis of Syracuse, -who both are troubled with jealous wives, and 
 meet with similar adventures, Tlie chief addition in Shakespeare is tbs introduction of the two Dromios, 
 opening, as Skottowe observes, a new source of error and confusion, where most readers wiU be inclined 
 tfj believe enough existed before. And this opinion woidd probably have been right, had lliisr- 
 materials of error fallen into any other hands than tliose of Shakespeare. 
 
 The translator of tho J/e««c/«««, 1595, says, in liis preface, that he had " divc-se of this poettes 
 comedies EngiislieJ, for the use and delight of his private friends, who in Plautus o^vne -n'ords are not 
 able to understand them." This was not an unusual practice, and wc may hence conjecture that Shake- 
 speare might luive had an opportunity of perusing a translation, although none had been actually giver 
 to the public. On this account, it may be worth wliile to give the reader a specimen of the old EngHsL 
 translation, selecting the second act of Plautus as a portion of the play which will, perhaps, serve to 
 exliibit the striking de^-iations made by Shakespeare from the Latin original : — 
 
 Enter Menechmus Sosides, Mcssenio his servant, and some 
 Saylers, 
 
 Men. Surely, Messenic, I thinke Sca-fairei« never take 
 BO comfortable a joy in anything, as when they have been 
 long tost and turmoylJ in the wide seas, they hap at last to 
 ken land, 
 
 3Iess. He be sworn, I shxild not be gladder to see a 
 u'hole coimtry of mine owne, then I have bene at guch a 
 sight. But I pray, wherfore are we now come to Epi- 
 danmum ? must we needs go to see everie towne that we 
 lieare off.' 
 
 Men. Till I finde my brother, all townes are alike to me ; 
 I must trie in all places. 
 
 Mess. Tttiy, tlicn, let 's even as long as wee live seeke 
 your brother : siy yeares now have we roarade about tlius, 
 Istria, Hispania, Jlassylia, Ilyiia, all the upper sea, all 
 high Greece, all haven towns in Italy. I think if we had 
 sought a needle all this time, wc must needs have found it, 
 had it bene above ground. It cannot be that he is alive ; 
 and to seek a dead man thus among the living, what folly 
 is it? 
 
 Men. Tea, could I but once find any man that could 
 certainly enforme mo of his death, I were satisfied ; other- 
 wise I can never desist seeking : Litle knowest thou, Mcs- 
 tenio, how neare my heart it goes. 
 
 Mess. This is washing of a Blackamorc. Faith, let 's goe 
 home, unlesse ye mcane we should wiite a storie of our 
 Iravaile. 
 
 Men. Sirra, no more of these sawcic speeches ; I perceive 
 I mu.st teach ye how to serve me, not to rule me. 
 
 Mess. I, so; now itappcares what it is to be a servant. 
 Wcl, I must spc'dio my conscience. Do ye hcare, sir? 
 Faith, I must tell ye one tiling, when I looke into tho leane 
 estate of yoiu' pm-sc, and consider adWsodly of your decay- 
 ing stocke, I hold it verie needful to be drawing homeward, 
 lest, ill looking your brotUcr, wo qidte lose ourselves. For 
 this assure yoursclfe, this towne Epidamiuim is a place of 
 outragious c.tpcnces, exceeding in all ryot and lascivious- 
 nesse : and (I heare) as full of Ribaulds, Parasites, 
 Drunkards, Catchpoles, Cony-catchers, and Sycophants, as 
 it can bo-d. Then for curtizans, wliy hero 'e tho cun-antest 
 stamp of them in the world. Ye must not thinkc here to 
 ecapc witli as light cost as in oilier places. Tho verio 
 uamc shows the nature ; no man comes hitlicr sine damnc 
 1»8 
 
 Men . Yce say very well indeed : give mee my pursa 
 into mine owne keeping, because I will so be the safer, sinf 
 damno. 
 
 Mess. ^Tiy, sir ? 
 
 Men. Because I feare you wil he busie among the cur 
 tizans, and so be cozened of it: then should I take great 
 paincs in belabouring your shoulders. So to avoid both 
 these harms, He keep it myselfe. 
 
 Mess. I pray do so, sir : all the better 
 
 Enter Cylindrus. 
 
 Ci/l I have tickling geare here, yfaith, for their dinners . 
 It grieves me to the heart to think how that corinoranl 
 knave Peuiculus must have his share in these daintie mor- 
 sels. But what ? Is Menechmus come ab-eadie, before 1 
 could come fi'om the market ? Menechmus, how do ye, sir ' 
 how haps it ye eomo so soone ? 
 
 Men. God a mercy, my good friend, doest thou know mee ! 
 
 Cijl. Know ye ? no, not I. Where 's mouldichappes that 
 must dine with ye ' A murriu on his manners ! 
 
 Afen. "Whom meanest thou, good fellow ? 
 
 Cyl. Why Penicidus. worship, that lick-ti-encher, yo'U 
 parasiticall attendimt. 
 
 Men. Wiat Pcnieulus ? what attendant ? my attendant ? 
 Sm'cly this fellow is mad. 
 
 Mess. Did I not tell ye what cony-catching villa'nea 
 you should finde here ? 
 
 Ci/l. Mencclunus, harkeye, sir; ye come too soone backe 
 againe to (hnner ; I am but returned fi'om the market. 
 
 Afen. FcUow, here thou shalt have money of me ; got 
 get tho Priest to sacrifice for thee, I know t\ou art mad 
 els thou wouldst never use a stranger thus. 
 
 Ci/l. Alas, sir, Cylindrus was wont to be nc stranger t; 
 you. Know ye not Cylindrus ? 
 
 Men. Cylindrus, or Coliendrus, or what tho divell tlioii 
 art, I Icuow not, tieither do I care to know. 
 
 Cyt. I know you to bo Menechmus. 
 
 Men. Thou should'st be in thy wits, in tliat thou nainc.-a 
 me so right ; but, tell me, where hast thou Icnown me ? 
 
 Q/l. Where ? even here, where ye first fell in love witV 
 my mistresse Erotium. 
 
 Mai. I neither have lover, neither knowo I wlio iLuu an 
 
 Ci/l. Know ye nolwlo I am? mIio fiUs your cup ont' 
 dresses your meat at ou! house ?
 
 COMEDY 01-' EiillOllS. 
 
 Me-is. What a slave ia this ? That I had somewhat to 
 3roako the rascals pate ■withal ! 
 
 Moi. At your bouse ! whnnas I never cann' in Epiilam- 
 jum »iU this day. 
 
 C«'. Oh, that "s true ! Do ye not dwell in yonder lio\ise? 
 
 .If™. Foule shame light upon them that dwell there, for 
 niy jtait. 
 
 ( i/t. Questionlesse, he is mad indecde, to curse hijuselfe 
 ihu3. Ilarke ye, Jlenechmus. 
 
 Men. 'Wliat saist thou ? 
 
 Ci/l. If I may advise ye, ye shall bestow this money 
 phiob ye offred me upon a sacrifice for youi'selfe : for out 
 rf doubt, you are mad that curse yoiirsclfe. 
 
 Mess. AVhat a verlet art thou to trouble us thus ! 
 
 Cyl. Tush, he will many times jest with me thus. Yet 
 n'hen his wife is not by, 'tis a ridiculous jest. 
 
 Men. What 's that ? 
 
 C)/!. This I say. Thinke ye I have brought meate 
 iiiougli for three of you ? If not, He fetche more for you 
 md your wench, and Snatchcrust, your Parasile. 
 
 Men. "Wliat wenches .' what Parasites ? 
 
 Mess. Villaiue, He make thee tell rac what thou meanest 
 hy all this talke. 
 
 Ci/l. Away, Jack Napes, I say nothing to thee, for I 
 know thee not; I speake to him that I know. 
 
 Mcti. Out! dnmkea fooie ; without doubt tliou art out of 
 Ihy wits. 
 
 Q/l. That yon shall scs by the dressing of your meat. 
 Go, go ; yo were better to go in and finde somewhat to do 
 tliere, whilca your dinner is making roadie. He tell my 
 unstrcssc yo be here. 
 
 Men. Is he gone ? Mossenio, I thinke nppon thy words 
 alreadie. 
 
 Mess. Tush ; rsarke, I pray. He laie fortie pound here 
 dwels sonic curtiz.an to whom this fellow belongs. 
 
 Men. But I wonder how he kuowes my name. 
 
 Mess. Oh, He toll yec. These eourtizans, as soone as 
 nnie straunge shippe aniveth at the haven, they sonde a boye 
 or a weneh to cnciuiie what they be, what their names be, 
 whence they come, wherefore they come, &c. If they can 
 by any meanes strike acquaintance with him, or allure him 
 to their houses, he is their owne. We are here in a tickle 
 place, maister : tis best to bo circumspect. 
 
 Alen. I mislike not thy counsaile, Messenio. 
 
 Mess. I, but follow it then. Soft, here comes somebodie 
 forth. Here, sirs, mai-rinc^, keep this same amongst you. 
 
 Enter Erotluni. 
 
 Er. Let the dooro stand bc. Away I it shall not be shut. 
 Hake haste within there, ho : Maydes, looke that all things 
 bc readie. Cover the boord, put fire under the perfuming 
 p inncs : let all things be veiy handsome. Where is hee 
 that Cylindrus sayd stood without here ? Oh ! what meane 
 7c;i. sweet heart, that ye come not in ' I trust you thinke 
 y'Urselfe more welcome to this house then to your owne, 
 .tnd great reason wh}" you should do so. Your dinner and 
 all things are readie as you willed. Will ye go sit downe ? 
 
 Men. Whom doth this woman speake to .* 
 
 Er. Even to you, sir- ; to whom else should I speake ? 
 
 Men. Gentlewoman, ye are a straunger to me, and I 
 MarveU at your speeches. 
 
 />. Yi 1, sir, but such a strautger, as I ack-nowledgo yi 
 for my best and deaicst friend, and well you have di;- 
 served it. 
 
 Men. Surely, Messenio, this woman is also mad »i 
 drunke, that useth all this kindncsse to me uppon so sm.ill 
 acquaintance. 
 
 Mess. Tush, did not I tell ye right ? these be but leaves 
 that fall upon you now, in comparison of the trees that wil 
 tumble on your necke shortly. I t^:id ye, here were eilvr;i 
 tong'dc hacstcrs. But let mc talke with her a little. Gen- 
 tlewoman, what acquaintance have you with tliis man? 
 wliere have you scene him ? 
 
 Er. Where he sawe me, here in Epidamnum. 
 Mess. In Epidamnum ? who never till tliis day set his 
 foote within the towne ? 
 
 Er. Go, go, flowting Jack ! Jlenechmus, what need all 
 this ? I pray go in. 
 
 Men. She also calls me by my name. 
 Mess. She smcls yoiu' purse. 1 
 
 Men. Jlessenio, come hither : here, take my purse. Ho 
 know v.-hether she aime at me or my purse, ere I go. 
 Er. Will ye go in to dinner, sir ? 
 
 Men. A good motion ; yea, and thanks with all my heart. 
 Er. Xever thanke me for that which you commaunded 
 to ho proiided for yourscKe. 
 Men. That I commaunded ? 
 Er. Yea, for you and yotu' Parasite. 
 Men. My Parasite ? 
 
 Er. Peniculus, who came with you this morning, when 
 you brought me the cloake -wliich you g'lt from your wife? 
 Men. A cloake that I brought you, which 1 got from mj 
 wife ? 
 
 Er. Tush, what noedeth ail this jesting ? Pray leave oil 
 
 i)/e«. Jest or earnest, this I tell ye for a truth. I nevei 
 
 had wife, neither have I ; nor never was in this place til 
 
 this instant ; for only thus fan-e am I come, since I brake 
 
 my fast in the ship, 
 
 Er. What ship do ye teU me off? 
 
 Mess. Many-, He tell ye : an old rotten weather-beaten 
 ship, that we have sailed up and downe in these srsc 
 yeares. 1st not time to be going homew.ards, thinke ye .' 
 
 Er. Come, come, Menechmus, I pray leave this sporting; 
 and go in. 
 
 Men. Well, gentlewoman, the truth is, you mistake my 
 person ; it is some other you looke for. 
 
 Er. Why, thinlce ye I know ye not to he Menechmus, 
 the Sonne of Moschus, and have heard ye say, ye were 
 borne at Siraeusis where / gathocles did raigne ; tli^u 
 Pytliia, then Liparo, and now Hiero. 
 ]\fen. AU this is ti-uc. 
 
 Mess. Either shoe is a witch, or tlse shee hath dwell 
 there and knew ye there. 
 
 Men. He go in with her, Messenio ; He see further ol 
 this ra.atter. 
 
 Mes.s. Ye are cast away then. 
 
 ifen. Why so r I wairant thee, I can lose nothing , 
 something I shall gaine; perhaps a good lougiiig during my 
 abode here. He dissemble with her another while. Nowe, 
 when you please, let us go in. I made straunge with you. 
 because of this fellow heii, least he should toll my wife oi 
 the cloake which I gave yo.i, 
 
 1S9
 
 COMEDY OF EllROKS. 
 
 Er. Will you etaie any longer for your Penieulue, your 
 Parasite? 
 
 Men. Not I, Tie neither stale for him, nor have him 
 yet oome in, if he do come. 
 
 Er. All the better. But, sir, will you doo one thing 
 for me 1 
 Men. 'What is that? 
 
 Er. To bcare that cloaie you gave me to the diarg, to 
 ave it new tiimd and altrcd. 
 
 Men. Tea, tliat will be well, so my wife shall not know 
 it. Let mee have it ^vith mee after dinner. I will but 
 speaki.- a word or two with this fellowe ; then lie follow ye 
 
 in. Ho, Messenio, come aside. Goe ana provide for thv 
 selfe and tliese ship-boyes in some inne ; then looke thai 
 after dinner you come hither for mc. 
 
 Mess. Ah, maister, will ye be conycaeht thus wilfully ■ 
 
 Men. Peace, foolish knave ! secst thon not what ii sol 
 ehe ml 1 shal coozen her, I warrant thee 
 
 Mess. Ay, Maister. 
 
 il/fn. Wilt thou be gone ? 
 
 Mess. See, see ; she hata tarn safe inough now. T.'aua 
 he hath escaped a himdieth J'yratcs hands at sua ; and now 
 one landrover hath bom-ded him at first encounter. Coun 
 away, feUowes. 
 
 If is supposed by most of the critics that the allusion to France by Dromio of Syracuse, " in hci 
 forehead, arni'd and reverted, making war against her heir," refers to King Henry IV., the /w;'»- of I'ranc^. 
 :onceniing whose succession to the throne there was a civil war in that country which did not eoncludi 
 tiU the year 1593. There appears to be no reason for doubting the correctness of this opinion, lu 
 1591, Lord Essex was sent with four thousand troops to tlie French King's assistance, and his brothci 
 Walter was kiUed before Koiien in Xormandy. From that period, till Henry was fimdv setth^d on the 
 throne, Elizabeth sent sevend bodies of troops to his assistance; so that the war must have bc.'cu sulli- 
 cicntly notorious for the allusion to be at once perceived by the audience. 
 
 The title of the play was either a common proverb or furnished the subject of one. Anton, in lii 
 Philosophical Satires, 1616, p. 51, exclaims, " '^Tiat Comedies of Errors swell the stage!" So, al>o 
 Decker, in his Knights Conjuring, 1607, — "his ignorance, arising from his blindenes, is the onely cans, 
 of this Comedie of Errors;" and, previously, in liis Satiromastix, 1602, he seems to allude to the \Xii\ 
 itself: — "Insteed of the trumpets sounding thrice before the play begin, it shall not be amisse, for Idu 
 that will read, first to beholde this short Comedy of Errors, and where the greatest enter, to give thorn 
 instead of hisse, a gentle correction." Again, also, in the Jleeting of Gallants at an Ordinarie, 100-!,— 
 •This was a prettie Commedie of Errors, my round host." 
 
 We learn from Drummond that Ben Jonson " had ane intention to have made a play like Pluutus'^ 
 Amphitrio, btit left it of, for that he could never find two so like others that he could persuade il: 
 spectators they were one." Tliis difficidty is over-stated, for it suits the dramatic action of the piece \. 
 present the "rue with a difference." It is not necessary, or even desirable, that the audience shotd'. 
 be wholly ieceived in the matter, and I suspect, in the present play at least, much of the ludicrour 
 wotdd bo lost in representation were that the case. It is sufficient that the two similar couples shouli; 
 be habited in simple Greek costume, which can be made alike in each case without adding Ic lii 
 violation of probability. 
 
 The materials of which the ' Comedy of Errors ' is constructed, chiefly belong to the cycle of faieo 
 but they have been worked into a comedy by a wonderful effort of dramatic power; the lighter chariu- 
 ter, however, remaining prominent in partictdar scenes. Comedy would allow the two .\ntij)lioli!sii: 
 with a license similar to that which sanctions the resemblance between Sebastian and Viola; hut thi 
 two Dromios in conjunction with the former certainly belong to farce. The admirable manner in which 
 the mistakes arising iioui tlicao identities are conducted, and tlie dignity given to tlie whole hy the 
 introduction of fine poetry most artistically interwoven, are indicative of tliat liigh drauiatic genius 
 which belongs almost exclusively to Shakespeare. The poftical conversation between Luciana and 
 Antipholus of Syracuse reminds us forcibly of the ' Sonnets,' and the similar ideas in the former are 
 strengthened in power by being associated with a dramatic narrative ; for had Shakespeare not been a 
 dramatist, he would scarcely have ranked as so great a poet. No play of Shakespeare's, when eithet 
 effectively read or acted, affords so many subjects for broad merriment as this; and it eays little for 
 the taste of the present day, that so many worthless pieces should be produced, wliile a regular drama, 
 containing all the best iiualilies of farce, being its general character subdued by poetic tn.ste, sh )uld bf 
 Buffered to remain entirely neglected. 
 
 100
 
 PERSONS REP RESENTED. 
 
 SoLiNDs, Duke of EpJmus. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1. Act V. so. 1. 
 
 .^QEON, a mercliant of Syracuse. 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1. Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 kiiTrpnoLCS OF Ephesus, twin-lrother to Anti- 
 pliolus of Syracuse, hut unknown to him, and son 
 to ^geon and Jimilia. 
 
 Appears, Act III. sc, 1. Act IV. sc. 1; sc. 2. Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 \2<'j.ipnoLUS OP Sykaccsb, twiyi-hrother to Antipho- 
 lus of Ephesnis, hat unhiuwn to Mm, and son to 
 ^goon and Emilia. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 2. Act II. sc. 2. Act III. sc. 2. 
 Act IV. 6c. 2. Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 Duomo or Ephesus, (tcin-lrotJur to Dromio of 
 Syracuse, and an attendant on Antipholus of 
 Ephesus. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 2. Act II. sc. 1. Act III. sc. 1. 
 Act IV. sc. 1 ; sc. 2. Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 Dbomio of Syracuse, tirin-hrother to Dromio of 
 EphoBus, and an attendant on Antipholus of 
 S3Tacuse. 
 
 if pears, Act 1. sc. 2. Act II. sc, 2. Act III. so. 1; sc. 2. 
 Act rv. sc 1 ; 6c. 2. Act V. so. 1. 
 
 Balthazab, a merchmA. 
 
 Appears, Act 111. sc. 1. 
 
 Angelo, a goldsmith. 
 Appears, Act III. sc. 1 ; sc. 2. Act IV. sc. 1. Aa V. s-.-. 1 
 
 A Jlcrchant of SjTacusc. 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 2. Act IV. sc. 1. Act V. Bc. 1. 
 
 Pixcn, a schoolmaster and conjuror. 
 Ajipcars, Act IV. sc. 2. 
 
 iE.MiLiA, icife to iEgeon, an ailess at Ephesus 
 Appears, Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 Aduiana, teife to Antipholus of Ephesus. 
 Appears, .A.ct II. sc. 1 ; sc. 2. Act IV. sc. 2. Act ^'. sc. 1 
 
 LuciAJiA, sister to Adriana. 
 Appears, Act II. sc. 1 ; sc. 2. Act III. sc. 2. Act IV. ti:. '2 
 Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 Luce, Iter servant. 
 
 Appears, Act III. ec. 1. 
 
 A Courtezan. 
 Appears, Act IV. sc. 2. Act V. ca. I . 
 
 Gaoler, Officers, and other Attertdmt^. 
 
 SCENE,— Ephesus. 
 191
 
 ^" 
 
 ^!ir Ciiiiirili! of Crrars. 
 
 ACT I, 
 
 SCENE I.— A mil in tlu D'ake'3 Palace. 
 
 Erder Dusi;, JEgeox. Guoler, Officers, and. other 
 Attenilants. 
 
 yB7«. Procoocl, Solinus, to procure my fall, 
 A nd, bj- the doom of death, end woes and all. 
 
 Dulce. Merchant of Syracusa, plead no more ; 
 'i am not partial to infringe our laws ; 
 The enmity and discord, which of late 
 !>pning from the rancorous outrage of your duke 
 To merchants, our well-dealing countrymen, — 
 Who, wanting gilders to redeem their lives,' 
 Have seal'd his rigorous statutes with their bloods — 
 Excludes all pity from our thrcat'ning looks. 
 For, since the mortal and intestine jars 
 'Twixt thy seditious countrymen and us, 
 It hath iu solemn s}'nods been decreed, 
 Both by the Syracusans and ourselves, 
 To admit no traffic to our adverse towns : 
 Nay, more; — If any, born at Ephesus, 
 Be seen at any Syracusan marts and fairs, — 
 Again, if any Syracusan born. 
 Come to the bay of Ephesus, — ^lie dies, — 
 His goods confiscate to the duke's disposo, 
 Unless a thousand marks be levied. 
 To quit the penalty, and to ransom him. 
 1'hy substance, valued at the highest rate, 
 Cannot amount \mto a hundred marks ; 
 Therefore, by law thou art condomn'd to die. 
 
 ^^e. Yet this my comfort, v.dien your words 
 are done, 
 102 
 
 My woes end likewise with the evening sun. 
 
 Bule. WeU, SyracusMi, say, in brief, the ca:XBe 
 Why thou departed' st from thy native homt ; 
 And for what cause thou cam'st to Ephesus. 
 
 uEge. A heavier task could not liave been impna'd. 
 Than I to speak my griefs unspeakable. 
 Yet, tliat the world may witness tl at my end 
 Was wrought by nature," not by vile offence, 
 I '11 utter what my sorrow gives me leave. 
 In Syracusa was I bom ; and wed 
 Unto a woman, happy but for me. 
 And by mc,^ had not our hap been bad. 
 With her I liv'd in joy ; our wealth increas'd, 
 By prosperous voyages I often made 
 To Epidamnum, till my factor's death. 
 And the great care of goods at random left, 
 Drew me from kind embracements of my spoiiao ; 
 From whom my absence was not six months old, 
 Before herself (almost at fainting under 
 The pleasing punishment that women bear) 
 Had made pro-vision for her following mo, 
 And soon and safe arrived where 1 was. 
 There had she not been long, but she became 
 A joyful motlicr of two goodly sons ; 
 And, wliich was strange, the one so Lke the oUioi 
 As could not bo distinguisli'd but by names. 
 That very hour, and in the self-same inn, 
 A poor uican woman was delivered 
 Of such a burthen, male twins, both alike : 
 Those, for their parents were exceeding poor, 
 I bought, and brought up to attend my sons.
 
 COMEDY OF EKKOKS. 
 
 bCKNE I. 
 
 M_v ivifo, not nipanly prowl of two such bors 
 Made daily motions for our home retuni : 
 Umvilling I agreed ; alas, too soon ' We came 
 
 aboard ; 
 A k'iig-ac froui Epidamnum had we sail'd, 
 Bf fjie the always- wind-obeying deep 
 Gave any tragic instance of our harm : 
 But longer did wo not retain much hope ; 
 For what obscured light the heavens did grant 
 Did but convey unto oiu' fearful minds 
 A doubtful warrant of immediate death ; 
 Which, tliough myself would gladly have embrac'd, 
 i'et, the incessant weepings of my wife. 
 Weeping before for "what she saw must come, 
 And piteous plainings of the pretty babes. 
 That mourn'd for fashion, ignorant what to fear, 
 f orc'd mo to seek dela3-s for them and me. 
 And this it was — for other means was none. — 
 The sailors sought for safety by our boat. 
 And left the ship, then sinking-ripe, to us: 
 -My -^^-ife, more carcfid for the latter bom , 
 Elad fasten'd him unto a small spare-mast, 
 Such as seafaring men pro'^'ide for storms : 
 To him one of the other twins was bound, 
 VVliilst, I had been like heedful of tlie other. 
 ''I'hc children thus dispos'd, my wife and I, 
 fixing our eyes on whom our care was fix'd, 
 Fasten'd ourselves at either end the mast ; 
 And, floating straight, obedient to the stream. 
 Were carried towards Corinth, as we thought. 
 .At length the sun, gazing upon the earth, 
 Dispcrs'd those vapours that oftended us ; 
 And, by the benefit of his wished light, 
 The seas wax'd calm, and we discovered 
 Two ships from far making amain to us. 
 Of Corinth that, of Epidaurus this : 
 But ere they came, — 0, let me say no more ! 
 Gather the sequel by that went before. 
 
 Bulce. Nay, forward, old man, do ncrt break off so ; 
 For we may pitj-, though not pardon thee. 
 
 uJHije. 0, had the gods done so, I had not now 
 Worthily term'd them merciless to us! 
 For ere the ships could meet by twice five leagues, 
 We were encounter'd by a mighty rock ; 
 \Miich being violently borne upon, 
 Q\vc helpful ship was splitted in the midst, 
 i>o tluit, in tills unjust divorce of us, 
 Fortime had left to both of us alike 
 What to delight in, what to sorrow for. 
 Her part, poor soul ! seeming as burdened 
 V^'ith lesser weight, but not with lesser woe, 
 W^as carried with more speed before tlie wind ; 
 
 And in our siglit they three wore taken up 
 V>y fishermen of Corinth, as we thought. 
 At length, another ship had seiz'd on us ; 
 And, knowing whom it was their hap to save, 
 Gave healthful widcome* to their shipwreck' 
 
 guests ; 
 And would have reft the fishers of their prey, 
 Had not their bark been very slow of sail. 
 And therefore homeward did tlioy Ix'nd their couisc. 
 Thus have you heard me sever'd from my tlisa ; 
 That by rhisfortunes was my life prolong' d. 
 To tell sad stories of my own mishaps. 
 
 Duhe. And, for the sake of them thou sor- 
 rowest for. 
 Do me the favour to dilate at full 
 "VMiat hath befaH'n of them, and thee, till now. 
 
 ^g0. My youngest boy, and yet my eldest euro 
 At eighteen years became inquisitive 
 After his brother ; and importun'd me 
 That his attendant (so his case was like, 
 Ivcft of his brother, but retain'd his name) 
 Might boar him company in the quest of him : 
 Whom whilst I laboured of a love to sec, 
 I hazarded the loss of whom I lov'd. 
 Five summers have I spent in farthest Greece, 
 Eoaming clean through the bounds of Asia, 
 And, coasting homeward, came to Ephesus ; 
 Hopeless to find, yet loth to leave unsought, 
 Or that, or any place that harbours men. 
 But here must end the story of my life ; 
 A.nd happy were I in my timely death, 
 Coiild all ray travels warrant me they live. 
 
 Buke. Hapless ^geon, whom the fates have 
 marV:'d 
 To bear the extremity of dire mishap ! 
 Now, trust me, were it not against om- laws, 
 Against my cro-vvu, my oath, my dignity 
 Which princes, woiild they, may not disannul, 
 My soul sb.ould sue as advocate for thee. 
 But, though thou art adjudged to the death, 
 And passed sentence may not be recall'd 
 But to our honour's great disparagement, 
 Yet will I favour thee in what I can : 
 Therefore, mercliant, I "U limit thee this day, 
 To seek thj' help by beneficial help : 
 Try all the friends thou hast in Ephesus: 
 Beg thou, or bon'ow, to make up the sum, 
 And live ; if no, then thou art doom'd to die ; — 
 Gaoler, take him to thy custody. 
 
 Goal. I will, my lord. 
 
 ^ye. Hopeless and helpless doth -.Pigeon wend 
 But to proci'astiuate his liveless eud. [Et'ni.j.i 
 
 19,1
 
 COMEDY OF ERROKS. 
 
 8ci:nk n 
 
 SCENE 11.—^ pullic Place. 
 
 ^nier Aktiphoi.us and Dromio of Syracuse, and a 
 
 Mekchant. 
 
 Mer. Tnerefore give out you are of Epidamnum, 
 \r%X that your goods too soon be confiscate. 
 This verj- day, a SjTacusan merchant 
 Is apprehended for arrival licre ; 
 And, not being able to buy out his life, 
 According to the statute of the town, 
 Dies ere the weary sun set in the west, 
 rhere is yovtr money that I had to keep. 
 
 Ant. S. Go, bear it to the Centaur, where we 
 host. 
 And stay there, Dromio, till I come to thee. 
 Within tliis hour it will be dinner-time : 
 Till that, I'll view the manners of the town, 
 I'eruse the traders, gaze upon the buildings. 
 And then return, and sleep within mine inn ; 
 For with long travel I am stiff and weary. 
 Get thee away 
 
 Dro. S. Many a man would take j'ou at your 
 word, 
 And go indeed, having so good a mean. 
 
 [£xit Deo. S. 
 
 Ani. S. A trjsty ^allain,' sir, that very oft, 
 Wlien I am dull with care and melancholy, 
 lightens my humour with his merry jests. 
 Wliat, will you walk with me about the town, 
 And then go to my inn and dine with me ? 
 
 3Ier. I am invited, sir, to certain merchants. 
 Of whom I hope to make much benefit ; 
 I crave your pardon. Soon at five o'clock, 
 i-iease you, I '11 meet with you upon the mart, 
 And afterward consort you till bedtime ; 
 My present business calls me from you now. 
 
 Ant. S. Farewell tiU then : I will go lose 
 myself, 
 And wander up and down, to view the city. 
 
 Mer. Sir, I commend you to j"our owti content. 
 
 \^Extt Mer. 
 
 A)if. S. Ho that commends me to mine own 
 content 
 Commends me to the thing I cannot get. 
 I to the world am like a drop of water, 
 That in the ocean seeks another drop ; 
 Who, falling there to find his fellow forth. 
 Unseen, inquisitive, confounds liimsclf : 
 60 I, to find a mother and a brother. 
 In quest 01 them, unhappy, lose myself. 
 
 Ejiter Dkomio of Ephesus. 
 Hero comes the almanac of my true date." — 
 104 
 
 Wliat now ? How chance t-hou art retuni'ii > 
 soon r 
 Dro. E. Ileturn'd so soon ! rnther aj.proaf 1-. rl 
 too late : 
 Tlie capon burns, the pig falls from the spit ; 
 The clock hath strucken twelve upon the bell, 
 My mistress made it one upon my cheek : 
 She is so hot, because the meat is cold ; 
 The meat is cold, because you come not home 
 Youcome not home, because j'ou have no storaacli ; 
 You have no stomach, having broke your fast ; 
 But we, that know what 't is to fast and pray, 
 Are penitent for your delimit to-day. 
 
 Ant. S. Stop in your wind, sir ; teU me lliis, 
 I pray : 
 WTiere have you left the money that I gave you ? 
 Dro. E. 0, — sixpence, that I had 0' Wedn'sday 
 last. 
 To pay the saddler for my mistress' crupper , 
 The saddler had it, sir ; I kept it not. 
 
 Ant. S. I am not in a sportive humour now : 
 TeU me, and dally not, where is the money r 
 "We being strangers here, how dair'st thou trust 
 So great a charge from thine ovra custody ? 
 
 Dro. E. I pray you, jest, sir, as you sit o' 
 dumer : 
 I from my mistress come to you in post ; 
 If I return, I shall be post indeed ;' 
 For she wiU score j'our fault upon my pate. 
 Metliinks your maw, like mine, should De you! 
 
 cook. 
 And strike you home without a messenger. 
 
 Ant. S. Come, Dromio, come, these jests aie 
 out of season ; 
 Eeserve them till a merrier hour than this : 
 "Uliere is the gold I gave in charge to thee ? 
 Dro. E. To mc, sir? whj-, you gave no gold 
 
 to me. 
 Ant. S. Come on, sir knave ; have done youi 
 foolishness. 
 And tcU me how thou hast dispos'd thy charge. 
 Dro. E. My charge was but to fetch you trom 
 the mart 
 Home to your house, the Pliocnix, fir, to dinner : 
 My mistress and her sister stay for you. 
 
 Ant. S. Now, as I am a Christian, answer ni( . 
 In what safe place you have befitow'd my money, 
 Or I shall break that meny sconce of yours. 
 That stands on tri."ks v.dicn I am undispos'd : 
 Where is the thousantV marks thou hadst of mo ? 
 Dro E. I have some marks of yours upon nij 
 pate,
 
 COMEDY OF EllliOES. 
 
 Some of my mistress' marks upon my shoulders, 
 But not a thousand marks between you both. 
 If I should pay your worship those again, 
 Perchance you will not bear them patiently. 
 Ant. S. Thy mistress' marks ? what mistress, 
 
 slave, hast thou ? 
 Dro. £. Your worship's wife, my mistress at 
 the Phcenix ; 
 She that doth fast till you come homo to dinner. 
 And prays that you will hie you home to dinner. 
 Ant. S. What, wilt thou flout me thus luito 
 my face. 
 Being forbid ? There, take you that, sir knave. 
 Dro. £. What mean you, sii- ? for God's sake, 
 hold your hands : 
 
 Nay, an you vn\l not, sir, I'll take my heels 
 
 [Exit Dko. E. 
 Ant. S. Upon my life, by some device oi 
 other. 
 The villain is o'er-raiight' of all my money. 
 They say this town is full of cozenage ; 
 As, nimble jugglers that deceive the eye, 
 Dark-working sorcerers that change the mLad. 
 Soul-kUling witches that deform the body 
 Disguised cheaters, prating mountebanks, 
 And many such like liberties of sin:' 
 If it prove so, I will be gone the sooner 
 I '11 to the Centaur, to go seek this slavo ; 
 I greatly fear my money is not safe. 
 
 Eiit 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Sail in the house of Antipholus of 
 Ephesus. 
 
 Enter Ajeiaij a and LnaANA. 
 
 Adr. Neither my husband, nor the slave retum'd, 
 That in such haste I sent to seek his master ! 
 Sure, Luoiana, it is two o'clock. 
 
 Ltic. Perhaps, some merchant hath invited him, 
 And from the mart he 's somewhere gone to dinner. 
 Good sister, let us dine, and never fret : 
 A man is master of his liberty : 
 Time is their master ; and when they see time, 
 They 'U go, or come. If so, be patient, sister. 
 
 Adr. Why should their liberty th;m ours be 
 more? 
 
 Zuc. Because their business still lies out o' door. 
 
 Adr. Look, when I serve him so, he takes it iU. 
 
 Zuc. 0, know, he is the bridle of your wiU 
 
 Adr. There 's none but asses will be bridled so. 
 
 Zuc. "Why, headstrong liberty is lash'd with 
 woe.'° 
 There's nothing situate under heaven's eye 
 But hath his bound, in earth, in sea, in sky : 
 The beasts, the fishes, and the winged fowls, 
 .Vjb their males' subjects, and at their controls : 
 Men, more divine, the masters of all these. 
 Lords of the wide world, and wild wat'r)- seas 
 Indued with intellectual sense and souls. 
 Of more pre-eminence that fish and fowls, 
 
 Are masters to their females, and their lords : 
 Then let your will attend on their accords. 
 
 Adr. Tliis servitude makes you to keep unwed 
 
 Zuc. Not this, but troubles of the marriage 
 Led. 
 
 Adr. But were you wedded, you would bcai 
 some sway. 
 
 Zuc. Ere I learn love, I 'U practise to obey. 
 
 Adr. How if your husband start some othei 
 where ? 
 
 ZiiC. Tin he came home again, 1 would forbear 
 
 Adr. Patience unmov'd ! no marvel though she 
 pause ; . 
 They can be meek that have no other cause. 
 A wretched sold, bruis'd with adversity, 
 We bid be quiet when we hear it cry ; 
 But were we burden'd with like weight of pain," 
 As much, or more, we should ourselves complain : 
 So thou, that hast no unkind mate to grieve thee. 
 With urging helpless patience'- would relieve me: 
 But, if thou live to see like right bereft, 
 This fool-begg'd patience" in thee will be left. 
 
 Zuc. Well, I wUl marry one day, but to try ;— ■ 
 Here comes your man ; now is youi- husband nigh 
 
 Enter Dro-mio of Ephesus. 
 
 Adr. Say, is yom- tardy mastei now at hand ? 
 Dro. E. Nay, he 's at two hands with me anc 
 that my two ears can witness. 
 
 195
 
 COIIEDY OF ERKOKS. 
 
 Adr. Say, didst thou rpeak vrith. Lirj ? know'st 
 tliou liis mind ? 
 
 Dro. E. Ay, ay, he told his mind upon mine 
 ear. Beshrew Lis hand ! I scarce could under- 
 tand it." 
 
 Liie. Spake he so doubtfully, thou couldst not 
 feel his meaning ? 
 
 3ro. E. H^ay, he struck so jjlainly I could too 
 wcU feel his blows ; and •n'ithal so doubtfully, that 
 I could scai'ce imderstand them. 
 
 Adr. Bat say, I prithee, is he coming home ? 
 It seems he hath great care to please his wife. 
 
 Bro. E. "Wliy, mistress, sure my master is 
 Lorn-mad. 
 
 Adr. Hom-mad, thou villain ? 
 Dro. E. I mean not cuckold mad ; 
 But sure he is stark mad : 
 When I desir'd him to come home to dinner, 
 He ask'd me for a thousand marks in gold : 
 " 'T is dinner-time," quoth I ; " My gold," quoth 
 
 he: 
 "Tour meat doth bum," quoth I; "My gold," 
 
 quoth he : 
 "Will you come?" quoth I ; "My gold," quoth 
 
 he: 
 ' Where is the thousand marks I gave thee, 
 
 ^•iUain ? " 
 "The pig," quoth I, "is bm-n'd;" "My gold," 
 
 quoth he : 
 "My mistress, sir," quoth I; "Hang up thy 
 
 mistress ; 
 I know not thy mistress ; out on thj' misti'ess !" 
 Luc. Quoth who ? 
 Dro. E. Quoth my master. 
 "' I know," quoth ho, " no house, no wife, no 
 
 mistress;" 
 So that my arrant, due unto my tongue, 
 I thank him, I bare home upon my shoulders ; 
 For, in conclusion, he did beat me there. 
 
 Adr. Go back again, thou slave, and fetch him 
 
 home. 
 Dro. E. Go back again, and be new beaten home? 
 For God's sake send some other messenger. 
 Adr. Bauk, slave, or I wUl break tliy pate across. 
 Dro. E. And he -ndU bless that cross with 
 otlicr beating : 
 Between you I sliuU have a holy head. 
 
 Adr. Hence, prating peasant ! fetch thy master 
 
 home. 
 Dro. E. Am I so round with you, as you with me, 
 riuit like a football you do spuin me tlms ? 
 i'ou spurn me hence, and ho wOl spurn me hither : 
 l«6 
 
 If I last in this service, you must case me in 
 leather. [Exit. 
 
 Luc. Fie, how impatience louretli in your face I 
 
 Adr. His company must do his minions grace, 
 "RTiilst I at home starve for a merry look ! 
 Hath homely age th' alluring beauty took 
 From my poor cheek ? then he hath wasted it : 
 Are my discourses dull ? barren my wit ? 
 If voluble and sharp discourse be marr'd, 
 Unkindncss blunts it more than marble hard. 
 Do their gay vestments his affections bait ? 
 That 's not my fault, he 's master of my state : 
 Wliat ruins are in me that can be found 
 By him not ruin'd ? then is he the groimd 
 Of my defeatures :'* My decayed fair 
 A sunny look of his would soon repair : 
 But, too unruly deer, he breaks the pale, 
 And feeds from home : poor I am but his stale." 
 
 Luc. Self harming jealousy ! — fie ! beat it hence. 
 
 Adr. UufeeHng fools can with such wrongs 
 dispense ! 
 I know his eye doth homage otherwhere ; 
 Or else, what lets it but he would be here ? 
 Sister, you know he promis'd me a chain ; — 
 Would that alone alone he would detain," 
 So he woidd keep fair quarter with Lis bed ! 
 I sec, the jewel best enamelled 
 Will lose his beauty, yet the gold 'bides still, 
 That others touch ; and often touching will 
 Wear gold ; and no man, that hath a name, 
 By falsehood and con'uption doth it shame ! 
 Since that my beauty cannot please his eye, 
 I 'U weep what 's left away, and weeping die. 
 
 Luc. How many fond fools servo mad jealousy ! 
 
 \_Exeuni. 
 
 SCEXE II. — A Streei in Ephesus, near the how. 
 of Antipholus. 
 
 Enter ANiirnoLUs of S3Tacuse. 
 
 Ant. S. The gold I gave to Dromio is laid ap 
 Safe at the Centaur ; and the heedful slave 
 Is wandcr'd forth, in care to seek mo out. 
 By computation and mine host's report, 
 I could not speak with Dromio, since at first 
 I sent him from the mart : See, here he comes. 
 
 Enter Dbomio of Syracuse. 
 
 How now, sir ? is your merry humour alter'd ? 
 As }-ou love strokes, so jest with me again. 
 You kn(jw no Centaur ? you receiv'd nc gold ? 
 Your mistress sent to have mc home to dinner ?
 
 Atrr n. 
 
 COMEDY OF ERllOES. 
 
 BCEKE n. 
 
 ify house was at the Phienix ? Wast tliou mad, 
 'i'ltat thvis sc madly thou didst answer me ? 
 
 D)u. a. What answer, sii ? When spake I 
 
 such a word ? 
 Ant, S. Even now, even here, not half an hour 
 
 since. 
 Dio. S. I did not see you since you sent me 
 hence 
 ffome to the Centaur, with the gold yon gave me. 
 A}it. 8. Villain, thou didst deny the gold's 
 receipt, 
 And told'st me of a mistress, and a dinner ; 
 For ■which, I hope, thou felt'st I was displeas"d. 
 Dro. S. I am glad to see you in this merry 
 vein : 
 WTiat means this jest? I pray you, master, 
 tell me. 
 Ant. S. Yea, dost thou jeer, and flout me in 
 the teeth ? 
 Think'st tliou I jcot? Hold, take thou that, and 
 that. \_Beating him. 
 
 Dro. S. Hold, sir, for God's sake : now your 
 jest is earnest : 
 Upon what bargain do you give it me ? 
 
 AtU. S. Because that I familiarly sometimes 
 Do use you for my fool, and chat with you. 
 Four saucincss wiU jest upon mj' love, 
 And make a common of my serious hours." 
 When the sun sliincs, let foolish gnats make sport, 
 But creep in crannies when lie hides his beaais. 
 If you will jest with me, know my aspect, 
 And fashion your demeanour to my looks. 
 Or I will beat tiiig method in your sconce." 
 
 Dro. S. Sconce call }"ou it ? so you would leave 
 battering, I had rather have it a head : an j'ou use 
 these blows long, I must get a sconce for my head, 
 and iiisconoe it too ; or else I shall seek m)- wit in 
 my shoulders. But, I pray sir, why am I beaten ? 
 Ant. S. Dost thou not know ? 
 Dro. S. Nothing, sir ; but that I am beaten. 
 Atit. S. ShaU i tell you why ? 
 Dro. S. Ay, sir, and wherefore ; for, lliey say, 
 eveiy why hath a wherefore. 
 
 Ant. S. Why, first — for flouting me ; and then, 
 wherefore, — 
 For urging it the second time to me. 
 Dro. S. AVas there ever any man thus beaten 
 OTit of season ? 
 When, in the why, and the wherefore, is neither 
 
 rhyme nor reason ? 
 Well, sir, I thank you. 
 
 Ant. S. Thank me, sir " fur what ? 
 
 Dro. S. Afarrj-, sir, for this something that you 
 gave me for notliing. 
 
 Ant. S. I '11 make you amends next, to give you 
 nothing for something. But, say, sir, is it dinner- 
 time ? 
 
 Dro. S. No, sir; I tliink the meat wants tliat I 
 have. 
 
 Ant. S. In good time, sir; v/liat 's that? 
 Dro. S. Basting. 
 
 Ant. S. Well, sir, then 't will be dry. 
 Dro. S. If it be, sir, I pray you eat noao of it. 
 Ant. S. Your reason ? 
 
 Dro. S. Lest it make you choleric, and pur- 
 chase me another dry basting. 
 
 Ant. S. V/ell, sir, learn to jest in good time. 
 There 's a time for all things. 
 
 Dro. S. 1 durst have denied that, before you 
 were so choleric. 
 
 Ant. S. By what rule, sir ? 
 Bro. S. Harry, sir, by a rule as plain as the 
 plajji bald pate of father Time himself. 
 Ant. S. Let "s hear it. 
 
 Dro. S. There 's no time for a man to recover 
 his hail', that gi-ows bald by nature. 
 
 Ant. S. May he not doit by fine and recovery: 
 Dro. ,S. Yes, to pay a fine for a periwig, an'^ 
 recover the lost liair of another man. 
 
 Ant. 8. Why is Time such a niggaiu ^f hair, 
 being, as it is, so plentiful an excrement ? 
 
 Dro. 8. Because'it is a blessing that he bestows 
 on beasts : and what he luith scanted men in hair, 
 he hath given them in wit. 
 
 Ant. 8. Why, but there 's many a man hath 
 more hair than w^t. 
 
 Dro. 8. Not a man of those but he hath tiw 
 ■wit to lose his hair. 
 
 Ant. 8. Why, thou didst conclude hairy men 
 plain dealers witliout wit. 
 
 Dro. 8. The plainer dealer, the soonei lost : 
 Yet he ioseth it in a lund of jollity. 
 Ant. 8. For what reason ? 
 Dro. 8. For two ; and sound ones too. 
 Ant. 8. Nay, not sound, I pray you. 
 Dro. 8. Sure ones then. 
 Ant. 8. Nay, not sure, in a thing falling'. 
 Dro. 8. Certain ones then. 
 Atit. S. Name them. 
 
 Dro. 8. The one, to save the money ihat Lc 
 spends in trimming;™ the other, that at dinner 
 they should not drop in his porridge. 
 
 Ant. 8. You would all this time havff orov'd 
 there is no time for all things. 
 
 197
 
 COMEDY OF EimOKS. 
 
 Dro. S. 5] arrv. and did, sir ; namely^ in no time 
 to recover liair lost by nature. 
 
 Ant. S. But your reason was not substantial, 
 ttliy tlicre is no time to recover. 
 
 Dro. S. Thus I mend it : Time himself is bald, 
 and therefore to the world's end T^-ill have bald 
 followers. 
 
 An(. S. I knew 't would be a bald conclusion : 
 liut, soft, who wafts us yonder ? 
 
 I.\ier Adeuna and Lucian.v. 
 
 Adr. Ay, ay, Antipholus, look strange, and 
 frown ; 
 Some other mistress hath thy sweet aspects : 
 I am not Adriana, nor thy wife. 
 The time was once, when thou unurg'd wouldst vow 
 That never words were music to thine car. 
 That never object pleasing in thine ej-e, 
 That never touch well- welcome to thy hand, 
 That never meat swcet-savour'd in thy taste, 
 Unless I spake, or look'd, or touch'd, or carv'd to 
 
 thee. 
 How comes it now, my husband, oh, how comes it, 
 That thou art then estranged from thj-self ? 
 Thyself I call it, being strange to me. 
 That, undi\'idable, incorporate, 
 Am better tlian thy dear self's better part. 
 Ah, do not tear awaj' thyself from me ; 
 For know, my love, as easj' mayst thou fall 
 A drop of water in the breaking gulf, 
 And take unminglod thence that drop again, 
 Without addition or diminishing. 
 As take from me thj-self, and not me too. 
 How dcarl}' would it touch thee to the quick, 
 Shouldst thou but hear I were Kcentious ! 
 And that tliis bod}-, consecrate to thee, 
 By ruffian lust should be contaminate ! 
 M'ouldst tiiou not spit at me, and spurn at mo. 
 And hurl the name of husband in my face. 
 And tear the stain'd skin off my harlot brow,-' 
 And from my false hand cut the wedding-ring. 
 And break it with a deep-divorcing vow .■ 
 I know thou canst ; and therefore see thou do it. 
 I am possess'd with an adulterate blot; 
 My blood is mingled with the crime of lust: 
 For, if we two be one, and thou play false, 
 I Jo digest the poison of thy flesh, 
 lioing strumpetcd by thy contagion. 
 Keep then fair league and truce with thy true bed; 
 I live iinstain'd, thou, undislionoured. 
 
 Ant. S. Plead you to me, fair dame? I know 
 you not : 
 
 In Ephesus I am but two houi-s old. 
 As strange unto j-our town as to your talk ; 
 Who, every word by all my wit being scanii'd. 
 Wants wit in all one word to understand. 
 Zuc. Fie, brother ! how the world is chang'a 
 ^^'ith you ! 
 ^Mien were you wont to use my sister thus ? 
 She sent for you by Dromio homo to dinner. 
 Ant. S. By Dromio ? 
 Dro. S. By me ? 
 
 Adr. By thee ; and this thou didst return froni 
 him, — 
 That he did buffet thee, and, in his blows, 
 Denied my house for his, me for his wife. 
 
 Ant. S. Did you converse, sir, with this gentle- 
 woman ? 
 ^Tiat is the course and drift of your compact ? 
 Dro. S. I, sir ? I never saw her till this time 
 A?it. S. Villain, thou liest ; for even her vei j 
 words 
 Didst thou deliver to me on the mart. 
 
 Dro. S. I never spake with her in all my life. 
 Ant. S. How can she thus then call us by ou 
 names. 
 Unless it be by inspiration ? 
 
 Adr. How ill agrees it with j-our gi-a\ity 
 To counterfeit thus grossly ^-ith j-our slave, 
 Abetting him to thwart me in my mood ! 
 Be it my wrong, you are from me exempt," 
 But wrong not that wrong with a more contempt. 
 Come, I will fasten on this sleeve of thine : 
 Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine, 
 WTiosc weakness, married to th}' stronger state, 
 Makes me wth thy strength to communicate : 
 If aught possess thee from me, it is dross, 
 Usurping i^-}-, briar, or idle moss ; 
 Who, all for want of pruning, with intrusion 
 Infect thy sap, and live on thy confusion. 
 
 Ant. S. To me she speaks ; she moves me for 
 her theme : 
 "Wliat, was I married to her in my dream ? 
 Or sleep I now, and think I hear all this? 
 AVhat eiTor drives our eyes and eai-s amiss ? 
 Until I know this sure uncertainty, 
 I '11 entertain the forced fallacy. 
 
 Luc. Dromio, go bid tlio servants spread foi 
 
 dinner. 
 Dro. S. 0, for ray beads! I cross me for a sinner 
 This is the fairy land; — O, spite of spiles! 
 We talk with goblins, owls, and elvish sprites;'' 
 If we obey them not, this will ensue, 
 They '11 suck our breath, or pincOi us black and bluo.
 
 ^OJIEDY OF EJiEOKS. 
 
 8CENE I. 
 
 Luc. Wliy prat'st thou to thyself, and answer'st 
 not? 
 Dromio, thou Dromio, thou snail, thou slug, thou 
 
 sot! 
 Dro. S. I am transformed, master, am I not ? 
 Ani. S. I think thou art, in mind, and so am I. 
 Dro. S. Nay, master, both in mind, and in my 
 
 shape. 
 Ant. S. Tliou hast thino own form. 
 Dro. S. No, I am an ape. 
 
 Luc. If thou art chaiij^'d to aught, 't is to an ass. 
 Dro. S. 'T is true ; slie rides me, and I long for 
 grass. 
 'T is so, I am an ass ; else it could never be, 
 But I should know lier as wcU as she knows mc. 
 
 Adr. Come, come, no longer wiU I be a fool, 
 To put the finger in the eye and weep. 
 
 Whilst man and master laugh my woes to sconi. 
 Come, sir, to dinner ; Dromio, keep the gate • — 
 Husband, I '11 dine above with you to-day, 
 And shrive you of a thousand idle pranks ; 
 Sirrah, if any ask you for your master, 
 Say, he dines forth, and let no creature entei. 
 Come, sister : — Dromio, play the porter well. 
 
 Ant. S. Am I in earlh, in heaven, or in hell? 
 Sleeping, or waldng ? mad, or weU-advis'd ? 
 Known unto these, and to myself disguis'd I 
 I '11 say as they say, and persever so," 
 And in this mist at all adventures go. 
 
 Dro. S. Master, shall I bo porter at the gate ? 
 
 Adr. Ay ; and let none enter, lest I break youi 
 pate. 
 
 Zao. Come, come, Antipholus, we dine too late. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. — A public place opposite the house of 
 Antipholus o/Ephesus. 
 
 Enter ksTipno-Lvs o/Ephesus, Dkomio o/Ephesus, 
 Angelo, and Baithazak. 
 
 Ant. E. Good signior Angelo, you must excuse 
 us aU. 
 My wife is shrewish, when I keep not hours : 
 Saj% that I linger'd with you at your shop, 
 To see the making of her caroanet," 
 And that to-morrow you wiU bring it home. 
 But here 's a villain, that would face mo do\vn 
 Ha met me on the mart; and that I beat him, 
 And charg'd him witli a thousand marks in gold ; 
 And that I did deny my wife and house : 
 Thou drunkard, thou, what didst thou mean by this? 
 
 Dro. E. Say what you will, sir, but I know 
 what I know : 
 That you beat me at the mart, I have your hand 
 
 to s'liow : 
 [f tlie skin were parchment, and the blows you 
 
 gave were ink, 
 i'our own handwriting would tell you what I think. 
 
 Ant. E. I think thou art an ass. 
 
 Dro. E. Marry, so it doth appear 
 
 By the wrongs I suffer and the blows I bear. 
 I should kick, being kick'd; and, lieing at that pass, 
 
 You would keep from my heels, and beware of au 
 ass. 
 Ant. E. Y' are sad, signior Balthazar: 'Pray 
 God, our cheer 
 May answer my good wiU, and your good welcome 
 here. 
 Bal. I hold your dainties cheap, sii-, and your 
 
 welcome dear. 
 Ant. E. 0, signior Balthazar, either at flesh or 
 fish, 
 A table fuU of welcome makes scarce one dainty 
 dish. 
 Bal. Good meat, sir, is common; that every 
 
 churl aifords. 
 Ant. E. And welcome more common ; for that 's 
 
 nothing but words. 
 Bal. Small cheer and great welcome make a 
 
 merry feast. 
 Ant. E. Ay, to a niggardly host, and more 
 sparing guest : 
 But though my cates be mean,'" take them in good 
 
 part ; 
 Better cheer may you have, but not with tetter 
 
 heart. 
 But, soft ; my door is lock'd. Go bid them let us in. 
 Dro. E. Maud, Bridget, Mman, Cicely, Gillian, 
 Jen'! 
 
 190
 
 AOT ui COMEDY OF EKltOKS. scesk ^ 
 
 J))-o. S. [ Within.'] Momo,=' malf-horse, capon, 
 
 Lv.ce. Let him knock till it ake^ 
 
 coxcomb, idiot, patch ! 
 
 Ant. E. You '11 cry for this, minion, if T heal 
 
 Either gut thee from the door, or sit down at the 
 hatch: 
 
 the door down. 
 Luce. A\Tiat needs all that, and a pair of stock- 
 
 Dost thou conjure for wenchos, tliat thou call'st for 
 
 in the town ? 
 
 such store. 
 When one is one too many ? Go, got thee from 
 
 Adr. [ Within.] Who is that at the door, thu 
 keeps all this noise ? 
 
 the door. 
 D)-o. E. AMiat patcli is made our porter ? M)- 
 
 master stays in the street. 
 D)o. S. Let him vralk from -whence he came. 
 
 Bro. S. By my troth, your town is troubled 
 
 with unruly boys. 
 Aitt. E. Are you there, wife ? you might havo 
 
 come before. 
 
 lest lie catch cold on 's feet. 
 Ant. E. Who talks within there r ho ! open the 
 
 Ar!r. Y'our wife, sir knave ! go, get you from 
 the door. 
 
 door. 
 Bro. S. liight, sir, I '11 tell you when, an you '11 
 
 Dro. E. If you went in pain, master, this knav(' 
 would go sore. 
 
 tell me wherefore. 
 
 Ana. Here is neither cheer, sir, nor welcome ; 
 
 Anf. E. Wherefore ? for my dinner ; I have not 
 
 wc would fain have either. 
 
 din'd to day. 
 Bro. S. Nor to-day here you must not; come 
 
 Bal. In debating which -was best, we shall part 
 with neither. 
 
 again when you may. 
 Ant. E. "^Tiat art thou, that keep'st me out from 
 
 Dro. E. They stand at the door, master; bid 
 them welcome hither. 
 
 the house I owe ? 
 
 Ant. E. There is something Ln the wind, that 
 
 Bro. S. The porter for this time, sir, and my 
 
 we cannot get in. 
 
 name is Dromio. 
 
 Bro. E. You -would say so, mastei, if your gar- 
 
 Bro. E. 0, villain, thou hast stol'n both mine 
 
 ments were thin. 
 
 office and my name ; 
 
 Y'our cake here is warm within ; you stand here in 
 
 The one ne'er got me credit, the other miclde 
 
 the cold : 
 
 blame. 
 
 It would make a man mad as a buck to be so 
 
 If thou hadst been Dromio to-day in my place, 
 
 bought and sold.^ 
 
 Thou wouldst have chaug'd thy face for a name, or 
 
 Ant. E. Go fetch me something, I '11 break ope 
 
 thy name for an ass. 
 
 the gate. 
 
 Luce. [ Within.'] What a coil is there ! Dromio, 
 who are those at the gate 
 
 Dro. S. Break any breaking here, and I '11 break 
 your knave's pate. 
 
 Bro. E. Let my master in, Luce. 
 
 Litce. Faith, no ; he comes too late ; 
 
 Bro. E. A man may break a -word with you, 
 sir, and words are but wind : 
 
 Ajid so tell your master. 
 
 Bro. E. Lord, I must laugh ; — 
 
 Ay, and break it in your face, so he break it not 
 behind. 
 
 Have at you with a proverb. — Shall I set iu my 
 
 Dro. S. It seems, thou want'st breaking : Out 
 
 staff? 
 Luce. Have at you with another : that 's, — 
 
 upon thee, hind ! 
 Bro. E. Here 's too much, out upon thee I I 
 
 When ? can you tell ? 
 
 pray thoe, let me in. 
 
 Bro. S. If thy name he called Luce, Luce, thou 
 
 Bro. S. Ay, when fowls have no feathers, and 
 
 hast answer'd him well. 
 
 fish have no ibi. 
 
 Ant. E. Do you hear, you minion ? you '11 let 
 
 Ant. E. AV"eU, I 'U break iu : Go, boiTow me a 
 
 us in, I hope ? 
 Lnce. 1 thought to have ask'd you. 
 
 crow. 
 Bre. E. A crow without feather : master, mean 
 
 Dro. S. And you said, no. 
 
 Bro. E. So, come, help; well struck ; there was 
 
 you so ? 
 For a fish -without a fin, there 's a fowl without a 
 
 blow for blow. 
 
 feather : 
 
 Ant. E. Thou baggage, let me in. 
 
 If a crow help us in, sirrah, wo '11 pluck a crow 
 
 Luce. Can you toll for whose sake ? 
 Bro. E. Uaj-ter, knock the door hard. 
 200 
 
 together. 
 Ant. E. Go, get thee gone, fetch me an iron crow.
 
 ACT 111. 
 
 COMEpX OX^' EKKOllS. 
 
 B<il. U avo patience, sir, let it not be so. 
 Herein you war against your reputation, 
 And dniw within the compass of suspect" 
 Th' ^ln^■iolatecl honour of your wife 
 Once this, — Your long experience of her wisdom, 
 Her sober virtue, years, and modesty, 
 Plimd on her part some cause to you unknown ; 
 And doubt not, sir, but she will well excuse 
 Wliy at this time the doors are made against you. 
 Be iTil'd by me ; depart in patience, 
 And let us to the Tiger all to dinner : 
 And, about evening, come yourself alone. 
 To know the reason of this strange restraint. 
 If by strong hand you offer to break in. 
 Now in tlie stirring passage of the day, 
 A vulgar comment will be made of it ; 
 And that supposed by the common rout. 
 Against your yet ungaUed estimation. 
 That may with foul intrusion enter in. 
 And dwell upon your grave when you are dead : 
 For slander lives upon succession ; 
 For ever housed, where it gets possession. 
 
 Ant. E. You have prevail'd. I will depart in 
 qiiiet. 
 And, in despite of ilirth,'" mean to be merry. 
 I know a wenrh of excellent discourse ; 
 Pretty and •\vitty ; wild, and yet, too, gentle; — 
 There will we dine : this woman that I mean, 
 My wife (but, I protest, without desert) 
 Hath oftentimes upbraided me withal ; 
 To her will we to dinner. Get you home. 
 And fetch the chain ; by tliis, I know, 't is made : 
 Bring it, I pray you, to the Porpcntine ; 
 For there 's the house ; that chain wiU I bestow 
 (Be it for nothing but to spite my wife) 
 Upon mine hostess there : good sir, make haste : 
 Since mine own doors refuse to entertain me, 
 I '11 knock elsewhere, to see if tlicy 11 disdain me. 
 
 Ang. I '11 meet you at that place some hour 
 hence. 
 
 Ant. E. Do so. Tliis jest shaU cost me some 
 expense. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE ll.~A public street. 
 Enter Luciana and AsTipnoLus of Syracuse. 
 Luc. And may it be that you have quite forgot 
 
 A husband's oifice ? shall, Antipholus, 
 Even in the spring of love, thy love-springs rot ? 
 
 Shall love, in buildiug, grow so ruinous?" 
 \i you did wed my sister for her wealth, 
 
 Then for her wealth's sake, use her with more 
 kindness ; 
 
 26 
 
 Or, if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth ; 
 Muffle your false love with Home show o( 
 blindness : 
 Let not my sister read it in your eye ; 
 
 Be not thy tongue thy own shame's orator ; 
 Look sweet, speak fair, become disloyalty ; 
 
 Apparel vice like virtue's harbinger : 
 Bear a fair presence, though your heart be tainted 
 
 Teach sin the carriage of a holy saint ; 
 Be secret-false : What need she be acquainted 
 "Wliat simple thief brags of his own attaint .' 
 'T is double wrong to truant with your bed. 
 And let her read it in thy looks at board : 
 Shame hath a bastard fame, well managed ; 
 lU deeds are doubled with an evil word. 
 Alas, poor women ! make us but believe. 
 
 Being compact of credit, '* that you love us ; 
 Though others have the arm, show us the sleeve ; 
 We in your motion turn, and you may move us, 
 Then, gentle brother, get you in again ; 
 
 Comfort my sister, cheer her, call her ' -ndfe :' 
 'T is holy sport to be a little vain, 
 
 When the sweet breath of flattery eonquere 
 strife. 
 Ant. S. Sweet mistress, (what your name is else 
 I know not. 
 Nor by what wonder you do liit of mine,) 
 Less, in 5'our knowledge, and your grace, 3'ou 
 show not 
 Than our earth's wonder, more than canL 
 di^-ine. 
 Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak ; 
 
 Lay open to my earthy gross conceit, 
 Smothcr'd in errors, feeble, shallow, weak. 
 
 The folded meaning of your words' deceit. 
 Against my soul's pure truth why labour you, 
 
 To make it wander in an unknown field ? 
 Are you a god ? would you create me new ? 
 Transform me then, and to your power I 'II 
 yield. 
 But if that I am I, then well I Imow, 
 
 Your weeping sister is no wife of minej 
 Nor to her bed no homage do I owe ; 
 
 Far more, far more, to you do I decline. 
 0, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note. 
 
 To drown me in thy sister flood of tears ; 
 Sing, siren, for thyself, and I will dote : 
 
 Spread o'er the silver waves thy golden hairs. 
 And as a bed I 'U take tliee, and there lie ; 
 And, in that glorious supposition, think 
 He gains by death, that hath such means to die : — 
 Let Love, being light, be dro-mied if she sink ! 
 
 201
 
 ■kCI Ul. 
 
 COMEDY OF ERROES. 
 
 Lxu. WTiat, are you mad, that you do reason so? 
 Ant. S. Not mad, but mated ; how, I do not 
 
 know. 
 Luc. It is a fault that springeth from your eye. 
 Arii. S. For gazing on your beams, fair sun, 
 
 being by. 
 Luc. Gaze where you should, and that will clear 
 
 your sight. 
 Ant. S. As good to wink, sweet love, as look on 
 
 night. 
 Luc. AVhy call you me love ' caU my sister so. 
 Ant. S. Thy sister's sister. 
 Luc. That 's my sister. 
 
 Ant. S. No; 
 
 [t is thyself, mine own self's better part ; 
 Mine eye's clear eye, my dear heart's dearer 
 
 heart ; 
 My food, my fortune, and my sweet hope's aim. 
 My sole earth's heaven, and my heaven's claim.'' 
 Luc. All this my sister is, or else should he. 
 Ant. S. Call tliysclf sister, sweet, for I aim 
 thee ; 
 Thee ^^■ill I love, and with thee lead my life : 
 Thou hast no husband yet, nor I no wife : 
 Give me thy hand. 
 
 Luc. 0, soft, sir, hold you still ; 
 
 1 '11 fL'tch my sister, to get her good will. 
 
 l^I^x-it Luc. 
 
 Enter, from the house o/" AxTipnonjs q/'Ephesus, 
 Deomio of Syracuse. 
 
 Ant. S. Why, how now, Dromio ? where runn'st 
 thou so fast ? 
 
 L>ro. S. Do you know me, sir? am I Dromio ? 
 am I your man? am I myself? 
 
 Ant. S. Thou art Dromio; thou art my man; 
 thou art thyself. 
 
 Bro. iS. I am an ass, I am a woman's man, and 
 I'esides myself. 
 
 Ant. S Wliat woman's man ? and how besides 
 thyself? 
 
 Dro. S. Marry, sir, besides myself, I am due to 
 a woman ; one that claims me, one that haunts me, 
 one tliat will have me. 
 
 Ant. S. What claim lays she to thee? 
 
 I)ro. S. Marry, sir, such claim as you would 
 la}- to yo\ir horse ; and she would have me as a 
 beast : not that, I being a beast, she would have 
 ine: Ijt tliat she, being a very beastly creature, 
 lays claim to me. 
 
 Ant. S. What ia she? 
 
 Dro. S. A very reverent body ; ay, Bucli a one 
 2t>2 
 
 as a man may not speak of, without he say, sir 
 reverence : " I have but lean luck in the mat«h. 
 and yet is she a wondrous fat marriage. 
 
 Ant. S. How dost thou mean a fat marriage. 
 
 Dro. S. MaiTy, sir, she 's the kitchen-wench, 
 and all grease ; and I know not what use to put 
 her to, but to make a lamp of her, and run from 
 her by her own light. I warrant, her rags, and 
 the taUow in them, will bum a Poland winter : if 
 she lives till doomsday, she '11 bum a week longer 
 than the whole world. 
 
 Ant. S. What complexion is she of? 
 
 Dro. S. Swart, like my shoe, but her face 
 nothing like so clean kept. For why? she sweats, 
 a man may go over shoes in the grime of it. 
 
 Ant. S. That 's a fault that water will mend. 
 
 Dro. S. No, sir, 't is in grain; Noah's iioo<i 
 coxild not do it. 
 
 Ant. S. What 's her name ? 
 
 Dro. S. Nell, sir; — but her name is three 
 quarters, that 's, an ell;'' and three quarters will 
 not measure her from hip to hip. 
 
 A7it. S. Then she bears some breadth ? 
 
 Dro. S. No longer from head to foot, than from 
 hip to hip : she is spherical^ like a globe. I couli' 
 find out coimtries in her. 
 
 Ant. S. In what part of her body stands Ireland? 
 
 Dro. S. Marry, sir, in her buttocks. I found it 
 out by the bogs. 
 
 Ant. S. Where Scotland ? 
 
 Dro. S. I foimd it by the barrenness ; hard, in 
 the palm of the hand. 
 
 A)it. S. Where France ? 
 
 Dro. S. In her forehead ; arm'd and reverted, 
 making war against her heir. 
 
 Ant. S. Wliere England ? 
 
 Dro. S. I loook'd for the chalky cliffs, but I 
 could find no whiteness in them ; but I guess it 
 stood in her cliin, by the salt rheum that ran 
 between France and it. 
 
 Ant. S. "\Miere Spain ? 
 
 Dro. S. Faith, I saw it not ; but I ft It it hot iu 
 her breath. 
 
 Afit. yS." Where America, the Indies? 
 
 Dro. S. 0, sir, upon her nose, all o'er embel- 
 lished with rubies, carbuncles, sapphires, declining 
 their rich aspect to the hot breath of Spain ; who 
 sent wliole arniadoes of carracks'' to be ballast at 
 her nose. 
 
 Ant. S. Where stood (telgia, the Nctheilands? 
 
 Dro. S. 0, sir, I did not look so low. To con- 
 clude, this drudge or diviner laid claim to mo :
 
 \ci IV. 
 
 COMEDY OF EllliOliS. 
 
 scLna 1. 
 
 jall'cl me Dromio ; swore, I was assur' J to her ; 
 tuld mo wliat privy marks I liad about me, as the 
 murk of my shoulder, tho mole in my neck, the 
 great wart on my left a",ra, that I, amaz'd, ran from 
 her as a witc^h: 
 Uul, I tliink, if my breast had not been made of 
 
 faith, and ray heart of steel, 
 iShe had transform'd mo to a curtail-dog, and made 
 
 me turn i' tlio wheel."' 
 Ant. S. Go, hie thee presently, post to the 
 
 road ; 
 And if tlio wini., blow any way from shore, 
 [ will not liarbour in this town to-niglit. 
 If any bark put forth, come to the mart, 
 Wliere I will walk, till thou return to me. 
 If every one knows us, and we know none, 
 "lis time, I think, to trudge, pack, and be gone. 
 
 Dro. S As from a bear a man would nm for life. 
 
 So fly I from her that would be my wife. \_&it. 
 
 Ant. S. There 's none but witches do inhabit 
 
 here ; 
 And therefore 't is high time that I were hence. 
 She, that doth call me husband, even my soul 
 Doth for a wife abhor : but her fair sister, 
 Posscss'd with such a gentle sovereign grace, 
 C>f such enchanting presence and discourse, 
 U ath almost made me traitor to myself : 
 But, lest myself be guUty to self-wrong, 
 I '11 stop mine ears against the mermaid's song. 
 
 Enter Angelo, with the (.liain in hi» hand. 
 Ang. Master Antipholus ? 
 Ant. S. Ay, that 's my name. 
 Ang. 1 know it wcU, sir. Lo, here 's the chain 
 I thouglit to liavc ta'en you at tlie Poqientinit : '" 
 The chain uiifiuish'd made me stay thus long. 
 Ant. S. What is your will that I shall do with 
 
 this ? 
 Ang. What please yourself, sir ; I liave made 
 
 it for )'ou. 
 Ant. S. Made it for me, sir ! I bespoke it not. 
 Ang. Not once, nor twice, but twenty times 
 you have : 
 Go home with it, and please your wife withal ; 
 And soon at supper- time I '11 visit you. 
 And then receive my money for tho chain. 
 
 Ant. S. I pray you, sir, receive the money now, 
 I'or fear you ne'er see chain nor money more. 
 A)ig. You are a merry man, sir ; fare you well. 
 
 [Kiit. 
 Ant. S. AMiat I should think of tliis I cannot 
 teU: 
 But this I tliink, tliore 's no man is so vain 
 That would refuse so fair an offer'd chain. 
 I see, a man here needs not live by shifts, 
 ^V^len in the streets he meets such golden gifts. 
 I 'II to the mart, and there for Dromio stay ; 
 If any ship put out, then straight away. 
 
 Exit 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCEJSTE l.—A Street in Ephesus. 
 Enter a Mehchaut, Anqelo, and an Officer. 
 
 Mer. You know, since Pentecost the sum is due, 
 A nd since I have not much importun'd you. 
 Nor. now I had not, but that I am bound 
 To Persia, and want gilders for my voyage : 
 Therefore make present satisfaction, 
 Or I "11 attach you by this officer 
 
 Ang. Even just the sum that I do owe to you 
 . s growing to me^' by Antipholus : 
 And, in tho instant that I met with you. 
 He had of me a chain ; at five o'clock 
 [ shall receive tho money for the same : 
 Pleaseth you walk with me down to his house, 
 I will discharge my bond, and thank you too. 
 
 Enter Antipholus of Ephesus, and Dromio oj 
 
 Epl;esus. 
 Off. That labour you may save ; see where he 
 
 comes. 
 Ant. E. AVhile I go to the goldsmith's house, 
 go thou 
 And buy a rope's end ; that will I bestow 
 Among my wife and her confederates, 
 Foi locking me out of my doors by day 
 But soft, I see tho goldsmith :— get thee gone ; 
 Buy thou a rope, and bring it home to me. 
 
 I>ro. E. I buy a thousand jjounds a year! 1 
 buy a rope ! \_Erit Drojiio. 
 
 Ant. E. A man is well help up that trusts to 
 you. 
 I promised your presence, and the chain ; 
 
 203
 
 \(7r IV. 
 
 COilEDY OF EEKOliS. 
 
 SCliKE I. 
 
 But neither chain, nor goldsmith, came to me : 
 Belike, you thought our love would last too long, 
 If it were chain'd together ; and therefore came 
 not. 
 Ang. Saving vour merry humour, here 's the 
 note 
 How much your chain weighs to tlie utmost carat; 
 The fineness of the gold, and chargeful fashion ; 
 Which d"th amount to three 'dd ducats more 
 riuui I stand debted to this gentleman : 
 [ pray you, see him presently discharg'd, 
 For he is bound to sea, and stays but for it. 
 Ant. E. I am not fumish'd with the present 
 money ; 
 desides I have some business in the towTi : 
 jood signicr, take the stranger to my house. 
 And with you take tlie chain, and bid my wife 
 Disburse the sum on the receipt thereof; 
 Perchance, I will be there as soon as you. 
 Antj. Then you will bi'ing the chain to her 
 
 vom-self : 
 Anl. E. ISo ; bear it with you, lest I come not 
 
 time enough.' 
 An J. Well, su', I will : Have you the chain 
 
 about 3'ou r 
 Ant. E. An ii I have not, sir, I hope you have ; 
 Or else you may return ^vithout youi- money. 
 Anr/. Nay, come, I pray you, sir, give me the 
 chain ; 
 Both wind and cide stays fur tliis gentleman, 
 And I, to blame, have held him here too long. 
 Ant. E. Good Lord, j'ou use tliis dalliance'" to 
 excuse 
 Yovi brf.ach of promise to the Porpentine : 
 [ should have chid you for not bringing it, 
 But, like a shrew, you first begin to brawl. 
 
 Mer. The hour steals on ; I pray you, sir, 
 
 dispatch. 
 Ang. You hear how he importunes me ; the 
 
 chain — 
 Ant. E. Wliy, give it to my wife, and fetch 
 
 your money. 
 Ang. Come, come, you know I gave it you 
 even now ; 
 Either send the chain, or send me by some token. 
 Ant. E. Fie ! now you run this humour out of 
 breath : 
 Come, Where's the chain? I pray you, let me 
 see it. 
 Mer. My business cannot brook this dalliance : 
 Otod sir, «ay, wlie'r you '11 answer me, or no. 
 If not, I '11 leave liim to the oificer. 
 9.M 
 
 Ant. E. I answer you ! Wliat should I answeJ 
 
 you ? 
 
 Ang. The money that you owe me for the chain. 
 
 Ant. E. I owe you none, till I receive the chain 
 
 Ang. You know I gave it you half an hour since 
 
 Ant. E. You gave me none ; you -wTong mi' 
 much to say so. 
 
 Ang. Y'ou wrong me more, sir, in den3-ing it : 
 Consider how it stands upon my credit. 
 
 Mer. Well, officer, arrest him at my suit. 
 
 Ojf. 1 do ; and charge you, in the duke's name 
 to obey me. 
 
 Ang. This touches me in reputation : — 
 Either consent to pay this sum for me, 
 Or I attach you by this oificer. 
 
 Ant. E. Consent to pay thee that I never had 
 jirrest me, foolish fellow, if thou dar'st. 
 
 Ang. Here is thy fee; arrest him, officer. 
 I would not spare my brother in this case, 
 If he should scorn me so apparently. 
 
 Off. I do arrest 3-ou, sir ; you liear the suit. 
 
 Ant. E. I do obey thee, till I give thee bail ; 
 But, sirrah, j"OU shall buy this sport as dear 
 As all the metal in your shop will answer. 
 
 Ang. Sir, sir, I shall have law in Ephesus, 
 To yom- notorious shame, I doubt it not. 
 
 Enter Dkomio of Syracuse. 
 
 3ro. S. ilaster, there 's a bark of Epidamnum. 
 That stays but till her owner comes aboard. 
 And then, sir, she beiu-s awaj- : our fraughtage, six, 
 I have convey'd aboard ; and I have bought 
 The oil, the balsamum, and aqua-vitie. 
 The ship is in her trim ; the merry wind 
 Elows fair from land: they stay for nought at all, 
 But for their owner, master, and yourself. 
 
 Ant. E. How now ! a madman ? Why, tho;; 
 peevish sheep,'" 
 What sliip of Epidamnum stays for me ? 
 
 JDro. S. A ship yon sent me to, to hire waftage 
 
 Ant. E. Thou drunken slave, I sent thee for s 
 rope; 
 And told tliee to what purpose, and what end. 
 
 Dro. S. You sent me for a rope's-end as soon: 
 Y^ou sent me to the bay, sir, for a bark. 
 
 Ant. E. I %vill debate this matter at mere leisure 
 .And teach your cars to list me wV'.n more heed. 
 To Adriana, villain, hie thee straight : 
 (Jive her this key, and tcJ her, in the desk 
 That 's cover'd o'er with Turkish tapestry. 
 There is a purse of ducats; let her send it; 
 Tell her, I am arrested in the street.
 
 COMEDY OF EllllOllS. 
 
 SCSSTS IX. 
 
 Ajid that shall hail me : hie thse, slave : bo gone. 
 On, officer, to prison, till it come. 
 
 [^Exeunt Meh., Ang., Off., and Ant. E. 
 Dro. S. To Adriana ! that is where wo din'd. 
 Where Dousabel did claim me" for her husband : 
 She is too big, I hope, for me to compass. 
 Thither I must, although against my will, 
 For servants must theu- masters' minds fulfil. 
 
 lExit. 
 
 SCENE U.— Another street. 
 
 Enter Adkiaua and Luciana. 
 
 Adr. Ah, Luciana, did he tempt thee so? 
 
 Mightst thou perceive austerely in his eye 
 That he did plead in earnest, yea, or no ? 
 
 Look'd he or red, or pale ; or sad or merrily ? 
 What observation mad'st thou in this case, 
 3f his heart's meteors tilting in his face ? 
 
 Luc. First, he doni'd you had in him no right.*' 
 
 Adr. He meant he did me none ; the more my 
 spite. 
 
 Luc. Then swore he, that he was a stranger here. 
 
 Adr. And true he swore, though yet forsworn 
 he were. 
 
 Ltic. Then pleaded I for you. 
 
 Adr. And what said he ? 
 
 Luc. That love I begg'd for you, he begg'd of me. 
 
 Adr. With what persuasion did he tempt thy 
 love r 
 
 Luc. With words that in an honest suit might 
 move. 
 First, he did praise mj- beauty ; then, my speech. 
 
 Adr. Didst speak him fair ? 
 
 Luc. Have patience, I beseech. 
 
 Adr. 1 cannot, nor I will not, hold me stni ; 
 My tongue, though not my heart, shall have his 
 
 wiU. 
 He is deformed, crooked, old, and sere," 
 lU-fao'd, worse-bodied, shapeless everywhere ; 
 Vicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, unkind; 
 Stigmatical in making, worse in mind. 
 
 Luc. Who \\'ould be jealous then of such a one ? 
 N'o evd lost is wail'd when it is gone. 
 
 Adr. Ah ! but I think him better than I say, 
 And yet would hereia others' eyes were worse : 
 
 Far from her nest the lapwing cries, away ; 
 •dy lieart prays for him, though my tongue do 
 curse. 
 
 Enter Deojiio of Syracuse. 
 
 Dro. S. Here, go : the desk, the purse ; sweet, 
 now, make haste. 
 
 Luc. How hast thou lost thy breath ? 
 Dro. S. By running fast. 
 
 Adr. Where is thy master, Dromio ? is he well ? 
 Dro. S. No, he 's in Tartar limbo, worse than 
 hell. 
 A devil in an everlasting garment" hath him ; 
 One whose hard heart is button'd up with steel ; 
 A fiend, a fairy, pitiless and rough ; 
 A wolf, nay, worse, — a fellow aa in buff; 
 A back-friend, a shoidder-clappcr, one that coun- 
 termands 
 The passages of alleys, creeks, and narrow lands ; 
 A hound that runs coimter, and yet draws dry-foot 
 
 weU;" 
 One that, before the judgment, cames poor souls 
 to hell. 
 Adr. Why, man, what is the matter ? 
 Dro. S. I do not know the matter ; he is 'rested 
 
 on the case. 
 Adr. What, is he an-ested ? teU me, at whose 
 
 suit. 
 Dro. S. I know not at whose suit he is ar- 
 rested, well ; 
 But is in a suit of butf, which 'rested him, that caa 
 
 I teU : 
 Will you send him, mistress, redemption, the 
 money in his desk ? 
 Adr. Go fetch it, sister. — This I wonder at. 
 
 [_Exit Luc 
 That he, unknown to me, should be in debt : — 
 TeU me, was he arrested on a band ? " 
 
 Dro. S. Not on a band, but on a stronger thing ; 
 A chain, a chain : do you not hear it ring ? 
 Adr. What, the chain ? 
 
 Dro. S. No. no, the boll : 't is time that I were 
 gone. 
 It was two ere I left him, and now the clock 
 strikes one. 
 Adr. The hours come back ! that did I never 
 
 hear. 
 Dro. S. yes. If any hour meet a sergeant, 
 
 a' turns back for veiy fear. 
 Adr. As if Time were in debt ! how fondly dosl 
 
 thou reason I 
 Dro. S. Time is a very bankrupt, and owea 
 more than he 's worth to season. 
 Nay, he 's a thief too : Have you not heaid men 
 
 say. 
 That Time comes stealing on by night and day ? 
 H he be in debt, and theft, a id a sergeant in 
 
 the way. 
 Hath he not reason to turn back »n h mr in a day ? 
 
 20C
 
 ACT rv. 
 
 COMEDY OF EKKOES. 
 
 fUBSK a. 
 
 Unier Luciana. 
 Ad/r. Go, Broinio ; there 's the money, bonr it 
 
 straight ; 
 And bring thy master home immediately. 
 Come, sister ; I am prebs'd do-rni with conceit ; 
 Conceit, my comfort, and my injury. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 Enter AxTirnoLus of Syracuse. 
 Ant. S. There 's not a man I meet but doth 
 salute me. 
 As if I Tvere their ■well-acquainted friend ; 
 And every one doth call me by my name. 
 Some tender money to me, some invite me ; 
 Some other give me thanks for kindnesses ; 
 Some offer me commodities to buy : 
 Even now a tailor call'd me in his shop, 
 .And show'd me silks that he had bought for me, 
 And, therewithal, took measure of my body. 
 Sure, these are but imaginary -wiles, 
 Asid Lapland sorcerers inhabit here. 
 
 Enter Dromio of Syracuse. 
 
 Dre. S. Master, here 's the gold you sent me 
 for: 
 What hjive you got the picture of Old Adam** new 
 appareU'd } 
 
 Ant. S. AMiat gold is this 1 "HTiat Adam dost 
 thou mean ? 
 
 Dro. S. Not that Adam that kept the paradise, 
 but that Adam that keeps the prison: he that 
 goes in the calf's-skin that was kill'd for the 
 prodigal; he that came behind you, sir, like an 
 evil angel, and bid you forsake your liberty. 
 
 Ant. S. I midcrstand thee not. 
 
 Dro. S. No ? why, 't is a plain case : he that 
 went like a base-viol, in a case of leather; the 
 man, sir, that, when gentlemen are tired, gives 
 them a fob," and 'rests them ; he, sir, that takes 
 pity on decayed men, and gives them suits of 
 dm-ance ; he that sets up his rest to do more ex- 
 ploits with his mace, than a morris-pike.*' 
 
 Ant. S. What ! thou mean'st an officer. 
 
 D>-o. S. Ay, sir, the sergeant of the band ; ho, 
 that brings any man to answer it that breaks his 
 band ; cue tliat thinks a man always going to bed, 
 and says, " God give you good rest !" 
 
 Ant. S. W'cll, sir, there rest in your foolery. 
 Is tlirre any ship puts forth to-night? may we be 
 gone? 
 
 Dro. S. Why, sir, I brought j'ou word an hour 
 since, that the bark Expeilifion jiut forth to-night; 
 md then wore you hiiidred by the sergeant, to 
 20« 
 
 tarrj' for the hoy Delay : Here are the angels thul 
 you sent for, to deliver you. 
 
 Ant. S. The fellow is distract, and so am I ; 
 And here we wander in illusions ; 
 Some blessed power deliver us from hence ! 
 
 Enter a Couktezan. 
 
 Cour. "^'eU met, well met, master Antipholus. 
 I see, sir, you have found the goldsmith now : 
 Is that the chain you promis'd me to-dav? 
 
 Ant. S. Satan, avoid ! I charge thee, tempt me 
 not! 
 
 Dro. S. Master, is this mistress Satan? 
 
 Ant. S. It is the devil. 
 
 Dro. S. Kay, she is worse, she is the devil's 
 dam ; and here she comes in the habit of a light 
 wench ; and thereof comes, that the wenches say, 
 "God damn me," that's as much to say, "God 
 make me a light wench." It is written, they 
 appear to men Hke angels of light : light is an 
 effect of fire, and fire will bum; ergo, lighl 
 wenches wUl bum. Come not near her. 
 
 Coicr. Your man and you are marvellous merry, 
 sir. Will you go with me .' We '11 mend oui 
 dinner hero. 
 
 Dro. S. Master, if ycu do, expect spoon-meat, oi 
 bespeak a long spoon. 
 
 Atit. S. Why, Dromio? 
 
 Dro. S. Marry, he must have a long spoon thai 
 must eat with the devil. 
 
 Ant. S. Avoid thee, fiend ! what tell'st thou 
 me of supping ? 
 Thou art, as you are all, a sorceress : 
 I conjure thee to leave me, and be gone. 
 
 Cour. Give me the ring of mine you had af 
 dinner. 
 Or, for my diamond, the chain you promis'd ; 
 And I '11 be gone, sir, and not trouble you. 
 
 Dro. S. Some dcvUs ask but the parings of one's 
 nail, 
 A rush, a hair, a drop of blood, a pin, 
 A nut, a cherry-stone ; but she, more covetous, 
 Y/oidd have a chain. 
 Master, be wise ; an' if you give it her. 
 The devil will shake her chain, and fright us with it. 
 
 Cour. I pray you, sir, my ring, or else the ihain, 
 I hope you do not mean to cheat me du. 
 
 Ant. S. Avaunt, thou witch ! Come, Dromio, 
 let us go. 
 
 Dro. S. Fly pride, s.iys the joacock: MistroTS, 
 that you know. 
 
 ^Exeunt A vi. S. a'ld Duo. B
 
 iCT IV. 
 
 COMEDY OF EllEORS. 
 
 SCKNU n. 
 
 Com: Now, out of doubt, Antipholus is mad, 
 Else would he, never so demean himself : 
 A. ring he hath of mine worth forty ducats, 
 And for the same ho promis'd mo a chain ; 
 Both one and other he denies mo now. 
 The reason tliat I gather ho is mad, 
 (Besides this present instance of his rage,) 
 Is a mad tale he told to-day at dinner. 
 Of his own doors being shut against his entrance. 
 Belike, his wife, acquainted with liis fits, 
 On purpose shut the doors against his way. 
 My way is now to hie homo to his house, 
 And tell his wife, that, being lunatic. 
 He rush'd into my house, and took perforce 
 My ring away : This course I fittest choose ; 
 For forty ducats is too much to lose. [^Exit. 
 
 Enter A^'titholus of Ephesus, and a Gaolee. 
 
 Ant. E. Fear me not, man, I will not break 
 away : 
 I '11 give thee, ere I leave thee, so much money 
 To warrant thee, as I am 'rested for. 
 My wife is in a wayward mood to-day; 
 And will not lightl}' trust the messenger, 
 That I should be attach'd in Ephesus ; 
 1 teU you, 't will sound harslily in her ears. — 
 
 Enter Dkomio of Ephesus, with a rope'i end. 
 
 Here comes my man ; I think he brings the money. 
 How now, sir ? have you that I sent you for ? 
 J)ro. E. Here 's that, I warrant you, will pay 
 
 them all." 
 Ant. E. But where 's the money ? 
 I)ro. E. ^Vhy, sir, I gave the money for the rope. 
 Ant. E. Five himdred ducats, ^allain, for a rope? 
 Di'o E. I 'U serve you, sir, five hundred at the 
 
 rate. 
 Ant. E. To what end did I bid thee hie thee 
 
 home? 
 Jh-o. E. To a rope's end, sir, and to that end 
 
 am I rcturn'd. 
 Ant. E. And to that end, sir, I will welcome 
 you. \_Beating him. 
 
 Gaol. Good sir, be patient. 
 jyro. E. Nay, 't is for me to be patient ; I am in 
 adversity. 
 
 Gaol. Gi^od, now, hold thy tongue. 
 Dro. E. Nay, rather persuade him to hold his 
 hands 
 Ant E. Thou whoreson, senseless villain ! 
 3r» E. I would I were senseless, sir, that I 
 might not feci your blows. 
 
 Ant. E. Thou art sensible in nothing but blowp, 
 and so is an ass. 
 
 Dro. E. I am an ass, indeed; you may prove it 
 by my long ears. I have served him from the Ikjui 
 of my nativity to this instant, and have nothing 
 at his hands for my service but blows • when 1 aiu 
 cold, he heats me with beating; when I am warm, 
 he cools mo with beating; I am wak'd with il. 
 when I sleep; rais'd with it, when I sit; driven 
 out of doors with it, when I go from home ; wel- 
 com'd home with it, when I return : nay, I bear 
 it on my shoulders, as a beggar wont her brat ; 
 and, I think, when he hath lam'd me, I shall beg 
 with it from door to door. 
 
 Enter Adeia^a, Luciana, and the Couetezan, with 
 PrucH, and others. 
 
 Ant. E. Come, go along; my wife is coming 
 
 yonder. 
 Bro. E. Mistress, respice fincm, respect your end ; 
 or rather the prophecy, like the parrot, "Beware 
 the rope's end."" 
 
 Ant. E. Wilt thou stUl talk? [_Beats him. 
 
 Cour. How say you now ? is not your husband 
 
 mad? 
 Adr. His incivUity confirms no less. 
 Good doctor Pinch, you are a conjurer; 
 Establish him in his true sense again. 
 And I will please you what you will demand. 
 Lue. Alas, how fiery and how sharp he looks ! 
 Coxir. Mark, how he trembles in his extasy ! 
 Pinch. Give me your hand, and let me feel your 
 
 pulse. 
 Ant. E. There is my hand, and let it feel your 
 
 ear. 
 Pinch. I charge thee, Satan, hous'd within tin? 
 man, 
 To yield possession to my holy prayers, 
 And to thy state of darkness hie thee straight: 
 I conjure thee by all the saints in heaven. 
 
 Atit. E. Peace, doting wizard, peace ; I am not 
 
 mad. 
 Adr. 0, that thou wert not, poor distressed 
 
 soul ! 
 Ant. E. You minion, you, are these your cub- 
 tomers ? " 
 Did this companion with the saffron face 
 Eevel and feast it at my house to-day, 
 Whilst upon me the guilty doors were shut, 
 And I denied to enter in my house ? 
 
 Adr. husband, God doth know you diix'd 
 home, 
 
 207
 
 COAIEUY OF ERltOKS. 
 
 WTiore Voiild you had remain'd until this time, 
 Vree from these slanders, and this open shame ! 
 Ant. E. Din'd at home I Thou ^dUain, Avhat 
 
 saj-est thou ? 
 Dro. E. Sir, sooth to say, you did not dine at 
 
 home. 
 Ant. E. Were not my doors lock'd up, and I 
 
 shut out ? 
 Bro. E. Perdy, your doors were lock'd, and you 
 
 shut out. 
 Ant. E. And did not she herself revile me 
 
 there ? 
 Dro. E. Sans fahlo, she herself rcTil'd you ihere. 
 Ant. E. Did not her kitchen-maid rail, taunt, 
 
 and scorn me ? 
 Dro. E. Certes, she did; the kitchen- vestal 
 
 scom'd you. 
 Ant. E. And did not I in rage depart from 
 
 thence ? 
 Dro. E. In verity, you did ; — my bones bear 
 ■witness, 
 That since have felt the vigour of his rage. 
 Adr. Is 't good to soothe him in these contraries ? 
 Pinch. It is no shame ; the fellow finds his vein. 
 And, yielding to him, humours well his frenzy. 
 Ant. E. Thou hast suborn'd the goldsmith to 
 
 aiTest me. 
 Adr. Alas ! I sent you money to redeem you, 
 Ry Dromio here, who came in haste for it. 
 
 Bro. E. Money by me ? heart and good- will 
 you might, 
 But, surely, master, not a rag of money. 
 Ant. E. Wenfst not thou to her for a purse of 
 
 ducats ? 
 A.dr. He came to me, and I deliver"d it. 
 Luc. And I am Avitness with her, that she did. 
 Dro. E. God and the rope-maker bear me 
 witness, 
 riiat I was sent for nothing but a rope 
 Pinch. Mistress, both man and master are 
 possess'd ;'^ 
 [ know it by their pale and dcjully looks : 
 Tlujy must be bound, and laid in some dark room. 
 Ant. E. Say, wherefore didst thou lock me forth 
 to-day ? 
 And why dost thou deny tlie bag of gold ? 
 
 Adr. I did not, gentle husband, lock thee forth. 
 Dro. E. And, gentle master, 1 rcceiv'd no gold; 
 But I confess, sir, that we were lock'd out. 
 
 Air. Dissembling villain, thou speak'st fdse in 
 
 both. 
 Ant. E. Dissen.blingliarlot, thou art false in all; 
 208 
 
 And art confederate with a damned pack, 
 
 To make a loathsome abject scorn of me : 
 
 But with these naUs I '11 pluck out these false eycb. 
 
 That would behold in me this shameful sport. 
 
 Enter Attendants, icho Imd Akt. E. and Deo. E 
 after a slight struggle. 
 
 Adr. 0, bind him, bind him, let him not come 
 
 near me. 
 Pinch. More company; the fiend is strong 
 
 within him. 
 Zutf. Ah me, poor man ! how pale and wan he 
 
 looks ! 
 Ant. E. What, will you murder me? Thou 
 gaoler, thou, 
 I am thy prisoner : wilt thou suffer them 
 To make a rescue ? 
 
 Gaol. Masters, let him go : 
 
 He is my prisoner, and you shall not have Ivan.. 
 Pinch. Go, bind this man, for he is frantic too. 
 Adr. "^Txat wilt thou do, thou peevish officer ? 
 Hast thou delight to see a wretched man 
 Do outrage and displeasure to himself? 
 
 Gaol. He is my prisoner ; if I let him go. 
 The debt he owes wiU be requir d of me. 
 
 Adr. I will discharge thee, ere I gc from tlicc 
 Bear me forthwith unto his creditor. 
 And, knowing how the debt grows, I -will pay it. 
 Good master doctor, see him side convey'd 
 Home to my house. most unhappy day ! 
 Ant. E. most unhappy strumpet ! 
 Dro. E. JIaster, I am here enter'd in bond lot 
 
 you. 
 Ant. E. Out on tlice, villain ! wherefore dost 
 
 thou mad me : 
 Dro. E. WiU you be bound for nothing? be 
 mad, good master; cr}', the devil. — 
 
 Luc. God help, poor souls, how idly do they talk ! 
 Adr. Go, bear- him hence. — Sister go you with 
 me. — 
 
 \Exeunt Pinch and Attendants, ivifh 
 AxT. E. and Dro. E. 
 Say now, whose suit is ho arrested at? 
 
 Gaol. One Argelo, a goldsmith. Do you know 
 
 him ? 
 Adr. I know tlie man : AMiat is the sum ho 
 
 owes : 
 Gaol. Two liundred ducats. 
 Adr. Say, how grows it duo? 
 
 Guol. Due for a chain your luisband had of liim. 
 Adr. He did bcireak a chain for me, but baa 
 it not.
 
 ACI V. 
 
 COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 BCENB I. 
 
 Cour. Wlicnas your husband," all in rage, to- 
 day. 
 Came to my house, and took away my ring. 
 The ring I saw upon his finger now,) 
 Straight after did I meet him with a cliain. 
 
 Aclr. It may be so, but I did never see it : — 
 Come, gaoler, bring rae where the goldsmith is ; 
 [ long to know the truth hereof at large. 
 
 Enter ANiirnoLUs of Syracuse, with his rapier 
 drawn, and Dbojiio of Syracuse. 
 
 Luc. God, for thy mercy ! they are loose again. 
 Adr. And come with naked swords ; let 's call 
 more help, 
 To have them bound again. 
 
 GmI. Away, they 'll kiU us. 
 
 [ Exeunt Gaolee, Auk., and Luc, runnhuj. 
 
 Ant. S. I see, these witches are afraid of 
 
 swords. 
 I>ro. S. She that would bo your wife now ran 
 
 from you. 
 Ant. S. Come to tlio Centaur ; fetch our stuff ''' 
 from thence : 
 I long that we were safe and sound aboard. 
 
 I)ro. S. Faith, stay here this night, they will 
 surely do us no harm ; you saw they speak us fair, 
 give us gold : methinks they are such a gentle 
 nation, that, but for the mountain of mad flesh 
 that claims marriage of me, I could find in my 
 heart to stay hero still, and turn witcli. 
 
 Ant. S. I wiU not stay to-night for all the 
 town; 
 Therefore away to get our sttiff aboard. \Ex(mni. 
 
 ACT V, 
 
 SCENE I. — Apuhlicplacc in Epheous. 
 Enter Meechant and Angeio. 
 
 Any. 1 am sorry, sir, that I have hinder d you; 
 But I protest he had the chain of me, 
 Though most dishonestly he doth deny it. 
 
 Mcr. Jlow is the man estcem'd here in the 
 city? 
 
 Atiff. Of very reverent reputation, sir. 
 Of credit infinite, highly belov'd. 
 Second to none that lives here in the city : 
 His word might bear my wealth at any time. 
 
 Mer. Speak softly : yonder, as I think, he 
 walks. 
 
 Etiter ANTirnoLTJS and DEOJno of Syracuse. 
 
 Anj. 'T is so ;• and that self chain about his 
 neck. 
 Which he forswore, most monstrously, to have. 
 Good sir, draw near to me, I '11 speak to him. 
 Signior Antipholus, I wonder much 
 That you would put me to this shame and trouble ; 
 Ars! ro* without some scandal to yourself. 
 With circumstance and oaths so to deny 
 This chain, which now you wear so openly : 
 Bi.'side the charge, the shame, imprisonment. 
 You have done wrong to this my honest friend ; 
 Who, but for staying on our controversy, 
 
 2T 
 
 Had hoisted sail, and put to sea to-day • 
 This chain you had of me, can you deny it ? 
 
 A)it. S. I think I had ; I never did deny it. 
 
 Mer. Yes, that you did, sir ; and forswore it too. 
 
 Ant. S. Who heard me to deny it, or forswear it r 
 
 Mer. These ears of mine, thou know'st, did hear 
 thee ; 
 Fie on thee, wretch ! 'tis pity that tliou Hv'st 
 To walk where any honest men resort. 
 
 Ant. S. Thou art a villain to impeach me thus : 
 I '11 prove mine honour and mine honesty 
 Against thee presently, if thou dar'st stand. 
 
 Mer. I dare, and do defy thee for a vUlain. 
 
 [TAfy draw. 
 
 Enter Adeiajja, Luciajxa, Cousiezan, and others, 
 
 Adr. Hold, liui-t him not, for God's sake ; he ie 
 mad ; 
 Some get within him,'" take his sword away : 
 Bind Dromio too, and bear them to my house. 
 Bro. S. Itun, master, run ; for God's sake take 
 a house. 
 This is some priory. — In, or wo are spoU'd. 
 
 \_Exeunt Ast. S. and Duo. S. to ilu) Priwy 
 
 Enter the Abbess. 
 
 Ahh. Be quiet, people, 
 hither ? 
 
 A\Tiert;fore throng yon 
 
 209
 
 ACT V. 
 
 COMEDY 0¥ EREOES 
 
 Adr. To fetch my poor distracted husband 
 hence : 
 Let us come in, that we may bind him fast, 
 And bear him home for his recovery. 
 
 An(j. I knew he was not in his perfect wits. 
 
 Mer. I am sorry now that I did draw on him. 
 
 Aib. Howlonghath this possession held the man? 
 
 Adr. This week he hath been heavy, sour, sad. 
 And much different from the man he was ; 
 But, till this afternoon, his passion 
 Ne'er brake into extremity of rage. 
 
 Abb. Hath he not lost much wealth by wreck 
 of sea ? 
 Buried some dear friend ? Hath not else his eye 
 Stray'd his affection in unlawful love ? 
 A sin prevailing much in youthful men, 
 Who give iheir eyes the liberty of gazing. 
 VThich of these sorrows is he subject to ? 
 
 Adr. To none of these, except it be the last ; 
 Namely, some love, that drew him oft from home. 
 
 Abh. You should for that have reprehended him. 
 
 Adr. Why, so I did. 
 
 Abb. Ay, but not rough enough. 
 
 Adr. As roughly as my modesty would let me. 
 
 Abb. Haply, in private. 
 
 Adr. And in assemblies too. 
 
 Abb. Ay, but not enough. 
 
 Adr. It was the copy of our conference : '' 
 In bed, he slept not for my ui'ging it; 
 At board, he fed not for my urging it; 
 Alone, it was the subject of my theme ; 
 In company, I often glanced it ; 
 Still did I tell him it was vild and bad. 
 
 Abb. And thereof came it that the man was 
 mad: 
 The venom clamours of a jealous woman. 
 Poison more deadly than a mad dog's tooth. 
 It seems his sleeps wore hindor'd by thy railing : 
 And thereof comes it that his head is light. 
 Thou say'st his meat was sauc'd with thy up- 
 
 braidings : 
 Unquiet meals make ill digestions, 
 Thereof the raging fire of fever bred ; 
 And what 's a fever but a fit of madness ? 
 Thou saycst his sports were hindcr'd by thy 
 
 brawls : 
 Sweet recreation barr'd, what doth ensue 
 But moody and dull melancholy. 
 Kinsman to grim and conifortlcss despair. 
 And, at hrr Inels, a huge infectious troop 
 Of pale distempcraturcs, and foes to life ' 
 In food, in sport, and life-preserving rest 
 210 
 
 To be disturb'd, would mad or man, or biast : 
 The consequence is then, thy jealous fits 
 Have scar'd thy husband from the use of wits. 
 
 Zuc. She never reprehended him but mildly, 
 When he demean'd himself rough, rude, ulhi 
 
 wildly. 
 Wliy bear you these rebukes, and answer not ' 
 
 Adr. She did betray me to my own reproof. — 
 Good people, enter, and lay hold on him. 
 
 Abb. No, not a creature enters in m)- house. 
 
 Adr. Then, let your servants bring my husband 
 forth. 
 
 Abb. Neither ; he took this place for sanctuary, 
 And it shall privilege him from your hands, 
 Tdl I have brought him to his wits again. 
 Or lose my labour in assaying it. 
 
 Adr. I wiU attend my husband, be his nurse, 
 Diet his sickness, for it is my office, 
 And will have no attorney but myself ; 
 And therefore let me have him home with me. 
 
 Abb. Be patient : for I will not let him stir, 
 Tin I have us'd the approved means I have. 
 With wholesome syrups, drugs, and hcly prayers. 
 To make of him a formal man again : °' 
 It is a branch and parcel of mine oath, 
 A charitable duty of my order; 
 Therefore depart, and leave him here with nio. 
 
 Adr. I will not hence, and leave my husbanl 
 here; 
 And ill it doth beseem your holiness, 
 To separate the husband and the wife. 
 
 Abb. Be quiet, and depart ; thou shalt not have 
 him. \_H.vit Abbbss 
 
 Ztic. Complain unto the duke of this indignity. 
 
 Adr. Come, go ; I will fall prostrate at his fee;. 
 And never rise until my tears and prayers 
 Have won his grace to come in person hither, 
 And take perforce my husband from the abbess. 
 
 Mer. By this, I think, the dial points at five : 
 Anon, I 'm sure, the duke himself in person 
 Comes this way to the melancholy vale, — 
 The place of depth" and sorry execution, 
 Behind the ditches of the abbey here. 
 
 Ang. Upon what cause ? 
 
 Mer. To sec a reverend S5Tacusan merchant, 
 Who put unluckily into this bay. 
 Against the laws and statutes of this town. 
 Beheaded publicly for his offence. 
 
 Anff. See where they come ; we will behold hif 
 deatli. 
 
 Ltic. Kneel to the duke, before he pa>id Uie 
 abbey.
 
 COMEDY OF EIUIOES. 
 
 scijrE 0. 
 
 Enter Dcke, attended; ^geon, bare-Jieaded ; with 
 the Headsman and other Officers. 
 
 Bulce. Tet once again proclaim it publiclj", 
 If any friend will pay the sum fur him, 
 He shall not die, so much we tender him. 
 
 Adr. Justice, most sacred duke, against the 
 abbess ! 
 
 Duke. She is a virtuous and a reverend lady; 
 It cannot be that she hath done thee wrong. 
 
 Adr. May it please your grace, Antipholus, my 
 husband, — 
 WTio I made lord of me and aU I had, 
 A-t your important letters," — this ill day 
 A most outrageous lit of madness took him ; 
 That desp'rately he hurried through the street, 
 (With him his bondman, all as mad as ho,) 
 Doing displeasure to the citizens 
 By rushing in their houses, bearing thence 
 Rings, jewels, anything his rage did like. 
 Once did I get him bound, and sent him home ; 
 Whilst to take order^ for the wrongs I went, 
 That here and there his fury had committed. 
 Anon, I wot not by what strong escape, 
 He broke from those that had the guard of him ; 
 A-ud, with his mad attendant and himself. 
 Each one with ireful passion, with drawn swords, 
 Met ua again, and, madly bent on us, 
 Chas'd us away ; till, raising of more aid. 
 We came again to bind them : then they fled 
 Into this abbey, whither we pursu'd them ; 
 And here the abbess shuts the gates on us. 
 And will not suffer us to fetch him out, 
 Nor send him forth, that we may bear him hence. 
 Therefore, most gracious duke, with thy command, 
 Let him be brought forth, and borne hence for help. 
 
 Buke. Long since, thy husband serv'd me in my 
 wars ; 
 And I to thee engag'd a prince's word, 
 When thou didst make him master of tliy bed. 
 To do him all the grace and good I could. 
 Go, some of you, knock at the abbey-gate. 
 And bid the lady abbess come to me ; 
 I wiU determine this before I stir. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 Serv. mistress, mistress, shift and save your- 
 self! 
 AIj- master and his man are both broke loose. 
 Beaten the maids a-row,"" and bound the doctor. 
 Whose beard they have sing'd off with brands of 
 
 fire; 
 And over as it blaz'd, they threw on him 
 
 Great pails of puddlfd mire to quench the hair: 
 Sly master preaches patience to him, and the wluli) 
 His man with scissars nicks liira like a fool :** 
 And, sure, unless you send some present helji. 
 Between them they will kill the conjurer. 
 
 Adr. Peace, fool ; thy master and his man ar» 
 here ; 
 AnA that is false thou dost report to us. 
 
 Seru. Mistress, upon my life, I tell you true ; 
 I have not breath'd almost since I did see it. 
 He erics for you, and vows, if he can take you. 
 To scorch your face, and to disfigure you : 
 
 \_Crij within 
 Hark, Hark, I hoar him ; Mistress, fly, be gone. 
 
 Btiho. Come, stand by me, fear nothing : Guard 
 with halberds. 
 
 Adr. Ah me, it is my husband ! Witness you 
 That he is borne about invisible : 
 Even now we hous'd him in the abbey here ; 
 And now he 's there, past thought of human reason! 
 
 Enter AxxipnoLtrs (znrf Dkomio o/Ephesus. 
 
 Atit. E. Justice, most gracious duke, oh, grant 
 me justice ! 
 Even for the service that long since I did thee, 
 "WTien I bestrid thee in the wars,"* and tool: 
 Deep scars to save thy life ; even for the blood 
 That then I lost for thee, now grant me justice. 
 
 JEge. Unless the fear of death doth make me doto, 
 I see my son Antipholus and Dromio. 
 
 Ant. E. Justice, sweet prince, against that 
 woman there. 
 She whom thou gav'st to me to be my wife; 
 That hath abused and dishonour'd me. 
 Even in the strength and height of injury ! 
 Beyond imagination is the ■wrong 
 That she this day hath shameless thro^\Ti on me. 
 I)ahe. Discover how, and thou shaltfind me just. 
 Ant. E. This day, great duke, she siiut the 
 doors upon me. 
 While she with harlots" feastea m my nouse, 
 Buke. A grievous fault : Say, woman, didal 
 
 thou so ? 
 Adr. No, my good lord; — myself, he and my 
 sister. 
 To-day did dine together : So befall my soid. 
 As this is false he burdens me withal ! 
 
 Luc. Ke'er may I look on day, nor sleep on 
 night. 
 But she tells to your highness simple truth ! 
 
 Ang. perjui'd woman! they are both forsworn: 
 In this the madman justly chargeth them. 
 
 211
 
 ACT V. 
 
 COilEDT UF EEROKS. 
 
 SCENE 1. 
 
 Ant. E. My liege, I am advised -n-hat I Bay ; 
 Neither disturbed with the etfect of wine, 
 Sot lieady-rash, provok'd with raging ire, 
 Albeit my wrongs might make one wiser mad. 
 Tliis woman lock'd me out this day from dinner : 
 That goldsmith there, were ho not pack'd witli her. 
 Could witness it, for he was with me then ; 
 ^Tio parted with me to go fetch a chain, 
 Promising to bring it to the Poi-pentine, 
 Wliore Balthazar and I did dine together. 
 Our dinner done, and he not coming thither, 
 I went to seek him : in the street I met him ; 
 And in his company, that gentleman. 
 There did this perjur'd goldsmith swear me down, 
 Tliat I this day of him receiv'd the chain, 
 AMiioh, God he knows, I saw not : for the which, 
 He did arrest me with an officer. 
 I did obey ; and sent my peasant home 
 For certain ducats : He with none retimi'd. 
 Then fairly I bespoke the officer, 
 To go in person with me to my house. 
 By til' way we met my wife, her sister, and a 
 
 rabble more 
 Of vild confederates ;"' along with them 
 They brought one Pinch, a hungry lean-fao'd 
 
 villain, 
 A mere anatomy, a mountcbanlt, 
 A thread-bare juggler, and a fortune-teller ; 
 A needy, hollow-ey'd, sharp-looldng wretch, 
 A living dead man : this pernicious slave. 
 Forsooth, took on him as a conjui-er. 
 And gazing in mine eyes, feeling my pulse. 
 And with no face, as 't were, outfacing me, 
 Cries out, I was possess'd : then all together 
 They fcU upon me, bound me, bore me thence ; 
 And in a dark and dankish vaidt at home 
 There left me and my man, both bound togetlicr; 
 Till gnawing with my teeth my bonds in sunder, 
 I gain'd my freedom, and immediately 
 Ilan hither to your gi-acc ; whom I beseech 
 To give me amjilo satisfaction 
 For these deep shames, and great indignities. 
 
 Aug. 3Iy lord, in truth thus far I witness witli 
 him. 
 That he din"d not at home, but was lock'd out. 
 
 J)uhe. But had lie such a chain of thee, or no? 
 
 Ang. lie had, my lord ; and when he ran in here, 
 These people saw the chain about his neck. 
 
 Mer. Besides, I will be sworn, these ears of mine 
 Heard j-ou confess you liad the chain of 1dm, 
 After you first forswore it on the mart, 
 iV.nd, thereupon, I drew my sword on you ; 
 
 And then you fled into this abbey here, 
 
 From whence, I think, you are come by miracle. 
 
 A7d. E. I never came within these abbey walls 
 Nor ever didst thou draw thy sword on mc ; 
 I never saw the chain : So help me heaven, 
 As this is false you burden me withal ! 
 
 Buhe. Why what an intricate impeach is this ! 
 I think you all have diunk of Circe's cup. 
 If here you hous'd him, here he would have been 
 If he were mad, he would not plead so coldly : 
 You say he din'd at home; the goldsmith here 
 Denies that saying: — SiiTah, what say you? 
 
 Bro. E. Sir, he din'd with her there at Iho 
 Porpentine. 
 
 Cour. He did; and fi'om my finger snatched 
 that ring. 
 
 Ant. ^. 'T is true, my iiege, this ring I had of her. 
 
 Buhe. Saw'st thou him enter at the abbey here? 
 
 Cour. As sure, my ucge, as I do see your grace. 
 
 Duke. "Why this is strange: — Go caU the abbesa 
 hither. 
 I think you are all mated,"' or stark mad. 
 
 \_Exit Attend. 
 
 ^ge. Most might}' duke, Touchsafe me speak 
 a word ; 
 Haply, I see a friend will save my life. 
 And pay the sum that may deliver mo. 
 
 Buke. Speak freely, Syracusan, what thou wilt. 
 
 ^ge. Is not your name, sir, caU'd Antipholus ' 
 And is not that your bondman Dromio ? 
 
 Bro. E. Within this hour I was his bondman, sir. 
 But he, I thank him, gnaw'd in two my cords : 
 Ifow am I Dromio, and his man, unboimd. 
 
 ^ge. I am siu-o you both of you remember mo 
 
 Bro. E. Ourselves we do remember, sir, by you 
 For lately we were bound, as you are now. 
 You are not Pinch's patient, are you, sir ? 
 
 JEge. Wliy look you strange on me ? you know 
 me well. 
 
 Ant. E. I never saw you in my life, till now. 
 
 JEge. Oh ! grief hath chang'd me, since you saw 
 mo last ; 
 And careful hoiirs,™ with Time's deformed hand, 
 Have written strange defeatures in my face : '" 
 But tcU mo yet, dost thou not know my voico ? 
 
 Ant. E. Neither. 
 
 JEge. Dromio, nor thou ? 
 
 Bro. E. No, tnist me, sir, nor I. 
 
 JEge. I am sure thou dost. 
 
 Bro. E. I, sir ? but I am sure I do not ; and 
 whatsoever a man denies, you are no\7 bound t« 
 believe him.
 
 ACT V. 
 
 COMEDY OF EKIIORS. 
 
 SCENE 1. 
 
 ^ge. Not Icnow my voice ! 0, time's extremity ! 
 Flast thou so cruck'd and splitted my poor tongue, 
 [n seven short years, that here my only son 
 Knows not my feeble key of untun'd cares ? 
 Though now this grained face of mine" be hid 
 In sap-consuniiiig winter's drizzled snow, 
 ;\.nd all the conduits of my blood froze up, 
 i'et hath my night of life some memory, 
 My wasting lamps some fading glimmer left, 
 My dull deaf ears a little use to hear : 
 M\ these old witnesses (I cannot en-) 
 Tell me, thou art my son Antipholus. 
 
 Ant. E. I never saw my father in my life. 
 
 JEge. But seven years since, in Sj'racusa, boy, 
 Thou know'st we parted : but, perhaps, my son, 
 Thou sham'st to acknowledge me in misery. 
 
 Ant. E. The duke, and all that know me in tbe 
 city, 
 Can ■witness \vith me that it is not so ; 
 I ne'er saw Syracusa in my life. 
 
 Diike. I tell thee, Sjrracusan, twenty years 
 Have I been patron to Antipholus, 
 During wliich time he ne'er saw Syracusa : 
 I see thy age and dangers make thee dote. 
 
 Enter the Abbess, icith ANTirnoLus of Syracuse, 
 and Deojiio of Syracuse. 
 
 All. Most mighty duke, behold a man much 
 ■wrong'd. \_All gather to see him. 
 
 Adr. I see two husbands, or mine eyes deceive 
 me. 
 
 Bake. One of these men is genius to the other ; 
 And so of these : "\\Tiich is the natural man, 
 ind which the spirit ? "Wlio dociplicrs them ? 
 
 Dro. S. I, sir, am Dromio ; command him away. 
 
 Dro. E. I, sir, am Dromio; pray, let me stay. 
 
 Ant. S. iEgeon, art thou not ? or else his ghost ? 
 
 Dro. S. 0, my old master, who hath bound 1dm 
 here? 
 
 Abb. Wlioevor bound him, I \vill loose his bonds, 
 And gain a husband by liis liberty : 
 Speak, old ^geon, if thou be"st the man 
 That hadst a wife once caU'd iEmilia, 
 That bore thee at a burden two fair sons 
 0, if thou be'st the same jEgeon, speak, 
 And speak unto the same Emilia ! 
 
 ^Ege. If I dream not, thou art Emilia : " 
 If thou art she, tcU me, where is that son 
 That floated with thee on the fat;xl raft ? 
 
 Alb. By men of Epidamnum, he, and I, 
 .\jid the twin Dromio, all were taken up : 
 But, by and by, rude fishermen of Corinth 
 
 By force .took Dromio and my son from Ihem, 
 And mo they left with those of Epidamnum : 
 "W^hat then became of them I cannot tell ; 
 I, to this fortune that you see me in. 
 
 Bide. Why, here begins his morning story 
 right. 
 These two Antii)holus', these two so like, 
 And these two Dromios, one in semblance, — 
 Besides her urging of licr ■wTcek at sea," — 
 These are the parents to these children, 
 Wliich accidentally are met together. 
 Antipholus, thou cam'st from Corinth first ? 
 
 Jnt. S. 'No, sir, not I ; I came fi-om 85x0^^130. 
 
 Luke. Stay, stand apart; 1 luiow not w'jch is 
 which. 
 
 Ant. E. I came froia Corinth, my most gracious 
 lord. 
 
 Dro. E. And I with him. 
 
 Ant. E. Brought to this to^ni by that most 
 famous warrior, 
 Duke Mcnaplion, your most renowned unc'/;. 
 
 Adr. A\niich of you two did dine with n j to-da • 
 
 Ant. S. T, gentle mistress. 
 
 Adr. And are not you my husband ? 
 
 Ant. E. No, I say nay to that. 
 
 Ant. S. And so do I, yet did she ca'l me so 
 And this fair gentlewoman, her sister here. 
 Did call me brother: — What I told you the* 
 I hope I shall have leism-o to make good, 
 If this be not a dream I see and hear. 
 
 Ang. That is the chain, sir, which y.r had ^ /^a 
 
 Ant. S. I think it be, sir ; T denr it not. 
 
 A?ii. E. And you, sir, for this cham an-csted mo. 
 
 Ang. 1 think I did, sir; I deny it not. 
 
 Adr. I sent you money, sir, to be your bail. 
 By Dromio ; but I think he brought it not. 
 
 Bro. E. No, none b^ me. 
 
 Ant. S. This purse of ducats I recciv'd from you 
 And Dromio my man did bring them me : 
 I see, we still did meet each other's man, 
 And I was ta'en for him, anl he for me ; 
 And thereupon these errors are arose. 
 
 Ant. E. These ducats pawn I for my father here. 
 
 Duke. It shall not need; thy father hath hij; 
 life. 
 
 Cour. Sir, I must have that diamond from you. 
 
 Ant. E. There, take it; and much thanks foi 
 my good cheer. 
 
 All. llenowncd duke, vouchsafe to take the 
 p.iins 
 To go with us into the abbey here, 
 And he.ar at large discoursed all our fortunes : 
 
 213
 
 COMEDY OF EEEOKS. 
 
 And all that are assembled ia this place, 
 That by this spnpathized one day's error 
 Have suffer'd wrong, go, keep us company, 
 And Ts e shiJl make full satisfikjtion. 
 Twenty-five years have I but gone in travail 
 Of ^ou, my sons; and, till tliis present hour. 
 My heavy burdens ne'er delivered. 
 The duke, my husband, and my children both. 
 And you, the calendars of their nativity,"' 
 Oo to a gossips' feast," and go with me ; 
 After so long grief, such nativity ! 
 
 Lul^e. With all my heart, I 'U gossip at this 
 feast. 
 
 \ Exeunt Duke, Abb., ^ge., Coue., Mee., 
 AsG., and Attexd. 
 Bro. S. Master, shall I fetch your stuff from 
 
 shipboard ? 
 Ant. E. Dromio, what stuff of mine hast thou 
 
 embark' d ? 
 Dro. S. Tour goods that lay a', host, sir, in Iho 
 Centauv. 
 214 
 
 Ant. S. He speaks to me ; I am your master, 
 Dromio : 
 Come, go Tvith us ; we 'U look to that anon : 
 Embrace thy brother there, rejoice with him. 
 
 \_Exetmt AjfT. S. and E., Abk., and Lur,. 
 Bro. E. There is a fat friend at yoiu: master's 
 house. 
 That kitchen'd me for you to-day at dinner ; 
 She now shall be my sister, not my wife. 
 
 Bro. E. Methinks, you are my glass, and not 
 my brother : 
 I see, by you, I am a sweet-fac'd youth. 
 Wni you walk in to see their gossiping ? 
 Bro. S. Not I, sir ; j-ou are my elder. 
 Bro. E. That 's a question : how shall we try it ? 
 Bro. S. We 'U draw cuts'° for the senior: till 
 then, lead thou first. 
 
 Bro. E. Nay, then, thus : 
 We came into the world like brother and brother : 
 And now let 's go hand in hand, not one before 
 anotlior. [Exmrnt,.
 
 I 
 
 ^
 
 
 imrp mb 'liho? ^pianttf M tiii? 'tocircmin^, . \
 
 NOTES TO THE COMEDY OE ERRORS. 
 
 ' fVanlmg gilders to redeem their lives. 
 A giklcr was a coin, according to StecTcns, ■which varied 
 .a value from one shilling and sixpence to two shillings. 
 Dispose, disposal. 
 
 ' Was wrought by nature. 
 
 Not by any criminrU act, but by natural affection, which 
 prompted me to seek my son at Ephcsus. Malune. 
 
 3 And by me. 
 
 ' The word too was added after tliis sentence by the editor 
 of the secona folio, and, at first sight, appears very appo- 
 site ; but our is here to be read as a dissyllable. 
 
 * Gave healthful welcome. 
 That is, d kind welcome, wishing health to their giicsts. 
 This is Boswell's explanation. "So his ease was like," 
 his case was so similar. He is understood before " retain'd. " 
 Clean, quite. "To seek thj"- help by beneficial help," i.e. 
 to seek help from charitable assistance. If no, if not. No 
 is often used for not in old plays. Wend, go. Liveless, 
 lifeless. To buy out, to ransom. 
 
 ^ A trusty villain, sir. 
 
 A viUaiii, i.e. a slave, the villanus of the old Latin dra- 
 matists. The best and most luminous paper on the term is 
 one bj Mr. Wright, in a I'ecent volume of the Archceoloyia. 
 "Soon at five o'clock," about five o'cloci. Consort, to 
 keep company ^rith. Consorted, associated, occurs in the 
 Acts, xvii. 4,—" and some of them believed, and consorted 
 with Paul and Silas." 
 
 ® Here coines (he almanac of my true date. 
 
 Droraio, having been Ixmi in the same hour, is an almanac 
 that can always give his aiastor's age. Penitent, the adjec- 
 tive used for the active J articiple. Dromio has fasted like 
 a penitent in missing his dinner. 
 
 ' / shall be post indeed. 
 
 .\(eording to Steevens, before writing was a general ac- 
 ui mplishment, a kind of rough reckoning concerning wares 
 issued out of a shop was kept by chalk or notches on a 
 post, till it could be entered on the books of a trader. 
 Milk-scores were, till lately, made on door-posts in London; 
 and the custom may, indeed, still prevail in some places. 
 " Should he your cooh ;" so the old copies, altered by 
 
 Pojc to clock ; hut, as Mr. Collier observes, it was formcily 
 the custom for cooks to strike on the dresser, to signify 
 that dinner was ready. Bestow'd, stowed, lodged. " There 
 will I bestow all ray fruits and my goods," Luke, xii. 18. 
 
 ® Is o^er-raught. 
 
 That is, over-reached. The term is used by Spenser, 
 and occurs again in Shakespeare. 
 
 ' Such like liberties of sin. 
 
 This phraseology is unquestionably equivalent to, finful 
 liherlies, or, sinful actions. The passage appears somewhat 
 harsh, persons and things being included without system, 
 but there are several instances of the same kind of 
 license in Shakespeare. 
 
 ^^ Head-strony liberty is lasKd with woe. 
 
 Mr. Knight explains lash'd, bound together ; and perhaps 
 rightly. A thong for fastening cattle to stalls was called a 
 lash. " Some otherwhere," i.e. somewhere else. A'o other 
 cause, no cause to be otherwise. 
 
 " With like weight of pain. 
 
 The same thought occurs several times in ShalccspeflTO. 
 Compare Ferrex and Porrex, 1571, — • 
 
 Many can yield right sage and grave advice 
 Of iwtient sprite to others "wrapp'd in wo ; 
 And can in speech both rule and conquer kind , 
 ASHio if by proof they might feel natiu-e's force, 
 "Woidd show themselves men as they are indeed, 
 'WTiieh now will needs be gods. 
 
 '- With urging helpless patience. 
 
 Helpless, without help, affording no help. 
 
 " This fool-begg'd patience. 
 
 Dr. Johnscn explains this phrase as " that paf/tTicc which 
 is so near tc idiotical simplicity, that your next relation 
 would take advantage from it to represent you as a fool, 
 and beg the guardianship of your fortune." Does it not 
 rather mean, This idiotic patience, which you have begged, 
 and by that means obtained the control of, will be forsaken ? 
 The sovereign was formerly the legal guardian of idiota, 
 and it was the practice to give the wardship to some 
 favomite, who thus obtained the management of their 
 property. The practice was ccarccly so inhuman as hai 
 generally been represented ; the guardiai having only the 
 
 2if^
 
 XOTES TO THE COMEDY' OF EIUIOKS- 
 
 iJiot's life interest in the estate, would naturally endeavour 
 to prolong liis existence by a liberal treatment. The fol- 
 lowing cui'ious anecdote, illustrating tbe custom, has been 
 frequently quoted. BladweU was of a Xorfolk family. It 
 s preserved in JIS. Ilai'l. 639o : — 
 
 " The Lord North begged old Bladwcll for a fool (though 
 he coidd never prove him so), and having hira in his 
 custody as a lunatic, he canied him to a gentleman's house 
 one day, that was a neighbour. The Lord North and the 
 gentleman retiied a while to private discourse, and left 
 BladweU in the dining-room, which was hung with a fair 
 hanging ; BladweU walked up and down, and viewing the 
 imagery, spied a fool at last in the hanging, and without 
 delay di-aws his knife, flies at the fool, cuts him clean out, 
 and lays him on the floor ; my Lord and the gentleman 
 coming in again, and flnding the tapestry thus defaced, he 
 asks BladweU what he meant by such a rude uncivil act ; 
 he answered, — Sir, be content : I have rather done you a 
 courtesy than a wrong, for if ever my Lord North had seen 
 the fool there, he would have begged him, and so you 
 might have lost your whole suit." 
 
 ^* I scarce could understand it. 
 
 This absurd quibble between understand and stand under, 
 hjia already occuiTcd in the Two Gentlemen of Verona, act 
 ii. Horn-mad, excessively mad. 117// I'ou come, gcueraUy 
 read, but without necessity, will you come home, an alteration 
 Buggostud by Ilanmer. Arrant, errand, a form of the word 
 atUl used in the provinces. " Am I so round' with you, " 
 am I sa candid oi plain with you. Dromio here plays upon 
 the word. A footbaU is eased in leather, to which he 
 ijludes when he carries on the quibble. 
 
 " The ground of my defeatures. 
 
 Sco note 70. Fair, beauty. "Fair of aUfaiis," Tom 
 (I Linrolne, p. 7. Shakespeare again quibbles on deer and 
 dear in Venus and Adonis, and in the llcrry 'Wives of 
 Windsor. 
 
 "^ Poor I am but his stale. 
 
 The word stale had anciently numerous meanings. I 
 have collected no less than thirteen of them in my ' Dic- 
 tionary of Archaisms, ' p. 794. It seems in this passage to 
 b? equivalent to laughing-stock, the subject of laughter. 
 ' A subject fit to be the stale of laughter," Ford's Love's 
 Bacrifice, ii. 1. 
 
 ^^ Would that alone alone he icould detain. 
 
 Would that alone the chain was the only circumstance 
 that detained him ! Jewel is here applied to a trinket or 
 ornament, not merely to a gem, as the term is now limited 
 in its application. The sense of the passage seems to be 
 this. " I see that c-en the ornament that is best enamcUed 
 wiU lose its beauty yet the gold remains though touched 
 by others ; and often touching will wear even gold (i.e. too 
 many provocations will prijve too much for the most dura- 
 ble qualities) ; and no man, with a reputation, shames it by 
 falsehood and corruption." Adriana, in her rage, of course 
 implies by this that her husband has not a reputation or 
 good name. The old editions read where, hero altered Ui 
 wear, the oiUy delation from the original I have ventured 
 to adopt. Other editors have made far bolder emendations, 
 216 
 
 ^^ And make a common of my serious hours. 
 And use my serious hours, as if they were a common foi 
 your amusements. Know my aspect, regard my (x)untenance. 
 
 1^ In your sconce. 
 Sconce, an old term for the head, generaUy used con- 
 temptuously. " Cdpo, a head, a pate, a nole, a skonee,' 
 Florio's World of Words, Kill. Dromio afterwards plays 
 upon the word, a sconce being also a blockhouse or small 
 fort. 
 
 Except thy head, which, like a skonce or firl, 
 Is bairicado'd strong, lest wits resort. 
 
 Taylor s Worhes, fob Lond. 16,30, 
 nis beard's not starcht, he has no subtUe scon:e. 
 Nor Janus-like lookcs he ten waies at once. 
 
 Srathwait's Strappado for the Divell, 1G15, 
 
 '^ That he spends in trimming. 
 The old copies read trying, the consonant, or perha]is the 
 mark of contraction, ha^^g been accidentaUy omitted. All 
 modern editors read tiring for attiring; but the one reason 
 that he loses his hair is to save the expence of a barber, not 
 that of a tailor. Just pre\iously, the falsing of the old 
 editions is altered to falling, which is Heath' s judicioua 
 emendation. In no time, alluding to the substitution cf n 
 wig, v.'hich restores hair instantaneously. Wafts, beckons. 
 
 -' Tlie stain'd shin off my harlot brow. 
 
 Mr. Dyce, with laborious learning, and at the cost of 
 nearly a page of examples, has proved what all tjTos ir 
 these matters know, that off was constantly interchanged 
 with of in old English books. Off is evidently the true 
 reading in this passage, being determined by the elision in 
 the verb. Had of been intended, v.'c should of course 
 have read stained. In the same speech, I foUow Mr. Dyce 
 in reading unstained for disstain*d, as it stands in the old 
 copies. 
 
 -- You are from me exempt. 
 
 Mr. M. JIason thinks Adriana means to say, that, as ho 
 was her husband, she had no power over him, and that he 
 was privileged to do her wi'ong. Idle, useless, sterile, 
 barren. Forced fallacy ; the old copies read, freed failary. 
 
 23 Goblins, oivls, and elvish sprites. 
 The commentators send Shakespeare to Ovid for the 
 ancient superstition that the screech-owl, or strix, sucked 
 the blood of infants ; but the information might probably 
 have been contained in many a popular book of the day. 
 In the triinslation of a work on ghosts and spirits, by Lewis 
 Lavater, 4to. Lond. 1572, we are told, " Lamia- are things 
 that make cliiklren afrayde. Lamia: are also caUed striges. 
 Striges, as they saye, are unluckic birds, whiche sucke out 
 the blood of infants lying in their cradles." Elyot, 15.59, 
 translates strii, " a shrichc-oule, a witche that chaui'.gett 
 the favour of chUdren." 
 
 Sunt avida) volucrcs ; non qua; rhincTa mensis 
 
 Guttm'a fraudabant; sed genus inde Irnhunt. 
 Grande cajjut ; stantes oculi ; rostra apta rapinie; 
 
 Canities pennis, iniguibus hanius ineat. 
 Noeto vt)lant., puerosijuc pctunt nutrieis egentea, 
 
 Et vitiant cunis corpora rapta suis. 
 Caq)ere dicuntur luctantia viscera rnstris, 
 
 Et plenum poto sanguine gnttur habent. 
 Est ilUs strigibus nomen. — Fast. lib. vi. 
 
 d
 
 NOTES TO TKE COiLEDY OF EKEOKS. 
 
 I 
 
 Compare Pliny, — "Fabulosum juto do strigibus, ubcra 
 iufantium caa lobiia immulgerc." Ilormann, in his Vul- 
 garia, 1-')19, makes strix synonymous vnth lamia ani/airy. 
 "And shrive you of a thousand idle pranks," i.e. and make 
 you confess them. 
 
 '* And persever so. 
 
 Perscvct, to poraevere, the aceent being laid on the second 
 syllable. At all adventures, — " To buy at all adventure, 
 or to buy a pigge in a puke, ernere aleam, hoc est incertum 
 i-erum invcntum," Baret's Alvcarie, 1580. 
 
 ^^ To see the inahing of her carkanet. 
 
 A carkanet was a necldace. Sometimes a bracelet was so 
 called ; but the term is here evidently applied to a chain or 
 necklace around the neck, as appears from the context. 
 ^^ Carkanet, a smal chaine," Cockeram's English Dic- 
 tionarie, 1626. " Carcan, a cai'kanct, or coUar of gold, &c., 
 wome about the nceke," Cotgrave. Harrington in a trans- 
 lation of an epigram of James I. on Sir Philip Sidney's 
 death, mentions Venus s "rings and carknet cleeno ;" and 
 Eandolph, — 
 
 I '11 clasp thy nock, where should be set 
 A rich and orient carcanet. 
 
 ^ Though my cates be mean. 
 
 Cdtes, provisions. " To lay out money for cates, opsone, " 
 Baret's Alvearie, 15S0. 
 
 '' Mome, malt-horse, capon. 
 
 These sre all terms of contempt. Mome, a fool, said to 
 be from the Greek. Malt-horse, a slow heavy horse ; 
 hence, a dull person. Patch, a fooL ""SVhy, doating 
 patch, didst thou not come with me this morning from the 
 ship?" Menachmi, 1593. Ou-'c, own, possess. Coz7, tumult. 
 Part with, depart with. 
 
 And if that slie do take me from home. 
 
 My bones, alas ! shee wyU make to crackell, 
 
 And me, her husbande, as a starke mome, 
 With knock^Tig and mockjmge she wyll handell. 
 The Disobedient Child, lo60. 
 
 28 To be so bouaht and sold. 
 
 That is, to be so deluded or defeated. The phrase occurs 
 in Eichard III. — 
 
 Jocky of Norfolk, be not so bold ; 
 Diccon, tljy master, is bought and sold. 
 
 Break any breaking, a common kind of repetition, similar 
 to, "Grace me no grace," in Richard II. "Tinkers, quod 
 you, tinke me no tinkes, I '11 meddle with them no more, " 
 Common Conditions, 1.570. Pluck a crow, to complain or 
 quarrel "with any one. This proverbial phrase is still in use. 
 
 2^ Within the compass of suspect. 
 
 Suspect, suspicion. "They enjoyed each other's com- 
 pany without suspect of any, onely two of her trusty 
 servants knowing of it," Westward for Smelts, 1620. 
 Or.ce this, once for all, it is this. "The doors are made 
 against you, " i.e. they are fastened. The phrase is still in 
 nee in the North of England. 
 28 
 
 '» In despight of Mirth. 
 
 I intend to be merry, whether Mirth will porrait mo or 
 
 not. 
 
 '' Shall love, in building, grow so ruinous. 
 
 Our poet meant no more than tliis- — Shall thy love- 
 springs rot, even in the spring of love? Shall thy love 
 grow ruinous, even while 'tia but building up ? Theobald. 
 Love-springs are the young shoots of love. Become disloy- 
 alty, make inconstancy becoming. Attaint, taint. 
 
 '- Being compact of credit. 
 
 Compact of, i.e. entirely composed of. " Love is a spirit, 
 all compact of fire," Yen. Aden. "To compacte, to set 
 and joyue certayne things handsomely togither one to 
 another; to make fast togither," Baret's Alvearie, 1580 
 Vain, according to Johnson, is light of tongue, not veracious. 
 Decline, incline or lower. Mated, amazed; a quibble 
 between this and our ordinary sense of the word. 
 
 '^ My sole earth's heaven, and my heaven's claim. 
 
 My sole heaven on earth, and all that I claim from 
 heaven. Aim, aim at. 
 
 ^ Without he say, sir-reverence. 
 
 Sir-reverence is a corruption of the phrase, save reverence, 
 which was said as a kind of apology before the utterance of 
 anything that might be considered objectionable, but often 
 simply as an apology in spealdng to a superior. " Sa-revc- 
 rence, salva reverentia, saving regard or respect; an usua 
 word, but miscalled sir-reverence by the vulgar," Bloimt's 
 Glossographia, 1681, p. 572. 
 
 If to a foule discourse thou hast pretence. 
 Before thy foule words name Sir Reverence. 
 
 Workes of Taylor, the Water-Poet, 1630. 
 
 '* That 's, an ell. 
 
 A Flemish ell is three quarters of a yard. This speech 
 is generally altered from the original, but has been properly 
 restored by Mr. Collier. In the palm of her hand, alluding 
 to a diy hf.nd being anciently considered a sign of barren- 
 ness. The allusion to France, " arm'd and reverted, 
 making war against her heir," -will be found explained in 
 the Introduction. 
 
 ^'' WJiole armadoes of carracks. 
 
 Carracks, Spanish galeons. Sometimes English vessels of 
 great size and Vidue were so called. Ballast, for ballasted, 
 explained in Baret's Alvearie, ISSO, "loded with gravell 
 or other lil;e y earth." Assured, affianced. 
 
 " Made me turn i the wheel. 
 
 Dogs called turnspits, now extinct, were employed to 
 work machinery for roasting meat, which they effected by 
 running in a wheel like a squirrel in his cage. Mr. Mor<rau 
 says that instances of the practice have been met with in 
 Wales witliin the last few years. TcpsoU, in his Historic 
 of Four-footed Beasts, 1607, says :^" There is compre- 
 hended, under the curres of the courscst kinde, a ecrtaice 
 dog in kitien service excellent ; for when any moat is to 
 be roasted, they j ;o into a wheel, which they, turning roiind 
 
 ■217
 
 NOTES TO THE COMEDY OF EllROKS. 
 
 ibout w-ith the -waight of their bodies, so dilligently looke 
 to thiir businesse, that no drudge nor scullion can do the 
 feate more cunningly: whom the popular sort hereupon 
 trail tximcspits." 
 
 '' Al the Porpentine. 
 
 Porpentine, i.e. porcupine. This is an archaic form of 
 the word, and should be preserved. So in a collection of 
 epigrams, entitled the " Mous-trap, " 1606, — 
 
 Gallus, that greatest roost-cock in the rout, 
 Swclleth as big as Bacchus did with wine : 
 
 Like to a hulke he bearcs himselfe about. 
 And bristels as a boare or porpentine. 
 
 3' Glowing, i.e. accruing. So, afterwards, "knjwing 
 Qow the debt grows. " 
 
 ^0 You use this dalliance. 
 
 Dalliance, i.e. hesitation, tiifling. Gifford notes its usa 
 in the sense of delay in Massinger, i. 81. " Send me by 
 some token," give some token to me by which it may 
 appear I am sent by you. This practice was formerly very 
 common, 
 
 " TTiou peevish sheep. 
 
 Peevish, an old word for foolish, as has been before 
 remarked. The play on the words sheep and ship has 
 already occurred in the Two Gentlemen of Verona- 
 
 '- irAcffi Dousahel did claim me. 
 
 Duusabcl is a compound name, derived from douce ei 
 heUe. This generic name is frequently used by our old 
 pastoral poets. So Drayton, — 
 
 He had, as antique stories tell, 
 A daughter cleaped Dousabel. 
 
 " He denied you had in him no right. 
 
 A double negative, strengthening instead of neutralizing 
 it, is common in old books. 
 
 *' Old and sere. 
 
 Old and sere, i.e. old and withered. Stigmatical in 
 making, i.e. deformed in body. 
 
 ^' In an everlasting garment. 
 
 Alluding to the baUiff, who wore buff, a robe of durance, 
 Ml everlasting garment. Narrow lands is apparently equi- 
 valent to, narrow lanes. A shoulder-clapper is a baiiitf. 
 
 *'' And yet draws dry-foot well. 
 
 That is, to follow by the scent of the foot. " Nay, if he 
 t mell nothing but papers, I care not for his dry-foot hunt- 
 miT," Dumb Knight, 1608. llarrison, in his 'Description 
 if England,' p. 230, mentions "a bloudhound, whose office 
 i-i to follow the fierce, and now and tlien to pursue a theofo 
 >r beast by bis drie foot." Hounds were said to run counter, 
 ivlicn tbcy mistook tlie direction of their game. The hell 
 was a common cant term for a dark or obscure diingcon in 
 a pri8f>n, and most prisons formerly had a particular ono so 
 ■ailed. 
 
 218 
 
 *' Arrested on a hand. 
 
 An^'sted on a legal bond. There is, of course, a plaj 
 upon words. A bond was formerly spelt band. BanArout, 
 a bankrupt. 
 
 *' The picture of old Adam. 
 
 Mr. Collier says, " What have you got .'" is still a vulgai 
 plirase for, "WTiat have you done with?" The "picture oi 
 old Adam new apparcll'd, " is, of course, the man in buff. 
 
 *' Gives them a fob. 
 
 The old copies reads sob, which is unintelligible ; but 1 
 scarcely think /oA suits the context. Can it be sop f A MS. 
 note in Mr. Tunno's copy reads bob. " Suits of durance,' 
 a play upon words. There was a kind of durable stufiF. 
 made with thread or sUk, called durance. 
 
 Not in a durance suite remainf' I here. 
 
 Yet in a suite like durance heram'd mth feare. 
 
 Urathwait^s Strappado fur the Divell, 1615, 
 
 ^ Than a morris-pike. 
 
 Sets up his rest, i.e. determines, a proverbial pbjase. 
 The morris-pike was a large pike, a formidable weapcn. 
 
 " Wdlpay them all. 
 
 Another quibble. Pay, to boat. 
 
 '- Beware the rope's end. 
 
 It was formerly the custom to teach parrots to say imper- 
 tinent words, for the rather coarse joke of their applying 
 them on ludicrous occasions. So Ealpho, in 'Uudilins, ' 
 was so learned that he, 
 
 Co\dd tell what subtlest parrots mean. 
 That speak, and think contrary clean ; 
 What member 'tis of whom they talk, 
 ^\'lien they cry 'rope,' and, 'wallc, knaves, walk,' 
 
 Compare Lilly's Midas, 1592, — "Tush, it is not for tno 
 blackness, but for the babbling, for every hour phc will 
 cry, ' waUt, knave, wallc. ' — Pet. Then will I mutter, ' a 
 rope for parrot, a rope. ' " 
 
 ^•^ Are tliese your Customers ? 
 
 Customers, i.e. friends, sometimes, but not always, used 
 in a bad sense. Companion was formerly a term of con- 
 tempt, equivalent to the modom fellviv. 
 
 5* Both man and master are possessed. 
 
 That is, possessed with a spirit ; mad. Jlad people were 
 formerly confined in a dark room. Malvolio, in Twelfth 
 Night, is shut up in a " dark house." 
 
 *^ Whenas your husband, 
 Whenas, formed in a similar nifnner to whc-eas, is equi 
 Talent to when. 
 
 M Stuff, i.e. baggage. 
 
 *' Some get within him. 
 That is, close with liim. Take a house, go into a house. 
 
 ^ 77ie copy of our conference. 
 Copy, theme. So, as Stcevcns observes, we still talk of
 
 NOTES TO THE COMEDY OE ERKORS. 
 
 eettmg copies for boys. Ben Jonson uses the tenn in a 
 ^cnso derived from the Latin copia, but this meaning would 
 scai'cely suit the construction of the present passage. 
 
 " A formal man again. 
 
 J'ormal, in hia right senses and character. " Like a fury 
 eiown'd with snakes, not lilco a formal man." Anth. Cluop. 
 
 * "" The place of depth. 
 
 So the" original, usually altered to death. If the old 
 reading is coiTect, it refers most probably to a BapaOpovy 
 similar to that at Athens, a deep cavern into which crimi- 
 nal" capitally condemned were precipitatea. The story 
 belongs to Grecian customs ar.d manners. Sorry, dismal. 
 So. in an old romance of the fourteenth centur)-, — • 
 
 It was done at the kingo commauude ; 
 
 His soulo was fot to helle, 
 To daunse in that sort/ lande, 
 
 "With develcs that wer ful fulle. 
 
 Headsman, i.e. executioner. 
 
 "'' At your important letters. 
 
 Mr. Hunter says there is an allusion here to the custom 
 cf royal letters being sometimes addressed to ladies witli 
 great fortunes in behalf of certain persons who had the 
 means of obtaining them. The writer of a letter of the 
 time of Henry VIII. says, " Sir William Compton shewed 
 unto me my Lord Cai'dinal wrote unto Mrs. Vernon, if she 
 would aitmix the king's favour, to bear her good mind unto 
 his servant Tyrwhit. " 
 
 ^- To take order. 
 
 That is, to take measures. Stcovens explains strong 
 escape, " an escape effected by strength or violence." 
 
 ^ Beaten the maids a-row. 
 
 A-row^ successively, one after another. "For thre 
 lyghtes a- roioe ho seyghe that same syght, " Chrou. 
 Vilodun, p. 68. 
 
 "^ Nicks him like a fool. 
 
 Malone quotes the following passage from the ' Choice of 
 Change,' 1598, — " Three things used by monks, which 
 provoke other men to laugh at their folUcs, ]. They are 
 shaven and notched on the head, likefooles. " The follow- 
 ing extract from the romance of ' Ipomydon ' may explain 
 this passage still further, — 
 
 Righte unsemcly, on queynte manere, 
 
 lie hjTn dight, as ye shall here. 
 
 A bai'bor he callyd, withouten more. 
 
 And shove (shaved) hym bothe byhynd and before, 
 
 Queyntly endentyd oute and in ; 
 
 And also he shove halfe his chynne : 
 
 He scmyd a fole, that queynte syre, 
 
 Both by hede and by atyre. 
 
 ** When I bestrid thee in the wais. 
 
 Saved you by placing myself before you, and receiving 
 the woimds that would otherwise have been inflicted on 
 you. So in 1 Henry IV. — " Hal, if thou see me down in 
 the battle and bustride mc, so : it is an act of friendsliip." 
 
 *' While she unlh harlots feasted. 
 
 The term harlot was originally applied to a low depraved 
 class of socielj', the ribalds, and having no relation to sex. 
 In Shakespeare's time, the tenn was frequently one of men' 
 contempt, applied cither to men or women. 
 
 He was unhardy that harlot, 
 And hidde hym in Inferno. 
 
 Piers Ploughman, ed. Wright, p. 3-5 1. 
 Chaucer translates roy dcs rihaulx, by king of harlots. Ie 
 the Covcntiy Mystery of the AVoman taken in Adultery, 
 the young man who is detected with her is called a harlot 
 See Mr. Wright's Gloss, ad. ibid. 
 
 " Of vild confederates. 
 
 So the old copies ; vild, as 1 have before remarked, beuig 
 tlie ancient form of vile. It should be retained, for some- 
 times it is occasionally required for the metre. CoUier ane- 
 Knight sometimes use the old word, and sometimes alter it. 
 It is as well to follow an imiform rnle. Anatomy, a 
 skeleton. Danhish, damp. As this is false, an emendation 
 made by Mr. Dyce. The same critic's conjee lure, neer de- 
 livered, a very good emendation, has also been adopted. 
 
 ^ I think you are all mated. 
 
 Mated, i.e. puzzled, confounded. So Skelton, in ' Wto 
 come ye nat to Courte, ' — 
 
 The Frenchmen he hathe so mated. 
 And theyr courage abated. 
 That they are but halfe men. 
 
 ^' And careful hours. 
 
 Tiiat is, horns fuU of care. " Tliou art careful and 
 ti'oublcd about many things," Luke, x. 41. Deformed foi 
 deforming, the passive participle used for the active. 
 
 '" Strange defeatures in my Jace. 
 Defeatures, a common old word for defeats, discomfitures. 
 The word oceiu-sin act ii. sc. 1, and in Venus and Adonis. 
 Mr. Knight explains it, " want of beauty, defect of fea- 
 tures;" but although Gifford has ridicided this interpreta 
 tion, I am not prepared to deny that Shakespeare does not use 
 the word in a peculiar sense, certainly in an allegorical one 
 
 ■" This grained face of mine. 
 
 Grained, says Steevens, is furrowed, like the grain oi 
 wood. A traditional tale relating to Shakespeare was cur- 
 rent at Stratford about a century ago, and was related to 
 Malone by Macklin. A blacksmith accosted the poet, as he 
 was leaning ever a mercer's door, with the following lines, — 
 
 Now, Jlr. Shakespeare, tell me, if you can. 
 
 The diii'erence between a youth and a young man. 
 
 To which Shakespeare is said to have replied. — 
 
 Thou son of fire, with thy face tike i maple. 
 The same dift'erence as between a scalded and a coddled 
 apple. 
 
 ■'- If I dream not, thou art Emi.ia, 
 
 Thomas Hull wrote an alteration of this play which was 
 produced al Covcnt Garden Theatie In 1779, and printed 
 in 1793. In a JIS. of his in my possession, he says, — " 1 
 
 219
 
 NOTES TO THE COMEDY OF ERKOKS. 
 
 hoTO fdwava thought that eome part of the original play 
 has been lost: neither iEjjeon nor Emilia express the 
 smallest surpiize or joy at such an unespceted meeting, 
 after a eeparation of twenty-five years. My opinion has 
 been sufficiently proved by the alteration I presumed to 
 make of this comedy, from which I claim no merit, but 
 that of having reproduced a neglected piece of our great 
 bard, after it had lain hid for a number of years, to 
 frequent exhibition and universal approbation." Hull 
 forgets the presumption of by-play so necessary in almost 
 every one of Shakespeare's dramas. 
 
 '3 Her urging of her wreck at sea. 
 
 The celebrated Blackstone says, " J5niilia may be sup- 
 posed, at her first coming to Ephesus, to have urged her 
 wreck at sea, in order to move compassion: the Duke 
 (comparing this, JEgeon's raoi-ning story and the likeness of 
 the twins together) pronounced, these plainly are the 
 parents of these ehildi-en, which how she has proved herself 
 to be. uiuess by some former story, 'm difficult to say." Mr. 
 22^ 
 
 CoUier appears to adopt this explanation; but butoIj the 
 Duke merely means to say, " Eesides her mentioning or 
 introducing her wreck at sea," which is an additional 
 proof of the correctness of his conjecture. Mason says 
 the abbess does not hint at her shipwreck ; but, what 
 amounts to the same thing, she confesses to have been 
 saved on the raft. 
 
 " And you the calendars of their nativity, 
 k similar allusion to that we have had previously. " Ileie 
 comes the almanac of my true date." See uote 6. 
 
 "5 Go to a gossips' feast. 
 The gossips' feast was formerly celebrated with great 
 hospitaUty. Cotgrave mentions it under the word caqwiuirt. 
 
 "^ We *ll draw cuts. 
 Cuts, lots. Cuts were generally drawn in the fcUowirg 
 manner. Slips of unequal length were held in the hand ox 
 one of the party, with the ends peeping out, and ho wKt 
 drew the Icngest one waa the winiior.
 
 Jliiirlj liiii nluiiit lliilljing. 
 
 fp.KE serious incidents of this admirable comedy are to be traced in a novel of Bandello ; thus analyzed 
 by Mr. Skottowe. Fenicia, the daughter of Lionato, a gentleman of Messina, is betrothed to Timbreo 
 de Cai'dona. Girondo, a disappointed lover of the young lady, resolves, if possible, to prevent the 
 marriage. He insinuates to Timbreo that his mistress is disloyal, and offers to show him a stranger 
 scnKng her chamber -nindow. Timbreo accepts the invitation, and witnesses the hired servant of 
 Giroudo, in the dress of a gentleman, ascending a ladder, and entering the house of Lionato. Stung 
 vil:h rage and jealousy, Timbreo, the next morning, accuses his innocent mistress to her father, and 
 rejects the aUitmce. Fenicia sinks into a swoon; a dangerous illness succeeds, and to stifle all reports 
 injurious to her fame, Lionato proclaims that she is dead. Her funeral rites are performed in Messina, 
 while in truth she lies concealed in the obscurity of a country residence. The thought of having 
 accasioned the death of an innocent and lovely woman, strikes Girondo with horror. In the fcgony oi 
 remorse, he confesses liis %'iUainy to Timbreo, and they both throw tliemselres on the mercy, and ask 
 forgiveness of the insulted family of Fenicia. On Timbreo is merely imposed the penance ok espousing 
 a ladj', whose face he should not see previous to his marriage ; but instead of a new bride, he m presented 
 at the nuptial altar -with liis injured and beloved Fenicia. 
 
 This simple love-tale is, as £;r as we linow at present, the sole origin of tlie comedy. 4. story of a 
 similai- cluiractor, but not containing so many incidents used by Shakespeare, is related in t le fifth book 
 of the Orlando Furioso, which was translated into English by Harrington in 1591, containing the talc 
 of Genevra and jVriodant. Ariosto's story was also versified in English by Eevcrlcy,* a/id published 
 in 1565; and we learn from Mr. Collier the curious infomiation that a play on tlie subject, entitled a 
 'History of Ariodante and Genevora,' was exhibited by 'Mulcaster's childi'en' in 15S2-3. No 
 English translation of BandeUo's tale has yet been discovered. 
 
 Aiiosto's tale, was regarded by Pope, but I think eiToneously, as the real source of Shakespeare's play. 
 It ^^'ill bo seen, from the follo-ndng analysis, that it has far inferior claims to Bandello for that honour. 
 Rinaldo, sailing to England, was driven by a violent stomi on the coast of Scotland; and, joiu-neying 
 by himself in that country, was entertained at an abbey, where he heard that Genevra, the king's 
 daughter, was accused of incontinence by Liu-canio, the brother of Ariodant. It was the law that thej 
 who were charged with that crime, nothwithstanding theu' rank, should be burned to death, unless a 
 champion imdertook their defence in combat against the accuser ^vithin the space of a month. Binaldo 
 
 * It was entered on the registers of the Stationers' Company, 1565-6, to Henry Wekes, under the corrupted title, 
 "A boke intituled trageeall and pleasante histoiy Arrounde Jcnevor, the doughter unto the kynge of Skottes, by Peter 
 Beverley;" and republished in 1600. The late Duke of Roxburghe had a copy printed by Thomas East It is ot 
 eitronio rarity, a»d a copy sold at the Gordonstoun sale for £31 10s. 
 
 221
 
 MUCH ADO AEOUT NOTHING. 
 
 undertakes the combat ; and finds by accident the servant by whose connivance Genevra's guJlt had 
 been established, to the satisfaction of Ariodant, by the ascent of a sUken ladder. The remainder of the 
 tale has nothing in common with the Jjlay. The ladder, and nothing hut the ladder, is Shakcspeai-iiin ; 
 unless, perhaps, vre except the incident of the maid personating the mistress at the ^vindow, which also 
 occurs in a variation of the tale in Spenser ; and if borrowed, an unnecessary supposition, was probably 
 derived from the latter source. Harrington, at the end of the translation of the fifth book, seems to 
 think the story of Genevra had an historical origin. " Some others affirme," he says, "that this very 
 matter, though set down here by other names, happened in Ferrara to a kinsewoman of the Dukes, 
 which is here figured under the name of Genevra, and that indeede such a practise was used against hei 
 by a great lord, and discovered by a damsel, as is here set down : howsoever it was, sure the tale is a 
 pretie comicaU matter, and hath bin written in English verse some few years past, learnedly and -nith 
 good grace, though in verse of another kind, by il. George Turborvil." The ti-anslation here alluded 
 to, is not now known to exist. 
 
 "We have no certain infonnation respecting the date of the composition of 'Much Ado about Nothing," 
 but as it is not mentioned by Meres in 1598, and was published in ^600, the probability is that it was 
 written in or between those yeai's. The first edition is entitled, " Much Adoe about Nothing, as it hath 
 been sundrie times pubHkely acted by the Eight Honourable the Lord Chamberlaine his Servants, 
 written by William Shake.'peare : London, Printed by V. S. for Andrew "Wise and W^iUiam Aspley, 
 1600," 4to. It was entered on the registers of the Stationers' Company on August 23rd,* and was not 
 republished till it appeared in the folio of 1623. Both editions appear to have been printed from one 
 manuscript, for, w one place, the same error. Keeper for Kemp, is repeated in both copies ; but the folio 
 was not reprinted from the quarto, for "Jack WUson," the singer, is introduced in a stage direction, a 
 peculiarity not foimd in the latter. This being the case, there can be little hesitation in accepting both 
 copies as of etjual authority, and adopting the readings in either which appear most likely to be the genuine 
 language used by the poet. Adopting this view of the state of the text, it was considered scarcely 
 necessary to perplex the reader by mentioning in the notes the numerous differences between the 
 quarto and folio. In cases of doubt, where both copies have plausible readings, the longer one has 
 usually been adopted, old printers having generally erred in omissions rather than in additions. 
 
 This play was performed at Court in May, 1613, as we learn from the accounts of Lord Harrington, 
 a manuscript in the Bodleian Library; and in the same volume is also noticed a play entitled 
 ' Benedicite and Bcttrise,' acted in the same year, and probably Shakespeare's drama. It was, in all 
 probability, a popidar play; and in Heywood's 'Fair Maid of the Exchange,' 1607, several sentences 
 are imitated from it, apparently as familiar to the writer as "household words." Middleton is open to 
 a similar imputation. Some critics suppose that Ben Jonson also alludes to 'Much Ado about Nothing,' 
 in the induction to 'Bartholomew Fair,' — "and then a substantial watch to have stolen in upon them, 
 and taken them away with mistaking words, as the fasliion is in stage practice." But blundering 
 constables were famUiar to the stage before Shakespeare's comedy was written. According to the 
 excellent authority of Gilford, the guardians of the night had been proverbial for their blundering 
 simplicity before Shakespeare was bom ; and it is scarcely possible to look into an old play without 
 Beeuig how deeply this opinion was rooted in the minds of the people. We have akcady had, in 
 ' Measure for Measure, ' a character bearing some general similarity to Dogberry. 
 
 Sir W. D'Avenant, in his 'Law against Lovers,' 1673, introduced a small portion of the present 
 oomedy, interwoven with ' Measure for Measure, ' fonning a play of the two dramas very inferior to 
 either of the great oi-iginals. There is nothing in it worthy a quotation. 
 
 The characters of Benedick and Beatrice attract tlie principal attention both of the reader and 
 spectator of 'Much Ado about Nothing.' The portion of the comedy devoted to them may be 
 considered as an elaborate representation of the recognized principle that affection is often cngendersd 
 by the discovery of mutual esteem ; but the moral foundation of the play is probably from a nobler 
 
 • It was entered to the piiblishers "Wise and Aspley, the snme who pulHslu'd the quarto ; and it would seem from an 
 obsciu-e notice in the registers, in which it is entered oa amongst other plays " to be staled, " that a piratical edition had 
 been attempted to be licensed for publication.
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 mould. One of the worst phases of society in Shakespeare's time was the prevalence of corjugal 
 infidelity, to wVilch the general want of faith in female virtue greatly contributed. No writer of the 
 duy combated tliis unreasonable tendency so powerfully as our great dramatist. His pages are retiletf 
 with the discovery of futile suspicion, and tlie ridicule or disgrace of those who were toi-raentcd bv 
 ealousy. lienediok has improperly been described as a woman-hater; but if we examine his charactfr 
 cksely, we shall find that his objection to matrimony chiefly arises from another source. " liccauGc, " 
 cays he, talking of women, " I will not do them the wrong to mistrust any, I \\ill do myself the 
 right to trust none." We receive a powerful lesson of the wickedness of this inclination to mistnist 
 in tlie story of Hero. The comical scenes are beyond all praise ; the blunders of the constables nn- 
 iri'esistiblo ; and aU are interwoven with infinite dramatic skill : but the moral of the tiile, to wfiicfi 
 these are artistic accessories, teaches us that suspicion of woman's virtue, founded on circumstantial 
 evidence, very Irecpiontly realizes the title of the comedy, and is, indeed, 'iluch Ado about Nothing.' 
 
 228
 
 PERSONS REPEESENTED. 
 
 Don Pebbo, Prince of Arragon. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1. Act II. sc. 1 ; ec. 3. Act III. so. 2. 
 
 Act IV. sc. 1. Act V. sc. 1 ; sc. S ; sc. 4. 
 
 Don Jonx, iastard brother to Pon Pedro. 
 
 dppears, Act I. sc. 1 ; sc. 3. Act II. sc. 1; sc. 2. Act III. 
 
 6C 2. Act IV. EC. J, 
 
 Clattbio, a young lord of Florence, favourite of Dou 
 
 Pedro. 
 
 Appears, Act I. 6o. 1. Act 11. sc. 1; sc. 3. Act III. bo. 2. 
 
 Act IV. sc. 1. A jt V. sc. 1 ; sc. 3 ; bc. 4. 
 
 Bknediok, a young lord of Padua, fmourite lih/wise 
 
 of Don Pedro. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1. Act II. sc. 1 ; sc. 3. Act III. ec 2. 
 
 Act IV. ec. 1. Act V. sc. I ; sc. 2 ; sc. 4. 
 
 Lbonato, Governor of Messina. 
 
 ApjKars, Act I. BC. 1 ; sc. 2. Act II. sc. 1 , so. 3. 
 
 .■Vet III. sc. 2; BO. 6. Act IV. sc. 1. ActV. sc. 1; sc. 4. 
 
 AsTONio, brother to Leonato. 
 Appears, Act 1. sc. 2. Act II. sc. 1. Act V. sc. 1; sc. i. 
 
 B-iLTHAZAE, attendant to Don Pedro. 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1. Act II. so. 1 ; ec. 3. 
 
 BoBAcnio, follower of Don John. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 3. Act II. sc. 1 ; sc. 2. Aci III. so. 3. 
 Act IV. sc. 2. Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 CoxRADE, follower of Don Jolm. 
 
 Appears Act I. sc. 3. Act IT I. sc. 3. Act IV. ec. 2. 
 Act V. sc. 1. 
 224 
 
 DooBEEBT, the chief constable. 
 Appeart, Act Ul.ac. 3; su. 5. ActlV. sc. 2. ActV. EO. 1 
 
 Veeges, the headborough, or petty constable. 
 Appears, Act III. sc. 3; sc. 5. Act IV. sc. 2. Act V. EC. 1 
 
 A Sexton. 
 Appears, Act IV. sc. 2. Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 A Friar. 
 Appears, Act IV. sc. 1. Act V. so. 4. 
 
 A Boy, attendant on Bcyiediok. 
 Appears, Act II. sc. 3. 
 
 IxxooEX, icifc to Lecnato. 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1. Act II. sc. x. 
 
 Hero, daughter to Leonato. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1. Act II. sc. 1. Act III. sc. 1 , 60. i 
 Act IV. sc. 1. Act V. sc. 4. 
 
 Beateice, niece to Leonato. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1. Act II. sc. I ; sc. 3. Act III. so. 1 ■ 
 
 sc. 4. Act IV. sc. I. Act V' so. 2 ; sc. 4. 
 
 Maegaret, a gentlewoman attending on Hero 
 Appears, Act II. sc. 1. Act III. sc. 1 ; sc. 4. Act V. sc. 3, 
 
 XJEStncA, a gentlewoman attending on Hero. 
 
 Appears, Act II. sc. 1. Act III. sc. 1; sc. 4. Act V 
 sc. 2 ; sc. 4. 
 
 Metsengers, Watch, and Attmdanis. 
 SCEI^E,— ME8SIU.V.
 
 M^tlj Mn iiliiuit liotijiiifl. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SOEKE L— Street in Messina. 
 
 ?'«- Leiwato, -Nxogen^,' ITeko, Beatbice, and 
 
 others, with a Messenger. 
 
 Leon. I loam iu this letter that Don Pedro of 
 irrngon comes this night to Messina. 
 
 3£ess. He is veiy near by this ; he was not three 
 leagues otT -when I left him. 
 
 Leon. How many gentlemen have you lost in 
 this action ? 
 
 Mess. But few cf any sort, and none of name. 
 
 Leon. A victory is twice itself when the achiever 
 brings home full numbers. I find here, that Don 
 Pedro hath bestowed much honour on a young 
 Florentine, called CLiudio. 
 
 Mess. Much descrv'd on his part, and equally 
 remembered by Don Pedro. He hath borne him- 
 self beyond the promise of his age ; doing, in the 
 flgiu-e of a lamb, the feats of a lion : ho hath, in- 
 deed, better bettered expectation than you must 
 expect of me to tcU you how. 
 
 Leon. He Lath an untie here in Messina will 
 be very much glad of it. 
 
 Msss. I have already delivered him letters, and 
 there appears much joy in him; even so much 
 that Joy could not show itself modest enough ■svith- 
 3ut a bad^^e of bitterness. 
 
 Lion Did he break out into tears ? 
 
 MiSii. Li g."cat measure. 
 
 Li</n. A kind overflow of kindness. There arc 
 
 29 
 
 no feces truer than those that are so wasL'd. IIow 
 much better is it to weep at joy, than to joy at 
 weeping ! 
 
 Beat. I pray you, is signior Montanto^ retuili'd 
 from the wars, or no ? 
 
 Mess. I know none of that name, lady : there 
 was none such in the army of any sort.* 
 
 Inn. "Wliat is he that you ask for, niece ? 
 
 iZero. My cousin means signior Benedick of Padua. 
 
 Mess. 0, he 's return'd, and as pleasant as ever 
 he was. 
 
 Beat. He set up his bills' here in Messina, and 
 chaUeng'd Cupid at the flight: and my uncle's 
 fool, reading the challenge, subscrib'd for Cupid, 
 and challcng'd him at the oird-bolt. I pray you, 
 how many hatli ho kiU'd and eaten in these wara? 
 But how many hath he kill'd ? for, indeed, I pro- 
 mis'd to eat aU of his kiUing. 
 
 Lin. Faith, niece, you tax signior Benedick too 
 much ; but he '11 be meet with you, I doubt it not. 
 
 Mess. He hath done good seiwice, lady, in these 
 wars. 
 
 Beat. Ton had musty victual, and he hath holp 
 to eat it: he 's a very valiant trencherman; he hath 
 an excellent stomach. 
 
 Mess. And a good soldier too, lady. 
 
 Beat. And a good soldier to a lady ; — but what 
 is he to a lord ? 
 
 Mess. A lord to a lord, a man to a ULin ; stuff 'd 
 with all honourable virtues.* 
 
 225
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHIISU. 
 
 BCENK J. 
 
 Beat. It is so, indeed: he is no less than a 
 stuff 'd man : but for the stuffing! — Well, we arc 
 aU mortal. 
 
 Leon. Toil must not, sir, mistake my niece : 
 there is a kind of merry war betwixt signior Bene- 
 dick and her : they never meet but there 's a sldr- 
 raish of wit between them. 
 
 Scat. Alas ! he gets nothing by that. In our 
 last conflict, four of his five wits' went halting off, 
 and now is the whole man govem'd with one : so 
 that if he have wit enough to keep himself warm,^ 
 let him boar it for a difference between himself 
 and his horse ; for it is all the wealth that he hath 
 left, to be known a reasonable creature. Who is his 
 companion now ? He hath every month a new 
 sworn brother. 
 
 llesi. Is 't possible ? 
 
 Beat. Teiy easily possible. He wears his faith 
 but as the fashion of his hat ; it ever changes with 
 the next block. 
 
 Mess. I see, lady, the gentleman is not in your 
 books.' 
 
 B'Xit. No, an he were, I would burn my study. 
 Ifut, I pray you, who is his companion ? Is there 
 no young squarer now, that will make a voyage 
 with him to the devil? 
 
 Mess. He is most in the company of the right 
 noble Claudio. 
 
 Beat. Lord ! he wUl hang upon him like a 
 disease : he is sooner caught than the pestilence, 
 and the taker runs presently mad. God help the 
 coble Claudio ! if he have caught the Benedick, it 
 will cost him a thousand pound ere he be cur'd. 
 
 Mess. I will hold friends with you, lady. 
 
 Beat. Do, good fi-icnd. 
 
 Imi. You "11 ne'er run mad, niece. 
 
 Beat. No, not till a hot January. 
 
 Mess. Don Pedro is approach'd. 
 
 Enter Dos Pedro, attended hj Balthazae ani 
 otliers, Don John, Claudio, and BeiVedick. 
 
 Jj Tedro. Good signior Leonato, are you come 
 to meet your trouble ? The fashion of the world 
 is to a\ oid cost, and you encounter it. 
 
 Leon. Never came trouble to my house in the 
 likeness of your grace; for, trouble being gone, 
 comfort should remain ; but, when you depart from 
 me, sorrow abides, and happiness takes his leave. 
 
 B. Pedro. You embrace your charge too wil- 
 lingly. I think tliis is your dauglitcr. 
 
 Leon. Her motber hath many times told me so. 
 
 Bene. Were you in doubt, tliat you ask'd her ? 
 23Q 
 
 Leon. Signior Benedick, no ; for then wr re yoii 
 a child. 
 
 B. Pedro. You have it fuU, Benedick : we inav 
 guess by this what you are, being a man. Trulv. 
 the lady fathers herself:'" — Be happy, lady I I'oi 
 you are like an honourable father. 
 
 Bene. If signior Leonato be her father, she 
 would not have his head on her shoulders for all 
 Messina, as like him as she is. 
 
 Beat. I wonder that you will stiU be taLkirg, 
 signior Benedick ; nobody marks you. 
 
 Bene. "\^1iat, my dear lady Disdain ! are you j et 
 living? 
 
 Beat. Is it possible Disdain should die, whiiP 
 she hath such meet food to feed it as signior Ecdp- 
 dick ? Courtesy itself must convert to disdain,*- it' 
 you come in her presence. 
 
 Bene. Then is courtesy a turncoat : — But :t is 
 certain I am loved of all ladies, onlj- you excepted : 
 and I would I could find in my heart that I had 
 not a hard heart : for, truly, I love none. 
 
 Beat. A dear happiness to women ! they wo'ild 
 else have been troubled with a pernicious suitor. 
 I thank God, and my oold blood, I am of vnur- 
 humour for that : I had rather hear my dog hari 
 at a crow, than a man swear he loves mo. 
 
 Bene. God keep your ladyship stiU in that min(3 
 so some gentleman or other shall 'scape a predosti ■ 
 nate scratoh'd face ! 
 
 Beat. Scratching could not make it worse, an 't 
 were such a face as yours were. 
 
 Bene. Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher. 
 
 Beat. A bird of my tongue is better than a beast 
 of yours. 
 
 Beyie. I would my horse had the speed of your 
 tongue, and so good a continuer : But keep youi 
 way, a' God's name ! I have done. 
 
 Beat. You always end with a jade's trick ; I 
 know you of old. 
 
 B. Pedro. This is the sum of all : Leonato, — 
 signior Claudio, and signior Bcnediclc, — my dear 
 fi-iend Leonato hath invited you aU. I tell him we 
 shall stay here at the least a month ; and he heartily 
 prays some occasion may detain us longer : I dare 
 8wc;ir he is no hypocrite, but prays from his heart. 
 
 Leon. If you swear, my lord, you shall not be 
 forsworn. — Let me bid you welcome, my lord : 
 being reconciled to the prince your brother, I owe 
 you all duty. 
 
 B. John. I thank you : I am not of many words. 
 but I thank you. 
 
 Leon. Please it youi grace lead ou :
 
 ACT 1. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHIJ^G. 
 
 KENH 1 
 
 D. Pedro. Your hand, Leoaato; we will go 
 together. \_E.reunt all but Bene, aiid Claud. 
 
 Clauil. Beneilick, didst thou note the daughter 
 of signior Leonato ' 
 
 Bene. I noted lier not : but I loolc'd on her. 
 Claud. Is she not a modest young lady ? 
 Bene. Do j'ou question me as an honest man 
 ohould do, for my simple true judgment : or would 
 you havo me speak after my custom, as being a 
 professed tyrant to their sex? 
 
 Cflaud. No, I pray thee, speak in sober judg- 
 ment. 
 
 Bene. Why, i' faith, methinks she 's too low for 
 a high praise, too brown for a fair praise, and too 
 little for a great praise : only this commendation I 
 can afford her, — that wore she other than she is, 
 she were unhandsome ; and being no other but as 
 she is, I do not like her. 
 
 Claud. Thou think' st I am in sport; I pray 
 thee, tell me truly how thou lik'st her. 
 
 Bene. "Would you buy her, that you inrpiire 
 after her ? 
 
 Claud. Can tli^e world buy such a jewel? 
 Bene. Vea, and a ease to put it into ! But speak 
 you this with a sad brow? or do 5'ou play the 
 louting Jack," to teU us Cupid is a good harc- 
 ftnder," and Vulcan, a rare carpenter? Come, in 
 That key shall a man take 5-011, to go in the song ? 
 Clattd. In mine eye she is the sweetest lad)' that 
 ever I look'd on. 
 
 Bene. I can see yet without spectacles, and I 
 ee no such matter: there 's her cousin, an she 
 were not possess'd with a fury, exceeds her as 
 much in beauty as the first of May doth the last of 
 December. But I hope you have no intent to 
 turn husband ; have you ? 
 
 Claud. I would scarce trust myself, though I 
 had sworn the contrary, if Hero would be my 
 wife. 
 
 Bene. Is 't come to this, in faith? Hath not 
 the world one man but he will wear his cap with 
 suspicion ? " ShaU I never see a bachelor of tliree- 
 score again ? Go to, i' faith : an thou wilt needs 
 thrust thy neck into a yoke, wear the print of it, 
 and sigh away Sundays. Look, Don Pedro is 
 returned to seek you. 
 
 Re-enter Don Pedro. 
 
 B. Pedro. Wliat secret hath held you here, that 
 you followed not to Leonato's ? 
 
 Bene. I would ycir grace would constrain me 
 to tell. 
 
 D. Pedro. I charge thee on thy allegiance. 
 Bene. You hear, coimt Claudio : I can be scerci 
 as a dumb man; I would have you think so; bul 
 on my allegiance,- -mark you this, on my alh;- 
 giance : — He is in love. With who ? — now thai 
 is your grace's part. — Mark, how short his answer 
 is : — With Hero, Leonato's short daughter. 
 Claud. If tliis were so, so were it uttered. 
 Bene. Like the old tale, my lord : " it is not so, 
 nor 't was not so: but indeed, God forbid it 
 should bo so." ' 
 
 Claud. If my passion change not sliorth-, God 
 forbid it sliould be otherwise. 
 
 B. Pedro. Amen, if you love her ; for the lady 
 is very well worthy. 
 
 Claud. You speak this to fetch me in, my lord. 
 D. Pedro. By my troth, I speak my thought. 
 Claud. And in faith, my lord, I spoke mine. 
 Bene. And by my two faiths and troths, nij 
 lord, I spoke mine. 
 
 Claud. That I love her, I feel. 
 D. Pedro. That she is worthy, I know. 
 Bene. That I neither feel how she shovdd be 
 loved, nor Itnow how she should be wortliy, is tlie 
 opinion tliat fii'e cannot melt out of me ; 1 will di' 
 in it at the stake. 
 
 B. Pedro. Thou wast ever an obstinate hen tk 
 in the despite of beauty. 
 
 Claud. And never cuuld maintain his jiort, 1 ul 
 in the force of his will. 
 
 Bene. That a woman conceived me, I thank lier ; 
 that she brought me up, I likewise give her most 
 humble thanks : but that I wiU have a recheaf 
 winded in my forehead, or hang my bugle in an 
 invisible baldriok, all women shall pardon me. 
 Because 1 will not do them the wrong to mistrust 
 any, I will do myself the right to trust none ; and 
 the fine is, (for the which I may go the finer), I 
 wiU live a bachelor. 
 
 D. Pedro. I shall see thee, ere I die, look pale 
 with love. 
 
 Betie. With anger, with sickness, or witli hun- 
 ger, my lord ; not with love. Prove that ever 1 
 lose more blood with love than I ■wUl get again 
 with drinking, pick out mine eyes ■with a ballad- 
 maker's pen, and hang me up at the door of a 
 brothel-house for the sign of blind Cupid. 
 
 B. Pedro. WeU, if ever thou dost faU fi.ira this 
 faith, thou wilt prove a notable argument. 
 
 Bene. If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat,'' 
 and shoot at me; and he that hits me, let him be 
 clapped on the shoulder, and call'd Adam. 
 
 227
 
 A.CI 1. 
 
 MUCH ABO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 B. Pfdro. "Well, as time shall try : 
 "In time the savage bull doth boar the yoke."'* 
 
 Bene. The savage bull may; but if ever this 
 sensible Benedick bear it, pluck off the bull's horns 
 uiid set them in my forehead : and let me be 
 viJ;il)' painted, and in such great letters as they 
 write, "Here is good horse to hire," let them 
 signify imder my sign, — "Here you may see 
 \jenedick, the married man." 
 
 Claud. If this should ever happen, thou woiddst 
 36 horn-mad. 
 
 B. Pedro. Nay, if Cupid have not spent all his 
 quiver in Venice, thou ^vilt quake for this shortlj*. 
 
 Bev.c. Look for an earthquake too then. 
 
 B. Pedro. Well, you will temporize with the 
 hours. In the mean time, good signior Benedick, 
 repair to Leonato's ; commend me to him, and tell 
 hira I will not fail liim at supper; for, indeed, he 
 hath made great preparation. 
 
 Bene. I have almost matter enough in me for 
 such am embassage ; and so I commit yoii — 
 
 Claud. To the tuition of God : From my house, 
 (if I had it)— 
 
 B. Pedro. The sLxth of July, 
 
 Your lo-i-ing friend, Bexedick. 
 
 Bene. Nay, mock not, mock not. The body of 
 your discourse is sometime guarded \rith frag- 
 ments, and the guards are but slightly basted on 
 neither : ere you flout old ends any further," 
 examine your conscience; and so I leave you. 
 
 lExit Bene. 
 
 Claud. My liege, your highness now may do 
 mc good. 
 
 B. Pedro. My love is thine to teach ; teach it 
 but how, 
 And thou shalt see how apt it is to learn 
 Any hard lesson that may do thee good. 
 
 Claud. Hath Leonato any son, my lord ? 
 
 B. Pedro. No child but Hero; she 's his only 
 heir : 
 Dost thou affect her, Claudio ? 
 
 Chud. my lord. 
 
 When you went onward on this ended action, 
 I look'd upon her with a soldier's eye. 
 That lik'd, but had a rougher task in hand 
 Than to drive liking to the name of love : 
 I5ut now I am return'd, and that war-thoughts 
 Have left their jjlaces vacant, in their rooms 
 Come thronging soft and delicate desires, 
 All prompting me how fair young Hero is. 
 Saying, — I lik'd her ero I went to wars. 
 
 B. Pulro. Thou wilt be like a lovor presently, 
 
 228 
 
 And tire the hearer with a book of words ; 
 
 K thou dost love fiiir Hero, cherish it ; 
 
 And I will break with her,'" and with her father 
 
 And thou shalt have her. "Was 't not to this end 
 
 That thou begann'st to twist so fine a story ? 
 
 Claud. How sweetly do you minister to love, 
 That know love's grief by his complexion ! 
 But lest my liking might too sudden seem, 
 I would have salv'd it with a longer treatise. 
 B. Pedro. "VATiat need the bridge much broadoi 
 
 than the flood ? 
 The fairest grant is the necessity : 
 Look, what will serve is fit : 't is once," thou 
 
 lovest ; 
 And I will fit thee with the remedy. 
 I know we shall have revelling to-night ; 
 I will assume thy part in some disguise. 
 And teU fair Hero I am Claudio ; 
 And in her bosom I 'U unclasp my heart, 
 And take her hearing prisoner with the force 
 And strong encounter of my amorous tale. 
 Then, after, to her father will I break ; 
 And, the conclusion is, she shall be thine. 
 In practice let us put it presently. \ Exomtt 
 
 SCENE II. — A Room in Leonato'« Houu, 
 Enter Leonato and Aictojuo. 
 
 Leon. How now, brother ? Where is my cousin, 
 your son ? Hatli he provided this music ? 
 
 Ant. He is veiy busy about it. But, brother, 
 I can tell you strange news that you yet dreamt 
 not of. 
 
 Leon. Are they good ? 
 
 Ant. As the event stamps them ; but they have 
 a good cover; they show well outward. The 
 prince and count Claudio, walking in a thick- 
 jdeaohed alley" in my orchard, wore thus much 
 overheard by a man of mine. The prince dis- 
 covered to Claudio that he loved my niece, your 
 daughter, and meant to acknowledge it this night 
 in a dance; and, if he fouud lier accordant, he 
 meant to take the present time by the top, and 
 instantly break with you of it. 
 
 Leon. Hath the fellow any wit that told you 
 this? 
 
 Ant. A good sharp fellow ; I will send for him, 
 and question him yourself. 
 
 Loon. No, no ; we will hold it as a dream, till 
 it ajipcar itself: — but I will acquaint my daughtci 
 withal, tliat she may be the better prepared for an 
 answer, if pcradveuturo tliis bo true. Go you, 
 and tell her of it. {^Several persons cross the staffe.l
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 
 
 SCJtNE Ol 
 
 Cousius, j'ou know what you have to do. — 0, I 
 cry you mercy, friend : go you with mo, and I 
 will use your skill: — Good cousin, have a rare 
 this busy time. [^Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. — AnotJier Room in Leonato'* House. 
 Enter Don John and CofTRADE. 
 
 Con. "What the good-jer, my lord ! why are you 
 thus oiit of measure sad ? 
 
 D. John. Tliere is no measure in the occasion 
 tliat breeds ; therefore the sadness is without limit. 
 
 Co7i. You should licar reason. 
 
 B. John. And when I have heard it, what bles- 
 sing bringeth it ? 
 
 Con. If not a present remedy, at least a patient 
 suiTerance. 
 
 D. John. I wonder that thou, being (as thou 
 say'st thou art) born under Saturn, goest about to 
 apply a mortal medicine to a mortif3'ing mischief.^ 
 1 cannot hide what I am : I must be sad when I 
 nave cause, and smile at no man's jests ; eat when 
 I have stomach, and wait for no man's leisure ; 
 sleep when I am drowsy, and tend on no man's 
 business ; laugh when I am merry, and claw no 
 man in his humour. 
 
 Con. Yea, but you must not make the fiiU show 
 of this, till you may do it without controlment. 
 You have of late stood out against your brother, 
 and he Iiath ta'en you newly into his grace ; where 
 it is impossible you should take true root, but by 
 the fair weather that you make yourself: it is 
 needful that you fi-ame the season for your own 
 harvest. 
 
 D. John. I had rather be a canker" in a hedge 
 than a rose in his grace; and it bettor fits my | 
 blood to be disdain'd of all, than to fashion a 
 carriage to rob love from any. In this, though I 
 cannot be said to be a flattering honest man, it 
 must not be denied but I am a pLdu-dealing 
 villain. I am' trusted with a muzzle, and enfran- 
 chised with a clog ; therefore I have decreed not 
 to sing in my cage. If I had my mouth I would 
 
 bite ; if I liad my liberty I would do my liking 
 in tlie mean time, let me be that I am, and sneli 
 not to alter me. 
 
 Con. Can you make no use of your discontent ? 
 
 ]}. John. I make all use of it, for I use it only." 
 Wlio comes here ? What news, Boraohio ? 
 
 Enter Boeaciuo. 
 
 Bora. I came yonder from a great supper ; the 
 prince, your brother, is royally entertained by 
 Leonato ; and I can give you intelligence of an 
 intended marriage. 
 
 B. John. WUl it serve for any model to build 
 mischief on ? What is he for a fool that betroth.? 
 himself to imquiotness ? 
 
 Bora. Marry, it is your brother's right lumd. 
 
 B. John. Who ? the most exquisite Claudio ? 
 
 Bora. Even he. 
 
 B. John. A proper squire! And who, and who? 
 Which way looks lie ? 
 
 Bora. Marry, on Hero, the daughter and heir oi 
 Leonato. 
 
 B. John. A very forwai-d ilarch-chiok ! How 
 came you to this ? 
 
 Bora. Being entertain'd for a perfumer, as I 
 was smoking a musty room,™ comes me the prince 
 and Claudio, hand in hand, in sad conference : 1 
 whipt me behind the arras ;"' and there heard it 
 agreed upon, that the prince should woo Hero foi 
 himself, and having obtain'd her, give her to coun 
 Claudio. 
 
 B. John. Come, come, let us thither ; this may 
 prove food to my displeasure : that young start-up 
 hath all the glory of my overthrow. If I cau 
 cross him any wa}', I bless myself every way 
 You are botli sure, and wiU assist me ? 
 
 Con. To the death, my lord. 
 
 B. John. Let us to the great supper: their cheei 
 is the greater, that I am subdued. Would the 
 cook were of my mind ! — Shall we go prove what's 
 to be done ? 
 
 Bora. We '11 wait upon your lordship. [ Exn,>:t
 
 ACT 11. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 SCCNB I. 
 
 ACT IL 
 
 scent; I.—A Hall in Leonato'« Eoim. 
 
 Enter Leonato, Antonio, IiwoGEif, Heeo, 
 Beateice, and others. 
 
 Leon. "Wag not count John here at supper ? 
 
 Ant. I saw him not. 
 
 Beat. How tartly that gentleman looks ! I 
 never can see him but I am heartburn'd an hour 
 after. 
 
 Hero. He is of a very melancholy disposition. 
 
 Beat. He were an excellent man that were made 
 just in the mid- way between him and Benedick; 
 die one is too like an image, and says nothing; 
 and the other too like my lady's eldest son, ever- 
 more tattling. 
 
 Leo7i. Then half signior Benedick's tongue in 
 count John's mouth, and half count John's melan- 
 choly in signior Benedick's face, — 
 
 Beat. With a good leg, and a good foot, uncle, 
 and money enough in his purse, such a man would 
 •ndn any woman in the world, — if he could get her 
 good will. 
 
 Inn. By my troth, niece, thou wilt never get 
 thee a husband, if thou be so shrewd of thy tongue. 
 
 Ant. In faith, she 's too curst. 
 
 Beat. Too curst is more than curst : I shall 
 lessen God's sending that way: for it is said, 
 "God sends a curst cow short horns;" but to a 
 cow too curst he sends none. 
 
 Leon. So, by being too curst, God will send you 
 no horns. 
 
 Beat. Just, if he send me no husband ; for the 
 which blessing, I am at him upon my knees every 
 morning and evening. Lord ! I could not endure 
 a husband with a beard on his face : I had rather 
 fie in the woollen. 
 
 Leon. You may light upon a husband that hath 
 no beard. 
 
 Beat. "VVTiat should I do with him r dress him 
 m my apparel, and make him my wniting-gentle- 
 woman? Ho that hath a board is more than a 
 youth ; and he that liath no board is less than a 
 man : and ho that is more than a youth is not for me; 
 230 
 
 and he that is less than a man I am not for him : 
 Therefore I will even take sixpence in earnest of 
 the bear-herd,** and lead his apes into hell. 
 
 Leon. "Well, then, go you into hcU ? 
 
 Beat. No, but to the gate; and there wOl the 
 devil meet me, like an old cuckold, with horns on 
 his head, and say, "Get you to heaven, Beatrice, get 
 you to heaven ; here 's no place for you maids :" so 
 deliver I up my apes, and away to saint Peter foi 
 the heavens ; he shows mo where the bachelors sit, 
 and there live we as merry as the day is long. 
 
 Ant. "Well, niece, [to Heiio] I trust you ■ndll be 
 rul'd by your father. 
 
 Beat. Yes, faith; it is my cousin's duty to 
 make cursy, and say, "As it please you :" — but yet^ 
 for all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, 
 or else make another cursy,-' and say, "Father, as 
 it please me." 
 
 ■Leon. Well, niece, I hope to see you one day 
 fitted with a husband. 
 
 Beat. Not till God make men of some other 
 metal than earth. "Would it not grieve a woman 
 to be ovor-mast'red with a piece of valiant dust ? 
 to make account of her life to a clod of wayward 
 marl ? No, uncle, I 'U none. Adam's sons are 
 my bretteen, and truly I hold it a sin to match in 
 my kindred. 
 
 Leon. Daughter, remember what I told you : it 
 the prince do solicit you in that kind, you know 
 your answer. 
 
 Beat. The fault wiU bo in the music, cousin, if 
 you be not wooed in good time : if the prince be 
 too important, tell him there 's measure iu every- 
 thing, and so dance out the answer. For hear me. 
 Hero; "Wooing, wedding, and repenting, is as a 
 Scotch jig, a measure, and a cinque-pace : tlio first 
 suit is hot and hast)', like a Scotch jig, and full as 
 fantastical; the wedding, manncrly-uiodcst, as a 
 measure full of state and ancientry; and then comes 
 repentance, and, with his bad legs, falls into the 
 cinque-pace faster and faster, till ho sinks into his 
 grave. 
 
 ioort. Cousin, you apprehend passing slirewdly.
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 £eat. I have a good eye, uncle; I can sec a 
 ;liurch by da3-light. 
 
 Leon. The revellers are ent'ring, brother ; make 
 good room. 
 
 Enter Don Pedko, Clattdio, Benedick, Baltiiaxae ; 
 Don Joiry, Boraorio, M.uioaeet, Ursula, and 
 others, masked. Tlieij converse in groxqis. 
 
 T). Pedro. Iviidy, will you walk about with your 
 frieiid ? 
 
 JTero. So you walk softh', and look sweetly, and 
 Bay nothing, I am yours for the walk ; and, espe- 
 cially, when I walk away. 
 
 D. Pedro. With me in your company ? 
 
 Hero. I may say so when I please. 
 
 D. Pedro. And when please you to say so ? 
 
 ITero. "When I like your favour; for God defend'" 
 Ihe lute should be like the case ! 
 
 D. Pedro, ily visor is Philemon's roof; within 
 the house is Jove. 
 
 ITero. Wliy, then your visor should be thatoh'd. 
 
 J). Pedro. Speak low, if you speak love. 
 
 [_TaJccs Iter aside. 
 
 Bene. Well, I would you did like me. 
 
 Marff. So would not I, for your own sake, for I 
 nave many ill qualities. 
 
 Bene. "Wliich is one? 
 
 Ifarff. I say my prayers aloud. 
 
 Bene. I love you the better ; the hearers may 
 cry, Amen! [_Goes aside. 
 
 Marg. God match me with a good dancer ! 
 
 BaUli. Amen! 
 
 Marg. And God keep him out of my sight when 
 the dance is done! — Answer, clerk. 
 
 Balth. No more words; the clerk is answered. 
 \_TIiey part differetit ways. 
 
 Urs. I know you well cnoilgh ; you are signior 
 .Antonio. 
 
 Ant. At a word, I am not. 
 
 Urs. I know you by the waggling of your head. 
 
 Ant. To tell you true, I counterfeit him. 
 
 Urs. You could never do him so ill-wcU, unless 
 you were the very man. Here 's his dry hand'' 
 np and down ; you are he, you are ho. 
 
 Ant. At a word, I am not. 
 
 Urs. Come, come; do you think I do not know 
 you by your excellent wit? Can virtue hide itself? 
 Go to, mum, you are he : graces will appear, and 
 there 's an end. 
 
 \_Mixing witli the company. 
 
 Beat. "Will you not tcU me who told you so ? 
 
 Bene. K o, you shall pardon me. 
 
 Beat. Nor will you not tell me who you are? 
 
 Bene. Not now. 
 
 Beat. That I was disdainful, — and that I iiad 
 my good wit out of the 'Hundred Merry Talcs;'''— 
 WeU, tliis was signior Benedick that said so. 
 
 Bene. What's he? 
 
 Beat. I am sure you know him well enough. 
 
 Bene. Not I, believe me. 
 
 Beat. Did ho never make you laugh ? 
 
 Bene. I pray you, what is he ? 
 
 Beat. Why, he 's the prince's jester, — a very 
 dull fool ; only his gift is in devising impossible 
 slanders : none but libertines deliglit in him ; and 
 the commendation is not in his wit, but in his vil- 
 lainy ; for he both pleasoth men and angers them, 
 and then they laugh at him and beat him. I am 
 sure he is in the fleet ; I would he had boarded mo. 
 
 Bene. When I know the gentleman, 1 '11 tell 
 him what you sa}-. 
 
 Beat. Do, do: he '11 but break a comparison or 
 two on me; wliich, pcradventure not marked, or 
 not laugh'd at, sti'ikes him into melancholy ; and 
 then there 's a partiidge' wing saved,'' for the fool 
 •nill eat no supper that night. \_Mmic within. 
 We must follow the leaders. 
 
 Bene. In every good thing. 
 
 Beat. Nay, if they lead to any ill, I wiU leave 
 
 them at the next turning. \_Danee. Then exeunt 
 
 all lut Don Zows, Bora., and Cliud. 
 
 B. John. Sm-o, my brother is amorous on Hero 
 and hath withdrawn her father to break with nim 
 about it : The ladies follow her, and but one visor 
 remains. 
 
 Bora. And that is Claudio : I know him by his 
 bearing. 
 
 B. John. Are not you signior Benedick ? 
 
 Claud. You know me well ; I am he. 
 
 B. John. Signior, you are verj- near my brothel 
 in his love : he is enamour'd on Hero. 1 pray 
 you dissuade him from her; she is no cjuul for 
 his birth : you may do the part of an honest man 
 in it. 
 
 Claud. How know you he loves her ? 
 
 B. John. I heard him swear his affection. 
 
 Bora. So did I too ; and he swore he would 
 marry her to-night. 
 
 B. John. Come, let us to the banquet. 
 
 \_Exeunt Don John and Bora, 
 
 Claud. Thus answer I in name of Benedick, 
 But hear these iU news with the ears of Claudio. 
 'Tis certain so ; — the prince woes fo7 himself ; 
 Friendship is cmatant in aU other things.
 
 I — 
 
 MUCH ADO UJOUT NOTHING. 
 
 Save in tlie office and affairs of love : 
 
 Therefore, all hearts m love use their own tongues ; 
 
 Let every eye negotiate for itself, 
 
 And trast no agent : for beauty is a witch, 
 
 Against whose charms faith melteth into blood. " 
 
 This is an accident of hom-ly proof, 
 
 Which I mistrusted not. Farewell, therefore. Hero ! 
 
 Re-enter Benedick. 
 
 Bene. CoTint Claudio ? 
 
 Claud. Yea, the same. 
 
 Bene. Come, will you go with me ? 
 
 Claud. Whither? 
 
 Bene. Even to the next wiUow, about your own 
 business, count. What fashion wiU you wear the 
 garland of ?^' About your neck, like an usurer's 
 chain,'' or under your arm, like a lieutenant's 
 scan r You must wear it one way, for the prince 
 hath got your Hero. 
 
 Claud. I wish him joy of lier. 
 
 Hene. Wliy, that 's spoken like an honest drover. 
 So they sell bullocks ! But did you think the prince 
 would have served you thus ? 
 
 Claud. I pray you leave me. 
 
 Bene. Ho ! now you strike like the blind man ; 
 t was the boy that stole your meat, and you 'U 
 beat the post. 
 
 Claud. If it will not be, I '11 leave you. \_Exit. 
 
 Bene. Alas ! poor hurt fowl ! Now will he creep 
 Lato sedges. But that my lady Beatrice should 
 know me, and not Imow me! The prince's fool! — 
 Ha, it may bo I go under that title, because I am 
 merry. — Yea; but so; I am apt to do myself 
 wrong: I am not so reputed. It is the base 
 though bitter disposition of Beatiioe, that puts the 
 world into her person, and so gives me out. Well, 
 I '11 be revenged as I may. 
 
 Re-enter Dos Pedeo. 
 
 B. Pedro. Now, signior, where 's the count ? 
 Did you see him ? 
 
 Bene. Troth, my lord, I have played the part of 
 lady Fame. I found him here as melancholy as a 
 lodge in a warren ;" I told him, and I think told 
 him true, that your grace had got the wiU of this 
 young lady ; and I offered him my company to a 
 wiUow-trec, either to make him a garland, as 
 being forsaken, or to bind him a rod, as being 
 nrorthy to be whipped. 
 
 J). Pedro. To be whipped ! what 's his fault ? 
 
 Bene. The flat transgression of a schoolboy ; 
 who, being overjoyed with finding a bird's nest, 
 shows it his companion, and he steals it. 
 232 
 
 B. Pedro. Wilt thou make a trust a transgres- 
 sion ? The transgression is in the stealer. 
 
 Bene. Yet it had not been amiss the wd bar. 
 been made, and the garland too ; for the garlan'^ 
 he might have worn himself; and the roi ic 
 might have bestowed on you, who, as 1 tstku it 
 have stol'n his bird's nest. 
 
 B. Pedro. I wiU but teach them to sing, and 
 restore them to the owner. 
 
 Bene. If their singing answer your saying, oy 
 my faith, you say honestly. 
 
 B. Pedro. The lady Beatiice hath a quarrel to 
 you; the gentleman that danced -n-ith lier told her 
 she is much vsTong'd by you. 
 
 Bene. 0, she misus'd me past the endurance of 
 a block : an oak, but with one green leaf on it, 
 would have answered her; my very visor began to 
 assume life and scold with her. She told me, not 
 thinking I had been myself, that I was the piince's 
 jester, and that I was duller than a gTcat thaw; 
 huddling jest upon jest, with such impossible c>>n- 
 veyance upon me, that I stood like a man at .-i 
 mark, with a whole army shooting at me. Sht 
 speaks poniards, and every word stabs ! If !ici 
 breath were as tenible as her tenninations, l!iir: 
 were no living near her: she would infect to tii, 
 North star. I would not marry her, though '-lu 
 were endowed with all that Adam liad left liir.i 
 before he transgressed : she would hav(; inadc 
 Hercules have tum'd spit : yea, and have cleft liis 
 club to make the fire too. Come, talk not of her : 
 you shall find her the infernal Ate in good ap- 
 parel. '° I would to God some scholar would con- 
 jure her; for, certainly, while she is here, a mai: 
 may live as quiet in hell as in a sauctuaiy : and 
 people sin upon purpose, because they would gc 
 thither ; so, indeed, all disquiet, horror, and \ er- 
 turbation foUow her. 
 
 Re-enter CiiAtidio, Beaieice, Leoxato, and 
 Hero. 
 
 D. Pedro. Look, here she comes. 
 
 Bene. WUl your grace command me any service 
 to the world's end? I will go on the slightest 
 arrand now to the antipodes, that you can d» vis< 
 to send mo on ; I wUl fetch you a toothpicker now 
 fi-om the farthest inch of Asia; bring you the 
 length of Prcstcr John's foot; fetch you a hair o, 
 the great Cham's beard;'" do )-o\i any embassage 
 to the Pigmies, — rather than hold tlirco words 
 conference with this harpy. You Lavo no emjiloj 
 moat for me ?
 
 ATDCH ADO ABOUT Is^OTHING. 
 
 SCKNB 1. 
 
 D. Pidrc. None, but to desire your good com- 
 pany. 
 
 Bine. O God, sir, here 'a a dish I love not ; I 
 cannot endure my lady Tongue. \^&it. 
 
 D. Pedro. Come, lady, come ; you have lost the 
 heart of sigiiior Benedick. 
 
 Beat. Indeed, my lord, he lent it me awhile ; 
 and I gave liim use for it — a double heart for a 
 single one : marry, once before he won it of me 
 with false dice ; therefore, your grace may weU 
 say I have lost it. 
 
 B. Pedro. You have put him down, lady ; you 
 have put him down. 
 
 Beat. So I would not he should do me, my 
 lord, lest I should prove the mother of fools. 
 I have brought count Claudio, whom you sent me 
 to seek. 
 
 D. Pedro. AVliy, how now, count? wherefore 
 are you sad ? 
 
 Claud. Not sad, my lord. 
 
 D. Pedro. How then ? Sick ? 
 
 Claud. Neither, my lord. 
 
 Beat. The count is neither sad, nor sick, nor 
 racny, nor well : but ci\'il, count ; ci^ol as an 
 orange,*" and something of that jealous eomplssion. 
 
 B. Pedro. V faith, lady, I think your blazon to 
 be true ; though I 'U be sworn, if he be so, his 
 conceit is false. Here, Claudio, I have wooed in 
 thy name, and fair Hero is won; I have broke 
 with her father, and his good wOl obtained : 
 name the day of marriage, and God give thee 
 
 Leon. Count, take of me my daughter, and with 
 her my fortunes ; his grace hath made the match, 
 and aU grace say ' Amen ' to it ! 
 
 Beat. Speak, count ; 't is your cue. 
 
 Claud. Silence is the perfcctcst herald of joy : I 
 were but little happy, if I could say how much. 
 Lady, as you are mine, I am yours : I give away 
 myself for you, and dote upon the exchange. 
 
 Beat. Speak, cousin ; or, if you cannot, stop his 
 mouth with a kiss, and let not him speak neither. 
 
 B. Pedro. In faith, lady, you have a meriy 
 heart. 
 
 Beat. Yea, my lord, I thank it; poor fool, it 
 keeps on the windy side of care. My cousin tells 
 him in liis ear that he is in her heart. 
 
 Clmtd. And so she doth, cousin. 
 
 Beat. Good lord, for alliance!" — Thus goes 
 every one to the world but I, and I am sun- 
 buni'd;" I may sit in a comer, and cry, heigh-ho 
 for a husband ! 
 
 80 
 
 B. Pedro. Lady Beatrice, I wiU get you :ne. 
 
 Beat. I would rather have ono of your father' 
 getting. Hath your grace ne'er a brotlicT like 
 you ? Your father got excellent husbands, if a 
 maid could come by them. 
 
 B. Pedro. Will you have me, lady ? 
 
 Beat. No, my lord, unless I might have another 
 for working-days ; your gi'ace is too costly to wear 
 every day. But, I beseech your grace, pardon 
 me; I was born to speak all mirth, and no 
 matter. 
 
 B. Pedro. Your silence most offends me, and to 
 be merry best becomes you ; for, out of question, 
 you were born in a merry hour. 
 
 Beat. No, sure, my lord, ni}- motlicr cried ; but 
 then there was a star danced, and under that waa 
 I boni. — Cousins, God give you joy ! 
 
 Leon. Niece, ^vill you look to those things I 
 told you of ? 
 
 Beat. I ciy you mere)', uncle. — By your grace's 
 pardon. \_Exit Rkat. 
 
 B. Pedro. By my troth, a pleasant-spirited lady. 
 
 Leon. There 's little of the melancholy element 
 in her, my lord : she is never sad, but when she 
 sleeps ; and not ever sad then, for I have heard 
 my daughter say she hath often dreamt of unliap- 
 piness, and wak'd herself with laughing. 
 
 B. Pedro. She cannot endure to hear toll of a 
 husband. 
 
 Leon. 0, by no means; she mocks all her 
 wooers out of suit. 
 
 B. Pedro. She were an excellent wife for Bene- 
 dick. 
 
 Leon. Lord, my lord, if they were but a week 
 married, they would talk themselves mad. 
 
 B. Pedro. Count Claudio, when mean you to 
 go to chm-ch r 
 
 Claud. To-morrow, my lord : Time goes on 
 crutches, till Love have all his rites. 
 
 Ljcon. Not till Monday, my dear son, which ia 
 hence a just seven-night ; and a time too brief too. 
 to have all things answer my mind. 
 
 B. Pedro. Come, you shake the head at so long 
 a breathing; but I warrant thee, Claudio, the 
 time shall not go dully by us. I will, in the 
 interim, undertake one of Hercules' labours; 
 which is, to bring signior Benedick and the Lidy 
 Beatrice into a mountain of affection, the one 
 witli the other. 1 woidd fain have it a match ; 
 and I doubt not but to fashion it, if you three 
 will but minister such assistance la I shall givf 
 you direction. 
 
 .:,33
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 BCEiTK n. — m. 
 
 Lewi. My lord, I am for you, though it cost me 
 ieu nights' watchings. 
 
 Claud. And I, my lord. 
 
 B. Pedro. And you too, gentle Hero ? 
 
 Hero. I -wiU do any modest ofBce, my lord, to 
 help my cousin to a good hushand. 
 
 _D. Pedro. And Eenedick is not the unhope- 
 fuUest husband that I know. Thus far can I 
 praise him : he is of a noble strain, of approved 
 ralour, and confirm'd honesty. I will teach you 
 how to humour your cousin, that she shall fall in 
 love with Benedick : — and I, with your two helps, 
 will so practice on Benedick, that, in despite of 
 his quick wit and his queasy stomach," he shall 
 fall in love with Beatrice. If we can do this, 
 Cupid is no longer an archer; his glory shall be 
 ours, for we are the only love-gods. Go in with 
 me, and I will tell you my drift. \_Excunt. 
 
 SCENE II. — A Room in Leonato's Uome. 
 Enter Don John and BoH.icnio. 
 
 D. John. It is so ; the coimt Claudio shall marry 
 Ihe daughter of Leonato 
 
 Bora. Tea, my lord, but I can cross it. 
 
 Z>. Jolin. Any bar, any cross, any impediment 
 wiU be medioinable to me. I am sick in dis- 
 pleasure to him ; and whatsoever comes athwart 
 his affection, ranges evenly ■ndth mine. How 
 canst thou cross this marriage ? 
 
 Bora. Not honestly, my lord ; but so covertly, 
 that no dishonesty shall appear in me. 
 
 T). John. Show mo briefly liow. 
 
 Bora. I think I told your lordship, a year since, 
 how much I am in the favour of Margaret, the 
 waiting-gentlewoman to Hero. 
 
 B. John. I remember. 
 
 Bora. I can, at any unseasonable instant of the 
 night, appoint her to look out at her lady's 
 chamber- window. 
 
 B. John. AVIiat life is in that, to be the death 
 of this marriage ? 
 
 Bora. The poison of that Ues in you to temper. 
 Go you to the prince your brotlier ; spare not to 
 tell him, that lie hath wronged his lionour in 
 nianying the renowned Claudio (whose estimation 
 do you mightily hold uj)) to a contaminated stale, 
 such a one as Hero. 
 
 B. John. Wliat proof shall I make of that ? 
 
 Bora. Proof enough to misuse the prince, to 
 -ex Claudio, to undo Hero, and kill Leonato. 
 Look you fcr aii) other issue 
 2at 
 
 B. John. Only to despite them I will endea- 
 vour anything. 
 
 Bora. Go, then ; find me a meet hour to draw 
 don Pedro and the count Claudio alone : tell them 
 tliat you know that Hero loves me ; intend a kind 
 of zeal both to the prince and Claudio, as in a love oi 
 your brother's honour, who hatli made this match, 
 and his friend's reputation, wlio is thus like to be 
 cozen'd with the semblance of a maid, — that you 
 have discover'd thus. They will scarcely believe 
 this without trial : offer them instances ; which 
 shall bear no less HkelOiood, than to see me at her 
 chamber- window ; hear me call Margaret, Hero ; 
 hear Margaret term mo Claudio ; and bring them 
 to see this, the very niglit before the intended 
 wedding : for, in. the mean time, I wUl so fashion 
 the matter, that Hero shaU be absent ; and there 
 shall appear such seeming truths of Hero's dis- 
 loyalty, that jealousy shall be call'd assurance, 
 and all tlio preparation overthrown. 
 
 B. John. Grow this to what adverse issue it 
 can, I will put it in practice. Be cunning in the 
 working this, and thy fee is a thousand ducats. 
 
 Bora. Be thou constant in the accusation, and 
 my cunning shall not shame me. 
 
 B. John. I will presently go learn their day of 
 marriage. \_Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III.— Leonato's Garden. 
 Enter Benedick and a Boy. 
 
 Be7!C. Boy ! 
 
 Boi/. Signior. 
 
 Bene. In my chamber- window lies a book- 
 bring it hither to me in the orchard." 
 
 Boi/. I am here already, sir. 
 
 Bene. I know that ; — but I woidd have thee 
 hence, and here again. \_Ej:it Boy.] — I do much 
 wonder that one man, seeing how mucli miother 
 man is a fool when lie dedicates his behaviours to 
 love, win, after he liatli laughed at such sludlow 
 follies in others, become tlie argument of his o\vn 
 scorn by falling in love : — and sucli a man is 
 Claudio. I have known when tliere was no music 
 with him but llie drum and the life ; and now 
 had ho rather hear the tabor and the pipe : 1 have 
 known when ho would have walked ten mile 
 afoot, to see a good armour ; and now will he lie 
 ten nights awake, carving the fashion of a new 
 doublet. He was wont to speak plain, and to the 
 purpose, like an honest man an 1 a soldier ; and 
 now he is turn'd orthographcr ; liis waids are a
 
 A.in u. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 SCKNE m. 
 
 rcry fantastical banquet, jast so many strange 
 dielica. May I be so converted, and see with 
 those eyes? I cannot tell; I think not. I will 
 not lie s\\-orn but love may transform me to an 
 oyster ; but I '11 take my oath on it, till he hath 
 made an oyster of me, he shall never make me 
 Buoh a fool. One woman is fair ; yet I am well : 
 another is wise ; yet I am well : another virtuous, 
 yet I am well : but till all graces be in one 
 woman, one woman sliaU not come in my grace. 
 Rich she shall be, that 's certain ; wise, or I '11 
 Qono ; vii'tuous, or I 'U never cheapen her ; fair, 
 or I '11 never look on her; nuld, or come not near 
 me ; noble, or not I for an angel ; of good discourse, 
 an excellent musician, and her hair shall be of 
 what colour it please God. Ha ! the prince and 
 monsifiiir T.ove ! J. "ill hiie me in tlie arbour. 
 
 [ Withdraws. 
 
 Enter Don Pedeo, Leoxaio, and CL.iUDio. 
 
 I). Pedro. Come, shall we hear this music ? 
 
 Claud. Yea, my good lord : — How stiU the 
 evening is, 
 k% hush'd on purpose to grace harmony ! 
 
 D. Pedro. See you where Benedick hath hid 
 '•'.imsclf ? 
 
 Claud. 0, very well, m)' lord : the music ended, 
 wo '11 fit the kid-fox with a pennyworth.''* 
 
 Enter Baltil\2ae, loith music. 
 
 D. Pedro. Come, Balthazar, we '11 hoar that 
 song again. 
 
 Bal'.h. 0, good m}' lord, tax not so bad a voice 
 To slander music any more than once. 
 
 B. Pedro. It is the witness still of excellency. 
 To put a strange face on his own perfection : — 
 I pray thee, sing, and let me woo no more. 
 
 Balth. Because you talk of wooing, I vnYL sing : 
 Since many a wooer doth commence his suit 
 To her he thinks not worthy ; yet he woos ; 
 Yet will he swear, he loves. 
 
 B. Pedro. Nay, pray thee, come : 
 
 (_)r, if thou wilt hold longer argument, 
 Do it in notes. 
 
 Balth. Note this before my notes. 
 
 There 's not a note of mine that 's worth the noting. 
 
 B. Pedro. Why, these are very crotchets that 
 he speaks; 
 Ifote, notes, forsooth, and nothing!" \Music. 
 
 Bene. Now, ''Divine air!" now is his soul 
 ravished ! — Is it not strange that sheep's guts 
 
 should hale souls out of men's bodies ? — TTcll, a 
 horn for my money, when all 's done. 
 Balih. [Sinffs.2 
 
 Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more; 
 
 Men were deceivers ever ; 
 One foot in sea, and one on shore, — 
 To ono thing constant never : 
 Then sigh not so, 
 But let them go. 
 And ho you blithe and bonny , 
 Converting all your sounds of woo 
 Into, ' llcy nonny, nonny. ' 
 
 Sing no more ditties, sing no mo 
 Of dumps so dull and heavy ;*' 
 
 The frauds of men were ever so. 
 Since summer first was Icavy 
 Then sigh not so, &c. 
 
 B. Pedro. By my troth, a good song. 
 
 Balth. And an iU singer, my lord. 
 
 B. Pedro. Ha ? no ; no, faith ; thou sing'st well 
 enough for a shift. 
 
 Bene. [_As'ide.'] An he had been a dog that 
 should have howl'd thus, they would have hang'd 
 him : and I pray God his bad voice bode no mis- 
 chief! I had as lief have heard the night-raven," 
 come what plague could have come after it. 
 
 B. Pedro. Yea, marry ; [^o Clabdio.] — ^Dost 
 thou hear, Balthazar? I pray thee, get us some 
 excellent music; for to-morrow night we would 
 have it at the lady Hero's chamber- window. 
 
 Balth. The best I can, my lord. 
 
 B. Pedro. Do so : farewell. l_Exit Balth.] 
 Come hither, Leonato. 'What was it you told me 
 of to-day, that your niece Beatrice was in love 
 with siguior Benedick ? 
 
 Claud. 0, ay:— Stalk on, stalk on:" the fowl 
 sits. \_Aside to D. Pedeo.] I did never think that 
 lady would have loved any man. 
 
 Beon. No, nor I neither; but most wonderful 
 that she should so dote on signior Dcnodick, whom 
 she hath in all outward behaviours seemed ever to 
 abhor. 
 
 Bene. Is 't possible ? Sits tlie -n-ind in thai 
 corner ? £Asid^;. 
 
 Leon. By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell 
 what to tlimk of it, but that she loves bim with 
 an enraged affection; it is past the infinite of 
 thought.™ 
 
 B. Pedro. May be, she doth but counterfeit. 
 
 Claud. 'Paith, like enough. 
 
 Leon. God ! counterfeit I There was never 
 counterfeit of pission ame f j near the life of 
 passion, as she discovers it. 
 
 235
 
 AOT 11. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 D. Pedro. Why, what effects of passion shows 
 she ? 
 
 Claud. Bait the hook well ; this fish will bite. 
 
 \_Aside. 
 
 Leon. What effects, my lord ! She will sit you, 
 —you heard my daugh ter teU you how. 
 
 Claud. She did, indeed. 
 
 D. Pedro. How, how, I pray you ? You amaze 
 m» : I would have thought lier spirit had been 
 invincible against all assaults of affection. 
 
 Leon. I would have sworn it had, my lord; 
 especially against Benedick. 
 
 Bene. \_Aside.'] I should think this a gull, but 
 that the white-bearded foUow speaks it ; knavery 
 cannot, sure, hide himself in such reverence. 
 
 Claud. He hath ta'en th' infection ■ hold it up. 
 
 \_Aside. 
 
 D. Pedro. Hath she made her affection known 
 to Benedick ? 
 
 Leon. No ; and swears she never will : that 's ! 
 her torment. i 
 
 Claud. 'T is true, indeed ; so your daughter j 
 says : " Shall I," says she, " that have so oft 
 encounterd him with scorn, write to him that I 
 love him r 
 
 Leon. This says she now, when she is beg innin g 
 to write to him : for she 'U be up twenty times a 
 night ; ani there will she sit in her smock, till 
 she have ^^Tit a sheet of paper : — my daughter 
 tcUs us aU. 
 
 Claud. Now you talk of a sheet of paper, I 
 remember a pretty jest your daughter told us of. 
 
 Leoti. ! — "When she had -nTit it, and was 
 reading it over, she found Benedick and Beatrice 
 between the sheet ? 
 
 Claud. That! 
 
 Leon. ! she tore the letter into a thousand 
 halfpence ;" raU'd at herself, that she should be so 
 immodest to write to one that she knew would 
 flout her. " I measure him," says she, " by my 
 own spirit ; for I should flout him, if he writ to 
 me; yea, though I love him, I should." 
 
 C'kud. Then down upon her knees she falls, 
 weeps, sobs, beats her heart, tears her hair, prays, 
 cries; — "0 sweet Benedick! God give me pa- 
 tience ! " 
 
 I^eon. She dotli, indeed ; my danghtor says so : 
 and the ocslacy hath so much ovcrboi-ne her, that 
 my daughter is sometime afeard she will do a 
 desperate outrage to herself. It is very ttuo. 
 
 Z*. Pedro. It were good that Benedick knew of 
 It by some other, if she wiU not discover it. 
 23 c 
 
 Claud. To what end? He woidd tut make i; 
 sport of it, and torment the poor lady irorse 
 
 D. Pedro. An he should, it were i»n alms'" to 
 hang him. She 's an excellent swert lady; au'l 
 out of all suspicion, she is virtuous. 
 
 Claud. And she is exceeding wise. 
 
 D. Pedro. In everj-thing, but in loving Benciliek. 
 
 Leon. my lord, wisdom and blood nombarin^ 
 in so tender a body, we have ten proofs to ont 
 that blood hath the victory. I am sorr)' for hci. 
 as I have just cause, being her uncle and he. 
 guardian. 
 
 D. Pedro. I would she had bestowed this dotage 
 on me : I would have daff'd all othci respects, '" 
 and made her half myself. I pray you tell Bene- 
 dick of it, and hear what he will say. 
 
 Leon. Were it good, think you ? 
 
 Claud. Hero thinks sm'ely she wiL die ; for she 
 gays she wiU die if he love her nut, and she will 
 die ere she make her love known; and she will 
 die if he woo her, rather than she will 'bate one 
 breath of her accustomed crossness. 
 
 D. Pedro. She doth well : if she should make 
 tender of her love, 't is very possible he 'U si:orr 
 it ; for the man, as you know all, hath a coutempi' 
 ble spirit. 
 
 Claud. He is a very proper man. 
 
 P. Pedro. He hath, indeed, a good outwan' 
 happiness. 
 
 Claud. 'Fore God, and in my mind, very wise. 
 
 D. Pedro. He doth, indeed, show some sparle 
 that are like wit. 
 
 Leon. And I take him to be valiant. 
 
 D. Pedro. As Hector, I assure you : and in the 
 managing of quarrels, you may see he is wise ; 
 for either he avoids them with great discretinn, oi 
 undertakes them with a Christian-like fear. 
 
 Leon. If he do fear God, he must necessarilj 
 keep peace : if ho break the peace, he ought Ir. 
 enter into a quarrel with fear and trembling. 
 
 P. Pedro. And so will he do; for the man doth 
 fear God, howsoever it seems not in him, by somn 
 large jests he will make. Well, I am sorrj' for 
 your niece. Shall we go seek Beicdick, and tell 
 him of her lo^•e ? 
 
 Claud. Never tell him, my lord let iicr wear it 
 out with good counsel. 
 
 Leon. Na)-, that 's impossible ; she may wool 
 licr heart out first. 
 
 I>. Pedro. AVell, wo will hear further of it by 
 your daughter. Let it cool the while. I love 
 Benedick well : and I coii^d wish he \voiili!
 
 *
 
 
 •^"^fni^'&k'fx.
 
 aOT HL 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 SCTNE I. 
 
 modestly examine himself to sec how much ho is 
 unworthy to have so good a lady. 
 
 Leon. My lord, will you walk? dinner is ready. 
 
 Claud. If he do not dote on her upon this, I 
 v'iU never trust my expectation. \_Aside. 
 
 I). Pedro. Let there bo the same net spread for 
 tier ; and that must your daughter and her gentle- 
 women carry. The sport will be, when they hold 
 one an opinion of another's dotage, and no such 
 Clatter ; that 's the scene that I would see, which 
 ivill be merely a dumb- show. Lot us send her to 
 nail liira in to dinner. \_Aside. 
 
 \_Exeunt D. Pedeo, Claud., and Leon. 
 
 Benedick advances from tlm arbour. 
 
 Bene. This can be no trick : the conference was 
 sadly borne. — They have the truth of this from 
 Hero. They seem to pity the lady ; it seems her 
 affections have their full bent. Love me ! why, it 
 must be requited. I hear how I am cen«ur"d : 
 they say I ^viU bear myself proufllj-, if I perceive 
 the love come from her; they say, too, that she 
 will rather die than give any sign of affection. — 
 I did never think to marry — I must not seem 
 proud. — Happy are they that hear their detrac- 
 tions, and can put them to mending. They say 
 the lady is fair; 'tis a truth I can bear them 
 witness : and virtuous — 't is so, I cannot reprove 
 it : and wise, but for loving me. By my troth, it 
 IS no addition to her wit, — n®r no great argument 
 of her folly, for I will be honubly in love with 
 Ler. I may chance have some odd quirks and 
 
 remnants of wit broken on me, because I have 
 rail'd so long against marriage : but doth not the 
 appetite alter? A man loves the meat in his 
 youth, that he cannot endure in his age. Shall 
 quips, and sentences, and these paper bullets of 
 the brain, awe a man from the career of his 
 humour? No! The world must be peopled. 
 "When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not 
 think I should live till I were married. — Here 
 comes Beatrice. By this day, she 's a fuir lady: I 
 do spy some marks of love in her. 
 
 Unter Beatrice. 
 
 Beat. Again.st my will, I am sent to bid you 
 come in to dinner.^ 
 
 Bene. Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains. 
 
 Beat. I took no more pains for those thanks 
 than you take pains to thank me. If it had been 
 painful, I would not have come. 
 
 Bene. Tou take pleasure, then, in tlie message : 
 
 Beat. Yea, just so much as you may take upon 
 a knife's point, and choke a daw withal. You 
 have no stomach, signior ? fare you well. \JExit. 
 
 Bene. Ha ! " Against my will, I am sent to bid 
 you come in to dinner ; " — there 's a double mean- 
 ing in that. "I took no more pains for those 
 thanks, than you took pains to thank me ; " — that 's 
 as much as to say, Any pains that I take for you 
 is as easy as thanks. If I do not take pity of her, 
 I am a villain ; if I do not love her, I am a Jew ! 
 I will go get her picture. \Exit. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I.— LEOifATo'« Garden. 
 
 Enter Hebo, Mabgabet, and Uesuxa. 
 
 Hero. Good Margaret, run thee to the parlour; 
 There shalt thou find my cousin Beatrice 
 Proposing with the prince and Claudio:" 
 Wiiisper her ear, and tell her I and Ursula 
 S^'^alk in the orchard, and our whole discourse 
 [s all of her ; say, that thou overheard'st us ; 
 And bid her steal into the pleached bower 
 Wliere honeysuckles, ripened by the sim. 
 Forbid the sun to enter, — Uke favom-ites, 
 Made proud by princes, that advance their pride 
 
 Against that power that bred it: — there will she 
 
 hide her. 
 To listen our propose. This is thy oiSce ; 
 Bear thee well in it, and leave us alone. 
 
 Marg. I '11 make her come, I warrant you, 
 presently. \_Exit 
 
 Hero. Now, Ursula, when Beatrice doth come. 
 As we do ti'ace 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 tlian ever man did merit : 
 My talk to thee must De, how Benedick 
 Is sick in love with Beatrice. Of this matter 
 
 237
 
 MUCH ADO iUiOUT KOTHIJS'G. 
 
 Is little C'uj.id's crafty arrow made, 
 
 That only wouuds by heai'sa} . !Jf ow begin ; 
 
 Enter Beateice, behind. 
 For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, runs 
 Close by the ground, to hear our conference. 
 
 Urs. Tlic plcasantest angling is to see the fish 
 Cut with her golden oars the silver stream, 
 And greedily devoiir the treacherous bait : 
 So angle we for Beatrice ; who even now 
 Is couched in the woodbine coverture : 
 Fear yoi not my part of the dialogue. 
 
 Sero. Then go we near her, that her ear lose 
 nothing 
 Of the false sweet bait that we la}' for it. — 
 
 \_Thty adcance to the lower. 
 'Sio, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful ; 
 know, her spirits are as coy and wild 
 .is haggards of the rock. * 
 
 Urs. But are you sure 
 
 Chat Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely ? 
 
 Hero. So says the prince, and my new-trothed 
 lord. 
 
 Urs. And did they bid you toll 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, 
 .ind never to let Beatrice know of it. 
 
 Urs. Why did you so? Doth not the gentleman 
 Deserve as fuU as fortunate a bed, 
 Ajs ever Beatrice shall couch upon ? 
 
 Hero. 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-cndearcd. 
 
 Urs. Sure, I tliink so ; 
 
 And therefore, certainly, it were not good 
 She knew his love, lest she make sport at it. 
 
 Hero. Wliy, you speak truth : I never yet saw 
 man, 
 How wise, how noble, young, h nv rarely fcatur'd, 
 But she would spell him backward : if fair fac'd, 
 iSiie would swear the gentleman should be her sister; 
 If black, why Nature, drawing of a:i antic, 
 Made a foul blot : if tall, a lauce ill-lieaded ; 
 If ItiW, an agate vtry vildly cut :" 
 238 
 
 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 commcndabl' 
 
 Hero. No; not to be so odd, and from all fashions, 
 As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable : 
 But who dare teU her so ? K I should speak. 
 She would mock me into air; 0, she would laugh mc 
 Out of mj-self, 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 wiU go to Benedick, 
 And counsel him to fight against his passion : 
 And, truly, I '11 de\-i3e some honest slanders 
 To stain my cousin with. One doth not know 
 How much an ill word may empoison liking. 
 
 Urs. 0, do not do your cousin sucli a -^vi'ong. 
 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 he not angry with me, madam 
 Speaking my fancy. Sig-nior Benedick, 
 For shape, for bearing, argument, and valour. 
 Goes foremost in report through Italy. 
 
 Hero. Indeed, he hath an excellent good name. 
 
 Urs. His excellence did earn it, ere he liad it. 
 ^Hien are you married, madam ? 
 
 Hero. Why, in a da)'; — to-morrow: Come 
 go in 
 I 'U show thee some attires ; and have thy counst-l 
 Which is tlie best to furnisli nie to-morrow. 
 
 Urs. She 's lim'd, I warrant you ; we liavi. 
 caught her, madam. 
 
 Hero. If it prove so, then loving goes by haps: 
 Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps. 
 [_Exeu7it IIkko and UnsuL.i 
 
 BiuTBicE advatices. 
 
 Beat. "What fire is in mine cars? Can this bo tni( : 
 
 Stand I conilcmn'd for pride and scorn so r.iv.ch ' 
 Contempt, farewell ! and maiden pride, adieu ! 
 
 No glory lives behind the back of such. 
 And, Benedick, love on, 1 will ri'ipiite Ihco 
 
 Taming my wHd heart to thy loving hand;
 
 $'. 
 
 
 » 
 
 a;^ 
 
 'H ^.*^l,^ 
 
 s» JluliiiDftm iB iifditn're
 
 txji m. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 sctirs n. 
 
 If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thcc 
 
 To bind our loves up in a holy band : 
 For others siiy tliou dost deserve ; and I 
 Believe it better than reportingly. \_Exit. 
 
 SCENE II. — A Room in Leonato'« Rouse. 
 Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, and 
 
 LSOXATO. 
 
 B. Pedro. I do but stay till your marriage be 
 consummate, and then go I toward Arragon. 
 
 Claud. I '11 bring you thither, my lord, if you '11 
 vouchsafe mo. 
 
 B. Pedro. Nay, that would be as great a soil in 
 the new gloss of your marriage, as to show a child 
 his now coat, and forbid him to wear it. I will 
 only be bold with Benedick for his company ; for, 
 from tbo crown of his head to the solo of his foot, 
 he is all mirth; he hath twice or thrice cut 
 Cupid's bowstring, and the little hangman dai-e not 
 shoot at him : ™ he liath a heart as sound as a bell, 
 and his tongue is the clapper ; for what his heart 
 thinks, his tongue speaks. 
 
 Be7ie. Gallants, I am not as I have boon. 
 
 Leon. So say I ; methinks you are sadder. 
 
 Claud. I hope he be in love. 
 
 B. Pedro. Hang him, truant ; there 's no true 
 drop of blood in him, to be truly toucli'd with 
 love : if he be sad, he wants money. 
 
 Bene. I have the tooth-ach. 
 
 B. Pedro. Draw it. 
 
 Bene. Hang it ! 
 
 Claud. You must hang it first, and draw it 
 afterwards. 
 
 B. Pedro. What? sigh for the tooth-ach ? 
 
 Leon. Where is but a humour, or a worm ! 
 
 Bene. Well, every one can master a grief, but 
 he that has it. 
 
 Claud. Yet, say I, he is in love. 
 
 B- Pedro. There is no appearance of fancy "' in 
 him, unless it be a fancy that he hath to strange 
 disguises ; as, to be a Dutchman to-day ; a French- 
 man to-morrow ; or in the shape of two countries 
 at once, as, a German from the waist downward, °' 
 bU slops ; and a Spaniard li'om the hip upward, no 
 doublet. Unless he have a fancy to this fooleiy, 
 as it appears he hath, he is no fool for fancy, as 
 jou would have it to appear he is. 
 
 Claud. If he be not in love ■\\'ith some woman, 
 there is no believing old signs : 'a brushes his hat 
 o' mornings : ^\^lat should that bode ? 
 
 B. Pedro Hath any man seen him at the 
 Larber's .'' 
 
 Claud. No, but the barber's man hath been seen 
 with him ; and (he old ornament of his cheek" 
 hath abcady stuffed tennis-balls. 
 
 Leon. Indeed, ho looks younger than he did by 
 the loss of a beard. 
 
 B. Pedro. Nay, 'a rubs himself with civet ; 
 Can you smell him out by that ? 
 
 Claud. That 's as much as to say, The Bwcel 
 youth 's in love. 
 
 B. Pedro. The greatest note of it is his me- 
 lancholy. 
 
 Claud. And when was he wont to wash his face : 
 
 B. Pedro. Yea, or to paint himself? for the 
 which, I hear what they say of him. 
 
 Claud. Nay, but his jesting spirit, which is 
 now crept into a lutestiing, and now governed by 
 stops. 
 
 B. Pedro. Indeed, that tells a hca-s-y tale for 
 him : Conclude, conclude, he is in love. 
 
 Claud. Nay, but I know who loves him. 
 
 B. Pedro. That would I luiow too ; I warrant, 
 one that knows him not. 
 
 Claud. Yes, and his iU conditions; and, in 
 despite of all, dies for liim. 
 
 B. Pedro. She shall bo buried with lier face 
 upwards. 
 
 Bene. Yet is this no charm for the tooth-ach. — 
 Old signior, walk aside -with me ; I have studied 
 eight or nine wise words to speak to you, which 
 these hobby-horses must not hear. 
 
 \_Exeunt Bene, and Leon. 
 
 B. Pedro. For my life, to break with him about 
 Beatrice. 
 
 Claud. 'T is even so. Hero and Margaret have 
 by this played their parts with Beatrice; and then 
 the two bears wiU not bite one another when they 
 meet. 
 
 Enter Don John. 
 
 B. John. My lord and brother, God save you. 
 
 B. Pedro. Good den,*' brother. 
 
 B. Mm. If your leisure serv'd, I would speak 
 with you. 
 
 B. Pedro. In private ? 
 
 B. John. If it please you ; — yet Count Claudio 
 may hear; for what I would speak of concern? 
 him. 
 
 B. Pedro. What 's the matter ? 
 
 B. John. Means your lordship to be mamcd to- 
 morrow? \_To Claudio. 
 
 B. Pedro. You know he does. 
 
 B. John. I know not that, when he knows what 
 I know. 
 
 2S9
 
 MUCH AUO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 SCEXE 111, 
 
 Claud. If there be any impediment, I pray 
 ) ou discover it. 
 
 D. John. You may think I love you not; let 
 that appear here;ifter, and aim better at me by 
 that I now will manifsst. For my brother, I 
 tliiiik, he holds you -n-ell ; and, in deamess of 
 heart, hath holp to effect your ensuing marriage : 
 surely, suit ill spent, and labour ill bestowed ! 
 
 D. Pedro. Wliy, what 's the matter ? 
 
 D. Julin. I came hither to tell you : and, cir- 
 cumstances short' ned, (for she hath been too long 
 a talking of,) the lady is disloyal. 
 
 Claud. Who? Hero? 
 
 B. John. Even she ; Lconato's Hero, your Hero, 
 every man's Hero ! 
 
 Claud. Disloyal? 
 
 D. John. The word is too good to paint out her 
 wickedness. I could say she were worse ; think 
 you of a worse title, and I will fit her to it. 
 Wonder not till further warrant: go but with 
 me to-night, you shall see her chamber-window 
 entered ; even the night before her wedding-day. 
 If 3-ou love her then, to-morrow wed her; but it 
 would better fit your honour to change j'our mind. 
 
 Claud. May this be so? 
 
 B. Pedro. I will not think it. 
 
 B. John. If you dare not trust that you see, 
 .confess not that you know: if you will follow me, 
 [ wUl show you enough ; and when you have 
 seen more, and heard more, proceed accordingly. 
 
 Claud. If I see anything to-night why I should 
 not marry her to-morrow, in the congregation, 
 where I should wed, there will I shame her. 
 
 B. Pedro. And, as I wooed for thee to obtain 
 her, I will join ■ndth thee to disgrace hsr. 
 
 B. John. I WT-U disparage her no farther, till 
 you are my witnesses : bear it coldly but till mid- 
 uight, and let the issue show itself 
 
 B. Pedro. day untowardJy turned ! 
 
 Claud. mischief strangely thwarted ! 
 
 B. John. plague right well prevented ! 
 So will you say, when you have seen the sequel. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III.— ^ Street. 
 Enter DooBEnEY and Verges, " with the Watch. 
 
 Dfxjl. Are you good men and true ? 
 
 Verg. Yea, or else it were pitj' but they should 
 mller salvation, body and soul. 
 
 Dogh. Nay, that were a pimishmcnt too good 
 for tliem, if they sliould have any allegiance in 
 them, being chosen for the prince's watoli. 
 240 
 
 Verg. Well, give them their charge, neighbour 
 Dogberry. 
 
 Bogh. First, who think you the mcst dcsartloss 
 man to be constable? 
 
 1 Watch. Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George Sea 
 coal ; for they can write and read. 
 
 Bogh. Come hither, neighbour Seacoal. God 
 hath bless'd you with a good name : to be a well- 
 favoured man is the gift of fortune; but to write 
 and read comes by nature. 
 
 2 Watch. Both which, master constable, — 
 Bogl. You have; I knew it would be your 
 
 answer. Well, for your favour, sir, why, give 
 God thanks, and make no boast of it ; and for 
 yoiir writing and reading, let that appear when 
 there is no need of such vanity. You are thought 
 here to be the most senseless and fit man for the 
 constable of the watch ; therefore bear you the 
 lantern. This is your charge : You shall compre- 
 hend all vagrom men ; you are to bid any man 
 stand, in the prince's name. 
 
 2 Watch. How if 'a wUl not stand ? 
 
 Bogl. Why, then take no note of him, but lei 
 him go; and pi'esently call the rest of the watch 
 together, and thank God you are rid of a knave. 
 
 Verg. If ho wiU not stand when he is bidden, 
 he is none of the prince's subjects. 
 
 Bogh. Ti-uo, and they are to meddle with none 
 but the prince's subjects :-.-You shall also make 
 no noise in the streets ; for, for the watch to 
 babble and talk, is most tolerable and not to 
 be endured. 
 
 2 Watch. Wo will rather sleep than tallc ; we 
 know Avhat belongs to a watch. 
 
 Bogl. Why, you speak like an ancient and 
 most quiet watcliman ; for I cannot see how 
 sleeping should offend : only have a care that 
 your bUls be not stol'n : "' — Well, you are to call 
 at aU the ale-houses, and bid them that are chunk 
 get them to bed. 
 
 2 Watch. How if they wiU not? 
 
 Bogh. Why, then let them alone till they are 
 sober; if they make you not then the bettei 
 answer, you may say they arc not Ihe men j'oii 
 took them for. 
 
 2 Watch. WeU, sir. 
 
 Bogh. If you meet a tliief, you may suspect 
 him, by virtue of your oflicc, to be no true man ; 
 and, for such kind of men, tlie less jou meddle or 
 make with them, why, the more is for your honesty. 
 
 2 Watch. If wo luiow him to be a thief, sliall 
 wo not Lry- liauds ou him ?
 
 ACT IQ 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 8CENK in 
 
 Dngh. Truly, by your office, you may; but I 
 think tlicy that touch pitch will bo dofil'd: the 
 most jieaceablo way for you, if you do iako a. tliicf, 
 jK to let him show himself what ho is, and steal 
 'ut of 5-our company. 
 
 ycrg. You have been always call'd a merciful 
 limn, partner. 
 
 Dogb. Truly, I would not hang a dog by my 
 will ; much more a man who hath any honesty in 
 hull. 
 
 r«-y. .If you hear a child cry in the night, 
 you must call to the nurse, and bid her still it. 
 
 2 Watch. How if the nurse be asleep, and will 
 not hear us ? 
 
 Logh. Why, then depart in peace, and let the 
 child wake her with crying: for the ewe that will 
 not hear her lamb when it bacs, will never answer 
 a calf when it bleats. 
 
 Verg. 'T is very true. 
 
 Bogh. This is the end of the charge. You, 
 constable, are to present the prince's own person ; 
 if you meet the prince in the night, you may stay 
 him. 
 
 Verg. Tsixj, by 'r lady, that, I thuik, 'a cannot. 
 
 Bogh. Five shillings to one on 't, with any man 
 that knows the statues, he may stay him: marry, 
 net without the prince be willing: for, indeed, 
 the watch ought to offend no man ; and it is 
 an offence to stay a man against his will. 
 
 Verg. By 'r lady, I think it be so. 
 
 Dogh. Ha, ha, ha! Well, masters, good night: 
 an there be any matter of weight chances, call up 
 me : keep your fellows' counsels and your own, 
 and good night. — Come, neighbour. 
 
 2 Watch. Well, masters, we hear our charge : 
 let us go sit here upon the church-benrh till two, 
 and then all to bed. 
 
 Dogh. One word more, honest neighbours : I 
 pray you, watch about signior Leonato's door ; for 
 the wedding being there to-morrow, there is a 
 great coil to-night: Adieu; be vigitant, I beseech 
 you.'^ \JExeunt Dogb. and Vero. 
 
 Enter Borachio and Coneade. 
 
 B(/ra. What! Conrade, — 
 
 IVatch. Peace, stir not. \_Aside 
 
 Bora. Conrade, I say ! 
 
 Von. Here, man, I am at thy elbow. 
 
 Bun. iTass, and my elbow itch'd ; I thought 
 there would a scab follow.'" 
 
 Con. 1 ^\-i!l owe thee an answer for that; and 
 now fon\-ard with thy tale. 
 
 31 
 
 Bora. Stand thee close then under this pent- 
 house, for it drizzles rain ; and I will, like a true 
 drunkard, utter all to thee. 
 
 Watch. \ Aside.'] Some treason, masters ; yet 
 stand close. 
 
 Bora. Therefore, know I have earned of Don 
 John a thousand ducats. 
 
 Con. Is it possible that any %nllainy sho'iild bo 
 so dear ? 
 
 Bora. Thou shouldst rather ask, if it were pos- 
 sible any villainy should be so rich ; for wlicn rich 
 ■villains have need of poor ones, poor ones may 
 make what price they will. 
 
 Con. I wonder at it. 
 
 Bora. That shows thou art imconfirm'd. Thou 
 knowest that the fiishion of a doublet, or a hat, or 
 a oloak, is nothing to a man. 
 
 Con. Yes, it is apparel. 
 
 Bora. I mean, the fashion. 
 
 Con. Yes, the fashion is the fashion. 
 
 Bora. Tush ! I may as well say, the fool 's the 
 fool. But seest thou not what a deformed thi?f 
 this fashion is ? 
 
 Watch. I know that Deformed; 'a has been a 
 vile thief this seven year; 'a goes up and down 
 like a gentleman : I remember his name. \_AmJe 
 
 Bora. Didst thou not hear somebody r 
 
 Con. No ; 't was the vane on the house. 
 
 Bora. Seest thou not, I say, what a deformed 
 thief this fashion is? how giddily 'a turns about 
 all the hot bloods, between fourteen and five-and- 
 thirty? sometime, fashioning them lil^e Pharaoh's 
 soldiers in the reechy '* painting ; sometime, like 
 god Bel's priests in the old church-window; some- 
 time, like the shaven Hercules in the smirch'd 
 worm-eaten tapestrj-, where his codpiece seems as 
 massy as his club ? 
 
 • Con. AU this I see ; and see that the fashion 
 wears out more aj^parcl than the man. But art 
 not thou thyself giddy wth the fashion too, that 
 thou hast shifted out of thy tale into telling me of 
 the fashion ? 
 
 Bora. Not so neither: tut know, that 1 have 
 to-night wooed Margaret, the lady Hero's gentle- 
 woman, by the name of Hero ; she leans mo out 
 at her mistress' chamber-'R'indow, bids me a thou- 
 sand times good night, — I tell this tale vilely : — 
 I should first teU thee how the prince, Clauilic, 
 and my master, } lanted and placed, and, possessed 
 by my master Don John, saw afar off in the orchard 
 this amiable encounter. 
 
 Con. And thought thy Margaret was Hero ? 
 
 •211
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 ICESE n 
 
 Bora. Two of them did, the prince and Claudlo 
 but the dc\Tl m}' master knew she was Margaret ; 
 and partly by his oaths, which first possess'd them, 
 partly by the dark night, which did deceive them, 
 but chiefly by my villainy, ■which did confirm 
 any slander that Don John had made, away went 
 Claudio enraged; swore he would meet her, as lie 
 was appointed, next morning at the temple, and 
 there, before the ■whole congregation, shame her 
 with ■what he saw o'er-night, and send her home 
 again ■without a husband. 
 
 1 Watch. Wo cliarge you in the prince's name, 
 stand. 
 
 2 Watch. Call up the right master constable : 
 we have here recovered the most dangerous piece of 
 lechery that ever was luiown in the commonwealth. 
 
 1 Watch. And one Defonncd is one of them ; I 
 know him, 'a wears a lock. 
 
 Con. Masters, masters. 
 
 2 Watch. You '11 be made bring Deformed forth, 
 I ■warrant you. 
 
 Con. Masters, — 
 
 1 Watch. Never speak; we charge you, let us 
 obey you to go with us. 
 
 Bora. We are like to prove a goodly coramoditj', ^'' 
 being taken up of these men's bills. 
 
 Con. A commodity in question, I warrant you. 
 Come, wo '11 obey you. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV. — A Room in Leonato's House. 
 Enter Hero, Margaret, and Ursula. 
 
 Hero. Good Ursula, wake my cousin Beatrice, 
 tnd desire her to rise. 
 
 Urs. I wUl, lady. 
 
 Hero. And bid her come hither. 
 
 Ura. AVcU. [ Exit Ursula. 
 
 Marg. Troth, I think your other rabato were 
 better.™ 
 
 Hero. No, pray thee, good Meg, I '11 wear this. 
 
 Marg. By my troth, it 's not so good; and I 
 warrant your cousin •ndll say so. 
 
 Hero. My cousia 's a fool, and thou art another ; 
 I '11 wear none but this. 
 
 Marg. I like the new tire inthin excellently, if 
 the hair were a thought broxs-nor: and your gown 's 
 u most rare fashion, i' faith. I saw the duchess of 
 Milan's go^wn, that they praise so. 
 
 Hero. 0, that exceeds, they say. 
 
 Mar/j. By my troth it 's but a night-gown in 
 respect of yours; cloth o' gold, and cuts, and 
 bc'd wi'h silver; set with pearls, down-sleeves, 
 .2-12 
 
 side-sleeves," and skirts, round, underbome ■witli f 
 blueish tinsel : but for a fine, quaint, graceful, 
 and excellent fashion, yours is ■worth ten on 't. 
 
 Hero. God give me joy to ■wear it, for my lienf 
 is exceeding hea-vy ! 
 
 Marg. 'T wlU be heavier joon, by the wei^lil i. 
 a man. 
 
 Hero. Fie upon thee I art not asham'd ? 
 
 Marg. Of what, lady? of speaking honourably? 
 Is not marriage honourable in a beggar ? Is not 
 your lord honourable ■without marriage ? , I thiulc, 
 you woidd have me say, sa%ing your reverence,— 
 "a husband:" an bad thinking do not ■wi'est true 
 speaking, I '11 offend nobody : Is there any harm 
 in, "the hea^vier for a husband"? None, I thmk, 
 an it be the right husband, and the right wife ; 
 otherwise 't is light, and not heavy: Ask my lady 
 Beatrice else ; here she comes. 
 
 Enter Beateice. 
 
 Hero. Good morrow, coz. 
 
 Beat. Good morrow, sweet Hero. 
 
 Hero. Why, how now! do you speik va tiir 
 sick time ? 
 
 Beat. T am out of all other rane, methinks. 
 
 Marg. Clap's into — "Light o' love;" that goo? 
 ■without a burden; do you sing it, and 1 'li 
 dance it. 
 
 Beat. Te light o' love, with your heels ; — then 
 u your husband have stables enough, you 'U look 
 he shall lack no bams." 
 
 Marg. illegitimate construction ! I sooni that 
 v.'ith my heels. 
 
 Beat. 'T is almost five o'clock, cousin; 't is 
 time you ■were ready. By my troth I am exceed- 
 ing ill : hey ho ! 
 
 Marg. For a ha'wk, a horse, or a husband ? 
 
 Beat. For the letter that begins them all, H. " 
 
 Marg. WcU, an you be not turn'd Turk," 
 there 's no more sailing by the star. 
 
 Beat. Wliat means tlie fool, trow ? 
 
 Marg. Nothing I ; hut God send cveiy one 
 their heart's desire I 
 
 Hero. These gloves the count sent me, thoy are 
 an excellent perfume.'^ 
 
 Beat. I am stuffed, cousin, I cannot smell. 
 
 Marg. A maid, and stuffed ! there 's goocU} 
 catcliing of cold. 
 
 Beat. 0, God help me ! God help mo ! how 
 long have you professed apprehension ? 
 
 Marg. Ever bince you left it: doth net my wit 
 become mc rarely?
 
 MUCH ADO AEOUT NOTHING. 
 
 BCiairB V. 
 
 I 
 
 Beat. Tt ia not seen enough ; j-ou should wear 
 It in Yorr cap. — ]?y my trot.li, I am sick. 
 
 Mnr;!. G-ii j-ou some of this distill'd Cardans 
 lieiicdictus, " ana lay it to your heart; it is the 
 itdy thing for a (jualm. 
 
 Uero. Tlicro thou prick'st her with a thistle. 
 
 Beat. Benediotus ! -why Benedictus ? you have 
 ujnio moral in this Bcnodiotus. 
 
 M'imj. Moral ! no, by my troth, I have no moral 
 meaning; I meant plain holy-thistle. You may 
 think, perchance, that I tiiink you ai'e in love : 
 n;iy, hv 'r lady, I am not such a fool to think 
 what I list; nor I list not to think what I can; 
 nor, indeed, I rannot think, if I would tliink my 
 heart out of thmking, that you are in love, or that 
 j'ou ■^'ill ho in love, or that j'ou can ho in love : 
 yet Benedick was such another, and now is he 
 become a man : he swore he would never marry ; 
 .ind j'ct now, in despite of his heart, ho oats his 
 meat without gi'udging : and how you may ho 
 converted, I know not; hut, mcthinks, you look 
 with your eyes as other women do. 
 
 Beat. What pace is this that thj' tongue keeps? 
 
 Marg. Not a false gallop. 
 
 Re-enter TJksul.v. 
 
 TTrs. Madam, withdraw; tlie prince, the count, 
 signior Benedick, Don John, and all the gallants 
 of the town, arc come to fetch you to church. 
 
 Hero. Help to dress me, good coz, good Jlcg, 
 good Ursula. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE V. — Another Room in Leonato's ITuuse. 
 
 Enter Leoxato, loi'h Doo berry and Verges. 
 
 Leon. Yvliat wonld you with rac, honest neigh- 
 bour ? 
 
 Bogh. M.^iTy, sir, I would have some confidence 
 with you that decerns you nearly. 
 
 Leon. Brief, I pray you ; for, you see, it is a 
 busy time with me. 
 
 Dogo. Marry, this it is, sir. 
 
 Verg, Yes, in truth it is, sir. 
 
 Leon "WTiat is it, my good friends : 
 
 Dogh. Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a little off 
 iJio matter : an old man, sir, and his wits are not 
 50 blunt, as, God help, I would desire they were ; 
 hut, in faith, honest as the skin between his brows. 
 
 Verg. Yce, I thank God, I am as honest as anj- 
 man living, that is an old man, and no honester 
 than 1. 
 
 Bogh. Comparisons are odorous: paJalras, neigh- 
 bour Verges. "' 
 
 Leon. Neighbours, you arc tedious. 
 
 Bogh. It pleases 3-our worship to sav so, but we 
 .'ire tlie poor duke's officers ; but, tnd)', for mine 
 own part, if I were as tedious as a king, I coul) 
 find in my heart to bestow it all of your worship. 
 
 L^eon. All thy tediousncss on me ! ah ! 
 
 Bogh. Yea, and 't were a thousand pound moi'e 
 than 't is: for I hear as good exclamation on your 
 worship, as of any man in the city; and though I 
 be but a poor man, I am glad to hear it. 
 
 Verg. And so am I. 
 
 Leon. I would fain know \\'hat you have to say. 
 
 Verg. Marry, sir, our watch to-night, except- 
 ing your worship's presence, have ta'cn a couple 
 of as an-ant knaves as any in Messina. 
 
 Bogh. A good old man, sir ; ho will be talking ; 
 as they say, ' "When the age is in, the wit is out.' 
 God help us! it is a worhl to see !'* — Well said, i' 
 faith, neighbour Verges: — well, God 's a good 
 man ;"' an two men ride of a horse, one must 
 ride behind : — An honest soul, i" faith, sir, — by 
 my troth he is, as ever broke bread: but God is to 
 be worshipp'd : All men arc not alike ; alas, good 
 neighbour! 
 
 Leon. Indeed, neighbour, he comes too short of 
 yoi. 
 
 Bogh. Gifts that God gives. — 
 
 Leo7i. I must leave you. 
 
 Bogh. One word, sir : our watch, sir, have, in- 
 deed, comprehended two aspicious persons, and we 
 would have ttom this morning examined before 
 your worship. 
 
 Leon. Take their examination yourself, and 
 bring it me ; I am now in great haste, as it ma) 
 appear unto you. 
 
 Bogh. It shall be suffiganc'e. 
 
 Zewi. Drink some wine ere you go : fare you 
 weU. 
 
 Enter a Messenger. 
 
 JWess. My lord, they stay for you to give you! 
 daughter to her husband. 
 
 Leon. I '11 ■n'ait upon them ; I am readj-. 
 
 \_Ezcunt Leox. und Mess 
 
 Bogh. Go, good partner, go; get you to Francis 
 Seacoal; bid him bring his pen and inkhom tc 
 the gaol : we are now to examination (iicsc men. 
 Verg. And we must do it wisely. 
 
 Bogh. We will spai-e for no w^t, I waiTant you; 
 here 's that [touching his forc]iead~\ shall drive some 
 of tliem to a non com .■*° onh' get the learned v.ritei 
 to set down our excommimication, a;id meet me a( 
 the gaol. [Exeitnt. 
 
 243
 
 iCI IV. 
 
 MUCH ADO AEOUT KOTHIJ^li. 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 SCEXE I. — The inside of a Church. 
 
 Enter Dox P^ideo, Dox Jonx, Leoxato, Friar, 
 Claudio, Benedick, Heeo, and Beatrice, ^t. 
 
 Leon. Come, friar Francis, be brief ; only to the 
 [)Iain form of marriage, and you sliall recount their 
 particular duties afterwards. 
 
 Friar. You come hither, my lord, to marry this 
 lady? 
 
 Claud. No. 
 
 Leon. To be maniod to her : friar, you come to 
 marry her. 
 
 Friar. Lady, you come hither to bo manied to 
 ihis ooiuit ? 
 
 Rero. I do. 
 
 Fnar. If either of you know any inward im- 
 pediment why yoi should not be conjoined, I 
 chwge you, on your souls, to utter it. 
 
 Claud. Know you any, Hero ? 
 
 LIcro. jVone, my lord. 
 
 Friar. Know j'ou any, count ? 
 
 Leon. I dare make his answer, none. 
 
 Claud. 0, what men dare do ! what men may 
 do ! what men daily do ! not knowing what they do ! 
 
 Bene. How now ! Interjections ? \fhj, then, 
 Bome bo of laughing, as, ha ! ha ! he ! 
 
 Claud. Stand thee by, friar : — Father, by your 
 leave ; 
 Win you, with free and unconsti-aincd soul. 
 Give me this maid, your daughter ? 
 
 Leon. As freely, son, as God did give her me. 
 
 Claud. And what have I to give you back, 
 whose worth 
 Slay counteiiioise this rich and precious gift ? 
 
 L). Pedro. Nothing, imlcss you render her again. 
 
 Claud. Sweet prince, you learn me noble thank- 
 fulness. 
 There, Loonato, take her back again ; 
 Give not this rotten orange to your friend ; 
 She 's but the sign and semblance of her honour: 
 Behold, how like a maid she blushes here ! 
 0, what aufhorit)- and show of trutli 
 Uaii cunning hin cover itself withal I 
 ■244 
 
 Comes not that blood, as modest evidence. 
 
 To witness simple virtue ? Would you not swear, 
 
 All you that see her, that she were a maid, 
 
 By these exterior shows ? But she is none ! 
 
 She knows the heat of a luxurious bed : 
 
 Her blush is guiltiness, not modesty. 
 
 Leon. T\liat do you mean, my lord ? 
 
 Claud. Xot to be marriea, — 
 
 Not to knit my soul to an approved wanton. 
 
 Leon. Dear my lord, if you, in your own proof, 
 Have vanquished the resistance of her youth. 
 Have made defeat of her ■^■irginity, — 
 
 Claud. I know what you would say : — if I jiavc 
 known her. 
 You "11 say she did embrace me as a husband, 
 And so extenuate the 'forehand sin : 
 No, Leonato, 
 
 I never tempted her with word too large ; 
 But, as a brother to his sister, show'd 
 Bashful sincerity, and comely love. 
 
 Jlero. And seem'd I ever otherwise to you ? 
 
 Claud. Out on thy seeming ! I will write 
 against it, — 
 " You seem to me as Dian in her orb ; 
 As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown ; 
 But }'ou are more intemperate in your blood 
 Than Venus, or those pampcr'd animals 
 That rage in savage sensuality." 
 
 Hero. Is my lord well, that he doth speak so 
 wide : ''' 
 
 Leon. Sweet prince, wliy speak not you ? 
 
 L). Pedro. Wliat should I speak } 
 
 I stand dishonour'd, that have gone about 
 To link ray dear friend to a common stale. 
 
 Leo7i. Are these tilings spoken ? or do I but 
 dream ? 
 
 D. John. Sir, they arc spoken, and these things 
 are true. 
 
 Bene. This looks not like a nuptiid. 
 
 Hero. True ! God ! 
 
 Claud. Leonato, stand I here ? 
 Is this the prince ? la this the prince's brother i 
 Is this face Hero's ? Are our eyes our own ?
 
 ACT rv 
 
 MUCH ABO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 8C£NC 1. 
 
 Leon. All this is so : But what of this, my lord ? 
 
 Claud. Let mo but move one question to your 
 dauglifer; 
 iiid, by that fatherly and kindl}' power'- 
 rhat you have in her, bid her answer truly. 
 
 Leon. I charge thee do so, as thou art my cliild. 
 
 Hero. God defend me ! how am I beset I — 
 What kind of catechising call you this ? 
 
 Claud. To make you answer truly \': your name. 
 
 Hero. Is it not Hero ? Who can blot that 
 name 
 With any just reproach ? 
 
 Claud. Marry, that can Hero ; 
 
 Hero itself cau blot out Hero's virtue. 
 What man was ho talk'd with you yesternight 
 Out at your window, betwixt twelve and one ? 
 Now, if you are a maid, answer to this. 
 
 Hero. I talk'd with no man at that hour, my 
 lord. 
 
 D. Pedro. Wliy, then are you no maiden. — 
 Leonato, 
 I am sorry you must hoar : — Upon mine honour. 
 Myself, my brother, and this grieved count. 
 Did see her, hear her, at that hour last night. 
 Talk with a ruffian at her chamber- window ; 
 Who hatJi, indeed, most like a liberal viUain, 
 Confess' d the vile encounters they have had 
 A thousand times in secret. 
 
 D. John,. Fie, fie ! they are 
 
 Not to be nam'd, ray lord, not to be spoken of; 
 There is not chastity enough in language. 
 Without offence to utter them. Thus, pretty ladj^, 
 I am sorry for thy much misgovemment. 
 
 Claud. Hero ! what a Hero hadst thou been, 
 If half thy outward graces had been plac'd 
 About thy thoughts, and counsels of thy heart : 
 But, fare thee weU ! most foul, most fair, farewell ! 
 Thou pure impiety, and impious purity ; 
 For thee I 'U lock up all the gates of love. 
 And on my eyelids shall conjecture hang. 
 To turn aU beauty into thoughts of harm, 
 And never shall it more be gracious. 
 
 Leon. Hath no man's dagger here a point for me ? 
 
 [Hero swoons. 
 
 Beat. Why, how now, cousin ? wherefore sink 
 you down ? 
 
 B. John. Come, let us go: these things, come 
 thus to light. 
 Smother her spirits up. 
 
 [Exeunt D. Pedro, D. Jonx, and Claud. 
 
 £e7ie. How doth the lady? 
 
 Beat, Dead, I think ; — help, 'ancle ! 
 
 Hero! why. Hero! — Unclcl — Siguier Benedick '— 
 
 friar! 
 
 Leon. fate, take not away thy neavy hand ? 
 Death is the fairest cover for her shame 
 That may be wsh'd for. 
 
 Beat. How now, cousin Hero ? 
 
 Friar. Have comfort, lady 
 
 Leon. Dost thou look up ? 
 
 Friar. Yea. Wherefore should she not .' 
 
 Leon. Wherefore? Why, doth not every earthlj 
 thing 
 Cry shame upon her ? Could she here deny 
 The story that is printed in her blood ? 
 Do not live. Hero ; do not ope thine eyes ; 
 For did I tliink thou wouldst not quickly die 
 Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy 
 
 shames. 
 Myself would, on the rearward of reproaches. 
 Strike at thy life. Griev'd I, I had but one? 
 Chid I for that at frugal nature's frame? 
 0, one too much by thee ! Wlij had I one ? 
 AVhy ever wast thou lovely in my eyes ? 
 WTiy had I not, with chaiitable Iiand, 
 Took up a beggar's issue at my gates ; 
 Who, smirched thus, and mir'd with infamy, 
 I might have said, "No part of it is mine; 
 This shame derives itself from unknown loins" : 
 But mine, and mine I lov'd, and mine I prais'd 
 And mine that I was proud on ; mine so much. 
 That I myself was to myself not mine. 
 Valuing of her ; why, she — 0, she is fall'n 
 Into a pit of ink ! that the wide sea 
 Hath drops too few to wash her clean again ; 
 And salt too little, wliioh may season give 
 To her foul tainted fles'n ! 
 
 Ile?te. Sir, sir, be patient : 
 
 For my part I am so attii''d in wonder, 
 I know not what to say. 
 
 Beat. 0, on my soul, my cousin is belied ! 
 
 Bene. Lady, were you her bedfellow last night: 
 
 Beat. No, truly not; although, until last night 
 I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow. 
 
 Leon. Confii-m'd, confinn'd! 0, that is strongcl 
 made, 
 Which was before barr'd up with ribs of ix'on I 
 Would the two princes lie ? and Claudio lie ? 
 T\Tio lov'd her so, that, speaking of her foulness, 
 Wash'd it with tears ? Hence from her ; let hei 
 die. 
 
 Friar. Hear me a little ; 
 For I have only been silent so long, 
 And given way unto this course of fortune, 
 
 245
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 By noting of the lady. J have mark'd 
 A. thousand blushing apparitions start 
 Into her face ; a thousraid iunocent shames 
 [n angel whiteness bear away those blushes ; 
 .^id in her eye there hath appear'd a fire, 
 To bum the errors that these princes hold 
 Against her maiden truth. Call me a fool ; 
 Trust not my reading, nor my observations, 
 \Miioh mth experimental seal doth ■^'arrant 
 The tenour of my book ; trust not mj' age, 
 ily reverence, calling, nor divinit}-, 
 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 wiU not add to her damnation 
 A sin of perjury ; she not denies it : 
 ViTiy seek'st thou then to cover with excuse 
 "That wliich appears in proper nakedness ? 
 
 Friar. Ladj', what man is he you are aocus"d of? 
 
 Hero. They know that do accuse me; I know 
 none. 
 If I know more of any man alive 
 Than thai which maiden modesty doth warrant. 
 Let all my sins lack mercy ! — my father. 
 Prove you that any man with me convers'd 
 .It hours unmeet, or that I yesternight 
 JIaintain'd the change of words with any creature. 
 Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death. 
 
 Friar. There is some strange misprision in the 
 princes. 
 
 JJene. Two of them have tlio very bent of 
 honour ; 
 .■Vjid if their ^risdoms be misled in this, 
 The practice of it Hves in John the bastard, 
 Whose spirits toil in frame of villainies. 
 
 Zeo>i. I know not. If they speak but truth of 
 her. 
 These hands sliall tear lier; if they wrong her 
 
 honour. 
 The proudest of them shall well hear of it. 
 Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine, 
 Xor age so eat up my invention, 
 Xor fortune made such liavoc 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, 
 .Vbility in means, and clioicc of fiieuds. 
 To ([uit me of them throughly. 
 
 Friar. Pause awhile, 
 
 ird let my counspl sway you in this case, 
 if JUT daughter hero the jirinccs left for dead ; 
 246 
 
 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 moui'nful epitaphs, and do all rites 
 That appertain unto a burial. 
 
 Zeon. "What shall become of this? What ^\ill 
 this do ? 
 
 Friar. Many, this, well carried, shall on hei 
 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 d)-ing, as it must be so maintain'd, 
 Upon the instant that she was accis'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 
 Wliiles wo enjoy it ; but being lack'd and lost, 
 T^Tiy then we rack™ the value, — then we find 
 The vii'tue that possession would not show us 
 "WTiiles it was ours : So will it fare with Claudio : 
 When he shall hear she died upon his words, 
 The idea of her life shall sweetly creep 
 Into liis 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 KkclDioood. 
 But if all aim but this bo levoU'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. 
 
 Dene. Siguier Leonato, let the friar ad^nse you 
 And though, you know, my inwardness and lovti 
 Is vcr}' 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. 
 
 Zeon. Being that I flow in grief, 
 
 The smallest twine may lead mc. 
 
 Friar. 'T is well consented ; presently away •
 
 A'?T IV. 
 
 MUCH AJ)0 AJiOUT KOTIIING. 
 
 BCEJns JL 
 
 Per to strange sores strangely they strain the 
 cure. — 
 Pome, lady, die to live : this wedding-day, 
 
 Perhaps is but prolong'd ; luive patience, and 
 endure. 
 
 [_Exeu7it Fbiae, Hebo, and Ltion. 
 
 Befw. Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this 
 while ? 
 
 Beat. Yea, and I will weep awhile longer. 
 
 Be:ic. I will not desire that. 
 
 Beat. You have no reason ; I do it freely. 
 
 Bene. Siu-cly, I do believe your fair cousin is 
 wi'ong'd. 
 
 Be<!i. jWi, Iiow much might the man deserve of 
 QIC that would right her ! 
 
 Bine. Is there any way to show such friend- 
 ship ? 
 
 Bent. A very even way, but no such friend. 
 
 Bene. May a man do it .' 
 
 Beat. It is a man's office, but not yours. 
 
 Bene. I do love nothing in the world so wcU as 
 \'.m : Is not that strange r 
 
 Beat. As strange as the thing I know not : It 
 were as possible for me to say I loved nothing so 
 Well as you : but believe me not ; and yet I lie 
 not ; I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing : — I 
 am sorry for my cousin. 
 
 Bene. By my sword, Beatrice, thou lov'st me. 
 
 Beat. Do not swear by it, and cat it. 
 
 Bene, 1 wiU swear by it that you love me ; and 
 [ will make liim eat it that sa3-s I love not you. 
 
 Beat. Will you not cat your word ? 
 
 Bene. With no sauce that can be devised to it : 
 I protest I love thee. 
 
 Beat. Why, then God forgive mo ! 
 
 Bene. What offence, sweet Beatrice ? 
 
 Beat. Y''ou have stayed me in a happy hour ; I 
 was about to protest I loved you. 
 
 Bene. And do it with all thy heart. 
 
 Beat. I love you with so much of my heart, 
 that none is left to protest. 
 
 Bene. Come, bid me do anything for thee. 
 
 Beat. Kill Chmdio. 
 
 Bene. Ha ! not for the wide world. 
 
 Beat. You kill me to deny it : Farewell. 
 
 Bene. Tarry, sweet Beatrice. 
 
 Bouc. I am gone, though I am here : ** — There 
 is no love in you : — !Xay, I pray you, let me 
 
 ?"■ 
 
 Bene. Beatrice, — 
 
 Beat. In faith, I wiU go. 
 
 Bene. We 'U be friends first. 
 
 Beat. You dare easier be friends with me than 
 fight with mine enemy. 
 
 Bene. Is Claudio thine enemy ? 
 
 Beat. Is he not approved in the height a villain, 
 that liath slandered, scorned, dishonoured my 
 kinswoman r — 0, that I were a man ! — "What J 
 bear her in hand until they come to take hands; 
 and then, witli public accusation, uncovered slan- 
 der," unmitigated rancour, — God, that I were a 
 man ! I would cat his heart Ln the market-place. 
 
 Be}ie. Hear me, Beatrice ; — 
 
 Beat. Talk with a man out at a window ? — a 
 proper saj-ing. 
 
 Bene. Nay, but, Beatrice ; — 
 
 Beat. Sweet Hero ! — she is wrong'd, she is 
 slandered, she is undone. 
 
 Bene. Beat 
 
 Beat. Princes, and counties ! Surely, a princely 
 testimony, a goodly count — Count Confect ! A 
 sweet gallant, surely ! that I were a man for 
 his sake ! or that I had any friend would be a mojj 
 for mj' sake ! But manhood is melted into cur- 
 sics, valour into compliment, and men are only 
 turned into tongue, and trim ones too : he is now 
 as valiant as Hercules that only tells a lie, and 
 swears it. I cannot be a man with, wishing 
 therefore I will die a woman with grie'\"ing. 
 
 Bene. TaiTj", good Beatrice : By this hand, I 
 love thee. 
 
 Beat. Use it for my love some other way than 
 swearing by it. 
 
 Bene. Think you in your soul the count Claudia 
 hath wrong'd Hero ? 
 
 Beat. Yea, as sure as I have a thought, or a 
 soul. 
 
 Bene. Enough ! I am engaged, I will challenge 
 him ; I will kiss your hand, and so leave yoxi. 
 By this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear 
 account ! As you hear of me, so think of me. 
 Go, comfort your cousin : I must say she is dead ; 
 and so, flirewcU. [_Sxeunl. 
 
 SCENE 11.—^ Prison 
 
 Enter Dogbeekv, Yeeges, and Scxtoh, in gowns ; 
 and the ATatch, icith Conkade and BoKiCHio. 
 
 Bogh. Is oui' whole dissembly appear'd ? 
 Verg. 0, a stool and a cushion for the seston 
 Sexton. Which be the malefactors ? 
 Bogh. llany, that am I and my partnei. 
 Verg. Nay, that "s certain ; we have the exhibi 
 tiou to examine. 
 
 247
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 Sexton. But wliich are the offenders that are to 
 be examined ? let them come before master con- 
 stable. 
 
 Do(fb. Tea, marry, let them come before me. — 
 \Miat is yoiir name, friend ? 
 
 Bora. Boraohio. 
 
 Doffb. Pray vrite doTvn Boraehio. — Yours, 
 sirrah ? 
 
 Con. I am a gentleman, sii', and my name is 
 Conrade. 
 
 Ihffb. Write do\\Ti, master gentleman Conrade. 
 -—Masters, do you seiTe God ? 
 
 Con., Bora. Yea, sir, ■we hope. 
 
 Doffb. "Write down that they hope they serve 
 God : — and write God iirst ; for God defend but 
 God should go before such villains 1 — llasters, it 
 is proved akeady that you are little better than 
 false knaves ; and it wiU go near to be thought so 
 shortly. How answer you for yourselves ? 
 
 Con. Marry, sir, we say we are none. 
 
 Doffb. A man-eUous witty fellow:, I assure you; 
 but I wiU 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. 
 
 Doffb. "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. 
 
 Doffb. Y^ea, 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. 
 
 Bogb. "Write down prince John a villain : — 
 Why, this is flat perjury, to call a prince's brother 
 ' villain.' 
 
 Bora. Master constable, — 
 
 iJogb. Pray thee, fellow, peace ; I do not like 
 thy look, I promise thee. 
 
 Sexton. "What heard you him say clsf t 
 
 248 
 
 2 Watch. Marry, that he had received a thou- 
 sand ducats of Don John, for accusing the 1 id>' 
 Hero wrongfully. 
 
 Bogb. Flat burglary as ever was committed ! 
 
 Verg. Y^ca, by the mass! tliat it is. 
 
 Sexton. "What else, fellow ? 
 
 1 Watch. And that count Claudio did mcyn, 
 upon his words, to disgrace Hero before the w hole 
 assembly, and not marry her. 
 
 Bogb. villain, thou wilt be condemn'd intu 
 everlasting redemption for this ! 
 Sexton. "WTiat else r 
 
 2 Watch. This is all. 
 
 Sexton. And this is more, masters, than you 
 can deny. Prince John is this morning secretly 
 stol'n away : Hero was in this manner accus'd, in 
 tliis very manner refus'd, and upon the gritf of 
 this suddenly died. — Master constable, let those 
 men be bound, and brouglit to Leonato ; I ■ndll go 
 before, and show him their examination. \_Exit. 
 
 Bogb. Come, let them be opinion'd. 
 
 Verg. Let them be in the hands — 
 
 Con. Off, coxcomb I 
 
 Bogb. God 's my life i 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 ! 
 
 Bogl. Dost thou not suspect my place ? Dost 
 thou not suspect my years ? — that he were liere 
 to write me down an 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 prov'd 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 preity a jiioce 
 of flesh as any is in Messina ; and one that knows 
 the law, go to ; and a rich fcUow enough, go to ; 
 and a fcUow that hath had losses ; and one that 
 hath two gowns and everything handsome about 
 him : — Bring him away. 0, that I had been 
 writ down an ass ! [Exeunt
 
 f 
 
 f
 
 
 
 MlMn^^^nib^xi '.13 S^^i^m. 
 
 .,/.,.!,;,.' ,^;r.,'
 
 ACT V. 
 
 MUCH ADO iJJOUT NOTKIJiO. 
 
 6CENK I. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I.— Before Le;:iato'« House. 
 Enter Leonato and Antonio. 
 
 Ant. If you go on thus, you will kill yourself; 
 A.nd 't is not wisdom thus to second grief 
 Against j-ourself. 
 
 Leon. I pray thee cease thy counsel, 
 
 Wliiuh f;iLIs into mine ears as profitless 
 A.S water in a sieve. Give not me counsel ; 
 Nor let no comforter delight mine ear. 
 But such a one whose wrongs do suit with mine. 
 Bring me a father that so lov'd his child, 
 Wlioso joy of her is overwhelm'd like mine. 
 And bid him speak of patience ; 
 Measure his woe the length and breadth of mine, 
 And let it answer every strain for strain, — 
 As thus for thus, and such a grief for such. 
 In every lineament, branch, shape, and form : 
 [f such a one will smile, and stroke his beard ; 
 And, sorrowing, cry ' hem' when he should groan; " 
 Patch grief with proverbs ; make misfortime drunk 
 With candle-wasters;** bring him yet to me. 
 And I of him will gather patience : — 
 But there is no such man : — For, brother, men 
 Can counsel, and speak comfort to that grief 
 Wliich they themselves not feel; but, tasting it, 
 Theii- counsel turns to passion, which before 
 Would give preccptial medicine to rage. 
 Fetter strong madness in a sOjien thread, 
 Chai-m ach -w-ith air, and agony with words : 
 No, no; 't is all men's office to speak patience 
 To those that wring under the load of sorrow ; 
 But no man's virtue, nor sufficiency. 
 To be so moral, when he shall endui'e 
 The like himself: therefore give me no counsel: 
 My griefs cry louder than advertisement. 
 
 Ant. Therein do men from children nothing differ. 
 
 Leon. I pray thee, peace; I will be flesh and 
 blood ; 
 For there was never yet philosopher 
 That could endure the tooth-ach patiently. 
 However they have writ the style of gods. 
 And mac'e a push*" at chance and sufferance. 
 
 Ant. Yet bend not all the harm upon yourself 
 Make those that do offend you suffer too. 
 
 Leon. There thou speak'st reason : nay, I will 
 do so : 
 My soul doth tell me Hero is belied ; 
 And that shall Claudio know, so shall the prince, 
 And all of them that thus dishonour her. 
 
 Enter Don Pedeo and Clatjdio. 
 
 Ant. 
 
 the prince and Claudio, 
 
 Here come 
 hastily. 
 
 B. Pedro. Good den, good den. 
 
 Claud. Good day to botli of you. 
 
 Leon. Hear you, my lords, — 
 
 B. Pedro. We have some haste, Leoualo 
 
 Leon. Some haste, my lord 1 — well, ftu'e you 
 well, my lord : 
 Are you so hasty now ? — well, all is one. 
 
 D. Pedro. Nay, do not quarrel with us, good 
 old man. 
 
 Ant. If he could right himself with quarrelling, 
 Some of us would lie low. 
 
 Claud. "Wlio wrongs him ? 
 
 Leon. Marry, thou dost wrong me ; thou dis- 
 sembler, thou : — 
 Nay, never lay thy hand upon thy sword ; 
 I fear thee not. 
 
 Claud. Many, beshrew my hand, 
 
 If it should give your ago such cause of fear : 
 la faith, Wij hand meant nothing to my sword. 
 
 Leon. Tush, tush, man ! never fleer and jest at me 
 I speak not like a dotard, nor a fool ; 
 As, under privilege of age, to brag 
 What I have done being young, or what would do 
 Were I not old. Know, Claudio, to tliy head. 
 Thou hast so wrong'd mj^ innocent child and me. 
 That I am forc'd to lay my reverence by ; 
 And, with grey hairs, and bruise of many days, 
 Do challenge thee to irial of a man. 
 I say, thou hast belied mine innocent child ; 
 Thy slander hath gone through and tlirougli 'cci 
 
 heart, 
 And she lies buried with her ancestors : 
 
 2411
 
 MUCH ADO AIIOUT NOTHING 
 
 '. in a tomb where never scandal slept, 
 Save this of hers, fram'd by thy villainy. 
 Claud. My villainy ! 
 
 Leon. Thine, Claudio ; thine, I say. 
 
 I). Pedro. Yc'i say not right, old man. 
 
 Leon. lAy lord, my lord, 
 
 L 'II prove it on his body, if ho dare ; 
 Despite his nice fence and his active practice. 
 His May of )-outh, and bloom of lustihood. 
 
 Claud. Away ; I will not have to do with yon. 
 Leun. Canst thun so daff mcr*' Thou hast 
 kiird mj' child ; 
 If thou Icill'st me, boy, thou shalt kill a man. 
 
 Ayit. He shall kiU two of us, and men indeed ; 
 But that 's no matter ; let him kiU me first ; — 
 Win me and wear me, — lot him answer mo, — 
 Come follow me, boy ; come, sir boy, come foUow 
 
 me : 
 Sir boy, I '11 whip you from your foining fence ; 
 Xay, as I am a gentleman, I will. 
 
 Leon. Erother, — 
 
 Ant. Content yourself : God knows, I lov'd my 
 niece ; 
 And she is dead, slander'd to death by villains, 
 That dare as well answer a man, indeed, 
 As I dare take a serpent by the tongue : 
 Boys, apes, braggarts. Jacks, milksops ! — 
 
 Leon. Brother Antony, — 
 
 Ant. Hold you content : AVliat, man ! I know 
 them, yea, 
 .Vnd what they weigh, even to the utmost scruple : 
 Scambling,"' out-facing, fashion-mongring boys. 
 That lie, and cog, and flout, deprave, and sLmdcr, 
 Go anticly, and show outward hidoousncss, 
 And speak off lialf a-dozen dang'rous words. 
 How the}' might hurt their enemies, if they dm-st, 
 And this is all ! 
 
 Leon. Eut, Brother Antony, — 
 
 Ant. Come, 't is no matter ; 
 
 Do not you meddle ; let me deal in this. 
 
 T>. Pedro. Gentlemen both, wo will not wake 
 j"our patience.'^ 
 yiy heart is sorry for your daughter's death , 
 But, on my hcnotir, she wa.s charg'd with nothing 
 But what was true, and very full of proof. 
 
 Leon. My lord, my lord, — 
 
 D. Pedro. I will not hear you. 
 
 L.eon. No ? 
 
 Como, brolho-; away : — I vnW be heard 1 
 
 Ar.t. And shall, 
 
 l)r some of us will smart for it. 
 
 \_Exount Lkox. and ,\m'. 
 2fi0 
 
 Enter Benedick. 
 
 P. Pedro. See, see ; here comes the man wc 
 went to seek. 
 
 Claud. Now, signior ! what news ? 
 
 Pene. Good day, my lord. 
 
 I). Pedro. "Welcome, signior : You ai-e ;Jmost 
 come to part almost a fray. 
 
 Claud. AVe had lik'd to have had our two noses 
 snapp'd off mth two old men without teeth. 
 
 P. Pedro. Leonato and his brother. What 
 think'st thou? Had we fought, I doubt we should 
 have been too young for them. 
 
 Bene. In a false quarrel there is no true valour: 
 I came to seek you both. 
 
 Claud. "We have been up and do^vn to seek thee ; 
 for we are high proof melancholy, and would fain 
 have it beaten away. "Wilt thou use thy wit ? 
 
 Bene. It is in my scabbard : ShaU I draw it ? 
 
 P. Pedro. Dost thou wear thy -uit by thy side? 
 
 Claud. Never anj- did so, though very many 
 have been beside their -n-it. — I wiU bid thee di'aw, 
 as we do the minstrels ; draw, to pleasure us. 
 
 P. Pedro. As I am an honest man, ho looks pale : \ 
 — Art thou sick, or angiy ? 1 
 
 Claud. "What ! courage, man ! "What though ) 
 care kUl'd a cat, thou hast mettle enough in t'nee 
 to kiU care. 
 
 Bene. Sir, I shall meet your wit in the career, 
 an you charge it against me : — I pray you choose 
 another subject. 
 
 Claud. Nay, then give him another staff; this 
 last was broke cross.'' 
 
 P. Pedro. By this light, he changes more and 
 more : I think ho be angry indeed. 
 
 Claud. If he be, he knows how to turn his 
 gii-dle.=* 
 
 Bene. Shall I speak a word in your e,*.r ? 
 
 Claud. God bless me from a challenge ! 
 
 Bene. You are a villain; — I jest not — I will 
 make it good how you dare, with what j'ou dare, 
 and when you dare ! Do mo riglit, or I will pro- 
 test your cowardice. You liave kill'd a sweet lady 
 and her death shall fall heavy on you. Lot me 
 hear from you. 
 
 Claud. "Well, I will meet you, so I may have 
 good cheer. 
 
 P. Pedro. "What, a feast r a feast ? 
 
 Claud. V faith, I thank liim ; ho liath bid nic 
 to a calf's head and a capon, the which if I do not 
 carvo most curiously, say mj" knife 's nought. — 
 l>biill I not find a woodcock too ?"'
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 8CEKL 1, 
 
 Bene. Sir, your vni ambles •well; it goes easily. 
 
 I). Pedro. I '11 tell thee how Beatrice pruis'd 
 l.hy wit the other day. I saiil, thou hadst a fine 
 «it ; "True," says she, "a fine little one:" 
 "No," said I, "a great wit;" "Eight," says she, 
 •a great gross «ne:" "Naj-," said I, "a good 
 wit;" "Just," said she, "it hurts nobody:" 
 "Nay," said I, " the gentleman is wise;" "Cer- 
 tain," said she, " a wise gentleman !" " Naj-," 
 said ], "ho hath the tongues ;" "That I believe," 
 said she, " for he swore a thing to me on Monday 
 niglit, which he forswore on Tuesday morning ; 
 there 's a double tongue ; there 's two tongues." 
 Thus did she, an hour together, trans-shape 
 thy particular virtues; yet, at last, she con- 
 cluded, with a sigh, thou wast the prop'rest man in 
 Italy. 
 
 Claud. For the which she wept heartily, and 
 said she car'd not. 
 
 I). Pedro. Yea, that she did; but yet, for all 
 that, an if she did not hate him deadly, she would 
 [Qve him dearly : the old man's daughter told us 
 all. 
 
 Claud. All, all; and moreover, "God saw him 
 when he was hid in the garden." 
 
 D. Pedro. But when shall we set the savage 
 DuU's horns on the sensible Benedick's head } 
 
 Claud. Yea, and text underneath, "Here dwells 
 Deuedick the married man"? 
 
 Bene. Fare you well, boy ! you know mj' mind; 
 1 will leave j-ou now to your gossip-like humour : 
 you break jests as braggai'ts do their blades, which, 
 God be thanked, hurt not. — My lord, for j'our 
 many courtesies I thank you : I must discontinue 
 your company : your brother, the bastard, is fled 
 from Messina : you have, among you, kill'd a sweet 
 and innocent lady. For my lord Lackbeard there, 
 he and I shall meet ; and, tiU then, peace be with 
 him ! [Exit Bene. 
 
 I). Pedro. He is in earnest. 
 
 Claud. In most profound earnest; and, I '11 
 warrant you, for the love of Beatrice. 
 
 B. Pedro. And hath challeng'd thee ? 
 
 Claud. Most sincerely. 
 
 D. Pedro. What a pretty thing man is, when 
 ko goes in his doublet and hose, and leaves oft' his 
 witl 
 
 Claud. Ho is then a giant to an ape : but then is 
 an ape a dDctor to such a man. 
 
 D. Pedro. But, soft you, lot me be ; pluck up, 
 my heart, and be sad ! Did he not say my brother 
 WiiS fled ? 
 
 Elder Dogbeuby, Veboes, and the "NN'atch, with 
 CoxRADE and Bokaciiio. 
 
 Pui/h. Come you, sir; if justice cannot tame 
 you, she shall ne'er weigh more reasons in lier 
 balance : nay, an you be a cursing hypocrite once, 
 you must be look'd to. 
 
 D. Pedro. How now, two of my brother's mer 
 bound I Borachio one ! 
 
 Claud. Hearken after their offence, my lord ! 
 
 J). Pedro. Ofiicers, what offence have these men 
 done? 
 
 Bojl. Marry, sir, they have committed false 
 report; moreover, they have spoken untraths; 
 secondarily, they are slanders; sixth and lastly, 
 they have belied a lady; thirdly, they have vcrifind 
 unjust things; and, to conclude, they are lying 
 knaves. 
 
 D. Pedro. First, I ask thee what tlioy have 
 done ; thirdly, I ask thee what 's their offence ; 
 sixth and lastly, why they are committed : and, to 
 conclude, what lay you to their charge ? 
 
 Claud, nightly reasoned, and in his own divi- 
 sion I and, by my troth, there 's one meaning well 
 suited. ^ 
 
 D. Pedro. ~^Tio have you offended, masters, 
 that you are thus bound to your answer ? This 
 learned constable is too cunning to be understood: 
 "VlHiat 's your offence ? 
 
 Bora. Sweet prince, let me go no further to 
 mine answer ; do )-ou hear me, and let this count 
 kill me. I have deceived even your very eyes: 
 what your wisdoms could not discover, these shal- 
 low fools have brought to light; who, in the 
 night, overheard me confessing to this man how 
 Don John, 5-our brother, incensed me to slander 
 the lady Hero ; how you were brought into the 
 orchard, and saw me court Margaret in Hero's 
 garments; how j'ou disgrao'd her, when 3"ou should 
 many her. M}' villainy they have upon record ; 
 which I had rather seal with my death, than 
 repeat over to my shame : the lady is dead upon 
 mine and my master's false accusation ; and, briefly, 
 I desire nothing but the reward of a villain. 
 
 B. Pedro. Euns not this speech like iron through 
 your blood ? 
 
 Claud. I have drunk poison whUes he utter'd it 
 
 B. Pedro. But did mj' brc>ther set thee on to this? 
 
 Bora. Yea, and paid me richly for the practice 
 of it. 
 
 B. Pedro. He is compos'd and fram'd of trea- 
 chery : — 
 And fled he is upon this viUainy. 
 
 2o)
 
 ACT V. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 Claud. Sweet Hero I now thy image doth appear 
 fn the rare semblance that I lov'd it first. 
 
 Doffi. Come, bring away the plaintiffs ; by this 
 time, our sexton hath reformed signior Leonato of 
 the matter: and, masters, do not forget to specify, 
 when time and place shall serve, that I am an ass. 
 
 Verff. Here, here comes master signior Leonato, 
 Hnd the sexton too. 
 
 He-enter Leoxato and Axioxio icith the Sexton. 
 
 Leon. Which is the villain ? Let me see his eyes, 
 That when I note another man like him 
 I may avoid him : T\Tiich of these is he ? 
 
 Bora. If you would know your wronger, look 
 on me. 
 
 Leon. Art thou, — thou, the slave that with thy 
 breath hast kill'd 
 Mine innocent ohUd ? 
 
 £ora. Yea, even I alone. 
 
 Zeon. No, not so, villain; thou beliest thyself; 
 Hero stand a pair of honourable men ; 
 A third is fled, that had a hand in it : 
 I thank you, princes, for my daughter's death ; 
 Record it with your high and worthy deeds ; 
 T was bravely done, if you bethink you of it. 
 
 Claud. I know not how to pray your patience. 
 Yet I must speak. Choose your revenge yourself; 
 Impose me to what penance your invention 
 Can lay upon my sin : yet sinn'd I not, 
 But in mistaking. 
 
 B. Pedro. By my soul, nor I ; 
 
 And yet, to satisfy this good old man, 
 I would bend under any heavy weight 
 That he 'U enjoin mo to. 
 
 Leon. I cannot bid you bid my daughter live ; 
 That ■were impossible : but I pray you both, 
 Possess the people in Messina here 
 How innocent she died : and, if your love 
 Can labour aught in sad invention. 
 Hang her an epitaph upon her tomb. 
 And siug it to her bones ; sing it to-night : — 
 To-morrow morning come you to my house ; 
 And since you could not be my son-in-law. 
 Be yet my nephew : my brother hath a daughter. 
 Almost the copy of my child that 'a dead. 
 And she alone is heir tc both of us ; 
 Give her the right you should have giv'n her cousin, 
 And so dies my revenge. 
 
 Claud. 0, noble sir, 
 
 Your over kindness doth wring tears from me ! 
 I do embrace your offer ; and dispose 
 For henceforth of poor Clundio. 
 252 
 
 Leon. To-morrow, then, I will expect yoiu 
 coming ; 
 To-night I take my leave. — This naughty man 
 Shall face to face be brought to Margaret, 
 Wlio, I believe, was pack'd in all this wrong," 
 Hir'd to it by your brother. 
 
 £ora. No, by my soul, she was not ; 
 
 Nor knew not what she did, when she spoke to mo 
 But always hath been just and virtuous, 
 In anything that I do know by her. 
 
 Doffb. Moreover, sir, (which, indeed, is not 
 under white and black,) this plaintiff here, the 
 offender, did call me ass : — I beseech you, let it 
 be rememb'red in his punishment. And, also, the 
 watch heard them talk of one Deformed : they 
 say, he wears a key in his ear, "' and a lock hang- 
 ing by it; and borrows money in God's name;" 
 the which he hath us"d so long, and never paid, 
 that now men grow hard-hearted, and wiU lend 
 nothing for God's -sake. Pray you, examine him 
 upon that point. 
 
 Leon. I thank thee for thy caie and honest pains. 
 
 Doyb. Your -worship speaks like a most thank- 
 ful and reverend youth; and I praise God for you. 
 
 Leon. There 's for thy pains. 
 
 Dojb. God save the foundation ! "^ 
 
 Leon. Go, I discharge thee of thy prisoner, and 
 I thank thee. 
 
 Doffb. I leave an arrant knave with your worship ; 
 ■which, I beseech your worship, to correct yourself, 
 or the example of others. God keep your worship ; 
 I ■wish your worship ■well; God restore you to 
 health : I humbly give you leave to depart ; and 
 if a meny meeting may be wish'd, God prohibit 
 it. — Come, neighbour. 
 
 [^Exeunt Dogb., Verg., and "W'atch. 
 
 Leoji. Until to-morrow morning, lords, farewell. 
 
 Ant. Farewell, my lords ; we look for you to- 
 morrow. 
 
 L>. Pedro. AVe wiU not f;xil. 
 Claud. To-night I 'U mourn with Hero. 
 
 [^Exeunt T>. Peduo and C'i.\ni) 
 
 Leon. Bring you these fellows on ; we '11 talk 
 with Margaret, 
 How her acquaintance grew with this lewd fellow 
 
 [Jilrlt 
 
 SCENE II.— Leonato'* Garden. 
 
 Enter Benedick and Maeoaret, meeting. 
 Bene. Pray thco, sweet mistress Margaret, de- 
 serve well at my hands, by helping me to the 
 speech of Beatrice.
 
 act: V, 
 
 irUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 Marg. Will you then -write me a sonnet in praise 
 of inj- beauty ? 
 
 Bene. In so liigh a style, Margaret, that no man 
 living shall come oyer it ; for, in most comely 
 tnilh, thou dcservest it. 
 
 Marg. To have no man come over mc? why, 
 ehall I always keep below stairs ■■ 
 
 Bene. Thy wit is as quick as the greyhound's 
 mouth ; it catches. 
 
 Marg. And yours as blunt as the fencer's foils, 
 which hit, but hurt not. 
 
 Bene. A most manly wit, Margaret ; it -will not 
 hurt a woman; and so, I pray thee, caU Beatrice : 
 I give thee the bucklers. "" 
 
 Marg. Give us the swords ; we have bucklers of 
 our own. 
 
 Bene. If you use them, Margaret, you must 
 put in the pikes with a vice ; and they are dan- 
 gerous weapons for maids. 
 
 Marg. Well, I wiU call Beatrice to j-ou, who, I 
 think, hath legs. \_Exit Makg. 
 
 Bene. And therefore will come. 
 
 The god of love, ■"- \_Singing. 
 
 That sits above, 
 And knows me, and knows me, 
 IIow pitiful I deserve, — 
 
 1 mean in singing ; but in loving, — Lcander the 
 good swimmer, TroUus the first employer of pan- 
 ders, and a whole book full of these quondam 
 carpet-mongers, '™ whose names yet run smoothly 
 in the even road of a blank verse, why, they were 
 never so truly turned over and over as my poor 
 self, in love. Marry, I cannot show it in rhyme ; 
 I have tried; 1 can find out no rhyme to "lady" 
 but "baby," an innocent rhyme; for "scorn," 
 "horn," a hard rhyme; for "school,"' "fool," a 
 babbling rhyme ; very ominous endings. No, I 
 was not bom under a rhyming planet, nor I cannot 
 woo in festival terms. 
 
 Enter Beathice. 
 
 Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I call'd 
 thee? 
 
 Beat. Yea, signior, and depart vrhen you bid 
 me. 
 
 Bene, 0, stay but tUl then ! 
 
 Beat. 'Then' is spoken ; fare j 3u wcU now : — 
 aud yet, ere I go, let me go yd'Ja. that I came for, 
 which is, with kno'ving what hath pass'd between 
 you and Claudio. 
 
 Bene. Only foul words ; and thercuuou T will 
 kiss theo. 
 
 Beat. Foul words is but foul wind, and foul 
 ^\•ind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noi- 
 some ; tlierofore I will depart unkisscd. 
 
 Bene. Thou hast frighted tlic word out of hia 
 right sense, so forcible is tliy wit : But I must tell 
 thee plainly, Claudio undergoes my challetge ; 
 and either I must shortly hear from him, or I will 
 subscribe him a coward. And, I pray thee now, 
 tell me for which of my bad parts didst thou first 
 fall in love with me ? 
 
 Beat. For them all together ; whicli maintain'd 
 so politic a state of evil, that they will not admit 
 any good part to intermingle with them. But for 
 which of my good parts did you first suffer lovo 
 for mc ? 
 
 Bene. "Suffer love;" a good epithet! I do 
 suffer love, indeed, for I love thee against my 
 wUl. 
 
 Beat. In spite of your heart, I think ; alas ! 
 poor heart ! If you spite it for my sake, I will 
 spite it for yours ; for I will never love that which 
 my friend hates. 
 
 Bene. Thou and I are too wise to woo peace- 
 ably. 
 
 Beat. It appears not in this confession : there 's 
 not one wise man among twenty that wiLL praise 
 himself. 
 
 P6iie. An old, an old instance, Beatrice, that 
 liv'd in the time of good neighbours : if a man do 
 not erect in this age has own tomb ere he dies, he 
 shall" live no longer in monuments than the heUs 
 ring, and the widow weeps. 
 
 Beat. And how long is that, think you ? 
 
 Bene. Question ? "" — ^Vliy, an hour in clamour, 
 and a quarter in rheum. Therefore it is most 
 expedient for the wise (if don Worm, his eon- 
 science, find no impediment to the contrary) to be 
 the trumpet of his own virtues, as I am to myself. 
 So much for praising myself, (who, I myself will 
 bear witness, is praiseworthy,) and now tell me, 
 how doth your cousin ? 
 
 Beat. Very ill. 
 
 Bene. And how do you ? 
 
 Beat. Very ill too. 
 
 Beiie. Serve God, love me, and mend ; there 
 will I leave you too, for here comes one in haste. 
 
 Enter Uksuia. 
 
 Urs. Madam, you must come to your uiicie; 
 yonder 's old coQ'" at home : it is proved, my lady 
 Hero hath been falsely aocus'd • the prince and 
 Claudio mightily abused ; and Pon Jolm is the 
 
 253
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 bce>t; m. — iv. 
 
 author of all, who is fled and gone , vnR you come 
 presently ? 
 
 Jit'iit. "Will you go hear this news, signior? 
 
 Bene. I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, 
 and be buried in thy eyes ; and, moreover, I will 
 go with thee to thy uncle's. [_Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE 111.— The Inside of a Church. 
 
 Er.tor Dox Pedeo, Claubio, and Attendants, with 
 music and lajiers. 
 
 Claud. Is this the monument of Lconato ? 
 .At ten. It is, my lord. 
 Cltiud. \_Reads from a scroll.'] 
 
 " Done to death by slanderous tongues 
 Was the Ilero that here lies : 
 Death, in guerdon of her %rrong3, 
 
 Gives her fame which never dies : 
 So the life that died with shams 
 Lives in death with glorious fame. 
 Hang thou there upon the tomb. 
 Praising her when I am dumb. " 
 
 .Vow, musie sound, and sing your solemn hymn. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Pardon, goddess of the night. 
 Those that slow thy virgin knight ; "" 
 For the which, with songs of woe, 
 Round about her tomb they go. 
 
 Midnight, assist om" moan ; 
 
 Help us to sigh and groan, 
 Hea%ily, heavily : 
 
 Graves, yawn, and j-ield your dead, 
 
 Till death bo uttered, 
 Hearily, hea\'ily. 
 
 Now vmto thy bones good night ! 
 Yearly will I do this rite. 
 D. Pedro. Good morrow, masters ; put your 
 
 torches out : 
 The wolves have proy'd : and, look, the gentle 
 day. 
 Before the wheels of Phoebus, round about 
 
 Dapples the drowsy oast with spots of gray : 
 Thanks to you all, and leave us ; fare j-ou well. 
 Claud. Good morrow, masters ; each his several 
 
 way. 
 D. Pedro. Come, let us hence, and put on other 
 weeds ; 
 And then to Leonato's we ^^■iil go. 
 
 Claud. And, Hymen, now, with luckier issue 
 speeds 
 Than this, for whom wo render'd up this woe ! 
 
 [^Exeunt. 
 
 2.S4 
 
 SCENE lY. — A Room in Lconato'i Ilouic. 
 
 Enter Leonato, Aktoxio, Beneuick, IIeatkice, 
 UitstTLA, Friar, and Hero. 
 
 Friar. Did I not tell you she was innocent ? 
 
 Leon. So arc the prince and Claudio, who acciis'r 
 her 
 Upon the error that you heard debated : 
 But Mai-garet was in some fault for this, 
 Although against her will, ns it appears 
 In the true course of aU the question. 
 
 Ant. AYell, I am glad that all things sort si. 
 ■well. 
 
 Bene. And so am I, being else by faith enforc'd 
 To call young Claudio to a reekoning for it. 
 
 Leon. AYeU, daughter, and j'ou gentlewomen all, 
 Withdraw into a chamber by yourselves ; 
 And, when I send for you, come hither mask"d : 
 The prince and Claudio promised by this hour 
 To visit me :— you know your office, brother ; 
 You miist be father to your brother's daughtfr, 
 And gi-se her to young Claudio. \_E.u>unt Ladi':s 
 
 Ant. Which I will do with coniinu'd counte- 
 nance. 
 
 Bone. Friar, I must entreat your ] ains, I think 
 
 Friar. To do what, signior? 
 
 Bene. To bind me, or undo rac, one of them. 
 Signior Leonato, truth it is, good signior. 
 Your niece regards me with an eye of favour. 
 
 Leoii,. That eye my daughter leut her: 'T if 
 most true. 
 
 Bene. And I do with an eye of love requite her. 
 
 Leon. The sight whereof, I think, j-ou had from 
 mo, 
 From Claudio, and the prince. But what "s youi 
 wiU? 
 
 Bene. Your answer, sir, is enigmatical : 
 But, for my will, my will is, your good will 
 May stand %vith ours, this day to be oonjoin'd 
 In the estate of honourable marriage ; 
 In which, good friar, I shall desire your help. 
 
 Leon. M}' heart is with your liking. 
 
 Friar. And my help. 
 
 Here come the prince and Claudio. 
 
 Enter Dox Pkihw and Ci.Aumc 'cith AltendaiUs 
 
 B. Pedro. Good nu)rrow to this fair assem'oly. 
 
 Leon. Good morrow, prince; good Borrow 
 Claudio ; 
 AVe here attend you. Are you yet determin'd 
 To-day to marry with my brother's daughter ' 
 
 Claud. I'll hold my mind, wore she an Etliiopc
 
 acr V. 
 
 ItTJCH ADO A.KOUT NOTHING. 
 
 Leov. Call her forth, brother; here 's the friar 
 ready. l&U Ant. 
 
 D. Pedro. Good morrow, Benedick: "WHiy, 
 ■what 's the matter, 
 That ypu have such a February face. 
 So full of frost, of storm, and cloudiness ? 
 
 Clincd. I tlii::'k he thinks upon the savage bull : — 
 Tush, fear not, man, we '11 tip thy horns with gold. 
 And all Eiu-opa shall rejoice at thee ; "" 
 As once Europa did at luaty Jove, 
 When he would play the noble beast in love. 
 
 J}ene. BuU Jove, sir, hud an amiable low • 
 And some such strange huU le;ip'd your father's 
 
 cow, 
 And got a calf in that same noble feat, 
 Much like to you, for you have just his bleat. 
 
 Re-enter Antonio, zoith the Ladies masked. 
 
 Claud. For this I owe you: here come other 
 rock'nings. 
 Wliioh is the lady I must seize upon ? 
 Zeon. This same is she, and I do give you her. 
 Claud. "Why, then she 's mine. Sweet, let me 
 
 see your face. 
 Lion. jS"o, that you shall not, till you take her 
 hand 
 Before this friar, and swear to marry her. 
 
 Cl-md. Give me your hand before this holy friar ; 
 1 am your husband, if you like of me. 
 
 Hero. And when I liv'd, I was your other wife : 
 
 [ Unniasking. 
 And when you lov'd, you were my other husband. 
 Claud. Another Hero ? 
 Hero. Nothing certainer : 
 
 One Hero died defil'd ; but I do live, 
 And, surely as I live, I am a maid. 
 
 D. Pedro. The former Hero ! Hero that is dead ! 
 Leon. She died, my lord, but whiles her slander 
 
 liv'd. 
 Friar. All this amazement can I qualify ; 
 Wien, after that the holy rites are ended, 
 I 'U tell you largely of fair Hero's death : 
 Meantime, let wonder seem familiar, 
 Ajid to the chapel let us presently. 
 Bene. Soft and fiiir, fi-iar. — Which is Beatrice ? 
 Beat. I answer to that name ; [mmashing] what 
 
 is your will ? 
 Bene. Do not you love me ? 
 Beat. AVhy, no, — no more than reason. 
 
 Bene. "WHiy, then your uncle, and the prince, 
 and Claudio, 
 Have been deceived ; they swore you did. 
 
 Beat. Do not you love me ? 
 Bene. Troth, no, — no more than reasou. 
 
 Beat. Wliy, then my cousin, Margaret, ami 
 Ursula, 
 Are much docciv'd ; for they did swear you did. 
 Bene. They swore that you were almost sick 
 
 for me. 
 Beat. They swore that you were well nigh 
 
 dead for mo. 
 Bene. 'T is no such matter : — Then you do not 
 love me ? 
 
 Beat. No, truly, but in friendly recompense. 
 Hero. Come, cousin, I am sure you love the 
 
 gentleman. 
 Claud. And I '11 be sworn upon 't, that h i 
 loves her, 
 For here 's a paper, written in his hand, 
 A halting sonnet of his own piu-e Irain, 
 Fashioned to Beatrice. 
 
 ITero. And here's another, 
 
 Writ in my cousin's hand, stol'n from her pockei, 
 Containing her affection unto Benedick. 
 
 Bene. A miracle ! here 's our own hands against 
 our hearts ! — Come, I will have thee; but, by thii> 
 liglit, I take thee for pity ! 
 
 Beat. I would not deny you ; -^ — but, b-; tins 
 good day, I yield upon great persua-sion, and, 
 partly, to save your life, for I was told you Tere 
 Ln a consumption. 
 
 Bene. Peace, I wiU stop your mouth. 
 
 {^Kissing her. 
 D. Pedro. How dost thou, Benedick the mar- 
 ried man ? 
 
 Be7ie. I '11 tell thee what, prince ; a college oi 
 wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humour : 
 Dost thou think I care for a satire, or on epigram : 
 No : if a man will be beaten with brains, 'a shaU 
 wear nothing handsome about him. In brief, 
 since I do pui-pose to marry, I will think nothing 
 to any purpose that the world can say against it ; 
 and therefore never flout at me for what I have 
 said against it: for man is a giddy thing, and this 
 is my conclusion. — For thy part, Claudio, I did 
 think to have beaten thee; but in that thou os\ 
 like to be my kinsman, live unbruis'd, and love 
 my cousin. 
 
 Claud. I had well hop'd thou wouldst have 
 denied Beatrice, that I might have cudgcU'd thee 
 out of thy single lift-, to make thee a double 
 dealer; which, out of question, thou wilt be, if 
 my cousin do not look exceeding narrowly U) 
 thee.
 
 tBT V. 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHIN'J. 
 
 Beiie. Come, come, we arc friends : — let 's liave 
 \ dance ere we are married, that wo may liglilen 
 our own hearts, and our wives' heels. 
 
 Leon. We '11 have dancing afterward. 
 
 Bene. First, of my word; therefore, play 
 music. — Prince, thou art sad ; get thee a wife, get 
 thee a wife ; there is no staff more rsTorend than 
 £t.t, tipped with honi-"" 
 ^56 
 
 Enter a Messenger. 
 Mess. My lord, your hrother John Is fcs'cu ii 
 flight. 
 And hronght with armed men back to Messina. 
 Bene. Think not on him till to-morrow; 1 
 devise thee brave punishments for him. — StrLk; 
 
 up, pipere ! 
 
 ( Ihnoc Eveunt
 
 NOTES TO MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 
 
 ' Jinter Lsonato. Innogen. 
 
 Jauogen, wife of Loonato, is introduced in the original in 
 lie stage direction here and in the second act, but, as no 
 speeches are assigned to her, her name has hitherto been 
 omitted. It seems, however, unlilscly that Innogen should 
 ba thus twice iutroduccd, had she not been intended by the 
 poet for one of the characters. I have, therefore, ventui-cd 
 to select a few unimportant speeches, hitherto assigued to 
 Leonato, as her portion. 
 
 - Without a badge of bitterness. 
 
 Badge, a mark or tolten, fi-cm the badges worn by 
 servants of distinguished peoi^le. The inmates of the 
 Hospital at Warwick still wear the silver badges of the 
 founder, the E.arl of Leicester. In great measure, abun- 
 lantly. Truer, more honest. 
 
 ^ Is Signior Montanto returned. 
 
 ■Warburton refers to the Spanish mrmtdnte, a two-handed 
 iword. Montanto was an old fencuig term, here ludicrously 
 applied to Benedick. 
 
 ■1 Of any sort. 
 
 That is, of any rank. " Look you, sir, yon presume to 
 be a gentleman of sort," Every Man out of his Humour. 
 Mr. Xnight complains that the word is sometimes explained 
 one way, and ser:?*:"TR another. In a case lilvc this, we 
 can only judge by tlie context, Shakespeare undoubtedly 
 using the word in both senses in the coui-se of his plays. 
 
 ^ He set up his bills here in Messina. 
 
 It was usual for fcuccrs, archers, and others, to post their 
 bills or chaUonges on the posts. " These joUy mountibanks 
 olapt up their bills upon eveiy post, like a fencer's chal- 
 lenge," Decker's Wonderfull Yeare, 1603. Dabome, the 
 actor, says in a letter, " I pray, sir, let the boy giv order 
 this night to the stage-keeper to !jet up bUls against Munday 
 for Eastward Hoe. " A flight was a light arrow, foimed 
 for very long and straight shcts ; the bird-holt, on the eon- 
 traiy, was a short thick arro^' with a broad flat end, used 
 for "Killing small birds, without piercing, by the mere force 
 of the blow. The satii'e of course consists in the antithesis , 
 the flight being the swiftest arrow, and the bii'd-bolt the 
 worst in archeiy, used by fools and children. He '11 be 
 meet with you, even with you ; he 'U be a match for you. 
 
 Holp, helped; the old preterite. Trencherman, feeder; 
 03 
 
 eater. " His doublet is of cast satten cut sometime upcn 
 tafl'ata, but that the bumbast hath eafen througli it, and 
 spotted it here and there with pm-o fat to testifie that he is 
 a good trencher-man," Lodge's "Wits Miserie. 1-596, p. 63. 
 
 " Stuffed with all honourable virtues. 
 
 Stuffed, furnished, not in a ridiculous sense. Medc, 
 1672, montions Adam as being "stuffed with so many 
 excellent quahties." 
 
 ' Four of his five wits. 
 
 The five senses were formerly tei-med the five mits, but 
 Shakespeare seems to consider them distinct. A character 
 in the old interlude of the ' Five Elements,' says, — 
 
 I am callyd Son.sual Apetyte, 
 All creatures in me delyte, 
 
 I comforte the wytti/s five ; 
 The tastyng, smellyiig, and herynge, 
 1 rcfipshe the sygh'te and fel}'nge 
 
 To all creatm-es alyve. 
 
 ^ If he have wit enough to keep himself warm. 
 
 That is, if he has sense enough to take care of his own 
 interests. This proverbial expression _was formerly very 
 common. " Madam, your whole self cannot but be perfectly 
 wise, for your liands have wit enough to keep themselves 
 wai-m," Ben Jonson's Cynthia's Revels. "A wise man. He 
 warrant him, for he can kecpe himselfe warme," Man in 
 the Moone, 1609. Sworn brother, one who swore peipetual 
 disinterested friendship, and shared his fortune. The btoci, 
 a mould on which a hat is formed. Hence it is used for the 
 hat itself, or for the shape of it. " I have scene sLxe oi 
 seven fashion-hunting gallants together sit seomin" and 
 deriding a better man then themselves, onely because either 
 his hat was of the old blocke, or that his rufl'e was not so 
 richly lac'd," Taylor's Workes, 1630. The fashions of hats 
 varied very much in Shakespeare's time, and Fyncs Morj-son, 
 Itin. 1617, tells us, "the taylors and shopkeepers daily 
 invent fantasticaU fashions for hats, and like new fashion 
 and names for stuffos. " 
 
 ^ Is not in your books. 
 
 That is, is not in your favour. "We stUl say " in vour 
 good books." Various explanations of the origin of the 
 phi-ase have been given, but none are very satisfactory. I: 
 is, in fact, difficult to assign really gsod derivations for nios* 
 
 257
 
 r" 
 
 NOTES TO MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHINtt 
 
 iif these vernacular idioms. Sauarer, a quarreller or roar- 
 ing boy. 
 
 Tliat wench is modest : oh ! shce 's in my bookes ; 
 I onely love her for her modest lookes. 
 
 Heywood's Great Brilaines Troy, 1C09. 
 ' 1 was so much in his books, that, at his decease, he left 
 roe the lamp hy which he used to write his lucubrations " — 
 Addison. 
 
 "' The lady fathers herself. 
 According to Steevens, this phrase is common in Dorset- 
 shire. Jack fathers himself, i.e. is like his father. 
 
 " Courtesy itself must convert to disdain. 
 
 Covvcrt, turn. So, in the old translation of the Bible, — 
 " Uowboit after this, Jeroboam converted not from his 
 Xicked way." 
 
 ^" Do you play the flouting .Jack. 
 Jack was a term of contempt, perhaps derived from apes 
 being usually so termed. The reader ■s\'ill find the expres- 
 sion, ^OM^«y Jack, in an extract from ah old play given in 
 the preface to the Comedy of Errors. 
 
 " Cupid is a good hare-finder. 
 Hare is metaphorically used for a Heentious person, as 
 plainly appears from a passage in Ford's play of 'Tis Pity 
 She 's a AVhore, v. 5. Hare-hunters is used in a similar 
 manner by Decker, in his Gull's Horn-book, 1609. 
 Tollctt, however, has a reasonable explanation : — " Do j'ou 
 Ecofl' and mock in teUijig us that Cupid, who is blind, is a 
 good hare-finder, which reijuires a quick eye-sight; and 
 that A'ulean, a blacksmith, is a rare carpenter?" To find a 
 hai'e was the sporting term to seek one out with dogs for 
 coui-sing. So Ilan-ington, in his Epigrams, 1C33, — 
 
 A gallant, full of life and void of care. 
 Asked his friend if he would find a hare ; 
 He that for .sleep more then such sports did care. 
 Said, Go your waies, and leave me here alone ; 
 Let them find hares that lost them : I lost none. 
 
 To go in the song, to join with you in the song. 
 
 ^^ He will wear his cap with suspicion. 
 
 Tliat is, s.ays Dr. Johnson, subject his head to the 
 disquiet of jealousy. Sigh away Su7idays probably alludes, 
 pays Steevens, to the strict manner in which the Sabbath 
 was observed by the Puritans, who usually spent th.at day 
 in sighs and groanings. It is more Ukely a proverbial 
 phrase, the meaning of which has not been yet ascertained. 
 
 '5 Like the old tale, my lord. 
 
 The following curious traditional tale, illusti'ating this 
 [Ktssage, was contributed to the varionim edition by Mr. 
 Blakeway : — 
 
 " Once uf "n a time there was a young lady called Lady 
 Maiy, who imd two brothers. One summer tliey all three 
 went to a country seat of theirs which they bad not before 
 visited. Among theothcr gentiy in the neighbourhood who 
 came to see them was a Jtr. Fox, a bachelor, with whom 
 Ihey, particularly the young lady, wi^'e much pleased. Ho 
 used often to dLne with them, and frequently invited Lady 
 Mary I'l come and ace his house. One day, when her 
 2C8 
 
 brothers were absent elsewhere, and she had nothing hettci 
 to do, she determined to go thither, and accordingly set out 
 unattended. 'When she arrived at the house and knocked at 
 the door, no one answered. At length she opened it an 
 went in, and over the portal of the door was writtf n ■ 
 
 Be bold, be bold, but not too bold. 
 She advanced, and found the same inscription over th 
 staircase ; again at the entrance of a gallerj-; and lastly, a 
 the door of a chamber, with the addition of a line : 
 
 Be bold, be bold, but not too bold. 
 
 Lest that your heart's blood should run cold ! 
 
 She opened it, and what was her terror and astonishment to 
 find the floor covered mth bones and blood. She retreated 
 in haste, and coming down stairs, she saw from a window 
 Mr. Fox advancing towards the house with a dra^Ti sword 
 in one hand, while with the other he dragged along a 
 young lady by the hair of her head. Lady Mary had just 
 time to slip down, and hide herself under the stairs, before 
 Mr. Fox and his victim an-ived at the foot of them. As he 
 puUed the young lady up staii-s, she caught hold of one of 
 the bannisters «-ith her hand, on which was a rich bracelet. 
 Mr. Fox cut it off with his sword : the hand and bracelet 
 fell into Lady JIary's lap, who then eonti'ived to escape un- 
 observed, and got safe home to her brother's house. 
 
 " A few days afterwards, Mr. Fox came to dine with 
 them as usual. After dinner, the guests began to amuso 
 each other with extraorduiaiy anecdotes, and Lady Maiy 
 said she would relate to them a remarkable dream she had 
 lately had. I dreamt, said she, that as you, Mr. Fox, hai 
 often invited me to your house, I would go there one 
 morning. 'When I came to the house, I knocked at the 
 door, but no one answered. 'Wlieu I opened the door, ovci 
 the hall I saw ^^^^tten, ' Be bold, be bold, but not tec 
 bold.' But, said she, turning to Mr. Fox, and smiling, 
 ' It is not so, nor it was not so. ' Then she pursued the 
 rest of the story, concluding at every tmn i^-ith, ' It is not 
 so, nor it was not so,' till she came to the discovery of the 
 room full of bones, when Mr. Fox took up the burden vl 
 the tale, and said ; 
 
 It is not so, nor it was not so, 
 And God forbid it should be so ! 
 
 which he continued to repeat at every subsequent turn 
 of the dreadfid story, till she came to the circumstance ol 
 his cutting off the young lady's hand, when, upot lus 
 saying as usual. 
 
 It is not so, nor it was not so. 
 And God forbid it Eho\ild be so 1 
 
 Lady Mary retorts by saying 
 
 But it is so, and it was so. 
 
 And here the hand I have to show ! 
 
 at the same moment producing tlie hand and bracelet iroia 
 her lap. A\Tiereupon tlic guests diew their swords, anj 
 instantly cut Mr. Fox into a thousand pieces. " 
 
 Mr. Knight appears to doubt the authontioily of this 
 curious story ; he does not, at least, express an opinion tliat 
 it is really tlie tale alluded to by Shakespeare. On this 
 account, I copy a legend recently communicated to the 
 "Notes and Queries," the writer being evidently uiiac- 
 quaiutcd with the above, tlie genuineness of which i) 
 seems to establish :■ —
 
 NOTES lO iiUCll Ai)U AUUUi jNuillLsu. 
 
 " I on 3 day waa looking ovlt the difTorcnt monuments in 
 (/raiibrook Church in Kent, wlion in the chancel my atten- 
 tion was arrested by one erected to the memory of Sir 
 Richard Balicr. The gauntlet, gloves, helmet, and spurs 
 were (as is often the case in monumental erections of Eli- 
 zabethan date) suspended over the tomb. What chiefly 
 attracted my attention was the colour of the gloves, which 
 was red. The old woman who acted as my cicerone, 
 Bcoing me look at them, said, ' Aye, miss, those are Bloody 
 I^alvcr's gloves ; tlieir red colour comes from the blood lie 
 slied.* This speech awakened my curiosity to hear i«ore, 
 and with very little pressing I induced my old guide to tell 
 me the following strango tale. 
 
 " The Baker family had formerly large possessions in 
 Cranbrook, but in the reign of Edward VI. great mis- 
 fortunes fell on them ; by extravagance and dissipation 
 they gradually lost all their lands, until an old liouse in the 
 village (now used as the poor-house) was all that remained 
 to them. The sole representative of the family remaining 
 at the accession of Queen Maiy, was Sir Richard Baker. 
 He had spent some years abroad in consequonco of a duel ; 
 but when, said my informant, Bloody Qvieen Mary reigned, 
 he thought he might safely retxu'n, as he wa« a Papist. 
 When he came to Cranbrook, he took up his abode in his 
 aid house ; he only brought one foreign servant ■«'ith him, 
 and these two lived alone. Very soon strange stories began 
 to be whispered respecting imcai'tlily shrieks ha\'ing been 
 heard frequently to issue at nightfall from his house. 
 Slany people of importance were stopped and robbed in 
 the Glastonbury woods, and many imfortunate travellers 
 were missed and never hoard of more. Kicliard Baker still 
 contined to live in seclusion, but he gradually repurchased 
 his alienated property, although he was known to have 
 spent all he possessed before he left England. But wicked- 
 ness was not always to prosper. He formed an apparent 
 attachment to a young lady in the neighbom-hood, remarka- 
 ble for always wearing a great many jewels. He often 
 pressed lier to come and see liis old house, telling her he 
 had many curious things he wished to show her. She had 
 always resisted fixing a day for her visit, but happening to 
 walk within a short distance of his house, she determined 
 to surprise him with a visit ; her companion, a lady older 
 than herself, endeai'oured to dissuade her fi-om doing so, 
 but she woidd not be turned from her puri)ose. They 
 blocked at the door, but no one answered them; they, 
 however, discovered it was not locked, and determined to 
 enter. At the head of the stairs hung a parrftu, which on 
 theii passing cried out,- 
 
 ' Peepoh, pretty lady, be not too bold. 
 Or yoTU' red blood will soon nm cold.' 
 
 And cold did nm the blood of the adventurous damsel 
 when, on opening one of the room doors, she found it filled 
 with the dead bodies of murdered persons, chiefly women. 
 Just then they heard a noise, and on looking out of the 
 (rindow saw Bloody Baker and his sen'ant bringing in the 
 omrdered body of a lady. Nearly dead with fear, they 
 con.eided themselves in a recess under the staircase. 
 
 " As the mm-Jerers with their dead buiden passed by 
 them, the hand of the unfortimate murdered lady hung in 
 the baluster of the stairs ; with an oath Bloody Baker 
 cL;f ped it off, and it fcU into the lap of one of the 
 
 concealed ladies. As soon as the murderers had passed by 
 the ladies ran away, having the presence of mind to carrj 
 with them the dead hand, on one of the fingers of which 
 was a ring. On reaching liome they told their Biory, and in 
 confiiTuation of it displayed the ring. All the families who 
 had lost relatives mysteriously were then told of wh.at liad 
 been foimd out ; and they determined to ask Baker to 3 
 large party, apparently in a friendly manner, but to liavo 
 constables concealed ready to take him into custody. He 
 came, suspecting nothing, and then the l.idy told him all she 
 had seen, pretending it was a di-cam. ' Fair lady,' said lie, 
 'dreams are nothing: they are but fables.' 'They niaj 
 be fables, ' said she ; ' but is this a fable r ' and she pro- 
 duced the hand and ring. Upon this tlie constables rushed 
 in and took him ; and the tradition further says, he was 
 bunit, notwitlist.inding Queen Maiy tried to save Iiim, on 
 account of the religion he professed." 
 
 '^ A redieat winded in my forehead. 
 
 A rccheat was a particular blowing on tlie horn, property 
 used to call the hounds back from a wrong scent. There 
 were several kinds of recheats, and the term was more 
 generally applied in later times. Baldrick, a belt, girdle, 
 or sash. There are several instances of the word where it 
 woidd seem to have been merely a collar or strap round the 
 neck, though it was more generally passed round one side 
 of the neck, and under the opposite arm. It is unnecessary 
 to explain the particulaj allusions. 
 
 Fine, i.e. end, conclusion. The meaning of Benedick's 
 next speech \rill not bear explanation. Nolable argument, 
 a good subject for ridicule. 
 
 " Hang me in a bottle lilie a cat. 
 
 We have several early allusions to shooting at cats in a 
 basket, but none have been produr;->d in which a bottle is 
 mentioned. It may be presumed it was a similar amuse- 
 ment. Bottles were often formerly made of leather, but 
 here a wooden bottle is probably intended. 
 
 When loe, a glorious post you might beholJ 
 Fairer then any stake in Grayes-Inne field. 
 Or the large pastui-es of Saint George's hold. 
 Or Finsburie, or Islington can yield ; 
 Which in a cart, as theeves to hanging ride, 
 Are thither brought by archers in great pride. 
 Guarded with gunners, bill-men, and a rout 
 Of bowmen bold, which at a cat doe shoot. 
 
 Pasquil's Niyht-Cap, 1612. 
 Adam is gener.iUy believed to refer to Adam Bell, thi 
 
 celebrated archer, of whom there is an old ballad cciu- 
 
 mencing, — 
 
 Mery it was in the grene forest 
 
 Amonge the leves grene. 
 Whereas men hunt east and wcjt, 
 
 W)-th bowes and .an-owes kene ; 
 
 To raise the dere out of thcyr denne ; 
 
 Suche sightes hath ofte bene sene ; 
 As by thre ycmen of the Xorth countrej. 
 
 By them it is I meane. 
 
 The one of them hight Adam Bel, 
 
 The other Clym of the Clough, 
 The thp-d was William of Cloudesly, 
 
 An archer good ynough. 
 
 2d9
 
 JVOTES TO ilUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 '* In time tJie savage bull doth bear the yoke. 
 Tins lino, sliglitly altered, oceurs in Watson's Centurie of 
 Love, 1581, and is adopted in the Spanish Tragedy, 1599. 
 Guarded with fragments, i.e. bordered or laced with frag- 
 ments. Basti i, sc\n3, stitehcd. 
 
 ^^ Ere youjlout old ends any further. 
 " Old ends" arc merely familiar scraps, and often applied 
 to quotations from books or plays. " Nor hales he in a gidl 
 old er^ "ociting," Ben Jonson's Fox. " Apply old ends of 
 comfort to her griefe, but the burden of my song shall be 
 to tell her wordes are but dead comforts," Chapman's 
 Widdowcs Teares, 1612. "LUlies old ends he hath got by 
 lieart," Scot's Philomythie, 161G. 
 
 -0 And I will break with her. 
 That is, I will open the subject to her. " Tell mo but 
 this, did you ever break betn-ixt my mistress and your 
 sister here, and a certain lord i' th' cotut?" — Chapman's 
 Monsieur D'Olive, 1G06. Grant, gift, concession. The 
 fairest grant is the necessity, i.e. the best gift is that which 
 confines itself to the real necessities of the case. 
 
 -^ ' Tis once, thou lovest. 
 Once, i.e. once for aU. "We have already had the word 
 jsed in this way in the Comedy of Errors. 
 
 -- In a ihlch-pleached allq/. 
 
 Thich-pleaehed, thickly interwoven. The term plash has 
 till continued in use for plashing hedges, lowering and nar- 
 o\ving a broad-spread hedge by partially cutting off the 
 
 tranches, and entwining them with those left upright. 
 
 Accordant, agreeing. Take the present time by the top, take 
 
 advantage of the moment. What the good-jer ; see notes to 
 
 the Merry Wives of Windsor, No. 67. 
 
 -' A mortal medicine to a mortifying mischief. 
 
 The liist edition reads moral, an error corrected in the 
 laamd folio, but not noticed by the editors. Claw, to flatter. 
 
 ^* / had rather be a canker in a hedge. 
 
 The canlcer, according to Stecvens, is the dog-rose, but I 
 Jo not find the terra in Gerard. " Whether she be a white 
 rose or a canker is the question," Maid in the Mill, v. 2. 
 The ccmmon red poppy is called a canker in the Eastern 
 30untics, but that is evidently not the meaning hero. 
 Shakespeare says in tlie Sonnets — 
 
 The canker blooms have full as deep a die 
 Ab the perfumed tinctm-e of thi rose. 
 
 -' / use it only. 
 is, I use it by itself, without any adjunct. What ia 
 r. fool, what a fool he is. 
 
 ^^ As I was smoking a musty room. 
 filthy habits of oiu- anci stors rendered smoldngs and 
 es ccnstantly necessary. Sad, serious. 
 
 " / whipt me behind the arras. 
 fjc objective pronoun me is here taken from the edition 
 i/f IfiJi). lie l)a3 just said, "comes mo the prince and 
 Chiudio." Tills use of the pronoun has been previously 
 QOtJood. Sure, to bo depended upon. 
 260 
 
 '* In mrnest of the bear-herd. 
 
 Sear-herd for bear-ward, the bear keeper. Allusions Id 
 the apes of Paris Garden are not uncommon. A person 
 who was unmarried was said to "lead apes in hell." 
 
 -^ Else make another cursy. 
 Cursy, the old word for courtesy, and should not b • 
 altered. " I must straine cursie with you," Lilly's Mcthc( 
 Bombie, 1632. Important, importimate. Beatrice after 
 wards plays on the meaning of measure, a slow dance so 
 called. Cinque-pace, a dance, the steps of which were 
 regulated by the number five. " He seemed the trimmest 
 dauncer that ever trode a cinque-pace after sutch musicke, " 
 Painter's Palace of Pleasure, 1566. It is almost unneces- 
 saiy to obsers'e there 's here a quibble between the words 
 cinque SiTii sink, i^rtenrf, lover, i^ajjour, feature, countenance. 
 
 3" For God defend. 
 Defend, i.e. forbid, prohibit. "And that poynt to his 
 apostles purly defended," Piers Ploughman, ed. Wright, p. 
 485. " In tills kinde you might venter foure of youl 
 elbowes, yet God defende your coate should have so many," 
 Mai-ston's Malcontent, 160-1. The next line refers to tho 
 story of Philemon, the countrjTiian who entertained Jupiter 
 and Mercury in his cottage. His lisor is the thatched roof. 
 Witliin it is a di\'imty. 
 
 "' Here 's his dry hand. 
 
 A diy hand was formerly considered the mark of i colil 
 constitution. Up and down, completely, exactly. 
 
 '- The Hundred Merry Talcs. 
 
 The Hundred Merry Tales was a very popular jest- 
 book of the sixteenth centui-y, but only one copy, and that 
 somewhat mutilated, has yet been recovered. It h.as the 
 following colophon, — " Here endeth the booke of a c mcry 
 Talys, Imprinted at London at the sygne of the mcremay(h 
 at Powlys gate ne.xte to Chepcsydc." It is not, as has been 
 supposed, cither a tr.anslation of the Decameron or the 
 Cent Nounelles ^ouvelles. A specimen may amuse the 
 reader : — 
 
 " Of him that said that a woman s tongue was lightest O; 
 digestion. A certayn artificer in London there w.ns, whyche 
 was sore soke, and coulde not well .dysgest his meat, to 
 whom a physicyon cam to give hym eouncell, and sayd thai 
 he must use to etc metis that be light of digestyon and 
 small byrdys, as span-owes, swalnwes, and specyally that 
 byrd which is called a wagtayle, whose fiessh is mervelouso 
 lyght of dygcstyqn, bycause that byrd is ever movj-ing 
 and styryng. The soke man, herynge the phesicion say so, 
 answered hym and seyd, ' Syr, yf that be the cause that 
 those byi-des be lyght of dygestyon, than I know a mete 
 moch lyghter of dygestyon than other spaiow, swallow, or 
 wagtaile, and that is my wyves tong, for it is never in rest, 
 but ever me%Ting and stenyng. 
 
 " Of the scaler that gave his shoes to cloute. In thb 
 Universyte of Oxcnforde there was a scoler (hat delyted 
 raoehe to spekc cloquente Englysshe and curious ternies, 
 and came to the cohler with his shoes, whyche were pykcd 
 before, as they used that tymo to have them elouteil, and 
 aayde this wyse. ' Coblcr, I praye the sette two tiyan^ls
 
 NOTES TO MUCH ADO ABOtT NOTHING. 
 
 and two somyoirclcs upm ray subpedytalcs, and I shall 
 paye tlio for thy Ial)o\ire. ' The coboler, because he under- 
 btoodc liym nat hulfo, answered shortely, and sayd, — ' Syr, 
 jTOir uloqiiencc jiassclli inyiie intellygenec, but I promyse 
 '/i)U, yl' ye meddyll with me, the clowtyngo of youre shoon 
 hail cost you threpens. ' Ey this tale men may lerne that 
 }■ is foly to study to speko eloquently before them that be 
 i"udo and uiilcriicd. " 
 
 ^ There 's a partrkhje" winy saved. 
 
 The \ring seems to have boon considered the delicate part 
 of 'this bu'd. The following talc is extracted fi'om Copley's 
 Wits, Fits, and Fancies, 1614 : — " Old Maister Palmer of 
 Agmerine was a pleasant Gentleman, and being one day at 
 ilinner with the Didie of Sommcrset, no sooner was a dainty 
 morsell of mcate carv'd him, but straight the sen-ingmen 
 were ready for clean-e trenchers to i-eceave it from him ; 
 At last a Lady carv'd him a ParlrU/ge-winy, and a serving 
 man foorthwith cleane-frencher'd him, and went eleane 
 away with it. ^Vhich the mcn'ie Gentleman perceiving, 
 said aloud unto ail the honourable company; A faii-e flight, 
 sirs ; marke, marke it well : oh, the faii-e flight ! " 
 
 3* Faith meitcih into hluud. 
 
 That is, fidelity is dissolved in the senses by the charms 
 of love. 
 
 ^^ Wliat fashion will ijuii ivear the garland of f 
 
 It was the custom for tliose "nho were disappointed iu 
 ove to wear willow garlands. See fiu'ther iu Othello. 
 
 A moneth I spent in wat'ring of my pillow. 
 And then bethought me of a garland wUlow. 
 
 Gayton^s Notes upon Don Quixote^ 1654. 
 
 ^'^ Like an usurer's chain. 
 
 Reed observes that chains of gold, of considerable value, 
 wore, in our author's time, usually worn by wealthy citizens. 
 
 ^'' As melancholy as a lodge in a warren. 
 
 Several simile? of a parallel natiu-o to this may be 
 quoted. "By the solitarinesse of the house, I judged it a 
 lodge in a foiTcsc, but there was no bawling of dogges 
 thereabout," Man iu the Jloone, 1609. 
 
 ^^ Ate in good apparel. 
 
 Ate, the Goddess of Revenge, was generally represented 
 b a di'csa of wild character. 
 
 2" A hair off the great Cham's beard. ■ 
 
 One of the charges tc the hero iu the romance of Huon 
 of Bourdeaux was to " goe to the citie of Babylon to the 
 admiral Gaudisse, to bring me thy hand full of the heare 
 of the beard, and foure of his greatest teeth." Prester 
 Joim was a name formerly giveu to the king of India. He 
 obtained the name, undc the impression that he was a 
 Cliristian. Use, interest oi money. 
 
 '" Civil as an orange. 
 
 An old pun on the SeAille orange. " For the order of 
 my life, it is a.s civil as an orange," Nash's Strange Newes 
 of the intercepting 'ertaine Letters, 4to. 1592. Cetgi-ave 
 
 translates aigre-douce, " a civile orange, or orange that if 
 betweene sweet and sower. " 
 
 " Good Lord, for aUii'Ace. 
 
 Good Lord, how alliauccs arc forming! 
 ^'-' But I am sunburned. 
 
 To go to the world was an old phra-se for getting manici 
 Sunburned is more difficult of explanation. Jlr. llimtci 
 says it expresses the state of being without family con- 
 nexions, destitute pf the comf.jrts of domestic life. I 
 can scarcely think the term is used in the ordinarj- sense, 
 which would introduce Beatrice disparaging her personal 
 attractions. 
 
 " And his qucasif stomach. 
 
 Qucasi/, i.e. squeamish, nice, delicate. " Qucasie, fasti- 
 diosus, delicatulus," Coles. Stale, a woman of loose cha- 
 racter. The term occurs again in another scene of this 
 play. Intend, pretend. 
 
 A fjueazie lover may impart 
 
 What mistresse 'tis that please his hart. 
 
 Wits Recreations, 1C40. 
 
 Of Jupiter, and his decoitfuU stale, 
 'Who seem'd so like a A-irgin. 
 
 Hetjwood's Great Britaines Troy, 160!). 
 
 " Bring it hither to me in the orchard. 
 Tho boy here goes out. Benedick musing till he returns 
 He does so very quickly, and Benedick then dismisses him. 
 This aiTangemeut is not understood in representation. 
 
 *5 ^y■e 'II fit ike kid-fox with a penny-worth. 
 A kid-fox, as Ritsou o'bserves, was a young fox or cub. 
 
 *''' Note, notes, forsooth, and nnthing. 
 Don Pedro, according to Mr. Collier, means to play upon 
 the similaiity of sound between noting and nothing, to indi- 
 cate his opinion of Balthasiar's music. For my money, a 
 common proverbial phrase, equivalent to, to my taste, &c. 
 So iu Wits Recreations, 1640, — 
 
 Bagpiper, good luck on you, 
 Th' art the raanfor my money. 
 
 *' Of dumps so dull and heavy. 
 A dump was a melancholy strain in either vocal or 
 instrumental music. 
 
 *8 1 had as lief have heard tlie night-raven. 
 The night-raven, according to some authorities, is tho 
 owl ; according to others, the bittern. This bird is men- 
 tioned by Milton iu 1' Allegro. It was considered one of 
 bad omen. 
 
 ■" Stalk on, stalk on ; the fowl sits. 
 
 Alluding to the stalking-horse, a real or factitious horso 
 under which the sportsman shelters Mmself fi-om the sight 
 of the game. A long account of tho stalking-horse is given 
 iu the Gentleman's Recreation, foL 1686. " Flattery is 
 the stalkeing-horse of polUcy," Maides Revenge, 1639. 
 
 '" It is past tlie infinite of tliought. 
 
 That is, it is beyond the utmost power of thought to 
 imagine it. " 'Why, 't is past thought, ' E-, cry Man out oi 
 
 261
 
 AUTK.S TO ilUCH ADO .AJ50UT NOTHIjSG. 
 
 tu£ Humour. Gull, a deceit, ot falsehood. " Balivcrne, a 
 iye, fib, gull," C'otgrave. 
 
 " Into a thousand halfpence. 
 
 Halfpence, here metaphorically used for small pieces, 
 pieces uo largjr than halfpence. The halfpence of EUza- 
 lieth's time were small silver coins. 
 
 '- It were an aims to hang him. 
 
 Equivalent to the modsrn pbrase, it were a charity or 
 good deed. So, in the interlude of the ' Disobedient Child,' — • 
 
 It were alm9s, by my trothe, thou were well beaten, 
 Bycause so Icnge thou hast made me tarye. 
 
 ^■^ / would liauetdaff^d all other respects. 
 
 Da£"d, doff'd, put aside. Contemptible spirit, i.e. con- 
 temptuous spirit ; an unusual sense of the word, but found 
 m Drayton and some other wi-iters. Proper, handsome. 
 Sadly borne, seriously conducted. 
 
 5* Bid you coync in to dinner. 
 There is a slight oversight here, the scene being in the 
 evening, as appears from a speech of Claudio's. 
 
 *^ Proposing with the prince and Claudia. 
 Proposing, conversing. So, below, " to listen our pro- 
 pose," ta listen to our conversation. From the French 
 .tropos. 
 
 5° As haggards of the rock. 
 
 A haggard was a Anlil hawk ; technically, one that had 
 preyed for hei"self before being captured. The haggard was 
 considered very difficult to tame. To wish him, i.e. to 
 recommend or desire him. See Measure for Measure, v. 1. 
 .is full as fortunate, qiute as foitimate. The commentators 
 make sad work of this simple sentence ; and Collier and 
 Knight improperly place a comma after full. Misprising, 
 imdervaluing. 
 
 " An agate very vildly cut. 
 Agate is here metaphorically used for a little man, as in 
 2 Henry IV. Tlie antic previously mentioned alludes to a 
 drawing of grotesque figures, such as still remain in some 
 of om" old churches. 
 
 And cast to make a chariot for the king, 
 Painted \vith antickes and ridiculous toyes. 
 
 Drayton's Poems, p. 43. 
 
 " Tlian die with moclts. 
 So the quarto of 1600, the folio reading "to die with 
 mocks. " Mr. Collier en'oneoiisly says the latter reads, 
 " than to die with mocks." limpoison, to poison or destroy. 
 Swift, ready. Limed, caught as a bird is by bird-lime ; the 
 folio reading ta'en. What fire is in mine cars, is said to be 
 an allusion to the belief that the ears burn when people 
 talk of y)u. So, in Yates' Castell of Courtesie, 4to. Lond. 
 1582,-- 
 
 rhat I doe creditc give 
 Unto tlic saying old, 
 Which is, ^vhcnas tlio cares doe bume, 
 Some tiling on thee is told. 
 
 " When our cheek bums," says Sir Thomas Browne, ''or 
 262 
 
 ear tingles, we usually say somebody is talking of us, ii 
 conceit of great antiquity, and ranked among superstitious 
 opinions by Pliny. He supposes it to have proceeded from 
 the notion of a signifying genius, or universal Mercury 
 that conducted sounds to their distant subjects, ani taugli 
 to hear by touch. " 
 
 '^ 77;e little hangman aare not shoot at him. 
 Hangman, odd as it may appear, was formerly a term oi 
 endearment. " How doth Ned r quoth he : that honest, 
 moiTy hangman, how doth he.>" — Heywood's Edward 
 IV., IGOO. 
 
 60 A'o appearance of fancy. 
 Don Pedro here plays upon the double meaning o{ fancy, 
 which meant love as well as humom* or inclination. 
 
 6' A German from the waist doumward. 
 Compare the foUomng passage in Lodge's ' Wit's Miserie,' 
 1596, p. 35, — "Who is this with the Spanish hat, the 
 Italian ruffe, the French doublet, the Muffes cloak, the 
 Toledo rapier, the Germane hose, the English stocking, and 
 the Flemish shoe ?" 
 
 *- The old ornament of his cheek. 
 
 Aliudiflg to his beard. Tennis balls were formerly stuffed 
 with human hair. " Thy beard shall serve to stuff those 
 balls by which I get me heat at tennice," Kara AUcy, 16 U. 
 
 Hobby-horses, used here as a term of contempt. " Her 
 honest husband is her hobie -horse at home, and, abroad, hei 
 foole," Man in the Moone, 1609. 
 
 '•'^ Good den, good evening, or good night ; a solutctiun 
 formerly used after noca was past, or, gener.Tlly, after 
 dinner. It is said to be a corruption of good e'en, good 
 evening. 
 
 Is 't god morn or god deen ? what sesta, Will? 
 I thinlt you have nut din'd ; here 's a good smell. 
 
 The Praise of Yorkshire Ale, 1697, p. 62, 
 
 6' Dogberry and Verges, 
 
 AccoriUng to Steevens, these names are adopted from 
 the dog-berry, the female cornel, and verjiiice. Verges being 
 a corruption. I find, however, that Dogberry occurs as a 
 surname as early as tlie tim.- of Richard II. in a charter 
 preserved m the Biiti.';h Museum, (Harl. 76 c. 13), 
 
 The stupidity of the constables in former days was so 
 familiar a theme, that no usefid piupose would be answered 
 by any extended notice of contemporary accounts. The 
 following letter, however, from Lord Burghley, contains so 
 graphic a description of their inclliciency, it may be quoted 
 as an illustration. It was printed by Mr. Collier 1:1 the 
 'Papers' of the Shakespeare Society, from the origina. 
 preserved in the State Paper office : — 
 
 " Sir — As I cam from London liomward, in my coche, I 
 sawc at every towncs end the number of .\ or xii, slandyng, 
 with long staves, and untill I cam to Enfold I thought no 
 other of them, but that they had stayd for avoyding of the 
 rayne, or to drynk at some alcliowse, for so they did stand 
 under pentyces [penthon.ses] at ale bowses. But at Enfeld 
 fyndiiig a doscn in a plump, whan tlier was no riyue, I 
 bothonglit my self that (hey war appointed as watchmen, 
 for the apprehcnJyng of such as are missyng ; and thcruppog
 
 NOTES TO MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 I tolled some of them to mo apart, and asked them -wherfor 
 they stood there ? and one of them answered, ' To take 3 
 yong men.' And demandyng how they shuld know the 
 persons, one answered with these wordcs : * Marry, my 
 Lord, by intelligence of thcr favor. ' ' "WTiat mcano you by 
 that?' quoth I. 'Man-y,' sayd they, 'one of the partyos 
 hatb a hooked nose.' — 'And have you,' quoth I, 'no otlicr 
 mark?' — 'No,' sayth they. And then I asked who 
 apnynteJ them; and they answered one Banlces, a Head 
 Constable, whom I willed to be sent to me. Suerly, sir, 
 who so ever had the chardgo from yow hath used the 
 matter negligently; for these watclimen stand so oppenly 
 in plumps, as go suspected person will come ncaro them. ; 
 and if they, be no better instructed but to fynd 3 persons by 
 one of them havyng a hooked nose, they may miss thercf. 
 And thus I thought good to advertise yow, that the Justyces 
 that had the chardg, as I thynk, may use the matter more 
 cii'cumspeetly. From Theobaldos, 10 Ang., 15S6. Your's, 
 assmedly, W. BuHGnLUY." 
 
 ^^ That your hills be not stolen. 
 
 Bills were a kind of pilce and halbort, anciently carried 
 by the English infantrj', and afterwards the usual weapon 
 of watchmen. True man, an honest man. 
 
 S6 Se vigilant, I beseech you. 
 
 So the old copies, altered by Mr. ICnight to vigilant. Mr. 
 Knight says Dogberry does not coin words, like Mrs. Mala- 
 prop. Very true ; but is vigilant for vigilant a worse 
 blunder than statues for statutes, senseless fur sensible, &c. ? 
 
 *' There would a scab follow. 
 
 A play upon words, a scab being a term of great con- 
 tempt. " Such poore scabs as I must not come neere her," 
 Taylor's ^Yorkes, 1630. A pent-house is an open shed or 
 projection over a door or shop, forming a protection against 
 the weather. Within the last few years, an old fishmonger's 
 shop on the North side of tlie Strand, adjoining Temple 
 bar, retained the ancient pent house, reminding one of the 
 times before plate-glass, when painstaking shop-keepers 
 attracted the attention of passers-by with their, " What 
 d' ye lack ? " Unconfirmed is, says Warburton, impractised 
 'n the ways of the world. 
 
 ^ Pharaoh's soldiers in the reechy painting. 
 
 Reechy, smoky, discoloured by smoke. Bel's priests were 
 m some absurd subject ongl.ass taken from the Apocrypha ; 
 and Hercules was shaved when in the service of Omphale. 
 Smirched, soiled, daubed. The term is still in use in 
 Herefordshii'c. 
 
 •■^ We are like to prove a goodly commodiiy. 
 
 Boraehio plays on the words, taken np on bills being a 
 commercial phrase for obtaining goods or commodities on 
 credit. West, in his Symboleography, IGOl, explains a biU 
 or obligation to be, " a deed whereby the obligor doth 
 knowledge himself to owe unto the obligee a certaine 
 tumme of money or other thing ; in which, besides the 
 tarties names, are to be considered the sunime or thing 
 due, and the time, place, and manner of paiment or 
 delivery thereof." A commercial bill was, in fact, formerly 
 
 a bond inidcr tlie hand and seal of the debtor, without t 
 clause of forfeiture for non-payment ; and it was not un- 
 usual for these bills to be entered at fuL length in the 
 creditor's lodger. 
 
 '" Your other rabato were better. 
 
 A rabato, generally spelt rebate, was a kind of plaited 
 ruff which tiUTicd back and lay on the shoulders. " I pray 
 you, sir, what say you to these great ruffes, which are 
 borne up with supporters and icbaloes, as it wore with postc 
 and railc," Dent's Pathway ;o Ueaven, p. 42. Compare, 
 also, Decker's Gulls IIorn-Book, IGOO, — " Your treble-qua- 
 druple d.-cdalian ruffs, nor your stifliiecked rabalos, that 
 have more arches for pride to row under, than can stand 
 under five London bridges." 
 
 " Down sleeves, side sleeves. 
 
 Side sleeves were long hanging sleeves. The term wae 
 io use tiU very lately in the North of England. They Rre 
 thus humorously alluded to by an old poct,^ 
 
 Now hath this land little ncedo of broomes, 
 To sweope away tlie fUth out of the streete. 
 
 Sen side sleeves of pcnnilesse groomes 
 Will it up licke, be it drie or weete. 
 
 '- Barns, bairns, cluldrcn. We have here a quibble on 
 the two meanings of the word. 
 
 "3 For the letter that begins them all, H. 
 
 The previous line was proverbi;il, and the whole will be 
 more readily understood from tiie following epigram in 
 'Wit's Secreatious,' 1640, entitled, dolor intimus, — 
 
 Nor hawk, nor h.ound, nor horse, those letters h. h. h., 
 
 But ach itself, 'tis Brutus' bones attaches. 
 
 The quibble between H and ache was a very favoiuitc 
 one. The elder Heywood, in his ' Epigrammes, ' says, — 
 
 H. is worst among letters in the crosse-row. 
 For if thou findc him, other in tliyne elbow, 
 In thyne arme, or leg, in any degree. 
 In thy heade or teeth, in thy toe or knee. 
 Into what place soever H. may pike him, 
 Where-cver thou find ache, thou shall not like him. 
 
 ■"^ To turn Turk, says Gifford, was a figurative expression 
 for a change of condition or opinion. Trow, an exclamation 
 of enquhy. 
 
 But if the god of warre abroad should range. 
 And catch these men tiiat long to see a change. 
 You then should sec them all williin one day. 
 For very feare of death to turne Turke way. 
 
 Ki/ig's Halfe-Pennyworth of Wit, 1613. 
 
 '* Tliey are an excellent perfume. 
 
 Perfumed gloves were formerly much in fashion. The 
 fbUowing " excellent way to perfume gloves" is taken from 
 the 'Closet of Rarities," 12mo. 1706, — "Take of storax 
 and calamint, each an ounce ; of benjamin two ounces, the 
 first and the last being to be beaten by themselves ; add tc 
 them an ounce of the weaker cinnamon-water, and four 
 ounces of the oil of swect-almonds, mingle them with a 
 muller on a stone ; and baring first wetted ycut "loves 
 with hysop-water, gently anoint them with the perfume, 
 and it wUl smell beyond expectation. " 
 
 263
 
 SOTES TO MUCH ADO AJ30UT NOTHING. 
 
 ■"* nis distilled Carduus Bcncdictus. 
 
 The "blessed thistle," says Gerard, is usually known by 
 tlie Latin name Carduus Benedictus. The same \vriter 
 occupies half a folio page -n-ith its virtues. The broad 
 bright leaves of this plant are marked with white spots, 
 and the popular legend is that the Virgin Mary, ha\-ing 
 oueu been at a loss for a vessel for holding milk , used one 
 of its leaves for a cup, which have ever since retained the 
 marks of its useful application. 
 
 "" Putabras, neighbour Verges. 
 
 Dogberry would have said pocas pallabrax, the Spanish 
 for few tpords. It wis proverbial in England, and occiu-s 
 in several old plays. 
 
 '^ It is a icorld to see. 
 
 That is, it is wonderful to see, it is worth seeing. The 
 phrase was a very common one. " It is a world to heare, 
 or it is a thing worthie the hearing," Baret's Alvearie, 
 J 580. "It is a world tc see ho we demui-ely and sadly 
 some sit beholding them that daunee," Northbrooke's 
 Treatise against Dicing, 1577 
 
 " God 's a good man. 
 
 An old homely pi'overb, signifying the goodness of God's 
 providence. It would now, perhaps, be considered impioiis, 
 but in Shakespeare's time the tendency of it was exactly 
 the reverse. " They asked him where hee was borne. At 
 my mother's backe, sayes hee. In what country ? (nioth 
 they. In the countiy, quoth hee, where God is a good 
 man," Annin's Nest of Ninnies, 1608. 
 
 "" Non com, DogbeiTy's blunder for non plus. 
 
 ^^ He doth speak so wide. 
 
 That is, so wide of the mark, so far from the purpose. 
 "No, no; no such matter; you are wide," Troil. Cress. 
 " Our speculative make many difficulties, as if this yoimg 
 lady was a lilcely match for the King of Spain; others, 
 that the same business is now treating for the Reine Blanche 
 in France ; but I think they ai'e both ways wide, the one as 
 fai' as the other." — Letter dated 1611. "True! God!" 
 says Hero, emphatically repeating the last word of Don 
 John's speech in lUre astonishment. Mr. Collier contends 
 for a note of interrogation after true ; but that aiTangement 
 would, I think, weaken tlie force of the speech. 
 
 *- Kindly powc, i.e. natural power. Liberal, open, fi-ee 
 of tongu?. Conjecture, suspicion. 
 
 *' We rack the value. 
 
 That is, we place the utmost value on it that it will heai'. 
 Upon his words, by his words. The Liver, as has been 
 previously noticed, was considered the seat of love. In- 
 wardness intimacy. 
 
 " / am gone, though 1 am here. 
 
 Tho dilEculty experienced by the commentators in ex- 
 plaining this passage, is scar'jcly felt in the representation, 
 where tho disjointed language of Beatrice, accompanied by 
 Uie necessary action, produces high dramatic effect. 
 264 
 
 '^ Uncovered slander. 
 
 That is, unmasked or discovered slander. " I must 
 imcovcr myself unto him," Ben Jonson's Baitholomcw 
 Fair. Princes and counties ; earLs and counts were formerly 
 termed comities. So we have ' County Pa3-!s' in llomec 
 and Juliet. 
 
 ^^ That 's the eflesl way. 
 
 Eftest, i.e. quickest, readiest. 
 
 "' And, sorrowing, cry ' hem ' when he should groan. 
 
 The old editions read, " And .sorrow, wagge, crie hem, " 
 which must be a corruption. Heath's emendation, here 
 adopted, seems the best that has been suggested. To cry 
 hem implied good spirits, courage; it was a jovial ex- 
 clamation, and occm's again in 1 Henry IV., ii. 4. So, JE 
 an old song,— 
 
 There dwelt an old fellow at 'Waltham cross, 
 
 Who merrily sung, though he lived by the loss : 
 
 He cheared up his hcai-t when his goods went to wiack, 
 
 With a ' hem, boys, hem, ' and a cup of old sack. 
 
 *^ With candle-wasters. 
 
 Candle-wasters, a contemptuous appellation for haiJ 
 students. Whalley explains the whole passage thus, — " II 
 such a one will patch grief with proverbs, case oi cover the 
 wounds of his grief .with proverbial sayings ; make misfor- 
 tune drunk with candle-wasters, stupify misfortune, or 
 render himself insensible to the strokes of it, by the con- 
 versation or lucubrations of scholars." Advertisement 
 admonition. 
 
 ^' Made a push at chance and sufferance. 
 
 The interjection pish was often spelt /)«*/i in the pages of 
 onr old dramatists. "Push! they are Tai'magauts," Change- 
 ling, 4to. 1653, sig. H. 
 
 so Canst thou so daff me ? 
 
 That is, canst thou so put me oif .' So in the second act 
 of this play, " I would have daff 'd all other respects. ' 
 
 *' Scambliny. 
 
 Scamble, to scramble, to shift. " Seamblingly, catch that 
 catch may, " Cotgrave. " Such scambling, such shift for to 
 cate," Marston's Parasitastcr, 1606. It seems to be equi- 
 valent to steaUng small thmgs in Ford's Fancies, 1638, 
 " scamblhig half a ducat now and then. " Fashion-mougring, 
 coiTected in the second folio £rom Jashiun-juonging. 
 
 82 We xeitl not wake your patience. 
 
 That is, we will not keep your patience awake by any 
 further provocation. "Care killed a cat" was a conironu 
 old proverbial phrase. 
 
 " If he inclines to schoUership, they be these : Fiitt, tc 
 abandon melancholy, for care, hoc saith, kils a cat : tlien to 
 avoide nuscliievous thoughts, fcr hco that drinkes well, 
 slcepcs well, and hee that sleepes well thinkesuoharmo."— 
 Stepliens' Essayes, 1615, p. 273. 
 
 I take great care how I might cares avoyd. 
 And to that end I have my cares imployd 
 For long agoe I doe remember thnt
 
 — , 
 
 NOTES TO MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTJIING. 
 
 There was a provcrli, Care will kill a cat ; 
 And it 13 said a cat 's a wcmdroiis beast, 
 And that she hath in her nine lives at least. 
 
 Worhes of John Taylor, 1630. 
 
 ^•^ This last was broke cross. 
 
 An allusion to tilting, in which it was considered a mark 
 i)( disgrace to have the lance broken across the breast of the 
 adversary. 
 
 " lie km ws how to turn his girdle. 
 
 This plu-ase, indicating defiance, is not uncommon, 
 altliough it only occurs once in Shakespeare. According to 
 Holt ^^^lite, "Lai'ge belts were worn with the buckle 
 before, hut, for \vrestling, the buckle was turned behind, to 
 give the advcrsaiy a faii'er grasp at the girdle : to turn tlie 
 buckle behind, therefore, was a challenge." 
 
 ^^ Shall I notjind a woodcock too. 
 
 A woodcock was a term applied to a foolish fellow, that 
 bu'd being supposed to have no brains. Ford alludes to this 
 belief in his Lover's Melancholy, ii. 1. 
 
 '^ There 's one meaning well suited. 
 
 That is, there is one idea put into a number of suits or 
 foimj. Incensed, instigated. Possess, inform. 
 
 " Pack'd in all this wrong. 
 Pack'd, combined as an accomplice. Gifford explains 
 packing, an insidious contrivance. 
 
 ^^ He wears a key in his ear. 
 
 Dogberry is, as usual, blundering, and here alludes to 
 the custom of wearing a lock of hair under the ear. 
 Moryson, in his Itinerary, 1617, ii., 45, describing Lord 
 Mountjoy, says " he was of statiu-e tall, and of very comely 
 proportion, his skin taire, with little haire on his body, 
 which haii-e was of colour blackish, or inclining to blacke, 
 and thinne on his head, where he wore it short, except a 
 locke rmder his left care, which he nom-ished the time of 
 this warre, and being woven up, hid it in his neck under 
 his ruHe." 
 
 3^ And borrows money in God *s name. 
 Alluding to the former practice of beggars, who always 
 tried to soUcit charity " for the Lord's sake." 
 
 ""' God save the foundation. 
 
 Such, says Steeveis, was the customary phi'ase employed 
 by those who receiv ;d alms at the gates ol religious houses. 
 
 Ill / give thee the bucklers. 
 I'bat is, I yield. 
 
 "= The god of love. 
 
 The original ballad hero quoted does not ajipcar to 1» 
 extant. It was very popular, and a moralization »f it by 
 one \V. Birch, printed about 1566, commences, — 
 
 The god of love, 
 That sits above. 
 
 Doth know us, doth know us, 
 How sinful that we be. 
 
 Several songs commence with the first two lines. A 
 character in the 'Faire Mayde of the Exchange,' 1 607. ii 
 introduced singing, — 
 
 Te gods of lovfc, that sit above, 
 
 And pity lovers' pain. 
 Look fi'om youi tln'ones, upon the moans, 
 
 That I do now sustain. 
 
 '™ Carpet-monger, a phrase similar to carpel-knight, a 
 term of contempt for an effeminate mam 
 
 "" Question? 
 That is, that 's the question. 
 
 '"* Yond 's old coil at home. 
 
 Old, has occurred before in the sense of great. It waa 
 formerly a common augmentative. "If you shall refuse to 
 marrie, then will he lay all the fhult upon you, and then will 
 bee olde stirre and hurleburlic, " Terence in English, 
 4to. 1614. Coil, bustle, tumult. Guerdon, reward. 
 
 ^"^ Those that slew thy virgin knight. 
 
 Perhaps, thy v-irgin hero. Malone says, Diana's knight, 
 or. virgin knight, was the common poetical appellation o{ 
 virgins in Shakespeare's time. 
 
 '"" And all Europa shall rejoice at thee. 
 
 A double meaning, alluding to the daughter of Agenoi 
 and the continent of Europe. There is no necessity for tba 
 emendation of Steevens. The "savage bull" has coutmued 
 a joke throughout the play. 
 
 108 / jvould "at deny you. 
 
 This answers to Benedick's, "I will have thee," in the 
 preceding speech. Theobald unnecessarily changes not to yet 
 
 '"' More reverend than one tipped with horn. - 
 
 Douce seems to think it "possible" that the waUdng- 
 Bticks or staves used by elderly people might be intended, 
 which were often headed or tipped with a cross piece ol 
 bom, or sometimes amber. A fi-iar in Chaucer is described 
 as having " a staff lipped mth horn." T'lere is, of ccurae^ 
 a double meaning. 
 
 265
 
 r 
 
 If haply won, perhaps a hapless gain ; 
 If lost, why then a grievous labour won. 
 
 ^''UE composition and structure of Love's Laljour "b Lost unquestionably lead to a supposition that the 
 main incidents were taken from some romance not yet discovered ; and that the tale, whenever it may 
 be found, will probably have been rightly conjectured to belong to the cycle of the lighter romances 
 of chivalry. The story is partially founded on history, as appears from the following passage in 
 the Chi-onicles of Monstrelet : — " Charles, king of NavaiTe, came to Paiis to wait on the king. He 
 negotiated so successfully with the King and Privy Coimcil, that he obtained a gift of the castle of 
 Nemours, with some of its dependent castle-wicks, which territory was made a duchy. Ho instantly 
 did homage for it, and at the same time surrendered to the Idng the castle of Cherbm-g, the county of 
 Evix'ux, and aU other lordships he possessed within the kingdom of France, renouncing all claims and 
 profits in them to the king and to his successors, on condition that with the duchy of Nemours the king 
 of France engaged to pay him two hundred thousand gold crowns of the coin of the lung our lord." It will 
 De seen from this passage, which was first pointed out by Mi". Hunter, that the link of connexion 
 between histoiy and the play is of a very slight kind ; but it is curious as showing us that the story 
 used by Shakespeare was grounded iu some degree on a real occurrence, although the main action of 
 Love's Labour's Lost is of course fictitious. The long of Navarre died in 1425, and the time of the 
 play may, therefore, be fixed shortly after that period. 
 
 The internal evidence of Love's Labour 's Lost points to its being a very early play, and it was, 
 perhaps, in its original foim, the fii'st drama that Shalcespeare composed. The eaj'licst kno^vn edition 
 appeai-ed in the year 1598, under the title of, "A pleasant conceited Comedie called Loves Labors 
 Lost, as it was presented before her Highnes this last Christmas, newlg corrected and augmented hj W 
 Shahsjiere r the last sentence imdoubtedly implj-ing that this edition contaiucd the author's last im- 
 provements. Coleridge has well observed that "the characters in tliis play arc either uu personated 
 out of Shakespeare's own multiformity by imaginative self-position, or out of such as a country town 
 and a schoolboy's observation might supply." The latter opinion is unquestionably the time one, uo 
 play of Shakespeare's containing so many allusions to what was probably his school-boy literatm-e — 
 1 mean by this his literatm-e in school and out of school — or, let me add, so much vernacular provincial 
 pliraseology. Mr. Knight has combated the unnecessary supposition that Florio was reflected in the 
 character of Holofemos, and I am inclined to assign the date of composition eai-lier than 1591, the 
 year when Florio is aUoged to have provoked the satire. There is merely pourtraj cd in Holoferues the 
 diameter of a pedantic schoolmaster, such an one as was Master Borabus iu Sidney's masque of the 
 
 267
 
 LOVE'S LABOUK 'S LOST. 
 
 Lady of Jfay ; and an extract from wliidi may serve to exhibit to the reader of how general a descrip- 
 tion is the satire of hard words in Love's Labom* 's Lost : — 
 
 Here\Wth tlio woman-suiter being gone, there was heard in the wood a confused noysx?, and forthwith there camo 
 {.ut s'lx sheapheards, with as many fosters, haling and pulling to whether side they shoidd draw the Lady of May, who 
 seemed to encline neith-ir to the one nor other side. Among them was Maister Rombus, a schnolemaister of a villaj.e 
 thereby, wh: being fully perswaded of his ownc learned wisedome, came thither, "with his authority, to part their fray; 
 where, for aunswer, hto received many unlearned blowes. But the Queene comming to the place where she was scene o 
 them, though they knew not her estate, yet something there was which made them startle aside and gaze upon her, till 
 old father Lalus stepped forth (one of the subatantiallist sheaphcai'ds) and making a legge or two, said these few words : — 
 ' May it please your bsnigiiity to give a little superfluous intelligence to that which, with the opening of my niouih, my 
 iongue and teeth shall deliver unto you. So it is, right worshipfuU audience, that a certainc shoe creature, which 
 we sheapheards call a woman, * of a minsieaii countenance, but, by my white Lambe, not three quarters so beautious as 
 yourselfc, hath disannulled the braine-paa of two of our featioust youyg men. And will you wot how .' by my mother 
 Kit's soule, with a eertaine fransicall maladie they call Love : when I was a young man, they called it flat foUie. But 
 here is a substantiall schoole-maister can better diseom'se the whole foundation of the matter, although, in sooth, for all his 
 loqxionce, our young men were notliing dutious to liis clarkeship; come on, come on, Maister schoole-maister; be not 83 
 bashlesse ; we say that the fiiu-est are ever the gentlest : tell the whole case, for you can much better \ ent the points of it 
 then I." 
 
 Then came forward Maister Eombus, and with many speciall graces, made this learned oration: — " Now the thmider- 
 thumping Jove transfund his dotes into your excellent formositie, which have, with your resplendent beamcs, thus 
 segi'egated the enmitie 'of those ruraU animals. I am Potentis.sima Domina, a schoole-maister, that is to say, a Pedagogue, 
 one not a litle versed in the diseipUnating of the juventaU fiie, whei-ein (to my laud I say it) I use such geomelricaU 
 proportion as neither wanted mansuetude nor con'ection, for so it is desciibed, Parcare subjectos et dehcllirt superbos 
 Yet hath not the pulchritude of my vertues protected me from the contaminating hands of these plebeians ; foi 
 cnmming solummodo to have parted their sanguinolent fray, tljey yecldcd me no more reverence then if 1 had bin soma 
 Pecorius Asinus. I, even I, that am, who am I .' Dixi verbus sapiento satum est. But what sayd that Trojan -Eneas, 
 when he sojomed in the surging sulkes of the sandifcrous seas, Hrcc olim memonasse juvebit. Well, well, ad propositos 
 reverlebo, the pmritie of the veritie is, that a eertaine Pulchra puella profccto, elected and constituted by the integrated 
 determination of aU this topographicall region, and as the soveraigne Lady of this Dame Maias month, hath been quo- 
 dammodo hunted, as you would say, pm-sued by two, a brace, a couple, a cast of yong men, to whom the crafty coward 
 Cupid had, inquam, delivered his dire-dolorous dart." 
 
 But here the May Lady inteiTupted his speech, saying to him, — " -\way, away, you tedious foole ; your eyes are no' 
 worthy to looke to yonder Princelie sight, much lesse your fooUsh tongue to trouble her wise eares. " 
 
 At wMch Maister Rombus in a gi'cat chafe cried out, — " ^Tempori, 6 Moribus ! in profession a childe, in dignitie a 
 woman, in ycares a Lady, in ccelcris a maid, should thus turpifie the reputation of my doctrine with the superecription ol 
 a foole ; 6 Tempori, 6 Moribus !" 
 
 But here againe the M.ay Ladie saying to him, " Leave off, good Latine foole, and let me satislie the long desire I 
 have had to feede mine eyes with the only sight this age hath granted to the world." 
 
 That Love's Labour 's Lost was not a new play in 1598 may be gathered from a veiy curious notice 
 
 of it in Tofte's 'Alba, the Months Jlinde of a Melancholy Lover,' 8vo. 1598, who says he had seen it 
 
 •icted, and from the way in which he alludes to it, probably several years before the pullicatioa of that 
 
 work ; — 
 
 Love's Labour Lost ! I once did see a play 
 
 Y-clcped so, so called to my paine, 
 Which I to heare to my small joy did stay. 
 
 Giving attendance on my froward darao : 
 My misgiving minde presaging to me ill. 
 Yet was I drawne to see it 'gainst my wilL 
 
 This play no play, but plague, was unto mo, 
 
 For tlicre I lost the love I liked most ; . 
 
 And what to others seemde a jest to be, 
 
 I that iu earnest found unt^ my coat. 
 To every one, save me, 't was comieall. 
 While tragick-lilce to me it did befall. 
 
 • Compare Armado's letter in act I. so. 1, " a child of our grandmother Bve, a female ; or, for tliy more sweet 
 ladcretaudiiig, a woman." Tho Latin is intentionally wrong, the whole being satfrioal upon tho sehoolmastor. 
 358
 
 LOVE'S LABOUll'S LOST. 
 
 Each actor plaid it: cunniii}; wise his part, 
 
 But chiefly tliose cntrapt in Cupid's snaro; 
 Tot all was faincd, 't^va3 not from tho hart, 
 
 They seeme to grieve, but yet tliey felt no caro ; 
 'Twas 1 that {jriefo indeed did hcaro in brest; 
 The others did but make a show in jest. 
 
 The exact date at which tho comedy was wi-itten, will perhaps never be a.scertained. Tho qiiCB- 
 'jon is rundcrftd exceedingly intricate by the probability that it received additions from its autlioi 
 shortly before the year 1598. I place little or no reliance on the mention of the dancing-horse, the 
 allusion to that animal in Tarlton's Jests being no evidence whatever that it was exliibited bciforo the 
 death of that clown. In fact, the horse Vfos fourteen years old in 1601, and Tarlton died in 1588; so 
 Hint the probability Ls of tho very slightest kind that it coidd liavo been exhibited in liis lifetime. The 
 jest, which is not worth quoting entire, commences thus — " There was one Baulccs, in the time of 
 Tarlton, who served the Earl of Essex, and luid a horse of strange qualities ; and being at the Cross 
 Keycs in Gvacious-streete, getting money -nath him, as he was mightily resorted to, Tarlton then with 
 his fcUowcs playing at the Bell by, came into the Cross Kcjts amongst many people t j see fashions : 
 which Jiankes perceiving, to paake the people laugh, saics, ' Signior,' to his horse, ' go fetch me the 
 veriest foole in the company.' The jade comes immediately, and -n-ith his month di'aws Tarlton forth." 
 I liavc little doubt that the anecdote is an invention. 
 
 A simUaritj- has been pointed out by Chalmers between what Dr. Johnson calls the " finished 
 representation of colloquial excellence" at tho commencement of the fifth act, and a passage in Sidney's 
 Arcadia, where he says, speaking of Parthenia, " that which made her .faimesse much the fairer was 
 that it was but a faire embassador of a most faire mind, fiiU of wit, and a wit -which dcUghted more to 
 j'jdge itsclfe then to show itselfo : her speech being as rare as precious ; her silence without sullcnnesso ; 
 l.er modestie without aifectation ; her shamefastnesse without ignorance : in suiome, one that to praise 
 well, one must first set downe with himselfe what it is to be excellent ; for so she is." Sidney's 
 Arcadia was fii'st published in 1590, but the similarity here pointed out is scarcely forcible enough to 
 prove that there was any plagiarism. The coincidence was very likely quite accidental. 
 
 Our text is chiefly taken fi-om the first edition of 1598, some of the readings of the foHo of 1623 
 being adopted. The latter was evidently piinted from the quarto, or fi-om the same manuscript from 
 which the quarto was printed ; but there are variations in the folio, which show that it is not a mere 
 copy of the first eflition. Another quarto edition appe;xred in 1631. It was also entered at Stationers' 
 HaU early in 1607, but no copy bearing that date has yet been discovered. 
 
 Love's Laboiu' 's Lost is not a favomite play with the general reader, but I apprehend that the 
 cause of its modem unpopularity is to be' sought for in the circumstance of its satii'c ha\'ing been 
 principally directed to fashions of language that have long passed away, and consequently little under- 
 stood, rather than in any great deficiency of di-amatic invention. Wlien it has been well studied, there are 
 few satirical plays that will afford more gratification ; it abounds with touches of the highest humour ; 
 and the playful tiicks and discoveries ai-e conducted with so much dexterity, that, when we an'ive at 
 tho conclusion, the chief wonder is how tho interest eoidd have been preserved in the development of 
 so cxti'emcly meagre a plot. The real key to the appreciation of this drama is to be found in the 
 reuiaj-k that there is throughout a vein of good-humoured ridicule and satire. 
 
 269
 
 PERSONS REPRESENTED 
 
 r£RDiNAHT3, King of Nmmre. 
 lippiars, Act I. sc. 1. Act II. ac. 1. Act IV. ec 3. 
 
 ActV. so. 2. 
 
 BiaoN {pronounced Beroon) a lord attending on the 
 
 King. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1. Act II. sc. 1. Act III. sc. 1. 
 
 Act IV. sc. 3. Act 5. sc. 2. 
 
 IxtNOATiLLE, a lord attending on the King. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc 1. Act II. sc. 1. Act IV. bc. 3. 
 Act V. sc. 2. 
 
 DuMAiN, a lord attending on the King. 
 
 Appears, Act I. so. 1. Act II. sc. I. Act IV. sc. 3. 
 
 Act V. sc. 2. 
 
 BorET, a lord attending on the Princess of France. 
 Appears, Act II. so. I. Act IV. sc. 1. Act \. sc. 2. 
 
 Ueec.u)e, a lord attending on the Princess of France. 
 Appears, Act V. sc. 2. 
 
 Don Adkiano he Armado, a fantastical Sjianiard. 
 /ippears, Act I. so. 2. Act III. sc. 1. Act V. sc 1 ; bc. 2. 
 
 SiK NATnANrnL, a curate. 
 Appears, Act IV. bc. 2. Act V. sc. 1 ; sc. 2. 
 
 IldLOFEUNES, a schoolmaster. 
 Appears, .\ct IV. sc. 2. Act V. sc. I ; bc. 2. 
 270 
 
 Dull, a constable. 
 Appears, Act I. sc 1; sc. 2. Act IV. sc. 2. Act V 
 
 CosiAED, a clown. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1 ; sc. 2. Act III. sc. 1. Act IV. sc. 1 
 
 sc. 2 ; sc. 3. Act V. sc. 1 ; sc. 2. 
 
 Moth, page to Ai-mado. 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 2. Act III. sc. 1. Act V. sc. 1; sc. 2. 
 
 A Forester. 
 Appears, Act IV. sc. 1. 
 
 Prln'cess of France. 
 Appears, Act II. sc. I. Act IV. sc. 1. Act V. sc 2. 
 
 EosAiTNE, a lady attending on the Princess of Franco. 
 Appears, Act II. so. 1. Act IV. sc. 1. Act V. sc. 2. 
 
 Maria, a lady attending on tlie Princess of France. 
 Appears, Act II. sc. 1. Act IV. sc 1. Act V. sc 2. 
 
 Katharine, a lady attending on the Princess of 
 France. 
 
 Appears, Act II. sc. I. Act IV. sc. 1. Act V sc. 2. 
 
 jAQnENETTA, o couutry wench. 
 Appears, Act I. so. 2. Act IV. sc. 2 ; so. .S. 
 
 Officers, Attendants, and otficrs. 
 SCENE,— Na^mihe.
 
 1C0iie's ICiiknir's %ml 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCET^E I — ^Navarre. A Park, with a Palace in it. 
 
 Fktcr the King, Bmox, Lonoavuxe, and DtmAiir. 
 
 X''in(/. Let fame, that all uunt after in their lives, 
 Live registor'd upon our brazen tombs, 
 And then gi-ace us in the disgrace' of death; 
 When, spite of cormorant devouring Time, 
 Th' endeavour of this present breath may buy 
 That honour, which shall bate his scythe's keen 
 
 edge, 
 And make us hcii's of all eternity. 
 Therefore, brave conquerors ! — for so you are. 
 That war against your own affections. 
 And the huge army of the world's desires, — 
 Our late edict shall strongly stand in force : 
 Navarre shall bo the wonder of the world ; 
 Our court shall bo a little Academe,' 
 StUl and contemplative in living art. 
 You thi'ce, Bii-on, Dumain, and Longaville, 
 Have sworn for three years' term to live with me. 
 My feUow-seholars, and to keep those statutes 
 That arc recorded in this schedule here : 
 Your oaths are pass'd, and now subscribe your 
 
 names. 
 That his own hand may strike his honour down, 
 L'hat violates the smallest branch herein : 
 If you are arm'd to do, as sworn to do. 
 Subscribe to your deep oaths, and keep them too. 
 Jkuiff. I am resolv'd : "t is but a three years' 
 
 fast 
 
 The mind shall banquet, though the body pine . 
 
 Fat paunches have lean pates ; ' and dainty bite 
 Make rich the ribs, but bankrupt quite the wits 
 
 Diim. My loving lord, Dumain is mortified. 
 The grosser manner of these world's delights 
 He tlirows upon the gross world's baser slaves : 
 To love, to wealth, to pomp, I pine and die ; 
 With all these living in philosophy.^ 
 
 Biron. I can but say their prctestation over, 
 So much, dear liege, I have already sworn. 
 That is, — To live and study here three years. 
 But there ai-e other strict observances : 
 As, not to see a woman jn that term ; 
 "Which, I hope well, is not enrolled there : 
 And, one day in a week to touch no food, 
 And but one meal on every day beside ; 
 The which, I hope, is not enrolled there : 
 And then to sleep but three hours in the night 
 And not be seen to wink of all the day ; 
 (Wlien I was wont to think no harm aH night, 
 And make a dark night too of half the day :) 
 Wliioh, I hope weU is not enrolled there : 
 0, these are barren tasks, too hard to keep ; 
 Not to see ladies, — study, fast, — not sleep. 
 
 King. Your oath is pass'd to pass away from 
 these. 
 
 Biron. Let me say no, my liege, an if yo\i 
 please ; 
 I only swore to study with your grace. 
 And stay here in your court for three years' spac« 
 
 271
 
 LOV'E'S LABOUR'S LOST. 
 
 Long. Tou swore to that, Biron, and to the 
 
 rest. 
 Biron. By yea and nay, sir, tlien I swore in. 
 jest. 
 \^Tiat is the end of study? let fla.e know. 
 
 King. Why, that to know, which else we should 
 
 not know. 
 Biron. Things hid and barr'd, you moan, from 
 
 common sense ? 
 King. Aj, that is study's godUie recompense. 
 Biron. Come on, then ; I will sweai- to study so, 
 To know the thing I am forbid to know : 
 A.S thus, — To study where I well may dine, 
 
 "When I to feast expressly am forbid ; 
 9r study where to mcel iome mistress fine, 
 
 Wlicn mistresses from common sense are hid : 
 Or, having sworn too hard-a-keeping oath. 
 Study to break it, and not break my troth. 
 If study's gain be thus, and this be so, 
 Study knows that which yet it doth not know : 
 Swear me to this, and I 'n'ill ne'er say, no. 
 King. These he the stops that hinder study 
 quite 
 And train our intellects to vain delight. 
 
 Biron. 'WTiy, all delights are vain ; but that 
 most vain. 
 Which, with pain purchas'd, doth inherit pain : 
 As, painfully to pore upon a book. 
 
 To seek the light of truth; while tnilh the 
 while 
 Doth falsely blind the eyesight of his look : ' 
 
 Light, seeking light, doth light of light beguile : 
 So, ere you find where light in darkness lies, 
 Tour light grows dark by losing of }-our eyes. 
 Study me how to please the eye indeed, 
 
 By fixing it upon a fairer eye ; 
 Who dazzling so, that eye shall be his heed, 
 Aud give him light that it was blinded by. 
 Study is hke the heaven's glorioiis sun. 
 
 That will not be deep-seEU-ch'd with saucy 
 looks ; 
 Small have continual plodders ever won. 
 
 Save base authority from other's books. 
 These oartlily godfathers of heaven's lights. 
 
 That give a name to every fixed star. 
 Have no more profit of their shining nights. 
 Than those that walk, and wot not what they 
 are. 
 Too much to know is, to know nouglit but fame ; 
 And uvcry godfather can give a name. 
 
 £iiig. JTow well he "s read, to reason against 
 ruiidiiigl 
 27i 
 
 Bum. Proceeded well, to stop all good pro- 
 ceeding ! 
 Long. He weeds the com, and still lets grow 
 
 the weeding. 
 Biron. The spring is near, when green gees 
 
 are a breeding. 
 Bum. How follows that ? 
 Biron. Fit in his place and tmie. 
 
 Bum. In reason notliing. 
 Biron. Something then in rhjTne. 
 
 King. Biron is like an cl rious sneaping frost,' 
 That bites the first-born infants of the spring. 
 Biron. Well, say I am ; why shc.ild proud 
 
 siunmer boast, 
 Before the birds have any cause to sing ? 
 Why should I joy in any abortive birth : 
 At Christmas I no more desire a rose. 
 Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled showo ; 
 But like of eaeli thing that in season grows. 
 So you, to stud}', now it is too late, 
 Climb o'er the house to unlock the little gate. 
 King. Well, fit you out; go home, Biron; adieu. 
 Biron. No, my good lord ! I have swcrn to stay 
 with you : 
 And, though I have for barbaiism spoke more, 
 
 Than for that angel knowledge you can say; , 
 
 Yet, confident I 'U keep what I have swore. 
 
 And bide the penance of eacli three years' day 
 Give me the paper, — let me read the same ; 
 And to the sti'ictcst decrees I "11 •mite my name. 
 King. How well this yielding rescues thee from 
 
 shame 1 
 Biron. [_Beads.'\ 
 
 Item, That no woman shall come within a milo i my 
 court — 
 
 Hath this been proclaimed? 
 Zong. Four days ago. 
 Biron. Let *s see the penally. {Jleada. 
 
 — On pain of losing her tongue. — 
 
 Who devis'd this penalty ? 
 Long. Marry, that did I. 
 Biron. Sweet lord, and why ? 
 Long. To friglit them licncc with that dread 
 
 penalty. 
 Biron. A dangerous law against gentility.' 
 
 Itfiii, Tf nny man bo seen to talk with a woman within 
 the term of three years, ho shall endm'o sunh public shama 
 a-s the nv't "t the court can possibly devise. — 
 
 This artieli^, my licgc, )-ourself must break ; 
 For, well TOU know, here comes in embassy.
 
 Ad I. 
 
 LOVE'S LABOUE 'S LOST. 
 
 SCISSZ z. 
 
 The French Icing's daughter, with yourself to 
 speak, — 
 
 A maid of grace, and complete majesty, — 
 About surrender-up of Aquituin 
 
 To her decrepit, sick, and bed-rid father : 
 Therefore this article is made in vam. 
 
 Or vainly comes th' admired princess hither. 
 
 A'inff. What say you, lords? why, this was 
 quite forgot. 
 
 Biron. So study evermore is over-shot ; 
 While it doth study to have what it woidd, 
 It doth forget to do the thing it should : 
 And when it hath the thing it hunteth most, 
 'T is won, as towns with fire ; so won, so lost. 
 
 King. We must, of force, dispense ■with this 
 decree ; 
 She must lie" here on mere necessity. 
 
 Biron. Necessity wiU make us all forsworn 
 
 Three thousand times within this three years' 
 space : 
 For every man with his affects is born ; 
 
 Not by might master' d, but by special grace. 
 If I break taith, this word shall speak for me, — 
 I am forsworn on mere necessit}-. 
 So to tlie laws at large I write my name ; 
 
 [ Sliiscribes. 
 
 And he that breaks them in the least degree 
 Stands in attainder of eternal shame. 
 
 Suggestions are to others, as to me ; 
 But, I believe, although I seem so loth, 
 I am the last that wiU last keep his oath. 
 But is there no quick recreation granted ? 
 
 King. Aye, that there is : our coui-t, you know, 
 is haunted 
 
 With a refined traveller of Spain ; 
 A man in aU the world's new fashion planted. 
 
 That hath a mint of phrases in his bram : 
 One who tlie music of his own vain tongue 
 
 Doth ravish, like enchanting harmony ; 
 A man of complements,* whom right and wrong 
 
 Hath chose as umpire of tlicir mutiny : 
 This child of fancy, that Armado hight; 
 
 For interim to our studies, shall relate, 
 In high-born words, the worth of many a knight 
 
 From tawny Spain, lost in the world's de- 
 bate.'" 
 Ifow you delight, my lords, I know not, I ; 
 Kut, I protest, I love to hear him lie. 
 And I will use him for my minstrelsy." 
 
 Biron. Ai'mado is a most illustrious wight, 
 A man of fire-new'^ words, fashion's own 
 knight. 
 
 S5 
 
 Long. Costard, the swain, and he, shall be our 
 sport ; 
 And, so to study, three years is but short. 
 
 Enter DnLL, with a letter, and Cosxabd 
 
 BuU. Wliich is the duke's own person ? 
 
 Biron. This, fellow. What wouldst ? 
 
 Bull. 1 myself rej)rehend his own person, for 1 
 am his grace's tharborough : but I would see his 
 own person in flesh and blood. 
 
 Biron. This is he. 
 
 Bull. Signior Arme — Armo — commends you. 
 There 's villainy abroad : this letter wiU tell you 
 more. 
 
 Cost. Sir, the contempts thereof arc as touching 
 me. 
 
 King. A letter from the magnificent Armado. 
 
 Biron. How low soever the matter, I hope in 
 God for high words. 
 
 Long. A high hope for a low heaven : God grant 
 us patience I 
 
 Biron. To hear ? or forbear hearing ? 
 
 Long. To hear meekly, sir, and to laugh mode- 
 rately ; or to forbear both. 
 
 Biron. Well, sir, bo it as the style shall give us 
 cause to climb in the merriness. 
 
 Cost. The matter is to me, sir, as concerning 
 Jaquenetta. The manner of it is, I was taken 
 with the manner." 
 
 Biron. In what manner ? 
 
 Cost. In manner and form following, sir ; aU 
 those three : I was seen with her in the manor- 
 house, sitting with her upon the form, and taken 
 following her into the park ; which, put togethei, 
 is in manner and form following. Now, sir, 
 for the manner, — it is the manner of a man 
 to speak to a woman : for the form, — in some 
 form. 
 
 Biron. For the following, sir ? 
 
 Cost. As it shall follow in my correction ; and 
 God defeud the right I 
 
 King. WiU you hear this letter with attention ? 
 
 Biron. As we would hear an oracle. 
 
 Cost. Such is the simplicity of man to hearken 
 after the flesh. 
 
 King. [Reads.'] 
 
 Great deputy, the wellon s vicegerent, and sole donii- 
 nator of Navarre, my soul's earth's God, and body's foster- 
 ing patron, — 
 
 Cost. Not a word of Costard yet. 
 
 King. 
 
 So it is, — 
 
 273
 
 iCT I. 
 
 LOVE'S LABOTJE 'S LOST. 
 
 scEirjs n. 
 
 Cod. It may be so : but if he say it is so, lie is, ■ 
 in telling trae, but so. 
 
 King. Peace 1 
 
 Cost. — bo to me, and every man that dares not 
 fight ! 
 
 Xing. Iv"o words ! 
 
 Cost. — of other men's secrets, I beseech you. 
 
 King. 
 
 So it is, besieged with sable-coloured melancholy, I did 
 commend the black-oppressing biiinoiir to the most whole- 
 some physick of thy health-giving air; and, as I am a 
 gentleman, betook mysulf to walk. The time when.' 
 About the sixth hour; when beasts most graze, birds best 
 peck, and men sit down to that nourishment which is called 
 eupper. So much for the time when. Now for the giound 
 which , which, I mean, I walked upon : it is y-cliped " thy 
 park. Then for the place where; where, I mean, I did 
 encounter that obscene and most preposterous event that 
 di'aweth fi'om my snow-white pen the ebon-coloxu-cd ink, 
 irhich here thou viewest, beholdest, su^r^'cyest, or seest : 
 But to the place wheie, — It standeth north-north-east and 
 by east from the west corner of thy cmiovis-knotted garden. 
 There did I see that low-spiiited swain, that base minnow 
 of thy mirth, 
 
 Cost. Me? 
 King. 
 
 — that unletter'd small-knowing soul, 
 
 Cost. Me? 
 
 King. 
 — ^that shallow vassal, 
 
 Cost. Still me? « 
 
 King. 
 — which, as I remember, hight Costard, 
 
 Cost. me ! 
 
 King. 
 
 -sorted, and consorted, conti-ary to thy established 
 proclaimed edict and contiacut canon, ■with — with — 
 with — but with this I passion to say wherewith. 
 
 Cost. With a wench. 
 
 King. 
 
 — with a child of our grandmother Eve, a female ; or, 
 for thy more sweet understanding, a woman. Him I (as 
 my ever-esteemed duty pricks me on) have sent to thee, to 
 receive the meed of punishment, by thy sweet grace's 
 officer, Antony Dull; a man of good rcputCj carriage, 
 bearing, and estimation. 
 
 Dull. Me, an' t shall please you; lamiVntonyUuU. 
 
 King. 
 
 For Jatiuenetta (so is the weaker vessel called, which I 
 arprchended with the aforesaid swain,) I keep her as a 
 vessel of tliy law's fury ; and shall, at the least of thy 
 Bweet notice, bring her to trial. Thine, in all compliments 
 of devoted and hcart-biiniing heat of duty, 
 
 Don Amuano de Aum.vdo. 
 
 Biron. This is not so wcU as I loohed for, but 
 the beat that ever I hcari. 
 274 
 
 King. Ay, the best for the worst. But, sirrah 
 what say you to this ? 
 
 Cost. Sir, I confess the wench. 
 
 King. Did you hear the proclamation ? 
 
 Cost. I do confess much of the hearing it, but 
 little of the marking of it. 
 
 King. It was proclaimed a year's imprisoLment, 
 to be taken with a wench. 
 
 Cost. I was taken with none, sir ; I was taken 
 with a damosel. 
 
 King. Well, it was proclaimed damosel. 
 
 Cost. This was no damosel neither, su- ; she was 
 a virgin. 
 
 King It is so vaiied too ; for it was proclaimed 
 virgin. 
 
 Cost. If it were, I deny her virginity ; I was 
 taken with a maid. 
 
 King. This maid will not serve your turn, sir. 
 
 Cost. This maid \vill serve my trn-n, sir. 
 
 King. Sii', I will pronounce j'our sentence : Yoit 
 shall fast a week with bran and water. 
 
 Cost. I had rather pray a month with mutton 
 and porridge. 
 
 King. And Don Armado shall be your keeper. — 
 My lord Biron, see him deliver'd o'er. — 
 And go we, lords, to put in practice that 
 
 Which each to other hath so strongly sworn. — 
 \_Excunt KiUG, Long., and Dcii. 
 
 Biron. I 'U lay my head to any good man's hat, 
 
 These oaths and laws will prove an idle scorn. — 
 Sirrah, come on. 
 
 Cost. I suffer for the truth, sir : for true it is, I 
 was taken with Jaquenetta, and Jaquenetta is a 
 true gild ; and therefore, Welcome the sour cup oJ 
 prosperity ! Affliction may one day smile again, 
 and until then. Sit thee down, sorrow ! \_Exeimt. 
 
 SCENE 11.— Another part of the Pari: 
 near Ai-mado's House. 
 
 Enter Ahmado and Mora. 
 
 Arm. Boy, what sign is it, when a man of great 
 spirit grows mehmcholy ? 
 
 Moth. A great sign, sir, that he will look sa^l. 
 
 Ann. Wliy, sadness is one and the self-esj-ic 
 thing, dear imp." 
 
 Moth. No, no ; Lord; sir, no. 
 
 Arm. How canst thou part sadness and melau- 
 choly, my tender Juvenal ? 
 
 Mo(h. Jiy a familiar demonstration of the work 
 ing, my tough senior. 
 
 Ann. Why tough senior ? why tough ecnior ?
 
 ACT I. 
 
 LOVE'S LABOUE'S LOST. 
 
 scBim n. 
 
 Moth. Why tender Juvenal? why tender juvenal? 
 
 Arm. I spoke it, tender jiivonal, as a congiiient 
 epilhetbn, uppertaiiiing to tliy young days, whieh 
 wo may nominate tender. 
 
 2[oth. And I, tough senior, as an appertiiicnt 
 title to your old time, which we may name tough. 
 
 Arm. Pretty and apt.'" 
 
 Moth. How moan you, sir ; I pretty, and my 
 Bajing apt ? or I ajit, and my saying pretty ? 
 
 Arm. Thou prctt)', beeausc little. 
 
 Moth. Little pretty, because little : Wherefore 
 apt? 
 
 Arm. And therefore apt, because quick. 
 
 Moth. Speak you this in my praise, master ? 
 
 Arm. In thy condign praise. 
 
 Moth. I will praise an eel ■with the same praise. 
 
 Arm. AVliat ? that an eel is ingenious ? 
 
 Muth. That an eel is quick. 
 
 Arm. I do say, thou art quick in answers : 
 Thou heat'st my blood. 
 
 Moth. I am answer' d, sir. 
 
 Arm. 1 love not to be crossed. 
 
 Moth. lit! speaks the mere contrary; crosses" 
 bve not him. \_Aside. 
 
 Arm. I have promis'd to study three years with 
 (ho duke. 
 
 Moth. You may do it in an hour, sir. 
 
 Arm. Impossible. 
 
 Moth. How manj^ is one thrice told ? 
 
 Arm. I am ill at reck'niug ; it fits the spirit of 
 a tapster. 
 
 Muth. You are a gentleman, and a gamester, 
 sir. 
 
 Arm. I confess both ; they ai'e both the varnish 
 of a complete man. 
 
 Moth. Then, I am sure, you know how much 
 the gross sum of deucc-ace amounts to. 
 
 Arm. It doth amount to one more than two. 
 
 Moth. \\Tiich the base vulgar call, three. 
 
 Arm. True. 
 
 Moth. Why, sir, is this such a piece of study ? 
 Now hero 's thi'ce studied, ere you "11 thrice wink: 
 and hew easy it is to put 5-ears to the word tliree, 
 and study three years in two words, the dancing 
 horse will tell you.'* 
 
 ^ irm. A most fine figure ! 
 
 Moth. To prove you a cipher. y_Asidc. 
 
 Arm I will hereupon confess, I am in love : 
 md, as it is base for a soldier to love, so am I in 
 love with a base wench. If drawing my sword 
 against the humour of affection would deliver me 
 Ciom the reprobate thought of it, I would take 
 
 Desire prisoner, and ransom him to any FrenrJl 
 courtier for a new devis'd curtsy. I think sconi 
 to sigh ; mcthinks, I sLsuld oulswear Cupid. 
 Comfort me, boy : What great men have been in 
 love ? 
 
 Moth. Hercules, master. 
 
 Arm. Most sweet Hercules ! — lloro authority, 
 dear boy, name more ; and, sweet my child, let 
 them be men of good repute and carriage. 
 
 Moth. Samson, master ; he was a man of good 
 tarriage, great carriage ; for he cairied tiie town- 
 gates on his back, like a porter : and he was in 
 love. 
 
 Arm. well-knit Samson ! strong-jointed Sam- 
 son ! I do excel thee in my rapier, as much aa 
 thou didst me in carr3'ing gates. I am in lovo 
 too. Who was Samson's love, my dear Moth ? 
 
 Moth. A woman, master. 
 
 Arm. Of what complexion ? , 
 
 Moth. Of all the four, or the three, or the two 
 or one of the four. 
 
 Arm. Tell me precisely of what complexion. 
 
 Moth. Of the sea-water green, sir. 
 
 Arm. Is that one of the foiu* complexions ? 
 
 Moth. As I have read, sir : and the best of 
 them too. 
 
 Arm. Green, indeed, is the colour of lovers; 
 but to have a love of that coloiu", methinks, 
 Samson had small reason for it. Ho, surely, 
 affected her for her wit. 
 
 Moth. It was so, sir ; for she had a green wit. 
 
 Arm. My love is most immaculate white and 
 red. 
 
 Moth. Most maculate'" thoughts, master, are 
 mask'd imder such colours. 
 
 Arm. Define, define, well-educated infant. 
 
 Moth. My father's wit, and my mother's tongue, 
 assist me. 
 
 Arm. Sweet invocation of a child ; most pretty 
 and pathetical ! 
 
 Moth. If she be made of white and red, 
 Her faults -will ne'er be known ; 
 For blushing cheeks by faults are bred, 
 
 And fears by pale-wliite shown : 
 Then, if she fear, or be to blame, 
 
 By this you shall not know ; 
 For still her clioeks possess the same, 
 Which native she doth owe. 
 A dangerous rhjine, master, against the reason of 
 white and red. 
 
 Arm. Is there not a ballad, boy, of the King 
 and the beggar?^ 
 
 275
 
 ACT h 
 
 LOVE LABOUE'S LOST. 
 
 SCENE IL 
 
 Moth. The -world was very guilty of such a bal- 
 lad some three ages since : but, I think, now 't is 
 not to be fotmd ; or, if it were, it would neither 
 serve for the writing, nor the tune. 
 
 Arm. T will have that subject newly wiit o'er, 
 that I may example my digression by some mighty 
 precedent. 33oy, I do love that countTy gii'l that 
 I took in the park with the rational liLad Costard; 
 she deserves well. 
 
 Moth. To be whipp'd ; and yet a better love 
 than my master.-' l_Aside. 
 
 Arm. Sing, boy ; my spirit grows heavy in love. 
 
 Moth. And that 's great marvel, loving a light 
 wench. 
 
 Arm. I say, sing. 
 
 Moth. Forbear tiU this company be past. 
 
 Unier Dull, Costabd, and jAaPENTii.v. 
 
 LiiU. Sir, the duke's pleasure is that you keep 
 Costard safe : and you must let him take no de- 
 light, nor no penance ; but a' must fast three 
 lavs a- week. For this damsel, I must keep her 
 at the park ; she is allow'd for the day-woman." 
 Fare you well. 
 
 Arm. I do betray myself witji blushing. — -Maid. 
 
 Jaq. Man. 
 
 Arm. I wiU visit thee at the lodge. 
 
 Jaq. That 's hereby. 
 
 Arm. I know where it is situate. 
 
 ./aq. Lord, how wise you are ! 
 
 Arm. I will tcU thee wondei 8. 
 
 Jaq. With that face ? '-* 
 
 Arm. I love thee. 
 
 Jaq. So I heard you say. 
 
 Arm. And so farewell. 
 
 Jaq. Fair weather after you ! 
 
 Lull. Come, Jaquenetta, away. 
 
 [_I!xit Dull and Jaq. 
 
 Arm. ViUaLn, thou slialt fast for thy oflfences 
 era thcu be pardoned. 
 276 
 
 Cost. "Well, sir, I hope, when I do it, I shall do 
 it on a full stomach. 
 
 Arm. Thou shall be heavily punished 
 
 Cost. I am more bound to you than your fellows 
 for they are but lightly rewarded. 
 
 Arm. Take away this villain ; shut him up. 
 
 Moth. Come, you transgressing slave ; away. 
 
 Cost. Let me not be pent up, sir ; I will fas:, 
 being loose. 
 
 Moth. No, sir ; that were fast and loose : thou 
 shalt to prison. 
 
 Cost. Well, if ever T do see the merry days of 
 desolation that I have seen, some shall see — 
 
 Moth. What shall some see ? 
 
 Cost. Nay, nothing, master Moth, but what 
 tliey look upon. It is not for prisoners to be too 
 silent in their words ; and, therefore, I will say 
 nothing : I thank God, I have as little patience as 
 another man ; and, therefore, I can be quiet. 
 
 l£xeu7it Moth and Cost. 
 
 Arm. I do affect the very ground, which is base, 
 where her shoe, which is baser, guided bj- her foot, 
 which is basest, doth tread. I shall be forewom 
 (wliich is a great argument of falsehood) if I love; 
 And how can that be true love, which is falsely 
 attempted ? Love is a familiar ; love is a devil : 
 there is no evil angel but love. Yet was .Samson 
 so tempted ; and he had an excellent strength : 
 yet was Solomon so seduced; and he had a very 
 good wit. Cupid's buttshaft is too hard for Her- 
 cules' club,-* and therefore too much odds for a 
 Spaniard's rapier. The first and second cause 
 will not serve my turn ; the passado he respects 
 not ; the ducUo he regards not : his disgrace is to 
 be called boy, but his glory is to subdue men. 
 Adieu, valour ! rust, rapier ! be stiU, drum ! for 
 your manager is in love ; yea, he loveth. Assist 
 me, some extcmporal god of rhyme, for, I am sure, 
 1 shall turn sonneteer. Devise, wit! write, pen 
 for I am for whole volumes in folio. f . Eci'i
 
 LOVE'iS LAIiOUK 'S LOST. 
 
 WKNE L. 
 
 ACT II, 
 
 BCENE I. — Another part of the Pari:. A Pavilion 
 and Tents at a distance. 
 
 E7iter the Princess of Feance, Eosaline, Maeia, 
 ELatheedte, Boyet, Lords, and other Attendants. 
 
 Boyet. Now, madam, summon up your dearest 
 spirits ; 
 Consider who the king your father sends ; 
 To whom he sends ; and what 's his embassy : 
 Yourself, held precious in the world's esteem, 
 To parley with the sole inheritor 
 Of all perfections that a man may owe, 
 Matchless Navarre : the plea of no less weight 
 Than Aquitain ; a dowi-y for a queen. 
 Be now as prodigal of all dear grace. 
 As Nature was in making graces dear, 
 WTien she did starvs the general world beside. 
 And prodigally gave them all to you. 
 
 Prin. Good lord Boyet, my beauty, though but 
 mean, 
 Needs not the painted flourish of your praise ; 
 Beauty is bought by judgment of the eye. 
 Not utter'd by base sale of chapmen's^ tongues : 
 I am less proud to hear you tell my worth, 
 Than you much willing to be counted wise 
 In spending your wit in the praise of mine. 
 But now to task the taskor, — Good Boyet, 
 You arc not ignorant, all-telling fame 
 Doth noise abroad, Navarre hath made a vow, 
 Till painful study shall out- wear three years. 
 No woman may approach his silent court : 
 Therefore to 's seemeth it a needful course, 
 Before we enter his forbidden gates, 
 To know his pleasure ; and in that behalf, 
 Bold of your worthiness, we single you 
 As our best-moving fair solicitor : 
 Tell him, the daughter of the king of France, 
 On serious business, craving quick despatch. 
 Importunes personal conference with his grace. 
 Haste, signify so much ; while we attend. 
 Like humble-visag'd suitors, his high will. 
 
 Boyet. Proud of employment, willingly I go. 
 
 lExit. 
 
 Prin. AU pride is willing pride, and yours u> sa 
 
 Who are the votaries, my loving lords. 
 
 That are vow-feUows with this virtuous duke .' 
 
 Lord. Longaville is one. 
 
 Prin. Know you the man ? 
 
 Mar. I know him, madam ; at a marriage feast. 
 Between lord Perigort and the beauteous heir 
 Of Jaques Falconbridge, solemnized 
 In Normandy, saw I this Longaville : 
 A man of sovereign parts ho ls .esteeni'd ; 
 \YeIl fitted in arts, glorious in arms : 
 Nothing becomes him ill, that he would well. 
 The anly soil of his fair virtue's gloss 
 (If virtue's gloss will stain with any soil) 
 Is a sharp wit match'd with too blunt a will ; 
 Whose edge hath power to cut, whose ■will still 
 
 wills 
 It should none spare that come within his power. 
 
 Prin. Some merry mocking lord, belilce; is 't so? 
 
 Mar. They say so most, that most his humours 
 know. 
 
 Prin. Such short-liv'd wits do wither as they 
 grow. 
 Who are the rest ? 
 
 Kath. The young Dumaiu, a wcU- accomplish' d 
 youth, 
 Of all that vii-tue love for virtue lov'd : 
 Most power to do most harm, least Imowing Ul ; 
 For he hath wit to make an ill shape good. 
 And shape to win grace though he had no wit. 
 I saw him at the duke Alengon's once ; 
 And much too little of that good I saw," 
 Is my report, to his great worthiness. 
 
 Ros. Another of these students at that time 
 Was there with him. If I have heard a truth, 
 Biron they call him ; but a merrier man. 
 Within the limit of becoming mirth, 
 I never spent an hour's talk withal: 
 His eye begets occasion for his wit : 
 For every object that the one doth catch, 
 The other hu-ns to a mirth-moving jest ; 
 Which his fair tongue (conceit's expositor) 
 Delivers in such apt and gracious words, 
 
 27"
 
 LOVE'S LABOITE 'S LOST. 
 
 RCMTE I. 
 
 rhat aged ears play truant at his tales, 
 And younger hearings are quite ravished, 
 So sweet and -voluble is his discourse. 
 
 Frin. God bless my ladies ! are they all in love, 
 That every one her own hath garnished 
 With such bedecking ornaments of praise ? 
 
 Ljid. Here comes Boyet. 
 
 He-enter Botei. 
 
 Frin. Kow, what admittance, lord ? 
 
 Boyet. Navarre had notice of your fair approach, 
 And he and his competitors in oath-' 
 Were all addi-ess'd to meet you, gentle lady, 
 Before I came, ilariy, thus much I have learnt, 
 He rather means to lodge you in the field, 
 (Like one that comes here to besiege his court,) 
 Than seek a dispensation for his oath. 
 To let you enter his unpeopled house. 
 Eere comes Kavarre. [Tlie Ladies mash. 
 
 Enter King, LoxoiviLLE, Dtnura, BraoN, and 
 Attendants. 
 
 King. Fair piincess, welcome to the court of 
 
 Navarre. 
 Prin. Fair I give you back again; and welcome 
 I have not yet : the roof of this court is too high 
 to be yours ; and welcome to the wide fields too 
 base to be mine. 
 
 Kinq. Tou shall be welcome, madam, to my 
 
 court. 
 Prin. I will be welcome then ; conduct me 
 
 thitlicr. 
 King. Hear me, dear lady, I have sworn an oath. 
 Prin. Our Lady help my lord ! he '11 be for- 
 sworn. 
 King. Not for the world, fair madam, by my 
 
 ^vill. 
 Prin. "Why, will shall break it; wiU, and 
 
 nothing else. 
 King. Your ladyship is ignorant what it is. 
 Prin. Were my lord so, his ignorance were wise. 
 Where now his knowledge must prove ignorance. 
 I hoar, your grace hath sworn-out housekeeping : 
 'T is deadly sin to keep that oath, my lord. 
 And sin to break it : 
 But pardon mo, I am too sudden bold ; 
 To teacli a teacher ill bcseomctli me. 
 Vouchsafe to read the pui-pose of my coming. 
 And Bu idenly resolve me in my suit. 
 
 [ Gives a paper 
 King Afadain, T will, if suddenly I may. 
 Prin. \o\\ will the sooner, that I were away; 
 278 
 
 For you 'U prove porjur'd, if you make me stay. 
 
 Biron. Did not I dance with you in Brabant' 
 once ? 
 
 Eos. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once ? 
 
 Biron. I know you did. 
 
 Bos. How needless was it then to ask the ques- 
 tion ! 
 
 Biron. Tou must not be so quick. 
 
 Bos. 'T is long of you that spur me with such 
 questions. 
 
 Biron. Your wit 's too hot, it speeds too fast 
 't will tii-e. 
 
 Bos. Not tin it leave the rider in the mire. 
 
 Biron, Wliat time o' day ? 
 
 Bos. The hour that fools should ask. 
 
 Biron. Now fair befal your mask ! 
 
 Bos. Fair fall the face it covers ! 
 
 Biron. And send you many lovers ! 
 
 Bos. Amen, so you be none. 
 
 Biron. Nay, then wiU I be gone. 
 
 King. Madam, your fothcr here doth intimate 
 The payment of a hundred thousand crowns ; 
 Being but th' one half of an entire sum, 
 Disbursed by my father in his wars. 
 But say, that he, or we, (as neither have,) 
 Eeceiv'd that sum ; yet there remains mipaid 
 A- hundred thousand more; in sm'ety of the which 
 One part of Aquitain is bound to us, 
 Although not valued to the money's worth. 
 If then the kiug your father -n-ill restore 
 But that one half which is unsatisfied. 
 We wUl give up our right in Aquitain, 
 And hold fair fi'iendship with his majesty. 
 But that, it seems, he little purposeth, 
 For here he doth demand to have repaid 
 An hundred thousand crowns ; and not demands. 
 On payment of a hundred thousand crowns, 
 To have his title Kve in Aquitain ; 
 Wliich we much rather had depart withal,** 
 And have the money by our father lent. 
 Than Aquitain so gelded as it is. 
 Dear princess, were not his requests so far 
 From reason's yielding, your fair self should make 
 A yielding, 'gainst some reason, in my breast, 
 And go well satisfied to France again. 
 
 Prin. You do the lung ray father too much wrong 
 And wrong the reputation of your name. 
 In 80 unseeming to confess receipt 
 Of that which hath so faithfully been paid. 
 
 King. I do protest I never lieard of it ; 
 And, if you prove it, I '11 repay it back, 
 Or yield up Aquitain.
 
 ACT II. 
 
 LOVE'S LABOmi S LOST. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Prin We arrest yoiir -word : — 
 
 Boyct, you cau produce acquittancea, 
 For such a sum, from special officers 
 Of Charles his father. 
 
 liing. Satisfy me so. 
 
 Buyei. So please yoiir grace, the packet is not 
 come 
 Wliere that and other specialties are bound ; 
 To-morro-w you shall have a sight of thom. 
 
 King. It sliall suffice me : at which interview, 
 AH liberal reason I -will yield unto. 
 Ifeantime receive such welcome at my hand 
 As honour, without breach of honour, may 
 Make tender of to thy true worthiness : 
 You may not come, fair princess, in my gates ; 
 But here \^^thout you shall bo so rccciv'd, 
 Ae you shall deem yourself lodgd in my heart, 
 Thougli so deny'd fair harbour in my house. 
 Your own good thoughts excuse me, and fai'ewcU : 
 To-morrow shall we visit you again. 
 
 Prin. Sweet health and fair dcsii-es consort your 
 
 gi-aoe ! 
 King. Thy own wish wish I thee in every place ! 
 \_Exeunt Kino and his Train. 
 Biron. Lady, I will commend you to my own 
 
 heart. 
 Ros. Tray you, do my commendations ; I would 
 !.ie glad to see it. 
 Biron. I would you heai'd it groan. 
 Ros. Is the fool sick ? 
 Biron. Sick at the heart. 
 Ros. Alack, let it blood. 
 Biron. Would that do it good ? 
 Ros. My physio says, ay. 
 Biron. WiU. you prick 't with your eye ? 
 Ros. No point '^ with my knife. 
 Biron. Now, God save tliy life ! 
 Ros. And yours fi-om long living ! 
 Biron. I cannot stay thanlcsgiving. [Rdiritig. 
 Ihmi. Sir, I pray you a word : What lady is 
 
 that same ? 
 Boyet. Tlie heir of Alengon, EosaHne her name. 
 Bum. A gallant lady ! Monsieur, fare you well. 
 
 \_Exit. 
 Long. I beseech you, a word : What is she iu 
 
 the white ? 
 Boyet. A woman sometimes, on' you saw her in 
 
 the lighl. 
 Long. Perchance, light in the light : I desire 
 
 her name. 
 Royct. She hath but one for herself; to desire 
 that were a shame. 
 
 Long. Pray you, sir, whose daughter ? 
 Boyet. Her mother's, I have heard. 
 Long. God's blessing on your beard ! 
 Boyet. Good sir, be not offended : 
 She is an heir of Falconbridge. 
 
 Long, l^aj, my choler is ended. 
 She is a most sweet lady. 
 
 Boyet. ISTot unlike, sir ; that may be. 
 
 [Exit LoNO. 
 Biron. "WHiat 's her name, in the cap ' 
 Boyet. Katherinc, by good hap. 
 Biron. Is she wedded, or no ? 
 Boyet. To her will, sir, or so. 
 Biron. You are welcome, sir ! adieu I 
 Boyet. Farewell to nic, sir, and welcome to you. 
 \_Exit BiBos. — Ladies unmash. 
 Mar. That last is Biron, the merry madcap lord ; 
 Not a word with him but a jest. 
 
 Boyet. And every jest but a word. 
 
 Pri7i. It was well done of you to take him at 
 
 his word. 
 Boyet. I was as willing to grapple, as he was to 
 
 board. 
 Mar. Two hot sheeps, maj'iy ! 
 Boyet. And wherefore not ships ? 
 
 No sheep, sweet lamb, unless we feed on yoiu- lips. 
 Mar. You sheep, and I pasture : Shall tnat 
 
 finish the jest ? 
 Boyet. So you grant pasture for me. 
 
 [ Offering to hiss her. 
 Mar. Not so, gentle beast ; 
 
 My Hps ai'e no common, though several they be.*" 
 Boyet. Belonging to whom ? 
 Mar. . To my fortunes and me. 
 
 Prin. Good wits will be jangUng; but, gentles, 
 agree : 
 This civil war of wits were much better us'd 
 On Navarre and his book- men; for here 't is abus'd. 
 Boyet. If my observation, (which veiy seldom 
 lies,) 
 By the heart's stiU rhetoric, disclosed with eyes. 
 Deceive me not now, NavaiTc is infected. 
 Prin. With what ? 
 Boyet. With that which we lovers entitle, 
 
 affected. 
 Prin. Your reason. 
 
 Boyet. "WTiy, all his behaviours do make theii 
 retire 
 To the court of his eye, peeping thorough desire : 
 His heart, like an agate, with your print impressed. 
 Proud with his form, in his eye pride erpiessed : 
 His tongue, all impatient to speak and not see,'' 
 
 273
 
 LOVE'S LABOUR 'S LOST. 
 
 SCtiVE I. 
 
 Did stumble with haste ia his eye-sight to be ; 
 All senses to that sense did make their repair, 
 To feel only looking on fairest of fair : 
 Methought aU his senses were lock'd in Ms eye, 
 As jewels in crystal for some prince to buy ; 
 Who, tendering their own worth, from whence 
 
 they were glass' d. 
 Did point out to buy them, along as you pasa'd. 
 His face's own margent did cote such amazes. 
 That all eyes saw his eyes enchanted with g;azes: — 
 "I '11 give you Aquitain, and aU that is big, 
 An you give him for my sake but one loving- kiss." 
 Prin. Come, to our pavihon: Boyet is dispos'd.'' 
 Boyet. But to speak that in words, whi'ih his 
 eye h;ith disclos'd : 
 
 I only have made a mouth of his eye. 
 By adding a tongue which I know wUl not. lie. 
 Bos. Thou art an old lovc-mongcr, and SDeakesl 
 
 sldlfully. 
 Mar. He is Cupid's grandfather, and learns newj 
 
 of him. 
 Bos. Then was Venus Kks her mother ; for hoi 
 
 father is but grim. 
 Boyet. Do you hear, my mad wonches ^ 
 Mar. No. 
 
 Boyet. What, then, do you see ? 
 
 Ros. Aj, our way to be gone. 
 Boyet. Tou are too hard for me. 
 
 fUxmnt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. — Another part of the Park 
 
 Enter Aemabo and Moth. 
 
 Arm. Warble, child ; make passionate my sense 
 of hearing. 
 
 Moth. Coneolinel \_Singing. 
 
 Arm. Sweet air ! Go, tenderness of yeai's ! take 
 tais key, give enlargement to the swain, bring 
 him festinately hither ; I must employ him in a 
 letter to my love. 
 
 Moth. Master, will yon win your love with a 
 French brawl r'^ 
 
 Ar7n. How meanest thou? brawling in Prench ? 
 
 Moth. No, my complete master : but to jig off 
 a tune at the tongue's end, canary to it with your 
 feet, humoui- it with turning up your eyelids; sigh 
 u note, and sing a note ; sometime through the 
 throat, as if you swallowed love with singing love; 
 sometime through the nose, as if you snuffed up 
 love by smelling love ; with yoiir hat, penthouso- 
 Uke," o'er the shop of your eyes ; with your anns 
 crossed on your thin belly-doublet, like a rabbit on 
 a spit; or your hands in your pocket, like a man 
 after the old painting ; and keep not too long in 
 one tune, but a snip and iway : These are com- 
 plements, these are humours; tliese betray nice 
 wenches, that would be betrayed without these; 
 and make them men of note, (do you note men ?) 
 that mout arc affected to these. 
 
 Arm. How hast thou purchased tliis experience ? 
 280 
 
 Moth. By my penny of observation. 
 
 Arm. But 0,— but 0— 
 
 Moth, —the hobby-horse is forgot.'"' 
 
 Ami. CaU'st thou my love, hobby-horse ? 
 
 Moth. No, master; the hobby-horse is but a 
 colt,^° and your love, perhaps, a hackney. But 
 have you forgot your love ? 
 
 Arm. Almost I had. 
 
 Moth. Negligent student ! learn her by heart. 
 
 Arm. By heart, and in heart, boy. 
 
 Moth. And out of heart, master : all those three 
 I "niU prove. 
 
 Arm. What wilt thou prove ? 
 
 Moth. A man, if I live; and this, by. In, and 
 without, upon the instant : By heart you love her, 
 because your lieart cannot come by her : in heart 
 you love her, because your heart is in love with 
 her : and out of heart you love her, being out of 
 heart that you cannot enjoy her. 
 
 Arm.. I am all these three. 
 
 Moth. And three times as much more, and yet 
 nothing at all. 
 
 Arm. Fetch hither the swain ; he must carry 
 me a letter. 
 
 Moth. A message well sympathiz'd ; a horse to 
 be ambassador for an ass ! 
 
 Arm. Ha, ha ! what sayest thou ? 
 
 Moth. llaiTy, sir, j-ou must send the ass upon 
 the horse, for lie is very slow-gaited : But I go. 
 Arm. The way is but short ; away.
 
 Aoi m. 
 
 LOVE'S LA^BOUii, 'S LOST. 
 
 SCENTS 1, 
 
 Moth As swift as load, sir. 
 A>-m. Thy rat-aniug, pretty ingenious ? 
 fs not load a metal heavy, duU, and slow ? 
 Motlt. Minitm-, honest master; or rather, master, 
 
 no. 
 Arm I say, lead is slow. 
 l[uth. You arc too swift, sir, to say so : 
 
 Is that load slow which is fir"d from a gun } 
 
 Arm. Sweet smoke of rhetoric ! 
 Ho reputes me a cannon ; and the bullet, that 's 
 
 ho:— 
 I slioot thee at the swain. 
 Moth. ' Thump, then, and I floe. \_Exit. 
 
 Arm. A most acute juvenal ; voluble and free 
 ■ of grace ! 
 By thy favom-, sweet welkin, I must sigh in thy 
 
 face : 
 Most rude melancholy, valour gives thee place. 
 My herald is retum'd. 
 
 Re-enter Moth and Costabd. 
 
 Moth. A wonder, master ; here 's a Costard 
 
 broken in a shin.'' 
 Arm. Some enigma, some riddle : come, — thy 
 
 V envoy ;" — begin. 
 Cod. No egma, no riddle, no V envoy ; no salve 
 in them all, sir : sir, plantain, a plain plantain ; 
 no I'cnvo!/, no F envoi/ ; no salve, sir, but a plantain! 
 Arm. liy virtue, thou enforcest laughter; thy 
 silly thought, my spleen ; the heaving of my lungs 
 provokes me to ridiculous smiling : 0, pardon me, 
 m)- stars ! Doth the inconsiderate take salve for 
 I'enroy, and the word V envoy for a salve ? 
 
 Moth. Do the wise think them other ? is not 
 V envoy a salve ? 
 
 Arm. No page : it is an epilogue or diseoiu:se, 
 to make plain 
 Some obscure precedence that hath tofore been sain. 
 I will example it : 
 
 The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee. 
 Were still at odds, being but three. 
 There 's the moral : Now the V envoy. 
 
 Moth. I will add the V envoy ; say the moral 
 again. 
 Arm. The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee, 
 
 AYcrc still at odds, being but throe. 
 Moth. Until the goose came out of door. 
 And stay"d the odds by adding four. 
 Nov.- wUl I begin your moral, and do you follow 
 with my V envoy : 
 
 The fox, the ape, and the himible-bee, 
 y^cre still at odds, being but three : 
 
 Arm. Until the goose came out of door. 
 
 Staying the odds by adding four. 
 Moth. A good r envoy, ending in the goose; would 
 
 you desire more ? 
 Cost. The boy hath sold him a bargain,^" a goose 
 that 's flat : — 
 Sir, your pennyworth is good, an your goose be 
 
 fat- 
 To sell a bargain wcU is as cunning as fast and 
 
 loose : 
 Let me see a fat V envoy ; ay, that 's a fat goose. 
 Arm. Come hither, come hither : How did tliis 
 
 argument begin ? 
 Moth. By saying that a Costard was broken in a 
 shin. 
 Then caU'd you for the I'envoy. 
 j Cost. True, and I for a plantain: Thus camo 
 your argument in ; 
 Then the boy's fat Vcnvoy, the goose that you 
 j bought ; 
 
 ! And he ended the market. 
 
 Arm. But teU mo ; how was there a Costard 
 broken in a shin ? 
 
 Moth. I will teU you sensibly. 
 Cost. Thou hast no feeling of it. Moth ; I will 
 speak that I'envoy. 
 
 I, Costard, running out, that was safely witliin, 
 Fell over the threshold, and broke my shin. 
 Arm. We will talk no more of this matter. 
 Cost. TiU there be more matter in tlic sliin. 
 Arm. Sirrah Costard, I wiU cnfrancliise thee. 
 Cost. 0, marry me to one Frances; — I smcU 
 some V envoy, some goose in this. 
 
 Arm. By my sweet soul, I mean, settiag thee 
 at liberty, enfroodoming thy person; thou wert 
 immured, restrained, captivated, bound. 
 
 Cost. True, true ; and now you will be my pur- 
 gation, and lot me loose. 
 
 Arm. I give thee thy liberty, set thee from 
 durance; and, in lieu thereof, impose on thee 
 nothing but this : Bear this significant to the 
 country maid Jaquenetta : there is remuneration ; 
 \ giving him money'] for the best ward of mine 
 honour is rewarding my dependents. Moth, follow 
 
 lExit 
 Moth. Like the sequel, 1.'° — Signer Costard 
 adieu. 
 
 Cost. My sweet ounce of man's flesh ! my incony 
 
 Jew!" [£■«< Moxn. 
 
 Now will I look to his remuneration. Kemunera- 
 
 tion ! 0, that 's the Latin word for three farthings : 
 
 three farthings — ^remuneration. — What 's the price 
 
 2S1
 
 ACT ur. 
 
 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST 
 
 of this inkle r a penny : — "No, I '11 give you a 
 remuneration : why, it carries it. — Remuneration ! 
 —why, it is a fairer name than a French crown." 
 I will never buy and sell out of this word. 
 
 Miter Bmoif. 
 Biron. 0, my good knave Costard ! exceedingly 
 well met. 
 
 Cost. Pray you, sir, how much carnation ribbon 
 may a man buy for a remuneration ? 
 Biron. ^Vhat is a remuneration ? 
 Cost. Marry, sir, halfpenny farthing. 
 Biron. 0, why then, three-fiutliings-worth of 
 sOk. 
 
 Cost. I thank your worship : God be with you ! 
 Biron. 0, stay, slave ; I must employ thee : 
 A^ thou wUt win my favour, good my knave, 
 Do one thing for me that I shall entreat. 
 Cost. When would you have it done, sir 
 Biron. 0, this afternoon. 
 Cost. ^Yell, I vidll do it, sir : Fare you woU. 
 Biron. 0, thou knowest not what it is. 
 Cost. I shaU know, sir, when I have done it. 
 Biron. Why, villain, thou must know first. 
 Cost. I wiU come to your worship to-morrow 
 
 morning. 
 Biron. It must be done this afternoon. Hark, 
 slave, it is but this ; — 
 The princess comes to hunt here in the pai'k, 
 And in her train there is a gentle lady ; 
 WTien tongues speak sweetly, then they name her 
 
 name. 
 And Eosaline they call her : aak ibr her ; 
 And to her white hand see thou do commend 
 This seal'd-up counsel. There 's thy guerdon ; go. 
 
 [Gives him a shilling. 
 Coti. Gardon, — swoet gsrdon i better than 
 2S2 
 
 remuneration; eleven-pence fTTtl-ing better:'- 
 Most sweet gardon ! — I will do it, :-ir, in print.— 
 Gardon — remuneration. [_Ej.it. 
 
 Biron. I — And I, forsooth, iii love I I, tlial 
 have been love's whip ; 
 A very beadle to a humorous sigh ; " 
 A critic ; nay, a night-watch, constable ; 
 A domineering pedant o'er the hoy, 
 Than whom no mortal so magnificent ! 
 This whimplcd,"' whining, purblind, wayward boy ; 
 This senior-j imior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid : 
 Eegent of love-rhymes, lord of folded arrns, 
 Th' anointed sovereign of sighs and groans, 
 Liege of all loitei'ers and malcontents, 
 Dread prince of plackets," king of codpieces, 
 Sole imperator, and great general 
 Of trotting paritors. my little heart ! — 
 And I to bo a corpoi-al of his field, 
 And wear his colours like a tumbler's hoop.*' 
 A^Hiat ! I love ! I sue ! I seek a wife ! 
 A woman, that is like a German clock,*' 
 Still a repairing ; ever out of frame ; 
 And never going aright, being a watch, 
 But being watch'd that it may still go right ? 
 Nay, to be perjur'd, which is worst of aU; 
 And, among three, to love the worst of all; 
 A whitely wanton with a velvet brow. 
 With two pitch-balls stuck in her face for eyes ; 
 
 i Ay, and, by heaven, one that will do the deed, 
 Though jVrgus were her eunuch and her guard ! 
 
 ! And I to sigh for her, — to watch for her, 
 To pray for her ? Go to ; it is a plague 
 That Cupid wiU impose for my neglect 
 Of liis almighty dreadfiil little might. 
 Well, I will love, write, sigh, pray, sue, groan • 
 Some men must love my lady, and somo Joan.
 
 AOT IV. 
 
 LOVE'S LABOUIi 'S LOST. 
 
 SCBNE I. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE 1.— Another part of the Park. 
 
 Enter tlie Picncess, EosALmE, Masia, Katiiauine, 
 EoYET, Lords, Attendants, and a Forester. 
 
 Prin. "Was that the king, that spur'a liis horse 
 so hard 
 igaiust the steep uprising of the hUl ? 
 
 Boyet. I know not ; but, I thinlv, it was not he. 
 
 I'rin. Wlio e'er he was, he show"d a mouuting 
 mind. 
 Well, lords, to-day we shall have our despatch ; 
 On Saturday wo will return to France. — 
 Tlien, forester, my friend, where is the bush 
 That we must staud and play the murderer in ? 
 
 For. Hereby, upon the edge of yonder coppice, 
 A. stand where you may make the fairest shoot,*' 
 
 Prin. I thank my beauty, I am fair that shoot, 
 -Ind thereupon thou speak'st, the fairest shoot. 
 
 For. Pardon me, madam, for I meant not so. 
 
 Prin. What ! what ! fii'st praise me, and then 
 again say no ? 
 sliort-liv'd pride ! Not fair ? alack for woe ! 
 
 For. Yes, madam, fair. 
 
 Prin. Nay, never paint me now ; 
 
 Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow. 
 Here, good ray glass,* take this for telling true ; 
 
 \_Gicing him money. 
 Fair payment for foul words is more than due. 
 
 For. Nothing but fair is that which you inherit. 
 
 Prin. See, see, my beauty will be sav'd by merit. 
 heresy, in fair, fit for these days ! 
 A. giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise. — 
 But come, the bow : — Now Mercy goes to kill, 
 Aaid shooting woU is then accounted iU. 
 Thus wiU I save my credit in the shoot : 
 Not wounding, pity would not let me do 't; 
 If wounding, then it was to show my skill, 
 That more for praise, than purpose, meant to kill . 
 &.nd, out of question, so it is sometimes ; 
 Gloiy grows guilty of detested crimes ; 
 Wlien, for fame's sake, for praise, an outward part. 
 We bend to that the working of the heart : 
 Ab I, for praise alone, now seek to spQl 
 
 The poor deer's blood, that my heart means no ill 
 Boyet. Do not curst wives hold that self- 
 sovereignty 
 
 Only for praise' sake, when they strive to bo 
 
 Lords o'er their lords ? 
 
 Prin. Only for praise : and praise we may afford 
 
 To any lady that subdues a lord. 
 
 JEnter Costajxd. 
 
 Boyet. Here comes a member of the common- 
 wealth. 
 
 Cost. God dig-you-den aU ! Pray you, which is 
 the head lady ? 
 
 Prin. Thou shalt know her, fellow, by the rest 
 that have no heads. 
 
 Cost. Wliich is the greatest lady, the highest ? 
 
 Prin. The thickest, and the tallest. 
 
 Cost. The thickest, and the tallest! it is so; 
 truth is truth. 
 An your waist, mistress, were as slender as my wit, 
 One o' these maids' girdles for your waist should 
 
 befit. 
 Are not you the chief woman ? you are the tliickest 
 here. 
 
 Prin. What 's your will, sir ? what 's your will ? 
 
 Cost. I have a letter from monsieur I5iron, tc 
 one lady llosahne. 
 
 Prin. 0, thy letter, thy letter; he 's a good 
 fiiond of mine : 
 Stand aside, good bearer. — Boyet, you can carve; 
 Break up this capon." 
 
 Boyet. I am bound to serve. — • 
 
 Tliis letter is mistook, it importeth none hero ; 
 It is writ to — Jaquenetta. 
 
 Prin. We will read it, I swear : 
 
 Break the neck of the wax, and every one give ear 
 
 Boyet. \_Reads.'\ 
 
 By heaven, that thou art fair is most infallible; tnie, 
 that thou art beauteous ; truth itself, that thou ait lov( ly. 
 More fairer than fair, beautiful tliau beauteous, tiuer than 
 truth itself, have commiseration oo 'hy heroital vassal I 
 The magnanimous and most illustrate king Cophetua set 
 eye upon the pernicious and induhitato beggar Penelophon 
 and ho it was that might rightly say, veni, viJi, vici ; whiuh 
 
 283
 
 LOVE'S LABOUE 'S LOST. 
 
 SCENB I. 
 
 '.0 annotaiiize in tho Tulgar (0 base and obscure vulgar!^ 
 cidtUcct. he came, saw, and ovxiame : he came, one ; saw, 
 hvo; overcame, three. Who came? the king; Why did he 
 come? to see; Why did he see? to overcome: To whom 
 came he ? to tlie beggar ; What saw he ? the beggar ; 'WTio 
 overcame he ? the beggar : The conchision is victory ; On 
 whose side ? tho kijg's : the captive is enrich' d ; On whose 
 side? the beggar's: The catastrophe is a nuptial; On whose 
 B'de? the king's? — no, on both in one, or one in both. I 
 am ihe king ; for so stands the comparison : thou the beg- 
 gar; for so witnesseth thy lowliness. Shall I command thy 
 love ? I may : Shall I enforce thy love ? I could : Shall I 
 enti-eat thy love ? 1 will : What shalt thou exchange for 
 rags ? robes ; For tittles, titles ; For thyself, me. Thus, 
 expecting thy reply, I profane my lips on thy foot, my eyes 
 OT, thy pictiu"e, and my heart on thy every part. 
 
 Thine, in the dearest design of industry, 
 Dox Adri.ixo de Armado. 
 
 " Thus dost thou hear the Ncmean lion roar 
 'Gainst thee, thou lamb, that standcst as his prey ; 
 
 ■Submissive fall his princely feet before. 
 And he from forage will incline to play : 
 
 But if thou strive, poor soul, what art thou then ? 
 
 Food for his rage, repasture for his den." 
 
 Prin. What plume of feathers is lie that indited 
 tliis letter? 
 Wnat vane? what weather-cock? did you ever 
 hear hotter ? 
 Boyet. I am much deceived, but I remember 
 
 the style. 
 Prin. Else your memory is bad, going o'er it 
 
 erewhile. 
 Boyet. This Armado is a Spaniard, that keeps 
 here in court ; 
 A phantasm, a Monarcho,*^ and one tliat makes sport 
 To the prince, and his book-mates. 
 
 Prin. Thou, feUow, a word : 
 
 Wlio gave thee this letter ? 
 
 Cost. I told you ; my lord. 
 
 Prin. To whom shouldst thou give it ? 
 Cost. From my lord to my lady. 
 
 Prin. From which lord, to which lady ? 
 Cost. From my lord Btron, a good master of mine, 
 To a lady of France, that he caU'd Kosaline. 
 Prin. Thou hiist mistaken his letter. Come, 
 lords, away. 
 Ecre, sweet, put up this ; 't will be thine another 
 day. \_JExctmt PRn^cicss and Train. 
 
 Boyd. Who is the shooter ? who is the sliooter ? " 
 Pos. Shall I teach you to know ? 
 Boyet. Ay, my continent of beauty. 
 Ros. Why, she that bears the bow. 
 
 ^Finely put off! 
 
 Boyet. My lady goes to kill horns ; but, if thou 
 marry, 
 284 
 
 Hang me by the reck, if horns that year miscany. 
 Finely put on ! 
 
 Ros. Well, then, I am the shooter. 
 
 Boyet. And who is your deer ? 
 
 .Ros. If we choose by the horns, yoirrself : come 
 not near. 
 Finely put on, indeed ! 
 
 Mar. You still wrangle with her, Boyet, and 
 she strikes at the brow. 
 
 Boyet. But she herself is hit lower : Have I hit 
 her now ? 
 
 Ros. Shall I come upon thee with an old saying, 
 that was a man when king Pepin of France was a 
 little boy, as touching the hit it ? 
 
 Boyet. So I may answer thee with one as old, 
 that was a woman when queen Guinever of Britain" 
 was a little wench, as touching the hit it. 
 
 Ros. \_Singing.~\ — 
 
 Thou canst not hit it, hit it, hit it, 
 Thou canst not hit it, my good man. 
 
 Boyet. 
 
 An I cannot, cannot, cannot, 
 An I cannot, another can. 
 
 \_Exeunt Eos. and Kath. 
 Cost. By my troth, most pleasant ! how both 
 
 did fit it ! 
 Mar. A mark marvellous well shot ; for they 
 
 both did hit it. 
 Boyet. A mark! 0, mark but that mark! A 
 
 mark, says my lady ! 
 Let the mark have a prick ia 't^ to mete at, if it 
 
 may be. 
 Mar. Wide o' the bow hand ! I' faith your hand 
 
 is out. 
 Cost. Indeed, a' must shoot nearer, or he '11 ne'oi 
 
 hit the clout. 
 Boyet. An if my hand be out, then, belike youi 
 
 hand is in. 
 Cost. Then will she get the upshot by cleaving 
 
 the pin. 
 Mar. Come, come, you talk greasily ; your lips 
 
 grow foul. 
 Cost. She 's too hard for you at pricks, sir 
 
 challenge her to bowl. 
 Boyet. I fear too much nibbing. Good night, 
 
 my good owl. [_Exe>mt Boyet and lI.vKrA. 
 Cost. By my soul, a swain ! a most simple 
 
 clown! 
 Lord, Lord ! how the ladies and I have put him 
 
 down ! 
 0, my troth, most sweet jests ! most incony vulgai 
 
 wit!
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 LOVE'S LABOUE 'S LOST. 
 
 SCENE n. 
 
 WTicn it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely, as it 
 
 ■were, so fit. 
 Aimatlin o' the one side, — 0, .a most dainty man ! 
 To see him walk before a lady, ;md to bear her fan ! 
 To see him kiss his hand ! and how most sweetly 
 
 a' will swear ! — 
 And his page at other side, that handful of wit ! 
 Ah, heavens, it is a most pathetical nit ! 
 Sola, sola ! [_A noise raised after shootinff is heard 
 within.] [^Exit Cost., running. 
 
 SCEXE 11.— Another part of the Pari. 
 
 Enter noLOFEKNES, Sra NathJiNIel, and Dull. 
 
 Nath. Tory reverent sport, tnily ; and done in 
 Uie testimony of a good conseienoc. 
 
 Hoi. The deer was, as you know, sanguis, — in 
 blood ; ripe as a pomewater,'' who now hangeth 
 Like a jewel in the ear of cmh, — the sky, the 
 welkin, the heaven ; and anon falleth like a cr.ab, 
 on the face of terra, — the soil, the land, the earth. 
 Natli. True, master Holofernes, the epithets are 
 sweetly viuied, like a scholar at the least : But, 
 sir, I a'lsure ye, it was a buck of the first head." 
 Hoi. Sir Nathaniel, hand credo. 
 Dull. 'T ^as not a. hand credo ; 't was a pricket 
 Hoi. Most barbarous intimation ! yet a kind of 
 insinuation, as it were in via, in way, of explica- 
 tion; fncere, as it wei-e, replication, or, rather, 
 ostentare, to show, as it were, his inclination, — 
 after his undressed, unpolished, uneducated, un- 
 pruned, unti-ained, or rather unlettered, or, ra- 
 therest, imconfirmcd fashion, — to insert again my 
 ha^l§ credo for a deer. 
 
 Bull. I said, the deer was not a hawd credo; 
 t was a pricket. 
 
 Hoi. Twice sod simplicity, lis eoctm ! — thou 
 monster Ignorance, how deformed dost thou 
 look! 
 
 Kath. Sir, he hath never fed of the didnties that 
 are bred in a book ; he hath not eat paper, as it 
 were ; he hath not drunk inli : his intellect is not 
 replenished ; he is only an miimal, only sensible in 
 the didlcr parts; And such barren plants are set 
 hefoi'e us, (hat we thankfid should be 
 (Which we of taste and feeling are) for those parts 
 
 that do fructify in us more than he. 
 For as it would ill become me to be vain, indis- 
 creet, or a fool. 
 So, were there a patch set on learning, to sec him 
 in a school : 
 
 But, omne lene, say I ; being of an old fathei'a 
 
 mind. 
 Many can brook the weather, that love not the 
 wind. 
 Dull. You two are book men : Can )-ou tell liy 
 your wit, 
 What was a month old at Cain's birth, that 's not 
 five weeks old us yet? 
 Hoi. Dictynna, good man DiiU; Dictynna, good 
 man Dull. 
 
 3ull. What is Dictynna ? 
 Nath. A title to Phcebe, to Luna, to the moon. 
 Hhl. The moon was a month old, when Adam 
 was no more ; 
 And raught™ not to five weeks, when he c.amo to 
 
 five-score. 
 Th' allusion holds in the exchange. 
 
 Bull. 'T is true indeed ; the collusion h(jlds in 
 the exchange. 
 
 ITol. God comfort thy capacity ! 1 say, th' allu- 
 sion holds in the exchinge. 
 
 Bull. And I say the poUusion holds in the ex- 
 change ; for the moon is never but a month ohl : 
 and I say, beside, that 't was a pricket that the 
 princess kill'd. 
 
 Hoi. Sir Nathaniel, will you hear an extemporal 
 epitaph on the death of the deer ? and, to humour 
 the ignorant, I have calTd the deer the princess 
 kill'd- a pricket. 
 
 JVath. Perge, i;ooi master 'Kohtemcs, pergc ; so 
 it shall please you to abrogate scunility. 
 
 Hoi. I will something effect the letter; for it 
 ai'gues facility. 
 
 The praiseful princess pierc'd ani prick'd a pretty pleasing 
 pricket ; 
 Some say a sore ; but not a sore, till now made sort 
 with shooting. 
 The dogs did yell ; p'.;t L to sore, then Sorel jumps from 
 thicket ; 
 Or pricket, sore, or else Sorel ; the people fall a hooting 
 If sore be sore, then L to sore makes fifty sores; sore L , 
 Of one sore I an hundred make, by adding but one more L. 
 Nath. A rare talent ! 
 
 Bull. If a talent be a claw," look how he claws 
 him with a tident. 
 
 Hoi. This is a gift that I have, simple, simple • 
 a foolish extravagant spirit, full of fbmis, figures, 
 shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions, revo- 
 lutions : these are begot in the ventricle of memory, 
 nourished in the womb oi pia mater, and delivered- 
 upon the mcUowing of occasion ; But the gift is 
 good in those in whom it is acute, and I am thank- 
 ful for it. 
 
 285 
 
 /
 
 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 
 
 3CESE n. 
 
 Nalh. Sir, I praise the Lord f-T you, and so 
 may ni) parisliioners ; fur theii sods are well 
 tutord by you, and their daughters profit very 
 iji'eatly under you : you are a good mcuibcr of the 
 commonwealth. 
 
 llol. Meherde, if their sons be ingenious, they 
 sh;iU want no instruction: if their daughters be 
 japable, I will put it t» thera : But, vir sapit qui 
 paiKa loquitur. A soul feminin(; saluteth us. 
 Enter jAatTKXKTTA and Costakd. 
 ■fiiq. God give you good morrow, master person.** 
 Ifol. ilaster person, — quasi pers-on. An if one 
 shuidd be pierc'd, which is the one ? 
 
 Cost. Marry, master schoolmaster, he that is 
 Ukcst to a hogshead. 
 
 JIol. Of piercing a hogshead ! a good lusti'c of 
 conceit in a turf of earth ; fire enough for a fliut, 
 [■carl euuugh for a swue : 't is pretty; it is well. 
 
 Jaq. Good master person, be so jjood as read 
 me this letter ; it was given me by Costard, and 
 sent me from Don Armatho; I beseech you, read it. 
 
 Eol. 
 ' Faiiste, precoi- gulida quando pecus oinne sub umbii 
 
 Ktiminat — 
 And so forth. Ah, good old Hantaan! I may 
 Epeak of thee as the traveller doth of Venice : 
 
 Tincgia, Vinegia, 
 
 CJii non te veile, non te pregia. 
 Old Mantuanl old Jlantnan ! "Wlio understandeth 
 thee not, loves thee not. — Ut, re, sol, la, mi, fa. — 
 Under pardon, sir, what are the contents ? Or 
 rather,, as Horace says in his — "Wliat, my soul, 
 verses ? 
 
 Nath. Ay, sir, and very learned. 
 ITol. Let me hear a staff, a stanza, a verse; Lege, 
 domiiie. 
 Nath. {Reads.'] 
 If iovc make me forawora.^' how shall I sw'^ar to love? 
 
 Ah, never faith could hold, if not to beauty vow'd! 
 Though to myself forswoi-Ji, to thee I '11 faithful prove ; 
 Those thoughts to me were oaks, to thee like osiers 
 bow'd. 
 Study his bias leaves, and makes liis book thine eyes, 
 Wliero all those pleasui-cs live that ai't would com- 
 prehend. 
 If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice ; 
 
 Well lean: ad is that tongue that well can thco commend ; 
 AH ignorant th.it soul that sees thee witliout wonder ; 
 
 (Wliieh is to mo some praise, that I thy parts adir.u-e ;) 
 Thy eye Jove's lightning bears, thy voice his dreadful 
 tbundci , 
 Which-, not to anger bent, is music, and sweet iiro. 
 Celeatiul as thou art, oh pardon, love, this wrong, 
 That sing! heaven's praise with such an eaithly tongue ! 
 286 
 
 JIol. Tou find not the apostrophes, and bo 
 miss the accent: let me supervise the canzonet 
 Here are only numbers ratified ; but, for the ele- 
 gancy, facility and golden cadeacc of poesy, caret 
 OWdius Naso was the man : and why, indeed, 
 Naso, but for smelling out the odoriferous flower 
 of fancy, the jerks of invention? Imitari is 
 nothing: so doth the hound his master, the ape his 
 keeper, the tired"- horse liis rider. But, damosclla 
 virgin, was this directed to j-ou ? 
 
 Jaq. Ay, sir, from one monsieur Biron, one of 
 the strange queen's lords. 
 
 Hol. I will overglanoe the superscript. "To 
 the tnow-white hand of the most beauteous lady 
 llosaline." I will look again on the intellect of 
 the letter, for the nomination of the partj' writing 
 to the person written unto : 
 
 "Your ladyship 's in all desired emijloyment, Birox." 
 Sir Nathariiel, this Eiron is one of the votaries 
 with the king : and here he hath framed a letter 
 to a sequent of the stranger (lueen, which, acci- 
 dentally, ov by the way of progression, liath mis- 
 carried. — Trip and go, my sweet; deliver this 
 paper into the royal hand of the king; it may con- 
 cern much. Stay not thy compliment ; I forgive 
 thy duty. Adieu ! 
 
 Jaq. Good Costard, go ^^dth me. — Sir, God save 
 your life. 
 
 Cost. Have with thee, my girl. 
 
 \Exeunt Cost, and Jaq. 
 
 Nalh. Sir, you have done this in the fc;ir oi 
 God, very religiously ; and, as a certain father 
 saith 
 
 Uol. Sir, tell not me of the fatlicr; I do fear 
 colourable colours. But, to return to the verses : 
 did they please you, sir Nathaniel ? 
 
 Nath. Marvellous well for the pen. 
 
 Uol. I do dine to-day at the father's of a cer- 
 tain pupil of mine ; where if, before I'cpast, it 
 shall please you to gratifj- the table ■n'ith a grace, 
 I ■will, on ray privilege I have with the parents of 
 the foresaid child or pupil, undertake yoiu- hen 
 venuto ; where I wUl prove those verses to be very 
 unlearned, neither savouring of poetry, -svit, nor 
 invention : I beseech your society. 
 
 Nath. And thaidi. you too: for society (saith tho 
 text) is the happiness of life. 
 
 IIol. And, certes, the text most infallibly con- 
 cludes it. Sir, \to Dull] I do invito you too; 
 you .'shall not F.ay me nay: pauca verha. Away; 
 the gentles arc at their game, and wo M'ill to om' 
 recreation. . \EjceunL
 
 iCT IV. 
 
 LOVE'S LABOUR 'S LOST. 
 
 scicsE m. 
 
 SCENE III. — Another part of the same. 
 
 Miter BiRON with a paper. 
 
 Biron. The king he is lumting the door ; I am 
 corn-sing myself: thoy have pitched a toil;"" I am 
 toiliii;; in a jjitf.h; pitch that defiles; defile! a 
 f jiil word. "Well, Set tlieo down, sorrow ! for so 
 (hey say the fool said, and so say I, and I the fool. 
 Well proved, wit! By the Lord, this lore is as 
 mad as Ajax: it kills sheep; it kills me, I a sheep : 
 Well pro^•ed again o' my side ! I will not love : if 
 I do, hang mo ; i' faith, I will not. 0, but her 
 3yc, — by this light, but for her eye, I would not 
 love her ; yes, for her two eyes. "WeU, I do no- 
 tliiiig in the world but lie, and Uo in my throat. 
 By heaTcn, I do love : and it hath taught mo to 
 rhyme, and to be melancholy : and liero is part of 
 my rhyme, and here ray melancholy. "Well, she 
 hath one o" my sonnets abeady: tlie clown bore it, 
 the fool sent it, and the lady hatli it: sweet 
 clown, sweeter fool, sweetobt lady! By the world, 
 
 I would not care a pin, 
 If the other tliree were in I 
 
 Jlere comes one with a paper; God give him grace 
 (o groan. \_Gds up into a tree. 
 
 Enter the Kjnq ivith a paper. 
 
 King. Ah mo! 
 
 Biion. [-Js^ye.] Shot, by heaven ! — Proceed, 
 Bweet Cupid; thou hasc thumped him with thy 
 oird-bolt under the left pap :•■ — In faith, secrets. — 
 
 King. [Reads r\ 
 
 So sweet a kiss the golden sun gives not 
 
 To those fresh morning drops upon the rose, 
 As thy eye-heams, when their fresh rays havo smot 
 
 The night of dew that on my cheeks do«-n flows : 
 Nor shines the silver moon one half so bright 
 
 Through the transparent bosom of the deep, 
 As doth tliy face thi-ough tears of mine give light : 
 
 Thou shin'st in every tear that I do weep ; 
 
 Ko drop but as a coach doth cany thee. 
 
 So ridest thou triumphing in my woe : 
 Do but behold the tears that swell in me, 
 
 And they thy glory tlu-ough my grief will show . 
 But do not lovj thyself; then thou wilt keep 
 My tears for glasses, and still make me weep. 
 qv'.ocn of queens, liow far dost thou excel ! 
 No thought can think, nor tongue of mortal tell.— 
 
 How shall she know my griefs ? I '11 drop the 
 
 paper, 
 Swoct leaves, shade folly! Wbo is he comes here? 
 
 I Steps aside. 
 
 Enter Longavili.k, with a papw. 
 
 Wliat, Longaville ! and reading ! listen, eai'. 
 
 Biro)i. Now, ia thy likeness, one more fool 
 
 appear ! [_Aside. 
 
 Long. All me ! I am forsworn. 
 
 Biron. "Why, he comes in like apcrJMcr, wearing 
 
 papers."' [Aside. 
 
 King. In love, I hope: Sweet fellowsliip in 
 
 shame ! [Aside. 
 
 Biron. One drunkard loves another of the name. 
 
 [Anide 
 
 Long. Am I the first that have been perjur'd so? 
 
 Biro)i. [Aside.'\ I could put thee in comfort; 
 
 not by two, that I know : 
 
 Thou mak'st the triumviry," the corner cap of 
 
 society, 
 The shape of Love's Tyburn (hut liangs up sim- 
 plicity. 
 Long. I fear these stubborn lines lack power to 
 move : 
 sweet Maria, empress of my love ! 
 Those numbers will I tear and -svrite in prose. 
 Biron. [Aside.'] 0, rhymes are guards" on wanton 
 Cupid's hose; 
 Disfigure not his slop. 
 
 Long. This same sliall go. — [He reads the sonnet. 
 Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye 
 
 ('Gainst whom the world cannot hold argiunent) 
 Persuade my heart to this false perjiuy .' 
 
 Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment, 
 A woman 1 forswore ; but, I wUl prove. 
 
 Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee : 
 My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love ; 
 
 Thy grace being gaiu'd, cures all disgrace in ma. 
 "Vows arc but breath, and breath a vapour is : 
 
 Then tliou, fair sun, which on my earth doth shinO; 
 Exhal'st tills vapoiu' vow ; in thee it is : 
 If broken then, it is no fault of mine, 
 if by me broke. "WTiat fool is not so wise, 
 To lose an oath to win a paradise .' 
 
 Biron. [Aside.] This is the liver vein, wtjch 
 makes flesh a deity ; 
 A green goose, a goddess : pure, pure idolatry. 
 God amend us, God amend! we are much out o' 
 the way. 
 
 Enter Dctjiaix, with a paper. 
 
 Long. By whom shall I scud this?— Ccmpany 1 
 stay. [S.'<pp!ng aside. 
 
 Biron. [Aside.] .Ul-hiu, all-hid,"' an old ini'anl 
 play: 
 Like a demi god here sit I in the sky, 
 And wretched fools' secrets heedfuUy c'er-cyo. 
 
 287
 
 LOVE'S LiJJOUK 'S LOST. 
 
 SCENE in. 
 
 More sacks to the mill I heavens, I have my 
 
 Tvish ; 
 Dumain transform'd : four woodcocks in a dish! 
 Bum. most divine Kate ! 
 Biron. most profane coxcomb! \^Asir!e. 
 
 Diim. B}' heaven, the wonder of a mortal eye ! 
 Biron. By earth, she is not, corporal : there j-ou 
 lie. [Aside. 
 
 Bum. Her amber hairs for foul have amber 
 
 coted."' 
 Biron. An amber-colour'd raven was wcU noted. 
 
 \_Aside. 
 Bum. As upright as the cedar. 
 Biron. Stoop, I say ; 
 
 Ber shoulder is with child. [Aside. 
 
 Dam. As fair as day. 
 
 Biron. Ay, as some daj-s; but then no sun must 
 shine. \_Aside. 
 
 Bum. that I had my wish I 
 Long. And I liaJ mine ! \ Aside. 
 
 King. And I mine too, good lord ! [Aside. 
 
 Biron. Amen, so I had mine : Is not that a good 
 word ? [Aside. 
 
 Bum. I would forget her; but, a fever, she 
 Eeigns in my blood, and wiE remember'd be. 
 
 Biron. A fever in your blood ! why, then incision 
 Would let her out in saucers: Sweet misprision! 
 
 [Aside. 
 Bum. Once more I'U read the ode that I have 
 
 ■writ. 
 Biron. Once more I 'U mark how love can vary 
 wit. [Aside. 
 
 Bum. On a day, (alack the day !) 
 
 Love, whose month is ever May, 
 Spied a blossom, passing fair. 
 Playing in the wanton air: 
 Through the velvet leaves the wind, 
 AU unseen, 'gan passage find ; 
 That the lover, sick to death, 
 Wish'd himself the heaven's breath. 
 Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow ; 
 Air, would I might triumph so ! 
 But, alack, my hand is sworn. 
 Ne'er to pluck thee from thy tliom : 
 Vow, alaek, for youth unmeet; 
 Youth 60 apt to pluck a sweet. 
 Do not call it sin in me, 
 That I am forewom for thee : 
 Thou for whom Jovo would swear 
 Juno but an Ethiopo were ; 
 And deny himself for Jove, 
 Turning mortal for tliy love. 
 
 Tliis will I send; and something else more plain, 
 That shidl express my true love's lasting pain. 
 288 
 
 0, would the King, Biron, and LongaviUc, 
 Were lovers too ! Ill, to exauple iU, 
 Would from my forehead wipe a perjur'd note ■, 
 For none offend, whore aU alike do dote. 
 
 Lo7ig. Dumain, [advancing'\ thy love is fat 
 from charity, 
 That in lovo"s grief dcsir'st society: 
 Tou may look pale, but I should blush, I know. 
 To be o'erheard, and taken napping so. 
 
 King. Come, sir, [adcayicing'\ you blush ; af his 
 yom- case is such; 
 You chide at him, offending twice as much: 
 You do not love Maria ; LongaviUe 
 Did never sonnet for her sake compile; 
 Nor never lay his wreathed arms athwart 
 His loving bosom, to keep down his heart. 
 I have been closely shrouded in this bush. 
 And mark'd you both and for you both did blush. 
 I heard your guHt)' rhymes, observ'd your fashion 
 Saw sighs reck from you, noted well your passion. 
 Ah me! says one ; Jove ! the other cries; 
 One, her hairs were gold, crystal the other's eyes: 
 You would for paradise break faith and troth; 
 
 [To Long. 
 And Jove, for yom- love, would infringe an oath. 
 
 [To DniAiN, 
 What wiU Biron say, when that he sliaU hear 
 Faith infi'inged which such zeal did swear ? 
 How will he scorn ! how will he spend liis wit I 
 How will he triumph. It ap, and laugh at it ! 
 For all the wealth that ever I did see, 
 I would not have him know so much by me. 
 
 Biron. Now, step I forth to wliip hypocrisy.— 
 Ah, good my liege, I pray thee pardon me : 
 
 [Bescends from the tree. 
 Good heart, what grace Iiast tliou, thus to reprove 
 These worms for lo-sdng, that art most iu love '' 
 Your eyes do make no coaclies ; in your tears 
 There is no certain princess that appears : 
 You '11 not be peijiu-'d, 't is a hateful tiling; 
 Tush, none but minstrels like of sonneting. 
 But arc you not asham'd ? nay, are you not, 
 AU three of you, to be thus much o'ershot ? 
 You found his mote ; the king your mote did eeo ; 
 But I a beam do find in each of three. 
 0, what a scene of fool'rj- have I seen. 
 Of sighs, of groans, of sorrow, and of teen ! 
 me, with what strict patience have I sat, 
 To see a king transformed to a gnat !™ 
 To sec great Hercules whipping a gig," 
 And profound Solomon tuning a jig. 
 And Nestor play at push-pin with the boys,"'
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 LOVE'S LABOUR 'S LOST. 
 
 BOEHB m. 
 
 And critic Timon laugh at idle toys ! 
 VVlievo lies tliy griol', O tell lue, good Dumain' 
 And, gentle Longavnlle, where lies thy pain 5 
 And where my liege's? all about the breast: — 
 A candle, ho ! 
 
 Kinff. Too bitter is thy jest. 
 
 Are we betray'd thus to thy over-view? 
 
 Biron. Not you by me, but I betray'd to you : 
 I, that am honest ; I that hold it sin 
 To uroak the vow I am engaged in ; 
 I am betray'd by keeping company 
 With men, like men," of strange inconstancy. 
 When shall you see me wi'ite a thing in rhyme? 
 Or groan for Joan V* or spend a minute's time 
 In pruning me? When shall you hear that I 
 Will praise a hand, a foot, a face, an eye, 
 A gait, a state, a brow, a breast, a waist, 
 A leg, a limb? — 
 
 Kinij. Soft; whither away so fast? 
 
 A true man, or a thief, that gallops so ? 
 
 Biron. I post from love ; good lover, let me go. 
 
 Enter Jaquenetta and Costard. 
 
 Jaq. God bless the king ! 
 King. What present hast thou there ? 
 
 Cost. Some certain treason. 
 King. What makes treason here ? 
 
 Cost. Nay, it makes nothing, sir. 
 King. If it mar nothing neither. 
 
 The treason, and you, go in peace away together. 
 Taq. I beseech your grace, let this letter be read ; 
 Our person misdoubts it ; it was treason, he said. 
 King. Biron, read it over. 
 
 [Giving him the letter. 
 Where hadst thou it? 
 Jaq. Of Costard. 
 Klnq. Whpr^. hads' Aou it ? 
 Cost. Of aun Adramadio, dun Adramadio. 
 King. How now ! what is in you ? why dost 
 
 thou tear it? 
 Biron. A toy, my liege, a toy ; your grace needs 
 
 not fear it. 
 Long. It did move him to passion, and therefore 
 
 let 's hear it. 
 Dum. It is Biron's writing, and here is his 
 name. \_Picks up the pieces. 
 
 Birnr>. Ah, you whoreson loggerhead, you were 
 born to do me shame. — [To Cost. 
 
 Guilty, my lord, guilty ; I confess, I confess. 
 King. "Wliat? 
 
 Biron. That you three fools lack'd me fool to 
 make up the mess ;" 
 
 He, he, and you ; and yoii, my liege, and T, 
 Are jjick-purscs in love, and wo deserve to die. 
 O, dismiss this audience, and I shall tell }ou more 
 
 Dum. Now tli(! number is even. 
 
 Biron. True, true ; we arc four . — 
 
 Will these turtles be gone? 
 
 King. Hence, sirs ; away. 
 
 Cost. Walk aside the true folk, and lot the 
 traitors stay. [Jixeunl Cost, and J.\o. 
 
 Biron. Sweet lords, sweet lovers, O lot itf 
 embrace ! 
 
 As true we are, as flesh and blood can be : 
 The sea will ebb and flow, heaven show his face ; 
 
 Young blood doth not obey an old decree : 
 We cannot cross the cause why we are bom ; 
 Therefore, of all hands must we be forsworn. 
 
 King. What, did these rent lines show Bomc 
 love of'thine? 
 
 Biron. Did they, quoth you? Who sees the 
 heavenly Rosaline, 
 That, like a rude and savage man of Inde, 
 
 At the first opening of the gorgeous east. 
 Bows not his vassal head ; and, strucken blind. 
 
 Kisses the base ground with obedient breast ? 
 What peremptory eagle-sighted eye 
 
 Dares look upon the heaven of her brow, 
 That is not blinded by her majesty ? 
 
 King. Wliat zeal, what fury hath inspir'd tli06 
 now? 
 My love, her mistress, is a gracious moon ; 
 
 She, an attending star, scarce seen a light. 
 
 Biron. My eyes are then no eves, nor I Biron : 
 
 O, but for my love, day woulil turn to night ! 
 Of all complexions, the cull'd sovereignty 
 
 Do meet, as at a fair, in her fair cheek ; 
 Where several worthies make one dignity; 
 
 Where nothing wants, that want itself doth sook. 
 Lend me the flourish of all gentle tongues ; 
 
 Fie, painted rhetoric I 0, she needs it not : 
 To things of sale a seller's praise belongs ; 
 
 She passes praise : then praise too short doth 
 blot. 
 A wither'd hermit, five-score winters worn, 
 
 Might shake ofl' fifty, looking in her eyo : 
 Beauty doth varnish age, as if new-bom, 
 
 And gives the cratch the cradle's infancy. 
 0, 'tis the sun that maketh all things shinol 
 
 King. By heaven, thy love is black as ebony. 
 
 Biron. Is ebony like her ? wood divino ! 
 
 A wife of such wood were felicity. 
 0, who can give an oath ? where is a book? 
 
 That I may swear, beauty doth beauty lack, 
 
 28!)
 
 
 ACT IV. LOTE'S LABOUR 'S LOST. scene m. 
 
 If that ste learn not of her eye to look : 
 
 Long. 0, some authoiity how to proceed ; 
 
 No face 's fair, tliat is not full so black. 
 
 Some tricks, some quillets, how to cheat the aevu 
 
 King. paradox ! Black is the badge of hell, 
 
 Dum. Some salve for perjuiy. 
 
 Tlie hue of dungeons, and the scroll of night ;™ 
 
 Biron. 0, 'tis more than need ! — 
 
 And btv^uty's ci-est becomes the heavens well. 
 
 Have at you then, affection's men at arms : 
 
 Biron. Dennis soonest tempt, resembling spirits 
 
 Consider, what you first did swear unto ; — 
 
 ofhght. 
 
 To fast, — to study, — and to see no woman ; — 
 
 if in black my lady's brows be deck'd. 
 
 Flat treason against the kingly state of youth. 
 
 It mourns that painting, and usurping hair, 
 
 Say, can you fast ? your stomachs are too youn^. 
 
 Should rariah doters with a false aspect ; 
 
 And abstinence engenders maladies. 
 
 And therefore is she born to make black fair. 
 
 And where that you have vow'd to study, lords, 
 
 Her favour turns the fashion of the days. 
 
 In that each of you hath foreworu his book : 
 
 For native blood is counted painting now ; 
 
 Can you still dream, and pore, and thereon look ! 
 
 A nd therefore red, that would avoid dispraise, 
 
 For when would you, my lord, or you, or you, 
 
 Paints itself black to imitate her brow. 
 
 Have found the ground of study's excellence. 
 
 Dum. To look like her, are chimney-sweepers 
 
 Without the beauty of a woman's face ? 
 
 black. 
 
 From women's eyes this doctrine I derive : 
 
 Long. And, .>-ince her time, are colliers counted 
 
 They are the ground, the books, the academes. 
 
 bright. 
 
 From whence doth spring the true Promethean 
 
 King. And Ethiops of their sweet complexion 
 
 fu-e. 
 
 crack. 
 
 Why, universal plodding prisons up 
 
 Dum. D.ark needs no candles now, for dark is 
 
 The nimble spirits in the arteries ; 
 
 light. 
 
 As motion, and long-during action, tires 
 
 Biron. Your mistresses dare never come in rain, 
 
 The sinewy vigom' of the traveller. 
 
 For fear their coloms should be wash'd away. 
 
 Now, for not looking on a woman's fece. 
 
 King. 'T were good, youi-s did : for, sir, to tell 
 
 You have in that forsworn the use of e^-es ; 
 
 you plain, 
 
 And study too, the causer of yom- vow : 
 
 I '11 find a fairer face not wash'd to-d.ay. 
 
 For where is any author in the world. 
 
 Biron. I '11 prove her fair, or talk till doomsday 
 
 Teaches such learning as a woman's eye ? 
 
 here. 
 
 Learning is but an adjunct to ourself. 
 
 King. No devil ^^^ll friglit thee then so much 
 
 And where we are, our learning likewise is. 
 
 as she. 
 
 Then, when om-selves we see in ladies' eyes, 
 
 ■ Dum. I never knew man hold vile stuft' so 
 
 With ourselves 
 
 dear. 
 
 Do we not likewise see our learning there ? 
 
 Long. Look, here 's thy love : my foot and her 
 
 0, we have made a vow to study, lords ; 
 
 face SCO. [Showing kis shoe. 
 
 And in that vow we have forsworn our hooka 
 
 Biron. 0, if the streets were paved with thine 
 
 For when would you, my liege, or you, or yoa. 
 
 e3-es. 
 
 In leaden conteinphation, have found out 
 
 Her feet were much too dainty for such 
 
 Such fiery numbers, as the prompting eyes 
 
 tre^d ! 
 
 Of beauty's tutors, have enrich'd you with ? 
 
 Dvm. O vile ! then as she goes, what upward 
 
 Other slow arts entirely keep the brain ; 
 
 lies 
 
 And therefore, finding barren practisers, 
 
 Tlie street should see, as she walk'd overhead. 
 
 Scarce show a harvest of their heavy toil : 
 
 King. But what of this? Are we not all in 
 
 But love, first learned in a lady's eyes. 
 
 love ? 
 
 Lives not alone immured in the brain ; 
 
 Biron. 0, nothing so sure ; ami thereby all 
 
 But with the motion of all elements, 
 
 forsworn. 
 
 Courses as swift as thought in every poww 
 
 King. Then leave this chat ; and, good Biron, 
 
 And gives to eveiy power a double power, 
 
 now prove 
 
 Above their functions and flieir ofl3ces. 
 
 Our loving lawful, and our faith not torn. 
 
 It adds a precious seeing to the eye : , 
 
 Du;n. Ay, marry, there ; — some flatter}' for this 
 
 A lover's eyes will gaze an eagle blind *, 
 
 evil. 
 2t»0 
 
 A lover's ear will hear the lowest sound. 
 
 — 5 1
 
 ACT V. 
 
 LOVE'S LABOUR 'S LOST. 
 
 BOEKE 1. 
 
 I 
 
 When the suspicious head of theft is stopp'd : 
 Love's feeling is more soft and sensible, 
 Than are the fetider lionis of cockled snails : 
 Love's tongue proves dainty I^icchus gross in taste : 
 For valour, is not Love a Hercules, 
 Still climbing trees in the Hesperides ?'' 
 Subtle as spliyux ; as sweet and musical, 
 As bright Apollo's lute, strung with his hair; 
 And when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods 
 Makes heaven drowsy with the harmony.™ 
 Never durst poet touch a pen to write, 
 Uutil his ink were temper'd with Love's sighs. 
 O, then his lines would ravish savage ears, 
 And plant in tyrants mild humility. 
 From women's e3'es this doctrine I derive : 
 They sparlde still the right Promethean fire ; 
 They are the books, the arts, the academes. 
 That show, contain, and nourish all the world ; 
 Else, none at all in aught proves excellent : 
 Then fools you were these women to forswear ; 
 Or, keeping what is sworn, 3-ou will prove fools 
 For wisdom's sake, a word that all men love ; 
 Or for love's sake, a word that loves all men ;™ 
 Or for men's sake, the authors of these women ; 
 Or women's sake, by whom we men are men ; 
 Let us once lose our oaths, to find ourselves. 
 Or else we lose ourselves to keep our oaths : 
 n is relim'on to be thus forsworn. 
 
 For charity itself fulfils the law ; 
 
 And who can sever love from charity? 
 
 Kin;/. Saint Cupid, then ! and, soldiers, to tCr 
 field! 
 
 Biron. Advanoe your standards, and upon tlicm. 
 lords ; 
 Pell-mell, down with them ! but be first advis'd, 
 In conflict that j-ou get the sun of them. 
 
 Long. Now to plain-dealing; lay these gloses by; 
 Shall we resolve to woo these girls of France ? 
 
 King. And win them too : .herefore let us devise 
 Some entertainment for them in their tents. 
 
 Biron. First from the park let us conduct them 
 thither ; 
 Then, homeward, eveiy man attach the hand 
 Of his fair mistress: in the afternoon 
 We will with soiw strange pastime solace them, 
 Such as the shortness of the time can shape ; 
 For revels, danc«s, masks, and merry hours, 
 Foi'crun fair Love, strewng her way with flowers. 
 
 King. Away, away ! no time shall be omitted, 
 That will be time, and may by us be fitted. 
 
 Biron. Allons! Allons ! — Sow'd cockle, reap'd 
 no corn ;'" 
 
 And justice always whirls in equal meairare : 
 Light wenches may prove plagues to men forsworn ', 
 
 If so, car copper buys no better treasure. 
 
 \ Exeunt 
 
 ACT V 
 
 I 
 
 SCENE I. — Another part of the same. 
 
 Enter HoLorERNESS, Sir Nathaniel, and Dull. 
 
 Hoi. Satis quod sufficit. 
 
 iVat'A. I praise God for you, sir : your reasons at 
 dinner have be^n sharp and sententious ; pleasant 
 without scuri-ilitj witty without affection,*' auda- 
 cious without impudency, learned without opinion, 
 and strange without heresy. I did converse this 
 quondam day with a companion of the king, who 
 is intituled, nominated, or called, dou Adriano de 
 Armado. 
 
 Hoi. yovi hominem ianquam te: His humour is 
 lofty, his discouree peremptory, his tongue filed, 
 his eye ambitious, Iris gait majestical, and his ge- 
 neral behanour vain, ridiculous, and thrasonical. 
 
 He is too picked, too spruce, too affected, too odd, 
 as it were, too peregrinate, as I may call it. 
 
 Nath. A most singular and choice epithet. 
 
 [Takes out his table-book. 
 
 Hoi. He draweth out the thread of his verbosity 
 finer than the staple of his argument. I abhoi 
 such fanatical fiintasras, such insociable and poiiit- 
 devise companions; such rackers of orthography, 
 as to speak, dout, fine, when he should say, doubt ; 
 det, when he should pronounce debt ; — d, e, b, t ; 
 notd, e, t: — he clepeth a calf, cauf; half, hauf 
 neighbour, vacatur, nebour ; neigh abbreviated, ne. 
 This is abhominable (which he would call abomi- 
 nable) : it insinuateth me of insanie ; JVe intdligis^ 
 domine? to make frantic, lunatic. 
 
 Nath. Ifaus Deo! bone inteUigo. 
 
 2Pt
 
 AST V. 
 
 LOVE'S LABOUE 'S LOST. 
 
 SCENE t. 
 
 -lone for bene : Priscian a little 
 
 JIol. Bo\d. 
 af^ratcli'i! ; 't will wi've. 
 
 Enter Armapo, Moth, and Costard. 
 
 Nath. Vitt.y.'iC quii venit? 
 
 Hoi. Video et jcudeo. 
 
 Arm. Cbirra ! [To ^Ioth. 
 
 Ifol. Quare Cbirra, net sirrali ? 
 
 Arm. Men of peace, well encountered. 
 
 Hoi. Most military sir, ca'.utation. 
 
 Moth. They have been at a great feast of lan- 
 ^ages, and stoFn the scraps. \To Cost, aside. 
 
 Cost. 0, they have iiv'd loLg en the ahns-basket 
 of words'.'^ I marvel thy master hath not eaten 
 ;hee for a word, for tbou art not so long by the 
 head as honorificabilittidinitatihu'i ." ihoii art easier 
 swallowed than a flap-dragon. 
 
 Moth. Peace ! the peal begins. 
 
 Arm. Monsieur, [to Hol.] are you utt Uifer'd? 
 
 Moth. Yes, yes; he teaches boys vhe bom- 
 book ; — 
 What is a, b, spelt backward, wiih the Lorn on 
 his head ? 
 
 Hol. "Ba,- pueritia, with a horn added. 
 
 Moth. Ba, most silly sheep, with a horn. — You 
 hear his learning. 
 
 Hot. Quis, quis, thou consonant? 
 
 Moth. The third of the five vowels, if you 
 repeat them ; or the fifth, if I. 
 
 Hol. I vn]\ repeat them, a, e, i — 
 
 Moth. The sheep: the other two conclude it; o, u. 
 
 Arm. Now, by the salt wave of the Mediterra- 
 neum, a sweet touch, a quick vcney of wit: snip, 
 snap, quick, and home; it rejoiceth my intellect: 
 true wit. 
 
 Moth. Offer'd by a child to an old man ; which 
 is wit-old. 
 
 Hol. What is the figure ? what is the figure ? 
 
 Moth. Horns. 
 
 Hol. Thou disputest like an infant: go whip 
 
 tliy gig- 
 
 Moth. Lend me your horn to make one, and I 
 will whip about your infamy circum circa. A gig 
 of a cuckoM's hoiTi ! 
 
 Cost. An I had but one penny in the world, 
 thou shouldst have it to buy gingerbread : hold, 
 there is the very remuneration I had of thy master, 
 thou half-penny purse of wit, thou pigeon egg of 
 discretion. O, an the heavens were so pleased that 
 Ihou wert but my bastard, what a joj^ul father 
 wouldst thou make me! Go to; thou had.st it ad 
 iunr/hill, at th i fingers' ends, as they say. 
 232 
 
 Hol. O, I smell false Latin ! dunghill for unrinew. 
 
 Arm. Kria-man prceamhulat ;'* we will be singled 
 from the barbarous. Do you not educate youth at 
 the charge-house on tlie top of the mountain? 
 
 Hol. Or, mons the bill. 
 
 Arm. At your sweet pleasure, for the mountain, 
 
 Hol. I do, sans question. 
 
 Arm. Sir, it is the king's most sweet pleasure 
 and affection, to congratulate the princess at her 
 pa^^lion, in the posteriore of this day, which the 
 rude muhitude call the afternoon. 
 
 Hol. The posterior of the day, most generous 
 sir, is liable, congruent, and measm-able for the 
 afternoon : the word is well culled, chose ; sweet 
 and apt, sir, I do assure you, sir, I do assure. 
 
 Arm. Sir, the king is a noble gentleman ; and 
 my familiar, I do assure ye, very good frieid : — 
 For what is inward between us, let it pas» .—I do 
 beseech thee, remember not thy courte.'^; :— I be- 
 seech thee, apparel thy head : — And -jmong other 
 importunate and most serious de'.^^s, — and of 
 great import indeed, too ; — but let that pass- : — for 
 I must tell thee, it will please his grace (by the 
 world) sometime to lean upon mv poor shoulder* 
 and with his royal finger, thus, dally with my ex- 
 crement,'* with my mustachio : but, sweet heart, 
 let that pass. By the world, I recount no fahle ; 
 some certain special honours it pleaseth his greatness 
 to impart to Armado, a soldier, a man of travel, that 
 hath seen the world : but let that pass. — The very 
 all of all is, — but, sweet heart, I do implore secresy, 
 — that the king would have me present the prin- 
 cess, sweet chuck, with some delightful ostentation, 
 or show, or pageant, or antic, or fire-work. Now, 
 understanding that the curate and )'our sweet self 
 are good at such eruptions, and sudden breaking 
 out of mirth, as it were, I have acquainted you 
 withal, t( the end to crave your assistance. 
 
 Hcl. Sir, you shall present before her the Nine 
 Worthies.— Sir Nathaniel, as concerning some en- 
 tertainment of time, some show in the postei-ior of 
 this day to be rend'red by our assistance, — the 
 king's command, and this most gallant, illustrate, 
 and learned gentleman, — before the princess, 1 say, 
 none so fit as to present the Nine Worthies. 
 
 Nath. Where will you find men worthy enough 
 to present them ? 
 
 Hol. Joshua, yourself; m)'self, or this gallant 
 gentleman, Judas Maccabxnis ; this swain, because 
 of his great limb or joint, shall pass Pompey the 
 Great; the page, Hercules. 
 
 Arm. Pardon, sir, error: he is not quantity
 
 LOVE'S LABOUll 'S LOST, 
 
 SCSNB n. 
 
 enough for that worthy's thumb ; ho is not so big 
 as the euil of his club. 
 
 Jlid. Sliall I have audience ? he shall present 
 ITiTcules in minority; his enicr and exit shall be 
 itraiM^'ling a snake ; and I will have an apology for 
 that ]mrposo. 
 
 Moth. An excellent device ! so, if any of the 
 audience hiss, you may ciy, ' Well done, Hercules! 
 now thou crushest the snake !' that is the way to 
 make an oflence gracious, though few have the 
 grace to do it. 
 
 -Inn. For the rest of the Worthies? — 
 
 Ho!. I will play three myself. 
 
 Moth. Thrice worthy gentleman ! 
 
 ^■Icm.' Shall I tell you a thing? 
 
 JIoL We attend. 
 
 Arm. We will have, if this tirdge'^ not, an antic. 
 I beseocli you, follow. 
 
 Ilol. Via! Goodman Dull, thou hast spoken no 
 vord all this while. 
 
 Dull. Nor understood none neither, sir. 
 
 Hoi. Allans! we will employ thee. 
 
 Dall. I '11 make one in a dance, or so ; or I will 
 pla}' on the tabor to the Worthies, and let them 
 dance the hay." 
 
 Hoi. Mo.st dull, honest Dull, to our .sport, away! 
 
 \Exeiint. 
 
 SCENE II. — Another 2Mrt of the same. Befm-e the 
 Princess's Pavilion. 
 
 Enter the Princess, Katharine, Rosaline, and 
 Maria. 
 
 Prin. Sweet hearts, we shall be rich ere we 
 depart, 
 [f fairings come thus plentifully in : 
 A lady wallVl about with diamonds! 
 Look you, what I have from the loving king. 
 
 Po^. Madam, came nothing else along with that? 
 
 Prill. Nothing but this ? yes, as much love in 
 rhyme. 
 As would be cramm'd up in a sheet of paper, 
 Writ on both sides the leaf, margent and all. 
 That he was fain to seal on Cupid's name. 
 
 Pos. That was the way to make his godhead wax; 
 For ho hatli been five thousand years a boy. 
 
 Kaih. Ay, and a shrewd unhappy gallows too. 
 
 Ros. You '11 ne'er be fi-iends with him ; he kill'd 
 your sister, 
 
 Kath. He made her melancholy, sad, and heavy; 
 And so she died : had she been light, like you. 
 Of such a merry nimble stirring spirit, 
 
 She might a' been a grandam ere she (L'cd : 
 
 Ar.d .?o may you, for a light heart lives long. 
 Ros. What 's your dark meaning, inoi«e, of thin 
 
 light word? 
 Kath. A light condition in a beauty dark. 
 Ros. We need more light to find your meaning 
 
 out. 
 Kath. You '11 mar the light, by taking it in 
 snuff; 
 Therefore, I '11 darkly end the argument, 
 
 Ros. Look, what you do, you do it still i' th« 
 
 dark. 
 Kath. So do not you, for you are a light wench. 
 Ros. Indeed, I weigh not you, and therefore 
 
 light. 
 Kath. You weiglr me not, — 0, that 's you care 
 
 not for me. 
 Ros. Great reason ; for. Past care is otill pa.st 
 
 cure. 
 Prin. Well bandied both ; a set of wit well 
 play'd. 
 But, Rosaline, you have a favour too : 
 Who sent it ? and w:hat is it ? 
 
 Ros. L would you knew : 
 
 An if my face were but as fair as youre. 
 My favour were as great ; be witness this. 
 Nay, I have verses too, I thank Biron : 
 The numbers true ; and, were the numb'ring too, 
 I were the fairest goddess on the ground : 
 I am compar'd to twenty thousand fairs. 
 O, he hath drawn my picture in his letter ! 
 Prin. Anything like ? 
 
 Ros. Much in the letters ; nothing in the praise. 
 Prin. Beauteous as ink ; a good conclusion. 
 Kath. Fair as a text B in a copy-book. 
 Ros. 'Ware pencils ! How ? let me not die youi 
 debtor, 
 My red dominical, my golden letter :** 
 O that your face were not so full of O's ! 
 
 Kath. A pox of that jest ! and I beshrew all 
 
 shi'ows ! 
 Prin. But, Katharine, what was sent to you 
 
 from fair Dumain ? 
 Kath. Madam, this glove. 
 Prin. Did he not send you twain ? 
 
 Kath. Yes, madam ; and moreover, 
 Some thousand verses of a faithful lover; 
 A huge translation of hypocrisy, 
 Vildly compil'd, profound simplicity. 
 
 Mar. This, and these pearls, to mc sent Longa' 
 ville; 
 The letter is too long by half a mile. 
 
 •J 98
 
 ACT V. 
 
 LO\TS LABOUR '« LOST. 
 
 Prin. I think no less. Dost tLou not wish in 
 heart, 
 The cha u were longer, and the letter short ? 
 
 Mar. Ay, or I would these hands might never 
 part. 
 
 Prhi. We are wise girls to mock our lovers so. 
 
 Ros. They are worse fools to purchase mocking so. 
 That same Biron I '11 torture ere I go. 
 0, that I knew he were but in by the week 1 
 How I would make him fawn, and beg, and seek ; 
 And wait the season, and observe the times, 
 And spend his prodigal wits in bootless rhymes ; 
 And shape his service wholly to my behests. 
 And make him proud to make me proud that jests ! 
 So potently would I o'ersway his state, 
 That he should be my fool, and I his fate. 
 
 Pnn. None are so surely caught, when they 
 are catch'd, 
 As wit turu'd fool : folly, in wisdom hatch'd, 
 Hath wisdom's warrant, and the help of school. 
 And wit's own grace to grace a learned fool. 
 
 Ros. The blood of youth burns not with such 
 excess, 
 iVs gi-avity's revolt to wantonness. 
 
 Mar. Folly in fools bears not so sti'ong a note. 
 As fool'ry in the wise, when wit doth dote ; 
 Since all the power tliereof it doth apply. 
 To prove, b}' wit, worth in simj)licity. 
 
 Enter Boi'et. 
 
 Prin. Here comes Boyet, and mirth is in his face. 
 
 Boyd. 0, 1 am stabb'd with laughter ! WTiere 's 
 her grace ? 
 
 Prill. Thy news, Boyet ? 
 
 Boyei. Prepare, madam, prepare ! — 
 
 Arm, wenches, arm ! encounters mounted arc 
 Against your peace. Love doth approach disguis'd. 
 Armed in arguments ; you '11 be surpris'd : 
 Muster your wits ; stand in your own defence ; 
 Or hide your heads like cowards, and fly hence. 
 
 Prin. Saint Dennis to saint Cupid ! Wliat are 
 they, 
 That charge their breath against us? say, scout, say. 
 
 Boyei. Under the cool shade of a .sycamore, 
 I thought to close mine eyes some half an hour, 
 When, lo ! to interrupt my puqws'd rest, 
 Toward that shade I might behuld addivss'd 
 The king and his companions : warily 
 I stole into a neighbour thicket by. 
 And overheard what you shall overhear; 
 Thal,bv aiwl by, disguis'd they will be here. 
 Tbi;iv h'T.iJd '"i i pretty knavish page, 
 
 That well by heart hath comi'd his embassage : 
 Action, and accent, did they teadi him there; 
 " Thus must thou speak, and thus thy body beat ; " 
 And ever and anon they made a doubt, 
 Presence majestical would put him out • 
 "For," quoth the king, "an angel shalt thou see; 
 Yet fear not thou, but speak audaciously." 
 The boy reply'd, " An angel is not evil ; 
 I should have fear'd her, had she been a de\nl." 
 With that all laugh'd, and clapp'd him on tht 
 
 shoulder ; 
 Making the bold wag by their praises bolder. 
 One rubb'd his elbow, thus; and fleer'd, and 
 
 swore, 
 A better speech wa-s never spoke before : 
 Another with his finger and his tliimib, 
 Cry'd, " Via ! we will do 't, come what will come : " 
 The third he caper'd, and cried, " All goes well ; " 
 The fourth turn'd on the toe, and down he fell. 
 With that, they all did tumble on the ground, 
 With such a zealous laughter, so profound. 
 That in this spleen ridiculous appears, 
 To check their folly, passion's solemn tears. 
 
 Prin. But what, but what, come they to visit us ] 
 
 Boyet. They do, they do; and are ap].'ar<H'il 
 thus, — 
 Like Muscovites, or Russians, as I guess. 
 Their purpose is, to parle, to court, and dance • 
 And every one his love-feat will advance 
 Unto his several mistress ; which they '11 know 
 By favoure several, which they did bestow. 
 
 Prin. And will they so ? the gallants shall be 
 task'd :— 
 For, ladies, we will every one be mask'd ; 
 And not a man of them shall have the grace, 
 Despite of suit, to see a lady's face. 
 Hold, Rosaline, this favour thou shalt vrear. 
 And then the king will court thee for his deal' ; 
 Hold, take thou this, my sweet, and give mo thine 
 So shall Biron take me for Rosaline. — 
 And change your favoui's too; so shall your loves 
 Woo contrary, deceiv'd by these removes. 
 
 Ros. Come on then ; wear the favoiu's most in 
 sight. 
 
 Aath. But, in this changing, wli.at is yow 
 intent ? 
 
 Prill. The efl'ect of my intent is, to cross theirs 
 They do it but in mocking merriment; 
 And mock for mock is only my intent. 
 Their several counsels tliey unbosom shall 
 To loves mistook ; and so bo inock'd withal, 
 Upon the next occiision that we meet.
 
 ACT V. 
 
 LOVE'S LABOUR 'S LOST. 
 
 81'EKE n. 
 
 With \'isages display'd, to talk and greet. 
 
 Jios. Hut sliall we ilauce, if they desire us to 't? 
 
 Prin. No ; to the death we will uot move a foot: 
 Nor to their penu'd speech render wo no grace : 
 But, while 't is sjioke, each turn away her face. 
 
 Jioijet. Why, thai contempt will kill the speaker's 
 heart, 
 And quite divorce his memory from his part. 
 
 Prin. Therefore I do it ; and, I make no doubt, 
 The rest will ne'er come in, if he be out. 
 There's no such sport as sport by sport o'erthrowu ; 
 To make theirs ours, and ours none but our owni : 
 So shall we stay, mocking intended game ; 
 Aud they, well mock'd, depart away with shame. 
 [Trumpets sound loiihin. 
 
 Boyet. The trumpet sounds ; be uiask'd, the 
 maskers come. [The ladies mask. 
 
 Enter the King, Biron, Longaville, and Dumain, 
 in Russian habits and masked ; Moth, Musicians, 
 and Attendants. 
 
 Moth. ''All liail the lichest beauties on the 
 
 earth !" 
 Boyet. Beauties no richer than rich tafi'ata." 
 Moth. " A holy parcel of the fairest dames, 
 
 \The ladies turn their backs to him. 
 Jliat ever turu'd their " — backs — " to mortal 
 views!" 
 Biron. " Their eyes," villain, " their eyes 1 " 
 Moth. "That ever turn'd their eyes to mortal 
 views ! 
 Out"— 
 
 Boyet. True ; out, indeed. 
 Moth. "Out of your favours, heavenly spirits, 
 vouchsafe 
 Not to beliold "— 
 
 Biron. " Once to behold," rogue. 
 Moth. " Once to behold with your sun-beamed 
 eyes,"— 
 '' With your sun- beamed eyes " — 
 
 Boyet. They will not answer to that epithet. 
 You were best call it, .daughter-beamed eyes. 
 Moth. They do not mark me, and that brings 
 
 me out. 
 Biron. Is this your perfectness? begone, you 
 
 rogue ! 
 Ros. What would these strangei's ? know their 
 minds, Boyet: 
 £f llioy do speak our language, 't is our will 
 That some plain man recount thei". ijurposes : 
 Know what they would. 
 
 Boyd. Wliat would you with the princess? 
 Biron. Nothing but peace, and gentle visitatioa 
 lios. What would they, say they ? 
 Boyet. Nothing but peace, and gentle visitation, 
 Ros. Why, that they have ; and bid them so ]«j 
 
 gone. 
 Boyet. She says, you have it, and you may be 
 
 gone. 
 King. Say to her, we liave measur'd many 
 miles. 
 To tread a measure*' with her on the grass. 
 
 Boyet. They say that they have measur'd many 
 a mile, 
 To tread a measure with you on this grass. 
 
 Ros. It is uot so : ask them how many inches 
 Is in one mile : if they have measur'd many. 
 The measure then of one is ea,sily told. 
 
 Boyet. If, to come hither, you have measur'd 
 miles. 
 And many miles, the princess bids you tell 
 How many inches do fill up one mile. 
 
 Biron. Tell her we measure them by woary 
 
 steps. 
 Boyet. She hears herself. 
 Ros. How many weary steps, 
 
 Of many weaiy miles you have o'ergone, 
 Are number'd in the ti'avel of one mile ? 
 
 Biron. We number nothing that we spend lor 
 you; 
 Our duty is so rich, so infinite, 
 That we may do it still without accompt. 
 Vouchsafe to show the sunshine of your face. 
 That we, like savages, may worship it. 
 
 Ros. My face is but a moon, and clouded too. 
 King. Blessed are clouds, to do as such clouds do 1 
 Vouchsafe, bright moon, and these thy stars, to 
 
 shine 
 (Those clouds remov'd) upon our wateiyeyne. 
 
 Ros. vain petitioner ! beg a gi-eater matter ; 
 Thou now rcquest'st but moonshine in the water. 
 King. Then, in our measure, vouchsafe but one 
 change : 
 Thou bidd'.st me beg ; this begging is not strange, 
 Ros. V\-Aj, music, then : ua}', you must do it 
 soon. [Music plays. 
 
 Not yet ; — no dance : — thus change I like the 
 moon. 
 King. Will you not dance ? How come you 
 
 thus estrang'd ? 
 Ros. You took the moon at full ; but now she 'a 
 
 changed. 
 King. Yet still she is the moon, and I the man. 
 
 296
 
 ACT V. 
 
 LOVE'S LABOUR 'S LOST. 
 
 BC'EKE n. 
 
 The music plays ; vouchsafe some motion to it. 
 lios. Our ears vouchsafe it. 
 King. But yom' legs should do it, 
 
 Bos. Since you are strangera, and come here by 
 chance, 
 We '11 not be nice: take hands; — we will not 
 dance. 
 Ki7iff. Wliy take we hands, then ? 
 Hos. Only to part fiiends : — 
 
 Court'sy, sweet hearts ; and so the measure ends. 
 King. More measiu'e of this measure : be not 
 
 nice. 
 Ros. We can afford no more at such a price. 
 King. Prize you yourselves: What buys your 
 
 company ? 
 Ros, Your absence only. 
 King. That can never be. 
 
 Ros. Then cannot we be bought : and so adieu ; 
 Twice to your visor, and half once to you ! 
 
 King. If you deny to dance, let 's hold more 
 
 chat. 
 Ros. Lj j)rivate then. 
 King. I am best pleas'd with that. 
 
 [TAcy converse apart. 
 Biron. ^Iiite-handed mistress, one sweet word 
 
 with thee. 
 Prin. Honey, and milk, and sugar ; there are 
 
 tliree. 
 Biron. 'Naj then, two treys (an if you grow so 
 nice), 
 Metheglin, wort, and malmsey. — 'Well run, dice! 
 There 's half a dozen sweets. 
 
 Prin. Seventh sweet, adieu ! 
 
 Since you can cog," I '11 play no more with you. 
 Biron. One word in secret. 
 Prin. Let it not be sweet. 
 
 Biron. Thou gi-iev'st my gall. 
 Prin. Gall?— bitter. 
 
 Biron. Therefore meet. 
 
 [Theg converse apart. 
 Dim. Will you vouchsafe with me to change a 
 
 word ? 
 Mar. Name it. 
 Bum. V-MV lady, — 
 
 Mar. Say you so ? Fair lord, — 
 
 Take you that for your fair lady. 
 Burn. Please it you. 
 
 As much in private, and I '11 hid adieu. 
 
 \They converse apart. 
 Kath. What, was yoiu- visor made without a 
 
 tongao ? 
 Long. I know the reason, lady, why you ask. 
 29 B 
 
 Kath. O for your reason ! quickly sir ; I long. 
 Long. You have a double tongue within your 
 mask, 
 And would afford my speechless visor half. 
 
 Kath. Veal, quoth the Dutchman :'-— Is not 
 
 veal a calf? 
 Lmig. A calf, fair lady ? 
 Kath, No, a fair lord calf. 
 
 Long. Let 's part the word. 
 Kath. No; I '11 not be your half: 
 
 Take all, and wean it ; it may prove an ox. 
 
 Long. Look, how you butt yourself in these 
 
 sharp mocks ! 
 
 Will you give horns, chaste lady ? do not so. 
 
 Kath. Then die a calf, before your horns do grow. 
 
 Long. One word in private with you, ere I die. 
 
 Kath. Bleat softly then ; the butcher hears you 
 
 cry. . [They converse apart. 
 
 Boyet. The tongues of mocking wenches are as 
 
 keen 
 As is the razor's edge invisible, 
 Cutting a smaller hair than may be seen, — 
 
 Above the sense of sense : so sensible 
 Seemcth their conference ; their conceits have 
 
 wings. 
 Fleeter than aiTows, bullets, wind, thought, swifter 
 things. 
 Ros. Not one word more, my maids ; break off, 
 
 break --fF. 
 Biron. By heaven, all dry-beaten with pure 
 
 scoff! 
 King. Farewell, mad wenches ; you have simple 
 wits. 
 
 [Exeunt King, Lords, Moth, Music, and 
 Attendants. 
 Prin. Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovites. — 
 Are these the breed of wits so wonder'd at ? 
 
 Boyet. Tapers they are, with your sweet breaths 
 
 puff'd out. 
 Ros. Well-liking'' wits they liave ; gross, gross ; 
 
 fat, f^it ! 
 Prin. poverty in wit, kingly-poor flout! 
 Will they not, think you, hang themselves to- 
 night ? 
 Or evei, but in visors, show their faces? 
 This \M\vi IViron was out of countenance quite. 
 Ros. 0\ tliey were all in lainentable cases! 
 The king w.as weeping-ripe for a good word. 
 Prin. Biron did swear himself out of all suit. 
 Mar. Dumain was at my service, and his sword . 
 No point, quoth I ; my servant straight was 
 mute.
 
 ZCT V. 
 
 LOVE'S LABOUR 'S LOST. 
 
 BCEKi: IL 
 
 Kalh. Lord Lougaville suid, I came o'er his 
 heart ; 
 Aiid trow you what Wi call'd nie ? 
 
 Prin. Quahn, perhaps. 
 
 Katk. Yes, iu good faith. 
 
 Prill. Go, sickness as thou art ! 
 
 Ron. \V<;il, belter wits have woru plain statute- 
 crips.-^' 
 But will you hear ? the king is my love sworn. 
 
 Prin. And quick Bii'on hath plighted faith to me. 
 
 Kalh. And Longaville was for my service born. 
 
 j^far. Dumain is mine, as sure as bark on tree. 
 
 Boyd. Ma<lani, and pretty mistresses, give ear : 
 Lnmediately they will again be here 
 In their own shapes ; for it can never be, 
 They will digest this harsh indignity. 
 
 Prin. Will they return ? 
 
 Botjei. They will, they will, God knows, 
 
 And leap for joy, though they are lame with blows ; 
 Therefore, change favours ; and, when they repair, 
 Blow like sweet roses in this summer air. 
 
 Prin. How blow ? how blow ? .speak to be un- 
 derstood. 
 
 Boyel. Fair ladies mask'd, are roses in their bud : 
 Dismask'd, their damask sweet commixture shown, 
 Are angels vailing clouds,"' or roses blown. 
 
 Prin. Avaunt, perplexity ! What shall we do. 
 If they return in their own shapes to woo ? 
 
 Ros. Good madam, if by me you'll be ad\'ised. 
 Let 's mock them still, as well, known, as dis- 
 
 guis'd : 
 Let us complain to them what fools were here, 
 Disguis'd like Muscovites, in shapeless gear ; 
 And wonder what they were ; and to what end 
 Their shallow shows, and prologue vildly penn'd, 
 And their rough carriage so lidiculous. 
 Should be presented at our tent to us. 
 
 Boyet. Ladies, withdraw : the gallants are at 
 hand. 
 
 Prin. Wliip to our tents, as roes run over land. 
 \_E.reunt Prin., Ros., Kath., and Mar. 
 
 Enter the King, BmoN, Longaville, and Dumain, 
 in their -proper habits. 
 
 Kinr/. Fair sir, God save you I Where 's the 
 
 princess ? > 
 Boyet. Gone to her tent: Please it your majesty, 
 Command me any ser\-ice to her thither? 
 
 Kinij. That she vouchsafe me audience for one 
 
 word. 
 Boyet. I will ; and so will she, I know, my 
 
 lord. [^Exit. 
 
 Biron. This fellow picks up wit, iuj pigeon6 
 
 peas, 
 And utters it again when Jove doth please- 
 He is wit's peddler, and retails his wares 
 At wakes, and wassails,'" meetings, markets, 
 
 fairs : 
 And we that sell by gross, the Lord dotli know 
 Hath not the grace to grace it with such show. 
 This gallant pins the wenches on his sleeve; 
 Had he been Adam, ha had tempted Eve : 
 He can carve too, and lisp : Why, this is he, 
 Tliat kiss'd away his hand in courtesy ; 
 This is the a])e of form. Monsieur the Nice, 
 That, when lie plays at tables, chides the dice 
 In honourable terms ; nay, he can sing 
 A mean most meanly ; and, iu ushering. 
 Mend him who can : the ladies call him, sweet , 
 The stairs, as he treads on them, kiss his feet ; 
 This is the flower that smiles on every one. 
 To show his teeth as white as whales' bone :" 
 And consciences, that will not die in debt. 
 Pay him the due of honey-tongued Boyet. 
 
 Kiny. A blister on his sweet tongue, with iLj 
 
 heart, 
 That put Armado's page out of his part! 
 
 Enter the Puincess, ushered by Boyet; Rosaline, 
 Maria, Katharine, and Attendants. 
 
 Biron. See where it comes ! — Behaviour, what 
 wert thou. 
 Till this mad man show'd thee ? and what art thou 
 now? 
 Kiny. All hail, sweet madam, and fair time ol 
 
 day ! 
 Prin. Fair, in all hail, is foul, as I conceive. 
 King. Construe my speeches better, if you may. 
 Prin. Then wish me better, I will give you 
 
 leave. 
 King. We came to visit you ; and purpose now 
 To lead you to our court : vouchsafe it then. 
 Prin. This field shall hold me ; and so hold your 
 vow : 
 Nor God, nor I, delight in perjur'd man. 
 
 King. Rebuke me not for that which you pro- 
 voke ; 
 The virtue of your eye must bre.ak my oath.* 
 Prin. You nick-name virtue : \\co you sliouW 
 
 have spoke, 
 For \nrtue's office never breaks men's troth. 
 Now by my maiden honour, yet as pure 
 As the unsullied hlv, I protest, 
 
 391
 
 , - - - - ■ - , - ^ __ ^ 
 
 i^CT V. LOVE'S LABOUR 'S LOST. scene n. 
 
 A woiIJ of torments though I should endure, 
 
 Ros. Help ! hold his brows ! he '11 swound. Why 
 
 I would not yield to be your house's guest : 
 
 look you pale ? — 
 
 So much I hale a breaking-cause to be 
 
 Sea-sick, I think, coming from Muscovy. 
 
 Of heavenly oaths, vow'd with integi'ity. 
 
 Biron. Thus pour the stare down plagues for 
 
 Jiinff. 0, you have liv'd in desolation here, 
 
 peijury. 
 
 Unseen, un\isited ; mucli to our shame. 
 
 Can any face of brass hold longer out ? — 
 
 Frill. Not so, my lord ; it is not so, I swear ; 
 
 Here stand I, lady ; dart thy skill at me ; 
 
 Wc hare had pastimes here, and pleasant game ; 
 
 Bniise me with scorn, confound me vnth a 
 
 A mess of Russians left us but of late. 
 
 flout : 
 
 jLiny. How, madam ? Russians ? 
 
 Thrust thy sharp wit quite through my ignorance 
 
 Prin. Ay, in truth, my lord ; 
 
 Cut me to pieces with thy keen conceit ; 
 
 Trim g.illants, full of couitship, and of state. 
 
 And I will wish thee never more to dance, 
 
 lios. Madam, speak true: — It is not so, my 
 
 Nor never more in Russian habit wait. 
 
 lord ; 
 
 ! never will I trust to speeches penn d, 
 
 My lady (to the manner of the days), 
 
 Nor to the motion of a schoolboy's tongue ; 
 
 [n courtesy, gives undeserving praise. 
 
 Nor never come in visor to my friend ; 
 
 We four, indeed, conft'oated were with four 
 
 Nor woo in rhyme, like a blind harper's soag: 
 
 In Russian habit ; here they stay'd an hour, 
 
 Taffata phrases, silken terms precise,^ 
 
 And talk'd apace ; and in that hour, my lord, 
 
 Three-piPd hyperboles,'™ spruce affectation, 
 
 They did not bless us with one happy word. 
 
 Figures pedantical ; these summer-flies 
 
 [ dare not call them fools; but this I think, 
 
 Have blown me full of maggot ostentation : 
 
 UTjen they ai'e thirety, fools would fain have 
 
 I do forswear them : and I here protest, 
 
 drink. 
 
 By this white glove (how white the hand, God 
 
 Biron. This jest is dry to me. Gentle sweet, 
 
 knows !) 
 
 your wit makes wise things foolish ; when we 
 
 Henceforth my wooing mind shall be express'd 
 
 greet, 
 
 In russet yeas, and honest kersey noes : 
 
 With eyes best seeing, heaven's fieiy eye, 
 
 And, to begin, wench, — so God help mo, la ! 
 
 By light we lose light : Your capacity 
 
 My love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw. 
 
 [9 of that nature, that to your huge store 
 
 Ros. Sans Sans, I pray you. 
 
 Wise things seem foolish, and rich things but 
 
 Biro7i. Yet I have a trick 
 
 poor. 
 
 Of the old rage : — bear with me, I am sick 
 
 Ros. This proves you wise and rich, for in my 
 
 I '11 leave it by degrees. Soft, let us see ;— 
 
 eye, — 
 
 Write " Lord have mercy on us,'""" on those 
 
 Biron. I am a fool, and full of poverty. 
 
 three ; 
 
 Ros. B;:t that you take what doth to you 
 
 They are infected, in their hearts it lies : 
 
 belong. 
 
 They have the plague, and caught it of your oyca 
 
 It were a fault to snatch words from my tongue. 
 
 These lords are visited ; you are not free, 
 
 Biron. Oh, I am yours, and all that I possess. 
 
 For the Lord's tokens on you do I see. 
 
 Ros. All the fool mine ? 
 
 Prin. No, they are free that gave those tokens 
 
 Biron. I cannot give you less. 
 
 to us. 
 
 Ros. Wiiich of the visors was it that you wore? 
 
 Biron. Our states are forfeit ; seek not to undo 
 
 Biron. Where 1 when? what vnsor? why de- 
 
 us. 
 
 mand you this ? 
 
 Ros. It is not so. For how can this be true, 
 
 Ros. There, then, that visor; that superfluous 
 
 Tliat you stand forfeit, being those that sue ? 
 
 case, 
 
 Biron. Peace ! for I will not have to do with 
 
 That hid the worse, and show'd the better face. 
 
 you. 
 
 ICijiff. We are tlescried : they '11 mock us now 
 
 Ros. Nor shall not, if I do as I intend. 
 
 downright, ) 
 
 Biron. Speak for yourselves ; my wit is at an 
 
 Diim. Let us confess, and turn it to a >■ Aside. 
 
 end. 
 
 jest. ) 
 
 liinff. Teach us, sweet madam, for our i ide 
 
 Prin. Ainaz'd, my lord ? Why looks your high- 
 
 transgi'cssion 
 
 ness sad ? 
 298 
 
 Some fair excuse. 
 

 
 ACT V. 
 
 LOVE'S LABOUR 'S LOST. 
 
 8C1SNE n. 
 
 Prin. Tho fairest is confession. 
 
 Were you not hoi'o, but even now, disguis'd ? 
 Kinc/. iladaiii, I was. 
 Prin. And were you well advis'd ? 
 
 King. I was, fair madam. 
 Prin. When you then were herOj 
 
 What did you whisper iu your lady's ear? 
 
 King. That more tlian all the world I diu re- 
 spect her. 
 Pri7i. When she shall challenge this, you will 
 
 reject her. 
 King. Upon mine honour, no. 
 Prin. Peace ! peace ! forbe.ar ; 
 
 STour oath once broke, you force not to forswear. 
 King. Despise me, when I break this oath of 
 
 mine. 
 Prin. I will : and therefore keep it : — Rosaline, 
 What did the Russian whisper in your ear? 
 Ros. Madam, be swore that he did hold me 
 dear 
 As precious eye-sight: and did value me 
 Above this world : adding thereto, moreover, 
 That he would wed me, or else die my lover. 
 
 Prin. God give thee joy of him ! the noble lord 
 Most honourably doth uphold his word. 
 
 King. What mean you, madam ? by my life, my 
 troth, 
 I never swore this lady such an oath. 
 
 Ros. By heaven, you did ; and to confirm it 
 plain, 
 Vou gave me this : but take it, sir, again. 
 
 King. My faith, and this, the piincess I did 
 give ; 
 r knew her bj- this jewel on her sleeve. 
 
 Prin. Pardon me, sir, this jewel did she wear ; 
 And lord Biron, I thank him, is my dear : — 
 What ! will you have me, or your pearl again ? 
 Biron. Neither of either : I remit both twain. 
 [ see the trick on 't : — Here was a consent, 
 (Knowing aforehand of our meniment,) 
 To dash it like a Chiistmas comedy : 
 Souu! cany-tale, some please-man, some slight zany, 
 Rome mumble news, some trencher-knight, some 
 
 Dick,— 
 That smiles his cheek in years, and knows the 
 
 trick 
 To make my lady iiiugh, when she 's dispos'd — 
 Told our intents before : which once disclos'd, 
 He ladies did change favoui's; and then we. 
 Following the signs, woo'd but the sign of she. 
 Now, to our perjuiy to aaJ more terroi-. 
 We are again forsworn, — in will and error. 
 
 Much upon this it is : — and might not you 
 
 [To BOVKT 
 Forestal our sport, to make us thus untrue ? 
 Do not you know my lady's foot by the squire."* 
 
 And laugh upon the apple of her eye ? 
 And stand between her back, sir, and the fire, 
 
 ITolding a trencher, jesting meirily ? 
 You put our page out. Go, you are allow'd ; 
 Die when you will, a smock shall be your shroud 
 You leer upon me, do you ? there 's an eye, 
 Wounds like a leaden sword. 
 
 Bogct. Full merrily 
 
 Hath this brave manage, this career, been ruii. 
 
 Biron. Lo, he is tilting straight! Peace! 1 
 have done. 
 
 Enter Costard. 
 
 Welcome, pure wit ! thou partest a fair fray. 
 
 Cost. Lord, sir, they would know 
 Whether the three Worthies sliall come in, or no. 
 
 Biron. Wliat, are there but three ? 
 
 Cost. No, sir ; but it is vara fine. 
 
 For every one pursents three. 
 
 Biron. And three times thrice is nine. 
 
 Cost. Not so, sir ; under cerrection, sir, I hope 
 it is not so : 
 Yqu cannot beg us,'°' sir, I can assure you, sir; 
 
 we know what we know; 
 I hope, sir, three times thrice, sir, — 
 
 Biron. Is not nine. 
 
 Cost. Under correction, sir, we know whereuntil 
 it doth amount. 
 
 Biron. By Jove, I always took three threes for 
 nine. 
 
 Cost. O Lord, sir, it were pity you .should get 
 your living by reck'ning, sir. 
 
 Biron. How much is it ? 
 
 Cost. O Lord, sir, the parties themselves, the 
 actors, sir, will show whereuntil it doth amount : 
 for mine own part, I am, as they say, but to par- 
 feet one man in one poor man ; Ponipion the 
 Great, sir. 
 
 Biron. Art thou one of the Worthies? 
 
 Cost. It pleased them to think me worlhy of 
 Ponipion the Great : for mine own part, I know 
 not the degree of the Worthy; but I am to stand 
 for him. 
 
 Biron. Go, bid them prepare. 
 
 Cost. We will turB it finely off, sir; we wi.l 
 take some care. [Exit Cost. 
 
 King. Biron, they will shame us, let them not 
 approach. 
 
 299
 
 ACT V. 
 
 LOVE'S LABOUR 'S LOST. 
 
 SOEKB lU 
 
 Biron. We are shame proof, my lord: and 't is 
 some policy 
 To have one show worse than the king's and his 
 comjjany. 
 King. I say, they shall not oome. 
 Prin. Nay, my g3od lord, let me o'er-rule you 
 now: 
 That sport best pleases that doth least know how : 
 Where zeal strives to content, and the contents 
 Die in the zeal of that which it pi'eseuts. 
 The form confounded'" makes most form in mirth, 
 When great thing-s labouring perish in their birth. 
 Biron. A right description of our sport, my lord. 
 
 Enter Armado. 
 
 Arm. Anointed, J implore so much expense of 
 thy royal sweet breath, as will utter a brace of 
 words. [Armado converses with the King, 
 
 and delivers a j^aper to him. 
 Prin. Doth this man serve God \ 
 Biron. Why ask you ? 
 
 Prin. He speaks not like a man of God's making. 
 Ann. That 's all one, my fair, sweet, honey 
 monarch ; for, I pirotcst, the schoolmaster is ex- 
 ceeding fantjistical ; too-too vain ; too-too vain ; 
 but we will put it, as they say, to fortuna delta 
 yucrra. I wish you the peace of mind, most 
 royal couplement ! \Exit Arm. 
 
 Kinij. Here is like to be a good presence of 
 ^^'urthies. He presents Hector of Troy ; the swain, 
 Pompey the Great ; the parish curate, Alexander ; 
 Armado's page, Hercules ; the pedant, Judas 
 Maccabeus. 
 
 And if these four Worthies in their first show thrive, 
 These four will change habits, and present the 
 other five. 
 Biron. There is five in the first show. 
 Kiwj. You are deceived ; 't is not so. ' 
 Biron. The pedant, the braggart, the hedge- 
 priest,'"'^ the fool, and the boy : — 
 Abate a throw at novum ; and the whole world 
 
 again 
 (Cannot prick out five such, take each one in his 
 vein. 
 Ktr.y. The ship is under sail, and here she 
 comes amain. 
 [iScate bronr/h.lfor the King, Prixcess, <fv. 
 Pageant of the Nine Worthies. 
 
 Enter Costard, armed, for Pompey. 
 
 Cost. " 1 Pompey am," — 
 Boyd You lie, you are not ho. 
 
 £00 
 
 Cost. " I Pompey am," — 
 
 Boyet. With libbard's'"^ head on knee. 
 
 Biron. W^ell said, old mocker; I must needs 
 
 be fi'iends with thee. 
 Cost. "I Pompey am, Pompey surnam'd the 
 
 big-" 
 Bum. The Great. 
 
 Cost. It is Great, sir ; — " Pompey sia-nam'd the 
 Great ; 
 That oft in field, with targe and shield, did make 
 
 my foe to sweat ; 
 And travelling .along this coast, I here am como 
 
 by chance, 
 And lay my arms before th^ legs of this sweet lasa 
 
 of France." 
 If your ladyship would s.ay, "Thanks, Pompey, 
 I had done. 
 
 Prin. Great thanks, great Pompey. 
 Cost. 'T is not so much worth ; but, I hope, I 
 was perfect. I made a little fault in "great." 
 
 Biron. My hat to a halfiseuny, Pompey proves 
 the best Worthy. 
 
 Enter Nathaniel, armed, for Alexander. 
 
 Nath. "When in the world I liv'd, I was the 
 world's commander ; 
 By east, west, north, and south, I spread my con- 
 quering might ; 
 My 'scutcheon plain declares that I am Alisander.'' 
 Boyet. Your nose says, no, you are not ; for it 
 
 stands too right. 
 Biron. Your nose smells, no, in this, most ten- 
 
 der-smellinsr knig-ht. 
 Prin. The conqueror is dismay'd. Proceed, 
 
 good Alexander. 
 Nath. " When in the world I liv'd, I was the 
 
 world's commander ;"^ — 
 Boyet. Most triie, 't is right ; you were so, 
 
 Alisander. 
 Biron. Pompey the Great, — 
 Cost. Your servant and Ciistanl. 
 
 Biron. Take away the conqueror, take away 
 
 Alisander. 
 Cost. O, sir, [To Nath.] you have overtUro^m 
 Alisander the conqueror! You will bo scrap'd 
 out of the painted cloth"" for this: your lion, that 
 holds his poll-ax sitting on a close stool, will be 
 rriven to AjaX : ho will bo the ninth Worthy. A 
 con(|ueror, and afeared to speak ! run away for 
 shame, Alisander. [Nath. retires.'] There, an 'I 
 shrdl please you ; a foolish mild man ; an honest 
 man, look you, and soon da.shed 1 He is a mar-
 
 LOVE'S LABOUR '8 LOST. 
 
 6OBM1: n. 
 
 vt'lloua good neiglibour, in sooth ; and a very good 
 bowler : but, f?r Alisander, alas ! you see how 't Ls; 
 — a little o'erparted :'" — But there are Worthies a 
 coining will speak their mind in some other sort. 
 Prill. Stand aside, good Poinpey. 
 
 /irlcr IToLOFERNES, armed, for Judas, and Moxn, 
 armed, for Ilercules. 
 
 Hoi. " Great Hercules is presented by this imp, 
 Whose club kill'd Cerberus, that three-headed 
 
 canis; 
 A.n<\, wlien he was a babe, a child, a shrimp. 
 
 Thus did he strangle serjjeuts in his viattus ; 
 Quoniam, he seemeth in minority ; 
 Ergo, I come with this apology." — 
 Keep some state in thy exit, and vanish. 
 
 [Exit Moth. 
 "Juias, I am,"— 
 
 Bum. A Judas ! 
 
 Hoi. Not Iscariot, sir, — ■ 
 " Judas, I am, y-cliped ^Maccabeus." 
 
 Dum. .Juda-s Maccabeus dipt, is plain Judas. 
 
 Itiron. A kissing traitor : — How art thou prov'd 
 Judas ? 
 
 Hoi. " Judas, I am,"— 
 
 Dum. The more shame for you, Judas. 
 
 Hoi. Wliat mean you, sir ? 
 
 Boyct. To make Judas hang himself. 
 
 Hoi. Begin, sir; you are my elder. 
 
 Biron. Well follow'd : Judas was hang'd on an 
 elder.™ 
 
 Hoi. I will not be put out of countenance. 
 
 Biron. Because thou hast no face. 
 
 Hoi. What is this? [Pointing to Ms face. 
 
 Boyet. A cittern-head. 
 
 Dum. The head of a bodkin. 
 
 Biron. A death's face in a ring. 
 
 Long. The face of an old Roman coin, scarce 
 seen. 
 
 Boyet. The pummel of Caesar's falchion 
 
 Dum. The carv'd-bone face on a flask. 
 
 Biron. St. George's half-cheek in a brooch. 
 
 Dum. Ay, and in a brooch of lead. 
 
 Biron. Ay, and worn in the cap of a tooth- 
 drawer."" 
 Aiid uow, foiTvard ; for we have put theo in 
 countenance. 
 
 Hoi. You have put me out of countenance. 
 
 Biron. False : we have given thee faces. 
 
 Hoi. But you have out-fec'd them all. 
 
 Biron. An thou wert a lion, we would do so. 
 
 Bcyet. Therefore, as he is an ass, let him go. 
 
 And so adieu, sweet Jude ! nay, wny cloat thou 
 
 stay? 
 Dum. For the latter end of his name. 
 Biron, For the ass to the Jude ; give it hiju :- - 
 
 Jud-as away 1 
 Hoi. This is not generous ; not gentle ; not 
 
 humble. 
 Boi/el. A light for monsieur Judas 1 it grows 
 
 dark ; he may stumble. 
 Frin. Alas, poor Maccabeus, how liath he bwn 
 
 baited ! 
 
 Enter AnMADO, armed, for Hector. 
 
 Biron. Hide thy head, Achilles ; here comes 
 Hector in arms. 
 
 Dum. Though ray mocks- come home by me, I 
 will now be merry. 
 
 Xing. Hector was but a Trojan in respect of 
 this. 
 
 Boyet. But is this Hector ? 
 
 King. I think Hector was not so clean 
 timber'd. 
 
 Long. His leg is too big for Hector. 
 
 Du)n. More calf, certain. 
 
 Boyet. No ; he is best endued in the small. 
 
 Biron. This cannot be Hector. 
 
 Dum. He 's a god or a painter ; for he makes 
 faces. 
 
 Arm. "The armipotent Mars, of lances the 
 almighty, 
 Gave Hector a gift," — ■ 
 
 Dum. A gilt nutmeg. 
 
 Biron. A lemon. 
 
 Long. Stuck with cloves.'" 
 
 Dum. No, cloven. 
 
 Arm. Peace! 
 " The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty, 
 
 Gave Hector a gift, the heir of Hion : 
 A man so breath'd, that certain he would fight, 
 yea. 
 
 From morn till night, out of his pavilion. 
 I am that i3ower," — 
 
 Dum. That mint. 
 
 Long. That columbine. 
 
 Arm. Sweet lord Longaville, reign thy tongue 
 
 Long. I must rather give it the rein, for .i 
 runs against Hector. 
 
 Dur/i. Ay, and Hector 's a greyhound. 
 
 Arm. The sweet war- man is dead and rotten ; 
 sweet chucks, beat not the bones of the bmied : 
 when he breath'd, he was a man — but I will for- 
 ward wit,b my device : Sweei royally [to the 
 
 801
 
 AUT V. 
 
 LOVE'S LABOUR 'S LOST. 
 
 SCENE n. 
 
 Princess ] bestow on me the sense of hearing. 
 
 [BiRON whispers Costard. 
 
 Prin. Speak, bravo Hector : we are much de- 
 lighted. 
 
 Arm. I do adore thy sweet grace's slijiper."^ 
 
 Boyet. Loves her by the foot. 
 
 Dutn. He may not by the yard. 
 
 Arm. "This Hector far surmounted Han- 
 nibal,"— 
 
 Cost. The party is gone ; fellow Hector, she is 
 gone ; she is two months on her way. 
 
 Arm. What meanest thou ? 
 
 Cost. Faith, unless you play the honest Trojan, 
 the poor wench is cast away : she 's quick ; the 
 child brags in her belly already ; 't is yours. 
 
 Arm. Dost thou infamonize me among poten- 
 tates ? thou shalt die. 
 
 Cost. Then shall Hector be whipped, for 
 Jaquenetta that is quick by him ; and hang'd, for 
 Pompey that is dead by him. 
 
 Bum. Jlost rare Pompey ! 
 
 Boyet. Renowned Pompey ! 
 
 Biron. Greater than gieat, great, great, great 
 PoTnpey ! Pompey the huge ! 
 
 Dum. Hector trembles. 
 
 Biron. Pompey is moved ; — More Ates, more 
 ites; stir them on! stir them on ! 
 
 Dum. Hector will challenge him. 
 
 Biron. Ay, if 'a have no more man's blood in 's 
 belly than nill sup a flea. 
 
 Arm. By the north pole, I do challenge thee. 
 
 Cost. I will not fight with a pole, like a 
 northern man ; I '11 slash ; I '11 do it by the 
 Bword. — I pray you, let me boiTow my anns 
 again. 
 
 Dum. Room for the incensed Worthies. 
 
 Cost. I '11 do it in my shirt. 
 
 Dum. Most resolute Pompey ! 
 
 Moth. Ma.ster, let me take you a button-hole 
 lower.'" Do you not see, Pompey is uncasing for 
 the combat ? What mean you ? you will lose 
 j'our reputation. 
 
 Arm. Gentlemen, and soldiei's, pardon me ; I 
 will not combat in my shirt. 
 
 Dum. You may not deny it ; Pompey hath 
 made the challenge. 
 
 Arm. Sweet bloods, I both may and will. 
 
 Biron. What reason have you for 't ? 
 
 Arm. The naked truth of it is, I have no shirt ; 
 I go woolward for penance.'" 
 
 Boyel. Tiiii.', and it was enjoined him in Rome 
 for waat of linen: since when, I'll be sworn, he 
 303 
 
 wore none but a dish-clout of Jaquenetta's ; an(^ 
 that 'a weare next his heart, for a fa rour. 
 
 Enter Mercade. 
 
 Mer. God save you, madam ! 
 
 Prin. Welcome, Mercade ; 
 But that thou interruptest our meniment. 
 
 Mer. I am sorry, madam ; for the news I brir.g 
 Is hea^-y in my tongue. The king, your father — 
 
 Prin. Dead, for my life ! 
 
 Mer. Even so ; my tale is told. 
 
 Biron. Worthies, away ; the scene begins to 
 cloud. 
 
 Arm. For mine own part, I breathe free 
 breath: I have seen the day of wrong"-'^ tlirough 
 the little hole of discretion, and I will right my- 
 self like a soldier. \Exeunt Worthies. 
 
 King. How fares your majesty ? 
 
 Prin. Boyet, prepare ; I will away tonight. 
 
 King. Madam, not so; I do beseech you stay. 
 
 Prin. Prepare, I say. — I thank you, giacious 
 lords. 
 For aU your fair endeavours ; and entreat. 
 Out of a new-sad soul, that you vouchsafe 
 In your rich wisdom, to excuse, or hide. 
 The liberal opposition of our spirits : 
 If over-boldly we have borne ourselves 
 In the converse of V*cath, your gentleness 
 Was guilty of it— -? are well, worthy lord, 
 A heavy heart bears not a humble tongue : 
 Excuse me so, coming too short of thanks 
 For my great suit so easily obtain'd. 
 
 King. The extreme parts of Time extreme* y 
 form 
 All causes to the purpose of his speed ; 
 And often, at his very loose, " decides 
 That which long process could not arbitrate : 
 And though the mourning brow of progeny 
 Forbid the smiling courtesy of love, 
 The holy suit which fain it would convince ; 
 Yet, since love's argument was finst on foot. 
 Let not the cloud of sorrow justle it 
 From what it pui'pos'd ; since, to wail frienda 
 
 lost, 
 Is not by much so whol-esome, profitable, 
 As to rejoice at friends but newly found. 
 
 Prin. I understand you not ; my griefs arc 
 dull. 
 
 Biron. Honest plain words best pierce the eare 
 of grief; — 
 And by these badges understand the king. 
 For your fair sakes have we neglected timo,
 
 . 
 
 iic-r V LOVE'S LABOUR 'S LOST. scejib u. 
 
 Play'J fmil play with our oaths. Your beauty. 
 
 But that It bear this trial, and la-st love ; 
 
 ladies, 
 
 Then, at the expiration of the year. 
 
 Elath much dofovm'd us, fashioning our humours 
 
 Come challenge, challenge me by these deserts, 
 
 Even to the opposed end of our intents' 
 
 And, by this virgin palm, now kissing thine. 
 
 / ^Vid what in us hath seem'd ridioulou.^, — 
 
 I will be thine ; and, till that inst.ant, shut 
 
 1 As love is full of unbefitting strains ; 
 
 My woful self up in a mourning house. 
 
 All wanton as a child, skipping, and vain; 
 
 Raining the tears of lamentation 
 
 Forin'd by the eye, and, therefore, like the eye, 
 
 For the remembrance of my father's death. 
 
 Full of strange shapes,'" of habits, and of forms. 
 
 If this thou do deny, let om- hands part; 
 
 Varying in subjects, as the eye doth roll 
 
 Neither intitled in the other's heart. 
 
 To every varied object in his glance : 
 
 Xiny. If this, or more than tliis, I would 
 
 Which party-coated presence of loose love, 
 
 deny. 
 
 Put on by us, if, in your heavenly eyes. 
 
 To flatter up these powers of mine with 
 
 Have luisbeeom'd our oatus and gravities. 
 
 rest,"' 
 
 Those heavenly eyes, that look into these faults. 
 
 The sudden hand of death close up mine eye! 
 
 Suggested us to make. Therefore, ladies, 
 
 Hence ever then my heart is in thy breast. 
 
 Our love being yours, the error that love makes 
 
 Dvm. But what to me, my love ? but what to 
 
 Is likewise yours : we to ourselves prove false, 
 
 me? 
 
 By being once false for ever to be true 
 
 liatk. A wife! — A beard, ftir health, and 
 
 To those that make us both, — fair ladies, you : 
 
 honesty ; 
 
 And even that falsehood, in itself a sin. 
 
 With three-fold love I wisli you all these three. 
 
 Thus purifies itself, and turns to grace. 
 
 Bum. 0, shall I say, I thank you, gentle 
 
 Fri7t. We have receiv'd your letters full of 
 
 wife? 
 
 love ; 
 
 Kath. Not so, my lord ; — a twelvemonth and a 
 
 Your favours, the ambassadors of love ; 
 
 day 
 
 And, in our maiden council, rated them 
 
 I 'D mark no words that smooth-fac'd wooere 
 
 At courtship, pleasant jest, and courtesy. 
 
 say: 
 
 As bombast,'" and as lining to the time: 
 
 Come when the king doth to my lady come. 
 
 But more devout than this, in our respects, 
 
 Then, if I have much love, I '11 give you some. 
 
 Have we not been ; and therefore met your loves 
 
 Bnm. I '11 serve thee true and faithfully ti"[l 
 
 In ilieir own fashion, like a meiriment. 
 
 then. 
 
 Dum. Our letters, madam, jhow'd much more 
 
 Xath. Yet swear not, lest ye be forsworn again. 
 
 than jest. 
 
 Lonff. What says Maria? 
 
 Loni/. So did our looks. 
 
 Mar. At the twelvemonth's end. 
 
 jBos. We did not cote them so. 
 
 I '11 change my black gown for a faithful fi'iend. 
 
 Jiinff. Now, at the latest minute of the hour. 
 
 Lonff. I '11 stay with patience ; but the time is 
 
 Grant us your loves. 
 
 long. 
 
 Prin. A time, methinks, too short 
 
 Mar. The liker you ; few taller are so young. 
 
 To make a world-without-end bargain in : 
 
 Biron. Studies my lady? mistress, look on 
 
 No, no, my lord, your grace is perjur'd much. 
 
 me ? 
 
 Full of dear guiltiness ; and, therefore, this ;■ — 
 
 Behold the window of my heart, mine eye, 
 
 If for my love (as there is no such cause) 
 
 What humble suit attends thy answer there ; 
 
 You will do aught, this shall you do for me : 
 
 Impose some service on me for thy love. 
 
 Your oath I will not trust ; but go with speed 
 
 Bos. Oft have I heard of you, my lord Biron, 
 
 To some foi'lorn and naked hermitage. 
 
 Before I saw you : and the world's large tongue 
 
 Remote from all the pleasures of the world ; 
 
 Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks ; 
 
 There stay until the twelve celestial signs 
 
 Full of comparisons and wounding flouts, 
 
 Have brouglit about their annual reckoning : 
 
 Which you on all estates will execute, ' 
 
 If this austere insociable life 
 
 That lie within the mercy of your wit : 
 
 Change not your ofl'er made in heat of blood ; 
 
 To weed this wormwood from your fruitfiJ 
 
 If frost.s, and fasts, hard lodging, and thin weeds. 
 
 brain. 
 
 Nip not the gaudy blossoms of your love, 
 
 And, therewithal, to win me -f you please, 
 
 803 
 
 •• ■ 1
 
 .OVE'S LABOLT. 'S LOST. 
 
 SCENE n. 
 
 (Without the which, I am not to be won,) 
 
 V©u shall this twelvemonth term, from day to 
 
 Visit the speechless sick, and still converse 
 With groaning wretches; and your task shall be, 
 With all the fierce endeavour of your wit, 
 To enforce the pained impotent to smile. 
 
 Biron. To move wild laughter in the throat of 
 death ? 
 It cannot be ; it is impossible : 
 Mirth cannot move a soul in agony. 
 
 Bos. Why, that 's the way to choke a gibing 
 spirit. 
 Whose influence is begot of that loose grace 
 Which shallow laughing hearer's give to fools : 
 A jest's prosperity lies in the ear 
 Of him that hears it, never in the tongue 
 Of him that makes it : then, if sickly ears, 
 Deaf'd with the clamours of their own dear 
 
 groans. 
 Will hear yom' idle scorns, continue then. 
 And I ynW have you, and that fault withal ; 
 But, if they will not, throw away that spirit, 
 And I shall find you empty of that fault. 
 Right joyful of your refonnation. 
 
 Blron. A twelvemonth ? well, befal what will 
 befal, 
 1 '11 jest a twelvemonth in an hospital. 
 
 Prin. Ay, sweet my lord; and so I take my 
 leave. \To the King. 
 
 King. No, madam, we will bring you on your 
 way. 
 
 Biron. Our wooing doth not end like an old 
 
 pi.iy;^ 
 
 Jack hath not Jill : these ladies' courtesy 
 Might well have made our sport a comedy. 
 
 King. Come, sir, it wants a twelvemonth and a 
 day, 
 And then 't will end. 
 
 Biron. That 's too long for a play. 
 
 Enter Armado. 
 
 Arm. Sweet majesty, vouchsafe me, — 
 
 Prin. Was not that Hector? 
 
 Dum. The worthy knight of Troy. 
 
 Arm. T will kiss thy royal finger, and take 
 leave. I am a votary: I liavo vow'd to Jaque- 
 uetta to hold the plough for her sweet love three 
 )-ears. But, most esteemed greatness, will you 
 bear the dialogue that the two leanied men have 
 compiled in praise of the owl and the cuckoo? it 
 should have followed in the end of our show 
 
 804 
 
 King. Call them forth quick tj"; we will do so. 
 Arm. Holla ! approach. 
 
 Enter Holofernes, Nathaniej,, Motii, O.-'w.-n. 
 and others. 
 
 This side is Hiems, winter : Th.s Ver, the spring ; 
 the one maintained by the owl, the other by tlic 
 cuckoo. Ver, begin. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Spring. When daisies pied, and violets blue, 
 And lady-smoeVs all silver white, 
 And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue,"" 
 
 Do paint the meadows with delight, 
 The cuclioo then, on every tree, 
 Mocks married meu, for thus singa he 
 
 Cuckoo ; 
 Cuckoo, cuckoo, — word of fear, 
 Unpleasing to a married ear I 
 
 When shepherds pipe on oaten straws, 
 And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks, 
 
 Wlien turtles tread, and rooks, and dawo. 
 And maidens bleach their summer smocks 
 
 The cuckoo then, on every tree. 
 
 Mocks married men, for thus sings he* 
 Cuckoo ; 
 
 Cuckoo, cuckoo, — woid of fear, 
 
 Unpleasing to a married earl 
 
 WniTER. When icicles hang by the wall, 
 
 And Dick the shepherd blows hie nail, 
 And Tom bears logs into tlie hall, 
 
 And milk comes frozen home in pail. 
 When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul. 
 Tlien nightly sings the staring owl. 
 
 To-who ; 
 Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note, 
 While greasy Joan doth keel the pot."' 
 
 When all aloud the wind doth blow, 
 
 And coughing drowns the parson's saw, 
 
 And birds sit brooding in the snow. 
 And Marian's nose looks red and raw; 
 
 When roasted crabs hiss in the bcwl,'" 
 
 Then nightly sings the stariLg owl, 
 To-who ; 
 
 Tu-whit, towho, a merry note. 
 
 Wliilo greasy Joan doth keel (he pot. 
 
 yir/i>. The words of Mercury are harsh after the 
 sotigs of Apullo. You, that way; we, this way. 
 
 lEzeunL
 
 NOTES TO LOVE'S LABOUR 'S LOST. 
 
 > In Uie disgrace of death. 
 
 Ihtyraee aoems to be )iere used for ohfcvrity. "To 
 lj.!jriicc, to obscure and mako darke a thing," Baret's 
 AJveiirio, 1680. 
 
 ' Our court shall be a little aeademe. 
 
 Nor hath fair Enrop lier vast bounds throughout 
 Au academe of note I found not out. 
 
 HoweWs Familiar Letters^ 1650. 
 
 ' Fat paunches have lean pates. 
 
 This couplet wab provoib„il. It is quoted, with slight 
 v.iriations, iu Head's Protoun Ecdivivus, 1675, p. 55, in 
 Llustration of the remark, — '* a fat belly bespeaks a little 
 irtre'**^, because the subtile spirits are atfcctcd with gross 
 and turbulent fumes, which darken the understanding." 
 Bankrupt quite, ed. 1598; the folio reading hankerout. 
 
 * With all these living in philosophy. 
 
 Tlint is, living in philosophy, which includes all the love, 
 wealth, and pomp, lie is anxious for. 
 
 * Doth falsely blind the eyesight of hie look. 
 
 Pr. -Johnson makes a curious observation on this tauto- 
 logical passage. "The whole sense," he says, "of this 
 pingling declamation is only this, that a man by too close 
 study iniy read himself blind ; whicli might have been 
 told wiih less obscurity iu fewer words." 
 
 An envious sneaping frost. 
 
 Sneaping, i. o. nipping. "Snaped, checked, nipped with 
 cold," Craven Glos. ii. 142. Fit you out, prepare for your 
 journey. 
 
 ' A dangerous law against gentility. 
 
 Gentility here corresponds to the French gentilesse, po- 
 liteness, uri:)anity, Theobald explains the passage thus, — 
 '* Such a law for banishing women from tlie court is dan- 
 peroub, or injurious, to politeness, urbanity, and tlie more 
 refined pleasures of life. For men without women would 
 lurn brutal and savage in their natures and behaviour." 
 
 ■* She must liif here. 
 
 That is, slic must reside here. Sir H. Wotton, perfectly 
 innocent of any equivoque, thus defines an ambassador — 
 " ar honest man sent to lie abroad for the good of his 
 country." AJffCts, loves, atfeclioni. Suggestions, tenipta- 
 tiouB. Qi/ici, livel.v, spirited. 
 8!» 
 
 • A man of eompUments. 
 
 Complements are well explained by Minsheu, "cfcrcrii.> 
 uies, accomplishments, making that pericct which was 
 wanting." The king means to say that Armado was a 
 person of such exquisite accomplishments, that he was the 
 umpire in all questions of elegant etiquette, llight, 'is 
 called. 
 
 " Lost in tlie world's debate. 
 
 " Our author, in my humble judgment, meant no more 
 than that stories of chivalry were unattended to by persona 
 who lived in the bustle of cities, but would be admirabio 
 recreations occasionally in a life of "seclusion from the 
 world, to which he and his lords were about, for a certain 
 period, to devote tliemselves," MS. note by Thomas Hull, 
 circa 1778. 
 
 »• /will use him for my minstrelsy. 
 
 Douce explains this, "I will mako a minstrci ./ 2.im 
 whose occupation was to relate fabulous stories." 
 
 »2 A man ofjire-neiD words. 
 
 Fire-ne^o, new from the forge, quite new. " Or fire-new 
 fashion in a sleeve or slop," Du Bartas, p. 516. Tharht- 
 rough, tlih-dborough or constable. A high hope for a low 
 heaven-, alluding to Armado's lofty words being far too high 
 for the low heaven of his meaning. 
 
 " I was taken with the manyier. 
 
 A technical legal phrase for being t.aken in the com- 
 mission of the deed, with the stolen property on the person. 
 
 " It is y-cliped thy park. 
 
 Y-cliped, called ; from the Anglo-Saxon cUopian, to call. 
 The letter y or i was very commonly used in early Engliab 
 as an augment or prefix to the imperfects and participles 0) 
 verbs, being merely a corruption of the Anglo-Saxon go ' 
 but it was an antiquated form even in Shakespeare's time 
 
 *^ IJear imp. 
 
 Imp is properly the shoot, cutting, or bud of a tree ; bul 
 the term is frequently metaphorically applied to n olilld oi 
 young person. "Au impe, or a yong slip of d ;r«e.'' 
 Caret's Alveajio, 1580. Juvenal, youth. 
 
 8«')
 
 NOTES TO LOVE'S LABOUR '8 LOST. 
 
 19 Pretty and apt. 
 
 That is, in Armado's piiraseology, pretty apt. Motli per- 
 vorte tlie meauiug, and is humoured by Armado. 
 
 Hor. IIow do you feel yourself 
 Oris. Pretty and well, I thauk you. 
 
 Ben. JorirSOTi's Poetaster ^ 1602. 
 
 1' Crosses love not him. 
 
 An alius. on to his poverty. "A cross, coin, nummus" 
 Coles, 1677. 
 
 '« The dancing-Tiorse will tell you. 
 
 Au allusion to a celebrated horse which was brought 
 np by a person named Banks, who taught it to perform such 
 extraordinary leats, tliat it is said he was taken and burnt 
 for a conjuror, after he had e.xhibited the animal at Korae. 
 According to Sir Kenelm Digby, the horse " would restore 
 r. glove to the due owner, after the master had whispered 
 the man's name in his ear; would tell tlie just number of 
 pence in any piece of silver coin, newly showed him by his 
 master, &c." Decker mentions tlie horse, who was called 
 Morocco, as having walked to the top of old St. Paul's in 
 the year 1600, in a note to his Dead Tearnie, 1608; an 
 exfJoit also alluded to in the Bhicke Booke, 1604; and tlie 
 author of Pecle's Jests, 1627, seems to imply that he had 
 oeen taught to play on the lute ! Banks was encouraged by 
 Prince Henry, in whose book of payments, preserved at the 
 Rolls House, is the following eutry under Jan. 1st, lCOS-9, 
 "Tj Banks for teaching of a lith> naig to vaut, be his 
 highnes comand, 2 W." 
 
 Banks narrowly escaped in France, as we learn from 
 Bishop Morton's answer to Theophilus Higgins, 1609; 
 " Which bringeth into my remembrance a storie wliich 
 Banks told me at Frankeford, from his own experience in 
 France among the Capucliins, by whom he was brought 
 into suspicion of magicke, because of tlie strange feates 
 which his horse Morocco plaied i,as I take it) atOrleance; 
 where he, to redeem his credit, promised to manifest to the 
 world that his horse was nothing lesso tlian a divell. To this 
 end he commanded his 1 orse to seek out one in the preasse 
 of the people, who had a nrucifixe on his hat ; which done, 
 he bad him kneele downe unto it; and not this only, but 
 alsotoriseupagaincand to kisseit. And now, gentlemen, 
 (quotli he) I think my horse hath acquitted both me and 
 himself; and solus adversaries rested satisfied : conceiving 
 (as it might sceme) tliat the divell had no power to come 
 neare the crossc." 
 
 lint 'mongst these Tiberts, who do yoa think there was ? 
 Old Banks the juglcr, our Pythagoras, 
 (jrave tutor to tlie learned horse ; both %vhich, 
 Being, beyond sea, burned for one witch, 
 Their spirits tr.nnsmigrated to a cat. 
 
 Bin Ji/n£f>n^8 Epigravis^ Works, viii. 216. 
 
 • nhali never forget my fellow humourist Banks, the 
 vintiicr in Cheapside, who taught his horse to dance, and 
 Bhooed him with silver," Life and Death of Mrs. Mary 
 Frith, 1662, p. 75. 
 
 But never yet wa« seen in Spaino or Franco 
 
 A horse like Bancks his, that to th' pipe would dance. 
 
 Tell niony with his feet ; a tiling which you, 
 
 Qcod Bosinante nor Quixot, o'r could doo. 
 
 GaytorCs Pleasant Notes upon Bon Quixot, 1654. 
 SOS 
 
 13 Most maculats thougTits. 
 
 Maculate, impure. "To maculate, maeuh, polluo^'' 
 Coles' Diet. 1677. Owe, own, postw-" Natim she doth 
 owe, possesses naturally. 
 
 ■^ A ballad, boy, of the King and the Beggar. 
 
 This ballad is more particularly alluded to in Arinado's 
 letter in the fourth act; and as it is also mentioned by 
 Shakespeare in other plays, a copy of it may appropriately 
 find a place here : — 
 
 I read that once in Afl'rica 
 
 A princely wight did raine. 
 Who had to name Coplietua, 
 
 As poets they did faine ; 
 From natures lawes he did decline, 
 For sure he was not of my mind, 
 He cared not for women-kiude, 
 
 But did them all disdaine. 
 But, marke, what hapned on a day, 
 As he out of his Y."indow lay, 
 He saw a beggar all in gray, 
 
 The which did cause his paino. 
 
 The blinded boy, that shootes so trim, 
 
 From heaven downe did hie ; 
 He drew a darl and shot at him. 
 
 In place wheie he did lyo : 
 Which soone did picrse him to the qulcEt, 
 And when he felt the arrow pricke. 
 Which in his tender heart did sticke. 
 
 He looketh as he would dye. 
 What sudden chance is this, quoth he, 
 That I to love must subject be. 
 Which never thereto would agree, 
 
 But still did it defie ? 
 
 Then from the window he did come. 
 
 And laid him on his bed ; 
 A thousand heapcs of care did runno 
 
 Witliiu his troubled head : 
 For now he meanes to crave her love, 
 And now lie seekes which way to prooi'''* 
 How he bis fancie might remoove. 
 
 And not tliis beggar wed. 
 But Cupid had him so in snare, 
 Tliat tills poor beggar must preparo 
 A salve to cure him of his care, 
 
 Or els ho would be dead. 
 
 And, as he musing thus did lye, 
 
 He thought for to devise 
 How lie might have her companyo, 
 
 That so did 'maze his eyes. 
 In thee, quoth he, doth rest my life ; 
 For surely thou slialt be my wife. 
 Or else this hand with bloody knifo 
 
 The gods sliall sure suffice. 
 Then from his bed he soon aroso. 
 And to his pallacc gate he goes ; 
 Full little then lliis bcgger kuowes, 
 
 When she the king capiea. 
 
 The Gods preserve your raajoBt(y, 
 
 The bcggcrs all gau cry : 
 Vouchsafe to give your charity 
 
 Our childrens food to buy. 
 The king to them his imrso did cast, 
 And they to part it made great huatft, 
 This silly woman was the laist 
 
 That lifter them did hyo. 
 Tlio king lie cal'd her buck againo, 
 And unto her he gave his chaine,^ 
 And said, With us you slial remaino, 
 
 Till eucli time as wo dyo :
 
 NOTES TO LOVE'S LABOUR 'S LOST. 
 
 For tliou, quoth ho, slialt be my wife, 
 
 And lioiioured fi)r my quceno ; 
 With tlice 1 ineuiio lo k'lid my life, 
 
 A9 shortly shall ho scene : 
 jlvir wctldin^ sliull appoiutod bo, 
 And evorythinsj in its dotrree: 
 Coino on, quoth he, and follow me, 
 
 Thou slialt go eliift thoo cleano. 
 What is tliy name, fairc niaido ? quoth he. 
 Fouelophon, O kinfj, quoth she : 
 With that she made a lowe eourtsey, 
 
 A trim one as 1 weeno. 
 
 Thu-^ hand in liand alonjj tJicy walkc 
 
 Unto the king's pallaco: 
 The kiniT with courteous comely talko 
 
 Tills bejfger doth imbraoe ; 
 The bejrger blushcth scarlet red. 
 And straight againe as pale as lead. 
 But not II word at all she said, 
 
 She w;is in suoh amaze. 
 At last she spake with trembling voyce, 
 And said, O king, I doe rejoyce 
 That you wil take me for your choyco, 
 
 And my degree s so base. 
 
 And when the wedding di>.y was como, 
 
 The king commanded strait 
 The noblemen, both all and some. 
 
 Upon the queene to wait. 
 And she Iiehaved herself that day. 
 As if she had never walkt the way : 
 She had forgot her gowne of gray. 
 
 Which she did wearc of late. 
 The proverbe old is come to passe, 
 The priest, when he begins his masse. 
 Forgets that ever clerke he was ; 
 
 He knoweth not his estate. 
 
 Here you may read, Cophetua, 
 
 Though long time faneie-fed. 
 Compelled by "the blinded boy 
 
 The begger for to wed : 
 He that tiiil lovers lookes disdaine, 
 To do the same was glad and faine, 
 Or el.se he would himselfe have slaino, 
 
 In storie as we read. 
 Disdaine no whit, U lady deere, 
 But pitty now thy servant heero. 
 Least that it hap to thee this yeare, 
 
 As to that king it did. 
 
 And thus they led a quiet life 
 
 During their princely raigne ; 
 And iu a tombe were buried both, 
 
 As writers sliowetli plaiue : 
 The lords they tooke it grievously, 
 The Ladies took it heavily. 
 The commons cried pitiously, 
 
 Their death to them was paine, 
 Their fame did sound so passingly 
 That it did pierce the starry skv. 
 And throughout all the world did fiye 
 
 To every princes rcalme. 
 
 ^' Yet a hetter love than my master. 
 
 That is, yet she deserves a better lover than my master 
 Armado. 
 
 " Sh4 is allotcedfor the day-woman, 
 
 A day- woman was a dairy-woman, one who had the 
 oharge of the dairy. A dairy is still called a day-liouse in 
 the West of England. ^^Ca^^eale^ a dey-house where cheese 
 l£ made," Elyot's Diotionarie, 1553. 
 
 s' With that face. 
 
 This cant phrase has oddly lasted till the piesent time; 
 and is used by people who have no more raaanw^^ annexed 
 to it, than Fielding had ; who putting it into the mouth of 
 Beau Didapper, thinks it necessary to apologize (in a noto) 
 for its want of sense, by adding — " that it was taken ver- 
 batim from very polite conversation." Stevens. 
 
 "^ Ciipi^Ts hutt-slut/l is too /lard/or Hercules^ club. 
 
 The butt-shaft is explained by Nares to bo a kind o< 
 arrow, used for shooting at butts, furrned without a barb, so 
 as to stick into the bulls, and yet to be easily c.'clraeted. 
 
 "> Utter' d by base sale of chapmen? s tongues. 
 
 She means to say tliat beauty is not liable to the decoiv- 
 ing sale effected by the praises of the seller. The itinerant 
 hawker is still called a chapman in some of the provinces. 
 BoU of your worthiness, contideut in it. 
 
 " Atid mvch too little of that good I saw. 
 
 This is well explained by Heath, — "And my report of 
 that good I saw is nmch too little compared to his great 
 worthiness." 
 
 ^ Competitors in oath. 
 
 Competitors, confederates. Addressed, prepared. Lon^ 
 of yon, owing to you. 
 
 *' Which we much, rather had. depart mthal. 
 
 Depart is here used for, part icith, ** I can hardly depart 
 with ready money," Ben Jonson. Tills sense of the word 
 also occurs in Beaumont and Fletcher, but it is usually 
 followed by the preposition. 
 
 » So point, with my hnife. 
 
 No point, not in the least ; a negation borrowed from tho 
 French. "Panto punio, never a whit; no point, as tho 
 Frenchmen say," Florio, 1611. 
 
 s" My lips are no common, though several they be. 
 
 A play upon the words, several meaning both separate, ea 
 in Ben Jonson's Poetaster, ed. Gilford, ii. .'SOS, and, accord- 
 ing to Mr. Hunter, a portion of common assigned for a term 
 to a particular proprietor, the other commoners waiving for 
 a time their right of common over it. Malone, however, 
 explains several to be, in uninclosed lands, a certain portion 
 of ground appropriated to either corn or meadow, adjoining 
 tho common field. 
 
 " All impatient to speak and not see. 
 
 That is, according to an anonymous critic, his tongue 
 envied tho quickness of his eyes, and strove to be aa 
 rapid in its utterance as they in their perception. Margenif 
 margin. 
 
 " Boyet is dUpos'd. 
 
 Disposed, inclined to be merry. Sea Nares's Glossary, 
 and the examples quoted by him. Boyet pretends to accept 
 it in its literal sense, and follows the speech of the princess. 
 " Wend thee from mee, Venus, 1 am not disposed," Eng- 
 land's Helicon, 1600. Mr. Dyce says disposed means. In 
 
 807
 
 NOTES TO LOVE'S LABOUR 'S LOST. 
 
 this play, wantonly incny. inclined to wanton mirtli : but 
 eurely this is exceeding the meaninsr intended by the poet, 
 ikiyet is merely expressing liis strong opinion of the extent 
 of the king's affection. It is the ^int/'s eye who is supposed 
 io sat/, — 
 
 I '11 give you A:iuitain, and all that is his, 
 
 An you give him for my sake but one loving kiss. 
 
 Adopting this view, we have the expression of a fine 
 poetical idea completely in unison with what precedes and 
 what follows. Why sliAuld Boyet say, "for my sake," if 
 this were not the case ? Concollncl, apparently is the 
 name or commencement of a song now lost. Festinately, 
 hastily. 
 
 35 fFin your love with a French hrawl. 
 
 Cotgrave translates hransU, " a brawle or daunce, wherein 
 many men and women, holding by thi hands, sometimes 
 in a ring, and otherwhiles at length, move altogether." It 
 is thus described by Marston, — " The Irawl! why 'tis but 
 two singles to tlie left, two on the right, three doubles 
 forwards, a traverse of six rounds : do this tv/ice, three 
 Bingles side galliard trick of twenty coranto pace : a figure 
 of eight, tliree singles broken down, come up, meet two 
 doubles, fiUl back, and then Lu'iour." 
 
 SI With your hat pentliouse-like. 
 
 The characteristics of tho ''complete" man, bo well 
 ridiculed in this speech, are noticed by several of our 
 early dramatists. '* I do not despair, gentlemen ; you 
 see I do not wear my hat in my eyes, crucify my arms," 
 Bhirley'e Bird in a Cage, 1033. 
 
 35 The hohhy-horse is forgot. 
 
 This expression, probably borrowed from an old ballad, 
 became proverbial. The hobby-horse consisted of a light 
 frame of wicker-work, fastened to the body of the person 
 who performed the character, whosi '»gs were concealed 
 ny a housing, which, with a false head a::d neck, gave the 
 appearance of a liorsc. Thus equipped, ho performed all 
 Borto of antics, imitating the movements of a horse, and 
 executing juggling tricks of various kinds. A ladle was 
 Bometimcs suspended from the horse's mouth for the pur- 
 pose of collecting money from the spectators. The Puritans 
 waited a violent crusade against the morris dance, and the 
 hobby-horse, which properly belonged to it, was frequently 
 onritted. 
 
 "With hey and ho, through thick and thin^ 
 
 The hobby-horse quite forgotten, 
 I follow'd, as I did begin, 
 
 Although the way were rotten. 
 
 Kemp'' s Nine Daies fCoTit/*?/*, 1600. 
 
 3" 7'he hohhy-horse is hut a colt. 
 
 A colt, savf) Dr. Johnson, is a liot, mad-brained, unbroken 
 yjung fellow. A hackney was a cant term for a woman of 
 tftd character. 
 
 3" A Costard hroken in a shin. 
 
 A coHtard was a cant term for the head, and licnce the 
 ■ wondsr." 
 
 308 
 
 *8 Come, — thy Venvoy. 
 
 Cotgrave explains Venvoy, the " conclusion of a balk-t oi 
 sonnet in a short stanzo by itselfe, and serving, oftentimcH, 
 as a dedication of the whole." No salve in them all \» 
 Tyrwhitt's emendation; but the old reading, no salve it, 
 the male, or budget, will make sense. The meaning is the 
 f*ime, whichever we adopt. Costard, not understanding 
 the word Venvoy^ cries out against any salve but the plan- 
 tain leaf wbich was supposed to be of great efficacy. I 
 doubt whether the Latin salve is intended in Moth's next 
 speech, the pronunciation not justifying an approach to a 
 quibble. Sai/ij said. It is properly say, being the present 
 tense; but is put hero evidently for the perfect. 
 
 9» The hoy hath sold him a bargain. 
 
 That is, has made a fool of him. It was a commoti pro- 
 verbial phrase. '■'■ Battler foin en corne, to give one the 
 boots, to sell him a bargaine," Cotgrave. 
 
 *" Lil'c the sequel, I. 
 That is, says Heath, I follow you as close as the seqaol 
 
 does the premises. 
 
 ^1 My incony Jew I 
 
 Incony is a term of endearment often met with in old 
 plays. So, in Doctor Doddipol,— 
 
 Farewell, Doctor Doddy, 
 In niinde and in borly 
 An excellent noddy: 
 A coxcomb incony. 
 But that he wants money. 
 
 InTde, a sort of inferior tape. 
 
 " A fairer name than a French crown. 
 
 There is a double meaning here, as when the same term 
 is used in Measure for Measure, i. 2. Collier and Knight 
 omit the article before French; why I know not. 
 
 *3 Eleven-pence farthing better. 
 
 The following curious extract from Markham's Health 
 to the Gentlemanly Profession of Servingmen, 4to. 159S, 
 shows either that the joke, such as it is, was not invented 
 by Shakespeare, or that Markham, who was a great plagia- 
 rist, luul made the tale np from what he had heard CoslarJ 
 say at the theatre : — 
 
 "There was, sayth he, a man, (but of wliut estate, degree, 
 or calling, I will not name, least thereby I might incurro 
 displeasure of any,) that connning to his friendcs liouse, 
 who was ft gentleman of good reckoning, and being thero 
 kindly entcrtayned, and well used, ns well of his friendo, 
 the gentleman, as of his servantcs ; one of the sayde ser- 
 vantes doing him some cxtraordinarie pleasure during his 
 abode there, at his departure he comes unto the eayd ser- 
 vant, and saiUi unto him, Hold thee, hccrc is a remurura^ 
 lion for thy payncs ; whicJi the servant rcceyving, gave him 
 utterly for it (besides his payncs) thankcs, for it was but u 
 three -farihinges piece: and I holde thankcs for the same a 
 small price, howsoever the market goes. Now, another 
 coming to the sayd genlh-men's liouse, it was the forcsayd 
 sorvant/s good luip to be ncaro him at his going away, who, 
 calling tho uer-AUt unto him« sayd, Hold thco, hcoru Ia a
 
 NOTES TO LOVE'S LABOUK 'S LOST. 
 
 gvordon for l.iy dcsnrtes: now the servant pnyd no docrer 
 for tlio guerdon, tlian he did for the remuneratiouj inon;^h 
 iho guerdon was xid. farthing better ; for il, was a shiUijig, 
 nnd the otlier but a three-fa rthin(/es.^'' 
 
 -■* A very headlc to a humorous sigh. 
 
 TTumorous is here used in tlic eenso of fantastic^ the 
 meaninf? given to the word by Minsheu, or, perliiips, 
 peevish, wayward, as Coles 1ms it, transhitin^ it hymorosus. 
 Cotgrave has, ^^ AvertineiiXjiDOodley humorous." It has 
 been suggested we Bhcald read, an amoro'iis sigh; one of 
 those emendations rendered mischievous by tlieir ingenu- 
 ity, imposing on those wlio prefer a meaning in modern 
 phraseology to a more antique one in the language rcuUy 
 employed by the poet. 
 
 *ft This wimpled^ whining. 
 
 The wimpio was properly a kind of tape or tippet cover- 
 ing the ncok and shoulders ; hut was also applied to a kind 
 of veil or hood, from which latter sense the verb here used 
 is fonned. 
 
 " Dread prince of 'plackets. 
 
 A placket was a pocket attached to a woman's petticoat. 
 The term was often used metaphorically. Pariiors, offi- 
 cers of the ecclesiastical court, who carried out citations, 
 chiefly on matters of divorce, and hence the allusion. Ac- 
 cording to Blount, tlie word was "most commonly used 
 for an inferior officer, that summon'd in delinquents to a 
 spiritual court." 
 
 " And wear his colours like a k/mhler^s hoop. 
 
 Tumbler's hoops were and are adorned with various 
 coloured ribbands. 
 
 « A woTnaUj that is like a German chch. 
 
 Allusions to the cumbersome and complicated German 
 clocks of Shakespeare's time are very numerous. " She 
 takes herself asunder still when she goes to bed, into some 
 twenty boxes ; and about next day noon is put together 
 again, like a great German clock ; and so comes forth, and 
 rings a tedious larum to the whole house, and then is quiet 
 again for an hour, but for her quarters," Ben Jonson's 
 Silent "Woman. Compare Middleton, ii. 385, — 
 
 Being ready, she consists of hundred pieces, 
 Mucli like your German clock, and near ally'd ; 
 Both are so nice, they cannot go for pride : 
 Beside a greater fault, but too well known, 
 They '11 strike to ten, when they should stop at one. 
 
 *B A stand where you may make the fairest shoot. 
 
 According to Mr. Hunter, there is here an allusion to a 
 building with a flat roof called a stand or standing, erected 
 in the park for the purpose of sheltering the deer-shooters. 
 Goldingham, in a poem in MS. Ilarl. 6902, mentions a 
 "standing made to shoot at stately deer." The sport of 
 shooting at deer with a cross-bow was formerly aristo- 
 cratic, and practised by ladies. 
 
 60 Here^ good my glass. 
 
 Referring, of course, to the forester, who, by her banter- 
 ing, has been the looking-glass of her supposititious imper- 
 foctions. Pr. Johnson very erroneously takes it in the 
 
 literal sense, and remarks that ladies formerly wore mir- 
 rors suspended from their girdles, by which they ooca- 
 sionally viewed their faces, or adjusted their hair ! W hen 
 so eminent a writer is detected in a blunder of such mag- 
 nitude, the smaller critics may well bear the infliction of 
 the discovery of their errors. That my heart Tneana no iU^ 
 to whom my heart means no ill. Self-soriereignty, sove- 
 reignty in themselves. Dig-^jou-den, a corruption, as Ma- 
 lone observes, o^ give you good even. 
 
 ^* Break up this capon. 
 
 Break vp was a technical phrase in carving. The prin- 
 cess humorously means to say, — " open this letter." Jl- 
 lustrate, illustrious. Annotauize, according to Mr. Knight, 
 is a pedantic form oi annotate. 
 
 *2 A phantasm, a Monarchc. 
 
 Monarcho was the assumed name of an Enirlishman who 
 iiflccted Italian manners, and amused the court by his fan- 
 tastic proceedings. Mr. Knight erroneously terms him a 
 mad Italian, but Nash, in his Have With You to Saffron 
 Walden, 15'J6, says he " quite renounst his nnturall Eng- 
 lish accents and gestures, and wrested hiniselfe whtdy to the 
 Italian puntilios;" and it was, perhaps, for this reason 
 that lieginald Scot (quoted V)y Douce) terms him an Italian. 
 tMuirchyard thus describes him in his Chance, 4to. Lond, 
 15SL1,— ' 
 
 No matche for fooles, if wise men were in place ; 
 
 No mate at niealc to sit with common sort: 
 Both grave of looks aiid father-like of face, 
 
 Of judgement quicke, of comely forme and port. 
 Moste bent to words on hye and solenipne dales, 
 Of diet tine, and dalntic diverse waics ; 
 And well disposde, if Prince did pleasure take, 
 At any mirthe that he, poore man, could make. 
 
 "The actors were that Bergamasco, for his phantastick 
 humors named Monarcho, and two of the Spanish embas 
 sadors retinue, who being about ^bu re and twentie yeare^ 
 past in Paules Church in London, contended who waa 
 soveraigne of the world : the Monnrcho maintained him- 
 self to be he, and named their king to be but his viceroj 
 for Spain : the other two with great fury denying it. At 
 which myself, and some of good account, now dead, won- 
 dred in respect of the subject they handled, and that want 
 of judgment we looked not for in the Spaniards. Yet 
 this, moreover, we noted, that notwithstanding the weight 
 of their controversie, they kept in their walk the Spanish 
 turne ; which is, that he which goeth at the right hand, 
 shall at every end of the walke turne in the midst; the 
 which place the Monarcho was loth to yeald but as they 
 compelled him, though they gave him sometimes that 
 romthe, in respect of his supposed majestic ; but I would 
 this were the worst of their ceremonies; the same keeping 
 some decorum concerning equalitie." — A Brief e Discourse 
 of the Spanish State, ivith a Dialogue anneued, intituled 
 Fhilobasilis, 4to. 1590. 
 
 *3 Who is the shooter f 
 
 Suitor and shooter were pronounced alike, and some or 
 the commentators ttiink there is here a quibble on the 
 word. 
 
 6* Queen Guincver of Britain. 
 
 Guinever was the queen of King Arthur, and hrw ehe 
 deceived her husband is well known to every reader of the 
 
 S09
 
 NOTES TO LOVE'S LABOUR 'S LOST. 
 
 old romances. Dr. Forman, the astrologer, in one of his 
 absurd manuscripts in the Ashmolean Museum at Oxford, 
 Bays, ' she was twelve foote longe, and went all in white ; 
 a longe leane visage, mixed of red and white, and a crown 
 on her hed ; a whileish flaxen haire, a clear complection, a 
 hrod and hie forhed, a round forhed, fraie eyes, a full 
 round eye ; a lyttle ghorte nose and slender ; a gren Jewell 
 in her lefte eare; a straight bodied gown of whit silk, and 
 a whit mantell ; a hie collor in her gowne, and a plain 
 falicg band, brod without lace, and her gown buttoned up 
 close before. She had noe hoope, noe fardingalle; asmallo 
 long hand. She lived almost a hundred years." — MS. 
 AsTimoU, 802. 
 
 Bs Let the marh have a prich in, H. 
 
 The prick was a small piece of wood or mark in the 
 centre of a target. Mete, to measure. Wide o' the hoio 
 hand, left of the mark. Clout and pin are nearly synony- 
 mous v;\\h priclc ; but these terms in archery are not here 
 used quite literally. Ruliing, a term at bowls, when one 
 call touched another. 
 
 6fl }ilpe as aviytnewater. 
 
 Gerard gives a drawing of tlie pomewater-tree in his 
 account of apple-trees. The Latin name for it was mains 
 tarhonaria. The pomatum of the age of Elizabeth, accord- 
 ing to this writer, was " an ointment made witli the pulpe 
 of apples and swines grease and rose-water, which is used 
 to beautifiethe face, and to take away the roughues of tlie 
 ekin, which is called in shops pomatum, of the apples 
 whereof it is made." 
 
 6' A hud oftJie^rst head. 
 
 In old hunting phraseology, the name of the hart, buck, 
 Ac., changed in every year of its age. The buck in its 
 fifth year, and the roebuck in its fourth year, was termed 
 a bueh of the first head. The buck, in its second year, was 
 calied apricket f and, in its third year, a sorrel. 
 
 «8 Raught, i.e. reached. Affect the letter, use alliteration. 
 
 ^^ If a taUnt he a claw. 
 
 Talon was almost always written and pronounced talent. 
 The quibble is a favourite one in old plays. Claio, to flat- 
 ter; another quibble. 
 
 80 Good morrow, master person. 
 
 Person is the arcliaic form of parson. The ** good old 
 Mantuan " is Mantnanus, the C.irmelite, whose Eclogues 
 were translated into Englisii by Tnrbevile, 12mo. Lond. 
 1567. Ut, re, <tc., are the notes of the gamut. 
 
 «' If Love Tnake m^forstcorn. 
 
 This poem waa printed, with some variations, in the 
 Passionate Pilgiimo, 1599, where the two last lines are as 
 
 foloWi, — 
 
 Celestial as thou art, 1 do not love that wrong, 
 
 To Bing the heavens' praiso with such an earthly tongue. 
 
 " Tired, attired Farmer tlnnks this is another allusion 
 to nankfi' celebrated horse. 
 310 
 
 «3 They havepUcJitd a toil. 
 
 The toil was an enclosure into which game was drivOD. 
 I arn toiling in a pitch, a quibble in allusion to Rosaline's 
 dark complexion. 
 
 •* Under the left pap. 
 
 " That left pap, where heart doth hop," is mentioned in 
 the Midsummer Night's Dreas;, v. 1. Smol, smote. 
 
 '•* Like a perjurer, 'wearing papers. 
 
 Dr. Johnson observes that the punishment of perjury 
 was to wear a paper on the breast expressing the crime. 
 
 •" Ttiou mai'st the triumviry. 
 
 An allusion, says Douce, to the gallows of the time, 
 which was occasionally triangular. The comer-cap was a 
 cap whose top was triangular. 
 
 As there are three nooks in a corner'd cap. 
 And three comers and one in a map. 
 
 Wits Secreationi, 1640 
 
 •' Guards, facings, trimmings. 
 
 «» All-hid, alUhid. 
 
 The game of hide-and-seek. " Wlioop all liid, or hide 
 and seek, where they hide and seek one another," Comenii 
 Janua Linguarum, 1662, p. 252. " Our tinhansome fac'd 
 poet does play at bo-peeps with your grace, and cries all 
 hid, as boys do," Deckers Untrussing of the Humorous 
 Poet, 1602. More sacks to the mill, a proverbial phrase 
 quaintly implying addition. " Who were oppress'd and 
 overladen with heavie packs, and ought not to havo laid 
 more sacks to the mill." Gayton's Pleasant Notes upon 
 Don Qui.xot, 16.54, p. 65. 
 
 " Eer amher hairs for foul have amOer coted. 
 
 Coted, i.e. quoted. Iler amber hairs have quoted, inter- 
 preted, or marked amber foul. '* Cuter, to quote," Cot- 
 grave, Cote has already occurred in this play, act. ii. sc. 1, 
 altered most inconsistently by Mr. Knight and others to 
 quote ; and the same variation has also been made in act v. 
 sc. 2. If we alter cote to quote in one instance, we should 
 of course in all ; but I scarcely think it is in an editor's 
 discretion, if fairly exercised, so to modernize an archaism 
 
 ■0 A king transformed to a gnat. 
 
 That is, a sovereign transformed to a most insignificant 
 and foolish insect, — the " foolish gnat," as Sliakespearo 
 elsewhere terms it. The commentators have much un- 
 necessary discussion on this simple passage. 
 
 " Whipping a gig. 
 
 A gig was a kind of top. " Carlo, a top or giggo that 
 children play with in Lent," Florio, 1611. 
 
 " And Nestor play at push-pin with Vu hoys. 
 
 Push-pin is translated by Miego, jeu d^epingles. Ash 
 explains it, " a chiM's play in which pins are pushed with 
 an endeavour to cross them." But from tlie foUowiag
 
 NOTES TO LOVE'S LABOUR 'S LOST. 
 
 possago, it would rather appear to Iiave been merely played 
 by aiming pins at a mark. 
 
 Play at push-pin there, sir? 
 
 It was well aiinM ; but, plasjue upon 't, you Bhot short, 
 And Lflul will lose your game. 
 
 JieaunwiU and Fktcher, Woman, Pleased, ii. 8. 
 
 " With men, like men, of strange inconstancy. 
 
 That is, with men, like common men are, of inconstancy. 
 The second folio rtnv\s strange inconstancy, sacri ficin;^ tlio 
 sense to the metre; but, on the whole, I retain this read- 
 inij, although stranite was probably not the word used by 
 tlio poet. I much prefer Ticck's suggestion, such. 
 
 " Or groan for Joan. 
 
 Joan was the generic name for a rustic girl. The jingle 
 was evidently intentional, and exactly suits Biron's merry 
 character. Mr. Collier reads groan for love, on the autho- 
 rity of a single copy of the edition of 159S. 
 
 " To malee up tTie mess. 
 
 A mess was a set of fonr people, properly a party dining 
 together, but used more generally. Compare act v. bo. 2, 
 "a mesf of Ruseians." 
 
 '" And the scroll of night. 
 
 The old editions corruptly read school of night, and I am 
 not satisfied with any emendation yet proposed. In pro- 
 posing scroll, it must be observed that it harmonizes with 
 J<adi]e, hue, and crest; but I question its correctness. 
 
 " Stm climling trees in the Eespcrides. 
 
 Hesperides is here used, by a licence not unusual with 
 old writers, for the garden of the ITesperidcs. It is the 
 fashion to light up Sliakespeare^s ignorance by means of 
 tills passage, but Gabriel Harvey, whose learning will not 
 be disputed, introduces Hesperides in an exactly similar 
 manner in his Pierce's Supererogation, 159:'.. Greene, 
 also, in his Orlando Furioso, 1594, mentions "the plot 
 Hesperides.' 
 
 78 Makes heaven drowsy with the harmony. 
 
 Heath explains this passage, — " Whenever Love speaks, 
 oil the gods join their voices with his in harmonious con- 
 cert." Voice is, perhaps, the murmur of approbation. 
 
 The tongue that 's able to rock heaven asleep. 
 And make the music of the spheres stand still. 
 To listen to the happier airs it makes. 
 And mend their tunes by it. 
 
 Shirley's Love Triekt, act iv. so. 2. 
 
 " A word that loves all num. 
 
 Lovts 13 here equivalent to pleases. In the same manner, 
 we have it, it likes Tne, it pleases me. 
 
 ^ Sow'd cockle, reaped no corn. 
 
 The passage is elliptical, and may thus be paraphrased, — 
 " oockic being sown, no com is reaped ;" in other words, 
 U Tio do not lay a good foundation we shall not succeed. 
 
 ■^ Witty loitliout affection. 
 
 Afffct.ien, i.e. artectaticn. Audacious, spirited. "Slio 
 that shall be my wife must ho accomplished with court;y 
 and avdacvjut ornaments," Ben .Tonson's Silent Woman. 
 Impvflency, impudence. " unlimitablo iinpudencie,'' 
 Marston's Malcontent, 1604. Filed, ccliahed. /'icked, 
 neat. Point-devise, most exact. So 'n the Miller of 
 Abington, — 
 
 The wenehe she was full proper and nyco, 
 Amonge all other she hare great price, 
 For sclie coudo tricko it point device. 
 But fewe like her in that countrce. 
 
 »' On the alms-basket rf words. 
 
 The alms-basket was the basket of broken meat prcsen-ed 
 for the poor. 
 
 Thy tongue, and not unwlttily ncrluaps. 
 One likened to th' olms-hasket fillM with scraps ; 
 It feeds our ears with mix'd and broken words, 
 Just like the poor with bits from sev'rall boards. 
 
 Prestwick-s Hippolitus, 1651, p. 75. 
 
 I know the time thou wouldst have ick'd thy chaps 
 From out an almes-basket to get some scraps. 
 
 Workes of Taylor the Water Poet, 1630. 
 
 •5 HoncrifieaMlUudinitatibus. 
 
 This absurd word, described by Marston as conveying 
 " a great deal of sound and no sense," is often mentioned 
 as the longest word known. A flap-dragon is a small sub- 
 stance, such as a r.aisin, set afloat lighted in a cup of wine 
 or spirits, to be snatched by the mouth in its burning 
 state. This amusement is not quite obsolete, but is now 
 usually termed snap-dragon. The horn-book, which has 
 been out of use for about half a century, consisted of a leai 
 containing the alphabet, numerals, &o., and generally the 
 Lord's Prayer, mounted on wood, and protected by a 
 piece of transparent horn. It was headed by a large cross 
 called the Christ-cross, and, held in the hand, was not a 
 bad assistant in preliminary education. O, U, a double 
 meaning, oh you ! Veney ; see note 25 to the Merry Wives 
 of Windsor. 
 
 " Arts^man prceamhulat. 
 
 The arts-man, or mar of art, walks before, takes the 
 precedence. I follow the old copies, but modern editors 
 read praiambula, an unneoess.ary departure from the ori- 
 ginal text. 
 
 A garment, made by cunning arts-men^s skill. 
 Hides all defects that Nature's swerving hand 
 Hath done amiss. 
 
 EeywoodH Fair Maid of the Exchange, 1607. 
 
 « DaHy with my excrement. 
 
 The hair or beard was often so termed. Hair is called 
 "so plentiful an excrement" in the Comedy of Errors, 
 ii. 2. 
 
 " If thisfadge not. 
 
 Fadge, to suit, or agree. So in the Beggar's Ape, — 
 
 For whoso beares simplicities true badge. 
 To live in Prince's c^'irta dje seldom fadgo 
 
 Sil
 
 NOTES TO LOVE'S LABOUR 'S LOST. 
 
 " Let them dance the liay. 
 
 The hay was a round country dance. It is mentioned 
 iu England's Helicon, p. 228, — 
 
 Shall we ^oe dnnnce tl>e hay ? 
 Never pipe could ever play 
 Better shepheard's roundelay. 
 
 88 My red dominical, my golden letter. 
 
 The dominical letters were printed in red ink, and the 
 O's refer to the marks of the small-pox. 
 
 89 beauties no richer than rick iaffaUl. 
 
 This line is improperly given to Biron in the original, 
 which is blindly I'ollowed by CoUier and Knight; as if 
 Biron, who was impatiently anxious that Moth's address 
 should be well spt'ken, would interrupt him. 
 
 00 To tread a Tneasure. 
 
 We have already had a notice of this dance in Much 
 Ado about Nothinj, but perhaps the following additional 
 account of it by Keed may not be unacceptable to the 
 reader. 
 
 "The measure.x were dances solemn and slow. They 
 were performed at court, and at public entertainments of 
 the societies of law and equity, at tlieir halls, on particular 
 occasions. It was formerly not deemed inconsistent with 
 propriety even for the gravest persons to join in them ; 
 and accordingly at the revels which were celebrated at the 
 inns of court, it has not been unusual for the first cha- 
 racters in the law to become performers iu treading the 
 ineavures. See Dugdale's Origines Juridiciale.s. Sir John 
 Davics, in his poem called Orchestra, 1622, describes tliem 
 in tliis manner : 
 
 " But, after these, as men more civil grew. 
 
 He did more grave and soUmn measures frofme : 
 With such fair order and proportion true. 
 
 And correspondence ev'ry way the same, 
 That no fault-finding eye did ever blame. 
 
 For every eye was moved at the sight, 
 "With sober wond'ring and with sweet delight. 
 
 Not those young students of the lieavenly book. 
 Atlas the great, Prometheus the wise, 
 
 Which on the stars did all their life-time look, 
 Could ever find such measure in the skies, 
 
 So full of change, and rare varieties ; 
 Yet all the feet u'hereon these measures go, 
 
 Are only spondees, solemn, grave, and slow." 
 
 " Cog, to load dice ; to cheat. 
 
 " Veal, quoth tlie Dutchman. 
 
 This absurd joke may not be detected. Feal is the 
 Dutchman's pronunciation oTwell, 
 
 " Wf.ll-liking, in good condition, fat. 
 
 M Better wits have worn plain statute-caps. 
 
 That is; better wits have been found among those who 
 wear statute caps, i.e. citizens. It was ordered by a 
 Btatute of Queen Klizabeth that citizens should wear wool- 
 len caps on Sundays and liolidays, with a view of en- 
 couraging the trade of cappers. " Why, 'tis a law enacted 
 by the Oomraon Council of statute-caps," Familio cf Love, 
 
 loot. 
 
 812 
 
 »» Are an/;els vaiUng cloudt. 
 
 Ladies unmask'd, says Boyet, are like aiagels vailing 
 clouds, or letting those clouds, wliich obscuitd tlieirbright- 
 nesR, sink from before them. Johnson. 
 
 •« At walces and wassails. 
 
 Wassails wore merry-meetings or festivities. The term 
 is derived from the Anglo-Saxon w(^s h(El, bo in health, 
 which was anciently the drinking pledge-word. 
 
 " As white as whalers ione. 
 
 This is a very old simile, common in the ancient ro- 
 mances. The tooth of the walrus was used in the place 
 of ivory, and some of our old writers appear to have 
 thought it was whale's-boue. So, in the Thornton Ro- 
 mances, p. 154, — 
 
 Then come letturs to Artas, 
 That the worme in Rome slayn was, 
 A knyght then hath hym sloon. 
 So longe at leche-crafte can he dwelle, 
 A mau-chylde had Crystyabelle, 
 
 As whyte as whnllys boon. 
 The erle had made to God a vowe, 
 " Doghtur, iu-to the see selialt thoa 
 
 Yn a schypp allone ; 
 And that bastard tliat to the ys dere, 
 Crystyndome sch.ille he non have here !" 
 
 Hyf maydenys wepte everychon. 
 
 fi8 Xhe virtue of your eye must hredk my oath. 
 
 That is, the virtue or power of youi eye compels me tt 
 break my oath. 
 
 " Taffata phrases, silken terms predse. 
 
 Taffata was a kind of thin silk, formerly much esteemed. 
 "Bissines, silken words, spruce tearmos," Cotgrave. 
 
 ™ Three-piVd hyperboles. 
 
 A similar metaphor occurs in Decker's Wonder of a 
 Kingdom, — "most piteously complaining against th'S 
 three-pile rascal." 
 
 10" Zord have mercy on tw. 
 
 This was the touching inscription placed on all houses 
 infected with the plague. "Let him, I s.ay, take heedo 
 least, his flesh now falling away, his carcas be not plagudo 
 witli leane ones, of whom, whilst the bill of Lord hava 
 mercy upon vs wa.s to be denied in no place, it was death 
 for him to heare," Decker's Wonderful! Yeare, :603. 
 
 'M I'ou inow my lady'' s foot hy the sguirf. 
 
 Squire, a rule or square. According to Heath, .-ne sonse 
 is nearly the snnio as that of tlie proverbial expression, he 
 hath got the length of her foot, i.e. he hath humoured her so 
 long that he can persuade her to what he pleases. Alloio'd, 
 licensed to say what you like. 
 
 '■' Tou cannot leg u*. 
 
 That is, wo are not fools. See note 18 to the Comedy of 
 EiTors
 
 NOTES TO LOVE'S LABOUR 'S LOST. 
 
 '" TJi^form confounded. 
 
 The original rends (heir, being one of the many !nslau.:os 
 in ShakcspoAro where tlie grammar Is inaccurato. I fol- 
 low Mr. Kuiglit's reaJing, with a slight dinorcnco in the 
 punctuation. 
 
 "» The braggart .he /Mjge-priest. 
 
 Hedge, \n composition, generally implied deterioration. 
 Hedge-priest, an ignorant priest; a stupid fellow. "Up- 
 braide the parson full irreverently, calling him hed-ge- 
 priest," Brathwait's Strappado for the Divcll, 1615, p. 36. 
 Nomm was a game at dice played by six persons. Ac- 
 cording to Douce, the two principal throws were nine and 
 five, a circumstance which makes Biron's meaning per- 
 fectly evident. 
 
 11' With lihbarSe head on knee. 
 
 Lihbard, i.e. leopard. Tlie passage in the text is illus- 
 trated by Cotgrave's translation of Masquine, " the roprc- 
 Bontation of a lyon's head, &c. ttpon the elbow or hnee of 
 BOmo ohl-fashioned garments." 
 
 Tlion owte starte a Lumbarte, 
 Felle he was as a lykirte. 
 
 MS. Pull. Liir. Camhr. xv. cent. 
 
 '" Tttu mil he scraped out of the painted doth. 
 
 Vflinted cloth was cloth or canvas, on which paintings, in 
 ji! were depictured. It often took the place of hangings 
 Df tnpestrj-, as appears from a passage in Brathwait's 
 Strappado for the Divcll, 1615. Robert Arden, Shake- 
 speare's maternal grandfather, had several painted cloths 
 m his house at Wilmecote, near Stratford-on-Avou. 
 
 "" A little o^erparted. 
 
 Tliat is, says Malone. the part or character allotted to 
 him in this piece is too considerable. 
 
 '<"• Judas was hanq''d on an elder. 
 
 It was an old tradition that Judas hung himself on an 
 elder-tree. '* Our gardens will prosper the better, when 
 they have in them not one of these elders, whereupon 
 BO many covelons Judasses hang themselves," Nixon's 
 Strange Foot-Post, 1613. Fleoknoe, m nis Diarium, 1G58, 
 mentioning this tree, says,^ 
 
 It had, he said, such vertnous force, 
 AVhere vertue oft from .Judas came, 
 Who hang'd himself upon the same. 
 For which, in sootli, he was to blame. 
 
 Gerard, in his Herbal, 1597, p. 1240, describing the 
 arbor .JudcB, says, " it may be called in Englisli Judas tree, 
 whereon Judas did hang himselfe, and not upon the elder 
 tree, as it is saide." 
 
 The quibbling on the face ol Holofernes requires a little 
 explanation. The heads of citterns and bodkins (or dag- 
 gers) were frequently terminated with grotesque faces. 
 A death's face in a ring was a favourite ornament, and is 
 often alluded to as being worn by procuresses ; but there 
 was not necessarily any disgrace or ridicule attached to 
 the ornament. The flask here mentioned is the soldier's 
 powder-honi. 
 
 V) 
 
 "" Worn in the cap of a toothnirawer. 
 
 "In Quoene Elizabetli's doves, there was a fellow thut 
 wore a brooch in his Iiat, Uke a tooth^drawer, with a rtHC 
 and crowne, and two letters," Taylor's Workes, 1630, Wit 
 and Mirth, p. 194. 
 
 '" Stuch with cUtei. 
 
 It was nsual to insert cloves on the surfaces of oranges 
 or lemons. "Betraics her teeth, which stand one by 
 another as if that they were cloves stuck in an orcnge," 
 Cartwright's Sicdge, 1651. The practice of gilding nut- 
 megs is alluded to by Ben Jonson, in his Gipsies Meta- 
 morphosed, — " I have lost an inchantcd nutmeg, all gilded 
 over, was inchanted at Oxford for me, to put in my sweet- 
 heart's ale a' mornings." 
 
 "3 1 do adore thy sweet grace's slipper. 
 
 The extravagance of the language of courtship in fonr.ei 
 days is almost past belief. This is said in all seriousnees. 
 So Ben Jonson, in the Poetaster, — " Your courtier cannot 
 kiss his mistress's slipper in quiet for them." 
 
 "' Let me tuic you a button-hole lower. 
 
 A play upon words. " Yea, and take her downe tuo a 
 button-hole lower," Shoemaker's Holyd.ay, 1631. It is 
 equivalent to the modem phrase, taking one "down a 
 peg ' 
 
 in I go wcolward for penance. 
 
 To go woolward was to go without a shirt, with the 
 wootlcn of the outer dres;i next the skin. "Wclwardc, 
 withc'Ut any lynnen nexte ones body, sans chemijse,'^ I'als- 
 grave, 1530. " Wolleward and weet-shoed weute I forth 
 after," Piers Ploughman, ed. Wright, p. 369. 
 
 Cautus, th.at woollward went, was wondred at ; 
 
 Which he excus'd, as done tlirough pure'contritioD 
 But who so simple, Cautus, credits that? 
 
 Tis too well known thou art of worse condition. 
 And therefore if no linnen thee begirt, 
 Tlie naked truth will prove thou hast no shirt. 
 
 Wits Recreations, 1640 
 
 "* Iliave seen the day of wrong. 
 
 That is, I have seen by a little discretion or reflection 
 the wrong I have suffered, and X will right myself like a 
 soldier. 
 
 "• At his very loose. 
 
 Loose is the technical term for the moment the arrow 
 is loosed by the archer. It is here metaphorically equiva- 
 lent to, onset. The verb decides is, of course, governed by 
 Time-. 
 
 "" Full of strange shapes. 
 
 The old copies corruptly read straying shapes. The 
 same misprint occurs in Promos and Cassandra, iii. 1, "0 
 straying effcctes of blinde alTeeted love." 
 
 'I' As bombast and as lining to the time. 
 
 The metaphor is sufficiently evident. The term bomhasi 
 was originally applied to cotton, and hence to the stuffing 
 out of dress, because usually done with that material. 
 
 SIS
 
 NOTES TO LOVE'S LABOUR 'S LOST. 
 
 I 
 
 "• To flatter vp i?iese pMcer) of mine with reef. 
 
 The preposition np is here rerlundant, and Johnson and 
 Warburton wouUl have experienced little difficulty in the 
 explanation of this passage, had they remembered or 
 known how usual it was in works of Shakespeare's time 
 to employ the preposition in a similar manner. The king 
 evidently means to say, " If I would deny this, or more 
 than this, to flatter my soul with the hope of rest, let me 
 immediately perLsh." 
 
 1™ And cuckoo -iuds of yellow hue. 
 
 There is a dispute on the exact meaning of cuckoo-buds 
 in this passage, but I believe they refer to the beautiful 
 wild lychnis jlosciili, the cuckoo-flower of the East of Eng- 
 land. Gerard, p. 4S0, says, " the cukowe flower I have 
 comprehended under the title of sisimbrium, Englished 
 ladies-smocks, which plant hath beene generally taken for 
 
 ios CUGuli.''' 
 
 "'■ While greaey Joan doth Heel the pot. 
 Th^t is, while greasy Joan dotli oool the pot ; BOmo say 
 8U 
 
 she keels the pot, by preventing the pot boiling over by 
 means of effectively using her ladle. However this may 
 be, Iceel certainly means to cool, and is constantly used ir 
 that sense by our early writers. 
 
 »w When roasted crahs hiis in the hcnvl. 
 
 A delightful rural allusion, almost causing one to re- 
 gret not to have lived in former times. Turnin/j a crab 
 was roasting a crab-apple, and throwing it, when quite 
 liot, into a bowl of nut-brown ale, into which liad been 
 previously put a toast with spice and sugar. Warner, 
 describing a shepherd, says, — 
 
 And with the sun doth folde againe ; 
 
 Then, jogging home betime. 
 He turnes a crab, or tunes a round. 
 
 Or sings some merrie ryme. 
 
 And, in Gammer Gurton's Needle, 1575: 
 
 I love no rost but a nut-brown tocte, 
 And a crab laydo in the fyT».
 
 % Illifeiuimirr-ligljtAi Dmiiii 
 
 Such siffhts as youthful poets dream 
 On summer eves, by haunted stream. 
 
 ^S far as is at present known, tlie plot of tlie Midsummer-Night's Dream is one of tbc veiy few 
 invented by Shakespeare himself. It is true that a few sHght poitions of the ground-work are 
 ilerived from other sources, but the tale and its construction are believed to be original. The transla- 
 tion of Plutarch's Life of Theseus and Chaucer's Knight's Tale appear to have furnished little more than 
 the names of the characters ; but it is just possible that a passage at the close of the latter, which lias 
 been overlooked by the commentators, may have suggested the introduction of the interlude of Ihe 
 clowns : — 
 
 ne how the Grekes play 
 
 The wake-pUiies ne kepe I not to say : 
 
 Who wrestled best naked with oile enoint, 
 
 Ne who tliat bare him best in no disjoint. 
 
 I woll not tellen eke how they all gon 
 
 Horn till Athenes, whan the play is don. 
 
 Golding's translation of Ovid has better claims to the honour of having been used by Shakespeare 
 in the constructioc cf a part of his play, the similarities between the tale of Pyramus and Thisbe in 
 that work and the interlude being sufficiently striking to warrant the belief of its being the orioinal 
 source of the latter. The following extract from Golding will probably not be uninteresting to the 
 reader, wl en viewed in connexion with this subject : — 
 
 Within the towne (of whose huge walles so monstrons higii and thicko, 
 
 The fame is given Semiramis for making them of bricke) 
 
 Dwelt hard together two young folke in houses joynde so nere, 
 
 That under all one roofe well nie both twaine convaycd were. 
 
 The name of him was Pyramiis, and Thisbe called was she ; 
 
 So faire a man in all the East was none alive as he. 
 
 Nor nere a woman, mayde, nor wife, in beautie like to her. 
 
 This neigh-brod bred acquaintance first ; this neigh-brod first did ster 
 
 The secret sparkes : this neigh-brod first an entrance in did show 
 
 For love to come to that to which it afterward did grow. 
 
 And if that right had taken place, they had beene man and wife ; 
 
 But still their parents went about to let which (for their life) 
 
 They could not let. For both their hearts with equal fiame did bumo ; 
 
 S16
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGnX'S DREAM. 
 
 No man was privie to their thoughts. And for to serve their turne, 
 
 Insteftd of tallie they used signes : the closlier tliey supprest 
 
 The fire of love, the fiercer still it raged in their brest. 
 
 The wall that parted house from house had riven therein a cranie, 
 
 Which shroonke at making of tlie wall : this fault not markt of anio 
 
 Of many hundred yeeres before (what doth not love espie?) 
 
 Tliese lovers first of all found out, and made a way whereby 
 
 To talks together secretly, and through tlie same did go 
 
 Their loving wliisprings very light and safely to and fro. 
 
 Now, as at one side Pyraynus^ and Th'tshe on the tother. 
 
 Stood often drawing one of them the pleasant breath from other : 
 
 thou envious wall (they sayed), why letst thou lovers thus ; 
 
 What matter were it if that thou permitted both of us 
 
 In armes each other to embrace: or if thou think that tliis 
 
 Were over-much, yet mightest thou at least make roomo to kisse. 
 
 And yet thou shalt not finde us churles : we thinke our selves in dot, 
 
 For the same piece of curtesie, in vouching safe to let 
 
 Our sayings to our friendly eares thus freely come and go. 
 
 Thus having where they stood in vaine complained of their wo, 
 
 When nigiit drew neare they bad adue, and ech gave kisses swoeto, 
 
 Unto the parget on their side the which did never meete. 
 
 Next morning with her cheerful light had driven tlie starres aside, 
 
 And Phoebus with i is burning beames the dewie grasse liad drido. 
 
 These lovers at their wonted place by fore-appointment met, 
 
 Where, after much complaint and mone they covenanted to got 
 
 Away from such as watched them, and in tlie evening late 
 
 To ste;de out of their father's house, and eke tlie citie gate. 
 
 And to th' intent tliat in the fields they strayd not up and downc, 
 
 They did agree at Ninus Tombe to meet without tlie townc. 
 
 And tarry underneath a tree that by the same did grow ; 
 
 Which was a faire higli mulberie with fruite as white as snow. 
 
 Hard by a coolo and triolding spring. This bargaine pleased them both 
 
 And 60 day-light (which to their thouglit away but slowly gothj 
 
 Did in the ociau fall to rest, and night from tlience did rise. 
 
 As eoone as darkenesse once was come, straiglit Thlvbe did devise 
 
 A shift to winde her out of doores, that none that were within 
 
 Porceived her : and muffling licr witli clothes about her chin, 
 
 That no man might discerne her face, to Ninus Tombe she came 
 
 Uuto the tree : and set her downe there underneath the same. 
 
 Lovo made her bold. But see the chance ; there comes besmerdo with blood, 
 
 Abont the chappes, a lyonesse all foming from the wood. 
 
 From slaughter lately made of kiitf, to staunch her bloody thirst 
 
 With water of the foresaid spring. Whom Thisbe spying firet, 
 
 Afarre by moone-light, thereupon with fearful steps gan flio, 
 
 And in a darke and yrkesome cave did hide herselfe thereby. 
 
 And as she fled away for haste slie let her mantle fall. 
 
 The which for feare she left behinde, not looking backo at all. 
 
 Now when the cruell lyonesse her thirst had staunched well. 
 
 In going to the wood she_found the slender weede that fell 
 
 From Tliisbe, which with bloodie teeth in pocces he did tearo ; 
 
 The night was somewh.at further spent ere Pyramus came there, 
 
 Who seeing in the Buttle sand the print of lyon's paw, 
 
 Wa.\t pale for foare. But when also the blodio cloko he saw 
 
 All rent and torne : one night (ho sayed) shall lovers two oonfounJ, 
 
 Of which long life deserved she of all that live on ground; ^ 
 
 My Boule deserves of this niiscliaunce the peril! for to bcare. 
 
 I, wretch, liave been the death of thee, which to this place of foorc 
 
 Did cause thee In the night to come, and came not there before. 
 
 My wicked lim» and wTetched guts, with cruell teeth therefore, 
 
 Devoure ye, ye Joyous all that in this rocko doe dwell. 
 
 But cowards use to wish for death. The slender wccdo that foU 
 
 816
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGUTS DKEAM. 
 
 From Tliisbo up ho takes, and straight doth bonro it to tlie troo, 
 
 Which wa» appointed erst tlie place of meeting for to bco. 
 
 And when lie liad bewept, and kiat the garment wliicli lie knew, 
 
 Eeeoivo thon my blood too (qnoth he) ; and therewithall he urcvr 
 
 His sword, tlio which among his guts ho thrust, and by and bic 
 
 Did draw it from the bleeding wound, beginning for to die. 
 
 And oast himsolfe upon his backc, the blood did spinne on Mo 
 
 As when a conduito pipe is crackt, the water bursting ou 
 
 Doth shote it selfe a great way off, and pierac the ayre about ; 
 
 The leaves that were upon the tree besprinkled with his bloo<l. 
 
 Were died black. The roote also bestained as it stood, 
 
 A deepc dark purple colour straight upon the berries cast. 
 
 Anon scarce ridded of her feare with which she was agast, 
 
 For doubt of disapoynting him comes Thisbe forth in hast. 
 
 And for her lover lookes about, rcjoycing for to tell 
 
 How hardly she had scnpt that night tlic danger that befell 
 
 And as she knew right well the place and faeion of the tree, 
 
 (As which she saw so late before) : even so when she did seo 
 
 The colour of the berries tiirn'd, she was uncertaine whither 
 
 It were the tree at whicli they both agreed to meet togither. 
 
 While in tliis doubtful! stound she stood, she cast her eye aside. 
 
 And there beweltred in his blood liir lover she espide. 
 
 Lie sprawling with his dying lims : at whicli she started backe. 
 
 And looked pale as any bo.\-, a sliuddriug through her stracke. 
 
 Even like the sea which suddenly with wliissiug noyse doth niovo. 
 
 When with a little blast of wind it is but toucht above. 
 
 But when approching nearer him she knew it was her love, 
 
 SLe beate her breast, she shriked out, she tare her golden heares, 
 
 And taking liim betweene hor armes, did wash his woundes with lenros. 
 
 She meynd her weeping with his blood, and kissing all his face, 
 
 (Which now became as cold as yse) she cryde in wofull case, 
 
 Alas, what chaunce my Pijramus hath parted thee and meo ? 
 
 Make answere, my Pyramas: it is thy Thish. even shoe 
 
 Whom thou doost love most hartily, that speaketh unto thee ; 
 
 Give eare and raise tliy lieavie head. He hearing Thislc'a name. 
 
 Lift up his dying eyes, and liaving scene her, elosd the same. 
 
 But when slie knew her mantle there, and saw his scabcrd lie 
 
 Without the sworde : Unhappy man, thy love hath made thee die ■ 
 
 Thy love (she said) liath made thee slea thyselfe. Tliis hand of mine 
 
 Is strong inougli to doe the like. My love uo lesso than thine 
 
 Shall give me force to worke my wound, I will pursue thee dead, 
 
 And wretched woman as I am, it shall eft' me be sed. 
 
 That like as of thy death I was the onely cause and blame. 
 
 So am I thy companion eke and partner in the same. 
 
 For death which onely could alas ! asunder part us twaine, 
 
 Shall never so dissever us but we will mcete againe ; 
 
 And you tlie parent? of us both, most wretched folke alive. 
 
 Let this request that I shall make in both our names belive, 
 
 Intreate you to permit, that we whom chaste and stedfast love, 
 
 And whom even death hath joyned in one, may as it doth behove 
 
 In one grave be together layd. And thou, unhappie tree 
 
 Which shouldest now the corse of one, and shalt anon through moe 
 
 Sliroude two, of this same slaugliter hold the sicker sinnes for ay, 
 
 Blacke be the colour of thy fruito and mourning like alway, 
 
 Snch as the murder of us twaico may evermore bewray. 
 
 This said, she took the sword yet warme with slaughter of her love 
 
 And setting it beneath her brest did to the heart it shove. 
 
 Hor prayer with the Gods and with their parents tooke effect. 
 
 For when the fruite is thoroughly ripe, the berrie is bespect 
 
 With colour tending to a bljicke. And that which atter firo 
 
 Bomaiued, rested in one tombe, as Thiaie did desire. 
 
 811
 
 A WIDSUMMEIi-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 The faiut similarities to be traced between Cbaucer and Golding, and Shakespeare's play, are 
 important as tending to the conclusion that the Midsummer-Night's Dream does not owe its existence 
 to a more ancient drama, but was, properly speaking, the poet's own invention. It is mentioned by 
 Meres in 1598, and two editions appeared in IGOO; but it is generally supposed that the description 
 of the seasons given by Titania in act ii. scene 1 refers to the winterly summer of 1594, in which the 
 months of June and July, according to Dr. Forman,* " were very wet and wonderfull cold like wibter, 
 that the 10. dae of Julii many did syt by the fyer, yt was so cold ; and soe was yt in Maye and June; 
 and scarce too fair dais together all that tyme, but yt rayned every day more or lesse : yf yt did not 
 raine, then was yt cold and cloiidye." The coincidence is rather remarkable, and admitting the allusion, 
 (ve may assign the date of the play to 1594 or 1595 ; but the more one examines this kind of evidence, 
 the less real weight it possesses ; and the drama is so highly finished, I am not inclined to place the date 
 of its composition long before 1598, when the poet was in his 34th year. 
 
 The principle of the composition of A Midsummer-Night's Dref.m has exercised the ingenuity of 
 several critics, but it seems to me that the great difBculties which surround all aesthetic commentary on 
 this pla) arise in some measure from its unity of action and of purpose hawng been considered axio- 
 matical. If, however, we approach the subject without any preconceived opinion formed upon tho 
 results of an examination of other plays of the great dramatist, and regard this play sui generis, an 
 anomaly not regulated by ordinary laws, we shall find the discussion less intricate. In point of fact, 
 our chief perplexity will consist in the necessity of disconnecting some particular action from the rest, 
 and regarding it as a siibsequent invention. The fairies, undoubtedly, constitute the main action. 
 Remove them ^from the scene, and the play would be a mere skeleton adorned with a few narrow 
 robes of exquisite poetry. How, or in what manner the poet formed his fi-ame-work — and a beau- 
 tiful and gracefu'. fiame it is — is a question accenaible only to conjecture. The permutations o( 
 Shakespeare's fancr Trero infinite, and here, as elsewhere, they have resolved themselves into a 
 systematic whole. 
 
 It must, however, be admitted that, in the discussion of questions of this kind, the social position 
 of Shakespeare, as efiecting the form of his works, has never been properly considered. It would seem, 
 after what we have been told by a recent school, little better than heresy to doubt the perfection of the 
 results of the poet's genius ; yet who can venture to say that his plays, as they have descended to us, 
 are the same that would have been presented to the world, had not the author been in some degree 
 dependent on popular favour ? Shakespeare's chief object iu writing was to please an audience — to fill 
 a theatre : and the fact that he accDmplished so much more than this must be ascribed to his surpassing 
 genius and to the tendency uf his mind. But we cannot suppose that he disregarded the opinion of 
 the multitude, or would have ventured to introduce a play, composed entirely of etherial poetry, before 
 an audiencfi not sufficiently refined to appi'eciate it. May not the " clowns " be the result of these 
 external circumstances ; and can we be certain that, under other conditions, Bottom the weaver, inim- 
 lable as he is, would not have been exchanged for a more poetical character ? 
 
 In adopting, or rather suggesting, this line of argument, I am not losing sight of the dramatic an 
 of the play ; neither do I dissent in the least from the opinion of its absolute harmony and congruity 
 as a work of art. But tlie poet's genius could have adjusted, had it been necessary, far more discor- 
 dant elements than these. All thai I am venturing to suggest is the possibility of the introduction of 
 the artizans ha\ing been occasioned by the external circumstances in which the author liimself was 
 placed. With respect to the drama itself, we are somewhat in Miranda's position when she first saw 
 Ferdinand, and cannot believe in the existence of a lovelier object, l^ut the hand that wronglit tiiat 
 fairy picture, and introduced into it a company of illiterate workmen witliout shocking the ideal — 
 what would he have accomplished, liad he furllier isohited his encliantnipnts from the external world I 
 As it is, the reader must perforce admit that unnatural combinations have been formed to harmonize 
 the conditions of the various actions. 
 
 The minor incousistcncies are, indeed, sufficiently numerous, but they do not affect the argument, 
 
 * In Ills MS. diary preserved in tlio Asliinoloim Museum, 0.\for(l. It wiia first prmtod in Mr. IlalliwclI'B Iniro- 
 lucLion to tlieeasiy, 8vo. 1841. 
 ,U3
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHTS DREAIL 
 
 and are uot peculiar to this play. Oue mistake of time may bo mentioned, as it lias escajx;d the notice 
 of the editors. The period of the action of the play is four days, concluding with the night of the now 
 moon. But Hermia and Lysander receive the edict of Theseus four days before the new moon ; they 
 fly fiom Athens "to-morrow night;" they become (lie sport of the fairies, along with Ileleiia and 
 Demetrius, during one night only, for Oberon accomplishes all in one night, before " the first cock 
 crews ;" and the lovers are discovered by Theseus the morning before that which would have I'endered 
 (his portion of the plot chronologically consistent. A careful perusal will convince the reader tliat the 
 action of the remaining part of the play is not intended to consist of two days. 
 
 The Midaummer-Night's Dream contains the sweetest poetry ever composed in any language. It 
 influenced the fancy of Fletcher and Milton ; and its production has become an era in the history of 
 Euglish poetical composition. Although a finished dramatic piece, it is unquestionably better fitted 
 for the closet than the stage ; yet the portion appropriated to the hard-handed men of Athens i^ in 
 iiself, an admirable farce ; joined with the action of the fairies, it becomes an artistic comedy. The 
 play is adapted to the st.ige by the introduction of the clowns. Deprived of the latter, it would bavo 
 pal taken of the chiu'actor of a masque; and, like 'Oomus,' would not have been appreciated by ucoui- 
 oioa audience. 
 
 81U
 
 PERSONS REPRESENTED 
 
 TuEs^vs, Duke of Athens. 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1. Act IV. so. 1. Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 Egeub, father to Hermia. 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1. Act IV. so. 1. 
 
 Ltsander, in love with Hermia. 
 
 Appears, Act I. so. 1. Act II. se. 2. Act III. so. 2. 
 Act IV. so. 1. Act V. BO. 1. 
 
 Demetkids, in love with Heimia. 
 
 Appears, Act I. so. 1. Act II. uo. 1 ; so. 2. Act III. so. 2. 
 Act IV. BO. 1. Act V. so. 1. 
 
 Philostrate, master of the revels to Theseus. 
 Appears, Act I. BC. 1. Aot V. bo. 1. 
 
 Quince, the carpenter. 
 
 Appears, Act I. bo. 2. Aot III. so. 1. Act IV. so. 2. 
 Acts the Prologue in Act V. ac. 1. 
 
 Sncg, thejoir^). 
 
 Appears, Act I. so. 2. Aot HI. so. 1. Act. IV. so. 2. 
 Acts the Lion in Act V. Bc. 1." 
 
 Bottom, the iveaver. 
 
 Appears, Act I. so. 2. Aot III. sc. 1. Act IV. so. 1 ; so. 2. 
 Acts Pyramus iu Act V. so. 1. 
 
 Flute, tlie hellows-mender. 
 
 Appears, A ct I. so. 2. Act III. sc. 1. Act IV. so. 2. 
 Acts Tliisby in Aot V. so. 1. 
 
 Snodt, the tinker. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 2. Act III. so. 1. Aot IV. so. 2 
 Acts tlio Wall in Aot V. so. 1. 
 
 Starveling, the tailor. 
 
 Appears, Aot I. bo. 2. Act III. so. 1. Act IV. «o. 2. 
 Act* Moonsliine in Aot V. bo. 1. 
 820 
 
 HippoLTTA, Queen of the Amazons, betrothed to 
 
 Theseus. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1. Act IV. so. 1. Aot V. so. 1. 
 
 Hermia, daughter to Egeus, in love with Lysandei 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1. Aot II. sc. 2. Act III. sc. 2. 
 Aot IV. so. 1. Aot V. BC. 1 
 
 Helena, in love with Demstnus. 
 
 Appears, Act I. so. 1. Act 11. sc. 1 ; sc. 2. Act IIL so. Z 
 Act IV. sc. 1. Act V. 80. 1. 
 
 Oberon, kinff of the fairies. 
 
 Appears, Aot II. so. 1 ; so. 2. Aot III. so. 2. Act IV. so. 1 
 Act V. BO. 1. 
 
 Titania, queen of the fairies. 
 
 Appears, Aat,ll.s-->.l; BC.2. Act III. so. 1. Act. IV. so. 1 
 Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 Puck, or Robin Goodfellow, a fairy. 
 
 Appears, Act 11. sc. 1 ; BO. 2. Act III. so. 1 ; sc. 2. 
 Aot IV. so. 1. Act V. 80. 1. 
 
 Peas-blossom, Codweb, Moth, Mustard-seed, 
 
 fairies. 
 
 Appear, Act III. sc. \. Act IV. so. 1. 
 
 Pyranuis, Thisby, Wall, Moonshine, Lion, characteis 
 
 in the lutei-kide performed by the Clowns. 
 
 Appear, Act V. so. 1. 
 
 Other Fairies attending their King and Queen. 
 
 Attendants on Theseus and Hippolyta. 
 
 SCENE, — Athens, and a Wood near.
 
 1 ^itiifeiiiiiiiipr-liigtjfs Driniin 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 FiCEN li L — ^Athens. A Room in the Palace of 
 
 Theseus. 
 
 Biiter Tdeseds, Hippolyta, Philostrate, and 
 Attendants. 
 
 The. Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour 
 Draws on apace ; four happy days bring in 
 Another moon : but, oh, methinks, how slow 
 This old moon wanes ! she lingers my desires, 
 Like to a step-danie, or a dowager. 
 Long withering out a young man's revenue. 
 
 Hi}). Four days will quickly steep themselves 
 in nights; 
 Four nights will quickly dream away the time ; 
 And then the moon, like to a silver bow 
 New bent in heaven,' shall behold the night 
 Of our solemnities. 
 
 The. Go, Philostrate, 
 
 Stir up the Athenian youth to merriments ; 
 Awake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth ; 
 Turn melancholy forth to funerals. 
 The pale companion is not for our pomp. 
 
 [Sxit Phil. 
 TIi]ipolyta, I woo'd thee with my sword, 
 Ami won thy love, doing thee injuries ; 
 r>ut I will wed thee in another key, 
 Willi pomp, mth triumph, and with revelling. 
 
 E}itr:r P^GEUS, Hermia, Lysander, and Demetrius. 
 Jige. Happy be Theseus, oru' renowned duke P 
 
 The. Thanks, good Egeus: Wlial 's tho news 
 with thee? 
 
 Hffe. Full of vexation come I, with compliiint 
 Against my child, my daughter Hennia. 
 Stand forth, Demetrius : — My noble lord, 
 This man hath my consent to many her. — 
 Stand forth, Lysander : — and, my gracious duke, 
 This hath bewitch'd the bosom of my child : 
 Thou, thou, Lysander, thou hast given her rhjincs, 
 And interchang'd love-tokens with my child : 
 Tbou hast by moonlight at her \vindow sung, 
 With feigning voice, verses of feigning love ; 
 And stol'n the impression of her fantasy 
 With bracelets of thy hair, rings, gauds, conceits,' 
 Knacks, trifles, nosegay.s, sweetmeats,— -messeugera 
 Of strong prevailment in unharden'd youth : 
 With cunning hast thou filch'd my daughter's 
 
 heart ; 
 Turn'd her obedience, which is due to me. 
 To stubborn harshness : — And, my gracious duke, 
 Be it so she will not here, before your grace, 
 Consent to marry with Demetrius, 
 I beg the ancient privilege of Athens, — 
 As she is mine, I may dispose of her, 
 Which shall be either to this gentleman, 
 Or to her death ; according to our law, 
 Immediately provided in that case. 
 
 7'he. What say you, Hennia ? Be advis'd. my 
 maid : 
 To vou yom- father should be as a god ; 
 
 S21
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 SCENE L 
 
 One that compos'd your beauties ; yea, and one 
 To whom you are but as a form in wax, 
 By him imprinted, and within his power 
 To leave the figure, or disfigure it.'' 
 Demetiius is a worthy gentleman. 
 
 Her. So is Lysandoi. 
 
 The. In himself he is : 
 
 But, in this kind, wanting your father's voice, 
 The other must be held the worthier. 
 
 Ifer. I would my father look'd but with my eyes! 
 
 The. Rather your eyes must with his judgment 
 look. 
 
 Ifer. I do entreat your gi-ace to pardon me. 
 [ know not by what power I am made bold, 
 Kor how it may concern my modesty, 
 ]u such a presence here, to plead my thoughts : 
 Bnt I beseech your grace that I may know 
 The worst that Djay befall me in this case, 
 If I refuse to wed Demetrius. 
 
 The. Either to die the death, or to abjure 
 For ever the society of men. 
 Therefore, fair Hermia, question your desires, 
 Know of your youth, examine well your blood, 
 Whether, if you yield not to vour father's choice, 
 Vou can endure the livery of a nun ; 
 For aye to be in shady cloister mew'd. 
 To live a barren sister all your life, 
 Chanting faint hymns to the cold fruitless moon. 
 Thrice blessed they that master so their blood, 
 To undergo such maiden pilgrimage : 
 But earthlier happy' is the rose distill'd. 
 Than that which, withering on the \ai-gin thorn, 
 Grows, lives, and dies, in single blessedness. 
 
 Her. So will I grow, so live, so die, my lord, 
 Ere I will yield my virgin patent up 
 Unto his lordship, whose unwished yoke^ 
 My soul consents not to give sovereignty. 
 
 The. Take time to pause ; and, by the next new 
 moon, 
 (The sealing-day betwixt my love and me, 
 For everlasting bond of fellowship,) 
 Upon that day either prepare to die, 
 For diaobedience to your father's will ; 
 Or else, to wed Demetrius, as lie would ; 
 Or on Diana's altar to protest. 
 For aye, austerity and single life. 
 
 Dcm. Relent, sweet Hermia : — And, Lysander, 
 yield 
 Tliy crazed title to my certain right. 
 
 Lys. You have her father's love, Demetrius; 
 Let mi; have Hermia's : do you marry him ! 
 
 Ege. Scoraful Lysander ! true, he hath my love, 
 822 
 
 And what is mine my love shall render him ; 
 And she is mine ; and all my right of her 
 I do estate unto Demetrius. 
 
 Lys. I am, my lord, as well deriv'd as he, — 
 As well possesS'd ; my love ie more than his; 
 My fortunes every way as feirly rank'd, 
 If not with vantage, as Demetrius'; 
 And, which is more than all these boasts can bo, 
 I am belov'd of beauteous Hermia. 
 Why should not I then pro.secute my right ? 
 Demetrius, I '11 avouch it to his head, 
 Made love tc Nedar's daughter, Helena, 
 And won Lei soul ; and .she, sweet lady, dotes, 
 Devoutly dotes, dotes in idolatry. 
 Upon this spotted' and inconstant man. 
 
 The. I must confess that I bave heard so much, 
 And with Demetrius thought to have sjiokc 
 
 thereof; 
 But, being over-full of self-aflairs, 
 My mind did lose it. — But, Demetrius, eoniM • 
 And come, Egeus ; you shall go with me ; 
 I have some private schooling for you Lolli. 
 For you, fair Hermia, look you arm, yourself 
 To fit your fancies to your father's will ; 
 Or else the law of Athens yields you up 
 (Which by no means we may extenuate) 
 To death, or to a vow of single life. 
 Come, my Hippolyta : What cheer, my love 5 
 Demetrius, and Egeus, go along : 
 I must employ you in some business 
 Against our nuptial, and confer with you 
 Of something nearly that concerns yourselves. 
 
 Ege. With duty and desire we follow you. 
 [^Exeunt Thes., Hip., Ege., Dem., and train. 
 
 Lys. How now, my love : Why is your check 
 so pale ? 
 How chance the roses there do fade so fast ? 
 
 Her. Belike for want of rain ; which I could 
 well 
 Bete«m them from the tempest of mine eyes.' 
 
 Lys. Ah me ! for aught that I could ever read, 
 Could ever hear by tale or hi.story. 
 The course of true love never did run smooth : 
 But, either it was dilierent in blood ; — 
 
 Her. cross I too high to be cnthrjdFd Ic 
 low! 
 
 Lys. Or else misgraflFed, in respect of years ; — 
 
 Her. spite ! too old to be engag'd to young! 
 
 Lys. Or else it stood upon the choice of 
 friends ; — 
 
 Her. hell! to choose love by another's oyel 
 
 Lys. Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,
 
 ACT I. 
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 BCEN'E L 
 
 War, iloatli, or sickness did lay siege to it; 
 Making it momenfaiy as a sound, 
 Swift as a sliadow, sliort as any druani, 
 Brief as tlie lightning in the collied night, 
 That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth, 
 And ere a man hath power to say, — Behold! 
 The jaws of darkness do devour it up : 
 So quick bright things come to confusion. 
 
 Her. If then true lovers have been ever cross'd, 
 It stands as an edict in destiny : 
 Then let us teach our trial patience, 
 Because it is a customary cross ; 
 As due to love, as thoughts, and dreams, and sighs. 
 Wishes, and tears, poor fancy's followers.' 
 
 Lys. A good persuasion ; therefore, hear me, 
 Ilermia. 
 ' have a widow aunt, a dowager 
 Of great revenue, and she hath no child : 
 From Athens is her house remote seven leagues ; 
 And she respects me as her only son. 
 There, gentle Hermia, may I marry thee ; 
 And to that place the sharp Athenian law 
 Cannot pursue us. If thou lov'sf me, then, 
 Steal forth thy father's house to-morrow-night ; 
 And in the wood, a league without the town. 
 Where I did meet thee once with Helena, 
 To do observance to a morn of May, 
 There will I stay for thee. 
 
 Her. My good Lysander ! 
 
 I swear to thee by Cupid's strongest bow ; 
 By his best arrow with the golden head ; 
 By the simplicity of Venus' doves ; 
 By that vdiich knitteth souls, and j)roppers loves ; 
 And by that fire which burn'd the Carthage 
 
 queen. 
 When the false Trojan luider sail was seen ; 
 By all the vows that ever men have broke, 
 Ip number more than ever women spoke ; 
 ji that same place thou hast appointed me, 
 To-morrow truly will I meet with thee. 
 
 Lys. Keep promise, love. Look, here comes 
 Helena. 
 
 Enter Helena. 
 
 Her. God speed fair Helena ! Whither away ? 
 Hel Call you me fair ? that fair again unsay. 
 Demetrius loves your fjiir:'" O happy ftiir! 
 Your eyes are load-stars ; and your tongues sweet 
 
 air, 
 More tunable than lark to shepherd's ear. 
 When wheat is gi-een, when hawthorn buds ap- 
 pear, 
 
 Sickness is catching; 0, were favour so, 
 Your words I 'd catch, fair Hermia, ere I go ; 
 My ear shoukl catch your voice, my eye your eye, 
 My tongue should catch your tongue's sweet 
 
 melody. 
 Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated, 
 The rest I '11 give to be to you ti-anslated. 
 0, teach me how to look ; and witli what art 
 You sway the motion of Demetrius' heart. 
 
 Her. I frown upon him, yet he loves me still. 
 
 Hel. O, that your frowns would teach m* 
 smiles such skill ! 
 
 Her. I gave him cunses, yet he gives me love. 
 
 Hel. O, that my prayers could such a6fectio^ 
 move! 
 
 Her. The more I hate, the more he follows me 
 
 Hel. The more I love, the more he hateth me 
 
 Her. His folly, Helena, is none of mine. 
 
 Hel. None ; but your beauty ; would that faul'. 
 were mine ! 
 
 Her. Take comfort; he no more shall see ui; 
 face ; 
 Lysander and myself will fly this place. 
 Before the time I did Lysander see, 
 Seem'd Athens like a paradise to me : 
 O then, what graces in my love do dwell. 
 That be hath tum'd a heaven into hell !" 
 
 Lys. Helen, to you our minds we will unfod 
 To-morrow night, when Phoebe doth behold 
 Her silver visage in the wat'ry glass. 
 Decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass, 
 (A time that lovei-s' flights doth still conceal,) 
 Through Athens' gates have we devis'd to steal. 
 
 Her. And in the wood, where often you and 1 
 Upon faint primrose beds were wont to lie, 
 Emptying our bosoms of their counsel sweet, 
 There my Lysander and myself shall meet : 
 And thence, from Athens, turn away our eyes. 
 To seek new friends and stranger companies." 
 Farewell, sweet playfellow ; pray thou for us. 
 And good luck grant thee thy Demetrius ! — 
 Keep word, Lysander : we must starve our sight 
 From lovers' food, till morrow deep midnight. 
 
 [Exit Heii 
 
 Lys. I will, my Hermia. — Helena, adieu : 
 As you on him, Demetrius dote on you ! [Ex. Lt8 
 
 Hel. How happy some o'er othersome can be ! 
 Through Athens I am thought as fair as she. 
 But wh.at of that ? Demetrius thinks not so ; 
 He will not know what a.l but he do know. 
 And as he errs, doting on Hermia's eyes, 
 So I, admiring of his qualities. 
 
 323
 
 ACT I. 
 
 A MIDSUiNLMER-NIGnX'S DRK^M, 
 
 Things base and vild," holding no quantity, 
 
 Love can transpose to form and dignity. 
 
 Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind ; 
 
 And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind. 
 
 Nor hath love's mind of any judgment taste ; 
 
 Wings, and no eyes, figure imheedy haste : 
 
 And therefore is love said to be a child, 
 
 Because in choice he is so oft beguil'd. 
 
 As waggish boys in game themselves ffrswear, 
 
 So the boy love is peijur'd everywhere : 
 
 For ere Demetrius look'd on Hermia's cyno, 
 
 He hailVl down oaths that he was only mine; 
 
 And when this hail some heat fiom Hermia felt, 
 
 So he dissolv'd, and showers of oatbs did melt, 
 
 I will go tell him of fair Hermia's flight : 
 
 Then to the wood will he, to-morrow night, 
 
 Pursue her; and for this intelligence 
 
 If I have thanks, it is a dear expense :'* 
 
 But herein mean I to eniich my pain. 
 
 To have his sight thither and back again. [Uxit. 
 
 SCENE n. — A Room in a Cottage at Athens. 
 
 Enter Snug, Bottom, Flute, Quixce, Ssodt, and 
 Starveling. 
 
 Quit.. Is all oxa company here? 
 
 Bot. You were best to call them generally, 
 man by man, according to the scrip. 
 
 Quin. Here is the scroll of every man's name, 
 which is thought fit, through all Athens, to play 
 in our interlude before the duke and the duchess, 
 on his wedding-day at night. 
 
 Bot. First, good Peter Quince, say what the 
 play treats on ; then read the names of the actors ; 
 and so grow on to a point. 
 
 Quin. Marry, our play is — The most lamenta- 
 ble comedy, and most cruel death of Pyramus and 
 Thisby. 
 
 Bot. A very good piece of work, I assure you, 
 and a meny. — Now, good Peter Quince, call forth 
 yc ur actors by the scroll. Masters, spread yom-- 
 Belves. 
 
 Quin. Answer, as I call you. — Nick Bottom, 
 the weaver. 
 
 Bot. Ready. Name what part I am for, and 
 proceed. 
 
 Quin. You, Nick Ijottom, are set down for 
 Pyramus. 
 
 Bot. What is Pyramus ? a lovei', or a tvrant? 
 
 Quin A lover, that kills himself most gaiianliy 
 for love. 
 
 Bot That will ask some tears in the true per- 
 forming of it: If I do it, let the audience look to 
 824 
 
 their eyes ; I will move storms ; I will condole ii 
 some measure. To the rest : — Yet my chief bu 
 mour is for a tyrant: I could play Eicles raioly, 
 or a part to tear a cat in, to make all split. 
 " The raging rocks, 
 And shivering shocks, 
 Shall break the locks 
 
 Of prison-gates ; 
 And Phibbus' car 
 Shall shine from far, 
 And make and mar 
 The foolish fates." 
 This was lofty ! — Now name the rest of the 
 players. — This is Ercles' vein,'* a tviant's vein ; a 
 lover is more condoling. 
 
 Quin. Francis Flute, the bellows-mender. 
 
 Flu. Here, Peter Quince. 
 
 Quin. You must take Thisby on you. 
 
 Flu. What is Thisby ? a wand'ring knight ? 
 
 Quin. It is the lady that Pyramus must love. 
 
 Flu. Nay, faith, let not me play a woman ; I 
 have a beard coming. 
 
 Quin. That 's all one ; you shall play it in a 
 mask,'° and you may speak as small as you will. 
 
 Bot. An I may hide my face, let me play Thisby 
 too : I '11 speak in a monstrous little voice : — 
 '■ Thisne, Thisne, — Ah, Pyramus, my lover dear ; 
 thy Thisby dear ! and lady dear ! " 
 
 Quin. No, no, you must play Pyramus ; and, 
 Flute, you Thisby. 
 
 Bot. Well, proceed. 
 
 Quin. Robin Starveling, the tailor. 
 
 Star. Here, Peter Quince. 
 
 Quin. Robin Starveling, you must play Thisby's 
 mother. — Tom Snout, the tinker. 
 
 Snout. Here, Peter Quince. 
 
 Quin. You Pyramus's father ; myself, Thisby's 
 father ; Snug, the joiner, you the lion's part : — 
 and I hope here is a play fitted. • 
 
 Snug. Have you the lion's part written ? pray 
 you, if it be, give it me, for I am slow of study. 
 
 Quin. You may do it extempore, for it is noth- 
 ing but roaring. 
 
 Bot. Let me play the lion too. I will roar, 
 that I will do any man's heart good to hear me; I 
 will roar, that I will make the duke say, " Let 
 him roar again ; let him roar again." 
 
 Quin. An you .should do it too terribly, you 
 would flight the duchess and the ladies, that 
 they would shriek ; and that were enough to haufj 
 us all. 
 
 All. That would hang us, eveiy mother's son.
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 SCENK 1. 
 
 Bot. I grant you, friends, if that you should 
 fright the hidies out of their wits, they would 
 have no more discretion but to hang us; but I 
 will aggravate my voice so, tliat I will roar you 
 'IS gently as any sucking dove ; I will roar you an 
 't were any nightingale. 
 
 Quin. You can play no part but PjTamus : for 
 Pyramus is a sweet-fac'd man ; a proper man as 
 one shall see in a summer's day ; a most lovely, 
 gentlenian-liko man ; therefore you must needs 
 play Pyramus. 
 
 Bot. Well, I will undertake it. What beard 
 were I best to play it in ? 
 
 Quin. Why, what you will. 
 
 iot. I will discharge it in either your straw- 
 colour beard, your orange-tawny beard, your 
 purple-in-grain beard, or your French-crown- 
 colour beard, your perfect yellow. . 
 
 Quin. Some of your French crowns have no 
 hair at all, and then you will jjlay bare-fac'd. — 
 But, masters, here are your parts: and I am tc 
 entreat you, request you, and desire you, to con 
 them by to-morrow night: an! meet me in the 
 palace wood, a mile without the towij, by moon- 
 light; there will we rehearse: for if we meet in 
 the city, we shall be dogg'd with company, and 
 our devices known. In the mean time, I will 
 draw a bill of propeities " such as our play wants. 
 I pray you fail me not. 
 
 Bot. We will meet ; and there we may rehearse 
 more obscenely and courageously. Take pains ; be 
 perfect ; adieu. 
 
 Quin. At the duke's oak we meet. 
 
 Bot. Enough. Hold, or cut bow-strings." 
 
 [£xeuni. 
 
 ACT II 
 
 SCENE I.— A Wood near Atliens. 
 Enter a Fairy on one side, and Puck on the other. 
 
 Puck. How now, spirit ! whither wander you ? 
 Fai. Over hill, over dale. 
 
 Thorough bush, thorough brier,'' 
 Over park, over pale, 
 
 Thorough flood, thorough fire, / 
 
 I do wander everywhere. 
 Swifter than the moon's sphere ; 
 And I serve the fairy queen. 
 To dew her orbs upon the gi'een : 
 The cowslips tall her pensioners be ; 
 In their gold coats spots you see ; 
 Those be rubies, fairy favours, 
 In those freckles live their savours : 
 1 must go seek some dew-drops here, 
 And hang a pear, in every cowslip's ear. 
 Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I '11 be gone; 
 Our queen and all her elves come here anon. 
 Puck. The king doth keep his revels here to- 
 night; 
 Take heed the queen come not within his sight. 
 For Oberon is passing fell and wrath. 
 Because that she, as her attendant, hath 
 
 A lovely boy stol'n from an Indian king ; 
 She never had so sweet a changeling : 
 And jealous Oberon would have the child 
 Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild: 
 But she, perforce, withholds the loved boy, 
 Crowns him with flowers, and makes him all hrt 
 
 joy: 
 And now they never meet in grove, or green. 
 By fountain clear, or spangled starlight sheen, 
 But they do square;^" that all their elves, for fear, 
 Creep into acorn-cups, and hide them there. 
 Fai. Either I mistake your shape and making 
 
 quite, 
 Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite, 
 Call'd Robin Qoodfellow ; " are you not he. 
 That frights fuo maidens of the villageree ; — 
 Skim milk; and sometimes labour in the quern ;^ 
 And bootless make the breathless housewife 
 
 churn ; 
 And sometime make the drink to bear no barm;'' 
 Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm ? 
 Those that Hobgoblin call you, and sweet I'uck, 
 You do their work, and they shall have good luck 
 Are you not he ? 
 
 Puck. Thou speak'st aright ; 
 
 825
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 [ am that iiit-nj wanderer of the uiglit. 
 
 I jest to OberoL'', and make hiia Ltuile, 
 
 Wlien I a fat aiid l>CHU-fed hoi'se beguile, 
 
 Neighing in likenaps of a filly foal : 
 
 And sometime lurk I in a gossip's bowl, 
 
 In very likeness of a roasted crab ; 
 
 And, when she drinks, against her lips I bob. 
 
 And on her wither'd dewlap pour the ale. 
 
 The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale, 
 
 Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me ; 
 
 Then slip I from her bum, down topples she, 
 
 And " Tailor" cries,^'' and falls into a cough ; 
 
 And then the whole quire hold their hips and 
 
 lofle,'-'' 
 And waxen in their mirth, and neeze,"' and swear 
 A merrier hour was never wasted there.— 
 But room, Fairy, here comes Oberon. 
 Fai. And here my mistress : — Would that he 
 
 were gone 
 
 Enter Oberon on one side, with his train, and Tita- 
 NiA on the other, with hers. 
 
 Obe. Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania. 
 
 Tita. What,jealous Oberon ? Fairy, skip hence ; 
 1 have forsworn his bed and company. 
 
 Obe. Tany, rash wanton. Am not I thy lord ? 
 
 Tila. Then I must be thy lady : But I know 
 When thou hast stol'n away fi'om fairy laud. 
 And in the shape of Corin sat all day. 
 Playing on pipes of corn, and versing love 
 Po amorous Phillida. Why art thou here. 
 Come from the farthest steep of India ? 
 Cut that, forsooth, the bouncing ^Vmazon, " 
 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 caust thou thus, for shame, Titania, 
 Glance at my credit with Hippolyta, 
 Knowing I know thy love to Theseus ? 
 Didst not thou lead him through the ghmmering 
 
 night 
 From Perigenia, whom he ravished ? 
 And make him with fair .iEgle break his faith, 
 With Ariadoe, and Antiopa? 
 
 Tita. These are the foigeries of jealousy: 
 And never, since die middle summer spring," 
 Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, 
 By paved fountain, or by rushy brook, 
 Or on the beached mavgent of the sea. 
 To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, 
 But with thy brawls thou hast disturb'd our 
 sport. 
 826 
 
 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 eveiy 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 com 
 Hath rotted, ere his youth attain'd a beard : 
 The fold stands empty in the drowned field. 
 And crows are fatted with the muriain 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 cheer; 
 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' thin and icy crown,'' 
 An odorous chnplet of sweet summer buds 
 Is, as in mock'ry, set. The spring, the summer, 
 The chilliug autumn, angry winter, change 
 Their wonted liveries ; and the mazed world. 
 By their increase,*" now luiows 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 should Titania cross her Oberon ? 
 I do but beg a little changeling boy. 
 To be my henchman." 
 
 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 wo 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, (lier womb then rich with my young 
 
 squire,) 
 Would imitate ; and sail upon the land, 
 To fetch me trifles, and return again. 
 As from a voyage, rich with morcliaudiso. 
 But she, being mortal, of that boy did dio ; 
 And, for her sake, I do rear up her boy : 
 And, for her .sake, I will not part with him.
 
 ACT II. 
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM, 
 
 ECEKE L 
 
 Olic. How long within this wood intend you 
 stay 2 
 
 Tita. J\'iclianco, till after Theseus' wedding- 
 day. 
 If you will patiently dance in our round, 
 And sue our moonlight revels, go with us; 
 •'<' noi, shun nie, and I will spare your haunts. 
 
 Ohe. Give me that boy, and I will go witli thee. 
 
 Tita. Not for thy fairy kingdom. Fair'es, 
 away : 
 We shall chide downright, if I longer stay. 
 
 l^Exeunt Titania and her train. 
 
 Obe. Well, go thy way : thou shall 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, 
 littering 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 f^ 
 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' i in the chaste beams of the wat'ry moon; 
 And the imperial vot'ress 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 le\'iath,xn can swim a league. 
 
 Puck. I '11 put a girdle round about the earth'' 
 [n forty minutes. [£xit Puck. 
 
 Obo. Having once this juice, 
 
 I '11 watch Titania when she is asleep, 
 And drop the liquor of it in her eyes : 
 The next thing then she waking looks upon, 
 
 (Be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull, 
 On meddling monkey, or on busy ape,) 
 She shall pursue it with the soul of love. 
 And ere I take this charm off from her sight, 
 (As I can take it, with another herb,) 
 I '11 make her render up her page to me. 
 But who conies here ? I am invisible. 
 And I will overhear their conference. 
 
 Unter Demetrius, YL^i.tuVX following hm. 
 
 Dem. I love thee not, therefore pursue me not 
 Where is Lysander, and fair Hermia ? 
 Tlie one I '11 stay, the other stayelh me." 
 Thou told'st me they were stol'n into this wood. 
 And here am I, and wood within this wood. 
 Because I cannot meet my llormia. 
 Hence ! get thee gone, and follow me no more. 
 
 Ilel. You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant 
 But yet you draw not iron, for my heart 
 Is true as steel : Leave you your power to draw. 
 And I shall have no power to follow you. 
 
 Dem. Do I entice you ? Do I speak you fair ] 
 Or, rather, do I not in plainest truth 
 Tell you I do not, nor I ca,nnot love you ? 
 
 Hel. And even for that do I love you the more, 
 I am your spaniel ; and, Demetrius, 
 The more you beat me, I will fawn on you ? 
 Use me but as your spaniel, spurn me, strike me, 
 Neglect me, lose me; only give me leave, 
 Unworthy as I am, to follow you. 
 What worser place can I beg in your love, 
 (And yet a place of high respect with me,) 
 Than to be used as you use your dog ? 
 
 Dem. Tempt not too much the hatred of my 
 spirit. 
 For I am sick when I do look on thee. 
 
 Ilel. And I am sick when I look not on you. 
 
 Dem. You do impeach your modesty too much, 
 To leave the city, and commit yourself 
 Into the hands of one that loves you not ; 
 To trust the opportunity of night. 
 And the,ill counsel of a desert place. 
 With the rich worth of your virginity. 
 
 Hel. Your virtue is my privilege for that." 
 It is not night, when I do see your face. 
 Therefore I think I am not in the night : 
 Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company 
 For you, in my respect, are all the world : 
 Then how can it be said I am alone. 
 When all the w^orld is here to look on me ? 
 
 Dem. I '11 run from thee, and hide me in the 
 bralies, 
 
 B2?
 
 A MroSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 And leave thee to the mercy of wild beasts. 
 
 Hel. The nnldest hath not such a heart as you. 
 Run when you will, the story shall be chang'd : 
 Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase ; 
 The dove pursues the griffin ; the mild hind 
 Mates speed to catch the tiger. Bootless speed! 
 When cowardice ptirsues, and valour flies. 
 
 Dem. I will not stay thy questions ; let me go : 
 Or, if thou follow nie, do not believe 
 But I shall do thee mischief in the wood. 
 
 Hel. Ay, in the temple, in the town, the field, 
 i'ou do me mischief. Fie, Demetrius ! 
 Your wrongs do set a scandal on my sex : 
 We cannot fight for love, as men may do : 
 We should be v.-oo'd, and were not made to woo. 
 I '11 follow thee, and make a heaven of hell. 
 To die upon the hand I love so well. 
 
 [Exeunt Dem. and Hel. 
 
 Obe. Fare thee well, nymph : ere he do leave 
 this grove. 
 Thou shalt fly him, and he shall seek thy love. 
 
 Re-enter Puck. 
 
 Hast thou the flower there ? Welcome, wanderer. 
 
 Puck. Ay, there it is. 
 
 Obe. I pray thee, give it me. 
 
 T know a bank '.rhere the wild thyme blows, 
 Where ox-lips'^ and the nodding violet grows; 
 Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, 
 With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine : 
 There sleeps Titania, some time of the night, 
 Lull'd in these flowers with dances and delight ; 
 And there the snake throws her enameU'd skin. 
 Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in: 
 iVnd with the juice of this I'll streak her eyes. 
 And make her full of hateful fantasies. 
 Take thou some of it, and seek through this grove : 
 A sweet Athenian lady is in love 
 With a disdainfid youth : anoint his eyes ; 
 But do it, when the ne.xt thing he espies 
 May be the lady : Tiiou shalt know the man 
 By the Athenian garments ho hath on. • 
 EtTect it with some care, that he may prove 
 More fond on her, than she upon her love : 
 And look thou meet me ere the first cock crow. 
 
 Puclc. Fear not, my lord ; your servant shall do 
 so. [Exeu7it. 
 
 SCENE \l.— Another imrt of the Wood. 
 Enter Titania, with her train. 
 Tita. ('omo, now a roumlcl, and a fairy song;" 
 Then, for (ho third part of a minute, hence ; 
 828 
 
 Some, to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds ; 
 Some, war with rear-mice for their leathern 
 
 wings. 
 To make my small elves coats ; and some, keep 
 
 back 
 The clamorous owl, that n "ghtly hoots, and wonders 
 At our quaint spirits. Sing me now asleep 
 Then to your oflices, and let me rest. 
 
 SONG 
 
 I. 
 
 1 Fai. You spotted .snakes, with double tong le, 
 Thorny hedgeliogs, be not seen ; 
 Kewts, find blind-worms, do no wrong ; 
 Come not near our fairy queen : 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Philomel, with melody 
 Sing in our sweet luilaby ; 
 LuUa, luUa, hill.iby ; luUa, lidla, lullaby: 
 Never harm, nor spell nor charm. 
 Come our lovely lady nigh ; 
 So, good night, with hiUaby. 
 
 2 Fai. Weaving spiders, come tot here ; 
 
 Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, houco; 
 Beetles black, approach not near ; 
 Worm, nor snail, do no offence. 
 
 OHORTJS. 
 
 Philomel, with melody, &c. 
 
 2 Fed. Hence, away ; now all is well : 
 One, aloof, stand sentinel. 
 
 [Exeunt Fairies. Titania skeiv. 
 
 Enter Oberon. 
 
 Ohe. TNHiat thou seest, when thou dost wake, 
 [Squeezes the fowcr on Titania's eyelids. 
 Do it for thy true-love take ; 
 Love and languisli for his sake : 
 Be it ounce, or cat, or bear, 
 Pard, or boar with bristled hair. 
 In thy eye that shall appear. 
 When thou wak'st, it is thy dear ; 
 Wake when some vile thing is near. [Exit. 
 
 Enter Lysandeu and Hermia. 
 
 Lys. Fair love, you faint with wand'ring in tlio 
 wood ; 
 
 And, to speak trolh, 1 have forgot our way ; 
 We '11 rest us, Ilormia, if you think it good, 
 
 And tarry for the comfort of the day. 
 
 Her. Be it so, Lysander; find you out abed. 
 For I upon this baidv will rest my hea'.l. 
 
 Lys. One lurf shall serve as pillow for us both 
 One heart, one bed, two bosoms, and one troth.
 
 A MroSUMMER-NICmrS i:)HEAM. 
 
 iiczf E :i. 
 
 rier. Nay, good Lysamler; for my sake, my dear, 
 Lie fui'ilicr off j'et; do not lie so near. 
 
 Lrfs. O, take the sense, sweet, of my innocence ; 
 I>ove takes the meaning, iu love's conference." 
 I mean, that my heart unto yours is knit, 
 So that but one heart we can make of it: 
 Two bosoms interchanged with an oath ; 
 So (hen, two bosoms, and a single troth. 
 Tlien, by your side no bed-room me deny ; 
 For, lying so, Hermia, I do not lie. 
 
 ffer. Lysander riddles very prettily : — 
 Now much beshrew my manners and my pride. 
 If Hermia meant to say Lysander lied. 
 But, gentle friend, for love and courtesy 
 Lie further ofT; in human modesty, 
 Such separation, as may well be said 
 Becomes a virtuous bachelor and a maid : 
 So far be distant; and good night, sweet friend: 
 Thy love ne'er alter, till thy sweet life end ! 
 
 Lys. Amen, amen, to that fair prayer, say I; 
 And then end life, when I end loyalty ! 
 Here is my bed : Sleep give thee all his rest ! 
 
 Her. With half that wish the wisher's eyes be 
 press'd ! [Theij sleep. 
 
 Enter Puck. 
 
 Puck Through the forest have I gone, 
 But Athenian find I none. 
 On whose eyes I might approve 
 This flower's force in stirring love. 
 Nigbt and silence ! who is here ? 
 Weeds of Athens he doth wear ; 
 This is he, my master said, 
 Despised the Athenian maid ; 
 And here the maiden, sleeping sound. 
 On the dank and dirty ground. 
 Pretty soul ! she durst not lie 
 Near this lack-love, this kill-courtesy. 
 Churl, upon thy eyes I throw 
 All the power this charm doth owe : 
 When thou wak'st, let love forbid 
 Sleep his seat on thy eyelid. 
 So awake, when I am gone ; 
 For I must now to Oberon. \^Exit. 
 
 Enter Demetrius and Helena, running. 
 
 IIcl. Stay, though thou kill me, sweet Demetrius. 
 Dera. I charge thee, hence, and do not haunt 
 
 me thus. , 
 JTcl. wilt thou darkling leave me ?" do not so. 
 Dem. Stay on thy peril ; I alone will go. 
 
 \Exit Dem. 
 
 IIcl. 0, I am out of breath in this fnd ch/wel 
 The more my prayer, the ltssi;r is my j^acc. 
 ]Lij)py is Hei-mia, wheresoe'er she lies, 
 For she hath blessed and attractive eyes. 
 How came her eyes so bright ? Not with salt u^ars 
 If so, my eyes are oft'ner wash'd than hers. 
 No, no, I am as ugly as a bear ; 
 For beasts that meet me run away for fear : 
 Therefore, no marvel, though Demetrius 
 Do, as a monster, fly my presence thus. 
 What wicked and dissembling glass of mir«. 
 Made me compare with Herraia's spliery ej"*.*? 
 But who is here ? — Lysander ! on the gi'ound ! 
 Dead, or asleep ? I see no blood, no wound ! 
 Lysander, if you live, good sir, awake. 
 
 Lys. And run through fire I wili, for thy swcef 
 sake. [ Waking. 
 
 Triinsparent Helena ! Nature shows her art. 
 That through thy bosom makes me see thy heart 
 MTiere is Demetrius ? O, how fit a word 
 Is that vile name to perish on my sword I 
 
 Hel. Do not say so, Lysander ; say not so : 
 What though he love your Hermia ? LoitI ! what 
 
 though ? 
 Yet Hermia still loves you : then be content. 
 
 Lys. Content with Hermia ? No : I do repent 
 The tedious minutes I with her have spent. 
 Not Hermia, but Helena now I love : 
 Wlio will not change a raven for a dove? 
 The will of man is by his reason sway'd. 
 And reason says you are the worthier maid. 
 Things growng are not ripe until their season ; 
 So I, being young, till now ripe not to reason ; 
 And touching now the point of human skill," 
 Reason becomes the maishal to my will. 
 And leads me to )'our eyes ; where I o'erlook 
 Love's stories, written in love's richest book. 
 
 Hel. Wherefore was I to this keen mockei-y 
 born ? 
 Wlien, at your hands, did I deserve this scorn ? 
 Is 't not enough, is 't not enough, young man, 
 That I did never, no, nor never can, 
 Deserve a sweet look fi-om Demetrius' eye, 
 But you must flout my insufiiciency ? 
 Good troth, you do me wrong ; good sooth, you do, 
 In such disdainful manner me to woo. 
 But fare you well : perforce I must confess, 
 I thought you lord of more tnie gentleness. 
 0, that a lady, of one man refus'd, 
 Should of another therefore be abus'd ! [Exit. 
 
 Lys. She sees not Hermia : — -Hermia, slet^p tliou 
 there ; 
 
 S29
 
 ACT lU. 
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHrS DREAM. 
 
 SCENE 1. 
 
 Aud never may'st thou come Lysander near ! 
 For, as a surfeit of the sweetest things 
 The deepest loathing to the stomach brings ; 
 Or, as the heresies that men do leave 
 Are hated most of those they did deceive ; 
 So thou, my surfeit, and my heresy, 
 Of all be hated ; but the most of me ! 
 Anil all my powers, address your love and might 
 To honour Helen, aud to be her knight. [Uxit. 
 Her. [starting.] Help me, Lysander, help me ! 
 do thy best 
 
 To pluck this crawling sei^pent from my breast 1 
 Ah me, for pity ! — what a dream was here ! 
 Lysander, look how I do quake with fear ! 
 Methought a serpent ate my heart away. 
 And you sat smiling at his cruel prey : 
 Lysander ! what, remov'd ? Lysander ! lord ! 
 What, out of hearing ? gone ? no sound, no word ? 
 Alack, where are you? speak, an if you hear; 
 Speak, of all loves ! I swound almost mth fear. 
 No ? — then I well perceive you are not nigh : 
 Either death, or you, I'll find immediately. \KciU 
 
 ACT 111. 
 
 SCENE I.— The Wood. The Queen of Fames 
 lying asleep, hut invisible. 
 
 Enter Quince, Snug, Bottom, Fldte, Snout, aivl 
 Starveling. 
 
 Bot. Are we all met ? 
 
 Quin. Fat, pat ; and here 's a marvellous con- 
 venient place for our rehearsal. This green plot 
 shall be our stage, this hawthorn brake our tiring- 
 house ;■" and we will do it in action, as we will do 
 it before the duke. 
 
 Bot. Peter Quince, — 
 
 Quin. What say'st laou. Bully Bottom ? 
 
 Bot. There are things in this comedy of ' Pyra- 
 mus and Thisby' that will never please. Fii-st, 
 Pyramus must draw a sword to kill himself; which 
 the ladies cannot abide. How answer you that ? 
 
 Snout. By'rlakin, a parlous fear." 
 
 Star. I believe we must leave the killing out, 
 when all is done. 
 
 Bot. Not a whit ; I have a device to make all 
 well. Write me a prologue : and let the prologue 
 Beera to say, we will do no harm with our swords ; 
 and that Pyramus is not kill'd indeed : and, for 
 the more l>etter assurance, tell them, that I, Pyi'a- 
 mus, am not Pyramus, but Bottom the weaver. 
 This will put them out of fear. 
 
 Quin. Well, we will have such a prologue ; and 
 it shall be written in eight and six. 
 
 Bot. No, make it two more ; let it be written in 
 Bight and eight. 
 
 Snout. Will not the ladies be afeard -f the 
 lion? 
 
 830 
 
 Star. I fear it, I promise you. 
 
 Bot. Masters, you ought to consider with your- 
 selves : to bring in, God shield us ! a lion among 
 ladies, is a most dreadful thing : for there is not a 
 more feaifiil wild-fowl than your lion, living; aud 
 we ought to look to it. 
 
 Snout. Therefore another prologue must tell he \ 
 is not a lion. / 
 
 Bot. Nay, you must name his name, and half 
 his fece must be seen through the lion's neck ; and 
 he himself must speak through, sajnng thus, or to 
 the same defect, — Ladies, or fair ladies, I would 
 wish you, or I would request you, or I would 
 entreat you, not to fear, not to tremble : my life 
 for yours. If you think I come hither as a lion, 
 it were pity of my life : No, I am no such thing ; 
 I am a man as other men are : aud there, indeed, 
 let him name his name, and tell them plainly he ia 
 Snug the joiner.'' 
 
 Quin, Well, it shall ho so. But there is two 
 hard things ; that is, to bring the moonlight into 
 a chamber : for you know, Pyramus and Tlusby 
 meet by moonlight. 
 
 Smig. Doth the moon shine that night we play 
 our play ? 
 
 Bot. A calendar, a o-nlendar ! look in tho alma- 
 nac; find out moonshine, iiiul out moonshine. 
 
 Quin. Yes, it doth shiuo tlat night. 
 
 Bot. Wliy, then niay yon leave a casement of 
 the great chaiuber-wimlow, where wo play, open ; 
 and tho moon may shine in at the casement. 
 
 Quin. Ay ; or else one must come in with a busb 
 of thorns and a lautem, and say, be comes to di»
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 SCENE 1. 
 
 Ogiire, or to present, tlie person of moonshiiip. 
 Tliiin tliei-e is another thing: we must have ri wall 
 in the great chamber; for Pyramus and Tliisby, 
 hay. the story, did talk through the chink of a wall. 
 
 iS'nM7. You can never bring in a wall. — What 
 say you, Bottom ? 
 
 Bo/. Some man or other must present wall : and 
 let him have some plaster, or some loam, or some 
 rough-cast about him, to signify wall : or let him 
 hold his fingere thus, and through that cmrniy 
 shall Pyramus and Thisby whisper. 
 
 Qniii. If that may be, then all is well. Come, 
 sit down, every mother's son, and rehearse your 
 parts. Pyramus, you begin ; when you have 
 spoken your speech, enter into that brake ; and so 
 every one according to his cue. 
 
 Enter Puck behind. 
 
 Puck. What hempen homespuns have we swag- 
 gering here, 
 So near the cradle of the fairy queen ? 
 What, a play toward ?*" I '11 be an auditor ; 
 An actor too, perhaps, if I see cause. 
 
 Quhi. Speak, Pyramus : — Thisby, stand forth. 
 
 Pi/r. Thisby, the flowers of odious savours sweet ; 
 
 Quin. Odours, odours. 
 
 Pl/r. odours savours sweet : 
 
 So li.ath thy breatli, my dearest Thisby dear. 
 But, luirk, a voice ! stay tliou a while but here, 
 
 And by and by I will to thee appear. [Erit. 
 
 Puck. A stranger Pyramus than e'er play'd 
 here ! [Aside. — Uxit. 
 
 Flute. Must I speak now ? 
 
 Qtiiri. Ay, marry, must you : for you must 
 
 understand he goes but to see a noise that he 
 
 heard, and is to come again. 
 
 This. Most radiant Pyramus, most lily-white of hue, 
 Of colour like the red rose on triumphant brier. 
 
 Most brisky juvenal, and eke most lovely Jew, 
 As true as truest horse that yet would never tire, 
 
 I '11 meet thee, Pyramus, at Ninny's tomb. 
 
 Quin. Ninus' tomb, mau. Why, you must not 
 speak that yet ; that you answer to Pyramus : You 
 speak all your part at once, cues and all." — Pyi'a- 
 mus, enter ; your cue is past ; it is, " never tire." 
 
 Re-enter Puck, and Bottom with an ass's head. 
 
 This. 0, — As true as truest horse, that yet would never 
 
 tire. 
 Pyr. If I were fair Thisby, I were ody thine : — 
 
 Quin. O monstrous I strange ! we are haunted. 
 Pray, masters I fly, masters ! help 
 
 [Exeuni Clowns. 
 
 Puck. I '11 fjllow you, I '11 l.-ad you about a 
 roiuid, 
 Through bog, through bush, through brake, 
 through brier ; 
 Sometime a horse I '11 be, sometime a hound, 
 A hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire; 
 And neigh, and bark, and giunt; and roai, an.] 
 
 burn, 
 Like iiorse, hound, hog, bear, fire, at every turn.' 
 
 [Exit. 
 Bot. Why do they run away ? tliis is a knavery 
 of them to make me afeard. 
 
 Re-enter Snout. 
 
 Snout. Bottom, thou art chang'd ! what do I 
 see on thee ? 
 
 Bot. What do you see ? you see an ass-head ot 
 your own, do you ? 
 
 Re-enter Quince. 
 
 Quin. Bless thee. Bottom ! bless thee I thou art 
 translated. [Exit. 
 
 Bot. I see their knaveiy : This is to make an 
 ass of me ; to fright me, if they could. But I will 
 not stir from this place, do what they can ; I will 
 walk up and down here, and I will sing, that they 
 shall hear I am not afi'aid. [Sing^,. 
 
 The woosel cock,''^ so black of hue. 
 
 With orange-tawny bill. 
 The throstle with his note so tine, 
 The wren with little quill ; 
 Tita. What angel wakes me from my flow'rf 
 bed ? [ Waking 
 
 Bot. The finch, the spaiTow, and the lark, 
 The plain-song cuckoo gray,'" 
 Whose note full many a man doth mark, 
 And dares not answer, nay — 
 for, indeed, who would set his wit to so foolish a 
 bird ? who would give a bird the lie, though ho 
 cry " Cuckoo" never so ? 
 
 Tita. I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again : 
 Mine ear is much enamour'd of thy note. 
 So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape ; 
 And thy fair virtue's force perforce doth move me, 
 On the first view, to say, to swear, I love thee. 
 
 Bot. Methinks, mistress, you should have little 
 re.ison for that : and yet, to say the. iruth, reason 
 and love keep little company together now-a-days: 
 the more the pity, that some honest neighbours 
 will not make them friends. Nay, I can afleek* 
 upon occasion. 
 
 Tita. Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful. 
 
 831
 
 JCT III. 
 
 A IMIDSUmiER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 BUENE n. 
 
 £ot Not so, neither : but if I had wit enough' 
 to get cut of this wood, I have enough to serve 
 Liine own turn. 
 
 Tita. Out of this wood do not desire to go ; 
 Thou shalt remain here, whether thou wilt or no 
 I am a spirit of no common rate ; 
 The summer still doth tend upon my state, 
 And I do love thee : therefore, go with me ; 
 I '11 give thee fairies to attend on thee ; 
 And they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep, 
 And sing, while thou on pressed flowers dost sleep : 
 And I will purge thy mortal grossness so, 
 That thou shalt like an airy spirit go. — 
 Peas-blossom ! Cobweb ! Moth ! and Mustard-seed ! 
 
 Enter Peas-blossom, Cobweb, Moth, Mustard- 
 seed, /oMr Fairies. 
 
 1 Fai. Ready. 
 
 2 Fai. And I. 
 
 3 Fai. And I. 
 
 4 Fai. And I. 
 
 All. Wliere shall we go ? 
 
 Tita. Be kind and courteous to this gentleman ; 
 [lop in his walks, and gambol in his eyes ; 
 Feed him wiih apricocks, and dewberries ; ''' 
 \\ ith purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries ; 
 The honey bags steal from the humble-bees, 
 And, for night-tapers, crop their waxen thighs, 
 And light them at the fiery glow-worm's eyes. 
 To have my love to bed, and to arise ; 
 And pluck the wings from painted butterflies. 
 To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes : 
 Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies. 
 
 1 Fai. Hail, mortal ! 
 
 2 Fai. Hail ! 
 
 3 Fai. Hail 1 
 
 4 Fai. Hail ! 
 
 Bot. I ciy your worship's mercy, heartily. — I 
 beseech your worship's name. 
 
 Coh. Cobweb. 
 
 Bot. I shall desire you of more acquaintance, 
 good master Cobweb. If I cut my finger, I shall 
 make bold with you. — Your name, honest gentle- 
 man? 
 
 Peas. Peas-blossom. 
 
 Bot. I pray you, commend me to mistress 
 S(iunsh,'' your mother, and to master Peas-cod, 
 your father. Good master Peas-blossom, I shall 
 desire you of more acquaintance too. — Your name, 
 I beseech you, sir ? 
 
 Mas. Mustard-seed. 
 
 Bot. Good master Mustard-seed, I know your 
 832 
 
 patience well : that same cowardly, giant-like ox- 
 beef hath devoured many a gentleman of your 
 house. I promise you, your kindred hath made 
 my eyes water ere now. I desire you of more 
 acquaintance, good master Mustard-seed. 
 
 Tila. Come, wait upon him ; lead him to my 
 bower. 
 The moon, methinks, looks with a wat'ry eye 
 And when she weeps, weeps every little flower. 
 Lamenting some enforced chastity. 
 Tie up my love's tongue, bring him silently. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE H..— Another part of the Wood. 
 
 Enter Oberon. 
 
 Obe. I wonder if Titania be awak'd ; 
 Tlien, what it was that next came in her eye. 
 Which she must dote on in extremity. 
 
 Enter Puck. 
 
 Here comes my messenger. — How now, mad spirit 
 ^Aliat night-rule" now about this haunted grove? 
 
 Puck. My mistress with a monster is in love. 
 Near to her close and consecrated bower. 
 While she was in her dull and sleeping hour, 
 A crew of patches, rude mechanicals. 
 That work for bread upon Athenian -tails, 
 Were met together to rehearse a play, 
 Intended for great Theseus' nuptial day. 
 The shallowest thick-skin of that barren sort, 
 Who Pyramus presented in their sport. 
 Forsook his scene, and enter'd in a brake. 
 When I did him at this advantage take • 
 An ass's nowl I fixed on his head ;'■ 
 Anon, his Thisby must be answered. 
 And forth my mimic" comes. When they him spy 
 As wild geese that the creeping fowler eye. 
 Or russet-pated choughs, many in sort, 
 Rising and cawing at the guu's report, 
 Sever themselves, and madly sweep the sky ; 
 So, at his sight, away his fellows fly. 
 And, at our stamp, here o'er and o'er one falls ; 
 He murder cries, and help from Athens calls. 
 Their sense thus weak, lost with their fears thus 
 
 strong. 
 Made senseless, things begin to do them wrong ; 
 For briers and thorns at their apparel snatch ; 
 Some, sleeves ; some, hats ; from yielders all tilings 
 
 catch. 
 I led them on in this distracted fear. 
 And left sweet I'yramus translated there:
 
 ACT 111. 
 
 A MIDSUMMEIi-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 Wlien in that moment (so it came to pass) 
 Titania wak'd, and straightway lov'd an ass. 
 
 Obc. Tliis falls out bettff than I could devise. 
 Dut hast thou yet latch'd" the Athenian's eyes 
 With the love-juice, ;is I did bid thee do 3 
 
 Puck. I took him sleeping, — that is finish'd 
 too, — 
 Ami the Athenian woman by his side; 
 That, when he wak'd, of force she must be ey'd. 
 
 Enter Demetrius and Hermia. 
 
 Obc. Stand close ; this is the same Athenian. 
 
 Fuck. This is the woman, but not this the man. 
 
 Bern. 0, why rebuke you him that loves you so ? 
 Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe. 
 
 Her. Now I but chide, but I should use thee 
 worse ; 
 For thou, I fear, hast given me cause to curse. 
 If thou hast slain Lysander in his sleep. 
 Being o'er shoes in blood, plunge in the deep. 
 And kill me too. 
 
 The sun was not so true unto the day. 
 As he to me. Would he have stol'n away 
 From sleeping Hermia ? I '11 believe as soon 
 This whole earth may be bor'd ; and that the moon 
 May through the centre creep, and so displease 
 Her brother's noontide with th' Antipodes. 
 It cannot be but thou hast murder'd him ; 
 So should a murderer look ; so dread, so grim. 
 
 Deni: So should the murder'd look; and so 
 should I, 
 Pierc'd through the heart with your stern cruelty; 
 Yet you, the murderer, look as bright, as clear, 
 As yonder Venus in her glimmering sphere. 
 
 Her. What 's this to my Lysander 2 wliere 
 is he ? 
 Ah, good Demetrius, wilt thou give him me ? 
 
 Dem. I 'd rather give his carcase to my hounds. 
 
 Her. Out, dog ! out, cur ! thou driv'st me past 
 the bounds 
 Of maiden's patience. Hast thou slain him then ? 
 Hitnceforth be never number'd among men ! 
 Oh ! once tell true ; toll true, even for my sake ; 
 Durst thou have look'd upon him, being awake, 
 And hast thou kill'd him sleeping ? brave touch ! ^ 
 Could not a worm, an adder, do so much ? 
 An ;>dder did it ; for with doubler toiigue 
 Tha:; thine, thou serpent, never adder stung. 
 
 Dem. You spend youi passion on a mispris'd 
 meod : 
 I am not guilty of Lysander's blood ; 
 Nor is he dead, for ou^ht that I can tell. 
 
 Her. I pray thee, tell me, thei], that he in 
 
 well. 
 l)cm. An if I could, what should I get there- 
 
 fore ? 
 Her. A privilege never to see me more. — 
 And from thy hated presence part I so : 
 See me no more, whether he be dead or no. 
 
 [Exit. 
 Dem. There is no following her in this fierce 
 vein: 
 Here, therefore, for a while I will I'emain. 
 So sorrow's heaviness doth heavier gi'ow 
 For debt that bankrupt sleep doth soitow owe : 
 Which now, in some slight measure, it will pay, 
 If for his tender here I make some stay. 
 
 [Lies down. 
 Obe. What hast thou done ? thou liast mistaken 
 quite. 
 And laid the love-juice on some true-love's sight : 
 Of tliy misprision must perforce ensue 
 Some true-love turn'd, and not a false turu'd true. 
 Fuck. Then fate o'er-rules ; that one man holding 
 troth, 
 A million fail, confounding oath on oath. 
 
 Obe. 2\.bout the wood go swiftei' than the wind, 
 And Helena of Athens look thou find : 
 All fancy-sick she is, and pale of cheer 
 With sighs of love, that cost the fi-esh blood deal. 
 By some illusion see thou bring her liere ; 
 I'll charm his eyes against she doth appear. 
 
 Fuck. I go, I go; look how I go; 
 Swifter than anow from the Tartar's bow. [Exit 
 Obe. Flower of this purple die. 
 Hit with Cupid's archery. 
 Sink in apple of his eye ! 
 "\^'heu his love he doth espy. 
 Let her shine as gloriously 
 As the Venus of the sky. 
 When thou wak'st, if she be by, 
 Beg of her for remedy. 
 
 Re-enter Puck, 
 
 Fuck. Captain of our faiiy band, 
 
 Helena is here at hand. 
 
 And the youth, mistook by me, 
 
 Pleading for a lover's fee ; 
 
 Shall we their iouA pageant see I 
 
 Lord, what friols these mortals be 1 
 Obc. Stand aside : the noise they make 
 
 Will cause Demetrius to .awake. 
 Fuck Then will two at once woo one — 
 
 That must needs be .spo't alone ; 
 
 838
 
 ACT III. 
 
 A MmSUMMER-NIGET'S DREAM. 
 
 And those tilings do best please me, 
 That bef'al preposterously. 
 
 Enter Lysander and Helena. 
 
 Lys. Why should you thiuk that I should woo 
 
 in scorn ? 
 Scorn and derision never come in tears: 
 Look, when I vow, I weep ; and vows so born. 
 
 In their nativity all truth appears. 
 How can these things in me seem scorn to you. 
 Bearing the badge of faith to prove them true ? 
 Ucl. You do advance your cunning more and 
 
 more. 
 When truth kills truth, devilish-holy fray ! 
 These vows are Hermia's; AVill you give 
 her o'er ? 
 Weigh oath with oath, and you will nothing 
 weigh : 
 Tour vows to her and me, put in two scales, 
 Will even weigh, and both as light as tales. 
 Ly^i. I had no judgment, when to her I swore. 
 Hcl. Nor none, in my mind, now you give 
 
 her o'er. 
 Lys. Demetiius loves her, and he loves not you. 
 Don. [awaking?^ O Helen, goddess, nymph, 
 peifect. di'.'iae ! 
 To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne 1 
 Ciystal is muddy. O, how lipe in show 
 Thy lips, those kissing chernes, tempting grow ! 
 Tliat pure congealed white, high Taurus' snow, 
 Fann'd with the eastern v.-ind, turns to a crow, 
 WTien thou hold'st up thy hand. 0, let m-e kiss 
 This princess of pure white,'^ this seal of bliss ! 
 
 Hel. O, spite ! 0, hell ! I see you all are bent 
 To set against me, for your merriment, 
 -f you were ci\il, and knew courtesy, 
 Y'ou would not do me thus much injury. 
 Can you not hate mc, as I know you do, 
 But you must join, in souls, to mock me too? 
 If you were men, as men you are in show. 
 You would not use a gentle lady so. 
 To vow, and swear, and superpraise my parts, 
 Wlion, I am sure, you hate mo with your hearts. 
 You both are rivals, and love Hermia; 
 And now both rivals, to mock Helena : 
 A ti-im exploit, a manly entei-prise. 
 To conjure tears up in a poor maid's eyes 
 V^'Uli your deiision ! None of noble .-^oit 
 
 W( 
 
 so offend a virgin, and extort 
 
 A poor soul's patience, all to make you sport. 
 
 Lys. You are unkind, Demetrius; be not so ; 
 For you love Hermiu : this, you know, I know : 
 884 
 
 And here, witli all good will, with all my licart. 
 In Hermia's love I yield you up my part ; 
 And yours of Helena to me bequeath. 
 Whom I do love, and will do to my deaih. 
 
 Hcl. Never did mockers waste more idle breath. 
 
 Don. Lysander, keep thy Hermia ; I will none : 
 If e'er I lov'd her, all that love is gone. 
 My heart to her but as guest-wise sojoum'd ; 
 And now to Helen it is home returu'd, 
 There to remain. 
 
 Lys. Helen, it is not so. 
 
 Dein. Disparage not the feitli thou dost not 
 know. 
 Lest, to thy peril, thou aby it dear. — 
 Look where thy love comes ; yonder is thy dear 
 
 Enter Hermia. 
 
 Her. Dark night, that from the eye his fimction 
 takes, 
 The ear more quick of apprehension makes; 
 Mlierein it doth impair the seeing sense. 
 It pays the hearing double recompense : 
 Thou art not by mine eye, Lysander, found ; 
 Mine ear, I tliank it, brought me to thy sound. 
 But why unkindly didst thou leave me so? 
 
 Lys. Why should he stay, whom love doth press 
 to go ? 
 
 Her. What love could press Lvsander from my 
 side ? 
 
 Lys. Lvsander's love, that would not let him 
 bide ; — • 
 Fair Helena, who more engilds the night 
 Than all yon fiery oes" and eyes of light. 
 Why seek'st thou me ? could not this make thoc 
 
 know. 
 The hate I bear thee made me leave thee so ? 
 
 Her. You speak not as you think ; it cannot be. 
 
 Hel. Lo, she is one of this confederaev ! 
 Now I jierceive they have conjoin'd, all three, 
 To fashion this false sport in spite of me. 
 Injurious Hermia ! most luigiateful maid ! 
 Have you conspir'd, have you with these contriv'd 
 To bait me with this foul derision ? 
 Is all the counsel that we two have sliar'd. 
 The sisters' vows, tlie 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, cliilclliood 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 ko,v
 
 A MLDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DKEAM. 
 
 (iOENE II. 
 
 As If our hands, our sides, voices, and minds. 
 Had been incorporate. So we grew together, 
 Like to a double cherry, seeming parted, 
 liut yet an 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. 
 And will you rend our ancient love asunder. 
 To join with men in scorning 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 cidl me goddess, nymph, divine, and rare. 
 Precious, celestial ? Wherefore speaks he this 
 To her he hates ? and wherefore doth Lysander 
 Deny your love, so rich within his soul, 
 And tender me, forsooth, affection. 
 But by 3'our setting on, by your consent 1 
 What though I be not so in grace as you, 
 So luuig 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 b}- this 
 
 Hcl. 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 partiy mine own fault, 
 Which death, or absence, soon shall remedy. 
 
 Lys. Stay, gentle Helena ; hear my excuse ; 
 My Icve, my life, my soul, fair Helena ! 
 
 Hel. O, excellent ! 
 
 Her. Sweet, do not scorn her so. 
 
 Dem. If she cannot entreat, I can compel. 
 
 Lys. Thou canst compel no more than she 
 entreat ; 
 ]"hy threats have no more strength than her weak 
 
 prayers. — 
 Helen, I love thee ; by my life, I do ; 
 I swear by that which I will lose for thee. 
 To prove him false that says I love tliee not 
 
 Dcm. I say, I love thee more than he can do. 
 
 Lys. If thou say so, withdraw, and jvove it too. 
 
 Bern. Quick, come, — 
 
 Her. Lysander, whereto tends .-dl this 5 
 
 Lys. Away, you Ethiop ! 
 
 Bern. No, no, sir : — 
 Seem to break loose ; take on, as you would follow, 
 But yet come not. You are a tame man, go ! 
 
 Lys. Hang off, thou cat, thou burr: vile thing, 
 let loose ; \^H<;r>iiia embraces him. 
 
 Or I will shake thee from me, like a serpent. 
 
 Her. Why are you grown so rude ? what change 
 is this. 
 Sweet love ? 
 
 Lys. Thy love? out, tawny Tartar, out! 
 
 Out, loathed medicine I O, hated poison, hence 1 
 
 Her. Do you not jest ? 
 
 Hel. Yes, 'sooth ; and so do you. 
 
 Lys. Demetrius, I will keep my word with thee 
 
 I>em. I would I had your bond ; for I perceive 
 A weak bond holds you; I'll not trust j'our word. 
 
 Lys. What, should I hurt her; strike her, kill 
 her dead ? 
 Although I hate her, I '11 not harm her so. 
 
 Her. What I can you do me greater hann than 
 hate? 
 Hate me ! wherefore ? O me ! what news, my love ? 
 Am not I Hermia ? Are not you Lysander ? 
 I am as fair now as I was erewhile. 
 Since night you lov'd me ; yet, since night you left 
 
 me : 
 Why then you left me, — 0, the gods forbid ! 
 In earnest, shall I say ? 
 
 Lys. Ay, by my hfe ; 
 
 And never did desire to see thee more. 
 Therefore, be out of hope, of question, of doubt ; 
 Be certain, nothing truer, 't is no jest, 
 That I do hate thee, and love Helena. 
 
 Her. O, me! youjuggler! you canker-blossom!* 
 You thief of love ! what, have you come by night, 
 And stol'n my love's heart from him ? 
 
 Hel. Fine, i' faith ! 
 
 Have you no modesty, no maiden shame, 
 No touch of bashfulness ? V\Tiat, will you tear 
 Impatient answers from my gentle tongue ? 
 Fie, fie ! you counterfeit, you puppet, you ; 
 
 Her. Puppet ! why so ? Ay, that way goes tho 
 game. 
 Now I perceive that she hath made compare 
 Between our statures ; she hath urg'd her height, 
 And with her personage, her tall personage. 
 Her height, forsooth, she hath prevail'd with him. 
 And are you grown so high in his esteem, 
 Because I am so dwarfish, and so low ? 
 
 S36
 
 ACT m. 
 
 A MIDSUMlVIER-NlGHrS DREAM. 
 
 BCBNE n. 
 
 How low am I, thou painted maypole ? speat ; 
 
 How low am I ? I am cot yet so low, 
 
 But that my nails cau reach unto thine eyes. 
 
 Hel. I pray you, though you mock me, gentle- 
 men, 
 Let her not hurt me : I was never curst ; 
 I have no gift at all in shrewishness ; 
 I am a right maid for my cowardice ; 
 Let her not strike me. You, perhaps, may think, 
 Because she 's something lower than myself, 
 That I can match her. 
 
 Her. Lower ! hark, again. 
 
 , Hel. Good Heimia, do not be so bitter with me. 
 t evermore did love you, Hermia, 
 Di<l ever keep you counsels, never wrong'd you : 
 Save that, in love unto Demetrius, 
 I told him of your stealth unto this wood : 
 He follow'd you ; for love, I follow'd him. 
 But he hath chid me hence ; and threaten'd me 
 To strike me, spurn me, nay, to kill me too : 
 And now, so you will let me quiet go. 
 To Athens will I bear my folly back, 
 And follow you no further. Let me go ; 
 i'ou see how simple and how fond I am. 
 
 Her. Why, get you gone ! Who is 't that LIl- 
 dcrs you ' 
 
 Hd. A foolish heart that I leave here behind. 
 
 Her. What, with Lysander ? 
 
 Hd. With Demetrius. 
 
 Lijs. Be not afraid ; she shall not harm thee, 
 Helena. 
 
 Dem. No, sir ; she shall not, though you take 
 her part. 
 
 Hel. 0, when she 's angry, she is keen and 
 shrewd : 
 She was a v-ixen when she went to school ; 
 And, though she be but little, she is fierce. 
 
 Her. Little again? nothing but low and little? 
 Why will you suffer her to flout me thus ? 
 r^t me come to her. 
 
 Lijs. Get you gone, you dwarf; 
 
 You minimus, of hind'ring knot-grass"" made; 
 You bead, you acorn. 
 
 Dem. You are too officious 
 
 In her behalf that scorns your services. 
 Let her alone ; speak not of Ilelena ; 
 T;iko not lier part ; for if thou dost intend 
 Xever so little show of love to her, 
 J'Lou sh'ilt aby it. 
 
 l/tji. Now she holds me not ; 
 
 Now follow, if thou dar'st, to try whose right, 
 Of thine or mine, is most in Heleua. 
 886 
 
 Bern. Follow ? nay, I '11 go with thee, cheek by 
 jowl. \Exeunt Lys. aVid Dem, 
 
 Her. l^ou, mistress, all this coil is long of you : 
 Nay, go not back. 
 
 Hel. I v/ill not tnist you, I ; 
 
 Nor longer stay in your curst company. 
 Y^our hands than mine are quicker for a fi'ay ; 
 !My legs are longer though, to run away. \_Exil. 
 
 Her. I am amaz'd, and know not what to say. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Obe. Thisis thy negligence: still thou mistak'st, 
 Or else committ'st thy knaveries wilfully. 
 
 Flick. Believe me, king of shadows, I mistook. 
 Did not you tell me I should know the man 
 By the Athenian gamients he had on ? 
 And so far blameless proves my enterprise, 
 That I have 'nointed an Athenian's eyes : 
 And so far am I glad it so did sort, 
 As this their jangling I esteem a sport. 
 
 Obe. Thou seest, these lovers seek a i lace to 
 fight : 
 Hie therefore, Robin, overcast the night ; 
 The starry welkin cover thou anon 
 Witli drooping fog, as black as Acheron ; 
 And lead these testy rivals so astray. 
 As one come not within another's way. 
 Like to Lysander sometime frame thy tong'.ie. 
 Then stir Demetnus up with bitter wrong ; 
 And sometime rail thou like Demetrius ; 
 And from each other look thou lead them thus, 
 Till o'er their brows death-counterfeiting sleep 
 With leaden legs and batty wings doth creep : 
 Then crush this herb into Lysander's eye. 
 Whose liquor hath this virtuous property. 
 To take from thence all eiror with his might, 
 And make his eyeballs roll with wonted sight 
 When they next wake, all this derision 
 Shall seem a dream, and fruitless vision ; 
 And back to Athens shall the lovers wend. 
 With league, whose date till death shall ncvci 
 
 end. 
 Whiles I in this affair do thee employ-, 
 I '11 to my queen, and beg her Indian boy ; 
 And then I will her charmed eye release 
 From monster's view, and all things shall bo 
 jieace. 
 
 Puck. My fairy lord, this must be done with 
 haste. 
 For night's swift dragons cut the clouds full fast, 
 And yonder shines Aurora's liarbinger; 
 At whose a]iproach, ghosts, wandering hero and 
 there,
 
 
 ■ 
 
 An HI. A MIDSUMMEK-NIGHT'S DREAM. scbnb ji. 
 
 
 Troop liome to cliuroli-yards : damned spiiits all, 
 
 And here will rest me. Come, thou gentle day: 
 
 
 That in cross-ways and floods have burial, 
 
 [^Liea douni. 
 
 
 Already (o their womiy beds are gone ;" 
 
 For if but once thou show me thy giey light, 
 
 
 For fear lest day should look their shames upon, 
 
 T '11 find Demetrius, and revenge this spite. 
 
 
 Tlioy wilfully themselves exile from light, 
 
 [Sleeps. 
 
 
 A.ud must for aye consort with black-brow'd night. 
 O'ic. But we are spirits of another sort : 
 
 Re-enter Puck and Demetrids. 
 
 
 I with the morning's love have oft made sport ; 
 
 Puck. TIo, ho, ho ! Coward, why com'st thou 
 
 
 And, like a forester, the groves may tread, 
 
 not? 
 
 
 Even till the eastern gate, all fiery-red. 
 
 Dcm. Abide me, if thou dar'st ; for well I wot, 
 
 
 0[iening on Neptune with fair blessed beams. 
 
 Thou runn'st before me, shifting every place, 
 
 
 Turns into yellow gold his salt green streams. 
 
 And dar'st not stand, nor look me in the face. 
 
 
 But, notwithstanding, haste ; make no delay : 
 
 Wliere art thou now ? 
 
 
 , We may effect this business yet ere day. 
 
 Puck. Come hither ; I am here. 
 
 
 [Exit Obe. 
 
 Dem. Nay, then, thou mock'st me. Thou 
 
 
 Puck. Up and down, up and down ; 
 
 shalt 'by this dear,'' 
 
 
 I will lead them up and down : 
 
 If ever I thy face by day-light see : 
 
 
 I am fear'd in field and town ; 
 
 Now, go thy way. Faintness constraineth mo 
 
 
 Goblin, lead them up and down. 
 
 To measure out my length on this cold bed. 
 
 
 Here comes one. 
 
 By day's approach look to be visited. 
 
 
 £nter Lysander. 
 
 [Lies down and sccepn. 
 
 
 Lys. Where art thou, proud Demetrius ? speak 
 
 Enter Helena. 
 
 
 thou now. 
 
 Jfcl. 0, weary night ! 0, long and tedious night. 
 
 
 Puck. Here, villain ; drawn and ready. Where 
 
 Abate thy hours : shine, comforts, from the 
 
 
 art thou ? 
 
 east, 
 
 
 Zys. I will be 'witli thee straight. 
 
 That I may back to Athens by day-light. 
 
 
 Puck. Follow me then to plainer ground. 
 
 From those that my poor company detest : — 
 
 
 l^Exii Lts. as following the voice. 
 
 And sleep, tliat sometime shuts up sorrow's eye. 
 Steal me a while from mine own company. [Steeps. 
 
 
 Enter Demetrius. 
 
 Puck. Yet but three ? Come one more ; 
 
 
 Dcm. Lysander ! speak again. 
 
 Two of both kinds make up four. 
 
 
 Thou runaway, thou coward, art thou fled? 
 
 Here she comes, curst and sad : 
 
 
 Speak I In some bush ? Where dost thou hide 
 
 Cupid is a knavish lad, 
 
 
 thy head ? 
 
 Thus to make poor females mad. 
 
 
 Puch. Thou coward ! art thou bragging to the 
 stars, 
 
 Enter Hermia. 
 
 
 Telling the bushes that thou look'st for wars, 
 
 Jler. Never so weary, never so in woe. 
 
 
 And wilt not come ? Come, recreant ; come, thou 
 
 Bedabbled with the dew, and torn with 
 
 
 child ; 
 
 briers ; 
 
 
 I '11 whip thee with a rod : he is defil'd 
 
 I can no further crawl, no further go ; 
 
 
 That draws a sword on thee. 
 
 My legs can keep no pace with my desires. 
 
 
 Dem. Yea, art thou there ? 
 
 Here will I rest me till the break of day. 
 
 
 Puck. Follow ray voice ; we '11 try no manhood 
 
 Heavens shield Lysander, if they mean a fray! 
 
 
 here. \^Exeunt. 
 
 [Lies down. 
 
 
 Re-enter Lysander. 
 
 Puck. On the ground 
 Sleep sound ; 
 
 
 Lys. He goes before me, and still dares me on ; 
 
 I '11 apply 
 
 
 When I come where he calls, then he is gene. 
 
 Your eye,'' 
 
 
 The villain is much lighter heel'd than I : 
 
 Gentle lover, remedy. 
 
 
 I follow'd fast, but faster he did fly ; 
 
 [Squeezing the juice on Lts. s eve. 
 
 
 That fallen am I in dark uneven way 
 
 When thou wak'st. 
 
 
 43 887 
 
 
 "^ 

 
 ACT IV. 
 
 A MIDSUMIMEK-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 SCENE L 
 
 Thou tnk'st 
 
 In your waking shall be shown : 
 
 True delight 
 
 Jack shall have Jill;" 
 
 In tbe sight 
 
 Nought shall go ill ; 
 
 Of tl y foi-mer lady's eye : 
 
 The man shall have his mare again, and all ilial' 
 
 And the country prOverb known, 
 
 be well. [Exit Puck. — Scene cAwiv 
 
 That eveiy man should take his own, 
 
 on the sleepers. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I.— The Wood. 
 
 Enter Titahia and Bottom, Fairies attending ; 
 Oberon behind unseen. 
 
 Tita. Come, sit thee down upon this flow'17 bed, 
 "\^'hile 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. Ready. 
 
 iiot. Scratch my head, Peas-blossom. — Where's 
 inonsiour 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 hoJp cava- 
 lery Peas-blossom to scratch. I must to the bar- 
 ber's, monsieur; for, methinks, I am marvellous 
 hairy about the face ; and I am such a tender ass, 
 if my hair do but tickle me, I must scratch. 
 
 Tila. What, wilt thou liear some music, my 
 Fwcct love ? ■ 
 
 Bot. I have a reasonable good ear in music: let 
 UE Lave 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 
 jour good dry oats. Wetliinks I have a great de- 
 S8S 
 
 sire to a bottle of hay : good hay, sweet hay. Lath 
 no fellow. 
 
 Tita. I have a venturous fairy that shall seek 
 The squin-el's hoard, and fetch thee new nuts. 
 
 Bot. I liad 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 como 
 upon me. 
 
 Tita. Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in ray 
 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 ! 
 
 [ The^j skej). 
 
 Oberon advances. Enter Puck. 
 
 Ohe. Welcome, good Robin. See'st thou tliif 
 sweet sight ? 
 Her dotage now I do begin to pit^ ; 
 For meeting her of late behind the wood. 
 Seeking sweet savours for this hateful fool, 
 I did upbraid her and fall out with her : 
 For she his iiaiiy temples then had rounded 
 With coronet of fresh and fragiaut 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, 
 Dike tears that did their own disgrace bewail. 
 When I had, at my pleasure, tamited her. 
 And she, in mild terms, begg'd my patience, 
 I then did ask of hei' her changeling child. 
 Which straight she gave me, and her fciiry sent 
 To bear him to my bower in fairy land. 
 And now T have the boy, I will undo 
 This hateful imperfection of her eyes,
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGUrS DREAM. 
 
 BCGNE I, 
 
 Ami, gentle Puck, take this tiaiisformed scalp 
 From off the lieiiil of this Athenian swain ; 
 Tliat he, awaking when the other do. 
 May all to At liens back again repair, 
 And think no more of this night's accidents, 
 Hut as the fierce vexation of a dream. 
 But lirst I will release the fairy queen. 
 Be thou as thou wast wont to be ; 
 
 [Touchiriff her eyes with an herb. 
 See as thou wast once to see : 
 Dian's bud o'er Cupid's iiower'* 
 Hath such force and blessed power. 
 Now, my Titania ! wake you, my sweet queen. 
 
 Tila. My Oberon ! what visions have I seen ! 
 Methouglit I was enaraour'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 ! 
 Ohc. Silence a while. — Robin, take off his 
 head. — 
 Titania, music call ; and strike more dead 
 Thau common isleep of all these five the sense. 
 Tita. Music, ho ! music, such as charmeth sleep. 
 Puck. Now, when thou wak'st, with thine own 
 
 fool's eyes peep. 
 Obc Sound, music. [Mustic^ Come, my qtieen, 
 take hands with me. 
 And rock the ground whereon these sleepers be. 
 Now thou and I are new in amity. 
 And will, to-moiTow midnight, solemnly. 
 Dance in duke Theseus' house triumphantly, 
 And bless it to all fair posterity :*' 
 There shall the pairs of faithful lovers be 
 Wedded, like Theseus, all in jollity. 
 Puck. Faiiy king, attend, and mark; 
 
 I do heai' the morning lark. 
 Ohe. Then, my queen, in silence sad. 
 Trip we 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 liow it came this night. 
 That I sleeping here was found, 
 "With these mortals on the gTound. 
 
 \_Excunt. Horns sound within. 
 
 Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Egeos, and train. 
 
 The. Go one of you, find out the forester; 
 For now our observation is perfonn'd ; ™ 
 And since we have the vaward of the day. 
 My love shall Lear the music of my hounds. 
 Uncouple in the western valley; le' them go: 
 
 Despatch, I say, an<l find the forester. 
 
 We will, fair queen, up to the mountain's top, 
 
 And mark the nuisical confasion 
 
 Of hounds and echo in conjunction. 
 
 Hip. I was with Heicules and Cadmus once, 
 When in a wood of Crete they bay'd the hoar 
 With hounds of Sparta : never did I hear 
 Such gallant cliiding ; for, besides the groves, 
 The skies, the fountains, every region near 
 Seem'd all one nmtual cr3'. I never heard 
 So musical a discord, such sweet thunder. 
 
 The. My hounds are bred out of the Spartan 
 
 kind. 
 So (lew'd, so sanded ;"' and their heads are hung 
 With ears that sweep away the morning dew ; 
 Crook-knee'd and dew-lapp'd like Thessalian 
 
 bulls; 
 Slow in pursuit, but match'd in mouth like bells, 
 Each under each. A cry more tunable 
 Was never halloo'd to, nor cheer'd witii horn, 
 In Crete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly : 
 Judge, when you hear. — But, soft ; what nymphj 
 
 are these ? 
 Ef/e. My lord, this is my daughter here asleep : 
 And tliis, Lysander ; this Demetrius is ; 
 This Helena, old Nedar's Helena : 
 I wonder of their beinc; here totfether. 
 
 The. No doubt, they rose up early, to observe 
 The rite of May ; and, hearing our intent. 
 Came here in grace of our solemnity. 
 But speak, Egeus ; is not this the day 
 That Hermia should give answer of her choice ? 
 Effe. It is, my lord. 
 The. Go, bid the hnntsmen wake them with 
 
 their horns. 
 
 Horns, and shout vithin. Demetrius, Lysander, 
 Hekmia, and Helena, wake and start up. 
 
 The. Good morrow, friends. Saint Valentine is 
 past; 
 Begin these wood-birds hut to couple now ■ 
 
 Lys. Pardon, my lord. 
 
 [He and the rest kneel to Theseus. 
 
 The. I pray you all, stand up. 
 
 I know you two are rival enemies ; 
 How comes tliis gentle concord in the world, 
 That hatred is so fiir from jealousy. 
 To sleep by hate, and fear no enmity ? 
 
 Lys. Mv lord, I shall reply amazedly. 
 Half 'sleep, half waking : but as yet, I swear, 
 I cannot truly say how I came here : 
 But, as I think, (for truly would I speak, — 
 
 S39
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 scfi^E 11. 
 
 And now I do betliink me, so it is) 
 
 I came ^\^iih Hermia hitlier : our intent 
 
 Was to be gone from Athens, where we might be 
 
 Without the peril of the Athenian law. 
 
 Hffe. Enough, enough, my lord ; you have 
 enough : 
 I beg the law, the law, upon his head ! 
 They would have stol'n away ; they would, De- 
 metrius, 
 ITiereby to have defeated you and me : 
 You of your wife, and me of my consent, — 
 Of my consent that she should be your wife. 
 
 Detn. My lord, fair Helen told me of their 
 stealth. 
 Of this their purpose hither, to this wood ; 
 And I in fury hither follow'd them. 
 Fair Helena in fancy following me. 
 But, my good lord, I wot not by what power, 
 (But by some power it is,) my love to Hennia, 
 Melted as the snow, seems to me now 
 As the remembrance of an idle gaud. 
 Which in my childhood I did dote upon : 
 And all the faith, the nrtue of my heart, 
 Tie object, and the jik-asure of mine eye. 
 Is only Helena. To her, my lord, 
 Was I betroth'd ere I saw Hermia : 
 But, like in sickness, did I loathe this food : 
 But, as in health, come to my natural taste. 
 Now do I wish it, love it, long for it, 
 And will for evermore be true to it. 
 
 The. Fair lovers, you are fortunately met : 
 Of this discourse we more will hear anon. 
 Egeus, I will overbear your will ; 
 For in the temple, by and by with us, 
 These couples shall eternally be knit. 
 And, for the morning now is something worn. 
 Our purpos'd hunting shall be set aside. 
 Away, with us, to Athens : Three and three ; 
 We 'U hold a feast in great solemnity. 
 Come, Hippolyta. 
 
 [Sxeunt The. Hip. Eoe. and train. 
 
 JJem. These things seem small and undislin- 
 guishable, 
 Like far-ofl' mountains turned into clouds. 
 
 Her Melhinks I see these things with jiartetl 
 eye, 
 Wlien everything seems double. 
 
 Hel. So methinks: 
 
 And I have found Demetrius like a jewel. 
 Mine own, and not mine own." 
 
 Bern. Are you sure 
 
 Tliat we are awake 3 It seems to me, 
 
 840 
 
 That yet we sleep, we dream. — Do nut you think 
 The duke was here, and bid us follow aim ? 
 Her. Yea, and my father. 
 Hel. And Hippolyta. 
 
 Lys. And he did bid us follow to the temple. 
 Dem. Why, then, we are awake: Let's follow 
 him; 
 And, by the way, let us recount our dreams. 
 
 \£xeuni. 
 
 As they go out, Bottom awakes. 
 
 Bot. When my cue comes, call me, and I will 
 answer: — my. next is, "Most fair Pyramus." — 
 Hey, ho ! — Peter Quince ! Flute, the bellows- 
 mender ! Snout,' the tinker ! Starveling ! God's 
 my hfe ! stol'n hence, and left me asleep ! I have 
 had a most rare vision. I have had a dream, — 
 past the wit of man to say what dream it was : — 
 Man is but an ass, if he go about to expound this 
 dream. Methought I was^there is no man can 
 tell what. Methought I was, and methought I 
 had, — but man is but a patch'd fool" if he will 
 offer to say what methought I had. The eye of 
 man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seea 
 man's hand is not able to taste, his tong «e to con 
 ceive, noi- his heart to report, what my dream was. 
 I will get Peter Quince to write a ballad of this 
 dream : it shall be called Bottom's Dream, because 
 it hath no bottom ; and I will sing it in the latter 
 end of a play, before the duke. Peradventure, to 
 make it the more gracious, I shall sing it at her 
 death. {Exit. 
 
 SCENE H. — ^Athens. A Room in Quince's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Quince, Flute, Snout, and Starveling. 
 
 Quin. Have you sent to Bottom's house ? is he 
 come home yet ? 
 
 Star. He cannot be heard of. Out of doubt, he 
 is transported. 
 
 Flu. If he come not, then the play is maiT'd. It 
 goes not forward, doth it ? 
 
 Quin. It is not possible : you have not a man in 
 all Athens able to discharge Pyramus, but he. 
 
 Flu. No : ho hath simply the best wit of any 
 handicraft-man in Athens. 
 
 Quin. Yea, and the best person too : and he is 
 a very paramour for a sweet voice. 
 
 Flu. You must say paragon : a paramour i9| 
 God bless us ! a thing of naught
 
 ACT V. 
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 Enter Snug. 
 
 Sniif/. Mastoi's, the duke is coming from tlio 
 lemple, and there is two or throe lords and ladies 
 more married. If our sport had gone forward, we 
 had all been made men." 
 
 FI7/. O sweet bully Bottom ! Thus hatii he lost 
 sixpence a-day during his life ; he could not have 
 'scaped sixpence a-day : an the duke had not given 
 him sixpence a-day for playing Pyramus, I '11 be 
 hang'd ; he would have deserved it : sixpence a- 
 day iu Pyramus, or nothing ! 
 
 Enter Bottom. 
 
 Bot Where are these lads? where are these 
 lieaits ? 
 
 Quin. Bottom ! — roost courageous day ! O 
 most happy hour ! 
 
 Bot. Masters, I am to discourse wonders: but 
 ask me not what ; for if I tell you, I am no true 
 Athenian. I will tell you everything, right as it 
 fell out. 
 
 Quin. Let us hear, swoet Bottom. 
 
 Hot. Not a word of me. All that I will tell 
 you is, that the duke halh dined. Get your appa- 
 rel together; good strings to your beards," new 
 ribbons to your pumps ; meet presently at the 
 palace ; every man look o'er his part ; for, tlie short 
 and the long is, our play is preferred." In any 
 case, let Thisbe have clean linen ; and let not him 
 that plays the lion pare his nails, for they shall 
 hang out for the lion's claws. And, most dear 
 actors, eat no onions, nor garlic, for we are to 
 utter sweet breath ; and I do not doubt but to hear 
 them say it is a sweet comedy. No more words 
 
 away ; go, away ! 
 
 \ Exeunt. 
 
 ACT V, 
 
 SCENE I. — Athens. An Apartment in the 
 Palace of Theseus. 
 
 Enter Theseus, Uippolyta, Philostrate, Lords, 
 and Attendants. 
 
 Hip. 'T is strange, my Theseus, that these lovers 
 speak of. 
 
 The. More strange than true. I never may believe 
 These antic fables, nor these fairy toys. 
 Lovers and madmen have such seething brains. 
 Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend 
 More than cool reason ever comprehends. 
 The lunatic, the lover, and the poet. 
 Are of imagination all compact : 
 One sees more devils than vast hell can hold — 
 That is the madman : the lover, all as frantic. 
 Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt : 
 The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, 
 Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to 
 
 heaven. 
 And, .IS imagination bodies forth 
 The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen 
 Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing 
 A local habitation and a name. 
 Such tricks hath strong imagination 
 
 That, if it would but apprehend some joy, 
 It comprehends some bringer of that joy ; 
 Or, in the night, imagining some fear, 
 How easy is a bush suppos'd a bear ! 
 
 Jlip. But all the story of the night told over, 
 And all their minds transfigur'd so together. 
 More witnesseth than fancy's images, 
 And grows to something of great constancy ; 
 But, howsoever, strange, and admirable. 
 
 The. Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth. 
 
 Enter Lysandeb, Demetrius, Hermia, arid 
 
 Helena. 
 
 Joy, gentle fiiends ! joy, and fresh days of love. 
 Accompany your hearts ! 
 
 Li/s. More than to us 
 
 Wait in your royal walks, your board, your bed ! 
 
 The. Come now ; what masks, jvhat dances 
 shall we have, 
 To wear away this long age of three hours, 
 Between our after-supper and bed-time ? 
 Where is our usual manager of mirth ? 
 What revels are in hand ? Is there no play, 
 To ease the anguish of a torturing hour 1 
 Call Philostiat*. 
 
 341
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 Philost. Here, mighty Theseus. 
 
 The. Say, what abridgment'' have you for this 
 evening ? 
 What mask, what music ? How shall we Leguile 
 The l.nzy time, if not with some delight ? 
 
 Philost. There is a brief," how many sports are 
 rife ; 
 Make choice of which your highness will see first. 
 [Giving a paper, which Theseus hmids 
 to Lysander to read. 
 
 Lys. [i?carfs.] " The battle with the Centaure, 
 to be sung 
 By an Athenian eunuch to the harp." 
 
 The. We '11 none of that : that have I told my 
 love. 
 In glory of my kinsman Hercules. 
 
 Lys. " The riot of the tipsy Bacchanals, 
 Tearing the Thracian singer in their rage." 
 
 The. That is an old device, and it was play'd 
 W^hen I from Thebes came last a conqueror. 
 
 Lys. " The thrice three Muses mourning for the 
 death 
 Of lera-ning, late deceas'd in beggary." 
 
 The. That is some satire, keen, and critical. 
 Not sorting with a nuptial ceremony. 
 
 Lrjs. " A tedious brief scene'' of young Pyramus, 
 And his love Thisbe ; veiy tragical mirth." 
 
 The. !MeiTy and tragical ! Tedious and brief ! 
 That is hot ice, and wond'rous seething snow.*° 
 How shall we find the concord of this discord ? 
 
 Philost. A play there is, my lord, some ten 
 words long ; 
 Which is as brief as I have known a play ; 
 But by ten words, my lord, it is too long. 
 Which makes it tedious: for in all the play 
 There is not one word apt, one player fitted. 
 And tragical, my noble lord, it is. 
 For PjTamus therein doth kill himself 
 Which when I saw rehears'd, I must confes.s, 
 Made mine eyes water; but more merry tears 
 The passion of loud laughter never shed. 
 
 The. What are they that do play it ? 
 
 Philost. Hard-handed men, that work in Athens 
 here. 
 Which never labour'd in their minds till now ; 
 \nd now have toil'd their unbreath'd memories 
 With this same play against your nuptial. 
 
 The. And we will hear it. 
 
 Philost. No, my noble lord, 
 
 It is not for you : I have heard it over, 
 And it is nothing, nothing in the world, 
 (Unless you can find sport in their intents,) 
 842 
 
 Extremely stretch'd and conn'd with cruel pain. 
 To do you service. 
 
 The. I will hear that play , 
 
 For never anything can be amiss, 
 When simpleuess and duty tender it. • 
 Go, bring them in : and take your places, ladies. 
 
 \^Exit Philosthate. 
 
 Hip. I love not to see wretchedness o'ercharg'd. 
 And duty in his service perishing. 
 
 The. Why, gentle sweet, you shall see no such 
 thing. 
 
 Hip. He says they can do nothing in this kind. 
 
 The. The kinder we, to give them thanks for 
 nothing. 
 Our sport shall be, to take what they mistake : 
 And v.'hat poor duty cannot do. 
 Noble respect takes it in might, not merit." 
 Where I have come, great clerics have purposed 
 To greet me \vith premeditated welcomes ; 
 W^here I have seen them shiver and look pale. 
 Make periods in the midst of sentences. 
 Throttle their practis'd accent in their fears, 
 And, in conclusion, dumbly have broke off. 
 Not paying me a welcome. Ti'ust me, sweet. 
 Out of this silence yet I pick'd a welcome ; 
 And in the modesty of fearful duty 
 I read as much, as from the rattling 'tongiie 
 Of saucy and audacious eloquence. 
 Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity 
 In least speak most, to my capacity. 
 
 Enter Puilostrate. 
 
 Philost. So please your grace, the prologue is 
 
 address'd. 
 The. Let him approach. [^Flourish of trumpets. 
 
 Enter Prologue. 
 
 Prol. If we ofTend, it is with our good will.i^ 
 
 That you should think we come not to offend. 
 But with good will. To show our simple skill 
 
 That is the true beginning of our end. 
 Consider, then, we come but in despite. 
 
 We do not come as minding to content you. 
 Our true intent is. All for your delight, 
 
 Wo are not liore. That you should here ropcnt vou, 
 The actors are at hand ; and by their sliow, 
 You shall know all that you are like to know. 
 
 The. This fellow doth not stand upon points. 
 
 Lys. He hath rid his prologue like a rough colt; 
 ho knows not the stop. A good moral, my lord ; 
 It is not enough to speak, but to speak true. 
 
 Hip. Indeed, he hath play'd on this prologue liko 
 a child on a recorder ;" a sound, but uot in govern- 
 ment.
 
 ACT V. 
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Tlie. His speech was like a tangled chain ; no- 
 thing impaired, Imt all disordered. Who is next? 
 
 Enkr I'viiAMoa and Tiiisbe, Wall, Moonshine, and Lion, 
 as in dumb show. 
 
 Prol. Gentles, pcrcJumco you wonder at this show; 
 
 But wonder on, till truth miike all things plain. 
 This ni;ni is PjTamns, if you would know; 
 
 This beauteous lady Tliisbe is, certain. 
 This man, with linio and rough-east, doth present 
 
 "Wall, that vile AVall which did these lovers sunder: 
 And through Wall's chink, poor souls, they are content 
 
 To whisper, at the which let no man wonder. 
 This man, with lantern, dog, and bush of thorn, 
 
 Presenteth Moonshine: for, if you will know, 
 By moonshine did these lovers think no scorn 
 
 To meet at Ninus' tomb, th.ere, there to woo. 
 This grisly beast, which Lion hight by name, 
 The trusty Thisbe, coming tir.Nt by night, 
 Did scare away, or rather did affright ; 
 And, as she fled, her mantle she did fall, 
 
 Which Lion vile with bloody laouth did stain : 
 Anon comes Pyiamus, sv.'cct youth and tall. 
 
 And finds his trusty Thisbe's mantle slain : 
 Whereat with blade, with bloody blameful blade, 
 
 lie bravely broach'd his boiling bloody breast ; 
 And, Thisbe tarrying in mulberry shade. 
 
 His dagger drew, and died. For all the rest. 
 Let Lion, Moonshine, Wall, and lovers twain. 
 At large discourse, while here they do remain. 
 
 \_Ejaiunt Prol., Thisbe, Lion, and Moonshine. 
 
 The. I wonder if the lion be to speak. 
 Dcm. No wonder, my lord ; one Hon may, when 
 many asses do. 
 
 Wall. In this same interlude, it doth befall, 
 That I, one Snout by name, present a wall : 
 And such a wall as i would have you think, 
 That had in it a crauny'd hole, or chink, 
 Through which the lovers, Pyramus and Thisbe, 
 Did whisper often very secretly. 
 This loam, this rough-cast, and this stone cloth show 
 That 1 am that same wall ; the truth is so : 
 And this the cranny is, nght and sinister. 
 Through which the feaifij lovers are to whisper. 
 
 The. Would you desire lime and hair to speak 
 better ? 
 
 Dem. It is the v/ittiest partition that ever I 
 heard discourse, ray lord. 
 
 The. Pyramus draws near the wall : silence. 
 
 £nUr PTKASins. 
 
 I'-jr. grim -looked night ! night with hue so black I 
 
 night, wliich ever art when day is not 1 
 nifht, O ni^^btl al:ick, akack, alack 1 
 
 1 fear my Thisbo s promise is forgot ! 
 
 And thou, wall I thou sweet and lovely wall ! 
 Thit stands Dclwoon her father's ground and mine ; 
 
 Thou wall, O wall ! sweet and lovely wall, 
 Show me thy chink, to blink through with mine »yno. 
 [Wall h)Ui8 up k'lM jintjcrfl. 
 
 Thanks, courteous wall : .love shield thee well for thitl 
 But what see I ? No Thisbo do I see. 
 
 wicked wall, through whom I see no bliss ; 
 Curs'd bo thy stones for thus deceiving me I 
 
 The. The wall, methinks, being sensible, should 
 curse again. 
 
 Bot. No, in truth, sir, he should not. "Deceiving 
 me" is Thisbe's cue : she is to enter now, and I am 
 to sj)y her through the wall. You shall see, it will 
 fall pat a.s I told you : — Yonder she comes. 
 
 EnUr Thisbe. 
 
 TItis. wall, full often hast thou heard my moans, 
 For parting my fair P}Taniu3 and me: 
 
 My cherry lips have often kiss'd thy stones ; 
 Thy stones with lime and hair knit up in thee. 
 
 Pyr. I see a voice : now will I to the-chink. 
 To spy an I can hear ray Thisbe's face. 
 
 Thisbe ! 
 
 This. My love ! thou art my love, I think. 
 
 Pyr. Think what thou wilt, I am thy lover's grace , 
 And like Limander am I trusty still. 
 
 This. And I like Helen, till the fates me kill. 
 
 Pyr. Not Shafalus to Procrus was so true.*' 
 
 This. As Shafalus to Procrus, I to you, 
 
 Pyr. 0, kiss me through the hole of this vile wall. 
 
 This. I kiss the wall's hole, not your lips at all. 
 
 Pyr. Wilt thou at Ninny's tomb meet mc straightway 
 
 This. 'Tide life, 'tide death, 1 come without delay ! 
 
 Wall. Thus have I, Wall, my part discharged so; 
 And, being done, thus Wall away doth go. 
 
 \EMunt Wall, Pykamhs, and Thisbe. 
 
 The. Now is the mm'al down between the two 
 neighbours. 
 
 Dem. No remedy, my lord, when walls are so 
 wilful to hear without warning. 
 
 Hip. This is the silliest stufl" that e'er I heard. 
 
 The. The best in this kind are but shadows; and 
 the worst are no worse, if imagination amend them. 
 
 Hip. It must be your imagination, then, and 
 not theirs. 
 
 The. If we imagine no worse of them than they 
 of themselves, they may pass for excellent men, 
 Here come two noble beasts in, a man and a lion. 
 
 Enter Lion and Moonshine. 
 
 Lion. You, ladies, you, whose gentle hearts do fear 
 The smallest monstrous mouse that creeps on floor, 
 
 May now, perchance, both quake and tremble lero. 
 When lion rough in wildest rage doth roar. 
 
 Then know that I, one Snug the joiner, am 
 
 A lion fell, nor else no lion's dam :" 
 
 For if I should as Hon come in strife 
 
 Into this place, 't w^ere pity on my life. 
 
 843
 
 ACT V. 
 
 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 SCKNE 1. 
 
 The. A very gentle beast, and of a good con- 
 science. 
 
 Deni. The very best at a beast, my lord, that 
 e'er I saw. 
 
 Lys. This lion is a very fox for his valour. 
 
 The. True ; and a goose for his discretion. 
 
 Bcm. Not so, my lord ; for his valour cannot- 
 carry his discretion ; and the fox canies the goose. 
 
 The. His discretion, I am sure, cannot carry his 
 valour; for the goose carries not the fox. It is 
 xvell : leave it to his discretion, and let us hearken 
 to the moon. 
 
 Moon. This laQtem dotli the horned moon present. 
 
 Dem. He should have worn the horns on his 
 head. 
 
 The. He is no crescent, and his horns are invis- 
 ible within the circumference. 
 
 Moon. This lantern doth the horned moon present ; 
 Myself the man i' the moon do seem to be." 
 
 The. This is the greatest error of all the rest ! 
 The man should be put into the lantern : How is 
 it else the man i' the moon ? 
 
 Dem. He dares not come there for the candle : 
 for, you see, it is already in snuff." 
 
 Hip. I am weary of this moon : "Would he would 
 change ! 
 
 The. It appears, by his small light of discretion, 
 that he is in the wane : but yet, iu courtesy, in all 
 reason, we must stay the time. 
 
 Lys. Proceed, Moon. 
 
 Moon. All that I have to say is, to tell yoii, that the 
 lantern is the moon ; I, tlie man i' the moon ; this thorn- 
 •^nsh, my thorn-bush ; and this do^, my dog. 
 
 Dem. Why, all these should be in the lantern, 
 for they are in the moon. But, silence ; here 
 comes Thisbe. 
 
 Enter Thisbe. 
 
 Hiis. This is old Ninny's tomb : "Where is my love ? 
 lAon, Oh — [27i« Lion roars. Thisbe r«?w o^. 
 
 Dem. Well roared, lion. 
 The. Well run, Thisbe. 
 
 Hip. Well shone, moon. Truly, the moon 
 shines with a good grace. 
 
 [ The Lion ttars Thisde's mantle^ and exit. 
 The. Well moused, lion. 
 Dem. And then came Pyramus. 
 Lys. And so the lion vanished. 
 
 Enler PyitAMOs. 
 
 Pijr. Swcot iioon, I thank thee for thy sunny beams; 
 I thank tl jc, moon, for shininfj now so bright; 
 844 
 
 For, by thy gracious, golden, glittering gleams, 
 I trust to taste of truest Thisbe's signt. 
 
 But stay ; — spite ! 
 
 But marlf, — poor Imight, 
 "What dreadful dole is here ! 
 
 Eyes, do you see ? 
 
 How can it be ? 
 dainty duoli ! O dear I 
 
 Thy mantle good, 
 
 "What! stain'd with blood? 
 Approach, ye furies fell ! 
 
 O fates ! come, come ; 
 
 Cut thread and tlirum ; 
 Quail, crush, conclude, and quell 1 
 
 The. This passion, and the death of a deal 
 friend, would go near to make a m;.n look sad. 
 Hip. Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man. 
 
 Pyr. O, wherefore, nature, didst thoa lions frame ! 
 
 Since lion vild hath here defiour'd my dear: 
 "Which is — no, no — which was the fairest dame, 
 That liv'd, that lov'd, that lik'd, thatlook'd with choor 
 Come, tears, confound ; 
 Out, sword, and wounc* 
 The pap of Fyraraus ; 
 Ay, that left pap, 
 "Where "neart doth hop : — 
 Thus die I, tlius, thus, thus I 
 Now am I dead. 
 Now am 1 fled ; 
 My soul is in the sky ; 
 
 Tongue, lose thy light I 
 
 Moon, take thy flight ! 
 
 Now die, die, die, die, die ! 
 
 \^Dus. — Exit MooNsnrac. 
 
 Dem. No die, but an ace, for him ; for he is out 
 one. 
 
 Lys. Less than an ace, man, for he is dead ; he 
 is nothing. 
 
 Tlie. With the help of a surgeon, he might yet 
 recover, and prove an ass. 
 
 Hip. How chance moonshine is gone, before 
 Tliisbe comes back and tinds her lover ? 
 
 The. She will find him by starlight. — Here she 
 comes, and her passion ends the play. 
 
 Enter Thisbe. 
 
 Hi}'). Methinks she should not use a long one 
 for such a Pyramus : I hojio slio will be brief. 
 
 Dem. A mote will turn the balance, which 
 Pyramus, which Thisbe, is the better- he for a 
 man, God warrant us ; she for a woman, God 
 bless us ! 
 
 Lys. She bath spied him already with thosG 
 sweet eyes.
 
 
 ACT V A MIDSUMMEli-NlGllT'S DREAM. • scenb i. 
 
 Dmn. And thus she moans, videlicit. 
 
 Now the wasted brands do glow. 
 
 
 Whilst the screech-owl, sci'oechiug loiid. 
 
 Thie. Asloop, my love ? 
 
 Puts the wretch, that lies in woe, 
 
 What, dead, my dove? 
 C Pyromus, arise 1 
 
 In remembrance of a shroud. 
 
 Speak, speak ! Quite dumb 3 
 
 Now it is the time of night. 
 
 jJead, dead? A tomb. 
 
 That the graves, all gaping wide, 
 
 Must cover tliy sweot eyes. 
 Tlieso lily brows,*' 
 
 Every one lets forth his sprite, 
 
 This cherry uose, 
 
 In the church-way paths to glide : 
 
 These yellow cowslip cheeks, 
 
 And we fairies, that do run 
 
 Are gone, are gone : 
 
 By the triple Hecate's team, 
 
 Lovers, make inoau I 
 
 His eyes were green as leeks. 
 
 From the presence of the sun. 
 
 sisters three. 
 
 Following darkness like a dream, 
 
 Come, come to me. 
 
 Now are frolic ; not a mouse 
 
 With hands as pale as milk ; 
 Lay them in gore, 
 
 Shall disturb this hallow'd house : 
 
 Since you have shore 
 
 I am sent with broom before. 
 
 With shears his thread of silk. 
 
 To sweep the dust behind the door.' 
 
 Tongue, not a word : 
 
 
 Come, trusty sword ; 
 
 
 Come, blade, my breast imbruo : 
 
 Enter Oberon and Titania, with their Train. 
 
 And farewell, friends; 
 
 
 Tlius Thisbo ends : 
 Adieu, adieu, adieu." \Diei. 
 
 Obe. Through the house give glimmering light, 
 
 
 By the dead and drowsy fire ; 
 
 The. Moousbine and Lion are left to bury the 
 
 Eveiy elf, and fairy sprite. 
 
 Jead. 
 
 Hop as light as bird from brier;"' 
 
 Bern. Ay, and Wall too. 
 
 And this ditty, after me. 
 
 Bot. No, I assure you ; the wall is down that 
 
 Sing and dance it trippingly. 
 
 parted their fethers. Will it please you to see the 
 
 Tita. First, rehearse your song by rote : 
 
 epilogue, or to hear a Bei'goniask™ dance between 
 
 To each word a warbling note ; 
 
 two of our company ? 
 
 Hand in hand, with fairy grace. 
 
 The. No epilogue, I pray you ; for your play 
 
 Will we slug, and bless this pla^Xi. 
 
 needs no excuse. Never excuse; for -vvhen the 
 
 [They dance and sinj. 
 
 players are all dead, there need none to be blamed. 
 
 Obe. Now, until the break of day. 
 
 Marry, if he that writ it had play'd Pyraraus, and 
 
 Through this house each fairy stray 
 
 hung himself in Thisbe's garter, it would have 
 
 To the best bride-bed will we. 
 
 been a fine tragedy : and so it is truly ; and very 
 
 Which by us shall blessed be : 
 
 notably discharg'd. But come, your Bergomask : 
 
 And the issue there create 
 
 let yom' epilogue alone. 
 
 Ever shall be fortunate. 
 
 [Here a dance of Clowns. 
 
 So shall all the couples three 
 
 The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve: — 
 
 Ever true in loving be ; 
 
 Lovers, to bed ; 't is almost i'airy time. 
 
 And the blots of nature's hand 
 
 I fear we shall outsleep the coming morn. 
 
 Shall not in their issue stand ; 
 
 As much as we this night have overwatch'd. 
 
 Never mole, hare-lip, nor scar. 
 
 This palpable gross play hath well beguil'd 
 
 Nor mark prodigious," such as are 
 
 The heavy gait of night. — Sweet friends, to bed. — 
 
 Despised in nativity. 
 
 A fortnight hold we this solemnity. 
 
 Shall upon their children be. 
 
 [n nightly revels, and new jollity. \_Exeunt. 
 
 With this field-dew consecrate. 
 
 
 Every fairy t.ike his gait:'-" 
 
 Entf<- Puck. 
 
 And each several chamber bless, 
 
 
 Through this palace with sweet peace 
 
 Puck. Now tne hungry lion roars. 
 
 Ever shall in safety rest. 
 
 And the wolf behowls the moon ; 
 
 And the owner of it blest. 
 
 WTiilst the heavy ploughman snores. 
 
 Tiip away ; 
 
 All with weaiy task fordone. 
 
 Make no stay : 
 
 44 
 
 S46
 
 ACT V. 
 
 A MIDSCMMER-NIGHT'8 DREiUL 
 
 SCENB I. 
 
 Meet me all by break of day. 
 
 [Exeunt Oberon, Tit-W<ia, and Train. 
 Puclc. If Tce shadows have offended, 
 
 Think but this, (and aU is mended,) 
 That you have but slumber'd here, 
 Wliile these visions did appear. 
 And this weak and idle theme, 
 No more yielding^ but a dream, 
 Gtcntles, do not reprehend ; '' 
 
 If you pardon, we will mend. 
 
 And, as I am an honest Puck, 
 
 If we have unearned luck 
 
 Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue, 
 
 We wiU make amends ere long : 
 
 Else the Puck a liar call. 
 
 So, good night unto you all 1 
 
 Give me your hands, if we be friends, 
 
 And Robin shall restore amends. [Exit, 
 
 ai
 
 lOTES TO A MIDSLIIMER-IIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 ^ Ne\o hent in heaven. 
 
 The old copies road now, tlie words being frequently iu- 
 torclinnged in old books. There is n curious instance of 
 this in Heywood's Eape of Lucrece, 1630, the line, " for 
 fiome but new departing soule " being repeated in tlio bur- 
 den, " for some but noio departing soule." So in Beau- 
 mont and Fletcher, v. 250, Mr. Dyce wrongly prints nmv- 
 departing, although the second folio reads new-departing ; 
 but, in his Kemarks, p. 44, be recollects that now for neio 
 was one of the commonest misprints. 
 
 2 Our rencivned Duke, 
 
 Duke, leader. The primitive Latin sense. So in Lyd- 
 gate's Boehas,^ 
 
 Toldo and aifermed to due Theseus, 
 "With bolda ehere and a plein visage. 
 
 3 Bings, gaavds, conceits. 
 " A gaud or toy," Baret's Alvearie, 1580. 
 
 * Tc leave tliejigure, or disfigure it. 
 
 That is, to leave the figure he h.aa imprinted, or to dis- 
 flgure it. The explanation seems unnecessary, but there 
 has been a fierce discussion on the meaning of the line. 
 
 ' EartUier happy. 
 
 An unusual construction, meaning, more happy in an 
 earthly sense. Capell reads earlhlj happier, which impairs 
 the melody. 
 
 « Whose umeislied yoke. 
 
 The sentence is elliptical, as Malone and Knight have 
 very properly observed. Mr. Collier, however, errone- 
 ously introduces the particle from the second folio as one 
 'f his restorations. 
 
 ^Spotted, stained, guilty. 
 
 ^ Biteem them from the tempest of mine eye& 
 
 Drteem, bestow upon. Collied, literally, smutted with 
 Doal ; hence, black. Spleen, a fit ol passion. 
 
 ' Poor fancy s folUni'ers. 
 Tli^' foUowora of fancy, or love 
 
 '" Demetrius loves your fair. 
 
 Fair, beauty. See note 15 to the Comedy of Eriors. 
 Zoad-siar, the leading or guiding star. Some discussion I 
 has arisen on the meaning of the seventh Une, and Hanmcr 
 has altered it to 
 
 " Youra would I catch, fair Hermia, ere I go." 
 
 The second folio, however, gives another reading, which 
 is doubtlessly the genuine one — 
 
 " Your words I 'd catch, fair Hemiia, ere 1 go." 
 
 For favour is not liere used, as all editors and commen- 
 tators have supposed, in the sense of countenance, but evi- 
 dently in the common acceptation of the term — " 0, were 
 favour 80," i.e., favour in the eyes of Demetrius ; a parti- 
 cular application of a wish expressed in general terms. 
 The reading of the second folio renders the whole passage 
 perfectly intelligible. 
 
 " That he hath turn'd a heaven into hell. 
 
 So the first folio, adopted by Mr. Collier, and I think 
 rightly. Mr. Dyce, in defiance of metre, would read inU 
 a hell, observing that the context, a heaven, ia " (juite 
 enough " to determine we should read, a hell. But in a 
 subsequent act we have, 
 
 I '11 follow thee, and make a heaven of hell. 
 To die upon the hand I love so well. 
 
 ^- And stranger companies. 
 
 The old copies read, "and strange companions," altered 
 by Theobald, for the sake of the rliyme, to, " and stranger 
 companies," where the comparative appears to me to be 
 unmeaning, though certainly melodious. I am not satis- 
 fied with any alteration that lias been suggested, and per- 
 haps tJie ancient text is correct. Companies, companions. 
 Olhersome, some others. Jlyne, eyes ; the old plural. 
 
 " Things late and vild. 
 
 Vild for vile, here noticed for the last time. Mr. Knigh 
 observes on thispassago, "we are scarcely justified in eub- 
 Btituting the vile of tlie modern editors ; " and yet he actu- 
 ally docs so in this very play, act v. sc. 1. I mention this 
 not in censure, knowing from experience liow exceedingly 
 difficult it is to obtain perfect uniformity in such /UjUters. 
 
 817
 
 NOTES TO A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 ^*Itis a dear expend. 
 
 Even thanks will be a dear or very great expenoe for 
 him to give me for tins service. " A man had a shrewd 
 wife, and he one day broke her head, tlie cure whereof 
 cost him de(re eicpcnu afterward," Copley's Wits, Fits, and 
 Fancies, 1614. Scrip, roll or scroll. 
 
 '» This was Ercles^ vein. 
 
 "Ay, marry," says a character in Ben Jonson's Poetaster, 
 " this was written like a Hercules in poetry ; " and a 
 player in Greene's Groatsworth of Wit, first printed in 
 1592, observes, — "the twelve labours of Hercules have I 
 terrihhi thundered on the stage, and played three scenes of 
 the devil in the Highway to Heaven." 
 
 ^* You shdllptay it in a 7rui»lc. 
 
 Females were not introduced on the starjo in ijhakes- 
 peare's time, their places being substituted by boys. 
 
 " A hill of properties. 
 
 Properties, a technical term still in use for the articles 
 requu-ed by the actors for the business of the Btage. 
 
 18 Sbld, or cut how-strings, 
 
 A proverbial phrase, by which Bottom means to say that 
 they must keep their appointment. Its e.\act explanation 
 bas not been given, but a similar phrase occurs in Shirley's 
 Works, ed. Gifford, iii. 29. 
 
 " Thorough hush, thorough hrier. 
 
 Compare Drayton's Nyniphidia, — 
 
 Quoth Puck, " My liege, I '11 never lin, 
 But I will tliorough thick and thin, 
 Until at length I bring her in ; 
 
 My dearest lord, ne'er doubt it. 
 T!iorouL''h brake, thorough brier, 
 Tliorough muck, thorough mier, 
 Thorough water, thoroucrh ficr I " 
 
 And thus goes Puck aDout it. 
 
 Orbs are, of course, fairy circles. Pensioners ; see note 
 97 to the Merry Wives of Windsor. Loh, a lubber. 
 Changeling, a child got in e.vchange. SMen, shining, 
 bright. 
 
 "» But tliey do square. 
 
 That is, quarrel. " It chaunced that bee and his tftylor 
 squared about a bill of accompt," Copley's Wita, Fits, and 
 Fancies, 1614. 
 
 ■» Call'd Rohin Goodfellow. 
 
 Tarlton, in his Newes out of Purgatory, first printed in 
 1.5SD, says of Kobin Goodfellow, that lie was " famosed in 
 cvcrio old wive's chronicle, for his mad merrie prankes." 
 There is, indeed, sufiicient evidence to show that there 
 were fairy rhymes and fairj talcs, of "ocings like those of 
 A Midsuinmer-Night's Dream, in circulation if not in print 
 before that play was written. 
 
 Mr. Collier possesses an unique black-letter ballad, en- 
 titled The Merry Puck, or liohin Goodftllow, which, from 
 several passages, may be fairly concluded to have been 
 before tlic public previously to the appearance of the Mid- 
 suninier-Niglit'n Dream ; and as it affords the best illus- 
 tration of the play that has yet been discovered, I am 
 iudu(»d to present it to the reader at leugtli. 
 848 
 
 The Merry Pud, or Bohin Good-felhw: Describing his 
 birth and whose Sonne h^e was, how he run away front his 
 Mother, how he was vierry at the Bridehouse, \ow his 
 Father King Oheron found him, together with all his 
 merry Prankes. Very pleasant and witti/. 
 
 Chapter I. — Shewing his birth, and whose sonno ho was. 
 
 Here doe begin the merry jests 
 
 of Kobin Good-fellow : 
 I'de wish you for to reade this booKc, 
 
 if you his Pranks would know. 
 
 But first I will declare his birth, 
 
 and what his Mother was. 
 And then how Kobin merrily 
 
 did bring liis knacks to passe. 
 
 In time of old, when Fayries us'd 
 
 to wander in the night. 
 And through key-holes swiftly gliio, 
 
 now marke my story right. 
 
 Among these pretty fairy Elves 
 
 was Oberon, their King, 
 Who us'd to keepe them company 
 
 still at their revelling. 
 
 And sundry honses they did use, 
 
 but one, above the rest, 
 Wherein a comely Lasss did dwell 
 
 that pleas'd King Oberon best. 
 
 This lovely Damsell, neat and fairo, 
 
 so eourteous^meek and mild. 
 As sayes my booke, by Oberon 
 
 she was IJegot with child. 
 
 She knew not who the father was ; 
 
 but thus to all would say — 
 In night time he to her still came, 
 
 and went away ere day. 
 
 The midwife having better skiU 
 than liad this new made moLtier, — 
 
 Quoth she. Surely some fairy 't was, 
 for it can be no other. 
 
 And so the old wife rightly judg'd, 
 
 for it was so indeed. 
 This Fairy sliew'd himself most kind 
 
 and helpt his love at need ; 
 
 For store of liiincn he provides, 
 
 and brings her for her baby ; 
 With dainty catcs and choised fare, 
 
 he serv'd her like a lady. 
 
 Tho Christening time then being coino, 
 
 most merry they did pass ; 
 The Gossips drained a cheerful cup 
 
 as then provided was. 
 
 And Kobin was the infant call'd, 
 
 so named the Gossips by : 
 What pranks he played both day and nig'hi 
 
 rio toll you certainly. 
 
 CiiAPTEii II. — Shewing how Boblu Good-follow cAV'.cJ 
 himselfe, and liow ho run i wiiy from his Mother. • 
 
 While yet ho was a little lad 
 
 and of a tender age, 
 Ho us'd much waggish tricks to rnon, 
 
 as they at him would la^o.
 
 NOTES TO A MIDSUMMEK-NIGUrS DREAM. 
 
 Unto )iis mother they eomplftin'd, 
 * wliieli grieved hor to lieiiro, 
 Anil for these Prunkw wlie threutnocl him 
 he should liave whipping ciiearo, 
 
 If tliiit ho did not leave his triclvB, 
 
 his jeering moekrt and mowes; 
 Quotli sliG, thou vile, untutor'd youth, 
 
 tiictfo pranks no breeding shewes ; 
 
 I ciinnot to the Market goo, 
 
 but ere I baeke returue, 
 TlioH Bcofst my neiglibours in '-^h son, 
 
 which makes my hear^ *a luourne. 
 
 But I will make you to repent 
 
 these tilings, ere I have done : 
 I will no favour have on thee, 
 
 .although thou boost my Bonne. 
 
 Kobin was griev'd to heare these words, 
 
 whieh she to him did say, , 
 
 But to prevent his punishment, 
 
 from her lie run away. 
 
 And travelling long upon the way, 
 
 liis hunger being great, 
 Unto a Taylor's house he came, 
 
 and did intreat some meat : 
 
 The Taylor tooke compassion then 
 
 upon this pretty youth. 
 And tooke Imn for his Prentice straight, 
 
 as I have heard in truth. 
 
 CnAFTEB III. — IIow Eobin Good-fellow left his Master, and 
 also how Oberon told him he should be turned into what 
 shape he could wish or desire. 
 
 Now Robin Good-fellow, being placet 
 
 with a Taylor, as you heare. 
 He grew a workman in short space, 
 
 so well he ply'd his geare. 
 
 He had a gowne which must be made, 
 
 even with all haste and speed ; 
 The maid must have 't against next day 
 
 to be her wedding weed. 
 
 The Taylor he did labour hard 
 
 till twelve a clock at night; 
 Betweene hnn and his servant then 
 
 they finished aright 
 
 The gowne, buL putting on the sleeves : 
 
 quoth he unto his man, 
 I 'le goe to bed : whip on the sleeves 
 
 as fast as ere you can. 
 
 So Robin straightway takes the gowne 
 
 and hangs it on a pin. 
 Then takes the sleeves and whips the gowne, 
 
 till day he nere did lin. 
 
 His Master rising in the morne, 
 
 and seeing what he did, 
 Begun to chide ; (juoth Robin then, 
 
 1 doe as 1 was bid. 
 
 His Master then the gowne did take 
 
 and to his worke did fall. 
 By that time he had done the same 
 
 tho Maid for it did call. 
 
 Quoth he to Eobin, goo thv wayes 
 
 and fetch the remnants hither, 
 That yesterday we left, said he ; 
 
 weo '11 breake our fasts togef'.er. 
 
 Then Robin hies liirn up the stairen 
 and brings the remnant« downe. 
 
 Which he did know his Master savM 
 out of the woman's gowne. 
 
 The Taylor ho was vext at this, 
 
 ho meant remnants of meat, 
 That this good woman, ere she wont, 
 
 might thoo-e her breakfast eatc. 
 
 Quoth she, this is a breakfast good 
 
 1 tell you, friend, indeed; 
 And to requite your love I will 
 
 send for some drinke with Bpeed : 
 
 And Robin he must goe for it 
 
 with all the speed he may : 
 He takes the pot and money too, 
 
 and runnes from tlience away. 
 
 When he had wandrcd all the day 
 
 a good way from the Towne, 
 Unto a forest then he came : 
 
 to sleepe he laid him downe. 
 
 Then Oberon came, wltli all his Elves, 
 
 and danc'd about his sonne, 
 With musiek pleasing to the eare; 
 
 and, when that it was done, 
 
 King Oberon layes a scronle by him, 
 
 that he might understand 
 Whose Sonne he was, and how he 'd grant 
 
 wliate'er he did demand : 
 
 To any forme that he did please 
 
 himselfe he would translate ; 
 And how one day liee'd send for him 
 
 to see his fairy State. 
 
 Then Robin longs to know the truth 
 
 of this mysterious skill. 
 And turnes himselfe into what shape 
 
 ha thinks upon or will. 
 
 Sometimes a neighing horse was he, 
 
 sometimes a gruntling hog ; 
 Sometimes a bird, sometimes a crow, 
 
 sometimes a snarling dog. 4 
 
 CaAPTEB IV. — How Eobin Good-fellow was meny nt tha 
 Bridehc use. 
 
 Now Kobin having got this art, 
 
 he oft would make good sport, 
 And hearing of a wedding day, 
 
 he makes him ready for 't. 
 
 Most like a joviall Fidler then 
 
 he drest himselfe most gay, 
 And goes unto the wedding house, 
 
 there on his crowd (JiddU) to play. 
 
 Ho welcome was unto this feast, 
 
 and merry they were all ; 
 Ho plny'd and sung sweet songs all day, 
 
 at night to sports did fall. 
 
 He first did put the candles out, 
 
 and being in the dark. 
 Some would he strike and some woul^ pInoL, 
 
 and then sing like a lark. 
 
 The candles being light agiiine, 
 
 and things well and quiet, 
 A goodly posset was brought in 
 
 to mend their former diet; 
 
 Then Eobin for to have the same 
 
 did turne him to a Beare ; 
 Straight at that sight the people all 
 
 did run away for feare. 
 
 840
 
 NOTES TO A MIUSUMMEE-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 Tlien Robin did the posset eato, 
 
 and liavins serv'd tlicni so, 
 Away goes Kobin witli all haste, 
 
 then laughing hoe, hoe, hoe ! 
 
 CaAPTEE V. — Declaring how Eobin Good-fellow serv'd an 
 old man. 
 
 There was an old man had a Neeco, 
 
 a very beauteous muid ; 
 To wieJied lust her Unkle sought 
 
 this fair one to perswado. 
 
 But she a young man lov'd too deare 
 
 to give consent thereto ; 
 'Twas Robin's chance upon a time 
 
 to heare their grievous woe : 
 
 Content yourselfe, then Robin saies, 
 
 and T will e.ise your griefe ; 
 I have found out an excellent way 
 
 that will yeeld you reliefe. 
 
 He sends them to be married straight, 
 
 and he, In her disguise. 
 Hies home v;ith all tiie speed he may 
 
 to blind her Unkle's eyes : 
 
 And there he plyes his worke amaine, 
 
 doing more in one lioiire, 
 Such was his skill and workmanship, 
 
 than she could doe in foure. 
 
 The old man wondred for to see 
 
 the worke go on so fast. 
 And there withnll more worke doth he 
 
 unto good Robin cast. 
 
 Tlien Kobin said to his old man, 
 good Unkle, if you please ' 
 
 To grant to me but one ten pound, 
 I 'le yocid your love-suit ease. 
 
 TJf n pounds, quoth he, I will give thee, 
 
 sweet Neece, with all my heart. 
 So thou wilt grant to me thy love, 
 
 to ease my troubled heart. 
 
 Then let me wTiting have, quoth he, 
 
 from your owne hand with speed,' 
 That 1 may marry ray sweet-heart 
 
 when I have done this deed. 
 
 The old man he did give consent 
 
 that he these things should have, 
 Thinking th.at it had bin his Neece 
 
 that did this bargaine crave ; 
 
 And unto Robin then quoth he, 
 
 my gentle Neece, behold, 
 Goe thou into thy ch.amber sooue, 
 
 and 1 'le goo bring the gold. 
 
 When he into the chamber came, 
 
 thinking indeed to play, 
 Straight Robin upon him doth fall, 
 
 anu carries him away 
 
 Into the chamber where the two 
 
 faire Lovers did abide, 
 And gives to them their Unkle old, 
 
 I, and the gold beside. 
 
 The old man vainly Kobin sought, 
 
 BO many shapes he tries ; 
 Soinetimes he was u hare or hound, 
 
 BOmotimes Uke bird ho flies. 
 860 
 
 The more he strove, the less he spoil, 
 
 the Lovers all did see ; 
 And thus did Robin fiivour them 
 
 full kind and mcrrilie. 
 
 Thus Robin lived a merry life 
 
 as any could enjoy ; 
 'Mong country farms he did resort, 
 
 and oft would folks annoy • 
 
 But if the maids doe c.tll to him, 
 
 he still away will goe 
 In knavish sort, and to himselfo 
 
 he 'd laugh out hoe, hoe, hoe 1 
 
 He oft would beg and crave an almoe, 
 but take nought that they 'd give ; 
 
 In several shapes he'd gull the world, 
 thus madly did he live. 
 
 Sometimes a cripple ho would seeme, 
 sometimes a souldier brave : 
 
 Sometimes a fox, sometimes a hare : 
 brave pastimes would he have. 
 
 Sometimes an owle he'd seeme to bo, 
 sometimes a skipping frog ; 
 
 Sometimes a kirne, in Irish shape, 
 to leape o'er mine or bog : 
 
 Sometime he'd counterfeit a voyce, 
 
 and travellers call astr.ay ; 
 Sometimes a w.alking-fire he'd be, 
 
 and lead them from their way. 
 
 Some call him Robin Good-fellow, 
 Hob-goblin, or Mad Crisp ; 
 
 And some againe doe tearme him oft 
 by name of Will the Wispe 
 
 But call him by what name you lisL 
 I have studied on my fillow, 
 
 I think the best name lie deserves 
 Is Kobin the Good-lellow. 
 
 At last upon a sutmner's night 
 
 King Oberon found him out. 
 And with his Elves in dancing wise 
 
 straight circled him about. 
 
 The foiries danc't, and little Tom Tiinmli 
 
 on his bag-pipe did play. 
 And thus they danc't their fairy round 
 
 till almost break of day. 
 
 Then Phebus he most gloriously 
 
 begins to grace the aire, 
 When Oberon with his fairy traine 
 
 begins to make repaire. 
 
 With speed unto the Fairy land, 
 
 they swifdy tooke their way, 
 And I out of my dreame awak't. 
 
 and so 'twas perfect day. 
 
 Thus having told my dreame at full, 
 
 1 'le hid you all farewell. 
 If you applaud mad Kobin'3 prankes 
 
 may bo ere long I 'le tell 
 
 Some other stories to your cares, 
 
 which shall contcntincnt give : 
 To gainc your 1'avoms I will seeke 
 
 the longest day 1 li ve. 
 
 If my readers will permit mo to ciJl their ait/>ntmu to 
 the following passage, spoken by Puck, after ho nail olToclod 
 
 \
 
 NOTES TO A w[bsuMMi:RN'i(;irrs dream. 
 
 the transformiition of Bottom, its similarity witli part of 
 the forcj^oiug I):il];i(l will bo ut onco perceived: — 
 
 ' I'll follow you, I'll lend you about a round. 
 
 Through hog, through bush, through brake, through 
 brier ; 
 Sometime a horse I'll bo, sometimes a hound, 
 
 A liog, a headless bear, sometimes a fire ; 
 And neigh, and bark, ami grunt, and roar, and l)urn. 
 Like horse, hound, hog, boar, flro, at every turn." 
 
 So also in the ballad of Robin Goodfellow, printed by 
 I'ercy, we liavo a similar account of Robin's exploits :— 
 
 ' Sometimes I meete them lilce a man ; 
 
 Sometimes an ox, sometimes an hound; 
 And to a horse 1 turn me can ; 
 And trip and trot about them round ; 
 
 But k' to ride. 
 
 My backe they stride, 
 More swift than winde away I go. 
 
 O'er hedge and lands, 
 
 Thro' pools and ponds, 
 A whirry, laughing, no, ho, hoe 1 " 
 
 The name of Robin Goodfellow had, it appears, been 
 familiar to the English as early as the tiiirlcenth century, 
 being mentioned in a tale preserved in a manuscript of 
 that date in the Bodleian Liijrary at Oxford. It does not, 
 however, fall in with our plan to enter into any antiquarian 
 discussion on the subject; but we take tiic opportunity of 
 referring to this singular fact, because it affords one proof, 
 and that a remarkable one, of the antiquity of fairy my- 
 thology iu this country of a nature similar to that used by 
 Sliakespeare. 
 
 In tlie hbrary of the Earl of EUesmere is preserved a 
 very curious tract, printed at London in 1628, containing a 
 prose liistory of tlie 'nierry pranl'es of the same mischievous 
 spirit, intermixed with poetry. I suspect that some of 
 the metrical portions of this book are of mucli earlier date, 
 and it is possible tliat the following verses may be the ori- 
 ginals of the exquisitely beautiful Anacreontic lines spoken 
 by Puck at the end of the pl.ay. I cannot, however, dis- 
 cover the precise date of their composition : — 
 
 "The moone shines faire and bright, 
 
 And the owle hollows : 
 Mortals now take their rests 
 
 Upon tlieir pillows : 
 Tlic bats abroad likewise. 
 
 And the night raven, 
 Which doth use for to call 
 
 Men to death's haven. 
 Now the mice peep abroad, 
 
 And the cats take them : 
 Now doe young wenches sleepe. 
 
 Till their dreams wake them." 
 
 The ideas are not only similar to those of Shakespeare, 
 out follow in precisely the same order. Some similarity 
 may also be traced between this and the following invoca- 
 tion of a spirit by a very celebrated magician. It is taken 
 from The famous history of Fryer Bacon, edited by Mr, 
 Thorns, p. 44:— 
 
 ' Now the owle is flowne abroad, 
 For 1 heare the croaking toade. 
 And the bat that shuns the day. 
 Through the d;uke doth make her way. 
 
 Now the irhosts cf men doe rise, 
 And with iearful hideous i-ryi^v^. 
 Seek revengcment I'rom llic good 
 On their head.s tliat spilt their bloud. 
 Come some spirit^ quicke I say, 
 Night 's the Devil's holyday : 
 Where'ere you bo, in dcnncs, or lake, 
 In the ivy, ewe, or brake: 
 Quickly come and me attend. 
 That am Bacon's man and friend. 
 But I will have you take no shape 
 Of a bear, a horse, or ape : 
 Nor will 1 have you terrible ; 
 And therefore come invisible." 
 
 " And sometimes lahour in the quern. 
 
 A quern is a hand-mill. Ancient querns, made of 
 stone, are frequently found in Ireland. " Histories report 
 that he was brought into such povcrtie, that he was fayne 
 to serve a baker in turning a querne or handmill to get lii.s 
 living," Northbrooke's Treatise against Dicing, 1.577. It 
 should be remarked that the grammar is here defective, 
 most of the verbs governed by "are you not he," being in 
 the plural instead of the singular ; but the original repre- 
 sents most probably the author's own text, and there is 
 certainly something lost in melody by substituting ekims. 
 labours, dec. 
 
 23 To hear tw harm. 
 
 Barm, yeast. This provincial term is still in use in 
 "Warwickshire, ami I have seen a card advertising "fiish 
 barm" m Henley Street at Stratford-on-Avon, -within a few 
 yards of the poet's birth-place. 
 
 -* .iiid * tailor^ cries. 
 
 She cries 'tailor,' because she falls in the position in 
 which a tailor sits on his board. Dr. Johnson notices Iht 
 custom of crying tailor at a sudden fall backwards. 
 
 " Hold (heir hips, and hffe. 
 
 Loffe, laugh, the ancient pronunciation of the word. 
 Ben Jonson, in the Fox, makes slaughter rhyme with 
 lavghter ; and in the old nursery ballad of Mother Hub- 
 bard, after she had bought her dog a coffin, she came home 
 and found ho was loffing ! 
 
 '« And neeze, i.e. sneese. In Langlcy's Abridgment ol 
 Polydore Vergil, fol. 127, it is said: " There ^'as a plage 
 whereby many, as they nesed, died sodeiniy, whereof it 
 grew into a custome that they that were present when anye 
 maune neesed, should say, ' God heipe you.' A lyke deadly 
 plage was sometyme in yawning, wherforo men used to 
 fence themselves w..h the signe of the crosse : bothe 
 whiohe customes we retevne styl at this day." 
 
 =^ Since the middle-summer's sprtnn. 
 
 Middle-summer is the middle of the summer, or mid- 
 summer. Midsummer is not, strictly speaking, the middle 
 of summer; but that is what is evidently here intended. 
 " The midle spring, or the middest of the spring," Nomen- 
 clator, 1585. Spring, beginning, commencement. Paved 
 fountain, alluding to the natural flo»r of pebbles. Mar^ 
 
 861
 
 NOTES TO A MIDSUiBIER-NIUllT'S DREAM. 
 
 gent, an old form of the word margin. PeUiiir/, smaU, 
 oaltry. Continents, banks. 
 
 28 The nine 7?ien''s morris isjilVd vp with mud. 
 
 " In that part of Warwickshire where Shakespeare was 
 sdueated, and the neighbouring parts of Northamptonshire, 
 tlie shepherds and other boys dig up the turf with their 
 knives to represent a sort of imperfect chess-board. It 
 consists of a square, sometimes only a foot diameter, some- 
 times three or four yards. Within this is another square, 
 every side of which is p.araUel tD the external square ; and 
 tliese squares are joined by lines drawn from eacli corner 
 of both squares and the middle of each line. One party, 
 or player, has wooden pegs, the other stones, which they 
 move in such a manner as to take up each other's men as 
 they are called, and the area of the inner square is called 
 the pound, in which the men taken up are impounded. 
 These figures are by the country people called Nine Men's 
 Morris, or Merrils ; and are so called, because each party 
 has nine men. These figures are always cut upon the 
 green turf or leys, as they are called, or upon the grass at 
 the end of ploughed lands, and in rainy seasons never fail 
 to be choalc-ed vp with mud.''' Jambs. 
 
 ^ On old Byems* thin and icj/ crotcn. 
 
 Old copies, chin'. Corrected by Tyrwhitt. Ohilding, 
 pregnant, productive. 
 
 "> By their increase. 
 
 Increase, produce. "Then shall the earth yield her 
 increase, and God, even our own God, shall bless us," 
 Psalms, Ixvii. 6. 
 
 31 Tg be my henchvian. 
 
 Blount says henchman " is used with us for one that runs 
 on foot, attending on a person of honour ;" and in the 
 Nomenclator, 1585, '^unpage d' hommes, a page of honour 
 or a henchman." In a letter from Mr. Allen to the Earl 
 of Shrewsbury, dated December 11th, 1565, it is said, — 
 " Her Highnes hathe of late, whereat some do muche mar- 
 veil, dissolved the auneient office of the henehemen." 
 
 " At a fair vestal throned hy the west. 
 
 This allusion to Queen Elizabeth has exercised the inge- 
 nuity of the critics. It is elegant flattery, without par- 
 taking of the humiliating character of most of the compli- 
 ments paid to that sovereign by the other writers of the 
 age. Love-in-idUnes)* is a very pretty rural name for the 
 pansies or heart's-easo. 
 
 '' I'll put a giidle round alout the earth. 
 
 This metaphor, expressive of great distance, literally 
 meaning, to go roiind the world, is not peculiar to Shakes- 
 peare. It occurs in Chapman's Bussy d'Ambois, — 
 
 And skills in Neptune's deep invisible paths. 
 In tail ships richly built and ribb'd with brass, 
 To put a girdle round about the world. 
 
 '" The one I HI stay, the other stayeth me. 
 
 S(ay, to hinder. Ilcrmia stays Demetrius by causing 
 Sfi-Z 
 
 him an useless se.irch in the wood ; she does not kill him. 
 Mr. Knight is unquestionably correct in restoriU'/ the old 
 reading. Wood within this wood, a quibble, wood being an 
 o!i term for mad. 
 
 SB Your virtue is my privilege for that. 
 
 For that, as everybody knows, means because in nu- 
 merous places; and Mr. Hunter proposes to receive the 
 phrase in that sense in the present instance, and place 
 a stop after privilege ; a reading which, I fear, destroys 
 the effect of a very significant line. Brakes, bushes. 
 
 " Ox-lips. 
 
 Ox-lips are the greater cowslips. " The greater sort 
 called for the most part oxelips and paigles," Gerard, p. 
 637. The eglantine is the sweet-briar. Weed, dress. 
 
 ^ A rottndel and a fairy song. 
 Moundel, a roundelay. Eear-mice, bats. 
 
 38 Love takes the meaning in love's conference. 
 
 That is, pure love only is tne meaning in the conversa- 
 tion of lovers. 
 
 3» Witt thou darMinff leave me. 
 
 DarHing, in the dark. " I went darkeling, and dyd 
 hytte agaynst a doore, je alloye sana chnndelle (t heurta'j 
 contre ung hiys," Palsgrave, 1530. 
 
 *" Touching now the point of human sTcill. 
 
 That is, says Steevens, my senses being now at the 
 utmost height of perfection. 
 
 " This hawtltorn brake our tiring-house. 
 
 The tiring-house was the dressing-room of the old 
 theatres. Maine, in his Amorous Warre, 1648, mentions 
 " the invention of your poets, who kill onely on the stage, 
 and then revive their slaughter'd persons in the tiring- 
 house." 
 
 *' Byrlakin, aparlmisfear. 
 
 Byrlakin, by our Lady's kin. Parhu-s, perilous, dan- 
 gerous. " Parlous wise, and yet loving to his guests.'* 
 Cotgrave's Wits Interpreter, 1671, p. 2. JVrilfcn in eight 
 and six, that is, in verses of six and eight syllables 
 
 " Tetl them plainly he is Snng the joiner. 
 
 The following anecdote, which has been frequently 
 quoted, occurs in a collection of jests in MSS. Harl. C395, 
 collected by Sir Nicholas liCstrnngo in the seventeenth 
 century; — "There Was a spectacle presented to Queen 
 Elizabeth upon the water, and, amongst others, Hnny 
 (Joldingham was to represent Arion iqion the doljihin's 
 backc, but fuuling his voice to bo very hoai-se and iin- 
 plc.isant, when he came to performo it, ho teares off his 
 disguise, and swcares he was ncno cf .\rion, not lie, but 
 ceno honest Harry Gohlingham ; which blunt discoverio 
 pleas'd the Queue better than if it had gone ttrnueh in the
 
 NOTES TO A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 riglit way ; yet lio could orjor his voice to an instrument 
 cxoccJitig well." Sir W. Scott haa made (jood use of this 
 Inughtiblo iiicidont. 
 
 " A play toward f 
 
 Tnid ia a very common cxprcsaiou in old plays. " Have 
 I a pleasure towanl," Revengers Tragsodie, 1603. 
 
 " Cues and all. 
 
 A cue, or qu, is thus explained by Minsheu, "a terme 
 OHcd among stagc-plaicrs, a Lat. (jualis, i. at what manner 
 cf word the actors are to beginne to speake one, after an- 
 other hath done his speech." 
 
 ^' 77ie woosel-cock, so llach of hue. 
 
 The owel, or woosel, was a generic term for the blackbird. 
 Barnofield, in his Afl'ectionato Shepheard, 1591, says, — 
 
 House-doves are white, and oo^els blackebirds bee. 
 Yet what a difference in the taste we see. 
 
 The '-hmstk is the thrush. 
 
 " lite plaiTh-sonfj cucJcoo gray. 
 
 Ah, sweetly, sweetly, doth tlie cuckoe sing 
 The cuckolds' praises in the pleasant Spring ; 
 Familiar is her song, smooth, casie, vlaine^ 
 Not harsh, nor hardly wrested from her throat. 
 
 Pasquil's KigJit Cap, 1612 
 
 ■" CA'rf, i.e., tc joke. " Donner d' une, to give a gud- 
 jann, a lurch, a gleeke," Cotgrave. In the Fairy Queen, 
 1C.''2, an alteration of this play, Bottom says, "Nay, 1 can 
 • break a jest on occasion." 
 
 *« WU/t a2}ricocl:3 and dewberries. 
 
 Apricots were formerly termed aprkocis. The dewberry 
 is the dwarf mulberry, rubus cliamccmorus, often confused 
 witli the blackberry, being a similar fruit, but of a larger 
 size. I have gathered many a dewberry in the lanes 
 between Stratford-on-Avon and Ashton Cantlowe ; and 
 thought of Shakespeare and Titania. 
 
 6" Mistress iSquash, your viother, 
 Sx^uash is an unripe peascod. 
 
 " Night-ruU, i e., night sport. 
 Bort^ company. 
 
 Patches, fools, clowns. 
 
 " An ass^s nowl I fixed on his head. 
 
 Sowl, i.e., head. So, in Lilly's Mother Bombie, — 
 
 "W'ine, wine 1 O juice divine ! 
 How dost thou the nowle retine ! 
 
 The transformation of Bottom had its prototype in the 
 ancient mysteries. Among the curious stage directions in 
 the Chester Mysteries, are the following. — "Ileare Adam 
 and Eve goe out tell Cayme hath slayne Abell." " Then 
 Noye, with all his familie, shall make a signe, as though 
 the wrouglite upon the shippe with diveres instrumentes." 
 "Heare Abraham doth kisse his sonne Isaake, andbyndes 
 a charsclmtlc abouto his hcade : let him make a signe as 
 though lie would cut off his heade with his sorde ; then let 
 the angell come and take the Borde by the point and staio 
 45 
 
 it." "Then Balaham shall strike hi» aK»e, and remark. 
 that licre it is necessary for Bomo one to be transformed 
 into tlie appearance of an asse." 
 
 The scenery and other stage furniture must have boon 
 of the most primitive kind, probably inferior tc that of the 
 penny and twopenny shows that still figure occaBionally to 
 our streets. Thus, in Noah's Flood, " the arck muste be 
 horded round about, and one the hordes, all the bcastea 
 and foulcs painted." Again, when the star appears in the 
 east, it is made to move by a little angel carrying it away 
 in his arms; and the kings follow it hy coming down 
 from the stage, mounting on liorses in the street, and 
 riding round for a few minutes among the spectators. 
 
 '•'Mimic, i.e., actor, more properly, the clown. "A 
 mimick, a jester, a vice," Minsheu. Chougfis, daws, 
 
 "* LatclCd the AtheniajCs eyes. 
 
 Latch, to catch. Hence, metaphorically, to infect. 
 " Latching, catching, infecting," Kay'.s English Words, od. 
 1674, p. 29. The word occurs in the first sense in Macbeth. 
 I believe the usual interpretation given to it in this paa- 
 sage, licked over, is quite inadmissible. 
 
 Offoree, of necessity, necessarily. 
 
 " Touch, i.e., trick, exploit. Misprised, mistaken. Clxcr, 
 countenance. Sport alone, famous sport. 
 
 ^•J This princess of pure white. 
 
 Princess is, of course, metaphorically used for the chief 
 or most excellent. Mr. Collier unnecessarily suggests 
 impress. 
 
 " Yon fiery oes. 
 
 Oe* are anything round : the stars were small ocs. Iq 
 Wits Recreations, 16.54, the heavens arc called a " box of 
 oes." Artificial, skilful, ingenious. " Artificitl, artlfldall 
 skilfuU, cunning, workraanly," Cotgrave. 
 
 '» Two of the first, like coats in heraldry. 
 
 A coat of arms quartered with another coat, but crowned 
 with only one crest. 
 
 M You canker-blossom. 
 
 Steevens explains this, " a worm that preys on the loaves 
 or buds of flowers, always beginning in the middle." 
 Curst, shrewish. 
 
 '» Of hincC ring knot-grass Tnade. 
 
 " Knot-grass is a long round weed, with little round 
 smooth leaves, and the stalks very knotty and rough, 
 winding and wreathing one seam into another very con- 
 fusedly, and groweth for the most part in very moist 
 places," Markham's Cheap and Good Husbandry, 1676. 
 
 •• Already to their wormy beds are gone. 
 
 This hne has been imitated, perhaps unconsciously, by 
 
 Shelley. 
 
 •' Thou shalt 'by this dc<ir. 
 
 'By, I.e., aby, axpiate. We Lave also in this act, "teat, 
 to thy peril, thou aby it dear." 
 
 868
 
 NOTES TO A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 " I".l apply your eye. 
 
 So the old copies. -Apply di J not ucccssarily require the 
 
 '■"■■ ■•■' ■•■' We have tlie verb without it 
 
 The versification is irregular. 
 
 addition ol'the preposition 
 in tlie Nice Wanton, 15C0. 
 
 «* Jach shall have Jill. 
 
 '^ell is so bad a rhyme to ill^ tliat Steevens proposes to 
 read etill. In Heywood's Epigrammes vpon J'roverbes, 
 15C7 we have, — 
 
 " All shal be wel, Jacke shal have Gil ; 
 Nay, nay ; Gill is wedded to "Wil." 
 
 Tliis si ows that the common reading is quite correct. 
 
 " Thy amiaile cheelcs do eery. 
 
 Amiable, worthy to be loved. Gerard, in his Herbal, 
 p. 637, mentions an " amiable and pleasant kind of prim- 
 rose." Coy, to soothe or stroke. Overflown, flooded. 
 i'cif, hand or fist. 
 
 «» The woodbiM, the sweet honeysuckle. 
 
 There is a pass.n:^e in Ben Jonson in which the blue bind- 
 weed is luenfioned as entwining with the honeysuckle, and 
 GifTord thinks the former synonymous witli tlie woodbine. 
 He is, perliaps, right, for, in Lyuaere's Herball, tlie wood- 
 oine is made synonymous with wilhwind, anotlier term for 
 the bindweed ; but it is not to he denied that, in Shakes- 
 peare's time, the woodbine and tlie wild honeysuckle were 
 one and the same ; and in this very play the poet mentions 
 tlie "luscious woodbine," an epithet certainly more ap- 
 propriate to the honeysuckle. 
 
 *^ Like round and orient pearls. 
 
 Orient is generally used by our old writers in the sense 
 Cf, bright, sparkling. 
 
 "8 Diini^s hud o^er Cupids sjlower. 
 
 According to Steevens, this is the bud of the agnvs 
 eastern o'er love-in-idleness. 
 
 '" And bless it to all fair posterity. 
 
 The first edition has prosperity, and either reading 
 makes perfect sense. 
 
 '" Oitr observation is performed. 
 
 Alluding to the observance to the morn of May. Vaward, 
 vnuward, the forepart. Chiding alludes only to sound. 
 
 " Soflew'd, so sanded. 
 
 Fleiii'd, liaving large hanging chaps, which in hounds 
 M'crc called fiews. " When a hound is fleet, faire jleiifd, 
 and well hangd," Lilly's Midas, 1632. Sanded, of a sandy 
 colour. 
 
 '" Mine own, and not mine own. 
 
 Two interpretations may be given to this passage ; one, 
 that she ha.s found Demetrius as she would have found a 
 lost jewel, so une.\pectc Jly that she almost doubts whether 
 ho is lier own ; the other, that she has found him as she 
 V70iild have found a jewel, only hero till the owner claims it. 
 
 " Man is but apatcTi'd/ool. 
 
 That is, a fool in a coat of variegated colours. Heiico 
 pateh, a fool. See note 51. At Iter death alludes, probably, 
 to the death of Thisbe. Theobald proposes to read a/Lt^ 
 death. 
 
 " Made, i.e., enriched. 
 
 " Good strings to your beards. 
 
 The strings, as Malone observes, were to prevent tho 
 false beards, which they were to wear, from falUng off. 
 
 '9 Ovr play is preferred. 
 
 That is, proffered, or offered to the duke's notice. Som 
 Perkin Warbeck, act ii. sc. 3, — ■ 
 
 In honour of the bride, the Scots, I know, 
 
 Will in some shew, some masque, or some device, 
 
 Prefer their duties. 
 
 " What abridgment have you for this evening ? 
 
 Mr. Knight explains this, — " what shx/i't thing have yon, 
 of play, or mask, or music '. " 
 
 T8 There is x brief. 
 
 Tliat is, an abstract. " Give me the brief of your r?nl> 
 jeet," Ben Jonson's Tale of a Tub. 
 
 Philostrate here produces a list of the various amusi^ 
 nients which had been proffered by the people of Athorji, 
 for Theseus to wear away the " long age of thrr.o hours, 
 between his after-supper and bed-time." The e.xac^ 
 meaning of one of these has never been satisfiiotorily ex- 
 plained : — 
 
 "The thrice three Muses mourning for the death 
 Of learning, late deceased in beggary." 
 
 Theseus rejects this, and adds— 
 
 " That is some satire, keen and critical. 
 Not sorting with the nuptial ceremony." 
 
 Now, it will be remembered that out of the four " sports 
 which are rife," three of tlieni certainly refer to a pericJ 
 and action consistent with the nature of the plot. We ts'vo 
 
 " The battle with the Centaurs, to be sung, 
 By an Athenian eunuch, to the harp." 
 
 Next in order, 
 
 "The riot of the tipsy bacchanals, 
 Tearing the Thracian singer in their rage." 
 
 And lastly, 
 
 " A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus, 
 And his love Thisbe : very tragical mirth." 
 
 It is probable that the two lines wo have given aocvo 
 were either inserted after the play itself Avas written, or 
 that the poet merely makes a general allusiou to the low 
 state of literature at the time ; and this supposition accords 
 sullieicntly with Shakes|)eare's usual practice. I'or in- 
 stance, he perhaps alludes, nearly at the beginning of the 
 play, to tho state of tho weather in the year 1.094; hut 
 this descrijitiou is not at all incompatible with tho circum- 
 stances of his drama ; but I think that a particular allusiou
 
 — I 
 
 NOTES TO A MIUSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 
 
 to pome real person and Honio rciil de.alh lins this dilficiilty. 
 Tlicseus rejects one " hport," 
 
 " In ^'lory of my kinHiniin IlerculcK," 
 
 and another becaust it was 
 
 " an oM device ; and it was play'd 
 When I from Tliebcs camo last a conqueror.'" 
 
 Is it reasonable to suppose that nt the same time Shakes- 
 peare T\TOte the above lines, he would have considered it at 
 all consistent to introduce a personal allusion to any of his 
 own contemporaries? For, it mu^it be remembered, audi 
 an allusion evidently could not apply also to the period of 
 Theseus. If any allusion be intended, it is probably gen- 
 erivl; and Daniel, in the Olclpatra, printed in 1594, com- 
 plains sadly of the " barbarism" of the time. Perhaps, 
 however, the plague of l.i93 may have simultaneously de- 
 stroyed learning and some of its professors. 
 
 Mr. Knight conjectures that Shakespeare alludes to the 
 3eath of Kobert Greene, who deceased in 15H2, in a con- 
 dition that might truly be culled beggary. There is some 
 rcii.son in this, although the Midsnmmer Night's Dream 
 was not written till two years atlerwards ; for in the year 
 1594 was published Greene's FuneralU, in which occurs the 
 following passage : — 
 
 "For judgement Jove, for fcaj'/iin^ deepo ho still Apollo 
 scemde ; 
 For flocnt tongue, for eloquence, men Mercury him 
 
 deemde ; 
 For curtesie suppose him Guy, or Guyons somewhat 
 
 lesse. 
 His life and manners, though I would, I cannot halfe 
 express : 
 Nor mouth, nor minde, nor Muse can halfe declare, 
 liis life, his love, his laude, so excellent they were." 
 
 In the year 1594 was .ilso published Greene's last work, 
 s'ritten in conjunction with Thouuis Lodge, entitled The 
 Lool-inff Glass /i>r Zoiido?i and England, Chalmers has 
 dwelt upon an animosity which is said to have existed 
 between Lodge and Shakespeare : and, if this were the 
 case, we may perhaps be justified in conjecturing that the 
 " tliricc three Muses" mourned, or rather were intended to 
 mourn, on the last production of a famous writer which 
 was wholly imvorthy of his pen. The above-tnentioned 
 work is, indeed, very poor ; and, as fur as (ireeue was coa- 
 cerned, the productions of his learning might then be truly 
 Baid to bo " late deceased in beggary." Thia conjecture 
 wm also bear out the apprehension of Theseus: — 
 
 " That is some satire, keen and critical, 
 Not sorting with the nuptial ceremony." 
 
 '"A tedious trie/ scene. 
 
 In ridicule of the absurd titles of some ot our ancient 
 dramas, such as the " lamentable Tragedy, mixed ful of 
 pleasant mirth, eonteyning the Life of Cainbises, king of 
 Persia." Ben Jonson notices something of the same kind 
 in his Bartholomew Fair, — "The ancient modern History 
 of^ero and Leand !r," of course satirically. Lupton's All 
 for Money, 157S, is called a " pitiful comedy" on the title- 
 page, and a " pleasant tragedy" in the prologue. 
 
 ^ Rot ice, and wond'rous seetkiTig snow. 
 
 Southwell, 1590, has a similar antithesis, "winter rose, 
 and summer ice;" and in Cartwright's Poems, 1651, p. 
 972,— 
 
 .Johnson hath writ things lasting and divine,^ 
 Yet Ills love-scenes, Fletcher, compar'd to tliino, 
 Arc cold and frosty, and exprest love 6C, 
 As heat with ice, or warm fires mix'd with snow. 
 
 8' Takes it in might, not mf.rit. 
 
 That 18, accepts it as exerted in its utmost power, not 
 according to its real merit. MiMe respect, the respect or 
 regard of a noble mind. Addressed, ready. 
 
 «2 /f we njfend, it is with oar good ivill. 
 
 This is tlie height of this species of humour. It is 
 remembered by Taylor, the Water-Poet, in his Workcs, 
 1G30, — "If the printer hath placed any line, letter, or fiiU 
 lable, whereby tliis large volume may be made guilty to be 
 understood by any man, I would have the reader not to 
 impute the fault to the author ; for it was farre from liis 
 purpose to write to any purpose, so ending at the begin- 
 ning, I say, as it is applawsefully written and commended 
 to posterity in the Midsummer NighVs Dreame, — If we of- 
 fend, it is with our good will : we came with no intent but 
 to offend and shew our simple skill." 
 
 '2 Like a child on a recofder. 
 
 The recorder, according to Hawkins, appears to have 
 been a kind of llageojet. 
 
 *' Not Shafalus to Proems was so true. 
 
 Bottom's mistake for Cephalus and Proeris, a poem on 
 whom, by Chute, appeared in 1593 or 1594. 
 
 " A'or else no lien's dam. 
 
 In our old phraseology, as Dr. Johnson observes, nor 
 often related to two members of a sentence, though only 
 expressed in the hitter. The meiining of the whole is this, 
 '•Then know that I, one Snug the joiner, am neither a 
 lion fell, nor a lion's dam." An absurd conjecture to snb- 
 stitute a lion'' s fell, i.e., a lion's skin, in the place of the ol.I 
 reading, is strikingly illustrative of the mischievous ten- 
 dency of" ingenuity" in these matters. 
 
 »« Myself the man i' the moon do stem to be. 
 
 Grimm (Deutsche Mythologie, p. 412) informs us th.at 
 there are three legends connected with the Man in the 
 Moon ; the first, that this personage was Isaac carr\mg a 
 bundle of sticks for his own sacrifice ; the second, that he 
 was Cain ; and the other, which is taken from the history 
 of the sabbath-breaker, as related in the Book of Numbers. 
 In the poem, entitled The Testament of Creseide, printea 
 in Chaucer's works, there is an allusion to the same 
 legend : — 
 
 " Next after him came lady Cynthia, 
 
 The laste of al, and swiftest in her sphere. 
 Of colour blake, buskid with hornis Iwa, 
 And in the night she listith best t' apere, 
 Hawe as the Iced, of colour nothing cicre, 
 For al the light she borowed at her brotuer 
 Titan, for of hersclfe she hath nou other. 
 
 " Her gite was gray and ful of spottis blako, 
 And on her brest a ehorle painted ful even, 
 Bering a bushe of thornis on his bake, 
 
 Whiche for his theft might clime no ner the hcven. 
 
 The Italians of the tliirteenth century imagined the 
 ilan in the Moon to be Cain, who is going to sacrifice to 
 
 aso
 
 NOTES TC' A MIOSUMMEK-NKJfirS DREAM. 
 
 tho Lord, horns — the most wretched production of the 
 pronnd. Dante refers to this in the twentieth canto of 
 the Inferno : — 
 
 "che gia tiene 'I confine 
 D'amenduo gli emisperi, e tocca 1' onda 
 Sotto Sibilia, Caino e le spine." 
 
 *' In snnff. 
 
 There is here a play upon words, in, snuff being a com- 
 mon old phrase for being angry. Moused, torn or mangled 
 by the mouth. 
 
 " These lily brows. 
 
 Old copies read, " these lily lips," but the whole being 
 in rhjTne, I cannot refuse to accept Theobald's emendation. 
 
 *» Adieu J adieu, adieu. 
 
 " Altho' this piece, as it stands before us, cannot easily 
 be contrived for representation, yet this part of it which 
 was performed by the Athenian handicrafts was some years 
 ago produced at Covent Garden Theatre as a burlesque 
 opera, aud repeatedly exhibited with great success. I have 
 been present at it myself. The music, which was in great 
 estimation, was composed by Mr. J. F. Larrope, and the 
 character of Pyramus was presented by that celebrated 
 singer, Mr. John Beard," MS. note of Thomas Hull. 
 
 " A Bergomash darice, 
 Aocordinp U) Sir Tlioma* Hanmer, this was a dance aflor 
 
 tlio manner of tho peasants of Bergouiasco, a country in 
 Italy belonging to the Venetians. 
 
 " To mcecp the dust behind the dM>r. 
 
 The fairies were always famous for their love of cleanli- 
 ness, and Rowlands mentions a similar employment for 
 Robin Goodfellow in his More Knaves Yet, — 
 
 Amongst the rest was a Goodfellow devill. 
 So card in kindness, cause he did no evill, 
 Knowne by the name of Robin, as wo heare, 
 And tliat his eyes as broad as sawcers were. 
 Who came aniglits, and would make kitchins cleone, 
 And in the bed bepinch a lazie queane. 
 
 83 JTojt as light as bird from brier. 
 
 A very common old comparison. So in the Cobler 0/ 
 Canterburie, 1608,— 
 
 This smith was a quaint sire, 
 As merrie as bird on brier. 
 
 ' Prodigious, i.e., portentous. 
 
 " Every fairy take his gait. 
 
 That is, take his way. The term is still in common u£8 
 in the north of England. 
 
 " Ckntles, do not reprehend. 
 
 Mr. Hunter, New Illustrations, i. 282, amends thia bf 
 reading, dj not rcprobatd. 
 
 .Sfi6
 
 €\)t jtierrljiint iit ':M\tt 
 
 IQ Venice towno not long opoe 
 
 A cruel Jew did dwell, 
 Wlitoh lived all on usurie, 
 
 Ass Italian writers tell. 
 
 Ballad of Gebnutus. 
 
 TIRE Merchanc of Venice is founded on two popular medieval tales, both of wliich are met with iD 
 
 several collections, and under a considerable variety of form. As might, therefore., be anticipated, 
 few plays have been more suggestive to writers on the history of fiction ; but a brief notice of these 
 remote originals will satisfy the readers of Shakespeare, the poet having been most probably indebted 
 for his materials to more modern versions of the above-mentioned narratives, which, for the sake of 
 distinctness, may be designated the stories of the Bond and the Caskets. 
 
 The incident of the Bond is probably of oriental origin. It was introduced into this countiy nt a 
 very early period, a vereion of it having been discovered by Mr. Wright in a manuscript in the British 
 Museum, written about the year 1320, (MS. Harl. 7322.) This manuscript is a collection of Latin 
 stories for preachers, and the tale of the Bond is related of two brothers, one malicious and covetous, 
 the other generous and extravagant. The hitter, having expended all his money, was reduced to the 
 necessity of applying to the elder brother, who, insisting upon an equivalent of some kind, the younger 
 one v.'as thoughtlessly induced to sell him a band's breadth of his flesh, and made the bargain before 
 the necessary witnesses. On the contract being insisted upon, a prince interferes to save the life of the 
 younger brother ; and he does so by ingeniously obtaining from him a g^ant of his blood, and then 
 informing the elder brother that his own life will be foifeited if he spills a drop of his relative's blood.* 
 This story is found under a difl'erent form in the well-known collection of medieval tales called the Gcsta 
 Bomanorum, but mixed up with a love story, and concludes by the knight's mistress coming into the 
 court disguised, and saving her lover by the same ingenuity which, in the play, is attributed to Portia. 
 The similarity to Shakespeare is still further to be noticed in the next version of the tale, which occurs 
 in the Pecorone of Giovanni Fioreulino, written to^'ards the close of the fourteenth century. In this 
 novel, the lady of Belmont is mentioned ; the trial is conducted in a manner more similar to the 
 description in Shakespeare ; and the whole concludes with the stratagem respecting the ring. It is 
 evident, therefore, that Shakespeare was indebted in some way, probably indirectly, to the Pecorone. 
 
 The second story, that of the Caskets, is found in a simple form in the Greek romance of Barlaam 
 and Josaphat, written about the year 800. "The king commanded four chests to be made, two of 
 which were to be covered with gold, and secured by golden locks, but filled with the rotten bones of 
 
 * Notices of other medieval tales, which include the condition of the Bond, will bo found in Mr. Wright's collocuoj 
 of LiUin Storifs, a curious and v-iluable volume, nublished by the Percy Society. 
 
 867
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 human carcasses. The other two were overlaid with pitch, and bound with rough cords; but replenished 
 with pretious stones and the most exquisite gems, and with ointmv-nts of the richest odour. He called 
 his nobles loo-ether, and placing these chests before them, asted which they thought the most valuable. 
 They pronounced those with the golden coverings to be the most pretious, supposing they were made 
 to contain the crowns and girdles of the king. The two chests covered with pitch they \iewed willi 
 contempt. Then said the king, I presumed what would be your determination, for ye look with tin- 
 eyes of sense. But to discern baseness or value, which are hid within, we must look with the eyes of 
 the mind. He then ordered the golden chests to be opened, which exhaled an intolerable stench, and 
 filled the beholders with horror." The incident adopted by Shakespeare is found in the Gtsla Roma- 
 norum. A young princess is to choose one of three ca.skets. The first was made of gold, ornamented 
 With precious stones, but within full of dead men's bones, with the inscription, "Who chooseth mo 
 shall find what he deserves." The second was of silver, but filled with earth, and inscril ed, " Who 
 chooseth me shall find what his nature desireth." The third was made of lead, filled with gems and 
 precious stones, and inscribed, " Who chooseth me shall find what God hath disposed." The princess 
 ^"isely chose the last, and the Emperor says : " Bona puella, bene elegisti : idea Jilium meitm habebis." 
 This story had appeared in English, in Robinson's translation of the Gesia, as early as 1577. 
 
 It appears -with siifiicient clearness from the above that Shakespeare was indebted for the chief 
 incidents of his play, either dii'ecfly or indirectly, to the Pecorone and the tale of the Caskets in the 
 Genta Romanorum. The origin of the episode of the loves of Lorenzo and Jessica must be looked for 
 elsewhere, and Dunlop refers us to the fourteenth tale of Massuccio di Salerno, who flourished about 
 the year 1470, in which novel we have an avaricious father, whose daughter elopes by the inteiTention 
 of a servant, and robs her parent of his money. On discovering her flight, the father's grief is divided 
 between the loss of his daughter and the robbery of his ducats. 
 
 Instead, however, of supposing the poet obtained his materials from three unconnected works, a 
 very easy and probable solution of the question is suggested by the circumstance that the Merchant of 
 Venice was originally also entitled the Jew of Venice. This f;ict, which is obtained from the entiy of 
 the play on the registers of the Stationers' Com]3any, in 1598, is of considerable importance, when 
 viewed in connection with another circumstance, the allusion to an old play called the "Jev/," in 
 Uosson's Schoole of Abuse, which contained "a pleasaunt invective against Poets, Pipers, Plaiers, 
 Jesters, and such-like cateqiillers of a Commonwealth," IGmo., 1579. A play so called, says Gjssoi., 
 was one of the few which were " mthout rebuke." It was exhibited at the Bull, and Gossoc describes 
 it as representing the greedinesse of worldly cliusers^ and bloody mindes of usurers. The coincidence 
 of this description -with the subject of the Merchant of Venice, is so remarkable, that when we add to 
 it the identity of title, little doubt can fairly remain that the play mentioned by Gosson, in 1579 
 contained similar incidents to those in Shakesjjeare's play, and that it was, in all probability, the 
 rude original of the Merchant of Venice. If this be conceded, we need scarcely enter into the subject 
 of the ballad of Gemutus as one of Shakespeaie's sources. If the ballad was really anterior to the 
 play, it might possibly have suggested a few trifling expressions: but the evidence clearly leads to the 
 oonclusion that the poet must have been indebted to some production, which was in its turn borrowed 
 from the Pecorone. 
 
 The Mercliant of Venice, as has been already remarked, was entered at Stationers' ilall in 1598, 
 and it is mentioned by Meres in the same year. We have no other certain information respec-ting the 
 date of its composition, but it was probably written before the year 1596, for in Wily Beguiled, an old 
 play whicli contained more than one slv borrowing from Shakespeare, occurs the following palpable 
 imitati'w of a well-known scene in the Merchant of V^enice : — 
 
 'Sophot. In sucli a night did Paris win his love. 
 Zelia. In such a night jEnens prov'd unkind. 
 Sophos. In sucli a niglit did Troilua court his dear. 
 Lelia. In such a niglit fair I'liillis w:w bctraj-'d." 
 
 The play of IVily Brguiled is alhidcd to in Nasii's Have with you to Saffron Walden, 1500, and it 
 probablv «h<;n a new production. And if, in addition to this, we add the circumstauco of several 
 
 f.f>.
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 
 
 expressions wluch occur in tlie trial scene iu Shakespeare beiii"; similar to others in the story of tlie 
 BoMiI in Miinilay's translation of Silvayn's Orator, published in the same year, we may ari-ive not un- 
 rCiusonably at the conclnsiou that the Merchant of Venice was a new and favourite play in 1590. T;e 
 date of its composition would thus bo placed in 1595, or very early in the following year.* 
 
 The first edition of the play appeared in 1600, entitled, "The most excellent Historic of the Mer- 
 chant of Venice, with the extreaine crueltie of Shylocke the Jowe towards the sayd Merchant in cutting 
 a just pound of his flesh: and the obtayning of Portia by the choyse of three chests: as it hath beene 
 divers times acted by the Lord Chamberlaiue his Servants. Written by William Shakespeare. At 
 London, Printed by J. R. foi' Thonuis Heyes, and are to be so!d ;;i Paules Chuich-yard at the signe of 
 the Greene Dragon, IGOO." The si'cond edition was "printed by J. Roberts" in the same year, with 
 variations which seem to me to indicate that its source was not so pure as that fi'om which the other 
 edition was printed. Mr. Knight says the first quarto of Heyes was also printed by Roberts, but tliis 
 is surely too bold an assumption to draw merely from the initials, and it would be strange indeed had 
 Roberts printed two diffeient texts of the same play nearly simultaneously. Tlie play was reprinted 
 D the folio of 1623, with a few variations chiefly arising from tlie action of the statute of -James L 
 directed against the proiane use of the name of the Deity in dramatic peifonuances. Our text is chiefly 
 taken from the earliest quarto. 
 
 The Merchant of Venice appeai-s to have been a popular drama. We may conclude so from the 
 facts already mentioned, as well as from the circumstance of its having been twice acted before the Court 
 ic the year 1605 iu the course of three d.ays, which appears from the on'ginal accounts of tlie revels 
 preserved at Somerset House, first edited by Mr. P. Cunningham. About a century afterwards, an 
 altei ation of it by Lord Lansdowne was produced at Lincoln's Inn Fields under the title of the " Jew of 
 Venice," published in IVOl, with a prologue by Bevil Higgons, iu which the ghost of Shakespeare 18 
 represented as uttering the following reniai'kable lines, — 
 
 • These scenes in their rough native dress were mine, 
 
 But noWy improved^ with nohlcr lustre shine j 
 The first rude sketches Shakespeare's pencil drew, 
 Jlut all the shilling master-strokes are new. 
 
 We smile now at the temerity of Mr. Higgons and Lord Lansdowiie ; but, although Macklin par- 
 dally I'estored the poet's text, it is onlv within a very few years that the genuine play, in its full pro- 
 portion, has taken the place of the mutilated copy of the old prompt-book, in which some of the most 
 gi'aceful and poetical parts of the drama were omitted. 
 
 The Merchant of Venice exhibits, to use the words of Grosson, " the greedjacsse of worldly-chusers, 
 and blooilv miudos of usurers ;" and there is more concord in the union of these subjects than might at 
 first be imagined. Intense desire of revenge is not unfrequentl' found joined with the ardent love of 
 gain, and the character of Shylock, in this respect, is strictly true to nature. Severely pereecuted iu 
 every direction on account of his creed, the revenge he attempts to take is, in regard to its severe 
 character, that of any bad man who has been deeply injured under similar circumstances, for religious 
 intolerance and persecu'ion have invariably produced a deeper feeling of resentment than other kinds 
 of injustice. The form taken by his revenge is appalling, but had it been less frightful, our sympathies 
 would have turned to the Jew. Shylock had been trampled upon till his desire for retaliation triumphed 
 over his love of money, and resolved itself into that one feeling which it appears to have been the 
 object of the poet to illustrate in the play. Shakespeare has almost imperceptibly so arranged the 
 course of Shylock's arguments, that, while they appear to and do actually arise perfectly naturally out 
 of his desire for revenge, they are madei the medium of inculcating the liberal doctrine, that a man 
 .•annot justly be deprived of his rights on account of his religious belief. 
 
 • A play called hy Henslowe the " Vcnesyan Comedy" was acted iu 1594, and frequently repeated ; but there are no 
 ButBcient reasons for believln? it to have been Shakespeare's play. 
 
 859
 
 PERSONS REPEESENTED. 
 
 Duke of Venice. 
 
 Appears, Act IV. sc. 1. 
 
 Prince of Arragon, suitor to Portia. 
 
 Appears, Act II. sc. 9. 
 
 Prince of Morocco, suitor to Portia. 
 ars, Act II. sc. 1 ; sc. 7. 
 
 Antonio, the Merchant of Venice. 
 
 Appears, Act I. Bc. 1; so. 3. Act II. sc. 6. Act III. so. 3. 
 Act IV. sc. 1. Act V. ac. 1. 
 
 a ASS A'sio, friend to Antonio. 
 
 Appears- Act I. sc. 1 ; sc. 3. Act II. sc. 2. Act III. so. 2. 
 Act IV. so. 1. Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 Sohxyio, friend to Antonio and Bassanio. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1. Act II. sc. 4 ; sc. 8. Act III. so. 1 ; 
 sc. 2. Act IV. so. 1. 
 
 SALARiNo,/;7V»a! to Antonio and Bassanio. 
 
 Appears, ixH. sa. 1. Act II. sc. 4; sc. 6; so. 8. Act III. 
 sc. 1 ; so. 3. Act IV. sc. 1. 
 
 Gratiaso, friend to Antonio and Bassanio. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1. Act II. so. 2 ; so. 4; so. 8. Act III. 
 BO. 2. Act. IV. sc. 1 ; so. 2. Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 Lorenzo, in love with Jessica. 
 
 Appears, Act I. so. 1. Act II. sc. 4; so. 6. Act III. sc. 2 ; 
 so. 4; sc. 5. Act V. so. 1. 
 
 RiiYLocK, a Jew. 
 
 Appear* Act I. sc. 3. Act II. sc. 5. Act III. sc. 1 , so. 3. 
 Act IV. so. 1. 
 
 TuiiAj., a Jew, friend to Shylock. 
 Appears, Act III. so. 1. 
 
 860 
 
 Launcelot Gobbo, a cloien, servan to Sliyl )ck. 
 
 Appears, Act 11. bc. 2; so. 8; bc. 4;ec°. 5. Act III. ho 6 
 Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 Old Gobbo, father to Launci;lot. 
 
 Appears, Act II. sc. 2. 
 
 Leonardo, servant to Bassanio. 
 
 Appears, Act II. so. 2. 
 
 Balthazar, servant to Portia. 
 Appears, Act III. sc. 4. 
 
 Stephano, servant to Portia. 
 Appears, Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 Salerio, a messenger from Venice. 
 Tills character is omitted in tliis edition. See Kote 1. 
 
 A Oaoler. 
 
 Appears, Act III. sc. 3. 
 
 Portia, a rich heiress. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 2. Act II. sc. 1 ; so. 7 ; so. 9. Act III 
 sc. 2;sc. 4. Act IV. sc. 1 ; so. 2. ActV. so. 1. 
 
 Nerissa, loaiting-maid to Portia. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 3. Act II. sc. 1 ; sc. 7 ; so. 9. Act III, 
 sc. 2; sc. 4. Act IV. sc. 1 ; sc. 2. Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 Jessica, daughter to Sliylock. 
 
 Appears, Act II. sc. 3; sc. 5; so. G. Act III. sc. 2; so. 4; 
 so. 5. Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 Magnificoes of Venire, Officers of the Court of 
 Justice, Servants, and oilier Attendants. 
 
 SCENE, — Partly at Venice ; and pautly at Bel- 
 mont, THE SKAT OK PoRTIA, ON THE CONTINENT.
 
 €l)e 'JiiiTtliimt nf '^mtt 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I.— Venice. A street. 
 
 Enter Antonio, Salakino, and Solanio.' 
 
 Ant. In sooth, I know not why I am so sad. 
 It wearies me ; you say it weaiies you ; 
 Btit how I caught it, found it, or came by it, 
 What stuff 't is made of, whereof it is bom, 
 I am to learn ; 
 
 And s-jch a want-wit sadness makes of me, 
 That 1 hav6 much ado to know myself. 
 
 Salar. Your mind is tossing on the ocean ; 
 There, where your argosies with portly sail,^ 
 Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood. 
 Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea, 
 Do'overpeer the petty trafhckers. 
 That curt'sy to them, do them reverence, 
 As they fly by them with their woven wings. 
 
 Sola?'.. Believe me, sii-, had I such venture forth. 
 The better part of my affections woidd 
 Bo with my hopes abroad. I should be still 
 Plucking the grass, to know where sits the wind ; 
 Peering in maps, for ports, and jjiers, and roads; 
 And every object that might make me fear 
 Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt 
 Would make me sad. 
 
 Salar. My wind, cooling my broth. 
 
 Would blow me to an ague, when I thought 
 What hann a wind too great might do at sea. 
 I should not see the sandy hour-glass run, 
 But I should think of shallows and of flats, 
 
 And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd ia sana, 
 
 Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs,' 
 
 To kiss her burial. Should I go to church. 
 
 And see the holy edifice of stone. 
 
 And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks, 
 
 Which, touching but my gentle vessel's side, 
 
 Would scatter all her spices on the stream ; 
 
 Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks; 
 
 And, in a word, but even now worth this. 
 
 And now worth nothing? Shall I have the thought 
 
 To think on this, and shall I lack the thought 
 
 That such a thing, bechanc'd, would make me sad? 
 
 But tell not me ; I know Antonio 
 
 Is sad, to think upon his merchandise. 
 
 Ant. Believe me, no : I thank my fortune for it, 
 My ventures are not in one bottom trusted. 
 Nor to one place ; nor is my whole estate 
 Upon the fortune of this present year : 
 Therefore my merchandise makes me not sad. 
 
 Salar. Why, then you are in love. 
 
 Ant. Fie, fie ! 
 
 Salar. Not in love neither ? Then let us say 
 you are sad 
 Because you are not merry : and 't were as easy 
 For you to laugh, and leap, and say you are mei'ry, 
 Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed 
 
 Janus, 
 Nature hath fram'd strange fellows in her time ; 
 Some that will evermore peep through tl ,eir eyes, 
 And laugh, hke parrots, at a bagpiper ; 
 
 361
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 SOBNE L 
 
 And other of such \nnegar aspect, 
 
 That they '11 uot show their teeth in way of smile, 
 
 Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable. 
 
 Enter Bassaxio, Lorenzo, and Gratiaxo. 
 
 Solan. Here comes Bassanio, your most noble 
 kinsman, 
 Gratiano, and Lorenzo. Fare ye well ; 
 We leave you now with better company. 
 
 Salar. I would have stay'd till I had made you 
 merry, 
 If worthier fiiends had not prevented me. 
 
 Ant. Your worth is veiy dear in my regard. 
 I take it, your own business calls on you, 
 .\nd you embrace th' occasion to depait. 
 
 Sidar. Good moiTOw, my good lords. 
 
 Bass. Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? 
 Say, when ? 
 Vou grow exceeding strange : Must it be so ? 
 
 Salar. We'll make our leisures to attend on yours. 
 ^Exeunt Salakino and Solaxio. 
 
 Lor. M}' lord Bassanio, since you have found 
 Antonio, 
 We two will leave you ; but at dinner-time 
 I play you have in mind where we must meet. 
 
 Bass. I will not fail you. 
 
 Gra You look not well, signior Antonio ; 
 You have too much respect upon the world : 
 They lose it that do buy it with much care. 
 Believe me, you are marvellously changed. 
 
 Ant. I hold the world but as the world, Gra- 
 tiano ; 
 A stage, where every man must play a part. 
 And mine a s.vi one. 
 
 Gra. Let me play the Fool : 
 
 Wiilj mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come ; 
 And let my liver rather heat with wine. 
 Than mv heart cool with niortitying groans. 
 Why should a man, whose blood is warm within, 
 Sit like his jxrandsire cut in alabaster? 
 Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice 
 By being peevish ? I tell thee what, Antonio, — 
 I love tht-e, and it is my love that speaks; — 
 There are a sort of men, whose visages 
 E)o cream and mantle like a standing pond, 
 And do a wilful stillness entertain, 
 Willi purpose to be dress'd in an opinion 
 Of wisdom, gi'avity, ])i'ofound conceit : 
 As vvlio should .say, " I am sir Oracle, 
 And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark !"' 
 0, my Antonio, I do know of tliese. 
 That therefore only are reputed wise 
 862 
 
 For savins' nothing ; when, I am very sure,' 
 
 If tli3\ sliould speak, 't would .limost danm those 
 
 ears. 
 Which, hearing them, would call their brother." 
 
 fools. 
 I '11 tell thee more of this another time : 
 But fish not with this melancholy bait. 
 For this tool gudgeon, this opinion. 
 Come, good Lorenzo : — fare ye well a while , 
 I '11 end my exhortation after dinner. 
 
 Lor. Well, we will leave you, then, till dinner- 
 time : 
 I must be one of these same dumb wise men. 
 For Gratiano never lets me speak 
 
 Gra. Well, keep me company but two years 
 more. 
 Thou shalt not know the sound of tine own 
 tongue. 
 
 Ant. Farewell : I '11 grow a talker for this gear, 
 
 Gra. Thanlcs, i' fiith ; for silence is only com- 
 mendable 
 In a neat's tongue diy'd, and a maid not vendible 
 [Exeunt Gratiano and Lorexzo. 
 
 Ant. Is that anything now ? 
 
 Bass. Gi'atiano speaks an infinite deal of 'lothing, 
 more than anv man in all Venice. His reasons are 
 two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff, 
 you shall seek all day ere you find them, and shen 
 you have them, they are not worth the searcli. 
 
 Ant. AVell, tell me now, what lady is the same 
 To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage, 
 That you to-day promis'd to tell me of? 
 
 Bass. 'T is not unknown to you, Antonio, 
 How much I have disabled mine estate, 
 P>y something showing a more swelling port 
 Thau mv faint means would grant continuance: 
 Nor do I now make moan to be abridg'd 
 From such a noble rate ; but my chief care 
 Is to come fairly ofi' from the great debts. 
 Wherein my time, something too prodigal, 
 Hath left me gag'd. To you, Antonio, 
 I owe the most in money and in love ; 
 And from your love I have a warranty 
 To unburthen all my plots and purposes, 
 How to get clear of all the debts I owe. 
 
 Ant. I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it : 
 And, if it stand, as you yourself still do, 
 \\'ithin the eye of honour, be assur'd 
 My purse, my person, my extremest raean.s. 
 Lie all unlock'd to your occasions. 
 
 Bass. In my school-days, when I had lost ono 
 shaft.
 
 ACT 1. 
 
 TUE MEKGEANT OF VENICE. 
 
 BUENE IL 
 
 I sliot his fellow of the self-same flight 
 
 The self-same way, with more advised watdi 
 
 To find the other I'orth ; and, by adventuriug both, 
 
 I oft found both : I urge this eiiildhood protf, 
 
 liecaiise what follows is pure iunoocnce. 
 
 [ owe you inueh ; aud, like a wilful youth, 
 
 That which I owe is lost : but if you please 
 
 To shoot another arrow that self-way 
 
 Whieh you did shoot the first, I do not doubt, 
 
 As I will watch the aim, or to find both. 
 
 Or bring your latter hazard back again. 
 
 Anil thankfully rest debtor for the first. 
 
 jint. You kuow me well, and herein spend but 
 time, 
 lo wind about my love with circumstance ; 
 Aud, out of doubt, you do me now more wrong 
 In making question of my uttermost, 
 riian if you h.id made waste of all I have. 
 Then do but say to me what I should do, 
 That in your knowledge may by me be done. 
 And I am prest' unto it : therefore speak. 
 
 Bass. In Belmont is a lady richly left, 
 And she is fair, and, fairer than that word. 
 Of wond'rous virtues. Sometimes from her eyes' 
 I did receive fair speechless messages : 
 Her name is Portia ; nothing undervalued 
 To Cato's daughter, Bratus' Portia. 
 Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth ; 
 For the four winds blow in from every coiist 
 Renowned suitors : and her suuny locks 
 Hang on her temples like a golden fleece ; 
 Which makes her seat of Belmont, Colchos' strand, 
 And many Jasons come in quest of her. 
 O, my Antonio ! had I but the means 
 To hold a rival place with one of them, 
 [ have a mind presages me such thrift, 
 That I should questionless be fortunate. 
 
 Ant. Thou kuow'st that all my fortunes are at sea; 
 Neither have I money, nor commodity 
 To raise a present sum : therefore, go forth ; 
 Try what my credit can in Venice do ; 
 That shall be rack'd, even to the uttermost. 
 To furnish thee to Belmont, to fair Portia. 
 Go, presently inquire, and so will I, 
 Where money is; ami 1 no question make. 
 To have it of my trast, or for my sake. [jEjceimt. 
 
 SCENE n. — Belmont. A room in Portia's House. 
 
 £ntcr Portia and Neiussa. 
 
 Por. By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is a- 
 wcarv of tliis OTcat world. 
 
 Ner. You would bo, sweet madam, if your 
 miseries were in the same abundani;e as your good 
 fortunes are. And yet, for aught I see, they are as 
 sick that surfeit with too much, as they that starve 
 with nothing. It is no small Iiappiness, therefore, 
 to be seated in the mean ; superfluity comes sooner 
 bj' white hairs, but comjietcncy lives longer. 
 
 Por. Good sentences, and well pronounc'd. 
 
 Ner. They would be better, if well followed. 
 
 Por. If to do were as easy as to know what 
 were good to do, chapels had been churches, aud 
 poor men's cottages princes' palaces. It is a good 
 divine that follows his own instructions. I can 
 easier teach twenty what were good to be done, 
 than be one of the twenty to follow mine own 
 teaching. The brain may devise laws for the 
 blood ; but a hot temper leaps o'er a cold decree : 
 such a hare is madness, the youth, to skip o'er the 
 meshes of good counsel, the cripple. But this 
 reasoning is not in the fashion "to choose me a 
 husband ! — me, the word choose ! I may 
 neither choose whom I would, nor refuse whom I 
 dislike ; so is the will of :wliving daughter curb'd 
 by the will of a dead father. Is it not hard, 
 Nerissa, that I cannot choose one, noi' refuse none ? 
 
 Ner. Your father was ever virtuous ; and holy 
 men at their death have good inspirations; there- 
 fore, the lottery that he hath de\ised in these 
 three chests, of gold, silver, and lead, (whei'eof 
 who chooses his meaning, chooses you,) will, no 
 doubt, never be chosen by any rightly, but one 
 who you shall rightly love. But what warmth is 
 there in your aifection towards any of these princely 
 suitors that ai'e already come? 
 
 Por. I pray thee, overaame them ; and as thou 
 namest thom, I will describe them ; and according 
 to my description,' level at my aftection. 
 
 Ner. First, there is the Neapolitan prince. 
 
 Por. Ay, that 's a colt, indeed,'" for he doth 
 nothing but talk of his horse ; and he makes it a 
 great appropriation to his own good parts that he 
 can shoe him himself. I am much afraid my lady 
 his mother play'd false with a smith. 
 
 Ner. Then is there the county Palatine. 
 
 Por. He doth nothing but frown; as who should 
 say, " An you will not have me, choose." He 
 heara meny tales, and smiles not : I fear he will 
 prove the weeping philosopher when he grows old, 
 being so full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. 
 I had rather to be mai-ried to a death's head with 
 a bone in his mouth, than to either of these. God 
 defend uie from these two 1 
 
 868
 
 TEE MEKCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 SCENE in. 
 
 Ner. now siiy you by tlie French lord, monsieur 
 le Bon ? 
 
 For. God made him, and therefore let him pass 
 for a man. In truth, I know it is a sin to be a 
 mocker. But he ! why, he hath a horse better than 
 the Neapolitan's; a better bad habit of frowning 
 than the count Palatine : he is every man in no 
 man : if a throstle slug, he falls straight a cap'riiig; 
 he will fence with his own shadow. If I should 
 marry him, I should marry twenty husbands. If 
 he would despise me, I would forgive him ! for if 
 he love me to madness, I shall never requite him. 
 
 Ner. What say you then to Faulconbridge, the 
 young baron of England ? 
 
 Por. You know I say nothing to him ; for he 
 understands not me, nor I him : he liath neither 
 Latin, French, nor Italian ; and you v.'ill come 
 into the court, and swear that I have a poor penny- 
 worth in the English. He is a proper man's pic- 
 ture : but, alas ! who can converse with a dumb 
 show ? How oddly he is suited ! I think he 
 bought his doublet in Italy, his round hose in 
 France, his bonnet in Germany, and his behaviour 
 everywhere. 
 
 Ner. What think you of the Scottish lord," liis 
 neighbour ? 
 
 For. That he huth a neighbourly chanty in him ; 
 for he borrowed a box of the ear of tlie Englishman, 
 and swore he would pay him again when he was 
 able. I think the Frenchman became his surety, 
 and sealed under for another. 
 
 Ner. How like you the young German, the duke 
 of Saxony's nephew ? 
 
 Por. ■ Very vildly in the morning, when he is 
 sober ; and most vildly in the afternoon, when he 
 is drunk : when he is best, he is a little worse 
 than a man ; and when he is woree, he is little 
 better than a beast. An the worst fall tliat ever 
 fell, I hope I shall make shift to go without 
 him. 
 
 Ner. If he should offer to choose, and choose 
 (he right ca.sket, you should refuse to perform 
 your father's will, if you should refuse to accept 
 him. 
 
 Por. Therefore, for fear of (he worst, I pray 
 Uiee set a deep glass of Kheuish wine on the con- 
 trary casket : for, if the devil be within, and that 
 temptation witliout, I know he will choose it. I 
 will do anything, Neris.sa, ere I will be married to 
 a sponge. 
 
 Ner. Yon need not f rar, lad}-, the having jmy of 
 ibcso lords; (hey have acquainted ine with their 
 
 detenninations : which is, indeed, to return to 
 their home, and to trouble you with no more suit, 
 unless you may be won by some other sort, than 
 your father's imposition depending on the caskets. 
 
 For. K I live to be' as old as Sibylla, I will die 
 as chaste as Diana, unless I be obtained by the 
 manner of my father's will. I am glad this parcel 
 of wooers are so reasonable ; for there is not one 
 among them but I dote on his veiy absence, and I 
 pray God grant them a fair departure. 
 
 Net. Do you not remember, lady, in youi 
 father's time, a Venetian, a scholar, and a soldier 
 that- came hither in company of the marquis ol 
 Montferrat ? 
 
 Por. Yes, yes ; it w.<is Ba-ssauio ; as I think, so 
 was he call'd. 
 
 Ner. True, madam ; he, of all the men that 
 ever my foolish eyes look'd upon, was the best de- 
 serving a fair lady. 
 
 Por. I remember him well ; and I remember 
 him worthy of thy praise. — How now? what 
 news ?''^ — 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Sen'. The four strangers seek for you, madam, 
 to take their leave : and there is a forerunner come 
 from a fifth, the prince of Morocco, who brings 
 word the prince, his master, will be h'ere to- 
 night. 
 
 Por. K I could bid the fifth welcome with so 
 good heart as I can bid the other four farewell, I 
 should be glad of his approach : if he have the 
 condition of a saint, and the complexion of a devil, 
 I had rather he should shrive me than wive me. 
 Come, Nerissa. Sin-ah, go before. 
 Whiles we shut the gate upon one wooer, another 
 knocks at the door. \ Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE m.— Venice. A jmhlic Place. 
 Enter Bassanio ukc/. Suvlock." 
 
 Shy. Three thousand ducats, — well. 
 
 £ass. Ay, sir, for three months. 
 
 Sh>/. For three months, — well. 
 
 Bass: For the which, as I told you, Anionic 
 shall be bound. 
 
 Shy. Antonio shall become bound, — well. 
 
 Bass. May you stead me? Will you pleasure 
 me? Shall I know your answer? 
 
 Shij. Three thousand ducals, for three months, 
 and Antonio bound.
 
 AOT I. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICK 
 
 BCEKE in. 
 
 Enss. Your answer to that. 
 
 Sh;/. Antonio is a good man. 
 
 Hans. Have you heard any imputation to the 
 contrary ? 
 
 Shij. Oil no, no, no, no ; — my meaning in saying 
 he is a good man'^ is, to have you understand me, 
 tliat ho is sufficient : yet his means are in suppo- 
 sition : lie hath an argosy hound to Tripolis, 
 another to the Indies ; I understand, moreover, 
 upon the Rialto, he hath a third at Mexico, a 
 fourth for England ; and other ventures he hath, 
 squander'd ' abroad. But ships are but boards, 
 sailors but men ; there be land-rats and water- 
 rats,'' water-thieves and land-thieves; I mean, 
 '^lirates ; and then, there is the peril of waters, 
 winds, and rocks : The man is, notwithstanding, 
 sufficient ; — three thousand ducats ; — I think I may 
 take his bond. 
 
 Bass. Be assured you may. 
 
 Sh(/. I will be assured I may ; and that I may 
 be assured, I will bethink me. May I speak with 
 Antiiiiio ? 
 
 Ha.ts. If it please you to dine with us. 
 
 Skij. Yes, to smell pork ! to eat of the habita- 
 tion which your prophet, the Nazarite, conjui^ed 
 the devil into ! I will buy with you, sell with 
 you, talk with you, walk with you, and so follow- 
 ing ; but I will not eat with you, drink with you, 
 nor pray with you. What news on the Rialto ? — 
 Who is he comes here ? 
 
 Unter Antonio. 
 
 Bass. This is signior Antonio. 
 
 Shi/. [yls(W«.] How like a fawning publican he 
 looks ! 
 I hate him for he is a Christian : 
 But more, for that, in low simplicity, 
 He lends out money gratis, and biings down 
 The rate of usance here with us in Venice. 
 If I can catch him once upon the hip," 
 I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him. 
 He hates our sacred nation ; and he rails. 
 Even there where merchants most do congregate, 
 On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift, 
 Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe 
 If I forgive him 1 
 
 -Bass. Shylock, do you hear ? 
 
 Sh;/. 1 am debating of my present store : 
 And, by the near guess of my memory, 
 I cannot instantly raise up tlie gross 
 Of full three thousand ducats. What of that! 
 Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe, 
 
 Will furnish me. But, soft ; liow many montlia 
 Do you desire ? Rest you fair, good signior ; 
 
 [To Ant. 
 Vour woiship was the last man in our mouths. 
 
 Ant. Shylock, albeit I neither lend nor borrow 
 By taking, nor by givini^ of excess 
 Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend, 
 I '11 break a custom : — Is he yet posscss'd" 
 How much ye would ? " 
 
 Shy. Ay, ay, three thousand ducats. 
 
 Bass. And for three months. 
 
 Shy. I had forgot, — three months ; you told 
 me so. 
 Well then, your bond ; and, let me see. But hear 
 
 you : 
 Methought you said, you neither lend nor boiTOW 
 Upon advantage. 
 
 Ant. I do never use it. 
 
 Shy. When Jacob graz'd his uncle Laban's 
 .sheep. 
 This Jacob fi'om our holy Abram wa.s 
 (As his wise mother wrought in his behalf) 
 The third possessor ; ay, he was the third. 
 
 Ant. And what of him? did he take interest? 
 
 Shy. No, not take interest ; not, as' you would 
 say. 
 Directly interest : mark what Jacob did. 
 Wlien Laban and himself were compromis'd 
 That all the eanlings*" which were streak'd and piec 
 Should fall as Jacob's hire ; the ewes, being rank, 
 In end of autumn turned to the rams : 
 And when the work of generation was 
 Between these woolly brcc'lers in the act, 
 The skilftd shepherd pill'd me certain wands, 
 And, in the doing of the deed of kind, 
 He stuck them up before the fulsome ewes , 
 Who, then conceiving, did in eaning-time 
 Fall particolour'd lambs,-' and those were Jacob's. 
 This was a way to thrive, and he was bless'd ; 
 And thrift is blessing, if men steal it not. 
 
 Ant. This was a venture, sir, that Jacob serv'd 
 for; 
 A thing not in his power to bring to pass. 
 But sway'd and fashion'd by the hand of Heaven 
 Was this inserted to make interest good ? 
 Or is your gold and silver ewes and rams? 
 
 Shy. I cannot tell ; I make it breed as fast : 
 But note me, signior. 
 
 Ant. Mark you this, Bassanio. 
 
 The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose. 
 An evil soul, producing holy witness, 
 Is like a villain with a smiling cheek ; 
 
 365
 
 ACT I. 
 
 THE MERCHAlfT OF VENICE. 
 
 BCEKE in. 
 
 A goodly apple rotten at the heart ; 
 
 O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath ! 
 
 Sky. Three thousand ducats, — 't is a good round 
 sum. 
 Three months from twelve, then let me see the rate. 
 
 Ant. Well, ShylocK, shall we be beholding to 
 you? 
 
 Shv. Signior Antonio, many a time and oft,°^ 
 In the Rialto, you have rated me 
 About my monies, and my usances : " 
 Still have I home it with a patient shrug, 
 For suff'rance is the badge of all our tribe ; 
 ^ou call me ' misbeliever,' ' cut-throat dog,' 
 And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine, 
 And all for use of4hat which is mine own. 
 Well, then, it now appears you need my help : 
 Go to, then ; you come to me, and you say, 
 " Shylock, we would have monies : " You say so ; 
 You, that did void your rheum upon my beard, 
 And foot me, as you spurn a stranger cur 
 Over your threshold ; monies is your suit. 
 What should I say to you ? Should I not say, 
 ' Hath a dog money ? is it possible 
 A CUT can lend three thousand ducats ? " or 
 Shall I bend low, and in a bondman's key, 
 With 'bated breath, and whisp'ring humbleness. 
 Say this, — 
 
 •' Fair sir, you spet on me on Wednesday last ; 
 Vou spurn'd me such a day ; another time 
 You call'd me dog ; and for these courtesies 
 I '11 lend you thus much monies 3 " 
 
 Ant. I am as like to call thee so again, 
 To spit on thee again, to spurn thee too. 
 If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not 
 As to thy fiiends ; (for when did friend.ship take 
 A breed of baiTen metal of his fiiend ?) 
 But lend it rather to thine enemy ; 
 Who, if he break, thou may'st with better face 
 Exact the penalty. 
 
 Ski/. Wliy, look you, how you storm ! 
 
 I would be friends with you, and have your love ; 
 Forget the shames that you have stain'd me 
 
 with ; 
 Supply your present wants, and take no doit 
 
 8S6 
 
 Of usance for my monies, and you 'U not heai- me ; 
 This is kind I ofi'er. 
 
 Bass. This were kindness. 
 
 Ski/. This kindness will I show : 
 Go with me to a notaiy : seal me there 
 Your single bond ; and, in a merry sport. 
 If you repay me not on such a day. 
 In such a place, such sura, or sums, as are 
 Express'd in the condition,^'' let the forfeit 
 Be nominated for an equal pound 
 Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken 
 In v/hat part of your body pleaseth me. 
 
 Ani. Content, in faith ; I '11 seal to such a bond, 
 A.nd say there is much kindness in the Jew. 
 
 Bass. You shall not seal to such a bond for me ; 
 I '11 rather dwell in my necessity. 
 
 Ant. Why, fear not, man ; I will not forfeit it : 
 Within these two months, that's a month before 
 This bond expires, I do expect return 
 Of thrice thi'ee times the value of this bond. 
 
 Sk>/. O father Abram ! wliat these Christians aro, 
 Whose own hard dealings teaches them suspect 
 The thoughts of others ! Pray you, tell me this • 
 If he should break his day,^' what should I gain 
 By the exaction of the forfeiture ? 
 A pound of man's tlesh, taken from a man. 
 Is not so estimable, profitable neither, 
 As flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. I say, 
 To buy his favour I extend this friendship ; 
 If he will take it, so ; if not, adieu ; 
 And, for my love, I pray you wrong me not. 
 
 Ant. Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto this bond. 
 
 Shy. Then meet me forthwith nt the notary's; 
 Give him direction for this merry bond, 
 And I will go and puree the ducats straight ; 
 See to my house, left in the fearful guard''^ 
 Of an unthrifty knave ; and presently 
 I '11 be with you. [Jixit 
 
 Ant. Hie thee, gentle Jew. 
 
 This Hebrew will turn Claistian ; he grows kind. 
 
 Bass. I like not fair terms, and a \'illain's mind. 
 
 Ant. Come on ; in this there can be no dismay 
 My ships come home a month before llie day. 
 
 r tf-rfunl 
 
 .•■.■^m,.^..^^.^.-^.^- ~ .
 
 ' / 
 
 /■ 
 
 
 <^M^\j^ 
 
 1.^ 
 
 9 Ui? i'nuncrhn ^'^ob\h\~
 
 THE MEliCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 SCENK I — n. 
 
 ACT II 
 
 SCENE I.— Belmont. A Boom in Portia's 
 ffouse. 
 
 Flourish of Cornets.''' Enter the Pbince of Mo- 
 rocco, and Ms Train ; Portia, Nerissa, and 
 other of her Attendants. 
 
 Mor. Mislike me not for my complexion, 
 Ihe shadow'd livery of tlie burnish'd sun. 
 To whom I am a neighbour, and near bred. 
 Bring me the fairest creature northward bom, 
 Where Phcebus' fire scarce thaws the icicles. 
 And let us make incision for your love, 
 To prove whose blood is reddest,^' his, or mine. 
 I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine 
 Hath fear'd the valiant ; by my love, I swear, 
 The best-regarded virgms of our clime 
 Have lov'd it too : I would not change this hue. 
 Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen. 
 
 Par. In terms of choice I am not solely led 
 By nice direction of a maiden's eyes : 
 Besides, the lottery of my destiny 
 Bars me the right of vciluntavy choosing : 
 But, if my father had not scanted me. 
 And hedg'd me by his wit, to yield myself 
 His wife who wins me by that means I told you. 
 Yourself, renowned prince, then stood as fair 
 As any comer I have looked on yet. 
 For my affection. 
 
 Mor. Even for that I thank you ; 
 
 Therefore, I pray you, lead me to the caskets. 
 To try my fortune. By this scimitar. 
 That slew the Sophy, and a Pereian prince 
 That won three fields of sultan Solyman, 
 1 would o'er-stare the sternest eyes that look, 
 Outbrave the heart most daring on the earth. 
 Pluck the young sucking cubs fi-om the she-bear. 
 Yea, mock the lion when he roars for prey. 
 To win thee, lady. But, alas the while ! 
 If Ilorcules and Lichas play at dice, 
 Which is the better man; the greater throw 
 May turn by fortun« fi-om the weaker hand : 
 So is Alcides beaten by his page ; 
 And so may I, blind fortune leading me. 
 
 Miss that which one unworthier may attam. 
 And die with grieving. 
 
 Por. You must take your chance ; 
 
 And either not attempt to choose at all. 
 Or swear, before you choose, if you choose wrong, 
 Never to speak to lady afterward 
 In way of marriage ; thei'efure be advised. 
 
 Mor. Nor will not ; come, bring me unto my 
 chance. 
 
 Por. First, forward to the temple ; after dinner 
 Your hazard shall be made. 
 
 Mor. Good fortune, then, \_Cornels. 
 
 To make me bless'd, or cursed'st among men ! 
 
 \^E.rcunt. 
 
 SCENE II.— Venice. A street. 
 Enter Launcelot Gobbo 
 Laun. Certainly my conscience will serve me to 
 run from this Jew, my master. The fiend is at 
 mine elbow, and tempts me ; saying to me, — Gobbo, 
 Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot, or good Gobbo. 
 or good Launcelot tiobbo, use your legs, take the 
 start, run away. My conscience says, — no ; take 
 heed, honest Launcelot ; take heed, honest Gobbo ; 
 or (as aforesaid) honest Launcelot Gobbo ; do not 
 run : scorn nmning with thy heels.^ Well, the 
 most courageous fiend bids me pack. Via! says the 
 fiend ; away 1 says the fiend, for the heavens ;'" rouse 
 up a brave mind, says the fiend, and ran. "Well, my 
 conscience, hanging about the neck of my heart, 
 says very wisely to me, — my honest fi'iend, Launce- 
 lot, being an honest man's son, or rather an honest 
 woman's son ; — for, indeed, my father did something 
 smack, something grow to, he had a kind of taste ; 
 — well, my conscience sajs, Launcelot, budge not: 
 budge, says the fiend ; budge not, says my conscience. 
 Conscience, say I, you counsel well; fiend, say I, you 
 counsel ill : to be ruled by my conscience, I should 
 stay v.ith the Jew my master, who (God bless the 
 mark I) is a kind of de^•i] ; and to i-un away, from 
 the Jew, I should be ruled by the fiend, who, 
 saving your reverence, is the devil himself. Cer- 
 tainly, the Jew is the very de\a) incarnation ; and, 
 
 867
 
 ACT 11. 
 
 illE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 SCBKE n. 
 
 in mv conscience, my conscience is a kind of liard 
 conscience, to ofler to counsel me to stay -with the 
 Jew. The fiend gives the more fnendly counsel : 
 I will lun. fiend ; my heels are at your command- 
 ment : I will run. 
 
 Enter Old Gobbo, icith a basket. 
 
 Gob. Master, young man, you ; I pray you, 
 which is the way to master Jew's ? 
 
 Lauii. \Aside^ Heavens, this is my true-be- 
 gotten father ! who, being more than sand-blind, 
 high-gravel blind," knows me not : I will try con- 
 fusions with him. 
 
 Gob. Master young gentleman, I pray you which 
 is the way to master Jew's ? 
 
 Lawn. Turn upon your right hand at the nest 
 turning, but, at the next turning of all, on your 
 left ; many, at the very next turning, turn of 
 no hand, but turn down indirectly to the Jew's 
 house. 
 
 Gob. By God's sonties,'^ 't will be a hard way to 
 hit. Can you tell me whether one Launcelot that 
 dwells with him, dwell with him, or no ? 
 
 Laun. Talk you of young master Launcelot? — 
 Mark me now — [asi'rfe] — now will I raise the wa- 
 ters : — Talk you of young master Launcelot ? 
 
 Gob. No master, sir, but a poor man's son : his 
 lather, though I say 't, is an honest exceeding poor 
 man, and, God be thanked, well to live. 
 
 Laim. Well, let his father be what a will, we 
 talk of young master Launcelot. 
 
 Gob. Your worship's friend, and Launcelot," 
 sir. 
 
 Laun. But I pray you ergo, old man, ergo, I 
 beseech you, talk you of young master Launce- 
 lot? 
 
 Gob. Of Launcelot, an 't please your master- 
 ship. 
 
 Laun. Ergo., master Launcelot; talk not of 
 master Launcelot, father ; for the young gentle- 
 man (according to fates and destinies, and such 
 odd sayings, the sisters three, and such branches 
 of learning) is, indeed, deceased ; or, as you would 
 say in plain terms, gone td heaven. 
 
 Gob. MaiTy, God forbid ! the boy was the very 
 staff of my age, my veiy prop. 
 
 Laun. Do I look like a cudgel, or a hovel-post, 
 a staff, or a pi-op ? — ^Do you know me, father ? 
 
 . Gob. Alack the day ! I ];now you not, young 
 genlleman : but, T pray you tell me, is my boy 
 (Go<l rest his soul !) alive oi- dead ? 
 
 Ijaun. Do you not know me, i'alhcr? 
 86R 
 
 Gob. Alack, sir, I am sand-blind ; I know you 
 not. 
 
 La:in. Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you 
 might fail of the knowing me : it is a wise father 
 that knows his own child. Well, old man, I will 
 tell you news of your son: Give me your blessing: 
 truth will come to light ; murder cannot be hid 
 long ; a man's son mav ; but, in the end, truth 
 will out. 
 
 Gob. Pray you, sir, stand up ; I am sure you are 
 not Launcelot, my boy. 
 
 Laun. Pray you, let 's have no more fooling 
 about it, but give me your blessing ; 1 am Laun- 
 celot, your boy that was, your son that is, your 
 child that shall be. 
 
 Gob. I cannot think you are my son. 
 
 Laun. I know not what I shall think of that: 
 but I am Launcelot, the Jew's man ; and I am sure 
 Margery, j-our wife, is my mother. 
 
 Gob. Her name is Margeiy, indeed : I '11 be 
 sworn, if ihou be Launcelot, thou art mine own 
 flesh and blood. Lord, worshipped might he be ! 
 what a beard hast thou got ! thou hast got more 
 hair on thy chin than Dobbin my phill-horse"'' has 
 on his tail. \ 
 
 Laun. It should seem ther that Dobbin's tail \ 
 grows "oackward ; I am sure he liad more hair of his 
 tail than I have of my face, when I last saw him. 
 
 Gob. Lord, how art thou changed ! How dost 
 thou and thy master agree ? I have brought him 
 a present. How gree you now ?" 
 
 Laun. Wei), well ; but for mine own part, as T 
 have set up my rest'' to run away, so I will not 
 rest till I have run some ground. My master 's a 
 very Jew. Give him a present ? give him a halter! 
 I am famish'd in his service : you may tell every 
 finger I have wMth my ribs. Father, I am glad 
 you are come : give me your present to one master 
 Bassanio, who, indeed, gives rare new liveries ; if 
 I serve not him, I will run as far as God has any 
 ground. — rare fortune ! here comes the man ; — 
 to him, father; for I am a Jew, if I serve the Jew 
 any longer. 
 
 Enter Bassanio, toith Leonardo, and other 
 Followers. 
 
 Bass. You may do so i^but let it be s(^ hasted, 
 that sujjper be ready at the farthest by five of the 
 clock. See these lettei's delivered ; put the liveries 
 to making; and desire Gratiano to come anon to 
 my lodging. [Exit a Servant 
 
 Laun. To him, father
 
 TUE MEliCIIANT OF VENICE. 
 
 dCBSE n. 
 
 Gob. God bless your worsliip ! 
 
 Basi. Giainniei'cy ! Wouldst tliou aught with 
 me? 
 
 Goh. Hero 's my son, sir, a poor boy, — 
 
 Littin. Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew's 
 iii;iii; that would, sir, as my father shall specify, — 
 
 (rob. He hath a great infecliou, sii', as cue would 
 say, to serve, — 
 
 Zaun. Indeed, the short and the long is, I serve 
 the Jew, and have a desire, as my father shall 
 specify,— 
 
 Gob. nis master and he (saving your worship's 
 rtnerenco) are scarce cater-cousins : 
 
 Latin. To be brief, the very truth is, that the 
 Jfiw having done me wrong, doth cause nie, as my 
 father, being I hope an old man, shall frutify unto 
 you,— 
 
 Goh. I have here a dish of doves, that I would 
 bestow upon your worship ; and my suit is, — 
 
 Lciun. In very brief, the suit is impertinent to 
 myself, as your worship shall know by this honest 
 old man ; and, though I say it, though old man, 
 ynt, poor man, my father. 
 
 Bass. One speak for both : — What would you ? 
 
 Lduii. Serve you, sir. 
 
 Gob. That is the very defect of the matter, sir. 
 
 Bass. I know thee well ; thou hast obtain'd thy 
 suit : 
 Shy lock, thy master, spoke viith me this day, . 
 And hath preferr'd thee, if it be preferment, 
 To leave a rich Jew's service, to become 
 The follower of so poor a gentleman. 
 
 IJaun. The old proverb is very well parted be- 
 tween my master Shylock and you, sir ; you have 
 the griice of God, sir, and he hath enough. 
 
 Bass. Thou speak'st it well. Go, father, with 
 tliy son : — 
 Take leave of thy old master, and inquire 
 My lodging out : — give him a livery 
 
 [To his Followers. 
 More garded" than his fellows': See it done. 
 
 Laun. Father, in : — I cannot get a service ? no ! 
 ■ — 1 have ne'er a tongue in my head ! — Well ; 
 [looking on his pal7)i\ if any man in Italy have a 
 fairer table, which doth ofler to swear upon a 
 book,'' I shall have good fortune, — Go to, here 's 
 a simple line of life ! here 's a small trifle of wives : 
 Alafl fifteen wives is nothing ; aleven widows and 
 nine maids," is a simple coming in for one man: 
 and then, to 'scape drowning thrice ; and to be in 
 peril of ray life with the edge of a featherbed; 
 hero are simple 'scapes! Well, if fortune be a 
 
 woman, she 'b a good wench for this gear. — Father, 
 come. I '11 take my leave of the Jew in the twink- 
 ling of an eye. [E.rcunl Lain, arid Old Gob, 
 
 Bass. I pi ay thee, good Leonardo, think on this. 
 These things being bought, and orderly bestow'd, 
 Return in haste, for I do feast to-night 
 My best-esteem'd acquaintance : hie thee, go. 
 
 Leon. My best endeavours shall be done herein 
 
 £ntcr GuATiANO. 
 
 Gra. Where 's your master ? 
 
 Leon. Yonder, sir, he walks. 
 
 \Exit Leonardo 
 
 Gra. Signior Eassanio, — 
 
 Bass. Gratiano! 
 
 Gra. I have a suit to you. 
 
 Bass. You have obtain'd it. 
 
 Gra. You must not deny me : I nmst go with 
 you to Belmont. 
 
 Bass. Why, then you must.— But hear thee, 
 Gratiano ; 
 Thou art too wild, too rude, and bold of voice ; 
 Parts, that become thee happily enough. 
 And in such eyes as ours appear not faults. 
 But where they are not known, why, there tlioy 
 
 show 
 Something too liberal : — pray thee take pair 
 To allay with some cold drops of modesty 
 Thy skipping spirit; lest, through thy wild bo- 
 
 haviour, 
 I be miscousterd iu the place I go to,"" 
 And lose my hopes. 
 
 Gra. Signior Bassanio, hear me : 
 
 If I do not put on a sober habit, 
 Talk with respect, and swear but now and then, 
 Wear prayer-books in my pocket, look demurely ; 
 Nay more, while grace is saying, hood mine eyes 
 Thus with my hat, and sigh, and say amen ; 
 Use all the observance of civility. 
 Like one well studied in a sad ostent*' 
 To please his grandam, — never trust me more. 
 
 Bass. Well, we shall see your bearing. 
 
 Gra. Nay, but I bar to-night ; you shall not 
 gage me 
 By what we do to-night. 
 
 Bass. No, that were pity ; 
 
 I would entreat you rather to put on 
 Your boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends 
 That purpose memment. But fare you well, 
 I have some business. 
 
 Gra. And I must to Lorenzo and the ro^t , 
 But we will \'isit you at supper-time. [Eoxvia, 
 
 369
 
 JCT n. 
 
 THE MEKUilANT OF VENICE. 
 
 bCENE II r V. 
 
 SCENE in.— VENICE. A Rown in Shylock's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Jessica and Launcelot. 
 
 Jes. I am sorry thou wilt leave my father so; 
 Our house is hell, and thou, a merry devil. 
 Didst rob it of some taste of tediousness. 
 But fare thee well : there is a ducat for thee : 
 And, Launcelot, soon at supper shalt thou see 
 Lorenzo, who is thy new master's guest : 
 Give him this letter ; do it secretly, 
 And so farewell •, I would not have my father 
 See me in talk with thee. 
 
 Laun. Adieu I — tears exhibit my tongue. Most 
 beautiful pagan, — most sweet Jew ! If a Christian 
 do not play the knave'' and get thee, I am much 
 deceived : But, adieu ! these foolish drops do some- 
 what drown my manly spirit : adieu ! [Exit. 
 
 Jes. Farewell, good Launcelot. 
 Alack, what heinous sin is it in me. 
 To be asham'd to be my father's child ! 
 But though I am a daughter to his blood, 
 [ am not to his manners : Lorenzo, 
 If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife ; 
 Become a Christian, and thy lo\nng wife. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE R^— Venice. A street. 
 
 Enter GR.K-nkif.0, Lorekzo, Salarino, and Solanio. 
 
 Lor. Nay, we will slink away in supper-time ; 
 Disguise us at my lodging, and return 
 All in an hour. 
 
 Crra. We have not made good preparation. 
 Salar. We have not spoke ns yet of torch- 
 bearers.*' 
 Solan. 'T is vile, unless it may be quaintly 
 order'd ; 
 ajid better, in my mind, not undertook. 
 £or. 'T is now but four of clock ; we have two 
 hours 
 lo furnish us. — 
 
 Enter Launcelot, with a letter. 
 
 Friend Launcelot, wh.at 's the news? 
 Laun. An it shall please you to break up this," 
 it shall seem to signify. 
 
 Lor. I know the hand : in faith, 't is a fail 
 hand ; 
 And wliiter than the paper it writ on 
 Is the fair liand that writ. 
 
 Gra. Love-news, in faith ! 
 
 Laun. By your leave, sir. 
 S70 
 
 Lor. Wliither goest thou ? 
 
 Laun. Marry, sir, to bid my old master, the 
 Jew, to sup to-night with my new ma.ster, the 
 Christian. 
 
 Lor. Hold here, take this : — tell gentle Jessica, 
 I will not fail her ; — speak it privately : go. 
 Gentlemen, [Exit Laun. 
 
 Will you prepare you for this masque to-night? 
 I am provided of a torchbearer. 
 
 Salar. Ay, many, I '11 be gone about it straight 
 
 Solan. And so will I. 
 
 Lor. Meet me and Gratiano 
 
 At Gratiano's lodginij some hour hence. 
 
 Salar. 'T is good we do so. 
 
 [Exeunt Salar. and Solan 
 
 Gra. Was not that letter from fair Jessica ? 
 
 Lor. I must needs tell thee all. She hath di- 
 rected 
 How I shall take her from her father's house ; 
 What gold and jewels she is furnish'd with ; 
 What page's suit she hath in readiness. 
 If e'er the Jew her fether come to heaven. 
 It will be for his gentle daughter's s.ake : 
 And never dare misfortune cross her foot, 
 Unless she do it under this excuse, — 
 That she is issue to a faithless Jew. 
 Come, go with me ; peruse this as thou goest : 
 Fair Jessica shall be my torchbearer. [Exeunt 
 
 SCENE v.— Venice. Before Shylock's ITovsc. 
 Enter Shylock and LAaNCELOT. 
 
 Slxy. Well, thou shalt see ; thy eyes shall be tliy 
 judge. 
 The difference of old Shylock and Bassanio: 
 What, Jessica ! — thou shalt not gomiandise. 
 As thou hast done with me ; — What, Jessica ! — 
 And sleep and snore, and rend apparel out ; — 
 Why, Jessica, I say ! 
 
 Laun. Why, Jessica ! 
 
 Shy. Who bids thee call ? I do not bid thoe 
 call. 
 
 Laun. Your worship was wont to tell mc that I 
 could do nothing without bidding. 
 
 Enter Jessica. 
 
 Jes. Call you ? What is your will ? 
 
 Shy. I am bid forth to supper, Jessica ; 
 There are my keys. — But wheivtbro should I c,o 
 I am not bid for love ; they flatter me : 
 But yet I '11 go in hate, to feed upon 
 The prodigal Christian. — Jessiwi, my girl,
 
 AOT II. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 BCBNK VL 
 
 Look to my house : — I am right lonth to go ; 
 Tliere is some ill a brewirg towards my rest, 
 For I did dream of money-bags to-niglit. 
 
 [Mun. I beseech you, sir, go ; my young master 
 lolh expect your reproach. 
 
 Shj. So do I his. 
 
 Laun. And thoy have conspired together; — I 
 will not say, 3-ou shall see a masque ; but if you 
 do, then it was not for nothing (hat my nose fell a 
 bleeding on Black-Monday'" last, at six o'clock i' 
 the morning, felling out that year on Ash-Wed- 
 nesday was four year in th' afternoon. 
 
 Shy. What ! are there masques ? Hear you me, 
 Jessica ; 
 Lock up my doois ; and when you hear the drum, 
 And the vile squealing of the wr3'-neck'd fife, 
 Clamber not you up to the casements then, 
 Nor thrust your head into the public street, 
 To gaze on Chiistiau fools with varnish'd faces:'* 
 But stop my house's ears, I mean my casements ; 
 Let not the sound of shallow foppery enter 
 My sober house. — By Jacob's statf I swear, 
 [ have no mind of feasting forth to-night: 
 But I will go. — Go you before me, sirrah ; 
 Say, I will come. 
 
 Laun. I will go before, sir. — 
 
 Mistress, look out at window for all this ; 
 There will come a Christian by. 
 Will bo worth a Jewess' eye. \^Exit L.^un. 
 
 Shy. What says that fool of Hagar's offspring ? 
 na? 
 
 Jes. His words were. Farewell, mistress ; nothing 
 else. 
 
 Shy. The patch is kind enough ; but a huge feeder, 
 Snail-sluw in profit, and he sleeps by day 
 More than the wild eat: drones hive n3t with me; 
 Therefore I part with him, and part with him 
 To one that I would have him help to waste 
 His borrow'd purse. — Well, Jessica, go in ; 
 Perhaps I will return immediately ; 
 Do as I bid you : Shut doors after you : 
 Fast bind, fast find ;■" 
 A proverb never stale in thrifty mind. [Exit. 
 
 Jes. Farewell ; and if my fortune be not cross'd, 
 I have a father, you a daughter, lost. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE Yl.—The same. 
 
 Enter Gkatiano and Salabino, masqued,. 
 
 Gra. This is the pent-house, under which Lo- 
 renzo 
 Dosir'd us to make a stand. 
 
 Salar. His hour is almost past. 
 
 Om. And it is marvel he out-dwells his hour, 
 For lovers ever run before the clock. 
 
 Salar. O, ten times faster Venus' pigeons fly" 
 To seal love's bonds new made, than Uiey are 
 
 wont 
 To keep obliged filth unlbrfcited ! 
 
 Gra. That ever holds : who riscth from a fea* t^ 
 With that keen appetite that he sits down ? 
 Where is the horse that doth untread .again 
 His tedious measures, with the unabated fire 
 That he did pace them first? All things thai 
 
 are. 
 Are with more spirit chased than enjoy'd. 
 How like a younker, or a prodigal. 
 The scarfed bark puts fi-om her native bay,'' 
 Hugg'd and embraced by the strumpet wind ! 
 How like a j)rodigal doth she return; 
 With over-weather'd ribs, and ragged s:iils, 
 Lean, rent, and beggar'd by the stminpet wind .' 
 
 Enter Lorenzo. 
 
 Salar. Here comes Lorenzo ; — more of this here- 
 after. 
 
 Lor. Sweet finends, your patience for my long 
 abode : 
 Not I, but my affairs, have made you wait. 
 When you shall please to plav the thieves for 
 
 wives, 
 I '11 watch as long for you then. — Approach ; 
 Here dwells my father Jew : — Ho ! who 's within '. 
 
 Enter Jessica above, in boy's clothes. 
 
 Jes. Who are you? Tell me, for more certainty, 
 Albeit I '11 swear that I do know your tongue. 
 
 Lor. Lorenzo, and thy love. 
 
 Jes. Lorenzo, certain ; and m}' lo\'e, indeed ; 
 For who love I so much ? and now who knows 
 But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours ? 
 
 Lor. Heaven, and thy thoughts, are witness that 
 thou art ! 
 
 Jes. Here, catch this casket ; it is worth die 
 pains. 
 I am glad 't is night, you do not look on me, 
 For I am much asham'd of my exchanire : 
 But love is blind, and lovers cannot see 
 The pretty follies that themselves commit; 
 For if they could, Cupid himself would blush 
 To see me thus transformed to a boy. 
 
 Lor. Descend, for you must be my torchbearer. 
 
 Jes. What ! must I hold a candle to my shames! 
 They in themselves, good sooth are too-too light. 
 
 871
 
 ACT n. 
 
 TUE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 SCENE VTL 
 
 vVhy, 't is an oflice of discovery, love, 
 ^ud I should be obscur'd. 
 
 Lor. So you are, sweet, 
 
 Even in the lovely garnish of a boy. 
 Bui come at once ; 
 
 For the close night doth play the runaway. 
 And we are stay'd for at Bassanio's feast. 
 
 Jes. I will make fast the doors, and gild myself 
 With some more ducats, and be with you straight. 
 
 ' [Exit from above. 
 
 Grii. Now, by my hood, a Gentile and no 
 Jew.» 
 
 Lor. Beshrew me, but I love her heartily 
 For she is wise, if I can judge of her ; 
 And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true ; 
 And true she is, as she hath prov'd herself; 
 And therefore, like berself, wise, fair, and true, 
 Shall she be placed in my constant soul. 
 
 Enter Jessica, below. 
 
 What, art thou come ? — On, gentlemen ; away ! 
 Our masquing mates by this time for us stay. 
 
 [Exit, with Jessica and Salar. 
 
 Enter Antonio. 
 
 Ant. Who 's there ? 
 
 Gra. Signior Antonio ? 
 
 Ant. Fie, fie, Gratiano ! wbere are all the rest ? 
 'T is nine o'clock : our friends all stay for you. 
 No masque to-night ; the wind is come about ; 
 Bassanio presently will go aboard : 
 I have sent twenty out to seek for you. 
 
 Gra. I am glad on 't ; I desire no more delight 
 Than to be under sail and gone to-night. [E.teunt. 
 
 SCENE Vn. — Belmont. A Room in Portia's 
 House. 
 
 Flourish of Comets. Enter Portia, with the 
 PniNCE OF Monocco, and both their Trains. 
 
 Por. Go draw aside the curtains, and discover 
 The sevcra :Kskets to this noble prince : — 
 Now make your choice. 
 
 Mor. The first, of gold, who this inscription 
 bears, — 
 
 " Who cliooscih mo shall gain what many men desire." 
 The second, silver, which this promise carries : 
 
 "Wlio cliooseth m? shall get as much as ho deserves." 
 Tliis third, dull lea.1, with warning all as blunt: 
 
 " Who chooscth mo must give and liazard all ho hath." 
 
 flow shall I know if I do choose the right ? 
 872 
 
 Por. The one of them contains my picture, 
 prince ; 
 If you choose that, then I am yours withal. 
 
 Mor. Some god direct my judgment! Let me see. 
 I will survey the inscriptions back again : 
 WTiat says this leaden casket ? 
 
 " Who chooseth me must g v-e and hazard all lie hath." 
 Must give — For what ? for lead ? hazard foi .ead ? 
 This ciisket threatens : Men that hazard all 
 Do it in hope of fair advantages : 
 A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross ; 
 I '11 then nor give, nor hazard, ought for lead, 
 What says the silver, with her vii'gin hue ? 
 
 " Who chooseth me shall get as mucli as he deser\'ea." 
 As much as he deserves ? — Pause there, Morocco, 
 And weigh thy value with an even hand : 
 If thou be'st rated by thy estimation. 
 Thou dost deserve enough ; and yet enough 
 May not extend so far as to the lady : 
 And yet to be afeard of my deserving 
 W^ere but a weak disabling of myself. 
 As much as I deserve ! — Why, that 's the lady ; 
 I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes, 
 In gi'aces, and in qualities of breeding ; 
 But more than these in love I do deserve. 
 What if I stray'd no further, but chose here ? — 
 Let 's see once more this saying gi-av'd in gold : 
 
 *' Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.^ 
 
 WTiy, that 's the lady : all the world desires her : 
 
 From the four cornere of the earth they come. 
 
 To kiss this shrine, this mortal breathing saint. 
 
 The Ilyrcanian deserts, and the vasty wilds 
 
 Of mde Arabia, are as through-fores now, 
 
 For princes to come view fair Portia : 
 
 The watery kingdom, whose ambitious head 
 
 Spits in the face of heaven, is no bar 
 
 To stop the foreign spirits ; but they come, 
 
 As o'er a brook, to see fair Portia. 
 
 One of these three contains her heavenly pictuie. 
 
 Is 't like that lead contains her ? 'T were danma 
 
 tion 
 To think so base a thought : it were too gross 
 To rib her cerecloth in the obscure grave." 
 Or shall I fliink in silver she 's immur'd, 
 Being ten times undervalued to tried gold 
 sinful thought ! Never so rich a gem 
 Was set in worse than gold. They have in En 
 
 gland 
 A coin that bears the figure of an angel 
 Stamped in gold ; but tlint 's insculp'd upon ; 
 But here an angel in a golden bed
 
 ACT II. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 SCENE vni — u. 
 
 Lies all widiin. — Deliver me the key ; 
 Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may ! 
 
 Por. There, take it, jiiiuce ; and if my form lie 
 there, 
 Th(>n I am yours. [He unlocks (he golden casket. 
 
 Mor. hell ! vvliat have we here ? 
 A carrion death, within whose empty eye 
 Tliere is a written scroll ? I '11 read tbo writing. 
 
 " All that glisters is not gold ; 
 Often huve you hoard that told : 
 Miiiiy a man his life hatli sold 
 But my outside to behold : 
 Gilded toiubs do worms infold. ^^ 
 Had you been as wise as bold. 
 Young in limbs, in judgment old, 
 Your answer had not been insoroll'd : 
 Fare your well ; your suit is eold." 
 
 Cold, indeed, and labour lost : 
 
 Then, farewell, he.at ; and, welcome, frost. — 
 Portia, adieu 1 I have too griev'd a heart 
 To take a tedious leave: thus losers part. \^Exit. 
 
 For. A gentle riddance : — Draw the curt.ains ; 
 
 go;— 
 
 Let all of his complexion choose me so. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE Vin.— Venice. A Street. 
 Enter Salarino and Solanio. 
 
 Salar. Why, man, I saw Bassanio under sail ; 
 With him is Gratiano gone along ; 
 And in their ship, I am sure, Lorenzo is not. 
 
 Solan. The villain Jew with outcries rais'd the 
 duke. 
 Who went with him to search Bassanio's ship. 
 
 Salar. He came too late, the ship was under 
 sail: 
 But there the duke was given to understand. 
 That in a gondola were seen together 
 Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica ; 
 Besides, Antonio certified the duke. 
 They were not with Bassanio in his ship. 
 
 Solan. I never heard a passion so confus'd, 
 So strange, outrageous and so variable. 
 As the dog Jew did utter in the streets : 
 "My daughter ! — O my ducats ! — O my daughter ! 
 Fled with a Christian ? — O my Christian ducats !— 
 Justice! the law! my ducats, and my daughter! 
 A sealed bag, two sealed bugs of ducats. 
 Of double ducats, stol'n fr jm me by my daughter ! 
 And jewels 1 two stones, two rich and precious 
 
 stones, 
 StoFiL by my daughter ! — Justice ! find the girl ! 
 She hath the stones upon her, and the ducats !" 
 
 Salar. Why, all the boys in Venice follow him, 
 Crying, — his stones, his daughter, and his ducats. 
 
 Solan. Let good Antonio look he keep his day 
 Or he shall paj' for this. 
 
 Salar. ' !NfaiTy, well remember'd : 
 
 I roasoti'd with a Fivnchman yesterday," 
 Who told me, — in the narrow seas that part 
 The French and English, there miscarried 
 A vessel of our country, richly fraught : 
 I thought upon Antonio when he told me, 
 And wishVl in silence that it were not his. 
 
 Solan. You were best to tell .\Mtoiiio what yon 
 hear; 
 Yet do not suddenly, ftjr it may grieve him. 
 
 Salar. A kinder gentleman treads not the earth 
 I saw Bassanio and Antonio part: 
 Bassanio told him, he would make some speed 
 Of his return; he answer'd — "Do not so; 
 Slubber not business for my sake, Bassanio, 
 But stay the very ripiug of the time ; 
 And for the Jew's boml, which he hath of me. 
 Let it not enter in your mind of love :" 
 Be merrj' ; and employ your chiefest thoughts 
 To courtship, and such fair ostents of love 
 As shall conveniently become you there :" 
 And even there, his ej'e being big with tears. 
 Turning his face, he put his hand behind him. 
 And with afi'eotion \i'ondrous sensible 
 He wrung Bassanio's hand, and so they parted. 
 
 Solan. I think he only loves the world for him. 
 I pray thee, let us go and find him out, 
 And quicken his embraced hea\'iness 
 With some delight or other. 
 
 Salar. Do we so. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE LX.— Belmont. A Boom in Portia's 
 
 House. 
 
 Enter Nerissa, ^vith a Servant. 
 
 iVer. Quick, quick, I pray thee ; draw the cur- 
 tain straight ; 
 The prince of Arragon hath ta'en his oath. 
 And comes to his election presently. 
 
 Flourish of Cornets. Enter the PRI^■CE of Arra- 
 gon, Portia, atid their Trains. 
 
 Por. Behold, there stand the caskets, noble 
 prince. 
 If you choose that wherein 1 am contain'd, 
 Straight shall our nupti:ii rites be solemniz'd ; 
 But if you fail, without more speech, my lord, 
 You must be gone from hence immediately 
 
 87S
 
 THE MEKCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 8CKNB IX. 
 
 Ar. 1 am enjoin'd by oath to observe tliree 
 things : 
 First, never to unfold to any one 
 Which casket t was I chose ; next, if I fail 
 Of the right casket, never in my life 
 To woo a maid in way of marriage ; lastly, 
 If I do fail in fortune of my choice. 
 Immediately to leave you and be gone. 
 
 for. To these injunctions every one doth swear 
 That comes to hazard for my worthless self. 
 
 Ar. And so have I address'd me : Fortune now 
 
 To my heart's hope ! — Gold, silver, and base lead. 
 
 " Who choos€th me must give aad liazartl all he hath :" 
 
 You shall look fairer, ere I give, or hazard. 
 What says the golden chest ? ha ! let me see : 
 
 " Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire." 
 What many men desire. — That many may be 
 
 meant 
 By the fool multitude," that choose by show. 
 Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach. 
 Which pries not to th' interior, but, like the 
 
 martlet. 
 Builds in the weather on the outward wall. 
 Even iu the force and road of casualty. 
 I will not choose what niany men desire. 
 Because I will not jump with common spirits. 
 And rank me with the barbarous multitudes. 
 Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure-house ; 
 Tell me once more what title thou dost bear : 
 
 " Who choosetl. me shall get as much as he deserves ;" 
 
 ^nd well said too : for who shall go about 
 
 To cozen fortune, and be honourable 
 
 Without the stamp of -merit ? Let none presume 
 
 To wear an undeserved dignity. 
 
 (), that estates, degrees, and otSces, 
 
 Were not deriv'd corruptly ! and that clear honour 
 
 Were purchas'd by the merit of the wearer ! 
 
 How many then should cover that stand bare ! 
 
 How many be commanded that command ! 
 
 How much low peasantry would then be glean'd 
 
 From the true seed of honour ! ami how nmch 
 
 honour 
 Pick'd from the chaff ami ruiu of (he times, 
 To be new varaish'd ! Well, but to my choice : 
 
 " Who chooseth mo shal. get as much aa ho deserves :" 
 I will a-ssume desert: — Give me a key for this. 
 And instantly unlo<;k my fortunes liere. 
 
 Por. Too long a pause for that which you find 
 
 there. 
 Ar What's here? the portrait of a blinking 
 
 idiot, 
 874 
 
 Presenting me a schedule ? I vrill read it. 
 
 How nnu'.h unlike ait thou to Portia ! 
 
 How much unlike my hopes and my deservings 
 
 " Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.'' 
 Did I deserve no more than a fool's head 3 
 Is that rny prize ? are my deserts no better ? 
 
 Por. To oft'end, and judge, are distinct o£5cca, 
 And of opposed natures. 
 
 Ar. WTiat is here ? 
 
 " The fire seven times tried this , 
 Seven times tried that judgment is, 
 That did never choose amiss . 
 Some there be that shadows kiss 
 Such have but a shadow's bliss : 
 There be fools alive, I wis,=» 
 Silver'd o'er ; and so was this. 
 Talie what wife you will to bed, 
 I will ever be your head ; 
 So begone ; you are sped." 
 
 Still more fool I shall appear, 
 
 By the time I linger here : 
 
 With one fool's head I came to woo, 
 
 But I go away with two. 
 
 Sweet, adieu ! I '11 keep my oath, 
 
 Patiently to bear my wroth. 
 
 [_Excunt Arkagon and train 
 Por. Thus hath the candle sing'd the moth. 
 O these deliberate fools ! when they do choose. 
 They have the wisdom by their wit to lose. 
 
 Ner. The ancient saying is no heresy ; — 
 Hanging and wiving go by destiny." 
 Por. Come, draw the curtain, Nerissa. 
 
 Enter a Messenger. 
 
 Mess. Where is my lady ? 
 
 Por. Here ; what would my lord ? 
 
 Mess. Madam, there is alighted at your gate 
 A young Venetian,' one that comes before 
 To signify th' approaching of his lord : 
 From whom he bringeth sensible regreets -'^ 
 To wit, besides commends and courteous breath. 
 Gifts of rich value ; yet I have not seen 
 Sc likely an ambassador of love : 
 A day in April never came so sweet. 
 To show how costly summer w;ts at hand, 
 As this fore-spurrer comes before his lord. 
 
 Por. No more, I pray thee ; I am half afeard. 
 Thou wilt say anon he is some kin to thee. 
 Thou spend'stsuch high-day wit in praising him. 
 Come, come, Nerissa ; for I long to see 
 Quick Cupid's post, that comes so mannerly. 
 
 Ner. B.'issanio, lord Love, if thy will it be ! 
 
 \i!xeunt.
 
 ^-'■^ 
 
 t 
 
 ^ «*' 
 
 
 
 V 
 
 dessk^ 
 
 ^;-' 
 ^ 
 
 'A I'l ' I
 
 ACT III. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 ECKITE L 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I.— Venice. A Street. 
 
 filter SoLANio and Salarino. 
 
 Sclan. Now, what news on the Rialto? 
 
 S<. lar. Why, yet it lives there uncliecked, that 
 Antonio hath a ship of rich lading wrecked on the 
 narrow seas, — the Goodwins, I think they call the 
 place ; a very dangerous flat and fatal, where the 
 carcases of many a tall ship lie buri;;d, as they 
 say, if my gossip Report be an honest woman of 
 her word. 
 
 Solan. I wouU she were as lying a gossip in 
 that, as evgr knapped ginger,'' or made her neigh- 
 bours believe she wept for the death of a third 
 husband. But it is true, — without any slips of 
 prolixity, or crossing the plain highway of talk, — 
 that the good Antonio, the honest Antonio, — O 
 that I had a title good enough to keep his name 
 company ' — 
 
 Salar. Come, the full stop. 
 
 Solayi. Ha, — what sayest thou ? — Why, the end 
 is, he hath lost a ship. 
 
 Salar. I would it might prove the end of his 
 losses ! 
 
 Solan. Let me say amen betimes, lest the devil 
 cross my prayer ; for here he comes in the likeness 
 of a Jew. 
 
 Enter Shylock. 
 
 How now, Shylock? what news among the mer- 
 chants ? 
 
 Shi/. You knew, none so well, none so well as 
 _, ou, of mv daughter's flight. 
 
 .Salar. That 's certain. I, for my part, knew 
 the tailor that made the wing's she flew withal. 
 
 Solan. And Shylock, for his own part, knew the 
 liiid was lledg'd; and then it is the complexion of 
 tliom all to leave the dam. 
 
 Shy. She is damn'd for it. 
 
 Salur. That 's certain, if the devil may be her 
 judge. 
 
 Shy. My own flesh and blood to rebel ! 
 
 Solan. Out upon it, old carrion ! rebels it at 
 these years ? 
 
 Shy. I say, -jj daughter is my flesh and blood. 
 
 Salar. There is more difference between thyfle.sh 
 and hei-s, than between jet and ivoiy ; more be- 
 tween your bloods, than there is between red %vino 
 and Rhenish. — But tell us, do you hear whether 
 Antonio liave had any loss at sea or no ? 
 
 Shy. There I have another bad match : a bank- 
 rout, a prodigal, who dare scarce sliow his head on 
 the Rialto ; a beggar, that was us'd to come so 
 smug upon the mart. — Let him look to his bond ! 
 he was wont to call me usurer ; — let him look to 
 his bond : he was wont to lend money for a Chris- 
 tian courtesy ; — let him look to his bond ! 
 
 Salar. Why, I am sure, if he forfeit, thou wilt 
 not take his flesh ? What 's that good for ? 
 
 Shy. To bait fish withal 1 if it will feed nothing 
 else, it will feed my revenge. He hath disgrac'd 
 me, and hindered me half a million ; laughed at 
 my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, 
 thwarted my bargains, cooled my fiiends, heated 
 mine enemies ; and what "s his reason ? I am a Jew. 
 Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, 
 organs, dimensions, senses, afiections, passions? 
 fed with the same food, hurt with the same wea- 
 pons, subject to the same diseases, healed by (he 
 same means, warmed and cooled by the same 
 winter and summer, as a Christian is? If you prick 
 us, do we not bleed ? if you tickle us, do we not 
 laugh ? if you poison us, do we not die? and if you 
 wrong us, shall we not revenge ? If we are like 
 you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If 
 a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? 
 revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should 
 his sufierance be by Christian example ? why, 
 revenge. The \nllainy you teach me I will ex- 
 ecute ; and it shall go har^' but I will better the 
 instruction. 
 
 Enter a Servant, 
 
 Serv. Gentlemen, my master Antonio is at his 
 house, and desires to speak with yiu both. 
 
 .R7.S
 
 ACT in. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 SCENE n. 
 
 Salar. We Lave been up and down to seek Lim. 
 
 Solan. Hei-e comes another of the tribe : a third 
 cannot be matched, unless the denl himself turn 
 Jev?. 
 
 \_Exevni Solanio, Salakino, and Servant. 
 
 Enter Tuhal. 
 
 Shy. How now, Tubal ? what news fi'om Genoa? 
 hast thou found my daughter? 
 
 Tub. I often came where I did hear of her, but 
 cannot find her. 
 
 Shy. Why there, there, there, there ! a diamond 
 gone, cost me two thousand ducats in Frankfort ! 
 The curse never fell upon our nation till now ; I 
 never felt it till now : — two thousand ducats in 
 that; and other precious, precious jewels. — I would 
 my daughter were dead at my foot, and the jewels 
 in her ear ! would she were hearsed at my foot, and 
 the ducats in her coffin ! No news of them ? — Why, 
 BO : — and I know not how much is spent in the 
 search. Why, then loss upon loss P° the thief gone 
 "with so much, and so much to find the thief; and 
 no satisfaction, no revenge : nor no ill luck Stirling 
 but what lights o' my shoulders; no sighs, but o' 
 my breathing; no tears, but o' my shedding. 
 
 Tub. Yes, other men have ill luck too. Antonio, 
 as I heard in Genoa, — 
 
 Shy. Wliat, what, what ? ill luck, ill luck ? 
 
 Tab. — hath an argosy cast away, coming from 
 Tripolis. 
 
 Shy. I thank God ! I thank God !— Is it true ? 
 is it irue ? 
 
 Tub. I spoke mth some of the sailors that es- 
 caped the wreck. 
 
 Shy. I thank thee, good Tubal ; — Good news, 
 good news! ha! ha! Where? in Genoa? 
 
 Tub. Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard, 
 one night, fourscore ducats ! 
 
 Shy. Thou stick'st a dagger in me ! — I shall 
 never see my gold again. Fourscore ducats at a 
 sitting! fourscore ducats! 
 
 Tub. There came divers of Antonio's creditors 
 in my company to Venice, that swear ho cannot 
 choose but break. 
 
 Shy. I am very glad of it. I 'II plague him; I'll 
 torture him. I am glad of it. 
 
 Tub. One of them showed me a ring, that he 
 bad of your daughter for a monkey. 
 
 Shy. Out upon her! Thou torturest me, Tubal : 
 it was my turquoise;"' I had it of Leah, when I 
 was a bachelor : I would not have given it for a 
 wildernes.? of monkeys, 
 376 
 
 Tub. But Antonio is certainly undone. 
 
 Shy. Nay, that 's true, that 's very true. Go, ' 
 Tubal, fee me an officer ; bespeak him a fortnight 
 before : I will have the heart of him, if he foifeit 
 for were he out of Venice, I can make what mer- 
 chandize I will. Go, Tubal, and meet me at oui 
 synagogue ; go, good Tubal ; at our synagogue. 
 Tubal. [Exeunt 
 
 SCENE n.— Belmont. A Room in Portia's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Bassanio, Portia, Gratiano, Nerissa, and 
 Attendants. The caskets are set out. 
 
 For. I pray you, tarry ; pause a day or two, 
 Before you hazard ; for, in choosing wrong, 
 I lose your company ; therefore, forbear a while : 
 Thei'e 's something tells me, (but it is not love,) 
 I would not lose you ; and you know yourself, 
 Hate counsels not in such a quality : 
 But lest you should not underetand me w-ell, 
 (And yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought.) 
 I would detain you here some month or two. 
 Before you venture for me. I could teach you 
 How to choose right, but then I am forsworn ; 
 So will I never be : so may you miss me ; 
 But if you do, you '1! make me wish a sin. 
 That I had been forsworn. Beshrew your eyes, 
 They have o'erlook'd"' me, and divided me ; 
 One half of me is yours, the other half yours, — 
 Mine own, I would say ; but if mine, then yours, 
 And so all yours ! ! these naughty times 
 Put bars between the ownere and their lights ; 
 And so, though yours, not yours. — Prove it so. 
 Let fortune go to hell for it, not 1.°' 
 I speak too long ; but 't is to peize the time. 
 To eke it,^' and to draw it out in length, 
 To stay you from election. 
 
 lUiss. Let me choose ; 
 
 For, as I am, I live upon the rack. 
 
 For. Upon the rack, Bassanio ? then confess 
 What treason there is mingled with your love. 
 
 Bass. None, but that ugly treason of mistrust, 
 Which makes mo fear the enjoying of my love : 
 There may as well be amity and life 
 'Tween snow and fire, as treason and my love. 
 
 For. Ay, but I fear you speak u]>on the lack, 
 Wheie men enforced do speak anything. 
 
 Bass. I'romisc me life, and I '11 confess the truth. 
 
 For. Well, then, confess, and live. 
 
 Bass. Confess, and love, 
 
 Had been the very sum of my confession.
 
 THE MERCUANT OF VENICE. 
 
 O liappy torment, wlicn my torturer 
 Dolli teach ine answeii! for deliverance ! 
 But iet mo to my fortune anil tlio caskets. 
 
 For. Away ther. I am lock'd in one of them ; 
 [f you do love me, you will find me out. 
 Nerissa, and the rest, stand all aloof. 
 Let music sound, while he doth make his choice ; 
 Then, if ho lose, he makes a swan-like end. 
 Fading in music: that the comparison 
 May stand more proper, my eye shall be the stream. 
 And watery death-bed for him. lie may win; 
 And what is music then ? then music is 
 Even as the flourish when true subjects bow 
 To a new-crowned monarch : such it is, 
 As are those dulcet sounds in break of day. 
 That creep into the dreaming bridegroom's ear, 
 And summon him to marriage. Now he goes. 
 With uo less presence,*' but with much more love. 
 Than young Alcides, when he did redeem 
 The virgin tribute, paid by howling Troy 
 To the sea-monster: I stand^for sacrifice ; 
 The rest aloof are the Dardanian wives. 
 With bleared visages, come forth to 'N'iew 
 The issue of th' exploit. Go, Hercules ! 
 Live thou, I live : — With much, much more dismay 
 [ view the fight, than thou that mak'st the fray. 
 
 Music, whilst Bassanio comments on the caskets 
 
 to himself. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 1. Tell me wliere is fancy bred, 
 Or in the heart, or in the head? 
 IIow begot, how nourished ? 
 
 Keply, reply. 
 
 2. It is eugender'd in the eyes, 
 "With gazing fed ; nnd fancy dies 
 In the cradle where it lies : 
 
 Let us all ring fancy's knell ; 
 1 '11 begin it, — Ding, doug, bell. 
 Ali. -Ding, dong, beU. 
 
 £ass. So may the outward shows be least them- 
 selves ; 
 The world is still deceiv'd with ornament. 
 In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt, 
 But, being season'd vdth a gracious voice. 
 Obscures the show of evil ? In religion. 
 What damned error, but some sober brow 
 A\'ill bless it, and approve it with a text. 
 Hiding the grossness with fair ornament ? 
 There is no vice so simple, but assumes 
 Son:e mark of virtue on his outw'ard parts. 
 How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false 
 As stairs of sand/° wear yet upon their chins 
 
 48 
 
 The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars, 
 Who, inward search'd, have livers wiiite as milk; 
 And these assume but valour's excrement. 
 To render theru redoubted 1 Look on beauty," 
 And you shall .see 't is purchas'd by the weight; 
 Which therein works a n)iracle in nature. 
 Making them lightest that wear most of it : 
 So are those crisped snaky golden locks. 
 Which make such wanton gambols with (he wind 
 Upon supposed fairness, often known 
 To be the dowry of a second head, 
 The skull that bred them in the sepulchre 
 Thus ornament is but the gulled shore^ 
 To a most dangerous sea ; the beauteous scarf 
 Veiling an Indian beauty ; in a word. 
 The seeming tnith which ctnming times put on 
 To entrap the wisest. Therefore, thou gaudy gold, 
 Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee : 
 Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge 
 'Tween man and man. But tiiou, thou mengi'e lead, 
 Which rather threat'uest than dost promise aught, 
 Thy paleness moves me more than eloquence. 
 And here choose I. Joy be the consequence ! 
 Por. How all the other passions fleet to air, 
 As doubtful thouglits, and rash-embrac'd despair 
 And shudd'iing fear, and green-ey'd jealousy I 
 
 love, be moderate, allay thy ecstasy ; 
 In mea-sure rain thy joy, scant this excess; 
 
 1 feel too much thy blessing; make it less, 
 For fear I surfeit ! 
 
 Bass. What find I here ? 
 
 [Opening the leaden casktt. 
 Fair Portia's counterfeit?®" What demi-god 
 Hath come so near creation ? Move these eyes f 
 Or whether, riding on the balls of mine. 
 Seem they in motion ? Here are sever'd lips. 
 Parted with sugar breath ; so sweet a bar 
 Should sunder such sweet tiiends. Here, in her hairs 
 The painter plays the spider ; and hath woven 
 A golden mesh t' entrap the hearts of men, 
 Faster than gnats in cobwebs : But her eyes, — 
 How could he see to do them? ha\nng made one. 
 Methinks it should have power to steal both his, 
 And leave itself unfurnish'd :™ Yet look, how far 
 The substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow 
 In underprizing it, so far this shadow 
 Doth limp behind the substance. — Here's the scroll, 
 The continent and summary of my fortime. 
 
 " You that choose not by the view. 
 Chance as fair, and choose as trno: 
 Since this fortune falls to you, 
 Be content, and seek uo new. 
 
 i.77
 
 AC I UI. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OJ^' VENICE. 
 
 If you be well pleaded with this, 
 And hold your fortune for your bliss, 
 Turn you where your lady is, 
 And claim her with a loving kiss." 
 
 A gentle scroll. — Fair lady, by your leave : 
 
 [Kissing her. 
 I come by note, to give and to receive. 
 Like one of two contending in a prize. 
 That thinks he hath done well in people's eyes, 
 Hearing applause and universal shout. 
 Giddy in spirit, still gazing, in a doubt 
 V.'hether those peals of praise be his or no ; 
 So, thrice fair lady, stand I, even so. 
 As doubtful whether what I see be true, 
 Until confirni'd, sign'd, ratified by you. 
 
 Por. You see me, lord Bassanio, where I stand, 
 Such as I am : though, for myself alone, 
 I would not be ambitious in my wish. 
 To wish myself much better ; yet, for you, 
 I would be trebled twenty times myself; 
 A thousand times more fair, ten thousand limes 
 
 more rich ; 
 That only to stand high in your account, 
 1 might in virtues, beauties, hvings, friends, 
 E.vceed account : but the full sum of me 
 Is sum of nothing ; which, to tenn in gross, 
 I.s an unlesson'd girl, xmschool'd, unpractis'd : 
 Happy in this, she is not yet so old 
 I >ut she may learn ; happier than this, 
 She is not bred so dull but she can learn ; 
 Happiest of all, in that her gentle spirit 
 Commits itself to yours to be directed. 
 As from her lord, her governor, her king. 
 Myself, and what is mine, to you and yours 
 Is now converted : but now, I was the lord 
 Of this fair mansion, master of my servants. 
 Queen o'er myself; and even now, but now, 
 This house, these servants, and this same myself, 
 Aie yours, my loixl : — 1 give them with this ring; 
 Which when you part from, lose, or give away, 
 Let it presage the ruin of your love. 
 And be ray vantage to exclaim on you. 
 
 Bass. Madam, you have bereft me of all 
 words ; 
 C)nly my blood speaks to you in my veins ; 
 And there is such confusion in my powers. 
 As, after some oration fairly spoke 
 i5y a beloved prince, there doth appear 
 Among the buzzing pleased multitude, 
 Where every something, being blent together, ' 
 Turns to a wild of nothing, save of joy, 
 E.^press'd, and not exprcss'd. But when this ring 
 878 
 
 Parts fj'om this finger, then parts life from heno« 
 O, then be bold to say, Bassanio 's dead, 
 
 JVcr. My lord and lady, it is now out time, 
 That have stood by and seen our wishes prosper, 
 To cry, good joy ! Good joy, my lord and lady ! 
 
 Gh-a. My lord Bassanio, and my gentle lady, 
 I wish yon all the joy that you can wish. 
 For I am sure you can wish none from me , 
 And, when your honours mean to solemnize 
 The bargain of your faith, I do beseech you. 
 Even at that time I may be married too. 
 
 Bass. With all my heart, so thou canst get a wife, 
 
 Gra. I thank your lordship ; you have got me 
 one. 
 My eyes, my lord, can look as swift as yours 
 You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid ; 
 You lov'd, I lov'd ; for intermission" 
 No more pertains to me, my lord, than you. 
 Your fortune stood upon the caskets there ; 
 And so did mine too, as the matter falls : 
 For wooing here, until I sweat agam. 
 And swearing, till my very roof was dry 
 With oaths of love, at last, — if promise last, — 
 I got a promise of this fair one here. 
 To have her love, provided that your fortune 
 Achiev'd her mistress. 
 
 Por. Is this trae, Nerissa? 
 
 N'er. Madam, it is, so you stand pleas'd witiial. 
 
 Bass. And do you, Gratiano, mean good faith ? 
 
 Gra. Yes, 'faith, my lord. 
 
 Bass. Our fe."ist shail be much hononr'd in youi 
 marriage. 
 
 Gra. We '11 play with them, the first boy for a 
 thousand ducats ! 
 
 JVcr. What, and stake down ' 
 
 Gra. No ; we shall ne'er win at tlwt sport, and 
 stake down. 
 But who comes here ? Lorenzo, and his infidel ? 
 What! and my old Venetian friend, Solanio? 
 
 Enter Lorenzo, Jessica, and Solanio. 
 
 Bass. Lorenzo, and Solanio, welcome hither, 
 If that the youth of my new interest here 
 Have power to bid you welcome : — By your leave 
 I bid my very friends and countrymen. 
 Sweet Portia, welcome. 
 
 Por. So do I, my lord ; 
 
 They are cntirel}' welcome. 
 
 Lor. I thank your honour :— For my part, my 
 lord, 
 My ]>urposo was not to have seen you hero ; 
 But meeting with Solanio by the way,
 
 ACT III. 
 
 THE MERCUANT OF VENICE. 
 
 BCENE n. 
 
 Up did entreat me, past aJl saying nay, 
 To come with Mm along. 
 
 Solan. I did, my lord, 
 
 And I have reason for it. Signior Antonio 
 Commends him to you. [^Oives Bassanio a letter. 
 
 Bass. Ere I ope his letter, 
 
 I ]3ray you tell mo how my good friend doth. 
 
 Solan. Not sick, my lord, unless it be in mind ; 
 Nor well, unless in mind : his letter there 
 Will show you his estate. 
 
 Gra. Nerissa, cheer yon stranger; bid her welcome. 
 Your hand, Solauio. What 's the news from Venice? 
 IIow doth that royal merchant,'" good Antonio? 
 [ know he will be glad of our success ; 
 We are the Jasons ; we have won the fleece." 
 
 Solan. I would you had won the fleece that he 
 hath lost ! 
 
 Por. There are some shrewd contents in yon 
 same paper. 
 That steal the colour from Bassanio's cheek ; 
 Some dear friend dead ; else nothing in the world 
 Could turn so much tha constitution 
 Of any constant man. What, worse and worse ? 
 With leave, Bassanio ; I am half yourself. 
 And I must freely have the half of anything 
 That this same paper brings you. 
 
 Bass. O sweet Portia, 
 
 Here are a few of the unpleasant'st words 
 That ever blotted paper ! Gentle lady. 
 When I did first impart my love to you, 
 I treely told you, all the wealth I had 
 Ran in my veins, — I was a gentleman ; 
 And then I told you trae : and yet, dear lady, 
 Rating myself at nothing, you shall see 
 How much I was a braggai't. When I told you 
 My state was nothing, I should then have told you 
 That I was worse than nothing ; for, indeed, 
 I have engag'd myself to a dear friend, 
 Eiigag'd my friend to his mere enemy. 
 To feed my means. Here is a letter, lady ; 
 The paper as the body of my friend. 
 And every word in it a gaping wound, 
 Issuing life-blood. But is it true, Solanio ? 
 Have all his ventures lail'd ? What, not one hit? 
 From Tri polls, from Mexico, and England, 
 From Lisbon, Barbary, and India ? 
 And not one vessel 'scape the dreadful touch 
 Of merclianl-marring rocks? 
 
 Solan. Not one, my lord. 
 
 Besides, it should appear, that if he had 
 Th<^ present money to discharge the Jew, 
 He would not take it Never- did I know 
 
 A creature that did bear the shape of njan, 
 So keen and greedy to confound a man. 
 He plies the duke at morning, and at night, 
 And doth im])each the freedom of the state. 
 If they deny him justice : twenty .tierchaits. 
 The duke himself, and the magnilicoes 
 Of greatest port, have all persuaded with him, 
 But none can drive him from the envious plea 
 Of foifeiture, of justice, and his bond. 
 
 Jes. When I was with him, I liave hoard him 
 swear 
 To Tubal, and to Chus, his countrymen, 
 That he would rather have Antonio's flesh. 
 Than twenty times the value of the sum 
 That he did owe him ; and I know, my lord, 
 If law, authority, and power deny not. 
 It will go hard with poor Antonio. ' 
 
 Por Is it your dear friend that is thus in i 
 trouble ? ; 
 
 Bass. The dearest friend to me, the kindest man, 
 The best condition'd and unwearied'.st spirit 
 In doing courtesies ; and one in whom 
 The ancient Roman honour more appears. 
 Than any that draws breath in Italy. 
 
 Por. What sum owes he the Jew ? 
 
 Bass. For me, three thousand ducats. 
 
 Por. What, no more ? 
 
 Pay him six thousand, and deface the bond ; 
 Double six thousand, and then treble that, 
 Before a friend of this description 
 Shall lose a hair through Bassanio's fault. 
 First, go with me to church, and call me wifa 
 And then away to Venice to your friend ; 
 For never shall you lie by Portia's side 
 With an unquiet soul. You shall have gold 
 To pay the petty debt twenty times over ; 
 When it is paid, bring your true friend along : 
 My maid Nerissa, and myself, meantime, 
 Will live as maids and widows. Come, awav , 
 For you shall hence upon your wedding-day : 
 Bid your friends welcome, show a merry cheer : 
 Since you are dear bought, I will love you dear. 
 But let me hear the letter of your friend. 
 
 Bass. [Reads^ 
 
 "Sweet Bassanio, my ships liave all miscjirrie 1, my 
 creditors grow cruel, my estate is very low, my bfnd to 
 the Jew is forfeit; and since, in paying it, it is impcssiblo 
 I should live, all debts are clear'd between you and I, if I 
 might but see you at my death ; notwithstanding, use yooi 
 pleasure : if your love do not persuade you to come, let not 
 my letter." 
 
 Por. O love, despatch all business, and be gone. 
 
 819
 
 iCT 111. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 BCEins rv. 
 
 Bass. Since I have your good leave to go away, 
 I will make hast* : but, till I come again, 
 
 No bed shall ere be guilty of my stay. 
 Nor rest be interposer 'twixt us twain. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE m.— Venice. A Street. 
 
 Enter Shtlock, Salarino, Antonio, and Gaoler. 
 
 Shj. Gaoler,look to him. Tell not me of mercy ; — 
 This is the fool that lent out mone}' gratis ; — 
 Gaoler, look to him. 
 
 Ant. Hear me yet, good Shylock. 
 
 Shy. I '11 have my bond ; speak not against my 
 bond ; 
 1 have sworn an oath that I will have my bond : 
 Thou call'dst me dog, before thou hadst a cause : 
 But, since I am a dog, beware my fangs : 
 Tlie duke shall grant me justice. — I do wonder. 
 Thou naughty gaoler, that thou art so fond 
 To come abroad with him at his request. 
 
 Ant. I pray thee, hear mo speak. 
 
 Shy. I '11 have my bond ; I ^vill not hear thee 
 speak : 
 I 'il have my bond ; and, therefore, speak no more. 
 I '11 not be made a soft and dull-ey'd fool. 
 To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield 
 To Ciiristian intercessors. Follow not ; 
 I 'U have no speaking ; I will have my bond. 
 
 [Exit StiT. 
 
 Salar. It is the most impenetrable cur. 
 That ever kept with men. 
 
 Ant. Let hira alone ; 
 
 r 'II fjllow him no more with bootless pr.ayers. 
 He seeks my life ; his reason well I know : 
 I oft dcliver'd from his forfeitures 
 Many that have at times made moan to me ; 
 Therefore he hates me. 
 
 Salar. I am sure the duke 
 
 Will never grant this forfeiture to hold. 
 
 Ant. The duke cannot deny the course of law; 
 For the commodity that strangers have 
 With us in Venice, if it be denied," 
 Will much impeach the justice of the .state; 
 Since that the trade and profit of the city 
 Consisteth of all nations. Therefore, go : 
 These giiefs and losses have so 'bated me. 
 That I shall hardly spare a pound of flesh 
 To-morrow to my bloody creditor. 
 Well, gaoler, on : — Pray God, Bassanio come 
 To see rnc pay his debt, and then I care not ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 8R0 
 
 SCENE rv.— Belmont A Room in Portia's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Portia, Nerissa, Lorenzc , Jessica, and 
 Balthazar. 
 
 Lor. Madam, although I speak it in your pre^ 
 sence. 
 You have a noble anil a true conceit 
 Of godlike amity ; which appears most strongly 
 In bearing thus the absence of your lord. 
 But if you knew to whom you show this honour, 
 How tnxe a gentleman you send relief, 
 How dear a lover of my lord, your husband, 
 I know you would be prouder of the work, 
 Than customary bounty can enforce you. 
 
 Por. I never did repent for doing good. 
 Nor shall not now : for in companions 
 That do converse and waste the time together, 
 Whose souls do bear an equal yoke of love, 
 There must be needs a like proportion 
 Of lineaments, of manners, and of spirit : 
 Wliich makes me think, that this Antonio, 
 Being the bosom lover of my lord," 
 Must needs be like my lord. If it be so. 
 How little is the cost I have bestow'd 
 In purchasing the semblance of m_y soul 
 From out the state of hellish cruelty ! 
 This comes too near the praising of myself; 
 Therefore, no more of it: hear other things. 
 Lorenzo, I commit into your hands 
 The husbandry and manage of my house. 
 Until my lord's return : for mine own part, 
 I have toward heaven breath'd a secret vow 
 To live in prayer an<l contemplation. 
 Only attended by Nerissa here. 
 Until her husband and my lord's return : 
 There is a monastery two miles off. 
 And tl).ere we will abide. I do desire you 
 Not to deny this imposition, 
 The which my love, and some necessity. 
 Now lay upon you. 
 
 Lor. Madam, with all my heart, 
 
 I shall obey you in all fair commands. 
 
 Por. My people do already know my mind, 
 And will acknowledge you and Je.ssica 
 In ]ilace of lord Bassanio and myself: 
 So fare you well, till wo shall meet agaiti. 
 
 Lor. Fair thoughts and liappy houi's attend on 
 you ! 
 
 Jcs. I wish your ladyship all heart's content. 
 
 Por. I thank you for your wish, and am well 
 pleas'd
 
 ACT UI. 
 
 THE MEKCHAJ!^T OF VENICE. 
 
 BCKJIB V. 
 
 To wisli it back on you : fare you well, Jessica. 
 
 [^Exeunt Jes. a7id Lor. 
 Now, Balthazar, 
 
 As I havo ever found thee honesf, true, 
 So li.'t iDy find thee still. Take this same letter, 
 And use thou all the endeavour of a man 
 In speed to Padua ; see thou render this 
 Inio my cousin's hand, doctor Bellario ; 
 And, look,\vhat notes and garments he doth give tliee, 
 Bring them, I pray thee, with imagin'd sjieed'^ 
 Unto the traject," to the common ferry 
 Which trades to Venice : — Waste no time in words, 
 But get thee gone ; I shall be there before thee. 
 
 Balth. Madam, I go with all convenient speed. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Por. Come on, Nerissa ; I have work in hand. 
 That you yet know not of : we '11 see our husbands 
 Before they think of us. 
 
 Ncr. Shall they see us ? 
 
 Por. They shall, Nerissa ; but in such a habit, 
 That they shall think we are accomplished 
 With that we lack. I '11 hold thee any wager, 
 '^Vlien we are both accoutred like young men, 
 I '11 prove the prettier fellow of the two, 
 Anii wear my dagger with the braver grace ; 
 .\nd speak, between the change of man and boy, 
 With a reed voice ; and turn two mincing steps 
 Into a manly stride ; and speak of frays, 
 Like a fine bragging youth : and tell quaint lies. 
 How honourable ladies sought my love, 
 Which I denying, they fell sick and died ; — 
 I could not do withal :'* then I '11 repent, 
 And wish, for all that, that I had not kill'd them : 
 And twenty of these puny lies I '11 tell, 
 That men shall swear I have discontinued school 
 Above a twelvemonth : — I have within my mind 
 A thousand raw tricks of these bragging Jacks, 
 Which I will practise. 
 
 Ner. Why, shall we turn to men ? 
 
 Por. Fie ! what a question 's that. 
 If thou wert near a lewd interpreter ! 
 But come ; I '11 tell thee all my whole device 
 When I am in my coach, which stays for us 
 At the park gate ; and therefore haste away, 
 For we must measure twenty miles to-day. 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE y.—The same. A garden. 
 
 Unter Launcelot and Jessica. 
 
 Laun. Yes, truly ; — for, look you, the sins of 
 the father are to be laid upon the children ; there- 
 
 fore, I promise you I fear yon." I was always plain 
 with you, and so now I speak my agitation of tho 
 matter. Therefore, be of good cheer ; for truly, 
 I think, you are danm'd. There is but one hope 
 in it that can do you any good " and that is but 
 a kind of bastard hope neither. 
 
 Jes. And what hope is that, I pray thee 5 
 
 Laun. Marry, you may partly hope that your 
 father got you not, that you are not tho Jew's 
 daughter. 
 
 Jis. That were a kind of bastard hope, indeed ; 
 so the sins of my mother should be visited upon 
 me. 
 
 Laun. Truly then I fear you are damned both 
 by father and mother : thus when I shun Scylla,'" 
 your father, I fall into Charybdis, your mother; 
 well, you are gone both ways ! 
 
 Jes. I shall be sav'd by my husband ; he hath 
 m.ade me a Christian. 
 
 Laun. Truly, the more to blame he : we were 
 Christians enow before ; e'en as many as could well 
 live, one by another. This making of Christians 
 will raise the price of hogs ; if we grow all to be 
 pork-eaters, we shall not shortly have a rasher on 
 the coals for money. " 
 
 JSnier Lorenzo. 
 
 Jes. I '11 tell my husband, Launcelot, what you 
 say ; here he comes. 
 
 Lor. I shall grow jealous of you, shortly, Laun- 
 celot, if you thus get my wife into corners. 
 
 Jes. Nay, you need not fear us, Lorenzo. Laun 
 celot and I are out : he tells me flatly, there is 
 no mercy for me^in heaven, because I am a Jew's 
 daughter : and he says, you are no good membei 
 of the commonwealth ; for, in converting Jews to 
 Christians, you raise the price of pork. 
 
 Lor. I shall answer that better to the com- 
 monwealth, than you can the getting up of tho 
 negi-o's belly ; the Moor is with child by you, 
 Launcelot. 
 
 Laun. It is much, that the Moor should be more 
 than reason : but if she be less than an honest 
 woman, she is, indeed, more than I took her for. 
 
 Lor. How every fool can play upon the word 1 
 I think the best grace of wit will shortly turn into 
 silence, and discourse grow commendable in none 
 only but parrots. — Go in, sirrah ; bid them piepare 
 for dinner. 
 
 Latin. That is done, sir ; they have all stomachs. 
 
 Lor. Goodly Lord, what a wit-snapper nre you 
 then bid them prepare dinner. 
 
 381
 
 AC1 IV. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OP VENICE. 
 
 Laun. That is done, too, sir : ouly, cover is tlie 
 word. 
 
 Lor. Will you cover then, sir ? 
 
 Laun. Not so, sir, neither; I know my duty. 
 
 Lor. Yet more quarrelling with c.casion ! "Wilt 
 Ihou show the whole wealth of thy wit in an 
 instant? I pray thee, understand a plain man in 
 his plain meaning ; go to thy fellows ; bid them 
 cover the table, serve in the meat, and we will 
 come in to dinner. 
 
 Laun. For the table, sir, it shall be serv'd in ; 
 for the meat, sir, it shall be covered ; for your 
 coming in to dinner, sir, why, let it be as humours 
 and conceits shall govern. [Exit Laux. 
 
 Lor. O dear discretion, how his words are 
 suited !«' 
 The fool hath planted in his memory 
 An army of good words ; and I do know 
 A m.iuy fools, that stand in better place, 
 Garnish'd like him, that for a tricksy word 
 Defy the matter. How cheer'st thou, Jessica ? 
 And now, good sweet, say thy opinion ; — 
 Flow dost thou like the lord Bassanio's wife ? 
 
 Jes. Past all expressing ! It is very meet 
 The lord Bassanio live an upright life ; 
 For, having such a blessing in his lady, 
 He finds the joys of heaven here on earth ; 
 And, if on earth he do not mean it, then. 
 In reason he should never come to heaven. 
 Why, if two gods should play some heavenly 
 
 match, 
 And on the wager lay two earthly women, 
 And Portia one, there must be something else 
 Pawned with the other ; for the poor rude world 
 Hath not her fellow. 
 
 Lor. Even such a husband 
 
 Hast thou of me, as she is for a wife. 
 
 Jcs. Nay, but ask my opinion too of that. 
 
 Lor. I will anon ; first, let us go to dinner. 
 
 Jes. Nay, let me praise you, while I have a 
 stomach. 
 
 Lor. No, pray thee, let it serve for table-talk ; 
 Then, howsoe'er thou speak'st, 'mong other things 
 I shall digest it. 
 
 Jes. Well, I '11 set you forth. [Exeunt 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I.— Venice. A Court of Justice. 
 
 Enter the Duke, the Magnificoes,'* Aktoxio, B.is- 
 sANio, Gratiano, Salarino, Solakio, and others. 
 
 Duke. What, is Antonio here ? 
 
 Ant. Ready, so please your grace. 
 
 Duke. I am sorry for thee ; thou art come to answer 
 A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch 
 [Incapable of pity, void and empty 
 From any dram of mercy. 
 
 Ant. I have heard 
 
 Your grace hath ta'en great pains to qu.alify 
 Uis rigorous course; but sin(!e he stands obdurate, 
 And that no lawful means can carry me 
 Out of his envy's reach," I do oppose 
 My patience to his fury ; and am arm'd 
 To suffer, with a quietness of spirit, 
 Tlie very tyranny and rage of his. 
 
 Duke. Go one, and call the Jew into the court. 
 
 Solan. He's ready at the door: lie comes, my lord. 
 «82 
 
 Enter Shtlock. 
 
 Duke. Make room, and let him stand before our 
 face. 
 Shylock, the world thinks, and I tliink so too. 
 That thou but lead'st this fashion of thy malice 
 To the last hour of act ; and then, 't is thought 
 Thou 'It show thv mercy and remors<>, more strange 
 Than is thy strange ai)parent cruelty : 
 And where thou now exact'st the penalty, 
 (Which is a pound of this poor merchant's flash,) 
 Thou vvilt not only lose the forfeiture. 
 But, touch'd with human gentleness and lov6, 
 Forgive a moiety of the principal ; 
 Glancing an eye of pity on his losses, 
 Tliat have of late so huddled on his back, 
 Enow to press a royal merchant down. 
 And pluck commiseration of his state 
 From br.a,ssy bosoms, and rough hearts of flint, 
 From stubborn Turks and Tartars, never fiain'd
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 SCENB 1. 
 
 To offices of teiidar courtesy. 
 
 We nil expect a gentle answer, Jew. 
 
 Shy I have possess'd your grace of what I 
 purpose ; 
 \nd by our holy Snbbatli have I Sflorn 
 .0 have the dui and forfeit of my bond: 
 If you deny it, let the danger Jight 
 Upon your charter, and your city's freedom. 
 You '11 ask me, why I rather choose to have 
 A weight of carrion flesh, than to receive 
 Three thousand ducats. I '11 not answer that : 
 But, say, it is my humour : Is it answer'd ? 
 What if my house be troubled with a rat. 
 And I be pleas'd to give ten thousand ducats 
 To have it ban'd ? What, are you answer'd yet ? 
 Some men there are love not a gaping pig ;''' 
 Some, that are mad if they behold a cat ; 
 And others, when the bagpipe sings i' the nose 
 Cannot contain their urine : for aflection, 
 Master of passion, sways it to the mood 
 Of what it likes, or loathes. Now, for yoxir answer: 
 As there is no firai reason to be render'd. 
 Why he cannot abide a gaping pig ; 
 Why he, a harmless necessary cat; 
 ^^'lly he, a woollen bagpipe,'' — but of force 
 Mu.^t yield to such ine\dtable shame, 
 As to oftend, himself being ofl'ended ; 
 So can I give no reason, nor I will not. 
 More than a lodg'd hate, and a certain loathing, 
 I bear Antonio, that I follow thus 
 A losing suit against him. Ai'e you answer'd ? 
 
 Bass. This is no answer, thou unfeeling man. 
 To excuse the current of thy cruelty. 
 
 Sliy. I am not bound to please thee with my 
 answer. 
 
 Bass. Do all men kill the things they do not 
 love ] 
 
 Shy. Hates any man the tiling he would not kill ? 
 
 Bass. Every offence is not a hate at fii'st. 
 
 Shy. What, wouldst thou have a serpent sting 
 thee twice ? 
 
 Ant. I pray you, think you question with the 
 Jew, 
 You may as well g J stand upon the beach, 
 And bid the main flood bate his usual height ; 
 You may as well use question with the wolf. 
 Why he hath made the ewe bleat for .the lamb; 
 You may as well forbid the mountain pines 
 To wag their higli tops, and to make no noise. 
 When th-ey are iVelteu with the gusts of heaven ; 
 You may as well do anything most hard, 
 Aa seek to soften that (than which what 's harder ?) 
 
 His Jewish heart : — Therefore, I do beseech you. 
 Make no more offers, use no further means, 
 But, with all brief and plain conveniency, 
 Let me have judgment, and tlie Jew his wiL. 
 
 Bass. For thy three thousand ducats here is six 
 
 Shy. If every ducat in six thousand ducat-s 
 Were in six parts, and every part a ducat, 
 I would not draw them, — I would have my biwd. 
 
 Duke. How shalt thou hope for mercy, rend'ring 
 none? 
 
 Shy. What judgment shall I dread, doing no 
 wrong ? 
 You have among you many a jiurcha.s'd slave, 
 Which, like your asses, and your dogs, and mui-;.-*, 
 You use in abject and in slavish parts. 
 Because you bought them : — Shall I say to you. 
 Let them be free, marry them to your heirs ? 
 Why sweat they under burthens ? let their beds 
 Be made as soft as yours, and let -their palates 
 Be season'd with such viands 1 You will answer. 
 The slaves are ours : — So do I answer you. 
 The pound of flesh, which I demand of him. 
 Is dearly bought.; 't is mine, and I will have it : 
 If you deny me, fie upon your law ! 
 There is no force in the decrees of Venice : 
 I stand for judgment: answer, shall I have it? 
 
 Duke. Upon my power, I may dismiss this court, 
 Unless Bellario, a learned doctor. 
 Whom I have sent for to detennine this, 
 Come here to-day. 
 
 Solan. My lord, here stays without 
 
 A messenger with letters from the doctor. 
 New come from Padua. 
 
 Duke. Bring us the letters ; call the messenger. 
 
 Bass. Good cheer, Antonio ! What, man ! com- 
 age yet ! 
 The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones, and all, 
 Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood. 
 
 Ant. I am a tainted wether of the flock, 
 Meetest for death ; the weakest kind of fruit 
 Drops earliest to the gi'ound, and so let me : 
 You cannot better be employ'd, Bassanio, 
 Than to live still, and write mine epitaph. 
 
 Enter Nerissa, dressed like a laioyer's clerk. 
 
 Duke. Came you from Padua, from Bellario ? 
 I^er. From both, my lord : BeUario greets your 
 grace. [Presents a letter. 
 
 Bass. Why dost thou whet thy Icnife so earncstlyl 
 Sky. To cut the forfeiture from 'hat bankixiul 
 there. 
 
 Gra. Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh Jew 
 
 S88
 
 ACT rv. 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 SCENE 1. 
 
 Thou mak'st thy knife keen ; but no metal can, 
 No, not the hangman's axe, bear half the keenness 
 Of thy sharp en\'y. Can no prayers pierce thee ? 
 
 Shy. No, none that thou hast wit enough to 
 make. 
 
 Gra. O, be thou damn'd, inexorable dog 
 And for thy life let justice be accus'd. 
 Thou almost mak'st me waver in my faith, 
 To hold opinion with Pythagoras, 
 That souls of animals infuse themselves 
 Into the trunks of men : thy cunish spirit 
 Govern'd a wolf, who, hang'd for human slaughter. 
 Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet. 
 And, whilst thou lay'st in thy unhallow'd dam, 
 Infus'd itself in thee; for thy desires 
 Are wolfish, bloody, starv'd, and ravenous. 
 
 Shj. Till thou canst rail the seal from off my 
 bond. 
 Thou but offend'st thy lungs to speak so loud : 
 Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall 
 To endless ruin. — I stand here for law. 
 
 Duke. This letter from Bellario doth commend 
 A young and learned doctor to our court : — 
 Where is ho ? 
 
 Ncr. He attendeth here hard by, 
 
 To know your answei', whether you '11 admit him. 
 
 Duke. With all my heart : — some three or foiu' 
 
 of \'0U 
 Go give him courteous conduct to this place. — 
 Meantime, the court shall hear Bellario's letter. 
 
 \_Clerk reads. 
 
 "Your grace shall understand that, at the receipt of 
 your letter, I am very sick ; but in the instant that your 
 messenger came, in loving visitation was with me a young 
 doctor of Home ; his name is Balthazar: I acquainted him 
 with the cause in controversy between the Jew and Antonio 
 the merchant; wo turn'd o'er many books together: he is 
 furnished with my opinion ; whicli, bettered with his own 
 learning (the greatness whereof 1 cannot enough commend), 
 comes with him, at my importunity, to fill up your grace's 
 request in my stead. I beseech you, let his lack of years 
 be no impediment to let him lack a reverend estimation; 
 for I never knew so young a body with so old a head. I 
 leave him to your gracious acceptance, whose trial shall 
 better publish his commendation." 
 
 Duke. You hear tlie learn'd Bellario, what he 
 writes: 
 And here, I take it, is the doctor come. — 
 
 Unier PoRxrA, dressed like a doctor of laws. 
 
 Give me yoiu- hand : Came you from old Bellario ? 
 Par. I did, my lord. 
 
 Duke. You are welcome : take your 
 
 place. 
 
 Sfi4 
 
 Are you acquainted with the difference 
 That holds this present question in the court? 
 
 Por. I am informed throughl}' of the ;ause. 
 Which is the mercl'ant here, and which the Jew 
 
 Duke. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand 
 forth. 
 
 Por. Is your name Shylock ? 
 
 Shy. 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? [ T'o Ant. 
 
 Ant. Ay, so he says. 
 
 Por. Do you confess the bond ? 
 
 Ant. I do. 
 
 Por. Then must the Jew be merciful. 
 
 Shy. 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 
 Ujion the place beneath : it is t^nce bless'd ; 
 It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes : 
 'T is mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes 
 The throned monarch better than his crown ; 
 His sceptre shows the 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 attiibute to God himself; 
 And earthly poorer 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 nmch. 
 To mitigate the justice of thy plea ; 
 Wliicli if thou follow, this strict court of Venice 
 Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant 
 there. 
 
 Shy. My deeds upon my head ! I crave the 
 law, 
 The penalty and foifeit of my bond. 
 
 Por. Is he not able to discharge the money ? 
 
 Bass. Yes, here I tender it for liirn in the court 
 Yea, thrice the sum: if that will net suffice, 
 1 will bo bound to pay it ton times o'er. 
 On forfeit of ni_v li.'uids, my head, my heart : 
 If this will not stilliee, it must apjiear 
 That malice bears down .truth."' And I beseech you, 
 Wrest once the law to your .'mthority : 
 To do a great right, do a little wronc,
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 
 
 SCBKB I. 
 
 Au(l curb this cruel devil of his will. 
 
 For. It must not be. There is no power in Venice 
 C 'an alter a decree established : 
 "I" will be recorded for a precedent ; 
 \ii(l many an error, by the same example, 
 ■.Vill rush into the state: — it cannot be. 
 
 Shy. A Daniel come to judgment 1 yea, a Daniel ! 
 wise young judge, how I do honour thee ! 
 For. I pray you, let me look upon the bond. 
 Shi/. Here 'tis, most reverend doctor; here it is. 
 For. Sliylock, there 's thrico thy money offer'd 
 
 thee. 
 Sh'/. An oath, an oath, I have an oath in 
 heaven : 
 Shall I lay perjury upon my soul ? 
 No, not for Venice. 
 
 Por. Why, this bond is forfeit ; 
 
 And lawfully by this the Jew may claim 
 A Dound of flesh, to be by him cut ofiF 
 Nearest the merchant's heart: — Bo merciful ; 
 Take thrice thy money ; bid mo tear the bond. 
 
 Shi/. When it is paid according to the tenor. 
 It doth appear you are a worthy judge ; 
 You know the law ; your exposition 
 ITath been most sound : I charge you by the law, 
 Whereof you are a well -deserving pillar, 
 Pi'ocei^d to judgment : by my soul I swear. 
 There is no power in the tongue of man 
 To alter me : I stay here on my bond. 
 
 Ayit. Most heartily I do beseech the coui't 
 To give the judgment. 
 
 For. Why, then, thus it is : 
 
 You must prepare your bosom for his knife. 
 Shy. noble judge ! O excellent young man ! 
 For. For the intent and puqiose of the law 
 Hath full relation to the penalty. 
 Which here appeareth due upon the bond. 
 
 Shi/. "T is very true : O wise and upright judge ! 
 How much more elder art thou than thy looks ! 
 For. Therefore, lay bare your bosom. 
 Shy. Ay, his breast : 
 
 So says the bond ; — Doth it not, noble judge ! — 
 Ne.-n-est his heart, — those are the very words. 
 Por. It is so. Are there balance here to weigh 
 
 the flesh 2^ 
 Shy. I have them ready. 
 For. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your 
 charge. 
 To .stop his wounds, lest he do 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. 
 For. Come, merchant, have you anything to 
 
 sayi 
 
 pre- 
 
 Ant. But little ; I am arni'd, and well 
 par'd. — 
 Give me your hand, Bassanio ; fare you welll 
 Grieve not that I am fiiU'u 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 ling'ring penance 
 Of such misery dolh she cut me oft'. 
 Commend me to your honourable wife : 
 Tell her the process of Antonio's end ; 
 Say how I lov'd you, speak me foir in death ; 
 And, when the tale is told, bid her bo 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 enough, 
 I '11 pay it instantly with all my he.art. 
 
 Bass. Antonio, I am manied 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. 
 
 For. Your wife would give you little thank* 
 for that, 
 K 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. 
 iVf r. 'T is well you oft'er 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, 
 AVe trifle time ; I pray thee pursue sentence. 
 For. A pound of that same merchant's flesh is 
 thine ; 
 The court awards it, and the law doth give it. 
 Shy. Most rightful judge ! 
 For. And you must cut this flesh from off his 
 breast ; 
 The law allows it, and the court awards it. 
 
 Shy. !Most leaiTied judge ! — A sentence ! come, 
 
 prepare. 
 Por. Tarry a little ; — there is something else. — ■ 
 
 38.T
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 SCENE 1. 
 
 'riiis bond doth give thee here no jot of blood ; 
 
 The words expressly are, a pound cf flesh : 
 
 Then take thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh ; 
 
 But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed 
 
 One dro]!™ of Christian blood, thy lands and goods 
 
 Are, b\' the laws of Venice, confiscate 
 
 Unto the state of Venice. 
 
 Gra. upright judge ! — Mark, Jew ! — learned 
 judge ! 
 
 Shy. Is that the law ? 
 
 For. Thyself shalt see the act : 
 
 For, as thou urgest justice, be assur'd 
 Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest. 
 
 Gra. learned judge ! — Mark, Jew ; — a learned 
 judge ! 
 
 Sliy. I take this offer, 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 tliee to cut ofi" 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 heavT-, in the substance. 
 Or the division of the twentieth part 
 Of one poor scniple, — nay, if the scale do turn 
 Rut 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 for- 
 feiture. 
 
 Shy. 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. 
 
 Shj. Shall I not have barely my principal ? 
 
 For. Tliou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture. 
 To be so taken at thy ])eril, Jew. 
 
 Shy. 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 3-ou. 
 It is enacted in the laws of Venice, — 
 If it be prov'd against an alien, 
 lliat by direct, or indirect attempts, 
 886 
 
 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 : 
 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 rehears'd. 
 Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the duke. 
 
 Gra. Beg that thou may'st 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 oar 
 spirit, 
 I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it : 
 For half th}' wealth, it is Antonio's ; 
 The other half comes to the general state, 
 W^hich humbleness may drive unto a fine. 
 
 For. Av, 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'a 
 sake! 
 
 Ant. So please my lord the duke, and all the 
 court, 
 To quit the fine for one half of his giX)ds, 
 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 tlie 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 lato 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 henco :
 
 niE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 [ am not well. SoiiJ the deed after me, 
 And I will sign it. 
 
 Duke. Get thee gone, but do it. 
 
 Gra. In christ'ning, thou shall have two god- 
 fathers ; 
 Had I been judge, thou shouldst liave had ten 
 
 more,'* 
 To bring thee to the gallows, not the font. \Ex. Sht. 
 
 Duke. Sir, I entreat you home with me to dinner. 
 
 Por. I humbly do desire your grace of pardon. 
 [ must away this night toward Padua, 
 And it is meet I presently set forth. 
 
 Duke. I am sorry that your leisure ser\ es you not. 
 Antonio, gratify this gentleman ; 
 For, in my mind, you are much bound to liim. 
 
 [^Exeunt Duke, Magnificoes, and Train. 
 
 Bass. Most worthy gentleman, I and my friend 
 Have by your wisdom been this day acquitted 
 Of grievous penalties; in lieu whereof, 
 Three thousand ducats, due unto the Jew, 
 We freely cope your courteous pains withal. 
 
 Ant. And stand indebted, over and above, 
 la love and service to you evermore. 
 
 Por. He is well paid that is well satisfied : 
 And I, delivering you, am satisfied. 
 And therein do account myself well paid ; 
 My mind was never yet more mercenary. 
 I pray you know me, when we meet again ; 
 I wish you well, and so I take my leave. 
 
 Bass. Dear sir, of force I must attempt you 
 further ; 
 Take some remembrance of us, as a tiibute, 
 Not as a fee : grant me two thiugs, I pray you. 
 Not to deny me, and to pardon me. 
 
 Por. You press me far, and tlierefore I will yield. 
 Give me your gloves, I '11 wear them for your 
 
 sake ; 
 And, for your love, I '11 take this ring from you : — 
 Do not draw back your hand ; I '11 take no more. 
 And you in love shall not deny me this. 
 
 Bass. This ring, good sir, — alas, it is a trifle ; 
 I will not shame myself to give you this. 
 
 Por. I will have nothing else but only this ; 
 And now, methinks, I have a mind to it. 
 
 Bass. There 's more depends on this than on 
 the value. 
 The dearest ring in Venice will I give you, 
 And find it out by pi'oclamation ; 
 Only for this I pray you pardon me. 
 
 Por. I see, sir, you are liberal in offers : 
 You taught me first to beg ; and now, methinks. 
 You teach me how a beggar should be answer d. 
 
 Bass. Good sir, this ring was given me hy my 
 wife; 
 And, when slie put it on, she made me vow 
 Thfit I should neither sell, nor give, nor lose it. 
 
 Por. That 'scuse serves many men to save their 
 gifts. 
 An if your wife be not a mad woman, 
 And know how well I have deserv'd this ring. 
 She would not hold out enemy for ever. 
 For giring it to me. Well, peace be with you '. 
 ^Exeunt Por. and Ner. 
 
 Ant. My lord Bassanio, let him have the ring , 
 Let his deservings, and my love withal. 
 Be valued against your wife's commandment. 
 
 Bass. Go, Gratiano ; run and overtake him ; 
 Give him the ring ; and bring him, if thou canst, 
 Unto Antonio's house : — away, make haste. 
 
 ^Exit Gkatiano 
 Come, you and I will thither presently. 
 And in the morning early will we both 
 Fly toward Belmont. Come, Antonio. \^Exeuni 
 
 SCENE n.— Venice. A Street. 
 
 ErJer Portia, and Nerissa. 
 
 Por. Inquire the Jew's house out, give hire 
 this deed, 
 And let him sign it ; we '11 away to night. 
 And be a day before our husbands home : 
 This deed will be well welcome to Lorenzo. 
 
 Enter Gratiano. 
 
 Gra. Fair sir, you are well o'erta'en : 
 My lord Bassanio, upon more advice,*' 
 Hath sent you here this ring, and doth entreat 
 Your company at dinner. 
 
 Por. That cannot be : 
 
 His ring I do accept most thankfully, 
 And so, I pray you, tell him : Furthermore, 
 I pray you, show my youth old Shylock's house. 
 
 Gra. That will I'do. 
 
 JVcr. Sir, I would speak with you :— 
 
 I '11 see if I can get my husband's ring, 
 
 [To Portia 
 WTiich I did make him swear to keep for ever. 
 
 Por. Thou mayst, I warrant. We, shall havt 
 old swearing,^' 
 That they did give the rings away to men ; 
 But we '11 outface them, and outswear them to. 
 Awav, make haste ; thou know'st where I will tariy. 
 
 iVfr. Come, good sir, will you show me to this 
 house 3 [Eteuni, 
 
 887
 
 ACT V. 
 
 THE IViERCHAJS^T OF VENICE. 
 
 SCENE 1. 
 
 ACT Y. 
 
 SCENE L— Belmont. The Garden 0/ Portia's 
 Ilouse. 
 
 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, inethinks, 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. 
 
 Lor. In such a night, 
 
 Stood Dido with a willow in her hand" 
 Upon the wild sea-banks, and wav'd her love 
 To come again to Carthage. 
 
 Jes. In such a night,'^ 
 
 Medea gatber'd the enchanted herbs 
 That did renew old .S&on. 
 
 Lor. In such a night. 
 
 Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew ; 
 And with an iinthrift love did run from Venice, 
 As far as Belmont. 
 
 Jen. 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 : 
 FJut, hark, I liear 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 
 
 you, friend. 
 Stq)k. Stephano is my name ; and I bring word, 
 868 
 
 Mj mistress will before the break of day 
 Be here at Belmont ; she doth stray about 
 By holy crosses, where she kneels and prays 
 For happy wedlock hours. 
 
 Lor. Who comes with her? 
 
 Steph. None, but a holy hermit, and her maid. 
 I pray you, is my master yet retura'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. 
 
 sola 
 
 Laun. Sola, sola ! wo ha, ho ! sola, 
 
 Lor. "Who calls ? 
 
 Laun. Sola ! Did you see master Lorenzo, ano 
 mistress Lorenzo ? sola, sola ! 
 
 Lor. Leave hallooing, man ; here. 
 
 Laun. Sola ! Where ? where ? 
 
 Lor. Here. 
 
 Laun. Tell him there 's a post come from my 
 master, with his horn full 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 ; — Wliy 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. 
 
 \E,xil Stephano. 
 How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank ! 
 Here we will 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 patens 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-cy'd cherubin : 
 Such harmony is in immortal souls ; 
 But whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
 Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it—
 
 ACT V. 
 
 THE MERCnANT Ui- VENICE. 
 
 SCENE 1. 
 
 Enter Musicians. 
 
 Come, ho ! and wake Diana with a hymn ; 
 With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear, 
 And di'aw lier home with music. [^Afusic. 
 
 Jcs. I am never merry when I hear sweet 
 
 music. 
 Lor. The reason is, your spirits are attentive : 
 For do but note a wild and wanton lierd. 
 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, 
 rheir savage eyes tum'd to a modest gaze, 
 By the sweet power of music : Therefore, the 
 
 poet 
 Did feign th.it Oi-pheus 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 raov'd with concord of sweet sounds. 
 Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ; 
 Ihe motions of his spirit are dull as night, 
 And his affections dark as Erebus : 
 Let no such man be trusted. — Mark the music. 
 
 Enter Portia and Neiussa at a distance. 
 
 for. That light we see is burning in mv hall. 
 IIow far that little candle throws his beams ! 
 So shines a good deed in a naughty world. 
 
 Her. When the moon shone, we did not see the 
 candle. 
 
 Por. So doth the greater glory dim the loss : 
 A substitute shines biightly 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 ! 
 
 ly'er. It is 3-our music, madam, of the house. 
 
 For. Nothing is good, I see, without respect ;" 
 Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by dav. 
 
 JVer. Silence bestows ihat virtue on it, madam. 
 
 Por. 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. 
 IIcw many things by season soason'd are 
 To their right praise, and true perfection ! — 
 
 Peace ! Row the moon sleeps with Endymion,"" 
 And would not be awak'd ! [Music ceases 
 
 Lor. That is the voice, 
 
 Or I am much deceiv'd, of Portia. 
 
 Por. lie knows me, as the blind man knows 
 the cuckoo. 
 By the bad voice. 
 
 Lor. Dear lady, welcome home. 
 
 Por. We have been praying for our husbands' 
 ■welfare. 
 Which 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 ; 
 
 Oive order to my servants, that they take 
 No note at all of our being absent hence ; 
 Nor you, Lorenzo : — Jessica, nor you. 
 
 [A tucket .sounc/?."" 
 
 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 iis the day is when the sun is hid. 
 
 Enter Bassanio, Antoxio, Gratiano, and their 
 Followers. 
 
 Bass. We should hold day with the Antipodes. 
 If you would walk in absence of the sun. 
 
 Por. Let me give light, but let me not be light ; 
 For a light wife doth make a heavy husband, 
 And never be Bassanio so for me ; 
 But God sort all ! — You are welcome home, my 
 lord. 
 Bass. I thank you, madam : give welcome to 
 my friend. — 
 This is the man, this is Antonio, 
 To whom I am so infinitely bound. 
 
 Por. You should in all sense be much bound 
 to him. 
 For, as I hear, he was much bound for you. 
 A7it. No more than I am well acquitted of. 
 Por. Sir, you are veiy welcome to pur house : 
 It must appear in other ways than words; 
 Therefore, I scant this breathing courtesy. 
 
 [Gka. and Ner. talk apart 
 Gra. By yonder moon, I swear you do me wrong 
 In faith, I gave it to the judge's clerk : 
 Would he were gelt that had it, for my part, 
 
 889
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 SCEKE I. 
 
 Since vou do take it, love, so mur.b at heart, 
 
 Por. A quarrel, ho, already! what 's the matter ? 
 
 Gra. About a hoop of gold, a paltry ring 
 That she did give ine ; whose poesy was. 
 For all the world, like cutler's poetry 
 [Jpon a knife, " Love me, and leave me not." 
 
 Ner. What talk you of the poesy, or the value ? 
 Vou swore to me, when I did give it you. 
 That you would w(*ir it till the hour of death ; 
 And that it should lie with you in your grave : 
 Though not for me, yet for your vehement oaths, 
 i'ou should have been respective,'" and have kept 
 
 it. 
 fiave it a judge's clerk ! — no, God 's my judge 
 The clerk will ne'er wear hair on 's face that had it ! 
 
 Gra. He will, an if he live to be a mari. 
 
 Ncr. Ay, if a woman live to be a man. 
 
 Gra. Now, by this hand, I gave it to a youth, — 
 A kit d of boy ; a little scrabbed boy,'"' 
 No higher than thyself, the judge's clerk ; 
 A prating boy, that begg'd it as a fee ; 
 r could not for my heart deny it him. 
 
 Por. You were to blame, I must be plain with 
 you, 
 To part so slightly with your wife's fiist gift ; 
 A thing stuck on with oaths upon your Suger, 
 And so riveted with foith unto your flesh. 
 r gave my love a ring, and made him swear 
 Never to part with it ; and hero he stands — 
 [ dare be sworn for him, he would not leave it, 
 Nor pluck it from his finger, for the wealth 
 That the world mg^ters. Now, in faith, Gratiano, 
 You give your wife too unkind a cause of grief; 
 An 't were to me, I should be mad at it. 
 
 Bass. Why, I were best to cut my left hand off. 
 And swear I lost the ring defending it. \Aside. 
 
 Gra. My lord Bassanio gave his ring away 
 Unto the judge that begg'd it, and, indeed, 
 Deserv'd it too ; and then the boy, his clerk. 
 That took some pains in writing, he begg'd mine : 
 And neither man, nor master, would take aught 
 But the two rings. 
 
 Por. What ring gave you, my lord ? 
 
 Not that, I hope, which you receiv'd of inc. 
 
 Bass. If 1 could add a lie unto .1 fault, 
 r would deny it ; but you see, my finger 
 llatli not the ring upon it; it is gone. 
 
 Por. Even so voitl is your false heart of tnith. 
 By heaven, I will ne'er come in vour bed 
 Until I see the ring. 
 
 Ncr. Nor I in yoiU'S, 
 
 Till I again see mine. 
 SOO 
 
 Bass. Sweet Portia, 
 
 If you did know to whom I gave the ring,'"' 
 If you did know for whom I gave the ring. 
 And would conceive for what I gave the ring. 
 And how unwillingly I left the ring. 
 When nought would be accepted but the rins. 
 You would abate the strength of your displeasure 
 
 Por. If you had known the virtue of the ring. 
 Or half her worthiness that gave the ring. 
 Or your own honour to contain'" the ring. 
 You would not then have parted with the ring. 
 What man is there so much unreasonable. 
 If you had pleas'd to have defended it 
 With any terms of zeal, wanted the modesty 
 To urge the thing held as a ceremony ? 
 Nerissa teaches me what to believe ; 
 I '11 die for 't, but some woman had the nng. 
 
 Bass. No, by mine honour, madam, by my soul 
 No woman had it, but a civil doctor. 
 Which did refuse three thousand ducats of me. 
 And begg'd the ring; the wdiich I did deny him. 
 And suti'er'd him to go displeas'd away ; 
 Even he that had held up the very life 
 Of my dear friend. What should I say sweet 
 
 lady ? 
 I was enforc'd to send it after him ; 
 I was beset with shame and courtes)' ; 
 My honour would not let ingratitude 
 So much besmear it. Pai'don me, good lady ; 
 For, by these blessed candles of the night. 
 Had you been there, I think, you would have 
 
 begg'd 
 The ring of me to give the worthy doctor. 
 
 Por. Let not that doctor e'er come near my 
 house : 
 Since he hath got the jewel that I lov'd. 
 And that which you did swear to keep for me, 
 I will become as liberal as you ; 
 I 'U not deny him anything I have, 
 No, not my body, nor my husband's bed : 
 Know him I shall, I am well sure of it : 
 Lie not a night from home ; watch me, like 
 
 Argus ; 
 If you do not, if I be left alone. 
 Now, by mine honour, which is yet mine own, 
 I '11 have that doctor for my bedfellow. 
 
 Ner. And I his clerk ; therefore be well advi.s'd. 
 How you do leave me to mine own protection. 
 
 Gra. Well, do you so : let not me take him 
 then : 
 For, if I do, I 'II mar the young clerk's pen. 
 
 Ant. I am th' unhappy subject of these quarrcU
 
 
 ACT V. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. scknb i. 
 
 Por. Sir, tfi-ievc not you ; you are welcome 
 
 And I have better news in store for you 
 
 DOtwithstanding. 
 
 Thau you expect : unseal this letter soon ; 
 
 Rass. Portia, forgive me this enforced wrong ; 
 
 There you shall find, three of your argosies 
 
 And, in the hearing of these many friends, 
 
 Are richly come to liarbom- suddo/dy : 
 
 1 swear to thee, even by thine own fair eyes. 
 
 You shall not know by what strange accident 
 
 Wherein I see myself, — 
 
 I chanced on this letter. 
 
 Por. Mark you but that ! 
 
 Anl. I am dumb. 
 
 In both my eyes he doubly sees himself: 
 
 Bass. Were you the doctor, and I knew you 
 
 In each eye one : — swear by your double self,"" 
 
 not? 
 
 And there 's an oath of credit. 
 
 Gra. Were you the clerk, that is to make ma 
 
 Bass. Nay, but hear me ; 
 
 cuckold ? 
 
 Pardon this fault, and by my soul I sweai-. 
 
 Ner. Ay ; but the clerk that never means to do it, 
 
 I never more will break an oath wltb thee. 
 
 Unless he live until he be a man. 
 
 Ant. I once did lend my body for his wealth, 
 
 Bass. Sweet doctor, you shall be my bedfellow ; 
 
 Which, but for him that bad your husband's ring, 
 
 When I am absent, then lie with my wife. 
 
 \To Portia. 
 
 Ant. Sweet lady, you have given me life, and 
 
 Had quite miscarried : I dare be bound again, 
 
 living; 
 
 My soul upon the forfeit, that your lord 
 
 For here I read for certain, that my ships 
 
 Will never more break fixith advisedly. 
 
 Are safely come to road. 
 
 Por. Then you shall be his surety. Give liim 
 
 Por. How now, Lorenzo ? 
 
 this. 
 
 My clerk hath some good comforts, too, for you. 
 
 And bid him keep it better than the other. 
 
 Ner. Ay, and I '11 give them him without a 
 
 Ant. Here, lord Bassanio ; swear to keep this 
 
 fee. — 
 
 ring. 
 
 There do I give to you and Jessica, 
 
 Bass. By Heaven, it is the same I gave the 
 
 From the rich Jew, a special deed of gift. 
 
 doctor ! 
 
 After his death, of all he dies possess'd of. 
 
 Por. I had it of him : pardon me, Bassanio ; 
 
 Lor. Fair ladies, you drop manna in the way 
 
 Fur by this ring the doctor lay with me. 
 
 Of starved people. 
 
 Ner, And pardon me, my gentle Gratiano ; 
 
 Por. It is almost morning. 
 
 Fur that same scrubbed boy, the doctor's clerk. 
 
 And yet, I am sure, you are not satisfied 
 
 111 lieu of this last night did lie with me. 
 
 Of these events at full. Let us go in ; 
 
 Gra. Why, this is like the mending of highways 
 
 And cliarge us there upon iutei-'gatories. 
 
 In summer, when the ways are fair enough : 
 
 And we will answer all things faithfully. 
 
 What ! are we cuckolds, ereAve have deserv'd it? 
 
 Gra. Let it be so : The first inter'gatoiy, 
 
 Por. Speak not so grossly. — You are all amaz'd : 
 
 That my Nerissa shall be sworn on, is. 
 
 Here is a letter, read it at yo \x leisure ; 
 
 Whether till the next night she had rather stay, 
 
 It comes from Padua, from Bellario : 
 
 Or go to bed now, being two hours to day ? 
 
 There you shall find that Portia was the doctor; 
 
 But were the day come, I should wish it dark. 
 
 Nerissa there, her clerk ; Lorenzo here 
 
 Till I were couching with the doctor's clerk. 
 
 Shall witness, I set forth as soon as you, 
 
 Well, while I live, I '11 fear no other thing 
 
 And but e'en now return'd; I have not yet 
 
 So sore,'" as keeping safe Nerissa's ring 
 
 Enter'<l my house. — Antonio, you are welcome ; 
 
 \Ex(mnt. 
 
 
 391 
 
 1
 
 NOTES TO THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 ■ Enter Antonic, Salarino, and Solanio. 
 
 " Nothing can be more confused," observes Mr. Knight, 
 " tlmu the manner in wliich tlie names ot Salarino and S>- 
 lanio are indicated in the folio of 1623." I have followed 
 Mr. Kniglit's edition in his distribution of the speeches to 
 these characters ; and also in substituting Sohinio for 
 Salcrio iu Act iii. I see no occasion, observes Lord Clied- 
 worth, for the insertion of the latter name. Gratiano calls 
 the bringer of his letter his old Venetian friend, which 
 exactly suits Solanio, who had appeared before to bo the 
 friend both of Gratiano and Lorenzo. Seymours Kemarks, 
 1805, i. 110. 
 
 5 Tour argosUs with portly sail. 
 
 Argosies were ships of great burthen, used both for 
 merchandize and w.ir. In the next line, Stcevens proposes 
 to read o/the Jlood; but comp.are the Midsummer Night's 
 Dream, ii. 2,^ 
 
 Marking the embarked traders on the flood. 
 
 " The Venetians, in those times, sent their Argosies, or 
 Argosers, yearly to Southampton, laden with Turkey, I'er- 
 Bian, and Indian Merchandize. The last Argoser that came 
 thus from Venice was in tlie Ve.ar 1587, and was unfortu- 
 nately lost near the Isle of Wiglit with a rich cirgo and 
 many passengers." Anderson^s Origin of Commerce^ i. 423. 
 
 ' VaiXing Tier high top lou-er than her ribs. 
 
 Vailing, bending, bowing, lowering. " I do vail to it 
 with reverence," Every Man out of his Humour. The 
 Andrew was the name of the vessel, perhaps a favourite 
 Italian appellation of ships, from the celebrated Andrew 
 Doria. 
 
 * Lei no dog 'baric. 
 
 A proverbial expression. Stcevens quotes tlio following 
 from I'alsgravo's Aeolastus, LHO, — "nor there shall no 
 doggo barke at mine ententes." * 
 
 <* When, I am very sure. 
 
 Altered by Rowe to who, but without necessity. As Mr. 
 Collier justly observes, the original reading is in Shakes- 
 poarcV manner, and it was not unusual for him to leave 
 tho nominative case of the verb to be understood. Mr. 
 CollicrB next restoration, — "It is that; — any thing now!" 
 — <lo»troyB, I fear, tho eenso of the conversation. 
 892 
 
 " For this gear. 
 That is, literally, tor this matter or business. 
 
 ' A vu>re swelling port. 
 
 Port, show, appearance, demeanour. " Port, behaviour 
 gestae," Coles, 1677. 
 
 ^ Prest unto it. 
 That is, ready for it. So, in an old ballad,— 
 
 Whan they had fared of the best, 
 With bred and ale and weyne. 
 
 To tlie bottys they m.ade them prest., 
 With bowes anci boltys foil feyno. 
 
 And, in the Herrings Tayle, 4to. Lond. 1508, — 
 
 The ruine tlireatning point bent to his enemie, 
 As planted canon gainst a wall prest to begin. 
 
 8 Sovietimes from her eyes. 
 
 Mr. Knight explains sometimes, formerly ; a sense I sniv 
 peet the word never bore, but some time was used as 
 equivalent to, at one time. Why will not the ordinary 
 meaning of tho term be permitted to serve in the present 
 passage ? 
 
 To Catd's daughter, that is, compared to Cato's daughter. 
 So, in a subsequent scene, "ten times undervalued to 
 try'd gold." 
 
 "> Ay, that 's a colt, indeed. 
 
 Colt, n wild youth. A play upon words. See notes to 
 Love's Labour 's Lost, No. 36. 
 
 " Wliat think you of tlie Scottish lord. 
 So the quartos. The folio reads otlier lord, and the 
 change was probably made for fear of giving olTenco to 
 King James and his countrymen. 
 
 la How 710W / what netvs ? 
 
 These words arc omitted iu the first folio, most probably 
 accidentally. Condition, temper, disposition. 
 
 '" Enter Bassanic and SKyloch. 
 
 Shylock, as Upton remarks in his CriticiJ Observation.*, 
 1748, p. 2ii9, is merely a corruption of the .lewish name of 
 Scialac. It is worthy, however, of remark that Shvloelc 
 was an English family name, and Mr. Lower notices o 
 power of attorney from John rescmcrsho to Richard .Shy- 
 lok of IIoo, CO. S jssex, and others, to deliver seizon of idl
 
 NOTES TO THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 his lands in that county to certain persona therein named. 
 Tliis docninent is diitcd in July, H!i5. Bindley possessed 
 an old painplilct, entitled, '*Culeb Shillocko liis Prophecie, 
 or tho Jcwes X'redietion,'' 1607. Shylock was repre- 
 «ented on the stage with red huir, as appears from a MS. 
 elegy on Burbage, — 
 
 with the red-haired Jew, 
 
 Which soupht the bankrupt merehanta pound of flesh, 
 By woman-lawyer caught in his own mesh. 
 
 This peculiarity in the "dressing" of the Jew is also 
 alluded to by Jordan, in a curious ballad in his Royal 
 Arbor of Loyal Pocsie, IGG-t, founded on the story of the 
 play ; and Mr. Collier thinks the other particulars of his 
 dress and appearance, mentioned in the ballad, are faithfij 
 representations of the custom of the stage in Shakespeare's 
 time. For this reason I annex a copy of the ballad, which 
 is entitled, " The Forfeiture, a Komanee ; Tune, Dear^ let 
 mc TLOW this evening die:'''' — 
 
 You that do look with Christian hue, 
 
 Attend unto my sonnet, 
 , 1 11 tell you of as vile a Jew, 
 
 As ever wore a bonnet. 
 Ko Jevr of Scotland I intend, 
 
 My story not so mean is : 
 This Jew in wealth did much transcend 
 
 Under the states of Venice. 
 
 Where he by usury and trade, 
 
 Did much exceed in riches ; 
 His beard was red ; his face was made 
 
 Not much unlike a witch's. 
 His habit was a Jewish gown, 
 
 That would defend all weather ; 
 His chin turu'd up, his nose hung down. 
 
 And both ends met together. 
 
 Yet ttiis deformed father had 
 
 A daughter and a wise one, 
 So sweet a virgin never lad 
 
 Did ever set his eyes on. 
 He that could call this lady foul 
 
 Must be a purblind noddy ; 
 But yet she had a Christian soul 
 
 Lodg'd in a Jewish body. 
 
 Within the city there did live, 
 
 The truth if you will search on't. 
 One whose ill fate will make ycu grieve, 
 
 A gallant Christian Merchant ; 
 Who did abound in wealth and wit. 
 
 In youth and comely feature, 
 Whose love unto a friend was knit 
 
 As strong as bonds of nature. 
 
 A gentleman of good renown. 
 
 But of a sinking fortune, 
 Who having no estate of 's own, 
 
 Doth thus his friend importune : 
 Friend, lend me but one thousand pound ; 
 
 It shall again be paid ye, 
 For I have very lately found 
 
 A fair and wealthy lady. 
 
 The Merchant then makes this reply; 
 
 Friend, 1 am out of treasure, 
 But I will make my credit fly, 
 
 To do my friend a pleasure. 
 There is a Jew in Town (quoth he), 
 
 Who though he deadly hate me, 
 Yet caise my wealth is strong at sea, 
 
 This favour will not bate me. 
 50 
 
 Wlien they were come unto the Jew, 
 
 lie <lid demand their pleasure ; 
 Tlje merchant answers, I of you 
 
 W<»uld borrow so much treasuro. 
 The Jew replies, you shall not ha 't, 
 
 If such a Hum would save ye, 
 Unless in three nmntlis you will pay 't 
 
 Or forfeit what I M have ye. 
 
 If at the three months end yon do. 
 
 As you shall seal and sign to 't. 
 Not nay the money which is due, 
 
 Wlaore'er I have a mind to 't, 
 I 'II cut a pound out of your flesh. 
 
 The merchant is contented. 
 Because he knew in half that time, 
 
 His shipping would prevent it. 
 
 Ill news by every ship comes in. 
 
 His ships are drown'd and fired; 
 The Jew his forfeiture doth win 
 
 For three months are expired. 
 He is arrested for the debt j 
 
 The Court must now decide it : 
 The flesh is due, and now the Jew 
 
 Is ready to divide it. 
 
 The Merchant's friend that had tlio gold 
 
 Now being richly married, 
 Offered the sum down three times told 
 
 To have his friend's life spared. 
 'T would not be took, but straight steps in 
 
 One in Doctor's apparrel, 
 Who, though but young, doth now begin 
 
 Thus to decide the quarrel. 
 
 Jew, we do grant that by the law, 
 
 A pouml of flesh your due is. 
 But if one drop of blood you draw, 
 
 We '11 show you what a Jew ift ; 
 Take but a pound, as 't was agreed. 
 
 Be sure you eut no further. 
 And cut no less, lest for the deed, 
 
 You be arraigu'd for murther. 
 
 The Jew enrag'd doth tear the bond, 
 
 And dares not do the slaughter. 
 He quits the Court, and then 't was found 
 
 Tho Doctor proves his daughter. 
 Who for the love she long time bore, 
 
 From a true heart derived, 
 To be his wife, and save his life, 
 
 This subtle slight contrived. 
 
 The court consent and they are wed; 
 
 For hatching of this slaughter 
 The Jew's estate is forfeited, 
 
 And given to his daughter. 
 She is baptiz'd in Christendom, 
 
 The Jew cries out he 's undone; 
 I wish such Jews may never come 
 
 To England, nor to London. 
 
 William Thomas, in his '^Historj-e of Italye, a boofcfi ex 
 ceding profitable to be red, because it iutrcateth of the 
 astate of many of dy vers eommonwealthes, how they have 
 bene and now be governed," 4to. Lond. 1561, in treating ol 
 tho " Venetian astate," gives the following curious notice 
 of the Jews: — *' It is almoste incredyble what gaine the 
 Venetians receive by the usury of the Jewes, both pryvalely 
 and in common ; for in everye citee, the Jewes kepe open 
 shops of usurie, taking gaiges of ordinarie for sv. in the 
 hundred by the yere, and if, at the yeres ende, the gaigc bo 
 not redemed, it is forfeitc, or at the least doocn away to d 
 great disadvantage ; by reason wherof the Jewes are out oi 
 
 Sd3
 
 NOTES TO THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 measure wcalthie in those pnrties." According to Coryat's 
 Crudities, IGll, p. 234, "all tlieir goodes are confiscated aa 
 soone as they embrace Christiauitv: and tliis I heard is the 
 reason, because, whereas many of them doe raise their 
 fortunes by usury, in so much that they doe sometimes not 
 only shearo, but also flea many a poore Christian's estate 
 by their griping extortion, it is therefore decreed by the 
 Pope, and other free princes in whose territories they live, 
 that they shall make a restitution of all their ill-gotten 
 goods, and so diselogge their soides and consciences, when 
 they are admitted by holy baptisme into the bosome of 
 Clirist's church." It is just possible there may be some 
 sonnexion between this regulation, and the termination of 
 the trial by Shylock's compelled recantation of his faith in 
 Act iv. 
 
 " In saying he is a good man. 
 
 Good, a technical phrase in the colloquial language of 
 merchants, equivalent to sulstantial. Compare Massinger's 
 Fatall Dowry, 1632,— 
 
 To these I turne. 
 
 To these soft-hearted men, that wisely know 
 The^ are onely good men, tluit pay what ihty owe. 
 
 Ill an old novel, called the Adventures of David Simple, 
 1744, a character applies the term to a wealthy rogue. 
 " Darid seemed surprized at that epithet, and awked how it 
 was possible a fellow whom he had just citched in such a 
 piece of villainy could be called a good man ? At which 
 words, the other, with a sneer at bis folly, told him he 
 meant that he was worth a plumb. Perhaps he miglit not 
 understand that neither, for he began to take him for a 
 fool, but he meant by a plumb £100,000." 
 
 " Squander'd, scattered, dispersed. Still used in War- 
 wickshire. " His family are iill grown up, and squandered 
 about the country," i.e., settled in different places. Ac- 
 cording to Wilbraham, p. 80, it is still in use in Cheshire. 
 Howell mentions, *' many thousand islands, that lie squan- 
 i^red in the vast ocean." 
 
 " There be lar^rats, and water-rats. 
 
 Water-rats, a jocnlar term for pirates, is not peculiar to 
 Shakespeare. Compare a rare tract, the Abortive of an 
 Idle Houre, 1620,— 
 
 Some theeves are wat^r-rait«, some way-purs-takers ; 
 Some canters are, and othersome houso-brcakera. 
 
 " If I can catch him once upon the hip. 
 
 That is, at an advantage. The phrase occurs throe 
 '.inics in Shakespeare. ^^J^tre au dussus du vent encontre, 
 t/> have the wind, advantage, or upper hand of; to have on 
 tl\e hip." Cotgrave. 
 
 " I'ossets'd, i.e., informed. 
 
 " now much ye would. 
 
 So the first quarto, printed for Ileyes, 1600 ; at least, 
 BUch Lithe reading in my copy of that edition. Mr. Collier, 
 however, says it road.", "How much yon would?" The 
 •ccond quarto has, " ilov/ much he would havef" A little 
 further on, I think wo should follow the old editions iu 
 reading Abram, instead oi Alraliam, which spoils the metre. 
 304 
 
 ^ Eanlin^s, lambe just bom. From the An?lo-Saxcn 
 eanian, to bring forth. Fill, to peel, to take the pill or 
 bark off. "A pill, rind," Coles. lund, n.ature. Full, 
 let fall. 
 
 " FaU party-colour' d lamls. 
 
 Party-coloured, variegated, variously coloured. " Item^ 
 heis also verily perswaded that if women could butgoverne 
 one little peece of flesh, the tongue I meane, so many of 
 them would not goe with party-coulerd faces." — Harry 
 White's Humour, 1660. 
 
 " Many a time and oft. 
 
 " Many a time and oft" is a convention.il tautology, still 
 in provincial use. It occurs in that very' early poem on 
 the Deposition of Eiehard II., published by the Camden 
 Society, ed. Wright, p. 2, — " This made me to muse many 
 tyme and ofte." Kemble erroneously read, " many a time, 
 and oft on the Eialto." 
 
 The Rialto here alluded to was not the bridge of the 
 Eialto, but the Exchange. C'or}-at, writing in Shakes- 
 peare's time, says, " The Eiidto, which is at the farther 
 side of the bridge, as you come from &t. Marks, is a most 
 stately building, being the Exchange of Venice, where the 
 Venetian gentlemen and the merchants doe meete twice a 
 day, betwixt eleven and twelve of the cloeke in the morn- 
 ing, and betwixt five and sixe of the clocke in the after- 
 nooni3. This Ei.ilto is of a goodly height, built all with 
 bricke, as the palaces are, adorned with many fairo walkcs 
 or open galleries that I have before mentioned, and rath a 
 pretty quadrangular court adjoyning to it. But it is inlb- 
 riour to our Exchange in London, though, indeede, there 
 is a farre greater quantity of building in tliis then in ours." 
 Coryat's Crudities, 1611, p. 169. Compare Thomas's 
 Historye of Italye, 1561. f. 74. 
 
 23 About my monies, and my usances. 
 
 Usance is interest rf vtdni-y. The "rate of usance" has 
 been already mentioned. "And spit upon, &c." Spd foi 
 spit is not unusual in old English, but it appears to be an 
 unnecessary antiquarian refinement to retain it here, Mr. 
 Knight writes spet in this speech, aiid spits in act ii. sc. 7. 
 In the passage quoted by Mr. Knight from Milton, the 
 author's own MS. has spits. See Seymour's Eemarks, i. 115. 
 
 '* Expressed in the condition. 
 
 In old legal phraseology, a condition was nearly syno- 
 nymous with a bond, so called because usu.iUy commencing 
 with the words, "The condition of this obligation is such." 
 
 Dwell, abide, continue. 
 
 ^Ifhe should hreah his day. 
 
 That is, not keep his appointment for paying the money 
 So in the Eayre Mnyde of the Exchange, 1607, — 
 
 If you do hrcah yovr dap, assure yourself 
 That I will take the forfeit of your bond. 
 
 2' In the fearful guard of an Unthrifty }:ruiw. 
 
 Fearful Iiad formerly two significations, giving cause of 
 fear, and being apt to fear. It is hero used iu the former 
 sense. Compare Notes to the Tempest, No. 60.
 
 NOTES TO THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 =' FltmrisTi of cornets. 
 
 Tlio foUowiiiff stage direction is iii tlie first edition :— 
 •' E/itcr Slorocluia, ii Uiwnio Moore, all in white, and tliroe 
 or fouro fDllowcra accordingly, with I'ortia, Nerissa, and 
 their traine." 
 
 ^ To prove whose blood is reddest. 
 
 KednoBS of blood was formerly considered a sign of 
 ooura^e. " It nppereth, in the time of the Saxons, that 
 the manner over their dead was a red cloath, as we now 
 use a blacl\. The Pagans refused blacke, because it repre- 
 pcnteth darknesse, tcarmed the infernal colour: and ao did 
 the olde Ensjlish. The red of valiauncie, and that was 
 over kings, lords, knights, and valyaunt souldiours : white 
 over cleargio men, in token of their profession and honest 
 life, and over virgins and matrons," Batman uppon Bar- 
 Iholome, 15S2, f. 29. 
 
 Fear'd, frightened, terrified. Wit, sagacity, power of 
 mind. 
 
 ** Scorn running with thy hetU- 
 
 A pleonasm quite in unison with Launcelot's phrase- 
 ology. Pistol has something of the same kind, when he 
 Bays, "he hears with ears." 
 
 30 Away ! says the fiend, for the heavens! 
 
 Ftrr 19 several times used in the sense of hy in these 
 [ihiys. For the heaven.i, i.e., by the heavens, is merely, as 
 fiilford observes, a petty Oath. 
 
 " It is not improbable," says Douce, " that this curious 
 struggle between Launcelot's conscience and the fiend 
 might have been suggested by some well-known story in 
 Shakespeare's time, grafted on tlie following Monkish fa- 
 ble." It occurs in a manuscript collection of apologues 
 ascribed to Odo de Ceriton, an English Cistercian Monk of 
 the 12th century. " Multi sunt sicut niulier delicata ct pi- 
 gra. Talis vero mulicr dum jiicet mane in leeto, et audit 
 pulsari ad missam, cogitat secum quod vadat ad missam. 
 Et cum caro, quse pigra est, timet frigus, rcspondet et 
 dicit, — Quare ires ita mane, nonne .seis quod elerici pulsaiit 
 canipanas propter oblationes ? donniadhuc; et sic transit 
 pars dici. Postca iterum conscieiilia punijit earn quod va- 
 dat ad nussam. Sed caro respondet, et dicit, — Quare ires 
 tu tam cito ad ecclesiam ? eerto tu destrueros corpus tunm, 
 si ita mane surrexeris, et hoc Deus non vult ut homo 
 destruat seipsum ; ergo quiesce et dormi. Et transit alia 
 pars diei. Iterum conscientin punijit earn quod vadat ad 
 ecclesiam ; sed ca7'0 dicit, Ut quid ires tam cito ? Ego bene 
 Bcio quod talis viclna tua nondum vadit ad ecclesiam ; dor- 
 mi parum adhuc. Et sic transit alia pars diei. Postca 
 vunijit earn conscientia., sed caro dicit, Non oportet quod 
 edhuo vadas, quia sacerdos est curialis et bene expoctabit 
 te; attcnde ct dormi. Et sic dormiendo transit tenipus. 
 Et tamen ad ultimum verccundia taeita atqnc coacta, sur- 
 git ct vadit ad ecclesiam, et invcnit portas clausas." Two 
 MSS. of this work are in the Bodleian Library, and one in 
 the British Museum, MS. Arundel 292. 
 
 31 Mors than sand-blind, high-gravel blind. 
 
 The last epithet is Launcelot's humorous exaggeration 
 of sand-blind. Try confusions, is another p)lecc of qnaint- 
 no8s, for try conclusions, i.e., experiments ; though the 
 
 error seems rather too broad for Launcelot's character, who 
 is not, strictly speaking, a " mistaking clown." One of the 
 quartos reads conclusions. 
 
 " By God^s sontiet. 
 
 It is difficult to give a certain ex|)janation of those old 
 oaths. Sonties is probably a corruption of saints. 
 
 " Your worship' 8 frieiul, and Launcelot. 
 
 The conjunction is lierc rcdunda!it. There is a difflculty 
 in the line, but Capell observes that from the son bcmg 
 termed young Launcelot, it is probable that the father had 
 the same Christian name. 
 
 3* Dobbin, my philjrhorse. 
 
 Phill-horse is the same as thill-horse, the shaft-horse. 
 The form is said to be still in use in the Midland counties. 
 
 3* IJmc gree you nmo. 
 
 Literally, How agree you now? So, in tlie play of Wit 
 and Science, p. 89, — 
 
 Nay, nor yet nether hence ye shall gad ! 
 We wyll gre better or ye pas hence. 
 
 3" / have set vp my rest. 
 
 That is, I have deterir.ined, set all my hopes upon. 
 " Couther tout a bander et a racUr, To venture all on 
 deeperut tcarmes, to set all on sixes and seuens." — (Jit- 
 grave. 
 
 " Garded, ornamented with gards or trimmings, edg- 
 ings of lace, &o. See Fairholt's Costume in England, p. 513. 
 
 »« Whith doth offer to swear vpon a book. 
 
 The break seems more properly to be placed after for- 
 tune than after loot, the latter punctuation being usually 
 adopted. The sentence ends abruptly. " If any man in 
 Italy have a fidrcr table, which says I shall have good for- 
 tune as certainly as if it took an oath," — I am deceived 
 The t.able, in palmistry, was a space between certain lines 
 on the skin within the hand, not the palm itself. The lino 
 of life extended from the wrist to the thumb. Lilly, the 
 astrologer, gives the following particulars of the latter in 
 his Book of Fortune, p. SR, — ■ 
 
 " First then, of the Line of Life, the wdiich, whenever 
 inspection is made, ought to be observ'd with a curiosity 
 as nice as admirable. 
 
 " Now this little line extends itself clear from the wrist 
 to the Mount of Jupiter; which, if well-colour'd, placed, 
 and proportion'd, denotes a serene and calm life of tran- 
 quillity : Otherwise, if a star reach the Mount of Venus, 
 Mars, or Jupiter, sundry mischiefs and calamities will 
 follow. 
 
 "Now if a doi.ble line happens, then it promises the 
 man long life, the favour of kings and nobles, with sacoess 
 in war, and business of what sort soever." 
 
 3» Al-even widows and nine maids. 
 
 So the original, aleven, in Shakespeare's time, being a 
 common vulgarism. It is al.so archaic. " I have had 
 therto Icohys aleven," MS. Cantab. Ff. i. 6, xv cent. 
 
 Liberal, free, licentious. 
 
 SUS
 
 NOTES rO THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 <o ] he misa:t.sttT''d in, the place I go U\. 
 
 Miscdnster, to misconstrue, the old word used by Sliake- 
 ipeare. "Theodorus, the atheist, complayned that his 
 pcholiers were woont, how pUiine soever hec spake, to mis- 
 contter him," Gosson's Schoole of Abuse, 1579. 
 
 " Well studied in a sad ostent. 
 
 Ostent, show, appearance. The term again occurs in this 
 act, " such fair ostents of love." So Chapman, — 
 
 I see almifrhty ^ther in the smoke 
 
 Of all his clouds desoendintr, and the sky 
 
 Hid in the dim ostents of tragedy. 
 
 Bearing^ behaviour, deportment, 
 
 ^"^ If a Christian do not pkiy the l-nave. 
 
 The three old copies, printed before the second folio, 
 read, do not flay. The last named authority has did, a 
 reading generally adopted, but, I think, erroneously. 
 Shakespeare frequently uses the present for the past tense. 
 Thus, in King John., we have waft for wafted^ heat for 
 heated; in Jii^hard IIL^ expiate for expiated; in Jlaebeth, 
 exasperate for exasperated, &c. In the same manner, do 
 seems to be here used for did. la the Tempest^ have oc- 
 curs for had. See note, no. 29, where 1 have probably 
 given an incorrect reason for the use of the present tense. 
 
 <3 We have not epoke us yet of torchhearem. 
 
 That is, we have not yet bespoke our torclibearcrs. The 
 preposition was often added to the verb iu this mode of 
 construction. 
 
 ** An it shall pU-ise you to hreah vp this. 
 
 Jireah up, equivalent to Ireah. It here means, to open 
 the letter. In Elizabethan phr.aseology, the preposition vp 
 was added to certain verbs, scarcely, in most cases, con- 
 vcj'ing even a slight intensative power. 
 
 ** ify nose fill a-bUeding on, Blach-Monday. 
 
 According to Stowe, as quoted by Grey, Easter Jlonday 
 was called Hack Monday, on account of unusually severe 
 weather which destroyed many men in the army of Ed- 
 ward III. on that day, when he was encamped near Paris. 
 Bleeding at the nose was formerly considered a bad omen. 
 
 t^guealing, squeaking, shrieking. 
 
 <° To gale on Christian fools with, varnisWd faces: 
 
 Yar mrnishtfaees, and gay and painted cloths, 
 Are but to tempt fooles ; every man this knowtis. 
 
 77(6 A'<wc Metamorphosis, 1000, MS. 
 
 Patrh, a fool, so called from his costume. 
 
 *' Fast bind, fast find. 
 
 " AlanJonfait larron, Prov., Things carelessly left, Inyd 
 up, or lookeil unto, make them theevcs that otherwise 
 would bo honest : we i^i\y,fiist hind., fast fivd,''^ ('otgravc. 
 The arrangement of these lines dill'crs slightly from tliat 
 adopted by my prcdeccssor.s, but the termination of a 
 hpc'bch by ono short and onu long line is not uncommon in 
 BhaUcspcarc. 
 
 Hflfi 
 
 " Ten times fifCer Venrua* pigeons fly. 
 
 The pigeons are, of course, the birds drawing the chari )t 
 of the goddess. It is Venus herself who is supposed lo 
 seal love's bonds. Dr. Johnson gives an erroneous inter 
 protation of the passage. 
 
 " The scarfed larlc p'its from her native hau 
 Scarfed, decorated with flags. 
 
 "'' A Gentile, and )W Jew. 
 
 A play upon words, gentle, i.e., gentleman, being fre- 
 quently written gentile. "The d.ay drew on, and the getu- 
 tiles were come, and all was in aredinesse, and still Jack 
 forgat not the pie, but stood faintly sickc, and refused bis 
 meate," Armin's Nest of Ninnies, 1608. 
 
 ^^ To rib her cerecloth, in th.e obscure grave. 
 Sih, to enclose as with ribs. 
 
 '= G-ilded tombs do worms infold. 
 
 All the old copies read, gihled timber. Tit. Johnson 
 made the correction, which is supported by a passage in 
 the 101st sonnet. There is a similar thought in Sylvester's 
 Du Bartas, — 
 
 -stately tombs, externly gilt and garnisht, 
 
 With dust and bones inwardly filled and furnisht. 
 
 58 1 reasoned with a Frenchman yesterday. 
 
 Reason'd, discoursed. Florio translates, rffi^/onnrf!, -'to 
 reason, to discourse, to speake, to t,alke, to parlie." Not 
 World of Words, 1611. 
 
 5* Let it not enter in your mind of love. 
 
 Tour mind of lore, in the phraseology of the time, is 
 equivalent to, your loving mind. So, in Measure for Mea- 
 sure, p. 156, — 
 
 Yet hath he in him such a mind of honour. 
 
 w By the fool multitude. 
 
 By, in old writers, is frequently, as in this place, syno- 
 nymous with of. " Any simple juilgcmcnt might easily 
 perceive by whom it was meant, that is, by lady Elizabeth, 
 Quecno of England," Puttenham's ,\rte of English Poesic, 
 1589. Force, power. Jump icith, agree with, act the 
 same with. 
 
 68 There befools alive, /wis. 
 
 I wis, in medieval English, is an adverb, meaning, mt 
 tainly, undoubtedly, from the Anglo-Saxon ge-wli ; but 
 this sense of the word was lost in Shakespeare's time, 
 when it had come to bo regarded as a pronoun and verb, 
 / knmv. Mr. Dyce prints the medieval form i-u>is in his 
 edition of Middlcton's Michaelmas Tcrme, 1607 but. 1 
 thiidi, quite erroneously. 
 
 '•' Hanging and wiving go by destiny. 
 
 In the first folio Shakespeare, the present and plural 
 tenses are often wrongly employed, though no doubt faith- 
 fully copied from the poet's nmmiscript, the griunuiatical 
 usage of tne tluio admitting such license. But the cditoj
 
 KOTES TO THE MERCHANT OF 'NTINICE. 
 
 hnve, by genorivl consent, vcntureJ to iiltcr n plirascolofry 
 which would oll'end modern cnrs. Tlic old editions lierc 
 r(<id, "goes by destiny." Thia proverb \a alluded to in 
 U adibrus, — 
 
 Ifmatriniony and hanging ^o 
 
 By dest'ny, why not whi[)ping^ too ? 
 
 Whiit mod'eino else can cure the fits 
 
 Of lovers, when they lose their wits i 
 
 Lovo is a boy by poets stylM ; 
 
 Then spare the rod, and spoil the child. 
 
 " Jle hringeth sensible regreets. 
 
 Rtgreets, fresh salutations, greetings. 
 
 Yet ere myself could reach Virginia's chamber, 
 Cue was before me with regreets from him. 
 
 Weister's Worts, ed. Dyce, ii. 186. 
 
 " As ever knapped ginger. 
 
 Knap, to break oil' short. Cotgrave has "Breuste for 
 brouste, broused, or knapp'd off." 
 
 Knap the thread, and thou art free ; 
 ' But t is otherwise with me. 
 
 Uerrich''! Works, i, 179. 
 
 "" Why, then, loss vpon loss. 
 
 Mr. Collier seems to have felt the improb.ibility of the 
 ordinary reading, but neither he, nor any of the editoi's, 
 observes that the second folio supplies the above plausible 
 correction. 
 
 " It was my turqvoiee. 
 
 The turquoise was formerly much valued, it being sup- 
 nosed to change colour when its owner was in bad health. 
 '* Turcois," says Swan, Ki35, " is a compassionate stone ; 
 if tlie wearer of it be not well, it changcth colour, and 
 lookcth piUo and dim ; but increaseth to his pcrfectnesse, 
 as the wearer recovcrcth to his health." Compare, also, 
 Cartwright, — 
 
 Or faithful turquoises, which heaven sent 
 For a discovery, not a punishment/; 
 To shew the ill, not nialie it, and to tell. 
 By their pale looks, the bearer was not well. 
 
 It is a fine trait in Shylock'a character when, in the midst 
 of his feelings of avarice and revenge, he exhibits nimself 
 susceptible of the power of a love reminiscence. 
 
 " They Tiaiie fei'look'd me. 
 
 Overlooked, as by a witch. See note WS o the Merry 
 Wicei of Windsor. 
 
 '3 Lit fortune go to hell for it, — not I. 
 
 ilie meaning is, says Heath, " If the worst I fear should 
 happen, and it should prove in the event, that 1, who am 
 justly yours by the free donation I have made you of ray- 
 Bclf, should yet not be yours in consequence of an unlucky 
 choice, let fortune go to hell for robbing you of your just 
 duo, not I for v'olating my oath." 
 
 Peize^ to weigh. See Minsheu, in v. 
 
 " To eh it. 
 
 TliC editors have not remarked that the folio reads ich, 
 and tlie cpiarto eck, which thuut'li possibly misprints hero, 
 are genuine archaic fciruis. £c!ie, I'rom the A.S. fVan., is 
 founil in medieval English; ami kh,to eko out, is giver 
 by Kennett in .MS. Lansd. lO.'SS, as a provincialism. 
 
 '^ With no hss prese'.ce. 
 
 Meaning, as Dr. Johnson observes, "with the flame dig- 
 nity of mien." 
 
 Fancy, love. Gracious, p.easing. Approve, justify, to 
 approve of. 
 
 "' As stairs of sand. 
 
 The orthography, or, rather, oacography of the first folio, 
 is not very puzzling even to those quite unaccustomed to 
 the perusal of old books ; but occasionally a word occurs 
 which may create a doubt to tliis class of readers. The 
 original hero reads stayers, a very common old spelling of 
 the modem word stairs, but adopted by Mr. Knight, with 
 an extraordinary specimen of criticism, which scarcely re- 
 quired the lengthened refutation of Mr. Dyee. See his 
 Remarks, p. 66. 
 
 Extrement, hair or beard. 
 
 " Looh on beauty. 
 
 Seauty here alludes to artificial beauty, the result cf 
 painting, and the comparison is afterwards carried on with 
 the "supposed fairness" of false hair. Those are "lightest" 
 of character that " wear most of it," i.e., the painting or 
 ceruse. 
 
 Tlie lines which follow contain a happy satire on the 
 custom of wearing periwigs, which had become so ex- 
 tremely fashionable about the year l.'JSo, hoih with laditS 
 and gentlemen, that children were often decoyed away and 
 deprived of their hair for the purposes of the m.inufacture. 
 Kich, in his Honestie of this Age, 16U, complains of 
 women going to church, "so be-paynted, so be-periwigd, 
 so bc-poudred, so be-pcrfumed, so be-starched, so be-laced, 
 and so bee-imbroidered." It appears from the English 
 Ape, 15S8, that periwigs were to be had of all colours. 
 
 " Thus ornament is but a guiled shore. 
 
 Gulled, deceiving, deceitful. It is merely one instance 
 amidst the many in Elizabethan writers, of the passive 
 participle being used for the active. It is, by a iacile li- 
 cense, rendered, in many cases, equiv.alent to the adjective 
 from the same root. We have had a similar instance in 
 Measure for Measure. See Notes, No. 99. 
 
 The reader's attention to this and other grammatical 
 idioms of Shakespeare's time is earnestly requested. An 
 acquaintance with them will enable him to understtind the 
 full signification of numerous passages, which appear at 
 first sight to be harsh and difficult. It must be recollected 
 that these variations, which would now be considered 
 grammatically incorrect, are found in the best writers con- 
 temporary with the poet ; yet so little are tliey generally 
 understood, that a fierce controversy has lately raged in a 
 literary periodical on the meaning of one of them, in which 
 the depths of philosophy have been searched for the illus- 
 tration of a passage, an explanation of which a very slight 
 
 397
 
 NOTES TO THE MERCUANT OF VENICE. 
 
 knowledge of Eliziibctliaa grammar would have immedi- 
 alely furnislied. 
 
 «» Itiir Portia^s counUffeit. 
 
 Countd-feit, portrait. " If a painter were to drawe anie 
 Ot their counUr/tU on a table, he needes no more but wet 
 his pencill, and dab it on their cheekes," Nash's Pierce 
 Penilesse, 15;I2. 
 
 '0 And l^iave iUelf unfurnislC d. 
 
 That is, says llalone, leave itself incomplete, unaccom- 
 panied with the other usual component parts of a por- 
 Irsiit. 
 
 The Iiint for this passage, observes Steevens, appears to 
 have been taken from Greene's History of Faire Bellora, 
 afterwards publislied under the title of A Paire of Turtle 
 Doves, or the Tragicidl History of Bellora and Fidelio, " If 
 Apelles had beeue tusked to have drawne her counterfeit, 
 her two bright-burning lampes would have so dazled liis 
 quicke-seeing sences, that quite dispairing to expresse 
 with his cuur.iDg pensill so admirable a worke of nature, 
 he iiad been inforced to have staid his hand, and k/t this 
 earthly Venus unjir.Uhid '' 
 
 "' For intermission. 
 Intermission, delay, dilatoriness. 
 
 *- How doth that royal jnercliant. 
 
 A royal mercliant was, properly, one who was employed 
 by a sovereign in any mercantile transactions. Beaumont 
 and Fletcher's Beggars' Busii was altered under the title 
 of the Koyal Merchant, 4to. n. d., but printed about t!ie 
 jear 1706. 
 
 "^ We are the Jasons, tee have won Ihejleece, 
 
 Douce says the meaning is, '' Antonio, 'with his aryosie, 
 is not tlie successful Jason ; we are the persons who have 
 won the fleece." Constant, serious; a sense of the word 
 which again occurs in TiDelfth Night. 
 
 " If it le denied. 
 
 Kit refers to commcdity, the sense will bo as ilr. Collier 
 gives it: — "if the commodity, or advantage, which stran- 
 gers enjoy in Venice be denied, that denial will much im- 
 peach the justice of the st.ate, which derives its profits from 
 all nations." The repetition, however, of the verb dtny 
 would almost prove tliat it refers to the course o/law ; and 
 Capell proposes to read, 'TwUl m-uch imjieach. 
 
 " Tlie hoscm Inter of my lard. 
 
 later is here, as in several other places, used in the 
 (cnso o( friend. 
 
 " With imagin'd speed. 
 Thi'it if, speed swift as imaginatiqn. 
 
 " Unto the traject. 
 
 Tho Onl copies read tranect, which is probably a corrup- 
 r.98 
 
 tion. "Tliej-e are in Venice thirteen ferries or passazcs, 
 wliich they commonly call traghetti, where passengers may 
 be transported in a gondola to what place of tlie city tliey 
 will," Coryat's Crudities, IGll, p. 163. It must, however 
 be admitted that the original reading may be hupporttc' 
 by the Italian trandre. 
 
 '8 I could not do witha.ll. 
 
 A phr,ise equivalent to, I could not help it. "If li' 
 beare displeasure agaynst me, I can nat do withall, Sii 
 indigne contre nioyje nenpnls mays,^'' Palsgrave, 1530. 
 
 '" I fear you. 
 
 That is, I fear for you. The particle for was ofte 
 omitted after the verb. " What doth her beauty serve. 
 Romeo and Juliet. 
 
 80 Wlien I shun ScylUu 
 
 In the fifth book of the heroic poem of Ale.xandreis, by 
 Philip Gaultier, Darius (who escaping from Alexander, fell 
 into the hands of Bessus,) is thus apostrophized : 
 
 Nactus equum Darius, rorantia cjedc suorum 
 Eetrogrado fugit arva gradu. Quo tendis inertem 
 Hex periture fugam ? nescis, heu ! perdite, nescis 
 Quem fiigias, hostes incurris dum iugis hostem : 
 Jncidis in Scyllani, cupiens vitare Churibdim. 
 Bessus, Narzabaues, rerum pars magna tuarum, 
 Quos inter proceres humili de plebe locasti, 
 Is'on vcriti temerare fidem, capitisque verendi 
 Perdcre caniciem, spreto moderamme juris, 
 Proh dolor! in domini conjurant fata clicntes. 
 
 81 Jlow his words are suited ! 
 
 Suited, fitted, arranged. Perhaps this is also tlie better 
 explanation of the term in Much Ado about Nothing, v. 1. 
 though more is implied. See Notes to that play, No. ftj. 
 
 " Enter the Duke , the Magnifcoes. 
 
 Magnificoes was a term applied to the grandees ol 
 Venice. " Magnifco, nobly-minded ; magnificent ; also, 
 a magniaeo of Venice," Florio's New 'World of Words, 
 IGU, p. 2'J5. 
 
 83 Out of his envy^s reach. 
 
 Envy, malice ; ill will. So, in an early MS. in the Cair.- 
 bridge Public Library, — 
 
 There he had grete chyvalry ; 
 
 He slewc his enemys with grete envy. 
 
 Eemarse, pity. Where, whereas. 
 
 8< Some men there are, love not a gaping pig, 
 
 A great deal has been written on this enumeration ol 
 antipathies, and many parallel passages may be adduce^i 
 from old writers. The following occurs in a curious iiiiMii: 
 script, the Ncwe Metamorphosis, 1600. 
 
 I knewe the like by one that nould endure 
 To sec a goose come to the table sure ; 
 Some cannot hrooke to se a custarde there. 
 Some of a cheese doe ever stand in fcarc ; 
 And I knowe one if she tobacco sec, 
 Or smels the same, she swoones imediatftljl :
 
 NOTES TO THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 The like of roses I li»ve heard somo tell, 
 Toucli but tlio skyn iiud nresciitly 't will swell, 
 And t^rovvo to blisters; tfie rcaaon it is this, 
 Twixt llioin and tliese there 's BUeh autithesis. 
 
 Soaligor mentions an antipathy lilce that noticed of the 
 bagpipe, and a similar one is alluded to in liraithwnit's 
 Rtnippado lor tlio Divell, 1615, p. 94. I find it also at a 
 much earlier period, 1530, iu l'al»{,'r!ive. Table of Vcrbes, 
 f. 270. Compare Ben Jonson's Eiiery Man in his Humour, 
 Works, i. 102. I follow Mr. Knight's excellent punctua- 
 tio'.: • f this speech, which had, however, been long ago 
 suggested by Malone. Supplement, 1780, i. 124. Mr. 
 Collier places a colon at affection, and reads, — 
 
 Masters of passion sway it to the mood, 
 
 where tlio meaning of the passage would be, not as Mr. 
 Collier intorfirets it, but that even those who are masters 
 of their inclination find it expedient to '*sway" it in some 
 degree to its natural bent. 
 
 »' Why Tie, a woollen bagpipe. 
 
 According to Dr. Leyden, the Lowland bagpipe com- 
 monly had the bag or sack covered with woollen cloth of a 
 green colour, a practice which also prevailed in the North 
 of England. 
 
 fifl Tou stand within his danger. 
 
 Th.at is, in his debt ; and hence the proverb, " Out of 
 debt, out of danger." The expression occurs in Massin- 
 got's Fatall Dowry, 4to. 1632,^ 
 
 That to be in your danger, with more care 
 Should be avoyded then infectious ayre. 
 
 And in an old ballad, — 
 
 Gentle wife, I tell thee 
 
 My very heart is done ; 
 The worlti's great ealamitie 
 
 No way can I shunne. 
 For still in debt and danger 
 
 More and more I runne. 
 
 6' Malice bears down truth. 
 
 Truth, honesty. As Dr. Johnson observes, a true man, 
 in old language, is an honest man. The jury are still called 
 good men and true. 
 
 86 Are there balance here. 
 
 We should now say balances, but the text is right. 
 *''When al trades perisli, he may turne shop-keeper, and 
 deal with ballnnce, for in weights and measures none is 
 more deceitful' " Slephens' Essayes and Characters, 1615. 
 
 s' The stoch of Barrabai. 
 
 The Barabbas of the Scriptures is altered to Earrabas by 
 Marlowe and Shakespeare, and the error cannot be cor- 
 rected without injury to the metre. 
 
 •1 If thou dost shed one drop. 
 
 This incident continued popular to a very recent period, 
 and is introduced in the street ballad of the Northern Lord, 
 which is evidently of considerable antiquity. I believe 
 this ballad is still circulated in the broadsides and chap- 
 
 books of the North, and in my own collection of such 
 " unconsidered trifles," are preserved one printed w'thin 
 the last twenty years, and another about a century oiJ- 
 the latter being the earliest copy that lias been yet rii:. 
 covered. The story of the Northern Lord consists of tli( 
 boncl incident of this play, an<l the wagor incident of Cyni 
 heline, amalgamated into one tale ; and, as the reader may 
 be amused at the form tlie Merchant of Venice h.as tak(!;i ir 
 the hands of the balladist, an extract from that jiorlion f i 
 it which relates to the Jew may not be unacceptable :- 
 
 A noble lord of high renown. 
 Two daughters had, — the eldest brown, 
 The youngest, beautiful and fair, 
 By chance a noble knight came tlicro. 
 
 Her father said, kind sir, I have 
 Two daughters ; which do you crave ? 
 One that is beautiful, he cry'd. 
 The noblo knight he then rcply'd. 
 
 She 's young, she 's beautiful and gay, 
 And is not to be given away. 
 But as jewels are nought and sold. 
 She shall bring me her weight in gold. 
 
 The price I think I need not grudge. 
 Since 1 will freely give as much 
 With her one sister, if I can 
 Find out some other nobleman. 
 
 With that bespoke the noble knight, 
 I 'd sooner have the beauty bright, 
 At that vast rate, renowned lord. 
 Than the other with a vast reward. 
 
 So then the bargain it was made. 
 But ere the money could be paid, 
 He had it off a wealthy Jew, 
 The sum so large, they writings drew 
 
 That if he fail'd, or miss'd the day, 
 So many ounces he must pay. 
 Of his own flesh, instead of gold ; 
 All was agreed, the sum was told. 
 
 So he return'd immediately. 
 Unto the lord, where he did buy 
 His daughter line, 1 do declare. 
 And paid him down the money there. 
 
 He bought her too, it was well known. 
 Unto mankind she was his own ; 
 By her a son lie did enjoy, 
 A sweet and comely handsome boy. 
 
 At length the time of pay drew near, 
 W'hen the knight did begin to fear, 
 He dreaded much the cruel Jew, 
 Because the money it was due. 
 
 His lady ask'd him why he gricv'd. 
 He said, my jewel, I receiv'd 
 Such a sum of money of a Jew, 
 And now the money it is due. 
 
 And now the day of payment 's como, 
 I 'm sure I cannot raise the sum, 
 He '11 have my flesh, weight for weight, 
 Which makes my grief and sorrow great. 
 
 Hush ! never fear him, she reply'd, 
 We 'U cross the raging ocean wide^ 
 And so secure you from the fate : 
 To her request he yielded straight. 
 
 The Dutch lord to revenge his B{ite, 
 Upon our noble Engli.^h knight. 
 Did send a letter out of hand. 
 And so the Jew did understand 
 
 399
 
 ■ NOTES TO THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 
 
 How lie was in tlie German court, 
 So liere upon this good report ; 
 The Jew lie cross'd the ocean wide, 
 Resolving to be satisfy'd. 
 
 Soon as e'er he fix'd his eyes 
 Upon tlie kniglit, in wrath he cries, 
 Your ha!id and seal I pray behold, 
 Vour flesh 1 '11 have instead of gold. 
 
 Then said the noble knight in green, 
 Sir, may your articles be seen ? 
 Yes, dat tliey may, reply'd the Jew, 
 And I resolve to have my due. 
 
 Lo ! then the knight began to read, 
 At length she said, 1 find indeed. 
 Nothing but flesh you are to have ; 
 Answers the Jew, tliat 's all I crave. 
 
 The poor distressed knight was brought, 
 Tlie bloody-minded Jew he thought. 
 That day to be revenged on him. 
 And part his flesh from ev'ry limb. 
 
 The knight in green, said, Mr. Jew, 
 There 's nothing else but flesh your due. 
 But see no drop of blood you shed, 
 For if you do, off goes your head! 
 
 Pray take your due, with all my heart. 
 But with his blood we will not part ; 
 With that the Jew he sneak'd away, 
 And had not one more word to say. 
 
 ** Jam content. 
 
 Antonio means to say that if the duke will remit the fine 
 of half Shylock's goods coming to the state, ho will only 
 tOtain a life interest in the other half. 
 
 <« Thou shovlcCst have had ten mere. 
 
 This was an old joke, alluding to a jury. A character 
 in BuUeyn's Dialogue, 1564, says, " Maistres, it is nierio 
 when knaves are mette ; I did see hym ones aske a blcss- 
 yng to .\ij. godfathers at once." Compare, also, Randolph's 
 Muses Looking-glasse, 163S, — "I had rather zee him re- 
 mitted to the jail, and have his twelve godvathers, good 
 men and true, contemn him to the gallows, and there see 
 him fairly prosecuted." 
 
 *3 J/y lord Baseanw^ vporu jnore advke. 
 
 Advice, consideration, reflection. See notes to the Two 
 Gentlemen of Verona, no. 57. 
 
 " ir« shall have oVl swearing. 
 
 Old, as a common augmentative, has been already no- 
 ticed in the Merry Wites of Windsor, notes no. 55. 
 
 •JO iSlo^d Dido with a willow in her hand. 
 
 This pafisi,je has oecn produced to exhibit the poet's 
 want of classical knowledge ; but tlic imago nuiy bo merely 
 fanciful, or, if not, taken from some old play or ballad on 
 the subject of Dido. 
 
 •' In such a ni'jht Medea, (tc. 
 
 Thus it befell upon a night 
 Whiinn there was nougiit but stcrrc light, 
 4011 
 
 She was vanished right as hir list, 
 That no wight but herself wist: 
 And that was at midnight tide, 
 The world was still on every side, ite. 
 
 Co7)fessio Amantis, 1554. (Steeyems.) 
 
 " With his horn full of good netcs. 
 
 An early allusion to the letter-carrier's horn, a represen- 
 tation of which may be occasionally seen in paper-niarka 
 of the seventeenth century. 
 
 »8 With patens of bright gold. 
 
 The paten was, properly, a small plate used in the cele- 
 bration of the Sacrament. The term is hero used in a 
 more general sense for a plate. Cheruhins is of course in- 
 correct, but is so written in the original, and occurs in that 
 form in the works of other poets. 
 
 " Nothing U good, I see, without rcpect. 
 
 Not .ibsolutely good, but relatively good, ba it is modified 
 by circumstances. Johnson. 
 
 loo Sow the -moon sleeps with Endyrnion, 
 
 JIow, as Dr. Johnson observes. Is here used as a mere 
 affirmation. 
 
 101 A tuchet sounds. 
 
 A tuc'Lrct is a slight flourish on the trumpet. Conipare 
 the Spanish Tr.igedy, ap. Hawkins, ii. 11. 
 
 !03 You should have been respective. 
 
 Beepective, respectful, regardful. " If any true courtly 
 dame had had but this new fashioned sute, why you should 
 have had her more respective by far," Sir Gyles Goose- 
 cappe, 1606. 
 
 '0= A little scrubbed boy. 
 
 Scrubbed, stunted. Coles translates it by squalidus, but 
 I scarcely think that is the meaning here. 
 
 104 If you did know to whom I gave tlie ring. 
 
 Jingling lines similar to those in this and the ne.xt speech, 
 no fewer than nine lines ending with the same word, »re 
 met with in other dramatists. Compare the following in 
 the Fayre Mayde of the Exchange, 1607,— 
 
 Ferd. I have a brother, rival in my lovo ; 
 I have a brother hates mo for my love ; 
 1 have a brother vows to win my love ; 
 Tliat brother, too, he hath inceiist my love. 
 To gain tlie beauty of my dearest love ; 
 AVliat liope remains, tlicn, to enjoy my love? 
 
 Anth. 1 am tliat brotlier rival in his love ; 
 I am lliat brotlier hates liiin Wyr his love; 
 Not his, but iniiic; and I will liave that lOve, 
 Or never live to see liiin kiss my love. 
 
 '05 Contain, to keep in, to retain. See Coles. ITelo. i." a 
 ceremony, says Dr. Johnson, " kept on an account in some 
 Bort religious." 
 
 100 Swear by your double Wt/". 
 Double, deceitf-u, full of duplicity.
 
 NOTES TO THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 "' 7 HI fear no otlier Ihing so sore. 
 
 Sore, irucli, preatly. Oliaolcte in this sense, but occur- 
 ring frcnucntly in tho Scriptures. See Miirlj, -xiv. 33, itc. 
 
 The Ballad of GEitNirrns. 
 
 Uur annotations on tlie Merchant of Venice will scarcely 
 bo complete without a copy of tliis ballad, which is founded 
 on the story of the Bond, and is generally supposed to 
 have been written previously to the appearance of Shakes- 
 peare's drama. Our great poet was so familiar with the 
 oallad literature of the time, that, if this is the case, it is 
 bv no means improbable that one or two circumstances in 
 the play were suggested by the ballad. Percy mentions 
 tne nicident of the Jew's wliettinij Ida knife, as one of these. 
 
 A new Song, aheicmy the Orueltie of Gemutus a Jcitv, 
 who, Undinff to a merchant an hundred croivnes, woutd have 
 u pound of hisjleslie, because he could not pat/ him at the time 
 ajipoint<:d. To the tune of ' Black a-nd YeliC-w.^ 
 
 T)if first Part. 
 
 In Vnni™ towne not long ivgoe 
 
 A cruel Jew did dwell. 
 Which lived all on usurie, 
 
 As Italian writers tell. 
 
 Gernutus called w.is the Jew, 
 
 Which never thought to dye, 
 Nor ever yet did any good 
 
 To them in streets that lie. 
 
 His life was like a barrow-hoggo, 
 
 That livctli many a day. 
 Yet novur once doth .iny good. 
 
 Until men will him biay : 
 
 Or like a filthy heap of dung. 
 
 That lyeth in a whaard, 
 Wliieh never can do any good. 
 
 Till it be spread abroad. 
 
 So fares it with the usurer. 
 
 He cannot sleep in rest, 
 For feare the thiefe will Inm pursue 
 
 To plueke him from his nest. 
 
 His heart doth thinke on many a wile 
 
 How to deceive the poore ; 
 nis mouth is almost ful of mucke, 
 
 Yet still he gnpes for more 
 
 His wife must lend a shilling, 
 
 For every weeke a penny, 
 Tet bring a pledge that is clouble worth. 
 
 If that you will have any. - 
 
 And see, likewise, you keepe your day, 
 
 Or else you loose it all ; 
 This was the living of the wife, 
 
 Her cow she did it eali. 
 
 Withm that citie dwelt that time 
 
 A marchant of great fame. 
 Which being distressed in his need. 
 
 Unto Gernutus came : 
 
 Desiring him to stand his friend 
 
 For twelvemonth and a day, 
 To lend to him an hundred crownes. 
 
 And he for it would pay 
 
 Whatsoever he would demand of him, 
 
 And pledges he should have: 
 No, (quoth the Jew with Hearing lookes), 
 
 Sir, aiik what you will have. 
 
 61 
 
 No penny for tho loune of it 
 
 For one year you shall pay : 
 You may doe mo as good u tunic 
 
 Before my dying day. 
 
 But we will have .i merry jcast. 
 
 For to bo talked long; 
 You shall make me a bond, quoth lio, 
 
 That sliall be large and stron™ : 
 
 And tills shall bo the forfeytnre, — 
 
 Of your owne fleshe a pound : 
 If you agree, make you tlie bond, 
 
 And here is a hundred crownes. 
 
 With right goodwill ! the marchant says, 
 
 And so the bond was niatlc : 
 When twelvemonth and a day drew on, 
 
 That b.icke it should be jwy'd. 
 
 The marchants ships were all at sea. 
 
 And money cnrac not in ; 
 Which way to take, or what to doo. 
 
 To thinke ho doth begin : 
 
 And to Gernutus strait he eometi. 
 
 With cap and bended kue-s, 
 And eaj'de to him, of curtesie, 
 
 1 pray you beare with meo. 
 
 My day is come and I have not 
 
 The money for to pay : 
 And little good the lor'fcytnre 
 
 Will doo you 1 dare say. 
 
 With nil my heart, Gernutus sayd, 
 
 (Jonimaund it to your niinde : 
 In thinges of bigger waight than tl: is 
 
 You shall mo reatly linde. 
 
 He goes hia way ; the day once prist, 
 
 Gernutus doth not slackc 
 To get a serjant prescnlly. 
 
 And clapt him on the backe : 
 
 And luyd him into prison strong, 
 
 And sued his bond witliall , 
 Auii when the judgement day \va:i ''naio. 
 
 For judgement he did call. 
 
 The marchant's friends enine t\uO 'f Jaal 
 
 With many a weeping eye, 
 For other means they could not Q»'d, 
 
 But he that daye must dyo. 
 
 The secojui Vart 
 
 Of the Jews cnieltie : setting foortk the merci' ^ilnesse of Uia 
 Judge towards the Marcliant. To tlie tune of ^ Jilack and 
 Yellotc: 
 
 Some offered for his hundred crowaefi 
 
 Five hundred for to pay ; 
 And some a thousand, two or three. 
 Yet still ho did denay. 
 
 And at the last ten thousand crownes 
 
 They ottered, him to save. 
 Gernutus sayd, I will no gold : 
 
 lly forfeyte 1 will have. 
 
 A pounde of fleshe is my demand. 
 
 And that shall be my hire ; 
 Then sayd the judge, yet, good my friend. 
 
 Let me of you desire 
 
 To take the flesh from such a plai-c. 
 
 As yet you let him live ; 
 Do so, and lo . an hundred crownes 
 
 To thee here will I give. 
 
 No : no : quctli he ; no : judgement here 
 
 For this it shall be tride. 
 Fur I will have my pound of ileshe 
 
 From under his right side. 
 
 401
 
 NOTES TO THE JIERCHANT OF VEISICE. 
 
 Jt gneved all tlie companie 
 
 His crucltie to Bee, 
 For neither friend nor foe could helpe 
 
 Bnt lie must Bpoyled bee. 
 
 Tlie bloudie Jew now ready is 
 Witli whetted blade in hand, 
 
 To spoyle the bloud of innocent 
 By forfeit of bis bond. 
 
 And as he was about to strike 
 
 In him the deadly blow ; 
 Stay (quoth the judge) thy crueltie; 
 
 Icharge thee to do so. 
 
 Situ needs tbou wilt thy forfeit liave, 
 
 Which is of flesh a pound : 
 See that thou slied no drop of bloud, 
 
 Nor yet tho man confound. 
 
 For if thou do, like murderer 
 
 Thou here shalt hanged be ; 
 Likewise of flesh see that thou cut 
 
 Is more than iouges to thee ; 
 
 For if thou take either more or lesse 
 
 To the value of a mite, 
 'J'hon shalt bo hanged presently, 
 
 As is both law and right. 
 
 uernutas now waxt franticke mad, 
 And wotes not wliat to say ; 
 
 Quoth he at last. Ten tbousani.' orownes 
 I will that he shaU pay ; 
 
 And so I graunt to set him froe. 
 
 The judge doth answer make, 
 You shall not have a penny given ; 
 
 Your forfeyture now take. 
 
 At the last he doth deniaund 
 
 But for to have his owne. 
 Ko, quoth the judge, doe as you list, 
 
 Thy judgement shall bo showno. 
 
 Either take your pound of flesh, quoth ho, 
 
 Or cancell me your bond. 
 O cruell judge, then quoth the Jew, 
 
 That doth against me stand. 
 
 And so with griping, grieved mind, 
 
 He biddeth them farewell. 
 Then all the people praysM the Lord, 
 
 That ever this heard tell. 
 
 Good people that doe beare this song, 
 
 For trueth I dare well saT 
 That many a wretch as ill as bee 
 
 Doth live now at this day ; 
 
 That seeketh nothing but the spoyls 
 
 Of many a wealthy man. 
 And for to trap the muocent 
 
 Devisetk what they can. 
 
 From whome the Lord deliver me, 
 
 And every Christiau too. 
 And send to them like sentonoo eke 
 
 That moaneth 80 t« do. 
 
 I:
 
 l0 ^^011 ITilic 3t. 
 
 A FANOIE'UL novel by Thomas Lodge, disfigured by the universal faults of old English no\elisls 
 piinted in the year 1590, nnder tlie title of, "Rosalynde; Euphues Golden Legacie, found after 
 his death in his cell at Silexedra," has the honour of being the original of Shakespeare's deliglifftil 
 and popular corned}', "As You Like It." In applying the terra "fanciful" to this early romance, the 
 reader must understand I allude only to the incidents of the tale. The manner in which the story is 
 related is tedious and pedantic ; and the style is insufferably affected. Ladies quote Latin, and all the 
 speeches are erected on stilts. 
 
 The faults, however, of Lodge's novel tend but to exhibit in brighter colours the genius of the 
 great author, who has adopted, in such a marvellous manner, every romantic touch that was worth 
 preservation, destroying all recollection of the prosy original by the brilliant e.xuberance of his own 
 imagination. The only redeeming features I can trace in Lodge are contained in some of the verses, 
 and a poem entitled " Rosalynd's Madrigall" is distinguished by gi-eat poetic sweetness. It commences 
 with the following lines : — 
 
 ^ Love in my bosom like a bee 
 
 Doth suck his sweet ; 
 Now with his wings he plays with me, 
 
 Now with his feet : 
 "Witiiin mine eyes he makes his nest, 
 His bed amidst my tender breast. 
 , lly kisses are his daily feast. 
 And yet he robs me of my rest. 
 Ah, wanton, will ye? 
 
 The reader will find some extracts from the prose of Lodge in the notes to this play, and it will 
 not be necessary to quote more from the novel in this place. SufHco it to say that Gerismond and 
 Torismond, the kings of France, answer to -Shakespeare's exiled duke, and the duke Frederick 
 Rosalind is transferred by name from the novel, but Celia was originally Alinda. They adopt, 
 hov.-ever, the same names when they are in the forest. Oliver, Jaques, and Orlando, are named 
 Salatlyne, Fernandyne, and Rosader, in the novel. The distribution of the property is different. In 
 the novel, the father bequeaths to his eldest son, fourteen ploughlands, with all his manors, houses, 
 auil richest plate; to his second son, twelve ploughlands; and to his youngest born, Rosader, he gives 
 his horse, his armour, and his lance, with sixteen ploughlands, " for," as ]ie says in his will, " if the 
 in'.vard thoughts be discovered by outward shadows, Rosader will exceed yon all in bounty and honour." 
 The elder brother resolves to defraud the younger, and afterwards seeki'>g bis life, the latter takw 
 
 403
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 refuge iu Arden. Shakespeare has deviated from the novel in many minor particulars, but the bioad 
 incidents of the tale are the same in both the romance and the drama. 
 
 Lodge found the leading circumstances of his novel in the " Cokes Tale of Gamelyn," a poem 
 composed in the fifteenth century, erroneously attributed to Chaucer. Although this production had 
 not appeared in print in Shakespeare's time, there seems no improbability in the supposition that lie 
 was acquainted with it, and Mr. Knight thinks he can trace some slight resemblances between thai 
 poem and "As You Like It," not to be found in Lodge's novel. The best edition of the tale of 
 Gamelya is contained in Mr. Wright's excellent edition of Chaucer, recently printed by -he I'ercy 
 Society. 
 
 The date of "As You Like It," may be assigned to 1600, or the following year. It is not 
 mentioned by Meres iu 1598, and Marlowe's Hero and Leandcr, which is quoted in the third act, was 
 not published tih that year, although written, of coui'se, long before. An entry of the play occurs on 
 the Registers of the Stationers' Company among some books "to be staled." No date is given, but it 
 was between the years 1600 and 1603, and probably iu 1600 or 1001, all the plays mentioned with it 
 having been printed in those years. There is an allusion in the play itself, which would seem to prove 
 that it was written before 1603. "When Rosalind says, "I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the 
 fountain," she is supposed to allude to an image of that goddess which was set un at a conduit in 
 Cheap in 1596, and "water convayd from the Thames prilling from her naked brea^o for a time, but 
 now decaied.^' This extract is taken from the edition of Stowe's Survey of London, which appeared at 
 London in 1G03, p. 269, 4to. 
 
 There was a tradition current at the commencement of the last century, that Shakespeare per- 
 formed the character of Adam in the following comedy. "One of Shakespeare's younger brothers," 
 Bays Oldys, " wlio lived to a good old age, even some years, as I compute, after the restoration of King 
 Charles II., would in his younger days come to London to visit his brother Will, as he called liiiii, 
 and be a spectator of him as an actor in some of his own plays. This custom, as his brother's fame 
 enlarged, and his dramatick entertainments grew the greatest support of our principal, if not of all oiu' 
 tlieatres, he continued, it seems, so long after his brother's death, as even to the latter end of his own 
 life. The curiosity at this time of the most noted actors to learn something from liiin of his brother, 
 (fee, they justly held him in the highest veneration. And it may be well believed, as there was besi.les 
 a kinsman and descendant of the family, v/ho was then a celebrated actor among them, this opportu- 
 nity made them greedily inquisitive into every little circumstance, more especially in his dramatick 
 character, which his brother could relate of him. But he. it seems, was so stricken in yeare, and 
 possibly his memory so weakened with infirmities (which might make him the easier pass for a man 
 of weak intellects), that he could give them but little light into their enquiries ; and all that could be 
 recollected fi'om him of his brother Will in that station was, the faint, general, and almost lost ideab 
 he had of having once seen him act a part in one of his own comedies, wherein being to personate a 
 decrepit old man, he wore a long beard, and appeared so weak and drooping and unable to walk, that 
 he was forced to be supported and carried by another person to a table, at which he was seated among 
 some company who were eating, aiKl one of thera sung a song." This account contains several dis- 
 crepancies, but there may be a glimmering of truth in it, and, at all events, it must be recollected that 
 Oldys wrote before the era of Shakespearian forgeries had commenced. 
 
 Rosalind, in the Epilogue, charges the women, " for the love you bear to men, to like as inurh of 
 this play as please you." This appears to be the only clue to the title adopted by Shakespeare. ' Ai 
 You Like It" was formerly a sort of proverb, and is mentioned as a motto by Braithwaite, — 
 
 A shop neighbouring near lacco, 
 ^Vllcre Young vends liis olil tobacco; 
 yls you like it sometimea sealed. 
 Which impression e since repealed. 
 
 The proverbial title of the play implies in it-solf that freedom of thought and indifTercnco to cen- 
 sure which characterizes the sayings and doings of most of the actors in 'Jiis coined}- of human nature 
 404
 
 AH YOU LIKE n 
 
 ID a forest,. Though said to be oftcner read than any other of Sliakespeare's plays, "As You Like It" 
 is certainly less fascinating than several of his other comedies. The dramatist has presented us with a 
 pastoral comedy, the characters of which, instead of belonging to an i<.lcal pastoral age, are true copies 
 of what natm-o would produce under similar conditions. The character of Jaques has been erroneously 
 considered by all the critics. I regard him as a severe typo of a dissipated man, naturally amiable, 
 removed from the .sphere of vicious attractions, and, left to his own reflections, of course dissatisfied 
 vnth the woi'ld and with himself. It must, however, be admitted there is an ascetic impression 
 induced, and notwithstanding the nice varieties of character, most readoi's will probably admit that tlie 
 vanity of active life has been the chief object of illustration. The poet has relieved the development 
 of a melancholy subject and an insignificant story, by the introduction of a more than usual number of 
 really individual subordinate characters. Even Rosalind, that beautifid but wilful representation of 
 woman's passion, is not an important accessary to the moral purpose of the comedy ; and t!ie otliei 
 eharacters, however gi'acefiilly delineated, are not amalgamated into an artistic action with '.hat full 
 pownr. whicii overwhelms u-s with astonishment in the grander eflbrts of Shakespeare's genius. 
 
 405
 
 r"- 
 
 PEESONS EEPEESENTED. 
 
 Duke, living in exile. 
 Appears, Act II. bc. 1 ; bc. 7. Act V. sc. 4. 
 
 Frederick, brother to the Duke, and usurper of 
 
 his dominions. 
 Appears, Act I. bo. 2; so. 3. Act II. sc. 2. Act III. so. 1. 
 
 Ajjiens, a lord attending upon the Diik(? in his 
 
 lanishment. 
 
 Appears, Act II. sc. 1 ; sc. 5 ; ao. 7. Act V. BC. 4. 
 
 Jaques, o lord attending upon the Duke in his 
 
 banishment. 
 
 Appears, Act II. so. 5; so. 7. Act III. sc. 2; so. 8. Act 
 
 IV. BC 1 ; sc. 2. Act V. sc. 4. 
 
 Le Beau, a courtier attending upon Frederick. 
 Appears, Act I sc. 2. 
 
 Charles, wrestler lo Frederick. 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1 ; sc. 2. 
 
 Olfv-eb, son of Sir Rowland de Bois. 
 
 Appears, Act I. so. 1. Act III. sc. 1. Act IV. eo. 8. 
 Act V. sc. 2 ; so. 4. 
 
 Jacjuej, son of Sir Rowland de Bois. 
 Appears, Act V. sc. 4. 
 
 Orlando, son of Sir Rowland de Bois. 
 
 Appears, Act I 80. 1 ; so. 2. Act II. so. 8; sc. 6; sc. 7. 
 
 Act III. BC. 2. Act IV. so. 1. Act V. so. 2 ; sc. 4. 
 
 Adam, servant to Oliver. 
 Appears, Act I. so. 1. Act II. so. 3 ; bc 6 j bc. 7. 
 
 Dennis, servant to Oliver. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1. 
 
 Touchstone, a clown. 
 
 Appears, Act I. so. 2. Act II. so. 4. Act III. sc 2 ; so. 3. 
 Act V. so. 1 ; so. 3; so. 4. 
 406 
 
 Sm Olfver Martext, o vicar. 
 Appears, Act III. so. 8. 
 
 CoRiN, a shepherd. 
 
 n, Act II. sc. 4. Act III. sc. 2 ; sc. 4 ; -c. •'. 
 Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 SiLvius, a shepherd. 
 
 Appears, Act II. so. 4. Act III. so. 5. AA IV. so i 
 Act V. sc. 2 ; BC. 4. 
 
 William, a country fellow, in love with Audri--\ 
 Appears, Act V. so. 1. 
 
 Tieo Pages attendant on the exiled Duke. 
 Appear, Act V. sc. 3. 
 
 A person representing H}'inen. 
 Appears, Act V. sc. 4. 
 
 Rosalind, daughter to the banished Duke. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 2; so. 8. Act 11. sc. 4. Act III. so 2 
 so. 4 ; sc. 6. Act IV. bc 1 ; sc. 8. Act V. sc. 2 ; sc. 4. 
 
 Celia, daughter to Frederick. 
 
 Appears, Act I. so. 2; bc. 8. Act II. sc. 4. Act III. sc. 2 
 BC 4; BC 5. Act IV. bc. 1 ; sc. 8. Act V. sc 4. 
 
 Phebe, a shepherdess. 
 Appears, Act III. bo. 6. Act V. sc 2 ; sc. 4. 
 
 AuDREr, a country wench. 
 Appeare, Act III. so. 3. Act V. so. 1 ; sc. 3 ; sc. 4. 
 
 SCENE, — First, near Oliver's House ; afteh' 
 
 IVAIVDS, PARTLY IN THE UsURPEu's CoURT, AND 
 PARTLY IN TUB FoRF.ST OF ArDEN.
 
 Is 
 
 ACT 1. 
 
 SCENE I. — An orchard near Oliver's house. 
 
 Enter Orlando and Adam. 
 
 Orl. As I remember, Adam, it was upon this 
 fashion bequeathed mc by will, but a poor thou- 
 sand crowTis ;' and, as thou say'st, charged my 
 brother, on his blessing, to breed me well : and 
 thera begins my sadness. My brother Jaques he 
 keeps at school, and report speaks goldenly of his 
 profit : for my part, he keeps me rustically at 
 home, or, to speak more properly, stays me here at 
 home unkept. For call you that keeping for a 
 gentleman of my birth, that differs not from the 
 stalling of an ox ? Dis horses are bred better ; 
 for, besides that they are fair with their feeding, 
 they are taught their manage, and to that end 
 ridere dearly hir'd : but I, his brother, gain nothing 
 under him but growth ; for the which his animals 
 on his dunghills are as much bound to him as I. 
 Besides this nothing that he so plentifully gives 
 me, the something that nature gave me his coun- 
 tenance seems to take from me :' he lets me feed 
 with his hinds, bars me the place of a brother, and, 
 as much as in him lies, mines my gentility with 
 iny education. This is it, Adam, that grieves 
 me ; and the spirit of my father, which I think is 
 within me, begins to mutiny against this servitude. 
 I will no longer endure it, though yet I know no 
 wisQ remedy how to avoid it. 
 
 Adam. Yonder comes my master, your brother. 
 Orl. Go apart, Adam, and tho'd snait hear how 
 he will shake me up. 
 
 Enter Oliver. 
 
 on. Now, sir ! what make you here ? 
 
 Orl. Nothing : I am not taught to make anything. 
 
 Oil. What mar you then, sir ? 
 
 Orl. Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar that 
 which God made, a poor unworthy brother of 
 yours, with idleness. 
 
 OIL Many, sir, be better employed, and be 
 naught awhile !' 
 
 Orl. Shall I keep your hogs, and eat husks with 
 them ? What prodigal portion have I spent, that 
 I should come to such penury ? 
 
 Oli. Know you where you are, sir ? 
 
 Orl. O, sir, very well : here, in your orchard. 
 
 OIL Know you before whom, sir ? 
 
 Orl. Ay, better than him I am before knows 
 me. I know you are my eldest brother ; and, in 
 the gentle condition of blood, you should so know 
 me. The courtesy of nations allows you my better, 
 in that you are the first-born ; but the same tradi- 
 tion takes not away my blood, were there twenty 
 brothers betwixt us. I have .as much of my father 
 in me, as you ; albeit, I confess, yom- coming before 
 me is nearer to his reverence. 
 
 OIL What, boy ! 
 
 Orl. Come, come, elder brother, you are loo 
 young in this. 
 
 •J07
 
 Ai.n I. 
 
 AS YOU LUvE IT. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 OIL Wilt thou lay bands on me, villain ? 
 
 Orl. I am no \'illain :'' I am the youngest son 
 of sir Kowiand de Bois ; he was my father, and he 
 is thrice a villain that says such a father begot 
 villains! Wert thou not my brother, I would not 
 take this hand from thy throat, till this other had 
 pulled out thy tongue for saying so ; thou hast 
 rail d on thyself. 
 
 Adam. Sweet masters, be patient ; for your 
 father's remembrance, be at accord. 
 
 on. Let me go, I say. 
 
 Orl. I will not, till I please ; you shall hear me. 
 My father chargVl you in his will to give me good 
 education : you have traiu'd me like a peasant, 
 obscuring and hiding from me all gentleman-like 
 qualities : the spirit of my father grows strong in 
 me, and I will no longer endure it : therefore, allow 
 mo such exercises as may become a gentleman, or 
 give me the poor allottery my father left me by 
 testament ; with that I will go buy my fortunes. 
 
 OH. And what wilt thou do ? beg, when that is 
 spent ? Well, sir, get you in : I will not long be 
 'loubled with you : you shall have some part of 
 vour will ; I pray you, leave me. 
 
 Orl. I will no further ofl'end you than becomes 
 'jie for my good. 
 
 on. Get you with him, you old dog. 
 
 Adam. Is old dog my reward ? Most true, I have 
 
 '.ost my teeth in your serrice. — God be with my 
 
 old master ! he would not have spoke such a word. 
 
 [I^xeunt Orlando and Adam. 
 
 Oil. Is it even so ? begin you to grow upon 
 me ? I will physic your rankness, and yet give 
 :.o thousand crowns neither. Ilclla iJeijis ' 
 
 Enter Dennis. 
 
 JJen. Calls your worship ? 
 
 OU. Was not Charles, thi duke',? wrestler, here 
 to speak with me ? 
 
 Den. So please you, he is here at the door, and 
 importunes .access to you. 
 
 OH. Call him in. [Exit Dennis.] — 'T will be 
 a good wiy ; ?nd to-morrow the wi-estling is. 
 
 Enter Ciiaisles. 
 
 aha. (jooJ morrow to your worshiji. 
 
 Oh, Good monsieur Charles !- -what 's the new 
 news at the new court ? 
 
 Cha. There 's no news at tlie court, sir, but the 
 old news : that is, tiie old duko '.& banished by his 
 younger brother, the new duko ; and three or four 
 'oving lords hnvo put themselves into voluntary 
 
 exile with him, whose lands and revenues eniich 
 the new duke ; therefore he gi ves them good leave 
 to wander. 
 
 OU. Can you tell if Kosalind, the duke's daugh- 
 ter, be banished with her father ? 
 
 Cha. O, no ; for the duke's daughter, her cousin, 
 so loves her, being ever fi'om their cradles bred 
 together, that she would have followed her exile, 
 or have died to stay behind her. She is at the 
 court, and no less beloved of her uncle than his own 
 daughter ; and never two ladies loved as they do. 
 
 OU. Where will the old duke live ? 
 
 Cha. They say he is already in the forest of 
 Arden, and a many merry men with him ; and 
 there they live like the old Robin Hood of England. 
 They say many young gentlemen flock to him 
 eveiy day, and fleet' the time carelessly, as *.hey 
 did in the golden world. 
 
 OU. What, you wrestle to-morrow before the 
 new duke? 
 
 Cha. MaiTV, do I, sir ; and I came to acquaint 
 you with a matter. I am given, sir, secretly to 
 understand that your younger brother, Orlando, 
 hath a disposition to come in disguis'd against me 
 to try a fall. To-morrow, sir, I wrestle for my 
 credit ; and he that escapes me without some 
 broken limb, shall acquit him well. Your brother 
 is but young, and tender ; and, for your love, I 
 would be loth to foil him, as I must, for my own 
 honour, if he come in : therefore, out of my love 
 to you, I came hither to acquaint you withal ; 
 that either you might stay him from his intend- 
 ment, or brook such disgrace well as he shall run 
 into ; in that it is a thing of his own search, and 
 altogether against my will. 
 
 OU. Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, 
 which thou shalt find I will most kindly requite. 
 I had myself notice of my brother's purpose herein, 
 and have by underhand means laboured to di.s- 
 suade him from it ; but he is resolute. I '11 tell 
 thee, Charles, it is the stubbornest young fellow 
 of France ; full of ambition, an envious emulator 
 of every man's good parts, a secret and villanous 
 contriver against me, his natural brother ; therefore 
 use thy discretion ; I had as lief thou dijst break 
 his neck as his finger ; and thou wert best look 
 to 't ; for if thou dost him any slight disgrace, or 
 if he do not mightily grace himself on thee, ho 
 will practise against thee by poison, entrap thoe by 
 some treacherous device, and never leave thee, till 
 he hath ta'en thy life by some indirect means oi 
 other ; for, I assure thee, and almost with teais I
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 SCENE n. 
 
 sped.]; it, there is not one so young and so vil- 
 liiuous this day living. I speak but brotherly of 
 liini ; but should I anatomize him to thee as he 
 is, I must blush and weep, and thou must look 
 pale and wonder. 
 
 Cha. 1 am heaitily glad I came liither to you. 
 If lie como to-moirow, I '11 give him his payment. 
 If ever lie go alone again, I '11 never wrestle for 
 prize more : and so, God keep your worship. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 OH. Farewell, good Charles.— Now will I stir 
 this gamester :' I hope I shall see an end of him ; 
 for my soul, yet I know not why, hat«s nothing 
 more that he. Yet he 's gentle ; never school'd, 
 and yet learned ; fiill of noble device ; of all sorts 
 enchantingly beloved ; and, indeed, so much in 
 the heart of tlie world, and especially of my own 
 people who best know him, that I am altogether 
 mispris'ed. But it shall not be so long ; this 
 wrestler shall clear all : nothing remains but that 
 I kindle the boy thither, which now I '11 go about. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 SCENE II. — A Lawn before the Duke's- Palace. 
 
 Enter Rosalind and Celia. 
 I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be 
 
 Cel. 
 merry. 
 
 Ros. Dear Cciia, I show more mirth than I am 
 mistress of; and would you yet I were merrier? 
 Unless you could teach me to forget a banished 
 father, you must not learn me how to remember 
 any extraordinary iileasurc. 
 
 Cel. Herein I see thou lov'st me not with the 
 full weight that I love thee : if my uncle, thy 
 banished father, had banished thy uncle, the duke, 
 my father, so thou hadst been still with me, I could 
 have taught my love to take thy father for mine ; 
 BO wouldst thou, if the truth of thy lovo to me were 
 so righteously temper'd as mine is to thee. 
 
 Ros. Well, I will tbrget the condition of my 
 estate, to rejoice in yours. 
 
 Cel. You know my father hath no child but I, 
 nor none is like to have ; and, truly, when he dies, 
 thou shalt be his heir : for what he hath taken 
 away from thy father perforce, I will render thee 
 again in aflection ; by mine honour, I will ; and 
 ^hen I break that oath, let me turn monster ! 
 Therefore, my sweet Rose, my dear Rose, be'merry. 
 
 Ros. Fioni henceforth I will, coz, and devise 
 sports : let me see ; — what think you of falling in 
 love ? 
 
 Cel. Marry, I piithee do, to make sport witlial 
 but love DO man in good earnest ; nor no further 
 in sport neither, than with safety of a pure bla'^h 
 thou mayst in honour come oil again. 
 
 Ros. What shall be our sport then ? 
 
 Cel. Let us sit and mock the good housewife, 
 Fortune, from her wiieel, that her gifts may hence- 
 forth be bestowed eqnall}'. 
 
 Ros. I would wo could do so ; for her benefits 
 are mightily misplaced : and the bountiful blind 
 woman doth most mistake in her gifts to women. 
 
 Cel. 'T is true : for those that she makes fair 
 she scarce makes honest ; and those that she makes 
 honest, she makes very ill-favouredly. 
 
 Ros. Nay, now thou goest from Fortune's ofEce 
 to Nature's : Fortune reigns in gifts of the world, 
 not in the lineaments of Nature. 
 
 Enter Touchstone. 
 
 Cel. No ? When Nature hath made a fair crea- 
 ture, may she not by Fortune fall into the fire 1 
 Though Nature hath given us wit to flout at For- 
 tune, hath not Fortune sent in this fool to cut off 
 the argument ? 
 
 Ros. Indeed, there is a Fortune too hard for 
 Nature, when Fortune makes Nature's natural the 
 cutter oft" of Nature's wit. 
 
 Cel. Peradventure, this is not Fortune's wort 
 neither, but I^ature's ; who, perceiving our natural 
 wits too dull to reason of such goddesses, hath sent 
 this natural for our whetstone : for always the 
 dulness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits. — 
 How now, wit, whither wander you ? 
 
 Touch. Mistress, you must come away to your 
 father. 
 
 Cel. Were you made the messenger ? 
 
 Touch. No, by mine honour; but I was bid tc 
 come for you. 
 
 Ros. Where learned j'ou that oath, fool ? 
 
 Touch. Of a certain knight, that swore by his 
 honour they were good pancakes, and swore by his 
 honour the mustard was naught : now, I '11 stand 
 to it, the pancakes were naught, ai d the mustard 
 was good ; and yet was not the kn ght forsworn. 
 
 Cel. How prove you that, in th. great heap of 
 your knowledge ? 
 
 Ros. Ay, marrj' ; now unmuzzle your wisdom. 
 
 Touch. Stand you both forth now : stroke your 
 chins, and swear by your beards that 1 am a knave. 
 
 Cel. By our beards, if we had them, thou art. 
 
 Touch. By my knavery, if I had it, then I were : 
 but if you swear by that that is not, you are nol 
 
 409
 
 «CT I. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 forsworn : no more was this knight, swearing by 
 his honour, for he never had any ;' or, if he had, 
 he had sworn it away before ever he saw those 
 pancakes or that mustard. 
 
 Cel. Prithee, who is 't tliat thou mean'st ? 
 
 Touch. One that old Frederick, your father, loves. 
 
 Cel. My father's love is enough to honour him 
 enough : speak no more of him ; you '11 be whip- 
 ped for taxation,' one of these days. 
 
 Touch. The more pity, that fools may not speak 
 wiselv. what wise men do foolishly. 
 
 Cd. ]ij my troth, thou say'st true ; for since 
 the little wit that fools have was silenced, the httle 
 fooleiy that wise men have makes a great show. 
 Here comes monsieur le Beau. 
 
 Enter Le Beatj. 
 
 Ros. With his mouth full of news. 
 
 Cel. Which he will put on us, as pigeons feed 
 their young. 
 
 Ros. Then shall we be news-cramm'd. 
 
 Cd. All the better ; we shall be the more 
 marketable. Bon jour, monsieur le Beau : What 's 
 ihe news ? 
 
 Le Beau. Fair princess, you have lost much 
 good sport. 
 
 Cd. Sport ? Of what colour ? 
 
 Le Beau. What colour, madam ? IIow shall I- 
 answer you ? 
 
 Ros. As wit and fortune will. 
 
 Touch. Or as the destinies decree. 
 
 Cel. Well said ; that was laid on with a trowel.' 
 
 Touch. Nay, if I keep not my rank, — 
 
 Ros. Thou losest thy old smell. 
 
 Le Beau. You amaze me, ladies : I would have 
 told you of good wrestling, which you have lost 
 the sight of. 
 
 Ros. Yet tell us tlie manner of the wrestling. 
 
 Le Beau. I will tell you the beginning, and, if 
 it please your ladyships, you may see the end ; for 
 the best is yet to do ; and here, where you are, 
 they are coming to perform it. 
 
 Cel. Well, — the beginning, that is dead and 
 buried. 
 
 Le Beau. Thero comes an old man, and his 
 ihrce sons, — 
 
 Cel. I could match this beginning with an old 
 lale. 
 
 Le Beau. Three proper young men, of excellent 
 gi'owth and presence; — 
 
 Ros. With bills on their necks,'" — " Bo it known 
 
 nnto all men by these presents," 
 
 410 
 
 Le Beau. The eldest of the three wrestled with 
 Charles, the duke's wrestler ; which Charles in a 
 moment threw him, and broke three of his ribs, 
 that there is little hope of life in him : so )ic 
 serv'd the second, and so the third. Yonder they 
 lie ; the poor old man, their father, making such 
 pitiful dole over them, that all the beholders take 
 his part with weeping. 
 
 Ros. Alas! 
 
 Touch. But what is the sport, monsieur, that 
 the ladies have lost ? 
 
 Le Beau. Why, this that I speak of. 
 
 Touch. Thus men may grow wiser every day 
 it is the first time that ever I heard breaking of 
 ribs was sport for ladies. 
 
 Cel. Or I, I promise thee. 
 
 Ros. But is there any else longs to see this 
 broken music in his sides ? is there yet another 
 dotes upon rib-breaking ?— Shall we see this wrest- 
 ling, cousin ? 
 
 Le Beau. You must, if you stay here : for here 
 is the place appointed for the wrestling, and they 
 are ready to perform it. 
 
 Cel. Yonder, sure, they are coming : Let us now 
 stay and see it. 
 
 Flourish. LJiiler T>vsE Frederick, Lords, Orlando, 
 Charles and Attendants. 
 
 Duke F. Come on ; since the youth will not be 
 entreated, his own peril on his forwardness. 
 
 Ros. Is yonder the man 3 
 
 Le Beau. Even he, madam. 
 
 Cel. Alas, he is too young : yet he looks suc- 
 cessfully. 
 
 Duke F. How now, daughter and cousin ? are 
 you crept hither to see the wrestling? 
 
 Ros. Ay, my liege ; so please you give us 
 leave. 
 
 Duke F. You will take little delight in it, I can 
 tell you, there is such odds in the man. In pity 
 of the challenger's youth, I would fain dissuade 
 him, but he will not be entreated. Speak to him. 
 ladies ; see if you can move him. 
 
 Cd. Call him hither, good monsieur le Beau. 
 
 Duke F. Do so; I '11 not be by. 
 
 [1.)UKE r/oes apart. 
 
 Le Beau. Monsieur the challenger, the princess 
 calls for you. 
 
 Orl. I attend them, with all respect and duty. 
 
 Ros. Young man, have you challeng'd Charles 
 the wrestler? 
 
 Orl. No, fair princess ; he if the general chal-
 
 kCt I. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 SL'EKK n. 
 
 leiiger : I come but in, as othere do, to try witli 
 Lim the strengtli of ray youth. 
 
 Ccl. Young gentleman, your spirits are too bold 
 for your years. You have seen cruel proof of this 
 man's strength : if you saw yourself with your 
 eyes,' or knew yourself with your judgment, the 
 fear of your adventure would counsel you to a 
 more equal enterprise. We pray you, for your 
 own sake, to embrace your own safety, and give 
 over this attempt. 
 
 Jios. Do, young sir; your reputation shall not be 
 therefore misprised : we will make it our suit to 
 the duke that the wrestling might not go forward. 
 
 Orl. I beseech you, punish me not with your 
 hard thoughts, wherein I confess me much guilty 
 to deny so fair and excellent ladies anything. 
 But let your fair eyes and gentle wishes go with 
 me to my trial : wherein if I be foil'd, there is but 
 one sham'd that was never gi'acious ;'" if kill'd, 
 but one dead that is willing to be so. I shall do 
 my friends no wrong, for I have none to lament 
 me ; the world no injur}', for in it I have nothing ; 
 only in the world I fill up a place, which may be 
 better supplied when I have made it empty. 
 
 Hos. The little strength that I have, I would it 
 were with you. 
 
 CeL And mine, to eke out bers. 
 
 Jios. Fare you well. Pray Heaven, I be de- 
 ceiv'd in you ! 
 
 Cel. Your heart's desires be with you. 
 
 Cka. Come, where is this young gallant, that is 
 so desirous to lie with his mother earth ? 
 
 Orl. Ready, sir ; but his will hath in it a more 
 modest working. 
 
 Duke F. You shall try but one fall. 
 
 Cha. No, I waiTant 3'our gi'ace ; you shall not 
 entreat him to a second, that have so mightily per- 
 suaded him fiom a first. 
 
 Orl. You mean to mock me after ; you should 
 not have mocked me before : but come, your 
 ways. 
 
 Ros. Now, Hercules be thy speed, young man ! 
 
 Cel. I would I were invisible, to catch the 
 strong fellow by tbe leg. 
 
 [Charles and Orlando wrestle. 
 
 Jios. O excellent young man ! 
 
 Ccl. If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can 
 Uii\ who should down. 
 
 [Charles is thrown. Shout. 
 
 Duke F. No more, no more. 
 
 Orl. Yes, I beseech your grace ; I am not yet 
 ?rell brcath'd. 
 
 Duke F. IIow dost thou, Charles ? 
 Zc Beau. He cannot speak, my lord. 
 Duke F. Bear him away. 
 
 [Charles is borne out 
 What is thy name, young man ? 
 
 Orl. Orlando, my liegi; ; the youngest son of sn 
 Rowland de Bois. 
 
 Duke F. I would thou hadst been son to some 
 man else. 
 The world esteera'd thy father honourable. 
 But I did find him still mine enemy : 
 Thou shouldst have better pleas'd me with thia 
 
 deed, 
 Hadst thou descended from another house. 
 But fare tbee well ; thou art a gallant youth ; 
 I would thou hadst told me of another father. 
 
 [Fxeunt Duke Fred., Train, and Le Beau. 
 Cel. Were I my father, coz, would I do this? 
 Orl. I am more proud to be sir Rowland's son. 
 His youngest son ; — and would not change ilia 
 
 calling," 
 To be adopted heir to Fred'rick. 
 
 Jios. !My father lov'd sir Rowland as liis soul 
 And all the world was of my father's mind : 
 Had I before known this young man liis son, 
 I should have given him tears unto entreaties, 
 Ere be should thus have ventur'd. 
 
 Ccl. Gentle cousin. 
 
 Let us go thank him, and encourage him : 
 My father's rough and envious disposition 
 Sticks me at heart. — Sir, you have well deserv'd ; 
 If you do keep your promises in love 
 But justly as you have exceeded all in promise, ' 
 Your mistress shall be happy. 
 Jios. Gentleman, 
 
 \Giving him a cliain from her nccJc, 
 Wear this for me, — one out of suits with fortune. 
 That could give more but that her hand lack) 
 
 means. 
 Shall we go, coz ? 
 
 Ccl. Ay : — Fare you well, fair gentle 
 
 man. 
 Orl. Cau I not say I thank you ? My bettei 
 parts 
 Are all thrown down ; and that which here 
 
 stands up 
 Is but a quintain," a mere hfeless block. 
 
 Ros. He calls us back : My pride fell with my 
 fortunes : 
 I '11 ask him what he would : — Did you call, sir ? — 
 Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown 
 More than your enemies. 
 
 411
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 SCESE in. 
 
 Cel. Will you go, coz' 
 
 Ros. Have with you: — Pare you well. 
 
 [Exeunt Rosalind and Celia. 
 Oil. "What passiou haugs these weights upon 
 my tongue \ 
 cannct speak to her, yet she urg'd conference. 
 
 He-enter Le Beau. 
 
 poor Orlando ' tiiou art overthrown ; 
 
 Or Charles, or something weaker, masters thee. 
 
 Le Beau. Good sir, I do in friendship counsel 
 you 
 To leave this place. Albeit you have deservVl 
 High commendation, true applause, and love ; 
 Yet such is now the duke's condition. 
 That he misconstcrs all'* that you have done. 
 The duke is humorous ; what he is, indeed, 
 More suits you to conceive, than I to speak of. 
 
 Orl. I thank you, sir ; and, pray you tell me this : 
 Which of the two was daughter of the duke. 
 That here was at the wrestling ? 
 
 Le Beau. Neither his daughter, if we judge by 
 manners ; 
 But yet, indeed, the smaller is his daughter : 
 The other is daughter to the banish 'd duke. 
 And here detainVl by her usurping uncle. 
 To keep his daughter company ; whose loves 
 Are dearer than the natural bond of sisters. 
 But I can tell you, that of late this duke 
 Oath ta'eu displeasure 'gainst his gentle niece ; 
 Grounded upon no other argument 
 But that the people praise her for her virtues, 
 And pity her for her good father's sake ; 
 And, on my life, his malice 'gainst the lady 
 Will suddenly break forth. — Sir, fare you well ; 
 Hereafter, in a better world thau this, 
 
 1 shall desire more love and knowledge of you. 
 
 Orl. I rest much bounden to you : fare you well. 
 
 [JSxit Le Beau. 
 Thus must I from the smoke into the smother ; 
 From tyrant duke unto a tyrant brother : — 
 But heavenly Rosalind ! [Exit. 
 
 SCENE HI.— yl Boom in the Palace. 
 
 Enter Celia and Rosalind. 
 
 Cel. Why, cousin ; wliy, Rosalin 1 ; — Cujiid have 
 mercy ! — not a word ? 
 
 B/is. Not one to throw at a dog. 
 
 Cel. No, thy words aro too precious to be cast 
 Away upon curs ; throw some of them at mo : come, 
 lame me with reasons. 
 412 
 
 Bos. Then there were two cousins laid up 
 when the one should be lam'd with reasons, aud 
 the other mad without any. 
 
 Cel. But is all this for your father ? 
 
 Bos. No, some of it is for my child's father :" 
 0, how full of briars is this working-day world ! 
 
 Cel. They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon 
 thee in holiday foolery ; if we walk not in the 
 trodden paths, our very petticoats will catch them. 
 
 Bos. I could shake them off my coat; these 
 burs are in my heart. 
 
 Cel. Hem tiiem away. 
 
 Bos. I would try ; if I could cry " hem," aud 
 have him." 
 
 Cel. Come, come, wTestle with thy affections. 
 
 Bos. O, they take the part of a better wrestler 
 than myself! 
 
 Cel. 0, a good wish upon you ! you will try in 
 time, in despite of a fall. — But, turning these jests 
 out of service, let us talk in good earnest. Is it 
 possible, on such a sudden, you should fall into so 
 strong a liking with old sir Rowland's youngest 
 son ? 
 
 Bos. The duke my father lov'd his father dearly. 
 
 Cel. Doth it therefore ensue that you should 
 love his son dearly ? By this kind of chase,'' I / 
 should hate him, for my father hated his father 
 dearly ; yet I hate not Orlando. 
 
 Bos. No, 'laith, hate him not, for my sake. 
 
 Cel. Why should I not ? doth he not deserve 
 wein^" 
 
 Bos. Let me love him for that ; and do you love 
 him, because I do : — Look, here comes the duke. 
 
 Cel. With his eyes full of anger 
 
 Enter Duke Frederick, with Lords. 
 
 Duke F. Mistress, despatch you with your safest 
 haste. 
 And get you from our court. 
 
 Bos. Mo, uncle ? 
 
 Duke F. You, cousin ; 
 
 Within these ten days if that thou be'st found 
 So near our jtublic court .as twenty miles. 
 Thou diest for it. 
 
 Ros. I do beseech your grace. 
 
 Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me : 
 If with myself I hold intelligence. 
 Or have acquaintance witli mine own desires, 
 If that I do not dream, or be not frantic, 
 (As I do trust I am not), then, dear uncle, 
 Never, so much as in a thought unborn, 
 Did I ntl'ond your highness.
 
 ACT I. 
 
 AS YOU LIIvE IT. 
 
 6CENE m. 
 
 I)uke F. Thus do all traitors • 
 
 if their purgation did consist in words, 
 Tliey arc as iiinoceut as grace itself: 
 Let it siifilce thoc, that I trust thee not. 
 
 Ros. Yet your mistrust cannot make me a 
 traitor : 
 Tell me, whereon tlie likelihood depends. 
 
 Duke F. Thou art thy father's daughter ; there's 
 enough. 
 
 Ros. So was I when your highness took his 
 dukedom ; 
 So was I when your highness banish'd him : 
 Treason is not inherited, my lord ; 
 Or, if we did derive it from our friends. 
 What 's that to me ? my father was no traitor : 
 Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much 
 To think my poverty is treacherous. 
 
 Cd. Dear sovereign, hear me speak. 
 
 Duke F. Ay, Celia ; we stay'd her for your sake, 
 Else had she with her father rang'd along. 
 
 Cel. I did not then entreat to have her stay ; 
 It was your pleasure, and your own remorse ;^' 
 I was too young that time to value her, 
 But now I know her ; if she be a traitor, 
 Why, so am I ; we still have slept together. 
 Rose at an instant, learn'd, play'd, eat together ; 
 And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans. 
 Still we went coupled, and inseparable. 
 
 Duke F. She is too subtle for thee ; and her 
 smoothness. 
 Her veiy silence, and her patience. 
 Speak to the people, and they pity her. 
 Thou art a fool : she robs thee of thy name ; 
 And thou wilt show more bright, and seem more 
 
 \nrtuous. 
 When she is gone. Then open not thy lips ; 
 Firm and irrevocable is my doom 
 Which I have pass'd upon her : she is banish'd. 
 
 Cel. Pronounce that sentence then on me, my 
 liege ; 
 I cannot live out of her company. 
 
 Duke F. You are a fool : — You, niece, provide 
 yourself ; 
 If you outstay the time, upon mine honour. 
 And in the greatness of my word, you die. 
 
 \Exeunt Doke Fred, and Lords. 
 
 Cel. O, my poor Rosalind ! whither wilt thou go? 
 Wilt thou change fathers ? I will give thee 
 
 mine. 
 [ charge thee, be not thou more giiev'd than I am. 
 
 Ros. I have more cause. 
 
 CcL Thou hast not, cousin ; 
 
 Pi-ithee, be cheerful ; know'st thou not the duke 
 Ilatli banish'd me, his daughter? 
 
 Ros. That he hath not. 
 
 Cd. 'Nol hath not? Rosalind lacks then the 
 love, 
 Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one ; 
 Shall we bo sunder'd ? shall we jiart, sweet girl ? 
 No ; let my father seek another heir. 
 Therefore devise with me how we may fly, 
 Whither to go, and what to bear with us : 
 And do not seek to take your charge upon you. 
 To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out ; 
 For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale, 
 Say what thou canst, I '11 go along with thee. 
 
 Ros. Why, whither shall we go ? 
 
 Cel. To seek my uncle in the forest of Arden 
 
 Ros. Alas, what danger will it be to us, 
 !Maids as we are, to travel forth so far ! 
 Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold. 
 
 Cel. I '11 put myself in poor and mean attire, 
 And with a kind of umbei-^" smirch my face : 
 The like do you ; so shall we pass along. 
 And never stir assailants. 
 
 Ros. Were it not better. 
 
 Because that I am more than common tall, 
 That I did suit me all points like a man ? 
 A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh, 
 A boar-spear in my hand ; and, in my heart. 
 Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will, 
 We '11 have a swashing and a martial outside," 
 As many other mannish cowards have. 
 That do outface it with their semblances. 
 
 Cel. What shall I call thee, when thou art a 
 man? 
 
 Ros. I '11 have no worse a name than Jove's own 
 
 page, 
 And therefore look vou call me Ganvmede. 
 But what will 3'ou be called ? 
 
 Cel. Something that hath a reference to my 
 state ; 
 No longer Celia, but Aliena. 
 
 Ros. But, cousin, what if we assay'd to steal 
 The clownish fool oui of your father's court ? 
 Would he not be a comfort to our travel ? 
 
 Cel. He '11 go along o'er the wide world with 
 me ; 
 Leave me alone to woo him. Let 's away. 
 And get our jewels and our wealth together • 
 Devise the fittest time, and safest way 
 To hide us from pursuit that will be made 
 After my flight. Now go we in content. 
 To liberty, and not to banishment. [^Exeunt 
 
 413
 
 ACT IL 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 BCENB L 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE L—T?.e Forest o/Arden. 
 
 Kntej- Duke senior, Amiens, and other Lords, in the 
 dress of Foresters. 
 
 Duke 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 but the penalty of Adam : 
 The seasons' difference, — as, the icy fang, 
 And churlish chiding of the winter's wind, 
 (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 yet 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 eveiything. 
 
 Ami. I would not change it. Happy is your 
 
 grace. 
 That can translate the stubbornness of fortune 
 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. 
 
 1 Lord. Indeed, my lord, 
 
 ITie melanclioly Jaques grieves at that ; 
 And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp 
 Than doth your brother that hath bauisli'd you. 
 To-day, my lord of Amiens and myself 
 Did steal beliind him, as he lay along 
 Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out 
 Upon the brook that brawls along this wood : 
 To the which jilaee a poor sequester'd stag. 
 That flora the hunter's aim had ta'en a huit, 
 
 414 
 
 Did come to languish ; and, indeed, my lord. 
 The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans. 
 That their discharge did stretch his leathern co.it 
 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 th' 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 in the needless stream ; 
 
 " Poor deer," quoth he, " thou mak'st a testa- 
 ment 
 As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more 
 To that which had too much." Then being theie 
 
 alone. 
 Left and abandon'd of his velvet friends ; 
 " '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 3" 
 Thus most invectively he pierceth through 
 The body of the county, city, court. 
 Yea, and of this our hfe : 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. 
 
 Duke S. And did you leave him in this con- 
 templation ? 
 
 2 Lord. We did, my lord, weeping and com- 
 
 menting 
 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. 
 
 1 Lord. I '11 biing you to him straight. 
 
 [Exeunt.
 
 Acr II. 
 
 AS YOU UKE IT. 
 
 ECKNK II.— IIL 
 
 SCENE 11— A Room in the Palace. 
 
 Entei Duke Frederick, Lords, and Attendants. 
 
 Duke F. Can it be possible that no man saw 
 them ? 
 It cannot be: some villains of my court 
 A 10 of consent and sufferance in this. 
 
 1 Lord. I cannot hear of any that did see her. 
 Tiie ladies, her attendants of her chamber. 
 
 Saw her a bed ; and, in the morninjr earl3', 
 They found the bed untreasur'd of their mistress. 
 
 2 Lord. My lord, the roinish" clown, at whom 
 
 so oft 
 Your grace was wont to laugh, is also missing. 
 Ilesperia, the princess' gentlewoman. 
 Confesses that she secretly o'erheard 
 Your daughter and her cousin much commend 
 The parts and graces of the wrestler. 
 That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles; 
 And she believes, wherever they are gone. 
 That youth is surely in their company. 
 
 Duke F. Send to his brother ; fetch that gallant 
 
 hither ; 
 [f he be absent, bring his brother to me ; 
 [ '11 make him find him : do this suddenly ; 
 And let not search and inquisition quail"' 
 To bring again these foolish runaways. \^Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III.— Before Oliver'* House. 
 Enter Orlando and Adam, meeting. 
 
 Orl. Who 's there ? 
 
 Adam. What I my young master ! — 0, my gentle 
 master ! 
 O, my sweet master, O you memory 
 Of old sir Kowland ! why, what make you here ! 
 *Wliy are you virtuous? Why do people love you? 
 And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant? 
 Whv would you be so fond to overcome 
 The bonny 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 virtues, gentle master, 
 .\re sanctified and holy traitors to you. 
 0, what a world is this, when what is comely 
 F^ivenoms 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 gi-aoes 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) — 
 
 Ilath heard your praises ; and this night he means 
 
 To burn the lodging where you use to lie, 
 
 And you within it: if ho fail of that. 
 
 He will have other means to cut you ofi": 
 
 I overheard him and his pi'actices. 
 
 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 boist'rous 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 thi-own. 
 Take that : and He that dotli 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 lusty : 
 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. good old man ! how \Tell in thee appears 
 The constant service of the antique world, 
 When service sweat for duty, not for meed 1 
 Thou art not for the fesuion of these times, 
 Yv'here 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 husbandly : 
 But come thy ways, we '11 go along together : 
 And ere we have thy youthful wages spent. 
 We 'II light upon some settled low content. 
 
 415
 
 AS YOU LIIvE IT. 
 
 6CENE IV. 
 
 Adam. Master, go on : and I will follow thee, 
 To the last gasp, with truth and lo3-alty. — 
 From seventeen j'ears till now almost fourscore 
 Here lived I, but now live here no more. 
 At seventeen years many their fortunes seek, 
 But at fourscore, it is too late a week :"' 
 Yet fortune cannot recompense me better, 
 Than to die well, and not my master's debtor. 
 
 \_Exninl. 
 
 SCENE l\.—The Forest o/Arden. 
 
 EnterVMSM-isvi inboy^scloth^s, Celia dressed like a 
 Shepherdess, and Touciistoxe. 
 
 Jios. Jupiter ! how weary'" are my spirits! 
 
 Touch. I care not for my spirits, if my legs were 
 not weary. 
 
 Ros. I could finil in my heart to disgrace my 
 man's apparel, and to cry like a woman : but I 
 must comfort the weaker vessel, as doublet and 
 hose ought to show itself courageous to petticoat : 
 therefore, courage, good Aliena ! 
 
 Cel. I pray you, bear with me ; I cannot go no 
 further. 
 
 Touch. For my part, I had rather bear with 
 yon, than bear you : yet I should bear no cross,'' 
 if I did bear you ; for, I think, you have no money 
 in your purse. 
 
 Jios. A\'ell, this is the forest of Ardeu. 
 
 Touch. Ay, now am I in Arden ; the more fool 
 1 ! when I was at home, I was in a better place; 
 but travellers must be content. 
 
 Ros. Ay, be so, good Touchstone : — Look you, 
 who comes here ? a young man, and an old, in 
 solemn talk. 
 
 Enter Corin and Silvics. 
 
 Cor. That is the way to make her scorn you 
 still. 
 
 Sil. O Corin, that thou knew'st how I do love 
 her! 
 
 Cor. I partly guess ; for I have lov'd ere now. 
 
 Sil. No, Corin, being old, thou canst not guess; 
 Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover 
 As ever sigh'd upon a midnight pillow : 
 But if thy lovo were ever like to mine, 
 (As sure I think did never man love so,) 
 IIow many actions most ridiculous 
 lla.st thou been drawn to by thy fantasy ? 
 
 Cor. Into a thousand that I have forgotten. 
 
 Sil. 0, thou didst then never love so heartily : 
 If ihou rem.Muber'st not the slightest folly 
 41A 
 
 That ever love did make thee run into. 
 
 Thou hast not lov'd : 
 
 Or if thou hast not sat as I do now, 
 
 Wearj-ing thy hearer in thy mistress' praisp, 
 
 Thou hast not lov'd : 
 
 Or if thou hast not broke from company 
 
 Abruptly, as my passion now makes me, 
 
 Thou hast not lov'd : 
 
 Phebe, Phebe, Phehe ! [Exit Silvius 
 
 . Ros. Alas, poor shepherd ! searching of thy 
 wound, 
 
 1 have by hard ad.'cnturc found mine own. 
 
 Touch. And I mine : I remember, Vihen I was 
 in love, 1 broke my sword upon a stone, and bid 
 him take that for coming anight to Jane Smile : 
 and I remember the kissing of her taurr,'' and 
 the cow's dugs that her pretty chopped hands had 
 milk'd : and I remember the wooing of a [leascod 
 instead of her ; from whom I took two cods, ani 
 gi\'ing her them again, said, with weeping tears," 
 " ^Vear these for my sake." We. that are true 
 lovers, nm into strange capers ; but as all is 
 mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in 
 folly.'' 
 
 Ros. Thou speak'st wiser than tlK)u art 'ware of. 
 
 Touch. Nay, I shall ne'er be 'ware of mine o'.vn 
 wit, till I break my shins against it. 
 
 Ros. Jove ! Jove ! this shepherd's passion 
 Is much upon my fashion. 
 
 Touch. And mine ; but it grows something stnle 
 with me. 
 
 Cel. I pray you, one of you question yond man 
 If he for gold will give us any food ; 
 I faint almost to death. 
 
 Touch. Holla; you clowii ! 
 
 Ros. Peace, fool ; he 's not thy kinsman. 
 
 Cor. Who calls? ' 
 
 Touch. Your betters, sir. 
 
 Cor. Else are they veiy wretched. 
 
 Ros. Peace, I say : — Good even to you, friend. 
 
 Cor. And to you, gentle sir, and to you all. 
 
 Ros. I prithee, shephard, if that love, or gold. 
 Can in this desert place buy entertainment, 
 Bring us Avhere we may rest oui'sc'lves, and feed : 
 Here 's a young maid with travel nnich opprrss'd, 
 And faints for succour. 
 
 Cor. Fair sir, I ]iity her, 
 
 And wish for her sake, more than for n)ine own, 
 My fortunes wei'e more able to relieve her : 
 But 1 am shepherd to another man. 
 And do not shear the fleeces that I graze ; 
 My mjister is of churli.sh disposition,
 
 AS YOU UKE IT. 
 
 HC'ENE V. VT. 
 
 And little recks to find tlie way to heaven 
 By doing deeds of hospitality : 
 Besides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds of feed. 
 Are now ou sale , and at our sheejieote now, 
 By reason of his absence, there is nothing 
 That you will feed on ; but what is, come see, 
 AniJ in my voice most welcome shall you be. 
 
 lios. What is he that shall buy his flock and 
 pasture ? 
 
 Cor. That 3'oung swain that you saw here but 
 erewhile. 
 Tint little cares for buying anything. 
 
 Jiof. I pray thee, if it stand with honesty, 
 Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock, 
 And thou shalt have to pay for it of us. 
 
 Cel. And we will mend thy wages: I like this 
 I)lace, 
 And willingly could waste my time. in it. 
 
 Cor. Assuredly, the thing is to be sold : 
 Go with me ; if you like, upon report. 
 The soil, the profit, and this kind of life, 
 I will your very faithful feeder be,'' 
 And buy it with your gold right suddenly. 
 
 \£!xeunt. 
 
 SCENE v.— The same. 
 
 Enter Amiens, Jaques, and others. 
 SONG. 
 
 Ami. Under the greenwood tree, 
 
 Who love^ to lie with me, 
 And turn^a his merry note 
 Unto the sweet bird's tliroat. 
 Come hither, come hither, come hither 1 
 Here shall he see 
 Ko enemy, 
 But winter and rough weatlier. 
 
 Jaq. More, more ! I pirithee, more. 
 
 Ami. It will make you melancholy, monsieur 
 Jaques. 
 
 Jaq. I thank it. More ! I prithee, more. I can 
 suck melancholy out of a song, as a weazel sucIm 
 eggs. More ! I prithee, more ! 
 
 Ami. My voice is ragged;'' I know I cannot 
 please you. 
 
 Jaq. I do not desire you to please me; I do 
 desire you to sing. Come, more ; another stanza ; 
 Call you 'em stanzas ? 
 
 Ami. What you will, monsieur Jaques. 
 
 Jaq Nay, 1 care not for their names ; they owe 
 me nothing Will you sing ? 
 
 Ami. More at your request than to please 
 myself. 
 
 Jaq. Well, then, if ever I thank any man, I 'II 
 thank you : but that they call compliment is like 
 the encounter of two dog-apes; and when a man 
 thanks me heartily, methinks I have given him a 
 penny, and he renders me the beggarly thanks. 
 Come, sing ; and you that will not, hold your 
 tongues. 
 
 Ami. W^ell, I '11 end the song. — Sirs, cover the 
 while ; the duke will drink under this tree : — he 
 hath been all this day to look you. 
 
 Jaq. And I have been all this day to avoid him. 
 lie is too disputable for my company : I think of 
 as many matters as he ; but I give Ileaven thanks, 
 and make no boast of them. Come, warble ; come, 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Who doth ambition shun, [All together hc7e> 
 And loves to live i' the sun. 
 Seeking the food he eats. 
 And pleas'd with what he gets. 
 Come hither, come hither, come liither ; 
 Here shall he see 
 No enemy. 
 But winter and rough weather. 
 
 Jaq. I '11 give you a verse to this note, thnt 1 
 made yesterday in despite of my invention. 
 Ami. And I '11 sing it. 
 Jaq. Thus it goes : — 
 
 If it do come to pass, 
 That any man turn ass, 
 Leaving his wealth and ease, 
 A stubborn will to please, 
 Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame \*^ 
 Here shall he see 
 Gross fools as he. 
 An if he will come to me. 
 
 Ami. Wliat 's that rfacrfom^ .? 
 
 Jaq. 'T is a Greek invocation, to call fools into 
 a circle. I '11 go sleep if I can ; if I cannot, I '11 
 rail against all the first-born of Egypt. 
 
 Ami. And I '11 go seek the duke ; his banquet 
 is prepar'd. [Exeunt severally. 
 
 SCENE VI.— r/ie same. 
 
 Enter Orlaxdo and Adam. 
 
 Adam. Dear master, I can go no further. O, I 
 die for food I Here lie I down, and measure out 
 my grave. Farewell, kind master ! 
 
 Orl. Why, how now, Adam ! no greater he.TJ t 
 in thee ? Live a little ; comfort a little ; cheer 
 thyself a little. K this uncouth" forest yield 
 anything savage, I will either be food for it, or 
 bring it Tor food to thee. Thy conceit is nearer 
 death than thy powers. For my sak(, be com- 
 
 '417
 
 r" 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 BUENE Vn. 
 
 forfable ; 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 anything in this desert. 
 Cheerly, good Adam ! [£!xeunt. 
 
 SCENE YU.—The seme. 
 
 A table set out. Eider 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. 
 
 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, grows 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. AVhy, how now, monsieur 1 what a life 
 
 is this. 
 That your poor friends must woo vour company ! 
 What I you look merrily. 
 
 Jag. A fool, a fool ! I 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-lastre 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, wo ripe and ripo, 
 And then, from hour to hour, wo rot and rot ; 
 And thereby hangs a tale." When I djiJ hear 
 The motley fool thus moral on the time, 
 My lungs began to crow like chanticleer, 
 41. 
 
 That fools should be so deep-contemplativo , 
 
 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 ? 
 courtier. 
 And says, if ladies be but young and f;iir, 
 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 cramra'd 
 With observation, the which he vents 
 In mangled forma : — 0, that I were a fool ! 
 I am ambitious for a motley coat. 
 
 Duke S. Thou shalt have one. 
 
 Jaij. It is my only suit : 
 
 Provided that you weed your bettor judgment'* 
 Of all opinion that grows rank in them, 
 That I am wise. I must have hberty 
 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 'i 
 The why is plain as way to parish church : 
 He that a fool doth very wisely hit. 
 Doth very foolishly,'" although ho smart, 
 [Not to] seem senseless of the bob : if not. 
 The wise man's folly is anatomiz'd 
 Even by the squandering 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 th' 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 hut 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 tli' 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 ;is hugely as the sea. 
 Till that the wearer's 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 Lor
 
 ACT II. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 SCENE m. 
 
 Wlien sucli !i 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 tlie mettle of my speech ? 
 
 There theu ; How theu ? 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 uiy taxing like a wild goose flies, 
 Unclaim'd of any man. — But who comes here ? 
 
 Enter Orlando, wiih his sword drawn. 
 
 Orl. Forbear, and eat no more. 
 
 J^ 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 tliou seem'st so empty ] 
 
 Orl. You touch'd my vein at first ; the thorny 
 point 
 Of bare distress hath ta'en from me tlie 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 1 and my afi'airs are answered ! 
 
 Jaq. An you will not be answer'd with reason, 
 1 must die. 
 
 Duke S. What would you have ? Your gentle- 
 ness shall force. 
 More 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: 
 [ thought that all things had been savage here, 
 And therefore put I on the countenance 
 Of stern commandment. But whate'cr 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 ; 
 If 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 liope, I blush, and hide* my sword. 
 
 Duke 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 oui 
 
 eyes 
 Of drops that sacred pity hath engender'd : 
 And therefore sit you down in gentleness, 
 And take upon commaud''* what help we have, 
 That to your wanting may be rainister'd. 
 
 Orl. Then, but forbear your food a little wliile, 
 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 suflic'd, 
 Oppress'd with two weak evils,^' age au.i 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 ! [Hxit 
 
 Duke S. Thou seest, we are not all alone un- 
 happy :^ 
 This wide and universal theatre 
 Presents more woeful pageants than the scene 
 Wherein w-e 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 : aud 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 Keputation 
 Even in the cannon's mouth : and then the justico. 
 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 f 
 With sj)ectacles on nose, and pouch on side 
 His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide 
 For his shrunk shank ; aud 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 tiste, sans — evcrj 
 thing. 
 
 419
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 SCENE I. U. 
 
 Re-enter Orlando, with Adam. 
 
 Duke S. Welcome ; Set down your venerable 
 burthen, 
 Aud let him feed. 
 
 Orl. I thank you most for liim. 
 
 Adam. So bad 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 3-our fortunes : — 
 Give lis some music; aud, good cousin, sing. 
 
 Amiens sings. 
 I. 
 
 Blow, blow, thou winter wind,'' 
 
 Thou art not so unkind 
 As man's ingratitude ; 
 
 Thy tooth is not 60 keen, 
 
 Because thou art not seen, 
 Altliough thy breath be rude. 
 Ileigh ho! sing, heigh hoi unto the green holly; 
 Alost friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly ; 
 
 Then, heigh ho ! the holly I 
 
 This hfe is m)st jolly 1 
 
 II. 
 
 Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, 
 That dost not bite so nigh 
 
 As benefits forgot : 
 Though thou the waters warp, 
 Thy sting is not so sharp 
 
 As friend remember'd not. 
 Heigh ho ! sing, heigh ho ! &c. 
 
 Duhe S. If that you were the good sir Row- 
 land's son, — 
 As you have whisper'd faithfully you were ; 
 And as mine eye doth his effigies witness 
 Most truly limn'd, and living in your face. 
 Be truly welcome 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. 
 
 ] Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I.— A Room in the Palace. 
 
 Enter Duke Frederick, Oliver, Lords, a7id 
 Attendants. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 that 
 
 Bvke F. Not see him since ? 
 
 cannot be : 
 But were I not the better part made mercy, 
 I should not seek an absent argument 
 Of my revenge, thou present. But look to it ; 
 Find out thy brother, wheresoe'er he is ; 
 Seek him with candle ; bring him dead or living 
 Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more 
 To seek a living in our tciritorj-. 
 Thy lands, and ;dl things that thou dost call thine, 
 Worth seizure, do we seize into our hands. 
 Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother's mouth. 
 Of what we think against thee. 
 
 Oli. O, that your liighness knew my heart in 
 
 this! 
 1 never lov'd my brother in my life. 
 Duke F. More villain thou. — Well, 
 
 oul, of doors ; 
 And let my oflicere of such ;i nature 
 426 
 
 pus 
 
 Make an extent" upon his house and lands 
 Do this expediently, and turn him going. 
 
 [Exeunt 
 
 SCENE U.—The Forest. 
 Enter Orlando, toith a paper. 
 
 Orl. Hang there, my verse, in witness ot my 
 
 love : 
 And, thou, tlirice-crowned queen of night,*' 
 survey 
 With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above. 
 Thy huntress' name, that my full life doth sway 
 O Rosalind ! these trees shall bo my books. 
 
 And in their barks my thoughts I '11 character 
 That every eye, which in this forest looks, 
 
 Shall see thy \'irtue witness'd everywhere. 
 Run, run, Orlando ; carve on every tree 
 The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive" she. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Enter Corin and Touchstone. 
 
 Cnr. And how like you this shepherd's life, 
 master Touchstone I
 
 ACT m. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 SCENE n. 
 
 Touch. Truly, slieplierd, in respect of itself, it is 
 a good life ; but in respect tluit it is a shepherd's 
 life, it is naught. In respect that it is solitary, I 
 like it very well ; but in respect that it is private, 
 • it is a very vild life. Now, in respect it is iu the 
 fields, it pleaseth me well ; but in respect it is not 
 in the court, it is tedious. As it is a spare life, 
 look you, it fits my humour well ; but as tliere is 
 no more plenty in it, it goes much against my 
 Btomach. Ilast any philosophy in thee, shepherd ? 
 
 Cor. No more, but that I know, the more one 
 sickens, the worse at ease he is ; and that he that 
 wants money, means, and content, is without three 
 good fiiends : That the property of rain is to wet, 
 and fire to burn : That good pasture makes fat 
 sheep, and that a great cause of the night is lack 
 of the sun : That he that hath learned no wit by 
 nature nor art, may complain of good breeding," 
 or comes of a. very dull kindred. 
 
 Touch. Such a one is a natural philosopher. 
 Wast ever in court, shepherd ? 
 
 Cor. No, truly. 
 
 Touch. Then thou art damu'd. 
 
 Cor. Nay, I hope, — 
 
 Touch. Truly thou art damn'd ; like an ill- 
 roasted egg,'° all on one side. 
 
 Cor. For not being at court ? Your reason. 
 
 Touch. Why, if thou never wast at court, thou 
 never saw'st good manners ; if thou never saw'st 
 good manners, then thy manners must be wicked ; 
 and wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation. Thou 
 art in a parlous state, shepherd 1 
 
 Cor. Not a whit, Touchstone : those that are 
 good manners at the court are as ridiculous in the 
 country, as the behaviour of the country is most 
 mockable at the court. You told me, 3'ou salute 
 not at the court, but you kiss 3-our hands; that 
 courtesy would be uncleanly, if courtiers were 
 shepherds. 
 
 Touch. Instance, briefly ; come, instance. 
 
 Cor. Why, we are still handling our ewes ; and 
 their fells, you know, are greasy. 
 
 Touch. Why, do not your courtier's bands sweat ? 
 and is not the grease of a mutton as wliolesome as 
 the sweat of a man ? Shallow, shallow ! A better 
 instance, I say ; come. 
 
 Cor. Besides, our hands are hard. 
 
 Touch. Your lips will feel them the sooner. 
 Shallow again ! A more sounder instance ; come. 
 
 Cor. And they are often tarr'd over with the 
 Burgery of our sheep ; and would you have us kiss 
 Uxv] The courtier's hands are peifum'd with civet. 
 
 Touch. Most shallow man ! Thou worms-meat, 
 in respect of a good piece of flesh, indeed ! L<'arn 
 of the wise, and perpend : Civet is of a baser birih 
 than tar ; the very uncleanly flux of a cat. !Mend 
 the instance, shepherd. 
 
 Cor. You have too courtly a wit for me ; 1 '11 
 rest. 
 
 Touch. Wilt thou rest damn'd ? God help thee, 
 sha'Jow man ! God make incision in thee I" thou 
 art rr.w. 
 
 Cor. Sir, I am a true labourer; I earn that I 
 eat, get that I wear ; owe no man hate, envy no 
 man's happiness ; glad of other men's good, content 
 with my harm : and the greatest of my pride is, to 
 see my ewes graze, and my lambs suck. 
 
 Touch. That is another simple sin in you ; to 
 bring the ewes and the rams together, and to oft'er 
 to get your living by the copulation of cattle : to 
 be bawd to a bell-wether, and to betray a she-lamb 
 of a twelvemonth, to a crooked-pated, old, cuck- 
 oldy ram, out of all reasonable match. If tliou 
 be'st not damn'd for this, the devil himself will 
 have no shepherds ; I cannot see else how thou 
 shouldst 'scape. 
 
 Cor. Here comes young master Ganymede, my 
 new mistress' brother. 
 
 Enter Rosalind, reading a paper. 
 
 Ros. " From tlie east to western Ind, 
 No jewel is like Rosalind. 
 Her worth, being mounted on tlie wind, 
 Through all the world bears Kosalind. 
 All the pictures, fiiirest lin\l. 
 Are but black to Kosalind. 
 Let no iiice be kept in mind. 
 But the fair of Eosalind." 
 
 Touch. I '11 rhyme you so, eight years together, 
 dinners, and suppere, and sleeping hours excepted : 
 it is the right butter-woman's rank to market.'' 
 
 Ros. Out, fool 1 
 
 ToucJi. For a taste : 
 
 If a hart do lack a hind, 
 
 Let him seek out Kosalind. 
 
 If the cat will after kind, 
 
 So, be sure, will Kosalind. 
 
 AVintred garments must be lin'd, 
 
 So must slender Eosalind. 
 
 They that reap must sheaf and bind , 
 
 Then to cart with Kosalind. 
 
 Sweetest nut hath sourest rind, 
 
 Sueh a nut is Kosalind. 
 
 He that sweetest rose will find, 
 
 Must find love's prick and Eosalind. 
 
 This is the very talse gallop of verses ! Why do 
 you infect yourself with them ?
 
 ACT lit. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 SCENE a. 
 
 Ros. I'eace, you dull fool ; I found them on 
 9. tree. 
 
 Touch. Tiulv, the tree yields bad fruit. 
 
 Bos. 1 '11 graff it with you, and then I shall 
 .-rati it with a medlar : then it will be the earliest 
 fiuit i' the country : for you '11 be rotten ere you 
 be half ripe, and that 's the right virtue of the 
 medlar. 
 
 Touch. You have said ; but whether wisely or 
 no, let the forest judge. 
 
 Enter Celia, reading a paper. 
 
 Ros. Peace ! 
 Here comes my sister, reading ; stand aside. 
 
 Cil. " Why bIiouIJ this a desert be ? 
 For it is unpeopled? No; 
 Tongues I '11 hang on every tree, 
 
 That shall civil sayings show.^' 
 Some, how brief the life of man 
 
 IJiins his erring pilgrimage ; 
 That the ftretcliing of a span 
 
 Buckles in his sum of age. 
 Some, of violated vows 
 
 'Twixt the souls of friend and friend ; 
 But upon the fairest boughs. 
 
 Or at every sentence' end, 
 "Will I Rosalinda write ; 
 
 Teaching all that read, to know 
 The quintessence of every sprite 
 
 Heaven would in little show. 
 Therefore Heaven nature charg'd 
 
 That one body should be fill'd 
 "With all graces wide enlarg'd : 
 
 Nature presently distiU'd 
 Helen's cheek, but not her heart, 
 
 Cleopatra's majesty, 
 Atalantu's better part,'" 
 
 Sad Lucretia's modesty. 
 Thus Ecisaliud of many parts 
 
 By heavenly synod was devis'd ; 
 Of many faces, eyes, and hearts. 
 
 To have the touches dearest priz'd. 
 Heaven would that she these gifts should have. 
 And I to live and die her slave." 
 
 Ros. O most gentle Jupiter ! what a tedious 
 homily of love have you wearied your parishioners 
 withal, and never cry'd, " Have patience, good 
 people '" 
 
 Cel. How now ! back, friends ; — Shepherd, go 
 oS a little : go with him, sirrah. 
 
 Touch. Come, shepherd, let us make an houour- 
 nbie retieat ; though not with bag and baggage, 
 yet with scrip and scrippagc. 
 
 [Kceunt Cokin and Touchstone. 
 
 C'd. Didst thou liore these verses ? 
 
 Ros. O, yes, I heard them all, and nioro too ; 
 422 
 
 for some of them had in them more feet than the 
 verses would bear. 
 
 Cel. That 's no matter ; the feet n"iight bear tlic 
 verses. 
 
 Ros. Ay, but the feet were lame, and could not 
 bear themselves without the verse, and therefore 
 stood lamely in the verse. 
 
 Cel. But didst thou hear, without wondering, 
 how thy name should be haug'd and carved upon 
 these trees ? 
 
 Ros. I was seven of the nine days out of the 
 wonder before you came ; for look here what I 
 found on a p;dm-tree : I was never so be-rhymed 
 since Pythagoras' time, tliat I was an Irish rat,^ 
 which I can hardly remember. 
 
 Cel. Trow you who hath done this ? 
 Ros. Is it a man ? 
 
 Cel. And a chain, that you once wore, about 
 his neck : Change you colour ? 
 Ros. I prithee, who ? 
 
 Cel. Lord, Lord ! it is a hard matter for friends 
 to meet ; but mountains may be remov'd^' with 
 earthquakes, and so encounter. 
 Ros. Nay, but who is it ? 
 Cel. Is it possible ? 
 
 Ros. Nay, I pr'y'thee now, with most petitionary 
 vehemence, tell me who it is. 
 
 Cel. O wonderful, wondeiful, and most wonder- 
 ful wonderful ! and yet again wonderful, and after 
 that out of all whooping 1 
 
 Ros. Good my complexion ! dost thou think, 
 though I am caparison'd like a man, I have a 
 doublet and hose in my disposition ? One inch of 
 delay more is a South-sea of discovery. I prithee, 
 tell me, who is it quickly, and speak apace : I 
 would thou couldst stammer, that thou mightst 
 pour this conceal'd man out of thy mouth, as wine 
 comes out of a narrow-mouth'd bottle ; either too 
 much at once, or none at all. I prithee take the 
 coik out of thy mouth, that I may drink thy 
 tidings. 
 
 Cel. So you may put a man in your belly. 
 Ros. Is he of God's making ? What manner of 
 man? Is his head worth a hat, or his chin worth 
 a beard 1 
 
 Cel. Nay, he hath but a little beard. 
 Ros. Why, God will send more, if the man will 
 be thankful : let me stay the growth of liis beard," 
 if thou delay me not the knowledge of his chin. 
 
 Cel. It is young Orlando, that tripped up the 
 wrestler's heels, and your heart, both in .an 
 instant
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 SCENE ri. 
 
 Jios. Nay, but the devil take mocking ; speak, 
 sad brow, and trae maid. 
 
 Cel. I' i'aitb, coz, 't is bo. 
 
 Eos. OilanUo? 
 
 Ccl. Orlando. 
 
 Bos: Alas liie day ! wbat sball I do witb my 
 doublet and liose ? — Wbat did be wben thou saw'st 
 liim ? Wbat said be ? Uow look'd he ? Wlierein 
 went be ? Wbat makes be here ? Did be ask for 
 me? Where remains be? How p.irted be witb 
 thee, and wben shall thou see bim again ? Answer 
 me in one word. 
 
 Ccl. You must borrow me Gargant\iii's moutli"'' 
 first : 't is a word too great for any mouth of this 
 age's size. To say ay, and no, to these particulars, 
 is more than to answer in a catechism. 
 
 2io!s. But doth be know that I am in this forest, 
 and in man's appaiel ? Looks he as freshly as be 
 did the day he wrestled ? 
 
 Cel. It is as easy to count atomies,*' as to resolve 
 ;be propositions of a lover: but take a taste of 
 mv findincr bim, and relish it witli good observance. 
 [ tijuud bim under a tree, like a di'opp'd acorn. 
 
 Eos. It may well be call'd Jove's tree, wben it 
 irM]>s forth such fruit. 
 
 Cf'l. Give mo audience, good madam. 
 
 Eos. Proceed. 
 
 Cel. There lay be, stretch'd along, like a won nded 
 knight. 
 
 Eos. Though it be pity to see such a sight, it 
 well becomes the gi'ound. 
 
 Cel. Cry, holla ! to the tongue, I prithee ; it 
 mrvets unseasonably. He was furnisb'd like a 
 buuter. 
 
 Eos. O omincus ! he comes to kill my heart ! 
 
 Cd. I would sing my song w^itbout a burthen ; 
 thou bring'st me out of t\ine. 
 
 Eos. Do you Dot know I am a woman ? wben I 
 think, I must speak. Sweet, say on. 
 
 Enter Orlando and Jaques. 
 
 Cel You bring me out :'' — Soft ! comes be not 
 here ? 
 
 Eos. 'T is be ; slmk by, and note liim. 
 
 [Celia and Rosalind retire. 
 
 Jaq. I thank you for your company : but, good 
 '"lifh, I bad .as lief have been myself alone. 
 
 Orl. And so had I ; but yet, for fiisbion's sake, I 
 thank you too for your soeiety. 
 
 Jaq. God be wi' you ; let 's meet as little as we 
 ':an. 
 
 Orl. I do desire we may be better strnnarer.s. 
 
 Jiiq. I pray you, mar no more trees witb 
 writing love-songs in their barks. 
 
 Orl. I pr;iy you, mar no more of my verses with 
 reading them ill-favourcdly. 
 
 Jaq. Rosalind is your love's name? 
 
 Orl. Yes, just. 
 
 Taq. I do not like her name. 
 
 Orl. There was no thought of pleasing you, 
 when she was christen'd. 
 
 Jaq. What stature is she of? 
 
 Orl. Just as liigh as my heart. 
 
 Jaq. You are full of pretty answers ! Have you 
 not been acquainted witb goldsmiths' wives, and 
 conned them out of rings? 
 
 Orl. Not so; but I answer you right painted 
 cloth," from whence you have studied your 
 questions. 
 
 Jaq. You have a nimble wit ; I think 't was 
 made of Atalanta's heels. Will you sit down with 
 me ? and we two will rail against our mistress 
 the world, and all our miseiy. 
 
 Orl. I will chide no breather in the world but 
 myself, jigainst whom I know most faults. 
 
 Jnq. The worst fault you have, is to be in love. 
 
 Orl. 'T is a fault I will not change for your 
 best virtue. I am weary of you. 
 
 Jaq. By my troth, I was seeking for a fool 
 when I found you. 
 
 Orl. He is drown'd in the brook ; look but in, 
 and you shall see him. 
 
 Jaq. There I sball see mine own figiu'e. 
 
 Orl. Which I take to be either a fool or a cypher. 
 
 Jaq. I '11 tarry no longer with you : farewell, 
 good signior Love. 
 
 Orl. I am glad of your departure ; adieu, good 
 monsieur Melancholy. 
 
 [^Exit Jaq. — Cel. and Ros. come forward. 
 
 Eos. I will speak to him like a saucy kcquey 
 and under that habit play the knaye with him. — 
 Do you hear, forester? 
 
 Orl. Very well ; Wbat would you ? 
 
 Eos. I pray you, what is 't a clock ? 
 
 Orl. You should ask me what time o' day 
 there 's no clock in the forest. 
 
 Eos. Then there is no true lover in the forest ; 
 else sighing every minute, and groaning eveiy 
 hour, would detect the lazy foot of time as well 
 as a clock. 
 
 Orl. And why not the swift foot of time ? bad 
 not that been as proper ? 
 
 Eos. By no means, sir. Time travels in divers 
 paces with divers persons. I '11 tell you who Time 
 
 ■123
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 ambles withal, -n-ho Time trots withal, who Time 
 [rallops withal, and who he stands still withal. 
 
 Orl. I prithee who doth hs trot withal ? 
 
 Jtos. Marry, he trots hard with a young maid,*" 
 between the contract of her marriage and the day 
 it is solenmiz'd : if the interim be but a se'nnight. 
 Time's pace is ao hard that it seems the length of 
 wven year. 
 
 Orl. Who ambles Time withal ? 
 
 Ros. With a priest that lacks Latin, and a rich 
 man that hath not the gout : for the one sleeps 
 easily, because he cannot study ; the other lives 
 merrily, because he feels no pain : the one lacking 
 the burthen of lean and wasteful learning ; the 
 other knowing no burthen of heavy tedious penury: 
 These Time ambles withal. 
 
 Orl. Who doth he gallop withal ? 
 
 Ros. With a thief to the gallows: for though 
 he go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself 
 too soon there. 
 
 Orl. Who slays it still withal ? 
 
 Ros. With lawyers in the vacation : for they 
 sleep between term and term, and then they per- 
 ceive not how time moves. 
 
 Orl. "Where dwell you, pretty youth ? 
 
 Ros. With this shepherdess, my sister ; here, in 
 the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat. 
 
 Orl. Are you native of this place ? 
 
 Ros. As the cone}-, that you see dwell wliere 
 she is kindled. 
 
 Orl. Your accent is something finer than you 
 could purchase in so removed a dwelling. 
 
 Ros. I have been told so of many : but, indeed, 
 an old religious uncle of mine taught me to speak, 
 who was in liis youth an inland man ; one that 
 knew courtship" too well, for there lie fell in 
 love. I have heard him read many lectures against 
 it ; and I thank God I am not a woman, to be 
 touch'd with so many giddy offences as he hath 
 generally tax'd their whole sex withal. 
 
 Orl. Can you remember any of the principal 
 evils that he laid to the charge of women? 
 
 Ros. There were none principal ; they were all 
 like one another, as lialfpenee are: every one 
 fault seeming monstrous, till his fc'llow fault came 
 to match it. 
 
 Orl. I prithee recount some of {\wm. 
 
 Ros. No ; I will not cast away my jihy.sic but 
 on those that are sick. There is a man haunts 
 the forest, that abuses our young jjlants with car- 
 ving Rosalind on their b.arks; liangs odes upon 
 hnwthorns, and elegies on brambles; all, forsooth, 
 4«4 
 
 deifying the name of Rosalind: if I could meet 
 that fancy-monger," I would give him some good 
 counsel, for be seems to have the quotidian of love 
 upon him. 
 
 Orl. I am he that is so love-shak'd ; I pray you, 
 tell me your remedy. 
 
 Ros. There is none of my uncle's marks upon 
 you : he taught me how to know a man in love ; 
 in which cage of rushes, I am sure, you are not 
 prisouer. 
 
 Orl. What were his maiks ? 
 
 Ros. A lean cheek, which you have not : a 
 blue eye, and sunken, which you have not : an 
 unquestionable" spirit, which you have not : a 
 beard neglected, which you have not : (but I 
 pardon you for that ; for, simply, your having in 
 beard is a younger brother's revenue :) Then 
 your hose should be ungarter'd, your bonnet un- 
 handed, your sleeve unbutton'd, your shoe unti'd, 
 and everything about you demonstrating a care- 
 less desolation. But you are no such man ; you 
 are rather point-de\'ice in your accoutrements ; 
 as loNing yourself, than seeming the lover of any 
 other. 
 
 Orl. Fair youth, I would I could make thee 
 believe I love. 
 
 Ros. Me believe it ? you may as soon make her 
 that you love believe it; which, I wan-ant, she is 
 apter to do than to confess she does : that is one 
 of the points in the which women still give the 
 lie to their consciences. But in good sooth, are 
 you he that hangs the verees on the trees, whei'ein 
 Rosalind is so admired ? 
 
 Orl. I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand 
 of Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he. 
 
 Ros. But are you so much in love as your rhymes 
 speak ? 
 
 Orl. Neither rhyme nor reason can express how 
 much. 
 
 Ros. Love is merely a m.aduess ; and, I fell you, 
 deserves as w-ell a dark house and a whip as mad- 
 men do : and the reason why they are not so 
 punish'd and cured is, that the lunacy is so ordinary 
 that the whippers are in love too : Yet I profess 
 ciu'ing it by counsel. 
 
 Orl. Did you ever cure any so ? 
 
 Ros. Yes, one ; and in this maimer. He was 
 to im.agine mo his love, his mistress; and I set 
 him every day to woo me: At which time w^ould 
 I, being but a moonish" youth, grieve, be effe- 
 minate, changeable, longing, and liking; proud, 
 fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of (ears.
 
 ACT in. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 SCENE 111. 
 
 full of smiles ; for every passion something, and 
 for no passion truly anything, as boys and women 
 Bre, for the most part, cattle of this colour : would 
 now like him, now loathe him ; then entertain 
 him, then foi-swear him ; now weep for him, then 
 spit at him ; that I drave my suitor from his mad 
 humour of love, to a living humour of madness ;"' 
 which was, to forswear the full stream of the world, 
 and to live in a nook merely monastic. And thus 
 I cur'd him ; and this way will I take upon me to 
 wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep's heart, 
 lh<i.t there shall not be one spot of love in 't. 
 
 Oil. I would not be cured, youth. 
 
 Jios. I would cure you, if you would but call 
 me Rosalind, and come every day to my cote, and 
 woo me. 
 
 Orl. Now, by the faith of my love, I will : tell 
 mo where it is. 
 
 Jio». Go with me to it, and I '11 show it you : 
 and, by the way, you shall tell me where in the 
 forest you live. Will you go ? 
 
 Orl. With all my heart, good youth. 
 
 Hos. Nay, you must call me Rosalind. Oorae, 
 sister, will you go ? [IJxeunt. 
 
 SCENE ni. 
 
 Enter Touchstone and Audrey ; Jaques at a dis- 
 tance, observing them. 
 
 Touch. Come apace, good Audrey ; I will fetch 
 up your goats, Audrey. And how, Audrey ? am 
 I the man yet ? Doth my simple feature content 
 you ? 
 
 Aud. Your features ! Lord warrant us ! what 
 features V* 
 
 Touch. I am here with thee and thy goats, as 
 the most capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among 
 the Goths. 
 
 Jaq. O knowledge ill-inhabited ! worse than 
 Jove in a thatch'd house ! [Aside. 
 
 Touch. When a man's verses cannot be under- 
 stood, nor a man's good wit seconded with the 
 forward child, Understanding, it strikes a man 
 more dead than a great reckoning in a little 
 room. Tnily, I would the gods had made thee 
 poetical. 
 
 Aud. I do not know what poetical is ; is it 
 honest in deed and word ? Is it a true thing ? 
 
 Touch. No, truly ; for the truest poetry is the 
 most feigning ; and lovers are given to poetry ; 
 and what they swear in poetry, may be snid, as 
 lovers, they do feign. 
 
 Aud. Do you wish, then, that the gods had 
 made mo poetical ? 
 
 Touch. I do, truly : for thou swear'st to me 
 thou art honest ; now, if thou wert a poet, I might 
 have some hope thou didst feign. 
 
 Aud. Would you not have me honest ? 
 
 Touch. No, truly, unless thou wert hard-fa vour'd : 
 for honesty coupled to beauty, is to have honey a 
 sauce to sugar. 
 
 Jaq. A material fool !" \ Aside. 
 
 Aud. Well, I am not fair ; aud therefore I pray 
 the gods make me honest ! 
 
 Touch. Truly, and to cast away honesty upon 
 a foul slut were to put good meat into an unclean 
 dish. 
 
 Aud. I am not a slut, though I thank the gods 
 I am foul." 
 
 Touch. Well, praised be the gods for thy foul- 
 ness ! sluttishness may come hereafter. But be 
 it as it may be, I will marry thee : and to that 
 end, I have been with Sir Oliver Mar-text, the 
 vicar of the next village, who hath promis'd 
 to meet me in this place of the forest, aud to 
 couple us. 
 
 Jaq. I would fain see this meeting. [Aside. 
 
 Aud. Well, the gods give us joy ! 
 
 Touch. Amen ! A man may, if he were of a 
 fearful heart, stagger in this attempt ; for here we 
 have no temple but the wood, no assembly but 
 horn-beasts. But what though ? Courage ! As 
 horns are odious, they are necessary. It is said, 
 Many a man knows no end of his goods : right ! 
 many a man has good horns, and knows no end 
 of them. Well, that is the dowry of his wife ; 
 't is none of his o\vn getting. Horns ? Even so : 
 are horns given to poor men alone ? No, no ; the 
 noblest deer hath them as huge as the rascal." la 
 the single man therefore blessed ? No : as a wall'd 
 town is more worthier than a village, so is the 
 forehead of a married man more honourable than 
 the bare brow of a bachelor : and by how much 
 defence" is better than no skill, by so much is a 
 horn more precious than to want. 
 
 Enter Sir Oliver Mar-text. 
 Here comes Sir Oliver : — Sir Oliver Mar-text, you 
 are well met : Will you despatch us here under 
 this tree, or shall we go with you to your chapel ? 
 Sir OH. Is there none here to give the woman? 
 Touch. I will not take her on gift of any man. 
 Sir Oli. Truly, she must be given, or die mar- 
 riage is not lawful. 
 
 425
 
 ACT III. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Jaq. [discovering himself.] Proceed, proceed ; 
 I "11 give her. 
 
 Touch. Good even, good master What ye call 't : 
 IIow do you, Sir ? You are very well met : God 
 'ild you for vour last company : I am very glad to 
 See you : — Even a toy in band here, sir : — Nay ; 
 pray be cover'd. 
 
 Jaq. TVill you be manied, Motley ? 
 
 Touch. As the ox hath his bow, sir, the horse 
 his curb, and the falcon her bells, so man hath his 
 desires ; and as pigeons bill, so wedlock would be 
 nibbling. 
 
 Jaq. And ■\^^I1 you, being a man of your breed- 
 ing, be mariied under a busb, like a beggar ? Get 
 you to church, and have a good priest that can 
 tell you what maniage is : this fellow will but 
 join you together as they join wainscot ; then one 
 of you will prove a shrunk panel, and, like green 
 timber, warp, warp. 
 
 Touch, I am not in the mind but I were better 
 to be married of him than of another : for he is 
 not like to maiTy me well ; and not being well 
 married, it will be a good excuse for me hereafter 
 to leave my wife. 
 
 Jaq. Go thou ^vith me, and let me counsel thee. 
 
 Touch. Come, sweet Audrey : 
 We must be married, or we must live in bawdry. 
 Farewell, good master Oliver ! 
 
 Not — " sweet OJiver, 
 brave Oliver, 
 LciTc me not behind thee :" 
 
 But — "Wind away, 
 
 Begone I say, 
 I will not to wedding witli thee." 
 
 [Exeimt Jaq., Touch., and Aud. 
 
 Sir on. 'T is no matter; ne'er a fantastical 
 
 kna^■e of them all .shall flout me out of my calling. 
 
 [2ixit. 
 
 SCENE lY.—The same. Before a Cottage. 
 
 Enter Rosalind and Celia. 
 
 Ros. Never talk to me, I will weep. 
 
 Cel. Do, I prithee ; but yet have the grace to 
 consider that teare do not become a man. 
 
 Ros. But have I not cause to weep ? 
 
 Cel. As good cause as one would desire ; there- 
 foj-e weep. 
 
 lios. His very hair is of the dissembling colour. 
 
 Cel. Something browner than Judas's:" marry, 
 bis kisses are Jud;us's own children. 
 
 Ros. V faith, his hair is of a good colour. 
 426 
 
 Cel. An excellent colour : your chesnut was 
 ever the only colour. 
 
 Ros, And his kissing is as full of sanctity rs the 
 touch of holy bread.'" 
 
 Cel. He hath bought a pair of chaste lips of 
 Diana : a nun of Winter's sisterhood kisses not 
 more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in them. 
 
 Ros. But why did he swear he would come this 
 morning, and comes not ? 
 
 Cel. Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him. 
 
 Ros. Do you think so ? 
 
 Cel. Yes ; I think he is not a pick-purse, nor a 
 horse-stealer; but for his verity in love, I do think 
 him as concave as a covered goblet, or a worm- 
 eaten nut. 
 
 Ros. Not true in love ? 
 
 Cel. Yes, when he is in ; but, I think he is not in 
 
 Ros. You have heard him swear downright he 
 was. 
 
 Cel. Was is not is : besides, the oath of a lover 
 is no stronger than the word of a tapster ; they are 
 both the confii'mers of false reckonings. He attends 
 here in the forest on the duke your father. 
 
 Ros. I met the duke yesterday, and had much 
 question with him. He asked me of what parent- 
 age I was ; I told him, of as good as he ; so ho 
 laugh'd, and let me go. But what talk we oi 
 fathers, when there is such a man as Orlando ? 
 
 Cel. O, that 's a brave man ! he writes brave 
 verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, 
 and breaks them bravely, quite traverse, athwart 
 the heart of his lover; as a puisne tilter, that spurs 
 his horse but on one side, brealcs his stulf like a 
 noble goose ; but all 's brave that youlli mounts, 
 and folly guides : — Who comes here I 
 
 Enter Corin. 
 
 Cor. Mistress, and master, you have oft inquir'd 
 After the shepherd that complain'd of love, 
 ^Vho you saw sitting by me on the turf, 
 Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess 
 That was his mistress. 
 
 Cel. Well, and what of him ? 
 
 Cor. If you will, see a pageant truly play'd, 
 Between the p.ale complexion of true love 
 And the red glow of scorn and jiroud disdain, 
 Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you, 
 If you will mark it. 
 
 Ros. 0, come, let us remove ; 
 
 The sight of lovers feedeth those in love ; . 
 ]5ring us to this sight, and you shall say 
 1 '11 prove a busy actor in their play. [Exeunt
 
 ACT III. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 SCKXE V. 
 
 SCENE V. —Another part of the Forest. 
 
 Enter Silvius and Phebe. 
 
 Sil. Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me ; do not, 
 
 Phebe : 
 .Say, tliat you love me not ; but say not so 
 ill bitterness. The commou executioner, 
 \Miose heart th' accustom'd sight of death makes 
 
 liard, 
 Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck, 
 But first begs pardon. Will you sterner be 
 Thau he that dies and lives by bloody drops ? 
 
 Eater Rosalind, Celia, and Corin, at a distance. 
 
 Phe. I would not be thy executioner ; 
 [ tly thee, for I would not injure thee. 
 Thou tcU'st me, there is luurther in mine eye ; 
 'T is pretty sure, aud very probable, 
 Tiiat eyes, that are the frail'st and softest things, 
 Who shut their coward gates on atomies. 
 Should be call'd tyrants, butchers, murtlierere ! 
 Now I do frown on thee with all my heart ; 
 Aud, if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill 
 
 thee; 
 Now counterfeit to swound ; why, now fall down ; 
 Or, if thou canst not, 0, for shame, for shame 1 
 Lie not, to say mine eyes are murtherers. 
 Now show the wound mine eye hath made iu 
 
 thee : 
 Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains 
 Some scar of it ; lean upon a rush, 
 The cicatrice and capable" impressure 
 Thy palm some moment keeps : but now mine eyes, 
 Wliich I have darted at thee, hurt thee not ; 
 Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes 
 That can do hurt. 
 
 Sil. O dear Phebe, 
 
 [f ever (as that ever may be near) 
 You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, 
 Then shall you know the wouuds invisible 
 That love's keen arrows make. 
 
 Phe. But, till that time. 
 
 Come not thou near me : and, when that time 
 
 comes, 
 .Vtfiict me with ray mocks, pity me not ; 
 As, till that time, I shall not pity thee. 
 
 Ros. And why, I pray you ? [Advancinrf] Who 
 might be your mother. 
 That you insult, exult, .and all at once. 
 Over the wretched ? What though vou have no 
 
 beauty, 
 (As, by my faith, I see no more in you 
 
 Than without candle may go dark to bed). 
 Must you be therefore proud and pitiless? 
 Why, what means this ? Wh > do you look on mc ! 
 I see no more in you than in the ordinary 
 Of nature's sale-work. — Od's my little life ' 
 I think she means to tangle my eyes too : — 
 No, 'faith, proud mistress, hope not after it ; 
 'T is not your inky brows, your black silk hair. 
 Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream, 
 That can entame my spirits to your worship. 
 You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her, 
 Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain ? 
 You are a thousand times a properer man, 
 Than she a woman. 'T is such fools as you 
 That make the world full of ill-favour'd children : 
 'T is not her glass, but you, that flatters her ; 
 And out of you she sees herself more proper 
 Tlian any of her lineaments can show her. 
 But, mistress, know yourself; down on your knees. 
 And thank Heaven, fasting, for a good man's love : 
 For I must tell you fnendly in your ear, 
 Sell when you can ; you are not for all markets : 
 Cry the man mercy ; love him ; take his offer ; 
 Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer.'^ 
 So, take her to thee, shepherd ; fare you well. 
 
 Phe. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year 
 together ; 
 I had rather hear you chide than this man woo. 
 
 Ros. Ho 's fall'n in love with your foulness, and 
 she '11 fall in love with my anger. If it be so, as 
 fast as she answers thee ■spith frowning looks, I 'II 
 sauce her with bitter words. — Why look you so 
 upon me '? 
 
 Phe. For no ill will I bear you. 
 
 Ros. I pray you, do not fall in love with me. 
 For I am falser than vows made in wine : 
 Besides, I like you not. If you will know my 
 
 house, 
 'T is at the tuft of olives, here hard by : — 
 Will you go, sister? Shepherd, ply her hard ; 
 Come, sister : Shepherdess, look on him better, 
 And be not proud : though all the world could see^ 
 None could be so abus'd in sight as he. 
 Come, to our llock. [Exeunt Ros., Cel., ayid Cor 
 
 Phe. Dead shepherd ! now I find thy saw o. 
 might ; 
 "Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight?'"" 
 
 Sil. Sweet Phebe, — 
 
 Phe. Ha ! what say'st thou, Silvius ? 
 
 Sil. Sweet Phebe, pity me. 
 
 Phe. Whv, I am sorry for thee, gentle Sih"iua 
 
 Sil. Wherever sorrow is, relief would be ; 
 
 427
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 If jod Jo sorrow at my grief in love, 
 
 By giviug love, your sorrow and my grief 
 
 Were both extermin'd. 
 
 Phe. Tliou ha-st my love ; is not that neigli- 
 bourh ? 
 
 S'd. I would have you. 
 
 Phe. Why, that were covetousness. 
 
 Silvius, the time was that I hated thee ; 
 And yet it is not that I bear thee love : 
 But sinoe that thou canst talk of love so well, 
 Thy company, which erst was irksome to me, 
 I wul endure ; and I '11 employ thee too : 
 But do not look for further recompense 
 Thau thine owti gladness that thou art employ 'd. 
 
 Sil. So hoi}' and so perfect is my love, 
 .\nd I in such a poverty of grace, 
 That I shall think it a most plenteous crop 
 To gleau the broken ears after the man 
 That the main harvest reaps : loose now and then 
 A scatter'd smile, and that I '11 live upon. 
 
 Phe. Kuow'st thou the youth that spoke to me 
 erewhile ? 
 
 Sil. Not very well, but I have met him oft ; 
 And he hath bought the cottage, and the bounds. 
 That the old carlot*' once was master of. 
 
 Phe. Think not I love him, though I ask for him ; 
 'T is but a peevish boy : — yet he talks well ; — 
 But what care I for words 3 yet words do well. 
 When he that speaks them pleases those that hear. 
 It is a pretty youth : — not very pretty : — 
 
 But, sure, he 's proud ; and yet bis pride becomes 
 
 him : 
 He 'II make a proper man. The best thing in him 
 Is his coniplexion ; and fiister than his tongue 
 Did make oflence, his eye did heal it up. 
 He is not very tall ; yet for his years he 's tall : 
 His leg is but so so ; and yet 't is well : 
 There was a pretty redness in his lip ; 
 A little riper and more lusty red 
 Than that mi.x"d in his cheek ; 't was just the dif- 
 ference 
 Betwixt the constant red, and mingled damask. 
 There be some women, Silvius, had they mark'd 
 
 him 
 In parcels, as I did, would have gone near 
 To fall iu love with him : but, for my part, 
 I love him not, nor hate him not ; and yet 
 Have more cause to hate him than to love him : 
 For what hath he to do to chide at me 1 
 He said mine eyes were black, and my hair black ; 
 And now I am remember'd, scorn'd at me : 
 I marvel \¥hy I answer'd not again : 
 But that 's all one : omittance is no quittance. 
 I '11 write him a very taunting letter. 
 And thou shalt bear it ; Wilt thou, Silvius ? 
 Sil. Phebe, with all my heart. 
 Phe. I '11 write it straight : 
 
 The matter 's in my head, and in my heart ; 
 I will be bitter with him, and passing short: 
 Go with me, Silvius. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I.— The Forest. 
 Enter Eosalixd, Celia, and Jaques. 
 
 d'aq. 1 prithee, pretty youth, let me be better 
 acquainted with thee. 
 
 Ros. They say you are a melancholy fellow. 
 
 Jaq. I am so: I do love it better than laughing. 
 
 Ros. Those that are in extremity of either are 
 abominable fellows, and betray themselves to every 
 modern censure, worse than drunkards. 
 
 J(iq. Wiiy, 't is good to be sad and say nothing. 
 
 Ros. Why, then, 't is good to be a jiost. 
 
 J(iq. I have neither the scholar's melancholy, 
 which 1:1 feuiulaticn ; nor the musician's, which is 
 ■128 
 
 fantastical ; nor the courtier's, which is proud 
 nor the soldier's, which is ambitious ; nor the 
 lawyer's, which is politic ; nor the lady's, which 
 is nice; nor the lover's, which is all these: but 
 it is a melancholy of mine own, conqiounded oi 
 many simples, extracted from many objects, and, 
 indeed, the sundry contemplation of my travels, 
 in which my often rumination wraps me in a most 
 humorous sadness. 
 
 Ros. A traveller! By my failh, you have great 
 reason to be sad : I fear you have sold your own 
 lands, to see other men's ; then, to have seen 
 much, and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes 
 and poor hands.
 
 l\ 
 
 JICT IV 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 8CESE I. 
 
 Jaj. Yes, I liave gain'd by experience, 
 
 Miter Orlando. 
 
 liis. Anil your experience makes you sad : I 
 liad ratlier have a fool to make mo merry, than 
 experience to make me sad ; and to travel for it too ! 
 
 Orl. Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind ! 
 
 Jiiq. Nay, then, God be wi' you, an you talk 
 .n blank verse. 
 
 Hos. Farewell, monsieur traveller. Look you 
 lisp, and wear strange suits disable all the benefits 
 of your own country ; be out of love with your 
 nativity, and almost chide God for making you 
 that countenance you are ; or I will scarce think 
 you have swam in a gondola. [£!xU Jaques.] 
 Why, how now, Orlando ! where have you been 
 all this while ? You a lover? — An you serve me 
 such another trick, never come in my sight more. 
 
 Ov-Z. ily fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of 
 iny promise. 
 
 Jios. Break an hour's promise in love ? He that 
 will divide a minute into a thousand parts, and 
 break but a part of the thousandth part of a minute 
 in the affairs of love, it may be said of him that 
 Cupid liath clapped him o' the shoulder, but I '11 
 warrant him heart-whole. 
 
 Orl. Pardon me, dear Rosalind. 
 
 Hos. Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in 
 iny sight ; I had as lief be woo'd of a snail. 
 
 Orl. Of a snail? 
 
 Hos. Ay, of a snail ; for though he come.5 slowly, 
 bo carries his house on his head ;** a better jointure, 
 I think, than you make a woman : Besides, he 
 brings his destiny with him. 
 
 Orl. What's "that? 
 
 Hos. Why, horns; which such as you are fain 
 to be beholden to your wives for : but he comes 
 armed in his fortune, and prevents the slander of 
 his wife. 
 
 Orl. Virtue is no hom-maker, and my Rosalind 
 is virtuous. 
 
 Hos. And I am your Rosalind. 
 
 Cel. It pleases him to call you so ; but he hath 
 a Rosalind of a better leer than you. 
 
 Hos. Come, woo me, woo me ; for now I am in 
 u holiday humour, and like enough to consent : — 
 What would you say to me now, an I were your 
 very very Rosahnd ? 
 
 Orl. I would kiss before I spoke. 
 
 Hos. Nay, you were better speak fii-st ; and 
 when you were gravell'd for lack of matter, you 
 might take occasion to kiss. Very good orators. 
 
 when they are out, they will spit ; and for lovers, 
 lacking (God warn us!) matter, the cleanliest shift 
 is to kiss. 
 
 Orl. How if the kiss be denied ? 
 
 Hos. Then she puts you to entreaty, and there 
 begins new matter. 
 
 Orl. Who could be out, being before his beloved 
 mistress ? 
 
 Hos. Marry, that should you, if I were your 
 mistress; or I should think my honesty rankei 
 than my wit. 
 
 Orl. What, of my suit ? 
 
 Hos. Not out of your apparel, and yet out of 
 your suit. Am not 1 your Rosalind ? 
 
 Orl. I take some joy to say you are, because I 
 would be talking of her. 
 
 Hos. Well, in her person, I say — I will not 
 have you. 
 
 Orl. Then, in mine own person, I die. 
 
 Hos. No, faith, die by attorney. The poor 
 world is almost six thousand years old, and in all 
 this time there was not any man died in his own 
 person, videlicit, in a love-cause. Troilus had his 
 brains dash'd out with a Grecian club : yet he did 
 what he could to die before ; and he is one of the 
 patterns of love. Leander, he would have livM 
 many a fair year, though Hero had turn'd nun, if 
 it had not been for a hot midsummer night: for, 
 good youth, he went but forth to wash him in the 
 Ilellespont, and, being taken with the cramp, was 
 drown'd ; and the foolish coroners of that age 
 found it was — Hero of Sestos. But these are all 
 lies ; men have died from time to time, and worms 
 have eaten them, but not for love. 
 
 Orl. I would not have my right Rosalind of this 
 mind ; for, I protest, her frown might kill me. 
 
 Hos. By this hand, it will not kill a fly. But, 
 come, now I will be your Rosalind in a more 
 coming-on disposition ; and ask me what you will, 
 I will grant it. 
 
 Orl. Then love me, Rosalind. 
 
 Hos. Yes, faith will I, Fridays, and Saturdays, 
 and all. 
 
 Orl. And wilt thou have me ? 
 
 Hos. Ay, and twenty such I 
 
 Orl. What say'st thou ? 
 
 Hos. Are you not good ? 
 
 Orl. I hope so. 
 
 Hos. Why, then, can one desire too much of a 
 good thing? — Come, sister, you shall be the priest, 
 and marry us. — Give me your hand, Orlando 
 What do you say, sister ? 
 
 429
 
 ACT T7. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 BOESE n. 
 
 Orl. Pray thee, marry us. 
 
 C'el. I cannot say tlie words. 
 
 Bos. You must begin, — " Will you, Orlando," — 
 
 Ccl. Go to : Will you, Orlando, have to 
 
 wife this Rosalind ! 
 
 Orl. I will. 
 
 Jios. Ay, but when ? 
 
 Orl. Why, now ; as fast as she can marry us. 
 
 lios. Then you must say, — " I take thee, Rosa- 
 lind, for wife." 
 
 Orl. I take thee, Rosalind, for wife. 
 
 Mos. I might ask you for your commission ; but, 
 — I do take thee, Orlando, for my husband. There 's 
 a girl goes before the priest : and, certainly, a 
 woman's thought runs before her actions. 
 
 Orl. So do all thoughts; they are wing'd. 
 
 Eos. Now tell me, how long you would have 
 her, after you have possessed her. 
 
 Orl. For ever, and a day. 
 
 Jios. Say a day, without the ever ! No, no, 
 Orlando ; men are April when they woo, December 
 when they wed : maids are May when they are 
 maids, hut the sky changes when they are wives. 
 I will be more jealous of thee than a Barbary 
 cock-pigeon over his hen ; more clamorous than a 
 parrot against rain ; more new-tangled than an 
 ape ; more giddy in my desires than a monkey : I 
 will weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain, 
 and I will do that when you are dispos'd to be 
 merry ; I will laugh like a hyen,'° and that when 
 thou art inclin'd to sleep. 
 
 Orl. But will my Rosalind do so ? 
 
 Sos. By my life, she will do as I do. 
 
 Orl. O, but she is wise. 
 
 Eos. Or else she could not have the wit to do 
 this : the wiser, the waywarden Make the doors 
 upon a woman's wit, and it will out at the case- 
 ment ; shut that, and 't will out at the key-hole ; 
 stop that, 't will fly with the smoke 'out at the 
 chimney. 
 
 Orl. A man that had a wife with such a wit, 
 he might say, — "Wit, whither wilt ?"" 
 
 Eos. Nay, you might keep tliat check for it, 
 till you meet your wife's wit going to your neigh- 
 bour's bed. 
 
 Orl. A nd what wit could wit have to excuse that ? 
 
 Eos. Many, to say — she came to seek you there. 
 You shall never take her without her answer, 
 unless you take Ler witliout her tongue. 0, that 
 woman that cannot make her fault her husband's 
 occasion," let lier never nurse her child herself, 
 for she will breed it like a fool, 
 •mo 
 
 Orl. For these two hours, Rosalind, I wi'l 
 leave thee. 
 
 Eos. Alas, dear love, I cannot hick theo twc 
 hours. 
 
 Orl. I must attend the duke at dinner ; by two 
 o'clock I will be with thee again. 
 
 Eos. Ay, go your ways, go your ways : — I knew 
 what you would prove ; my fi'iends told me as 
 much, and I thought no less : — that flattering 
 tongue of yours won me : — 't is but one cast away, 
 and so, — come, death ! — Two o'clock is your 
 hour ? 
 
 Orl. Ay, sweet Rosalind. 
 
 Eos. By my troth, and in good earnest, and so 
 God mend me, and by all pretty oaths that are 
 not dangerous, if you break one jot of your promise, 
 or come one minute behind your hour, I will 
 think you the most pathetical break-promise,** 
 and the most hollow lover, and the most unworthy 
 of her you call Rosalind, that may be chosen out 
 of the gi'oss band of the unfaithful : therefore 
 beware my censure, and keep your promise. 
 
 Orl. With no less religion than if thou weH 
 indeed my Rosalind : So, adieu. 
 
 Eos. Well, Time is the old justice that examines 
 all such oftendei's, and let Time try. Adieu ! 
 
 [Exit Orlando. 
 
 Cel. You have simply misus'd our sex in your 
 love prate : we must liave your doublet and hose 
 plucked over your head, and show the world what 
 the bird hath done to her own nest. 
 
 Eos. O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that 
 thou didst know how many fathom deep I am in 
 love ! But it cannot bo sounded ; my atJ'ection 
 hath an unknown bottom, like the bay of Portugal. 
 
 Ccl. Or rather, bottomless ; that as fast as' you 
 pour affection in, it runs out. 
 
 Eos. No ; that same wicked b.istard of Venus, 
 that was beget of thought, conceiv'd of spleen, 
 and born of madness; that blind ra.scally boy, 
 that abuses every one's eyes, because his own are 
 out, let him bo judge how deep I am in love : — 
 I'll tell thee, Aliena, I cannot be out of the sigl\t 
 of Orlando. I'll go tind a shadow, and sigh tilJ 
 he come. 
 
 Cel. And I'll sleep. 
 
 SCENE IL— Another part of the Forest. 
 
 Filter 3 AqvKS and Lords, )??, the habit of Foresters 
 
 Jaq. Which is lie that killed the deer { 
 1 Lord. Sir, it w:ls L
 
 ACT n'. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 HCENE III. 
 
 Jaq. Let's present him to the duke, like a Ro- 
 man conqueror ; and it would do well to set the 
 (fpor's horns upon his head, for a branch of victory : 
 — Have you no song, forester, for this purpose? 
 
 2 Lord. Yes, sir. 
 
 Jaq. Sing it ; 't is no matter how it be in tune, 
 so it make noise enough. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 1. What sliall he have tliat kill'd the deer ! 
 
 2. His leather Bkin, and horns to wear. 
 
 Jaq. Tlien sing him liome. 
 
 [They carry away the deer singing. 
 
 ■All- Take thou no scorn, to wear the horn ; 
 It was a crest ero thou wast born. 
 
 1. Thy father's father wore it ; 
 
 2. And thy fatlicr bore it ; 
 
 All. The horn, the born, tlie lusty born. 
 
 Is not a thing to laugh to scorn. \^Exeuni. 
 
 SCENE m.—Tha Forest. 
 Enter Rosalind and Celia. 
 
 Ros. IIow say you now ? Is it not past two 
 o'clock ? and here mucli Orlando !™ 
 
 Cel. I waiTant you, with pure love, and troubled 
 brain, ho hath ta'en his bow and arrows, and is 
 gone forth — to sleep : Look, who comes here. 
 
 Enter Silvius. 
 
 Sit. My errand is to you, fair youth ; — 
 My gentle Phebe did bid me give you this. 
 
 [Giving a letter. 
 I know not the contents ; but, as I guess, 
 By the stern brow, and waspish action 
 Which she did use as she was writing of it, 
 . t bears an angry tenor : pardon me, 
 . am but as a guiltless messenger. 
 
 Mos. Patience herself would startle at this letter. 
 And play the swaggerer ; bear this, bear all : 
 She says, I am not fair ; that I lack manners ; 
 She calls me proud ; and, that she could not love 
 
 me 
 Were man as rare as phoenix. Od's my will ! 
 Her love is not the hare that I do hunt. 
 Why writes she so to me? — W^ell, shepherd, well; 
 This is a letter of your own device. 
 
 Sil. No, I protest, I know not the contents ; 
 Phebe did write it. 
 
 Jioa. Come, come, you are a fool, 
 
 And tum'd into the extremity of love. 
 I saw her hand : she has a leathern hand, 
 A fi'oestone-colour'd hand ; I veily did think 
 
 That her old glovi-s were on, but 't w;ts her liaixis' 
 She has a housewife's hand : but that 's no matter'. 
 I say, she never did invent this letter ; 
 This is a man's invention, and Iiis hand. 
 
 Sil. Sure, it is hers. 
 
 Jios. Why, 't is a boisterous and a cruel style. 
 A style for challengers ; why, she defies me. 
 Like Turk to Christian : woman's gentle brain 
 Could not drop forth such giant rude invention, 
 Such Ethiop words, blacker in their efi'ect 
 Than in their countenance : — Will you hear the 
 letter ? 
 
 Sil. So please you, for I never hoard it yet ; 
 Yet heard too nmch of Phebe's cruelty. 
 
 Bos. She Phebes me : Mark how the tyiani 
 writes. 
 
 " Art thou pod to shepherd turn'd, [Jiead.^ 
 
 Tliat a maiden's heart liath burn'd ?" — 
 
 Can a woman rail thus ? 
 Sil. Call you this railing ? 
 
 Jios. " Why, thy godhead laid apart, 
 
 Warr'st thou with a woman's heart?" 
 
 Did you ever hear such railing ? 
 
 " Whiles the eye of man did woo mo. 
 That could do no vengeance to rae — " 
 
 Meaning me a beast. — 
 
 "If the scorn of your bright eyne 
 Have power to raise such love in mine. 
 Alack! in ine what strange etlect 
 Would they work in mild aspect? 
 Whiles you chid me, I did love ; 
 How tlien might your prayers move ? 
 He that brings tliis love to thee. 
 Little knows tliis love in me : 
 And by him seal up tliy mind ; 
 Whether that thy youth and kind 
 Will the faitliful offer t.ake 
 Of me, and all that I can make ; 
 Or else by him my love deny. 
 And then I'll study how to die." 
 
 Sil. Call you this chiding ? 
 
 Ccl. Alas, poor shepherd ! 
 
 Jios. Do you pity him ? no, he deserves no pity. 
 — Wilt thou love such a woman ? — "What, to make 
 thee an instrument, and play false strains u])oi; 
 thee! not to be endur'd I — Well, go your way to 
 her, (for I see love hath made thee a tan^e snake,) 
 and say this to her ; — That if she love me, I charge 
 her to love thee : If she will not, I will never 
 have her, unless thou entreat for her. — If you be a 
 true lover, hence, and not a word ; for here comes 
 more company. Exit Silvius 
 
 4R1
 
 ACT rv. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT 
 
 Enter Oliver. 
 
 Oti. Good morrow, fair ones : Pray you, if you 
 know 
 Wliere, 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 osiere, 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 ywi by description ; 
 Such gai-ments, and such years: "The boy is fair, 
 Of female favour, and bestows himself 
 Like a lipe 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. 
 
 Oli. Orlando doth commend him to you both ; 
 And to that youth, he calls his Rosalind, 
 He sends this bloody napkin ; are you he ? 
 
 Ros. I am : what must we understand by this ? 
 
 Oli. 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. 
 
 Oli. When last the young Orlando parted from 
 
 you, 
 
 He left a promise to return again 
 
 Within an hour ; and, pacing through the forest. 
 
 Chewing the food of sweet and bitter f;incy, 
 
 Lo, what befel ! he threw his eye aside. 
 
 And, mark, what object did present itself! 
 
 Under an old oak," whose boughs were moss'd 
 
 •nith 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 unlirik'd itself. 
 And with indented glides did siip away 
 Into a bush : under which bush's shade 
 A lioness, with udders all drawn dry, 
 r.ay couching, head on grounil, 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 ; 
 '182 
 
 This seen, Orlando did approach the man. 
 And found it was his brother, his elder brother. 
 Cel. 0, I have heard him speak of that same 
 brother ; 
 And he did render" him the most imuatural 
 That liv'd 'niongst men. 
 
 Oli. And well he might so do, 
 
 For well I know he was unnatural. 
 
 Ros. But, to Orlando ; — Did he leave him 
 there. 
 Food to the suck'd f.nd hungiy 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? 
 Ros. Was 't you he rescu'd ? 
 
 Cel. Was 't you that did so oft contrive to kill 
 
 him? 
 on. 'T was I ; but 't is not I : I do not 
 shame 
 To tell you what I was, since roy conversion 
 So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am. 
 Ros. But, for the bloody napkin ? — 
 Oli. By and by. 
 
 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. 
 Who gave me fresh array and entertainment. 
 Committing mn 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 
 Tli^t ho in sport doth call his Rosalind. 
 
 Cel. Why, how now, Ganymede ? sweet Gany- 
 mede ? \\ios. fainif. 
 Oli. Many will swoon when they do look on
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 BCENB I. 
 
 Cel, Tbere is more iu it : — Cousin — Ganymede! 
 
 OIL Look, he recovers. 
 
 Ros. I would I were at lioine. 
 
 Cd. We '11 lead you thither :— 
 1 jirny you, will you take him by the arm ? 
 
 OIL Be of gooil cheer, youth : — You a man ? — 
 V nil lack a man's heart. 
 
 Ros. I do so, I confess it. Ah, sin-a, a body 
 would think this was well counterfeited. I pray 
 yon, tell your brother how well I counterfeited. — 
 Heigh ho ! 
 
 OH. This was not counterfeit ; there is too great 
 testimony in your complexion, that it was a pas- 
 iion of earnest. 
 
 Ros. Counterfeit, I assure you. 
 
 Oli. Well, then, take a goi-J heart, and coun- 
 terfeit to be a man. 
 
 Ros. So I do : but, i' faith, I should have l-^en 
 a womnu by right. 
 
 Ccl. Come, you look paler and paler; pray you, 
 draw homevi'ards : — Good sir, go with us. 
 
 Oli. That will I, for I must boar answer back 
 Uow you excuse my brother, Ilosalind. 
 
 Ros. I shall devise something : But, I pray yon, 
 commend my counterfeiting to him : — Will you 
 go? 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE l.—TIi£ Forest of Arden. 
 Enter Touchstone and Audrey. 
 
 Touch. We shall find a time, Audrey; patience, 
 gi'ntle Audrey. 
 
 And. 'Faith, the priest was good enough, for all 
 the old gentleman's saying. 
 
 Touch. A most wicked sir Oliver, Audrey ; a 
 most vile Mar-text. But, Audrey, there is a youth 
 here in the forest lays claim to you. 
 
 Aud. Ay, I know who 't is ; he hath no inte- 
 rest in me in Lbe world : here comes the man you 
 mean. 
 
 Enter William. 
 
 Touch. It is meat and drink to me to see a 
 clown. By my troth, we that have good wits have 
 much to answer for ; we shall be flouting ; we can- 
 not hold. 
 
 Will. Good ev'n, Audrey. 
 
 Aud. God ye good ev'n, William. 
 
 Will. And good ev'n to you, sir. 
 
 Touch. Good ev'n, gentle friend. Cover thy 
 head, cover thy head ; nay, prithee, be cover'd. 
 How old are you, friend ? 
 
 Will. Five-and-twenty, sir. 
 
 Touch. A ripe age ! Is thy name William ? 
 
 Will. William, sir. 
 
 Touch A fair name. Wast born i' the forest 
 here ? 
 
 Will. Ay, sir, I thank God. 
 
 5S 
 
 Touch. Thank God ! — a good answer. Art ricli ? 
 
 Will. Faith, sir, so so. 
 
 Touch. So so is good, very good, very excellent 
 good : and yet it is not ; it is but so so. Art thou 
 wise ? 
 
 Will. Ay, sir, I have a pretty wit. 
 
 Touch. AVhy, thou tay'st well. I do now remem- 
 ber a saying; "The fool doth think he is wise, 
 but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.'' 
 The heathen philosopher, when he had a desire 
 to eat a grape, would open his lips whenJie put 
 it into his mouth ; meaning thereby, that grapes 
 were made to eat, and lips to open. Y'ou do love 
 this maid ? 
 
 Will. I do, sir. 
 
 Touch. Give lue your hand : Art thou learned I 
 
 Will. Xo, sir. 
 
 Touch. Then learn this of me ; To have, is to 
 have : For it is a figure in rhetoric, that drink, 
 being pour'd out of a cup into a glass, by filling 
 the one, doth empty the other : for all your wri- 
 ters do consent, that ipse is he ; now, you are not 
 ipse, for I am he. 
 
 Will. Which he, sir ? 
 
 Touch. He, sir, that must marry this woman 1 
 Therefore, you, clown, abandon, which is in the 
 vulgar, leave, the society, which in the boorish ia, 
 company, of this female, which in the common is, 
 woman, which together is, abandon the society cf 
 this female ; or, clown, thou perishest ; or, to thy 
 better understanding, diest ; or to wit, I kill thee, 
 
 4:;,s
 
 AOT V. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 make thee away, translate thy life into death, thy 
 liberty into bondage : I will deal in poison with 
 thee, or in bastinado, or in steel ; I will bandy with 
 thee in faction ; I will o'errun thee with policy ; I 
 will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways ; therefore, 
 tremble, and depart. 
 
 Aud. Do, good William. 
 
 Will. God rest you merry, sir. [Uxit. 
 
 Enter Corin. 
 
 Cor. Our master and mistress seek you ; come, 
 away, away ! 
 
 Touch. Trip, Audrey, trip, Audrey, — ^I attend, 
 I attend. 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE \\.—Th.e same. 
 
 Enter Orlando and Oliver. 
 
 Orl. Is 't possible, that on so little acquaintance 
 you should like her ? that, but seeing, you should 
 love her? and, loving, woo ? and, wooing, she should 
 gi'ant ? and will you persever to enjoy her ? 
 
 OIL Neither call the giddiness of it in question, 
 the poverty of her, the small acquaintance, my 
 BUdden wooing, nor her sudden consenting ; but 
 say vrith me, I lov6 Aliena ; say with her, that 
 she loves me ; consent with both, that we may 
 enjoy each other : it shall be to your good ; for 
 my father's house, and all the revenue that was old 
 sir Rowland's, will I estate upon you, and here live 
 and die a shepherd. 
 
 Orl. You have my consent. Let your wedding 
 be to-morrow : thither will I invite the duke, 
 and all his contented followers. Go you, and 
 prepare Aliena ; for, look you, here comes my 
 Rosalind. 
 
 Enter Rosalind. 
 
 Ros. God save you, brother. 
 
 OU, And you, fair sister. [Exit. 
 
 Ros. 0, my dear Orlando, how it grieves me to 
 sec thee wear thy heart in a scarf 1 
 
 Orl. It is my arm. 
 
 Ros. I thought thy heart had been wounded 
 with the claws of a lion. 
 
 Orl. Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a lady. 
 
 Ros. Did your brother tell you how I counter- 
 feited to swoiind, when he sliow'd ine your hand- 
 kercher S 
 
 Orl. Ay, aud gi-cater wondei's than that. 
 
 Ros. 0, 1 know whore you are : — Nay, 't is true : 
 484 
 
 there was never anything so sudden, but the fight 
 of two rams, and Caitar's thrasonical brag of — i 
 " I came, saw, and overcame." For your brother j 
 and my sister no sooner met, but they look'd ; i:o ! 
 sooner look'd, but they lov'd ; no sooner lov'd, bin J 
 they sigh'd ; no sooner sigh'd, but they ask'd one | 
 another the reason ; no sooner knew the reason, j 
 but they sought the remedy : and in these degrees | 
 have they made a pair of stairs to marriage, which 
 they will climb incontinent, or else be incontinent 
 before marriage : they are in the very wrath o» 
 love, and they will together ; clubs cannot part 
 them. 
 
 Orl. They shall be married to-morrow, and I 
 will bid the duke to the nuptial. But, 0, how 
 bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through 
 another man's eyes ! By so much the more shall I 
 to-morrow be at the height of heart-heaviness, by 
 how much I shall think my brother happy, in 
 having what he wishes for. 
 
 Ros. Why, then, to-moiTow I cannot serve your 
 turn for Rosalind ? 
 
 Orl. I can live no longer by thinking. 
 
 Ros. I will weary you then no longer with 
 idle talking. Know of me then, (for now I speak 
 to some purpose,) that I know you are a gentleman 
 of good conceit : I speak not this, that you should 
 bear a good opinion of my knowledge, insomuch, 
 I say, I know you are ; neither do I labour for a 
 greater esteem than may in some little measure 
 draw a belief from you, to do youreelf good, and 
 not to grace me. Believe, then, if you please, 
 that I can do strange things : I have, since I was 
 three year old, conversed with a magician, most 
 profound in his art, and yet not damnable. If 
 you do love Rosalind so near the heart as your 
 gesture cries it out, when your brother marries 
 Aliena, shall you marry her. I know into what 
 straits of fortune she is driven ; and it is not im- 
 possible to me, if it appear not inconvenient to 
 you, to set her before your eyes to-morrow, human 
 as she is,'' and without any danger. 
 
 Orl. Speak'st thou in sober meanings ? 
 
 Ros. By my life I do ; which I tender dearly 
 though I say I am a magician. Therefore, put 
 you in your best an'ay, bid your friends ; for if 
 you will be married to-morrow, you shall ; and to 
 Rosalind, if you will. 
 
 Enter Silvius and Pheiib. 
 
 Look, here comes a lover of mioe, and a lover ol 
 hers,
 
 ACT V. 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 ecEN'2 m. 
 
 Phe. Youth, you have done me much ungen- 
 tleness, 
 To show the letter that I writ to you. 
 
 Ros. I care not if I have : it is my study 
 To seem despiteful and ungentle to you : 
 You are there follow'd by a faithful shepherd ; 
 Look upon him, love him ; he worships you. 
 
 Plie. Good shepherd, tell this youth what 't is 
 to love. I 
 
 Sil. It is to be all made of sighs and tears ; — 
 And so am I for Phebe. 
 
 Phe. And I for Ganymede, 
 
 Orl. And I for Rosalind. 
 
 Ros. And I for no woman ! 
 
 Sll. It is to be all made of faith and service ; — 
 And so am I for Phebe. 
 
 Phe. And I for Ganymede. 
 
 Orl. And I for Rosalind. 
 
 Ros. And I for no woman ! 
 
 Sil. It is to be all made of fantasy. 
 All made of passion, and all made of wishes ; 
 All adoration, duty, and obedience ; 
 All humbleness, all patience, and impatience ; 
 All purity, all trial, all observance ; 
 And so am I for Phebe. 
 
 Phe. And so am I for Ganymede. 
 
 Orl. And so am I for Rosalind. 
 
 Ros. And so am I for no woman ! 
 
 Phe. K this be so, why blame you me to love 
 you ?" [ To Rosalind. 
 
 Sil. If this be so, why blame you me to love 
 you? \To Phebe. 
 
 Orl. If this be so, why blame you me to love 
 you? 
 
 Ros. Who do you speak to, " why blame you 
 me to love you ? " 
 
 Orl. To her, that is not here, nor doth not 
 hear. 
 
 Ros. Pray you, no more of this ; 't is hke the 
 howling of Lish wolves against the moon. — I 
 will help you, [to Silvius] if I can : — I would 
 love you, \to Phebe] if I could. — To-morrow meet 
 me all together. — I will marry you, [to Phebe] if 
 ever I marry woman, and I '11 be marned to-mor- 
 row : — I will satisfy you, [to Orlando] if ever I 
 satisfy man, and you shall be married to-morrow : 
 —I will content you, [to Silvtds] if what pleases 
 you contents you, and you shall be married to- 
 mon'ow. — As you [to Orlando] love Rosahnd, 
 meet ; — as you [to Silvius] love Phebe, meet ; and 
 as I love no woman, I '11 meet. — So, fare you well ; 
 I have left you commands. 
 
 Sil. I '11 not fail, if I live. 
 Phe. Nor I. 
 
 Orl. Nor L 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE m.—The same. 
 
 Enter Touchstone and Audrey. 
 
 Touch. To-morrow is the joyful day, Audrey 
 to-morrow will we be married. 
 
 Aud. I do desire it with all my heart : and 1 
 hope it is no dishonest desire, to desire to be a 
 woman of the world. Here come two of the 
 banish'd duke's pages. 
 
 Enter two Pages. 
 
 1 Page. Well met, honest gentleman. 
 Touch. By my troth, well met. Come, sit, sit, 
 
 and a song. 
 
 2 Page. We are for you : sit i' the middle. 
 
 1 Page. Shall we clap into 't roundly, without 
 hawking, or spitting, or saying we are hoarse ; 
 which are the only prologues to a bad voice ? 
 
 2 Page. V faith, i' faith ; and both in a tune, 
 like two gipsies on a horse. 
 
 SONG. 
 I. 
 
 It was a lover, and his lass, 
 
 With a hey, and a ho, and a hey no'.iino. 
 That o'er the green corn-field did pass, 
 
 In the spring time, the only pretty ring time," 
 When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding ; 
 Sweet lovers lovo the spring. 
 
 II. 
 
 Between the acres of the rye, 
 With a hey, and a ho, and a hoy nonino, 
 
 These pretty country folks would lie, 
 In spring time, &c. 
 
 III. 
 
 This carol they began that hour. 
 
 With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, 
 
 How that a life was but a flower 
 In spring time, &c. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And therefore take the present time, 
 With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, 
 
 For love is crowned with the prime 
 In spring time, &c. 
 
 Tmich. Truly, young gentlemen, though there 
 was no great matter in the ditty, yet the note waa 
 very untuneable. 
 
 1 Page. You are deceiv'd, sir ; we kept time 
 we lost not our time. 
 
 435
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Touch. By my troth, yes; I count it but time lost 
 to hear such a foolish song. God be wi' you, and God 
 mend your voices! Come, Audrey. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IX.— Another 2>art of the Forest. 
 
 Enter Duke senior, Amiens, Jaques, Orlando, 
 Oliver, and Celia. 
 
 Duke S. Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the boy 
 Can do all this that he hath promised ? 
 
 Orl. I sometimes do believe, and sometimes do 
 not; 
 As those that fear they hope, and know they 
 fear." 
 
 JEnter Rosalind, Silvius, and Piiebe. 
 
 Jios. Patience once more, whiles our compact is 
 urg'd : — 
 You say, if I bring in your Rosalind, 
 
 [To the Duke. 
 YoTi will bestow her on Orlando here ? 
 
 Duke S. That would I, had I kingdoms to give 
 
 with her. 
 
 Jios. And you say, you will have her, when I 
 
 bring her ? [To Orlando. 
 
 Orl. That would I, were I of all kingdoms king. 
 
 Jios. You say, you '11 many me, if I be willing ? 
 
 [To Phebe. 
 Pke. That will I, should I die the hour after. 
 Ros, But, if you do refuse to marry me. 
 You '11 give yourself to this most fjiithftil shepherd ? 
 Phe. vSo is the bargain. 
 
 Pos. You say, that you '11 have Phebe, if she 
 
 will?' [ro Silvius. 
 
 Sil. Though to have her and death were both 
 
 one thing. 
 Pos. I have promis'd to m.ake all this matter 
 even. 
 Keep you your word, O duke, to give your daugh- 
 ter ; — 
 \ou yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter : — • 
 Keep you your word, Phebe, that you '11 marry me; 
 Or else, refusing me, to wed this shepherd : — 
 Keep your word, Silvius, that you '11 marry her. 
 If she refuse me : — and from hence I go. 
 To make these doubt.s all even. 
 
 [Exeunt Rosalind and Celia. 
 Duke S. I do remember in this shepherd-boy 
 Some lively touches of my daughter's favour. 
 Orl. My lord, the first time that I ever saw 
 him, 
 Methought he wa.s a brother to your daughter : 
 486 
 
 But, my good lord, this boy is forest-bom, 
 And hath been tutor'd in the rudiments 
 Of many desperate studies by his uncle, 
 Whom he reports to be a great magician, 
 Obscured in the circle of this forest. 
 
 Enter Touchstone and Audrey. 
 
 Jaq. There is, sure, another flood towai 3, and 
 these couples are coming to the ark ! Here come 
 a pair of veiy strange beasts, which in all tongues 
 are call'd fools. 
 
 Touch. Salutation and greeting to you all ! 
 
 Jaq. Good my lord, bid him welcome. This is 
 the motley-minded gentleman that I have so often 
 met in the forest : he hath been a courtier, he 
 swears. 
 
 Touch. K any man doubt that, let him put me 
 to mv purgation. I have trod a measure ; I have 
 flattered a lady; I have been politic with ray friend, 
 smooth with mine enemy ; I have undone three 
 tailors ; I have had four quarrels, and like to have 
 fought one. 
 
 Jaq. And how was that ta'en up ? 
 
 Touch. Faith, we met, and found the quarrel 
 w.Ts upon the seventh cause. 
 
 Jaq. How, seventh cause ? — Good my lord, hko 
 this fellow ? 
 
 Duke S. I like him very well. 
 
 Touch. God 'ild you, sir ; I desire you of the like. 
 I press in here, sir, amongst the rest of the country 
 copulatives, to swear, and to forswear ; according 
 as marriage binds, and blood breaks." A poor 
 virgin, sir, an ill-fevour'd thing, sir, but mine own ; 
 a poor humour of mine, sir, to take that tliat no 
 man else will. Rich honesty dwells like a miser, 
 sir, in a poor house ; as your pearl in your foul 
 oyster. 
 
 Duke S. By my faith, he is very swift and sen- 
 tentious. 
 
 Tottch. According to the fool's bolt, sir, and such 
 dulcet disca.ses. 
 
 Jaq. But, for the seventh cause ; how did you 
 find the quarrel on the seventh cause ? 
 
 Touch. Upon a lie seven times removed ; — Bear 
 your body more seeming, Audrey : — as thus, sir. 
 I did dislike the cut of a certain courtier's beard , 
 he sent me word, if I said his beard was not cut 
 well, he was in the mind it was. This is call'd 
 the " Retort courteous." If I sent him word 
 again, it was not well cut, he would send me 
 word, he cut it to please himself. This is call'd 
 the "Quip modest." If again, it was not well
 
 AS YOU UKE IT. 
 
 BCESB IV. 
 
 cut, he disabled my judgment. Tliis is call'd the 
 " Reply ehuilish." If again, it was not well cut, 
 he would answer, I spake not tiue. This is call'd 
 the " Reproof valiant." If again, it was not well 
 I'.ut, he would say, I lie. This is call'd the 
 " Countercheck quarrelsome :" and so to " Lie 
 circumstantial," and the "Lie direct." 
 
 Juq. And how oft did you s.iy, his beard w.as 
 not well cut? 
 
 Touch. I d'lrst go no further than the "Lie 
 circumstantial," nor he durst not give me the " Lie 
 direct:" and so we measur'd swords, and parted. 
 
 Jaq. Can you nominate in order now the de- 
 grees of the lie 3 
 
 Touch. O sir, we quarrel in print, by the book ;°' 
 as you have Books for Good Manners."" I will 
 name you the degrees. The first, the Retort cour- 
 teous; the second, the Quip modest; the third, the 
 Reply ■ churlish ; the fourth, the Reproof valiant ; 
 the fifth, the Countercheck quan-elsome ; the sixth, 
 the Lie vi'ith circumstance ; the seventh, the Lie 
 direct. All these you may avoid, but the lie 
 direct ; and you may avoid that loo, with an If. 
 I knew when seven justices could not take up a 
 ouarrel ; but when the parties were met them- 
 selves, one of them thought but of an If, as, " If 
 you said so, then I said so ;" and they shook hands, 
 and swore brothers. Your If is the only peace- 
 maker; much virtue in If. 
 
 Jaq. Is not this a rare fellow, my lord ? he 's as 
 good at anything, and yet a fool. 
 
 Duke S. lie uses his folly like a stalking-horse, 
 and under the presentation of that, lie shoots his wit. 
 
 Enter Hvmen, leading Rosalind aiid Celia. 
 Still Music. 
 
 Hynx. Then is there mirth in heaven, 
 AVhen enrthly tilings made even 
 
 Atone together. 
 Good duke, receive thy daughter; 
 Hymen from lieaven brouglit her. 
 
 Yea, broiiglit her hitlier ; 
 That thou mightst join her liand with his, 
 "Whose heart witiiiii lier bosom is. 
 
 Ros. To you I give myself, for I am yours. 
 
 [2b Dlke S. 
 r<) you I give myself, for I am yours. 
 
 \To Orlando. 
 Duke S. If there be truth in sight, you are my 
 
 daughter. 
 Orl, If there be truth in sight, you are my Ro- 
 salind. 
 
 Fhe. If sight and shape be true, 
 Why, then, — my love adieu I 
 
 lios. I '11 have no father, if you be not he . — 
 
 [To I>/.:e S 
 I '11 have no husband, if you be not he : — 
 
 [To Ojlanuo 
 Nor ne'er wed woman, if you be not she. 
 
 [To PUEBE 
 
 ffym. Peace, ho ! I bar confusion. 
 'T is I must make conclusion 
 
 Of these most strange event.s : 
 Here 's eight that must take hands. 
 To join in Uymen's bands, 
 
 If truth holds true contents. 
 You and you no cross shall part : 
 
 [To Ohlando and Rosalind 
 You and you are heart in heart : 
 
 [To Oliver and Celia 
 You [to PiiE.] to his love must accord. 
 Or have a woman to your lord : 
 You and you are sure together, 
 
 [To Touchstone and Audrey 
 As the winter to foul weather. 
 Whiles a wedlock hymn we sing, 
 Feed yourselves with questioning. 
 That rea.son wonder may diminisli, 
 How thus we met, and these things 
 
 finish. 
 
 SOXG. 
 
 Wedding is great Juno's crown ; 
 
 blessed bond of board and bed ; 
 'T is Hymen peoples every town ; 
 
 High wedlock, tiien, be honoured: 
 Honour, high honour and renown. 
 To Hymen, god of every town 1 
 
 Duke S. O my dear niece, welcome thou art 
 to me ; 
 Even daughter, welcome in no less degree. 
 
 Fhe. I will not eat my woid; now thou art 
 mine, 
 Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine.'"' 
 
 [To SiLVICS. 
 
 Enter Jaques de Bois. 
 
 Jaques de B. Let me have audience for a word 
 or two ; 
 I am the second son of old sir Rowland, 
 That bring these tidings to this fiiir assembly : 
 Duke Frederick, hearing how that every day 
 Men of great worth resorted to this forest, 
 Address'd a mighty power, which were on foot, 
 In his own conduct, purposely to take 
 
 437
 
 AS YOU LIKE n 
 
 SCENE rv 
 
 His brother here, and put him to the sword : 
 And to the skirts of this wild wood he came, 
 Where, meeting witli an old religious man, 
 Ai'ter some question with him, was converted 
 Both from his enterprise, and from the world : 
 His crown bequeath'ng to his banish'd brother, 
 And all their lands restor'd to them again, 
 Tlia't were with him exil'd. This to be true, 
 I do engage my life. 
 
 Duhe S. Welcome, young man ; 
 
 Thou offer'st fairly to thy brothers' wedding : 
 To one, his lands withheld ; and to the other, 
 A land itself at large, a potent dukedom. 
 First, in this forest, let us do those ends 
 That here were well begun, and well begot : 
 And after, every of this happy number. 
 That have endur'd shrewd days and nights with us. 
 Shall share the good of our returned fortune, 
 According to the measure of their 'states. 
 Meantime, forget this new-feU'n dignity, 
 And fall into our rustic revelry : — 
 Flay, music ; — and you brides and bridegrooms all. 
 With measure heap'd in joy,'"^ to t-h' measures fall. 
 Jaq. Sir, by your patience ; If I heard you 
 
 rightly, 
 Tne duke hath put on a religious life. 
 And thrown into neglect the pompous court? 
 Jaq. de B. He hath. 
 
 Jaq. To him will I : out of these convertities 
 There is much matter to be heard and learn'd. — 
 You to your former honour I bequeath ; 
 
 [To Ddke S. 
 Your patience, and your \-irtue, well deserve 
 
 it:— 
 You \to Orlando] to a love that your true faith 
 
 doth merit : — 
 You \to Ouver] to your land, and love, and great 
 
 allies : — 
 \'ou [to SiLvrcs] to a long and well-deserved 
 
 bed:— 
 
 438 
 
 And you [to Touchstone] to wrangling ; for thy 
 
 loving voyage 
 Is but for two months victuall'd : — So to youi 
 
 pleasures ; 
 I am for other than fc r dancing measures. 
 Duke S. Stay, Jaques, stay. 
 Jaq. To see no pastime, I : — what you would 
 have, 
 I '11 stay to know at your abandon'd cave. [Exit. 
 Duke S. Proceed, proceed : we '11 begin these 
 rites. 
 As we do trust they '11 end in true delights. 
 
 [A dance, 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 J?os. It is not the fashion to see the lady the 
 epilogue : but it is no more unhandsome, than to 
 see the lord the prologue. If it be true that 
 " good wine needs no bush,""" 't is true that a 
 good play needs no epilogue : Y'^et to good wine 
 they do use good bushes ; and good plays prove 
 the better by the help of good epilogues. What 
 a case am I in then, that am neither a good epi- 
 logue, nor cannot insinuate with you in the behalf 
 of a good play ! I am not furnish'd like a beggar, 
 therefore to beg will not become me : my way is, 
 to conjure you ; and I '11 begin with the women, 
 I charge you, O women, for the love you bear to 
 men, to like as much of this play as please you : 
 and I charge you, men, for the love you bear 
 to women, (as I perceive by your simp'ring, none 
 of you bate them,) that between you and the 
 women, the play may please. K I were a woman, 
 I would kiss as many of you as had boards that 
 pleas'<l me, complexions that lik'd me, and breaths 
 that I defied not : and, I am sure, as many as 
 have good beards, or good faces, or sweet breaths, 
 will, for my kind offer when I make curtsy, bid 
 me ferewell. 
 
 [Hxeunt
 
 lOTES TO AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 * Sut a poor thousand crowns. 
 
 60 the second folio, the first edition reading;, "but poor 
 & thineaud crowns," which may, however, bo riglit ; not 
 exacUy, I think, for the reason assigned by Mr. Knight, 
 but as &n instance of a construction familiar to writers of 
 the period. "How poor an instrument may do a noble 
 act," An.tofiy a?id ClcojMtra. It tvas is understood before 
 charged. 
 
 Stai/gj keeps, detains, 
 
 ^ Ills countenance seems U talef^'oin 7n<i. 
 
 Countenance seems to be equivalent to, behaviour. Used 
 .n eitlieragood or bad sense. J/i/ie*, equivalent to, un- 
 dermines. What make you liere^ what do yon here? 
 
 3 And he navght awhile! 
 
 This is merely a petty oath, equivalent to, a m,ischief on 
 y</u. It is generally misunderstood by the actors. 
 
 Sir AV. Scott, in his autobiography, gives an interesting 
 account of the etfect this scene in representation had upon 
 his youthful mind. " The most delightful recollections of 
 Bdth are dated after the arrival of my uncle. Captain 
 Robert Scott, who introduced me to all the little amuse- 
 ments which suited my age, and, above all, to the theatre. 
 The play was As You Like It; and the witchery of the 
 whole scene is alive in my mind at this moment. I made, 
 I believe, noise more than enough, and remember being so 
 much scandalized at the quarrel between Orlando and his 
 brother in the first scene, that I screamed out, * A' n't they 
 orotherft V A few weeks' residence at home convinced me, 
 who had till then been an only child in the house of my 
 grandfather, that a quairel between brothers was a very 
 flatuial event." 
 
 < Villain seems to be used in two significations, in its 
 present sense, and also with its original meaning, a person 
 born in subjection. 
 
 ■ An^fieet the time carelessly. 
 FUet, make to flit or oass. Baret. 1580, has Jleete for 
 
 Inkndment^ intention. 
 
 ^ I will stir this gam^gter. 
 
 Giimej^t^r^ adventurer, frolicsome fellow. The term 
 occurs "m a similar sense in the Taming of the Shrew, ii. 
 
 1, Encltantinglf/^ as if acting under the power cf enchant 
 raent. 
 Kindle^ excite, entice. 
 
 ^ He never had any, 
 
 A similar joke, as Boswell observes, is found in the oh' 
 play of Damon and Pitbias, 1573: 
 
 I have taken a wise othe on him ; hfxve I not, trow ye, 
 
 To trust such a false knave upon his lionestie ? 
 
 As he is an honest man (quotii you i) he may bewray all 
 
 to the kinge. 
 And breke his oth for this never a whit. 
 
 •* You HI he whipped for taxation. 
 
 Ta-xation, censure, satire. "Things much more snty- 
 ricall have passed both the publicke stage and the prcsse, 
 and never questioned by authority ; and there art* fewer 
 that will find themselves touched or taxed,^^ C. Brooke, 
 1625. 
 
 » Zaid on with a t/roicel. 
 
 That is, grossly, without delicacy. M. Mason says the 
 phrase is still in use. A similar expression occurs in Tony 
 Lumpkin, — " tliat was a dash with the pound brusli." 
 
 Amaze, utterly confuse, confound. 
 
 " With hUls on their necks. 
 
 Notwithstanding the passage quoted by Farmer from 
 Lodge, I am induced to believe Kosalind intends by hilU 
 merely lalels, or advertisements, which were formerly so 
 termed. 
 
 11 If you saw yourself with your eyes. 
 
 If you could only SCO yourself, and exercise vour cwu 
 judgment to know yourself, the fear of your adventure 
 would counsel you to a more equal cnterprizfe. 
 
 15 T%at vxis never gracloits. 
 
 ^/•(/rioMs appears to be here used in the sense of graced 
 favoured, acceptable. See Mr. Singer's edition, p. ]19. 
 
 13 Calling, name, appellation. 
 
 4ni)
 
 NOTES TO AS YOU LIKE U\ 
 
 " Exceeded all tn promise. 
 
 This readiug t-f the second folio, which appears to be 
 right, has escaped the notice of all the editors. 
 
 '=• Is hut a quintain^ a mere lifeless lloch 
 
 In the diversion of the quintain, a strong post was tixed 
 in thegrouuJ, with a piece of wood on the top turning upon 
 » spindle. This piece of wood varied in its form and action, 
 but was always formed so that a blow on one side gave it a 
 sharp rotatory motion. The quintain was tilted at by horse- 
 men, who, if expert, would contrive to ride with sufficient 
 rapidity to escape the shock from the revolving board or 
 image. The poet undoubtedly alludes to some kind of 
 quintain which resembled the human figure. 
 
 i"^ Jle misconsters all. 
 
 MUconMer, the genuine archaic form of misconetruey and 
 &hould not be altered. Mr. Knight has restored it in Henry 
 VI., but it lias escaped his notice in the present instance. 
 As I have elsewhere remarked, it is a matter of great diffi- 
 culty to be uniform in these minute readings. 
 
 Condition, temper, disposition. 
 
 " For my child* s father. 
 
 Mr. Knight thinks this, the original reading, indelicate; 
 and 80 it wouid be undoubtedly to modern ears. Jokes of 
 this kind were very commonly received in Shakespeare's 
 time, and a worse one is assigned to Beatrice in Much Ado 
 about Nothing, ii. 1. 
 
 ^^ If J covld cry 'A^m,' and have him. 
 
 If, as 1 suspect, there is here a quibble between hem and 
 ^i?«, the force, even of Shakespearian quibbling, "can no 
 further go." 
 
 '5 By this kind of chase. 
 
 Alluding, probably, to the deer, quibbling on ttie word 
 dearly. Mrs. Ford tells Falslalf, " I will never take you 
 lor my love again, but I will always count you my deer ;'''' 
 and Malone has preserved some verses, supposed to have 
 been written by Shakespeare on sir Thomas Lucy, in which 
 the same quibble occurs: — 
 
 Sir Thomas was too covetous 
 
 To covet so much deer, 
 Wl'.en horns enougli upon his head 
 
 Most plainly did appear. 
 
 Uad not his "Worship one deer left? 
 
 Wiiftttlicn? he liad a wife 
 Took pains enoutrh to find liim horns 
 
 Sliould last him during life. 
 
 Dearly, extremely. 
 
 '" Doth he iwt deserve icellf 
 
 That is, to bo hatod. Rosalind affects to understand her 
 In a literal sense. 
 
 " And your own remorse. 
 
 Bemorse is licre used in tlie sense of pity, compassion. 
 NnmorouB instances of ita use in that signification octur 
 in eld plays. 
 
 4<0 
 
 » A hind ofumher. 
 
 Umber is a dusky yellow-coloured earth, brought from 
 Umbria in Italy. In an old play cal«d the Tcll-Tale, a 
 MS. at Dniwich College, one of the staffe-directions Ib 
 "He umbers her face." 
 
 " A swashing and a martial outside. 
 
 Swashing, noisy, blustering. '* To swash, or to make p 
 noise with swordes against tergats," Baret's Alvearie, 15S0 
 
 ^^ Wears yet a precious jeicel in his head. 
 
 A graphic account of this popular notion will be found 
 in Topsell's lllstorie of Serpents, 1608 : — "There be many 
 late writers which doe affirme that there is a precious stone 
 in the head of a toade, whose opinions (because thoy attri- 
 bute much to the vertue of this stone) it is good to examine 
 in tliis place, that so the reader may be satisfied whether to 
 hold it as a fable or as a true matter, exemplifying the 
 powerfuU working of Almightie God in nature, for there be 
 many that weare these stones in rings, bceing verily per- 
 swaded that they keepe them from all manner of grypliigs 
 and paines." lie proceeds to say, ** But the art (as they 
 terme it) is In taking of it out, for they say it must be fcikeri 
 out of the head alive, before tlic toade be dead, with a 
 peece of cloth of the colour of redde skarlet, wherewithal! 
 they are much delighted, so that while tiicy strctcli out 
 themselves, as it were, in sport upon that cloth, they cast 
 out tlie stone of their head, but instantly tliey sup it up 
 againe, unlesse it be taken from them through some secrete 
 hole in the said cloth, whereby it fulleth into a cesternc oi 
 vessell of water, into the which the toade darcth not eutci 
 by reason of the coldues of the water." 
 
 '' And thus the havry fool. 
 
 Fool is here, as in several other places, used as a term of 
 endearment. KeedUss, wanting not. 
 
 2« And to hill them up. 
 
 The preposition up is redundant, not intensative. Few 
 idioms are more common in Elizabethan writers, and nume- 
 rous instances, were it necessary, might be adduced ; but I 
 shall reserve them for an essay on Shakespearian phrase- 
 ology, which will be appended to the present edition. Kd\ 
 them, up is equivalent to K/^^t'm; and, in the same manner, 
 drink up eiell in Ilamlct is equivalent to, drink ei'Sil. Au 
 immense deal of unnecessary commentary might be saved, 
 were simple facts of this kind borne in mind. 
 
 Cope, encounter. 
 
 3' The roinish clown. 
 
 lioinish, literally, mangy^ but used as a generic term ot 
 contempt. 
 
 3* Search and inquisition quail. 
 
 Quail, to slacken or relax. *' Hunger cureth love, foj 
 love quaileth when good cheare failcth," Choise of Chan;je 
 1685, ap. Douce. 
 
 '' The bonny priser 
 The gallant prize-flghter. Bonny is found in tho original 
 
 novel. Warburtou reads hony.
 
 NOTES TO AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 » ThU ie no place. 
 
 That B. nj abiding plfioe for you, no place of security 
 for yot; to remiiin in. Diverted, turned out of ita proiicr 
 courHO. 
 
 " It is too late a week. 
 
 A week was oftci idiomatically used for an indefinite 
 ruriod of time. 
 
 33 IIow weory are my spirits. 
 
 Mr. Knigbt supports tlie original reading, merry, but I 
 cannot bring myself to reject Tbeobald's emendation. If 
 Rosalind was assuming a merry heart, how can we rccon- 
 ciJe the old reading with her next speech ? 
 
 '= / should hear no cross. 
 
 A penny was called a cross, because that com formerly 
 had a cross stamped upon it. There is no limit to tlie 
 quibbling on this word. 
 
 " The hissing of her batler. 
 
 A batler was the wooden bat or instrument used by 
 washicg-women for beating the coarse clothes. The term, 
 corrupted to battlelon, is still in use in some of the Western 
 counties. 
 
 so IVifh weeping tears. 
 
 If this expression be borrowed from Lodge, it may pos- 
 sibly be introduced with an intention to ridicule it. One 
 of tne sonnets in the novel commences as follows : — 
 
 In sorrowes cell I laid me downe to sleepe. 
 But walking woes were jealous of mine eyes ; 
 
 They made tliem watcli, and bend themselves to weepe, 
 But weeping tears tlieir want could not suffice : 
 
 Yet since for her tliey wept who guides my heart. 
 
 They weeping smile, and triumph in their smart. 
 
 According to Mr. Davy, speaking of Suffolk, " The effi- 
 cacy of peascods in the affairs of sweethearts is not yet 
 forgotten among our rustic vulgar. The kitchen-maid, 
 when she shells green pease, never omits, if she finds one 
 having nine pease, to lay it on the lintel of the kitchen- 
 door, and the first clown who enters it is infallibly to be 
 her husband, or at least her sweetheart." Anderson men- 
 tions a custom in the north, of a nature somewhat similar. 
 *' A Cumbrian girl, when her lover proves unfaithful to her, 
 is, by way of consolation, rubbed with pease-straw by the 
 neighbouring lads ; and when a Cumbrian youth loses his 
 sweetheart, by her marriage with a rival, the same sort of 
 comfort is administered to him by the lasses of the villags." 
 " Winter-time for shoeing, peas-cod time for wooing," old 
 proverb in M S. Devon Gl. The divin.ation by peascods 
 alluded to by Mr. Davy is thus mentioned by Gay :^ 
 
 As peascods once I pluok'd, I chanced to see 
 One that was closely fiU'd with three times three ; 
 VVhich, when cropp'd, I safely home convey'd, 
 And o'er the door the spell in secret laid ; 
 The latch mov'd up, when who should first come in, 
 ]:i'at, in his proper person, — Lubberkin. 
 
 But perhaps the allusion in Shakespeare is best illustra- 
 ted by the following passage, which seems to have escaped 
 the notice of all writers on this subject. 
 6 
 
 The peascod grecno oft with no little toyle, 
 He 'tl secko for in the fattest, fertiTht so'.lo, 
 An<l rentl it from the sta'ko to bring it to her. 
 And in her bosome for acceptance wooe her. 
 
 Jirowne'a BritanniaU Pastorals, p. 71 
 
 Moll Berry, in Heywood's Fair Maid of the KxohaQgf, 
 1607, chooses the peascod for the emblem of her love : — 
 
 I cannot tell how others' fancies stand. 
 But I rejuice sometime to take in hand 
 The simile of that I love ; and I protest 
 Thiit pretty peascod likes my humour best. 
 
 « Mortal in folly. 
 Extremely vreak in folly. 
 
 " JwUl your very faithful feeder be. 
 
 Feeder was an old term for a servant, but I am not sure 
 it is here employed in that sense. 
 
 2' And turn his merry note. 
 
 To turn a tune, in the counties of York and Durham, is 
 the appropriate and familiar phrase for modulating the voice 
 properly according to the turns or air of the tune. Whiter, 
 
 SB My voice ic ragged. 
 
 Bagged, broken, unequal, discordant. "I would not 
 trot a false gallop through the rest of his ragged verses," 
 Nash, 1593. 
 
 Disputable, inclined to dispute. 
 
 « Ducdame, duodame, ducdame. 
 
 The notes of the commentators on this word are by no 
 means satisfactory. Mr. Collier judiciously omits the ac- 
 cent Ducdame, for, it being necessarily a trisyllabic, owing 
 to the construction of the verse, if any accent were re- 
 quired, we ought to print Ducdame. The mere fact of the 
 word being a trisyllable shows at once the inconsistency ol 
 attempting to establish a connexion with the old country 
 song, commencing, — 
 
 " Dame, what makes your duels to die ?" 
 
 on which Whiter and Farmer have so elaborately written, 
 and which Mr. Knight pronounces much more rational than 
 Ilanmer's conjecture oi due ad me, which is forced and un- 
 necessary, I admit, but not quite so absurd as to suppose 
 Jaques was using some country call of a woman to hei 
 ducks. Mr. Collier seems correct when he says that Jaqu es' 
 declaration of its being "a Greek invocation to call fools 
 into a circle" is merely a jeer upon the ignorance of Amiens. 
 In other words, Amiens understood as little about Ducdami 
 as the commentators, and the answer of Jaques is a playful, 
 not a serious exposition of the word. 
 
 Some time ago, I met with a passage in an uncoUated 
 MS. of the "Visions of Piers Ploughman," in the Bodleian 
 Library, which goes far to prove that Ducdame is a burden 
 of an old song, an explanation which exactly agrees with its 
 position in the song of Jaques. The passage is as follows:— 
 
 "Thanne sete ther some, 
 And sun^e at the ale. 
 And helpen to erye that half akro 
 With Dusadam-7ne-me.^^ 
 
 MS. Jiawl. Pint. 187, f 0. 
 411
 
 NOTES TO AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 •■ {^tiit nry/Uh/nrest. 
 Unoouth, ctrangB, unknown. So Ben Jonsou, — 
 -It is no uncouth thin?, 
 
 To see fresh buildings f;om old ruins spring. 
 Comforiahle, susceptible of comfort, 
 
 " And then he drew a dial film flit poke. 
 
 The term dial was applied, io Sb.tejpeare's time, to 
 docks and watches, as well as to tre ring-dial. The pro- 
 babilities are here, I think, in f.*v,r.r of a watch being the 
 kense intended by the authoi. t<;. Knight, however, cou- 
 biders a ring-dial is meant, eju cives an interesting note 
 on tho subject. 
 
 *' Doth v;r / foolishly, 
 
 Theobald adds the wor'.f «5< to in the next line. The 
 original is undoubtedly corrupt, for few will adopt Whiter's 
 very forced explanation ; yet I much doubt if Theobald's 
 correction be true. May we not rather suppose a line has 
 been omitted ? Hob, satirical rap, repartee. 
 
 Sqiuind^ring, wandering. 
 
 " The icearer^s very meana. 
 
 Tlie original has weary very, which Whiter interprets, — 
 " till that the very means, being weary, do ebb." The text 
 is the conjectural emendation of Mr. Singer. 
 
 Bravery, finery. Taxing ; see note 8. 
 
 ** Inaccessible, difficult of access. 
 
 *^ Upon command. 
 Upon your own command, at your pleasure. 
 
 *' WeaTc evili. 
 That is, unhappy weaknesses, or causes of weakness. 
 
 *s Wherein we play in. 
 
 The phraseology of the time. The last preposition is 
 rnnecessarily omitted by Pope. 
 
 " Full of iciu saws and Tnodern instances. 
 
 Famili.ar as every line of this celebrated speech is to all 
 cars. It may be doubted wlicthcr most readers are aware 
 that m/>dern is here used in the common old sense of, slight, 
 trieial. So Ben Jonson, satyrizing Marston, writes, — 
 
 Alas I that were no Tn^^/cra- consequence. 
 To have cothurnal buskins frighted hence. 
 
 Wo have the word need in the same sense by Kosaliud 
 at the commencement of tho fourth act. 
 
 ^' Into the lean and slippered pantaloon. 
 
 The Pantaloon was a character in the old Italian comedy. 
 Qo is described by Addison aa " an old cully." 
 
 ** Blow, blow, tliou winter wind. 
 
 A very early song in MS. Ilarl. 2253, written about thci 
 fear 1300, commences with tho line, — 
 
 Blow, northcrne wynd. 
 •l-t2 
 
 " Malce an exi-^nt upon his hoitee and lands. 
 
 An extent, says Blonnt, Law Dictionary, 1691, *' some- 
 times signifies a writ or commission to the sheriff for the 
 valuing of hands or tenements ; sometimes the act of tho 
 sheriff, or other ccmmissioner, upon this writ." 
 
 '2 Thrice-orowned queen of night, 
 
 "Alluding," says Dr. Johnson, "to the triple character 
 of Proserpine, Cynthia, and Diana, given by some mytho- 
 logists to the same goddess, and comprised in these memo- 
 rable lines : 
 
 " Terret, lustrat, agit, Proserpina, Luna, Diana, 
 Ima, supcrna, feras, sceptro, fulgore, sagittis." 
 
 Character, inscribe. Cf. Two Gent, of Ver. ij. 7. 
 
 " And unexpresdve the, 
 
 Uneipressive, inexpressible. Milton uses the term more 
 than once, and it is also found in Glapthome's Poems, 1639. 
 
 65 May complain of good-breeding. 
 
 This is elliptical, as Dr. Johnson observes, for " may 
 complain of the want of good breeding." The idiom is 
 even not yet entirely obsolete. 
 
 " Liie an ill-roasied egg. 
 
 Thou art damn'd, completely destroyed, spoilt as inevi- 
 tably as an egg is which is roasted all on one side. " A 
 fool is the best roaster of an egg, because he is always 
 turning it," old proverb. 
 
 " God mate incition in thee ! 
 
 That is, says Caldecott, let God enlarge and open thy 
 mind. Steevens thinks it may have reference to the pro- 
 verbial expression of being cut for the simples. Baw, ig- 
 norant, inexperienced. This word, now only used in slang, 
 was formerly classical. Perhaps, however, the first ex 
 pression is metaphorically taken from an old surgical term. 
 
 *8 Butter-woman^ s rank to marlcet, 
 
 Banlc is liere equivalent to order, "The right butter- 
 woman's rank to market," says Whiter, " means tho jog- 
 trot rate, as it is vulgarly called, with which butter-women 
 uniformly travel one after another in their road to market." 
 
 »' That shall cIdH sayings show. 
 
 Civil sayings, explained by Gififord, " sayings collected 
 from an intercourse with civil life." That great critic, 
 speaking of tho word civil, says it alludes to the political 
 regulations, customs, and habits of the city, as distin- 
 guished from the court : sometimes, indeed, it takes a 
 wider range, and comprises a degree of civilization or 
 moral improvement, as opposed to a state of barbarism, oi 
 pure imlurc. 
 
 A few other observations on tho poem read by Celia maj 
 not bo unacceptable. Brring, wandering. Boikles is an 
 archaism for bends. In little, in miniature. " A hundred 
 ducats a piece for his picture in little." Hamlet. i>ad, ap 
 plied to Lucrotia, grave, serious. 2'ouchet, features.
 
 NOTES TO AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 <" AUUanta's better part. 
 
 A isrreat deal h»s been written on the meaning of Atalan- 
 !a's letter part, and one critic unhesitating states it refers to 
 her virginity I It appears, liowevcr, merely to have been 
 %u iiliomatio expression for the miuil or Bpirit. Macbeth 
 mys,- 
 
 For it has cow'd my better part of man. 
 
 " TfuU I was an Irith rat. 
 
 An old myth that rata were frequently rhymed to death 
 in Ireland, is several times alluded to by our old poets. Ben 
 Jonson tlius mentions the belief in the Poetaster, — 
 
 Rhyme them to death, as they do Iriwh rats 
 In "drumming tunes. 
 
 See further in Giiford's Ben Jonson, ii. 546. 
 
 « But mountains may be remov'd. 
 
 An old proverb says, — 
 
 Friends may meet, 
 
 But mountains never greet. 
 
 Out of all w?ioopin(/, out of all cry, out of all measure. 
 Good mi/-(vnipUxlon, equivalent to, " my good natural char- 
 acter," which she apostrophizes. 
 
 One incli of delay vwre is a South Sea of discovery. Thus 
 explained by Mr. Knight, — "If you perplex me any fur- 
 ther, I have a space for conjecture as wide as the South 
 Sea." I prefer, however, Mr. Collier's interpretation : — 
 " a single inch of delay is more to Eosalind than a whole 
 continent in the South-Sea." 
 
 " Zet me stay the growth of his heard. 
 
 Let me wait for the growth of his beard, if you will tell 
 me who he is. 
 
 •' Garagantua's mouth. 
 
 No very early translation of Kabolais is known to exist, 
 out there was probably a popular work on the subject of 
 this giant, Gargantua being mentioned as tlie title of a tract 
 in Laneham's letter from Kenilworth, 1575. A book en- 
 titled the " History of Gargantua" was entered on the books 
 of the Stationers* Company in 1594. The author of Harry 
 Wliites Humour, 16-10, "is of this opinion, that if the 
 histories of Gargantua and Tom Thumbe be true, by con- 
 sequence, Bevis of Hampton and Sooggin'a jests must 
 needs be authenticaU." 
 
 "' It is as easy to count atomies. 
 
 Atomies, the old form o{ atoms.. "Cireumstanoes are the 
 atomies of policie. Censure the being. Action the life, but 
 Buocesse the ornament," Overbury's New and Choise Char- 
 acters, 1615. 
 
 " You bring me out. 
 Tliat is, you put me out, interrupt me. 
 
 " 1 answer you right painted cloth. 
 
 Painted cloth was cloth or canvass painted in oil, and 
 often e-ihibited mottos and verses. Taylor, the Water- 
 Poet, quoted by Mr. Dyce, gives the following specimens of 
 painted-cloth poetry copied from the walls of an inn at Uye 
 in 1658:— 
 
 No flower so fresh, but frost may it deface ; 
 !Noue sits so fast, be heo may lose his place. 
 
 Tis concord keeps a roalmo in stable stay, 
 But discord brings all kingdoms to decay. 
 
 No 8ul)joct ought, for any kind of cause, 
 Kesibt his prince, but yeeld him to the lawes. 
 
 Sure God is just, whose stroako, delayed long. 
 Doth light at last with paiue more sharp and strong. 
 
 Time never was, nor neVe, I thinkc, shall be. 
 That truth unshent might speake in all things free. 
 
 We have had a specimen of a similar phraseology in the 
 same act, — "Speak sad brow, and true maid." 
 
 *8 JJe trots hard with a young maid. 
 
 Can this be accepted that Time appears so long to her thai 
 it increases the necessary pace to enable him to overcome 
 it ? There appears some defect in the text, and I am almost 
 inclined to adopt Mr. Hunter's emendation. 
 
 •' OourtsMp, courtly manners. 
 
 '" Jf I could meet that fancy-monger. 
 
 Fancy is love, as has been already observed. So in 
 A Midsummer-Night's Dream, — 
 
 Wishes and tears, poor fancy's followers 
 
 " An unquestionable spirit. 
 
 Unquestionable, not to be conversed with. Question Li 
 constantly used in the sense oi discourse. Eosalind says in 
 another scene, "I met the duke, and had much question 
 with him." Having, possession, property. Point-device, 
 exactly in the fashion. 
 
 " Mbonish, inconstant, variable, 
 
 '3 A living humour of madness. 
 
 Living, absolute, undoubted. " Give me a living rea-son 
 she's disloyal," Othello, iii. 3. 
 
 '* Lord warrant us.' what features f 
 
 A mere piece of rustic simplicity, Audrey not understand- 
 ing the meaning of the word, and repeating it in perplexity, 
 The note of Steevens appears to me to be unnecessarily 
 prurient. 
 
 Ili-inhabited, badly lodged. 
 
 " A material fool. 
 
 That is, a fool full of good sense and sound information. 
 The Duke, speaking of Jaques, says, — 
 
 I love to cope him in these sullen fits. 
 For then he 's full of ^natter. 
 
 '" lam foul. 
 
 Foul, homely looking. This meaning of the term oon 
 tinned in use ti'J the last century. So Pope, — 
 
 If fair, though chaste, she cannot long abide, 
 By pressing youth attack'd on every side; 
 If foul, her wealth the lusty lover lures. 
 
 '7 As huge as the rascal. 
 
 liascal was applied to a lean deer, out of season. " And 
 have known a rascal from a fot doer," Quarles's Virgin 
 Widow, 1649. "llascall, refuse beest, nfus," Palsgravo 
 1530. 
 
 443
 
 NOTES TO AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 " B(fence, tlie knowledge of fence. Sir Oliver ifarUxt, 
 the sir corresponding to the Latin dominus. See note No. 
 1 to the Merry Wives of Windsor. 
 
 '" Sometldn^ browner than Judas' s. 
 
 The hnir of Jadaa was usually represented aa red in the 
 old tnjicstry. 
 
 '" Tilt Umch of holy Iread. 
 
 Holy b.'cad was bread touched by the priest, and given 
 "in sign of our union to Christ." 
 
 So. 5, now counterfeit to sounds i. e., to swoon. This 
 genuine arcnaism should be preserved. It occurs again in 
 Act V. Sc. 2. 
 
 81 The cicatrice and capable impressure. 
 
 That is, the scar and perceptible impression. Oipaile is 
 here equivalent to, able to receive. 
 
 M Foul u most foul, being foul, to be a scoffer. 
 
 That is, literally, ugliness is most ugly, to be a seoiTer, 
 being ugly. In other words, an ugly person is most ugly, 
 when he is a scotier. 
 
 «2 Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight f 
 
 A quotation from Marlowe, "who, had he lived, would 
 have ''rivaird all but Shakespeare's name below." It 
 occurs in his Hero and Leander : 
 
 Whore both deliberate, the love is slight ; 
 Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight? 
 
 The line passed into a proverb, and is used as one In the 
 prose history of George a Green, 1706. A modern poet 
 expands the sentiment thus, — 
 
 Let no one say that there is neew 
 
 Of time for love to grow. 
 Ah, no ! the love that kills indeed 
 
 Despatches with a blow ! 
 
 8* Tliat the old carlot once was master of. 
 Tlie usual old English word was carl, a churl, a bond- 
 n:an, a rude country clown. (A.S.) Peevish, foolish. 
 
 85 Be carries his house on his Jiead. 
 
 A curious story of a young bride is related in the Apoph- 
 thegms of the Earl of Worcester, p. 81. Her husband 
 wishes her to go like the snail, " who seldoms stirs abroad, 
 but whilst that blessing, tli« dew of heaven, is upon the 
 earth, th.at she may g.ather benefit." 0, my lord, said she, 
 " if I should go abroad like the snail, I should carry a house 
 upon my back, and horns in my forehead." 
 
 Leer, countenance, feature. 
 
 "' I will laugh Hie a hyen.. 
 
 llyen, hyena, a common old form. It ocoars in Braith- 
 wait's Strappado for the Divell, 1615, p. 42. 
 
 Make the doors, fasten the doors. Tin? phrase is still in 
 use in the provinces. 
 
 »' Wit, whitlier wilt ? 
 A common old proverbial expression. A good example 
 of it occurs in Middlcton's More Dissemblers besides Wo- 
 men, ed. Dyce, p. 611, — 
 
 " G. Cap. Wit, whither wilt thou? 
 444 
 
 "Don. Marrj', to the next pocket I can come at; and it 
 it be a gentleman's, I wish a whole quarter's rent in 't " 
 
 ^ Make her fault h*:r husbands occasion. 
 
 That is, says Dr. Johnson, represent her fault as oocj 
 Bioned by her husband. 
 
 *" Pathetical hrealc-promise. 
 
 .We have had " most pathetical nit," (not wit, as pnutod 
 by Mr. Knig\it), in Love's Labour's Lost. 
 
 " And here much Orlando ! 
 
 Spoken ircinically, equivalent to. Arid here no Orlando. 
 Much, used in this way, is of frequent occurrence ..i the 
 old dramatists. " Much duchess, &;. I fnixh queen, I trow !" 
 Hey wood's Edward IV. '■^ Much wench, or much son I'' 
 Every Man in his Humour. 
 
 " Under an old oak. 
 
 "Saladyne, wearie with wandering up and downe, and 
 hungry with long fasting, finding a Uttle cave by the side ol 
 a thicket, eating such fruite as the forest did aifoord, and 
 contenting liimselfe with such drinke as nature had pro- 
 vided and thirst made delicate, after his repast he fell in 
 dead sleepe. As thus he lay, a hungry lyon came huntin;; 
 downe the edge of the grove for pray, and espying SalaJync, 
 began to ceaze upon him : b it sering he lay still without 
 any motion, he left to touch him, for that lyona hate to pray 
 on dead earkasses ; and yet desirous to have some fuodc 
 the lyon lay downe and watclit to see if he would stirtc. 
 AVhile thus Saladyne slept secure, fortune that was careful 
 of her champion began to smile, and brought it so to passe, 
 that Kosader (having stricken a deere that but slightly h url 
 fled through the tliicket) came pacing downe by the grove 
 with a boare-spcare in his hande in great haste. He sjiyed 
 where a man lay a sleepe, and a lyon fost by him : amazed 
 at this sight, as he stoode gazing, his nose on the sodaine 
 bleddc, which made him conjecture it was some friend ol 
 his. Whereuppon drawing more nigh, he might easily dis- 
 cerne his visage, perceived by liis phisnomie tliat it was his 
 brother Sahadyne, which drave Kosader into a deep passion 
 as a man perplexed at the sight of so unexpected a chance, 
 marvelling what should drive his brother to traverse those 
 secrete desarts without any companie, in such distresse and 
 forlorne sorte. But the present time craved no such doubtr 
 ing ambages, for he must eyther resolve to hazard his life 
 for his reliefe, or else steale away, and leave him to the 
 crueltie of the lyon." Euphues Golden, Lcgacie, 15'J2. 
 
 ■" Render, i. e., represept. 
 
 ^^ As, how I came. 
 As, that is, as for instance. 
 
 " Ilvman as she is. 
 
 Thiit is. Dr. Johnson says, not a phantom, but the real 
 Rosalind, witliout any of the diuigcr generally conceived tc 
 attend the rites of incantation. 
 
 BO Why bUime y'^ me to love you. 
 
 Mr. ICnight reads, to love me, whieli is probably u mcr# 
 oversight, not an intentional new reading. 
 
 To be a wonuin (f the world, a pro\erbi;d plirf^e for to be 
 Duirried.
 
 ^ The onl(f pretty ring t'nn^. 
 
 Kin^ time, the time for mnrriago. Tho music to tliis 
 ioritf is pivcn in Morluy'H First Kooko of Ayres, fol. IttOO, 
 ond tliu urrftngcmciil in our text is adopted from that very 
 rare work. 
 
 " As those ihatjear they hope, and know they fenr. 
 
 Ah tlioso tliat fear what they hope, and know very well 
 they fear a disappointment. 
 
 *•* According as 7wzrriage binds and blood breaks. 
 
 " A man, by the marriage ceremony, swears that he will 
 fceep only to hia wife; when, therefore, to gratify his lust, 
 he leaves her for another, blood breaks hia matrimonial 
 obligation, and he is forsworn," Ileuley. 
 
 Seeming^ seemingly. 
 
 »• We quarrel in print by the hoolc. 
 
 Warburton's note is so necessary to the proper apprecia- 
 tion of tliis satire, the reader will bo glad to have the oppor- 
 tunity of perusing it :^ 
 
 "The poet has, in this scene, rallied fhe mode of formal 
 duelling; then so prevalent, with the highest hunaour and 
 address : nor could he have treated it with a happier con- 
 tempt, than by making his Clown so knowing in tho forms 
 and preliminaries of it. The particular book here alluded to 
 i3 a very ridiculous treatise of one Vineentio Saviolo, entitled, 
 Of Honour and Ilononrable Quarrels, in quarto, printed by 
 Wolf, ISy-i. The first part of this tract he entitles, A Dis- 
 course most necessary for all Gentlemen that have in regard 
 their Honours, touching the giving and receiving tho Lie, 
 whereupon the Duello and tho Combat in divers Forms doth 
 ensue ; and many other Inconveniences, for lack only of 
 true Knowledge of Honour, and ihainght Understindlng of 
 IVofdij which here is set down. The contents of the seve- 
 r:il chapters are as follow : — I. What the Kcason is that 
 the Party unto whom the Lie is given ought to become 
 Challenger, and of tho Nature of Lies. IL Of the Manner 
 and Diversity of Lies. lU. Of Lies certain [or direct.] 
 IV". Of conditional Lies, [or the lie circumstantial.] V, Of 
 the Lie in general. VL Of the Lie in particular. VIL Of 
 foolish Lies. VIIL A Conclusion touching the wresting or 
 returning back of the Lie, [or the countercheck quarrel- 
 some.] In the chapter of conditional Lies, speaking of the 
 particle i/", ho says, * — Conditional lies be such as are 
 Eri^ou conditionally, as if a man should say or write these 
 wordes : if thou hast said that I have ofl'ered my lord 
 ilnise, thon liest; or i/ thou sayestso hereafter, thou shalt 
 
 lie. Of thcpo kind of lies, given in tJiis manner, of):en anw 
 much contention in wordes, — whereof no sure conclusion 
 can arise.' By which ho means, they cannot proceed to 
 cut ono anothcr'3 throat, while thcro is an i/ between. 
 Which is the reason of Shakespeare making tlie Clown i^ay, 
 'I knew when seven justices could not make up a quarrel; 
 but when the parties wore met themselves, ono of them 
 thought but of an if; as, if you said so^ thtn I said so^ and 
 they shook hands, and swore brothers. Your ?y is the only 
 peace-maker; mucli virtue in if."* Caranza was anothei 
 of these authentiek authors upon tho Duello. Fletcher, in 
 bis last Act ot Love's Pilgrimage, ridicules him with much 
 humour." The words included within crotchets are Dt, 
 Warburton's. 
 
 Has he given the lie 
 
 In circle or obiifiuc, or semicircle, 
 
 Or direct parallel ? You must challenge him, 
 
 FUtcher''8 Queen of Corinth, 
 
 ^"0 You have BooJcsfor Good Manners. 
 
 Hugh Rhodes wrote tho "Boko of Nurture, or Schoole 
 of Good Maners for Men, Servants, and Children," 8vo,. 
 1577. An earlier work, under a similar titJo, occors in 
 MS. llarl. 149. 
 
 Atone, reconcile, agree. 
 
 "> To 'thee doth comhine. 
 
 Combine, bind, unite, attach. The term has ocurred in 
 Measure for Measure, iv. S. 
 Address''d, prepared. 
 
 103 With measure heap'd in joy. 
 
 A heaped measure was a technical term. " Large meas- 
 ure, heaped measure, measure with advantage," Cotgrave, 
 I mention this, not tliat the line requires any explanation, 
 but merely to show the source for the use of what wouM 
 now be considered a forced metaphor, 
 
 103 Good wine needs no bush, 
 
 A bush w.^3 a common sign for a vintner. Tho cnston 
 is thus alluded to in Barnaby's Journal, — 
 
 Good wine no busli doth need, as I suppose, 
 Let Bacchus bush be Barnaby's rich noso; 
 No bush, no garland needs of cypress green ; 
 Barnaby's nooo may for a bush'be seen. 
 
 Cotgrave, in v. Bon, gives tho proverb, — "Good wiiv 
 dj-aws customers Tithout any help of an ivy-bush." 
 
 445
 
 I
 
 €\)t €mm[] of tlje Ijjrm, 
 
 fPIIE immediate scmrce of this amusing drama is to be traced in a bombastic comedj fiist piibiifliO'l 
 in 1594, under the title of, "A Pleasant Conceited Historie called The Taming of a Shrew, As it 
 was sundry times acted by the Right Honorable the Earle of Pembrook his servants.' The author 
 of this prodjction is unkno^vn,* but there appears to be reasonable grounds for believing it to have 
 been written by Marlowe ; unless, indeed, several imitations of passages in that writer are to be 
 regarded as plagiarisms. It was very popular, having been reprinted in 1596 and 1607 ; and Shakes- 
 pea-'-e's obligations to it were doubtlesdy notorious and acknowledged. He appears, in fact, to have 
 taken no pains to conceal the extent of them. The title of this play differs only in a particle, and, if 
 we except an incident adopted from Gascoigne's translation of the Suppositi of Ariosto, the story and 
 the method of its treatment are the same in both dramas. 
 
 The source of the "Induction," which appears to me to be one of the choicest fragments in 
 Shakespeare's comedies, is of oriental origin, and will recall the memory of every reader to the adven- 
 tures of Abou Hassan in the Arabian-Nights. The story occurs under a great variety of forms in 
 European literature, but some of its romantic character has been lost in its transmission. It was 
 probably first read by Shakespeare in a collection of stories by Richard Edwards, which appeared in 
 1570, a book wliich was seen by Warton, but has since been lost, and a portion only recently re- 
 covered by Mr. Norton of Livei-pool. As this addition to the materials for the literary history of the 
 play has not been accessible to previous editors, and will bear perusal, I am induced to insert a copy 
 of it :— 
 
 In the time tTiat Phillip Duke ot Burgundy (who by the gentlenesse and curteousnesse of his carriage purchasto 
 the name of good) guided the reinea of the country o^ Flanders, this prince, who was of an humour pleasing, and fuU 
 cf judicious goodnesse, rather then silly simplicity, used pastimes which for their singularity are commonly called the 
 pleasures of Princes: after this manner he no lesse shewed the quaintnesse of his wit then his prudence. 
 
 Being in BruxelUs with all his Court, and having at his table discoursed amply enougli of the vanities and great- 
 nesse of tliis world, he let each one say his pleasure on this subject, whereon was alleadged grave sentences and rare 
 examples : walking towards the evening in the towne, his head full of divers thoughts, he found a Tradesman lying in 
 a corner sleeping very soundly, the fumes of Bacchus having surcharged his braine. I describe this man's drunkenesso 
 in as good manner as I can to the credit of the party. This vice is so common in both the superior and inferiour Ger- 
 Vbdny^ that divers, making glory and vaunting of their dexterity in this art, enerease their praise thereby, and hold it 
 for a brave act. The good Duke, to give his followers an example of the vanity of all the magnificence with which ho 
 was inviroued, devised a meanea farre Icsse dangerous than that which Dionysius tlio TjTant used towards Ikmocles, 
 and which in pleasantuesse beares a msirvellous utility. Ho caused his men to carry away this sleeper, with whom, as 
 with a blocke, they might doe what they would, without awaking him; he caused tliem to carry him into one cf the 
 
 * Somo interesting papers on this subject by ilr. S. Hiekson have recently been published in the NoUaanI Quo its; 
 but oiu" limited space will not permit im examination of the ini^enious theory suggested by that gentleman. 
 
 4«
 
 THE TAmNG OF THE SHREW. 
 
 sumptuosest parts of Ills Pallace, into a chamber most state-like furnislied, anJ makes them lay him on a rich bed 
 They presently strip him of his bad cloatbes, and put him on a very fine and cleane shirt, in stead of bis own, which was 
 foule and filtliy. They let him sleepe in that place at his ease, and whilest hee settles his drinke, tlie Duke prepares the 
 pleasantest pastime that can be imagined. 
 
 In the morning, this drunkard being awake drawes the curtaines of this brave rich bed, sees himselfe in a cham- 
 ber adorned like a Faradice, lie considers the rich furniture with an amazement such as you may imagine : he beleeves 
 not his eyes, but layes his fingers on them, and feeling them open, yet perswades himselfe they are shut by sleep, and 
 that all he sees is but a j.'Ure dreame. 
 
 AsBOone as he was knowne to be awake, in comes the officers of the Dukes house, who were instructed by tho 
 Duke what they should do. There were pages bravely appariilled, Gentlemen of the chamber, Gentleman waiters, and 
 tlie High Chamberlaine, who, all in faire order and without laughing, bring cloatbing fur this new guest: they honour 
 him with the same great reverences as if he were a Soveraigne Prince ; they serve him bare headed, and aske him what 
 suite hee will please to weare that day. 
 
 This fellow, affrighted at the first, beleeving these things to be inchantment or dreames, reclaimed by these sub- 
 missions, tooke heart, and grew bold, and setting a good face on the matter, chused amongst all the apparell that they 
 presented unto him that which he hked best, and which hee thouglit to be fittest for him : ho is accommodated like a 
 King, and served with such ceremonies, as he had never scene before, and yet beheld them without saying any thing, 
 and with an assured countenance. This done, the greatest Nobleman in the Dukes Court enters tlie chamber with the 
 same reverence and honour to him as if he had been their Soveraigne Prince {Phillip with Princely delight beholds this 
 play from a private place ;) divers of purpose petitioning him for pardons, which hee grants W'th such a countinance 
 and gravity, as if he had had a Crowne on his head all his life time. 
 
 Being risen late, and dinner time approaching, they asked if he were pleased to have his tables covered. He likes 
 that very well. The table is furnished, where he is set alone, and under a rich Canopie : he eats with the same cere- 
 mony which was observed at the Duke's meales ; he made good cheere, and chawed with all his teeth, but only drank 
 with more moderation then he could have wisht, but the Majesty which he represented made him refraine. All taken 
 away, he was entertained with new and pleasant things : ttiey led him to walke about the great Chambers, Galleries, 
 and Gardens of the Pallace (for all this merriment was played within the gates, they being shut only for recreation to 
 the Duke and the principall of his Court) : they shewed him all the richest and most pleasantest things therin, and 
 tidked to him thereof as if they had all beene his, which he heiird with an attention and contentment beyond measure, 
 not saying one word of his base condition, or declaring that they tooke him for another. They made him passe tho 
 afternoone in all kind of sports ; musicke, dancing, and a Comedy, spent some part of the time. They talked to liim 
 of some State matters, whereunto he answered according to his skiU, and like a right TwelfijtiJe King. 
 
 Supper time approaching, they aske this new created Prince if he would please to have the Lords and Ladies of his 
 Court to sup and feast with him ; whereat he seemed something unwilling, as if hee would not abase his dignity unto 
 such famiharity : neverlesse, counterfeiting h'-imanity and atfability, he made signes that ho condiscended thereunto : 
 he. then, towards night, was led with sound of Trumpets and Hoboyes into a faire hall, where long Tables were set, 
 which were presently covered with divers sorts of dainty mcates, the Torches shined in every corner, and made a day 
 in the midst of a night: the Gentlemen and Gentlewomen were set in fine order, and the Prince at the upper end m a 
 higher scat. The service was magnificent ; the musicke of voyees and instruments fed the care, whilest mouthes found 
 their food in the dishes. Never was the imaginary Duke at such a feast; carousses begin after tho manner of tho 
 Country ; the Prince is assaulted on all sides, as the Owle is assaulted by all the Birdes, when he begins to soare. Not 
 to seeme unoivill, he would doe the like to his good and faithful! subjects. They serve him with very strong wine, good 
 Ilipocras, which hee swallowed downe in great draughts, and frequently redoubled ; so that, charged with so many ex 
 traordinaryes, he yeelded to deaths cousin gcrman, sleep, which closed his eyes, stopt his cares, and made him looso 
 the use of his reason and all his other sences. 
 
 Then the right Duke, who had put himselfe among the throng of his Officers to have the pleasure of this mummery, 
 commanded that this sleeping man should be stript out of his bravo cloathes, and cloathed ngaine in his old ragges, and 
 so sleeping carried and layd in the same place where he was taken up the night before. This was presently done, and 
 there did he snort all the night long, not taking any hurt either from tho hardnesse of the stones or tho night ayro, ss 
 well was his stomacke filled with good preservatives. Being awakened in the morning by some passenger, or it mar 
 bee by some that the good Duke Philip had thereto appointed, ha ! said he, my friends, what have you done ? you hava 
 rob'd mee of aKingdonie, and have taken mee out of tho sweetest and happiest dreame that ever man could have fallen 
 into. Then, very well remembring all tlio particulars of what had passed the day before, ho related unto them, from 
 point to poiJit, all tliat had happened unto him, still thinking it assuredly to bee a dreame. Being returned homo to 
 his house, he entertaines his wife, neighbours, and friends, with this his dreame, as hee thought: the truth whereof 
 being at last published by the mouthes of those Courtiers who had been present at this pleasant recreation, the good 
 man could not beleeve it, tliiiiking that for sport they had framed this history upon his drcanic ; but when Duke I'kilip, 
 who would have the full contentment of tliis pleasant tricke, had shewed him tho bed wherein he lay, the cloathes 
 which he had worne, tho persona who had served him, the Hall wherein ho had eaten, tho gardens and galleries 
 wherein hee had walked, hardly could hee be induced to belccve what hee saw, imagining that all this was meoro 
 inchantment and illusion. 
 
 The Duke used some liberality towards him for to helpe him in the poverty of his family ; and, taking an occasion 
 thorcon to make an Oration unto his Courtiers .concerning the vanity of this worlds honours, heo told them that all 
 that amliitious persons sccko with so much industry is but smoake, and u mecro dreame, and that they are strucken 
 with tliat pleasant folly of the Athenian, who im.agined all the riches that arrived by shipping in the haven oi Athene 
 to bo his, and that all tho Marchants were but his factors : his friends getting him cured by a skilful Physitian of the 
 debility of his brain, in lieu of giving tlicni thanks for this good office, he reviled tbcm, saying that, whereas ho wa» 
 rioli ill conceit, they had by this euro made him poore and miscrablo in elTeot. 
 ■t4b
 
 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 
 
 In the ol'd pl;iy, tlic stoiy of the dninkard is continued, and ho is intiojiieed at the conclusion, 
 letiirned to sobriety, and firmly convinced that all the transactions of the scene were merely tiie imagi- 
 nations of a dream. Shaicespeare evidently felt that this arrangement was not dramatically necessary, 
 and after a few unimportant words at the conclusion of the first scene of tho first act, we hear no more 
 of (lie tinker. 
 
 Tlie Taming- of ^7tc Shrew w.is first published in tho folio of 1G23. It was not mentione<l by 
 Meres in 1598, and, althou<Th that circumstance is only a kind of negative evidence, I am inclined ic> 
 place the date of its composition after that year. Sir John Harrington ia 1590 mentions the older 
 play, which would lead us to believe it had not then been superseded by Shakespeare's. Mr. Collier 
 would assign a date after 1601, the name Baptista being improperly used in Hamlet, an error which 
 was corrected in the Taming of the Shrew. There is, however, a great uncertainty in reasoning on 
 mmute indications of this character. 
 
 A sequel or imitation of the fammg of the Shrew, under the title of, " Tho Woman's Prize, or 
 tl:e Tamer Tam'd," was written by Fletcher, and is mentioned by Herbert as "an ould play" as ejirlj 
 as 163.3. Tho exact d.ate of its composition is not known. In this play Katharine is supposed to be 
 dead, and Petrucio married to another lady, who, with the assistance of her companions, tames the 
 unruly husband who has cured the shrew in Shakespeare's play. It is almost unnecessary to say that 
 Petrucio's indisndualit}', as pourtrayed by Shakespeare, is not preserved by Fletcher ; but the " Woman's 
 Prize" IS, nevertheless, an amusing drama, and when acted before the Court in 1633, it seems to have 
 gi\'en greater satisfaction than the other. Herbert's memoranda are as follows: — "On Tusday night, 
 at St. James, the 26 of Novemb. 1633, was acted before the King and Queene The Tarainge of the 
 Shrew : Likl. — On Thursday night, at St. James, the 28 of Novemb. 1633, was acted before the King 
 and Queene, Tho Tamer Tamd, made by Fletcher . Veri/ well likt." 
 
 The original MS. containing these curious entries is preserved at Powis Cattle, the seat of the 
 Earls of Powis ; and the late Lord Powis kindly promised me the full use of it for the Shakespeare 
 Society. His Lordship's untimely death prevented the fulfilment of this desirable object ; but I trust 
 it will be confii-med by his successor. The MS. is, perhaps, the most curious record of early English 
 pLi}s known to be extant. 
 
 The Taming of the Shrew can only be correctly estimated by bearing in mind the manners and 
 tendencies of the age in which it was written. We must recollect that the power of gentleness — its 
 efficiency greater than force moving to gentleness — is a truth only just now beginning to be recognized, 
 f ha'tespeare was one of the few writers of his time that appreciated this influence ; and even in illus- 
 trating the then vernacular method of charming a woman's tongue, he has encompassed it with snffi- 
 ;ieut frolic to soften the unpleasing purpose of the story. Katharine, however, is not an ordinary typo. 
 Vixenish, proud, and dominant, she is subdued by the exhibition rather than by the action of power; 
 by the observation of the continual proofs of Petrucio's indomitable disposition, and the obrious impos- 
 sibilitv of attempting to control it. She does not perceive that much of his character is assumed ; but 
 he IS, in fact, a humorist of great power, and conquers Katharine by a succession of jests and practical 
 
 jokes of his own invention. 
 
 s; . 449
 
 PERSONS REPRESENTED IN THE INDUCTION. 
 
 A Lord. 
 
 Christopher Slt, a drunken Tinker. 
 
 Hostess, Page Players, Huntsmen, and Servants, 
 
 PERSONS EEPRESENTED IN THE PLAY. 
 
 Baptista, a rich gentleman of Padua. 
 
 fr)!t\:re, Aot I. se. 1. Act II. bo. 1. Act III. ec. 2. Act 
 
 IV. so. i. Act V. sc. 1 ; sc. 2. 
 
 V^iscENTio, an old gentleman of Pisa. 
 Appears, Act IV. sc. 5. Act V. sc. 1 ; so 2. 
 
 LucENTio, son to Vincentio, in love with Bianca. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1 ; sc. 2. Act II. sc. 1. Act III. sc. 1 ; 
 
 Bc. 2. Act IV. sc. 2 ; sc. 4. Act V. sc. 1 ; sc. 2. 
 
 Petrucio, a gentleman of Verona, a suitor to 
 
 KatLarina. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 2. Act II. so. 1. Act III. so. 2. Act 
 
 IV. BC. 1 ; so. 3 ; sc. 5. Act V. so. 1 ; sc. 2. 
 
 Gremio, a suitor to Bianca. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1 ; sc. 2. Act II. sc. 1. Act III. sc. 2. 
 Act V. 60. 1 ; sc. 2. 
 
 IIqrtensio, a suitor to Bianca. 
 
 Appears, Act I. ac. 1 ; sc. 2. Act II. so. 1. Act III. bo. 1 ; 
 BC. 2. Act IV. so. 2 ; sc. 3 ; so. 5. Act V. so. 2. 
 
 Tranio, servant to Lucentio. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1 ; so. 2. Act II. sc. 1. Act III. bo. 2. 
 Act IV. BO. 2 ; BO. 4. Act V. so. I ; ec. 2. 
 
 BioNDKLLO, servant to Lucentio. 
 
 Appears, Act I. 8C. 1 ; bc. 2. Act II. bo. 1. Act III. bo. 2. 
 Act IV. EC. 2 ; r,c. 1. Act V. sc. I ; so. «. 
 450 
 
 Grcmio, servant to Pctrucic. 
 
 Appears, Act I. so. 2. Act III. sc. 2. Act IV. «c. J , s-.v 3 
 Act V. sc. 2. 
 
 Curtis, servant to Petrucio. 
 Appears, Act IV. sc. I. 
 
 Pedant, an old fellow set up to jyersonate Vincentio. 
 Appears, Act IV. sc. 2 ; sc. 4. Act V. sc. I ; so, 2. 
 
 A Tailor and Habevdaslier. 
 
 Appear, Act IV. sc. 8. 
 
 Katharina, the shrew, daugJUer to Baptista. 
 
 Appears, Act I. so. 1. Act II. bc. 1. Act III. so. 2. Ac! 
 IV. BC. 1; 80. 3; bc. 6. Act V. so. 1 ; sc. 2. 
 
 Bianca, sister to Katliarina. 
 
 Appears Act I. sc. 1. Act II. so. 1. Act III. so. 1 ; m. i. 
 Act IV. 60. 2. Act V. BO. 1 ; so. 2. 
 
 Widow. 
 
 Appears, Act V. bo. S. 
 
 SCENE, So.METIMES IN PaDUA ; AND SOMF.rrMK.'! 
 
 IN Pktrucio's House in tub Countrt. 
 
 i
 
 I)e €niniiig of flji^ Ijjrenj. 
 
 INDUCTION. 
 
 SCENE I. — Before an Alehouse on a Heath. 
 
 Enter Hostess and Sly. 
 
 Shj. I '11 pheese' you, in feitu- 
 
 Host. A pair of stocks, you rogue ! 
 
 Sly. Y' are a baggage ; the Slys are no rogues. 
 Look in the chronicles, we came in with Eichard 
 Conqueror. Therefore, paucas pallabris ;' let the 
 Korld. slide : Scssa ! 
 
 Host. You will not pay for the glasses you have 
 burst ? 
 
 Sly. No, not a denier ! Go by, St. Jeronimy' — 
 Go to thy cold bed, and warm thee. 
 
 Host. I know my remedy, I must go fetch the 
 thirdborough.' [^Exit. 
 
 Sly. Third, or fourth, or fifth borough, I '11 
 answer him by law : I '11 not budge an inch, boy;' 
 let him come, and kindly. [Lies down on the ground, 
 and falls asleep. 
 
 Wind Horns. Enter a Lord from hunting, with 
 his Train. 
 
 Lord. Iluntsraan, I charge thee, tender well my 
 
 hounds : 
 Brach Merriman, — the poor cur is emboss'd f 
 And couple Clowder with the deep-mouth'd 
 
 brach. 
 Saw'st thou not, boy, how Silver made it good 
 At the hedge corner, in the coldest fault ? 
 [would not lose the dog for twenty pound. 
 
 1 Hun. Why, Bolman is as good a.*. Lc, mj 
 lord ; 
 He cried upon it at the merest loss. 
 And twice to-d.iy pick'd out the dullest scent . 
 Trust me, I take him for the better dog. 
 
 Lord. Thou art a fool ; if Echo were as fleet. 
 I would esteem him wortli a dozen such. 
 But sup them well, and look unto them all • 
 To-morrow I intend to hunt again. 
 
 1 Hun. I will, my lord. 
 
 Lord. What's here? one dead, or drunk? See. 
 doth he breathe ? 
 
 2 Hvn. He breathes, my lord. W%re he not 
 
 wapiii'd with ale, 
 This were a bed but cold to sleep so soundly. 
 Lord. O monstrous beast ! how like a swine he 
 
 lies ! 
 Grim death, how foul and loathsome is thine 
 
 image ! 
 Sirs, I will practise on this drunken man. 
 What think you, if he were convey'd to bed, 
 Wrapp'd in sweet clothes, rings put upon liia 
 
 fingers, 
 A most delicious banquet by his bed, 
 And brave attendants near him when he waives. 
 Would not the beggar then forget himself? 
 
 1 Han. Believe me, lord, I think ho cannot 
 
 chooee. 
 
 2 Ifun. It would seem strange unto him when 
 
 he wak'd. 
 
 451
 
 ISDUCTION. 
 
 THE TAillNG OF THE SHREW. 
 
 Lord. Even as a flatl'riug dream, or worthless 
 foncy. 
 Then take him up, and manage well the jest ; 
 CaiTy him gently to my fairest chamber, 
 And hang it round with all my wanton pictures : 
 Malm his foul head in warm distilled waters. 
 And burn sweet wood to make the lodging sweet : 
 Procure me music ready wheu he wakes. 
 To make a dulcet and a heavenly sound ; 
 And if he chance to speak, be ready straight, 
 And, with a low submissive reverence. 
 Say, — "What is it your honour will command ? 
 Let one attend him with a silver bason. 
 Full of rose-water, and bestrew'd with flowers ; 
 Another bear the ewer, the third a diaper. 
 And say, — Will 't please your lordship cool your 
 
 hands ? 
 Some one be ready with a costly suit. 
 And ask him what apparel he will wear ; 
 Another tell him of his hounds and horse. 
 And that his lady mourns at his disease : 
 Pereuade him that ko hath been lunatic : 
 And, when he says he is — -^ say that he dreams, 
 For he is nothing but a mighty lord. 
 This do, and do it kindly, gentle sirs ; 
 It will be pastime passing excellent 
 If it be husbanded with modesty. 
 
 1 Hun. My lord, I warrant you, we 'II play our 
 
 part. 
 As he shall think, by our true diligence. 
 He is no loss than what we say he is. 
 Lord. Take him up gently, and to bed with 
 him ; 
 And each one to his office, when he wakes. 
 
 \Soim bear out Slv. A trumpet sounds. 
 Sirrah, go see what trumpet 't is that sounds ; 
 
 [Exit Servant. 
 Belike, some noble gentleman, that means. 
 Travelling some journey, to repose him here. 
 
 Re-enter Servant. 
 Eow now ? who is it ? 
 
 Serv. An 't please your honour, players 
 
 That offer service to your lordshi[). 
 
 Lord. Bid them come near. 
 
 Enter Players. 
 
 Now, follows, you are welcome. 
 
 Players. We thank your honour. 
 
 Lord. Do you intend to stay with me to-night? 
 
 2 Play. So please your lordship to accept our 
 
 duty. 
 
 462 
 
 Lord. With all my heart. — This fellow I re- 
 member, 
 Since once he play'd a. farmer's eldest son ; — 
 'T was where you woo'd the gentlewoman so 
 
 well : 
 I have forgot your name ; but, sure, that part 
 Was aptly fitted, and naturally perform'd. 
 
 1 Play. I think, 't was Soto that your honour 
 means. 
 
 Lord. 'T is very tme ; — thou didst it excel 
 lent.— 
 Well, you are come to me in happy time; 
 The rather for I have some sport in hand, 
 Wherein your cunning can assist me much. 
 There is a lord will hear you play to-night : 
 But I am doubtful of your modesties. 
 Lest, over-eying of his odd behaviour, 
 (For yet his honour never heard a play,) 
 You break into some merry passion. 
 And so ofiend him ; for I tell you, sirs. 
 If you should smile, he gi'ows impatient. 
 
 1 Play. Fear not, my lord; we can contain 
 ourselves. 
 Were he the veriest antic in the world. 
 
 Lord. Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery, 
 And give them fiiendly welcome eveiy one : 
 Let them want nothing that my house atibrds. — 
 [Exeunt Servant and Players, 
 Sirrah, go you to Bartholomew, my page, 
 
 [To a Ser\-aut 
 And sec him dress'd in all suits like a lady : 
 That done, conduct him to the drunkard's chamber 
 And call him madam: do him obeisance. 
 Tell him from me, as he will win my love, 
 He bear himself with honoiffable action, 
 Such as he hath observ'd in noble ladies 
 Unto their lords, by them accomplished : 
 Such duty to the drunkard let him do. 
 With soft low tongue and lowly courtesy ; 
 And say, — W^hat is 't your honour will command, 
 Wherein your lady, and your humble wife. 
 May show her duty, and make known her love 1 
 And then, with kind embracements, tempting 
 
 kisses. 
 And with declining head into his bosom. 
 Bid him shod tears, as being oveijoyed 
 To see her noble lord restor'd to health, 
 Who, for this seven years, hath esteemed him 
 No better than a poor and loathsome beggar : 
 And if the boy have not a woman's gift, 
 To rain a shower of commanded tears, 
 An onion will do well for such a shift,*
 
 INDUCTION. 
 
 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 
 
 6CESE U. 
 
 Which in a n.-ipkin being close convey'd, 
 Shall in despite enforce a watery eye. 
 See this despatch'd with all the haste thou canst ; 
 Anon I '11 give thee more instructions. 
 
 [Kelt Servant. 
 I know the boy will well usurp the grace, 
 Voice, gait, and action of a gentlewoman : 
 I long to hear him call the drunkard husband ; 
 Afld how my men will stay themselves from 
 
 laughter, 
 When they do homage to this simple peasant. 
 I '11 in to counsel them : haply, my presence 
 Nfay well abate the over-merry spleen. 
 Which otherwise would grow into extremes. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE n. — A bed-chamber in the Lord's House. 
 
 Si.Y is discovered in a rich night-gown, with Atten- 
 dants ; so)ne with apparel, others with bason, 
 ewer, and other appurtenances. Enter Lord, 
 dressed like a servant. 
 
 Sly. For God's sake, a pot of small ale.' 
 
 1 Serv. Will 't please your lordship drink a cup 
 
 of sack ? 
 
 2 Serv. Will 't please your honour taste of these 
 
 consejves ? 
 
 3 Serv. What raiment will your honour wear 
 
 to-day ? 
 
 Sly. I am Christophero Sly. Call not me 
 honour, nor lordship : I ne'er drank sack in my 
 life ; and if you give me any conserves, give me 
 conserves of beef. Ne'er ask rae what raiment I '11 
 wear ; for I have no more doublets than backs, 
 m^ more stockings than legs, nor no more shoes 
 tban feet; nay, sometime, more feet than shoes, 
 or such shoes as my toes look through the over- 
 leather. 
 
 Lord. Heaven cease this idle humour in your 
 honour ! 
 0, that a mighty man of such descent, 
 Of such possessions, and so high esteem. 
 Should be infused with so foul a spirit ! 
 
 Sly. What ! would you make me mad ? Am not 
 I Christopher Sly, old Sly's son, of Burton-heath ; 
 by birth a pedler, by education a card-maker, by 
 transmutation a bear-herd, and now by present pro- 
 fession a tinker ? Ask Marian Hacket, the fat ale- 
 (rife of Wincot,' if she know me not : if she say I 
 am not fourteen pence on the score for sheer ale, 
 Bcore me up for the lying'st knave in Christendom. 
 What ! I am not bestraught : Here 's — 
 
 3 Serv. O, this it is that makes your lady mourn. 
 
 2 Serv. 0, this it is that makes your servants 
 droop. 
 
 Lord, llence comes it that your kindred sliuo 
 your house. 
 As beaten hence by your strange lunacy. 
 O, noble lord, bethink thee of thy birth ; 
 Call home thy ancient thoughts from banishment, 
 And banish hence these abject lowly dreams. 
 Look how thy servants do attend on thee, 
 Each in his office ready at thy beck. 
 Wilt thou have music 1 hark ! Apollo plays, 
 
 [Music. 
 And twenty caged nightingales do sing: 
 Or wilt thou sleep ? wo '11 have thee to a couch. 
 Softer and sweeter than the lustful bed 
 On purpose trimm'd up for Semiramis. 
 Say, thou wilt walk : we will bestrew the ground 
 Or wilt thou ride ? thy horses shall be trapp'd, 
 Their harness studded all with gold and pearl. 
 Dast thou love hawking ? thon hast hawks will soar 
 Above the morning lark : or wilt thou hunt ? 
 Thy hounds shall make the welkin answer them, 
 And fetch shrill echoes from the hollow earth. 
 
 1 Serv. Say, thou wilt course ; thy greyhoumis 
 
 are as swift 
 As breathed stags, ay, fleeter than the roe. 
 
 2 Serv. Dost thou love pictures ? we will fetch 
 
 thee straight 
 Adonis, painted by a running brook ; 
 And Cytherea all in sedges hid. 
 Which seem to move, and wanton with her breatli 
 Even as the waving sedges play with wind. 
 
 Lord. We '11 show thee lo, as she was a maid ; 
 And how she was beguiled and suipris'd. 
 As lively painted as the deed was done. 
 
 3 Serv. Or Daphne, roaming through a thorny 
 
 wood ; 
 Scratching her legs that one shall swear she bleeds 
 And at that sight shall sad Apollo weep. 
 So workmauly the blood and tears are drawn. 
 
 Lord. Thou art a lord, and nothing but a lord 
 Thou hast a lady far more beautiful 
 Than any woman in this waning age. 
 
 1 Serv. And, till the tears that she hath shed for 
 thee, 
 Like envious floods o'er-ran her lovely face, 
 She was the fairest creature in the world ; 
 And yet she is inferior to none. 
 
 Sly. Am I a lord ? and have I such a lady ? 
 Or do 1 dream, or have I dream'd till now ? 
 I do not sleep : I see, I hear, I speak ; 
 
 453
 
 
 INDUCTION. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW bcese ii. 
 
 [ smel' f weet savours, and I feel soft tilings : — 
 
 Sly. I know it well : what must I call her ? 
 
 Upon ray life, I am a lord, indeed ; 
 
 Lord. Madam. 
 
 And not a tinker, nor Christopher S'.y. 
 
 Sly. Alee madam, or Joan madam ? 
 
 Well, bring our lady hither to our sight; 
 
 Lord. Madam, and nothing else ; so lords call 
 
 And, once again, a pot o' the smallest ale. 
 
 ladies. 
 
 2 Serv. Will 't plea«e your mightiness to wash 
 
 Sly. Madam wife, they say that I have dream'd, 
 
 your hands ? 
 
 And slept above some fifteen year or more. 
 
 [Servants 2)resent an ewer, baso7i, and napkin. 
 
 Paye. Ay, and the time seems thirty unto me • 
 
 0, how we joy to see your wit restor'd ! 
 
 Being all this time nbandon'd from your bed. 
 
 0, that once more you knew but what you are ! 
 
 Sly. 'T is much. Servants, leave me and her 
 
 These fifteen years you have been in a dream ; 
 
 alone. 
 
 Or. when you wak'd, so'wak'd as if you slept. 
 
 Madam, undress you, and come now to bed. 
 
 Sly. These fifteen years ? by my fay, a goodly 
 
 Paye. Thrice noble lord, let me entreat of you 
 
 nap. 
 
 To pardon me yet for a night or two ; 
 
 But did I never speak of all that time ? 
 
 Or, if not so, until the sun be set : 
 
 1 Serv. yes, my lord ; but very idle words : — 
 
 For your physicians have expressly charg'd. 
 
 For though you lay here in this goodly chamber. 
 
 In peril to incur your former malady, 
 
 Yet would you say ye were beaten out of door ; 
 
 That I should yet absent me from your bed : 
 
 And rail upon the hostess of the house ; 
 
 I hope, this reason stands for my excuse. 
 
 And say, you v>-ould present her at the leet. 
 
 Sly. Ay, it stands so, that I may hardly tarry 
 
 Because she brought stone jugs and no seal'd 
 
 so long. But I would bo loth to fall into my 
 
 quarts :'» 
 
 dreams again. I will therefore tarry, in despite 
 
 Sometimes you would call out for Cicely Hacket. 
 
 of the flesh and the blood. 
 
 Sii/. Ay, the woman's maid of the house. 
 
 
 3 Serv. Why, sir, you know no house, nor no 
 
 LJnter a Servant. 
 
 such maid ; 
 
 Serv. Your honour's players, hearing your 
 
 Xor no such men as you have reckon'd up, — 
 
 amendment, 
 
 As Stephen Sly, and Old John Naps o' the Green, 
 
 Are come to play a pleasant comedy, 
 
 And Peter Turph, and Henry Pimpernell ; 
 
 For so your doctors hold it very meet : 
 
 And twenty more such names and men as these. 
 
 Seeing too much sadness hath congeal'd yourbloo<l, 
 
 Which never were, nor no man ever saw. 
 
 And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy. 
 
 Sly. Now, Lord be thanked for my good amends ! 
 
 Therefore, they thought it good you hear a play. 
 
 All. Amen. 
 
 And fiame your mind to mirth and merriment. 
 
 Sly. I thank thee ; thou shalt not lose by it. 
 
 Which bars a thousand harms, and lengthens life. 
 
 
 Sly. !Marry, I will let them play : Is it not a 
 
 £ntcr the Page, as a lady, with Attendants. 
 
 commonty," a Christmas gambol, cr a tumbling- 
 
 Paye. How fares my noble lord 3 
 
 trick 1 
 
 Sly. Marry, I fare well ; for here is cheer enough. 
 
 Paye. No, my good lord ; it is more pleasing 
 
 Where is my wife 5 
 
 stuff 
 
 Faye. Here, noble lord. What is thy will with 
 
 Sly. What, household stuff! 
 
 her ? 
 
 Paye. It is a kind of history. 
 
 Sly. Are you my wife, and will not call me 
 
 Sly. Well, we '11 see 't. Come, madam wife, sit 
 
 husband ? 
 
 by my side, and let the world slip • we shall ne'ei 
 
 .Mv men should call me lord ; I am your croodman. 
 
 be younger. 
 
 Paye. My husband and my lord, luy lord and 
 
 ^ Tkey sit down 
 
 husband ; 
 
 
 I am your wife in all obedience. 
 
 
 454 
 
 
 .■ 
 
 '
 
 
 ACT I llIE TAMLNG OF TllK SHREW. bcese i. 
 
 ACT I 
 
 SCENE I.— Padua. A public Place. 
 
 No profit grows whore is no pleasure ta'i-n ; — 
 
 £n.er Luckntio and Tranio. 
 
 In brief, sir, study what you most affect. 
 
 Luc. Gramercies, Tranio, well dost thou ad\iK0. 
 
 Lvc. Tranio, since, for the great desire I Lad 
 
 If, Biondello, thou wert come ashore. 
 
 Tc see fair Padua, nursery of arts, 
 
 We could at once put us in readiness ; 
 
 I am arriv'd for fruitful Lombardy," 
 
 And take a lodging, fit to entertain 
 
 The pleasant garden of great Italy , 
 
 Such friends as time in Padua shall beget. 
 
 And, by my father's love and leave, am arm'd 
 
 But stay awhile : what company is this ? 
 
 With his good will, and thy good company, 
 
 Tra. Master, some show, to welcome us to town. 
 
 My tiusty servant, well approv'd in all ; 
 
 
 Here let us breathe, and haply institute 
 
 jEnter Baptista, Katiiakina, Bianca, Gkemio, and 
 
 A course of learning, and ingenious studies. 
 
 noRTENSio. LucEXTio and Tranio stand aside. 
 
 Pisa, renowned for grave citizens. 
 
 Bop. Gentlemen, importune me no farther, 
 
 Gave me my being, and my fiither first, 
 
 For how I firmly am resolv'd you know : 
 
 A merchant of great traffic through the world. 
 
 That is, not to bestow my youngest daughter, 
 
 Vincentio, come of the Bentivolii. 
 
 Before I have a husband for the elder : 
 
 Vir.centio's son, brouglit up in Florence, 
 
 K either of you both love Katharina, 
 
 It shall become, to serve all hopes conceiv'd, 
 
 Because I know you well, and love you well. 
 
 To deck his fortune with his ^-irtuous deeds • 
 
 Leave shall you have to court her at your pleasure, 
 
 And therefore, Tranio, for the time I study, 
 
 Gre. To cart her rather :''' She 'a too rough for 
 
 Virtue, and that part of philosophy 
 
 me : 
 
 Will I apply, that treats of happiness 
 
 There, there, Hortensio, will you any wife ? 
 
 Bj' virtue 'specially to be achiev'd. 
 
 Kath. I pray you, sir, [to Bap.] is it your will 
 
 Tell me thy mind : for I have Pisa left, 
 
 To make a stale of me amongst these mates ? 
 
 And am to Padua come, as he that leaves 
 
 Hot: Mates, maid ! how mean you that ? no 
 
 A shallow plash, to plunge him in the deep. 
 
 mates for you. 
 
 And with satiety seeks to quench his thirst. 
 
 Unless you we?e of gentler, milder mould. 
 
 Tra. Mi perdonatc, gentle master mine, 
 
 Kath. r fiiith, sir, you shall never need to fear ; 
 
 I am in all affected as yourself; 
 
 I wis, it is not half way to her heart : 
 
 Glad that you thus continue your resolve, 
 
 But, if it were, doubt not her care should be 
 
 To suck the sweets of sweet philosophy. 
 
 To comb your noddle with a three-legg'd stool, 
 
 Only, good master, while wo do admire 
 
 And paint youf face, and use you like a fool. 
 
 This virtue, and this moral discipline. 
 
 Hor. From all such dcNdls, good Lord, deliver us! 
 
 Let 's be no stoics, nor no stocks, I pray ; 
 
 Ore. And me too, good Lord ! 
 
 Or so devote to Aristotle's checks, 
 
 Tra. Hush, master ! here 's some good pastimo 
 
 As Ovid be an outcast quite abjur'd : 
 
 toward ; 
 
 Balk" logic with acquaintance that you have, 
 
 That wench is stark mad, or wonderful froward. 
 
 And practise rhetoric in your common talk : 
 
 Lue. But in the other's silence do I see 
 
 Music and poesy use to quicken you ; 
 
 Maids' mild behaviour and sobriety. 
 
 The mathematics, and the metaphysics, 
 
 Peace, Tranio. 
 
 Fall to them, as you find your stomach serves 
 
 Tra. Well said, master ; mum I and gaze yout 
 
 you • 
 
 fill. 
 
 
 46S 
 
 .... 1
 
 THE TAlSnNG OF THE SHEEW. 
 
 Bap. Gentlemen, that I may soon make good 
 What I have said, Bianca, get you in : 
 And let it not displease thee, good Bianca ; 
 Fot I will love thee ne'er the less, my girl. 
 
 Kath. A pretty peat ;" it is best 
 Put finger in the eye — an she knew why. 
 
 Bian. Sister, content you in my discontent. 
 Sir, to vour pleasure humbly I subscribe : 
 My books and instruments shall be my com- 
 pany ; 
 Un them to look, and practise by myself. 
 
 Luc. Hark, Tranio ! thou mayst hear MineiTa 
 speak. [Aside. 
 
 Hor. Siguior Baptista, will you be so strange ? 
 Sorry am I that our good will effects 
 Bianca's grief. 
 
 Gre. Why, will you mew her up, 
 
 Signior Baptista, for this fiend of hell. 
 And make her bear the penance of her tongue ? 
 
 Bap. Gentlemen, content ye ; I am resolv'd : 
 Go in, Bianca. [Exit Bianca. 
 
 And, for I know she taketh most delight 
 In music, instruments, and poetry, 
 Schoolmastei-s will I keep within my house, 
 Fit to instruct her youth. If you, Hortensio, 
 Or, signior Gremio, you know any such. 
 Prefer them hither ; for to cunning men 
 I will be very kind, and liberal 
 To mine own children in good bringing-up ; 
 And so farewell. Katharina, you may stay ; 
 For I have more to commune with Bianca. [Exit. 
 
 Kath. Why, and I trust I may go too. May I 
 not? 
 What, shall I be appointed hours ; as though, 
 
 belike, 
 I knew not what to take, and what to leave ? 
 Ha ! [Exit. 
 
 Grc. You may go to the devil's dam ; your gifts 
 are so good, here 's none will hold you. Their love 
 is not so great, Hortensio, but we may blow our 
 nails together, and fast it fairly out ; our cake 's 
 dougli on both sides. Farewell : — Yet, for the 
 love I bear my sweet Bianca, if I can by any 
 raeiuis light on a fit man to teach her that wherein 
 she delights, I will wish him" to her fiither. 
 
 Hor. So will I, signior Gremio : But a word, I 
 pray. Though the nature of our quarrel yet never 
 brook'd park', know now, upon advice, it touchcth 
 us both, — that we may yet again have access to 
 our fair mistress, and be happy rivals in Bianca's 
 love, — to labour and effect one thing .specially. 
 
 Ore. What 's that, I pray ? 
 450 
 
 Hor. Marry, sir, to get a husband for her sister 
 
 Gre. A husband ! a devil. 
 
 Hor. I say, a husband. 
 
 Gre. I say, a devil : 'J'hink'st thou, Hortensio 
 though her fallier be veiy rich, any man is so verj 
 a fool to bo married to hell ? 
 
 Hor. Tush, Gremio, fliough it pass your patience 
 and mine to endure her loud alarums, why, man, 
 there be good fellows in the world, an a man could 
 light on them, would take her with all faults, and 
 money enough. 
 
 Ore. I cannot tell ; but I had as lief take her 
 dowry with this condition, — to be whipped at the 
 high-cross every morning. 
 
 Hor. 'Faith, as you say, there 's small choice in 
 rotten apples. But, come ; since this bar in law 
 makes us friends, it shall be so far forth fi'iendly 
 maintain'd, till, by helping Baptista's eldest daugh- 
 ter to a husband, we set his youngest free for a 
 husband, and then have to 't afresh. — Sweet 
 Bianca ! — Happy man be his dole 1" He that 
 runs fastest gets the ring. How say you, signior 
 Gremio ? 
 
 Gre. I am agreed : and would I had given him 
 the best horse in Padua to begin his wooing, that 
 would thoroughly woo her, wed her, and bed her, 
 and rid the house of her. Come on. 
 
 [Exeunt Gre. and IIor. 
 
 Tra. [Advancing^ I pray, sir, tell me, — Is il 
 possible 
 That love should of a sudden take such hold ? 
 
 Luc. O Tranio, till I found it to be tnie, 
 I never thought it possible, or likely ; 
 But see ! while idly I stood looking on, 
 I found the effect of love in idleness : 
 And now in plainness do confess to thee, — 
 That art to me as secret, and as dear. 
 As Anna to the queen of Carthage wa-s, — 
 Tranio, I burn, I pine, I perish, Tranio, 
 If I achieve not this youug modest girl : 
 Counsel me, Tranio, for I know thou canst ; 
 Assist me, Tranio, for I know thou wilt. 
 
 Tra. Master, it is no time to chide you now ; 
 Affection is not rated from the heart : 
 If love have touch'd you, nought remains bul 
 
 so,— 
 licdime ie captiim quam qucas minimo. 
 
 Luc. Gramercies, lad ; go forward, this con 
 tents ; 
 The rest will comfort, for thy counsel 's sound. 
 
 Tra. Master, you look'd so longly on the maid, 
 Perhaps you mark'd not what 's the pith of all.
 
 THE TAlVnNG OF THE SHREW. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Luc. yes, I saw sweet beauty in lier face, 
 Such as the daughter of Agenor had 
 That made great Jove to humble him to her 
 
 hand, 
 VVhen with his knees he kiss'd the Cretan strand. 
 
 Tra. Saw you no more ? mark'd you not, how 
 her sister 
 Began to scold ; and raise up such a storm, 
 That mortal ears might hardly endure the din ? 
 
 Luc. Tranio, I saw her coral lips to move, 
 And with her breath she did perfume the air ; 
 Sacred, and sweet, was all I saw in her. 
 
 Tra. Nay, then, 'tis time to stir him from his 
 trance. 
 I pray, awake, sir : If you love the maid, 
 Bend thoughts and wits to achieve her. Thus it 
 
 stan4s : 
 Her elder sister is so curst and shrewd. 
 That, till the father lid his hands of her, 
 Master, your love must live a maid at home ; 
 And therefore has he closely mew'd her up, 
 Because she will not be annoy'd with suitors. 
 
 Luc. Ah, Tranio, what a cruel father 's he 1 
 But art thou not advis'd, he took some care 
 To get her cunning schoolmastera to instruct her ? 
 
 Tra. Kj, marry, am I, sir ; and now 't is plotted. 
 
 Luc. I have it, Tranio. 
 
 Tra. Master, for my hand. 
 
 Both our inventions meet and jump in one. 
 
 Luc. Tell me thine first. 
 
 Tra. You will be schoolmaster. 
 
 And undertake the teaching of the maid : 
 That 's your device. 
 
 Luc. It is : May it be done ?" 
 
 Tra. Not possible. For who shall bear your 
 part. 
 And be in Padua here Vincentio's son ? 
 Keep house, and ply his book ; welcome his 
 
 friends ; 
 Visit his countrymen, and banquet them ? 
 
 Luc. Basta ;" content thee ; for I have it full. 
 We have not yet been seen in any house ; 
 Nor can we be distinguish'd by our faces. 
 For man or master : then it follows thus ; — 
 Thou shalt be master, Tranio, in my stead, 
 Keep house, and port, and servants, as I should : 
 I will some other be ; some Florentine, 
 Some Neapolitan, or meaner man of Pisa. 
 'T is hatch'd, and shall be so : — Tranio, at once 
 Uncase thee, take my colour'd hat and cloak : 
 When Biondello comes, he waits on thee ; 
 But I will charrr_ him first to keep his tongue. 
 
 Tra. So had you need. [They exchange habits 
 In brief, sir, sith it your pleasure is. 
 And I am tied to be obedient, 
 (For so your father charg'd me at our parting ; 
 " Be serviceable to my sou," quoth lie. 
 Although, I think 't was in another sense,) 
 I am content to be Lucentio, 
 Because so well I love Lucentio. 
 
 Luc. Tranio, bo so, because Lucentio loves : 
 And let me be a slave, t' achieve that maid 
 Whose sudden sight hath thrall'd my wounded 
 eye. 
 
 Unter Biondello. 
 
 Here comes the rogue. — Sirrah, where have you 
 been ? 
 Bion. Where have I been ? Nay, how now 
 where are you ? 
 Master, has my fellow Tranio stol'n your clothes ? 
 Or you stol'n his ? or both ? pray, what 's the 
 news? 
 Luc. Sirrah, come hither ; 't is no time tc 
 jest. 
 And therefore frame your manners to the time. 
 Your fellow Tranio here, to save my life, 
 Puts my apparel and my count'nance on, 
 And I for my escape have put on his ; 
 For in a quarrel, since I came ashore, 
 I kill'd a man, and fear I was descried. 
 Wait you on him, I charge you, as becomes, 
 While I make way fi'om hence to save my life , 
 You understand me ? 
 
 Bion. I, sir ? ne'er a whit. 
 
 Luc. And not a jot of Tranio in your mouth ; 
 Tranio is chang'd into Lucentio. 
 
 Bion. The better for him. 'Would I were so too 
 Tra. So would I, faith, boy, to h.ave the next 
 wish after,— 
 That Lucentio indeftt had Baptista's youngest 
 
 daughter. 
 But, sirrah, not for my sake, but your master s, I 
 
 advise 
 You use your manners discreetly in all kind of 
 
 companies : 
 When I am alone, why, then I am Tranio ; 
 But in all places else, your master Lucentio. 
 
 Luc. Tranio, let 's go : — 
 One thing more rests, that thyself execute ; 
 To make one among these wooers: If thou ask me 
 
 why,— 
 SuflSceth my reasons are both good and weighty. 
 
 \Hxeunt 
 467
 
 ACT I. 
 
 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 
 
 BCEKS IL 
 
 {The presenters abcce tpeak.) 
 
 1 Serv. My lord, you nod , you do not mind the play. 
 
 Sly. Yes, by saint Anne, do I. A good matter, surely. 
 Comes iLere any more of it ? 
 
 Page. My lord, 't is but begun. 
 
 Sly. 'T Is a very e.xoellent piece of work, Madam lady, 
 ■Would H 77ere done ! [ They sii and mark. 
 
 SCENE II. — The same. BeforeUoTtensio's House. 
 Enter Petrucio and Grumio. 
 
 Pet. Verona, for a while I take my leave, 
 To see my friends in Padua ; but, of all, 
 My best beloved and approved friend, 
 Hortensio ; and, I trow, this is liis house : 
 Here, sirrah Grumio ; knock, I say. 
 
 Gru. Knock, sir ! whom should I knock ? is 
 there any man has rebus'd your worahij) ? 
 
 Pet. Villain, I say, knock me here soundly.'" 
 
 Gru. Knock you here, sir ? why, sir, what am 
 I, sir, that I should knock you here, sir ? 
 
 Pet. Villain, I say, knock me at this gate. 
 And rap me well, or I '11 knock your knave's pate. 
 
 Gru. My master is grown quarrelsome : I should 
 knock you first, 
 And then I know after who comes by the worst. 
 
 Pet. Will it not be ? 
 'Faith, siiTah, an you '11 not knock, I '11 wiiug it ; 
 I '11 try how you can sol, fa, and sing it. 
 
 \He wrinffs Grumio by the ears. 
 
 Gru. Help, masters, help 1 my master is mad. 
 
 Pet. Now, knock when I bid you : sirrah ! 
 villain 1 
 
 Enter Hortensio. 
 
 Hor. How now ? what 's the matter ? — My old 
 friend Grumio ! and my good friend Petrucio ! — 
 How do you all at Verona ? 
 
 Pet. Signior Hortensio, come you to part the 
 fray ? 
 Con tutto il core hen trovaio, may I say. 
 
 Hor. Alia nostra casa ben vcnuto, 
 Mollo honorato signior mio Petrucio. 
 Rise, Grumio, rise; we will compound this quarrel. 
 
 Gru. Nay, 't is no matter, sir, what he 'leges in 
 Latin. 
 — If this be not a lawful cause for me to leave his 
 service, — Look you, sir, — he bid me knock him, 
 and rap him soundly, sir : Well, was it fit for a 
 servant to use liis master so ; being, perhaps, (for 
 aught I see,) two-aiid-tliirty, — a ]iip out ?'" 
 Whom, 'would to God, I had well knock'd at first, 
 Tlicn had not Grumio como by the worst. 
 453 
 
 Pet. A senseless villain ! — Gocd Hortensio, 
 I bade the rascal knock upon your gate, 
 And could not get him for my heart to do it. 
 
 Gru. Knock at the gate ? — Heavens ! 
 Spake you not the«e words plain — " Sirrah, knock 
 
 me here. 
 Rap me here, knock me well, and knock ma 
 
 soundly" ? 
 And come you now with — knocking at the gate ? 
 
 Pit. Sin-ah, be gone, or talk not, I advise you. 
 
 Hor. Petrucio, patience ; I am Gnimio's pledge : 
 Why, this a heavy chance 'twixt him and you ; 
 Your ancient, trusty, pleasant servant, Grumio. 
 And tell me now, sweet friend, — what happy gale 
 Blows you to Padua here, from old Verona ? 
 
 Pet. Such wind as scatters young men through 
 the world. 
 To seek their fortunes farther than at home. 
 Where small experience grows. But, in a few,'' 
 Signior Hortensio, thus it stands with me : — 
 Antonio, my father, is deceas'd ; 
 And I liave thrust myself into this maze, 
 Haply to wive, and thrive, as best I may : 
 Crowns in my purse I have, and goods at home, 
 And so am come abroad to see the world. 
 
 Hor. Petrucio, shall I then come roundly to ) 
 thee, 
 And wish thee to a shrew'd ill-favour'd wife ? 
 Thou 'dst thank me but a little for my counsel : 
 And yet I '11 promise thee she shall be rich. 
 And very rich : — but thou 'rt too much my friend, 
 And I '11 not wish thee to her. 
 
 Pet. Signior Hortensio, 'twixt such friends aa 
 we 
 Few words suffice : and, therefore, if thou know 
 One rich enough to be Petrucio's wife, 
 (As wealth is burthen of my wooing dance) 
 Be she as foul as was Florentius' love,"* 
 As old as Sibyl, and as curst and shrewd 
 As Socrates' Xantippe, or a worse. 
 She moves me not, or not removes, at least, 
 Affection's edge in me. Wore she as rough 
 As are the swelliug Adriatic seas ; 
 I come to wive it wealthily in Padua ; 
 If wealthily, then happily in Padu.a. 
 
 Gru. Nay, look you sir, he tells you flatly what 
 his mind is. Why, give him gold enough and 
 marry him to a p jppet, or an aglet-baby ; or an 
 old trot with ne'er a tooth it her head, though she 
 have as many dae;ises as two-and-fit'ly horses : 
 wliy, nothing comes amis.s, so money comes withal 
 
 Hor. Petrucio, since wo are stepp'd thus far in,
 
 ACT T. 
 
 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 
 
 SCENE n. 
 
 [ will continue that I broach'd in jest. 
 
 r can, Petrucio, help thee to a wife 
 
 With wealth enough, and young, and beauteous ; 
 
 [{rouglit up as best becomes a geutlewoman : 
 
 Ller only fault (and that is fault enough) 
 
 [s, — that she is intolerable curst, 
 
 And shrewd, and froward : so beyond all measure, 
 
 That, were my state far worser than it is, 
 
 I would not wed her for a mine cf gold. 
 
 Pet. Hortensio, peace ; thou know'st not gold's 
 eflect : 
 Tell me her father's name, and 't is enough ; 
 For I will board her, though she chide as loud 
 As thunder, when the clouds in autumu crack. 
 
 Hor. Her father is Baptista Minola, 
 An affable and courteous gentleman : 
 Her name is Kathariua Minola, 
 Renown'd in Padua for her scolding tongue. 
 
 Pet. I know her father, though I know not her; 
 And he knew my deceased father well : 
 I will not sleep, Hortensio, till I see her ; 
 And therefore let me be thus bold with you. 
 To give you over at this first encounter, 
 Unless you will accompany mo thither. 
 
 Gru. I pray you, sir, let him go while the 
 Lumour lasts. 0' my word, an she knew him as 
 WL'U as I do, she would think scolding would do 
 little good upon him. She ma}', perhaps, call him 
 half a score knaves, or so : why, that 's nothing ; 
 nn he begin once, he '11 rail in his rope-tricks.^^ 
 I '11 tell you what, sir, — an she stand him but a 
 Httle, he will throw a figure in her face, and so 
 disfigure her with it, that she shall have no more 
 eyes to see withal than a cat : you know him not, 
 sir. 
 
 Hor. Tarry, Pertrucio, I must go with thee ; 
 For in Baptista's keep my treasure is : 
 He hath the jewel of my hfe in hold, 
 His youngest daughter, beautiful Bianca ; 
 And her withholds he from me, and other more 
 Suitors to her, and rivals in my love : 
 Supposing it a thing impossible, 
 (For those defects I have before rehears'd,) 
 That ever Katharina will be woo'd, 
 Therefore this oi'der hath Baptista ta'en. 
 That none shall have access unto Bianca, 
 rill Katharine the curst have got a husband. 
 
 Grit, Katharins tb.3 curst ! 
 A title for a maid of all titles the worst. 
 
 Hor. Now shall my friend Peti-ucio do me grace ; 
 And offer me, disguis'd in sober robes, 
 To old Baptista as a schoolmaster, 
 
 Well seen in music," to instruct Bianca : 
 That so I may by this device, at least. 
 Have leave and leisure to make love to her. 
 And, unsuspected, court her by herselt 
 
 Enter Gremio ; with him Lucentio disffuised, with 
 books under his arm. 
 
 Gru. Hero 's no knavery ! See ; to Itoguilc 
 the old folks, how the young folks lay their heails 
 together ! Master, master, look about you. Who 
 goes there 2 ha 1 
 
 Hor. Peace, Grumio ; it is the rival of my 
 love : — 
 Petrucio, stand by a while. 
 
 Gru. A proper stripling, and an amorous ! 
 
 [They retire. 
 
 Grc. O, very well : I have perus'd the note. 
 Hark you, sir ; I '11 have them very fairly bound : 
 All books of love, see that at any hand ;" 
 And see you read no other lectures to her : 
 You understand me : — Over and beside 
 Signior Baptista's liberality, 
 
 I '11 mend it with a largess : — Take yoiu- papers too 
 And let me have them very well perfum'd ; 
 For she is sweeter than perfume itself. 
 To whom they go to. What will you read to her 
 
 Luc. Whate'er I read to her, I '11 plead for you 
 As for my patron, (stand you so assur'd,) 
 As firmly as yourself were still in place : 
 Yea, and perhaps with more successful words 
 Than you, unless you were a scholar, sir. 
 
 Gre. O this learning ! what a thing it is ! 
 
 Gru. this woodcock !™ what an ass it is ! 
 
 Pet. Peace, sirrah. 
 
 Hor. Grumio, mum ! — God save you, signior 
 Gremio ! 
 
 Gre. And you are well met, signior Hortensio. 
 Trow you 
 Whither I am going ? — To Baptista Minola. 
 I promis'd to inquire carefully 
 About a schoolmaster for the fair Bianca ; 
 And, by good fortune, I have lighted well 
 On this young man ; for learning, and behaviour, 
 Fit for hei turn ; well read in poetry 
 And other books, — good ones, I warrant ye. 
 
 Hor. 'T is well : and I have met a gentleman. 
 Hath promis'd me to help me to another, 
 A fine musician to instruct our mistress ; 
 So shall I no whit be behind in duty 
 To fair Bianca, so belov'd of me. 
 
 Gre. Beloved of me, — and that my deeds shell 
 prove. 
 
 469
 
 THE TAHnNG OF THE SHREW. 
 
 frru. And that liis bags shall prove. \Aside. 
 
 Hor. Gremio, 't is now no time to vent our 
 love ; 
 Listen to me, and if you speak me fair, 
 I '11 tell you news indifierent good for either. 
 Here is a gentleman, whom by chance I met, 
 Lljion agi'eement from us to his liking, 
 Will undertake to woo curet Katharine ; 
 Vea, and to marry her, if her dowry please. 
 
 Gre. So said, so done, is well : — 
 Hortensio, have you told him all her faults ? 
 
 Pet. I know she is an irksome, brawling scold ; 
 If that be all, maisters, I hear no hami. 
 
 Gre. 'Hoi Say'st me so, friend ? What country- 
 man ? 
 
 Pet. Born in Verona, old Antonio's son : 
 My father dead, my fortune lives for me ; 
 And I do hope good days, and long, to see. 
 
 Gre. O, sir, such a life, with such a wife, were 
 strange : 
 But if you have a stomach, to 't o' God's name ; 
 You shall have me assisting you in all. 
 But will you woo this wild-cat ? 
 
 Pet. Will I live ? 
 
 Gre. Will he woo her ? ay, or I '11 hang her. 
 
 \_Aside. 
 
 Pet. Why came I hither, but to that intent ? 
 Think you, a little din can daunt lume ears ? 
 Have I not in my time heard lions roar ? 
 Have I not heard the sea, puff'd up with winds, 
 Rage like an angiy boar, chafed with sweat ? 
 Have I not heard great ordnance in the field, 
 And heaven's artillery thunder in the skies! 
 Have I not in a pitched battle heard 
 Loud 'larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets' clang? 
 And do you tell me of a woman's tongue. 
 That gives not half so great a blow to hear. 
 As will a chestnut in a farmer's fire 3 
 Tush ! tush ! fear boys with bugs." 
 
 Gru. For he fears none. \^Aside. 
 
 Gre. Hortensio, hark ! 
 This gentleman is happily arriv'd, 
 My mind presumes, for his own good, and yours. 
 
 Hor. I promis'd, wc would be contributors. 
 And bear his charge of wooing, whatsoe'er. 
 
 Gre. And so we will, provided that he win her. 
 
 Gru. 1 would I were as sure of a good diuner. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Enter Tnkn to, bravely apparelled ; and Biondello. 
 
 Tra. Gcntienion, God save you ! if I may be 
 bold, 
 460 
 
 Tell me, I beseech you, which is the readiest way 
 To the house of signior Baptista Minola ? 
 
 Bion. He that has the two fair daughters: — is'' 
 he you mean? 
 
 Tra. Even he, Biondello. 
 
 Gre. Hark you, sir ; You mean not her to — - 
 
 Tra. Perhaps, him and her, sir. What have 
 you to do ? 
 
 Pet. Not her that chides, sir, at any hand, I 
 pray. 
 
 Tra. I love no chiders, sir.— Biondello, let 's 
 awav. 
 
 Luc. Well begun, Tranio. [Aside. 
 
 liar. Sir, a word ere you go ; — 
 Are you a suitor to the maid you talk of, yea oi 
 no? 
 
 Tra. An if I be, sir, is it any offence ? 
 
 Gre. No ; if, without more words, you will get 
 you hence. 
 
 Tra. Whv, sir, I pray, are not the streets as fi'eo 
 For me, as for you ? 
 
 Gre. But so is not she. 
 
 Tra. For what reason, I beseech you ? 
 
 Gre. For this reason, if you '11 know. 
 That she 's the choice love of signior Gremio. 
 
 Bor. That she 's the chosen of signior Hortensio 
 
 Tra. Softly, my masters ! if you be gentlemen. 
 Do me this right, — hear me with patience. 
 Baptista is a noble gentleman, 
 To whom my father is not all unknown ; 
 And, were his daughter fairer than she is. 
 She may more suitors have, and me for one. 
 Fair Leda's daughter had a thousand wooers ; 
 Then well one more may fair Bianca have : 
 And so she shall ; Lucentio shall make one, 
 Though Palis came, in hope to speed alono. 
 
 Gre. What! this gentleman will out-talk us all 
 
 Ltic. Sir, give him head ; I know, he '11 prove 
 a jade. 
 
 Pet. Hortensio, to what end are all these words 
 
 JTor. Sir, let me be so bold as to ask you. 
 Did you yet ever see Baptista's daughter ? 
 
 Tra. No, sir; but hear I do, that he haih two 
 The one as famous for a scolding tongue. 
 As is the other for beauteous modesty. 
 
 Pet. Sir, sir, the first 's for mo ; let her go by. 
 
 Gre. Yon, leave that labour to great Hercules 
 And let it be more than Alcaides' twelve. 
 
 Pet. Sir, understand you this cif me, in sooth ;— 
 The youngest daughter, whom yau hearken for. 
 Her father keeps from all acces.s of suitors. 
 And will not promise her to any man
 
 ACT II 
 
 THE TAMING OF THE SUKEW. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Until tlio elder sister fii-st bo wed : 
 
 Tile yunijer then is fi'ee, and not, before. 
 
 Tra. li it bo so, sir, that you are the man 
 Must stead us all, and me amongst the rest ; 
 An if you break the ice, and do this seek, — 
 Achieve the elder, set the younger free 
 For our access, — whose hap shall be to have hei 
 Will not so graceless be to be ingrate. 
 
 Hor. Sir, you say well, and well you do con- 
 ceive : 
 And since you do profess to be a suitor. 
 
 You must, as we do, gratify this gentleman, 
 To whom we all I'est generally beholden. 
 
 Tra. Sir, 1 shall not be sUok: in sign wheidof, 
 Please ye we may contrive this afternoon," 
 And quaflf carouses to our mistress' liealth ; 
 And do as adversaries do in law, — 
 Strive mightily, but oat and drink as. friends. 
 
 Gru. JJion. O excellent motion ! Fellows, let 
 begone. 
 
 ITor. The motion 's good imleed, and be it so ; — 
 Potracio, I shall be your ben venulo. [Exeunt 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE L — The same. A Room in Baptista'« 
 House. 
 
 Enter Katiiarina and Bianca, tlie latter with her 
 hands bound. 
 
 Bian. Good sister, wrong me not, nor wrong 
 yourself. 
 To make a bondmaid and a slave of me ; 
 That I disdain : But for these other goods. 
 Unbind my hands, I '11 pull tliem off myself, 
 Yea, all my raiment, to my petticoat ; 
 Or, what you will command me, will I do, 
 So well I know my duty to my elders. 
 
 Kalh. Of all thy suitors, here I charge thee, 
 tell 
 Whom tliou lov'st best : see tliou dissemble not. 
 
 Bian. Believe me, sister, of all the men alive, 
 T never yet beheld that special foce 
 Which I could fancy more tlian any other. 
 
 Kath. Minion, thou liest ! Is 't not Hor- 
 tensio ? 
 
 Bian. If you afi'eot him, sister, here I swear, 
 I'll plead for you myself, but you shall have 
 him. 
 
 KaXh. O then, belike, you fancy riches more ; 
 Vou will have Gremio to keep you fair. 
 
 Bian. Is it for him you do envy me so ? 
 Nay, then you jest; and now I well perceive. 
 You have but jested with me all this while : 
 [ prithee, sister Kate, untie my hands. 
 
 Kath. If that be jest, then all the rest was so. 
 
 \Strikes her. 
 
 Enter Baptist a. 
 Bap. Why, how now, dame ! whence gi'ows 
 this insolence ? 
 Bianca, stand aside ; — poor girl ! she weeps : — 
 Go ply thy needle ; meddle not with her. 
 For shame, thou hilding,"' of a devilish spirit, 
 Why dost thou wrong her that did ne'er wrong 
 
 thee ? 
 When did she cross thee with a bitter word ? 
 Kath. Her silence flouts me, and I '11 be re- 
 veng'd. [Flies after Bianca. 
 
 Bap. What, in my sight ? — Bianca, get thee in. 
 
 [Exit Bianca, 
 Kath. W'hat, will you not suffer me ? Nay, now 
 I see 
 She is your treasure, she must have a husband; 
 I must dance barefoot^" oil her wedding-day. 
 And, for your love to her, lead apes in hell. 
 Talk not to me. I will go sit and weep. 
 Till I can find occasion of revenge. 
 
 [Exit Kath 
 Bap. Was ever gentleman thus griev'd as 1 1 
 But who comes here ? 
 
 Enter Gremio, with Lucestio in the fiabii of a 
 mean man; Petrucio, teith Hortensio as a 
 musician; and Traiho, with Biondello bettring 
 a lute and books. 
 
 Ore. Good morrow, neighbour Baptists. 
 Bap. Good morrow, neighbour Gremio : God 
 save you, gentlemen 1 
 
 461
 
 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 Pet. And you, good sir ! Pray have you not a 
 daughter 
 Call'd Katharina, fair and virtuous ? 
 
 Bap. I have a daughter, sir, call'd Katharina. 
 Gre. You are too blunt ; go to it orderly. 
 
 Pet. You wTong me, signior Gremio ; give me 
 leave. 
 I am a gentleman of Verona, sir. 
 That, hearing of her beauty, and her wit, 
 Her aflabilit}', and bashful modesty, 
 Her wondrous qualities, and mild behaviour, 
 Am bold to show myself a forward guest 
 Within your house, to make mine eye the witness 
 Of that report which I so oft have heard. 
 And, for an entrance to my entertainment, 
 I do present you with a man of mine, 
 
 [Presenting Hortensio. 
 Cunning in music, and the mathematics, 
 To instiuct her fully in those sciences. 
 Whereof, I know, she is not ignorant : 
 Accept of him, or else you do me wrong ; 
 His name is Licio, bom in Mantua. 
 
 Bap. You 're welcome, sir ; and he for your 
 good sake : 
 But for my daughter Katharine, this I know, 
 She is not for your turn, the more my grief. 
 
 Pet. I see you do not mean to part with her ; 
 Or else you like not of my company. 
 
 Ba2). Mistake me not, I speak but as I find. 
 Whence are you, sir ? what may I call your 
 name ? 
 
 Pet. Petrucio is mv name ; Antonio's son, 
 A man well known throughout all Italy. 
 
 Bap. I know him well : you are welcome for 
 his s.ike. 
 
 Gre. Saving your tale, Petrucio, I pray, 
 Let us, that are poor petitioners, speak too : 
 Baccare I" you are marvellous forward. 
 
 Pet. O, pardon me, signior Gremio ; I would fain 
 be doing. 
 
 Gre. I doubt it not. sir; but you will curse 
 your wooing ! 
 Neighbour, this is a gift very grateful, I am sure 
 of it. To express the like kindness myself, that 
 have been more kindly beholding to you than any, 
 I freely give unto you this young scholar, [;;rf- 
 VMlintj LucENTio] tiiat hath been long studying 
 at Rheims ; as cunning in Greek, Latin, and other 
 languages, as the other in music and mathematics : 
 bis name is Cambio; pray accept his service. 
 
 B(ip. A thousand thanks, signior Gremio : wel- 
 come, good Cambio. — But, gentle sir, [to Tuanio] 
 4A2 
 
 methinks you walk like a stranger. Mav I be so 
 bold to know the cause of your coming ? 
 
 Tra. Pardon me, sir, the boldness is mine owu ; 
 That, being a stranger in this city here. 
 Do make myself a suitor to your daughter, 
 Unto Bianca, fair, and virtuous. 
 Nor is your firm resolve unknown to me, 
 In the preferment of the eldest sister: 
 This liberty is all that I request, — 
 That, upon knowledge of my parentage, 
 I may have welcome 'mongst the rest that woo, 
 And free access and favour as the rest. 
 And, toward the education of your daughters, 
 I here bestow a simple instrument. 
 And this small packet of Greek and Latin books : 
 If you accept them, then their worth is great. 
 
 Bap. Lucentio is your name ? of whence, I pray 'i 
 
 Tra. Of Pisa, sir ; son to Vincentio. 
 
 Bap. A mighty man of Pisa : by report 
 I know him well : you are very welcome, sir. 
 Take you [to Hob.] the lute, and you [to Luc] 
 
 the set of books. 
 You shall go see your pupils presently. 
 Holloa, within ! 
 
 £nter a Servant. 
 Sirrah, 
 Lead these gentlemen to my daughters; and tcl! 
 
 them both 
 These are their tutors ; bid them use them well. 
 
 [£ji7 Servant, 7oiik Hon., Luc, and Bion. 
 We will go walk a little in the orchard. 
 And then to dinner. You are passing welcome, 
 And so I pray you all to think yourselves. 
 
 Pet. Signior Baptista, my business asketh haste, 
 And every day I cannot come to woo." 
 You knew my father well ; and in him, me. 
 Left solely heir to all his lands and goods. 
 Which I have better'd rather than decreas'd : 
 Then tell me, — If I get your daughter's love, 
 What dowry shall I have with her to wife ? 
 
 Bap. After my death, the one half of mv 
 lands : 
 And, in possession, twenty thousand crowns. 
 
 Pet. And for that dowiy, I '11 assure her of 
 Her widowhood, — be it that she survive me, — 
 In all my lands and leases whatsoever : 
 Let specialties be therefore drawn between us, 
 That covenants ni.ay be kept on either hand. 
 
 Bap. Ay, wlien the special thing is well 
 obtain'd. 
 That is, — her love ; for that is all in all. 
 
 t
 
 THE TAMING OF TUE SHKEW. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Pet. "Why, that is nothing ; for I tell you, 
 father, 
 I ain as peremptory as she proud-minded ; 
 And where two raging fires meet together, 
 They do consume the thing that feeds their fury : 
 Though little fire grows great with little wind, 
 Yet extreme gusts will hlow out fire and all : 
 Ro I to her, and so she yields to me ; 
 For I am rough, and woo not like a babe. 
 
 Bap. Well mayst thou woo, and happy bo thy 
 speed I 
 But be thou arm'd for some unhappy words. 
 
 Pet. Ay, to the proof; as mountains are for 
 winds, 
 That shake not, though they blow perpetually. 
 
 Re-enter IIortensio, loith his head Iroken. 
 
 Bap. How now, my friend ? why dost thou look 
 so pale ? 
 
 Hor. For fear, I promise you, if I look pale. 
 
 Ba}). What, will my daughter prove a good 
 musician ? 
 
 Hor. I think, she '11 sooner prove a soldier ; 
 Iron may hold with her, but never lutes. 
 
 Bap. Why, then thou canst not break her to 
 the lute ? 
 
 Hor. Why, no ; for she hath broke the lute to me. 
 I did but tell her she mistook her frets," 
 And bow'd her hand to teach her fingering ; 
 When, with a most impatient devilish spiiit, 
 " Frets, call you these 3" quoth she : " I 'II fume 
 
 with them :" 
 And, with that word, she struck me on the head, 
 And through the instrument my pate made way ; 
 And there I stood amazed for a while, 
 As on a pillory, looking through the lute ; 
 While she did call me, — rascal fiddler. 
 And twangling Jack ; with twenty such vild 
 
 terms. 
 As she had studied to misuse me so. 
 
 Pet. Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench ; 
 I love her ten times more than e'er I did : 
 0, how I long to have some chat with her ! 
 
 Bap. Well, go with me, and be not so discom- 
 fited: 
 Proceed in practice with my younger daughter; 
 She 's apt to learn, and thankful for good turns. 
 Signior Petrucio, will you go with us ; 
 Or shall I send my daughter Kate to you ? 
 
 Pet. I pray you do ; I will attend her here, — 
 [Exeunt Bap., Gre., Tra., and Hor. 
 And woo her with some spirit when she comeo. 
 
 Say, that she rail ; why, then I '11 tell her plain 
 
 She sings as sweetly a.s a nightingale : 
 
 Say, that she frown ; I '11 say, slio looks as clear 
 
 As morning roses newly wash'd with dew : 
 
 Say, she be mute, and will not speak a word ; 
 
 Then I '11 commend her volubility. 
 
 And say she uttereth piercing eloquence : 
 
 If she do bid me pack, I 'II give her thanks 
 
 As though she bid me stay by her a week ; 
 
 If she deny to wed, I '11 crave the day 
 
 When I shall a.sk the banns, and when be mar 
 
 ried : — 
 But here she comes ; and now, Petrucio, speak. 
 
 Enter Katharina. 
 
 Good morrow, Kate; for that 's your name, 1 
 hear. 
 Kaih. Well have you heard, but something hart! 
 of hearing ; 
 They call me — Katharine, that do talk of me. 
 Pet. You lie, in faith ! for you are call'd plain 
 Kate, 
 And bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the curst , 
 But Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom, 
 Kate of Kate-Uali, my super-dainty Kate, 
 For dainties are all cates ;" and therefore Kate, 
 Take this of me, Kate of my consolation ; — - 
 Hearing thy mildness prais'd in every town. 
 Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded, 
 (Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs,) 
 Myself am mov'd to woo thee for my wife. 
 
 Kalh. Mov'd ! in good time : let him that moT'd 
 you hither 
 Remove you hence : I knew you at the first, 
 You were a moveable. 
 
 Pet. Why, vvhat 's a moveable ? 
 
 Kath. A joint-stool. 
 
 Pet. Thou hast hit it : come, sit on me. 
 
 Kath. Asses are made to bear, and so are you. 
 Pet. Women are made to bear, and so are 
 
 you. 
 Kath. No such jade as you, if me you mean. 
 Pet. Alas, good Kate ! I will not burthen 
 thee : 
 For, knowing thee to be but young and light, — 
 Kath. Too light for Mich a swain as you to 
 catch ; 
 And yet as heavy as my h'cight should be. 
 Pet. Should be ? should— buz !" 
 Kath. Well t.a'en, and like a buzzard. 
 
 Pet. O, slow-wing'd turtle ! shall a buzzard tatw 
 thee? 
 
 463
 
 ACT II. 
 
 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 
 
 Kath. Ay, for a turtle ; as he takes a buzzard. 
 Pet. Come, come, you wasp ; i' faith, you are 
 
 too angiy. 
 Kath. If I be waspish, best beware my sting. 
 Pet. My remedy is then, to pluck it out. 
 Kath. Ay, if the fool coxdd find it where it lies. 
 Pit. Who knows not where a wasp does wear 
 
 his sting I 
 In his tail. 
 Kath. In his tongue. 
 
 Pet. Whose tongue ? 
 
 Kath. Yours, if you talk of tales ;'' and so 
 
 farewell. 
 Pet. What, with my tongue in your tail ? nay, 
 
 come again. 
 Good Kate, I am a gentleman. 
 
 Kath. That I '11 try. [Striking him. 
 
 Pet. I swear I '11 cuff you, if you strike 
 
 again. 
 Kath. So may you lose your arms : 
 Lf you strike me you are no gentleman ; 
 And if no gentleman, why, then no arms. 
 
 Pet. A herald, Kate ? put me in thy books. 
 Kath. What is your crest ? a coxcomb? 
 Pet. A combless cock, so Kate will be my hen. 
 Kath. No cock of mine, you crow too hke a 
 
 craven. 
 Pet. Nay, come, Kate, come ; you must not look 
 
 so sour. 
 Kath. It is my fashion, when I see a crab. 
 Pet. Why, here 's no crab ; and therefore look 
 
 not sour. 
 Kath. There is, there is. 
 Pet. Then show it me. 
 Kath. Had I a glass I would. 
 
 Pel. What, you mean my face ? 
 Kath, Well aim'd of such a young one. 
 
 Pet. Now, by saint George, I am too young for 
 
 you. 
 Kath. Yet you are wither'd. 
 
 Pet. 'T is with cares. 
 
 Kath. I care not. 
 
 Pet. Nay, hear yon, Kate : in sooth you 'scape 
 
 not so. 
 Kath. T chafe you, if I tarry ; let me go. 
 Pet. No, not a whit. I find you passing 
 
 gentle. 
 T was told me, you were rough, and coy, and 
 
 sullen. 
 And now I find report a very liar ; 
 For tliou art pleiusaut, gamesome, passing cour- 
 
 tooas. 
 
 But slow in speech, yet sweet a.s spring-time 
 
 flowers : 
 Thou canst not frown, thou canst not look 
 
 askance. 
 Nor bite the lip, as angry wenches will ; 
 Nor hast thou pleasure to be cross in talk ; 
 But thou with mildness entertain'st thy wooers. 
 With gentle conference, soft and affable. 
 Why does the world report that Kate doth limp ? 
 
 sland'rous world ! Kate, like the hazel-twig. 
 Is straight, and slender ; and as brown in hue. 
 As hazel-nuts, and sweeter than the kernels. 
 O, let me see thee walk : thou dost not halt. 
 
 Kath. Go, fool, and whom thou keep'st com 
 mand. 
 
 Pet. Did ever Dian so become a grove. 
 As Kate this chamber with her princely gait ? 
 0, be thou Dian, and let her be Kate ; 
 And then let Kate be chaste, and Dian sportful. 
 
 Kath. Where did you study all this goodly 
 speech ? 
 
 Pet. It is extempore, from my mother-wit. 
 
 Kath. A witty mother ! witless else her son. 
 
 Pet. Am I not wise ? 
 
 Kath. Yes; keep you warm." 
 
 Pet. Marry, so I mean, sweet Katharine, in thy 
 bed: 
 And, therefore, setting all this chat aside. 
 Thus in plain terms : — Your father hath con- 
 sented 
 That you shall be my wife ; your dowry 'greed 
 
 on ; 
 And, will you, nill you, I will marry you. 
 Now, Kate, I am a husband for your turn ; 
 For, by this light, whereby I see thy beauty, 
 (Thy beauty that doth make me like thee well,) 
 Thou must be married to no man but me ; 
 For I am he am born to tame you, Kate ; 
 And bring you from a vrild Kate to a Kate 
 Conformable, as other household Kates. 
 Here comes your father ; never make denial, 
 
 1 must and will have Katharine to my wife. 
 
 Pe-enter Baptista, Gremio, and Tkanio. 
 
 Ba2^. Now, signior Petrucio : How speed you 
 
 with my daughter? 
 Pet. How but well, sir ? how but well ? 
 It were impossible I should speed amiss. 
 
 Bap. Why, how now, daughter Katharine 3 in 
 
 your dumjjs ? 
 Kath. Call you me daughter ! now I promise 
 
 jou, 
 
 1
 
 ACT 11. 
 
 TIIE TAMING OF THE SIIKEW. 
 
 I 
 
 You havo sbow'd a tender fatlierly regard, 
 To wish lue wed to one half hiualic ; 
 \ madcap ruffian, and a swearing Jack, 
 Tliat thiidvs with oaths to face the matter out. 
 
 Pei. Father, 't is thus, — your.seU', and all the 
 world, 
 I'hat talk'd of her, liavc talk'd amiss of her : 
 tf she be curst, it is for policy : 
 For she 's not froward, but modest as the dove ; 
 Siie is not hot, but temperate as the morn ; 
 For patience she will prove a second Grissel ;" 
 And Roman Lucrece for her chastity : 
 And to conclude, — we have 'greed so well toge- 
 ther, 
 That upon Sunday is the wedding-day. 
 
 Xnth. I '11 see thee hang'd on Sunday first. 
 
 Gre. Ilark, Petrucio ! she says slid '11 see thee 
 hang'd first. 
 
 Tra. Is this your speeding ? nay, then, good 
 night our part ! 
 
 Pet. Be patient, gentlemen ; I choose her for 
 myfclf; 
 If she and I be pleas'd, what 's that to you ? 
 'T is bargain'd 'twixt us twain, being alone, 
 '1 hat she shall still be curst in company. 
 I toll you, 't is incredible to believe 
 How much she loves me : 0, the kindest Kate! 
 She hung about my neck ; and kiss on kiss 
 She vied so fast,^' protesting oath on oath. 
 That in a twink she won me to her love. 
 0, you are novices ! 't is a world to see,''" 
 How tame, when men and women are alone, 
 A meacock wretch can make the curstest shrew. 
 Give me thy hand, Kate : I will unto Venice, 
 To buy apparel 'gninst the wedding-day : 
 Provide the feast, father, and bid the guests ; 
 I will be sure my Katharine shall be fine. 
 
 Jiap. I know not what to say : but give me 
 your hands ; 
 God send you joy, Peti-ucio ! 't is a match. 
 
 Gre. Tra. Amen, say we ; we will be witnesses. 
 
 Pet. Father, and wife, and gentlemen, adieu ; 
 1 will to Venice ; Sunday comes apace : 
 We will have rings, and things, and fine array ; 
 And kiss me, Kate ; " We mil be manied o' Sun- 
 day!"" 
 
 [Exeunt Pet. and Kath. severally. 
 
 Gre. Was ever match clapp'd up so suddenly ? 
 
 £:tp. Faith, gentlemen, now I play a merchant's 
 part. 
 And veutui-e madly on a desperate mart. 
 
 Tra. 'T was a commodity lay fretting by vou ; 
 
 59 . . 
 
 'T will bring you gain, or perish on the seas. 
 
 Jiii]). The gain I seek is — quiet in the match. 
 
 Gre. No doubt but he hath got a quiet catch. 
 But now, Baptista, to your younger daughter* 
 Now is the day we long have looked for 
 I am your neighbour, and was suitor first. 
 
 Tra. And I am one that love Bianca more 
 Thau words can witness, or your thoughts (^un 
 guess. 
 
 Gre. Youngling! thou canst not love so dear 
 as I. 
 
 Tra. Grey-beard ! thy love doth freeze. 
 
 Gre. But thine doth fiy. 
 
 Skipper, stand back ; 't is age that nourisheth. 
 
 Tra. But youth, in ladies' eyes that flourisheth. 
 
 Bap. Content you, gentlemen ; I will compound 
 this strife : 
 'T is deeds must win the prize ; and he, of both, 
 That can assiu'e my daughter greatest dower, 
 Shall have my Bianca's love. 
 Say, signior Gremio, what can you assure her ? 
 
 Gre. First, as you know, my house within the 
 city 
 Is richly furnished with plate and gold ; 
 Basins, and ewers, to lave her dainty hands ; 
 My hangings all of Tvrian tapestry : 
 In ivory cotiers I have stuff 'd my crowns , 
 In cypress chests my arras, counterpoints,''" 
 Costly apparel, tents, and canopies. 
 Fine linen, Turkey cushions boss'd with pearl, 
 Valance of Venice gold in needleworic, 
 Pewter and brass, and all things that belong 
 To house, or housekeeping : then, at my farm, 
 I have a lumdred milch-kine to the pail, 
 Six score fat oxen standing in my stalls, 
 And all things answerahle to this portion. 
 Myself am struck in years, I must confess ; 
 And, if I die to-morrow, this is hers. 
 If, whilst I live, she will be only mine. 
 
 Tra. That ' only' came well in. Sir, list to me ; 
 I am my father's heir, and only son ; 
 If I may have your daughter to my wife, 
 I '11 leave her houses three or four as good. 
 Within rich Pisa walls, as any one 
 Old signior Gremio has in Padua ; 
 Besides two thousand ducats by the year. 
 Of fruitful land, all which shall be her jointure. 
 What! have I pinch'd you, signior Gremio? 
 
 irre. Two thousand ducats bv the year of kind ' 
 Mv land amounts not to so much in all ; 
 That she shall have ; besides an argosy 
 That now is lying in Marseilles' road. 
 
 4fa5 
 
 LZI
 
 ACT HI. 
 
 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 
 
 BCESS I. 
 
 What ! have I chok'd you with an argosy ? 
 
 Tra Gremio, 't is known my father hath no less 
 Than three great argosies; besides two galhasses,"" 
 And twelve tight galleys : these I will assure her, 
 And twice as much, whatever thou ofFer'st next. 
 
 Gre. Nay, I have oflfer'd all ; I have no more ; 
 And she can have no more than all I have. 
 K you like me, she shall have me and mine. 
 
 Tra. Why, then the maid is mine from all the 
 world. 
 By your finu promise. Gremio is outvied. 
 
 Baj). I must confess your offer is the best ; 
 And, let your father make her the assurance. 
 She is your own ; else, you must pardon me : 
 If you shoidd die before him, where 's her dower ? 
 
 Tra. That 's but a cavil ; he is old, I young. 
 
 Gre. And may not young men die, as well as old? 
 
 Bap. Well, gentlemen, I am thus resolv'd : — 
 On Sunday next you know 
 My daughter Katharine is to be married : 
 
 Now, on the Sunday following, shall Bianca 
 Be bride to you, if you make this assurance ; 
 If not, to siguior Gremio : 
 And so I take ray leave, and thank you both. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Gre. Adieu, good neighbour. — Now I fear thee 
 not; 
 Sirrah, young gamester, your father were a fool 
 To give thee all, and, in his waning age, 
 Set foot under thy table. Tut ! a toy ! 
 An old Italian fox is not so kind, my boy. [Exit, 
 
 Tra. A vengeance on your crafty wither'd hide! 
 Yet I have fac'd it with a card of ten.'''' 
 'T is in my head to do my master good : — 
 I see no reason, but suppos'd Lucentio 
 Must get a father call'd — suppos'd Vincentio ; 
 And that 's a wonder : fathers, commonly. 
 Do get their children ; but, in this case of wooing, 
 A child shall get a sire, if I fail not of my doing. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. — A room in Baptista'« house. 
 Enter Lucentio, Hortensio, and Bianca. 
 
 Luc. Fiddler, forbear ; you grow too forward, 
 sir: 
 Have you so soon forgot the entertainment 
 Her sister Katharine welcom'd you withal ? 
 
 Hor. But, wrangling pedant, this is 
 The patroness of heavenly harmony : 
 Tiien give mo leave to have prerogative ; 
 And when in music we have spent an hour, 
 Your lecture shall have leisure for as much. 
 
 Luc. Preposterous ass ! that never read so far. 
 To know the cause why music was ordain'd ! 
 Was it not, to refresh the mind of man. 
 After liis studies, or his usual pain ? 
 Then give mo leave to read philosophy. 
 And, while I pause, servo in your harmony. 
 
 Hur. Sirrah, I will not bear these braves of 
 thine.'" 
 
 Bian. Why, gentlemen, you do me double 
 wrong. 
 To strive for that which resteth in my choice : 
 466 
 
 I am no breeching scholar** in the schools , 
 I '11 not be tied to hours, nor 'pointed times, 
 But learn my lessons as I please myself. 
 And, to cut off all strife, here sit we domi : 
 Take you your instrument, pl.ay you the whiles 
 His lecture will be done ere you have tun'd. 
 
 Hor. You '11 leave his lecture when I am \n 
 tune ? 
 
 [To Bianca. — Hortensio retires, 
 
 Luc. That will be never; — tune ycur instru- 
 ment. 
 
 Bian. Where left we last ? 
 
 Imc. Here, madam : — 
 Ilac ihat Simois ; hie est Sigcia idlus ,' 
 Hie stetcrat Priami rcgia cclsa scnis. 
 
 Bian. Conster^' them. 
 
 Luc. Hue ibat, as I told you before, — Htmtn.'!, 
 I am Lucentio, — hie est, son unto Vincentio ol 
 Pisa, — Sigcia tcUus, disguised thus to get youi 
 love ; — Hie stetcrat, and that Lucentio that comca 
 a wooing, — Priami, is my man Tranio, — reyia, 
 bearing my port, — relsa senis, that we might 1)6- 
 guile the old pantaloon. 
 
 I
 
 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 
 
 BUEN'E n. 
 
 Hor. Madam, ray iDstrument's iu tune. 
 
 [Rcturninr/. 
 Bian. Let 's lioar ; [IIortensio plays. 
 
 fie ! tbe troble jars. 
 
 Luc, Spit in tlie hole, man, and tune again. 
 Bian. Now let me see if I can conster it : Hac 
 ibat Simois, I know you not ; — hie est Siycia tellus, 
 
 1 trust you not ; — ffic steterat Prianii, take heed 
 he hear us not ; — rcf/ia, presume not ; — celsa senis, 
 despair not. 
 
 /Irtr. Madam, 't is now in tune. 
 
 Luc. All but the base. 
 
 ffor. The base is right; 't is the base knave 
 that jars. 
 llow fiery and forward our pedant is ! 
 Now, for my life, the knave doth court my love ! 
 Fedascule, I '11 watch you better yet. 
 
 Biaii. In time I may believe, yet I mistrust. 
 
 Luc. Mistrust it not; for, sure, .^acides 
 Was Ajax, — call'd so from his grandfather. 
 
 Bian. I must believe my master ; else, I pro- 
 mise you, 
 I should be arguing still upon that doubt : 
 But let it rest. — Now, Licio, to you : — 
 Good masters, take it not unkindly, pray. 
 That I have been thus pleasant with you both. 
 
 Jfor. You may go walk, [lo Luc] and give me 
 leave awhile ; 
 My lessons make no music in three parts. 
 
 Luc. Are you so formal, sir ? well, I must 
 wait. 
 And watch withal ; for, but I be deceiv'd. 
 Our fine musician gi'oweth amorous. [Aside. 
 
 Hor. Madam, before you touch the instrument. 
 To leam the order of my fingering, 
 I must begin with rudiments of art ; 
 To teach you gamut in a briefer sort. 
 More pleasant, pithy, and effectual, 
 Than hath been taught by any of my trade ; 
 And there it is in writing, fairly drawn. 
 
 Bian. Why, I am past my gamut long ago. 
 
 Hor. Yet read the gamut of Hortensio. 
 
 Bian. [Reads^ Gamut / am, ike (/round of all 
 accord, 
 
 A re, to plead Jlortensio'a passion ; 
 B mi, Bianca, take him for thy lord, 
 
 C fa ut, that loves with all affection : 
 D sol re, one cliff, two notes have I ; 
 E la mi, show pity, or I die. 
 Call you this gamut ? tut ! I like it not : 
 Old fij-shions please me best ; I am not so nice,'" 
 To change true rules for odd inventions. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Scrv. Mistress, your father prays you leave your 
 books. 
 And help to dress your sister's chamber up; 
 You know, to-morrow is the wedding-day. 
 
 Bian, Farewell, sweet masters both ; I must be 
 gone. 
 
 [^Exeunt Bianca and Servant. 
 Luc. 'Faith, mistress, then I have no cause to 
 stay. [Exit. 
 
 Hor. But I have cause to prj' into this pedant; 
 Methinks be looks as though he were in love : 
 Yet, if thy thoughts, Bianca, be so humble. 
 To cast thy wand'ring eyes on every stale,'" 
 Seize thee that list. If once I find thee ranging, 
 Hortensio will be quit with thee by changing. 
 
 [Exit 
 
 SCENE 11. — The same. Before Baptista's House. 
 
 Enter Baptista, Tranio, Katharina, Bianca, 
 LucENTio, and Attendants. 
 
 Bap. Signior Lucentio, [to Tra.] this is the 
 'pointed day 
 That Katharine and Petrucio should be married, 
 And yet we hear not of our son-in-hnv : 
 What will be said ? what mockery will it be. 
 To want the bridegroom, when the priest attends 
 To speak the ceremonial rites of marriage ! 
 What says Lucentio to this shame of ours ? 
 
 Kath. No shame but mine : I must, forsootlv 
 be forc'd 
 To give my hand, oppos'd against my heart. 
 Unto a mad-brain rudesby,'" full of spleen ; 
 Who woo'd in haste, and means to wed at lei- 
 sure. 
 I told you, I, he was a frantic fool. 
 Hiding his bitter jests in blunt behaviour : 
 And, to be noted for a meiry man. 
 He '11 woo a thousand, 'point the day of marriage, 
 Make fiiends, invite, yes, and proclaim the banns ; 
 Yet never means to wed where he hath woo'd. 
 Now must the world point at poor Katharine, 
 And say, — " Lo, there is mad Petrucio's wife. 
 If it would please him come and marry her." 
 Tra. Patience, good Katharine, and BajUsts 
 too ; 
 Upon my life, Petrucio means but well, 
 Whatever fortune stays him from his word : 
 Though he be blunt, I know him passing wise ; 
 
 467
 
 THE TAiONG OF THE SHREW. 
 
 SCENE II, 
 
 Though he be meny, yet withal he 's honest. 
 Kalh. 'Wui.ld Katharine had never seen him, 
 though ! 
 YExit, weeping, followed hy Bian., and others. 
 Bap. Go, girl ; I cannot blame thee now to 
 weep ; 
 For such an injury would vex a very saint," 
 Much more a shrew of thy impatient humour. 
 
 Eater Biosdello. 
 
 Bion. Master, master ! news, old news, and such 
 news as you never heard of! 
 
 Bap. Is it new and old too ? how may that be ? 
 
 Bion. Why, is it not news to hear of Petrucio's 
 coming ? 
 
 Bap. Is he come ? 
 
 Bion. Why, no, sir. 
 
 Bap. What then ? 
 
 Bion. He is coming. 
 
 Bap. When will he be here ? 
 
 Bion. When he stands where I am, and sees 
 jou there. 
 
 Tra. But, say, what : — To thine old news. 
 
 Bion. Why, Petrucio is coming, in a new bat 
 and an old jerkin ; a pair of old breeches thrice 
 turn'd ; a pair of boots that have been candle- 
 cases, ono buckled, another lac'd ; an old rusty 
 sword ta'en out of the town armoury, with a bro- 
 ken hilt, and chapeless ; with two broken points : 
 his horse hipp'd with an old mothy saddle, and 
 stirrups of no kindred : besides, possessed with 
 the glandeis, and like to mose in the chine ; 
 troubled with the larapass, infected with the 
 fashions," full of windgalls, sped with spavins, 
 raied with the yellows, past cure of the fives, 
 stark spoil'd with the staggers, begnawn with the 
 bots ; sway'd in the back, and shoulder-shotten ; 
 ne'er legged before ; and with a half cheeked bit, 
 rmd a head-stall of sheep's leather, which, being 
 lestrain'd to keep him from stumbling, hath been 
 often burst, and now repaired with knots ; one 
 girth six times piec'd, and a woman's crupper of 
 vciure, which hath two letters for her name, fairly 
 set down in studs, and here and there piec'd with 
 packthread. 
 
 Bap. Who comes with him ? 
 
 Bion. O, sir, his lackey, for all the world capa- 
 ri.son'd like the horse ; with a linen stock on ono 
 leg, and a kersey boot-ho.se on tlie other, gartered 
 with a red and blue list; an old hat, and "The 
 humour of forty fancies"" prickeil in 't for a 
 feather: a monster, a very monster in ap})arel ; 
 
 468 
 
 and not like a christian footboy, or a gentleman's 
 lackey. 
 
 Tra. 'T is some odd humour pricks him to this 
 fashion ; 
 Yet oftentimes he goes but mean apparell'd. 
 
 Bap. I am glad he 's come, howsoe'er he comes, 
 Bion. Why, sir, he comes not. 
 Bap. Didst thou not say, he comes ? 
 Bion. Who ? that Petrucio came ? 
 Bap. Ay, that Petrucio came. 
 Bion. No, sir ; I say, his horse comes wiiii 'liim 
 on his back. 
 
 Bap. Why, that 's all one. 
 Bion. Nay, by saint Jamy, 
 
 I hold you a penny," 
 A horse and a man 
 Is more than one, 
 And yet not many. 
 
 Enter Petrucio and Grumio. 
 
 Pet. Come, where be these gallants ? who 'd at 
 home ? 
 
 Bap. You are welcome, sir. 
 
 Pet. And yet I come not well. 
 
 Bap. And yet you halt not. 
 
 Tra. Not so well apparell'd 
 
 As I wish you were. 
 
 Pel. Were it better I should rush in thus. 
 But where is Kate ? where is my lovely bride ? 
 How does my father ? — Gentles, methiuks you 
 
 fi'own : 
 And wherefore gaze this goodly company, 
 As if they saw some wondrous monument, 
 Some comet, or unusual prodigy ? 
 
 Bap. Why, sir, you know, this is your wedding 
 day: 
 First were we sad, fearing you would not come ; 
 Now sadder, that you come so unprovided. 
 Fie ! doff this habit, shame to yom' estate, 
 An eyesore to our solemn festival. 
 
 2"ra. And tell us, what occasion of import 
 Hath all so long detain'd you from your wife, 
 And sent you hither so imlike yourself? 
 
 Pet. Tedious it were to tell, and harsh to hear 
 Sufficeth, I am come to keep my word. 
 Though in some part enforced to digress ; 
 Which, at more leisure, I will so excuse 
 As you shall well be satisfied withal. 
 But, where is Kate ? I stay too long from her , 
 The morning wears, 't is time we were at church, 
 
 Tra. See not your bride in these unrevercn 
 robes ;
 
 ACT III. 
 
 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 
 
 BCENL; U. 
 
 Go to my t'li;iinl)er, put on clothes of mine. 
 
 Pet. Not I, believe ine ; thus I '11 visit her. 
 
 Bap. But thus, I ti'ust, y(-iu will not many her. 
 
 Pel. Good hooth, even thus; therefore ha' done 
 with words ; 
 To nie she 's married, not unto my clothes : 
 Could I repair wluit she will wear in me, 
 As I can change these poor accoutrements, 
 "T were well for Kate, and better for myself. 
 lUit. what a fool arr, I, to chat with you. 
 When 1 should bid good-morrow to my bride. 
 And seal the title with a ovely kiss ! 
 
 \Examt Pet., Gku., and Bjon. 
 
 Tra. He hath some meaning in his mad attire : 
 We will persuade him, be it possible, 
 To put on better ere he go to church. 
 
 Bap. I '11 after him, and see the event of this. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Tra. But, sir^ to love concerneth us to add 
 Her father's liking : Which to bring to pass, 
 As I before imparted to your worship, 
 I am to get a man, — whate'er he be, 
 It skills not much ; we '11 fit him to our turn, — 
 And he shall be Viucentio of Pisa ; 
 And make assurance, here in Padua, 
 Of greater sums than I have promised. 
 So shall you quietly enjoy your hope, 
 And marry sweet Bianca with consent. 
 
 Luc. Were it not that my fellow schoolmaster 
 Doth watch Bianca's steps so narrowly, 
 T were good, methinks, to steal our marriage ; 
 Which once perform'd, let all the world say- — no, 
 I '11 keep mine own, despite of all the world. 
 
 Tra. That by degrees we mean to look into, 
 And watch our vantage in this business : 
 We '11 overreach the greybeard, Gremio, 
 The nan'ow-prying fjither, Minola, 
 The quaint musician, amorous Licio; 
 All for my master's sake, Lucentio. 
 
 Enter G'liEMio. 
 
 Siguier Gremio ! came you fivm the church ? 
 Ore. As willingly as e'er I came from school. 
 Tra. And is the bride and bridegroom coming 
 
 home ? 
 Gre. A bridegroom, say you ? 't is a groom 
 
 indeed, 
 A grumbling groom, and that the girl shall find. 
 Tra. Curster than she ? why 't is impossible. 
 Gre. "Why, he 's a devil, a devil, a very fiend. 
 Tra, "Why, she 's a devil, a devil, the devil's dam. 
 Gre. Tut ! she 's a Kmb, a dove, a fool to him. 
 
 I '11 tell you, sir Lucentio; When the priest 
 
 Should ask — if KaHiarino should be his wife, 
 
 " A}-, by gogs-wouns," quoth he ; and swore so 
 
 loud 
 That, all amaz'd, tlie priest let fall the book : 
 And, as he stoop'd again to take it up. 
 This mad-brain'd bridegroom took him such a 
 
 cuf}'. 
 That down fell priest and book, and book and 
 
 priest ; 
 '•Now take them up," quoth he, "if any list." 
 Tra. What said the weuch, when he rose again i 
 Gre. Trembled and shook • for why, he slamp"d 
 
 and swore. 
 As if the vicar meant to cozen him. 
 But after many ceremonies done, 
 He calls for wine : — " A health 1" quoth be, as if 
 He had been aboard, carousing to his mates 
 After a storm : — QuafF'd otf the muscadel. 
 And threw the sops all in the sexton's face ;" 
 Having no other reason, — 
 But that his beard grew thin and Imngeriy, 
 And seem'd to ask him sops as he was drinking. 
 This done, he took the biide about the neck, 
 And kiss'd her lips with such a clamorous smack. 
 That, at the parting, all the church did echo. 
 And I, seeing this, came thence for very shame ; 
 And after me, I know, the route is coming : 
 Such a mad marriage never was before. 
 Hark, hark ! I hear the minstrels play. [Musir 
 
 Enter Peteucio, Katharina, Bia>X'a, Baptist.v, 
 HoRTENSio, Grumio, and Train. 
 
 Pet. Gentlemen and friends, I thank you fo. 
 your paius : 
 I know, you think to dine with me to-day. 
 And have prepar'd great store of weddi.ig cheer ; 
 But so it is, my haste doth call me hence, 
 An^^. therefore here I mean to take my leave. 
 
 Bap. Is 't possible you will away to-night 3 
 
 Pet. I must away to-day, before night comt ; 
 Make it no wonder; if you knew my business. 
 You would entreat me rather go than stay. 
 And, honest company, I thank you all, 
 That have beheld me give away myself 
 To this most patient, sweet, and \'irtuous wife : 
 Dine with my father, drink a health to me ; 
 For I must hence, and farewell to you all. 
 
 Tra. Let us entreat you stay till after dinner. 
 
 Pet. It may not be. 
 
 Gre. Let me entreat you. 
 
 Pet. It cannot be. 
 
 469
 
 ACT III. 
 
 THE TAJ.IING OF THE SHREW. 
 
 BOENS II. 
 
 Kath. Let me entreat you. 
 
 Pet. I am content. 
 
 Kalh. Are you content to stay ? 
 
 Pet. I am content you shall entreat me stay ; 
 But yet not stay, entreat me how you can. 
 
 Kath. Now, if you love me, stay. 
 
 Pet. Grumio, my horse. 
 
 Gru. Ay, sir, they be ready ; the oats have 
 eaten the horses. 
 
 Kath. Nay, then. 
 Do what thou canst, I will not go to-day ; 
 No, nor to-morrow, nor till I please myself. 
 The door is open, sir, there lies your way. 
 You may be jogging whiles your boots are green ; 
 For me, I '11 not begone, till I please myself: 
 'T is like you '11 prove a jolly sui-ly groom. 
 That take it on you at the first so roundly. 
 
 Bap. Kate, content thee ; prithee be not 
 angry. 
 
 Kath. I will be angiy. "What hast thou to do 3 
 Father, be quiet : he shall stay my leisure. 
 
 Gre. Ay, marrj^, sir : now it begins to work. 
 
 Kath. Gentlemen, forward to the bridal dinner ! 
 [ see, a woman may be made a fool. 
 If she had not a spirit to resist. 
 
 Pet. They shall go forward, Kate, at thy com- 
 mand : 
 Ob<?y the bride, you that attend on her : 
 Go to the feast, revel and domineer. 
 Carouse full measure to her maidenhead. 
 Be mad and merry, — or go hang yourselves ; 
 But for my bonny Kate, she must with me. 
 Nay, look not big, nor stamp, nor stare, nor fret ; 
 470 
 
 I will be master of what is mine own : 
 
 She is my goods, my chattels ; she is my house, 
 
 My household-stuff, my field, my barn. 
 
 My horse, my ox, my ass, my anything; 
 
 And here she stands, touch her whoever dare ; 
 
 I '11 bring mine action on the proudest he 
 
 That stops my way in Padua. Grumio, 
 
 Draw forth thy weapon, we are beset with thieves 
 
 Rescue thy mistress, if thou be a man : — 
 
 Fear not, sweet wench, they shall not touch thee, 
 
 Kate ; 
 I '11 buckler thee against a million. 
 
 [Exeunt Fet., Kath., and Gru 
 Bap. Nay, let them go, a couple of quiet ones. 
 Gre. Went they not quickly, I should die with 
 
 laughing. 
 Tra. Of all mad matches, never was the like ! 
 Luc. Mistress, what 's your opinion of your 
 
 sister ? 
 Bam. That, being mad herself, she 's madly 
 
 mated. 
 Gre. I warrant him, Potrucio is Kated. 
 Bap. Neighbours and fi-iends, though biide and 
 biidegi'oom wants 
 For to supply the places at the table. 
 You know there want no junkets*' at the feast; 
 Lucentio, you sh.all supply the bridegroom's place 
 And lot Bianca take her sister's room. 
 
 Tra. Shall sweet Bianca practise liow to 
 
 bride it? 
 Bap. She shall, Lucentio. — Come, gsrtlemen, 
 let 's go. 
 
 [Ilzmmi
 
 THE TAMING OF THE SUREW. 
 
 SCENE L 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. — A Hall in Petnicio'« Country House. 
 Enter Grumio. 
 
 Gru. Fie, fie, on all tired jades! on all mad 
 masters ! and all foul ways ! Was ever man so 
 beaten ? was ever man so ray'd ?" was ever man 
 so weary ? I am sent before to make a fii'e, and 
 they are coming after to warm them. Now, were 
 not I a little pot, and soon hot, my very lips 
 might freeze to my teeth, my tongue to the roof 
 of my iaouth, my heart in my belly, ere I should 
 come by a fire to thaw me : — But, I, with blowing 
 the fire, shall wann myself; for, considering the 
 weather, a taller man than I will take cold. 
 Holla, hoa ! Cmtis ! 
 
 Enter Curtis. 
 
 Curt. Who is that calls so coldly ? 
 
 Gru. A piece of ice 1 If thou doubt it, thou 
 mayst slide from my shoulder to my heel, with no 
 greater a run but my head and my neck. A fire, 
 good Curtis. 
 
 Curt. Is my master and his wife coming, 
 Grumio ? 
 
 Gru. 0, ay, Curtis, ay : and therefore fire, fire ; 
 cast on no water. 
 
 Curt. Is she so hot a shrew as she 's reported ? 
 
 Gru. She was, good Curtis, before this frost : 
 but, thou kuow'st, winter tames man, woman, and 
 boast : for it hath tam'd my old master and my 
 new mistress, and myself, fellow Curtis. 
 
 Curt. Away, you three-inch fool I^' I am no 
 beast. 
 
 Gru. Am I but three inches ? why, thy horn is 
 i fijot ; and so long am I, at the least. B>it wilt 
 thou make a fii-e, or shall I complain on thee to 
 our mistress, whose hand (she being now at hand) 
 ihou shalt soon feel, to thy cold comfort, for being 
 slow in thy hot office ? 
 
 Curt. I prithee, good Grumio, tell nw, how goes 
 tlie world ? 
 
 Gru. A cold world, Curtis, in every office but 
 thine ; and, therefore, fire. Do thy duty, and 
 
 have thy duty ; for my master and mistres.s are 
 almost frozen to death. 
 
 Curt. There's fire ready; and, therefore, g iod 
 Grumio, the news ? 
 
 Gru. Why, " Jack, boy ! ho, boy !"" and as 
 much news as thou wilt. 
 
 Curt. Come, you are so full of conycatching. 
 
 Gru. Why, therefore, fire ; for I have caught 
 extreme cold. Where 's the cook ? Is supper 
 ready, the house triram'd, rushes strew'd,"" cob- 
 webs swept ; the serving-men in their new fustian, 
 the white stockings, and every officer his wedding- 
 garment on ? Be the jacks fair within, the jills 
 fair without," the caipets laid, and everything in 
 order ? 
 
 Curt. All ready ; and, therefore, I pray thee, 
 what news ? 
 
 Gru. First, know, my horse is tired ; my mastei 
 and mistress fallen out. 
 
 Curt. Ho^v? 
 
 Gru. Out of their saddles into the dirt. And 
 thereby hangs a tale. 
 
 Curt. Let 's ha 't, good Grumio. 
 
 Gru. Lend thine ear. 
 
 Curt, llere. 
 
 Gru. There. YStrikinrj Mm. 
 
 Curt. This 't is to feel a tide, not to hear a 
 tale. 
 
 Gru. Ajnd therefore 't is call'd a sensible tale : 
 and this cuff was but to knock at your ear, and 
 beseech list'uing. Now I begin : Imprimis, we 
 came down a foul hill, my master riding behind 
 my mbtress : — 
 
 Cicrt. Both of one horse ? 
 
 Gru. What 's that to thee ? 
 
 Curt. Why, a horse. 
 
 Gru. Tell thou the tale : — But hadst thou not 
 crossed me, thou shouldst have heard how her 
 horse fell, and she under her horse ; thou shouldst 
 have heard, in how miry a place : how she was 
 bemoil'd ; how he left her with the horse upon 
 her ; how he beat me because her horse stumbled ; 
 how she waded through the dirt to pluck him ofT 
 
 «1
 
 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 
 
 SCENE 1. 
 
 me ; how lie swore ; how she pray'd, that never 
 pray'd before ; how I cried ; how the horses ran 
 away ; how her bridle was burst; how I lost my 
 crupper ; with many things of worthy memory, 
 which new shall die in oblivion, and thou return 
 unexperienc'd to thy grave. 
 
 Cart. By this reckoning, he is more shrew than 
 she. 
 
 Gru. Ay ; and that thou and the proudest of you 
 all shall find, when he comes home. But what talk 
 I of this? — Call forth Nathaniel, Joseph, Nicholas, 
 Philip, W^alter, Siigarsop, and the rest. Let their 
 heads be sleekly comb'd, their blue coats brush'd, 
 and their garters of an indifferent kuit :" let them 
 curtsey with their left legs ; and not presume to 
 touch a hair of my master's horse-tail, till they kiss 
 their hands. Are they all ready 2 
 
 Curt. They are. 
 
 Crru. Call them forth. 
 
 Curt. Do you hear, ho ? you must meet my 
 master to countenance my mistress. 
 
 Gru. Why, she hath a face of her own. 
 
 Curt. Who knows not that ? 
 
 ffrw. Thou, it seems, that calFst for company to 
 oountenance her. 
 
 Curt. I call them forth to credit her. 
 
 Gru. Why, she comes to borrov.' nothing of 
 them. 
 
 Enter several Servants. 
 
 Katli. Welcome home, Grumio. 
 
 Phil. How now, Grmuio? 
 
 Jos. What Grumio ! 
 
 N'tch: Fellow Grumio? 
 
 Kath. How now, oil If.d ? 
 
 Gru. Welcome, y^u; how now, you; what you; 
 — fellow you, — acd '.bu^ rcuch for greeting ! Now, 
 my spruce coir.i/.Mjns, is all ready, and all things 
 neat ? 
 
 Nath. All .'-I'r.gs is ready ! how near is our 
 roaster ? 
 
 Gru. E'c'i 'it hand, alighted by this : and there- 
 fore bo ro\- Cock's passion, silence! — I hear my 
 master. 
 
 ErM r Petrucio and Katharina. 
 
 PU. Where bo tliese knaves ? What, no man 
 at the door, 
 To lioli'. my stirrup nor to take my horse ? 
 Where is Nathaniel, Gregory, Philip ? 
 All Scrv. Hero, here, sir; here, sir. 
 Pel Here, sir ! Ijere, sir ! here, sir ! here, sir ! 
 *7a 
 
 You loggerheaded and unpohsh i grooms 1 
 What, no attendance ? no regard ? no duty ? 
 Where is the foolish knave I sent before ? 
 Gru. Here, sir ; as foolish as I was before. 
 Pet. You peasant swain ! you whoreson malt- 
 horse drudge ! 
 Did I not bid thee meet me in the park, 
 And bring along these rascal knaves with thee ? 
 
 Gru. Nathaniel's coat, sir, was not fully made. 
 And Gabriel's pumps were all unpink'd i' the 
 
 heel ; 
 There was no link to colour Peter's hat," 
 And Walter's dagger was not come from sheathing : 
 There were none fine but Adam, Kalph, and Greg- 
 ory ; 
 The rest were ragged, old, and beggarly ; 
 Yet, as they are, here are they come to meet you. 
 Pet. Go, rascals, go, and fetch my supper in, — 
 ^Exeunt some of the Servant.Sv 
 " Where is the life that late I led."—" [Siiiffs. 
 
 W^hsre are those Sit down, Kate, and welcome. 
 
 Soud, soud, soud, soud 1 
 
 Re-enter Servants xcith Supjyer, 
 
 Why, when, I say ?^Nay, good sweet Kate, bi? 
 
 merry. 
 Off with my boots, you rogues, you villains ; 
 When ? 
 " It was the friar of orders grey, [Sinffs. 
 
 As he forth walked on his way :" — 
 Out, you rogue ? you pluck my foot awry : 
 Take that, and mend the plucking of the other. — 
 
 [Strikes him. 
 Be merry, Kate : — Some water here ; wliat, ho ! 
 
 E7iier Servant, with water. 
 
 Where 's my spaniel Troilus ? — Sirrah, get you 
 
 hence, 
 And bid my cousin Ferdinand come hither : 
 
 [Exit Serv, 
 One, Kate, that you must kiss, and be acquiiinted 
 
 with. 
 W^here are my slippers? — Shall I have some 
 water? [^1 bason is presented to him. 
 Come, Kate, and wash, and welcome heartily : — 
 
 [Servant lets the bason fall. 
 You whoreson vil.ain ! ■will you let it fall ? 
 
 [Strikes him. 
 Kath. Patience, I pray you ; 't w;is a fault un- 
 willing. 
 Pet. A whoreson, beetle-headed, flajxiar'd 
 knave I
 
 ACT rv. 
 
 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 
 
 BCENE II. 
 
 Come, K;iti', sit down ; I know you Lavo a 
 
 stomach. 
 Will you give thanks, sweet Kate, or else shall I ? 
 What 's this ? mutton ? 
 
 1 Seru. Ay. 
 
 Fet. Who brought it? 
 
 1 Sen: I. 
 
 Pet. 'T is burnt ; and so is all the meat : 
 WLat dogs are these ! — Where is the rascal cook ? 
 How durst you, villains, bring it from the dresser, 
 And serve it thus to me that love it not ? 
 There, take it to you, trenchers, cups, and all : 
 
 [Thi-ows tli£ meat, d-c, at the servants. 
 You heedless joltheads, and unmanner'd slaves! 
 What, do you grumble ? I '11 be with you straight. 
 
 Kath. I pray you, husband, be not so disquiet; 
 The meat was well, if you were so contented. 
 
 Pet. I tell thee, Kate, 't was burnt and dried 
 , away; 
 And I expressly am forbid to touch it, 
 For it engenders choler, plantcth anger ; 
 And better 't were that both of us did fast, 
 Since of ourselves, ourselves are choleric. 
 Than feed it with such over-roasted flesh. 
 Be patient ; to-morrow it shall be mended. 
 And, for this niglit, we '11 fast for company : 
 Come, I will bring thee to thy bridal chamber. 
 
 \Exeunt Pet., Kath., and Curt. 
 
 Nath. \^Advanci7ig!\ Peter, didst ever see the 
 like? 
 
 Peter. He kills her in her own humour. 
 
 Re-enter Curtis. 
 
 Oru. Where is he ? 
 
 Curt. In her chamber. 
 Making a sermon of continency to her ; 
 And rails, and swears, and rates ; that she, poor 
 
 soul. 
 Knows not which way to stand, to look, to speak ; 
 And sits as one new-risen from a dream. 
 Away, away for he is coming hither. \Exeiint. 
 
 Re-enter PETRncio. 
 
 Pet. Thus have I politicly begun my reign. 
 And 't is my hope to end successfully : 
 My falcon now is sharp, and pa.ssing empty ; 
 And, till she stoop^ she must not be fuU-gorg'd, 
 For then she never looks upon her lure. 
 Another way I have to man my haggard," 
 To make her come, and know her keeper's call. 
 That is, to watch her, as we watch these kites. 
 That bate, and beat, and will not be obedient. 
 
 60 
 
 She eat no meat to-day, nor none shall eat ; 
 
 Last night she slept not, nor to-night she sIkiU 
 
 not; 
 As with the meat, some undeseiTed fault 
 I '11 find about the making of the bed : 
 And here I '11 fling the pillow, there the bolster, 
 This way the coverlet, another way the sheets : — 
 Ay, and amid this hurly, I intend. 
 That all is done in reverend care of her ; 
 And, in conclusion, she shall watch all night : 
 And, if she chance to nod, I '11 rail and brawl, 
 And with the clamour keep her still awake. 
 This is a way to kill a wife with kindness ; 
 And thus I '11 cuib her mad and headstrong 
 
 humour r 
 He that knows better how to tame a shrow,'' 
 Now let him speak; 't is charity to show. \Exii, 
 
 SCENE n.— Padua. Before Baptista's House. 
 Enter Teanio and Horteksio. 
 
 Tra. Is 't possible, friend Licio, that mistress 
 Bianca 
 Doth fancy any other but Lucentio ? 
 I tell you, sir, she bears me fair in hand. 
 
 Ilor. Sir, to satisfy you in what I have said, 
 Stand by, and mark the manner of his teaching. 
 
 \They stand aside. 
 
 Enter Bianca' and Lucejjtio. 
 
 Luc. Now, mistress, profit you in what you 
 
 read ? 
 Bian. What, master, read you ? first resolve 
 
 me that. 
 Luc. I read that I profess, the art to love. 
 Bian. And may you prove, sir, master of your 
 
 art ! 
 Luc. While you, sweet dear, prove mistress of 
 my heart 1 [ Thetj retire. 
 
 Hor. Quick proceeders, marry ! Now, tell me. 
 I pray. 
 You that durst swear that your mistress Bianca 
 Lov'd none in the world so well as Lucentio. 
 Tra. despiteful love ! unconstant woman- 
 Mndl 
 I tell thee, Licio, this is wonderful. 
 
 Hor. Mistake no more : I am not Licio, 
 Nor a musician, as I seem to be ; 
 But one that scorns to live in this disguise, 
 For such a one as leaves a gentleman, 
 And makes a god of such a cullion :'' 
 Know, sir, that I am call'd Hortensio. 
 
 4'73
 
 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 
 
 SCENIi II. 
 
 Tra. SigTiior Hortensio, I have often heard 
 Of yoiir entire affection to Bianca ; 
 And since mine e}"es are •witness of her lightness, 
 Iwll with you, — if you be so contented, — 
 Forswear Bianca, and her love for ever. 
 
 Hor. See, how tlie/ kiss and court 1 Signior 
 Lucentio, 
 Here is my hand, avij here I firmly vow 
 Never to woo her more ; but do forswear her. 
 As one unworthy dl the former favoure 
 That I have f-jr-diy flatter'd her withal. 
 
 Tra. Ac J here I take the like unfeigned oath, 
 Never to ujurry with her though she would en- 
 treat : 
 Fie on her ! see, how beastly she doth court him. 
 
 Hor. 'Would all the world, but he, had quite 
 forsworn ! 
 For me, that I may surely keep mine oath, 
 I will be married to a wealthy widow 
 Ere three days pass ; which hath as long lov'd me, 
 As I have 1-ov'd this proud disdainfid haggard : 
 And so farewell, siguior Lucentio. 
 Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks. 
 Shall win my love : and so I take my leave, 
 In resolution as I swore before. 
 
 YExit lion. — Luc. and Bian. advance. 
 
 Tra. Mistress Bianca, bless you with such 
 grace 
 .\s 'longeth to a lover's blessed case ! 
 Nay, I have ta'en you napping, gentle love ; 
 And have forsworn you with Hortensio. 
 
 Bian. Tranio, you jest. But have you both for- 
 sworn me ? 
 
 Tra. Mistress, we have. 
 
 Lite. Then we are rid of Licio. 
 
 Tra. r faith, he '11 have a lusty widow now. 
 That shall be woo'd and wedded in a day. 
 
 Bian. God give him joy ! 
 
 Tra. Ay, and he '11 tame her. 
 
 Biayi. He says so, Tranio. 
 
 Tra. 'Faith, he is gone unto the taming- 
 school. 
 
 Bian. The taming-school ! what, is there such 
 a place ? 
 
 Tra. Ay, mistress, and Petrucio is the master ; 
 That Icacheth tricks eleven and twenty long, 
 To tamo a shrew, and charm her chattering 
 tongue. 
 
 Untcr Bi 5NDELL0, running. 
 
 Bion. master, master ". Lave watch'd so 
 long 
 474 
 
 That I am dog-weary ; but at last I spied 
 An ancient angle*' coming down the hill 
 Will sen-e the turn. 
 
 Tra. Was it he, Biondello ? 
 
 Bion. Master, a mercatante, or a pedant, 
 I know not what ; but formal in apparel. 
 In gait and countenance surely like a father. 
 
 Zuc. And what of him, Tranio ? 
 
 Tra. If he be credulous, and trust my tale, 
 I '11 make him glad to seem Vincentio ; 
 And give assurance to Baptista Minola, 
 As if he were the right Vincentio ; 
 Take in your love,*' and then let me alone. 
 
 [£xevnt Luc. and Bian 
 
 Unkr a Pedant. 
 
 Fed. God save you, sir ! 
 
 Tra. And you, sir ! you are welcome 
 
 Travel you far on, or are you at the farthest ? 
 
 Fed. Sir, at the farthest for a week or two ; 
 But then up farther ; and as far as Rome ; 
 And so to Tripoli, if God lend me life. 
 
 Tra. What countryman, I pray ? 
 
 Fed. Of Mantua. 
 
 Tra. Of Mantua, sir ? — marry, God forbid ! 
 And come to Padua, careless of your life ? 
 
 Fed. My life, sir ! how, I pray ? for that goes 
 hard. 
 
 Tra. 'T is death for any one in Mantua 
 To come to Padua. Know you not the cause ? 
 Your ships are stay'd at Venice ; and the duke 
 (For private quarrel 'twixt your duke and him) 
 Hath publish'd and proclaim'd it openly : 
 'T is marvel ; but that you are but newly come, 
 You might have heard it else proclaim'd about. 
 
 Fed. Alas, sir, it is worse for me than so ; 
 For I have bills for money by exchange 
 From Florence, and must here deliver them. 
 
 Tra. Well, sir, to do you courtesy. 
 This will I do, and this I will advise you ; 
 First, tell me, have you ever been at Pisa 3 
 
 Fed. Ay, sir, in Pisa have I often been ; 
 Pisa, renowned for grave citizens. 
 
 Tra. Among them, know you one Vincentio ? 
 
 Fed. I know him not, but I have heard of him 
 A merchant of incomparable wealth. 
 
 Tra. He is my father, sir; and, sooth to say, 
 In count'nance somewhat doth resemble you. 
 
 Bion. Aa much as an apple doth an cyster, and 
 all one. [Aside 
 
 Tra. To save your life in this extremity, 
 This favour will I do you for his sake
 
 THE TAMING OF TUli SllliEW. 
 
 SCENa lU. 
 
 Aud think it not tbe worst of all your fortunes, 
 riiat 3-ou are like to sir Vincentio. 
 His iiamo and credit shall you '■.ndertake, 
 And ill my house you shall be friendly lodg'd. 
 Lixik, that you take upon you as you should ; 
 \'ou understand me, sii' ; — so shall you stay 
 Till you have done vour business in the city : 
 It' this be court'sy, sii, accept of it. 
 
 Fed. O, sir, I do ; and will repute you ever 
 The patron of my life and liberty. 
 
 Tra. Then go with me, to make the matter good. 
 This, by the way, I let you understand ; 
 ily father is here look'd for every day. 
 To pass assurance of a dower™ m marriage 
 'Twixt me and one Baptista's daughter here : 
 In all these circumstjinces T '11 instruct you : 
 lie with me, to clothe you as becomes you. 
 
 \^Exeuni. 
 
 SCENE m.—A Rooyn in retruclo's House. 
 Enter Katharina and Grumio. 
 
 Gru. No, no ; forsooth, I dare not, for my life. 
 
 Kalh. The more my wi-oug, the more his spite 
 appears : 
 What, did he marry me to famisli me ? 
 Beggars tliat come unto my father's door, 
 Cpon entreaty, have a present alms ; 
 If not, elsewhere they meet with charity : 
 But I, who never knew how to entreat, 
 Nor never needed that I should entreat. 
 Am starv'd for meat, giddy for lack of sleep; 
 With oaths kept waking, and with brawling fed : 
 And that which spites me more than all these 
 
 wants. 
 He does it under name of perfect love ; 
 As who should say, if I should sleep, or eat, 
 'T were deadly sickness, or else present death. 
 I prithee go, and get me some repast ; 
 I care not what, so it be wholesome food. 
 
 Gru. What say you to a neat's foot ? 
 
 Kath. 'T is passing good ; I prithee let me 
 have it. 
 
 Gru. I fear it is too choleric a meat : 
 ITow say you to a fat tripe, finely broil'd : 
 
 Kalh. I like it well : good Grumio, fetch it me. 
 
 Gru. I cannot tell ; I fear 't is choleric. 
 What say you to a piece of beef, and mustard ? 
 
 Kalh. A dish that I do love to feed upon. 
 
 Gru. Ay, but the mustard is too hot a little. 
 
 Kalh. W^liy, then the beef, and let the mustard 
 rest. 
 
 Gru. Nay, then I will not; you shall have tha 
 iimstard, 
 Or else you get no beef of Grumio. 
 
 Kalh. Then both, or one, or anything thou 
 
 ivilt. 
 Gru. Why, then the mustard without the beef. 
 Kalh. Go, get thee gone, thou false deluding 
 slave, [jBcn/.s hvii 
 
 That feed'st me with the very name of meat : 
 Sorrow on thee, and all the pack of you. 
 That triumph thus upon my misery ! 
 Go, get thee gone, I say. 
 
 Enter Petrucio, with a dish of meat; and EloR- 
 
 TEXSIO. 
 
 Pet. How fares my Kate ? Wliat, sweeting, all 
 amort ?" 
 
 Jfor. Mistress, what cheer ? 
 
 Kalh. 'Faith, as cold as can be. 
 
 Pet. rinek up thy spirits, look cheerfully upon 
 me. 
 Here, love ; thou see'st how diligent I am. 
 To dress thy meat myself, and bring it thee : 
 
 [Sets the dish on a table. 
 I am sure, sweet Kate, this kindness merits thanks. 
 What, not a word ? Nay, then thou lov'st it not, 
 And all my pains are sorted to no proof:" 
 Here, take away this dish. 
 
 Kath. I pray you, let it stand. 
 
 Pet. The poorest service is repaid with thanks ; 
 And so shall mine, before you touch the meat. 
 
 Kath. I thank you, sir. 
 
 Hor. Signior Petrucio, fie ! you are to blame : 
 Come, mistress Kate, I '11 bear you company. 
 
 Pet. Eat it up all, Hortensio, if thou lov'st me. 
 
 [Aside. 
 Much good do it unto thy gentle heart ! 
 Kate, eat apace ; — And now, my honey love, 
 Will we return unto thy father's house ; 
 And revel it as bravely as the best. 
 With silken coats, and caps, and golden rings. 
 With ruSs, and cufis, and farthingales, and things; 
 With scarfs, and fans, and double change of 
 
 brav'ry. 
 With amber bracelets, beads, and all this knav'ry 
 What, hast thou din'd? The tailor, stays thy 
 
 leisure. 
 To deck thy body with his niffling treasure. 
 
 Enter Tailor. 
 
 Come, tailor, let us see these ornaments ; 
 
 476
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 
 
 SCENE ra. 
 
 Enter Haberdasher. 
 
 Lay forth the gown, — What news with you, sir 
 
 Hab. Here is the cap your worship did bespeak. 
 
 Pet. Why, this was moulded on a porringer ; 
 A velvet dish ; — fie, fie 1 't is lewd and filthy ; 
 \\Tiy, 't is a cockle, or a walnut-shell,'^ 
 A knack, a toy, a trick, a baby's cap ; 
 Away with it ; come, let me have a bigger. 
 
 Kath. I '11 have no bigger ; this doth fit the 
 time. 
 And gentlewomen wear such caps as these. 
 
 Pet. When you are gentle, you shall have one 
 too. 
 And not till then. 
 
 Hoi: That will not be in haste. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Kath. Why, sir, I trust, I may have leave to 
 speak ; 
 And speak I will. I am no child, no babe : 
 Vour betters have endur'd me say my mind ; 
 .\nd, if you cannot, best you stop your ears. 
 My tongue will tell the anger of my heart ; 
 Or else my heart, concealing it, will break; 
 And rather thau it shall, I will be free, 
 Even to the uttennost, as I ulease, in words. 
 
 Pec. Why thou say'st true; it is a paliry cap, 
 A custard-coffin,''' a bauble, a silken pie : 
 I love thee well, in that thou lik'st it not. 
 
 Kath. Love me, or love me not, I like the 
 cap; 
 And it I will have, or I will have none. 
 
 Pet. Thy gown? wh}', ay. — Come, tailor, let 
 us see 't. 
 
 mercy, God ! what masking stuft' is here ! 
 What 's this ? a sleeve 1 't is like a demi-cannou : 
 What ! up and down, carv'd like an apple-tart ? 
 Here 's snip, and nip, and cut, and slish, and 
 
 slash. 
 Like to a censer in a barber's shop :" 
 Wh}', what, o' devil's name, tailor, call'st thou 
 this ? 
 Hor. I see, she 's like to have neither cap nor 
 gown. [Aside. 
 
 Tai. You bid me make it orderly and well. 
 According to the fashion and the tim.'. 
 Pet. Marry, and did ; but if you be remember'd, 
 
 1 did not bid you mar it to the time. 
 Go, hop mo over eveiy kennel home. 
 
 For you shall hop without my custom, sir: 
 [ "11 none of it; hence, make your best of it. 
 Kath. I never saw a better fashiou'd gown, 
 470 
 
 More quaint, more pleasing, nor more commend 
 
 able : 
 Belike, 3-ou mean to make a puppet of me. 
 
 Pet. Vi'hy, true ; he means to make a puppet oi 
 thee. 
 
 Tai. She says, your worship means to make a 
 puppet of her. 
 
 Pet. monstrous an'ogance ! Thou liest, thou 
 thread, 
 Thou thimble, 
 
 Thou yard, three quarters, half-yard, quarter, nail. 
 Thou flea, thou nit, thou winter cricket thou : 
 Brav'd in mine own house with a skein of thread I 
 Away, thou rag, thou quantity, thou remnant, 
 Or I shall so be-mete'^ thee with thy yard. 
 As thou slialt think on prating whilst thou liv'st! 
 I tell thee, I, that thou hast marr'd her gown. 
 
 Tai. Yom' worship is deceiv'd ; the gow n is 
 made 
 Just as my master had direction : 
 Grumio gave order how it should be done. 
 
 Gru. I gave him no order : I gave him the stuff. 
 
 Tai. But how did you desire it should be made \ 
 
 Gru. Many, sir, with needle and thread. 
 
 Tai. But did you not request to have it cut ? 
 
 Gru. Thou hast fac'd many things. 
 
 Tai. I have. 
 
 Gru. Face not me. Thou hast brav'd many 
 men ; brave not me. I will neither be fac'd nor 
 brav'd. I say unto thee — I bid thy master cut 
 out the gown ; but I did not bid him cut it to 
 pieces : — ergo, thou liest. 
 
 Tai. Why, here is the note of the fashion to 
 testif)'. 
 
 Pet. Read it. 
 
 Gru. The note lies in 's throat, if he say 1 
 said so. 
 
 Tai. Imprimis, " a loose-bodied gown :" 
 
 Gru. Master, if ever I said loose-bodied gown, 
 sew me in the skirts of it, and beat me to death 
 with a bottom of brown thread : I said, a gown. 
 
 Pet. proceed. 
 
 Tai. " \Vith a small compassed cape ;"" 
 
 Gru. 1 confess the caoe. 
 
 Tai. " With a trunk sleeve ;" 
 
 Gru. I confess two sleeves. 
 
 Tai. " The sleeves curiously ( jt." 
 
 Pet. Ay, there '.s the villauy. 
 
 Gru. Error i' th'i bill, sir ; error i' the bill ! i 
 commanded the sleerea should be cut out, and 
 sew'd u]) again : and that I '11 prove upon thee 
 though thy little finger l>e :iv:i\cJ iu a thimble.
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 THE TAMING OF THE SUEEW. 
 
 SCENE 17 
 
 Tai. This is true, that I say ! an I had thee in 
 place where, thou shouklst kinjw it. 
 
 Gru. I am tor thee .straight : take thou the bill, 
 fjivc me. thy mete-yard, and spare not me. 
 
 Jlor. God-a-mercy, Grumio ! then he shall have 
 110 odds. 
 
 Pet. Well, sir, in brief, the gown is not for me. 
 
 Gru. You are i' the right, sir ; 't is for my 
 mistress. 
 
 Pet. Go take it up unto thy master's use. 
 
 Gru. Villain, not for thy life ! Take up my 
 mistress' gown for thy master's use ! 
 
 Pet. Why, sir, what's your conceit in that J 
 
 Gru. 0, sir, the conceit is deeper than you 
 think for : 
 Take up my mistress' gown tc hLs master's use ! 
 0, fie, fie, fie I 
 
 Fct. Hortensio, say thou wilt see the tailor 
 paid : — 
 
 [Aside. 
 Go take it hence ; begone, and say no more. 
 
 Ifor. Tailor, I '11 pay tliee for thy gown to- 
 morrow. 
 Take no unkindness of his hasty words : 
 Away, I say ; commend me to thy master. 
 
 [JSxcir.t T?i'.or and Haberdasher. 
 
 Pel. Well, come, my Kate ; we will unto your 
 father's, 
 Even in these honest mean habiliments ; 
 Our purses shall be proud, om' garments poor : 
 For 't is the mind that makes the body rich. 
 And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds. 
 So honour peereth in the meanest habit. 
 What, is the jay more precious than the lark. 
 Because his feathers are more beautiful 3 
 Or is the adder better than the eel. 
 Because his painted skin contents the eye ? 
 0, no, good Kate ; neither art thou the worse 
 For this poor furniture and mean array. 
 If thou account'st it shame, lay it on me : 
 And therefore frolic ; we will hence forthwith. 
 To feast and sport us at thy father's house. 
 Go, call my men, and let us straight to him; 
 And bring our horees unto Long-lane end. 
 There will we mount, and thither walk on foot. 
 Let 's see ; I think 't is now some seven o'clock. 
 And well we may come there by dinner-time. 
 
 Kath. I dare assure you, sir, 't is almost two ; 
 And 't will be supper-time ere you come there. 
 
 Pet. It shall be seven, ere I go to horse : 
 Look, what I speak, or do, or think to do, 
 Vou are still crossing it. — Sire, let 't alone : 
 
 I will not go to-day ; and ere I do, 
 It sliall bo what o'clock I s.ay it is. 
 
 Ilur. Why, so! this gallant will command the 
 sun. [Exeunt, 
 
 SCENE IV.— Padua. Before Baptista's Houge. 
 Enter Tranio, and the Pedant dressed like 
 
 ViNCENTIO. 
 
 Tra. Sir, this is the house. Please it you that 
 
 I call ? 
 Ped. Ay, what else ? and, but I be deceiv'd, 
 Signior Baptista may remember me. 
 Near twenty years ago, in Genoa, 
 Vt'here we were lodgers at the Peg.-wus. 
 
 Tra. 'T is well ; and hold your own, in any 
 case, 
 With such austerity as 'longeth to a father. 
 
 Enter Biondello. 
 
 Ped. I warrant you : But, sir, here comes your 
 boy; 
 'T were good he were school'd. 
 
 Tra. Fear you not him. Sirr.ah Biondello, 
 Now do your duty throughly, I advise yoa" 
 Imagine 't were the right Vincentic. 
 Bion. Tut ! fear not me. 
 
 Tra. But hast thou done thy errand to Baptista f 
 Bion. I told him that your father was at 
 Venice, 
 And that you iook'd for him this day in Padua. 
 Tra. Thou 'rt a tall fellow ; hold thee that to 
 drink. 
 Here comes Baptista : — set your countenance, fir. 
 
 Enter Baptista and Lucextio. 
 
 Signior Baptista, you are happily met : — 
 
 Sir, [to the Pedant] this is the gentleman I told 
 
 you of: 
 I pray you, stand good father to me now, 
 Give me Bianca for my patrimony. 
 
 Ped. Soft, son ! 
 Sir, by your leave, having come to Padua 
 To gather in some debts, my son Lucentio 
 Made me acquainted with a weighty cause 
 Of love between your daughter and himselt : 
 And, — for the good report I hear of you ; 
 And for the love he beareth to your daughter, 
 And she to him, — to stay him not too long, 
 I am content, in a good fother's care, 
 To have him matoh'd ; and, — if you please to like 
 No worse than I, — upon some agreement, 
 
 477
 
 - 
 
 1 
 
 ACT v.. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. scenji: v. 
 
 Me shall you find ready and willing 
 
 Bion. Then thus. Baptista is safe, talking with 
 
 With one consent to have hor so bestowed ; 
 
 the deceiving father of a deceitful son. 
 
 For curious I cannot be with you,™ 
 
 Luc. And what of him ? 
 
 Signior Baptista, of whom I hear so well. 
 
 Bion. His daughter is to be brought by you to 
 
 Bap. Sir, pardon uie in what I have to say ; — 
 
 the supper. 
 
 Vour plainness and your shortness please me well. 
 
 Luc. And then ? 
 
 Right true it is, your son Lucentio here 
 
 Bion. The old priest at saint Luke's chui'cli is 
 
 Doth love my daughter, and she loveth him, 
 
 at your command at all hours. 
 
 Or both dissemble deeply their afl'ectious ; 
 
 Luc. And what of all this ? 
 
 And, therefore, if you say no more than this, 
 
 Bion. I cannot tell, except they are busied about 
 
 That like a father you will deal with him. 
 
 a counterfeit assurance. Take you assurance of 
 
 And pass my daughter a sufficient dower, 
 
 her cum privilegio ad imprimendum solum : to 
 
 The match is made, and all is done : 
 
 the church; — take the priest, clerk, and some suffi- 
 
 Vour son shall have my daughter with consent. 
 
 cient honest witnesses : 
 
 Tra. I thank you, sir. Where then do you 
 
 If this be not that you look for, I have no more 
 
 hold best. 
 
 to say, 
 
 We be affied, and such assurance ta'en. 
 
 But bid Bianca farewell for ever and a day. 
 
 As shall with either part's agreement stand ? 
 
 [Going. 
 
 Bap. Not in my house, Lucentio ; for, you know. 
 
 Luc. Hear'st thou, Biondello ? 
 
 Pitchers have ears, and I have many servants : 
 
 Bion. I cannot tarry. I knew a wench married 
 
 Besides, old Gremio is heark'ning still ; 
 
 in an afternoon, as she went to the garden for 
 
 And, happily,'^ we might be interrupted. 
 
 parsley to stuff a rabbit ; and so may you, sir ; anc 
 
 Tra. Then at my lodging, an it like you : 
 
 so adieu, sir. ]\Iy master hath appointed me to g( 
 
 There doth my father lie ; and there, this night. 
 
 to saint Luke's, to bid the priest be ready to come 
 
 We '11 pass the business privately and well : 
 
 against you come with your appendix. 
 
 Send for your daughter by your servant here, 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 My boy shall fetch the scrivener presently. 
 
 Luc. I may, and will, if she be so contented : 
 
 The worst is this, that, at so slender warning. 
 
 She will be pleas'd, then wherefore should I 
 
 You are like to have a thin and slender pittance. 
 
 doubt ? 
 
 Bap. It likes me well : Cambio, hie you home. 
 
 'Hap what hap may, I '11 roundly go about her ; 
 
 And bid Bianca make her ready straight ; 
 
 It shall go hard, if Cambio go without her. [Exit 
 
 And, if you will, tell what hath happen'd, — 
 
 
 Lucentio's father is arriv'd in Padua, 
 
 SCENE Y.—A 2>Mic Road. 
 
 And how she 's like to be Lucentio's wife ! 
 
 
 Luc. 1 pray the gods she may, with all my 
 
 Enter Petuucio, Katharina, and Hortensio. 
 
 heart ! 
 
 Pet. Come on, o' God's name; once more toward 
 
 Tra. Dally not with the gods, but get thee 
 
 our father's. 
 
 gone. 
 
 Good Lord, how bright and goodly shines the moon ; 
 
 Signior Baptista, shall I lead the way ? 
 
 Kath. The moon ! the sun ; it is not moonlight 
 
 Welcome ! one mess is like to be your cheer ; 
 
 now. 
 
 Come, sir ; we will better it in Pisa. 
 
 Pet. I say it is the moon that shines so briglit. 
 
 Bap. 1 follow you. 
 
 Kath. I know it is tlie sun that shines so bright 
 
 [Exeunt Tra., Ped., and Bap. 
 
 Pet. Now, by my mother's son, and that 's 
 
 Bion. Cambio. 
 
 myself. 
 
 Zuc. Wliat say'st thou, Biondello ?. 
 
 It shall be moon, or star, or what I list, 
 
 Bimi. You saw my master wink and laugh 
 
 Or ere I journey to your father's house : 
 
 upon you 5 
 
 Go on, and fetch our horses back again. 
 
 Luc. Biondello, wiiat of tliat? 
 
 Evermore cross'd and cross'd : nothing but cross'd 
 
 Bion. 'Faith, nothing; but he lias left nie here 
 
 Hor. Say as he says, or wo shall never go. 
 
 behind, to expound the meaning or moral of his 
 
 Kath. Forward, 1 pray, since we have come so 
 
 Eigns and tokens. 
 
 far. 
 
 Lric. I pray thee, lioralizo them. 
 478 
 
 And bo it moon, or sun, or what you plea.se :
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 
 
 6C.KWS V 
 
 And if you please to call it a rush candle, 
 nenpefbrth I vow it shall be so for me. 
 
 J'et. I say it is the moou. 
 
 A'd^A. I know it is the moon. 
 
 Pit. Nay, then you lie ; it is tlie blessed sun. 
 
 Knih. Then, God be bless'd, it is the blessed 
 sun : 
 But sun it is not, when you say it is not; 
 And the moon changes even as your mind. 
 What you will have it nam'd even that it is ; 
 And so it shall be so for Katharine. 
 
 Ifor. Petrucio, go thy ways ; the field is won. 
 
 I'ct. Well, forward, forward : tlius the bowl 
 should run. 
 And not unluckily against the bias. 
 But soft ! Company is coming here ! 
 
 Unter Vincentio, in a travelling dress. 
 
 Good morrow, gentle mistress : Where away 3 
 
 \To Vincentio. 
 Tell rae, sweet Kate,'° and tell mo truly too, 
 Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman ? 
 Such war of white and red within her cheeks ? 
 What stare do spangle heaven with such beauty, 
 As those two eyes become that heavenly face ? 
 Fair lovely maid, once more good day to thee : 
 Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty's sake. 
 
 Hor. 'A will make the man mad, to make a 
 woman of him. 
 
 Kath. Young budding virgin, fair, and fresh, 
 and sweet. 
 Whither away ? or where is thy abode ? 
 Happy the parents of so fair a child ; 
 Happier the man, whom favourable stars 
 Allot thee for his lovely bedfellow 1 
 
 Pet. Why, how now, Kate ? I hope thou art 
 not mad : 
 This is a man, old, wrinkled, faded, wither'd. 
 And not a maiden, as thou say'st he is. 
 
 Kath. Pardon, old father, my mistaking eyes. 
 
 Tluit have been so bedazzled with the sun, 
 That everything I look on seemeth gieen : 
 Now I perceive thou art a reverend father ; 
 Pardon, I pray thee, for my mad mistaking. 
 
 Pet. Uo, good old grandsire ; and, withal, niaki 
 known 
 Whicli way thou travellest : if along with us, 
 W^e shall be joyful of thy comjiauy. 
 
 Vin. Fair sir, and you my merry mistress, 
 That with your strange encounter nmch amazM 
 
 me. 
 My name is call'd Vincentio : my dwelling Pisa ; 
 And bound I am to Padua, there to visit 
 A son of mine, which long I have not seen. 
 
 Pet. What is his name I 
 
 Vin. Lucentio, gentle sir. 
 
 Pet. Happily met; the happier for thy son. 
 And now by law, as well as reverend age, 
 I may entitle thee my loving father ; 
 The sister to my wife, this gentlewoman. 
 Thy son by this hath married : wonder not. 
 Nor be not griev'd ; she is of good esteem, 
 Her dowry wealthy, and of worthy birth • 
 Beside, so qualified as may beseem 
 The spouse of any noble gentleman. 
 Let me embrace with old Vincentio; 
 And wander we to see thy honest son. 
 Who will of thy arrival be full joyous. 
 
 Vin. But is this true ? or is it else youi 
 pleasure, 
 Like pleasant travellers, to break a jest 
 Upou the company you overtake ? 
 
 Hor. I do assure thee, father, so it is. 
 
 Pet. Come, go along, and see the truth hereof. 
 For our first merriment hath made thee jealous.*' 
 \Exeunt Pet., Kath., and Vix, 
 
 Hor. Well, Petrucio, this has put me in heart 
 Have to my widow ; and if she be fi'oward. 
 Then hast tliou taught Hortensio to be untoward. 
 
 [Exit 
 479
 
 ACT V 
 
 THE TMIING OF THE SHREW. 
 
 ACT V 
 
 SCEXE I.— Padua. Befool Lucentio's Eou?t. 
 
 Elder on one side Biondello, Ldcentio, and Bi- 
 ANCA ; Gremio walking on the other side. 
 
 Bion. Softly and swiftly, sir; for the priest is 
 
 ready. 
 Luc. I fly, Biondello : but they may chance to 
 need thee at home ; therefore leave us. 
 
 Bion. Nay, faith, I '11 see the church o' your 
 back, and then come back to my master as soon 
 as I can. 
 
 \Exeunt Luc, Bian., and Bion. 
 Crre. I marvel Cambio comes not all this while. 
 
 Enter Petrucio, Katharina, Vincentio, and 
 Attendants. 
 
 Pet. Sir, here 's the door, this is Lucentio's 
 house. 
 My father's bears more toward the market-place ; 
 Thither must I, and here I leave you, sir. 
 
 Yin. You shall not choose but drink before 
 you go ; 
 I think I shall command your welcome here. 
 And by all likelihood, some cheer is toward. 
 
 YKnocki. 
 Gre. They 're busy within, you were best knock 
 louder. 
 
 Enter Pedant above at a window. 
 
 Fed. What 's he that knocks as he would beat 
 down the gate ? 
 
 Vin. Is signior Lucentio within, sir ? 
 
 Ped. He 's within, sir, but not to be spoken 
 withal. 
 
 Fin. Wliat if a man bring liim a hundred 
 poimd or two, to maKe merry withal ? 
 
 Ped. Keep your hundred pounds to yourself; 
 he f.liall need none, so long as I live. 
 
 Pel. Nay, I told you your son was well beloved 
 in Tadua. — Do you lie.ar, sir? — to leave frivolous 
 circumstancics, — I pray you, tell sigiiior Lucentio 
 that }iis father is come from Pisa, and is here at 
 the door to speak with him. 
 4sn 
 
 Ped. Thou liest ; his father is come fi-om Piss, 
 and here looking out at the window. 
 
 Vi7i. Art thou his father ? 
 
 Ped. Ay, sir ; so his mother says, if I may 
 believe her. 
 
 Pet. Why, how now, gentleman ! [to Vincen.] 
 why, this is flat knaveg^to take upon you anotJiei 
 man's name. 
 
 Ped. Lay hands on the villain. I believe a' 
 means to cozen somebody in this city under my 
 countenance. 
 
 Ec-enler Biosdello. 
 
 Bion. I have seen them in the church together , 
 God send 'em good shipping ! — But who is here ? 
 mine old master, Vincentio ? Now we are undone, 
 and brought to nothing. 
 
 Vin. Come hither, crack-hemp.*^ [^Seeing Bion. 
 
 Bion. I hope I may choose, sir. 
 
 Vin. Come hither, you rogue. What, have you 
 forgot me ? 
 
 Bion. Forgot you ? no, sir : I could not forget 
 you, for I never saw you before in all my life. 
 
 Vin. What, you notorious villain, didst thou 
 never see thy master's father, Vincentio ? 
 
 Bion. What, my old, worehipful old master ' 
 Yes, many, sir; see where he looks out of the 
 window. 
 
 Vin. Is 't so, indeed ? [Beats Bion. 
 
 Bion. Help, help, help ! here 's a madman will 
 murder me. [Esit. 
 
 Ped. Help, son ! help, signior Baptista 1 
 
 \Exit from the window. 
 
 Pet. Prithee, Kate, let 's stand aside, and see 
 the end of this coutrovei'sy. YThcij retire. 
 
 Re-enter Pedant below ; Baptista, Tranio, and 
 Servants. 
 
 Tra. Sir, what are you that offer to beat my 
 servant ? 
 
 Vin. What am I, sir? nay, what are you, sir! 
 — immortal gods ! fine villain 1 A silken 
 doublet ! a velvet hose 1 a scarlet cloak ! and a
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 THE TAMING OF THE SHliEW. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 lopatain hat ! *' — 0, I :iin umlone. I .-1111 uiulone! 
 While I play the good Imsband at lujine, my son 
 and my servant spend all at tlie university. 
 
 Tra. How now ? wliat '3 the matter ? 
 
 Bap. What, is the man hmatic ? 
 
 Tra. Sir, you seem a sober ancient gentleman 
 by your habit, but your words show you a mad- 
 man. Why, sir, what concerns" it you, if I wear 
 pearl and gold ? I thank my good father, I am 
 able to maintain it. 
 
 Vin. Thy ftither ? O villain ! he is a sailmaker 
 in Bergamo. 
 
 Bap. You mistake, sir ; you mistake, sir. Pray, 
 what do you think is his name ? 
 
 Vin. His name ? as if I knew not his name ! I 
 have brought him up ever since he was three 
 years old, and his name is Tranio. 
 
 Fed. Away, away, mad ass ! His name is Lu- 
 centio; .and he is mine only son, and heir to the 
 lands of me, signior Vincentio. 
 
 Vin. Lucentio ! 0, he hath ninrder'd his mas- 
 ter ! lay hold on him, I charge you, in the duke's 
 name : O, my son, my sou ! — tell me, thou villain, 
 wiiere is my son, Lucentio. 
 
 Tra. Call forth an officer : \Enhr one loith an 
 Officer.] Carry this mad knave to the gaol : — 
 P'ather Baptista, I charge you see that he be 
 foithcoming. 
 
 Vin. Carry me to the gaol ! 
 
 Grc. Stay, officer ; he shall not go to prison. 
 
 Bap. Talk not, signior Gremio. I say he shall 
 go to prison. 
 
 Gre. Take heed, signior Baptista, lost you be 
 coneycatched in this business. I dare swear this 
 is the right Vincentio. 
 
 Fed. Swear, if thou dar'st. 
 
 Gre. Nay, I dare not swear it. 
 
 Tra. Then thou wert best say that I am not 
 Lucentio. 
 
 Gre. Yes, I know thee to be signior Lu- 
 centio. 
 
 Bap. Away with the dotard : to the gaol with 
 him. 
 
 Vin. Thus strangers may be haled and abiis'd. 
 mon.strous villain ! 
 
 Re-enter Biondello, with Lucentio and Bianca. 
 
 Dion. we are spoil'd, and — yonder he is ; 
 deny him, forswear him, or else we are all undone. 
 Luc. Pardon, swaet father. [^Kneeling. 
 
 Vin. Lives my sweet son ? 
 
 [Bio;f., Tra., and Ped. run out quickly. 
 
 61 
 
 Bian. Pardon, dear father. [Kneeling 
 
 Ba2>. How hast tliou offended ? 
 
 Wliere is Lucentio ? 
 
 Luc. Here 's Lucentio, 
 
 Right son to the right Vincentio, 
 That have by marriage made thy daughter mine, 
 Wliile counterfeit suiijioses blear'd thine eyne. 
 
 Gre. Here 's packing with a witness, to deceive 
 us all I 
 
 Vin. Where is that damned villain, Tranio, 
 That fac'd and brav'd mo in this matter so? 
 
 Bajh Why, tell me, is not this my Cambio ? 
 
 Bian. Cambio is chang'd into Lucentio. 
 
 Luc, Love wrought these miracles. Bianca's 
 love 
 Made me exchange my state with Tranio, 
 While he did bear my countenance in the town ; 
 And happily I have arriv'd at the last 
 Unto the wished haven of my bliss-; 
 What Tranio did, myself enforc'd him to ; 
 Then piardon him, sweet father, for my sake. 
 
 Vin. I '11 slit the villain's' nose, that would 
 have sent me to the gaol. 
 
 Bap. But do j-our hear, sir? [To Luc] Have 
 you married my daughter without asking mv 
 good-will ? 
 
 Vin. Fear not, Baptista ; we will content you 
 go to : But I will in, to be reveng'd for this 
 villainy. \Exit. 
 
 Bap. And I, to sound the depth of this knavei-y. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Luc. Look not pale, Bianca ; thy father will 
 not frown. [Exetint Luc. and Bian. 
 
 Gre. !My cake is dough : but I '11 in among 
 tlie rest ; 
 Out of hope of all, — but my share of the feast. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 pETra'cio and Katiiarina advance, 
 
 Kalh. Husband, let's follow, to see the end of 
 
 this ado. 
 Fet. First kiss me, Kate, and we will. 
 Kalh. What, in the midst of the street? 
 Fel. What, art thou asham'd of me ? 
 Kaih. No, .sir; God forbid: but asham'd to kiss. 
 Pet. Why, then, let 's home again : — Come, 
 
 sirrah, .et 's away. 
 Kalh. Nav I will give thee a kiss : now pray 
 
 thee, love, stay. 
 Fet. Is not this well ? — Come, my sweet Kate ; 
 Better once than never, for never too late. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 481
 
 ACT V. THE TAMlNCx OF THE SHREW. bckne ii. 
 
 . 1 
 
 SCENE n.— ^ Boom ii. Lucentio's House. 
 
 A banquet set out. Enter Baptista, Vincentio, 
 Gremio, the Pedant, Lucentio, Bianca, Petru- 
 
 Pet. To her, Kate ! 
 Hor. To her, widow ! 
 
 Pet. A hundred marks, my Kate does put liei 
 down. 
 
 cio, Katharisa, Hortensio, and Widow. Tra- 
 Kio, BioNDELLO, GfiirMio, and others, attending. 
 
 Hor. That 's my ofBce. 
 
 Pet. Spoke like an officei : — Ha' to th.ee, lal 
 
 Luc. At last, though long, our jarring notes 
 agree; 
 
 [Drinks to HoK. 
 Bap. How likes Gremio these quick-witted 
 
 And time it is, when raging war is done, 
 
 To smile at 'scapes and perils o^ erblown. 
 
 My fiiir Bianca, bid my father welcome, 
 
 While I with self-same kindness welcome thine : 
 
 folks ? 
 Gre. Believe me, sir, they butt together well. 
 Bian. Head, and butt ? an hasty-wtted body 
 Would say your head and butt were head and 
 
 Brother Petrucio, — sister Katharina, — 
 
 And thou, Hortensio, with thy loving widow, — 
 
 horn. 
 Vin. Ay, mistress bride, hath that awaken'd 
 
 Feast with the best, and welcome to my house. 
 My banquet is to close our stomachs up. 
 After our great good cheer. Pray you, sit down ; 
 For now we sit to chat, as well as eat. 
 
 you? 
 Bian. kj, but not frighted me ; therefore I '11 
 
 sleep again. 
 Pet. Nay, that you shall not ; since you have 
 
 \They sit at table. 
 Pet. Nothing but sit and sit, and eat and eat. 
 Bap. Padua affords this kindness, son Pe- 
 trucio. 
 
 begun, 
 Have at you for a bitter jest or two ! 
 
 Bian. Am I your bird ? I mean to shift my 
 bush, 
 
 Pet. Padua affords nothing but what is kind. 
 Uor. For both our sakes, I would that word 
 
 were tnie. 
 Pet. Now, for my life, Hortensio fears his 
 
 And then pursue me as you draw your bow : 
 You are welcome all. 
 
 [Exit Bian., Kath., and Wid. 
 Pet. She hath prevented me. — Here, si'jniiii 
 
 widow.'^ 
 
 Tranio, 
 
 Wid. Then never trust me if I be afeard. 
 Pet. You are very sensible, and yet you miss 
 my sense ; 
 I mean, Hortensio is afeard of you. 
 
 Wid. He that is giddy thinks the world turns 
 round. 
 
 This bird you aim'd at, thougli you hit hor not ; 
 Therefore, a health to all that shot and miss'd. 
 
 Tra. 0, sir, Lucentio slipp'd me like his grey- 
 hound, 
 Wliich runs himself^ and catches for his master. 
 
 Pet. A good swift simile, but something cur 
 
 Pet. Roundly replied. 
 
 Kath. Mistress, how mean you that ? 
 
 rish. 
 Tra. 'T is well, sir, that tou hunted for your- 
 
 Wid. Thus I conceive by hira. 
 
 Pet. Conceives by me ! — how Lkes Hortensio 
 
 that ? 
 Hor. Afy widow says, thus she conceives her 
 
 tale. 
 
 self; 
 'T is thought, your deer does hold you at a bay. 
 Bap. Ijo, Petrucio, Tranio hits you uovc. 
 Luc. I thank thee for that gird,"" good Tranio. 
 Hor. Confess, confess, hath he not liit yoi 
 
 Pet. Very well mended : Kiss him for that, 
 good widow. 
 
 here ? 
 Pet. 'A lias a little gall'd me, I confess ; 
 
 Kath. He tluit is giddy thinks the world turns 
 
 round : — 
 I pray you, tell mo what you meant by that. 
 Wid. Your liusband, being troubled with a 
 
 slirow. 
 
 And, as the jest did glance away fi'om me, 
 Tis ten to one it m aim'd you two outright. 
 
 Ba]^. Now, in gCKjd sadness, son Petrucio, 
 I think thou hast the veriest shrew of all. 
 
 Pet. Well, I say — no : and, therefore, foi rn 
 
 Measures my husband's sorrow by his woe : 
 And now you know my meaning. 
 
 Kath. A veiy mean meaning. 
 
 Wid. Right, I mean you. 
 
 surance, 
 Let 's each one send unto his wife ; 
 And he, whoso wife is most obedient 
 To come at first, when he doth send for her. 
 
 Kolh. And I am mean, indeed, respecting you. 
 482 
 
 Shall win the wager which we will propose.
 
 
 ACT V. THE TAMING OF TUF, SHREW. scenk ii 
 
 Hoi: Content : What 's the wager ? 
 
 1 
 Kath. What is your will, sir, that you send 
 
 Lite. Twenty crowns. 
 
 for me ? 
 
 Pet. Twenty crowns ! 
 
 Pet. Where is your sister, and Uortcnsio'." 
 
 r 11 venture so much of my Lawk, or hound, 
 
 wife ? 
 
 !5ut twenty times so much upon my wife. 
 
 Kalh. They sit coufemng by the parlour fire. 
 
 Luc. A hundred then. 
 
 Pet. Go, fetch them hither; if they deny to 
 
 Hor. Content. 
 
 come, 
 
 Pet. A matcli ; 't is done. 
 
 Swinge me them soundly forth unto their hus 
 
 ffor. Who shall begin ? 
 
 bands : 
 
 Luc. That will I. 
 
 Away, I say, and bring them hither straight. 
 
 fio, Biondello, bid your mistress come to me. 
 
 [E.tit Kath. 
 
 Bion. I go. [^Exit. 
 
 Luc. Here is a wonder, if you talk of a wonder 
 
 Bap. Son, 1 '11 be your half, Bianca comes. 
 
 Hor. And so it is; I wonder what it bodes. 
 
 Luc. I '11 have no lialves ; I '11 bear it all 
 
 Pet. Marry, peace it bodes, and love, and quiet 
 
 myself. 
 
 lifj. 
 
 
 An awful rule, and right supremacy ; 
 
 Re-enter Biondello. 
 
 And, to be short, what not, that 's sweet and 
 
 How now ! what news ? 
 
 happy. 
 
 Bion. Sir, my mistress sends you word 
 
 Bap. Now fair befall thee, good Petrucio ! 
 
 That she is busy, and she cannot come. 
 
 The wager thou hast won ; and I will add 
 
 Pet. How ! she 's busy, and she cannot come ! 
 
 Unto their losses twenty thousand crowns ! 
 
 Is that an answer ? 
 
 Another dowiy to another daughter. 
 
 Gre. Ay, and a kind one too : 
 
 For she is chang'd, as she had never been. 
 
 Pray God, sir, your wife send you not a worse. 
 
 Pet. Nay, I will win my wager better yet, 
 
 Pet. I hope better. 
 
 And show more sign of her obedience, 
 
 llor. Sirrah Biondello, go, and entreat my 
 
 Her new-built virtue and obedience. 
 
 wife 
 To come to me forthwith. \_Exil Bion. 
 
 Re-enter Katharina, with Bianca and Widow. 
 
 Pet. 0, ho ! entreat her ! 
 
 See, where she comes ; and brings your froward 
 
 Nay, then she must needs come. 
 
 wives 
 
 Hor. I am afraid, sir, 
 
 As prisoners to her womanly persuasion. 
 
 Do what you can, yours will not be entreated. 
 
 Katharine, that cap of yours becomes you not ; 
 
 
 Off with that bauble, throw it under foot. 
 
 Re-enter Bioxdello. 
 
 [Kath. pulls off her cap, and throws it doiim 
 
 Now, where 's my wife ? 
 
 Wid, Lord, let me never have a cause to sigh, 
 
 Bion. She says, you have some goodly jest 
 
 Till I he brought to such a silly pass ! 
 
 in hand ; 
 
 Bian. Fie ! what a foolish duty call you this ? 
 
 She will not come ; she bids you come to her. 
 
 Luc. I would your duty were as foolish loo : 
 
 Pet. Worse and worse ; she will not come ! 
 
 The wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca, 
 
 vild. 
 
 Hath cost me an hundred crowns since supper- 
 
 Intolerable, not to be endur'd ! 
 
 time. 
 
 SiiTah Grumio, go to your mistress ; 
 
 Bian. The more fool you, for laying on my 
 
 B.xy I command her come to me. [Exit Gru. 
 
 duty. 
 
 Hor. I know her answer. 
 
 Pet. Katharine, I charge thee, tell these head- 
 
 Pet. What? 
 
 strong women 
 
 Hor. She will not. 
 
 What duty they do owe their lords and husbands. 
 
 Pet The fouler fortune mine; and there an 
 
 Wid. Come, come, you 're mocking; we will 
 
 end. 
 
 have no telling. 
 
 
 Pet. Come on, I say ; and first begin with her 
 
 Enter Katharina. 
 
 Wid. She shall not. 
 
 Bap. Now, by my holidame, here comes Ka- 
 
 Pet. I say, she shall ; — and first begin with 
 
 tharina ! 
 
 her. 
 
 
 4!I8 
 
 1
 
 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 
 
 SCENE n. 
 
 Kath. Fie, fie ! unknit that theat'niDg, unkind 
 
 brow; 
 And dart not scornful glances from those eyes, 
 To wouud thy lord, thy king, thv governor : 
 It blots thy beauty, as frosts do bite the meads ; 
 Confounds thy fame, as whirlwinds shake fair 
 
 buds; 
 And in no sense is meet or amiable. 
 A woman mov'd is like a ftjuntain troubled, 
 Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty ; 
 And, while it is so, none so dry or thirsty 
 Will deign to sip, or touch one drop of it. 
 Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper. 
 Thy head, thy sovereign ; one that cares for thee. 
 And for thy maintenance ; commits his body 
 To painful labour, both by sea and land ; 
 To watch the night in storms, the day iu cold. 
 While thou li'st warm at home, secure and safe ; 
 And craves no other tribute at thy hands, 
 But love, fair looks, and true obedience, — 
 Too little payment for so great a debt. 
 Such duty as the subject owes the prince. 
 Even such a woman oweth to her husband : 
 And when she is froward, peevisli, sullen, sour, 
 And not obedient to his honest will. 
 What is she, but a foul contending rebel. 
 And graceless traitor to her loving lord ? 
 I am asham'd, that women are so simple 
 To otfer war, where they should kneel for peace ; 
 Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway, 
 When they are bound to serve, love, and obey. 
 Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth, 
 napt to t^al, and trouble in the world, 
 484 
 
 But that our soft conditions, and our hearts, 
 Should well agree with our external parts ? 
 Come, come, you froward and unable worms ' 
 My mind hath been as big as one of yours. 
 My heart as great ; my reason, haply, more. 
 To bandy word for word, and frown for frown ; 
 But now, I see our lances are but straws : 
 Our strength as weak, our weakness past com- 
 pare, — 
 That seeming to be most, which we indeed least 
 
 are. 
 Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot. 
 And place your hands below your husbands' foot; 
 Iu token of which duty, if he please. 
 My hand is ready, may it do him ease ! 
 
 Pet. Why, there 's a wench ! — Come on, and 
 
 kiss me, Kate. 
 Liic. Well, go thy ways, old lad ; for thou 
 
 shalt ha 't. 
 Vin. 'T is a good heaiing, when children are 
 
 toward. 
 Luc. But a harsh hearing, when women are 
 
 froward. 
 Pet. Come, Kate, we '11 to bed : 
 W^e three are married, but you two are sped. 
 'T was I won the wager, though you hit the 
 white;" [To Luc. 
 
 And, being a winner, God give you good night ! 
 \Excunt Pet. and Kaih. 
 Hor. Now go thy ways, thou hast tam'd a curst 
 
 shrow.^ 
 Luc. 'T is a wonder by your leave, she will b< 
 tam'd so. [Exeunt
 
 lOTES TO THE TAMING OE THE SHREAV, 
 
 ' / 'llpheese you, i% faith, 
 
 Theete, beat, chastise. A MS. Devonshire glossary in 
 my possession e.xplains it, " to pay a person off for an in- 
 jary," which is probably the exact meaning here intended 
 by Shakespeare. The word was used in several signi- 
 fications. 
 
 « Faueas PaUahris ; let the world slide. 
 
 Paueas palUhris, few words ; fVom the Spanish. The 
 expression was proverbial, but generally found used by 
 low characters. '* Let the world slide," was also a com- 
 mon proverbial phrase, equivalent to, take no thought. 
 So, in an old ballad, — 
 
 Let the world slide, let the world go : 
 A fig for care, and a fig for woe I 
 If I cant pay, why, I can owe; 
 And death makes equall the high and low. 
 Be merry, friends I 
 
 Bursty broken. Burst and ircak are still synonymous 
 in some of the provinces. " How her bridle was burst," 
 act iv. sc. 1. 
 
 ' Go hy, St. Jeronimy. 
 
 A common phrase, implying contempt for the person to 
 whom it is addressed. 
 
 When thou hast money, then friends thou hast many ; 
 
 When it is wasted, their frieudsliip is cold : 
 Go hyy Jeronirao ! No man then will thee know. 
 
 Knowing thou hast neither silver nor gold. 
 
 Dehney^s Strange Mistcries, 1607. 
 
 Sal can by silence deep profundity; 
 Force you cry, Fough I Jsronimo, go ly. 
 
 Wits Jit-creations, 1640. 
 
 * / mvsi go/etch the ihirdborough. 
 
 The thirdhoroiigfi, was a constable. The old copies erro- 
 jeously read, headborovgh. 
 
 ' I'll not hidge an inch, loy. 
 
 Sly was intoxicated, hut Shakespeare was probably 
 thinking of the old play, where a tapster instead of the 
 hoa ess is iitroduced, when he made him address her as. 
 
 • The poor cur it emboss'' d. 
 
 Bmhoss'd, applied to a deer when foaming at the mouth 
 after hard running. It seems to be here improperly ap- 
 plied to a dog. Merriman and Echo are still common 
 names for hounds. Brach was a generic term for afer^.ali 
 hound, and should not be applied to Merriman. It seems 
 clear to me after a careful examination of this scene, that 
 Shakespeare was evidently little acquainted with the 
 "noble art of venerie," at least with the technicalities cl 
 '.Ae sport. 
 
 Look how the stricken hart that wounded flies 
 
 O'er hill and dales, and seeks the lower grounds 
 For running streams, the whil'st his weeping eyes 
 
 Beg silent mercy from the foll'wing hounds ; 
 At length, embost, he droops, drops down, and lies 
 Beneath the burthen of ixis bleeding wounds; 
 Ev'n so my gasping soul, dissolv'd in tears, 
 Doth search for thee, my God, whose deafen'd ears 
 Leave me th' unrausom'd prisoner to my panick fears. 
 
 Quarks'' Emblems. 
 
 ' And when he says he is — . 
 
 And when he says he is so and so, tell him he dreams. 
 The hiatus is certainly intentional. Kindly, naturaUy. 
 
 'We may take the opportimity of inserting in this place 
 the pleasant old ballad, the Frolicksome Duke, which is 
 printed by Percy from a black-letter copy in the Pepysian 
 Library at Cambridge. It is founded on the same subject 
 as the present induction. 
 
 Now as fame does report a young duke keeps a court. 
 
 One that pleases his fancy with frolicksome sport : 
 
 But amonsst all the rest, here is one I protest, 
 
 Which will make you to smile when you hear the true jest : 
 
 A poor tinker he found, lying drunk on the ground, 
 
 As seciue in a sleep as if laid in a swound. 
 
 The duke said to his men, William, Eichard and Ben, 
 Take him home to my palace, we 'U sport with him then. 
 O'er a horse he was laid, and with care soon convey'd 
 To the palace, altho' he was poorly arrai'd : 
 Then they stript otf his cloathes, both his shirt, shoes and 
 
 hose, 
 And they put; him to bed for to take his repose. 
 
 Having pull'd off his shirt, which was all over durt. 
 They di<.l give him clean holland, this was no great hurt; 
 On a bed of soft down, like a lord of renown, 
 They did lay him to sleep the drink out of his crown- 
 In tiie morning when day, then admiring he lay. 
 For to see the rich chamber both gaudy and gay. 
 
 483
 
 NOTES TO THE T.UIIXG OF THE SHREW. 
 
 Now he lay something late, in his rich bed of state, 
 Till at last knigjits and squires they on him did wait: 
 And the chamberlain bare, then did likewise declare, 
 He desired to know what apparel he 'd ware : 
 The poor tinker amaz'd, on the gentleman gaz'd, 
 And admired how he to this honour was rais'd. 
 
 Tho' he seem'd something mute, yet he chose a rich suit, 
 Which he straightways put on without longer dispute : 
 With a star on hi3 siie, which the tinker oll't ey'd, 
 And it seem'd for to swell him ' no ' little with pride ; 
 For he said to himself, Where is Joan mv sweet wife ? 
 Sure she never did see me so fine in her life. 
 
 From a convenient place the right duke his good grace 
 Did observe his behaviour in every case. 
 To a garden of state, on the tinker they wait, 
 Trumpets sounding before him : thought he, this is great: 
 Where an hour or two, pleasant walks he did view. 
 With commanders and squires in scarlet and blev/. 
 
 A flue diuncr was drest, both for him and his guests, 
 
 lie was plac'd at t!ie table above all the rest, 
 
 In a rich chair 'or bed,' lin'd with fine crimson red, 
 
 With a rich golden canopy over his head : 
 
 As he sat at his meat, the musiok play'd sweet, 
 
 With the choicest of singing his joys to compleat. 
 
 While the tinker did dine, he had plenty of wine, 
 
 Rich canary with sherry and tent supertine. 
 
 Like a right honest soul, faith, he took olf his bowl. 
 
 Till at last he began for to tumble and roul 
 
 From his chair to the floor, "where he sleeping did snore, 
 
 Being seven times drunker than ever before. 
 
 Then the duke did ordain, they should strip him amain. 
 And restore him his old leather garments again : 
 'T was a point next the worst, yet perform it they must, 
 And they carry'd him strait, where they f jund hiiu at flr=t ; 
 Then he slept all the night, as indeed well he might : 
 But when he did waken, his joys took their flight. 
 
 For his glory ' to him' so pleasant did seem, 
 
 Th.at he thought it to be but a racer golden dream ; 
 
 Till at length he was brought to the duke, where he sought 
 
 For a pardon, as fearing he had set him at nought : 
 
 But his highness he said, Thou 'rt a jolly bold blade. 
 
 Such a froliek before 1 think never was plaid. 
 
 Then his highness bespoke him a new suit and cloak. 
 Which he gave for the sake of his frolicksome joak ; 
 Nay, and flve hundred pound, with ten acres of ground, 
 Thou shalt never, said he, range the counteries round. 
 Crying old brass to mend, for I '11 be thy good friend, 
 J>'ay, and Joan thy sweet wife shall my duchess attend. 
 
 Then the tinker reply'd. What! nnist Joan my sweet bride 
 
 Be ft lady in chariots of pleasure to ride i 
 
 ilust we have gold and land ev'ry day at command \ 
 
 Then I shall be a squire I well understand : 
 
 Well 1 thank your good grace, and your love I embrace, 
 
 I was never before in so Iiappy a case. 
 
 * For GocCa sake, a pot of small ale. 
 
 Sly is represented on the stage as not having recovered 
 from his into.vication, but this must surely be an error. 
 When he wakes, he is no longer tipsy, but only sutTcring 
 under tho effects of tho debauch. Small ale was used in 
 the place of tlie modern soda-water. 
 
 » Ask Marian Jlacktt, the fat ale-wife of U'incot. 
 
 Wineot wns the usual pronunciation of Wilmccote, a 
 village near Stratford-on-Avon, tho residerce of Shnkes- 
 peare's maternal grandfather. It is spelt Ji'i/nmte in tho 
 486 
 
 will of William Clapton, May 9th, 1521. There is a very 
 curious allusion to this scene in Sir A. Cockayn's Poems, 
 1659, in an epigram addressed to Clement Fishei of 
 Wineot, — 
 
 Shakspeare your Wincot-ale hath much renown'd. 
 That tox'd a beggar so (by chance was found 
 Sleeping) that there needed not many a word 
 To make him to believe he was a loril : 
 But you affirm (and in it seem most eager) 
 'T will make a lord as drunk as any beggar. 
 Bid Norton brew such ale as Shakspeare fancies 
 Did put Kit Sly into such lordly trances : 
 And let us meet there (for a fit of gladness) 
 And drink ourselves merry in sober sadness. 
 
 The notes of the commentators on sTieer ale, are nnusually 
 absurd, as if the epithet sheer was anything more than an 
 augmentative. The expression occurs in one of Sir W. 
 Scott's talcs, and some wag, endeavouring to prove the 
 Waverley novels were originally written in verse, thus 
 made rhyme of the passage (I quote from memory) — 
 
 — ^Sheer ale supports him under every thing : 
 It is his meat, food, drink, clothing auci washing. 
 
 Bentra-ught, mad, distracted. 
 
 '*• And no seaVd quarts. 
 
 Tho following is one of the articles of the Wardmot*! 
 Inquests, printed in Calthrop's Keports, 1670: — "AnJ 
 also that ye see all tiplers and other cellars of ale or beer, 
 as well as of privy osteries, as brewers and inholders with- 
 in your ward, not selling by lawful measures sealed and 
 marked with the city arms or dagger, be presented, and 
 their names in your said indentures be expressed with de- 
 faults, so that the chamberlain m.iy be lawfully answered 
 of their amerciaments." 
 
 ^'^ Is not a C07iimonty a Christmas gambol. 
 
 Commonly is Sly's error for comedy. In the old play, 
 observes Blackstone, the players themselves nse the word 
 commodity corruptly for a comedy. 
 
 '2 lam arrived for fruitful Lomiardy. 
 
 For, from. So in Pasquil's Night Cap, 1612, — 
 
 To put her quite away^or this her claime. 
 
 In law and conscience you can have no reason. 
 
 ^3 Balk logic with acquaintance tluit you have. 
 
 Balk, argue. Boswell has pointed out the following verj 
 apposite passage from Spenser, — 
 
 But to occasion him to further talk. 
 
 To feed her humour with his pleasing style, 
 
 Her list in stryfull tcrmes with him to balke. 
 
 " To cart her rather. 
 
 Carting, as Mr. Kelly observes, consisted in tho offendorB 
 (of both sexes) subjected to it being drawn through the 
 town with a horse and cart, attended by n man ringing o 
 bell, and frequently, if not invariably, having a paper 
 placed upon their heads, setting forth tho nature of theit 
 offence for which they were jiunished. The following 
 entries from tho original borough accounts of Leicestoi 
 illustrate this practice ; —
 
 NOTES TO THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 
 
 1598. Item pel. to WliiUell for his liorso and 
 carte, and one tliat led the horse aud cart abowte 
 tlio town, to cart Maryo Smjthe, and one John 
 Wylkynson, Glover, xiiiZ. 
 
 !*em pd. to George Loiigley for paynctingo of 
 1.1. papers sett on Marye Smitho's head and 
 Wylkynson's (and other work) iij». 
 
 1613. Item paid for a horsso and carte, thro-3 
 holberde men, and one other man to ring the 
 hull, when John Camden and [a woman] and 
 allso Kobert Webster were by order of the ses- 
 sions carted aboat the town, iijs. y'id. 
 
 1614. Item paid to the Eurneman for his horse 
 and cart to cart a knave and a queyne, wch. 
 
 came from Coventrie, xijd. 
 
 Stale, a common object for affection. The term is not 
 
 here used in its grossest sense. 
 
 '= A pretty peat ! 
 
 Equivalent to, a pretty pet or darling I 
 
 Another groweth earelesse of his health. 
 Neglects his credit, aud consumes his wealth ; 
 Hath found a. pretti/ 2>eat, procur'd her favour, 
 Aud sweares tliat ho, in spight of all, will h.ave her. 
 
 Withcr's Aliuses Slript aixd Whipt, 1622. 
 
 Gifts, qualities, endowments. 
 
 " IwiU with him ioher father. 
 
 M'ish, recommend. "He says he was wished to a very 
 wealthy widow," Match at Midnight. 
 
 " Happy man he his dele. 
 
 See note 148 to the Merry Wives of Windsor. 
 Longly, longingly, 
 
 " Masta; content thee. 
 
 JSasta, enough. (Ital.) This expression is of constant 
 occurrence in our old plays. Port, show, appcarauce. 
 
 '^ Knock me here soundly. 
 
 The objective pronoun was frequently used after the 
 verb redundantly. Grumio does not understand the idiom. 
 " Touch me his iiat, it was given him by Henry the Second 
 of Fraunee, when bee kist the Keintgraves wife at his going 
 into Almaiue." — Lodge's Wits Misery, 1596, p. 4. 
 
 '" Two and thirty, a pip out. 
 
 The allusion is to tlie game of one and thirty. " 'T is 
 more honourable to be a pip out, than stand at a single 
 game," Shirley's Love's Cruelty, act i. sc. 2. 
 
 2- In a few. 
 
 That is, in a few words, in short, 
 prossion in the Tempest, i. 2. 
 
 We have had the ex- 
 
 » He she as foul as was Flcrentius' love. 
 
 "The allusion," as Steevens observes, "is to n story 
 told by Gower in the first Book De Confessionc Amantis. 
 Floreut is the name of a knight who had bound himself to 
 
 marry a deformed hag, provided she taught him the solu- 
 tion of a riddle on which his life depended." The follow- 
 ing is tho description of her:— 
 
 riorent his wofull heed up-Iifte, 
 And saw this vccke, where that she sit, 
 Wliich was tho lothest wighte 
 That evct* man caste on his eye : 
 Ilir nose baas, hir browes hie", 
 llir eyes small, and depe sotte, 
 Her clickfs ben with teres wette, 
 And rivclyn as an empty skyii, 
 Hangyng downe unto the chyn; 
 Ilerlippes shronken ben for ago, 
 There was no grace in liir visage. 
 Hir Iront was narrowe, hir lockes horo. 
 She lokc'.h foortli as doth a More : 
 Hir necke is shorte, hir ehulders courbe. 
 That might a mans luste distourbe : 
 Hir bodie great, and no thyng small, 
 And sliortly to descrivo hir all. 
 She h;ith no lith without a lacke, 
 But like unto the woU sacke : &c. — 
 Though she be thufouleste of all, &o. 
 
 An aglet-lahy, according to Malone, was a small image 
 or head cut on the t.ig of a point or lace. 
 
 -' He HI rail in his rope-tricts. 
 
 Hope-tricl-s, roguish tricks. liopery for roguery, that 
 which deserves a rope or halter, Beaumont and Fletclier's 
 Chances, act iii. sc. 1. The term may, however, in this 
 place, be merely Grumio's blunder for rlntorichs. A curious 
 parallel passage occurs in R. B. 's translation of Terence, 
 4to. 1614,— "Did not I tell you that you should findo in 
 this man the most pure eloquence that is, such as is usde 
 in Athens, that hee can roll in his r/ietoiique." 
 
 So young men forsake 
 
 The rope-ripe tricks tluit their first age did take 
 C'liiefe pleasure in ; not c.-iuse tliey wicked deem them, 
 But being men, they thinke 'twill not beseem them. 
 
 Wither''a Abuses Stript arid Whipt, 1622. 
 
 Stand, withstand, resist. 
 
 =' We 
 
 ' seen m Tnusic. 
 
 Seen, skilled. " A Travailer used to tell monstrous Kes 
 of his journeye, and of the places and things he had see'ne. 
 And being one day in conversation with many Gent, and 
 bosting th.at he had scene these and tliese places: one of 
 them said unto him. Belike you are scene in Cosmography : 
 No (he answered) I never was in that city yet, but indeed 
 I remember I once travailed in sight of it, leaving it some- 
 wli.it on the left hand, but such was my hast, that I over- 
 past it, as I have done many a faire citie more in my dales," 
 — Copley's Wits, Fits, and Fancies, 1614. 
 
 " See that at any hand. 
 
 At any hand, at any rate. "Thou must noe secrets 
 blabbe at any hande," Newe Metamorphosis, 1600. Tha 
 expression again occurs in the same scene. 
 
 '« this woodcock! what an ass it is.' 
 
 Wocdcocl, a silly fellow, a fool. 
 
 And is not tliis a very purgatory. 
 
 To se iblks ete and may not ete'a byt? 
 
 By kokkis soule, I am a very wo<hok. 
 
 J/eywood's Mery p'ay <f Johan Jokan, 1S33. 
 48-
 
 NOTES TO THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 
 
 "" Fear loijs with lugs. 
 
 Fear, frighten. Bugs, bugbears, gcblins. " My lord, 
 there be shrewd bugs iu the borders for the Earle of Kil- 
 dare to fcare," Holinshcd, Chrou. Ireland, p. 85. 
 
 2" We may contrive this afttrnoon,. 
 
 Contrive, spend. So in Damon and Pithias, — 
 
 In travelyng countreyes, we three have contrived 
 Full many a yeare. 
 
 ■' Thou hilding of a devilish spirit. 
 
 EiUing, wretch, a term of reproach. 
 
 Yet all the while he lives but like a hilding ; 
 llis hair grows gray with long vexatious toyling. 
 
 Coigrave's Wits Interpreter, 1671, p. 285. 
 
 30 To dance barefoot, an old proverbial phrase for being 
 an old maid. An instance of it occurs in Rochester's 
 Poems, ed. 1739, ii. 1S5, in a poem not capable of being 
 quoted. Old maids were said to have the task of leading 
 epes iu a future state. 
 
 But Kate ha<l vow'd that sickuesse to prevent, 
 And not to lead old grinning apes in hell. 
 
 Fasquirs A'ight-Cap, 1612. 
 
 •' Baccare ! 
 
 An old proverbial term, equivalent to, go back, retire. 
 *' Ah, sir, backare, quoth Mortimer to his sowe," Kalph 
 Bolster Bolster, ed. Cooper, p. 8. 
 
 32 Ajid every day I cannot coine to woo. 
 
 This is the burden of several old ballads. So in Eavens- 
 csrcft's Melismata, 1611, — 
 
 I have house and land in Kent, 
 And if you 'II love me, love me now; 
 
 Two-pence half-penny is my rent, 
 I cannot come every day to woo ; 
 
 which may be the original of a well-known Scottish song, — 
 
 I hae laid a herring in saut; 
 
 I-ass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now 1 
 I hae brew'd a forpet o' maut. 
 
 An' I canna come ilka day to woo ! 
 
 53 iShe mistooh her frets. 
 
 "A fret," says Dr. Johnson, "is that stop of a musical 
 instrument which causes or regulates the vibration of the 
 string." 
 
 My brother Fiddle is so hollow-hearted, 
 Tliat ore 't be long, we must needs bo parted; 
 And with so many frets he dotli abound. 
 That I can never touch him but he 'I sound. 
 
 Wits Recreations, lOiO. 
 
 3< For dainties all are cates. 
 
 Cales, provisions. " The hermet expected some delicate 
 checro, ho onely was fed with bread, which was served up 
 in a stately manner by divers gentlemen that did attend 
 him : likewise when ho called for drink, they gave him 
 "wholesome water to coole hi.s bote desires: no other cates 
 got hoc, yet was it no worse then the queeut herselfo ate 
 ef " — Westward for SineUt, 1020. 
 48S 
 
 « S!could be ? S/tould bm .' 
 
 Buz was a term of the greatest contempt. It occurs in 
 Ben Jonson's Silent Woman, and in many old ]>Ia\s 
 Selden mentions it as a sort of eabalistical word. B\iz: n"i 
 was a contemptuous appellation. 
 
 If his wickednesse thrives well, hee proves a terrible ,■^■»^•c 
 in a lion's skin ; but whilst he out-dares any man, and t.ir- 
 gets liimselfe to be a buzzard, his confidence deceives hini 
 — Stephens^ Essayes, 1615. 
 
 3« Yours, if you talk of tales. 
 
 Modern editors read, tails, which renders the quibbling 
 unnecessarily obscene. 
 
 3' Keep you warm. 
 
 That is, take care of yourself. This proverbial phrase 
 is not uncommon. So, in the Wise Woman of Ilogsden,— 
 " You are the wise woman, are you ? you have wit to keep 
 yourself warm enough, I warrant you." 
 
 38 She will prove a second G-rissel. 
 
 The story of Patient Grissel, how a noble lord married » 
 maiden of low degree, and tried her patience in an uiiprc- 
 oedented manner, has been related in prose and verae, in 
 many languages. 
 
 3» She vi^ so fast. 
 
 Vied, hazarded. Metaphorically from vie, to stake a ^ iin 
 upon a hand at cards. 
 
 Then will they vaunt and graunt, and for aflinitie 
 At cardes they will vye and revye each their virginitic. 
 Grange's Garden, 4to. l.'.T' 
 
 «° 'Tisa world to sec. 
 
 That is, 't is wonderful to see. So Kemp says, in his 
 Nine Dales Wonder, ICOO, — 
 
 O 't is a world the world to see ! 
 
 But 't will not mend for thee nor mee. 
 
 Meacoci, a coward or timid wretch. 
 
 <' We will be married o' Sunday. 
 
 An old ballad with this burden has recently been dis- 
 covered, and it is not unlikely Petrucio may intend a 
 quotation. Under this impression, I give a copy of it, and 
 it seems, indeed, worth preservation for its own sake. 
 
 As I walk'd forth one May morning, 
 I heard a fair maid sweetly sing, 
 As sho sat under her cow milking. 
 
 We will be married o' Sunday. 
 
 I said. Pretty maiden, sing not so. 
 For you nnist tarry seven years or mo. 
 And then to church you may chance to go 
 All to bo married o' Sunday. 
 
 Kind sir, quoth she, you have uo skill ; 
 I 've tarried two year.s against my will. 
 And 1 've made a promise, will 1, or nill. 
 
 That I '11 be married o' Sunday. 
 
 Next Saturday night 't will be my caro 
 
 To trim and curl my maiden hair. 
 
 And all the people shall say, Look there I 
 
 When 1 come to bo mariiej V Sunday
 
 NOTES TO THE TAMING OF THE SLIREVV. 
 
 Then to tlio cluirch I sliiiU bo led 
 
 Bv sister Nun and brotlicr Ned, 
 
 Vl'ith iigurlund of flowers upon my head, 
 
 I'or 1 'm to bo married o' Sunday. 
 
 Then on my finger I '11 have a rinfr. 
 Not one of rush, but a golden thing ; 
 And I shall bo glad as a bird in spring, 
 
 Because I am married o' Sunday. 
 
 And li the church I must kneel down 
 Before tho parson of our good town; 
 But I ^iU not soil my kirtlu and gown, 
 
 When 1 am married o' Sunday. 
 
 Then the bells shall ring so merry and loud. 
 And Kobin shall go before with his crowd. 
 But no one shall say I was silly or proud. 
 
 Though I was nuirried o' Sunday 
 
 "When I como home we shall go to meat : 
 I will sit by my husband so line and feat, 
 Though it is but a little that I shall eat 
 
 After I 've been married o' Sunday. 
 
 Then we shall laugh, and dance, and sing, 
 And the men shall not kiss mo in the ring, 
 But wish 't was their chance at this merry-making, 
 ■ To have been married o' Sunday. 
 
 At night betimes we shall go to bed, 
 I with my husband that hath me wed ; 
 And then thei'c is uo more to be said 
 
 But that I was married o' Sunday. 
 
 " Counterpoints. 
 
 That is, counterpanes. They were often very costly, 
 and Stowe mentions one worth a thousand marks. 
 
 <3 J^esldes two galllasscs. 
 
 Gallias, a large kind of galley. Malone explains it, "a 
 heavy low built vessel of burthen, with both sails and oars, 
 partaking at once of the nature of a ship and a galley." 
 
 <* Yet I have faced it with a card of ten. 
 
 Warburton's explanation of this phrase is altogether 
 erroneous. Malone says it was " applied to those persons 
 who gained their ends by impudence, and bold confident 
 assertion." Its origin has not been satisfactorily explained. 
 
 ■" I will not hear these braves of thine. 
 
 " If not, 't is not your iraves nor your affecting lookes 
 can ciurie it," Chapman's Widdowes Teares, 1612. "His 
 looks are full of darings ; his voyce thunders out Iraves," 
 Decker's Strange Horse-Kace, 1613. 
 
 " lam no Tirceching scholar. 
 
 That is, scholar liable to be breeclied or flogged. So in 
 Marlowe's Edward II. 
 
 I view the prince with Aristarchus' eyes, 
 Whose looks -were as a breeching to a boy. 
 
 " Avoir ta salle, to be whipt in pulilicke, as breeching 
 boyes are aometimes in tlie lialls of collcdges." Cotgrave. 
 
 *' Conster them. 
 
 OonsicTy construe. Modern editors sometimes retain. 
 Piid Boraotimos modernize, tliis archaism. 
 62 
 
 *" I am not so nice. 
 
 Tho word nife appesirs in this, and in a few other in- 
 stances, to bo synonymous viitbfastidious. 
 
 <" To cast thy wandering eyes on every stale. 
 
 Stale appears to be employed in this place as a generic 
 term of contempt. Its usual application was to a woman 
 of bad character. 
 
 '" Unto a mad-lrainrudesby, fall of spleen. 
 
 Jiudesly, a rude rough fellow. Several compounds of 
 this kind occur in contemporary works. SpUen, humour, 
 caprice. 
 
 " Would vex a very saint. 
 
 Very is omitted by Stoevena as redundant, and also by 
 Mr. Knight. It is properly restored by Mr. Collier. 
 
 " Inficted icith the fashions. 
 
 Fashions, a provincialism for t\i<s farcy. " On S. Stevct;s 
 Day, it is the custome all horses to be let blond and 
 drench'd : A gentleman being (that morning) demaunded 
 whether it pleased him to have his horse let blond and 
 drencht according to the fiishion ? He answer'd, — No, 
 Sirra, my horse is not diseas'd of i\w fashions.'''' — Cojdefs 
 Wits, Fits, and Fancies, 1614, p. 22. 
 
 The fves, says Markham, Mai.«ter-Peece, lG-13, p. 2?o. 
 " are certaine great kirnels wliich grow from the roote of 
 the horses eare, down to the lower part of his neathcr jaw " 
 Velnre, velvet. Stock, stocking. 
 
 *3 The humour of forty fancies. 
 
 " The Humour of Forty Fancies," says Steevens, " was 
 probably a collection of those short poems which are calK-d 
 Fancies, by Falstaff, in the Second Part of Kin// ITenry I\'. : 
 " — sung those tunes which he heard the carmen whistle, 
 and swore they were his Fancies, his good-nights." Nor 
 is the JIumour of Forty Fancies a more extraordinary title 
 to a collection of poems, than tlie well-known Hundred 
 suudrie Flowers bounde up in one small Poesie. — .\ Para.- 
 dise of Dainty Devises. — The Arbor of Amorous Conceits. 
 — The Gorgeous Gallery of Gallant Inventions. — The Forest 
 of Histories. — The Ordinary of Humors, &c. Chance, at 
 some future period, may establish as a certainty what is 
 now ofl'ered as a conjecture. A penny book, containing 
 forty short poems, would, properly managed, furnish no 
 unapt imitation of " a plume of feathers for the hat of a 
 humourist's servant." 
 
 •* I hold you a penny. 
 
 I follow Mr. Collier's method in printing these lines. 
 Mr. Knight, however, doubts the propriety of this arrange- 
 ment ; but I think the jingle "was intentional, although tho 
 words are not necessarily derived from *' an old tnllad." 
 Jiol-d is equivalent to, bet. So in tho Disobedient Child 
 written about 1560, — 
 
 Nay, by the masse, I hohle ye a grote 
 Those cruell tyrauntes cut not my throte. 
 
 " Arid threw the sops all in the sexton's face. 
 
 It was formerly the custom to drink wine in tho churcb 
 fiftcr the marriage ceremony was completed, i'he Samin 
 
 489
 
 NOTES TO THE TAMING OF THE SHKEW. 
 
 MiBsal directs that the wine, and the Bops immersed in it, 
 should be blessed by the priest ; the sops being pieces of 
 oake or wafers. The custom is thus alluded to iu an old 
 poem, — 
 
 AVhat priest can join two lovers hands, 
 But wine must seal tlie marriage bauds. 
 
 Wiscadet was a ricli sweet-smelling wine. It was also 
 te/tned muscadine. " Besides, the drink was as different, 
 the one being beer or mcand, the others, alligant, sacke, 
 and mubkadell," Sir T. Smith's Voiage in Jiiissia, 1605. 
 " Soppes and muscadine" are mentioned together in Deck- 
 er's Wonderful! Yeare, 1603. 
 
 60 You JcnotD fh^re want nojunhets at tne feast. 
 
 Junlets, sweetmeats, dainties. 
 
 Here thou may'st finde some good and solid fare; 
 It' thou lov'bt pl(:iisanX, junkets, here tliey are. 
 
 M'its Eecrt:ation$, 1640. 
 
 " Was ever man so rayed. 
 
 Bayed, bewrayed, made dirty. " FouUy rav'd with filthy 
 soil," Spenser. 
 
 68 Aicay, you three-incli fool ! 
 
 Alluding, of course, to Grumio's diminutive height. 
 Warburton oddly explains it, "witli a skull three inches 
 tlick, a phrase tKken from the thicker sort of planks." 
 
 6« .hA loy! ho hoy! are the first words of an old round, 
 printed in Eavenscroft'a Pammelia. A MS. copy of it 
 occurs in MS. Addit. 5337, in the British Museum. 
 
 "0 The house trimmtd, rushes strewed. 
 
 Our ancestors were net very cleanly in their habits, and 
 fresh rushes concealed many impurities. '' Their honours 
 are upon comming, and the roome not readie : rushes and 
 geates instantly," Chapman's WiddowesTeares, 1612. One 
 of the ancient regulations for the royal household pro- 
 vides, — " Firste, to bee there att a convenyente bower in 
 the morninge, to see thee groomes strowe the chambers 
 that arc to be strowed, sweep those that are matted, to 
 make ifyers in all those chambers wliere tlie K. ilatye 
 repeyrethe, and the chambers to bee dressed upp in all 
 other things, and made as sweete as may bee ; viz. palliats 
 to be avoyeded, the clothe of estate and chayres to be sett 
 in order, the windowes and the cupboards to be furnished 
 with coshcns." 
 
 Carpets, i. e., table-covers, which were often ornamental 
 pieces of tapestry. Carpets were not formerly used fur 
 covering floors, except on state occasions. 
 
 " £e tlte jacks fair within, the jills fair without. 
 
 According to Stoevcna, Grumio quibbles on the mean- 
 ings 0^ jacks and jUU, which, he says, signified drinking 
 measures as well aa the names of servants. " The dis- 
 tinction," ho Buys, " made in the questions concerning 
 them, wa.s owing to this : T!ic Jacks being of leather, could 
 not he made to appear beautiful on the outside, but were 
 Fory apt to conlract foulness within; whereas the Jills, 
 
 being of metal, were expected to be kept bright externally, 
 and were not liable to dirt on the inside, like tlie leather.'' 
 Jiemoiled, bedraggled, bemired. 
 
 »2 Garters of an indifferent knit. 
 That is, of only a tolerable quality. 
 
 «= 'Titers was no link to colour Peter's hat. 
 
 Steevens quotes the following very apposite passage 
 from Mihil Mumchance, an old tract ascribed to Koberl 
 Greene : — " This cozenage is used likewise in selling old 
 hats found upon dung-hills, instead of newe, blackt over 
 with the smoake of an old linke." A link is a torch oi 
 pitch. 
 
 6* Where is the life that late lied. 
 
 This is the first line of an old ballad, which described 
 the state of a lover newly enchained in love's bonds. 
 
 Soud, says Malone, is "a word coined by our poet to ex- 
 pres^s the noise made by a person heated and fiitigued." 
 
 '6 Another way Ihave to man my liaggard. 
 
 That is, to tame my wild hawk. "He that professeth 
 vertuous love to a woman, and gives ground when hia 
 vanitie is rejected, shall have his belles cut off, and fly for 
 a haggard." — Uceriury's New and Choise Cfuzractera. 
 
 Bate, flutter. A hawking term. 
 
 »« Eoiv to tame a throw. 
 Shrow, for the sake of the rhyme. See Note 88. 
 
 " And makes a god of such a cuUlon. 
 
 Cullicn, a stupid or despicable fellow. " Alexander waa 
 an asse to spenke so well of a filthy cullion," Marston's 
 Malcontent, 1604. 
 
 " An ancient angel coming down the hill. 
 
 The use of the term angd in this line seems best illns- 
 trated by Cotgrave, — ^^ Angelot n let grosse escaille, an old 
 angell ; and, by metaphor, a fellow of th' old, sound, hon- 
 est, and worthie stampc." Before I met with this passage, 
 I was inclined to accept Gifford's suggestion, enghk. [Since 
 writing the above, I find I have been anticipated by Mr 
 Singer, wlio quoted the passage from Cotgrave in his edi- 
 tion of Shakespeare published in 1826. It is very difficult 
 to be certain of originality in such matters, but it appears 
 strange that recent editors should not liave availed tliom- 
 sclves of Mr. Singer's discovery.] 
 
 "" Take in your love. 
 
 Tlie first folio reads, " Par. Take me your love," as if 
 we were to read, " Partake mo your love." Tliis is not 
 noticed by former editors, but the reading is possible, mt 
 being the redundant olijective pronoun. I prefer, how- 
 ever, Tlieobald's emendation. 
 
 '» To pass assurance of a dower 
 To pass assurance, sn\s Malone, means to mftke a con-
 
 NOTES TO THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 
 
 vcynncG or deed. An assurance was a deed. " And pass 
 my daughter a »utBcicnt dower," act iv. bc. 4. 
 
 " IVIiat, swectiny, all amort f 
 
 AH amort, quite dispirited. Tlie old ballad of ' 
 Uobiu's Dream" commences aa foUowy: — 
 
 Toor 
 
 llow now, {rood fellow^ what, all amort ' 
 
 I pray tell mo what is the news ? 
 Traciin;:; is dead and I 'ni sorry for 't, 
 
 Which makea mo look worse than I use ; 
 If a man hath no employment where by to get a 
 
 penny, 
 lie hath no enjoyment if he wanteth money, 
 And charity ia not used by any. 
 
 '^ And all my faint are sorted to no pronf. 
 
 Tho old copies read, is sorted, but the grammatical phra- 
 seology of Shukespearo is not generally .idhered to in tho 
 cases of plural and singular. Douce explains this, "all my 
 liibonr is adapted to no approof," or, *' I have taken all 
 this pains without approbation." 
 
 T3 ^Tis a cocJ:U, or a walnut shell. 
 
 Sm.all velvet caps were in fashion amongst the city ladies 
 about tho year 1600. Ben Jonson alludes to them in Keery 
 Man in his Humour, — 
 
 -Our great heads 
 
 "Within this city never were in safety, 
 Since our wives wore these little caps. 
 
 '* A custard^co£in. 
 
 Tlie \ repared crust of a pio or custard was called a coffin. 
 "Than take thin cofyns, and put in tho ovynue lerc, and 
 iat hem ben hardyd," MS. Harl. 279. 
 
 '^ Lilu to a censer in a Ijarler's shop. 
 
 A censer was a perfuming-pan. Steevens says, — " I 
 learn from an ancient print, that these censers resembled 
 in shape our modern brasieres. They had pierced convex 
 covers, and stood on feet. They not only served to sweeten 
 a barber's shop, but to keep his water warm, and dry his 
 clothes on." 
 
 '" Be-Tnete, he-measure. Braved, made brave or fine. 
 Finery was called bravery. 
 
 '7 With a small cnmpassed cape. 
 
 That is, a round capo. In another place, a bow wnnaow 
 is called a compassed window. A trunk sleeve was one 
 made very full and large. Mete-yard, measuring yard. 
 
 's Fur curious I cannot be with you. 
 
 C'-irious, scrupulous, ceremonious. " Lady, our fashion 
 ia not curious," Antonio and Mellida. 
 
 " And, happily, we might be inien-upted. 
 
 Happily, for haply, by chance, is not unasual in old works. 
 The commentators are a littlo confused on this poiut. 
 
 •° Tell me, sweet Kate. 
 
 The corresponding passage in the old Taming of a fihrea 
 offers a favourable example of the original play on which 
 Shakespeare's was founded. 
 
 Pulce. Thus al alone from ("estus am I come, 
 And left my princely court and noble traine, 
 To come to Athens, and in tliis disguise, 
 To see what course rny son Aurelius takes. 
 But stay, hercs some it may be travels thither; 
 Good sir, can you direct me the way to Atliens. 
 
 [Ferando speaks to the old man. 
 Faire lovely maido, yong and affable, 
 More cleere of licw and far more beautiful! 
 Tlien protious Sardonix or purple rockes 
 Of Amitliests, or glistering lliasinth. 
 More amiable far then is the plain. 
 Where glistering Cepherus in silver boures, 
 Gascth upon the Giant Andromede; 
 Sweet Kate, enterUiinc tliis lovely woman. 
 
 JJuh. I thinke the man is maa ; he cals me a woman 
 
 Kate. Faire lovely lady, bright and Christaline, 
 Bowtcous and stately as the eic-train'd bird, 
 As glorious as the morning washt with dew, 
 "Witiiin whose eies she takes her dawning beames, 
 And golden somnicr sleepcs upon thy cheekes, 
 Wrapt up thy radiations in some cloud, . 
 Lest that tliv bewty make this stately towne 
 Inhabitable like the burning Zone, 
 Witli sweet reflections of thy lovely face. 
 
 I'uie. What, is she mad too? or Is my shape transformd, 
 That both of them persuade me I am a woman ; 
 But they are mad sure, and therefore ile be gone, 
 And leave their companies for feare of harme, 
 And unto Atliens haste to seek my son. [Kcit Dukk 
 
 FeranuO. Why so, Kate, this was friendly done of tnoe. 
 And kindly too : why thus must we two live, 
 One minde, one heart, and one content for both ; 
 This good old man dos thinke that we are mad, 
 And glad is he I am sure, that he is gone ; 
 But come, sweet Kute, for we will after him, 
 And now persuade him tn his shape againe. [ Kic. mnwH. 
 
 salous. i. e.. Suspicioua. 
 
 '2 Come hither, crack-hemp. 
 
 Crack-hemp, a rascal. This cant term oecurs cndT 
 various forms, crack-halter, crack-rope, &c. It litorally 
 means, a fellow likely to be hung. So Middlcton, — 
 
 If I a gipsie be, 
 
 A crack-rope 1 am for tliee. 
 
 " And a copatain hau 
 
 This was a high conical hat, in the form of & sugar loaf 
 Keunet says that, in his time, a hat witli a hig:. .jrown wafi 
 called a copped-crovm hat. 
 
 Than cam the skippyng sort, 
 
 In daunce disguised shakyng sbanlc^ ; 
 
 Tlie Saiii praunsiiig priests. 
 
 With mitred crowues and coppid tuncks. 
 
 Virgil, translated by Phaer, 4to., 1578 
 
 •* Viliat concerns it you, 
 
 Mr. Knight follows the first folio, which reads cerns, 
 which may, by bare possibility, be a contracted form of 
 concerns. I think it, however, a misprint, and it is cor- 
 rected in the second folio. 
 
 491
 
 NOTES TO THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 
 
 s» HorUmio feat n hia widow. 
 
 Fsar was used in two senses, to dread, and to frigliteu. 
 Tlu> widow r.nderstauds it in the sense not intended by 
 petrucio. 
 
 6s I thank thee for that gird. 
 
 Gird, a jest or sarcasm. So Falstaff says, — " every man 
 tfts ^gird at me." 
 
 *' ITiough you hit the white. 
 
 Alluding to archery, the marli having been generally 
 white "I believe that neither one or the other hit the 
 1»2 
 
 whiti, yet I believe the papist's arrows fall the nearest to 
 
 it in this particular." — The JSloudt/ Tenent of Pencivtvn^ 
 1644. 
 
 88 Thou hast tam^d a curst shroiv. 
 
 I retain the old reading, skrow, and in two other places, 
 on account of the rhyme. The pronunciation was certainly 
 intended to be shroe. 
 
 An empty vessel gives a mighty sound. 
 When least or nothing can therein be found. 
 Many can tell the way to tame a ehro-w, 
 But thcj' wliich have the woman doe not know. 
 
 raagvU'e Nighi. Gap, 1612
 
 Ill's imi tjint Cnk iM 
 
 'PUE stoiy of All 's Well that Ends Well is to be found in Boccaccio, but Shakespeare derived it fi'om 
 a translation in Painter's "Palace of Pleasure," 156G, where it is thus described — "Giletta, a phy- 
 sician's doughter of Narbon, healed the Frencho kyng of a fistula, for reward wherof she demaunded Bel- 
 tramo, counte of Eossiglione, to husbande. The counte, beyng maried againste his will, for despite fled 
 to Florence, and loved another. Giletta, his wife, by pollicie founde meanes to lye with her husbande, 
 in place of his lover, and was begotten with child of two soonnes : whiche, knowen to her husbande, he 
 received her againe, and afterwardes he lived in gi-eate honor and felicitie." The leading features of 
 this tale have been adopted by Shakespeare, with scarcely any variations ; but the comic scenes in 
 the play are original. 
 
 All's Well that Ends Well relates the conquest of a passionate, resistless affection, over the difficul- 
 ties caused by a great disparity of station, difficulties which were greatly augme^ated by the family pride 
 of the person beloved. The baneful feeling of contempt arising from this source is confessed by 
 Bertram to have been the reason why Helena's love was not returned ; and his subdued nfiection was 
 converted into scorn by a compelled marriage. His pride is offended by compulsion, and he becomes 
 the victim of caprice, seeking to heal his wounded self-esteem by change of scene and action. There 
 is much of the mixture of character in this play. To use the words of the poet himself — " The web 
 of our life is of a mingled yam, good and ill together : our virtues would be proud, if our faults whipp'd 
 them not ; and our crimes would despair, if they were not cherish'd by our virtues." Dr. Johnson 
 would censure Berti'am as of imperfect virtue ; but his character is not imaginary — it is taken from life 
 Excuses can be adduced for his errors, and even those are doubtlessly redeemed. 
 
 We learn on the clearest evidence that among the comedies of Shakespeare exisiting in 1508, was 
 a companion play to Loves Labour 's Lost, called Lovers Labour 's Won. It is so mentioned in tlie 
 Palladis Tamia of Francis Meres, published in London in that year ; and, as Malone observes, speak- 
 ing of tlie present drama, no other of our author's plays could have borne the title of Love's Labour's 
 Won with so much propriety. Remembering that the argument is restricted to the comedies, there 
 really appears neither doubt nor difficulty in deciding on the identification. Mr. Knight has put the 
 argument in a very clear and forcible manner. What, he says, would naturally be the counterpart oi 
 such a story as Love's Labour 's Lost ? " One of passionate, enduring, all-pervading love — of a love 
 that shrinks from no difficulty, resents no imkinjuess, fears no disgrace, but perseveres, under the most 
 adverse circumstances, to vindicate its own claims by its own energy, and to achieve success by the 
 strength of its own will. This is the Labour of Love which is won." The story of All 's Well that 
 Ends Well is, therefore, the companion tale to Love's Labour's Lost, and we maybe tolerably sure that 
 Love's Labour's Won was iis original significant title. 
 
 493
 
 PERSONS REPRESEI^TED 
 
 Kino of France. 
 AffMr^, Act I. sc. 2. Act II. sc. 1 ; sc. 3. Act V. sc. 3. 
 
 Dl'ke of Florence. 
 Appears, Act III. so. 1 ; sc. 8. 
 
 Bertram, Count of Rousillon. 
 
 Appears, Act I. so. 1 ; so. 2. Act II. so. 1 ; so. 3; so. 5. 
 
 Act III. sc. 3 ; sc. 5 ; so. 6. Act IV. so. 2 ; .sc. 3. 
 
 Act V. so. 3. 
 
 Lafeu, an old Lord. 
 
 Appears, .\ct I. so. 1 ; so. 2. Act II. sc. 1 ; so. 3 ; so. 5. 
 Act IV. 60. 5. Act V. 60. 2; so. 3. 
 
 Parolles, a follower q/" Bertram. 
 
 Appears, Act I. so. 1 ; sc. 2. Act II. sc. 1 ; so. 3; sc. 4; 
 
 sc. 5. Act HI. sc. 5 ; so. 6. Act IV. sc. 1 ; 
 
 so. 3. Act V. sc. 2; so. 3. 
 
 Several yoxing French Lords that serve with Ber- 
 tram in the Floraitine war. 
 
 Appear, Act II. sc. 1 ; sc. 3. Act III. sc. 1 ; sc. 6. 
 Act IV. sc. 1; so. 3. 
 
 Steward, servant to the Countess of Rousillon. 
 Appears, Act I. so. 8. Act III. so. 4. 
 
 Clown, in the service of the Counl/ess of Rousillon. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 8. Act II. sc. 2; sc. 4. Act III. sc. 2. 
 Act IV. BC. E. Act V. 80. 2. 
 494 
 
 An Astringer, or Falooricr. 
 Appears, Act V. sc. 1 ; sc. 8. ' 
 
 A Page. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1. 
 
 Countess of Rousillon, mother to Bortr.im. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1 ; so. 8. Act II. so. 2. Act III. so. 2 
 so. 4. Act IV. sc. 5. Act V. sc. 3. 
 
 Helena, a gentlewoman, protected bij the Countess. 
 
 Appears, Act I. so. 1 ; so. 8. Act II. sc. 1 ; sc. 3 ; sc. 1 ; 
 
 sc. 5. Act III. sc. 2 ; sc. 5 ; sc. 7. Act IV. sc. 4. 
 
 Act V. sc. 1 ; sc. 3. 
 
 An old Widow of Florence. 
 
 Appears, Act III. so. 5 ; so. 7. Act IV. so. 4. 
 Act V. sc. 1 ; 30. 3. 
 
 Diana, daughter to the Wiilow. 
 
 Appears, Act III. sc. 5. Act IV. sc. 2 ; sc. 4. 
 Act V. so. 1 ; so. 3. 
 
 VI0LE.^rA, neighbour and friend to the Widow 
 Appears, Act III. sc. 5. 
 
 Mariana, neighbour avid friend to iiic Widow. 
 Appears, Act III. so. 5. 
 
 Lords attending on the King; Ojjicas, Soldia's^ 
 dr., French ar.d Flarcnline. 
 
 SCENE, — Is FKy.scE and in Ti..«ica>"t.
 
 ail's m\\ tiint ciife mil 
 
 ACT I, 
 
 BCENE .. — Eousillou. A Room in the Countess's 
 Palace. 
 
 Enter Bertram, the Countess of Eousillon, 
 Helena, and Lafetj, in mourning. 
 
 Count. In dolivenng my sou from me, I bury a 
 second husband. 
 
 Ber. And I, in going, madam, weep o'er my 
 father's deatli anew : but I must attend his majes- 
 ty's command, to whom I am now in ward, ever- 
 more in subjection. 
 
 Laf. You shall find of the king a husband, 
 madam ; — you, sir, a father. He that so generally 
 is at all times good, must of necessity hold his 
 virtue to you ; whose worthiness would stir it up 
 where it wanted, rather than lack it where there 
 IS such abundance. 
 
 Count. What hope is there of his majesty's 
 amendment ? 
 
 Laf. He hath abandon'd his physicians, madam ; 
 under whose practices he hath persecuted time 
 with hope, and finds no other advantage in the 
 process but only the losing of hope by time. 
 
 Count. This young gentlewoman had a father, 
 (0, that had! how sad a passage' 'tis!) whose 
 skill was almost as great as his honesty ; had it 
 stretch'd so far, would have made nature immor- 
 tal, and death should have play for lack of v.-ork. 
 'Would, for the king's sake, he were living! I 
 think it wouia be the death of the king's disease. 
 
 Laf. How call'd you the man you sjK'ak of, 
 madam ? 
 
 Count. He was famous, sir, in his profession, 
 and it was his great right to be so : Gerard de 
 Narbon. 
 
 Laf. He was excellent, indeed, madam ; the 
 king very lately spoke of him admiringly and 
 mourningly : he was skilful enough to have liv'd 
 still, if knowledge could be set up against mor- 
 tality. 
 
 Ber. What is it, my good lord, me king lan- 
 guishes of? 
 
 Laf. A fistula, my lord. 
 
 Ber. I heard not of it before. 
 
 Laf. I would it were not notorious. — Was this 
 gentlewoman the daughter of Gerard de Narbon \ 
 
 Count. His sole child, my lord ; and bequeathed 
 to my overlooking. I have those hopes of her 
 good that her education promises : her dispositions 
 she inherits, which make fair gifts fiiirer ; for 
 where an unclean mind' carries virtuous qualities, 
 there commendations go with pity, — they are 
 \'irtues and traitors too : in her they are the better 
 for their simpleness ; she derives her honesty, and 
 achieves her goodness. 
 
 Laf. Your commendations, madam, get from 
 her teais. 
 
 Count. 'T is the best brine a maiden can season 
 her praise in. The remembrance of her father 
 never approaches her heart but the tyranny of hei 
 
 495
 
 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 sorrows takes all livelihood fi-om her clieek. No 
 more of this, Helena — go to, no more ; lest it be 
 rather thought you affect a sorrow, than to have. 
 
 Hel. I do aflect a sorrow, indeed, but I have 
 it too. 
 
 Laf. Moderate lamentation is the right of the 
 dead ; excessive giief the enemy to the living. 
 
 Sel. If the living bo enemy to the grief, the 
 excess makes it soon mortal. 
 
 Ber. Madam, I desire your holy wishes. 
 
 Laf. How understand we that ? 
 
 Count. Be thou blest, Bertram 1 and succeed 
 thy father 
 In manners, as in shape ! thy blood, ajd virtue, 
 Contend for empire in thee ; and thy goodness 
 Share with thy birthright! Love all, trust a few. 
 Do wi'ong to none : be able for thine enemy 
 Rather in power than use ; and keep thy friend 
 Under thy own life's key : be check'd for silence. 
 But never tax'd for speech. What Heaven more 
 
 will, 
 That thee may furnish, and my prayers pluck down. 
 Fall on thy head ! Farewell. — My lord, 
 'T is an unseason'd courtier ; good my lord. 
 Advise him. 
 
 Laf. He cannot want the best 
 
 That shall attend his love. 
 
 Coiinl. Heaven bless him ! — Farewell, Bertram. 
 
 [Fxit. 
 
 Bcr. The best wishes that can be forg'd in your 
 thoughts \to Helena] be servants to you ! Be 
 comfortable to my mother, your mistress, and make 
 much of her. 
 
 Laf. Farewell, pretty lady : You must hold the 
 credit of your father. 
 
 [Exeunt Bertram and Lafeu. 
 
 Hel O, were that all ! — I think not on my 
 father ; 
 And these great tears grace his rememorance more 
 Than those I shed for him. "WHiat was he like ? 
 I have forgot him : my imagination 
 Carries no favour in 't but Bertram's. 
 I am undone ; there is no living, none, 
 If Bertram be away. It were all one 
 That I should love a bright particular star. 
 And think to wed it, he is so above mo : 
 In his bright radiance and collateral light 
 Must I be comforted, not in his sphere. 
 Th' ambition in my love thus plagues itself; 
 The hind that would be mated by the lion 
 Must die for love. 'T was pretty, though a 
 plague, 
 
 496 
 
 To see him every hour ; to sit and draw 
 His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls. 
 In our heart's table ;' heart too capable 
 Of every line and trick of his sweet favour : 
 But now he 's gone, and my idolatrous fancy 
 Must sanctify his relics. Who comes here ? 
 * 
 
 Enter Parolles. 
 
 One that goes with him : I love him for his sake ; 
 
 And yet I know him t notorious liar, 
 
 Think him a great way fool, solely a coward; 
 
 Yet these fix'd evils sit so fit in him. 
 
 That they take place, when vu'tue's steely bonos 
 
 Look bleak i' the cold wind : withal, fuU oft we 
 
 see 
 Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly- 
 Par. Save you, fair queen. 
 
 Hel. And you, monarch. 
 
 Par. No. 
 
 Hel. And no. 
 
 Par. Are you meditating on virginity ? 
 
 Hd. A.J. You have some stain of soldier in 
 you ; let me ask you a question. Man is enemy 
 to virginity; how may we barricade it against 
 him? 
 
 Par. Keep him out, 
 
 Hel. But ho assails ; and our virginity, though 
 valiant in the defence, yet is weak : unfold to us 
 some warlike resistance. 
 
 Par. There is none : man, sitting down before 
 you, will undermine you, and blow you up. 
 
 Hel. Bless our poor virginity from underminors 
 and blowers up ! — Is there no military policy how 
 virgins might blow up men ? 
 
 Par. Vii-giuity, being blown down, man will 
 quicklier be blown up : marry, in blowing him 
 down again, with the breach yourselves made, you 
 lose your city. It is not politic in the common- 
 wealth of nature to preserve \'irginity. Loss of 
 virginity is rational increase ; and there was never 
 virgin got, till virginity was first lost. That you 
 were made of is metal to make virgins. Virgi- 
 nity, by being once lost, may be ten times found ; 
 by being ever kept, it is ever lost : 't is too cold s 
 companion ; away with 't, 
 
 Hel. I will stand for 't a little, though therefore 
 I die a virgin. 
 
 Par. There 's little can be said in 't ; 't is agamst 
 the rule of nature. To speak on tlu^ jiart of vir- 
 ginitv is to accuse your mothers; which is most 
 infallible disobedience. He that hangs himself is 
 a virgin : virginity murthers itself, and should bo
 
 ALL'S WELL 'IHAl' KNM)S WELL. 
 
 SCENE TL 
 
 I 
 
 ImrieJ in higliways, out of all sanctified limit, as 
 !i ilesperate oft'endress against nature. Virginity 
 breeds inites, nui^li like a cheese; consumes itself 
 to llio very paring, and so dies with feeding his 
 o\\ n stomach. Besides, virginity is peevish, proud, 
 ■''ie, made of self-love, which is the most inhibited^ 
 •in in the canon. Keep it not; you cannot choose 
 bui lose by 't: out with 't: within ten years it will 
 make itself ten, which is a goodly increase ; and the 
 principal itself not much the worse : Away with 't. 
 IIcl. How might cne do, sir, to lose it to her 
 own liking? 
 
 Par. Let me see : Marry, ill, to like him that 
 ne'er it likes. 'T is a commodity will lose the 
 gloss with lying ; the longer kept, the less worth : 
 off with 't, while 't is vendible : answer the time 
 of request. Virginity, hke an old courtier, wears 
 her cap out of fashion ; richly suited, but unsuit- 
 able ; just like the brooch and the toothpick, which 
 wear not now. Your date* is better in your pie 
 and your porridge, than in your cheek ; and your 
 vir<rini(y, your old virginit)', is like one of our 
 French wither'd pears; it looks ill, it eats drily; 
 ma riy, 't is a wither'd pear ; it was formerly better ; 
 many, yet, 't is a wither'd pear. Will you any- 
 iliin^ with it? 
 
 /III. Not my \'irginily yet. 
 There shall your master have a thousand loves, 
 A mother, and a mistress, and a friend, 
 A phcBuix, captain, and an enemy, 
 A guide, a goddess, and a sovereign, 
 A counsellor, a traitoress, and a dear, 
 Llis humble ambition, proud humility. 
 His jarring concord, and his discord dulcet, 
 His faith, his sweet disaster : with a world 
 Of pretty, fond, adoptions Christendoms, 
 That blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he — 
 I know not what he shall : — God send him well ! — 
 The court's a learning-place; — and he is one- 
 Par. Wl..it one, i'laith? 
 Hd. Thut I wish well.— 'T is pity- 
 Pan What 's pity ? 
 
 ffel. That wishing well had not a body in 't. 
 Which might be felt : that we, the poorer born, 
 WhobC baser stare do shut us up in wishes, 
 Might with effects of them follow our fiiends. 
 And show what we alone must think ; which never 
 Returns us thanks. 
 
 £nter a Page. 
 
 Page. Monsieur PmoIIcs, my lord calls for you. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Par. Little Helen, farewell : if I can remember 
 thee, I will lliink of thee at court. 
 
 JIi/. Monsieur Parolles, you were born under a 
 charitable star. 
 
 Par. Under Mars, L 
 
 //(-'/. I es]iecially.t!iitik, under Mars. 
 
 J'iir. AVhy undi.'r Mars? 
 
 Hel. The wars have so kept you under, that yoo 
 must needs be born under Mare. 
 
 Par. When he was predominant. 
 
 //(■/. When he was retrogi'ade, I think, rather. 
 
 Par. Why think you so * 
 
 IIcl. You go so much backward when you fight. 
 
 Par. That 's for advantage. 
 
 IIcL So is running away, when fear j)roposes 
 the safety : but the composition that your valour 
 and fear makes in you is a virtue of a good wing, 
 and I like the wear well. 
 
 Par. I am so full of businesses, I cannot answer 
 thee acutely: I will return perfect courtier; in 
 the which, my instruction shall serve to naturalize 
 thee, so thou wilt be capable of a courtier's coun- 
 sel, and understand what advice shall thrust upon 
 thee ; else thou diest in thine unthankfnlness, and 
 thine ignorance makes thee away : farewell. When 
 thou hast leisure, say thy prayers; when thou 
 hast none, remember thy friends : get thee a good 
 husband, and use him as he uses thee : so fare- 
 well. [E-cit. 
 
 Hel. Our remedies oft in oureelves do lie. 
 Which we ascribe to heaven ; the fated sky 
 Gives us free scope ; only, doth backward pull 
 Our slow designs, when we ourselves are dull. 
 What power is it which mounts my love so high, 
 That makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye ! 
 The mightiest space in fortune nature brings 
 To join like likes, and kiss like native things. 
 Impossible be strange attempts to those 
 That weigh their j)ains in sense; and do suppose 
 What hath been cannot be. W'ho ever strove 
 To show her merit, that did miss her love ? 
 The king's disease — my project may deceive me, 
 But mv intents are fi.x'd, and will not leave me. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 SCENE n —Paris. A Room in the King's 
 Palace. 
 
 Flourish of cornets. Enter the King of France, 
 with letters; Lords ami others attending. 
 
 King. The Florentines and Senoys are by th' cars 
 Have fought with equal fortune, and continue 
 A braving war. 
 
 407
 
 r' 
 
 A 01 1 
 
 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 scENB m 
 
 1 Lord. So 't is reported, sir. 
 
 King. Nay, 't is most credible ; we here re- 
 ceive it 
 A certainty, voucli'd from our cousin Austria, 
 With caution, that the Florentine will move us 
 For speedy aid ; wherein our dearest friend 
 Prejudicates the business, and would seem 
 To have us make denial. 
 
 1 Lord. His love and wisdom, 
 A.pprov'd so to your majesty, may plead 
 For amplest credence. 
 
 King. He hath arm'd our answer. 
 
 And Florence is denied before he comes ; 
 Yet, for our gentlemen that mean to see 
 The Tuscan service, freely have they leave 
 To stand on either part. 
 
 2 Lord. It may well serve 
 A nureeiy to our gentry, who are sick 
 For breathing and exploit. 
 
 King. What 's he comes here ? 
 
 Enter Bertram, Lafeu, and Parolles. 
 
 1 Lord. It is the count Rousillon, my good 
 lord, 
 V.:ung Bertram. 
 
 King. 
 
 face; 
 
 Youth, thou bear'st thy father's 
 
 Frank Nature, rather curious than in haste. 
 
 Hath well composed thee. Thy father's moral 
 
 paits 
 May'st thou inherit too ! Welcome to Paris. 
 
 Ber. My thanks and duty are your majesty's. 
 
 King. I would I had that corporal soundness 
 now, 
 As when thy father and myself, in friendship. 
 First tried our soldiership ! Ho did look far 
 Into the service of the time, and was 
 Discipled of the bravest : he lasted long ; 
 But on us both did haggish age steal on, 
 And wore us out of act. It much repairs me 
 To talk of your good father : In his youth 
 He had the wit, which I cm well observe 
 To-<lay in our young lords ; but they may jest 
 Till their own scorn return to them unnoted, 
 Ero they can hide their levity in honour. 
 So like a courtier : contempt nor bitterness 
 Were in his pride or sharpness ; if they were, 
 His equal had awak'd them ; and his honour, 
 Clock to itself, knew the true minute when 
 Exception bid him sjicak, ami, at this time. 
 His tongue obey'd his hand : who were below 
 him, 
 498 
 
 He us'd as creatures of another place ; 
 
 And bow'd his eminent top to their low ranks. 
 
 Making them proud of his humility, 
 
 In their poor praise he humbled. Such a man 
 
 Might be a copy to these younger times ; 
 
 Which, follow'd well, would demonstrate then 
 
 now 
 But goers backward. 
 
 Ber. His good remembrance, sir. 
 
 Lies richer in your thoughts than on liis tomb ; 
 So in approof lives not his epitaph, 
 As in your royal speech. 
 
 King. 'Would I were with him ! He would 
 always say, 
 (Methinks I hear him now : his plausive words 
 He scatter'd not in ears, but grafted them. 
 To grow there, and to bear,) — " Let me not 
 
 This his good melancholy oft began. 
 
 On the catastrophe and heel of pastime. 
 
 When it was out, — " Let me not live," quoth he, 
 
 " After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff 
 
 Of younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses 
 
 All but new things disdain ; whose judgments are 
 
 Mere fiithers of their garments ; whose constancies 
 
 Expire before their fashions :" This he wish'd : 
 
 I, after him, do after him wish too. 
 Since I nor wax nor honey can bring home, 
 I quickly were dissolved from my hive. 
 To give some labourers room. 
 
 2 Lord. XoM are lov'd, sir : 
 
 They that least lend it you, shall lack you first. 
 
 King. I fill a place, I know 't. — How long is 't, 
 count. 
 Since the physician at your father's died ? 
 He was much fam'd. 
 
 Ber. Some six months sine*, my lord. 
 
 King. If he were living, I would try hiu] 
 yet;— 
 Lend me an arm ; — the rest have worn me out 
 With several applications : — nature and sickness 
 Debate it at their leisure. Welcome, count : 
 My son 's no dearer. 
 
 Ber. Thank your majesty. 
 
 [Ejtcxiri 
 
 SCENE HI.— Rousillon. A room in tlu 
 Countess's Palace. 
 
 Enter Couktess, Steward, and Clown. 
 
 Count. I will now hear : what say you of tliis 
 gentlewoman 3
 
 ALL'S WELL TILVF K\1)S WELL. 
 
 SCENE in. 
 
 Stew. Maiiain, (lie cnro I have n.id to oven your 
 content, I wish might bo found iu tho ciilendar of 
 my past endeavours : for then we wound our 
 modesty, and make foul tho clearness of our de- 
 servings, when of ourselves we publish them. 
 
 Count. What does this knave hero ? Get you 
 gone, sirrah ! The complaints I have heard of 
 you I do not all believe ; 't is my slowness that I 
 do not : for I know you lack not folly to commit 
 them, and have ability enough to make such 
 knaveries yours. 
 
 Clo. 'T is not unknown to you, madam, I am a 
 poor fellow. 
 
 Count. Well, sir. 
 
 Clo. No, madam, 't is not so well that I am 
 poor ; though many of the rich are damn'd : but, 
 if I may have your ladyship's good-will to go to 
 tho world, Isbel the woman and I will do as we 
 may. 
 
 Count. Wilt thou needs bo a beggar ? 
 
 Clo. I do beg your good-will in this case. 
 
 Count. In what case ? 
 
 Clo. In Isbel's case and mine own. Service is 
 DO heritage : and I think I shall never have the 
 blessing of God, till I have issue a' my bod}' ; for, 
 they say, bairnes are blessings. 
 
 Count. Tell me thy reason why thou wilt 
 marry. 
 
 Clo. My poor body, madam, requires it : I am 
 driven on by the flesli; and he must needs go 
 that the devil drives. 
 
 Count. Is this all your worehip's reason ? 
 
 Clo. Faith, madam, I have other holy reasons, 
 such as they are. 
 
 Count. May the world know them ? 
 
 Clo. I have been, madam, a wicked creature, 
 as you and all flesh and blood are ; and, indeed, I 
 do marry that I may repent. 
 
 Count. Thy marriage, sooner than thy wicked- 
 ness. 
 
 Clo. I am out .a' friends, madam ; and I hope 
 to have friends for my wife's sake. 
 
 Count. Such friends are thine enemies, knave. 
 
 Clo. You 're shallow, madam ; e'en great friends ; 
 for the knaves come to do that for me, which I am 
 a-weary of. He that ears^ my land spares my 
 team, and givee me leave to inn the crop. If I 
 be his cuckold, he 's my drudge. He that com- 
 forts my wife is the cherisher of my flesh and 
 blood ; he that cherishes my flesh and blood loves 
 ray fli-sh and blood ; he that loves my flesh and 
 blood is my friend , «r_7o, he that kisses ray wife 
 
 is my friend. If men could be contented to bo 
 what they are, there were no fear in marriage : k<t 
 young Charbon the puritan, and old Poysam (he 
 papist, howsome'er their heails are sever'd in 
 religion, their heads are. both one, — they may joll 
 horns together, like any deer i' the lierd. 
 
 Count. Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouth'd and 
 calumnious knave ? 
 
 Clo. A prophet I, madam ; and I speak the 
 truth the next way : 
 
 For I the ballad will repeat,' 
 
 Whicli tren full true shall find ; 
 Your marria;^e comes by destiny. 
 
 Your cuckoo sings by kind. 
 
 Count. Get you gone, sir ; I 'II talk with you 
 more anon. 
 
 Slew. May it plo.ase you, madam, that he bid 
 Helen come to you ; of her I am to speak. 
 
 Count. Sirrah, tell my gentlewoman I would 
 speak with her ; Helen I moan. 
 
 Clo. Was this ftir face, quoth she, the cause, [Singing. 
 
 Wliy the Grecians sacked Troy? 
 Fond done, done fond, good sooth it was ; 
 
 Was this king Priam's joy ? 
 With that she sighed as she stood. 
 With that slic sighed as she stood, 
 
 And gave this sentence then ; 
 Among nine bad if one be good, 
 Among nine bad if one be good, 
 
 Tiiere 's yet one good in ten. 
 
 Count. What, one good in ten ? you corrupt the 
 song, sirr.ah. 
 
 Clo. One good wom.nn in ten, madam, which is 
 purifying a' the song : 'Would God would serve 
 the world so all the year ! we 'd find no fiiult with 
 the tithe woman, if I were the parson : One iu ten, 
 quoth a' ! an' we might have a good woman born 
 but for every blazing star, or at an earthqu.oke 
 't would mend tho lottery well ; a man may di-aw 
 his heart out, ere 'a pluck one. 
 
 Count, You '11 be gone, sir knave, and do as I 
 command you ! 
 
 Clo. That man should be at woman's command, 
 and yet no hurt done ! — Though honesty be no 
 puritan, yet it -n-ill do no hurt ; it ^\^ll wear the 
 suqilice of humility over the black go-s\Ti of a big 
 heart.— I am going, forsooth ; the bushiess is for 
 Helen to come hither. [Exit, 
 
 Count. Well, now. 
 
 Stew. I know, madam, you love your gentle- 
 woman entirely. 
 
 Count. Faith, I do : her father bequeath 'd hei 
 
 499
 
 ACT I. 
 
 ALL 'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 SCEKE in. 
 
 to ine ; anJ she herself, without other advantage, 
 may lawfully make title to as much love as she 
 finds : there is more owing lier than is paid ; and 
 more shall be paid her tlian she '11 demand. 
 
 Sleu'. Madam, I was very late more near her 
 than, I think, she wished me : alone she was, and 
 did communicate to hereelf her own words to her 
 own ears ; she thought, I dare vow for her, they 
 touched Hot any stranger sense. Iler matter was, 
 she loved your son. Fortune, she said, was no 
 goddess, that had put such difl'erence betwixt their 
 two estates ; Love, no god, that would not extend 
 his might only where qualities were level ; Diana, 
 no queen of virgins, that would sutler her poor 
 knight surpris'd,' without rescue in the first as- 
 sault, or ransom afterward. This she deliver'd in 
 the most bitter touch of sorrow that e'er I heard 
 virgin exclaim in : wliich I held my duty, speedily 
 to acquaint you withal ; sithence,^ in the loss 
 that may happen, it concerns you something to 
 know it. 
 
 Count. You have diseharg'd this honestly ; keep 
 It to yourself: many likelihoods inform'd me of 
 this before, which hung so tott'ring in the balance, 
 that I could neither believe nor misdoubt. Pi'ay 
 you, leave me : stall this in your bosom, and I 
 thank you for your honest care : I will speak with 
 you fui'ther anon. [Krit Steward. 
 
 Enter Helexa. 
 
 Ccimt. Even so it was with me when I was 
 young : 
 If ever we are nature's, these are ours; this 
 thorn 
 Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong : 
 Our blood to us, this to our blood is born ; 
 It is the show and seal of nature's truth, 
 Where love's strong passion is impress'd in youth : 
 By our remembrances of days foregone, 
 Such were our faults ; — or then we thought them 
 
 iione. 
 IJer eye is sick on 't ; I observe her now. 
 Ifel. Vf hat is your pleasure, madam ? 
 Count. You know, Helena, I am a mother to 
 
 vou. 
 Ifd. Mine honourable mistress. 
 Count. Nay, a mother ; 
 
 Why not a mother? When I said, a mother, 
 Methought you saw a serpent: What's in mother 
 That you start at it? I say, I am your mother; 
 And put you in the catalogue of those 
 That were enwombed mine. T? is often seen 
 500 
 
 Adoption strives with nature ; and choice breeds 
 A native slip to us from foreign seeds : 
 You ne'er oppress'd me with a mother's groan. 
 Yet I express to you a mother's care: — 
 God's mercy, maiden ! does it curd thy blood, 
 To sa)', I am thy mother ? What 's the matter, 
 That this distemper'd messenger of wet, 
 The many-colour'd Iris, rounds thine eye ? 
 Why ? — that you are my daughter ? 
 
 Ifd. That I am not. 
 
 Count. I say, I am your mother. 
 
 Ifel. Pardon, madam ; 
 
 The count Ronsillon cannot be my brother : 
 I am from humble, he from honour'd name ; 
 No note upon my parents, his all noble ; 
 My master, my dear lord he is : and I 
 His servant live, and will his vassal die : 
 He must not be my brother. 
 
 Count. Nor I your mother ? 
 
 Hcl. You are my mother, madam. ('Would 
 you were. 
 So that my lord, your son, were not my brother.) 
 Indeed, my mother ! — (Or were you both our 
 
 mothers, 
 I care no more for than I do for heaven. 
 So I were not his sister.) Can 't no other" 
 But, I your daughter, he must be my brother ? 
 
 Count. Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter- 
 in-law : 
 God shield, you mean it not ! daughter, and 
 
 mother. 
 So strive upon your pulse. What, pale again ? 
 My fear hath catch'd your fondness. Now I see 
 The mystery of your loneliness, and iind 
 Your salt tears' head. Now to all sense 't is gross 
 You love my son ; invention is asham'd. 
 Against the proclamation of thy passion, 
 To say thou dost not : therefore tell me true ; 
 But tell me then, 't is so : — for, look, thy cheeks 
 Confess it, th' one to th' other ; and thine eyes 
 See it so grossly shown in thy behaviours. 
 That in their kind they speak it : only sin 
 And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue. 
 That truth should be suspected. Speak, is 't so ? 
 If it bo so, you have wound a goodly clue ; 
 If it bo not, forewcar 't : howe'er, I charge thee, 
 As heaven shall work in me for thine avail, 
 To tell me tiiily. 
 
 Hcl. Good madam, pardon me. 
 
 Count. Do yc'U lovo my son 3 
 
 Hcl. Your pardon, noble tuistrcss I 
 
 Count. Love you mj son }
 
 ACT I. 
 
 ALL'S WELL TiL\T ENDS ^\^LL. 
 
 SCENE lU. 
 
 Hd. Do not you love liim, ri);id.i:a ? 
 
 Cohnt. Go not aboiit; my love hath in 't a bond, 
 Whereof tlio world takes note ; come, come, dis- 
 close 
 The slate of youi affection; for your passions 
 Have to the full appeacliM." 
 
 Hd. Then, I confess, 
 
 Here on my knee, before high Heaven and you. 
 That biifore you, and next unto high Heaven, 
 I love your son : — 
 
 My friends were poor but honest ; so 's my love : 
 Be not offended ; for it hurts not him 
 That ho is lov'd of me. I follow him not 
 By any token of presumptuous suit ; 
 Nor would I have him till I do deserve him ; 
 Yet never know how that desert should be. 
 I know I love in vain, strive against hope ; 
 Yet, m this captious and intenible" sieve, 
 I still pour in the waters of my love, 
 And lack not to lose still : thus, Indian-like, 
 Religious in mine error, I adore 
 The sun, that looks upon his worshipper, 
 But knows of him no more. My dearest madam, 
 Let not your hate encounter with my love, 
 For loving where you do : but, if yourself. 
 Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth. 
 Did ever, in so true a flame of liking. 
 Wish chastely, and lo\'e dearly, that your Dian 
 Was both herself and love. O then, give pity 
 To her, whose state is such, that cannot choose 
 But lend and give, where she is sure to lose ; 
 That seeks not to find that her search implies. 
 But, riddle-like, lives sweetly where she dies. 
 
 Count. Had j'ou not lately an intent, speak 
 truly, 
 To go to Paris. 
 
 Hel. Madam, I had. 
 
 Count. "Wherefore 5 tell true. 
 
 Hel. I will tell truth ; by grace itself, I swear. 
 You know my father left me some prescriptions 
 Of rare and prov'd effects, such as his reading. 
 And manifest experience, had collected 
 
 For general sovereignty; and that ho wiil'J me 
 
 Tn heedfull'st reservation to bestow them. 
 
 As notes, whoso faculties inclusive were. 
 
 More than they were in note : amongst the rest, 
 
 There is a remedy, appi-ov'd, set down. 
 
 To cure the desperate languisliings whereof 
 
 The king is rendered lost. 
 
 Count. This was your motive for Paris, was it \ 
 speak. 
 
 Hel. My lord your son made mo to think of 
 this; 
 Else Paris, and the medicine, and the king, 
 Ilad, from the conversation of inv thoughts. 
 Haply, been absent then. 
 
 Count. But think you, Helen, 
 
 If you should tender your supposed aid, 
 Ho would receive it ? He and his physicians 
 Are of a mind ; he, that they cannot help him. 
 They, that they cannot help. How shall they 
 
 credit 
 A poor unlearned virgin, when the schools, 
 Embowell'd of their doctrine, have left off 
 The danger to itself? 
 
 Hel. There 's something in 't. 
 
 More than my father's skill, which was the great'st 
 Of his profession, that his good receipt 
 Shall, for my legacy, be sanctified 
 By th' luckiest stars in heaven : and, would your 
 
 honour 
 But give me leave to try success, I 'd venture 
 The well-lost life of mine on his grace's cure. 
 By such a day and hour. 
 
 Count. Dost thou be! eve 't ? 
 
 Hel. Ay, madam, knowingly. 
 
 Count. Why, Helen, thou slialt ha\e my leave 
 and love. 
 Means, and attendants, and my loving greetings 
 To those of mine in court ; I '11 stay at home. 
 And pray God's blessing into thy attempt : 
 Be gone to-morrow ; and be sure of this. 
 What I can help thee to thou shalt not loi's. 
 
 [^Exeunl 
 501
 
 ALL 'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 SCENE L 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 ■SCENE ].— Paris. A room tn the King's Palace. 
 Flourish. Sinter King, with two youny Lords, 
 
 takinff leave for the Florentine war; Bertram, 
 
 Parolles, and Attendants. 
 
 King. Farewell, young lord, these warlike prin- 
 ciples 
 
 Do not throw from you : — and you, my lord, fare- 
 well :— 
 
 Share the .advice betwixt you : if both gain all, 
 
 The gift doth stretch itself as 't is receiv'd. 
 
 And is enough for both. 
 
 1 Lord. 'T is our hope, sir, 
 .\fter well enter'd soldier's, to return 
 And find your grace in health. 
 
 King. No, no, it cannot be ; and yet my heart 
 Will not confess he owes the malady 
 That doth my life besiege. Farewell, young lords ; 
 Whether I live or die, be you the sons 
 Of worthy Frenchmen : let higher Italy 
 (Those 'b.ated, that inherit but the fall 
 Of the last monarchy) see. that you come 
 Not to woo honour, but to wed it ; when 
 The bravest questant shrinks, find wh.at you seek, 
 That fiime may cry you loud. I say, farewell. 
 
 2 Lord. Health, at your bidding, serve your 
 
 majesty ! 
 King Those girls of Italy, take heed of them ; 
 They say our French lack language to deny. 
 If they demand ; beware of being captives, 
 l-iefore you serve. 
 
 Both. Our hearts receive your warn- 
 
 ings. 
 King, Farewell. — Come hitlier to me. 
 
 \Tlie King retires to a couch. 
 
 1 Lord. O my sweet lord, that you will stay be- 
 
 hind us! 
 Par. 'Tis not his fault; the spark — 
 
 2 fyord. 0, 't is brave wars ! 
 
 Par. Most admiraoio ; I have seen those wars. 
 £cr. I am commanded here, and kept a coil with, 
 "Too young," and "the next year," and "'tis 
 t(W early." 
 502 
 
 Par. An thy mind stand to't, boy, steal away 
 
 bravely. 
 Per. I shall stay here the forenorse to a smock. 
 Creaking my shoes on the plain masonry, 
 Till honour be bought up, and no sword worn 
 But one to dance ^ith !'^ By heaven, I '11 steal 
 away. 
 
 1 Lord. There 's honour in the theft. 
 Par. Commit it, count. 
 
 2 Lord. I am your accessaiy ; and so farewelL 
 Per. I grow to you, and our parting is a tortm-'d 
 
 body. 
 
 1 Lord. Farewell, captain. 
 
 2 Lord. Sweet monsieur Parolles ! 
 
 Par. Noble heroes, my sword and yours are kin 
 Good sparks and lustrous, a word, good metals : — 
 You shall find in the regiment of the Sjiinii one 
 captain Spurio, with his cicatrice, an emblem of 
 war, here on his sinister cheek ; it was this veiy 
 sword entrench'd it : say to him, I live ; and ob- 
 serve his reports for me. 
 
 2 Lord. We shall, noble captain. 
 
 Par. Mars dote on you for his no^^ces ! \Exeunt 
 Lords.] What will you do ? 
 
 Ber. Stay ; the king — \^Secing him rise. 
 
 Par. Use a more spacious ceremony to the noble 
 lords ; you have restrain'd yourself within the list 
 of too cold an adieu ; be more expressive to them ; 
 f:>r they wear themselves in (he cap of the time ; 
 there do muster true gait, eat, speak, and move 
 under the influence of the most receiv'd star ; and 
 though the devil lead the measure, such are to 
 be followed : after them, and take a more dilsted 
 farewell. 
 
 Ber. And I will do so. 
 
 Par. W^orthy fellows, and like to prove most 
 sinewy swordmen. 
 
 [Exeunt Bertram and Paroli.es. 
 
 Enter Lafeu. 
 
 Ltif. P.'irdou, my lord, \kneelin[f\ for mo and fof 
 
 my tidings. 
 King. I '11 see thee to stand up.
 
 ALL'S WELL TUAT E^'DS WELL. 
 
 KCEXE I. 
 
 Ldf. Then licre 'a a man stands that lias brouglit 
 his pardon. 
 I would you had kiieel'd, my lord, to ask mo 
 
 nie«:y, 
 And that, at my biddinjf, you could so stand up. 
 
 Khi(j. I would I had ; so I had broke thy pate. 
 And ask'd thee mercy for 't. 
 Laf. Good faith, across. But, my good lord, 
 't is thus ; 
 Will you be cur'd of your infirmity ? 
 King. No. 
 
 Laf. 0, will you eat no grapes, my royal fox ? 
 Ves, but you will my noble grapes, an if 
 My royal fox could reach them. I have seen a 
 
 medicine, 
 riiat 's able to breathe life into a stone. 
 Quicken a rock, and make you dance canary," 
 With sprightl}' fire and motion ; whose simple toudi 
 Is powerful to araise king Pepin, nay, 
 To give great Charleraain a pen in 's hand, 
 To write to her a lovedine. 
 
 King. What her is this ? 
 
 Laf. Wliy, doctor she : My lord, there 's one 
 arriv'd, 
 If you will see her : — Now, by my faith and 
 
 honour, 
 If seriously I may convey my thoughts 
 In this my light deliverance, I have spoke 
 With one, that, in her sex, her years, profession,'^ 
 Wisdom, and constancy, hath amaz'd me more 
 Than I dare blame my weakness. Will you see 
 
 her, 
 (For that is her demand) and know her business ? 
 That done, laugh well at me. 
 
 King. Now, good Lafeu, 
 
 Bi iug in the admiration ; that we with thee 
 May spend our wonder too, or take oft" thine. 
 By wond'riug how thou took'st it. 
 ' Jjjf Nay, I'll fit you, 
 
 And not be all day neither. \Exit. 
 
 King. Thus he his special nothing ever pro- 
 Ligues. 
 
 He-enter Lafeu, wita Helena. 
 Laf. Nay, come your ways. 
 King. This liaste hath wings indeed. 
 
 L']f. Nay, come your ways ; 
 I'his is his majesty, say your mind to him : 
 A traitor you do look like ; but such traitors 
 His majesty seldom fears. I am Cressid's uncle, 
 That dare leave two together : fare you well. 
 
 [Hxit. 
 
 King. Now, fair one, does )'uur business fol- 
 low us ? 
 Ifel. Ay, my good lord. 
 Gerard de Narbon was my father, 
 In what he did profess well found. 
 King. I know him. 
 
 JIcl, The ratlier will I spare my praises towards 
 him ; 
 Knowing him is enough. On 'a bed of deatli 
 -Many receipts he gave me ; chiefly one, 
 Which, as the dearest issue cf his practice, 
 And of his old experience th' only darhng, 
 iJe bade me store up, as a triple eye, 
 Safer than mine own two, more dear ; I have so : 
 And, hearing your high majesty is touch'd 
 With that malignant cause wherein the honour 
 Of my dear father's gift stands chief in power, 
 I come to tender it, and my appliance, 
 With all bound humbleness. 
 
 King. We tliauk you, maiden ; 
 
 But may not be so credulous of cure, 
 When our most le.arned doctors leave us ; and 
 The congregated college liave concluded 
 That labouring art can never ransom Nature 
 From her inaidable estate, — I say we must not 
 So stain our judgment, or corrupt our hope. 
 To prostitute our past-cure malady 
 To empirics ; or to dissever so 
 Our great self and our credit, to esteem 
 A senseless help, when help past sense wu 
 deem. 
 Hel. My duty then shall pay me for my pains 
 I will no more enfoi'ce mine office on you ; 
 Humbly entreating from your royal thoughts 
 A modest one, to bear me back again. 
 
 King. I cannot give thee less to be call'd 
 grateful : 
 Thou thought'st to help me ; and such thanks 1 
 
 give, 
 As one near death to those that wish him live ; 
 But what at full I know, thou know'st no part ; 
 I knowing all my peiil, thou no art. 
 
 Hel. What I can do, can do no hurt to try, 
 Since you set up your rest 'gainst remedy : 
 He that of greatest woi'ks is finisher 
 Oft does them by the weakest minister : 
 So holy writ in babes hath judgment sh.own. 
 When judges have been babes. Great floods have 
 
 flomi 
 From simple sources; and great seas have dried. 
 When miracles have by the great'st been denied 
 Oft expectation fails, and most oft there 
 
 50S
 
 ALL 'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 SCENE n. 
 
 Wliere most it promises ; and oft it hits, 
 Wliere hope is coldest, and despair most shifts. 
 King. I must not hear thee ; fare thee well, kind 
 maid ; 
 Thy pains, not us'd, must by thyself be paid : 
 Proffers not took reap thanks for their reward. 
 Uel. Inspired Merit so by breath is barr'd : 
 It is not so with Him that all things knows, 
 As 't is with us that square our guess by shows : 
 But most it is presumption in us, when 
 The help of heaven we count the act of men. 
 Dear sir, to my endeavours give consent : 
 Of heaven, not me, make an experiment. 
 I am not an impostor, that proclaim 
 Myself against the level of mine aim ;" 
 But know I think, and think I know most sure. 
 My art is not past power, nor you past cure. 
 
 Kinr/. Art thou so confident? Within what space 
 Hop'st thou my cui-e ? 
 
 Hel. The greatest grace knding grace. 
 
 Ere twice the horses of the sun shall bring 
 Their fiery torcher his diurnal ring ; 
 Ere twice in murk and occidental damp 
 Moist Ilesperus hath quench'd his sleepy lamp ; 
 Or four-and-twenty times the pilot's glass 
 Ilath told the thievish minutes bow they pass ; 
 What is infirm from 3'our sound parts shall fly, 
 Health shall live fi'ee, and sickness freely die. 
 King. Upon thy certainty and confidence. 
 What dar'st thou venture ? 
 
 Hd. Tax of impudence, — 
 
 A strumpet's boldness, a divulged shame, 
 Traduc'd by odious ballads; my maiden's name. 
 Sear'd otherwise ; no worse of worst extended. 
 With vildest torture let my life be ended. 
 
 Kiiig. ^Methinks, in thee some blessed spirit doth 
 speak ; 
 His powerful sound within an organ weak : 
 And what impossibility would slay 
 In common sense, sense saves another way. 
 Thy life is dear ; for all that life can rate 
 Worth name of life in thee hath estimate ; 
 Vouth, beauty, wisdom, courage, all 
 That happiness and prime can happy call : 
 Thou this to hazard, needs must intimate 
 Skill infinite, or monstrous desperate. 
 Sweet practiser, tliy physic I will try. 
 That ministers thine own death, if I die. 
 
 HqI. If I break time, or flinch in property 
 Of what I spoke, unpitied let me die ; 
 And well deserv'd. Not lielping, death 's my fee; 
 But, if I help, what do 3 ou promise me 3 
 
 King. JIake thy demand. 
 
 Hd. But will you make it even ? 
 
 King. Ay, by my sceptre, and my hopc.^ of 
 heaven i 
 
 Hd. Then shalt thou give me, with thy kingly 
 hand, 
 What husband in thy power I will command: 
 Exempted be from me the arrogance 
 To choose from forth tlie royal blood of France, 
 My low and humble name to propagate 
 With any branch or image of thy state : 
 But such a one, thy vassal, whom I know 
 Is free for me to ask, thee to bestow. 
 
 King. Here is my hand ; the premises observ'd, 
 Thy will by my performance shall be serv'd ; 
 So make the choice of thy own time, for I, 
 Thy resolv'd patient, on thee still rely. 
 More should I question thee, and more I must, 
 Though more to know could not be more to trust ; 
 From whence thou cam'st, how tended on, — But 
 
 rest 
 Unquestion'd welcome, and undoubted bless'd. — 
 Give me some help here, boa ! — If thou proceed 
 As high as word, my deed shall match thy deed. 
 
 [Flourish. Excupt 
 
 SCENE II. — Rousillon. A Room in the Countess.' 
 Palace. 
 
 Enter Countess and Clown. 
 
 Count. Come on, sir; I shall now put you to 
 the height of your breeding. 
 
 Clo. I will show myself highly fed, and lowly 
 taught : I know my business is but to the court. 
 
 Count. To the court? why, what place make 
 you special, when you put oft" that with such eon- 
 tempt — But to the court ? 
 
 Clo. Truly, madam, if God have lent a man any 
 manners, he m.ay easily put it ofl" at court : he that 
 cannot make a leg, put oft' 's cap, kiss his hand, 
 and say nothing, has neither leg, hands, lip, nor 
 cap ; and, indeed, such a fellow, to say precisely, 
 were not for the court: but for me, I have an an- 
 swer will seiTe all men. 
 
 Count. Marry, that 's a bountiful answer thai 
 fits all questions. 
 
 Clo. It is like a barber's chair," that tits all Inn 
 tocks ; the pin-buttock, the quatch-buttock, the 
 brawn-buttock, or any buttock. 
 
 Count. Will your answer serve fit to all <jues 
 tions ? 
 
 Clo. As fit as ten groats is for the hand ol" aD
 
 ACT II. 
 
 ALL'S WEI.L TELVT ENDS WELL. 
 
 SCENE HL 
 
 Bttoruey, ns your French ci'owu fur your tnffata 
 punk," as Tib's rush for Tom's forefinger,'^ as a 
 panoake for Slirove-Tuesday,'" a morris for May- 
 day," as tlio nail to Lis hole, the cuckold to his 
 horn, as a scolding quean to a wrangling knave, 
 us the nun's lip to the friar's mouth ; nay, as the 
 pudding to his skin. 
 
 Count. Have you, I say, an answer of such fit- 
 ness for all questions ? 
 
 Clo. From below your duke to beneath your 
 constable ; it will fit any question. 
 
 Count. It must be an answer of most monstrous 
 size that must fit all demands. 
 
 Clo. But a trifle neither, in good faith, if the 
 learned should speak truth of it : here it is, and 
 all that belongs to 't : ask me if I am a courtier : 
 it shall do you no harm to learn. 
 
 Count. To be young again, if we could, I will 
 be a fool- in question. Loping to be the wiser by 
 your answer — I pray you, sir, are you a courtier? 
 
 Clo. O Lord, sir, There 's a simple putting 
 
 ofi"; — more, more, a hundred of them. 
 
 Count. Sir, I am a poor fiiend of yours, that 
 loves you. 
 
 Clo. Lord, sir, — Thick, thick, spare not me. 
 
 Count. I think, sir, you can eat none of this 
 homely meat. 
 
 Clo. Lord, sir, — Nay, put me to 't, I warrant 
 you. 
 
 Count. You were lately whipped, sir, as I think. 
 
 Clo. O Lord, sir, — Spare not me. 
 
 Count. Do you cry, " Lord, sir," at your 
 whipping, and "spare not me"? Indeed, your 
 " O Lord, sir," is very sequent to your whipping ; 
 you would answer very well to a whipping, if you 
 were but bound to 't. 
 
 Clo. I ne'er had worse luck in my life in my — 
 "0 Lord, sir:" I see things may serve long, but 
 not serve ever. 
 
 Count. I play the noble housewife with the 
 time. 
 To entertain it so merrily with a fool. 
 
 Clo. O Lord, sir, — Why, there 't serves well 
 again. 
 
 Count. An end, sir : To your business. Give 
 Helen this. 
 And urge her to a present answer back : 
 Commend me to my kinsmen, and my son ; 
 ITiis is not much. 
 
 Clo. Not much commendation to them. 
 
 Count. Not much employment for you. You 
 understand me ? 
 
 Clo. Most fruitfully ; I am there before my 
 
 legs. 
 Count. Haste you again. [Exeunt severally. 
 
 SCENE m.— Paris. A Boom in the King's 
 Palace. 
 
 Enter Bertram, Lafeu, and PAitoLLEs. 
 
 Laf. They say, miracles are past ; and we have 
 our philosophical persons, to make modern and 
 familiar, things supernatural and causeless. Hence 
 is it that we make trifles of terrors ; ensconcing 
 ourselves into seeming knowledge, when we should 
 submit ourselves to an unknown fear. 
 
 Par. Why, 't is the rarest argument of wonder 
 that hath shot out in our latter times. 
 
 Ber. And so 't is. 
 
 Laf. To bo relinquish'd of the artists, — 
 
 Par. So I say ; both of Galen and Paracelsus. 
 
 Laf. Of all the learned and authentic fellows'* — 
 
 Par. Right, so I say. 
 
 Laf. That gave him out incurable — 
 
 Par. Why, there 't is ; so say I too. 
 
 Laf. Not to be helped, — 
 
 Par. Eight ; as 't were a man asswr'd of an — 
 
 Laf. Uncertain life, and sure death. 
 
 Par. Just, you say well ; so would I have said. 
 
 Laf. I may truly say, it is a novelty to the world. 
 
 Par. It is indeed : if you will have it in show 
 ing, you shall read it in, — What do ye call there ? 
 
 Laf. A showing of a heavenly eficct in an earth- 
 ly actor. 
 
 Par. That 's it : I would have said the very 
 same. 
 
 Laf. Why, your dolphin is not lustier : 'fore mc 
 I speak in respect — 
 
 Par. Nay, 't is strange, 't is very strange ; that 
 is the brief and the tedious of it; and he's of a 
 most facinorous spirit that will not acknowledge 
 it to be the — 
 
 Laf Very hand of Heaven. 
 
 Par. Ay, so I say. 
 
 Laf. In a most weak — 
 
 Par. And debile minister, great power, great 
 transcendence : which should, indeed, give us a 
 further use to be made, than alone the recov'ry of 
 the king, as to be — 
 
 Ldf. Generally thankful. 
 
 Enter King, Helena, and Attendants. 
 
 Par. I would have said it ; you say well. Hf;re 
 comes the king. 
 
 605
 
 r-- 
 
 ACT IT. 
 
 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 SCENE IIL 
 
 Laf. Lustique," as the Dutcliman says : I '11 like 
 a maid the bettor whilst I have a tooth in my head. 
 Why, he 's able to lead her a coranto. 
 
 Far. Mort du Vinaigre ! Is not this Helen 1 
 
 Laf. 'Fore God, I think so. 
 
 King. Go, call before me all the lords in court. — 
 [Exit an Attendant. 
 Sit, my preserver, by thy patient's side ; 
 And with this healthful hand whose banish'd 
 
 sense 
 Thou hast repeal'd, a second time receive 
 The confirmation of my promis'd gift, 
 Which but attends thy naming. 
 
 Enter several Lords. 
 
 Fair maid, send forth thine eye : this youthful 
 
 parcel 
 Of noble bachelors stand at my bestowing. 
 O'er whom both sovereign power and father's 
 
 voice 
 I have to use : thy frank election make ; 
 Thou hast power to choose, and they none to for- 
 sake. 
 Hel. To each of you one fair and virtuous mis- 
 tress 
 Fall, when love please ; marry, to each but one. 
 
 Laf. 1 'd give bay curtal, and his furniture. 
 My mouth no more were broken than these boys', 
 And writ as little beard. 
 
 King. Peruse them well : 
 
 Not one of those but had a noble father. 
 
 Hel. Gentlemen, 
 Heaven hath, through me, restor'd the king to 
 health. 
 All. AVe understand it, and thank heaven for 
 
 you. 
 Hel. I am a simple maid ; and therein wealthiest. 
 That, I protest, I simply am a maid : — 
 Please it your majesty, I have done already : 
 The blushes in my checks thus whisper me, — 
 " We blush, that thou should'st choose ; but, be 
 
 refus'd. 
 Let the white death"' sit on thy cheek for ever ; 
 We 'II ne'er come there again." 
 
 King. Make choice ; and, see, 
 
 Who shuns thy love shuns all his love in me. 
 
 Hel. Now, Dian, from thy altar do I fly ; 
 And to imperial Love, that god most high. 
 Do my sighs stream. — Sir, will you hear my 
 suit? 
 I Lord. And grant it. 
 
 Jltl. Thanks, sir ; all the rest is mute. 
 
 ri06 
 
 Laf I had rather be in this choice than throw 
 ames-ace" for my life. 
 
 Hel. The honour, sir, that flames in your fail 
 eyes. 
 Before I speak, too threat'ningly replies : 
 Love make your fortunes twenty times above 
 Her that so wishes, and her humble love 1 
 
 2 Lord. No better, if you please. 
 
 Hel My wish receive. 
 
 Which great Love grant ! and so I take my leave. 
 
 Laf. Do all they deny her ? An they were sons 
 of mine, I 'd have them whipp'd ; or I would send 
 them to th' Turk, to make eunuchs of. 
 
 Hel. Be not afraid [to 3 Lord] that I your hand 
 should take ; 
 I '11 never do you WTong for your own sake : 
 Blessing upon your vows ! and in your bed 
 Find fairer fortune, if you ever wed ! 
 
 Laf. These boys are boys of ice ! they '11 none 
 have her : sure they are bastards to the English ; 
 the French ne'er got 'em. 
 
 Hel. You are too young, too happy, and too 
 good, 
 To make yourself a son out of my blood. 
 
 4 Lord. Fair one, I think not so. 
 
 Laf There 's one grape yet, — I am sure thy 
 father drank wine. — But if thou be'st not an a.ss, 
 I am a youth of fourteen ; I have known thee 
 already. 
 
 Hel. I dare not say I take you [to Bertram] 
 but I give 
 Me and my service, ever whilst I live. 
 Into your guiding power. — This is the man. 
 
 King. Why, then, young Bertram take her ; 
 she 's thy wife. 
 
 Ber. My wife, my liege ? I shall beseech your 
 highness. 
 In such a business give me leave to use 
 The help of mine own eyes. 
 
 King. Know'st thou not, Bertram, what she 
 has done for me ? 
 
 Bcr. Yes, my good lord, but never hope to 
 know why 
 I should marry her. 
 
 King. Thou know'st she has rais'd me from my 
 sickly bed. 
 
 Ber. But follows it, my lord, to bring me down 
 Must answer for your raising ? I know her 
 
 well ; 
 She had her breeding at my father's charge : 
 A poor physician's daughter my wife ! — Disdain 
 Kather corrupt mo ever I
 
 ACT n. 
 
 ALL'S WELL TIIAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 SCENE lU. 
 
 King, 'T is only title tbou disihiiu'st in lier, the 
 wliicli 
 I c;in build up. Strange is it, tbat oui' bloods, 
 Of colour, weight, and heat, pour'd all together, 
 Would quite confound distinction, 3-et stand oft" 
 111 diftorenccs so mighty. If she be 
 All that is virtuous (save what thou dislik'st, 
 A poor physician's daughter), thou dislik'st 
 I )r virtue for the name : but do not so : 
 From lowest ]ilaco when virtuous thing's proceed. 
 The place is dignified by th' doer's deed : 
 Where great additions swell, and virtue none. 
 It is a dropsied honour : good alone 
 Is good without a name ; vileness is so : 
 The property by what it is should go, 
 Not by the title. She is young, wise, fair ; 
 In these to nature she 's immediate heir. 
 And these breed honour : th:it is honour's scorn 
 Which challenges itself as honour's born. 
 And is not like the sire : Honours thrive. 
 When rather from our acts w^e them derive 
 Than our fore-goers : the mere woixl 's a slave, 
 Debosh'd on every tomb, on ever}' grave 
 A lying trophy ; and as oft is dumb. 
 Where dust, and damn'd oblivion, is the tomb 
 Of honour'd bones indeed. What should be said ? 
 If thou canst like this creature as a maid, 
 [ can create the rest: virtue, and she, 
 Is her own dower; honour and wealth from nie. 
 
 Ber. I cannot love her, nor will strive to do 't. 
 
 King. Thou wrong'st thyself, if tbou shoulJst 
 strive to choose. 
 
 Hel. Tbat you are well restor'd, my lord, I 'm 
 glad; 
 Let the rest go. 
 
 King. My honour 's at the stake ; which to 
 defend, 
 I must produce my power. Here, take her hand. 
 Proud scornful bo)% \mworthy this good gH't, 
 Tbat dost in vile misprision shackle up 
 My love, and her desert ; that canst not dream, 
 V/e, poising us in her defective scale. 
 Shall weigh thee to the beam ; that wilt not know 
 It is in us to plant tliine honour, where 
 We please to have it grow. Check thy contempt : 
 Obey our will, which travails in thy good : 
 Believe not thy disdain, but presently 
 Do thine own fortunes that obedient right 
 Which both th}' duty owes and our power claims; 
 Or I will throw thee from my care for ever. 
 Into the stag-gel's, and the careless lapse 
 Of .\outh and ignorance ; both my re\-i'nge and hate 
 
 Loosing upon thee, in the name of justice, 
 Without all terms of pity. Speak ! thine answer 
 
 Bcr. Pardon, my gracious lord ; for I submit 
 M}' fancy to your eyes. When I consider 
 What great creation, ami what dole of honour. 
 Fly where you bid it, I find that she, which late 
 Was in my nobler thoughts most base, is now 
 The praised of the king ; who, so ennobled, 
 Is, as 't were, born so. 
 
 King. Take her by the hand. 
 
 And tell her she is thine : to whom I promise 
 A counterpoise ; if not to thy estate, 
 A balance more replete. 
 
 Ber. I take her hand. 
 
 King. Good fortune, and the favour of the king. 
 Smile upon this contract ; whose ceremony 
 Shall seem expedient ou the new-born brief,'' 
 And be peiform'd to-night : the solemn feast 
 Shall more attend upon the coming space. 
 Expecting absent friends. A.s thou lov'st her, 
 Thy love 's to me religious ; else, does err. 
 [^Exeunt King, P>er., Uei.., Lords, and Attendants. 
 
 Luf. Do you hear, monsieur ? a word with you. 
 
 Par. Your pleasure, sir ? 
 
 La/. Your lord and master did well to make 
 liis recantation. 
 
 Par. Kecantation? — My lord ? my master? 
 
 Laf. Ay : Is it not a language I speak ? 
 
 Par. A most harsh one, and not to be under- 
 stood without bloody succeeding. My master ? 
 
 Laf. Are you companion to the count Eousillon? 
 
 Par. To any count ; to all counts ; to what ia 
 man. 
 
 Laf. To what is count's man ; count's master is 
 of another style. 
 
 Par. You are too old, sir : let it satisfy you, you 
 are too old. 
 
 Laf. I must tell thee, sirrah, I write man ; to 
 which title age cannot bring thee. 
 
 Par. What I dare too well do, I dare not do. 
 
 Laf. I did think thee, for two ordinaries, to bo 
 a pretty wise fellow; thou didst make tolerable 
 vent of thy travel ; it might pass : yet the scai-fe 
 and the bannerets about thee did manifoldly dis- 
 suade me from believing thee a vessel of too great 
 a burthen. I have now found thee ; when I lose 
 thee again I care not : yet art thou good for nothing 
 but faking up ; and that thou 'rt scarce worth. 
 
 Par. Iladst thou not the privilege of antiquity 
 upon thee, — • 
 
 Laf. Do not plunge thyself too far in anger, lest 
 thou hasten thy trial ; — which if— Lord have mercv 
 
 507
 
 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 BCEKE m. 
 
 on tliee for a lieu ! So, my good window of lattice, 
 fare thee well ; thy casement I need not open, for 
 I look through thee. Give me thy hand. 
 
 Par. My lord, you give me most egregious 
 indignity. 
 
 Laf. Av, v.'ith all my heart ; and thou art 
 worthy of it. 
 
 Par. I have not, my lord, deserv'd it. 
 
 Laf. Yes, good faith, ev'ry drachm of it : and I 
 will not bate thee a scruple. 
 
 Par. Well, I shall be wiser. 
 
 Laf. Ev'n as soon as thou canst, for thou hast 
 to pull at a smack a' the contrary. If ever thou 
 be'st bound in thy scarf, and beaten, thou shalt 
 find what it is to be proud of thy bondage. I 
 have a desire to hold my acquaintance with thee, 
 or rather my knowledge, that I may say, in the 
 default, he is a man I know. 
 
 Par. My lord, you do me most insupportable 
 vexation. 
 
 Laf. I would it were hell-pains for thy sake, 
 and my poor doing eternal ; for doing I am past, 
 as I will b}' thee, in what motion age will give me 
 leave. \Ezit. 
 
 Par. Well, thou hast a son shall take this dis- 
 grace off me, scurvy, old, filthy, scurvy lord ! — 
 Well, I must be patient ; there is no fettering of 
 authority. I '11 beat him, by my life, if I can 
 meet liim with any convenience, an he were 
 double and double a lord. I '11 have no more pity 
 of his age, than I would have of — I '11 beat him, 
 an if I could but meet him again. 
 
 Re-enter Lafec. 
 
 Laf. Sirrah, your lord and master 's married ; 
 there 's news for you ; you have a new mistress. 
 
 Par. I most uufeiguedly beseech your lordship 
 to make some reservation of your wrongs. lie is 
 my good lord : whom I serve above is my master. 
 
 Laf Who? God? 
 
 Par. Ay, sir. 
 
 Laf. The devil it is that 's thy master. Why 
 do.st thou garter up thy arms a' this fashion ? 
 dost make liose of thy sleeves ? do other servants 
 60 ? Thou wert best set thy lower part wlicre thy 
 noso stands. By mine honour, if I were but two 
 hours j'ounger, I 'd beat thee : methinks, thou 
 art a general offence, and every man should beat 
 thee. I think thou wast created for men to 
 breathe themselves u]ion thee. 
 
 Par. This is hard and undeserved measure, my 
 lonl 
 
 &n8 
 
 Laf Go to, sir; you were beaten in Italy for 
 picking a kernel out of a pomegiauate ; you are a 
 vagabond, and no true traveller: you are more 
 saucy with lords and honourable pereonages, than 
 the condition of your birth and virtue gives you 
 heraldiy. You are not worth another word, elsf 
 I 'd call you knave. I leave you. [Exil 
 
 Enter Bertram. 
 
 Par. Good, very good ; it is so then. — Good, 
 very good ; let it be conceal'd a while. 
 
 Ber. Undone, and forfeited to cares for ever 1 
 
 Par, What 's the matter, sweet heart ? 
 
 Bcr. Although before the solemn priest I have 
 sworn, I will not bed her. 
 
 Par. What ? what, sweet heart ? 
 
 Ber. my ParoUes, they have mamed me : — 
 I '11 to the Tuscan wars, and never bed her. 
 
 Par. France is a dog-hole, and it no more 
 merits 
 The tread of a man's foot : to th' wars ! 
 
 Bcr. There 's letters from my mother ; what 
 th' import is, I know not yet. 
 
 Par. Ay, that would be known. To th' wai-s, 
 my boy, to th' wars ! 
 He wears his honour in a box unseen 
 That hugs his kicky-wicky" here at home ; 
 Spending his manly marrow in her arms, 
 Which should sustain the bound and high curvet 
 Of Mars's fiery steed. To other regions ! 
 France is a stable ; we, that dwell in 't, jades ; 
 Therefore, to th' war ! 
 
 Ber. It shall be so ; I '11 send her to ui) 
 house ; 
 Acquaint my motber with my hate to her, 
 And wherefore I am fled ; write to the king 
 That which I durst not speak. His present gift 
 Shall furnish me to those Italian fields. 
 Where noble fellows strike. War is no strife 
 To the dark house, and the detested wife.^ 
 
 Par. Will this capricio*' hold in thee, fu( 
 sure ? 
 
 Ber. Go with mo to my chamber, and ad- 
 vise mo. 
 I 'II send her straight away. To-morrow 
 I '11 to the wars, she to her single sorrow. 
 
 Par. Why, these balls bound • there 's noJM 
 in it. 'T is hard: 
 A young man married is a man that 's marr'd : 
 Therefore awaj", and leave her bravely; go: 
 The king luus dor.e you wrong : but, husli ! 't is so. 
 
 \Kxeunt.
 
 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 SCENE IV T 
 
 SCENE IV. — The same. Another Room in the 
 Palace. 
 
 Enter IIelkna and Clown. 
 
 Hd. My motliei groots me kindly: Is she well ? 
 
 Clo. She is not well ; bnt yet she has her 
 health : she 's very merry ; but yet she is not 
 Well : but thauks bo given, she 's very well, and 
 wants nothing i' the world ; but yet she is not 
 well. 
 
 llel. If she be very well, what does she ail 
 Lhat she 's not very well 3 
 
 Clo. Truly, she 's very well, indeed, but for two 
 things. 
 
 Hel. What two things ? 
 
 Clo. One, that she 's not in heaven, whither 
 God send her quickly ! the other, that she 's in 
 earth, from whence God send her quickly 1 
 
 Enter Pauolles. 
 
 Par. Bless you, my fortunate Lady ! 
 
 Hel. I hope, sir, I have your good will to have 
 mine own good fortunes. 
 
 Par. You had my prayers to lead them on : 
 and to keep them on, have them still. — 0, my 
 knave, how does my old lady ? 
 
 Clo. So that you had her wrinkles, and I her 
 money, I would she did as you say. 
 
 Par. Why, I say nothing. 
 
 Clo. Marry, you are the wiser man ; for many 
 a man's tongue shakes out his master's undoing. 
 To say nothing, to do nothing, to know nothing, 
 and to have nothing, is to be a great part of your 
 title ; which is within a very little of nothing. 
 
 Par. Away, thou 'rt a knave. 
 
 Clo. You should have said, sir, before a knave 
 thou 'rt a knave ; that 's, before me thou 'rt a 
 knave ; tliis had been truth, sir. 
 
 Par. Go to, thou art a witty fool ; I have found 
 thee. 
 
 Clo. Did you find me in yourself, sir ? or were 
 pu taught to find me ? The seai'ch, sir, was 
 profitable ; and much fool may you find in you, 
 even to the world's pleasure, and the increase of 
 laughter. 
 
 Par. A good knave, i' faith, and well fed. — 
 Madam, my lord will go away to-night: 
 A very serious business calls on him. 
 The great prerogative and right of love. 
 Which, as your due, time claims, he does 
 
 acknowledge ; 
 But cuts it off to a compell'd restraint; 
 
 Whoso want, and whose delay, is strew'd with 
 
 sweets, 
 Which they distil now in the curbed time, 
 To make the coming hour o'erflow with joy. 
 And pleasure drown the brim. 
 
 IM. What 's his will else ? 
 
 Par. That you will take your instant leave a 
 the king. 
 And make this haste as your own good proceeding, 
 Streugthen'd with wliat apology you think 
 May make it probable need. 
 
 Hel. What more commands he 3 
 
 Par, That, having this obtain'd, you presently 
 Attend his further pleasure. 
 
 Hd. In everything I wait upon liis will. 
 
 Par. I shall report it so. 
 
 Hd. I pray you. — Come, sirrah. 
 
 [^Exeunt 
 
 SCENE V. — Another Room in the same. 
 Enter Lafeu and Bertram. 
 
 Laf. But I hope your lordship thinks not him 
 a soldier. 
 
 Ber. Yes, my lord, and of very valiant approof. 
 
 Laf. You have it from his own deliverance. 
 
 Ber. And by other warranted testimony. 
 
 Laf. Then my dial goes not true : I took this 
 lark for a bunting.*" 
 
 Ber. I do assure you, my lord, he is very gi'eat 
 in knowledge, and accordingly valiant. 
 
 Laf. I have then sinn'd against his experience, 
 and transgressed against his valour; and my state 
 that way is dangerous, since I cannot yet find in 
 my heart to repent. Here he comes ; I pray you, 
 make us friends; I will pursue the amity. 
 
 Enter Parolles. 
 
 Par. These things shall be done, sir. 
 
 [To Bertram. 
 Laf. Pray you, sir, who 's his tailor 3 
 Par. Sir 3 ' 
 
 Laf. 0, I know him well. Ay, sir ; he, sir, ia 
 a good workman, a very good tailor. 
 Ber. Is she gone to the king ? 
 
 \_Aside to Parolles, 
 Par. She is. 
 
 Ber. W"ill she away to-night 3 
 Par. As you '11 have her. 
 Ber. I have writ my lettere, casketod mj 
 treasure. 
 Given order for our horees ; and to-night, 
 
 509
 
 ACT II. 
 
 ALL 'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 SCEBIS 'V. 
 
 When I should take possession of the bride, 
 End ere I do begin. 
 
 Laf. A good traveller is something at the latter 
 end of a dinner ; but one that lies three-thirds, and 
 uses a known truth to pass a thousand nothings 
 with, should be once heard, and thrice beaten. — 
 God save you, captain. 
 
 Ber. Is there any unkindness between my lord 
 and you, monsieur ? 
 
 Par. I know not how I have deserved to run 
 into my lord's displeasure. 
 
 Laf. You have made shift to nm into 't, boots 
 and spurs and all, like Lim that leaped into the 
 custard ;^' and out of it you '11 run again, rather 
 than sutler question for your residence. 
 
 Ber. It may be you have mistaken him, my 
 lord. 
 
 Laf. And shall do so ever, though I took him 
 at 's prayers. Fare you well, my lord ; and 
 believe this of me, there can be no kernel in this 
 light nut ; the soul of this man is his clothes : 
 trust him not in matter of heavy consequence ; I 
 have kept of them tame, and know their natures. — 
 Farewell, monsieur: I have spoken better of you 
 than you have or will to deserve at my hand f " 
 b it we must do good against ev-il. \Exit. 
 
 Par. An idle lord, I swear. 
 
 Ber. I think so. 
 
 Par. Why, do you not know him ? 
 
 Bir. Yes, I do know him well; and common 
 speech 
 Gives him a worthy pass. Here comes my clog. 
 
 Enter Helena. 
 
 Hel. I have, sir, as I was commanded from you. 
 Spoke with the king, and have procur'd his leave 
 For present parting ; only, he desires 
 Some private speech with you. 
 
 Ber. I shall obey his will. 
 
 You must not marvel, Helen, at my course. 
 Which holds not colour with the time, nor does 
 The ministration and required office 
 On my particular ; prepai'd I was not 
 610 
 
 For such a business ; therefore am I found 
 So much unsettled. This drives me to entreat you, 
 That presently you take your way for home ; 
 And rather muse, than ask, why I entreat you ; 
 For my respects are better than they seem ; 
 And my appointments have in them a need 
 Greater thau show" itself, at the &'st view, 
 To you that know them not. This to my mother ; 
 
 \G'whi,g a letltr 
 'T will be two days ere I shall see you ; so 
 I leave you to your wisdom. 
 
 Htl. Sir, I can nothing say. 
 
 But that I am your most obedient servant. 
 
 Ber. Come, come, no more of that. 
 
 Hel. And ever shall 
 
 With true observance seek to eke out that. 
 Wherein toward me my homely stars have failed 
 To equal my great fortune. 
 
 Ber. Let that go : 
 
 My h.aste is very great. Farewell ; hie home. 
 
 Hel. Pray, sir, your pardon. 
 
 Ber. Well, what would you say ? 
 
 Hel. I am not worthy of the wealth I owe ; 
 Nor dare I say 't is mine ; and yet it is ; 
 But, like a timorous thief, most fain would steal 
 What law does vouch mine own. 
 
 Ber. What would you have ? 
 
 Hel. Something ; and scarce so much : — noth 
 ing, indeed. — 
 I would not tell you what I would : my lord — 
 
 'faith, yes ; — 
 Strangers and foes do sunder, and not kiss. 
 
 Ber. I pray you, stay not, but in haste to horse 
 
 Hi. I shall not break your bidding, good my 
 lord. 
 Where are my other men ? Monsieur, farewell. 
 
 \_Exlt Helexa. 
 
 Ber. Go thou toward home ; where I w ill ne\ei 
 come, 
 WTiilst I can shake my sword or hear the drum : — ■ 
 Away, and for our flight ! 
 
 Par. Bravely, coragio 
 
 [^Exeunt
 
 ALL 'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 SCENE I — n. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. — Florence. A Room in the Duke's 
 Palace. 
 
 Flourish. Unter the Duke of Florence, two 
 French Lords, and soldiers. 
 
 Duke. So that, from point to point, now have 
 you heard 
 The fundamental reasons of this war ; 
 Whose great decision hath niuch blood let forth. 
 And more tliirsts after. 
 
 1 Lord. Holy seems the quarrel 
 Upon your grace's part; black and fearful 
 On the opposer. 
 
 Duke. Therefore we marvel much, our cousin 
 France 
 Would, in so just a business, shut his bosom 
 Against our borrowing prayers. 
 
 2 Lord. Good my lord. 
 The reasons of our state I cannot yield 
 But like a common and an outward man, 
 That the great figure of a council frames 
 By self-unable motion : therefore dare not 
 Say what I think of it ; since I have found 
 Myself in my uncertain grounds to fail 
 
 As often as I guess'd. 
 
 Duke. Be it his pleasure. 
 
 2 Lord. But I am sure, the younger of our 
 nature. 
 That surfeit on their ease, will, day by day, 
 Come here for physic. 
 
 Duke. Welcome shall they be ; 
 
 And all the honours that can fly from us 
 Shall on them settle. You know your places well ; 
 When better fall, for your avails they fell : 
 To-morrow to the field. 
 
 [Flourish. Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IT.^Rousillon. A Room in the Countess'* 
 Palace. 
 
 Enter Countess and Clown. 
 
 Count. It hath happen'd all as I would have 
 had it, save that he comes not along with her. 
 
 Clo. By my troth, I fake my young lord to be 
 a very melancholy man. 
 
 Count. By what observance, I pray you ? 
 
 Clo. Why, he ml! look upon his boot, and sing; 
 mend the rufl'," and sing ; ask questions, and sing ; 
 pick his teeth, and sing : I knew a man that had 
 this trick of melancholy hold a goodly manor fur 
 a song. 
 
 Coujit. Let me see what he writes, and when he 
 means to come. [Openinr/ a letter. 
 
 Clo. I have no mind to Lbel, since I was at 
 court; our old ling and our Isbels a' the country 
 ai'e nothing like your old ling and your Isbels a' the 
 court : the brains of my Cupid 's knock'd out ; and 
 I begin to love, as an old man loves money, with 
 no stomach. 
 
 Count. What have we here ? 
 
 Clo. E'en that you have there. [Exit. 
 
 Count. [Reads.^ 
 
 " I have sent you a daughter-in-law; she hath recovered 
 the king, and undone me. I liave wedded her, not bedded 
 her; and have sworn to make the nvt eternaL You shall 
 hear I am run away ; know it before the report come. If 
 there be breadth enough in the world, I will hold a lo:;g 
 distance, ily duty to you. 
 
 " Your unfortunate son, 
 
 "BEHTKiLM.'' 
 
 This is not well, rash and unbridled boy. 
 To fly the favoiu's of so good a king : 
 To pluck his indignation on thy head, 
 By the misprizing of a maid too virtuous 
 For the contempt of empire. 
 
 Re-enter Clown. 
 
 Clo. O madam, yonder is heavy news within, 
 between two soldiers and my young lady. 
 
 Count. What is the matter? 
 
 Clo. Nay, there is some comfort in the news, 
 some comfort ; your son vd\l not be kill'd so soon 
 as I thought he would. 
 
 Count. Why should he be kill'd? 
 
 Clo. So say I, madam, if he run away, as I hear 
 he does : the danger is in standing to 't ; that '» 
 
 511
 
 nCT in. 
 
 ALL^S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 the loss of men, though it be the getting of chil- 
 dren. Here they come v.ill tell you more : for 
 ray part, I only hear your son was run awny. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Enter IIelkna and two Gentlemen. 
 
 1 Gent. Save you, good m.adiiin. 
 
 Hel. Madam, my lord is gone, for ever gone. 
 « Gent. Do not say so. 
 
 Count. Think upon patience. — Pray you, gentle- 
 men, — 
 I have felt so many quirks of joy and grief, 
 That the first face of neither, on the start. 
 Can woman me unto 't, — "W^here is my son, I pray 
 you? 
 
 2 Gent. Madam, he 's gone to serve the duke of 
 
 Florence : 
 \Ve met him thitherward ; for thence wo came, 
 And, after some despatch in hand at court. 
 Thither we bend again. 
 
 Hel. Look on his letter, madam ; here 's my 
 
 passport. \Reads. 
 
 " When tliou canst get the ring upon my finger, which 
 never shnll come off, and show me a cliild begotten of tliy 
 body that I am father to, then ciU me husband ; but in 
 such a then I write a never.'''' 
 
 This is a dreadful sentence. 
 
 Count. Brought you this letter, gentlemen ? 
 
 1 Gent. Ay, madam ; 
 
 And, for the contents' s.ake, are sony for our pains. 
 
 Count. I prithee, lady, have a better cheer ; 
 If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine, 
 Thou robb'st me of a moiety. lie was my son ; 
 But I do wash his name out of my blood. 
 And thou art all my child. — Towards Florence is 
 he? 
 
 2 Gent. Ay, madam. 
 
 Count. And to be a soldier? 
 
 2 Gent. Such is his noblo purpose : and, be- 
 lieve 't. 
 The duke will lay upon him all th« honour 
 That good convenience claims. 
 
 Count. Return thou thither? 
 
 1 Gent. Ay, madam, with the swiftest wing of 
 speed. 
 
 Hel. " Till I have no wife, I have nothing in 
 France." 
 T is bitter. 
 
 Count. Find you that there ? 
 
 TIel. Ay, madam. 
 
 I Gent. 'T is but the boldness of his hand, haply, 
 wliiih his heart was not consenting to. 
 
 .S12 
 
 Count. Nothing in France, until he have no 
 wife ! 
 There 's nothing here that is too good for him, 
 But only she : and she deserves a lord 
 That twenty such rude boys mignt tend ujion. 
 And call her hourly, mistress. Who was with him 1 
 
 1 Gent. A servant only, and a gentleman 
 Which I have some time known. 
 
 Count. Parolles, was 't not ? 
 
 1 Gent. Ay, my good lady, he. 
 
 Count. A very tainted fellow, and full of wicked- 
 ness: 
 My son corrupts a well-derived nature 
 With his inducement. 
 
 1 Gent. Indeed, good lady, 
 The fellow has a deal of that, too much. 
 Which holds him much to have. 
 
 Count. Y' are welcome, gentlemen. 
 I will entreat you, when you see my son, 
 To tell him that his sword can never win 
 The honour that he loses : more I '11 entreat you, 
 Written, to bear along. 
 
 2 Gent. We sen'e you, madam, 
 In that and all your worthiest aflairs. 
 
 Count. Not so, but as we change our courtesir:; 
 Will you draw near ? 
 
 [Exeunt CouKT. and Gentlemen. 
 Hel. "Till I have no wife, I have nothing in 
 
 France." 
 Nothing in France, till he has no wife ! 
 Tliou shall have none, Eousillon, none in France; 
 Then hast thou all again. Poor lord ! is 't I 
 That chase thee from thy country, and expose 
 Those tender limbs of thine to the event 
 Of the none-sparing war ? and is it I 
 That drive thee from the sportive court, whor 
 
 thou 
 Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark 
 Of .smoky muskets ? O, you leaden messengers, 
 That ride upon the violent speed of fire. 
 Fly with false aim ; move the still-pefering** air, 
 That sings with piercing; do not touch my lord 
 Whoever shoots at him, I set him there : 
 Whoever charges on his forward breast, 
 I am the caitifl" that do hold him to it ; 
 And, though I kill him not, I am the cause 
 Ilis death was so eilected : better 't were, 
 I mot the ravin lion when he roar'd 
 With sharp consti'aint of hunger ; better 't worcs, 
 Tiiat all the miseries which nature owes 
 Were mine at once. No, come thou home, Rou- 
 
 sillon,
 
 AOT lU. 
 
 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 SCENE HI V. 
 
 WLence honour but of danger wins a scar, 
 
 As oft it loses all; I will be gone: 
 
 My being here it is that holds thee hence : 
 
 Shall I stay here to do 't ? no, no, although 
 
 The air of paradise did fan the house, 
 
 And angels ofBc'd all : I will be gone, — 
 
 That Y tiful rumour may report my flight, 
 
 To oonsolate thine ear. Come, night; end, day ! 
 
 For, with the dark, poor thief, I '11 steal away. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 SCENE in.— Florence. Before the Duke's Palace. 
 
 Flourish. Enter the Duke of Florence, Bertram, 
 Lords, Officers, Soldiers, and others. 
 
 Duke. The general of our horse thou art ; 
 and we. 
 Great in our hope, lay our best love and credence 
 Upon thy promising fortune. 
 
 £er. ' Sir, it is 
 
 A charge too heavy for my strength : but yet 
 We '11 strive to bear it for your worthy sake. 
 To th' extreme edge of hazard. 
 
 Duke. Then, go thou forth ; 
 
 And fortune play upon thy prosperous helm. 
 As thy auspicious mistress ! 
 
 Ber. This veiy day. 
 
 Great Mars, I put myself into thy file : 
 Make me but like my thoughts ; and I shall prove 
 A lover of thy drum, hater of love. [Exeunt 
 
 SCENE rV. — Rousillon. A Room in the Countess's 
 Palace. 
 
 Enter Countess and Steward. 
 
 Count. Alas ! and would you take the letter of 
 her? 
 Might you not know she would do as she has done. 
 By sending me a letter ? Read it again. 
 
 Stew. 
 
 I am St. Jacques' pilgrim, thither gon«. : 
 
 Ambitious love hath so in me offended, 
 That barefoot plod I the cold ground upon. 
 
 With sainted vow my faults to have amended. 
 Write, write, that, from the bloody course of war 
 
 My dearest master, your dear son, may hie ; 
 Bless him at home in peace, whilst I from fur 
 
 His name with zealous fervour sanctify : 
 His taken labours bid him me forgive ; 
 
 I, his despiteful Juno, send him forth 
 From courtly friends, with camping foes to live, 
 
 Where death and dhnger dog the heels of worth : 
 Hb is too good and fair for Death and me ; 
 Whom I myself embrace, to set him free. 
 65 
 
 Count. Ah, what sharp stings are in her mildest 
 words 1 — 
 Rinaldo, you did never lack advice so much 
 
 As letting her pass so ; had I spoke with her, 
 I could have well diverted her intents, 
 Which thus she hath prevented. 
 
 Steiv. Pardon me, madam ; 
 
 If I had given you this at over-night, 
 She might have been o'erta'en ; and yet sho 
 
 writes. 
 Pursuit would be but vain. 
 
 Count. What angel shall 
 
 Bless this unworthy husband ? he cannot thrive, 
 Unless her prayers, whom heaven delights to hear, 
 And loves to grant, reprieve him from the wrath 
 Of greatest justice. — Write, write, Rinaldo, 
 To this unworthy husband of his wife : 
 Let every word weigh heavy of her worth. 
 That he does weigh too light : my greatest giiet^ 
 Though little he do feel it, set down sharply. 
 Despatch the most convenient messenger : — 
 When, haply, he shall hear that she is gone, 
 He will return ; and hope I may that she. 
 Hearing so much, will speed her foot again. 
 Led hither by pure love. Which of them both 
 Is dearest to me, I have no skill in sense 
 To make distinction : — Provide this messenger : — 
 My heart is heavy, and mine age is weak ; 
 Grief would have tears, and sorrow bids me speak 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE Y.— Without the Walls o/ Florence. 
 
 A tucket afar off. Enter an old Widow of Flo- 
 rence, Diana, Violenta, Mariana, and other 
 Citizens. 
 
 Wid. Nay, come; for if they do ajiproach the 
 city, we shall lose all the sight. 
 
 Dia. They say the French count has done most 
 honourable service. 
 
 Wid. It is reported that he has taken their 
 great'st commander, and that, with his own hand, 
 he slew the duke's brother. We have lost our 
 labour : they are gone a contrary way : hark ! 
 you may know by their trumpets. 
 
 Mar. Come, let 's return again, and sufBce our- 
 selves with the report of it. Well, Diana, take 
 hee-i of this French earl : the honour of a maid ia 
 her name, and no legacy is so rich as honesty. 
 
 Wid. I have told my neighbour how you have 
 been solicited by a gentleman his companion. 
 
 Mar. I know that knave ; hang him ! one 
 
 518
 
 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 BCEIfE V 
 
 Parolles : a filthy officer he is in those suggestions 
 for the young earl. — Beware of them, Diana; 
 their promises, enticements, oaths, tokens, and all 
 these engines of lust, are not the things they go 
 under : many a maid hath been seduced by them ; 
 and the misery is, example, that so terrible shows 
 in the wreck of maidenhood, cannot for all that 
 dissuade succession, but that they are limed with 
 the twigs that threaten them. I hope I need not 
 to advise you further ; but I hope your own grace 
 will keep you where you are, though there were 
 no further danger known, but the modesty which 
 is so lost. 
 
 Dia. You shall not need to fear me. 
 
 Enter Helena, in the dress of a pilgrim. 
 
 Wid. I hope so. — Look, here comes a pilgrim : 
 I know she will lie at my house : thither they send 
 one another : I '11 question her. — 
 God save you, pilgrim ! whither are you bound ? 
 
 Hel. To Saint Jaques le Grand. 
 Where do the palmers lodge, I do beseech you ? 
 
 Wid. At the Saint Francis here, beside the port. 
 
 Hd. Is this the way ? 
 
 Wid. Ay marry is 't. — Hark you, they come 
 
 this way : — [A march afar off. 
 
 If you will tarry, holy pilgrim, but till the troops 
 
 come by, 
 I will conduct you where you shall be lodged ; 
 The rather, for I think I know your hostess 
 As ani])le as myself 
 
 Hel. Is it yourself? 
 
 Wid. If you shall please so, pilgrim. 
 
 Hel. I thank you, and will stay upon your 
 leisure. 
 
 Wid. You came, I think, from France. 
 
 Hel. I did so. 
 
 Wid. Here you shall see a countryman of youre. 
 That has done worthy service. 
 
 Hel. His name, I pray you. 
 
 Dia. The count Rousillon : know you such a one? 
 
 Hel. But by the ear that hears most nobly of 
 him : 
 His face I know not. 
 
 Dia. Whatsoe'er he is. 
 
 He 's bravely taken here. He stole from France, 
 As 't is reported, for the king had married him 
 Against his liking: Think you it is so? 
 
 Hel. Ay, surely, mere the truth ; I know liia 
 lady. 
 
 Dia. There is a gentleman that serves the coimt 
 Report/! but coarsely of her. 
 614 
 
 Hel. Wliat 's his name ? 
 
 Dia. Monsieur Parolles. 
 
 Hel. 0, 1 believe with him, 
 
 In argument of praise, or to the worth 
 Of the great count himself, she is too mean 
 To have her name repeated ; all her deserving 
 Is a reserved honesty, and that 
 I have not heard examined. 
 
 Dia. Alas, poor lady ! 
 
 'T is a hard bondage, to become ihe wife 
 Of a detesting lord. 
 
 Wid. Ay, right ; good creature, wheresoe'ei 
 she is. 
 Her heait weighs sadly: this yoimg maid might 
 
 do her 
 A shrewd turn, if she pleased. 
 
 Hel. How do you mean ? 
 
 May be, the amorous count solicits her 
 In the unlawful purpose. 
 
 Wid. He does, indeed ; 
 
 And brokes with all that can in such a suit 
 Corrupt the tender honour of a maid : 
 But she is arm'd for him, and keeps her guard 
 In honestest defence. 
 
 Hnter, with drum and colours, a party of On 
 Florentine army, Bertram, and Parolles. 
 
 Mar. The gods forbid else ! 
 Wid. So, now they come : — 
 
 That is Antonio, the duke's eldest son ; 
 That, Escalus. 
 
 Hel. Wliich is the Frenchman ? 
 
 Dia. He ; 
 
 That with the plume : 't is a most gallant fel- 
 low; 
 I would he lov'd his wife : if he were honester. 
 He were much goodlier : — Is 't not a handsome 
 gentleman ? 
 
 Hel. I like him well. 
 
 Dia. 'T is pity he is not honest : Yond 's thai 
 same knave. 
 That leads him to these places ; were I his 
 
 lady, 
 I would poison that vile rascal. 
 
 Hel. Which is he? 
 
 Dia. That jack-an-apes with scarfe : Why is he 
 melancholy ? 
 
 Hel. Perchance he 's hurt i' the battle. 
 
 Par. Lose our drum! well. 
 
 Mar. He 's shrewdly vex'd at something. Look 
 he has spied us. 
 
 Wid. Marry, hang you I
 
 ACT III. 
 
 ALL'S WELL THAT KNUS WELL. 
 
 Mar. And your courtesy, for a ring-carrier ! 
 [Exeunt Ber., Par., Officers, and Soldiers. 
 
 Wid. The troop h pass'J : Come, pilgrim, I will 
 bring you 
 Where you shall host: of eujoin'd penitents 
 There 's four or five, to great saint Jaques bound, 
 Already at my house. 
 
 flel. I humbly thank you : 
 
 Please it this matron, and this gentle maid, 
 To eat with us to-night, the charge and thanking 
 Shall be for me ; and, to requite you further, 
 I will bestow some precepts of this virgin,^ 
 Worthy the note. 
 
 Both. We '11 take your offer kindly. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE \I.—Camp before Florence. 
 Enter Bertram and ike two French Lords. 
 
 1 Lord. Nay, good my lord, put him to 't ; let 
 him have his way. 
 
 2 Lord. If your lordship find him not a hilding, 
 hold me no more in your respect. 
 
 1 Lord. On my life, my lord, a bubble I 
 Ber. Do you think I anj so far deceived in 
 him? 
 
 1 Lord. Believe it, my lord, in mine own direct 
 knowledge, without any malice, but to speak of 
 him as my kinsman, he 's a most notable coward, 
 an infinite and endless liar, an hourly promise- 
 breaker, the owner of no one good quality worthy 
 your lordship's entertainment. 
 
 2 Lord. It were fit you knew him: lest, reposing 
 too far in bis virtue, which he hath not, he might, 
 at some great and trusty business, in a main dan- 
 ger, fail you. 
 
 Ber. I would I knew in what particular action 
 to try him. 
 
 2 Lord. None better than to let him fetch ofi' 
 his drum, which you hear him so confidently un- 
 dertake to do. 
 
 1 Lord. I, with a troop of Florentines, will 
 suddenly surprise him ; such I will have whom I 
 am sure he knows not from the enemy : we will 
 bind and hoodwink him, so that he shall sujipose 
 no other but that he is carried into the leaguer of 
 the adversaries, when we bring him to our own 
 tents. Be but your lordship present at his ex- 
 amination : if he do not, for the promise of his 
 life, and in the highest compulsion of base fear, 
 offer to betray you, and deliver all the intelligence 
 in his power against you, and that with the divine 
 
 forfeit of his soul upon oath, never trust my judg^ 
 ment in anything. 
 
 2 Lord. O, for the love of laughter, let him 
 fetch his drum ; ho says, he has a stratagem for 't 
 when your lordship sees the bottom of his success 
 in 't, and to what metal this counterfeit lump of ore 
 will be melted, if you give him not John Drum's 
 entertainment, your inclining cannot be removed. 
 Here he comes. 
 
 Enter Parolles. 
 
 1 Lord. O, for the love of laughter, hinder not 
 the humour of his design : let him fetch oti" his 
 drum in any hand. 
 
 Ber. How now, monsieur ? this drum sticks 
 sorely in your disposition. 
 
 2 Lord. A pox on 't, let it go ; 't is but a 
 
 drum. 
 
 Par. But a drum I Is 't but a drum ? A drum 
 so lost! — There was excellent command ! to charge 
 in with our horse upon our own wings, and to rend 
 our own soldiers ! 
 
 2 Lord. That was not to be blamed in the com- 
 mand of the service ; it was a disaster of war that 
 Caesar himself could not have prevented, if he had 
 been there to command. 
 
 Ber. Well, we cannot greatly condemn our suc- 
 cess : some dishonour we had in the loss of that 
 drum ; but it is not to be recovered. 
 
 Par. It might have been recovered. 
 
 Ber. It might, but it is not now. 
 
 Par. It is to be recovered : but that the merit 
 of service is seldom attributed to the true and exact 
 performer, I would have that drum or another, or 
 hie jacet. 
 
 Ber. Why, if you have a stomach to 't, mon- 
 sieur, if you think your mystery in stratagem can 
 bring this instrument of honour again into his 
 native quarter, be magnanimous in the enterprise, 
 and go on ; I will grace the attempt for a worthy 
 exploit : if you speed well in it, the duke shall 
 both speak of it, and extend to you what further 
 becomes his greatness, even to the utmost syllable 
 of your worthiness. 
 
 Par. By the hand of a soldier, I will under- 
 take it. 
 
 Ber. But you must not now slumber in it. 
 
 Par. I '11 about it this evening : and I will 
 presently pen down my dilemmas, encourage my- 
 self in my certainty, put myself into my mortal 
 preparation, and, by midnight, look to hear fuilher 
 from me. 
 
 615
 
 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 scKNK vn. 
 
 Ber. Ma}' I be bold to acquaint Lis grace you 
 are gone about it ? 
 
 Par. I know not what the success will be, my 
 lord ; but the attempt I vow. 
 
 Ber I know thou 'rt valiant ; 
 And to the possibility of thy soldiership 
 Will subscribe for thee. Farewell. 
 
 Par. I love not many words. [Exit. 
 
 1 Lord. No more thau a fish loves water. — Is 
 not this a strange fellow, my lord, that so confi- 
 dently seems to undertake this business, which he 
 knows is not to be done; damns himself to do, 
 and dares better be damned than to do 't ? 
 
 2 Lord. You do not know him, my lord, as we 
 do : certain it is, that he will steal himself into a 
 man's favour, and, for a week, escape a great deal 
 of discoveries; but when you find him out, you 
 have him ever after. 
 
 Ber. Why, do you think he will make no deed 
 at all of this, that so seriously he does address 
 himself unto ? 
 
 1 Lord. None in the world ; but return with an 
 invention, and clap upon you two or three proba- 
 ble hes : but (ve have almost emboss'd him ; you 
 shall see his fall to-night: for, indeed, he is not 
 for your lordship's respect. 
 
 2 Lord. We '11 make yon some sport with the 
 fox, ere we case Lim. He was first smok'd by the 
 old lord Lafeu: when his disguise and he is 
 Darted, tell me what a sprat you shall find him ; 
 which you shall see this very night. 
 
 1 Lord. I must go look my twigs ; he shall be 
 caught. 
 
 Ber. Your brother, he shall go along with 
 me. 
 
 1 Lord. As 't pleass your lordship : I '11 leave 
 
 you. [Exit. 
 
 Ber. Now will I lead 70u to the house, and 
 show you 
 ["he lass I spoke of. 
 
 2 Lord. But you say she 's honest. 
 Ber. Thiit 's all the fault: I spoke with her 
 
 but once, 
 
 And found her wondrous cold ; but I sent to 
 her. 
 
 By this same coxcomb that we have i' the wind. 
 
 Tokens and lett<^rs which she did re-send ; 
 
 And this is all I have done. She 's a fair crea- 
 ture ; 
 
 Will you go see her ? 
 2 Ijord. With all my heart, my lord. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 516 
 
 SCENE vn.— Florence. A Room in the Widow'* 
 House. 
 
 Enter Helena and Widow, 
 
 Hel. If you misdoubt me that I am not she, 
 I know not how I shall assure you further. 
 But I shall lose the grounds I work upon. 
 
 Wid. Though my estate be fall'n, I was well 
 bom. 
 Nothing acquainted with these businesses. 
 And would not put my reputation now 
 In any staining act. 
 
 Hel. Nor would I wish you. 
 
 First, give me trust, the count he is my husband 
 And, what to your sworn counsel I have spoken 
 Is so, from word to word ; and then you cannot. 
 By the good aid that I of you shall borrow. 
 Err in bestowing it. 
 
 Wid. I should beheve you ; 
 
 For you have show'd me that which well ap- 
 proves 
 Y' are great in fortune. 
 
 Hel. Take this purse of gold, 
 
 And let me buy your friendly help thus far, 
 Which I will over-pay, and pay again, 
 When I have found it. The count he woos yet r 
 
 daughter, 
 Lays down his wanton siege before her beauty, 
 Resolves to carry her ; let her, in fine, consent. 
 As we '11 direct her how 't is best to bear it ; 
 Now his important blood will nought deny 
 That she '11 demand. A ring the county wears. 
 That downward hath succeeded in his house, 
 From son to son, some four or five descents 
 Since the first father wore it : this ring he holds 
 In most rich choice ; yet, in his idle fire, 
 To buy his will, it would not seem too dear, 
 Howe'er repented after. 
 
 Wid. Now I see the bottom of your purpose. 
 
 Hel. You see it la\vful then : It is no more, 
 But that your daughter, ere she seems as won. 
 Desires this ring ; appoints him an encounter ; 
 In fine, delivers mo to fill the time. 
 Herself most chastely absent ; after this, 
 To marry her, I '11 add three thousand crowns 
 To what is past already. 
 
 Wid. I have yiolded : 
 
 Instruct my daughter how she shall persever, 
 That time and place, with this deceit so lawfiil, 
 May prove coherent. Every night he comes 
 With musics of all sorts, and songs compos'd 
 To her unworthiuess. It nothing steads Ufl
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 ALL'S WELL TUAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 SCBNE I. 
 
 To chide liiin from our eaves; for he persists, 
 
 Is wicked meaning in a lawful deed, 
 
 As if his life lay on 't. 
 
 And lawful meaning in a lawful act; 
 
 Hcl. Why, then, to-night 
 
 Where both not sin, and yet a sinful fact : 
 
 fyct us assay our plot ; which, if it speed, 
 
 But let 's about it. [Extunt 
 
 ACT lY. 
 
 SCENE I.— Without the Florentine Camp. 
 Enter first Lord, with five or six Soldiers in ambush. 
 
 1 Lord. He can come no other way but by this 
 hedge-comer. When you sally upon him, speak 
 what terrible language you will ; though you 
 understand it not yourselves, no matter; for we 
 must not seem to nnderstaud him, unless some 
 one among us, whom we must produce for an 
 intei'preter. 
 
 1 Sold. Good captain, let me be the interpreter. 
 
 1 Lord. Art not acquainted with him ? knows 
 ho not thy voice ? 
 
 1 Sold. No, sir, I warrant you. 
 
 1 Lord. But what linsy-woolsy hast thou to 
 speak to us again ? 
 
 1 Sold. E'en such as you speak to me. 
 
 1 Lord. He must think us some band of stran- 
 gers i' the adversary's entei'tainment. Now he 
 hath a smack of all neighbouring languages ; tliere- 
 fore we must every one be a man of his own fancy, 
 not to know what we speak one to another; so 
 we seem to know is to know straight our pur- 
 pose : chough's language, gabble enough, and good 
 enough. As for you, interpreter, you must seem 
 very politic. But couch, boa ! here ho comes ; to 
 beguile two hours in a sleep, and then to return 
 and swear the lies he forges. 
 
 Enter Parolles. 
 
 Par. Ten a'clock : within these three hours 't 
 will be time enough to go home. What shall I 
 Bay I have done ? It must be a very plausive inven- 
 tion that carries it. They begin to smoke me : and 
 disgraces have of late knock'd too often at my door. 
 I find my tongue is too fool-hardy ; but my heart 
 hath the fear of Mars before it, and of his creatures, 
 not daring the reports of my tongue. 
 
 1 Lord. This is the first truth that e'er thine 
 own tongue was guilty of. [Aside. 
 
 Par. What the devil should move me to under- 
 take the recovery of this drum ; being not ignorant 
 of the impossibility, and knowing I had no such 
 purpose? I must give myself some hurts, and say 
 I got them in exploit. Yet slight ones will not 
 carry it : Tliey will say. Came you off with so 
 little ? and great ones I dare not give. Where- 
 fore? what's the instance? Tongue, I must put 
 you into a butter-woman's mouth, and buy myself 
 another of Bajazet's mule,'" if you prattle me into 
 these perils. 
 
 1 Lord. Is it possible he should know what he 
 is, and be that he is ? [Aside. 
 
 Par. I would the cutting of my garments would 
 serve the turn, or the breaking of my Spanish sword. 
 
 1 Lord. We cannot afford you so. [Aside. 
 
 Par. Or the baring of my beard ; and to say i( 
 was in stratagem 
 
 1 Lord. 'T would not do. [Aside 
 
 Par. Or to drown my clothes, and say I was 
 stripp'd. 
 
 1 Lord. Hardly serve. [Aside. 
 
 Par. Though I swore I leap'd from the window 
 of the citadel — 
 
 1 Lord. How deep ? [Aside, 
 
 Par. Thirty fathom. 
 
 1 Lord. Three great oaths would scarce make 
 that be believed. [Aside. 
 
 Par. I would I had any drum of the enemy's ; 
 I would swear I recover'd it. 
 
 1 Lord. You shall hear one anon. [Aside. 
 
 Par. A drum now of the enemy's ! 
 
 [Alarum within, 
 
 1 Lord. Throca movousiis, cargo, cargo, cargo. 
 
 All. Cargo, cargo, cargo, villianda par corba^ 
 cargo. 
 
 Par. ! ransom, ransom : do not hide mine 
 eyes. 
 
 [They seize him and blindfold him 
 
 1 Sold. Boskos thromuldo boskos. 
 
 517
 
 ALL 'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 BOENE TI. 
 
 Far. I know you are the Muskos' regiment, 
 And I shall lose my life for want of language : 
 If there be here German, or Dane, low Dutch, 
 rtalian, or French, let him speak to me ; 
 I will discover that which shall undo 
 The Florentine. 
 
 1 Sold. Boskos vauvado : — 
 
 I understand thee, and can speak thy tongue : — 
 Kerelybonto : — Sir, 
 
 Betake thee to thy faith, for seventeen poniards 
 Are at thy bosom. 
 
 Par. Oh ! 
 
 1 Sold. 0, pray, pray, pray, — 
 
 Manka revania dulche. 
 
 1 Lwrd. Oscorbi dulchos volivorco. 
 
 1 Sold. The general is content to spare thee yet ; 
 And, hoodwink'd as thou art, will lead thee on 
 To gather from thee : haply thou mayst inform 
 Something to save thy life. 
 
 Far. O, let me live. 
 
 And all the secrets of our camp I '11 show, 
 Tlieir force, their purposes : nay, I '11 speak that 
 Which you will wonder at. 
 
 1 Sold. But wilt thou faithfully ? 
 
 Far. If I do not, damn me. 
 
 1 Sold. Acordo Unta. — 
 
 Come on, thou art granted space. 
 
 \_Exit, with Parolles guarded. 
 
 1 Lord. Go, tell the count Rousillon, and my 
 
 brother, 
 We have caught the woodcock, and will keep him 
 
 muffled 
 Till we do hear from them. 
 
 2 Sold. Captain, I will. 
 
 1 Lord. He will betray us all unto ourselves ; — 
 Inform on that. 
 
 2 Sold. So I will, sir. 
 
 1 Lord. Till then, I '11 keep him dark, and 
 safely lock'd. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE n.— Florence. A Boom in the Widow'* 
 House. 
 
 Enter Bertram and Diana. 
 
 Bcr. They told me that your name was Fontibell. 
 
 Dia. No, my good lord, Diana. 
 
 Der. Titled goddess ; 
 
 And worth it, with addition ! — But, fair soul, 
 In your fine frame hath love no quality ? 
 If the (juick fire of youth light not your mind, 
 Vou are no maiden, but a monument : 
 When you are dead, you should be such a one 
 618 
 
 As you are now, for you are cold and stem ; 
 And now you should be as your mother was, 
 When your sweet self was got. 
 
 Dia. She then was honest. 
 
 Ber. So should you be. 
 
 Dia. No : 
 
 My mother did but duty, — such, my lord, 
 As you owe to your wife. 
 
 Ber. No more a' that ! 
 
 I piithee do not strive against my vows : 
 I was compel I'd to her; but I love thee 
 By love's own sweet constraint, and will forever 
 Do thee all rights of service. 
 
 Dia. Ay, so you serve us. 
 
 Till we serve you : but when you have our roses. 
 You barely leave our thorns to prick ourselves, 
 And mock us with our bareness. 
 
 Ber. How have I sworn ! 
 
 Dia. 'T is not the many oaths that make tlia 
 truth ; 
 But the plain single vow, that is vow'd true. 
 What is not holy, that we swear not by, 
 But take the Highest to witness : Then, prav 
 
 you, tell me, 
 If I should swear by Jove's great attributes 
 I lov'd you dearly, would you believe my oaths. 
 When I did love you ill ? This has no holding, 
 To swear by him whom I protest to hive. 
 That I will work against him. Therefore, yout 
 
 oaths 
 Are words, and poor conditions, but unseal'd, — 
 At least, in my opinion. 
 
 Ber. Change it, change it ; 
 
 Be not so holy-cruel : love is holy. 
 And my iutegiity ne'er knew the crafts 
 That you do charge men with. Stand no more off, 
 But give thyself unto my sick desires. 
 Who then recover : say, thou art mine, and ever 
 My love, as it begins, shall so persever. 
 
 Dia. I see that men make ropes in such a 
 scarre," 
 That wo '11 forsake oui-selves. Give me that ling. 
 
 Ber. I '11 lend it thee, my dear, but havo 
 no power 
 To give it from me. 
 
 Dia. Will you not, my lord ? 
 
 Ber. It is an honour 'longing to our houae, 
 Bequeathed down from many ancestors ; 
 Which were the greatest obloquy i' the world 
 In me to lose. 
 
 Dia. Mine honour 's such a riiip ' 
 
 I My chastity 's tbe jewel of our house.
 
 ACT IV 
 
 ALL'S WELL THAT JuNDS WELL. 
 
 SCENE 111. 
 
 Bequeathed down from many ancestors ; 
 Which were the greatest obloquy i' the world 
 In me to lose. Thus your own proper wisdom 
 Brings in the champion Honour on my part, 
 .\giiiust your vain assault. 
 
 Bcr. Here, take my ring : 
 
 My house, mine honour, yea, my life, be thine, 
 And I '11 be bid by thee. 
 
 Dia. When midnight comes, knock at my 
 
 chamber window. 
 I 'II order take my mother shall not hear. 
 Now will I charge you in the band of truth. 
 When you have conquer'd my yet maiden bed, 
 Remain there but an hour, nor speak to me : 
 My reasons are most strong ; and you shall know 
 
 them. 
 When back again this ring shall be deliver'd : 
 And on your linger, in the night, I '11 put 
 Another ring ; that what in time proceeds 
 May token to the future our past deeds. 
 Adieu, till then ; then, fail not : You have won 
 A wife of me, though there my hope be done. 
 Bcr. A heaven on earth I have won, by wooing 
 
 thee. [Exit. 
 
 Dia. For which live long to thank both Heaven 
 
 and me ! 
 Vou may so in the end. — 
 My mother told me just how he would woo, 
 As if she sat in 's heart ; she says, all men 
 Have the like oaths : he had sworn to marry me, 
 When his wife 's dead ; therefore I '11 lie with 
 
 him 
 When I am buried. Since Frenchmen are so 
 
 braid,'' 
 Many that will, I live and die a maid : 
 Only, in this disguise, I think 't no sin 
 To cozen him that would unjustly win. \Exit. 
 
 SCENE m.— TAe Florentine Camp. 
 
 Enter the two French Lords, and two or three 
 Soldiers. 
 
 1 Lord. You have not given him his mothev's 
 letter? 
 
 2 Lord. I have delivered it an hour since : 
 there is something in 't that stings his nature ; 
 for, on the reading it, he changed almost into 
 another man. 
 
 1 Lord. He has much worthy blame laid upon 
 him, for shaking oft" so good a wife, and so sweet 
 I lady. 
 
 2 Lord. Especially he hath incurred the ever- 
 
 lasting displeasure of the king, who had even 
 tun'd his bounty to sing happiness to him. I 
 will tell you a thing, but you shall let it dwell 
 darkly with you. 
 
 1 Lord. When you havo spoken it, 't is dead, 
 and I am the grave of it. 
 
 2 Lord. He hath perverted a young gentle- 
 woman here in Florence, of a most chaste renown ; 
 and this night ho fleshes his will in the spoil of 
 her honour : he hath given her his monumental 
 ring, and thinks himself made in the unchaste 
 composition. 
 
 1 Lord. Now, God delay our rebellion ! as we 
 are ourselves what things are we ! 
 
 2 Lord. Merely our own traitors. And as in 
 the common course of all treasons, we still sec 
 them reveal themselves, till they attain to their 
 abhorr'd ends ; so he, that in this action contrives 
 against his own nobility, in his proper stream 
 o'erflows himself. 
 
 1 Lord. Is it not meant damnable" in us to be 
 trumpeters of our unlawful intents? We shall 
 not then have his company to-night ? 
 
 2 Lord. Not till after midnight; for he is 
 dieted to his hour. 
 
 1 Lord. That approaches apace : I would gladly 
 have him see his company anatomiz'd, that he 
 might take a measure of his own judgments where- 
 in so curiously he had set this counterfeit. 
 
 2 Lord. We will not meddle with him till lie 
 come; for his presence must be the whip of the 
 other. 
 
 1 Lord. In the mean time, what hear you of 
 these wars? 
 
 2 Lord. I hear there is an overture of peace. 
 
 1 Lord. Nay, I assure you a peace concluded. 
 
 2 Lord. What will count Rousillon do then ? 
 will he travel higher, or return again into France 
 
 1 Lord. I perceive, by this demand, you art 
 not altogether of his council. 
 
 2 Lord. Let it be forbid, sir ! so should I be a 
 great deal of his act. 
 
 1 Lord. Sir, his wife, some two months since, 
 fled from his house : her pretence is a pilgrimage 
 to saint Jaques le Grand ; which holy undertaking, 
 with most austere sanctimony, she accomplish'd : 
 and there residing, the tenderness of her nature 
 became as a prey to her grief; in fine, made a 
 groan of her last breath, and now she sings it 
 heaven. 
 
 2 Lord. How is this justified ? 
 
 1 Lord. The stronger par* of it by her own le< 
 
 •MO
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 ALL'S WELL TUAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 SCENE in. 
 
 ters; which makes her story true, even to the point 
 of her death : her death itself, which could not be 
 her office to say is come, was faithfully confirm'd 
 by the rector of the place. 
 
 2 Lord. Hath the count all this intelligence ? 
 
 1 Lord. Aj, and the particular confirmations, 
 point from point, to the full arming of the verity. 
 
 2 Lord. I am heailily sorry that he '11 be glad 
 of this. 
 
 1 Lord. How mightily, sometimes, we make us 
 comforts of our losses ! 
 
 2 Lord. And how mightily, some other times, 
 we drown our gain in tears ! The great dignity 
 that his valour hath here acquir'd for him, shall 
 at home be encount'red with a shame as ample. 
 
 1 Lord. The web of our life is of a mingled 
 yarn, good and ill together : our virtues would be 
 proud, if our faults whipp'd them not ; and our 
 crimes would despair, if they were not cherish'd 
 by our virtues. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 How now 3 where 's your master ? 
 
 Serv. He met the duke in the street, sir, of 
 whom he hath taken a solemn leave ; his lordship 
 will ne.xt morning for France. The duke hath 
 ofl'ered him letters of commendations to the king. 
 
 2 Lord. They shall be no more than needful 
 there, if they were more than they can commend. 
 
 Enter Bertram. 
 
 1 Lord. They cannot be too sweet for the king's 
 tartness. Here 's his lordship now. How now, 
 my lord, is 't not after midnight ? 
 
 Ber. I have to-night despatch'd sixteen busi- 
 nesses, a month's length a-piece, by an abstract 
 of success : I have conge'd with the duke ; done 
 my adieu with his nearest ; buried a wife ; mourn'd 
 for her ; writ to my lady mother I am returning ; 
 entertained my convoy ; and between these main 
 parcels of despatch, efiected many nicer needs ; 
 the last was the greatest, but that I have not 
 ended yet. 
 
 2 Lord. If the business be of any difficulty, and 
 this morning your departure hence, it requires 
 Liuste of your lordship. 
 
 Ber. I mean the business is not ended, as fear- 
 ing to hear of it hereafter : But shall we have this 
 dialogue be*-^een the fool and the soldier ? — Come, 
 bring forth this counterfeit module, has deceiv'd 
 me,*' lik(! a double-meaning prophesier. 
 
 2 Lord. ]5ring him forth : yExeunt Soldiers.] 
 
 /i20 
 
 h 'as sat in the stocks all night, poor gallant 
 knave. 
 
 Ber. No matter ; his heels have deserv'd it, in 
 usurping his spurs so long. How does he carry 
 himself ? 
 
 1 Lord. I have told your lordship already ; the 
 stocks carry him. But to answer you as you 
 would be understood, — he weeps like a wench that 
 had shed her milk : he hath coirfess'd himself to 
 Morgan, whom he supposes to be a fiiar, fiom the 
 time of his remembrance to this very instant disas- 
 ter of his setting i' the stocks : And what think 
 you he hath confess'd ? 
 
 Ber. Nothing of me, has 'a ? 
 
 2 Lord. His confession is taken, and it shall be 
 read ii his face : if your lordship be in 't, as I be- 
 lieve you are, you must have the patience to hear it 
 
 Re-enter Soldiers, with Parolle.s. 
 
 Ber. A plague upon him ! muffled ! he can say 
 nothing of me ; hush ! hush ! 
 
 1 Lord. Hoodman comes '.■" Porto tartarossa. 
 
 1 Sold. He calls for the tortures : What will 
 you say without 'em ? 
 
 Par. I will confess what I know without con 
 straint ; if ye pinch me like a pasty, I can say "n 
 more. 
 
 1 Sold. Bosko chimurcho. 
 
 2 Lord. Boblibindo chicurmurco. 
 
 1 Sold. You are a merciful general : — Our gen- 
 eral bids you answer to what I shall ask you cut 
 of a note. 
 
 Par. And truly, as I hope to live. 
 
 1 Sold. " First demand of him how many horse 
 the duke is strong." What say you to that ? 
 
 Par. Five or six thousand ; but very weak, and 
 unserviceable : the troops are all scattered, and the 
 commanders very poor rogues, upon my reputation 
 and credit, and as I hope to live. 
 
 1 Sold. Shall I set down your answer so ? 
 
 Par. Do ; I '11 take the sacrament on 't, how 
 and which way you will. 
 
 1 Sold. All 's one to him. 
 
 Ber. Wliat a pjist-saving slave is this ! 
 
 1 Lord. Y' are deceiv'd, my lord ; this is mon- 
 sieur ParoUes, the gallant militarist (that was his 
 own phrase), that had the whole theoric of war in 
 the knot of his scarf, and the practice in the chape 
 of his dagger. 
 
 2 Lord. I will never trust a man again, foi 
 keeping his sword clean ; nor believe he can hav« 
 everything in him, by wearing his apparel neatly.
 
 ALL 'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 BCESK in. 
 
 1 Sold. Well, tliat 's set down. 
 
 Par. Five or six thousand horse, I said, I will 
 Bay true, — or thereabouts, set down, — for I '11 
 speak tiiith. 
 
 1 Lord. He 's very near the truth in this. 
 
 Ber. But I con"" him no thanks fur 't, in the 
 nature he delivers it. 
 
 Par. Poor rogues, I pray you, say. 
 
 1 Sold. Well, that 's set down. 
 
 Par. I humbly thank you, sir ; a truth 's a 
 truth ; the rogues are marvellous poor. 
 
 1 Sold. " Demand of him, of what strength they 
 are a-foot." What say you to that ? 
 
 Par. By my troth, sir, if I ware to live this 
 present hour, I will tell true. Let me see : Spurio 
 a hundred and fifty, Sebastian so many, Corambus 
 BO many, Jaques so many ; Ouiltan, Cosmo, Lodo- 
 wic, and Gratii, two humlred fifty each : mine 
 own cornpany, Chitopher, Vaumond, Bentii, two 
 hundred fifty each ; so that the muster-file, rotten 
 and sound, upon my life, amounts not to fifteen 
 thousand poll ; half of the which dare not shake 
 the snow from off their cassocks,*' lest they shake 
 themselves to pieces. 
 
 Ber. Wiat shall be done to him ? 
 
 1 Lord. Nothing, but let him have thanks. 
 Demand of him my condition, and what credit I 
 have with the duke. 
 
 1 Sold. Well, that 's set down. " You shall 
 demand of him, whether one captain Dumain be 
 i' the camp, a Frenchman ; what his reputation 
 is with the duke, what his valour, honesty, and 
 expertness in wars ; or whether he thinks it were 
 not possible, with well-weighing sums of gold, to 
 corrupt him to a revolt." What say you to this ? 
 what do you know of it ? 
 
 Par. I beseech you, let me answer to the partic- 
 ular of the intergatories. Demand them simply. 
 
 1 Sold. Do you know this captain Dumain 3 
 
 Par. I know him : 'a was a botcher's 'prentice 
 in Paris, from whence he was whipp'd for getting 
 the shrieve's fool with child ; a dumb innocent 
 that could not say him nay. 
 [r/ic First Lord — Dum. — lifts uj) his hand in anr/er. 
 
 Ber. Nay, by your leave, hold your hands ; 
 though I know his brains are forfeit to the next 
 tile th.at Mh. 
 
 1 Sold. Well, is this captain in the duke of 
 (Iplorence's camp ? 
 
 Par. Upon my knowledge he is, and lousy. 
 
 1 Ixird. Nay, look not so upon me ; we shall 
 bear of your lordfhip anon. 
 66 
 
 1 Sold. What is his reputation with the duke 1 
 
 Par. The duke knows him for no other but a 
 poor officer of mine ; and writ to me this other 
 day to turn him out a' the baud : I think I have 
 his letter in my pocket. 
 
 1 Sold. Marry, we '11 search. 
 
 Par, In good sadness, I do not know ; either it 
 is there, or it is upon a file, with the duke's other 
 letters, in my tent. 
 
 1 Sold. Here 't is; here's a paper. Shall I 
 read it to you ? 
 
 Par. I do not know if it be it, or no. 
 
 Ber. Our interpreter does it well. 
 
 1 Lord. Excellently. 
 
 1 Sold. 
 "Eian. Ttie count's a fool, and full of gold," 
 
 Par. That is not the duke's letter, sir ; that is 
 an advertisement to a proper maid in Florence, 
 one Diana, to take heed of the allurement of one 
 count Rousillon, a foolish idle boy, but for all 
 that, very ruttish. I pray you, sir, put it up 
 again. 
 
 1 Sold. Nay, I '11 read it first, by your favour. 
 
 Par. My meaning in 't, I protest, was very 
 honest in the behalf of the maid ; for I knew the 
 young count to be a dangerous and lascivious 
 boy ; who is a whale to virginitj', and devours un 
 all the fry it finds. 
 
 Ber. Damn.able, both sides rogue ! 
 
 1 Sold. 
 
 " When he swears oaths, bid him drop gold, aud take it , 
 After he scores, he never pays the score : 
 Half won is match well made ; match, and well mako it 
 
 He ne'er pays after debts, take it before ; 
 And say a soldier, Dian, told thee tliis. 
 Men are to mell with,<< boys are not to kiss : 
 For count of this, the count's a fool, I know it, 
 Who pays before, but not wlien he does owe it. 
 Thine, as he vow'd to thee in thine ear, 
 
 " Pakolles." 
 
 Ber. He shall be whipp'd through the army, 
 with this rhyme in 's forehead. 
 
 2 Lord. This is your devoted friend, sir, the 
 manifold hnguist, and the armipotent soldier." 
 
 Ber. I could endure anything before but a cat, 
 and now he 's a cat to me. 
 
 1 Sold. I perceive, sir, by our general's looks 
 we shall be fain to hang you. 
 
 Par. My life, sir, in any case : not that I am 
 afi'aid to die ; but that, my offences being many 
 I would repent out the remainder of natiwe : let 
 me live, sir, in a dungeon, i' the stocks, or any- 
 where, so I may hve. 
 
 521
 
 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 1 Sold. We '11 see what may be done, so you 
 confess freely ; therefore, once more to this cap- 
 tain Dumain. You have answer'd to his reputa- 
 tion with the duke, and to his valour : what is his 
 honesty ? 
 
 Far. He will steal, sir, an egg out of a cloister ; 
 for rapes and ravishments, he parallels Nessus. 
 He professes not keeping of oaths ; in breaking 
 'em, he is stronger than Hercules. He will lie, 
 sir, with such volubility, that you would think 
 truth were a fool : drunkenness is his best virtue ; 
 for he will be swine-drunk, and in his sleep he 
 does little harm, save to his bed-clothes about 
 him ; but they know his conditions, and lay him 
 in straw. I have but little more to say, sir, of 
 his honesty : he has evei-ything that an honest 
 man should not have ; what an honest man should 
 have, he has nothing. 
 
 1 Lord. I begin to love him for this. 
 
 Ber. For this description of thine honesty 1 A 
 pox upon him for me 1 he 's more and more a eat. 
 
 1 Sold. What say you to his expertness in 
 war? 
 
 Par. Faith, sir, h' as led the drum before the 
 English tragedians, — To belie him I will not, — 
 and more of his soldiership I know not ; except, 
 in that country, he had the honour to be the of- 
 .*icer at a place there called Mile-end, to instruct 
 for the doubling of files : I would do the man 
 what honour I can, but of this I am not certain. 
 
 1 Lord. He hath out^villain'd villainy so far, 
 that the rarity redeems him. 
 
 Ber. A pox on him ; he 's a cat still. 
 
 1 Sold. His qualities being at this poor price, 
 1 need not to ask you if gold will corrupt him 
 to revolt. 
 
 Par. Sir, for a cardecue he will sell the fee-sim- 
 ple of his salvation, the inheritance of it ; and cut 
 th' entail from all remainders, and a perpetual 
 succession for it perpetually. 
 
 1 Sold. What 's his brother, the other captain 
 Dumain 1 
 
 2 Lord. Why does he ask him of me ? 
 1 Sold. What 'she? 
 
 Par. E'en a crow a' the same nest ; not alto- 
 gether 30 great as the first in goodness, but greater 
 a great deal in evil. He excels his brother for a 
 coward, yet his brother is reputed one of the 
 best that is. In a retreat, he outruns any lackey ; 
 marry, in coming on lie has the cramp. 
 
 1 Sold. If your life bo saved, will you under- 
 take to betray the Florentine 1 
 C22 
 
 Par. Ay, and the captain of his horse, count 
 Rousillon. 
 
 1 Sold. I '11 whisper with the general, and 
 know his pleasure. 
 
 Par. I '11 no more drumming ; a plague of all 
 drums : Only to seem to deserve well, and to 
 beguile the supposition of that lascivious young 
 boy the count, have I run into this danger : Yet 
 who would have suspected an ambush where I 
 was taken? [Aside. 
 
 1 Sold. There is no remedy, sir, but you must 
 die : the general says, you, that have so traitorous- 
 ly discover'd the secrets of your army, and made 
 such pestiferous reports of men very nobly held, 
 can serve the world for no honest use ; therefore 
 you must die. Come, headsman, oS" with his head. 
 
 Par. Lord, sir, let me live, or let me see 
 my death ! 
 
 1 Sold. That shall you, and take your leave 
 of all your friends. \_Unmvffling him. 
 
 So, look about you : Know you any here ? 
 
 Ber. Good morrow, noble captain. 
 
 3 Lord. God bless you, captain Parolles. 
 
 1 Lord. God save you, noble captain. 
 
 2 Lord. Captain, what greeting will you to my 
 lord Lafeu? I am for France. 
 
 1 Lord. Good captain, will you give me a 
 copy of the sonnet you writ to Diana in behalf 
 of the count Eousillon ? an I wore not a very cow- 
 ard, I'd compel it of you ; but fare you well. 
 
 [Exeunt Ber., Lords, &c. 
 
 1 Sold. You are undone, captain : all but your 
 scarf, that has a knot on 't yet. 
 
 Par. Who cannot be crush'd with a plot? 
 
 I Sold. If you could find out a country where 
 but women were that had received so much 
 shame, you might begin an impudent nation. 
 Fare you well, sir ; 1 am for France, too ; we 
 shall speak of you there. [Exit. 
 
 Par. Yet am I thankful : if my heart were 
 great, 
 'T would burst at this. Captain I '11 be no more ; 
 But I will eat and drink, and sleep as soft 
 As captain shall ; simply the thing I am 
 Shall make me live. Who knows himself n 
 
 braggart. 
 Let him fear this ; for it will come to pass. 
 That every braggart shall be found an ass. 
 Rust, sword ! cool, blushes ! and, Parolles live 
 Safest in shame ! being fool'd, by fool'ry thrive ! 
 There 's place and means for every man alive. 
 I '11 after them. lExit
 
 ALL S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 SCENE IV V. 
 
 SCENE rV.— Florence. A Room in the Widow's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Helena, Widow, and Diana. 
 
 Ud. That you may well perceive I have not 
 
 wrong'd you. 
 One of the greatest in the Christian world 
 Shall be my surety ; 'fore whose throne 't is 
 
 needful. 
 Ere I can perfect mine intents, to kneel : 
 Time was, I did him a desired office. 
 Dear almost as his life ; which gratitude 
 Through flinty Tartar's bosom would peep forth. 
 And answer, thanks. I duly am inform'd 
 His grace is at Marseilles ; to which place 
 We have convenient convoy. You must know 
 I am supposed dead : the ai'my breaking, 
 My husband hies him home ; where, Heaven 
 
 aiding, 
 And by the leave of my good lord the king, 
 We '11 be before our welcome. 
 
 Wid. Gentle madam, 
 
 You never had a servant to whose trust 
 Your business was more welcome. 
 
 Hel. Nor you, mistress. 
 
 Ever a friend whose thoughts more truly labour 
 To recompense your love : doubt not, but Heaven 
 Hath brought me up to be your daughter's 
 
 dower, 
 As it hath fated her to be my motive 
 And helper to a husband. But O, strange men ! 
 That can such sweet use make of what they 
 
 hate. 
 When saucy trusting of the cozen'd thoughts 
 Defiles the pitchy night ! so lust doth play 
 With what it loathes, for that which is away : 
 But more of this hereafter : — You, Diana, 
 Under my poor instructions yet must sufl'er 
 Something in my behalf. 
 
 Dia. Let death and honesty 
 
 Go with your impositions ; I am yours 
 Upon your will to suffer. 
 
 Hd. Yet, I pray you, — 
 
 Piut with the word, the time will bring on 
 
 summer, 
 When briers shall have leaves as well as thorns, 
 And be as sweet as sharp. We must away : 
 Our wagon is prepar'd, and time revives us : 
 All 's well that ends well : still the fine 's the 
 
 crown ;* 
 Wbat«'er the course, the eud is the renovm. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE v.— Kousillon. A Room in the Countx^ss'i 
 Palace. 
 
 Enter Countess, Lafec, and Clown. 
 
 Laf. No, no, no, your son was misled with a 
 snipt-tafl'ata fellow there, whose villainous saflVon 
 would have made all the unbak'd and doughy 
 youth of a nation in his colour : your daughter-in- 
 law had been alive at this hour, and your son here 
 at home more advanc'd by the king, than by that 
 red-tail'd humble-bee I speak of 
 
 Count. I would I had not known him ! it was 
 the death of the most virtuous gentlewoman that 
 ever nature had praise for creating: if she had 
 partaken of my flesh, and cost me the deai'est 
 groans of a mother, I could not have owed her a 
 more rooted love. 
 
 Laf. 'T was a good lady, 't was a good lady : 
 we may pick a thousand sallets, ere we light on 
 such another herb. 
 
 Clo. Indeed, sir, she was the sweet maijoram of 
 the sallet, or, rather, the herb of grace. 
 
 Laf. They are not sallet-herbs, you knave, they 
 are nose-herbs. 
 
 Clo. I am no great Nebuchadnezzar, sir; I have 
 not much skill in grass. 
 
 Laf Whether dost thou profess thyself — a 
 knave or a fool ? 
 
 Clo. A fool, sir, at a woman's service, and a 
 knave at a man's. 
 
 Laf, Your distinction ? 
 
 Clo. I would cozen the man of his wife, an do 
 his service. 
 
 Laf. So you were a knave at his service, indeed. 
 
 Clo. And I would give his wife my bauble, sir, 
 to do her service. 
 
 Laf. I will subscribe for thee ; thou art both 
 knave and fool. 
 
 Clo. At your service. 
 
 Laf. No, no, no. 
 
 Clo. WTiy, sir, if I cannot serve you, I can serve 
 as great a prince as you are. 
 
 Laf. Who 's that ? a Frenchman ? 
 
 Clo. Faith, sir, 'a has an English name ; but his 
 phisnomy is more hotter in France than there. 
 
 Laf. What prince is that ? 
 
 Clo. The black prince, sir; alias, the prince o. 
 darkness ; alias, the devil. 
 
 Laf. Hold thee ; there 's my purse ; I give thee 
 not this to suggest thee from thy master thou 
 talk'st of; serve him still. 
 
 Clo. I am a woodland fellow, sir, that always 
 
 623
 
 ACT ■v. 
 
 ALL'S WELL TE^VT ENDS WELL. 
 
 SCEKB 1, 
 
 loved a great fire ; and the master I speak of ever 
 keeps a good fire. But, sure, he is the prince of 
 the world ; If t his nobility remain in 's court. I 
 am for the house with the nanow gate, which I 
 take to be too httle for pomp to enter : some that 
 humble themselves may ; but the many will be 
 too chill and tender, and they '11 be for the 
 flow'ry way, that leads to the broad gate and the 
 great fire. 
 
 Laf. Go thy ways, I begin to be a-weary of 
 thee ; and I tell thee so before, because I would 
 not fall out with thee. Go thy ways; let my 
 horses be well look'd to, without any tricks. 
 
 Clo. If I put any tricks upon 'em, sir, they 
 shall be jades' tricks ; which are their own right 
 by the law of nature. \_Exit. 
 
 Luf. A shrewd knave, and an iinhapi;y." 
 
 Count. So 'a is. My lord, that 's gone, made 
 himself much sport out of him : by his authority 
 he remains here, which he thinks is a patent for 
 his sauciness ; and, indeed, he has no place, but 
 runs where he will. 
 
 Laf. I hke him well ; it is not amiss. And I 
 was about to tell you, since I heard of the good 
 lady's death, and that my lord your son was upon 
 his return home, I moved the king my master to 
 speak in the behalf of my daughter ; which, in 
 the minority of them both, his majesty, out of a 
 self-gracious remembrance, did first propose ; his 
 highness hath promis'd me to do it : and, to stop 
 up the displeasure he hath conceived against your 
 son, there is no fitter matter. How does your 
 ladyship like it ? 
 
 Count. With very much content, my lord, and 
 I wish it hajipily eftected. 
 
 Laf. His highness comes post from Marseilles, 
 of as able body as when he number'd thirty ; 'a 
 will be here to-morrow, or I am deceiv'd by him 
 that in such intelligence hath seldom fail'd. 
 
 Count. It rejoices me that I hope I shall see 
 him ere I die. I have lettei?, that my son will be 
 here to-night : I shall beseech your lordship to 
 remain with me till they meet together. 
 
 Laf. Madam, I was thinking with what man- 
 ners I might safely be admitted. 
 
 Count. You need but plead your honourable 
 privilege. 
 
 Laf. Lady, of that I have made a bold charter ; 
 but, I thank my God, it holds yet. 
 
 Re-enicr Clown. 
 
 Clo. O madan, yonder 's my lord your son 
 with a patch of velvet on 's face ; whether there 
 be a scar under 't, or no, the velvet knows ; but 
 't is a goodly patch of velvet: his left cheek is a 
 cheek of two pile and a half, but his right cheek 
 is worn bare. 
 
 Laf A scar nobly got, or a noble scar, is a good 
 liv'ry of honour ; so, belike, is that. 
 
 Clo. But it is your carbonado'd face. 
 
 Laf. Let us go see your son, I pray you ; I 
 long to talk with the young noble soldier. 
 
 Clo. 'Faith, there 's a dozen of 'em, with deli- 
 cate fine hats, and most courteous feathers, which 
 bow the head, and nod at every man. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I.— Marseilles. A street. 
 
 Enter Helena, Widow, and Diana, with two 
 Attendants. 
 
 Hel. But this exceeding posting, day and night. 
 Must wear your spirits low: we cannot help it; 
 But since you have made the days and nights as 
 
 one, 
 To wear your gentle limbs in my affairs, 
 Be bold you do so grow in my requital. 
 As nothing can unroot you. In happy time; — 
 
 521 
 
 Enter a gentle Astringer.*' 
 
 This man may help me to his majesty's ear, 
 
 K he would spend his power. — God save you, sir. 
 
 Ast. And you. 
 
 Hel. Sir, I have seen you in the court of France. 
 
 Ast. I have been sometimes there. 
 
 Hel. I do presume, sir, that you are not fallen 
 From the report that goes upon your goodness ; 
 And therefore, goaded with most sharp occasions, 
 Which lay nice manners by, I put you to
 
 ACT V. 
 
 ALL 'S ^VELL TILVT ENDS WELL. 
 
 SCENE ii-m. 
 
 The use of your own virtues, for the which 
 I shall continub thankful. 
 
 ^4'/. What 's your will ? 
 
 Hel. That it will please you 
 To give this poor petition to the king ; 
 And aid me with that store of power you have, 
 To come into his presence. 
 
 Ast. The king 's not here. 
 
 Hel. Not here, sir 3 
 
 Ast. Not, indeed : 
 
 He hence remov'd last night, and with more haste 
 Than is his use. 
 
 Wid. Lord, how we lose our pains ! 
 
 Hel. All 's well that ends well, yet ; 
 Though time seem so adverse, and means unfit. — 
 I do beseech you, whither is he gone ? 
 
 Ast. Marry, as I take it, to Rousillon •, 
 Whither 1 am going. 
 
 Hel. I do beseech you, sir. 
 
 Since you are like to see the king before me, 
 Commend the paper to his gracious hand ; 
 Which, I presume, shall render you no blame. 
 But rather make you thank your pains for it : 
 I will come after you, with what good speed 
 Our means will make us means. 
 
 Ast. This I '11 do for you. 
 
 llel. And you shall find yourself to be well 
 thank'd, 
 Whate'er falls more. — We must to horse ag.ain ; — 
 Go, go, provide. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE n. — Rousillon. The inner Court of the 
 Countess'* Palace. 
 
 Enter Clown and Parolles. 
 
 Par. Good monsieur Lavatch, give my lord 
 Lafeu this letter : I have ere now, sir, been better 
 known to you, when 1 have held familiarity with 
 fresher clothes; but I am now, sir, muddied in 
 Fortune's mood,'" and smell somewhat strong of 
 her strong displeasure. 
 
 Clo. Truly, Fortune's displeasure is but sluttish, 
 if it smell so strongly as thou speak'st of : I will 
 henceforth eat no fish of Fortune's butt'rintr. 
 Prithee allow the wind. 
 
 Par. Nay, you need not to stop your nose, sir ; 
 I npake but by a metaphor. 
 
 Clo. Indeed, sir, if your metaphor stink, I will 
 stop my nose ; or against any man's metaphor. 
 Piithee get thee further. 
 
 Par. Pi'ay you, sir, deliver me this paper. 
 
 Clo. Fob, prithee stand away : A paper from 
 
 Fortune's c'ose-stool to give to a nobleman ! Look, 
 here he comes himself. 
 
 Enter Lafeu. 
 
 Here is a pur of Fortune's, sir, or of Fortune's cat, 
 (but not a musk-cat,) that has fallen into the un- 
 clean fish-pond of her displeasure, and, as he says, 
 is muddied withal. Pray you, sir, use the carp as 
 you may ; for he looks like a poor, decayed, inge- 
 nious, foolish, rascally knave. I do pity his distress 
 in my smiles of comfort, and leave him to your 
 lordship. [Exit. 
 
 Par. My lord, I am a man whom Fortune hath 
 cruelly scratch'd. 
 
 Laf. And what would you have me to do ? 't ia 
 too late to pave her nails now. Wherein have 
 you played the knave with Fortune, that she should 
 scratch you, who of herself is a good lady, and 
 would not have knaves thrive long under her 1 
 There 's a cardecue for you :™ Let the justices make 
 you and Fortune friends ; I am for other business. 
 
 Par. I beseech your honour to hear me one 
 single word. 
 
 Laf. You beg a single penny more : come, you 
 shall ha 't: save your word. 
 
 Par. My name, my good lord, is Parolles. 
 
 Laf. You beg more than a word then. — Cox' 
 my passion ! give me your hand : How does your 
 drum ? 
 
 Par. my good lord, you were the firet that 
 found me. 
 
 Laf. Was I, in sooth ? and I was the first that 
 lost thee. 
 
 Par. It hes in you, my lord, to bring me in 
 some grace, for you did bring me out. 
 
 Laf. Out upon thee, knave ! dost thou put 
 upon me at once both the oiBce of God and the 
 devil ? one brings thee in grace, and the other 
 brings thee out. [Trumpets soundi\ The king 's 
 coming, I know by his trumpets. — Sirrah, inquire 
 finther after me ; I had talk of you last night : 
 though you are a fool and a knave, you shall eat ; 
 go to, follow. 
 
 Par. I praise God for vou. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE in. — The same. A Room in the Countess's 
 Palace. 
 
 Flourish. Enter Kixo, Countess, Lafeu, Lords, 
 Gentlemen, Guards, cfr. 
 
 King. We lost a jewel of her ; and our esteem 
 Was made much poorer by it : but your son, 
 
 626
 
 ACT V. 
 
 ALL 'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 bCENK tn. 
 
 As mad in folly, lack'd .ne sense to koow 
 Her estimation home. 
 
 Count. 'T is past, my liege : 
 
 And I beseech your majesty to make it 
 Natural rebellion, done i' the blaze of youth, 
 When oil and fire, too strong for reason's force, 
 O'erbears it, and bums on. 
 
 King. My honour'd lady, 
 
 I have forgiven and forgotten all ; 
 Though my revenges were high bent upon him, 
 And watch'd the time to shoot 
 
 Laf. This I must say, — 
 
 But fii-st I beg my pardon, — The young lord 
 Did to his majesty, his mother, and his lady. 
 Offence of mighty note ; but to himself 
 The greatest wrong of all : he lost a wife 
 Whose beauty did astonish the survey 
 Of richest eyes ; whose words all ears took captive ; 
 Whose dear perfection hearts that scorn'd to serve 
 Humbly call'd mistress. 
 
 Kiny. Praising what is lost. 
 
 Makes the remembrance dear. — Well, call him 
 
 hither ; 
 We are reconcil'd, and the first view shall kill 
 All repetition : — Let him not ask our pardon ; 
 The nature of his great offence is dead. 
 And deeper than oblivion we do bury 
 Th' incensing relics of it ; let him approach, 
 A stranger, no offender ; and inform him 
 So 't is our will he should. 
 
 Gent. I shall, my hege. \Exit. 
 
 King. Wliat says he to your daughter? have 
 you spoke ? 
 
 Laf. All that he is hath reference to your 
 highness. 
 
 King. Then shall we have a match. I have 
 letters sent me 
 That set him high in fame. 
 
 Enter Bertram. 
 
 Laf. He looks well on 't. 
 
 King. I am not a day of season," 
 For thou mayst see a sunshine and a hail 
 In me at once : But to the brightest beams 
 Distracted clouds give way ; so stand thou forth. 
 The time is fair again. 
 
 Ber. My high-repented blames, 
 
 Dear sovereign, pardon to me. 
 
 King. All is whole ; 
 Not one word more of the cousinncd time. 
 Let 's take the instant by the forward top ; 
 For wo are old, and on out quick'st decrees 
 
 6^0 
 
 Th' inaudible and noiseless foot of time 
 Steals, ere we can effect them : You remember 
 The daughter of this lord ? 
 
 Ber. Admiringly, my liege : at first 
 I stuck my choice upon her, ere my heart 
 Durst make too bold a herald of my tongue : 
 Where the impression of mine eye infixing, 
 Contempt his scornful perspective did lend me, 
 Which warp'd the line of every other favour ; 
 Scorn'd a fair colour, or express'd it stolen ; 
 Extended or contracted all proportions. 
 To a most hideous object. Thence it came. 
 That she, whom all men prais'd, and whom 
 
 myself 
 Since I have lost have lov'd, was in mine eye 
 The dust that did offend it. 
 
 King. Well excus'd ; 
 
 That thou didst love her strikes some scores away 
 From the great compt : But love that comes too 
 
 late, 
 Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried. 
 To the great sender turns a sour offence, 
 Crying, That 's good that 's gone : our rash faults 
 Make trivial price of serious things we have. 
 Not knowing them, until we know their grave : 
 Oft our displeasures, to ourselves unjust, 
 Destroy our friends, and after weep their dust,: 
 Our own love waking cries to see what 's done. 
 While shameful hate sleeps out the afternoon. 
 Be this sweet Helen's knell, and now forget her. 
 Send forth your amorous token for fair Maudlin : 
 The main consents are had ; and here we '11 stay 
 To see our widower's second man-iage-day. 
 
 Count. Which better than the first, O dear 
 
 Heaven bless ! 
 Or, ere they meet in me, nature, cesse." 
 
 Laf. Come on, my son, in whom my house's 
 
 name 
 Must be digested, give a favour from you. 
 To sparkle in the spiiits of my daughter. 
 That she may quickly come. — By my old beard, 
 And ev'ry hair that 's on 't, Helen, that 's dead, 
 Was a sweet creature ; such a ring as this, 
 The last that ere I took her eave at court, 
 I saw upon her finger. 
 
 Ber. Hers it S'.'is not. 
 
 King. Now, pray you, let me see it ; for mine 
 
 eye, 
 Wliile I w!is speaking, oft was fasten'd to it. — 
 This ring was mine ; and, when I gave it Helfln, 
 I bade her, if her fortunes ever stood 
 Necessitied to help, that by this token
 
 ALL'S WELL THAT KNDS WELL. 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 1 would relieve lier : Had you that craft, to reave 
 
 her 
 Of what should stead her most ? 
 
 Ber. My gracious sovereign, 
 
 Uowe'er it pleases you to take it so, 
 The ring was never hers. 
 
 Count. Son, on my life, 
 
 [ have seen her wear it ; and she reckon'd it 
 At her life's rate. 
 
 Laf. I am sure I saw her wear it. 
 
 Ber. You are deceiv'd, my lord, she never saw it; 
 In Florence was it from a casement thrown me, 
 Wrapp'd in a paper, which contain'd the name 
 Of her that threw it : noble she was, and 
 
 thought 
 I stood engag'd :" but when I had subscrib'd 
 To mine own fortune, and infonn'd her fully, 
 I could not answer in that couree of honour 
 As she had made the overture, she ceas'd, 
 lu heavy satisfaction, and would never 
 Receive the ring again. 
 
 King. Plutus himself, 
 
 That knows the tinct and multiplying raed'cine, 
 Hath not in nature's mystery more science. 
 Than I have in this ring : 't was mine, t' was 
 
 Helen's, 
 Whoever gave it you. Then, if you know 
 That you are well acquainted with yourself. 
 Confess 't was hers, and by what rough enforcement 
 You got it from her : she call'd the saints to surety. 
 That she would never put it from her finger. 
 Unless she gave it to yourself in bed, 
 (Where you have never come,) or sent it us 
 Upon her great disaster. 
 
 Ber. She never saw it. 
 
 King. Thou speak'st it falsely, as I love mine 
 honour ; 
 x\nd mak'st conjectural fears to come into me. 
 Which I would fain shut out : If it should prove 
 That thou art so inhuman, — 't will not prove so ; — 
 And yet I know not : — thou didst hate her deadly. 
 And she is dead ; which nothing, but to close 
 Her eyes myself, could win me to believe, 
 More than to see this ring. — Take him away. — 
 Guards seise Bertram. 
 My fore-past proofs, howe'er the matter fall. 
 Shall tax my fears of little vanity, 
 Having vainly fear'd too little. — Away with 
 
 him ; — 
 We 'II sift this matter further. 
 
 Ber. If you shall prove 
 
 This ring was ever hers, yon shall as easy 
 
 Prove that I husbanded her bed in Florence, 
 Where yet she never was. \Exit Bertram yuarded, 
 
 Enter the Astringer. 
 
 King. 1 am wiapp'd in dismal thinkings. 
 
 Ast. Gracious sovereign, 
 
 Wliethcr I have been to blame, or no, I know not 
 Here 's a petition fi-om a Florentine, 
 Who hath, for four or five removes, come short 
 To tender it herself I undertook it, 
 Vanquish'd thereto by (he fair grace and speech 
 Of the poor suppliant, who by this, I know. 
 Is here attending : her business looks in her 
 With an importing visage ; and she told me, 
 In a sweet verbal brief, it did concern 
 Your highness with herself. 
 
 King. [Meads.^ 
 
 " Upon his many protestations to marry me,wlien his wife 
 was dead, I blush to sny it, he won me. Now is the coint 
 Eousillon a widower ; his vows are forfeited to me, and my 
 honour 's paid to him. lie stole from Florence, taking no 
 leave, and I follow him to his country for justice. Grant 
 it me, king; in you it best lies; otherwise a seducer 
 flourishes, and a poor maid is undone. Diana Capilet." 
 
 Laf. I will buy me a son-in-law in a fair, and 
 tolP^ him ; for this, I '11 none of him. 
 
 King. The Heavens have thought well on theo, 
 Lafeu, 
 To bring forth this discovery. — Seek these suitors : 
 Go speedily, and bring again the count. 
 
 [JSxcuni the Astiinger and sume Allendanta. 
 I am afeard the life of Helen, lady. 
 Was foully snatch'd. 
 
 Count. Now, justice on the doers ! 
 
 Enter Bertram guarded. 
 
 King. I wonder, sir, since wives are monsters 
 
 to you. 
 And that you fly them as you swear them 
 
 lordship, 
 Yet you desire to maiTy. — What woman 's that '( 
 
 Re-enter the Astringer, with Widow and Diana. 
 Dia. I am, my lord, a wretched Florentine, 
 Derived from the ancient Capilet ; 
 My suit, as I do understand, you know. 
 And therefore know how far I may be pitied. 
 Wid. I am her mother, sir, whose age nnd 
 honour 
 Both suffer under this complaint we bring, 
 And both shall cease, without your remedy. 
 King. Come hither, count : Do you know 
 
 these women ? 
 Ber. My lord, I neither can nor will deny 
 
 627
 
 ACT V. 
 
 ALL 'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 SCENE ra. 
 
 Uiit that I know them : Do they charge me 
 further ? 
 
 Ilia. Why do you look so strange upon your 
 \Yif'e ? 
 
 Ber. She 's none of mine, my lord. 
 
 Dia. If you shall marry, 
 
 Tou give away this hand, and that is mine ; 
 You give away Heaven's vows, and those are 
 
 mine ; 
 You give away myself, which is known mine ; 
 For I by vow am so embodied yours, 
 That she which marries you must marry me. 
 Either both or none. 
 
 Laf. Your reputation [to Bertram] comes too 
 short for my daughter ; you are no husband for 
 her. 
 
 Ber. My lord, this is a fond and desp'rate 
 creature, 
 Whom sometime I have laughed with : let your 
 
 highness 
 Lay a more noble thought upon mine honour. 
 Than for to think that I would sink it here. 
 
 King. Sir, for my thoughts, you have them ill 
 to friend, 
 Till your deeds gain them : Fairer prove your 
 
 honour, 
 Than in my thought it lies ! 
 
 Dia. Good my lord, 
 
 Ask him upon his oath, if he does think 
 He had not my virginity. 
 
 King. What say'st thou to her ? 
 
 Ber. She 's impudent, my lord. 
 
 And was a common gamester" to the camp. 
 
 Bia. He does me wrong, my lord ; if I were so. 
 He might have bought me at a common price : 
 Do not believe him. 0, behold this ring. 
 Whose high respect, and rich validity. 
 Did lack a parallel ; yet, for all that, 
 He gave it to a commoner a' the camp, 
 If I be one. 
 
 Count. He blushes, and 't is his : 
 Of six preceding ancestors, that gem 
 Conferr'd by testament to the sequent issue, 
 Hath it been ow'd and worn. Tliis is his wife ; 
 That ring 's a thousand proofs. 
 
 King. Methought, you said, 
 
 You saw one here in court could witness it. 
 
 Bin. I (lid, my lord, but loth am to produce 
 So bad an instrument; his name 's Parolles. 
 
 J^af. I saw the man to-day, if man he be. 
 
 King. Find him, and bring liim hither. 
 
 Her. What of him ? 
 
 528 
 
 He 's quoted for a most perfidious s.ave. 
 With all the spots a' the world tax'd and debosh'd 
 Whose nature sickens but to speak a truth : 
 Am I or that, or this, for what he '11 utter. 
 That will speak anything ? 
 
 King. She hath that ring of yours. 
 
 Ber. I think she has : certain it is I lik'd her, 
 And boarded her i' the wanton way of youth : 
 She knew her distance, and did angle for me, 
 Madding my eagerness with her restraint, 
 As all impediments in fancy's course 
 Are motives of more finoy ; and, in fine. 
 Her infinite cunning with her modem grace, 
 Subdu'd me to her rate : she got the ring : 
 And I had that which any inferior might 
 At market-price have bought. 
 
 Bia. I must be patient ; 
 
 You, that have turn'd off a first so noble wife, 
 May justly diet me. I pray you yet, 
 (Since you lack virtue I will lose a husband,) 
 Send for your ring, I will return it home. 
 And give me mine again. 
 
 Ber. I have it not. 
 
 King. WTiat ring was yours, I pray you ? 
 
 Bia. Sir, much like the same upon your finger. 
 
 King. Know you this ring ? this ring was hit 
 of late. 
 
 Bia. And this was it I gave him, being a-bed. 
 
 King. The story then goes false, you threw it 
 him 
 Out of a casement. 
 
 Bia. I have spoke the truth. 
 
 Enter Parolles. 
 
 Ber. My lord, I do confess the ring was hers. 
 
 King. Y'ou boggle shrewdly, every feather starts 
 you.— 
 Is this the man you speak of? 
 
 Bia. Ay, my lord. 
 
 King. Tell me, sirrah, but tell me true, I charge 
 you, 
 Not fearing the displeasure of your master. 
 (Which, on your just proceedir.g, I' 11 keep off,) 
 ]^y him, and by this woniat here, what knew 
 you ? 
 
 Par. So please your majesty, my master hath 
 been an honorable gentleman ; tricks he hath had 
 in him, which gon'.lenien have. 
 
 King. Come, c me, to the purpose ! Did he love 
 this woman ? 
 
 Par. 'Faith, sir, he did love he'' ' But how ? 
 
 King. How, I pray you ?
 
 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 BCENE III. 
 
 I'ar. lie did love her, sir, as a gentleman loves 
 a woman. 
 
 King. IIow is that? 
 
 Par. He lov'd her, sir, and lov'd her not. 
 
 King. As thou art a knave, and no knave : — 
 What an equivocal companion is this ! 
 
 Par. I am a poor man, and at your majesty's 
 command. 
 
 Laf. He 's a good drum, my lord, but a naughty 
 orator. 
 
 Dia. Do you know he promis'd me marriage ? 
 
 Par. 'Faith, I Icnow more than I '11 speak. 
 
 King. But wilt thou not speak all thou know'st ? 
 
 Par. Yes, so please your majesty : I did go 
 between them, as I said ; but more than that, he 
 lov'd her, — for, indeed, he was mad for her, and 
 talk'd of Satan, and of limbo, and of furies, and I 
 know not what : yet I was in that credit with them 
 at that- time, that I knew of their going to bed ; and 
 of other motions, as promising her marriage, and 
 tilings which would derive me ill will to speak of; 
 therefore I will not speak what I know. 
 
 King. Thou hast spoken all already, unless thou 
 ranst say they are married : But thou art too fine'^ 
 in thy evidence ; therefore stand aside. — This ring, 
 you say, was yours ? 
 
 Bia. Aj, my good lord. 
 
 King, Where did you 'ouy it ? or who gave it 
 you ? 
 
 Dia. It was not given me, nor I did not buy it,. 
 
 King. Who lent it you ? 
 
 Dia. It was not lent me neither. 
 
 King. Where did you find it then ? 
 
 Dia. 1 found it not. 
 
 King. If it were yours by none of all these 
 ways. 
 How could you give it him ? 
 
 Dia. I never gave it hini. 
 
 Daf. This woman 's an easy glove, my lord ; she 
 goes off and on at pleasure. 
 
 King. This ring was mine ; I gave it his first 
 wife. 
 
 Dia It might be yours, or hers, for aught I 
 know. 
 
 King. Take her away, I do not like her now ; 
 To prison with lier : and away with him. — 
 Unless thou tell'st me where thou hadst this ring, 
 Thou diest within this hour. 
 
 Dia. I '11 never tell you. 
 
 King. Take her away. 
 
 Dia. I '11 put in bail, my liege. 
 
 King. I think thee now some common customer. 
 67 
 
 Dia. By Jove, if ever I knew man, 't was you. 
 
 King. Wherefore hast thou accus'd him all tlii," 
 while ? 
 
 Dia. Because ho 's guilty, and he is not guilty : 
 He knows I am no maid, and he '11 swear to 't : 
 I '11 swear I am a maid, and he knows not. 
 Great king, I am no strumpet, by my life ; 
 I am either maid, or else this old man's wife. 
 
 [Pointing to Lafeo 
 
 King. She does abuse our ears ; to prison with 
 her. 
 
 Dia. Good mother, fetch my bail.^Stay, royal 
 sir ; [Kxit Widow. 
 
 The jeweller that owes the ring is sent for. 
 And he shall surety me. But for this lord, 
 Who hath abus'd me, as he knows himself. 
 Though yet he never harm'd me, here I quit him 
 He knows himself my bed ht hath defil'd. 
 And at that time he got his wife with child : 
 Dead though she be, she feels her young one kick ; 
 Bo there 's my riddle, — One that 's dead is quick •, 
 And now behold the meaning. 
 
 Re-enter Widow, with Helena. 
 
 King. I3 there no exorcist 
 
 Beguiles the true otfice of mine eyes '{ 
 Is 't real that I see ? 
 
 Jlel. No, my good lord ; 
 
 T is but the shadow of a wife you seu 
 The name, and not the thing. 
 
 £er. Both, both ; 0, pardon 
 
 -Hi'/. 0, my good lord, when I was like this 
 maid, 
 I found you wondrous kind. There is your ring, 
 And, look you, here 's your letter : This it says, 
 " When from my finger you can get this ring, 
 And are by mo with child," &c. — This is done : 
 Will you be mine, now you are doubly won ? 
 
 Ber. If she, my liege, can make me know this 
 clearly, 
 I '11 love her dearly, ever, ever dearlj*. 
 
 ITcL If it appear not plain, and prove untrue. 
 Deadly divorce step between me and you ! — ■ 
 O, my dear mother, do I see you living 1 
 
 Laf. Mine eyes smell onions, I shall weep 
 anon : — Good Tom Drum" [to Parolles] lend me 
 a handkerchief : So, I thank thee; wait on me 
 home, I '11 make sport with thee : Let thy 
 court'sies alone, they are scurvy ones. 
 
 King. Let us from point to point this storj' 
 know. 
 To make the even truth in pleasure tlow : —
 
 iCT ^. 
 
 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 bCEHX in. 
 
 If ti.ou bcest 3-et a fresh uncropped flower, 
 
 [To Diana. 
 Cliooso thou tliy husband, and I '11 pay thy 
 
 dower ; 
 For I can guess, that, by thy honest aid. 
 Thou kept'st a wife herself, thyself a maid. — 
 Of that and all the progress, more and less, 
 Resolvedly more leisure shall express : 
 All yet ftoems well ; and, if it end bo meet, 
 
 no 
 
 The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet, 
 
 [Flotirisk, 
 (Advancing.) 
 The king 'b a beggar, now the play is done : 
 All is well ended, if this suit be won, 
 That you express content; which wo will pay. 
 With Btrife to please you, day exceeding day : 
 Ours be your patience then, and yours our parts ; 
 Yonr gonUe hands lend us. and take our hearts. 
 
 [Exeunt
 
 NOTES TO ALL 'S ¥ELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 ' Houi tad a pcuaage 't ia. 
 
 P(ustife, B8 Dr. Johnson observes, is "nnvthing that 
 passes," This sense of the word is now obsolete, but it 
 constantly occurs in the old dramatists. 
 
 * Where an unclean mindj dhc. 
 
 That is, where a vicious mind is joined to good qualities, 
 our commendations are given with regret, for even then 
 the virtues become as traitors, and are suspected. 
 
 Season, to preserve by salting. Livelihood, appearance 
 of life. 
 
 ' In our hearVe table. 
 
 And when, in tables of my heart, 
 Love with such things as bred my smart, 
 My IVIopsa, with her face of clout, 
 Wou-l in an instant wipe them out. 
 
 Musarum, Delicim, 1656. 
 
 Trick, faljit tracing, as an heraldic trick. Favour, coon- 
 tcuance. 
 
 * Which is the most inhibited ain. 
 
 Inhibited, forbidden. " Inhibityng them upon a greats 
 payn not once to approche ether to his speche or presence," 
 Hall's Chronicle, 1548. 
 
 • Tour date is better in your pie, 
 
 A quibble, dates being then much eaten in pastry. 
 " And then to be bak'd with no date in the pie, for the* 
 the man's date is out," Troilue and Creseida. 
 
 Cristendoms, Christian names. 
 
 " Ke that ears my land. 
 
 Ear, to plough. This word occurs several times in the 
 Scriptures. (A. S.) 
 
 ' For I the ballad wiU repeat. 
 
 The latter part of this stanza was a proverb long before 
 Sliakespeare wrote. Compare the following extract: — 
 
 " Content yourselfe as well as I, 
 Let reason rule your miude ; 
 As cuckoldn come by destiny, 
 So cuckowes sing by kinde." 
 
 Granges Garden, 4to., 1577. 
 
 It was a vulgar belief in Shakespeare's time that unfaith- 
 folnesa was destined, and so uuable to be prevented. 
 
 ' Iler poor Icnight surprised, 
 
 Elliptically for, " her poor knight to he surprised." This 
 mode of construction was not unueual in Elizabethan 
 writers. 
 
 » Sithence, 
 
 That is, since. From the AngIo-Sa.\on. In earlier wri- 
 ters, it is more iiaually aithcn. 
 
 I bade felowcs to my dynere. 
 And sithen tliei wil not cum here, 
 A develle have wjio that reclie ! 
 
 J/6'. £ibl. Publ. Cantab, Ff. v. 48. 
 
 " CaiCt no other. 
 
 Mr. Knight erroneously reads, can't be other. Dr. Joha 
 son thus explains this sentence, — ** Can it be no other way, 
 but if I be your daughter, he must be mi' brother " 
 
 " Have to the full appeach'd. 
 
 Appeceh^d, inipeached, accused. 
 
 And though the skill were far above his reach. 
 
 He needs would prove a Priest, and fals to preach; 
 
 But patching sermons with a sorry fhift. 
 
 As needs they must, that ere they learn will teach; 
 
 At last some foes so nearly do him sift. 
 
 And of such words and deeds did him appe^ch. 
 
 Harrington's Ipigrams, fol. 1533. 
 
 " In this captious and intcnUle sieve. 
 
 It appears to me that Shakespeare uses these adjectives 
 actively in the primitive sense. In this view, captious would 
 be, capable of receiving, and intenible, incapable of holding. 
 There has, however, been much controversy on the line. 
 
 Johnson was perplexed about the word captiouef " whiah 
 (says he) I never found in this sense, yet I cannot tell what 
 to substitute, unless carious for rotten 1" Farmer supposed 
 captious to be a contraction of capacious I Steevcns be- 
 lieved that captious meant recipient, capable of receiving; 
 which interpretation Malone adopts. Mr. Collier, in his 
 recent edition of Shakespcire, after stating Johnson's and 
 Farmer's suggestions, says, " where is the difficulty ? It 
 is true that this sense of captious may not have an exact 
 parallel ; but the intention of Shakespeare is very evident : 
 captious means, as Malone says, capable o( receiving j and 
 intenible ( printed intemiile in the first folio, and rightly in 
 the second) incapable of retaining. Two more appropriate 
 epithets could hardly be found, and a simile more happUj 
 expressive." 
 
 531
 
 NOTES TO ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 It is not impossible that the poet may have had in hia 
 mind tho fruitless labour imposed upon the Danaides as a 
 pan_5hmcnt, for it has been thus moralized : 
 
 These virgins, who in the flower of their age pour water 
 into pierced vessels which they can never fill, what is it 
 but to be always bestowing our love and benefits upon the 
 ungrateful. 
 
 1* But OTU to dance with. 
 
 The cnstom of wearing swords in dancing is frequently 
 alluded to. Light dawnsin^ swordis are mentioned in Staf- 
 ford's Brlefe Conceipt of English Pcllicy, 1531. 
 
 1* And make you danc^ canary. 
 
 A quick and lively dance. "Came reeling out of an ale- 
 house in the shape of a drunkard, who no sooner smelt the 
 winde, bu* he thought the ground under him danced the 
 canaries," Decker's Wonderful! Yeare, 1603. 
 
 " In. lier sex, her years, profession. 
 
 Hy profession, says Warburton, is meant her declaration 
 of the end and purpose of her coming. 
 
 ^* Myself against the level of mine aim. 
 
 Thus explained by Dr. Johnson : — " I am not an impos- 
 tor that proclaim one thing and design another, that pro- 
 claim a cure, and aim at a fraud ; I think what I spesk." 
 
 " It is like a barber's chair. 
 
 Gosson, in his " Apologie of the Schoole of Abuse," ap- 
 pended to his " Ephomerides of Phialo," 1579, speaking of 
 Venus, saj-s she " made herself as common as a barbar's 
 chayre." 
 
 Steevens quotes the following apposite passage from 
 More Eooles Yet, by K. S., 1610,— 
 
 Moreover sattin sutes he doth compare 
 Unto the service of a barber's chayre ; ' 
 
 As fit for every Jack and journeyman, 
 As for a knight or worthy gentleman. 
 
 Compare, also, the Essays of Montaigne, translated by 
 Florio, fol. Lond. 1603, p. 384,— 
 
 My writings I reade not hut to my friends, to any. 
 Nor eaohwhere, nor to all, nor but desir'd ; yet macy 
 In market-place rcade theirs. 
 In batiies, in barber's ehaires. 
 
 ■• Your French crown for your tqfata punk. 
 The declining of a gallant. 
 
 Nominative hie, gallant asse. 
 Gcnitivo hujus, bravo. 
 Dativo huic, if he get a lioko. 
 Accusitivo hunc, of a tafaty punck. 
 Vocativo O, ho '» gone if ho cry so. 
 Ablative ab hoc, ho hatli got the pock. 
 
 Wits Kccrcatious, 1040. 
 
 '• r/i's rtuihfor Tom! e fore-jinger. 
 
 •' The allusion," says Sir J. Hawkins, " is to an ancient 
 practice of marrying with a rush ring, as well in other 
 countries as in England. Du Breul, in his Antiquities of 
 I'ariw, mentions it as a kind of espousal used in France, by 
 Buch persons aa meant to live together in a state of concu- 
 binage • but in England it was scarce ever piactised except 
 fiS2 
 
 by designing men, for the purpose of coiruptin? thooe 
 young women to whom they pretended luve. Richard 
 Poore, bishop of Salisbury, in his Constitutions, 1217, for- 
 bids the putting of rush rings, or any the like matter, on 
 women's fingers, in order to the debauching tViem more 
 readily : and he insinuates, as the reason for the prohibi- 
 tion, that there were some people weak enough to believe, 
 that what was thus done in jest, was a real marriage. 
 
 " But, notwithstanding this censure on it, the practice 
 was not abolished ; for it is alluded to in a song in a pUy 
 written by Sir William D'Avenant, called the Kivals : 
 
 "I 'I crown thee with a garland of straw then. 
 And I '11 marry thee with a rush rinff.^'' 
 
 Which song, by the way, was first sung by Miss Davis, she 
 acting the part of Celania in the play; and King Charles II. 
 upon hearing it, was so pleased witJi her voice and action, 
 that he took her from the stage, and made her liis mistress. 
 " Again, in the song called the Winchester Wedding, in 
 D'Urfey's Pills to Purge Melancholy, vol. i. p. 276: 
 
 " Pert Strephon was kind to Betty, 
 And blithe as a bird in the spring, 
 And Tommy was so to Katy, 
 And wedded her with a rush-ring.^^ 
 
 ^ As a pancake for Shroie-Tuesday. 
 
 " Vox Graculi," a curious quarto tract, printed in 1628, 
 says of this season, — " llere must enter tl.at wadling, t-tr&a- 
 ling, caruifex of all Christeudome, vulgarly ecstilii Shrove 
 Tuesday, but, more pertinently, sole monarch of the mouth, 
 high stoward to the stomach, prime peere of the pullets, 
 first favourite to the frying-pans, greatest bashaw to the 
 batter-bowles, protector of tlie pancakes, first founder oi 
 the fritters, baron of bacoii-fiitch, earle of the egg-baskets, 
 &c. This corpulent commander of those chollericke things 
 called cookes will show himself to be but of ignoble educa- 
 tion : for, by his r'anners you may find him better fed than 
 taught, wherever ho comes." The following allusion oc- 
 curs in Poor Robin's Almanac for 1699, — • 
 
 "Shrove-Tide is come, th'; Pancake Bell 
 Doth ring ; by which, aiid by the smell 
 Brought to your Nose with u West wind, 
 Pancakes and Fritters you may find 
 In every House that can be told, 
 Where you may eat hold Belly hold. 
 Tiius harinlcss mirth and good House-keeping 
 Were us'd ere Pride on us came creeping ; 
 But now good things are Laid aside, 
 And all for to maintain damn'd pride." 
 
 To eat pancakes and fritters on Shrove-Tuesday is a cus- 
 tom from time immemorial, and the great bell which used 
 to bo rung on Shrove-Tuesday, to call the people together 
 for the purpose of confessing their sins, was oMed pancake- 
 bell, a name which it still retains in some places where this 
 custom is still kept up. 
 
 Of the pancake-bell, Taylor, the water-poet, in his works, 
 1030, has a curious account. "Shrove-Tuesday, at whoso 
 entrance in the morning all the whole kingdom is inquict; 
 but by that time tho clocko strikes eleven, which (by the 
 help of a knavish sexton) is commonly before nine, then 
 there is a bell rung, cal'd the pancake bell, the sound 
 whereof makes thousands of people distracted, and forget- 
 ful citlier of manners or humanitie; then there is a thing 
 called wheatcn flourc, which the cookes do mingle with 
 water, eggcs, spice, and other tragioall, magicall inchant- 
 ments; and then they put it, by little and little, into a 
 frying-pan of boiling suet, where it makes a confused dis- 
 niall hissing, like tho Eerncan snakes in tho reeds cf Ach- 
 eron, Sti.v. or Phlegoton."
 
 NOTES TO ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 " A morritfor May-day. 
 
 The celebrated dissertntion by Mr. Douce on the morris 
 dance, has furnislied materials for all later writers on tlio 
 subject. The following observationa are taken from a 
 popular account of it by the late Mr. Hone : — 
 
 Tlie morris dance, in which bells are jingled, or staves 
 or swords clashed, was learned, says Dr. Johnson, by the 
 Moors, and was probably a kind of Pyrrhick, or military 
 dance. Blount says, " Mori.sco, a Moor; also a dance, so 
 called, wherein there were usually five men, and a boy 
 dressed in a girl's habit, whom they called the Maid Ma- 
 rian, or, I erhaps, Morian, from the Italian Morione, a hea/J- 
 piece, heoause her head was wont to be gaily trimmed up. 
 Common pieople call it a morris-dance." 
 
 The morris danoo is presumed by Mr. Peck to have been 
 firbt brought to England in the time of Edward III., when 
 John of Gaunt returned from Spain, where he had been to 
 assist Petro, king of Castile. He says, "This dance was 
 usually performed abroad by an equal number of young men, 
 who danced in their shirts, with ribands, and little bells 
 about their legs. But hero, in England, they have always 
 an odd person besides, being a boy dressed in a girl's habit, 
 whom they call Maid Marian, an old favourite character in 
 the spqrt." The morris dance became introduced into the 
 May-games, in which there was formerly a king and queen 
 of the May : subsequently, it appears, the king of the May 
 was disused, and Maid Marian was sole sovereign, or queen 
 of the May. 
 
 Mr. Douce observes, that both English and foreign glos- 
 saries uniformly ascribe the origin of this dance to the 
 Moors ; although the genuine Moorish, or Morisco dance, 
 wail, no doubt, very ditferent from the European morris. 
 Strutt cites a passage from the play of "Variety," 1649, in 
 which the Spanish morisco is mentioned ; and this, Mr. 
 Douce adds, not only shows the legitimacy of the term 
 morris, but that the real and uncorrupted Moorish dance 
 was to be found in Spain, where it still continues to delight 
 both natives and foreigners under the name of the Fan- 
 dango. The Spanish morrice was also danced at puppet 
 shows, by a person habited like a Moor, with cast-ignets ; 
 and Juuius has informed us that the morris dancers usual- 
 ly blackened their faces with soot, that they might the 
 better pass for Moors. Having noticed the corruption of 
 the '■^Pyrrkica Saltatid'^ of the ancients, and the uiicorrupt- 
 ed morris dunce., as practised in Franca about the beginning 
 of the thirteenth century, Mr. Douce says, " It has been 
 supposed that the morris dance was first brought into Eng- 
 land in the time of Edward III., when John of Gaunt re- 
 turned from Spain, but it is much more probable that we 
 had it from our Gallic neighbours, or even from the Flem- 
 ings. Few if any vestiges of it can be traced beyond the 
 reign of Henry VII., about which time, and particularly in 
 that of Henry VIII., the churchwardens' accounts in sev- 
 eral parishes aflbrd materials that throw much light on the 
 subject, and show that the morris dance made a very con- 
 siderable figure in the parochial festivals. — We find also," 
 he continues, "that other festivals and ceremonies had their 
 morris ; as, Itoly Thursday ; the Whitsun ales ; the bride 
 ales, or weddings ; and a sort of play, or pageant, called 
 the lord of misrule. Sheriffs, too, had their morris dance. — 
 It is by no means clear that, at any time, Eobin Hood and 
 his companions were comtltuent characters in the morris." 
 Shakespeare makes mention of an English Whitsun 
 morrice dance, in the following speech of the Dauphin in 
 Henry V. 
 
 " No, with no more, than if we heard that England 
 Were busied with a Whitsun morrice dauuoe." 
 
 The following description of a morris dance occurs Ir 
 " Cobbe's Prophecies, his Signos and Tokens, hia Madri- 
 galls, Questions and Answers, 1614." 
 
 It was my hap of late, by chance, 
 To meet a country morris dance. 
 When, chccfest of them all, the foole 
 
 Plaicd with a ladle 
 
 When every younger shak't his bells — 
 
 And fine maid Marian, with her smoile, 
 
 Rhow'd how a rascall plaid the roilc ; 
 
 But, when the hobby-liorse did wihy, 
 
 Then all the wenches gave a tihy : 
 
 But when they gan to shake their boxe, 
 
 And not a goo.se could catch a foxe. 
 
 The piper then put up his pipes, 
 
 And all the woodcocks look't like snipes, Ac. 
 
 ■^ Of all the learned and auihentUk fellows. 
 
 Authentick physicians were those who were allowed to 
 practise publicly, authentlee Uc^ntlatus in the language of 
 the diploma. 
 
 What do ye call there, the same idiom as, what dti yt 
 call it f 
 
 ^ Lustique, (M the Dutchman say». 
 
 That is, lusty, cheerful, pleasant. A Dutchman intro- 
 duced in the Weakest gocth to the Wall, 1618, says, 
 " Well, well, hah mien skone friester, mien lieff, dow sail 
 met mie blieven, and di mannykin a weigh lope, heigh 
 loustick." 
 
 '* Let the white dtaih. 
 
 The white death, says Boswell, is the paleness of death. 
 There was a pestilence called the Mack death, 
 
 2^ Than throw amea-acefor my life. 
 
 Ames-ace or ambe$-as, the lowest throw in the dice ; and 
 hence often used figuratively for bad luck. So Skelton, — 
 
 This were a hevy case, 
 A chaunce <ji anihesase, 
 To se youe broughte so base, 
 To playe without a place. 
 
 * Shall seem expedient on the new-horn lirief. 
 
 The term hrief was formerly applied to any kind of 
 short document, and here of course refers to the contract. 
 Expedient, quick, hasty. 
 
 " It was, as farre as I remember, Pericles, who, being 
 demanded how he did, you may, said he, judge it by this, 
 shewing certaine scroules or briefes bee had tied about hia 
 necke and armes." — Montaigne's Essays, by Florio, 1603. 
 
 '^ That huffs his kicky-wicky here at home. 
 
 Kioky-wicky is a ludicrous term for a jade, metaphori- 
 cally applied to a woman. Kicksee-winsee occurs in one 
 of the tracts of Taylor, the water-poet, 1630. The second 
 folio reads kieksie-wicksiii. 
 
 ^ To the dark house and the detested wife. 
 
 That is, even war is nothing compared either to the dark 
 house or detested wife. The dark house is a phrase usual- 
 ly applied to the prison room of a lunatic, but the commen- 
 tators here explain it, the house which i£ the seat of gloom 
 and discontent. 
 
 533
 
 NOraS TO ALL 'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 *> Will Hit caprieic Tmli in (ha. 
 
 CaprisU), caprice. "Have ycu no other eapricioru in 
 your he.id to intrap my sister n her frailtie," Chapman's 
 Widowes Teares, 1612. 
 
 =" /took this larhfoT a buntinij. 
 
 " The bunting is, in feather, Bize, and form, so like the 
 eky-Iark, as to require nice attention to discover the one 
 from the other; it also ascends and sinks in the air nearly 
 in the same manner; but it has little or no song, which 
 gives estimation to the sky-lark," Dr. Johnson. 
 
 '■ Like him that leaped info the cuetard. 
 
 The enormous size of the custards at the city feasts are 
 noticed by Glapthorne and other dramatists. The absurd 
 tricks that were played, as the fool leaping into one, and 
 otlier extravagancies, are also made a subject of satire. So 
 Ben Jonson, — 
 
 He may perchance, in tail of a sheriff's dinner, 
 Skip with a rhyme on the table from New-aothing, 
 And take his Almain-leap into a custard. 
 Shall make my lady mayoress, and her sisters, 
 Laugh all their hoods over their shoulders. 
 
 " Than you have or wilt to deserve. 
 
 That is. Than you have to deserve, or will have to de- 
 serve at my hand. 
 
 S3 Mend the ruff^ and sijiff. 
 
 "The tops of the boots," observes Whalley, "in our 
 author's time, turned down, and hung loosely over the log. 
 Tlie folding is what the clown means by the rujf. Ecu 
 Jonson calls it rv£U; and perhaps it should be so here. 
 " Not having leisure to put off my silver spurs, one of the 
 rowels catch'd hold of the rn^le of my boot," Every Man 
 cut of his Iluviour^ Act IV. Sc. 6. To this fashion Bishop 
 Earle alludes in his Characters, 1638, "He has learut to 
 rvjfle hifl face from his hoote ; and takes great delight in hia 
 walk to hear hia spurs gingle." 
 
 «« Move the stUl.peering air. 
 
 So in the original, explained by Mr. Knight, appearing 
 still. There is, probably, some corruption. 
 
 " Some precepts of this virgin. 
 
 The genuine old reading, correctly restored by Mr. Col- 
 her. Of ior on occurs several times in Shakespeare. 
 
 " And huy myself another of BajazeVs mule. 
 
 Bajazet's mule was, of course, dumb. In one of our old 
 Turkish histories, says Steevens, there is a pompous de- 
 scription of Bajazet riding on a mule to the Divan. 
 
 " Men make ropes in such a scarre. 
 This passage appears to be hopelessly corrupted. 
 
 " Since Frenchmen are so hraid. 
 
 Jiraid, deceitful. Steevens quotes the following from 
 Greene's Never too Late, 1616: — 
 
 Dian rose wilh all her maids, 
 iilushing thus at love his braid*. 
 
 Cf. Laagtoft's Chronicle, cd. Uearne, p. 188. 
 634 
 
 " Is it not meant damnable inutf 
 
 Damnable for damnably, the adjectiye need adverbially, a 
 very common practice in Shakespeare and his contempora^ 
 ries. " Now so evill could she conceale her fire, and so wil ■ 
 fuHie persevered she in it," Sir P. Sydney's Arcadia, 1613. 
 
 Company, in the second speech after this, is used in the 
 sense oi companion. 
 
 " Sae deceiv'd me. 
 
 So the original, the sentence, as is not nnnsual in Shakes 
 peare, being elliptical. Modern editors insert he. 
 
 *^ Hoodman comes. 
 
 An allusion to the old game of blind-man's-buff, which 
 was formerly called hoodman blind. "The he odwinke 
 playe, or hoodman blinde, in some places called the blind- 
 manbnf," Baret's Alvearie, 1580. 
 
 " Icon him. no (hanks for H. 
 
 " It is well doone to practise thy wit, but I beleeve oui 
 lord will cun thee little thanke for it," Pierce Penilesso his 
 Supplication to the Devil], 1592. 
 
 " From off their cassocke. 
 The cassock was a soldier's loose outward coat. 
 
 « Men are to meU with. 
 
 Mell, to meddle with. The meaning here intended is 
 obvious. So in the Coventry mystery of the Woman takrn 
 in Adultery, — 
 
 A fayre vonge qwene here by doth dwelle, 
 
 Both ft'resehe and gay upon to lokc. 
 And a talle man with her dothe melle, 
 
 The wcy into hyr chawmere ryght evyn he toko. 
 
 *^ And (lie armipotent soldier. 
 
 Armipotent, powerful in arms, mighty in war, fron: tho 
 Latin armipotens. So Fairfax, — 
 
 — If our God, the Lord armipotent, 
 Those armed angels in our aid down send. 
 
 " Still the fine '« the crown. 
 From the common Latin proverb. Finis coronal optu. 
 
 *^ And an unhappy. 
 Unliappy, unlucky, mischievous. So Fairfax, — 
 
 Upon his neck light that unhappy blow, 
 And cut the sinews and the throat in twain. 
 
 « Enter a gentle astringer. 
 
 An astringer, or ostringer, was a falconer. " Ostringer, 
 a falconer, properly that keeps a goshawk : Juliana Barns 
 calls him an ostrcgcre," Blount's Glossographia, 16S1. A 
 former editor, not understanding tho term, proposes to 
 read stranger. 
 
 " Muddied in Fortune^s 7nood. 
 
 Mood, tinea, caprice. Mr. Collier says, "Mud wan in 
 SliakCBpeare's day pronounced nearly like mood, and hcnco 
 the intended jingle, which Warburton, not adverting to 
 changed mood to moat.'"
 
 JNOTES TO ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 •" There 'i a cardemie for you. 
 
 Cardecut, the fourtli part of a French crown, corrupted 
 from quart cficu. This form ia of constant ooourroneo in 
 old plays. 
 
 " lam not a day o/teaton. 
 
 A day of season, says Malono, means a seasonable day; 
 but a mixture of sunfhine and hail, of winter and summer, 
 is unseasonable. 
 
 "3 nature, oessel 
 
 Oeste, to end, to cease. (Anglo-Norman.) 
 
 Now youre goode dayes arn doon, 
 • As Daniel proplieciea. 
 
 Whan Crist cam, of hir kyngdom 
 The crowne sholde cesse. 
 
 Piers Ploughman, ed. Wright, p. 875. 
 
 " I stood engaged. 
 
 That is, to the noble lady. 
 Removes, stages. 
 
 " And toll him. 
 
 Mason's explanation of this appears to be Uie most rea- 
 Bonable. " I will buy me a son-in-law in a fair, and pay 
 loll for him • ns for this, I will have none of him." 
 
 " And was a common ganuster to the camp. 
 
 A gamester was a term for a dissolute person, gener- 
 ally applied to a female. So, in the Second Maiden'a 
 Tragedy,- 
 
 'T ia to me wondrous how you should spare tlie day 
 From amorous clips, much less the general season 
 When all the world 's a gamester. 
 
 »" Thou art too fine in thy evidence. 
 
 Too fine, too full of finesse, too artful. So in Bacon's 
 Apophthegms, 1625, quoted by Malone, " Your Majesty 
 was too flue for my lord Burghloy." 
 
 " Good Tom Drum. 
 
 This name was probably taken from the old proverbial 
 phrase of Tom Drum's or Jack Drum's Entertainment, au 
 instance of which has previously occurred, and means a 
 sound beating and turning out of doors. There is, of 
 course, an obvious allusion to the adventure of the drum, 
 but I refer to the compound name. 
 
 Odde is the combo from whence this cockc did come, 
 That crowed in Venice gainst the skinlesse Jewes, 
 Who gave him th' entortiiiumeiit of Turn Drum. 
 
 Voryai's CruJitiei, 161 L 
 
 6»6
 
 €iuflftli liiglit; iir, im f nil l^ilL 
 
 'PHE eonjecturea of the elder critics respecting the date of this charming drama have been disproved 
 by the discovery of a little manuscript diaiy, contemporary with Shakespeare, written by one John 
 Manninghara, a student at the Middle Temple, who has recorded the following most interesting notice 
 under the date of February 2, 1001-2, — "At our feast wee had a play called Twelve Night, or What 
 You Will, much like the Comedy of Errors, or Menechmi in Plautus, but most hke and neere to that 
 -n Italian called Inganni. A good practise in it to make the steward beleeve his lady widdowe was in 
 love with hira, by counterfayting a lettre as from his lady, in generall tennes telling him what sliee 
 liked best in him, and prescribing his gesture in smiling, his apparraile, &c., and then when he came to 
 practise, making him beleeve they tooke him to be mad, &c." This important memorandum, which 
 was first pointed out by Mr. Collier, proves that Twelfth Night was written before February, lGOl-2, 
 and as it is not mentioned by Meres in 1598, we may safely conclude it was written in 1599, 1600, or 
 1601. If reliance may be placed on the statement that the " new map with the augmentation of the 
 Indies," refers to a particular plate in Linschoten's " Voyages into the Easte and West Indies," which 
 appeared at London in 1598, we may perhaps assign the date of the play to the following year. 
 
 The primary source of Twelfth-Night is found in one of the novels of Bandello, but Shakespeare 
 adopted most of the particulars of the story from an English translation in Rich's "Farewell to Militarie 
 Profession," 4to. London, 1581, which contains many variations from the original. In this account, a 
 duko or sovereign called Apolonius, was wrecked on the Isle of Cyprus on his return from a crusade 
 Against the infidels, and having been hospitably received by Pontus, " lord and governor of this famous 
 isle," chanced to inspire his daughter with an inextinguishable affection. This lady, who was named 
 Silla, follows Apolonius, some time after his departure, accompanied by only one servant. She also 
 was destined to be shipwrecked, her servant was drowned, and she herself escaped with difficulty. Silla 
 afterwards assumes male attire, and enters into the service of Apolonius as a page. It will be observed 
 that this account removes the improbability, which must strike every reader of the comedy, of Viola's 
 sudden affection for the duke, and her desire to serve hijii. The commencement of the second part of 
 the stor}', Juliana corresponding to the Olivia of the play, is thus related in the novel : — 
 
 ' ' At this verie instaunt, there wiia remainyng in the cittie a noble Dame a widdowe, whose husband was but latol.v 
 ilnoe:iseil, one of the noblest men that were in the partes of Grccia, wlio left his lady and wife large possessions and great 
 livings. Tliis ladyos name was called Julina, who besides the ahoundance of her wealth and the greatncsse of her 
 revenues, had likewise the soveraigntie of all the dames of Constantinople for her beautie. To this lady Jclina, A])olo- 
 nius became an earnest suter, and according to the manner of wooers, besides fairo wordes, sorrowfuU sighes, and 
 piteous counteuanees, there must be sending of loving letters, chaines, braeeletes, brouches, ringes, tablets, gemmes, 
 jueis, and presents I know not what; so my duke, who in the time that lie remained in the He of Cypres, had no skili 
 at all in the arte of love, although it were more then half profferred unto him. was now become a scholler in love» 
 68 637
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 Bchoole, and had alreadle learned his first lesson, that is, to speake pittifully, to look ruthfully, to promise largely, to 
 serve dilig:ently, and to please carefully: now he was learning his second lesson, that is, to reward liberally, to give 
 bountifully, to present willingly, and to write lovingly. Thua Apolonius was so busied in his new study, that I warrant 
 you there was no man that could chalenge him for plaiyng the truant, he followed his profession with so good a will : 
 and who must bee the messenger to carrie the tokens and love letters to the lady Julina, but Silvio his man ; in him 
 the duke reposed his only confidence, to goe betwene him and his lady. 
 
 '' Now, gentlewomen, doe yott thinke there could have beene a greater torment devised wherewith to afflict the 
 heart of Silla, then herself to be made the instrument to worke her owne mishap, and to plaie the attumey in a cause 
 that made so much against herself. Bat Silla, altogether desirous to please her maister, cared nothing at all to offend 
 herselfe, followed his businesse wi'.h eo good a will, as if it had been in her own preferment. 
 
 " Julina nowe having many times taken the gaze of this yong youth Silvio, perceivyng him to bee of such excellent 
 perfect grace, was so intangeled wi:h the often sight of this sweete temptation, that she fell into as great a liking with 
 the man, as the maister was with her selfe : and on a time Silvio beyng sent from his maister, with a message to the lady 
 Julina, as he beganne very earnestly to solicite in his maisters behalfe, Julina interrupting him in his tale, saied : Silvio, 
 it is enough that you have saied for your maister; from henceforth either epeake for your self, or say nothing at all. 
 Silla abashed to heare these words, began in her mind to accuse the blindness of love, that Julina neglecting the good 
 of so noble a duke, would preferre her love unto such a one, as nature it selfe had denied to recompence her liking." 
 
 It is somewhat sicgular that the Italian play mentioned by Manningham, in the extract above 
 given, should be found on examination to have little resemblance to Twelfth-Night Another play, tlie 
 Ingannati, bears more similarity, but its story was no doubt taken from Bandello. No source has hith- 
 erto been discovered for the foundation of the comic portion of Shakespeare's comedy. " In both the 
 Italian dramas," as Mr. Colher observes, " it is of the most homely and vulgar materials, by the inter- 
 vention of empirics, braggarts, pedants, and servants, who deal in the coarsest jokes, and are guilty of 
 the grossest buffoonery." 
 
 There is no mention of the shipwreck in Bandello ; and Skottowe thinks that the separation of 
 Sebastian and Viola, in the play, assimilates more closely to a tale in the Heccaiommiihi than to either 
 of the versions of the story in Bandello and Rich. Cinthio relates the story of a gentleman, who, fall- 
 ing under the displeasure of the king of Naples, leaves that country with his two children, a boy and a 
 girl, bearing a strong resemblance to each other. Their vessel is wrecked, and their father is lost; but 
 the two children, getting safely to shore, are brought up, unknown to each other, by different persons. 
 Shakespeare's Sebastian and Viola are twins and orphans separated by shipwreck ; each is ignorant 
 that the other had survived, and both are indebted to strangers for their presen'ation. (Skottowe, 20G.) 
 
 In Twelfth Night, as in some other plays, Shakespeare exhibits the wonderful power of his dra- 
 matic art by reconciling the introduction of the most fr^cinating poetry with the action of characters 
 whose discourse is replete with buffoonery ; so that, when the curtain falls, our admiration is divided 
 between the serious and comic portions of the drama. The pathetic eloquence and enchanting graces 
 of Viola are familiar to the most casual reader; but it may be doubted whether the character of Mal- 
 volio has been correctly appreciated, whether, indeed, the poet did not in him intend to figure the 
 lamentable consequences of extreme personal vanity in a person of really natural sound sense, not 
 merely a vain, sententious fool, as he is too often represented on the stage. Sir Toby Belch is a gen- 
 uine English humourist of the old school, and his butt. Sir Andrew Ague-cheek, is, perhaps, still more 
 richly comic, always enjoying a joke, and never understanding it. The Clown, to a certain extent, is 
 philosopliical ; and some of the ciitics imagine even an esthetic meaning in every line of the quaint 
 little song which concludes the comedy 
 
 588
 
 PERSONS REPRESENTED 
 
 Orsino, Duke of Ulyria. 
 Appears, dot I. so. 1 ; so. 4. Act II. sc. 4. Act V. so. 1. 
 
 Sebastian, brother to Viola. 
 
 ^/|pfjr», Act II. BC. 1. Actlll. so. 3. Act IV. so. 1 ; sc. 3. 
 Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 A.NTONIO, a sea-captain, friend to Sebastian. 
 Appears, Act II. Bc. 1. Act III. sc. 3 ; sc. 4. Act V. bo. 1. 
 
 A Sea-Captain, friend to Viola. 
 Appears, Act I. so. 2. 
 
 Valentine, a gentleman attending on the Duke. 
 Appears, Act I. so. 1 ; so. 4. 
 
 Cdrio, a gentleman attending on the Duke. 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1 ; sc. 4. Act II. sc. 4. 
 
 Sir Tobt Belch, uncle to Olivia. 
 
 .Ippears, Act I. bo. 8; bc. 5. Act II. sc. 8; sc 6. Act III. 
 
 s . 1 ; so. 2 ; sc. 4. Act IV. so. 1 ; sc. 2. Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 Sir Andrew Ague-cheek. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 3. Act II. sc. 3 ; so. 5. Act III. sc. 1 ; 
 sc. 2; so. 4. Aot IV. sc. 1. Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 Malvolio, steward to Olivia. 
 
 ippears, Act I. bc. 6. Aot II. so. 2 ; sc. 8 ; sc. 5. Aot III. 
 
 sc. 4. Aot IV. BC 2. Aot V. sc. 1. 
 
 Fabian, servant to Olivia. 
 
 Appears, Act II. sc. 5. Act III. sc. 2 ; so. 4. Act IV. so 1 
 Act V. 80. 1. 
 
 Clown, servant to Olivia. 
 
 Appears, Aot I. sc. 5. Act II. sc. 3 ; so. 4. Act III. so. 1 
 Act IV. 80. 1 ; sc. 2. Act V. BC. 1. 
 
 OfScers. 
 Appear, Act III. sc. 4. Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 Olivia, a rich Countess. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 5. Act III. so. 1 ; sc. 4. Act IV. sc 1 
 sc. 3. Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 Viola, in love with the Duke. 
 
 Appears, Aot I. sc. 2; so. 4 ; so. 5. Act 11. sc. 2 ; sc 4. 
 Act III. BC. 1 ; 80. 4. Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 Maria, Olivia's waiting-woman. 
 
 Appears, Act I. sc 3 ; sc. 5. Act II. sc. 3 ; sc. 5. Act III, 
 so. 1 ; sc. 2 ; sc. 4. Act IV. so. 2. 
 
 Lords, Priests, Sailors, Musicians, and Attendants. 
 
 SCENE, — 4. Cnr in Illtria ; and the Sea-ooast 
 
 NEAR IT. 
 
 139
 
 iujflftli aigljt; nr, i^l)«t f on Wil. 
 
 ACT ] 
 
 SCENE I. — An Apartment in the Duke's 
 Palace. 
 
 Enter Duee., Curto, Lords ; Musiciaiis attending. 
 
 Duke. K music be the food of love, play on ; 
 Give me excess of it ; that, surfeiting, 
 1'he appetite may sicken, and so die. 
 That strain again ; — it had a dying fall : 
 O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound 
 That breathes upon a bank of violets. 
 Stealing, and giving odour. — Enough ! no more ; 
 'T is not so sweet now as it was before. 
 O spirit of love 1 how quick and fresh art thou. 
 That, notwithstanding thy capacity 
 Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there, 
 Of what validity a*id pitch soe'er, 
 But falls into abatement and low price, 
 Even in a minute ! so full of shapes is fancy. 
 That it alone is high-fantastical. 
 
 Cur. Will you go hunt, my lord ? 
 
 Duke. What, Curio 2 
 
 Cur. The hart. 
 
 Duke. Why, so I do, the noblest that I have : 
 0, when mine eyes did see Olivia first, 
 Meth sught she purg'd the air of pestilence ; 
 That instant wa.s I turn'd into a hart. 
 And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds, 
 E'er since pursue me. — How now ? what news 
 from her I 
 640 
 
 Enter Valentink. 
 
 Val. So please my lord, I might bot l.fi ad- 
 mitted. 
 But from her handmaid do return this answer 
 The element itself, till seven years' heat. 
 Shall not behold her face at ample view ; 
 But, like a cloistress, she will veiled walk. 
 And water once a day her chamber round 
 With eye-oflending brine : all this, to season 
 A brother's dead love, which she would keep fiesh 
 And lasting in her sad remembrance. 
 
 Duke. O, she that hath a heart of that fine 
 frame. 
 To pay this debt of love but to a brother, 
 Ilow will she love, when the rich golden shaft 
 Hath kill'd the flock of all aSections else 
 That live in her ! when liver, brain, and heart, 
 Those sovereign thrones, are all supply'd and fill'd, 
 (Her sweet perfections,) with one selfsame king 1 — 
 Away before me to sweet beds of flowers ; 
 Love-thoughts lie rich, when canopy'd with 
 bowers. [Exeunt 
 
 SCENE \\.— The Sea-coast. 
 
 Enter Viola, Captain, and Sailors, 
 
 Vio. What country, friends, is this ? 
 Cap. This is Illyria, lady.
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 SCENE in. 
 
 Vio. And what should I do in Llyria ? 
 My brother he is in Elysium. 
 IVrchancA he is not drownVl : — What think you, 
 sailors? 
 
 Cap. It is perchance tliat 3'ou yourself were 
 sav'd. 
 
 Vio. my poor brother ! and so, perchance, may 
 he be. 
 
 Cap. True, madam ; and to comfort you with 
 chance, 
 Assure yourself, after our ship did split. 
 When you, and those poor number sav'd with 
 
 you, 
 Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother. 
 Most provident in peril, bind himself 
 (Courage and hope both teaching him the prac- 
 tice) 
 To a strong mast, that liv'd upon the sea; 
 Where; like Arion on the dolphin's back, 
 I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves, 
 So long as I could see. 
 
 Vio. For saj'ing so, there 's gold : 
 Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope. 
 Whereto thy speech serves for authonty. 
 The like of him. Know'st thou this country ? 
 
 Cap. Ay, madam, well ; for I was bred and 
 born 
 tfot three hours' travel from this very place. 
 
 Vio. Who governs here ? 
 
 Cap. A noble duke, in nature as in name. 
 
 Vto. What is his name ? 
 
 Cap. Orsino. 
 
 Vio. Orsino ! I have heard my father name 
 him : 
 He was a bachelor then. 
 
 Cap. And so is now, or was so very late : 
 For but a month ago I went from hence, 
 And then 't was fresh in murmur, (as, you know. 
 What gi'eat ones do, the less vt-ill prattle of,) 
 That he did seek the love of fair Olivia. 
 
 Vio, What 's she ? 
 
 Cap. A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count 
 That died some twelvemonth since ; then leaving 
 
 her 
 lu the protection of his son, her brother. 
 Who shortly also died : for whose dear love, 
 They say, she hath abjured the sight 
 And company of men. 
 
 Vio. 0, that I serv'd that lady : 
 
 And might not be deliver'd to the world. 
 Till I had made mine own occasion mellow 
 What my estate is. 
 
 Cap. That were hard to compass, 
 
 Because she will admit no kind of suit-, 
 
 No, not the duke's. 
 
 Vio. There is a fair behaviour in thee, captain 
 And though that nature with a beauteous wall 
 Doth oft close in pollution, yet of thee 
 I will believe thou hast a mind that suits 
 With this thy fair and outward character. 
 I piithoe, — and I '11 pay thee bounteously, — 
 Conceal me what I am ; and be my aid 
 For such disguise as, haply, shall become 
 The form of my intent. I '11 serve this duke ; 
 Thou shalt present me as an eunuch to him : 
 It may be worth thy pains ; for I can sing, 
 And speak to him in many sorts of music, 
 That will allow me very worth his service. 
 Wliat else may hap, to time I will commit ; 
 Only shape thou thy silence to my wit. 
 
 Cap. Be you his eunuch, and your mute I 'h 
 be ; 
 When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes no'. 
 see ! 
 
 Vio. I thank thee : Lead me on. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE m.— .4 Room in Olivia'* Souse. 
 
 Enter Sir Toby Belch and Maria. 
 
 Sir To. What a plague means my niece, to take 
 the death of her brother thus ? I am sure care ' 
 an enemy to life. 
 
 Mar. By my troth, Sir Toby, you must cc me in 
 earlier a'nights ; your cousin, my lady, takes great 
 exceptions to your ill hours. 
 
 Sir To. Why, let her except before excepted.' 
 
 Mar. Ay, but you must confine yourself within 
 the modest limits of order. 
 
 Sir To. Confine ? I '11 confine myself no finer 
 than I am. These clothes are good enough to diink 
 in, and so be these boots too ; an they be not, let 
 them hang themselves in their own straps. 
 
 Mar. That quaffing and drinking will undo you ; 
 I heard my lady talk of it yesterday ; and of a 
 foolish knight, that you brought in one night here, 
 to be her wooer. 
 
 Sir To. W^ho ? Sir Andrew Ague-cheek ? 
 
 Mar. Ay, he. 
 
 Sir To. He 's as tall a man as any 's in Illyria. 
 
 Mar. What 's that to the purpose ? 
 
 Sir To. W^hy, he has three thous.".nd ducats a 
 year. 
 
 Mar. Ay, but he '11 have but a year in all these 
 ducats ; he '" a very fool, and a prodigal. 
 
 641
 
 TWELFIH NIGHT. 
 
 BCENE lU. 
 
 Sir To. Fie, that you li say so ! lie plays o' the 
 viol-de-gamboys, and speaks three or four languages 
 word for word without book, and hath all the good 
 gifts of nature. 
 
 Mar. He hath , indeed, all most natural : for 
 besides that he 's a fool, he 's a great quarreller ; 
 and but that he hath the gift of a coward to allay 
 the gust he hath in quarrelling, 't is thought 
 among the prudent he would quickly have the 
 gift of a grave. 
 
 Sir To. By this hand, they are scoundrels and 
 subtractors that say so of him. Who are they ? 
 
 Mar. They that add, moreover, he 's drunk 
 nightly in your company. 
 
 Sir To. With drinking healths to my niece : I '11 
 drink to her as long as there is a passage in my 
 throat, and drink in Illjria ! He 's a coward, and 
 a coystril,' that will not drink to my niece till his 
 brain.s turn o' the toe like a parish top.' What, 
 wench i Castiliano-vulgo ; for here comes sir Andrew 
 Ague-face. 
 
 Snter Sir Andrew Ague-cheek. 
 
 Sir And. Sir Toby Belch ! how now, sir Toby 
 Belch ! 
 
 Sir To. Sweet sir Andrew ! 
 
 Sir And. Bless you, fair shrew. 
 
 Mar. And you too, sir. 
 
 Sir To. Accost, sir Andrew, accost. 
 
 Sir And. What 's that ? 
 
 Sir To. My niece's chambermaid. 
 
 Sir And. Good Mistress Accost, I desire better 
 acquaintance. 
 
 Mar. My name is Mary, sir. 
 
 Sir And. Good mistress Mary Accost, — 
 
 Sir To. You mistake, knight ; accost is, front 
 her, board her, woo her, assail her. 
 
 Sir And. By my troth, I would not undertake 
 her in this company. Is that the meaning of 
 accost ? 
 
 Mar. Fare you well, gentlemen. 
 
 Sir To. An thou let part so, sir Andrew, 'would 
 thou mightst never draw sword again. 
 
 Sir And. An you part so, mistress, I would I 
 might never draw sword again. Fair lady, do you 
 think you have fools in hand ? 
 
 Mar. Sir, I have not you by the hand. 
 
 Sir And. Marry but you shall have ; and here 's 
 my hand. 
 
 Mar. Now, sir, thought is free : I pray you, 
 bring your hand to the buttery -bar, and let it 
 drink. 
 
 642 
 
 Sir And. Wherefore, sweetheart 1 what 's your 
 metaphor ? 
 
 Mar. It 's dry, sir. 
 
 Sir And. Why, I think so ; I am not such an 
 ass but I can keep my hand dry But what 's 
 your jest ? 
 
 Mar. A dry jest, sir. 
 
 Sir And. Are you full of them ? 
 
 Mar. Ay, sir ; I have them at my fingers' ends : 
 marry, now I let go your hand, I am barren. 
 
 [Exit Maria. 
 
 Sir To. O knight, thou lack'st a cup of canaiy : 
 When did I see thee so put down 1 
 
 Sir And. Never in your life, I think ; unless 
 you see canary put me down. Methinks some- 
 times I have no more wit than a Christian, or 
 an ordinary man has : but I am a great eater of 
 beef, and I believe that does harm to my wit. 
 
 Sir To. No question. 
 
 Sir And. An I thought that, I 'd forswear it. 
 I '11 ride home to-morrow. Sir Toby. 
 
 Sir To. Pourquoy, my dear knight ? 
 
 Sir And. What is pourquoy ? do or not do ? I 
 would I had bestowed that time in the tongues 
 that I have in fencing, dancing, and bear-baiting : 
 O, had I but followed the arts ! 
 
 Sir To. Then hadst thou an excellent head of 
 hair. 
 
 SirAnd.Whj, would that have mended my hair 1 
 
 Sir To. Past question ; for thou see'st it will 
 not curl by nature. 
 
 Sir And. But it becomes me well enough, does 't 
 not? 
 
 Sir To. Excellent ; it hangs like flax on a dis- 
 taff; and I hope to see a housewife take thee 
 between her legs, and spin it off. 
 
 Sir And. 'Faith, I '11 home to-morrow. Sir Toby 
 your niece will not be seen ; or, if she be, it 's 
 four to one she '11 none of me : the count himseli 
 here hard by, woos her. 
 
 Sir To. She '11 none o' the count ; she '11 not 
 match above her degree, neither in estate, years, 
 nor wit ; I have heard her swear 't. Tut, there 's 
 life in 't, man. 
 
 Sir And. I '11 st.iy a month longer. I am a 
 fellow o' the strangest mind i' the world ; I delight 
 in masques and revels sometimes altogether. 
 
 Sir To. Art thou good at these kickshaws, 
 knight ? 
 
 Sir And. As any man in Illpia, whatsoever he 
 be, under the degree of my betters ; and yet ] 
 will not compare with an old man.
 
 ACT I. 
 
 TWELFfll NIGHT. 
 
 SCENE rv V. 
 
 Sir To. What is thy excellence in a galliard, 
 knight ? 
 
 Sir And. 'Faith, I can cut a caper. 
 
 Sir To. And I can cut the mutton to 't. 
 
 Sir And. And I think I have the back-trick, 
 siniply as strong as any man in Illyria. 
 
 Sir To. Wherefore are these things hid ? 
 wherefore have these gifts a curtain before 'em ? 
 are they like to take dust, like mistress Mall's 
 picture i* why dost thou not go to church in a 
 galliard, and come home in a coranto ? My very 
 walk should be a jig ; I would not so much as 
 make water but in a sink-a-pace. What dost thou 
 moan ? is it a world to hide virtues in ? I did 
 think, by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it 
 was form'd under the star of a galliard. 
 
 Sir And. Ay, 't is strong, and it does indif- 
 ferent well in a flame-colour'd stock. Shall we 
 set about some revels ? 
 
 Sir To. What shall we do else ? were we not 
 born under Taurus ? 
 
 Sir And. Taurus ? that 's sides and heart. 
 
 Sir To. No, sir ; it is legs and thighs. Let me 
 Bee thee caper : ha ! higher : ha, ha 1 — excellent ! 
 
 [^Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE rv.— ^ Jioom in the Duke's Fahce. 
 
 Enter Valentine, and Viola in man's attire. 
 
 Val. If the duke continue these favours toward 
 you, Cesario, you are like to be much advanc'd ; 
 he hath known you but three days, and already 
 you are no stranger. 
 
 Vio. You either fear his humour, or my negli- 
 gence, that you call in question the continuance of 
 his love. Is he inconstant, sir, in his favours ? 
 
 Val. No, believe me. 
 
 Enter Duke, Curio, and Attendants. 
 
 Vio. I thank you. Here comes the count. 
 
 Duke. Who saw Cesario, ho ? 
 
 Via. On your attendance, my lord, here. 
 
 Duke. Stand you awhile aloof. — Cesario, 
 Thou know'st no less but all ; I have unclasp'd 
 To thee the book even of my secret soul : 
 Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her ; 
 Be not deny'd access ; stand at her doors. 
 And lell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow, 
 Till thou have audience. 
 
 Vio. Sure, my noble lord, 
 
 If she be so abandon'd to her sorrow, 
 As it is spoke, she never will admit me. 
 
 Duke. Be clamorous, and leap all civil bounds, 
 Rather than make unprofitcd retuin. 
 
 Vio. Say, I do speak with her, my lord : What 
 then ? 
 
 Duke. O, then unfold the passion of my love ; 
 Sur|)nse her with discourse of my dear faith : 
 It shall become thee well to act my woes ; 
 She will attend it better in thy youth, 
 Than in a nuncio of more grave aspect. 
 
 Vio. I think not so, my lord. 
 
 Duke. Dear lad, believe it ; 
 
 For they shall yet belie thy happy years. 
 That say, thou art a man : Diana's lip 
 Is not more smooth and rubious ; thy small pipe 
 Is as the maiden's organ, shiill and sound. 
 And all is semblative a woman's part. 
 I know thy constellation is right apt 
 For this atl'air: — Some four, or five, attend him ; 
 All, if you will ; for I myself am best 
 When least in company : — Prosper well in this. 
 And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord, 
 To call his fortunes thine. 
 
 Vio. I '11 do my best 
 
 To woo your lady ; yet, [asz'rfe] a barful strife ! 
 Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE v.— ^ Room in Olivia's House. 
 
 Enter Maria and Clown. 
 
 Mar. Nay, either tell me where thou hast been, 
 or I will not open my lips so wide as a bristle may 
 enter, in way of thy excuse : my lady will hang 
 thee for thy absence. 
 
 Clo. Let her hang me : he that is well hang'd 
 in this world needs to fear no colours.' 
 
 Mar. Make that good. 
 
 Clo. He shall see none to fear. 
 
 Mar. A good lenten answer. I can tell thee 
 where that saying was bom, of, I fear no colours. 
 
 Clo. Where, good mistress Mary ? 
 
 Mar. In the wars ; and that may you be bold 
 to say in your fooleiy. 
 
 Clo. Well, God give them wisdom that have it ; 
 and those that are fools, let them use their talents. 
 
 Mar. Yet you will be hang'd, for being so long 
 absent ; or, to be tum'd away ; is not that as good 
 as a hanging to you ? 
 
 Clo. Many a good hanging prevents a bad 
 marriage; and, for turning away, let summer bear 
 it out. 
 
 Mar. You are resolute, then ? 
 
 643
 
 ACT I. 
 
 TWELFIU NIGHT. 
 
 Clo. Nol so, neither ; but I am resolv'd on two 
 points. 
 
 Mar. That if one break* the other will hold ; or, 
 if both break, your gaskins fall. 
 
 Clo. Apt, in good faith ; very apt ! Well, go 
 thy way ; if sir Toby would leave drinking, thou 
 welt as witty a piece of Eve's flesh as any in 
 Illyria. 
 
 Mar. Peace, you rogue, no more o' that ; here 
 comes my lady : make your excuse wisely, you 
 were best. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Enter Olivia and Malvolio. 
 
 Clo. "Wit, an ^'t be thy will, put me into good 
 fooling ! Those wits that think they have thee do 
 very oft prove fools ; and, I that am sure I lack 
 thee, may pass for a wise man : For what says 
 Quinapalus ? Better a witty fool than a foolish 
 wit. — God bless thee, lady ! 
 
 OIL Take the fool away. 
 
 Clo. Do you not hear, fellows ? Take away the 
 lady. 
 
 Oli. Go to, you 're a dry fool ; I '11 no more of 
 you : besides, you grow dishonest. 
 
 Clo. Two faults, madonna, that drink and good 
 counsel will amend : forgive the dry fool drink, — 
 then is the fool not dry; bid the dishonest man 
 mend himself, — if he mend, he is no longer dis- 
 honest ; if he cannot, let the botcher mend him. 
 Anything that 's mended is but patch'd : virtue 
 that transgresses is but patched with sin ; and sin 
 that amends is but patched with virtue : If that 
 this simple syllogism will serve, so ; if it will not. 
 What remedy 1 As there is no true cuckold but 
 calamity, so beauty 's a flower : — the lady bade 
 lake away the fool ; therefore, I say again, take 
 her away. 
 
 Oli. Sir, I bade them take away you. 
 
 Clo. Misprision in the highest degree ! — Lady, 
 Cucullus nonfacit monachum ; that's as much to 
 say as, I wear not motley in my brain. Good 
 madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool. 
 
 Oil. Can you do it ? 
 
 Clo. Dexterously, good madonna. 
 
 Oli. Make your proof. 
 
 Clo. I must catechise you for it, madonna : Good 
 my mouse of virtue, answer me. 
 
 Oli. Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I '11 
 bide your proof. 
 
 Clo. Good madonna, why mourn'st thou ? 
 
 Oli. Good fool, for my brother's death. 
 644 
 
 Clo. I think his soul is in he_, madonna. 
 
 Oli. I know his soul is in heaven, fool, 
 
 Clo. The more fool, madonna, to mourn for y,>ur 
 brother's soul being in heaven. — Take away ttiv^ 
 fool, gentlemen. 
 
 Oli. What think you of this fool, Malvolio ? 
 doth he not mend ? 
 
 Mai. Yes; and shall do, till the pangs of death 
 shake him : Infirmity, that decays the wise, doth 
 ever make the better fool. 
 
 Clo. God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for 
 the better increasing your folly ! Sir Toby will be 
 sworn that I am no fox ; but he 'will not pass his 
 word for twopence that you are no fool. 
 
 Oli. How say you to that, Mflvolio ? 
 
 Mai. I marvel your ladyship takes delight in 
 such a barren rascal : I saw him put down the 
 other day with an ordinary fool that has no more 
 brain than a stone. Look you now, he 's out of 
 his guard already ; unless you linigh and ministei 
 occasion to him, he is gagg'd. I protest I take 
 these wise men, that crow so at these set kind of 
 fools, to be no better than the fools' zanies.' 
 
 Oli. O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and 
 taste with a distemper'd appetite. To be generous, 
 guiltless, and of free disposition, is to take tliose 
 things for bird-bolts that you deem cannon-bullets. 
 There is no slander in an allow'd fool, though he 
 do nothing but rail ; nor no railing in a known 
 discreet man, though he do nothing but re- 
 prove. 
 
 Clo. Now Mercuiy endue thee with leasing,* 
 for thou speak'st well of fools ! 
 
 Re-enter Makia. 
 
 Mar. Madam, there is at the gate a young 
 gentleman much desires to speak with you. 
 
 Oli. From the count Orsino, is it ? 
 
 Mar. I know not, madam ; 't is a fair young 
 man, and well attended. 
 
 Oli. Who of my people hold him in delay ? 
 
 Mar. Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman. 
 
 OIL Fetch him off, I pray you ; he speaks 
 nothing but madman : Fie on him ! [7i'xi7 Maria.] 
 Go you, Malvolio : if it be a suit from the count, 
 I am sick, or not at home ; what you will, to dis- 
 miss it. [Exit Malvolio.] Now you see, sir, how 
 your fooling grows old, and people dislike it. 
 
 Clo. Thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as if 
 thy eldest son should bo a fool ; whose skull Jove 
 cram with brains 1 for here he comes, one of thy 
 kin, has a most weak^io mater.
 
 ACT I. 
 
 tw1':lfth night. 
 
 Enter Sir Toby Belch. 
 
 OU. By raino honour, half drunk. — What is he 
 flt the gate, cousin ? 
 
 Sir To. A gentleman. 
 
 OIL A gentleman ? what gentleman ? 
 
 Sh- To. 'T is a gentleman here — A plague 
 r.' these pickle-herrings! — How now, sot? 
 
 Clo. Good sir Toby,— 
 
 on. Cousin, cousin, how have you come so 
 early by this lethargy ? 
 
 Sir To. Lechery 1 I defy lechery : There 's one 
 at the gate. 
 
 OU. Ay, many ; what is he ? 
 
 Sir To. Let him be the devil, an he will, I care 
 not : give me faith, say L Well, it 's all one. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 OU. What 's a drunken man like, fool ? 
 
 Clo. Like a drown'd man, a fool, and a mad- 
 man ; one draught above heat makes him a 
 fool ; the second mads him ; and a third drowns 
 him. 
 
 on. Go thou and seek the crowner, and let him 
 sit o' my coz ; for he 's in the third degi'ee of 
 drink, he 's drown'd : go, look after him. 
 
 Clo. He is but mad yet, madonna ; and the 
 fiiol shall look to the madman. [Exit Clown. 
 
 Re-enter Malvolio. 
 
 Mai. Madam, yond young fellow swears he will 
 speak with you. I told him you were sick ; he 
 takes on him to understand so much, and therefore 
 comes to speak with you. I told him you were 
 asleep ; he seems to have a foreknowledge of that 
 too, and therefore comes to speak with you. What 
 is to be said to him, lady ? he 's fortified against 
 any denial. 
 
 OU. Tell him he shall not speak with me. 
 
 Mai. W as been told so ; and he says, he '11 
 stand at your door like a sheriflTs post,' or be 
 the supporter to a bench, but he '11 speak with you. 
 
 on. What kind of man is he ? 
 
 Mai. Why, of mankind. 
 
 OU What manner of man ? 
 
 Mai. Of very ill manner ; he '11 speak with 
 you, will you, or no. 
 
 OU. Of what personage, and years, is he ? 
 
 Mai. Not yet old enough for a man, nor young 
 enough for a boy ; as a squash is before 't is a 
 pcascod, or a codling'" when 't is almost an 
 apple : 'l is with him in standing water, between 
 boy and man. He is very well favour'd. and he 
 
 speaks very shrewishly ; one would think liu moth- 
 er's milk were scarce out of him. 
 
 OU. Let him approach : Call in my geutle- 
 woman. 
 
 Mai. Gentlewoman, my lady calls. [Exit. 
 
 Re-enter Maria. 
 
 on. Give me my veil : come, throw ii o"er my 
 face. We '11 once more hear Orsino's embassy. 
 
 Enter Viola. 
 
 Vio. The honourable lady of the house, which 
 is she ? 
 
 on. Speak to me, I shall answer for her : 
 Your will ? 
 
 Vio. Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable 
 beauty, I pray you tell me if this be the lady of 
 the house, for I never saw her : I would be loth 
 to cast away my speech : for, besides that it is 
 e.xcellently well penned, I have taken great pains 
 to con it. Good beauties, let me sustain no scorn ; 
 I am very comptible, even to the least siniste' 
 usage. 
 
 on. Whence came you, sir ? 
 
 Vio. I can say little more than I have studied, 
 and that question 's out of my part. Good gentle 
 one, give me modest assurance if you be the lady 
 of the house, that I may proceed in my speech. 
 
 on. Are you a comedian ? 
 
 Vio. No, my profound heart ; and yet, by the 
 very fangs of malice I swear I am not that I 
 play. Are you the lady of the house ? 
 
 on. If I do not usurp myself, I am. 
 
 Vio. Most certain, if you are she you do usurp 
 yourself; for what is yours to bestow is not 
 yours to reserve. But this is from my commission : 
 I will on with my speech in your praise, and tlien 
 show you the heart of my message. 
 
 OU. Come to what is important in 't : I forgive 
 you the praise. 
 
 Vio. Alas, I took great pains to study it, and 
 't is poetical. 
 
 on. It is the more hke to be feigned ; I pray 
 you, keep it in. I heard you were saucy at my 
 gates; and allow'd your apjjroach, rather to 
 wonder at you than to hear you. If you be not 
 mad, be gone ; if you have reason, be .brief: 't is 
 not that time of moon with me to make one in so 
 skipping a dialogue. 
 
 Mar. Will you hoist sail, sir ? here lies your way. 
 
 Vio. No, good swabber; I am to hull" here a 
 little longer. — Some mollification for your giant, 
 
 64B
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 SCEKK V 
 
 sweet lady. Tell me your mind ; I am a mes- 
 senger. 
 
 Oil. Sure, you have some hideous matter to 
 deliver, when the courtesy of it is so fearful. 
 Speak your office. 
 
 Vio. It alone concerns your ear. I bring no 
 overture of war, no taxation of homage ; I hold 
 the olive in my hand : my words are as full of 
 peace as matter. 
 
 on. Yet you began rudely. What are you? 
 what would you ? 
 
 Vio. The rudeness that hath appeared in me, 
 have I learn'd fi'om my entertainment. What I 
 am, and what I would, are as secret as maiden- 
 head : — to your eare, divinity ; to any other's, 
 profanation. 
 
 OIL Give us the place alone : we will hear this 
 divinity I [Exit Maria.] Now, sir, what is your 
 text? 
 
 Vio. Most sweet lady, — 
 
 Oli. A comfortable doctrine, and much may be 
 .said of it. WTiere lies your text ? 
 
 Via. In Orsino's bosom. 
 
 Oli. In his bosom ? In what chapter of his 
 bosom ? 
 
 Vio. To answer by the method, in the first of 
 his heart. 
 
 Oli. 0, I have read it ; it is heresy. Have you 
 no more to say ? 
 
 Vio. Good madam, let me see your face. 
 
 Oli. Have you any commission from your lord 
 to negotiate with my face ? You are now out of 
 your text : but we will draw the curtain, and 
 show you the picture. [ Unveiling^ Look you, sir, 
 such a one I was this present: Is 't not well 
 done? 
 
 Vio. Excellently done, if God did all. 
 
 Oli. 'T is in-grain, sir; 't will endure wind and 
 weather. 
 
 Vio. 'T is beauty truly blent, whose red and 
 wliite 
 Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on : 
 Lady, you are the cruell'st she alive, 
 If you will lead these graces to the grave, 
 And leave the world no copy. 
 
 Oli. O, sir, I will not be so liard-hcartcd ; I will 
 give out divers schedules of my beauty. It shall 
 be inventoried ; and every particle, and utensil, 
 labell'd to my will : as, item, two lips indifferent 
 red ; item, two grey eyes, with lids to them ; item, 
 one neck, one chin, and so forth. Were you sent 
 hither to praise" me ? 
 
 Vio. I see you what you are : you are too 
 proud ; 
 But, if you were the devil, you are fair. 
 My lord and master loves you ; such love 
 Could be but recompens'd, though you w^.n: 
 
 crown'd 
 The nonpareil of beauty ! 
 
 Oli. How does he love me ? 
 
 Vio. With adorations, fertile tears. 
 With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire. 
 
 Oli. Your lord does know my mind, I cannot 
 love him : 
 Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble. 
 Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth ; 
 In voices well divulg'd, free, learn'd, and valiant, 
 And in dimension, and the shape of nature, 
 A gracious person ; but yet I cannot love him ; 
 He might have took his answer long ago. 
 
 Vio. If I did love you in my master's flame, 
 With such a sufTring, such a deadly life, 
 In your denial I would find no sense, 
 I would not understand it. 
 
 Oli. WTiy, what would you ? 
 
 Vio. Make me a willow cabin at your gate, 
 And call upon my soul within the house ; 
 Write loyal cantons of contemned love. 
 And sing them loud even in the dead of night ; 
 Holla your name to the reverberate hills, 
 And make the babbling gossip of the air 
 Cry out, Olivia I O, you should not rest 
 Between the elements of air and earth. 
 But you should pity me. 
 
 Oli. You might do much : What is yoiu 
 parentage ? 
 
 Vio. Above my fortunes, yet my state is well : 
 I am a gentleman. 
 
 Oli. Get you to your lord ; 
 
 I cannot love him : let him send no more ; 
 Unless, perchance, you come to me again. 
 To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well : 
 I thank you for your pains : spend this for me. 
 
 Vio. I am no fee'd post, lady ; keep your purse ; 
 My master, not myself, lacks recompense. 
 Love make his heart of flint, Oiat you tiiall love ; 
 And let your fervour, like m.y master's, be 
 Plac'd in contempt ! Farewell, fair cruelty. \^Exii 
 
 Oli. What is your parentage ? 
 " Above my fortunes, yet my state is well : 
 I am a gentleman." — I '11 bo sworn thou art ; 
 Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit, 
 Do give thee five-fold blazon : — Not too fast : — 
 soft ! soft !
 
 TWELFl'll NIGHT. 
 
 SCENK I II. 
 
 Unless the master were the man. — How now ? 
 Even so quickly may one catch the plague ? 
 Methiuks, I feel this youth's perfections, 
 With an invisible and subtle stealth, 
 To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be. — 
 What, ho, Malvolio !— 
 
 Re-enter Malvolio. 
 
 Jfal. Here, madam, at your ser\nce. 
 
 Oli. Kun after that same peevish messenger, 
 The county's man : he left this ring behind him. 
 
 Would I, or not ; tell him, I '11 none of it. 
 Desire him not to flatter with his lord. 
 Nor hold him up with hopes ; I am not for him : 
 If that the youth will coiue this way to-morrow, 
 I 'II give him reasons for 'L Hie thee, Malvolio. 
 Mai. Madam, I will. [Exit 
 
 Oli. I do I know not what : and fear to find 
 Mine eye too great a flatterer for ray mind. 
 Fate, show thy force. Ourselves we do not owe ; ' 
 What is decreed must be ; and be this so ! 
 
 \Eiit 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE l.—The Sea-coast. 
 
 Enter Antonio and Sebastian. 
 
 Ant. Will you stay no longer 3 nor will you not 
 that I go with you ? 
 
 Scb. By your patience, no : my stars shine 
 darkly over me ; the malignancy of my fate might, 
 perhaps, distemper yours ; therefore, I shall crave 
 of you your leave that I may bear my evils alone : 
 It were a bad recompense for your love to lay any 
 of them on you. 
 
 Ant. Let me yet know of you whither you are 
 bound. 
 
 Seb. No, 'sooth, sir ; my determinate voyage is 
 mere extravagancy. But I perceive in you so 
 excellent a touch of modesty, that you will not 
 extort from me what I am willing to keep in ; 
 therefore it charges me in manners the rather to 
 express myself. You must know of me, then, 
 Antonio, my name is Seb.istian, which I call'd 
 Rodorigo ; my fother was that Sebastian of Messa- 
 line, whom I know you have heard of: he left 
 behind him, myself and a sister, both bom in an 
 hour. If the heavens had been pleas'd, 'would we 
 had so ended ! but you, sir, alter'd that ; for, some 
 hour before you took me from the breach of the 
 Bea, was my sister drowu'd. 
 
 Ant. Alas, the d.ay ! 
 
 Seb. A lady, sir, though it was said she much 
 resembled me, was yet of many accounted beau- 
 tiful : but, though I could not, with such estimable 
 wonder, overfar beheve that, yet thus far I will 
 boldly publish her, — she bore a mind that envy 
 
 could not but call fair : she is drown'd already, sir, 
 with salt water, though I seem to drown hei 
 remembrance again with more. 
 
 Ant. Pardon, me, sir, your bad entertainment. 
 
 Seb. good Antonio, forgive me your trouble 
 
 Ant. If you will not murther me for iny love, 
 let me be your servant. 
 
 Seb. If you will not undo what you have done, 
 that is, kill him whom you have recover'd, desire 
 it not. Fare ye well at once : my bosom is full 
 of kindness ; and I am yet so near the manners ol 
 my mother, that, upon the least occasion more, 
 mine eyes will tell tales of me. I am bound to 
 the count Orsino's court : farewell. [Exit. 
 
 Ant. The gentleness of all the gods go with 
 thee ! 
 I have many enemies in Oreino's court, 
 Else would I very shortly see thee there : 
 But, come what may, I do adore thee so, 
 That danger shall seem sport, and I will go. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 SCENE J1.—A street. 
 
 Enter Viola ; '^[ai.vouo following. 
 
 Mai. Were not you e'en now with the countesa 
 Ohvia ? 
 
 Vio. Even now, sir ; on a moderate pace I have 
 since arnv d but hither. 
 
 Mai. She returns this ring to you, sir ; you 
 might have saved me my pains, to have taken it 
 away ycurself. She adds, moreover, that you 
 
 547
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 SCENE 111. 
 
 phoLild put your lord iuto a desperate assurance 
 she will none of him : And one thing more : that 
 you be never so hardy to come again ia his affairs 
 unless it be to report your lord's taking of this. 
 Receive it so. 
 
 Vio. She took the ring of me. I '11 none of it. 
 Mai. Come, sir, you peevishly threw it to her ; 
 and her will is it should be so return'd : if it be 
 worth stooping for, there it lies in your eye ; if 
 not, be it his that finds it. [JSxit. 
 
 Vio. I left no ring with her : What means this 
 lady ? 
 Fortune forbid my outside have uot charm'd her ! 
 She made good view of me ; indeed, so much 
 That, methought, her eyes had lost her tongue," 
 For she did speak in starts distractedly. 
 She loves me, sure; the cunning of her passion 
 Invites me in this churlish messenger. 
 None of my lord's ring ! why, he sent her none. 
 I am the man : — If it be so, (as 't is,) 
 Poor lady, she were better love a dream. 
 Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness. 
 Wherein the pregnant enemy does much. 
 
 How easy is it for the proper-false 
 
 In women's waxen hearts to set their forms ! 
 
 Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we ; 
 
 For, such as we are made of, such we be. 
 
 How will this fadge ? My master , loves her 
 dearly : 
 
 And I, poor monster, fond as much on him ; 
 
 And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me : 
 
 What will become of this ? As I am man. 
 
 My state is desperate for my master's love ! 
 
 As I am woman, now, alas the day ! 
 
 What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe ! 
 
 O time, thou must untangle this, not I ; 
 
 It is too hard a knot for me t' untie. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE HI.— ^ Boom in Olivia's ffouse. 
 FnierSiR Tody Belch and Sir Andrew Aoue- 
 
 CIIEEK. 
 
 Sir To. Approach, sir Andrew : not to be a- 
 bed after midnight is to be up betimes; and 
 diluculo surgere, thou know'st, — 
 
 Sir And. Nay, by my troth, I know not : but 
 I know, to be up late is to bo up late. 
 
 Sir To. A false conclusion ; I hate it as an un- 
 fill'd can. To be up after midnight, and to go to 
 bed then, is early : bo that, to go to bed after 
 midnight is to go to bed betimes. Do not our 
 lives consist of the four elements ?" 
 M8 
 
 Sir And. 'Faith, so they say ; but, I think, it 
 rather consists of eating and drinking. 
 
 Sir To. Thou 'rt a scholar ; let us therefore eat 
 and drink. — Marian, I say ! — a stoop of wine 1 
 
 Enter Clown. 
 
 Sir And. Here comes the fool, i' faith. 
 Clo. How now, my hearts 1 Did you never see 
 the picture of we three ?" 
 
 Sir To. Welcome, ass. Now let 's have a catch. 
 Sir And. By my troth, the fool has an e.xcellent 
 breast. I had rather than forty shillings I had 
 such a leg ; and so sweet a breath to sing, as the 
 fool has. In sooth, thou wast in very gracious 
 fooling last night, when thou spok'st of Pigrogro- 
 mitus, of the Vapians passing the equinoctial of 
 Queubus ; 't was very good, i' faith. I sent thee 
 sixpence for thy leman." Had'st it ? 
 
 Clo. I did impeticos thy gratillity ; for Mal- 
 volio's nose is no whipstock. My lady has a 
 white hand, and the Mynnidons are no bottle-ale 
 houses. 
 
 Sir And. Excellent ! Why, this is the best 
 fooling, when all is done. Now, a song. 
 
 Sir To. Come on ; there is sixpence for you : 
 let 's have a song. 
 
 Sir And. There 's a testril of me too ; if one 
 knight give a [way sixpence, so will I give another. 
 Go to : a song.] 
 
 Clo. Would you have a love-song, or a song of 
 good life 1 
 
 Sir To. A love song, a love song ! 
 
 Sir And. Ay, ay ; I care not, for good life. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Clo. mistress mine, wliere are you roaming, 
 stay and hear ; your true love 's coming, 
 
 That can sing both liigh and low : 
 Trip no further, pretty sweeting ; 
 Journeys end in lovers' meeting. 
 
 Every wise man's son doth know. 
 
 Sir And. Excellent good, i' fiiith. 
 Sir To. Good, good. 
 
 Clo. What is love ? 't is not hereafter ; 
 
 Present mirth liatli present laughter ; 
 
 What 's to come is still unsure : 
 In delay there lies no plenty ; 
 Tlien come kiss mo, sweet and twenty. 
 
 Youth 'u a stufl" will not cuduro. 
 
 Sir And. A mellifluous voice, as I am trus 
 knight. 
 
 Sir To. A contagious breath.
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 SCENE lU. 
 
 Sir And. Very sweet and contagious, i' faith. 
 
 Sir To. To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in 
 conta^on. But shall we make the welkin dance 
 indeed ? Shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch, 
 that will draw three souls out of one weaver ?'° 
 Shall we do that ? 
 
 Sir And. An you love me, let 's do 't : I am a 
 dog at a catch. 
 
 Clo. By 'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch 
 well. 
 
 Sir And. Most certain : let our catch be, 
 " Thou knave." 
 
 Clo. " Hold thy peace, thou knave," knight ? 
 I shall be constrain'd in 't to call thee knave, 
 knight. 
 
 Sir And. 'T is not the first time I have con- 
 strained one to call me knave. Begin, fool ; it 
 begins, " Hold thy peace." 
 
 Clo. I shall never begin, if I hold my peace. 
 
 Sir And. Good, i' faith ! Come, begin. 
 
 [Thei/ sing a catch. 
 
 Enter Maria. 
 
 Mar. What a cat terwauling do you keep here ! 
 If ray lady have not call'd up her steward, Mal- 
 volio, and bid him turn you out of doors, never 
 trust me. 
 
 Sir To. My lady 's a Catalan, we are politicians ; 
 Malvolio 's a Peg-a-Ramsay," and " Three meiry 
 men be we." Am not I consanguineous ? am I 
 not of her blood « Tilly-valley ! lady !=" " There 
 dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady 1" 
 
 l^Sinr/ing. 
 
 Clo. Beshrew me, tlie knight 's in admirable 
 fooling. 
 
 Sir And. Ay, he does well enough, if he be 
 dispos'd, and so do I too ; he does it with a better 
 gi'ace, but I do it more natural. 
 
 Sir To. " 0, the twelfth day of December,"— 
 
 [Singing. 
 
 Mar. For the love o' God, peace. 
 
 Enter Malvolio. 
 
 Mai. My masters, are you mad ? or what are 
 you ? Have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, but 
 to gabble like tinkers at this time of night ? Do 
 ye make an alehouse of my lady's house, that 
 ye squeak out your coziere' catches without any 
 mitigation or remorse of voice ? Is there no respect 
 of place, persons, nor time, in you ? 
 
 Sir To. We did keep time, sir, in our catches. 
 Bneck up.'" 
 
 Mai. Sir Toby, I must be round wiih you. My 
 
 lady bade mo tell you, that, though she harboure 
 you as her kinsman, she 's nothing alli'd to your 
 disorders. If you can separate yourself and your 
 misdemeanors, you are welcome to the house ; if 
 not, an it would please you to take leave of her, 
 she is very willing to bid you farewell. 
 
 Sir To. " Farewell, dear heart, since I must 
 needs be gone." 
 
 Mar. Nay, good sir Toby. 
 
 Clo. " His eyes do show his days are almos* 
 done." 
 
 Mai. Is 't even so ? 
 
 Sir To. " But I will never die." 
 
 Clo. Sir Toby, there you lie. 
 
 Mai. This is much credit to you. 
 
 Sir To. " Shall I bid him go ?" 
 
 Clo. " What an if you do ?" 
 
 Sir To. " Shall I bid him go, and spare not J" 
 
 Clo. " no, no, no, no, you dare not." 
 
 Sir To. Out o' time ? sir, ye lie. — Art any 
 more than a steward ? Dost thou think, because 
 thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes 
 and ale ? 
 
 Clo. Yes, by saint Anne ; and ginger shall be 
 hot i' the mouth too. 
 
 Sir To. Thou 'rt i' the right.— Go, sir, rub 
 your chain with crumbs •}' — A stoop of wine, 
 Maria ! 
 
 Mai. Mistress Mary, if you priz'd my lady's 
 favour at anything more than contempt, you 
 would not give means for this unci\'il rule ; she 
 sh.all know of it, by this hand. [Exit. 
 
 Mar. Go shake your ears. 
 
 Sir And. T were as good a deed as to drink 
 when a man 's a hungry, to challenge him the 
 field ; and then to break promise with him, and 
 make a fool of him. 
 
 Sir To. Do 't, knight ; I '11 write thee a chal- 
 lenge ; or I '11 deliver thy indignation to him b_v 
 word of mouth. 
 
 Mar. Sweet sir Toby, be patient for to-night ; 
 since the youth of the count's was to-day with my 
 lady, she is much out of quiet. For monsieur 
 Malvolio, let me alone with him If I do not gull 
 him into a nayword, and make nim a common 
 recreation, do not think I have wit enough to lie 
 straight in my bed : I know I can do it. 
 
 Sir To. Possess us, possess us ; tell us some- 
 thing of him. 
 
 Mar. Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind o( 
 Puritan. 
 
 549
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 Sir And. O, if I thought that, I 'd beat bim 
 like a dog. 
 
 Sir To. "What, for being a Puritan ? thy ex- 
 quisite reason, dear knight ? 
 
 Sir And. I have no exquisite reason for 't, but 
 [ have reason good enough. 
 
 Mar. The devil a Puritan that he is, or any- 
 thing constantly but a time-pleaser ; an affection'd 
 ass, that cons state without book, and utters it by 
 great swaths : the best persuaded of himself, so 
 cramm'd, as he thinks, with excellences, that it is 
 his ground of faith that all that look on him love 
 him ; and on that vice in him will my revenge 
 find notable cause to work. 
 
 Sir To. What wilt thou do ? 
 
 3far. I will drop in his way some obscure 
 epistles of love ; wherein, by the colour of his 
 beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of his 
 gait, the expressure of bis eye, forehead, and 
 complexion, he shall find himself most feelingly 
 personated : I can write very Kke my lady, your 
 niece ; on a forgotten matter we can hardly make 
 distinction of our hands. 
 
 Sir To. Excellent ! I smell a device. 
 
 Sir And. I have 't in my nose too. 
 
 Sir To. He shall think, by the letters that 
 thou wilt drop, that they come from my niece, 
 aud that she 's in love with him. 
 
 Mar. My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that 
 colour. 
 
 Sir And. And your horse now would make 
 him an a.ss. 
 
 Mar. Ass, I doubt not. 
 
 Sir And. O, 't will be admirable. 
 
 Mar. Sport royal, I warrant you : I know my 
 physic will work with him. I will plant you 
 two, and let the fool make a third, where he shall 
 find the letter ; observe Lis construction of it. 
 For this night, to bed, and dream on the event. 
 Farewell. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Sir To. Good night, Penthesilea. 
 
 Sir And. Before me, she 's a good wench. 
 
 Sir To. She 's a beagle, true bred, and one that 
 adores me : What o' that ? 
 
 Sir And. I was ador'd once too. 
 
 Sir To. Let 's to bed, knight.— Thou hadst 
 need send for more money. 
 
 Sir And. If I cannot recover your niece, I am 
 ft foul way out. 
 
 Sir To. Send for money, knight ; if thou hast 
 her not i' the end, call ine Cut." 
 SRO 
 
 Sir And. If I do not, never trust me, take il 
 how you will. 
 
 Sir To. Come, come ; I '11 go bum soree sack : 
 't is too late to go to bed now. Come, knight : 
 come, knight. [Exeunt 
 
 SCENE IV.— ^ Room in the Duke's Palace. 
 Enter Duke, Viola, Curio, and others. 
 
 Duke. Give me some nmsic : — Now, good mor- 
 row, friends : — 
 Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song. 
 That old and antique song we heard last night ; 
 Methought, it did relieve my passion much ; 
 More than light airs and recollected terms, 
 Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times : 
 Come, but one verse. 
 
 Cur. He is not here, so please your lordship 
 That should sing it. 
 
 Duke. Who was it? 
 
 Cur. Feste, the jester, my lord ; a fool, that the 
 lady Olivia's father took much delight in : he is 
 about the house. 
 
 Duke. Seek him out, and play the tune the 
 while. [Exit Cur. — M-^sir. 
 
 Come hither, boy : If ever thou shalt love, 
 In the sweet pangs ot it icmomber me : 
 For, such as I am all true lovers are ; 
 Unstaid and skittish in all motions else, 
 Save in the constant image of the creature 
 That is belov'd. — How dost thou like this tune ? 
 
 Vio. It gives a very echo to the seat 
 Where Love is thron'd. 
 
 Duke. Thou dost speak masterly : 
 
 My life upon 't, young though thou art, tliine 
 
 eye 
 Hath stay'd upon some favour that it loves ; 
 Hath it not, boy? 
 
 Vio. A little, by your favour. 
 
 Duke. What kind of woman is 't ? 
 
 Vio. Of your complexion. 
 
 Duke. She is not worth thee then. What years, 
 i' faith ? 
 
 Vio. About your years, my lord. 
 
 Duke. Too old, by Heaven : Let still the womaa 
 take 
 An elder than herself; so wears she to him. 
 So sways she level in her husband's heart 
 For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, 
 Our fancies are more giddy and unfinn, 
 More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn, 
 Than women's are.
 
 ACT U, 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 Vio. I think it well, ray lord. 
 
 Duke. Then let thy love be younger than thy- 
 self, 
 ()v thy aft'ection cannot hold the bent; 
 For women are as roses, whose fair flower, 
 1 Icing once display'd, doth fall that very hour. 
 
 Vio. And so they are : alas, that they are so ; 
 To die, even when they to perfection grow 1 
 
 Re-enter Curio and Clown. 
 
 Bxike. O fellow, come, the song we had last 
 night : 
 Mark it, Cesario ; it is old and plain : 
 The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, 
 And the free maids that weave their thread with 
 
 bones. 
 Do use to chant it ; it is silly sooth. 
 And dallies with the innocence of love, 
 Like the old age. 
 
 Clo. Are you ready, sir ? 
 
 Duke. Ay ; piithee sing. [Miisic. 
 
 SONG. 
 CtO. Come away, como away, death, 
 And in .sad cypress let me be laid ;'* 
 
 Fly away, fly away, breatli ; 
 I am blain by a fair cruel maid. 
 My Bhroud of white, stuck all with yew, 
 
 prepare it ; 
 My part of death no one so true 
 Did share it. 
 
 Not a flower, not a flower sweet, 
 On my black cofBn lot there be strown ; 
 
 Not a friend, not a friend greet 
 My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown : 
 A thousand thousand sighs to save. 
 
 Lay uie, O, where 
 Sad true lover never find my grave. 
 To weep there. 
 
 Duke. There 's for thy pains. 
 
 Clo. No pains, sir ; I take pleasure in singing, sir. 
 
 Duke. I '11 pay thy pleasure then. 
 
 Clo. Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid, oni. 
 time or another. 
 
 Duke. Give me now leave to leave thee. 
 
 Clo. Now the melancholy god protect thee ; 
 and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable 
 ta.^lata, for thj mind is a very opal ! — I would have 
 ;iien of such constancy put to sea, that their busi- 
 '.ess might be everything, and their intent every- 
 where ; for that 's it that always makes a good 
 voy.nge of nothing. — Farewell. \^Exil Clown. 
 
 Duke Le:: all the rest give place. 
 
 \_Exeunt Curio and Attendants. 
 
 Once more, Cesario, 
 Get thee to yon' same sovereign cruelty : 
 Tell her, my love, more noble than the world, 
 Prizes not quantity of dirty lands ; 
 The parts that fortune hath bestow'd upon her, 
 Tell her, I hold ;is giddily as fortune ; 
 But 't is that miracle, and queen of gems, 
 That nature pranks her in, attracts my soul. 
 
 Vio. But if she cannot love you, sir 1 
 
 Duke. I cannot be so answer'd. 
 
 Vio. 'Sooth, but you must. 
 
 Say, that some lady, as, perhaps, there is. 
 Hath for your love as great a pang of heart 
 As you have for Olivia : you cannot love her ; 
 You tell her so : Must she not then be answer'd I 
 
 Duke. There is no woman's sides 
 Can bide the beating of so strong a passion 
 As love doth give my heart : no woman's heart 
 So big, to hold so much ; they lack retention. 
 Alas, their love may be call'd appetite, — 
 No motion of the liver, but the palate,— 
 That suffers surfeit, cloyment, and revolt ; 
 But mine is all as hungry as the sea. 
 And can digest as much : make no compare 
 Between that love a woman can bear me, 
 And that I owe Olivia. 
 
 Vio. Ay, but I know, — 
 
 Duke. What dost thou know ? 
 
 Vio. Too well what love women to men may 
 owe : 
 In faith, they are as true of heart as we. 
 My f^ither had a daughter lov'd a man. 
 As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman, 
 I should your lordship. 
 
 Duke. And what 's her history ? 
 
 Vio. A blank, my lord : She never told her 
 love, 
 But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud. 
 Feed on her damask cheek : she pin'd in thougbt- 
 And, with a green and yellow melancholy. 
 She sat, like Patience on a monument. 
 Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed ? 
 We men may say more, swear more : but, indeed, 
 Our shows are more than will ; for still we prove 
 Much in our vows, but little in our love. 
 
 Duke. But died thy sister of her love, my boy \ 
 
 Vio. I am all ibe daughters of my father's 
 house. 
 And all the brothers too ; — and yet I know not. — 
 Sir, shall I to .this lady ? 
 
 Duke. Ay, that's the theme. 
 To her in haste ; give her this jewel ; say 
 
 661
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 My love can give no place, Lide no denay. 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE v.— Olivia'* Garden. 
 
 Enter Sir Toby Belch, Sir Andrew Ague-cheek, 
 and Fabian. 
 
 Sir To. Come thy ways, signior Fabian. 
 
 Fab. Nay, I '11 come ; if I lose a scruple of this 
 sport, let me be boiled to death with melancholy. 
 
 Sir To. Wouldst thou not be glad to have the 
 niggardly rascally sheep-biter come by some 
 notable shame? 
 
 Fab. I would exult, man : you know, he 
 brought me out o' favour with my lady about a 
 bear-baiting here. 
 
 Sir To. To anger him, we '11 have the bear 
 again ; and we will fool him black and blue : — 
 Shall we not, sir Andrew ? 
 
 Sir And. An we do not, it is pity of our lives. 
 
 Enter Maria. 
 
 Sir To. Here comes the little villain : — How 
 now, my metal of India ? 
 
 Mar. Get ye all three into the box-tree : Mal- 
 volio 's coming down this walk. He has been 
 yonder i' the sun, practising behaviour to his own 
 shadow, this half-hour : observe him, for the love 
 of mockery, for, I know, this letter will make a 
 contemplative idiot of him. Close, in the name 
 of jesting! [The men hide themselves.^ Lie thou 
 there ; [throws down a letter] for here comes the 
 trout that must bo caught with tickling. 
 
 [Exit Maria. 
 
 Enter Malvolio. 
 
 Mai. 'T is but fortune ; all is fortune. Maria 
 once told me she did affect me : and I have heard 
 herself come thus near, that, should she fancy, 
 it should be one of my complexion. Besides, she 
 uses me with a more exalted respect than any 
 one else that follows her. What should I think 
 on't? 
 
 Sir To. Here 's an overweening rogue 1 
 
 Fab. 0, peace! Contemplation makes a rare 
 tuikey-cock of hira ! how he jets under his advanc'd 
 plumes ! 
 
 Sir And. 'Slight, I could so beat the rogue : — 
 
 Sir To. Peace, I say. 
 
 Mai. To be count Malvolio; — 
 
 Sir To. All, rogue ! 
 
 >S'(> A)id. I'ihtol him, pistol hira. 
 
 Sir To. Peace, peace ! 
 
 Mai. There is example for 't ; the lady of th 
 Strachy" married the yeoman of the wardrobe. 
 
 Sir And. Fie on him, Jezebel 
 
 Fab. 0, peace ! now he 's deeply in ; look, how 
 imagination blows him. 
 
 Mai. Having been three months married to lier, 
 sitting in my state, — 
 
 Sir To. 0, for a stone-bow,^ to hit him in the 
 eye! 
 
 Mai. Calling my officers about me, in my 
 branch'd velvet gown ; having come fi-om a day- 
 bed, where I have left Olivia sleeping : 
 
 Sir To. Fire and brimstone ! 
 
 Fab. 0, peace, peace ! 
 
 Mai. And then to have the humour of state : 
 and after a demure travel of regard, — telling them 
 I know my place, as I would they should do 
 theirs, — to ask for my kinsman Toby : 
 
 Sir To. Bolts and shackles ! 
 
 Fab. O, peace, peace, peace ! now, now I 
 
 Mai. Seven of my people, with an obedient 
 start, make out for him : I frown the while : and, 
 perchance, wind up my watch, or play with my 
 some rich jewel. Toby approaches ; court'sies 
 there to me : 
 
 Sir To. Shall this fellow live ? 
 
 Fab. Though our silence be drawn from us by 
 th' cars, yet peace. 
 
 Mai. I extend my hand to him thus, quenching 
 my familiar smile with an austere regard of control : 
 
 »S(V To. And does not Toby take you a blow o' 
 the lips, then ? 
 
 Mai. Saying, " Cousin Toby, my fortunes hav- 
 ing cast me on your niece, give me this prerogative 
 of speech :" — 
 
 Sir To. What, what ? 
 
 Mai. " You must amend your drunkenness." 
 
 Sir To. Out, scab ! 
 
 Fab. Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of 
 our plot. 
 
 Mai. "Besides, you waste the treasure of your 
 time with a foolish kniglit:" 
 
 Sir And. That 's me, I warrant you. 
 
 Mai. " One sir Andrew :" 
 
 Sir And. I knew 't was I ; for many do call mo 
 fool. 
 
 Mai. What employment have wo hero ? 
 
 [Taking up the letter 
 
 Fab. Now is the woodcock near the gin. 
 
 Sir To. O peace ! and the spirit of humours 
 intimate reading aloud to him 1
 
 t.(n II. 
 
 TWELFTU NIGHT. 
 
 BCENB V 
 
 Mai. By iny life, this is my lady's hand : these 
 bo her very C's, her U% and her T's ; and thus 
 makes she her great /"s. It is, in contempt of 
 question, her hand. 
 
 Sir And. Her C's, her U's, and her T's : Why 
 that? 
 
 Mai. [reids.] "To the unknown belov'd, this, 
 and my good wishes :" her very phrases ! — By 
 your leave, wax. — Soft ! — and the impressure her 
 Lucrece, with which she uses to seal : t' is my 
 lady : To whom should this be ? 
 
 Fab. This wins him, liver and all. 
 
 Mai. [reads.l "Jove knows, I love: 
 But who J 
 Lips do not move; 
 No man must know. 
 
 " No man must know." — Vfhat follows ? — the 
 number 's alter'd ! — " No man must know :" — If 
 this should be thee, Malvolio ? 
 
 Sir To. Marry, hang thee, brock !"' 
 
 Mai. ** I ^'^J command, where I adore : 
 But silence, like a Lucrece kuife, 
 With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore ; 
 M, 0, A, I, doth sway my life." 
 
 Fab. A fustian liJdle ! 
 
 Sir To. Excellent wench, say I. 
 
 Mai. " M, O, A, I, doth sw.ay my life."— Nay, 
 but first, — let me see, — let me see, — let me see. 
 
 Fab. What dish a' poison has she dressed him ! 
 
 Sir To. And with what wing the stanieP' 
 checks at it ! 
 
 Mai. "I may command where I adore." W^hy, 
 she may command me : I serve her, she is my 
 lady. Why, this is evident to any formal capacity. 
 There is no obstruction in this; — And the end, — 
 What should that alphabetical position portend ? 
 If I could make that resemble something in me, — 
 Softly!— i/; 0,A,L— 
 
 Sir To. O, ay ! make up that : — he is now at a 
 cold scent. 
 
 Fab. Sowter will cry upon 't, for all this, though 
 it be as rank as a fox. 
 
 Mai. M, — Malvolio ; — M, — why, that begins 
 my name. 
 
 Fab. Did not I s.ay he would work it out ? the 
 cur is excellent at faults. 
 
 Mai. M, — But then there is no consonancy in 
 (he sequel ; that suffers under probation : A should 
 follow, but does. 
 
 Fab. And shall end, I hope. 
 Sir To. Ay, or I '11 cudgel him, and make him 
 cry, 0. 
 
 Mai. And then /comes behind. 
 
 Fab. Ay, an you had any eye behind you, you 
 might see more detraction at your heels, than for- 
 tunes before you. 
 
 Mai. M, 0, A, I: — This simulation is not an 
 the former : and yet, to crush this a hltle, it would 
 bow to me, for every one of these letters are in my 
 name. Soft, here follows prose. — 
 
 "If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my stars I am 
 above thee ; but be not afraid of greatness : Some are born 
 great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness 
 thrust upon them. Thy fates open their hands ; let thy 
 blood and spirit embrace them. And, to inure thyself to 
 what thou art like to be, cast thy humble slough, and ap- 
 pear fresh. Be opposite with a kinsman, surly with ser- 
 vants: let thy tongue tang arguments of state; put thysell 
 into the trick of singularity: she thus advises thee that 
 sighs for thee. Eemcmber who commended thy yellow 
 stockings ; and wished to see thee ever cross-gartered : ] 
 say, remember. Go to ; thou art made, if thou desirest to 
 be 60 ; if not, let me see thee a steward still, the fellow of 
 servants, and not worthy to touch fortune's fingers. Fare- 
 well. She that would alter services with tlico, 
 
 " The Fortctnate Unhappy." 
 
 Daylight and champain discovers not more : this 
 is open. I will be proud, I will read politic 
 authors, I will baffle Sir Toby, I vrill wash off 
 gross acquaintance, I will be point device,^ the 
 veiy man. I do not now fool myself to let 
 imagination jade me ; for every reason excites 
 to this, that my lady loves me. She did com 
 mend my yellow stockings of late, she did praise 
 my leg being cross-gartered ; and in this she 
 manifests herself to my love, and, with a kind of 
 injunction, drives mo to these habits of her liking. 
 I thank my stars I am happy. I will be strange, 
 stout, in yellow stockings, and cross-gartered, even 
 with the swiftness of putting on. Jove, and my 
 stars, be praised ! — Here is yet a postscript. 
 " Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If 
 thou enterlainest my love, let it appear in thy smi- 
 ling ; thy smiles become thee well : therefore in 
 my presence still smile, dear my sweet, I prithee." 
 Jove, I thank thee. — I will smile : I will do every- 
 thing that thou wilt have me. [Fxit. 
 
 Fab. I will not give my part of this sport 
 for a pension of thousands to be paid from the 
 Sophy. 
 
 Sir To. I could marry this wench for thia 
 device : 
 
 Sir And. So could I too. 
 
 Sir To. And ask no other dowry with her, but 
 such another jest. 
 
 663
 
 ACT m. 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 SCENi; I, 
 
 Re-enter Maria. 
 
 Sir And. Nor I neither. 
 
 Fah. Here comes my noble gull-catcher. 
 
 Sir To. Wilt thou set thy foot o' my neck 1 
 
 Sir And. Or o' mine either ? 
 
 Sir To. Shall I play my fteedom at tray-trip,'" 
 nnd become thy bond-slave ? 
 
 Sir And. V faith, or I either ? 
 
 Sir To. Why, thou bast put him in such a 
 dream, that when the image of it leaves him he 
 must run mad. 
 
 Mar. Nay, but say true ; does it work upon 
 him? 
 
 Sir To. Like aqua-vit« with a midwife. 
 
 Mar. If you will then see the fiuits of the sport, 
 mark his fii-st approach before my lady : he will 
 come to her in yellow stockings, and 't is a colour 
 she abhors ; and cross-gartered, a fashion she de- 
 tests; and he will smile upon her, which will now 
 be so unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted 
 to a melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn 
 him into a notable contempt : if you will see it, 
 follow me. 
 
 Sir To. To the gates of Tartar, thou most ex 
 cellent devil of wit. 
 
 Sir And. I '11 make one too. 
 
 \^Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I.— Olivia's Garden. 
 Enter Viola, and Clo-mi with a tabor. 
 
 Via. Save thee, friend, and thy music : Dost 
 thou hve by thy tabor? 
 
 Clo. No, sir, I live by the church. 
 
 Vio. Art thou a churchman ? 
 
 Clo. No such matter, sir : I do live by the 
 church ; for I do live at my house, and my house 
 doth stand by the church. 
 
 Vio. So thou mayst say, the king lies by a 
 besrsrar, if a besrsar dwell near him : or the church 
 stands by thy tabor, if thy tabor stand by the 
 church. 
 
 Clo. You have said, sir. — To see this age ! — A 
 sentence is but a cheveril glove" to a good wit : How 
 quickly the wrong side may be turned outward ? 
 
 Vio. Nay, that's certain ; they that dally nicely 
 with words may quickly make them wanton. 
 
 Clo. I would, therefore, my sister had had no 
 name, sir. 
 
 Vio. Wliy, man ? 
 
 Clo. Why, sir, her name 's a word ; and to dally 
 with that word might make my sister wanton : 
 But, indeed, words are very rascals, since bonds 
 disgraced them. 
 
 Vio. Thy rea-son, man 3 
 
 Clo. Troth, sir, I can yield you none without 
 words ; nnd words are grown so false, I am loth to 
 prove reason with them. 
 
 Vio. I warrant thou art a merry fellow, and 
 carest for nothing. 
 
 Clo. Not so, sir, I do care for something : but 
 in my conscience, sir, I do not care for you ; if 
 that be to care for nothing, sir, I would it would 
 make you invisible. 
 
 Vio. Art not thou the lady Olivia's fool ? 
 
 Clo. No, indeed, sir ; the lady Olivia has no 
 folly : she will keep no fool, sir, till she be 
 manied ; and fools are as like husbands as pil- 
 chards are to herrings," the husband 's the bigger ; 
 I am, indeed, not her fool, but her corrupter of 
 words. 
 
 Vio. I saw thee late at the count Orsino's. 
 
 Clo. Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb, 
 like the sun ; it shines everywhere. I would be 
 sorry, sir, but the fool should bo as ofl with your 
 master, as with my mistress : I think I saw your 
 wisdom there. 
 
 Vio. Nay, an thou pass upon me, I '11 no more 
 with thee. Hold, there 's expenses for thee. 
 
 Clo. Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair, 
 send thee a beard ! 
 
 Vio. By my troth, I '11 tell thee, I am almost 
 sick for one ; though I would not have it grow on 
 my chin. Ls thy lady within ? 
 
 Clo. Would not a pair of these have bred, sir ? 
 
 Vio. Yes, being kept together, and put to use. 
 
 Clo. I woild pl.ay lord Pandarus of Plirygia, 
 air, to bring a Cressida to this Troilus.
 
 Ct HI. 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 BCENE 1. 
 
 Vio. I understand you, sir ; 't is well begg'd. 
 
 Clo. Tho matter, I hope, is not great, sir, beg^ng 
 fjut a beggar : Cressida was a beggar. My lady 
 IS within, sir. I will conster to them whence 
 you come ; who you are, and what you would, 
 are out of my welkin : I might say, element ; but 
 the word is over-worn. [Exil. 
 
 Vio. This fellow is wise enough to play the 
 fool ; 
 And to do that well craves a kind of wit : 
 He must observe their mood on whom he jests. 
 The quality of persons, and the time ; 
 And, like the haggard, check at every feather 
 That comes before his eye. This is a practice 
 As full of labour as a wise man's art : 
 For folly, that he wisely shows, is fit ; 
 But wise men, folly-fall'n, quite taint their wit. 
 
 Enter Sir Tobt Belch and Sir Andrkw Ague- 
 cheek. 
 
 Sir To. Save you, gentleman. 
 
 Vio. And you, sir. 
 
 Sir And. Dieu vous garde, monsieur. 
 
 Vio. El vous aussi ; voire servileur. 
 
 Sir And. I hope, sir, you are ; and I am yours. 
 
 Sir To. Will you encounter the house ? my 
 niece is desirous you should enter, if your trade be 
 to her. 
 
 Vio. I am bound to your niece, sir : I mean, 
 she is the list" of my voyage. 
 
 Sir To. Taste your legs, sir ;" put them to 
 motion. 
 
 Vio. My legs do better understand me, sir, than 
 I understand what you mean by bidding me taste 
 my legs. 
 
 Sir To. I mean to go, sir, to enter. 
 
 Vio. I will answer you with gait and entrance : 
 But we are prevented. 
 
 Enter Olivia and Maria. 
 
 Most excellent accomplished lady, the heavens 
 rain odours on you ! 
 
 Sir And. That youth 's a rare courtier ! " Rain 
 odours !" well I 
 
 Vio. My matter hath no voice, lady, but to your 
 own most pregnant and vouchsafed ear. 
 
 Sir And. " Odours, pregnant, and vouch- 
 safed :"— 
 1 'II get 'era all three all ready. 
 
 Oli. Let the garden door be shut, and leave me to 
 my hearing. [Exeunt Sir To., Sir And., and Mar. 
 Give me your hauJ, sir. 
 
 Vio. My duty, madam, and most humble Kr- 
 
 vice. 
 Oli. What is your name ? 
 Vio. Cesario is your servant's name, fair prin- 
 cess. 
 Oli. My servant, sir ! 'T was nevei merry 
 world, 
 Since lowly feigning was call'd compliment : 
 You 're servant to the count Orsino, youth. 
 
 Vio. And he is yours, and his must needs be 
 yours ; 
 Your servant's servant is your servant, madam. 
 Oli. For him, I think not on him : for k's 
 thoughts. 
 Would they were blanks, rather than fill'd with 
 me ! 
 Vio. Madam, I come to whet your gentle 
 thoughts 
 On his behalf : — 
 
 Oli. O, by your leave, I pray you ; 
 
 I bade you never speak again of him : 
 But, would you undertake another suit, 
 I had rather hear you to solicit that. 
 Than music from the spheres. 
 Vio. Dear lady, — 
 
 Oli. Give me leave, beseech you : I did send 
 After the last enchantment you did here, 
 A ring in chase of you : so did I abuse 
 Myself, my servant, and, I fear me, you : 
 Under your hard construction must I sit. 
 To force that on you, in a shameful cunning. 
 Which you knew none of yours. What might 
 
 you think ? 
 Have you not set mine honour at the stake. 
 And baited it with all th' unmuzzled thoughts 
 That tyrannous heart can think ? To one of your 
 
 receiving'' 
 Enough is shown ; a Cyprus, not a bosom. 
 Hides my heart : So let me hear you speak. 
 Vio. I pity you. 
 
 Oli. That 's a degree to love. 
 
 Vio. No, not a grise ;"* for 't is a vulgar proof^ 
 That very oft we pity enemies. 
 
 Oli. Why, then, methinks, 't is time to smile 
 again : 
 O world, how apt the poor are to be proud ! 
 If one should be a prey, how much the better 
 To fall before the lion than the wolf ! 
 
 [Clock strikes. 
 The clock upbraids me with the waste of time. — 
 Be not afraid, good youth, I will not have you : 
 And yet, when wit and youth is come to harvest, 
 
 565
 
 TWTILFTH NIGHT. 
 
 Your wife is like to reap a proper man : 
 There lies your way, due west. 
 
 Vio. Then westward-hoe : 
 
 Grace, and good disposition, 'tend your ladyship I 
 You '11 nothing, madam, to my lord by me ? 
 
 Oli. Stay: 
 I prithee tell me what thou think'st of me. 
 
 Vio. That you do think you are not what you 
 are. 
 
 Oil. If I think so, I think the same of you. 
 
 Vio. Then think you right; I am not what 
 I am. 
 
 Oli. I would you were as I would have you 
 be! 
 
 Vio. Would it be better, madam, than I am, 
 I wihh it might ; for now I am your fool. 
 
 Oli. O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful 
 In the contempt and anger of his lip ! 
 A murth'rous guilt shows not itself more soon 
 Than love that would seem hid : love's night is 
 
 noon. 
 Cesario, by the roses of the spring, 
 By maidhood, honour, truth, and everything, 
 I love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride. 
 Nor wit, nor reason, can my passion hide. 
 Do not extort thy reasons from this clause. 
 For. that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause : — 
 But rather, reason thus with reason fetter ; — ■ 
 Love sought is good, but given unsought is better. 
 
 Vio. By innocence I swear, and by my youth, 
 I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth. 
 And that no woman has ; nor never none 
 Shr.ll mistress be of it, save I alone. 
 And so adieu, good madam ; never more 
 Will I my master's tears to you deplore. 
 
 Oli. Yet come again : for thou, perhaps, mayst 
 move 
 That heart, which now abhors, to like his love. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II.— yl Boom in Olivia's House. 
 
 Enter Sir Tody Belch, Sir Andrew AcuE-cnEEK, 
 and Fabian. 
 
 Sir And. No, faith, I '11 not st.ay a jot longer. 
 »S'()' To. Thy reason, dear venom, give thy 
 
 reason. 
 Fab. Y'^ou must needs yield your reason, sir 
 
 Andrew. 
 Sir And. Marry, I saw your niece do more 
 favours to the count's serviugman, than ever she 
 bcstcwe<l upon me ; I saw 't i' the orchard. 
 
 556 
 
 Sir To. Did she see thee the while, old boy ? 
 tell me that. 
 
 Sir And. As plain as I see you now. 
 
 Fab. This was a great argument of love in her 
 toward you. 
 
 Sir And. 'Slight ! will you make an ass o' me 1 
 
 Fab. I will prove it legitimate, sir, upon th 
 oaths of judgment and reason. 
 
 Sir To. And they have been grand jury-men, 
 since before Noah was a sailor. 
 
 Fab. She did show favour to the youth in your 
 sight, only to exasperate you, to awake your dor- 
 mouse valour, to put fire in your heart, and brim- 
 stone in your liver : You should then have 
 accosted her ; and vnth some excellent jests, fire- 
 new fi'om the mint, you should have banged the 
 youth into dumbness. This was looked for at 
 your hand, and this was baulked : the double gilt 
 of this opportunity you let time wash ofi", and 
 you are now sailed into the north of my lady's 
 opinion ; where you will hang like an icicle on 
 a Dutchman's beard, unless you do redeem it by 
 some laudable attempt, either of valour or policy. 
 
 Sir And. An 't be any way, it must be with 
 valour ; for policy I hate : I had as lief be a 
 Brownist as a politician. 
 
 Sir To. Why, then, build me thy fortunes 
 upon the basis of valour. Challenge me the 
 count's youth to fight with him ; hurt him in 
 eleven places ; my niece shall take note of it : 
 and assure thyself, tberc is no love-broker in the 
 world can more prevail in man's commendation 
 with woman, than report of valour. 
 
 Fab. There is no way but this, sir Andrew. 
 
 Sir And. Will either of you bear me a challenge 
 to him ? 
 
 Sir To. Go, wiite it in a martial hand : be curst 
 and brief ; it is no matter how witty, so it be elo- 
 quent and full of invention ; taunt him with the 
 licence of ink : if thou thou'st him some thrice," 
 it shall not bo amiss ; and as many lies as will lie 
 in thy sheet of paper, although the sheet were big 
 enough for the bed of Ware in England, set 'em 
 down ; go about it. Let there bo gall enough in 
 thy ink ; though thou write with a goose-pen, no 
 matter : About it. 
 
 Sir And. Whore shall I find you ? 
 
 Sir To. Wo '11 call thee at the cicbiculo. Go. 
 [Exit Sir Andrew. 
 
 Fab. Th's is a dear manakin to you, sir Toby. 
 
 Sir To. I have been dear to him, lad ; some twc 
 thousand strong, or so.
 
 ACT lU. 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 HOENE III 17 
 
 Fah. We shall have a rare letter from him : hut 
 you'll not deliver 't? 
 
 Sir To. Never trust me theu ; and hy all 
 means, stir on the youth to an answer. T think 
 oxen and wain-ropes cannot hale them together. 
 For Andrew, if he were opened, and you find so 
 much blood in his liver as will clog the foot of a 
 floa, I '11 eat the rest of the anatomy. 
 
 Fab. And his opposite, the youth, bears in his 
 visage no great presage of cruelty. 
 
 Enter Maria. 
 
 Sir To. Look where the youngest wren of nine'' 
 comes. 
 
 Mar. If you desire the spleen, and will laugh 
 yourself into stitches, follow me : yond' gull Mal- 
 volio is turned heathen, a very renegado ; for there 
 is no Christian that means to be saved by believing 
 rightly,' can ever believe such impossible passages 
 of grossness. He 's in yellow stockings. 
 
 Sir To. And cross-gartered ? 
 
 Mar. Most villainously; like a pedant that 
 keeps a school i' the church. — I have dogged him 
 like his raurtherer : He does obey every point of 
 the letter that I dropped to betray him. He does 
 smile his face into more lines than are in the new 
 map with the augmentation of the Indies : you 
 have not seen such a thing as 't is ; I can hardly 
 forbear hurling things at him. I know my lady 
 will strike him ; if she do, he '11 smile, and take 't 
 for a gieat favour. 
 
 Sir To. Come, bring us, bring us where he is. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE m.— ^ Street. 
 Enter Antonio and Sebastian. 
 
 Sch. I would not by my will have troubled you ; 
 But, since you make your pleasure of your pains, 
 I will no further chide you. 
 
 Ant. I could not stay behind you ; my desire. 
 More sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth ; 
 And not all love to see you, (though so much 
 As might have drawn one to a longer voyage,) 
 But jealousy what might befal your travel, 
 Being skilless in these parts ; which, to a stranger, 
 (Juguided, and unfriended, often prove 
 Rough and unhospitable. My willino- love, 
 The rather by these arguments of fear. 
 Set fortL in your pursuit. 
 
 Seh. My kind Antonio, 
 
 I can PO other answer make, but, thanks. 
 
 And thanks : and ever oft good turns 
 Aie shuffled off with .such uncurrent pay , 
 But, were my worth, as is my conscience, firm, 
 You should find better dealing. WL'at's to do? 
 Shall we go see the reliques of this town ? 
 
 Aiit. To-morrow, sir ; best, first, go see your 
 lodging. 
 
 Sch. I am not weary, and 't is long to night; 
 I pray you let us satisfy our eyes. 
 With the memorials, and the things of fame. 
 That do renown this city. 
 
 Ant. 'Would you'd pardon me ; 
 
 I do not without danger walk these streets: 
 Once, in a sea-fight, 'gainst the count his galleys, 
 I did some service; of such note, indeed. 
 That, were I ta'en here, it would scarce be answer'd. 
 
 Seh. Belike, you slew great number of his people. 
 
 Ant. The offence is not of such a blooity nature 
 Albeit the quality of the time, and quarrel, 
 Might well have given us bloody argument. 
 It might have since been answer'd in repaying 
 What we took from them ; which, for traffic's sake, 
 Most of our city did : only myself stood out : 
 For which, if I be lapsed in this place, 
 I shall pay dear. 
 
 Seh. Do not then walk too open. 
 
 Ant. It doth not fit me. Hold, sir, here's my 
 purse ; 
 In the south suburbs, at the Elephant, 
 Is best to lodge : I will bespeak our diet. 
 Whiles you beguile the time, and feed your 
 
 knowledge 
 With viewing of the town ; there shall you havo 
 me. 
 
 Sch. Why I your puree ? 
 
 Ant. Haply, )'our eye shall light upon some toy 
 You have desire to purchase ; and your store, 
 I think, is not for idle markets, sir. 
 
 Seh. I '11 be your purse-bearer, and leave you 
 For an hour. 
 
 Ant. To the Elephant. — 
 
 Seh. I do remember. \Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE IV.— Olivia's Garden. 
 
 Enter Olivia and Maria. 
 
 Oli. I have sent after him. He says he II 
 come; 
 How shall I feast him ? what bestow of him ? 
 For youth is bought more oft, than begg'd oi 
 
 borrow'd. 
 I speak too loud. — 
 
 557
 
 TWELFIH NIGHT. 
 
 bC'KNB IV. 
 
 Where is Malvolio ? — he is sad, and ci\'il, 
 
 And suits well for a servant with my fortunes ; — 
 
 Where is Malvolio ? 
 
 Mar. He 's coming, madam ; but in very strange 
 nanner. He is sure possess'd, madam. 
 
 OU. Why, what 's the matter ? does he rave ? 
 
 Mar. No, madam, he does nothing but smile : 
 your ladyship were best to have some guard about 
 you, if he come ; for, sure, the man is tainted in 
 his wits. 
 
 OIL Go call him hither. — I am as mad as he. 
 If sad and merry madness equal be. 
 
 Enter Malvolio. 
 
 How now, Malvolio ? 
 
 Mai. Sweet lady, ho, ho! [^Smiles fantastically. 
 
 on. Smilest thou ? 
 I sent for thee upon a sad occasion. 
 
 Mai. Sad, lady? I could be sad: This does 
 make some obstmction in the blood, this cross- 
 gartering. But what of that ? if it please the eye 
 of one, it is with me as the very true sonnet is : 
 " Please one, and please all." 
 
 OIL Why, how dost thou, man ? what is the 
 matter with thee ? 
 
 Mai. Not black in my mind, though yellow in 
 my legs : It did come to his hands, and commands 
 shall be executed. I think, we do know the sweet 
 Roman hand. 
 
 OIL Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio ? 
 
 Mai. To bed ? ay, sweetheart ; and I '11 come to 
 thee. 
 
 OU. God comfort thee ! Why dost thou smile 
 so, and kiss thy hand so oft ? 
 
 Mar. How do you, Malvolio ? 
 
 Mai. At your request ? Yes ; nightingales an- 
 swer daws. 
 
 Mar. Why appear you with this ridiculous bold- 
 ness before my lady ? 
 
 Mai. " Be not afraid of greatness :" — 't was well 
 writ. 
 
 OU. What meanest thou by that, Malvolio S 
 
 Mai. " Some are born great," — 
 
 OIL Ha? 
 
 Mai. " Some achieve greatness," — 
 
 OU. What say'st thou ? 
 
 Mai. "And some have greatness thnist upon 
 them." 
 
 OIL Heaven restore thee ! 
 
 Mai. "Remember, who commended thy yellow 
 stockings ;" — 
 
 OIL 'Ihy yellow stockings ? 
 
 fi68 
 
 Mai. "And wished to see tliee cross-gartered." 
 OIL Cross-gartered 2 
 
 Mai. " Go to : thou art made, if thou desirest to 
 be so ;" — 
 
 OIL Am I made ? 
 
 Mai. " If not, let me see thee a servant still." 
 
 OIL Why, this is very Midsummer madness. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Ser. Madam, the young gentleman of the count 
 Orsino's is returned ; I could hardly entreat him 
 back : he attends your ladyship's pleasure. 
 
 OIL I '11 come to him. [Exit Servant.] Good 
 Maria, let this fellow be looked to. Where 's my 
 cousin Toby ? Let some of my people have a spe- 
 cial care of him ; I would not have him miscarry 
 for the half of my dowry. 
 
 [Exeunt Olivia and Maria. 
 
 Mal. Oh, ho ! do you come near me now ? no 
 worse man th.an sir Toby to look to me? This 
 concurs directly with the letter : she sends him on 
 purpose, that I may appear stubborn to him ; for 
 she incites me t« that in the letter. " Cast thy 
 humble slough," says she ; — " be opposite with a 
 kinsman, surly with sen'ants, — let thy tongue 
 tang with arguments of state, — put thyself into 
 
 the trick of singularity ;" and, consequently, 
 
 sets down the manner how ; as, a sad face, a 
 reverend carriage, a slow tongue, in the habit of 
 some sir of note, and so forth. I have limed her ; 
 but it is Jove's doing, and Jove make me thankful ! 
 And, when she went away now, " Let this fellow 
 be looked to:" Fellow! not Malvolio, nor after 
 my degree, but fellow." Why, everything adheres 
 together ; that no drachm of a scruple, no scruple 
 of a scruple, no obstacle, no incredulous or unsat'e 
 circumstance, — What can be said ? Nothing, that 
 can be, can come between me and the full prospect 
 of my hopes. Well, Jove, not I, is the doer of this, 
 and he is to be thanked. 
 
 Re-mter Maria, with Sir Toby Belch and 
 Fabian. 
 
 Sir To. Which way is he, in the name of 
 sanctity? If all the devils in hell be drawn in 
 little, and Legion himself possessed him, yet I '11 
 speak to him. 
 
 Fab. Hero he is, hero ho is : — How is 't with 
 you, sir? how is 't with you, man? 
 
 Mal. Go off: I discard you; let mo enjoy my 
 private ; go olf. 
 
 Mar. Lo, how hollow the fiend speak* within
 
 TWELFni NKiHT. 
 
 SOKNR rv. 
 
 nim ! did not I tell you ? — Sir Toby, in\ lady 
 prays you to h;ivo a care of him. 
 
 Mai. All, ha ! does she so ? 
 
 Sir To. Go to, go to ; peace, peaca, we must 
 deal gently with him ; let me alone. How do 
 you, MiUvolio ? how is 't with you ? What, man ! 
 defy the devil : consider, he 's an enemy to man- 
 kind. 
 
 Mai. Do you know what you say ? 
 
 Mar. La you, an you speak ill of the devil, 
 how he takes it at heart ! Pray God, ho be not 
 bewitched ! 
 
 Fab. Carry his water to the wise woman. 
 
 Mar. Marry, and it shall be done to-morrow 
 morning, if I live. My lady would not lose him 
 for more than I '11 say. 
 
 Mai. How now, mistress ? 
 
 Mar. lord ! 
 
 Sir To. Prithee, hold thy peace ; this is not the 
 way: Do you not see you move him ? let me alone 
 with him. 
 
 Fah. No way but gentleness ; gently, gently : 
 the fiend is rough, and will not be roughly used. 
 
 Sir To. Why, how now, my bawcock ? how 
 dost thou, chuck? 
 
 Mai. Sir? 
 
 Sir To. Ay, Biddy, come with me. What, 
 man ; it is not for gravity to play at cherry-pit" 
 with Satan : Hang him, foul collier I 
 
 Mar. Get him to say his prayers ; good sir Toby, 
 get him to pray. 
 
 Mai. My prayers, minx ? 
 
 Mar. No, I warrant you, he will not he.ar of 
 godliness. 
 
 Mai. Go, hang yourselves all ! you are idle 
 shallow things : I am not of your element ; you 
 shall know more hereafter. \Exit. 
 
 Sir To. Is 't possible ? 
 
 Fah. If this were played upon a stage now, I 
 could condemn it as an improbable fiction. 
 
 Sir To. His very genius hath taken the iufec- 
 liou of the device, man. 
 
 Mar. Nay, pursue him now ; lest the device 
 take air, and taint. 
 
 Fah. Why, we shall make him mad, indeed. 
 
 Mar. The house will be the quieter. 
 
 Sir To. Come, we '11 have him in a dark- 
 room, and bound. My niece is already in the 
 belief that he 's mad; we may carry it thus, for 
 our pleasure, and his penance, till our very pas- 
 time, tired out of breath, prompt us to have 
 mercy on him : at which time we will bring the 
 
 device to tl^p bar, and crown thee for a finder of 
 madmen. But see, but fee. 
 
 Enter Sir Andrew Ague-cheek. 
 
 Fah. More matter for a May morning. 
 
 Sir And. Here 's the challenge, read it ; 1 
 warrant there 's vinegar and pepper in 't. 
 
 Fab. Is 't so saucy ? 
 
 Sir And. Ay, is 't, I warrant him : do but 
 read. 
 
 Sir To. Give me. [/Jforf^.j " Youth, what- 
 soever thou art, thou art but a scurvy fellow." 
 
 Fab. Good, and valiant. 
 
 Sir To. " Wonder not, nor admire not in thy 
 mind, why I do call thee so, for I will show thee 
 no reason for 't." 
 
 Fab. A good note : that keeps you from the 
 blow of the law. 
 
 Sir To. " Thou comest to the lady Olivia, and 
 in my sight she uses thee kindly : but thou liest 
 in thy throat, that is not the matter I challenge 
 thee for." 
 
 Fab. Veiy brief, and exceeding good — senseless." 
 
 Sir To. " I will waylay thee going home ; 
 where if it be thy chance to kill me," 
 
 Fab. Good. 
 
 Sir To. "Thou killest me like a rogue and a 
 villain." 
 
 Fah. Still you keep o' the windy side of the 
 law : Good. 
 
 Sir To. " Fare thee well ; and God have mercy 
 upon one of our souls ! He may have mercy upon 
 mine ; but my hope is better, and so look to thy 
 self. Thy friend, as thou usest him, and thy 
 sworn enemy, Andrew Ague-cheek." 
 
 If this letter move him not, his legs can- 
 not : I '11 give 't him. 
 
 Mar. You may have very fit occasion for 't ; 
 he is now in some commerce with my lady, and 
 will by and by depart. 
 
 Sir To. Go, sir Andrew : scout me for him at 
 the corner of the orchard, like a bum-bailie : so 
 soon as ever thou seest him, draw ; and, as thou 
 drawest, swear horrible ; for it comes to pass oft, 
 that a terrible oath, \vith a swaggering accent 
 sharply twanged off, gives manhood more appro- 
 bation than ever proof itself would have earned 
 him. Away. 
 
 Sir And. Nay, let me alone for swearing. 
 
 " [Eri'. 
 
 Sir To. Now will not I deliver his letter: for 
 the beha\aour of the young gentleman givc;s hiro
 
 TWELrrH NIGUT. 
 
 out to be of good capacity and breeding ; bis em- 
 ployment between bis lord and my niece confirms 
 no less ; therefore this letter, being so excellently 
 ignorant, will breed no terrcr in the youth, be vdW 
 find it comes from a clod-pole. But, sir, I vnW 
 deliver his challenge by word of mouth ; set upon 
 Ague-cheek a notable report of valour ; and drive 
 the gentleman (as I know his youth will aptly 
 receive it) into a most hideous opinion of his rage, 
 skill, fury, and impetuosity. This will so fright 
 them both, that they will kill one another by the 
 look, like cockatrices. 
 
 Enter Olivia and Viola. 
 
 Fah. Here he comes with your niece : give them 
 way, till he take leave, and presently after him. 
 
 Sir To. I will meditate the while upon some 
 horrid message for a challenge. 
 
 \_Exeiint Sib Tobv, Fabian, and Maria. 
 
 OIL I have said too much unto a heart of stone. 
 And laid mine honour too unchary on 't: 
 There 's something in me that reproves my fault ; 
 But such a headstrong potent fault it is, 
 That it but mocks reproof. 
 
 Vio. With the same 'haviour that your passion 
 bears. 
 Go on my master's griefs. 
 
 on. Here, wear this jewel for me, 't is my picture ; 
 Refuse it not, it hath no tongue to vex you : 
 And, I beseech you, come again to-moiTow. 
 What shall you ask of me that I '11 deny ; 
 That honour, sav'd, may upon asking give ? 
 
 Vio. Nothing but this, your true love for my 
 master. 
 
 OIL How with mine honour may I give him that 
 Which I have given to you ? 
 
 Vio. I will acquit you. 
 
 OIL Well, come again to-morrow : Fare thee well ; 
 A fiend like thee might bear my soul to hell. \^Exit. 
 
 Re-enter Sir Toby Belch and Fabian. 
 
 Sir To. Gentleman, God save thee. 
 
 Vio. And you, sir. 
 
 Sir To. That defence thou hast, betake thee 
 to 't : of what nature the wrongs are thou hast 
 done him, I know not; but tliy interceptor, full cf 
 despight, bloody as the hunter, attends thee at the 
 orchard end: dismount thy tuck, be yare in thy 
 preparation, for thy a.ssailant is quick, skilful, and 
 deadly. 
 
 Vio. You mistake, -sir, I am sure; no man hath 
 any quarrel to me: my remenrbrance is very fi'oo 
 
 and clear from any image of offence done to any man. 
 
 Sir To. You '11 find it otherwise, I assure you : 
 therefore, if you hold your life at any price, betake 
 you to your guard ; for your opposite hath in him 
 what youth, strength, skill, a id wrath, can furnish 
 man withal. 
 
 Vio, I pray you, sir, what is he 3 
 
 Sir To. He is knight, dubbed with unbacked 
 rapier, and on carpet consideration; but he is a 
 devil in private brawl ; souls and bodies hath ha 
 divorced three ; and his incensement at this moment 
 is so implacable, that satisfaction can be none but 
 by pangs of death and sepulchre : hob-nob" is hia 
 word ; give 't, or take 't. 
 
 Vio. I will return again into the house, and 
 desire some conduct of the lady. I am no fighter. 
 I have heard of some kind of men that put quar- 
 rels purposely on others, to taste their valour: 
 belike, this is a man of that quirk. 
 
 Sir To. Sir, no ; his indignation derives itself 
 out of a very competent injury; theietbre, get you 
 on, and give him his desire. Back you shall not 
 to the house, unless you undertake that with me 
 which with as much safety you might answer him : 
 therefore, on, or strip your sword stark naked ; for 
 meddle you must, that 's certain, or forswear to 
 wear iron about you. 
 
 Vio. This is as uncivil as strange. I beseech 
 you, do me this courteous office, as to know of the 
 knight what my offence to him is ; it is something 
 of my negligence, nothing of my purpose. 
 
 Sir To. I will do so. Signior Fabian, stay you 
 by this gentleman till my return. [Exit Sir Tobt. 
 
 Vio. Pray you, sir, do you know of this matter ? 
 
 Fah. I know the knight is incensed against you, 
 even to a mortal arbitrement; but nothing of the 
 circumstance more. 
 
 Vio. I beseech you, what manner of man is he ? 
 
 Fab. Nothing of that wonderful promise, to 
 read him by his form, as you are like to find him 
 in the proof of his valour. He is, indeed, sir, the 
 most skilful, bloody, and fatal opposite that you 
 could possibly have found in any part of Illyria. 
 Will you walk towards him ? I will make your 
 peace with him, if I can. 
 
 Vio. I shall he much bound to you for 't : I 
 am one that would ratlier go with sir priest than 
 sir knight : I care not who knows so much of my 
 mottle. [Exeunt 
 
 Re-enter Sir Toby, loith Sir Andrew. 
 Sir To. Why, man, bo 's a very devil ; 1 have
 
 ACT lU. 
 
 TWELFTH NIC. ill. 
 
 not seen such a virago. I had a pass with him, 
 rapier, scabbard, and all, and he gives me the 
 stuck-in, with such a mortal motion, that it is 
 inevitable ; and on the answer, he pays j'ou as 
 surely as your feet hit the ground they step ou : 
 They say he has been fencer to the Sophy. 
 
 Sir And. Pox on 't, I '11 not meddle with him. 
 
 Sir Tob. Ay, but he will not now be pacified : 
 Fabian can scare hold him yonder. 
 
 Sir And. Plague on 't ; an I thought ho had 
 been valiant, and so cunning in fence, I 'd have 
 seen him damned ere 1 'd have challenged him. 
 Let him let the matter slip, and I '11 give him my 
 horse, grey Capilet. 
 
 Sir To. I '11 make the motion : Stand liere, 
 make a good show on 't ; this shall end without 
 the perdition of souls : Marry, I'll ride your horse 
 as well as I ride you. [^Aside. 
 
 Re-enter Fabian and Viola. 
 
 I have Lis horse \to Fab.] to take up the quarrel ; 
 I have persuaded him the youth 's a devil. 
 
 Fab. He is as horribly conceited of him ; and 
 p.ants, and looks pale, as if a bear were at his heels. 
 
 Sir Tob. There 's no remedy, sir ; he will fight 
 with you for his oath's sake : marry, he hath bet- 
 ter bethought him of his quaiTel, and he finds that 
 now scarce to be worth talking of; therefore draw, 
 for the supportance of his vow ; he protests he will 
 not hurt you. 
 
 Vio. Pray God defend me ! A little thing 
 would make me tell them how much I lack of a 
 man. \^Aside. 
 
 Fab. Give ground, if you see him furious. 
 
 Sir To. Come, sir Andrew, there 's no remedy ; 
 the gentleman will, for his honour's sake, have one 
 bout with you : he cannot by the duello avoid it ; 
 but he has promised me, as he is a gentleman and 
 a soldier, he will not hurt you. Come on : to 't. 
 
 Sir And. Pray God, he keep Ms oath. [^Draws. 
 
 Enter Antonio. 
 
 Vio. I do assure you 't is against my will. 
 
 [Draws. 
 Ant. Put up your sword ; — If this young gen- 
 tleman 
 Have done offence, I take the fault on me ; 
 If you oflend him, I for him defy you. [Drawinf/. 
 Sir To. You, sir ? why, what are you ? 
 Ant. One, sir, that for his love dares yet do 
 more 
 Than you have heard him brag to you he will. 
 
 71 
 
 Sir To. Nay, if you be an undertaker," I am 
 for you. \Drnws. 
 
 Enter two Oflucers. 
 
 Fub. O good sir Toby, hold ; here come the 
 officers. 
 
 Sir To. I '11 be with you anon. [To Antonio. 
 
 Vio. Pray, sir, put your sword up, if you please. 
 
 [To Sir Andrew. 
 
 Sir And. Marry, will I, sir ; — and, for that I 
 promised you, I '11 be as good as my Avord : He 
 will bear you easily, and reins well. 
 
 1 Off. This is the man ; do tliy office. 
 
 2 Off. Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit 
 Of count Orsino. 
 
 Ant. You do mistake me, sir. 
 
 1 Off. No, sir, no jot ; I know your favour well, 
 Though now you have no sea-cap on your head. 
 Take him away ; he knows I know him well. 
 
 Ant. I must obey. — This comes with seeking 
 you ; 
 But there 's no remedy ; I shall answer it. 
 What will you do ? Now my necessity 
 Makes me to ask you for my purse : It giieves me 
 Much more, for what I cannot do for you. 
 Than wnat befols myself You stand amaz'd ; 
 But be of comfort. 
 
 2 Off. Come, sir, away. 
 
 Ant. I must entreat of you some of that money. 
 
 Vio. Wliat money, sir ? 
 For the fair kindness you have show'd me here. 
 And, part, being prompted by your present trouble. 
 Out of my lean and low ability 
 I '11 lend you something : my having is not much ; 
 I '11 make division of my present with you : 
 Hold, there 's half my coffer. 
 
 Ant. Will you deny me now ? 
 
 Is 't possible that my deserts to you 
 Can lack persuasion ? Do not tempt my miscrj'. 
 Lest that it make me so unsound a man 
 As to upbraid you with those kindnesses 
 That I have done for you. 
 
 Vio. I know of none ; 
 
 Nor know I you by voice, or any feature : 
 I hate ingratitude more in a man 
 Than lying, vainness, babbling, drunkenness, 
 Or any taint of ^ice, whose strong corruption 
 Inhabits our fi'ail blood. 
 
 Ant. O heavens themselves ! 
 
 2 Off. Come, sir, I pray you, go. 
 
 Ant. Let me speak a little. This youth that 
 you see here, 
 
 fi61
 
 ACT W 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 SCEKE 1. 
 
 I snatcli'd one half out of ths jaws of death ; 
 Reliev'd him -nnth such sanctity of love, — 
 And to his image, which methought did promise 
 Most venerable worth, did I devotion. 
 
 1 Off. What 's that to us ? The time goes by ; 
 away. 
 
 Ant. But, O, how vild an idol proves this god ! — 
 Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame. — 
 In nature there 's no blemish but the mind ; 
 None can be call'd deform'd but the unkind. 
 Virtue is beauty ; but the beauteous evil 
 Are empty trunks, o'erflourish'd by the devil. 
 
 1 Of. The man grows mad ; away with him. 
 Come, come, sir. 
 
 Ant. Lead me on. [Sxeunt Officers with Ant. 
 
 Vio. Methinks, his words do from such passion fly, 
 That he believes himself; so do not L 
 Prove true, imagination, O, prove true. 
 That I, dear brother, be now ta'en for you 1 
 
 Sir To. Come hither, knight ; come hither, 
 Fabian ; we 'II whisper o'er a couplet or two of 
 Diost sage saws. 
 
 Vio. He nam'd Sebastian ; I my brother know 
 Yet living in my glass ; even such, and so. 
 In favour was my brother, and he went 
 Still in this fashion, colour, ornament. 
 For him I imitate. O, if it prove, 
 Tempests are kind, and salt waves fi'esh in love ! 
 
 [Hxit. 
 
 Sir To. A very dishonest paltry boy, and more 
 a coward than a hare : his dishonesty appeal's in 
 leaving his friend here in necessity, and denying 
 him ; and for his cowardship ask Fabian. 
 
 Fab. A coward, a most devout coward, reli- 
 gious in it. 
 
 Sir And. 'Slid, I '11 after him again, and beat 
 him. 
 
 Sir To. Do, cuff him soundly, but never draw 
 thy sword. 
 
 Sir And. An I do not, — \I!.rit. 
 
 Fah. Come, let 's see the event. 
 
 Sir To. I dare lay any money 't will be nothing 
 yet. \Exeui\t. 
 
 ACT lY. 
 
 SCENE I.— The Street hefyre Olivia's House. 
 
 Fnter Sebastian avd Clown. 
 
 C'fo. WiU you make me believe that I am not 
 
 sent for you 3 
 
 Seb. Go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow ; 
 Let me be clear of thee. 
 
 Clo. Well held out^ i' faith 1 No, I do not know 
 you ; nor I am not sent to you by my lady, to bid 
 you come speak with her ; nor your name is not 
 master Cesario ; nor this is not my nose neither. — 
 Nothing that is so, is so. 
 
 Seb. I prithee vent thy folly somewhere else : 
 Thou know'st not me. 
 
 Clo. Vent my folly ! ho has heard that word of 
 some great m:m, and now applies it to a fool. 
 Vent my folly ! I am afraid this great lubber the 
 world will prove a cockney.^* — I prithee now, 
 UDgird thy strangeness, and tell me what I shall 
 vent to my lady ; sha'.l I vent to her tk»t thou 
 an coming J 
 S62 
 
 Seb. I prithee, foolish Greet, depart from me ; 
 There 's money for thee ; if you tarry longer 
 I shall give worse payment. 
 
 Clo. By my troth, thou hast an open hand : — 
 These wise men that give fools money get them- 
 selves a good report after fourteen years pur- 
 chase.^' 
 
 Enter Sir Andrew, Sir Toby, and Fabian. 
 
 Sir And. Now, sir, have I met you again ? 
 there 's for you. [Striking Sebastian. 
 
 Seb. Why, there 's for thee, and fhere, and 
 there : 
 Are all the people mad 3 [Beating Sir Andrew. 
 
 Sir To. Hold, sir, or I '11 throw your dagger 
 o'er the houoe. 
 
 Clo. This will I tell my lady straight : I would 
 not be in some of your coats for twopence. [Exit. 
 
 Sir To. Come on, sir ; hold. [Holding Seb. 
 
 Sir And. Nay, let him alone, I '11 go another 
 way to work with him ; I '11 have an action of
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 battery against him, if there be auy law in lUyria ; 
 though 1 struck him first, yet it's no matter for 
 that. 
 
 Seb. Let go thy hand. 
 
 Sir To. Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, 
 my young soldier, put up your iron : you are well 
 fleshed ; come on. 
 
 f>eb. I will be free from thee. What wouldst 
 thou now ? 
 If thou dar'st tempt me further, draw thy sword. 
 
 [Draws. 
 Sir To. Wliat, what ? Nay, then I must have 
 an ounce or two of this malapert blood from you. 
 
 [Draws. 
 
 Enter Olivia. 
 
 Oli. Hold, Toby ; on thy life, I charge thee, 
 hold. 
 
 Sir To. Madam ? 
 
 Oli. Will it be ever thus ? Ungracious wretch. 
 Fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves, 
 Where manners ne'er were preach'd ! out of my 
 
 sight ! 
 Be not offended, dear Cesario ! — 
 Rudesby, begone ! — I prithee, gentle friend, 
 
 [Exeunt Sir To., Sir And., and Fab. 
 Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway 
 In this uncivil and unjust extent* 
 Against thy peace. Go with me to my house ; 
 And hear thou there how many fruitless pranks 
 This ruffian hath botch'd up, that thou thereby 
 Mayst smile at this : thou shalt not choose but go ; 
 Do not deny. Beshrew his soul for me, 
 He started one poor heart of mine in thee. 
 
 Seb. What relish is in this ? how runs the 
 stream 3 , 
 
 Or I am mad, or else this is a dream : 
 Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep ; 
 K it be thus to dream, still let me sleep ! 
 
 Oli. Nay, come, I prithee : 'Would thou 'dst 
 be rul'd by me ! 
 
 Seh. Madam, I will. 
 
 Oli, O, say so, and so be ! [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE H.—A Room in Olivia's House. 
 
 Enter Maria and Clown. 
 
 Ma". Nay, I prithee put on this gown, and this 
 beard make him believe thou art sir Topas the 
 curate , do it quickly : I '11 call sir Toby the 
 whilst. [Exit Maria. 
 
 Clo. Well, I '11 put it on, and I will dissemble 
 
 myself in 't; and I wou!d I were the first that 
 ever dissembled in such a gown. I am not tall 
 enough to become the function well ; nor lean 
 enough to be thought a good student : but to be 
 said, an honest man, and a good -housekeeper, goes 
 as fairly, as to say, a careful man, and a gieat 
 scholar. The competitors enter. 
 
 Enter Sir Toby Belch and Maria. 
 
 Sir To. Jove bless thee, master parson. 
 
 Clo. Bonos dies, sir Toby : for as the old hemiil 
 of Prague, that never saw pen and ink, very wit- 
 tily said to a niece of king Gorboduc, " That that 
 is, is :" so I, being master parson, am master 
 parson : For what is that, but that ? and is, 
 but is? 
 
 Sir To. To him, sir Topas. 
 
 Clo. What, hoa, I say, — Peace in this prison ! 
 
 Sir To. The knave counterfeits well ; a good 
 knave. 
 
 Mai. [in an inner chamber.^ Who calls there ? 
 
 Clo. Sir Topas the curate, who comes to visit 
 Malvolio the lunatic. 
 
 Mai. Sir Topas, sir Topas, good sir Topas, go to 
 my lady. 
 
 Clo. Out, hyperbolical fiend ! how vexest thou 
 this man ! talkest thou nothing but of ladies ? 
 
 Sir To. Well said, master parson. 
 
 Mai. Sir Topas, never was man thus wronged : 
 good sir Topas, do not think I am mad ; they 
 have laid me here in hideous darkness. 
 
 Clo. Fie, thou dishonest Sathan ! I call thee by 
 the most modest terms ; for I am one of those 
 gentle ones that will use the devil himself ■B'ith 
 courtesy. Say'st thou, that house is dark 3 
 
 Mai. As hell, sir Topas. 
 
 Clo. Why it hath bay-windows,^' transparent 
 as barricadoes, and the clear stones towards the 
 south-north are as lustrous as ebony ; and yet 
 complainest thou of obstruction ? 
 
 Mai. I am not mad, sir Topas ; I say to you, 
 this house is dark. 
 
 Clo. Madman, thou errest : I say, there is no 
 darkness but ignorance ; in which thou art more 
 puzzled than the Egyptians in their fog 
 
 Mai. I say, this house is as dark as ignorance, 
 though ignorance were as dark as hell ; and I say, 
 there was never man thus abused : I am no more 
 mad than you are ; make the trial of it in any 
 constant question. 
 
 Clo. What is the opinion of I'ythagoras con- 
 ceruing wild-fowl ? 
 
 663
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 BCKNE III. 
 
 Mai. That the soul of our grandam might haply 
 inhabit a bird. 
 
 Clo. What thinkest thou of his opinion ? 
 
 Mai. I think nobly of the soul, and no -way 
 approve his opinion. 
 
 Clo. Fare thee well : Remain thou still in 
 darkness : Thou shalt hold the opinion of Pytha- 
 goras, ere I will allow of thy wits ; and fear to 
 kill a woodcoclc, lest tliou dispossess the soul of 
 thy gi-andani. Fare thee well. 
 
 Mai. Sir Topas, sir Topas, — 
 
 Sir To. My most exquisite sir Topas ! 
 
 Clo. Nay, I am for all waters. 
 
 Mar. Thou mightest have done this without 
 thy beard and gown ; he sees thee not. 
 
 Sir To. To him in thine own voice, and bring 
 me word how thou findest him : I would we were 
 well rid of this knavery. If he may be conve- 
 niently delivered, I would he were ; for I am now 
 BO fiir in offence with my niece, that I cannot 
 pursue with any safety this sport to the upshot. 
 Come by and by to my chamber. 
 
 [Exeunt Sir Toby and Maria. 
 
 Clo. " Hey Robin, Jolly Robin,* 
 
 Tell me how thy lady does." [Singing. 
 
 Mai. Fool, — 
 
 Clo. " My lady is unkind, perdy." 
 
 Mai. Fool, — 
 
 Clo. " Alas, why is she so ?" 
 
 Mai. Fool, I say ; — 
 
 Clo. " She loves another"— Who calls, ha ? 
 
 Mai. Good fool, as ever thou wilt deserve well 
 at my hand, help me to a candle, and pen, ink, 
 and paper ; as I am a gentleman, I will live to be 
 thankful to thee for 't. 
 
 Clo. Master Malvolio ! 
 
 Mai. Ay, good fool. 
 
 Clo. Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five 
 wits ? 
 
 Mai. Fool, there was never man so notoriously 
 abused : I am as well in my wits, fool, as thou 
 art. 
 
 Clo. But as well ? then you are mad, indeed, if 
 you be no better in your wits than a fool. 
 
 Mai. They hav« here propertied me ; keep me 
 ra darknerjs, send ministers to me, asses, and do all 
 they can to face me out of my wits. 
 
 Clo. Ad\-ise you what you say ; the n^nister is 
 here. — Malvolio, Malvolio, thy wits the heavens 
 restore 1 endeavour thyself to sleep, and leave thy 
 rain bibblc-babble."' 
 
 Mai. Sir Topas, 
 
 Bfl4 
 
 Clo. Maintain no words with him, good fellow 
 — Who, I, sir ? not I, sir. God b' wi' you, good 
 sir Topas. — Marry, amen. — I will, sir, I will. 
 
 Mai. Fool, fool, fool, I s:\y, — 
 
 Clo. Alas, sir, be patient. What say you, sn- 
 I am shent for speaking to you. 
 
 Mai. Good fool, help me to some light, and sou e 
 paper ; I tell thee, I am as well in my wits as any 
 man in Illyria. 
 
 Clo. Well-a-day, that you were, sir 1 
 
 Mai. By this hand, I am : Good fool, some ink, 
 paper, and light, and convey what I will set down 
 to my lady; it shall advantage thee more than 
 ever the bearing of letter did. 
 
 Clo. I will help you to 't. But tell me true, 
 are you not mad indeed ? or do you but coun- 
 terfeit ? 
 
 Mai. Believe me, I am not ; I tell thee true. 
 
 Clo. Nay, I '11 ne'er believe a madman, till I 
 see his brains. I will fetch you light, and paper 
 and ink. 
 
 Mai. Fool, I '11 requite it iu the highest degree 
 
 I prithee, be gone. 
 
 Clo. I am gone, sir. 
 
 And anon, sir, 
 I 'U be T\ith you agiiin, 
 
 In n trice. 
 
 Like to the old vice. 
 Your need to sustain ; 
 
 Who with dagger of latli," 
 In his rage and his wrath, 
 
 Cries ah, ali 1 to the devil : 
 Like a mad lad, 
 Pare thy nails, dad, 
 
 Adieu, goodman devil. [Enl 
 
 SCENE ni.— Olivia's Garden. 
 
 Enter Sebastian. 
 
 Seh. This is the air ; that is the glorious sun : 
 This peari she gave me, I do feel 't, and see 't : 
 And though 't is wonder that enwraps me thus, 
 Yet 't is not madness. Where 's Antonio then ? 
 I could not find him at the Elephant : 
 Yet there ho was ; and there I found this credit. 
 That ho did range the town to seek me out. 
 His counsel now might do me golden service : 
 For though my soul disputes well with my sense, 
 That this may be some error, but no madness. 
 Yet doth this accident and flood of fortune 
 So far exceed all instance, all discouree, 
 Tiiat I am ready to di.strust mine eyes. 
 And wTanglo with my reason, that persuades mo
 
 ACT V. 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 To auy otlier trust, but that I am mad, 
 Or else the lady 's mad ; yet, if 't were so, 
 Slie could not sway her Louse, command her fol- 
 lowers. 
 Take and give back affairs, and their despatch, 
 With such a smooth, discreet, and stable bearinr^. 
 As, I perceive, she does : there 's something in 't 
 That is deceivable. But here the lady comes. 
 
 Enter Olivia and a Priest. 
 
 OIL Blame not this baste of mine : If you mean 
 well. 
 Now go with me, and with this holy mau, 
 Into the chantiy by ; there, before him, 
 
 And underneath that consecrated roof. 
 Plight mo the full jissurance of your faith; 
 That my most jealous and too doubtful soul 
 May live at peace : He shall conceal it. 
 Whiles you are willing it shall come to note, 
 What time we will our celebration keep 
 According to my birth, — What do you say ? 
 Sd). I '11 follow this good man, and go with 
 ycu; 
 Ajid, having sworn trath, ever will be true. 
 
 OIL Then lead the way, good father : — And 
 heavens so shine. 
 That they may fairly note this act of mine. 
 
 [Exeurd. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I.— The Street before 01i\ia's House. 
 Enter Clown and Fadiajt. 
 
 Fab. Now, as thou lov'st me, let me see his 
 letter. 
 
 Clo. Good master Fabian, grant me another 
 request. 
 
 Fab. Anything. 
 
 Clo. Do not desire to see this letter. 
 
 Fab. This is, to give a dog, and in recompense 
 desire ray dog again. 
 
 Enter Duke, Viola, and Attendants. 
 
 Duke. Belong you to the lady Oliria, friends ? 
 
 Clo. Ay, sir; we are some of her trappings. 
 
 Duke. I know thee well : How dost thou, my 
 good fellow ? 
 
 Clo. Trul}', sir, the better for my foes, and the 
 wc^rse for my friends. 
 
 Duke. Just the contrary ; the better for thy 
 fiiends. 
 
 Clo. No, sir, the worse. 
 
 Duke. How can that be ? 
 
 Clo. MaiTy, sir, they praise me, and make an 
 ass of mo ; now my foes tell mo plainly I am an 
 Hss : so that by my foes, sir, I profit in the know- 
 ledge of myself; and by my fiiends I am abused : 
 so that, conclusions to be as kisses," if your four 
 negatives make your two affiiTnatives, wliy, then 
 
 the worse for my friends and the better for my 
 foes. 
 
 Duke. ^Vhy, this is excellent. 
 
 Clo. By my troth, sir, no ; though it please you 
 to be one of my friends. 
 
 Duke. Thou shalt not be the worse for me 
 there 's gold. 
 
 Clo. But that it would be double dealing, sir, I 
 would you could make it another. 
 
 Duke. O, you give me ill counsel. 
 
 Clo. Put your grace in your pocket, sir, for this 
 once, and let your flesh and blood obey it. 
 
 Duke. Well, I will be so much a sinner to be a 
 double dealer ; there 's another. 
 
 Clo. Primo, secundo, iertio, is a good play ; and 
 the old saying is, the third pays for all ; the trij>- 
 lex, sir, is a good tripping measure ; or the bells of 
 St. Bennet, sir, may put you in mind ; One, two 
 three. 
 
 Duke. You can fool no more money out of me 
 at this throw : if you will let your lady know 1 
 am here to speak with her, and bring her along 
 with you, it may awake my bounty further. 
 
 Clo. Marrj-, sir, lullaby to your bounty, till 1 
 come again. I go, sir ; but I would not have you 
 to think that my desire of having is the sin ol 
 covetousness ; but, as you say, sir, let your bounty 
 take a nap, I will awake it anon. 
 
 [Exit Clown. 
 666
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 sc3ini I. 
 
 Enter Antonio and Officers. 
 
 Vio. Here comes the man, sir, that did rescue 
 
 me. 
 Duke. That face of his I do remember well ; 
 i'et when I saw it last, it was besmear'd 
 As black as Vulcan, in the smoke of war : 
 A bawbling vessel was he captain of. 
 For shallow draught, and bulk, unprizable ; 
 With which such scathftiP' grapple did he make 
 With the most noble bottom of our fleet, 
 That very envy, and the tongue of loss. 
 Cried fame and honour on him. — What 's the 
 
 matter ? 
 1 Off. Orsino, this is that Antonio 
 That took the Phcenix, and her fraught, from 
 
 Candy; 
 And this is he that did the Tiger board. 
 When your young nephew Titus lost his leg: 
 Here in the streets, desperate of shame and state. 
 In private brabble did we apprehend him. 
 
 Vlo. He did me kindness, sir ; drew on my side. 
 But, in conclusion, put strange speech upon me. 
 I know not what 't was, but distraction. 
 
 Duke. Notable pirate ! thou salt-water thief ! 
 What foolish boldness brought thee to their 
 
 mercies. 
 Whom thou, in terms so bloody, and so dear. 
 Hast made thine en'^mies ? 
 
 Ant. Oreino, Tioble sir. 
 
 Be pleas'd that I shake off these names you give 
 
 me: 
 Antonio never yet was thief, or pirate. 
 Though, I confess, on base and gTound enough, 
 Orsiuo's enemy. A witchcraft drew me hither: 
 That most ingrateful boy there, by your side, 
 From the rude sea's enrag'd and foamy mouth 
 Did I redeem ; a wreck past hope he was : 
 His life I gave him, and did thereto add 
 My love, without retention or restraint, 
 All his in dedication : for his sake, 
 1)1(1 I expose myself, pure for his love. 
 Into the datigf^r of this adverse town ; 
 L)r(;w to defend him when ho was beset; 
 Where being apprehended, his false cunning, 
 (Not meaning to partake with me in danger,) 
 Taught him to face me out of his acquaintance. 
 And grew a twenty-yeai-s-removed thing. 
 While one would wink ; denied mo mine own 
 
 purse, 
 Which I had recommended to his use 
 Not half an hour before. 
 666 
 
 Vio. How can this be ? 
 
 Duke. When came he to this town ? 
 
 Ant. To-day, my lordf and for three monthf 
 before, 
 (No interim, not a minute's vacancy,) 
 Both day and night did we keep company. 
 
 Enter Olivia and Attendants. 
 
 Duke. Here comes the countess; now heaven 
 walks on earth. — 
 But for thee, fellow, fellow, thy words are madness : 
 Three months this youth hath tended upon me ; 
 But more of that anon. — Take him aside. 
 
 on. What would my lord, but that he may not 
 have. 
 Wherein Olivia may seem serviceable ? — 
 Cesario, you do not keep promise with me. 
 
 Vio. Madam? 
 
 Dvke. Gracious 01i\na, — 
 
 OH. MTiat do you say, Cesario ? — Good my 
 lord, — 
 
 Vio. !Mv lord would speak, my duty hu;hes me. 
 
 Oli. If it be aught to the old tune, my lord. 
 It is as f^it and fulsome to mine ear 
 As howliug after music. 
 
 Duke. Still so cruel 1 
 
 OH. Still so constant, lord. 
 
 Duke. What ! to perverseness ? you unciWl lady, 
 To whose ingi'fite and unauspicious altare 
 My soul the faithfull'st oflerings hath breatliM 
 
 out. 
 That e'er devotion tender'd ! Wliat shall I do ? 
 
 Oli. Even what it please my lord, that shall be- 
 come him. 
 
 Duke. Why should I not, had I the heart to 
 do it. 
 Like to the Eg}'ptian thief, at point of death. 
 Kill what I love ;" a savage jealousy. 
 That sometime savours nobly? — But hear me this: 
 Since you to non-regardance cast my faith, 
 And that I partly know the instrument 
 That screws me from my true place in your favour. 
 Live you, the marble-breasted tyrant, still; 
 But this your minion, whom I know you love. 
 And whom, by heaven I swear, I tender dearly, 
 Him will I tear out of that cruel eye. 
 Where he sits crowned in his m;ister's spite 
 Come, boy, with me ; my thoughts are ripe iu 
 
 mischief ; 
 I '11 sacrifice the lamb that I do love. 
 To spite a raven's heart within a dove. \Going. 
 Vio. And I, most iocmd, apt, and will.ngly,
 
 ACT V. 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 BCENFC I. 
 
 To do you rest, a thousand deaths would die. 
 
 [Followinff. 
 
 Oil. Where goes Cesario 3 
 
 Vio. After him I love, 
 
 M(<re than I love these eyes, more than my life, 
 M<ire, by all mores, than e'er I shall love wife : 
 If I do feign, you witnesses above, 
 Punish my life for tainting of my love ! 
 
 OH. Ah me, detested ! how am I beguil'd ! 
 
 Vio. Who does beguile you ? who does do you 
 wrong ? 
 
 Oli. Hast thou forgot thyself? Is it so long? 
 Call forth the holy father. [Exit an Attendant. 
 
 Duke. Come away. [To Viola. 
 
 Oli. Wliither, my lord ? Cesario, husband, stay. 
 
 Duke. Husband? 
 
 Oli. Ay, husband, can he that deny ? 
 
 Duke, ller husband, sirrah ? 
 
 Vio: No, my lord, not I. 
 
 Oli. Alas, it is the baseness of thy fear 
 That makes thee strangle thy propriety : 
 Fear not, Cesario, take thy fortunes up : 
 Bo that thou know'st thou art, and then thou 
 
 art 
 As great as that thou fear'st. — O, welcome, father ! 
 
 Re-enter Attendant and Priest. 
 
 Father, I charge thee, by thy reverence, 
 Here to unfold (though lately we intended 
 To keep in darkness what occasion now 
 Ueveals before 't is ripe) what thou dost know. 
 Hath newly pass'd between this youth and me. 
 
 Priest. A contract of eternal bond of love, 
 Confirm'd by mutual joinder of your hands. 
 Attested by the holy close of lips, 
 Strengthen'd by interchangement of your rings ; 
 And all the ceremony of this compact 
 SealVl in my function, by my testimony : 
 Since when, my watch hath told me, toward my 
 
 grave 
 I have travell'd but two hours. 
 
 Duke. 0, thou dissembling cub ! what wilt thou 
 
 . ^'' 
 When time hath sow'd a grizzle on thy case V* 
 
 Or will not else thy craft so quickly grow, 
 
 That thine own trip shall be thine overthrow ? 
 
 Fai-cwoll, and take her ; but direct thy feet 
 
 Where thou and I henceforth may never meet. 
 
 Vio. My lord, I do protest, — 
 
 Oli. 0, do not swear ; 
 
 Hold little faith, though thou hast too much 
 
 fear 
 
 Enter Sir Andrew Ague-cheek, mth his head 
 broken. 
 
 Sir And. For the love of God, a surgeon ; send 
 one presently to sir Toby. 
 
 OIL Wliat 's the matter ? 
 
 Sir And. He has broke my head across, and 
 has given sir Toby a bloody coxcomb too : for the 
 love of God, your help ; I had rather than forty 
 pound I were at home. 
 
 Oli. Who has done this, sir Andrew ? 
 
 Sir And. The count's gentleman, one Cesario : 
 we took him for a coward, but he 's the very devil 
 incardinate. 
 
 Duke. My gentleman, Cesario ? 
 
 Sir And. Od's lifelings, here he is : — You broke 
 my head for nothing ; and that that I did, I was 
 set on to do 't by sir Toby. 
 
 Vio. Why do you speak to me ? I never hurt 
 you : 
 You drew your sword upon me without cause ; 
 But I bespake you fair, and hurt you not. 
 
 Sir And. If a bloody coxcomb be a hurt, you 
 have hurt me ; I think you set nothing by a 
 bloody coxcomb. 
 
 Enter Sir Tobt BELCn, drunk, led hy the Clown. 
 
 Here comes sir Toby halting, you shall hear more: 
 but if he had not been in drink, he would have 
 tickled you othergates than he did. 
 
 Duke. How now, gentleman ? how is 't with 
 you ? 
 
 Sir To. That 's all one ; he has hurt me, and 
 there 's the end on 't. — Sot, didst see Dick surgeon, 
 sot? 
 
 Clo. 0, he 's drunk, sir Toby, an hour agone ; 
 his eyes were set at eight i' the morning. 
 
 Sir To. Then he 's a rogue and a passy measures 
 pavin ; " I hate a drunken rogue. 
 
 Oli. Away with him : Who hath made this 
 havoc with them ? 
 
 Sir And. I '11 help you, sir Toby, because we 'II 
 be dressed together. 
 
 Sir To. Will you help an a,ss-head, and a cox- 
 comb, and a knave? a thin-faced knave, a gull ? 
 
 Oli. Get him to bed, and let his hurt be look'd 
 to. [Exeunt Clown, Sir To., and Sir Antd. 
 
 Enter Sebastian. 
 
 Seh. I am sorry, madam, I have hurt yoni 
 kinsman ; 
 But had it been the brother of my blood, 
 
 S67
 
 
 ACT V. TWELFTH NIGHT. kce.nb i. 
 
 I must liave done no less, with wit, and safety. 
 
 Hath been between this lady and this lord. 
 
 You throw a strange regard upon me, and by that 
 
 Seb. So comes it, lady, you have been mistook : 
 
 I do perceive it hath offended you ; 
 
 \To Olivia. 
 
 Pardon me, sweet one, even for the vows 
 
 But nature to her bias drew in that. 
 
 We made each other but so late ago. 
 
 You would have been contracted to a maid ; 
 
 Bnl-e. One face, one voice, one habit, and two 
 
 Nor are you therein, by my hfe, deceiv'd. 
 
 persons ; 
 
 You are betroth'd both to a maid and man. 
 
 A natural perspective, that is, and is not. 
 
 Duke. Be not amaz'd; right noble is his blood. — 
 
 Scb. Antonio, my dear Antonio ! 
 
 K this be so, as yet the glass seems true. 
 
 How have the hours rack'd and tortur'd me, 
 
 I shall have share in this most happy wreck : 
 
 Since I have lost thee ! 
 
 Boy, thou hast said to me a thousand times. 
 
 Ant. Sebastian are you ? 
 
 [To Viola. 
 
 Scb. Fear'st thou that, Antonio ? 
 
 Thou never shouldst love woman like to me. 
 
 Ant. How have you made division of yourself ? — 
 
 Vio. And all those sayings will I over-swear ; 
 
 An apple, cleft in two, is not more twin 
 
 And all those swearings keep as ti-ue in soul, 
 
 Than these two creatures. Which is Sebastian ? 
 
 As doth that orbed continent the fire 
 
 on. Most wonderful ! 
 
 That severs day from night. 
 
 Seh. Do I stand there ? I never had a brother : 
 
 Dul-c. Give me thy hand ; 
 
 Nor can there be that deity in my nature, 
 
 And let me see thee in thy woman's weeds. 
 
 Of here and everywhere. I had a sister, 
 
 Vio. The captain, that did bring me fii-st on 
 
 Whom the blind waves and surges have de- 
 
 shore, 
 
 vour'd : — • 
 
 Hath my maid's garments : he, upon some action, 
 
 Of charity, what kin are you to me ? \To Viola. 
 
 Is now in durance ; at Malvolio's suit. 
 
 What countiynian ? what name ? what parentage ? 
 
 A gentleman, and follower of my lady's. 
 
 Vio. Of Alessaline : Sebastian was my father ; 
 
 Oli. He shall enlarge him : — Fetch Maivolio 
 
 Such a Sebastian was my brother too ; 
 
 hither : — 
 
 So went he suited to his watery tomb : 
 
 And yet, alas, now I remember me. 
 
 If spirits can assume both form aud suit, 
 
 They say, poor gentleman, he 's much distract. 
 
 You come to fright us. 
 
 Seb. A spirit I am, indeed : 
 
 
 Re-enter Clown, with a letter. 
 
 But am in that dimension grossly clad. 
 
 A most exacting frenzy of mine own. 
 
 Which from the womb I did participate. 
 
 From my remembrance clearly banish"d his. — 
 
 Were you a woman, as the rest goes even, 
 
 How does he, sirrah ? 
 
 I should my teaiB let fall upon your cheek, 
 
 Clo. Truly, madam, he holds Belzebub at tho 
 
 Aud say — Thrice welcome, drowned Viola. 
 
 stave's end, as well as a man in his case may do : 
 
 Vio. My father had a mole upon his brow. 
 
 ho has here writ a letter to you ; I should have 
 
 Seb. And so had mine. 
 
 given it you to-day morning, but as a madman's 
 
 Vio. And died that day wheu Viola from her 
 
 epistles are no gospels, so it skills not much when 
 
 birth 
 
 they are delivered. 
 
 Had number'd thiileen years. 
 
 OH. Open it, and read it. 
 
 Seb. 0, that record is lively in my soul ! 
 
 Clo. Look then to be well edified, when the 
 
 Ho finished, indeed, his mortal act, 
 
 fool delivere the madman : — " By the Lord, 
 
 That (lay that made my sister thirteen years. 
 
 madam," — 
 
 Vio. If nothing lets to make us happy both, 
 
 Oli. How now, art thou mad ? 
 
 But this rny masculine usurp'd attire. 
 
 Clo. No, madam, I do but read madness : an 
 
 Do not embrace me, till each circumstance 
 
 your lad3'ship will have it as it ought to be, you 
 
 Of place, time, fortune, do cohere, and jumji, 
 
 must allow vox. 
 
 T'hat I am Vi(j!a ; which to confirm, 
 
 OIL Prithee, read i' thy right wits. 
 
 [ '11 bring you to a captain in this town. 
 
 Clo. So I do, madonna ; but to road his right 
 
 Where lie my maiden weeds ; by whose gentle help 
 
 wits, is to read thus: therefore perpend, my 
 
 [ was preserv'd, to serve this noble count : 
 
 princess, and give ear. 
 
 AU the occunence of my fortune since 
 
 Oli. Read it you, sirrah. \To FAniAN. 
 
 £6S 
 
 ^ - ■ ■■ " 1 
 

 
 ACT V. 
 
 TWELFTU NIGHT. 
 
 BCEKK I. 
 
 Fah. [Rcadsi] 
 
 " By tho Lord, madam, you %vroii? me, and tlie world 
 shall kuow it : thougla you have put mo into darkness, and 
 given your Jr mkcn cousin rule over mo, yet have I tho 
 benefit of my senses as well as your ladyship. I have 
 your own letter that induced mo to the semblanco I put 
 on ; with tlio which I doubt not but to do myself much 
 fight, or you nmch shame. Think of me as you please. I 
 leavo my duty a little unthought of, and speak out of my 
 injury. 
 
 The MADLY-tJSED Malvolio." 
 
 Oli. Did be write this ? 
 Clo. Ay madam. 
 
 Duke. This savors not much of distraction. 
 Oli. See him deliver'd, Fabian ; bring bim 
 bither. [^Exit Fabian. 
 
 My lord, so please you, tbese things further 
 
 thought on, 
 To think me as well a sister as a wife ; 
 One day shall crown tbo alliance on 't, so please 
 
 you, 
 Here at my house, and at my proper cost. 
 
 Duke. Madam, I am most apt to embrace your 
 ofler. 
 Your master quits you ; [To Viola] and, for your 
 
 service done him. 
 So m\ich against the mettle of your sex. 
 So far beneath your soft and tender breeding, 
 And since you call'd me master for so long. 
 Here is my hand ; you shall from this time be 
 Your master's mistress. 
 
 Oli. A sister ? — Y'ou are she. 
 
 Se-enter P'abian, with Mai.volio. 
 
 Duke. Is this the madman ? 
 
 Oli. Ay, my lord, this same : 
 
 How now, Malvolio ? 
 
 Mai. Madam, you have done me wrong. 
 
 Notorious wrong. 
 
 Oli. Have I, Malvolio ? no. 
 
 Mai. Lady, you have. Pray you, peruse that 
 letter : 
 You must not now deny it is your band ; 
 Write from it, if you can, in hand, or pbr.ase ; 
 Or say, 't is not your seal, nor your invention : 
 You can say none of this : Well, grant it then. 
 And tell me, in the modesty of honour. 
 Why you have given me such clear lights of favour; 
 Bade me come smiling and cross-garter'd tc you ; 
 To put on yellow stockings, and to frown 
 Upon sir Toby and the lighter people : 
 And, acting this in an obedient hope, 
 
 Why have you suffer'd me to be imprison'd, 
 Kept in a dark house, visited by the priest, 
 And made the most notorious geek'' and gull 
 That e'er invention play'd on ? tell me why 
 
 Oli. Alas, Malvolio, this is not my writing, 
 Tliough, I confess, much like the character : 
 But, out of question, 't is Maria's hand. 
 And now I do bethink me, it was she 
 First told me thou wast mad; thou cam'st in 
 
 smiling. 
 And in such forms which here were presuppos'd 
 Upon thee in the letter. Prithee, be content : 
 This practice hath most shrewdly pass'd upon thee ; 
 But, when we know the grounds and authors of it, 
 Thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge 
 Of tbine own cause. 
 
 Fab. Good madam, hear me speak ; 
 
 And let no quarrel, nor no brawl to come, 
 Taiut the condition of this present hour, 
 Which I have wonder'd at In hope it shall not. 
 Most freely I confess, myself, and Toby, 
 Set this device against Malvolio here, 
 Upon some stubborn and uncourteous parts 
 We had conceiv'd against him : Maria writ 
 The letter, at sir Toby's great importance ; 
 In recompense whereof he hath married her. 
 How with a sportful malice it w.is follow'd, 
 May rather pluck on laughter than revenge ; 
 If that the injuries be justly weigh'd 
 That have on both sides pass'd. 
 
 Oli. Alas, poor fool 1 how have they bafflea 
 ihee ! 
 
 Clo. Why, " some are born great, some achieve 
 gi-eatness, and some have greatness thrown upon 
 them." I was one, sir, in this interlude ; one sir 
 Topas, sir ; but that 's all one : — " By the Lord, 
 fool, I am not mad ;" — But do you remember ? 
 " Madam, why laugh you at such a barren rascal i 
 an you smile not, he 's gagged :" And thus the 
 whirligig of Time brings in his revenges. 
 
 Mai. I 'II be revenged on the whole pack of you. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Oli. He bath been most notoriously abus'd. 
 
 Duke. Pursue him, and entreat him to a peace : 
 He hath not told us of the captain yet ; 
 \Yhen that is known, and golden time convents, 
 A solemn combination shall be made 
 Of our dear souls. — ^Meantime, sweet sister, 
 We will not part fi-om hence. — Cesario, come ; 
 For so you shall be while you are a man ; 
 But, when in other habits you are seen, 
 Orsiiio's mistress, and his fancy's queen. [Exeunt. 
 
 BGO
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 tiCBRE I. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 By swaggering could I never thrive, 
 
 Clo. When that I was and a little tiny boy, 
 
 For the rain it raineth every day. 
 
 With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, 
 
 But when I came unto my bed," 
 
 A foolish thing was but a toy. 
 
 With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, 
 
 For the rain it raineth every day. 
 
 With toss-pots still had drunken hend. 
 
 
 For the rain it raineth every day. 
 
 But when I came to man's estate. 
 
 
 With hey, ho, the wind and the rain. 
 
 A great while ago the world begun, 
 
 'Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate, 
 
 With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, 
 
 For the rain it raineth every day. 
 
 But that 's all one, our play is done. 
 
 But wher. I came, alas I to wive 
 
 And wo 'U strive to please you ovorj- day. 
 
 [Exft 
 
 With hoy, ho, the wind and the rain. 
 
 670
 
 lOTES TO TWELFTH IIGHT, 
 
 ' Mxxepi iefore excepttd. 
 
 A common old legal phrase, equivalent to, those things 
 being excepted which were before excepted. Mr. Hunter 
 nnnecessarily proposes to introduce the word as. 
 
 Tali, bold, courageous. 
 
 ' A coyslril. 
 
 A coystril, says Toilet, is a paltry groom, one only fit to 
 carry arms, but not to use them. So, in Holinshed's 
 Description of England, vol. i. p. 162: " Coslcreh, or 
 bearers of the armes of barons or knights." Vol. ili. 
 p. 248: "So that a knight with his esquire and coMrell 
 with his two horses." p. 2/2 : " women lackies, and 
 coieterels, arc considered as the unwarliko attendants on an 
 army." So again, in p. 127, and p. 217, of his History of 
 Scotland. 
 
 * Tui'n I?' the toe like a parish-top, 
 
 A large top, says Steevens, was formerly kept in every 
 village, to be whipped in frosty weather, that the peasants 
 may bo kept warm by exercise, and out of mischief, while 
 they could not work. The same comparison is brought 
 forward in the Night AViilker of Fletcher. 
 
 * Like misireta Mall's picture. 
 
 The following particulars respecting "Mistress Mall" 
 are extracted, with a few variations, from the variorum 
 editions. The real name of the woman meant by Sir Toby, 
 was Mary Frith. The appellation by which she was gene- 
 rally known, was Mall Cutpurse. She w.is at once an 
 hermaphrodite, a prostitute, a bawd, a bully, a thief, a 
 receiver of stolen goods, &c. On the books of the 
 Stationers' Company, August, 1610, is entered — "A Booke 
 called the Madde Praneks of Merry Mall of the Bankside, 
 with her Walks in Man's App.irel, and to what Purpose. 
 Written by John Day." Middleton and Decker wrote a 
 comedy, of which she is the heroine. In this, they have 
 given a very flattering representation of her, as they observe 
 in their preface, that " it is the excellency of a writer, to 
 leave things better than he finds them." 
 
 The title of this piece is— "the Eo.aring Girl, or Moll 
 Cutpurse ; as it hath been lately acted on the Fortune 
 Stage, by the Prince his Pl.iyers," 1611. The Frontispiece 
 to It contains a full length of her in man's clothes, smoking 
 tobacco. Nathaniel Field, in liis Amends for Ladies, 
 (another comedy, 1618,) gives the following character 
 of her: 
 
 -" Hence, lewd impudent. 
 
 I know not what to term thee ; man or woman ; 
 
 For nature, B.iaming to acknowledge theo 
 For either, hath produc'd tliec to the world 
 W'ithout a sex : Some say, that thou art woman ; 
 Others, a man : to many thou art both 
 Woman and man ; but I think rather neither. 
 Or, man, or horse, as Centaurs old were feign'd." 
 
 A life of her was likewise published in 1662, with hci 
 portrait before it in a male habit : an ape, a lion, and an 
 eagle by her. She was born in 1584, and died in 16.59. In 
 a MS. letter in the British Museum, from John Chamber- 
 lain to Mr. Carleton, diited Feb. 11, 1611-12, the following 
 curious account is given of her doing penance : " This last 
 Sunday Moll Cutpurse, a notorious baggage that used to go 
 in man's apparel, and challenged the field of diverse gal- 
 lants, was brought to the same place, [St. Paul's Cross,] 
 where she wept bitterly, and seemed very penitent ; but it 
 is since doubted she was maudlin drunk, being discovered 
 to have tippl'd of three quarts of sack before she came to 
 her penance. She had the daintiest preacher or ghostly 
 father that ever I saw in the pulpit, one Radcliffe of Brazen- 
 Nose College in Oxford, a likelier man to have led the 
 revels in some inn of court, than to be where he was. But 
 the best is, he did extremely badly, and so wearied the 
 audience, that the best p.art went away, and the rest tarried 
 rather to hear Moll Cutpurse than him." Butler alludes to 
 her as "English M.all." 
 
 The dances are explained elsewhere. Stock, stocking 
 The appropriation of parts of the body is intentionally 
 erroneous. 
 
 ^ To fear no colours, 
 
 A proverbial phrase, meaning, to fear no enemy. It is 
 still in use in the provinces. 
 
 • If one break. 
 
 Points were nutal hooks, fastened to the hose or breeches, 
 (which had then no opening or buttons,) and going into 
 straps or eyes fixed to the doublet, and thereby keeping the 
 liose from foiling down. So, in King Henry IV. Part I. : 
 " Their/iOTnte being broken,— down fell their hose." Again, 
 in Antony and Cleopatra : 
 
 " mingle eyes 
 
 With one that ties Kis points ?" 
 
 (Blackstone and Steevens.) 
 
 * Ao better than thefooVs zanies. 
 
 A zany was not a fool's bauble, as Douce says, but an 
 attendant on a fool or tumbler. 
 
 Now what a Rimer is, vnto a Poet, 
 
 Because tlion knowst .t not, I '11 make theo know it: 
 
 Th'nre liKe Bell-ringers to Musicians, 
 
 571
 
 NOTES TO TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 Or base Quaok-saluers to Phisicians; 
 
 Or as a Zany to a Tumhler is, 
 
 A Rimer 's to ii Poet such as tins ; 
 
 And such art thou, or m a worse degree. 
 
 Taylor's Work(s, fol. Lend. 1630. 
 
 8 ±^oiv Mercury endue thee wWk Uasing. 
 Leasing^ lying, from the Anglo-Saxon. The meaning is 
 thns given by Dr. Johnson, — "Jlay Mercury teach thee to 
 lie, since thou liest in favour of fools I" 
 
 « L'ike a sJicriJf's post. 
 Sheriffs had p.Vmted or ornamented posts at their doors, 
 possibly to indicate the residence of authority. Allusions 
 to them are very frequent in our old dramatists. 
 
 10 Or a codling, when '/ is almost an apple. 
 
 Codling (a mere diminutive of cod, Gifford remarks in a 
 note on Jonsou's Alchemist) is not "necessarily restricted 
 to this or that — it means an involucrum or kell, and was used 
 by our old writers for that early state of vegetation, when 
 the fruit, after shaking off the blossom, began to assume a 
 globular and determinate form." 
 
 ComptPM, accountable. 
 
 " lam to hvU here. 
 To hull, s.ays Steevens, means to drive to and fro 
 upon the w.iter, witliout sails or niddcr. So, in Philemon 
 Holland's translation of the 9th Book of Pliny's Natural 
 History, 1001, p. 239: " — fell to be drowsie and sleepie, 
 and hulled to and fro witli the waves, as if it had 
 beena halfe dead." Again, in the Noble Soldier, by S. 
 Rowley, 163i: 
 
 "That uU these mischiefs hull with flagging sail." 
 
 '^ Praise, appraise, make an inventory of. 
 Cantons, uintos, stanzas. 
 
 " Ourselves ice do not owe. 
 
 Owe, o^"a, possess. We are not our own masters : we 
 cannot govern ourselves. 
 
 '* Her eyes had lost her tongue. 
 Her eyes were so occupied in looking at Viola, her talk 
 was distracted. Proper-false, a fictitious beauty 
 Fudge, suit, agree. 
 
 " Do not our lives consist of the four elenunts. 
 
 Compare the forty-fifth Sonnet : — 
 
 The other two, slicht air and purein? fire, 
 Are both with thee, wliere\er I abide; 
 The first my thouglit, tlie other my desire. 
 These present-sibsent with swift motion slide. 
 For when these quicker elements are gone 
 In tender embassy of love to tlice. 
 My life, being made of four, with two alono 
 Sinks down to death, oppress'd with melancholy; 
 Until life's composition he recur'd 
 By those swift messengers roturu'd from thee. 
 Who even but now come back again, assur'd 
 Of till,' fair health, recounting it to me- 
 This told, I joy ; but then no lonirer glad, 
 1 send them back again, and straight grow ead. 
 
 Stoop, a cup of wine. 
 
 !• Tlte picture of we three. 
 
 Alluding to an old and common sign of two fools, 
 bpcctator is pre<umed to be the third. 
 Urcast, voice for singing. 
 572 
 
 Tho 
 
 " I sent tlue sixpence for thy lemar.. 
 
 In Shakespeare's time the word is generally used in a 
 bad sense. The following e.'ctract from a very rare tract 
 will give a good illustration of the word : — " One demanded 
 of his friend what was the reason that when a man meets 
 a light wench, the first word he speaks to her is, Gentle- 
 woman, will you goe to the taverne ? 0, saies the other, a 
 leman is never good without wine." — Jests to Make you 
 Merie, 1607, p. 4. 
 
 18 Draw three souls out of one weaver. 
 
 This sentence hardly requires tho long dissertation of 
 the critics. The meaning is evidently. Shall we sing so 
 eloquently as to draw three souls from a person who is 
 not supposed to have one whole one. 
 
 1" Malvolio 's a Peg-a-Pajmey. 
 
 Peg-a-Ramsey was an old popular tune, and is frequently 
 referred to. " A new song and a base viall makes him. 
 He deceives with his commodity worse then a tobaeco- 
 man, for he will utter Pc^ of Pairisey and tho masko oi 
 Liocolncs Inne both for one prise." — Stepliens' Essayed, 
 1615. The following observations are taken from the vari- 
 orum edition : — 
 
 Kash mentions " Peg of Ramsey" among several other 
 ballads, viz., Rogcro, Basilino, Turkelony, All tlie Flowers 
 of the Broom, Pepper is Black, Green Sleeves, Peggie 
 Ramsie. It appears from the s:uiie author, that it was 
 likewise a dance performed to the musie of a song of that 
 name. 
 
 2° Tilly-valley, lady. 
 
 This expression, observes Mr. Sandys, occurs also ia 
 other plays, and is said to have been a favourite with tJio 
 lady of Sir Thomas More. Skelton also uses it — 
 
 " Tully valy, strawe, let be, I say '. 
 Gup, Christian Clowte, gup, Jak of the vale ! 
 With Mauerly Margery Mylk and Ale." 
 
 "Some have derived the term from an old French hunting 
 cry. It is not used in the present Cornish dialect, but may 
 be found a few times in a piece written in the old Cornish 
 language, called " The Creation of tlie World," a mystery, 
 or play, in the style of those of Coventry and Chester. 
 This piece, however, was written about the year 1611 by 
 one William Jordan of Ilelstone, and the term therefore 
 may have been introduced by him ; and it does not appear 
 in the old compositions in tlie Cornish tongue : the e.\pre3- 
 sion occurs as a sort of ejaculation of Impatience. 
 
 " Tdy valy, bram an gath."' 
 which is modestly translated — 
 
 "Tittle Little, the wind of a cct " 
 
 '1 Snick vp. 
 
 Equivalent to. Go hang ! Taylor, the water-poet, thns 
 introduces the expression : — 
 
 A Tiburne hempen-caudoU well will cure yo'.i. 
 It can cure traytors, but 1 Imld it tit 
 T' apply 't ere tlicy the treason doe commit. 
 Wherefore in Sparta it y-cleped was 
 Snickup, which is, in English, gallow-grasso, 
 
 " Pub your chain with crunts. 
 
 Chains were distinguishing appendages to tho t.teward'o 
 ofBec, and are very frequently alluded to by our olil wrilors. 
 Thus in Massinger's A'ew Way to Pay old Debts,
 
 NOTES TO TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 Set nil thir.gs Tight, or as my name is Order, 
 And by this staj' of office that commands yon, 
 This cluiin and donblo ruff, symbols of power, &c. 
 
 Rule, disturbanofi. " No man shall after the hour of nine 
 fit the night, keep any rule whereby any such sudden Out- 
 cry bo mi.de in tho still of the night, as making any AlTr.ny, 
 or beating his Wife, or Servant, or Singing, or KevoUing in 
 his house, to tho disturbance of his Neighbours, under pain 
 of threo shillings, four pence," Calthrop's Reports, 1C70. 
 
 Possess, inform. Affect'wn! d, affected. 
 
 =' Call me cut. 
 
 A term of contempt, equivalent to, " Call me horse," a 
 plirase which I have met with in novels of the latter part 
 of the last century, and which occurs in Henry IV, " I '11 
 meet you there ; if I do not, call me cut,'^ Two Angry 
 Women of Abingdon, 1599. 
 
 ^ And in sad ci/press let me be laid. 
 
 The following notes on this line are extracted from Bos- 
 well's edition of Malone, 8vo. 1821. — In the books of our 
 author's age the thin transparent lawn called cijprus, wliich 
 was formerly used for scarfs and hatbands at funerals, was 
 constantly spelt cypress. So, in the Winter's Tale, edit. 
 1623: 
 
 " Cypresse llaeh as e'er was crow — " 
 
 where undoubtedly Cyprus was meant. So again, in the 
 pl.iy before us, edit. 1G23, (as Mr. Warton has observed) 
 
 *' a cypresse, not a bosom. 
 
 Hides my he.irt." 
 
 See also Minsheu's Diet, in v. *' Cypres or Cypress, a 
 fine curled linen." It is from the context alone, tlierefore, 
 that we can ascertain whether eyprus or cypress was in- 
 tended by our old writers, filr. Wartou has suggested in 
 his late edition of Milton's Poems, that the meaning here 
 is, — " Let me be laid in a shroud made of Cyprus, not in a 
 coffin made of cypress wood." But in a subsequent line of 
 this song the shroud, (like th.at of Polonius) we iind, is 
 wldle. There was indeed white eyprus as well as black; 
 but tlie epithet sad is inconsistent with white, and there- 
 fore I suppose tho wood to have been here meant. Coffins 
 being frequently made of cypress wood, (perhaps in conse- 
 quence of Cyprus being used at funerals) the epitliet sad is 
 here employed with strict propriety, " King Kichard the 
 Second (says Speed) w.as so affected by the death of his 
 favourite Robert de Vere, duke of Ireland, thjit he com- 
 manded the cypress cliest wherein his body lay embalmed, 
 to be opened, that he might see and handle it. Tho king 
 attended his funer.ol." 
 
 " And in sad cypress let ino be laid," i. e. in a shroud of 
 cypress or cyprxis. Thus Autolycus, in the Winter's Tale : 
 
 *' Lawn as white as driven snow, 
 Cyprus black as e'er was crow." 
 
 Tlicre was both black and white cypruss, as there is still 
 black and white crape ; end ancient shrouds were always 
 miide of the latter. (Steovens.) 
 
 Denay, denial. It is of frequent occurrence as a verb ; 
 tut seldom as a substantive. 
 
 « The lady of the Strachy. 
 
 If this, the original reading, be correct, however Shake- ^..>. «... ^ .^ 
 spoare obtained the word, Strachy belongs to the Kussian I IV. 4t,o, od 
 
 language, Tlie Strapehy of Oszir,L«na is moutionod '.n an 
 
 article in Mr. Dickens' Jlousehold Words for March 15th, 
 IS'il. I once thought Utrachy might be a mis) rint for 
 ISophy. 
 
 " 0, for a stone-bow. 
 
 A stone-bow was a cross-bow made for propelling stonea. 
 "Stone-bow, arcuhasta," I'r. Parv. 
 
 Nunihcr, metre, feet of tlie verse. 
 
 " Marry, hang thee, brjck! 
 
 BrocTc, a badger, a term of contempt. It is tho transla- 
 tion of castetr in MS. Coll. Jcs. Oxon. 23, so that tlie term 
 was probably also applied to a beaver. 
 
 It es ful semeli, als me tliink, 
 A brok omang men for to stynk. 
 
 Ywalne and Gaivin, 9^. 
 
 2' The staniel chcch at it. 
 
 The staniel was a base kind of hawk. " Aluctus, Anglioe 
 a staniel," Nominale MS. 
 
 Formal, reasonable. Sowter, a cobler, applied here 
 comically, "Did not I say he would work it out?" Mr, 
 Knight erroneously reads, " that ho would work it out." 
 
 2" / zvill be polnt-de-vice. 
 Point-dt-'cice, exact, in tho extreme fashion. 
 
 s° Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip. 
 
 Tray-trip w.is a game at dice. It is frequently men- 
 tioned by the old dramatists. 
 
 31 A cheveril glove to a good icii. 
 
 A cheveril glove, that is, a glove made of cheveril or kid 
 leather. " Proverbiale est, he hath a conscience like 6 ehe- 
 verel's skm, i, e., it will stretch," Upton, 
 
 32 As pilchards are to herrings. 
 
 The difference between the pilchard and the herring, 
 observes Lord Teignmouth, " has been clearly ascertained. 
 There is a singular mode of distinguishing the pilchard 
 from the herring, resorted to in the West of England, by 
 placing the fish iu the frying-pan. The herring is said to 
 be never fat enough to fry itself; whilst half a dozen pil 
 ehards, in their best state, would amply supply a frymg 
 pan with fat. But this result arises, perhaps, from thn 
 different period at which the herrings ard pilchards visit 
 th.at part of the coast, the pilchtvrds in iceixfat, the her- 
 rings in their Uan, season." 
 
 " The list of my voyage. 
 
 List, limit, bound, boundary line. The -atter is tho true 
 eeuse ; f the word. Topsell, in his Historic of Serpen^;, 
 ISOS, ):. 87, mentions worms " having a black list or line 
 running along their backs." 
 
 " Taste your legs, sir. 
 
 An affected expression, equivalent tc, try your legs, from 
 the old French, 'Come, let me taste my horse." — Ifcnrj 
 
 673
 
 NOTES TO T^^LFTH NIGHT. 
 
 " To one of your riceiving. 
 That is, as Warburton observes, to one of your ready 
 apprehension. 
 
 =» No, not a grise. 
 
 Cerise, a step. So in an old romance preserved in MS. 
 in Lincoln cathedral, — 
 
 Up at a grese scbo hym lade, 
 To chambir scho hym broghte. 
 
 " If thou thou^st him some ihrke. 
 
 " A SchoUer that vaunted what especiall interest he had 
 in a certaine faire Gentlewoman, went (he and his friend) 
 on a time to visit her: And she, in disdaine of him, still 
 thoii'd him at every word, and he as often titled her with 
 Honour, Ladiship, and Majestic, whereat the Gentlewoman 
 waxing testie and curst, asked him why he so exalted her 
 in title above her calling. He answered: May it pleaee 
 yon to mount but one poynt higher, and then will I fall 
 one lower, so shall our musick well accord."— CSyfcy'* Wits, 
 Fits, and Fancier, 1614- 
 
 s8 The youngest wren of nine. 
 
 The old copies read mine, which is probably incorrect. 
 As Steevens observes, the wren generally lays nine or ten 
 eggs at a time, and the last hatched of nil birds are usually 
 the smallest and weakest of the whole brood. Breton (not 
 Sidney, as Mr. Knight has it) mentions the "multiplying 
 wren." 
 
 Worth, wealth. 
 
 s» Nor after my degree, but fellow. 
 
 Fellow, as Dr. Johnson observes, which originally signi- 
 aed companion, was not yet totally degraded to its present 
 meaning, and MalvoUo takes it in the favourable sense. 
 
 "> To play at cherry-pit with Satan. 
 
 A childish game, pitching cherry-stones into a small 
 hole. It is mentioned in the old interlude of the Worlde 
 and the Chylde, 1523,— 
 
 I can playe at the chery-pytte. 
 
 And I can wystell you a fytte. 
 
 " And exceeding good — senseless. 
 The last word is either to be divided in prouunoiation, 
 or else spoken aside. 
 
 « Eoh-nol is his word. 
 
 This adverb, says Steevens, is corrupted from hip ne hap, 
 that is, M it happen or not ; and siguifies, at random, at the 
 mercy of chance. 
 
 Opposite, enemy. 
 
 " If you lean undertaker. 
 The simple meaning of the word, says Kitson, is, one 
 who undertakes or takes up the quarrel or business of 
 another. 
 
 " This great lubber the world. 
 Tiic meaning of this passage appears to be, I am afraid 
 the whole of llio large world will bo infected with foppery 
 nnd affectation— in otlicr words, will prove a cockney. 
 674 
 
 »» A good report after fourteen years'' purchase. 
 
 That is, according to Heath, purchase a good report or 
 character at a very extravagant price 
 
 " In this uncivil and unjust extent. 
 
 Mr. Knight thinks that extent may here be used in the 
 sense of stretch ; as we say, a stretch of power or violence. 
 Competitors, confederates. 
 
 " It luttTi bay-windows. 
 
 A bay-window is a bow-window, or any projecting wit 
 dow forming a recess in a room. Middleton says, — 
 
 'Tis a sweet recreation for a gentlewoman 
 To stand in a bay-window, and see gallants. 
 
 « Eey Eobin, jolly Bobin. 
 
 The original of tliis song is preserved in a MS. containing 
 poems by Sir Thomas Wyatt, and is entitled, " The caro- 
 ful Lover eomplaineth, and the happy Lover counselletli." 
 
 A KOBTN, 
 
 Jolly Kobyn, 
 Tell me how thy leman doeth. 
 And thou shalt knowe of rayn. 
 
 My lady is nnkyinde, perde. 
 
 Alack 1 why is she so ? 
 She loveth an other better than mo 
 
 And yet she will say, no. 
 
 Eesposse. 
 
 I fynde no snch doublones : 
 
 1 fynde women true. 
 My lady loveth me dowtles. 
 
 And will change for no newe. 
 
 Le Plaintif. 
 
 Thou art happy wliile that doeth lost! 
 
 But I say, as I fynde. 
 That woman's love is but a blast. 
 
 And torncth with the wynde. 
 
 Eesponse. 
 
 But if thou wilt avoyde thy harme, 
 
 Lerne this lesson "of me, 
 At others Acres thy selfe to warme, 
 
 And lot them warme with the. 
 
 Le Plaintif. 
 
 Suche folkes can take no harme by love. 
 
 That can abide their torn. 
 But 1, alas ! can no way prove 
 
 In love but lake and morn. 
 
 <*■ Leave thy vain Mbble-babble. 
 " What is logicke but the highe waie to wrangling, eon- 
 tayning in it a world o( bibble-babble ? Ncodo we anie of 
 your Grccke, Latine, Hebruo, or anie such gibbrige, when 
 wee have the word of God in 'EagVishV— An Almond for a 
 Parrot, n. d. 
 
 »» )yho with dagger oj lath. 
 Ben Jonson mentions the Vice, a facetious character 
 introduced in the old moralities, " in his long coat, shaking 
 his wooden dagger." There is no need to attempt a preciio 
 explanation of the verses here uttered by the clown. Thoj 
 arc, and were no doubt intended to bo, nonsonso. 
 
 Credit, a thing believed to bo a fact.
 
 NOTES TO TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 *' Conclutiojia to he as kUaes. 
 
 For lato with Iienrt most liigh, with eves mo3t low, 
 I cravo'l tiio tliinf^ which over slio clenicp*; 
 She lightning Love, displaying Voniis skies. 
 
 Least once should not bo heard, Twiso said, no, no. 
 
 Sydney^s Astrophel and Stella^ 540. 
 
 " With such scathful grapple. 
 
 Seathful, destruolive, pernicious; from the Anglo-Saxon. 
 The substantive scathe, harm, loss, damage, is very com- 
 mon. A North country proverb says, "One doth the 
 tcathe, and another hath the scorn." 
 
 ^^ Kill what Ilove. 
 
 " In this simik," says Theobald, " a particular story is 
 prc-aupposed, which ought to be known, to show the just- 
 acsa and propriety of the comparison. It is taken from 
 Ilelicdorus's Jithiopics, to which our author was indebted 
 for the allusion. This Egyptian thief was Thyamis, who 
 (Fas a native of Memphis, and at the head of a band of rob- 
 bers. Theagenes and Chariclea falling into their hands, 
 Tiiyamis foil desperately in love with the lady, and would 
 have married her. Soon after, a stronger body of robbers 
 tomiug down upon Thyamis's party, he was in such fears 
 for his mistress that he had her shut into a cave with his 
 treasure. It was customary with those barbarians, ' when 
 they despaired of their own safety, first to make away with 
 those whom they held dear,' and desired for companions in 
 the ne.xt life. Thyamis, therefore, benetted round with his 
 unemies, raging with love, jealousy, and anger, went to his 
 '.feve : and ciJling nloud ji the ECTPhan tongue, so soon 
 
 Hfl ho heard himself answered towards the cave's mouth, 
 by a Grecian, making to the person by the direction of h.^r 
 voice, he cangnt her by the hair with his left hand, and 
 (oupposinghertobe Chariclea) with his right hand plunged 
 his sword into her breast." There was a transhitiin oi 
 Ileliodorua by Thcmas Undcrdowne, of which the Be.-(i'.iil 
 edition appeared in 4to., 1587. The first was probably th.nt 
 printed by H. Wykes, without a date. 
 
 " A grizzle on thy case. 
 
 Cas^, that is, skin. " There are brought also into Sod 
 land out of these Hands great store of sliecpes felles, on*. 
 hides, gotes skinnes, and cases of martirncs dried in the 
 sunno," Holinshed, Description of Scotland, p. 13. 
 
 »» A paasy measures pavin. 
 
 An old dance so called, hero humourously applied to a 
 drunkard. 
 
 w The most Twtorious geek. 
 
 Geek, a fool, a subject for derision. The word oocare 
 several times in old Scottish writers. 
 Imvortance, importunity. Convents, agrees. 
 
 " But when I came unto my bed. 
 
 " It is said among tha folkas heere, that if i man d'l lu 
 his infansy, hee hath onely broks his fast in this world 
 If in his youth, hee hath left us at dinner. That it is UJdi 
 timeioith a man at threescore and ten; and he that '176 s to ( 
 hundred yeeres, hath walked a mile after supper.'— ft\"-- 
 bury'a Sexo and Ghoise Charactirs, 161f>. 
 
 575
 
 €llf 'BhUfa €nlf. 
 
 I'^HE Winter's Tale was founded on an old novel hy Robert Greene, which was published in 1588, 
 under the following quaint title, — "Pandosto, the Tnumph of Time, wherein is discovered by a 
 pleasant Historic, that, although by the meanes of sinister fortune. Truth may be concealed, yet by 
 Time, in spight of fortune, it is most manifestly revealed : Pleasant for age to avoyde drowsie thoughtes, 
 jirofitable for youth to eschue other wanton Pastimes, and bringing to both a desired cortent." A 
 lupy of this most rare edition is in the British Museum, and the tale continued a favourite with tin- 
 public for upwards of two centuries under the title of " Dorastus and Fawnia." It emerged finally 
 mto the form of the popular chap-book, and within the last few years, a penny might have purchased 
 of a North country pedlar a copy of the original story of the Winter's Tale, sold to a public ignorant 
 of the digniiied use to which it had been applied. 
 
 It is singular that in framiug the play on the ground-work of the novel, Shakespeare should have 
 reversed the circumstances and actions attributed in the latter to the kings of Bohemia and Sicily 
 It w;is this mode of dealing with the subject, which led the poet into the absurdity of giving a sea- 
 shore to Bohemia, which is thus noticed in Ben Jonson's Convei'sations with William Drumraoud, — 
 •• Sheakspear, in a play, brought in a number of men saying they had suffered shipwrack in Bohemia, 
 wher ther is no sea neer by some one hundred miles." There was nothing spiteful in this remark, 
 which has been noticed by some of the editors as a proof of Jonson's malignity towards Shakespeare. 
 It was one of those palpable blunders which would have been detected by most readers of the play, 
 and is most readily to be accounted for by the reason above alluded to, independently of the circum- 
 stance that Bohemia is also mentioned in Pandosto as a maritime countr}'. 
 
 The date of the Winter's Tale can be safely assigned to the year 1610, or very early in 1611, a 
 memorandum in Sir H. Herbert's Diary declaring it was licensed by Sir George Buc, who was named 
 Master of the Revels in October, 1610, and Dr. Forman having recorded an account of it as seen by 
 him at the Globe Theatre on May 15th, 1611. The latter is contained in the Doctor's original manu- 
 script preserved in the Ashmolean Museum at Oxford, and as it is most curious, and has not been given 
 by former editors in its original form, I take the opportunity of adding a precise copy of it, carefully 
 taken by myself from the MS. — 
 
 In the JVinl^rs Talk at th£ Glob, 1611, the 15 of Maye, Wedaesdm/, 
 
 Observe thcr howe Lyontes the Kinge of CicilUa was overoom with jelosy of his wife with the Kinge of Bohemia, 
 nia frind, that came to see him, and howe he contrived his death, and wold have had his cup-berer to have poisoned 
 rhinij wlio pave the King of Bohemia warning therof and fled with Iiim to Boliemia. 
 
 Remember also howe he sent to the orakell of Apollo, and the aunswer of Apollo that she was giltles, and that the 
 '« 577
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 kin^ wr-s jelouse, &c. and howe, except the cliild was found again that was loste, the kinge should die without yssue ; for 
 the child was caried into Bohemia, and there laid in a forrest, and brought up by asheppard, and the Kinge of Bohemia, 
 his Bonn married that wentch ; and howe they fled into Cicillia to Leontes, and the sheppard having showed the letter 
 of the nobleman, by whom Leontes sent, it was that child, and [by] the Jewells found about her, she was knowen to bo 
 Leontes daughter, and was then 16. yers old. 
 
 Remember also the rog that cam in all tottered like roll pixel, and howe he fayned him sicke and to have him rob- 
 bed of all that he had, and howe he cosoned the por man of all his money, and after cam to the shop ther with a pediera 
 packe, and ther cosened them again of all their money ; and how he changed apparcll with the Kinge of Bomia, his 
 soun, and then how he turned courtier, &o. Beware of trustinge feined beggars or fawninge fellouse. 
 
 In the Winter's Tale, the poet has intentionally violated all dramatic rules, and it may be ques- 
 tioned whether he did not himself intend it rather as a romance slightly woven into dramatic action 
 than as a regular drama. It is heresy to say so, but it appears to me the romance of the tale overwhelms 
 the play and the author's dramatic art. There is no ground-idea, for the jealousy of Leontes, which 
 has been so considered, is introduced to us in its perfect developement, and may almost be regarded as 
 the effect of a distempered mind. It is not a leading idea philosophically delineated, and is chiefly ne- 
 cessary to the progress of the tale. Neither has the character of Perdita, fascinating as the poet has 
 imagined it, a title to be considered the prominent feature in the drama. There are others, for example 
 Autolycus, fully as deserving attention, and perhaps the reader is more impressed with either tlian w:th 
 Iho dignity ajid eloquence of nermione. 
 5T8 
 
 i
 
 PERSONS EEPRESENTED. 
 
 Lkontks, King of Sieilia. 
 
 Appears, Act I. so. 2. Act II. so. 1 ; bo. 3. Act III. so. 2. 
 Act V. sc. 1 ; sc. 8. 
 
 Mamillius, son to Leontes. 
 Jfveart, Act I. so 2. Act II. bc.1. 
 
 Camillo, a Sicilian lord. 
 
 Appears, Act I, so. 1 ; so. 2. Act IV. so. 1 ; so. 8. Act V. 
 so. 8. 
 
 Antiqonos, a Sicilian lord. 
 Appear), Act II. so. 1 ; sc. 3. Act III. so. 3. 
 
 Cleomenes, a Sicilian lord. 
 
 Appears, Act III. so. 1 ; sc. 2. Act V. so. 1. 
 
 Dion, a Sicilian lord. 
 Appears, Act III. so. 1 ; sc. 2. Act V. so. 1. 
 
 A Sicilian lord. 
 Appears, Act II. so. 1 : sc. 3. Act III. sc. 2. 
 
 RoGERO, a Sicilian gentleman. 
 Appears, Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 Aji Attendant on the young Prince Mamillius. 
 Appears, Act II. so. 3. 
 
 OflScers of a Court of Judicature. 
 Appear, Act III. sc. 2. 
 
 PoLixENES, King of Bohemia. 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 2. Act IV. sc. 1 ; so. 3. Act V. sc. 3. 
 
 Florizel, son to Polixenes. 
 Appears, Act IV. so. 3. Act V. sc. 1 ; sc. 3. 
 
 Akchidamus, a Bohemian lord. 
 Appears, Act I. sc. 1. 
 
 A Mariner. 
 
 Appears, Act III. so. 3. 
 
 Keeper of a prison. 
 Appears, Act II. so. 2. 
 
 An old She'phcrd, reputed father ofPerditji. 
 Appears, Act III. so. 3. Act IV. sc. 3. Act V. so. 2 
 
 Clown, son to the old Shepherd. 
 Appears, Act III. sc. %. Act IV. sc. 2 ; bo. S. Act V 
 
 60.2. 
 
 Auioi.Tcns, a rogue. 
 Appears, Act IV. bo. 2 ; sc. 3. Act V. so. C 
 
 Time, as Chorvs. 
 Appears, Act IV. (Induction). 
 
 Rustics dressed as Satyrs. 
 
 Appear, Act IV. sc. 3. 
 
 Hermione, Queen to Leontes. 
 
 Appears, Act I. so. 2. Act II. sc. 1. Act III. bc 9. 
 Act V. sc. 3. 
 
 Perdita, daughter to Leontes and Hermione. 
 
 Appears, Act IV. sc. 3. Act V. so. 1 ; sc. 3. 
 
 Paulina, wife to Antigonus. 
 
 Appears, Act U. sc. 2; sc. 3. Act III. so. 2. Act IV 
 so. 1. Act V. 60. 1 ; sc. 0. 
 
 Emilia, a lady attending on the Quoct 
 Appears, Act II. bo. 2. 
 
 Two Ladies attending on the Quoeo. 
 
 Appear, Act II. sc. 1. 
 
 MopSA, a shepherdess. 
 Appears, Act IV. so. 3. 
 
 Dorcas, a shepherdess. 
 Appears, Act IV. sc. 3. 
 
 Lords, Ladies, Gentlemen, and Attcr.dantt, Shqr" 
 herd, Shepherdesses, Guards, dec. 
 
 SCENE, — Sometimes in Sicilia ; sometimes in 
 Bohemia. 
 
 579
 
 €l)f l^intfr'B Calf. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE 1.— Siiilia. 
 
 An Antechamber in Leontes' 
 Palace. 
 
 Enter Camillo and Archidamus. 
 
 Arch. If yon shall chance, Camillo, to visit Bo- 
 hemia, on the like occasion whereon my services 
 are now on foot, you shall see, as I have said, great 
 diiference betwixt our Bohemia and your Sicilia. 
 
 Cam. I think, this coming summer, the king of 
 Sicilia means to pay Bohemia the visitation which 
 he justly owes him. 
 
 Arch. Wherein our entertainment shall shame 
 us we will be justified in our loves : for, indeed, — 
 
 Cam. 'Beseech you, — 
 
 Arch. Verily, I speak it in the freedom of my 
 knowledge : we cannot with such magnificence — 
 in so rare — I know not what to say. — "We will 
 give you sleepy drinks, that your senses, unin- 
 telligent of our insufficience, may, though they 
 cannot praise us, as little accuse us. 
 
 Cam,. You pay a great deal too dear for what 's 
 given freely. :l■v!ll^OT,■,^■i ' 
 
 Arch. Believe me, I speak as my understanding 
 instructs me, and as mine honesty puts it to 
 utterance. 
 
 Cam. Sicilia cannot show himself over-kind to 
 Buliemia. They were train'd together in their 
 cliildhoods ; and there rooted betwixt them then 
 Ruch an sifieclion which cannot choose but branch 
 now. Since their more mature dignities, and 
 S80 
 
 royal necessities, made separation of their .'ooiety 
 their encountere, though not personal, have been 
 royally attorneyed, with interchange of spt's. 
 letters, loving embassies ; that they have seem J 
 to be together, though absent; shook hands, m 
 over a vast;' and embrac'd, as it were, from tho 
 ends of opposed winds. The Heavens continue 
 their loves ! 
 
 Arch. I think there is not in the world either 
 malice or matter to alter it. You have an un- 
 speakable comfort of your young prince Mamillius ; 
 it is a gentleman of the greatest promise that evei 
 came into my note. 
 
 Cam. I very well agree with you in tho hopes 
 of him : It is a gallant child ; one that, indeed, 
 physics the subject, makes old hearts fresh ; they 
 that went on crutches ere he was born, desire yet 
 tlieir life to see him a man. 
 
 Arch. Would they else be content to die ? 
 
 Cam. Yes ; if there were no other excuse wliy 
 they should desire to live. 
 
 Arch. K the king had no son, they would de- 
 sire to live on crutches till he had one. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE ll.—Thc same. A Boom of Stale in the 
 Palace. 
 
 Enter Lbontks, PoLrxKNEs, Hkrmione, Mamiluus, 
 
 Camillo, and Attendants. 
 
 Pol. Nine changes of the wal'ry star have boen
 
 ACT I. 
 
 TPK '.V':STER'S TALE. 
 
 RCEXE n. 
 
 The shepherd's note, since wo have left our 
 
 tlirone 
 Without a burthen • time as long agaiu 
 Would be fill'd up, my brother, with our thanks : 
 And yet we should, for perpetuity, 
 Go hence in debt : And therefore, like a cipher. 
 Yet standing in rich place, I multiply, 
 With one we-thank-you, many thousands more 
 That go before it. 
 
 Leon. Stay your thanks awhile ; 
 
 And pay them when you part. 
 
 Pol, Sir, that 's to-morrow. 
 
 I am question'd b)' my fears, of what may chance, 
 Or breed upon our absence : That may blow 
 No sneaping winds at home, to make us say, 
 " This is put forth too truly !" Besides, I have 
 
 stay'd 
 To tire your royalty. 
 
 Leon. We are tougher, brother, 
 
 Than you can put us to 't. 
 
 Pol. No longer stay. 
 
 Leon. One seven-night longer. 
 
 Pol. Very sooth, to-morrow. 
 
 Leon. We 'll part the time between 's then : 
 and in that 
 I '11 no gainsaying. 
 
 Pol. Press me not, 'beseech you, so ; 
 
 There is no tongue that moves, none, none i' the 
 
 world, 
 So soon as yours, could win me : so it should now. 
 Were there necessity in your request, although 
 'T were needful I deny'd it. My affairs 
 I>o even drag me homeward : which to hinder 
 Were, in your love, a whip to me ; my stay. 
 To you a charge and trouble : to save both. 
 Farewell, our brother. 
 
 Leon. Tongue-ti'd, our queen ? speak 
 
 you. 
 
 Her. I had thought, sir, to have held my peace, 
 until 
 Vou had drawn oaths from him, not to stay. You, 
 
 sir. 
 Charge him too coldly : Tell him, you are sure 
 All in Bohemia 's well : this satisfaction 
 The by-gone day proclaim'd ; say this to him, 
 He 's beat from his best ward. 
 
 Leon. Well said, Hermione. 
 
 Her. To tell tie longs to see his son, were 
 strong : 
 But let him say so then, and let him go ; 
 But let him swear so, and he shall not stay, 
 We 'Jl thwack him hence with distaffs. — 
 
 Yet of your royal presence [to Poi ix.] I '11 ad- 
 venture 
 The borrow of a week. AVhen at B* hemia 
 You take my lord, I '11 give him my commission. 
 To let him there a month, behinj the gest 
 Prefi.v'd for 's parting : yet, good deed, Leontes, 
 I love thee not a jar o' the clock behind 
 What lady should her lord. — You '11 stay ? 
 
 Pol. No, madam. 
 
 Her. Nay, but you will ? 
 
 Pol. I may not, verily. 
 
 Her. Verily ! 
 You put me off with limber vows : But I, 
 Though you would seek t' unsphere the stars with 
 
 oaths, 
 Should yet say, " Sir, no going." Verily, 
 You shall not go ; a lady's verily is 
 As potent as a lord's. Will you go yet ? 
 Force me to keep you as a prisoner. 
 Not like a guest ; so you shall pay your fees, 
 When you depart, and save your thanks. How 
 
 say you ? 
 My prisoner ? or my guest ? by your dread verily, 
 One of them you shall be. 
 
 Pol. Your guest then, madam : 
 
 To be your prisoner should import oflending ; 
 Which is for me less easy to commit. 
 Than you to punish. 
 
 Her. Not your gaoler then, 
 
 But your kind hostess. Come, I '11 question you 
 Of my lord's tricks, and ycnrs, when you were 
 
 boys; 
 You were pretty lordings theu. 
 
 Pol. We were, fair queen. 
 
 Two lads, that thought there was no more behind 
 But such a day to-morrow as to-day, 
 And to be boy eternal. 
 
 Her. Was not my lord the verier wag o' the 
 two ? 
 
 Pol. We were as twinn'd lambs, that did frisk 
 i' the sun. 
 And bleat the one at th' other : WTiat we chang'd 
 Was innocence for innocence ; we knew not 
 The doctrine of ill-doing, nor dream'd 
 That any did : Had we pursu'd that hfe, 
 And our weak spirits ne'er been higher rear'd 
 With stronger blood, we should have answer'd 
 
 Heaven 
 Boldly, " Not guilty ;" the imposition c'ear'd 
 Hereditary ours. 
 
 Her. By this wo gather. 
 
 You have tripp'd since. 
 
 S81
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCENE U. 
 
 Pol. my most sacred lady, 
 
 Temptations have since then been born t' us : for 
 In those unfledg'd days was my wife a girl ; 
 Your precious self had then not cross'd the eyes 
 Of my young playfellow. 
 
 Her. Grace to boot ! 
 
 Of this make no conclusion ; lest you say 
 Your queen and I are devils ; Yet, go on ; 
 Th' offences we have made you do we '11 answer ; 
 If you first sinn'd with us, and that with us 
 You did continue fault, and that you sllpp'd not 
 With any but with us. 
 
 Leon. Is he won yet ? 
 
 Ifer. He '11 stay, my lord. 
 Leon. At my request, he would not.' 
 
 Hermione, my dearest, thou never spok'st 
 To better purpose. 
 
 Ser. Never ? 
 
 Leon. Never, but once. 
 
 Jler. What ? have I twice said well ? when 
 was 't before ? 
 1 prithee, tell me : Cram 's with praise, and make 's 
 As fat as tame things : One good deed dying 
 
 tongueless 
 Slaughters a thousand, waiting upon that. 
 Our praises are our wages : You may ride 's 
 With one soft kiss, a thousand furlongs, ere 
 With spur we heat an acre. But to th' goal ; — 
 My last good deed was to entreat his stay ; 
 What was my first ? it has an elder sister. 
 Or I mistake you : O, would her name were Grace ! 
 But once before I spoke to th' purpose : When ? 
 Nay, let me have 't ; I long. 
 
 Leon. Why, that was when 
 
 Three crabbed months had sour'd themselves to 
 
 death, 
 Ere I could make thee open thy white hand. 
 And clap thyself my love ; then didst thou utter, 
 " I am yours for ever." 
 
 Her. 'T is Grace, indeed. — 
 
 Why, lo you now, I liave spoke to th' purpose twice; 
 The one for ever earn'd a royal husband ; 
 Th' other, for some while a friend. 
 
 [Giviny her hand to Pol. 
 Zi'on. Too hot, too hot : [Aside. 
 
 To mingle friendship far, is mingling bloods. 
 I have tremor cordis on me : — my heart dances ; 
 But not foi joy, — not joy. — This entertainment 
 May a free face put on ; derive a liberty 
 From hcaitiness, from bounty, fertile bosom. 
 And well bcccme the agent : it may, I grant : 
 But to be p.iddling paiics, and pinching fingers, 
 
 .IS 2 
 
 As now they are ; and making prictis'd smiles, 
 As in a looking glass ; — and then to sigh, ;i9 
 
 't were 
 The mort o' the deer ; O, that is entertainment 
 My bosom likes not, nor my brows. — Maraillius, 
 Art thou my boy ? 
 
 Mam. Ay, my good lord. 
 
 Leon. r fecks ? 
 
 Why, that 's my bawcock. What, hast smutcb'd 
 
 thy nose ? — 
 They say it is a copy out of mine. Come, captain, 
 We must be neat ; not neat, but cleanly, captain : 
 And yet the steer, the heifer, and the calf, 
 Are all call'd neat. — Still virginalling 
 
 \^Observinff Pol. and Hep^ 
 Upon his palm ? — How now, you wanton calf ? 
 Alt thou my calf? 
 
 Mam. Yes, if you will, my lord. 
 
 Leon. Thou want'st a rough pash,' and thi! 
 shoots that I have. 
 To be full like me : — yet, they say we are 
 Almost .as like as eggs ; women say so. 
 That will say anything : But were they false 
 As o'er-di'd blacks, as wind, as waters ; false 
 As dice are to be wish'd, by one that fixes 
 No bourn 'twixt his and mine ; yet were it true 
 To say this boy were like me. — Come, sir page. 
 Look on me with your welkin eye : Sweet villain 
 Most dear'st ! my collop ! — Can thy dam ? — may 
 
 'the? 
 Afiection, thy intention stabs the centre :* 
 Thou dost make possible things not so held, 
 Communicat'st with dreams ; — (How can this be ?) 
 With what 's unreal thou coactive art, 
 And fellow'st nothing : Then, 't is very credent, 
 Thou mayst co-join with something; and thou dost' 
 (And that beyond commission ; and I find it,) 
 And that to the infection of my brains. 
 And hardening of my brows. 
 
 Pol. What means Sicilia ? 
 
 ffer. He something seems unsettled. 
 
 Pol. How 1 my lord ! 
 
 Leon. What cheer 3 how is 't with you, best 
 brother ? 
 
 //(■)•. You look 
 
 As if you held a brow oif much distraction. 
 Are you mcv'd, my lord ? 
 
 Leon. No, in good ear: est. — 
 
 IIow sometimes n.ature will betray ts folly, 
 Its tenderness, and make itself a pastime 
 To harder bosoms 1 Looking on the lines 
 Of my boy's face, my thoughts I did recoil
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE 
 
 HCENU II. 
 
 Twentj-three years ; and saw myself unbreech'd 
 In my green velvet coat; my dagger muzzled, 
 Lest it should bite its master, and so prove, 
 As ornaments oft do, too dangerous. 
 How like, raetliougbt, I then was to this kernel. 
 This squash, this gentleman : — Mine honest friend, 
 Will you take eggs for money ?' 
 Mam. No, my lord, I '11 fight. 
 Leon. You will 1 why, happy man be 's dole ! — 
 my brother, 
 Are you so fond of your young prince, as we 
 Do seem to be of ours ? 
 
 Pol. K at home, sir. 
 
 He 's all my exorcise, my mirth, my matter : 
 Now my sworn friend, and then mine enemy ; 
 My parasite, my soldier, statesman, all : 
 He makes a July's day short as December ; 
 And, with his varying childness, cures in me 
 Thoughts that would thick my blood. 
 
 Leon. So stands this squire 
 
 OfEc'd with me : We two will walk, my lord. 
 And leave you to your graver steps. — Hermione, 
 How thou lov'st us, show in our brother's wel- 
 come; 
 Let what is dear in Sicily be cheap : 
 Next to thyself, and my young rover,' he 's 
 Apparent to my heart. 
 
 Her. K you would seek us. 
 
 Wo are yours i' the garden : Shall 's attend you 
 there » 
 Leo^i. To your own bents dispose you : you '11 
 be found, 
 Be you beneath the sky : — I am angling now. 
 Though you ptirceive me not how I give line. 
 Go to, go to ! ^Aside. Observing Pol. and Herm. 
 How she holds up the neb,' the bill to him ! 
 And arms her with the boldness of a wife 
 To her allowing husband ! Gone already ; 
 Inch-thick, knee-deep, o'er head and ears a fork'd 
 one. 
 
 \Exeunt Pol,, Herm., and Attendants. 
 Go, play, boy, play ; — thy mother plays, and I 
 Play too ; but so disgrac'd a part, whose issue 
 Will hiss me to my grave ; contempt and clamour 
 Will be my knell. — Go, play, boy, play ; — There 
 
 have been. 
 Or I am much deceiv'd, cuckolds ere now ; 
 And many a man there is, even at this present. 
 Now, while I speak this, holds his wife by th' arm. 
 That little thinks she has been sluic'd in 's ab- 
 sence. 
 And his pond fisb'd by his next neighbour, by 
 
 Sir Smile, his neighbour : nay, there 's comfort 
 
 in't, 
 Whiles other men have gates, and those gatea 
 
 open'd. 
 As mine, against their will : Should all despair 
 That have revolted wives, the tenth of mankind 
 Would hang themselves. Physic for 't there 's 
 
 none ; 
 It is a bawdy planet, that will strike 
 Where 't is predominant ; and 't is powerful, 
 
 think it. 
 From east, west, north, and south. Be it con- 
 cluded, 
 No barricado for a belly ; know 't ; 
 It will let in and out the enemy. 
 With bag and b.aggage : many a thousand on 's 
 Have the disease, and feel 't not. — How now, 
 boy? 
 Mam. I am like you, they say, 
 Leon. Why, that 's some comfort. — 
 
 What ! Caraillo, there ? 
 Cam. Kj, my good lord. 
 
 Leon. Go play, Mamillius ; thou 'rt an honest 
 man. — [E.xit Mamillius. 
 
 Caraillo, this great sir will yet stay longer. 
 
 Cam. You had much ado to make his anchor 
 hold: 
 When you cast out, it still came home. 
 Leon. Didst note it ? 
 
 Cam. He would not stay at your petitions ; 
 made 
 His business more material. 
 
 Leon. Didst perceive it ? — 
 
 They 're here with me already ; whisp'ring 
 
 rounding,' 
 " Sicilia is a — so-forth :" 'T is far gone. 
 When I shall gust it last. — How came 't, Camillo 
 That he did stay ? 
 
 Cam. At the good queen's entreaty. 
 
 Leon. At the queen's, be 't : good, should be 
 pertinent : 
 But so it is, it is not. Was this taken 
 By any understanding pate but thine ? 
 For thy conceit is soaking, will draw in 
 More than the common blocks : — Not noted, is 't. 
 But of the finer natures ? by some severals 
 Of head-piece extraordinary ? lower messes 
 Perchance are to this business purblind ? say. 
 Cam. Business, my lord? I think most imder- 
 stand 
 Bohemia stays here longer, 
 Leon. Ha 1 
 
 583
 
 ACT 1. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 Cam. Stays here ionger. 
 
 Leon. Ay, but why ? 
 
 Cam. To satisfy your higliness, and the en- 
 treaties 
 Of our most gracious mistress. 
 
 Leon. Satisfy 
 
 Th' entreaties of your mistress ? satisfy ? — 
 
 Let that suffice. I have trusted thee, Camillo, 
 With all the nearest things to my heart, as well 
 My chamber-councils : wherein, priest-like, thou 
 Uast cleans'd my bosom ; I from thee departed 
 Thy penitent reform'd : but we have been 
 Deceiv'd in thy integrity, deceiv'd 
 In that which seems so. 
 
 Cam. Be it forbid, my lord ! 
 
 Leon. To bide upon 't,' — thou art not honest ; or, 
 [f thou inclin'st that way, thou art a coward ; 
 Which boxes'" honesty behind, restraining 
 From course requir'd : Or else thou must be counted 
 A servant grafted in my serious trust, 
 And therein negligent : or else a fool. 
 That seest a game play'd home, the rich stake 
 
 drawn, 
 And tak'st it all for jest. 
 
 Can. My graciotis lord, 
 
 I may be negligent, foolish, and fearful ; 
 In every one of these no man is free. 
 But that his negligence, his folly, fear, 
 Amongst the infinite doings of the world, 
 Sometime puts forth : In your affairs, my lord. 
 If ever I were wilful-negligent. 
 It was my folly ; if industriously 
 I play'd the fool, it was my negligence. 
 Not weighing well the end ; if ever fearful 
 To do a thing, where I the issue doubted. 
 Whereof the execution did cry out 
 Against the non-performance, 't was a fear 
 Which oft infects the \visest : these, my lord, 
 Are such allow'd infirmities, that lionesty 
 Is never free of. But, 'beseech your grace. 
 Be plainer with me : let me know my trespass 
 By its own visage : if I then deny it, 
 "T is none of mine. 
 
 Leon. Have not you seen, Camillo, 
 
 (But that 's past doubt — you have ; or your eye- 
 
 gl;iss 
 Is thicker than a cuckold's horn,) or heard 
 (For to a vision so apparent, rumour 
 Cannot be mute,) or thought, (for cogitation 
 Resides not in that man that docs not think,) 
 My wife is slljiiiery ? If thou wilt confess, 
 (Or clsa be impudently negative 
 694 
 
 To have nor eyes, nor ears, nor thought,) then say 
 My wife 's hobby-horse ; deserves a name 
 As rank as any flax-wench, that puts to 
 Before her troth-plight : say 't, and justify 't. 
 Cam. I would not be a stander-by, to hear 
 My sovereign mistress clouded so, without 
 My present vengeance taken : 'Shrew my heart, 
 You never spoke what did become you less 
 Than this ; which to reiterate, were sin 
 As deep as that, though true. 
 
 Leon. Is whispering nothing ? 
 
 Is leaning cheek to cheek ? is meeting noses ? 
 Kissing with inside lip ? stopping the career 
 Of laughter with a sigh ? (a note infallible 
 Of breaking honesty :) horsing foot on foot ? 
 Skulking in cornel's ? wishing clocks more swift ? 
 Hours, minutes ? noon, midnight ? and all eyes 
 Blind with the pin and web but theirs, theii's 
 
 only 
 That would unseen be wicked 1 is this nothing ? 
 Why, then the world, and all that 's in 't, if 
 
 nothing ; 
 The covering sky is nothing ; Bohemia nothing ; 
 My wife is nothing ; nor nothing have these 
 
 nothings, 
 If this be nothing. 
 
 Cam. Good, my lord, be cur'd 
 
 Of this diseas'd opinion, and betimes ; 
 For 't is most dangerous. 
 
 Leon. Say, it be ; 't is true. 
 
 Cam. No, no, my lord. 
 Leon. It is ; you lie, you lie : 
 
 I say, thou liest, Camillo, and I hate thee ; 
 Pronounce thee a gross lout, a mindless slave ; 
 Or else a hovering temporizer, that 
 Canst with thine eyes at once see good and evil, 
 Inclining to them both : Were my wife's liver 
 Infected as her life, she would not live 
 The running of one glass. 
 
 Cam. Who does infect her ? 
 
 Leon. Why, ho that wears her like a medal, 
 
 hanging 
 About his neck, Bohemia ; — Who — if I 
 Had servants true about me, that bare eyes 
 To see alike mine honour as their profit.'. 
 Their own particular thrifts, — they would do that 
 Which should undo more doing : Ay, and thou, 
 His cup-bearer, — whom I from meaner form 
 Have bench'd and rear'd to worship ; who may'^sl 
 
 see 
 Plainly, as heaven sees earth, and earth sees heaven, 
 How I am gall'd, — might'st bespice a cup,
 
 ACT I 
 
 TUE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 To give mine enemy a lasting wink ; 
 VVliicb draught to me were cordial. 
 
 Cam. Sir, my lord, 
 
 I could do this ; and that with no rash potion, 
 Hut with a ling'ring dram, that should not work 
 Maliciously like poison : But I cannot 
 [Jelieve this crack to be in my dread mistress, 
 So sovereignly being honourable. 
 I have lov'd thee, — 
 
 Leon. Make that thy question, and go rot ! 
 
 Dost think I am so muddy, so unsettled. 
 To appoint m3'self in this vexation ? sully 
 Tlie purity and whiteness of my sheets. 
 Which to preserve is sleep ; which being spotted, 
 Is goads, thorns, nettles, tails of wasps ? 
 Give scandal to the blood o' the prince my son, 
 Wlio I do think is mine, and love as mine. 
 Without ripe moving to 't ? — Would I do this ? 
 Could man so blench ? 
 
 Cam. I must believe you, sir ; 
 
 I do ; and will fetch off Bohemia for 't : 
 Provided, that when he 's remov'd, your highness 
 Will take again your queen, as yours at first ; 
 Even for your son's sake ; and, thereby, for sealing 
 The injury of tongues, in courts and kingdoms 
 Known and ally'd to yours. 
 
 Leon. Thou dost advise me. 
 
 Even so as I mine own course have set down : 
 I '11 give no blemish to her honour, none. 
 
 Cam. My lord. 
 Go then ; aud with a countenance as clear 
 As friendship wears at feasts, keep with Bohemia, 
 And with your queen : I am his cupbearer ; 
 If from me he have wholesome beverage. 
 Account me not your servant. 
 
 Leon. This is all : 
 
 Do 't, and thou hast the one half of my heart ; 
 Do 't not, thou splitt'st thine own. 
 
 Cam. I '11 do 't, my lord. 
 
 Leon. I will seem friendly, as thou hast advis'd 
 me. [Exit. 
 
 Cam. miserable lady ! — But, for me. 
 What case stand 1 in ? I must be the poisoner 
 Of gooil Polixenes : and my ground to do 't 
 Is the obedience to a master ; one. 
 Who, in rebellion with himself, will have 
 All that are his so too. — To do this deed. 
 Promotion follows : If I could find example 
 Of thousands that had struck anointed kings 
 And flourish'd after, I 'd not do 't : but since 
 Nor brass, nor stone, nor parchment, bears not one. 
 Let villany itself forswear 't. I must 
 
 14 
 
 Forsake the court : to do 't, or no, is certain 
 To me a break-neck, llappy star, reign now 1 
 Here comes Bohemia. 
 
 Pol. 
 
 JRe-enter Polixenes. 
 
 This is strange ! methinks. 
 
 My favour here begins to warp. Not speak! — 
 Good day, Camillo. 
 
 Cam. Hail, most royal sir ! 
 
 Pol. What is the news i' the court ? 
 
 Catn. None rare, ray lord. 
 
 Pol. The king hath on him such a countenauo€ 
 As he had lost some province, and a region 
 Lov'd as he loves himself: even now I met hira 
 With customary compliment ; when he. 
 Wafting his eyes to the contrary, and falling 
 A lip of much contempt, speeds from me ; and 
 So leaves me, to consider what is breeding 
 That changes thus his manners. 
 
 Cam. I dare not know, my lord. 
 
 Pol. How ! dare not ? do not ? Do you know, 
 and dare not 
 Be intelligent to me ? 'T is thereabouts ; 
 For, to yourself, what you do know you must ; 
 And cannot say, you dare not. Good Camillo, 
 Your chang'd complexions are to me a mirror, 
 Which shows me mine chang'd too : for I must bo 
 A party in this alteration, finding 
 Myself thus alter'd with it. 
 
 Cam. There is a sickness 
 
 Which puts some of us in distemper ; but 
 I cannot name the disease ; and it is caught 
 Of you that yet are well. 
 
 Pol. IIow caught of me ? 
 
 Make me not sighted like the basilisk : 
 I have look'd on thousands who have sped the 
 
 better 
 By my regard, but kill'd none so. Camillo — 
 As you are certainly a gentleman ; thereto 
 Clerk-like, experienc'd, which no less adorns 
 Our gentry, than our parents' noble names, 
 In whose success" we ai'e gentle, — I beseech you, 
 If you know aught which does behove my know- 
 ledge 
 Thereof to be inform'd, imprison 't not 
 In ignorant concealment. 
 
 Cam. I may not answer. 
 
 Pol. A sickness caught of me, and yet I well 
 I must be answer'd. — Dost thou hear, Camillo ? 
 I conjure thee, by all the parts of man 
 Which honour does acknowledge, — whereof the 
 least
 
 iCT I. 
 
 THE WrNTEK'S TALE. 
 
 BOEME n. 
 
 Is not this suit of mine, — that thou declare 
 What incidency thou dost guess of harm 
 Is creeping toward me ; how far ofl", how near ; 
 Which way to be prevented, if to be ; 
 If not, how best to bear it. 
 
 Cam. Sir, I will tell you ; 
 
 Since I am charg'd in honour, and by him 
 That I think honourable : Therefore, mark my 
 
 counsel ; 
 Which must be e'en as swiftly followed as 
 I mean to utter it ; or both yourself and me 
 Cry " lost," and so good night. 
 
 Pol. On, good Camillo. 
 
 Cam. I am appointed him to murther you. 
 
 Pol. By whom, Camillo ? 
 
 Cam. By the king. 
 
 Pol. For what ? 
 
 Cam. He thinks, nay, with all confidence, he 
 swears, 
 As he had seen 't or been an instrument 
 To vice you to 't, — that you have touch'd his queen 
 Forbiddenly. 
 
 Pol. 0, then my best blood turn 
 
 To an infected jelly ; and my name 
 Be yok'd with his that did betray the Best ! 
 Turn then my freshest reputation to 
 A savour that may strike the dullest nostril 
 Where I arrive ; and my approach be shunn'd, 
 Nay, hated too, worse than the great'st infection 
 That e'er was heard, or read ! 
 
 Cam. Swear his thought over 
 
 By each particular star in heaven, and 
 By all their influences, you may as well 
 Forbid the sea for to obey the moon, 
 As, or by oath, remove, or counsel, shake 
 'I he fabric of his folly ; whose foundation 
 Is pil'd upon his faith, and will continue 
 TJie standing of his body. 
 
 Pol. How should this grow ? 
 
 Cam. I know not ; but, I am sure, 't is safer to 
 
 586 
 
 Avoid what 's grown than question how 't is boro. 
 If therefore you dare trust my honesty, — 
 That lies enclosed in this trunk, which you 
 Shall bear along impawn'd, — away to-night. 
 Your followers I will whisper to the business ; 
 And will, by twos and threes, at several posterns, 
 Clear them o' the city : For myself, I '11 put 
 !My fortunes to your service, which are here 
 By this discovery lost. Be not uncertain ; 
 I'^or, by the honour of my parents, I 
 Have utter'd truth : which, if you seek to 
 
 prove, 
 I dare not stand by ; nor shall you be safer 
 Than one condemn'd by the king's own moutli, 
 
 thereon 
 His execution sworn. 
 
 Pol. I do believe thee ; 
 
 I saw his heart in 's face. Give me thy hand ; 
 Be pilot to me, and thy places shall 
 Still neighbour mine : My ships are ready, and 
 My people did expect my hence departure 
 Two days ago. — This Jealousy 
 Is for a precious creature : as she 's rare, 
 Must it be great ; and, as his person 's mighty. 
 Must it be violent : and as he does conceive 
 He is dishonour'd by a man which ever 
 Profess'd to him, why, his revenges must 
 In that bo made more bitter. Fear o'ershades 
 
 me : 
 Good expedition be my friend, and comfort 
 The gracious queen, part of his theme, but 
 
 nothing 
 Of his ill-ta'en suspicion ! Come, Camillo ; 
 I will respect thee as a father, if 
 Thou bear'st my life off hence. Let us avoid. 
 
 Cam. It is in mine authority to command 
 The keys of all the posterns : Please yout 
 
 highness . 
 To take the m'gent hour ; come, sir, away. 
 
 [Eiennt.
 
 ^nictC'-.
 
 
 ACT ir. TIIE WINTER'S TALE. soske l 
 
 ACT 
 
 II. 
 
 SCENE L— Sicilia. The Palace. 
 
 To flight me with your sprites : you 're powerful 
 
 Enter Hermione, Mamillius, and Ladies. 
 
 at it. 
 Mam. There was a man, — 
 
 Her. Take the boy to you : he so troubles me 
 
 Her, Nay, come, sit down ; then on. 
 
 'T is past enduring. 
 
 Mam. Dwelt by a churchyard ; — I will tell it 
 
 1 Lady. Come, my gracious lord, 
 
 softly ; 
 
 Shall I be your playfellow ? 
 
 Yon crickets shall not hear it. 
 
 Mam. No, I '11 none of you. 
 
 Her. Come on then, 
 
 1 Lady. Why, my sweet lord ? 
 
 And give 't me in mine ear. 
 
 Mam: You '11 kiss me hard ; and speak to me 
 
 
 as if I were a baby still. — I love you better. 
 
 Enter Leontes, Antigonus, Lords, otid others. 
 
 2 Lady. And why so, my lord ? 
 
 Leon. Was he met there? his train? Camillo 
 
 Mam. Not for because 
 
 with him ? 
 
 Your brows are blacker ; yet black brows, they say. 
 
 1 Lord. Behind the tuft of pines I met them ; 
 
 Become some women best ; so that there be not 
 
 never 
 
 Too much hair there, but in a semicircle, 
 
 Saw I men scour so on their way ; I ey'd them 
 
 Or a half-moon made with a pen. 
 
 Even to their ships. 
 
 2 Lady. Who taught this ? 
 
 Leon. How bless'd am I 
 
 Mam. I leam'd it out of women's faces : pray 
 
 In my just censure ! — in my tnie opinion ! 
 
 now 
 
 Alack, for lesser knowledge ! — How accurs'd 
 
 What colour are your eyebrows ? 
 
 In being so bless'd ! — There may be in the cup 
 
 1 Lady. Blue, my lord. 
 
 A spider steep'd," and one may drink ; depart. 
 
 Mam. Nay, that 's a mock : I have seen a lady's 
 
 And yet parUike no venom : for his knowledge 
 
 nose 
 
 Is not infected : but if one present 
 
 That has been blue, but not her eyebrows. 
 
 The abhorr'd ingredieut to his eye, make known 
 
 2 Lady. Hark ye : 
 
 How he hath drunk, he cracks his gorge, hia 
 
 The queen, your mother, rounds apace : we shall 
 
 sides 
 
 Present our services to a fine new prince. 
 
 With violent hefts : — I have drunk, and seen the 
 
 One of these days ; and then you 'd wanton with 
 
 spider. 
 
 us. 
 
 Camillo was his help in this, his pander : — 
 
 If wo would have you. 
 
 There is a plot against my life, my crown ; 
 
 1 Lady. She is spread of late 
 
 All 's true that is mistrusted : — that fiilse villain, 
 
 Into a goodly bulk : Good time encounter her ! 
 
 Whom I employ'd, was pre-employ'd by him : 
 
 Her. What wisdom stirs amongst you ? Come, 
 
 He has discover'd my design, and I 
 
 sir, now 
 
 Remain a pinch'd thing ; yea, a very trick 
 
 I am for you again : Pray you, sit by us. 
 
 For them to play at will : — How came the [osterna 
 
 And tell 's a tale. 
 
 So easily open ? 
 
 Mam. MeiTy, or sad, shall 't be ? 
 
 1 Lord. By his great authority ; 
 
 Her. As, merry as you will. 
 
 Which often hath no less prevail'd than so, 
 
 Mam. A sad tale 's best for winter : 
 
 On your command. 
 
 I have one of sprites and goblins. 
 
 Leon. I know 't too well. — 
 
 Her. Let 's have that, good sir. 
 
 Give me tlie boy ; I am glad you did not nniso 
 
 Come on, sit down : — Come on, and do your best 
 
 him : 
 
 
 687 
 
 1
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 Though he does bear some signs of me, yet you 
 Have too much blood in him. 
 
 Her. What is this ? sport ? 
 
 Leyn. Bear the boy hence, he shall not come 
 about her ; 
 Away with him : — and let her sport herself 
 With that she 's big with ; for 't is Polixenes 
 Has made thee swell thus. 
 
 Her. But I 'd say, he had not ; 
 
 And, I '11 be sworn, you would believe my saying 
 Howc'er you lean to th' nayward. 
 
 Leon. You, my lords, 
 
 Look on her, mark her well ; be but about 
 To say " she is a goodly lady," and 
 The justice of your hearts will thereto add, 
 " 'T is pity she 's not honest honourable :" 
 Praise her but for this her >vithout-door form, 
 (Which, on my faith, deserves high speech,) and 
 
 straight 
 The shrug, the hum, or ha ; these petty brands 
 That calumny doth use : — O, I am out, 
 That mercy does ; for calumny will sear 
 
 Virtue itself : these shrugs. 
 
 these hums, and 
 
 ha's. 
 
 When you have said she 's goodly, come between, 
 Ere you can say she 's honest : But be 't known. 
 From him that has most cause to grieve it should 
 
 be, 
 She 's an adultress. 
 
 Her. Should a villain say so. 
 
 The most replenish'd \'illain in the world. 
 He were as much more villain : you, my lord. 
 Do but mistake. 
 
 Leon. You have mistook, my lady, 
 
 I'olixenes for Leontes : O thou thing, 
 Which I 'II not call a creature of thy place, 
 Lest barbarism, making me the precedent, 
 Should a like language use to all degrees. 
 And mannerly distinguishment leave out 
 Betwixt the prince and beggar ! — I have said. 
 She 's an adultress ; I have said, with whom ; 
 More, she 's a traitor ; and Camilla is 
 A federary" with her ; and one that knows 
 What she should shame to know herself. 
 But with her most vilJ principal, that she 's 
 A bed-Rwerver, even as bad as those 
 That vulgars give bold'st titles ; ay, and privy 
 To this their late escape. 
 
 Her. No, by my life, 
 
 Privy to none of this : How will this grieve you 
 When you shall come to clearer knowledge, that 
 Vou thus have publish'd me Gentle my loid, 
 688 
 
 You scarce can right me throughly then, to say 
 You did mistake. 
 
 Leon. No ; if I mistake 
 
 In those foundations which I build upon, 
 The centre is not big enough to bear 
 A schoolboy's top. — Away with her to prison : 
 He who shall speak for her is afar off guilty 
 But that he speaks. 
 
 Her. There 's some ill planet reigns : 
 I must be patient, till the heavens look 
 With an aspect more favourable. — Good my lords, 
 I am not prone to weeping, as our sex 
 Commonly are ; the want of which vain dew. 
 Perchance, shall dry your pities : but I have 
 That honourable grief lodg'd here, which bums 
 Worse than tears drown : 'Beseech you all, my 
 
 lords. 
 With thoughts so qualified as your charities 
 Shall best instruct you, measure me ; — and so 
 The king's will be perform'd ! 
 
 Leon. Shall I be heard ? [ JT? /Ae Guards 
 
 Her. Who is 't that goes with me ? — 'Beseech 
 your highness. 
 My women may be with me : for, you see, 
 My plight requires it. Do not weep, good fools ; 
 There is no cause : when you shall know your 
 
 mistress 
 Has deserv'd prison, then abound in tears, 
 As I come out : this action I now go on 
 Is for my better grace. — Adieu, my lord ; 
 I never wish'd to see you sorry ; now, 
 I trust I shall. — My women, come ; you have 
 leave. 
 
 Leon. Go, do our bidding; hence. 
 
 \Exexint Queen and Ladies. 
 
 1 Lord. 'Beseech your highness, call the queen 
 again. 
 
 Ant. Be certain what you do, sir; lest your 
 justice 
 Prove violence : in the which three great ones 
 
 suffer : 
 Yourself, your queen, your son. 
 
 1 Lord. For her, my lord, 
 
 I dare my life lay down, and will do 't, sir. 
 Please you t' accept it, that the queen is sjx>tlos8 
 r th' eyes of Heaven, and to you ; I mean, 
 In this which you accuse her. 
 
 Ant. If it prove 
 
 She 's otherwise, 1 '11 keep my stables whore 
 I lodge my wife ; I' 11 go in cou])les with hoi ; 
 Than when I feel and see her, no further tnist 
 her;
 
 TUE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 b(;enk II. 
 
 For every inch of woman in the world, 
 Ay, every dram of woman's flesh, is false, 
 If she be. 
 
 Leon. Hold your peaces. 
 
 1 Lord. Good, my lord, — 
 
 Ant. It is for you we speak, not for ourselves : 
 You are abus'd, and by some putter-on, 
 That will be damn'd for 't ; would I knew the 
 
 villain, 
 I would land-damn" him : Be she honour-flaw'd — 
 I have three daughters ; the eldest is eleven ; 
 The second, and the third, nine, and some five ;" 
 If this prove true, they '11 pay for 't : by mine 
 
 honour, 
 I '11 geld 'em all : fourteen they shall not see, 
 To bring false generations : they are co-heirs ; 
 And I had rather glib myself than they 
 Should not produce fair issue. 
 
 Leon. Cease ; no more. 
 
 You smell this business with a sense aa cold 
 As is a dead man's nose ; but I do see 't and feel 't, 
 As you feel doing thus ; and see withal 
 The instruments that feel. 
 
 Ant. K it be so, 
 
 We need no grave to bury honesty ; 
 There 's not a grain of it, the face to sweeten 
 Of the whole dungy earth. 
 
 Leon. What ! lack I credit ? 
 
 1 Lord. I had rather you did lack than I, my 
 lord, 
 Upon this ground : and more it would content me 
 To have her honour true, than your suspicion ; 
 Be blam'd for 't how you might. 
 
 Leon. Why, what need we 
 
 Commune with you of this ? but rather follow 
 Our forceful instigation ? Our prerogative 
 Calls not your counsels ; but our natural goodnes.s 
 Imparts this : which — if you (or stnpified, 
 Or seeming so in skill) cannot, or will not. 
 Relish a truth like us ; inform yourselves. 
 We need no more of your advice : the matter. 
 The loss, the gain, the ord'ring on 't, is all 
 Properly ours. 
 
 Anl. And I wish, my liege. 
 
 You had rnly in your silent judgment tried it. 
 Without more overture. 
 
 Leon. How could that be ? 
 
 Either thou art most ignorant by age. 
 Or thou wert born a fool. Camillo's flight. 
 Added to their familiaiity, 
 (Which was as gross as ever touch'd conjecture, 
 That lack'd sight only, nought for approbation, 
 
 But only seeing, all other circumstances 
 Made up to th' deed,) doth push on this pro- 
 ceeding. 
 Yet, for a greater confirmation, 
 (For, in an act of this importance, 't wore 
 Most piteous to be wild,) I have despatch'd in post 
 To sacred Delphos, to Apollo's temple, 
 Clcomenes and Dion, whom you know 
 Of stuft''d sufficiency : Now, from the oracle 
 They will bring all ; whose spiritual counsel had 
 Shall stop, or spur me. Uave I done well \ 
 
 1 Lord. Well done, my lord. 
 
 Leon. Though I am satisfied, and need no more 
 Than what I know, yet shall the oracle 
 Give rest to the minds of othei-s ; such as he 
 Whose ignorant credulity will not 
 Come up to th' truth : So have we thought it 
 
 good, 
 From our free person she should be confin'd ; 
 Lest that the treachery of the two, fled hence, 
 Be left her to perform. Come, follow us ; 
 We are to speak in public ; for this business 
 Will raise us all. 
 
 Ant. \Ande^ To laughter, as I take it, 
 If the good truth were known. \Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE n.— rAe same. The outer Room of a 
 
 Prison. 
 
 Enter Paulina and Attendants. 
 Paul. The keeper of the prison, — call to him ; 
 \Exit an Attendant 
 Let him have knowledge who I am. — Good lady 
 No court in Europe is too good for thee. 
 What dost thou then in prison ? — Now, good sir, 
 
 Re-enter Attendant, with the Keeper. 
 
 You know me, do you not ? 
 
 Keep. For a worthy lady, 
 
 And one whom much I honour. 
 
 Paul. Pray you then, 
 
 Conduct me to the queen. 
 
 Keep. I may not, madam ; to the contrary 
 I have express commandment. 
 
 Paul. Here 's ado. 
 
 To lock up honesty and honour from 
 Th' access of gentle visitors ! — Is 't lawful, pray 
 
 you. 
 
 To see her women ? any of them ? Emiha J 
 
 Keep. So please you, madam. 
 To put apart these your attendants, I 
 Shall bring Emilia forth. 
 
 689
 
 THE WINTER'S TALK 
 
 SCENE in. 
 
 Paul. I pray now, call her. 
 
 Withdraw yourselves. [Exeunt Attendants. 
 
 Keep. And, madam, 
 
 I must be present at your conference. 
 
 Patd. Well, be 't so, prithee. 
 
 [Exit Keeper, 
 llere 's such ado to make lo stain a stain, 
 As passes colouring. 
 
 Re-enter Keeper, with Emiua. 
 
 Dear gentlewoman, 
 How fares our gracious lady ? 
 
 Emil. As well as one so great, and so forlorn. 
 May hold together : on her frights, and griefs, 
 (Which never tender lady hath borne greater,) 
 She is, something before her time, deliver'd. 
 
 Paul. A boy ? 
 
 Emil. A daughter ; and a goodly babe, 
 
 Lusty, and like to live : the queen receives 
 Much comfort in 't : says, " My poor prisoner, 
 I am innocent as you." 
 
 Paul. I dare be sworn : — 
 
 These dangerous unsafe lunes i' tlie king !" 
 
 beshrew them ! 
 He must be told on 't, and he shall : the otBco 
 Becomes a woman best ; I '11 take 't upon me : 
 If I prove honey-mouth'd, let my tongue blister ; 
 And never to my red-look'd anger be 
 The trumpet any more : — Pray you, Emilia, 
 Commend my best obedience to the queen ; 
 If she dares trust me with her little babe, 
 I 'U show 't the king, and undertake to be 
 Her advocate to th' loud'st : We do not know 
 How he may soften at the sight o' the child ; 
 The silence often of pure innocence 
 Persuades, when speaking fails. 
 
 Emil. Most worthy madam, 
 
 Your honour, and your goodness, is so evident, 
 That your free undertaking cannot miss 
 A thriving issue ; there is no lady living 
 So meet for this great en-and : Please your lady- 
 ship 
 To vJsit the next room, I '11 presently 
 Acquaint the queen of your most noble offer; 
 Who, but to-day, hammor'd of this design ; 
 But durst not tempt a minister of honour. 
 Lest she should be deny'd. 
 
 Paul. Tell her, Emilia, 
 
 I '11 use tli.it tonguo I have : if wit flow from 't, 
 As boldness from my bosom, lot 't not be doubted 
 I shall do good. 
 
 Emil Xaw be you bless'd for it 1 
 
 690 
 
 I '11 to the queen Please you, come something 
 nearer. 
 
 Keep. !Madam, if 't please the queen to send the 
 babe, 
 I know not what I shall incur, to pass it, 
 Having no warrant. 
 
 Paul. You need not fear it, sir : 
 This child was prisoner to the womb ; and "iS, 
 By law and process of great nature, thence 
 Freed and enfi-anchis'd : not a party to 
 The anger of the king ; nor guilty of, 
 If any be, the trespass of the queen. 
 
 Keejj. I do believe it. 
 
 Paul. Do not you fear ; upon mine honour, I 
 Will stand betwixt you and danger. [Exeunt, 
 
 SCENE HI. — The same. A Room in the Palace. 
 
 Enter Leontes, Antigonus, Lords, and other 
 Attendants. 
 
 Leon. Nor night nor day, no rest : It is but 
 weakness 
 To bear the matter thus ; mere weakness, if 
 The cause were not in being ; — part o' tlie 
 
 cause, 
 She, th' adultress ; for the harlot king 
 Is quite beyond mine arm, out of the blank 
 And level of my brain, plot-proof ; but she 
 I can hook to me : Say, that she were gone. 
 Given to the fire, a moiety of my rest 
 Might come to me again. — Who 's there ? 
 
 1 Attend. My lord 1 [Advancing 
 
 Leon. How does the boy ? 
 
 1 Attend. He took good rest to-night 
 
 'T is hop'd his sickness is discharg'd. 
 
 Leon. To see his nobleness ! 
 Concei\'ing the dishonour of his mother. 
 He straight declin'd, droop'd, took it deeply ; 
 Fasten'd and fix'd the shame on 't in himself; 
 Threw off his spirit, his appetite, his sleep. 
 And downright languish'd. — Leave me solely : — 
 
 See how he fiires. [Exit Attendant.] — Fie, fie 
 
 no thought of him ; 
 The very thought of my revenges that way 
 Recoil upon mo : in himself too mighty : 
 And in his parties, his alliance. — Let him be. 
 Until a time ma}' serve : for present vengeance; 
 Take it on her. Camillo and Polixenes 
 Laugh at mo ; make their pastime at my sorrow : 
 They should not laugh if I could leach them ; nor 
 Shall she, within my power.
 
 ACT II. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 Enter Paulina, with a child. 
 
 1 Lord. You must not enter. 
 
 Faul. Nay, ratlier, good my lords, be second 
 to me : 
 Fear you his tyrannous passion more, alas, 
 Than the queen's life ? a gracious innocent soul ; 
 More free than he is jealous. 
 Ant. That 's enough. 
 
 1 Attend. Madam, he hath not slept to-night ; 
 commanded 
 N^one should come at him. 
 
 Faul. Not so hot, good sir ; 
 
 I come to bring him sleep. 'T is such as you, — 
 That creep like shadows by him, and do sigh 
 At each his needless hearings, — such as you 
 Nourish the cause of his awaking : I 
 Do come with words as medicinal as true ; 
 Honest as either ; to purge him of that humour 
 That presses him fi'om sleep. 
 
 Leon. What noise there, ho ? 
 
 Paul. No noise, my lord ; but needful conference. 
 About some gossips for your highness. 
 
 Leon. How ? — 
 
 Away with that audacious lady : Antigonus, 
 I charg'd thee that she should not come about me ; 
 I knew she would. 
 
 Ant. I told her so, my lord, 
 
 On your displeasure's peril, and on mine, 
 She should not «sit you. 
 
 Leon. What, canst not nile her 3 
 
 Paul. From all dishonesty he can : in this, 
 (Unless he take the course that you have done, 
 Commit me, for committing honour,) trust it, 
 He shall not rule me. 
 
 Ant. La you now ; you hear ! 
 
 When she will take the rein, I let her run ; 
 But she 'U not stumble. 
 
 Paul. Good my liege, I come, — 
 
 And, I beseech you, hear me, who professes 
 Myself your loyal seiTant, your physician. 
 Your most obedient counsellor ; yet that dares 
 Less appear so, in comforting your evils. 
 Than such as most seem yours, — I say, I come 
 From your good queen. 
 
 Leon. Good queen ! 
 
 Paul. Good queen, my lord, good queen : I say, 
 good queen ; 
 And would by combat make her good, so were I 
 A man, the worst about you. 
 Leon. Force her hence. 
 
 Pattl. Let him that makes but trifles of his eyes 
 
 First hand me : on mine own accord, I '11 off; 
 I^ut, first, I '11 do my errand. — The good queen. 
 For she is good, hath brought you forth a daughter : 
 Hero 't is ; commends it to your blessing. 
 
 [Lat/inff down the child. 
 Leon. Out ! 
 
 A mankind witch 1" Hence with her, out o' door" 
 A most intelligencing bawd ! 
 
 Paul. Not so : 
 
 I am as ignorant in that, as you 
 In so entitling me : and no less honest 
 Than you are mad ; which is enough, I '11 warrant, 
 As this world goes, to pass for honest. 
 
 Leon. Traitors ! 
 
 Will you not push her out ? Give her the bastard — 
 Thou dotard, [to Antigonus] thou art woman- 
 
 tir'd, unroosted 
 By thy dame Partlet here, — take up the bastard 
 Take 't up, I say ; give 't to thy crone. 
 
 Paul. For ever 
 
 Unvenerable be thy hands, if thou 
 Tak'st up the princess, by that forced baseness 
 Which he has put upon 't ! 
 
 Leon. He dreads his \\'ife. 
 
 Paul. So I would you did ; then 't were past all 
 doubt 
 You 'd call your children yours. 
 
 Leon, A nest of traitors !" 
 
 Atii. I am none, by this good light. 
 Paul. Nor I ; nor any. 
 
 But one, that 's here; and that's himself: 
 
 for he 
 The sacred honour of himself, his queen's. 
 His hopeful son's, his babe's, betrays to slander, 
 Whose sting is sharper than the sword's ; and 
 
 will not 
 (For as the case now stands, it is a cui^se 
 He cannot be compelled to 't) once remove 
 The root of his opinion, which is rotten. 
 As ever oak, or stone, was sound. 
 Leon. A callat" 
 
 Of boundless tongue ; who late hath beat hei 
 
 husband, 
 And now baits me ! — This brat is none of mine ; 
 It is the issue of Polixenes : 
 Hence with it ; and, together with the dam, 
 Commit them to the fire. 
 
 Paul. It is yours ; 
 
 And, might we lay th' old proverb to your charge, 
 So like you, 't is the worse. — Behold, my lords. 
 Although the print be little, the whole matter 
 And copy of the father : eye, nose, lip, 
 
 C91
 
 ACT IT. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 BCENS m. 
 
 The trick of his frown, his forehead ; nay, the 
 
 valley, 
 The pretty dimples of his chin and cheek ; his 
 
 smiles ; 
 The very mould and frame of hand, nail, finger : — 
 And thou, good goddess Nature, which hast 
 
 made it 
 So like to him that got it, if thou hast 
 The ordering of the mind too, 'mongst all colours 
 No yellow in 't ; lest she suspect, as ho does. 
 Her children not her husband's ! 
 
 Leon. A gross hag ! 
 
 And, lozel,'" thou art worthy to be hang'd. 
 That wilt not stay her tongue. 
 
 Ant. Hang all the husbands 
 
 That cannot do that feat, you '11 leave yourself 
 Hardly one subject. 
 
 Leon. Once more, take her hence. 
 
 Paul. A most unworthy and unnatural lord 
 Can do no more. 
 
 Leon. I '11 have thee burn'd. 
 
 PauL I care not : 
 
 It is an heretic that makes the fire. 
 Not she which burns in 't. I '11 not call you 
 
 tyrant ; 
 But this most cruel usage of your queen 
 (Not able to produce more accusation 
 Than your own weak-hing'd fancy) something 
 
 savours 
 Of tyranny, and will ignoble make you, 
 Yea, scandalous to the world. 
 
 Leon. On your allegiance. 
 
 Out of the chamber with her. Were I a t3rant. 
 Where were her life ? she durst not call me so, 
 K she did know me one. Away with her. 
 
 Paul. I pray you, do not push me ; I '11 be gone. 
 Look to your babe, my lord ; 't is yours : Jove 
 
 send her 
 A better guiding spirit ! — What need these 
 
 hands ? — 
 You, that are thus so tender o'er his follies, 
 Will never do him good, not one of you. 
 So, so : — Farewell ; we are gone. [Urit. 
 
 Leon. Thou, traitor, hast set on thy wife to 
 this.— 
 My child ! away with 't — even thou, that hast 
 A heart so tender o'er it, take it hence, 
 And see it instantly cousum'd with fire; 
 Even thou, and none but thou. Take it up 
 
 straight: 
 Within this hour bring mo word 't is done, 
 (And by jrood t^stimonv,) or I '11 seize thy life. 
 6B2 
 
 With what thou else call'st thine : If thou refuse. 
 And wilt encounter with my wrath, say so : 
 The bastard brains with these my proper hands 
 Shall I dash out. Go, take it to the fire ; 
 For thou sett'st on thy wife. 
 
 Ant. I did not, sir: 
 
 These lords, my noble fellows, if they please, 
 Can clear me in 't. 
 
 1 & 2 Lord. We can, my royal liege. 
 
 He is not guilty of her coming hither. 
 
 Leon. Y''ou are liars all. 
 
 1 Lord. 'Beseech your highness, give us better 
 credit ; 
 We have always truly serv'd you, and beseech 
 So to esteem of us : And on our knees we beg, 
 (As recompense of our dear services. 
 Past, and to come,) that you do change this 
 
 purpose ; 
 Which, being so horrible, so bloody, must 
 Lead on to some foul issue : We all kneel. 
 
 Leon. I am a feather for each wind that 
 blows : — 
 Shall I live on, to see this bastard kneel 
 And call me father ? Better burn it now, 
 Than curse it then. But^ be it ; let it live : 
 It shall not neither. Y^ou, sir, come you hither ; 
 
 [to Ant 
 You, that have been so tenderly officious 
 With lady Margerj', your midwife, there. 
 To save this bastard's life : for 't is a bastard. 
 So sure as this beard 's grey, — what will you 
 
 adventure 
 To save this brat's life ? 
 
 Ant. Anything, my lord, 
 
 Th&t my ability may undergo. 
 And nobleness impose : at least, thus much, — 
 I '11 pawn the little blood which I have left 
 To save the innocent : anything possible. 
 
 Leon. It shall be pos.sible : Swear by thia 
 sword. 
 Thou wilt perform my bidding. 
 
 Ant. I will, my lord. 
 
 Leon. Mark, and perform it ; (seest thou ?) for 
 the fail 
 Of any point in 't shall not only be 
 Death to thyself, but to thy lewd-tongu'd wife ; 
 Whom, for this time, we pardon. We enjoin thee, 
 As thou art liegeman to us, that thou cany 
 This female bastard hence ; and that thou bear it 
 To some remote and desert place, quite out 
 Of our dominions; and that there thou leave iL 
 Without more mercy, to its own protection.
 
 THE WLNIEK'S TALE. 
 
 BCENB I U. 
 
 And favour of llie climate. As by strange fortune 
 [t oaiue to us, I do in justice cliargo thee, — 
 On thy soul's peril, and thy body's torture, — 
 That thou commend it strangely to some place 
 Where chance may nurse, or end it : Take it up. 
 
 Aiit. I swear to do this, though a present death 
 lii'd been more merciful. — Como on, poor babe : 
 Some powerful spirit instruct the kites and ravens 
 I'o be thy nurses ! Wolves and beare, they say, 
 Cit^tins: their savaffeness aside, have done 
 Like offices of pity. — Sir, be prosperous 
 In more than this deed doth require ! and blessing, 
 Against this cruelty, fight on thy side, 
 Poor thing, condemn'd to loss ! 
 
 [£xil, with the Child. 
 
 Leon. No, I '11 not rear 
 
 Another's issue. 
 
 1 Attend. Please your highness, posts. 
 From those you sent to th' oracle, are come 
 An hour since : Cleomenes and Dion, 
 Being well amv'd from Delphos, are both landed, 
 Hasting to th' court. 
 
 1 Lord. So please you, sir, their speod 
 
 Hath been beyond account. 
 
 Leon. Twenty-three days 
 They have been absent : 't is good speed ; foretells 
 The gi'eat Apollo suddenly will have 
 The truth of this appear. Prepare you, lords ; 
 Summon a session, that we may arraign 
 Our most disloyal lady : for, as she hath 
 Been publicly accus'd, so shall she have 
 A just and open trial. While she lives, 
 My heart will be a burthen to me. Leave me ; 
 And think upon my bidding. \£!xeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCEOT L— Sicilia. A Street. 
 
 Enter Cleomenes and Dion. 
 
 Clco. The climate 's delicate : the air most 
 sweet ; 
 Fertile the isle ; the temple much surpassing 
 The common praise it bears. 
 
 Dion. I shall report. 
 
 For most it caught me, the celestial habits, 
 (Methinks I so should term them,) and the re- 
 verence 
 Of the grave wearers. O, the sacrifice ! 
 How ceremonious, solemn, and unearthly 
 [t was i' th' oifering ! 
 
 Clco. But, of all, the burst 
 
 And the ear-deaf'ning voice o' th' oracle, 
 Fan to Jove's thunder, so surpris'd my sense. 
 That I was nothing. 
 
 I)ion. If th' event o' the journey 
 
 Prove as successful to the queen, — 0, be 't so ! — 
 As it hath been to us rare, pleasant, speedy, 
 llie time is wortli the use on 't. 
 
 Clco Great Apollo, 
 
 Turn all to th' best ! These proclamations. 
 So forcing faults upon Hermione, 
 t little like. 
 
 Dion. The violent carriage of it 
 
 Will clear, or end, the business : When the oracle 
 (Thus by Apollo's great divine seal'd up) 
 Shall the contents discover, something rare 
 Even then -will rush to knowledge. — Go, — fresh 
 
 horses ; — 
 And gracious be the issue ! [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE Jl.—Tlie same. A Court of Justice. 
 
 Leontes, Lords, and OflScers, appear properly seated. 
 
 Leon. This sessions (to our great grief we pro- 
 nouDce) 
 Even pushes 'gainst our heart : The party try'd, 
 The daughter of a king ; our wife ; and one 
 Of us too much belov'd. — Let us be clear'd 
 Of being tyrannous, since we so openly 
 Proceed in justice ; which shall have due course, 
 Even to the guilt, or the purgation. 
 Produce the prisoner. 
 
 Offi. It is his highness' pleasure tliat the queen 
 Appear in person here in court. — Silence ! 
 
 Hermione is brought in, gxiarded ; Pauxina and 
 Ladies aitcndlnff. 
 
 Leon. Read the indictment. 
 Offi. " Hermione, queen to the worthy Lcontcs, 
 king of Sicilia, thou art here accused and airaigned 
 
 fi93
 
 TllK WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCENE U. 
 
 of high treason, in committing adultery with Po- 
 lixenes, king of Bohemia ; and conspiring with 
 Camillo to take away the life of our sovereign lord 
 the king, thy royal husband : the pretence^' whereof 
 being by circumstances partly laid open, thou, 
 Hermione, contrary to the faith and allegiance of 
 a true subject, didst counsel and aid them, for 
 their better safety, to fly away by night." 
 
 Her. Since what I am to say must be but that 
 Which contradicts my accusation, and 
 The testimony on my part no other 
 But what comes from myself, it shall scarce boot 
 
 me 
 To say, " Not guilty ;" mine integrity, 
 Being counted falsehood, shall, as I express it. 
 Be so receiv'd. But thus, — If powers divine 
 Behold our human actions, as they do, 
 I doubt not then but innocence shall make 
 False accusation blush, and tyranny 
 Tremble at patience. — You, my lord, best know, 
 (Whoni -east will seem to do so,) my past life 
 Hath been as continent, as chaste, as true, 
 As I am now unhappy ; which is more 
 Than history can pattern, though devis'd. 
 And played, to take spectatore : For behold me, — 
 A fellow of the royal bed, which owe 
 A moiety of the throne, a great king's daughter. 
 The mother to a hopeful prince, — here standing, 
 To prate and talk for life and honour 'fore 
 Who please to come and hear. For life, I prize it. 
 As I weigh grief, which I would spare : for honour, 
 'T is a derivative from me to mine, 
 And only that I stand for. I appeal 
 To your own conscience, sir, before Polixenes 
 Came to your court, how I was in your grace, 
 How merited to be so ; since he came, 
 With what encounter so uncun-ent I 
 Have strain'd, t' appear thus : if one jot beyond 
 The bound of honour ; or, in act or will. 
 That way inclining ; harden'd be the hearts 
 Of all that bear me, and my near'st of kin 
 Ciy Fie ! upon my grave ! 
 
 Leon. I ne'er heard yet, 
 
 That any of these bolder vices wanted 
 Le.ss impudence to gainsay what they did, 
 Tlian to perform it first. 
 
 Her. That 's true enough ; 
 
 Tliougli 't is a saying, sir, not due to me. 
 
 Leon. You will not own it. 
 
 Her. More tlian mistress of, 
 
 Whidi comes to me in name of fault, I nnist not 
 At all acknowledge. For Polixenes, 
 
 694 
 
 (With whom I am accus'd,) I do confess, 
 
 I lov'd him, as in honour he requir'd. 
 
 With such a kind of love as might become 
 
 A lady like me ; with a love, even such, 
 
 So, and no other, as yourself commanded : 
 
 Which not to have done, I think, had been in in>' 
 
 Both disobedience and ingratitude. 
 
 To you, and toward your friend ; whose love liad 
 
 spoke, 
 Even since it could speak, from au infant, freely. 
 That it was yours. Now, for conspiracy, 
 I Know not how it tastes ; though it be dish'd 
 For me to try how : all I know of it 
 Is, that Camillo was an honest man ; 
 And, why he left your court, the gods them 
 
 selves, 
 Wotting no more than I, are ignorant. 
 
 Leon. You knew of his departure, as you know 
 What you have underta'en to do in 's absence. 
 
 Her. Sir, 
 You speak a language that I understand not • 
 My life stands in the level of your dreams, 
 Which I '11 lay down. 
 
 Leon. Your actions are my dreains : 
 
 You had a bastard by Polixenes, 
 And I but dream'd it : — As you were past .-d' 
 
 shame, 
 (Those of your fiict are so,) so past all truth : 
 AVhich to deny, concerns more than avails : Fo: as 
 Thy brat hath been cast out, like to itself. 
 No father o\vning it, (which is, indeed. 
 More criminal in thee, than it,) so thou 
 Shalt feel our justice ; in whose easiest passage, 
 Look for no less than death. 
 
 Her. Sir, spare your threats ; 
 
 The bug which you would fright me with I seek 
 To me can life be no commodity : 
 The crown and comfort of ray life, your favour, 
 I do give lost ; for I do feel it gone, 
 But know not how it went : My second joy, 
 And first fi-uits of my body, from his presence 
 I am barr'd, like one infectious : My third comfort 
 Starr'd most unluckily, is from my breast. 
 The innocent milk in its most innocent mouth, 
 Hal'd out to murther : Myself on every post 
 Proclaim'd a strumpet ; with immodest hatred, 
 The childbed privilege deny'd, which 'longs 
 To women of all fiishion : Lastly, hurried 
 Here to this place, i' the open air, before 
 I have got strength of limit. Now, my liege. 
 Tell mo what blessings I have here alive. 
 That I should fear to die ? Therefore, proceed.
 
 CT III. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE 
 
 SCENE U. 
 
 Cut yet hear this ; mistake mo not ; — No life, 
 I prize it not a straw : — but for mine honour, 
 (Which I would free,) if I shall be condemn'd 
 Upon surmises ; all ])roofs sleeping else, 
 But what your jealousies awake ; I tell you 
 'T is rigour, and not law. — Your honours all, 
 I do refer me to the oracle ; 
 Apollo be my judge. 
 
 1 Lord. This your request 
 
 Is altogether just : therefore, bring forth. 
 And in Apollo's name, his oracle. 
 
 [Exeunt certain Officers. 
 
 Her. The emperor of Russia was my father : 
 0, that he were alive, and here beholding 
 His daughter's trial ! that he did but see 
 The flatness of my misery ; yet with eyes 
 Of pity, not revenge ! 
 
 Re-enter Officers, with Cleomenes and Dion. 
 
 Offi. You here shall swear upon this sword of 
 justice, 
 That you, Cleomenes and Dion, have 
 Been both at Delphos ; and fi'om thence have 
 
 brought 
 This seal'd-up oracle, by the hand deliver'd 
 Of great Apollo's priest ; and that, since then. 
 You have not dar'd to break the holy seal. 
 Nor read the secrets in 't. 
 
 Cleo., Dion. All this we swear. 
 
 Leon. Break up the seals, and read. 
 
 OJji. \Reads^ " HeiTnione is chaste,^^ Polixenes 
 blameless, Camillo a true subject, Leontes a jealous 
 tyrant, his innocent babe truly begotten ; and the 
 king shall live without an heir, if that which is 
 lost be not found." 
 
 Lords. Now blessed be the great Apollo ! 
 
 Her. Praised ! 
 
 Leon. Hast thou read truth ? 
 
 Offi.. Ay, my lord ; even so 
 
 As it is here set down. 
 
 Leon. There is no truth at all i' the oracle : 
 The sessions shall proceed : this is mere false- 
 hood. 
 
 Enter a Servant, hastily. 
 
 Ser. My lord the king, the king! 
 
 Leon. What is the business ? 
 
 Ser. sir, I shall be hated to report it : 
 The prince your son, with mere conceit and fear 
 Of the queen's speed, is gone. 
 
 Leon. How ! ffone ? 
 
 Ser. la dead. 
 
 Leon. Apollo 's angry ; and the heavens them- 
 selves 
 Do strike at my injustice. [HERMioNE/ui'nis.] How 
 now there? 
 
 Paul. This news is mortal to the queen : — Look 
 down, 
 And see what death is doing. 
 
 Leon. Take her hence : 
 
 Her heart is but o'erchai'ged ; she will recover. — 
 I have too much believ'd mine own suspicion: — 
 'Beseech you, tenderly apply to her 
 Some remedies for life. — Apollo, pardon 
 
 [Exeu7it Paulina and Ladies, ^o^th Hre. 
 My gi'eat profaneness 'gainst thine oracle ! — 
 I '11 reconcile me to Polixenes ; 
 New woo my queen ; recall the good Camillo, 
 Whom I proclaim a man of truth, of mercy : 
 For, being transported by my jealousies 
 To bloody thoughts and to revenge, I chose 
 Camillo for the minister, to poison 
 My friend Polixenes : which had been done. 
 But that the good mind of Camillo tardied 
 My swift command, though I with death, and 
 
 with 
 Reward, did threaten and encourage him, 
 Not doing it, and being done : he, most humane. 
 And fill'd with honour to my kingly guest, 
 Unclasp'd my practice ; quit his fortunes here, 
 Which you knew great ; and to the hazard 
 Of all incertainties himself commended. 
 No richer than his honour : — ^IIow he glisters 
 Through my mst! and how his piety 
 Does my deeds make the blacker ! 
 
 Re-enter Paulina. 
 
 Paul. Woe the while ! 
 
 0, cut my lace ; lest my heart, cracking it, 
 Break too ! 
 
 1 Lord. ^Vhat fit is this, good lady ? 
 
 Paul. What studied torments, tyrant, hast 
 for me ? 
 What wheels ? racks ? fires ? What flaying ? 
 
 boiling. 
 In leads, or oils ? what old or newer torture 
 Must I receive ; whose every word deserves 
 To taste of thy most worst ? Thy tyranny 
 Together working with thy jealousies, — 
 Fancies too weak for boys, too green and idle 
 For girls of nine ! — 0, think what they liave done 
 And then run mad, indeed ; stark mad ! for all 
 Thy by-gone fooleries were but spices of it. 
 That thou betray'dst Polixenes, 't was nothing; 
 
 595
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCENB ill. 
 
 That did but show thee, of a fool, inconstaut, 
 And damnable ingrateful : nor was 't much. 
 Thou would'st liave poison'd good Camillo's honour, 
 To have him kill a king ; poor trespasses, 
 More monstrous standing by : whereof I reckon 
 The casting forth to crows thy baby daughtei', 
 To be or none, or little ; though a devil 
 Would have shed water out o' fire, ere done 't : 
 Nor is 't directly laid to thee, the death 
 Of the young prince ; whose honourable thoughts 
 (Thoughts high for one so tender) cleft the heart 
 That could conceive a gross and foolish sire 
 P)lemish'd his gracious dam : this is not, no. 
 Laid to thy answer : But the last, — 0, lords. 
 When I have said, cry Woe ! — the queen, the 
 
 queen. 
 The sweet'st, dear'st creature 's dead ; and ven- 
 geance for 't 
 Not dropp'd down yet. 
 
 1 Lwd. The higher powers forbid ! 
 
 Paid. I say, she sdead: I '11 swear 't: if word, 
 nor oath, 
 Prevail not, go and see : if you can bring 
 Tincture, or lustre, in her lip, her eye. 
 Heat outwardly, or breath ^vithin, I'll serve you 
 As I would do the gods. — But, O thou tyrant 
 Do not repent these things ; for they are heavier 
 Than all thy woes can stir : therefore betake thee 
 To nothing but despair. A thousand knees. 
 Ten thousand years together, naked, fasting. 
 Upon a baiTen mountain, and still winter 
 In storm perpetual, could not move the gods 
 To look that way thou wert. 
 
 Leon. Go on, go on : 
 
 Thou canst not speak too much ; I have de.serv'd 
 All tonsfues to talk their bitt'rest. 
 
 1 Lord. Say no more ; 
 
 Howe'er the business goes, you have made fault 
 I' the boldness of your speech. 
 
 Paul. I am F:riT for 't ; 
 
 All faults I make, when I ihall come to know 
 
 them, 
 I do repent : Alas, I have show'd too much 
 The rashness of a woman : he is touch'd 
 To th' noble heart. — What 's gone, and what 's 
 
 past help, 
 Should be past grief: Do not receive affliction 
 At my petition, I beseech you ; rather 
 Let me be punish'd, that have minded you 
 Of what you should forgot. Now, good my liogo, 
 Kir, royal sir, forgive a foolish woman : 
 Tiie love I bore your (ureen, — o, fool, again I — 
 r>Bfi 
 
 I '11 speak of her no more, nor of your children ; 
 I '11 not remember you of my own lord, 
 Who is lost too : Take your pp.tience to you, 
 And I '11 say nothing. 
 
 Lcmi. Thou didst speak but well. 
 
 When most the truth ; which I receive nuK-L 
 
 better 
 Than to be pitied of thee. Prithee, bring me 
 To the dead bodies of my queen, and sou : 
 One grave shall be for both ; upon them shall 
 The causes of their death appear, unto 
 Our shame perpetual : Once a day I '11 visit 
 The chapel where they lie ; and tears, shed there. 
 Shall be my recreation : So long as Nature 
 Will bear up with this exercise, so long 
 I daily vow to use it. Come, and lead me 
 To these sorrows. \Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE in. — Bohemia. A desert Country near 
 the Sea. 
 
 LJntcr A^TiGO^vs, with the Child ; and a Mariner. 
 
 Ant. Thou art perfect*' then, our ship hath 
 touch'd upon 
 The deserts of Bohemia ? 
 
 Mar. Ay, my lord : and fear 
 
 We have landed in ill time : the skies look grimly, 
 And threaten present blusters. In my conscience. 
 The Ileavens with that we have in hand are angiy. 
 And frown upon 's. 
 
 Ant. Their sacred wills be done ! — Go, get 
 aboard ; 
 Look to thy bark ; I '11 not be long before 
 I call upon thee. 
 
 Mar. Make your best haste ; and go not 
 Too far i' the land : 't is like to be loud weather ; 
 Besides, this place is femous for the creatures 
 Of prey, that keep upon 't. 
 
 Ant. Go thou away: 
 
 I '11 follow instantly. 
 
 Mar. I am glad at heart 
 
 To be so rid o' the business. [Exit. 
 
 Ant. Come, poor babe : — 
 
 I have heard, (but not believ'd,) the spirits o' th 
 
 dead 
 May walk again : if such thing be, thy mother 
 Appcar'd to me last night ; for ne'er was dream 
 So like a waking. To me comes a creature. 
 Sometimes her head on one side, some another ; 
 I never saw a vessel of like sorrow. 
 So fill'd, and so becoming : in pure white robes, 
 Like very sanctity she diil approach
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 60ENE 111. 
 
 My cabin wliere I lay : thrice bow'd before me ; 
 
 And. gasping to begin some speech, her eyes 
 
 Became two spouts : tlie fury spent, anon 
 
 Did this break from her : " Good Antigonus, 
 
 Since fate, against thy better disposition, 
 
 ILifh made thy person for the thrower-out 
 
 Of my poor babe, according to thine oatli. 
 
 Places remote enough are in Bohemia, 
 
 There weep, and leave it crying; and, for the babe 
 
 Is counted lost for ever, Perdita, 
 
 I prithee, call 't : for this ungentle business, 
 
 Put on thee by my lord, thou ne'er shalt see 
 
 Thy wife Paulina more :" — and so, with shrieks. 
 
 She melted into air. Affrighted much, 
 
 I did in time collect myself; and thought 
 
 This was so, and no slumber. Dreams are toys ; 
 
 Yet, for this once, yea, superstitiously, 
 
 I will be squarVi by this. I do believe 
 
 Ilennione hath sufler'd death ; and that 
 
 Apollo would, this being indeed the issue 
 
 Of king Polixenes, it should here bo laid, 
 
 Either for life, or death, upon the earth 
 
 Of its right father. Blossom, speed thee well. 
 
 [Laying doivn the Child. 
 
 There lie ; and there thy character : there these ; 
 
 [Layintj down a bundle. 
 
 Which may, if fortune please, both breed thee 
 
 pretty. 
 And still rest thine. — The storm begins : — Poor 
 
 wretch. 
 That, for thy mother's fault, art thus expos'd 
 To loss, and what may follow ! — -weep I cannot, 
 Rut my heai't bleeds : and most accurs'd am I, 
 To be by oath enjoin'd to this. — Farewell ! 
 The day frowns more and more — thou 'rt like to 
 
 have 
 A lullaby too rough : I never saw 
 The heavens so dim by day. A savage clamour ! — 
 Well may I get aboard ! — This is the ehace ; 
 I am gone for ever. [I^xit, pursued bij a Bear. 
 
 Enter an old Shepherd. 
 
 Shep. I would there were no age between ten 
 and three-and-tweuty ; or that youth would sleep 
 out the rest : for there is nothing in the between 
 but getting wenches with child, wronging the 
 ancientry, stealing, fighting. — Ilark you now ! — 
 Would any but these boiled brains of nineteen and 
 two-and-twenty hunt this weather ? They have 
 scar'd away two of my best sheep ; which, I fear, 
 tlie wolf will sooner find than the master ; if 
 anywliere I have them, 't is by the sea-side. 
 
 browzing of ivy. Good luck, an 't be thy will 
 what have we here? [Taking up the Child.] 
 Mercy on 's, a barne ; a very jiretty barne 1 A 
 boy, or a child," I wonder ? A pretty one ; 
 a very pretty one : Sure, some scape : though I 
 am not bookish, yet I can read waiting-gentle- 
 woman in the scape. This has been some stair- 
 work, some trunk-work, some behiml-door work ; 
 they were warmer that got this than tlie poor 
 thing is here. I '11 take it up for pity : yet I '11 
 tarry till my son come ; ho holla'd but even now. 
 Whoa, ho hoa ! 
 
 Enter Clown. 
 
 Clo. Hilloa, loa ! 
 
 Shep. What, art so near ? If thou 'It see a 
 thing to talk on when thou art dead and rotten, 
 come hither. What ail'st thou, man ? 
 
 Clo. I have seen two such sights, by sea, and by 
 land ; — but I am not to say, it is a sea, for it is 
 now the sky ; betwixt the firmament and it you 
 cannot thrust a bodkin's point. 
 
 Shrj}. Why, boy, how is it ? 
 
 Clo. I would you did but see how it chafes, 
 how it rages, how it takes up the shore I but that 'a 
 not to the point : 0, the most piteous cry of the 
 poor souls ! sometimes to see 'em, and not to see 'em : 
 now the ship boring the moon with her main-mast ; 
 and anon swallowed with yest and fioth, as you 'd 
 thrust a cork into a hogshead. And then fur the 
 land-service, — To see how the bear tore out his 
 shoulder-bone ; how he cried to me for help, and 
 said his name was Antigonus, a nobleman : — But 
 to make an end of the sliip . — to see how the sea 
 fiap-dragon'd it : — but, first, how the poor soula 
 roared, and the sea mock'd them ; — and how the 
 poor gentleman roared, and the bear mock'd him, 
 both roaring louder than the sea, or weather. 
 
 Shcp. Name of mercy, when was this, boy i 
 
 Clo. Now, now ; I have not wink'd since I saw 
 these sights : the meu are not yet cold undei 
 w.ater, nor the bear half dined on the gentleman ; 
 he 's at it now. 
 
 Shep. Would I had been by, to have heli»"d the 
 old man 1 
 
 Clo. I would you had teen by the ship side, to 
 have help'd her ; there your charity would liave 
 lack'd footing. 
 
 Shep. Heavy matters ! heavy matters ! but look 
 thee here, boy. Now bless thyself; thou met'st 
 with things dying, I with things new born. Here 's 
 a sight for thee; look thee, a bearing-cloth^-' for a 
 
 fi97
 
 ACT rv. 
 
 THE WINTEU S TALE. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Bqiiiro's child ! look thee here ! take up, take up, 
 boy ; open 't. So, let 's see. It was told me, I 
 should be rich by the fairies ; this is some change- 
 ling : open 't : "Wliat 's within, boy ? 
 
 Clo. You 're a made old man ; if the sins of 
 your youth are forgiven you, you 're well to live. 
 Gold ! all gold ! 
 
 Shep. This is fairy gold, boy, and 't will prove 
 so : up with 't, keep it close f ^ home, home, the 
 next waj'. We are luck)', boy, and to be so still 
 requiles nothing but secrecy. — Let my sheep go : 
 — Come, good boy, the next way home. 
 
 Clo. Go you the next way with your find'ngs 
 I '11 go see if the bear be gone from the gen- 
 tleman, and how much he hath eaten : they aii' 
 never cui-st, but when they are hungiy : if there 
 be any of him left, I '11 bury it. 
 
 Shep. That 's a good deed : If thou may est 
 discern, by that which is left of him, what he is, 
 fetch me to the sight of him. 
 
 Clo. Marry, will I ; and you shall help to pui 
 him i' the ground. 
 
 Shep. 'T is a lucky day, boy ; and we '11 do 
 good deeds on 't. \Ereunt. 
 
 ACT lY. 
 
 Enter 'i'lme, as Ch)rus. 
 
 Time. I, that please some, .ry all, — both joy 
 
 and terror 
 Of good and bad, — that make, and unfold error, — 
 Now take upon me, in the name of Time, 
 To use my wings. Impute it not a crime 
 To me, or my swift passage, that I slide 
 O'er sixteen years, and leave the growth untried 
 Of that wide gap ; since it is in my power 
 To o'erthrow law, and in one self-born hour 
 To plant and o'erwhelm custom : Let me pass 
 The same I am, ere ancient'st order was. 
 Or what is now receiv'd : I witness to 
 The times that brought them in : so shall I do 
 To th' freshest things now reigning ; and make 
 
 stale 
 The glistering of this present, as my tale 
 Now seems to it. Your patience this allowing, 
 I turn my glass ; and give my scene such growing 
 As you had slept between. Leontes leaWng 
 Th' efl'ects of liis fond jealousies ; so grieving, 
 That he shuts up himself; imagine mo. 
 Gentle spectators, that I now may be 
 fn fair Bohemia ; and remember well, 
 [ mentioned a son o' tlie king's, which Florize' 
 [ now name to you ; and with sjieed so pace 
 To sjieak of Pcrdita, now grown in grace 
 F^iual with wond'ring : What of her ensues 
 I list not prophe.sy ; but let Time's news 
 lie kuown when 't is brought forth : a shepherd's 
 
 daughter, 
 
 .198 
 
 And wliat to her adheres, which follows afttf, 
 
 Is th' argument of Time : Of this allow, 
 
 K ever you have spent time worse ere now ; 
 
 If never yet, that Time himself doth say. 
 
 He wishes earnestly you never may. \_E.Tit 
 
 SCENE I. — Bohemia. A Room in the Palace oj 
 
 POLIXENES. 
 
 Enter Polixenes and Camillo. 
 
 Pol. I pray thee, good Camillo, be no more 
 importunate : 't is a siclmess denying thee any- 
 thing ; a death to grant this. 
 
 Cam. It is fifteen yeare since I saw my country. 
 Though I have, for the most part, been aired 
 abroad, I desire to lay my bones there. Besides, 
 the penitent king, my master, hath sent for me : 
 to whose feeling sorrows I might be some allay, 
 or I o'erween to think so ; which is another spur 
 to my departure. 
 
 Pol. As thou lov'st me, Camillo, wipe not out 
 the rest of thy services, by leaving me now : tlie 
 need I have of thee thine own goodness hath 
 made ; better not to have I-.ad thee than thus to 
 want thee : thou, having made me businesses 
 which none without thee can sufficiently manage, 
 must either stay to execute them thyself, or take 
 away with thee the very services thou hast done : 
 which if I have not enough considered, (as too 
 much I cannot,) to be more thankful to thee shall 
 be my study ; and my profit therein, the heaping
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 ITIE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCBNE n. 
 
 fi-iendships. Of that fatal country, Sicilia, prithee 
 bpeak no more : whose very naming punislies me 
 willi the remembrance of that penitent, as tliou 
 call'st him, and reconciled king, my brothel; 
 whose loss of his most preciovis queen and children 
 are even now to be afresh lamented. Say to me, 
 when saw'st thou is prince Florizel my son ? 
 Kings are no less unhappy, their issue not being 
 gracious, than they are in losing them when they 
 have approved their virtues. 
 
 Cam. Sir, it is three days since I saw the 
 prince : What his happier aflairs may be are to 
 me unknown : but I have, missingly, noted ho is 
 of late much retired from court ; and is Icce f!'«- 
 pent to his princely exercises than formerly he 
 hath appeared. 
 
 Pol. I have considered so much, Camillo, and 
 with some care ; so far, that I have eyes under 
 inv service which look upon his removed ness, from 
 whom I have this intelligence : That he is seldom 
 from the house of a most homely shepherd ; a man, 
 they say, that from veiy nothing, and beyond the 
 imagination of his neighbours, is grown into an 
 unspeakable estate. 
 
 Cam. I have heard, sir, of such a man, who 
 hath a daughter of most rare note: the report of 
 Ikt is extended more than can be thought to begin 
 from such a cottaga. 
 
 Pol. That 's likewise part of my intelligence. 
 I'lUt I fear the angle that plucks our son thither. 
 Thou shalt accompany us to the place : where we 
 will, not appearing what we are, have some ques- 
 tion with the shepherd ; from whose simplicity I 
 think it not uneasy to get the cause of my son's 
 resort thither. Prithee, be my pre.^ent partner 
 in this business, and lay aside the thoughts of 
 Sicitia. 
 
 Cam. I willingly obey your command. 
 
 Pol. My best Camillo ! — We must disguise our- 
 selves. \^Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. — The same. A Road near the Shep- 
 herd'« Cniiarje. 
 
 Erder Autolycus, singinr/. 
 
 When daffodils begin to peer, 
 With heigh I the doxy over the d:ile," 
 
 Wliy, ihen comes in the sweet o' the year; 
 For the red blood reigus in the winter'a palo. 
 
 The white sheet bleaching on the hedge, 
 
 "With heigh ! the sweet birds, O, how they sing ! 
 Doth set my pvigging tooth an edge ;™ 
 For !i quart of ale is a dish for a liing. 
 
 The lark that tirra-lirra cliants, 
 
 Witli heigli I with licy ! the tlinish and the jay: 
 Are summer-songs for me and my aunts, 
 
 While we lie tumbling in the hay. 
 
 I have serv'd prince Florizel, and, in my timo, 
 wore three-pile;** but now I am out of service' 
 
 But shall I go mourn for that, my dear? 
 
 The pule moon shines by night: 
 And wlieu I wander here and there, 
 
 I then do most go right. 
 
 If tinkers may have leave to live. 
 
 And bciir the sow-skin bowget; 
 Then my account I well may give, 
 
 And in the stocks avouch it. 
 
 Mv traffic is sheets; when the kite builds, look to 
 lesser linen. My father nam'd me Autolycus ; 
 who. being as I am, litter'd under Mercury, waa 
 likewise a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles : 
 With die, and drab, I purchas'd this caparison ; 
 and my revenue is the silly cheat : Gallows, and 
 knock, are too powerful on the highway : beating, 
 and hanging, are terrors to me ; fot the life to 
 come, I sleep out the thought of it. — A piize! a 
 prize ! 
 
 Enter Clown. 
 
 Clo. Let me see : — Every 'leven wether— tods ; 
 every tod yields — pound and odd shilling: fifteen 
 hundred shorn, — What comes the wool to ? 
 
 Aut. If the springe hold, the cock 's mine. 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 Clo. I cannot do 't without countei's. — Let me 
 see ; what am I to buy for our sheep-shearing 
 feast? "Three pound of sugar; five pound of cur- 
 rants ; rice" What will this sister of mine do 
 
 with rice ? But my father hath made her mistresa 
 of the feast, and she lays it on. She hath made 
 me four-and-twenty nosegays for the shearers; 
 three-man song-men all, and very good ones ; 
 but they are most of them means and bases : but 
 one Puritan amongst them, and he sings psalms 
 to hornpipes. I must have saffron, to colour the 
 warden pies ; mace, — dates, — none ; that 's out of 
 my note : nutmegs, seven ; a race or two of ginger ; 
 but that I may beg ; — four pound of prunes, and 
 as many of raisins o' the sun. 
 
 Aut. O, that ever I was born ! 
 
 \GrovclUng on the ground. 
 
 Clo. V the nan e of me, 
 
 Aiit. O, help me, help me ! pluck but cff these 
 rags ; and then, death, death ! 
 
 Clo. Alack, poor soul ! thou hast need of more 
 rags to lay on thee, rather than have these ofT. 
 
 fi99
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCENE m. 
 
 Aut. O, sir, tLe loathsomeness of them oflends 
 me more than the stripes I have received ; which 
 are miglity ones, and millions. 
 
 Clo. Alas, poor man ! a mill Da of beating may 
 come to a great matter. 
 
 Aut. I am robb'd, sis, and beaten ; my money 
 and apparel ta'en from me, and these detestable 
 things put upon me. 
 
 Clo. What, by a horse-man, or a foot-man ? 
 
 Aut. A foot-man, sweet sir, a foot-man. 
 
 Clo. Indeed, he should be a foot-man, by the 
 gai-ments he hath left with thee ; if this be a 
 horseman's coat, it hath seen very hot service. 
 Lend me thy hand, I '11 help thee : come, lend 
 me thy hand. [Helping him up. 
 
 Aut. 0, good sir, tenderly, oh 1 
 
 Clo. Alas, poor soul ! 
 
 Aut. O, good sir, softly, good sir : I fear, sir, 
 my shoulder-blade is out. 
 
 Clo. How now ? canst stand 3 
 
 Aut. Softly, dear sir; \^picks his pocket^ good 
 Bir, softly ; you ha' done me a charitable office. 
 
 Clo. Dost lack any money ? I have a little 
 money for thee. 
 
 A7it. No, good sweet sir ; no, I beseech you, 
 sir: I have a kinsman not past three-quarters of 
 a mile hence, unto whom I was going ; I shall 
 there have money, or anything I want : Offer me 
 no money, I pray you ; that kills ray heart. 
 
 Clo. What manner of fellow was he that robb'd 
 you ? 
 
 Aut. A fellow, sir, that I have known to go 
 about with trol-my-dames.'" I knew him once a 
 servant of the prince ; I cannot tell, good sir, for 
 which of his virtues it was, but he was certainlv 
 whipped out of the court. 
 
 Clo. His vices, you would say : there 's no vir- 
 jie whipped out of the court : they cherish it, to 
 make it.st.iy there; and yet it will no more but 
 abide, 
 
 Aut. Vices, I would say, sir. I know this man 
 well : he hath been since an ape-bearer ; then a 
 process-server, a bailiff; then he compassed a 
 motion of the prodigal son, and married a tinker's 
 wife within a mile where my land and living lies; 
 and, having flown over many knavish professions, 
 he settled only in rogue : some call him Au- 
 lolycus. 
 
 Clo. Out upon liiir. ! Prig, for my life, prig- 
 he haunts wakes, fairs, and bear-baitings. 
 
 Aut. Very true, sir ; he, sir, he ; that 'a the 
 togijo l':'at put mo into thi.^ apparel. 
 
 A(IO 
 
 Clo. Not a more cowardly rogue in all Bohe- 
 mia ; if you had but look'd big, and spit at him 
 he 'd have run. 
 
 Aut. I must confess to you, sir, I am no fighter ; 
 I am false of heart that way ; and that he knew, 
 I warrant him. 
 
 Clo. How do you now ? 
 
 Aut. Sweet sir, much better than I was; I can 
 stand, and walk: I will even take my leave of 
 you, and pace softly towards my kinsman's. 
 
 Clo. Shall I bring thee on the way ? 
 
 Aut. No, good-fac'd sir ; no, sweet sir. 
 
 Clo. Then fare thee well ; I must go buy spices 
 for our sheep-shearing. 
 
 Aut. Prosper you, sweet sir ! — [Exit Clown.] — 
 Your purse is not hot enough to purchase your 
 spice. I '11 be with you at your sheep-shearing 
 too : K I make not this cheat bring out another, 
 and the shearers prove sheep, let me be unrolled, 
 and my name put in the book of virtue ! 
 
 Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way. 
 And merrily hent the stile-a: 
 
 A merry heart goes all the day, 
 Your sad tires in a mile-a. 
 
 [E.Tit. 
 
 SCENE m.—The same. A Shepherd's Cotta'je. i 
 Enter Flomzel and Pekmta. 
 
 Flo. These your unusual weeds to each part oi 
 you 
 Do give a life : no shepherdess ; but Flora, 
 Peering in April's front. This your slieep-shcaring 
 Is as a meeting of the petty gods, 
 And you the queen on 't. 
 
 Per. Sir, my gracious lord. 
 
 To chide at your extremes it not becomes me ; 
 O, pardon, that I name them : your high sell", 
 The gracious mark o' the land, you have obscur'd 
 W'ith a swain's wearing ; and me, poor lowly maid, 
 Most goddess like prank'd up : But that our 
 
 feasts 
 In every mess have folly, and the feeders 
 Digest it with a custom, I should blush 
 To see you so attir'd ; sworn, I think, 
 To show myself a glass. 
 
 Flo. I bless the time. 
 
 When my good falcon made lier flight across 
 Thy father's ground. 
 
 Per. Now Jove afford you cause ! 
 
 To me, the difference forges dread ; your sjreatncia 
 Hath not been us'd to fear. Eveu now I tremble 
 To think, your father, by some accident,
 
 THE WINTERS TALE. 
 
 SOUNK lU. 
 
 Should pass tliis way, as, you did : O, tbo fates ! 
 [low would he look, to see his work, so nolile. 
 Vilely bound up ? What would ho say 2 Or how 
 Should I, in these my borrow'd flaunts, behold 
 The sternness of his presence ? 
 
 Ho. Apprehend 
 
 Nothing but jollity. The gods themselves, 
 Humbling their deities to love, have tiikeu 
 The shapes of beasts upon them : Jupiter 
 Decanio a bull, and bellow'd ; the green Neptune 
 A ram, and bleated ; and the fire-rob'd god, 
 Golden Apollo, a poor humble swain, 
 As I seem now : Their transformations 
 Were never for a piece of beauty rarer; 
 Nor in a way so chaste : since my desires 
 Run not before mine honour ; nor my lusts 
 Burn hotter than my faith. 
 
 Per. O but, sir. 
 
 Your res'olution cannot hold, when 't is 
 Oppos'd, as it must be, by th' power of 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 dear'st Perdita, 
 
 Wilh 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 ; 
 Str.angle 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 1 
 
 Enter Shepherd, with Polixenes and Camillo dis- 
 guised ; Clown, MopsA, Dorcas, and others. 
 
 Flo. See, your guests approach : 
 
 Address youi-self to entertain them sprightly. 
 And let 's be red with mirth. 
 
 Shep. Fie, daughter ! 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, now i' the middle ; 
 On his shoulder, aud 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 were a feasted one, and not 
 The hostess of the meeting: Pray you, bid 
 These uidcnown friends to 's welcome : for it ia 
 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! [To Cam. 
 
 Give me those flowers there, Dorcas. — Reverend 
 
 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 wintei-, — the fairest flowers o' the 
 
 season 
 Are our carnations, and streak'd gillyvors," 
 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 gre.it 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, wc 
 
 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. 
 
 Per. So it is. 
 
 Pol. Then make your garden rich in gillyvors, 
 And do not call them bastards. 
 
 Per. I '11 not put 
 
 The dibble" in earth to set one slip of them : 
 
 601
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 No more than, were I painted, I would wish 
 This youth should say, 't were well; and only 
 
 therefore 
 Itesire to breed by me. — Ilere 's flowers for you ; 
 Ilot lavender, mints, savory, maijoram ; 
 The marigold, that goes to bed with th' sun, 
 And with him rises weeping; these are flowers 
 Of middle summer, and, I think, they are given 
 To men of middle age : Y' are very welcome. 
 Cam. I should leave grazing, were I of your 
 
 flock, 
 And only live by gazing. 
 
 Per. Out, alas! 
 
 Vou 'd be so lean, that blasts of .January 
 Would blow you through and through. — Now, my 
 
 fiiir'st fi'iend, 
 I would I had some flowers o' the spnng, that 
 
 might 
 Become your time of day ; and yours, and yours ; 
 That wear upon your virgin branches yet 
 Your maidenheads growing : O, Proserpina, 
 For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou let'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 unmanied, 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. 
 
 Flo. What you do 
 
 Still bettei-s what is done. When you speak, 
 
 sweet, 
 I 'd have you do it ever : when you sing, 
 I 'il iiave you buy and sell so ; so give alms ; 
 ['ray so ; and, for the ord'ring your afl'airs. 
 To sing them too : When you do dance, I wish 
 
 you 
 A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do 
 Nothing but that ; move still, still so, 
 
 602 
 
 And own no other function : Each your doing, 
 So singular in each particular, 
 Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds, 
 That all your acts are queens. 
 
 Per. O Doricles, 
 
 Your praises are tco large : but that your youth, 
 And the true blood which peeps fairly through 'I, 
 Do plainly give you out an unstain'd shepherd, 
 With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles, 
 You woo'd me the false way. 
 
 Flo. I think, you have 
 
 As little skill to fear, as I have purpose 
 To put you to 't. — But, come ; our dance, I pray : 
 Your hand, my Perdita : so turtles pair, 
 That never mean to part. 
 
 Per. I '11 swear for 'em. 
 
 Pol. This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever 
 Ran on the green sward : nothing she does or 
 
 seems. 
 But smacks of something greater than herself; 
 Too noble for this place. 
 
 Cam. He tells her something 
 That makes her blood look on 't : Good sooth, she is 
 The queen of curds and cream. 
 
 Clo. Come on, strike up. 
 
 Dor. Mopsa must be your mistress : marry 
 garlic. 
 To mend her kissing with. 
 
 Mop. Now, in good time ! 
 
 Clo. Not a word, a word ; we stand upon our 
 manners. — 
 Come, strike up. [Music 
 
 Here a dance of Shepherds and Shepherdesses. 
 
 Pol. Pray, good shepherd, what fair swain is this 
 Which dances with your daughter ? 
 
 Shqy. They call him Doricles ; and boasts 
 himself 
 To have a worthy feeding: but I have it 
 Upon his own report, and I believe it ; 
 He looks like sooth : He says, he loves my daugb 
 
 ter; 
 I think so too : for never gaz'd the moon 
 Upon the water, as he '11 stand, and read, 
 As 't were, my daughter's eyes : and, to be plain, 
 I think there is not half a kiss to choose 
 Who loves another b( et. 
 
 Pol. She dances featly." 
 
 SJiep. So she does anything ; though I report it 
 That should bo silent : if vo\mg Doricli-s 
 Do light upon her, she shall bring him that 
 Which ho not dreams of.
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE 
 
 SCENE 111. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Sen. O master, if you did but hear the pedler 
 it the door, 3'ou would never dance again after a 
 tabor and pipe : no, tlio bagpipe could not move 
 you ; Lo sings several tunes faster than you '11 tell 
 money ; ho utters them as he had eaten ballads, 
 and all men's ears grew to his tunes. 
 
 Clo. He could never come better: he sliall come 
 in : I love a ballad but even too well ; if it be 
 doleful matter, menily set down, or a very plea- 
 sant thing indeed, and sung lamentably. 
 
 Serv. He hath songs, for man, or woman, of all 
 Biies ; no milliner can so fit his customers with 
 gloves : he has the prettiest love-songs for maids ; 
 so without bawdry, which is strange ; with such 
 delicate burthens of "dildos and fadings:" "jump 
 her and thump her ;" and where some stretch- 
 inouth'd rascal would, as it were, mean mischief, 
 and break a foul jape into the matter, ho makes 
 the maid to answer, " Whoop, do me no harm, good 
 man ;" puts him otf, slights him, with " Whoop, 
 Jo me no harm, good man." 
 
 Pol. This is a brave fellow. 
 
 Clo. Believe me, thou talk'st of an admirable- 
 conceited fellow. Has he any unbraided wares ? 
 
 Serv. He hath ribands of all the colours i' the 
 rainbow ; points, more than all the lawyers in 
 Bohemia can learnedly handle, though they come 
 to him by the gross ; inkles, caddisses, carabnes,''' 
 lawns ; why, he sings 'em over, as they were gods 
 or goddesses ; you would think a smock were a 
 she-angel : he so chants to the sleeve hand, and 
 the work about the square on 't. 
 
 Clo. Prithee, bring him in ; ond let him ap- 
 proach singing. 
 
 Per. Forewarn him, that he use no scurrilous 
 words in 's tunes. 
 
 Clo. You have of these pedlere, that have more 
 in them than you 'd think, sister. 
 
 Per. Ay, good brother, or go about to think. 
 
 Enter AnroLTCCS, singing. 
 
 Lawn, as white as driven snow ; 
 
 Cyprus, black as ere was crow ;3i 
 
 Gloves, as sweet as damask roses ; 
 
 Masks for faces, and for noses ; 
 
 Bugle-bracelet, neeklace-ninbcr. 
 
 Perfume for a lady's chamber : 
 
 Golden quoifs, and stomachers, 
 
 For my lads to give their dears ; 
 
 Pins, and poking-stieks of steel. 
 
 What maids lack from head to heel : 
 Come, buy of me, come ; come buy, come buy ; 
 Buy, lads, or eKe your lassies cry : Come, buy. 
 
 Clo. If I were not in love with Mopsa, thou 
 shouldst take no money of me : but being en- 
 thrall'd as I am, it will also be the bondage of cer- 
 tain ribands and gloves. 
 
 Mop. I was promis'd them against the feast ; 
 but they come not too late now. 
 
 Dor. He hath piomis'd you more than that, or 
 there be liars. 
 
 Mop. He hath paid you all he promis'd you : 
 may be, he has paid you more ; which will shame 
 you to give him again. 
 
 Clo. Is there no manners left among maids ? will 
 they wear their plackets, where they should bear 
 their faces ? Is there not milking-time, when you 
 are going to bed, or kill-hole,'' to whistle off these 
 secrets; but you must be tittle-tattling before all 
 our guesis? 'T is well they are whisp'ring : charm 
 your tongues,'' and not a word more. 
 
 Mop. I have done. Come, you promis'd me a 
 tawdry lace, and a pair of sweet gloves. 
 
 Clo. Have I not told thee how I was cozen'd by 
 the way, and lost all my money ? 
 
 Aut. And, indeed, sir, there are cozeners abroad ; 
 therefore it behoves men to be wary. 
 
 Clo. Fear not thou, man, thou shalt lose nothing 
 here. 
 
 Aut. I hope so, sir ; for I have about me many 
 parcels of charge. 
 
 Clo. What hast here ? ballads ? 
 
 Mop. Pray now, buy some : I love a ballad in 
 print, a-life ; for then we are sure they are true. 
 
 Aut. Here 's one to a very doleful tune. How a 
 usurer's wife was brought to bed of twenty money- 
 bags at a burthen ; and how she long'd to eat 
 adders' heads, and toads carbonado'd. 
 
 Mop. Is it true, think you ? 
 
 Aut. Very true ; and but a mouth old. 
 
 Dor. Bless me from marrying a usurer ! 
 
 Aut. Here 's the midwife's name to 't, one 
 mistress Taleporter ; and five or si-x honest wives 
 that were present : Why should T carry lies 
 abroad ? 
 
 Mop. 'Pray you now, buy it. 
 
 Clo. Come on, lay it by : And let 's first 
 see more ballads; we '11 buy the other things 
 anon. 
 
 Aut. Here 's another ballad, Of a fish, that 
 appeared upon the coast, on Wedn'sday the four- 
 score of April, forty thousand fadom above water, 
 and sung this ballad against the hard hearts of 
 maids : it was thought she was a woman, and 
 was turn'd into a cold fish, for she would not ex- 
 
 fi03
 
 I'HE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 aCENE III. 
 
 change flesh with one that lo< 'd lier : The ballad 
 is very pitiful, and as true. 
 
 Dor. Is it true, too, think you ? 
 
 Aut. Five justices' hands at it ; and witnesses, 
 more than my pack will hold. 
 
 Clo. Lay it by too. Another. 
 
 Aut. This is a merry ballad ; but a very pretty 
 one. 
 
 Mop. Let 's have some merry ones. 
 
 Aut. "Why, this is a passing meny one ; and 
 goes to the tune of ' Two maids wooing a man :' 
 there 's scarce a maid westward, but she sings it ; 
 't is in request, I can tell you. 
 
 Mop. We can both sing it ; if thou 'It bear a 
 part, thou shalt hear ; 't is in three parts. 
 
 Dor. We had the tune on 't a month ago. 
 
 Aut. I can bear my part ; you must know, 't is 
 ir.y occupation : have at it with you. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 A. Get you hence, for I must go ; 
 
 Wliere it fit;^ not yon to know. 
 I). Whither? 
 J/. O, -n-liither ? 
 D. Whither? 
 U. It becomes thy oath full well, 
 
 Thou to me thy secrets tell : 
 D. Me too, let mc go thither. 
 
 M. Or thou go'st to th' grange or mill : 
 I). If to eitlier, thou dost ill. 
 A. Neither. 
 D. What, neither ? 
 A. Neitlier. 
 
 fJ. Thou hast sworn my love to be ; 
 M. Thou hiist sworn it more to me : 
 Tlien, whither goest? say, whither? 
 
 Clo. We '11 have this song out anon by our- 
 
 selres; My father and the gentlemen are in sad 
 talk, and we '11 not trouble them : Come, bring 
 away thy pack after me. Wenches, I'll buy for 
 you both : — Pedler, let 's have the first choice. — 
 F( How me, girls. 
 
 Aut. And you shall ])ay well for 'em. [Aside. 
 
 Will you buy any tape, 
 
 Or lace for your cape, 
 My dainty dnck, my dear-a ? 
 
 Any .silk, any thread. 
 
 Any tovft for your liea-l. 
 Of tlifl ncw'fit, and fin'st, liiTst wcar-a ? 
 
 feme to the pedler ; 
 
 Money 'b a medlar, 
 That doth utter all men's ware-a. 
 
 [Exeunt Clo., Alt., Don., and Mop. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Scrv. M.- sicr, there is three callers, three sliep- 
 fiOi 
 
 herds, three neatherds, three swineherds, that 
 have made themselves all men of hair ; they call 
 themselves saltiers : and they have a dance which 
 the wenches say is a gallimaufry of gambols, 
 because they are not in 't ; but they themselvoa 
 are o' the mind, (if it be not too rough for some, 
 that know little but bowling,) it will plea.se plen- 
 tifully. 
 
 Shep. Away ! v.'e '11 none on 't ; here has been 
 too much homely foolery already : — I know, sir, 
 we weary you. 
 
 Pol. You weary those that refresh us : Pray, 
 let 's see these four threes of lierdsmen. 
 
 Serv. One three of them, by their own report, 
 sir, hath danc'd before the king ; and not the 
 worst of the three but jumps twelve foot and a 
 half by th' squire." 
 
 Shep. Leave your prating ; since these good men 
 are pleas'd, let them come in ; but quickly now. 
 
 Serv. Why, they stay at door, sir. [Exit. 
 
 Re-enter Servant, with Twelve Rustics, habited like 
 Sali/rs. They dance, and then exeunt. 
 
 Pol. 0, father, you '11 know more of that here- 
 after. — 
 Is it not too far gone ? — 'T is time to part them. — 
 He 's simple and tells much. [^Is/rff.] — How 
 
 now, fair shepherd ? 
 Your heart is full of something that does take 
 Your mind from feasting. Sooth, when I was 
 
 young. 
 And handed love as you do, I was wont 
 To load my she with knacks : I would have ran- 
 
 sack'd 
 The pedler's silken treasury, and have pour'd it 
 To her acceptance ; you have let him go 
 And nothing marted with him : If your lass 
 Interpretation should abuse, and call this 
 Your lack of love or bounty, you were straited 
 For a repl}', at least, if you make a caro 
 Of happy holding her. 
 
 Flo. Old sir, I know- 
 
 She prizes not such ti'itles as these are : 
 The gifts she looks from me are pack'd and lock'd 
 Up in my heart ; which I have given already. 
 But not deliver'd. — 0, hear mo breathe my life 
 Ik-fore this ancient sir, who, it should seem. 
 Hath sometime lov'd : 1 take thy h;ind ; this hand 
 As soft as dove's down, and as white as it ; 
 Or Ethiopian's tooth, or the fann'd snow, 
 That 's bolted by the northern blasts twice o'er. 
 Pol. What follow.s this I—
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCENB in. 
 
 LIow prettily th' young swain seems to wash 
 Tlie liiind was fail' before ! — I have put you out : — 
 I lilt to your protestation ; let me bear 
 What you profess. 
 
 Flo. Do, and be witness to 't. 
 
 J'ol. And this my neighbour too ? 
 
 Flo. And be, and more 
 
 'Hum he, and men; the earth, the heavens, and 
 
 all: 
 That, were I crown'd the most imperial monarch, 
 Thereof most worthy ; were I the fairest youth 
 That ever made eye swerve ; had force, and know- 
 ledge. 
 More than was ever man's, I would not pnze 
 
 them, 
 Without her lore ; for her, employ them all ; 
 Commend them, and condemn them, to her service. 
 Or to their own perdition. 
 
 Pol. Fairly offer'd. 
 
 Gam. This shows a sound affection. 
 
 Shep. But, my daughter, 
 
 Say you the like to him ? 
 
 Per. I cannot speak 
 
 So well, nothing so well ; no, nor mean better : 
 Hy th' pattern of mine own thoughts I cut out 
 riie purity of his. 
 
 Shqy. Take hands, a bargain ; — 
 
 And, friends unknown, you shall bear witness to 't : 
 I give my daughter to him, and will make 
 Iler portion equal his. 
 
 Flo. O, that must be 
 
 r the virtue of your daughter : one being dead, 
 I shall have more than you can dream of yet ; 
 Enough then for your wonder : But, come on, 
 Contract us 'fore these witnesses. 
 
 Shep. Come, your hand ; 
 
 And, daughter, yours. 
 
 Pol. Soft, swain, awhile, beseech you ; 
 
 Have you a fatker ? 
 
 Flo. I have : But what of him '. 
 
 Pol. Knows lie of this ? 
 
 Flo. He neither does, nor shall. 
 
 Pol. Melhinks, a father 
 Is, at the nuptial of his son, a guest 
 That best becomes the table. Pray you, once more ; 
 Is not your father gro-\vn incapable 
 Of reasonable affairs ? is ho not stupid 
 With age, and alt'ring rheums ? Can he speak ? 
 
 hear ? 
 Know man from man ? dispute his own estate ? 
 Lies he not bed-rid ? and again does nothing. 
 But what Lb did being childish ? 
 
 Flo. No, good sir ; 
 
 He has his health, and ampler strength, indeed, 
 Than most have of his age. 
 
 Pol. By my white beard, 
 
 You ofl'er him, if this be so, a wrong 
 Something unfilial : Reason, my son. 
 Should choose himself a wife ; but as good reason 
 The fatliei (aU whose joy is nothing else 
 But fair posterity) should hold some couasel 
 In such a business. 
 
 Flo. I yield all this ; 
 
 But, for some other reasons, my grave sir. 
 Which 't is not fit you know, I not acquaint 
 My father of this business. 
 
 Pol. Let him know 't. 
 
 Flo. He shall not. 
 
 Pol. Prithee, let him. 
 
 Flo. No, he must not, 
 
 Shep. Let him, my son ; he shall not need to 
 grieve 
 At knowing of thy choice. 
 
 Flo. Come, come, he must not : — 
 
 Mark our contract. 
 
 Pol. Mark your divorce, young sir, 
 
 [Discovering himself 
 Whom son I dare not call; thou art too base 
 To be acknowledg'd : Thou a sceptre's heir. 
 That thus affect'st a sheephook ! — Thou old traitor, 
 I am sorry, that, by hanging thee, I can 
 But shorten thy life one week. — And thou, fresh 
 
 piece 
 Of excellent witchcraft, who, of force, must know 
 The royal fooP thou cop'st with ; — 
 
 SItep. O, my heart ! 
 
 Pol. I '11 have thy beauty scratch'd with bnara, 
 and made 
 More homely than thy state. — For thee, fond boy, 
 If I may ever know thou dost but sigli 
 That thou no more shalt never see tliis knack, (as 
 
 never 
 I mean thou shalt,) we '11 bar thee from suc- 
 cession ; 
 Not hold thee of our blood, no, not our kin, 
 Far than Deucalion off. — Mark thou my words ; 
 Follow us to the court. — Thou churl, for this time, 
 Thougli full of our displeasure, yet we free thee 
 From the dead blow of it. — And you, enchant- 
 ment. 
 Worthy enough a herdsman ; yea, him too. 
 That makes himself, but for our honour therein, 
 Unworthy thee, — if ever, hencefoi'th, thou 
 These rural latches to his entrance open, 
 
 605
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 Or hoop Lis body more with thy embraces, 
 
 I will devi«: a death as cruel for thee 
 
 As thou art tender to 't. [Exit. 
 
 Per. Even here undone ! 
 
 I was not much afeard : for once, or twice, 
 [ was about to speak : and tell him plainly, 
 The self-same sun that shines upon his court 
 Hides not his visage from our cottage, but 
 liooks on alike. — Will 't please you, sir, begone ? 
 
 [to Florizel. 
 I told you what would come o' this : 'Beseech 
 
 you, 
 Of your own state take care : this dream of mine. 
 Being now awake, I '11 queen it no inch farther. 
 But milk my ewes, and weep. 
 
 Cam. W'hy, how now, father ! 
 
 Speak, ere thou diest. 
 
 Shep. I cannot speak, nor think, 
 
 Nor dare to know that which I know. — 0, sir, 
 
 [to Florizel. 
 You have undone a man of fourscore three. 
 That thought to fill his grave in quiet ; yea, 
 To die upon the bed my father died, 
 To lie close by his honest bones : but now 
 Some hangman must put on my shvoud, and lay me 
 Where no priest shovels in dust, — cursed 
 wretch I [to Perdita. 
 
 That knew'st this was the prince, and wouldst 
 
 adventure 
 To mingle faith with him. — Undone ! undone ! 
 [f I might die within this hear, I have Hv'd 
 To die when I desire. [Exit. 
 
 Flo. Why look you so upon me ? 
 
 I am but sorry, not afeard; delay'd. 
 But nothing alter'd : What I was, I am : 
 More straining on, for plucking back ; not following 
 My leash unwillingly. 
 
 Cam. Gracious my lord. 
 
 You know your father's temper : at this time 
 He will allow no speech, — which, I do guess, 
 You do not purpose to him ;— and as hardly 
 Will he endure your sight as yet, I fear : 
 Then, till the fury of his highness settle, 
 Come not before him. 
 
 Flo. I not purpose it. 
 
 I think, C.-iniillo. 
 
 Cam. Even ho, my lord. 
 
 Per. How often have I told you 't would be thus ! 
 How often said, my dignity would last 
 But till 't were known 1 
 
 Mo. It cannot fail, but by 
 
 riie violation of my faith ; And then 
 uor. 
 
 Let nature crush the sides o' the earth together. 
 And mar the seeds within ! Lift up thy looks : 
 From my succession wipe me, father ! I 
 Am heir to my affection. 
 
 Cam. Be advis'd. 
 
 Flo. I am ; and by my fancy : if my reason 
 Will thereto be obedient, I have reason ; 
 If not, my senses, better pleas'd with madness, 
 Do bid it welcome. 
 
 Cam. This is desperate, sir. 
 
 Flo. So call it ; but it does fulfil my vow ; 
 I needs must think it honesty. Camillo, 
 Not for Bohemia, nor the pomp that may 
 Be thereat glean'd ; for all the sun sees, or 
 The close earth wombs, or the profound seas hide 
 In unknown fadoms, will 1 break my oath 
 To this my fair belov'd : Therefore, I pray you, 
 As you have ever been my father's honour'd fiiend. 
 When he shall miss me, (as in faith, I mean not 
 To see him any more,) cast your good counsels 
 Upon his passion : Let myself and fortune 
 Tug for the time to come. This you may know, 
 And so deliver, — I am put to sea 
 With her, whom here I cannot hold on shore ; 
 And, most opportune to our need, I have 
 A vessel rides fast by, but not prepar'd 
 For this design. What course I mean to hold 
 Shall nothing benefit your knowledge, nor 
 Concern me the reporting. 
 
 Cam. O, my lord, 
 
 I would your spirit were easier for advice, 
 Or stronger for your need. 
 
 Flo. Hark, Perdita, [Takes her aside 
 
 I '11 hear you by and by. [to Camillo 
 
 Ca7H. He 's irreraoveable, 
 
 Resolv'd for flight : now were I happy, if 
 His going I could frame to serve my turn ; 
 Save him from danger, do him love and honour; 
 Purchase the sight again of dear Sicilia, 
 And that unhappy king, ray master, whom 
 I so much thirst to see. 
 
 Flo. Now, good Camillo, 
 
 I am so fraught with curious busincs.s, that 
 I leave out ceremony. [Goiny 
 
 Cam. Sir, I think. 
 You have heard of my poor services, i' the love 
 That I have borne your father ? 
 
 Flo. Very nobly 
 
 Have yc'ji deserv'd : it is my father's music, 
 To speak your deeds ; not little of his r.are 
 To have them reconipcns'd as thought on. 
 
 Cam. Well, my lord.
 
 ACT 17. 
 
 TKE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 BCKNB UJ 
 
 [f you may please to think I love the king, 
 AuJ, through hira, what 's nearest to him, which is 
 Your gracious self, embrace but my direction, 
 (If your more ponderous and settled project 
 May sutler alteration,) on niiue honour 
 [ '11 jioint you where you shall have such re- 
 ceiving 
 As shall become your highness; where you may 
 Enjoy your mistress ; (from the whom, I see, 
 There 's no disjunction to be made, but by, 
 As Heavens forfend ! your ruin :) marry her ; 
 And (with my best endeavours, in your absence) 
 Your discontenting father strive to qualify. 
 And bring him up to liking. 
 
 Flo. How, Camillo, 
 
 May this, almost a miracle, be done? 
 That I may call thee something more than man, 
 And, after that, trust to thee. 
 
 Ca?n.. Have you thought on 
 
 A ]>lace, whereto you '11 go? 
 
 F/o. Not any yet : 
 
 But as til' unthought-on accident is guilty 
 To what we wildly do, so we profess 
 Ourselves to be the slaves of chance, and flies 
 Of every wind that blows. 
 
 Cain. Then list to me : 
 
 This follows, — if you will not change your 
 
 purpose. 
 But undergo this flight, — make for Sicilia ; 
 And there present 3"ourself, and your fair piincess, 
 (For so, I see, she must be,) 'fore Leontes ; 
 She sliall be habited as it becomes 
 The partner of your bed. Methinks, I see 
 Leontes, opening his free arms, and weeping 
 His welcomes forth : asks thee, the son, for- 
 giveness, 
 As 't were i' the father's person : kisses the hands 
 Of your fresh princess : o'er and o'er divides him 
 'Twixt his unkindness and his kindness ; th' one 
 He chides to hell, and bids the other grow 
 Faster than thought or time. 
 
 Flo. Worthy Camillo, 
 
 What colour for my visitation shall I 
 Hold up before him ? 
 
 Cam. Sent by the king your fatlier 
 
 To greet him, and to give him comforts. Sir, 
 The manner of your bearing towards him, with 
 Wliat you, as from your father, shall deliver, 
 Things known betwixt us three, I '11 write you 
 
 down ; 
 The whicli shall point you forth at every sitting 
 WTiat you must say ; that he shall not perceive. 
 
 Hut that you have your father's bosom there. 
 And speak his veiy heart. 
 
 Flo. I am bound to you : 
 
 There is some sap in this. 
 
 Cam. A course more promising 
 
 Than a wild dedication of yourselves 
 To unpath'd waters, undrcam'd shores ; niost<vi- 
 
 tain, 
 To miseries enough : no hope to help you : 
 Rut, as you shake off one, to take another: 
 Nothing so certain as your anchors ; who 
 Do their best office, if they can but stay you 
 Where you '11 be loth to be : Besides, you know, 
 Prosperity 's the very bond of love ; 
 Whose fresh complexion and whose heart togethoi 
 Affiiction alters. 
 
 Per. One of these is true : 
 
 I think affliction may subdue the cheek. 
 But not take in the mind. 
 
 Cam. Yea, say you so ? 
 
 There shall not, at your father's house, these 
 
 seven years, 
 Be born another such. 
 
 Flo. Jly good Camillo, 
 
 She 's as forward of her breeding, as 
 She is i' the rear 'f our birth. 
 
 Cam. I cannot say, 't is a pity 
 
 She lacks instruction ; for she seems a mistress 
 To most that teach. 
 
 Per. Your pardon, sir, for this : 
 
 I '11 blush you thanks. 
 
 Flo. My prettiest Perdita ! — 
 
 But, O, the tliorns we stand upon ! — Camillo, — 
 Preserver of my father, now of me ; 
 The medicine of our house ! — how shall we do ? 
 We are not furnish'd like Bohemia's son. 
 Nor shall appear in Sicilia.'"' 
 
 Cam. My lord. 
 
 Fear none of this : I think you know my fortunes 
 Do all lie there : it shall be so my care 
 To have you royally appointed, as if 
 The scene you play were mine. For instance, sir. 
 That you may know you shall not want, — one 
 word. [T/uy talk aside 
 
 He-enter Autolycus. 
 
 Aut. Ha, ha! what a fool honesty is! and 
 trust, his sworn brother, a very simple gentleman ! 
 I have sold all my trumpeiy ; not a counterfeit 
 stone, not a riband, glass, pomander,'" brooch 
 table-hook, ballad, knife, ta]x;, glove, shoe-iic, 
 bracelet, born-ring, to keep my pack from fasiing- 
 
 607
 
 ACT 17. 
 
 TUE WINTER'S " .VLE. 
 
 SCENE ni. 
 
 they throng who should buy firet, as if my trinkets 
 had been hallowed, and brought a benediction to 
 the buyer : by which means I saw whose purse 
 was best in picture ; and what I saw, to my good 
 use I remembered. My clown (who wants but 
 something to be a reasonable man) gi'ew so in love 
 with the wenches' song, that he would not stir his 
 pettitoes till he had both tune and words ; which 
 so drew the rest of the herd to me, that all their 
 other senses stuck in ears : you might have piuch'd 
 a placket, it was senseless ; it was nothing to geld 
 a codpiece of a purse ; I would liave iil'd keys off 
 that hung in chains : no hearing, no feeling, but 
 my sir's song, and admiring the nothing of it. 
 So that, in this time of lethargy, I pick'd and cut 
 most of their festival purses : and had not the 
 old man come in with a whoobub against his 
 daughter and the king's son, and scar'd my choughs 
 from the chaff, I had not left a purse alive in the 
 whole aiT-.iy. [Cam., Flo., and Per. come fonvard. 
 
 Cam. Nay, L..* my letters by this means being 
 there 
 So soon as you arrive, shall clear that doubt. 
 
 Flo. And those that you '11 procure from king 
 Leontos — 
 
 Ca7n. Shall satisfy your father. 
 
 Per. Happy be you 1 
 
 All that you speak shows fair. 
 
 Cam. Who have we bere ? — 
 
 [Sceitlff AUTOLYCUS. 
 
 We '11 make an instrument of this ; omit 
 Nothing may give us aid. 
 
 Aul. If they have overheard me now, why, 
 
 hanging. [Aside. 
 
 Cam. How now, good fellow 3 why shak'st 
 thou so ? Fear not, man ; here 's no harm intended 
 to thee. 
 
 Aut. I am a poor fellow, sir. 
 
 Cam. Why, be so still ; here 's nobody will steal 
 that from thee : Yet, for the outside of thy poverty 
 we must make an exchange : therefore, disease 
 thee instantly, (thou must tliink there 's a neces- 
 sity in 't,) and change garments with tliis gentle- 
 man : Tliough the pennyworth, on his side, be the 
 worst, yet hold thee, there 's some boot. 
 
 Aut. I am a poor fellow, sir : — I know ye well 
 puough. [Anide. 
 
 Cam. Nay, prithee, dispatch : the gentleman 
 ishalfflay'd already. 
 
 Avt. Are you in earnest, sir ? — I smtl the trick 
 on 't,— [Aside. 
 
 Flo- Dispatch, I prithee. 
 
 608 
 
 Aut. Indeed I have h.ad earnest; but I cannot 
 with conscience take it. 
 
 Ca7n. Unbuckle, unbuckle. — 
 
 [Flo. and Aur. exchange garmcnU 
 Fortunate mistress, — let my prophecy 
 Come home to ye ! — you must retire yourself 
 Into some covert : take your sweetheart's hat. 
 And pluck it o'er your brows ; muffle your face ; 
 Dismantle you ; and, as you can, disliken 
 The tnith of your own seeming ; that you may 
 (For I do fear eyes over you) to shipboard 
 Get undesciy'd. 
 
 Per. I see the play so lies 
 
 That I must bear a part. 
 
 Cam. No remedy. — 
 
 Have you done there ? 
 
 Flo. Should I now meet my father, 
 
 He would not call me son. 
 
 Cam. Nay, you shall have no hat : 
 
 Come, lady, come. — Farewell, my friend. 
 
 Aut. Adieu, sir. 
 
 Flo. O, Perdita, what have we twain forgot 
 Pray you, a word. [They converse ajiart. 
 
 Cam. What I do next shall be, to tell the king, 
 
 [Aside. 
 Of this escape, and whither they are bound ; 
 Wherein my hope i.s, I shall so prevail 
 To force him after ; in whose company 
 I shall review Sicilia ; for whose sight 
 I have a woman's longing. 
 
 Flo. Fortune speed us !- 
 
 Thus we set on, Camillo, to th' sea-side. 
 
 Cam. The swifter speed the better. 
 
 [E.reunt Flo., Per., and Cam. 
 
 Aut. I understand the business, I hear it: To have 
 an open ear, a quick eye, and a nimble hand, is ne- 
 cessary for a cut-puree ; a good nose is requisite al- 
 so, to smell out work for th' other senses. I see this 
 is the time that the unjust man doth thrive. What 
 an exchange had this been, without boot ! what a 
 boot is here, with this exchange ! Sure, the gods 
 do this year connive at us, and we may do anything 
 extempore. The prince himself is about a ]iiece of 
 iniquity ; stealing away from his father, with hia 
 clog at his heels : If I thought it were a piece of 
 honesty to acquaint the king withal, I wouU not 
 do 't : I hold it the more knavery to conceal it : and 
 therein am I constant to my profession. 
 Fnter Clown and Shepherd. 
 Aside, aside ; — here is more matter for a hot brain • 
 Every lane's end, every shop, church, sessiou. 
 hanging, yields a careful ni.-m work.
 
 ■mi<: WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCENE 111. 
 
 Clo. See, see ; what a man you are now ! there 
 is no otlior way but to tell the king she 's a change- 
 ling, and none of your flesh and blood. 
 
 Shrp. Nay, but hear me. 
 
 Clo. Nay, but hear me. 
 
 Shep. Go to then. 
 
 Clo. She being none of your flesh and blood, 
 your flesh and blood has not offended the king ; 
 and, so, your flesh and blood is not to be punish'd 
 by him. Show those things you found about her ; 
 those secret things, all but what she has with her : 
 This being done, let the law go whistle ; I warrant 
 you. 
 
 Shep. I will tell the king all, every word ; 
 yea, and his son's pranks too ; who, I may say, 
 is no honest man neither to his father, nor to 
 me, to go about to make me the king's brother-in- 
 law. 
 
 Clo. Indeed, brother-in-law was the furthest off 
 you could have been to him ; and then your blood 
 had been the dearer, by I know how much an 
 ounce. 
 
 Aut. Very wisely ; puppies ! '[Aside. 
 
 Shep. Well ; let us to the king; there is that in 
 this fardel will make him scratch his beard. 
 
 Atit. I know not what impediment this com- 
 piaiiit may be to the flight of my master. 
 
 Clo. 'Pray heartily he be at palace. 
 
 Aut. Though I am not naturally honest, I am 
 so sometimes by chance : — Let me pocket up my 
 pedler's excrement. — \^Takes off his false beard. ^ 
 IIovv now, rustics ? whither are you bound ? 
 
 Shep. To th' palace, an it like your worehip. 
 
 Aut. Your affairs there ; what ; with whom ; 
 tne condition of that fardel ; the j)lace of your 
 dwelling; your names; your ages; of what having, 
 sreeding ; and anything that is fitting to be known, 
 discover. 
 
 Clo. We are but plain fellows, sir. 
 
 Aut. A lie ; you are rough and hairy ! Let me 
 have no lying ; it becomes none but tradesmen, and 
 they often give us soldiers the lie ; but we pay 
 Ihem for it with stamped coin, not stabbing steel ; 
 therefore they do not give us the lie. 
 
 Clo. Your worship had like to have given us 
 line, if you had not taken yourself with the 
 manner. 
 
 Shep. Are you a courtier, an 't like you, sir? 
 
 ylut. Whether it like me, or no, I am a courtier. 
 See'st thou not the air of the court in these en- 
 foldings? hath not my gait in it the measure of the 
 court ? receives not thy nose court-odour from me 1 
 
 reflect I not on thy ba-seness, court-contempt 1 
 Think'jt thou, for that I insinuate, or touze from 
 thee thy business, I am therefore no courtier ? 1 
 am courtier cap-a-pie ; and one that will either 
 push on or pUick back thy business tlicre : where- 
 upon I command thee to open thy affair. 
 
 Shep. My business, sir, is to the king. 
 
 Aut. What advocate hast thou to him ? 
 
 Shep. I know not, an 't like you. 
 
 Clo. Advocate 's the coiut-word for a phe:isant ; • 
 say, you have none. 
 
 Shep. None, sir ; I have no pheasant, cock nor 
 hen. 
 
 Aut. How bless'd are we that ai-e not simple 
 men ! 
 Yet nature might have made me as these are, 
 Therefore I will not disdain. 
 
 Clo. This cannot be but a great courtier. 
 
 Shep. His garments are rich, but he wears them 
 not handsomely. 
 
 Clo. He seems to be the more noble in being 
 fantastical : a great man, I '11 warrant ; I know 
 by the picking on 's teeth. 
 
 Aut. The fardel there? what's i' the tardel ?« 
 Wherefore that box ? 
 
 Shep. Sir, there lies such secrets in this tarde! 
 and box, which none must know but the king; 
 and which he shall know within this hour, if I 
 may come to th' speech of him. 
 
 Ant. Age, thou hast lost thy labour. 
 
 Shep. Why, sir ? 
 
 Aut. The king is not at the palace : he is gone 
 aboard a new ship to purge melancholy, and air 
 himself : For if thou be'st capable of things serious 
 thou must know the king is full of grief. 
 
 Shep. So 't is said, sir, about his son, that 
 should have married a shepherd's daughter. 
 
 Aut. If that shepherd be not in hand-fast, let 
 him fly ; the curses he shall have, the torture.s he 
 shall feel, will break the back of man, the lieart 
 of monster. 
 
 Clo. Think you so, sir ? 
 
 Aut. Not he alone shall suffer what wii can 
 make heavy, and vengeance bitter ; but those that 
 are germane to him, though remov'd fifty times, 
 shall all come under the hangman : which though 
 it be great pity, yet it is necessary. An old sheep- 
 whistling rogue, a ram-tender, to offer to have Iris 
 daughter come into grace ! Some say, he shall be 
 ston'd ; but that death is too soft for him, say I : 
 Draw our throne into a sheep-cote ! all deaths are 
 too few, the sharpest too easy. 
 
 MS
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 Clo. Has the old man e'er a son, sir, do you 
 bear, an 't like you, sir? 
 
 Aut. He has a son, who shall be flay'd aUve ; 
 then, 'nointed over with honey, set on the head of 
 a wasp's nest ; then stand, till he be three quarters 
 and a dram dead ; then recover'd again with aqua- 
 vita, or some other hot infusion ; then, raw as he 
 is, and in the hottest day prognostication pro- 
 claims, shall he be set against a brick wall, the 
 Bun looking with a southward eye upon him, 
 where he is to behold him with flies blown to 
 death. But what talk we of these traitorly 
 rascals, whose miseries are to be smil'd at, their 
 cflences being so capital ? Tell me (for you seem 
 to be honest plain men) what you have to the 
 king : being something gently consider'd, I 'li 
 bring you where he is aboard, tender your persons 
 to his presence, whisper him in your behalfs : 
 and, if it be in man, besides the king, to effect 
 your suits, here is man shall do it. 
 
 Clo. He seems to be of great authority : close 
 with him, give him gold ; and though authority 
 be a stubborn bear, yet he is oft led by the nose 
 witii gold ; show the inside of your purse to the 
 outside of his hand, and no more ado : Remember, 
 ston'd and flay'd alive ! 
 
 Shep. An 't please you, sir, to undertake the 
 business for us, here is that gold I have : I '11 
 make it as much more ; and leave this young man 
 in pawn till I bring it you. 
 
 Aut. After I have done what I promised ? 
 
 Shep. Ay, sir. 
 
 Aut. Well, give me the moiety : Are you a 
 parlv in this business ? 
 
 eio 
 
 Clo. In some sort, sir : but though my ca-se lie 
 a pitiful one, I hope I shall not be flay'd out 
 of it. 
 
 Aut. O, that 's the case of the shepherd's son : 
 — Hang him, he '11 be made an example. 
 
 Clo. Comfort, good comfort : we must to the 
 king, and show our strange sights : he must know 
 't is none of your daughter, nor my sister ; we aro 
 gone else. Sir, I will give you as much as this 
 old man does, when the business is perform'd ; 
 and remain, as he says, your pawn till it be 
 brought you. 
 
 Aut. I will trust you. Walk before toward the 
 sea-side ; go on the right hand ; I will but look 
 upon the hedge, and follow you. 
 
 Clo. We are bless'd in this man, as I may say, 
 even bless'd. 
 
 Shep. Let 's before, as he bids us : he was pro- 
 vided to do us good. 
 
 \^Exeunt Shepherd and Clown, 
 
 Aut. If I had a mind to be honest, I see For- 
 tune would not suflfer me ; she drops booties in my 
 mouth. « I am courted now with a double occa- 
 sion ; gold, and a means to do the prince my 
 master good ; which, who knows how that may 
 turn back to my advancement ? I will bring these 
 two moles, these blind ones, aboard him : if he 
 think it fit to shore them again, and that the 
 complaint they have to the king concerns him 
 nothing, let him call me rogue for being so fiir ofii- 
 cious ; for I am proof against that title, and what 
 shame else belongs to 't : To him will I present 
 them ; there may be matter in it. 
 
 [Ent
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. — Sicilia. A room in the jmlace of 
 Leontes. 
 
 Unter Leontes, Cleomenes, Dion, Pauuna, and 
 others. 
 
 Cleo. Sir, you have done enough, and have per- 
 fjrm'd 
 A saint-like sorrow ; no fault could you make 
 Which you have not redeem'd ; indeed, paid 
 
 down 
 More penitence than done trespass : At the last 
 Do, as the heavens have done ; forget your evil ; 
 With them, forgive yourself. 
 
 Zeon. Whilst I remembei 
 
 Her, and her virtues, I cannot forget 
 My blemishes in them ; and so still think of 
 The wrong I did myself: which was so much. 
 That heirless it hath made my kingdom ; and 
 Destroy'd the sweet'st companion that e'er man 
 Bred his hopes out of. 
 
 Paul. True, too true, my lord : 
 
 If, one by one, you wedded all the world. 
 Or, from the all that are took something good. 
 To make a perfect woman, she, you kill'd, 
 Would be unparallel'd. 
 
 Leon. 1 think so. Kill'd ! 
 
 She I kill'd ! I did so : but thou strik'st me 
 Sorely, to say I did ; it is as bitter 
 Upon thy tongue as in my thought. Now, good 
 
 now. 
 Say so but seldom. 
 
 Cleo. Not at all, good lady; 
 
 Vou might have spoken a thousand things that 
 
 would 
 Have done the time more benefit, and grac'd 
 Your kindness better. 
 
 Paul. You are one of those 
 
 Would have him wed again. 
 
 Dion. If you would not so, 
 
 Vou pity not the state, nor the remembrance 
 Of his most sovereign name ; consider little 
 What dangers, by his highness' fail of issue. 
 May drop upon his kingdom, and devour 
 
 Incertain lookers-on. Wliat were more holy 
 Than to rejoice the former queen is well ?** 
 What holier than, — for royalty's repair. 
 For present comfort and for future good, — 
 To bless the bed of majesty again 
 With a sweet fellow to 't ? 
 
 Paul. There is non 3 worthy. 
 
 Respecting her that 's gone. Besides, the gala 
 Will have fulfill'd their secret purposes : 
 For has not the divine Apollo said. 
 Is 't not the tenor of his oracle. 
 That king Leontes shall not have an heir 
 Till his lost child be found ? which, that it shall 
 Is all as monstrous to our human reason, 
 As my Antigonus to break his grave, 
 And come again to me ; who, on my life. 
 Did perish with the infant. 'T is your counsel 
 My lord should to the Heavens be contrary. 
 Oppose against their wills. — Care not for issue ; 
 
 [to Leonte3 
 The crown will find an heir : Great Alexander 
 Left his to th' worthiest ; so his successor 
 Was like to be the best. 
 
 Leon. Good Paulina, — 
 
 Who hast the memory of Hermione, 
 I know, in honour, — O, that ever I 
 Had squar'd me to thy counsel ! then, even now, 
 I might have look'd upon my queen's full eyes ; 
 Have taken treasure from her lips, — 
 
 Paul. And left them 
 
 More rich, for what they yielded. 
 
 Leon. Thou speak'st truth. 
 
 No more such wives ; therefore, no wife : one 
 
 worse. 
 And better us'd, would make her sainted spirit 
 Again possess her corpse ; and, on this stage, 
 (Where we ofienders now,) appear, soul-vex d. 
 Begin, " And why to me ?" 
 
 Paul. Had she such power. 
 
 She had just cause. 
 
 Leon. She had ; and would incense ma 
 
 To murder her I married. 
 
 Paul. I should so : 
 
 611
 
 ACT V. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Were I the ghost that walk'd, I 'd bid you 
 
 mark 
 Her eye ; and tell me, for what dull part ia 't 
 Vou chose her ; then I 'd shriek, that even your 
 
 ears 
 Should rift to hear me ; and the words that 
 
 follow'd 
 Should be, " Remember mine !" 
 
 Leon. Stars, stars, 
 
 And all eyes else dead coals !— fear thou no wife, 
 I '11 have no wife, Paulina. 
 
 Paul. Will you swear 
 
 Never to marry, but by my free leave ? 
 
 Leon. Never, Paulina! so be bless'd my spirit! 
 
 Paul. Then, good my lords, bear witness to his 
 oath, — 
 
 Cleo. You tempt him over-much. 
 
 Paul. Unless another, 
 
 A3 like Hermione as is her picture, 
 Affront his eye ; — 
 
 Cleo, Good madam, I have done. 
 
 Paul. Yet, if my lord will many, — if you will, 
 sir, 
 No remedy but you will ; give me the oiBce 
 To choose you a queen ; she shall not be so young 
 As was your former; but she shall be such 
 As, walk'd your first queen's ghost, it should 
 
 take joy 
 To see her in your arms. 
 
 Leon. My trae Paulina, 
 
 We shall not marry till thou bidd'st us. 
 
 Paul. That 
 
 Shall be, when your first queen 's again in breath ; 
 Never till then. 
 
 Enter a Gentleman. 
 
 Gent. One that gives out himself prince Flo- 
 rizel. 
 Son of Polixeues, with his princess, (she 
 The fairest I have yet beheld,) desires access 
 To your high presence. 
 
 Leon. What with him ? he comes not 
 
 Like to hia father's greatness : his approach. 
 So out of circumstance and sudden, tells us 
 T is not a visitation fram'd, but forc'd 
 By need and accident. What train ! 
 
 Oent. But few, 
 
 And those but mean. 
 
 Leon. Ilis prmces.s, say you, with him ? 
 
 Qmt. Ay, the most peerless piece of earth, I 
 think. 
 That e'er the sun shone bright on. 
 612 
 
 Paul. O Hermione, 
 
 As every present time doth boast itself 
 Above a better, gone, so must thy grave 
 Give way to what 's seen now. Sir, you youi'self 
 Have said, and writ so, (but your writing now 
 Is colder than that theme,) " She had not been. 
 Nor was not to be equall'd ;" — thus your vei-se 
 Flow'd with her beauty once ; 't is shrewdlj 
 
 ebh'd. 
 To say you have seen a better. 
 
 Oent. Pardon, madam ; 
 
 The one I have almost forgot ; (your pardon,) 
 The other, when she has obtain'd your eye. 
 Will have your tongue too. This is a creature. 
 Would she begin a sect, might quench the zeal 
 Of all professors else ; make proselytes 
 Of who she but bid follow. 
 
 Paul. How ? not women ? 
 
 Gent. Women will love her, that she is a 
 woman. 
 More worth than any man ; men, that she is 
 The rarest of all women. 
 
 Leon. Go, Cleomenes ; 
 
 Yourself, assisted with your honour'd friends. 
 Bring them to our embracement. — Still 't h 
 strange, 
 [^Exeunt Cleomenes, Lords, and Gentleman. 
 He thus should steal upon us. 
 
 Paul. Had our prince 
 
 (Jewel of children) seen this hour, he had pair'd 
 Well with this lord ; there was not full a month 
 Between their births. 
 
 Leon. Prithee, no more ; cease ; tho 
 
 know'st 
 He dies to me again, when talk'd of : sure, 
 \Vhen I shall see this gentleman, thy speeches 
 Will bring me to consider that which may 
 Unfurnish me of reason. — They are come. — 
 
 Re-enter Cleomenes, with Florizel, Perdita, ana 
 Attendants. 
 
 Your mother wiis most true to wedlock, prince ; 
 For .she did print your royal father oft". 
 Conceiving you : Were I but twenty-one, 
 Your father's imago is so hit in you. 
 His very air, that I should call you brother. 
 As I did him ; and speak of something, wildly 
 By us perform'd before. Most dearly welcome I 
 And your fair princess, goddess ! — O, alas ! 
 I lost a couple, that 'twixt heaven and earth 
 Might thus have stood, begetting wonder, as 
 You, gracious couple, do ! and then I lost
 
 ACT V. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCEKE L 
 
 (All mine own folly) the society, 
 Amity too, of your brave ftither; whom. 
 Though bearing misery, I desire ray life 
 Onoe more to look on him. 
 
 Flo. By liis command 
 
 Have I here touch'd Sicilia : and from him 
 Give you all gi'eetings, that a king, as friend. 
 Can send his brother : and, but infirmity 
 (Which waits upon worn times) hath something 
 
 seiz'd 
 His wish'd ability, he had himself 
 The lands and waters 'twixt your throne and his 
 Measur'd to look upon you ; whom he loves 
 (He bade me say so) more than all the sceptres, 
 And those that bear them, living. 
 
 Leon. 0, my brother, 
 
 (Good gentleman !) the wrongs I have done thee 
 
 stir 
 Afresh 'within me ; and these thy offices, 
 So rarely kind, are as interpreters 
 Of my behind-hand slackness ! — Welcome hither. 
 As is the spring to th' earth. And hath he too 
 Expos'd this p.aragon to th' feaiful usage 
 (At least, ungentle) of the dreadful Neptune, 
 I'o greet a man not worth her pains ; much less 
 Th' adventure of her person ? 
 
 Flo. Good my lord. 
 
 She came from Libya. 
 
 Leon. Where the warlike Smalus, 
 
 That noble honour'd lord, is fear'd and lov'd ? 
 
 Flo. Most royal sir, from thence ; from him, 
 whose daughter 
 His tears proclaim'd his, parting with her : thence 
 (A prosperous south-wind friendly) we have cross'd. 
 To execute the charge my father gave me, 
 For visiting your highness : My best train 
 [ have from your Sicilian shores dismiss'd ; 
 Who for Bohemia bend, to signify 
 Not only my success in Libya, sir. 
 But my arrival, and my wife's, in safety 
 Here, where we are. 
 
 Leon. The blessed gods 
 
 Purge all infection from our air, whilst you 
 Do climate here ! You have a noble father, 
 V graceful gentleman ; against whose person. 
 So sacred as it is, I have done sin : 
 For which the heavens, taking angiy note. 
 Have left me issueless : and your father 's bless'd 
 (As he from heaven merits it) with you. 
 Worthy his goodness. What might I have been, 
 Migh', I a son and daughter now have look'd on, 
 Such goodly things as you ! 
 
 Fnter a Lord. 
 
 Lord. Most noble sir, 
 
 That which I shall report will bear no credit, 
 Were not the proof so nigh. Please you, great sir 
 Bohemia greets you from himself by me 
 Desires you to attach his son ; who has 
 (Ilis dignity and duty both cast off) 
 Fled from his father, from his hopes, and with 
 A shepherd's daughter. 
 
 Leon. Where 's Bohemia ? speak. 
 
 Lord. Here in your city ; I now came from him 
 I speak amazedly ; and it becomes 
 My marvel, and my message. To your court 
 Whiles he was hast'ning, (in the chase, it seems, 
 Of this foir couple,) meets he on the way 
 The father of this seeming lady, and 
 Her brother, having both their country quitted 
 With this young prince. 
 
 Flo. Camillo has betray'd me ; 
 
 Whose honour, and whose honesty, till now 
 Endur'd all weathers. 
 
 Lord. Lay 't so to his charge ; 
 
 He 's with the king your father. 
 
 Leon. Who? Camillo? 
 
 Lo7-d. Camillo, sir; I spake with him ; who now 
 Has these poor men in question. Never saw I 
 Wretches so quake : they kneel, they kiss the 
 
 earth ; 
 Forswear themselves as often as they speak : 
 Bohemia stops his ears, and threatens them 
 With divers deaths in death. 
 
 Per. 0, my poor father ! — 
 
 The Heaven sets spies upon us, will not have 
 Our contract celebrated. 
 
 Leon. You are married ? 
 
 Flo. We are not, sir, nor are we like to be : 
 The stars, 1 see, will kiss the valleys first : — 
 The odds for high and low 's alike. 
 
 Leon. My lord. 
 
 Is this the daughter of a king ? 
 
 Flo. She is, 
 
 When once she is my wife. 
 
 Leon. That once, I see, by your good fatlier'a 
 speed. 
 Will come on very slowly. I am sorry, 
 Most sorry, you have broken from his liking. 
 Where you were tied in duty : and as sorry. 
 Your choice is not so rich in worth as beauty, 
 That you might well enjoy her. 
 
 Flo. Dear, look up : 
 
 Though Fortune, visible an enemy. 
 Should chase us, with my father, power no jot 
 
 613
 
 ACT V. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCENE n. 
 
 Hath slie to change our loves. — 'Beseech you, sir, 
 Remember since you owed no more to time 
 Than I do now : with thought of such affections, 
 Step forth mine advocate ; at your request, 
 My father will grant precious things as trifles. 
 
 Leon. Would he do so, I 'd beg your precious 
 mistress, 
 Which he counts but a trifle. 
 
 Paul. Sir, my liege, 
 
 Your eye hath too much youth in 't : not a month 
 'Fore your queen died, she was more worth such 
 
 gazes 
 Than what you look on now. 
 
 Leon. I thought of her. 
 
 Even in these looks I made. — But your petition 
 
 [ lo Florizel. 
 Is yet unanswer'd : I will to your father ; 
 Your honour not o'erthrown by your desires, 
 I am a friend to them, and you : upon which eiTand 
 I now go toward him ; therefore follow me, 
 And mark what way I make : Come, good my lord. 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE ^.—The same. Be/ore the Palace. 
 
 Enter Autoltcus and a Gentleman. 
 
 Aut. 'Beseech you, sir, were you present at this 
 relation ? 
 
 1 Oent. I was by at the opening of the fardel ; 
 heard the old shepherd deliver the manner how 
 he found it : whereupon, after a little amazedness, 
 we were all commanded out of the chamber ; only 
 this, methought I heard the shepherd say he found 
 the child. 
 
 Aut. I would most gladly know the issue of it. 
 
 1 Gent. I make a broken delivery of the busi- 
 ness : — But the changes I perceived in the king 
 and Camillo were very notes of admiration : they 
 seem'd almost, with staring on one another, to 
 tear the cases of their eyes ; there was speech in 
 their dumbness, language in their very gesture ; 
 they looked ;is they had heard of a world ransom'd, 
 
 ; or one destroyed ; A notable passion of wonder 
 appeared in them : but the wisest beholder, that 
 knew no more but seeing, could not say if th' im- 
 portance were joy or sorrow ; but in the extremity 
 
 ■ of the one it must needs be. 
 
 Enter another Gentleman. 
 
 ' Here comes a gentleman, that, haprWy, knows 
 more : The news, Rogero ? 
 
 2 Gent. Nothing but bonflree : The oracle is 
 
 614 
 
 fulfill'd ; the king's daughter is found : such a 
 deal of wonder is broken out within this hour, that 
 ballad-makers cannot be able to express it. 
 
 Enter a third Gentleman. 
 
 Hero comes the lady Paulina's steward ; he can 
 deliver you more. — How goes it now, sir ? this 
 news, which is call'd true, is so like an old tale, 
 that the verity of it is in strong suspicion : Has 
 the king found his heir ? 
 
 3 Gent. Most true ; if ever truth were pregnant 
 by circumstance ; that which you hear you '11 
 swear you see, there is such unity in the proofs. 
 The mantle of queen Hermione : — her jewel about 
 the neck of it : — the letters of Antigonus, found 
 with it, which they know to be his character : — 
 the majesty of the creature, in resemblance of the 
 mother : — the affection of nobleness, which nature 
 shows above her breeding, — and many other e\'i- 
 dences, proclaim her, with all certainty, to be the 
 king's daughter. Did you see the meeting of the 
 two kings 1 
 
 2 Gent. No. 
 
 3 Gent. Then you have lost a sight, which was 
 to be seen, cannot be spoken of. There might you 
 have beheld one joy crown another ; so, and in 
 such manner, that it seem'd sorrow wept to take 
 leave of them ; for their joy waded in tears. There 
 was casting up of eyes, holding up of hands ; with 
 counten.ince of such distraction, that they were to 
 be known by garment, not by favour. Our king, 
 being ready to leap out of himself for joy of his 
 found daughter ; as if that joy were now become 
 a loss, cries, " O, thy mother, thy mother !" then 
 asks Bohemia forgiveness ; then embraces his son- 
 in-law ; then again worries he his daughter, with 
 clipping her ; now he thanks the old shepherd, 
 which stands by, like a weather-bitten conduit of 
 many kings' reigns. I never heard of such 
 another encounter, which lames report to follow it, 
 and undoes description to do it. 
 
 2 Gent. What, pray you, became of Antigonus, 
 that carried hence the child ? 
 
 3 Gent. Like an old tale still ; which will have 
 matter to rehearse, though credit be asleep, and 
 not an ear open : He was torn to pieces with a 
 bear : this .ivouches the shepherd's son ; who has 
 not only his innocence (which seems much) to 
 justify him, but a handkerchief, and rings, of his, 
 that Paulina knows. 
 
 1 Oent. What became of his bark, ani his fol- 
 lowers I
 
 AOT V 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 3 Ociit. Wracked, tlie same instact of their 
 master's death ; and in tho view of the shepherd : 
 so that all tho instruments, which aided to expose 
 the child, were even then lost, when it was found. 
 But, 0, the noble combat that, 'twixt joy and 
 sorrow, was fought in Paulina ! She had one ej'o 
 declin'd for the loss of her husband ; another 
 elevated that the oracle was fulfill'd : She lifted 
 the princess fi-om the earth ; and so locks her in 
 embracincr, as if she would pin her to her heart, 
 that she might no more be in danger of losing. 
 
 1 Gent. The dignity of this act was worth the 
 audience of kings and piinces; for by such was it 
 acted. 
 
 3 Gent. One of the prettiest touches of all, and 
 that which angl'd for mine eyes (caught the water, 
 though not the fish,) was, when at the relation of 
 the queen's death, with the manner how she came 
 to it, (bravely confess'd, and lamented by the 
 king,) how attentiveness wounded his daughter ; 
 till, from one sign of dolour to another, she did, 
 with an " alas !" I would fain say, bleed tears ; 
 for, I am sure, my heart wept blood. Who was 
 most marble there changed colour ; some swoon'd ; 
 all sorrowed : if all the world could have seen 't, 
 the woe had been universal. 
 
 1 Gent. Are they returned to the court ? 
 
 3 Gent. No: tho piincess hearing of her 
 mother's statue, which is in the keeping of Pau- 
 lina, — a piece many years in doing, and now 
 newly perform'd by that rare Italian master, Julio 
 Romano ; who, had he himself eternity, and could 
 put breath into his work, would beguile nature of 
 her custom, so perfectly he is her ape : he so near 
 to Hermione hath done Hermione, that they say, 
 one would speak to her, and stand in hope of an- 
 swer : thither, with all greediness of afiection, are 
 they gone ; and there they intend to sup. 
 
 2 Gent. I thought she had some great matter 
 there in hand ; for she hath privately, twice or 
 thrice a day, ever since the death of Hermione, 
 visited that removed house. Shall we thither, 
 and with our company piece the rejoicing? 
 
 1 Gent. Who would be thence that has the 
 benefit of access ? eveiy wink of an eye, some new 
 grace will be born : our absence makes us un- 
 thrifty to our knowledge. Let 's along. 
 
 [Exeunt Gentlemen. 
 
 Aut. Now, had I not tho dash of my former 
 life in me, would preferment drop on my head. I 
 brought the old man and his son aboard the 
 prince ; told him T heard them talk of a fardel, 
 
 and I know not what ; but he at that time, over, 
 fond of the shepherd's daughter, (so he then took 
 her to be,) who began to be much sea-sick, and 
 himself little better, extremity of weather con- 
 tinuing, this mystery remained undiscover'd. P>ut 
 't is all one to me; for had I been the finder out 
 of this secret, it would not have relish'd among 
 my other discredits. 
 
 Enter Shepherd and Clown. 
 
 Here come those I have done good to against my 
 will, and already appearing in the blossoms of 
 their fortune. 
 
 Shep. Come, boy ; I am past more children, but 
 thy sons and daughters will bo all gentlemen bom. 
 
 Clo. You are well met, sir : You deny'd to 
 fight with me this other day, because I was no 
 gentleman bom : See you these clothes ? say, you 
 see them not, and think mo still no gentleman 
 bom : you were best say these robes are not gen- 
 tlemen born. Give me the lie ; do ; and try 
 whether I am not now a gentleman born. 
 
 Aut. I know you are now, sir, a gentleman 
 born. 
 
 Clo. Ay, and have been so any time these four 
 hours. 
 
 Shop. And so have I, boy. 
 
 Clo. So you have : — but I was a gentleman 
 born before my father : for the Icing's son took me 
 by the hand, and call'd me, brother : and then the 
 two kings call'd my fether, brother ; and then the 
 prince, my brother, and the princess, my sister, 
 call'd my father, father ; and so we wept : and 
 there was the first gentlemanlike tears that ever 
 we shed. 
 
 Shep. We may live, son, to shed many more. 
 
 Clo. Ay ; or else 't were hard luck ; being in so 
 preposterous estate as we are* 
 
 Aut. I humbly beseech you, sir, to pardon me 
 all the faults I have committed to your worship, 
 and to give me your good report to the prince my 
 master. 
 
 Shep. Prithee, son, do ; for we must be gentle, 
 now we are gentlemen. 
 
 Clo. Thou wilt amend thy hfe ? 
 
 Aut. Ay, an it like your good worship. 
 
 Clo. Give me thy hand : I will swear to the 
 prince, thou art as honest a true fellow as any is 
 in Bohemia. 
 
 Shep. You may say it, liut not swear it. 
 
 Clo. Not swear it, now I am a gentleman ? Let 
 boors aud franklins say it, I '11 swear it. 
 
 fil5
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 BCENK HI. 
 
 S/u^p. How ii it be false, son ? 
 
 Clo. If it be ne'er so false, a true gentleman 
 may swear it, in the behalf of his fiiend : — And 
 I '11 swear to the prince, thou art a tall fellow of 
 Jay hands, and that thou wilt not be drunk ; but 
 I know, thou art no tail fallow of thy hands, and 
 that thou wilt be drunk ; but I '11 swear it : and 
 I would thou wouldst be a tall fellow of thy 
 hands. 
 
 Aut. I will prove so, sir, to my power. 
 
 Clo. Ay, by any means prove a tall fellow : If 
 I do not wonder how thou dar'st venture to be 
 drunk, not being a tall fellow, tiiist me not. — 
 Hark ! the kings and the pnnces, our kindred, 
 are going to see the queen's picture. Come, follow 
 us : we '11 be thy good masters. [£xeunt. 
 
 SCENE m.—Tke same. A Chapel in Paulina's 
 House. 
 
 Enter Lkontes, Polixenes, Florizel, Perdita, 
 Camillo, Pauuna, Lords, and Attendants. 
 
 Leor.. grave and good Paulina, the great 
 comfort 
 That I have had of thee 1 
 
 Paul. What, sovereign sir, 
 
 I did not we!!, I meant well : All my services 
 You have paid home : but that you have vouch- 
 
 saf'd, 
 With your crown'd brother, and these your con- 
 tracted 
 Heirs of your kingdoms, my poor house to visit ; 
 It is a surplus of your gi-ace, which never 
 My life may last to answer. 
 
 Leon. O Paulina, 
 
 We honour you with trouble: But we come 
 To see the statue of our queen : your gallery 
 Have we pass'd through, not without much con- 
 tent 
 In many singularitieB ; but we saw not 
 That which my daughter came to look upon. 
 The statue of her mother. 
 
 Paul. As she liv'd peerless. 
 
 So her dead likeness, I do well believe. 
 Excels whatever yet you look'd upon, 
 Or hand of man hath done ; therefore I keep it 
 Lonely, apart : But here it is : prepare 
 To sec the life as lively mock'd, as ever 
 Still sleep mock'd death : beliold, and say, 't is 
 well. [I'auhna undraws a curtain, 
 
 and discovers a statue. 
 I like your silence, it the more shows off 
 616 
 
 Your wonder : But yet speak ; — first, you, my liege 
 Comes it not something near ? 
 
 Leon. Her natural posture ! — 
 
 Chide me, dear stone ; that I may say, indeed. 
 Thou art Hermione : or, rather, thou art slie. 
 In thy not chiding ; for she was as tender 
 As infancy, and grace. — But yet, Paulina, 
 Hermione was not so much wrinlded ; nothmg 
 So aged, as this seems. 
 
 Pol. O, not by much. 
 
 Paul. So much the more our carver's excellence , 
 Which lets go by some sixteen years, and makes 
 
 her 
 As she liv'd now. 
 
 Leon. As now she might have done, 
 
 So much to my good comfort, as it is 
 Now piercing to my soul. O, thus she stood. 
 Even with such life of majesty, (warm life. 
 As now it coldly stands,) when first I woo'd her ! 
 I am asham'd : Does not the stone rebuke me, 
 For being more slone than it ? — royal piece, 
 There 's magic in thy majest}-, which has 
 My evils conjur'd to remembrance ; and 
 From thy admiring daughter took the spirits. 
 Standing like stone with thee ! 
 
 Per. And give me leave ; 
 
 And do not say 't is superstition, that 
 I kneel, and then implore her blessing. — Lady, 
 Dear queen, that ended when I but began, 
 Give me that hand of yours to kiss. 
 
 Paul. O, patience : 
 
 The statue is but newly fix'd, the colour 's 
 Not dry. 
 
 Cam. My lord, yom sorrow was too soi« 
 laid on ; 
 \\liich sixteen winters cannot blow away. 
 So many summers dry : scarce any joy 
 Did ever so long live ; no sorrow. 
 But kill'd itself much sooner. 
 
 Pol. Dear my brother, 
 
 Let him that was the cause of this have power 
 To take off so much grief from you, as be 
 Will piece upon himself. 
 
 Paul. Indeed, my lord, 
 
 K I had thought the sight of my poor imago 
 Would thus have wrought you (for the stone it 
 
 mine,) 
 I 'd not have show'd it. 
 
 Leon. Do not draw the curtain. 
 
 Paul. No longer shall you gaze on 't ; lest youi 
 fancy 
 May think anon it moves. 
 
 I
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 soI:^u in. 
 
 Leon. Let be, let be. 
 
 Would I wore dead, but tliat, melbiuks, already — 
 What was be tliat did make it? — -See, iny lord, 
 Would you not deem it breatb'd ? and that those 
 
 veins 
 L J veiily bear blood ? 
 
 Pol. Masterly done : 
 
 The very life seems warm upon her lip. 
 
 Leon. The fixure of her eye has motion in 't. 
 As we are mock'd with art. 
 
 Paul. I '11 draw the curtain ; 
 
 My lord 's almost so far transported that 
 He '11 think anon it lives. 
 
 Leon. O sweet Paulina, 
 
 Make me to think so twenty years together ; 
 ^fo settled senses of the world can match 
 The pleasure of that madness. Let 't alone. 
 
 Paul. I am sorry, sir, I have thus far stirr'J you, 
 ■ but 
 I could afflict you further. 
 
 Leon. Do, Paulina ; 
 
 For this affliction has a taste as sweet 
 As any cordial comfort. — Still, methinks. 
 There is an air comes from her : What fine chisel 
 Could ever yet cut breath ? Let no man mock 
 
 me. 
 For I will kiss her 
 
 Paul. Good my lord, forbear : 
 
 The ruddiness upon her lip is wet ; 
 You '11 mar it, if you kiss it ; stain your own 
 With oily painting : Shall I draw the curtain ? 
 
 Leon. No, not these twenty years. 
 
 Per. So long could I 
 
 Stand by, a looker-on. 
 
 Paul. Either forbear, 
 
 Quit presently the chapel ; or resolve you 
 For more amazement. If you can behold it, 
 I '11 make the statue move indeed ; descend. 
 And take you by the hand : but then you '11 
 
 thiuk, 
 (Which I protest against,) I am assisted 
 By wicked powers. 
 
 Leon. What you can make her do, 
 
 r am content to look on : what to speak 
 t am content to hear ; for 't is as easy 
 To make her speak, as move. 
 
 Paid. It is requir'd 
 
 You do awake your faith : Then, all stand still : 
 Or those that think it is unlawful business 
 I am about, let them depart. 
 
 Leon. Proceed ; 
 
 N) foot shall stir. 
 
 78 
 
 Paul. Music ; awake her : strike. — 
 
 'T is time ; descend ; be stone no more : approach ; 
 Strike all that look upon with marvel. Come ; 
 I '11 fill your grave up : stir ; nay, come awa) ; 
 Bequeath to death your numbness, for from him 
 Dear life redeems you. — You perceive she stiis ; 
 
 [Hermione descends from, the pedcsta. 
 Start not : her actions shall be holy, as, 
 You hear, my spell is lawful : do not shun her, 
 Until vou see her die again ; for then 
 You kjll her double : Nay, present your hand : 
 When she was young you woo'd her ; now. in 
 
 age, 
 Is she become the suitor ! 
 
 Leon. 0, she 's warm ! [Embracing her. 
 
 If this be magic, let it be an art 
 Lawful as eating. 
 
 Pol. She embraces him. 
 
 Cam. She hangs about his neck ; 
 If she pertain to life, let her speak too. 
 
 Pol. Ay, and make it manifest where she haa 
 liv'd. 
 Or, bow stol'n from the dead ! 
 
 Paul. That she is living, 
 
 Were it but told vou. should be hooted at 
 Like an old tale ; but it appears sne iives, 
 Though yet she speak not. Mark a little while. — 
 Please you to interpose, fair madam ; kneel. 
 And pray your mother's blessing. — Turn, gornl 
 
 lady ; 
 Our Perdita is found. 
 
 [Presenting Per., who kneels to Her 
 
 ffcr. You gods, look down. 
 
 And from your sacred vials pour your graces 
 Upon my daughter's head ! — Tell me, mine own. 
 Where hast thou been preserv'd ? where liv'd 
 
 how found 
 Thy father's court ? for thou shalt hear, that I, — 
 Knowing by Paulina, that the oracle 
 Gave hope thou wast in being, — have preserv'd 
 Myself to see the issue. 
 
 Pattl. There 's time enough for that 
 
 Lest they desire, upon this push, to trouble 
 Your joys with like relation. — Go together, 
 You precious winners all ; your exultation 
 Partake to every one. I, an old turtle. 
 Will wing me to some wither'd bough, and thert 
 My mate, that 's never to be found again. 
 Lament till I am lost. 
 
 Leon. O peace, Paulina 
 
 Thou shouldst a husband take by my consent, 
 
 617
 
 ACT V. 
 
 THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 SCENE ni. 
 
 Aa T by tliine, a wife ; this is a match, 
 
 And made between 's by vows. Thou hast found 
 
 mine ; 
 But how, is to be question'd : for I saw her. 
 As I thought, dead ; and have, in vain, said 
 
 many 
 A prayer upon her grave : I '11 not seek far 
 (For him, I partly know his mind) to find thee 
 An honourable husband : Come, Camillo, 
 And take her by the hand : whose worth, and 
 
 lionesty, 
 la richly noted ; and here justified 
 
 618 
 
 By us, a pair of kings. — Let 's from this place. — 
 What? — Look upon my brother: — both your 
 
 pardons. 
 That e'er I put between your holy looks 
 My ill suspicion. This your son-in-law, 
 And son unto the king, (whom Heavens directing,) 
 Is troth-plight to your daughter. — Good Paulina, 
 Lead us from hence ; where we may leisurely 
 Each one demand, and answer to his part 
 Perform'd in this wide gap of time, since first 
 We were dissever'd : Hastily lead away. 
 
 lUxeunt
 
 l^OTES TO THE WOTEE'S TALE. 
 
 ' At over a vast. 
 
 Vast, a waste, a vast space. The word was used sub- 
 Itantively in Shakespeare's time, and it is curious to ob- 
 uerve that, owing to the cliangea the English language 
 underwent before the year 1632, the editors of the second 
 folio added the word sea. 
 
 ' At my request, he would net. 
 
 This is probably spoken aside. He has been ojserving 
 the demeanour and conversation of Hermione and Polixe- 
 nes, and here his Buspicion begins to show itself. 
 
 ' Thou want'st a rough posh. 
 
 That is, thou wantest the rough pressure on the mind, 
 and the breeding shoots on the forehead (he is perpetually 
 harping on cuckoldism), to be entirely like tne. Fash is a 
 Scotch term for head, but that is not, I think, the meaning 
 hero, and I can find no such use of the word in old writers. 
 
 * A^ectlotu thy intention stabs the centre. 
 
 Affection, here, as in the Merchant of Venice, signifies 
 imagination, or, as Malone expresses it, " the disposition 
 of the mind when strongly affected or possessed by a par- 
 ticular idea." Intention, i. e., eagerness of attention or of 
 desire. 
 
 ^ Will you take eggs for money. 
 
 The following very curious notes on this phrase are 
 extracted, with a few alterations, from the variorum edi- 
 tion; — The meaning of this is, " Will you put up affronts ?" 
 The French have a proverbial saying, A qui vendez vous 
 coquilles? i.e., whom do you design to affront? Mamilius's 
 answer plainly proves it. " Mam. No, my lord, 1 '11 fight." 
 And in Rowley's comedy, called A Match at Midnight, 
 1633: — ■'* I shall have eggs for my mon^y ', I mu.st hang 
 myself." 
 
 Leontes seems only to ask his son if he would fly from 
 an enemy. In the following passage the phrase is evi- 
 dently to be taken in that sense : " The French infautery 
 skirmisheth bravely afarro off, and cavallery gives a fu- 
 rious onset at the first charge; but after tie first heat, 
 they will take eggs for their Tnon-ey.'"— Relations of the most 
 famous Kingdomes and Cammonwealtlis thorowout the World, 
 Ho. 1630, p. 154. 
 
 In A Method for Travell, Shewed by taking the view of 
 France as it stoode in the yeere of our Lord 1593, by 
 Kobert Dallington, no date, we meet with the very sen- 
 tence quoted by Mr. Keod, given as a translation from tlie 
 
 French. This is the original : L'infantcrio Franpoise esca- 
 ramouche bravement de loin et la Cavallerie a une furieuse 
 brut*!-e a I'affront, puis apres q'elle s^accornode.'*^ 
 
 This phrase seems to have meant originally, — "Are yoa 
 such a poltroon as to suffer another to use you as he pleases, 
 to compel you to give him your money, and to accept of a 
 thing of so small a value as a few eggs in exchange for it?" 
 He, who will take eggs for money, seems to be what, in As 
 You Like It, and in many of the old plays, is called a lame 
 snaks. 
 
 The following passage in Campion's History of Ire'jind, 
 folio, 1633, fully confirtns M.alone's explanation of this 
 passage; and shows that by the words — " Will you take 
 eggs for money," was meant, " Will you suffer yourself to 
 bo cajoled, or imposed upon ?" — " What my cousin Des- 
 mond hath compassed, as I know not, so I beshrew his 
 naked heart for holding out so long. — I3ut go to, suppose 
 hee never bo had ; wh.it is Kildare to blame for it, more 
 than my good brother of Ossory, who, notwithstanding his 
 high promises, having also the king's power, is glad to take 
 eggs for his money, and to bring hini in at leisure." These 
 words make part of the defence of the earl of Kildare, in 
 answer to a charge brought against him by Cardinal 
 Wolsey, that he had not been suiSciently active in endea- 
 vouring to take the earl of Desmond, then in rebellion. 
 In thLs passage, " to take eggs for his money," undoubtr 
 edly means to be trifled with, or to be imposed upon. 
 
 " For money" means " in the place of money." " Will 
 you give me money, and take eggs instead of it?" 
 
 • And my young rover. 
 
 Compare Ben Jonson's Cynthia's Bevels, act i. bc. 1, 
 " Why so, my little rover ?" 
 
 ' Kow she holds up the neb. 
 
 Eay says that "Jfeb is of frequent use, tho' not for the 
 nose of a man, yet for the bill of a bird, and metaphorically 
 for the point of a pen, or the long and slender nose of any 
 vessel ;" and Nares shows that Drayton uses the term 
 " sharp-neb'd liecco," meaning the woodpecker. 
 
 • Whisp'ring, rounding. 
 
 Hounding is nearly, if not quite, equivalent to whispering. 
 The tenu is again used by Shakespeare, and occurs very 
 frequently in older writers. 
 
 Two risen up in rape. 
 
 And rouned togideres. 
 
 And preised thise peuy-worthos 
 
 A-part by hemselve. 
 
 Piers Floughman, ed. Wright, p. 97. 
 619
 
 NOTES TO THE WINTER'S TALK 
 
 • To bid* upon H. 
 
 A vernacular phrase, equivalent to, certainly, in nij 
 certain opinion- 
 
 " Which hoxes hoiusty hehmd, 
 
 Sox, to cut tlie hamstringR. *' Thou foole, how could 
 it come in, unlesse it had bin a leg ? methought his hose 
 were cut and drawne out with parsly ; I thrust my hand 
 irto my pocket for a knife, thinking to hox him, and so 
 Fwakt."— Lillie'a Mother Bombie, ed. 1632. . 
 
 " In whose success we are gentle. 
 
 Success serms to be here used for succession, but this 
 sense of the word is very unusual. 
 
 " A s-j)ider steeped. 
 
 It was a common opinion that spiders were venomous. 
 Topsell, in his History of Serpents, 1608, says, " all spyders 
 are venomous, but yet some more, and some lesse. Of 
 apyders that neyther doe nor can doe much harme, some 
 of them are tame, familiar, and domestical], and these be 
 commonly the greatest among the whole packe of them." 
 
 " A federary icith her. 
 
 FederarTj, a fcodary, a confederate. Maloue was perhapa 
 right in thinking it a misprint ioT feodary. 
 
 " Iwouhl land-damn him. 
 
 According to an old MS. glossary quoted in my Dic- 
 tionary of Archaisms, p. 503, " Landun, lantan, rantan, 
 arc used by some Glostershire people in the sense of scour- 
 ing or correcting to some purpose, and also of rattling or 
 rating severely." Perhaps these words may be connected. 
 No one has yet given a satisfactory explanation of kind- 
 damn. 
 
 " ifint, and some Jive. 
 
 The same form is occasionally used in the West. "Ac- 
 cording to my censure, there were twenty or some (i. e., 
 about twenty) up to Bal," (i. e., the mine.) (Sandys.) 
 
 '* These dangerous unsafe lunes i* the king, 
 
 A similar expression occurs in the Kevenger's Tragffidie, 
 1608, " I know 't w.os but sc>me peevish moone in him." 
 
 " A mankind witch. 
 
 Mankind, masculine. This, applied to a woman, was a 
 tcrtn of great contempt. 
 
 1* A ntst of traitors. 
 
 Yet for to hang hym I wene it bo not best. 
 For yf he were gone, we sliold have another gest 
 As >)! as ho, for nowght they bo all the hole nest. 
 And to posrc sylle boyes the worko much wooc. 
 
 MS. Poems, temp. Eliz. 
 
 '• A callat of boundless tongue. 
 
 ijallal, a scold ; a drab, generally a term of the greatest 
 possible contempt. 
 
 '^ And, lozfl, i/u>u art worthy to be hang'd. 
 
 fjoul, a bad worthless fellow, from the Anglo-Norman. 
 rho more usual form is lorel. 
 
 "' The pretence whereof, 
 Pretence, scheme or design. 
 
 ^ Hermione is chaste. 
 
 This, as Malone observes, is almost literally from Greene's 
 novel : " The Oracle. — Suspicion is no proofe ; jealousie in 
 an unequal judge ; Bellaria is chaste ; Egistlius blameless; 
 Franion a true subject; Pandosto treacherous; his babe 
 innocent ; and the king shall dye without an heire, if that 
 which is lost bo not found." 
 
 " Thou art perfect then. 
 
 Perfect, certain, well assured. The word oceure in tnla 
 sense in the Bible. 
 
 2* A boy or a child, J wonder. 
 
 A female infant is still termed a child in some of the pro- 
 vinces, in contradistinction to a male one. It is marked as 
 a Devonsliire word in a MS. glossary in my possession. 
 
 25 A hearing-cloth for a squire's child, 
 
 A bearing-cloth, says Percy, is the fine mantle or cloth 
 with which a child is usually covered, when it is carried to 
 church to be baptized. 
 
 3a Up jjjiih it ke^p iJ. dote. 
 
 Alluding to the old notion that it was dangerous to 
 mention the gifts of the fairies. So, in the Honest Man'* 
 Fortune, — 
 
 A prince's secrets are Uke fairy favours, 
 Wholesome if kept, but poison if disoover'd. 
 
 " The doxy over the daU. 
 Doxy, a mistress, a strumpet. 
 
 38 My pugging tooth an edge. 
 
 Pugging, cheating, thieving. I retain the an, it being 
 the old provincial form of on, not an idiom with that article, 
 as conjectured by Mr. Knight. 
 
 39 In my time, wore three-pile. 
 
 Three-pile velvet was velvet of the strongest and riobost 
 quality. 
 
 s» To go about with irol-my-damea. 
 
 In the Benefit of the Ancient Bathes of Bnckstones com 
 piled by John Jones at the King's Mede, nigh Darby, 1572, 
 4to. p. 12, we read : " The ladyes, gentle woomen, wyvea, 
 and nmydes, may in one of the galleries walkc ; and if the 
 weather bco not aggrecablc to theirc expeclucion, they may 
 have in the ende of a benche eleven holes made, intoo the 
 wbicho to trowlo pummates, or bowlcs of leadc, biggo, 
 little, or mcane, or also of copper, tynne, wooJe, cythcr 
 vyolcnt or softc, after their owu8 discretion; the pastyme 
 troule-in-madame ia termed." 
 
 " And streak'' d gilh/vors. 
 
 OiUyvors, gilly.lowers. This is an old word, not a oon- 
 tractoJ form. Lyto calls them gilUfers in his edition of 
 Dodoens, 1,173.
 
 NOTES TO THE WINTER'S TALE. 
 
 " Pll not put the dihlle in earth. 
 
 Tlio operation is otlierwiso called dropping ; more com- 
 monly so called, and indeed more properly, for dililiUng is 
 in strictness making the holes. It is an old word, and Eay 
 has, " A dihlle, an instrument to make holes in the ground 
 with, for setting beans, pease, or the like— Of general use." 
 Nares notices the word, and describes the tool as still in 
 u«e : and shows it to oecnr in T usscr — 
 
 Throngh cunning, with dihlle, rake, mattock, and spade. 
 By lino and by level, trim garden is made. 
 
 " She dances featly. 
 
 Yes, I thanke God I am of that nature 
 Able to eompas thys matter sure. 
 As yo shall see now, who lyst to marke yt, 
 llow neatly anifeately I shall warke yt. 
 
 Play of Wit and Science, p. 3. 
 
 '• Inldes, cadMstea, cambrics. 
 
 Jntles, inferior tape. Caddis, worsted, or worsted ribbon. 
 
 Caddas, or cruel ribbon," Book of Kates, 1075, p. 293. 
 The dresses of servants were often ornamented with it, and 
 there seems to have been a kind of woollen stuff so called. 
 Palsgrave has, " caddas or crule, eayette." This was used 
 for stuffing dresses. 
 
 ** Cyprus, black as e'er was crom. 
 
 Oyfi^s was a kind of tliin transparent crape, so called 
 from being originally manufactured in the island of Cyprus. 
 It is mentioned in the old comedy of the Puritan, Edmond, 
 the widow's son, making his entry in a Cyprus hat; i. e., 
 with a crape hatband in it. The transparency of it is taken 
 aotioe of by Donne : 
 
 As men which thro' a Cyprus see 
 The rising Sun. 
 
 blague on the marriage of the Earl of Somerset. 
 
 And in Ben Jonsou's 73d epigram : 
 
 One half drawn 
 /» solemn Cyprus, th' other cobweb lawn. 
 
 " Kill-hole, kiln-hole, the genuine old form. 
 
 " Charm your tongues. 
 
 That is, silence them. The word is common in our old 
 dramatbts, but it is here misprinted cla-mour in the old 
 copies. Speaking of this corruption, Gilford observes, 
 " the painful endeavours of the commentators to explain 
 the simple nonsense of the text by contradictory absurdi- 
 ties mi^lit claim our pity, if their unfounded assertions did 
 not provoke our contempt." 
 
 " Twelve foot and a halfly th' squire. 
 
 Squire, a carpenter's rule. " Sq\iyer for a carpentar 
 esquierre," Palsgrave. " Squyer a rule, riglet,'''' ibid. 
 
 ** The royal fool. 
 
 Misprinted yboii by Mr. Knight, in both editions. Tlio 
 same editor has omitted the word «ir in Paulina's speech 
 in Act V. sc. 1. 
 
 *o Kov shall appear in Sicilia. 
 
 Mr. Dycc explains tliis, " Nor shall appear like Bohe- 
 mia's son in Sicilia." 
 
 <• Pomander, brooch, tahle-boolc. 
 
 The following recipe for making a pomander is extracted 
 from a rare little book entitled, " A Closet for Ladies and 
 Gentlewomen," circa IGoO, — 
 
 Take of Beazon one dram and a halfe, of Storax halfc a 
 dram, of Lignum Aloes in fine powder halfe a scruple, of 
 Labdanum halfe an ounce: powder all these very fine, and 
 scarce them thorow Lawne ; and then take of Musk a dram, 
 Ambergreece ten graines. Civet ten graines, and dissolve 
 them in a hot Mortar with a little Rose-water, and so make 
 them into a Pomander, putting into it six graines of Civet. 
 
 " Advocate's the court word for a pheasant. 
 
 The following very curious illustration of this passage is 
 taken from the Journal of the Kev. Giles Moore, 1665,^ 
 
 '* I gave to Mr. Cripps, solicitor, for acting for mee in 
 obtaining my qualification, and effecting it, £1 10.s., and I 
 allowed my brother Lu.xford for going to London there- 
 upon anA presenting my lord with t^vo brass of pheasants, 
 10». ; Charles, Lord Goring, Earle of Norwich, livith in the 
 country at Laytonstone, on the way to Epping, and when 
 in London, at his house in Queens Streete, next door t«> 
 the Queen's Head Taverne." 
 
 " What 's i' the fardel. 
 
 Fardel, a burden. It is worthy of observation that the 
 old copies have the old torm, farthell. 
 
 "Then shoulde they of those two parishes undertake to 
 Carrie all sucli passengers, either for twopence each one 
 with his farthdl or trusse, or otherwise, making the whole 
 fare or passage woortli foure shillings." — Lambarde's Per- 
 ambulation, 1696, p. 436. 
 
 " Than to rejoice the former queen is well. 
 
 " The dead are well." — Antony and Cleopatra. A simi- 
 lar expression is used in Romeo and Juliet, and is supposeil 
 to be adoptf/d from Scripture, 2 Kings, iv. 26. 
 
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