The Complete Works of

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

(1564-1616)

Contents

The Plays

HENRY VI, PART 2

HENRY VI, PART 3

HENRY VI, PART 1

RICHARD III

THE COMEDY OF ERRORS

TITUS ANDRONICUS

TAMING OF THE SHREW

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA

LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST

ROMEO AND JULIET

RICHARD II

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM

KING JOHN

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

HENRY IV, PART I

HENRY IV, PART II

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

HENRY V

JULIUS CAESAR

AS YOU LIKE IT

TWELFTH NIGHT

HAMLET

THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

MEASURE FOR MEASURE

OTHELLO

KING LEAR

MACBETH

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA

CORIOLANUS

TIMON OF ATHENS

PERICLES

CYMBELINE

THE WINTER’S TALE

THE TEMPEST

HENRY VIII

THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN

The Lost Plays

LOVE’S LABOUR’S WON

CARDENIO

DOUBLE FALSEHOOD

The Sources

LIST OF THE PLAYS’ SOURCES

The Apocryphal Plays

ARDEN OF FAVERSHAM

THE BIRTH OF MERLIN

KING EDWARD III

LOCRINE

THE LONDON PRODIGAL

THE PURITAN

THE SECOND MAIDEN’S TRAGEDY

SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE

THOMAS LORD CROMWELL

A YORKSHIRE TRAGEDY

SIR THOMAS MORE

FAIR EM

MUCEDORUS

THE MERRY DEVIL OF EDMONTON

EDMUND IRONSIDE

THOMAS OF WOODSTOCK

VORTIGERN AND ROWENA

The Adaptations

TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE by Charles and Mary Lamb

The Poetry

THE SONNETS

VENUS AND ADONIS

THE RAPE OF LUCRECE

THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM

THE PHOENIX AND THE TURTLE

A LOVER’S COMPLAINT

The Apocryphal Poetry

TO THE QUEEN

A FUNERAL ELEGY FOR MASTER WILLIAM PETER

SONNETS TO SUNDRY NOTES OF MUSIC

The Criticism

PREFACE TO SHAKESPEARE AND NOTES ON PLAYS by Samuel Johnson

NOTES TO COMEDIES by Samuel Johnson

NOTES TO TRAGEDIES by Samuel Johnson

EIGHTEENTH CENTURY ESSAYS ON SHAKESPEARE Edited by D. Nichol Smith

A STUDY OF SHAKESPEARE by Algernon Charles Swinburne

SHAKESPEARE by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

CHARACTERS OF SHAKESPEARE’S PLAYS by William Hazlitt

TESTIMONY OF THE SONNETS by Jesse Johnson

ON SHAKESPEARE by Leo Tolstoy

Extracts from WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE by Victor Hugo

SHAKESPEARE’S ATTITUDE TOWARD THE WORKING CLASSES by Ernest Crosby

A LETTER by George Bernard Shaw

The Biographies

SOME ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF MR. WILLIAM SHAKESPEAR by Nicholas Rowe

SHAKESPEARE: HIS LIFE, ART, AND CHARACTERS by Henry Norman Hudson

LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE by Sir Sidney Lee

SHAKESPEARE’S LOST YEARS IN LONDON by Arthur Acheson

THE PEOPLE FOR WHOM SHAKESPEARE WROTE by Charles Dudley Warner

Shakespeare’s Last Will and Testament

Resources

QUOTATIONS

GLOSSARY OF ELIZABETHAN LANGUAGE

© Delphi Classics 2012

Version 6

The Complete Works of

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

By Delphi Classics, 2012

NOTE

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The Plays

Shakespeare’s birthplace, Stratford-upon-Avon

The birthplace house seen from the back garden

The room in which the great writer was born.

The birthplace house in 1769

HENRY VI, PART 2

This history play is believed by many scholars to be Shakespeare’s first play, having been written in 1591, and it was only titled Part II following the production of a prequel two years later.  This play focuses on the King Henry’s inability to quell the bickering of his nobles, the death of his trusted adviser Duke Humphrey of Gloucester, the rise of the Duke of York and the inevitability of armed conflict. As such, the play culminates with the opening battle of the war - the First Battle of St Albans.

Although the Henry VI trilogy was not written in chronological order, the three plays are often grouped together with Richard III to form a tetralogy covering the entire Wars of the Roses saga, from the death of Henry V in 1422 to the rise to power of Henry VII in 1485. The success of these plays firmly established Shakespeare’s reputation as a playwright.

Interestingly, Henry VI, Part 2 has the largest cast of all Shakespeare’s plays, and is seen by many critics as the best of the Henry VI trilogy, though sadly the play receives little attention elsewhere.

Shakespeare’s main source text for this play is available via this link.

John Shakespeare – the writer’s father, a glove maker, who later became Mayor of Stratford

The first page of the First Folio copy, published in 1623

CONTENTS

Dramatis Personæ

Act I. Scene I.

Act I. Scene II.

Act I. Scene III.

Act I. Scene IV.

Act II. Scene I.

Act II. Scene II.

Act II. Scene III.

Act II. Scene IV.

Act III. Scene I.

Act III. Scene II.

Act III. Scene III.

Act IV. Scene I.

Act IV. Scene II.

Act IV. Scene III.

Act IV. Scene IV.

Act IV. Scene V.

Act IV. Scene VI.

Act IV. Scene VII.

Act IV. Scene VIII.

Act IV. Scene IX.

Act IV. Scene X.

Act V. Scene I.

Act V. Scene II.

Act V. Scene III.

King Henry VI

Dramatis Personæ

KING HENRY THE SIXTH.
HUMPHREY, Duke of Gloucester, his Uncle.
CARDINAL BEAUFORT, Bishop of Winchester, Great-Uncle to the King.
RICHARD PLANTAGENET, Duke of York.
EDWARD and RICHARD, his Sons.
DUKE OF SOMERSET, DUKE OF SUFFOLK, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM, & LORD CLIFFORD, YOUNG CLIFFORD, his Son: Of the King’s Party.
EARL OF SALISBURY & EARL OF WARWICK: Of the York Faction.
LORD SCALES, Governor of the Tower.
SIR HUMPHREY STAFFORD, and WILLIAM STAFFORD, his Brother.
LORD SAY.
A Sea-captain, Master, and Master’s Mate.
WALTER WHITMORE.
SIR JOHN STANLEY.
Two Gentlemen, prisoners with Suffolk.
VAUX.
MATTHEW GOFFE.
JOHN HUME and JOHN SOUTHWELL, Priests.
BOLINGBROKE, a Conjurer.
A Spirit raised by him.
THOMAS HORNER, an Armourer.
PETER, his Man.
Clerk of Chatham.
Mayor of St. Alban’s.
SIMPCOX, an Impostor.
Two Murderers.
JACK CADE, a Rebel.
GEORGE BEVIS, JOHN HOLLAND, DICK the Butcher, SMITH the Weaver, MICHAEL, &c.: Followers of Cade.
ALEXANDER IDEN, a Kentish Gentleman.
MARGARET, Queen to King Henry.
ELEANOR, Duchess of Gloucester.
MARGERY JOURDAIN, a Witch.
Wife to Simpcox.
Lords, Ladies, and Attendants; Herald, Petitioners, Aldermen, a Beadle, Sheriff, and Officers; Citizens, Prentices, Falconers, Guards, Soldiers, Messengers, &c.

SCENE. — In various parts of England.

Act I. Scene I.

London.  A Room of State in the Palace.

Flourish of Trumpets: then hautboys.  Enter, on one side, KING HENRY, DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, SALISBURY, WARWICK, and CARDINAL BEAUFORT; on the other, QUEEN MARGARET, led in by SUFFOLK; YORK, SOMERSET, BUCKINGHAM, and Others, following.

Suf.  As by your high imperial majesty
I had in charge at my depart for France,
As procurator to your excellence,   5
To marry Princess Margaret for your Grace;
So, in the famous ancient city, Tours,
In presence of the Kings of France and Sicil,
The Dukes of Orleans, Calaber, Britaine, and Alençon,
Seven earls, twelve barons, and twenty reverend bishops,   10
I have perform’d my task, and was espous’d:
And humbly now upon my bended knee,
In sight of England and her lordly peers,
Deliver up my title in the queen
To your most gracious hands, that are the substance   15
Of that great shadow I did represent;
The happiest gift that ever marquess gave,
The fairest queen that ever king receiv’d.

K. Hen.  Suffolk, arise. Welcome, Queen Margaret:
I can express no kinder sign of love   20
Than this kind kiss. O Lord! that lends me life,
Lend me a heart replete with thankfulness!
For thou hast given me in this beauteous face
A world of earthly blessings to my soul,
If sympathy of love unite our thoughts.   25

Q. Mar.  Great King of England and my gracious lord,
The mutual conference that my mind hath had
By day, by night, waking, and in my dreams,
In courtly company, or at my beads,
With you, mine alderliefest sovereign,   30
Makes me the bolder to salute my king
With ruder terms, such as my wit affords,
And over-joy of heart doth minister.

K. Hen.  Her sight did ravish, but her grace in speech,
Her words y-clad with wisdom’s majesty,   35
Makes me from wondering fall to weeping joys;
Such is the fulness of my heart’s content.
Lords, with one cheerful voice welcome my love.

All.  Long live Queen Margaret, England’s happiness!

Q. Mar.  We thank you all.  [Flourish.   40

Suf.  My Lord Protector, so it please your Grace,
Here are the articles of contracted peace
Between our sovereign and the French King Charles,
For eighteen months concluded by consent.

Glo.  Imprimis, It is agreed between the French king, Charles, and William De la Pole, Marquess of Suffolk, ambassador for Henry King of England, that the said Henry shall espouse the Lady Margaret, daughter unto Reignier King of Naples, Sicilia, and Jerusalem, and crown her Queen of England ere the thirtieth of May next ensuing. Item, That the duchy of Anjou and the county of Maine shall be released and delivered to the king her father. —  [Lets the paper fall.   45

K. Hen.  Uncle, how now!

Glo.        Pardon me, gracious lord;
Some sudden qualm hath struck me at the heart
And dimm’d mine eyes, that I can read no further.

K. Hen.  Uncle of Winchester, I pray, read on.   50

Car.  Item, It is further agreed between them, that the duchies of Anjou and Maine shall be released and delivered over to the king her father; and she sent over of the King of England’s own proper cost and charges, without having any dowry.

K. Hen.  They please us well. Lord marquess, kneel down:
We here create thee the first Duke of Suffolk,
And girt thee with the sword. Cousin of York,
We here discharge your Grace from being regent   55
I’ the parts of France, till term of eighteen months
Be full expir’d. Thanks, uncle Winchester,
Gloucester, York, Buckingham, Somerset,
Salisbury, and Warwick;
We thank you all for this great favour done,   60
In entertainment to my princely queen.
Come, let us in, and with all speed provide
To see her coronation be perform’d.  [Exeunt KING, QUEEN, and SUFFOLK.

Glo.  Brave peers of England, pillars of the state,
To you Duke Humphrey must unload his grief,   65
Your grief, the common grief of all the land.
What! did my brother Henry spend his youth,
His valour, coin, and people, in the wars?
Did he so often lodge in open field,
In winter’s cold, and summer’s parching heat,   70
To conquer France, his true inheritance?
And did my brother Bedford toil his wits,
To keep by policy what Henry got?
Have you yourselves, Somerset, Buckingham,
Brave York, Salisbury, and victorious Warwick,   75
Receiv’d deep scars in France and Normandy?
Or hath mine uncle Beaufort and myself,
With all the learned council of the realm,
Studied so long, sat in the council-house
Early and late, debating to and fro   80
How France and Frenchmen might be kept in awe?
And hath his highness in his infancy
Been crown’d in Paris, in despite of foes?
And shall these labours and these honours die?
Shall Henry’s conquest, Bedford’s vigilance,   85
Your deeds of war and all our counsel die?
O peers of England! shameful is this league,
Fatal this marriage, cancelling your fame,
Blotting your names from books of memory,
Razing the characters of your renown,   90
Defacing monuments of conquer’d France,
Undoing all, as all had never been,

Car.  Nephew, what means this passionate discourse,
This peroration with such circumstance?
For France, ’tis ours; and we will keep it still.   95

Glo.  Ay, uncle; we will keep it, if we can;
But now it is impossible we should.
Suffolk, the new-made duke that rules the roast,
Hath given the duchies of Anjou and Maine
Unto the poor King Reignier, whose large style   100
Agrees not with the leanness of his purse.

Sal.  Now, by the death of him who died for all,
These counties were the keys of Normandy.
But wherefore weeps Warwick, my valiant son?

War.  For grief that they are past recovery:   105
For, were there hope to conquer them again,
My sword should shed hot blood, mine eyes no tears.
Anjou and Maine! myself did win them both;
Those provinces these arms of mine did conquer:
And are the cities, that I got with wounds,   110
Deliver’d up again with peaceful words?
Mort Dieu!

York.  For Suffolk’s duke, may he be suffocate,
That dims the honour of this war-like isle!
France should have torn and rent my very heart   115
Before I would have yielded to this league.
I never read but England’s kings have had
Large sums of gold and dowries with their wives;
And our King Henry gives away his own,
To match with her that brings no vantages.   120

Glo.  A proper jest, and never heard before,
That Suffolk should demand a whole fifteenth
For costs and charges in transporting her!
She should have stay’d in France, and starv’d in France,
Before —   125

Car.  My Lord of Gloucester, now you grow too hot:
It was the pleasure of my lord the king.

Glo.  My Lord of Winchester, I know your mind:
’Tis not my speeches that you do mislike,
But ’tis my presence that doth trouble ye.   130
Rancour will out: proud prelate, in thy face
I see thy fury. If I longer stay
We shall begin our ancient bickerings.
Lordings, farewell; and say, when I am gone,
I prophesied France will be lost ere long.  [Exit.   135

Car.  So, there goes our protector in a rage.
’Tis known to you he is mine enemy,
Nay, more, an enemy unto you all,
And no great friend, I fear me, to the king.
Consider lords, he is the next of blood,   140
And heir apparent to the English crown:
Had Henry got an empire by his marriage,
And all the wealthy kingdoms of the west,
There’s reason he should be displeas’d at it.
Look to it, lords; let not his smoothing words   145
Bewitch your hearts; be wise and circumspect.
What though the common people favour him,
Calling him, ‘Humphrey, the good Duke of Gloucester;’
Clapping their hands, and crying with loud voice,
‘Jesu maintain your royal excellence!’   150
With ‘God preserve the good Duke Humphrey!’
I fear me, lords, for all this flattering gloss,
He will be found a dangerous protector.

Buck.  Why should he then protect our sovereign,
He being of age to govern of himself?   155
Cousin of Somerset, join you with me,
And all together, with the Duke of Suffolk,
We’ll quickly hoise Duke Humphrey from his seat.

Car.  This weighty business will not brook delay;
I’ll to the Duke of Suffolk presently.  [Exit.   160

Som.  Cousin of Buckingham, though Humphrey’s pride
And greatness of his place be grief to us,
Yet let us watch the haughty cardinal:
His insolence is more intolerable
Than all the princes in the land beside:   165
If Gloucester be displac’d, he’ll be protector.

Buck.  Or thou, or I, Somerset, will be protector,
Despite Duke Humphrey or the cardinal.  [Exeunt BUCKINGHAM and SOMERSET.

Sal.  Pride went before, ambition follows him.
While these do labour for their own preferment,   170
Behoves it us to labour for the realm.
I never saw but Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester,
Did bear him like a noble gentleman.
Oft have I seen the haughty cardinal
More like a soldier than a man o’ the church,   175
As stout and proud as he were lord of all,
Swear like a ruffian and demean himself
Unlike the ruler of a commonweal.
Warwick, my son, the comfort of my age,
Thy deeds, thy plainness, and thy house-keeping,   180
Have won the greatest favour of the commons,
Excepting none but good Duke Humphrey:
And, brother York, thy acts in Ireland,
In bringing them to civil discipline,
Thy late exploits done in the heart of France,   185
When thou wert regent for our sovereign,
Have made thee fear’d and honour’d of the people.
Join we together for the public good,
In what we can to bridle and suppress
The pride of Suffolk and the cardinal,   190
With Somerset’s and Buckingham’s ambition;
And, as we may, cherish Duke Humphrey’s deeds,
While they do tend the profit of the land.

War.  So God help Warwick, as he loves the land,
And common profit of his country!   195

York.  [Aside.]  And so says York, for he hath greatest cause.

Sal.  Then let’s make haste away, and look unto the main.

War.  Unto the main! O father, Maine is lost!
That Maine which by main force Warwick did win,
And would have kept so long as breath did last:   200
Main chance, father, you meant; but I meant Maine,
Which I will win from France, or else be slain.  [Exeunt WARWICK and SALISBURY.

York.  Anjou and Maine are given to the French;
Paris is lost; the state of Normandy
Stands on a tickle point now they are gone.   205
Suffolk concluded on the articles,
The peers agreed, and Henry was well pleas’d
To change two dukedoms for a duke’s fair daughter.
I cannot blame them all: what is ‘t to them?
’Tis thine they give away, and not their own.   210
Pirates may make cheap pennyworths of their pillage,
And purchase friends, and give to courtezans,
Still revelling like lords till all be gone;
While as the silly owner of the goods
Weeps over them, and wrings his hapless hands,   215
And shakes his head, and trembling stands aloof,
While all is shar’d and all is borne away,
Ready to starve and dare not touch his own:
So York must sit and fret and bite his tongue
While his own lands are bargain’d for and sold.   220
Methinks the realms of England, France, and Ireland
Bear that proportion to my flesh and blood
As did the fatal brand Althæa burn’d
Unto the prince’s heart of Calydon.
Anjou and Maine both given unto the French!   225
Cold news for me, for I had hope of France,
Even as I have of fertile England’s soil.
A day will come when York shall claim his own;
And therefore I will take the Nevils’ parts
And make a show of love to proud Duke Humphrey,   230
And, when I spy advantage, claim the crown,
For that’s the golden mark I seek to hit.
Nor shall proud Lancaster usurp my right.
Nor hold the sceptre in his childish fist,
Nor wear the diadem upon his head,   235
Whose church-like humours fit not for a crown.
Then, York, be still awhile, till time do serve:
Watch thou and wake when others be asleep,
To pry into the secrets of the state;
Till Henry, surfeiting in joys of love,   240
With his new bride and England’s dear-bought queen,
And Humphrey with the peers be fall’n at jars:
Then will I raise aloft the milk-white rose,
With whose sweet smell the air shall be perfum’d,
And in my standard bear the arms of York,   245
To grapple with the house of Lancaster;
And, force perforce, I’ll make him yield the crown,
Whose bookish rule hath pull’d fair England down.  [Exit.

Act I. Scene II.

The Same.  A Room in the DUKE OF GLOUCESTER’S House.

Enter GLOUCESTER and his DUCHESS.

Duch.  Why droops my lord, like over-ripen’d corn
Hanging the head at Ceres’ plenteous load?
Why doth the great Duke Humphrey knit his brows,   5
As frowning at the favours of the world?
Why are thine eyes fix’d to the sullen earth,
Gazing on that which seems to dim thy sight?
What scest thou there? King Henry’s diadem
Enchas’d with all the honours of the world?   10
If so, gaze on, and grovel on thy face,
Until thy head be circled with the same.
Put forth thy hand, reach at the glorious gold:
What! is ‘t too short? I’ll lengthen it with mine;
And having both together heav’d it up,   15
We’ll both together lift our heads to heaven,
And never more abase our sight so low
As to vouchsafe one glance unto the ground.

Glo.  O Nell, sweet Nell, if thou dost love thy lord,
Banish the canker of ambitious thoughts:   20
And may that thought, when I imagine ill
Against my king and nephew, virtuous Henry,
Be my last breathing in this mortal world!
My troublous dream this night doth make me sad.

Duch.  What dream’d my lord? tell me, and I’ll requite it   25
With sweet rehearsal of my morning’s dream.

Glo.  Methought this staff, mine office-badge in court,
Was broke in twain; by whom I have forgot,
But, as I think, it was by the cardinal;
And on the pieces of the broken wand   30
Were plac’d the heads of Edmund Duke of Somerset,
And William De la Pole, first Duke of Suffolk.
This was my dream: what it doth bode, God knows.

Duch.  Tut! this was nothing but an argument
That he that breaks a stick of Gloucester’s grove   35
Shall lose his head for his presumption.
But list to me, my Humphrey, my sweet duke:
Methought I sat in seat of majesty
In the cathedral church of Westminster,
And in that chair where kings and queens are crown’d;   40
Where Henry and Dame Margaret kneel’d to me,
And on my head did set the diadem.

Glo.  Nay, Eleanor, then must I chide outright:
Presumptuous dame! ill-nurtur’d Eleanor!
Art thou not second woman in the realm,   45
And the protector’s wife, belov’d of him?
Hast thou not worldly pleasure at command,
Above the reach or compass of thy thought?
And wilt thou still be hammering treachery,
To tumble down thy husband and thyself   50
From top of honour to disgrace’s feet?
Away from me, and let me hear no more.

Duch.  What, what, my lord! are you so choleric
With Eleanor, for telling but her dream?
Next time I’ll keep my dreams unto myself,   55
And not be check’d.

Glo.  Nay, be not angry; I am pleas’d again.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.  My Lord Protector, ’tis his highness’ pleasure
You do prepare to ride unto Saint Alban’s,   60
Whereas the king and queen do mean to hawk.

Glo.  I go. Come, Nell, thou wilt ride with us?

Duch.  Yes, my good lord, I’ll follow presently.  [Exeunt GLOUCESTER and Messenger.
Follow I must; I cannot go before,
While Gloucester bears this base and humble mind.   65
Were I a man, a duke, and next of blood,
I would remove these tedious stumbling-blocks
And smooth my way upon their headless necks;
And, being a woman, I will not be slack
To play my part in Fortune’s pageant.   70
Where are you there? Sir John! nay, fear not, man,
We are alone; here’s none but thee and I.

Enter HUME.

Hume.  Jesus preserve your royal majesty!

Duch.  What sayst thou? majesty! I am but Grace.   75

Hume.  But, by the grace of God, and Hume’s advice,
Your Grace’s title shall be multiplied.

Duch.  What sayst thou, man? hast thou as yet conferr’d
With Margery Jourdain, the cunning witch,
With Roger Bolingbroke, the conjurer?   80
And will they undertake to do me good?

Hume.  This they have promised, to show your highness
A spirit rais’d from depth of under ground,
That shall make answer to such questions
As by your Grace shall be propounded him.   85

Duch.  It is enough: I’ll think upon the questions.
When from Saint Alban’s we do make return
We’ll see these things effected to the full.
Here, Hume, take this reward; make merry, man,
With thy confed’ rates in this weighty cause.  [Exit.   90

Hume.  Hume must make merry with the duchess’ gold;
Marry and shall. But how now, Sir John Hume!
Seal up your lips, and give no words but mum:
The business asketh silent secrecy.
Dame Eleanor gives gold to bring the witch:   95
Gold cannot come amiss, were she a devil.
Yet have I gold flies from another coast:
I dare not say from the rich cardinal
And from the great and new-made Duke of Suffolk;
Yet I do find it so: for, to be plain,   100
They, knowing Dame Eleanor’s aspiring humour,
Have hired me to undermine the duchess
And buzz these conjurations in her brain.
They say, ‘A crafty knave does need no broker;’
Yet am I Suffolk and the cardinal’s broker.   105
Hume, if you take not heed, you shall go near
To call them both a pair of crafty knaves.
Well, so it stands; and thus, I fear, at last
Hume’s knavery will be the duchess’ wrack,
And her attainture will be Humphrey’s fall.   110
Sort how it will I shall have gold for all.  [Exit.

Act I. Scene III.

The Same.  A Room in the Palace.

Enter three or four Petitioners, PETER, the Armourer’s man, being one.

First Pet.  My masters, let’s stand close: my Lord Protector will come this way by and by, and then we may deliver our supplications in the quill.

Sec. Pet.  Marry, the Lord protect him, for he’s a good man! Jesu bless him!

Enter SUFFOLK and QUEEN MARGARET.   5

First Pet.  Here a’ comes, methinks, and the queen with him. I’ll be the first, sure.

Sec. Pet.  Come back, fool! this is the Duke of Suffolk and not my Lord Protector.

Suf.  How now, fellow! wouldst anything with me?

First Pet.  I pray, my lord, pardon me: I took ye for my Lord Protector.

Q. Mar.  [Glancing at the Superscriptions.]  To my Lord Protector! are your supplications to his lordship? Let me see them: what is thine?   10

First Pet.  Mine is, an ‘t please your Grace, against John Goodman, my Lord Cardinal’s man, for keeping my house, and lands, my wife and all, from me.

Suf.  Thy wife too! that is some wrong indeed. What’s yours? What’s here? Against the Duke of Suffolk, for enclosing the commons of Melford! How now, sir knave!

Sec. Pet.  Alas! sir, I am but a poor petitioner of our whole township.

Peter.  [Presenting his petition.]  Against my master, Thomas Horner, for saying that the Duke of York was rightful heir to the crown.

Q. Mar.  What sayst thou? Did the Duke of York say he was rightful heir to the crown?   15

Pet.  That my master was? No, forsooth: my master said that he was; and that the king was an usurper.

Suf.  Who is there?

Enter Servants.
Take this fellow in, and send for his master with a pursuivant presently. We’ll hear more of your matter before the king.  [Exeunt Servants with PETER.

Q. Mar.  And as for you, that love to be protected   20
Under the wings of our protector’s grace,
Begin your suits anew and sue to him.  [Tears the petitions.
Away, base cullions! Suffolk, let them go.

All.  Come, let’s be gone.  [Exeunt Petitioners.

Q. Mar.  My Lord of Suffolk, say, is this the guise,   25
Is this the fashion of the court of England?
Is this the government of Britain’s isle,
And this the royalty of Albion’s king?
What! shall King Henry be a pupil still
Under the surly Gloucester’s governance?   30
Am I a queen in title and in style,
And must be made a subject to a duke?
I tell thee, Pole, when in the city Tours
Thou ran’st a tilt in honour of my love,
And stol’st away the ladies’ hearts of France,   35
I thought King Henry had resembled thee
In courage, courtship, and proportion:
But all his mind is bent to holiness,
To number Ave-Maries on his beads;
His champions are the prophets and apostles;   40
His weapons holy saws of sacred writ;
His study is his tilt-yard, and his loves
Are brazen images of canoniz’d saints.
I would the college of the cardinals
Would choose him pope, and carry him to Rome,   45
And set the triple crown upon his head:
That were a state fit for his holiness.

Suf.  Madam, be patient; as I was cause
Your highness came to England, so will I
In England work your Grace’s full content.   50

Q. Mar.  Beside the haught protector, have we Beaufort
The imperious churchman, Somerset, Buckingham,
And grumbling York; and not the least of these
But can do more in England than the king.

Suf.  And he of these that can do most of all   55
Cannot do more in England than the Nevils:
Salisbury and Warwick are no simple peers.

Q. Mar.  Not all these lords do vox me half so much
As that proud dame, the Lord Protector’s wife:
She sweeps it through the court with troops of ladies,   60
More like an empress than Duke Humphrey’s wife.
Strangers in court do take her for the queen:
She bears a duke’s revenues on her back,
And in her heart she scorns our poverty.
Shall I not live to be aveng’d on her?   65
Contemptuous base-born callot as she is,
She vaunted ‘mongst her minions t’ other day
The very train of her worst wearing gown
Was better worth than all my father’s lands,
Till Suffolk gave two dukedoms for his daughter.   70

Suf.  Madam, myself have lim’d a bush for her,
And plac’d a quire of such enticing birds
That she will light to listen to the lays,
And never mount to trouble you again.
So, let her rest: and, madam, list to me;   75
For I am bold to counsel you in this.
Although we fancy not the cardinal,
Yet must we join with him and with the lords
Till we have brought Duke Humphrey in disgrace.
As for the Duke of York, this late complaint   80
Will make but little for his benefit:
So, one by one, we’ll weed them all at last,
And you yourself shall steer the happy helm.

Sound a sennet.  Enter KING HENRY, YORK, and SOMERSET; DUKE and DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER, CARDINAL BEAUFORT, BUCKINGHAM, SALISBURY, and WARWICK.

K. Hen.  For my part, noble lords, I care not which;   85
Or Somerset or York, all’s one to me.

York.  If York have ill demean’d himself in France,
Then let him be denay’d the regentship.

Som.  If Somerset be unworthy of the place,
Let York be regent; I will yield to him.   90

War.  Whether your Grace be worthy, yea or no,
Dispute not that: York is the worthier.

Car.  Ambitious Warwick, let thy betters speak.

War.  The cardinal’s not my better in the field.

Buck.  All in this presence are thy betters, Warwick.   95

War.  Warwick may live to be the best of all.

Sal.  Peace, son! and show some reason, Buckingham,
Why Somerset should be preferr’d in this.

Q. Mar.  Because the king, forsooth, will have it so.

Glo.  Madam, the king is old enough himself   100
To give his censure: these are no women’s matters.

Q. Mar.  If he be old enough, what needs your Grace
To be protector of his excellence?

Glo.  Madam, I am protector of the realm;
And at his pleasure will resign my place.   105

Suf.  Resign it then and leave thine insolence.
Since thou wertking, — as who is king but thou? —
The commonwealth hath daily run to wrack;
The Dauphin hath prevail’d beyond the seas;
And all the peers and nobles of the realm   110
Have been as bondmen to thy sovereignty.

Car.  The commons hast thou rack’d; the clergy’s bags
Are lank and lean with thy extortions.

Som.  Thy sumptuous buildings and thy wife’s attire
Have cost a mass of public treasury.   115

Buck.  Thy cruelty in execution
Upon offenders hath exceeded law,
And left thee to the mercy of the law.

Q. Mar.  Thy sale of offices and towns in France,
If they were known, as the suspect is great,   120
Would make thee quickly hop without thy head.  [Exit GLOUCESTER.  The QUEEN drops her fan.
Give me my fan: what, minion! can ye not?  [Giving the DUCHESS a box on the ear.
I cry you mercy, madam, was it you?

Duch.  Was ‘t I? yea, I it was, proud French-woman:
Could I come near your beauty with my nails   125
I’d set my ten commandments in your face.

K. Hen.  Sweet aunt, be quiet; ’twas against her will.

Duch.  Against her will! Good king, look to ‘t in time;
She’ll hamper thee and dandle thee like a baby:
Though in this place most master wear no breeches,   130
She shall not strike Dame Eleanor unreveng’d.  [Exit.

Buck.  Lord Cardinal, I will follow Eleanor,
And listen after Humphrey, how he proceeds:
She’s tickled now; her fume can need no spurs,
She’ll gallop far enough to her destruction.  [Exit BUCKINGHAM.   135

Re-enter GLOUCESTER.

Glo.  Now, lords, my choler being over-blown
With walking once about the quadrangle,
I come to talk of commonwealth affairs.
As for your spiteful false objections,   140
Prove them, and I lie open to the law:
But God in mercy so deal with my soul
As I in duty love my king and country!
But to the matter that we have in hand.
I say, my sov’reign, York is meetest man   145
To be your regent in the realm of France.

Suf.  Before we make election, give me leave
To show some reason, of no little force,
That York is most unmeet of any man.

York.  I’ll tell thee, Suffolk, why I am unmeet:   150
First, for I cannot flatter thee in pride;
Next, if I be appointed for the place,
My Lord of Somerset will keep me here,
Without discharge, money, or furniture,
Till France be won into the Dauphin’s hands.   155
Last time I danc’d attendance on his will
Till Paris was besieg’d, famish’d, and lost.

War.  That can I witness; and a fouler fact
Did never traitor in the land commit.

Suf.  Peace, headstrong Warwick!   160

War.  Image of pride, why should I hold my peace?

Enter Servants of SUFFOLK, bringing in HORNER and PETER.

Suf.  Because here is a man accus’d of treason:
Pray God the Duke of York excuse himself!

York.  Doth any one accuse York for a traitor?   165

K. Hen.  What mean’st thou, Suffolk? tell me, what are these?

Suf.  Please it your majesty, this is the man
That doth accuse his master of high treason.
His words were these: that Richard, Duke of York,
Was rightful heir unto the English crown,   170
And that your majesty was a usurper.

K. Hen.  Say, man, were these thy words?

Hor.  An ‘t shall please your majesty, I never said nor thought any such matter: God is my witness, I am falsely accused by the villain.

Pet.  By these ten bones, my lords, he did speak them to me in the garret one night, as we were scouring my Lord of York’s armour.

York.  Base dunghill villain, and mechanical,   175
I’ll have thy head for this thy traitor’s speech.
I do beseech your royal majesty
Let him have all the rigour of the law.

Hor.  Alas! my lord, hang me if ever I spake the words. My accuser is my prentice; and when I did correct him for his fault the other day, he did vow upon his knees he would be even with me: I have good witness of this: therefore I beseech your majesty, do not cast away an honest man for a villain’s accusation.

K. Hen.  Uncle, what shall we say to this in law?   180

Glo.  This doom, my lord, if I may judge.
Let Somerset be regent o’er the French,
Because in York this breeds suspicion;
And let these have a day appointed them
For single combat in convenient place;   185
For he hath witness of his servant’s malice.
This is the law, and this Duke Humphrey’s doom.

K. Hen.  Then be it so. My Lord of Somerset,
We make your Grace lord regent o’er the French.

Som.  I humbly thank your royal majesty.   190

Hor.  And I accept the combat willingly.

Pet.  Alas! my lord, I cannot fight: for God’s sake, pity my case! the spite of man prevaileth against me. O Lord, have mercy upon me! I shall never be able to fight a blow. O Lord, my heart!

Glo.  Sirrah, or you must fight, or else be hang’d.

K. Hen.  Away with them to prison; and the day
Of combat shall be the last of the next month.   195
Come, Somerset, we’ll see thee sent away.  [Exeunt.

Act I. Scene IV.

The Same.  The DUKE OF GLOUCESTER’S Garden.

Enter MARGERY JOURDAIN, HUME, SOUTHWELL, and BOLINGBROKE.

Hume.  Come, my masters; the duchess, I tell you, expects performance of your promises.

Boling.  Master Hume, we are therefore provided. Will her ladyship behold and hear our exorcisms?

Hume.  Ay; what else? fear you not her courage.   5

Boling.  I have heard her reported to be a woman of invincible spirit: but it shall be convenient, Master Hume, that you be by her aloft while we be busy below; and so, I pray you, go in God’s name, and leave us.  [Exit HUME.]  Mother Jourdain, be you prostrate, and grovel on the earth; John Southwell, read you; and let us to our work.

Enter DUCHESS aloft, HUME following.

Duch.  Well said, my masters, and welcome all.
To this gear the sooner the better.

Boling.  Patience, good lady; wizards know their times:   10
Deep night, dark night, the silent of the night,
The time of night when Troy was set on fire;
The time when screech-owls cry, and ban-dogs howl,
And spirits walk, and ghosts break up their graves,
That time best fits the work we have in hand.   15
Madam, sit you, and fear not: whom we raise
We will make fast within a hallow’d verge.  [Here they perform the ceremonies belonging, and make the circle; BOLINGBROKE, or SOUTHWELL reads, Conjuro te, &c.  It thunders and lightens terribly; then the Spirit riseth.

Spir.  Adsum.

M. Jourd.  Asmath!
By the eternal God, whose name and power   20
Thou tremblest at, answer that I shall ask;
For till thou speak, thou shalt not pass from hence.

Spir.  Ask what thou wilt. That I had said and done!

Boling.  First, of the king: what shall of him become?

Spir.  The Duke yet lives that Henry shall depose;   25
But him outlive, and die a violent death.  [As the Spirit speaks, SOUTHWELL writes the answers.

Boling.  What fate awaits the Duke of Suffolk?

Spir.  By water shall he die and take his end.

Boling.  What shall befall the Duke of Somerset?

Spir.  Let him shun castles:   30
Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains
Than where castles mounted stand.
Have done, for more I hardly can endure.

Boling.  Descend to darkness and the burning lake!
False fiend, avoid!  [Thunder and lightning.  Spirit descends.   35

Enter YORK and BUCKINGHAM, hastily, with their Guards, and Others.

York.  Lay hands upon these traitors and their trash.
Beldam, I’think we watch’d you at an inch.
What! madam, are you there? the king and commonweal
Are deeply indebted for this piece of pains:   40
My Lord Protector will, I doubt it not,
See you well guerdon’d for these good deserts.

Duch.  Not half so bad as thine to England’s king,
Injurious duke, that threat’st where is no cause.

Buck.  True, madam, none at all. What call you this?  [Showing her the papers.   45
Away with them! let them be clapp’d up close
And kept asunder. You, madam, shall with us:
Stafford, take her to thee. —  [Exeunt above, DUCHESS and HUME guarded.
We’ll see your trinkets here all forthcoming.
All, away!  [Exeunt SOUTHWELL, BOLINGBROKE, &c., guarded.   50

York.  Lord Buckingham, methinks you watch’d her well:
A pretty plot, well chosen to build upon!
Now, pray, my lord, let’s see the devil’s writ.
What have we here?
The duke yet lives that Henry shall depose;   55
But him outlive, and die a violent death.
Why, this is just,
Aio te, Æacida, Romanos vincere posse.
Well, to the rest:
Tell me what fate awaits the Duke of Suffolk?   60
By water shall he die and take his end.
What shall betide the Duke of Somerset?
Let him shun castles:
Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains
Than where castles mounted stand.   65
Come, come, my lords; these oracles
Are hardly attain’d, and hardly understood.
The king is now in progress towards Saint Alban’s;
With him, the husband of this lovely lady:
Thither go these news as fast as horse can carry them,   70
A sorry breakfast for my Lord Protector.

Buck.  Your Grace shall give me leave, my Lord of York,
To be the post, in hope of his reward.

York.  At your pleasure, my good lord. Who’s within there, ho!

Enter a Serving-man.   75
Invite my Lords of Salisbury and Warwick
To sup with me to-morrow night. Away!  [Flourish.  Exeunt.

Act II. Scene I.

St. Alban’s.

Enter KING HENRY, QUEEN MARGARET, GLOUCESTER, CARDINAL BEAUFORT, and SUFFOLK, with Falconers, hollaing.

Q. Mar.  Believe me, lords, for flying at the brook,
I saw not better sport these seven years’ day:
Yet, by your leave, the wind was very high,   5
And, ten to one, old Joan had not gone out.

K. Hen.  But what a point, my lord, your falcon made,
And what a pitch she flew above the rest!
To see how God in all his creatures works!
Yea, man and birds are fain of climbing high.   10

Suf.  No marvel, an it like your majesty,
My Lord Protector’s hawks do tower so well;
They know their master loves to be aloft,
And bears his thoughts above his falcon’s pitch.

Glo.  My lord, ’tis but a base ignoble mind   15
That mounts no higher than a bird can soar.

Car.  I thought as much; he’d be above the clouds.

Glo.  Ay, my Lord Cardinal; how think you by that?
Were it not good your Grace could fly to heaven?

K. Hen.  The treasury of everlasting joy.   20

Car.  Thy heaven is on earth; thine eyes and thoughts
Beat on a crown, the treasure of thy heart;
Pernicious protector, dangerous peer,
That smooth’st it so with king and common weal!

Glo.  What! cardinal, is your priesthood grown peremptory?   25
Tantœne animis cœlestibus irœ?
Churchmen so hot? good uncle, hide such malice;
With such holiness can you do it?

Suf.  No malice, sir; no more than well becomes
So good a quarrel and so bad a peer.   30

Glo.  As who, my lord?

Suf.        Why, as you, my lord,
An ‘t like your lordly lord-protectorship.

Glo.  Why, Suffolk, England knows thine insolence.

Q. Mar.  And thy ambition, Gloucester.   35

K. Hen.        I prithee, peace,
Good queen, and whet not on these furious peers;
For blessed are the peacemakers on earth.

Car.  Let me be blessed for the peace I make
Against this proud protector with my sword!   40

Glo.  [Aside to the CARDINAL.]  Faith, holy uncle, would ‘twere come to that!

Car.  [Aside to GLOUCESTER.]  Marry, when thou dar’st.

Glo.  [Aside to the CARDINAL.]  Make up no factious numbers for the matter;
In thine own person answer thy abuse.

Car.  [Aside to GLOUCESTER.]  Ay, where thou dar’st not peep: an if thou dar’st,   45
This evening on the east side of the grove.

K. Hen.  How now, my lords!

Car.        Believe me, cousin Gloucester,
Had not your man put up the fowl so suddenly,
We had had more sport.  [Aside to GLOUCESTER.]  Come with thy two-hand sword.   50

Glo.  True, uncle.

Car.  Are you advis’d?  [Aside to GLOUCESTER]  the east side of the grove.

Glo.  [Aside to the CARDINAL.]  Cardinal, I am with you.

K. Hen.  Why, how now, uncle Gloucester!

Glo.  Talking of hawking; nothing else, my lord. —   55
[Aside to the CARDINAL.]  Now, by God’s mother, priest, I’ll shave your crown
For this, or all my fence shall fail.

Car.  [Aside to GLOUCESTER.]  Medice teipsum;
Protector, see to ‘t well, protect yourself.

K. Hen.  The winds grow high; so do your stomachs, lords.   60
How irksome is this music to my heart!
When such strings jar, what hope of harmony?
I pray, my lords, let me compound this strife.

Enter One, crying, ‘A Miracle.’

Glo.  What means this noise?   65
Fellow, what miracle dost thou proclaim?

One.  A miracle! a miracle!

Suf.  Come to the king, and tell him what miracle.

One.  Forsooth, a blind man at Saint Alban’s shrine,
Within this half hour hath receiv’d his sight;   70
A man that ne’er saw in his life before.

K. Hen.  Now, God be prais’d, that to believing souls
Gives light in darkness, comfort in despair!

Enter the Mayor of Saint Alban’s, and his Brethren, and SIMPCOX, borne between two persons in a chair; his Wife and a great multitude following.

Car.  Here comes the townsmen on procession,   75
To present your highness with the man.

K. Hen.  Great is his comfort in this earthly vale,
Although by his sight his sin be multiplied.

Glo.  Stand by, my masters; bring him near the king:
His highness’ pleasure is to talk with him.   80

K. Hen.  Good fellow, tell us here the circumstance,
That we for thee may glorify the Lord.
What! hast thou been long blind, and now restor’d?

Simp.  Born blind, an ‘t please your Grace.

Wife.  Ay, indeed, was he.   85

Suf.  What woman is this?

Wife.  His wife, an ‘t like your worship.

Glo.  Hadst thou been his mother, thou couldst have better told.

K. Hen.  Where wert thou born?

Simp.  At Berwick in the north, an ‘t like your Grace.   90

K. Hen.  Poor soul! God’s goodness hath been great to thee:
Let never day nor night unhallow’d pass,
But still remember what the Lord hath done.

Q. Mar.  Tell me, good fellow, cam’st thou here by chance,
Or of devotion, to this holy shrine?   95

Simp.  God knows, of pure devotion; being call’d
A hundred times and oft’ner in my sleep,
By good Saint Alban; who said, ‘Simpcox, come;
Come, offer at my shrine, and I will help thee.’

Wife.  Most true, forsooth; and many time and oft   100
Myself have heard a voice to call him so.

Car.  What! art thou lame?

Simp.        Ay, God Almighty help me!

Suf.  How cam’st thou so?

Simp.        A fall off of a tree.   105

Wife.  A plum-tree, master.

Glo.        How long hast thou been blind?

Simp.  O! born so, master.

Glo.        What! and wouldst climb a tree?

Simp.  But that in all my life, when I was a youth.   110

Wife.  Too true; and bought his climbing very dear.

Glo.  Mass, thou lov’dst plums well, that wouldst venture so.

Simp.  Alas! master, my wife desir’d some damsons,
And made me climb with danger of my life.

Glo.  A subtle knave! but yet it shall not serve.   115
Let me see thine eyes: wink now: now open them:
In my opinion yet thou seest not well.

Simp.  Yes, master, clear as day; I thank God and Saint Alban.

Glo.  Sayst thou me so? What colour is this cloak of?

Simp.  Red, master; red as blood.   120

Glo.  Why, that’s well said. What colour is my gown of?

Simp.  Black, forsooth; coal-black, as jet.

K. Hen.  Why then, thou know’st what colour jet is of?

Suf.  And yet, I think, jet did he never see.

Glo.  But cloaks and gowns before this day a many.   125

Wife.  Never, before this day, in all his life.

Glo.  Tell me, sirrah, what’s my name?

Simp.  Alas! master, I know not.

Glo.  What’s his name?

Simp.  I know not.   130

Glo.  Nor his?

Simp.  No, indeed, master.

Glo.  What’s thine own name?

Simp.  Saunder Simpcox, an if it please you, master.

Glo.  Then, Saunder, sit there, the lyingest knave in Christendom. If thou hadst been born blind, thou mightst as well have known all our names as thus to name the several colours we do wear. Sight may distinguish of colours, but suddenly to nominate them all, it is impossible. My lords, Saint Alban here hath done a miracle; and would ye not think that cunning to be great, that could restore this cripple to his legs again?   135

Simp.  O, master, that you could!

Glo.  My masters of Saint Alban’s, have you not beadles in your town, and things called whips?

May.  Yes, my lord, if it please your Grace.

Glo.  Then send for one presently.

May.  Sirrah, go fetch the beadle hither straight.  [Exit an Attendant.   140

Glo.  Now fetch me a stool hither by and by.  [A stool brought out.]  Now, sirrah, if you mean to save yourself from whipping, leap me over this stool and run away.

Simp.  Alas! master, I am not able to stand alone:
You go about to torture me in vain.

Re-enter Attendant, and a Beadle with a whip.

Glo.  Well, sir, we must have you find your legs. Sirrah beadle, whip him till he leap over that same stool.   145

Bead.  I will, my lord. Come on, sirrah; off with your doublet quickly.

Simp.  Alas! master, what shall I do? I am not able to stand.  [After the Beadle hath hit him once, he leaps over the stool, and runs away; and the people follow and cry, ‘A miracle!’

K. Hen.  O God! seest thou this, and bear’st so long?

Q. Mar.  It made me laugh to see the villain run.

Glo.  Follow the knave; and take this drab away.   150

Wife.  Alas! sir, we did it for pure need.

Glo.  Let them be whipp’d through every market town
Till they come to Berwick, from whence they came.  [Exeunt Mayor, Beadle, Wife, &c.

Car.  Duke Humphrey has done a miracle to-day.

Suf.  True; made the lame to leap and fly away.   155

Glo.  But you have done more miracles than I;
You made in a day, my lord, whole towns to fly.

Enter BUCKINGHAM.

K. Hen.  What tidings with our cousin Buckingham?

Buck.  Such as my heart doth tremble to unfold.   160
A sort of naughty persons, lewdly bent,
Under the countenance and confederacy
Of Lady Eleanor, the protector’s wife,
The ringleader and head of all this rout,
Have practis’d dangerously against your state,   165
Dealing with witches and with conjurers:
Whom we have apprehended in the fact;
Raising up wicked spirits from under-ground,
Demanding of King Henry’s life and death,
And other of your highness’ privy council,   170
As more at large your Grace shall understand.

Car.  And so, my Lord Protector, by this means
Your lady is forthcoming yet at London.
This news, I think, hath turn’d your weapon’s edge;
’Tis like, my lord, you will not keep your hour.   175

Glo.  Ambitious churchman, leave to afflict my heart:
Sorrow and grief have vanquish’d all my powers;
And, vanquish’d as I am, I yield to thee,
Or to the meanest groom.

K. Hen.  O God! what mischiefs work the wicked ones,   180
Heaping confusion on their own heads thereby.

Q. Mar.  Gloucester, see here the tainture of thy nest;
And look thyself be faultless, thou wert best.

Glo.  Madam, for myself, to heaven I do appeal,
How I have lov’d my king and commonweal;   185
And, for my wife, I know not how it stands.
Sorry I am to hear what I have heard:
Noble she is, but if she have forgot
Honour and virtue, and convers’d with such
As, like to pitch, defile nobility,   190
I banish her my bed and company,
And give her, as a prey, to law and shame,
That hath dishonour’d Gloucester’s honest name.

K. Hen.  Well, for this night we will repose us here:
To-morrow toward London back again,   195
To look into this business thoroughly,
And call these foul offenders to their answers;
And poise the cause in justice’ equal scales,
Whose beam stands sure, whose rightful cause prevails.  [Flourish.  Exeunt.

Act II. Scene II.

London.  The DUKE OF YORK’S Garden.

Enter YORK, SALISBURY, and WARWICK.

York.  Now, my good Lords of Salisbury and Warwick,
Our simple supper ended, give me leave,
In this close walk to satisfy myself,   5
In craving your opinion of my title,
Which is infallible to England’s crown.

Sal.  My lord, I long to hear it at full.

War.  Sweet York, begin; and if thy claim be good,
The Nevils are thy subjects to command.   10

York.  Then thus:
Edward the Third, my lords, had seven sons:
The first, Edward the Black Prince, Prince of Wales;
The second, William of Hatfield; and the third,
Lionel, Duke of Clarence; next to whom   15
Was John of Gaunt, the Duke of Lancaster;
The fifth was Edmund Langley, Duke of York;
The sixth was Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of Gloucester;
William of Windsor was the seventh and last.
Edward the Black Prince died before his father,   20
And left behind him Richard, his only son,
Who after Edward the Third’s death, reign’d as king;
Till Henry Bolingbroke, Duke of Lancaster,
The eldest son and heir of John of Gaunt,
Crown’d by the name of Henry the Fourth,   25
Seiz’d on the realm, depos’d the rightful king,
Sent his poor queen to France, from whence she came,
And him to Pomfret; where as all you know,
Harmless Richard was murder’d traitorously.

War.  Father, the duke hath told the truth;   30
Thus got the house of Lancaster the crown.

York.  Which now they hold by force and not by right;
For Richard, the first son’s heir, being dead,
The issue of the next son should have reign’d.

Sal.  But William of Hatfield died without an heir.   35

York.  The third son, Duke of Clarence, from whose line
I claim the crown, had issue, Philippe a daughter,
Who married Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March:
Edmund had issue Roger, Earl of March:
Roger had issue Edmund, Anne, and Eleanor.   40

Sal.  This Edmund, in the reign of Bolingbroke,
As I have read, laid claim unto the crown;
And but for Owen Glendower, had been king,
Who kept him in captivity till he died.
But, to the rest.   45

York.        His eldest sister, Anne,
My mother, being heir unto the crown,
Married Richard, Earl of Cambridge, who was son
To Edmund Langley, Edward the Third’s fifth son.
By her I claim the kingdom: she was heir   50
To Roger, Earl of March; who was the son
Of Edmund Mortimer; who married Philippe,
Sole daughter unto Lionel, Duke of Clarence:
So, if the issue of the eldest son
Succeed before the younger, I am king.   55

War.  What plain proceeding is more plain than this?
Henry doth claim the crown from John of Gaunt,
The fourth son; York claims it from the third.
Till Lionel’s issue fails, his should not reign:
It fails not yet, but flourishes in thee,   60
And in thy sons, fair slips of such a stock.
Then, father Salisbury, kneel we together,
And in this private plot be we the first
That shall salute our rightful sovereign
With honour of his birthright to the crown.   65

Both.  Long live our sovereign Richard, England’s king!

York.  We thank you, lords! But I am not your king
Till I be crown’d, and that my sword be stain’d
With heart-blood of the house of Lancaster;
And that’s not suddenly to be perform’d,   70
But with advice and silent secrecy.
Do you as I do in these dangerous days,
Wink at the Duke of Suffolk’s insolence,
At Beaufort’s pride, at Somerset’s ambition,
At Buckingham and all the crew of them,   75
Till they have snar’d the shepherd of the flock,
That virtuous prince, the good Duke Humphrey:
’Tis that they seek; and they, in seeking that
Shall find their deaths, if York can prophesy.

Sal.  My lord, break we off; we know your mind at full.   80

War.  My heart assures me that the Earl of Warwick
Shall one day make the Duke of York a king.

York.  And, Nevil, this I do assure myself,
Richard shall live to make the Earl of Warwick
The greatest man in England but the king.  [Exeunt.   85

Act II. Scene III.

The Same.  A Hall of Justice.

Trumpets sounded.  Enter KING HENRY, QUEEN MARGARET, GLOUCESTER, YORK, SUFFOLK, and SALISBURY; the DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER, MARGERY JOURDAIN, SOUTHWELL, HUME, and BOLINGBROKE, under guard.

K. Hen.  Stand forth, Dame Eleanor Cobham, Gloucester’s wife.
In sight of God and us, your guilt is great:
Receive the sentence of the law for sins   5
Such as by God’s book are adjudg’d to death.
You four, from hence to prison back again;
From thence, unto the place of execution:
The witch in Smithfield shall be burn’d to ashes,
And you three shall be strangled on the gallows.   10
You, madam, for you are more nobly born,
Despoiled of your honour in your life,
Shall, after three days’ open penance done,
Live in your country here, in banishment,
With Sir John Stanley, in the Isle of Man.   15

Duch.  Welcome is banishment; welcome were my death.

Glo.  Eleanor, the law, thou seest, hath judged thee:
I cannot justify whom the law condemns. —  [Exeunt the DUCHESS, and the other Prisoners, guarded.
Mine eyes are full of tears, my heart of grief.
Ah, Humphrey! this dishonour in thine age   20
Will bring thy head with sorrow to the ground.
I beseech your majesty, give me leave to go;
Sorrow would solace and mine age would ease.

K. Hen.  Stay, Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester: ere thou go,
Give up thy staff: Henry will to himself   25
Protector be; and God shall be my hope,
My stay, my guide, and lantern to my feet.
And go in peace, Humphrey; no less belov’d
Than when thou wert protector to thy king.

Q. Mar.  I see no reason why a king of years   30
Should be to be protected like a child.
God and King Henry govern England’s helm!
Give up your staff, sir, and the king his realm.

Glo.  My staff! here, noble Henry, is my staff:
As willingly do I the same resign   35
As e’er thy father Henry made it mine;
And even as willingly at thy feet I leave it
As others would ambitiously receive it.
Farewell, good king! when I am dead and gone,
May honourable peace attend thy throne.  [Exit.   40

Q. Mar.  Why, now is Henry king, and Margaret queen;
And Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, scarce himself,
That bears so shrewd a maim: two pulls at once;
His lady banish’d, and a limb lopp’d off;
This staff of honour raught: there let it stand,   45
Where it best fits to be, in Henry’s hand.

Suf.  Thus droops this lofty pine and hangs his sprays;
Thus Eleanor’s pride dies in her youngest days.

York.  Lords, let him go. Please it your majesty
This is the day appointed for the combat;   50
And ready are the appellant and defendant,
The armourer and his man, to enter the lists,
So please your highness to behold the fight.

Q. Mar.  Ay, good my lord; for purposely therefore
Left I the court, to see this quarrel tried.   55

K. Hen.  O’ God’s name, see the lists and all things fit:
Here let them end it; and God defend the right!

York.  I never saw a fellow worse bested,
Or more afraid to fight, than is the appellant,
The servant of this armourer, my lords.   60

Enter, on one side, HORNER, and his Neighbours drinking to him so much that he is drunk; and he enters bearing his staff with a sand-bag fastened to it; a drum before him: on the other side, PETER, with a drum and a sand-bag; and Prentices drinking to him.

First Neigh.  Here, neighbour Horner, I drink to you in a cup of sack: and fear not, neighbour, you shall do well enough.

Sec. Neigh.  And here, neighbour, here’s a cup of charneco.

Third Neigh.  And here’s a pot of good double beer, neighbour: drink, and fear not your man.

Hor.  Let it come, i’ faith, and I’ll pledge you all; and a fig for Peter!   65

First Pren.  Here, Peter, I drink to thee; and be not afraid.

Sec. Pren.  Be merry, Peter, and fear not thy master: fight for credit of the prentices.

Peter.  I thank you all: drink, and pray for me, I pray you; for, I think, I have taken my last draught in this world. Here, Robin, an if I die, I give thee my apron: and, Will, thou shalt have my hammer: and here, Tom, take all the money that I have. O Lord bless me! I pray God, for I am never able to deal with my master, he hath learnt so much fence already.

Sal.  Come, leave your drinking and fall to blows. Sirrah, what’s thy name?

Peter.  Peter, forsooth.   70

Sal.  Peter! what more?

Peter.  Thump.

Sal.  Thump! then see thou thump thy master well.

Hor.  Masters, I am come hither, as it were, upon my man’s instigation, to prove him a knave, and myself an honest man: and touching the Duke of York, I will take my death I never meant him any ill, nor the king, nor the queen; and therefore, Peter, have at thee with a downright blow!

York.  Dispatch: this knave’s tongue begins to double.   75
Sound, trumpets, alarum to the combatants.  [Alarum.  They fight, and PETER strikes down his Master.

Hor.  Hold, Peter, hold! I confess, I confess treason.  [Dies.

York.  Take away his weapon. Fellow, thank God, and the good wine in thy master’s way.

Peter.  O God! have I overcome mine enemies in this presence? O Peter! thou hast prevailed in right!

K. Hen.  Go, take hence that traitor from our sight;   80
For by his death we do perceive his guilt:
And God in justice hath reveal’d to us
The truth and innocence of this poor fellow,
Which he had thought to have murder’d wrongfully.
Come, fellow, follow us for thy reward.  [Sound a flourish.  Exeunt.   85

Act II. Scene IV.

The Same.  A Street.

Enter GLOUCESTER and Serving-men, in mourning cloaks.

Glo.  Thus sometimes hath the brightest day a cloud;
And after summer evermore succeeds
Barren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold:   5
So cares and joys abound, as seasons fleet.
Sirs, what’s o’clock?

Serv.        Ten, my lord.

Glo.  Ten is the hour that was appointed me
To watch the coming of my punish’d duchess:   10
Uneath may she endure the flinty streets,
To tread them with her tender-feeling feet.
Sweet Nell, ill can thy noble mind abrook
The abject people, gazing on thy face
With envious looks still laughing at thy shame,   15
That erst did follow thy proud chariot wheels
When thou didst ride in triumph through the streets.
But, soft! I think she comes; and I’ll prepare
My tear-stain’d eyes to see her miseries.

Enter the DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER, with papers pinned upon her back, in a white sheet, her feet bare, and a taper burning in her hand; SIR JOHN STANLEY, a Sheriff, and Officers.   20

Serv.  So please your Grace, we’ll take her from the sheriff.

Glo.  No, stir not, for your lives; let her pass by.

Duch.  Come you, my lord, to see my open shame?
Now thou dost penance too. Look! how they gaze.
See! how the giddy multitude do point,   25
And nod their heads, and throw their eyes on thee.
Ah, Gloucester, hide thee from their hateful looks,
And, in thy closet pent up, rue my shame,
And ban thine enemies, both mine and thine!

Glo.  Be patient, gentle Nell; forget this grief.   30

Duch.  Ay, Gloucester, teach me to forget myself;
For whilst I think I am thy wedded wife,
And thou a prince, protector of this land,
Methinks I should not thus be led along,
Mail’d up in shame, with papers on my back,   35
And follow’d with a rabble that rejoice
To see my tears and hear my deep-fet groans.
The ruthless flint doth cut my tender feet,
And when I start, the envious people laugh,
And bid me be advised how I tread.   40
Ah, Humphrey! can I bear this shameful yoke?
Trow’st thou that e’er I’ll look upon the world,
Or count them happy that enjoy the sun?
No; dark shall be my light, and night my day;
To think upon my pomp shall be my hell.   45
Sometime I’ll say, I am Duke Humphrey’s wife;
And he a prince and ruler of the land:
Yet so he rul’d and such a prince he was
As he stood by whilst I, his forlorn duchess,
Was made a wonder and a pointing-stock   50
To every idle rascal follower.
But be thou mild and blush not at my shame;
Nor stir at nothing till the axe of death
Hang over thee, as, sure, it shortly will;
For Suffolk, he that can do all in all   55
With her that hateth thee, and hates us all,
And York, and impious Beaufort, that false priest,
Have all lim’d bushes to betray thy wings;
And, fly thou how thou canst, they’ll tangle thee:
But fear not thou, until thy foot be snar’d,   60
Nor never seek prevention of thy foes.

Glo.  Ah, Nell! forbear: thou aimest all awry;
I must offend before I be attainted;
And had I twenty times so many foes,
And each of them had twenty times their power,   65
All these could not procure me any scath,
So long as I am loyal, true, and crimeless.
Wouldst have me rescue thee from this reproach?
Why, yet thy scandal were not wip’d away,
But I in danger for the breach of law.   70
Thy greatest help is quiet, gentle Nell:
I pray thee, sort thy heart to patience;
These few days’ wonder will be quickly worn.

Enter a Herald.

Her.  I summon your Grace to his majesty’s parliament, holden at Bury the first of this next month.   75

Glo.  And my consent ne’er ask’d herein before!
This is close dealing. Well, I will be there.  [Exit Herald.
My Nell, I take my leave: and, master sheriff,
Let not her penance exceed the king’s commission.

Sher.  An ‘t please your Grace, here my commission stays;   80
And Sir John Stanley is appointed now
To take her with him to the Isle of Man.

Glo  Must you, Sir John, protect my lady here?

Stan.  So am I given in charge, may ‘t please your Grace.

Glo.  Entreat her not the worse in that I pray   85
You use her well. The world may laugh again;
And I may live to do you kindness if
You do it her: and so, Sir John, farewell.

Duch.  What! gone, my lord, and bid me not farewell!

Glo.  Witness my tears, I cannot stay to speak.  [Exeunt GLOUCESTER and Serving-men.   90

Duch.  Art thou gone too? All comfort go with thee!
For none abides with me: my joy is death;
Death, at whose name I oft have been afear’d,
Because I wish’d this world’s eternity.
Stanley, I prithee, go, and take me hence;   95
I care not whither, for I beg no favour,
Only convey me where thou art commanded.

Stan.  Why, madam, that is to the Isle of Man;
There to be us’d according to your state.

Duch.  That’s bad enough, for I am but reproach:   100
And shall I then be us’d reproachfully?

Stan.  Like to a duchess, and Duke Humphrey’s lady:
According to that state you shall be us’d.

Duch.  Sheriff, farewell, and better than I fare,
Although thou hast been conduct of my shame.   105

Sher.  It is my office; and, madam, pardon me.

Duch.  Ay, ay, farewell; thy office is discharg’d.
Come, Stanley, shall we go?

Stan.  Madam, your penance done, throw off this sheet,
And go we to attire you for our journey.   110

Duch.  My shame will not be shifted with my sheet:
No; it will hang upon my richest robes,
And show itself, attire me how I can.
Go, lead the way; I long to see my prison.  [Exeunt.

Act III. Scene I.

The Abbey at Bury St. Edmund’s.

Sound a sennet.  Enter to the Parliament, KING HENRY, QUEEN MARGARET, CARDINAL BEAUFORT, SUFFOLK, YORK, BUCKINGHAM, and Others.

K. Hen.  I muse my Lord of Gloucester is not come:
’Tis not his wont to be the hindmost man,
Whate’er occasion keeps him from us now.   5

Q. Mar.  Can you not see? or will ye not observe
The strangeness of his alter’d countenance?
With what a majesty he bears himself,
How insolent of late he is become,
How proud, how peremptory, and unlike himself?   10
We know the time since he was mild and affable,
An if we did but glance a far-off look,
Immediately he was upon his knee,
That all the court admir’d him for submission:
But meet him now, and, be it in the morn,   15
When everyone will give the time of day,
He knits his brow and shows an angry eye,
And passeth by with stiff unbowed knee,
Disdaining duty that to us belongs.
Small curs are not regarded when they grin,   20
But great men tremble when the lion roars;
And Humphrey is no little man in England.
First note that he is near you in descent,
And should you fall, he is the next will mount.
Me seemeth then it is no policy,   25
Respecting what a rancorous mind he bears,
And his advantage following your decease,
That he should come about your royal person
Or be admitted to your highness’ council.
By flattery hath he won the commons’ hearts,   30
And when he please to make commotion,
’Tis to be fear’d they all will follow him.
Now ’tis the spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted;
Suffer them now and they’ll o’ergrow the garden,
And choke the herbs for want of husbandry.   35
The reverent care I bear unto my lord
Made me collect these dangers in the duke.
If it be fond, call it a woman’s fear;
Which fear if better reasons can supplant,
I will subscribe and say I wrong’d the duke.   40
My Lord of Suffolk, Buckingham, and York,
Reprove my allegation if you can
Or else conclude my words effectual.

Suf.  Well hath your highness seen into this duke;
And had I first been put to speak my mind,   45
I think I should have told your Grace’s tale.
The duchess, by his subornation,
Upon my life, began her devilish practices:
Or if he were not privy to those faults,
Yet, by reputing of his high descent,   50
As, next the king he was successive heir,
And such high vaunts of his nobility,
Did instigate the bedlam brain-sick duchess,
By wicked means to frame our sovereign’s fall.
Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep,   55
And in his simple show he harbours treason.
The fox barks not when he would steal the lamb:
No, no, my sov’reign; Gloucester is a man
Unsounded yet, and full of deep deceit.

Car.  Did he not, contrary to form of law,   60
Devise strange deaths for small offences done?

York.  And did he not, in his protectorship,
Levy great sums of money through the realm
For soldiers’ pay in France, and never sent it?
By means whereof the towns each day revolted.   65

Buck.  Tut! these are petty faults to faults unknown,
Which time will bring to light in smooth Duke Humphrey.

K. Hen.  My lords, at once: the care you have of us,
To mow down thorns that would annoy our foot,
Is worthy praise; but shall I speak my conscience,   70
Our kinsman Gloucester is as innocent
From meaning treason to our royal person,
As is the sucking lamb or harmless dove.
The duke is virtuous, mild, and too well given
To dream on evil, or to work my downfall.   75

Q. Mar.  Ah! what’s more dangerous than this fond affiance!
Seems he a dove? his feathers are but borrow’d,
For he’s disposed as the hateful raven:
Is he a lamb? his skin is surely lent him,
For he’s inclin’d as is the ravenous wolf.   80
Who cannot steal a shape that means deceit?
Take heed, my lord; the welfare of us all
Hangs on the cutting short that fraudful man.

Enter SOMERSET.

Som.  All health unto my gracious sovereign!   85

K. Hen.  Welcome, Lord Somerset. What news from France?

Som.  That all your interest in those territories
Is utterly bereft you; all is lost.

K. Hen.  Cold news, Lord Somerset: but God’s will be done!

York.  [Aside.]  Cold news for me; for I had hope of France,   90
As firmly as I hope for fertile England.
Thus are my blossoms blasted in the bud,
And caterpillars eat my leaves away;
But I will remedy this gear ere long,
Or sell my title for a glorious grave.   95

Enter GLOUCESTER.

Glo.  All happiness unto my lord the king!
Pardon, my liege, that I have stay’d so long.

Suf.  Nay, Gloucester, know that thou art come too soon,
Unless thou wert more loyal than thou art:   100
I do arrest thee of high treason here.

Glo.  Well, Suffolk’s duke, thou shalt not see me blush,
Nor change my countenance for this arrest:
A heart unspotted is not easily daunted.
The purest spring is not so free from mud   105
As I am clear from treason to my sovereign.
Who can accuse me? wherein am I guilty?

York.  ’Tis thought, my lord, that you took bribes of France,
And, being protector, stay’d the soldiers’ pay;
By means whereof his highness hath lost France.   110

Glo.  Is it but thought so? What are they that think it?
I never robb’d the soldiers of their pay,
Nor ever had one penny bribe from France.
So help me God, as I have watch’d the night,
Ay, night by night, in studying good for England,   115
That doit that e’er I wrested from the king,
Or any groat I hoarded to my use,
Be brought against me at my trial-day!
No; many a pound of mine own proper store,
Because I would not tax the needy commons,   120
Have I disbursed to the garrisons,
And never ask’d for restitution.

Car.  It serves you well, my lord, to say so much.

Glo.  I say no more than truth, so help me God!

York.  In your protectorship you did devise   125
Strange tortures for offenders, never heard of,
That England was defam’d by tyranny.

Glo.  Why, ’tis well known that, whiles I was protector,
Pity was all the fault that was in me;
For I should melt at an offender’s tears,   130
And lowly words were ransom for their fault.
Unless it were a bloody murderer,
Or foul felonious thief that fleec’d poor passengers,
I never gave them condign punishment:
Murder, indeed, that bloody sin, I tortur’d   135
Above the felon or what trespass else.

Suf.  My lord, these faults are easy, quickly answer’d:
But mightier crimes are laid unto your charge,
Whereof you cannot easily purge yourself.
I do arrest you in his highness’ name;   140
And here commit you to my Lord Cardinal
To keep until your further time of trial.

K. Hen.  My Lord of Gloucester, ’tis my special hope
That you will clear yourself from all suspect:
My conscience tells me you are innocent.   145

Glo.  Ah! gracious lord, these days are dangerous.
Virtue is chok’d with foul ambition,
And charity chas’d hence by rancour’s hand;
Foul subornation is predominant,
And equity exil’d your highness’ land.   150
I know their complot is to have my life;
And if my death might make this island happy,
And prove the period of their tyranny,
I would expend it with all willingness;
But mine is made the prologue to their play;   155
For thousands more, that yet suspect no peril,
Will not conclude their plotted tragedy.
Beaufort’s red sparkling eyes blab his heart’s malice,
And Suffolk’s cloudy brow his stormy hate;
Sharp Buckingham unburdens with his tongue   160
The envious load that lies upon his heart;
And dogged York, that reaches at the moon,
Whose overweening arm I have pluck’d back,
By false accuse doth level at my life:
And you, my sov’reign lady, with the rest,   165
Causeless have laid disgraces on my head,
And with your best endeavour have stirr’d up
My liefest liege to be mine enemy.
Ay, all of you have laid your heads together;
Myself had notice of your conventicles;   170
And all to make away my guiltless life.
I shall not want false witness to condemn me,
Nor store of treasons to augment my guilt;
The ancient proverb will be well effected:
‘A staff is quickly found to beat a dog.’   175

Car.  My liege, his railing is intolerable.
If those that care to keep your royal person
From treason’s secret knife and traitor’s rage
Be thus upbraided, chid, and rated at,
And the offender granted scope of speech,   180
‘Twill make them cool in zeal unto your Grace.

Suf.  Hath he not twit our sovereign lady here
With ignominious words, though clerkly couch’d,
As if she had suborned some to swear
False allegations to o’erthrow his state?   185

Q. Mar.  But I can give the loser leave to chide.

Glo.  Far truer spoke than meant: I lose, indeed;
Beshrew the winners, for they play’d me false!
And well such losers may have leave to speak.

Buck.  He’ll wrest the sense and hold us here all day.   190
Lord Cardinal, he is your prisoner.

Car.  Sirs, take away the duke, and guard him sure.

Glo.  Ah! thus King Henry throws away his crutch
Before his legs be firm to bear his body:
Thus is the shepherd beaten from thy side,   195
And wolves are gnarling who shall gnaw thee first.
Ah! that my fear were false, ah! that it were;
For, good King Henry, thy decay I fear.  [Exeunt Attendants with GLOUCESTER.

K. Hen.  My lords, what to your wisdoms seemeth best
Do or undo, as if ourself were here.   200

Q. Mar.  What! will your highness leave the parliament?

K. Hen.  Ay, Margaret; my heart is drown’d with grief,
Whose flood begins to flow within mine eyes,
My body round engirt with misery,
For what’s more miserable than discontent?   205
Ah! uncle Humphrey, in thy face I see
The map of honour, truth, and loyalty;
And yet, good Humphrey, is the hour to come
That e’er I prov’d thee false, or fear’d thy faith.
What low’ring star now envies thy estate,   210
That these great lords, and Margaret our queen,
Do seek subversion of thy harmless life?
Thou never didst them wrong, nor no man wrong;
And as the butcher takes away the calf,
And binds the wretch, and beats it when it strays,   215
Bearing it to the bloody slaughter-house,
Even so, remorseless, have they borne him hence;
And as the dam runs lowing up and down,
Looking the way her harmless young one went,
And can do nought but wail her darling’s loss;   220
Even so myself bewails good Gloucester’s case,
With sad unhelpful tears, and with dimm’d eyes
Look after him, and cannot do him good;
So mighty are his vowed enemies.
His fortunes I will weep; and, ‘twixt each groan,   225
Say ‘Who’s a traitor, Gloucester he is none.’  [Exit.

Q. Mar.  Fair lords, cold snow melts with the sun’s hot beams.
Henry my lord is cold in great affairs,
Too full of foolish pity; and Gloucester’s show
Beguiles him as the mournful crocodile   230
With sorrow snares relenting passengers;
Or as the snake, roll’d in a flow’ring bank,
With shining checker’d slough, doth sting a child
That for the beauty thinks it excellent.
Believe me, lords, were none more wise than I, —   235
And yet herein I judge mine own wit good, —
This Gloucester should be quickly rid the world,
To rid us from the fear we have of him.

Car.  That he should die is worthy policy;
And yet we want a colour for his death.   240
’Tis meet he be condemn’d by course of law.

Suf.  But in my mind that were no policy:
The king will labour still to save his life;
The commons haply rise to save his life;
And yet we have but trivial argument,   245
More than mistrust, that shows him worthy death.

York.  So that, by this, you would not have him die.

Suf.  Ah! York, no man alive so fain as I.

York.  ’Tis York that hath more reason for his death.
But my Lord Cardinal, and you, my Lord of Suffolk,   250
Say as you think, and speak it from your souls,
Were ‘t not all one an empty eagle were set
To guard the chicken from a hungry kite,
As place Duke Humphrey for the king’s protector?

Q. Mar.  So the poor chicken should be sure of death.   255

Suf.  Madam, ’tis true: and were ‘t not madness, then,
To make the fox surveyor of the fold?
Who, being accus’d a crafty murderer,
His guilt should be but idly posted over
Because his purpose is not executed.   260
No; let him die, in that he is a fox,
By nature prov’d an enemy to the flock,
Before his chaps be stain’d with crimson blood,
As Humphrey, prov’d by reasons, to my liege.
And do not stand on quillets how to slay him:   265
Be it by gins, by snares, by subtilty,
Sleeping or waking, ’tis no matter how,
So he be dead; for that is good deceit
Which mates him first that first intends deceit.

Q. Mar.  Thrice noble Suffolk, ’tis resolutely spoke.   270

Suf.  Not resolute, except so much were done,
For things are often spoke and seldom meant;
But, that my heart accordeth with my tongue,
Seeing the deed is meritorious,
And to preserve my sovereign from his foe,   275
Say but the word and I will be his priest.

Car.  But I would have him dead, my Lord of Suffolk,
Ere you can take due orders for a priest:
Say you consent and censure well the deed,
And I’ll provide his executioner;   280
I tender so the safety of my liege.

Suf.  Here is my hand, the deed is worthy doing.

Q. Mar.  And so say I.

York.  And I: and now we three have spoke it,
It skills not greatly who impugns our doom.   285

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.  Great lords, from Ireland am I come amain,
To signify that rebels there are up,
And put the Englishmen unto the sword.
Send succours, lords, and stop the rage betime,   290
Before the wound do grow uncurable;
For, being green, there is great hope of help.

Car.  A breach that craves a quick expedient stop!
What counsel give you in this weighty cause?

York.  That Somerset be sent as regent thither.   295
’Tis meet that lucky ruler be employ’d;
Witness the fortune he hath had in France.

Som.  If York, with all his far-fet policy,
Had been the regent there instead of me,
He never would have stay’d in France so long.   300

York.  No, not to lose it all, as thou hast done:
I rather would have lost my life betimes
Than bring a burden of dishonour home,
By staying there so long till all were lost.
Show me one scar character’d on thy skin:   305
Men’s flesh preserv’d so whole do seldom win.

Q. Mar.  Nay then, this spark will prove a raging fire,
If wind and fuel be brought to feed it with.
No more, good York; sweet Somerset, be still:
Thy fortune, York, hadst thou been regent there,   310
Might happily have prov’d far worse than his.

York.  What! worse than nought? nay, then a shame take all.

Som.  And in the number thee, that wishest shame.

Car.  My Lord of York, try what your fortune is.
The uncivil kerns of Ireland are in arms   315
And temper clay with blood of Englishmen:
To Ireland will you lead a band of men,
Collected choicely, from each county some,
And try your hap against the Irishmen?

York.  I will, my lord, so please his majesty.   320

Suf.  Why, our authority is his consent,
And what we do establish he confirms:
Then, noble York, take thou this task in hand.

York.  I am content: provide me soldiers, lords,
Whiles I take order for mine own affairs.   325

Suf.  A charge, Lord York, that I will see perform’d.
But now return we to the false Duke Humphrey.

Car.  No more of him; for I will deal with him
That henceforth he shall trouble us no more.
And so break off; the day is almost spent.   330
Lord Suffolk, you and I must talk of that event.

York.  My Lord of Suffolk, within fourteen days
At Bristol I expect my soldiers;
For there I’ll ship them all for Ireland.

Suf.  I’ll see it truly done, my Lord of York.  [Exeunt all except YORK.   335

York.  Now, York, or never, steel thy fearful thoughts,
And change misdoubt to resolution:
Be that thou hop’st to be, or what thou art
Resign to death; it is not worth the enjoying.
Let pale-fac’d fear keep with the mean-born man,   340
And find no harbour in a royal heart.
Faster than spring-time showers comes thought on thought,
And not a thought but thinks on dignity.
My brain, more busy than the labouring spider,
Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies.   345
Well, nobles, well; ’tis politicly done,
To send me packing with a host of men:
I fear me you but warm the starved snake,
Who, cherish’d in your breasts, will sting your hearts.
’Twas men I lack’d, and you will give them me:   350
I take it kindly; yet be well assur’d
You put sharp weapons in a madman’s hands.
Whiles I in Ireland nourish a mighty band,
I will stir up in England some black storm
Shall blow ten thousand souls to heaven or hell;   355
And this fell tempest shall not cease to rage
Until the golden circuit on my head,
Like to the glorious sun’s transparent beams,
Do calm the fury of this mad-bred flaw.
And, for a minister of my intent,   360
I have seduc’d a headstrong Kentishman,
John Cade of Ashford,
To make commotion, as full well he can,
Under the title of John Mortimer.
In Ireland have I seen this stubborn Cade   365
Oppose himself against a troop of kerns,
And fought so long, till that his thighs with darts
Were almost like a sharp-quill’d porpentine:
And, in the end being rescu’d, I have seen
Him caper upright like a wild Morisco,   370
Shaking the bloody darts as he his bells.
Full often, like a shag-hair’d crafty kern,
Hath he conversed with the enemy,
And undiscover’d come to me again,
And given me notice of their villanies.   375
This devil here shall be my substitute;
For that John Mortimer, which now is dead,
In face, in gait, in speech, he doth resemble;
By this I shall perceive the commons’ mind,
How they affect the house and claim of York.   380
Say he be taken, rack’d, and tortured,
I know no pain they can inflict upon him
Will make him say I mov’d him to those arms.
Say that he thrive, — as ’tis great like he will, —
Why, then from Ireland come I with my strength,   385
And reap the harvest which that rascal sow’d;
For, Humphrey being dead, as he shall be,
And Henry put apart, the next for me.  [Exit.

Act III. Scene II.

Bury St. Edmund’s.  A Room in the Palace.

Enter certain Murderers, hastily.

First Mur.  Run to my Lord of Suffolk; let him know
We have dispatch’d the duke, as he commanded.

Sec. Mur.  O! that it were to do. What have we done?   5
Didst ever hear a man so penitent?

Enter SUFFOLK.

First Mur.  Here comes my lord.

Suf.  Now, sirs, have you dispatch’d this thing?

First Mur.  Ay, my good lord, he’s dead.   10

Suf.  Why, that’s well said. Go, get you to my house;
I will reward you for this venturous deed.
The king and all the peers are here at hand.
Have you laid fair the bed? is all things well,
According as I gave directions?   15

First Mur.  ’Tis, my good lord.

Suf.  Away! be gone.  [Exeunt Murderers.

Sound trumpets.  Enter KING HENRY, QUEEN MARGARET, CARDINAL BEAUFORT, SOMERSET, Lords, and Others.

K. Hen.  Go, call our uncle to our presence straight;
Say, we intend to try his Grace to-day,   20
If he be guilty, as ’tis published.

Suf.  I’ll call him presently, my noble lord.  [Exit.

K. Hen.  Lords, take your places; and, I pray you all,
Proceed no straiter ‘gainst our uncle Gloucester
Than from true evidence, of good esteem,   25
He be approv’d in practice culpable.

Q. Mar.  God forbid any malice should prevail
That faultless may condemn a nobleman!
Pray God, he may acquit him of suspicion!

K. Hen.  I thank thee, Meg; these words content me much.   30

Re-enter SUFFOLK.
How now! why look’st thou pale? why tremblest thou?
Where is our uncle? what’s the matter, Suffolk?

Suf.  Dead in his bed, my lord; Gloucester is dead.

Q. Mar.  Marry, God forfend!   35

Car.  God’s secret judgment: I did dream to-night
The duke was dumb, and could not speak a word.  [The KING swoons.

Q. Mar.  How fares my lord? Help, lords! the king is dead.

Som.  Rear up his body; wring him by the nose.

Q. Mar.  Run, go help, help! O Henry, ope thine eyes!   40

Suf.  He doth revive again. Madam, be patient.

K. Hen.  O heavenly God!

Q. Mar.        How fares my gracious lord?

Suf.  Comfort, my sovereign! gracious Henry, comfort!

K. Hen.  What! doth my Lord of Suffolk comfort me?   45
Came he right now to sing a raven’s note,
Whose dismal tune bereft my vital powers,
And thinks he that the chirping of a wren,
By crying comfort from a hollow breast,
Can chase away the first-conceived sound?   50
Hide not thy poison with such sugar’d words:
Lay not thy hands on me; forbear, I say:
Their touch affrights me as a serpent’s sting.
Thou baleful messenger, out of my sight!
Upon thy eyeballs murderous tyranny   55
Sits in grim majesty to fright the world.
Look not upon me, for thine eyes are wounding:
Yet do not go away; come, basilisk,
And kill the innocent gazer with thy sight;
For in the shade of death I shall find joy,   60
In life but double death, now Gloucester’s dead.

Q. Mar.  Why do you rate my Lord of Suffolk thus?
Although the duke was enemy to him,
Yet he, most Christian-like, laments his death:
And for myself, foe as he was to me,   65
Might liquid tears or heart-offending groans
Or blood-consuming sighs recall his life,
I would be blind with weeping, sick with groans,
Look pale as primrose with blood-drinking sighs,
And all to have the noble duke alive.   70
What know I how the world may deem of me?
For it is known we were but hollow friends:
It may be judg’d I made the duke away:
So shall my name with slander’s tongue be wounded,
And princes’ courts be fill’d with my reproach.   75
This get I by his death. Ay me, unhappy!
To be a queen, and crown’d with infamy!

K. Hen.  Ah! woe is me for Gloucester, wretched man.

Q. Mar.  Be woe for me, more wretched than he is.
What! dost thou turn away and hide thy face?   80
I am no loathsome leper; look on me.
What! art thou, like the adder, waxen deaf?
Be poisonous too and kill thy forlorn queen.
Is all thy comfort shut in Gloucester’s tomb?
Why, then, Dame Margaret was ne’er thy joy:   85
Erect his statua and worship it,
And make my image but an alehouse sign.
Was I for this nigh wrack’d upon the sea,
And twice by awkward wind from England’s bank
Drove back again unto my native clime?   90
What boded this, but well forewarning wind
Did seem to say, ‘Seek not a scorpion’s nest,
Nor set no footing on this unkind shore?’
What did I then, but curs’d the gentle gusts
And he that loos’d them forth their brazen caves;   95
And bid them blow towards England’s blessed shore,
Or turn our stern upon a dreadful rock?
Yet Æolus would not be a murderer,
But left that hateful office unto thee:
The pretty vaulting sea refus’d to drown me,   100
Knowing that thou wouldst have me drown’d on shore
With tears as salt as sea through thy unkindness:
The splitting rocks cower’d in the sinking sands,
And would not dash me with their ragged sides,
Because thy flinty heart, more hard than they,   105
Might in thy palace perish Margaret.
As far as I could ken thy chalky cliffs,
When from thy shore the tempest beat us back,
I stood upon the hatches in the storm,
And when the dusky sky began to rob   110
My earnest-gaping sight of thy land’s view,
I took a costly jewel from my neck,
A heart it was, bound in with diamonds,
And threw it towards thy land: the sea receiv’d it,
And so I wish’d thy body might my heart:   115
And even with this I lost fair England’s view,
And bid mine eyes be packing with my heart,
And call’d them blind and dusky spectacles
For losing ken of Albion’s wished coast.
How often have I tempted Suffolk’s tongue —   120
The agent of thy foul inconstancy —
To sit and witch me, as Ascanius did
When he to madding Dido would unfold
His father’s acts, commenc’d in burning Troy!
Am I not witch’d like her? or thou not false like him?   125
Ay me! I can no more. Die, Margaret!
For Henry weeps that thou dost live so long.

Noise within.  Enter WARWICK and SALISBURY.
The Commons press to the door.

War.  It is reported, mighty sovereign,   130
That good Duke Humphrey trait’rously is murder’d
By Suffolk and the Cardinal Beaufort’s means.
The commons, like an angry hive of bees
That want their leader, scatter up and down,
And care not who they sting in his revenge.   135
Myself have calm’d their spleenful mutiny,
Until they hear the order of his death.

K. Hen.  That he is dead, good Warwick, ’tis too true;
But how he died God knows, not Henry.
Enter his chamber, view his breathless corpse,   140
And comment then upon his sudden death.

War.  That shall I do, my liege. Stay, Salisbury,
With the rude multitude till I return.  [WARWICK goes into an inner chamber.  SALISBURY retires.

K. Hen.  O! Thou that judgest all things, stay my thoughts,
My thoughts that labour to persuade my soul   145
Some violent hands were laid on Humphrey’s life.
If my suspect be false, forgive me, God,
For judgment only doth belong to thee.
Fain would I go to chafe his paly lips
With twenty thousand kisses, and to drain   150
Upon his face an ocean of salt tears,
To tell my love unto his deaf dumb trunk,
And with my fingers feel his hand unfeeling:
But all in vain are these mean obsequies,
And to survey his dead and earthly image   155
What were it but to make my sorrow greater?

Re-enter WARWICK and Others bearing GLOUCESTER’S body on a bed.

War.  Come hither, gracious sovereign, view this body.

K. Hen.  That is to see how deep my grave is made;
For with his soul fled all my wordly solace,   160
For seeing him I see my life in death.

War.  As surely as my soul intends to live
With that dread King that took our state upon him
To free us from his Father’s wrathful curse,
I do believe that violent hands were laid   165
Upon the life of this thrice-famed duke.

Suf.  A dreadful oath, sworn with a solomn tongue!
What instance gives Lord Warwick for his vow?

War.  See how the blood is settled in his face.
Oft have I seen a timely-parted ghost,   170
Of ashy semblance, meagre, pale, and bloodless,
Being all descended to the labouring heart;
Who, in the conflict that it holds with death,
Attracts the same for aidance ‘gainst the enemy;
Which with the heart there cools, and ne’er returneth   175
To blush and beautify the cheek again.
But see, his face is black and full of blood,
His eyeballs further out than when he liv’d,
Staring full ghastly like a strangled man;
His hair uprear’d, his nostrils stretch’d with struggling:   180
His hands abroad display’d, as one that grasp’d
And tugg’d for life, and was by strength subdu’d.
Look on the sheets, his hair, you see, is sticking;
His well-proportion’d beard made rough and rugged,
Like to the summer’s corn by tempest lodg’d.   185
It cannot be but he was murder’d here;
The least of all these signs were probable.

Suf.  Why, Warwick, who should do the duke to death?
Myself and Beaufort had him in protection;
And we, I hope, sir, are no murderers.   190

War.  But both of you were vow’d Duke Humphrey’s foes,
And you, forsooth, had the good duke to keep:
’Tis like you would not feast him like a friend,
And ’tis well seen he found an enemy.

Q. Mar.  Then you, belike, suspect these noblemen   195
As guilty of Duke Humphrey’s timeless death.

War.  Who finds the heifer dead, and bleeding fresh,
And sees fast by a butcher with an axe,
But will suspect ’twas he that made the slaughter?
Who finds the partridge in the puttock’s nest,   200
But may imagine how the bird was dead,
Although the kite soar with unbloodied beak?
Even so suspicious is this tragedy.

Q. Mar.  Are you the butcher, Suffolk? where’s your knife?
Is Beaufort term’d a kite? where are his talons?   205

Suf.  I wear no knife to slaughter sleeping men;
But here’s a vengeful sword, rusted with ease,
That shall be scoured in his rancorous heart
That slanders me with murder’s crimson badge.
Say, if thou dar’st, proud Lord of Warwickshire,   210
That I am faulty in Duke Humphrey’s death.  [Exeunt CARDINAL BEAUFORT, SOMERSET, and Others.

War.  What dares not Warwick, if false Suffolk dare him?

Q. Mar.  He dares not calm his contumelious spirit,
Nor cease to be an arrogant controller,
Though Suffolk dare him twenty thousand times.   215

War.  Madam, be still, with reverence may I say;
For every word you speak in his behalf
Is slander to your royal dignity.

Suf.  Blunt-witted lord, ignoble in demeanour!
If ever lady wrong’d her lord so much,   220
Thy mother took into her blameful bed
Some stern untutor’d churl, and noble stock
Was graft with crab-tree slip; whose fruit thou art,
And never of the Nevils’ noble race.

War.  But that the guilt of murder bucklers thee,   225
And I should rob the deathsman of his fee,
Quitting thee thereby of ten thousand shames,
And that my sov’reign’s presence makes me mild,
I would, false murd’rous coward, on thy knee
Make thee beg pardon for thy passed speech,   230
And say it was thy mother that thou meant’st;
That thou thyself wast born in bastardy:
And after all this fearful homage done,
Give thee thy hire, and send thy soul to hell,
Pernicious blood-sucker of sleeping men.   235

Suf.  Thou shalt be waking while I shed thy blood,
If from this presence thou dar’st go with me.

War.  Away even now, or I will drag thee hence:
Unworthy though thou art, I’ll cope with thee,
And do some service to Duke Humphrey’s ghost.  [Exeunt SUFFOLK and WARWICK.   240

K. Hen.  What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted!
Thrice is he arm’d that hath his quarrel just,
And he but naked, though lock’d up in steel,
Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.

Q. Mar.  What noise is this?  [A noise within.   245

Re-enter SUFFOLK and WARWICK, with their weapons drawn.

K. Hen.  Why, how now, lords! your wrathful weapons drawn
Here in our presence! dare you be so bold?
Why, what tumultuous clamour have we here?

Suf.  The traitorous Warwick, with the men of Bury,   250
Set all upon me, mighty sovereign.

Noise of a crowd within.  Re-enter SALISBURY.

Sal.  [Speaking to those within.]  Sirs, stand apart; the king shall know your mind.
Dread lord, the commons send you word by me,
Unless false Suffolk straight be done to death,   255
Or banished fair England’s territories,
They will by violence tear him from your palace
And torture him with grievous lingering death.
They say, by him the good Duke Humphrey died;
They say, in him they fear your highness’ death;   260
And mere instinct of love and loyalty,
Free from a stubborn opposite intent,
As being thought to contradict your liking,
Makes them thus forward in his banishment.
They say, in care of your most royal person,   265
That if your highness should intend to sleep,
And charge that no man should disturb your rest
In pain of your dislike or pain of death,
Yet, notwithstanding such a strait edict,
Were there a serpent seen, with forked tongue,   270
That slily glided towards your majesty,
It were but necessary you were wak’d,
Lest, being suffer’d in that harmful slumber,
The mortal worm might make the sleep eternal:
And therefore do they cry, though you forbid,   275
That they will guard you, whe’r you will or no,
From such fell serpents as false Suffolk is;
With whose envenomed and fatal sting,
Your loving uncle, twenty times his worth,
They say, is shamefully bereft of life.   280

Commons.  [Within.]  An answer from the king, my Lord of Salisbury!

Suf.  ’Tis like the commons, rude unpolish’d hinds,
Could send such message to their sovereign;
But you, my lord, were glad to be employ’d,
To show how quaint an orator you are:   285
But all the honour Salisbury hath won
Is that he was the lord ambassador,
Sent from a sort of tinkers to the king.

Commons.  [Within.]  An answer from the king, or we will all break in!

K. Hen.  Go, Salisbury, and tell them all from me,   290
I thank them for their tender loving care;
And had I not been cited so by them,
Yet did I purpose as they do entreat;
For, sure, my thoughts do hourly prophesy
Mischance unto my state by Suffolk’s means:   295
And therefore, by his majesty I swear,
Whose far unworthy deputy I am,
He shall not breathe infection in this air
But three days longer, on the pain of death.  [Exit SALISBURY.

Q. Mar.  O Henry! let me plead for gentle Suffolk.   300

K. Hen.  Ungentle queen, to call him gentle Suffolk!
No more, I say; if thou dost plead for him
Thou wilt but add increase unto my wrath.
Had I but said, I would have kept my word,
But when I swear, it is irrevocable.   305
[To SUFFOLK.]  If after three days’ space thou here be’st found
On any ground that I am ruler of,
The world shall not be ransom for thy life.
Come, Warwick, come, good Warwick, go with me;
I have great matters to impart to thee.  [Exeunt KING HENRY, WARWICK, Lords, &c.   310
Q. Mar.  Mischance and sorrow go along with you!
Heart’s discontent and sour affliction
Be playfellows to keep you company!
There’s two of you; the devil make a third,
And threefold vengeance tend upon your steps!   315

Suf.  Cease, gentle queen, these execrations,
And let thy Suffolk take his heavy leave.

Q. Mar.  Fie, coward woman and softhearted wretch!
Hast thou not spirit to curse thine enemy?

Suf.  A plague upon them! Wherefore should I curse them?   320
Would curses kill, as doth the mandrake’s groan,
I would invent as bitter-searching terms,
As curst, as harsh and horrible to hear,
Deliver’d strongly through my fixed teeth,
With full as many signs of deadly hate,   325
As lean-fac’d Envy in her loathsome cave.
My tongue should stumble in mine earnest words;
Mine eyes should sparkle like the beaten flint;
My hair be fix’d on end, as one distract;
Ay, every joint should seem to curse and ban:   330
And even now my burden’d heart would break
Should I not curse them. Poison be their drink!
Gall, worse than gall, the daintiest that they taste!
Their sweetest shade a grove of cypress trees!
Their chiefest prospect murdering basilisks!   335
Their softest touch as smart as lizard’s stings!
Their music frightful as the serpent’s hiss,
And boding screech-owls make the concert full!
All the foul terrors in dark-seated hell —

Q. Mar.  Enough, sweet Suffolk; thou torment’st thyself;   340
And these dread curses, like the sun ‘gainst glass,
Or like an over-charged gun, recoil,
And turn the force of them upon thyself.

Suf.  You bade me ban, and will you bid me leave?
Now, by the ground that I am banish’d from,   345
Well could I curse away a winter’s night,
Though standing naked on a mountain top,
Where biting cold would never let grass grow,
And think it but a minute spent in sport.

Q. Mar.  O! let me entreat thee, cease! Give me thy hand,   350
That I may dew it with my mournful tears;
Nor let the rain of heaven wet this place,
To wash away my woeful monuments.
O! could this kiss be printed in thy hand,  [Kisses his hand.
That thou mightst think upon these by the seal,   355
Through whom a thousand sighs are breath’d for thee.
So, get thee gone, that I may know my grief;
’Tis but surmis’d whiles thou art standing by,
As one that surfeits thinking on a want.
I will repeal thee, or, be well assur’d,   360
Adventure to be banished myself;
And banished I am, if but from thee.
Go; speak not to me; even now be gone.
O! go not yet. Even thus two friends condemn’d
Embrace and kiss, and take ten thousand leaves,   365
Loather a hundred times to part than die.
Yet now farewell; and farewell life with thee!

Suf.  Thus is poor Suffolk ten times banished,
Once by the king, and three times thrice by thee.
’Tis not the land I care for, wert thou thence;   370
A wilderness is populous enough,
So Suffolk had thy heavenly company:
For where thou art, there is the world itself,
With every several pleasure in the world,
And where thou art not, desolation.   375
I can no more: live thou to joy thy life;
Myself to joy in nought but that thou liv’st.

Enter VAUX.

Q. Mar.  Whither goes Vaux so fast? what news, I prithee?

Vaux.  To signify unto his majesty   380
That Cardinal Beaufort is at point of death;
For suddenly a grievous sickness took him,
That makes him gasp and stare, and catch the air,
Blaspheming God, and cursing men on earth.
Sometime he talks as if Duke Humphrey’s ghost   385
Were by his side; sometime he calls the king,
And whispers to his pillow, as to him,
The secrets of his overcharged soul:
And I am sent to tell his majesty
That even now he cries aloud for him.   390

Q. Mar.  Go tell this heavy message to the king.  [Exit VAUX.
Ay me! what is this world! what news are these!
But wherefore grieve I at an hour’s poor loss,
Omitting Suffolk’s exile, my soul’s treasure?
Why only, Suffolk, mourn I not for thee,   395
And with the southern clouds contend in tears,
Theirs for the earth’s increase, mine for my sorrows?
Now get thee hence: the king, thou know’st, is coming;
If thou be found by me thou art but dead.

Suf.  If I depart from thee I cannot live;   400
And in thy sight to die, what were it else
But like a pleasant slumber in thy lap?
Here could I breathe my soul into the air,
As mild and gentle as the cradle babe,
Dying with mother’s dug between its lips;   405
Where, from thy sight, I should be raging mad,
And cry out for thee to close up mine eyes,
To have thee with thy lips to stop my mouth:
So shouldst thou either turn my flying soul,
Or I should breathe it so into thy body,   410
And then it liv’d in sweet Elysium.
To die by thee, were but to die in jest;
From thee to die were torture more than death.
O! let me stay, befall what may befall!

Q. Mar.  Away! though parting be a fretful corsive,   415
It is applied to a deathful wound.
To France, sweet Suffolk: let me hear from thee;
For wheresoe’er thou art in this world’s globe,
I’ll have an Iris that shall find thee out.

Suf.  I go.   420

Q. Mar.        And take my heart with thee.

Suf.  A jewel, lock’d into the woefull’st cask
That ever did contain a thing of worth.
Even as a splitted bark, so sunder we:
This way fall I to death.   425

Q. Mar.        This way for me.  [Exeunt severally.

Act III. Scene III.

London.  CARDINAL BEAUFORT’S Bedchamber.

Enter KING HENRY, SALISBURY, WARWICK, and Others.  The CARDINAL in bed; Attendants with him.

K. Hen.  How fares my lord? speak, Beaufort, to thy sovereign.

Car.  If thou be’st death, I’ll give thee England’s treasure,
Enough to purchase such another island,   5
So thou wilt let me live, and feel no pain.

K. Hen.  Ah! what a sign it is of evil life
Where death’s approach is seen so terrible.

War.  Beaufort, it is thy sov’reign speaks to thee.

Car.  Bring me unto my trial when you will.   10
Died he not in his bed? where should he die?
Can I make men live whe’r they will or no?
O! torture me no more, I will confess.
Alive again? then show me where he is:
I’ll give a thousand pound to look upon him.   15
He hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them.
Comb down his hair; look! look! it stands upright,
Like lime-twigs set to catch my winged soul.
Give me some drink; and bid the apothecary
Bring the strong poison that I bought of him.   20

K. Hen.  O thou eternal Mover of the heavens!
Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch;
O! beat away the busy meddling fiend
That lays strong siege unto this wretch’s soul,
And from his bosom purge this black despair.   25

War.  See how the pangs of death do make him grin!

Sal.  Disturb him not! let him pass peaceably.

K. Hen.  Peace to his soul, if God’s good pleasure be!
Lord Cardinal, if thou think’st on heaven’s bliss,
Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope.   30
He dies, and makes no sign. O God, forgive him!

War.  So bad a death argues a monstrous life.

K. Hen.  Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.
Close up his eyes, and draw the curtain close;
And let us all to meditation.  [Exeunt.   35

Act IV. Scene I.

Kent.  The Seashore near Dover.

Firing heard at Sea.  Then enter from a boat, a Captain, a Master, a Master’s-Mate, WALTER WHITMORE, and Others; with them SUFFOLK disguised, and other Gentlemen, prisoners.

Cap.  The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day
Is crept into the bosom of the sea,
And now loud-howling wolves arouse the jades   5
That drag the tragic melancholy night;
Who with their drowsy, slow, and flagging wings
Clip dead men’s graves, and from their misty jaws
Breathe foul contagious darkness in the air.
Therefore bring forth the soldiers of our prize,   10
For, whilst our pinnace anchors in the Downs
Here shall they make their ransom on the sand,
Or with their blood stain this discolour’d shore.
Master, this prisoner freely give I thee:
And thou that art his mate make boot of this;   15
The other  [Pointing to SUFFOLK], Walter Whitmore, is thy share.

First Gent.  What is my ransom, master? let me know.

Mast.  A thousand crowns, or else lay down your head.

Mate.  And so much shall you give, or off goes yours.

Cap.  What! think you much to pay two thousand crowns,   20
And bear the name and port of gentlemen?
Cut both the villains’ throats! for die you shall:
The lives of those which we have lost in fight
Cannot be counterpois’d with such a petty sum!

First Gent.  I’ll give it, sir; and therefore spare my life.   25

Sec. Gent.  And so will I, and write home for it straight.

Whit.  I lost mine eye in laying the prize aboard,
[To SUFFOLK.]  And therefore to revenge it shalt thou die;
And so should these if I might have my will.

Cap.  Be not so rash: take ransom; let him live.   30

Suf.  Look on my George; I am a gentleman:
Rate me at what thou wilt, thou shalt be paid.

Whit.  And so am I; my name is Walter Whitmore.
How now! why start’st thou? what! doth death affright?

Suf.  Thy name affrights me, in whose sound is death.   35
A cunning man did calculate my birth,
And told me that by Water I should die:
Yet let not this make thee be bloody-minded;
Thy name is — Gaultier, being rightly sounded.

Whit.  Gaultier, or Walter, which it is I care not;   40
Never yet did base dishonour blur our name
But with our sword we wip’d away the blot:
Therefore, when merchant like I sell revenge,
Broke be my sword, my arms torn and defac’d,
And I proclaim’d a coward through the world!  [Lays hold on SUFFOLK.   45

Suf.  Stay, Whitmore; for thy prisoner is a prince,
The Duke of Suffolk, William de la Pole.

Whit.  The Duke of Suffolk muffled up in rags!

Suf.  Ay, but these rags are no part of the duke:
Jove sometimes went disguis’d, and why not I?   50

Cap.  But Jove was never slain, as thou shalt be.

Suf.  Obscure and lowly swain, King Henry’s blood,
The honourable blood of Lancaster,
Must not be shed by such a jaded groom.
Hast thou not kiss’d thy hand and held my stirrup?   55
Bare-headed plodded by my foot-cloth mule,
And thought thee happy when I shook my head?
How often hast thou waited at my cup,
Fed from my trencher, kneel’d down at the board,
When I have feasted with Queen Margaret?   60
Remember it and let it make thee crest-fall’n;
Ay, and allay this thy abortive pride.
How in our voiding lobby hast thou stood
And duly waited for my coming forth?
This hand of mine hath writ in thy behalf,   65
And therefore shall it charm thy riotous tongue.

Whit.  Speak, captain, shall I stab the forlorn swain?

Cap.  First let my words stab him, as he hath me.

Suf.  Base slave, thy words are blunt, and so art thou.

Cap.  Convey him hence, and on our long-boat’s side   70
Strike off his head.

Suf.        Thou dar’st not for thy own.

Cap.  Yes, Pole.

Suf.        Pole!

Cap.                Pool! Sir Pool! lord!   75
Ay, kennel, puddle, sink; whose filth and dirt
Troubles the silver spring where England drinks.
Now will I dam up this thy yawning mouth
For swallowing the treasure of the realm:
Thy lips, that kiss’d the queen, shall sweep the ground;   80
And thou, that smil’dst at good Duke Humphrey’s death,
Against the senseless winds shall grin in vain,
Who in contempt shall hiss at thee again:
And wedded be thou to the hags of hell,
For daring to affy a mighty lord   85
Unto the daughter of a worthless king,
Having neither subject, wealth, nor diadem.
By devilish policy art thou grown great,
And, like ambitious Sylla, overgorg’d
With gobbets of thy mother’s bleeding heart.   90
By thee Anjou and Maine were sold to France,
The false revolting Normans thorough thee
Disdain to call us lord, and Picardy
Hath slain their governors, surpris’d our forts,
And sent the ragged soldiers wounded home.   95
The princely Warwick, and the Nevils all,
Whose dreadful swords were never drawn in vain,
As hating thee, are rising up in arms:
And now the house of York, thrust from the crown
By shameful murder of a guiltless king,   100
And lofty proud encroaching tyranny,
Burns with revenging fire; whose hopeful colours
Advance our half-fac’d sun, striving to shine,
Under the which is writ Invitis nubibus.
The commons here in Kent are up in arms;   105
And to conclude, reproach and beggary
Is crept into the palace of our king,
And all by thee. Away! convey him hence.

Suf.  O! that I were a god, to shoot forth thunder
Upon these paltry, servile, abject drudges.   110
Small things make base men proud: this villain here,
Being captain of a pinnace, threatens more
Than Bargulus the strong Illyrian pirate.
Drones suck not eagles’ blood, but rob beehives.
It is impossible that I should die   115
By such a lowly vassal as thyself.
Thy words move rage, and not remorse in me:
I go of message from the queen to France;
I charge thee, waft me safely cross the Channel.

Cap.  Walter!   120

Whit.  Come, Suffolk, I must waft thee to thy death.

Suf.  Gelidus timor occupat artus: ’tis thee I fear.

Whit.  Thou shalt have cause to fear before I leave thee.
What! are ye daunted now? now will ye stoop?

First Gent.  My gracious lord, entreat him, speak him fair.   125

Suf.  Suffolk’s imperial tongue is stern and rough,
Us’d to command, untaught to plead for favour.
Far be it we should honour such as these
With humble suit: no, rather let my head
Stoop to the block than these knees bow to any   130
Save to the God of heaven, and to my king;
And sooner dance upon a bloody pole
Than stand uncover’d to the vulgar groom.
True nobility is exempt from fear:
More can I bear than you dare execute.   135

Cap.  Hale him away, and let him talk no more.

Suf.  Come, soldiers, show what cruelty ye can,
That this my death may never be forgot.
Great men oft die by vile bezonians.
A Roman sworder and banditto slave   140
Murder’d sweet Tully; Brutus’ bastard hand
Stabb’d Julius Cæsar; savage islanders
Pompey the Great; and Suffolk dies by pirates.  [Exit with SUFFOLK, WHITMORE and Others.

Cap.  And as for these whose ransom we have set,
It is our pleasure one of them depart:   145
Therefore come you with us and let him go.  [Exeunt all but first Gentleman.

Re-enter WHITMORE, with SUFFOLK’S body.

Whit.  There let his head and lifeless body lie,
Until the queen his mistress bury it.  [Exit.

First Gent.  O barbarous and bloody spectacle!   150
His body will I bear unto the king:
If he revenge it not, yet will his friends;
So will the queen, that living held him dear.  [Exit with the body.

Act IV. Scene II.

Blackheath.

Enter GEORGE BEVIS and JOHN HOLLAND.

Geo.  Come, and get thee a sword, though made of a lath: they have been up these two days.

John.  They have the more need to sleep now then.

Geo.  I tell thee, Jack Cade the clothier means to dress the commonwealth, and turn it, and set a new nap upon it.   5

John.  So he had need, for ’tis threadbare. Well, I say it was never merry world in England since gentlemen came up.

Geo.  O miserable age! Virtue is not regarded in handicrafts-men.

John.  The nobility think scorn to go in leather aprons.

Geo.  Nay, more; the king’s council are no good workmen.

John.  True; and yet it is said, ‘Labour in thy vocation:’ which is as much to say as, let the magistrates be labouring men; and therefore should we be magistrates.   10

Geo.  Thou hast hit it; for there’s no better sign of a brave mind than a hard hand.

John.  I see them! I see them! There’s Best’s son, the tanner of Wingham, —

Geo.  He shall have the skins of our enemies to make dog’s-leather of.

John.  And Dick the butcher, —

Geo.  Then is sin struck down like an ox, and iniquity’s throat cut like a calf.   15

John.  And Smith the weaver, —

Geo.  Argo, their thread of life is spun.

John.  Come, come, let’s fall in with them.

Drum.  Enter CADE, DICK the Butcher, SMITH the Weaver, and a Sawyer, with infinite numbers.

Cade.  We John Cade, so termed of our supposed father, —   20

Dick.  [Aside.]  Or rather, of stealing a cade of herrings.

Cade.  For our enemies shall fall before us, inspired with the spirit of putting down kings and princes, — Command silence.

Dick.  Silence!

Cade.  My father was a Mortimer. —

Dick.  [Aside.]  He was an honest man, and a good bricklayer.   25

Cade.  My mother a Plantagenet, —

Dick.  [Aside.]  I knew her well; she was a midwife.

Cade.  My wife descended of the Lacies, —

Dick.  [Aside.]  She was, indeed, a pedlar’s daughter, and sold many laces.

Smith.  [Aside.]  But now of late, not able to travel with her furred pack, she washes bucks here at home.   30

Cade.  Therefore am I of an honourable house.

Dick.  [Aside.]  Ay, by my faith, the field is honourable; and there was he born, under a hedge; for his father had never a house but the cage.

Cade.  Valiant I am.

Smith.  [Aside.]  A’ must needs, for beggary is valiant.

Cade.  I am able to endure much.   35

Dick.  [Aside.]  No question of that, for I have seen him whipped three market-days together.

Cade.  I fear neither sword nor fire.

Smith.  [Aside.]  He need not fear the sword, for his coat is of proof.

Dick.  [Aside.]  But methinks he should stand in fear of fire, being burnt i’ the hand for stealing of sheep.

Cade.  Be brave, then; for your captain is brave, and vows reformation. There shall be in England seven halfpenny loaves sold for a penny; the three-hooped pot shall have ten hoops; and I will make it felony to drink small beer. All the realm shall be in common, and in Cheapside shall my palfrey go to grass. And when I am king, — as king I will be, —   40

All.  God save your majesty!

Cade.  I thank you, good people: there shall be no money; all shall eat and drink on my score; and I will apparel them all in one livery, that they may agree like brothers, and worship me their lord.

Dick.  The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.

Cade.  Nay, that I mean to do. Is not this a lamentable thing, that of the skin of an innocent lamb should be made parchment? that parchment, being scribbled o’er, should undo a man? Some say the bee stings; but I say, ’tis the bee’s wax, for I did but seal once to a thing, and I was never mine own man since. How now! who’s there?

Enter some, bringing in the Clerk of Chatham.   45

Smith.  The clerk of Chatham: he can write and read and cast accompt.

Cade.  O monstrous!

Smith.  We took him setting of boys’ copies.

Cade.  Here’s a villain!

Smith.  Has a book in his pocket with red letters in ‘t.   50

Cade.  Nay, then he is a conjurer.

Dick.  Nay, he can make obligations, and write court-hand.

Cade.  I am sorry for ‘t: the man is a proper man, of mine honour; unless I find him guilty, he shall not die. Come hither, sirrah, I must examine thee. What is thy name?

Clerk.  Emmanuel.

Dick.  They use to write it on the top of letters. ‘Twill go hard with you.   55

Cade.  Let me alone. Dost thou use to write thy name, or hast thou a mark to thyself, like an honest plain-dealing man?

Clerk.  Sir, I thank God, I have been so well brought up, that I can write my name.

All.  He hath confessed: away with him! he’s a villain and a traitor.

Cade.  Away with him! I say: hang him with his pen and ink-horn about his neck.  [Exeunt some with the Clerk.

Enter MICHAEL.   60

Mich.  Where’s our general?

Cade.  Here I am, thou particular fellow.

Mich.  Fly, fly, fly! Sir Humphrey Stafford and his brother are hard by, with the king’s forces.

Cade.  Stand, villain, stand, or I’ll fell thee down. He shall be encountered with a man as good as himself: he is but a knight, is a’?

Mich.  No.   65

Cade.  To equal him, I will make myself a knight presently.  [Kneels.]  Rise up Sir John Mortimer.  [Rises.]  Now have at him.

Enter SIR HUMPHREY STAFFORD and WILLIAM his Brother, with drum and Forces.

Staf.  Rebellious hinds, the filth and scum of Kent,
Mark’d for the gallows, lay your weapons down;
Home to your cottages, forsake this groom:   70
The king is merciful, if you revolt.

W. Staf.  But angry, wrathful, and inclin’d to blood,
If you go forward: therefore yield, or die.

Cade.  As for these silken-coated slaves, I pass not:
It is to you, good people, that I speak,   75
O’er whom, in time to come I hope to reign;
For I am rightful heir unto the crown.

Staf.  Villain! thy father was a plasterer;
And thou thyself a shearman, art thou not?

Cade.  And Adam was a gardener.   80

W. Staf.  And what of that?

Cade.  Marry, this: Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March,
Married the Duke of Clarence’ daughter, did he not?

Staf.  Ay, sir.

Cade.  By her he had two children at one birth.   85

W. Staf.  That’s false.

Cade.  Ay, there’s the question; but I say, ’tis true:
The elder of them, being put to nurse,
Was by a beggar-woman stol’n away;
And, ignorant of his birth and parentage,   90
Became a bricklayer when he came to age:
His son am I; deny it if you can.

Dick.  Nay, ’tis too true; therefore he shall be king.

Smith.  Sir, he made a chimney in my father’s house, and the bricks are alive at this day to testify it; therefore deny it not.

Staf.  And will you credit this base drudge’s words,   95
That speaks he knows not what?

All.  Ay, marry, will we; therefore get ye gone.

W Staf.  Jack Cade, the Duke of York hath taught you this.

Cade.  [Aside.]  He lies, for I invented it myself. Go to, sirrah; tell the king from me, that, for his father’s sake, Henry the Fifth, in whose time boys went to span-counter for French crowns, I am content he shall reign; but I’ll be protector over him.

Dick.  And furthermore, we’ll have the Lord Say’s head for selling the dukedom of Maine.   100

Cade  And good reason; for thereby is England mained, and fain to go with a staff, but that my puissance holds it up. Fellow kings, I tell you that that Lord Say hath gelded the commonwealth, and made it a eunuch; and more than that, he can speak French; and therefore he is a traitor.

Staf.  O gross and miserable ignorance!

Cade.  Nay, answer, if you can: the Frenchmen are our enemies; go to then, I ask but this, can he that speaks with the tongue of an enemy be a good counsellor, or no?

All.  No, no; and therefore we’ll have his head.

W. Staf.  Well, seeing gentle words will not prevail,   105
Assail them with the army of the king.

Staf.  Herald, away; and throughout every town
Proclaim them traitors that are up with Cade;
That those which fly before the battle ends
May, even in their wives’ and children’s sight,   110
Be hang’d up for example at their doors:
And you, that be the king’s friends, follow me.  [Exeunt the two STAFFORDS and Forces.

Cade.  And you, that love the commons, follow me.
Now show yourselves men; ’tis for liberty.
We will not leave one lord, one gentleman:   115
Spare none but such as go in clouted shoon,
For they are thrifty honest men, and such
As would, but that they dare not take our parts.

Dick.  They are all in order, and march toward us.

Cade.  But then are we in order when we are most out of order. Come, march! forward!  [Exeunt.   120

Act IV. Scene III.

Another Part of Blackheath.

Alarums.  The two parties enter and fight, and both the STAFFORDS are slain.

Cade.  Where’s Dick, the butcher of Ashford?

Dick.  Here, sir.

Cade.  They fell before thee like sheep and oxen, and thou behavedst thyself as if thou hadst been in thine own slaughter-house: therefore thus will I reward thee, the Lent shall be as long again as it is; and thou shalt have a licence to kill for a hundred lacking one.   5

Dick.  I desire no more.

Cade.  And, to speak truth, thou deservest no less. This monument of the victory will I bear;  [Puts on SIR HUMPHREY STAFFORD’S armour.]  and the bodies shall be dragged at my horse’ heels, till I do come to London, where we will have the Mayor’s sword borne before us.

Dick.  If we mean to thrive and do good, break open the gaols and let out the prisoners.

Cade.  Fear not that, I warrant thee. Come; let’s march towards London.  [Exeunt.

Act IV. Scene IV.

London.  A Room in the Palace.

Enter KING HENRY, reading a Supplication; the DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM and LORD SAY with him: at a distance, QUEEN MARGARET, mourning over SUFFOLK’S head.

Q. Mar.  Oft have I heard that grief softens the mind,
And makes it fearful and degenerate;
Think therefore on revenge, and cease to weep.   5
But who can cease to weep and look on this?
Here may his head lie on my throbbing breast;
But where’s the body that I should embrace?

Buck.  What answer makes your Grace to the rebels’ supplication?

K. Hen.  I’ll send some holy bishop to entreat;   10
For God forbid so many simple souls
Should perish by the sword! And I myself,
Rather than bloody war shall cut them short,
Will parley with Jack Cade their general.
But stay, I’ll read it over once again.   15

Q. Mar.  Ah, barbarous villains! hath this lovely face
Rul’d like a wandering planet over me,
And could it not enforce them to relent,
That were unworthy to behold the same?

K. Hen.  Lord Say, Jack Cade hath sworn to have thy head.   20

Say.  Ay, but I hope your highness shall have his.

K. Hen.  How now, madam!
Still lamenting and mourning for Suffolk’s death?
I fear me, love, if that I had been dead,
Thou wouldest not have mourn’d so much for me.   25

Q. Mar.  No, my love; I should not mourn, but die for thee.

Enter a Messenger.

K. Hen.  How now! what news? why com’st thou in such haste?

Mess.  The rebels are in Southwark; fly, my lord!
Jack Cade proclaims himself Lord Mortimer,   30
Descended from the Duke of Clarence’ house,
And calls your Grace usurper openly,
And vows to crown himself in Westminster.
His army is a ragged multitude
Of hinds and peasants, rude and merciless:   35
Sir Humphrey Stafford and his brother’s death
Hath given them heart and courage to proceed.
All scholars, lawyers, courtiers, gentlemen,
They call false caterpillars, and intend their death.

K. Hen.  O graceless men! they know not what they do.   40

Buck.  My gracious lord, retire to Killingworth,
Until a power be rais’d to put them down

Q. Mar.  Ah! were the Duke of Suffolk now alive,
These Kentish rebels would be soon appeas’d.

K. Hen.  Lord Say, the traitors hate thee,   45
Therefore away with us to Killingworth.

Say.  So might your Grace’s person be in danger.
The sight of me is odious in their eyes;
And therefore in this city will I stay,
And live alone as secret as I may.   50

Enter a second Messenger.

Sec. Mess.  Jack Cade hath gotten London bridge;
The citizens fly and forsake their houses;
The rascal people, thirsting after prey,
Join with the traitor; and they jointly swear   55
To spoil the city and your royal court.

Buck.  Then linger not, my lord; away! take horse.

K. Hen.  Come, Margaret; God, our hope, will succour us.

Q. Mar.  My hope is gone, now Suffolk is deceas’d.

K. Hen.  [To LORD SAY.]  Farewell, my lord: trust not the Kentish rebels.   60

Buck.  Trust nobody, for fear you be betray’d.

Say.  The trust I have is in mine innocence,
And therefore am I bold and resolute.  [Exeunt.

Act IV. Scene V.

The Same.  The Tower.

Enter LORD SCALES and Others, on the Walls.  Then enter certain Citizens, below.

Scales.  How now! is Jack Cade slain?

First Cit.  No, my lord, nor likely to be slain; for they have won the bridge, killing all those that withstand them. The Lord Mayor craves aid of your honour from the Tower, to defend the city from the rebels.

Scales.  Such aid as I can spare you shall command;   5
But I am troubled here with them myself;
The rebels have assay’d to win the Tower.
But get you to Smithfield and gather head,
And thither I will send you Matthew Goffe:
Fight for your king, your country, and your lives;   10
And so, farewell, for I must hence again.  [Exeunt.

Act IV. Scene VI.

London.  Cannon Street.

Enter JACK CADE, and his Followers.  He strikes his staff on London-stone.

Cade.  Now is Mortimer lord of this city. And here, sitting upon London-stone, I charge and command that, of the city’s cost, the pissing-conduit run nothing but claret wine this first year of our reign. And now, henceforward, it shall be treason for any that calls me other than Lord Mortimer.

Enter a Soldier, running.

Sold.  Jack Cade! Jack Cade!   5

Cade.  Knock him down there.  [They kill him.

Smith.  If this fellow be wise, he’ll never call you Jack Cade more: I think he hath a very fair warning.

Dick.  My lord, there’s an army gathered together in Smithfield.

Cade.  Come then, let’s go fight with them. But first, go and set London-bridge on fire, and, if you can, burn down the Tower too. Come, let’s away.  [Exeunt.

Act IV. Scene VII.

The Same.  Smithfield.

Alarums.  Enter, on one side, CADE and his company; on the other, Citizens, and the KING’S Forces, headed by MATTHEW GOFFE.  They fight; the Citizens are routed, and MATTHEW GOFFE is slain.

Cade.  So, sirs: — Now go some and pull down the Savoy; others to the inns of court: down with them all.

Dick.  I have a suit unto your lordship.

Cade.  Be it a lordship, thou shalt have it for that word.   5

Dick.  Only that the laws of England may come out of your mouth.

John.  [Aside.]  Mass, ‘twill be sore law then; for he was thrust in the mouth with a spear, and ’tis not whole yet.

Smith.  [Aside.]  Nay, John, it will be stinking law; for his breath stinks with eating toasted cheese.

Cade.  I have thought upon it; it shall be so. Away! burn all the records of the realm: my mouth shall be the parliament of England.

John.  [Aside.]  Then we are like to have biting statutes, unless his teeth be pulled out.   10

Cade.  And henceforward all things shall be in common.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.  My lord, a prize, a prize! here’s the Lord Say, which sold the towns in France; he that made us pay one-and-twenty fifteens, and one shilling to the pound, the last subsidy.

Enter GEORGE BEVIS, with the LORD SAY.

Cade.  Well, he shall be beheaded for it ten times. Ah! thou say, thou serge, nay, thou buckram lord; now art thou within point-blank of our jurisdiction regal. What canst thou answer to my majesty for giving up of Normandy unto Monsieur Basimecu, the Dauphin of France? Be it known unto thee by these presence, even the presence of Lord Mortimer, that I am the besom that must sweep the court clean of such filth as thou art. Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a grammar-school; and whereas, before, our fore-fathers had no other books but the score and the tally, thou hast caused printing to be used; and, contrary to the king, his crown, and dignity, thou hast built a paper-mill. It will be proved to thy face that thou hast men about thee that usually talk of a noun and a verb, and such abominable words as no Christian ear can endure to hear. Thou hast appointed justices of peace, to call poor men before them about matters they were not able to answer. Moreover, thou hast put them in prison; and because they could not read, thou hast hanged them; when indeed only for that cause they have been most worthy to live. Thou dost ride on a foot-cloth, dost thou not?   15

Say.  What of that?

Cade.  Marry, thou oughtest not to let thy horse wear a cloak, when honester men than thou go in their hose and doublets.

Dick.  And work in their shirt too; as myself, for example, that am a butcher.

Say.  You men of Kent, —

Dick.  What say you of Kent?   20

Say.  Nothing but this: ’tis bona terra, mala gens.

Cade.  Away with him! away with him! he speaks Latin.

Say.  Hear me but speak, and bear me where you will.
Kent, in the Commentaries Cæsar writ,
Is term’d the civil’st place of all this isle:   25
Sweet is the country, because full of riches;
The people liberal, valiant, active, wealthy;
Which makes me hope you are not void of pity.
I sold not Maine, I lost not Normandy;
Yet, to recover them, would lose my life.   30
Justice with favour have I always done;
Prayers and tears have mov’d me, gifts could never.
When have I aught exacted at your hands,
But to maintain the king, the realm, and you?
Large gifts have I bestow’d on learned clerks,   35
Because my book preferr’d me to the king,
And seeing ignorance is the curse of God,
Knowledge the wing wherewith we fly to heaven,
Unless you be possess’d with devilish spirits,
You cannot but forbear to murder me:   40
This tongue hath parley’d unto foreign kings
For your behoof, —

Cade.  Tut! when struck’st thou one blow in the field?

Say.  Great men have reaching hands: oft have I struck
Those that I never saw, and struck them dead.   45

Geo.  O monstrous coward! what, to come behind folks!

Say.  These cheeks are pale for watching for your good.

Cade.  Give him a box o’ the ear, and that will make ’em red again.

Say.  Long sitting, to determine poor men’s causes,
Hath made me full of sickness and diseases.   50

Cade.  Ye shall have a hempen caudle then, and the help of hatchet.

Dick.  Why dost thou quiver, man?

Say.  The palsy, and not fear, provokes me.

Cade.  Nay, he nods at us; as who should say, I’ll be even with you: I’ll see if his head will stand steadier on a pole, or no. Take him away and behead him.

Say.  Tell me wherein have I offended most?   55
Have I affected wealth, or honour? speak.
Are my chests fill’d up with extorted gold?
Is my apparel sumptuous to behold?
Whom have I injur’d, that ye seek my death?
These hands are free from guiltless blood-shedding,   60
This breast from harbouring foul deceitful thoughts.
O! let me live.

Cade.  [Aside.]  I feel remorse in myself with his words; but I’ll bridle it: he shall die, an it be but for pleading so well for his life. Away with him! he has a familiar under his tongue; he speaks not o’ God’s name. Go, take him away, I say, and strike off his head presently; and then break into his son-in-law’s house, Sir James Cromer, and strike off his head, and bring them both upon two poles hither.

All.  It shall be done.

Say.  Ah, countrymen! if when you make your prayers,   65
God should be so obdurate as yourselves,
How would it fare with your departed souls?
And therefore yet relent, and save my life.

Cade.  Away with him! and do as I command ye.  [Exeunt some, with LORD SAY.]  The proudest peer in the realm shall not wear a head on his shoulders, unless he pay me tribute; there shall not a maid be married, but she shall pay to me her maidenhead, ere they have it; men shall hold of me in capite; and we charge and command that their wives be as free as heart can wish or tongue can tell.

Dick.  My lord, when shall we go to Cheapside and take up commodities upon our bills?   70

Cade.  Marry, presently.

All.  O! brave!

Re-enter Rebels, with the heads of LORD SAY and his Son-in-law.

Cade.  But is not this braver? Let them kiss one another, for they loved well when they were alive. Now part them again, lest they consult about the giving up of some more towns in France. Soldiers, defer the spoil of the city until night: for with these borne before us, instead of maces, will we ride through the streets; and at every corner have them kiss. Away!  [Exeunt.

Act IV. Scene VIII.

The Same.  Southwark.

Alarum.  Enter CADE and all his Rabblement.

Cade.  Up Fish Street! down St. Magnus’ corner! kill and knock down! throw them into Thames!  [A parley sounded, then a retreat.]  What noise is this I hear? Dare any be so bold to sound retreat or parley, when I command them kill?

Enter BUCKINGHAM, and Old CLIFFORD, with Forces.

Buck.  Ay, here they be that dare and will disturb thee.   5
Know, Cade, we come ambassadors from the king
Unto the commons whom thou hast misled;
And here pronounce free pardon to them all
That will forsake thee and go home in peace.

Clif.  What say ye, countrymen? will ye relent,   10
And yield to mercy, whilst ’tis offer’d you,
Or let a rebel lead you to your deaths?
Who loves the king, and will embrace his pardon,
Fling up his cap, and say ‘God save his majesty!’
Who hateth him, and honours not his father,   15
Henry the Fifth, that made all France to quake,
Shake he his weapon at us, and pass by.

All.  God save the king! God save the king!

Cade.  What! Buckingham and Clifford, are ye so brave? And you, base peasants, do ye believe him? will you needs be hanged with your pardons about your necks? Hath my sword therefore broke through London Gates, that you should leave me at the White Hart in Southwark? I thought ye would never have given out these arms till you had recovered your ancient freedom; but you are all recreants and dastards, and delight to live in slavery to the nobility. Let them break your backs with burdens, take your houses over your heads, ravish your wives and daughters before your faces: for me, I will make shift for one, and so, God’s curse light upon you all!

All.  We’ll follow Cade, we’ll follow Cade!   20

Clif.  Is Cade the son of Henry the Fifth,
That thus you do exclaim you’ll go with him?
Will he conduct you through the heart of France,
And make the meanest of you earls and dukes?
Alas! he hath no home, no place to fly to;   25
Nor knows he how to live but by the spoil,
Unless by robbing of your friends and us.
Were ‘t not a shame, that whilst you live at jar,
The fearful French, whom you late vanquished,
Should make a start o’er seas and vanquish you?   30
Methinks already in this civil broil
I see them lording it in London streets,
Crying Villiago! unto all they meet.
Better ten thousand base-born Cades miscarry,
Than you should stoop unto a Frenchman’s mercy.   35
To France, to France! and get what you have lost;
Spare England, for it is your native coast.
Henry hath money, you are strong and manly;
God on our side, doubt not of victory.

All.  A Clifford! a Clifford! we’ll follow the king and Clifford.   40

Cade.  [Aside.]  Was ever feather so lightly blown to and fro as this multitude? The name of Henry the Fifth hales them to a hundred mischiefs, and makes them leave me desolate. I see them lay their heads together to surprise me. My sword make way for me, for here is no staying. In despite of the devils and hell, have through the very middest of you! and heavens and honour be witness, that no want of resolution in me, but only my followers’ base and ignominious treasons, makes me betake me to my heels.  [Exit.

Buck.  What, is he fled? go some, and follow him;
And he that brings his head unto the king
Shall have a thousand crowns for his reward.  [Exeunt some of them.
Follow me, soldiers: we’ll devise a mean   45
To reconcile you all unto the king.  [Exeunt.

Act IV. Scene IX.

Kenilworth Castle.

Trumpets sounded.  Enter KING HENRY, QUEEN MARGARET, and SOMERSET, on the terrace.

K. Hen.  Was ever king that joy’d an earthly throne,
And could command no more content than I?
No sooner was I crept out of my cradle   5
But I was made a king at nine months old:
Was never subject long’d to be a king
As I do long and wish to be a subject.

Enter BUCKINGHAM and Old CLIFFORD.

Buck.  Health, and glad tidings, to your majesty!   10

K. Hen.  Why, Buckingham, is the traitor Cade surpris’d?
Or is he but retir’d to make him strong?

Enter, below, a number of CADE’S followers, with halters about their necks.

Clif.  He’s fled, my lord, and all his powers do yield;
And humbly thus, with halters on their necks,   15
Expect your highness’ doom, of life, or death.

K. Hen.  Then, heaven, set ope thy everlasting gates,
To entertain my vows of thanks and praise!
Soldiers, this day have you redeem’d your lives,
And show’d how well you love your prince and country:   20
Continue still in this so good a mind,
And Henry, though he be infortunate,
Assure yourselves, will never be unkind:
And so, with thanks and pardon to you all,
I do dismiss you to your several countries.   25

All.  God save the king! God save the king!

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.  Please it your Grace to be advertised,
The Duke of York is newly come from Ireland;
And with a puissant and a mighty power   30
Of Gallowglasses, and stout kerns,
Is marching hitherward in proud array;
And still proclaimeth, as he comes along,
His arms are only to remove from thee
The Duke of Somerset, whom he terms a traitor.   35

K. Hen.  Thus stands my state, ‘twixt Cade and York distress’d;
Like to a ship, that, having scap’d a tempest,
Is straightway calm’d, and boarded with a pirate.
But now is Cade driven back, his men dispers’d;
And now is York in arms to second him.   40
I pray thee, Buckingham, go and meet him,
And ask him what’s the reason of these arms.
Tell him I’ll send Duke Edmund to the Tower;
And, Somerset, we will commit thee thither,
Until his army be dismiss’d from him.   45

Som.  My lord,
I’ll yield myself to prison willingly,
Or unto death, to do my country good.

K. Hen.  In any case, be not too rough in terms;
For he is fierce and cannot brook hard language.   50

Buck.  I will, my lord; and doubt not so to deal
As all things shall redound unto your good.

K. Hen.  Come, wife, let’s in, and learn to govern better;
For yet may England curse my wretched reign.  [Exeunt.

Act IV. Scene X.

Kent.  Iden’s Garden.

Enter CADE.

Cade.  Fie on ambition! fie on myself, that have a sword, and yet am ready to famish! These five days have I hid me in these woods and durst not peep out, for all the country is laid for me; but now I am so hungry, that if I might have a lease of my life for a thousand years I could stay no longer. Wherefore, on a brick wall have I climbed into this garden, to see if I can eat grass, or pick a sallet another while, which is not amiss to cool a man’s stomach this hot weather. And I think this word ‘sallet’ was born to do me good: for many a time, but for a sallet, my brain-pan had been cleft with a brown bill; and many a time, when I have been dry, and bravely marching, it hath served me instead of a quart-pot to drink in; and now the word ‘sallet’ must serve me to feed on.

Enter IDEN with Servants behind.

Iden.  Lord! who would live turmoiled in the court,   5
And may enjoy such quiet walks as these?
This small inheritance my father left me
Contenteth me, and worth a monarchy.
I seek not to wax great by others’ waning,
Or gather wealth I care not with what envy:   10
Sufficeth that I have maintains my state,
And sends the poor well pleased from my gate.

Cade.  [Aside.]  Here’s the lord of the soil come to seize me for a stray, for entering his fee-simple without leave. Ah, villain! thou wilt betray me, and get a thousand crowns of the king by carrying my head to him; but I’ll make thee eat iron like an ostrich, and swallow my sword like a great pin, ere thou and I part.

Iden.  Why, rude companion, whatsoe’er thou be,
I know thee not; why then should I betray thee?   15
Is ‘t not enough to break into my garden,
And like a thief to come to rob my grounds,
Climbing my walls in spite of me the owner,
But thou wilt brave me with these saucy terms?

Cade.  Brave thee! ay, by the best blood that ever was broached, and beard thee too. Look on me well: I have eat no meat these five days; yet, come thou and thy five men, and if I do not leave you all as dead as a door-nail, I pray God I may never eat grass more.   20

Iden.  Nay, it shall ne’er be said, while England stands,
That Alexander Iden, an esquire of Kent,
Took odds to combat a poor famish’d man.
Oppose thy steadfast-gazing eyes to mine,
See if thou canst out-face me with thy looks:   25
Set limb to limb, and thou art far the lesser;
Thy hand is but a finger to my fist;
Thy leg a stick compared with this truncheon;
My foot shall fight with all the strength thou hast;
And if mine arm be heaved in the air   30
Thy grave is digg’d already in the earth.
As for more words, whose greatness answers words,
Let this my sword report what speech forbears.

Cade.  By my valour, the most complete champion that ever I heard! Steel, if thou turn the edge, or cut not out the burly-boned clown in chines of beef ere thou sleep in thy sheath, I beseech Jove on my knees, thou mayst be turned to hobnails.  [They fight; CADE falls.]  O, I am slain! Famine and no other hath slain me: let ten thousand devils come against me, and give me but the ten meals I have lost, and I’ll defy them all. Wither, garden; and be henceforth a burying-place to all that do dwell in this house, because the unconquered soul of Cade is fled.

Iden.  Is ‘t Cade that I have slain, that monstrous traitor?   35
Sword, I will hallow thee for this thy deed,
And hang thee o’er my tomb when I am dead:
Ne’er shall this blood be wiped from thy point,
But thou shalt wear it as a herald’s coat,
To emblaze the honour that thy master got.   40

Cade.  Iden, farewell; and be proud of thy victory. Tell Kent from me, she hath lost her best man, and exhort all the world to be cowards; for I, that never feared any, am vanquished by famine, not by valour.  [Dies.

Iden.  How much thou wrong’st me, heaven be my judge.
Die, damned wretch, the curse of her that bare thee!
And as I thrust thy body in with my sword,
So wish I I might thrust thy soul to hell.   45
Hence will I drag thee headlong by the heels
Unto a dunghill which shall be thy grave,
And there cut off thy most ungracious head;
Which I will bear in triumph to the king,
Leaving thy trunk for crows to feed upon.  [Exit, with Servants, dragging out the body.   50

Act V. Scene I.

Kent.  Fields between Dartford and Blackheath.

The KING’S camp on one side.  On the other, enter YORK, and his army of Irish, with drum and colours.

York.  From Ireland thus comes York to claim his right,
And pluck the crown from feeble Henry’s head:
Ring, bells, aloud; burn, bonfires, clear and bright,   5
To entertain great England’s lawful king.
Ah Sancta majestas, who would not buy thee dear?
Let them obey that know not how to rule;
This hand was made to handle nought but gold:
I cannot give due action to my words,   10
Except a sword, or sceptre balance it.
A sceptre shall it have, have I a soul,
On which I’ll toss the flower-de-luce of France.

Enter BUCKINGHAM.
Whom have we here? Buckingham, to disturb me?   15
The king hath sent him, sure: I must dissemble.

Buck.  York, if thou meanest well, I greet thee well.

York.  Humphrey of Buckingham, I accept thy greeting.
Art thou a messenger, or come of pleasure?

Buck.  A messenger from Henry, our dread liege,   20
To know the reason of these arms in peace;
Or why thou, — being a subject as I am, —
Against thy oath and true allegiance sworn,
Shouldst raise so great a power without his leave,
Or dare to bring thy force so near the court.   25

York.  [Aside.]  Scarce can I speak, my choler is so great:
O! I could hew up rocks and fight with flint,
I am so angry at these abject terms;
And now, like Ajax Telamonius,
On sheep or oxen could I spend my fury.   30
I am far better born than is the king,
More like a king, more kingly in my thoughts;
But I must make fair weather yet awhile,
Till Henry be more weak, and I more strong.
[Aloud.]  Buckingham, I prithee, pardon me,   35
That I have given no answer all this while;
My mind was troubled with deep melancholy.
The cause why I have brought this army hither
Is to remove proud Somerset from the king,
Seditious to his Grace and to the state.   40

Buck.  That is too much presumption on thy part:
But if thy arms be to no other end,
The king hath yielded unto thy demand:
The Duke of Somerset is in the Tower.

York.  Upon thine honour, is he a prisoner?   45

Buck.  Upon mine honour, he is a prisoner.

York.  Then, Buckingham, I do dismiss my powers.
Soldiers, I thank you all; disperse yourselves;
Meet me to-morrow in Saint George’s field,
You shall have pay, and everything you wish,   50
And let my sov’reign, virtuous Henry,
Command my eldest son, nay, all my sons,
As pledges of my fealty and love;
I’ll send them all as willing as I live:
Lands, goods, horse, armour, anything I have   55
Is his to use, so Somerset may die.

Buck.  York, I commend this kind submission:
We twain will go into his highness’ tent.

Enter KING HENRY, attended.

K. Hen.  Buckingham, doth York intend no harm to us,   60
That thus he marcheth with thee arm in arm?

York.  In all submission and humility
York doth present himself unto your highness.

K. Hen.  Then what intend these forces thou dost bring?

York.  To heave the traitor Somerset from hence,   65
And fight against that monstrous rebel, Cade,
Who since I heard to be discomfited.

Enter IDEN, with CADE’S head.

Iden.  If one so rude and of so mean condition
May pass into the presence of a king,   70
Lo! I present your Grace a traitor’s head,
The head of Cade, whom I in combat slew.

K. Hen.  The head of Cade! Great God, how just art thou!
O! let me view his visage, being dead,
That living wrought me such exceeding trouble.   75
Tell me, my friend, art thou the man that slew him?

Iden.  I was, an ‘t like your majesty.

K. Hen.  How art thou call’d, and what is thy degree?

Iden.  Alexander Iden, that’s my name;
A poor esquire of Kent, that loves his king.   80

Buck.  So please it you, my lord, ‘twere not amiss
He were created knight for his good service.

K. Hen.  Iden, kneel down.  [He kneels.]  Rise up a knight.
We give thee for reward a thousand marks;
And will, that thou henceforth attend on us.   85

Iden.  May Iden live to merit such a bounty,
And never live but true unto his liege!

K. Hen.  See! Buckingham! Somerset comes with the queen:
Go, bid her hide him quickly from the duke.

Enter QUEEN MARGARET and SOMERSET.   90

Q. Mar.  For thousand Yorks he shall not hide his head,
But boldly stand and front him to his face.

York.  How now! is Somerset at liberty?
Then, York, unloose thy long-imprison’d thoughts
And let thy tongue be equal with thy heart.   95
Shall I endure the sight of Somerset?
False king! why hast thou broken faith with me,
Knowing how hardly I can brook abuse?
King did I call thee? no, thou art not king;
Not fit to govern and rule multitudes,   100
Which dar’st not, no, nor canst not rule a traitor.
That head of thine doth not become a crown;
Thy hand is made to grasp a palmer’s staff,
And not to grace an awful princely sceptre.
That gold must round engirt these brows of mine,   105
Whose smile and frown, like to Achilles’ spear,
Is able with the change to kill and cure.
Here is a hand to hold a sceptre up,
And with the same to act controlling laws.
Give place: by heaven, thou shalt rule no more   110
O’er him whom heaven created for thy ruler.

Som.  O monstrous traitor: — I arrest thee, York,
Of capital treason ‘gainst the king and crown.
Obey, audacious traitor; kneel for grace.

York.  Wouldst have me kneel? first let me ask of these   115
If they can brook I bow a knee to man.
Sirrah, call in my sons to be my bail:  [Exit an Attendant.
I know ere they will have me go to ward,
They’ll pawn their swords for my enfranchisement.

Q. Mar.  Call hither Clifford; bid him come amain,   120
To say if that the bastard boys of York
Shall be the surety for their traitor father.  [Exit BUCKINGHAM.

York.  O blood-bespotted Neapolitan,
Outcast of Naples, England’s bloody scourge!
The sons of York, thy betters in their birth,   125
Shall be their father’s bail; and bane to those
That for my surety will refuse the boys!

Enter EDWARD and RICHARD PLANTAGENET, with Forces at one side; at the other, with Forces also, Old CLIFFORD and his Son.
See where they come: I’ll warrant they’ll make it good.

Q. Mar.  And here comes Clifford, to deny their bail.   130

Clif.  [Kneeling.]  Health and all happiness to my lord the king!

York.  I thank thee, Clifford: say, what news with thee?
Nay, do not fright us with an angry look:
We are thy sov’reign, Clifford, kneel again;
For thy mistaking so, we pardon thee.   135

Clif.  This is my king, York, I do not mistake;
But thou mistak’st me much to think I do.
To Bedlam with him! is the man grown mad?

K. Hen.  Ay, Clifford; a bedlam and ambitious humour
Makes him oppose himself against his king.   140

Clif.  He is a traitor; let him to the Tower,
And chop away that factious pate of his.

Q. Mar.  He is arrested, but will not obey:
His sons, he says, shall give their words for him.

York.  Will you not, sons?   145

Edw.  Ay, noble father, if our words will serve.

Rich.  And if words will not, then our weapons shall.

Clif.  Why, what a brood of traitors have we here!

York.  Look in a glass, and call thy image so:
I am thy king, and thou a false-heart traitor.   150
Call hither to the stake my two brave bears,
That with the very shaking of their chains
They may astonish these fell-lurking curs:
Bid Salisbury and Warwick come to me.

Drums.  Enter WARWICK and SALISBURY, with Forces.   155

Clif.  Are these thy bears? we’ll bait thy bears to death,
And manacle the bear-ward in their chains,
If thou dar’st bring them to the baiting-place.

Rich.  Oft have I seen a hot o’erweening cur
Run back and bite, because he was withheld;   160
Who, being suffer’d with the bear’s fell paw,
Hath clapp’d his tail between his legs, and cried:
And such a piece of service will you do,
If you oppose yourselves to match Lord Warwick.

Clif.  Hence, heap of wrath, foul indigested lump,   165
As crooked in thy manners as thy shape!

York.  Nay, we shall heat you thoroughly anon.

Clif.  Take heed, lest by your heat you burn yourselves.

K. Hen.  Why, Warwick, hath thy knee forgot to bow?
Old Salisbury, shame to thy silver hair,   170
Thou mad misleader of thy brain-sick son!
What! wilt thou on thy death-bed play the ruffian,
And seek for sorrow with thy spectacles?
O! where is faith? O, where is loyalty?
If it be banish’d from the frosty head,   175
Where shall it find a harbour in the earth?
Wilt thou go dig a grave to find out war,
And shame thine honourable age with blood?
Why art thou old, and want’st experience?
Or wherefore dost abuse it, if thou hast it?   180
For shame! in duty bend thy knee to me,
That bows unto the grave with mickle age.

Sal.  My lord, I have consider’d with myself
The title of this most renowned duke;
And in my conscience do repute his Grace   185
The rightful heir to England’s royal seat.

K. Hen.  Hast thou not sworn allegiance unto me?

Sal.  I have.

K. Hen.  Canst thou dispense with heaven for such an oath?

Sal.  It is great sin to swear unto a sin,   190
But greater sin to keep a sinful oath.
Who can be bound by any solemn vow
To do a murderous deed, to rob a man,
To force a spotless virgin’s chastity,
To reave the orphan of his patrimony,   195
To wring the widow from her custom’d right,
And have no other reason for this wrong
But that he was bound by a solemn oath?

Q. Mar.  A subtle traitor needs no sophister.

K. Hen.  Call Buckingham, and bid him arm himself.   200

York.  Call Buckingham, and all the friends thou hast,
I am resolv’d for death, or dignity.

Clif.  The first I warrant thee, if dreams prove true.

War.  You were best to go to bed and dream again,
To keep thee from the tempest of the field.   205

Clif.  I am resolv’d to bear a greater storm
Than any thou canst conjure up to-day;
And that I’ll write upon thy burgonet,
Might I but know thee by thy household badge.

War.  Now, by my father’s badge, old Nevil’s crest,   210
The rampant bear chain’d to the ragged staff,
This day I’ll wear aloft my burgonet, —
As on a mountain-top the cedar shows,
That keeps his leaves in spite of any storm, —
Even to affright thee with the view thereof.   215

Clif.  And from thy burgonet I’ll rend thy bear,
And tread it underfoot with all contempt,
Despite the bear-ward that protects the bear.

Y. Clif.  And so to arms, victorious father,
To quell the rebels and their complices.   220

Rich.  Fie! charity! for shame! speak not in spite,
For you shall sup with Jesu Christ to-night.

Y. Clif.  Foul stigmatic, that’s more than thou canst tell.

Rich.  If not in heaven, you’ll surely sup in hell.  [Exeunt severally.

Act V. Scene II.

Saint Alban’s.

Alarums: Excursions.  Enter WARWICK.

War.  Clifford of Cumberland, ’tis Warwick calls:
And if thou dost not hide thee from the bear,
Now, when the angry trumpet sounds alarm,   5
And dead men’s cries do fill the empty air,
Clifford, I say, come forth, and fight with me!
Proud northern lord, Clifford of Cumberland,
Warwick is hoarse with calling thee to arms.

Enter YORK.   10
How now, my noble lord! what! all afoot?

York.  The deadly-handed Clifford slew my steed;
But match to match I have encounter’d him,
And made a prey for carrion kites and crows
Even of the bonny beast he lov’d so well.   15

Enter Old CLIFFORD.

War.  Of one or both of us the time is come.

York.  Hold, Warwick! seek thee out some other chase,
For I myself must hunt this deer to death.

War.  Then, nobly, York; ’tis for a crown thou fight’st.   20
As I intend, Clifford, to thrive to-day,
It grieves my soul to leave thee unassail’d.  [Exit.

Clif.  What seest thou in me, York? why dost thou pause?

York.  With thy brave bearing should I be in love,
But that thou art so fast mine enemy.   25

Clif.  Nor should thy prowess want praise and esteem,
But that ’tis shown ignobly and in treason.

York.  So let it help me now against thy sword
As I in justice and true right express it.

Clif.  My soul and body on the action both!   30

York.  A dreadful lay! address thee instantly.

Clif.  La fin couronne les œuvres.  [They fight, and CLIFFORD falls and dies.

York.  Thus war hath given thee peace, for thou art still.
Peace with his soul, heaven, if it be thy will!  [Exit.

Enter Young CLIFFORD.   35

Y. Clif.  Shame and confusion! all is on the rout:
Fear frames disorder, and disorder wounds
Where it should guard. O war! thou son of hell,
Whom angry heavens do make their minister,
Throw in the frozen bosoms of our part   40
Hot coals of vengeance! Let no soldier fly:
He that is truly dedicate to war
Hath no self-love; nor he that loves himself
Hath not essentially, but by circumstance,
The name of valour.  [Seeing his father’s body.
O! let the vile world end,   45
And the premised flames of the last day
Knit heaven and earth together;
Now let the general trumpet blow his blast,
Particularities and petty sounds
To cease! — Wast thou ordain’d, dear father,   50
To lose thy youth in peace, and to achieve
The silver livery of advised age,
And, in thy reverence and thy chair-days thus
To die in ruffian battle? Even at this sight
My heart is turn’d to stone: and while ’tis mine   55
It shall be stony. York not our old men spares;
No more will I their babes: tears virginal
Shall be to me even as the dew to fire;
And beauty, that the tyrant oft reclaims,
Shall to my flaming wrath be oil and flax.   60
Henceforth I will not have to do with pity:
Meet I an infant of the house of York,
Into as many gobbets will I cut it
As wild Medea young Absyrtus did:
In cruelty will I seek out my fame.   65
Come, thou new ruin of old Clifford’s house:  [Taking up the body.
As did Æneas old Anchises bear,
So bear I thee upon my manly shoulders;
But then Æneas bare a living load,
Nothing so heavy as these woes of mine.  [Exit.   70

Enter RICHARD and SOMERSET, fighting; SOMERSET is killed.

Rich.  So, lie thou there;
For underneath an alehouse’ paltry sign,
The Castle in Saint Alban’s, Somerset
Hath made the wizard famous in his death.   75
Sword, hold thy temper; heart, be wrathful still:
Priests pray for enemies, but princes kill.  [Exit.

Alarums: Excursions.  Enter KING HENRY, QUEEN MARGARET, and Others, retreating.

Q. Mar.  Away, my lord! you are slow: for shame, away!

K. Hen.  Can we outrun the heavens? good Margaret, stay.   80

Q. Mar.  What are you made of? you’ll nor fight nor fly:
Now is it manhood, wisdom, and defence,
To give the enemy way, and to secure us
By what we can, which can no more but fly.  [Alarum afar off.
If you be ta’en, we then should see the bottom   85
Of all our fortunes: but if we haply scape,
As well we may, if not through your neglect,
We shall to London get, where you are lov’d,
And where this breach now in our fortunes made
May readily be stopp’d.   90

Re-enter Young CLIFFORD.

Y. Clif.  But that my heart’s on future mischief set,
I would speak blasphemy ere bid you fly;
But fly you must: uncurable discomfit
Reigns in the hearts of all our present parts.   95
Away, for your relief! and we will live
To see their day and them our fortune give.
Away, my lord, away!  [Exeunt.

Act V. Scene III.

Field near Saint Alban’s.

Alarum.  Retreat.  Flourish; then enter YORK, RICHARD, WARWICK, and Soldiers, with drum and colours.

York.  Of Salisbury, who can report of him;
That winter lion, who in rage forgets
Aged contusions and all brush of time,   5
And, like a gallant in the brow of youth,
Repairs him with occasion? this happy day
Is not itself, nor have we won one foot,
If Salisbury be lost.

Rich.        My noble father,   10
Three times to-day I holp him to his horse,
Three times bestrid him; thrice I led him off,
Persuaded him from any further act:
But still, where danger was, still there I met him;
And like rich hangings in a homely house,   15
So was his will in his old feeble body.
But, noble as he is, look where he comes.

Enter SALISBURY.

Sal.  Now, by my sword, well hast thou fought to-day;
By the mass, so did we all. I thank you, Richard:   20
God knows how long it is I have to live;
And it hath pleas’d him that three times to-day
You have defended me from imminent death.
Well, lords, we have not got that which we have:
’Tis not enough our foes are this time fled,   25
Being opposites of such repairing nature.

York.  I know our safety is to follow them;
For, as I hear, the king is fled to London,
To call a present court of parliament:
Let us pursue him ere the writs go forth: —   30
What says Lord Warwick? shall we after them?

War.  After them! nay, before them, if we can.
Now, by my hand, lords, ’twas a glorious day:
Saint Alban’s battle, won by famous York,
Shall be eterniz’d in all age to come.   35
Sound, drums and trumpets, and to London all:
And more such days as these to us befall!  [Exeunt.

HENRY VI, PART 3

Believed to have been written in 1591, this history play deals with the horrors of the War of the Roses, as the once ordered nation is thrown into chaos and barbarism, with the breakdown of families and their moral codes in the pursuit of revenge and power.

The play features the longest soliloquy in all of Shakespeare’s works (see Act Three, Scene II), and it has more battle scenes than any of the other plays.

Shakespeare’s main source text for this play is available via this link.

The First Folio printing of the play

An artist’s impression of The Rose – the theatre on Bankside where this play was first performed

The Rose, during its excavation, 400 years later

CONTENTS

Dramatis Personæ

Act I. Scene I.

Act I. Scene II.

Act I. Scene III.

Act I. Scene IV.

Act II. Scene I.

Act II. Scene II.

Act II. Scene III.

Act II. Scene IV.

Act II. Scene V.

Act II. Scene VI.

Act III. Scene I.

Act III. Scene II.

Act III. Scene III.

Act IV. Scene I.

Act IV. Scene II.

Act IV. Scene III.

Act IV. Scene IV.

Act IV. Scene V.

Act IV. Scene VI.

Act IV. Scene VII.

Act IV. Scene VIII.

Act V. Scene I.

Act V. Scene II.

Act V. Scene III.

Act V. Scene IV.

Act V. Scene V.

Act V. Scene VI.

Act V. Scene VII.

Dramatis Personæ

KING HENRY THE SIXTH.
EDWARD, Prince of Wales, his Son.
LEWIS THE ELEVENTH, King of France.
DUKE OF SOMERSET, DUKE OF EXETER, EARL OF OXFORD, EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND, EARL OF WESTMORELAND, & LORD CLIFFORD: on King Henry’s side.
RICHARD PLANTAGENET, Duke of York.
EDWARD, Earl of March, afterwards King Edward the Fourth; EDMUND, Earl of Rutland; GEORGE, afterwards Duke of Clarence; & RICHARD, afterwards Duke of Gloucester: his Sons.
DUKE OF NORFOLK, MARQUESS OF MONTAGUE, EARL OF WARWICK, EARL OF PEMBROKE, LORD HASTINGS, & LORD STAFFORD: of the Duke of York’s Party.
SIR JOHN MORTIMER & SIR HUGH MORTIMER: Uncles to the Duke of York.
HENRY, EARL OF RICHMOND, a Youth.
LORD RIVERS, Brother to Lady Grey.
SIR WILLIAM STANLEY.
SIR JOHN MONTGOMERY.
SIR JOHN SOMERVILLE.
Tutor to Rutland.
Mayor of York.
Lieutenant of the Tower.
A Nobleman.
Two Keepers. A Huntsman.
A Son that has killed his Father.
A Father that has killed his Son.
QUEEN MARGARET.
LADY GREY, afterwards Queen to Edward the Fourth.
BONA, Sister to the French Queen.
Soldiers, and other Attendants on King Henry and King Edward, Messengers, Watchmen, &c.

SCENE. — During part of the Third Act, in France; during the rest of the Play, in England.

Act I. Scene I.

London.  The Parliament-House.

Drums.  Some Soldiers of YORK’S party break in.  Then, enter the DUKE OF YORK, EDWARD, RICHARD, NORFOLK, MONTAGUE, WARWICK, and Others, with white roses in their hats.

War.  I wonder how the king escap’d our hands.

York.  While we pursu’d the horsemen of the north,
He slily stole away and left his men:   5
Whereat the great Lord of Northumberland,
Whose warlike ears could never brook retreat,
Cheer’d up the drooping army; and himself,
Lord Clifford, and Lord Stafford, all abreast,
Charg’d our main battle’s front, and breaking in   10
Were by the swords of common soldiers slain.

Edw.  Lord Stafford’s father, Duke of Buckingham,
Is either slain or wounded dangerously;
I cleft his beaver with a downright blow:
That this is true, father, behold his blood.  [Showing his bloody sword.   15

Mont.  And, brother, here’s the Earl of Wiltshire’s blood,  [To YORK, showing his.
Whom I encounter’d as the battles join’d.

Rich.  Speak thou for me, and tell them what I did.  [Throwing down the DUKE OF SOMERSET’S head.

York.  Richard hath best deserv’d of all my sons.
But, is your Grace dead, my Lord of Somerset?   20

Norf.  Such hope have all the line of John of Gaunt!

Rich.  Thus do I hope to shake King Henry’s head.

War.  And so do I. Victorious Prince of York,
Before I see thee seated in that throne
Which now the house of Lancaster usurps,   25
I vow by heaven these eyes shall never close.
This is the palace of the fearful king,
And this the regal seat: possess it, York;
For this is thine, and not King Henry’s heirs’.

York.  Assist me, then, sweet Warwick, and I will;   30
For hither we have broken in by force.

Norf.  We’ll all assist you; he that flies shall die.

York.  Thanks, gentle Norfolk. Stay by me, my lords;
And, soldiers, stay and lodge by me this night.

War.  And when the king comes, offer him no violence,   35
Unless he seek to thrust you out perforce.  [The Soldiers retire.

York.  The queen this day here holds her parliament,
But little thinks we shall be of her council:
By words or blows here let us win our right.

Rich.  Arm’d as we are, let’s stay within this house.   40

War.  The bloody parliament shall this be call’d,
Unless Plantagenet, Duke of York, be king,
And bashful Henry depos’d, whose cowardice
Hath made us by-words to our enemies.

York.  Then leave me not, my lords; be resolute;   45
I mean to take possession of my right.

War.  Neither the king, nor he that loves him best,
The proudest he that holds up Lancaster,
Dares stir a wing if Warwick shake his bells.
I’ll plant Plantagenet, root him up who dares.   50
Resolve thee, Richard; claim the English crown.  [WARWICK leads YORK to the throne, who seats himself.

Flourish.  Enter KING HENRY, CLIFFORD, NORTHUMBERLAND, WESTMORELAND, EXETER, and Others, with red roses in their hats.

K. Hen.  My lords, look where the sturdy rebel sits,
Even in the chair of state! belike he means —
Back’d by the power of Warwick, that false peer —   55
To aspire unto the crown and reign as king.
Earl of Northumberland, he slew thy father,
And thine, Lord Clifford; and you both have vow’d revenge
On him, his sons, his favourites, and his friends.

North.  If I be not, heavens be reveng’d on me!   60

Clif.  The hope thereof makes Clifford mourn in steel.

West.  What! shall we suffer this? let’s pluck him down:
My heart for anger burns; I cannot brook it.

K. Hen.  Be patient, gentle Earl of Westmoreland.

Clif.  Patience is for poltroons, such as he:   65
He durst not sit there had your father liv’d.
My gracious lord, here in the parliament
Let us assail the family of York.

North.  Well hast thou spoken, cousin: be it so.

K. Hen.  Ah! know you not the city favours them,   70
And they have troops of soldiers at their beck?

Exe.  But when the duke is slain they’ll quickly fly.

K. Hen.  Far be the thought of this from Henry’s heart,
To make a shambles of the parliament-house!
Cousin of Exeter, frowns, words, and threats,   75
Shall be the war that Henry means to use.  [They advance to the DUKE.
Thou factious Duke of York, descend my throne,
And kneel for grace and mercy at my feet;
I am thy sovereign.

York.        I am thine.   80

Exe.  For shame! come down: he made thee Duke of York.

York.  ’Twas my inheritance, as the earldom was.

Exe.  Thy father was a traitor to the crown.

War.  Exeter, thou art a traitor to the crown
In following this usurping Henry.   85

Clif.  Whom should he follow but his natural king?

War.  True, Clifford; and that’s Richard, Duke of York.

K. Hen.  And shall I stand, and thou sit in my throne?

York.  It must and shall be so: content thyself.

War.  Be Duke of Lancaster: let him be king.   90

West.  He is both king and Duke of Lancaster;
And that the Lord of Westmoreland shall maintain.

War.  And Warwick shall disprove it. You forget
That we are those which chas’d you from the field
And slew your fathers, and with colours spread   95
March’d through the city to the palace gates.

North.  Yes, Warwick, I remember it to my grief;
And, by his soul, thou and thy house shall rue it.

West.  Plantagenet, of thee, and these thy sons,
Thy kinsmen and thy friends, I’ll have more lives   100
Than drops of blood were in my father’s veins.

Clif.  Urge it no more; lest that instead of words,
I send thee, Warwick, such a messenger
As shall revenge his death before I stir.

War.  Poor Clifford! how I scorn his worthless threats.   105

York.  Will you we show our title to the crown?
If not, our swords shall plead it in the field.

K. Hen.  What title hast thou, traitor, to the crown?
Thy father was, as thou art, Duke of York;
Thy grandfather, Roger Mortimer, Earl of March;   110
I am the son of Henry the Fifth,
Who made the Dauphin and the French to stoop,
And seiz’d upon their towns and provinces.

War.  Talk not of France, sith thou hast lost it all.

K. Hen.  The Lord Protector lost it, and not I:   115
When I was crown’d I was but nine months old.

Rich.  You are old enough now, and yet, methinks, you lose.
Father, tear the crown from the usurper’s head.

Edw.  Sweet father, do so; set it on your head.

Mont.  [To YORK.]  Good brother, as thou lov’st and honour’st arms,   120
Let’s fight it out and not stand cavilling thus.

Rich.  Sound drums and trumpets, and the king will fly.

York.  Sons, peace!

K. Hen.  Peace thou! and give King Henry leave to speak.

War.  Plantagenet shall speak first: hear him, lords;   125
And be you silent and attentive too,
For he that interrupts him shall not live.

K. Hen.  Think’st thou that I will leave my kingly throne,
Wherein my grandsire and my father sat?
No: first shall war unpeople this my realm;   130
Ay, and their colours, often borne in France,
And now in England to our heart’s great sorrow,
Shall be my winding-sheet. Why faint you, lords?
My title’s good, and better far than his.

War.  Prove it, Henry, and thou shalt be king.   135

K. Hen.  Henry the Fourth by conquest got the crown.

York.  ’Twas by rebellion against his king.

K. Hen.  [Aside.]  I know not what to say: my title’s weak.
[Aloud.]  Tell me, may not a king adopt an heir?

York.  What then?   140

K. Hen.  An if he may, then am I lawful king;
For Richard, in the view of many lords,
Resign’d the crown to Henry the Fourth,
Whose heir my father was, and I am his.

York.  He rose against him, being his sovereign,   145
And made him to resign his crown perforce.

War.  Suppose, my lords, he did it unconstrain’d,
Think you ‘twere prejudicial to his crown?

Exe.  No; for he could not so resign his crown
But that the next heir should succeed and reign.   150

K. Hen.  Art thou against us, Duke of Exeter?

Exe.  His is the right, and therefore pardon me.

York.  Why whisper you, my lords, and answer not?

Exe.  My conscience tells me he is lawful king.

K. Hen.  [Aside.]  All will revolt from me, and turn to him.   155

North.  Plantagenet, for all the claim thou lay’st,
Think not that Henry shall be so depos’d.

War.  Depos’d he shall be in despite of all.

North.  Thou art deceiv’d: ’tis not thy southern power,
Of Essex, Norfolk, Suffolk, nor of Kent,   160
Which makes thee thus presumptuous and proud,
Can set the duke up in despite of me.

Clif.  King Henry, be thy title right or wrong,
Lord Clifford vows to fight in thy defence:
May that ground gape and swallow me alive,   165
Where I shall kneel to him that slew my father!

K. Hen.  O Clifford, how thy words revive my heart!

York.  Henry of Lancaster, resign thy crown.
What mutter you, or what conspire you, lords?

War.  Do right unto this princely Duke of York,   170
Or I will fill the house with armed men,
And o’er the chair of state, where now he sits,
Write up his title with usurping blood.  [He stamps with his foot, and the Soldiers show themselves.

K. Hen.  My Lord of Warwick, hear me but one word: —
Let me for this my life-time reign as king.   175

York.  Confirm the crown to me and to mine heirs,
And thou shalt reign in quiet while thou liv’st.

K. Hen.  I am content: Richard Plantagenet,
Enjoy the kingdom after my decease.

Clif.  What wrong is this unto the prince your son!   180

War.  What good is this to England and himself!

West.  Base, fearful, and despairing Henry!

Clif.  How hast thou injur’d both thyself and us!

West.  I cannot stay to hear these articles.

North.  Nor I.   185

Clif.  Come, cousin, let us tell the queen these news.

West.  Farewell, faint-hearted and degenerate king,
In whose cold blood no spark of honour bides.

North.  Be thou a prey unto the house of York,
And die in bands for this unmanly deed!   190

Clif.  In dreadful war mayst thou be overcome,
Or live in peace abandon’d and despis’d!  [Exeunt NORTHUMBERLAND, CLIFFORD, and WESTMORELAND.

War.  Turn this way, Henry, and regard them not.

Exe.  They seek revenge and therefore will not yield.

K. Hen.  Ah! Exeter.   195

War.        Why should you sigh, my lord?

K. Hen.  Not for myself, Lord Warwick, but my son,
Whom I unnaturally shall disinherit.
But be it as it may; I here entail
The crown to thee and to thine heirs for ever;   200
Conditionally, that here thou take an oath
To cease this civil war, and, whilst I live,
To honour me as thy king and sovereign;
And neither by treason nor hostility
To seek to put me down and reign thyself.   205

York.  This oath I willingly take and will perform.  [Coming from the throne.

War.  Long live King Henry! Plantagenet, embrace him.

K. Hen.  And long live thou and these thy forward sons!

York.  Now York and Lancaster are reconcil’d.

Exe.  Accurs’d be he that seeks to make them foes!  [Sennet.  The Lords come forward.   210

York.  Farewell, my gracious lord; I’ll to my castle.

War.  And I’ll keep London with my soldiers.

Norf.  And I to Norfolk with my followers.

Mont.  And I unto the sea from whence I came.  [Exeunt YORK and his Sons, WARWICK, NORFOLK, MONTAGUE, Soldiers, and Attendants.

K. Hen.  And I, with grief and sorrow, to the court.   215

Enter QUEEN MARGARET and the PRINCE OF WALES.

Exe.  Here comes the queen, whose looks bewray her anger:
I’ll steal away.  [Going.

K. Hen.        Exeter, so will I.  [Going.

Q. Mar.  Nay, go not from me; I will follow thee.   220

K. Hen.  Be patient, gentle queen, and I will stay.

Q. Mar.  Who can be patient in such extremes?
Ah! wretched man; would I had died a maid,
And never seen thee, never borne thee son,
Seeing thou hast prov’d so unnatural a father.   225
Hath he deserv’d to lose his birthright thus?
Hadst thou but lov’d him half so well as I,
Or felt that pain which I did for him once,
Or nourish’d him as I did with my blood,
Thou wouldst have left thy dearest heart-blood there,   230
Rather than have made that savage duke thine heir,
And disinherited thine only son.

Prince.  Father, you cannot disinherit me:
If you be king, why should not I succeed?

K. Hen.  Pardon me, Margaret; pardon me, sweet son;   235
The Earl of Warwick, and the duke, enforc’d me.

Q. Mar.  Enforc’d thee! art thou king, and wilt be forc’d?
I shame to hear thee speak. Ah! timorous wretch;
Thou hast undone thyself, thy son, and me;
And given unto the house of York such head   240
As thou shalt reign but by their sufferance.
To entail him and his heirs unto the crown,
What is it but to make thy sepulchre,
And creep into it far before thy time?
Warwick is chancellor and the Lord of Calais;   245
Stern Faulconbridge commands the narrow seas;
The duke is made protector of the realm;
And yet shalt thou be safe? such safety finds
The trembling lamb environed with wolves.
Had I been there, which am a silly woman,   250
The soldiers should have toss’d me on their pikes
Before I would have granted to that act;
But thou preferr’st thy life before thine honour:
And seeing thou dost, I here divorce myself,
Both from thy table, Henry, and thy bed,   255
Until that act of parliament be repeal’d
Whereby my son is disinherited.
The northern lords that have forsworn thy colours
Will follow mine, if once they see them spread;
And spread they shall be, to thy foul disgrace,   260
And utter ruin of the house of York.
Thus do I leave thee. Come, son, let’s away;
Our army is ready; come, we’ll after them.

K. Hen.  Stay, gentle Margaret, and hear me speak.

Q. Mar.  Thou hast spoke too much already: get thee gone.   265

K. Hen.  Gentle son Edward, thou wilt stay with me?

Q. Mar.  Ay, to be murder’d by his enemies.

Prince.  When I return with victory from the field
I’ll see your Grace: till then, I’ll follow her.

Q. Mar.  Come, son, away; we may not linger thus.  [Exeunt QUEEN MARGARET and the PRINCE OF WALES.   270

K. Hen.  Poor queen! how love to me and to her son
Hath made her break out into terms of rage.
Reveng’d may she be on that hateful duke,
Whose haughty spirit, winged with desire,
Will cost my crown, and like an empty eagle   275
Tire on the flesh of me and of my son!
The loss of those three lords torments my heart:
I’ll write unto them, and entreat them fair.
Come, cousin; you shall be the messenger.

Exe.  And I, I hope, shall reconcile them all.  [Exeunt.   280

Act I. Scene II.

A Room in Sandal Castle, near Wakefield, in Yorkshire.

Enter EDWARD, RICHARD, and MONTAGUE.

Rich.  Brother, though I be youngest, give me leave.

Edw.  No, I can better play the orator.

Mont.  But I have reasons strong and forcible.   5

Enter YORK.

York.  Why, how now, sons and brother! at a strife?
What is your quarrel? how began it first?

Edw.  No quarrel, but a slight contention.

York.  About what?   10

Rich.  About that which concerns your Grace and us;
The crown of England, father, which is yours.

York.  Mine, boy? not till King Henry be dead.

Rich.  Your right depends not on his life or death.

Edw.  Now you are heir, therefore enjoy it now:   15
By giving the house of Lancaster leave to breathe,
It will outrun you, father, in the end.

York.  I took an oath that he should quietly reign.

Edw.  But for a kingdom any oath may be broken:
I would break a thousand oaths to reign one year.   20

Rich.  No; God forbid your Grace should be forsworn.

York.  I shall be, if I claim by open war.

Rich.  I’ll prove the contrary, if you’ll hear me speak.

York.  Thou canst not, son; it is impossible.

Rich.  An oath is of no moment, being not took   25
Before a true and lawful magistrate
That hath authority over him that swears:
Henry had none, but did usurp the place;
Then, seeing ’twas he that made you to depose,
Your oath, my lord, is vain and frivolous.   30
Therefore, to arms! And, father, do but think
How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown,
Within whose circuit is Elysium,
And all that poets feign of bliss and joy.
Why do we linger thus? I cannot rest   35
Until the white rose that I wear be dy’d
Even in the lukewarm blood of Henry’s heart.

York.  Richard, enough, I will be king, or die.
Brother, thou shalt to London presently,
And whet on Warwick to this enterprise.   40
Thou, Richard, shalt unto the Duke of Norfolk,
And tell him privily of our intent.
You, Edward, shall unto my Lord Cobham,
With whom the Kentishmen will willingly rise:
In them I trust; for they are soldiers,   45
Witty, courteous, liberal, full of spirit.
While you are thus employ’d, what resteth more,
But that I seek occasion how to rise,
And yet the king not privy to my drift,
Nor any of the house of Lancaster?   50

Enter a Messenger.
But, stay: what news? why com’st thou in such post?

Mess.  The queen with all the northern earls and lords
Intend here to besiege you in your castle.
She is hard by with twenty thousand men,   55
And therefore fortify your hold, my lord.

York.  Ay, with my sword. What! think’st thou that we fear them?
Edward and Richard, you shall stay with me;
My brother Montague shall post to London:
Let noble Warwick, Cobham, and the rest,   60
Whom we have left protectors of the king,
With powerful policy strengthen themselves,
And trust not simple Henry nor his oaths.

Mont.  Brother, I go; I’ll win them, fear it not:
And thus most humbly I do take my leave.  [Exit.   65

Enter SIR JOHN and SIR HUGH MORTIMER.

York.  Sir John, and Sir Hugh Mortimer, mine uncles!
You are come to Sandal in a happy hour;
The army of the queen mean to besiege us.

Sir John.  She shall not need, we’ll meet her in the field.   70

York.  What! with five thousand men?

Rich.  Ay, with five hundred, father, for a need:
A woman’s general; what should we fear?  [A march afar off.

Edw.  I hear their drums; let’s set our men in order,
And issue forth and bid them battle straight.   75

York.  Five men to twenty! though the odds be great,
I doubt not, uncle, of our victory.
Many a battle have I won in France,
When as the enemy hath been ten to one:
Why should I not now have the like success?  [Alarum.  Exeunt.   80

Act I. Scene III.

Field of Battle between Sandal Castle and Wakefield.

Alarums: Excursions.  Enter RUTLAND and his Tutor.

Rut.  Ah, whither shall I fly to ‘scape their hands?
Ah! tutor, look, where bloody Clifford comes!

Enter CLIFFORD and Soldiers.   5

Clif.  Chaplain, away! thy priesthood saves thy life.
As for the brat of this accursed duke,
Whose father slew my father, he shall die.

Tut.  And I, my lord, will bear him company.

Clif.  Soldiers, away with him.   10

Tut.  Ah! Clifford, murder not this innocent child,
Lest thou be hated both of God and man!  [Exit, forced off by Soldiers.

Clif.  How now! is he dead already? Or is it fear
That makes him close his eyes? I’ll open them.

Rut.  So looks the pent-up lion o’er the wretch   15
That trembles under his devouring paws;
And so he walks, insulting o’er his prey,
And so he comes to rend his limbs asunder.
Ah! gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword,
And not with such a cruel threatening look.   20
Sweet Clifford! hear me speak before I die:
I am too mean a subject for thy wrath;
Be thou reveng’d on men, and let me live.

Clif.  In vain thou speak’st, poor boy; my father’s blood
Hath stopp’d the passage where thy words should enter.   25

Rut.  Then let my father’s blood open it again:
He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him.

Clif.  Had I thy brethren here, their lives and thine
Were not revenge sufficient for me;
No, if I digg’d up thy forefathers’ graves,   30
And hung their rotten coffins up in chains,
It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart.
The sight of any of the house of York
Is as a fury to torment my soul;
And till I root out their accursed line,   35
And leave not one alive, I live in hell.
Therefore —  [Lifting his hand.

Rut.  O! let me pray before I take my death.
To thee I pray; sweet Clifford, pity me!

Clif.  Such pity as my rapier’s point affords.   40

Rut.  I never did thee harm: why wilt thou slay me?

Clif.  Thy father hath.

Rut.        But ’twas ere I was born.
Thou hast one son; for his sake pity me,
Lest in revenge thereof, sith God is just,   45
He be as miserably slain as I.
Ah! let me live in prison all my days;
And when I give occasion of offence,
Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause.

Clif.  No cause!   50
Thy father slew my father; therefore, die.  [Stabs him.

Rut.  Dii faciant laudis summa sit ista tuœ!  [Dies.

Clif.  Plantagenet! I come, Plantagenet!
And this thy son’s blood cleaving to my blade
Shall rust upon my weapon, till thy blood,   55
Congeal’d with this, do make me wipe off both.  [Exit.

Act I. Scene IV.

Another Part of the Plains.

Alarum.  Enter YORK.

York.  The army of the queen hath got the field:
My uncles both are slain in rescuing me;
And all my followers to the eager foe   5
Turn back and fly, like ships before the wind,
Or lambs pursu’d by hunger-starved wolves.
My sons, God knows what hath bechanced them:
But this I know, they have demean’d themselves
Like men born to renown by life or death.   10
Three times did Richard make a lane to me,
And thrice cried, ‘Courage, father! fight it out!’
And full as oft came Edward to my side,
With purple falchion, painted to the hilt
In blood of those that had encounter’d him:   15
And when the hardiest warriors did retire,
Richard cried, ‘Charge! and give no foot of ground!’
And cried, ‘A crown, or else a glorious tomb!
A sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre!’
With this, we charg’d again; but, out, alas!   20
We bodg’d again: as I have seen a swan
With bootless labour swim against the tide,
And spend her strength with over-matching waves.  [A short alarum within.
Ah, hark! the fatal followers do pursue;
And I am faint and cannot fly their fury;   25
And were I strong I would not shun their fury:
The sands are number’d that make up my life;
Here must I stay, and here my life must end.

Enter QUEEN MARGARET, CLIFFORD, NORTHUMBERLAND, the young PRINCE, and Soldiers.
Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland,   30
I dare your quenchless fury to more rage:
I am your butt, and I abide your shot.

North.  Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.

Clif.  Ay, to such mercy as his ruthless arm
With downright payment show’d unto my father.   35
Now Phæthon hath tumbled from his car,
And made an evening at the noontide prick.

York.  My ashes, as the phœnix, may bring forth
A bird that will revenge upon you all;
And in that hope I throw mine eyes to heaven,   40
Scorning whate’er you can afflict me with.
Why come you not? what! multitudes, and fear?

Clif.  So cowards fight when they can fly no further;
So doves do peck the falcon’s piercing talons;
So desperate thieves, all hopeless of their lives,   45
Breathe out invectives ‘gainst the officers.

York.  O Clifford! but bethink thee once again,
And in thy thought o’er-run my former time;
And, if thou canst for blushing, view this face,
And bite thy tongue, that slanders him with cowardice   50
Whose frown hath made thee faint and fly ere this.

Clif.  I will not bandy with thee word for word,
But buckle with thee blows, twice two for one.  [Draws.

Q. Mar.  Hold, valiant Clifford! for a thousand causes
I would prolong awhile the traitor’s life.   55
Wrath makes him deaf: speak thou, Northumberland.

North.  Hold, Clifford! do not honour him so much
To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart.
What valour were it, when a cur doth grin,
For one to thrust his hand between his teeth,   60
When he might spurn him with his foot away?
It is war’s prize to take all vantages,
And ten to one is no impeach of valour.  [They lay hands on YORK, who struggles.

Clif.  Ay, ay; so strives the woodcock with the gin.

North.  So doth the cony struggle in the net.  [YORK is taken prisoner.   65

York.  So triumph thieves upon their conquer’d booty;
So true men yield, with robbers so o’er-matched.

North.  What would your Grace have done unto him now?

Q. Mar.  Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland,
Come, make him stand upon this molehill here,   70
That raught at mountains with outstretched arms,
Yet parted but the shadow with his hand.
What! was it you that would be England’s king?
Was ‘t you that revell’d in our parliament,
And made a preachment of your high descent?   75
Where are your mess of sons to back you now?
The wanton Edward, and the lusty George?
And where’s that valiant crook-back prodigy,
Dicky your boy, that with his grumbling voice
Was wont to cheer his dad in mutinies?   80
Or, with the rest, where is your darling Rutland?
Look, York: I stain’d this napkin with the blood
That valiant Clifford with his rapier’s point
Made issue from the bosom of the boy;
And if thine eyes can water for his death,   85
I give thee this to dry thy cheeks withal.
Alas, poor York! but that I hate thee deadly,
I should lament thy miserable state.
I prithee grieve, to make me merry, York.
What! hath thy fiery heart so parch’d thine entrails   90
That not a tear can fall for Rutland’s death?
Why art thou patient, man? thou shouldst be mad;
And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus.
Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance.
Thou wouldst be fee’d, I see, to make me sport:   95
York cannot speak unless he wear a crown.
A crown for York! and, lords, bow low to him:
Hold you his hands whilst I do set it on.  [Putting a paper crown on his head.
Ay, marry, sir, now looks he like a king!
Ay, this is he that took King Henry’s chair;   100
And this is he was his adopted heir.
But how is it that great Plantagenet
Is crown’d so soon, and broke his solemn oath?
As I bethink me, you should not be king
Till our King Henry had shook hands with death.   105
And will you pale your head in Henry’s glory,
And rob his temples of the diadem,
Now in his life, against your holy oath?
O! ’tis a fault too-too unpardonable.
Off with the crown; and, with the crown, his head;   110
And, whilst we breathe, take time to do him dead.

Clif.  That is my office, for my father’s sake.

Q. Mar.  Nay, stay; let’s hear the orisons he makes.

York.  She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of France,
Whose tongue more poisons than the adder’s tooth!   115
How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex
To triumph, like an Amazonian trull,
Upon their woes whom fortune captivates!
But that thy face is, visor-like, unchanging,
Made impudent with use of evil deeds,   120
I would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush:
To tell thee whence thou cam’st, of whom deriv’d,
Were shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not shameless.
Thy father bears the type of King of Naples,
Of both the Sicils and Jerusalem;   125
Yet not so wealthy as an English yeoman.
Hath that poor monarch taught thee to insult?
It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud queen,
Unless the adage must be verified,
That beggars mounted run their horse to death.   130
’Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud;
But, God he knows, thy share thereof is small:
’Tis virtue that doth make them most admir’d;
The contrary doth make thee wonder’d at:
’Tis government that makes them seem divine;   135
The want thereof makes thee abominable.
Thou art as opposite to every good
As the Antipodes are unto us,
Or as the south to the septentrion.
O tiger’s heart wrapp’d in a woman’s hide!   140
How couldst thou drain the life-blood of the child,
To bid the father wipe his eyes withal,
And yet be seen to bear a woman’s face?
Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible;
Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless.   145
Bidd’st thou me rage? why, now thou hast thy wish:
Wouldst have me weep? why, now thou hast thy will;
For raging wind blows up incessant showers,
And when the rage allays, the rain begins.
These tears are my sweet Rutland’s obsequies,   150
And every drop cries vengeance for his death,
‘Gainst thee, fell Clifford, and thee, false Frenchwoman.

North.  Beshrew me, but his passion moves me so
That hardly can I check my eyes from tears.

York.  That face of his the hungry cannibals   155
Would not have touch’d, would not have stain’d with blood;
But you are more inhuman, more inexorable, —
O! ten times more, than tigers of Hyrcania.
See, ruthless queen, a hapless father’s tears:
This cloth thou dipp’dst in blood of my sweet boy,   160
And I with tears do wash the blood away.
Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this;  [Giving back the handkerchief.
And if thou tell’st the heavy story right,
Upon my soul, the hearers will shed tears;
Yea, even my foes will shed fast-falling tears,   165
And say, ‘Alas! it was a piteous deed!’
There, take the crown, and, with the crown my curse,
And in thy need such comfort come to thee
As now I reap at thy too cruel hand!
Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the world;   170
My soul to heaven, my blood upon your heads!

North.  Had he been slaughter-man to all my kin,
I should not for my life but weep with him,
To see how inly sorrow gripes his soul.

Q. Mar.  What! weeping-ripe, my Lord Northumberland?   175
Think but upon the wrong he did us all,
And that will quickly dry thy melting tears.

Clif.  Here’s for my oath; here’s for my father’s death.  [Stabbing him.

Q. Mar.  And here’s to right our gentle hearted king.  [Stabbing him.

York.  Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God!   180
My soul flies through these wounds to seek out thee.  [Dies.

Q. Mar.  Off with his head, and set it on York gates;
So York may overlook the town of York.  [Flourish.  Exeunt.

Act II. Scene I.

A Plain near Mortimer’s Cross in Herefordshire.

Drums.  Enter EDWARD and RICHARD, with their Forces, marching.

Edw.  I wonder how our princely father ‘scap’d,
Or whether he be ‘scap’d away or no
From Clifford’s and Northumberland’s pursuit.   5
Had he been ta’en we should have heard the news;
Had he been slain we should have heard the news;
Or had he ‘scap’d, methinks we should have heard
The happy tidings of his good escape.
How fares my brother? why is he so sad?   10

Rich.  I cannot joy until I be resolv’d
Where our right valiant father is become.
I saw him in the battle range about,
And watch’d him how he singled Clifford forth.
Methought he bore him in the thickest troop   15
As doth a lion in a herd of neat;
Or as a bear, encompass’d round with dogs,
Who having pinch’d a few and made them cry,
The rest stand all aloof and bark at him.
So far’d our father with his enemies;   20
So fled his enemies my war-like father:
Methinks, ’tis prize enough to be his son.
See how the morning opes her golden gates,
And takes her farewell of the glorious sun;
How well resembles it the prime of youth,   25
Trimm’d like a younker prancing to his love.

Edw.  Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns?

Rich.  Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun;
Not separated with the racking clouds,
But sever’d in a pale clear-shining sky.   30
See, see! they join, embrace, and seem to kiss,
As if they vow’d some league inviolable:
Now are they but one lamp, one light, one sun.
In this the heaven figures some event.

Edw.  ’Tis wondrous strange, the like yet never heard of.   35
I think it cites us, brother, to the field;
That we, the sons of brave Plantagenet,
Each one already blazing by our meeds,
Should notwithstanding join our lights together,
And over-shine the earth, as this the world.   40
Whate’er it bodes, henceforward will I bear
Upon my target three fair-shining suns.

Rich.  Nay, bear three daughters: by your leave I speak it,
You love the breeder better than the male.

Enter a Messenger.   45
But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretell
Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue?

Mess.  Ah! one that was a woeful looker-on,
When as the noble Duke of York was slain,
Your princely father, and my loving lord.   50

Edw.  O! speak no more, for I have heard too much.

Rich.  Say how he died, for I will hear it all.

Mess.  Environed he was with many foes,
And stood against them, as the hope of Troy
Against the Greeks that would have enter’d Troy.   55
But Hercules himself must yield to odds;
And many strokes, though with a little axe,
Hew down and fell the hardest-timber’d oak.
By many hands your father was subdu’d;
But only slaughter’d by the ireful arm   60
Of unrelenting Clifford and the queen,
Who crown’d the gracious duke in high despite;
Laugh’d in his face; and when with grief he wept,
The ruthless queen gave him to dry his cheeks,
A napkin steeped in the harmless blood   65
Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain:
And after many scorns, many foul taunts,
They took his head, and on the gates of York
They set the same; and there it doth remain,
The saddest spectacle that e’er I view’d.   70

Edw.  Sweet Duke of York! our prop to lean upon,
Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay!
O Clifford! boist’rous Clifford! thou hast slain
The flower of Europe for his chivalry;
And treacherously hast thou vanquish’d him,   75
For hand to hand he would have vanquish’d thee.
Now my soul’s palace is become a prison:
Ah! would she break from hence, that this my body
Might in the ground be closed up in rest,
For never henceforth shall I joy again,   80
Never, O! never, shall I see more joy.

Rich.  I cannot weep, for all my body’s moisture
Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart:
Nor can my tongue unload my heart’s great burden;
For self-same wind, that I should speak withal   85
Is kindling coals that fire all my breast,
And burn me up with flames, that tears would quench.
To weep is to make less the depth of grief:
Tears then, for babes; blows and revenge for me!
Richard, I bear thy name; I’ll venge thy death,   90
Or die renowned by attempting it.

Edw.  His name that valiant duke hath left with thee;
His dukedom and his chair with me is left.

Rich.  Nay, if thou be that princely eagle’s bird,
Show thy descent by gazing ‘gainst the sun:   95
For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom say;
Either that is thine, or else thou wert not his.

March.  Enter WARWICK and the MARQUESS OF MONTAGUE, with Forces.

War.  How now, fair lords! What fare? what news abroad?

Rich.  Great Lord of Warwick, if we should recount   100
Our baleful news, and at each word’s deliv’rance
Stab poniards in our flesh till all were told,
The words would add more anguish than the wounds.
O valiant lord! the Duke of York is slain.

Edw.  O Warwick! Warwick! that Plantagenet   105
Which held thee dearly as his soul’s redemption,
Is by the stern Lord Clifford done to death.

War.  Ten days ago I drown’d these news in tears,
And now, to add more measure to your woes,
I come to tell you things sith then befallen.   110
After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought,
Where your brave father breath’d his latest gasp,
Tidings, as swiftly as the posts could run,
Were brought me of your loss and his depart.
I, then in London, keeper of the king,   115
Muster’d my soldiers, gather’d flocks of friends,
And very well appointed, as I thought,
March’d towards Saint Alban’s to intercept the queen,
Bearing the king in my behalf along;
For by my scouts I was advertised   120
That she was coming with a full intent
To dash our late decree in parliament,
Touching King Henry’s oath and your succession.
Short tale to make, we at Saint Alban’s met,
Our battles join’d, and both sides fiercely fought:   125
But whether ’twas the coldness of the king,
Who look’d full gently on his war-like queen,
That robb’d my soldiers of their heated spleen;
Or whether ’twas report of her success;
Or more than common fear of Clifford’s rigour,   130
Who thunders to his captives blood and death,
I cannot judge: but, to conclude with truth,
Their weapons like to lightning came and went;
Our soldiers’ — like the night-owl’s lazy flight,
Or like a lazy thresher with a flail —   135
Fell gently down, as if they struck their friends.
I cheer’d them up with justice of our cause,
With promise of high pay, and great rewards:
But all in vain; they had no heart to fight,
And we in them no hope to win the day;   140
So that we fled: the king unto the queen;
Lord George your brother, Norfolk, and myself,
In haste, post-haste, are come to join with you;
For in the marches here we heard you were,
Making another head to fight again.   145

Edw.  Where is the Duke of Norfolk, gentle Warwick?
And when came George from Burgundy to England?

War.  Some six miles off the duke is with the soldiers;
And for your brother, he was lately sent
From your kind aunt, Duchess of Burgundy,   150
With aid of soldiers to this needful war.

Rich.  ’Twas odds, belike, when valiant Warwick fled:
Oft have I heard his praises in pursuit,
But ne’er till now his scandal of retire.

War.  Nor now my scandal, Richard, dost thou hear;   155
For thou shalt know, this strong right hand of mine
Can pluck the diadem from faint Henry’s head,
And wring the awful sceptre from his fist,
Were he as famous; and as bold in war
As he is fam’d for mildness, peace, and prayer.   160

Rich.  I know it well, Lord Warwick; blame me not:
’Tis love I bear thy glories makes me speak.
But, in this troublous time what’s to be done?
Shall we go throw away our coats of steel,
And wrap our bodies in black mourning gowns,   165
Numb’ring our Ave-Maries with our beads?
Or shall we on the helmets of our foes
Tell our devotion with revengeful arms?
If for the last, say ‘Ay,’ and to it, lords.

War.  Why, therefore Warwick came to seek you out;   170
And therefore comes my brother Montague.
Attend me, lords. The proud insulting queen,
With Clifford and the haught Northumberland,
And of their feather many more proud birds,
Have wrought the easy-melting king like wax.   175
He swore consent to your succession,
His oath enrolled in the parliament;
And now to London all the crew are gone,
To frustrate both his oath and what beside
May make against the house of Lancaster.   180
Their power, I think, is thirty thousand strong:
Now, if the help of Norfolk and myself,
With all the friends that thou, brave Earl of March,
Amongst the loving Welshmen canst procure,
Will but amount to five and twenty thousand,   185
Why, Via! to London will we march amain,
And once again bestride our foaming steeds,
And once again cry, ‘Charge upon our foes!’
But never once again turn back and fly.

Rich.  Ay, now methinks I hear great Warwick speak:   190
Ne’er may he live to see a sunshine day,
That cries ‘Retire,’ if Warwick bid him stay.

Edw.  Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I lean;
And when thou fail’st — as God forbid the hour! —
Must Edward fall, which peril heaven forfend!   195

War.  No longer Earl of March, but Duke of York:
The next degree is England’s royal throne;
For King of England shalt thou be proclaim’d
In every borough as we pass along;
And he that throws not up his cap for joy   200
Shall for the fault make forfeit of his head.
King Edward, valiant Richard, Montague,
Stay we no longer dreaming of renown,
But sound the trumpets, and about our task.

Rich.  Then, Clifford, were thy heart as hard as steel, —   205
As thou hast shown it flinty by thy deeds, —
I come to pierce it, or to give thee mine.

Edw.  Then strike up, drums! God, and Saint George for us!

Enter a Messenger.

War.  How now! what news?   210

Mess.  The Duke of Norfolk sends you word by me,
The queen is coming with a puissant host;
And craves your company for speedy counsel.

War.  Why then it sorts; brave warriors, let’s away.  [Exeunt.

Act II. Scene II.

Before York.

Flourish.  Enter KING HENRY, QUEEN MARGARET, the PRINCE OF WALES, CLIFFORD and NORTHUMBERLAND, with drums and trumpets.

Q. Mar.  Welcome, my lord, to this brave town of York.
Yonder’s the head of that arch-enemy,
That sought to be encompass’d with your crown:   5
Doth not the object cheer your heart, my lord?

K. Hen.  Ay, as the rocks cheer them that fear their wrack:
To see this sight, it irks my very soul.
Withhold revenge, dear God! ’tis not my fault,
Nor wittingly have I infring’d my vow.   10

Clif.  My gracious liege, this too much lenity
And harmful pity must be laid aside.
To whom do lions cast their gentle looks?
Not to the beast that would usurp their den.
Whose hand is that the forest bear doth lick?   15
Not his that spoils her young before her face.
Who ‘scapes the lurking serpent’s mortal sting?
Not he that sets his foot upon her back.
The smallest worm will turn being trodden on,
And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood.   20
Ambitious York did level at thy crown;
Thou smiling while he knit his angry brows:
He, but a duke, would have his son a king,
And raise his issue like a loving sire;
Thou, being a king, bless’d with a goodly son,   25
Didst yield consent to disinherit him,
Which argu’d thee a most unloving father.
Unreasonable creatures feed their young;
And though man’s face be fearful to their eyes,
Yet, in protection of their tender ones,   30
Who hath not seen them, even with those wings
Which sometime they have us’d with fearful flight,
Make war with him that climb’d unto their nest,
Offering their own lives in their young’s defence?
For shame, my liege! make them your precedent.   35
Were it not pity that this goodly boy
Should lose his birthright by his father’s fault,
And long hereafter say unto his child,
‘What my great grandfather and grandsire got,
My careless father fondly gave away?’   40
Ah! what a shame were this. Look on the boy;
And let his manly face, which promiseth
Successful fortune, steel thy melting heart
To hold thine own and leave thine own with him.

K. Hen.  Full well hath Clifford play’d the orator,   45
Inferring arguments of mighty force.
But, Clifford, tell me, didst thou never hear
That things ill got had ever bad success?
And happy always was it for that son
Whose father for his hoarding went to hell?   50
I’ll leave my son my virtuous deeds behind;
And would my father had left me no more!
For all the rest is held at such a rate
As brings a thousand-fold more care to keep
Than in possession any jot of pleasure.   55
Ah! cousin York, would thy best friends did know
How it doth grieve me that thy head is here!

Q. Mar.  My lord, cheer up your spirits: our foes are nigh,
And this soft courage makes your followers faint.
You promis’d knighthood to our forward son:   60
Unsheathe your sword, and dub him presently.
Edward, kneel down.

K. Hen.  Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight;
And learn this lesson, draw thy sword in right.

Prince.  My gracious father, by your kingly leave,   65
I’ll draw it as apparent to the crown,
And in that quarrel use it to the death.

Clif.  Why, that is spoken like a toward prince.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.  Royal commanders, be in readiness:   70
For with a band of thirty thousand men
Comes Warwick, backing of the Duke of York;
And in the towns, as they do march along,
Proclaims him king, and many fly to him:
Darraign your battle, for they are at hand.   75

Clif.  I would your highness would depart the field:
The queen hath best success when you are absent.

Q. Mar.  Ay, good my lord, and leave us to our fortune.

K. Hen.  Why, that’s my fortune too; therefore I’ll stay.

North.  Be it with resolution then to fight.   80

Prince.  My royal father, cheer these noble lords,
And hearten those that fight in your defence:
Unsheathe your sword, good father: cry, ‘Saint George!’

March.  Enter EDWARD, GEORGE, RICHARD, WARWICK, NORFOLK, MONTAGUE, and Soldiers.

Edw.  Now, perjur’d Henry, wilt thou kneel for grace,   85
And set thy diadem upon my head;
In bide the mortal fortune of the field?

Q. Mar.  Go, rate thy minions, proud insulting boy!
Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms
Before thy sovereign and thy lawful king?   90

Edw.  I am his king, and he should bow his knee;
I was adopted heir by his consent:
Since when, his oath is broke; for, as I hear,
You, that are king, though he do wear the crown,
Have caus’d him, by new act of parliament,   95
To blot out me, and put his own son in.

Clif.  And reason too:
Who should succeed the father but the son?

Rich.  Are you there, butcher? O! I cannot speak.

Clif.  Ay, crook-back; here I stand to answer thee,   100
Or any he the proudest of thy sort.

Rich.  ’Twas you that kill’d young Rutland, was it not?

Clif.  Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfied.

Rich.  For God’s sake, lords, give signal to the fight.

War.  What sayst thou, Henry, wilt thou yield the crown?   105

Q. Mar.  Why, how now, long-tongu’d Warwick! dare you speak?
When you and I met at Saint Alban’s last,
Your legs did better service than your hands.

War.  Then ’twas my turn to fly, and now ’tis thine.

Clif.  You said so much before, and yet you fled.   110

War.  ’Twas not your valour, Clifford, drove me thence.

North.  No, nor your manhood that durst make you stay.

Rich.  Northumberland, I hold thee reverently.
Break off the parley; for scarce I can refrain
The execution of my big-swoln heart   115
Upon that Clifford, that cruel child-killer.

Clif.  I slew thy father: call’st thou him a child?

Rich.  Ay, like a dastard and a treacherous coward,
As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland;
But ere sun-set I’ll make thee curse the deed.   120

K. Hen.  Have done with words, my lords, and hear me speak.

Q. Mar.  Defy them, then, or else hold close thy lips.

K. Hen.  I prithee, give no limits to my tongue:
I am a king, and privileg’d to speak.

Clif.  My liege, the wound that bred this meeting here   125
Cannot be cur’d by words; therefore be still.

Rich.  Then, executioner, unsheathe thy sword.
By him that made us all, I am resolv’d
That Clifford’s manhood lies upon his tongue.

Edw.  Say, Henry, shall I have my right or no?   130
A thousand men have broke their fasts to-day,
That ne’er shall dine unless thou yield the crown.

War.  If thou deny, their blood upon thy head;
For York in justice puts his armour on.

Prince.  If that be right which Warwick says is right,   135
There is no wrong, but everything is right.

Rich.  Whoever got thee, there thy mother stands;
For well I wot thou hast thy mother’s tongue.

Q. Mar.  But thou art neither like thy sire nor dam,
But like a foul misshapen stigmatic,   140
Mark’d by the destinies to be avoided,
As venom toads, or lizards’ dreadful stings.

Rich.  Iron of Naples hid with English gilt,
Whose father bears the title of a king, —
As if a channel should be call’d the sea, —   145
Sham’st thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught,
To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart?

Edw.  A wisp of straw were worth a thousand crowns,
To make this shameless callet know herself.
Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou,   150
Although thy husband may be Menelaus;
And ne’er was Agamemnon’s brother wrong’d
By that false woman as this king by thee.
His father revell’d in the heart of France,
And tam’d the king, and made the Dauphin stoop;   155
And had he match’d according to his state,
He might have kept that glory to this day;
But when he took a beggar to his bed,
And grac’d thy poor sire with his bridal day,
Even then that sunshine brew’d a shower for him,   160
That wash’d his father’s fortunes forth of France,
And heap’d sedition on his crown at home.
For what hath broach’d this tumult but thy pride?
Hadst thou been meek our title still had slept,
And we, in pity of the gentle king,   165
Had slipp’d our claim until another age.

Geo.  But when we saw our sunshine made thy spring,
And that thy summer bred us no increase,
We set the axe to thy usurping root;
And though the edge hath something hit ourselves,   170
Yet know thou, since we have begun to strike,
We’ll never leave, till we have hewn thee down,
Or bath’d thy growing with our heated bloods.

Edw.  And in this resolution I defy thee;
Not willing any longer conference,   175
Since thou deny’st the gentle king to speak.
Sound trumpets! — let our bloody colours wave!
And either victory, or else a grave.

Q. Mar.  Stay, Edward.

Edw.  No, wrangling woman, we’ll no longer stay:   180
These words will cost ten thousand lives this day.  [Exeunt.

Act II. Scene III.

A Field of Battle between Towton and Saxton, in Yorkshire.

Alarums: Excursions.  Enter WARWICK.

War.  Forspent with toil, as runners with a race,
I lay me down a little while to breathe;
For strokes receiv’d, and many blows repaid,   5
Have robb’d my strong-knit sinews of their strength,
And spite of spite needs must I rest a while.

Enter EDWARD, running.

Edw.  Smile, gentle heaven! or strike, ungentle death!
For this world frowns, and Edward’s sun is clouded.   10

War.  How now, my lord! what hap? what hope of good?

Enter GEORGE.

Geo.  Our hap is loss, our hope but sad despair,
Our ranks are broke, and ruin follows us.
What counsel give you? whither shall we fly?   15

Edw.  Bootless is flight, they follow us with wings;
And weak we are and cannot shun pursuit.

Enter RICHARD.

Rich.  Ah! Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself?
Thy brother’s blood the thirsty earth hath drunk,   20
Broach’d with the steely point of Clifford’s lance;
And in the very pangs of death he cried,
Like to a dismal clangor heard from far,
‘Warwick, revenge! brother, revenge my death!’
So, underneath the belly of their steeds,   25
That stain’d their fetlocks in his smoking blood,
The noble gentleman gave up the ghost.

War.  Then let the earth be drunken with our blood:
I’ll kill my horse because I will not fly.
Why stand we like soft-hearted women here,   30
Wailing our losses, whiles the foe doth rage;
And look upon, as if the tragedy
Were play’d in jest by counterfeiting actors?
Here on my knee I vow to God above,
I’ll never pause again, never stand still   35
Till either death hath clos’d these eyes of mine,
Or fortune given me measure of revenge.

Edw.  O Warwick! I do bend my knee with thine;
And in this vow do chain my soul to thine.
And, ere my knee rise from the earth’s cold face,   40
I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee,
Thou setter up and plucker down of kings,
Beseeching thee, if with thy will it stands
That to my foes this body must be prey,
Yet that thy brazen gates of heaven may ope,   45
And give sweet passage to my sinful soul!
Now, lords, take leave until we meet again,
Where’er it be, in heaven or in earth.

Rich.  Brother, give me thy hand; and, gentle Warwick,
Let me embrace thee in my weary arms:   50
I, that did never weep, now melt with woe
That winter should cut off our spring-time so.

War.  Away, away! Once more, sweet lords, farewell.

Geo.  Yet let us all together to our troops,
And give them leave to fly that will not stay,   55
And call them pillars that will stand to us;
And if we thrive, promise them such rewards
As victors wear at the Olympian games.
This may plant courage in their quailing breasts;
For yet is hope of life and victory.   60
Forslow no longer; make we hence amain.  [Exeunt.

Act II. Scene IV.

Another Part of the Field

Excursions.  Enter RICHARD and CLIFFORD.

Rich.  Now, Clifford, I have singled thee alone.
Suppose this arm is for the Duke of York,
And this for Rutland; both bound to revenge,   5
Wert thou environ’d with a brazen wall.

Clif.  Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone.
This is the hand that stabb’d thy father York,
And this the hand that slew thy brother Rutland;
And here’s the heart that triumphs in their death   10
And cheers these hands that slew thy sire and brother,
To execute the like upon thyself;
And so, have at thee!  [They fight.  WARWICK enters; CLIFFORD flies.

Rich.  Nay, Warwick, single out some other chase;
For I myself will hunt this wolf to death.  [Exeunt.   15

Act II. Scene V.

Another Part of the Field.

Alarum.  Enter KING HENRY.

K. Hen.  This battle fares like to the morning’s war,
When dying clouds contend with growing light,
What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails,   5
Can neither call it perfect day nor night.
Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea
Forc’d by the tide to combat with the wind;
Now sways it that way, like the self-same sea
Forc’d to retire by fury of the wind:   10
Sometime the flood prevails, and then the wind;
Now one the better, then another best;
Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast,
Yet neither conqueror nor conquered:
So is the equal poise of this fell war.   15
Here on this molehill will I sit me down.
To whom God will, there be the victory!
For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too,
Have chid me from the battle; swearing both
They prosper best of all when I am thence.   20
Would I were dead! if God’s good will were so;
For what is in this world but grief and woe?
O God! methinks it were a happy life,
To be no better than a homely swain;
To sit upon a hill, as I do now,   25
To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes how they run,
How many make the hour full complete;
How many hours bring about the day;
How many days will finish up the year;   30
How many years a mortal man may live.
When this is known, then to divide the times:
So many hours must I tend my flock;
So many hours must I take my rest;
So many hours must I contemplate;   35
So many hours must I sport myself;
So many days my ewes have been with young;
So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean;
So many years ere I shall shear the fleece:
So minutes, hours, days, months, and years,   40
Pass’d over to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
Ah! what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!
Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep,   45
Than doth a rich embroider’d canopy
To kings, that fear their subjects’ treachery?
O, yes! it doth; a thousand-fold it doth.
And to conclude, the shepherd’s homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,   50
His wonted sleep under a fresh tree’s shade,
All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,
Is far beyond a prince’s delicates,
His viands sparkling in a golden cup,
His body couched in a curious bed,   55
When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him.

Alarum.  Enter a Son that hath killed his Father, with the dead body.

Son.  Ill blows the wind that profits nobody.
This man whom hand to hand I slew in fight,
May be possessed with some store of crowns;   60
And I, that haply take them from him now,
May yet ere night yield both my life and them
To some man else, as this dead man doth me.
Who’s this? O God! it is my father’s face,
Whom in this conflict I unwares have kill’d.   65
O heavy times, begetting such events!
From London by the king was I press’d forth;
My father, being the Earl of Warwick’s man,
Came on the part of York, press’d by his master;
And I, who at his hands receiv’d my life,   70
Have by my hands of life bereaved him.
Pardon me, God, I knew not what I did!
And pardon, father, for I knew not thee!
My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks;
And no more words till they have flow’d their fill.   75

K. Hen.  O piteous spectacle! O bloody times!
Whiles lions war and battle for their dens,
Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity.
Weep, wretched man, I’ll aid thee tear for tear;
And let our hearts and eyes, like civil war,   80
Be blind with tears, and break o’ercharg’d with grief.

Enter a Father that hath killed his Son, with the body in his arms.

Fath.  Thou that so stoutly hast resisted me,
Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold,
For I have bought it with a hundred blows.   85
But let me see: is this our foeman’s face?
Ah! no, no, no, it is mine only son.
Ah! boy, if any life be left in thee,
Throw up thine eye: see, see! what showers arise,
Blown with the windy tempest of my heart,   90
Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart.
O! pity, God, this miserable age.
What stratagems, how fell, how butcherly,
Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural,
This deadly quarrel daily doth beget!   95
O boy! thy father gave thee life too soon,
And hath bereft thee of thy life too late.

K. Hen.  Woe above woe! grief more than common grief!
O! that my death would stay these ruthful deeds.
O! pity, pity; gentle heaven, pity.   100
The red rose and the white are on his face,
The fatal colours of our striving houses:
The one his purple blood right well resembles;
The other his pale cheeks, methinks, presenteth:
Wither one rose, and let the other flourish!   105
If you contend, a thousand lives must wither.

Son.  How will my mother for a father’s death
Take on with me and ne’er be satisfied!

Fath.  How will my wife for slaughter of my son
Shed seas of tears and ne’er be satisfied!   110

K. Hen.  How will the country for these woeful chances
Misthink the king and not be satisfied!

Son.  Was ever son so ru’d a father’s death?

Fath.  Was ever father so bemoan’d a son?

K. Hen.  Was ever king so griev’d for subjects’ woe?   115
Much is your sorrow; mine, ten times so much.

Son.  I’ll bear thee hence, where I may weep my fill.  [Exit with the body.

Fath.  These arms of mine shall be thy winding-sheet;
My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre,
For from my heart thine image ne’er shall go:   120
My sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell;
And so obsequious will thy father be,
E’en for the loss of thee, having no more,
As Priam was for all his valiant sons.
I’ll bear thee hence; and let them fight that will,   125
For I have murder’d where I should not kill.  [Exit with the body.

K. Hen.  Sad-hearted men, much overgone with care,
Here sits a king more woeful than you are.

Alarum.  Excursions.  Enter QUEEN MARGARET, PRINCE OF WALES, and EXETER.

Prince.  Fly, father, fly! for all your friends are fled,   130
And Warwick rages like a chafed bull.
Away! for death doth hold us in pursuit.

Q. Mar.  Mount you, my lord; towards Berwick post amain.
Edward and Richard, like a brace of greyhounds
Having the fearful flying hare in sight,   135
With fiery eyes sparkling for very wrath,
And bloody steel grasp’d in their ireful hands,
Are at our backs; and therefore hence amain.

Exe.  Away! for vengeance comes along with them.
Nay, stay not to expostulate; make speed,   140
Or else come after: I’ll away before.

K. Hen.  Nay, take me with thee, good sweet Exeter:
Not that I fear to stay, but love to go
Whither the queen intends. Forward! away!  [Exeunt.

Act II. Scene VI.

The Same.

A loud alarum.  Enter CLIFFORD, wounded.

Clif.  Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies,
Which, while it lasted, gave King Henry light.
O Lancaster! I fear thy overthrow   5
More than my body’s parting with my soul.
My love and fear glu’d many friends to thee;
And, now I fall, thy tough commixtures melt,
Impairing Henry, strengthening misproud York:
The common people swarm like summer flies;   10
And whither fly the gnats but to the sun?
And who shines now but Henry’s enemies?
O Phœbus! hadst thou never given consent
That Phæthon should check thy fiery steeds,
Thy burning car never had scorch’d the earth;   15
And, Henry, hadst thou sway’d as kings should do,
Or as thy father and his father did,
Giving no ground unto the house of York,
They never then had sprung like summer flies;
I and ten thousand in this luckless realm   20
Had left no mourning widows for our death,
And thou this day hadst kept thy chair in peace.
For what doth cherish weeds but gentle air?
And what makes robbers bold but too much lenity?
Bootless are plaints, and cureless are my wounds;   25
No way to fly, nor strength to hold out flight:
The foe is merciless, and will not pity;
For at their hands I have deserv’d no pity.
The air hath got into my deadly wounds,
And much effuse of blood doth make me faint.   30
Come, York and Richard, Warwick and the rest;
I stabb’d your fathers’ bosoms, split my breast.  [He faints.

Alarum and Retreat.  Enter EDWARD, GEORGE, RICHARD, MONTAGUE, WARWICK, and Soldiers.

Edw.  Now breathe we, lords: good fortune bids us pause,
And smooth the frowns of war with peaceful looks.   35
Some troops pursue the bloody-minded queen,
That led calm Henry, though he were a king,
As doth a sail, fill’d with a fretting gust,
Command an argosy to stem the waves.
But think you, lords, that Clifford fled with them?   40

War.  No, ’tis impossible he should escape;
For, though before his face I speak the words,
Your brother Richard mark’d him for the grave;
And wheresoe’er he is, he’s surely dead.  [CLIFFORD groans and dies.

Edw.  Whose soul is that which takes her heavy leave?   45

Rich.  A deadly groan, like life and death’s departing.

Edw.  See who it is: and now the battle’s ended,
If friend or foe let him be gently us’d.

Rich.  Revoke that doom of mercy, for ’tis Clifford;
Who not contented that he lopp’d the branch   50
In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth,
But set his murd’ring knife unto the root
From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring,
I mean our princely father, Duke of York.

War.  From off the gates of York fetch down the head,   55
Your father’s head, which Clifford placed there;
Instead whereof let this supply the room:
Measure for measure must be answered.

Edw.  Bring forth that fatal screech-owl to our house,
That nothing sung but death to us and ours:   60
Now death shall stop his dismal threatening sound,
And his ill-boding tongue no more shall speak.  [Attendants bring the body forward.

War.  I think his understanding is bereft.
Speak, Clifford; dost thou know who speaks to thee?
Dark cloudy death o’ershades his beams of life,   65
And he nor sees, nor hears us what we say.

Rich.  O! would he did; and so perhaps he doth:
’Tis but his policy to counterfeit,
Because he would avoid such bitter taunts
Which in the time of death he gave our father.   70

Geo.  If so thou think’st, vex him with eager words.

Rich.  Clifford! ask mercy and obtain no grace.

Edw.  Clifford, repent in bootless penitence.

War.  Clifford! devise excuses for thy faults.

Geo.  While we devise fell tortures for thy faults.   75

Rich.  Thou didst love York, and I am son to York.

Edw.  Thou pitiedst Rutland, I will pity thee.

Geo.  Where’s Captain Margaret, to fence you now?

War.  They mock thee, Clifford: swear as thou wast wont.

Rich.  What! not an oath? nay, then the world goes hard   80
When Clifford cannot spare his friends an oath.
I know by that he’s dead; and, by my soul,
If this right hand would buy two hours’ life,
That I in all despite might rail at him,
This hand should chop it off, and with the issuing blood   85
Stifle the villain whose unstaunched thirst
York and young Rutland could not satisfy.

War.  Ay, but he’s dead: off with the traitor’s head,
And rear it in the place your father’s stands.
And now to London with triumphant march,   90
There to be crowned England’s royal king:
From whence shall Warwick cut the sea to France,
And ask the Lady Bona for thy queen.
So shalt thou sinew both these lands together;
And, having France thy friend, thou shalt not dread   95
The scatter’d foe that hopes to rise again;
For though they cannot greatly sting to hurt,
Yet look to have them buzz to offend thine ears.
First will I see the coronation;
And then to Brittany I’ll cross the sea,   100
To effect this marriage, so it please my lord.

Edw.  Even as thou wilt, sweet Warwick, let it be;
For on thy shoulder do I build my seat,
And never will I undertake the thing
Wherein thy counsel and consent is wanting.   105
Richard, I will create thee Duke of Gloucester;
And George, of Clarence; Warwick, as ourself,
Shall do and undo as him pleaseth best.

Rich.  Let me be Duke of Clarence, George of Gloucester,
For Gloucester’s dukedom is too ominous.   110

War.  Tut! that’s a foolish observation:
Richard, be Duke of Gloucester. Now to London,
To see these honours in possession.  [Exeunt.

Act III. Scene I.

A Chase in the North of England.

Enter two Keepers, with cross-bows in their hands.

First Keep.  Under this thick-grown brake we’ll shroud ourselves;
For through this laund anon the deer will come;
And in this covert will we make our stand,   5
Culling the principal of all the deer.

Sec. Keep.  I’ll stay above the hill, so both may shoot.

First Keep.  That cannot be; the noise of thy cross-bow
Will scare the herd, and so my shoot is lost.
Here stand we both, and aim we at the best:   10
And, for the time shall not seem tedious,
I’ll tell thee what befell me on a day
In this self place where now we mean to stand.

Sec. Keep.  Here comes a man; let’s stay till he be past.

Enter KING HENRY, disguised, with a prayer-book.   15

K. Hen.  From Scotland am I stol’n, even of pure love,
To greet mine own land with my wishful sight.
No, Harry, Harry, ’tis no land of thine;
Thy place is fill’d, thy sceptre wrung from thee,
Thy balm wash’d off wherewith thou wast anointed:   20
No bending knee will call thee Cæsar now,
No humble suitors press to speak for right,
No, not a man comes for redress of thee;
For how can I help them, and not myself?

First Keep.  Ay, here’s a deer whose skin’s a keeper’s fee:   25
This is the quondam king; let’s seize upon him.

K. Hen.  Let me embrace thee, sour adversity,
For wise men say it is the wisest course.

Sec. Keep.  Why linger we? let us lay hands upon him.

First Keep.  Forbear awhile; we’ll hear a little more.   30

K. Hen.  My queen and son are gone to France for aid;
And, as I hear, the great commanding Warwick
Is thither gone, to crave the French king’s sister
To wife for Edward. If this news be true,
Poor queen and son, your labour is but lost;   35
For Warwick is a subtle orator,
And Lewis a prince soon won with moving words.
By this account then Margaret may win him,
For she’s a woman to be pitied much:
Her sighs will make a battery in his breast;   40
Her tears will pierce into a marble heart;
The tiger will be mild whiles she doth mourn;
And Nero will be tainted with remorse,
To hear and see her plaints, her brinish tears.
Ay, but she’s come to beg; Warwick, to give:   45
She on his left side craving aid for Henry;
He on his right asking a wife for Edward.
She weeps, and says her Henry is depos’d;
He smiles, and says his Edward is install’d;
That she, poor wretch, for grief can speak no more:   50
Whiles Warwick tells his title, smooths the wrong,
Inferreth arguments of mighty strength,
And in conclusion wins the king from her,
With promise of his sister, and what else,
To strengthen and support King Edward’s place.   55
O Margaret! thus ‘twill be; and thou, poor soul,
Art then forsaken, as thou went’st forlorn.

Sec. Keep.  Say, what art thou, that talk’st of kings and queens?

K. Hen.  More than I seem, and less than I was born to:
A man at least, for less I should not be;   60
And men may talk of kings, and why not I?

Sec. Keep.  Ay, but thou talk’st as if thou wert a king.

K. Hen.  Why, so I am, in mind; and that’s enough.

Sec. Keep.  But, if thou be a king, where is thy crown?

K. Hen.  My crown is in my heart, not on my head;   65
Not deck’d with diamonds and Indian stones,
Nor to be seen: my crown is call’d content;
A crown it is that seldom kings enjoy.

Sec. Keep.  Well, if you be a king crown’d with content,
Your crown content and you must be contented   70
To go along with us; for, as we think,
You are the king King Edward hath depos’d;
And we his subjects, sworn in all allegiance,
Will apprehend you as his enemy.

K. Hen.  But did you never swear, and break an oath?   75

Sec. Keep.  No, never such an oath; nor will not now.

K. Hen.  Where did you dwell when I was King of England?

Sec. Keep.  Here in this country, where we now remain.

K. Hen.  I was anointed king at nine months old;
My father and my grandfather were kings,   80
And you were sworn true subjects unto me:
And tell me, then, have you not broke your oaths?

First Keep.  No;
For we were subjects but while you were king.

K. Hen.  Why, am I dead? do I not breathe a man?   85
Ah! simple men, you know not what you swear.
Look, as I blow this feather from my face,
And as the air blows it to me again,
Obeying with my wind when I do blow,
And yielding to another when it blows,   90
Commanded always by the greater gust;
Such is the lightness of you common men.
But do not break your oaths; for of that sin
My mild entreaty shall not make you guilty.
Go where you will, the king shall be commanded;   95
And be you kings: command, and I’ll obey.

First Keep.  We are true subjects to the king, King Edward.

K. Hen.  So would you be again to Henry,
If he were seated as King Edward is.

First Keep.  We charge you, in God’s name, and in the king’s,   100
To go with us unto the officers.

K. Hen.  In God’s name, lead; your king’s name be obey’d:
And what God will, that let your king perform;
And what he will, I humbly yield unto.  [Exeunt.

Act III. Scene II.

London.  A Room in the Palace.

Enter KING EDWARD, GLOUCESTER, CLARENCE, and LADY GREY.

K. Edw.  Brother of Gloucester, at Saint Alban’s field
This lady’s husband, Sir John Grey, was slain,
His lands then seiz’d on by the conqueror:   5
Her suit is now, to repossess those lands;
Which we in justice cannot well deny,
Because in quarrel of the house of York
The worthy gentleman did lose his life.

Glo.  Your highness shall do well to grant her suit;   10
It were dishonour to deny it her.

K. Edw.  It were no less: but yet I’ll make a pause.

Glo.  [Aside to CLARENCE.]  Yea; is it so?
I see the lady hath a thing to grant
Before the king will grant her humble suit.   15

Clar.  [Aside to GLOUCESTER.]  He knows the game: how true he keeps the wind!

Glo.  [Aside to CLARENCE.]  Silence!

K. Edw.  Widow, we will consider of your suit,
And come some other time to know our mind.

L. Grey.  Right gracious lord, I cannot brook delay:   20
May it please your highness to resolve me now,
And what your pleasure is shall satisfy me.

Glo.  [Aside to CLARENCE.]  Ay, widow? then I’ll warrant you all your lands,
An if what pleases him shall pleasure you,
Fight closer, or, good faith, you’ll catch a blow.   25

Clar.  [Aside to GLOUCESTER.]  I fear her not, unless she chance to fall.

Glo.  [Aside to CLARENCE.]  God forbid that! for he’ll take vantages.

K. Edw.  How many children hast thou, widow? tell me.

Clar.  [Aside to GLOUCESTER.]  I think he means to beg a child of her.

Glo.  [Aside to CLARENCE.]  Nay, whip me, then; he’ll rather give her two.   30

L. Grey.  Three, my most gracious lord.

Glo.  [Aside to CLARENCE.]  You shall have four, if you’ll be rul’d by him.

K. Edw.  ‘Twere pity they should lose their father’s lands.

L. Grey.  Be pitiful, dread lord, and grant it then.

K. Edw.  Lords, give us leave: I’ll try this widow’s wit.   35

Glo.  [Aside to CLARENCE.]  Ay, good leave have you; for you will have leave,
Till youth take leave and leave you to the crutch.  [Retiring with CLARENCE.

K. Edw.  Now, tell me, madam, do you love your children?

L. Grey.  Ay, full as dearly as I love myself.

K. Edw.  And would you not do much to do them good?   40

L. Grey.  To do them good I would sustain some harm.

K. Edw.  Then get your husband’s lands, to do them good.

L. Grey.  Therefore I came unto your majesty.

K. Edw.  I’ll tell you how these lands are to be got.

L. Grey.  So shall you bind me to your highness’ service.   45

K. Edw.  What service wilt thou do me, if I give them?

L. Grey.  What you command, that rests in me to do.

K. Edw.  But you will take exceptions to my boon.

L. Grey.  No, gracious lord, except I cannot do it.

K. Edw.  Ay, but thou canst do what I mean to ask.   50

L. Grey.  Why, then I will do what your Grace commands.

Glo.  [Aside to CLARENCE.]  He plies her hard; and much rain wears the marble.

Clar.  [Aside to GLOUCESTER.]  As red as fire! nay, then her wax must melt.

L. Grey.  Why stops my lord? shall I not hear my task?

K. Edw.  An easy task: ’tis but to love a king.   55

L. Grey.  That’s soon perform’d, because I am a subject.

K. Edw.  Why then, thy husband’s lands I freely give thee.

L. Grey.  I take my leave with many thousand thanks.

Glo.  [Aside to CLARENCE.]  The match is made; she seals it with a curtsy.

K. Edw.  But stay thee; ’tis the fruits of love I mean.   60

L. Grey.  The fruits of love I mean, my loving liege.

K. Edw.  Ay, but, I fear me, in another sense.
What love think’st thou I sue so much to get?

L. Grey.  My love till death, my humble thanks, my prayers:
That love which virtue begs and virtue grants.   65

K. Edw.  No, by my troth, I did not mean such love.

L. Grey.  Why, then you mean not as I thought you did.

K. Edw.  But now you partly may perceive my mind.

L. Grey.  My mind will never grant what I perceive
Your highness aims at, if I aim aright.   70

K. Edw.  To tell thee plain, I aim to lie with thee.

L. Grey.  To tell you plain, I had rather lie in prison.

K. Edw.  Why, then thou shalt not have thy husband’s lands.

L. Grey.  Why, then mine honesty shall be my dower;
For by that loss I will not purchase them.   75

K. Edw.  Therein thou wrong’st thy children mightily.

L. Grey.  Herein your highness wrongs both them and me.
But, mighty lord, this merry inclination
Accords not with the sadness of my suit:
Please you dismiss me, either with ‘ay,’ or ‘no.’   80

K. Edw.  Ay, if thou wilt say ‘ay’ to my request;
No, if thou dost say ‘no’ to my demand.

L. Grey.  Then, no, my lord. My suit is at an end.

Glo.  [Aside to CLARENCE.]  The widow likes him not, she knits her brows.

Clar.  [Aside to GLOUCESTER.]  He is the bluntest wooer in Christendom.   85

K. Edw.  [Aside.]  Her looks do argue her replete with modesty;
Her words do show her wit incomparable;
All her perfections challenge sovereignty:
One way or other, she is for a king;
And she shall be my love, or else my queen.   90
Say that King Edward take thee for his queen?

L. Grey.  ’Tis better said than done, my gracious lord:
I am a subject fit to jest withal,
But far unfit to be a sovereign.

K. Edw.  Sweet widow, by my state I swear to thee,   95
I speak no more than what my soul intends;
And that is, to enjoy thee for my love.

L. Grey.  And that is more than I will yield unto.
I know I am too mean to be your queen,
And yet too good to be your concubine.   100

K. Edw.  You cavil, widow: I did mean, my queen.

L. Grey.  ‘Twill grieve your Grace my sons should call you father.

K. Edw.  No more than when my daughters call thee mother.
Thou art a widow, and thou hast some children;
And, by God’s mother, I, being but a bachelor,   105
Have other some: why, ’tis a happy thing
To be the father unto many sons.
Answer no more, for thou shalt be my queen.

Glo.  [Aside to CLARENCE.]  The ghostly father now hath done his shrift.

Clar.  [Aside to GLOUCESTER.]  When he was made a shriver, ’twas for shift.   110

K. Edw.  Brothers, you muse what chat we two have had.

Glo.  The widow likes it not, for she looks very sad.

K. Edw.  You’d think it strange if I should marry her.

Clar.  To whom, my lord?

K. Edw.        Why, Clarence, to myself.   115

Glo.  That would be ten days’ wonder at the least.

Clar.  That’s a day longer than a wonder lasts.

Glo.  By so much is the wonder in extremes.

K. Edw.  Well, jest on, brothers: I can tell you both
Her suit is granted for her husband’s lands.   120

Enter a Nobleman.

Nob.  My gracious lord, Henry your foe is taken,
And brought as prisoner to your palace gate.

K. Edw.  See that he be convey’d unto the Tower:
And go we, brothers, to the man that took him,   125
To question of his apprehension.
Widow, go you along. Lords, use her honourably.  [Exeunt all but GLOUCESTER.

Glo.  Ay, Edward will use women honourably.
Would he were wasted, marrow, bones, and all,
That from his loins no hopeful branch may spring,   130
To cross me from the golden time I look for!
And yet, between my soul’s desire and me —
The lustful Edward’s title buried, —
Is Clarence, Henry, and his son young Edward,
And all the unlook’d for issue of their bodies,   135
To take their rooms, ere I can place myself:
A cold premeditation for my purpose!
Why then, I do but dream on sovereignty;
Like one that stands upon a promontory,
And spies a far-off shore where he would tread,   140
Wishing his foot were equal with his eye;
And chides the sea that sunders him from thence,
Saying, he’ll lade it dry to have his way:
So do I wish the crown, being so far off,
And so I chide the means that keep me from it,   145
And so I say I’ll cut the causes off,
Flattering me with impossibilities.
My eye’s too quick, my heart o’erweens too much,
Unless my hand and strength could equal them.
Well, say there is no kingdom then for Richard;   150
What other pleasure can the world afford?
I’ll make my heaven in a lady’s lap,
And deck my body in gay ornaments,
And witch sweet ladies with my words and looks.
O miserable thought! and more unlikely   155
Than to accomplish twenty golden crowns.
Why, love forswore me in my mother’s womb:
And, for I should not deal in her soft laws,
She did corrupt frail nature with some bribe,
To shrink mine arm up like a wither’d shrub;   160
To make an envious mountain on my back,
Where sits deformity to mock my body;
To shape my legs of an unequal size;
To disproportion me in every part,
Like to a chaos, or an unlick’d bear-whelp   165
That carries no impression like the dam.
And am I then a man to be belov’d?
O monstrous fault! to harbour such a thought.
Then, since this earth affords no joy to me
But to command, to check, to o’erbear such   170
As are of better person than myself,
I’ll make my heaven to dream upon the crown;
And, whiles I live, to account this world but hell,
Until my mis-shap’d trunk that bears this head
Be round impaled with a glorious crown.   175
And yet I know not how to get the crown,
For many lives stand between me and home:
And I, like one lost in a thorny wood,
That rents the thorns and is rent with the thorns,
Seeking a way and straying from the way;   180
Not knowing how to find the open air,
But toiling desperately to find it out,
Torment myself to catch the English crown:
And from that torment I will free myself,
Or hew my way out with a bloody axe.   185
Why, I can smile, and murder while I smile,
And cry, ‘Content,’ to that which grieves my heart,
And wet my cheeks with artificial tears,
And frame my face to all occasions.
I’ll drown more sailors than the mermaid shall;   190
I’ll slay more gazers than the basilisk;
I’ll play the orator as well as Nestor,
Deceive more slily than Ulysses could,
And, like a Sinon, take another Troy.
I can add colours to the chameleon,   195
Change shapes with Proteus for advantages,
And set the murd’rous Machiavel to school.
Can I do this, and cannot get a crown?
Tut! were it further off, I’ll pluck it down.  [Exit.

Act III. Scene III.

France.  A Room in the Palace.

Flourish.  Enter LEWIS the French King, his sister LADY BONA, attended: his Admiral called BOURBON; the King takes his state.  Then enter QUEEN MARGARET, PRINCE EDWARD, and the EARL OF OXFORD.  LEWIS sits, and riseth up again.

K. Lew.  Fair Queen of England, worthy Margaret,
Sit down with us: it ill befits thy state
And birth, that thou shouldst stand while Lewis doth sit.   5

Q. Mar.  No, mighty King of France: now Margaret
Must strike her sail, and learn a while to serve
Where kings command. I was, I must confess,
Great Albion’s queen in former golden days;
But now mischance hath trod my title down,   10
And with dishonour laid me on the ground,
Where I must take like seat unto my fortune,
And to my humble seat conform myself.

K. Lew.  Why, say, fair queen, whence springs this deep despair?

Q. Mar.  From such a cause as fills mine eyes with tears   15
And stops my tongue, while heart is drown’d in cares.

K. Lew.  Whate’er it be, be thou still like thyself,
And sit thee by our side.  [Seats her by him.]  Yield not thy neck
To fortune’s yoke, but let thy dauntless mind
Still ride in triumph over all mischance.   20
Be plain, Queen Margaret, and tell thy grief;
It shall be eas’d, if France can yield relief.

Q. Mar.  Those gracious words revive my drooping thoughts,
And give my tongue-tied sorrows leave to speak.
Now, therefore, be it known to noble Lewis,   25
That Henry, sole possessor of my love,
Is of a king become a banish’d man,
And forc’d to live in Scotland a forlorn;
While proud ambitious Edward Duke of York
Usurps the regal title and the seat   30
Of England’s true-anointed lawful king.
This is the cause that I, poor Margaret,
With this my son, Prince Edward, Henry’s heir,
Am come to crave thy just and lawful aid;
And if thou fail us, all our hope is done.   35
Scotland hath will to help, but cannot help;
Our people and our peers are both misled,
Our treasure seiz’d, our soldiers put to flight,
And, as thou seest, ourselves in heavy plight.

K. Lew.  Renowned queen, with patience calm the storm,   40
While we bethink a means to break it off.

Q. Mar.  The more we stay, the stronger grows our foe.

K. Lew.  The more I stay, the more I’ll succour thee.

Q. Mar.  O! but impatience waiteth on true sorrow:
And see where comes the breeder of my sorrow.   45

Enter WARWICK, attended.

K. Lew.  What’s he, approacheth boldly to our presence?

Q. Mar.  Our Earl of Warwick, Edward’s greatest friend.

K. Lew.  Welcome, brave Warwick! What brings thee to France?  [Descending from his state.  QUEEN MARGARET rises.

Q. Mar.  Ay, now begins a second storm to rise;   50
For this is he that moves both wind and tide.

War.  From worthy Edward, King of Albion,
My lord and sovereign, and thy vowed friend,
I come, in kindness and unfeigned love,
First, to do greetings to thy royal person;   55
And then to crave a league of amity;
And lastly to confirm that amity
With nuptial knot, if thou vouchsafe to grant
That virtuous Lady Bona, thy fair sister,
To England’s king in lawful marriage.   60

Q. Mar.  If that go forward, Henry’s hope is done.

War.  [To BONA.]  And, gracious madam, in our king’s behalf,
I am commanded, with your leave and favour,
Humbly to kiss your hand, and with my tongue
To tell the passion of my sov’reign’s heart;   65
Where fame, late entering at his heedful ears,
Hath plac’d thy beauty’s image and thy virtue.

Q. Mar.  King Lewis and Lady Bona, hear me speak,
Before you answer Warwick. His demand
Springs not from Edward’s well-meant honest love,   70
But from deceit bred by necessity;
For how can tyrants safely govern home,
Unless abroad they purchase great alliance?
To prove him tyrant this reason may suffice,
That Henry liveth still; but were he dead,   75
Yet here Prince Edward stands, King Henry’s son.
Look, therefore, Lewis, that by this league and marriage
Thou draw not on thy danger and dishonour;
For though usurpers sway the rule awhile,
Yet heavens are just, and time suppresseth wrongs.   80

War.  Injurious Margaret!

Prince.        And why not queen?

War.  Because thy father Henry did usurp,
And thou no more art prince than she is queen.

Oxf.  Then Warwick disannuls great John of Gaunt,   85
Which did subdue the greatest part of Spain;
And, after John of Gaunt, Henry the Fourth,
Whose wisdom was a mirror to the wisest;
And, after that wise prince, Henry the Fifth,
Who by his prowess conquered all France:   90
From these our Henry lineally descends.

War.  Oxford, how haps it, in this smooth discourse,
You told not how Henry the Sixth hath lost
All that which Henry the Fifth had gotten?
Methinks these peers of France should smile at that.   95
But for the rest, you tell a pedigree
Of threescore and two years; a silly time
To make prescription for a kingdom’s worth.

Oxf.  Why, Warwick, canst thou speak against thy liege,
Whom thou obeyedst thirty and six years,   100
And not bewray thy treason with a blush?

War.  Can Oxford, that did ever fence the right,
Now buckler falsehood with a pedigree?
For shame! leave Henry, and call Edward king.

Oxf.  Call him my king, by whose injurious doom   105
My elder brother, the Lord Aubrey Vere,
Was done to death? and more than so, my father,
Even in the downfall of his mellow’d years,
When nature brought him to the door of death?
No, Warwick, no; while life upholds this arm,   110
This arm upholds the house of Lancaster.

War.  And I the house of York.

K. Lew.  Queen Margaret, Prince Edward, and Oxford,
Vouchsafe at our request to stand aside,
While I use further conference with Warwick.  [They stand aloof.   115

Q. Mar.  Heaven grant that Warwick’s words bewitch him not!

K. Lew.  Now, Warwick, tell me, even upon thy conscience,
Is Edward your true king? for I were loath
To link with him that were not lawful chosen.

War.  Thereon I pawn my credit and mine honour.   120

K. Lew.  But is he gracious in the people’s eye?

War.  The more that Henry was unfortunate,

K. Lew.  Then further, all dissembling set aside,
Tell me for truth the measure of his love
Unto our sister Bona.   125

War.        Such it seems
As may beseem a monarch like himself.
Myself have often heard him say and swear
That this his love was an eternal plant,
Whereof the root was fix’d in virtue’s ground,   130
The leaves and fruit maintain’d with beauty’s sun,
Exempt from envy, but not from disdain,
Unless the Lady Bona quit his pain.

K. Lew.  Now, sister, let us hear your firm resolve.

Bona.  Your grant, or your denial, shall be mine:   135
[To WARWICK.]  Yet I confess that often ere this day,
When I have heard your king’s desert recounted,
Mine ear hath tempted judgment to desire.

K. Lew.  Then, Warwick, thus: our sister shall be Edward’s;
And now forthwith shall articles be drawn   140
Touching the jointure that your king must make,
Which with her dowry shall be counterpois’d.
Draw near, Queen Margaret, and be a witness
That Bona shall be wife to the English king.

Prince.  To Edward, but not to the English king.   145

Q. Mar.  Deceitful Warwick! it was thy device
By this alliance to make void my suit:
Before thy coming Lewis was Henry’s friend.

K. Lew.  And still is friend to him and Margaret:
But if your title to the crown be weak,   150
As may appear by Edward’s good success,
Then ’tis but reason that I be releas’d
From giving aid which late I promised.
Yet shall you have all kindness at my hand
That your estate requires and mine can yield.   155

War.  Henry now lives in Scotland at his ease,
Where having nothing, nothing can he lose.
And as for you yourself, our quondam queen,
You have a father able to maintain you,
And better ‘twere you troubled him than France.   160

Q. Mar.  Peace! impudent and shameless Warwick, peace;
Proud setter up and puller down of kings;
I will not hence, till, with my talk and tears,
Both full of truth, I make King Lewis behold
Thy sly conveyance and thy lord’s false love;   165
For both of you are birds of self-same feather.  [A horn winded within.

K. Lew.  Warwick, this is some post to us or thee.

Enter a Post.

Mess.  My lord ambassador, these letters are for you,
Sent from your brother, Marquess Montague:   170
These from our king unto your majesty;
[To MARGARET.]  And, madam, these for you; from whom I know not.  [They all read their letters.

Oxf.  I like it well that our fair queen and mistress
Smiles at her news, while Warwick frowns at his.

Prince.  Nay, mark how Lewis stamps as he were nettled:   175
I hope all’s for the best.

K. Lew.  Warwick, what are thy news? and yours, fair queen?

Q. Mar.  Mine, such as fill my heart with unhop’d joys.

War.  Mine, full of sorrow and heart’s discontent.

K. Lew.  What! has your king married the Lady Grey?   180
And now, to soothe your forgery and his,
Sends me a paper to persuade me patience?
Is this the alliance that he seeks with France?
Dare he presume to scorn us in this manner?

Q. Mar.  I told your majesty as much before:   185
This proveth Edward’s love and Warwick’s honesty.

War.  King Lewis, I here protest, in sight of heaven,
And by the hope I have of heavenly bliss,
That I am clear from this misdeed of Edward’s;
No more my king, for he dishonours me;   190
But most himself, if he could see his shame.
Did I forget that by the house of York
My father came untimely to his death?
Did I let pass the abuse done to my niece?
Did I impale him with the regal crown?   195
Did I put Henry from his native right?
And am I guerdon’d at the last with shame?
Shame on himself! for my desert is honour:
And, to repair my honour, lost for him,
I here renounce him and return to Henry.   200
My noble queen, let former grudges pass,
And henceforth I am thy true servitor.
I will revenge his wrong to Lady Bona,
And replant Henry in his former state.

Q. Mar.  Warwick, these words have turn’d my hate to love;   205
And I forgive and quite forget old faults,
And joy that thou becom’st King Henry’s friend.

War.  So much his friend, ay, his unfeigned friend,
That, if King Lewis vouchsafe to furnish us
With some few bands of chosen soldiers,   210
I’ll undertake to land them on our coast,
And force the tyrant from his seat by war.
’Tis not his new-made bride shall succour him:
And as for Clarence, as my letters tell me,
He’s very likely now to fall from him,   215
For matching more for wanton lust than honour,
Or than for strength and safety of our country.

Bona.  Dear brother, how shall Bona be reveng’d,
But by thy help to this distressed queen?

Q. Mar.  Renowned prince, how shall poor Henry live,   220
Unless thou rescue him from foul despair?

Bona.  My quarrel and this English queen’s are one.

War.  And mine, fair Lady Bona, joins with yours.

K. Lew.  And mine with hers, and thine and Margaret’s.
Therefore, at last, I firmly am resolv’d   225
You shall have aid.

Q. Mar.  Let me give humble thanks for all at once.

K. Lew.  Then, England’s messenger, return in post,
And tell false Edward, thy supposed king,
That Lewis of France is sending over masquers,   230
To revel it with him and his new bride.
Thou seest what’s past; go fear thy king withal.

Bona.  Tell him, in hope he’ll prove a widower shortly,
I’ll wear the willow garland for his sake.

Q. Mar.  Tell him, my mourning weeds are laid aside,   235
And I am ready to put armour on.

War.  Tell him from me, that he hath done me wrong,
And therefore I’ll uncrown him ere ‘t be long.
There’s thy reward: be gone.  [Exit Messenger.

K. Lew.        But, Warwick,   240
Thou and Oxford, with five thousand men,
Shall cross the seas, and bid false Edward battle;
And, as occasion serves, this noble queen
And prince shall follow with a fresh supply.
Yet ere thou go, but answer me one doubt:   245
What pledge have we of thy firm loyalty?

War.  This shall assure my constant loyalty:
That if our queen and this young prince agree,
I’ll join mine eldest daughter and my joy
To him forthwith in holy wedlock bands.   250

Q. Mar.  Yes, I agree, and thank you for your motion.
Son Edward, she is fair and virtuous,
Therefore delay not, give thy hand to Warwick;
And, with thy hand, thy faith irrevocable,
That only Warwick’s daughter shall be thine.   255

Prince.  Yes, I accept her, for she well deserves it;
And here, to pledge my vow, I give my hand.  [He gives his hand to WARWICK.

K. Lew.  Why stay we now? These soldiers shall be levied,
And thou, Lord Bourbon, our high admiral,
Shall waft them over with our royal fleet.   260
I long till Edward fall by war’s mischance,
For mocking marriage with a dame of France.  [Exeunt all except WARWICK.

War.  I came from Edward as ambassador,
But I return his sworn and mortal foe:
Matter of marriage was the charge he gave me,   265
But dreadful war shall answer his demand.
Had he none else to make a stale but me?
Then none but I shall turn his jest to sorrow.
I was the chief that rais’d him to the crown,
And I’ll be chief to bring him down again:   270
Not that I pity Henry’s misery,
But seek revenge on Edward’s mockery.  [Exit.

Act IV. Scene I.

London.  A Room in the Palace.

Enter GLOUCESTER, CLARENCE, SOMERSET, MONTAGUE, and Others.

Glo.  Now tell me, brother Clarence, what think you
Of this new marriage with the Lady Grey?
Hath not our brother made a worthy choice?   5

Clar.  Alas! you know, ’tis far from hence to France;
How could he stay till Warwick made return?

Som.  My lords, forbear this talk; here comes the king.

Glo.  And his well-chosen bride.

Clar.  I mind to tell him plainly what I think.   10

Flourish.  Enter KING EDWARD, attended; LADY GREY, as Queen; PEMBROKE, STAFFORD, HASTINGS, and Others.

K. Edw.  Now, brother Clarence, how like you our choice,
That you stand pensive, as half malcontent?

Clar.  As well as Lewis of France, or the Earl of Warwick;
Which are so weak of courage and in judgment   15
That they’ll take no offence at our abuse.

K. Edw.  Suppose they take offence without a cause,
They are but Lewis and Warwick: I am Edward,
Your king and Warwick’s, and must have my will.

Glo.  And you shall have your will, because our king:   20
Yet hasty marriage seldom proveth well.

K. Edw.  Yea, brother Richard, are you offended too?

Glo.  Not I:
No, God forbid, that I should wish them sever’d
Whom God hath join’d together; ay, and ‘twere pity   25
To sunder them that yoke so well together.

K. Edw.  Setting your scorns and your mislike aside,
Tell me some reason why the Lady Grey
Should not become my wife and England’s queen:
And you too, Somerset and Montague,   30
Speak freely what you think.

Clar.  Then this is mine opinion: that King Lewis
Becomes your enemy for mocking him
About the marriage of the Lady Bona.

Glo.  And Warwick, doing what you gave in charge,   35
Is now dishonoured by this new marriage.

K. Edw.  What if both Lewis and Warwick be appeas’d
By such invention as I can devise?

Mont.  Yet to have join’d with France in such alliance
Would more have strengthen’d this our commonwealth   40
‘Gainst foreign storms, than any home-bred marriage.

Hast.  Why, knows not Montague, that of itself
England is safe, if true within itself?

Mont.  Yes; but the safer when ’tis back’d with France.

Hast.  ’Tis better using France than trusting France:   45
Let us be back’d with God and with the seas
Which he hath given for fence impregnable,
And with their helps only defend ourselves:
In them and in ourselves our safety lies.

Clar.  For this one speech Lord Hastings well deserves   50
To have the heir of the Lord Hungerford.

K. Edw.  Ay, what of that? it was my will and grant;
And for this once my will shall stand for law.

Glo.  And yet methinks your Grace hath not done well,
To give the heir and daughter of Lord Scales   55
Unto the brother of your loving bride:
She better would have fitted me or Clarence:
But in your bride you bury brotherhood.

Clar.  Or else you would not have bestow’d the heir
Of the Lord Bonville on your new wife’s son,   60
And leave your brothers to go speed elsewhere.

K. Edw.  Alas, poor Clarence, is it for a wife
That thou art malcontent? I will provide thee.

Clar.  In choosing for yourself you show’d your judgment,
Which being shallow, you shall give me leave   65
To play the broker on mine own behalf;
And to that end I shortly mind to leave you.

K. Edw.  Leave me, or tarry, Edward will be king,
And not be tied unto his brother’s will.

Q. Eliz.  My lords, before it pleas’d his majesty   70
To raise my state to title of a queen,
Do me but right, and you must all confess
That I was not ignoble of descent;
And meaner than myself have had like fortune.
But as this title honours me and mine,   75
So your dislikes, to whom I would be pleasing,
Do cloud my joys with danger and with sorrow.

K. Edw.  My love, forbear to fawn upon their frowns:
What danger or what sorrow can befall thee,
So long as Edward is thy constant friend,   80
And their true sovereign, whom they must obey?
Nay, whom they shall obey, and love thee too,
Unless they seek for hatred at my hands;
Which if they do, yet will I keep thee safe,
And they shall feel the vengeance of my wrath.   85

Glo.  [Aside.]  I hear, yet say not much, but think the more.

Enter a Messenger.

K. Edw.  Now, messenger, what letters or what news
From France?

Mess.  My sovereign liege, no letters; and few words;   90
But such as I, without your special pardon,
Dare not relate.

K. Edw.  Go to, we pardon thee: therefore, in brief,
Tell me their words as near as thou canst guess them.
What answer makes King Lewis unto our letters?   95

Mess.  At my depart these were his very words:
‘Go tell false Edward, thy supposed king,
That Lewis of France is sending over masquers,
To revel it with him and his new bride.’

K. Edw.  Is Lewis so brave? belike he thinks me Henry.   100
But what said Lady Bona to my marriage?

Mess.  These were her words, utter’d with mild disdain:
‘Tell him, in hope he’ll prove a widower shortly,
I’ll wear the willow garland for his sake.’

K. Edw.  I blame not her, she could say little less;   105
She had the wrong. But what said Henry’s queen?
For I have heard that she was there in place.

Mess.  ‘Tell him,’ quoth she, ‘my mourning weeds are done,
And I am ready to put armour on.’

K. Edw.  Belike she minds to play the Amazon.   110
But what said Warwick to these injuries?

Mess.  He, more incens’d against your majesty
Than all the rest, discharg’d me with these words:
‘Tell him from me that he hath done me wrong,
And therefore I’ll uncrown him ere ‘t be long.’   115

K. Edw.  Ha! durst the traitor breathe out so proud words?
Well, I will arm me, being thus forewarn’d:
They shall have wars, and pay for their presumption.
But say, is Warwick friends with Margaret?

Mess.  Ay, gracious sovereign; they are so link’d in friendship,   120
That young Prince Edward marries Warwick’s daughter.

Clar.  Belike the elder; Clarence will have the younger.
Now, brother king, farewell, and sit you fast,
For I will hence to Warwick’s other daughter;
That, though I want a kingdom, yet in marriage   125
I may not prove inferior to yourself.
You, that love me and Warwick, follow me.  [Exit CLARENCE, and SOMERSET follows.

Glo.  [Aside.]  Not I.
My thoughts aim at a further matter; I
Stay not for love of Edward, but the crown.   130

K. Edw.  Clarence and Somerset both gone to Warwick!
Yet am I arm’d against the worst can happen,
And haste is needful in this desperate case.
Pembroke and Stafford, you in our behalf
Go levy men, and make prepare for war:   135
They are already, or quickly will be landed:
Myself in person will straight follow you,  [Exeunt PEMBROKE and STAFFORD.
But ere I go, Hastings and Montague,
Resolve my doubt. You twain, of all the rest,
Are near to Warwick by blood, and by alliance:   140
Tell me if you love Warwick more than me?
If it be so, then both depart to him;
I rather wish you foes than hollow friends:
But if you mind to hold your true obedience,
Give me assurance with some friendly vow   145
That I may never have you in suspect.

Mont.  So God help Montague as he proves true!

Hast.  And Hastings as he favours Edward’s cause!

K. Edw.  Now, brother Richard, will you stand by us?

Glo.  Ay, in despite of all that shall withstand you.   150

K. Edw.  Why, so! then am I sure of victory.
Now therefore let us hence; and lose no hour
Till we meet Warwick with his foreign power.  [Exeunt.

Act IV. Scene II.

A Plain in Warwickshire.

Enter WARWICK and OXFORD, with French and other Forces.

War.  Trust me, my lord, all hitherto goes well;
The common people by numbers swarm to us.

Enter CLARENCE and SOMERSET.   5
But see where Somerset and Clarence come!
Speak suddenly, my lords, are we all friends?

Clar.  Fear not that, my lord.

War.  Then, gentle Clarence, welcome unto Warwick;
And welcome Somerset: I hold it cowardice,   10
To rest mistrustful where a noble heart
Hath pawn’d an open hand in sign of love;
Else might I think that Clarence, Edward’s brother,
Were but a feigned friend to our proceedings:
But welcome, sweet Clarence; my daughter shall be thine.   15
And now what rests, but in night’s coverture,
Thy brother being carelessly encamp’d,
His soldiers lurking in the towns about,
And but attended by a simple guard,
We may surprise and take him at our pleasure?   20
Our scouts have found the adventure very easy:
That as Ulysses, and stout Diomede,
With sleight and manhood stole to Rhesus’ tents,
And brought from thence the Thracian fatal steeds;
So we, well cover’d with the night’s black mantle,   25
At unawares may beat down Edward’s guard,
And seize himself; I say not, slaughter him,
For I intend but only to surprise him.
You, that will follow me to this attempt,
Applaud the name of Henry with your leader.  [They all cry ‘Henry!’   30
Why, then, let’s on our way in silent sort.
For Warwick and his friends, God and Saint George!  [Exeunt.

Act IV. Scene III.

EDWARD’S Camp near Warwick.

Enter certain Watchmen to guard the KING’S tent.

First Watch.  Come on, my masters, each man take his stand;
The king, by this, is set him down to sleep.

Sec. Watch.  What, will he not to bed?   5

First Watch.  Why, no: for he hath made a solemn vow
Never to lie and take his natural rest
Till Warwick or himself be quite suppress’d.

Sec. Watch.  To-morrow then belike shall be the day,
If Warwick be so near as men report.   10

Third Watch.  But say, I pray, what nobleman is that
That with the king here resteth in his tent?

First Watch.  ’Tis the Lord Hastings, the king’s chiefest friend.

Third Watch.  O! is it so? But why commands the king
That his chief followers lodge in towns about him,   15
While he himself keeps in the cold field?

Sec. Watch.  ’Tis the more honour, because the more dangerous.

Third Watch.  Ay, but give me worship and quietness;
I like it better than a dangerous honour.
If Warwick knew in what estate he stands,   20
’Tis to be doubted he would waken him.

First Watch.  Unless our halberds did shut up his passage.

Sec. Watch.  Ay; wherefore else guard we his royal tent,
But to defend his person from night-foes?

Enter WARWICK, CLARENCE, OXFORD, SOMERSET, and Forces.   25

War.  This is his tent; and see where stand his guard.
Courage, my masters! honour now or never!
But follow me, and Edward shall be ours.

First Watch.  Who goes there?

Sec. Watch.  Stay, or thou diest.  [WARWICK and the rest cry all, ‘Warwick! Warwick!’ and set upon the Guard; who fly, crying, ‘Arm! Arm!’  WARWICK and the rest following them.   30

Drums beating, and Trumpets sounding, re-enter WARWICK and the rest, bringing the KING out in his gown, sitting in a chair.  GLOUCESTER and HASTINGS fly over the stage.

Som.        What are they that fly there?

War.  Richard and Hastings: let them go; here’s the duke.

K. Edw.  The duke! Why, Warwick, when we parted last,
Thou call’dst me king!   35

War.        Ay, but the case is alter’d:
When you disgrac’d me in my embassade,
Then I degraded you from being king,
And come now to create you Duke of York.
Alas! how should you govern any kingdom,   40
That know not how to use ambassadors,
Nor how to be contented with one wife,
Nor how to use your brothers brotherly,
Nor how to study for the people’s welfare,
Nor how to shroud yourself from enemies?   45

K. Edw.  Yea, brother of Clarence, art thou here too?
Nay, then, I see that Edward needs must down.
Yet, Warwick, in despite of all mischance,
Of thee thyself, and all thy complices,
Edward will always bear himself as king:   50
Though Fortune’s malice overthrow my state,
My mind exceeds the compass of her wheel.

War.  Then, for his mind, be Edward England’s king:  [Takes off his crown.
But Henry now shall wear the English crown,
And be true king indeed, thou but the shadow.   55
My Lord of Somerset, at my request,
See that forthwith Duke Edward be convey’d
Unto my brother, Archbishop of York.
When I have fought with Pembroke and his fellows,
I’ll follow you, and tell what answer   60
Lewis and the Lady Bona send to him:
Now, for a while farewell, good Duke of York.

K. Edw.  What fates impose, that men must needs abide;
It boots not to resist both wind and tide.  [Exit, led out; SOMERSET with him.

Oxf.  What now remains, my lords, for us to do,   65
But march to London with our soldiers?

War.  Ay, that’s the first thing that we have to do;
To free King Henry from imprisonment,
And see him seated in the regal throne.  [Exeunt.

Act IV. Scene IV.

London.  A Room in the Palace.

Enter QUEEN ELIZABETH and RIVERS.

Riv.  Madam, what makes you in this sudden change?

Q. Eliz.  Why, brother Rivers, are you yet to learn,
What late misfortune is befall’n King Edward?   5

Riv.  What! loss of some pitch’d battle against Warwick?

Q. Eliz.  No, but the loss of his own royal person.

Riv.  Then is my sovereign slain?

Q. Eliz.  Ay, almost slain, for he is taken prisoner;
Either betray’d by falsehood of his guard   10
Or by his foe surpris’d at unawares:
And, as I further have to understand,
Is new committed to the Bishop of York,
Fell Warwick’s brother, and by that our foe.

Riv.  These news, I must confess, are full of grief;   15
Yet, gracious madam, bear it as you may:
Warwick may lose, that now hath won the day.

Q. Eliz.  Till then fair hope must hinder life’s decay.
And I the rather wean me from despair
For love of Edward’s offspring in my womb:   20
This is it that makes me bridle passion,
And bear with mildness my misfortune’s cross;
Ay, ay, for this I draw in many a tear,
And stop the rising of blood-sucking sighs,
Lest with my sighs or tears I blast or drown   25
King Edward’s fruit, true heir to the English crown.

Riv.  But, madam, where is Warwick then become?

Q. Eliz.  I am inform’d that he comes towards London,
To set the crown once more on Henry’s head:
Guess thou the rest; King Edward’s friends must down.   30
But, to prevent the tyrant’s violence, —
For trust not him that hath once broken faith, —
I’ll hence forthwith unto the sanctuary,
To save at least the heir of Edward’s right:
There shall I rest secure from force and fraud.   35
Come, therefore; let us fly while we may fly:
If Warwick take us we are sure to die.  [Exeunt.

Act IV. Scene V.

A Park near Middleham Castle in Yorkshire.

Enter GLOUCESTER, HASTINGS, SIR WILLIAM STANLEY, and Others.

Glo.  Now, my Lord Hastings and Sir William Stanley,
Leave off to wonder why I drew you hither,
Into this chiefest thicket of the park.   5
Thus stands the case. You know, our king, my brother,
Is prisoner to the bishop here, at whose hands
He hath good usage and great liberty,
And often but attended with weak guard,
Comes hunting this way to disport himself.   10
I have advertis’d him by secret means,
That if about this hour he make this way,
Under the colour of his usual game,
He shall here find his friends, with horse and men
To set him free from his captivity.   15

Enter KING EDWARD and a Huntsman.

Hunt.  This way, my lord, for this way lies the game.

K. Edw.  Nay, this way, man: see where the huntsmen stand.
Now, brother of Gloucester, Lord Hastings, and the rest,
Stand you thus close, to steal the bishop’s deer?   20

Glo.  Brother, the time and case requireth haste.
Your horse stands ready at the park corner.

K. Edw.  But whither shall we then?

Hast.  To Lynn, my lord; and ship from thence to Flanders.

Glo.  Well guess’d, believe me; for that was my meaning.   25

K. Edw.  Stanley, I will requite thy forwardness.

Glo.  But wherefore stay we? ’tis no time to talk.

K. Edw.  Huntsman, what sayst thou? wilt thou go along?

Hunt.  Better do so than tarry and be hang’d.

Glo.  Come then, away; let’s ha’ no more ado.   30

K. Edw.  Bishop, farewell: shield thee from Warwick’s frown,
And pray that I may repossess the crown.  [Exeunt.

Act IV. Scene VI.

A Room in the Tower.

Enter KING HENRY, CLARENCE, WARWICK, SOMERSET, young RICHMOND, OXFORD, MONTAGUE, Lieutenant of the Tower, and Attendants.

K. Hen.  Master lieutenant, now that God and friends
Have shaken Edward from the regal seat,
And turn’d my captive state to liberty,   5
My fear to hope, my sorrows unto joys,
At our enlargement what are thy due fees?

Lieu.  Subjects may challenge nothing of their sovereigns;
But if a humble prayer may prevail,
I then crave pardon of your majesty.   10

K. Hen.  For what, lieutenant? for well using me?
Nay, be thou sure, I’ll well requite thy kindness,
For that it made my imprisonment a pleasure;
Ay, such a pleasure as encaged birds
Conceive, when, after many moody thoughts   15
At last by notes of household harmony
They quite forget their loss of liberty.
But, Warwick, after God, thou set’st me free,
And chiefly therefore I thank God and thee;
He was the author, thou the instrument.   20
Therefore, that I may conquer Fortune’s spite
By living low, where Fortune cannot hurt me,
And that the people of this blessed land
May not be punish’d with my thwarting stars,
Warwick, although my head still wear the crown,   25
I here resign my government to thee,
For thou art fortunate in all thy deeds.

War.  Your Grace hath still been fam’d for virtuous;
And now may seem as wise as virtuous,
By spying and avoiding Fortune’s malice;   30
For few men rightly temper with the stars:
Yet in this one thing let me blame your Grace,
For choosing me when Clarence is in place.

Clar.  No, Warwick, thou art worthy of the sway,
To whom the heavens, in thy nativity   35
Adjudg’d an olive branch and laurel crown,
As likely to be blest in peace, and war;
And therefore I yield thee my free consent.

War.  And I choose Clarence only for protector.

K. Hen  Warwick and Clarence, give me both your hands:   40
Now join your hands, and with your hands your hearts,
That no dissension hinder government:
I make you both protectors of this land,
While I myself will lead a private life,
And in devotion spend my latter days,   45
To sin’s rebuke and my Creator’s praise.

War.  What answers Clarence to his sovereign’s will?

Clar.  That he consents, if Warwick yield consent;
For on thy fortune I repose myself.

War.  Why then, though loath, yet must I be content:   50
We’ll yoke together, like a double shadow
To Henry’s body, and supply his place;
I mean, in bearing weight of government,
While he enjoys the honour and his ease.
And, Clarence, now then it is more than needful   55
Forthwith that Edward be pronounc’d a traitor,
And all his lands and goods be confiscate.

Clar.  What else? and that succession be determin’d.

War.  Ay, therein Clarence shall not want his part.

K. Hen.  But, with the first of all your chief affairs,   60
Let me entreat, for I command no more,
That Margaret your queen, and my son Edward,
Be sent for, to return from France with speed:
For, till I see them here, by doubtful fear
My joy of liberty is half eclips’d.   65

Clar.  It shall be done, my sov’reign, with all speed.

K. Hen.  My Lord of Somerset, what youth is that
Of whom you seem to have so tender care?

Som.  My liege, it is young Henry, Earl of Richmond.

K. Hen.  Come hither, England’s hope:  [Lays his hand on his head.]  If secret powers   70
Suggest but truth to my divining thoughts,
This pretty lad will prove our country’s bliss.
His looks are full of peaceful majesty,
His head by nature fram’d to wear a crown,
His hand to wield a sceptre, and himself   75
Likely in time to bless a regal throne.
Make much of him, my lords; for this is he
Must help you more than you are hurt by me.

Enter a Post.

War.  What news, my friend?   80

Mess.  That Edward is escaped from your brother,
And fled, as he hears since, to Burgundy.

War.  Unsavoury news! but how made he escape?

Mess.  He was convey’d by Richard Duke of Gloucester,
And the Lord Hastings, who attended him   85
In secret ambush on the forest side,
And from the bishop’s huntsmen rescu’d him:
For hunting was his daily exercise.

War.  My brother was too careless of his charge.
But let us hence, my sovereign, to provide   90
A salve for any sore that may betide.  [Exeunt KING HENRY, WARWICK, CLARENCE, Lieutenant, and Attendant.

Som.  My lord, I like not of this flight of Edward’s;
For doubtless Burgundy will yield him help,
And we shall have more wars before ‘t be long.
As Henry’s late presaging prophecy   95
Did glad my heart with hope of this young Richmond,
So doth my heart misgive me, in these conflicts
What may befall him to his harm and ours:
Therefore, Lord Oxford, to prevent the worst,
Forthwith we’ll send him hence to Brittany,   100
Till storms be past of civil enmity.

Oxf.  Ay, for if Edward repossess the crown,
’Tis like that Richmond with the rest shall down.

Som.  It shall be so; he shall to Brittany.
Come, therefore, let’s about it speedily.  [Exeunt.   105

Act IV. Scene VII.

Before York.

Enter KING EDWARD, GLOUCESTER, HASTINGS, and Forces.

K. Edw.  Now, brother Richard, Lord Hastings, and the rest,
Yet thus far Fortune maketh us amends,
And says, that once more I shall interchange   5
My waned state for Henry’s regal crown.
Well have we pass’d, and now repass’d the seas,
And brought desired help from Burgundy:
What then remains, we being thus arriv’d
From Ravenspurgh haven before the gates of York,   10
But that we enter, as into our dukedom?

Glo.  The gates made fast! Brother, I like not this;
For many men that stumble at the threshold
Are well foretold that danger lurks within.

K. Edw.  Tush, man! abodements must not now affright us.   15
By fair or foul means we must enter in,
For hither will our friends repair to us.

Hast.  My liege, I’ll knock once more to summon them.

Enter, on the Walls, the Mayor of York and his Brethren.

May  My lords, we were forewarned of your coming,   20
And shut the gates for safety of ourselves;
For now we owe allegiance unto Henry.

K. Edw.  But, Master Mayor, if Henry be your king,
Yet Edward, at the least, is Duke of York.

May.  True, my good lord, I know you for no less.   25

K. Edw.  Why, and I challenge nothing but my dukedom,
As being well content with that alone.

Glo.  [Aside.]  But when the fox hath once got in his nose,
He’ll soon find means to make the body follow.

Hast.  Why, Master Mayor, why stand you in a doubt?   30
Open the gates; we are King Henry’s friends.

May.  Ay, say you so? the gates shall then be open’d.  [Exit, with Aldermen, above.

Glo  A wise stout captain, and soon persuaded.

Hast.  The good old man would fain that all were well,
So ‘twere not ‘long of him; but being enter’d,   35
I doubt not, I, but we shall soon persuade
Both him and all his brothers unto reason.

Re-enter the Mayor and two Aldermen.

K. Edw.  So, Master Mayor: these gates must not be shut
But in the night, or in the time of war.   40
What! fear not, man, but yield me up the keys;  [Takes his keys.
For Edward will defend the town and thee,
And all those friends that deign to follow me.

Enter MONTGOMERY and Forces.

Glo.  Brother, this is Sir John Montgomery,   45
Our trusty friend, unless I be deceiv’d.

K. Edw.  Welcome, Sir John! but why come you in arms?

Mont.  To help King Edward in his time of storm,
As every loyal subject ought to do.

K. Edw.  Thanks, good Montgomery; but we now forget   50
Our title to the crown, and only claim
Our dukedom till God please to send the rest.

Mont.  Then fare you well, for I will hence again:
I came to serve a king and not a duke.
Drummer, strike up, and let us march away.  [A march begun.   55

K. Edw.  Nay, stay, Sir John, awhile; and we’ll debate
By what safe means the crown may be recover’d.

Mont.  What talk you of debating? in few words,
If you’ll not here proclaim yourself our king,
I’ll leave you to your fortune, and be gone   60
To keep them back that come to succour you.
Why shall we fight, if you pretend no title?

Glo.  Why, brother, wherefore stand you on nice points?

K. Edw.  When we grow stronger then we’ll make our claim;
Till then, ’tis wisdom to conceal our meaning.   65

Hast.  Away with scrupulous wit! now arms must rule.

Glo.  And fearless minds climb soonest unto crowns.
Brother, we will proclaim you out of hand;
The bruit thereof will bring you many friends.

K. Edw.  Then be it as you will; for ’tis my right,   70
And Henry but usurps the diadem.

Mont.  Ay, now my sov’reign speaketh like himself;
And now will I be Edward’s champion.

Hast.  Sound, trumpet! Edward shall be here proclaim’d;
Come, fellow soldier, make thou proclamation.  [Gives him a paper. Flourish.   75

Sold.  Edward the Fourth, by the grace of God, King of England and France, and Lord of Ireland, &c.

Mont.  And whosoe’er gainsays King Edward’s right,
By this I challenge him to single fight.  [Throws down his gauntlet.

All.  Long live Edward the Fourth!

K. Edw.  Thanks, brave Montgomery; — and thanks unto you all:   80
If Fortune serve me, I’ll requite this kindness.
Now, for this night, let’s harbour here in York;
And when the morning sun shall raise his car
Above the border of this horizon,
We’ll forward towards Warwick, and his mates;   85
For well I wot that Henry is no soldier.
Ah, froward Clarence, how evil it beseems thee
To flatter Henry, and forsake thy brother!
Yet, as we may, we’ll meet both thee and Warwick.
Come on, brave soldiers: doubt not of the day;   90
And, that once gotten, doubt not of large pay.  [Exeunt.

Act IV. Scene VIII.

London.  A Room in the Palace.

Flourish.  Enter KING HENRY, WARWICK, CLARENCE, MONTAGUE, EXETER, and OXFORD.

War  What counsel, lords? Edward from Belgia,
With hasty Germans and blunt Hollanders,
Hath pass’d in safety through the narrow seas,   5
And with his troops doth march amain to London;
And many giddy people flock to him.

Oxf.  Let’s levy men, and beat him back again.

Clar.  A little fire is quickly trodden out,
Which, being suffer’d, rivers cannot quench.   10

War.  In Warwickshire I have true-hearted friends,
Not mutinous in peace, yet bold in war;
Those will I muster up: and thou, son Clarence,
Shalt stir up in Suffolk, Norfolk, and in Kent,
The knights and gentlemen to come with thee:   15
Thou, brother Montague, in Buckingham,
Northampton, and in Leicestershire, shalt find
Men wellinclin’d to hear what thou command’st:
And thou, brave Oxford, wondrous well belov’d
In Oxfordshire, shalt muster up thy friends.   20
My sov’reign, with the loving citizens,
Like to his island girt in with the ocean,
Or modest Dian circled with her nymphs,
Shall rest in London till we come to him.
Fair lords, take leave, and stand not to reply.   25
Farewell, my sovereign.

K. Hen.  Farewell, my Hector, and my Troy’s true hope.

Clar.  In sign of truth, I kiss your highness’ hand.

K. Hen.  Well-minded Clarence, be thou fortunate!

Mont.  Comfort, my lord; and so, I take my leave.   30

Oxf.  [Kissing HENRY’S hand.]  And thus I seal my truth, and bid adieu.

K. Hen.  Sweet Oxford, and my loving Montague,
And all at once, once more a happy farewell.

War.  Farewell, sweet lords: let’s meet at Coventry.  [Exeunt all but KING HENRY and EXETER.

K. Hen.  Here at the palace will I rest awhile.   35
Cousin of Exeter, what thinks your lordship?
Methinks the power that Edward hath in field
Should not be able to encounter mine.

Exe.  The doubt is that he will seduce the rest.

K. Hen.  That’s not my fear; my meed hath got me fame:   40
I have not stopp’d mine ears to their demands,
Nor posted off their suits with slow delays;
My pity hath been balm to heal their wounds,
My mildness hath allay’d their swelling griefs,
My mercy dried their water-flowing tears;   45
I have not been desirous of their wealth;
Nor much oppress’d them with great subsidies,
Nor forward of revenge, though they much err’d.
Then why should they love Edward more than me?
No, Exeter, these graces challenge grace:   50
And, when the lion fawns upon the lamb,
The lamb will never cease to follow him.  [Shout within, ‘A Lancaster! A Lancaster!’

Exe.  Hark, hark, my lord! what shouts are these?

Enter KING EDWARD, GLOUCESTER, and Soldiers.

K. Edw.  Seize on the shame-fac’d Henry! bear him hence:   55
And once again proclaim us King of England.
You are the fount that makes small brooks to flow:
Now stops thy spring; my sea shall suck them dry,
And swell so much the higher by their ebb.
Hence with him to the Tower! let him not speak.  [Exeunt some with KING HENRY.   60
And, lords, towards Coventry bend we our course,
Where peremptory Warwick now remains:
The sun shines hot; and, if we use delay,
Cold biting winter mars our hop’d-for hay.

Glo.  Away betimes, before his forces join,   65
And take the great-grown traitor unawares:
Brave warriors, march amain towards Coventry.  [Exeunt.

Act V. Scene I.

Coventry.

Enter, upon the Walls, WARWICK, the Mayor of Coventry, two Messengers, and Others.

War.  Where is the post that came from valiant Oxford?
How far hence is thy lord, mine honest fellow?

First Mess.  By this at Dunsmore, marching hitherward.   5

War.  How far off is our brother Montague?
Where is the post that came from Montague?

Sec. Mess.  By this at Daintry, with a puissant troop.

Enter SIR JOHN SOMERVILLE.

War.  Say, Somerville, what says my loving son?   10
And, by thy guess, how nigh is Clarence now?

Som.  At Southam I did leave him with his forces,
And do expect him here some two hours hence.  [Drum heard.

War.  Then Clarence is at hand, I hear his drum.

Som.  It is not his, my lord; here Southam lies:   15
The drum your honour hears marcheth from Warwick.

War.  Who should that be? belike, unlook’d for friends.

Som.  They are at hand, and you shall quickly know.

Enter KING EDWARD, GLOUCESTER, and Forces.

K. Edw.  Go, trumpet, to the walls, and sound a parle.   20

Glo.  See how the surly Warwick mans the wall.

War.  O, unbid spite! is sportful Edward come?
Where slept our scouts, or how are they seduc’d,
That we could hear no news of his repair?

K. Edw  Now, Warwick, wilt thou ope the city gates,   25
Speak gentle words, and humbly bend thy knee? —
Call Edward king, and at his hands beg mercy?
And he shall pardon thee these outrages.

War.  Nay, rather, wilt thou draw thy forces hence, —
Confess who set thee up and pluck’d thee down? —   30
Call Warwick patron, and be penitent;
And thou shalt still remain the Duke of York.

Glo.  I thought, at least, he would have said the king;
Or did he make the jest against his will?

War.  Is not a dukedom, sir, a goodly gift?   35

Glo.  Ay, by my faith, for a poor earl to give:
I’ll do thee service for so good a gift.

War.  ’Twas I that gave the kingdom to thy brother.

K. Edw.  Why then ’tis mine, if but by Warwick’s gift.

War.  Thou art no Atlas for so great a weight:   40
And, weakling, Warwick takes his gift again;
And Henry is my king, Warwick his subject.

K. Edw.  But Warwick’s king is Edward’s prisoner;
And, gallant Warwick, do but answer this,
What is the body, when the head is off?   45

Glo.  Alas! that Warwick had no more forecast,
But, whiles he thought to steal the single ten,
The king was slily finger’d from the deck.
You left poor Henry at the bishop’s palace,
And, ten to one, you’ll meet him in the Tower.   50

K. Edw.  ’Tis even so: yet you are Warwick still.

Glo.  Come, Warwick, take the time; kneel down, kneel down:
Nay, when? strike now, or else the iron cools.

War.  I had rather chop this hand off at a blow,
And with the other fling it at thy face,   55
Than bear so low a sail to strike to thee.

K. Edw.  Sail how thou canst, have wind and tide thy friend;
This hand, fast wound about thy coal-black hair,
Shall, whiles thy head is warm and new cut off,
Write in the dust this sentence with thy blood:   60
‘Wind-changing Warwick now can change no more.’

Enter OXFORD, with Soldiers, drum, and colours.

War.  O cheerful colours! see where Oxford comes!

Oxf.  Oxford, Oxford, for Lancaster!  [He and his Forces enter the city.

Glo.  The gates are open, let us enter too.   65

K. Edw.  So other foes may set upon our backs.
Stand we in good array; for they no doubt
Will issue out again and bid us battle:
If not, the city being but of small defence,
We’ll quickly rouse the traitors in the same.   70

War.  O! welcome, Oxford! for we want thy help.

Enter MONTAGUE, with Soldiers, drum, and colours.

Mont.  Montague, Montague, for Lancaster!  [He and his Forces enter the city.

Glo.  Thou and thy brother both shall buy this treason
Even with the dearest blood your bodies bear.   75

K. Edw.  The harder match’d, the greater victory:
My mind presageth happy gain, and conquest.

Enter SOMERSET, with Soldiers, drum, and colours.

Som.  Somerset, Somerset, for Lancaster!  [He and his Forces enter the city.

Glo.  Two of thy name, both Dukes of Somerset,   80
Have sold their lives unto the house of York;
And thou shalt be the third, if this sword hold.

Enter CLARENCE, with Forces, drum, and colours.

War.  And lo! where George of Clarence sweeps along,
Of force enough to bid his brother battle;   85
With whom an upright zeal to right prevails
More than the nature of a brother’s love.
Come, Clarence, come; thou wilt, if Warwick call.

Clar.  Father of Warwick, know you what this means?  [Taking the red rose out of his hat.
Look here, I throw my infamy at thee:   90
I will not ruinate my father’s house,
Who gave his blood to lime the stones together,
And set up Lancaster. Why, trow’st thou, Warwick,
That Clarence is so harsh, so blunt, unnatural,
To bend the fatal instruments of war   95
Against his brother and his lawful king?
Perhaps thou wilt object my holy oath:
To keep that oath were more impiety
Than Jephthah’s, when he sacrific’d his daughter.
I am so sorry for my trespass made   100
That, to deserve well at my brother’s hands,
I here proclaim myself thy mortal foe;
With resolution, wheresoe’er I meet thee —
As I will meet thee if thou stir abroad —
To plague thee for thy foul misleading me.   105
And so, proud-hearted Warwick, I defy thee,
And to my brother turn my blushing cheeks.
Pardon me, Edward, I will make amends;
And, Richard, do not frown upon my faults,
For I will henceforth be no more unconstant.   110

K. Edw.  Now welcome more, and ten times more belov’d,
Than if thou never hadst deserv’d our hate.

Glo.  Welcome, good Clarence; this is brother-like.

War.  O passing traitor, perjur’d, and unjust!

K. Edw.  What, Warwick, wilt thou leave the town, and fight?   115
Or shall we beat the stones about thine ears?

War.  Alas! I am not coop’d here for defence:
I will away towards Barnet presently,
And bid thee battle, Edward, if thou dar’st.

K. Edw.  Yes, Warwick, Edward dares, and leads the way.   120
Lords, to the field; Saint George and victory!  [March.  Exeunt.

Act V. Scene II.

A Field of Battle near Barnet.

Alarums and Excursions.  Enter KING EDWARD, bringing in WARWICK, wounded.

K. Edw.  So, lie thou there: die thou, and die our fear;
For Warwick was a bug that fear’d us all.
Now Montague, sit fast; I seek for thee,   5
That Warwick’s bones may keep thine company.  [Exit.

War.  Ah! who is nigh? come to me, friend or foe,
And tell me who is victor, York or Warwick?
Why ask I that? my mangled body shows,
My blood, my want of strength, my sick heart shows,   10
That I must yield my body to the earth,
And, by my fall, the conquest to my foe.
Thus yields the cedar to the axe’s edge,
Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle,
Under whose shade the ramping lion slept,   15
Whose top branch overpeer’d Jove’s spreading tree,
And kept low shrubs from winter’s powerful wind.
These eyes, that now are dimm’d with death’s black veil,
Have been as piercing as the mid-day sun,
To search the secret treasons of the world:   20
The wrinkles in my brows, now fill’d with blood,
Were liken’d oft to kingly sepulchres;
For who liv’d king, but I could dig his grave?
And who durst smile when Warwick bent his brow?
Lo! now my glory smear’d in dust and blood;   25
My parks, my walks, my manors that I had,
Even now forsake me; and, of all my lands
Is nothing left me but my body’s length.
Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust?
And, live we how we can, yet die we must.   30

Enter OXFORD and SOMERSET.

Som.  Ah! Warwick, Warwick, wert thou as we are,
We might recover all our loss again.
The queen from France hath brought a puissant power;
Even now we heard the news. Ah! couldst thou fly.   35

War.  Why, then, I would not fly. Ah! Montague,
If thou be there, sweet brother, take my hand,
And with thy lips keep in my soul awhile.
Thou lov’st me not; for, brother, if thou didst,
Thy tears would wash this cold congealed blood   40
That glues my lips and will not let me speak.
Come quickly, Montague, or I am dead.

Som.  Ah! Warwick, Montague hath breath’d his last;
And to the latest gasp, cried out for Warwick,
And said, ‘Commend me to my valiant brother.’   45
And more he would have said; and more he spoke,
Which sounded like a clamour in a vault,
That mought not be distinguish’d: but at last
I well might hear, deliver’d with a groan,
‘O! farewell, Warwick!’   50

War.  Sweet rest his soul! Fly, lords, and save yourselves;
For Warwick bids you all farewell, to meet in heaven.  [Dies.

Oxf.  Away, away, to meet the queen’s great power.  [Exeunt, bearing off WARWICK’S body.

Act V. Scene III.

Another Part of the Field.

Flourish.  Enter KING EDWARD, in triumph: with CLARENCE, GLOUCESTER, and the rest.

K. Edw.  Thus far our fortune keeps an upward course,
And we are grac’d with wreaths of victory.
But in the midst of this bright-shining day,   5
I spy a black, suspicious, threat’ning cloud,
That will encounter with our glorious sun,
Ere he attain his easeful western bed:
I mean, my lords, those powers that the queen
Hath rais’d in Gallia, have arriv’d our coast,   10
And, as we hear, march on to fight with us.

Clar.  A little gale will soon disperse that cloud,
And blow it to the source from whence it came:
Thy very beams will dry those vapours up,
For every cloud engenders not a storm.   15

Glo.  The queen is valu’d thirty thousand strong,
And Somerset, with Oxford, fled to her:
If she have time to breathe, be well assur’d
Her faction will be full as strong as ours.

K. Edw.  We are advertis’d by our loving friends   20
That they do hold their course toward Tewksbury.
We, having now the best at Barnet field,
Will thither straight, for willingness rids way;
And, as we march, our strength will be augmented
In every county as we go along.   25
Strike up the drum! cry ‘Courage!’ and away.  [Flourish.  Exeunt.

Act V. Scene IV.

Plains near Tewksbury.

March.  Enter QUEEN MARGARET, PRINCE EDWARD, SOMERSET, OXFORD, and Soldiers.

Q. Mar.  Great lords, wise men ne’er sit and wail their loss,
But cheerly seek how to redress their harms.
What though the mast be now blown over-board,   5
The cable broke, the holding anchor lost,
And half our sailors swallow’d in the flood?
Yet lives our pilot still: is ‘t meet that he
Should leave the helm and like a fearful lad
With tearful eyes add water to the sea,   10
And give more strength to that which hath too much;
Whiles in his moan the ship splits on the rock,
Which industry and courage might have sav’d?
Ah! what a shame! ah, what a fault were this.
Say, Warwick was our anchor; what of that?   15
And Montague our top-mast; what of him?
Our slaughter’d friends the tackles; what of these?
Why, is not Oxford here another anchor?
And Somerset, another goodly mast?
The friends of France our shrouds and tacklings?   20
And, though unskilful, why not Ned and I
For once allow’d the skilful pilot’s charge?
We will not from the helm, to sit and weep,
But keep our course, though the rough wind say no,
From shelves and rocks that threaten us with wrack.   25
As good to chide the waves as speak them fair.
And what is Edward but a ruthless sea?
What Clarence but a quicksand of deceit?
And Richard but a ragged fatal rock?
All those the enemies to our poor bark.   30
Say you can swim; alas! ’tis but a while:
Tread on the sand; why, there you quickly sink:
Bestride the rock; the tide will wash you off,
Or else you famish; that’s a threefold death.
This speak I, lords, to let you understand,   35
In case some one of you would fly from us,
That there’s no hop’d-for mercy with the brothers
More than with ruthless waves, with sands and rocks.
Why, courage, then! what cannot be avoided
‘Twere childish weakness to lament or fear.   40

Prince.  Methinks a woman of this valiant spirit
Should, if a coward heard her speak these words,
Infuse his breast with magnanimity,
And make him, naked, foil a man at arms.
I speak not this, as doubting any here;   45
For did I but suspect a fearful man,
He should have leave to go away betimes,
Lest in our need he might infect another,
And make him of like spirit to himself.
If any such be here, as God forbid!   50
Let him depart before we need his help.

Oxf.  Women and children of so high a courage,
And warriors faint! why, ‘twere perpetual shame.
O brave young prince! thy famous grandfather
Doth live again in thee: long mayst thou live   55
To bear his image and renew his glories!

Som.  And he, that will not fight for such a hope,
Go home to bed, and, like the owl by day,
If he arise, be mock’d and wonder’d at.

Q. Mar.  Thanks, gentle Somerset: sweet Oxford, thanks.   60

Prince.  And take his thanks that yet hath nothing else.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.  Prepare you, lords, for Edward is at hand,
Ready to fight; therefore be resolute.

Oxf.  I thought no less: it is his policy   65
To haste thus fast, to find us unprovided.

Som.  But he ‘s deceiv’d; we are in readiness.

Q. Mar.  This cheers my heart to see your forwardness.

Oxf.  Here pitch our battle; hence we will not budge.

March.  Enter, at a distance, KING EDWARD, CLARENCE, GLOUCESTER, and Forces.   70

K. Edw.  Brave followers, yonder stands the thorny wood,
Which, by the heavens’ assistance, and your strength,
Must by the roots be hewn up yet ere night.
I need not add more fuel to your fire,
For well I wot ye blaze to burn them out:   75
Give signal to the fight, and to it, lords.

Q. Mar.  Lords, knights, and gentlemen, what I should say
My tears gainsay; for every word I speak,
Ye see, I drink the water of mine eyes.
Therefore, no more but this: Henry, your sovereign,   80
Is prisoner to the foe; his state usurp’d,
His realm a slaughter house, his subjects slain,
His statutes cancell’d, and his treasure spent;
And yonder is the wolf that makes this spoil.
You fight in justice: then, in God’s name, lords,   85
Be valiant, and give signal to the fight.  [Exeunt both armies.

Act V. Scene V.

Another Part of the Same.

Alarums: Excursions: and afterwards a retreat.  Then enter KING EDWARD, CLARENCE, GLOUCESTER, and Forces; with QUEEN MARGARET, OXFORD, and SOMERSET prisoners.

K. Edw.  Now, here a period of tumultuous broils.
Away with Oxford to Hames Castle straight:
For Somerset, off with his guilty head.   5
Go, bear them hence; I will not hear them speak.

Oxf.  For my part, I’ll not trouble thee with words.

Som.  Nor I, but stoop with patience to my fortune.  [Exeunt OXFORD and SOMERSET, guarded.

Q. Mar.  So part we sadly in this troublous world,
To meet with joy in sweet Jerusalem.   10

K. Edw.  Is proclamation made, that who finds Edward
Shall have a high reward, and he his life?

Glo.  It is: and lo, where youthful Edward comes.

Enter Soldiers, with PRINCE EDWARD.

K. Edw.  Bring forth the gallant: let us hear him speak.   15
What! can so young a thorn begin to prick?
Edward, what satisfaction canst thou make,
For bearing arms, for stirring up my subjects,
And all the trouble thou hast turn’d me to?

Prince.  Speak like a subject, proud ambitious York!   20
Suppose that I am now my father’s mouth:
Resign thy chair, and where I stand kneel thou,
Whilst I propose the self-same words to thee,
Which, traitor, thou wouldst have me answer to.

Q. Mar.  Ah! that thy father had been so resolv’d.   25

Glo.  That you might still have worn the petticoat,
And ne’er have stol’n the breech from Lancaster.

Prince.  Let Æsop fable in a winter’s night;
His currish riddles sort not with this place.

Glo.  By heaven, brat, I’ll plague you for that word.   30

Q. Mar.  Ay, thou wast born to be a plague to men.

Glo.  For God’s sake, take away this captive scold.

Prince.  Nay, take away this scolding crookback rather.

K. Edw.  Peace, wilful boy, or I will charm your tongue.

Clar.  Untutor’d lad, thou art too malapert.   35

Prince.  I know my duty; you are all undutiful:
Lascivious Edward, and thou perjur’d George,
And thou mis-shapen Dick, I tell ye all,
I am your better, traitors as ye are;
And thou usurp’st my father’s right and mine.   40

K. Edw.  Take that, the likeness of this railer here.  [Stabs him.

Glo.  Sprawl’st thou? take that, to end thy agony.  [Stabs him.

Clar.  And there’s for twitting me with perjury.  [Stabs him.

Q. Mar.  O, kill me too!

Glo.  Marry, and shall.  [Offers to kill her.   45

K. Edw.  Hold, Richard, hold! for we have done too much.

Glo.  Why should she live, to fill the world with words?

K. Edw.  What! doth she swoon? use means for her recovery.

Glo.  Clarence, excuse me to the king, my brother;
I’ll hence to London on a serious matter:   50
Ere ye come there, be sure to hear some news.

Clar.  What? what?

Glo.  The Tower! the Tower!  [Exit.

Q. Mar.  O Ned, sweet Ned! speak to thy mother, boy!
Canst thou not speak? O traitors! murderers!   55
They that stabb’d Cæsar shed no blood at all,
Did not offend, nor were not worthy blame,
If this foul deed were by, to equal it:
He was a man; this, in respect, a child;
And men ne’er spend their fury on a child.   60
What’s worse than murderer, that I may name it?
No, no, my heart will burst, an if I speak:
And I will speak, that so my heart may burst.
Butchers and villains! bloody cannibals!
How sweet a plant have you untimely cropp’d!   65
You have no children, butchers! if you had,
The thought of them would have stirr’d up remorse:
But if you ever chance to have a child,
Look in his youth to have him so cut off
As, deathsmen, you have rid this sweet young prince!   70

K. Edw.  Away with her! go, bear her hence perforce.

Q. Mar.  Nay, never bear me hence, dispatch me here:
Here sheathe thy sword, I’ll pardon thee my death.
What! wilt thou not? then, Clarence, do it thou.

Clar.  By heaven, I will not do thee so much ease.   75

Q. Mar.  Good Clarence, do; sweet Clarence, do thou do it.

Clar.  Didst thou not hear me swear I would not do it?

Q. Mar.  Ay, but thou usest to forswear thyself:
’Twas sin before, but now ’tis charity.
What! wilt thou not? Where is that devil’s butcher,   80
Hard-favour’d Richard? Richard, where art thou?
Thou art not here: murder is thy alms-deed;
Petitioners for blood thou ne’er put’st back.

K. Edw.  Away, I say! I charge ye, bear her hence.

Q. Mar.  So come to you and yours, as to this prince!  [Exit, led out forcibly.   85

K. Edw.  Where’s Richard gone?

Clar.  To London, all in post; and, as I guess,
To make a bloody supper in the Tower.

K. Edw.  He’s sudden if a thing comes in his head.
Now march we hence: discharge the common sort   90
With pay and thanks, and let’s away to London
And see our gentle queen how well she fares;
By this, I hope, she hath a son for me.  [Exeunt.

Act V. Scene VI.

London.  A Room in the Tower.

KING HENRY is discovered sitting with a book in his hand, the Lieutenant attending.  Enter GLOUCESTER.

Glo.  Good day, my lord. What! at your book so hard?

K. Hen.  Ay, my good lord: — my lord, I should say rather;
’Tis sin to flatter, ‘good’ was little better:   5
‘Good Gloucester’ and ‘good devil’ were alike,
And both preposterous; therefore, not ‘good lord.’

Glo.  Sirrah, leave us to ourselves: we must confer.  [Exit Lieutenant.

K. Hen.  So flies the reckless shepherd from the wolf;
So first the harmless sheep doth yield his fleece,   10
And next his throat unto the butcher’s knife.
What scene of death hath Roscius now to act?

Glo.  Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind;
The thief doth fear each bush an officer.

K. Hen.  The bird that hath been limed in a bush,   15
With trembling wings misdoubteth every bush;
And I, the hapless male to one sweet bird,
Have now the fatal object in my eye
Where my poor young was lim’d, was caught, and kill’d.

Glo.  Why, what a peevish fool was that of Crete,   20
That taught his son the office of a fowl!
And yet, for all his wings, the fool was drown’d.

K. Hen.  I, Dædalus; my poor boy, Icarus;
Thy father, Minos, that denied our course;
The sun, that sear’d the wings of my sweet boy,   25
Thy brother Edward, and thyself the sea,
Whose envious gulf did swallow up his life.
Ah! kill me with thy weapon, not with words.
My breast can better brook thy dagger’s point
Than can my ears that tragic history.   30
But wherefore dost thou come? is ‘t for my life?

Glo.  Think’st thou I am an executioner?

K. Hen.  A persecutor, I am sure, thou art:
If murd’ring innocents be executing,
Why, then thou art an executioner.   35

Glo.  Thy son I kill’d for his presumption.

K. Hen.  Hadst thou been kill’d, when first thou didst presume,
Thou hadst not liv’d to kill a son of mine.
And thus I prophesy: that many a thousand,
Which now mistrust no parcel of my fear,   40
And many an old man’s sigh, and many a widow’s,
And many an orphan’s water-standing eye,
Men for their sons’, wives for their husbands’,
And orphans for their parents’ timeless death,
Shall rue the hour that ever thou wast born.   45
The owl shriek’d at thy birth, an evil sign;
The night-crow cried, aboding luckless time;
Dogs howl’d, and hideous tempest shook down trees!
The raven rook’d her on the chimney’s top,
And chattering pies in dismal discords sung.   50
Thy mother felt more than a mother’s pain,
And yet brought forth less than a mother’s hope;
To wit an indigest deformed lump,
Not like the fruit of such a goodly tree.
Teeth hadst thou in thy head when thou wast born,   55
To signify thou cam’st to bite the world:
And, if the rest be true which I have heard,
Thou cam’st —

Glo.  I’ll hear no more: die, prophet, in thy speech:  [Stabs him.
For this, amongst the rest, was I ordain’d.   60

K. Hen.  Ay, and for much more slaughter after this.
O, God forgive my sins, and pardon thee!  [Dies.

Glo.  What! will the aspiring blood of Lancaster
Sink in the ground? I thought it would have mounted.
See how my sword weeps for the poor king’s death!   65
O! may such purple tears be always shed
From those that wish the downfall of our house.
If any spark of life be yet remaining,
Down, down to hell; and say I sent thee thither,  [Stabs him again.
I, that have neither pity, love, nor fear.   70
Indeed, ’tis true, that Henry told me of;
For I have often heard my mother say
I came into the world with my legs forward.
Had I not reason, think ye, to make haste,
And seek their ruin that usurp’d our right?   75
The midwife wonder’d, and the women cried
‘O! Jesus bless us, he is born with teeth.’
And so I was; which plainly signified
That I should snarl and bite and play the dog.
Then, since the heavens have shap’d my body so,   80
Let hell make crook’d my mind to answer it.
I have no brother, I am like no brother;
And this word ‘love,’ which greybeards call divine,
Be resident in men like one another
And not in me: I am myself alone.   85
Clarence, beware; thou keep’st me from the light:
But I will sort a pitchy day for thee;
For I will buzz abroad such prophecies
That Edward shall be fearful of his life;
And then, to purge his fear, I’ll be thy death.   90
King Henry and the prince his son are gone:
Clarence, thy turn is next, and then the rest,
Counting myself but bad till I be best.
I’ll throw thy body in another room,
And triumph, Henry, in thy day of doom.  [Exit with the body.   95

Act V. Scene VII.

The Same.  A Room in the Palace.

KING EDWARD is discovered sitting on his throne: QUEEN ELIZABETH with the infant Prince, CLARENCE, GLOUCESTER, HASTINGS, and Others, near him.

K. Edw.  Once more we sit in England’s royal throne,
Re-purchas’d with the blood of enemies.
What valiant foemen like to autumn’s corn,   5
Have we mow’d down, in tops of all their pride!
Three Dukes of Somerset, threefold renown’d
For hardy and undoubted champions;
Two Cliffords, as the father and the son;
And two Northumberlands: two braver men   10
Ne’er spurr’d their coursers at the trumpet’s sound;
With them, the two brave bears, Warwick and Montague,
That in their chains fetter’d the kingly lion,
And made the forest tremble when they roar’d.
Thus have we swept suspicion from our seat,   15
And made our footstool of security.
Come hither, Bess, and let me kiss my boy.
Young Ned, for thee thine uncles and myself
Have in our armours watch’d the winter’s night;
Went all a-foot in summer’s scalding heat,   20
That thou might’st repessess the crown in peace;
And of our labours thou shalt reap the gain.

Glo.  [Aside.]  I’ll blast his harvest, if your head were laid;
For yet I am not look’d on in the world.
This shoulder was ordain’d so thick to heave;   25
And heave it shall some weight, or break my back:
Work thou the way, and thou shalt execute.

K. Edw.  Clarence and Gloucester, love my lovely queen;
And kiss your princely nephew, brothers both.

Clar.  The duty, that I owe unto your majesty,   30
I seal upon the lips of this sweet babe.

K. Edw.  Thanks, noble Clarence; worthy brother, thanks.

Glo.  And, that I love the tree from whence thou sprang’st,
Witness the loving kiss I give the fruit.
[Aside.]  To say the truth, so Judas kiss’d his master,   35
And cried ‘all hail!’ when as he meant all harm.

K. Edw.  Now am I seated as my soul delights,
Having my country’s peace and brothers’ loves.

Clar.  What will your Grace have done with Margaret?
Reignier, her father, to the King of France   40
Hath pawn’d the Sicils and Jerusalem,
And hither have they sent it for her ransom.

K. Edw.  Away with her, and waft her hence to France.
And now what rests but that we spend the time
With stately triumphs, mirthful comic shows,   45
Such as befit the pleasure of the court?
Sound, drums and trumpets! farewell, sour annoy!
For here, I hope, begins our lasting joy.  [Exeunt.

HENRY VI, PART 1

This play deals with the loss of England’s French territories and the political machinations leading up to the Wars of the Roses, as the English political system is torn apart by personal squabbles and petty jealousy, and serves as a prequel to the two previous plays.  Henry VI, Part 1 is regarded by some as the weakest play in Shakespeare’s oeuvre and there is evidence to suggest he collaborated with other dramatists while writing this play.

Shakespeare’s main source text for this play is available via this link.

The Grafton Portrait - the inscription on the painting identifies the sitter as a 24-year-old man painted in 1588. Many experts claim this portrait represents Shakespeare as a young man.

CONTENTS

Dramatis Personæ

Act I. Scene I.

Act I. Scene II.

Act I. Scene III.

Act I. Scene IV.

Act I. Scene V.

Act I. Scene VI.

Act II. Scene I.

Act II. Scene II.

Act II. Scene III.

Act II. Scene IV.

Act II. Scene V.

Act III. Scene I.

Act III. Scene II.

Act III. Scene III.

Act III. Scene IV.

Act IV. Scene I.

Act IV. Scene II.

Act IV. Scene III.

Act IV. Scene IV.

Act IV. Scene V.

Act IV. Scene VI.

Act IV. Scene VII.

Act V. Scene I.

Act V. Scene II.

Act V. Scene III.

Act V. Scene IV.

Act V. Scene V.

Dramatis Personæ

KING HENRY THE SIXTH.
DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, Uncle to the King, and Protector.
DUKE OF BEDFORD, Uncle to the King, Regent of France.
THOMAS BEAUFORT, Duke of Exeter, Great-uncle to the King.
HENRY BEAUFORT, Great-uncle to the King; Bishop of Winchester, and afterwards Cardinal.
JOHN BEAUFORT, Earl, afterwards Duke, of Somerset.
RICHARD PLANTAGENET, Son of Richard, late Earl of Cambridge; afterwards Duke of York.
EARL OF WARWICK.
EARL OF SALISBURY.
EARL OF SUFFOLK.
LORD TALBOT, afterwards Earl of Shrewsbury.
JOHN TALBOT, his Son.
EDMUND MORTIMER, Earl of March.
SIR JOHN FASTOLFE.
SIR WILLIAM LUCY.
SIR WILLIAM GLANSDALE.
SIR THOMAS GARGRAVE.
WOODVILE, Lieutenant of the Tower. Mayor of London. Mortimer’s Keepers. A Lawyer.
VERNON, of the White-Rose, or York Faction.
BASSET, of the Red-Rose, or Lancaster Faction.
CHARLES, Dauphin, and afterwards King of France.
REIGNIER, Duke of Anjou, and titular King of Naples.
DUKE OF BURGUNDY.
DUKE OF ALENÇON.
BASTARD OF ORLEANS.
Governor of Paris.
Master-Gunner of Orleans, and his Son.
General of the French Forces in Bourdeaux.
A French Sergeant.
A Porter.
An old Shepherd, Father to Joan la Pucelle.
MARGARET, Daughter to Reignier; afterwards married to King Henry.
COUNTESS OF AUVERGNE.
JOAN LA PUCELLE, commonly called Joan of Arc.
Lords, Warders of the Tower, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Messengers, and Attendants.

Fiends appearing to La Pucelle.

SCENE. — Partly in England, and partly in France.

Act I. Scene I.

Westminster Abbey.

Dead March.  Enter the Funeral of KING HENRY THE FIFTH attended on by the DUKES OF BEDFORD, GLOUCESTER, and EXETER; the EARL OF WARWICK, the BISHOP OF WINCHESTER, Heralds, &c.

Bed.  Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to night!
Comets, importing change of times and states,
Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky,   5
And with them scourge the bad revolting stars,
That have consented unto Henry’s death!
King Henry the Fifth, too famous to live long!
England ne’er lost a king of so much worth.

Glo.  England ne’er had a king until his time.   10
Virtue he had, deserving to command:
His brandish’d sword did blind men with his beams;
His arms spread wider than a dragon’s wings;
His sparkling eyes, replete with wrathful fire,
More dazzled and drove back his enemies   15
Than mid-day sun fierce bent against their faces.
What should I say? his deeds exceed all speech:
He ne’er lift up his hand but conquered.

Exe.  We mourn in black: why mourn we not in blood?
Henry is dead and never shall revive.   20
Upon a wooden coffin we attend,
And death’s dishonourable victory
We with our stately presence glorify,
Like captives bound to a triumphant car.
What! shall we curse the planets of mishap   25
That plotted thus our glory’s overthrow?
Or shall we think the subtle-witted French
Conjurers and sorcerers, that, afraid of him,
By magic verses have contriv’d his end?

Win.  He was a king bless’d of the King of kings.   30
Unto the French the dreadful judgment-day
So dreadful will not be as was his sight.
The battles of the Lord of hosts he fought:
The church’s prayers made him so prosperous.

Glo.  The church! where is it? Had not churchmen pray’d   35
His thread of life had not so soon decay’d:
None do you like but an effeminate prince,
Whom like a school-boy you may over-awe.

Win.  Gloucester, whate’er we like thou art protector,
And lookest to command the prince and realm.   40
Thy wife is proud; she holdeth thee in awe,
More than God or religious churchmen may.

Glo.  Name not religion, for thou lov’st the flesh,
And ne’er throughout the year to church thou go’st,
Except it be to pray against thy foes.   45

Bed.  Cease, cease these jars and rest your minds in peace!
Let’s to the altar: heralds, wait on us:
Instead of gold we’ll offer up our arms,
Since arms avail not, now that Henry’s dead.
Posterity, await for wretched years,   50
When at their mothers’ moist eyes babes shall suck,
Our isle be made a marish of salt tears,
And none but women left to wail the dead.
Henry the Fifth! thy ghost I invocate:
Prosper this realm, keep it from civil broils!   55
Combat with adverse planets in the heavens!
A far more glorious star thy soul will make,
Than Julius Cæsar, or bright —

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.  My honourable lords, health to you all!   60
Sad tidings bring I to you out of France,
Of loss, of slaughter, and discomfiture:
Guienne, Champaigne, Rheims, Orleans,
Paris, Guysors, Poictiers, are all quite lost.

Bed.  What sayst thou, man, before dead Henry’s corse?   65
Speak softly; or the loss of those great towns
Will make him burst his lead and rise from death.

Glo.  Is Paris lost? is Roan yielded up?
If Henry were recall’d to life again
These news would cause him once more yield the ghost.   70

Exe.  How were they lost? what treachery was us’d?

Mess.  No treachery; but want of men and money.
Among the soldiers this is muttered,
That here you maintain several factions;
And, whilst a field should be dispatch’d and fought,   75
You are disputing of your generals.
One would have lingering wars with little cost;
Another would fly swift, but wanteth wings;
A third thinks, without expense at all,
By guileful fair words peace may be obtain’d.   80
Awake, awake, English nobility!
Let not sloth dim your honours new-begot:
Cropp’d are the flower-de-luces in your arms;
Of England’s coat one half is cut away.

Exe.  Were our tears wanting to this funeral   85
These tidings would call forth their flowing tides.

Bed.  Me they concern; Regent I am of France.
Give me my steeled coat: I’ll fight for France.
Away with these disgraceful wailing robes!
Wounds will I lend the French instead of eyes,   90
To weep their intermissive miseries.

Enter another Messenger.

Sec. Mess.  Lords, view these letters, full of bad mischance.
France is revolted from the English quite,
Except some petty towns of no import:   95
The Dauphin Charles is crowned king in Rheims;
The Bastard of Orleans with him is join’d;
Reignier, Duke of Anjou, doth take his part;
The Duke of Alençon flieth to his side.

Exe.  The Dauphin crowned king! all fly to him!   100
O! whither shall we fly from this reproach?

Glo.  We will not fly, but to our enemies’ throats.
Bedford, if thou be slack, I’ll fight it out.

Bed.  Gloucester, why doubt’st thou of my forwardness?
An army have I muster’d in my thoughts,   105
Wherewith already France is overrun.

Enter a third Messenger.

Third Mess.  My gracious lords, to add to your laments,
Wherewith you now bedew King Henry’s hearse,
I must inform you of a dismal fight   110
Betwixt the stout Lord Talbot and the French.

Win.  What! wherein Talbot overcame? is ‘t so?

Third Mess.  O, no! wherein Lord Talbot was o’erthrown:
The circumstance I’ll tell you more at large.
The tenth of August last this dreadful lord,   115
Retiring from the siege of Orleans,
Having full scarce six thousand in his troop,
By three-and-twenty thousand of the French
Was round encompassed and set upon.
No leisure had he to enrank his men;   120
He wanted pikes to set before his archers;
Instead whereof sharp stakes pluck’d out of hedges
They pitched in the ground confusedly,
To keep the horsemen off from breaking in.
More than three hours the fight continued;   125
Where valiant Talbot above human thought
Enacted wonders with his sword and lance.
Hundreds he sent to hell, and none durst stand him;
Here, there, and every where, enrag’d he flew:
The French exclaim’d the devil was in arms;   130
All the whole army stood agaz’d on him.
His soldiers, spying his undaunted spirit,
A Talbot! A Talbot! cried out amain,
And rush’d into the bowels of the battle.
Here had the conquest fully been seal’d up,   135
If Sir John Fastolfe had not play’d the coward.
He, being in the vaward, — plac’d behind,
With purpose to relieve and follow them, —
Cowardly fled, not having struck one stroke.
Hence grew the general wrack and massacre;   140
Enclosed were they with their enemies.
A base Walloon, to win the Dauphin’s grace,
Thrust Talbot with a spear into the back;
Whom all France, with their chief assembled strength,
Durst not presume to look once in the face.   145

Bed.  Is Talbot, slain? then I will slay myself,
For living idly here in pomp and ease
Whilst such a worthy leader, wanting aid,
Unto his dastard foemen is betray’d.

Third Mess.  O no! he lives; but is took prisoner,   150
And Lord Scales with him, and Lord Hungerford:
Most of the rest slaughter’d or took likewise.

Bed.  His ransom there is none but I shall pay:
I’ll hale the Dauphin headlong from his throne;
His crown shall be the ransom of my friend;   155
Four of their lords I’ll change for one of ours.
Farewell, my masters; to my task will I;
Bonfires in France forthwith I am to make,
To keep our great Saint George’s feast withal:
Ten thousand soldiers with me I will take,   160
Whose bloody deeds shall make all Europe quake.

Third Mess.  So you had need; for Orleans is besieg’d;
The English army is grown weak and faint;
The Earl of Salisbury craveth supply,
And hardly keeps his men from mutiny,   165
Since they, so few, watch such a multitude.

Exe.  Remember, lords, your oaths to Henry sworn,
Either to quell the Dauphin utterly,
Or bring him in obedience to your yoke.

Bed.  I do remember it; and here take my leave,   170
To go about my preparation.  [Exit.

Glo.  I’ll to the Tower with all the haste I can,
To view the artillery and munition;
And then I will proclaim young Henry king.  [Exit.

Exe.  To Eltham will I, where the young king is,   175
Being ordain’d his special governor;
And for his safety there I’ll best devise.  [Exit.

Win.  Each hath his place and function to attend:
I am left out; for me nothing remains.
But long I will not be Jack-out-of-office.   180
The king from Eltham I intend to steal,
And sit at chiefest stern of public weal.  [Exit.

Act I. Scene II.

France.  Before Orleans.

Flourish.  Enter CHARLES, with his Forces: ALENÇON, REIGNIER, and Others.

Char.  Mars his true moving, even as in the heavens
So in the earth, to this day is not known.
Late did he shine upon the English side;   5
Now we are victors; upon us he smiles.
What towns of any moment but we have?
At pleasure here we lie near Orleans;
Otherwhiles the famish’d English, like pale ghosts,
Faintly besiege us one hour in a month.   10

Alen.  They want their porridge and their fat bull-beeves:
Either they must be dieted like mules
And have their provender tied to their mouths,
Or piteous they will look, like drowned mice.

Reig.  Let’s raise the siege: why live we idly here?   15
Talbot is taken, whom we wont to fear:
Remaineth none but mad-brain’d Salisbury,
And he may well in fretting spend his gall;
Nor men nor money hath he to make war.

Char.  Sound, sound alarum! we will rush on them.   20
Now for the honour of the forlorn French!
Him I forgive my death that killeth me
When he sees me go back one foot or fly.  [Exeunt.

Alarums; Excursions; afterwards a retreat.  Re-enter CHARLES, ALENÇON, REIGNIER, and Others.

Char.  Who ever saw the like? what men have I!   25
Dogs! cowards! dastards! I would ne’er have fled
But that they left me ‘midst my enemies.

Reig.  Salisbury is a desperate homicide;
He fighteth as one weary of his life:
The other lords, like lions wanting food,   30
Do rush upon us as their hungry prey.

Alen.  Froissart, a countryman of ours, records,
England all Olivers and Rowlands bred
During the time Edward the Third did reign.
More truly now may this be verified;   35
For none but Samsons and Goliases,
It sendeth forth to skirmish. One to ten!
Lean raw-bon’d rascals! who would e’er suppose
They had such courage and audacity?

Char.  Let’s leave this town; for they are hare-brain’d slaves,   40
And hunger will enforce them to be more eager:
Of old I know them; rather with their teeth
The walls they’ll tear down than forsake the siege.

Reig.  I think, by some odd gimmals or device,
Their arms are set like clocks, still to strike on;   45
Else ne’er could they hold out so as they do.
By my consent, we’ll e’en let them alone.

Alen.  Be it so.

Enter the BASTARD OF ORLEANS.

Bast.  Where’s the prince Dauphin? I have news for him.   50

Char.  Bastard of Orleans, thrice welcome to us.

Bast.  Methinks your looks are sad, your cheer appall’d:
Hath the late overthrow wrought this offence?
Be not dismay’d, for succour is at hand:
A holy maid hither with me I bring,   55
Which by a vision sent to her from heaven
Ordained is to raise this tedious siege,
And drive the English forth the bounds of France.
The spirit of deep prophecy she hath,
Exceeding the nine sibyls of old Rome;   60
What’s past and what’s to come she can descry.
Speak, shall I call her in? Believe my words,
For they are certain and unfallible.

Char.  Go, call her in.  [Exit BASTARD.]  But first, to try her skill,
Reignier, stand thou as Dauphin in my place:   65
Question her proudly; let thy looks be stern:
By this means shall we sound what skill she hath.  [Retires.

Re-enter the BASTARD OF ORLEANS, with JOAN LA PUCELLE and Others.

Reig.  Fair maid, is ‘t thou wilt do these wondrous feats?

Joan.  Reignier, is ‘t thou that thinkest to beguile me?   70
Where is the Dauphin? Come, come from behind;
I know thee well, though never seen before.
Be not amaz’d, there’s nothing hid from me:
In private will I talk with thee apart.
Stand back, you lords, and give us leave a while.   75

Reig.  She takes upon her bravely at first dash.

Joan.  Dauphin, I am by birth a shepherd’s daughter,
My wit untrain’d in any kind of art.
Heaven and our Lady gracious hath it pleas’d
To shine on my contemptible estate:   80
Lo! whilst I waited on my tender lambs,
And to sun’s parching heat display’d my cheeks,
God’s mother deigned to appear to me,
And in a vision full of majesty
Will’d me to leave my base vocation   85
And free my country from calamity:
Her aid she promis’d and assur’d success;
In complete glory she reveal’d herself;
And, whereas I was black and swart before,
With those clear rays which she infus’d on me,   90
That beauty am I bless’d with which you see.
Ask me what question thou canst possible
And I will answer unpremeditated:
My courage try by combat, if thou dar’st,
And thou shalt find that I exceed my sex.   95
Resolve on this, thou shalt be fortunate
If thou receive me for thy war-like mate.

Char.  Thou hast astonish’d me with thy high terms.
Only this proof I’ll of thy valour make,
In single combat thou shalt buckle with me,   100
And if thou vanquishest, thy words are true;
Otherwise I renounce all confidence.

Joan.  I am prepar’d: here is my keen-edg’d sword,
Deck’d with five flower-de-luces on each side;
The which at Touraine, in Saint Katharine’s churchyard,   105
Out of a great deal of old iron I chose forth.

Char.  Then come, o’ God’s name; I fear no woman.

Joan.  And, while I live, I’ll ne’er fly from a man.
[They fight, and JOAN LA PUCELLE overcomes.

Char.  Stay, stay thy hands! thou art an Amazon,   110
And fightest with the sword of Deborah.

Joan.  Christ’s mother helps me, else I were too weak.

Char.  Whoe’er helps thee, ’tis thou that must help me:
Impatiently I burn with thy desire;
My heart and hands thou hast at once subdu’d.   115
Excellent Pucelle, if thy name be so,
Let me thy servant and not sovereign be;
’Tis the French Dauphin sueth to thee thus.

Joan.  I must not yield to any rites of love,
For my profession’s sacred from above:   120
When I have chased all thy foes from hence,
Then will I think upon a recompense.

Char.  Meantime look gracious on thy prostrate thrall.

Reig.  My lord, methinks, is very long in talk.

Alen.  Doubtless he shrives this woman to her smock;   125
Else ne’er could he so long protract his speech.

Reig.  Shall we disturb him, since he keeps no mean?

Alen.  He may mean more than we poor men do know:
These women are shrewd tempters with their tongues.

Reig.  My lord, where are you? what devise you on?   130
Shall we give over Orleans, or no?

Joan.  Why, no, I say, distrustful recreants!
Fight till the last gasp; I will be your guard.

Char.  What she says, I’ll confirm: we’ll fight it out.

Joan.  Assign’d am I to be the English scourge.   135
This night the siege assuredly I’ll raise:
Expect Saint Martin’s summer, halcyon days,
Since I have entered into these wars.
Glory is like a circle in the water,
Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself,   140
Till by broad spreading it disperse to nought.
With Henry’s death the English circle ends;
Dispersed are the glories it included.
Now am I like that proud insulting ship
Which Cæsar and his fortune bare at once.   145

Char.  Was Mahomet inspired with a dove?
Thou with an eagle art inspired then.
Helen, the mother of great Constantine,
Nor yet Saint Philip’s daughters were like thee.
Bright star of Venus, fall’n down on the earth,   150
How may I reverently worship thee enough?

Alen.  Leave off delays and let us raise the siege.

Reig.  Woman, do what thou canst to save our honours;
Drive them from Orleans and be immortalis’d.

Char.  Presently we’ll try. Come, let’s away about it:   155
No prophet will I trust if she prove false.  [Exeunt.

Act I. Scene III.

London.  Before the Tower.

Enter at the Gates the DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, with his Serving-men, in blue coats.

Glo.  I am come to survey the Tower this day;
Since Henry’s death, I fear, there is conveyance.
Where be these warders that they wait not here?   5
Open the gates! ’Tis Gloucester that calls.  [Servants knock.

First Ward.  [Within.]  Who’s there that knocks so imperiously?

First Serv.  It is the noble Duke of Gloucester.

Sec. Ward.  [Within.]  Whoe’er he be, you may not be let in.

First Serv.  Villains, answer you so the Lord Protector?   10

First Ward.  [Within.]  The Lord protect him! so we answer him:
We do not otherwise than we are will’d.

Glo.  Who willed you? or whose will stands but mine?
There’s none protector of the realm but I.
Break up the gates, I’ll be your warrantize:   15
Shall I be flouted thus by dunghill grooms?
[GLOUCESTER’S Men rush at the Tower gates, and WOODVILE the Lieutenant speaks within.

Wood.  What noise is this? what traitors have we here?

Glo.  Lieutenant, is it you whose voice I hear?
Open the gates! here’s Gloucester that would enter.   20

Wood.  [Within.]  Have patience, noble Duke; I may not open;
The Cardinal of Winchester forbids:
From him I have express commandment
That thou nor none of thine shall be let in.

Glo.  Faint-hearted Woodvile, prizest him ‘fore me?   25
Arrogant Winchester, that haughty prelate,
Whom Henry, our late sovereign, ne’er could brook?
Thou art no friend to God or to the king:
Open the gates, or I’ll shut thee out shortly

First Serv.  Open the gates unto the Lord Protector;   30
Or we’ll burst them open, if that you come not quickly.

Enter WINCHESTER, attended by Serving-men in tawny coats.

Win.  How now, ambitious Humphrey! what means this?

Glo.  Peel’d priest, dost thou command me to be shut out?

Win.  I do, thou most usurping proditor,   35
And not protector, of the king or realm.

Glo.  Stand back, thou manifest conspirator,
Thou that contriv’dst to murder our dead lord;
Thou that giv’st whores indulgences to sin:
I’ll canvass thee in thy broad cardinal’s hat,   40
If thou proceed in this thy insolence.

Win.  Nay, stand thou back; I will not budge a foot:
This be Damascus, be thou cursed Cam,
To slay thy brother Abel, if thou wilt.

Glo.  I will not slay thee, but I’ll drive thee back:   45
Thy scarlet robes as a child’s bearing-cloth
I’ll use to carry thee out of this place.

Win.  Do what thou dar’st; I’ll beard thee to thy face.

Glo.  What! am I dar’d and bearded to my face? —
Draw, men, for all this privileged place;   50
Blue coats to tawny-coats. Priest, beware your beard;  [GLOUCESTER and his men attack the CARDINAL.
I mean to tug it and to cuff you soundly.
Under my feet I stamp thy cardinal’s hat,
In spite of pope or dignities of church,
Here by the cheeks I’ll drag thee up and down.   55

Win.  Gloucester, thou’lt answer this before the pope.

Glo.  Winchester goose! I cry a rope! a rope!
Now beat them hence; why do you let them stay?
Thee I’ll chase hence, thou wolf in sheep’s array.
Out, tawny coats! out, scarlet hypocrite!   60
Here GLOUCESTER’S Men beat out the Cardinal’s Men, and enter in the hurly-burly the Mayor of London and his Officers.

May.  Fie, lords! that you, being supreme magistrates,
Thus contumeliously should break the peace!

Glo.  Peace, mayor! thou know’st little of my wrongs:
Here’s Beaufort, that regards nor God nor King,   65
Hath here distrain’d the Tower to his use.

Win.  Here’s Gloucester, a foe to citizens;
One that still motions war and never peace,
O’ercharging your free purses with large fines,
That seeks to overthrow religion   70
Because he is protector of the realm,
And would have armour here out of the Tower,
To crown himself king and suppress the prince.

Glo.  I will not answer thee with words, but blows.  [Here they skirmish again.

May.  Nought rests for me, in this tumultuous strife   75
But to make open proclamation.
Come, officer: as loud as e’er thou canst;
Cry.

Off.  All manner of men, assembled here in arms this day, against God’s peace and the king’s, we charge and command you, in his highness’ name, to repair to your several dwelling-places; and not to wear, handle, or use, any sword, weapon, or dagger, henceforward, upon pain of death.

Glo.  Cardinal, I’ll be no breaker of the law;   80
But we shall meet and break our minds at large.

Win.  Gloucester, we will meet; to thy cost, be sure:
Thy heart-blood I will have for this day’s work.

May.  I’ll call for clubs if you will not away.
This cardinal’s more haughty than the devil.   85

Glo.  Mayor, farewell: thou dost but what thou mayst.

Win.  Abominable Gloucester! guard thy head;
For I intend to have it ere long.  [Exeunt, severally, GLOUCESTER and WINCHESTER, with their Serving-men.

May.  See the coast clear’d, and then we will depart.
Good God! these nobles should such stomachs bear;   90
I myself fight not once in forty year.  [Exeunt.

Act I. Scene IV.

France.  Before Orleans.

Enter, on the walls, the Master-Gunner and his Boy.

M. Gun.  Sirrah, thou know’st how Orleans is besieg’d,
And how the English have the suburbs won.

Son.  Father, I know; and oft have shot at them,   5
Howe’er unfortunate I miss’d my aim.

M. Gun.  But now thou shalt not. Be thou rul’d by me:
Chief master-gunner am I of this town;
Something I must do to procure me grace.
The prince’s espials have informed me   10
How the English, in the suburbs close entrench’d,
Wont through a secret gate of iron bars
In yonder tower to overpeer the city,
And thence discover how with most advantage
They may vex us with shot or with assault.   15
To intercept this inconvenience,
A piece of ordnance ‘gainst it I have plac’d;
And fully even these three days have I watch’d
If I could see them. Now, boy, do thou watch,
For I can stay no longer.   20
If thou spy’st any, run and bring me word;
And thou shalt find me at the Governor’s.  [Exit.

Son.  Father, I warrant you; take you no care;
I’ll never trouble you if I may spy them.  [Exit.

Enter, on the turrets, the LORDS SALISBURY and TALBOT; SIR WILLIAM GLANSDALE, SIR THOMAS GARGRAVE, and Others.   25

Sal.  Talbot, my life, my joy! again return’d!
How wert thou handled being prisoner?
Or by what means got’st thou to be releas’d,
Discourse, I prithee, on this turret’s top.

Tal.  The Duke of Bedford had a prisoner   30
Called the brave Lord Ponton de Santrailles;
For him I was exchang’d and ransomed.
But with a baser man at arms by far
Once in contempt they would have barter’d me:
Which I disdaining scorn’d, and craved death   35
Rather than I would be so vile-esteem’d.
In fine, redeem’d I was as I desir’d.
But, O! the treacherous Fastolfe wounds my heart:
Whom with my bare fists I would execute
If I now had him brought into my power.   40

Sal.  Yet tell’st thou not how thou wert entertain’d.

Tal.  With scoffs and scorns and contumelious taunts.
In open market-place produc’d they me,
To be a public spectacle to all:
Here, said they, is the terror of the French,   45
The scarecrow that affrights our children so.
Then broke I from the officers that led me,
And with my nails digg’d stones out of the ground
To hurl at the beholders of my shame.
My grisly countenance made others fly.   50
None durst come near for fear of sudden death.
In iron walls they deem’d me not secure;
So great fear of my name ‘mongst them was spread
That they suppos’d I could rend bars of steel
And spurn in pieces posts of adamant:   55
Wherefore a guard of chosen shot I had,
That walk’d about me every minute-while;
And if I did but stir out of my bed
Ready they were to shoot me to the heart.

Enter the Boy with a linstock.   60

Sal.  I grieve to hear what torments you endur’d;
But we will be reveng’d sufficiently.
Now it is supper-time in Orleans:
Here, through this grate, I count each one,
And view the Frenchmen how they fortify:   65
Let us look in; the sight will much delight thee.
Sir Thomas Gargrave, and Sir William Glansdale,
Let me have your express opinions
Where is best place to make our battery next.

Gar.  I think at the North gate; for there stand lords.   70

Glan.  And I, here, at the bulwark of the bridge.

Tal.  For aught I see, this city must be famish’d,
Or with light skirmishes enfeebled.  [Here they shoot. SALISBURY and SIR THOMAS GARGRAVE fall.

Sal.  O Lord! have mercy on us, wretched sinners.

Gar.  O Lord! have mercy on me, woeful man.   75

Tal.  What chance is this that suddenly hath cross’d us?
Speak, Salisbury; at least, if thou canst speak:
How far’st thou, mirror of all martial men?
One of thy eyes and thy cheek’s side struck off!
Accursed tower! accursed fatal hand   80
That hath contriv’d this woeful tragedy!
In thirteen battles Salisbury o’ercame;
Henry the Fifth he first train’d to the wars;
Whilst any trump did sound or drum struck up,
His sword did ne’er leave striking in the field.   85
Yet liv’st thou, Salisbury? though thy speech doth fail,
One eye thou hast to look to heaven for grace:
The sun with one eye vieweth all the world.
Heaven, be thou gracious to none alive,
If Salisbury wants mercy at thy hands!   90
Bear hence his body; I will help to bury it.
Sir Thomas Gargrave, hast thou any life?
Speak unto Talbot; nay, look up to him.
Salisbury, cheer thy spirit with this comfort;
Thou shalt not die, whiles —   95
He beckons with his hand and smiles on me,
As who should say, ‘When I am dead and gone,
Remember to avenge me on the French.’
Plantagenet, I will; and like thee, Nero,
Play on the lute, beholding the towns burn:   100
Wretched shall France be only in my name.  [It thunders and lightens.  An alarum.
What stir is this? What tumult’ sin the heavens?
Whence cometh this alarum and the noise?

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.  My lord, my lord! the French have gather’d head:   105
The Dauphin, with one Joan la Pucelle join’d,
A holy prophetess new risen up
Is come with a great power to raise the siege.  [Here SALISBURY lifteth himself up and groans.

Tal.  Hear, hear how dying Salisbury doth groan!
It irks his heart he cannot be reveng’d.   110
Frenchmen, I’ll be a Salisbury to you:
Pucelle or puzzel, dolphin or dogfish,
Your hearts I’ll stamp out with my horse’s heels
And make a quagmire of your mingled brains.
Convey me Salisbury into his tent,   115
And then we’ll try what these dastard Frenchmen dare.  [Exeunt, bearing out the bodies.

Act I. Scene V.

The Same.  Before one of the Gates.

Alarum.  Skirmishings.  Enter TALBOT, pursuing the DAUPHIN; drives him in, and exit: then enter JOAN LA PUCELLE, driving Englishmen before her, and exit after them.  Then re-enter TALBOT.

Tal.  Where is my strength, my valour, and my force?
Our English troops retire, I cannot stay them;
A woman clad in armour chaseth them.   5

Re-enter JOAN LA PUCELLE.
Here, here she comes. I’ll have a bout with thee:
Devil, or devil’s dam, I’ll conjure thee:
Blood will I draw on thee, thou art a witch,
And straightway give thy soul to him thou serv’st.   10

Joan.  Come, come; ’tis only I that must disgrace thee.  [They fight.

Tal.  Heavens, can you suffer hell so to prevail?
My breast I’ll burst with straining of my courage,
And from my shoulders crack my arms asunder,
But I will chastise this high-minded strumpet.  [They fight again.   15

Joan.  Talbot, farewell; thy hour is not yet come:
I must go victual Orleans forthwith.  [A short alarum; then LA PUCELLE enters the town with Soldiers.
O’ertake me if thou canst; I scorn thy strength.
Go, go, cheer up thy hunger-starved men;
Help Salisbury to make his testament:   20
This day is ours, as many more shall be.  [Exit.

Tal.  My thoughts are whirled like a potter’s wheel;
I know not where I am, nor what I do:
A witch, by fear, not force, like Hannibal,
Drives back our troops and conquers as she lists:   25
So bees with smoke, and doves with noisome stench,
Are from their hives and houses driven away.
They call’d us for our fierceness English dogs;
Now, like to whelps, we crying run away.  [A short alarum.
Hark, countrymen! either renew the fight,   30
Or tear the lions out of England’s coat;
Renounce your soil, give sheep in lions’ stead:
Sheep run not half so treacherous from the wolf,
Or horse or oxen from the leopard,
As you fly from your oft-subdued slaves.  [Alarum.  Another skirmish.   35
It will not be: retire into your trenches:
You all consented unto Salisbury’s death,
For none would strike a stroke in his revenge.
Pucelle is entered into Orleans
In spite of us or aught that we could do.   40
O! would I were to die with Salisbury.
The shame hereof will make me hide my head.  [Alarum.  Retreat.  Exeunt TALBOT and his Forces, &c.

Act I. Scene VI.

The Same.

Flourish.  Enter, on the walls, JOAN LA PUCELLE, CHARLES, REIGNIER, ALENÇON, and Soldiers.

Joan.  Advance our waving colours on the walls;
Rescu’d is Orleans from the English:
Thus Joan la Pucelle hath perform’d her word.   5

Char.  Divinest creature, Astræa’s daughter,
How shall I honour thee for this success?
Thy promises are like Adonis’ gardens,
That one day bloom’d and fruitful were the next.
France, triumph in thy glorious prophetess!   10
Recover’d is the town of Orleans:
More blessed hap did ne’er befall our state.

Reig.  Why ring not out the bells throughout the town?
Dauphin, command the citizens make bonfires
And feast and banquet in the open streets,   15
To celebrate the joy that God hath given us.

Alen.  All France will be replete with mirth and joy,
When they shall hear how we have play’d the men.

Char.  ’Tis Joan, not we, by whom the day is won;
For which I will divide my crown with her;   20
And all the priests and friars in my realm
Shall in procession sing her endless praise.
A statelier pyramis to her I’ll rear
Than Rhodope’s or Memphis ever was:
In memory of her when she is dead,   25
Her ashes, in an urn more precious
Than the rich-jewell’d coffer of Darius,
Transported shall be at high festivals
Before the kings and queens of France.
No longer on Saint Denis will we cry,   30
But Joan la Pucelle shall be France’s saint.
Come in, and let us banquet royally,
After this golden day of victory.  [Flourish.  Exeunt.

Act II. Scene I.

Before Orleans.

Enter to the Gates, a French Sergeant, and two Sentinels.

Serg.  Sirs, take your places and be vigilant.
If any noise or soldier you perceive
Near to the walls, by some apparent sign   5
Let us have knowledge at the court of guard.

First Sent.  Sergeant, you shall.  [Exit Sergeant.
Thus are poor servitors —
When others sleep upon their quiet beds —
Constrain’d to watch in darkness, rain, and cold.   10

Enter TALBOT, BEDFORD, BURGUNDY, and Forces with scaling-ladders; their drums beating a dead march.

Tal.  Lord regent, and redoubted Burgundy,
By whose approach the regions of Artois,
Walloon, and Picardy, are friends to us,
This happy night the Frenchmen are secure,   15
Having all day carous’d and banqueted:
Embrace we then this opportunity,
As fitting best to quittance their deceit
Contriv’d by art and baleful sorcery.

Bed.  Coward of France! how much he wrongs his fame,   20
Despairing of his own arm’s fortitude,
To join with witches and the help of hell!

Bur.  Traitors have never other company.
But what’s that Pucelle whom they term so pure?

Tal.  A maid, they say.   25

Bed.        A maid, and be so martial!

Bur.  Pray God she prove not masculine ere long;
If underneath the standard of the French
She carry armour, as she hath begun.

Tal.  Well, let them practise and converse with spirits;   30
God is our fortress, in whose conquering name
Let us resolve to scale their flinty bulwarks.

Bed.  Ascend, brave Talbot; we will follow thee.

Tal.  Not all together: better far, I guess,
That we do make our entrance several ways,   35
That if it chance the one of us do fail,
The other yet may rise against their force.

Bed.  Agreed. I’ll to yond corner.

Bur.        And I to this.

Tal.  And here will Talbot mount, or make his grave.   40
Now, Salisbury, for thee, and for the right
Of English Henry, shall this night appear
How much in duty I am bound to both.  [The English scale the walls, crying, ‘Saint George!’ ‘A Talbot!’ and all enter the town.

First Sent.  Arm, arm! the enemy doth make assault!

The French leap over the Walls in their shirts.  Enter, several ways, BASTARD OF ORLEANS, ALENÇON, and REIGNIER, half ready, and half unready.   45

Alen.  How now, my lords! what! all unready so?

Bast.  Unready! ay, and glad we ‘scap’d so well.

Reig.  ’Twas time, I trow, to wake and leave our beds,
Hearing alarums at our chamber-doors.

Alen.  Of all exploits since first I follow’d arms,   50
Ne’er heard I of a war-like enterprise
More venturous or desperate than this.

Bast.  I think this Talbot be a fiend of hell.

Reig.  If not of hell, the heavens, sure, favour him.

Alen.  Here cometh Charles: I marvel how he sped.   55

Bast.  Tut! holy Joan was his defensive guard.

Enter CHARLES and JOAN LA PUCELLE.

Char.  Is this thy cunning, thou deceitful dame?
Didst thou at first, to flatter us withal,
Make us partakers of a little gain,   60
That now our loss might be ten times so much?

Joan.  Wherefore is Charles impatient with his friend?
At all times will you have my power alike?
Sleeping or waking must I still prevail,
Or will you blame and lay the fault on me?   65
Improvident soldiers! had your watch been good,
This sudden mischief never could have fall’n.

Char.  Duke of Alençon, this was your default,
That, being captain of the watch to-night,
Did look no better to that weighty charge.   70

Alen.  Had all your quarters been so safely kept
As that whereof I had the government,
We had not been thus shamefully surpris’d.

Bast.  Mine was secure.

Reig.        And so was mine, my lord.   75

Char.  And for myself, most part of all this night,
Within her quarter and mine own precinct
I was employ’d in passing to and fro,
About relieving of the sentinels:
Then how or which way should they first break in?   80

Joan.  Question, my lords, no further of the case,
How or which way: ’tis sure they found some place
But weakly guarded, where the breach was made.
And now there rests no other shift but this;
To gather our soldiers, scatter’d and dispers’d,   85
And lay new platforms to endamage them.

Alarum.  Enter an English Soldier, crying, ‘A Talbot! a Talbot!’ They fly, leaving their clothes behind.

Sold.  I’ll be so bold to take what they have left.
The cry of Talbot serves me for a sword;
For I have loaden me with many spoils,   90
Using no other weapon but his name.  [Exit.

Act II. Scene II.

Orleans.  Within the Town.

Enter TALBOT, BEDFORD, BURGUNDY, a Captain, and Others.

Bed.  The day begins to break, and night is fled,
Whose pitchy mantle over-veil’d the earth.
Here sound retreat, and cease our hot pursuit.  [Retreat sounded.   5

Tal.  Bring forth the body of old Salisbury,
And here advance it in the market-place,
The middle centre of this cursed town.
Now have I paid my vow unto his soul;
For every drop of blood was drawn from him   10
There hath at least five Frenchmen died to-night.
And that hereafter ages may behold
What ruin happen’d in revenge of him,
Within their chiefest temple I’ll erect
A tomb wherein his corse shall be interr’d:   15
Upon the which, that every one may read,
Shall be engrav’d the sack of Orleans,
The treacherous manner of his mournful death,
And what a terror he had been to France.
But, lords, in all our bloody massacre,   20
I muse we met not with the Dauphin’s grace,
His new-come champion, virtuous Joan of Arc,
Nor any of his false confederates.

Bed.  ’Tis thought, Lord Talbot, when the fight began,
Rous’d on the sudden from their drowsy beds,   25
They did amongst the troops of armed men
Leap o’er the walls for refuge in the field.

Bur.  Myself — as far as I could well discern
For smoke and dusky vapours of the night —
Am sure I scar’d the Dauphin and his trull,   30
When arm in arm they both came swiftly running,
Like to a pair of loving turtle-doves
That could not live asunder day or night.
After that things are set in order here,
We’ll follow them with all the power we have.   35

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.  All hail, my lords! Which of this princely train
Call ye the war-like Talbot, for his acts
So much applauded through the realm of France?

Tal.  Here is the Talbot: who would speak with him?   40

Mess.  The virtuous lady, Countess of Auvergne,
With modesty admiring thy renown,
By me entreats, great lord, thou wouldst vouchsafe
To visit her poor castle where she lies,
That she may boast she hath beheld the man   45
Whose glory fills the world with loud report.

Bur.  Is it even so? Nay, then, I see our wars
Will turn into a peaceful comic sport,
When ladies crave to be encounter’d with.
You may not, my lord, despise her gentle suit.   50

Tal.  Ne’er trust me then; for when a world of men
Could not prevail with all their oratory,
Yet hath a woman’s kindness over-rul’d:
And therefore tell her I return great thanks,
And in submission will attend on her.   55
Will not your honours bear me company?

Bed.  No, truly; it is more than manners will;
And I have heard it said, unbidden guests
Are often welcomest when they are gone.

Tal.  Well then, alone, — since there’s no remedy, —   60
I mean to prove this lady’s courtesy.
Come hither, captain.  [Whispers.]  You perceive my mind.

Capt.  I do, my lord, and mean accordingly.  [Exeunt.

Act II. Scene III.

Auvergne.  Court of the Castle.

Enter the COUNTESS and her Porter.

Count.  Porter, remember what I gave in charge;
And when you have done so, bring the keys to me.

Port.  Madam, I will.  [Exit.   5

Count.  The plot is laid: if all things fall out right,
I shall as famous be by this exploit
As Scythian Tomyris by Cyrus’ death.
Great is the rumour of this dreadful knight,
And his achievements of no less account:   10
Fain would mine eyes be witness with mine ears,
To give their censure of these rare reports.

Enter Messenger and TALBOT.

Mess.  Madam,
According as your ladyship desir’d,   15
By message crav’d, so is Lord Talbot come.

Count.  And he is welcome. What! is this the man?

Mess.  Madam, it is.

Count.        Is this the scourge of France?
Is this the Talbot, so much fear’d abroad,   20
That with his name the mothers still their babes?
I see report is fabulous and false:
I thought I should have seen some Hercules,
A second Hector, for his grim aspect,
And large proportion of his strong-knit limbs.   25
Alas! this is a child, a silly dwarf:
It cannot be this weak and writhled shrimp
Should strike such terror to his enemies.

Tal.  Madam, I have been bold to trouble you;
But since your ladyship is not at leisure,   30
I’ll sort some other time to visit you.

Count.  What means he now? Go ask him whither he goes.

Mess.  Stay, my Lord Talbot; for my lady craves
To know the cause of your abrupt departure.

Tal.  Marry, for that she’s in a wrong belief,   35
I go to certify her Talbot’s here.

Re-enter Porter, with keys.

Count.  If thou be he, then art thou prisoner.

Tal.  Prisoner! to whom?

Count.        To me, blood-thirsty lord;   40
And for that cause I train’d thee to my house.
Long time thy shadow hath been thrall to me,
For in my gallery thy picture hangs:
But now the substance shall endure the like,
And I will chain these legs and arms of thine,   45
That hast by tyranny, these many years
Wasted our country, slain our citizens,
And sent our sons and husbands captivate.

Tal.  Ha, ha, ha!

Count.  Laughest thou, wretch? thy mirth shall turn to moan.   50

Tal.  I laugh to see your ladyship so fond
To think that you have aught but Talbot’s shadow,
Whereon to practise your severity.

Count.  Why, art not thou the man?

Tal.        I am, indeed.   55

Count.  Then have I substance too.

Tal.  No, no, I am but shadow of myself:
You are deceiv’d, my substance is not here;
For what you see is but the smallest part
And least proportion of humanity.   60
I tell you, madam, were the whole frame here,
It is of such a spacious lofty pitch,
Your roof were not sufficient to contain it.

Count.  This is a riddling merchant for the nonce;
He will be here, and yet he is not here:   65
How can these contrarieties agree?

Tal.  That will I show you presently.

He winds a horn.  Drums strike up; a peal of ordnance.  The Gates being forced, enter Soldiers.
How say you, madam? are you now persuaded
That Talbot is but shadow of himself?   70
These are his substance, sinews, arms, and strength,
With which he yoketh your rebellious necks,
Razeth your cities, and subverts your towns,
And in a moment makes them desolate.

Count.  Victorious Talbot! pardon my abuse:   75
I find thou art no less than fame hath bruited,
And more than may be gather’d by thy shape.
Let my presumption not provoke thy wrath;
For I am sorry that with reverence
I did not entertain thee as thou art.   80

Tal.  Be not dismay’d, fair lady; nor misconster
The mind of Talbot as you did mistake
The outward composition of his body.
What you have done hath not offended me;
Nor other satisfaction do I crave,   85
But only, with your patience, that we may
Taste of your wine and see what cates you have;
For soldiers’ stomachs always serve them well.

Count.  With all my heart, and think me honoured
To feast so great a warrior in my house.  [Exeunt.   90

Act II. Scene IV.

London.  The Temple Garden.

Enter the EARLS OF SOMERSET, SUFFOLK, and WARWICK; RICHARD PLANTAGENET, VERNON, and a Lawyer.

Plan.  Great lords, and gentlemen, what means this silence?
Dare no man answer in a case of truth?

Suf.  Within the Temple hall we were too loud;   5
The garden here is more convenient.

Plan.  Then say at once if I maintain’d the truth,
Or else was wrangling Somerset in the error?

Suf.  Faith, I have been a truant in the law,
And never yet could frame my will to it;   10
And therefore frame the law unto my will.

Som.  Judge you, my Lord of Warwick, then, between us.

War.  Between two hawks, which flies the higher pitch;
Between two dogs, which hath the deeper mouth;
Between two blades, which bears the better temper;   15
Between two horses, which doth bear him best;
Between two girls, which hath the merriest eye;
I have perhaps, some shallow spirit of judgment;
But in these nice sharp quillets of the law,
Good faith, I am no wiser than a daw.   20

Plan.  Tut, tut! here is a mannerly forbearance:
The truth appears so naked on my side,
That any purblind eye may find it out.

Som.  And on my side it is so well apparell’d,
So clear, so shining, and so evident,   25
That it will glimmer through a blind man’s eye.

Plan.  Since you are tongue-tied, and so loath to speak,
In dumb significants proclaim your thoughts:
Let him that is a true-born gentleman,
And stands upon the honour of his birth,   30
If he suppose that I have pleaded truth,
From off this brier pluck a white rose with me.

Som.  Let him that is no coward nor no flatterer,
But dare maintain the party of the truth,
Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me.   35

War.  I love no colours, and, without all colour
Of base insinuating flattery
I pluck this white rose with Plantagenet.

Suf.  I pluck this red rose with young Somerset:
And say withal I think he held the right.   40

Ver.  Stay, lords and gentlemen, and pluck no more,
Till you conclude that he, upon whose side
The fewest roses are cropp’d from the tree,
Shall yield the other in the right opinion.

Som.  Good Master Vernon, it is well objected:   45
If I have fewest I subscribe in silence.

Plan.  And I.

Ver.  Then for the truth and plainness of the case,
I pluck this pale and maiden blossom here,
Giving my verdict on the white rose side.   50

Som.  Prick not your finger as you pluck it off,
Lest bleeding you do paint the white rose red,
And fall on my side so, against your will.

Ver.  If I, my lord, for my opinion bleed,
Opinion shall be surgeon to my hurt,   55
And keep me on the side where still I am.

Som.  Well, well, come on: who else?

Law.  [To SOMERSET.]  Unless my study and my books be false,
The argument you held was wrong in you,
In sign whereof I pluck a white rose too.   60

Plan.  Now, Somerset, where is your argument?

Som.  Here, in my scabbard; meditating that
Shall dye your white rose in a bloody red.

Plan.  Meantime, your cheeks do counterfeit our roses;
For pale they look with fear, as witnessing   65
The truth on our side.

Som.        No, Plantagenet,
’Tis not for fear but anger that thy cheeks
Blush for pure shame to counterfeit our roses,
And yet thy tongue will not confess thy error.   70

Plan.  Hath not thy rose a canker, Somerset?

Som.  Hath not thy rose a thorn, Plantagenet?

Plan.  Ay, sharp and piercing, to maintain his truth;
Whiles thy consuming canker eats his falsehood.

Som.  Well, I’ll find friends to wear my bleeding roses,   75
That shall maintain what I have said is true,
Where false Plantagenet dare not be seen.

Plan.  Now, by this maiden blossom in my hand,
I scorn thee and thy faction, peevish boy.

Suf.  Turn not thy scorns this way, Plantagenet.   80

Plan.  Proud Pole, I will, and scorn both him and thee.

Suf.  I’ll turn my part thereof into thy throat.

Som.  Away, away! good William de la Pole:
We grace the yeoman by conversing with him.

War.  Now, by God’s will, thou wrong’st him, Somerset:   85
His grandfather was Lionel, Duke of Clarence,
Third son to the third Edward, King of England.
Spring crestless yeomen from so deep a root?

Plan.  He bears him on the place’s privilege,
Or durst not, for his craven heart, say thus.   90

Som.  By Him that made me, I’ll maintain my words
On any plot of ground in Christendom.
Was not thy father, Richard Earl of Cambridge,
For treason executed in our late king’s days?
And, by his treason stand’st not thou attainted,   95
Corrupted, and exempt from ancient gentry?
His trespass yet lives guilty in thy blood;
And, till thou be restor’d, thou art a yeoman.

Plan.  My father was attached, not attainted;
Condemn’d to die for treason, but no traitor;   100
And that I’ll prove on better men than Somerset,
Were growing time once ripen’d to my will.
For your partaker Pole and you yourself,
I’ll note you in my book of memory,
To scourge you for this apprehension:   105
Look to it well and say you are well warn’d.

Som.  Ah, thou shalt find us ready for thee still,
And know us by these colours for thy foes;
For these my friends in spite of thee shall wear.

Plan.  And, by my soul, this pale and angry rose,   110
As cognizance of my blood-drinking hate,
Will I for ever and my faction wear,
Until it wither with me to my grave
Or flourish to the height of my degree.

Suf.  Go forward, and be chok’d with thy ambition:   115
And so farewell until I meet thee next.  [Exit.

Som.  Have with thee, Pole. Farewell, ambitious Richard.  [Exit.

Plan.  How I am brav’d and must perforce endure it!

War.  This blot that they object against your house
Shall be wip’d out in the next parliament,   120
Call’d for the truce of Winchester and Gloucester;
And if thou be not then created York,
I will not live to be accounted Warwick.
Meantime in signal of my love to thee,
Against proud Somerset and William Pole,   125
Will I upon thy party wear this rose.
And here I prophesy: this brawl to-day,
Grown to this faction in the Temple garden,
Shall send between the red rose and the white
A thousand souls to death and deadly night.   130

Plan.  Good Master Vernon, I am bound to you,
That you on my behalf would pluck a flower.

Ver.  In your behalf still would I wear the same.

Law.  And so will I.

Plan.  Thanks, gentle sir.   135
Come, let us four to dinner: I dare say
This quarrel will drink blood another day.  [Exeunt.

Act II. Scene V.

London.  A Room in the Tower.

Enter MORTIMER, brought in a chair by two Gaolers.

Mor.  Kind keepers of my weak decaying age,
Let dying Mortimer here rest himself.
Even like a man new haled from the rack,   5
So fare my limbs with long imprisonment;
And these gray locks, the pursuivants of death,
Nestor-like aged, in an age of care,
Argue the end of Edmund Mortimer.
These eyes, like lamps whose wasting oil is spent,   10
Wax dim, as drawing to their exigent;
Weak shoulders, overborne with burdening grief,
And pithless arms, like to a wither’d vine
That droops his sapless branches to the ground:
Yet are these feet, whose strengthless stay is numb,   15
Unable to support this lump of clay,
Swift-winged with desire to get a grave,
As witting I no other comfort have.
But tell me, keeper, will my nephew come?

First Keep.  Richard Plantagenet, my lord, will come:   20
We sent unto the Temple, unto his chamber.
And answer was return’d that he will come.

Mor.  Enough: my soul shall then be satisfied.
Poor gentleman! his wrong doth equal mine.
Since Henry Monmouth first began to reign,   25
Before whose glory I was great in arms,
This loathsome sequestration have I had;
And even since then hath Richard been obscur’d,
Depriv’d of honour and inheritance.
But now the arbitrator of despairs,   30
Just death, kind umpire of men’s miseries,
With sweet enlargement doth dismiss me hence:
I would his troubles likewise were expir’d,
That so he might recover what was lost.

Enter RICHARD PLANTAGENET.   35

First Keep.  My lord, your loving nephew now is come.

Mor.  Richard Plantagenet, my friend, is he come?

Plan.  Ay, noble uncle, thus ignobly us’d,
Your nephew, late despised Richard, comes.

Mor.  Direct mine arms I may embrace his neck,   40
And in his bosom spend my latter gasp:
O! tell me when my lips do touch his cheeks,
That I may kindly give one fainting kiss.
And now declare, sweet stem from York’s great stock,
Why didst thou say of late thou wert despis’d?   45

Plan.  First, lean thine aged back against mine arm;
And in that ease, I’ll tell thee my disease.
This day, in argument upon a case,
Some words there grew ‘twixt Somerset and me;
Among which terms he us’d a lavish tongue   50
And did upbraid me with my father’s death:
Which obloquy set bars before my tongue,
Else with the like I had requited him.
Therefore, good uncle, for my father’s sake,
In honour of a true Plantagenet,   55
And for alliance sake, declare the cause
My father, Earl of Cambridge, lost his head.

Mor.  That cause, fair nephew, that imprison’d me,
And hath detain’d me all my flow’ring youth
Within a loathsome dungeon, there to pine,   60
Was cursed instrument of his decease.

Plan.  Discover more at large what cause that was,
For I am ignorant and cannot guess.

Mor.  I will, if that my fading breath permit,
And death approach not ere my tale be done.   65
Henry the Fourth, grandfather to this king,
Depos’d his nephew Richard, Edward’s son,
The first-begotten, and the lawful heir
Of Edward king, the third of that descent:
During whose reign the Percies of the North,   70
Finding his usurpation most unjust,
Endeavour’d my advancement to the throne.
The reason mov’d these warlike lords to this
Was, for that — young King Richard thus remov’d,
Leaving no heir begotten of his body —   75
I was the next by birth and parentage;
For by my mother I derived am
From Lionel Duke of Clarence, the third son
To King Edward the Third; whereas he
From John of Gaunt doth bring his pedigree,   80
Being but fourth of that heroic line.
But mark: as, in this haughty great attempt
They laboured to plant the rightful heir,
I lost my liberty, and they their lives.
Long after this, when Henry the Fifth   85
Succeeding his father Bolingbroke, did reign,
Thy father, Earl of Cambridge, then deriv’d
From famous Edmund Langley, Duke of York,
Marrying my sister that thy mother was,
Again in pity of my hard distress   90
Levied an army, weening to redeem
And have install’d me in the diadem;
But, as the rest, so fell that noble earl,
And was beheaded. Thus the Mortimers,
In whom the title rested, were suppress’d.   95

Plan.  Of which, my lord, your honour is the last.

Mor.  True; and thou seest that I no issue have,
And that my fainting words do warrant death:
Thou art my heir; the rest I wish thee gather:
But yet be wary in thy studious care.   100

Plan.  Thy grave admonishments prevail with me.
But yet methinks my father’s execution
Was nothing less than bloody tyranny.

Mor.  With silence, nephew, be thou politic:
Strong-fixed is the house of Lancaster,   105
And like a mountain, not to be remov’d.
But now thy uncle is removing hence,
As princes do their courts, when they are cloy’d
With long continuance in a settled place.

Plan.  O uncle! would some part of my young years   110
Might but redeem the passage of your age.

Mor.  Thou dost then wrong me, — as the slaughterer doth,
Which giveth many wounds when one will kill. —
Mourn not, except thou sorrow for my good;
Only give order for my funeral:   115
And so farewell; and fair be all thy hopes,
And prosperous be thy life in peace and war!  [Dies.

Plan.  And peace, no war, befall thy parting soul!
In prison hast thou spent a pilgrimage,
And like a hermit overpass’d thy days.   120
Well, I will lock his counsel in my breast;
And what I do imagine let that rest.
Keepers, convey him hence; and I myself
Will see his burial better than his life.  [Exeunt Keepers, bearing out the body of MORTIMER.
Here dies the dusky torch of Mortimer,   125
Chok’d with ambition of the meaner sort:
And, for those wrongs, those bitter injuries,
Which Somerset hath offer’d to my house,
I doubt not but with honour to redress;
And therefore haste I to the parliament,   130
Either to be restored to my blood,
Or make my ill the advantage of my good.  [Exit.

Act III. Scene I.

London.  The Parliament House.

Flourish.  Enter KING HENRY, EXETER, GLOUCESTER, WARWICK, SOMERSET, and SUFFOLK; the BISHOP OF WINCHESTER, RICHARD PLANTAGENET, and Others.  GLOUCESTER offers to put up a bill; WINCHESTER snatches it, and tears it.

Win.  Com’st thou with deep premeditated lines,
With written pamphlets studiously devis’d,
Humphrey of Gloucester? If thou canst accuse,   5
Or aught intend’st to lay unto my charge,
Do it without invention, suddenly;
As I, with sudden and extemporal speech
Purpose to answer what thou canst object.

Glo.  Presumptuous priest! this place commands my patience   10
Or thou shouldst find thou hast dishonour’d me.
Think not, although in writing I preferr’d
The manner of thy vile outrageous crimes,
That therefore I have forg’d, or am not able
Verbatim to rehearse the method of my pen:   15
No, prelate; such is thy audacious wickedness,
Thy lewd, pestiferous, and dissentious pranks,
As very infants prattle of thy pride.
Thou art a most pernicious usurer,
Froward by nature, enemy to peace;   20
Lascivious, wanton, more than well beseems
A man of thy profession and degree;
And for thy treachery, what’s more manifest?
In that thou laid’st a trap to take my life
As well at London Bridge as at the Tower.   25
Beside, I fear me, if thy thoughts were sifted,
The king, thy sov’reign, is not quite exempt
From envious malice of thy swelling heart.

Win.  Gloucester, I do defy thee. Lords, vouchsafe
To give me hearing what I shall reply.   30
If I were covetous, ambitious, or perverse,
As he will have me, how am I so poor?
Or how haps it I seek not to advance
Or raise myself, but keep my wonted calling?
And for dissension, who preferreth peace   35
More than I do, except I be provok’d?
No, my good lords, it is not that offends;
It is not that that hath incens’d the duke:
It is, because no one should sway but he;
No one but he should be about the king;   40
And that engenders thunder in his breast,
And makes him roar these accusations forth.
But he shall know I am as good —

Glo.        As good!
Thou bastard of my grandfather!   45

Win.  Ay, lordly sir; for what are you, I pray,
But one imperious in another’s throne?

Glo.  Am I not protector, saucy priest?

Win.  And am not I a prelate of the church?

Glo.  Yes, as an outlaw in a castle keeps,   50
And useth it to patronage his theft.

Win.  Unreverent Gloucester!

Glo.        Thou art reverent,
Touching thy spiritual function, not thy life.

Win.  Rome shall remedy this.   55

War.        Roam thither then.

Som.  My lord, it were your duty to forbear.

War.  Ay, see the bishop be not overborne.

Som.  Methinks my lord should be religious,
And know the office that belongs to such.   60

War.  Methinks his lordship should be humbler;
It fitteth not a prelate so to plead.

Som.  Yes, when his holy state is touch’d so near.

War.  State holy, or unhallow’d, what of that?
Is not his Grace protector to the king?   65

Plan.  [Aside.]  Plantagenet, I see, must hold his tongue,
Lest it be said, ‘Speak, sirrah, when you should;
Must your bold verdict enter talk with lords?’
Else would I have a fling at Winchester.

K. Hen.  Uncles of Gloucester and of Winchester,   70
The special watchmen of our English weal,
I would prevail, if prayers might prevail,
To join your hearts in love and amity.
O! what a scandal is it to our crown,
That two such noble peers as ye should jar.   75
Believe me, lords, my tender years can tell
Civil dissension is a viperous worm,
That gnaws the bowels of the commonwealth.  [A noise within; ‘Down with the tawny coats!’
What tumult’s this?

War.        An uproar, I dare warrant,   80
Begun through malice of the bishop’s men.  [A noise again within; ‘Stones! Stones!’

Enter the Mayor of London, attended.

May.  O, my good lords, and virtuous Henry,
Pity the city of London, pity us!
The bishop and the Duke of Gloucester’s men,   85
Forbidden late to carry any weapon,
Have fill’d their pockets full of pebble stones,
And banding themselves in contrary parts
Do pelt so fast at one another’s pate,
That many have their giddy brains knock’d out:   90
Our windows are broke down in every street,
And we for fear compell’d to shut our shops.

Enter, skirmishing, the Serving-men of GLOUCESTER and WINCHESTER, with bloody pates.

K. Hen.  We charge you, on allegiance to ourself,
To hold your slaught’ring hands, and keep the peace. —   95
Pray, uncle Gloucester, mitigate this strife.

First Serv.  Nay, if we be forbidden stones, we’ll fall to it with our teeth.

Sec. Serv.  Do what ye dare, we are as resolute.  [Skirmish again.

Glo.  You of my household, leave this peevish broil,
And set this unaccustom’d fight aside.   100

Third Serv.  My lord, we know your Grace to be a man
Just and upright, and, for your royal birth,
Inferior to none but to his majesty;
And ere that we will suffer such a prince,
So kind a father of the commonweal,   105
To be disgraced by an inkhorn mate,
We and our wives and children all will fight,
And have our bodies slaught’red by thy foes.

First Serv.  Ay, and the very parings of our nails
Shall pitch a field when we are dead.  [Skirmish again.   110

Glo.        Stay, stay, I say!
And, if you love me, as you say you do,
Let me persuade you to forbear a while.

K. Hen.  O! how this discord doth afflict my soul!
Can you, my Lord of Winchester, behold   115
My sighs and tears and will not once relent?
Who should be pitiful if you be not?
Or who should study to prefer a peace
If holy churchmen take delight in broils?

War.  Yield, my Lord Protector; yield, Winchester;   120
Except you mean with obstinate repulse
To slay your sov’reign and destroy the realm.
You see what mischief and what murder too
Hath been enacted through your enmity:
Then be at peace, except ye thirst for blood.   125

Win.  He shall submit or I will never yield.

Glo.  Compassion on the king commands me stoop;
Or I would see his heart out ere the priest
Should ever get that privilege of me.

War.  Behold, my Lord of Winchester, the duke   130
Hath banish’d moody discontented fury,
As by his smoothed brows it doth appear:
Why look you still so stern and tragical?

Glo.  Here, Winchester, I offer thee my hand.

K. Hen.  Fie, uncle Beaufort! I have heard you preach,   135
That malice was a great and grievous sin;
And will not you maintain the thing you teach,
But prove a chief offender in the same?

War.  Sweet king! the bishop hath a kindly gird.
For shame, my Lord of Winchester, relent!   140
What! shall a child instruct you what to do?

Win.  Well, Duke of Gloucester, I will yield to thee;
Love for thy love and hand for hand I give.

Glo.  [Aside.]  Ay; but I fear me, with a hollow heart.
See here, my friends and loving countrymen,   145
This token serveth for a flag of truce,
Betwixt ourselves and all our followers.
So help me God, as I dissemble not!

Win.  [Aside.]  So help me God, as I intend it not!

K. Hen.  O loving uncle, kind Duke of Gloucester,   150
How joyful am I made by this contract!
Away, my masters! trouble us no more;
But join in friendship, as your lords have done.

First Serv.  Content: I’ll to the surgeon’s.

Sec. Serv.        And so will I.   155

Third Serv.  And I will see what physic the tavern affords.  [Exeunt Mayor, Serving-men, &c.

War.  Accept this scroll, most gracious sovereign,
Which in the right of Richard Plantagenet
We do exhibit to your majesty.

Glo.  Well urg’d, my Lord of Warwick: for, sweet prince,   160
An if your Grace mark every circumstance,
You have great reason to do Richard right;
Especially for those occasions
At Eltham-place I told your majesty.

K. Hen.  And those occasions, uncle, were of force:   165
Therefore, my loving lords, our pleasure is
That Richard be restored to his blood.

War.  Let Richard be restored to his blood;
So shall his father’s wrongs be recompens’d.

Win.  As will the rest, so willeth Winchester.   170

K. Hen.  If Richard will be true, not that alone,
But all the whole inheritance I give
That doth belong unto the house of York,
From whence you spring by lineal descent.

Plan.  Thy humble servant vows obedience,   175
And humble service till the point of death.

K. Hen.  Stoop then and set your knee against my foot;
And, in reguerdon of that duty done,
I girt thee with the valiant sword of York:
Rise, Richard, like a true Plantagenet,   180
And rise created princely Duke of York.

Plan.  And so thrive Richard as thy foes may fall!
And as my duty springs, so perish they
That grudge one thought against your majesty!

All.  Welcome, high prince, the mighty Duke of York!   185

Som.  [Aside.]  Perish, base prince, ignoble Duke of York!

Glo.  Now, will it best avail your majesty
To cross the seas and to be crown’d in France.
The presence of a king engenders love
Amongst his subjects and his loyal friends,   190
As it disanimates his enemies.

K. Hen.  When Gloucester says the word, King Henry goes;
For friendly counsel cuts off many foes.

Glo.  Your ships already are in readiness.  [Flourish.  Exeunt all except EXETER.

Exe.  Ay, we may march in England or in France,   195
Not seeing what is likely to ensue.
This late dissension grown betwixt the peers
Burns under feigned ashes of forg’d love,
And will at last break out into a flame:
As fester’d members rot but by degree,   200
Till bones and flesh and sinews fall away,
So will this base and envious discord breed.
And now I fear that fatal prophecy
Which in the time of Henry, nam’d the Fifth,
Was in the mouth of every sucking babe;   205
That Henry born at Monmouth should win all;
And Henry born at Windsor should lose all:
Which is so plain that Exeter doth wish
His days may finish ere that hapless time.  [Exit.

Act III. Scene II.

France.  Before Roan.

Enter JOAN LA PUCELLE, disguised, and Soldiers dressed like countrymen, with sacks upon their backs.

Joan.  These are the city gates, the gates of Roan,
Through which our policy must make a breach:
Take heed, be wary how you place your words;   5
Talk like the vulgar sort of market-men
That come to gather money for their corn.
If we have entrance, — as I hope we shall, —
And that we find the slothful watch but weak,
I’ll by a sign give notice to our friends,   10
That Charles the Dauphin may encounter them.

First Sold.  Our sacks shall be a mean to sack the city,
And we be lords and rulers over Roan;
Therefore we’ll knock.  [Knocks.

Guard.  [Within.]  Qui est là?   15

Joan.  Paisans, pauvres gens de France:
Poor market-folks that come to sell their corn.

Guard.  [Opening the gates.]  Enter, go in; the market-bell is rung.

Joan.  Now, Roan, I’ll shake thy bulwarks to the ground.  [JOAN LA PUCELLE, &c., enter the city.

Enter CHARLES, the BASTARD OF ORLEANS, ALENÇON, and Forces.   20

Char.  Saint Denis bless this happy stratagem!
And once again we’ll sleep secure in Roan.

Bast.  Here enter’d Pucelle and her practisants;
Now she is there how will she specify
Where is the best and safest passage in?   25

Alen.  By thrusting out a torch from yonder tower;
Which, once discern’d, shows that her meaning is,
No way to that, for weakness, which she enter’d.

Enter JOAN LA PUCELLE on a battlement, holding out a torch burning.

Joan.  Behold! this is the happy wedding torch   30
That joineth Roan unto her countrymen,
But burning fatal to the Talbotites!  [Exit.

Bast.  See, noble Charles, the beacon of our friend,
The burning torch in yonder turret stands.

Char.  Now shine it like a comet of revenge,   35
A prophet to the fall of all our foes!

Alen.  Defer no time, delays have dangerous ends;
Enter, and cry ‘The Dauphin!’ presently,
And then do execution on the watch.  [They enter the town.

Alarum.  Enter TALBOT in an Excursion.   40

Tal.  France, thou shalt rue this treason with thy tears,
If Talbot but survive thy treachery.
Pucelle, that witch, that damned sorceress,
Hath wrought this hellish mischief unawares,
That hardly we escap’d the pride of France.  [Exit.   45

Alarum: Excursions.  Enter from the town, BEDFORD, brought in sick in a chair. Enter TALBOT and BURGUNDY, and the English Forces. Then, enter on the walls, JOAN LA PUCELLE, CHARLES, the BASTARD OF ORLEANS, ALENÇON, and Others.

Joan.  Good morrow, gallants! Want ye corn for bread?
I think the Duke of Burgundy will fast
Before he’ll buy again at such a rate.
’Twas full of darnel; do you like the taste?   50

Bur.  Scoff on, vile fiend and shameless courtezan!
I trust ere long to choke thee with thine own,
And make thee curse the harvest of that corn.

Char.  Your Grace may starve perhaps, before that time.

Bed.  O! let no words, but deeds, revenge this treason!   55

Joan.  What will you do, good grey-beard? break a lance,
And run a tilt at death within a chair?

Tal.  Foul fiend of France, and hag of all despite,
Encompass’d with thy lustful paramours!
Becomes it thee to taunt his valiant age   60
And twit with cowardice a man half dead?
Damsel, I’ll have a bout with you again,
Or else let Talbot perish with this shame.

Joan.  Are you so hot, sir? Yet, Pucelle, hold thy peace;
If Talbot do but thunder, rain will follow.  [TALBOT and the rest consult together.   65
God speed the parliament! who shall be the speaker?

Tal.  Dare ye come forth and meet us in the field?

Joan.  Belike your lordship takes us then for fools,
To try if that our own be ours or no.

Tal.  I speak not to that railing Hecate,   70
But unto thee, Alençon, and the rest;
Will ye, like soldiers, come and fight it out?

Alen.  Signior, no.

Tal.  Signior, hang! base muleters of France!
Like peasant foot-boys do they keep the walls,   75
And dare not take up arms like gentlemen.

Joan.  Away, captains! let’s get us from the walls;
For Talbot means no goodness, by his looks.
God be wi’ you, my lord! we came but to tell you
That we are here.  [Exeunt JOAN LA PUCELLE, amp;c., from the Walls.   80

Tal.  And there will we be too, ere it be long,
Or else reproach be Talbot’s greatest fame!
Vow, Burgundy, by honour of thy house, —
Prick’d on by public wrongs sustain’d in France, —
Either to get the town again, or die;   85
And I, as sure as English Henry lives,
And as his father here was conqueror,
As sure as in this late-betrayed town
Great Cœur-de-lion’s heart was buried,
So sure I swear to get the town or die.   90

Bur.  My vows are equal partners with thy vows.

Tal.  But, ere we go, regard this dying prince,
The valiant Duke of Bedford. Come, my lord,
We will bestow you in some better place,
Fitter for sickness and for crazy age.   95

Bed.  Lord Talbot, do not so dishonour me:
Here will I sit before the walls of Roan,
And will be partner of your weal or woe.

Bur.  Courageous Bedford, let us now persuade you.

Bed.  Not to be gone from hence; for once I read,   100
That stout Pendragon in his litter, sick,
Came to the field and vanquished his foes:
Methinks I should revive the soldiers’ hearts,
Because I ever found them as myself.

Tal.  Undaunted spirit in a dying breast!   105
Then be it so: heavens keep old Bedford safe!
And now no more ado, brave Burgundy,
But gather we our forces out of hand,
And set upon our boasting enemy.  [Exeunt all but BEDFORD and Attendants.

Alarum: Excursions; in one of which, enter SIR JOHN FASTOLFE and a Captain.   110

Cap.  Whither away, Sir John Fastolfe, in such haste?

Fast.  Whither away! to save myself by flight:
We are like to have the overthrow again.

Cap.  What! will you fly, and leave Lord Talbot?

Fast.        Ay,   115
All the Talbots in the world, to save my life.  [Exit.

Cap.  Cowardly knight! ill fortune follow thee!  [Exit.

Retreat: Excursions.  Re-enter, from the town, JOAN LA PUCELLE, ALENÇON, CHARLES, &c., and exeunt, flying.

Bed.  Now, quiet soul, depart when Heaven please,
For I have seen our enemies’ overthrow.   120
What is the trust or strength of foolish man?
They, that of late were daring with their scoffs
Are glad and fain by flight to save themselves.  [Dies, and is carried off in his chair.

Alarum. Re-enter TALBOT, BURGUNDY, and Others.

Tal.  Lost, and recover’d in a day again!   125
This is a double honour, Burgundy:
Yet heavens have glory for this victory!

Bur.  Warlike and martial Talbot, Burgundy
Enshrines thee in his heart, and there erects
Thy noble deeds as valour’s monument.   130

Tal.  Thanks, gentle duke. But where is Pucelle now?
I think her old familiar is asleep.
Now where’s the Bastard’s braves, and Charles his gleeks?
What! all amort? Roan hangs her head for grief,
That such a valiant company are fled.   135
Now will we take some order in the town,
Placing therein some expert officers,
And then depart to Paris to the king;
For there young Henry with his nobles lie.

Bur.  What wills Lord Talbot pleaseth Burgundy.   140

Tal.  But yet, before we go, let’s not forget
The noble Duke of Bedford late deceas’d,
But see his exequies fulfill’d in Roan:
A braver soldier never couched lance,
A gentler heart did never sway in court;   145
But kings and mightiest potentates must die,
For that’s the end of human misery.  [Exeunt.

Act III. Scene III.

The Plains near Roan.

Enter CHARLES, the BASTARD OF ORLEANS, ALENÇON, JOAN LA PUCELLE, and Forces.

Joan.  Dismay not, princes, at this accident,
Nor grieve that Roan is so recovered:
Care is no cure, but rather corrosive,   5
For things that are not to be remedied.
Let frantic Talbot triumph for a while,
And like a peacock sweep along his tail;
We’ll pull his plumes and take away his train,
If Dauphin and the rest will be but rul’d.   10

Char.  We have been guided by thee hitherto,
And of thy cunning had no diffidence:
One sudden foil shall never breed distrust.

Bast.  Search out thy wit for secret policies,
And we will make thee famous through the world.   15

Alen.  We’ll set thy statue in some holy place
And have thee reverenc’d like a blessed saint:
Employ thee, then, sweet virgin, for our good.

Joan.  Then thus it must be; this doth Joan devise:
By fair persuasions, mix’d with sugar’d words,   20
We will entice the Duke of Burgundy
To leave the Talbot and to follow us.

Char.  Ay, marry, sweeting, if we could do that,
France were no place for Henry’s warriors;
Nor should that nation boast it so with us,   25
But be extirped from our provinces.

Alen.  For ever should they be expuls’d from France,
And not have title of an earldom here.

Joan.  Your honours shall perceive how I will work
To bring this matter to the wished end.  [Drums heard afar off.   30
Hark! by the sound of drum you may perceive
Their powers are marching unto Paris-ward.

Here sound an English march.  Enter, and pass over, TALBOT and his Forces.
There goes the Talbot, with his colours spread,
And all the troops of English after him.   35

A French march.  Enter the DUKE OF BURGUNDY and his Forces.
Now in the rearward comes the duke and his:
Fortune in favour makes him lag behind.
Summon a parley; we will talk with him.  [A parley.

Char.  A parley with the Duke of Burgundy!   40

Bur.  Who craves a parley with the Burgundy?

Joan.  The princely Charles of France, thy countryman.

Bur.  What sayst thou, Charles? for I am marching hence.

Char.  Speak, Pucelle, and enchant him with thy words.

Joan.  Brave Burgundy, undoubted hope of France!   45
Stay, let thy humble handmaid speak to thee.

Bur.  Speak on; but be not over-tedious.

Joan.  Look on thy country, look on fertile France,
And see the cities and the towns defac’d
By wasting ruin of the cruel foe.   50
As looks the mother on her lowly babe
When death doth close his tender dying eyes,
See, see the pining malady of France;
Behold the wounds, the most unnatural wounds,
Which thou thyself hast giv’n her woeful breast.   55
O! turn thy edged sword another way;
Strike those that hurt, and hurt not those that help.
One drop of blood drawn from thy country’s bosom,
Should grieve thee more than streams of foreign gore:
Return thee therefore, with a flood of tears,   60
And wash away thy country’s stained spots.

Bur.  Either she hath bewitch’d me with her words,
Or nature makes me suddenly relent.

Joan.  Besides, all French and France exclaims on thee,
Doubting thy birth and lawful progeny.   65
Who join’st thou with but with a lordly nation
That will not trust thee but for profit’s sake?
When Talbot hath set footing once in France,
And fashion’d thee that instrument of ill,
Who then but English Henry will be lord,   70
And thou be thrust out like a fugitive?
Call we to mind, and mark but this for proof,
Was not the Duke of Orleans thy foe,
And was he not in England prisoner?
But when they heard he was thine enemy,   75
They set him free, without his ransom paid,
In spite of Burgundy and all his friends.
See then, thou fight’st against thy countrymen!
And join’st with them will be thy slaughtermen.
Come, come, return; return thou wand’ring lord;   80
Charles and the rest will take thee in their arms.

Bur.  I am vanquished; these haughty words of hers
Have batter’d me like roaring cannon-shot,
And made me almost yield upon my knees.
Forgive me, country, and sweet countrymen!   85
And, lords, accept this hearty kind embrace:
My forces and my power of men are yours.
So, farewell, Talbot; I’ll no longer trust thee.

Joan.  Done like a Frenchman: turn, and turn again!

Char.  Welcome, brave duke! thy friendship makes us fresh.   90

Bast.  And doth beget new courage in our breasts.

Alen.  Pucelle hath bravely play’d her part in this,
And doth deserve a coronet of gold.

Char.  Now let us on, my lords, and join our powers:
And seek how we may prejudice the foe.  [Exeunt.   95

Act III. Scene IV.

Paris.  A Room in the Palace.

Enter KING HENRY, GLOUCESTER, BISHOP OF WINCHESTER, YORK, SUFFOLK, SOMERSET, WARWICK, EXETER; VERNON, BASSET, and Others.  To them with his Soldiers, TALBOT.

Tal.  My gracious prince, and honourable peers,
Hearing of your arrival in this realm,
I have a while giv’n truce unto my wars,   5
To do my duty to my sovereign:
In sign whereof, this arm, — that hath reclaim’d
To your obedience fifty fortresses,
Twelve cities, and seven walled towns of strength,
Beside five hundred prisoners of esteem, —   10
Lets fall his sword before your highness’ feet,  [Kneels.
And with submissive loyalty of heart,
Ascribes the glory of his conquest got,
First to my God, and next unto your Grace.

K. Hen.  Is this the Lord Talbot, uncle Gloucester,   15
That hath so long been resident in France?

Glo.  Yes, if it please your majesty, my liege.

K. Hen.  Welcome, brave captain and victorious lord!
When I was young, — as yet I am not old, —
I do remember how my father said,   20
A stouter champion never handled sword.
Long since we were resolved of your truth,
Your faithful service and your toil in war;
Yet never have you tasted our reward,
Or been reguerdon’d with so much as thanks,   25
Because till now we never saw your face:
Therefore, stand up; and for these good deserts,
We here create you Earl of Shrewsbury;
And in our coronation take your place.  [Flourish.  Exeunt all but VERNON and BASSET.

Ver.  Now, sir, to you, that were so hot at sea,   30
Disgracing of these colours that I wear
In honour of my noble Lord of York,
Dar’st thou maintain the former words thou spak’st?

Bas.  Yes, sir: as well as you dare patronage
The envious barking of your saucy tongue   35
Against my lord the Duke of Somerset.

Ver.  Sirrah, thy lord I honour as he is.

Bas.  Why, what is he? as good a man as York.

Ver.  Hark ye; not so: in witness, take ye that.  [Strikes him.

Bas.  Villain, thou know’st the law of arms is such   40
That, whoso draws a sword, ’tis present death,
Or else this blow should broach thy dearest blood.
But I’ll unto his majesty, and crave
I may have liberty to venge this wrong;
When thou shalt see I’ll meet thee to thy cost   45

Ver.  Well, miscreant, I’ll be there as soon as you;
And, after, meet you sooner than you would.  [Exeunt.

Act IV. Scene I.

Paris.  A Room of State.

Enter KING HENRY, GLOUCESTER, EXETER, YORK, SUFFOLK, SOMERSET, the BISHOP OF WINCHESTER, WARWICK, TALBOT, the Governor of Paris, and Others.

Glo.  Lord bishop, set the crown upon his head.

Win.  God save King Henry, of that name the sixth.

Glo.  Now, Governor of Paris, take your oath, —  [Governor kneels.   5
That you elect no other king but him,
Esteem none friends but such as are his friends,
And none your foes but such as shall pretend
Malicious practices against his state:
This shally ye do, so help you righteous God!  [Exeunt Governor and his Train.   10

Enter SIR JOHN FASTOLFE.

Fast.  My gracious sovereign, as I rode from Calais,
To haste unto your coronation,
A letter was deliver’d to my hands,
Writ to your Grace from the Duke of Burgundy.   15

Tal.  Shame to the Duke of Burgundy and thee!
I vow’d, base knight, when I did meet thee next,
To tear the garter from thy craven’s leg;  [Plucking it off.
Which I have done, because unworthily
Thou wast installed in that high degree.   20
Pardon me, princely Henry, and the rest:
This dastard, at the battle of Patay,
When but in all I was six thousand strong,
And that the French were almost ten to one,
Before we met or that a stroke was given,   25
Like to a trusty squire did run away:
In which assault we lost twelve hundred men;
Myself, and divers gentlemen beside,
Were there surpris’d and taken prisoners.
Then judge, great lords, if I have done amiss;   30
Or whether that such cowards ought to wear
This ornament of knighthood, yea, or no?

Glo.  To say the truth, this fact was infamous
And ill beseeming any common man,
Much more a knight, a captain and a leader.   35

Tal.  When first this order was ordain’d, my lords,
Knights of the garter were of noble birth,
Valiant and virtuous, full of haughty courage,
Such as were grown to credit by the wars;
Not fearing death, nor shrinking for distress,   40
But always resolute in most extremes.
He then that is not furnish’d in this sort
Doth but usurp the sacred name of knight,
Profaning this most honourable order;
And should — if I were worthy to be judge —   45
Be quite degraded, like a hedge-born swain
That doth presume to boast of gentle blood.

K. Hen.  Stain to thy countrymen! thou hear’st thy doom.
Be packing therefore, thou that wast a knight;
Henceforth we banish thee on pain of death.  [Exit FASTOLFE.   50
And now, my Lord Protector, view the letter
Sent from our uncle Duke of Burgundy.

Glo.  [Viewing superscription.]  What means his Grace, that he hath chang’d his style?
No more, but plain and bluntly, To the King!
Hath he forgot he is his sovereign?   55
Or doth this churlish superscription
Pretend some alteration in good will?
What’s here? I have, upon especial cause,
Mov’d with compassion of my country’s wrack,
Together with the pitiful complaints   60
Of such as your oppression feeds upon,
Forsaken your pernicious faction,
And join’d with Charles, the rightful King of France.
O, monstrous treachery! Can this be so,
That in alliance, amity, and oaths,   65
There should be found such false dissembling guile?

K. Hen.  What! doth my uncle Burgundy revolt?

Glo.  He doth, my lord, and is become your foe.

K. Hen.  Is that the worst this letter doth contain?

Glo.  It is the worst, and all, my lord, he writes.   70

K. Hen.  Why then, Lord Talbot there shall talk with him,
And give him chastisement for this abuse.
How say you, my lord? are you not content?

Tal.  Content, my liege! Yes: but that I am prevented,
I should have begg’d I might have been employ’d.   75

K. Hen.  Then gather strength, and march unto him straight:
Let him perceive how ill we brook his treason,
And what offence it is to flout his friends.

Tal.  I go, my lord; in heart desiring still
You may behold confusion of your foes.  [Exit.   80

Enter VERNON and BASSET.

Ver.  Grant me the combat, gracious sovereign!

Bas.  And me, my lord; grant me the combat too!

York.  This is my servant: hear him, noble prince!

Som.  And this is mine: sweet Henry, favour him!   85

K. Hen.  Be patient, lords; and give them leave to speak.
Say, gentlemen, what makes you thus exclaim?
And wherefore crave you combat? or with whom?

Ver.  With him, my lord; for he hath done me wrong.

Bas.  And I with him; for he hath done me wrong.   90

K. Hen.  What is that wrong whereof you both complain?
First let me know, and then I’ll answer you.

Bas.  Crossing the sea from England into France,
This fellow here, with envious carping tongue,
Upbraided me about the rose I wear;   95
Saying, the sanguine colour of the leaves
Did represent my master’s blushing cheeks,
When stubbornly he did repugn the truth
About a certain question in the law
Argu’d betwixt the Duke of York and him;   100
With other vile and ignominious terms:
In confutation of which rude reproach,
And in defence of my lord’s worthiness,
I crave the benefit of law of arms.

Ver.  And that is my petition, noble lord:   105
For though he seem with forged quaint conceit,
To set a gloss upon his bold intent,
Yet know, my lord, I was provok’d by him;
And he first took exceptions at this badge,
Pronouncing, that the paleness of this flower   110
Bewray’d the faintness of my master’s heart.

York.  Will not this malice, Somerset, be left?

Som.  Your private grudge, my Lord of York, will out,
Though ne’er so cunningly you smother it.

K. Hen.  Good Lord! what madness rules in brain-sick men,   115
When, for so slight and frivolous a cause,
Such factious emulations shall arise!
Good cousins both, of York and Somerset,
Quiet yourselves, I pray, and be at peace.

York.  Let this dissension first be tried by fight,   120
And then your highness shall command a peace.

Som.  The quarrel toucheth none but us alone;
Betwixt ourselves let us decide it, then.

York.  There is my pledge; accept it, Somerset.

Ver.  Nay, let it rest where it began at first.   125

Bas.  Confirm it so, mine honourable lord.

Glo.  Confirm it so! Confounded be your strife!
And perish ye, with your audacious prate!
Presumptuous vassals! are you not asham’d,
With this immodest clamorous outrage   130
To trouble and disturb the king and us? —
And you, my lords, methinks you do not well
To bear with their perverse objections;
Much less to take occasion from their mouths
To raise a mutiny betwixt yourselves:   135
Let me persuade you take a better course.

Exe.  It grieves his highness: good my lords, be friends.

K. Hen.  Come hither, you that would be combatants.
Henceforth I charge you, as you love our favour,
Quite to forget this quarrel and the cause.   140
And you, my lords, remember where we are;
In France, amongst a fickle wav’ring nation.
If they perceive dissension in our looks,
And that within ourselves we disagree,
How will their grudging stomachs be provok’d   145
To wilful disobedience, and rebel!
Beside, what infamy will there arise,
When foreign princes shall be certified
That for a toy, a thing of no regard,
King Henry’s peers and chief nobility   150
Destroy’d themselves, and lost the realm of France!
O! think upon the conquest of my father,
My tender years, and let us not forego
That for a trifle that was bought with blood!
Let me be umpire in this doubtful strife.   155
I see no reason, if I wear this rose;  [Putting on a red rose.
That any one should therefore be suspicious
I more incline to Somerset than York:
Both are my kinsmen, and I love them both.
As well they may upbraid me with my crown,   160
Because, forsooth, the King of Scots is crown’d.
But your discretions better can persuade
Than I am able to instruct or teach:
And therefore, as we hither came in peace,
So let us still continue peace and love.   165
Cousin of York, we institute your Grace
To be our regent in these parts of France:
And, good my Lord of Somerset, unite
Your troops of horsemen with his bands of foot;
And like true subjects, sons of your progenitors,   170
Go cheerfully together and digest
Your angry choler on your enemies.
Ourself, my Lord Protector, and the rest,
After some respite will return to Calais;
From thence to England; where I hope ere long   175
To be presented by your victories,
With Charles, Alençon, and that traitorous rout.  [Flourish.  Exeunt all but YORK, WARWICK, EXETER, and VERNON.

War.  My Lord of York, I promise you, the king
Prettily, methought, did play the orator.

York.  And so he did; but yet I like it not,   180
In that he wears the badge of Somerset.

War.  Tush! that was but his fancy, blame him not;
I dare presume, sweet prince, he thought no harm.

York.  An if I wist he did, — But let it rest;
Other affairs must now be managed.  [Exeunt YORK, WARWICK, and VERNON.   185

Exe.  Well didst thou, Richard, to suppress thy voice;
For had the passions of thy heart burst out,
I fear we should have seen decipher’d there
More rancorous spite, more furious raging broils,
Than yet can be imagin’d or suppos’d.   190
But howsoe’er, no simple man that sees
This jarring discord of nobility,
This shouldering of each other in the court,
This factious bandying of their favourites,
But that it doth presage some ill event.   195
’Tis much when sceptres are in children’s hands;
But more, when envy breeds unkind division:
There comes the ruin, there begins confusion.  [Exit.

Act IV. Scene II.

Before Bourdeaux.

Enter TALBOT, with his Forces.

Tal.  Go to the gates of Bourdeaux, trumpeter;
Summon their general unto the wall.

Trumpet sounds a parley.  Enter, on the Walls, the General of the French Forces, and Others.   5
English John Talbot, captains, calls you forth,
Servant in arms to Harry King of England;
And thus he would: Open your city gates,
Be humble to us, call my sov’reign yours,
And do him homage as obedient subjects,   10
And I’ll withdraw me and my bloody power;
But, if you frown upon this proffer’d peace,
You tempt the fury of my three attendants,
Lean famine, quartering steel, and climbing fire;
Who in a moment even with the earth   15
Shall lay your stately and air-braving towers,
If you forsake the offer of their love.

Gen.  Thou ominous and fearful owl of death,
Our nation’s terror and their bloody scourge!
The period of thy tyranny approacheth.   20
On us thou canst not enter but by death;
For, I protest, we are well fortified,
And strong enough to issue out and fight:
If thou retire, the Dauphin, well appointed,
Stands with the snares of war to tangle thee:   25
On either hand thee there are squadrons pitch’d,
To wall thee from the liberty of flight;
And no way canst thou turn thee for redress
But death doth front thee with apparent spoil,
And pale destruction meets thee in the face.   30
Ten thousand French have ta’en the sacrament,
To rive their dangerous artillery
Upon no Christian soul but English Talbot.
Lo! there thoustand’st, a breathing valiant man,
Of an invincible unconquer’d spirit:   35
This is the latest glory of thy praise,
That I, thy enemy, ‘due thee withal;
For ere the glass, that now begins to run,
Finish the process of his sandy hour,
These eyes, that see thee now well coloured,   40
Shall see thee wither’d, bloody, pale, and dead.  [Drum afar off.
Hark! hark! the Dauphin’s drum, a warning bell,
Sings heavy music to thy timorous soul;
And mine shall ring thy dire departure out.  [Exeunt General, &c., from the Walls.

Tal.  He fables not; I hear the enemy:   45
Out, some light horsemen, and peruse their wings.
O! negligent and heedless discipline;
How are we park’d and bounded in a pale,
A little herd of England’s timorous deer,
Maz’d with a yelping kennel of French curs!   50
If we be English deer, be then, in blood;
Not rascal-like, to fall down with a pinch,
But rather moody-mad and desperate stags,
Turn on the bloody hounds with heads of steel,
And make the cowards stand aloof at bay:   55
Sell every man his life as dear as mine,
And they shall find dear deer of us, my friends.
God and Saint George, Talbot and England’s right,
Prosper our colours in this dangerous fight!  [Exeunt.

Act IV. Scene III.

Plains in Gascony.

Enter YORK, with Forces; to him a Messenger.

York.  Are not the speedy scouts return’d again,
That dogg’d the mighty army of the Dauphin?

Mess.  They are return’d, my lord; and give it out,   5
That he is march’d to Bourdeaux with his power,
To fight with Talbot. As he march’d along,
By your espials were discovered
Two mightier troops than that the Dauphin led,
Which join’d with him and made their march for Bourdeaux.   10

York.  A plague upon that villain Somerset,
That thus delays my promised supply
Of horsemen that were levied for this siege!
Renowned Talbot doth expect my aid,
And I am louted by a traitor villain,   15
And cannot help the noble chevalier.
God comfort him in this necessity!
If he miscarry, farewell wars in France.

Enter SIR WILLIAM LUCY.

Lucy.  Thou princely leader of our English strength,   20
Never so needful on the earth of France,
Spur to the rescue of the noble Talbot,
Who now is girdled with a waist of iron
And hemm’d about with grim destruction.
To Bourdeaux, war-like duke! To Bourdeaux, York!   25
Else, farewell Talbot, France, and England’s honour.

York.  O God! that Somerset, who in proud heart
Doth stop my cornets, were in Talbot’s place!
So should we save a valiant gentleman
By forfeiting a traitor and a coward.   30
Mad ire and wrathful fury, make me weep
That thus we die, while remiss traitors sleep.

Lucy.  O! send some succour to the distress’d lord.

York.  He dies, we lose; I break my war-like word;
We mourn, France smiles; we lose, they daily get;   35
All ‘long of this vile traitor Somerset.

Lucy.  Then God take mercy on brave Talbot’s soul;
And on his son young John, whom two hours since
I met in travel toward his war-like father.
This seven years did not Talbot see his son;   40
And now they meet where both their lives are done.

York.  Alas! what joy shall noble Talbot have,
To bid his young son welcome to his grave?
Away! vexation almost stops my breath
That sunder’d friends greet in the hour of death.   45
Lucy, farewell: no more my fortune can,
But curse the cause I cannot aid the man.
Maine, Blois, Poictiers, and Tours, are won away,
‘Long all of Somerset and his delay.  [Exit, with his Soldiers.

Lucy.  Thus, while the vulture of sedition   50
Feeds in the bosom of such great commanders,
Sleeping neglection doth betray to loss
The conquest of our scarce cold conqueror,
That ever living man of memory,
Henry the Fifth: Whiles they each other cross,   55
Lives, honours, lands, and all hurry to loss.  [Exit.

Act IV. Scene IV.

Other Plains in Gascony.

Enter SOMERSET, with his Army; a Captain of TALBOT’S with him.

Som.  It is too late; I cannot send them now:
This expedition was by York and Talbot
Too rashly plotted: all our general force   5
Might with a sally of the very town
Be buckled with: the over-daring Talbot
Hath sullied all his gloss of former honour
By this unheedful, desperate, wild adventure:
York set him on to fight and die in shame,   10
That, Talbot dead, great York might bear the name.

Cap.  Here is Sir William Lucy, who with me
Set from our o’ermatch’d forces forth for aid.

Enter SIR WILLIAM LUCY.

Som.  How now, Sir William! whither were you sent?   15

Lucy.  Whither, my lord? from bought and sold Lord Talbot;
Who, ring’d about with bold adversity,
Cries out for noble York and Somerset,
To beat assailing death from his weak legions:
And whiles the honourable captain there   20
Drops bloody sweat from his war-wearied limbs,
And, in advantage lingering, looks for rescue,
You, his false hopes, the trust of England’s honour,
Keep off aloof with worthless emulation.
Let not your private discord keep away   25
The levied succours that should lend him aid,
While he, renowned noble gentleman,
Yields up his life unto a world of odds:
Orleans the Bastard, Charles, Burgundy,
Alençon, Reignier, compass him about,   30
And Talbot perisheth by your default.

Som.  York set him on; York should have sent him aid.

Lucy.  And York as fast upon your Grace exclaims;
Swearing that you withhold his levied host
Collected for this expedition.   35

Som.  York lies; he might have sent and had the horse:
I owe him little duty, and less love;
And take foul scorn to fawn on him by sending.

Lucy.  The fraud of England, not the force of France,
Hath now entrapp’d the noble-minded Talbot.   40
Never to England shall he bear his life,
But dies, betray’d to fortune by your strife.

Som.  Come, go; I will dispatch the horsemen straight:
Within six hours they will be at his aid.

Lucy.  Too late comes rescue: he is ta’en or slain,   45
For fly he could not if he would have fled;
And fly would Talbot never, though he might.

Som.  If he be dead, brave Talbot, then adieu!

Lucy.  His fame lives in the world, his shame in you.  [Exeunt.

Act IV. Scene V.

The English Camp near Bourdeaux.

Enter TALBOT and JOHN his Son.

Tal.  O young John Talbot! I did send for thee
To tutor thee in stratagems of war,
That Talbot’s name might be in thee reviv’d   5
When sapless age, and weak unable limbs
Should bring thy father to his drooping chair.
But, — O malignant and ill-boding stars!
Now thou art come unto a feast of death,
A terrible and unavoided danger:   10
Therefore, dear boy, mount on my swiftest horse,
And I’ll direct thee how thou shalt escape
By sudden flight: come, dally not, be gone.

John.  Is my name Talbot? and am I your son?
And shall I fly? O! if you love my mother,   15
Dishonour not her honourable name,
To make a bastard and a slave of me:
The world will say he is not Talbot’s blood
That basely fled when noble Talbot stood.

Tal.  Fly, to revenge my death, if I be slain.   20

John.  He that flies so will ne’er return again.

Tal.  If we both stay, we both are sure to die.

John.  Then let me stay; and, father, do you fly:
Your loss is great, so your regard should be;
My worth unknown, no loss is known in me.   25
Upon my death the French can little boast;
In yours they will, in you all hopes are lost.
Flight cannot stain the honour you have won;
But mine it will that no exploit have done:
You fled for vantage everyone will swear;   30
But if I bow, they’ll say it was for fear.
There is no hope that ever I will stay
If the first hour I shrink and run away.
Here, on my knee, I beg mortality,
Rather than life preserv’d with infamy.   35

Tal.  Shall all thy mother’s hopes lie in one tomb?

John.  Ay, rather than I’ll shame my mother’s womb.

Tal.  Upon my blessing I command thee go.

John.  To fight I will, but not to fly the foe.

Tal.  Part of thy father may be sav’d in thee.   40

John.  No part of him but will be shame in me.

Tal.  Thou never hadst renown, nor canst not lose it.

John.  Yes, your renowned name: shall flight abuse it?

Tal.  Thy father’s charge shall clear thee from that stain.

John.  You cannot witness for me, being slain.   45
If death be so apparent, then both fly.

Tal.  And leave my followers here to fight and die?
My age was never tainted with such shame.

John.  And shall my youth be guilty of such blame?
No more can I be sever’d from your side   50
Than can yourself yourself in twain divide.
Stay, go, do what you will, the like do I;
For live I will not if my father die.

Tal.  Then here I take my leave of thee, fair son,
Born to eclipse thy life this afternoon.   55
Come, side by side together live and die,
And soul with soul from France to heaven fly.

Act IV. Scene VI.

A Field of Battle.

Alarum: Excursions, wherein TALBOT’S Son is hemmed about, and TALBOT rescues him.

Tal.  Saint George and victory! fight, soldiers, fight!
The regent hath with Talbot broke his word,
And left us to the rage of France his sword.   5
Where is John Talbot? Pause, and take thy breath:
I gave thee life and rescu’d thee from death.

John.  O! twice my father, twice am I thy son:
The life thou gav’st me first was lost and done,
Till with thy war-like sword, despite of fate,   10
To my determin’d time thou gav’st new date.

Tal.  When from the Dauphin’s crest thy sword struck fire,
It warm’d thy father’s heart with proud desire
Of bold-fac’d victory. Then leaden age,
Quicken’d with youthful spleen and war-like rage,   15
Beat down Alençon, Orleans, Burgundy,
And from the pride of Gallia rescu’d thee.
The ireful bastard Orleans, — that drew blood
From thee, my boy, and had the maidenhood
Of thy first fight, — I soon encountered   20
And, interchanging blows, I quickly shed
Some of his bastard blood; and, in disgrace,
Bespoke him thus, ‘Contaminated, base,
And misbegotten blood I spill of thine,
Mean and right poor, for that pure blood of mine   25
Which thou didst force from Talbot, my brave boy:’
Here, purposing the Bastard to destroy,
Came in strong rescue. Speak, thy father’s care,
Art thou not weary, John? How dost thou fare?
Wilt thou yet leave the battle, boy, and fly,   30
Now thou art seal’d the son of chivalry?
Fly, to revenge my death when I am dead;
The help of one stands me in little stead.
O! too much folly is it, well I wot,
To hazard all our lives in one small boat.   35
If I to-day die not with Frenchmen’s rage,
To-morrow I shall die with micke age:
By me they nothing gain an if I stay;
’Tis but the short’ning of my life one day.
In thee thy mother dies, our household’s name,   40
My death’s revenge, thy youth, and England’s fame.
All these and more we hazard by thy stay;
All these are sav’d if thou wilt fly away.

John.  The sword of Orleans hath not made me smart;
These words of yours draw life-blood from my heart.   45
On that advantage, bought with such a shame,
To save a paltry life and slay bright fame,
Before young Talbot from old Talbot fly,
The coward horse that bears me fall and die!
And like me to the peasant boys of France,   50
To be shame’s scorn and subject of mischance!
Surely, by all the glory you have won,
An if I fly, I am not Talbot’s son:
Then talk no more of flight, it is no boot;
If son to Talbot, die at Talbot’s foot.   55

Tal.  Then follow thou thy desperate sire of Crete,
Thou Icarus. Thy life to me is sweet:
If thou wilt fight, fight by thy father’s side,
And, commendable prov’d, let’s die in pride.  [Exeunt.

Act IV. Scene VII.

Another Part of the Field.

Alarum: Excursions.  Enter Old TALBOT, wounded, led by a Servant.

Tal.  Where is my other life? — mine own is gone; —
O! where’s young Talbot? where is valiant John?
Triumphant death, smear’d with captivity,   5
Young Talbot’s valour makes me smile at thee.
When he perceiv’d me shrink and on my knee,
His bloody sword he brandish’d over me,
And like a hungry lion did commence
Rough deeds of rage and stern impatience;   10
But when my angry guardant stood alone,
Tendering my ruin and assail’d of none,
Dizzy-ey’d fury and great rage of heart
Suddenly made him from my side to start
Into the clust’ring battle of the French;   15
And in that sea of blood my boy did drench
His overmounting spirit; and there died
My Icarus, my blossom, in his pride.

Enter Soldiers, bearing the body of Young TALBOT.

Serv.  O, my dear lord! lo, where your son is borne!   20

Tal.  Thou antick, death, which laugh’st us here to scorn,
Anon, from thy insulting tyranny,
Coupled in bonds of perpetuity,
Two Talbots, winged through the lither sky,
In thy despite shall ‘scape mortality.   25
O! thou, whose wounds become hard-favour’d death,
Speak to thy father ere thou yield thy breath;
Brave doath by speaking whe’r he will or no;
Imagine him a Frenchman and thy foe.
Poor boy! he smiles, methinks, as who should say,   30
Had death been French, then death had died to-day.
Come, come, and lay him in his father’s arms:
My spirit can no longer bear these harms.
Soldiers, adieu! I have what I would have,
Now my old arms are young John Talbot’s grave.  [Dies.   35

Alarums. Exeunt Soldiers and Servant, leaving the two bodies. Enter CHARLES, ALENÇON, BURGUNDY, the BASTARD OF ORLEANS, JOAN LA PUCELLE, and Forces.

Char.  Had York and Somerset brought rescue in
We should have found a bloody day of this.

Bast.  How the young whelp of Talbot’s, raging-wood,
Did flesh his puny sword in Frenchmen’s blood!   40

Joan.  Once I encounter’d him, and thus I said:
‘Thou maiden youth, be vanquish’d by a maid:’
But with a proud majestical high scorn,
He answer’d thus: ‘Young Talbot was not born
To be the pillage of a giglot wench.’   45
So, rushing in the bowels of the French,
He left me proudly, as unworthy fight.

Bur.  Doubtless he would have made a noble knight;
See, where he lies inhearsed in the arms
Of the most bloody nurser of his harms.   50

Bast.  Hew them to pieces, hack their bones asunder,
Whose life was England’s glory, Gallia’s wonder.

Char.  O, no! forbear; for that which we have fled
During the life, let us not wrong it dead.

Enter SIR WILLIAM LUCY, attended: a French Herald preceding.   55

Lucy.  Herald, conduct me to the Dauphin’s tent,
To know who hath obtain’d the glory of the day.

Char.  On what submissive message art thou sent?

Lucy.  Submission, Dauphin! ’tis a mere French word;
We English warriors wot not what it means.   60
I come to know what prisoners thou hast ta’en,
And to survey the bodies of the dead.

Char.  For prisoners ask’st thou? hell our prison is.
But tell me whom thou seek’st.

Lucy.  Where is the great Alcides of the field,   65
Valiant Lord Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury?
Created, for his rare success in arms,
Great Earl of Washford, Waterford, and Valence;
Lord Talbot of Goodrig and Urchinfield,
Lord Strange of Blackmere, Lord Verdun of Alton,   70
Lord Cromwell of Wingfield, Lord Furnival of Sheffield,
The thrice-victorious Lord of Falconbridge;
Knight of the noble order of Saint George,
Worthy Saint Michael and the Golden Fleece;
Great mareschal to Henry the Sixth   75
Of all his wars within the realm of France?

Joan.  Here is a silly stately style indeed!
The Turk, that two-and-fifty kingdoms hath,
Writes not so tedious a style as this.
Him that thou magnifiest with all these titles,   80
Stinking and fly-blown lies here at our feet.

Lucy.  Is Talbot slain, the Frenchmen’s only scourge,
Your kingdom’s terror and black Nemesis?
O! were mine eye-balls into bullets turn’d,
That I in rage might shoot them at your faces!   85
O! that I could but call these dead to life!
It were enough to fright the realm of France.
Were but his picture left among you here
It would amaze the proudest of you all.
Give me their bodies, that I may bear them hence,   90
And give them burial as beseems their worth.

Joan.  I think this upstart is old Talbot’s ghost,
He speaks with such a proud commanding spirit.
For God’s sake, let him have ‘em; to keep them here
They would but stink and putrefy the air.   95

Char.  Go, take their bodies hence.

Lucy.        I’ll bear them hence:
But from their ashes shall be rear’d
A phœnix that shall make all France afeard.

Char.  So we be rid of them, do with ’em what thou wilt.   100
And now to Paris, in this conquering vein:
All will be ours now bloody Talbot’s slain.  [Exeunt.

Act V. Scene I.

London.  A Room in the Palace.

Enter KING HENRY, GLOUCESTER, and EXETER.

K. Hen.  Have you perus’d the letters from the pope,
The emperor, and the Earl of Armagnac?

Glo.  I have, my lord; and their intent is this:   5
They humbly sue unto your excellence
To have a godly peace concluded of
Between the realms of England and of France.

K. Hen.  How doth your Grace affect their motion?

Glo.  Well, my good lord; and as the only means   10
To stop effusion of our Christian blood,
And stablish quietness on every side.

K. Hen.  Ay, marry, uncle; for I always thought
It was both impious and unnatural
That such immanity and bloody strife   15
Should reign among professors of one faith.

Glo.  Beside, my lord, the sooner to effect
And surer bind this knot of amity,
The Earl of Armagnac, near knit to Charles,
A man of great authority in France,   20
Proffers his only daughter to your Grace
In marriage, with a large and sumptuous dowry.

K. Hen.  Marriage, uncle! alas! my years are young,
And fitter is my study and my books
Than wanton dalliance with a paramour.   25
Yet call the ambassadors; and, as you please,
So let them have their answers every one:
I shall be well content with any choice
Tends to God’s glory and my country’s weal.

Enter a Legate, and two Ambassadors, with WINCHESTER, now CARDINAL BEAUFORT, and habited accordingly.   30

Exe.  [Aside.]  What! is my Lord of Winchester install’d,
And call’d unto a cardinal’s degree?
Then, I perceive that will be verified
Henry the Fifth did sometime prophesy, —
‘If once he come to be a cardinal,   35
He’ll make his cap co-equal with the crown.’

K. Hen.  My lords ambassadors, your several suits
Have been consider’d, and debated on.
Your purpose is both good and reasonable;
And therefore are we certainly resolv’d   40
To draw conditions of a friendly peace;
Which by my Lord of Winchester we mean
Shall be transported presently to France.

Glo.  And for the proffer of my lord your master,
I have inform’d his highness so at large,   45
As, — liking of the lady’s virtuous gifts,
Her beauty, and the value of her dower, —
He doth intend she shall be England’s queen.

K. Hen.  [To the Ambassador.]  In argument and proof of which contract,
Bear her this jewel, pledge of my affection.   50
And so, my lord protector, see them guarded,
And safely brought to Dover; where inshipp’d
Commit them to the fortune of the sea.

[Exeunt KING HENRY and Train; GLOUCESTER, EXETER, and Ambassadors.

Win.  Stay, my lord legate: you shall first receive   55
The sum of money which I promised
Should be deliver’d to his holiness
For clothing me in these grave ornaments.

Leg.  I will attend upon your lordship’s leisure.

Win.  [Aside.]  Now Winchester will not submit, I trow,   60
Or be inferior to the proudest peer.
Humphrey of Gloucester, thou shalt well perceive
That neither in birth or for authority
The bishop will be overborne by thee:
I’ll either make thee stoop and bend thy knee,   65
Or sack this country with a mutiny.  [Exeunt.

Act V. Scene II.

France.  Plains in Anjou.

Enter CHARLES, BURGUNDY, ALENÇON, JOAN LA PUCELLE, and Forces, marching.

Char.  These news, my lord, may cheer our drooping spirits;
’Tis said the stout Parisians do revolt,
And turn again unto the war-like French.   5

Alen.  Then, march to Paris, royal Charles of France,
And keep not back your powers in dalliance.

Joan.  Peace be amongst them if they turn to us;
Else, ruin combat with their palaces!

Enter a Scout.   10

Scout.  Success unto our valiant general,
And happiness to his accomplices!

Char.  What tidings send our scouts? I prithee speak.

Scout.  The English army, that divided was
Into two parties, is now conjoin’d in one,   15
And means to give you battle presently.

Char.  Somewhat too sudden, sirs, the warning is:
But we will presently provide for them.

Bur.  I trust the ghost of Talbot is not there:
Now he is gone, my lord, you need not fear.   20

Joan.  Of all base passions, fear is most accurs’d.
Command the conquest, Charles, it shall be thine;
Let Henry fret and all the world repine.

Char.  Then on, my lords; and France be fortunate!  [Exeunt.

Act V. Scene III.

France.  Before Angiers.

Alarum: Excursions. Enter JOAN LA PUCELLE.

Joan.  The regent conquers and the Frenchmen fly.
Now help, ye charming spells and periapts;
And ye choice spirits that admonish me   5
And give me signs of future accidents:  [Thunder.
You speedy helpers, that are substitutes
Under the lordly monarch of the north,
Appear, and aid me in this enterprise!

Enter Fiends.   10
This speedy and quick appearance argues proof
Of your accustom’d diligence to me.
Now, ye familiar spirits, that are cull’d
Out of the powerful regions under earth,
Help me this once, that France may get the field.  [They walk, and speak not.   15
O! hold me not with silence over-long.
Where I was wont to feed you with my blood,
I’ll lop a member off and give it you,
In earnest of a further benefit,
So you do condescend to help me now.  [They hang their heads.   20
No hope to have redress? My body shall
Pay recompense, if you will grant my suit.  [They shake their heads.
Cannot my body nor blood-sacrifice
Entreat you to your wonted furtherance?
Then take my soul; my body, soul, and all,   25
Before that England give the French the foil.  [They depart.
See! they forsake me. Now the time is come,
That France must vail her lofty-plumed crest,
And let her head fall into England’s lap.
My ancient incantations are too weak,   30
And hell too strong for me to buckle with:
Now, France, thy glory droopeth to the dust.  [Exit.

Alarum.  Enter French and English fighting: JOAN LA PUCELLE and YORK fight hand to hand: JOAN LA PUCELLE is taken.  The French fly.

York.  Damsel of France, I think I have you fast:
Unchain your spirits now with spelling charms,   35
And try if they can gain your liberty.
A goodly prize, fit for the devil’s grace!
See how the ugly witch doth bend her brows,
As if with Circe she would change my shape.

Joan.  Chang’d to a worser shape thou canst not be.   40

York.  O! Charles the Dauphin is a proper man;
No shape but his can please your dainty eye.

Joan.  A plaguing mischief light on Charles and thee!
And may ye both be suddenly surpris’d
By bloody hands, in sleeping on your beds!   45

York.  Fell banning hag, enchantress, hold thy tongue!

Joan.  I prithee, give me leave to curse a while.

York.  Curse, miscreant, when thou comest to the stake.  [Exeunt.

Alarum.  Enter SUFFOLK, with MARGARET in his hand.

Suf.  Be what thou wilt, thou art my prisoner.  [Gazes on her.   50
O fairest beauty! do not fear nor fly,
For I will touch thee but with reverent hands.
I kiss these fingers for eternal peace,
And lay them gently on thy tender side.
What art thou? say, that I may honour thee.   55

Mar.  Margaret my name, and daughter to a king,
The King of Naples, whosoe’er thou art.

Suf.  An earl I am, and Suffolk am I call’d.
Be not offended, nature’s miracle,
Thou art allotted to be ta’en by me:   60
So doth the swan her downy cygnets save,
Keeping them prisoners underneath her wings.
Yet if this servile usage once offend,
Go and be free again, as Suffolk’s friend.  [She turns away as going.
O stay! I have no power to let her pass;   65
My hand would free her, but my heart says no.
As plays the sun upon the glassy streams,
Twinkling another counterfeited beam,
So seems this gorgeous beauty to mine eyes.
Fain would I woo her, yet I dare not speak:   70
I’ll call for pen and ink and write my mind.
Fie, De la Pole! disable not thyself;
Hast not a tongue? is she not here thy prisoner?
Wilt thou be daunted at a woman’s sight?
Ay; beauty’s princely majesty is such   75
Confounds the tongue and makes the senses rough.

Mar.  Say, Earl of Suffolk, — if thy name be so, —
What ransom must I pay before I pass?
For I perceive, I am thy prisoner.

Suf.  [Aside.]  How canst thou tell she will deny thy suit,   80
Before thou make a trial of her love?

Mar.  Why speak’st thou not? what ransom must I pay?

Suf.  [Aside.]  She’s beautiful and therefore to be woo’d,
She is a woman, therefore to be won.

Mar.  Wilt thou accept of ransom, yea or no?   85

Suf.  [Aside.]  Fond man! remember that thou hast a wife;
Then how can Margaret be thy paramour?

Mar.  I were best to leave him, for he will not hear.

Suf.  [Aside.]  There all is marr’d; there lies a cooling card.

Mar.  He talks at random; sure, the man is mad.   90

Suf.  [Aside.]  And yet a dispensation may be had.

Mar.  And yet I would that you would answer me.

Suf.  [Aside.]  I’ll win this Lady Margaret. For whom?
Why, for my king: tush! that’s a wooden thing.

Mar.  [Overhearing him.]  He talks of wood: it is some carpenter.   95

Suf.  [Aside.]  Yet so my fancy may be satisfied,
And peace established between these realms.
But there remains a scruple in that too;
For though her father be the King of Naples,
Duke of Anjou and Maine, yet is he poor,   100
And our nobility will scorn the match.

Mar.  Hear ye, captain? Are you not at leisure?

Suf.  [Aside.]  It shall be so, disdain they ne’er so much:
Henry is youthful and will quickly yield.
Madam, I have a secret to reveal.   105

Mar.  [Aside.]  What though I be enthrall’d? he seems a knight,
And will not any way dishonour me.

Suf.  Lady, vouchsafe to listen what I say.

Mar.  [Aside.]  Perhaps I shall be rescu’d by the French;
And then I need not crave his courtesy.   110

Suf.  Sweet madam, give me hearing in a cause —

Mar.  Tush, women have been captivate ere now.

Suf.  Lady, wherefore talk you so?

Mar.  I cry you mercy, ’tis but quid for quo.

Suf.  Say, gentle princess, would you not suppose   115
Your bondage happy to be made a queen?

Mar.  To be a queen in bondage is more vile
Than is a slave in base servility;
For princes should be free.

Suf.        And so shall you,   120
If happy England’s royal king be free.

Mar.  Why, what concerns his freedom unto me?

Suf.  I’ll undertake to make thee Henry’s queen,
To put a golden sceptre in thy hand
And set a precious crown upon thy head,   125
If thou wilt condescend to be my —

Mar.        What?

Suf.                His love.

Mar.  I am unworthy to be Henry’s wife.

Suf.  No, gentle madam; I unworthy am   130
To woo so fair a dame to be his wife
And have no portion in the choice myself.
How say you, madam, are you so content?

Mar.  An if my father please, I am content.

Suf.  Then call our captains and our colours forth!   135
And, madam, at your father’s castle walls
We’ll crave a parley, to confer with him.  [Troops come forward.

A Parley sounded.  Enter REIGNIER on the Walls.

Suf.  See, Reignier, see thy daughter prisoner!

Reig.  To whom?   140

Suf.        To me.

Reig.                Suffolk, what remedy?
I am a soldier, and unapt to weep,
Or to exclaim on Fortune’s fickleness.

Suf.  Yes, there is remedy enough, my lord:   145
Consent, and for thy honour, give consent,
Thy daughter shall be wedded to my king,
Whom I with pain have woo’d and won thereto;
And this her easy-held imprisonment
Hath gain’d thy daughter princely liberty.   150

Reig.  Speaks Suffolk as he thinks?

Suf.        Fair Margaret knows
That Suffolk doth not flatter, face, or feign.

Reig.  Upon thy princely warrant, I descend
To give thee answer of thy just demand.  [Exit from the walls.   155

Suf.  And here I will expect thy coming.

Trumpets sound.  Enter REIGNIER, below.

Reig.  Welcome, brave earl, into our territories:
Command in Anjou what your honour pleases.

Suf.  Thanks, Reignier, happy for so sweet a child,   160
Fit to be made companion with a king.
What answer makes your Grace unto my suit?

Reig.  Since thou dost deign to woo her little worth
To be the princely bride of such a lord,
Upon condition I may quietly   165
Enjoy mine own, the county Maine and Anjou,
Free from oppression or the stroke of war,
My daughter shall be Henry’s if he please.

Suf.  That is her ransom; I deliver her;
And those two counties I will undertake   170
Your Grace shall well and quietly enjoy.

Reig.  And I again, in Henry’s royal name,
As deputy unto that gracious king,
Give thee her hand for sign of plighted faith.

Suf.  Reignier of France, I give thee kingly thanks,   175
Because this is in traffic of a king:
[Aside.]  And yet, methinks, I could be well content
To be mine own attorney in this case.
I’ll over then, to England with this news,
And make this marriage to be solemniz’d.   180
So farewell, Reignier: set this diamond safe,
In golden palaces, as it becomes.

Reig.  I do embrace thee, as I would embrace
The Christian prince, King Henry, were he here.

Mar.  Farewell, my lord. Good wishes, praise, and prayers   185
Shall Suffolk ever have of Margaret.  [Going.

Suf.  Farewell, sweet madam! but hark you, Margaret;
No princely commendations to my king?

Mar.  Such commendations as become a maid,
A virgin, and his servant, say to him.   190

Suf.  Words sweetly plac’d and modestly directed.
But madam, I must trouble you again,
No loving token to his majesty?

Mar.  Yes, my good lord; a pure unspotted heart,
Never yet taint with love, I send the king.   195

Suf.  And this withal.  [Kisses her.

Mar.  That for thyself: I will not so presume,
To send such peevish tokens to a king.  [Exeunt REIGNIER and MARGARET.

Suf.  O! wert thou for myself! But Suffolk, stay;
Thou mayst not wander in that labyrinth;   200
There Minotaurs and ugly treasons lurk.
Solicit Henry with her wondrous praise:
Bethink thee on her virtues that surmount
And natural graces that extinguish art;
Repeat their semblance often on the seas,   205
That, when thou com’st to kneel at Henry’s feet,
Thou mayst bereave him of his wits with wonder.  [Exit.

Act V. Scene IV.

Camp of the DUKE OF YORK, in Anjou.

Enter YORK, WARWICK, and Others.

York.  Bring forth that sorceress, condemn’d to burn.

Enter JOAN LA PUCELLE, guarded; and a Shepherd.

Shep.  Ah, Joan! this kills thy father’s heart outright.   5
Have I sought every country far and near,
And, now it is my chance to find thee out,
Must I behold thy timeless cruel death?
Ah, Joan! sweet daughter Joan, I’ll die with thee.

Joan.  Decrepit miser! base ignoble wretch!   10
I am descended of a gentler blood:
Thou art no father nor no friend of mine.

Shep.  Out, out! My lords, an please you, ’tis not so;
I did beget her all the parish knows:
Her mother liveth yet, can testify   15
She was the first fruit of my bachelorship.

War.  Graceless! wilt thou deny thy parentage?

York.  This argues what her kind of life hath been:
Wicked and vile; and so her death concludes.

Shep.  Fie, Joan, that thou wilt be so obstacle!   20
God knows, thou art a collop of my flesh;
And for thy sake have I shed many a tear:
Deny me not, I prithee, gentle Joan.

Joan.  Peasant, avaunt! You have suborn’d this man,
Of purpose to obscure my noble birth.   25

Shep.  ’Tis true, I gave a noble to the priest,
The morn that I was wedded to her mother.
Kneel down and take my blessing, good my girl.
Wilt thou not stoop? Now cursed be the time
Of thy nativity! I would the milk   30
Thy mother gave thee, when thou suck’dst her breast,
Had been a little ratsbane for thy sake!
Or else, when thou didst keep my lambs a-field
I wish some ravenous wolf had eaten thee!
Dost thou deny thy father, cursed drab?   35
O! burn her, burn her! hanging is too good.  [Exit.

York.  Take her away; for she hath liv’d too long,
To fill the world with vicious qualities.

Joan.  First, let me tell you whom you have condemn’d:
Not me begotten of a shepherd swain,   40
But issu’d from the progeny of kings;
Virtuous and holy; chosen from above,
By inspiration of celestial grace,
To work exceeding miracles on earth.
I never had to do with wicked spirits:   45
But you, — that are polluted with your lusts,
Stain’d with the guiltless blood of innocents,
Corrupt and tainted with a thousand vices, —
Because you want the grace that others have,
You judge it straight a thing impossible   50
To compass wonders but by help of devils.
No misconceived! Joan of Arc hath been
A virgin from her tender infancy,
Chaste and immaculate in very thought;
Whose maiden blood, thus rigorously effus’d,   55
Will cry for vengeance at the gates of heaven.

York.  Ay, ay: away with her to execution!

War.  And hark ye, sirs; because she is a maid,
Spare for no fagots, let there be enow:
Place barrels of pitch upon the fatal stake,   60
That so her torture may be shortened.

Joan.  Will nothing turn your unrelenting hearts?
Then, Joan, discover thine infirmity;
That warranteth by law to be thy privilege.
I am with child, ye bloody homicides:   65
Murder not then the fruit within my womb,
Although ye hale me to a violent death.

York.  Now, heaven forefend! the holy maid with child!

War.  The greatest miracle that e’er ye wrought!
Is all your strict preciseness come to this?   70

York.  She and the Dauphin have been juggling:
I did imagine what would be her refuge.

War.  Well, go to; we will have no bastards live;
Especially since Charles must father it.

Joan.  You are deceiv’d; my child is none of his:   75
It was Alençon that enjoy’d my love.

York.  Alençon! that notorious Machiavel!
It dies an if it had a thousand lives.

Joan.  O! give me leave. I have deluded you:
’Twas neither Charles, nor yet the duke I nam’d,   80
But Reignier, King of Naples, that prevail’d.

War.  A married man: that’s most intolerable.

York.  Why, here’s a girl! I think she knows not well,
There were so many, whom she may accuse.

War.  It’s sign she hath been liberal and free.   85

York.  And yet, forsooth, she is a virgin pure.
Strumpet, thy words condemn thy brat and thee:
Use no entreaty, for it is in vain.

Joan.  Then lead me hence; with whom I leave my curse:
May never glorious sun reflex his beams   90
Upon the country where you make abode;
But darkness and the gloomy shade of death
Environ you, till mischief and despair
Drive you to break your necks or hang yourselves!  [Exit, guarded.

York.  Break thou in pieces and consume to ashes,   95
Thou foul accursed minister of hell!

Enter CARDINAL BEAUFORT, attended.

Car.  Lord regent, I do greet your excellence
With letters of commission from the king.
For know, my lords, the states of Christendom,   100
Mov’d with remorse of these outrageous broils,
Have earnestly implor’d a general peace
Betwixt our nation and the aspiring French;
And here at hand the Dauphin, and his train,
Approacheth to confer about some matter.   105

York.  Is all our travail turn’d to this effect?
After the slaughter of so many peers,
So many captains, gentlemen, and soldiers,
That in this quarrel have been overthrown,
And sold their bodies for their country’s benefit,   110
Shall we at last conclude effeminate peace?
Have we not lost most part of all the towns,
By treason, falsehood, and by treachery,
Our great progenitors had conquered?
O! Warwick, Warwick! I foresee with grief   115
The utter loss of all the realm of France.

War.  Be patient, York: if we conclude a peace,
It shall be with such strict and severe covenants
As little shall the Frenchmen gain thereby.

Enter CHARLES, attended; ALENÇON, the BASTARD OF ORLEANS, REIGNIER, and Others.   120

Char.  Since, lords of England, it is thus agreed,
That peaceful truce shall be proclaim’d in France,
We come to be informed by yourselves
What the conditions of that league must be.

York.  Speak, Winchester; for boiling choler chokes   125
The hollow passage of my poison’d voice,
By sight of these our baleful enemies.

Car.  Charles, and the rest, it is enacted thus:
That, in regard King Henry gives consent,
Of mere compassion and of lenity,   130
To ease your country of distressful war,
And suffer you to breathe in fruitful peace,
You shall become true liegemen to his crown:
And, Charles, upon condition thou wilt swear
To pay him tribute, and submit thyself,   135
Thou shalt be plac’d as viceroy under him,
And still enjoy thy regal dignity.

Alen.  Must he be then, as shadow of himself?.
Adorn his temples with a coronet,
And yet, in substance and authority,   140
Retain but privilege of a private man?
This proffer is absurd and reasonless.

Char.  ’Tis known already that I am possess’d
With more than half the Gallian territories,
And therein reverenc’d for their lawful king:   145
Shall I, for lucre of the rest unvanquish’d,
Detract so much from that prerogative
As to be call’d but viceroy of the whole?
No, lord ambassador; I’ll rather keep
That which I have than, coveting for more,   150
Be cast from possibility of all.

York.  Insulting Charles! hast thou by secret means
Us’d intercession to obtain a league,
And now the matter grows to compromise,
Stand’st thou aloof upon comparison?   155
Either accept the title thou usurp’st,
Of benefit proceeding from our king
And not of any challenge of desert,
Or we will plague thee with incessant wars.

Reig.  My lord, you do not well in obstinacy   160
To cavil in the course of this contract:
If once it be neglected, ten to one,
We shall not find like opportunity.

Alen.  [Aside to CHARLES.]  To say the truth, it is your policy
To save your subjects from such massacre   165
And ruthless slaughters as are daily seen
By our proceeding in hostility;
And therefore take this compact of a truce,
Although you break it when your pleasure serves.

War.  How sayst thou, Charles? shall our condition stand?   170

Char.  It shall;
Only reserv’d, you claim no interest
In any of our towns of garrison.

York.  Then swear allegiance to his majesty;
As thou art knight, never to disobey   175
Nor be rebellious to the crown of England,
Thou, nor thy nobles, to the crown of England.  [CHARLES, &c., give tokens of fealty.
So, now dismiss your army when ye please;
Hang up your ensigns, let your drums be still,
For here we entertain a solemn peace.  [Exeunt.   180

Act V. Scene V.

London.  A Room in the Palace.

Enter KING HENRY, in conference with SUFFOLK; GLOUCESTER and EXETER following.

K. Hen.  Your wondrous rare description, noble earl,
Of beauteous Margaret hath astonish’d me:
Her virtues, graced with external gifts   5
Do breed love’s settled passions in my heart:
And like as rigour of tempestuous gusts
Provokes the mightiest hulk against the tide,
So am I driven by breath of her renown
Either to suffer shipwrack, or arrive   10
Where I may have fruition of her love.

Suf.  Tush! my good lord, this superficial tale
Is but a preface of her worthy praise:
The chief perfections of that lovely dame —
Had I sufficient skill to utter them —   15
Would make a volume of enticing lines,
Able to ravish any dull conceit:
And, which is more, she is not so divine,
So full replete with choice of all delights,
But with as humble lowliness of mind   20
She is content to be at your command:
Command, I mean, of virtuous chaste intents,
To love and honour Henry as her lord.

K. Hen.  And otherwise will Henry ne’er presume.
Therefore, my Lord Protector, give consent   25
That Margaret may be England’s royal queen.

Glo.  So should I give consent to flatter sin.
You know, my lord, your highness is betroth’d
Unto another lady of esteem;
How shall we then dispense with that contract,   30
And not deface your honour with reproach?

Suf.  As doth a ruler with unlawful oaths;
Or one that, at a triumph having vow’d
To try his strength, forsaketh yet the lists
By reason of his adversary’s odds.   35
A poor earl’s daughter is unequal odds,
And therefore may be broke without offence.

Glo.  Why, what, I pray, is Margaret more than that?
Her father is no better than an earl,
Although in glorious titles he excel.   40

Suf.  Yes, my good lord, her father is a king,
The King of Naples and Jerusalem;
And of such great authority in France
As his alliance will confirm our peace,
And keep the Frenchmen in allegiance.   45

Glo.  And so the Earl of Armagnac may do,
Because he is near kinsman unto Charles.

Exe.  Beside, his wealth doth warrant liberal dower,
Where Reignier sooner will receive than give.

Suf.  A dower, my lords! disgrace not so your king,   50
That he should be so abject, base, and poor,
To choose for wealth and not for perfect love.
Henry is able to enrich his queen,
And not to seek a queen to make him rich:
So worthless peasants bargain for their wives,   55
As market-men for oxen, sheep, or horse.
Marriage is a matter of more worth
Than to be dealt in by attorneyship:
Not whom we will, but whom his Grace affects,
Must be companion of his nuptial bed;   60
And therefore, lords, since he affects her most
It most of all these reasons bindeth us,
In our opinions she should be preferr’d.
For what is wedlock forced, but a hell,
An age of discord and continual strife?   65
Whereas the contrary bringeth bliss,
And is a pattern of celestial peace.
Whom should we match with Henry, being a king,
But Margaret, that is daughter to a king?
Her peerless feature, joined with her birth,   70
Approves her fit for none but for a king:
Her valiant courage and undaunted spirit —
More than in women commonly is seen —
Will answer our hope in issue of a king;
For Henry, son unto a conqueror,   75
Is likely to beget more conquerors,
If with a lady of so high resolve
As is fair Margaret he be link’d in love.
Then yield, my lords; and here conclude with me
That Margaret shall be queen, and none but she.   80

K. Hen.  Whether it be through force of your report,
My noble lord of Suffolk, or for that
My tender youth was never yet attaint
With any passion of inflaming love,
I cannot tell; but this I am assur’d,   85
I feel such sharp dissension in my breast,
Such fierce alarums both of hope and fear,
As I am sick with working of my thoughts.
Take, therefore, shipping; post, my lord, to France;
Agree to any covenants, and procure   90
That Lady Margaret do vouchsafe to come
To cross the seas to England and be crown’d
King Henry’s faithful and anointed queen:
For your expenses and sufficient charge,
Among the people gather up a tenth.   95
Be gone, I say; for till you do return
I rest perplexed with a thousand cares.
And you, good uncle, banish all offence:
If you do censure me by what you were,
Not what you are, I know it will excuse   100
This sudden execution of my will.
And so, conduct me, where, from company
I may revolve and ruminate my grief.  [Exit.

Glo.  Ay, grief, I fear me, both at first and last.  [Exeunt GLOUCESTER and EXETER.

Suf.  Thus Suffolk hath prevail’d; and thus he goes,   105
As did the youthful Paris once to Greece;
With hope to find the like event in love,
But prosper better than the Trojan did.
Margaret shall now be queen, and rule the king;
But I will rule both her, the king, and realm.  [Exit.   110

RICHARD III

This history play is believed to have been written in 1591 and depicts the Machiavellian rise to power of Richard III of England.  Richard III concludes Shakespeare’s first tetralogy and it is considered by many to be one of Shakespeare’s greatest plays.  After Hamlet, it is the longest play in Shakespeare’s canon, being rarely performed unabridged, with minor characters often being removed entirely from the drama.

The play begins with Richard describing his brother King Edward IV’s accession to the throne and his own devious schemes to usurp it from him.  Shakespeare presents Richard III as a murderous and deformed hunchback, far exaggerating the real life person.  The main source of the play is Hall’s chronicle known as Union.

The front page of the first Quarto, 1597

The ‘infamous’ Richard III

CONTENTS

Dramatis Personæ

Act I. Scene I.

Act I. Scene II.

Act I. Scene III.

Act I. Scene IV.

Act II. Scene I.

Act II. Scene II.

Act II. Scene III.

Act II. Scene IV.

Act III. Scene I.

Act III. Scene II.

Act III. Scene III.

Act III. Scene IV.

Act III. Scene V.

Act III. Scene VI.

Act III. Scene VII.

Act IV. Scene I.

Act IV. Scene II.

Act IV. Scene III.

Act IV. Scene IV.

Act IV. Scene V.

Act V. Scene I.

Act V. Scene II.

Act V. Scene III.

Act V. Scene IV.

Laurence Olivier in the 1955 film adaptation

The 1995 film adaptation, with Sir Ian McKellen in the title role

Dramatis Personæ

KING EDWARD THE FOURTH.
EDWARD, Prince of Wales; afterwards King Edward the Fifth, & RICHARD, Duke of York: Sons to the King.
GEORGE, Duke of Clarence, & RICHARD, Duke of Gloucester, afterwards King Richard the Third: Brothers to the King.
A young Son of Clarence.
HENRY, Earl of Richmond; afterwards King Henry the Seventh.
CARDINAL BOURCHIER, Archbishop of Canterbury.
THOMAS ROTHERHAM, Archbishop of York.
JOHN MORTON, Bishop of Ely.
DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.
DUKE OF NORFOLK.
EARL OF SURREY, his Son.
EARL RIVERS, Brother to King Edward’s Queen.
MARQUESS OF DORSET, and LORD GREY, her Sons.
EARL OF OXFORD.
LORD HASTINGS.
LORD STANLEY, called also EARL OF DERBY.
LORD LOVEL.
SIR THOMAS VAUGHAN.
SIR RICHARD RATCLIFF.
SIR WILLIAM CATESBY.
SIR JAMES TYRRELL.
SIR JAMES BLOUNT.
SIR WALTER HERBERT.
SIR ROBERT BRAKENBURY, Lieutenant of the Tower.
SIR WILLIAM BRANDON.
CHRISTOPHER URSWICK, a Priest.
Another Priest.
Lord Mayor of London. Sheriff of Wiltshire.
TRESSEL and BERKELEY, Gentlemen attending on Lady Anne.
ELIZABETH, Queen of King Edward the Fourth.
MARGARET, Widow of King Henry the Sixth.
DUCHESS OF YORK, Mother to King Edward the Fourth, Clarence, and Gloucester.
LADY ANNE, Widow of Edward, Prince of Wales, Son to King Henry the Sixth; afterwards married to the Duke of Gloucester.
LADY MARGARET PLANTAGENET, a young Daughter of Clarence.
Lords, and other Attendants; two Gentlemen, a Pursuivant, Scrivener, Citizens, Murderers, Messengers, Ghosts of those murdered by Richard the Third, Soldiers, &c.

SCENE. — England.

Act I. Scene I.

London.  A Street.

Enter GLOUCESTER.

Glo.  Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lour’d upon our house   5
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings;
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.   10
Grim-visag’d war hath smooth’d his wrinkled front;
And now, — instead of mounting barbed steeds,
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, —
He capers nimbly in a lady’s chamber
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.   15
But I, that am not shap’d for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;
I, that am rudely stamp’d, and want love’s majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtail’d of this fair proportion,   20
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deform’d, unfinish’d, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me, as I halt by them;   25
Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to see my shadow in the sun
And descant on mine own deformity:
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,   30
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,
I am determined to prove a villain,
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,
By drunken prophecies, libels, and dreams,   35
To set my brother Clarence and the king
In deadly hate the one against the other:
And if King Edward be as true and just
As I am subtle, false, and treacherous,
This day should Clarence closely be mew’d up,   40
About a prophecy, which says, that G
Of Edward’s heirs the murderer shall be.
Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here Clarence comes.

Enter CLARENCE, guarded, and BRAKENBURY.
Brother, good day: what means this armed guard   45
That waits upon your Grace?

Clar.        His majesty,
Tendering my person’s safety, hath appointed
This conduct to convey me to the Tower.

Glo.  Upon what cause?   50

Clar.        Because my name is George.

Glo.  Alack! my lord, that fault is none of yours;
He should, for that, commit your godfathers.
O! belike his majesty hath some intent
That you should be new-christen’d in the Tower.   55
But what’s the matter, Clarence? may I know?

Clar.  Yea, Richard, when I know; for I protest
As yet I do not: but, as I can learn,
He hearkens after prophecies and dreams;
And from the cross-row plucks the letter G,   60
And says a wizard told him that by G
His issue disinherited should be;
And, for my name of George begins with G,
It follows in his thought that I am he.
These, as I learn, and such like toys as these,   65
Have mov’d his highness to commit me now.

Glo.  Why, this it is, when men are rul’d by women:
’Tis not the king that sends you to the Tower;
My Lady Grey, his wife, Clarence, ’tis she
That tempers him to this extremity.   70
Was it not she and that good man of worship,
Antony Woodville, her brother there,
That made him send Lord Hastings to the Tower,
From whence this present day he is deliver’d?
We are not safe, Clarence; we are not safe.   75

Clar.  By heaven, I think there is no man secure
But the queen’s kindred and night-walking heralds
That trudge betwixt the king and Mistress Shore.
Heard you not what a humble suppliant
Lord Hastings was to her for his delivery?   80

Glo.  Humbly complaining to her deity
Got my lord chamberlain his liberty.
I’ll tell you what; I think it is our way,
If we will keep in favour with the king,
To be her men and wear her livery:   85
The jealous o’er-worn widow and herself,
Since that our brother dubb’d them gentlewomen,
Are mighty gossips in our monarchy.

Brak.  I beseech your Graces both to pardon me;
His majesty hath straitly given in charge   90
That no man shall have private conference,
Of what degree soever, with your brother.

Glo.  Even so; an please your worship, Brakenbury,
You may partake of anything we say:
We speak no treason, man: we say the king   95
Is wise and virtuous, and his noble queen
Well struck in years, fair, and not jealous;
We say that Shore’s wife hath a pretty foot,
A cherry lip, a bonny eye, a passing pleasing tongue;
And that the queen’s kindred are made gentlefolks.   100
How say you, sir? can you deny all this?

Brak.  With this, my lord, myself have nought to do.

Glo.  Naught to do with Mistress Shore! I tell thee, fellow,
He that doth naught with her, excepting one,
Were best to do it secretly, alone.   105

Brak.  What one, my lord?

Glo.  Her husband, knave. Wouldst thou betray me?

Brak.  I beseech your Grace to pardon me; and withal
Forbear your conference with the noble duke.

Clar.  We know thy charge, Brakenbury, and will obey.   110

Glo.  We are the queen’s abjects, and must obey.
Brother, farewell: I will unto the king;
And whatsoe’er you will employ me in,
Were it to call King Edward’s widow sister,
I will perform it to enfranchise you.   115
Meantime, this deep disgrace in brotherhood
Touches me deeper than you can imagine.

Clar.  I know it pleaseth neither of us well.

Glo.  Well, your imprisonment shall not be long;
I will deliver you, or else lie for you:   120
Meantime, have patience.

Clar.        I must perforce: farewell.  [Exeunt CLARENCE, BRAKENBURY, and Guard.

Glo.  Go, tread the path that thou shalt ne’er return,
Simple, plain Clarence! I do love thee so
That I will shortly send thy soul to heaven,   125
If heaven will take the present at our hands.
But who comes here? the new-deliver’d Hastings!

Enter HASTINGS.

Hast.  Good time of day unto my gracious lord!

Glo.  As much unto my good lord chamberlain!   130
Well are you welcome to this open air.
How hath your lordship brook’d imprisonment?

Hast.  With patience, noble lord, as prisoners must:
But I shall live, my lord, to give them thanks
That were the cause of my imprisonment.   135

Glo.  No doubt, no doubt; and so shall Clarence too;
For they that were your enemies are his,
And have prevail’d as much on him as you.

Hast.  More pity that the eagles should be mew’d,
While kites and buzzards prey at liberty.   140

Glo.  What news abroad?

Hast.  No news so bad abroad as this at home;
The king is sickly, weak, and melancholy,
And his physicians fear him mightily.

Glo.  Now by Saint Paul, this news is bad indeed.   145
O! he hath kept an evil diet long,
And over-much consum’d his royal person:
’Tis very grievous to be thought upon.
What, is he in his bed?

Hast.        He is.   150

Glo.  Go you before, and I will follow you.  [Exit HASTINGS.
He cannot live, I hope; and must not die
Till George be pack’d with post-horse up to heaven.
I’ll in, to urge his hatred more to Clarence,
With lies well steel’d with weighty arguments;   155
And, if I fail not in my deep intent,
Clarence hath not another day to live:
Which done, God take King Edward to his mercy,
And leave the world for me to bustle in!
For then I’ll marry Warwick’s youngest daughter.   160
What though I kill’d her husband and her father,
The readiest way to make the wench amends
Is to become her husband and her father:
The which will I; not all so much for love
As for another secret close intent,   165
By marrying her, which I must reach unto.
But yet I run before my horse to market:
Clarence still breathes; Edward still lives and reigns:
When they are gone, then must I count my gains.  [Exit.

Act I. Scene II.

London.  Another Street.

Enter the corpse of KING HENRY THE SIXTH, borne in an open coffin; Gentlemen bearing halberds to guard it; and LADY ANNE, as mourner.

Anne.  Set down, set down your honourable load,
If honour may be shrouded in a hearse,
Whilst I a while obsequiously lament   5
The untimely fall of virtuous Lancaster.
Poor key-cold figure of a holy king!
Pale ashes of the house of Lancaster!
Thou bloodless remnant of that royal blood!
Be it lawful that I invocate thy ghost,   10
To hear the lamentations of poor Anne,
Wife to thy Edward, to thy slaughter’d son,
Stabb’d by the self-same hand that made these wounds!
Lo, in these windows that let forth thy life,
I pour the helpless balm of my poor eyes.   15
O! cursed be the hand that made these holes;
Cursed the heart that had the heart to do it!
Cursed the blood that let this blood from hence!
More direful hap betide that hated wretch,
That makes us wretched by the death of thee,   20
Than I can wish to adders, spiders, toads,
Or any creeping venom’d thing that lives!
If ever he have child, abortive be it,
Prodigious, and untimely brought to light,
Whose ugly and unnatural aspect   25
May fright the hopeful mother at the view;
And that be heir to his unhappiness!
If ever he have wife, let her be made
More miserable by the death of him
Than I am made by my young lord and thee!   30
Come, now toward Chertsey with your holy load,
Taken from Paul’s to be interred there;
And still, as you are weary of the weight,
Rest you, whiles I lament King Henry’s corse.  [The Bearers take up the corpse and advance.

Enter GLOUCESTER.   35

Glo.  Stay, you that bear the corse, and set it down.

Anne.  What black magician conjures up this fiend,
To stop devoted charitable deeds?

Glo.  Villains! set down the corse; or, by Saint Paul,
I’ll make a corse of him that disobeys.   40

First Gent.  My lord, stand back, and let the coffin pass.

Glo.  Unmanner’d dog! stand thou when I command:
Advance thy halberd higher than my breast,
Or, by Saint Paul, I’ll strike thee to my foot,
And spurn upon thee, beggar, for thy boldness.  [The Bearers set down the coffin.   45

Anne.  What! do you tremble? are you all afraid?
Alas! I blame you not; for you are mortal,
And mortal eyes cannot endure the devil.
Avaunt! thou dreadful minister of hell,
Thou hadst but power over his mortal body,   50
His soul thou canst not have: therefore, be gone.

Glo.  Sweet saint, for charity, be not so curst.

Anne.  Foul devil, for God’s sake hence, and trouble us not;
For thou hast made the happy earth thy hell,
Fill’d it with cursing cries and deep exclaims.   55
If thou delight to view thy heinous deeds,
Behold this pattern of thy butcheries.
O! gentlemen; see, see! dead Henry’s wounds
Open their congeal’d mouths and bleed afresh.
Blush, blush, thou lump of foul deformity,   60
For ’tis thy presence that exhales this blood
From cold and empty veins, where no blood dwells:
Thy deed, inhuman and unnatural,
Provokes this deluge most unnatural.
O God! which this blood mad’st, revenge his death;   65
O earth! which this blood drink’st, revenge his death;
Either heaven with lightning strike the murderer dead,
Or earth, gape open wide, and eat him quick,
As thou dost swallow up this good king’s blood,
Which his hell-govern’d arm hath butchered!   70

Glo.  Lady, you know no rules of charity,
Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses.

Anne.  Villain, thou know’st no law of God nor man:
No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity.

Glo.  But I know none, and therefore am no beast.   75

Anne.  O! wonderful, when devils tell the truth.

Glo.  More wonderful when angels are so angry.
Vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman,
Of these supposed evils, to give me leave,
By circumstance, but to acquit myself.   80

Anne.  Vouchsafe, diffus’d infection of a man,
For these known evils, but to give me leave,
By circumstance, to curse thy cursed self.

Glo.  Fairer than tongue can name thee, let me have
Some patient leisure to excuse myself.   85

Anne.  Fouler than heart can think thee, thou canst make
No excuse current, but to hang thyself.

Glo.  By such despair I should accuse myself.

Anne.  And by despairing shouldst thou stand excus’d
For doing worthy vengeance on thyself,   90
Which didst unworthy slaughter upon others.

Glo.  Say that I slew them not.

Anne.        Then say they were not slain:
But dead they are, and, devilish slave, by thee.

Glo.  I did not kill your husband.   95

Anne.        Why, then he is alive.

Glo.  Nay, he is dead; and slain by Edward’s hand.

Anne.  In thy foul throat thou liest: Queen Margaret saw
Thy murderous falchion smoking in his blood;
The which thou once didst bend against her breast,   100
But that thy brothers beat aside the point.

Glo.  I was provoked by her sland’rous tongue,
That laid their guilt upon my guiltless shoulders.

Anne.  Thou wast provoked by thy bloody mind,
That never dreamt on aught but butcheries.   105
Didst thou not kill this king?

Glo.  I grant ye.

Anne.  Dost grant me, hedge-hog? Then, God grant me too
Thou mayst be damned for that wicked deed!
O! he was gentle, mild, and virtuous.   110

Glo.  The fitter for the King of heaven, that hath him.

Anne.  He is in heaven, where thou shalt never come.

Glo.  Let him thank me, that help’d to send him thither;
For he was fitter for that place than earth.

Anne.  And thou unfit for any place but hell.   115

Glo.  Yes, one place else, if you will hear me name it.

Anne.  Some dungeon.

Glo.        Your bed-chamber.

Anne.  Ill rest betide the chamber where thou liest!

Glo.  So will it, madam, till I lie with you.   120

Anne.  I hope so.

Glo.        I know so, But, gentle Lady Anne,
To leave this keen encounter of our wits,
And fall somewhat into a slower method,
Is not the causer of the timeless deaths   125
Of these Plantagenets, Henry and Edward,
As blameful as the executioner?

Anne.  Thou wast the cause, and most accurs’d effect.

Glo.  Your beauty was the cause of that effect;
Your beauty, that did haunt me in my sleep   130
To undertake the death of all the world,
So might I live one hour in your sweet bosom.

Anne.  If I thought that, I tell thee, homicide,
These nails should rend that beauty from my cheeks.

Glo.  These eyes could not endure that beauty’s wrack;   135
You should not blemish it if I stood by:
As all the world is cheered by the sun,
So I by that; it is my day, my life.

Anne.  Black night o’ershade thy day, and death thy life!

Glo.  Curse not thyself, fair creature; thou art both.   140

Anne.  I would I were, to be reveng’d on thee.

Glo.  It is a quarrel most unnatural,
To be reveng’d on him that loveth thee.

Anne.  It is a quarrel just and reasonable,
To be reveng’d on him that kill’d my husband.   145

Glo.  He that bereft thee, lady, of thy husband,
Did it to help thee to a better husband.

Anne.  His better doth not breathe upon the earth.

Glo.  He lives that loves thee better than he could.

Anne.  Name him.   150

Glo.        Plantagenet.

Anne.                Why, that was he.

Glo.  The self-same name, but one of better nature.

Anne.  Where is he?

Glo.        Here.  [She spitteth at him.]  Why dost thou spit at me?   155

Anne.  Would it were mortal poison, for thy sake!

Glo.  Never came poison from so sweet a place.

Anne.  Never hung poison on a fouler toad.
Out of my sight! thou dost infect mine eyes.

Glo.  Thine eyes, sweet lady, have infected mine.   160

Anne.  Would they were basilisks, to strike thee dead!

Glo.  I would they were, that I might die at once;
For now they kill me with a living death.
Those eyes of thine from mine have drawn salt tears,
Sham’d their aspects with store of childish drops;   165
These eyes, which never shed remorseful tear;
No, when my father York and Edward wept
To hear the piteous moan that Rutland made
When black-fac’d Clifford shook his sword at him;
Nor when thy war-like father like a child,   170
Told the sad story of my father’s death,
And twenty times made pause to sob and weep,
That all the standers-by had wet their cheeks,
Like trees bedash’d with rain: in that sad time,
My manly eyes did scorn an humble tear;   175
And what these sorrows could not thence exhale,
Thy beauty hath, and made them blind with weeping.
I never su’d to friend, nor enemy;
My tongue could never learn sweet smoothing words;
But, now thy beauty is propos’d my fee,   180
My proud heart sues, and prompts my tongue to speak.  [She looks scornfully at him.
Teach not thy lip such scorn, for it was made
For kissing, lady, not for such contempt.
If thy revengeful heart cannot forgive,
Lo! here I lend thee this sharp-pointed sword;   185
Which if thou please to hide in this true breast,
And let the soul forth that adoreth thee,
I lay it open to the deadly stroke,
And humbly beg the death upon my knee.  [He lays his breast open: she offers at it with his sword.
Nay, do not pause; for I did kill King Henry;   190
But ’twas thy beauty that provoked me.
Nay, now dispatch; ’twas I that stabb’d young Edward;  [She again offers at his breast.
But ’twas thy heavenly face that set me on.  [She lets fall the sword.
Take up the sword again, or take up me.

Anne.  Arise, dissembler: though I wish thy death,   195
I will not be thy executioner.

Glo.  Then bid me kill myself, and I will do it.

Anne.  I have already.

Glo.        That was in thy rage:
Speak it again, and, even with the word,   200
This hand, which for thy love did kill thy love,
Shall, for thy love, kill a far truer love:
To both their deaths shalt thou be accessary.

Anne.  I would I knew thy heart.

Glo.  ’Tis figur’d in my tongue.   205

Anne.  I fear me both are false.

Glo.  Then never man was true.

Anne.  Well, well, put up your sword.

Glo.  Say, then, my peace is made.

Anne.  That shalt thou know hereafter.   210

Glo.  But shall I live in hope?

Anne.  All men, I hope, live so.

Glo.  Vouchsafe to wear this ring.

Anne.  To take is not to give.  [She puts on the ring.

Glo.  Look, how my ring encompasseth thy finger,   215
Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart;
Wear both of them, for both of them are thine.
And if thy poor devoted servant may
But beg one favour at thy gracious hand,
Thou dost confirm his happiness for ever.   220

Anne.  What is it?

Glo.  That it may please you leave these sad designs
To him that hath most cause to be a mourner,
And presently repair to Crosby-place;
Where, after I have solemnly interr’d   225
At Chertsey monastery this noble king,
And wet his grave with my repentant tears,
I will with all expedient duty see you:
For divers unknown reasons, I beseech you,
Grant me this boon.   230

Anne.  With all my heart; and much it joys me too
To see you are become so penitent.
Tressel and Berkeley, go along with me.

Glo.  Bid me farewell.

Anne.        ’Tis more than you deserve;   235
But since you teach me how to flatter you,
Imagine I have said farewell already.  [Exeunt LADY ANNE, TRESSEL, and BERKELEY.

Glo.  Sirs, take up the corse.

Gent.  Toward Chertsey, noble lord?

Glo.  No, to White-Friars; there attend my coming.  [Exeunt all but GLOUCESTER.   240
Was ever woman in this humour woo’d?
Was ever woman in this humour won?
I’ll have her; but I will not keep her long.
What! I, that kill’d her husband, and his father,
To take her in her heart’s extremest hate;   245
With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes,
The bleeding witness of her hatred by;
Having God, her conscience, and these bars against me,
And nothing I to back my suit withal
But the plain devil and dissembling looks,   250
And yet to win her, all the world to nothing!
Ha!
Hath she forgot already that brave prince,
Edward, her lord, whom I, some three months since,
Stabb’d in my angry mood at Tewksbury?   255
A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman,
Fram’d in the prodigality of nature,
Young, valiant, wise, and, no doubt, right royal,
The spacious world cannot again afford:
And will she yet abase her eyes on me,   260
That cropp’d the golden prime of this sweet prince,
And made her widow to a woeful bed?
On me, whose all not equals Edward’s moiety?
On me, that halt and am misshapen thus?
My dukedom to a beggarly denier   265
I do mistake my person all this while:
Upon my life, she finds, although I cannot,
Myself to be a marvellous proper man.
I’ll be at charges for a looking-glass,
And entertain a score or two of tailors,   270
To study fashions to adorn my body:
Since I am crept in favour with myself,
I will maintain it with some little cost.
But first I’ll turn you fellow in his grave,
And then return lamenting to my love.   275
Shine out, fair sun, till I have bought a glass,
That I may see my shadow as I pass.  [Exit.

Act I. Scene III.

London.  A Room in the Palace.

Enter QUEEN ELIZABETH, LORD RIVERS, and LORD GREY.

Riv.  Have patience, madam: there’s no doubt his majesty
Will soon recover his accustom’d health.

Grey.  In that you brook it ill, it makes him worse:   5
Therefore, for God’s sake, entertain good comfort,
And cheer his Grace with quick and merry words.

Q. Eliz.  If he were dead, what would betide on me?

Grey.  No other harm but loss of such a lord.

Q. Eliz.  The loss of such a lord includes all harms.   10

Grey.  The heavens have bless’d you with a goodly son,
To be your comforter when he is gone.

Q. Eliz.  Ah! he is young; and his minority
Is put into the trust of Richard Gloucester,
A man that loves not me, nor none of you.   15

Riv.  Is it concluded he shall be protector?

Q. Eliz.  It is determin’d, not concluded yet:
But so it must be if the king miscarry.

Enter BUCKINGHAM and STANLEY.

Grey.  Here come the Lords of Buckingham and Stanley.   20

Buck.  Good time of day unto your royal Grace!

Stan.  God make your majesty joyful as you have been!

Q. Eliz.  The Countess Richmond, good my Lord of Stanley,
To your good prayer will scarcely say amen.
Yet, Stanley, notwithstanding she’s your wife,   25
And loves not me, be you, good lord, assur’d
I hate not you for her proud arrogance.

Stan.  I do beseech you, either not believe
The envious slanders of her false accusers;
Or, if she be accus’d on true report,   30
Bear with her weakness, which, I think, proceeds
From way ward sickness, and no grounded malice.

Q. Eliz.  Saw you the king to-day, my Lord of Stanley?

Stan.  But now the Duke of Buckingham and I,
Are come from visiting his majesty.   35

Q. Eliz.  What likelihood of his amendment, lords?

Buck.  Madam, good hope; his Grace speaks cheerfully.

Q. Eliz.  God grant him health! did you confer with him?

Buck.  Ay, madam: he desires to make atonement
Between the Duke of Gloucester and your brothers,   40
And between them and my lord chamberlain;
And sent to warn them to his royal presence.

Q. Eliz.  Would all were well! But that will never be.
I fear our happiness is at the highest.

Enter GLOUCESTER, HASTINGS, and DORSET.   45

Glo.  They do me wrong, and I will not endure it:
Who are they that complain unto the king,
That I, forsooth, am stern and love them not?
By holy Paul, they love his Grace but lightly
That fill his ears with such dissentious rumours.   50
Because I cannot flatter and speak fair,
Smile in men’s faces, smooth, deceive, and cog,
Duck with French nods and apish courtesy,
I must be held a rancorous enemy.
Cannot a plain man live and think no harm,   55
But thus his simple truth must be abus’d
By silken, sly, insinuating Jacks?

Grey.  To whom in all this presence speaks your Grace?

Glo.  To thee, that hast nor honesty nor grace.
When have I injur’d thee? when done thee wrong?   60
Or thee? or thee? or any of your faction?
A plague upon you all! His royal person, —
Whom God preserve better than you would wish! —
Cannot be quiet scarce a breathing-while,
But you must trouble him with lewd complaints.   65

Q. Eliz.  Brother of Gloucester, you mistake the matter.
The king, on his own royal disposition,
And not provok’d by any suitor else,
Aiming, belike, at your interior hatred,
That in your outward action shows itself   70
Against my children, brothers, and myself,
Makes him to send; that thereby he may gather
The ground of your ill-will, and so remove it.

Glo.  I cannot tell; the world is grown so bad
That wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch:   75
Since every Jack became a gentleman
There’s many a gentle person made a Jack.

Q. Eliz.  Come, come, we know your meaning, brother Gloucester;
You envy my advancement and my friends’.
God grant we never may have need of you!   80

Glo.  Meantime, God grants that we have need of you:
Our brother is imprison’d by your means,
Myself disgrac’d, and the nobility
Held in contempt; while great promotions
Are daily given to ennoble those   85
That scarce, some two days since, were worth a noble.

Q. Eliz.  By him that rais’d me to this careful height
From that contented hap which I enjoy’d,
I never did incense his majesty
Against the Duke of Clarence, but have been   90
An earnest advocate to plead for him.
My lord, you do me shameful injury,
Falsely to draw me in these vile suspects.

Glo.  You may deny that you were not the mean
Of my Lord Hastings’ late imprisonment.   95

Riv.  She may, my lord; for —

Glo.  She may, Lord Rivers! why, who knows not so?
She may do more, sir, than denying that:
She may help you to many fair preferments,
And then deny her aiding hand therein,   100
And lay those honours on your high deserts.
What may she not? She may, — ay, marry, may she, —

Riv.  What, marry, may she?

Glo.  What, marry, may she! marry with a king,
A bachelor, a handsome stripling too.   105
I wis your grandam had a worser match.

Q. Eliz.  My Lord of Gloucester, I have too long borne
Your blunt upbraidings and your bitter scoffs;
By heaven, I will acquaint his majesty
Of those gross taunts that oft I have endur’d.   110
I had rather be a country servantmaid
Than a great queen, with this condition,
To be so baited, scorn’d, and stormed at:
Small joy have I in being England’s queen.

Enter QUEEN MARGARET, behind.   115

Q. Mar.  [Apart.]  And lessen’d be that small, God, I beseech him!
Thy honour, state, and seat is due to me.

Glo.  What! threat you me with telling of the king?
Tell him, and spare not: look, what I have said
I will avouch in presence of the king:   120
I dare adventure to be sent to the Tower.
’Tis time to speak; my pains are quite forgot.

Q. Mar.  [Apart.]  Out, devil! I remember them too well:
Thou kill’dst my husband Henry in the Tower,
And Edward, my poor son, at Tewksbury.   125

Glo.  Ere you were queen, ay, or your husband king,
I was a pack-horse in his great affairs,
A weeder-out of his proud adversaries,
A liberal rewarder of his friends;
To royalize his blood I spilt mine own.   130

Q. Mar.  Ay, and much better blood than his, or thine.

Glo.  In all which time you and your husband Grey
Were factious for the house of Lancaster;
And, Rivers, so were you. Was not your husband
In Margaret’s battle at Saint Alban’s slain?   135
Let me put in your minds, if you forget,
What you have been ere now, and what you are;
Withal, what I have been, and what I am.

Q. Mar.  A murderous villain, and so still thou art.

Glo.  Poor Clarence did forsake his father, Warwick,   140
Ay, and forswore himself, — which Jesu pardon! —

Q. Mar.  Which God revenge!

Glo.  To fight on Edward’s party for the crown;
And for his meed, poor lord, he is mew’d up.
I would to God my heart were flint, like Edward’s;   145
Or Edward’s soft and pitiful, like mine:
I am too childish-foolish for this world.

Q. Mar.  Hie thee to hell for shame, and leave this world,
Thou cacodemon! there thy kingdom is.

Riv.  My Lord of Gloucester, in those busy days   150
Which here you urge to prove us enemies,
We follow’d then our lord, our lawful king;
So should we you, if you should be our king.

Glo  If I should be! I had rather be a pedlar.
Far be it from my heart the thought thereof!   155

Q. Eliz.  As little joy, my lord, as you suppose
You should enjoy, were you this country’s king,
As little joy you may suppose in me
That I enjoy, being the queen thereof.

Q. Mar.  As little joy enjoys the queen thereof;   160
For I am she, and altogether joyless.
I can no longer hold me patient.  [Advancing.
Hear me, you wrangling pirates, that fall out
In sharing that which you have pill’d from me!
Which of you trembles not that looks on me?   165
If not, that, I being queen, you bow like subjects,
Yet that, by you depos’d, you quake like rebels?
Ah! gentle villain, do not turn away.

Glo.  Foul wrinkled witch, what mak’st thou in my sight?

Q. Mar.  But repetition of what thou hast marr’d;   170
That will I make before I let thee go.

Glo.  Wert thou not banished on pain of death?

Q. Mar.  I was; but I do find more pain in banishment
Than death can yield me here by my abode.
A husband and a son thou ow’st to me;   175
And thou, a kingdom; all of you, allegiance:
This sorrow that I have by right is yours,
And all the pleasures you usurp are mine.

Glo.  The curse my noble father laid on thee,
When thou didst crown his war-like brows with paper,   180
And with thy scorns drew’st rivers from his eyes;
And then, to dry them, gav’st the duke a clout
Steep’d in the faultless blood of pretty Rutland;
His curses, then from bitterness of soul
Denounc’d against thee, are all fall’n upon thee;   185
And God, not we, hath plagu’d thy bloody deed.

Q. Eliz.  So just is God, to right the innocent.

Hast.  O! ’twas the foulest deed to slay that babe,
And the most merciless, that e’er was heard of.

Riv.  Tyrants themselves wept when it was reported.   190

Dors.  No man but prophesied revenge for it.

Buck.  Northumberland, then present, wept to see it.

Q. Mar.  What! were you snarling all before I came,
Ready to catch each other by the throat,
And turn you all your hatred now on me?   195
Did York’s dread curse prevail so much with heaven
That Henry’s death, my lovely Edward’s death,
Their kingdom’s loss, my woeful banishment,
Should all but answer for that peevish brat?
Can curses pierce the clouds and enter heaven?   200
Why then, give way, dull clouds, to my quick curses!
Though not by war, by surfeit die your king,
As ours by murder, to make him a king!
Edward, thy son, that now is Prince of Wales,
For Edward, my son, which was Prince of Wales,   205
Die in his youth by like untimely violence!
Thyself a queen, for me that was a queen,
Outlive thy glory, like my wretched self!
Long mayst thou live to wail thy children’s loss,
And see another, as I see thee now,   210
Deck’d in thy rights, as thou art stall’d in mine!
Long die thy happy days before thy death;
And, after many lengthen’d hours of grief,
Die neither mother, wife, nor England’s queen!
Rivers, and Dorset, you were standers by, —   215
And so wast thou, Lord Hastings, — when my son
Was stabb’d with bloody daggers: God, I pray him,
That none of you may live your natural age,
But by some unlook’d accident cut off.

Glo.  Have done thy charm, thou hateful wither’d hag!   220

Q. Mar.  And leave out thee? stay, dog, for thou shalt hear me.
If heaven have any grievous plague in store
Exceeding those that I can wish upon thee,
O! let them keep it till thy sins be ripe,
And then hurl down their indignation   225
On thee, the troubler of the poor world’s peace.
The worm of conscience still begnaw thy soul!
Thy friends suspect for traitors while thou liv’st
And take deep traitors for thy dearest friends!
No sleep close up that deadly eye of thine,   230
Unless it be while some tormenting dream
Affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils!
Thou elvish-mark’d, abortive, rooting hog!
Thou that wast seal’d in thy nativity
The slave of nature and the son of hell!   235
Thou slander of thy mother’s heavy womb!
Thou loathed issue of thy father’s loins!
Thou rag of honour! thou detested —

Glo.  Margaret!

Q. Mar.        Richard!   240

Glo.                Ha!

Q. Mar.                I call thee not.

Glo.  I cry thee mercy then, for I did think
That thou hadst call’d me all these bitter names.

Q. Mar.  Why, so I did; but look’d for no reply.   245
O! let me make the period to my curse.

Glo.  ’Tis done by me, and ends in ‘Margaret.’

Q. Eliz.  Thus have you breath’d your curse against yourself.

Q. Mar.  Poor painted queen, vain flourish of my fortune!
Why strew’st thou sugar on that bottled spider,   250
Whose deadly web ensnareth thee about?
Fool, fool! thou whet’st a knife to kill thyself.
The day will come that thou shalt wish for me
To help thee curse this pois’nous bunch-back’d toad.

Hast.  False-boding woman, end thy frantic curse,   255
Lest to thy harm thou move our patience.

Q. Mar.  Foul shame upon you! you have all mov’d mine.

Riv.  Were you well serv’d, you would be taught your duty.

Q. Mar.  To serve me well, you all should do me duty,
Teach me to be your queen, and you my subjects:   260
O! serve me well, and teach yourselves that duty.

Dor.  Dispute not with her, she is lunatic.

Q. Mar.  Peace! Master marquess, you are malapert:
Your fire-new stamp of honour is scarce current.
O! that your young nobility could judge   265
What ‘twere to lose it, and be miserable!
They that stand high have many blasts to shake them,
And if they fall, they dash themselves to pieces.

Glo.  Good counsel, marry: learn it, learn it, marquess.

Dor.  It touches you, my lord, as much as me.   270

Glo.  Ay, and much more; but I was born so high,
Our aery buildeth in the cedar’s top,
And dallies with the wind, and scorns the sun.

Q. Mar.  And turns the sun to shade; alas! alas!
Witness my son, now in the shade of death;   275
Whose bright out-shining beams thy cloudy wrath
Hath in eternal darkness folded up.
Your aery buildeth in our aery’s nest:
O God! that seest it, do not suffer it;
As it was won with blood, lost be it so!   280

Buck.  Peace, peace! for shame, if not for charity.

Q. Mar.  Urge neither charity nor shame to me:
Uncharitably with me have you dealt,
And shamefully my hopes by you are butcher’d.
My charity is outrage, life my shame;   285
And in that shame still live my sorrow’s rage!

Buck.  Have done, have done.

Q. Mar.  O princely Buckingham! I’ll kiss thy hand,
In sign of league and amity with thee:
Now fair befall thee and thy noble house!   290
Thy garments are not spotted with our blood,
Nor thou within the compass of my curse.

Buck.  Nor no one here; for curses never pass
The lips of those that breathe them in the air.

Q. Mar.  I will not think but they ascend the sky,   295
And there awake God’s gentle-sleeping peace.
O Buckingham! take heed of yonder dog:
Look, when he fawns, he bites; and when he bites
His venom tooth will rankle to the death:
Have not to do with him, beware of him;   300
Sin, death and hell have set their marks on him,
And all their ministers attend on him.

Glo.  What doth she say, my Lord of Buckingham?

Buck.  Nothing that I respect, my gracious lord.

Q. Mar.  What! dost thou scorn me for my gentle counsel,   305
And soothe the devil that I warn thee from?
O! but remember this another day,
When he shall split thy very heart with sorrow,
And say poor Margaret was a prophetess.
Live each of you the subject to his hate,   310
And he to yours, and all of you to God’s!  [Exit.

Hast.  My hair doth stand on end to hear her curses.

Riv.  And so doth mine. I muse why she’s at liberty.

Glo.  I cannot blame her: by God’s holy mother,
She hath had too much wrong, and I repent   315
My part thereof that I have done to her.

Q. Eliz.  I never did her any, to my knowledge.

Glo.  Yet you have all the vantage of her wrong.
I was too hot to do somebody good,
That is too cold in thinking of it now.   320
Marry, as for Clarence, he is well repaid;
He is frank’d up to fatting for his pains:
God pardon them that are the cause thereof!

Riv.  A virtuous and a Christian-like conclusion,
To pray for them that have done scath to us.   325

Glo.  So do I ever  [Aside], being well-advis’d;
For had I curs’d now, I had curs’d myself.

Enter CATESBY.

Cates.  Madam, his majesty doth call for you;
And for your Grace; and you, my noble lords.   330

Q. Eliz.  Catesby, I come. Lords, will you go with me?

Riv.  We wait upon your Grace.  [Exeunt all but GLOUCESTER.

Glo.  I do the wrong, and first begin to brawl.
The secret mischiefs that I set abroach
I lay unto the grievous charge of others.   335
Clarence, whom I, indeed, have cast in darkness,
I do beweep to many simple gulls;
Namely, to Stanley, Hastings, Buckingham;
And tell them ’tis the queen and her allies
That stir the king against the duke my brother.   340
Now they believe it; and withal whet me
To be reveng’d on Rivers, Vaughan, Grey;
But then I sigh, and, with a piece of scripture,
Tell them that God bids us do good for evil:
And thus I clothe my naked villany   345
With odd old ends stol’n forth of holy writ,
And seem a saint when most I play the devil.

Enter two Murderers.
But soft! here come my executioners.
How now, my hardy, stout resolved mates!   350
Are you now going to dispatch this thing?

First Murd.  We are, my lord; and come to have the warrant,
That we may be admitted where he is.

Glo.  Well thought upon; I have it here about me:  [Gives the warrant.
When you have done, repair to Crosby-place.   355
But, sirs, be sudden in the execution,
Withal obdurate, do not hear him plead;
For Clarence is well-spoken, and perhaps
May move your hearts to pity, if you mark him.

First Murd.  Tut, tut, my lord, we will not stand to prate;   360
Talkers are no good doers: be assur’d
We go to use our hands and not our tongues.

Glo.  Your eyes drop millstones, when fools’ eyes fall tears:
I like you, lads; about your business straight;
Go, go, dispatch.   365

First Murd.        We will, my noble lord.  [Exeunt.

Act I. Scene IV.

The Same.  The Tower.

Enter CLARENCE and BRAKENBURY.

Brak.  Why looks your Grace so heavily to-day?

Clar.  O, I have pass’d a miserable night,
So full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams,   5
That, as I am a Christian faithful man,
I would not spend another such a night,
Though ‘twere to buy a world of happy days,
So full of dismal terror was the time.

Brak.  What was your dream, my lord? I pray you, tell me.   10

Clar.  Methought that I had broken from the Tower,
And was embark’d to cross to Burgundy;
And in my company my brother Gloucester,
Who from my cabin tempted me to walk
Upon the hatches: thence we look’d toward England,   15
And cited up a thousand heavy times,
During the wars of York and Lancaster,
That had befall’n us. As we pac’d along
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,
Methought that Gloucester stumbled; and, in falling,   20
Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard,
Into the tumbling billows of the main.
Lord, Lord! methought what pain it was to drown:
What dreadful noise of water in mine ears!
What sights of ugly death within mine eyes!   25
Methought I saw a thousand fearful wracks;
A thousand men that fishes gnaw’d upon;
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,
Inestimable stones, unvalu’d jewels,
All scatter’d in the bottom of the sea.   30
Some layin dead men’s skulls; and in those holes
Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept,
As ‘twere in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems,
That woo’d the slimy bottom of the deep,
And mock’d the dead bones that lay scatter’d by.   35

Brak.  Had you such leisure in the time of death
To gaze upon those secrets of the deep?

Clar.  Methought I had; and often did I strive
To yield the ghost; but still the envious flood
Stopt in my soul, and would not let it forth   40
To find the empty, vast, and wandering air;
But smother’d it within my panting bulk,
Which almost burst to belch it in the sea.

Brak.  Awak’d you not with this sore agony?

Clar.  No, no, my dream was lengthen’d after life;   45
O! then began the tempest to my soul.
I pass’d, methought, the melancholy flood,
With that grim ferryman which poets write of,
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night.
The first that there did greet my stranger soul,   50
Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick;
Who cried aloud, ‘What scourge for perjury
Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?’
And so he vanish’d: then came wandering by
A shadow like an angel, with bright hair   55
Dabbled in blood; and he shriek’d out aloud,
‘Clarence is come, — false, fleeting, perjur’d Clarence,
That stabb’d me in the field by Tewksbury; —
Seize on him! Furies, take him unto torment.’
With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends   60
Environ’d me, and howled in mine ears
Such hideous cries, that, with the very noise
I trembling wak’d, and, for a season after
Could not believe but that I was in hell,
Such terrible impression made my dream.   65

Brak.  No marvel, lord, though it affrighted you;
I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.

Clar.  O Brakenbury! I have done these things
That now give evidence against my soul,
For Edward’s sake; and see how he requites me.   70
O God! if my deep prayers cannot appease thee,
But thou wilt be aveng’d on my misdeeds,
Yet execute thy wrath on me alone:
O! spare my guiltless wife and my poor children.
I pray thee, gentle keeper, stay by me;   75
My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.

Brak.  I will, my lord. God give your Grace good rest!  [CLARENCE sleeps.
Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours,
Makes the night morning, and the noon-tide night.
Princes have but their titles for their glories,   80
An outward honour for an inward toil;
And, for unfelt imaginations,
They often feel a world of restless cares:
So that, between their titles and low names,
There’s nothing differs but the outward fame.   85

Enter the two Murderers.

First Murd.  Ho! who’s here?

Brak.  What wouldst thou, fellow? and how cam’st thou hither?

First Murd.  I would speak with Clarence, and I came hither on my legs.

Brak.  What! so brief?   90

Sec. Murd.  ’Tis better, sir, than to be tedious. —
Let him see our commission, and talk no more.  [A paper is delivered to BRAKENBURY, who reads it.

Brak.  I am, in this, commanded to deliver
The noble Duke of Clarence to your hands:
I will not reason what is meant hereby,   95
Because I will be guiltless of the meaning.
There lies the duke asleep, and there the keys.
I’ll to the king; and signify to him
That thus I have resign’d to you my charge.

First Murd.  You may, sir; ’tis a point of wisdom: fare you well.  [Exit BRAKENBURY.   100

Sec. Murd.  What! shall we stab him as he sleeps?

First Murd.  No; he’ll say ’twas done cowardly, when he wakes.

Sec. Murd.  When he wakes! why, fool, he shall never wake till the judgment-day.

First Murd.  Why, then he’ll say we stabbed him sleeping.

Sec. Murd.  The urging of that word ‘judgment’ hath bred a kind of remorse in me.   105

First Murd.  What! art thou afraid?

Sec. Murd.  Not to kill him, having a warrant for it; but to be damn’d for killing him, from the which no warrant can defend me.

First Murd.  I thought thou hadst been resolute.

Sec. Murd.  So I am, to let him live.

First Murd.  I’ll back to the Duke of Gloucester, and tell him so.   110

Sec. Murd.  Nay, I prithee, stay a little: I hope my holy humour will change; it was wont to hold me but while one tells twenty.

First Murd.  How dost thou feel thyself now?

Sec. Murd.  Some certain dregs of conscience are yet within me.

First Murd.  Remember our reward when the deed’s done.

Sec. Murd.  ‘Zounds! he dies: I had forgot the reward.   115

First Murd.  Where’s thy conscience now?

Sec. Murd.  In the Duke of Gloucester’s purse.

First Murd.  So when he opens his purse to give us our reward, thy conscience flies out.

Sec. Murd.  ’Tis no matter; let it go: there’s few or none will entertain it.

First Murd.  What if it come to thee again?   120

Sec. Murd.  I’ll not meddle with it; it makes a man a coward; a man cannot steal, but it accuseth him; a man cannot swear, but it checks him; a man cannot lie with his neighbour’s wife, but it detects him: ’tis a blushing shamefast spirit, that mutinies in a man’s bosom; it fills one full of obstacles; it made me once restore a purse of gold that I found; it beggars any man that keeps it; it is turned out of all towns and cities for a dangerous thing; and every man that means to live well, endeavours to trust to himself and live without it.

First Murd.  ‘Zounds! it is even now at my elbow, persuading me not to kill the duke.

Sec. Murd.  Take the devil in thy mind, and believe him not: he would insinuate with thee but to make thee sigh.

First Murd.  Tut, I am strong-framed; he cannot prevail with me.

Sec. Murd.  Spoke like a tall fellow that respects his reputation. Come, shall we to this gear?   125

First Murd.  Take him over the costard with the hilts of thy sword, and then throw him into the malmsey-butt in the next room.

Sec. Murd.  O, excellent device! make a sop of him.

First Murd.  Soft! he wakes.

Sec. Murd.  Strike!

First Murd.  No, we’ll reason with him.   130

Clar.  Where art thou, keeper? give me a cup of wine.

First Murd.  You shall have wine enough, my lord, anon.

Clar.  In God’s name, what art thou?

First Murd.  A man, as you are.

Clar.  But not, as I am, royal.   135

First Murd.  Nor you, as we are, loyal.

Clar.  Thy voice is thunder, but thy looks are humble.

First Murd.  My voice is now the king’s, my looks mine own.

Clar.  How darkly, and how deadly dost thou speak!
Your eyes do menace me: why look you pale?   140
Who sent you hither? Wherefore do you come?

Both Murd.  To, to, to —

Clar.  To murder me?

Both Murd.  Ay, ay.

Clar.  You scarcely have the hearts to tell me so,   145
And therefore cannot have the hearts to do it.
Wherein, my friends, have I offended you?

First Murd.  Offended us you have not, but the king.

Clar.  I shall be reconcil’d to him again.

Sec. Murd.  Never, my lord; therefore prepare to die.   150

Clar.  Are you call’d forth from out a world of men
To slay the innocent? What is my offence?
Where is the evidence that doth accuse me?
What lawful quest have given their verdict up
Unto the frowning judge? or who pronounc’d   155
The bitter sentence of poor Clarence’ death?
Before I be convict by course of law,
To threaten me with death is most unlawful.
I charge you, as you hope to have redemption
By Christ’s dear blood shed for our grievous sins,   160
That you depart and lay no hands on me;
The deed you undertake is damnable.

First Murd.  What we will do, we do upon command.

Sec. Murd.  And he that hath commanded is our king.

Clar.  Erroneous vassal! the great King of kings   165
Hath in the table of his law commanded
That thou shalt do no murder: will you, then,
Spurn at his edict and fulfil a man’s?
Take heed; for he holds vengeance in his hand,
To hurl upon their heads that break his law.   170

Sec. Murd.  And that same vengeance doth he hurl on thee,
For false forswearing and for murder too:
Thou didst receive the sacrament to fight
In quarrel of the house of Lancaster.

First Murd.  And, like a traitor to the name of God,   175
Didst break that vow, and, with thy treacherous blade
Unripp’dst the bowels of thy sovereign’s son.

Sec. Murd.  Whom thou wast sworn to cherish and defend.

First Murd.  How canst thou urge God’s dreadful law to us,
When thou hast broke it in such dear degree?   180

Clar.  Alas! for whose sake did I that ill deed?
For Edward, for my brother, for his sake:
He sends you not to murder me for this;
For in that sin he is as deep as I.
If God will be avenged for the deed,   185
O! know you yet, he doth it publicly:
Take not the quarrel from his powerful arm;
He needs no indirect or lawless course
To cut off those that have offended him.

First Murd.  Who made thee then a bloody minister,   190
When gallant-springing, brave Plantagenet,
That princely novice, was struck dead by thee?

Clar.  My brother’s love, the devil, and my rage.

First Murd.  Thy brother’s love, our duty, and thy fault,
Provoke us hither now to slaughter thee.   195

Clar.  If you do love my brother, hate not me;
I am his brother, and I love him well.
If you are hir’d for meed, go back again,
And I will send you to my brother Gloucester,
Who shall reward you better for my life   200
Than Edward will for tidings of my death.

Sec. Murd.  You are deceiv’d, your brother Gloucester hates you.

Clar.  O, no! he loves me, and he holds me dear:
Go you to him from me.

Both Murd.        Ay, so we will.   205

Clar.  Tell him, when that our princely father York
Bless’d his three sons with his victorious arm,
And charg’d us from his soul to love each other,
He little thought of this divided friendship:
Bid Gloucester think on this, and he will weep.   210

First Murd.  Ay, millstones; as he lesson’d us to weep.

Clar.  O! do not slander him, for he is kind.

First Murd.  Right;
As snow in harvest. Thou deceiv’st thyself:
’Tis he that sends us to destroy you here.   215

Clar.  It cannot be; for he bewept my fortune,
And hugg’d me in his arms, and swore, with sobs,
That he would labour my delivery.

First Murd.  Why, so he doth, when he delivers you
From this earth’s thraldom to the joys of heaven.   220

Sec. Murd.  Make peace with God, for you must die, my lord.

Clar.  Hast thou that holy feeling in thy soul,
To counsel me to make my peace with God,
And art thou yet to thy own soul so blind,
That thou wilt war with God by murdering me?   225
O! sirs, consider, he that set you on
To do this deed, will hate you for the deed.

Sec. Murd.  What shall we do?

Clar.        Relent and save your souls.

First Murd.  Relent! ’tis cowardly, and womanish.   230

Clar.  Not to relent, is beastly, savage, devilish.
Which of you, if you were a prince’s son,
Being pent from liberty, as I am now,
If two such murd’rers as yourselves came to you,
Would not entreat for life?   235
My friend, I spy some pity in thy looks;
O! if thine eye be not a flatterer,
Come thou on my side, and entreat for me,
As you would beg, were you in my distress:
A begging prince what beggar pities not?   240

Sec. Murd.  Look behind you, my lord.

First Murd.  [Stabs him.]  Take that, and that: if all this will not do,
I’ll drown you in the malmsey-butt within.  [Exit with the body.

Sec. Murd.  A bloody deed, and desperately dispatch’d!
How fain, like Pilate, would I wash my hands   245
Of this most grievous murder.

Re-enter first Murderer.

First Murd.  How now! what mean’st thou, that thou help’st me not?
By heaven, the duke shall know how slack you have been.

Sec. Murd.  I would he knew that I had sav’d his brother!   250
Take thou the fee, and tell him what I say;
For I repent me that the duke is slain.  [Exit.

First Murd.  So do not I: go, coward as thou art.
Well, I’ll go hide the body in some hole,
Till that the duke give order for his burial:   255
And when I have my meed, I will away;
For this will out, and here I must not stay.  [Exit.

Act II. Scene I.

London.  A Room in the Palace.

Enter KING EDWARD sick, QUEEN ELIZABETH, DORSET, RIVERS, HASTINGS, BUCKINGHAM, GREY, and Others.

K. Edw.  Why, so: now have I done a good day’s work.
You peers, continue this united league:
I every day expect an embassage   5
From my Redeemer to redeem me hence;
And more in peace my soul shall part to heaven,
Since I have made my friends at peace on earth.
Rivers and Hastings, take each other’s hand;
Dissemble not your hatred, swear your love.   10

Riv.  By heaven, my soul is purg’d from grudging hate;
And with my hand I seal my true heart’s love.

Hast.  So thrive I, as I truly swear the like!

K. Edw.  Take heed, you dally not before your king;
Lest he that is the supreme King of kings   15
Confound your hidden falsehood, and award
Either of you to be the other’s end.

Hast.  So prosper I, as I swear perfect love!

Riv.  And I, as I love Hastings with my heart!

K. Edw.  Madam, yourself are not exempt in this,   20
Nor you, son Dorset, Buckingham, nor you;
You have been factious one against the other.
Wife, love Lord Hastings, let him kiss your hand;
And what you do, do it unfeignedly

Q. Eliz.  There, Hastings; I will never more remember   25
Our former hatred, so thrive I and mine!

K. Edw.  Dorset, embrace him; Hastings, love lord marquess.

Dor.  This interchange of love, I here protest,
Upon my part shall be inviolable.

Hast.  And so swear I.  [They embrace.   30

K. Edw.  Now, princely Buckingham, seal thou this league
With thy embracements to my wife’s allies,
And make me happy in your unity.

Buck.  [To the QUEEN.]  Whenever Buckingham doth turn his hate
Upon your Grace, but with all duteous love   35
Doth cherish you and yours, God punish me
With hate in those where I expect most love!
When I have most need to employ a friend,
And most assured that he is a friend,
Deep, hollow, treacherous, and full of guile,   40
Be he unto me! This do I beg of God,
When I am cold in love to you or yours.  [They embrace.

K. Edw.  A pleasing cordial, princely Buckingham,
Is this thy vow unto my sickly heart.
There wanteth now our brother Gloucester here   45
To make the blessed period of this peace.

Buck.  And, in good time, here comes the noble duke.

Enter GLOUCESTER.

Glo.  Good morrow to my sovereign king and queen;
And princely peers, a happy time of day!   50

K. Edw.  Happy, indeed, as we have spent the day.
Gloucester, we have done deeds of charity;
Made peace of enmity, fair love of hate,
Between these swelling wrong-incensed peers.

Glo.  A blessed labour, my most sovereign lord.   55
Among this princely heap, if any here,
By false intelligence, or wrong surmise,
Hold me a foe;
If I un wittingly, or in my rage,
Have aught committed that is hardly borne   60
By any in this presence, I desire
To reconcile me to his friendly peace:
’Tis death to me to be at enmity;
I hate it, and desire all good men’s love.
First, madam, I entreat true peace of you,   65
Which I will purchase with my duteous service;
Of you, my noble cousin Buckingham,
If ever any grudge were lodg’d between us;
Of you, Lord Rivers, and Lord Grey, of you,
That all without desert have frown’d on me;   70
Of you, Lord Woodvile, and Lord Scales, of you;
Dukes, earls, lords, gentlemen; indeed, of all.
I do not know that Englishman alive
With whom my soul is any jot at odds
More than the infant that is born to-night:   75
I thank my God for my humility.

Q. Eliz.  A holy day shall this be kept hereafter:
I would to God all strifes were well compounded.
My sov’reign lord, I do beseech your highness
To take our brother Clarence to your grace.   80

Glo.  Why, madam, have I offer’d love for this,
To be so flouted in this royal presence?
Who knows not that the gentle duke is dead?  [They all start.
You do him injury to scorn his corse.

K. Edw.  Who knows not he is dead! who knows he is?   85

Q. Eliz.  All-seeing heaven, what a world is this!

Buck.  Look I so pale, Lord Dorset, as the rest?

Dor.  Ay, my good lord; and no man in the presence
But his red colour hath forsook his cheeks.

K. Edw.  Is Clarence dead? the order was revers’d.   90

Glo.  But he, poor man, by your first order died,
And that a winged Mercury did bear;
Some tardy cripple bore the countermand,
That came too lag to see him buried.
God grant that some, less noble and less loyal,   95
Nearer in bloody thoughts, and not in blood,
Deserve not worse than wretched Clarence did,
And yet go current from suspicion.

Enter STANLEY.

Stan.  A boon, my sov’reign, for my service done!   100

K. Edw.  I prithee, peace: my soul is full of sorrow.

Stan.  I will not rise, unless your highness hear me.

K. Edw.  Then say at once, what is it thou request’st.

Stan.  The forfeit, sovereign, of my servant’s life;
Who slew to-day a riotous gentleman   105
Lately attendant on the Duke of Norfolk.

K. Edw.  Have I a tongue to doom my brother’s death,
And shall that tongue give pardon to a slave?
My brother kill’d no man, his fault was thought;
And yet his punishment was bitter death.   110
Who su’d to me for him? who, in my wrath,
Kneel’d at my feet, and bade me be advis’d?
Who spoke of brotherhood? who spoke of love?
Who told me how the poor soul did forsake
The mighty Warwick, and did fight for me?   115
Who told me, in the field at Tewksbury,
When Oxford had me down, he rescu’d me,
And said, ‘Dear brother, live, and be a king?’
Who told me, when we both lay in the field
Frozen almost to death, how he did lap me   120
Even in his garments; and did give himself,
All thin and naked, to the numb cold night?
All this from my remembrance brutish wrath
Sinfully pluck’d, and not a man of you
Had so much grace to put it in my mind.   125
But when your carters or your waiting-vassals
Have done a drunken slaughter, and defac’d
The precious image of our dear Redeemer,
You straight are on your knees for pardon, pardon;
And I, unjustly too, must grant it you;   130
But for my brother not a man would speak,
Nor I, ungracious, speak unto myself
For him, poor soul. The proudest of you all
Have been beholding to him in his life,
Yet none of you would once beg for his life.   135
O God! I fear, thy justice will take hold
On me and you and mine and yours for this.
Come, Hastings, help me to my closet. O! poor Clarence!  [Exeunt KING EDWARD, QUEEN, HASTINGS, RIVERS, DORSET, and GREY.

Glo.  This is the fruit of rashness. Mark’d you not
How that the guilty kindred of the queen   140
Look’d pale when they did hear of Clarence’ death?
O! they did urge it still unto the king:
God will revenge it. Come, lords; will you go
To comfort Edward with our company?

Buck.  We wait upon your Grace.  [Exeunt.   145

Act II. Scene II.

The Same.  A Room in the Palace.

Enter the DUCHESS OF YORK, with a Son and Daughter of CLARENCE.

Boy.  Good grandam, tell us, is our father dead?

Duch.  No, boy.

Daugh.  Why do you wring your hands, and beat your breast,   5
And cry — ’O Clarence, my unhappy son?’

Boy.  Why do you look on us, and shake your head,
And call us orphans, wretches, castaways,
If that our noble father be alive?

Duch.  My pretty cousins, you mistake me much;   10
I do lament the sickness of the king,
As loath to lose him, not your father’s death;
It were lost sorrow to wail one that’s lost.

Boy.  Then, grandam, you conclude that he is dead.
The king mine uncle is to blame for it:   15
God will revenge it; whom I will importune
With earnest prayers all to that effect.

Daugh.  And so will I.

Duch.  Peace, children, peace! the king doth love you well:
Incapable and shallow innocents,   20
You cannot guess who caus’d your father’s death.

Boy.  Grandam, we can; for my good uncle Gloucester
Told me, the king, provok’d to ‘t by the queen,
Devis’d impeachments to imprison him:
And when my uncle told me so, he wept,   25
And pitied me, and kindly kiss’d my cheek;
Bade me rely on him, as on my father,
And he would love me dearly as his child.

Duch.  Ah! that deceit should steal such gentle shape,
And with a virtuous vizard hide deep vice.   30
He is my son, ay, and therein my shame,
Yet from my dugs he drew not this deceit.

Boy.  Think you my uncle did dissemble, grandam?

Duch.  Ay, boy.

Boy.  I cannot think it. Hark! what noise is this?   35

Enter QUEEN ELIZABETH, distractedly; RIVERS and DORSET following her.

Q. Eliz.  Oh! who shall hinder me to wail and weep,
To chide my fortune, and torment myself?
I’ll join with black despair against my soul,
And to myself become an enemy.   40

Duch.  What means this scene of rude impatience?

Q. Eliz.  To make an act of tragic violence:
Edward, my lord, thy son, our king, is dead!
Why grow the branches now the root is wither’d?
Why wither not the leaves that want their sap?   45
If you will live, lament: if die, be brief,
That our swift-winged souls may catch the king’s;
Or, like obedient subjects, follow him
To his new kingdom of perpetual rest.

Duch.  Ah! so much interest have I in thy sorrow   50
As I had title in thy noble husband.
I have bewept a worthy husband’s death,
And liv’d with looking on his images;
But now two mirrors of his princely semblance
Are crack’d in pieces by malignant death,   55
And I for comfort have but one false glass,
That grieves me when I see my shame in him.
Thou art a widow; yet thou art a mother,
And hast the comfort of thy children left thee:
But death hath snatch’d my husband from mine arms,   60
And pluck’d two crutches from my feeble limbs,
Clarence and Edward. O! what cause have I —
Thine being but a moiety of my grief —
To overgo thy plaints, and drown thy cries!

Boy.  Ah, aunt, you wept not for our father’s death;   65
How can we aid you with our kindred tears?

Daugh.  Our fatherless distress was left unmoan’d;
Your widow-dolour likewise be unwept.

Q. Eliz.  Give me no help in lamentation;
I am not barren to bring forth complaints:   70
All springs reduce their currents to mine eyes,
That I, being govern’d by the wat’ry moon,
May send forth plenteous tears to drown the world!
Ah! for my husband, for my dear Lord Edward!

Chil.  Ah! for our father, for our dear Lord Clarence!   75

Duch.  Alas! for both, both mine, Edward and Clarence!

Q. Eliz.  What stay had I but Edward? and he’s gone.

Chil.  What stay had we but Clarence? and he’s gone.

Duch.  What stays had I but they? and they are gone.

Q. Eliz.  Was never widow had so dear a loss.   80

Chil.  Were never orphans had so dear a loss.

Duch.  Was never mother had so dear a loss.
Alas! I am the mother of these griefs:
Their woes are parcell’d, mine are general.
She for an Edward weeps, and so do I;   85
I for a Clarence weep, so doth not she:
These babes for Clarence weep, and so do I;
I for an Edward weep, so do not they:
Alas! you three, on me, threefold distress’d,
Pour all your tears; I am your sorrow’s nurse,   90
And I will pamper it with lamentation.

Dor.  Comfort, dear mother: God is much displeas’d
That you take with unthankfulness his doing.
In common worldly things ’tis call’d ungrateful
With dull unwillingness to repay a debt   95
Which with a bounteous hand was kindly lent;
Much more to be thus opposite with heaven,
For it requires the royal debt it lent you.

Riv.  Madam, bethink you, like a careful mother,
Of the young prince your son: send straight for him;   100
Let him be crown’d; in him your comfort lives.
Drown desperate sorrow in dead Edward’s grave,
And plant your joys in living Edward’s throne.

Enter GLOUCESTER, BUCKINGHAM, STANLEY, HASTINGS, RATCLIFF, and Others.

Glo.  Sister, have comfort: all of us have cause   105
To wail the dimming of our shining star;
But none can cure their harms by wailing them.
Madam, my mother, I do cry you mercy;
I did not see your Grace: humbly on my knee
I crave your blessing.   110

Duch.  God bless thee! and put meekness in thy mind,
Love, charity, obedience, and true duty.

Glo.  Amen;  [Aside.]  and make me die a good old man!
That is the butt-end of a mother’s blessing;
I marvel that her Grace did leave it out.   115

Buck  You cloudy princes and heart-sorrowing peers,
That bear this heavy mutual load of moan,
Now cheer each other in each other’s love:
Though we have spent our harvest of this king,
We are to reap the harvest of his son.   120
The broken rancour of your high-swoln hearts,
But lately splinter’d, knit, and join’d together,
Must gently be preserv’d, cherish’d, and kept:
Me seemeth good, that, with some little train,
Forthwith from Ludlow the young prince be fetch’d   125
Hither to London, to be crown’d our king.

Riv.  Why with some little train, my Lord of Buckingham?

Buck.  Marry, my lord, lest, by a multitude,
The new-heal’d wound of malice should break out;
Which would be so much the more dangerous,   130
By how much the estate is green and yet ungovern’d;
Where every horse bears his commanding rein,
And may direct his course as please himself,
As well the fear of harm, as harm apparent,
In my opinion, ought to be prevented.   135

Glo.  I hope the king made peace with all of us;
And the compact is firm and true in me.

Riv.  And so in me; and so, I think, in all:
Yet, since it is but green, it should be put
To no apparent likelihood of breach,   140
Which haply by much company might be urg’d:
Therefore I say with noble Buckingham,
That it is meet so few should fetch the prince.

Hast.  And so say I.

Glo.  Then be it so; and go we to determine   145
Who they shall be that straight shall post to Ludlow.
Madam, and you my mother, will you go
To give your censures in this business?  [Exeunt all except BUCKINGHAM and GLOUCESTER.

Buck.  My lord, whoever journeys to the prince,
For God’s sake, let not us two stay at home:   150
For by the way I’ll sort occasion,
As index to the story we late talk’d of,
To part the queen’s proud kindred from the prince.

Glo.  My other self, my counsel’s consistory,
My oracle, my prophet! My dear cousin,   155
I, as a child, will go by thy direction.
Towards Ludlow then, for we’ll not stay behind.  [Exeunt.

Act II. Scene III.

The Same.  A Street.

Enter two Citizens, meeting.

First Cit.  Good morrow, neighbour: whither away so fast?

Sec. Cit.  I promise you, I scarcely know myself:
Hear you the news abroad?   5

First Cit.        Ay; that the king is dead.

Sec. Cit.  Ill news, by ‘r lady; seldom comes the better:
I fear, I fear, ‘twill prove a giddy world.

Enter a third Citizen.

Third Cit.  Neighbours, God speed!   10

First Cit.        Give you good morrow, sir.

Third Cit.  Doth the news hold of good King Edward’s death?

Sec. Cit.  Ay, sir, it is too true; God help the while!

Third Cit.  Then, masters, look to see a troublous world.

First Cit.  No, no; by God’s good grace, his son shall reign.   15

Third Cit.  Woe to that land that’s govern’d by a child!

Sec. Cit.  In him there is a hope of government,
That in his nonage council under him,
And in his full and ripen’d years himself,
No doubt, shall then and till then govern well.   20

First Cit.  So stood the state when Henry the Sixth
Was crown’d at Paris but at nine months old.

Third Cit.  Stood the state so? no, no, good friends, God wot;
For then this land was famously enrich’d
With politic grave counsel; then the king   25
Had virtuous uncles to protect his Grace.

First Cit.  Why, so hath this, both by his father and mother.

Third Cit.  Better it were they all came by his father,
Or by his father there were none at all;
For emulation, who shall now be nearest,   30
Will touch us all too near, if God prevent not.
O! full of danger is the Duke of Gloucester!
And the queen’s sons and brothers haught and proud;
And were they to be rul’d, and not to rule,
This sickly land might solace as before.   35

First Cit.  Come, come, we fear the worst; all will be well.

Third Cit.  When clouds are seen, wise men put on their cloaks;
When great leaves fall, then winter is at hand;
When the sun sets, who doth not look for night?
Untimely storms make men expect a dearth.   40
All may be well; but, if God sort it so,
’Tis more than we deserve, or I expect.

Sec. Cit.  Truly, the hearts of men are full of fear:
You cannot reason almost with a man
That looks not heavily and full of dread.   45

Third Cit.  Before the days of change, still is it so:
By a divine instinct men’s minds mistrust
Ensuing danger; as, by proof, we see
The waters swell before a boisterous storm.
But leave it all to God. Whither away?   50

Sec. Cit.  Marry, we were sent for to the justices.

Third Cit.  And so was I: I’ll bear you company.  [Exeunt.

Act II. Scene IV.

The Same.  A Room in the Palace.

Enter the ARCHBISHOP OF YORK, the young DUKE OF YORK, QUEEN ELIZABETH, and the DUCHESS OF YORK.

Arch.  Last night, I hear, they lay at Northampton;
At Stony-Stratford they do rest to-night:
To-morrow, or next day, they will be here.   5

Duch.  I long with all my heart to see the prince.
I hope he is much grown since last I saw him.

Q. Eliz.  But I hear, no; they say my son of York
Hath almost overta’en him in his growth.

York.  Ay, mother, but I would not have it so.   10

Duch.  Why, my young cousin, it is good to grow.

York.  Grandam, one night, as we did sit at supper,
My uncle Rivers talk’d how I did grow
More than my brother: ‘Ay,’ quoth my uncle Gloucester,
‘Small herbs have grace, great weeds do grow apace:’   15
And since, methinks, I would not grow so fast,
Because sweet flowers are slow and weeds make haste.

Duch.  Good faith, good faith, the saying did not hold
In him that did object the same to thee:
He was the wretched’st thing when he was young,   20
So long a-growing, and so leisurely,
That, if his rule were true, he should be gracious.

Arch.  And so, no doubt, he is, my gracious madam.

Duch.  I hope he is; but yet let mothers doubt.

York.  Now, by my troth, if I had been remember’d,   25
I could have given my uncle’s grace a flout,
To touch his growth nearer than he touch’d mine.

Duch.  How, my young York? I prithee, let me hear it.

York.  Marry, they say my uncle grew so fast,
That he could gnaw a crust at two hours old:   30
’Twas full two years ere I could get a tooth.
Grandam, this would have been a biting jest.

Duch.  I prithee, pretty York, who told thee this?

York.  Grandam, his nurse.

Duch.  His nurse! why, she was dead ere thou wast born.   35

York.  If ‘twere not she, I cannot tell who told me.

Q. Eliz.  A parlous boy: go to, you are too shrewd.

Arch.  Good madam, be not angry with the child.

Q. Eliz.  Pitchers have ears.

Enter a Messenger.   40

Arch.  Here comes a messenger. What news?

Mess.  Such news, my lord, as grieves me to report.

Q. Eliz.  How doth the prince?

Mess.        Well, madam, and in health.

Duch.  What is thy news?   45

Mess.  Lord Rivers and Lord Grey are sent to Pomfret,
With them Sir Thomas Vaughan, prisoners.

Duch.  Who hath committed them?

Mess.        The mighty dukes,
Gloucester and Buckingham.   50

Arch.        For what offence?

Mess.  The sum of all I can I have disclos’d:
Why or for what the nobles were committed
Is all unknown to me, my gracious lord.

Q. Eliz.  Ah me! I see the ruin of my house!   55
The tiger now hath seiz’d the gentle hind;
Insulting tyranny begins to jet
Upon the innocent and aweless throne:
Welcome, destruction, death, and massacre!
I see, as in a map, the end of all.   60

Duch.  Accursed and unquiet wrangling days,
How many of you have mine eyes beheld!
My husband lost his life to get the crown,
And often up and down my sons were toss’d,
For me to joy and weep their gain and loss:   65
And being seated, and domestic broils
Clean over-blown, themselves, the conquerors,
Make war upon themselves; brother to brother,
Blood to blood, self against self: O! preposterous
And frantic outrage, end thy damned spleen;   70
Or let me die, to look on death no more.

Q. Eliz.  Come, come, my boy; we will to sanctuary.
Madam, farewell.

Duch.        Stay, I will go with you.

Q. Eliz.  You have no cause.   75

Arch.  [To the QUEEN.]  My gracious lady, go;
And thither bear your treasure and your goods.
For my part, I’ll resign unto your Grace
The seal I keep: and so betide to me
As well I tender you and all of yours!   80
Come; I’ll conduct you to the sanctuary.  [Exeunt.

Act III. Scene I.

The Same.  A Street.

The Trumpets sound.  Enter the PRINCE OF WALES, GLOUCESTER, BUCKINGHAM, CATESBY, CARDINAL BOURCHIER, and Others.

Buck.  Welcome, sweet prince, to London, to your chamber.

Glo.  Welcome, dear cousin, my thoughts’ sovereign;
The weary way hath made you melancholy.   5

Prince.  No, uncle; but our crosses on the way
Have made it tedious, wearisome, and heavy:
I want more uncles here to welcome me.

Glo.  Sweet prince, the untainted virtue of your years
Hath not yet div’d into the world’s deceit:   10
No more can you distinguish of a man
Than of his outward show; which, God he knows,
Seldom or never jumpeth with the heart.
Those uncles which you want were dangerous;
Your Grace attended to their sugar’d words,   15
But look’d not on the poison of their hearts:
God keep you from them, and from such false friends!

Prince.  God keep me from false friends! but they were none.

Glo.  My lord, the Mayor of London comes to greet you.

Enter the Lord Mayor and his Train.   20

May.  God bless your Grace with health and happy days!

Prince.  I thank you, good my lord; and thank you all.
I thought my mother and my brother York
Would long ere this have met us on the way:
Fie! what a slug is Hastings, that he comes not   25
To tell us whether they will come or no.

Enter HASTINGS.

Buck.  And in good time here comes the sweating lord.

Prince.  Welcome, my lord. What, will our mother come?

Hast.  On what occasion, God he knows, not I,   30
The queen your mother, and your brother York,
Have taken sanctuary: the tender prince
Would fain have come with me to meet your Grace,
But by his mother was perforce withheld.

Buck.  Fie! what an indirect and peevish course   35
Is this of hers! Lord Cardinal, will your Grace
Persuade the queen to send the Duke of York
Unto his princely brother presently?
If she deny, Lord Hastings, go with him,
And from her jealous arms pluck him perforce.   40

Card.  My Lord of Buckingham, if my weak oratory
Can from his mother win the Duke of York,
Anon expect him here; but if she be obdurate
To mild entreaties, God in heaven forbid
We should infringe the holy privilege   45
Of blessed sanctuary! not for all this land
Would I be guilty of so great a sin.

Buck.  You are too senseless-obstinate, my lord,
Too ceremonious and traditional:
Weigh it but with the grossness of this age,   50
You break not sanctuary in seizing him.
The benefit thereof is always granted
To those whose dealings have deserv’d the place
And those who have the wit to claim the place:
This prince hath neither claim’d it, nor deserv’d it;   55
And therefore, in mine opinion, cannot have it:
Then, taking him from thence that is not there,
You break no privilege nor charter there.
Oft have I heard of sanctuary men,
But sanctuary children ne’er till now.   60

Card.  My lord, you shall o’er-rule my mind for once.
Come on, Lord Hastings, will you go with me?

Hast.  I go, my lord.

Prince.  Good lords, make all the speedy haste you may.  [Exeunt CARDINAL BOURCHIER and HASTINGS.
Say, uncle Gloucester, if our brother come,   65
Where shall we sojourn till our coronation?

Glo.  Where it seems best unto your royal self.
If I may counsel you, some day or two
Your highness shall repose you at the Tower:
Then where you please, and shall be thought most fit   70
For your best health and recreation.

Prince.  I do not like the Tower, of any place:
Did Julius Cæsar build that place, my lord?

Buck.  He did, my gracious lord, begin that place,
Which, since, succeeding ages have re-edified.   75

Prince.  Is it upon record, or else reported
Successively from age to age, he built it?

Buck.  Upon record, my gracious lord.

Prince.  But say, my lord, it were not register’d,
Methinks the truth should live from age to age,   80
As ‘twere retail’d to all posterity,
Even to the general all-ending day.

Glo.  [Aside.]  So wise so young, they say, do never live long.

Prince.  What say you, uncle?

Glo.  I say, without characters, fame lives long.   85
[Aside.]  Thus, like the formal Vice, Iniquity,
I moralize two meanings in one word.

Prince.  That Julius Cæsar was a famous man;
With what his valour did enrich his wit,
His wit set down to make his valour live:   90
Death makes no conquest of this conqueror,
For now he lives in fame, though not in life.
I’ll tell you what, my cousin Buckingham, —

Buck.  What, my gracious lord?

Prince.  An if I live until I be a man,   95
I’ll win our ancient right in France again,
Or die a soldier, as I liv’d a king.

Glo.  [Aside.]  Short summers lightly have a forward spring.

Enter YORK, HASTINGS, and CARDINAL BOURCHIER.

Buck.  Now, in good time, here comes the Duke of York.   100

Prince.  Richard of York! how fares our loving brother?

York.  Well, my dread lord; so must I call you now.

Prince.  Ay, brother, to our grief, as it is yours:
Too late he died that might have kept that title,
Which by his death hath lost much majesty.   105

Glo.  How fares our cousin, noble Lord of York?

York.  I thank you, gentle uncle. O, my lord,
You said that idle weeds are fast in growth:
The prince my brother hath outgrown me far.

Glo.  He hath, my lord.   110

York.        And therefore is he idle?

Glo.  O, my fair cousin, I must not say so.

York.  Then he is more beholding to you than I.

Glo.  He may command me as my sovereign;
But you have power in me as in a kinsman.   115

York.  I pray you, uncle, give me this dagger.

Glo.  My dagger, little cousin? with all my heart.

Prince.  A beggar, brother?

York.  Of my kind uncle, that I know will give;
And, being but a toy, which is no grief to give.   120

Glo.  A greater gift than that I’ll give my cousin.

York.  A greater gift! O, that’s the sword to it.

Glo.  Ay, gentle cousin, were it light enough.

York.  O, then, I see, you’ll part but with light gifts;
In weightier things you’ll say a beggar nay.   125

Glo.  It is too weighty for your Grace to wear.

York.  I weigh it lightly, were it heavier.

Glo.  What! would you have my weapon, little lord?

York.  I would, that I might thank you, as you call me.

Glo.  How?   130

York.  Little.

Prince.  My Lord of York will still be cross in talk.
Uncle, your Grace knows how to bear with him.

York.  You mean, to bear me, not to bear with me:
Uncle, my brother mocks both you and me.   135
Because that I am little, like an ape,
He thinks that you should bear me on your shoulders.

Buck.  With what a sharp provided wit he reasons!
To mitigate the scorn he gives his uncle,
He prettily and aptly taunts himself:   140
So cunning and so young is wonderful.

Glo.  My lord, will ‘t please you pass along?
Myself and my good cousin Buckingham
Will to your mother, to entreat of her
To meet you at the Tower and welcome you.   145

York.  What! will you go unto the Tower, my lord?

Prince.  My Lord Protector needs will have it so.

York.  I shall not sleep in quiet at the Tower.

Glo.  Why, what would you fear?

York.  Marry, my uncle Clarence’ angry ghost:   150
My grandam told me he was murder’d there.

Prince.  I fear no uncles dead.

Glo.  Nor none that live, I hope.

Prince.  An if they live, I hope, I need not fear.
But come, my lord; and, with a heavy heart,   155
Thinking on them, go I unto the Tower.  [Sennet.  Exeunt all but GLOUCESTER, BUCKINGHAM, and CATESBY.

Buck.  Think you, my lord, this little prating York
Was not incensed by his subtle mother
To taunt and scorn you thus opprobriously?

Glo.  No doubt, no doubt: O! ’tis a parlous boy;   160
Bold, quick, ingenious, forward, capable:
He’s all the mother’s, from the top to toe.

Buck.  Well, let them rest. Come hither, Catesby; thou art sworn
As deeply to effect what we intend
As closely to conceal what we impart.   165
Thou know’st our reasons urg’d upon the way:
What think’st thou? is it not an easy matter
To make William Lord Hastings of our mind,
For the instalment of this noble duke
In the seat royal of this famous isle?   170

Cate.  He for his father’s sake so loves the prince
That he will not be won to aught against him.

Buck.  What think’st thou then of Stanley? what will he?

Cate.  He will do all in all as Hastings doth.

Buck.  Well then, no more but this: go, gentle Catesby,   175
And, as it were far off, sound thou Lord Hastings,
How he doth stand affected to our purpose;
And summon him to-morrow to the Tower,
To sit about the coronation.
If thou dost find him tractable to us,   180
Encourage him, and tell him all our reasons:
If he be leaden, icy-cold, unwilling,
Be thou so too, and so break off the talk,
And give us notice of his inclination;
For we to-morrow hold divided councils,   185
Wherein thyself shalt highly be employ’d.

Glo.  Commend me to Lord William: tell him, Catesby,
His ancient knot of dangerous adversaries
To-morrow are let blood at Pomfret Castle;
And bid my lord, for joy of this good news,   190
Give Mistress Shore one gentle kiss the more.

Buck.  Good Catesby, go, effect this business soundly.

Cate.  My good lords both, with all the heed I can.

Glo.  Shall we hear from you, Catesby, ere we sleep?

Cate.  You shall, my lord.   195

Glo.  At Crosby-place, there shall you find us both.  [Exit CATESBY.

Buck.  Now, my lord, what shall we do if we perceive
Lord Hastings will not yield to our complots?

Glo.  Chop off his head; something we will determine:
And, look, when I am king, claim thou of me   200
The earldom of Hereford, and all the moveables
Whereof the king my brother stood possess’d.

Buck.  I’ll claim that promise at your Grace’s hand.

Glo.  And look to have it yielded with all kindness.
Come, let us sup betimes, that afterwards   205
We may digest our complots in some form.  [Exeunt.

Act III. Scene II.

The Same.  Before LORD HASTINGS’ House.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess.  [Knocking.]  My lord! my lord!

Hast.  [Within.]  Who knocks?

Mess.  One from the Lord Stanley.   5

Hast.  [Within.]  What is ‘t o’clock?

Mess.  Upon the stroke of four.

Enter HASTINGS.

Hast.  Cannot my Lord Stanley sleep these tedious nights?

Mess.  So it appears by that I have to say.   10
First, he commends him to your noble self.

Hast.  What then?

Mess.  Then certifies your lordship, that this night
He dreamt the boar had razed off his helm:
Besides, he says there are two councils held;   15
And that may be determin’d at the one
Which may make you and him to rue at the other.
Therefore he sends to know your lordship’s pleasure,
If you will presently take horse with him,
And with all speed post with him towards the north,   20
To shun the danger that his soul divines.

Hast.  Go, fellow, go, return unto thy lord;
Bid him not fear the separated councils:
His honour and myself are at the one,
And at the other is my good friend Catesby;   25
Where nothing can proceed that toucheth us
Whereof I shall not have intelligence.
Tell him his fears are shallow, wanting instance:
And for his dreams, I wonder he ‘s so fond
To trust the mockery of unquiet slumbers.   30
To fly the boar before the boar pursues,
Were to incense the boar to follow us
And make pursuit where he did mean no chase.
Go, bid thy master rise and come to me;
And we will both together to the Tower,   35
Where, he shall see, the boar will use us kindly.

Mess.  I’ll go, my lord, and tell him what you say.  [Exit.

Enter CATESBY.

Cate.  Many good morrows to my noble lord!

Hast.  Good morrow, Catesby; you are early stirring.   40
What news, what news, in this our tottering state?

Cate.  It is a reeling world, indeed, my lord;
And I believe will never stand upright
Till Richard wear the garland of the realm.

Hast.  How! wear the garland! dost thou mean the crown?   45

Cate.  Ay, my good lord.

Hast.  I’ll have this crown of mine cut from my shoulders
Before I’ll see the crown so foul misplac’d.
But canst thou guess that he doth aim at it?

Cate.  Ay, on my life; and hopes to find you forward   50
Upon his party for the gain thereof:
And thereupon he sends you this good news,
That this same very day your enemies,
The kindred of the queen, must die at Pomfret.

Hast.  Indeed, I am no mourner for that news,   55
Because they have been still my adversaries;
But that I’ll give my voice on Richard’s side,
To bar my master’s heirs in true descent,
God knows I will not do it, to the death.

Cate.  God keep your lordship in that gracious mind!   60

Hast.  But I shall laugh at this a twelvemonth hence,
That they which brought me in my master’s hate,
I live to look upon their tragedy.
Well, Catesby, ere a fortnight make me older,
I’ll send some packing that yet think not on ‘t.   65

Cate.  ’Tis a vile thing to die, my gracious lord,
When men are unprepar’d and look not for it.

Hast.  O monstrous, monstrous! and so falls it out
With Rivers, Vaughan, Grey; and so ‘twill do
With some men else, who think themselves as safe   70
As thou and I; who, as thou know’st, are dear
To princely Richard and to Buckingham.

Cate.  The princes both make high account of you;
[Aside.]  For they account his head upon the bridge.

Hast.  I know they do, and I have well deserv’d it.   75

Enter STANLEY.
Come on, come on; where is your boar-spear, man?
Fear you the boar, and go so unprovided?

Stan.  My lord, good morrow; good morrow Catesby:
You may jest on, but by the holy rood,   80
I do not like these several councils, I.

Hast.  My lord, I hold my life as dear as you do yours;
And never, in my days, I do protest,
Was it so precious to me as ’tis now.
Think you, but that I know our state secure,   85
I would be so triumphant as I am?

Stan.  The lords at Pomfret, when they rode from London,
Were jocund and suppos’d their state was sure,
And they indeed had no cause to mistrust;
But yet you see how soon the day o’ercast.   90
This sudden stab of rancour I misdoubt;
Pray God, I say, I prove a needless coward!
What, shall we toward the Tower? the day is spent.

Hast.  Come, come, have with you. Wot you what, my lord?
To-day the lords you talk of are beheaded.   95

Stan.  They, for their truth, might better wear their heads,
Than some that have accus’d them wear their hats.
But come, my lord, let’s away.

Enter a Pursuivant.

Hast.  Go on before; I’ll talk with this good fellow.  [Exeunt STANLEY and CATESBY.   100
How now, sirrah! how goes the world with thee?

Purs.  The better that your lordship please to ask.

Hast.  I tell thee, man, ’tis better with me now
Than when I met thee last where now we meet:
Then was I going prisoner to the Tower,   105
By the suggestion of the queen’s allies;
But now, I tell thee, — keep it to thyself, —
This day those enemies are put to death,
And I in better state than e’er I was.

Purs.  God hold it to your honour’s good content!   110

Hast.  Gramercy, fellow: there, drink that for me.  [Throws him his purse.

Purs.  God save your lordship.  [Exit.

Enter a Priest.

Pr.  Well met, my lord; I am glad to see your honour.

Hast.  I thank thee, good Sir John, with all my heart.   115
I am in your debt for your last exercise;
Come the next Sabbath, and I will content you.

Enter BUCKINGHAM.

Buck.  What, talking with a priest, lord chamberlain?
Your friends at Pomfret, they do need the priest:   120
Your honour hath no shriving work in hand.

Hast.  Good faith, and when I met this holy man,
The men you talk of came into my mind.
What, go you toward the Tower?

Buck.  I do, my lord; but long I shall not stay:   125
I shall return before your lordship thence.

Hast.  Nay, like enough, for I stay dinner there.

Buck.  [Aside.]  And supper too, although thou know’st it not.
Come, will you go?

Hast.        I’ll wait upon your lordship.  [Exeunt.   130

Act III. Scene III.

Pomfret.  Before the Castle.

Enter RATCLIFF, with halberds, carrying RIVERS, GREY, and VAUGHAN to death.

Riv.  Sir Richard Ratcliff, let me tell thee this:
To-day shalt thou behold a subject die
For truth, for duty, and for loyalty.   5

Grey.  God bless the prince from all the pack of you!
A knot you are of damned blood-suckers.

Vaugh.  You live that shall cry woe for this hereafter.

Rat.  Dispatch; the limit of your lives is out.

Riv.  O Pomfret, Pomfret! O thou bloody prison!   10
Fatal and ominous to noble peers!
Within the guilty closure of thy walls
Richard the Second here was hack’d to death;
And, for more slander to thy dismal seat,
We give thee up our guiltless blood to drink.   15

Grey.  Now Margaret’s curse is fall’n upon our heads,
When she exclaim’d on Hastings, you, and I,
For standing by when Richard stabb’d her son.

Riv.  Then curs’d she Richard, then curs’d she Buckingham,
Then curs’d she Hastings: O! remember. God,   20
To hear her prayer for them, as now for us;
And for my sister and her princely sons,
Be satisfied, dear God, with our true blood,
Which, as thou know’st, unjustly must be spilt.

Rat.  Make haste; the hour of death is expiate.   25

Riv.  Come, Grey, come, Vaughan; let us here embrace:
And take our leave until we meet in heaven.  [Exeunt.

Act III. Scene IV.

London.  The Tower.

BUCKINGHAM, STANLEY, HASTINGS, the BISHOP OF ELY, RATCLIFF, LOVEL, and Others, sitting at a table.  Officers of the Council attending.

Hast.  My lords, at once: the cause why we are met
Is to determine of the coronation:
In God’s name, speak, when is the royal day?   5

Buck.  Are all things ready for that royal time?

Stan.  It is; and wants but nomination.

Ely.  To-morrow then I judge a happy day.

Buck.  Who knows the Lord Protector’s mind herein?
Who is most inward with the noble duke?   10

Ely.  Your Grace, we think, should soonest know his mind.

Buck.  We know each other’s faces; for our hearts,
He knows no more of mine than I of yours;
Nor I of his, my lord, than you of mine.
Lord Hastings, you and he are near in love.   15

Hast.  I thank his Grace, I know he loves me well;
But, for his purpose in the coronation,
I have not sounded him, nor he deliver’d
His gracious pleasure any way therein:
But you, my noble lords, may name the time;   20
And in the duke’s behalf I’ll give my voice,
Which, I presume, he’ll take in gentle part.

Enter GLOUCESTER.

Ely.  In happy time, here comes the duke himself.

Glo.  My noble lords and cousins all, good morrow.   25
I have been long a sleeper; but, I trust,
My absence doth neglect no great design,
Which by my presence might have been concluded.

Buck.  Had you not come upon your cue, my lord,
William Lord Hastings had pronounc’d your part,   30
I mean, your voice, for crowning of the king.

Glo.  Than my Lord Hastings no man might be bolder:
His lordship knows me well, and loves me well.
My Lord of Ely, when I was last in Holborn,
I saw good strawberries in your garden there;   35
I do beseech you send for some of them.

Ely.  Marry, and will, my lord, with all my heart.  [Exit.

Glo.  Cousin of Buckingham, a word with you.  [Takes him aside.
Catesby hath sounded Hastings in our business,
And finds the testy gentleman so hot,   40
That he will lose his head ere give consent
His master’s child, as worshipfully he terms it,
Shall lose the royalty of England’s throne.

Buck.  Withdraw yourself a while; I’ll go with you.  [Exeunt GLOUCESTER and BUCKINGHAM.

Stan.  We have not yet set down this day of triumph.   45
To-morrow, in my judgment, is too sudden;
For I myself am not so well provided
As else I would be, were the day prolong’d.

Re-enter BISHOP OF ELY.

Ely.  Where is my lord, the Duke of Gloucester?   50
I have sent for these strawberries.

Hast.  His Grace looks cheerfully and smooth this morning:
There’s some conceit or other likes him well,
When that he bids good morrow with such spirit.
I think there’s never a man in Christendom   55
Can lesser hide his hate or love than he;
For by his face straight shall you know his heart.

Stan.  What of his heart perceiv’d you in his face
By any livelihood he show’d to-day?

Hast.  Marry, that with no man here he is offended;   60
For, were he, he had shown it in his looks.

Re-enter GLOUCESTER and BUCKINGHAM.

Glo.  I pray you all, tell me what they deserve
That do conspire my death with devilish plots
Of damned witchcraft, and that have prevail’d   65
Upon my body with their hellish charms?

Hast.  The tender love I bear your Grace, my lord,
Makes me most forward in this princely presence
To doom th’ offenders, whosoe’er they be:
I say, my lord, they have deserved death.   70

Glo.  Then be your eyes the witness of their evil.
Look how I am bewitch’d; behold mine arm
Is like a blasted sapling, wither’d up:
And this is Edward’s wife, that monstrous witch
Consorted with that harlot strumpet Shore,   75
That by their witchcraft thus have marked me.

Hast.  If they have done this thing, my noble lord, —

Glo.  If! thou protector of this damned strumpet,
Talk’st thou to me of ifs? Thou art a traitor:
Off with his head! now, by Saint Paul, I swear,   80
I will not dine until I see the same.
Lovel and Ratcliff, look that it be done:
The rest, that love me, rise, and follow me.  [Exeunt all but HASTINGS, RATCLIFF, and LOVEL.

Hast.  Woe, woe, for England! not a whit for me;
For I, too fond, might have prevented this.   85
Stanley did dream the boar did raze his helm;
And I did scorn it, and disdain’d to fly.
Three times to-day my foot-cloth horse did stumble,
And startled when he looked upon the Tower,
As loath to bear me to the slaughter-house.   90
O! now I need the priest that spake to me:
I now repent I told the pursuivant,
As too triumphing, how mine enemies
To-day at Pomfret bloodily were butcher’d
And I myself secure in grace and favour.   95
O Margaret, Margaret! now thy heavy curse
Is lighted on poor Hastings’ wretched head.

Rat.  Come, come, dispatch; the duke would be at dinner:
Make a short shrift, he longs to see your head.

Hast.  O momentary grace of mortal man,   100
Which we more hunt for than the grace of God!
Who builds his hope in air of your good looks,
Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast;
Ready with every nod to tumble down
Into the fatal bowels of the deep.   105

Lov.  Come, come, dispatch; ’tis bootless to exclaim.

Hast.  O bloody Richard! miserable England!
I prophesy the fearfull’st time to thee
That ever wretched age hath look’d upon.
Come, lead me to the block; bear him my head:   110
They smile at me who shortly shall be dead.  [Exeunt.

Act III. Scene V.

London.  The Tower Walls.

Enter GLOUCESTER and BUCKINGHAM, in rotten armour, marvellous ill-favoured.

Glo.  Come, cousin, canst thou quake, and change thy colour,
Murder thy breath in middle of a word,
And then again begin, and stop again,   5
As if thou wert distraught and mad with terror?

Buck.  Tut! I can counterfeit the deep tragedian,
Speak and look back, and pry on every side,
Tremble and start at wagging of a straw,
Intending deep suspicion: ghastly looks   10
Are at my service, like enforced smiles;
And both are ready in their offices,
At any time, to grace my stratagems.
But what! is Catesby gone?

Glo.  He is; and, see, he brings the mayor along.   15

Enter the Lord Mayor and CATESBY.

Buck.  Lord Mayor, —

Glo.  Look to the drawbridge there!

Buck.        Hark! a drum.

Glo.  Catesby, o’erlook the walls.   20

Buck.  Lord Mayor, the reason we have sent, —

Glo.  Look back, defend thee; here are enemies.

Buck.  God and our innocency defend and guard us!

Enter LOVEL and RATCLIFF, with HASTINGS’ head.

Glo.  Be patient, they are friends, Ratcliff and Lovel.   25

Lov.  Here is the head of that ignoble traitor,
The dangerous and unsuspected Hastings.

Glo.  So dear I lov’d the man, that I must weep.
I took him for the plainest harmless creature
That breath’d upon the earth a Christian;   30
Made him my book, wherein my soul recorded
The history of all her secret thoughts:
So smooth he daub’d his vice with show of virtue,
That, his apparent open guilt omitted,
I mean his conversation with Shore’s wife,   35
He liv’d from all attainder of suspect.

Buck.  Well, well, he was the covert’st shelter’d traitor
That ever liv’d.
Would you imagine, or almost believe, —
Were ‘t not that by great preservation   40
We live to tell it, that the subtle traitor
This day had plotted, in the council-house,
To murder me and my good Lord of Gloucester?

May.  Had he done so?

Glo.  What! think you we are Turks or infidels?   45
Or that we would, against the form of law,
Proceed thus rashly in the villain’s death,
But that the extreme peril of the case,
The peace of England and our person’s safety,
Enforc’d us to this execution?   50

May.  Now, fair befall you! he deserv’d his death;
And your good Graces both have well proceeded,
To warn false traitors from the like attempts.
I never look’d for better at his hands,
After he once fell in with Mistress Shore.   55

Buck.  Yet had we not determin’d he should die,
Until your lordship came to see his end;
Which now the loving haste of these our friends,
Something against our meaning, hath prevented:
Because, my lord, we would have had you heard   60
The traitor speak, and timorously confess
The manner and the purpose of his treason;
That you might well have signified the same
Unto the citizens, who haply may
Misconster us in him, and wail his death.   65

May.  But, my good lord, your Grace’s word shall serve,
As well as I had seen and heard him speak:
And do not doubt, right noble princes both,
But I’ll acquaint our duteous citizens
With all your just proceedings in this cause.   70

Glo.  And to that end we wish’d your lordship here,
To avoid the censures of the carping world.

Buck.  But since you come too late of our intent,
Yet witness what you hear we did intend:
And so, my good Lord Mayor, we bid farewell.  [Exit Lord Mayor.   75

Glo.  Go, after, after, cousin Buckingham.
The mayor towards Guildhall hies him in all post:
There, at your meetest vantage of the time,
Infer the bastardy of Edward’s children:
Tell them how Edward put to death a citizen,   80
Only for saying he would make his son
Heir to the crown; meaning indeed his house,
Which by the sign thereof was termed so.
Moreover, urge his hateful luxury
And bestial appetite in change of lust;   85
Which stretch’d unto their servants, daughters, wives,
Even where his raging eye or savage heart
Without control lusted to make a prey.
Nay, for a need, thus far come near my person:
Tell them, when that my mother went with child   90
Of that insatiate Edward, noble York
My princely father then had wars in France;
And, by true computation of the time,
Found that the issue was not his begot;
Which well appeared in his lineaments,   95
Being nothing like the noble duke my father.
Yet touch this sparingly, as ‘twere far off;
Because, my lord, you know my mother lives.

Buck.  Doubt not, my lord, I’ll play the orator
As if the golden fee for which I plead   100
Were for myself: and so, my lord, adieu.

Glo.  If you thrive well, bring them to Baynard’s Castle;
Where you shall find me well accompanied
With reverend fathers and well-learned bishops.

Buck.  I go; and towards three or four o’clock   105
Look for the news that the Guildhall affords.  [Exit.

Glo.  Go, Lovel, with all speed to Doctor Shaw;
[To CATESBY.]  Go thou to Friar Penker; bid them both
Meet me within this hour at Baynard’s Castle.  [Exeunt LOVEL and CATESBY.
Now will I in, to take some privy order,   110
To draw the brats of Clarence out of sight;
And to give notice that no manner person
Have any time recourse unto the princes.  [Exit.

Act III. Scene VI.

The Same.  A Street.

Enter a Scrivener.

Scriv.  Here is the indictment of the good Lord Hastings;
Which in a set hand fairly is engross’d,
That it may be to-day read o’er in Paul’s:   5
And mark how well the sequel hangs together.
Eleven hours I have spent to write it over,
For yesternight by Catesby was it sent me.
The precedent was full as long a-doing;
And yet within these five hours Hastings liv’d,   10
Untainted, unexamin’d, free, at liberty.
Here’s a good world the while! Who is so gross
That cannot see this palpable device?
Yet who so bold but says he sees it not?
Bad is the world; and all will come to naught,   15
When such ill dealing must be seen in thought.  [Exit.

Act III. Scene VII.

The Same.  The Court of Baynard’s Castle.

Enter GLOUCESTER and BUCKINGHAM, meeting.

Glo.  How now, how now! what say the citizens?

Buck.  Now, by the holy mother of our Lord,
The citizens are mum, say not a word.   5

Glo.  Touch’d you the bastardy of Edward’s children?

Buck.  I did; with his contract with Lady Lucy,
And his contract by deputy in France;
The insatiate greediness of his desires,
And his enforcement of the city wives;   10
His tyranny for trifles; his own bastardy,
As being got, your father then in France,
And his resemblance, being not like the duke:
Withal I did infer your lineaments,
Being the right idea of your father,   15
Both in your form and nobleness of mind;
Laid open all your victories in Scotland,
Your discipline in war, wisdom in peace,
Your bounty, virtue, fair humility;
Indeed, left nothing fitting for your purpose   20
Untouch’d or slightly handled in discourse;
And when my oratory drew toward end,
I bade them that did love their country’s good
Cry ‘God save Richard, England’s royal king!’

Glo.  And did they so?   25

Buck.  No, so God help me, they spake not a word;
But, like dumb statuas or breathing stones,
Star’d each on other, and look’d deadly pale.
Which when I saw, I reprehended them;
And ask’d the mayor what meant this wilful silence:   30
His answer was, the people were not wont
To be spoke to but by the recorder.
Then he was urg’d to tell my tale again:
‘Thus saith the duke, thus hath the duke inferr’d;’
But nothing spoke in warrant from himself.   35
When he had done, some followers of mine own,
At lower end of the hall, hurl’d up their caps,
And some ten voices cried, ‘God save King Richard!’
And thus I took the vantage of those few,
‘Thanks, gentle citizens and friends,’ quoth I;   40
‘This general applause and cheerful shout
Argues your wisdom and your love to Richard:’
And even here brake off, and came away.

Glo.  What tongueless blocks were they! would they not speak?
Will not the mayor then and his brethren come?   45

Buck.  The mayor is here at hand. Intend some fear;
Be not you spoke with but by mighty suit:
And look you get a prayer-book in your hand,
And stand between two churchmen, good my lord:
For on that ground I’ll make a holy descant:   50
And be not easily won to our requests;
Play the maid’s part, still answer nay, and take it.

Glo.  I go; and if you plead as well for them
As I can say nay to thee for myself,
No doubt we bring it to a happy issue.   55

Buck.  Go, go, up to the leads! the Lord Mayor knocks.  [Exit GLOUCESTER.

Enter the Lord Mayor, Aldermen, and Citizens.
Welcome, my lord: I dance attendance here;
I think the duke will not be spoke withal.

Enter, from the Castle, CATESBY.   60
Now, Catesby! what says your lord to my request?

Cate.  He doth entreat your Grace, my noble lord,
To visit him to-morrow or next day.
He is within, with two right reverend fathers,
Divinely bent to meditation;   65
And in no worldly suit would he be mov’d,
To draw him from his holy exercise.

Buck.  Return, good Catesby, to the gracious duke:
Tell him, myself, the mayor and aldermen,
In deep designs in matter of great moment,   70
No less importing than our general good,
Are come to have some conference with his Grace.

Cate.  I’ll signify so much unto him straight.  [Exit.

Buck.  Ah, ha, my lord, this prince is not an Edward!
He is not lolling on a lewd day-bed,   75
But on his knees at meditation;
Not dallying with a brace of courtezans,
But meditating with two deep divines;
Not sleeping, to engross his idle body,
But praying, to enrich his watchful soul.   80
Happy were England, would this virtuous prince
Take on his Grace the sovereignty thereof:
But sore, I fear, we shall not win him to it.

May.  Marry, God defend his Grace should say us nay!

Buck.  I fear he will. Here Catesby comes again.   85

Re-enter CATESBY.
Now, Catesby, what says his Grace?

Cate.  He wonders to what end you have assembled
Such troops of citizens to come to him,
His Grace not being warn’d thereof before:   90
My lord, he fears you mean no good to him.

Buck.  Sorry I am my noble cousin should
Suspect me that I mean no good to him.
By heaven, we come to him in perfect love;
And so once more return, and tell his Grace.  [Exit CATESBY.   95
When holy and devout religious men
Are at their beads, ’tis much to draw them thence;
So sweet is zealous contemplation.

Enter GLOUCESTER, in a gallery above, between two Bishops. CATESBY returns.

May.  See, where his Grace stands ‘tween two clergymen!   100

Buck.  Two props of virtue for a Christian prince,
To stay him from the fall of vanity;
And, see, a book of prayer in his hand;
True ornament to know a holy man.
Famous Plantagenet, most gracious prince,   105
Lend favourable ear to our requests,
And pardon us the interruption
Of thy devotion, and right Christian zeal.

Glo.  My lord, there needs no such apology;
I do beseech your Grace to pardon me,   110
Who, earnest in the service of my God,
Deferr’d the visitation of my friends.
But, leaving this, what is your Grace’s pleasure?

Buck.  Even that, I hope, which pleaseth God above,
And all good men of this ungovern’d isle.   115

Glo.  I do suspect I have done some offence
That seems disgracious in the city’s eye;
And that you come to reprehend my ignorance.

Buck.  You have, my lord: would it might please your Grace,
On our entreties to amend your fault!   120

Glo.  Else wherefore breathe I in a Christian land?

Buck.  Know then, it is your fault that you resign
The supreme seat, the throne majestical,
The sceptred office of your ancestors,
Your state of fortune and your due of birth,   125
The lineal glory of your royal house,
To the corruption of a blemish’d stock;
Whiles, in the mildness of your sleepy thoughts, —
Which here we waken to our country’s good, —
This noble isle doth want her proper limbs;   130
Her face defac’d with scars of infamy,
Her royal stock graft with ignoble plants,
And almost shoulder’d in the swallowing gulf
Of dark forgetfulness and deep oblivion.
Which to recure we heartily solicit   135
Your gracious self to take on you the charge
And kingly government of this your land;
Not as protector, steward, substitute,
Or lowly factor for another’s gain;
But as successively from blood to blood,   140
Your right of birth, your empery, your own.
For this, consorted with the citizens,
Your very worshipful and loving friends,
And by their vehement instigation,
In this just cause come I to move your Grace.   145

Glo.  I cannot tell, if to depart in silence
Or bitterly to speak in your reproof,
Best fitteth my degree or your condition:
If not to answer, you might haply think
Tongue-tied ambition, not replying, yielded   150
To bear the golden yoke of sov’reignty,
Which fondly you would here impose on me;
If to reprove you for this suit of yours,
So season’d with your faithful love to me,
Then, on the other side, I check’d my friends.   155
Therefore, to speak, and to avoid the first,
And then, in speaking, not to incur the last,
Definitively thus I answer you.
Your love deserves my thanks; but my desert
Unmeritable shuns your high request.   160
First, if all obstacles were cut away,
And that my path were even to the crown,
As the ripe revenue and due of birth,
Yet so much is my poverty of spirit,
So mighty and so many my defects,   165
That I would rather hide me from my greatness,
Being a bark to brook no mighty sea,
Than in my greatness covet to be hid,
And in the vapour of my glory smother’d.
But, God be thank’d, there is no need of me;   170
And much I need to help you, were there need;
The royal tree hath left us royal fruit,
Which, mellow’d by the stealing hours of time,
Will well become the seat of majesty,
And make, no doubt, us happy by his reign.   175
On him I lay that you would lay on me,
The right and fortune of his happy stars;
Which God defend that I should wring from him!

Buck.  My lord, this argues conscience in your Grace;
But the respects thereof are nice and trivial,   180
All circumstances well considered.
You say that Edward is your brother’s son:
So say we too, but not by Edward’s wife;
For first was he contract to Lady Lucy,
Your mother lives a witness to his vow,   185
And afterward by substitute betroth’d
To Bona, sister to the King of France.
These both put by, a poor petitioner,
A care-craz’d mother to a many sons,
A beauty-waning and distressed widow,   190
Even in the afternoon of her best days,
Made prize and purchase of his wanton eye,
Seduc’d the pitch and height of his degree
To base declension and loath’d bigamy:
By her, in his unlawful bed, he got   195
This Edward, whom our manners call the prince.
More bitterly could I expostulate,
Save that, for reverence to some alive,
I give a sparing limit to my tongue.
Then, good my lord, take to your royal self   200
This proffer’d benefit of dignity;
If not to bless us and the land withal,
Yet to draw forth your noble ancestry
From the corruption of abusing times,
Unto a lineal true-derived course.   205

May.  Do, good my lord; your citizens entreat you.

Buck.  Refuse not, mighty lord, this proffer’d love.

Cate.  O! make them joyful: grant their lawful suit:

Glo.  Alas! why would you heap those cares on me?
I am unfit for state and majesty:   210
I do beseech you, take it not amiss,
I cannot nor I will not yield to you.

Buck.  If you refuse it, as, in love and zeal,
Loath to depose the child, your brother’s son;
As well we know your tenderness of heart   215
And gentle, kind, effeminate remorse,
Which we have noted in you to your kindred,
And egally, indeed, to all estates,
Yet whether you accept our suit or no,
Your brother’s son shall never reign our king;   220
But we will plant some other in the throne,
To the disgrace and downfall of your house:
And in this resolution here we leave you.
Come, citizens, we will entreat no more.  [Exit BUCKINGHAM and Citizens.

Cate.  Call them again, sweet prince; accept their suit:   225
If you deny them, all the land will rue it.

Glo.  Will you enforce me to a world of cares?
Call them again: I am not made of stone,
But penetrable to your kind entreats,  [Exit CATESBY.
Albeit against my conscience and my soul.   230

Re-enter BUCKINGHAM and the rest.
Cousin of Buckingham, and sage, grave men,
Since you will buckle fortune on my back,
To bear her burden, whe’r I will or no,
I must have patience to endure the load:   235
But if black scandal or foul-fac’d reproach
Attend the sequel of your imposition,
Your mere enforcement shall acquittance me
From all the impure blots and stains thereof;
For God doth know, and you may partly see,   240
How far I am from the desire of this.

May.  God bless your Grace! we see it, and will say it.

Glo.  In saying so, you shall but say the truth.

Buck.  Then I salute you with this royal title:
Long live King Richard, England’s worthy king!   245

All.  Amen.

Buck.  To-morrow may it please you to be crown’d?

Glo.  Even when you please, for you will have it so.

Buck.  To-morrow then we will attend your Grace:
And so most joyfully we take our leave.   250

Glo.  [To the Bishops.]  Come, let us to our holy work again.
Farewell, my cousin; — farewell, gentle friends.  [Exeunt.

Act IV. Scene I.

London.  Before the Tower.

Enter on one side, QUEEN ELIZABETH, DUCHESS OF YORK, and MARQUESS OF DORSET; on the other, ANNE, DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER, leading LADY MARGARET PLANTAGENET, CLARENCE’S young daughter.

Duch.  Who meets us here? my niece Plantagenet,
Led in the hand of her kind aunt of Gloucester?
Now, for my life, she’s wand’ring to the Tower,   5
On pure heart’s love, to greet the tender princes.
Daughter, well met.

Anne.        God give your Graces both
A happy and a joyful time of day!

Q. Eliz.  As much to you, good sister! whither away!   10

Anne.  No further than the Tower; and, as I guess,
Upon the like devotion as yourselves,
To gratulate the gentle princes there.

Q. Eliz.  Kind sister, thanks: we’ll enter all together: —

Enter BRAKENBURY.   15
And, in good time, here the lieutenant comes.
Master lieutenant, pray you, by your leave,
How doth the prince, and my young son of York?

Brak.  Right well, dear madam. By your patience,
I may not suffer you to visit them:   20
The king hath strictly charg’d the contrary.

Q. Eliz.  The king! who’s that?

Brak.        I mean the Lord Protector.

Q. Eliz.  The Lord protect him from that kingly title!
Hath he set bounds between their love and me?   25
I am their mother; who shall bar me from them?

Duch.  I am their father’s mother; I will see them.

Anne.  Their aunt I am in law, in love their mother:
Then bring me to their sights; I’ll bear thy blame,
And take thy office from thee, on my peril.   30

Brak.  No, madam, no, I may not leave it so:
I am bound by oath, and therefore pardon me.  [Exit.

Enter STANLEY.

Stan.  Let me but meet you, ladies, one hour hence,
And I’ll salute your Grace of York as mother,   35
And reverend looker-on of two fair queens.
[To the DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER.]  Come, madam, you must straight to Westminster,
There to be crowned Richard’s royal queen.

Q. Eliz.  Ah! cut my lace asunder,
That my pent heart may have some scope to beat,   40
Or else I swoon with this dead-killing news.

Anne.  Despiteful tidings! O! unpleasing news!

Dor.  Be of good cheer: mother, how fares your Grace?

Q. Eliz.  O, Dorset! speak not to me, get thee gone;
Death and destruction dog thee at the heels:   45
Thy mother’s name is ominous to children.
If thou wilt outstrip death, go cross the seas,
And live with Richmond, from the reach of hell:
Go, hie thee, hie thee, from this slaughter-house,
Lest thou increase the number of the dead,   50
And make me die the thrall of Margaret’s curse,
Nor mother, wife, nor England’s counted queen.

Stan.  Full of wise care is this your counsel, madam.
[To DORSET.]  Take all the swift advantage of the hours;
You shall have letters from me to my son   55
In your behalf, to meet you on the way:
Be not ta’en tardy by unwise delay.

Duch.  O ill-dispersing wind of misery!
O! my accursed womb, the bed of death,
A cockatrice hast thou hatch’d to the world,   60
Whose unavoided eye is murderous!

Stan.  Come, madam, come; I in all haste was sent.

Anne.  And I with all unwillingness will go.
O! would to God that the inclusive verge
Of golden metal that must round my brow   65
Were red-hot steel to sear me to the brain.
Anointed let me be with deadly venom;
And die, ere men can say ‘God save the queen!’

Q. Eliz.  Go, go, poor soul, I envy not thy glory;
To feed my humour, wish thyself no harm.   70

Anne.  No! why? When he, that is my husband now
Came to me, as I follow’d Henry’s corse;
When scarce the blood was well wash’d from his hands,
Which issu’d from my other angel husband,
And that dead saint which then I weeping follow’d;   75
O! when I say, I look’d on Richard’s face,
This was my wish, ‘Be thou,’ quoth I, ‘accurs’d,
For making me so young, so old a widow!
And, when thou wedd’st, let sorrow haunt thy bed;
And be thy wife — if any be so mad —   80
More miserable by the life of thee
Than thou hast made me by my dear lord’s death!’
Lo! ere I can repeat this curse again,
Within so small a time, my woman’s heart
Grossly grew captive to his honey words,   85
And prov’d the subject of mine own soul’s curse:
Which hitherto hath held mine eyes from rest;
For never yet one hour in his bed
Did I enjoy the golden dew of sleep,
But with his timorous dreams was still awak’d.   90
Besides, he hates me for my father Warwick,
And will, no doubt, shortly be rid of me.

Q. Eliz.  Poor heart, adieu! I pity thy complaining.

Anne.  No more than with my soul I mourn for yours.

Q. Eliz.  Farewell! thou woeful welcomer of glory!   95

Anne.  Adieu, poor soul, that tak’st thy leave of it!

Duch.  [To DORSET.]  Go thou to Richmond, and good fortune guide thee!
[To ANNE.]  Go thou to Richard, and good angels tend thee!
[To Q. ELIZABETH.]  Go thou to sanctuary, and good thoughts possess thee!
I to my grave, where peace and rest lie with me!   100
Eighty odd years of sorrow have I seen,
And each hour’s joy wrack’d with a week of teen.

Q. Eliz.  Stay yet, look back with me unto the Tower.
Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes
Whom envy hath immur’d within your walls,   105
Rough cradle for such little pretty ones!
Rude ragged nurse, old sullen playfellow
For tender princes, use my babies well.
So foolish sorrow bids your stones farewell.  [Exeunt.

Act IV. Scene II.

The Same.  A Room of State in the Palace.

Sennet.  RICHARD, in pomp, crowned: BUCKINGHAM, CATESBY, a Page, and Others.

K. Rich.  Stand all apart. Cousin of Buckingham.

Buck.  My gracious sovereign!

K. Rich.  Give me thy hand.  [He ascends the throne.]  Thus high, by thy advice,   5
And thy assistance, is King Richard seated:
But shall we wear these glories for a day?
Or shall they last, and we rejoice in them?

Buck.  Still live they, and for ever let them last!

K. Rich.  Ah! Buckingham, now do I play the touch,   10
To try if thou be current gold indeed:
Young Edward lives: think now what I would speak.

Buck.  Say on, my loving lord.

K. Rich.  Why, Buckingham, I say, I would be king.

Buck.  Why, so you are, my thrice-renowned liege.   15

K. Rich.  Ha! am I king? ’Tis so: but Edward lives.

Buck.  True, noble prince.

K. Rich.        O bitter consequence,
That Edward still should live! ‘True, noble prince!’
Cousin, thou wast not wont to be so dull:   20
Shall I be plain? I wish the bastards dead;
And I would have it suddenly perform’d.
What sayst thou now? speak suddenly, be brief.

Buck.  Your Grace may do your pleasure.

K. Rich.  Tut, tut! thou art all ice, thy kindness freezes:   25
Say, have I thy consent that they shall die?

Buck.  Give me some little breath, some pause, dear lord,
Before I positively speak in this:
I will resolve you herein presently.  [Exit.

Cate.  [Aside to another.]  The king is angry: see, he gnaws his lip.   30

K. Rich.  [Descends from his throne.]  I will converse with iron-witted fools
And unrespective boys: none are for me
That look into me with considerate eyes.
High-reaching Buckingham grows circumspect.
Boy!   35

Page.  My lord!

K. Rich.  Know’st thou not any whom corrupting gold
Will tempt unto a close exploit of death?

Page.  I know a discontented gentleman,
Whose humble means match not his haughty spirit:   40
Gold were as good as twenty orators,
And will, no doubt, tempt him to anything.

K. Rich.  What is his name?

Page.        His name, my lord, is Tyrrell.

K. Rich.  I partly know the man: go, call him hither.  [Exit Page.   45
The deep-revolving witty Buckingham
No more shall be the neighbour to my counsel.
Hath he so long held out with me untir’d,
And stops he now for breath? well, be it so.

Enter STANLEY.   50
How now, Lord Stanley! what’s the news?

Stan.  Know, my loving lord,
The Marquess Dorset, as I hear, is fled
To Richmond, in the parts where he abides.

K. Rich.  Come hither, Catesby: rumour it abroad,   55
That Anne my wife is very grievous sick;
I will take order for her keeping close.
Inquire me out some mean poor gentleman,
Whom I will marry straight to Clarence’ daughter:
The boy is foolish, and I fear not him.   60
Look, how thou dream’st! I say again, give out
That Anne my queen is sick, and like to die:
About it; for it stands me much upon,
To stop all hopes whose growth may damage me.  [Exit CATESBY.
I must be married to my brother’s daughter,   65
Or else my kingdom stands on brittle glass.
Murder her brothers, and then marry her!
Uncertain way of gain! But I am in
So far in blood, that sin will pluck on sin:
Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye.   70

Re-enter Page, with TYRRELL.
Is thy name Tyrrell?

Tyr.  James Tyrrell, and your most obedient subject.

K. Rich.  Art thou, indeed?

Tyr.        Prove me, my gracious lord.   75

K. Rich.  Dar’st thou resolve to kill a friend of mine?

Tyr.  Please you; but I had rather kill two enemies.

K. Rich.  Why, then thou hast it: two deep enemies,
Foes to my rest, and my sweet sleep’s disturbers,
Are they that I would have thee deal upon.   80
Tyrrell, I mean those bastards in the Tower.

Tyr.  Let me have open means to come to them,
And soon I’ll rid you from the fear of them.

K. Rich.  Thou sing’st sweet music. Hark, come hither, Tyrrell:
Go, by this token: rise, and lend thine ear.  [Whispers.   85
There is no more but so: say it is done,
And I will love thee, and prefer thee for it.

Tyr.  I will dispatch it straight.  [Exit.

Re-enter BUCKINGHAM.

Buck.  My lord, I have consider’d in my mind   90
The late demand that you did sound me in.

K. Rich.  Well, let that rest. Dorset is fled to Richmond.

Buck.  I hear the news, my lord.

K. Rich.  Stanley, he is your wife’s son: well, look to it.

Buck.  My lord, I claim the gift, my due by promise,   95
For which your honour and your faith is pawn’d;
The earldom of Hereford and the moveables
Which you have promised I shall possess.

K. Rich.  Stanley, look to your wife: if she convey
Letters to Richmond, you shall answer it.   100

Buck.  What says your highness to my just request?

K. Rich.  I do remember me, Henry the Sixth
Did prophesy that Richmond should be king,
When Richmond was a little peevish boy.
A king! perhaps —   105

Buck.  My lord!

K. Rich.  How chance the prophet could not at that time
Have told me, I being by, that I should kill him?

Buck.  My lord, your promise for the earldom, —

K. Rich.  Richmond! When last I was at Exeter,   110
The mayor in courtesy show’d me the castle,
And call’d it Rougemont: at which name I started,
Because a bard of Ireland told me once
I should not live long after I saw Richmond.

Buck.  My lord!   115

K. Rich.  Ay, what’s o’clock?

Buck.  I am thus bold to put your Grace in mind
Of what you promis’d me.

K. Rich.  Well, but what is ‘t o’clock?

Buck.        Upon the stroke of ten.   120

K. Rich.  Well, let it strike.

Buck.        Why let it strike?

K. Rich.  Because that, like a Jack, thou keep’st the stroke
Betwixt thy begging and my meditation.
I am not in the giving vein to-day.   125

Buck.  Why, then resolve me whe’r you will, or no.

K. Rich.  Thou troublest me: I am not in the vein.  [Exeunt KING RICHARD and Train.

Buck.  And is it thus? repays he my deep service
With such contempt? made I him king for this?
O, let me think on Hastings, and be gone   130
To Brecknock, while my fearful head is on.  [Exit.

Act IV. Scene III.

The Same.

Enter TYRRELL.

Tyr.  The tyrannous and bloody act is done;
The most arch deed of piteous massacre
That ever yet this land was guilty of.   5
Dighton and Forrest, whom I did suborn
To do this piece of ruthless butchery,
Albeit they were flesh’d villains, bloody dogs,
Melting with tenderness and mild compassion,
Wept like to children in their death’s sad story.   10
‘Oh! thus,’ quoth Dighton, ‘lay the gentle babes:’
‘Thus, thus,’ quoth Forrest, ‘girdling one another
Within their alabaster innocent arms:
Their lips were four red roses on a stalk,
Which in their summer beauty kiss’d each other.   15
A book of prayers on their pillow lay;
Which once,’ quoth Forrest, ‘almost chang’d my mind;
But, O, the devil’ — there the villain stopp’d;
When Dighton thus told on: ‘We smothered
The most replenished sweet work of nature,   20
That from the prime creation e’er she fram’d.’
Hence both are gone with conscience and remorse;
They could not speak; and so I left them both,
To bear this tidings to the bloody king:
And here he comes.   25

Enter KING RICHARD.
All health, my sovereign lord!

K. Rich.  Kind Tyrrell, am I happy in thy news?

Tyr.  If to have done the thing you gave in charge
Beget your happiness, be happy then,   30
For it is done.

K. Rich.        But didst thou see them dead?

Tyr  I did, my lord.

K. Rich.        And buried, gentle Tyrrell?

Tyr.  The chaplain of the Tower hath buried them;   35
But how or in what place I do not know.

K. Rich.  Come to me, Tyrrell, soon at aftersupper,
When thou shalt tell the process of their death.
Meantime, but think how I may do thee good,
And be inheritor of thy desire.   40
Farewell till then.

Tyr.        I humbly take my leave.  [Exit.

K. Rich.  The son of Clarence have I pent up close;
His daughter meanly have I match’d in marriage;
The sons of Edward sleep in Abraham’s bosom,   45
And Anne my wife hath bid the world good night.
Now, for I know the Breton Richmond aims
At young Elizabeth, my brother’s daughter,
And, by that knot, looks proudly on the crown,
To her go I, a jolly thriving wooer.   50

Enter CATESBY.

Cate.  My lord!

K. Rich.  Good or bad news, that thou com’st in so bluntly?

Cate.  Bad news, my lord: Morton is fled to Richmond;
And Buckingham, back’d with the hardy Welshmen,   55
Is in the field, and still his power increaseth.

K. Rich.  Ely with Richmond troubles me more near
Than Buckingham and his rash-levied strength.
Come; I have learn’d that fearful commenting
Is leaden servitor to dull delay:   60
Delay leads impotent and snail-pac’d beggary:
Then fiery expedition be my wing,
Jove’s Mercury, and herald for a king!
Go, muster men: my counsel is my shield;
We must be brief when traitors brave the field.  [Exeunt.   65

Act IV. Scene IV.

The Same.
Before the Palace.

Enter QUEEN MARGARET.

Q. Mar.  So, now prosperity begins to mellow
And drop into the rotten mouth of death.
Here in these confines slily have I lurk’d   5
To watch the waning of mine enemies.
A dire induction am I witness to,
And will to France, hoping the consequence
Will prove as bitter, black, and tragical.
Withdraw thee, wretched Margaret: who comes here?   10

Enter QUEEN ELIZABETH and the DUCHESS OF YORK.

Q. Eliz.  Ah! my poor princes! ah, my tender babes,
My unblown flowers, new-appearing sweets,
If yet your gentle souls fly in the air
And be not fix’d in doom perpetual,   15
Hover about me with your airy wings,
And hear your mother’s lamentation.

Q. Mar.  Hover about her; say, that right for right
Hath dimm’d your infant morn to aged night.

Duch.  So many miseries have craz’d my voice,   20
That my woe-wearied tongue is still and mute.
Edward Plantagenet, why art thou dead?

Q. Mar.  Plantagenet doth quit Plantagenet;
Edward for Edward pays a dying debt.

Q. Eliz.  Wilt thou, O God! fly from such gentle lambs,   25
And throw them in the entrails of the wolf?
When didst thou sleep when such a deed was done?

Q. Mar.  When holy Harry died, and my sweet son.

Duch.  Dead life, blind sight, poor mortal living ghost,
Woe’s scene, world’s shame, grave’s due by life usurp’d,   30
Brief abstract and record of tedious days,
Rest thy unrest on England’s lawful earth,  [Sitting down.
Unlawfully made drunk with innocent blood!

Q. Eliz.  Ah! that thou wouldst as soon afford a grave
As thou canst yield a melancholy seat;   35
Then would I hide my bones, not rest them here.
Ah! who hath any cause to mourn but I?  [Sitting down by her.

Q. Mar.  If ancient sorrow be most reverend,
Give mine the benefit of seniory,
And let my griefs frown on the upper hand,   40
If sorrow can admit society.  [Sitting down with them.
Tell o’er your woes again by viewing mine:
I had an Edward, till a Richard kill’d him;
I had a Harry, till a Richard kill’d him:
Thou hadst an Edward, till a Richard kill’d him;   45
Thou hadst a Richard, till a Richard kill’d him.

Duch.  I had a Richard too, and thou didst kill him;
I had a Rutland too, thou holp’st to kill him.

Q. Mar.  Thou hadst a Clarence too, and Richard kill’d him.
From forth the kennel of thy womb hath crept   50
A hell-hound that doth hunt us all to death:
That dog, that had his teeth before his eyes,
To worry lambs, and lap their gentle blood,
That foul defacer of God’s handiwork,
That excellent grand-tyrant of the earth,   55
That reigns in galled eyes of weeping souls,
Thy womb let loose, to chase us to our graves.
O! upright, just, and true-disposing God,
How do I thank thee that this carnal cur
Preys on the issue of his mother’s body,   60
And makes her pew-fellow with others’ moan.

Duch.  O! Harry’s wife, triumph not in my woes:
God witness with me, I have wept for thine.

Q. Mar.  Bear with me; I am hungry for revenge,
And now I cloy me with beholding it.   65
Thy Edward he is dead, that kill’d my Edward;
Thy other Edward dead, to quit my Edward;
Young York he is but boot, because both they
Match not the high perfection of my loss:
Thy Clarence he is dead that stabb’d my Edward;   70
And the beholders of this tragic play,
The adulterate Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan, Grey,
Untimely smother’d in their dusky graves.
Richard yet lives, hell’s black intelligencer,
Only reserv’d their factor, to buy souls   75
And send them thither; but at hand, at hand,
Ensues his piteous and unpitied end:
Earth gapes, hell burns, fiends roar, saints pray,
To have him suddenly convey’d from hence.
Cancel his bond of life, dear God! I pray,   80
That I may live to say, The dog is dead.

Q. Eliz.  O! thou didst prophesy the time would come
That I should wish for thee to help me curse
That bottled spider, that foul bunchback’d toad.

Q. Mar.  I call’d thee then vain flourish of my fortune;   85
I call’d thee then poor shadow, painted queen;
The presentation of but what I was;
The flattering index of a direful pageant;
One heav’d a-high to be hurl’d down below;
A mother only mock’d with two fair babes;   90
A dream of what thou wert, a breath, a bubble,
A sign of dignity, a garish flag,
To be the aim of every dangerous shot;
A queen in jest, only to fill the scene.
Where is thy husband now? where be thy brothers?   95
Where are thy children? wherein dost thou joy?
Who sues and kneels and cries God save the queen?
Where be the bending peers that flatter’d thee?
Where be the thronging troops that follow’d thee?
Decline all this, and see what now thou art:   100
For happy wife, a most distressed widow;
For joyful mother, one that wails the name;
For one being su’d to, one that humbly sues;
For queen, a very caitiff crown’d with care;
For one that scorn’d at me, now scorn’d of me;   105
For one being fear’d of all, now fearing one;
For one commanding all, obey’d of none.
Thus hath the course of justice whirl’d about,
And left thee but a very prey to time;
Having no more but thought of what thou wert,   110
To torture thee the more, being what thou art.
Thou didst usurp my place, and dost thou not
Usurp the just proportion of my sorrow?
Now thy proud neck bears half my burden’d yoke;
From which even here, I slip my wearied head,   115
And leave the burden of it all on thee.
Farewell, York’s wife, and queen of sad mischance:
These English woes shall make me smile in France.

Q. Eliz.  O thou, well skill’d in curses, stay awhile,
And teach me how to curse mine enemies.   120

Q. Mar.  Forbear to sleep the night, and fast the day;
Compare dead happiness with living woe;
Think that thy babes were fairer than they were,
And he that slew them fouler than he is:
Bettering thy loss makes the bad causer worse:   125
Revolving this will teach thee how to curse.

Q. Eliz.  My words are dull; O! quicken them with thine!

Q. Mar.  Thy woes will make them sharp, and pierce like mine.  [Exit.

Duch.  Why should calamity be full of words?

Q. Eliz.  Windy attorneys to their client woes,   130
Airy succeeders of intestate joys,
Poor breathing orators of miseries!
Let them have scope: though what they do impart
Help nothing else, yet do they ease the heart.

Duch.  If so, then be not tongue-tied: go with me,   135
And in the breath of bitter words let’s smother
My damned son, that thy two sweet sons smother’d.  [A trumpet heard.
The trumpet sounds: be copious in exclaims.

Enter KING RICHARD, and his Train, marching.

K. Rich.  Who intercepts me in my expedition?   140

Duch.  O! she that might have intercepted thee,
By strangling thee in her accursed womb,
From all the slaughters, wretch, that thou hast done!

Q. Eliz.  Hid’st thou that forehead with a golden crown,
Where should be branded, if that right were right,   145
The slaughter of the prince that ow’d that crown,
And the dire death of my poor sons and brothers?
Tell me, thou villain slave, where are my children?

Duch.  Thou toad, thou toad, where is thy brother Clarence
And little Ned Plantagenet, his son?   150

Q. Eliz.  Where is the gentle Rivers, Vaughan, Grey?

Duch.  Where is kind Hastings?

K. Rich.  A flourish, trumpets! strike alarum, drums!
Let not the heavens hear these tell-tale women
Rail on the Lord’s anointed. Strike, I say!  [Flourish.  Alarums.   155
Either be patient, and entreat me fair,
Or with the clamorous report of war
Thus will I drown your exclamations.

Duch.  Art thou my son?

K. Rich.  Ay; I thank God, my father, and yourself.   160

Duch.  Then patiently hear my impatience.

K. Rich.  Madam, I have a touch of your condition,
That cannot brook the accent of reproof.

Duch.  O, let me speak!

K. Rich.        Do, then; but I’ll not hear.   165

Duch.  I will be mild and gentle in my words.

K. Rich.  And brief, good mother; for I am in haste.

Duch.  Art thou so hasty? I have stay’d for thee,
God knows, in torment and in agony.

K. Rich.  And came I not at last to comfort you?   170

Duch.  No, by the holy rood, thou know’st it well,
Thou cam’st on earth to make the earth my hell.
A grievous burden was thy birth to me;
Tetchy and wayward was thy infancy;
Thy school-days frightful, desperate, wild and furious;   175
Thy prime of manhood daring, bold, and venturous;
Thy age confirm’d, proud, subtle, sly, and bloody,
More mild, but yet more harmful, kind in hatred:
What comfortable hour canst thou name
That ever grac’d me in thy company?   180

K. Rich.  Faith, none, but Humphrey Hour, that call’d your Grace
To breakfast once forth of my company.
If I be so disgracious in your eye,
Let me march on, and not offend you, madam.
Strike up the drum!   185

Duch.        I prithee, hear me speak.

K. Rich.  You speak too bitterly.

Duch.        Hear me a word;
For I shall never speak to thee again.

K. Rich.  So!   190

Duch.  Either thou wilt die by God’s just ordinance,
Ere from this war thou turn a conqueror;
Or I with grief and extreme age shall perish
And never look upon thy face again.
Therefore take with thee my most grievous curse,   195
Which, in the day of battle, tire thee more
Than all the complete armour that thou wear’st!
My prayers on the adverse party fight;
And there the little souls of Edward’s children
Whisper the spirits of thine enemies   200
And promise them success and victory.
Bloody thou art, bloody will be thy end;
Shame serves thy life and doth thy death attend.  [Exit.

Q. Eliz.  Though far more cause, yet much less spirit to curse
Abides in me: I say amen to her.  [Going.   205

K. Rich.  Stay, madam; I must talk a word with you.

Q. Eliz.  I have no moe sons of the royal blood
For thee to slaughter: for my daughters, Richard,
They shall be praying nuns, not weeping queens;
And therefore level not to hit their lives.   210

K. Rich.  You have a daughter call’d Elizabeth,
Virtuous and fair, royal and gracious:

Q. Eliz.  And must she die for this? O! let her live,
And I’ll corrupt her manners, stain her beauty;
Slander myself as false to Edward’s bed;   215
Throw over her the veil of infamy:
So she may live unscarr’d of bleeding slaughter,
I will confess she was not Edward’s daughter.

K. Rich.  Wrong not her birth; she is of royal blood.

Q. Eliz.  To save her life, I’ll say she is not so.   220

K. Rich.  Her life is safest only in her birth.

Q. Eliz.  And only in that safety died her brothers.

K. Rich.  Lo! at their births good stars were opposite!

Q. Eliz.  No, to their lives ill friends were contrary.

K. Rich.  All unavoided is the doom of destiny.   225

Q. Eliz.  True, when avoided grace makes destiny.
My babes were destin’d to a fairer death,
If grace had bless’d thee with a fairer life.

K. Rich.  You speak as if that I had slain my cousins.

Q. Eliz.  Cousins, indeed; and by their uncle cozen’d   230
Of comfort, kingdom, kindred, freedom, life.
Whose hands soever lanc’d their tender hearts
Thy head, all indirectly, gave direction:
No doubt the murderous knife was dull and blunt
Till it was whetted on thy stone-hard heart,   235
To revel in the entrails of my lambs.
But that still use of grief makes wild grief tame,
My tongue should to thy ears not name my boys
Till that my nails were anchor’d in thine eyes;
And I, in such a desperate bay of death,   240
Like a poor bark, of sails and tackling reft,
Rush all to pieces on thy rocky bosom.

K. Rich.  Madam, so thrive I in my enterprise
And dangerous success of bloody wars,
As I intend more good to you and yours   245
Than ever you or yours by me were harm’d.

Q. Eliz.  What good is cover’d with the face of heaven,
To be discover’d, that can do me good?

K. Rich.  The advancement of your children, gentle lady.

Q Eliz.  Up to some scaffold, there to lose their heads?   250

K. Rich.  No, to the dignity and height of fortune,
The high imperial type of this earth’s glory.

Q. Eliz.  Flatter my sorrow with report of it:
Tell me what state, what dignity, what honour,
Canst thou demise to any child of mine?   255

K. Rich.  Even all I have; ay, and myself and all,
Will I withal endow a child of thine;
So in the Lethe of thy angry soul
Thou drown the sad remembrance of those wrongs
Which thou supposest I have done to thee.   260

Q. Eliz.  Be brief, lest that the process of thy kindness
Last longer telling than thy kindness’ date.

K. Rich.  Then know, that from my soul I love thy daughter.

Q. Eliz.  My daughter’s mother thinks it with her soul.

K. Rich.  What do you think?   265

Q. Eliz.  That thou dost love my daughter from thy soul:
So from thy soul’s love didst thou love her brothers;
And from my heart’s love I do thank thee for it.

K. Rich.  Be not too hasty to confound my meaning:
I mean, that with my soul I love thy daughter,   270
And do intend to make her Queen of England.

Q. Eliz.  Well then, who dost thou mean shall be her king?

K. Rich.  Even he that makes her queen: who else should be?

Q. Eliz.  What! thou?

K. Rich.  Even so: what think you of it?   275

Q. Eliz.  How canst thou woo her?

K. Rich.        That I would learn of you,
As one being best acquainted with her humour.

Q. Eliz.  And wilt thou learn of me?

K. Rich.        Madam, with all my heart.   280

Q. Eliz.  Send to her, by the man that slew her brothers,
A pair of bleeding hearts; thereon engrave
Edward and York; then haply will she weep:
Therefore present to her, as sometime Margaret
Did to thy father, steep’d in Rutland’s blood,   285
A handkerchief, which, say to her, did drain
The purple sap from her sweet brother’s body,
And bid her wipe her weeping eyes withal.
If this inducement move her not to love,
Send her a letter of thy noble deeds;   290
Tell her thou mad’st away her uncle Clarence,
Her uncle Rivers; ay, and for her sake,
Mad’st quick conveyance with her good aunt Anne.

K. Rich.  You mock me, madam; this is not the way
To win your daughter.   295

Q. Eliz.        There is no other way
Unless thou couldst put on some other shape,
And not be Richard that hath done all this.

K. Rich.  Say, that I did all this for love of her?

Q. Eliz.  Nay, then indeed, she cannot choose but hate thee,   300
Having bought love with such a bloody spoil.

K. Rich.  Look, what is done cannot be now amended:
Men shall deal unadvisedly sometimes,
Which after-hours give leisure to repent.
If I did take the kingdom from your sons,   305
To make amends I’ll give it to your daughter.
If I have kill’d the issue of your womb,
To quicken your increase, I will beget
Mine issue of your blood upon your daughter:
A grandam’s name is little less in love   310
Than is the doting title of a mother;
They are as children but one step below,
Even of your mettle, of your very blood;
Of all one pain, save for a night of groans
Endur’d of her for whom you bid like sorrow.   315
Your children were vexation to your youth,
But mine shall be a comfort to your age.
The loss you have is but a son being king,
And by that loss your daughter is made queen.
I cannot make you what amends I would,   320
Therefore accept such kindness as I can.
Dorset your son, that with a fearful soul
Leads discontented steps in foreign soil,
This fair alliance quickly shall call home
To high promotions and great dignity:   325
The king that calls your beauteous daughter wife,
Familiarly shall call thy Dorset brother;
Again shall you be mother to a king,
And all the ruins of distressful times
Repair’d with double riches of content.   330
What! we have many goodly days to see:
The liquid drops of tears that you have shed
Shall come again, transform’d to orient pearl,
Advantaging their loan with interest
Of ten times double gain of happiness.   335
Go then, my mother; to thy daughter go:
Make bold her bashful years with your experience;
Prepare her ears to hear a wooer’s tale;
Put in her tender heart the aspiring flame
Of golden sovereignty; acquaint the princess   340
With the sweet silent hours of marriage joys:
And when this arm of mine hath chastised
The petty rebel, dull-brain’d Buckingham,
Bound with triumphant garlands will I come,
And lead thy daughter to a conqueror’s bed;   345
To whom I will retail my conquest won,
And she shall be sole victress, Cæsar’s Cæsar.

Q. Eliz.  What were I best to say? her father’s brother
Would be her lord? Or shall I say, her uncle?
Or, he that slew her brothers and her uncles?   350
Under what title shall I woo for thee,
That God, the law, my honour, and her love
Can make seem pleasing to her tender years?

K. Rich.  Infer fair England’s peace by this alliance.

Q. Eliz.  Which she shall purchase with still lasting war.   355

K. Rich.  Tell her, the king, that may command, entreats.

Q. Eliz.  That at her hands which the king’s King forbids.

K. Rich.  Say, she shall be a high and mighty queen.

Q. Eliz.  To wail the title, as her mother doth.

K. Rich.  Say, I will love her everlastingly.   360

Q. Eliz.  But how long shall that title ‘ever’ last?

K. Rich.  Sweetly in force unto her fair life’s end.

Q. Eliz.  But how long fairly shall her sweet life last?

K. Rich.  As long as heaven and nature lengthens it.

Q. Eliz.  As long as hell and Richard likes of it.   365

K. Rich.  Say, I, her sovereign, am her subject low.

Q. Eliz.  But she, your subject, loathes such sovereignty.

K. Rich.  Be eloquent in my behalf to her.

Q. Eliz.  An honest tale speeds best being plainly told.

K. Rich.  Then plainly to her tell my loving tale.   370

Q. Eliz.  Plain and not honest is too harsh a style.

K. Rich.  Your reasons are too shallow and too quick.

Q. Eliz.  O, no! my reasons are too deep and dead;
Too deep and dead, poor infants, in their graves.

K. Rich.  Harp not on that string, madam; that is past.   375

Q. Eliz.  Harp on it still shall I till heart-strings break.

K. Rich.  Now, by my George, my garter, and my crown, —

Q. Eliz.  Profan’d, dishonour’d, and the third usurp’d.

K. Rich.  I swear, —

Q. Eliz.        By nothing; for this is no oath.   380
Thy George, profan’d, hath lost his holy honour;
Thy garter, blemish’d, pawn’d his knightly virtue;
Thy crown, usurp’d, disgrac’d his kingly glory.
If something thou wouldst swear to be believ’d,
Swear, then, by something that thou hast not wrong’d.   385

K. Rich.  Now, by the world, —

Q. Eliz.        ’Tis full of thy foul wrongs.

K. Rich.  My father’s death, —

Q. Eliz.        Thy life hath that dishonour’d.

K. Rich.  Then, by myself, —   390

Q. Eliz.        Thyself is self-misus’d.

K. Rich.  Why, then, by God, —

Q. Eliz.        God’s wrong is most of all.
If thou hadst fear’d to break an oath by him,
The unity the king my husband made   395
Had not been broken, nor my brothers died:
If thou hadst fear’d to break an oath by him,
The imperial metal, circling now thy head,
Had grac’d the tender temples of my child,
And both the princes had been breathing here,   400
Which now, too tender bed-fellows for dust,
Thy broken faith hath made a prey for worms.
What canst thou swear by now?

K. Rich.        The time to come.

Q. Eliz.  That thou hast wronged in the time o’erpast;   405
For I myself have many tears to wash
Hereafter time for time past wrong’d by thee.
The children live, whose parents thou hast slaughter’d,
Ungovern’d youth, to wail it in their age:
The parents live, whose children thou hast butcher’d,   410
Old barren plants, to wail it with their age.
Swear not by time to come; for that thou hast
Misus’d ere us’d, by times ill-us’d o’erpast.

K. Rich.  As I intend to prosper, and repent,
So thrive I in my dangerous affairs   415
Of hostile arms! myself myself confound!
Heaven and fortune bar me happy hours!
Day, yield me not thy light; nor, night, thy rest!
Be opposite all planets of good luck
To my proceeding, if, with pure heart’s love,   420
Immaculate devotion, holy thoughts,
I tender not thy beauteous princely daughter!
In her consists my happiness and thine;
Without her, follows to myself, and thee,
Herself, the land, and many a Christian soul,   425
Death, desolation, ruin, and decay:
It cannot be avoided but by this;
It will not be avoided but by this.
Therefore, dear mother, — I must call you so, —
Be the attorney of my love to her:   430
Plead what I will be, not what I have been;
Not my deserts, but what I will deserve:
Urge the necessity and state of times,
And be not peevish-fond in great designs.

Q. Eliz.  Shall I be tempted of the devil thus?   435

K. Rich.  Ay, if the devil tempt thee to do good.

Q. Eliz.  Shall I forget myself to be myself?

K. Rich.  Ay, if your self’s remembrance wrong yourself.

Q. Eliz.  Yet thou didst kill my children.

K. Rich.  But in your daughter’s womb I bury them:   440
Where, in that nest of spicery, they shall breed
Selves of themselves, to your recomforture.

Q. Eliz.  Shall I go win my daughter to thy will?

K. Rich.  And be a happy mother by the deed.

Q. Eliz.  I go. Write to me very shortly,   445
And you shall understand from me her mind.

K. Rich.  Bear her my true love’s kiss; and so farewell.  [Kissing her.  Exit QUEEN ELIZABETH.
Relenting fool, and shallow changing woman!

Enter RATCLIFF; CATESBY following.
How now! what news?   450

Rat.  Most mighty sovereign, on the western coast
Rideth a puissant navy; to the shores
Throng many doubtful hollow-hearted friends,
Unarm’d, and unresolv’d to beat them back.
’Tis thought that Richmond is their admiral;   455
And there they hull, expecting but the aid
Of Buckingham to welcome them ashore.

K. Rich.  Some light-foot friend post to the Duke of Norfolk:
Ratcliff, thyself, or Catesby; where is he?

Cate.  Here, my good lord.   460

K. Rich.        Catesby, fly to the duke.

Cate.  I will, my lord, with all convenient haste.

K. Rich.  Ratcliff, come hither. Post to Salisbury:
When thou com’st thither, — [To CATESBY.]  Dull, unmindful villain,
Why stay’st thou here, and go’st not to the duke?   465

Cate.  First, mighty liege, tell me your highness’ pleasure,
What from your Grace I shall deliver to him.

K. Rich.  O! true, good Catesby: bid him levy straight
The greatest strength and power he can make,
And meet me suddenly at Salisbury.   470

Cate.  I go.  [Exit.

Rat.  What, may it please you, shall I do at Salisbury?

K. Rich.  Why, what wouldst thou do there before I go?

Rat.  Your highness told me I should post before.

Enter STANLEY.   475

K. Rich.  My mind is chang’d. Stanley, what news with you?

Stan.  None good, my liege, to please you with the hearing;
Nor none so bad but well may be reported.

K. Rich.  Hoyday, a riddle! neither good nor bad!
What need’st thou run so many miles about,   480
When thou mayst tell thy tale the nearest way?
Once more, what news?

Stan.        Richmond is on the seas.

K. Rich.  There let him sink, and be the seas on him!
White-liver’d runagate! what doth he there?   485

Stan.  I know not, mighty sovereign, but by guess.

K. Rich.  Well, as you guess?

Stan.  Stirr’d up by Dorset, Buckingham, and Morton,
He makes for England, here to claim the crown.

K. Rich.  Is the chair empty? is the sword unsway’d?   490
Is the king dead? the empire unpossess’d?
What heir of York is there alive but we?
And who is England’s king but great York’s heir?
Then, tell me, what makes he upon the seas?

Stan.  Unless for that, my liege, I cannot guess.   495

K. Rich.  Unless for that he comes to be your liege,
You cannot guess wherefore the Welshman comes.
Thou wilt revolt and fly to him I fear.

Stan.  No, my good lord; therefore mistrust me not.

K. Rich.  Where is thy power then to beat him back?   500
Where be thy tenants and thy followers?
Are they not now upon the western shore,
Safe-conducting the rebels from their ships?

Stan.  No, my good lord, my friends are in the north.

K. Rich.  Cold friends to me: what do they in the north   505
When they should serve their sovereign in the west?

Stan.  They have not been commanded, mighty king:
Pleaseth your majesty to give me leave,
I’ll muster up my friends, and meet your Grace,
Where and what time your majesty shall please.   510

K. Rich.  Ay, ay, thou wouldst be gone to join with Richmond:
But I’ll not trust thee.

Stan.        Most mighty sovereign,
You have no cause to hold my friendship doubtful.
I never was nor never will be false.   515

K. Rich.  Go then and muster men: but leave behind
Your son, George Stanley: look your heart be firm,
Or else his head’s assurance is but frail.

Stan.  So deal with him as I prove true to you.  [Exit.

Enter a Messenger.   520

Mess.  My gracious sovereign, now in Devonshire,
As I by friends am well advertised,
Sir Edward Courtney, and the haughty prelate,
Bishop of Exeter, his brother there,
With many moe confederates are in arms.   525

Enter a second Messenger.

Sec. Mess.  In Kent, my liege, the Guildfords are in arms;
And every hour more competitors
Flock to the rebels, and their power grows strong.

Enter a third Messenger.   530

Third Mess.  My lord, the army of great Buckingham —

K. Rich.  Out on ye, owls! nothing but songs of death?  [He strikes him.
There, take thou that, till thou bring better news.

Third Mess.  The news I have to tell your majesty
Is, that by sudden floods and fall of waters,   535
Buckingham’s army is dispers’d and scatter’d;
And he himself wander’d away alone,
No man knows whither.

K. Rich.        I cry thee mercy:
There is my purse, to cure that blow of thine.   540
Hath any well-advised friend proclaim’d
Reward to him that brings the traitor in?

Third Mess.  Such proclamation hath been made, my liege.

Enter a fourth Messenger.

Fourth Mess.  Sir Thomas Lovel, and Lord Marquess Dorset,   545
’Tis said, my liege, in Yorkshire are in arms:
But this good comfort bring I to your highness,
The Breton navy is dispers’d by tempest.
Richmond, in Dorsetshire, sent out a boat
Unto the shore to ask those on the banks   550
If they were his assistants, yea or no;
Who answer’d him, they came from Buckingham
Upon his party: he, mistrusting them,
Hois’d sail, and made away for Brittany.

K. Rich.  March on, march on, since we are up in arms;   555
If not to fight with foreign enemies,
Yet to beat down these rebels here at home.

Re-enter CATESBY.

Cate.  My liege, the Duke of Buckingham is taken,
That is the best news: that the Earl of Richmond   560
Is with a mighty power landed at Milford
Is colder news, but yet they must be told.

K. Rich.  Away towards Salisbury! while we reason here,
A royal battle might be won and lost.
Some one take order Buckingham be brought   565
To Salisbury; the rest march on with me.  [Exeunt.

Act IV. Scene V.

The Same.  A Room in LORD STANLEY’S House.

Enter STANLEY and SIR CHRISTOPHER URSWICK.

Stan.  Sir Christopher, tell Richmond this from me:
That in the sty of this most bloody boar
My son George Stanley is frank’d up in hold:   5
If I revolt, off goes young George’s head;
The fear of that holds off my present aid.
So, get thee gone: commend me to thy lord.
Withal, say that the queen hath heartily consented
He should espouse Elizabeth her daughter.   10
But, tell me, where is princely Richmond now?

Chris.  At Pembroke, or at Ha’rford-west, in Wales.

Stan.  What men of name resort to him?

Chris.  Sir Walter Herbert, a renowned soldier,
Sir Gilbert Talbot, Sir William Stanley,   15
Oxford, redoubted Pembroke, Sir James Blunt,
And Rice ap Thomas, with a valiant crew;
And many other of great name and worth:
And towards London do they bend their power,
If by the way they be not fought withal.   20

Stan.  Well, hie thee to thy lord; I kiss his hand:
My letter will resolve him of my mind.
Farewell.  [Exeunt.

Act V. Scene I.

Salisbury.  An open Place.

Enter the Sheriff and Guard, with BUCKINGHAM, led to execution.

Buck.  Will not King Richard let me speak with him?

Sher.  No, my good lord; therefore be patient.

Buck.  Hastings, and Edward’s children, Grey and Rivers,   5
Holy King Henry, and thy fair son Edward,
Vaughan, and all that have miscarried
By underhand corrupted foul injustice,
If that your moody discontented souls
Do through the clouds behold this present hour,   10
Even for revenge mock my destruction!
This is All-Souls’ day, fellows, is it not?

Sher.  It is, my lord.

Buck.  Why, then All-Souls’ day is my body’s doomsday.
This is the day that, in King Edward’s time,   15
I wish’d might fall on me, when I was found
False to his children or his wife’s allies;
This is the day wherein I wish’d to fall
By the false faith of him whom most I trusted;
This, this All-Souls’ day to my fearful soul   20
Is the determin’d respite of my wrongs.
That high All-Seer which I dallied with
Hath turn’d my feigned prayer on my head,
And given in earnest what I begg’d in jest.
Thus doth he force the swords of wicked men   25
To turn their own points on their masters’ bosoms:
Thus Margaret’s curse falls heavy on my neck:
‘When he,’ quoth she, ‘shall split thy heart with sorrow,
Remember Margaret was a prophetess.’
Come, lead me, officers, to the block of shame:   30
Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the due of blame.  [Exeunt.

Act V. Scene II.

A Plain near Tamworth.

Enter with drum and colours, RICHMOND, OXFORD, SIR JAMES BLUNT, SIR WALTER HERBERT, and Others, with Forces, marching.

Richm.  Fellows in arms, and my most loving friends,
Bruis’d underneath the yoke of tyranny,
Thus far into the bowels of the land   5
Have we march’d on without impediment:
And here receive we from our father Stanley
Lines of fair comfort and encouragement.
The wretched, bloody, and usurping boar,
That spoil’d your summer fields and fruitful vines,   10
Swills your warm blood like wash, and makes his trough
In your embowell’d bosoms, this foul swine
Is now even in the centre of this isle,
Near to the town of Leicester, as we learn:
From Tamworth thither is but one day’s march.   15
In God’s name, cheerly on, courageous friends,
To reap the harvest of perpetual peace
By this one bloody trial of sharp war.

Oxf.  Every man’s conscience is a thousand men,
To fight against this guilty homicide.   20

Herb.  I doubt not but his friends will turn to us.

Blunt.  He hath no friends but what are friends for fear,
Which in his dearest need will fly from him.

Richm.  All for our vantage: then, in God’s name, march:
True hope is swift, and flies with swallow’s wings;   25
Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings.  [Exeunt.

Act V. Scene III.

Bosworth Field.

Enter KING RICHARD and Forces; the DUKE OF NORFOLK, EARL OF SURREY, and Others.

K. Rich.  Here pitch our tent, even here in Bosworth field.
My Lord of Surrey, why look you so sad?

Sur.  My heart is ten times lighter than my looks.   5

K. Rich.  My Lord of Norfolk, —

Nor.        Here, most gracious liege.

K. Rich.  Norfolk, we must have knocks; ha! must we not?

Nor.  We must both give and take, my loving lord.

K. Rich.  Up with my tent! here will I lie to-night;  [Soldiers begin to set up the KING’S tent.   10
But where to-morrow? Well, all’s one for that.
Who hath descried the number of the traitors?

Nor.  Six or seven thousand is their utmost power.

K. Rich.  Why, our battalia trebles that account;
Besides, the king’s name is a tower of strength,   15
Which they upon the adverse faction want.
Up with the tent! Come, noble gentlemen,
Let us survey the vantage of the ground;
Call for some men of sound direction:
Let’s lack no discipline, make no delay;   20
For, lords, to-morrow is a busy day.  [Exeunt.

Enter on the other side of the field, RICHMOND, SIR WILLIAM BRANDON, OXFORD, and other Officers.  Some of the Soldiers pitch RICHMOND’S tent.

Richm.  The weary sun hath made a golden set,
And, by the bright track of his fiery car,
Gives token of a goodly day to-morrow.   25
Sir William Brandon, you shall bear my standard.
Give me some ink and paper in my tent:
I’ll draw the form and model of our battle,
Limit each leader to his several charge,
And part in just proportion our small power.   30
My Lord of Oxford, you, Sir William Brandon,
And you, Sir Walter Herbert, stay with me.
The Earl of Pembroke keeps his regiment:
Good Captain Blunt, bear my good-night to him,
And by the second hour in the morning   35
Desire the earl to see me in my tent.
Yet one thing more, good captain, do for me;
Where is Lord Stanley quarter’d, do you know?

Blunt.  Unless I have mista’en his colours much, —
Which, well I am assur’d, I have not done, —   40
His regiment lies half a mile at least
South from the mighty power of the king.

Richm.  If without peril it be possible,
Good Captain Blunt, bear my good-night to him,
And give him from me this most needful note.   45

Blunt.  Upon my life, my lord, I’ll undertake it;
And so, God give you quiet rest to-night!

Richm.  Good-night, good Captain Blunt. Come, gentlemen,
Let us consult upon to-morrow’s business;
In to my tent, the air is raw and cold.  [They withdraw into the tent.   50

Enter, to his tent, KING RICHARD, NORFOLK, RATCLIFF, and CATESBY.

K. Rich.  What is ‘t o’clock?

Cate.        It’s supper-time, my lord;
It’s nine o’clock.

K. Rich.        I will not sup to-night.   55
Give me some ink and paper.
What, is my beaver easier than it was,
And all my armour laid into my tent?

Cate.  It is, my liege; and all things are in readiness.

K. Rich.  Good Norfolk, hie thee to thy charge;   60
Use careful watch; choose trusty sentinels.

Nor.  I go, my lord.

K. Rich.  Stir with the lark to-morrow, gentle Norfolk.

Nor.  I warrant you, my lord.  [Exit.

K. Rich.  Ratcliff!   65

Rat.  My lord?

K. Rich.        Send out a pursuivant at arms
To Stanley’s regiment; bid him bring his power
Before sun-rising, lest his son George fall
Into the blind cave of eternal night.   70
Fill me a bowl of wine. Give me a watch.
Saddle white Surrey for the field to-morrow.
Look that my staves be sound, and not too heavy.
Ratcliff!

Rat.  My lord!   75

K. Rich.  Saw’st thou the melancholy Lord Northumberland?

Rat.  Thomas the Earl of Surrey, and himself,
Much about cock-shut time, from troop to troop
Went through the army, cheering up the soldiers.

K. Rich.  So, I am satisfied. Give me a bowl of wine:   80
I have not that alacrity of spirit,
Nor cheer of mind, that I was wont to have.
Set it down. Is ink and paper ready?

Rat.  It is, my lord.

K. Rich.  Bid my guard watch; leave me.   85
Ratcliff, about the mid of night come to my tent
And help to arm me. Leave me, I say.  [KING RICHARD retires into his tent.  Exeunt RATCLIFF and CATESBY.

RICHMOND’S tent opens, and discovers him and his Officers, &c.
Enter STANLEY.

Stan.  Fortune and victory sit on thy helm!   90

Richm.  All comfort that the dark night can afford
Be to thy person, noble father-in-law!
Tell me, how fares our loving mother?

Stan.  I, by attorney, bless thee from thy mother,
Who prays continually for Richmond’s good:   95
So much for that. The silent hours steal on,
And flaky darkness breaks within the east.
In brief, for so the season bids us be,
Prepare thy battle early in the morning,
And put thy fortune to the arbitrement   100
Of bloody strokes and mortal-staring war.
I, as I may, — that which I would I cannot, —
With best advantage will deceive the time,
And aid thee in this doubtful shock of arms:
But on thy side I may not be too forward,   105
Lest, being seen, thy brother, tender George,
Be executed in his father’s sight.
Farewell: the leisure and the fearful time
Cuts off the ceremonious vows of love
And ample interchange of sweet discourse,   110
Which so long sunder’d friends should dwell upon:
God give us leisure for these rites of love!
Once more, adieu: be valiant, and speed well!

Richm.  Good lords, conduct him to his regiment.
I’ll strive, with troubled thoughts, to take a nap,   115
Lest leaden slumber peise me down to-morrow,
When I should mount with wings of victory.
Once more, good-night, kind lords and gentlemen.  [Exeunt all but RICHMOND.
O! thou, whose captain I account myself,
Look on my forces with a gracious eye;   120
Put in their hands thy bruising irons of wrath,
That they may crush down with a heavy fall
The usurping helmets of our adversaries!
Make us thy ministers of chastisement,
That we may praise thee in thy victory!   125
To thee I do commend my watchful soul,
Ere I let fall the windows of mine eyes:
Sleeping and waking, O! defend me still!  [Sleeps.

The Ghost of PRINCE EDWARD, Son to Henry the Sixth, rises between the two tents.

Ghost.  [To KING RICHARD.]  Let me sit heavy on thy soul to-morrow!   130
Think how thou stab’dst me in my prime of youth
At Tewksbury: despair, therefore, and die!
Be cheerful, Richmond; for the wronged souls
Of butcher’d princes fight in thy behalf:
King Henry’s issue, Richmond, comforts thee.   135

The Ghost of KING HENRY THE SIXTH rises.

Ghost.  [To KING RICHARD.]  When I was mortal, my anointed body
By thee was punched full of deadly holes:
Think on the Tower and me; despair and die!
Henry the Sixth bids thee despair and die.   140
[To RICHMOND.]  Virtuous and holy, be thou conqueror!
Harry, that prophesied thou shouldst be the king,
Doth comfort thee in thy sleep: live thou and flourish!

The Ghost of CLARENCE rises.

Ghost.  [To KING RICHARD.]  Let me sit heavy on thy soul to-morrow!   145
I, that was wash’d to death with fulsome wine,
Poor Clarence, by thy guile betray’d to death!
To-morrow in the battle think on me,
And fall thy edgeless sword: despair, and die!
[To RICHMOND.]  Thou offspring of the house of Lancaster,   150
The wronged heirs of York do pray for thee:
Good angels guard thy battle! live, and flourish!

The Ghosts of RIVERS, GREY, and VAUGHAN rise.

Ghost of  RIVERS.  [To KING RICHARD.]  Let me sit heavy on thy soul to-morrow!
Rivers, that died at Pomfret! despair, and die!   155

Ghost of  GREY.  [To KING RICHARD.]  Think upon Grey, and let thy soul despair.

Ghost of  VAUGHAN.  [To KING RICHARD.]  Think upon Vaughan, and with guilty fear
Let fall thy pointless lance: despair, and die! —

All Three.  [To RICHMOND.]  Awake! and think our wrongs in Richard’s bosom
Will conquer him: awake, and win the day!   160

The Ghost of HASTINGS rises.

Ghost.  [To KING RICHARD.]  Bloody and guilty, guiltily awake;
And in a bloody battle end thy days!
Think on Lord Hastings, so despair, and die! —
[To RICHMOND.]  Quiet, untroubled soul, awake, awake!   165
Arm, fight, and conquer, for fair England’s sake!

The Ghost of the two young PRINCES rise.

Ghosts.  [To KING RICHARD.]  Dream on thy cousins smother’d in the Tower:
Let us be lead within thy bosom, Richard,
And weigh thee down to ruin, shame, and death!   170
Thy nephews’ souls bid thee despair, and die!
[To RICHMOND.]  Sleep, Richmond, sleep in peace, and wake in joy;
Good angels guard thee from the boar’s annoy!
Live, and beget a happy race of kings!
Edward’s unhappy sons do bid thee flourish.   175

The Ghost of LADY ANNE rises.

Ghost.  [To KING RICHARD.]  Richard, thy wife, that wretched Anne thy wife,
That never slept a quiet hour with thee,
Now fills thy sleep with perturbations:
To-morrow in the battle think on me,   180
And fall thy edgeless sword: despair, and die!
[To RICHMOND.]  Thou quiet soul, sleep thou a quiet sleep;
Dream of success and happy victory!
Thy adversary’s wife doth pray for thee.

The Ghost of BUCKINGHAM rises.   185

Ghost.  [To KING RICHARD.]  The first was I that help’d thee to the crown;
The last was I that felt thy tyranny.
O! in the battle think on Buckingham,
And die in terror of thy guiltiness!
Dream on, dream on, of bloody deeds and death:   190
Fainting, despair; despairing, yield thy breath!
[To RICHMOND.]  I died for hope ere I could lend thee aid:
But cheer thy heart, and be thou not dismay’d:
God and good angels fight on Richmond’s side;
And Richard falls in height of all his pride.  [The Ghosts vanish.  KING RICHARD starts out of his dream.   195

K. Rich.  Give me another horse! bind up my wounds!
Have mercy, Jesu! Soft! I did but dream.
O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me!
The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight.
Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh.   200
What! do I fear myself? there’s none else by:
Richard loves Richard; that is, I am I.
Is there a murderer here? No. Yes, I am:
Then fly: what! from myself? Great reason why:
Lest I revenge. What! myself upon myself?   205
Alack! I love myself. Wherefore? for any good
That I myself have done unto myself?
O! no: alas! I rather hate myself
For hateful deeds committed by myself.
I am a villain. Yet I lie; I am not.   210
Fool, of thyself speak well: fool, do not flatter.
My conscience hath a thousand several tongues,
And every tongue brings in a several tale,
And every tale condemns me for a villain.
Perjury, perjury, in the high’st degree:   215
Murder, stern murder, in the dir’st degree;
All several sins, all us’d in each degree,
Throng to the bar, crying all, ‘Guilty! guilty!’
I shall despair. There is no creature loves me;
And if I die, no soul will pity me:   220
Nay, wherefore should they, since that I myself
Find in myself no pity to myself?
Methought the souls of all that I had murder’d
Came to my tent; and every one did threat
To-morrow’s vengeance on the head of Richard.   225

Enter RATCLIFF.

Rat.  My lord!

K. Rich.  ‘Zounds! who’s there?

Rat.  Ratcliff, my lord; ’tis I. The early village cock
Hath twice done salutation to the morn;   230
Your friends are up, and buckle on their armour.

K. Rich.  O Ratcliff! I have dream’d a fearful dream.
What thinkest thou, will our friends prove all true?

Rat.  No doubt, my lord.

K. Rich.        O Ratcliff! I fear, I fear, —   235

Rat.  Nay, good my lord, be not afraid of shadows.

K. Rich.  By the apostle Paul, shadows to-night
Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard
Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers
Armed in proof, and led by shallow Richmond.   240
It is not yet near day. Come, go with me;
Under our tents I’ll play the eaves-dropper,
To hear if any mean to shrink from me.  [Exeunt.

RICHMOND wakes.  Enter OXFORD and Others.

Lords.  Good morrow, Richmond!   245

Richm.  Cry mercy, lords, and watchful gentlemen,
That you have ta’en a tardy sluggard here.

Lords.  How have you slept, my lord?

Richm.  The sweetest sleep, the fairest-boding dreams
That ever enter’d in a drowsy head,   250
Have I since your departure had, my lords.
Methought their souls, whose bodies Richard murder’d,
Came to my tent and cried on victory:
I promise you, my heart is very jocund
In the remembrance of so fair a dream.   255
How far into the morning is it, lords?

Lords.  Upon the stroke of four.

Richm.  Why, then ’tis time to arm and give direction.

His oration to his Soldiers.
More than I have said, loving countrymen,   260
The leisure and enforcement of the time
Forbids to dwell on: yet remember this,
God and our good cause fight upon our side;
The prayers of holy saints and wronged souls,
Like high-rear’d bulwarks, stand before our faces;   265
Richard except, those whom we fight against
Had rather have us win than him they follow.
For what is he they follow? truly, gentlemen,
A bloody tyrant and a homicide;
One rais’d in blood, and one in blood establish’d;   270
One that made means to come by what he hath,
And slaughter’d those that were the means to help him;
A base foul stone, made precious by the foil
Of England’s chair, where he is falsely set;
One that hath ever been God’s enemy.   275
Then, if you fight against God’s enemy,
God will in justice, ward you as his soldiers;
If you do sweat to put a tyrant down,
You sleep in peace, the tyrant being slain;
If you do fight against your country’s foes,   280
Your country’s fat shall pay your pains the hire;
If you do fight in safeguard of your wives,
Your wives shall welcome home the conquerors;
If you do free your children from the sword,
Your children’s children quit it in your age.   285
Then, in the name of God and all these rights,
Advance your standards, draw your willing swords.
For me, the ransom of my bold attempt
Shall be this cold corse on the earth’s cold face;
But if I thrive, the gain of my attempt   290
The least of you shall share his part thereof.
Sound drums and trumpets, boldly and cheerfully;
God and Saint George! Richmond and victory!  [Exeunt.

Re-enter KING RICHARD, RATCLIFF, Attendants, and Forces.

K. Rich.  What said Northumberland as touching Richmond?   295

Rat.  That he was never trained up in arms.

K. Rich.  He said the truth: and what said Surrey then?

Rat.  He smil’d, and said, ‘The better for our purpose.’

K. Rich.  He was i’ the right; and so, indeed, it is.  [Clock strikes.
Tell the clock there. Give me a calendar.   300
Who saw the sun to-day?

Rat.        Not I, my lord.

K. Rich.  Then he disdains to shine; for by the book
He should have brav’d the east an hour ago:
A black day will it be to somebody.   305
Ratcliff!

Rat.  My lord?

K. Rich.        The sun will not be seen to-day;
The sky doth frown and lower upon our army.
I would these dewy tears were from the ground.   310
Not shine to-day! Why, what is that to me
More than to Richmond? for the self-same heaven
That frowns on me looks sadly upon him.

Enter NORFOLK.

Nor.  Arm, arm, my lord! the foe vaunts in the field.   315

K. Rich.  Come, bustle, bustle; caparison my horse.
Call up Lord Stanley, bid him bring his power:
I will lead forth my soldiers to the plain,
And thus my battle shall be ordered:
My foreward shall be drawn out all in length   320
Consisting equally of horse and foot;
Our archers shall be placed in the midst:
John Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Earl of Surrey,
Shall have the leading of this foot and horse.
They thus directed, we will follow   325
In the main battle, whose puissance on either side
Shall be well winged with our chiefest horse.
This, and Saint George to boot! What think’st thou, Norfolk?

Nor.  A good direction, war-like sovereign.
This found I on my tent this morning.  [Giving a scroll.   330

K. Rich.  Jockey of Norfolk, be not too bold,
For Dickon thy master is bought and sold.
A thing devised by the enemy.
Go, gentlemen; every man to his charge:
Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls;   335
Conscience is but a word that cowards use,
Devis’d at first to keep the strong in awe:
Our strong arms be our conscience, swords our law.
March on, join bravely, let us to ‘t pell-mell;
If not to heaven, then hand in hand to hell.   340

His oration to his Army.
What shall I say more than I have inferr’d?
Remember whom you are to cope withal:
A sort of vagabonds, rascals, and run-aways,
A scum of Bretons and base lackey peasants,   345
Whom their o’er-cloyed country vomits forth
To desperate adventures and assur’d destruction.
You sleeping safe, they bring you to unrest;
You having lands, and bless’d with beauteous wives,
They would restrain the one, distain the other.   350
And who doth lead them but a paltry fellow,
Long kept in Britaine at our mother’s cost?
A milksop, one that never in his life
Felt so much cold as over shoes in snow?
Let’s whip these stragglers o’er the sea again;   355
Lash hence these overweening rags of France,
These famish’d beggars, weary of their lives;
Who, but for dreaming on this fond exploit,
For want of means, poor rats, had hang’d themselves:
If we be conquer’d, let men conquer us,   360
And not these bastard Bretons; whom our fathers
Have in their own land beaten, bobb’d, and thump’d,
And, on record, left them the heirs of shame.
Shall these enjoy our lands? lie with our wives?
Ravish our daughters?  [Drum afar off.   365
Hark! I hear their drum.
Fight, gentlemen of England! fight, bold yeomen!
Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head!
Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood;
Amaze the welkin with your broken staves!   370

Enter a Messenger.
What says Lord Stanley? will he bring his power?

Mess.  My lord, he doth deny to come.

K. Rich.  Off with his son George’s head!

Nor.  My lord, the enemy is pass’d the marsh:   375
After the battle let George Stanley die.

K. Rich.  A thousand hearts are great within my bosom:
Advance our standards! set upon our foes!
Our ancient word of courage, fair Saint George,
Inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons!   380
Upon them! Victory sits upon our helms.  [Exeunt.

Act V. Scene IV.

Alarum.  Enter KING RICHARD.

Another Part of the Field.

Alarum: Excursions.  Enter NORFOLK and Forces; to him CATESBY.

Cate.  Rescue, my Lord of Norfolk! rescue, rescue!
The king enacts more wonders than a man,
Daring an opposite to every danger:   5
His horse is slain, and all on foot he fights,
Seeking for Richmond in the throat of death.
Rescue, fair lord, or else the day is lost!

K. Rich.  A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!   10

Cate.  Withdraw, my lord; I’ll help you to a horse.

K. Rich.  Slave! I have set my life upon a cast,
And I will stand the hazard of the die.
I think there be six Richmonds in the field;
Five have I slain to-day, instead of him. —   15
A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!  [Exeunt.

Alarums.  Enter from opposite sides KING RICHARD and RICHMOND, and exeunt fighting.  Retreat and flourish.  Then re-enter RICHMOND, STANLEY, bearing the crown, with divers other Lords, and Forces.

Richm.  God and your arms be prais’d, victorious friends;
The day is ours, the bloody dog is dead.

Stan.  Courageous Richmond, well hast thou acquit thee!   20
Lo! here, this long-usurped royalty
From the dead temples of this bloody wretch
Have I pluck’d off, to grace thy brows withal:
Wear it, enjoy it, and make much of it.

Richm.  Great God of heaven, say amen to all!   25
But, tell me, is young George Stanley living?

Stan.  He is, my lord, and safe in Leicester town;
Whither, if you please, we may withdraw us.

Richm.  What men of name are slain on either side?

Stan.  John Duke of Norfolk, Walter Lord Ferrers,   30
Sir Robert Brakenbury, and Sir William Brandon.

Richm.  Inter their bodies as becomes their births:
Proclaim a pardon to the soldiers fled
That in submission will return to us;
And then, as we have ta’en the sacrament,   35
We will unite the white rose and the red:
Smile, heaven, upon this fair conjunction,
That long hath frown’d upon their enmity!
What traitor hears me, and says not amen?
England hath long been mad, and scarr’d herself;   40
The brother blindly shed the brother’s blood,
The father rashly slaughter’d his own son,
The son, compell’d, been butcher to the sire:
All this divided York and Lancaster,
Divided in their dire division,   45
O! now, let Richmond and Elizabeth,
The true succeeders of each royal house,
By God’s fair ordinance conjoin together;
And let their heirs — God, if thy will be so, —
Enrich the time to come with smooth-fac’d peace,   50
With smiling plenty, and fair prosperous days!
Abate the edge of traitors, gracious Lord,
That would reduce these bloody days again,
And make poor England weep in streams of blood!
Let them not live to taste this land’s increase,   55
That would with treason wound this fair land’s peace!
Now civil wounds are stopp’d, peace lives again:
That she may long live here, God say amen!  [Exeunt.

THE COMEDY OF ERRORS

Written in 1592, this is Shakespeare’s shortest play, featuring slapstick humour and mistaken identity, in addition to puns and word play. The Comedy of Errors reveals the playwright’s interest in Roman drama, drawing plot elements from two of the Ancient writer Plautus’ works.

It tells the story of two sets of identical twins accidentally separated at birth. Antipholus of Syracuse and his servant, Dromio of Syracuse, arrive in Ephesus, which turns out to be the home of their twin brothers, Antipholus of Ephesus and his servant, Dromio of Ephesus. When the Syracusans encounter the friends and families of their twins, a series of wild mishaps based on mistaken identities lead to wrongful beatings, a near-seduction, the arrest of Antipholus of Ephesus, and accusations of infidelity, theft, madness, and demonic possession.

The first folio copy of the play

The Rose Theatre, Bankside, where Shakespeare’s early plays were first performed

CONTENTS

Dramatis Personæ

Act I. Scene I.

Act I. Scene II.

Act II. Scene I.

Act II. Scene II.

Act III. Scene I.

Act III. Scene II.

Act IV. Scene I.

Act IV. Scene II.

Act IV. Scene III.

Act IV. Scene IV.

Act V. Scene I.

Dramatis Personæ

SOLINUS, Duke of Ephesus.
ÆGEON, a Merchant of Syracuse.
ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus, ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse, Twin Brothers, sons to Ægeon and Æmilia.
DROMIO of Ephesus, DROMIO of Syracuse, Twin Brothers, attendants on the two Antipholuses.
BALTHAZAR, a Merchant.
ANGELO, a Goldsmith.
Merchant, Friend to Antipholus of Syracuse.
A Second Merchant, to whom Angelo is a debtor.
PINCH, a Schoolmaster and a Conjurer.
ÆMILIA, Wife to Ægeon, an Abbess at Ephesus.
ADRIANA, Wife to Antipholus of Ephesus.
LUCIANA, her Sister.
LUCE, Servant to Andriana.
A Courtezan.
Gaoler, Officers, and other Attendants.

SCENE. — Ephesus.

Act I. Scene I.

A Hall in the DUKE’S Palace.

Enter DUKE, ÆGEON, Gaoler, Officers, and other Attendants.

Æge.  Proceed, Solinus, to procure my fall,
And by the doom of death end woes and all.

Duke.  Merchant of Syracusa, plead no more.   5
I am not partial to infringe our laws:
The enmity and discord which of late
Sprung from the rancorous outrage of your duke
To merchants, our well-dealing countrymen,
Who, wanting guilders to redeem their lives,   10
Have seal’d his rigorous statutes with their bloods,
Excludes all pity from our threat’ning looks.
For, since the mortal and intestine jars
‘Twixt thy seditious countrymen and us,
It hath in solemn synods been decreed,   15
Both by the Syracusians and ourselves,
T’ admit no traffic to our adverse towns:
Nay, more, if any, born at Ephesus
Be seen at Syracusian marts and fairs;
Again, if any Syracusian born   20
Come to the bay of Ephesus, he dies,
His goods confiscate to the duke’s dispose;
Unless a thousand marks be levied,
To quit the penalty and to ransom him.
Thy substance, valu’d at the highest rate,   25
Cannot amount unto a hundred marks;
Therefore, by law thou art condemn’d to die.

Æge.  Yet this my comfort: when your words are done,
My woes end likewise with the evening sun.

Duke.  Well, Syracusian; say, in brief the cause   30
Why thou departedst from thy native home,
And for what cause thou cam’st to Ephesus.

Æge.  A heavier task could not have been impos’d
Than I to speak my griefs unspeakable;
Yet, that the world may witness that my end   35
Was wrought by nature, not by vile offence,
I’ll utter what my sorrow gives me leave.
In Syracusa was I born, and wed
Unto a woman, happy but for me,
And by me too, had not our hap been bad.   40
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 spouse:   45
From whom my absence was not six months old,
Before herself, — almost at fainting under
The pleasing punishment that women bear, —
Had made provision for her following me,
And soon and safe arrived where I was.   50
There had she not been long but she became
A joyful mother of two goodly sons;
And, which was strange, the one so like the other,
As could not be distinguish’d but by names.
That very hour, and in the self-same inn,   55
A meaner woman was delivered
Of such a burden, male twins, both alike.
Those, — for their parents were exceeding poor, —
I bought, and brought up to attend my sons.
My wife, not meanly proud of two such boys,   60
Made daily motions for our home return:
Unwilling I agreed; alas! too soon
We came aboard.
A league from Epidamnum had we sail’d,
Before the always-wind-obeying deep   65
Gave any tragic instance of our harm:
But longer did we not retain much hope;
For what obscured light the heavens did grant
Did but convey unto our fearful minds
A doubtful warrant of immediate death;   70
Which, though myself would gladly have embrac’d,
Yet 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,   75
Forc’d me to seek delays 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 wife, more careful for the latter-born,   80
Had fasten’d him unto a small spare mast,
Such as seafaring men provide for storms;
To him one of the other twins was bound,
Whilst I had been like heedful of the other.
The children thus dispos’d, my wife and I,   85
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,   90
Dispers’d those vapours that offended 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:   95
But ere they came, — O! let me say no more;
Gather the sequel by that went before.

Duke.  Nay, forward, old man; do not break off so;
For we may pity, though not pardon thee.

Æge.  O! had the gods done so, I had not now   100
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;
Which being violently borne upon,
Our helpful ship was splitted in the midst;   105
So that, in this unjust divorce of us
Fortune had left to both of us alike
What to delight in, what to sorrow for.
Her part, poor soul! seeming as burdened
With lesser weight, but not with lesser woe,   110
Was carried with more speed before the wind,
And in our sight they three were taken up
By fishermen-of Corinth, as we thought.
At length, another ship had soiz’d on us;
And, knowing whom it was their hap to save,   115
Gave healthful welcome to their ship-wrack’d guests;
And would have reft the fishers of their prey,
Had not their bark been very slow of sail;
And therefore homeward did they bend their course.
Thus have you heard me sever’d from my bliss,   120
That by misfortune was my life prolong’d,
To tell sad stories of my own mishaps.

Duke.  And, for the sake of them thou sorrowest for,
Do me the favour to dilate at full
What hath befall’n of them and thee till now.   125

Æge.  My youngest boy, and yet my eldest care,
At eighteen years became inquisitive
After his brother; and importun’d me
That his attendant — for his case was like,
Reft of his brother, but retain’d his name —   130
Might bear him company in the quest of him;
Whom whilst I labour’d of a love to see,
I hazarded the loss of whom I lov’d.
Five summers have I spent in furthest Greece,
Roaming clean through the bounds of Asia,   135
And, coasting homeward, came to Ephesus,
Hopeless to find, yet loath to leave unsought
Or that or any place that harbours men.
But here must end the story of my life;
And happy were I in my timely death,   140
Could all my travels warrant me they live.

Duke.  Hapless Ægeon, whom the fates have mark’d
To bear the extremity of dire mishap!
Now, trust me, were it not against our laws,
Against my crown, my oath, my dignity,   145
Which princes, would they, may not disannul,
My soul should 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,   150
Yet will I favour thee in what I can:
Therefore, merchant, I’ll limit thee this day
To seek thy life by beneficial help.
Try all the friends thou hast in Ephesus;
Beg thou, or borrow, to make up the sum,   155
And live; if no, then thou art doom’d to die.
Gaoler, take him to thy custody.

Gaol.  I will, my lord.

Æge.  Hopeless and helpless doth Ægeon wend,
But to procrastinate his lifeless end.  [Exeunt.   160

Act I. Scene II.

The Mart.

Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse, DROMIO of Syracuse, and a Merchant.

Mer.  Therefore, give out you are of Epidamnum,
Lest that your goods too soon be confiscate.
This very day, a Syracusian merchant   5
Is apprehended for arrival here;
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.
There is your money that I had to keep.   10

Ant. S.  Go bear it to the Centaur, where we host,
And stay there, Dromio, till I come to thee.
Within this hour it will be dinner-time:
Till that, I’ll view the manners of the town,
Peruse the traders, gaze upon the buildings,   15
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 you at your word,
And go indeed, having so good a mean.  [Exit.   20

Ant. S.  A trusty villain, sir, that very oft,
When I am dull with care and melancholy,
Lightens my humour with his merry jests.
What, will you walk with me about the town,
And then go to my inn and dine with me?   25

Mer.  I am invited, sir, to certain merchants,
Of whom I hope to make much benefit;
I crave your pardon. Soon at five o’clock,
Please you, I’ll meet with you upon the mart,
And afterward consort you till bed-time:   30
My present business calls me from you now.

Ant. S.  Farewell till then: I will go lose myself,
And wander up and down to view the city.

Mer.  Sir, I commend you to your own content.  [Exit.

Ant. S.  He that commends me to mine own content,   35
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 himself:   40
So I, to find a mother and a brother,
In quest of them, unhappy, lose myself.

Enter DROMIO of Ephesus.
Here comes the almanack of my true date.
What now? How chance thou art return’d so soon?   45

Dro. E.  Return’d so soon! rather approach’d too late:
The 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;   50
The meat is cold because you come not home;
You come not home because you have no stomach;
You have no stomach, having broke your fast;
But we, that know what ’tis to fast and pray,
Are penitent for your default to-day.   55

Ant. S.  Stop in your wind, sir: tell me this, I pray:
Where have you left the money that I gave you?

Dro. E.  O! — sixpence, that I had o’ Wednesday last
To pay the saddler for my mistress’ crupper;
The saddler had it, sir; I kept it not.   60

Ant. S.  I am not in a sportive humour now.
Tell me, and dally not, where is the money?
We being strangers here, how dar’st thou trust
So great a charge from thine own custody?

Dro. E.  I pray you, jest, sir, as you sit at dinner.   65
I from my mistress come to you in post;
If I return, I shall be post indeed,
For she will score your fault upon my pate.
Methinks your maw, like mine, should be your clock
And strike you home without a messenger.   70

Ant. S.  Come, Dromio, come; these jests are out of season;
Reserve them till a merrier hour than this.
Where is the gold I gave in charge to thee?

Dro. E.  To me, sir? why, you gave no gold to me.

Ant. S.  Come on, sir knave, have done your foolishness,   75
And tell me how thou hast dispos’d thy charge.

Dro. E.  My charge was but to fetch you from the mart
Home to your house, the Phœnix, sir, to dinner:
My mistress and her sister stays for you.

Ant. S.  Now, as I am a Christian, answer me,   80
In what safe place you have bestow’d my money;
Or I shall break that merry sconce of yours
That stands on tricks when I am undispos’d.
Where is the thousand marks thou hadst of me?

Dro. E.  I have some marks of yours upon my pate,   85
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?   90

Dro. E.  Your worship’s wife, my mistress at the Phœnix;
She that doth fast till you come home to dinner,
And prays that you will hie you home to dinner.

Ant. S.  What! wilt thou flout me thus unto my face,
Being forbid? There, take you that, sir knave.  [Strikes him.   95

Dro. E.  What mean you, sir? for God’s sake, hold your hands!
Nay, an you will not, sir, I’ll take my heels.  [Exit.

Ant. S.  Upon my life, by some device or other
The villain is o’er-raught of all my money.
They say this town is full of cozenage;   100
As, nimble jugglers that deceive the eye,
Dark-working sorcerers that change the mind,
Soul-killing witches that deform the body,
Disguised cheaters, prating mountebanks,
And many such-like liberties of sin:   105
If it prove so, I will be gone the sooner.
I’ll to the Centaur, to go seek this slave:
I greatly fear my money is not safe.  [Exit.

Act II. Scene I.

The House of ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus.

Enter ADRIANA and LUCIANA.

Adr.  Neither my husband, nor the slave return’d,
That in such haste I sent to seek his master!
Sure, Luciana, it is two o’clock.   5

Luc.  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,   10
They’ll go or come: if so, be patient, sister.

Adr.  Why should their liberty than ours be more?

Luc.  Because their business still lies out o’ door.

Adr.  Look, when I serve him so, he takes it ill.

Luc.  O! know he is the bridle of your will.   15

Adr.  There’s none but asses will be bridled so.

Luc.  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,   20
Are their males’ subjects and at their controls.
Men, more divine, the masters of all these,
Lords of the wide world, and wild wat’ry seas,
Indu’d with intellectual sense and souls,
Of more pre-eminence than fish and fowls,   25
Are masters to their females and their lords:
Then, let your will attend on their accords.

Adr.  This servitude makes you to keep unwed.

Luc.  Not this, but troubles of the marriage-bed.

Adr.  But, were you wedded, you would bear some sway.   30

Luc.  Ere I learn love, I’ll practise to obey.

Adr.  How if your husband start some other where?

Luc.  Till he come home again, I would forbear.

Adr.  Patience unmov’d! no marvel though she pause;
They can be meek that have no other cause.   35
A wretched soul, 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,   40
With urging helpless patience wouldst relieve me:
But if thou live to see like right bereft.
This fool-begg’d patience in thee will be left.

Luc.  Well, I will marry one day, but to try.
Here comes your man: now is your husband nigh.   45

Enter DROMIO of Ephesus.

Adr.  Say, is your tardy master now at hand?

Dro. E.  Nay, he’s at two hands with me, and that my two ears can witness.

Adr.  Say, didst thou speak with him? Know’st thou his mind?

Dro. E.  Ay, ay, he told his mind upon mine ear.   50
Beshrew his hand, I scarce could understand it.

Luc.  Spake he so doubtfully, thou couldst not feel his meaning?

Dro. E.  Nay, he struck so plainly, I could too well feel his blows; and withal so doubtfully, that I could scarce understand them.

Adr.  But say, I prithee, is he coming home? It seems he hath great care to please his wife.

Dro. E.  Why, mistress, sure my master is horn-mad.   55

Adr.  Horn-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:
‘’Tis dinner time,’ quoth I; ‘my gold!’ quoth he:   60
‘Your meat doth burn,’ quoth I; ‘my gold!’ quoth he:
‘Will you come home?’ quoth I: ‘my gold!’ quoth he:
‘Where is the thousand marks I gave thee, villain?’
‘The pig,’ quoth I, ‘is burn’d;’ ‘my gold!’ quoth he:
‘My mistress, sir,’ quoth I: ‘hang up thy mistress!   65
I know not thy mistress: out on thy mistress!’

Luc.  Quoth who?

Dro. E.  Quoth my master:
‘I know,’ quoth he, ‘no house, no wife, no mistress.’
So that my errand, due unto my tongue,   70
I thank him, I bear 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.   75

Adr.  Back, slave, or I will break thy pate across.

Dro. E.  And he will bless that cross with other beating:
Between you, I shall have a holy head.

Adr.  Hence, prating peasant! fetch thy master home.

Dro. E.  Am I so round with you as you with me,   80
That like a football you do spurn me thus?
You spurn me hence, and he will spurn me hither:
If I last in this service, you must case me in leather.  [Exit.

Luc.  Fie, how impatience loureth in your face!

Adr.  His company must do his minions grace,   85
Whilst I at home starve for a merry look.
Hath homely age the 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,   90
Unkindness blunts it more than marble hard:
Do their gay vestments his affections bait?
That’s not my fault; he’s master of my state:
What ruins are in me that can be found
By him not ruin’d? then is he the ground   95
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.   100

Adr.  Unfeeling 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,   105
So he would keep fair quarter with his bed!
I see, the jewel best enamelled
Will lose his beauty; and though gold bides still
That others touch, yet often touching will
Wear gold; and no man that hath a name,   110
By falsehood and corruption doth it shame.
Since that my beauty cannot please his eye,
I’ll weep what’s left away, and weeping die.

Luc.  How many fond fools serve mad jealousy!  [Exeunt.

Act II. Scene II.

A public Place.

Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse.

Ant. S.  The gold I gave to Dromio is laid up
Safe at the Centaur; and the heedful slave
Is wander’d forth, in care to seek me out.   5
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 DROMIO of Syracuse.
How now, sir! is your merry humour alter’d?   10
As you love strokes, so jest with me again.
You know no Centaur? You receiv’d no gold?
Your mistress sent to have me home to dinner?
My house was at the Phœnix? Wast thou mad,
That thus so madly thou didst answer me?   15

Dro. S.  What answer, sir? when spake I such a word?

Ant. S.  Even now, even here, not half-an-hour since.

Dro. S.  I did not see you since you sent me hence,
Home to the Centaur, with the gold you gave me.

Ant. S.  Villain, thou didst deny the gold’s receipt,   20
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:
What means this jest? I pray you, master, tell me.

Ant. S.  Yea, dost thou jeer, and flout me in the teeth?   25
Think’st thou I jest? 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?

Ant. S.  Because that I familiarly sometimes
Do use you for my fool, and chat with you,   30
Your sauciness will jest upon my love,
And make a common of my serious hours.
When the sun shines let foolish gnats make sport,
But creep in crannies when he hides his beams.
If you will jest with me, know my aspect,   35
And fashion your demeanour to my looks,
Or I will beat this method in your sconce.

Dro. S.  Sconce, call you it? so you would leave battering, I had rather have it a head: an you use these blows long, I must get a sconce for my head and insconce it too; or else I shall seek my 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.   40

Ant. S.  Shall I tell you why?

Dro. S.  Ay, sir, and wherefore; for they say every why hath a wherefore.

Ant. S.  Why, first, — for flouting me; and then, wherefore, —
For urging it the second time to me.

Dro. S.  Was there ever any man thus beaten out of season,   45
When, in the why and the wherefore is neither rime nor reason?
Well, sir, I thank you.

Ant. S.  Thank me, sir! for what?

Dro. S.  Marry, sir, for this something that you gave me for nothing.

Ant. S.  I’ll make you amends next, to give you nothing for something. But say, sir, is it dinner-time?   50

Dro. S.  No, sir: I think the meat wants that I have.

Ant. S.  In good time, sir; what’s that?

Dro. S.  Basting.

Ant. S.  Well, sir, then ‘twill be dry.

Dro. S.  If it be, sir, I pray you eat none of it.   55

Ant. S.  Your reason?

Dro. S.  Lest it make you choleric, and purchase me another dry basting.

Ant. S.  Well, sir, learn to jest in good time: there’s a time for all things.

Dro. S.  I durst have denied that, before you were so choleric.

Ant. S.  By what rule, sir?   60

Dro. S.  Marry, sir, by a rule as plain as the plain bald pate of Father Time himself.

Ant. S.  Let’s hear it.

Dro. S.  There’s no time for a man to recover his hair that grows bald by nature.

Ant. S.  May he not do it by fine and recovery?

Dro. S.  Yes, to pay a fine for a periwig and recover the lost hair of another man.   65

Ant. S.  Why is Time such a niggard of hair, being, as it is, so plentiful an excrement?

Dro. S.  Because it is a blessing that he bestows on beasts: and what he hath scanted men in hair, he hath given them in wit.

Ant. S.  Why, but there’s many a man hath more hair than wit.

Dro. S.  Not a man of those but he hath the wit to lose his hair.

Ant. S.  Why, thou didst conclude hairy men plain dealers without wit.   70

Dro. S.  The plainer dealer, the sooner lost: yet he loseth it in a kind of jollity.

Ant. S.  For what reason?

Dro. S.  For two; and sound ones too.

Ant. S.  Nay, not sound, I pray you.

Dro. S.  Sure ones then.   75

Ant. S.  Nay, not sure, in a thing falsing.

Dro. S.  Certain ones, then.

Ant. S.  Name them.

Dro. S.  The one, to save the money that he spends in tiring; the other, that at dinner they should not drop in his porridge.

Ant. S.  You would all this time have proved there is no time for all things.   80

Dro. S.  Marry, and did, sir; namely, no time to recover hair lost by nature.

Ant. S.  But your reason was not substantial, why there is no time to recover.

Dro. S.  Thus I mend it: Time himself is bald, and therefore to the world’s end will have bald followers.

Ant. S.  I knew ’twould be a bald conclusion. But soft! who wafts us yonder?

Enter ADRIANA and LUCIANA.   85

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 ear,   90
That never object pleasing in thine eye,
That never touch well welcome to thy hand,
That never meat sweet-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, O! how comes it,   95
That thou art thus estranged from thyself?
Thyself I call it, being strange to me,
That, undividable, incorporate,
Am better than thy dear self’s better part.
Ah! do not tear away thyself from me,   100
For know, my love, as easy mayst thou fall
A drop of water in the breaking gulf,
And take unmingled thence that drop again,
Without addition or diminishing,
As take from me thyself and not me too.   105
How dearly would it touch thee to the quick,
Shouldst thou but hear I were licentious,
And that this body, consecrate to thee,
By ruffian lust should be contaminate!
Wouldst thou not spit at me and spurn at me,   110
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.   115
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 do digest the poison of thy flesh,
Being strumpeted by thy contagion.   120
Keep then fair league and truce with thy true bed;
I live unstain’d, thou undishonoured.

Ant. S.  Plead you to me, fair dame? I know you not:
In Ephesus I am but two hours old,
As strange unto your town as to your talk;   125
Who, every word by all my wit being scann’d,
Want wit in all one word to understand.

Luc.  Fie, brother: how the world is chang’d with you!
When were you wont to use my sister thus?
She sent for you by Dromio home to dinner.   130

Ant. S.  By Dromio?

Dro. S.  By me?

Adr.  By thee; and this thou didst return from him,
That he did buffet thee, and in his blows,
Denied my house for his, me for his wife.   135

Ant. S.  Did you converse, sir, with this gentle-woman?
What is the course and drift of your compact?

Dro. S.  I, sir? I never saw her till this time.

Ant. S.  Villain, thou liest; for even her very words
Didst thou deliver to me on the mart.   140

Dro. S.  I never spake with her in all my life.

Ant. S.  How can she thus then, call us by our names,
Unless it be by inspiration?

Adr.  How ill agrees it with your gravity
To counterfeit thus grossly with your slave,   145
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,   150
Whose weakness, married to thy stronger state,
Makes me with thy strength to communicate:
If aught possess thee from me, it is dross,
Usurping ivy, brier, or idle moss;
Who, all for want of pruning, with intrusion   155
Infect thy sap and live on thy confusion.

Ant. S.  To me she speaks; she moves me for her theme!
What! was I married to her in my dream?
Or sleep I now and think I hear all this?
What error drives our eyes and ears amiss?   160
Until I know this sure uncertainty,
I’ll entertain the offer’d fallacy.

Luc.  Dromio, go bid the servants spread for dinner

Dro. S.  O, for my beads! I cross me for a sinner.
This is the fairy land: O! spite of spites.   165
We talk with goblins, owls, and elvish sprites:
If we obey them not, this will ensue,
They’ll suck our breath, or pinch us black and blue.

Luc.  Why prat’st thou to thyself and answer’st not?
Dromio, thou drone, thou snail, thou slug, thou sot!   170

Dro. S.  I am transformed, master, am not I?

Ant. S.  I think thou art, in mind, and so am I.

Dro. S.  Nay, master, both in mind and in my shape.

Ant. S.  Thou hast thine own form.

Dro. S.        No, I am an ape.   175

Luc.  If thou art chang’d to aught, ’tis to an ass.

Dro. S.  ’Tis true; she rides me and I long for grass.
’Tis so, I am an ass; else it could never be
But I should know her as well as she knows me.

Adr.  Come, come; no longer will I be a fool,   180
To put the finger in the eye and weep,
Whilst man and master laugh my woes to scorn.
Come, sir, to dinner. Dromio, keep the gate.
Husband, I’ll dine above with you to-day,
And shrive you of a thousand idle pranks.   185
Sirrah, if any ask you for your master,
Say he dines forth, and let no creature enter.
Come, sister. Dromio, play the porter well.

Ant. S.  [Aside.]  Am I in earth, in heaven, or in hell?
Sleeping or waking? mad or well-advis’d?   190
Known unto these, and to myself disguis’d!
I’ll say as they say, and persever so,
And in this mist at all adventures go.

Dro. S.  Master, shall I be porter at the gate?

Adr.  Ay; and let none enter, lest I break your pate.   195

Luc.  Come, come, Antipholus; we dine too late.  [Exeunt.

Act III. Scene I.

Before the House of ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus.

Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus, DROMIO of Ephesus, ANGELO, and BALTHAZAR.

Ant. E.  Good Signior Angelo, you must excuse us all;
My wife is shrewish when I keep not hours;
Say that I linger’d with you at your shop   5
To see the making of her carkanet,
And that to-morrow you will bring it home.
But here’s a villain, that would face me down
He met me on the mart, and that I beat him,
And charg’d him with a thousand marks in gold,   10
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 show:
If the skin were parchment and the blows you gave were ink,   15
Your 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, being at that pass,   20
You would keep from my heels and beware of an ass.

Ant. E.  You are sad, Signior Balthazar: pray God, our cheer
May answer my good will and your good welcome here.

Bal.  I hold your dainties cheap, sir, and your welcome dear.

Ant. E.  O, Signior Balthazar, either at flesh or fish,   25
A table-full of welcome makes scarce one dainty dish.

Bal.  Good meat, sir, is common; that every churl affords.

Ant. E.  And welcome more common, for that’s nothing but words.

Bal.  Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast.

Ant. E.  Ay, to a niggardly host and more sparing guest:   30
But though my cates be mean, take them in good part;
Better cheer may you have, but not with better heart.
But soft! my door is lock’d. Go bid them let us in.

Dro. E.  Maud, Bridget, Marian, Cicely, Gillian, Ginn!

Dro. S.  [Within.]  Mome, malt-horse, capon, coxcomb, idiot, patch!   35
Either get thee from the door or sit down at the hatch.
Dost thou conjure for wenches, that thou call’st for such store,
When one is one too many? Go, get thee from the door.

Dro. E.  What patch is made our porter? — My master stays in the street.

Dro. S.  [Within.]  Let him walk from whence he came, lest he catch cold on ‘s feet.   40

Ant. E.  Who talks within there? ho! open the door.

Dro. S.  [Within.]  Right, sir; I’ll tell you when, an you’ll tell me wherefore.

Ant. E.  Wherefore? for my dinner: I have not din’d to-day.

Dro. S.  Nor to-day here you must not; come again when you may.

Ant. E.  What art thou that keep’st me out from the house I owe?   45

Dro. S.  [Within.]  The porter for this time, sir, and my name is Dromio.

Dro. E.  O villain! thou hast stolen both mine office and my name:
The one ne’er got me credit, the other mickle blame.
If thou hadst been Dromio to-day in my place,
Thou wouldst have chang’d thy face for a name, or thy name for an ass.   50

Luce.  [Within.]  What a coil is there, Dromio! who are those at the gate?

Dro. E.  Let my master in, Luce.

Luce.  [Within.]  Faith, no; he comes too late;
And so tell your master.

Dro. E.        O Lord! I must laugh.   55
Have at you with a proverb: Shall I set in my staff?

Luce.  [Within.]  Have at you with another: that’s — when? can you tell?

Dro. S.  [Within.]  If thy name be call’d Luce, — Luce, thou hast answer’d him well.

Ant. E.  Do you hear, you minion? you’ll let us in, I trow?

Luce.  [Within.]  I thought to have ask’d you.   60

Dro. S.  [Within.]  And you said, no.

Dro. E.  So come, help: well struck! there was blow for blow.

Ant. E.  Thou baggage, let me in.

Luce.  [Within.]  Can you tell for whose sake?

Dro. E.  Master, knock the door hard.   65

Luce.  [Within.]  Let him knock till it ache.

Ant. E.  You’ll cry for this, minion, if I beat the door down.

Luce.  [Within.]  What needs all that, and a pair of stocks in the town?

Adr.  [Within.]  Who is that at the door that keeps all this noise?

Dro. S.  [Within.]  By my troth your town is troubled with unruly boys.   70

Ant. E.  Are you there, wife? you might have come before.

Adr.  [Within.]  Your wife, sir knave! go, get you from the door.

Dro. E.  If you went in pain, master, this ‘knave’ would go sore.

Ang.  Here is neither cheer, sir, nor welcome: we would fain have either.

Bal.  In debating which was best, we shall part with neither.   75

Dro. E.  They stand at the door, master: bid them welcome hither.

Ant. E.  There is something in the wind, that we cannot get in.

Dro. E.  You would say so, master, if your garments were thin.
Your cake here is warm within; you stand here in the cold:
It would make a man mad as a buck to be so bought and sold.   80

Ant. E.  Go fetch me something: I’ll break ope the gate.

Dro. S.  [Within.]  Break any breaking here, and I’ll break your knave’s pate.

Dro. E.  A man may break a word with you, sir, and words are but wind:
Ay, and break it in your face, so he break it not behind.

Dro. S.  [Within.]  It seems thou wantest breaking: out upon thee, hind!   85

Dro. E.  Here’s too much ‘out upon thee!’ I pray thee, let me in.

Dro. S.  [Within.]  Ay, when fowls have no feathers, and fish have no fin.

Ant. E.  Well, I’ll break in. Go borrow me a crow.

Dro. E.  A crow without feather? Master, mean you so?
For a fish without a fin, there’s a fowl without a feather:   90
If a crow help us in, sirrah, we’ll pluck a crow together.

Ant. E.  Go get thee gone: fetch me an iron crow.

Bal.  Have patience, sir; O! let it not be so;
Herein you war against your reputation,
And draw within the compass of suspect   95
The unviolated honour of your wife.
Once this, — your long experience of her wisdom,
Her sober virtue, years, and modesty,
Plead on her part some cause to you unknown;
And doubt not, sir, but she will well excuse   100
Why at this time the doors are made against you.
Be rul’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.   105
If by strong hand you offer to break in
Now in the stirring passage of the day,
A vulgar comment will be made of it,
And that supposed by the common rout
Against your yet ungalled estimation,   110
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 quiet,   115
And, in despite of mirth, mean to be merry.
I know a wench of excellent discourse,
Pretty and witty, wild and yet, too, gentle:
There will we dine: this woman that I mean,
My wife, — but, I protest, without desert, —   120
Hath oftentimes upbraided me withal:
To her will we to dinner.  [To ANGELO.]  Get you home,
And fetch the chain; by this I know ’tis made:
Bring it, I pray you, to the Porpentine;
For there’s the house: that chain will I bestow,   125
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’ll knock elsewhere, to see if they’ll disdain me.

Ang.  I’ll meet you at that place some hour hence.   130

Ant. E.  Do so. This jest shall cost me some expense.  [Exeunt.

Act III. Scene II.

The Same.

Enter LUCIANA and ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse.

Luc.  And may it be that you have quite forgot
A husband’s office? Shall, Antipholus,
Even in the spring of love, thy love-springs rot?   5
Shall love, in building, grow so ruinous?
If you did wed my sister for her wealth,
Then, for her wealth’s sake use her with more kindness:
Or, if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth;
Muffle your false love with some show of blindness;   10
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;   15
Teach sin the carriage of a holy saint;
Be secret-false: what need she be acquainted?
What simple thief brags of his own attaint?
’Tis double wrong to truant with your bed,
And let her read it in thy looks at board:   20
Shame hath a bastard fame, well managed;
Ill 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;   25
We in your motion turn, and you may move us.
Then, gentle brother, get you in again;
Comfort my sister, cheer her, call her wife:
’Tis holy sport to be a little vain,
When the sweet breath of flattery conquers strife.   30
Ant. S.  Sweet mistress, — what your name is else, I know not,
Nor by what wonder you do hit of mine, —
Less in your knowledge and your grace you show not
Than our earth’s wonder; more than earth divine.
Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak:   35
Lay open to my earthy-gross conceit,
Smother’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?   40
Are you a god? would you create me new?
Transform me then, and to your power I’ll yield.
But if that I am I, then well I know
Your weeping sister is no wife of mine,
Nor to her bed no homage do I owe:   45
Far more, far more, to you do I decline.
O! 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,   50
And as a bed I’ll take them and there lie;
And, in that glorious supposition think
He gains by death that hath such means to die:
Let Love, being light, be drowned if she sink!

Luc.  What! are you mad, that you do reason so?   55

Ant. S.  Not mad, but mated; how, I do not know.

Luc.  It is a fault that springeth from your eye.

Ant. 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.   60

Luc.  Why call you me love? call my sister so.

Ant. S.  Thy sister’s sister.

Luc.        That’s my sister.

Ant. S.        No;
It is thyself, mine own self’s better part;   65
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.  Al this my sister is, or else should be.

Ant. S.  Call thyself sister, sweet, for I aim thee.   70
Thee will I love and with thee lead my life:
Thou hast no husband yet nor I no wife.
Give me thy hand.

Luc.        O! soft, sir; hold you still:
I’ll fetch my sister, to get her good will.  [Exit.   75

Enter DROMIO of Syracuse, hastily.

Ant. S.  Why, how now, Dromio! where run’st thou so fast?

Dro. 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.

Dro. S.  I am an ass, I am a woman’s man and besides myself.   80

Ant. S.  What 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 that will have me.

Ant. S.  What claim lays she to thee?

Dro. S.  Marry, sir, such claim as you would lay to your horse; and she would have me as a beast: not that, I being a beast, she would have me; but that she, being a very beastly creature, lays claim to me.

Ant. S.  What is she?   85

Dro. S.  A very reverent body; aye, such a one as a man may not speak of, without he say, ‘Sir-reverence.’ I have but lean luck in the match, and yet is she a wondrous fat marriage.

Ant. S.  How dost thou mean a fat marriage?

Dro. S.  Marry, 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 tallow in them will burn a Poland winter; if she lives till doomsday, she’ll burn 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.   90

Ant. S.  That’s a fault that water will mend.

Dro. S.  No, sir, ’tis in grain; Noah’s flood could not do it.

Ant. S.  What’s her name?

Dro. S.  Nell, sir; but her name and three quarters, — that is, an ell and three quarters, — will not measure her from hip to hip.

Ant. S.  Then she bears some breadth?   95

Dro. S.  No longer from head to foot than from hip to hip: she is spherical, like a globe; I could find out countries 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 found it by the barrenness; hard in the palm of the hand.   100

Ant. S.  Where France?

Dro. S.  In her forehead; armed and reverted, making war against her heir.

Ant. S.  Where England?

Dro. S.  I looked for the chalky cliffs, but I could find no whiteness in them: but I guess it stood in her chin, by the salt rheum that ran between France and it.

Ant. S.  Where Spain?   105

Dro. S.  Faith, I saw not; but I felt it hot in her breath.

Ant. S.  Where America, the Indies?

Dro. S.  O, sir! upon her nose, all o’er embellished with rubies, carbuncles, sapphires, declining their rich aspect to the hot breath of Spain, who sent whole armadoes of caracks to be ballast at her nose.

Ant. S.  Where stood Belgia, the Netherlands?

Dro. S.  O, sir! I did not look so low. To conclude, this drudge, or diviner, laid claim to me; call’d me Dromio; swore I was assured to her; told me what privy marks I had about me, as the mark of my shoulder, the mole in my neck, the great wart on my left arm, that I, amazed, ran from her as a witch.   110
And, I think, if my breast had not been made of faith and my heart of steel,
She had transform’d me to a curtal dog and made me turn i’ the wheel.

Ant. S.  Go hie thee presently post to the road:
An if the wind blow any way from shore,
I will not harbour in this town to-night:   115
If any bark put forth, come to the mart,
Where I will walk till thou return to me.
If every one knows us and we know none,
’Tis time, I think, to trudge, pack, and be gone.

Dro. S.  As from a bear a man would run for life,   120
So fly I from her that would be my wife.  [Exit.

Ant. S.  There’s none but witches do inhabit here,
And therefore ’tis high time that I were hence.
She that doth call me husband, even my soul
Doth for a wife abhor; but her fair sister,   125
Possess’d with such a gentle sovereign grace,
Of such enchanting presence and discourse,
Hath almost made me traitor to myself:
But, lest myself be guilty to self-wrong,
I’ll stop mine ears against the mermaid’s song.   130

Enter ANGELO.

Ang.  Master Antipholus!

Ant. S.  Ay, that’s my name.

Ang.  I know it well, sir: lo, here is the chain.
I thought to have ta’en you at the Porpentine;   135
The chain unfinish’d made me stay thus long.

Ant. S.  What is your will that I shall do with this?

Ang.  What please yourself, sir: I have made it for you.

Ant. S.  Made it for me, sir! I bespoke it not.

Ang.  Not once, nor twice, but twenty times you have.   140
Go home with it and please your wife withal;
And soon at supper-time I’ll visit you,
And then receive my money for the chain.

Ant. S.  I pray you, sir, receive the money now,
For fear you ne’er see chain nor money more.   145

Ang.  You are a merry man, sir: fare you well.  [Exit, leaving the chain.

Ant. S.  What I should think of this, I cannot tell:
But this I think, there’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,   150
When in the streets he meets such golden gifts.
I’ll to the mart, and there for Dromio stay:
If any ship put out, then straight away.  [Exit.

Act IV. Scene I.

A Public Place.

Enter Second Merchant, ANGELO, and an Officer.

Mer.  You know since Pentecost the sum is due,
And since I have not much importun’d you;
Nor now I had not, but that I am bound   5
To Persia, and want guilders for my voyage:
Therefore make present satisfaction,
Or I’ll attach you by this officer.

Ang.  Even just the sum that I do owe to you
Is growing to me by Antipholus;   10
And in the instant that I met with you
He had of me a chain: at five o’clock
I shall receive the money for the same.
Pleaseth you walk with me down to his house,
I will discharge my bond, and thank you too.   15

Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus and DROMIO of Ephesus from the Courtezan’s.

Off.  That labour may you save: see where he comes.

Ant. E.  While I go to the goldsmith’s house, go thou
And buy a rope’s end, that I will bestow
Among my wife and her confederates,   20
For locking me out of my doors by day.
But soft! I see the goldsmith. Get thee gone;
Buy thou a rope, and bring it home to me.

Dro. E.  I buy a thousand pound a year: I buy a rope!  [Exit.

Ant. E.  A man is well holp up that trusts to you:   25
I promised your presence and the chain;
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 your merry humour, here’s the note   30
How much your chain weighs to the utmost carat.
The fineness of the gold, and chargeful fashion,
Which doth amount to three odd ducats more
Than I stand debted to this gentleman:
I pray you see him presently discharg’d,   35
For he is bound to sea and stays but for it.

Ant. E.  I am not furnish’d with the present money;
Besides, I have some business in the town.
Good signior, take the stranger to my house,
And with you take the chain, and bid my wife   40
Disburse the sum on the receipt thereof:
Perchance I will be there as soon as you.

Ang.  Then, you will bring the chain to her yourself?

Ant. E.  No; bear it with you, lest I come not time enough.

Ang.  Well, sir, I will. Have you the chain about you?   45

Ant. E.  An if I have not, sir, I hope you have,
Or else you may return without your money.

Ang.  Nay, come, I pray you, sir, give me the chain:
Both wind and tide stays for this gentleman,
And I, to blame, have held him here too long.   50

Ant. E.  Good Lord! you use this dalliance to excuse
Your breach of promise to the Propentine.
I 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.   55

Ang.  You hear how he importunes me: the chain!

Ant. E.  Why, 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 by me some token.

Ant. E.  Fie! now you run this humour out of breath.   60
Come, where’s the chain? I pray you, let me see it.

Mer.  My business cannot brook this dalliance.
Good sir, say whe’r you’ll answer me or no:
If not, I’ll leave him to the officer.

Ant. E.  I answer you! what should I answer you?   65

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 wrong me much to say so.

Ang.  You wrong me more, sir, in denying it:   70
Consider how it stands upon my credit.

Mer.  Well, officer, arrest him at my suit.

Off.  I do;
And charge you in the duke’s name to obey me.

Ang.  This touches me in reputation.   75
Either consent to pay this sum for me,
Or I attach you by this officer.

Ant. E.  Consent to pay thee that I never had!
Arrest me, foolish fellow, if thou dar’st.

Ang.  Here is thy fee: arrest him, officer.   80
I would not spare my brother in this case,
If he should scorn me so apparently.

Off.  I do arrest you, sir: you hear the suit.

Ant. E.  I do obey thee till I give thee bail.
But, sirrah, you shall buy this sport as dear   85
As all the metal in your shop will answer.

Ang.  Sir, sir, I shall have law in Ephesus,
To your notorious shame, I doubt it not.

Enter DROMIO of Syracuse.

Dro. S.  Master, there is a bark of Epidamnum   90
That stays but till her owner comes aboard,
And then she bears away. Our fraughtage, sir,
I have convey’d aboard, and I have bought
The oil, the balsamum, and aqua-vitæ.
The ship is in her trim; the merry wind   95
Blows fair from land; they stay for nought at all
But for their owner, master, and yourself.

Ant. E.  How now! a madman! Why, thou peevish sheep,
What ship of Epidamnum stays for me?

Dro. S.  A ship you sent me to, to hire waftage.   100

Ant. E.  Thou drunken slave, I sent thee for a rope;
And told thee to what purpose, and what end.

Dro. S.  You sent me for a rope’s end as soon:
You sent me to the bay, sir, for a bark.

Ant. E.  I will debate this matter at more leisure,   105
And teach your ears to list me with more heed.
To Adriana, villain, hie thee straight;
Give her this key, and tell her, in the desk
That’s cover’d o’er with Turkish tapestry,
There is a purse of ducats: let her send it.   110
Tell her I am arrested in the street,
And that shall bail me. Hie thee, slave, be gone!
On, officer, to prison till it come.  [Exeunt Merchant, ANGELO, Officer, and ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus.

Dro. S.  To Adriana! that is where we din’d,
Where Dowsabel did claim me for her husband:   115
She is too big, I hope, for me to compass.
Thither I must, although against my will,
For servants must their masters’ minds fulfil.  [Exit.

Act IV. Scene II.

A Room in the House of ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus.

Enter ADRIANA 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?   5
Look’d he or red or pale? or sad or merrily?
What observation mad’st thou in this case
Of his heart’s meteors tilting in his face?

Luc.  First he denied you had in him no right.

Adr.  He meant he did me none; the more my spite.   10

Luc.  Then swore he that he was a stranger here.

Adr.  And true he swore, though yet forsworn he were.

Luc.  Then pleaded I for you.

Adr.        And what said he?

Luc.  That love I begg’d for you he begg’d of me.   15

Adr.  With what persuasion did he tempt thy love?

Luc.  With words that in an honest suit might move.
First, he did praise my beauty, then my speech.

Adr.  Didst speak him fair?

Luc.        Have patience, I beseech.   20

Adr.  I cannot, nor I will not hold me still:
My tongue, though not my heart, shall have his will.
He is deformed, crooked, old and sere,
Ill-fac’d, worse bodied, shapeless every where;
Vicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, unkind,   25
Stigmatical in making, worse in mind.

Luc.  Who would be jealous then, of such a one?
No evil lost is wail’d when it is gone.
Adr.  Ah! but I think him better than I say,
And yet would herein others’ eyes were worse.   30
Far from her nest the lapwing cries away:
My heart prays for him, though my tongue do curse.

Enter DROMIO of Syracuse.

Dro. S.  Here, go: the desk! the purse! sweet, now, make haste.

Luc.  How hast thou lost thy breath?   35

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;   40
A fiend, a fairy, pitiless and rough;
A wolf, nay, worse, a fellow all in buff;
A back-friend, a shoulder-clapper, one that countermands
The passages of alleys, creeks and narrow lands;
A hound that runs counter and yet draws dryfoot well;   45
One that, before the judgment, carries 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 arrested? tell me at whose suit.

Dro. S.  I know not at whose suit he is arrested well;   50
But he’s in a suit of buff which ‘rested him, that can I tell.
Will you send him, mistress, redemption, the money in his desk?

Adr.  Go fetch it, sister. — [Exit LUCIANA.]  This I wonder at:
That he, unknown to me, should be in debt:
Tell me, was he arrested on a band?   55

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 bell: ’tis time that I were gone:
It was two ere I left him, and now the clock strikes one.   60

Adr.  The hours come back! that did I never hear.

Dro. S.  O yes; if any hour meet a sergeant, a’ turns back for very fear.

Adr.  As if Time were in debt! how fondly dost thou reason!

Dro. S.  Time is a very bankrupt, and owes more than he’s worth to season.
Nay, he’s a thief too: have you not heard men say,   65
That Time comes stealing on by night and day?
If Time be in debt and theft, and a sergeant in the way,
Hath he not reason to turn back an hour in a day?

Re-enter LUCIANA.

Adr.  Go, Dromio: there’s the money, bear it straight,   70
And bring thy master home immediately.
Come, sister; I am press’d down with conceit;
Conceit, my comfort and my injury.  [Exeunt.

Act IV. Scene III.

A Public Place.

Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse.

Ant. S.  There’s not a man I meet but doth salute me,
As if I were their well acquainted friend;
And every one doth call me by my name.   5
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,   10
And therewithal, took measure of my body.
Sure these are but imaginary wiles,
And Lapland sorcerers inhabit here.

Enter DROMIO of Syracuse.

Dro. S.  Master, here’s the gold you sent me for.   15
What! have you got the picture of old Adam new apparelled?

Ant. S.  What gold is this? What 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 killed for the Prodigal: he that came behind you, sir, like an evil angel, and bid you forsake your liberty.

Ant. S.  I understand thee not.

Dro. S.  No? why, ’tis 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 durance; he that sets up his rest to do more exploits with his mace than a morris-pike.   20

Ant. S.  What, thou meanest an officer?

Dro. S.  Ay, sir, the sergeant of the band; he that brings any man to answer it that breaks his band; one that thinks a man always going to bed, and says, ‘God give you good rest!’

Ant. S.  Well, sir, there rest in your foolery. Is there any ship puts forth to-night? may we be gone?

Dro. S.  Why, sir, I brought you word an hour since that the bark Expedition put forth to-night; and then were you hindered by the sergeant to tarry for the hoy Delay. Here are the angels that you sent for to deliver you.

Ant. S.  The fellow is distract, and so am I;   25
And here we wander in illusions:
Some blessed power deliver us from hence!

Enter a Courtezan.

Cour.  Well met, well met, Master Antipholus.
I see, sir, you have found the goldsmith now:   30
Is that the chain you promis’d me to-day?

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.  Nay, 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 as to say, ‘God make me a light wench.’ It is written, they appear to men like angels of light: light is an effect of fire, and fire will burn; ergo, light wenches will burn. Come not near her.   35

Cour.  Your man and you are marvellous merry, sir. Will you go with me? we’ll mend our dinner here.

Dro. S.  Master, if you do, expect spoon-meat, so bespeak a long spoon.

Ant. S.  Why, Dromio?

Dro. S.  Marry, he must have a long spoon that must eat with the devil.

Ant. S.  Avoid thee, fiend! what tell’st thou me of supping?   40
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 at dinner,
Or, for my diamond, the chain you promis’d,
And I’ll be gone, sir, and not trouble you.   45

Dro. S.  Some devils 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, would have a chain.
Master, be wise: an if you give it her,   50
The devil will shake her chain and fright us with it.

Cour.  I pray you, sir, my ring, or else the chain:
I hope you do not mean to cheat me so.

Ant. S.  Avaunt, thou witch! Come, Dromio, let us go.

Dro. S.  ‘Fly pride,’ says the peacock: mistress, that you know.  [Exeunt ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse and DROMIO of Syracuse.   55

Cour.  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 he promis’d me a chain:
Both one and other he denies me now.   60
The reason that I gather he 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 his fits,   65
On purpose shut the doors against his way.
My way is now to hie home 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,   70
For forty ducats is too much to lose.  [Exit.

Act IV. Scene IV.

A Street.

Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus and the Officer.

Ant. E.  Fear me not, man; I will not break away:
I’ll give thee, ere I leave thee, so much money,
To warrant thee, as I am ‘rested for.   5
My wife is in a wayward mood to-day,
And will not lightly trust the messenger.
That I should be attach’d in Ephesus,
I tell you, ‘twill sound harshly in her ears.

Enter DROMIO of Ephesus with a rope’s end.   10
Here comes my man: I think he brings the money.
How now, sir! have you that I sent you for?

Dro. E.  Here’s that, I warrant you, will pay them all.

Ant. E.  But where’s the money?

Dro. E.  Why, sir, I gave the money for the rope.   15

Ant. E.  Five hundred ducats, villain, for a rope?

Dro. E.  I’ll serve you, sir, five hundred at the rate.

Ant. E.  To what end did I bid thee hie thee home?

Dro. E.  To a rope’s end, sir; and to that end am I return’d.

Ant. E.  And to that end, sir, I will welcome you.  [Beats him.   20

Off.  Good sir, be patient.

Dro. E.  Nay, ’tis for me to be patient; I am in adversity.

Off.  Good now, hold thy tongue.

Dro. E.  Nay, rather persuade him to hold his hands.

Ant. E.  Thou whoreson, senseless villain!   25

Dro. E.  I would I were senseless, sir, that I might not feel your blows.

Ant. E.  Thou art sensible in nothing but blows, 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 hour of my nativity to this instant, and have nothing at his hands for my service but blows. When I am cold, he heats me with beating; when I am warm, he cools me with beating I am waked with it when I sleep; raised with it when I sit; driven out of doors with it when I go from home; welcomed 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 lamed me, I shall beg with it from door to door.

Ant. E.  Come, go along; my wife is coming yonder.

Enter ADRIANA, LUCIANA, the Courtezan, and PINCH.   30

Dro. E.  Mistress, respice finem, respect your end; or rather, to prophesy like the parrot, ‘Beware the rope’s end.’

Ant. E.  Wilt thou still talk?  [Beats him.

Cour.  How say you now? is not your husband mad?

Adr.  His incivility confirms no less.
Good Doctor Pinch, you are a conjurer;   35
Establish him in his true sense again,
And I will please you what you will demand.

Luc.  Alas! how fiery and how sharp he looks.

Cour.  Mark how he trembles in his ecstasy!

Pinch.  Give me your hand and let me feel your pulse.   40

Ant. E.  There is my hand, and let it feel your ear.  [Strikes him.

Pinch.  I charge thee, Satan, hous’d within this 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.   45

Ant. E.  Peace, doting wizard, peace! I am not mad.

Adr.  O! that thou wert not, poor distressed soul!

Ant. E.  You minion, you, are these your customers?
Did this companion with the saffron face
Revel and feast it at my house to-day,   50
Whilst upon me the guilty doors were shut
And I denied to enter in my house?

Adr.  O husband, God doth know you din’d at home;
Where would you had remain’d until this time,
Free from these slanders and this open shame!   55

Ant. E.  Din’d at home! Thou villain, what say’st 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?

Dro. E.  Perdy, your doors were lock’d and you shut out.

Ant. E.  And did not she herself revile me there?   60

Dro. E.  Sans fable, she herself revil’d you there.

Ant. E.  Did not her kitchen-maid rail, taunt, and scorn me?

Dro. E.  Certes, she did; the kitchen-vestal scorn’d you.

Ant. E.  And did not I in rage depart from thence?

Dro. E.  In verity you did: my bones bear witness,   65
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 arrest me.   70

Adr.  Alas! I sent you money to redeem you,
By Dromio here, who came in haste for it.

Dro. E.  Money by me! heart and good will you might;
But surely, master, not a rag of money.

Ant. E.  Went’st not thou to her for a purse of ducats?   75

Adr.  He came to me, and I deliver’d it.

Luc.  And I am witness with her that she did.

Dro. E.  God and the rope-maker bear me witness
That I was sent for nothing but a rope!

Pinch.  Mistress, both man and master is possess’d:   80
I know it by their pale and deadly looks.
They 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 the bag of gold?

Adr.  I did not, gentle husband, lock thee forth.   85

Dro. E.  And, gentle master, I receiv’d no gold;
But I confess, sir, that we were lock’d out.

Adr.  Dissembling villain! thou speak’st false in both.

Ant. E.  Dissembling harlot! thou art false in all;
And art confederate with a damned pack   90
To make a loathsome abject scorn of me;
But with these nails I’ll pluck out those false eyes
That would behold in me this shameful sport.

Adr.  O! bind him, bind him, let him not come near me.

Pinch.  More company! the fiend is strong within him.   95

Luc.  Ay me! poor man, how pale and wan he looks!

Enter three or four and bind ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus.

Ant. E.  What, will you murder me? Thou gaoler, thou;
I am thy prisoner: wilt thou suffer them
To make a rescue?   100

Off.        Masters, let him go:
He is my prisoner, and you shall not have him.

Pinch.  Go bind this man, for he is frantic too.  [They bind DROMIO of Ephesus.

Adr.  What wilt thou do, thou peevish officer?
Hast thou delight to see a wretched man   105
Do outrage and displeasure to himself?

Off.  He is my prisoner: if I let him go,
The debt he owes will be requir’d of me.

Adr.  I will discharge thee ere I go from thee:
Bear me forthwith unto his creditor,   110
And, knowing how the debt grows, I will pay it.
Good Master doctor, see him safe convey’d
Home to my house. O most unhappy day!

Ant. E.  O most unhappy strumpet!

Dro. E.  Master, I am here enter’d in bond for you.   115

Ant. E.  Out on thee, villain! wherefore dost thou mad me?

Dro. E.  Will you be bound for nothing? be mad, good master; cry, ‘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 Assistants with ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus and DROMIO of Ephesus.
Say now, whose suit is he arrested at?   120

Off.  One Angelo, a goldsmith; do you know him?

Adr.  I know the man. What is the sum he owes?

Off.  Two hundred ducats.

Adr.        Say, how grows it due?

Off.  Due for a chain your husband had of him.   125

Adr.  He did bespeak a chain for me, but had it not.

Cour.  When as 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 chain.   130

Adr.  It may be so, but I did never see it.
Come, gaoler, bring me where the goldsmith is:
I long to know the truth hereof at large.

Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse and DROMIO of Syracuse, with rapiers drawn.

Luc.  God, for thy mercy! they are loose again.   135

Adr.  And come with naked swords. Let’s call more help
To have them bound again.

Off.        Away! they’ll kill us.  [Exeunt ADRIANA, LUCIANA, and Officer.

Ant. S.  I see, these witches are afraid of swords.

Dro. S.  She that would be your wife now ran from you.   140

Ant. S.  Come to the Centaur; fetch our stuff from thence:
I long that we were safe and sound aboard.

Dro. 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 here still, and turn witch.

Ant. S.  I will not stay to-night for all the town;
Therefore away, to get our stuff aboard.  [Exeunt.   145

Act V. Scene I.

A Street before an Abbey.

Enter Merchant and ANGELO.

Ang.  I 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.   5

Mer.  How is the man esteem’d here in the city?

Ang.  Of very reverend 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.   10

Mer.  Speak softly: yonder, as I think, he walks.

Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse and DROMIO of Syracuse.

Ang.  ’Tis so; and that self chain about his neck
Which he forswore most monstrously to have.
Good sir, draw near to me, I’ll speak to him.   15
Signior Antipholus, I wonder much
That you would put me to this shame and trouble;
And not without some scandal to yourself,
With circumstance and oaths so to deny
This chain which now you wear so openly:   20
Beside the charge, the shame, imprisonment,
You have done wrong to this my honest friend,
Who, but for staying on our controversy,
Had hoisted sail and put to sea to-day.
This chain you had of me; can you deny it?   25

Ant. 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?

Mer.  These ears of mine, thou know’st, did hear thee.
Fie on thee, wretch! ’tis pity that thou liv’st   30
To walk where any honest men resort.

Ant. S.  Thou art a villain to impeach me thus:
I’ll prove mine honour and mine honesty
Against thee presently, if thou dar’st stand.

Mer.  I dare, and do defy thee for a villain.  [They draw.   35

Enter ADRIANA, LUCIANA, Courtezan, and Others.

Adr.  Hold! hurt him not, for God’s sake! he is mad.
Some get within him, take his sword away.
Bind Dromio too, and bear them to my house.

Dro. S.  Run, master, run; for God’s sake, take a house!   40
This is some priory: in, or we are spoil’d.  [Exeunt ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse and DROMIO of Syracuse to the Abbey.

Enter the Abbess.

Abb.  Be quiet, people. Wherefore throng you hither?

Adr.  To fetch my poor distracted husband hence.
Let us come in, that we may bind him fast,   45
And bear him home for his recovery.

Ang.  I knew he was not in his perfect wits.

Mer.  I am sorry now that I did draw on him.

Abb.  How long hath this possession held the man?

Adr.  This week he hath been heavy, sour, sad,   50
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 wrack of sea?
Buried some dear friend? Hath not else his eye   55
Stray’d his affection in unlawful love?
A sin prevailing much in youthful men,
Who give their eyes the liberty of gazing.
Which of these sorrows is he subject to?

Adr.  To none of these, except it be the last;   60
Namely, some love that drew him oft from home.

Abb.  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.   65

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 urging it;   70
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 vile and bad.

Abb.  And thereof came it that the man was mad:   75
The venom clamours of a jealous woman
Poison more deadly than a mad dog’s tooth.
It seems, his sleeps were hinder’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:   80
Unquiet meals make ill digestions;
Thereof the raging fire of fever bred:
And what’s a fever but a fit of madness?
Thou say’st his sports were hinder’d by thy brawls:
Sweet recreation barr’d, what doth ensue   85
But moody moping, and dull melancholy,
Kinsman to grim and comfortless despair,
And at her heels a huge infectious troop
Of pale distemperatures and foes to life?
In food, in sport, and life-preserving rest   90
To be disturb’d, would mad or man or beast:
The consequence is then, thy jealous fits
Have scar’d thy husband from the use of wits.

Luc.  She never reprehended him but mildly
When he demean’d himself rough, rude, and wildly.   95
Why 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 my house.

Adr.  Then, let your servants bring my husband forth.   100

Abb.  Neither: he took this place for sanctuary,
And it shall privilege him from your hands
Till I have brought him to his wits again,
Or lose my labour in assaying it.

Adr.  I will attend my husband, be his nurse,   105
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
Till I have us’d the approved means I have,   110
With wholesome syrups, drugs, and holy 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 me.   115

Adr.  I will not hence and leave my husband 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.  [Exit.

Luc.  Complain unto the duke of this indignity.   120

Adr.  Come, go: I will fall prostrate at his feet,
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.

Sec. Mer.  By this, I think, the dial points at five:   125
Anon, I’m sure, the duke himself in person
Comes this way to the melancholy vale,
The place of death and sorry execution,
Behind the ditches of the abbey here.

Ang.  Upon what cause?   130

Sec. Mer.  To see a reverend Syracusian merchant,
Who put unluckily into this bay
Against the laws and statutes of this town,
Beheaded publicly for his offence.

Ang.  See where they come: we will behold his death.   135

Luc.  Kneel to the duke before he pass the abbey.

Enter DUKE attended; ÆGEON bare-headed; with the Headsman and other Officers.

Duke.  Yet once again proclaim it publicly,
If any friend will pay the sum for him,
He shall not die; so much we tender him.   140

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,
Whom I made lord of me and all I had,   145
At your important letters, this ill day
A most outrageous fit of madness took him,
That desperately he hurried through the street, —
With him his bondman, all as mad as he, —
Doing displeasure to the citizens   150
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.   155
Anon, I wot not by what strong escape,
He broke from those that had the guard of him,
And with his mad attendant and himself,
Each one with ireful passion, with drawn swords
Met us again, and, madly bent on us   160
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,   165
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.

Duke.  Long since thy husband serv’d me in my wars,
And I to thee engag’d a prince’s word,   170
When thou didst make him master of thy 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 will determine this before I stir.   175

Enter a Servant.

Serv.  O mistress, mistress! shift and save yourself!
My 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;   180
And ever as it blaz’d they threw on him
Great pails of puddled mire to quench the hair.
My master preaches patience to him, and the while
His man with scissors nicks him like a fool;
And sure, unless you send some present help,   185
Between them they will kill the conjurer.

Adr.  Peace, fool! thy master and his man are here,
And that is false thou dost report to us.

Serv.  Mistress, upon my life, I tell you true;
I have not breath’d almost, since I did see it.   190
He cries for you and vows, if he can take you,
To scotch your face, and to disfigure you.  [Cry within.
Hark, nark! I hear him, mistress: fly, be gone!

Duke.  Come, stand by me; fear nothing. Guard with halberds!

Adr.  Ay me, it is my husband! Witness you,   195
That he is borne about invisible:
Even now we hous’d him in the abbey here,
And now he’s here, past thought of human reason.

Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus and DROMIO of Ephesus.

Ant. E.  Justice, most gracious duke! O! grant me justice,   200
Even for the service that long since I did thee,
When I bestrid thee in the wars and took
Deep scars to save thy life; even for the blood
That then I lost for thee, now grant me justice.

Æge.  Unless the fear of death doth make me dote,   205
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!   210
Beyond imagination is the wrong
That she this day hath shameless thrown on me.

Duke.  Discover how, and thou shalt find me just.

Ant. E.  This day, great duke, she shut the doors upon me,
While she with harlots feasted in my house.   215

Duke.  A grievous fault! Say, woman, didst thou so?

Adr.  No, my good lord: myself, he, and my sister
To-day did dine together. So befall my soul
As this is false he burdens me withal!

Luc.  Ne’er may I look on day, nor sleep on night,   220
But she tells to your highness simple truth!

Ang.  O perjur’d woman! They are both forsworn:
In this the madman justly chargeth them!

Ant. E.  My liege, I am advised what I say:
Neither disturb’d with the effect of wine,   225
Nor heady-rash, provok’d with raging ire,
Albeit my wrongs might make one wiser mad.
This woman lock’d me out this day from dinner:
That goldsmith there, were he not pack’d with her,
Could witness it, for he was with me then;   230
Who parted with me to go fetch a chain,
Promising to bring it to the Porpentine,
Where 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,   235
And in his company that gentleman.
There did this perjur’d goldsmith swear me down
That I this day of him receiv’d the chain,
Which, God he knows, I saw not; for the which
He did arrest me with an officer.   240
I did obey, and sent my peasant home
For certain ducats: he with none return’d.
Then fairly I bespoke the officer
To go in person with me to my house.
By the way we met   245
My wife, her sister, and a rabble more
Of vile confederates: along with them
They brought one Pinch, a hungry lean-fac’d villain,
A mere anatomy, a mountebank,
A threadbare juggler, and a fortune-teller,   250
A needy, hollow-ey’d, sharp-looking wretch,
A living-dead man. This pernicious slave,
Forsooth, took on him as a conjurer,
And, gazing in mine eyes, feeling my pulse,
And with no face, as ‘twere, out-facing me,   255
Cries out, I was possess’d. Then, altogether
They fell upon me, bound me, bore me thence,
And in a dark and dankish vault at home
There left me and my man, both bound together;
Till, gnawing with my teeth my bonds in sunder,   260
I gain’d my freedom, and immediately
Ran hither to your Grace; whom I beseech
To give me ample satisfaction
For these deep shames and great indignities.

Ang.  My lord, in truth, thus far I witness with him,   265
That he din ‘t not at home, but was lock’d out.

Duke.  But had he such a chain of thee, or no?

Ang.  He had, my lord; and when he ran in here,
These people saw the chain about his neck.

Sec. Mer.  Besides, I will be sworn these ears of mine   270
Heard you confess you had the chain of him
After you first forswore it on the mart;
And thereupon I drew my sword on you;
And then you fled into this abbey here,
From whence, I think, you are come by miracle.   275

Ant. E.  I never came within these abbey walls;
Nor ever didst thou draw thy sword on me;
I never saw the chain, so help me heaven!
And this is false you burden me withal.

Duke.  Why, what an intricate impeach is this!   280
I think you all have drunk 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. Sirrah, what say you?   285

Dro. E.  Sir, he din’d with her there, at the Porpentine.

Cour.  He did, and from my finger snatch’d that ring.

Ant. E.  ’Tis true, my liege; this ring I had of her.

Duke.  Saw’st thou him enter at the abbey here?

Cour.  As sure, my liege, as I do see your Grace.   290

Duke.  Why, this is strange. Go call the abbess hither.  [Exit an Attendant.
I think you are all mated or stark mad.

Æge.  Most mighty duke, vouchsafe me speak a word:
Haply I see a friend will save my life,
And pay the sum that may deliver me.   295

Duke.  Speak freely, Syracusian, what thou wilt.

Æge.  Is not your name, sir, called Antipholus?
And is not that your bondman Dromio?

Dro. E.  Within this hour I was his bondman, sir;
But he, I thank him, gnaw’d in two my cords:   300
Now am I Dromio and his man, unbound.

Æge.  I am sure you both of you remember me.

Dro. 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?   305

Æge.  Why look you strange on me? you know me well.

Ant. E.  I never saw you in my life till now.

Æge.  O! grief hath chang’d me since you saw me last,
And careful hours, with Time’s deformed hand,
Have written strange defeatures in my face:   310
But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice?

Ant. E.  Neither.

Æge.  Dromio, nor thou?

Dro. E.  No, trust me, sir, not I.

Æge.  I am sure thou dost.   315

Dro. E.  Ay, sir; but I am sure I do not; and whatsoever a man denies, you are now bound to believe him.

Æge.  Not know my voice! O, time’s extremity,
Hast thou so crack’d and splitted my poor tongue
In seven short years, that here my only son
Knows not my feeble key of untun’d cares?   320
Though now this grained face of mine be hid
In sap-consuming winter’s drizzled snow,
And all the conduits of my blood froze up,
Yet hath my night of life some memory,
My wasting lamps some fading glimmer left,   325
My dull deaf ears a little use to hear:
All these old witnesses, I cannot err,
Tell me thou art my son Antipholus.

Ant. E.  I never saw my father in my life.

Æge.  But seven years since, in Syracusa, boy,   330
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 the city
Can witness with me that it is not so:
I ne’er saw Syracusa in my life.   335

Duke.  I tell thee, Syracusian, twenty years
Have I been patron to Antipholus,
During which time he ne’er saw Syracusa.
I see thy age and dangers make thee dote.

Re-enter Abbess, with ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse and DROMIO of Syracuse.   340

Abb.  Most mighty duke, behold a man much wrong’d.  [All gather to see him.

Adr.  I see two husbands, or mine eyes deceive me!

Duke.  One of these men is Genius to the other;
And so of these: which is the natural man,
And which the spirit? Who deciphers them?   345

Dro. S.  I, sir, am Dromio: command him away.

Dro. E.  I, sir, am Dromio: pray let me stay.

Ant. S.  Ægeon art thou not? or else his ghost?

Dro. S.  O! my old master; who hath bound him here?

Abb.  Whoever bound him, I will loose his bonds,   350
And gain a husband by his liberty.
Speak, old Ægeon, if thou be’st the man
That hadst a wife once call’d Æmilia,
That bore thee at a burden two fair sons.
O! if thou be’st the same Ægeon, speak,   355
And speak unto the same Æmilia!

Æge.  If I dream not, thou art Æmilia:
If thou art she, tell me where is that son
That floated with thee on the fatal raft?

Abb.  By men of Epidamnum, he and I,   360
And the twin Dromio, all were taken up:
But by and by rude fishermen of Corinth
By force took Dromio and my son from them,
And me they left with those of Epidamnum.
What then became of them, I cannot tell;   365
I to this fortune that you see me in.

Duke.  Why, here begins his morning story right:
These two Antipholus’, these two so like,
And these two Dromios, one in semblance,
Besides her urging of her wrack at sea;   370
These are the parents to these children,
Which accidentally are met together.
Antipholus, thou cam’st from Corinth first?

Ant. S.  No, sir, not I; I came from Syracuse.

Duke.  Stay, stand apart; I know not which is which.   375

Ant. E.  I came from Corinth, my most gracious lord, —

Dro. E.  And I with him.

Ant. E.  Brought to this town by that most famous warrior,
Duke Menaphon, your most renowned uncle.

Adr.  Which of you two did dine with me to-day?   380

Ant. S.  I, 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 call me so;
And this fair gentlewoman, her sister here,   385
Did call me brother.  [To LUCIANA.]  What I told you then,
I hope I shall have leisure to make good,
If this be not a dream I see and hear.

Ang.  That is the chain, sir, which you had of me.

Ant. S.  I think it be, sir; I deny it not.   390

Ant. E.  And you, sir, for this chain arrested me.

Ang.  I 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.

Dro. E.  No, none by me.   395

Ant. S.  This purse of ducats I receiv’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, and he for me,
And thereupon these errors are arose.   400

Ant. E.  These ducats pawn I for my father here.

Duke.  It shall not need: thy father hath his life.

Cour.  Sir, I must have that diamond from you.

Ant. E.  There, take it; and much thanks for my good cheer.

Abb.  Renowned duke, vouchsafe to take the pains   405
To go with us into the abbey here,
And hear at large discoursed all our fortunes;
And all that are assembled in this place,
That by this sympathized one day’s error
Have suffer’d wrong, go keep us company,   410
And we shall make full satisfaction.
Thirty-three years have I but gone in travail
Of you, my sons; and, till this present hour
My heavy burdens ne’er delivered.
The duke, my husband, and my children both,   415
And you the calendars of their nativity,
Go to a gossip’s feast, and joy with me:
After so long grief such festivity!

Duke.  With all my heart I’ll gossip at this feast.  [Exeunt DUKE, Abbess, ÆGEON, Courtezan, Merchant, ANGELO, and Attendants.

Dro. S.  Master, shall I fetch your stuff from shipboard?   420

Ant. E.  Dromio, what stuff of mine hast thou embark’d?

Dro. S.  Your goods that lay at host, sir, in the Centaur.

Ant. S.  He speaks to me. I am your master, Dromio:
Come, go with us; we’ll look to that anon:
Embrace thy brother there; rejoice with him.  [Exeunt ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse and ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus, ADRIANA and LUCIANA.   425

Dro. S.  There is a fat friend at your master’s house,
That kitchen’d me for you to-day at dinner:
She now shall be my sister, not my wife.

Dro. E.  Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother:
I see by you I am a sweet-fac’d youth.   430
Will you walk in to see their gossiping?

Dro. S.  Not I, sir; you are my elder.

Dro. E.  That’s a question: how shall we try it?

Dro. S.  We’ll draw cuts for the senior: till then lead thou first.

Dro. E.  Nay, then, thus:   435
We came into the world like brother and brother;
And now let’s go hand in hand, not one before another.  [Exeunt.

TITUS ANDRONICUS

Shakespeare’s first tragedy was written between 1588 and 1593 and reveals his attempt to emulate the violent and bloody revenge plays of his contemporaries and the Roman playwright Seneca, which were extremely popular with audiences throughout the sixteenth century.  The play is set during the latter days of the Roman Empire, and tells the fictional story of Titus, a general in the Roman army, who is engaged in a cycle of revenge with Tamora, Queen of the Goths. It is Shakespeare’s bloodiest and most violent work, and traditionally, is one of his least respected plays. Although very popular in its day, the play fell out of favour during the Victorian era, particurly due to its graphic violence.

Title page of the first quarto

The 1999 film adaptation

CONTENTS

Dramatis Personæ

Act I. Scene I.

Act II. Scene I.

Act II. Scene II.

Act II. Scene III.

Act II. Scene IV.

Act III. Scene I.

Act III. Scene II.

Act IV. Scene I.

Act IV. Scene II.

Act IV. Scene III.

Act IV. Scene IV.

Act V. Scene I.

Act V. Scene II.

Act V. Scene III.

Dramatis Personæ

SATURNINUS, Son to the late Emperor of Rome, and afterwards declared Emperor.
BASSIANUS, Brother to Saturninus, in love with Lavinia.
TITUS ANDRONICUS, a Roman, General against the Goths.
MARCUS ANDRONICUS, Tribune of the People, and brother to Titus.
LUCIUS, QUINTUS, MARTIUS, & MUTIUS, Sons to Titus Andronicus.
YOUNG LUCIUS, a Boy, Son to Lucius.
PUBLIUS, Son to Marcus Andronicus.
SEMPRONIUS, CAIUS, & VALENTINE, Kinsmen to Titus.
ÆMILIUS, a noble Roman.
ALARBUS, DEMETRIUS, & CHIRON, Sons to Tamora.
AARON, a Moor, beloved by Tamora.
A Captain, Tribune, Messenger, and Clown; Romans.
Goths and Romans.
TAMORA, Queen of the Goths.
LAVINIA, Daughter to Titus Andronicus.
A Nurse, and a black Child.
Senators, Tribunes, Officers, Soldiers, and Attendants.

SCENE. — Rome, and the Country near it.

Act I. Scene I.

Rome.

The Tomb of the Andronici appearing.  The Tribunes and Senators aloft; and then enter Saturninus and his Followers at one door, and Bassianus and his Followers at the other, with drum and colours.

Sat.  Noble patricians, patrons of my right,
Defend the justice of my cause with arms;
And, countrymen, my loving followers,   5
Plead my successive title with your swords:
I am his first-born son that was the last
That wore the imperial diadem of Rome;
Then let my father’s honours live in me,
Nor wrong mine age with this indignity.   10

Bas.  Romans, friends, followers, favourers of my right,
If ever Bassianus, Cæsar’s son,
Were gracious in the eyes of royal Rome,
Keep then this passage to the Capitol,
And suffer not dishonour to approach   15
The imperial seat, to virtue consecrate,
To justice, continence, and nobility;
But let desert in pure election shine,
And, Romans, fight for freedom in your choice.

Enter MARCUS ANDRONICUS, aloft, with the crown.   20

Mar.  Princes, that strive by factions and by friends
Ambitiously for rule and empery,
Know that the people of Rome, for whom we stand
A special party, have, by common voice,
In election for the Roman empery,   25
Chosen Andronicus, surnamed Pius,
For many good and great deserts to Rome:
A nobler man, a braver warrior,
Lives not this day within the city walls:
He by the senate is accited home   30
From weary wars against the barbarous Goths;
That, with his sons, a terror to our foes,
Hath yok’d a nation, strong, train’d up in arms.
Ten years are spent since first he undertook
This cause of Rome, and chastised with arms   35
Our enemies’ pride: five times he hath return’d
Bleeding to Rome, bearing his valiant sons
In coffins from the field;
And now at last, laden with honour’s spoils,
Returns the good Andronicus to Rome,   40
Renowned Titus, flourishing in arms.
Let us entreat, by honour of his name,
Whom worthily you would have now succeed,
And in the Capitol and senate’s right,
Whom you pretend to honour and adore,   45
That you withdraw you and abate your strength;
Dismiss your followers, and, as suitors should,
Plead your deserts in peace and humbleness.

Sat.  How fair the tribune speaks to calm my thoughts!

Bas.  Marcus Andronicus, so I do affy   50
In thy uprightness and integrity,
And so I love and honour thee and thine,
Thy noble brother Titus and his sons,
And her to whom my thoughts are humbled all,
Gracious Lavinia, Rome’s rich ornament,   55
That I will here dismiss my loving friends,
And to my fortunes and the people’s favour
Commit my cause in balance to be weigh’d.  [Exeunt the Followers of BASSIANUS.

Sat.  Friends, that have been thus forward in my right,
I thank you all and here dismiss you all;   60
And to the love and favour of my country
Commit myself, my person, and the cause.  [Exeunt the Followers of SATURNINUS.
Rome, be as just and gracious unto me
As I am confident and kind to thee.
Open the gates, and let me in.   65

Bas.  Tribunes, and me, a poor competitor.  [Flourish.  They go up into the Senate-house.

Enter a Captain.

Cap.  Romans, make way! the good Andronicus,
Patron of virtue, Rome’s best champion,
Successful in the battles that he fights,   70
With honour and with fortune is return’d
From where he circumscribed with his sword,
And brought to yoke, the enemies of Rome.

Drums and trumpets sounded, and then enter MARTIUS and MUTIUS; after them two Men bearing a coffin covered with black; then LUCIUS and QUINTUS.  After them TITUS ANDRONICUS; and then TAMORA, with ALARBUS, CHIRON, DEMETRIUS, AARON, and other Goths, prisoners; Soldiers and people following.  The bearers set down the coffin, and TITUS speaks.

Tit.  Hail, Rome, victorious in thy mourning weeds!   75
Lo! as the bark, that hath discharg’d her fraught,
Returns with precious lading to the bay
From whence at first she weigh’d her anchorage,
Cometh Andronicus, bound with laurel boughs,
To re-salute his country with his tears,   80
Tears of true joy for his return to Rome.
Thou great defender of this Capitol,
Stand gracious to the rites that we intend!
Romans, of five-and-twenty valiant sons,
Half of the number that King Priam had,   85
Behold the poor remains, alive, and dead!
These that survive let Rome reward with love;
These that I bring unto their latest home.
With burial among their ancestors:
Here Goths have given me leave to sheathe my sword.   90
Titus, unkind and careless of thine own,
Why suffer’st thou thy sons, unburied yet
To hover on the dreadful shore of Styx?
Make way to lay them by their brethren.  [The tomb is opened.
There greet in silence, as the dead are wont,   95
And sleep in peace, slain in your country’s wars!
O sacred receptacle of my joys,
Sweet cell of virtue and nobility,
How many sons of mine hast thou in store,
That thou wilt never render to me more!   100

Luc.  Give us the proudest prisoner of the Goths,
That we may hew his limbs, and on a pile
Ad manes fratrum sacrifice his flesh,
Before this earthy prison of their bones;
That so the shadows be not unappeas’d,   105
Nor we disturb’d with prodigies on earth.

Tit.  I give him you, the noblest that survives
The eldest son of this distressed queen.

Tam.  Stay, Roman brethren! Gracious conqueror,
Victorious Titus, rue the tears I shed,   110
A mother’s tears in passion for her son:
And if thy sons were ever dear to thee,
O! think my son to be as dear to me.
Sufficeth not that we are brought to Rome,
To beautify thy triumphs and return,   115
Captive to thee and to thy Roman yoke;
But must my sons be slaughter’d in the streets
For valiant doings in their country’s cause?
O! if to fight for king and commonweal
Were piety in thine, it is in these.   120
Andronicus, stain not thy tomb with blood:
Wilt thou draw near the nature of the gods?
Draw near them then in being merciful;
Sweet mercy is nobility’s true badge:
Thrice-noble Titus, spare my first-born son.   125

Tit.  Patient yourself, madam, and pardon me.
These are their brethren, whom your Goths beheld
Alive and dead, and for their brethren slain
Religiously they ask a sacrifice:
To this your son is mark’d, and die he must,   130
To appease their groaning shadows that are gone.

Luc.  Away with him! and make a fire straight;
And with our swords, upon a pile of wood,
Let’s hew his limbs till they be clean consum’d.  [Exeunt LUCIUS, QUINTUS, MARTIUS, and MUTIUS, with ALARBUS.

Tam.  O cruel, irreligious piety!   135

Chi.  Was ever Scythia half so barbarous?

Dem.  Oppose not Scythia to ambitious Rome.
Alarbus goes to rest, and we survive
To tremble under Titus’ threatening look.
Then, madam, stand resolv’d; but hope withal   140
The self-same gods, that arm’d the Queen of Troy
With opportunity of sharp revenge
Upon the Thracian tyrant in his tent,
May favour Tamora, the Queen of Goths —
When Goths were Goths, and Tamora was queen —   145
To quit the bloody wrongs upon her foes.

Re-enter LUCIUS, QUINTUS, MARTIUS, and MUTIUS, with their swords bloody.

Luc.  See, lord and father, how we have perform’d
Our Roman rites. Alarbus’ limbs are lopp’d,
And entrails feed the sacrificing fire,   150
Whose smoke, like incense, doth perfume the sky.
Remaineth nought but to inter our brethren,
And with loud ‘larums welcome them to Rome.

Tit.  Let it be so; and let Andronicus
Make this his latest farewell to their souls.  [Trumpets sounded, and the coffin laid in the tomb.   155
In peace and honour rest you here, my sons;
Rome’s readiest champions, repose you here in rest,
Secure from worldly chances and mishaps!
Here lurks no treason, here no envy swells,
Here grow no damned drugs, here are no storms,   160
No noise, but silence and eternal sleep:
In peace and honour rest you here, my sons!

Enter LAVINIA

Lav.  In peace and honour live Lord Titus long;
My noble lord and father, live in fame!   165
Lo! at this tomb my tributary tears
I render for my brethren’s obsequies;
And at thy feet I kneel, with tears of joy
Shed on the earth for thy return to Rome.
O! bless me here with thy victorious hand,   170
Whose fortunes Rome’s best citizens applaud.

Tit.  Kind Rome, that hast thus lovingly reserv’d
The cordial of mine age to glad my heart!
Lavinia, live; outlive thy father’s days,
And fame’s eternal date, for virtue’s praise!   175

Enter MARCUS ANDRONICUS and Tribunes; re-enter SATURNINUS, BASSIANUS and Others.

Mar.  Long live Lord Titus, my beloved brother,
Gracious triumpher in the eyes of Rome!

Tit.  Thanks, gentle Tribune, noble brother Marcus.

Mar.  And welcome, nephews, from successful wars,   180
You that survive, and you that sleep in fame!
Fair lords, your fortunes are alike in all,
That in your country’s service drew your swords;
But safer triumph is this funeral pomp,
That hath aspir’d to Solon’s happiness,   185
And triumphs over chance in honour’s bed.
Titus Andronicus, the people of Rome,
Whose friend in justice thou hast ever been,
Send thee by me, their tribune and their trust,
This palliament of white and spotless hue;   190
And name thee in election for the empire,
With these our late-deceased emperor’s sons:
Be candidatus then, and put it on,
And help to set a head on headless Rome.

Tit.  A better head her glorious body fits   195
Than his that shakes for age and feebleness.
What should I don this robe, and trouble you?
Be chosen with proclamations to-day,
To-morrow yield up rule, resign my life,
And set abroad new business for you all?   200
Rome, I have been thy soldier forty years,
And led my country’s strength successfully,
And buried one-and-twenty valiant sons,
Knighted in field, slain manfully in arms,
In right and service of their noble country.   205
Give me a staff of honour for mine age,
But not a sceptre to control the world:
Upright he held it, lords, that held it last.

Mar.  Titus, thou shalt obtain and ask the empery.

Sat.  Proud and ambitious tribune, canst thou tell?   210

Tit.  Patience, Prince Saturninus.

Sat.        Romans, do me right:
Patricians, draw your swords, and sheathe them not
Till Saturninus be Rome’s emperor.
Andronicus, would thou wert shipp’d to hell,   215
Rather than rob me of the people’s hearts!

Luc.  Proud Saturnine, interrupter of the good
That noble-minded Titus means to thee!

Tit.  Content thee, prince; I will restore to thee
The people’s hearts, and wean them from themselves.   220

Bas.  Andronicus, I do not flatter thee,
But honour thee, and will do till I die:
My faction if thou strengthen with thy friends,
I will most thankful be; and thanks to men
Of noble minds is honourable meed.   225

Tit.  People of Rome, and people’s tribunes here,
I ask your voices and your suffrages:
Will you bestow them friendly on Andronicus?

Tribunes.  To gratify the good Andronicus,
And gratulate his safe return to Rome,   230
The people will accept whom he admits.

Tit.  Tribunes, I thank you; and this suit I make,
That you create your emperor’s eldest son,
Lord Saturnine; whose virtues will, I hope,
Reflect on Rome as Titan’s rays on earth,   235
And ripen justice in this commonweal:
Then, if you will elect by my advice,
Crown him, and say, ‘Long live our emperor!’

Mar.  With voices and applause of every sort,
Patricians and plebeians, we create   240
Lord Saturninus Rome’s great emperor,
And say, ‘Long live our Emperor Saturnine!’  [A long flourish.

Sat.  Titus Andronicus, for thy favours done
To us in our election this day,
I give thee thanks in part of thy deserts,   245
And will with deeds requite thy gentleness:
And, for an onset, Titus, to advance
Thy name and honourable family,
Lavinia will I make my empress,
Rome’s royal mistress, mistress of my heart,   250
And in the sacred Pantheon her espouse.
Tell me, Andronicus, doth this motion please thee?

Tit.  It doth, my worthy lord; and in this match
I hold me highly honour’d of your Grace:
And here in sight of Rome to Saturnine,   255
King and commander of our commonweal,
The wide world’s emperor, do I consecrate
My sword, my chariot, and my prisoners;
Presents well worthy Rome’s imperious lord:
Receive them then, the tribute that I owe,   260
Mine honour’s ensigns humbled at thy feet.

Sat.  Thanks, noble Titus, father of my life!
How proud I am of thee and of thy gifts
Rome shall record, and, when I do forget
The least of these unspeakable deserts,   265
Romans, forget your fealty to me.

Tit.  [To TAMORA.]  Now, madam, are you prisoner to an emperor;
To him that, for your honour and your state,
Will use you nobly and your followers.

Sat.  A goodly lady, trust me; of the hue   270
That I would choose, were I to choose anew.
Clear up, fair queen, that cloudy countenance:
Though chance of war hath wrought this change of cheer,
Thou com’st not to be made a scorn in Rome:
Princely shall be thy usage every way.   275
Rest on my word, and let not discontent
Daunt all your hopes: madam, he comforts you
Can make you greater than the Queen of Goths.
Lavinia, you are not displeas’d with this?

Lav.  Not I, my lord; sith true nobility   280
Warrants these words in princely courtesy.

Sat.  Thanks, sweet Lavinia. Romans, let us go;
Ransomless here we set our prisoners free:
Proclaim our honours, lords, with trump and drum.  [Flourish.  SATURNINUS courts TAMORA in dumb show.

Bas.  Lord Titus, by your leave, this maid is mine.  [Seizing LAVINIA.   285

Tit.  How, sir! Are you in earnest then, my lord?

Bas.  Ay, noble Titus; and resolv’d withal
To do myself this reason and this right.

Mar.  Suum cuique is our Roman justice:
This prince in justice seizeth but his own.   290

Luc.  And that he will, and shall, if Lucius live.

Tit.  Traitors, avaunt! Where is the emperor’s guard?
Treason, my lord! Lavinia is surpris’d.

Sat.  Surpris’d! By whom?

Bas.        By him that justly may   295
Bear his betroth’d from all the world away.  [Exeunt MARCUS and BASSIANUS with LAVINIA.

Mut.  Brothers, help to convey her hence away,
And with my sword I’ll keep this door safe.  [Exeunt LUCIUS, QUINTUS, and MARTIUS.

Tit.  Follow, my lord, and I’ll soon bring her back.

Mut.  My lord, you pass not here.   300

Tit.        What! villain boy;
Barr’st me my way in Rome?  [Stabs MUTIUS.

Mut.        Help, Lucius, help!  [Dies.

Re-enter LUCIUS.

Luc.  My lord, you are unjust; and, more than so,   305
In wrongful quarrel you have slain your son.

Tit.  Nor thou, nor he, are any sons of mine;
My sons would never so dishonour me.
Traitor, restore Lavinia to the emperor.

Luc.  Dead, if you will; but not to be his wife   310
That is another’s lawful promis’d love.  [Exit.

Sat.  No, Titus, no; the emperor needs her not,
Nor her, nor thee, nor any of thy stock:
I’ll trust, by leisure, him that mocks me once;
Thee never, nor thy traitorous haughty sons,   315
Confederates all thus to dishonour me.
Was none in Rome to make a stale
But Saturnine? Full well, Andronicus,
Agreed these deeds with that proud brag of thine,
That saidst I begg’d the empire at thy hands.   320

Tit.  O monstrous! what reproachful words are these!

Sat.  But go thy ways; go, give that changing piece
To him that flourish’d for her with his sword.
A valiant son-in-law thou shalt enjoy;
One fit to bandy with thy lawless sons,   325
To ruffle in the commonwealth of Rome.

Tit.  These words are razors to my wounded heart.

Sat.  And therefore, lovely Tamora, Queen of Goths,
That like the stately Phœbe ‘mongst her nymphs,
Dost overshine the gallant’st dames of Rome,   330
If thou be pleas’d with this my sudden choice,
Behold, I choose thee, Tamora, for my bride,
And will create thee Empress of Rome.
Speak, Queen of Goths, dost thou applaud my choice?
And here I swear by all the Roman gods,   335
Sith priest and holy water are so near,
And tapers burn so bright, and every thing
In readiness for Hymenæus stand,
I will not re-salute the streets of Rome,
Or climb my palace, till from forth this place   340
I lead espous’d my bride along with me.

Tam.  And here, in sight of heaven, to Rome I swear,
If Saturnine advance the Queen of Goths,
She will a handmaid be to his desires,
A loving nurse, a mother to his youth.   345

Sat.  Ascend, fair queen, Pantheon. Lords, accompany
Your noble emperor, and his lovely bride,
Sent by the heavens for Prince Saturnine,
Whose wisdom hath her fortune conquered:
There shall we consummate our spousal rights.  [Exeunt all but TITUS.   350

Tit.  I am not bid to wait upon this bride.
Titus, when wert thou wont to walk alone,
Dishonour’d thus, and challenged of wrongs?

Re-enter MARCUS, LUCIUS, QUINTUS, and MARTIUS.

Mar.  O! Titus, see, O! see what thou hast done;   355
In a bad quarrel slain a virtuous son.

Tit.  No, foolish tribune, no; no son of mine,
Nor thou, nor these, confederates in the deed
That hath dishonour’d all our family:
Unworthy brother, and unworthy sons!   360

Luc.  But let us give him burial, as becomes;
Give Mutius burial with our brethren.

Tit.  Traitors, away! he rests not in this tomb.
This monument five hundred years hath stood,
Which I have sumptuously re-edified:   365
Here none but soldiers and Rome’s servitors
Repose in fame; none basely slain in brawls.
Bury him where you can; he comes not here.

Mar.  My lord, this is impiety in you.
My nephew Mutius’ deeds do plead for him;   370
He must be buried with his brethren.

Quin. & Mart.  And shall, or him we will accompany.

Tit.  And shall! What villain was it spake that word?

Quin.  He that would vouch it in any place but here.

Tit.  What! would you bury him in my despite?   375

Mar.  No, noble Titus; but entreat of thee
To pardon Mutius, and to bury him.

Tit.  Marcus, even thou hast struck upon my crest,
And, with these boys, mine honour thou hast wounded:
My foes I do repute you every one;   380
So, trouble me no more, but get you gone.

Mart.  He is not with himself; let us withdraw.

Quin.  Not I, till Mutius’ bones be buried.  [MARCUS and the sons of TITUS kneel.

Mar.  Brother, for in that name doth nature plead, —

Quin.  Father, and in that name doth nature speak, —   385

Tit.  Speak thou no more, if all the rest will speed.

Mar.  Renowned Titus, more than half my soul, —

Luc.  Dear father, soul and substance of us all, —

Mar.  Suffer thy brother Marcus to inter
His noble nephew here in virtue’s nest,   390
That died in honour and Lavinia’s cause.
Thou art a Roman; be not barbarous:
The Greeks upon advice did bury Ajax
That slew himself; and wise Laertes’ son
Did graciously plead for his funerals.   395
Let not young Mutius then, that was thy joy,
Be barr’d his entrance here.

Tit.        Rise, Marcus, rise.
The dismall’st day is this that e’er I saw,
To be dishonour’d by my sons in Rome!   400
Well, bury him, and bury me the next.  [MUTIUS is put into the tomb.

Luc.  There lie thy bones, sweet Mutius, with thy friends,
Till we with trophies do adorn thy tomb.

All.  [Kneeling.]  No man shed tears for noble Mutius;
He lives in fame that died in virtue’s cause.   405

Mar.  My lord, — to step out of these dreary dumps, —
How comes it that the subtle Queen of Goths
Is of a sudden thus advanc’d in Rome?

Tit.  I know not, Marcus; but I know it is,
Whether by device or no, the heavens can tell.   410
Is she not, then, beholding to the man
That brought her for this high good turn so far?

Mar.  Yes, and will nobly him remunerate.

Flourish.  Re-enter, on one side, SATURNINUS, attended; TAMORA, DEMETRIUS, CHIRON, and AARON: on the other side, BASSIANUS, LAVINIA and Others.

Sat.  So, Bassianus, you have play’d your prize:   415
God give you joy, sir, of your gallant bride.

Bas.  And you of yours, my lord! I say no more,
Nor wish no less; and so I take my leave.

Sat.  Traitor, if Rome have law or we have power,
Thou and thy faction shall repent this rape.   420

Bas.  Rape call you it, my lord, to seize my own,
My true-betrothed love and now my wife?
But let the laws of Rome determine all;
Meanwhile, I am possess’d of that is mine.

Sat.  ’Tis good, sir: you are very short with us;   425
But, if we live, we’ll be as sharp with you.

Bas.  My lord, what I have done, as best I may,
Answer I must and shall do with my life.
Only thus much I give your Grace to know:
By all the duties that I owe to Rome,   430
This noble gentleman, Lord Titus here,
Is in opinion and in honour wrong’d;
That, in the rescue of Lavinia,
With his own hand did slay his youngest son,
In zeal to you and highly mov’d to wrath   435
To be controll’d in that he frankly gave:
Receive him then to favour, Saturnine,
That hath express’d himself in all his deeds
A father and a friend to thee and Rome.

Tit.  Prince Bassianus, leave to plead my deeds:   440
’Tis thou and those that have dishonour’d me.
Rome and the righteous heavens be my judge,
How I have lov’d and honour’d Saturnine!

Tam.  My worthy lord, if ever Tamora
Were gracious in those princely eyes of thine,   445
Then hear me speak indifferently for all;
And at my suit, sweet, pardon what is past.

Sat.  What, madam! be dishonour’d openly,
And basely put it up without revenge?

Tam.  Not so, my lord; the gods of Rome forfend   450
I should be author to dishonour you!
But on mine honour dare I undertake
For good Lord Titus’ innocence in all,
Whose fury not dissembled speaks his griefs.
Then, at my suit, look graciously on him;   455
Lose not so noble a friend on vain suppose,
Nor with sour looks afflict his gentle heart.
[Aside to SATURNINUS.]  My lord, be rul’d by me, be won at last;
Dissemble all your griefs and discontents:
You are but newly planted in your throne;   460
Lest then, the people, and patricians too,
Upon a just survey, take Titus’ part,
And so supplant you for ingratitude,
Which Rome reputes to be a heinous sin,
Yield at entreats, and then let me alone.   465
I’ll find a day to massacre them all,
And raze their faction and their family,
The cruel father, and his traitorous sons,
To whom I sued for my dear son’s life;
And make them know what ’tis to let a queen   470
Kneel in the streets and beg for grace in vain.
[Aloud.]  Come, come, sweet emperor; come, Andronicus;
Take up this good old man, and cheer the heart
That dies in tempest of thy angry frown.

Sat.  Rise, Titus, rise; my empress hath prevail’d.   475

Tit.  I thank your majesty, and her, my lord.
These words, these looks, infuse new life in me.

Tam.  Titus, I am incorporate in Rome,
A Roman now adopted happily,
And must advise the emperor for his good.   480
This day all quarrels die, Andronicus;
And let it be mine honour, good my lord,
That I have reconcil’d your friends and you.
For you, Prince Bassianus, I have pass’d
My word and promise to the emperor,   485
That you will be more mild and tractable.
And fear not, lords, and you, Lavinia,
By my advice, all humbled on your knees,
You shall ask pardon of his majesty.

Luc.  We do; and vow to heaven and to his highness,   490
That what we did was mildly, as we might,
Tendering our sister’s honour and our own.

Mar.  That on mine honour here I do protest.

Sat.  Away, and talk not; trouble us no more.

Tam.  Nay, nay, sweet emperor, we must all be friends:   495
The tribune and his nephews kneel for grace;
I will not be denied: sweet heart, look back.

Sat.  Marcus, for thy sake, and thy brother’s here,
And at my lovely Tamora’s entreats,
I do remit these young men’s heinous faults:   500
Stand up.
Lavinia, though you left me like a churl,
I found a friend, and sure as death I swore
I would not part a bachelor from the priest.
Come; if the emperor’s court can feast two brides,   505
You are my guest, Lavinia, and your friends.
This day shall be a love-day, Tamora.

Tit.  To-morrow, an it please your majesty
To hunt the panther and the hart with me,
With horn and hound we’ll give your Grace bon jour.   510

Sat.  Be it so, Titus, and gramercy too.  [Trumpets.  Exeunt.

Act II. Scene I.

Rome.  Before the Palace.

Enter AARON.

Aar.  Now climbeth Tamora Olympus’ top,
Safe out of Fortune’s shot; and sits aloft,
Secure of thunder’s crack or lightning flash,   5
Advanc’d above pale envy’s threat’ning reach.
As when the golden sun salutes the morn,
And, having gilt the ocean with his beams,
Gallops the zodiac in his glistering coach;
And overlooks the highest-peering hills;   10
So Tamora.
Upon her wit doth earthly honour wait
And virtue stoops and trembles at her frown.
Then, Aaron, arm thy heart, and fit thy thoughts
To mount aloft with thy imperial mistress,   15
And mount her pitch, whom thou in triumph long
Hast prisoner held, fetter’d in amorous chains,
And faster bound to Aaron’s charming eyes
Than is Prometheus tied to Caucasus.
Away with slavish weeds and servile thoughts!   20
I will be bright, and shine in pearl and gold,
To wait upon this new-made empress.
To wait, said I? to wanton with this queen,
This goddess, this Semiramis, this nymph,
This siren, that will charm Rome’s Saturnine,   25
And see his ship wrack and his commonweal’s.
Holla! what storm is this?

Enter DEMETRIUS and CHIRON, braving.

Dem.  Chiron, thy years want wit, thy wit wants edge
And manners, to intrude where I am grac’d,   30
And may, for aught thou know’st, affected be.

Chi.  Demetrius, thou dost over-ween in all
And so in this, to bear me down with braves.
’Tis not the difference of a year or two
Makes me less gracious or thee more fortunate:   35
I am as able and as fit as thou
To serve, and to deserve my mistress’ grace;
And that my sword upon thee shall approve,
And plead my passions for Lavinia’s love.

Aar.  Clubs, clubs! these lovers will not keep the peace.   40

Dem.  Why, boy, although our mother, unadvis’d,
Gave you a dancing-rapier by your side,
Are you so desperate grown, to threat your friends?
Go to; have your lath glu’d within your sheath
Till you know better how to handle it.   45

Chi.  Meanwhile, sir, with the little skill I have,
Full well shalt thou perceive how much I dare.

Dem.  Ay, boy, grow ye so brave?  [They draw.

Aar.        Why, how now, lords!
So near the emperor’s palace dare you draw,   50
And maintain such a quarrel openly?
Full well I wot the ground of all this grudge:
I would not for a million of gold
The cause were known to them it most concerns;
Nor would your noble mother for much more   55
Be so dishonour’d in the court of Rome.
For shame, put up.

Dem.        Not I, till I have sheath’d
My rapier in his bosom, and withal
Thrust those reproachful speeches down his throat   60
That he hath breath’d in my dishonour here.

Chi.  For that I am prepar’d and full resolv’d,
Foul-spoken coward, that thunder’st with thy tongue,
And with thy weapon nothing dar’st perform!

Aar.  Away, I say!   65
Now, by the gods that war-like Goths adore,
This petty brabble will undo us all.
Why, lords, and think you not how dangerous
It is to jet upon a prince’s right?
What! is Lavinia then become so loose,   70
Or Bassianus so degenerate,
That for her love such quarrels may be broach’d
Without controlment, justice, or revenge?
Young lords, beware! an should the empress know
This discord’s ground, the music would not please.   75

Chi.  I care not, I, knew she and all the world:
I love Lavinia more than all the world.

Dem.  Youngling, learn thou to make some meaner choice:
Lavinia is thine elder brother’s hope.

Aar.  Why, are ye mad? or know ye not in Rome   80
How furious and impatient they be,
And cannot brook competitors in love?
I tell you, lords, you do but plot your deaths
By this device.

Chi.        Aaron, a thousand deaths   85
Would I propose, to achieve her whom I love.

Aar.  To achieve her! how?

Dem.        Why mak’st thou it so strange?
She is a woman, therefore may be woo’d;
She is a woman, therefore may be won;   90
She is Lavinia, therefore must be lov’d.
What, man! more water glideth by the mill
Than wots the miller of; and easy it is
Of a cut loaf to steal a shive, we know:
Though Bassianus be the emperor’s brother,   95
Better than he have worn Vulcan’s badge.

Aar.  [Aside.]  Ay, and as good as Saturninus may.

Dem.  Then why should he despair that knows to court it
With words, fair looks, and liberality?
What! hast thou not full often struck a doe,   100
And borne her cleanly by the keeper’s nose?

Aar.  Why, then, it seems, some certain snatch or so
Would serve your turns.

Chi.        Ay, so the turn were serv’d.

Dem.  Aaron, thou hast hit it.   105

Aar.        Would you had hit it too!
Then should not we be tir’d with this ado.
Why, hark ye, hark ye! and are you such fools
To square for this? Would it offend you then
That both should speed?   110

Chi.        Faith, not me.

Dem.  Nor me, so I were one.

Aar.  For shame, be friends, and join for that you jar:
’Tis policy and stratagem must do
That you affect; and so must you resolve,   115
That what you cannot as you would achieve,
You must perforce accomplish as you may.
Take this of me: Lucrece was not more chaste
Than this Lavinia, Bassianus’ love.
A speedier course than lingering languishment   120
Must we pursue, and I have found the path.
My lords, a solemn hunting is in hand;
There will the lovely Roman ladies troop:
The forest walks are wide and spacious,
And many unfrequented plots there are   125
Fitted by kind for rape and villany:
Single you thither then this dainty doe,
And strike her home by force, if not by words:
This way, or not at all, stand you in hope.
Come, come, our empress, with her sacred wit   130
To villany and vengeance consecrate,
Will we acquaint with all that we intend;
And she shall file our engines with advice,
That will not suffer you to square yourselves,
But to your wishes’ height advance you both.   135
The emperor’s court is like the house of Fame,
The palace full of tongues, of eyes, and ears:
The woods are ruthless, dreadful, deaf, and dull;
There speak, and strike, brave boys, and take your turns;
There serve your lusts, shadow’d from heaven’s eye,   140
And revel in Lavinia’s treasury.

Chi.  Thy counsel, lad, smells of no cowardice.

Dem.  Sit fas aut nefas, till I find the stream
To cool this heat, a charm to calm these fits,
Per Styga, per manes vehor.  [Exeunt.   145

Act II. Scene II.

A Forest.

Horns and cry of hounds heard.Enter TITUS ANDRONICUS, with Hunters, &c.; MARCUS, LUCIUS, QUINTUS, and MARTIUS.

Tit.  The hunt is up, the morn is bright and grey,
The fields are fragrant and the woods are green.
Uncouple here and let us make a bay,   5
And wake the emperor and his lovely bride,
And rouse the prince and ring a hunter’s peal,
That all the court may echo with the noise.
Sons, let it be your charge, as it is ours,
To attend the emperor’s person carefully:   10
I have been troubled in my sleep this night,
But dawning day new comfort hath inspir’d.  [A cry of hounds, and horns winded in a peal.

Enter SATURNINUS, TAMORA, BASSIANUS, LAVINIA, DEMETRIUS, CHIRON, and Attendants.
Many good morrows to your majesty;
Madam, to you as many and as good;   15
I promised your Grace a hunter’s peal.

Sat.  And you have rung it lustily, my lord;
Somewhat too early for new-married ladies.

Bas.  Lavinia, how say you?

Lav.        I say, no;   20
I have been broad awake two hours and more.

Sat.  Come on, then; horse and chariots let us have,
And to our sport. — [To TAMORA.]  Madam, now shall ye see
Our Roman hunting

Mar.        I have dogs, my lord,   25
Will rouse the proudest panther in the chase,
And climb the highest promontory top.

Tit.  And I have horse will follow where the game
Makes way, and run like swallows o’er the plain.

Dem.  [Aside.]  Chiron, we hunt not, we, with horse nor hound,   30
But hope to pluck a dainty doe to ground.  [Exeunt.

Act II. Scene III.

A lonely Part of the Forest.

Enter AARON, with a bag of gold.

Aar.  He that had wit would think that I had none,
To bury so much gold under a tree,
And never after to inherit it.   5
Let him that thinks of me so abjectly
Know that this gold must coin a stratagem,
Which, cunningly effected, will beget
A very excellent piece of villany:
And so repose, sweet gold, for their unrest   10
That have their alms out of the empress’ chest.  [Hides the gold.

Enter TAMORA.

Tam.  My lovely Aaron, wherefore look’st thou sad,
When every thing doth make a gleeful boast?
The birds chant melody on every bush,   15
The snake lies rolled in the cheerful sun,
The green leaves quiver with the cooling wind,
And make a chequer’d shadow on the ground.
Under their sweet shade, Aaron, let us sit,
And, whilst the babbling echo mocks the hounds,   20
Replying shrilly to the well-tun’d horns,
As if a double hunt were heard at once,
Let us sit down and mark their yelping noise;
And after conflict, such as was suppos’d
The wandering prince and Dido once enjoy’d,   25
When with a happy storm they were surpris’d,
And curtain’d with a counsel-keeping cave,
We may, each wreathed in the other’s arms,
Our pastimes done, possess a golden slumber;
Whiles hounds and horns and sweet melodious birds   30
Be unto us as is a nurse’s song
Of lullaby to bring her babe asleep.

Aar.  Madam, though Venus govern your desires,
Saturn is dominator over mine:
What signifies my deadly-standing eye,   35
My silence and my cloudy melancholy,
My fleece of woolly hair that now uncurls
Even as an adder when she doth unroll
To do some fatal execution?
No, madam, these are no venereal signs:   40
Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand,
Blood and revenge are hammering in my head.
Hark, Tamora, the empress of my soul,
Which never hopes more heaven than rests in thee,
This is the day of doom for Bassianus;   45
His Philomel must lose her tongue to-day,
Thy sons make pillage of her chastity,
And wash their hands in Bassianus’ blood.
Seest thou this letter? take it up, I pray thee,
And give the king this fatal-plotted scroll.   50
Now question me no more; we are espied;
Here comes a parcel of our hopeful booty,
Which dreads not yet their lives’ destruction.

Tam.  Ah! my sweet Moor, sweeter to me than life.

Aar.  No more, great empress; Bassianus comes:   55
Be cross with him; and I’ll go fetch thy sons
To back thy quarrels, whatsoe’er they be.  [Exit.

Enter BASSIANUS and LAVINIA.

Bas.  Who have we here? Rome’s royal empress,
Unfurnish’d of her well-beseeming troop?   60
Or is it Dian, habited like her,
Who hath abandoned her holy groves,
To see the general hunting in this forest?

Tam.  Saucy controller of our private steps!
Had I the power that some say Dian had,   65
Thy temples should be planted presently
With horns, as was Actæon’s; and the hounds
Should drive upon thy new-transformed limbs,
Unmannerly intruder as thou art!

Lav.  Under your patience, gentle empress,   70
’Tis thought you have a goodly gift in horning;
And to be doubted that your Moor and you
Are singled forth to try experiments.
Jove shield your husband from his hounds to-day!
’Tis pity they should take him for a stag.   75

Bas.  Believe me, queen, your swarth Cimmerian
Doth make your honour of his body’s hue,
Spotted, detested, and abominable.
Why are you sequester’d from all your train,
Dismounted from your snow-white goodly steed,   80
And wander’d hither to an obscure plot,
Accompanied but with a barbarous Moor,
If foul desire had not conducted you?

Lav.  And, being intercepted in your sport,
Great reason that my noble lord be rated   85
For sauciness. I pray you, let us hence,
And let her joy her raven-colour’d love;
This valley fits the purpose passing well.

Bas.  The king my brother shall have note of this.

Lav.  Ay, for these slips have made him noted long:   90
Good king, to be so mightily abus’d!

Tam.  Why have I patience to endure all this?

Enter DEMETRIUS and CHIRON.

Dem.  How now, dear sovereign, and our gracious mother!
Why doth your highness look so pale and wan?   95

Tam.  Have I not reason, think you, to look pale?
These two have ‘tic’d me hither to this place:
A barren detested vale, you see, it is;
The trees, though summer, yet forlorn and lean,
O’ercome with moss and baleful mistletoe:   100
Here never shines the sun; here nothing breeds,
Unless the nightly owl or fatal raven:
And when they show’d me this abhorred pit,
They told me, here, at dead time of the night,
A thousand fiends, a thousand hissing snakes,   105
Ten thousand swelling toads, as many urchins,
Would make such fearful and confused cries,
As any mortal body hearing it
Should straight fall mad, or else die suddenly.
No sooner had they told this hellish tale,   110
But straight they told me they would bind me here
Unto the body of a dismal yew,
And leave me to this miserable death:
And then they called me foul adulteress,
Lascivious Goth, and all the bitterest terms   115
That ever ear did hear to such effect;
And, had you not by wondrous fortune come,
This vengeance on me had they executed.
Revenge it, as you love your mother’s life,
Or be ye not henceforth call’d my children.   120

Dem.  This is a witness that I am thy son.  [Stabs BASSIANUS.

Chi.  And this for me, struck home to show my strength.  [Also stabs BASSIANUS, who dies.

Lav.  Ay, come, Semiramis, nay, barbarous Tamora;
For no name fits thy nature but thy own.

Tam.  Give me thy poniard; you shall know, my boys,   125
Your mother’s hand shall right your mother’s wrong.

Dem.  Stay, madam; here is more belongs to her:
First thrash the corn, then after burn the straw.
This minion stood upon her chastity,
Upon her nuptial vow, her loyalty,   130
And with that painted hope she braves your mightiness:
And shall she carry this unto her grave?

Chi.  An if she do, I would I were an eunuch.
Drag hence her husband to some secret hole,
And make his dead trunk pillow to our lust.   135

Tam.  But when ye have the honey ye desire,
Let not this wasp outlive, us both to sting.

Chi.  I warrant you, madam, we will make that sure.
Come, mistress, now perforce we will enjoy
That nice-preserved honesty of yours.   140

Lav.  O Tamora! thou bear’st a woman’s face, —

Tam.  I will not hear her speak; away with her!

Lav.  Sweet lords, entreat her hear me but a word.

Dem.  Listen, fair madam: let it be your glory
To see her tears; but be your heart to them   145
As unrelenting flint to drops of rain.

Lav.  When did the tiger’s young ones teach the dam?
O! do not learn her wrath; she taught it thee;
The milk thou suck’dst from her did turn to marble;
Even at thy teat thou hadst thy tyranny.   150
Yet every mother breeds not sons alike:
[To CHIRON.]  Do thou entreat her show a woman pity.

Chi.  What! wouldst thou have me prove myself a bastard?

Lav.  ’Tis true! the raven doth not hatch a lark:
Yet have I heard, O! could I find it now,   155
The lion mov’d with pity did endure
To have his princely paws par’d all away.
Some say that ravens foster forlorn children,
The whilst their own birds famish in their nests:
O! be to me, though thy hard heart say no,   160
Nothing so kind, but something pitiful.

Tam.  I know not what it means; away with her!

Lav.  O, let me teach thee! for my father’s sake,
That gave thee life when well he might have slain thee,
Be not obdurate, open thy deaf ears.   165

Tam.  Hadst thou in person ne’er offended me,
Even for his sake am I pitiless.
Remember, boys, I pour’d forth tears in vain
To save your brother from the sacrifice;
But fierce Andronicus would not relent:   170
Therefore, away with her, and use her as you will:
The worse to her, the better lov’d of me.

Lav.  O Tamora! be call’d a gentle queen,
And with thine own hands kill me in this place;
For ’tis not life that I have begg’d so long;   175
Poor I was slain when Bassianus died.

Tam.  What begg’st thou then? fond woman, let me go.

Lav.  ’Tis present death I beg; and one thing more
That womanhood denies my tongue to tell.
O! keep me from their worse than killing lust,   180
And tumble me into some loathsome pit,
Where never man’s eye may behold my body:
Do this, and be a charitable murderer.

Tam.  So should I rob my sweet sons of their fee:
No, let them satisfy their lust on thee.   185

Dem.  Away! for thou hast stay’d us here too long.

Lav.  No grace! no womanhood! Ah, beastly creature,
The blot and enemy to our general name.
Confusion fall —

Chi.  Nay, then I’ll stop your mouth. Bring thou her husband:   190
This is the hole where Aaron bid us hide him.  [DEMETRIUS throws the body of BASSIANUS into the pit; then exeunt DEMETRIUS and CHIRON, dragging off LAVINIA.

Tam.  Farewell, my sons: see that you make her sure.
Ne’er let my heart know merry cheer indeed
Till all the Andronici be made away.
Now will I hence to seek my lovely Moor,   195
And let my spleenful sons this trull deflower.  [Exit.

Enter AARON, with QUINTUS and MARTIUS.

Aar.  Come on, my lords, the better foot before:
Straight will I bring you to the loathsome pit
Where I espied the panther fast asleep.   200

Quin.  My sight is very dull, whate’er it bodes.

Mart.  And mine, I promise you: were ‘t not for shame,
Well could I leave our sport to sleep awhile.  [Falls into the pit.

Quin.  What! art thou fall’n? What subtle hole is this,
Whose mouth is cover’d with rude-growing briers,   205
Upon whose leaves are drops of new-shed blood
As fresh as morning’s dew distill’d on flowers?
A very fatal place it seems to me.
Speak, brother, hast thou hurt thee with the fall?

Mart.  O brother! with the dismall’st object hurt   210
That ever eye with sight made heart lament.

Aar.  [Aside.]  Now will I fetch the king to find them here,
That he thereby may give a likely guess
How these were they that made away his brother.  [Exit.

Mart.  Why dost not comfort me, and help me out   215
From this unhallow’d and blood-stained hole?

Quin.  I am surprised with an uncouth fear;
A chilling sweat o’erruns my trembling joints:
My heart suspects more than mine eye can see.

Mart.  To prove thou hast a true-divining heart,   220
Aaron and thou look down into this den,
And see a fearful sight of blood and death.

Quin.  Aaron is gone; and my compassionate heart
Will not permit mine eyes once to behold
The thing whereat it trembles by surmise.   225
O! tell me how it is; for ne’er till now
Was I a child, to fear I know not what.

Mart.  Lord Bassianus lies embrewed here,
All on a heap, like to a slaughter’d lamb,
In this detested, dark, blood-drinking pit.   230

Quin.  If it be dark, how dost thou know ’tis he?

Mart.  Upon his bloody finger he doth wear
A precious ring, that lightens all the hole,
Which, like a taper in some monument,
Doth shine upon the dead man’s earthy cheeks,   235
And shows the ragged entrails of the pit:
So pale did shine the moon on Pyramus
When he by night lay bath’d in maiden blood.
O brother! help me with thy fainting hand,
If fear hath made thee faint, as me it hath,   240
Out of this fell devouring receptacle,
As hateful as Cocytus’ misty mouth.

Quin.  Reach me thy hand, that I may help thee out;
Or, wanting strength to do thee so much good
I may be pluck’d into the swallowing womb   245
Of this deep pit, poor Bassianus’ grave.
I have no strength to pluck thee to the brink.

Mart.  Nor I no strength to climb without thy help.

Quin.  Thy hand once more; I will not loose again,
Till thou art here aloft, or I below.   250
Thou canst not come to me: I come to thee.  [Falls in.

Re-enter AARON with SATURNINUS.

Sat.  Along with me: I’ll see what hole is here,
And what he is that now is leap’d into it.
Say, who art thou that lately didst descend   255
Into this gaping hollow of the earth?

Mart.  The unhappy son of old Andronicus;
Brought hither in a most unlucky hour,
To find thy brother Bassianus dead.

Sat.  My brother dead! I know thou dost but jest:   260
He and his lady both are at the lodge,
Upon the north side of this pleasant chase;
’Tis not an hour since I left him there.

Mart.  We know not where you left him all alive;
But, out alas! here have we found him dead.   265

Enter TAMORA, with Attendants; TITUS ANDRONICUS, and LUCIUS.

Tam.  Where is my lord, the king?

Sat.  Here, Tamora; though griev’d with killing grief.

Tam.  Where is thy brother Bassianus?

Sat.  Now to the bottom dost thou search my wound:   270
Poor Bassianus here lies murdered.

Tam.  Then all too late I bring this fatal writ,  [Giving a letter.
The complot of this timeless tragedy;
And wonder greatly that man’s face can fold
In pleasing smiles such murderous tyranny.   275

Sat.  And if we miss to meet him handsomely,
Sweet huntsman, Bassianus ’tis we mean,
Do thou so much as dig the grave for him:
Thou know’st our meaning. Look for thy reward
Among the nettles at the elder-tree   280
Which overshades the mouth of that same pit
Where we decreed to bury Bassianus:
Do this, and purchase us thy lasting friends.
O Tamora! was ever heard the like?
This is the pit, and this the elder-tree.   285
Look, sirs, if you can find the huntsman out
That should have murder’d Bassianus here.

Aar.  My gracious lord, here is the bag of gold.

Sat.  [To TITUS.]  Two of thy whelps, fell curs of bloody kind,
Have here bereft my brother of his life.   290
Sirs, drag them from the pit unto the prison:
There let them bide until we have devis’d
Some never-heard-of torturing pain for them.

Tam.  What! are they in this pit? O wondrous thing!
How easily murder is discovered!   295

Tit.  High emperor, upon my feeble knee
I beg this boon with tears not lightly shed;
That this fell fault of my accursed sons,
Accursed, if the fault be prov’d in them, —

Sat.  If it be prov’d! you see it is apparent.   300
Who found this letter? Tamora, was it you?

Tam.  Andronicus himself did take it up.

Tit.  I did, my lord: yet let me be their bail;
For, by my father’s reverend tomb, I vow
They shall be ready at your highness’ will   305
To answer their suspicion with their lives.

Sat.  Thou shalt not bail them: see thou follow me.
Some bring the murder’d body, some the murderers:
Let them not speak a word; the guilt is plain;
For, by my soul, were there worse end than death,   310
That end upon them should be executed.

Tam.  Andronicus, I will entreat the king:
Fear not thy sons, they shall do well enough.

Tit.  Come, Lucius, come; stay not to talk with them.  [Exeunt severally.

Act II. Scene IV.

Another Part of the Forest.

Enter DEMETRIUS and CHIRON, with LAVINIA, ravished; her hands cut off, and her tongue cut out.

Dem.  So, now go tell, an if thy tongue can speak,
Who ’twas that cut thy tongue and ravish’d thee.

Chi.  Write down thy mind, bewray thy meaning so;   5
An if thy stumps will let thee play the scribe.

Dem.  See, how with signs and tokens she can scrowl.

Chi.  Go home, call for sweet water, wash thy hands.

Dem.  She hath no tongue to call, nor hands to wash;
And so let’s leave her to her silent walks.   10

Chi.  An ‘twere my case, I should go hang myself.

Dem.  If thou hadst hands to help thee knit the cord.  [Exeunt DEMETRIUS and CHIRON.

Enter MARCUS.

Mar.  Who’s this? my niece, that flies away so fast?
Cousin, a word; where is your husband?   15
If I do dream, would all my wealth would wake me!
If I do wake, some planet strike me down,
That I may slumber in eternal sleep!
Speak, gentle niece, what stern ungentle hands
Have lopp’d and hew’d and made thy body bare   20
Of her two branches, those sweet ornaments,
Whose circling shadows kings have sought to sleep in,
And might not gain so great a happiness
As have thy love? Why dost not speak to me?
Alas! a crimson river of warm blood,   25
Like to a bubbling fountain stirr’d with wind,
Doth rise and fall between thy rosed lips,
Coming and going with thy honey breath
But, sure, some Tereus hath deflower’d thee,
And, lest thou shouldst detect him, cut thy tongue.   30
Ah! now thou turn’st away thy face for shame;
And, notwithstanding all this loss of blood,
As from a conduit with three issuing spouts,
Yet do thy cheeks look red as Titan’s face
Blushing to be encounter’d with a cloud.   35
Shall I speak for thee? shall I say ’tis so?
O! that I knew thy heart; and knew the beast,
That I might rail at him to ease my mind.
Sorrow concealed, like to an oven stopp’d,
Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is.   40
Fair Philomela, she but lost her tongue,
And in a tedious sampler sew’d her mind:
But, lovely niece, that mean is cut from thee;
A craftier Tereus hast thou met withal,
And he hath cut those pretty fingers off,   45
That could have better sew’d than Philomel.
O! had the monster seen those lily hands
Tremble, like aspen-leaves, upon a lute,
And make the silken strings delight to kiss them,
He would not, then, have touch’d them for his life;   50
Or had he heard the heavenly harmony
Which that sweet tongue hath made,
He would have dropp’d his knife, and fell asleep,
As Cerberus at the Thracian poet’s feet.
Come, let us go, and make thy father blind;   55
For such a sight will blind a father’s eye:
One hour’s storm will drown the fragrant meads;
What will whole months of tears thy father’s eyes?
Do not draw back, for we will mourn with thee:
O! could our mourning ease thy misery.  [Exeunt.   60

Act III. Scene I.

Rome.  A Street.

Enter Senators, Tribunes, and Officers of Justice, with MARTIUS and QUINTUS, bound, passing on to the place of execution; TITUS going before, pleading.

Tit.  Hear me, grave fathers! noble tribunes, stay!
For pity of mine age, whose youth was spent
In dangerous wars, whilst you securely slept;   5
For all my blood in Rome’s great quarrel shed;
For all the frosty nights that I have watch’d;
And for these bitter tears, which now you see
Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks;
Be pitiful to my condemned sons,   10
Whose souls are not corrupted as ’tis thought.
For two and twenty sons I never wept,
Because they died in honour’s lofty bed.
For these, these, tribunes, in the dust I write  [He throws himself on the ground.
My heart’s deep languor and my soul’s sad tears.   15
Let my tears stanch the earth’s dry appetite;
My sons’ sweet blood will make it shame and blush.  [Exeunt Senators, Tribunes, &c., with the Prisoners.
O earth! I will befriend thee more with rain,
That shall distil from these two ancient urns,
Than youthful April shall with all his showers:   20
In summer’s drought I’ll drop upon thee still;
In winter with warm tears I’ll melt the snow,
And keep eternal spring-time on thy face,
So thou refuse to drink my dear sons’ blood.

Enter LUCIUS, with his sword drawn.   25
O reverend tribunes! O gentle, aged men!
Unbind my sons, reverse the doom of death:
And let me say, that never wept before,
My tears are now prevailing orators.

Luc.  O noble father, you lament in vain:   30
The tribunes hear you not, no man is by;
And you recount your sorrows to a stone.

Tit.  Ah! Lucius, for thy brothers let me plead.
Grave tribunes, once more I entreat of you, —

Luc.  My gracious lord, no tribune hears you speak.   35

Tit.  Why, ’tis no matter, man: if they did hear,
They would not mark me, or if they did mark,
They would not pity me, yet plead I must,
All bootless unto them.
Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones,   40
Who, though they cannot answer my distress,
Yet in some sort they are better than the tribunes,
For that they will not intercept my tale.
When I do weep, they humbly at my feet
Receive my tears, and seem to weep with me;   45
And, were they but attired in grave weeds,
Rome could afford no tribune like to these.
A stone is soft as wax, tribunes more hard than stones;
A stone is silent, and offendeth not,
And tribunes with their tongues doom men to death.  [Rises.   50
But wherefore stand’st thou with thy weapon drawn?

Luc.  To rescue my two brothers from their death;
For which attempt the judges have pronounc’d
My everlasting doom of banishment.

Tit.  O happy man! they have befriended thee.   55
Why, foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceive
That Rome is but a wilderness of tigers?
Tigers must prey; and Rome affords no prey
But me and mine: how happy art thou then,
From these devourers to be banished!   60
But who comes with our brother Marcus here?

Enter MARCUS and LAVINIA.

Mar.  Titus, prepare thy aged eyes to weep;
Or, if not so, thy noble heart to break:
I bring consuming sorrow to thine age.   65

Tit.  Will it consume me? let me see it then.

Mar.  This was thy daughter.

Tit.  Why, Marcus, so she is.

Luc.  Ay me! this object kills me.

Tit.  Faint-hearted boy, arise, and look upon her.   70
Speak, Lavinia, what accursed hand
Hath made thee handless in thy father’s sight?
What fool hath added water to the sea,
Or brought a faggot to bright-burning Troy?
My grief was at the height before thou cam’st;   75
And now, like Nilus, it disdaineth bounds.
Give me a sword, I’ll chop off my hands too;
For they have fought for Rome, and all in vain;
And they have nurs’d this woe, in feeding life;
In bootless prayer have they been held up,   80
And they have serv’d me to effectless use:
Now all the service I require of them
Is that the one will help to cut the other.
’Tis well, Lavinia, that thou hast no hands,
For hands, to do Rome service, are but vain.   85

Luc.  Speak, gentle sister, who hath martyr’d thee?

Mar.  O! that delightful engine of her thoughts,
That blabb’d them with such pleasing eloquence,
Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage,
Where, like a sweet melodious bird, it sung   90
Sweet varied notes, enchanting every ear.

Luc.  O! say thou for her, who hath done this deed?

Mar.  O! thus I found her straying in the park,
Seeking to hide herself, as doth the deer,
That hath receiv’d some unrecuring wound.   95

Tit.  It was my dear; and he that wounded her
Hath hurt me more than had he kill’d me dead:
For now I stand as one upon a rock
Environ’d with a wilderness of sea,
Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave,   100
Expecting ever when some envious surge
Will in his brinish bowels swallow him.
This way to death my wretched sons are gone;
Here stands my other son, a banish’d man,
And here my brother, weeping at my woes:   105
But that which gives my soul the greatest spurn,
Is dear Lavinia, dearer than my soul.
Had I but seen thy picture in this plight
It would have madded me: what shall I do
Now I behold thy lively body so?   110
Thou hast no hands to wipe away thy tears,
Nor tongue to tell me who hath martyr’d thee:
Thy husband he is dead, and for his death
Thy brothers are condemn’d, and dead by this.
Look! Marcus; ah! son Lucius, look on her:   115
When I did name her brothers, then fresh tears
Stood on her cheeks, as doth the honey-dew
Upon a gather’d lily almost wither’d.

Mar.  Perchance she weeps because they kill’d her husband;
Perchance because she knows them innocent.   120

Tit.  If they did kill thy husband, then be joyful,
Because the law hath ta’en revenge on them.
No, no, they would not do so foul a deed;
Witness the sorrow that their sister makes.
Gentle Lavinia, let me kiss thy lips;   125
Or make some sign how I may do thee ease.
Shall thy good uncle, and thy brother Lucius,
And thou, and I, sit round about some fountain,
Looking all downwards, to behold our cheeks
How they are stain’d, like meadows yet not dry,   130
With miry slime left on them by a flood?
And in the fountain shall we gaze so long
Till the fresh taste be taken from that clearness,
And made a brine-pit with our bitter tears?
Or shall we cut away our hands, like thine?   135
Or shall we bite our tongues, and in dumb shows
Pass the remainder of our hateful days?
What shall we do? let us, that have our tongues,
Plot some device of further misery,
To make us wonder’d at in time to come.   140

Luc.  Sweet father, cease your tears; for at your grief
See how my wretched sister sobs and weeps.

Mar.  Patience, dear niece. Good Titus, dry thine eyes.

Tit.  Ah! Marcus, Marcus, brother; well I wot
Thy napkin cannot drink a tear of mine,   145
For thou, poor man, hast drown’d it with thine own.

Luc.  Ah! my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks.

Tit.  Mark, Marcus, mark! I understand her signs:
Had she a tongue to speak, now would she say
That to her brother which I said to thee:   150
His napkin, with his true tears all bewet,
Can do no service on her sorrowful cheeks.
O! what a sympathy of woe is this;
As far from help as limbo is from bliss.

Enter AARON.   155

Aar.  Titus Andronicus, my lord the emperor
Sends thee this word: that, if thou love thy sons,
Let Marcus, Lucius, or thyself, old Titus,
Or any one of you, chop off your hand,
And send it to the king: he for the same   160
Will send thee hither both thy sons alive;
And that shall be the ransom for their fault.

Tit.  O gracious emperor! O gentle Aaron!
Did ever raven sing so like a lark,
That gives sweet tidings of the sun’s uprise?   165
With all my heart, I’ll send the emperor my hand:
Good Aaron, wilt thou help to chop it off?

Luc.  Stay, father! for that noble hand of thine,
That hath thrown down so many enemies,
Shall not be sent; my hand will serve the turn:   170
My youth can better spare my blood than you;
And therefore mine shall save my brothers’ lives.

Mar.  Which of your hands hath not defended Rome,
And rear’d aloft the bloody battle-axe,
Writing destruction on the enemy’s castle?   175
O! none of both but are of high desert:
My hand hath been but idle; let it serve
To ransom my two nephews from their death;
Then have I kept it to a worthy end.

Aar.  Nay, come, agree whose hand shall go along,   180
For fear they die before their pardon come.

Mar.  My hand shall go.

Luc.        By heaven, it shall not go!

Tit.  Sirs, strive no more: such wither’d herbs as these
Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine.   185

Luc.  Sweet father, if I shall be thought thy son,
Let me redeem my brothers both from death.

Mar.  And for our father’s sake, and mother’s care,
Now let me show a brother’s love to thee.

Tilt.  Agree between you; I will spare my hand.   190

Luc.  Then I’ll go fetch an axe.

Mar.        But I will use the axe.  [Exeunt LUCIUS and MARCUS.

Tit.  Come hither, Aaron; I’ll deceive them both:
Lend me thy hand, and I will give thee mine.

Aar.  [Aside.]  If that be call’d deceit, I will be honest,   195
And never, whilst I live, deceive men so:
But I’ll deceive you in another sort,
And that you’ll say, ere half an hour pass.  [Cuts off TITUS’ hand.

Re-enter LUCIUS and MARCUS.

Tit.  Now stay your strife: what shall be is dispatch’d.   200
Good Aaron, give his majesty my hand:
Tell him it was a hand that warded him
From thousand dangers; bid him bury it;
More hath it merited; that let it have.
As for my sons, say I account of them   205
As jewels purchas’d at an easy price;
And yet dear too, because I bought mine own.

Aar.  I go, Andronicus; and for thy hand,
Look by and by to have thy sons with thee.
[Aside.]  Their heads, I mean. O! how this villany   210
Doth fat me with the very thoughts of it.
Let fools do good, and fair men call for grace,
Aaron will have his soul black like his face.  [Exit.

Tit.  O! here I lift this one hand up to heaven,
And bow this feeble ruin to the earth:   215
If any power pities wretched tears,
To that I call!  [To LAVINIA.]  What! wilt thou kneel with me?
Do, then, dear heart; for heaven shall hear our prayers,
Or with our sighs we’ll breathe the welkin dim,
And stain the sun with fog, as sometime clouds   220
When they do hug him in their melting bosoms.

Mar.  O! brother, speak with possibilities,
And do not break into these deep extremes.

Tit.  Is not my sorrow deep, having no bottom?
Then be my passions bottomless with them.   225

Mar.  But yet let reason govern thy lament.

Tit.  If there were reason for these miseries,
Then into limits could I bind my woes.
When heaven doth weep, doth not the earth o’erflow?
If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad,   230
Threat’ning the welkin with his big-swoln face?
And wilt thou have a reason for this coil?
I am the sea; hark! how her sighs do blow;
She is the weeping welkin, I the earth:
Then must my sea be moved with her sighs;   235
Then must my earth with her continual tears
Become a deluge, overflow’d and drown’d;
For why my bowels cannot hide her woes,
But like a drunkard must I vomit them.
Then give me leave, for losers will have leave   240
To ease their stomachs with their bitter tongues.

Enter a Messenger, with two heads and a hand.

Mess.  Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repaid
For that good hand thou sent’st the emperor.
Here are the heads of thy two noble sons,   245
And here’s thy hand, in scorn to thee sent back:
Thy griefs their sports, thy resolution mock’d;
That woe is me to think upon thy woes,
More than remembrance of my father’s death.  [Exit.

Mar.  Now let hot Ætna cool in Sicily,   250
And be my heart an ever burning hell!
These miseries are more than may be borne.
To weep with them that weep doth ease some deal,
But sorrow flouted at is double death.

Luc.  Ah! that this sight should make so deep a wound,   255
And yet detested life not shrink thereat,
That ever death should let life bear his name,
Where life hath no more interest but to breathe.  [LAVINIA kisses TITUS.

Mar.  Alas! poor heart; that kiss is comfortless
As frozen water to a starved snake.   260

Tit.  When will this fearful slumber have an end?

Mar.  Now, farewell, flattery: die, Andronicus;
Thou dost not slumber: see, thy two sons’ heads,
Thy war-like hand, thy mangled daughter here;
Thy other banish’d son, with this dear sight   265
Struck pale and bloodless; and thy brother, I,
Even like a stony image, cold and numb.
Ah! now no more will I control thy griefs.
Rent off thy silver hair, thy other hand
Gnawing with thy teeth; and be this dismal sight   270
The closing up of our most wretched eyes!
Now is a time to storm; why art thou still?

Tit.  Ha, ha, ha!

Mar.  Why dost thou laugh? it fits not with this hour.

Tit.  Why, I have not another tear to shed:   275
Besides, this sorrow is an enemy,
And would usurp upon my watery eyes,
And make them blind with tributary tears:
Then which way shall I find Revenge’s cave?
For these two heads do seem to speak to me,   280
And threat me I shall never come to bliss
Till all these mischiefs be return’d again
Even in their throats that have committed them.
Come, let me see what task I have to do.
You heavy people, circle me about,   285
That I may turn me to each one of you,
And swear unto my soul to right your wrongs.
The vow is made. Come, brother, take a head;
And in this hand the other will I bear.
Lavinia, thou shalt be employ’d in these things:   290
Bear thou my hand, sweet wench, between thy teeth.
As for thee, boy, go get thee from my sight;
Thou art an exile, and thou must not stay:
Hie to the Goths, and raise an army there:
And if you love me, as I think you do,   295
Let’s kiss and part, for we have much to do.  [Exeunt TITUS, MARCUS, and LAVINIA.

Luc.  Farewell, Andronicus, my noble father;
The woefull’st man that ever liv’d in Rome:
Farewell, proud Rome; till Lucius come again,
He leaves his pledges dearer than his life.   300
Farewell, Lavinia, my noble sister;
O! would thou wert as thou tofore hast been;
But now nor Lucius nor Lavinia lives
But in oblivion and hateful griefs.
If Lucius live, he will requite your wrongs,   305
And make proud Saturnine and his empress
Beg at the gates like Tarquin and his queen.
Now will I to the Goths, and raise a power,
To be reveng’d on Rome and Saturnine.  [Exeunt.

Act III. Scene II.

The Same.  A Room in TITUS’ House.  A Banquet set out.

Enter TITUS, MARCUS, LAVINIA, and young LUCIUS, a Boy.

Tit.  So, so; now sit; and look you eat no more
Than will preserve just so much strength in us
As will revenge these bitter woes of ours.   5
Marcus, unknit that sorrow-wreathen knot:
Thy niece and I, poor creatures, want our hands,
And cannot passionate our ten-fold grief
With folded arms. This poor right hand of mine
Is left to tyrannize upon my breast;   10
And when my heart, all mad with misery,
Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh,
Then thus I thump it down.
[To LAVINIA.]  Thou map of woe, that thus dost talk in signs!
When thy poor heart beats with outrageous beating   15
Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still.
Wound it with sighing, girl, kill it with groans;
Or get some little knife between thy teeth,
And just against thy heart make thou a hole;
That all the tears that thy poor eyes let fall   20
May run into that sink, and, soaking in,
Drown the lamenting fool in sea-salt tears.

Mar.  Fie, brother, fie! teach her not thus to lay
Such violent hands upon her tender life.

Tit.  How now! has sorrow made thee dote already?   25
Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I.
What violent hands can she lay on her life?
Ah! wherefore dost thou urge the name of hands;
To bid Æneas tell the tale twice o’er,
How Troy was burnt and he made miserable?   30
O! handle not the theme, to talk of hands,
Lest we remember still that we have none.
Fie, fie! how franticly I square my talk,
As if we should forget we had no hands,
If Marcus did not name the word of hands.   35
Come, let’s fall to; and, gentle girl, eat this:
Here is no drink. Hark, Marcus, what she says;
I can interpret all her martyr’d signs:
She says she drinks no other drink but tears,
Brew’d with her sorrow, mash’d upon her cheeks.   40
Speechless complainer, I will learn thy thought;
In thy dumb action will I be as perfect
As begging hermits in their holy prayers:
Thou shalt not sigh, nor hold thy stumps to heaven,
Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a sign,   45
But I of these will wrest an alphabet,
And by still practice learn to know thy meaning.

Boy.  Good grandsire, leave these bitter deep laments:
Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale.

Mar.  Alas! the tender boy, in passion mov’d.   50
Doth weep to see his grandsire’s heaviness.

Tit.  Peace, tender sapling; thou art made of tears,
And tears will quickly melt thy life away.  [MARCUS strikes the dish with a knife.
What dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knife?

Mar.  At that that I have kill’d, my lord; a fly.   55

Tit.  Out on thee, murderer! thou kill’st my heart;
Mine eyes are cloy’d with view of tyranny:
A deed of death, done on the innocent,
Becomes not Titus’ brother. Get thee gone;
I see, thou art not for my company.   60

Mar.  Alas! my lord, I have but kill’d a fly.

Tit.  But how if that fly had a father and a mother?
How would he hang his slender gilded wings
And buzz lamenting doings in the air!
Poor harmless fly,   65
That, with his pretty buzzing melody,
Came here to make us merry! and thou hast kill’d him.

Mar.  Pardon me, sir; it was a black ill-favour’d fly,
Like to the empress’ Moor; therefore I kill’d him.

Tit.  O, O, O!   70
Then pardon me for reprehending thee,
For thou hast done a charitable deed.
Give me thy knife, I will insult on him;
Flattering myself, as if it were the Moor
Come hither purposely to poison me.   75
There’s for thyself, and that’s for Tamora.
Ah! sirrah.
Yet I think we are not brought so low,
But that between us we can kill a fly
That comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor.   80

Mar.  Alas! poor man; grief has so wrought on him,
He takes false shadows for true substances.

Tit.  Come, take away. Lavinia, go with me:
I’ll to thy closet; and go read with thee
Sad stories chanced in the times of old.   85
Come, boy, and go with me: thy sight is young,
And thou shalt read when mine begins to dazzle.  [Exeunt.

Act IV. Scene I.

Rome.  TITUS’ Garden.

Enter TITUS and MARCUS.  Then enter young LUCIUS, LAVINIA running after him.

Boy.  Help, grandsire. help! my aunt Lavinia
Follows me everywhere, I know not why:
Good uncle Marcus, see how swift she comes:   5
Alas! sweet aunt, I know not what you mean.

Mar.  Stand by me, Lucius; do not fear thine aunt.

Tit.  She loves thee, boy, too well to do thee harm.

Boy.  Ay, when my father was in Rome, she did.

Mar.  What means my niece Lavinia by these signs?   10

Tit.  Fear her not, Lucius: somewhat doth she mean.
See, Lucius, see how much she makes of thee;
Somewhither would she have thee go with her.
Ah! boy; Cornelia never with more care
Read to her sons, than she hath read to thee   15
Sweet poetry and Tully’s Orator.

Mar.  Canst thou not guess wherefore she plies thee thus?

Boy.  My lord, I know not, I, nor can I guess,
Unless some fit or frenzy do possess her;
For I have heard my grandsire say full oft,   20
Extremity of griefs would make men mad;
And I have read that Hecuba of Troy
Ran mad through sorrow; that made me to fear,
Although, my lord, I know my noble aunt
Loves me as dear as e’er my mother did,   25
And would not, but in fury, fright my youth;
Which made me down to throw my books and fly,
Causeless, perhaps. But pardon me, sweet aunt;
And, madam, if my uncle Marcus go,
I will most willingly attend your ladyship.   30

Mar.  Lucius, I will.  [LAVINIA turns over the books which LUCIUS had let fall.

Tit.  How now, Lavinia! Marcus, what means this?
Some book there is that she desires to see.
Which is it, girl, of these? Open them, boy.
But thou art deeper read, and better skill’d;   35
Come, and take choice of all my library,
And so beguile thy sorrow, till the heavens
Reveal the damn’d contriver of this deed.
Why lifts she up her arms in sequence thus?

Mar.  I think she means that there was more than one   40
Confederate in the fact: ay, more there was;
Or else to heaven she heaves them for revenge.

Tit.  Lucius, what book is that she tosseth so?

Boy.  Grandsire, ’tis Ovid’s Metamorphoses;
My mother gave it me.   45

Mar.        For love of her that’s gone,
Perhaps, she cull’d it from among the rest.

Tit.  Soft! see how busily she turns the leaves!  [Helping her.
What would she find? Lavinia, shall I read?
This is the tragic tale of Philomel,   50
And treats of Tereus’ treason and his rape;
And rape, I fear, was root of thine annoy.

Mar.  See, brother, see! note how she quotes the leaves.

Tit.  Lavinia, wert thou thus surpris’d, sweet girl,
Ravish’d and wrong’d, as Philomela was,   55
Forc’d in the ruthless, vast, and gloomy woods?
See, see!
Ay, such a place there is, where we did hunt, —
O! had we never, never hunted there, —
Pattern’d by that the poet here describes,   60
By nature made for murders and for rapes.

Mar.  O! why should nature build so foul a den,
Unless the gods delight in tragedies?

Tit.  Give signs, sweet girl, for here are none but friends,
What Roman lord it was durst do the deed:   65
Or slunk not Saturnine, as Tarquin erst,
That left the camp to sin in Lucrece’ bed?

Mar.  Sit down, sweet niece: brother, sit down by me.
Apollo, Pallas, Jove, or Mercury,
Inspire me, that I may this treason find!   70
My lord, look here; look here, Lavinia:
This sandy plot is plain; guide, if thou canst,
This after me.  [He writes his name with his staff, and guides it with his feet and mouth.
I have writ my name
Without the help of any hand at all.   75
Curs’d be that heart that forc’d us to this shift!
Write thou, good niece, and here display at last
What God will have discover’d for revenge.
Heaven guide thy pen to print thy sorrows plain,
That we may know the traitors and the truth!  [She takes the staff in her mouth, and guides it with her stumps, and writes.   80

Tit.  O! do you read, my lord, what she hath writ?
Stuprum, Chiron, Demetrius.

Mar.  What, what! the lustfulsons of Tamora
Performers of this heinous, bloody deed?

Tit.  Magni dominator poli,   85
Tam lentus audis scelera? tam lentus vides?

Mar.  O! calm thee, gentle lord; although I know
There is enough written upon this earth
To stir a mutiny in the mildest thoughts
And arm the minds of infants to exclaims.   90
My lord, kneel down with me; Lavinia, kneel;
And kneel, sweet boy, the Roman Hector’s hope;
And swear with me, as, with the woeful fere
And father of that chaste dishonour’d dame,
Lord Junius Brutus sware for Lucrece’ rape,   95
That we will prosecute by good advice
Mortal revenge upon these traitorous Goths,
And see their blood, or die with this reproach.

Tit.  ’Tis sure enough, an you knew how;
But if you hunt these bear-whelps, then beware:   100
The dam will wake, an if she wind you once:
She’s with the lion deeply still in league,
And lulls him whilst she playeth on her back,
And when he sleeps will she do what she list.
You’re a young huntsman, Marcus; let it alone;   105
And, come, I will go get a leaf of brass,
And with a gad of steel will write these words,
And lay it by: the angry northern wind
Will blow these sands like Sibyl’s leaves abroad,
And where’s your lesson then? Boy, what say you?   110

Boy.  I say, my lord, that if I were a man,
Their mother’s bed-chamber should not be safe
For these bad bond men to the yoke of Rome.

Mar.  Ay, that’s my boy! thy father hath full oft
For his ungrateful country done the like.   115

Boy.  And, uncle, so will I, an if I live.

Tit.  Come, go with me into mine armoury:
Lucius, I’ll fit thee; and withal my boy
Shall carry from me to the empress’ sons
Presents that I intend to send them both:   120
Come, come; thou’lt do thy message, wilt thou not?

Boy.  Ay, with my dagger in their bosoms, grandsire.

Tit.  No, boy, not so; I’ll teach thee another course.
Lavinia, come. Marcus, look to my house;
Lucius and I’ll go brave it at the court:   125
Ay, marry, will we, sir; and we’ll be waited on.  [Exeunt TITUS, LAVINIA, and Boy.

Mar.  O heavens! can you hear a good man groan,
And not relent or not compassion him?
Marcus, attend him in his ecstasy,
That hath more scars of sorrow in his heart   130
Than foemen’s marks upon his batter’d shield;
But yet so just that he will not revenge.
Revenge, ye heavens, for old Andronicus!  [Exit.

Act IV. Scene II.

The Same.  A Room in the Palace.

Enter, from one side, AARON, DEMETRIUS, and CHIRON; from the other young LUCIUS, and an Attendant, with a bundle of weapons, and verses writ upon them.

Chi.  Demetrius, here’s the son of Lucius;
He hath some message to deliver us.

Aar.  Ay, some mad message from his mad grandfather.   5

Boy.  My lords, with all the humbleness I may,
I greet your honours from Andronicus;
[Aside.]  And pray the Roman gods, confound you both!

Dem.  Gramercy, lovely Lucius: what’s the news?

Boy.  [Aside.]  That you are both decipher’d, that’s the news,   10
For villains mark’d with rape.  [Aloud.]  May it please you,
My grandsire, well advis’d, hath sent by me
The goodliest weapons of his armoury,
To gratify your honourable youth,
The hope of Rome, for so he bade me say;   15
And so I do, and with his gifts present
Your lordships, that whenever you have need,
You may be armed and appointed well.
And so I leave you both:  [Aside.]  like bloody villains.  [Exeunt Boy and Attendant.

Dem.  What’s here? A scroll; and written round about?   20
Let’s see: —
[Reads.]  ‘Integer vitæ, scelerisque purus,
Non eget Mauri jaculis, nec arcu.

Chi.  O! ’tis a verse in Horace; I know it well:
I read it in the grammar long ago.   25

Aar.  Ay just, a verse in Horace; right, you have it.
[Aside.]  Now, what a thing it is to be an ass!
Here’s no sound jest! the old man hath found their guilt
And sends them weapons wrapp’d about with lines,
That wound, beyond their feeling, to the quick;   30
But were our witty empress well afoot,
She would applaud Andronicus’ conceit:
But let her rest in her unrest awhile.
[To them.]  And now, young lords, was ‘t not a happy star
Led us to Rome, strangers, and more than so,   35
Captives, to be advanced to this height?
It did me good before the palace gate
To brave the tribune in his brother’s hearing.

Dem.  But me more good, to see so great a lord
Basely insinuate and send us gifts.   40

Aar.  Had he not reason, Lord Demetrius?
Did you not use his daughter very friendly?

Dem.  I would we had a thousand Roman dames
At such a bay, by turn to serve our lust.

Chi.  A charitable wish and full of love.   45

Aar.  Here lacks but your mother for to say amen.

Chi.  And that would she for twenty thousand more.

Dem.  Come, let us go and pray to all the gods
For our beloved mother in her pains.

Aar.  [Aside.]  Pray to the devils; the gods have given us over.  [Trumpets sound.   50

Dem.  Why do the emperor’s trumpets flourish thus?

Chi.  Belike, for joy the emperor hath a son.

Dem.  Soft! who comes here?

Enter a Nurse, with a blackamoor Child.

Nur.  Good morrow, lords. O! tell me, did you see   55
Aaron the Moor?

Aar.  Well, more or less, or ne’er a whit at all,
Here Aaron is; and what with Aaron now?

Nur.  O gentle Aaron! we are all undone.
Now help, or woe betide thee evermore!   60

Aar.  Why, what a caterwauling dost thou keep!
What dost thou wrap and fumble in thine arms?

Nur.  O! that which I would hide from heaven’s eye,
Our empress’ shame, and stately Rome’s disgrace!
She is deliver’d, lords, she is deliver’d.   65

Aar.  To whom?

Nur.        I mean, she’s brought a-bed.

Aar.  Well, God give her good rest! What hath he sent her?

Nur.  A devil.

Aar.  Why, then she’s the devil’s dam: a joyful issue.   70

Nur.  A joyless, dismal, black, and sorrowful issue.
Here is the babe, as loathsome as a toad
Amongst the fairest breeders of our clime.
The empress sends it thee, thy stamp, thy seal,
And bids thee christen it with thy dagger’s point.   75

Aar.  ‘Zounds, ye whore! is black so base a hue?
Sweet blowse, you are a beauteous blossom, sure.

Dem.  Villain, what hast thou done?

Aar.  That which thou canst not undo.

Chi.  Thou hast undone our mother.   80

Aar.  Villain, I have done thy mother.

Dem.  And therein, hellish dog; thou hast undone.
Woe to her chance, and damn’d her loathed choice!
Accurs’d the offspring of so foul a fiend!

Chi.  It shall not live.   85

Aar.  It shall not die.

Nur.  Aaron, it must; the mother wills it so.

Aar.  What! must it, nurse? then let no man but I
Do execution on my flesh and blood.

Dem.  I’ll broach the tadpole on my rapier’s point:   90
Nurse, give it me; my sword shall soon dispatch it.

Aar.  Sooner this sword shall plough thy bowels up.  [Takes the Child from the Nurse, and draws.
Stay, murderous villains! will you kill your brother?
Now, by the burning tapers of the sky,
That shone so brightly when this boy was got,   95
He dies upon my scimitar’s sharp point
That touches this my first-born son and heir.
I tell you, younglings, not Enceladus,
With all his threatening band of Typhon’s brood,
Nor great Alcides, nor the god of war,   100
Shall seize this prey out of his father’s hands.
What, what, ye sanguine, shallow-hearted boys!
Ye white-lim’d walls! ye alehouse painted signs!
Coal-black is better than another hue,
In that it scorns to bear another hue;   105
For all the water in the ocean
Can never turn the swan’s black legs to white,
Although she lave them hourly in the flood.
Tell the empress from me, I am of age
To keep mine own, excuse it how she can.   110

Dem.  Wilt thou betray thy noble mistress thus?

Aar.  My mistress is my mistress; this myself;
The vigour, and the picture of my youth:
This before all the world do I prefer;
This maugre all the world will I keep safe,   115
Or some of you shall smoke for it in Rome.

Dem.  By this our mother is for ever sham’d.

Chi.  Rome will despise her for this foul escape.

Nur.  The emperor in his rage will doom her death.

Chi.  I blush to think upon this ignomy.   120

Aar.  Why, there’s the privilege your beauty bears.
Fie, treacherous hue! that will betray with blushing
The close enacts and counsels of the heart:
Here’s a young lad fram’d of another leer:
Look how the black slave smiles upon the father,   125
As who should say, ‘Old lad, I am thine own.’
He is your brother, lords, sensibly fed
Of that self blood that first gave life to you;
And from that womb where you imprison’d were
He is enfranchised and come to light:   130
Nay, he is your brother by the surer side,
Although my seal be stamped in his face.

Nur.  Aaron, what shall I say unto the empress?

Dem.  Advise thee, Aaron, what is to be done,
And we will all subscribe to thy advice:   135
Save thou the child, so we may all be safe.

Aar.  Then sit we down, and let us all consult,
My son and I will have the wind of you:
Keep there; now talk at pleasure of your safety.  [They sit.

Dem.  How many women saw this child of his?   140

Aar.  Why, so, brave lords! when we join in league,
I am a lamb; but if you brave the Moor,
The chafed boar, the mountain lioness,
The ocean swells not so as Aaron storms.
But say, again, how many saw the child?   145

Nur.  Cornelia the midwife, and myself,
And no one else but the deliver’d empress.

Aar.  The empress, the midwife, and yourself:
Two may keep counsel when the third’s away.
Go to the empress; tell her this I said:  [Stabbing her.   150
‘Weke, weke!’
So cries a pig prepared to the spit.

Dem.  What mean’st thou, Aaron? Wherefore didst thou this?

Aar.  O lord, sir, ’tis a deed of policy:
Shall she live to betray this guilt of ours,   155
A long-tongu’d babbling gossip? no, lords, no.
And now be it known to you my full intent.
Not far, one Muli lives, my countryman;
His wife but yesternight was brought to bed.
His child is like to her, fair as you are:   160
Go pack with him, and give the mother gold,
And tell them both the circumstance of all,
And how by this their child shall be advanc’d,
And be received for the emperor’s heir,
And substituted in the place of mine,   165
To calm this tempest whirling in the court;
And let the emperor dandle him for his own.
Hark ye, lords; you see, I have given her physic,  [Pointing to the Nurse.
And you must needs bestow her funeral;
The fields are near, and you are gallant grooms.   170
This done, see that you take no longer days,
But send the midwife presently to me.
The midwife and the nurse well made away,
Then let the ladies tattle what they please.

Chi.  Aaron, I see thou wilt not trust the air   175
With secrets.

Dem.        For this care of Tamora,
Herself and hers are highly bound to thee.  [Exeunt DEMETRIUS and CHIRON, bearing off the Nurse’s body.

Aar.  Now to the Goths, as swift as swallow flies;
There to dispose this treasure in mine arms,   180
And secretly to greet the empress’ friends.
Come on, you thick-lipp’d slave, I’ll bear you hence;
For it is you that puts us to our shifts:
I’ll make you feed on berries and on roots,
And feed on curds and whey, and suck the goat,   185
And cabin in a cave, and bring you up
To be a warrior, and command a camp.  [Exit with the Child.

Act IV. Scene III.

The Same.  A Public Place.

Enter TITUS, bearing arrows, with letters on the ends of them; with him MARCUS, young LUCIUS, PUBLIUS, SEMPRONIUS, CAIUS, and other Gentlemen, with bows.

Tit.  Come, Marcus, come; kinsmen, this is the way.
Sir boy, now let me see your archery:
Look ye draw home enough, and ’tis there straight.   5
Terras Astrœa reliquit:
Be you remember’d, Marcus, she’s gone, she’s fled.
Sirs, take you to your tools. You, cousins, shall
Go sound the ocean, and cast your nets;
Happily you may find her in the sea;   10
Yet there’s as little justice as at land.
No; Publius and Sempronius, you must do it;
’Tis you must dig with mattock and with spade,
And pierce the inmost centre of the earth:
Then, when you come to Pluto’s region,   15
I pray you, deliver him this petition;
Tell him, it is for justice and for aid,
And that it comes from old Andronicus,
Shaken with sorrows in ungrateful Rome.
Ah! Rome. Well, well; I made thee miserable   20
What time I threw the people’s suffrages
On him that thus doth tyrannize o’er me.
Go, get you gone; and pray be careful all,
And leave you not a man-of-war unsearch’d:
This wicked emperor may have shipp’d her hence;   25
And, kinsmen, then we may go pipe for justice.

Mar.  O Publius! is not this a heavy case,
To see thy noble uncle thus distract?

Pub.  Therefore, my lord, it highly us concerns
By day and night to attend him carefully,   30
And feed his humour kindly as we may,
Till time beget some careful remedy.

Mar.  Kinsmen, his sorrows are past remedy.
Join with the Goths, and with revengeful war
Take wreak on Rome for this ingratitude,   35
And vengeance on the traitor Saturnine.

Tit.  Publius, how now! how now, my masters!
What! have you met with her?

Pub.  No, my good lord; but Pluto sends you word,
If you will have Revenge from hell, you shall:   40
Marry, for Justice, she is so employ’d,
He thinks, with Jove in heaven, or somewhere else,
So that perforce you must needs stay a time.

Tit.  He doth me wrong to feed me with delays.
I’ll dive into the burning lake below,   45
And pull her out of Acheron by the heels.
Marcus, we are but shrubs, no cedars we;
No big-bon’d men fram’d of the Cyclops’ size;
But metal, Marcus, steel to the very back,
Yet wrung with wrongs more than our backs can bear:   50
And sith there’s no justice in earth nor hell,
We will solicit heaven and move the gods
To send down Justice for to wreak our wrongs.
Come, to this gear. You are a good archer, Marcus.  [He gives them the arrows.
Ad Jovem, that’s for you: here, ad Apollinem:   55
Ad Martem, that’s for myself:
Here, boy, to Pallas: here, to Mercury:
To Saturn, Caius, not to Saturnine;
You were as good to shoot against the wind.
To it, boy! Marcus, loose when I bid.   60
Of my word, I have written to effect;
There’s not a god left unsolicited.

Mar.  Kinsmen, shoot all your shafts into the court:
We will afflict the emperor in his pride.

Tit.  Now, masters, draw.  [They shoot.]  O! well said, Lucius!   65
Good boy, in Virgo’s lap: give it Pallas.

Mar.  My lord, I aim a mile beyond the moon;
Your letter is with Jupiter by this.

Tit.  Ha! Publius, Publius, what hast thou done?
See, see! thou hast shot off one of Taurus’ horns.   70

Mar.  This was the sport, my lord: when Publius shot,
The Bull, being gall’d, gave Aries such a knock
That down fell both the Ram’s horns in the court;
And who should find them but the empress’ villain?
She laugh’d, and told the Moor, he should not choose   75
But give them to his master for a present.

Tit.  Why, there it goes: God give his lordship joy!

Enter a Clown, with a basket, and two pigeons in it.
News! news from heaven! Marcus, the post is come.
Sirrah, what tidings? have you any letters?   80
Shall I have justice? what says Jupiter?

Clo.  O! the gibbet-maker? He says that he hath taken them down again, for the man must not be hanged till the next week.

Tit.  But what says Jupiter, I ask thee?

Clo.  Alas! sir, I know not Jupiter; I never drank with him in all my life.

Tit.  Why, villain, art not thou the carrier?   85

Clo.  Ay, of my pigeons, sir; nothing else.

Tit.  Why, didst thou not come from heaven?

Clo.  From heaven! alas! sir, I never came there. God forbid I should be so bold to press to heaven in my young days. Why, I am going with my pigeons to the tribunal plebs, to take up a matter of brawl betwixt my uncle and one of the emperial’s men.

Mar.  Why, sir, that is as fit as can be to serve for your oration; and let him deliver the pigeons to the emperor from you.

Tit.  Tell me, can you deliver an oration to the emperor with a grace?   90

Clo.  Nay, truly, sir, I could never say grace in all my life.

Tit.  Sirrah, come hither: make no more ado,
But give your pigeons to the emperor:
By me thou shalt have justice at his hands.
Hold, hold; meanwhile, here’s money for thy charges.   95
Give me pen and ink.
Sirrah, can you with a grace deliver a supplication?

Clo.  Ay, sir.

Tit.  Then here is a supplication for you. And when you come to him, at the first approach you must kneel; then kiss his foot; then deliver up your pigeons; and then look for your reward. I’ll be at hand, sir; see you do it bravely.

Clo.  I warrant you, sir; let me alone.   100

Tit.  Sirrah, hast thou a knife? Come, let me see it.
Here, Marcus, fold it in the oration;
For thou hast made it like a humble suppliant:
And when thou hast given it to the emperor,
Knock at my door, and tell me what he says.   105

Clo.  God be with you, sir; I will.

Tit.  Come, Marcus, let us go. Publius, follow me.  [Exeunt.

Act IV. Scene IV.

The Same.  Before the Palace.

Enter SATURNINUS, TAMORA, DEMETRIUS, CHIRON, Lords, and Others: SATURNINUS with the arrows in his hand that TITUS shot.

Sat.  Why, lords, what wrongs are these! Was ever seen
An emperor of Rome thus overborne,
Troubled, confronted thus; and, for the extent   5
Of egal justice, us’d in such contempt?
My lords, you know, as do the mightful gods, —
However these disturbers of our peace
Buzz in the people’s ears, — there nought hath pass’d,
But even with law, against the wilful sons   10
Of old Andronicus. And what an if
His sorrows have so overwhelm’d his wits,
Shall we be thus afflicted in his wreaks,
His fits, his frenzy, and his bitterness?
And now he writes to heaven for his redress:   15
See, here’s to Jove, and this to Mercury;
This to Apollo; this to the god of war;
Sweet scrolls to fly about the streets of Rome!
What’s this but libelling against the senate,
And blazoning our injustice every where?   20
A goodly humour, is it not, my lords?
As who would say, in Rome no justice were.
But if I live, his feigned ecstasies
Shall be no shelter to these outrages;
But he and his shall know that justice lives   25
In Saturninus’ health; whom, if she sleep,
He’ll so awake, as she in fury shall
Cut off the proud’st conspirator that lives.

Tam.  My gracious lord, my lovely Saturnine,
Lord of my life, commander of my thoughts,   30
Calm thee, and bear the faults of Titus’ age,
The effects of sorrow for his valiant sons,
Whose loss hath pierc’d him deep and scarr’d his heart;
And rather comfort his distressed plight
Than prosecute the meanest or the best   35
For these contempts. — [Aside.]  Why, thus it shall become
High-witted Tamora to gloze with all:
But, Titus, I have touch’d thee to the quick,
Thy life-blood out: if Aaron now be wise,
Then is all safe, the anchor’s in the port.   40

Enter Clown.
How now, good fellow! wouldst thou speak with us?

Clo.  Yea, forsooth, an your mistership be emperial.

Tam.  Empress I am, but yonder sits the emperor.

Clo.  ’Tis he. God and Saint Stephen give you good den.   45
I have brought you a letter and a couple of pigeons here.  [SATURNINUS reads the letter.

Sat.  Go, take him away, and hang him presently.

Clo.  How much money must I have?

Tam.  Come, sirrah, you must be hanged.

Clo.  Hanged! By ‘r lady, then I have brought up a neck to a fair end.  [Exit, guarded.   50

Sat.  Despiteful and intolerable wrongs!
Shall I endure this monstrous villany?
I know from whence this same device proceeds:
May this be borne? As if his traitorous sons,
That died by law for murder of our brother,   55
Have by my means been butcher’d wrongfully!
Go, drag the villain hither by the hair;
Nor age nor honour shall shape privilege.
For this proud mock I’ll be thy slaughterman;
Sly frantic wretch, that holp’st to make me great,   60
In hope thyself should govern Rome and me.

Enter ÆMILIUS.
What news with thee, Æmilius?

Æmil.  Arm, arm, my lord! Rome never had more cause.
The Goths have gather’d head, and with a power   65
Of high-resolved men, bent to the spoil,
They hither march amain, under conduct
Of Lucius, son to old Andronicus;
Who threats, in course of this revenge, to do
As much as ever Coriolanus did.   70

Sat.  Is war-like Lucius general of the Goths?
These tidings nip me, and I hang the head
As flowers with frost or grass beat down with storms.
Ay, now begin our sorrows to approach:
’Tis he the common people love so much;   75
Myself hath often heard them say,
When I have walked like a private man,
That Lucius’ banishment was wrongfully,
And they have wish’d that Lucius were their emperor.

Tam.  Why should you fear? is not your city strong?   80

Sat.  Ay, but the citizens favour Lucius,
And will revolt from me to succour him.

Tam.  King, be thy thoughts imperious, like thy name.
Is the sun dimm’d, that gnats do fly in it?
The eagle suffers little birds to sing,   85
And is not careful what they mean thereby,
Knowing that with the shadow of his wings
He can at pleasure stint their melody;
Even so mayst thou the giddy men of Rome.
Then cheer thy spirit; for know, thou emperor,   90
I will enchant the old Andronicus
With words more sweet, and yet more dangerous,
Than baits to fish, or honey-stalks to sheep,
Whenas the one is wounded with the bait,
The other rotted with delicious feed.   95

Sat.  But he will not entreat his son for us.

Tam.  If Tamora entreat him, then he will:
For I can smooth and fill his aged ear
With golden promises, that, were his heart
Almost impregnable, his old ears deaf,   100
Yet should both ear and heart obey my tongue.
[To ÆMILIUS.]  Go thou before, be our ambassador:
Say that the emperor requests a parley
Of war-like Lucius, and appoint the meeting,
Even at his father’s house, the old Andronicus.   105

Sat.  Æmilius, do this message honourably:
And if he stand on hostage for his safety,
Bid him demand what pledge will please him best.

Æmil.  Your bidding shall I do effectually.  [Exit.

Tam.  Now will I to that old Andronicus,   110
And temper him with all the art I have,
To pluck proud Lucius from the war-like Goths.
And now, sweet emperor, be blithe again,
And bury all thy fear in my devices.

Sat.  Then go successantly, and plead to him.  [Exeunt.   115

Act V. Scene I.

Plains near Rome.

Flourish.  Enter LUCIUS, and an army of Goths, with drums and colours.

Luc.  Approved warriors, and my faithful friends,
I have received letters from great Rome,
Which signify what hate they bear their emperor,   5
And how desirous of our sight they are.
Therefore, great lords, be, as your titles witness,
Imperious and impatient of your wrongs;
And wherein Rome hath done you any scath,
Let him make treble satisfaction.   10

First Goth.  Brave slip, sprung from the great Andronicus,
Whose name was once our terror, now our comfort;
Whose high exploits and honourable deeds
Ingrateful Rome requites with foul contempt,
Be bold in us: we’ll follow where thou lead’st,   15
Like stinging bees in hottest summer’s day
Led by their master to the flower’d fields,
And be aveng’d on cursed Tamora.

Goths.  And, as he saith, so say we all with him.

Luc.  I humbly thank him, and I thank you all.   20
But who comes here, led by a lusty Goth?

Enter a Goth, leading AARON, with his Child in his arms.

Sec. Goth.  Renowned Lucius, from our troops I stray’d,
To gaze upon a ruinous monastery;
And as I earnestly did fix mine eye   25
Upon the wasted building, suddenly
I head a child cry underneath a wall.
I made unto the noise; when soon I heard
The crying babe controll’d with this discourse:
‘Peace, tawny slave, half me and half thy dam!   30
Did not thy hue bewray whose brat thou art,
Had nature lent thee but thy mother’s lock,
Villain, thou mightst have been an emperor:
But where the bull and cow are both milk-white,
They never do beget a coal-black calf.   35
Peace, villain, peace!’ — even thus he rates the babe, —
‘For I must bear thee to a trusty Goth;
Who, when he knows thou art the empress’ babe,
Will hold thee dearly for thy mother’s sake.’
With this, my weapon drawn, I rush’d upon him,   40
Surpris’d him suddenly, and brought him hither,
To use as you think needful of the man.

Luc.  O worthy Goth, this is the incarnate devil
That robb’d Andronicus of his good hand:
This is the pearl that pleas’d your empress’ eye,   45
And here’s the base fruit of his burning lust.
Say, wall-ey’d slave, whither wouldst thou convey
This growing image of thy fiend-like face?
Why dost not speak? What! deaf? not a word?
A halter, soldiers! hang him on this tree,   50
And by his side his fruit of bastardy.

Aar.  Touch not the boy; he is of royal blood.

Luc.  Too like the sire for ever being good.
First hang the child, that he may see it sprawl;
A sight to vex the father’s soul withal.   55
Get me a ladder.  [A ladder brought, which AARON is made to ascend.

Aar.        Lucius, save the child;
And bear it from me to the empress.
If thou do this, I’ll show thee wondrous things,
That highly may advantage thee to hear:   60
If thou wilt not, befall what may befall,
I’ll speak no more but ‘Vengeance rot you all!’

Luc.  Say on; and if it please me which thou speak’st,
Thy child shall live, and I will see it nourish’d.

Aar.  An if it please thee! why, assure thee, Lucius,   65
‘Twill vex thy soul to hear what I shall speak;
For I must talk of murders, rapes, and massacres,
Acts of black night, abominable deeds,
Complots of mischief, treason, villanies
Ruthful to hear, yet piteously perform’d:   70
And this shall all be buried by my death,
Unless thou swear to me my child shall live.

Luc.  Tell on thy mind: I say, thy child shall live.

Aar.  Swear that he shall, and then I will begin.

Luc.  Who should I swear by? thou believ’st no god:   75
That granted, how canst thou believe an oath?

Aar.  What if I do not? as, indeed, I do not;
Yet, for I know thou art religious,
And hast a thing within thee called conscience,
With twenty popish tricks and ceremonies,   80
Which I have seen thee careful to observe,
Therefore I urge thy oath; for that I know
An idiot holds his bauble for a god,
And keeps the oath which by that god he swears,
To that I’ll urge him: therefore thou shalt vow   85
By that same god, what god soe’er it be,
That thou ador’st and hast in reverence,
To save my boy, to nourish and bring him up:
Or else I will discover nought to thee.

Luc.  Even by my god I swear to thee I will.   90

Aar.  First, know thou, I begot him on the empress.

Luc.  O most insatiate and luxurious woman!

Aar.  Tut! Lucius, this was but a deed of charity
To that which thou shalt hear of me anon.
’Twas her two sons that murder’d Bassianus;   95
They cut thy sister’s tongue and ravish’d her,
And cut her hands and trimm’d her as thou saw’st.

Luc.  O detestable villain! call’st thou that trimming?

Aar.  Why, she was wash’d, and cut, and trimm’d, and ’twas
Trim sport for them that had the doing of it.   100

Luc.  O barbarous, beastly villains, like thyself!

Aar.  Indeed, I was their tutor to instruct them.
That codding spirit had they from their mother,
As sure a card as ever won the set;
That bloody mind, I think, they learn’d of me   105
As true a dog as ever fought at head.
Well, let my deeds be witness of my worth.
I train’d thy brethren to that guileful hole
Where the dead corpse of Bassianus lay;
I wrote the letter that thy father found,   110
And hid the gold within the letter mention’d,
Confederate with the queen and her two sons:
And what not done, that thou hast cause to rue,
Wherein I had no stroke of mischief in it?
I play’d the cheater for thy father’s hand,   115
And, when I had it, drew myself apart,
And almost broke my heart with extreme laughter.
I pry’d me through the crevice of a wall
When, for his hand, he had his two sons’ heads;
Beheld his tears, and laugh’d so heartily,   120
That both mine eyes were rainy like to his:
And when I told the empress of this sport,
She swounded almost at my pleasing tale,
And for my tidings gave me twenty kisses.

First Goth.  What! canst thou say all this, and never blush?   125

Aar.  Ay, like a black dog, as the saying is.

Luc.  Art thou not sorry for these heinous deeds?

Aar.  Ay, that I had not done a thousand more.
Even now I curse the day, and yet, I think,
Few come within the compass of my curse,   130
Wherein I did not some notorious ill:
As kill a man, or else devise his death;
Ravish a maid, or plot the way to do it;
Accuse some innocent, and forswear myself;
Set deadly enmity between two friends;   135
Make poor men’s cattle break their necks;
Set fire on barns and hay-stacks in the night,
And bid the owners quench them with their tears,
Oft have I digg’d up dead men from their graves,
And set them upright at their dear friends’ doors,   140
Even when their sorrows almost were forgot;
And on their skins, as on the bark of trees,
Have with my knife carved in Roman letters,
‘Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead.’
Tut! I have done a thousand dreadful things   145
As willingly as one would kill a fly,
And nothing grieves me heartily indeed
But that I cannot do ten thousand more.

Luc.  Bring down the devil, for he must not die
So sweet a death as hanging presently.   150

Aar.  If there be devils, would I were a devil,
To live and burn in everlasting fire,
So I might have your company in hell,
But to torment you with my bitter tongue!

Luc.  Sirs, stop his mouth, and let him speak no more.   155

Enter a Goth.

Goth.  My lord, there is a messenger from Rome
Desires to be admitted to your presence.

Luc.  Let him come near.

Enter ÆMILIUS.   160
Welcome, Æmilius! what’s the news from Rome?

Æmil.  Lord Lucius, and you princes of the Goths,
The Roman emperor greets you all by me;
And, for he understands you are in arms,
He craves a parley at your father’s house,   165
Willing you to demand your hostages,
And they shall be immediately deliver’d.

First Goth.  What says our general?

Luc.  Æmilius, let the emperor give his pledges
Unto my father and my uncle Marcus,   170
And we will come. March away.  [Exeunt.

Act V. Scene II.

Rome.  Before TITUS’ House.

Enter TAMORA, DEMETRIUS, and CHIRON, disguised.

Tam.  Thus, in this strange and sad habiliment,
I will encounter with Andronicus,
And say I am Revenge, sent from below   5
To join with him and right his heinous wrongs.
Knock at his study, where, they say, he keeps,
To ruminate strange plots of dire revenge;
Tell him, Revenge is come to join with him,
And work confusion on his enemies.  [They knock.   10

Enter TITUS, above.

Tit.  Who doth molest my contemplation?
Is it your trick to make me ope the door,
That so my sad decrees may fly away,
And all my study be to no effect?   15
You are deceiv’d; for what I mean to do,
See here, in bloody lines I have set down;
And what is written shall be executed.

Tam.  Titus, I am come to talk with thee.

Tit.  No, not a word; how can I grace my talk,   20
Wanting a hand to give it action?
Thou hast the odds of me; therefore no more.

Tam.  If thou didst know me, thou wouldst talk with me.

Tit.  I am not mad; I know thee well enough:
Witness this wretched stump, witness these crimson lines;   25
Witness these trenches made by grief and care;
Witness the tiring day and heavy night;
Witness all sorrow, that I know thee well
For our proud empress, mighty Tamora.
Is not thy coming for my other hand?   30

Tam.  Know, thou sad man, I am not Tamora;
She is thy enemy, and I thy friend:
I am Revenge, sent from the infernal kingdom,
To ease the gnawing vulture of thy mind,
By working wreakful vengeance on thy foes.   35
Come down, and welcome me to this world’s light;
Confer with me of murder and of death.
There’s not a hollow cave or lurking-place,
No vast obscurity or misty vale,
Where bloody murder or detested rape   40
Can couch for fear, but I will find them out;
And in their ears tell them my dreadful name,
Revenge, which makes the foul offender quake.

Tit.  Art thou Revenge? and art thou sent to me,
To be a torment to mine enemies?   45

Tam.  I am; therefore come down, and welcome me.

Tit.  Do me some service ere I come to thee.
Lo, by thy side where Rape and Murder stands;
Now give some surance that thou art Revenge:
Stab them, or tear them on thy chariot-wheels,   50
And then I’ll come and be thy waggoner,
And whirl along with thee about the globe.
Provide two proper palfreys, black as jet,
To hale thy vengeful waggon swift away,
And find out murderers in their guilty caves:   55
And when thy car is loaden with their heads,
I will dismount, and by the waggon-wheel
Trot like a servile footman all day long,
Even from Hyperion’s rising in the east
Until his very downfall in the sea:   60
And day by day I’ll do this heavy task,
So thou destroy Rapine and Murder there.

Tam.  These are my ministers, and come with me.

Tit.  Are these thy ministers? what are they call’d?

Tam.  Rapine and Murder; therefore called so,   65
‘Cause they take vengeance of such kind of men.

Tit.  Good Lord, how like the empress’ sons they are,
And you the empress! but we worldly men
Have miserable, mad, mistaking eyes.
O sweet Revenge! now do I come to thee;   70
And, if one arm’s embracement will content thee,
I will embrace thee in it by and by.  [Exit above.

Tam.  This closing with him fits his lunacy.
Whate’er I forge to feed his brain-sick fits,
Do you uphold and maintain in your speeches,   75
For now he firmly takes me for Revenge;
And, being credulous in this mad thought,
I’ll make him send for Lucius his son;
And, whilst I at a banquet hold him sure,
I’ll find some cunning practice out of hand   80
To scatter and disperse the giddy Goths,
Or, at the least, make them his enemies.
See, here he comes, and I must ply my theme.

Enter TITUS.

Tit.  Long have I been forlorn, and all for thee:   85
Welcome, dread Fury, to my woeful house:
Rapine and Murder, you are welcome too.
How like the empress and her sons you are!
Well are you fitted had you but a Moor:
Could not all hell afford you such a devil?   90
For well I wot the empress never wags
But in her company there is a Moor;
And would you represent our queen aright,
It were convenient you had such a devil.
But welcome as you are. What shall we do?   95

Tam.  What wouldst thou have us do, Andronicus?

Dem.  Show me a murderer, I’ll deal with him.

Chi.  Show me a villain that hath done a rape,
And I am sent to be reveng’d on him.

Tam.  Show me a thousand that have done thee wrong,   100
And I will be revenged on them all.

Tit.  Look round about the wicked streets of Rome,
And when thou find’st a man that’s like thyself,
Good Murder, stab him; he’s a murderer.
Go thou with him; and when it is thy hap   105
To find another that is like to thee,
Good Rapine, stab him; he’s a ravisher.
Go thou with them; and in the emperor’s court
There is a queen attended by a Moor;
Well mayst thou know her by thy own proportion,   110
For up and down she doth resemble thee:
I pray thee, do on them some violent death;
They have been violent to me and mine.

Tam.  Well hast thou lesson’d us; this shall we do.
But would it please thee, good Andronicus,   115
To send for Lucius, thy thrice-valiant son,
Who leads towards Rome a band of war-like Goths,
And bid him come and banquet at thy house:
When he is here, even at thy solemn feast,
I will bring in the empress and her sons,   120
The emperor himself, and all thy foes,
And at thy mercy shall they stoop and kneel,
And on them shalt thou ease thy angry heart.
What says Andronicus to this device?

Tit.  Marcus, my brother! ’tis sad Titus calls.   125

Enter MARCUS.
Go, gentle Marcus, to thy nephew Lucius;
Thou shalt inquire him out among the Goths:
Bid him repair to me, and bring with him
Some of the chiefest princes of the Goths;   130
Bid him encamp his soldiers where they are:
Tell him, the emperor and the empress too
Feast at my house, and he shall feast with them.
This do thou for my love; and so let him,
As he regards his aged father’s life.   135

Mar.  This will I do, and soon return again.  [Exit.

Tam.  Now will I hence about thy business,
And take my ministers along with me.

Tit.  Nay, nay, let Rape and Murder stay with me;
Or else I’ll call my brother back again,   140
And cleave to no revenge but Lucius.

Tam.  [Aside to her sons.]  What say you, boys? will you abide with him,
Whiles I go tell my lord the emperor
How I have govern’d our determin’d jest?
Yield to his humour, smooth and speak him fair,   145
And tarry with him till I turn again.

Tit.  [Aside.]  I know them all, though they suppose me mad;
And will o’er-reach them in their own devices;
A pair of cursed hell-hounds and their dam.

Dem.  [Aside to TAMORA.]  Madam, depart at pleasure; leave us here.   150

Tam.  Farewell, Andronicus: Revenge now goes
To lay a complot to betray thy foes.  [Exit TAMORA.

Tit.  I know thou dost; and, sweet Revenge, farewell.

Chi.  Tell us, old man, how shall we be employ’d?

Tit.  Tut! I have work enough for you to do.   155
Publius, come hither, Caius, and Valentine!

Enter PUBLIUS and Others.

Pub.  What is your will?

Tit.  Know you these two?

Pub.  The empress’ sons,   160
I take them, Chiron and Demetrius.

Tit.  Fie, Publius, fie! thou art too much deceiv’d;
The one is Murder, Rape is the other’s name;
And therefore bind them, gentle Publius;
Caius and Valentine, lay hands on them;   165
Oft have you heard me wish for such an hour,
And now I find it: therefore bind them sure,
And stop their mouths, if they begin to cry.  [Exit.  PUBLIUS, &c., seize CHIRON and DEMETRIUS.

Chi.  Villains, forbear! we are the empress’ sons.

Pub.  And therefore do we what we are commanded.   170
Stop close their mouths, let them not speak a word.
Is he sure bound? look that you bind them fast.

Re-enter TITUS, with LAVINIA; she bearing a basin, and he a knife.

Tit.  Come, come, Lavinia; look, thy foes are bound.
Sirs, stop their mouths, let them not speak to me,   175
But let them hear what fearful words I utter.
O villains, Chiron and Demetrius!
Here stands the spring whom you have stain’d with mud,
This goodly summer with your winter mix’d.
You kill’d her husband, and for that vile fault   180
Two of her brothers were condemn’d to death,
My hand cut off and made a merry jest:
Both her sweet hands, her tongue, and that more dear
Than hands or tongue, her spotless chastity,
In human traitors, you constrain’d and forc’d.   185
What would you say if I should let you speak?
Villains! for shame you could not beg for grace.
Hark, wretches! how I mean to martyr you.
This one hand yet is left to cut your throats,
Whilst that Lavinia’ tween her stumps doth hold   190
The basin that receives your guilty blood.
You know your mother means to feast with me,
And calls herself Revenge, and thinks me mad.
Hark! villains, I will grind your bones to dust,
And with your blood and it I’ll make a paste;   195
And of the paste a coffin I will rear,
And make two pasties of your shameful heads;
And bid that strumpet, your unhallow’d dam,
Like to the earth swallow her own increase.
This is the feast that I have bid her to,   200
And this the banquet she shall surfeit on;
For worse than Philomel you us’d my daughter,
And worse than Procne I will be reveng’d.
And now prepare your throats. Lavinia, come.  [He cuts their throats.
Receive the blood: and when that they are dead,   205
Let me go grind their bones to powder small,
And with this hateful liquor temper it;
And in that paste let their vile heads be bak’d.
Come, come, be every one officious
To make this banquet, which I wish may prove   210
More stern and bloody than the Centaurs’ feast.
So, now bring them in, for I will play the cook,
And see them ready ‘gainst their mother comes.  [Exeunt, bearing the dead bodies.

Act V. Scene III.

Re-enter Attendants, with AARON.

The Same.  Court of Titus’ House.  A banquet set out.

Enter LUCIUS, MARCUS and Goths, with AARON prisoner.

Luc.  Uncle Marcus, since it is my father’s mind
That I repair to Rome, I am content.

First Goth.  And ours with thine, befall what fortune will.   5

Luc.  Good uncle, take you in this barbarous Moor,
This ravenous tiger, this accursed devil;
Let him receive no sustenance, fetter him,
Till he be brought unto the empress’ face,
For testimony of her foul proceedings:   10
And see the ambush of our friends be strong;
I fear the emperor means no good to us.

Aar.  Some devil whisper curses in mine ear,
And prompt me, that my tongue may utter forth
The venomous malice of my swelling heart!   15

Luc.  Away, inhuman dog! unhallow’d slave!
Sirs, help our uncle to convey him in.  [Exeunt Goths, with AARON.  Trumpets sound.
The trumpets show the emperor is at hand.

Enter SATURNINUS and TAMORA, with ÆMILIUS, Senators, Tribunes, and Others.

Sat.  What! hath the firmament more suns than one?   20

Luc.  What boots it thee, to call thyself a sun?

Mar.  Rome’s emperor, and nephew, break the parle;
These quarrels must be quietly debated.
The feast is ready which the careful Titus
Hath ordain’d to an honourable end,   25
For peace, for love, for league, and good to Rome:
Please you, therefore, draw nigh, and take your places.

Sat.  Marcus, we will.  [Hautboys sound.

Enter TITUS, dressed like a cook, LAVINIA, veiled, young LUCIUS, and Others.  TITUS places the dishes on the table.

Tit.  Welcome, my gracious lord; welcome, dread queen;   30
Welcome, ye war-like Goths; welcome, Lucius;
And welcome, all. Although the cheer be poor,
‘Twill fill your stomachs; please you eat of it.

Sat.  Why art thou thus attir’d, Andronicus?

Tit.  Because I would be sure to have all well   35
To entertain your highness, and your empress.

Tam.  We are beholding to you, good Andronicus.

Tit.  An if your highness knew my heart, you were.
My lord the emperor, resolve me this:
Was it well done of rash Virginius   40
To slay his daughter with his own right hand,
Because she was enforced, stain’d, and deflower’d?

Sat.  It was, Andronicus.

Tit.  Your reason, mighty lord?

Sat.  Because the girl should not survive her shame,   45
And by her presence still renew his sorrows.

Tit.  A reason mighty, strong, and effectual;
A pattern, precedent, and lively warrant,
For me most wretched, to perform the like.
Die, die, Lavinia, and thy shame with thee;   50
And with thy shame thy father’s sorrow die!  [Kills LAVINIA.

Sat.  What hast thou done, unnatural and unkind?

Tit.  Kill’d her, for whom my tears have made me blind.
I am as woeful as Virginius was,
And have a thousand times more cause than he   55
To do this outrage: and it is now done.

Sat.  What! was she ravish’d? tell who did the deed.

Tit.  Will ‘t please you eat? will ‘t please your highness feed?

Tam.  Why hast thou slain thine only daughter thus?

Tit.  Not I; ’twas Chiron and Demetrius:   60
They ravish’d her, and cut away her tongue:
And they, ’twas they, that did her all this wrong.

Sat.  Go fetch them hither to us presently.

Tit.  Why, there they are both, baked in that pie;
Whereof their mother daintily hath fed,   65
Eating the flesh that she herself hath bred.
’Tis true, ’tis true; witness my knife’s sharp point.  [Kills TAMORA.

Sat.  Die, frantic wretch, for this accursed deed!  [Kills TITUS.

Luc.  Can the son’s eye behold his father bleed?
There’s meed for meed, death for a deadly deed!  [Kills SATURNINUS.  A great tumult.  The people in confusion disperse.  MARCUS, LUCIUS, and their partisans, go up into the balcony.   70

Mar.  You sad-fac’d men, people and sons of Rome,
By uproar sever’d, like a flight of fowl
Scatter’d by winds and high tempestuous gusts,
O! let me teach you how to knit again
This scatter’d corn into one mutual sheaf,   75
These broken limbs again into one body;
Lest Rome herself be bane unto herself,
And she whom mighty kingdoms curtsy to,
Like a forlorn and desperate castaway,
Do shameful execution on herself.   80
But if my frosty signs and chaps of age,
Grave witnesses of true experience,
Cannot induce you to attend my words,
[To LUCIUS.]  Speak, Rome’s dear friend, as erst our ancestor,
When with his solemn tongue he did discourse   85
To love-sick Dido’s sad attending ear
The story of that baleful burning night
When subtle Greeks surpris’d King Priam’s Troy;
Tell us what Sinon hath bewitch’d our ears,
Or who hath brought the fatal engine in   90
That gives our Troy, our Rome, the civil wound.
My heart is not compact of flint nor steel,
Nor can I utter all our bitter grief,
But floods of tears will drown my oratory,
And break my very utterance, even in the time   95
When it should move you to attend me most,
Lending your kind commiseration.
Here is a captain, let him tell the tale;
Your hearts will throb and weep to hear him speak.

Luc.  Then, noble auditory, be it known to you,   100
That cursed Chiron and Demetrius
Were they that murdered our emperor’s brother;
And they it was that ravished our sister.
For their fell faults our brothers were beheaded,
Our father’s tears despis’d, and basely cozen’d   105
Of that true hand that fought Rome’s quarrel out,
And sent her enemies unto the grave:
Lastly, myself unkindly banished,
The gates shut on me, and turn’d weeping out,
To beg relief among Rome’s enemies;   110
Who drown’d their enmity in my true tears,
And op’d their arms to embrace me as a friend:
And I am the turn’d forth, be it known to you,
That have preserv’d her welfare in my blood,
And from her bosom took the enemy’s point,   115
Sheathing the steel in my adventurous body.
Alas! you know I am no vaunter, I;
My scars can witness, dumb although they are,
That my report is just and full of truth.
But, soft! methinks I do digress too much,   120
Citing my worthless praise: O! pardon me;
For when no friends are by, men praise themselves.

Mar.  Now is my turn to speak. Behold this child;
Of this was Tamora delivered,
The issue of an irreligious Moor,   125
Chief architect and plotter of these woes.
The villain is alive in Titus’ house,
Damn’d as he is, to witness this is true.
Now judge what cause had Titus to revenge
These wrongs, unspeakable, past patience,   130
Or more than any living man could bear.
Now you have heard the truth, what say you Romans?
Have we done aught amiss, show us wherein,
And, from the place where you behold us now,
The poor remainder of Andronici   135
Will, hand in hand, all headlong cast us down,
And on the ragged stones beat forth our brains,
And make a mutual closure of our house.
Speak, Romans, speak! and if you say we shall,
Lo! hand in hand, Lucius and I will fall.   140

Æmil.  Come, come, thou reverend man of Rome,
And bring our emperor gently in thy hand,
Lucius, our emperor; for well I know
The common voice do cry it shall be so.

Romans.  Lucius, all hail! Rome’s royal emperor!   145

Mar.  [To Attendants.]  Go, go into old Titus’ sorrowful house,
And hither hale that misbelieving Moor,
To be adjudg’d some direful slaughtering death,
As punishment for his most wicked life.  [Exeunt Attendants.

LUCIUS, MARCUS, and the Others descend.   150

Romans.  Lucius, all hail! Rome’s gracious governor!

Luc.  Thanks, gentle Romans: may I govern so,
To heal Rome’s harms, and wipe away her woe!
But, gentle people, give me aim awhile,
For nature puts me to a heavy task.   155
Stand all aloof; but, uncle, draw you near,
To shed obsequious tears upon this trunk.
O! take this warm kiss on thy pale cold lips,  [Kisses TITUS.
These sorrowful drops upon thy blood-stain’d face,
The last true duties of thy noble son!   160

Mar.  Tear for tear, and loving kiss for kiss,
Thy brother Marcus tenders on thy lips:
O! were the sum of these that I should pay
Countless and infinite, yet would I pay them.

Luc.  Come hither, boy; come, come, and learn of us   165
To melt in showers: thy grandsire lov’d thee well:
Many a time he danc’d thee on his knee,
Sung thee asleep, his loving breast thy pillow;
Many a matter hath he told to thee,
Meet and agreeing with thine infancy;   170
In that respect, then, like a loving child,
Shed yet some small drops from thy tender spring,
Because kind nature doth require it so:
Friends should associate friends in grief and woe.
Bid him farewell; commit him to the grave;   175
Do him that kindness, and take leave of him.

Boy.  O grandsire, grandsire! even with all my heart
Would I were dead, so you did live again.
O Lord! I cannot speak to him for weeping;
My tears will choke me if I ope my mouth.   180

First Rom.  You sad Andronici, have done with woes:
Give sentence on this execrable wretch,
That hath been breeder of these dire events.

Luc.  Set him breast-deep in earth, and famish him;   185
There let him stand, and rave, and cry for food:
If any one relieves or pities him,
For the offence he dies. This is our doom:
Some stay to see him fasten’d in the earth.

Aar.  O! why should wrath be mute, and fury dumb?   190
I am no baby, I, that with base prayers
I should repent the evils I have done.
Ten thousand worse than ever yet I did
Would I perform, if I might have my will:
If one good deed in all my life I did,   195
I do repent it from my very soul.

Luc.  Some loving friends convey the emperor hence,
And give him burial in his father’s grave.
My father and Lavinia shall forthwith
Be closed in our household’s monument.   200
As for that heinous tiger, Tamora,
No funeral rite, nor man in mournful weeds,
No mournful bell shall ring her burial;
But throw her forth to beasts and birds of prey.
Her life was beast-like, and devoid of pity;   205
And, being so, shall have like want of pity.
See justice done on Aaron, that damn’d Moor,
By whom our heavy haps had their beginning:
Then, afterwards, to order well the state,
That like events may ne’er it ruinate.  [Exeunt.   210

TAMING OF THE SHREW

This comedy was written in approximately 1592.  The main plot depicts the courtship of Petruchio, a gentleman of Verona, and Katherina, the headstrong, obdurate shrew. Initially, Katherina is an unwilling participant in the relationship, but Petruchio tempers her with various psychological torments — the “taming” — until she is an obedient bride. The sub-plot features a competition between the suitors of Katherina’s more polite sister, Bianca.

The play begins with a framing device, known as an Induction, in which a drunken tinker named Sly is tricked into thinking he is a nobleman by a mischievous Lord. The Lord then has a play performed for Sly’s amusement, set in Padua with a primary and sub-plot.

An illustration of Act 4, Scene 3 from the Illustrated London News, 1886

CONTENTS

Dramatis Personæ

Induction. Scene I.

Induction. Scene II.

Act I. Scene I.

Act I. Scene II.

Act II. Scene I.

Act III. Scene I.

Act III. Scene II.

Act IV. Scene I.

Act IV. Scene II.

Act IV. Scene III.

Act IV. Scene IV.

Act IV. Scene V.

Act V. Scene I.

Act V. Scene II.

The famous 1967 film adaptation starring Elizabeth Taylor

A musical inspired by the play

The 1999 teen romcom inspired by ‘The Taming of the Shrew’

Dramatis Personæ

A Lord.
CHRISTOPHER SLY, a Tinker, Hostess, Page, Players, Huntsmen, and Servants: Persons in the Induction.
BAPTISTA, a rich Gentleman of Padua.
VINCENTIO, an old Gentleman of Pisa.
LUCENTIO, son to Vincentio; in love with Bianca.
PETRUCHIO, a Gentleman of Verona; Suitor to Katharina.
GREMIO, HORTENSIO, Suitors to Bianca.
TRANIO, BIONDELLO, Servants to Lucentio.
GRUMIO, CURTIS, Servants to Petruchio.
Pedant, set up to personate Vincentio.
KATHARINA, the Shrew, BIANCA, Daughters to Baptista.
Widow.
Tailor, Haberdasher, and Servants attending on Baptista and Petruchio.

SCENE. — Sometimes in Padua; and sometimes in PETRUCHIO’S House in the Country.

Induction. Scene I.

Before an Alehouse on a Health.

Enter Hostess and SLY.

Sly.  I’ll pheeze you, in faith.

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 Richard Conqueror. Therefore, paucas pallabris; let the world slide. Sessa!   5

Host.  You will not pay for the glasses you have burst?

Sly.  No, not a denier. Go by, Jeronimy, go to thy cold bed, and warm thee.

Host.  I know my remedy: I must go fetch the third-borough.  [Exit.

Sly.  Third, or fourth, or fifth borough, I’ll answer him by law. I’ll not budge an inch, boy: let him come, and kindly.  [Lies down on the ground, and falls asleep.

Horns winded.  Enter a Lord from hunting, with Huntsmen and Servants.   10

Lord.  Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my hounds:
Brach Merriman, the poor cur is emboss’d,
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?   15
I would not lose the dog for twenty pound.

First Hunt.  Why, Bellman is as good as he, my lord;
He cried upon it at the merest loss,
And twice to-day pick’d out the dullest scent:
Trust me, I take him for the better dog.   20

Lord.  Thou art a fool: if Echo were as fleet,
I would esteem him worth a dozen such.
But sup them well, and look unto them all:
To-morrow I intend to hunt again.

First Hunt.  I will, my lord.   25

Lord.  [Sees SLY.]  What’s here? one dead, or drunk? See, doth he breathe?

Sec. Hunt.  He breathes, my lord. Were he not warm’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!   30
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 his fingers,
A most delicious banquet by his bed,
And brave attendants near him when he wakes,   35
Would not the beggar then forget himself?

First Hunt.  Believe me, lord, I think he cannot choose.

Sec. Hunt.  It would seem strange unto him when he wak’d.

Lord.  Even as a flattering dream or worthless fancy.
Then take him up and manage well the jest.   40
Carry him gently to my fairest chamber,
And hang it round with all my wanton pictures;
Balm his foul head in warm distilled waters,
And burn sweet wood to make the lodging sweet.
Procure me music ready when he wakes,   45
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 basin   50
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;   55
Another tell him of his hounds and horse,
And that his lady mourns at his disease.
Persuade him that he hath been lunatic;
And, when he says he is —  — say that he dreams,
For he is nothing but a mighty lord.   60
This do, and do it kindly, gentle sirs:
It will be pastime passing excellent,
If it be husbanded with modesty.

First Hunt.  My lord, I warrant you we will play our part,
As he shall think, by our true diligence,   65
He is no less 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.  [SLY is borne out.  A trumpet sounds.
Sirrah, go see what trumpet ’tis that sounds:  [Exit Servant.
Belike, some noble gentleman that means,   70
Travelling some journey, to repose him here.

Re-enter Servant.
How now! who is it?

Serv.        An it please your honour,
Players that offer service to your lordship.   75

Lord.  Bid them come near.

Enter Players.
Now, fellows, you are welcome.

Players.  We thank your honour.

Lord.  Do you intend to stay with me to-night?   80

A Player.  So please your lordship to accept our duty.

Lord.  With all my heart. This fellow I remember,
Since once he play’d a farmer’s eldest son:
’Twas where you woo’d the gentlewoman so well.
I have forgot your name; but, sure, that part   85
Was aptly fitted and naturally perform’d.

A Play.  I think ’twas Soto that your honour means.

Lord.  ’Tis very true: thou didst it excellent.
Well, you are come to me in happy time,
The rather for I have some sport in hand   90
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-eyeing of his odd behaviour, —
For yet his honour never heard a play, —   95
You break into some merry passion
And so offend him; for I tell you, sirs,
If you should smile he grows impatient.

A Player.  Fear not, my lord: we can contain ourselves
Were he the veriest antick in the world.   100

Lord.  Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery,
And give them friendly welcome every one:
Let them want nothing that my house affords.  [Exeunt one with the Players.
Sirrah, go you to Barthol’mew my page,
And see him dress’d in all suits like a lady:   105
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 honourable action,
Such as he hath observ’d in noble ladies   110
Unto their lords, by them accomplished:
Such duty to the drunkard let him do
With soft low tongue and lowly courtesy;
And say, ‘What is ‘t your honour will command,
Wherein your lady and your humble wife   115
May show her duty, and make known her love?’
And then, with kind embracements, tempting kisses,
And with declining head into his bosom,
Bid him shed tears, as being overjoy’d
To see her noble lord restor’d to health,   120
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,   125
Which in a napkin being close convey’d,
Shall in despite enforce a watery eye.
See this dispatch’d with all the haste thou canst:
Anon I’ll give thee more instructions.  [Exit Servant.
I know the boy will well usurp the grace,   130
Voice, gait, and action of a gentlewoman:
I long to hear him call the drunkard husband,
And how my men will stay themselves from laughter
When they do homage to this simple peasant.
I’ll in to counsel them: haply, my presence   135
May well abate the over merry spleen
Which otherwise would grow into extremes.  [Exeunt.

Induction. Scene II.

A Bedchamber in the Lord’s House.

SLY is discovered in a rich nightgown, with Attendants: some with apparel, others with basin, ewer, and other appurtenances; and Lord, dressed like a servant.

Sly.  For God’s sake! a pot of small ale.

First Serv.  Will ‘t please your lordship drink a cup of sack?

Sec. Serv.  Will ‘t please your honour taste of these conserves?   5

Third 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 me what raiment I’ll wear, for I have no more doublets than backs, no more stockings than legs, nor no more shoes than feet: nay, sometime more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the overleather.

Lord.  Heaven cease this idle humour in your honour!
O, that a mighty man, of such descent,
Of such possessions, and so high esteem,   10
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 pedlar, by education a cardmaker, by transmutation a bear-herd, and now by present profession a tinker? Ask Marian Hacket, the fat ale-wife of Wincot, if she know me not: if she say I am not fourteen pence on the score for sheer ale, score me up for the lyingest knave in Christendom. What! I am not bestraught: here’s —

First Serv.  O! this it is that makes your lady mourn.

Sec. Serv.  O! this it is that makes your servants droop.

Lord.  Hence comes it that your kindred shuns your house,   15
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,   20
Each in his office ready at thy beck:
Wilt thou have music? hark! Apollo plays,  [Music.
And twenty caged nightingales do sing:
Or wilt thou sleep? we’ll have thee to a couch
Softer and sweeter than the lustful bed   25
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.
Dost thou love hawking? thou hast hawks will soar   30
Above the morning lark: or wilt thou hunt?
Thy hounds shall make the welkin answer them,
And fetch shrill echoes from hollow earth.

First Serv.  Say thou wilt course; thy grey-hounds are as swift
As breathed stags, ay, fleeter than the roe.   35

Sec. 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 breath,
Even as the waving sedges play with wind.   40

Lord.  We’ll show thee Io as she was a maid,
And how she was beguiled and surpris’d,
As lively painted as the deed was done.

Third Serv.  Or Daphne roaming through a thorny wood,
Scratching her legs that one shall swear she bleeds;   45
And at that sight shall sad Apollo weep,
So workmanly 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.   50

First Serv.  And till the tears that she hath shed for thee
Like envious floods o’er-run 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?   55
Or do I dream? or have I dream’d till now?
I do not sleep; I see, I hear, I speak;
I smell sweet savours, and I feel soft things:
Upon my life, I am a lord indeed;
And not a tinker, nor Christophero Sly.   60
Well, bring our lady hither to our sight;
And once again, a pot o’ the smallest ale.

Sec. Serv.  Will ‘t please your mightiness to wash your hands?  [Servants present a ewer, basin, and napkin.
O, how we joy to see your wit restor’d!
O, that once more you knew but what you are!   65
These fifteen years you have been in a dream,
Or, when you wak’d, so wak’d as if you slept.

Sly.  These fifteen years! by my fay, a goodly nap.
But did I never speak of all that time?

First Serv.  O! yes, my lord, but very idle words;   70
For though you lay here in this goodly chamber,
Yet would you say ye were beaten out of door,
And rail upon the hostess of the house,
And say you would present her at the leet,
Because she brought stone jugs and no seal’d quarts.   75
Sometimes you would call out for Cicely Hacket.

Sly.  Ay, the woman’s maid of the house.

Third Serv.  Why, sir, you know no house, nor no such maid,
Nor no such men as you have reckon’d up,
As Stephen Sly, and old John Naps of Greece,   80
And Peter Turf, and Henry Pimpernell,
And twenty more such names and men as these,
Which never were nor no man ever saw.

Sly.  Now, Lord be thanked for my good amends!

All.  Amen.   85

Sly.  I thank thee; thou shalt not lose by it.

Enter the Page, as a lady, with Attendants.

Page.  How fares my noble lord?

Sly.  Marry, I fare well, for here is cheer enough.
Where is my wife?   90

Page.  Here, noble lord: what is thy will with her?

Sly.  Are you my wife, and will not call me husband?
My men should call me lord: I am your good-man.

Page.  My husband and my lord, my lord and husband;
I am your wife in all obedience.   95

Sly.  I know it well. What must I call her?

Lord.  Madam.

Sly.  Al’ce madam, or Joan madam?

Lord.  Madam, and nothing else: so lords call ladies.

Sly.  Madam wife, they say that I have dream’d   100
And slept above some fifteen year or more.

Page.  Ay, and the time seems thirty unto me,
Being all this time abandon’d from your bed.

Sly.  ’Tis much. Servants, leave me and her alone.
Madam, undress you, and come now to bed.   105

Page.  Thrice noble lord, let me entreat of you
To pardon me yet for a night or two,
Or, if not so, until the sun be set:
For your physicians have expressly charg’d,
In peril to incur your former malady,   110
That I should yet absent me from your bed:
I hope this reason stands for my excuse.

Sly.  Ay, it stands so, that I may hardly tarry so long; but I would be loath to fall into my dreams again: I will therefore tarry, in spite of the flesh and the blood.

Enter a Servant

Serv.  Your honour’s players, hearing your amendment,   115
Are come to play a pleasant comedy;
For so your doctors hold it very meet,
Seeing too much sadness hath congeal’d your blood.
And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy:
Therefore they thought it good you hear a play,   120
And frame your mind to mirth and merriment,
Which bars a thousand harms and lengthens life.

Sly.  Marry, I will; let them play it. Is not a commonty a Christmas gambold or a tumbling-trick?

Page.  No, my good lord; it is more pleasing stuff.

Sly.  What! household stuff?   125

Page.  It is a kind of history.

Sly.  Well, we’ll see ‘t. Come, madam wife, sit by my side,
And let the world slip: we shall ne’er be younger.  [Flourish

Act I. Scene I.

Padua.  A public Place.

Enter LUCENTIO and TRANIO.

Luc.  Tranio, since for the great desire I had
To see fair Padua, nursery of arts,
I am arriv’d for fruitful Lombardy,   5
The pleasant garden of great Italy;
And by my father’s love and leave am arm’d
With his good will and thy good company,
My trusty servant well approv’d in all,
Here let us breathe, and haply institute   10
A course of learning and ingenious studies.
Pisa, renowned for grave citizens,
Gave me my being and my father first,
A merchant of great traffic through the world,
Vincentio, come of the Bentivolii.   15
Vincentio’s son, brought up in Florence,
It shall become to serve all hopes conceiv’d,
To deck his fortune with his virtuous deeds:
And therefore, Tranio, for the time I study,
Virtue and that part of philosophy   20
Will I apply that treats of happiness
By virtue specially to be achiev’d.
Tell me thy mind; for I have Pisa left
And am to Padua come, as he that leaves
A shallow plash to plunge him in the deep,   25
And with satiety seeks to quench his thirst.

Tra.  Mi perdonate, gentle master mine,
I am in all affected as yourself,
Glad that you thus continue your resolve
To suck the sweets of sweet philosophy.   30
Only, good master, while we do admire
This virtue and this moral discipline,
Let’s be no stoics nor no stocks, I pray;
Or so devote to Aristotle’s checks
As Ovid be an outcast quite abjur’d.   35
Balk logic with acquaintance that you have,
And practise rhetoric in your common talk;
Music and poesy use to quicken you;
The mathematics and the metaphysics,
Fall to them as you find your stomach serves you;   40
No profit grows where is no pleasure ta’en;
In brief, sir, study what you most affect.

Luc.  Gramercies, Tranio, well dost thou advise.
If, Biondello, thou wert come ashore,
We could at once put us in readiness,   45
And take a lodging fit to entertain
Such friends as time in Padua shall beget.
But stay a while: what company is this?

Tra.  Master, some show to welcome us to town.

Enter BAPTISTA, KATHARINA, BIANCA, GREMIO, and HORTENSIO.  LUCENTIO and TRANIO stand aside.   50

Bap.  Gentlemen, importune me no further,
For how I firmly am resolv’d you know;
That is, not to bestow my youngest daughter
Before I have a husband for the elder.
If either of you both love Katharina,   55
Because I know you well and love you well,
Leave shall you have to court her at your pleasure.

Gre.  To cart her rather: she’s too rough for me.
There, there, Hortensio, will you any wife?

Kath.  [To BAPTISTA.]  I pray you, sir, is it your will   60
To make a stale of me amongst these mates?

Hor.  Mates, maid! how mean you that? no mates for you,
Unless you were of gentler, milder mould.

Kath.  I’ faith, sir, you shall never need to fear:
I wis it is not half way to her heart;   65
But if it were, doubt not her care should be
To comb your noddle with a three-legg’d stool,
And paint your face, and use you like a fool.

Hor.  From all such devils, good Lord deliver us!

Gre.  And me too, good Lord!   70

Tra.  Hush, master! here is some good pastime toward:
That wench is stark mad or wonderful froward.

Luc.  But in the other’s silence do I see
Maid’s mild behaviour and sobriety.
Peace, Tranio!   75

Tra.  Well said, master; mum! and gaze your fill.

Bap.  Gentlemen, that I may soon make good
What I have said, — Bianca, get you in:
And let it not displease thee, good Bianca,
For I will love thee ne’er the less, my girl.   80

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 your pleasure humbly I subscribe:
My books and instruments shall be my company,   85
On them to look and practise by myself.

Luc.  Hark, Tranio! thou mayst hear Minerva speak.

Hor.  Signior Baptista, will you be so strange?
Sorry am I that our good will effects
Bianca’s grief.   90

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.   95
And for I know she taketh most delight
In music, instruments, and poetry,
Schoolmasters will I keep within my house,
Fit to instruct her youth. If you, Hortensio,
Or Signior Gremio, you, know any such,   100
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.   105

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.

Gre.  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 dough on both sides. Farewell: yet, for the love I bear my sweet Bianca, if I can by any means light on a fit man to teach her that wherein she delights, I will wish him to her father.

Hor.  So will I, Signior Gremio: but a word, I pray. Though the nature of our quarrel yet never brooked parle, know now, upon advice, it toucheth 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.   110

Gre.  What’s that, I pray?

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. Thinkest thou, Hortensio, though her father be very rich, any man is so very a fool to be married to hell?   115

Hor.  Tush, Gremio! though 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.

Gre.  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 friendly maintained, till by helping Baptista’s eldest daughter to a husband, we set his youngest free for a husband, and then have to ‘t afresh. Sweet Bianca! Happy man be his dole! 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 GREMIO and HORTENSIO.

Tra.  I pray, sir, tell me, is it possible   120
That love should of a sudden take such hold?

Luc.  O Tranio! till I found it to be true,
I never thought it possible or likely;
But see, while idly I stood looking on,
I found the effect of love in idleness;   125
And now in plainness do confess to thee,
That art to me as secret and as dear
As Anna to the Queen of Carthage was,
Tranio, I burn, I pine, I perish, Tranio,
If I achieve not this young modest girl.   130
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 but so,   135
Redime te captum, quam queas minimo.

Luc.  Gramercies, lad; go forward: this contents:
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.   140

Luc.  O yes, I saw sweet beauty in her face,
Such as the daughter of Agenor had,
That made great Jove to humble him to her hand,
When with his knees he kiss’d the Cretan strand.

Tra.  Saw you no more? mark’d you not how her sister   145
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.   150

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 stands:
Her elder sister is so curst and shrewd,
That till the father rid his hands of her,   155
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!
But art thou not advis’d he took some care   160
To get her cunning schoolmasters to instruct her?

Tra.  Ay, marry, am I, sir; and now ’tis plotted.

Luc.  I have it, Tranio.

Tra.        Master, for my hand,
Both our inventions meet and jump in one.   165

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?   170

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.   175
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:   180
I will some other be; some Florentine,
Some Neapolitan, or meaner man of Pisa.
’Tis 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;   185
But I will charm him first to keep his tongue.  [They exchange habits.

Tra.  So had you need.
In brief then, sir, sith it your pleasure is,
And I am tied to be obedient;
For so your father charg’d me at our parting,   190
‘Be serviceable to my son,’ quoth he,
Although I think ’twas in another sense:
I am content to be Lucentio,
Because so well I love Lucentio.

Luc.  Tranio, be so, because Lucentio loves;   195
And let me be a slave, to achieve that maid
Whose sudden sight hath thrall’d my wounded eye.
Here comes the rogue.

Enter BIONDELLO.
Sirrah, where have you been?   200

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: ’tis no time to jest,
And therefore frame your manners to the time.   205
Your fellow Tranio, here, to save my life,
Puts my apparel and my countenance 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.   210
Wait you on him, I charge you, as becomes,
While I make way from 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:   215
Tranio is changed to Lucentio.

Bion.  The better for him: would I were so too!

Tra.  So would I, faith, boy, to have the next wish after,
That Lucentio indeed had Baptista’s youngest daughter.
But, sirrah, not for my sake, but your master’s, I advise   220
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, sufficeth my reasons are both good and weighty.  [Exeunt.

The Presenters above speak.   225

First Serv.  My lord, you nod; you do not mind the play.

Sly.  Yes, by Saint Anne, I do. A good matter, surely: comes there any more of it?

Page.  My lord, ’tis but begun.

Sly.  ’Tis a very excellent piece of work, madam lady: would ‘twere done!  [They sit and mark.

Act I. Scene II.

The Same.  Before HORTENSIO’S House.

Enter PETRUCHIO 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,   5
Hortensio; and I trow this is his house.
Here, sirrah Grumio; knock, I say.

Gru.  Knock, sir! whom should I knock? is there any man has rebused your worship?

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?   10

Pet.  Villain, I say, knock me at this gate;
And rap me well, or I’ll 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?   15
Faith, sirrah, an you’ll not knock, I’ll ring it;
I’ll try how you can sol, fa, and sing it.  [He wrings GRUMIO by the ears.

Gru.  Help, masters, help! my master is mad.

Pet.  Now, knock when I bid you, sirrah villain!

Enter HORTENSIO.   20

Hor.  How now! what’s the matter? My old friend Grumio! and my good friend Petruchio! How do you all at Verona?

Pet.  Signior Hortensio, come you to part the fray?
Con tutto il cuore ben trovato, may I say.

Hor.  Alla nostra casa ben venuto; molto honorato signior mio Petruchio.
Rise, Grumio, rise: we will compound this quarrel.   25

Gru.  Nay, ’tis 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 his master so; being, perhaps, for aught I see, two-and-thirty, a pip out?
Whom would to God, I had well knock’d at first,
Then had not Grumio come by the worst.

Pet.  A senseless villain! Good Hortensio,
I bade the rascal knock upon your gate,   30
And could not get him for my heart to do it.

Gru.  Knock at the gate! O heavens! Spake you not these words plain, ‘Sirrah, knock me here, rap me here, knock me well, and knock me soundly?’ And come you now with ‘knocking at the gate?’

Pet.  Sirrah, be gone, or talk not, I advise you.

Hor.  Petruchio, patience; I am Grumio’s pledge.
Why, this’s a heavy chance ‘twixt him and you,   35
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 further than at home,   40
Where small experience grows. But in a few,
Signior Hortensio, thus it stands with me:
Antonio, my father, is deceas’d,
And I have thrust myself into this maze,
Haply to wive and thrive as best I may.   45
Crowns in my purse I have and goods at home,
And so am come abroad to see the world.

Hor.  Petruchio, shall I then come roundly to thee,
And wish thee to a shrewd ill-favour’d wife?
Thou’dst thank me but a little for my counsel;   50
And yet I’ll promise thee she shall be rich,
And very rich: but thou’rt too much my friend,
And I’ll not wish thee to her.

Pet.  Signior Hortensio, ‘twixt such friends as we,
Few words suffice; and therefore, if thou know   55
One rich enough to be Petruchio’s wife,
As wealth is burden of my wooing dance,
Be she as foul as was Florentius’ love,
As old as Sibyl, and as curst and shrewd
As Socrates’ Xanthippe, or a worse,   60
She moves me not, or not removes, at least,
Affection’s edge in me, were she as rough
As are the swelling Adriatic seas:
I come to wive it wealthily in Padua;
If wealthily, then happily in Padua.   65

Gru.  Nay, look you, sir, he tells you flatly what his mind is: why, give him gold enough and marry him to a puppet or an aglet-baby; or an old trot with ne’er a tooth in her head, though she have as many diseases as two-and-fifty horses: why, nothing comes amiss, so money comes withal.

Hor.  Petruchio, since we are stepp’d thus far in,
I will continue that I broach’d in jest.
I can, Petruchio, help thee to a wife
With wealth enough, and young and beauteous,   70
Brought up as best becomes a gentlewoman:
Her only fault, — and that is faults enough, —
Is, that she is intolerable curst
And shrewd and froward, so beyond all measure,
That, were my state far worser than it is,   75
I would not wed her for a mine of gold.

Pet.  Hortensio, peace! thou know’st not gold’s effect:
Tell me her father’s name, and ’tis enough;
For I will board her, though she chide as loud
As thunder when the clouds in autumn crack.   80

Hor.  Her father is Baptista Minola,
An affable and courteous gentleman;
Her name is Katharina Minola,
Renown’d in Padua for her scolding tongue.

Pet.  I know her father, though I know not her;   85
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 me thither.   90

Gru.  I pray you, sir, let him go while the humour lasts. O’my word, an she knew him as well as I do, she would think scolding would do little good upon him. She may, perhaps, call him half a score knaves or so: why, that’s nothing: an he begin once, he’ll rail in his rope-tricks. I’ll tell you what, sir, an she stand him but a little, 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, Petruchio, I must go with thee,
For in Baptista’s keep my treasure is:
He hath the jewel of my life in hold,
His youngest daughter, beautiful Bianca,   95
And her withholds 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:   100
Therefore this order hath Baptista ta’en,
That none shall have access unto Bianca,
Till Katharine the curst have got a husband.

Gru.  Katharine the curst!
A title for a maid of all titles the worst.   105

Hor.  Now shall my friend Petruchio 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   110
Have leave and leisure to make love to her,
And unsuspected court her by herself.

Gru.  Here’s no knavery! See, to beguile the old folks, how the young folks lay their heads together!

Enter GREMIO, and LUCENTIO disguised, with books under his arm.
Master, master, look about you: who goes there, ha?   115

Hor.  Peace, Grumio! ’tis the rival of my love.
Petruchio, stand by a while.

Gru.  A proper stripling, and an amorous!

Gre.  O! very well; I have perus’d the note.
Hark you, sir; I’ll have them very fairly bound:   120
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’ll mend it with a largess. Take your papers too,   125
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’ll plead for you,
As for my patron, stand you so assur’d,   130
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.  O! this woodcock, what an ass it is.   135

Pet.  Peace, sirrah!

Hor.  Grumio, mum! God save you, Signior Gremio!

Gre.  And you’re well met, Signior Hortensio.
Trow you whither I am going? To Baptista Minola.
I promis’d to inquire carefully   140
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 her turn; well read in poetry
And other books, good ones, I warrant ye.   145

Hor.  ’Tis 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.   150

Gre.  Belov’d of me, and that my deeds shall prove.

Gru.  [Aside.]  And that his bags shall prove.

Hor.  Gremio, ’tis now no time to vent our love:
Listen to me, and if you speak me fair,
I’ll tell you news indifferent good for either.   155
Here is a gentleman whom by chance I met,
Upon agreement from us to his liking,
Will undertake to woo curst Katharine;
Yea, and to marry her, if her dowry please.

Gre.  So said, so done, is well.   160
Hortensio, have you told him all her faults?

Pet.  I know she is an irksome, brawling scold:
If that be all, masters, I hear no harm.

Gre.  No, sayst me so, friend? What countryman?

Pet.  Born in Verona, old Antonio’s son:   165
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 i’ God’s name:
You shall have me assisting you in all.   170
But will you woo this wild-cat?

Pet.        Will I live?

Gru.  Will he woo her? ay, or I’ll hang her.

Pet.  Why came I hither but to that intent?
Think you a little din can daunt mine ears?   175
Have I not in my time heard lions roar?
Have I not heard the sea, puff’d up with winds,
Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat?
Have I not heard great ordnance in the field,
And heaven’s artillery thunder in the skies?   180
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?   185
Tush, tush! fear boys with bugs.

Gru.        [Aside.]  For he fears none.

Gre.  Hortensio, hark:
This gentleman is happily arriv’d,
My mind presumes, for his own good and ours.   190

Hor.  I promis’d we would be contributors,
And bear his charge of wooing, whatsoe’er.

Gre.  And so we will, provided that he win her.

Gru.  [Aside.]  I would I were as sure of a good dinner.

Enter TRANIO, bravely apparelled; and BIONDELLO.   195

Tra.  Gentlemen, God save you! If I may be bold,
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 ‘t he you mean?

Tra.  Even he, Biondello!   200

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 away.

Luc.  [Aside.]  Well begun, Tranio.   205

Hor.        Sir, a word ere you go:
Are you a suitor to the maid you talk of, yea or no?

Tra.  And if I be, sir, is it any offence?

Gre.  No; if without more words you will get you hence.

Tra.  Why, sir, I pray, are not the streets as free   210
For me as for you?

Gre.        But so is not she.

Tra.  For what reason, I beseech you?

Gre.  For this reason, if you’ll know,
That she’s the choice love of Signior Gremio.   215

Hor.  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;   220
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,   225
Though Paris came in hope to speed alone.

Gre.  What! this gentleman will out-talk us all.

Luc.  Sir, give him head: I know he’ll prove a jade.

Pet.  Hortensio, to what end are all these words?

Hor.  Sir, let me be so bold as ask you,   230
Did you yet ever see Baptista’s daughter?

Tra.  No, sir; but hear I do that he hath two,
The one as famous for a scolding tongue
As is the other for beauteous modesty.

Pet.  Sir, sir, the first’s for me; let her go by.   235

Gre.  Yea, leave that labour to great Hercules,
And let it be more than Alcides’ twelve.

Pet.  Sir, understand you this of me in sooth:
The youngest daughter, whom you hearken for,
Her father keeps from all access of suitors,   240
And will not promise her to any man
Until the elder sister first be wed;
The younger then is free, and not before.

Tra.  If it be so, sir, that you are the man
Must stead us all, and me among the rest;   245
And if you break the ice, and do this feat,
Achieve the elder, set the younger free
For our access, whose hap shall be to have her
Will not so graceless be to be ingrate.

Hor.  Sir, you say well, and well you do conceive;   250
And since you do profess to be a suitor,
You must, as we do, gratify this gentleman,
To whom we all rest generally beholding.

Tra.  Sir, I shall not be slack: in sign whereof,
Please ye we may contrive this afternoon,   255
And quaff carouses to our mistress’ health,
And do as adversaries do in law,
Strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends.

Gru., Bion.  O excellent motion! Fellows, let’s be gone.

Hor.  The motion’s good indeed, and be it so: —   260
Petruchio, I shall be your ben venuto.  [Exeunt.

Act II. Scene I.

Padua.  A Room in BAPTISTA’S House.

Enter KATHARINA and BIANCA.

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 gawds,   5
Unbind my hands, I’ll pull them 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.

Kath.  Of all thy suitors, here I charge thee, tell   10
Whom thou lov’st best: see thou dissemble not.

Bian.  Believe me, sister, of all the men alive
I never yet beheld that special face
Which I could fancy more than any other.

Kath.  Minion, thou liest. Is ‘t not Hortensio?   15

Bian.  If you affect him, sister, here I swear
I’ll plead for you myself, but you shall have him.

Kath.  O! then, belike, you fancy riches more:
You will have Gremio to keep you fair.

Bian.  Is it for him you do envy me so?   20
Nay, then you jest; and now I well perceive
You have but jested with me all this while:
I prithee, sister Kate, untie my hands.

Kath.  If that be jest, then all the rest was so.  [Strikes her.

Enter BAPTISTA.   25

Bap.  Why, how now, dame! whence grows 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?   30
When did she cross thee with a bitter word?

Kath.  Her silence flouts me, and I’ll be reveng’d.  [Flies after BIANCA.

Bap.  What! in my sight? Bianca, get thee in.  [Exit BIANCA.

Kath.  What! will you not suffer me? Nay, now I see
She is your treasure, she must have a husband;   35
I must dance bare-foot on 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.

Bap.  Was ever gentleman thus griev’d as I?   40
But who comes here?

Enter GREMIO, with LUCENTIO in the habit of a mean man; PETRUCHIO, with HORTENSIO as a Musician; and TRANIO, with BIONDELLO bearing a lute and books.

Gre.  Good morrow, neighbour Baptista.

Bap.  Good morrow, neighbour Gremio. God save you, gentlemen!

Pet.  And you, good sir. Pray, have you not a daughter   45
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 wrong me, Signior Gremio: give me leave.
I am a gentleman of Verona, sir,   50
That, hearing of her beauty and her wit,
Her affability 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   55
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 instruct her fully in those sciences,   60
Whereof I know she is not ignorant.
Accept of him, or else you do me wrong:
His name is Licio, born in Mantua.

Bap.  You’re welcome, sir; and he, for your good sake.
But for my daughter Katharine, this I know,   65
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.

Bap.  Mistake me not; I speak but as I find.
Whence are you, sir? what may I call your name?   70

Pet.  Petruchio is my name; Antonio’s son;
A man well known throughout all Italy.

Bap.  I know him well: you are welcome for his sake.

Gre.  Saving your tale, Petruchio, I pray,
Let us, that are poor petitioners, speak too.   75
Backare! 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, freely give unto you this young scholar,  [Presenting LUCENTIO.]  that has been long studying at Rheims; as cunning in Greek, Latin, and other languages, as the other in music and mathematics. His name is Cambio; pray accept his service.

Bap.  A thousand thanks, Signior Gremio; welcome, good Cambio. — [To TRANIO.]  But, gentle sir, methinks you walk like a stranger: may I be so bold to know the cause of your coming?   80

Tra.  Pardon me, sir, the boldness is mine own,
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,   85
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:   90
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?   95

Tra.  Of Pisa, sir; son to Vincentio.

Bap.  A mighty man of Pisa; by report
I know him well: you are very welcome, sir.
[To HORTENSIO.]  Take you the lute,  [To LUCENTIO.]  and you the set of books;
You shall go see your pupils presently.   100
Holla, within!

Enter a Servant.
Sirrah, lead these gentlemen
To my two daughters, and then tell them both
These are their tutors: bid them use them well.  [Exit Servant, with HORTENSIO, LUCENTIO, and BIONDELLO.   105
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.   110
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?   115

Bap.  After my death the one half of my lands,
And in possession twenty thousand crowns.

Pet.  And, for that dowry, I’ll assure her of
Her widowhood, be it that she survive me,
In all my lands and leases whatsoever.   120
Let specialties be therefore drawn between us,
That covenants may be kept on either hand.

Bap.  Ay, when the special thing is well obtain’d,
That is, her love; for that is all in all.

Pet.  Why, that is nothing; for I tell you, father,   125
I am 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 blow out fire and all;   130
So 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 be thy speed!
But be thou arm’d for some unhappy words.

Pet.  Ay, to the proof; as mountains are for winds,   135
That shake not, though they blow perpetually.

Re-enter HORTENSIO, with his head broke.

Bap.  How now, my friend! why dost thou look so pale?

Hor.  For fear, I promise you, if I look pale.

Bap.  What, will my daughter prove a good musician?   140

Hor.  I think she’ll 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,   145
And bow’d her hand to teach her fingering;
When, with a most impatient devilish spirit,
‘Frets, call you these?’ quoth she; ‘I’ll fume with them;’
And, with that word, she struck me on the head,
And through the instrument my pate made way;   150
And there I stood amazed for a while,
As on a pillory, looking through the lute;
While she did call me rascal fiddler,
And twangling Jack; with twenty such vile terms
As she had studied to misuse me so.   155

Pet.  Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench!
I love her ten times more than e’er I did:
O! how I long to have some chat with her!

Bap.  [To HORTENSIO.]  Well, go with me, and be not so discomfited:
Proceed in practice with my younger daughter;   160
She’s apt to learn, and thankful for good turns.
Signior Petruchio, will you go with us,
Or shall I send my daughter Kate to you?

Pet.  I pray you do; I will attend her here,  [Exeunt BAPTISTA, GREMIO, TRANIO, and HORTENSIO.
And woo her with some spirit when she comes.   165
Say that she rail; why then I’ll tell her plain
She sings as sweetly as a nightingale:
Say that she frown; I’ll say she looks as clear
As morning roses newly wash’d with dew:
Say she be mute and will not speak a word;   170
Then I’ll commend her volubility,
And say she uttereth piercing eloquence:
If she do bid me pack; I’ll give her thanks,
As though she bid me stay by her a week:
If she deny to wed; I’ll crave the day   175
When I shall ask the banns, and when be married.
But here she comes; and now, Petruchio, speak.

Enter KATHARINA.
Good morrow, Kate; for that’s your name, I hear.

Kath.  Well have you heard, but something hard of hearing:   180
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-Hall, my super-dainty Kate,   185
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, —   190
Myself am mov’d to woo thee for my wife.

Kath.  Mov’d! in good time: let him that mov’d you hither
Remove you hence. I knew you at the first,
You were a moveable.

Pet.        Why, what’s a moveable?   195

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 bear you, if me you mean.   200

Pet.  Alas! good Kate, I will not burden thee;
For, knowing thee to be but young and light, —

Kath.  Too light for such a swain as you to catch,
And yet as heavy as my weight should be.

Pet.  Should be! should buz!   205

Kath.        Well ta’en, and like a buzzard.

Pet.  O slow-wing’d turtle! shall a buzzard take thee?

Kath.  Ay, for a turtle, as he takes a buzzard.

Pet.  Come, come, you wasp; i’ faith you are too angry.

Kath.  If I be waspish, best beware my sting.   210

Pet.  My remedy is, then, to pluck it out.

Kath.  Ay, if the fool could find it where it lies.

Pet.  Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting?
In his tail.

Kath.  In his tongue.   215

Pet.        Whose tongue?

Kath.  Yours, if you talk of tails; and so farewell.

Pet.  What! with my tongue in your tail? nay, come again.
Good Kate, I am a gentleman.

Kath.        That I’ll try.  [Striking him.   220

Pet.  I swear I’ll cuff you if you strike again.

Kath.  So may you lose your arms:
If you strike me, you are no gentleman;
And if no gentleman, why then no arms.

Pet.  A herald, Kate? O! put me in thy books.   225

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 like a craven.

Pet.  Nay, come, Kate, come; you must not look so sour.

Kath.  It is my fashion when I see a crab.   230

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.

Pet.  What, you mean my face?   235

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.        ’Tis with cares.

Kath.                I care not.   240

Pet.  Nay, hear you, Kate: in sooth, you ‘scape not so.

Kath.  I chafe you, if I tarry: let me go.

Pet.  No, not a whit: I find you passing gentle.
’Twas told me you were rough and coy and sullen,
And now I find report a very liar;   245
For thou art pleasant, gamesome, passing courteous,
But slow in speech, yet sweet as 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;   250
But thou with mildness entertain’st thy wooers,
With gentle conference, soft and affable.
Why does the world report that Kate doth limp?
O slanderous world! Kate, like the hazel-twig,
Is straight and slender, and as brown in hue   255
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 command.

Pet.  Did ever Dian so become a grove
As Kate this chamber with her princely gait?   260
O! 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.   265

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 consented   270
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, —   275
Thou must be married to no man but me:
For I am he am born to tame you, Kate;
And bring you from a wild Kate to a Kate
Conformable as other household Kates.
Here comes your father: never make denial;   280
I must and will have Katharine to my wife.

Re-enter BAPTISTA, GREMIO, and TRANIO.

Bap.  Now, Signior Petruchio, how speed you with my daughter?

Pet.  How but well, sir? how but well?
It were impossible I should speed amiss.   285

Bap.  Why, how now, daughter Katharine! in your dumps?

Kath.  Call you me daughter? now, I promise you
You have show’d a tender fatherly regard,
To wish me wed to one half lunatic;
A mad-cap ruffian and a swearing Jack,   290
That thinks with oaths to face the matter out.

Pet.  Father, ’tis thus: yourself and all the world,
That talk’d of her, have talk’d amiss of her:
If she be curst, it is for policy,
For she’s not froward, but modest as the dove;   295
She 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 together,
That upon Sunday is the wedding-day.   300

Kath.  I’ll see thee hang’d on Sunday first.

Gre.  Hark, Petruchio: she says she’ll see thee hang’d first.

Tra.  Is this your speeding? nay then, good night our part!

Pet.  Be patient, gentlemen; I choose her for myself:
If she and I be pleas’d, what’s that to you?   305
’Tis bargain’d ‘twixt us twain, being alone,
That she shall still be curst in company.
I tell you, ’tis incredible to believe
How much she loves me: O! the kindest Kate.
She hung about my neck, and kiss on kiss   310
She vied so fast, protesting oath on oath,
That in a twink she won me to her love.
O! you are novices: ’tis a world to see,
How tame, when men and women are alone,
A meacock wretch can make the curstest shrew.   315
Give me thy hand, Kate: I will unto Venice
To buy apparel ‘gainst the wedding-day.
Provide the feast, father, and bid the guests;
I will be sure my Katharine shall be fine.

Bap.  I know not what to say; but give me your hands.   320
God send you joy, Petruchio! ’tis a match.

Gre, Tra.  Amen, say we: we will be witnesses.

Pet.  Father, and wife, and gentlemen, adieu.
I will to Venice; Sunday comes apace:
We will have rings, and things, and fine array;   325
And, kiss me, Kate, we will be married o’ Sunday.  [Exeunt PETRUCHIO and KATHARINA, severally.

Gre.  Was ever match clapp’d up so suddenly?

Bap.  Faith, gentlemen, now I play a merchant’s part,
And venture madly on a desperate mart.

Tra.  ’Twas a commodity lay fretting by you:   330
‘Twill bring you gain, or perish on the seas.

Bap.  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:   335
I am your neighbour, and was suitor first.

Tra.  And I am one that love Bianca more
Than words can witness, or your thoughts can guess.

Gre.  Youngling, thou canst not love so dear as I.

Tra.  Greybeard, thy love doth freeze.   340

Gre.        But thine doth fry.
Skipper, stand back: ’tis age that nourisheth.

Tra.  But youth in ladies’ eyes that flourisheth.

Bap.  Content you, gentlemen; I’ll compound this strife:
’Tis deeds must win the prize; and he, of both,   345
That can assure 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:   350
Basins and ewers to lave her dainty hands;
My hangings all of Tyrian tapestry;
In ivory coffers I have stuff’d my crowns;
In cypress chests my arras counterpoints,
Costly apparel, tents, and canopies,   355
Fine linen, Turkey cushions boss’d with pearl,
Valance of Venice gold in needle-work,
Pewter and brass, and all things that belong
To house or housekeeping: then, at my farm
I have a hundred milch-kine to the pail,   360
Six score fat oxen standing in my stalls,
And all things answerable 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.   365

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’ll leave her houses three or four as good,
Within rich Pisa walls, as any one   370
Old Signior Gremio has in Padua;
Besides two thousand ducats by the year
Of fruitful land, all of which shall be her jointure.
What, have I pinch’d you, Signior Gremio?

Gre.  Two thousand ducats by the year of land!   375
My land amounts not to so much in all:
That she shall have; besides an argosy
That now is lying in Marseilles’ road.
What, have I chok’d you with an argosy?

Tra.  Gremio, ’tis known my father hath no less   380
Than three great argosies, besides two galliasses,
And twelve tight galleys; these I will assure her,
And twice as much, whate’er thou offer’st next.

Gre.  Nay, I have offer’d all, I have no more;
And she can have no more than all I have:   385
If you like me, she shall have me and mine.

Tra.  Why, then the maid is mine from all the world,
By your firm promise. Gremio is out-vied.

Bap.  I must confess your offer is the best;
And, let your father make her the assurance,   390
She is your own; else, you must pardon me:
If you should 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,   395
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 Signior Gremio:   400
And so, I take my leave, and thank you both.

Gre.  Adieu, good neighbour.  [Exit BAPTISTA.]  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!   405
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.
’Tis in my head to do my master good:
I see no reason, but suppos’d Lucentio   410
Must get a father, called ‘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 cunning.  [Exit.

Act III. Scene I.

Padua.  A Room in BAPTISTA’S 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?   5

Hor.  But, wrangling pedant, this is
The patroness of heavenly harmony:
Then give me leave to have prerogative;
And when in music we have spent an hour,
Your lecture shall have leisure for as much.   10

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 his studies or his usual pain?
Then give me leave to read philosophy,   15
And while I pause, serve in your harmony.

Hor.  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.
I am no breeching scholar in the schools;   20
I’ll 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 down:
Take you your instrument, play you the whiles;
His lecture will be done ere you have tun’d.   25

Hor.  You’ll leave his lecture when I am in tune?  [Retires.

Luc.  That will be never: tune your instrument.

Bian.  Where left we last?

Luc.  Here, madam: —
Hac ibat Simois; hic est Sigeia tellus;   30
Hic steterat Priami regia celsa senis.

Bian.  Construe them.

Luc.  Hac ibat, as I told you before, Simois, I am Lucentio, hic est, son unto Vincentio of Pisa, Sigeia tellus, disguised thus to get your love; Hic steterat, and that Lucentio that comes a wooing, Priami, is my man Tranio, regia, bearing my port, celsa senis, that we might beguile the old pantaloon.

Hor.  [Returning.]  Madam, my instrument’s in tune.

Bian.  Let’s hear. —  [HORTENSIO plays.   35
O fie! the treble jars.

Luc.  Spit in the hole, man, and tune again.

Bian.  Now let me see if I can construe it: Hac ibat Simois, I know you not; hic est Sigeia tellus, I trust you not; Hic steterat Priami, take heed he hear us not, regia, presume not; celsa senis, despair not.

Hor.  Madam, ’tis now in tune.

Luc.        All but the base.   40

Hor.  The base is right; ’tis the base knave that jars.
How fiery and forward our pedant is!
[Aside.]  Now, for my life, the knave doth court my love:
Pedascule, I’ll watch you better yet.

Bian.  In time I may believe, yet I mistrust.   45

Luc.  Mistrust it not; for, sure, Æacides
Was Ajax, call’d so from his grandfather.

Bian.  I must believe my master; else, I promise you,
I should be arguing still upon that doubt:
But let it rest. Now, Licio, to you.   50
Good masters, take it not unkindly, pray,
That I have been thus pleasant with you both.

Hor.  [To LUCENTIO.]  You may go walk, and give me leave a while:
My lessons make no music in three parts.

Luc.  Are you so formal, sir?  [Aside.]  Well, I must wait,   55
And watch withal; for, but I be deceiv’d,
Our fine musician groweth amorous.

Hor.  Madam, before you touch the instrument,
To learn the order of my fingering,
I must begin with rudiments of art;   60
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.   65

Hor.  Yet read the gamut of Hortensio.

Bian.
‘Gamut’ I am, the ground of all accord,
‘A re,’ to plead Hortensio’s passion;
‘B mi,’ Bianca, take him for thy lord,
‘C fa ut,’ that loves with all affection:   70
‘D sol re,’ one clef, two notes have I:
‘E la mi,’ show pity, or I die.
Call you this gamut? tut, I like it not:
Old fashions please me best; I am not so nice,
To change true rules for odd inventions.   75

Enter a Servant.

Serv.  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.   80

Luc.  Faith, mistress, then I have no cause to stay.  [Exit.

Hor.  But I have cause to pry into this pedant:
Methinks he looks as though he were in love.
Yet if thy thoughts, Bianca, be so humble
To cast thy wandering eyes on every stale,   85
Seize thee that list: if once I find thee ranging,
Hortensio will be quit with thee by changing.  [Exit.

Act III. Scene II.

The Same.  Before BAPTISTA’S House.

Enter BAPTISTA, GREMIO, TRANIO, KATHARINA, BIANCA, LUCENTIO, and Attendants.

Bap.  [To TRANIO.]  Signior Lucentio, this is the ‘pointed day
That Katharine and Petruchio should be married,
And yet we hear not of our son-in-law.   5
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, forsooth, be forc’d   10
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 leisure.
I told you, I, he was a frantic fool,
Hiding his bitter jests in blunt behaviour;   15
And to be noted for a merry man,
He’ll woo a thousand, ‘point the day of marriage,
Make friends invite, and proclaim the banns;
Yet never means to wed where he hath woo’d.
Now must the world point at poor Katharine,   20
And say, ‘Lo! there is mad Petruchio’s wife,
If it would please him come and marry her.’

Tra.  Patience, good Katharine, and Baptista too.
Upon my life, Petruchio means but well,
Whatever fortune stays him from his word:   25
Though he be blunt, I know him passing wise;
Though he be merry, yet withal he’s honest.

Kath.  Would Katharine had never seen him though!  [Exit weeping, followed by BIANCA and others.

Bap.  Go, girl: I cannot blame thee now to weep,
For such an injury would vex a very saint,   30
Much more a shrew of thy impatient humour.

Enter BIONDELLO.

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 Petruchio’s coming?   35

Bap.  Is he come?

Bion.  Why, no, sir.

Bap.  What then?

Bion.  He is coming.

Bap.  When will he be here?   40

Bion.  When he stands where I am and sees you there.

Tra.  But, say, what to thine old news?

Bion.  Why, Petruchio is coming, in a new hat and an old jerkin; a pair of old breeches thrice turned; a pair of boots that have been candle-cases, one buckled, another laced; an old rusty sword ta’en out of the town-armoury, with a broken hilt, and chapeless; with two broken points: his horse hipped with an old mothy saddle and stirrups of no kindred; besides, possessed with the glanders and like to mose in the chine; troubled with the lampass, infected with the fashions, full of windgalls, sped with spavins, rayed with the yellows, past cure of the fives, stark spoiled with the staggers, begnawn with the bots, swayed in the back, and shoulder-shotten; near-legged before, and with a half-checked bit, and a head-stall of sheep’s leather, which, being restrained to keep him from stumbling, hath been often burst and now repaired with knots; one girth six times pieced, and a woman’s crupper of velure, which hath two letters for her name fairly set down in studs, and here and there pieced with packthread.

Bap.  Who comes with him?

Bion.  O, sir! his lackey, for all the world caparisoned like the horse; with a linen stock on one leg and a kersey boot-hose on the other, gartered with a red and blue list; an old hat, and the ‘humour of forty fancies’ pricked in ‘t for a feather: a monster, a very monster in apparel, and not like a Christian footboy or a gentleman’s lackey.   45

Tra.  ’Tis some odd humour pricks him to this fashion;
Yet oftentimes he goes but mean-apparell’d.

Bap.  I am glad he is come, howsoe’er he comes.

Bion.  Why, sir, he comes not.

Bap.  Didst thou not say he comes?   50

Bion.  Who? that Petruchio came?

Bap.  Ay, that Petruchio came.

Bion.  No, sir; I say his horse comes, with him on his back.

Bap.  Why, that’s all one.

Bion.  Nay, by Saint Jamy,   55
I hold you a penny,
A horse and a man
Is more than one,
And yet not many.

Enter PETRUCHIO and GRUMIO.   60

Pet.  Come, where be these gallants? who is 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   65
As I wish you were.

Pet.  Were it better, I should rush in thus.
But where is Kate? where is my lovely bride?
How does my father? Gentles, methinks you frown:
And wherefore gaze this goodly company,   70
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.   75
Fie! doff this habit, shame to your estate,
An eye-sore to our solemn festival.

Tra.  And tell us what occasion of import
Hath all so long detain’d you from your wife,
And sent you hither so unlike yourself?   80

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.   85
But where is Kate? I stay too long from her:
The morning wears, ’tis time we were at church.

Tra.  See not your bride in these unreverent robes:
Go to my chamber; put on clothes of mine.

Pet.  Not I, believe me: thus I’ll visit her.   90

Bap.  But thus, I trust, you will not marry her.

Pet.  Good sooth, even thus; therefore ha’ done with words:
To me she’s married, not unto my clothes.
Could I repair what she will wear in me
As I can change these poor accoutrements,   95
‘Twere well for Kate and better for myself.
But what a fool am I to chat with you
When I should bid good morrow to my bride,
And seal the title with a lovely kiss!  [Exeunt PETRUCHIO, GRUMIO, and BIONDELLO.

Tra.  He hath some meaning in his mad attire.   100
We will persuade him, be it possible,
To put on better ere he go to church.

Bap.  I’ll after him, and see the event of this.  [Exeunt BAPTISTA, GREMIO, and Attendants.

Tra.  But to her love concerneth us to add
Her father’s liking: which to bring to pass,   105
As I before imparted to your worship,
I am to get a man, — whate’er he be
It skills not much, we’ll fit him to our turn, —
And he shall be Vincentio of Pisa,
And make assurance here in Padua,   110
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 school-master
Doth watch Bianca’s steps so narrowly,   115
‘Twere good, methinks, to steal our marriage;
Which once perform’d, let all the world say no,
I’ll keep mine own, despite of all the world.

Tra.  That by degrees we mean to look into,
And watch our vantage in this business.   120
We’ll over-reach the greybeard, Gremio,
The narrow-prying father, Minola,
The quaint musician, amorous Licio;
All for my master’s sake, Lucentio.

Re-enter GREMIO.   125
Signior Gremio, came you from the church?

Gre.  As willingly as e’er I came from school.

Tra.  And is the bride and bridegroom coming home?

Gre.  A bridegroom say you? ’Tis a groom indeed,
A grumbling groom, and that the girl shall find.   130

Tra.  Curster than she? why, ’tis 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 lamb, a dove, a fool to him.
I’ll tell you, Sir Lucentio: when the priest   135
Should ask, if Katharine should be his wife,
‘Ay, by gogs-wouns!’ quoth he; and swore so loud,
That, all amaz’d, the priest let fall the book;
And, as he stoop’d again to take it up,
The mad-brain’d bridegroom took him such a cuff   140
That down fell priest and book and book and priest:
‘Now take them up,’ quoth he, ‘if any list.’

Tra.  What said the wench when he arose again?

Gre.  Trembled and shook; for why he stampt and swore,
As if the vicar meant to cozen him.   145
But after many ceremonies done,
He calls for wine: ‘A health!’ quoth he; as if
He had been aboard, carousing to his mates
After a storm; quaff’d off the muscadel,
And threw the sops all in the sexton’s face;   150
Having no other reason
But that his beard grew thin and hungerly,
And seem’d to ask him sops as he was drinking.
This done, he took the bride about the neck,
And kiss’d her lips with such a clamorous smack   155
That at the parting all the church did echo:
And I, seeing this, came thence for very shame;
And after me, I know, the rout is coming.
Such a mad marriage never was before.
Hark, hark! I hear the minstrels play.  [Music.   160

Re-enter PETRUCHIO, KATHARINA, BIANCA, BAPTISTA, HORTENSIO, GRUMIO, and Train.

Pet.  Gentlemen and friends, I thank you for your pains:
I know you think to dine with me to-day,
And have prepar’d great store of wedding cheer;
But so it is, my haste doth call me hence,   165
And therefore here I mean to take my leave.

Bap.  Is ‘t possible you will away to-night?

Pet.  I must away to-day, before night come.
Make it no wonder: if you knew my business,
You would entreat me rather go than stay.   170
And, honest company, I thank you all,
That have beheld me give away myself
To this most patient, sweet, and virtuous wife.
Dine with my father, drink a health to me,
For I must hence; and farewell to you all.   175

Tra.  Let us entreat you stay till after dinner.

Pet.  It may not be.

Gre.        Let me entreat you.

Pet.  It cannot be.

Kath.        Let me entreat you.   180

Pet.  I am content.

Kath.        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.   185

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.   190
The door is open, sir, there lies your way;
You may be jogging whiles your boots are green;
For me, I’ll not be gone till I please myself.
’Tis like you’ll prove a jolly surly groom,
That take it on you at the first so roundly.   195

Pet.  O Kate! content thee: prithee, be not angry.

Kath.  I will be angry: what hast thou to do?
Father, be quiet; he shall stay my leisure.

Gre.  Ay, marry, sir, now it begins to work.

Kath.  Gentlemen, forward to the bridal dinner:   200
I see a woman may be made a fool,
If she had not a spirit to resist.

Pet.  They shall go forward, Kate, at thy command.
Obey the bride, you that attend on her;
Go to the feast, revel and domineer,   205
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;
I will be master of what is mine own.   210
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’ll bring mine action on the proudest he   215
That stops my way in Padua. Grumio,
Draw forth thy weapon, we’re beset with thieves;
Rescue thy mistress, if thou be a man.
Fear not, sweet wench; they shall not touch thee, Kate:
I’ll buckler thee against a million.  [Exeunt PETRUCHIO, KATHARINA, and GRUMIO.   220

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?

Bian.  That, being mad herself, she’s madly mated.   225

Gre.  I warrant him, Petruchio is Kated.

Bap.  Neighbours and friends, though bride and bridegroom wants
For to supply the places at the table,
You know there wants no junkets at the feast.
Lucentio, you shall supply the bridegroom’s place,   230
And let Bianca take her sister’s room.

Tra.  Shall sweet Bianca practise how to bride it?

Bap.  She shall, Lucentio. Come, gentlemen, let’s go.  [Exeunt.

Act IV. Scene I.

A Hall in PETRUCHIO’S 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 rayed? was ever man so weary? I am sent before to make a fire, 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 mouth, my heart in my belly, ere I should come by a fire to thaw me; but I, with blowing the fire, shall warm myself; for, considering the weather, a taller man than I will take cold. Holla, ho! Curtis.

Enter CURTIS.

Curt.  Who is that calls so coldly?   5

Gru.  A piece of ice: 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.  O! 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 knowest, winter tames man, woman, and beast; for it hath tamed my old master, and my new mistress, and myself, fellow Curtis.   10

Curt.  Away, you three-inch-fool! I am no beast.

Gru.  Am I but three inches? why, thy horn is a foot; and so long am I at the least. But wilt thou make a fire, or shall I complain on thee to our mistress, whose hand, — she being now at hand, — thou shalt soon feel, to thy cold comfort, for being slow in thy hot office?

Curt.  I prithee, good Grumio, tell me, how goes the 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 mistress are almost frozen to death.

Curt.  There’s fire ready; and therefore, good Grumio, the news?   15

Gru.  Why, ‘Jack, boy! ho, boy!’ and as much news as thou wilt.

Curt.  Come, you are so full of cony-catching.

Gru.  Why therefore fire: for I have caught extreme cold. Where’s the cook? is supper ready, the house trimmed, rushes strewed, cobwebs swept; the serving-men in their new fustian, their white stockings, and every officer his wedding-garment on? Be the Jacks fair within, the Jills fair without, and carpets laid, and everything in order?

Curt.  All ready; and therefore, I pray thee, news?

Gru.  First, know, my horse is tired; my master and mistress fallen out.   20

Curt.  How?

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.  Here.   25

Gru.  [Striking him.]  There.

Curt.  This is to feel a tale, not to hear a tale.

Gru.  And therefore it is called a sensible tale; and this cuff was but to knock at your ear and beseech listening. Now I begin: Imprimis, we came down a foul hill, my master riding behind my mistress, —

Curt.  Both of one horse?

Gru.  What’s that to thee?   30

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 bemoiled: 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 off me: how he swore; how she prayed, that never prayed 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 now shall die in oblivion, and thou return unexperienced to thy grave.

Curt.  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, Walter, Sugarsop, and the rest: let their heads be sleekly combed, their blue coats brushed, and their garters of an indifferent knit: let them curtsy with their left legs, and not presume to touch a hair of my master’s horsetail till they kiss their hands. Are they all ready?

Curt.  They are.   35

Gru.  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?

Gru.  Thou, it seems, that callest for company to countenance her.   40

Curt.  I call them forth to credit her.

Gru.  Why, she comes to borrow nothing of them.

Enter several Servants.

Nath.  Welcome home, Grumio!

Phil.  How now, Grumio?   45

Jos.  What, Grumio!

Nich.  Fellow Grumio!

Nath.  How now, old lad!

Gru.  Welcome, you; how now, you; what, you; fellow, you; and thus much for greeting. Now, my spruce companions, is all ready, and all things neat?

Nath.  All things is ready. How near is our master?   50

Gru.  E’en at hand, alighted by this; and therefore be not, — Cock’s passion, silence! I hear my master.

Enter PETRUCHIO and KATHARINA.

Pet.  Where be these knaves? What! no man at door
To hold my stirrup nor to take my horse?
Where is Nathaniel, Gregory, Philip? —   55

All Serv.  Here, here, sir; here, sir.

Pet.  Here, sir! here, sir! here, sir! here, sir!
You logger-headed and unpolish’d grooms!
What, no attendance? no regard? no duty?
Where is the foolish knave I sent before?   60

Gru.  Here, sir; as foolish as I was before.

Pet.  You peasant swain! you whoreson malthorse 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,   65
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, Ralph, and Gregory;
The rest were ragged, old, and beggarly;   70
Yet, as they are, here are they come to meet you.

Pet.  Go, rascals, go, and fetch my supper in.  [Exeunt some of the Servants.
Where is the life that late I led?
Where are those — ? Sit down, Kate, and welcome.
Soud, soud, soud, soud!   75

Re-enter Servants with supper.
Why, when, I say? — Nay, good sweet Kate, be merry. —
Off with my boots, you rogues! you villains! When?
It was the friar of orders grey,
As he forth walked on his way:   80
Out, you rogue! you pluck my foot awry:  [Strikes him.
Take that, and mend the plucking off the other.
Be merry, Kate. Some water, here; what, ho!
Where’s my spaniel Troilus? Sirrah, get you hence
And bid my cousin Ferdinand come hither:  [Exit Servant.   85
One, Kate, that you must kiss, and be acquainted with.
Where are my slippers? Shall I have some water?
Come, Kate, and wash, and welcome heartily. —  [Servant lets the ewer fall.  PETRUCHIO strikes him.
You whoreson villain! will you let it fall?

Kath.  Patience, I pray you; ’twas a fault unwilling.   90

Pet.  A whoreson, beetle-headed, flap-ear’d knave!
Come, Kate, sit down; I know you have a stomach.
Will you give thanks, sweet Kate, or else shall I? —
What’s this? mutton?

First Serv.        Ay.   95

Pet.                Who brought it?

First Serv.                        I.

Pet.  ’Tis burnt; and so is all the meat.
What dogs are these! Where is the rascal cook?
How durst you, villains, bring it from the dresser,   100
And serve it thus to me that love it not?  [Throws the meat, &c. at them.
There, take it to you, trenchers, cups, and all.
You heedless joltheads and unmanner’d slaves!
What! do you grumble! I’ll be with you straight.

Kath.  I pray you, husband, be not so disquiet:   105
The meat was well if you were so contented.

Pet.  I tell thee, Kate, ’twas burnt and dried away;
And I expressly am forbid to touch it,
For it engenders choler, planteth anger;
And better ‘twere that both of us did fast,   110
Since, of ourselves, ourselves are choleric,
Than feed it with such over-roasted flesh.
Be patient; to-morrow ‘t shall be mended,
And for this night we’ll fast for company:
Come, I will bring thee to thy bridal chamber.  [Exeunt PETRUCHIO, KATHARINA, and CURTIS.   115

Nath.  Peter, didst ever see the like?

Peter.  He kills her in her own humour.

Re-enter CURTIS.

Gru.  Where is he?

Curt.  In her chamber, making a sermon of continency to her;   120
And rails, and swears, and rates, that she, poor soul,
Knows not which way to stand, to look, to speak,
And sits as one new-risen from a dream.
Away, away! for he is coming hither.  [Exeunt.

Re-enter PETRUCHIO.   125

Pet.  Thus have I politicly begun my reign,
And ’tis my hope to end successfully.
My falcon now is sharp and passing empty,
And till she stoop she must not be full-gorg’d,
For then she never looks upon her lure.   130
Another way I have to man my haggard,
To make her come and know her keeper’s call;
That is, to watch her, as we watch these kites
That bate and beat and will not be obedient.
She eat no meat to-day, nor none shall eat;   135
Last night she slept not, nor to-night she shall not:
As with the meat, some undeserved fault
I’ll find about the making of the bed;
And here I’ll fling the pillow, there the bolster,
This way the coverlet, another way the sheets:   140
Ay, and amid this hurly I intend
That all is done in reverend care of her;
And in conclusion she shall watch all night:
And if she chance to nod I’ll rail and brawl,
And with the clamour keep her still awake.   145
This is a way to kill a wife with kindness;
And thus I’ll curb her mad and headstrong humour.
He that knows better how to tame a shrew,
Now let him speak: ’tis charity to show.  [Exit.

Act IV. Scene II.

Padua.  Before BAPTISTA’S House.

Enter TRANIO and HORTENSIO.

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.   5

Hor.  Sir, to satisfy you in what I have said,
Stand by, and mark the manner of his teaching.  [They stand aside.

Enter BIANCA and LUCENTIO.

Luc.  Now, mistress, profit you in what you read?

Bian.  What, master, read you? first resolve me that.   10

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.  [They retire.

Hor.  Quick proceeders, marry! Now, tell me, I pray,
You that durst swear that your mistress Bianca   15
Lov’d none in the world so well as Lucentio.

Tra.  O despiteful love! unconstant womankind!
I tell thee, Licio, this is wonderful.

Hor.  Mistake no more: I am not Licio,
Nor a musician, as I seem to be;   20
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.

Tra.  Signior Hortensio, I have often heard   25
Of your entire affection to Bianca;
And since mine eyes are witness of her lightness,
I will with you, if you be so contented,
Forswear Bianca and her love for ever.

Hor.  See, how they kiss and court! Signior Lucentio,   30
Here is my hand, and here I firmly vow
Never to woo her more; but I do forswear her,
As one unworthy all the former favours
That I have fondly flatter’d her withal.

Tra.  And here I take the like unfeigned oath,   35
Never to marry with her though she would entreat.
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   40
Ere three days pass, which hath as long lov’d me
As I have lov’d this proud disdainful haggard.
And so farewell, Signior Lucentio.
Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks,
Shall win my love: and so I take my leave,   45
In resolution as I swore before.  [Exit HORTENSIO.  LUCENTIO and BIANCA advance.

Tra.  Mistress Bianca, bless you with such grace
As ‘longeth to a lover’s blessed case!
Nay, I have ta’en you napping, gentle love,
And have forsworn you with Hortensio.   50

Bian.  Tranio, you jest. But have you both forsworn me?

Tra.  Mistress, we have.

Luc.        Then we are rid of Licio.

Tra.  I’ faith, he’ll have a lusty widow now,
That shall be woo’d and wedded in a day.   55

Bian.  God give him joy!

Tra.  Ay, and he’ll tame her.

Bian.        He says so, Tranio.

Tra.  Faith, he is gone unto the taming-school.

Bian.  The taming-school! what, is there such a place?   60

Tra.  Ay, mistress, and Petruchio is the master;
That teacheth tricks eleven and twenty long,
To tame a shrew, and charm her chattering tongue.

Enter BIONDELLO, running.

Bion.  O master, master! I have watch’d so long   65
That I’m dog-weary; but at last I spied
An ancient angel coming down the hill
Will serve the turn.

Tra.        What is he, Biondello?

Bion.  Master, a mercatante, or a pedant,   70
I know not what; but formal in apparel,
In gait and countenance surely like a father.

Luc.  And what of him. Tranio?

Tra.  If he be credulous and trust my tale,
I’ll make him glad to seem Vincentio,   75
And give assurance to Baptista Minola,
As if he were the right Vincentio.
Take in your love, and then let me alone.  [Exeunt LUCENTIO and BIANCA.

Enter a Pedant.

Ped.  God save you, sir!   80

Tra.        And you, sir! you are welcome.
Travel you far on, or are you at the furthest?

Ped.  Sir, at the furthest for a week or two;
But then up further, and as far as Rome;
And so to Tripoli, if God lend me life.   85

Tra.  What countryman, I pray?

Ped.        Of Mantua.

Tra.  Of Mantua, sir! marry, God forbid!
And come to Padua, careless of your life?

Ped.  My life, sir! how, I pray? for that goes hard.   90

Tra.  ’Tis 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.   95
’Tis marvel, but that you are but newly come,
You might have heard it else proclaim’d about.

Ped.  Alas, sir! it is worse for me than so;
For I have bills for money by exchange
From Florence, and must here deliver them.   100

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?

Ped.  Ay, sir, in Pisa have I often been;
Pisa, renowned for grave citizens.   105

Tra.  Among them, know you one Vincentio?

Ped.  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 countenance somewhat doth resemble you.   110

Bion.  [Aside.]  As much as an apple doth an oyster, and all one.

Tra.  To save your life in this extremity,
This favour will I do you for his sake;
And think it not the worst of all your fortunes
That you are like to Sir Vincentio.   115
His name and credit shall you undertake,
And in my house you shall be friendly lodg’d,
Look that you take upon you as you should!
You understand me, sir; so shall you stay
Till you have done your business in the city.   120
If this be courtesy, sir, accept of it.

Ped.  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:   125
My father is here look’d for every day,
To pass assurance of a dower in marriage
‘Twixt me and one Baptista’s daughter here:
In all these circumstances I’ll instruct you.
Go with me to clothe you as becomes you.  [Exeunt.   130

Act IV. Scene III.

A Room in PETRUCHIO’S House.

Enter KATHARINA and GRUMIO.

Gru.  No, no, forsooth; I dare not, for my life.

Kath.  The more my wrong the more his spite appears.
What, did he marry me to famish me?   5
Beggars, that come unto my father’s door,
Upon 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,   10
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   15
‘Twere 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.  ’Tis passing good: I prithee let me have it.   20

Gru.  I fear it is too choleric a meat.
How say you to a fat tripe finely broil’d?

Kath.  I like it well: good Grumio, fetch it me.

Gru.  I cannot tell; I fear ’tis choleric.
What say you to a piece of beef and mustard?   25

Kath.  A dish that I do love to feed upon.

Gru.  Ay, but the mustard is too hot a little.

Kath.  Why, then the beef, and let the mustard rest.

Gru.  Nay, then I will not: you shall have the mustard,
Or else you get no beef of Grumio.   30

Kath.  Then both, or one, or anything thou wilt.

Gru.  Why then, the mustard without the beef.

Kath.  Go, get thee gone, thou false deluding slave,  [Beats him.
That feed’st me with the very name of meat.
Sorrow on thee and all the pack of you,   35
That triumph thus upon my misery!
Go, get thee gone, I say.

Enter PETRUCHIO with a dish of meat; and HORTENSIO.

Pet.  How fares my Kate? What, sweeting, all amort?

Hor.  Mistress, what cheer?   40

Kath.        Faith, as cold as can be.

Pet.  Pluck up thy spirits; look cheerfully upon me.
Here, love; thou seest 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.   45
What! not a word? Nay then, thou lov’st it not,
And all my pains is sorted to no proof.
Here, take away this dish.

Kath.        I pray you, let it stand.

Pet.  The poorest service is repaid with thanks,   50
And so shall mine, before you touch the meat.

Kath.  I thank you, sir.

Hor.  Signior Petruchio, fie! you are to blame.
Come, Mistress Kate, I’ll bear you company.

Pet.  [Aside.]  Eat it up all, Hortensio, if thou lov’st me.   55
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,   60
With ruffs and cuffs and farthingales and things;
With scarfs and fans and double change of bravery,
With amber bracelets, beads and all this knavery.
What! hast thou din’d? The tailor stays thy leisure,
To deck thy body with his ruffling treasure.   65

Enter Tailor.
Come, tailor, let us see these ornaments;
Lay forth the gown. —

Enter Haberdasher.
What news with you, sir?   70

Hab.  Here is the cap your worship did bespeak.

Pet.  Why, this was moulded on a porringer;
A velvet dish: fie, fie! ’tis lewd and filthy:
Why, ’tis a cockle or a walnut-shell,
A knack, a toy, a trick, a baby’s cap:   75
Away with it! come, let me have a bigger.

Kath.  I’ll 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.   80

Hor.        [Aside.]  That will not be in haste.

Kath.  Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak,
And speak I will; I am no child, no babe:
Your betters have endur’d me say my mind,
And if you cannot, best you stop your ears.   85
My tongue will tell the anger of my heart,
Or else my heart, concealing it, will break:
And rather than it shall, I will be free
Even to the uttermost, as I please, in words.

Pet.  Why, thou sayst true; it is a paltry cap,   90
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.  [Exit Haberdasher.

Pet.  Thy gown? why, ay: come, tailor, let us see ‘t.   95
O mercy, God! what masquing stuff is here?
What’s this? a sleeve? ’tis like a demi-cannon:
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.   100
Why, what, i’ devil’s name, tailor, call’st thou this?

Hor.  [Aside.]  I see, she’s like to have neither cap nor gown.

Tai.  You bid me make it orderly and well,
According to the fashion and the time.

Pet.  Marry, and did: but if you be remember’d,   105
I did not bid you mar it to the time.
Go, hop me over every kennel home,
For you shall hop without my custom, sir.
I’ll none of it: hence! make your best of it.

Kath.  I never saw a better-fashion’d gown,   110
More quaint, more pleasing, nor more commendable.
Belike you mean to make a puppet of me.

Pet.  Why, true; he means to make a puppet of thee.

Tai.  She says your worship means to make a puppet of her.

Pet.  O monstrous arrogance! Thou liest, thou thread,   115
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!
Away! thou rag, thou quantity, thou remnant,   120
Or I shall so be-mete thee with thy yard
As thou shalt think on prating whilst thou liv’st!
I tell thee, I, that thou hast marr’d her gown.

Tai.  Your worship is deceiv’d: the gown is made
Just as my master had direction.   125
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.  Marry, sir, with needle and thread.

Tai.  But did you not request to have it cut?   130

Gru.  Thou hast faced many things.

Tai.  I have.

Gru.  Face not me: thou hast braved many men; brave not me: I will neither be faced nor braved. 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 testify.

Pet.  Read it.   135

Gru.  The note lies in ‘s throat if he say I 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.  With a small compassed cape.   140

Gru.  I confess the cape.

Tai.  With a trunk sleeve.

Gru.  I confess two sleeves.

Tai.  The sleeves curiously cut.

Pet.  Ay, there’s the villany.   145

Gru.  Error i’ the bill, sir; error i’ the bill. I commanded the sleeves should be cut out and sewed up again; and that I’ll prove upon thee, though thy little finger be armed in a thimble.

Tai.  This is true that I say: an I had thee in place where thou shouldst know it.

Gru.  I am for thee straight: take thou the bill, give me thy mete-yard, and spare not me.

Hor.  God-a-mercy, Grumio! then he shall have no odds.

Pet.  Well, sir, in brief, the gown is not for me.   150

Gru.  You are i’ the right, sir; ’tis 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?

Gru.  O, sir, the conceit is deeper than you think for.   155
Take up my mistress’ gown to his master’s use!
O, fie, fie, fie!

Pet.  [Aside.]  Hortensio, say thou wilt see the tailor paid.
[To Tailor.]  Go take it hence; be gone, and say no more.

Hor.  [Aside to Tailor.]  Tailor, I’ll pay thee for thy gown to-morrow:   160
Take no unkindness of his hasty words.
Away! I say; commend me to thy master.  [Exit Tailor.

Pet.  Well, come, my Kate; we will unto your father’s,
Even in these honest mean habiliments.
Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor:   165
For ’tis 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?   170
Or is the adder better than the eel
Because his painted skin contents the eye?
O, 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;   175
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 horses unto Long-lane end;
There will we mount, and thither walk on foot.   180
Let’s see; I think ’tis now some seven o’clock,
And well we may come there by dinner-time.

Kath.  I dare assure you, sir, ’tis almost two;
And ‘twill be supper-time ere you come there.

Pet.  It shall be seven ere I go to horse.   185
Look, what I speak, or do, or think to do,
You are still crossing it. Sirs, let ‘t alone:
I will not go to-day; and ere I do,
It shall be what o’clock I say it is.

Hor.  Why, so this gallant will command the sun.  [Exeunt.   190

Act IV. Scene IV.

Padua.  Before BAPTISTA’S House.

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 deceived,
Signior Baptista may remember me,   5
Near twenty years ago, in Genoa,
Where we were lodgers at the Pegasus.

Tra.  ’Tis well; and hold your own, in any case,
With such austerity as ‘longeth to a father.

Ped.  I warrant you. But, sir, here comes your boy;   10
‘Twere good he were school’d.

Enter BIONDELLO.

Tra.  Fear you not him. Sirrah Biondello,
Now do your duty throughly, I advise you:
Imagine ‘twere the right Vincentio.   15

Bion.  Tut! fear not me.

Tra.  But hast thou done thy errand to Baptista?

Bion.  I told him that your father was at Venice,
And that you look’d for him this day in Padua.

Tra.  Thou’rt a tall fellow: hold thee that to drink.   20
Here comes Baptista. Set your countenance, sir.

Enter BAPTISTA and LUCENTIO.
Signior Baptista, you are happily met.
[To the Pedant.]  Sir, this is the gentleman I told you of:
I pray you, stand good father to me now,   25
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   30
Of love between your daughter and himself:
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 father’s care,   35
To have him match’d; and, if you please to like
No worse than I, upon some agreement
Me shall you find ready and willing
With one consent to have her so bestow’d;
For curious I cannot be with you,   40
Signior Baptista, of whom I hear so well.

Bap.  Sir, pardon me in what I have to say:
Your plainness and your shortness please me well.
Right true it is, your son Lucentio here
Doth love my daughter and she loveth him,   45
Or both dissemble deeply their affections:
And therefore, if you say no more than this,
That like a father you will deal with him
And pass my daughter a sufficient dower,
The match is made, and all is done:   50
Your son shall have my daughter with consent.

Tra.  I thank you, sir. Where, then, do you know best
We be affied and such assurance ta’en
As shall with either part’s agreement stand?

Bap.  Not in my house, Lucentio; for, you know,   55
Pitchers have ears, and I have many servants.
Besides, old Gremio is hearkening still,
And happily we might be interrupted.

Tra.  Then at my lodging an it like you:
There doth my father lie, and there this night   60
We’ll pass the business privately and well.
Send for your daughter by your servant here;
My boy shall fetch the scrivener presently.
The worst is this, that, at so slender warning,
You’re like to have a thin and slender pittance.   65

Bap.  It likes me well. Cambio, hie you home,
And bid Bianca make her ready straight;
And, if you will, tell what hath happened:
Lucentio’s father is arriv’d in Padua,
And how she’s like to be Lucentio’s wife.   70

Luc.  I pray the gods she may with all my heart!

Tra.  Dally not with the gods, but get thee gone.
Signior Baptista, shall I lead the way?
Welcome! one mess is like to be your cheer.
Come, sir; we will better it in Pisa.   75

Bap.  I follow you.  [Exeunt TRANIO, Pedant, and BAPTISTA.

Bion.  Cambio!

Luc.  What sayst thou, Biondello?

Bion.  You saw my master wink and laugh upon you?

Luc.  Biondello, what of that?   80

Bion.  Faith, nothing; but he has left me here behind to expound the meaning or moral of his signs and tokens.

Luc.  I pray thee, moralize them.

Bion.  Then thus. Baptista is safe, talking with the deceiving father of a deceitful son.

Luc.  And what of him?

Bion.  His daughter is to be brought by you to the supper.   85

Luc.  And then?

Bion.  The old priest at Saint Luke’s church is at your command at all hours.

Luc.  And what of all this?

Bion.  I cannot tell, expect they are busied about a counterfeit assurance: take you assurance of her, cum privilegio ad imprimendum solum. To the church! take the priest, clerk, and some sufficient honest witnesses.
If this be not that you look for, I have no more to say,   90
But bid Bianca farewell for ever and a day.  [Going.

Luc.  Hearest thou, Biondello?

Bion.  I cannot tarry: I knew a wench married in an afternoon as she went to the garden for parsley to stuff a rabbit; and so may you, sir; and so, adieu, sir. My master hath appointed me to go to Saint Luke’s, to bid the priest be ready to come against you come with your appendix.  [Exit.

Luc.  I may, and will, if she be so contented:
She will be pleas’d; then wherefore should I doubt?   95
Hap what hap may, I’ll roundly go about her:
It shall go hard if Cambio go without her.  [Exit.

Act IV. Scene V.

A public Road.

Enter PETRUCHIO, KATHARINA, HORTENSIO, and Servants.

Pet.  Come on, i’ God’s name; once more toward our father’s.
Good Lord, how bright and goodly shines the moon!

Kath.  The moon! the sun: it is not moonlight now.   5

Pet.  I say it is the moon that shines so bright.

Kath.  I know it is the sun that shines so bright.

Pet.  Now, by my mother’s son, and that’s myself,
It shall be moon, or star, or what I list,
Or ere I journey to your father’s house.   10
Go one and fetch our horses back again.
Evermore cross’d and cross’d; nothing but cross’d!

Hor.  Say as he says, or we shall never go.

Kath.  Forward, I pray, since we have come so far,
And be it moon, or sun, or what you please.   15
An if you please to call it a rush-candle,
Henceforth I vow it shall be so for me.

Pet.  I say it is the moon.

Kath.        I know it is the moon.

Pet.  Nay, then you lie; it is the blessed sun.   20

Kath.  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.   25

Hor.  Petruchio, go thy ways; the field is won.

Pet.  Well, forward, forward! thus the bowl should run,
And not unluckily against the bias.
But soft! what company is coming here?

Enter VINCENTIO, in a travelling dress.   30
[To VINCENTIO.]  Good morrow, gentle mistress: where away?
Tell me, sweet Kate, and tell me truly too,
Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman?
Such war of white and red within her cheeks!
What stars do spangle heaven with such beauty,   35
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,   40
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 bed-fellow!

Pet.  Why, how now, Kate! I hope thou art not mad:   45
This is a man, old, wrinkled, faded, wither’d,
And not a maiden, as thou sayst he is.

Kath.  Pardon, old father, my mistaking eyes,
That have been so bedazzled with the sun
That everything I look on seemeth green:   50
Now I perceive thou art a reverend father;
Pardon, I pray thee, for my mad mistaking.

Pet.  Do, good old grandsire; and withal make known
Which way thou travellest: if along with us,
We shall be joyful of thy company.   55

Vin.  Fair sir, and you my merry mistress,
That with your strange encounter much amaz’d me,
My name is called Vincentio; my dwelling, Pisa;
And bound I am to Padua, there to visit
A son of mine, which long I have not seen.   60

Pet.  What is his name?

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:   65
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   70
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 your pleasure,   75
Like pleasant travellers, to break a jest
Upon 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 all but HORTENSIO.   80

Hor.  Well, Petruchio, this has put me in heart.
Have to my widow! and if she be froward,
Then hast thou taught Hortensio to be untoward.  [Exit.

Act V. Scene I.

Padua.  Before LUCENTIO’S House.

Enter on one side BIONDELLO, LUCENTIO, and BIANCA; 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’ll see the church o’ your back; and then come back to my master as soon as I can.  [Exeunt LUCENTIO, BIANCA, and BIONDELLO.   5

Gre.  I marvel Cambio comes not all this while.

Enter PETRUCHIO, 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.   10

Vin.  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.  [Knocks.

Gre.  They’re busy within; you were best knock louder.

Enter Pedant above, at a window.   15

Ped.  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.

Vin.  What if a man bring him a hundred pound or two, to make merry withal?

Ped.  Keep your hundred pounds to yourself: he shall need none so long as I live.   20

Pet.  Nay, I told you your son was well beloved in Padua. Do you hear, sir? To leave frivolous circumstances, I pray you, tell Signior Lucentio that his father is come from Pisa, and is here at the door to speak with him.

Ped.  Thou liest: his father is come from Padua, and here looking out at the window.

Vin.  Art thou his father?

Ped.  Ay, sir; so his mother says, if I may believe her.

Pet.  [To VINCENTIO.]  Why, how now, gentleman! why, this is flat knavery, to take upon you another man’s name.   25

Ped.  Lay hands on the villain: I believe, a’ means to cozen somebody in this city under my countenance.

Re-enter BIONDELLO.

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.  [Seeing BIONDELLO.]  Come hither, crack-hemp.

Bion.  I hope I may choose, sir.   30

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, worshipful old master? yes, marry, sir: see where he looks out of the window.

Vin.  Is ‘t so, indeed?  [Beats BIONDELLO.   35

Bion.  Help, help, help! here’s a madman will murder me.  [Exit.

Ped.  Help, son! help, Signior Baptista!  [Exit from the window.

Pet.  Prithee, Kate, let’s stand aside, and see the end of this controversy.  [They retire.

Re-enter Pedant below; BAPTISTA, TRANIO, and Servants.

Tra.  Sir, what are you that offer to beat my servant?   40

Vin.  What am I, sir! nay, what are you, sir? O immortal gods! O fine villain! A silken doublet! a velvet hose! a scarlet cloak! and a copatain hat! O, I am undone! I am undone! while I play the good husband at home, my son and my servant spend all at the university.

Tra.  How now! what’s the matter?

Bap.  What, is the man lunatic?

Tra.  Sir, you seem a sober ancient gentleman by your habit, but your words show you a mad-man. Why, sir, what ‘cerns it you if I wear pearl and gold? I thank my good father, I am able to maintain it.

Vin.  Thy father! O villain! he is a sail-maker in Bergamo.   45

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.

Ped.  Away, away, mad ass! his name is Lucentio; and he is mine only son, and heir to the lands of me, Signior Vincentio.

Vin.  Lucentio! O! he hath murdered his master. Lay hold on him, I charge you in the duke’s name. O my son, my son! tell me, thou villain, where is my son Lucentio?

Tra.  Call forth an officer.   50

Enter one with an Officer.
Carry this mad knave to the gaol. Father Baptista, I charge you see that he be forthcoming.

Vin.  Carry me to the gaol!

Gre.  Stay, officer: he shall not go to prison.

Bap.  Talk not, Signior Gremio: I say he shall go to prison.   55

Gre.  Take heed, Signior Baptista, lest you be cony-catched in this business: I dare swear this is the right Vincentio.

Ped.  Swear, if thou darest.

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 Lucentio.   60

Bap.  Away with the dotard! to the gaol with him!

Vin.  Thus strangers may be haled and abused: O monstrous villain!

Re-enter BIONDELLO, with LUCENTIO and BIANCA.

Bion.  O! we are spoiled; and yonder he is: deny him, forswear him, or else we are all undone.

Luc.  [Kneeling.]  Pardon, sweet father.   65

Vin.        Lives my sweetest son?
[BIONDELLO, TRANIO, and Pedant run out.

Bian.  [Kneeling.]  Pardon, dear father.

Bap.        How hast thou offended?
Where is Lucentio?   70

Luc.        Here’s Lucentio,
Right son to the right Vincentio;
That have by marriage made thy daughter mine,
While counterfeit supposes blear’d thine eyne.

Gre.  Here’s packing, with a witness, to deceive us all!   75

Vin.  Where is that damned villain Tranio,
That fac’d and brav’d me in this matter so?

Bap.  Why, tell me, is not this my Cambio?

Bian.  Cambio is chang’d into Lucentio.

Luc.  Love wrought these miracles. Bianca’s love   80
Made me exchange my state with Tranio,
While he did bear my countenance in the town;
And happily I have arriv’d at last
Unto the wished haven of my bliss.
What Tranio did, myself enforc’d him to;   85
Then pardon him, sweet father, for my sake.

Vin.  I’ll slit the villain’s nose, that would have sent me to the gaol.

Bap.  [To LUCENTIO.]  But do you hear, sir? Have you married my daughter without asking my good will?

Vin.  Fear not, Baptista; we will content you, go to: but I will in, to be revenged for this villany.  [Exit.

Bap.  And I, to sound the depth of this knavery.  [Exit.   90

Luc.  Look not pale, Bianca; thy father will not frown.  [Exeunt LUCENTIO and BIANCA.

Gre.  My cake is dough; but I’ll in among the rest,
Out of hope of all, but my share of the feast.  [Exit.

PETRUCHIO and KATHARINA advance.

Kath.  Husband, let’s follow, to see the end of this ado.   95

Pet.  First kiss me, Kate, and we will.

Kath.  What! in the midst of the street?

Pet.  What! art thou ashamed of me?

Kath.  No, sir, God forbid; but ashamed to kiss.

Pet.  Why, then let’s home again. Come, sirrah, let’s away.   100

Kath.  Nay, I will give thee a kiss: now pray thee, love, stay.

Pet.  Is not this well? Come, my sweet Kate:
Better once than never, for never too late.  [Exeunt.

Act V. Scene II.

A Room in LUCENTIO’S House.

A Banquet set out.  Enter BAPTISTA, VINCENTIO, GREMIO, the Pedant, LUCENTIO, BIANCA, PETRUCHIO, KATHARINA, HORTENSIO, and Widow.  TRANIO, BIONDELLO, GRUMIO, and Others, attending.

Luc.  At last, though long, our jarring notes agree:
And time it is, when raging war is done,
To smile at ‘scapes and perils overblown.   5
My fair Bianca, bid my father welcome,
While I with self-same kindness welcome thine.
Brother Petruchio, sister Katharina,
And thou, Hortensio, with thy loving widow,
Feast with the best, and welcome to my house:   10
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.  [They sit at table.

Pet.  Nothing but sit and sit, and eat and eat!

Bap.  Padua affords this kindness, son Petruchio.   15

Pet.  Padua affords nothing but what is kind.

Hor.  For both our sakes I would that word were true.

Pet.  Now, for my life, Hortensio fears his widow.

Wid.  Then never trust me, if I be afeard.

Pet.  You are very sensible, and yet you miss my sense:   20
I mean, Hortensio is afeard of you.

Wid.  He that is giddy thinks the world turns round.

Pet.  Roundly replied.

Kath.        Mistress, how mean you that?

Wid.  Thus I conceive by him.   25

Pet.  Conceives by me! How likes Hortensio that?

Hor.  My widow says, thus she conceives her tale.

Pet.  Very well mended. Kiss him for that, good widow.

Kath.  ‘He that is giddy thinks the world turns round:’
I pray you, tell me what you meant by that.   30

Wid.  Your husband, being troubled with a shrew,
Measures my husband’s sorrow by his woe:
And now you know my meaning.

Kath.  A very mean meaning.

Wid.        Right, I mean you.   35

Kath.  And I am mean, indeed, respecting you.

Pet.  To her, Kate!

Hor.  To her, widow!

Pet.  A hundred marks, my Kate does put her down.

Hor.  That’s my office.   40

Pet.  Spoke like an officer: ha’ to thee, lad.  [Drinks to HORTENSIO.

Bap.  How likes Gremio these quick-witted folks?

Gre.  Believe me, sir, they butt together well.

Bian.  Head and butt! a hasty-witted body
Would say your head and butt were head and horn.   45

Vin.  Ay, mistress bride, hath that awaken’d you?

Bian.  Ay, but not frighted me; therefore I’ll sleep again.

Pet.  Nay, that you shall not; since you have begun,
Have at you for a bitter jest or two.

Bian.  Am I your bird? I mean to shift my bush;   50
And then pursue me as you draw your bow.
You are welcome all.  [Exeunt BIANCA, KATHARINA, and Widow.

Pet.  She hath prevented me. Here, Signior Tranio;
This bird you aim’d at, though you hit her not:
Therefore a health to all that shot and miss’d.   55

Tra.  O sir! Lucentio slipp’d me, like his greyhound,
Which runs himself, and catches for his master.

Pet.  A good swift simile, but something currish.

Tra.  ’Tis well, sir, that you hunted for yourself:
’Tis thought your deer does hold you at a bay.   60

Bap.  O ho, Petruchio! Tranio hits you now.

Luc.  I thank thee for that gird, good Tranio.

Hor.  Confess, confess, hath he not hit you here?

Pet.  A’ has a little gall’d me, I confess;
And, as the jest did glance away from me,   65
’Tis ten to one it maim’d you two outright.

Bap.  Now, in good sadness, son Petruchio,
I think thou hast the veriest shrew of all.

Pet.  Well, I say no: and therefore, for assurance,
Let’s each one send unto his wife;   70
And he whose wife is most obedient
To come at first when he doth send for her,
Shall win the wager which we will propose.

Hor.  Content. What is the wager?

Luc.        Twenty crowns.   75

Pet.  Twenty crowns!
I’ll venture so much of my hawk or hound,
But twenty times so much upon my wife.

Luc.  A hundred then.

Hor.        Content.   80

Pet.                A match! ’tis done.

Hor.  Who shall begin?

Luc.        That will I.
Go, Biondello, bid your mistress come to me.

Bion.  I go.  [Exit.   85

Bap.  Son, I will be your half, Bianca comes.

Luc.  I’ll have no halves; I’ll bear it all myself.

Re-enter BIONDELLO.
How now! what news?

Bion.        Sir, my mistress sends you word   90
That she is busy and she cannot come.

Pet.  How! she is busy, and she cannot come!
Is that an answer?

Gre.        Ay, and a kind one too:
Pray God, sir, your wife send you not a worse.   95

Pet.  I hope, better.

Hor.  Sirrah Biondello, go and entreat my wife
To come to me forthwith.  [Exit BIONDELLO.

Pet.        O ho! entreat her!
Nay, then she must needs come.   100

Hor.        I am afraid, sir,
Do what you can, yours will not be entreated.

Re-enter BIONDELLO.
Now, where’s my wife?

Bion.  She says you have some goodly jest in hand:   105
She will not come: she bids you come to her.

Pet.  Worse and worse; she will not come! O vile,
Intolerable, not to be endur’d!
Sirrah Grumio, go to your mistress; say,
I command her come to me.  [Exit GRUMIO.   110

Hor.        I know her answer.

Pet.  What?

Hor.  She will not.

Pet.  The fouler fortune mine, and there an end.

Re-enter KATHARINA.   115

Bap.  Now, by my holidame, here comes Katharina!

Kath.  What is your will, sir, that you send for me?

Pet.  Where is your sister, and Hortensio’s wife?

Kath.  They sit conferring by the parlour fire.

Pet.  Go, fetch them hither: if they deny to come,   120
Swinge me them soundly forth unto their husbands.
Away, I say, and bring them hither straight.  [Exit KATHARINA.

Luc.  Here is a wonder, if you talk of a wonder.

Hor.  And so it is. I wonder what it bodes.

Pet.  Marry, peace it bodes, and love, and quiet life,   125
An awful rule and right supremacy;
And, to be short, what not that’s sweet and happy.

Bap.  Now fair befall thee, good Petruchio!
The wager thou hast won; and I will add
Unto their losses twenty thousand crowns;   130
Another dowry to another daughter,
For she is chang’d, as she had never been.

Pet.  Nay, I will win my wager better yet,
And show more sign of her obedience,
Her new-built virtue and obedience.   135
See where she comes, and brings your froward wives
As prisoners to her womanly persuasion.

Re-enter KATHARINA, with BIANCA and Widow.
Katharine, that cap of yours becomes you not:
Off with that bauble, throw it under foot.  [KATHARINA pulls off her cap, and throws it down.   140

Wid.  Lord! let me never have a cause to sigh,
Till I be brought to such a silly pass!

Bian.  Fie! what a foolish duty call you this?

Luc.  I would your duty were as foolish too:
The wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca,   145
Hath cost me an hundred crowns since supper-time.

Bian.  The more fool you for laying on my duty.

Pet.  Katharine, I charge thee, tell these headstrong women
What duty they do owe their lords and husbands.

Wid.  Come, come, you’re mocking: we will have no telling.   150

Pet.  Come on, I say; and first begin with her.

Wid.  She shall not.

Pet.  I say she shall: and first begin with her.

Kath.  Fie, fie! unknit that threatening unkind brow,
And dart not scornful glances from those eyes,   155
To wound thy lord, thy king, thy 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 fountain troubled,   160
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,   165
And for thy maintenance commits his body
To painful labour both by sea and land,
To watch the night in storms, the day in cold,
Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe;
And craves no other tribute at thy hands   170
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’s froward, peevish, sullen, sour,   175
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 offer war where they should kneel for peace,   180
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,
Unapt to toil and trouble in the world,
But that our soft conditions and our hearts   185
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;   190
But now I see our lances are but straws,
Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare,
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 husband’s foot:   195
In 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.

Luc.  Well, go thy ways, old lad, for thou shalt ha ‘t.

Vin.  ’Tis a good hearing when children are toward.   200

Luc.  But a harsh hearing when women are froward.

Pet.  Come, Kate, we’ll to bed.
We three are married, but you two are sped.
’Twas I won the wager,  [To LUCENTIO.]  though you hit the white;
And, being a winner, God give you good night!
[Exeunt PETRUCHIO and KATHARINA.   205

Hor.  Now, go thy ways; thou hast tam’d a curst shrew.

Luc.  ’Tis a wonder, by your leave, she will be tam’d so.  [Exeunt.

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA

This comedy was written in 1590 or 1591 and is considered by some editors to be Shakespeare’s first play, due to his more tentative handling of themes and stagecraft that would later be used so expertly.  The play deals with the themes of friendship and infidelity, the conflict between friendship and love, and the foolish behaviour of people in love. The highlight of the play is considered by some to be Launce, the clownish servant of Proteus, and his dog Crab, to whom “the most scene-stealing non-speaking role in the canon” has been attributed.  Interestingly, The Two Gentlemen of Verona has the smallest cast of any play in Shakespeare’s canon.

Shakespeare’s main source text for this play is available via this link.

A scene from the final act, by William Holman Hunt (1851)

CONTENTS

Dramatis Personæ

Act I. Scene I.

Act I. Scene II.

Act I. Scene III.

Act II. Scene I.

Act II. Scene II.

Act II. Scene III.

Act II. Scene IV.

Act II. Scene V.

Act II. Scene VI.

Act II. Scene VII.

Act III. Scene I.

Act III. Scene II.

Act IV. Scene I.

Act IV. Scene II.

Act IV. Scene III.

Act IV. Scene IV.

Act V. Scene I.

Act V. Scene II.

Act V. Scene III.

Act V. Scene IV.

Dramatis Personæ

DUKE OF MILAN, Father to Silvia.
VALENTINE, PROTEUS, the Two Gentlemen.
ANTONIO, Father to Proteus.
THURIO, a foolish rival to Valentine.
EGLAMOUR, Agent for Silvia, in her escape.
SPEED, a clownish Servant to Valentine.
LAUNCE, the like to Proteus.
PANTHINO, Servant to Antonio.
HOST, where Julia lodges in Milan.
OUTLAWS with Valentine.
JULIA, beloved of Proteus.
SILVIA, beloved of Valentine.
LUCETTA, waiting woman to Julia.
Servants, Musicians.

SCENE. — Verona; Milan; and the frontiers of Mantua.

Act I. Scene I.

Verona.  An open place.

Enter VALENTINE and PROTEUS.

Val.  Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus:
Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits.
Were ‘t not affection chains thy tender days   5
To the sweet glances of thy honour’d love,
I rather would entreat thy company
To see the wonders of the world abroad
Than, living dully sluggardiz’d at home,
Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness.   10
But since thou lov’st, love still, and thrive therein,
Even as I would when I to love begin.

Pro.  Wilt thou be gone? Sweet Valentine, adieu!
Think on thy Proteus, when thou haply seest
Some rare note-worthy object in thy travel:   15
Wish me partaker in thy happiness
When thou dost meet good hap; and in thy danger,
If ever danger do environ thee,
Commend thy grievance to my holy prayers,
For I will be thy beadsman, Valentine.   20

Val.  And on a love-book pray for my success?

Pro.  Upon some book I love I’ll pray for thee.

Val.  That’s on some shallow story of deep love,
How young Leander cross’d the Hellespont.

Pro.  That’s a deep story of a deeper love;   25
For he was more than over shoes in love.

Val.  ’Tis true; for you are over boots in love,
And yet you never swum the Hellespont.

Pro.  Over the boots? nay, give me not the boots.

Val.  No, I will not, for it boots thee not.   30

Pro.        What?

Val.  To be in love, where scorn is bought with groans;
Coy looks with heart-sore sighs; one fading moment’s mirth
With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights:
If haply won, perhaps a hapless gain;   35
If lost, why then a grievous labour won:
However, but a folly bought with wit,
Or else a wit by folly vanquished.

Pro.  So, by your circumstance, you call me fool.

Val.  So, by your circumstance, I fear you’ll prove.   40

Pro.  ’Tis love you cavil at: I am not Love.

Val.  Love is your master, for he masters you;
And he that is so yoked by a fool,
Methinks, should not be chronicled for wise.

Pro.  Yet writers say, as in the sweetest bud   45
The eating canker dwells, so eating love
Inhabits in the finest wits of all.

Val.  And writers say, as the most forward bud
Is eaten by the canker ere it blow,
Even so by love the young and tender wit   50
Is turned to folly; blasting in the bud,
Losing his verdure even in the prime,
And all the fair effects of future hopes.
But wherefore waste I time to counsel thee
That art a votary to fond desire?   55
Once more adieu! my father at the road
Expects my coming, there to see me shipp’d.

Pro.  And thither will I bring thee, Valentine.

Val.  Sweet Proteus, no; now let us take our leave.
To Milan let me hear from thee by letters   60
Of thy success in love, and what news else
Betideth here in absence of thy friend;
And I likewise will visit thee with mine.

Pro.  All happiness bechance to thee in Milan!

Val.  As much to you at home! and so, farewell.  [Exit.   65

Pro.  He after honour hunts, I after love:
He leaves his friends to dignify them more;
I leave myself, my friends and all, for love.
Thou, Julia, thou hast metamorphos’d me; —
Made me neglect my studies, lose my time,   70
War with 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 now he parted hence, to embark for Milan.   75

Speed.  Twenty to one, then, he is shipp’d already,
And I have play’d the sheep, in losing him.

Pro.  Indeed, a sheep doth very often stray,
An if the shepherd be a while away.

Speed.  You conclude that my master is a shepherd, then, and I a sheep?   80

Pro.  I do.

Speed.  Why then my horns are his horns, whether I wake or sleep.

Pro.  A silly answer, and fitting well a sheep.

Speed.  This proves me still a sheep.

Pro.  True, and thy master a shepherd.   85

Speed.  Nay, that I can deny by a circumstance.

Pro.  It shall go hard but I’ll prove it by another.

Speed.  The shepherd seeks the sheep, and not the sheep the shepherd; but I seek my master, and my master seeks not me: therefore I am no sheep.

Pro.  The sheep for fodder follow the shepherd, the shepherd for food follows not the sheep; thou for wages followest thy master, thy master for wages follows not thee: therefore thou art a sheep.

Speed.  Such another proof will make me cry ‘baa.’   90

Pro.  But, dost thou hear? gavest thou my letter to Julia?

Speed.  Ay, sir: I, a lost mutton, gave your letter to her, a laced mutton; and she, a laced mutton, gave me, a lost mutton, nothing for my labour.

Pro.  Here’s too small a pasture for such store of muttons.

Speed.  If the ground be overcharged, you were best stick her.

Pro.  Nay, in that you are astray; ‘twere best pound you.   95

Speed.  Nay, sir, less than a pound shall serve me for carrying your letter.

Pro  You mistake: I mean the pound, — a pinfold.

Speed.  From a pound to a pin? fold it over and over,
’Tis threefold too little for carrying a letter to your lover.

Pro.  But what said she?  [SPEED nods.]  Did she nod?   100

Speed.  Ay.

Pro.  Nod, ay? why, that’s noddy.

Speed.  You mistook, sir: I say she did nod; and you ask me if she did nod; and I say, Ay.

Pro  And that set together is — noddy.

Speed.  Now you have taken the pains to set it together, take it for your pains.   105

Pro.  No, no; you shall have it for bearing the letter.

Speed.  Well, I perceive I must be fain to bear with you.

Pro.  Why, sir, how do you bear with me?

Speed.  Marry, sir, the letter very orderly; having nothing but the word ‘noddy’ for my pains.

Pro.  Beshrew me, but you have a quick wit.   110

Speed.  And yet it cannot overtake your slow purse.

Pro.  Come, come; open the matter in brief: what said she?

Speed.  Open your purse, that the money and the matter may be both at once delivered.

Pro.  Well, sir, here is for your pains  [giving him money].  What said she?

Speed.  Truly, sir, I think you’ll hardly win her.   115

Pro.  Why? couldst thou perceive so much from her?

Speed.  Sir, I could perceive nothing at all from her; no, not so much as a ducat for delivering your letter. And being so hard to me that brought your mind, I fear she’ll prove as hard to you in telling your mind. Give her no token but stones, for she’s as hard as steel.

Pro.  What! said she nothing?

Speed.  No, not so much as ‘Take this for thy pains.’ To testify your bounty, I thank you, you have testerned me; in requital whereof, henceforth carry your letters yourself. And so, sir, I’ll commend you to my master.

Pro.  Go, go, be gone, to save your ship from wrack;   120
Which cannot perish, having thee aboard,
Being destin’d to a drier death on shore. —  [Exit SPEED.
I must go send some better messenger:
I fear my Julia would not deign my lines,
Receiving them from such a worthless post.  [Exit.   125

Act I. Scene II.

The Same.  The Garden of JULIA’S House.

Enter JULIA and LUCETTA.

Jul.  But say, Lucetta, now we are alone,
Wouldst thou then counsel me to fall in love?

Luc.  Ay, madam, so you stumble not unheedfully.   5

Jul.  Of all the fair resort of gentlemen
That every day with parle encounter me,
In thy opinion which is worthiest love?

Luc.  Please you repeat their names, I’ll show my mind
According to my shallow simple skill.   10

Jul.  What think’st thou of the fair Sir Eglamour?

Luc.  As of a knight well-spoken, neat and fine;
But, were I you, he never should be mine.

Jul.  What think’st thou of the rich Mercatio?

Luc.  Well of his wealth; but of himself, so so.   15

Jul.  What think’st thou of the gentle Proteus?

Luc.  Lord, Lord! to see what folly reigns in us!

Jul.  How now! what means this passion at his name?

Luc.  Pardon, dear madam; ’tis a passing shame
That I, unworthy body as I am,   20
Should censure thus on lovely gentlemen.

Jul.  Why not on Proteus, as of all the rest?

Luc.  Then thus, — of many good I think him best.

Jul.  Your reason?

Luc.  I have no other but a woman’s reason:   25
I think him so because I think him so.

Jul.  And wouldst thou have me cast my love on him?

Luc.  Ay, if you thought your love not cast away.

Jul.  Why, he, of all the rest hath never mov’d me.

Luc.  Yet he of all the rest, I think, best loves ye.   30

Jul.  His little speaking shows his love but small.

Luc.  Fire that’s closest kept burns most of all.

Jul.  They do not love that do not show their love.

Luc.  O! they love least that let men know their love.

Jul.  I would I knew his mind.   35

Luc.        Peruse this paper, madam.  [Gives a letter.

Jul.  ‘To Julia.’ — Say from whom?

Luc.        That the contents will show.

Jul.  Say, say, who gave it thee?

Luc.  Sir Valentine’s page, and sent, I think, from Proteus.   40
He would have given it you, but I, being in the way,
Did in your name receive it; pardon the fault, I pray.

Jul.  Now, by my modesty, a goodly broker!
Dare you presume to harbour wanton lines?
To whisper and conspire against my youth?   45
Now, trust me, ’tis an office of great worth
And you an officer fit for the place.
There, take the paper: see it be return’d;
Or else return no more into my sight.

Luc.  To plead for love deserves more fee than hate.   50

Jul.  Will ye be gone?

Luc.        That you may ruminate.  [Exit.

Jul.  And yet I would I had o’erlook’d the letter.
It were a shame to call her back again
And pray her to a fault for which I chid her.   55
What fool is she, that knows I am a maid,
And would not force the letter to my view!
Since maids, in modesty, say ‘No’ to that
Which they would have the profferer construe ‘Ay.’
Fie, fie! how wayward is this foolish love   60
That, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse
And presently all humbled kiss the rod!
How churlishly I chid Lucetta hence,
When willingly I would have had her here:
How angerly I taught my brow to frown,   65
When inward joy enforc’d my heart to smile.
My penance is, to call Lucetta back
And ask remission for my folly past.
What ho! Lucetta!

Re-enter LUCETTA.   70

Luc.        What would your ladyship?

Jul.  Is it near dinner-time?

Luc.        I would it were;
That you might kill your stomach on your meat
And not upon your maid.   75

Jul.  What is ‘t that you took up so gingerly?

Luc.  Nothing.

Jul.  Why didst thou stoop, then?

Luc.        To take a paper up
That I let fall.   80

Jul.        And is that paper nothing?

Luc.  Nothing concerning me.

Jul.  Then let it lie for those that it concerns.

Luc.  Madam, it will not lie where it concerns,
Unless it have a false interpreter.   85

Jul.  Some love of yours hath writ to you in rime.

Luc.  That I might sing it, madam, to a tune:
Give me a note: your ladyship can set.

Jul.  As little by such toys as may be possible;
Best sing it to the tune of ‘Light o’ Love.’   90

Luc.  It is too heavy for so light a tune.

Jul.  Heavy! belike it hath some burden, then?

Luc.  Ay; and melodious were it, would you sing it.

Jul.  And why not you?

Luc.        I cannot reach so high.   95

Jul.  Let’s see your song.  [Taking the letter.]
How now, minion!

Luc.  Keep tune there still, so you will sing it out:
And yet methinks, I do not like this tune.

Jul.  You do not?   100

Luc.        No, madam; it is too sharp.

Jul.  You, minion, are too saucy.

Luc.  Nay, now you are too flat
And mar the concord with too harsh a descant:
There wanteth but a mean to fill your song.   105

Jul.  The mean is drown’d with your unruly bass.

Luc.  Indeed, I bid the base for Proteus.

Jul.  This babble shall not henceforth trouble me.
Here is a coil with protestation! —  [Tears the letter.
Go, get you gone, and let the papers lie:   110
You would be fingering them, to anger me.

Luc.  She makes it strange; but she would be best pleas’d
To be so anger’d with another letter.  [Exit.

Jul.  Nay, would I were so anger’d with the same!
O hateful hands, to tear such loving words!   115
Injurious wasps, to feed on such sweet honey
And kill the bees that yield it with your stings!
I’ll kiss each several paper for amends.
Look, here is writ ‘kind Julia:’ unkind Julia!
As in revenge of thy ingratitude,   120
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 till thy wound be throughly heal’d;   125
And thus I search it with a sovereign kiss.
But twice or thrice was ‘Proteus’ written down:
Be calm, good wind, blow not a word away
Till I have found each letter in the letter,
Except mine own name; that some whirlwind bear   130
Unto a ragged, fearful hanging rock,
And throw it thence into the raging sea!
Lo! here in one line is his name twice writ,
‘Poor forlorn Proteus, passionate Proteus,
To the sweet Julia’: — that I’ll tear away;   135
And yet I will 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 LUCETTA.   140

Luc.  Madam,
Dinner is ready, and your father stays.

Jul.  Well, let us go.

Luc.  What! shall these papers lie like tell-tales here?

Jul.  If you respect them, best to take them up.   145

Luc.  Nay, I was taken up for laying them down;
Yet here they shall not lie, for catching cold.

Jul.  I see you have a month’s mind to them.

Luc.  Ay, madam, you may say what sights you see;
I see things too, although you judge I wink.   150

Jul.  Come, come; will ‘t please you go?  [Exeunt.

Act I. Scene III.

The Same.  A Room in ANTONIO’S House.

Enter ANTONIO and PANTHINO.

Ant.  Tell me, Panthino, what sad talk was that
Wherewith my brother held you in the cloister?

Pant.  ’Twas of his nephew Proteus, your son.   5

Ant.  Why, what of him?

Pant.        He wonder’d that your lordship
Would suffer him to spend his youth at home,
While other men, of slender reputation,
Put forth their sons to seek preferment out:   10
Some to the wars, to try their fortune there;
Some to discover islands far away;
Some to the studious universities.
For any or for all these exercises
He said that Proteus your son was meet,   15
And did request me to importune you
To let him spend his time no more at home,
Which would be great impeachment to his age,
In having known no travel in his youth.

Ant.  Nor need’st thou much importune me to that   20
Whereon this month I have been hammering.
I have consider’d well his loss of time,
And how he cannot be a perfect man,
Not being tried and tutor’d in the world:
Experience is by industry achiev’d   25
And perfected by the swift course of time.
Then tell me, whither were I best to send him?

Pant.  I think your lordship is not ignorant
How his companion, youthful Valentine,
Attends the emperor in his royal court.   30

Ant.  I know it well.

Pant.  ‘Twere good, I think, your lordship sent him thither:
There shall he practise tilts and tournaments,
Hear sweet discourse, converse with noblemen,
And be in eye of every exercise   35
Worthy his youth and nobleness of birth.

Ant.  I like thy counsel; well hast thou advis’d:
And that thou mayst perceive how well I like it
The execution of it shall make known.
Even with the speediest expedition   40
I will dispatch him to the emperor’s court.

Pant.  To-morrow, may it please you, Don Alphonso
With other gentlemen of good esteem,
Are journeying to salute the emperor
And to commend their service to his will.   45

Ant.  Good company; with them shall Proteus go:
And in good time: — now will we break with him.

Enter PROTEUS.

Pro.  Sweet love! sweet lines! sweet life!
Here is her hand, the agent of her heart;   50
Here is her oath for love, her honour’s pawn.
O! that our fathers would applaud our loves,
To seal our happiness with their consents!
O heavenly Julia!

Ant.  How now! what letter are you reading there?   55

Pro.  May ‘t please your lordship, ’tis a word or two
Of commendations sent from Valentine,
Deliver’d by a friend that came from him.

Ant.  Lend me the letter; let me see what news.

Pro.  There is no news, my lord; but that he writes   60
How happily he 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   65
And not depending on his friendly wish.

Ant.  My will is something sorted with his wish.
Muse not that I thus suddenly proceed;
For what I will, I will, and there an end.
I am resolv’d that thou shalt spend some time   70
With Valentinus in the emperor’s court:
What maintenance he from his friends receives,
Like exhibition thou shalt have from me.
To-morrow be in readiness to go:
Excuse it not, for I am peremptory.   75

Pro.  My lord, I cannot be so soon provided:
Please you, deliberate a day or two.

Ant.  Look, what thou want’st shall be sent after thee:
No more of stay; to-morrow thou must go.
Come on, Panthino: you shall be employ’d   80
To hasten on his expedition.  [Exeunt ANTONIO and PANTHINO.

Pro.  Thus have I shunn’d the fire for fear of burning,
And drench’d me in the sea, where I am drown’d.
I fear’d to show my father Julia’s letter,
Lest he should take exceptions to my love;   85
And with the vantage of mine own excuse
Hath he expected most against my love.
O! how this spring of love resembleth
The uncertain glory of an April day,
Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,   90
And by and by a cloud takes all away!

Re-enter PANTHINO.

Pant.  Sir Proteus, your father calls for you:
He is in haste; therefore, I pray you, go.

Pro.  Why, this it is: my heart accords thereto,   95
And yet a thousand times it answers, ‘no.’  [Exeunt.

Act II. Scene I.

Milan.  A Room in the DUKE’S Palace.

Enter VALENTINE and SPEED.

Speed.  Sir, your glove.  [Offering a glove.

Val.        Not mine; my gloves are on.

Speed.  Why, then this may be yours, for this is but one.   5

Val.  Ha! let me see: ay, give it me, it’s mine:
Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine!
Ah Silvia! Silvia!

Speed.  [Calling.]  Madam Silvia! Madam Silvia!

Val.  How now, sirrah?   10

Speed.  She is not within hearing, sir.

Val.  Why, sir, who bade you call her?

Speed.  Your worship, sir; or else I mistook.

Val.  Well, you’ll still be too forward.

Speed.  And yet I was last chidden for being too slow.   15

Val.  Go to, sir. Tell me, do you know Madam Silvia?

Speed.  She that your worship loves?

Val.  Why, how know you that I am in love?

Speed.  Marry, by these special marks: first, you have learned, like Sir Proteus, to wreathe your arms, like a malecontent; to relish a love-song, like 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 young 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 Hallowmas. You were wont, when you laughed, to crow like a cock; when you walked, to walk like one of the lions; when you fasted, it was presently after dinner; when you looked sadly, it was for want of money: and now you are metamorphosed with a mistress, that, when I look on you, I can hardly think you my master.

Val.  Are all these things perceived in me?   20

Speed.  They are all perceived without ye.

Val.  Without me? they cannot.

Speed.  Without you? nay, that’s certain; for, without you were so simple, none else would: but you are so without these follies, that these follies are within you and shine through you like the water in an urinal, that not an eye that sees you but is a physician to comment on your malady.

Val.  But tell me, dost thou know my lady Silvia?

Speed.  She that you gaze on so as she sits at supper?   25

Val.  Hast thou observed that? even she, I mean.

Speed.  Why, sir, I know her not.

Val.  Dost thou know her by my gazing on her, and yet knowest her not?

Speed.  Is she not hard-favoured, sir?

Val.  Not so fair, boy, as well-favoured.   30

Speed.  Sir, I know that well enough.

Val.  What dost thou know?

Speed.  That she is not so fair, as, of you, well-favoured.

Val.  I mean that her beauty is exquisite, but her favour infinite.

Speed.  That’s because the one is painted and the other out of all count.   35

Val.  How painted? and how out of count?

Speed.  Marry, sir, so painted to make her fair, that no man counts of her beauty.

Val.  How esteemest thou me? I account of her beauty.

Speed.  You never saw her since she was deformed.

Val.  How long hath she been deformed?   40

Speed.  Ever since you loved her.

Val.  I have loved her ever since I saw her, and still I see her beautiful.

Speed.  If you love her you cannot see her.

Val.  Why?

Speed.  Because Love is blind. O! that you had mine eyes; or your own eyes had the lights they were wont to have when you chid at Sir Proteus for going ungartered!   45

Val.  What should I see then?

Speed.  Your own present folly and her passing deformity: for he, being in love, could not see to garter his hose; and you, being in love, cannot see to put on your hose.

Val.  Belike, boy, then, you are in love; for last morning you could not see to wipe my shoes.

Speed.  True, sir; I was in love with my bed. I thank you, you swinged me for my love, which makes me the bolder to chide you for yours.

Val.  In conclusion, I stand affected to her.   50

Speed.  I would you were set, so your affection would cease.

Val.  Last night she enjoined me to write some lines to one she loves.

Speed.  And have you?

Val.  I have.

Speed.  Are they not lamely writ?   55

Val.  No, boy, but as well as I can do them. Peace! here she comes.

Enter SILVIA.

Speed.  [Aside.]  O excellent motion! O exceeding puppet! now will he interpret to her.

Val.  Madam and mistress, a thousand good morrows.

Speed.  [Aside.]  O! give ye good even: here’s a million of manners.   60

Sil.  Sir Valentine and servant, to you two thousand.

Speed.  [Aside.]  He should give her interest, and she gives it him.

Val.  As you enjoin’d me, I have writ your letter
Unto the secret nameless friend of yours;
Which I was much unwilling to proceed in   65
But for my duty to your ladyship.  [Gives a letter.

Sil.  I thank you, gentle servant. ’Tis very clerkly done.

Val.  Now, trust me, madam, it came hardly off;
For, being ignorant to whom it goes
I writ at random, very doubtfully.   70

Sil.  Perchance you think too much of so much pains?

Val.  No, madam; so it stead you, I will write, Please you command, a thousand times as much. And yet —

Sil.  A pretty period! Well, I guess the sequel;
And yet I will not name it; and yet I care not;
And yet take this again; and yet I thank you,   75
Meaning henceforth to trouble you no more.

Speed.  [Aside.]  And yet you will; and yet another yet.

Val.  What means your ladyship? do you not like it?

Sil.  Yes, yes: the lines are very quaintly writ, But since unwillingly, take them again:
Nay, take them.  [Gives back the letter.   80

Val.        Madam, they are for you.

Sil.  Ay, ay; you writ them, sir, at my request,
But I will none of them; they are for you.
I would have had them writ more movingly.

Val.  Please you, I’ll write your ladyship another.   85

Sil.  And when it’s writ, for my sake read it over:
And if it please you, so; if not, why, so.

Val.  If it please me, madam, what then?

Sil.  Why, if it please you, take it for your labour:
And so, good morrow, servant.  [Exit.   90

Speed.  O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible,
As a nose on a man’s face, or a weathercock on a steeple!
My master sues to her, and she hath taught her suitor,
He being her pupil, to become her tutor.
O excellent device! was there ever heard a better,   95
That my master, being scribe, to himself should write the letter?

Val.  How now, sir! what are you reasoning with yourself?

Speed.  Nay, I was riming: ’tis you that have the reason.

Val.  To do what?

Speed.  To be a spokesman from Madam Silvia.   100

Val.  To whom?

Speed.  To yourself. Why, she wooes you by a figure.

Val.  What figure?

Speed.  By a letter, I should say.

Val.  Why, she hath not writ to me?   105

Speed.  What need she, when she hath made you write to yourself? Why, do you not perceive the jest?

Val.  No, believe me.

Speed.  No believing you, 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.   110

Val.  That’s the letter I writ to her friend.

Speed.  And that letter hath she delivered, and there an end.

Val.  I would it were no worse.

Speed.  I’ll warrant you, ’tis as well:
‘For often have you writ to her, and she, in modesty,   115
Or else for want of idle time, could not again reply;
Or fearing else some messenger that might her mind discover,
Herself hath taught her love himself to write unto her lover.’
All this I speak in print, for in print I found it.
Why muse you, sir? ’tis dinner-time.   120

Val.  I have dined.

Speed.  Ay, but hearken, sir: though the chameleon Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals and would fain have meat. O! be not like your mistress: be moved, be moved.  [Exeunt.

Act II. Scene II.

Verona.  A Room in JULIA’S House

Enter PROTEUS and JULIA.

Pro.  Have patience, gentle Julia.

Jul.  I must, where is no remedy.

Pro.  When possibly I can, I will return.   5

Jul.  If you turn not, you will return the sooner.
Keep this remembrance for thy Julia’s sake.  [Gives him a ring.

Pro.  Why, then, we’ll make exchange: here, take you this.  [Gives her another.

Jul.  And seal the bargain with a holy kiss.

Pro.  Here is my hand for my true constancy;   10
And when that hour o’erslips me in the day
Wherein I sigh not, Julia, for thy sake,
The next ensuing hour some foul mischance
Torment me for my love’s forgetfulness!
My father stays my coming; answer not.   15
The tide is now: nay, not thy tide of tears;
That tide will stay me longer than I should.
Julia, farewell.  [Exit JULIA.
What! gone without a word?
Ay, so true love should do: it cannot speak;   20
For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it.

Enter PANTHINO.

Pant.  Sir Proteus, you are stay’d for.

Pro.        Go; I come, I come.
Alas! this parting strikes poor lovers dumb.  [Exeunt.   25

Act II. Scene III.

The Same.  A Street.

Enter LAUNCE, leading a dog.

Launce.  Nay, ‘twill be this hour ere I have done weeping: all the kind of the Launces have this very fault. I have received my proportion, like the prodigious son, and am going with Sir Proteus to the imperial’s court. I think Crab my dog be the sourest-natured dog that lives: my mother weeping, my father wailing, my sister crying, our maid howling, our cat wringing her hands, and all our house in a great perplexity, yet did not this cruel-hearted cur shed one tear. He is a stone, a very pebble stone, and has no more pity in him than a dog; a Jew would have wept to have seen our parting: why, my grandam, having no eyes, look you, wept herself blind at my parting. Nay, I’ll show you the manner of it. This shoe is my father; no, this left shoe is my father: no, no, this left shoe is my mother; nay, that cannot be so neither: — yes, it is so; it is so; it hath the worser sole. This shoe, with the hole in, is my mother, and this my father. A vengeance on ‘t! there ’tis: now, sir, this staff is my sister; for, look you, she is as white as a lily and as small as a wand: this hat is Nan, our maid: I am the dog; no, the dog is himself, and I am the dog, — O! the dog is me, and I am myself: ay, so, so. Now come I to my father; ‘Father, your blessing;’ now should not the shoe speak a word for weeping: now should I kiss my father; well, he weeps on. Now come I to my mother; — O, that she could speak now like a wood woman! Well, I kiss her; why, there ’tis; here’s my mother’s breath up and down. Now come I to my sister; mark the moan she makes: Now the dog all this while sheds not a tear nor speaks a word; but see how I lay the dust with my tears.

Enter PANTHINO.

Pant.  Launce, away, away, aboard! thy master is shipped, and thou art to post after with oars. What’s the matter? why weepest thou, man? Away, ass! you’ll lose the tide if you tarry any longer.   5

Launce.  It is no matter if the tied were lost; for it is the unkindest tied that ever any man tied.

Pant.  What’s the unkindest tide?

Launce.  Why, he that’s tied here, Crab, my dog.

Pant.  Tut, man, I mean thou’lt lose the flood; and, in losing the flood, lose thy voyage, and, in losing thy voyage, lose thy master; and, in losing thy master, lose thy service; and, in losing thy service, — Why dost thou stop my mouth?

Launce.  For fear thou shouldst lose thy tongue.   10

Pant.  Where should I lose my tongue?

Launce.  In thy tale.

Pant.  In thy tail!

Launce.  Lose the tide, and the voyage, and the master, and the service, and the tied! Why, man, if the river were dry, I am able to fill it with my tears; if the wind were down, I could drive the boat with my sighs.

Pant.  Come, come away, man; I was sent to call thee.   15

Launce.  Sir, call me what thou darest.

Pant.  Wilt thou go?

Launce.  Well, I will go.  [Exeunt.

Act II. Scene IV.

Milan. A Room in the DUKE’S Palace.

Enter VALENTINE, SILVIA, THURIO, and SPEED.

Sil.  Servant!

Val.  Mistress?

Speed.  Master, Sir Thurio frowns on you.   5

Val.  Ay, boy, it’s for love.

Speed.  Not of you.

Val.  Of my mistress, then.

Speed.  ‘Twere good you knock’d him.

Sil.  Servant, you are sad.   10

Val.  Indeed, madam, I seem so.

Thu.  Seem you that you are not?

Val.  Haply I do.

Thu.  So do counterfeits.

Val.  So do you.   15

Thu.  What seem I that I am not?

Val.  Wise.

Thu.  What instance of the contrary?

Val.  Your folly.

Thu.  And how quote you my folly?   20

Val.  I quote it in your jerkin.

Thu.  My jerkin is a doublet.

Val.  Well, then, I’ll double your folly.

Thu.  How?

Sil.  What, angry, Sir Thurio! do you change colour?   25

Val.  Give him leave, madam; he is a kind of chameleon.

Thu.  That hath more mind to feed on your blood than live in your air.

Val.  You have said, sir.

Thu.  Ay, sir, and done too, for this time.

Val.  I know it well, sir: you always end ere you begin.   30

Sil.  A fine volley of words, gentlemen, and quickly shot off.

Val.  ’Tis indeed, madam; we thank the giver.

Sil.  Who is that, servant?

Val.  Yourself, sweet lady; for you gave the fire. Sir Thurio borrows his wit from your ladyship’s looks, and spends what he borrows kindly in your company.

Thu.  Sir, if you spend word for word with me, I shall make your wit bankrupt.   35

Val.  I know it well, sir: you have an exchequer of words, and, I think, no other treasure to give your followers; for it appears by their bare liveries that they live by your bare words.

Sil.  No more, gentlemen, no more. Here comes my father.

Enter DUKE.

Duke.  Now, daughter Silvia, you are hard beset.
Sir Valentine, your father’s in good health:   40
What say you to a letter from your friends
Of much good news?

Val.        My lord, I will be thankful
To any happy messenger from thence.

Duke.  Know ye Don Antonio, your countryman?   45

Val.  Ay, my good lord; I know the gentleman
To be of worth and worthy estimation,
And not without desert so well reputed.

Duke.  Hath he not a son?

Val.  Ay, my good lord; a son that well deserves   50
The honour and regard of such a father.

Duke.  You know him well?

Val.  I know him as myself; for from our infancy
We have convers’d and spent our hours together:
And though myself have been an idle truant,   55
Omitting the sweet benefit of time
To clothe mine age with angel-like perfection,
Yet hath Sir Proteus, — for that’s his name, —
Made use and fair advantage of his days:
His years but young, but his experience old;   60
His head unmellow’d, but his judgment ripe;
And, in a word, — for far behind his worth
Come all the praises that I now bestow, —
He is complete in feature and in mind
With all good grace to grace a gentleman.   65

Duke.  Beshrew me, sir, but if he make this good,
He is as worthy for an empress’ love
As meet to be an emperor’s counsellor.
Well, sir, this gentleman is come to me
With commendation from great potentates;   70
And here he means to spend his time awhile:
I think, ’tis no unwelcome news to you.

Val.  Should I have wish’d a thing, it had been he.

Duke.  Welcome him then according to his worth.
Silvia, I speak to you; and you, Sir Thurio: —   75
For Valentine, I need not cite him to it.
I’ll send him hither to you presently.  [Exit.

Val.  This is the gentleman I told your ladyship
Had come along with me, but that his mistress
Did hold his eyes lock’d in her crystal looks.   80

Sil.  Belike that now she hath enfranchis’d them
Upon some other pawn for fealty.

Val.  Nay, sure, I think she holds them prisoners still.

Sil.  Nay, then he should be blind; and, being blind,
How could he see his way to seek out you?   85

Val.  Why, lady, Love hath twenty pairs of eyes.

Thu.  They say that Love hath not an eye at all.

Val.  To see such lovers, Thurio, as yourself:
Upon a homely object Love can wink.

Sil.  Have done, have done. Here comes the gentleman.   90

Enter PROTEUS.

Val.  Welcome, dear Proteus! Mistress, I beseech you,
Confirm his welcome with some special favour.

Sil.  His worth is warrant for his welcome hither,
If this be he you oft have wish’d to hear from.   95

Val.  Mistress, it is: sweet lady, entertain him
To be my fellow-servant to your ladyship.

Sil.  Too low a mistress for so high a servant.

Pro.  Not so, sweet lady; but too mean a servant
To have a look of such a worthy mistress.   100

Val.  Leave off discourse of disability:
Sweet lady, entertain him for your servant.

Pro.  My duty will I boast of, nothing else.

Sil.  And duty never yet did want his meed.
Servant, you are welcome to a worthless mistress.   105

Pro.  I’ll die on him that says so but yourself.

Sil.  That you are welcome?

Pro.        That you are worthless.

Enter a Servant.

Ser.  Madam, my lord your father would speak with you.   110

Sil.  I wait upon his pleasure.  [Exit Servant.]  Come, Sir Thurio,
Go with me. Once more, new servant, welcome:
I’ll leave you to confer of home-affairs;
When you have done, we look to hear from you.

Pro.  We’ll both attend upon your ladyship.  [Exeunt SILVIA, THURIO, and SPEED.   115

Val.  Now, tell me, how do all 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 health.

Val.  How does your lady and how thrives your love?   120

Pro.  My tales of love were wont to weary you:
I know you joy not in a love-discourse.

Val.  Ay, Proteus, but that life is alter’d now:
I have done penance for contemning love;
Whose high imperious thoughts have punish’d me   125
With bitter fasts, with penitential groans,
With nightly tears and daily heart-sore sighs;
For, in revenge of my contempt of love,
Love hath chas’d sleep from my enthralled eyes,
And made them watchers of mine own heart’s sorrow.   130
O, gentle Proteus! Love’s a mighty lord,
And hath so humbled me as I confess,
There is no woe to his correction,
Nor to his service no such joy on earth.
Now no discourse, except it be of love;   135
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?   140

Pro.  No; but she is an earthly paragon.

Val.  Call her divine.

Pro.        I will not flatter her.

Val.  O! flatter me, for love delights in praises.

Pro.  When I was sick you gave me bitter pills,   145
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.   150

Val.        Sweet, except not any,
Except thou wilt except against my love.

Pro.  Have I not reason to prefer mine own?

Val.  And I will help thee to prefer her too:
She shall be dignified with this high honour, —   155
To bear my lady’s train, lest the base earth
Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss,
And, of so great a favour growing proud,
Disdain to root the summer-swelling flower,
And make rough winter everlastingly.   160

Pro.  Why, Valentine, what braggardism is this?

Val.  Pardon me, Proteus: all I can is nothing
To her whose worth makes other worthies nothing.
She is alone.

Pro.        Then, let her alone.   165

Val.  Not for the world: why, man, she is mine own,
And I as rich in having such a jewel
As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl,
The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold.
Forgive me that I do not dream on thee,   170
Because thou see’st me dote upon my love.
My foolish rival, that her father likes
Only for his possessions are so huge,
Is gone with her along, and I must after,
For love, thou know’st, is full of jealousy.   175

Pro.  But she loves you?

Val.  Ay, and we are betroth’d: nay, more, our marriage-hour,
With all the cunning manner of our flight,
Determin’d of: how I must climb her window,
The ladder made of cords, and all the means   180
Plotted and ‘greed on for my happiness.
Good Proteus, go with me to my chamber,
In these affairs to aid me with thy counsel.

Pro.  Go on before: I shall inquire you forth:
I must unto the road, to disembark   185
Some necessaries that I needs must use,
And then I’ll presently attend you.

Val.  Will you make haste?

Pro.        I will.  [Exit VALENTINE.
Even as one heat another heat expels,   190
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 mine eye, or Valentinus’ praise,
Her true perfection, or my false transgression,   195
That makes me reasonless to reason thus?
She’s fair; and so is Julia that I love, —
That I did love, for now my love is thaw’d,
Which, like a waxen image ‘gainst a fire,
Bears no impression of the thing it was.   200
Methinks my zeal to Valentine is cold,
And that I love him not as I was wont:
O! but I love his lady too-too much;
And that’s the reason I love him so little.
How shall I dote on her with more advice,   205
That thus without advice begin to love her?
’Tis but her picture I have yet beheld,
And that hath dazzled my reason’s light;
But when I look on her perfections,
There is no reason but I shall be blind.   210
If I can check my erring love, I will;
If not, to compass her I’ll use my skill.  [Exit.

Act II. Scene V.

The Same.  A Street.

Enter SPEED and LAUNCE.

Speed.  Launce! by mine honesty, welcome to Milan!

Launce.  Forswear not thyself, sweet youth, for I am not welcome. I reckon this always that a man is never undone till he be hanged; nor never welcome to a place till some certain shot be paid and the hostess say, ‘Welcome!’

Speed.  Come on, you madcap, I’ll to the alehouse with you presently; where, for one shot of five pence, thou shalt have five thousand welcomes. But, sirrah, how did thy master part with Madam Julia?   5

Launce.  Marry, after they closed in earnest, they parted very fairly in jest.

Speed.  But shall she marry him?

Launce.  No.

Speed.  How then? Shall he marry her?

Launce.  No, neither.   10

Speed.  What, are they broken?

Launce.  No, they are both as whole as a fish.

Speed.  Why then, how stands the matter with them?

Launce.  Marry, thus; when it stands well with him, it stands well with her.

Speed.  What an ass art thou! I understand thee not.   15

Launce.  What a block art thou, that thou canst not! My staff understands me.

Speed.  What thou sayest?

Launce.  Ay, and what I do too: look thee, I’ll but lean, and my staff understands me.

Speed.  It stands under thee, indeed.

Launce.  Why, stand-under and under-stand is all one.   20

Speed.  But tell me true, will ‘t be a match?

Launce.  Ask my dog: if he say ay, it will; if he say no, it will; if he shake his tail and say nothing, it will.

Speed.  The conclusion is, then, that it will.

Launce.  Thou shalt never get such a secret from me but by a parable.

Speed.  ’Tis well that I get it so. But, Launce, how sayest thou, that my master is become a notable lover?   25

Launce.  I never knew him otherwise.

Speed.  Than how?

Launce.  A notable lubber, as thou reportest him to be.

Speed.  Why, thou whoreson ass, thou mistakest me.

Launce.  Why, fool, I meant not thee; I meant thy master.   30

Speed.  I tell thee, my master is become a hot lover.

Launce.  Why, I tell thee, I care not though he burn himself in love. If thou wilt go with me to the alehouse so; if not, thou art a Hebrew, a Jew, and not worth the name of a Christian.

Speed.  Why?

Launce.  Because thou hast not so much charity in thee as to go to the ale with a Christian. Wilt thou go?

Speed.  At thy service.  [Exeunt.   35

Act II. Scene VI.

The Same.  A Room in the DUKE’S Palace.

Enter PROTEUS.

Pro.  To leave my Julia, shall I be forsworn;
To love fair Silvia, shall I be forsworn;
To wrong my friend, I shall be much forsworn;   5
And even that power which gave me first my oath
Provokes me to this threefold perjury:
Love bade me swear, and Love bids me forswear.
O sweet-suggesting Love! if thou hast sinn’d,
Teach me, thy tempted subject, to excuse it.   10
At first I did adore a twinkling star,
But now I worship a celestial sun.
Unheedful vows may heedfully be broken;
And he wants wit that wants resolved will
To learn his wit to exchange the bad for better.   15
Fie, fie, unreverend tongue! to call her bad,
Whose sovereignty so oft thou hast preferr’d
With twenty thousand soul-confirming oaths.
I cannot leave to love, and yet I do;
But there I leave to love where I should love.   20
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 Julia, Silvia.
I to myself am dearer than a friend,   25
For love is still most precious in itself;
And Silvia — witness heaven that made her fair! —
Shows Julia but a swarthy Ethiope.
I will forget that Julia is alive,
Remembering that my love to her is dead;   30
And Valentine I’ll 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 meaneth with a corded ladder   35
To climb celestial Silvia’s chamber-window,
Myself in counsel, his competitor.
Now presently, I’ll give her father notice
Of their disguising and pretended flight;
Who, all enrag’d, will banish Valentine;   40
For Thurio, he intends, shall wed his daughter;
But, Valentine being gone, I’ll quickly cross,
By some sly trick blunt Thurio’s dull proceeding.
Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift,
As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift!  [Exit.   45

Act II. Scene VII.

Verona.  A Room in JULIA’S House.

Enter JULIA and LUCETTA.

Jul.  Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me:
And e’en in kind love I do conjure thee,
Who art the table wherein all my thoughts   5
Are visibly character’d and engrav’d,
To lesson me and tell me some good mean
How, with my honour, I may undertake
A journey to my loving Proteus.

Luc.  Alas! the way is wearisome and long.   10

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.   15

Luc.  Better forbear till Proteus make return.

Jul.  O! know’st thou not his looks are my soul’s food?
Pity the dearth that I have pined in,
By longing for that food so long a time.
Didst thou but know the inly touch of love,   20
Thou wouldst 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 fire’s extreme rage,
Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason.   25

Jul.  The more thou damm’st it up, the more it burns.
The current that with gentle murmur glides,
Thou know’st, being stopp’d, impatiently doth rage;
But when his fair course is not hindered,
He makes sweet music with th’ enamell’d stones,   30
Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge
He overtaketh in his 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:   35
I’ll be as patient as a gentle stream
And make a pastime of each weary step,
Till the last step have brought me to my love;
And there I’ll rest, as after much turmoil
A blessed soul doth in Elysium.   40

Luc.  But in what habit will you go along?

Jul.  Not like a woman; for I would prevent
The loose encounters of lascivious men.
Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds
As may beseem some well-reputed page.   45

Luc.  Why, then, your ladyship must cut your hair.

Jul.  No, girl; I’ll knit it up in silken strings
With twenty odd-conceited true-love knots:
To be fantastic may become a youth
Of greater time than I shall show to be.   50

Luc.  What fashion, madam, shall I make your breeches?

Jul.  That fits as well as ‘Tell me, good my lord,
What compass will you wear your farthingale?’
Why, even what fashion thou best lik’st, Lucetta.

Luc.  You must needs have them with a cod-piece, madam.   55

Jul.  Out, out, Lucetta! that will be ill-favour’d.

Luc.  A round hose, madam, now’s not worth a pin,
Unless you have a cod-piece to stick pins on.

Jul.  Lucetta, as thou lov’st me, let me have
What thou think’st meet and is most mannerly.   60
But tell me, wench, how will the world repute me
For undertaking so unstaid a journey?
I fear me, it will make me scandaliz’d.

Luc.  If you think so, then stay at home and go not.

Jul.  Nay, that I will not.   65

Luc.  Then never dream on infamy, but go.
If Proteus like your journey when you come,
No matter who’s displeas’d when you are gone.
I fear me, he will scarce be pleas’d withal.

Jul.  That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear:   70
A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears,
And instances of infinite of love
Warrant me welcome to my Proteus.

Luc.  All these are servants to deceitful men.

Jul.  Base men, that use them to so base effect;   75
But truer stars did govern Proteus’ birth:
His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles,
His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate,
His tears pure messengers sent from his heart,
His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth.   80

Luc.  Pray heaven he prove so when you come to him!

Jul.  Now, as thou lov’st me, do him not that wrong
To bear a hard opinion of his truth:
Only deserve my love by loving him,
And presently go with me to my chamber,   85
To take a note of what I stand in need of
To furnish me upon my longing journey.
All that is mine I leave at thy dispose,
My goods, my lands, my reputation;
Only, in lieu thereof, dispatch me hence.   90
Come, answer not, but to it presently!
I am impatient of my tarriance.  [Exeunt.

Act III. Scene I.

Milan.  An anteroom in the DUKE’S Palace.

Enter DUKE, THURIO, and PROTEUS.

Duke.  Sir Thurio, give us leave, I pray, awhile;
We have some secrets to confer about.  [Exit THURIO.
Now tell me, Proteus, what’s your will with me?   5

Pro.  My gracious lord, that which I would discover
The law of friendship bids me to conceal;
But when I call to mind your gracious favours
Done to me, undeserving as I am,
My duty pricks me on to utter that   10
Which else no worldly good should draw from me.
Know, worthy prince, Sir Valentine, my friend,
This night intends to steal away your daughter:
Myself am one made privy to the plot.
I know you have determin’d to bestow her   15
On Thurio, whom your gentle daughter hates;
And should she thus be stol’n away from you
It would be much vexation to your age.
Thus, for my duty’s sake, I rather chose
To cross my friend in his intended drift,   20
Than, by concealing it, heap on your head
A pack of sorrows which would press you down,
Being unprevented, to your timeless grave.

Duke.  Proteus, I thank thee for thine honest care,
Which to requite, command me while I live.   25
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   30
And so unworthily disgrace the man, —
A rashness that I ever yet have shunn’d, —
I gave him gentle looks, thereby to find
That which thyself hast now disclos’d to me.
And, that thou mayst perceive my fear of this,   35
Knowing that tender youth is soon suggested,
I nightly lodge her in an upper tower,
The key whereof myself have ever kept;
And thence she cannot be convey’d away.

Pro.  Know, noble lord, they have devis’d a mean   40
How he her chamber-window will ascend
And with a corded ladder fetch her down;
For which the youthful lover now is gone
And this way comes he with it presently;
Where, if it please you, you may intercept him.   45
But, good my lord, do it so cunningly
That my discovery be not aimed at;
For love of you, not hate unto my friend,
Hath made me publisher of this pretence.

Duke.  Upon mine honour, he shall never know   50
That I had any light from thee of this.

Pro.  Adieu, my lord: Sir Valentine is coming.  [Exit.

Enter VALENTINE.

Duke.  Sir Valentine, whither away so fast?

Val.  Please it your Grace, there is a messenger   55
That stays to bear my letters to my friends,
And I am going to deliver them.

Duke.  Be they of much import?

Val.  The tenour of them doth but signify
My health and happy being at your court.   60

Duke.  Nay then, no matter: stay with me awhile;
I am to break with thee of some affairs
That touch me near, wherein thou must be secret.
’Tis not unknown to thee that I have sought
To match my friend Sir Thurio to my daughter.   65

Val.  I know it well, my lord; and sure, the match
Were rich and honourable; besides, the gentleman
Is full of virtue, bounty, worth, and qualities
Beseeming such a wife as your fair daughter.
Cannot your Grace win her to fancy him?   70

Duke.  No, trust me: she is peevish, sullen, froward,
Proud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty;
Neither regarding that she is my child,
Nor fearing me as if I were her father:
And, may I say to thee this pride of hers,   75
Upon advice, hath drawn my love from her;
And, where I thought the remnant of mine age
Should have been cherish’d by her child-like duty,
I now am full resolv’d to take a wife
And turn her out to who will take her in:   80
Then let her beauty be her wedding-dower;
For me and my possessions she esteems not.

Val.  What would your Grace have me to do in this?

Duke.  There is a lady of Verona here,
Whom I affect; but she is nice and coy   85
And nought esteems my aged eloquence:
Now therefore, would I have thee to my tutor,
For long agone I have forgot to court;
Besides, the fashion of the time is chang’d,
How and which way I may bestow myself   90
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.

Duke.  But she did scorn a present that I sent her.   95

Val.  A woman sometime scorns what best contents her.
Send her another; never give her o’er,
For scorn at first makes after-love the more.
If she do frown, ’tis not in hate of you,
But rather to beget more love in you;   100
If she do chide, ’tis not to have you gone;
For why the fools are mad if left alone.
Take no repulse, whatever she doth say;
For, ‘get you gone,’ she doth not mean, ‘away!’
Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces;   105
Though ne’er so black, say they have angels’ faces.
That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man,
If with his tongue he cannot win a woman.

Duke.  But she I mean is promis’d by her friends
Unto a youthful gentleman of worth,   110
And kept severely from resort of men,
That no man hath access by day to her.

Val.  Why then, I would resort to her by night.

Duke.  Ay, but the doors be lock’d and keys kept safe,
That no man hath recourse to her by night.   115

Val.  What lets but one may enter at her window?

Duke.  Her chamber is aloft, far from the ground,
And built so shelving that one cannot climb it
Without apparent hazard of his life.

Val.  Why then, a ladder quaintly made of cords,   120
To cast up, with a pair of anchoring hooks,
Would serve to scale another Hero’s tower,
So bold Leander would adventure it.

Duke.  Now, as thou art a gentleman of blood,
Advise me where I may have such a ladder.   125

Val.  When would you use it? pray, sir, tell me that.

Duke.  This very night; for Love is like a child,
That longs for every thing that he can come by.

Val.  By seven o’clock I’ll get you such a ladder.

Duke.  But hark thee; I will go to her alone:   130
How shall I best convey the ladder thither?

Val.  It will be light, my lord, that you may bear it
Under a cloak that is of any length.

Duke.  A cloak as long as thine will serve the turn?

Val.  Ay, my good lord.   135

Duke.        Then let me see thy cloak:
I’ll get me one of such another length.

Val.  Why, any cloak will serve the turn, my lord.

Duke.  How shall I fashion me to wear a cloak?
I pray thee, let me feel thy cloak upon me.  [Pulls open VALENTINE’S cloak.   140
What letter is this same? What’s here? — To Silvia!
And here an engine fit for my proceeding!
I’ll be so bold to break the seal for once.
My thoughts do harbour with my Silvia nightly;
And slaves they are to me that send them flying:
O! could their master come and go as lightly,
Himself would lodge where senseless they are lying!
My herald thoughts in thy pure bosom rest them;
While I, their king, that thither them importune.
Do curse the grace that with such grace hath bless’d them,
Because myself do want my servants’ fortune:
I curse myself, for they are sent by me,
That they should harbour where their lord would be.

What’s here?
Silvia, this night I will enfranchise thee.

’Tis so; and here’s the ladder for the purpose.   145
Why, Phaethon, — for thou art Merops’ son, —
Wilt thou aspire to guide the heavenly car
And with thy daring folly burn the world?
Wilt thou reach stars, because they shine on thee?
Go, base intruder! overweening slave!   150
Bestow thy fawning smiles on equal mates,
And think my patience, more than thy desert,
Is privilege for thy departure hence.
Thank me for this more than for all the favours
Which all too much I have bestow’d on thee.   155
But if thou linger in my territories
Longer than swiftest expedition
Will give thee time to leave our royal court,
By heaven! my wrath shall far exceed the love
I ever bore my daughter or thyself.   160
Be gone! I will not hear thy vain excuse;
But, as thou lov’st thy life, make speed from hence.  [Exit.

Val.  And why not death rather than living torment?
To die is to be banish’d from myself;
And Silvia is myself: banish’d from her   165
Is self from self, — a deadly banishment!
What light is light, if Silvia be not seen?
What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by?
Unless it be to think that she is by
And feed upon the shadow of perfection.   170
Except I be by Silvia in the night,
There is no music in the nightingale;
Unless I look on Silvia in the day,
There is no day for me to look upon.
She is my essence; and I leave to be,   175
If I be not by her fair influence
Foster’d, illumin’d, cherish’d, kept alive.
I fly not death, to fly his deadly doom:
Tarry I here, I but attend on death;
But, fly I hence, I fly away from life.   180

Enter PROTEUS and LAUNCE.

Pro.  Run, boy; run, run, and seek him out.

Launce.  Soho! soho!

Pro.  What seest thou?

Launce.  Him we go to find: there’s not a hair on ‘s head but ’tis a Valentine.   185

Pro.  Valentine?

Val.  No.

Pro.  Who then? his spirit?

Val.  Neither.

Pro.  What then?   190

Val.  Nothing.

Launce.  Can nothing speak? Master, shall I strike?

Pro.  Who would’st thou strike?

Launce.  Nothing.

Pro.  Villain, forbear.   195

Launce.  Why, sir I’ll strike nothing: I pray you, —

Pro.  Sirrah, I say, forbear. — Friend Valentine, a word.

Val.  My ears are stopp’d and cannot hear good news,
So much of bad already hath possess’d them.

Pro.  Then in dumb silence will I bury mine,   200
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?   205

Pro.  No, Valentine.

Val.  No Valentine, if Silvia have forsworn me!
What is your news?

Launce.  Sir, there is a proclamation that you are vanished.

Pro.  That thou art banished, O, that’s the news,   210
From hence, from Silvia, and from me thy friend.

Val.  O, I have fed upon this woe already,
And now excess of it will make me surfeit.
Doth Silvia know that I am banished?

Pro.  Ay, ay; and she hath offer’d to the doom —   215
Which, unrevers’d, stands in effectual force —
A sea of melting pearl, which some call tears:
Those at her father’s churlish feet she tender’d;
With them, upon her knees, her humble self;
Wringing her hands, whose whiteness so became them   220
As if but now they waxed pale for woe:
But neither bended knees, pure hands held up,
Sad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding tears,
Could penetrate her uncompassionate sire;
But Valentine, if he be ta’en, must die.   225
Besides, her intercession chaf’d him so,
When she for thy repeal was suppliant,
That to close prison he commanded her,
With many bitter threats of biding there.

Val.  No more; unless the next word that thou speak’st   230
Have some malignant power upon my life:
If so, I pray thee, breathe it in mine ear,
As ending anthem of my endless dolour.

Pro.  Cease to lament for that thou canst not help,
And study help for that which thou lament’st.   235
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’s staff; walk hence with that
And manage it against despairing thoughts.   240
Thy letters may be here, though thou art hence;
Which, being writ to me, shall be deliver’d
Even in the milk-white bosom of thy love.
The time now serves not to expostulate:
Come, I’ll convey thee through the city-gate,   245
And, ere I part with thee, confer at large
Of all that may concern thy love-affairs.
As thou lov’st Silvia, though not for thyself,
Regard thy danger, and along with me!

Val.  I pray thee, Launce, and if thou seest my boy,   250
Bid him make haste and meet me at the North-gate.

Pro.  Go, sirrah, find him out. Come, Valentine.

Val.  O my dear Silvia! hapless Valentine!  [Exeunt VALENTINE and PROTEUS.

Launce.  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 all one, if he be but one knave. He lives not now that knows me to be in love: yet I am in love; but a team of horse shall not pluck that from me, nor who ’tis I love; and yet ’tis a woman; but what woman, I will not tell myself; and yet ’tis a milkmaid; yet ’tis not a maid, for she hath had gossips; yet ’tis a maid, for she is her master’s maid, and serves for wages. She hath more qualities than a water-spaniel, — which is much in a bare Christian.  [Pulling out a paper.]  Here is the catelog of her condition. Imprimis, She can fetch and carry. Why, a horse can do no more: nay, a horse cannot fetch, but only carry; therefore, is she better than a jade. Item, She can milk; look you, a sweet virtue in a maid with clean hands.

Enter SPEED.   255

Speed.  How now, Signior Launce! what news with your mastership?

Launce.  With my master’s ship? why, it is at sea.

Speed.  Well, your old vice still; mistake the word. What news, then, in your paper?

Launce.  The blackest news that ever thou heardest.

Speed.  Why, man, how black?   260

Launce.  Why, as black as ink.

Speed.  Let me read them.

Launce.  Fie on thee, jolthead! thou canst not read.

Speed.  Thou liest; I can.

Launce.  I will try thee. Tell me this: who begot thee?   265

Speed.  Marry, the son of my grandfather.

Launce.  O, illiterate loiterer! it was the son of thy grandmother. This proves that thou canst not read.

Speed.  Come, fool, come: try me in thy paper.

Launce.  There; and Saint Nicholas be thy speed!

Speed.  Imprimis, She can milk.   270

Launce.  Ay, that she can.

Speed.  Item, She brews good ale.

Launce.  And thereof comes the proverb, ‘Blessing of your heart, you brew good ale.’

Speed.  Item, She can sew.

Launce.  That’s as much as to say, Can she so?   275

Speed.  Item, She can knit.

Launce.  What need a man care for a stock with a wench, when she can knit him a stock?

Speed.  Item, She can wash and scour.

Launce.  A special virtue; for then she need not be washed and scoured.

Speed.  Item, She can spin.   280

Launce.  Then may I set the world on wheels, when she can spin for her living.

Speed.  Item, She hath many nameless virtues.

Launce.  That’s as much as to say, bastard virtues; that, indeed, know not their fathers, and therefore have no names.

Speed.  Here follow her vices.

Launce.  Close at the heels of her virtues.   285

Speed.  Item, She is not to be kissed fasting, in respect of her breath.

Launce.  Well, that fault may be mended with a breakfast. Read on.

Speed.  Item, She hath a sweet mouth.

Launce.  That makes amends for her sour breath.

Speed.  Item, She doth talk in her sleep.   290

Launce.  It’s no matter for that, so she sleep not in her talk.

Speed.  Item, She is slow in words.

Launce.  O 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.

Launce.  Out with that too: it was Eve’s legacy, and cannot be ta’en from her.   295

Speed.  Item, She hath no teeth.

Launce.  I care not for that neither, because I love crusts.

Speed.  Item, She is curst.

Launce.  Well; the best is, she hath no teeth to bite.

Speed.  Item, She will often praise her liquor.   300

Launce.  If her liquor be good, she shall: if she will not, I will; for good things should be praised.

Speed.  Item, She is too liberal.

Launce.  Of her tongue she cannot, for that’s writ down she is slow of: of her purse she shall not, for that I’ll keep shut: now, of another thing she may, and that cannot I help. Well, proceed.

Speed.  Item, She hath more hair than wit, and more faults than hairs, and more wealth than faults.

Launce.  Stop there; I’ll have her: she was mine, and not mine, twice or thrice in that last article. Rehearse that once more.   305

Speed.  Item, She hath more hair than wit. —

Launce.  More hair than wit it may be; I’ll prove it: the cover of the salt hides the salt, and therefore it is more than the salt; the hair, that covers the wit is more than the wit, for the greater hides the less. What’s next?

Speed.  And more faults than hairs. —

Launce.  That’s monstrous! O, that that were out!

Speed.  And more wealth than faults.   310

Launce.  Why, that word makes the faults gracious. Well, I’ll have her; and if it be a match, as nothing is impossible, —

Speed.  What then?

Launce.  Why, then will I tell thee, — that thy master stays for thee at the North-gate.

Speed.  For me?

Launce.  For thee! ay; who art thou? he hath stayed for a better man than thee.   315

Speed.  And must I go to him?

Launce.  Thou must run to him, for thou hast stayed so long that going will scarce serve the turn.

Speed.  Why didst not tell me sooner? pox of your love-letters!  [Exit.

Launce.  Now will he be swing’d for reading my letter. An unmannerly slave, that will thrust himself into secrets. I’ll after, to rejoice in the boy’s correction.  [Exit.

Act III. Scene II.

The Same.  A Room in the DUKE’S Palace.

Enter DUKE and THURIO.

Duke.  Sir Thurio, fear not but that she will love you,
Now Valentine is banish’d from her sight.

Thu.  Since his exile she hath despis’d me most,   5
Forsworn my company and rail’d at me,
That I am desperate of obtaining her.

Duke.  This weak impress of love is as a figure
Trenched in ice, which with an hour’s heat
Dissolves to water and doth lose his form.   10
A little time will melt her frozen thoughts,
And worthless Valentine shall be forgot.

Enter PROTEUS.
How now, Sir Proteus! Is your countryman
According to our proclamation gone?   15

Pro.  Gone, my good lord.

Duke.  My daughter takes his going grievously.

Pro.  A little time, my lord, will kill that grief.

Duke.  So I believe; but Thurio thinks not so.
Proteus, the good conceit I hold of thee, —   20
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.

Duke.  Thou know’st how willingly I would effect   25
The match between Sir Thurio and my daughter.

Pro.  I do, my lord.

Duke.  And also, I think, thou art not ignorant
How she opposes her against my will.

Pro.  She did, my lord, when Valentine was here.   30

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,   35
Three things that women highly hold in hate.

Duke.  Ay, but she’ll think that it is spoke in hate.

Pro.  Ay, if his enemy deliver it:
Therefore it must with circumstance be spoken
By one whom she esteemeth as his friend.   40

Duke.  Then you must undertake to slander him.

Pro.  And that, my lord, I shall be loath to do:
’Tis an ill office for a gentleman,
Especially against his very friend.

Duke.  Where your good word cannot advantage him,   45
Your slander never can endamage him:
Therefore the office is indifferent,
Being entreated to it by your friend.

Pro.  You have prevail’d, my lord. If I can do it,
By aught that I can speak in his dispraise,   50
She shall not long continue love to him.
But say this weed her love from Valentine,
It follows not that she will love Sir Thurio.

Thu.  Therefore, as you unwind her love from him,
Lest it should ravel and be good to none,   55
You must provide to bottom it on me;
Which must be done by praising me as much
As you in worth dispraise Sir Valentine.

Duke.  And, Proteus, we dare trust you in this kind,
Because we know, on Valentine’s report,   60
You are already Love’s firm votary
And cannot soon revolt and change your mind.
Upon this warrant shall you have access
Where you with Silvia may confer at large;
For she is lumpish, heavy, melancholy,   65
And, for your friend’s sake, will be glad of you;
Where you may temper her, by your persuasion
To hate young Valentine and love my friend.

Pro.  As much as I can do I will effect.
But you, Sir Thurio, are not sharp enough;   70
You must lay lime to tangle her desires
By wailful sonnets, whose composed rimes
Should be full-fraught with serviceable vows.

Duke.  Ay,
Much is the force of heaven-bred poesy.   75

Pro.  Say that upon the altar of her beauty
You sacrifice your tears, your sighs, your heart.
Write till your ink be dry, and with your tears
Moist it again, and frame some feeling line
That may discover such integrity:   80
For Orpheus’ lute was strung with poets’ sinews,
Whose golden touch could soften steel and stones,
Make tigers tame and huge leviathans
Forsake unsounded deeps to dance on sands.
After your dire-lamenting elegies,   85
Visit by night your lady’s chamber-window
With some sweet consort: to their instruments
Tune a deploring dump; the night’s dead silence
Will well become such sweet-complaining grievance.
This, or else nothing, will inherit her.   90

Duke.  This discipline shows thou hast been in love.

Thu.  And thy advice this night I’ll put in practice.
Therefore, sweet Proteus, my direction-giver,
Let us into the city presently
To sort some gentlemen well skill’d in music.   95
I have a sonnet that will serve the turn
To give the onset to thy good advice.

Duke.  About it, gentlemen!

Pro.  We’ll wait upon your grace till after-supper,
And afterward determine our proceedings.   100

Duke.  Even now about it! I will pardon you.  [Exeunt.

Act IV. Scene I.

A Forest between Milan and Verona

Enter certain Outlaws.

First Out.  Fellows, stand fast; I see a passenger.

Sec. Out.  If there be ten, shrink not, but down with ‘em.

Enter VALENTINE and SPEED.   5

Third Out.  Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about ye;
If not, we’ll make you sit and rifle you.

Speed.  Sir, we are undone: these are the villains
That all the travellers do fear so much.

Val.  My friends, —   10

First Out.  That’s not so, sir; we are your enemies.

Sec. Out.  Peace! we’ll hear him.

Third 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:   15
My riches are these poor habiliments,
Of which if you should here disfurnish me,
You take the sum and substance that I have.

Sec. Out.  Whither travel you?

Val.  To Verona.   20

First Out.  Whence came you?

Val.  From Milan.

Third Out.  Have you long sojourn’d there?

Val.  Some sixteen months; and longer might have stay’d
If crooked fortune had not thwarted me.   25

Sec. Out.  What! were you banish’d thence?

Val.  I was.

Sec. Out.  For what offence?

Val.  For that which now torments me to rehearse.
I kill’d a man, whose death I much repent;   30
But yet I slew him manfully, in fight,
Without false vantage or base treachery.

First 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.   35

Sec. Out.  Have you the tongues?

Val.  My youthful travel therein made me happy,
Or else I often had been miserable.

Third Out.  By the bare scalp of Robin Hood’s fat friar,
This fellow were a king for our wild faction!   40

First Out.  We’ll have him: Sirs, a word.

Speed.  Master, be one of them;
It is an honourable kind of thievery.

Val.  Peace, villain!

Sec. Out.  Tell us this: have you anything to take to?   45

Val.  Nothing, but my fortune.

Third Out.  Know then, that some of us are gentlemen,
Such as the fury of ungovern’d youth
Thrust from the company of awful men:
Myself was from Verona banished   50
For practising to steal away a lady,
An heir, and near allied unto the duke.

Sec Out.  And I from Mantua, for a gentleman,
Who, in my mood, I stabb’d unto the heart.

First Out.  And I for such like petty crimes as these.   55
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   60
As we do in our quality much want —

Sec. Out.  Indeed, because you are a banish’d man,
Therefore, above the rest, we parley to you.
Are you content to be our general?
To make a virtue of necessity   65
And live, as we do, in this wilderness?

Third Out.  What say’st thou? wilt thou be of our consort?
Say ‘ay,’ and be the captain of us all:
We’ll do thee homage and be rul’d by thee,
Love thee as our commander and our king.   70

First Out.  But if thou scorn our courtesy, thou diest.

Sec. 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 silly women, or poor passengers.   75

Third Out.  No; we detest such vile, base practices.
Come, go with us; we’ll bring thee to our crews,
And show thee all the treasure we have got,
Which, with ourselves, all rest at thy dispose.  [Exeunt.

Act IV. Scene II.

Milan.  The Court of the DUKE’S Palace.

Enter PROTEUS.

Pro.  Already have I been false to Valentine,
And now I must be as unjust to Thurio.
Under the colour of commending him,   5
I have access my own love to prefer:
But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy,
To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.
When I protest true loyalty to her,
She twits me with my falsehood to my friend;   10
When to her beauty I commend my vows,
She bids me think how I have been forsworn
In breaking faith with Julia whom I lov’d:
And notwithstanding all her sudden quips,
The least whereof would quell a lover’s hope,   15
Yet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love,
The more it grows, and fawneth on her still.
But here comes Thurio: now must we to her window,
And give some evening music to her ear.

Enter THURIO, and Musicians.   20

Thu.  How now, Sir Proteus! are you crept before us?

Pro.  Ay, gentle Thurio; for you know that love
Will creep in service where it cannot go.

Thu.  Ay; but I hope, sir, that you love not here.

Pro.  Sir, but I do; or else I would be hence.   25

Thu.  Who? Silvia?

Pro.  Ay, Silvia, for your sake.

Thu.  I thank you for your own. Now, gentlemen,
Let’s tune, and to it lustily a while.

Enter Host and JULIA behind.  JULIA in boy’s clothes.   30

Host.  Now, my young guest, methinks you’re allycholly: I pray you, why is it?

Jul.  Marry, mine host, because I cannot be merry.

Host.  Come, we’ll have you merry. I’ll bring you where you shall hear music and see the gentleman that you asked for.

Jul.  But shall I hear him speak?

Host.  Ay, that you shall.   35

Jul.  That will be music.  [Music plays.

Host.  Hark! hark!

Jul.  Is he among these?

Host.  Ay; but peace! let’s hear ‘em.

SONG.

Who is Silvia? what is she?
That all our swains commend her?
Holy, fair, and wise is she;
The heaven such grace did lend her,
That she might admired be.

Is she kind as she is fair?
For beauty lives with kindness:
Love doth to her eyes repair,
To help him of his blindness;
And, being help’d, inhabits there.

Then to Silvia let us sing,
That Silvia is excelling;
She excels each mortal thing
Upon the dull earth dwelling;
To her let us garlands bring.   40

Host.  How now! are you sadder than you were before? How do you, man? the music likes you not.

Jul.  You mistake; the musician likes me not.

Host.  Why, my pretty youth?

Jul.  He plays false, father.

Host.  How? out of tune on the strings?   45

Jul.  Not so; but yet so false that he grieves my very heart-strings.

Host.  You have a quick ear.

Jul.  Ay; I would I were deaf; it makes me have a slow heart.

Host.  I perceive you delight not in music.

Jul.  Not a whit, — when it jars so.   50

Host.  Hark! what fine change is in the music!

Jul.  Ay, that change is the spite.

Host.  You would have them always play but one thing?

Jul.  I would always have one play but one thing.
But, host, doth this Sir Proteus that we talk on   55
Often resort unto this gentlewoman?

Host.  I will tell you what Launce, his man, told me: he lov’d her out of all nick.

Jul.  Where is Launce?

Host.  Gone to seek his dog; which, to-morrow, by his master’s command, he must carry for a present to his lady.

Jul.  Peace! stand aside: the company parts.   60

Pro.  Sir Thurio, fear not you: I will so plead
That you shall say my cunning drift excels.

Thu.  Where meet we?

Pro.  At Saint Gregory’s well.

Thu.  Farewell.  [Exeunt THURIO and Musicians.   65

Enter SILVIA above, at her window.

Pro.  Madam, good even to your ladyship.

Sil.  I thank you for your music, gentlemen.
Who is that that spake?

Pro.  One, lady, if you knew his pure heart’s truth,   70
You would quickly learn to know him by his voice.

Sil.  Sir Proteus, as I take it.

Pro.  Sir Proteus, gentle lady, and your servant.

Sil.  What is your will?

Pro.        That I may compass yours.   75

Sil.  You have your wish; my will is even this:
That presently you hie you home to bed.
Thou subtle, perjur’d, false, disloyal man!
Think’st thou I am so shallow, so conceitless,
To be seduced by thy flattery,   80
That hast deceiv’d so many with thy vows?
Return, return, and make thy love amends.
For me, by this pale queen of night I swear,
I am so far from granting thy request
That I despise thee for thy wrongful suit,   85
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.  [Aside.]  ‘Twere false, if I should speak it;   90
For I am sure she is not buried.

Sil.  Say that she be; yet Valentine thy friend
Survives; to whom, thyself art witness
I am betroth’d: and art thou not asham’d
To wrong him with thy importunacy?   95

Pro.  I likewise hear that Valentine is dead.

Sil.  And so suppose am I; for in his grave,
Assure thyself my love is buried.

Pro.  Sweet lady, let me rake it from the earth.

Sil.  Go to thy lady’s grave and call hers thence;   100
Or, at the least, in hers sepulchre thine.

Jul.  [Aside.]  He heard not that.

Pro.  Madam, if your heart be so obdurate,
Vouchsafe me yet your picture for my love,
The picture that is hanging in your chamber:   105
To that I’ll speak, to that I’ll sigh and weep;
For since the substance of your perfect self
Is else devoted, I am but a shadow,
And to your shadow will I make true love.

Jul.  [Aside.]  If ‘twere a substance, you would, sure, deceive it,   110
And make it but a shadow, as I am.

Sil.  I am very loath to be your idol, sir;
But, since your falsehood shall become you well
To worship shadows and adore false shapes,
Send to me in the morning and I’ll send it.   115
And so, good rest.

Pro.        As wretches have o’er night
That wait for execution in the morn.  [Exeunt PROTEUS, and SILVIA, above.

Jul.  Host, will you go?

Host.  By my halidom, I was fast asleep.   120

Jul.  Pray you, where lies Sir Proteus?

Host.  Marry, at my house. Trust me, I think ’tis almost day.

Jul.  Not so; but it hath been the longest night
That e’er I watch’d and the most heaviest.  [Exeunt.

Act IV. Scene III.

The Same.

Enter EGLAMOUR

Egl.  This is the hour that Madam Silvia
Entreated me to call, and know her mind:
There’s some great matter she’d employ me in.   5
Madam, Madam!

Enter SILVIA above, at her window.

Sil.        Who calls?

Egl.        Your servant, and your friend;
One that attends your ladyship’s command.   10

Sil.  Sir Eglamour, a thousand times good morrow.

Egl.  As many, worthy lady, to yourself.
According to your ladyship’s impose,
I am thus early come to know what service
It is your pleasure to command me in.   15

Sil.  O Eglamour, thou art a gentleman —
Think not I flatter, for I swear I do not —
Valiant, wise, remorseful, well-accomplish’d.
Thou art not ignorant what dear good will
I bear unto the banish’d Valentine,   20
Nor how my father would enforce me marry
Vain Thurio, whom my very soul abhors.
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,   25
Upon whose grave thou vow’dst pure chastity.
Sir Eglamour, I would to Valentine,
To Mantua, where, I hear he makes abode;
And, for the ways are dangerous to pass,
I do desire thy worthy company,   30
Upon whose faith and honour I repose.
Urge not my father’s anger, Eglamour,
But think upon my grief, a lady’s grief,
And on the justice of my flying hence,
To keep me from a most unholy match,   35
Which heaven and fortune still rewards with plagues.
I do desire thee, even from a heart
As full of sorrows as the sea of sands,
To bear me company and go with me:
If not, to hide what I have said to thee,   40
That I may venture to depart alone.

Egl.  Madam, I pity much your grievances;
Which since I know they virtuously are plac’d,
I give consent to go along with you,
Recking as little what betideth me   45
As much I wish all good befortune you.
When will you go?

Sil.        This evening coming.

Egl.  Where shall I meet you?

Sil.        At Friar Patrick’s cell,   50
Where I intend holy confession.

Egl.  I will not fail your ladyship.
Good morrow, gentle lady.

Sil.  Good morrow, kind Sir Eglamour.  [Exeunt severally.

Act IV. Scene IV.

The Same.

Enter LAUNCE with his dog

Launce.  When a man’s servant shall play the cur with him, look you, it goes hard; one that I brought up of a puppy; one that I saved from drowning, when three or four of his blind brothers and sisters went to it. I have taught him, even as one would say precisely, ‘Thus would I teach a dog.’ I was sent to deliver him as a present to Mistress Silvia from my master, and I came no sooner into the dining-chamber but he steps me to her trencher and steals her capon’s leg. O! ’tis a foul thing when a cur cannot keep himself in all companies. I would have, as one should say, one that takes upon him to be a dog indeed, to be, as it were, a dog at all things. If I had not had more wit than he, to take a fault upon me that he did, I think verily he had been hanged for ‘t: sure as I live, he had suffered for ‘t: you shall judge. He thrusts me himself into the company of three or four gentleman-like dogs under the duke’s table: he had not been there — bless the mark — a pissing-while, but all the chamber smelt him. ‘Out with the dog!’ says one; ‘What cur is that?’ says another; ‘Whip him out,’ says the third; ‘Hang him up,’ says the duke. I, having been acquainted with the smell before, knew it was Crab, and goes me to the fellow that whips the dogs: ‘Friend,’ quoth I, ‘you mean to whip the dog?’ ‘Ay, marry, do I,’ quoth he. ‘You do him the more wrong,’ quoth I; ‘’twas I did the thing you wot of.’ He makes me no more ado, but whips me out of the chamber. How many masters would do this for his servant? Nay, I’ll be sworn, I have sat in the stocks for puddings he hath stolen, otherwise he had been executed; I have stood on the pillory for geese he hath killed, otherwise he had suffered for ‘t; thou thinkest not of this now. Nay, I remember the trick you served me when I took my leave of Madam Silvia: did not I bid thee still mark me and do as I do? When didst thou see me heave up my leg and make water against a gentle-woman’s farthingale? Didst thou ever see me do such a trick?

Enter PROTEUS, and JULIA in boy’s clothes.

Pro.  Sebastian is thy name? I like thee well   5
And will employ thee in some service presently.

Jul.  In what you please: I will do what I can.

Pro.  I hope thou wilt.  [To LAUNCE.]  How now, you whoreson peasant!
Where have you been these two days loitering?

Launce.  Marry, sir, I carried Mistress Silvia the dog you bade me.   10

Pro.  And what says she to my little jewel?

Launce.  Marry, she says, your dog was a cur, and tells you, currish thanks is good enough for such a present.

Pro.  But she received my dog?

Launce  No, indeed, did she not: here have I brought him back again.

Pro.  What! didst thou offer her this from me?   15

Launce.  Ay, sir: the other squirrel was stolen from me by the hangman boys in the marketplace; and then I offered 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! Stay’st thou to vex me here?
A slave that still an end turns me to shame.  [Exit LAUNCE.   20
Sebastian, I have entertained thee
Partly, that I have need of such a youth,
That can with some discretion do my business,
for ’tis no trusting to yond foolish lout;
But chiefly for thy face and thy behaviour,   25
Which, if my augury deceive me not,
Witness good bringing up, fortune, and truth:
Therefore, know thou, for this I entertain thee.
Go presently, and take this ring with thee.
Deliver it to Madam Silvia:   30
She lov’d me well deliver’d it to me.

Jul.  It seems, you lov’d not her, to leave her token.
She’s dead, belike?

Pro.        Not so: I think, she lives.

Jul.  Alas!   35

Pro.  Why dost thou cry ‘alas?’

Jul.        I cannot choose
But pity her.

Pro.  Wherefore should’st thou pity her?

Jul.  Because methinks that she lov’d you as well   40
As you do love your lady Silvia.
She dreams on him that has forgot her love;
You dote on her, that cares not for your love.
’Tis pity, love should be so contrary;
And thinking on it makes me cry, ‘alas!’   45

Pro.  Well, well, give her that ring and therewithal
This letter: that’s her chamber. Tell my lady
I claim the promise for her heavenly picture.
Your message done, hie home unto my chamber,
Where thou shalt find me sad and solitary.  [Exit.   50

Jul.  How many women would do such a message?
Alas, poor Proteus! thou hast entertain’d
A fox to be the shepherd of thy lambs.
Alas, poor fool! why do I pity him
That with his very heart despiseth me?   55
Because he loves her, he despiseth me;
Because I love him, I must pity him.
This ring I gave him when he parted from me,
To bind him to remember my good will;
And now am I — unhappy messenger —   60
To plead for that which I would not obtain,
To carry that which I would have refus’d,
To praise his faith which I would have disprais’d.
I am my master’s true-confirmed love,
But cannot be true servant to my master,   65
Unless I prove false traitor to myself.
Yet will I woo for him; but yet so coldly
As heaven it knows, I would not have him speed.

Enter SILVIA, attended.
Gentlewoman, good day! I pray you, be my mean   70
To bring me where to speak with Madam Silvia.

Sil.  What 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?   75

Jul.  From my master, Sir Proteus, madam.

Sil.  O! he sends you for a picture?

Jul.  Ay, madam.

Sil.  Ursula, bring my picture there.  [A picture brought.
Go, give your master this: tell him from me,   80
One Julia, that his changing thoughts forget,
Would better fit his chamber than this shadow.

Jul.  Madam, please you peruse this letter. —
Pardon me, madam, I have unadvis’d
Deliver’d you a paper that I should not:   85
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 me.

Sil.  There, hold.
I will not look upon your master’s lines:   90
I know, they are stuff’d with protestations
And full of new-found oaths, which he 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 it me;   95
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 wrong.

Jul.  She thanks you.   100

Sil.  What say’st thou?

Jul.  I thank you, madam, that you tender her.
Poor gentlewoman! my master wrongs her much.

Sil.  Dost thou know her?

Jul.  Almost as well as I do know myself:   105
To think upon her woes, I do protest
That I have wept a hundred several times.

Sil.  Belike, she thinks, that Proteus hath forsook her.

Jul.  I think she doth, and that’s her cause of sorrow.

Sil.  Is she not passing fair?   110

Jul.  She hath been fairer, madam, than she is.
When she did think my master lov’d her well,
She, in my judgment, was as fair as you;
But since she did neglect her looking-glass
And threw her sun-expelling mask away,   115
The air hath starv’d the roses in her cheeks
And pinch’d the lily-tincture of her face,
That now she is become as black as I.

Sil.  How tall was she?

Jul.  About my stature; for, at Pentecost,   120
When all our pageants of delight were play’d,
Our youth got me to play the woman’s part,
And I was trimm’d in Madam Julia’s gown,
Which served me as fit, by all men’s judgments,
As if the garment had been made for me:   125
Therefore I know she is about my height.
And at that time I made her weep agood;
For I did play a lamentable part.
Madam, ’twas Ariadne passioning
For Theseus’ perjury and unjust flight;   130
Which I so lively acted with my tears
That my poor mistress, moved therewithal,
Wept bitterly, and would I might be dead
If I in thought felt not her very sorrow!

Sil.  She is beholding to thee, gentle youth. —   135
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.   140

Jul.  And she shall thank you for ‘t, if e’er you know her. —  [Exit SILVIA, with Attendants.
A virtuous gentlewoman, mild and beautiful.
I hope my master’s suit will be but cold,
Since she respects my mistress’ love so much.
Alas, how love can trifle with itself!   145
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.   150
Her hair is auburn, mine is perfect yellow:
If that be all the difference in his love
I’ll get me such a colour’d periwig.
Her eyes are grey as glass, and so are mine:
Ay, but her forehead’s low, and mine’s as high.   155
What should it be that he respects in her
But I can make respective in myself,
If this fond Love were not a blinded god?
Come, shadow, come, and take this shadow up,
For ’tis thy rival. O thou senseless form!   160
Thou shalt be worshipp’d, kiss’d, lov’d, and ador’d,
And, were there sense in his idolatry,
My substance should be statue in thy stead.
I’ll use thee kindly for thy mistress’ sake,
That us’d me so; or else, by Jove I vow,   165
I should have scratch’d out your unseeing eyes,
To make my master out of love with thee.  [Exit.

Act V. Scene I.

Milan.  An Abbey.

Enter EGLAMOUR.

Egl.  The sun begins to gild the western sky,
And now it is about the very hour
That Silvia at Friar Patrick’s cell should meet me.   5
She will not fail; for lovers break not hours,
Unless it be to come before their time,
So much they spur their expedition.
See, where she comes.

Enter SILVIA.   10
Lady, a happy evening!

Sil.  Amen, amen! go on, good Eglamour,
Out at the postern by the abbey-wall.
I fear I am attended by some spies.

Egl.  Fear not: the forest is not three leagues off;   15
If we recover that, we’re sure enough.  [Exeunt.

Act V. Scene II.

The Same.  A Room in the DUKE’S Palace.

Enter THURIO, PROTEUS, and JULIA.

Thu.  Sir Proteus, what says Silvia to my suit?

Pro.  O, sir, I find her milder than she was;
And yet she takes exceptions at your person.   5

Thu.  What! that my leg is too long?

Pro.  No, that it is too little.

Thu.  I’ll wear a boot to make it somewhat rounder.

Jul.  [Aside.]  But love will not be spurr’d to what it loathes.

Thu.  What says she to my face?   10

Pro.  She says it is a fair one.

Thu.  Nay then, the wanton lies; my face is black.

Pro.  But pearls are fair, and the old saying is,
‘Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies’ eyes.’

Jul.  [Aside.]  ’Tis true, such pearls as put out ladies’ eyes;   15
For I had rather wink than look on them.

Thu.  How likes she my discourse?

Pro.  Ill, when you talk of war.

Thu.  But well, when I discourse of love and peace?

Jul.  [Aside.]  But better, indeed, when you hold your peace.   20

Thu.  What says she to my valour?

Pro.  O, sir, she makes no doubt of that.

Jul.  [Aside.]  She needs not, when she knows it cowardice.

Thu.  What says she to my birth?

Pro.  That you are well deriv’d.   25

Jul.  [Aside.]  True; from a gentleman to a fool.

Thu.  Considers she my possessions?

Pro.  O, ay; and pities them.

Thu.  Wherefore?

Jul.  [Aside.]  That such an ass should owe them.   30

Pro.  That they are out by lease.

Jul.  Here comes the duke.

Enter DUKE.

Duke.  How now, Sir Proteus! how now, Thurio!
Which of you saw Sir Eglamour of late?   35

Thu.  Not I.

Pro.    Nor I.

Duke.      Saw you my daughter?

Pro.        Neither.

Duke  Why then,   40
She’s fled unto that peasant Valentine,
And Eglamour is in her company.
’Tis true; for Friar Laurence met them both,
As he in penance wander’d through the forest;
Him he knew well, and guess’d that it was she,   45
But, being mask’d, he was not sure of it;
Besides, she did intend confession
At Patrick’s cell this even, and there she was not.
These likelihoods confirm her flight from hence.
Therefore, I pray you, stand not to discourse,   50
But mount you presently and meet with me
Upon the rising of the mountain-foot,
That leads towards Mantua, whither they are fled.
Dispatch, sweet gentlemen, and follow me.  [Exit.

Thu.  Why, this it is to be a peevish girl,   55
That flies her fortune when it follows her.
I’ll after, more to be reveng’d on Eglamour
Than for the love of reckless Silvia.  [Exit.

Pro.  And I will follow, more for Silvia’s love
Than hate of Eglamour that goes with her.  [Exit.   60

Jul.  And I will follow, more to cross that love
Than hate for Silvia that is gone for love.  [Exit.

Act V. Scene III.

Frontiers of Mantua.  The Forest.

Enter Outlaws with SILVIA.

First Out.  Come, come,
Be patient; we must bring you to our captain.

Sil.  A thousand more mischances than this one   5
Have learn’d me how to brook this patiently.

Second Out.  Come, bring her away.

First Out.  Where is the gentleman that was with her?

Third Out.  Being nimble-footed, he hath outrun us;
But Moyses and Valerius follow him.   10
Go thou with her to the west end of the wood;
There is our captain. We’ll follow him that’s fled:
The thicket is beset; he cannot ‘scape.  [Exeunt all except the First Outlaw and SILVIA.

First Out.  Come, I must bring you to our captain’s cave.
Fear not; he bears an honourable mind,   15
And will not use a woman lawlessly.

Sil.  O Valentine! this I endure for thee.  [Exeunt.

Act V. Scene IV.

Another Part of the Forest.

Enter VALENTINE.

Val.  How use doth breed a habit in a man!
This shadowy desart, unfrequented woods,
I better brook than flourishing peopled towns.   5
Here can I sit alone, unseen of any,
And to the nightingale’s complaining notes
Tune my distresses and record my woes.
O thou that dost inhabit in my breast,
Leave not the mansion so long tenantless,   10
Lest, growing ruinous, the building fall
And leave no memory of what it was!
Repair me with thy presence, Silvia!
Thou gentle nymph, cherish thy forlorn swain!  [Noise within.
What halloing and what stir is this to-day?   15
These are my mates, that make their wills their law,
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.   20

Enter PROTEUS, SILVIA, and JULIA.

Pro.  Madam, this service I have done for you —
Though you respect not aught your servant doth —
To hazard life and rescue you from him
That would have forc’d your honour and your love.   25
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.  [Aside.]  How like a dream is this I see and hear!
Love, lend me patience to forbear awhile.   30

Sil.  O, miserable, unhappy that I am!

Pro.  Unhappy were you, madam, ere I came;
But by my coming I have made you happy.

Sil.  By thy approach thou mak’st me most unhappy.

Jul.  [Aside.]  And me, when he approacheth to your presence.   35

Sil.  Had I been seized by a hungry lion,
I would have been a breakfast to the beast,
Rather than have false Proteus rescue me.
O! heaven be judge how I love Valentine,
Whose life’s as tender to me as my soul,   40
And full as much — for more there cannot be —
I do detest false perjur’d Proteus.
Therefore be gone, solicit me no more.

Pro.  What dangerous action, stood it next to death,
Would I not undergo for one calm look!   45
O, ’tis the curse in love, and still approv’d,
When women cannot love where they’re belov’d!

Sil.  When Proteus cannot love where he’s belov’d.
Read over Julia’s heart, thy first best love,
For whose dear sake thou didst then rend thy faith   50
Into a thousand oaths; and all those oaths
Descended into perjury to love me.
Thou hast no faith 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.   55
Thou counterfeit to thy true friend!

Pro.        In love
Who respects friend?

Sil.        All men but Proteus.

Pro.  Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving words   60
Can no way change you to a milder form,
I’ll woo you like a soldier, at arms’ end,
And love you ‘gainst the nature of love, — force ye.

Sil.  O heaven!

Pro.        I’ll force thee yield to my desire.   65

Val.  [Coming forward.]  Ruffian, let go that rude uncivil touch;
Thou friend of an ill fashion!

Pro.        Valentine!

Val.  Thou common friend, that’s without faith or love —
For such is a friend now — treach’rous man!   70
Thou hast beguil’d my hopes: naught but mine eye
Could have persuaded me. Now I dare not say
I have one friend alive: thou wouldst disprove me.
Who should be trusted now, when one’s right hand
Is perjur’d to the bosom? Proteus,   75
I am sorry I must never trust thee more,
But count the world a stranger for thy sake.
The private wound is deep’st. O time most curst!
‘Mongst all foes that a friend should be the worst!

Pro.  My shame and guilt confound me.   80
Forgive me, Valentine. If hearty sorrow
Be a sufficient ransom for offence,
I tender ‘t here: I do as truly suffer
As e’er I did commit.

Val.        Then, I am paid;   85
And once again I do receive thee honest.
Who by repentance is not satisfied
Is nor of heaven, nor earth; for these are pleas’d.
By penitence the Eternal’s wrath’s appeas’d:
And, that my love may appear plain and free,   90
All that was mine in Silvia I give thee.

Jul.  O me unhappy!  [Swoons.

Pro.  Look to the boy.

Val.  Why, boy! why, wag! how now! what’s the matter?
Look up; speak.   95

Jul.  O good sir, my master charg’d me
To deliver a ring to Madam Silvia,
Which out of my neglect was never done.

Pro.  Where is that ring, boy?

Jul.        Here ’tis: this is it.  [Gives a ring.   100

Pro.  How! let me see.
Why this is the ring I gave to Julia.

Jul.  O, cry you mercy, sir; I have mistook:
This is the ring you sent to Silvia.  [Shows another ring.

Pro.  But how cam’st thou by this ring?   105
At my depart I gave this unto Julia.

Jul.  And Julia herself did give it me;
And Julia herself hath brought it hither.

Pro.  How! Julia!

Jul.  Behold her that gave aim to all thy oaths,   110
And entertain’d them deeply in her heart:
How oft hast thou with perjury cleft the root!
O Proteus! let this habit make thee blush.
Be thou asham’d that I have took upon me
Such an immodest raiment; if shame live   115
In a disguise of love.
It is the lesser blot, modesty finds,
Women to change their shapes than men their minds.

Pro.  Than men their minds! ’tis true. O heaven! were man
But constant, he were perfect: that one error   120
Fills him with faults; makes him run through all the sins:
Inconstancy falls off ere it begins.
What is in Silvia’s face, but I may spy
More fresh in Julia’s with a constant eye?

Val.  Come, come, a hand from either.   125
Let me be blest to make this happy close:
‘Twere pity two such friends should be long foes.

Pro.  Bear witness, heaven, I have my wish, for ever.

Jul.  And I mine.

Enter Outlaws with DUKE and THURIO.   130

Out.  A prize! a prize! a prize!

Val.  Forbear, forbear, I say; it is my lord the duke.
Your Grace is welcome to a man disgrac’d,
Banished Valentine.

Duke.        Sir Valentine!   135

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,
Verona shall not hold thee. Here she stands;   140
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:   145
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,   150
I do applaud thy spirit, Valentine,
And think thee worthy of an empress’ love.
Know then, I here forget all former griefs,
Cancel all grudge, repeal thee home again,
Plead a new state in thy unrivall’d merit,   155
To which I thus subscribe: Sir Valentine,
Thou art a gentleman and well deriv’d;
Take thou thy Silvia, for thou hast deserv’d her.

Val.  I thank your Grace; the gift hath made me happy.
I now beseech you, for your daughter’s sake,   160
To grant one boon that I shall ask of you.

Duke.  I grant it, for thine own, whate’er it be.

Val.  These banish’d men, that I have kept withal
Are men endu’d with worthy qualities:
Forgive them what they have committed here,   165
And let them be recall’d from their exile.
They are reformed, civil, full of good,
And fit for great employment, worthy lord.

Duke.  Thou hast prevail’d; I pardon them, and thee:
Dispose of them as thou know’st their deserts.   170
Come, let us go: we will include all jars
With triumphs, mirth, and rare solemnity.

Val.  And as we walk along, I dare be bold
With our discourse to make your Grace to smile.
What think you of this page, my lord?   175

Duke.  I think the boy hath grace in him: he blushes.

Val.  I warrant you, my lord, more grace than boy.

Duke.  What mean you by that saying?

Val.  Please you, I’ll tell you as we pass along,
That you will wonder what hath fortuned.   180
Come, Proteus; ’tis your penance, but to hear
The story of your loves discovered:
That done, our day of marriage shall be yours;
One feast, one house, one mutual happiness.  [Exeunt.

LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST

Written in 1595 or 1596, this comedy was first published in quarto in 1598 by the bookseller Cuthbert Burby. Unlike many of Shakespeare’s plays, Love’s Labour’s Lost has no direct source of inspiration, indicating that the concept was most likely developed by the playwright himself.  The drama opens with the King of Navarre and three noble companions, Berowne, Dumaine, and Longaville, taking an oath to devote themselves to three years of study, promising not to give in to the company of women — Berowne somewhat more hesitantly than the others. Berowne reminds the king that the princess and her three ladies are coming to the kingdom and it would be suicidal for the King to agree to this law. The King denies what Berowne says, insisting that the ladies make their camp in the field outside of his court. The King and his men meet the princess and her ladies. Instantly, they all fall comically in love.

The first page of the 1598 Quarto

CONTENTS

Dramatis Personæ

Act I. Scene I.

Act I. Scene II.

Act II. Scene I.

Act III. Scene I.

Act IV. Scene I.

Act IV. Scene II.

Act IV. Scene III.

Act V. Scene I.

Act V. Scene II.

The 2000 film adaptation

Dramatis Personæ

FERDINAND, King of Navarre.
BEROWNE, LONGAVILLE, DUMAINE, Lords, attending on the King.
BOYET, MARCADE, Lords, attending on the Princess of France.
DON ADRIANO DE ARMADO, a fantastical Spaniard.
SIR NATHANIEL, a Curate.
HOLOFERNES, a Schoolmaster.
DULL, a Constable.
COSTARD, a Clown.
MOTH, Page to Armado.
A Forester.
The PRINCESS of France.
ROSALINE, MARIA, KATHARINE, Ladies, attending on the Princess.
JAQUENETTA, a country Wench.
Officers and Others, Attendants on the King and Princess.

SCENE. — Navarre.

Act I. Scene I.

The KING OF NAVARRE’S Park.

Enter the KING, BEROWNE, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAINE.

King.  Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives,
Live register’d upon our brazen tombs,
And then grace us in the disgrace of death;   5
When, spite of cormorant devouring Time,
The endeavour of this present breath may buy
That honour which shall bate his scythe’s keen edge,
And make us heirs of all eternity.
Therefore, brave conquerors, — for so you are,   10
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 be the wonder of the world;
Our court shall be a little academe,   15
Still and contemplative in living art.
You three, Berowne, Dumaine, and Longaville,
Have sworn for three years’ term to live with me,
My fellow-scholars, and to keep those statutes
That are recorded in this schedule here:   20
Your oaths are pass’d; and now subscribe your names,
That his own hand may strike his honour down
That violates the smallest branch herein.
If you are arm’d to do, as sworn to do,
Subscribe to your deep oaths, and keep it too.   25

Long.  I am resolv’d; ’tis but a three years’ fast:
The mind shall banquet, though the body pine:
Fat paunches have lean pates, and dainty bits
Make rich the ribs, but bankrupt quite the wits.

Dum.  My loving lord, Dumaine is mortified:   30
The grosser manner of these world’s delights
He throws upon the gross world’s baser slaves:
To love, to wealth, to pomp, I pine and die;
With all these living in philosophy.

Ber.  I can but say their protestation over;   35
So much, dear liege, I have already sworn,
That is, to live and study here three years.
But there are other strict observances;
As, not to see a woman in that term,
Which I hope well is not enrolled there:   40
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, —   45
When I was wont to think no harm all night
And make a dark night too of half the day, —
Which I hope well is not enrolled there.
O! these are barren tasks, too hard to keep,
Not to see ladies, study, fast, not sleep.   50

King.  Your oath is pass’d to pass away from these.

Ber.  Let me say no, my liege, an if you please.
I only swore to study with your Grace,
And stay here in your court for three years’ space.

Long.  You swore to that, Berowne, and to the rest.   55

Ber.  By yea and nay, sir, then I swore in jest.
What is the end of study? let me know.

King.  Why, that to know which else we should not know.

Ber.  Things hid and barr’d, you mean, from common sense?

King.  Ay, that is study’s god-like recompense.   60

Ber.  Come on then; I will swear to study so,
To know the thing I am forbid to know;
As thus: to study where I well may dine,
When I to feast expressly am forbid;
Or study where to meet some mistress fine,   65
When 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.   70
Swear me to this, and I will ne’er say no.

King.  These be the stops that hinder study quite,
And train our intellects to vain delight.

Ber.  Why, all delights are vain; but that most vain
Which, with pain purchas’d doth inherit pain:   75
As, painfully to pore upon a book,
To seek the light of truth; while truth 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,   80
Your light grows dark by losing of your 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,
And give him light that it was blinded by.   85
Study is like the heaven’s glorious sun,
That will not be deep-search’d with saucy looks;
Small have continual plodders ever won,
Save base authority from others’ books.
These earthly godfathers of heaven’s lights   90
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 nought but fame;
And every godfather can give a name.   95

King.  How well he’s read, to reason against reading!

Dum.  Proceeded well, to stop all good proceeding!

Long.  He weeds the corn, and still lets grow the weeding.

Ber.  The spring is near, when green geese are a-breeding.

Dum.  How follows that?   100

Ber.        Fit in his place and time.

Dum.  In reason nothing.

Ber.        Something then, in rime.

King.  Berowne is like an envious sneaping frost
That bites the first-born infants of the spring.   105

Ber.  Well, say I am: why should proud summer boast
Before the birds have any cause to sing?
Why should I joy in an abortive birth?
At Christmas I no more desire a rose
Than wish a snow in May’s new-fangled mirth;   110
But like of each thing that in season grows.
So you, to study now it is too late,
Climb o’er the house to unlock the little gate.

King.  Well, sit you out: go home, Berowne: adieu!

Ber.  No, my good lord; I have sworn to stay with you:   115
And though I have for barbarism spoke more
Than for that angel knowledge you can say,
Yet confident I’ll keep to what I swore,
And bide the penance of each three years’ day.
Give me the paper; let me read the same;   120
And to the strict’st decrees I’ll write my name.

King.  How well this yielding rescues thee from shame!

Ber.  Item, That no woman shall come within a mile of my court. Hath this been proclaimed?

Long.  Four days ago.

Ber.  Let’s see the penalty. On pain of losing her tongue. Who devised this penalty?   125

Long.  Marry, that did I.

Ber.        Sweet lord, and why?

Long.  To fright them hence with that dread penalty.

Ber.  A dangerous law against gentility!
Item. If any man be seen to talk with a woman within the term of three years, he shall endure such public shame as the rest of the court can possibly devise.
This article, my liege, yourself must break;   130
For well you know here comes in embassy
The French king’s daughter with yourself to speak —
A maid of grace and complete majesty —
About surrender up of Aquitaine
To her decrepit, sick, and bed-rid father:   135
Therefore this article is made in vain,
Or vainly comes th’ admired princess hither.

King.  What say you, lords? why, this was quite forgot.

Ber.  So study evermore is overshot:
While it doth study to have what it would,   140
It doth forget to do the thing it should;
And when it hath the thing it hunteth most,
’Tis 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.   145

Ber.  Necessity will 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 faith this word shall speak for me,   150
I am forsworn ‘on mere necessity.’
So to the laws at large I write my name:  [Subscribes.
And he that breaks them in the least degree
Stands in attainder of eternal shame:
Suggestions are to others as to me;   155
But I believe, although I seem so loath,
I am the last that will last keep his oath.
But is there no quick recreation granted?

King.  Ay, that there is. Our court, you know, is haunted
With a refined traveller of Spain;   160
A man in all the world’s new fashion planted,
That hath a mint of phrases in his brain;
One whom the music of his own vain tongue
Doth ravish like enchanting harmony;
A man of complements, whom right and wrong   165
Have chose as umpire of their 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 debate.   170
How you delight, my lords, I know not, I;
But, I protest, I love to hear him lie,
And I will use him for my minstrelsy.

Ber.  Armado is a most illustrious wight,
A man of fire-new words, fashion’s own knight.   175

Long.  Costard the swain and he shall be our sport;
And, so to study, three years is but short.

Enter DULL, with a letter, and COSTARD.

Dull.  Which is the duke’s own person?

Ber.  This, fellow. What wouldst?   180

Dull.  I myself reprehend his own person, for I am his Grace’s tharborough: but I would see his own person in flesh and blood.

Ber.  This is he.

Dull.  Signior Arm — Arm — commends you. There’s villany abroad: this letter will tell you more.

Cost.  Sir, the contempts thereof are as touching me.

King.  A letter from the magnificent Armado.   185

Ber.  How long soever the matter, I hope in God for high words.

Long.  A high hope for a low heaven: God grant us patience!

Ber.  To hear, or forbear laughing?

Long.  To hear meekly, sir, and to laugh moderately; or to forbear both.

Ber.  Well, sir, be it as the style shall give us cause to climb in the merriness.   190

Cost.  The matter is to me, sir, as concerning Jaquenetta. The manner of it is, I was taken with the manner.

Ber.  In what manner?

Cost.  In manner and form following, sir; all 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 together, 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.

Ber.  For the following, sir?

Cost.  As it shall follow in my correction; and God defend the right!   195

King.  Will you hear this letter with attention?

Ber.  As we would hear an oracle.

Cost.  Such is the simplicity of man to hearken after the flesh.

King.  Great deputy, the welkin’s vicegerent, and sole dominator of Navarre, my soul’s earth’s God, and body’s fostering patron,

Cost.  Not a word of Costard yet.   200

King.  So it is, —

Cost.  It may be so; but if he say it is so, he is, in telling true, but so. —

King.  Peace!

Cost.  Be to me and every man that dares not fight.

King.  No words!   205

Cost.  Of other men’s secrets, I beseech you.

King.  So it is, besieged with sable-coloured melancholy, I did commend the black-oppressing humour to the most wholesome physic of thy health-giving air; and, as I am a gentleman, betook myself 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 supper: so much for the time when. Now for the ground which; which, I mean, I walked upon: it is ycleped thy park. Then for the place where; where, I mean, I did encounter that most obscene and preposterous event, that draweth from my snow-white pen the ebon-coloured ink, which here thou viewest, beholdest, surveyest, or seest. But to the place where, it standeth north-north-east and by east from the west corner of thy curious-knotted garden: there did I see that low-spirited swain, that base minnow of thy mirth, —

Cost.  Me.

King.  that unlettered small-knowing soul, —

Cost.  Me.   210

King.  that shallow vessel, —

Cost.  Still me.

King.  which, as I remember, hight Costard, —

Cost.  O me.

King.  sorted and consorted, contrary to thy established proclaimed edict and continent canon, with — with, — O! with but with this I passion to say wherewith, —   215

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 repute, carriage, bearing, and estimation.

Dull.  Me, an ‘t please you; I am Antony Dull.

King.  For Jaquenetta, — so is the weaker vessel called which I apprehended with the aforesaid swain, — I keep her as a vessel of thy law’s fury; and shall, at the least of thy sweet notice, bring her to trial. Thine, in all compliments of devoted and heart-burning heat of duty,
DON ADRIANO DE ARMADO.

Ber.  This is not so well as I looked for, but the best that ever I heard.   220

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 imprisonment to be taken with a wench.   225

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, sir: she was a ‘virgin.’

King.  It is so varied too; for it was proclaimed ‘virgin.’

Cost.  If it were, I deny her virginity: I was taken with a maid.   230

King.  This maid will not serve your turn, sir.

Cost.  This maid will serve my turn, sir.

King.  Sir, I will pronounce your sentence: you 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.   235
My Lord Berowne, see him deliver’d o’er:
And go we, lords, to put in practice that
Which each to other hath so strongly sworn.  [Exeunt KING, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAINE.

Ber.  I’ll lay my head to any good man’s hat,
These oaths and laws will prove an idle scorn.   240
Sirrah, come on.

Cost.  I suffer for the truth, sir: for true it is I was taken with Jaquenetta, and Jaquenetta is a true girl; and therefore welcome the sour cup of prosperity! Affliction may one day smile again; and till then, sit thee down, sorrow!  [Exeunt.

Act I. Scene II.

The Same.

Enter ARMADO and MOTH.

Arm.  Boy, what sign is it when a man of great spirit grows melancholy?

Moth.  A great sign, sir, that he will look sad.

Arm.  Why, sadness is one and the self-same thing, dear imp.   5

Moth.  No, no; O Lord, sir, no.

Arm.  How canst thou part sadness and melancholy, my tender juvenal?

Moth.  By a familiar demonstration of the working, my tough senior.

Arm.  Why tough senior? why tough senior?

Moth.  Why tender juvenal? why tender juvenal?   10

Arm.  I spoke it, tender juvenal, as a congruent epitheton appertaining to thy young days, which we may nominate tender.

Moth.  And I, tough senior, as an appertinent title to your old time, which we may name tough.

Arm.  Pretty, and apt.

Moth.  How mean you, sir? I pretty, and my saying apt? or I apt, and my saying pretty?

Arm.  Thou pretty, because little.   15

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.   20

Arm.  What! that an eel is ingenious?

Moth.  That an eel is quick.

Arm.  I do say thou art quick in answers: thou heatest my blood.

Moth.  I am answered, sir.

Arm.  I love not to be crossed.   25

Moth.  [Aside.]  He speaks the mere contrary: crosses love not him.

Arm.  I have promised to study three years with the duke.

Moth.  You may do it in an hour, sir.

Arm.  Impossible.

Moth.  How many is one thrice told?   30

Arm.  I am ill at reckoning; it fitteth the spirit of a tapster.

Moth.  You are a gentleman and a gamester, sir.

Arm.  I confess both: they are both the varnish of a complete man.

Moth.  Then, I am sure you know how much the gross sum of deuce-ace amounts to.

Arm.  It doth amount to one more than two.   35

Moth.  Which the base vulgar do call three.

Arm.  True.

Moth.  Why, sir, is this such a piece of study? Now, here’s three studied, ere you’ll thrice wink; and how easy it is to put ‘years’ to the word ‘three,’ and study three years in two words, the dancing horse will tell you.

Arm.  A most fine figure!

Moth.  To prove you a cipher.   40

Arm.  I will hereupon confess I am in love; and 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 from the reprobate thought of it, I would take Desire prisoner, and ransom him to any French courtier for a new devised curtsy. I think scorn to sigh: methinks I should outswear Cupid. Comfort me, boy: what great men have been in love?

Moth.  Hercules, master.

Arm.  Most sweet Hercules! More 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 carriage, great carriage, for he carried the town-gates on his back like a porter; and he was in love.

Arm.  O well-knit Samson! strong-jointed Samson! I do excel thee in my rapier as much as thou didst me in carrying gates. I am in love too. Who was Samson’s love, my dear Moth?   45

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.   50

Arm.  Is that one of the four 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 colour, methinks Samson had small reason for it. He 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.   55

Moth.  Most maculate thoughts, master, are masked under 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 white shown:
Then if she fear, or be to blame,
By this you shall not know,
For still her cheeks possess the same
Which native she doth owe.   60
A dangerous rime, master, against the reason of white and red.

Arm.  Is there not a ballad, boy, of the King and the Beggar?

Moth.  The world was very guilty of such a ballad some three ages since; but I think now ’tis not to be found; or, if it were, it would neither serve for the writing nor the tune.

Arm.  I will have that subject newly writ o’er, that I may example my digression by some mighty precedent. Boy, I do love that country girl that I took in the park with the rational hind Costard: she deserves well.

Moth.  [Aside.]  To be whipped; and yet a better love than my master.   65

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 till this company be past.

Enter DULL, COSTARD, and JAQUENETTA.   70

Dull.  Sir, the duke’s pleasure is, that you keep Costard safe: and you must let him take no delight nor no penance, but a’ must fast three days a week. For this damsel, I must keep her at the park; she is allowed for the day-woman. Fare you well.

Arm.  I do betray myself with blushing. Maid!

Jaq.  Man?

Arm.  I will visit thee at the lodge.

Jaq.  That’s hereby.   75

Arm.  I know where it is situate.

Jaq.  Lord, how wise you are!

Arm.  I will tell thee wonders.

Jaq.  With that face?

Arm.  I love thee.   80

Jaq.  So I heard you say.

Arm.  And so farewell.

Jaq.  Fair weather after you!

Dull.  Come, Jaquenetta, away!  [Exeunt DULL and JAQUENETTA.

Arm.  Villain, thou shalt fast for thy offences ere thou be pardoned.   85

Cost.  Well, sir, I hope, when I do it, I shall do it on a full stomach.

Arm.  Thou shalt 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!   90

Cost.  Let me not be pent up, sir: I will fast, being loose.

Moth.  No, sir; that were fast and loose: thou shalt to prison.

Cost.  Well, if ever I 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 they 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.  [Exeunt MOTH and COSTARD.   95

Arm.  I do affect the very ground, which is base, where her shoe, which is baser, guided by her foot, which is basest, doth tread. I shall be forsworn, — which 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 butt-shaft is too hard for Hercules’ club, and therefore too much odds for a Spaniard’s rapier. The first and second clause will not serve my turn; the passado he respects not, the duello he regards not: his disgrace is to be called boy, but his glory is, to subdue men. Adieu, valour! rust, rapier! be still, drum! for your manager is in love; yea, he loveth. Assist me some extemporal god of rime, for I am sure I shall turn sonneter. Devise, wit; write, pen; for I am for whole volumes in folio.  [Exit.

Act II. Scene I.

The KING OF NAVARRE’S Park.
A Pavilion and Tents at a distance.

Enter the PRINCESS of France, ROSALINE, MARIA, KATHARINE, BOYET, Lords, and other Attendants.

Boyet.  Now, madam, summon up your dearest spirits:
Consider whom the king your father sends,
To whom he sends, and what’s his embassy:   5
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 Aquitaine, a dowry for a queen.   10
Be now as prodigal of all dear grace
As Nature was in making graces dear
When she did starve the general world beside,
And prodigally gave them all to you.

Prin.  Good Lord Boyet, my beauty, though but mean,   15
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   20
In spending your wit in the praise of mine.
But now to task the tasker: good Boyet,
You are not ignorant, all-telling fame
Doth noise abroad, Navarre hath made a vow,
Till painful study shall out-wear three years,   25
No woman may approach his silent court:
Therefore to us seemth 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   30
As our best-moving fair solicitor.
Tell him, the daughter of the King of France,
On serious business, craving quick dispatch,
Importunes personal conference with his Grace.
Haste, signify so much; while we attend,   35
Like humble-visag’d suitors, his high will.

Boyet.  Proud of employment, willingly I go.

Prin.  All pride is willing pride, and yours is so.  [Exit BOYET.
Who are the votaries, my loving lords,
That are vow-fellows with this virtuous duke?   40

First Lord.  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 Jacques Falconbridge, solemnized   45
In Normandy, saw I this Longaville.
A man of sovereign parts he is esteem’d;
Well fitted in the arts, glorious in arms:
Nothing becomes him ill that he would well.
The only soil of his fair virtue’s gloss, —   50
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, bolike; is ‘t so?   55

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 Dumaine, a well-accomplish’d youth,
Of all that virtue love for virtue lov’d:   60
Most power to do most harm, least knowing ill,
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 Alenpon’s once;
And much too little of that good I saw   65
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:
Berowne they call him; but a merrier man,
Within the limit of becoming mirth,   70
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 turns to a mirth-moving jest,
Which his fair tongue, conceit’s expositor,   75
Delivers in such apt and gracious words,
That aged ears play truant at his tales,
And younger hearings are quite ravished;
So sweet and voluble is his discourse.

Prin.  God bless my ladies! are they all in love,   80
That every one her own hath garnished
With such bedecking ornaments of praise?

First Lord.  Here comes Boyet.

Re-enter BOYET.

Prin.        Now, what admittance, lord?   85

Boyet.  Navarre had notice of your fair approach;
And he and his competitors in oath
Were all address’d to meet you, gentle lady,
Before I came. Marry, thus much I have learnt;
He rather means to lodge you in the field,   90
Like one that comes here to besiege his court,
Than seek a dispensation for his oath,
To let you enter his unpeeled house.
Here comes Navarre.  [The Ladies mask.

Enter KING, LONGAVILLE, DUMAINE, BEROWNE, and Attendants.   95

King.  Fair princess, 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.

King.  You shall be welcome, madam, to my court.

Prin.  I will be welcome, then: conduct me thither.

King.  Hear me, dear lady; I have sworn an oath.   100

Prin.  Our Lady help my lord! he’ll be forsworn.

King.  Not for the world, fair madam, by my will.

Prin.  Why, will shall break it; will, and nothing else.

King.  Your ladyship is ignorant what it is.

Prin.  Were my lord so, his ignorance were wise,   105
Where now his knowledge must prove ignorance.
I hear your grace hath sworn out house-keeping:
’Tis deadly sin to keep that oath, my lord,
And sin to break it.
But pardon me, I am too sudden-bold:   110
To teach a teacher ill beseemeth me.
Vouchsafe to read the purpose of my coming,
And suddenly resolve me in my suit.  [Gives a paper.

King.  Madam, I will, if suddenly I may.

Prin.  You will the sooner that I were away,   115
For you’ll prove perjur’d if you make me stay.

Ber.  Did not I dance with you in Brabant once?

Ros.  Did not I dance with you in Brabant once?

Ber.  I know you did.

Ros.        How needless was it then   120
To ask the question!

Ber.        You must not be so quick.

Ros.  ’Tis ‘long of you that spur me with such questions.

Ber.  Your wit’s too hot, it speeds too fast, ‘twill tire.

Ros.  Not till it leave the rider in the mire.   125

Ber.  What time o’ day?

Ros.  The hour that fools should ask.

Ber.  Now fair befall your mask!

Ros.  Fair fall the face it covers!

Ber.  And send you many lovers!   130

Ros.  Amen, so you be none.

Ber.  Nay, then I will be gone.

King.  Madam, your father here doth intimate
The payment of a hundred thousand crowns;
Being but the one half of an entire sum   135
Disbursed by my father in his wars.
But say that he, or we, — as neither have, —
Receiv’d that sum, yet there remains unpaid
A hundred thousand more; in surety of the which,
One part of Aquitaine is bound to us,   140
Although not valu’d to the money’s worth.
If then the king your father will restore
But that one half which is unsatisfied,
We will give up our right in Aquitaine,
And hold fair friendship with his majesty.   145
But that it seems, he little purposeth,
For here he doth demand to have repaid
A hundred thousand crowns; and not demands,
On payment of a hundred thousand crowns,
To have his title live in Aquitaine;   150
Which we much rather had depart withal,
And have the money by our father lent,
Than Aquitaine, so gelded as it is.
Dear princess, were not his requests so far
From reason’s yielding, your fair self should make   155
A yielding ‘gainst some reason in my breast,
And go well satisfied to France again.

Prin.  You do the king my father too much wrong
And wrong the reputation of your name,
In so unseeming to confess receipt   160
Of that which hath so faithfully been paid.

King.  I do protest I never heard of it;
And if you prove it, I’ll repay it back
Or yield up Aquitaine.

Prin.        We arrest your word.   165
Boyet, you can produce acquittances
For such a sum from special officers
Of Charles his father.

King.        Satisfy me so.

Boyet.  So please your Grace, the packet is not come   170
Where that and other specialties are bound:
To-morrow you shall have a sight of them.

King.  It shall suffice me: at which interview
All liberal reason I will yield unto.
Meantime, receive such welcome at my hand   175
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 without you shall be so receiv’d,
As you shall deem yourself lodg’d in my heart,   180
Though so denied fair harbour in my house.
Your own good thoughts excuse me, and farewell:
To-morrow shall we visit you again.

Prin.  Sweet health and fair desires consort your Grace!

King.  Thy own wish wish I thee in every place!  [Exeunt KING and his Train.   185

Ber.  Lady, I will commend you to mine own heart.

Ros.  Pray you, do my commendations; I would be glad to see it.

Ber.  I would you heard it groan.

Ros.  Is the fool sick?

Ber.  Sick at the heart.   190

Ros.  Alack! let it blood.

Ber.  Would that do it good?

Ros.  My physic says, ‘ay.’

Ber.  Will you prick ‘t with your eye?

Ros.  No point, with my knife.   195

Ber.  Now, God save thy life!

Ros.  And yours from long living!

Ber.  I cannot stay thanksgiving.  [Retiring.

Dum.  Sir, I pray you, a word: what lady is that same?

Boyet.  The heir of Alençon, Katharine her name.   200

Dum.  A gallant lady. Monsieur, fare you well.  [Exit.

Long.  I beseech you a word: what is she in the white?

Boyet.  A woman sometimes, an you saw her in the light.

Long.  Perchance light in the light. I desire her name.

Boyet.  She hath but one for herself; to desire that, were a shame.   205

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.   210

Long.  Nay, my choler is ended.
She is a most sweet lady.

Boyet.  Not unlike, sir; that may be.  [Exit LONGAVILLE.

Ber.  What’s her name, in the cap?

Boyet.  Rosaline, by good hap.   215

Ber.  Is she wedded or no?

Boyet.  To her will, sir, or so.

Ber.  You are welcome, sir. Adieu.

Boyet.  Farewell to me, sir, and welcome to you.  [Exit BEROWNE. — Ladies unmask.

Mar.  That last is Berowne, the merry madcap lord:   220
Not a word with him but a jest.

Boyet.        And every jest but a word.

Prin.  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, marry!   225

Boyet.        And wherefore not ships?
No sheep, sweet lamb, unless we feed on your lips.

Mar.  You sheep, and I pasture: shall that finish the jest?

Boyet.  So you grant pasture for me.  [Offering to kiss her.

Mar.        Not so, gentle beast.   230
My lips are no common, though several they be.

Boyet.  Belonging to whom?

Mar.        To my fortunes and me.

Prin.  Good wits will be jangling; but, gentles, agree.
This civil war of wits were much better us’d   235
On Navarre and his book-men, for here ’tis abus’d.

Boyet.  If my observation, — which very seldom lies, —
By the heart’s still rhetoric disclosed with eyes,
Deceive me not now, Navarre is infected.

Prin.  With what?   240

Boyet.  With that which we lovers entitle affected.

Prin.  Your reason.

Boyet.  Why, all his behaviours did make their retire
To the court of his eye, peeping thorough desire;
His heart, like an agate, with your print impress’d,   245
Proud with his form, in his eye pride express’d:
His tongue, all impatient to speak and not see,
Did stumble with haste in his eyesight to be;
All senses to that sense did make their repair,
To feel only looking on fairest of fair,   250
Methought all his senses were lock’d in his eye,
As jewels in crystal for some prince to buy;
Who, tend’ring their own worth from where they were glass’d,
Did point you to buy them, along as you pass’d.
His face’s own margent did quote such amazes,   255
That all eyes saw his eyes enchanted with gazes.
I’ll give you Aquitaine, and all that is his,
An’ you give him for my sake but one loving kiss.

Prin.  Come to our pavilion: Boyet is dispos’d.

Boyet.  But to speak that in words which his eye hath disclos’d.   260
I only have made a mouth of his eye,
By adding a tongue which I know will not lie.

Ros.  Thou art an old love-monger, and speak’st skilfully.

Mar.  He is Cupid’s grandfather and learns news of him.

Ros.  Then was Venus like her mother, for her father is but grim.   265

Boyet.  Do you hear, my mad wenches?

Mar.        No.

Boyet.        What, then, do you see?

Ros.  Ay, our way to be gone.

Boyet.        You are too hard for me.  [Exeunt.   270

Act III. Scene I.

The KING OF NAVARRE’S Park.

Enter ARMADO and MOTH.

Arm.  Warble, child; make passionate my sense of hearing.

Moth.  [Singing.]  Concolinel, —

Arm.  Sweet air! Go, tenderness of years; take this key, give enlargement to the swain, bring him festinately hither; I must employ him in a letter to my love.   5

Moth.  Master, will you win your love with a French brawl?

Arm.  How meanest thou? brawling in French?

Moth.  No, my complete master; but to jig off a tune at the tongue’s end, canary to it with your feet, humour it with turning up your eyelids, sigh a note and sing a note, sometime through the throat, as if you swallowed love by singing love, sometime through the nose, as if you snuffed up love by smelling love; with your hat penthouse-like o’er the shop of your eyes; with your arms 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 away. These are complements, these are humours, these betray nice wenches, that would be betrayed without these; and make them men of note, — do you note me? — that most are affected to these.

Arm.  How hast thou purchased this experience?

Moth.  By my penny of observation.   10

Arm.  But O — but O, —

Moth.  ‘The hobby-horse is forgot.’

Arm.  Callest 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.   15

Moth.  Negligent student! learn her by heart.

Arm.  By heart, and in heart, boy.

Moth.  And out of heart, master: all those three I will 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 heart 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.   20

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 sympathized: a horse to be ambassador for an ass.

Arm.  Ha, ha! what sayest thou?   25

Moth.  Marry, sir, you must send the ass upon the horse, for he is very slow-gaited. But I go.

Arm.  The way is but short: away!

Moth.  As swift as lead, sir.

Arm.  Thy meaning, pretty ingenious?
Is not lead a metal heavy, dull, and slow?   30

Moth.  Minime, honest master; or rather, master, no.

Arm.  I say, lead is slow.

Moth.        You are too swift, sir, to say so:
Is that lead slow which is fir’d from a gun?

Arm.  Sweet smoke of rhetoric!   35
He reputes me a cannon; and the bullet, that’s he:
I shoot thee at the swain.

Moth.        Thump then, and I flee.  [Exit.

Arm.  A most acute juvenal; volable and free of grace!
By thy favour, sweet welkin, I must sigh in thy face:   40
Most rude melancholy, valour gives thee place.
My herald is return’d.

Re-enter MOTH with COSTARD.

Moth.  A wonder, master! here’s a costard broken in a shin.

Arm.  Some enigma, some riddle: come, thy l’envoy; begin.   45

Cost.  No egma, no riddle, no l’envoy; no salve in the mail, sir. O! sir, plantain, a plain plantain: no l’envoy, no l’envoy: no salve, sir, but a plantain.

Arm.  By virtue, thou enforcest laughter; thy silly thought, my spleen; the heaving of my lungs provokes me to ridiculous smiling: O! pardon me, my stars. Doth the inconsiderate take salve for l’envoy, and the word l’envoy for a salve?

Moth.  Do the wise think them other? is not l’envoy a salve?

Arm.  No, page: it is an epilogue or discourse, to make plain
Some obscure precedence that hath tofore been sain.   50
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 l’envoy.

Moth.  I will add the l’envoy. Say the moral again.   55

Arm.  The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee,
Were still at odds, being but three.

Moth.  Until the goose came out of door,
And stay’d the odds by adding four.
Now will I begin your moral, and do you follow with my l’envoy.   60
The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee,
Were still at odds, being but three.

Arm.  Until the goose came out of door,
Staying the odds by adding four.

Moth.  A good l’envoy, ending in the goose.   65
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 well is as cunning as fast and loose:
Let me see; a fat l’envoy; ay, that’s a fat goose.   70

Arm.  Come hither, come hither. How did this argument begin?

Moth.  By saying that a costard was broken in a shin.
Then call’d you for the l’envoy.

Cost.  True, and I for a plantain: thus came your argument in;
Then the boy’s fat l’envoy, the goose that you bought;   75
And he ended the market.

Arm.  But tell me; how was there a costard broken in a shin?

Moth.  I will tell you sensibly.

Cost.  Thou hast no feeling of it, Moth: I will speak that l’envoy:
I, Costard, running out, that was safely within,   80
Fell over the threshold and broke my shin.

Arm.  We will talk no more of this matter.

Cost.  Till there be more matter in the shin.

Arm.  Sirrah Costard, I will enfranchise thee.

Cost.  O! marry me to one Frances: I smell some l’envoy, some goose, in this.   85

Arm.  By my sweet soul, I mean setting thee at liberty, enfreedoming thy person: thou wert immured, restrained, captivated, bound.

Cost.  True, true, and now you will be my purgation and let me loose.

Arm.  I give thee thy liberty, set thee from durance; and in lieu thereof, impose upon thee nothing but this: — [Giving a letter.]  Bear this significant to the country maid Jaquenetta.  [Giving money.]  There is remuneration; for the best ward of mine honour is rewarding my dependents. Moth, follow.  [Exit.

Moth.  Like the sequel, I. Signior Costard, adieu.

Cost.  My sweet ounce of man’s flesh! my incony Jew!  [Exit MOTH.   90
Now will I look to his remuneration. Remuneration! O! that’s the Latin word for three farthings: three farthings, remuneration. ‘What’s the price of this inkle?’ ‘One penny.’ ‘No, I’ll give you a remuneration:’ why, it carries it. Remuneration! why, it is a fairer name than French crown. I will never buy and sell out of this word.

Enter BEROWNE.

Ber.  O! my good knave Costard, exceedingly well met.

Cost.  Pray you, sir, how much carnation riband may a man buy for a remuneration?

Ber.  What is a remuneration?   95

Cost.  Marry, sir, halfpenny farthing.

Ber.  Why then, three-farthing-worth of silk.

Cost.  I thank your worship. God be wi’ you!

Ber.  Stay, slave; I must employ thee:
As thou wilt win my favour, good my knave,   100
Do one thing for me that I shall entreat.

Cost.  When would you have it done, sir?

Ber.  O, this afternoon.

Cost.  Well, I will do it, sir! fare you well.

Ber.  O, thou knowest not what it is.   105

Cost.  I shall know, sir, when I have done it.

Ber.  Why, villain, thou must know first.

Cost.  I will come to your worship to-morrow morning.

Ber.  It must be done this afternoon. Hark, slave, it is but this:
The princess comes to hunt here in the park,   110
And in her train there is a gentle lady;
When tongues speak sweetly, then they name her name,
And Rosaline they call her: ask for her
And to her white hand see thou do commend
This seal’d-up counsel.  [Gives him a shilling.]  There’s thy guerdon: go.   115

Cost.  Gardon, O sweet gardon! better than remuneration; a ‘leven-pence farthing better. Most sweet gardon! I will do it, sir, in print. Gardon! remuneration!  [Exit.

Ber.  And I, —
Forsooth, in love! I, that have been love’s whip;
A very beadle to a humorous sigh;
A critic, nay, a night-watch constable,   120
A domineering pedant o’er the boy,
Than whom no mortal so magnificent!
This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy,
This senior-junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid;
Regent of love-rimes, lord of folded arms,   125
The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans,
Liege of all loiterers and malecontents,
Dread prince of plackets, king of codpieces,
Sole imperator and great general
Of trotting ‘paritors: O my little heart!   130
And I to be a corporal of his field,
And wear his colours like a tumbler’s hoop!
What I! I love! I sue! I seek a wife!
A woman that is like a German clock,
Still a-repairing, ever out of frame,   135
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 all;
And, among three, to love the worst of all;
A wightly wanton with a velvet brow,   140
With two pitch balls stuck in her face for eyes;
Ay, and, by heaven, one that will do the deed
Though Argus 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   145
That Cupid will impose for my neglect
Of his almighty dreadful little might.
Well, I will love, write, sigh, pray, sue, and groan:
Some men must love my lady, and some Joan.  [Exit.

Act IV. Scene I.

The KING OF NAVARRE’S Park.

Enter the PRINCESS, ROSALINE, MARIA, KATHARINE, BOYET, Lords, Attendants, and a Forester.

Prin.  Was that the king, that spurr’d his horse so hard
Against the steep uprising of the hill?

Boyet.  I know not; but I think it was not he.   5

Prin.  Whoe’er a’ was, a’ show’d a mounting mind.
Well, lords, to-day we shall have our dispatch;
On Saturday we will return to France.
Then, forester, my friend, where is the bush
That we must stand and play the murderer in?   10

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,
And thereupon thou speak’st the fairest shoot.

For.  Pardon me, madam, for I meant not so.   15

Prin.  What, what? first praise me, and again say no?
O short-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.   20
Here, good my glass: — [Gives money.]  Take this for telling true:
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.
O heresy in fair, fit for these days!   25
A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise.
But come, the bow: now mercy goes to kill,
And shooting well is then accounted ill.
Thus will I save my credit in the shoot:
Not wounding, pity would not let me do ‘t;   30
If wounding, then it was to show my skill,
That more for praise than purpose meant to kill.
And out of question so it is sometimes,
Glory grows guilty of detested crimes,
When, for fame’s sake, for praise, an outward part,   35
We bend to that the working of the heart;
As I for praise alone now seek to spill
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 be   40
Lords o’er their lords?

Prin.  Only for praise; and praise we may afford
To any lady that subdues a lord.

Enter COSTARD.

Boyet.  Here comes a member of the commonwealth.   45

Cost.  God dig-you-den all! Pray you, which is the head lady?

Prin.  Thou shalt know her, fellow, by the rest that have no heads.

Cost.  Which is the greatest lady, the highest?

Prin.  The thickest, and the tallest.

Cost.  The thickest, and the tallest! it is so; truth is truth.   50
An your waist, mistress, were as slender as my wit,
One o’ these maids’ girdles for your waist should be fit.
Are not you the chief woman? you are the thickest here.

Prin.  What’s your will, sir? what’s your will?

Cost.  I have a letter from Monsieur Berowne to one Lady Rosaline.   55

Prin.  O! thy letter, thy letter; he’s a good friend of mine.
Stand aside, good bearer. Boyet, you can carve;
Break up this capon.

Boyet.  I am bound to serve.
This letter is mistook; it importeth none here:   60
It is writ to Jaquenetta.

Prin.  We will read it, I swear.
Break the neck of the wax, and every one give ear.

Boyet.  By heaven, that thou art fair, is most infallible; true, that thou art beauteous; truth itself, that thou art lovely. More fairer than fair, beautiful than beauteous, truer than truth itself, have commiseration on thy heroical vassal! The magnanimous and most illustrate king Cophetua set eye upon the pernicious and indubitate beggar Zenelophon, and he it was that might rightly say veni, vidi, vici; which to anatomize in the vulgar — O base and obscure vulgar! — videlicet, he came, saw, and overcame: he came, one; saw, two; overcame, three. Who came? the king: Why did he come? to see: Why did he see? to overcome: To whom came he? to the beggar: What saw he? the beggar. Whom overcame he? the beggar. The conclusion is victory: on whose side? the king’s; the captive is enriched: on whose side? the beggar’s. The catastrophe is a nuptial: on whose side? the king’s, no, on both in one, or one in both. I am the king, for so stands the comparison; thou the beggar, for so witnesseth thy lowliness. Shall I command thy love? I may: Shall I enforce thy love? I could: Shall I entreat thy love? I 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 on thy picture, and my heart on thy every part.
Thine, in the dearest design of Industry,
DON ADRIANO DE ARMADO.     65
Thus dost thou hear the Nemean lion roar
‘Gainst thee, thou lamb, that standest 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?   70
Food for his rage, repasture for his den.

Prin.  What plume of feathers is he that indited this letter?
What vane? what weathercock? did you ever hear better?

Boyet.  I am much deceiv’d but I remember the style.

Prin.  Else your memory is bad, going o’er it erewhile.   75

Boyet.  This Armado is a Spaniard, that keeps here in court;
A phantasime, a Monarcho, and one that makes sport
To the prince and his book-mates.

Prin.  Thou, fellow, a word.
Who gave thee this letter?   80

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 Berowne, a good master of mine,   85
To a lady of France, that he call’d Rosaline.

Prin.  Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come, lords, away.
Here, sweet, put up this: ‘twill be thine another day.  [Exeunt PRINCESS and Train.

Boyet.  Who is the suitor? who is the suitor?

Ros.  Shall I teach you to know?   90

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,
Hang me by the neck if horns that year miscarry.   95
Finely put on!

Ros.  Well then, I am the shooter.

Boyet.  And who is your deer?

Ros.  If we choose by the horns, yourself: come not near.
Finely put on, indeed!   100

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 may I 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.  Thou canst not hit it, hit it, hit it,   105
Thou canst not hit it, my good man.

Boyet.  An I cannot, cannot, cannot,
An I cannot, another can.  [Exeunt ROSALINE and KATHARINE.

Cost.  By my troth, most pleasant: how both did fit it!

Mar.  A mark marvellous well shot, for they both did hit it.   110

Boyet.  A mark! O! mark but that mark; a mark, says my lady!
Let the mark have a prick in ‘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’ll ne’er hit the clout.

Boyet.  An’ if my hand be out, then belike your hand is in.   115

Cost.  Then will she get the upshoot 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 rubbing. Good night, my good owl.  [Exeunt BOYET and MARIA.

Cost.  By my soul, a swain! a most simple clown!   120
Lord, lord how the ladies and I have put him down!
O’ my troth, most sweet jests! most incony vulgar wit!
When it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely, as it were, so fit,
Armado, o’ the one side, O! a most dainty man.
To see him walk before a lady, and to bear her fan!   125
To see him kiss his hand! and how most sweetly a’ will swear!
And his page o’ t’ other side, that handful of wit!
Ah! heavens, it is a most pathetical nit.
[Shouting within.]  Sola, sola!  [Exit running.

Act IV. Scene II.

The Same.

Enter HOLOFERNES, SIR NATHANIEL, and DULL.

Nath.  Very reverend sport, truly: and done in the testimony of a good conscience.

Hol.  The deer was, as you know, sanguis, in blood; ripe as a pomewater, who now hangeth like a jewel in the ear of cœlo, the sky, the welkin, the heaven; and anon falleth like a crab on the face of terra, the soil, the land, the earth.

Nath.  Truly, Master Holofernes, the epithets are sweetly varied, like a scholar at the least: but, sir, I assure ye, it was a buck of the first head.   5

Hol.  Sir Nathaniel, haud credo.

Dull.  ’Twas not a haud credo; ’twas a pricket.

Hol.  Most barbarous intimation! yet a kind of insinuation, as it were, in via, in way, of explication; facere, as it were, replication, or, rather, ostentare, to show, as it were, his inclination, — after his undressed, unpolished, uneducated, unpruned, untrained, or, rather, unlettered, or, ratherest, unconfirmed fashion, — to insert again my haud credo for a deer.

Dull.  I said the deer was not a haud credo; ’twas a pricket.

Hol.  Twice sod simplicity, bis coctus!   10
O! thou monster Ignorance, how deformed dost thou look!

Nath.  Sir, he hath not fed of the dainties that are bred of a book; he hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink: his intellect is not replenished; he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts:
And such barren plants are set before us, that we thankful 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, indiscreet, or a fool:   15
So, were there a patch set on learning, to see him in a school:
But, omne bene, say I; being of an old Father’s mind,
Many can brook the weather that love not the wind.

Dull.  You two are book-men: can you tell by your wit,
What was a month old at Cain’s birth, that’s not five weeks old as yet?   20

Hol.  Dictynna, goodman Dull: Dictynna, goodman Dull.

Dull.  What is Dictynna?

Nath.  A title to Phœbe, to Luna, to the moon.

Hol.  The moon was a month old when Adam was no more;
And raught not to five weeks when he came to five-score.   25
The allusion holds in the exchange.

Dull.  ’Tis true indeed: the collusion holds in the exchange.

Hol.  God comfort thy capacity! I say, the allusion holds in the exchange.

Dull.  And I say the pollusion holds in the exchange, for the moon is never but a month old; and I say beside that ’twas a pricket that the princess killed.

Hol.  Sir Nathaniel, will you hear an extemporal epitaph on the death of the deer? and, to humour the ignorant, I have call’d the deer the princess killed, a pricket.   30

Nath.  Perge, good Master Holofernes, perge; so it shall please you to abrogate scurrility.

Hol.  I will something affect the letter; for it argues facility.
The preyful princess pierc’d and prick’d a pretty pleasing pricket;

Some say a sore; but not a sore, till now made sore with shooting.
The dogs did yell; put L to sore, then sorel jumps from thicket;   35

Or pricket, sore, or else sorel; the people fall a hooting.
If sore be sore, then L to sore makes fifty sores one sorel!
Of one sore I a hundred make, by adding but one more L.

Nath.  A rare talent!

Dull.  [Aside.]  If a talent be a claw, look how he claws him with a talent.   40

Hol.  This is a gift that I have, simple, simple; a foolish extravagant spirit, full of forms, figures, shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions, revolutions: these are begot in the ventricle of memory, nourished in the womb of pia mater, and delivered upon the mellowing of occasion. But the gift is good in those in whom it is acute, and I am thankful for it.

Nath.  Sir, I praise the Lord for you, and so may my parishioners; for their sons are well tutored by you, and their daughters profit very greatly under you: you are a good member of the commonwealth.

Hol.  Mehercle! if their sons be ingenuous, they shall want to instruction; if their daughters be capable, I will put it to them. But, vir sapit qui pauca loquitur. A soul feminine saluteth us.

Enter JAQUENETTA and COSTARD.

Jaq.  God give you good morrow, Master parson.   45

Hol.  Master parson, quasi pers-on. An if one should be pierced, which is the one?

Cost.  Marry, Master schoolmaster, he that is likest to a hogshead.

Hol.  Piercing a hogshead! a good lustre of conceit in a turf of earth; fire enough for a flint, pearl enough for a swine: ’tis pretty; it is well.

Jaq.  Good Master parson  [giving a letter to NATHANIEL], be so good as read me this letter: it was given me by Costard, and sent me from Don Armado: I beseech you, read it.

Hol.  Fauste, precor gelida quando pecus omne sub umbra Ruminat, and so forth. Ah! good old Mantuan. I may speak of thee as the traveller doth of Venice:   50
— Venetia, Venetia,
Chi non te vede, non te pretia.
Old Mantuan! old Mantuan! Who 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 — What, my soul, verses?

Nath.  Ay, sir, and very learned.

Hol.  Let me hear a staff, a stanze, a verse: lege, domine.   55

Nath.
If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love?
Ah! never faith could hold, if not to beauty vow’d;
Though to myself forsworn, to thee I’ll faithful prove;
Those thoughts to me were oaks, to thee like osiers bow’d.
Study his bias leaves and makes his book thine eyes,
Where all those pleasures live that art would comprehend:
If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice.
Well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend;
All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder;
Which is to me some praise that I thy parts admire.
Thy eye Jove’s lightning bears, thy voice his dreadful thunder,
Which, not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire.
Celestial as thou art, O! pardon love this wrong,
That sings heaven’s praise with such an earthly tongue!

Hol.  You find not the apostrophas, and so miss the accent: let me supervise the canzonet. Here are only numbers ratified; but, for the elegancy, facility, and golden cadence of poesy, caret. Ovidius Naso was the man: and why, indeed, Naso, but for smelling out the odoriferous flowers of fancy, the jerks of invention? Imitari is nothing; so doth the hound his master, the ape his keeper, the ‘tired horse his rider. But, damosella virgin, was this directed to you?

Jaq.  Ay; sir; from one Monsieur Berowne, one of the strange queen’s lords.

Hol.  I will overglance the superscript. To the snow-white hand of the most beauteous Lady Rosaline. I will look again on the intellect of the letter, for the nomination of the party writing to the person written unto: Your ladyship’s, in all desired employment, BEROWNE. — Sir Nathaniel, this Berowne is one of the votaries with the king; and here he hath framed a letter to a sequent of the stranger queen’s, which, accidentally, or by the way of progression, hath miscarried. Trip and go, my sweet; deliver this paper into the royal hand of the king; it may concern much. Stay not thy compliment; I forgive thy duty: adieu.

Jaq.  Good Costard, go with me. Sir, God save your life!   60

Cost.  Have with thee, my girl.  [Exeunt COSTARD and JAQUENETTA.

Nath.  Sir, you have done this in the fear of God, very religiously; and, as a certain Father saith —

Hol.  Sir, tell not me of the Father; I do fear colourable colours. But to return to the verses: did they please you, Sir Nathaniel?

Nath.  Marvellous well for the pen.

Hol.  I do dine to-day at the father’s of a certain pupil of mine; where, if before repast it shall please you to gratify the table with a grace, I will, on my privilege I have with the parents of the foresaid child or pupil, undertake your ben venuto; where I will prove those verses to be very unlearned, neither savouring of poetry, wit, nor invention. I beseech your society.   65

Nath.  And thank you too; for society — saith the text — is the happiness of life.

Hol.  And, certes, the text most infallibly concludes it. — [To DULL.]  Sir, I do invite you too: you shall not say me nay: pauca verba. Away! the gentles are at their game, and we will to our recreation.  [Exeunt.

Act IV. Scene III.

The Same.

Enter BEROWNE, with a paper.

Ber.  The king he is hunting the deer; I am coursing myself: they have pitched a toil; I am toiling in a pitch, — pitch that defiles: defile! a foul word! Well, sit thee down, sorrow! for so they say the fool said, and so say I, and I the fool: well proved, wit! By the Lord, this love is as mad as Ajax: it kills sheep: it kills me, I a sheep: well proved again o’ my side! I will not love: if I do, hang me; i’ faith, I will not. O! but her eye, — by this light, but for her eye, I would not love her; yes, for her two eyes. Well, I do nothing in the world but lie, and lie in my throat. By heaven, I do love, and it hath taught me to rime, and to be melancholy; and here is part of my rime, and here my melancholy. Well, she hath one o’ my sonnets already: the clown bore it, the fool sent it, and the lady hath it: sweet clown, sweeter fool, sweetest lady! By the world, I would not care a pin if the other three were in. Here comes one with a paper: God give him grace to groan!  [Gets up into a tree.

Enter the KING, with a paper.

King.  Ah me!   5

Ber.  [Aside.]  Shot, by heaven! Proceed, sweet Cupid: thou hast thumped him with thy bird-bolt under the left pap. In faith, secrets!

King.
So sweet a kiss the golden sun gives not
To those fresh morning drops upon the rose,
As thy eye-beams, when their fresh rays have smote
The night of dew that on my cheeks down flows:
Nor shines the silver moon one half so bright.
Through the transparent bosom of the deep,
As doth thy face through tears of mine give light;
Thou shin’st in every tear that I do weep:
No drop but as a coach doth carry thee;
So ridest thou triumphing in my woe.
Do but behold the tears that swell in me,
And they thy glory through my grief will show:
But do not love thyself; then thou wilt keep
My tears for glasses, and still make me weep.
O queen of queens! how far thou dost excel,
No thought can think, nor tongue of mortal tell.

How shall she know my griefs? I’ll drop the paper:
Sweet leaves, shade folly. Who is he comes here?  [Steps aside.
What, Longaville! and reading! listen, ear.   10

Enter LONGAVILLE, with a paper.

Ber.  Now, in thy likeness, one more fool appear!

Long.  Ay me! I am forsworn.

Ber.  Why, he comes in like a perjure, wearing papers.

King.  In love, I hope: sweet fellowship in shame!   15

Ber.  One drunkard loves another of the name.

Long.  Am I the first that have been perjur’d so?

Ber.  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, that hangs up simplicity.   20

Long.  I fear these stubborn lines lack power to move.
O sweet Maria, empress of my love!
These numbers will I tear, and write in prose.

Ber.  O! rimes are guards on wanton Cupid’s hose:
Disfigure not his slop.   25

Long.        This same shall go.
Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye,
‘Gainst whom the world cannot hold argument,
Persuade my heart to this false perjury?
Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment.
A woman I forswore; but I will prove,
Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee:
My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love;
Thy grace, being gain’d, cures all disgrace in me.
Vows are but breath, and breath a vapour is:
Then thou, fair sun, which on my earth dost shine,
Exhal’st this vapour-vow; in thee it is:
If broken, then, it is no fault of mine:
If by me broke, what fool is not so wise
To lose an oath to win a paradise!

Ber.  This is the liver-vein, which makes flesh a deity;
A green goose a goddess; pure, pure idolatry.
God amend us, God amend! we are much out o’ the way.

Long.  By whom shall I send this? — Company! stay.  [Steps aside.   30

Ber.  All hid, all hid; an old infant play.
Like a demi-god here sit I in the sky,
And wretched fools’ secrets heedfully o’er-eye.
More sacks to the mill! O heavens! I have my wish.

Enter DUMAINE, with a paper.   35
Dumaine transform’d: four woodcocks in a dish!

Dum.  O most divine Kate!

Ber.  O most profane coxcomb!

Dum.  By heaven, the wonder of a mortal eye!

Ber.  By earth, she is but corporal; there you lie.   40

Dum.  Her amber hairs for foul have amber quoted.

Ber.  An amber-colour’d raven was well noted.

Dum.  As upright as the cedar.

Ber.        Stoop, I say;
Her shoulder is with child.   45

Dum.        As fair as day.

Ber.  Ay, as some days; but then no sun must shine.

Dum.  O! that I had my wish.

Long.        And I had mine!

King.  And I mine too, good Lord!   50

Ber.  Amen, so I had mine. Is not that a good word?

Dum.  I would forget her; but a fever she
Reigns in my blood, and will remember’d be.

Ber.  A fever in your blood! why, then incision
Would let her out in saucers: sweet misprision!   55

Dum.  Once more I’ll read the ode that I have writ.

Ber.  Once more I’ll mark how love can vary wit.

Dum.
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,
All 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 thorn:
Vow, alack! for youth unmeet,
Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.
Do not call it sin in me,
That I am forsworn for thee;
Thou for whom e’en Jove would swear
Juno but an Ethiop were;
And deny himself for Jove,
Turning mortal for thy love.

This will I send, and something else more plain,
That shall express my true love’s fasting pain,   60
O! would the King, Berowne, and Longaville
Were lovers too. Ill, to example ill,
Would from my forehead wipe a perjur’d note;
For none offend where all alike do dote.

Long.  [Advancing.]  Dumaine, thy love is far from charity,   65
That in love’s grief desir’st society:
You may look pale, but I should blush, I know,
To be o’erheard and taken napping so.

King.  [Advancing.]  Come, sir, you blush: as his your case is such;
You chide at him, offending twice as much:   70
You do not love Maria; Longaville
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,   75
And mark’d you both, and for you both did blush.
I heard your guilty rimes, observ’d your fashion,
Saw sighs reek from you, noted well your passion:
Ay me! says one; O Jove! the other cries;
One, her hairs were gold, crystal the other’s eyes:   80
[To LONGAVILLE.]  You would for paradise break faith and troth;
[To DUMAINE.]  And Jove, for your love, would infringe an oath.
What will Berowne say, when that he shall hear
A faith infringed, which such zeal did swear?
How will he scorn! how will he spend his wit!   85
How will he triumph, leap and laugh at it!
For all the wealth that ever I did see,
I would not have him know so much by me.

Ber.  Now step I forth to whip hypocrisy.  [Descends from the tree.
Ah! good my liege, I pray thee, pardon me:   90
Good heart! what grace hast thou, thus to reprove
These worms for loving, that art most in love?
Your eyes do make no coaches; in your tears
There is no certain princess that appears:
You’ll not be perjur’d, ’tis a hateful thing:   95
Tush! none but minstrels like of sonneting.
But are you not asham’d? nay, are you not,
All three of you, to be thus much o’ershot?
You found his mote; the king your mote did see;
But I a beam do find in each of three.   100
O! what a scene of foolery have I seen,
Of sighs, of groans, of sorrow, and of teen;
O me! with what strict patience have I sat,
To see a king transformed to a gnat;
To see great Hercules whipping a gig,   105
And profound Solomon to tune a jig,
And Nestor play at push-pin with the boys,
And critic Timon laugh at idle toys!
Where lies thy grief? O! tell me, good Dumaine,
And, gentle Longaville, where lies thy pain?   110
And where my liege’s? all about the breast:
A caudle, ho!

King.        Too bitter is thy jest.
Are we betray’d thus to thy over-view?

Ber.  Not you to me, but I betray’d by you:   115
I, that am honest; I, that hold it sin
To break the vow I am engaged in;
I am betray’d, by keeping company
With men like men, men of inconstancy.
When shall you see me write a thing in rime?   120
Or groan for Joan? 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? —   125

King.        Soft! Whither away so fast?
A true man or a thief that gallops so?

Ber.  I post from love; good lover, let me go.

Enter JAQUENETTA and COSTARD.

Jaq.  God bless the king!   130

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,   135
The treason and you go in peace away together.

Jaq.  I beseech your Grace, let this letter be read:
Our parson misdoubts it; ’twas treason, he said.

King.  Berowne, read it over —  [Giving the letter to him.
Where hadst thou it?   140

Jaq.  Of Costard.

King.  Where hadst thou it?

Cost.  Of Dun Adramadio, Dun Adramadio.  [BEROWNE tears the letter.

King.  How now! what is in you? why dost thou tear it?

Ber.  A toy, my liege, a toy: your Grace needs not fear it.   145

Long.  It did move him to passion, and therefore let’s hear it.

Dum.  [Picking up the pieces.]  It is Berowne’s writing, and here is his name.

Ber.  [To COSTARD.]  Ah, you whoreson logger-head, you were born to do me shame.
Guilty, my lord, guilty; I confess, I confess.

King.  What?   150

Ber.  That you three fools lack’d me fool to make up the mess;
He, he, and you, and you my liege, and I,
Are pick-purses in love, and we deserve to die.
O! dismiss this audience, and I shall tell you more.

Dum.  Now the number is even.   155

Ber.        True, true; we are four.
Will these turtles be gone?

King.        Hence, sirs; away!

Cost.  Walk aside the true folk, and let the traitors stay.  [Exeunt COSTARD and JAQUENETTA.

Ber.  Sweet lords, sweet lovers, O! let us embrace.   160
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 were born;
Therefore, of all hands must we be forsworn.   165

King.  What! did these rent lines show some love of thine?

Ber.  ‘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,   170
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.  What zeal, what fury hath inspir’d thee now?   175
My love, her mistress, is a gracious moon;
She, an attending star, scarce seen a light.

Ber.  My eyes are then no eyes, nor I Berowne:
O! but for my love, day would turn to night.
Of all complexions the cull’d sovereignty   180
Do meet, as at a fair, in her fair cheek;
Where several worthies make one dignity,
Where nothing wants that want itself doth seek.
Lend me the flourish of all gentle tongues, —
Fie, painted rhetoric! O! she needs it not:   185
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 off fifty, looking in her eye:
Beauty doth varnish age, as if new-born,   190
And gives the crutch the cradle’s infancy.
O! ’tis the sun that maketh all things shine.

King.  By heaven, thy love is black as ebony.

Ber.  Is ebony like her? O wood divine!
A wife of such wood were felicity.   195
O! who can give an oath? where is a book?
That I may swear beauty doth beauty lack,
If that she learn not of her eye to look:
No face is fair that is not full so black.

King.  O paradox! Black is the badge of hell,   200
The hue of dungeons and the scowl of night;
And beauty’s crest becomes the heavens well.

Ber.  Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of light.
O! if in black my lady’s brows be deck’d,
It mourns that painting and usurping hair   205
Should ravish doters with a false aspect;
And therefore is she born to make black fair.
Her favour turns the fashion of the days,
For native blood is counted painting now:
And therefore red, that would avoid dispraise,   210
Paints itself black, to imitate her brow.

Dum.  To look like her are chimney-sweepers black.

Long.  And since her time are colliers counted bright.

King.  And Ethiops of their sweet complexion crack.

Dum.  Dark needs no candles now, for dark is light.   215

Ber.  Your mistresses dare never come in rain,
For fear their colours should be wash’d away.

King.  ‘Twere good yours did; for, sir, to tell you plain,
I’ll find a fairer face not wash’d to-day.

Ber.  I’ll prove her fair, or talk till doomsday here.   220

King.  No devil will fright thee then so much as she.

Dum.  I never knew man hold vile stuff so dear.

Long.  Look, here’s thy love:  [Showing his shoe.]  my foot and her face see.

Ber.  O! if the streets were paved with thine eyes,
Her feet were much too dainty for such tread.   225

Dum.  O vile! then, as she goes, what upward lies
The street should see as she walk’d over head.

King.  But what of this? Are we not all in love?

Ber.  Nothing so sure; and thereby all forsworn.

King.  Then leave this chat; and good Berowne, now prove   230
Our loving lawful, and our faith not torn.

Dum.  Ay, marry, there; some flattery for this evil.

Long.  O! some authority how to proceed;
Some tricks, some quillets, how to cheat the devil.

Dum.  Some salve for perjury.   235

Ber.        O, ’tis more than need.
Have at you, then, affection’s men-at-arms:
Consider what you first did swear unto,
To fast, to study, and to see no woman;
Flat treason ‘gainst the kingly state of youth.   240
Say, can you fast? your stomachs are too young,
And abstinence engenders maladies.
And where that you have vow’d to study, lords,
In that each of you hath forsworn his book,
Can you still dream and pore and thereon look?   245
For when would you, my lord, or you, or you,
Have found the ground of study’s excellence
Without the beauty of a woman’s face?
From women’s eyes this doctrine I derive:
They are the ground, the books, the academes,   250
From whence doth spring the true Promethean fire.
Why, universal plodding poisons up
The nimble spirits in the arteries,
As motion and long-during action tires
The sinewy vigour of the traveller.   255
Now, for not looking on a woman’s face,
You have in that forsworn the use of eyes,
And study too, the causer of your vow;
For where is any author in the world
Teaches such beauty as a woman’s eye?   260
Learning is but an adjunct to ourself,
And where we are our learning likewise is:
Then when ourselves we see in ladies’ eyes,
Do we not likewise see our learning there?
O! we have made a vow to study, lords,   265
And in that vow we have forsworn our books:
For when would you, my liege, or you, or you,
In leaden contemplation have found out
Such fiery numbers as the prompting eyes
Of beauty’s tutors have enrich’d you with?   270
Other slow arts entirely keep the brain,
And therefore, finding barren practisers,
Scarce show a harvest of their heavy toil;
But love, first learned in a lady’s eyes,
Lives not alone immured in the brain,   275
But, with the motion of all elements,
Courses as swift as thought in every power,
And gives to every power a double power,
Above their functions and their offices.
It adds a precious seeing to the eye;   280
A lover’s eyes will gaze an eagle blind;
A lover’s ear will hear the lowest sound,
When the suspicious head of theft is stopp’d:
Love’s feeling is more soft and sensible
Than are the tender horns of cockled snails:   285
Love’s tongue proves dainty Bacchus gross in taste.
For valour, is not Love a Hercules,
Still climbing trees in the Hesperides?
Subtle as Sphinx; as sweet and musical
As bright Apollo’s lute, strung with his hair;   290
And when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods
Makes heaven drowsy with the harmony.
Never durst poet touch a pen to write
Until his ink were temper’d with Love’s sighs;
O! then his lines would ravish savage ears,   295
And plant in tyrants mild humility.
From women’s eyes this doctrine I derive:
They sparkle still the right Promethean fire;
They are the books, the arts, the academes,
That show, contain, and nourish all the world;   300
Else none at all in aught proves excellent.
Then fools you were these women to forswear,
Or, keeping what is sworn, you will prove fools.
For wisdom’s sake, a word that all men love,
Or for love’s sake, a word that loves all men,   305
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.
It is religion to be thus forsworn;   310
For charity itself fulfils the law;
And who can sever love from charity?

King.  Saint Cupid, then! and, soldiers, to the field!

Ber.  Advance your standards, and upon them, lords!
Pell-mell, down with them! but be first advis’d,   315
In conflict that you get the sun of them.

Long.  Now to plain-dealing; lay these glozes by;
Shall we resolve to woo these girls of France?

King.  And win them too: therefore let us devise
Some entertainment for them in their tents.   320

Ber.  First, from the park let us conduct them thither;
Then homeward every man attach the hand
Of his fair mistress: in the afternoon
We will with some strange pastime solace them,
Such as the shortness of the time can shape;   325
For revels, dances, masks, and merry hours,
Forerun fair Love, strewing her way with flowers.

King.  Away, away! no time shall be omitted,
That will betime, and may by us be fitted.

Ber.  Allons! allons! Sow’d cockle reap’d no corn;   330
And justice always whirls in equal measure:
Light wenches may prove plagues to men forsworn;
If so, our copper buys no better treasure.  [Exeunt.

Act V. Scene I.

The KING OF NAVARRE’S Park.

Enter HOLOFERNES, SIR NATHANIEL, and DULL.

Hol.  Satis quod sufficit.

Nath.  I praise God for you, sir: your reasons at dinner have been sharp and sententious; pleasant without scurrility, witty without affection, audacious without impudency, learned without opinion, and strange without heresy. I did converse this quondam day with a companion of the king’s, who is intituled, nominated, or called, Don Adriano de Armado.

Hol.  Novi hominem tanquam te: his humour is lofty, his discourse peremptory, his tongue filed, his eye ambitious, his gait majestical, and his general behaviour vain, ridiculous, and thrasonical. He is too picked, too spruce, too affected, too odd, as it were, too peregrinate, as I may call it.   5

Nath.  A most singular and choice epithet.  [Draws out his table-book.

Hol.  He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument. I abhor such fanatical phantasimes, such insociable and point-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, not d, e, t: he clepeth a calf, cauf; half, hauf; neighbour vocatur nebour, neigh abbreviated ne. This is abhominable, which he would call abominable, — it insinuateth me of insanie: anne intelligis, domine? To make frantic, lunatic.

Nath.  Laus Deo bone intelligo.

Hol.  Bone? bone, for bene: Priscian a little scratched; ‘twill serve.

Enter ARMADO, MOTH, and COSTARD.   10

Nath.  Videsne quis venit?

Hol.  Video, et gaudeo.

Arm.  [To MOTH.]  Chirrah!

Hol.  Quare Chirrah, not sirrah?

Arm.  Men of peace, well encountered.   15

Hol.  Most military sir, salutation.

Moth.  [Aside to COSTARD.]  They have been at a great feast of languages, and stolen the scraps.

Cost.  O! they have lived long on the almsbasket of words. I marvel thy master hath not eaten thee for a word; for thou art not so long by the head as honorificabilitudinitatibus: thou art easier swallowed than a flap-dragon.

Moth.  Peace! the peal begins.

Arm.  [To HOLOFERNES.]  Monsieur, are you not lettered?   20

Moth.  Yes, yes; he teaches boys the hornbook. What is a, b, spelt backward, with the horn on his head?

Hol.  Ba, pueritia, with a horn added.

Moth.  Ba! most silly sheep with a horn. You hear his learning.

Hol.  Quis, quis, thou consonant?

Moth.  The third of the five vowels, if you repeat them; or the fifth, if I.   25

Hol.  I will repeat them, — a, e, i, —

Moth.  The sheep; the other two concludes it, — o, u.

Arm.  Now, by the salt wave of the Mediterraneum, a sweet touch, a quick venew of wit! snip, snap, quick and home! it rejoiceth my intellect: true wit!

Moth.  Offered by a child to an old man; which is wit-old.

Hol.  What is the figure? what is the figure?   30

Moth.  Horns.

Hol.  Thou disputest like an infant; go, whip thy gig.

Moth.  Lend me your horn to make one, and I will whip about your infamy circum circa. A gig of a cuckold’s horn.

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 halfpenny purse of wit, thou pigeon-egg of discretion. O! an the heavens were so pleased that thou wert but my bastard, what a joyful father wouldst thou make me. Go to; thou hast it ad dunghill, at the fingers’ ends, as they say.

Hol.  O! I smell false Latin; dunghill for unguem.   35

Arm.  Arts-man, præambula: we will be singled from the barbarous. Do you not educate youth at the charge-house on the top of the mountain?

Hol.  Or mons, the hill.

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 pavilion in the posteriors of this day, which the rude multitude call the afternoon.   40

Hol.  The posterior of the day, most generous sir, is liable, congruent, and measurable for the afternoon: the word is well culled, chose, sweet and apt, 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 friend. For what is in ward between us, let it pass: I do beseech thee, remember thy curtsy; I beseech thee, apparel thy head: and among other importunate and most serious designs, 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 my poor shoulder, and with his royal finger, thus dally with my excrement, with my mustachio: but, sweet heart, let that pass. By the world, I recount no fable: 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 secrecy, that the king would have me present the princess, sweet chuck, with some delightful ostentation, or show, or pageant, or antick, or fire-work. Now, understanding that the curate and your sweet self are good at such eruptions and sudden breaking out of mirth, as it were, I have acquainted you withal, to the end to crave your assistance.

Hol.  Sir, you shall present before her the Nine Worthies. Sir Nathaniel, as concerning some entertainment of time, some show in the posterior of this day, to be rendered by our assistance, at the king’s command, and this most gallant, illustrate, and learned gentleman, before the princess; I say, none so fit as to present the Nine Worthies.

Nath.  Where will you find men worthy enough to present them?

Hol.  Joshua, yourself; myself, or this gallant gentleman, Judas Maccabæus; this swain, because of his great limb, or joint, shall pass Pompey the Great; the page, Hercules, —   45

Arm.  Pardon, sir; error: he is not quantity enough for that Worthy’s thumb: he is not so big as the end of his club.

Hol.  Shall I have audience? he shall present Hercules in minority: his enter and exit shall be strangling a snake; and I will have an apology for that purpose.

Moth.  An excellent device! so, if any of the audience hiss, you may cry, ‘Well done, Hercules! now thou crushest the snake!’ that is the way to make an offence gracious, though few have the grace to do it.

Arm.  For the rest of the Worthies? —

Hol.  I will play three myself.   50

Moth.  Thrice-worthy gentleman!

Arm.  Shall I tell you a thing?

Hol.  We attend.

Arm.  We will have, if this fadge not, an antick. I beseech you, follow.

Hol.  Via, goodman Dull! thou hast spoken no word all this while.   55

Dull.  Nor understood none neither, sir.

Hol.  Allons! we will employ thee.

Dull.  I’ll make one in a dance, or so; or I will play the tabor to the Worthies, and let them dance the hay.

Hol.  Most dull, honest Dull, to our sport, away!  [Exeunt.

Act V. Scene II.

The same.  Before the PRINCESS’S Pavilion.

Enter the PRINCESS, KATHARINE, ROSALINE, and MARIA.

Prin.  Sweet hearts, we shall be rich ere we depart,
If fairings come thus plentifully in:
A lady wall’d about with diamonds!   5
Look you what I have from the loving king.

Ros.  Madam, came nothing else along with that?

Prin.  Nothing but this! yes, as much love in rime
As would be cramm’d up in a sheet of paper,
Writ o’ both sides the leaf, margent and all,   10
That he was fain to seal on Cupid’s name.

Ros.  That was the way to make his godhead wax;
For he hath been five thousand years a boy.

Kath.  Ay, and a shrewd unhappy gallows too.

Ros.  You’ll ne’er be friends with him: a’ kill’d your sister.   15

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 ha’ been a grandam ere she died;
And so may you, for a light heart lives long.   20

Ros.  What’s your dark meaning, mouse, of this light word?

Kath.  A light condition in a beauty dark.

Ros.  We need more light to find your meaning out.

Kath.  You’ll mar the light by taking it in snuff;
Therefore, I’ll darkly end the argument.   25

Ros.  Look, what you do, you do it still i’ the dark.

Kath.  So do not you, for you are a light wench.

Ros.  Indeed I weigh not you, and therefore light.

Kath.  You weigh me not. O! that’s you care not for me.

Ros.  Great reason; for, ‘past cure is still past care.’   30

Prin.  Well bandied both; a set of with well play’d.
But Rosaline, you have a favour too:
Who sent it? and what is it?

Ros.        I would you knew:
An if my face were but as fair as yours,   35
My favour were as great; be witness this.
Nay, I have verses too, I thank Berowne:
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.   40
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.   45

Ros.  ‘Ware pencils! how? let me not die your 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 beshrew all shrows!

Prin.  But what was sent to you from fair Dumaine?   50

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,   55
Vilely compil’d, profound simplicity.

Mar.  This, and these pearls to me sent Longaville:
The letter is too long by half a mile.

Prin.  I think no less. Dost thou not wish in heart
The chain were longer and the letter short?   60

Mar.  Ay, or I would these hands might never part.

Prin.  We are wise girls to mock our lovers so.

Ros.  They are worse fools to purchase mocking so.
That same Berowne I’ll torture ere I go.
O that I knew he were but in by the week!   65
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 rimes,
And shape his service wholly to my hests,
And make him proud to make me proud that jests!   70
So perttaunt-like would I o’ersway his state
That he should be my fool, and I his fate.

Prin.  None are so surely caught, when they are catch’d,
As wit turn’d fool: folly, in wisdom hatch’d,
Hath wisdom’s warrant and the help of school   75
And wit’s own grace to grace a learned fool.

Ros.  The blood of youth burns not with such excess
As gravity’s revolt to wantonness.

Mar.  Folly in fools bears not so strong a note
As foolery in the wise, when wit doth dote;   80
Since all the power thereof it doth apply
To prove, by wit, worth in simplicity.

Enter BOYET.

Prin.  Here comes Boyet, and mirth is in his face.

Boyet.  O! I am stabb’d with laughter. Where’s her Grace?   85

Prin.  Thy news, Boyet?

Boyet.        Prepare, madam, prepare! —
Arm, wenches, arm! encounters mounted are
Against your peace: Love doth approach disguis’d,
Armed in arguments; you’ll be surpris’d:   90
Muster your wits; stand in your own defence;
Or hide your heads like cowards, and fly hence.

Prin.  Saint Denis to Saint Cupid! What are they
That charge their breath against us? say, scout, say.

Boyet.  Under the cool shade of a sycamore   95
I thought to close mine eyes some half an hour,
When, lo! to interrupt my purpos’d rest,
Toward that shade I might behold addrest
The king and his companions: warily
I stole into a neighbour thicket by,   100
And overheard what you shall overhear;
That, by and by, disguis’d they will be here.
Their herald is a pretty knavish page,
That well by heart hath conn’d his embassage:
Action and accent did they teach him there;   105
‘Thus must thou speak, and thus thy body bear.’
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.’   110
The boy replied, ‘An angel is not evil;
I should have fear’d her had she been a devil.’
With that all laugh’d and clapp’d him on the shoulder,
Making the bold wag by their praises bolder.
One rubb’d his elbow thus, and fleer’d, and swore   115
A better speech was never spoke before;
Another, with his finger and his thumb,
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.   120
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?   125

Boyet.  They do, they do; and are apparell’d 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’ll know   130
By favours 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.   135
Hold, Rosaline, this favour thou shalt wear,
And then the king will court thee for his dear:
Hold, take thou this, my sweet, and give me thine,
So shall Berowne take me for Rosaline,
And change you favours too; so shall your loves   140
Woo contrary, deceiv’d by these removes.

Ros.  Come on, then; wear the favours most in sight.

Kath.  But in this changing what is your intent?

Prin.  The effect of my intent is, to cross theirs:
They do it but in mocking merriment;   145
And mock for mock is only my intent.
Their several counsels they unbosom shall
To loves mistook and so be mock’d withal
Upon the next occasion that we meet,
With visages display’d, to talk and greet.   150

Ros.  But shall we dance, if they desire us to ‘t?

Prin.  No, to the death, we will not move a foot:
Nor to their penn’d speech render we no grace;
But while ’tis spoke each turn away her face.

Boyet.  Why, that contempt will kill the speaker’s heart,   155
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’er-thrown,
To make theirs ours and ours none but our own:   160
So shall we stay, mocking intended game,
And they, well mock’d, depart away with shame.  [Trumpets sound within.

Boyet.  The trumpet sounds: be mask’d; the maskers come.  [The Ladies mask.

Enter Blackamoors with music; MOTH; the KING, BEROWNE, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAINE in Russian habits, and masked.

Moth.  All hail, the richest beauties on the earth!   165

Boyet.  Beauties no richer than rich taffeta.

Moth.  A holy parcel of the fairest dames,  [The Ladies turn their backs to him.
That ever turn’d their — backs — to mortal views!

Ber.  ‘Their eyes,’ villain, ‘their eyes.’

Moth.  That ever turn’d their eyes to mortal views!   170
Out —

Boyet.  True; ‘out,’ indeed.

Moth.  ‘Out of your favours, heavenly spirits, vouchsafe
Not to behold’ —

Ber.  ‘Once to behold,’ rogue.   175

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.   180

Ber.  Is this your perfectness? be gone, you rogue!  [Exit MOTH.

Ros.  What would these strangers? know their minds, Boyet:
If they do speak our language, ’tis our will
That some plain man recount their purposes:
Know what they would.   185

Boyet.  What would you with the princess?

Ber.  Nothing but peace and gentle visitation.

Ros.  What would they, say they?

Boyet.  Nothing but peace and gentle visitation.

Ros.  Why, that they have; and bid them so be gone.   190

Boyet.  She says, you have it, and you may be gone.

King.  Say to her, we have measur’d many miles,
To tread a measure with her on this grass.

Boyet.  They say, that they have measur’d many a mile,
To tread a measure with you on this grass.   195

Ros.  It is not so. Ask them how many inches
Is in one mile: if they have measur’d many,
The measure then of one is easily told.

Boyet.  If to come hither you have measur’d miles,
And many miles, the princess bids you tell   200
How many inches do fill up one mile.

Ber.  Tell her we measure them by weary steps.

Boyet.  She hears herself.

Ros.        How many weary steps,
Of many weary miles you have o’ergone,   205
Are number’d in the travel of one mile?

Ber.  We number nothing that we spend for you:
Our duty is so rich, so infinite,
That we may do it still without accompt.
Vouchsafe to show the sunshine of your face,   210
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!
Vouchsafe, bright moon, and these thy stars, to shine,
Those clouds remov’d, upon our wat’ry eyne.   215

Ros.  O vain petitioner! beg a greater matter;
Thou now request’st but moonshine in the water.

King.  Then, in our measure but vouchsafe one change.
Thou bid’st me beg; this begging is not strange.

Ros.  Play, music, then! Nay, you must do it soon.  [Music plays.   220
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’s chang’d.

King.  Yet still she is the moon, and I the man.
The music plays; vouchsafe some motion to it.   225

Ros.  Our ears vouchsafe it.

King.        But your legs should do it.

Ros.  Since you are strangers, and come here by chance,
We’ll not be nice: take hands: we will not dance.

King.  Why take we hands then?   230

Ros.        Only to part friends.
Curtsy, sweet hearts; and so the measure ends.

King.  More measure of this measure: be not nice.

Ros.  We can afford no more at such a price.

King.  Prize you yourselves? what buys your company?   235

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.   240

Ros.  In private, then.

King.        I am best pleas’d with that.  [They converse apart.

Ber.  White-handed mistress, one sweet word with thee.

Prin.  Honey, and milk, and sugar; there are three.

Ber.  Nay then, two treys, an if you grow so nice,   245
Metheglin, wort, and malmsey: well run, dice!
There’s half a dozen sweets.

Prin.        Seventh sweet, adieu:
Since you can cog, I’ll play no more with you.

Ber.  One word in secret.   250

Prin.        Let it not be sweet.

Ber.  Thou griev’st my gall.

Prin.        Gall! bitter.

Ber.        Therefore meet.  [They converse apart.

Dum.  Will you vouchsafe with me to change a word?   255

Mar.  Name it.

Dum.        Fair lady, —

Mar.        Say you so? Fair lord,
Take that for your fair lady.

Dum.        Please it you,   260
As much in private, and I’ll bid adieu.  [They converse apart.

Kath.  What! was your visor made without a tongue?

Long.  I know the reason, lady, why you ask.

Kath.  O! for your reason; quickly, sir; I long.

Long.  You have a double tongue within your mask,   265
And would afford my speechless visor half.

Kath.  ‘Veal,’ quoth the Dutchman. Is not ‘veal’ a calf?

Long.  A calf, fair lady!

Kath.        No, a fair lord calf.

Long.  Let’s part the word.   270

Kath.        No, I’ll 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.   275

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,   280
Above the sense of sense; so sensible
Seemeth their conference; their conceits have wings
Fleeter than arrows, bullets, wind, thought, swifter things.

Ros.  Not one word more, my maids: break off, break off.

Ber.  By heaven, all dry-beaten with pure scoff!   285

King.  Farewell, mad wenches: you have simple wits.

Prin.  Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovits.  [Exeunt KING, LORDS, Music, and Attendants.
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 have; gross, gross; fat, fat.   290

Prin.  O poverty in wit, kingly-poor flout!
Will they not, think you, hang themselves to-night?
Or ever, but in visors, show their faces?
This pert Berowne was out of countenance quite.

Ros.  O! they were all in lamentable cases.   295
The king was weeping-ripe for a good word.

Prin.  Berowne did swear himself out of all suit.

Mar.  Dumaine was at my service, and his sword:
‘No point,’ quoth I: my servant straight was mute.

Kath.  Lord Longaville said, I came o’er his heart;   300
And trow you what he call’d me?

Prin.        Qualm, perhaps.

Kath.  Yes, in good faith.

Prin.        Go, sickness as thou art!

Ros.  Well, better wits have worn plain statute-caps.   305
But will you hear? the king is my love sworn.

Prin.  And quick Berowne hath plighted faith to me.

Kath.  And Longaville was for my service born.

Mar.  Dumaine is mine, as sure as bark on tree.

Boyet.  Madam, and pretty mistresses, give ear:   310
Immediately they will again be here
In their own shapes; for it can never be
They will digest this harsh indignity.

Prin.  Will they return?

Boyet.        They will, they will, God knows;   315
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 understood.

Boyet.  Fair ladies mask’d, are roses in their bud:   320
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 advis’d,   325
Let’s mock them still, as well known as disguis’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 vilely penn’d,   330
And their rough carriage so ridiculous,
Should be presented at our tent to us.

Boyet.  Ladies, withdraw: the gallants are at hand.

Prin.  Whip to your tents, as roes run over land.  [Exeunt PRINCESS, ROS., KATH., and MARIA.

Enter the KING, BEROWNE, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAINE in their proper habits.   335

King.  Fair sir, God save you! Where is the princess?

Boyet.  Gone to her tent. Please it your majesty,
Command me any service to her thither?

King.  That she vouchsafe me audience for one word.

Boyet.  I will; and so will she, I know, my lord.  [Exit.   340

Ber.  This fellow pecks up wit, as pigeons pease,
And utters it again when God doth please:
He is wit’s pedlar, and retails his wares
At wakes and wassails, meetings, markets, fairs;
And we that sell by gross, the Lord doth know,   345
Have not the grace to grace it with such show.
This gallant pins the wenches on his sleeve;
Had he been Adam, he had tempted Eve:
He can carve too, and lisp: why, this is he
That kiss’d his hand away in courtesy;   350
This is the ape of form, monsieur the nice,
That, when he plays at tables, chides the dice
In honourable terms: nay, he can sing
A mean most meanly, and in ushering
Mend him who can: the ladies call him, sweet;   355
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-tongu’d Boyet.   360

King.  A blister on his sweet tongue, with my heart,
That put Armado’s page out of his part!

Re-enter the PRINCESS, ushered by BOYET; ROSALINE, MARIA, KATHARINE, and Attendants.

Ber.  See where it comes! Behaviour, what wert thou,
Till this man show’d thee? and what art thou now?   365

King.  All hail, sweet madam, and fair time of 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   370
To lead you to our court: vouchsafe it then.

Prin.  This field shall hold me, and so hold your vow:
Nor God, nor I, delights in perjur’d men.

King.  Rebuke me not for that which you provoke:
The virtue of your eye must break my oath.   375

Prin.  You nick-name virtue; vice you should have spoke;
For virtue’s office never breaks men’s troth.
Now, by my maiden honour, yet as pure
As the unsullied lily, I protest,
A world of torments though I should endure,   380
I would not yield to be your house’s guest;
So much I hate a breaking cause to be
Of heavenly oaths, vow’d with integrity.

King.  O! you have liv’d in desolation here,
Unseen, unvisited, much to our shame.   385

Prin.  Not so, my lord; it is not so, I swear;
We have had pastime here and pleasant game.
A mess of Russians left us but of late.

King.  How, madam! Russians?

Prin.        Ay, in truth, my lord;   390
Trim gallants, full of courtship and of state.

Ros.  Madam, speak true. It is not so, my lord:
My lady, to the manner of the days,
In courtesy gives undeserving praise.
We four, indeed, confronted were with four   395
In Russian habit: here they stay’d an hour,
And talk’d apace; and in that hour, my lord,
They did not bless us with one happy word.
I dare not call them fools; but this I think,
When they are thirsty, fools would fain have drink.   400

Ber.  This jest is dry to me. Fair gentle sweet,
Your wit makes wise things foolish: when we greet,
With eyes best seeing, heaven’s fiery eye,
By light we lose light: your capacity
Is of that nature that to your huge store   405
Wise things seem foolish and rich things but poor.

Ros.  This proves you wise and rich, for in my eye —

Ber.  I am a fool, and full of poverty.

Ros.  But that you take what doth to you belong,
It were a fault to snatch words from my tongue.   410

Ber.  O! I am yours, and all that I possess.

Ros.  All the fool mine?

Ber.        I cannot give you less.

Ros.  Which of the visors was it that you wore?

Ber.  Where? when? what visor? why demand you this?   415

Ros.  There, then, that visor; that superfluous case
That hid the worse, and show’d the better face.

King.  We are descried: they’ll mock us now downright.

Dum.  Let us confess, and turn it to a jest.

Prin.  Amaz’d, my lord? Why looks your highness sad?   420

Ros.  Help! hold his brows! he’ll swound. Why look you pale?
Sea-sick, I think, coming from Muscovy.

Ber.  Thus pour the stars down plagues for perjury.
Can any face of brass hold longer out? —
Here stand I, lady; dart thy skill at me;   425
Bruise me with scorn, confound me with a flout;
Thrust thy sharp wit quite through my ignorance;
Cut me to pieces with thy keen conceit;
And I will wish thee never more to dance,
Nor never more in Russian habit wait.   430
O! never will I trust to speeches penn’d,
Nor to the motion of a school-boy’s tongue,
Nor never come in visor to my friend,
Nor woo in rime, like a blind harper’s song,
Taffeta phrases, silken terms precise,   435
Three-pil’d hyperboles, spruce affectation,
Figures pedantical; these summer flies
Have blown me full of maggot ostentation:
I do forswear them; and I here protest,
By this white glove, — how white the hand, God knows, —   440
Henceforth my wooing mind shall be express’d
In russet yeas and honest kersey noes:
And, to begin, wench, — so God help me, la! —
My love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw.

Ros.  Sans ‘sans,’ I pray you.   445

Ber.        Yet I have a trick
Of the old rage: bear with me, I am sick;
I’ll leave it by degrees. Soft! let us see:
Write, ‘Lord have mercy on us’ on those three;
They are infected, in their hearts it lies;   450
They have the plague, and caught it of your eyes:
These lords are visited; you are not free,
For the Lord’s tokens on you do I see.

Prin.  No, they are free that gave these tokens to us.

Ber.  Our states are forfeit: seek not to undo us.   455

Ros.  It is not so. For how can this be true,
That you stand forfeit, being those that sue?

Ber.  Peace! for I will not have to do with you.

Ros.  Nor shall not, if I do as I intend.

Ber.  Speak for yourselves: my wit is at an end.   460

King.  Teach us, sweet madam, for our rude transgression
Some fair excuse.

Prin.        The fairest is confession.
Were you not here, but even now, disguis’d?

King.  Madam, I was.   465

Prin.        And were you well advis’d?

King.  I was, fair madam.

Prin.        When you then were here,
What did you whisper in your lady’s ear?

King.  That more than all the world I did respect her.   470

Prin.  When she shall challenge this, you will reject her.

King.  Upon mine honour, no.

Prin.        Peace! peace! forbear;
Your oath once broke, you force not to forswear.

King.  Despise me, when I break this oath of mine.   475

Prin.  I will; and therefore keep it. Rosaline,
What did the Russian whisper in your ear?

Ros.  Madam, he swore that he did hold me dear
As precious eyesight, and did value me
Above this world; adding thereto, moreover,   480
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.   485

Ros.  By heaven you did; and to confirm it plain,
You gave me this: but take it, sir, again.

King.  My faith and this the princess I did give:
I knew her by this jewel on her sleeve.

Prin.  Pardon me, sir, this jewel did she wear;   490
And Lord Berowne, I thank him, is my dear.
What, will you have me, or your pearl again?

Ber.  Neither of either; I remit both twain.
I see the trick on ‘t: here was a consent,
Knowing aforehand of our merriment,   495
To dash it like a Christmas comedy.
Some carry-tale, some please-man, some slight zany,
Some mumble-news, some trencher-knight, some Dick,
That smiles his cheek in years, and knows the trick
To make my lady laugh when she’s dispos’d,   500
Told our intents before; which once disclos’d,
The ladies did change favours, and then we,
Following the signs, woo’d but the sign of she.
Now, to our perjury to add more terror,
We are again forsworn, in will and error.   505
Much upon this it is:  [To BOYET.]  and might not you
Forestall 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,   510
Holding a trencher, jesting merrily?
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.   515

Boyet.        Full merrily
Hath this brave manage, this career, been run.

Ber.  Lo! he is tilting straight. Peace! I have done.

Enter COSTARD.
Welcome, pure wit! thou partest a fair fray.   520

Cost.  O Lord, sir, they would know
Whether the three Worthies shall come in or no.

Ber.  What, are there but three?

Cost.        No, sir; but it is vara fine,
For every one pursents three.   525

Ber.        And three times thrice is nine.

Cost.  Not so, sir; under correction, sir, I hope, it is not so.
You cannot beg us, sir, I can assure you, sir; we know what we know:
I hope, sir, three times thrice, sir, —

Ber.        Is not nine.   530

Cost.  Under correction, sir, we know whereuntil it doth amount.

Ber.  By Jove, I always took three threes for nine.

Cost.  O Lord, sir! it were pity you should get your living by reckoning, sir.

Ber.  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 parfect one man in one poor man, Pompion the Great, sir.   535

Ber.  Art thou one of the Worthies?

Cost.  It pleased them to think me worthy of Pompion the Great: for mine own part, I know not the degree of the Worthy, but I am to stand for him.

Ber.  Go, bid them prepare.

Cost.  We will turn it finely off, sir; we will take some care.  [Exit.

King.  Berowne, they will shame us; let them not approach.   540

Ber.  We are shame-proof, my lord; and ’tis some policy
To have one show worse than the king’s and his company.

King.  I say they shall not come.

Prin.  Nay, my good lord, let me o’errule you now.
That sport best pleases that doth least know how;   545
Where zeal strives to content, and the contents
Die in the zeal of those which it presents;
Their form confounded makes most form in mirth,
When great things labouring perish in their birth.

Ber.  A right description of our sport, my lord.   550

Enter ARMADO.

Arm.  Anointed, I implore so much expense of thy royal sweet breath as will utter a brace of words.  [ARMADO converses with the KING, and delivers a paper to him.

Prin.  Doth this man serve God?

Ber.  Why ask you?

Prin.  He speaks not like a man of God’s making,   555

Arm.  That’s all one, my fair, sweet, honey monarch; for, I protest, the schoolmaster is exceeding fantastical; too-too vain; too-too vain: but we will put it, as they say, to fortuna de la guerra. I wish you the peace of mind, most royal couplement!  [Exit.

King.  Here is like to be a good presence of Worthies. He presents Hector of Troy; the swain, Pompey the Great; the parish curate, Alexander; Armado’s page, Hercules; the pedant, Judas Maccabæus:
And if these four Worthies in their first show thrive,
These four will change habits and present the other five.

Ber.  There is five in the first show.   560

King.  You are deceived, ’tis not so.

Ber.  The pedant, the braggart, the hedgepriest, the fool, and the boy: —
Abate throw at novum, and the whole world again
Cannot pick out five such, take each one in his vein.

King.  The ship is under sail, and here she comes amain.   565

Enter COSTARD armed, for Pompey.

Cost.  I Pompey am, —

Boyet.        You lie, you are not he.

Cost.  I Pompey am, —

Boyet.        With libbard’s head on knee.   570

Ber.  Well said, old mocker: I must needs be friends with thee.

Cost.  I Pompey am, Pompey surnam’d the Big, —

Dum.  ‘The Great.’

Cost.  It is ‘Great,’ sir; Pompey surnam’d the Great;
That oft in field, with targe and shield, did make my foe to sweat:   575
And travelling along this coast, I here am come by chance,
And lay my arms before the legs of this sweet lass of France.
If your ladyship would say, ‘Thanks, Pompey,’ I had done.

Prin.  Great thanks, great Pompey.

Cost.  ’Tis not so much worth; but I hope I was perfect. I made a little fault in ‘Great.’   580

Ber.  My hat to a halfpenny, Pompey proves the best Worthy.

Enter SIR 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 conquering might:
My scutcheon plain declares that I am Alisander, —   585

Boyet.  Your nose says, no, you are not; for it stands too right.

Ber.  Your nose smells ‘no,’ in this, most tender-smelling knight.

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 true; ’tis right: you were so, Alisander.   590

Ber.  Pompey the Great, —

Cost.  Your servant, and Costard.

Ber.  Take away the conqueror, take away Alisander.

Cost.  [To NATHANIEL.]  O! sir, you have overthrown Alisander the conqueror! You will be scraped out of the painted cloth for this: your lion, that holds his poll-axe sitting on a close-stool, will be given to Ajax: he will be the ninth Worthy. A conqueror, and afeard to speak! run away for shame, Alisander!  [NATHANIEL retires.]  There, an ‘t shall please you: a foolish mild man; an honest man, look you, and soon dashed! He is a marvellous good neighbour, faith, and a very good bowler; but, for Alisander, — alas, you see how ’tis, — a little o’erparted. But there are Worthies a-coming will speak their mind in some other sort.

Prin.  Stand aside, good Pompey.   595

Enter HOLOFERNES armed, for Judas; and MOTH armed, for Hercules.

Hol.  Great Hercules is presented by this imp,

Whose club kill’d Cerberus, that three-headed canis;
And, when he was a babe, a child, a shrimp,

Thus did he strangle serpents in his manus.   600
Quoniam, he seemeth in minority,
Ergo, I come with this apology.
Keep some state in thy exit, and vanish. —  [MOTH retires.
Judas I am. —

Dum.  A Judas!   605

Hol.  Not Iscariot, sir.
Judas I am, ycleped Maccabæus.

Dum.  Judas Maccabæus clipt is plain Judas.

Ber.  A kissing traitor. How art thou prov’d Judas?

Hol.  Judas I am. —   610

Dum.  The more shame for you, Judas.

Hol.  What mean you, sir?

Boyet.  To make Judas hang himself.

Hol.  Begin, sir; you are my elder.

Ber.  Well follow’d: Judas was hanged on an elder.   615

Hol.  I will not be put out of countenance.

Ber.  Because thou hast no face.

Hol.  What is this?

Boyet.  A cittern-head.

Dum.  The head of a bodkin.   620

Ber.  A death’s face in a ring.

Long.  The face of an old Roman coin, scarce seen.

Boyet.  The pommel of Cæsar’s falchion.

Dum.  The carved-bone face on a flask.

Ber.  Saint George’s half-cheek in a brooch.   625

Dum.  Ay, and in a brooch of lead.

Ber.  Ay, and worn in the cap of a tooth-drawer.
And now forward; for we have put thee in countenance.

Hol.  You have put me out of countenance.

Ber.  False: we have given thee faces.   630

Hol.  But you have outfaced them all.

Ber.  An thou wert a lion, we would do so.

Boyet.  Therefore, as he is an ass, let him go.
And so adieu, sweet Jude! nay, why dost thou stay?

Dum.  For the latter end of his name.   635

Ber.  For the ass to the Jude? give it him: — Jud-as, away!

Hol.  This is not generous, not gentle, not humble.

Boyet.  A light for Monsieur Judas! it grows dark, he may stumble.

Prin.  Alas! poor Maccabæus, how hath he been baited.

Enter ARMADO armed, for Hector.   640

Ber.  Hide thy head, Achilles: here comes
Hector in arms.

Dum.  Though my mocks come home by me,
I will now be merry.

King.  Hector was but a Troyan in respect of this.   645

Boyet.  But is this Hector?

King.  I think Hector was not so clean-timbered.

Long.  His calf is too big for Hector.

Dum.  More calf, certain.

Boyet.  No; he is best indued in the small.   650

Ber.  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.   655

Ber.  A lemon.

Long.  Stuck with cloves.

Dum.  No, cloven.

Arm.  Peace!
The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty,   660

Gave Hector a gift, the heir of Ilion;
A man so breath’d, that certain he would fight ye

From morn till night, out of his pavilion.
I am that flower, —

Dum.        That mint.   665

Long.        That columbine.

Arm.  Sweet Lord Longaville, rein thy tongue.

Long.  I must rather give it the rein, for it runs against Hector.

Dum.  Ay, and Hector’s a greyhound.

Arm.  The sweet war-man is dead and rotten; sweet chucks, beat not the bones of the buried; when he breathed, he was a man. But I will forward with my device.  [To the PRINCESS.]  Sweet royalty, bestow on me the sense of hearing.   670

Prin.  Speak, brave Hector; we are much delighted.

Arm.  I do adore thy sweet Grace’s slipper.

Boyet.  [Aside to DUMAINE.]  Loves her by the foot.

Dum.  [Aside to BOYET.]  He may not by the yard.

Arm.  This Hector far surmounted Hannibal, —   675

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 Troyan, the poor wench is cast away: she’s quick; the child brags in her belly already: ’tis yours.

Arm.  Dost thou infamonize me among potentates? Thou shalt die.

Cost.  Then shall Hector be whipped for Jaquenetta that is quick by him, and hanged for Pompey that is dead by him.   680

Dum.  Most rare Pompey!

Boyet.  Renowned Pompey!

Ber.  Greater than great, great, great, great Pompey! Pompey the Huge!

Dum.  Hector trembles.

Ber.  Pompey is moved. More Ates, more Ates! stir them on! stir them on!   685

Dum.  Hector will challenge him.

Ber.  Ay, if a’ have no more man’s blood in ‘s belly than will 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’ll slash; I’ll do it by the sword. I bepray you, let me borrow my arms again.

Dum.  Room for the incensed Worthies!   690

Cost.  I’ll do it in my shirt.

Dum.  Most resolute Pompey!

Moth.  Master, let me take you a button-hole lower. Do you not see Pompey is uncasing for the combat? What mean you? you will lose your reputation.

Arm.  Gentlemen and soldiers, pardon me; I will not combat in my shirt.

Dum.  You may not deny it; Pompey hath made the challenge.   695

Arm.  Sweet bloods, I both may and will.

Ber.  What reason have you for ‘t?

Arm.  The naked truth of it is, I have no shirt. I go woolward for penance.

Boyet.  True, and it was enjoined him in Rome for want of linen; since when, I’ll be sworn, he wore none but a dish-clout of Jaquenetta’s, and that a’ wears next his heart for a favour.

Enter Monsieur MARCADE, a Messenger.   700

Mar.  God save you, madam!

Prin.  Welcome, Marcade;
But that thou interrupt’st our merriment.

Mar.  I am sorry, madam; for the news I bring
Is heavy in my tongue. The king your father —   705

Prin.  Dead, for my life!

Mar.  Even so: my tale is told.

Ber.  Worthies, away! The scene begins to cloud.

Arm.  For my own part, I breathe free breath. I have seen the day of wrong through the little hole of discretion, and I will right myself like a soldier.  [Exeunt Worthies.

King.  How fares your majesty?   710

Prin.  Boyet, prepare: I will away to-night.

King.  Madam, not so: I do beseech you, stay.

Prin.  Prepare, I say. I thank you, gracious lords,
For all your fair endeavours; and entreat,
Out of a new-sad soul, that you vouchsafe   715
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 breath; your gentleness
Was guilty of it. Farewell, worthy lord!   720
A heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue,
Excuse me so, coming so short of thanks
For my great suit so easily obtain’d.

King.  The extreme part of time extremely forms
All causes to the purpose of his speed,   725
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;   730
Yet, since love’s argument was first on foot,
Let not the cloud of sorrow justle it
From what it purpos’d; since, to wail friends lost
Is not by much so wholesome-profitable
As to rejoice at friends but newly found.   735

Prin.  I understand you not: my griefs are double.

Ber.  Honest plain words best pierce the ear of grief;
And by these badges understand the king.
For your fair sakes have we neglected time,
Play’d foul play with our oaths. Your beauty, ladies,   740
Hath much deform’d us, fashioning our humours
Even to the opposed end of our intents;
And what in us hath seem’d ridiculous, —
As love is full of unbefitting strains;
All wanton as a child, skipping and vain;   745
Form’d by the eye, and, therefore, like the eye,
Full of stray shapes, of habits and of forms,
Varying in subjects, as the eye doth roll
To every varied object in his glance:
Which parti-coated presence of loose love   750
Put on by us, if, in your heavenly eyes,
Have misbecome our oaths and gravities,
Those heavenly eyes, that look into these faults,
Suggested us to make. Therefore, ladies,
Our love being yours, the error that love makes   755
Is likewise yours: we to ourselves prove false,
By being once false for ever to be true
To those that make us both, — fair ladies, you:
And even that falsehood, in itself a sin,
Thus purifies itself and turns to grace.   760

Prin.  We have receiv’d your letters full of love;
Your favours, the embassadors of love;
And, in our maiden council, rated them
At courtship, pleasant jest, and courtesy,
As bombast and as lining to the time.   765
But more devout than this in our respects
Have we not been; and therefore met your loves
In their own fashion, like a merriment.

Dum.  Our letters, madam, show’d much more than jest.

Long.  So did our looks.   770

Ros.        We did not quote them so.

King.  Now, at the latest minute of the hour, Grant us your loves.

Prin.        A time, methinks, too short
To make a world-without-end bargain in.
No, no, my lord, your Grace is perjur’d much,   775
Full of dear guiltiness; and therefore this:
If for my love, — as there is no such cause, —
You will do aught, this shall you do for me:
Your oath I will not trust; but go with speed
To some forlorn and naked hermitage,   780
Remote from all the pleasures of the world;
There stay, until the twelve celestial signs
Have brought about their annual reckoning.
If this austere insociable life
Change not your offer made in heat of blood;   785
If frosts and fasts, hard lodging and thin weeds,
Nip not the gaudy blossoms of your love,
But that it bear this trial and last love;
Then, at the expiration of the year,
Come challenge me, challenge me by these deserts,   790
And, by this virgin palm now kissing thine,
I will be thine; and, till that instant, shut
My woful self up in a mourning house,
Raining the tears of lamentation
For the remembrance of my father’s death.   795
If this thou do deny, let our hands part;
Neither intitled in the other’s heart.

King.  If this, or more than this, I would deny,
To flatter up these powers of mine with rest,
The sudden hand of death close up mine eye!   800
Hence ever then my heart is in thy breast.

Ber.  And what to me, my love? and what to me?

Ros.  You must be purged too, your sins are rack’d:
You are attaint with faults and perjury;
Therefore, if you my favour mean to get,   805
A twelvemonth shall you spend, and never rest,
But seek the weary beds of people sick.

Dum.  But what to me, my love? but what to me?

Kath.  A wife! A beard, fair health, and honesty;
With three-fold love I wish you all these three.   810

Dum.  O! shall I say, I thank you, gentle wife?

Kath.  Not so, my lord. A twelvemonth and a day
I’ll mark no words that smooth-fac’d wooers say:
Come when the king doth to my lady come;
Then, if I have much love, I’ll give you some.   815

Dum.  I’ll serve thee true and faithfully till then.

Kath.  Yet swear not, lest you be forsworn again.

Long.  What says Maria?

Mar.        At the twelvemonth’s end
I’ll change my black gown for a faithful friend.   820

Long.  I’ll stay with patience; but the time is long.

Mar.  The liker you; few taller are so young.

Ber.  Studies my lady? mistress, look on me.
Behold the window of my heart, mine eye,
What humble suit attends thy answer there;   825
Impose some service on me for thy love.

Ros.  Oft have I heard of you, my Lord Berowne,
Before I saw you, and the world’s large tongue
Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks;
Full of comparisons and wounding flouts,   830
Which you on all estates will execute
That lie within the mercy of your wit:
To weed this worm wood from your fruitful brain,
And therewithal to win me, if you please, —
Without the which I am not to be won, —   835
You shall this twelvemonth term, from day to day,
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.   840

Ber.  To move wild laughter in the throat of death?
It cannot be; it is impossible:
Mirth cannot move a soul in agony.

Ros.  Why, that’s the way to choke a gibing spirit,
Whose influence is begot of that loose grace   845
Which shallow laughing hearers 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,   850
Will hear your idle scorns, continue them,
And I will 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 reformation.   855

Ber.  A twelvemonth! well, befall what will befall,
I’ll jest a twelvemonth in a hospital.

Prin.  [To the KING.]  Ay, sweet my lord; and so I take my leave.

King.  No, madam; we will bring you on your way.

Ber.  Our wooing doth not end like an old play;   860
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 ‘twill end.

Ber.        That’s too long for a play.   865

Enter ARMADO.

Arm.  Sweet majesty, vouchsafe me, —

Prin.  Was not that Hector?

Dum.  The worthy knight of Troy.

Arm.  I will kiss thy royal finger, and take leave. I am a votary; I have vowed to Jaquenetta to hold the plough for her sweet love three years. But, most esteemed greatness, will you hear the dialogue that the two learned men have compiled in praise of the owl and the cuckoo? it should have followed in the end of our show.   870

King.  Call them forth quickly; we will do so.

Arm.  Holla! approach.

Re-enter HOLOFERNES, NATHANIEL, MOTH, COSTARD, and others.
This side is Hiems, Winter; this Ver, the Spring; the one maintained by the owl, the other by the cuckoo. Ver, begin.

SPRING.   875
I.
When daisies pied and violets blue
And lady-smocks all silver-white
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
Do paint the meadows with delight,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men; for thus sings he,
Cuckoo;
Cuckoo, cuckoo: O, word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!

II.
When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,
And merry larks are ploughmen’s clocks,
When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,
And maidens bleach their summer smocks,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men; for thus sings he,
Cuckoo;
Cuckoo, cuckoo: O, word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!

WINTER.
III.
When icicles hang by the wall,
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp’d, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-who;
Tu-whit, tu-who — a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

IV.
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 bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-who;
Tu-whit, tu-who — a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.   880

Arm.  The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo. You, that way: we, this way.  [Exeunt.

ROMEO AND JULIET

This tragedy was created by Shakespeare in 1592 and has become one of the most famous works of literature ever written.  The plot is based on an Italian tale, translated into verse as The Tragical History of Romeus and Juliet by Arthur Brooke in 1562 and retold in prose in Palace of Pleasure by William Painter in 1582. Shakespeare borrowed heavily from both texts, but added the supporting characters Mercutio and Paris himself.  Shakespeare’s use of dramatic structure, especially switching between comedy and tragedy to heighten tension, his expansion of minor characters, and his use of sub-plots to complement the story, have been identified as an early sign of his dramatic skill. The play is well renowned for its eternal tale of forbidden love, which has inspired filmmakers and writers across the world for hundreds of years.

Shakespeare’s main source text for this play is available via this link.

The Quarto first printing of the play

CONTENTS

Dramatis Personæ

Prologue.

Act I. Scene I.

Act I. Scene II.

Act I. Scene III.

Act I. Scene IV.

Act I. Scene V.

Act II. Prologue.

Act II. Scene I.

Act II. Scene II.

Act II. Scene III.

Act II. Scene IV.

Act II. Scene V.

Act II. Scene VI.

Act III. Scene I.

Act III. Scene II.

Act III. Scene III.

Act III. Scene IV.

Act III. Scene V.

Act IV. Scene I.

Act IV. Scene II.

Act IV. Scene III.

Act IV. Scene IV.

Act IV. Scene V.

Act V. Scene I.

Act V. Scene II.

Act V. Scene III.

The 1968 Zeferelli film version

The famous musical inspired by Shakespeare’s play

The popular 2003 Baz Luhrmann film adaptation

A 2010 animation film - an example of how wide-reaching Shakespeare’s influence has been

Dramatis Personæ

ESCALUS, Prince of Verona.
PARIS, a young Nobleman, Kinsman to the Prince.
MONTAGUE & CAPULET, Heads of two Houses at variance with each other.
Uncle to Capulet.
ROMEO, son to Montague.
MERCUTIO, Kinsman to the Prince, & BENVOLIO, Nephew to Montague: Friends to Romeo.
TYBALT, Nephew to Lady Capulet.
FRIAR LAURENCE, a Franciscan.
FRIAR JOHN, of the same Order.
BALTHASAR, Servant to Romeo.
SAMPSON & GREGORY: Servants to Capulet.
PETER, Servant to Juliet’s Nurse.
ABRAHAM, Servant to Montague.
An Apothecary.
Three Musicians.
Page to Mercutio; Page to Paris; another Page; an Officer.
LADY MONTAGUE, Wife to Montague.
LADY CAPULET, Wife to Capulet.
JULIET, Daughter to Capulet.
Nurse to Juliet.
Citizens of Verona; male and female Kinsfolk to both Houses; Masquers, Guards, Watchmen and Attendants.

Chorus.

SCENE. — Verona: Once (in the Fifth Act), at Mantua.

Prologue.

Enter Chorus.
Chor.  Two households, both alike in dignity,

In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,

Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.   5
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes

A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life;
Whose misadventur’d piteous overthrows

Do with their death bury their parents’ strife.
The fearful passage of their death-mark’d love,   10

And the continuance of their parents’ rage,
Which, but their children’s end, nought could remove,

Is now the two hours’ traffick of our stage;
The which if you with patient ears attend,
What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.  [Exit.   15

Act I. Scene I.

Verona.  A Public Place.

Enter SAMPSON and GREGORY, armed with swords and bucklers.

Sam.  Gregory, o’ my word, we’ll not carry coals.

Gre.  No. for then we should be colliers.

Sam.  I mean, an we be in choler, we’ll draw.   5

Gre.  Ay, while you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar.

Sam.  I strike quickly, being moved.

Gre.  But thou art not quickly moved to strike.

Sam.  A dog of the house of Montague moves me.

Gre.  To move is to stir, and to be valiant is to stand; therefore, if thou art moved, thou runnest away.   10

Sam.  A dog of that house shall move me to stand: I will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague’s.

Gre.  That shows thee a weak slave; for the weakest goes to the wall.

Sam.  ’Tis true; and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to the wall: therefore I will push Montague’s men from the wall, and thrust his maids to the wall.

Gre.  The quarrel is between our masters and us their men.

Sam.  ’Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: when I have fought with the men, I will be cruel with the maids; I will cut off their heads.   15

Gre.  The heads of the maids?

Sam.  Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense thou wilt.

Gre.  They must take it in sense that feel it.

Sam.  Me they shall feel while I am able to stand; and ’tis known I am a pretty piece of flesh.

Gre.  ’Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John. Draw thy tool; here comes two of the house of the Montagues.   20

Enter ABRAHAM and BALTHASAR.

Sam.  My naked weapon is out; quarrel, I will back thee.

Gre.  How! turn thy back and run?

Sam.  Fear me not.

Gre.  No, marry; I fear thee!   25

Sam.  Let us take the law of our sides; let them begin.

Gre.  I will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list.

Sam.  Nay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them; which is a disgrace to them, if they bear it.

Abr.  Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

Sam.  I do bite my thumb, sir.   30

Abr.  Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

Sam.  [Aside to GREGORY.]  Is the law of our side if I say ay?

Gre.  [Aside to SAMPSON.]  No.

Sam.  No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir.

Gre.  Do you quarrel, sir?   35

Abr.  Quarrel, sir! no, sir.

Sam.  If you do, sir, I am for you: I serve as good a man as you.

Abr.  No better.

Sam.  Well, sir.

Gre.  [Aside to SAMPSON.]  Say, ‘better;’ here comes one of my master’s kinsmen.   40

Sam.  Yes, better, sir.

Abr.  You lie.

Sam.  Draw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy swashing blow.  [They fight.

Enter BENVOLIO.

Ben.  Part, fools!   45
Put up your swords; you know not what you do.  [Beats down their swords.

Enter TYBALT.

Tyb.  What! art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?
Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death.

Ben.  I do but keep the peace: put up thy sword,   50
Or manage it to part these men with me.

Tyb.  What! drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word,
As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee.
Have at thee, coward!  [They fight.

Enter several persons of both houses, who join the fray; then enter Citizens, with clubs and partisans.   55

Citizens.  Clubs, bills, and partisans! strike! beat them down!
Down with the Capulets! down with the Montagues!

Enter CAPULET in his gown, and LADY CAPULET.

Cap.  What noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!

Lady Cap.  A crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword?   60

Cap.  Mysword, I say! Old Montague is come,
And flourishes his blade in spite of me.

Enter MONTAGUE and LADY MONTAGUE.

Mon.  Thou villain Capulet! Hold me not; let me go.

Lady Mon.  Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.   65

Enter PRINCE with his Train.

Prin.  Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace,
Profaners of this neighbour-stained steel, —
Will they not hear? What ho! you men, you beasts,
That quench the fire of your pernicious rage   70
With purple fountains issuing from your veins,
On pain of torture, from those bloody hands
Throw your mis-temper’d weapons to the ground,
And hear the sentence of your moved prince.
Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word,   75
By thee, old Capulet, and Montague,
Have thrice disturb’d the quiet of our streets,
And made Verona’s ancient citizens
Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments,
To wield old partisans, in hands as old,   80
Canker’d with peace, to part your canker’d hate.
If ever you disturb our streets again
Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.
For this time, all the rest depart away:
You, Capulet, shall go along with me;   85
And, Montague, come you this afternoon
To know our further pleasure in this case,
To old Free-town, our common judgment-place.
Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.  [Exeunt all but MONTAGUE, LADY MONTAGUE, and BENVOLIO.

Mon.  Who set this ancient quarrel new abroach?   90
Speak, nephew, were you by when it began?

Ben.  Here were the servants of your adversary
And yours close fighting ere I did approach:
I drew to part them; in the instant came
The fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepar’d,   95
Which, as he breath’d defiance to my ears,
He swung about his head, and cut the winds,
Who, nothing hurt withal hiss’d him in scorn.
While we were interchanging thrusts and blows,
Came more and more, and fought on part and part,   100
Till the prince came, who parted either part.

Lady Mon.  O! where is Romeo? saw you him to-day?
Right glad I am he was not at this fray.

Ben.  Madam, an hour before the worshipp’d sun
Peer’d forth the golden window of the east,   105
A troubled mind drave me to walk abroad;
Where, underneath the grove of sycamore
That westward rooteth from the city’s side,
So early walking did I see your son:
Towards him I made; but he was ware of me,   110
And stole into the covert of the wood:
I, measuring his affections by my own,
That most are busied when they’re most alone,
Pursu’d my humour not pursuing his,
And gladly shunn’d who gladly fled from me.   115

Mon.  Many a morning hath he there been seen,
With tears augmenting the fresh morning’s dew,
Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs:
But all so soon as the all-cheering sun
Should in the furthest east begin to draw   120
The shady curtains from Aurora’s bed,
Away from light steals home my heavy son,
And private in his chamber pens himself,
Shuts up his windows, locks fair daylight out,
And makes himself an artificial night.   125
Black and portentous must this humour prove
Unless good counsel may the cause remove.

Ben.  My noble uncle, do you know the cause?

Mon.  I neither know it nor can learn of him.

Ben.  Have you importun’d him by any means?   130

Mon.  Both by myself and many other friends:
But he, his own affections’ counsellor,
Is to himself, I will not say how true,
But to himself so secret and so close,
So far from sounding and discovery,   135
As is the bud bit with an envious worm,
Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air,
Or dedicate his beauty to the sun.
Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow,
We would as willingly give cure as know.   140

Ben.  See where he comes: so please you, step aside;
I’ll know his grievance, or be much denied.

Mon.  I would thou wert so happy by thy stay,
To hear true shrift. Come, madam, let’s away.  [Exeunt MONTAGUE and LADY.

Enter ROMEO.   145

Ben.  Good morrow, cousin.

Rom.        Is the day so young?

Ben.  But new struck nine.

Rom.        Ay me! sad hours seem long.
Was that my father that went hence so fast?   150

Ben.  It was. What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?

Rom.  Not having that, which having, makes them short.

Ben.  In love?

Rom.  Out —

Ben.  Of love?   155

Rom.  Out of her favour, where I am in love.

Ben.  Alas! that love, so gentle in his view,
Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof.

Rom.  Alas! that love, whose view is muffled still,
Should, without eyes, see pathways to his will.   160
Where shall we dine? O me! What fray was here?
Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all.
Here’s much to do with hate, but more with love:
Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate!
O any thing! of nothing first create.   165
O heavy lightness! serious vanity!
Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms!
Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!
Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is!
This love feel I, that feel no love in this.   170
Dost thou not laugh?

Ben.        No, coz, I rather weep.

Rom.  Good heart, at what?

Ben.  At thy good heart’s oppression.

Rom.  Why, such is love’s transgression.   175
Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast,
Which thou wilt propagate to have it press’d
With more of thine: this love that thou hast shown
Doth add more grief to too much of mine own.
Love is a smoke rais’d with the fume of sighs;   180
Being purg’d, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes;
Being vex’d, a sea nourish’d with lovers’ tears:
What is it else? a madness most discreet,
A choking gall, and a preserving sweet.
Farewell, my coz.  [Going.   185

Ben.        Soft, I will go along;
An if you leave me so, you do me wrong.

Rom.  Tut! I have lost myself; I am not here;
This is not Romeo, he’s some other where.

Ben.  Tell me in sadness, who is that you love.   190

Rom.  What! shall I groan and tell thee?

Ben.        Groan! why, no;
But sadly tell me who.

Rom.  Bid a sick man in sadness make his will;
Ah! word ill urg’d to one that is so ill.   195
In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.

Ben.  I aim’d so near when I suppos’d you lov’d.

Rom.  A right good mark-man! And she’s fair I love.

Ben.  A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.

Rom.  Well, in that hit you miss: she’ll not be hit   200
With Cupid’s arrow; she hath Dian’s wit;
And, in strong proof of chastity well arm’d,
From love’s weak childish bow she lives unharm’d.
She will not stay the siege of loving terms,
Nor bide the encounter of assailing eyes,   205
Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold:
O! she is rich in beauty; only poor
That, when she dies, with beauty dies her store.

Ben.  Then she hath sworn that she will still live chaste?

Rom.  She hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste;   210
For beauty, starv’d with her severity,
Cuts beauty off from all posterity.
She is too fair, too wise, wisely too fair,
To merit bliss by making me despair:
She hath forsworn to love, and in that vow   215
Do I live dead that live to tell it now.

Ben.  Be rul’d by me; forget to think of her.

Rom.  O! teach me how I should forget to think.

Ben.  By giving liberty unto thine eyes:
Examine other beauties.   220

Rom.        ’Tis the way
To call hers exquisite, in question more.
These happy masks that kiss fair ladies’ brows
Being black put us in mind they hide the fair;
He, that is strucken blind cannot forget   225
The precious treasure of his eyesight lost:
Show me a mistress that is passing fair,
What doth her beauty serve but as a note
Where I may read who pass’d that passing fair?
Farewell: thou canst not teach me to forget.   230

Ben.  I’ll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt.  [Exeunt.

Act I. Scene II.

The Same.  A Street.

Enter CAPULET, PARIS, and Servant.

Cap.  But Montague is bound as well as I,
In penalty alike; and ’tis not hard, I think,
For men so old as we to keep the peace.   5

Par.  Of honourable reckoning are you both;
And pity ’tis you liv’d at odds so long.
But now, my lord, what say you to my suit?

Cap.  But saying o’er what I have said before:
My child is yet a stranger in the world,   10
She hath not seen the change of fourteen years;
Let two more summers wither in their pride
Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride.

Par.  Younger than she are happy mothers made.

Cap.  And too soon marr’d are those so early made.   15
Earth hath swallow’d all my hopes but she,
She is the hopeful lady of my earth:
But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart,
My will to her consent is but a part;
An she agree, within her scope of choice   20
Lies my consent and fair according voice.
This night I hold an old accustom’d feast,
Whereto I have invited many a guest
Such as I love; and you, among the store,
One more, most welcome, makes my number more.   25
At my poor house look to behold this night
Earth-treading stars that make dark heaven light:
Such comfort as do lusty young men feel
When well-apparel’d April on the heel
Of limping winter treads, even such delight   30
Among fresh female buds shall you this night
Inherit at my house; hear all, all see,
And like her most whose merit most shall be:
Which on more view, of many mine being one
May stand in number, though in reckoning none.   35
Come, go with me.  [To Servant, giving him a paper.]  Go, sirrah, trudge about
Through fair Verona; find those persons out
Whose names are written there, and to them say,
My house and welcome on their pleasure stay.  [Exeunt CAPULET and PARIS.

Serv.  Find them out whose names are written here! It is written that the shoemaker should meddle with his yard, and the tailor with his last, the fisher with his pencil, and the painter with his nets; but I am sent to find those persons, whose names are here writ, and can never find what names the writing person hath here writ. I must to the learned. In good time.   40

Enter BENVOLIO and ROMEO.

Ben.  Tut! man, one fire burns out another’s burning,
One pain is lessen’d by another’s anguish;
Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning;
One desperate grief cures with another’s languish:   45
Take thou some new infection to thy eye,
And the rank poison of the old will die.

Rom.  Your plantain leaf is excellent for that.

Ben.  For what, I pray thee?

Rom.        For your broken shin.   50

Ben.  Why, Romeo, art thou mad?

Rom.  Not mad, but bound more than a madman is;
Shut up in prison, kept without my food,
Whipp’d and tormented, and — Good den, good fellow.

Serv.  God gi’ good den. I pray, sir, can you read?   55

Rom.  Ay, mine own fortune in my misery.

Serv.  Perhaps you have learn’d it without book: but, I pray, can you read any thing you see?

Rom.  Ay, if I know the letters and the language.

Serv.  Ye say honestly; rest you merry!  [Offering to go.

Rom.  Stay, fellow; I can read.   60

Signior Martino and his wife and daughters; County Anselme and his beauteous sisters; the lady widow of Vitruvio; Signior Placentio, and his lovely nieces; Mercutio and his brother Valentine; mine uncle Capulet, his wife and daughters; my fair niece Rosaline; Livia; Signior Valentio and his cousin Tybalt; Lucio and the lively Helena.
A fair assembly: whither should they come?

Serv.  Up.

Rom.  Whither?

Serv.  To supper; to our house.   65

Rom.  Whose house?

Serv.  My master’s.

Rom.  Indeed, I should have asked you that before.

Serv.  Now I’ll tell you without asking. My master is the great rich Capulet; and if you be not of the house of Montagues, I pray, come and crush a cup of wine. Rest you merry!  [Exit.

Ben.  At this same ancient feast of Capulet’s,   70
Sups the fair Rosaline, whom thou so lov’st,
With all the admired beauties of Verona:
Go thither; and, with unattainted eye
Compare her face with some that I shall show,
And I will make thee think thy swan a crow.   75

Rom.  When the devout religion of mine eye
Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fires!
And these, who often drown’d could never die,
Transparent heretics, be burnt for liars!
One fairer than my love! the all-seeing sun   80
Ne’er saw her match since first the world begun.

Ben.  Tut! you saw her fair, none else being by,
Herself pois’d with herself in either eye;
But in that crystal scales let there be weigh’d
Your lady’s love against some other maid   85
That I will show you shining at this feast,
And she shall scant show well that now shows best.

Rom.  I’ll go along, no such sight to be shown,
But to rejoice in splendour of mine own.  [Exeunt.

Act I. Scene III.

The Same.  A Room in CAPULET’S House.

Enter LADY CAPULET and Nurse.

Lady Cap.  Nurse, where’s my daughter? call her forth to me.

Nurse.  Now, by my maidenhead, at twelve year old, —
I bade her come. What, lamb! what, ladybird!   5
God forbid! where’s this girl? what, Juliet!

Enter JULIET.

Jul.  How now! who calls?

Nurse.  Your mother.

Jul.        Madam, I am here.   10
What is your will?

Lady Cap.  This is the matter. Nurse, give leave awhile.
We must talk in secret: nurse, come back again;
I have remember’d me, thou’s hear our counsel.
Thou know’st my daughter’s of a pretty age.   15

Nurse.  Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour.

Lady Cap.  She’s not fourteen.

Nurse.        I’ll lay fourteen of my teeth —
And yet to my teen be it spoken I have but four —
She is not fourteen. How long is it now   20
To Lammas-tide?

Lady Cap.        A fortnight and odd days.

Nurse.  Even or odd, of all days in the year,
Come Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen.
Susan and she — God rest all Christian souls! —   25
Were of an age. Well, Susan is with God;
She was too good for me. But, as I said,
On Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen;
That shall she, marry; I remember it well.
’Tis since the earthquake now eleven years;   30
And she was wean’d, I never shall forget it,
Of all the days of the year, upon that day;
For I had then laid wormwood to my dug,
Sitting in the sun under the dove-house wall;
My lord and you were then at Mantua.   35
Nay, I do bear a brain: — but, as I said,
When it did taste the wormwood on the nipple
Of my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool!
To see it tetchy and fall out with the dug.
‘Shake,’ quoth the dove-house: ’twas no need, I trow,   40
To bid me trudge:
And since that time it is eleven years;
For then she could stand high lone; nay, by the rood,
She could have run and waddled all about;
For even the day before she broke her brow:   45
And then my husband — God be with his soul!
A’ was a merry man — took up the child:
‘Yea,’ quoth he, ‘dost thou fall upon thy face?
Thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit;
Wilt thou not, Jule?’ and, by my halidom,   50
The pretty wretch left crying, and said ‘Ay.’
To see now how a jest shall come about!
I warrant, an I should live a thousand years,
I never should forget it: ‘Wilt thou not, Jule?’ quoth he;
And, pretty fool, it stinted and said ‘Ay.’   55

Lady Cap.  Enough of this; I pray thee, hold thy peace.

Nurse.  Yes, madam. Yet I cannot choose but laugh,
To think it should leave crying, and say ‘Ay.’
And yet, I warrant, it had upon its brow
A bump as big as a young cockerel’s stone;   60
A parlous knock; and it cried bitterly:
‘Yea,’ quoth my husband, ‘fall’st upon thy face?
Thou wilt fall backward when thou com’st to age;
Wilt thou not, Jule?’ it stinted and said ‘Ay.’

Jul.  And stint thou too, I pray thee, nurse, say I.   65

Nurse.  Peace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace!
Thou wast the prettiest babe that o’er I nursed:
An I might live to see thee married once,
I have my wish.

Lady Cap.  Marry, that ‘marry’ is the very theme   70
I came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet,
How stands your disposition to be married?

Jul.  It is an honour that I dream not of.

Nurse.  An honour! were not I thine only nurse,
I would say thou hadst suck’d wisdom from thy teat.   75

Lady Cap.  Well, think of marriage now; younger than you,
Here in Verona, ladies of esteem,
Are made already mothers: by my count,
I was your mother much upon these years
That you are now a maid. Thus then in brief,   80
The valiant Paris seeks you for his love.

Nurse.  A man, young lady! lady, such a man
As all the world — why, he’s a man of wax.

Lady Cap.  Verona’s summer hath not such a flower.

Nurse.  Nay, he’s a flower; in faith, a very flower.   85

Lady Cap.  What say you? can you love the gentleman?
This night you shall behold him at our feast;
Read o’er the volume of young Paris’ face
And find delight writ there with beauty’s pen;
Examine every married lineament,   90
And see how one another lends content;
And what obscur’d in this fair volume lies
Find written in the margent of his eyes.
This precious book of love, this unbound lover,
To beautify him, only lacks a cover:   95
The fish lives in the sea, and ’tis much pride
For fair without the fair within to hide:
That book in many eyes doth share the glory,
That in gold clasps locks in the golden story:
So shall you share all that he doth possess,   100
By having him making yourself no less.

Nurse.  No less! nay, bigger; women grow by men.

Lady Cap.  Speak briefly, can you like of Paris’ love?

Jul.  I’ll look to like, if looking liking move;
But no more deep will I endart mine eye   105
Than your consent gives strength to make it fly.

Enter a Servant.

Serv.  Madam, the guests are come, supper served up, you called, my young lady asked for, the nurse cursed in the pantry, and everything in extremity. I must hence to wait; I beseech you, follow straight.

Lady Cap.  We follow thee. Juliet, the county stays.

Nurse.  Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days.  [Exeunt.   110

Act I. Scene IV.

The Same.  A Street.

Enter ROMEO, MERCUTIO, BENVOLIO, with five or six Masquers, Torch-Bearers, and Others.

Rom.  What! shall this speech be spoke for our excuse,
Or shall we on without apology?

Ben.  The date is out of such prolixity:   5
We’ll have no Cupid hood-wink’d with a scarf,
Bearing a Tartar’s painted bow of lath,
Scaring the ladies like a crow-keeper;
Nor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke
After the prompter, for our entrance:   10
But, let them measure us by what they will,
We’ll measure them a measure, and be gone.

Rom.  Give me a torch: I am not for this ambling;
Being but heavy, I will bear the light.

Mer.  Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.   15

Rom.  Not I, believe me: you have dancing shoes
With nimble soles; I have a soul of lead
So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.

Mer.  You are a lover; borrow Cupid’s wings,
And soar with them above a common bound.   20

Rom.  I am too sore enpierced with his shaft
To soar with his light feathers; and so bound
I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe:
Under love’s heavy burden do I sink.

Mer.  And, to sink in it, should you burden love;   25
Too great oppression for a tender thing.

Rom.  Is love a tender thing? it is too rough,
Too rude, too boisterous; and it pricks like thorn.

Mer.  If love be rough with you, be rough with love;
Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.   30
Give me a case to put my visage in:  [Putting on a masque.
A visor for a visor! what care I,
What curious eye doth quote deformities?
Here are the beetle brows shall blush for me.

Ben.  Come, knock and enter; and no sooner in,   35
But every man betake him to his legs.

Rom.  A torch for me; let wantons, light of heart,
Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels,
For I am proverb’d with a grandsire phrase;
I’ll be a candle-holder, and look on.   40
The game was ne’er so fair, and I am done.

Mer.  Tut! dun’s the mouse, the constable’s own word:
If thou art Dun, we’ll draw thee from the mire,
Of — save your reverence — love, wherein thou stick’st
Up to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho!   45

Rom.  Nay, that’s not so.

Mer.        I mean, sir, in delay
We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day.
Take our good meaning, for our judgment sits
Five times in that ere once in our five wits.   50

Rom.  And we mean well in going to this masque;
But ’tis no wit to go.

Mer.        Why, may one ask?

Rom.  I dream’d a dream to-night.

Mer.        And so did I.   55

Rom.  Well, what was yours?

Mer.        That dreamers often lie.

Rom.  In bed asleep, while they do dream things true.

Mer.  O! then, I see, Queen Mab hath been with you.

Ben.  Queen Mab! What’s she?   60

Mer.  She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone
On the fore-finger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies
Athwart men’s noses as they lie asleep:   65
Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners’ legs;
The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers;
The traces, of the smallest spider’s web;
The collars, of the moonshine’s watery beams;
Her whip, of cricket’s bone; the lash, of film;   70
Her waggoner, a small grey-coated gnat,
Not half so big as a round little worm
Prick’d from the lazy finger of a maid;
Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut,
Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,   75
Time out o’ mind the fairies’ coach-makers.
And in this state she gallops night by night
Through lovers’ brains, and then they dream of love;
O’er courtiers’ knees, that dream on curtsies straight;
O’er lawyers’ fingers, who straight dream on fees;   80
O’er ladies’ lips, who straight on kisses dream;
Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,
Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are.
Sometimes she gallops o’er a courtier’s nose,
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit;   85
And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig’s tail,
Tickling a parson’s nose as a’ lies asleep,
Then dreams he of another benefice;
Sometime she driveth o’er a soldier’s neck,
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,   90
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon
Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes;
And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two,
And sleeps again. This is that very Mab   95
That plats the manes of horses in the night;
And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs,
Which once untangled much misfortune bodes;
This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,
That presses them and learns them first to bear,   100
Making them women of good carriage:
This is she —

Rom.        Peace, peace! Mercutio, peace!
Thou talk’st of nothing.

Mer.        True, I talk of dreams,   105
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy;
Which is as thin of substance as the air,
And more inconstant than the wind, who woos
Even now the frozen bosom of the north,   110
And, being anger’d, puffs away from thence,
Turning his face to the dew-dropping south.

Ben.  This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves;
Supper is done, and we shall come too late.

Rom.  I fear too early; for my mind misgives   115
Some consequence yet hanging in the stars
Shall bitterly begin his fearful date
With this night’s revels, and expire the term
Of a despised life clos’d in my breast
By some vile forfeit of untimely death.   120
But he, that hath the steerage of my course,
Direct my sail! On, lusty gentlemen.

Ben.  Strike, drum.  [Exeunt.

Act I. Scene V.

The Same.  A Hall in CAPULET’S House.

Musicians waiting.  Enter Servingmen.

First Serv.  Where’s Potpan, that he helps not to take away? he shift a trencher! he scrape a trencher!

Sec. Serv.  When good manners shall lie all in one or two men’s hands, and they unwashed too, ’tis a foul thing.

First Serv.  Away with the joint-stools, remove the court-cupboard, look to the plate. Good thou, save me a piece of marchpane; and, as thou lovest me, let the porter let in Susan Grindstone and Nell. Antony! and Potpan!   5

Sec. Serv.  Ay, boy; ready.

First Serv.  You are looked for and called for, asked for and sought for in the great chamber.

Third Serv.  We cannot be here and there too.

Sec. Serv.  Cheerly, boys; be brisk a while, and the longer liver take all.  [They retire behind.

Enter CAPULET and JULIET and Others of his house, meeting the Guests and Maskers.   10

Cap.  Welcome, gentlemen! ladies that have their toes
Unplagu’d with corns will walk a bout with you.
Ah ha! my mistresses, which of you all
Will now deny to dance? she that makes dainty, she,
I’ll swear, hath corns; am I come near ye now?   15
Welcome, gentlemen! I have seen the day
That I have worn a visor, and could tell
A whispering tale in a fair lady’s ear
Such as would please; ’tis gone, ’tis gone, ’tis gone.
You are welcome, gentlemen! Come, musicians, play.   20
A hall! a hall! give room, and foot it, girls.  [Music plays, and they dance.
More light, ye knaves! and turn the tables up,
And quench the fire, the room has grown too hot.
Ah! sirrah, this unlook’d-for sport comes well.
Nay, sit, nay, sit, good cousin Capulet,   25
For you and I are past our dancing days;
How long is ‘t now since last yourself and I
Were in a mask?

Sec. Cap.        By ‘r Lady, thirty years.

Cap.  What, man! ’tis not so much, ’tis not so much:   30
’Tis since the nuptial of Lucentio,
Come Pentecost as quickly as it will,
Some five and twenty years; and then we mask’d.

Sec. Cap.  ’Tis more, ’tis more; his son is elder, sir.
His son is thirty.   35

Cap.        Will you tell me that?
His son was but a ward two years ago.

Rom.  What lady is that which doth enrich the hand
Of yonder knight?

Serv.  I know not, sir.   40

Rom.  O! she doth teach the torches to burn bright.
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear;
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows,   45
As yonder lady o’er her fellows shows.
The measure done, I’ll watch her place of stand,
And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.
Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight!
For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.   50

Tyb.  This, by his voice, should be a Montague.
Fetch me my rapier, boy. What! dares the slave
Come hither, cover’d with an antick face,
To fleer and scorn at our solemnity?
Now, by the stock and honour of my kin,   55
To strike him dead I hold it not a sin.

Cap.  Why, how now, kinsman! wherefore storm you so?

Tyb.  Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe;
A villain that is hither come in spite,
To scorn at our solemnity this night.   60

Cap.  Young Romeo, is it?

Tyb.        ’Tis he, that villain Romeo.

Cap.  Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone:
He bears him like a portly gentleman;
And, to say truth, Verona brags of him   65
To be a virtuous and well-govern’d youth.
I would not for the wealth of all this town
Here in my house do him disparagement;
Therefore be patient, take no note of him:
It is my will; the which if thou respect,   70
Show a fair presence and put off these frowns,
An ill-beseeming semblance for a feast.

Tyb.  It fits, when such a villain is a guest:
I’ll not endure him.

Cap.        He shall be endur’d:   75
What! goodman boy; I say, he shall, go to;
Am I the master here, or you? go to.
You’ll not endure him! God shall mend my soul!
You’ll make a mutiny among my guests!
You will set cock-a-hoop! you’ll be the man!   80

Tyb.  Why, uncle, ’tis a shame.

Cap.        Go to, go to;
You are a saucy boy — is ‘t so indeed? —
This trick may chance to scathe you. — I know what:
You must contrary me! marry, ’tis time.   85
Well said, my hearts! You are a princox; go:
Be quiet, or — More light, more light! — For shame!
I’ll make you quiet. What! cheerly, my hearts!

Tyb.  Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting
Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting.   90
I will withdraw; but this intrusion shall
Now seeming sweet convert to bitter gall.  [Exit.

Rom.  [To JULIET.]  If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this;
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand   95
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.

Jul.  Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
Which mannerly devotion shows in this;
For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,
And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.   100

Rom.  Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?

Jul.  Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.

Rom.  O! then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do;
They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.

Jul.  Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.   105

Rom.  Then move not, while my prayers’ effect I take.
Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purg’d.  [Kissing her.

Jul.  Then have my lips the sin that they have took.

Rom.  Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg’d!
Give me my sin again.   110

Jul.        You kiss by the book.

Nurse.  Madam, your mother craves a word with you.

Rom.  What is her mother?

Nurse.        Marry, bachelor,
Her mother is the lady of the house,   115
And a good lady, and a wise, and virtuous:
I nurs’d her daughter, that you talk’d withal;
I tell you he that can lay hold of her
Shall have the chinks.

Rom.        Is she a Capulet?   120
O dear account! my life is my foe’s debt.

Ben.  Away, be gone; the sport is at the best.

Rom.  Ay, so I fear; the more is my unrest.

Cap.  Nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone;
We have a trifling foolish banquet towards.   125
Is it e’en so? Why then, I thank you all;
I thank you, honest gentlemen; good-night.
More torches here! Come on then, let’s to bed.
Ah! sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late;
I’ll to my rest.  [Exeunt all except JULIET and Nurse.   130

Jul.  Come hither, nurse. What is yond gentleman?

Nurse.  The son and heir of old Tiberio.

Jul.  What’s he that now is going out of door?

Nurse.  Marry, that, I think, be young Petruchio.

Jul.  What’s he, that follows there, that would not dance?   135

Nurse.  I know not.

Jul.  Go, ask his name. — If he be married,
My grave is like to be my wedding bed.

Nurse.  His name is Romeo, and a Montague;
The only son of your great enemy.   140

Jul.  My only love sprung from my only hate!
Too early seen unknown, and known too late!
Prodigious birth of love it is to me,
That I must love a loathed enemy.

Nurse.  What’s this, what’s this?   145

Jul.        A rime I learn’d even now
Of one I danc’d withal.  [One calls within, ‘JULIET!’

Nurse.        Anon, anon! —
Come, let’s away; the strangers are all gone.  [Exeunt.

Act II. Prologue.

Enter Chorus.
Chor.  Now old desire doth in his death-bed lie,

And young affection gapes to be his heir;
That fair for which love groan’d for and would die,

With tender Juliet match’d, is now not fair.   5
Now Romeo is belov’d and loves again,

Alike bewitched by the charm of looks,
But to his foe suppos’d he must complain,

And she steal love’s sweet bait from fearful hooks:
Being held a foe, he may not have access   10

To breathe such vows as lovers us’d to swear;
And she as much in love, her means much less

To meet her new-beloved any where:
But passion lends them power, time means, to meet,
Tempering extremity with extreme sweet.  [Exit.   15

Act II. Scene I.

Verona.  A Lane by the wall of CAPULET’S Orchard.

Enter ROMEO.

Rom.  Can I go forward when my heart is here?
Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.  [He climbs the wall, and leaps down within it.

Enter BENVOLIO and MERCUTIO.   5

Ben.  Romeo! my cousin Romeo!

Mer.        He is wise;
And, on my life, hath stol’n him home to bed.

Ben.  He ran this way, and leap’d this orchard wall:
Call, good Mercutio.   10

Mer.        Nay, I’ll conjure too.
Romeo! humours! madman! passion! lover!
Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh:
Speak but one rime and I am satisfied;
Cry but ‘Ay me!’ couple but ‘love’ and ‘dove;’   15
Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word.
One nickname for her purblind son and heir,
Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim
When King Cophetua lov’d the beggar-maid.
He heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not;   20
The ape is dead, and I must conjure him.
I conjure thee by Rosaline’s bright eyes,
By her high forehead, and her scarlet lip,
By her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh,
And the demesnes that there adjacent lie,   25
That in thy likeness thou appear to us.

Ben.  An if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him.

Mer.  This cannot anger him: ’twould anger him
To raise a spirit in his mistress’ circle
Of some strange nature, letting it there stand   30
Till she had laid it, and conjur’d it down;
That were some spite: my invocation
Is fair and honest, and in his mistress’ name
I conjure only but to raise up him.

Ben.  Come, he hath hid himself among these trees,   35
To be consorted with the humorous night:
Blind is his love and best befits the dark.

Mer.  If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark.
Now will he sit under a medlar tree,
And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit   40
As maids call medlars, when they laugh alone.
O Romeo! that she were, O! that she were
An open et cœtera, thou a poperin pear.
Romeo, good night: I’ll to my truckle-bed;
This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep:   45
Come, shall we go?

Ben.        Go, then; for ’tis in vain
To seek him here that means not to be found.  [Exeunt.

Act II. Scene II.

The Same.  CAPULET’S Orchard.

Enter ROMEO.

Rom.  He jests at scars, that never felt a wound.  [JULIET appears above at a window.
But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!   5
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That thou her maid art far more fair than she:
Be not her maid, since she is envious;
Her vestal livery is but sick and green,   10
And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.
It is my lady; O! it is my love:
O! that she knew she were.
She speaks, yet she says nothing: what of that?
Her eye discourses; I will answer it.   15
I am too bold, ’tis not to me she speaks:
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head?   20
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright
That birds would sing and think it were not night.
See! how she leans her cheek upon her hand:   25
O! that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek.

Jul.        Ay me!

Rom.                She speaks:
O! speak again, bright angel; for thou art   30
As glorious to this night, being o’er my head,
As is a winged messenger of heaven
Unto the white-upturned wond’ring eyes
Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds,   35
And sails upon the bosom of the air.

Jul.  O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father, and refuse thy name;
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I’ll no longer be a Capulet.   40

Rom.  [Aside.]  Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?

Jul.  ’Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
Thou art thyself though, not a Montague.
What’s Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part   45
Belonging to a man. O! be some other name:
What’s in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes   50
Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name;
And for that name, which is no part of thee,
Take all myself.

Rom.        I take thee at thy word.
Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptiz’d;   55
Henceforth I never will be Romeo.

Jul.  What man art thou, that, thus be-screen’d in night,
So stumblest on my counsel?

Rom.        By a name
I know not how to tell thee who I am:   60
My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,
Because it is an enemy to thee:
Had I it written, I would tear the word.

Jul.  My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words
Of that tongue’s uttering, yet I know the sound:   65
Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?

Rom.  Neither, fair maid, if either thee dislike.

Jul.  How cam’st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?
The orchard walls are high and hard to climb,
And the place death, considering who thou art,   70
If any of my kinsmen find thee here.

Rom.  With love’s light wings did I o’erperch these walls;
For stony limits cannot hold love out,
And what love can do that dares love attempt;
Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me.   75

Jul.  If they do see thee they will murder thee.

Rom.  Alack! there lies more peril in thine eye
Than twenty of their swords: look thou but sweet,
And I am proof against their enmity.

Jul.  I would not for the world they saw thee here.   80

Rom.  I have night’s cloak to hide me from their eyes;
And but thou love me, let them find me here;
My life were better ended by their hate,
Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love.

Jul.  By whose direction found’st thou out this place?   85

Rom.  By Love, that first did prompt me to inquire;
He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes.
I am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far
As that vast shore wash’d with the furthest sea,
I would adventure for such merchandise.   90

Jul.  Thou know’st the mask of night is on my face,
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek
For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night.
Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny
What I have spoke: but farewell compliment!   95
Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say ‘Ay;’
And I will take thy word; yet, if thou swear’st,
Thou mayst prove false; at lovers’ perjuries,
They say, Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo!
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully:   100
Or if thou think’st I am too quickly won,
I’ll frown and be perverse and say thee nay,
So thou wilt woo; but else, not for the world.
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond,
And therefore thou mayst think my haviour light:   105
But trust me, gentleman, I’ll prove more true
Than those that have more cunning to be strange.
I should have been more strange, I must confess,
But that thou over-heard’st, ere I was ‘ware,
My true love’s passion: therefore pardon me,   110
And not impute this yielding to light love,
Which the dark night hath so discovered.

Rom.  Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear
That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops, —

Jul.  O! swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon,   115
That monthly changes in her circled orb,
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.

Rom.  What shall I swear by?

Jul.        Do not swear at all;
Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self,   120
Which is the god of my idolatry,
And I’ll believe thee.

Rom.        If my heart’s dear love —

Jul.  Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee,
I have no joy of this contract to-night:   125
It is too rash, too unadvis’d, too sudden;
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be
Ere one can say it lightens. Sweet, good-night!
This bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath,
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.   130
Good-night, good-night! as sweet repose and rest
Come to thy heart as that within my breast!

Rom.  O! wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?

Jul.  What satisfaction canst thou have to-night?

Rom.  The exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine.   135

Jul.  I gave thee mine before thou didst request it;
And yet I would it were to give again.

Rom.  Wouldst thou withdraw it? for what purpose, love?

Jul.  But to be frank, and give it thee again.
And yet I wish but for the thing I have:   140
My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.  [Nurse calls within.
I hear some noise within; dear love, adieu!
Anon, good nurse! Sweet Montague, be true.   145
Stay but a little, I will come again.  [Exit above.

Rom.  O blessed, blessed night! I am afeard,
Being in night, all this is but a dream,
Too flattering-sweet to be substantial.

Re-enter JULIET, above.   150

Jul.  Three words, dear Romeo, and goodnight indeed.
If that thy bent of love be honourable,
Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow,
By one that I’ll procure to come to thee,
Where, and what time, thou wilt perform the rite;   155
And all my fortunes at thy foot I’ll lay,
And follow thee my lord throughout the world.

Nurse.  [Within.]  Madam!

Jul.  I come, anon. — But if thou mean’st not well,
I do beseech thee, —   160

Nurse.  [Within.]  Madam!

Jul.        By and by; I come: —
To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief:
To-morrow will I send.

Rom.        So thrive my soul, —   165

Jul.  A thousand times good-night!  [Exit above.

Rom.  A thousand times the worse, to want thy light.
Love goes toward love, as schoolboys from their books;
But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.  [Retiring.

Re-enter JULIET, above.   170

Jul.  Hist! Romeo, hist! O! for a falconer’s voice,
To lure this tassel-gentle back again.
Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud,
Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies,
And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine,   175
With repetition of my Romeo’s name.

Rom.  It is my soul that calls upon my name:
How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night,
Like softest music to attending ears!

Jul.  Romeo!   180

Rom.        My dear!

Jul.                At what o’clock to-morrow
Shall I send to thee?

Rom.        At the hour of nine.

Jul.  I will not fail; ’tis twenty years till then.   185
I have forgot why I did call thee back.

Rom.  Let me stand here till thou remember it.

Jul.  I shall forget, to have thee still stand there,
Remembering how I love thy company.

Rom.  And I’ll still stay, to have thee still forget,   190
Forgetting any other home but this.

Jul.  ’Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone;
And yet no further than a wanton’s bird,
Who lets it hop a little from her hand,
Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves,   195
And with a silk thread plucks it back again,
So loving-jealous of his liberty.

Rom.  I would I were thy bird.

Jul.        Sweet, so would I:
Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing.   200
Good-night, good-night! parting is such sweet sorrow
That I shall say good-night till it be morrow.  [Exit.

Rom.  Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast!
Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest!
Hence will I to my ghostly father’s cell,   205
His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell.  [Exit.

Act II. Scene III.

The Same.  FRIAR LAURENCE’S Cell.

Enter FRIAR LAURENCE, with a basket.

Fri. L.  The grey-ey’d morn smiles on the frowning night,
Chequering the eastern clouds with streaks of light,
And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels   5
From forth day’s path and Titan’s fiery wheels:
Now, ere the sun advance his burning eye
The day to cheer and night’s dank dew to dry,
I must up-fill this osier cage of ours
With baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers.   10
The earth that’s nature’s mother is her tomb;
What is her burying grave that is her womb,
And from her womb children of divers kind
We sucking on her natural bosom find,
Many for many virtues excellent,   15
None but for some, and yet all different.
O! mickle is the powerful grace that lies
In herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities:
For nought so vile that on the earth doth live
But to the earth some special good doth give,   20
Nor aught so good but strain’d from that fair use
Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse:
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied,
And vice sometime’s by action dignified.
Within the infant rind of this weak flower   25
Poison hath residence and medicine power:
For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part;
Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.
Two such opposed foes encamp them still
In man as well as herbs, grace and rude will;   30
And where the worser is predominant,
Full soon the canker death eats up that plant.

Enter ROMEO.

Rom.  Good morrow, father!

Fri. L.        Benedicite!   35
What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?
Young son, it argues a distemper’d head
So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed:
Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye,
And where care lodges, sleep will never lie;   40
But where unbruised youth with unstuff’d brain
Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign:
Therefore thy earliness doth me assure
Thou art up-rous’d by some distemperature;
Or if not so, then here I hit it right,   45
Our Romeo hath not been in bed to-night.

Rom.  That last is true; the sweeter rest was mine.

Fri. L.  God pardon sin! wast thou with Rosaline?

Rom.  With Rosaline, my ghostly father? no;
I have forgot that name, and that name’s woe.   50

Fri. L  That’s my good son: but where hast thou been, then?

Rom.  I’ll tell thee, ere thou ask it me again.
I have been feasting with mine enemy,
Where on a sudden one hath wounded me,
That’s by me wounded: both our remedies   55
Within thy help and holy physic lies:
I bear no hatred, blessed man; for, lo!
My intercession likewise steads my foe.

Fri. L.  Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift;
Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift.   60

Rom.  Then plainly know my heart’s dear love is set
On the fair daughter of rich Capulet:
As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine;
And all combin’d, save what thou must combine
By holy marriage: when and where and how   65
We met we woo’d and made exchange of vow,
I’ll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray,
That thou consent to marry us to-day.

Fri. L.  Holy Saint Francis! what a change is here;
Is Rosaline, whom thou didst love so dear,   70
So soon forsaken? young men’s love then lies
Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.
Jesu Maria! what a deal of brine
Hath wash’d thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline;
How much salt water thrown away in waste,   75
To season love, that of it doth not taste!
The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears,
Thy old groans ring yet in my ancient ears;
Lo! here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit
Of an old tear that is not wash’d off yet.   80
If e’er thou wast thyself and these woes thine,
Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline:
And art thou chang’d? pronounce this sentence then:
Women may fall, when there’s no strength in men.

Rom.  Thou chidd’st me oft for loving Rosaline.   85

Fri. L.  For doting, not for loving, pupil mine.

Rom.  And bad’st me bury love.

Fri. L.        Not in a grave,
To lay one in, another out to have.

Rom.  I pray thee, chide not; she, whom I love now   90
Doth grace for grace and love for love allow;
The other did not so.

Fri. L.        O! she knew well
Thy love did read by rote and could not spell.
But come, young waverer, come, go with me,   95
In one respect I’ll thy assistant be;
For this alliance may so happy prove,
To turn your households’ rancour to pure love.

Rom.  O! let us hence; I stand on sudden haste.

Fri. L.  Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast.  [Exeunt.   100

Act II. Scene IV.

The Same.  A Street.

Enter BENVOLIO and MERCUTIO.

Mer.  Where the devil should this Romeo be?
Came he not home to-night?

Ben.  Not to his father’s; I spoke with his man.   5

Mer.  Why that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline,
Torments him so, that he will sure run mad.

Ben.  Tybalt, the kinsman of old Capulet,
Hath sent a letter to his father’s house.

Mer.  A challenge, on my life.   10

Ben.  Romeo will answer it.

Mer.  Any man that can write may answer a letter.

Ben.  Nay, he will answer the letter’s master, how he dares, being dared.

Mer.  Alas! poor Romeo, he is already dead; stabbed with a white wench’s black eye; shot through the ear with a love-song; the very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy’s butt-shaft; and is he a man to encounter Tybalt?

Ben.  Why, what is Tybalt?   15

Mer.  More than prince of cats, I can tell you. O! he is the courageous captain of compliments. He fights as you sing prick-song, keeps time, distance, and proportion; rests me his minim rest, one, two, and the third in your bosom; the very butcher of a silk button, a duellist, a duellist; a gentleman of the very first house, of the first and second cause. Ah! the immortal passado! the punto reverso! the hay!

Ben.  The what?

Mer.  The pox of such antick, lisping, affecting fantasticoes, these new tuners of accents! — ’By Jesu, a very good blade! — a very tall man! a very good whore.’ — Why, is not this a lamentable thing, grandsire, that we should be thus afflicted with these strange flies, these fashion-mongers, these pardonnez-mois, who stand so much on the new form that they cannot sit at ease on the old bench? O, their bons, their bons!

Enter ROMEO.

Ben.  Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo.   20

Mer.  Without his roe, like a dried herring. O flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified! Now is he for the numbers that Petrarch flowed in: Laura to his lady was but a kitchen-wench; marry, she had a better love to be-rime her; Dido a dowdy; Cleopatra a gipsy; Helen and Hero hildings and harlots; Thisbe, a grey eye or so, but not to the purpose. Signior Romeo, bon jour! there’s a French salutation to your French slop. You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night.

Rom.  Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you?

Mer.  The slip, sir, the slip; can you not conceive?

Rom  Pardon, good Mercutio, my business was great; and in such a case as mine a man may strain courtesy.

Mer.  That’s as much as to say, such a case as yours constrains a man to bow in the hams.   25

Rom.  Meaning — to curtsy.

Mer.  Thou hast most kindly hit it.

Rom.  A most courteous exposition.

Mer.  Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy.

Rom.  Pink for flower.   30

Mer.  Right.

Rom.  Why, then, is my pump well flowered.

Mer.  Well said; follow me this jest now till thou hast worn out the pump, that, when the single sole of it is worn, the jest may remain after the wearing sole singular.

Rom.  O single-soled jest! solely singular for the singleness.

Mer.  Come between us, good Benvolio; my wit faints.   35

Rom.  Switch and spurs, switch and spurs; or I’ll cry a match.

Mer.  Nay, if thy wits run the wild-goose chase, I have done, for thou hast more of the wild-goose in one of thy wits than, I am sure, I have in my whole five. Was I with you there for the goose?

Rom.  Thou wast never with me for anything when thou wast not here for the goose.

Mer.  I will bite thee by the ear for that jest.

Rom.  Nay, good goose, bite not.   40

Mer.  Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it is a most sharp sauce.

Rom.  And is it not then well served in to a sweet goose?

Mer.  O! here’s a wit of cheveril, that stretches from an inch narrow to an ell broad.

Rom.  I stretch it out for that word ‘broad;’ which added to the goose, proves thee far and wide broad goose.

Mer.  Why, is not this better now than groaning for love? now art thou sociable, now art thou Romeo; now art thou what thou art, by art as well as by nature: for this drivelling love is like a great natural, that runs lolling up and down to hide his bauble in a hole.   45

Ben.  Stop there, stop there.

Mer.  Thou desirest me to stop in my tale against the hair.

Ben.  Thou wouldst else have made thy tale large.

Mer.  O! thou art deceived; I would have made it short; for I was come to the whole depth of my tale, and meant indeed to occupy the argument no longer.

Rom.  Here’s goodly gear!   50

Enter Nurse and PETER.

Mer.  A sail, a sail!

Ben.  Two, two; a shirt and a smock.

Nurse.  Peter!

Peter.  Anon!   55

Nurse.  My fan, Peter.

Mer.  Good Peter, to hide her face; for her fan’s the fairer face.

Nurse.  God ye good morrow, gentlemen.

Mer.  God ye good den, fair gentlewoman.

Nurse.  Is it good den?   60

Mer.  ’Tis no less, I tell you; for the bawdy hand of the dial is now upon the prick of noon.

Nurse.  Out upon you! what a man are you!

Rom.  One, gentlewoman, that God hath made for himself to mar.

Nurse.  By my troth, it is well said; ‘for himself to mar,’ quoth a’? — Gentlemen, can any of you tell me where I may find the young Romeo?

Rom.  I can tell you; but young Romeo will be older when you have found him than he was when you sought him: I am the youngest of that name, for fault of a worse.   65

Nurse.  You say well.

Mer.  Yea! is the worst well? very well took, i’ faith; wisely, wisely.

Nurse.  If you be he, sir, I desire some confidence with you.

Ben.  She will indite him to some supper.

Mer.  A bawd, a bawd, a bawd! So ho!   70

Rom.  What hast thou found?

Mer.  No hare, sir; unless a hare, sir, in a lenten pie, that is something stale and hoar ere it be spent.  [Sings.
An old hare hoar, and an old hare hoar,
Is very good meat in Lent:
But a hare that is hoar, is too much for a score,
When it hoars ere it be spent.

Romeo, will you come to your father’s? we’ll to dinner thither.

Rom.  I will follow you.

Mer.  Farewell, ancient lady; farewell,
Lady, lady, lady.
[Exeunt MERCUTIO and BENVOLIO.     75

Nurse.  Marry, farewell! I pray you, sir, what saucy merchant was this, that was so full of his ropery?

Rom.  A gentleman, nurse, that loves to hear himself talk, and will speak more in a minute than he will stand to in a month.

Nurse.  An a’ speak anything against me, I’ll take him down, an a’ were lustier than he is, and twenty such Jacks; and if I cannot, I’ll find those that shall. Scurvy knave! I am none of his flirt-gills; I am none of his skeins-mates.  [To PETER.]  And thou must stand by too, and suffer every knave to use me at his pleasure!

Pet.  I saw no man use you at his pleasure; if I had, my weapon should quickly have been out, I warrant you. I dare draw as soon as another man, if I see occasion in a good quarrel, and the law on my side.

Nurse.  Now, afore God, I am so vexed, that every part about me quivers. Scurvy knave! Pray you, sir, a word; and as I told you, my young lady bade me inquire you out; what she bid me say I will keep to myself; but first let me tell ye, if ye should lead her into a fool’s paradise, as they say, it were a very gross kind of behaviour, as they say: for the gentlewoman is young; and, therefore, if you should deal double with her, truly it were an ill thing to be offered to any gentlewoman, and very weak dealing.   80

Rom.  Nurse, commend me to thy lady and mistress. I protest unto thee, —

Nurse.  Good heart! and, i’ faith, I will tell her as much. Lord, Lord! she will be a joyful woman.

Rom.  What wilt thou tell her, nurse? thou dost not mark me.

Nurse.  I will tell her, sir, that you do protest; which, as I take it, is a gentlemanlike offer.

Rom.  Bid her devise   85
Some means to come to shrift this afternoon;
And there she shall at Friar Laurence’ cell,
Be shriv’d and married. Here is for thy pains.

Nurse.  No, truly, sir; not a penny.

Rom.  Go to; I say, you shall.   90

Nurse.  This afternoon, sir? well, she shall be there.

Rom.  And stay, good nurse; behind the abbey wall:
Within this hour my man shall be with thee,
And bring thee cords made like a tackled stair;
Which to the high top-gallant of my joy   95
Must be my convoy in the secret night.
Farewell! Be trusty, and I’ll quit thy pains.
Farewell! Commend me to thy mistress.

Nurse.  Now God in heaven bless thee! Hark you, sir.

Rom.  What sayst thou, my dear nurse?   100

Nurse.  Is your man secret? Did you ne’er hear say,
Two may keep counsel, putting one away?

Rom.  I warrant thee my man’s as true as steel.

Nurse.  Well, sir; my mistress is the sweetest lady — Lord, Lord! — when ’twas a little prating thing, — O! there’s a nobleman in town, one Paris, that would fain lay knife aboard; but she, good soul, had as lief see a toad, a very toad, as see him. I anger her sometimes and tell her that Paris is the properer man; but, I’ll warrant you, when I say so, she looks as pale as any clout in the versal world. Doth not rosemary and Romeo begin both with a letter?

Rom.  Ay, nurse: what of that? both with an R.   105

Nurse.  Ah! mocker; that’s the dog’s name. R is for the — No; I know it begins with some other letter: and she had the prettiest sententious of it, of you and rosemary, that it would do you good to hear it.

Rom.  Commend me to thy lady.

Nurse.  Ay, a thousand times.  [Exit ROMEO.]  Peter!

Pet.  Anon!

Nurse.  Before, and apace.  [Exeunt.   110

Act II. Scene V.

The Same.  CAPULET’S Garden.

Enter JULIET.

Jul.  The clock struck nine when I did send the nurse;
In half an hour she promis’d to return.
Perchance she cannot meet him: that’s not so.   5
O! she is lame: love’s heralds should be thoughts,
Which ten times faster glide than the sun’s beams,
Driving back shadows over lowering hills:
Therefore do nimble-pinion’d doves draw Love,
And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings.   10
Now is the sun upon the highmost hill
Of this day’s journey, and from nine till twelve
Is three long hours, yet she is not come.
Had she affections, and warm youthful blood,
She’d be as swift in motion as a ball;   15
My words would bandy her to my sweet love,
And his to me:
But old folks, many feign as they were dead;
Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead.

Enter Nurse and PETER.   20
O God! she comes. O honey nurse! what news?
Hast thou met with him? Send thy man away.

Nurse.  Peter, stay at the gate.  [Exit PETER.

Jul.  Now, good sweet nurse; O Lord! why look’st thou sad?
Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily;   25
If good, thou sham’st the music of sweet news
By playing it to me with so sour a face.

Nurse.  I am aweary, give me leave awhile:
Fie, how my bones ache! What a jaunce have I had!

Jul.  I would thou hadst my bones, and I thy news.   30
Nay, come, I pray thee, speak; good, good nurse, speak.

Nurse.  Jesu! what haste? can you not stay awhile?
Do you not see that I am out of breath?

Jul.  How art thou out of breath when thou hast breath
To say to me that thou art out of breath?   35
The excuse that thou dost make in this delay
Is longer than the tale thou dost excuse.
Is thy news good, or bad? answer to that;
Say either, and I’ll stay the circumstance:
Let me be satisfied, is ‘t good or bad?   40

Nurse.  Well, you have made a simple choice; you know not how to choose a man: Romeo! no, not he; though his face be better than any man’s, yet his leg excels all men’s; and for a hand, and a foot, and a body, though they be not to be talked on, yet they are past compare. He is not the flower of courtesy, but, I’ll warrant him, as gentle as a lamb. Go thy ways, wench; serve God. What! have you dined at home?

Jul.  No, no: but all this did I know before. What says he of our marriage? what of that?

Nurse.  Lord! how my head aches; what a head have I!
It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces.
My back o’ t’ other side; O! my back, my back!   45
Beshrew your heart for sending me about,
To catch my death with jauncing up and down.

Jul.  I’ faith, I am sorry that thou art not well.
Sweet, sweet, sweet nurse, tell me, what says my love?

Nurse.  Your love says, like an honest gentleman, and a courteous, and a kind, and a handsome, and, I warrant, a virtuous, — Where is your mother?   50

Jul.  Where is my mother! why, she is within;
Where should she be? How oddly thou repliest:
‘Your love says, like an honest gentleman,
Where is your mother?’

Nurse.        O! God’s lady dear,   55
Are you so hot? Marry, come up, I trow;
Is this the poultice for my aching bones?
Henceforward do your messages yourself.

Jul.  Here’s such a coil! come, what says Romeo?

Nurse.  Have you got leave to go to shrift to-day?   60

Jul.  I have.

Nurse.  Then hie you hence to Friar Laurence’ cell,
There stays a husband to make you a wife:
Now comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks,
They’ll be in scarlet straight at any news.   65
Hie you to church; I must another way,
To fetch a ladder, by the which your love
Must climb a bird’s nest soon when it is dark;
I am the drudge and toil in your delight,
But you shall bear the burden soon at night.   70
Go; I’ll to dinner: hie you to the cell.

Jul.  Hie to high fortune! Honest nurse, farewell.  [Exeunt.

Act II. Scene VI.

The Same.  FRIAR LAURENCE’S Cell.

Enter FRIAR LAURENCE and ROMEO.

Fri. L.  So smile the heaven upon this holy act,
That after hours with sorrow chide us not!

Rom.  Amen, amen! but come what sorrow can,   5
It cannot countervail the exchange of joy
That one short minute gives me in her sight:
Do thou but close our hands with holy words,
Then love-devouring death do what he dare;
It is enough I may but call her mine.   10

Fri. L.  These violent delights have violent ends,
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,
Which, as they kiss consume: the sweetest honey
Is loathsome in his own deliciousness
And in the taste confounds the appetite:   15
Therefore love moderately; long love doth so;
Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.

Enter JULIET.
Here comes the lady: O! so light a foot
Will ne’er wear out the everlasting flint:   20
A lover may bestride the gossamer
That idles in the wanton summer air,
And yet not fall; so light is vanity.

Jul.  Good even to my ghostly confessor.

Fri. L.  Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.   25

Jul.  As much to him, else are his thanks too much.

Rom.  Ah! Juliet, if the measure of thy joy
Be heap’d like mine, and that thy skill be more
To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath
This neighbour air, and let rich music’s tongue   30
Unfold the imagin’d happiness that both
Receive in either by this dear encounter.

Jul.  Conceit, more rich in matter than in words,
Brags of his substance, not of ornament:
They are but beggars that can count their worth;   35
But my true love is grown to such excess
I cannot sum up half my sum of wealth.

Fri. L.  Come, come with me, and we will make short work;
For, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone
Till holy church incorporate two in one.  [Exeunt.   40

Act III. Scene I.

Verona.  A Public Place.

Enter MERCUTIO, BENVOLIO, Page, and Servants.

Ben.  I pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire:
The day is hot, the Capulets abroad,
And, if we meet, we shall not ‘scape a brawl;   5
For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.

Mer.  Thou art like one of those fellows that when he enters the confines of a tavern claps me his sword upon the table and says, ‘God send me no need of thee!’ and by the operation of the second cup draws him on the drawer, when, indeed, there is no need.

Ben.  Am I like such a fellow?

Mer.  Come, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as any in Italy; and as soon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved.

Ben.  And what to?   10

Mer.  Nay, an there were two such, we should have none shortly, for one would kill the other. Thou! why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a hair more or a hair less in his beard than thou hast. Thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou hast hazel eyes. What eye, but such an eye, would spy out such a quarrel? Thy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat, and yet thy head hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling. Thou hast quarrelled with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath wakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall out with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter? with another, for tying his new shoes with old riband? and yet thou wilt tutor me from quarrelling!

Ben.  An I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man should buy the fee-simple of my life for an hour and a quarter.

Mer.  The fee-simple! O simple!

Ben.  By my head, here come the Capulets.

Mer.  By my heel, I care not.   15

Enter TYBALT, and Others.

Tyb.  Follow me close, for I will speak to them. Gentlemen, good den! a word with one of you.

Mer.  And but one word with one of us? Couple it with something; make it a word and a blow.

Tyb.  You shall find me apt enough to that, sir, an you will give me occasion.

Mer.  Could you not take some occasion without giving?   20

Tyb.  Mercutio, thou consort’st with Romeo, —

Mer.  Consort! What! dost thou make us minstrels? an thou make minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but discords: here’s my fiddlestick; here’s that shall make you dance. ‘Zounds! consort!

Ben.  We talk here in the public haunt of men:
Either withdraw unto some private place,
Or reason coldly of your grievances,   25
Or else depart; here all eyes gaze on us.

Mer.  Men’s eyes were made to look, and let them gaze;
I will not budge for no man’s pleasure, I.

Enter ROMEO.

Tyb.  Well, peace be with you, sir. Here comes my man.   30

Mer.  But I’ll be hang’d, sir, if he wear your livery:
Marry, go before to field, he’ll be your follower;
Your worship in that sense may call him ‘man.’

Tyb.  Romeo, the hate I bear thee can afford
No better term than this, — thou art a villain.   35

Rom.  Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee
Doth much excuse the appertaining rage
To such a greeting; villain am I none,
Therefore farewell; I see thou know’st me not.

Tyb.  Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries   40
That thou hast done me; therefore turn and draw.

Rom.  I do protest I never injur’d thee,
But love thee better than thou canst devise,
Till thou shalt know the reason of my love:
And so, good Capulet, which name I tender   45
As dearly as my own, be satisfied.

Mer.  O calm, dishonourable, vile submission!
Alla stoccata carries it away.  [Draws.
Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk?

Tyb.  What wouldst thou have with me?   50

Mer.  Good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine lives, that I mean to make bold withal, and, as you shall use me hereafter, dry-beat the rest of the eight. Will you pluck your sword out of his pilcher by the ears? make haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out.

Tyb.  [Drawing.]  I am for you.

Rom.  Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up.

Mer.  Come, sir, your passado.  [They fight.

Rom.  Draw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons.   55
Gentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage!
Tybalt, Mercutio, the prince expressly hath
Forbidden bandying in Verona streets.
Hold, Tybalt! good Mercutio!  [Exeunt TYBALT and his Partisans.

Mer.        I am hurt.   60
A plague o’ both your houses! I am sped.
Is he gone, and hath nothing?

Ben.        What! art thou hurt?

Mer.  Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch; marry, ’tis enough.
Where is my page? Go, villain, fetch a surgeon.  [Exit Page.   65

Rom.  Courage, man; the hurt cannot be much.

Mer.  No, ’tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door; but ’tis enough, ‘twill serve: ask for me to-morrow, and you shall find me a grave man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world. A plague o’ both your houses! ‘Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to death! a braggart, a rogue, a villain, that fights by the book of arithmetic! Why the devil came you between us? I was hurt under your arm.

Rom.  I thought all for the best.

Mer.  Help me into some house, Benvolio,
Or I shall faint. A plague o’ both your houses!   70
They have made worms’ meat of me: I have it,
And soundly too: — your houses!  [Exeunt MERCUTIO and BENVOLIO.

Rom.  This gentleman, the prince’s near ally,
My very friend, hath got his mortal hurt
In my behalf; my reputation stain’d   75
With Tybalt’s slander, Tybalt, that an hour
Hath been my kinsman. O sweet Juliet!
Thy beauty hath made me effeminate,
And in my temper soften’d valour’s steel!

Re-enter BENVOLIO.   80

Ben.  O Romeo, Romeo! brave Mercutio’s dead;
That gallant spirit hath aspir’d the clouds,
Which too untimely here did scorn the earth.

Rom.  This day’s black fate on more days doth depend;
This but begins the woe others must end.   85

Re-enter TYBALT.

Ben.  Here comes the furious Tybalt back again.

Rom.  Alive! in triumph! and Mercutio slain!
Away to heaven, respective lenity,
And fire-ey’d fury be my conduct now!   90
Now, Tybalt, take the villain back again
That late thou gav’st me; for Mercutio’s soul
Is but a little way above our heads,
Staying for thine to keep him company:
Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him.   95

Tyb.  Thou wretched boy, that didst consort him here,
Shalt with him hence.

Rom.        This shall determine that.  [They fight: TYBALT falls.

Ben.  Romeo, away! be gone!
The citizens are up, and Tybalt slain.   100
Stand not amaz’d: the prince will doom thee death
If thou art taken: hence! be gone! away!

Rom.  O! I am Fortune’s fool.

Ben.        Why dost thou stay?  [Exit ROMEO.

Enter Citizens, &c.   105

First Cit.  Which way ran he that kill’d Mercutio?
Tybalt, that murderer, which way ran he?

Ben.  There lies that Tybalt.

First Cit.        Up, sir, go with me.
I charge thee in the prince’s name, obey.   110

Enter PRINCE, attended; MONTAGUE, CAPULET, their Wives, and Others.

Prin.  Where are the vile beginners of this fray?

Ben.  O noble prince! I can discover all
The unlucky manage of this fatal brawl:
There lies the man, slain by young Romeo,   115
That slew thy kinsman, brave Mercutio.

Lady Cap.  Tybalt, my cousin! O my brother’s child!
O prince! O cousin! husband! O! the blood is spill’d
Of my dear kinsman. Prince, as thou art true,
For blood of ours shed blood of Montague.   120
O cousin, cousin!

Prin.  Benvolio, who began this bloody fray?

Ben.  Tybalt, here slain, whom Romeo’s hand did slay:
Romeo, that spoke him fair, bade him bethink
How nice the quarrel was, and urg’d withal   125
Your high displeasure: all this, uttered
With gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bow’d,
Could not take truce with the unruly spleen
Of Tybalt deaf to peace, but that he tilts
With piercing steel at bold Mercutio’s breast,   130
Who, all as hot, turns deadly point to point,
And, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats
Cold death aside, and with the other sends
It back to Tybalt, whose dexterity
Retorts it: Romeo he cries aloud,   135
‘Hold, friends! friends, part!’ and, swifter than his tongue,
His agile arm beats down their fatal points,
And ‘twixt them rushes; underneath whose arm
An envious thrust from Tybalt hit the life
Of stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt fled;   140
But by and by comes back to Romeo,
Who had but newly entertain’d revenge,
And to ‘t they go like lightning, for, ere I
Could draw to part them, was stout Tybalt slain,
And, as he fell, did Romeo turn and fly.   145
This is the truth, or let Benvolio die.

Lady Cap.  He is a kinsman to the Montague;
Affection makes him false, he speaks not true:
Some twenty of them fought in this black strife
And all those twenty could but kill one life.   150
I beg for justice, which thou, prince, must give;
Romeo slew Tybalt, Romeo must not live.

Prin.  Romeo slew him, he slew Mercutio;
Who now the price of his dear blood doth owe?

Mon.  Not Romeo, prince, he was Mercutio’s friend,   155
His fault concludes but what the law should end,
The life of Tybalt.

Prin.        And for that offence
Immediately we do exile him hence:
I have an interest in your hate’s proceeding,   160
My blood for your rude brawls doth lie a-bleeding;
But I’ll amerce you with so strong a fine
That you shall all repent the loss of mine.
I will be deaf to pleading and excuses;
Nor tears nor prayers shall purchase out abuses;   165
Therefore use none; let Romeo hence in haste,
Else, when he’s found, that hour is his last.
Bear hence this body and attend our will:
Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.  [Exeunt.

Act III. Scene II.

The Same.  CAPULET’S Orchard.

Enter JULIET.

Jul.  Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,
Towards Phœbus’ lodging; such a waggoner
As Phæthon would whip you to the west,   5
And bring in cloudy night immediately.
Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night!
That runaway’s eyes may wink, and Romeo
Leap to these arms, untalk’d of and unseen!
Lovers can see to do their amorous rites   10
By their own beauties; or, if love be blind,
It best agrees with night. Come, civil night,
Thou sober-suited matron, all in black,
And learn me how to lose a winning match,
Play’d for a pair of stainless maidenhoods:   15
Hood my unmann’d blood, bating in my cheeks,
With thy black mantle; till strange love, grown bold,
Think true love acted simple modesty.
Come, night! come, Romeo! come, thou day in night!
For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night,   20
Whiter than new snow on a raven’s back.
Come, gentle night; come, loving, black-brow’d night,
Give me my Romeo: and, when he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine   25
That all the world will be in love with night,
And pay no worship to the garish sun.
O! I have bought the mansion of a love,
But not possess’d it, and, though I am sold,
Not yet enjoy’d. So tedious is this day   30
As is the night before some festival
To an impatient child that hath new robes
And may not wear them. O! here comes my nurse,

Enter Nurse with cords.
And she brings news; and every tongue that speaks   35
But Romeo’s name speaks heavenly eloquence.
Now nurse, what news? What hast thou there? the cords
That Romeo bade thee fetch?

Nurse.        Ay, ay, the cords.  [Throws them down.

Jul.  Ah me! what news? why dost thou wring thy hands?   40

Nurse.  Ah well-a-day! he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead!
We are undone, lady, we are undone!
Alack the day! he’s gone, he’s killed, he’s dead!

Jul.  Can heaven be so envious?

Nurse.        Romeo can,   45
Though heaven cannot. O! Romeo, Romeo;
Who ever would have thought it? Romeo!

Jul.  What devil art thou that dost torment me thus?
This torture should be roar’d in dismal hell.
Hath Romeo slain himself? say thou but ‘I,’   50
And that bare vowel, ‘I,’ shall poison more
Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice:
I am not I, if there be such an ‘I;’
Or those eyes shut that make thee answer ‘I.’
If he be slain, say ‘I;’ or if not ‘no:’   55
Brief sounds determine of my weal or woe.

Nurse.  I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes,
God save the mark! here on his manly breast:
A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse;
Pale, pale as ashes, all bedaub’d in blood,   60
All in gore blood; I swounded at the sight.

Jul.  O break, my heart! — poor bankrupt, break at once!
To prison, eyes, ne’er look on liberty!
Vile earth, to earth resign; end motion here;
And thou and Romeo press one heavy bier!   65

Nurse.  O Tybalt, Tybalt! the best friend I had:
O courteous Tybalt! honest gentleman!
That ever I should live to see thee dead!

Jul.  What storm is this that blows so contrary?
Is Romeo slaughter’d, and is Tybalt dead?   70
My dearest cousin, and my dearer lord?
Then, dreadful trumpet, sound the general doom!
For who is living if those two are gone?

Nurse.  Tybalt is gone, and Romeo banished;
Romeo, that kill’d him, he is banished.   75

Jul.  O God! did Romeo’s hand shed Tybalt’s blood?

Nurse.  It did, it did; alas the day! it did.

Jul.  O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face!
Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave?
Beautiful tyrant! fiond angelical!   80
Dove-feather’d raven! wolvish-ravening lamb!
Despised substance of divinest show!
Just opposite to what thou justly seem’st;
A damned saint, an honourable villain!
O, nature! what hadst thou to do in hell   85
When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend
In mortal paradise of such sweet flesh?
Was ever book containing such vile matter
So fairly bound? O! that deceit should dwell
In such a gorgeous palace.   90

Nurse.        There’s no trust,
No faith, no honesty in men; all naught,
All perjur’d, all dissemblers, all forsworn.
Ah! where’s my man? give me some aqua vitœ:
These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old.   95
Shame come to Romeo!

Jul.        Blister’d be thy tongue
For such a wish! he was not born to shame:
Upon his brow shame is asham’d to sit;
For ’tis a throne where honour may be crown’d   100
Sole monarch of the universal earth.
O! what a beast was I to chide at him.

Nurse.  Will you speak well of him that kill’d your cousin?

Jul.  Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband?
Ah! poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name,   105
When I, thy three-hours wife, have mangled it?
But, wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin?
That villain cousin would have kill’d my husband:
Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring;
Your tributary drops belong to woe,   110
Which you, mistaking, offer up to joy.
My husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain;
And Tybalt’s dead, that would have slain my husband:
All this is comfort; wherefore weep I then?
Some word there was, worser than Tybalt’s death,   115
That murder’d me: I would forget it fain;
But O! it presses to my memory,
Like damned guilty deeds to sinners’ minds.
‘Tybalt is dead, and Romeo banished!’
That ‘banished,’ that one word ‘banished,’   120
Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt’s death
Was woe enough, if it had ended there:
Or, if sour woe delights in fellowship,
And needly will be rank’d with other griefs,
Why follow’d not, when she said ‘Tybalt’s dead,’   125
Thy father, or thy mother, nay, or both,
Which modern lamentation might have mov’d?
But with a rearward following Tybalt’s death,
‘Romeo is banished!’ to speak that word
Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet,   130
All slain, all dead: ‘Romeo is banished!’
There is no end, no limit, measure, bound
In that word’s death; no words can that woe sound. —
Where is my father and my mother, nurse?

Nurse.  Weeping and wailing over Tybalt’s corse:   135
Will you go to them? I will bring you thither.

Jul.  Wash they his wounds with tears: mine shall be spent,
When theirs are dry, for Romeo’s banishment.
Take up those cords. Poor ropes, you are beguil’d,
Both you and I, for Romeo is exil’d:   140
He made you for a highway to my bed,
But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed.
Come, cords; come, nurse; I’ll to my wedding bed;
And death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead!

Nurse.  Hie to your chamber; I’ll find Romeo   145
To comfort you: I wot well where he is.
Hark ye, your Romeo will be here to-night:
I’ll to him; he is hid at Laurence’ cell.

Jul.  O! find him; give this ring to my true knight,
And bid him come to take his last farewell.  [Exeunt.   150

Act III. Scene III.

The Same.  FRIAR LAURENCE’S Cell.

Enter FRIAR LAURENCE.

Fri. L.  Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man:
Affliction is enamour’d of thy parts,
And thou art wedded to calamity.   5

Enter ROMEO.

Rom.  Father, what news? what is the prince’s doom?
What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand,
That I yet know not?

Fri. L.        Too familiar   10
Is my dear son with such sour company:
I bring thee tidings of the prince’s doom.

Rom.  What less than doomsday is the prince’s doom?

Fri. L.  A gentler judgment vanish’d from his lips,
Not body’s death, but body’s banishment.   15

Rom.  Ha! banishment! be merciful, say ‘death;’
For exile hath more terror in his look,
Much more than death: do not say ‘banishment.’

Fri. L.  Hence from Verona art thou banished.
Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.   20

Rom.  There is no world without Verona walls,
But purgatory, torture, hell itself.
Hence banished is banish’d from the world,
And world’s exile is death; then ‘banished,’
Is death mis-term’d. Calling death ‘banished,’   25
Thou cutt’st my head off with a golden axe,
And smil’st upon the stroke that murders me.

Fri. L.  O deadly sin! O rude unthankfulness!
Thy fault our law calls death; but the kind prince,
Taking thy part, hath rush’d aside the law,   30
And turn’d that black word death to banishment:
This is dear mercy, and thou seest it not.

Rom.  ’Tis torture, and not mercy: heaven is here,
Where Juliet lives; and every cat and dog
And little mouse, every unworthy thing,   35
Live here in heaven and may look on her;
But Romeo may not: more validity,
More honourable state, more courtship lives
In carrion flies than Romeo: they may seize
On the white wonder of dear Juliet’s hand,   40
And steal immortal blessing from her lips,
Who, even in pure and vestal modesty,
Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin;
Flies may do this, but I from this must fly:
They are free men, but I am banished.   45
And sayst thou yet that exile is not death?
Hadst thou no poison mix’d, no sharp-ground knife,
No sudden mean of death, though ne’er so mean,
But ‘banished’ to kill me? ‘Banished!’
O friar! the damned use that word in hell;   50
Howlings attend it: how hast thou the heart,
Being a divine, a ghostly confessor,
A sin-absolver, and my friend profess’d,
To mangle me with that word ‘banished?’

Fri. L.  Thou fond mad man, hear me but speak a word.   55

Rom.  O! thou wilt speak again of banishment.

Fri. L.  I’ll give thee armour to keep off that word;
Adversity’s sweet milk, philosophy,
To comfort thee, though thou art banished.

Rom.  Yet ‘banished!’ Hang up philosophy!   60
Unless philosophy can make a Juliet,
Displant a town, reverse a prince’s doom,
It helps not, it prevails not: talk no more.

Fri. L.  O! then I see that madmen have no ears.

Rom.  How should they, when that wise men have no eyes?   65

Fri. L.  Let me dispute with thee of thy estate.

Rom.  Thou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel:
Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love,
An hour but married, Tybalt murdered,
Doting like me, and like me banished,   70
Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair,
And fall upon the ground, as I do now,
Taking the measure of an unmade grave.  [Knocking within.

Fri. L.  Arise; one knocks: good Romeo, hide thyself.

Rom.  Not I; unless the breath of heart-sick groans,   75
Mist-like, infold me from the search of eyes.  [Knocking.

Fri. L.  Hark! how they knock. Who’s there? Romeo arise;
Thou wilt be taken. Stay awhile! Stand up;  [Knocking.
Run to my study. By and by! God’s will!
What wilfulness is this! I come, I come!  [Knocking.   80
Who knocks so hard? whence come you? what’s your will?

Nurse.  [Within.]  Let me come in, and you shall know my errand:
I come from Lady Juliet.

Fri. L.        Welcome, then.

Enter Nurse.   85

Nurse.  O holy friar! O! tell me, holy friar,
Where is my lady’s lord? where’s Romeo?

Fri. L.  There on the ground, with his own tears made drunk.

Nurse.  O! he is even in my mistress’ case,
Just in her case!   90

Fri. L.        O woeful sympathy!
Piteous predicament! Even so lies she,
Blubbering and weeping, weeping and blubbering.
Stand up, stand up; stand, an you be a man:
For Juliet’s sake, for her sake, rise and stand;   95
Why should you fall into so deep an O?

Rom.  Nurse!

Nurse.  Ah, sir! ah, sir! Well, death’s the end of all.

Rom.  Spak’st thou of Juliet? how is it with her?
Doth she not think me an old murderer,   100
Now I have stain’d the childhood of our joy
With blood remov’d but little from her own?
Where is she? and how doth she? and what says
My conceal’d lady to our cancell’d love?

Nurse.  O! she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps;   105
And now falls on her bed; and then starts up,
And Tybalt calls, and then on Romeo cries,
And then down falls again.

Rom.        As if that name,
Shot from the deadly level of a gun,   110
Did murder her; as that name’s cursed hand
Murder’d her kinsman. O! tell me, friar, tell me,
In what vile part of this anatomy
Doth my name lodge? tell me, that I may sack
The hateful mansion.  [Drawing his sword.   115

Fri. L.        Hold thy desperate hand:
Art thou a man? thy form cries out thou art:
Thy tears are womanish; thy wild acts denote
The unreasonable fury of a beast:
Unseemly woman in a seeming man;   120
Or ill-beseeming beast in seeming both!
Thou hast amaz’d me: by my holy order,
I thought thy disposition better temper’d.
Hast thou slain Tybalt? wilt thou slay thyself?
And slay thy lady that in thy life lives,   125
By doing damned hate upon thyself?
Why rail’st thou on thy birth, the heaven, and earth?
Since birth, and heaven, and earth, all three do meet
In thee at once, which thou at once wouldst lose.
Fie, fie! thou sham’st thy shape, thy love, thy wit,   130
Which, like a usurer, abound’st in all,
And usest none in that true use indeed
Which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit.
Thy noble shape is but a form of wax,
Digressing from the valour of a man;   135
Thy dear love, sworn, but hollow perjury,
Killing that love which thou hast vow’d to cherish;
Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love,
Misshapen in the conduct of them both,
Like powder in a skilless soldier’s flask,   140
To set a-fire by thine own ignorance,
And thou dismember’d with thine own defence.
What! rouse thee, man; thy Juliet is alive,
For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead;
There art thou happy: Tybalt would kill thee,   145
But thou slew’st Tybalt; there art thou happy too:
The law that threaten’d death becomes thy friend,
And turns it to exile; there art thou happy:
A pack of blessings light upon thy back;
Happiness courts thee in her best array;   150
But, like a misbehav’d and sullen wench,
Thou pout’st upon thy fortune and thy love.
Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable.
Go, get thee to thy love, as was decreed,
Ascend her chamber, hence and comfort her;   155
But look thou stay not till the watch be set,
For then thou canst not pass to Mantua;
Where thou shalt live, till we can find a time
To blaze your marriage, reconcile your friends,
Beg pardon of the prince, and call thee back   160
With twenty hundred thousand times more joy
Than thou went’st forth in lamentation.
Go before, nurse: commend me to thy lady;
And bid her hasten all the house to bed,
Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto:   165
Romeo is coming.

Nurse.  O Lord! I could have stay’d here all the night
To hear good counsel: O! what learning is.
My lord, I’ll tell my lady you will come.

Rom.  Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide.   170

Nurse.  Here, sir, a ring she bid me give you, sir.
Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late.  [Exit.

Rom.  How well my comfort is reviv’d by this!

Fri. L.  Go hence; good-night; and here stands all your state:
Either be gone before the watch be set,   175
Or by the break of day disguis’d from hence:
Sojourn in Mantua; I’ll find out your man,
And he shall signify from time to time
Every good hap to you that chances here.
Give me thy hand; ’tis late: farewell; goodnight.   180

Rom.  But that a joy past joy calls out on me,
It were a grief so brief to part with thee:
Farewell.  [Exeunt.

Act III. Scene IV.

The Same.  A Room in CAPULET’S House.

Enter CAPULET, LADY CAPULET, and PARIS.

Cap.  Things have fall’n out, sir, so unluckily,
That we have had no time to move our daughter:
Look you, she lov’d her kinsman Tybalt dearly,   5
And so did I: well, we were born to die.
’Tis very late, she’ll not come down to-night:
I promise you, but for your company,
I would have been a-bed an hour ago.

Par.  These times of woe afford no time to woo.   10
Madam, good-night: commend me to your daughter.

Lady Cap.  I will, and know her mind early to-morrow;
To-night she’s mew’d up to her heaviness.

Cap.  Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender
Of my child’s love: I think she will be rul’d   15
In all respects by me; nay, more, I doubt it not.
Wife go you to her ere you go to bed;
Acquaint her here of my son Paris’ love;
And bid her, mark you me, on Wednesday next —
But, soft! what day is this?   20

Par.        Monday, my lord.

Cap.  Monday! ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon;
O’ Thursday let it be: o’ Thursday, tell her,
She shall be married to this noble earl.
Will you be ready? do you like this haste?   25
We’ll keep no great ado; a friend or two;
For, hark you, Tybalt being slain so late,
It may be thought we held him carelessly,
Being our kinsman, if we revel much.
Therefore we’ll have some half a dozen friends,   30
And there an end. But what say you to Thursday?

Par.  My lord, I would that Thursday were to-morrow.

Cap.  Well, get you gone: o’ Thursday be it then.
Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed,
Prepare her, wife, against this wedding-day.   35
Farewell, my lord. Light to my chamber, ho!
Afore me! it is so very very late,
That we may call it early by and by.
Good-night.  [Exeunt.

Act III. Scene V.

The Same.  JULIET’S Chamber.

Enter ROMEO and JULIET.

Jul.  Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierc’d the fearful hollow of thine ear;   5
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree:
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

Rom.  It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east:   10
Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops:
I must be gone and live, or stay and die.

Jul.  Yon light is not daylight, I know it, I:
It is some meteor that the sun exhales,   15
To be to thee this night a torch-bearer,
And light thee on thy way to Mantua:
Therefore stay yet; thou need’st not to be gone.

Rom.  Let me be ta’en, let me be put to death;
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.   20
I’ll say you grey is not the morning’s eye,
’Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia’s brow;
Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads:
I have more care to stay than will to go:   25
Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so.
How is ‘t, my soul? let’s talk; it is not day.

Jul.  It is, it is; hie hence, be gone, away!
It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.   30
Some say the lark makes sweet division;
This doth not so, for she divideth us:
Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes;
O! now I would they had chang’d voices too,
Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,   35
Hunting thee hence with hunts-up to the day.
O! now be gone; more light and light it grows.

Rom.  More light and light; more dark and dark our woes.

Enter Nurse.

Nurse.  Madam!   40

Jul.  Nurse!

Nurse  Your lady mother is coming to your chamber:
The day is broke; be wary, look about.  [Exit.

Jul.  Then, window, let day in, and let life out.

Rom.  Farewell, farewell! one kiss, and I’ll descend.  [Descends.   45

Jul.  Art thou gone so? my lord, my love, my friend!
I must hear from thee every day in the hour,
For in a minute there are many days:
O! by this count I shall be much in years
Ere I again behold my Romeo.   50

Rom.  Farewell!
I will omit no opportunity
That may convey my greetings, love, to thee.

Jul.  O! think’st thou we shall ever meet again?

Rom.  I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve   55
For sweet discourses in our time to come.

Jul.  O God! I have an ill-divining soul:
Methinks I see thee, now thou art so low,
As one dead in the bottom of a tomb:
Either my eyesight fails, or thou look’st pale.   60

Rom.  And trust me, love, in my eye so do you:
Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu! adieu!  [Exit.

Jul.  O fortune, fortune! all men call thee fickle:
If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him
That is renown’d for faith? Be fickle, fortune;   65
For then, I hope, thou wilt not keep him long,
But send him back.

Lady Cap.  [Within.]  Ho, daughter! are you up?

Jul.  Who is ‘t that calls? is it my lady mother?
Is she not down so late, or up so early?   70
What unaccustom’d cause procures her hither?

Enter LADY CAPULET.

Lady Cap.  Why, how now, Juliet!

Jul.        Madam, I am not well.

Lady Cap.  Evermore weeping for your cousin’s death?   75
What! wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears?
And if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live;
Therefore, have done: some grief shows much of love;
But much of grief shows still some want of wit.

Jul.  Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss.   80

Lady Cap.  So shall you feel the loss, but not the friend
Which you weep for.

Jul.        Feeling so the loss,
I cannot choose but ever weep the friend.

Lady Cap.  Well, girl, thou weep’st not so much for his death,   85
As that the villain lives which slaughter’d him.

Jul.  What villain, madam?

Lady Cap.        That same villain, Romeo.

Jul.  [Aside.]  Villain and he be many miles asunder.
God pardon him! I do, with all my heart;   90
And yet no man like he doth grieve my heart.

Lady Cap.  That is because the traitor murderer lives.

Jul.  Ay, madam, from the reach of these my hands.
Would none but I might venge my cousin’s death!

Lady Cap.  We will have vengeance for it, fear thou not:   95
Then weep no more. I’ll send to one in Mantua,
Where that same banish’d runagate doth live,
Shall give him such an unaccustom’d dram
That he shall soon keep Tybalt company:
And then, I hope, thou wilt be satisfied.   100

Jul.  Indeed, I never shall be satisfied
With Romeo, till I behold him — dead —
Is my poor heart so for a kinsman vex’d:
Madam, if you could find out but a man
To bear a poison, I would temper it,   105
That Romeo should, upon receipt thereof,
Soon sleep in quiet. O! how my heart abhors
To hear him nam’d, and cannot come to him,
To wreak the love I bore my cousin Tybalt
Upon his body that hath slaughter’d him.   110

Lady Cap.  Find thou the means, and I’ll find such a man.
But now I’ll tell thee joyful tidings, girl.

Jul.  And joy comes well in such a needy time:
What are they, I beseech your ladyship?

Lady Cap.  Well, well, thou hast a careful father, child;   115
One who, to put thee from thy heaviness,
Hath sorted out a sudden day of joy
That thou expect’st not, nor I look’d not for.

Jul.  Madam, in happy time, what day is that?

Lady Cap.  Marry, my child, early next Thursday morn   120
The gallant, young, and noble gentleman,
The County Paris, at Saint Peter’s church,
Shall happily make thee there a joyful bride.

Jul.  Now, by Saint Peter’s church, and Peter too,
He shall not make me there a joyful bride.   125
I wonder at this haste; that I must wed
Ere he that should be husband comes to woo.
I pray you, tell my lord and father, madam,
I will not marry yet; and, when I do, I swear,
It shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate,   130
Rather than Paris. These are news indeed!

Lady Cap.  Here comes your father; tell him so yourself,
And see how he will take it at your hands.

Enter CAPULET and Nurse.

Cap.  When the sun sets, the air doth drizzle dew;   135
But for the sunset of my brother’s son
It rains downright.
How now! a conduit, girl? what! still in tears?
Evermore showering? In one little body
Thou counterfeit’st a bark, a sea, a wind;   140
For still thy eyes, which I may call the sea,
Do ebb and flow with tears; the bark thy body is,
Sailing in this salt flood; the winds, thy sighs;
Who, raging with thy tears, and they with them,
Without a sudden calm, will overset   145
Thy tempest-tossed body. How now, wife!
Have you deliver’d to her our decree?

Lady Cap.  Ay, sir; but she will none, she gives you thanks.
I would the fool were married to her grave!

Cap.  Soft! take me with you, take me with you, wife.   150
How! will she none? doth she not give us thanks?
Is she not proud? doth she not count her bless’d,
Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought
So worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom?

Jul.  Not proud, you have; but thankful, that you have:   155
Proud can I never be of what I hate;
But thankful even for hate, that is meant love.

Cap.  How now! how now, chop-logic! What is this?
‘Proud,’ and ‘I thank you,’ and ‘I thank you not;’
And yet ‘not proud;’ mistress minion, you,   160
Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds,
But fettle your fine joints ‘gainst Thursday next,
To go with Paris to Saint Peter’s church,
Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither.
Out, you green-sickness carrion! out, you baggage!   165
You tallow face!

Lady Cap.        Fie, fie! what, are you mad?

Jul.  Good father, I beseech you on my knees,
Hear me with patience but to speak a word.

Cap.  Hang thee, young baggage! disobedient wretch!   170
I tell thee what, get thee to church o’ Thursday,
Or never after look me in the face.
Speak not, reply not, do not answer me;
My fingers itch. — Wife, we scarce thought us bless’d
That God had lent us but this only child;   175
But now I see this one is one too much,
And that we have a curse in having her.
Out on her, hilding!

Nurse.        God in heaven bless her!
You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so.   180

Cap.  And why, my lady wisdom? hold your tongue,
Good prudence; smatter with your gossips, go.

Nurse.  I speak no treason.

Cap.        O! God ye good den.

Nurse.  May not one speak?   185

Cap.        Peace, you mumbling fool;
Utter your gravity o’er a gossip’s bowl;
For here we need it not.

Lady Cap.        You are too hot.

Cap.  God’s bread! it makes me mad.   190
Day, night, hour, tide, time, work, play,
Alone, in company, still my care hath been
To have her match’d; and having now provided
A gentleman of noble parentage,
Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly train’d,   195
Stuff’d, as they say, with honourable parts,
Proportion’d as one’s thought would wish a man;
And then to have a wretched puling fool,
A whining mammet, in her fortune’s tender,
To answer ‘I’ll not wed,’ ‘I cannot love,’   200
‘I am too young,’ ‘I pray you, pardon me;’
But, an you will not wed, I’ll pardon you:
Graze where you will, you shall not house with me:
Look to ‘t, think on ‘t, I do not use to jest.
Thursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise.   205
An you be mine, I’ll give you to my friend;
An you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets,
For, by my soul, I’ll ne’er acknowledge thee,
Nor what is mine shall never do thee good.
Trust to ‘t, bethink you; I’ll not be forsworn.  [Exit.   210

Jul.  Is there no pity sitting in the clouds,
That sees into the bottom of my grief?
O! sweet my mother, cast me not away:
Delay this marriage for a month, a week;
Or, if you do not, make the bridal bed   215
In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.

Lady Cap.  Talk not to me, for I’ll not speak a word.
Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee.  [Exit.

Jul.  O God! O nurse! how shall this be prevented?
My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven;   220
How shall that faith return again to earth,
Unless that husband send it me from heaven
By leaving earth? comfort me, counsel me.
Alack, alack! that heaven should practise strata gems
Upon so soft a subject as myself!   225
What sayst thou? hast thou not a word of joy?
Some comfort, nurse?

Nurse.        Faith, here it is. Romeo
Is banished; and all the world to nothing
That he dares ne’er come back to challenge you;   230
Or, if he do, it needs must be by stealth.
Then, since the case so stands as now it doth,
I think it best you married with the county.
O! he’s a lovely gentleman;
Romeo’s a dishclout to him: an eagle, madam,   235
Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye
As Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart,
I think you are happy in this second match,
For it excels your first: or if it did not,
Your first is dead; or ‘twere as good he were,   240
As living here and you no use of him.

Jul.  Speakest thou from thy heart?

Nurse.        And from my soul too;
Or else beshrew them both.

Jul.        Amen!   245

Nurse.                What!

Jul.  Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much.
Go in; and tell my lady I am gone,
Having displeas’d my father, to Laurence’ cell,
To make confession and to be absolv’d.   250

Nurse.  Marry, I will; and this is wisely done.  [Exit.

Jul.  Ancient damnation! O most wicked fiend!
Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn,
Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue
Which she hath prais’d him with above compare   255
So many thousand times? Go, counsellor;
Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.
I’ll to the friar, to know his remedy:
If all else fail, myself have power to die.  [Exit.

Act IV. Scene I.

Verona.  FRIAR LAURENCE’S Cell.

Enter FRIAR LAURENCE and PARIS.

Fri. L.  On Thursday, sir? the time is very short.

Par.  My father Capulet will have it so;
And I am nothing slow to slack his haste.   5

Fri. L.  You say you do not know the lady’s mind:
Uneven is the course, I like it not.

Par.  Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt’s death,
And therefore have I little talk’d of love;
For Venus smiles not in a house of tears.   10
Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous
That she doth give her sorrow so much sway,
And in his wisdom hastes our marriage
To stop the inundation of her tears;
Which, too much minded by herself alone,   15
May be put from her by society.
Now do you know the reason of this haste.

Fri. L.  [Aside.]  I would I knew not why it should be slow’d.
Look, sir, here comes the lady towards my cell.

Enter JULIET.   20

Par.  Happily met, my lady and my wife!

Jul.  That may be, sir, when I may be a wife.

Par.  That may be must be, love, on Thursday next.

Jul.  What must be shall be.

Fri. L.        That’s a certain text.   25

Par.  Come you to make confession to this father?

Jul.  To answer that, I should confess to you.

Par.  Do not deny to him that you love me.

Jul.  I will confess to you that I love him.

Par.  So will ye, I am sure, that you love me.   30

Jul.  If I do so, it will be of more price,
Being spoke behind your back, than to your face.

Par.  Poor soul, thy face is much abus’d with tears.

Jul.  The tears have got small victory by that;
For it was bad enough before their spite.   35

Par.  Thou wrong’st it, more than tears, with that report.

Jul.  That is no slander, sir, which is a truth;
And what I spake, I spake it to my face.

Par.  Thy face is mine, and thou hast slander’d it.

Jul.  It may be so, for it is not mine own.   40
Are you at leisure, holy father, now;
Or shall I come to you at evening mass?

Fri. L.  My leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now:
My lord, we must entreat the time alone.

Par.  God shield, I should disturb devotion!   45
Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse you:
Till then, adieu; and keep this holy kiss.  [Exit.

Jul.  O! shut the door! and when thou hast done so,
Come weep with me; past hope, past cure, past help!

Fri. L.  Ah! Juliet, I already know thy grief;   50
It strains me past the compass of my wits:
I hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it,
On Thursday next be married to this county.

Jul.  Tell me not, friar, that thou hear’st of this,
Unless thou tell me how I may prevent it:   55
If, in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help,
Do thou but call my resolution wise,
And with this knife I’ll help it presently.
God join’d my heart and Romeo’s, thou our hands;
And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo seal’d,   60
Shall be the label to another deed,
Or my true heart with treacherous revolt
Turn to another, this shall slay them both.
Therefore, out of thy long-experienc’d time,
Give me some present counsel; or behold,   65
‘Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife
Shall play the umpire, arbitrating that
Which the commission of thy years and art
Could to no issue of true honour bring.
Be not so long to speak; I long to die,   70
If what thou speak’st speak not of remedy.

Fri. L.  Hold, daughter; I do spy a kind of hope,
Which craves as desperate an execution
As that is desperate which we would prevent.
If, rather than to marry County Paris,   75
Thou hast the strength of will to slay thyself,
Then is it likely thou wilt undertake
A thing like death to chide away this shame,
That cop’st with death himself to ‘scape from it;
And, if thou dar’st, I’ll give thee remedy.   80

Jul.  O! bid me leap, rather than marry Paris,
From off the battlements of yonder tower;
Or walk in thievish ways; or bid me lurk
Where serpents are; chain me with roaring bears;
Or shut me nightly in a charnel-house,   85
O’er-cover’d quite with dead men’s rattling bones,
With reeky shanks, and yellow chapless skulls;
Or bid me go into a new-made grave
And hide me with a dead man in his shroud;
Things that, to hear them told, have made me tremble;   90
And I will do it without fear or doubt,
To live an unstain’d wife to my sweet love.

Fri. L.  Hold, then; go home, be merry, give consent
To marry Paris: Wednesday is to-morrow:
To-morrow night look that thou lie alone,   95
Let not thy nurse lie with thee in thy chamber:
Take thou this vial, being then in bed,
And this distilled liquor drink thou off;
When presently through all thy veins shall run
A cold and drowsy humour, for no pulse   100
Shall keep his native progress, but surcease;
No warmth, no breath, shall testify thou liv’st;
The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade
To paly ashes; thy eyes’ windows fall,
Like death, when he shuts up the day of life;   105
Each part, depriv’d of supple government,
Shall, stiff and stark and cold, appear like death;
And in this borrow’d likeness of shrunk death
Thou shalt continue two-and-forty hours,
And then awake as from a pleasant sleep.   110
Now, when the bridegroom in the morning comes
To rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead:
Then — as the manner of our country is —
In thy best robes uncover’d on the bier,
Thou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault   115
Where all the kindred of the Capulets lie.
In the mean time, against thou shalt awake,
Shall Romeo by my letters know our drift,
And hither shall he come; and he and I
Will watch thy waking, and that very night   120
Shall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua.
And this shall free thee from this present shame;
If no unconstant toy, nor womanish fear,
Abate thy valour in the acting it.

Jul.  Give me, give me! O! tell me not of fear!   125

Fri. L.  Hold; get you gone, be strong and prosperous
In this resolve. I’ll send a friar with speed
To Mantua, with my letters to thy lord.

Jul.  Love, give me strength! and strength shall help afford.
Farewell, dear father!  [Exeunt.   130

Act IV. Scene II.

The Same.  Hall in CAPULET’S House.

Enter CAPULET, LADY CAPULET, Nurse, and Servingmen.

Cap.  So many guests invite as here are writ.  [Exit Servant.
Sirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks.

Sec. Serv.  You shall have none ill, sir; for   5
I’ll try if they can lick their fingers.

Cap.  How canst thou try them so?

Sec. Serv.  Marry, sir, ’tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers: therefore he that cannot lick his fingers goes not with me.

Cap.  Go, be gone.  [Exit Second Servant.
We shall be much unfurnish’d for this time.   10
What! is my daughter gone to Friar Laurence?

Nurse.  Ay, forsooth.

Cap.  Well, he may chance to do some good on her:
A peevish self-will’d harlotry it is.

Nurse.  See where she comes from shrift with merry look.   15

Enter JULIET.

Cap.  How now, my headstrong! where have you been gadding?

Jul.  Where I have learn’d me to repent the sin
Of disobedient opposition
To you and your behests; and am enjoin’d   20
By holy Laurence to fall prostrate here,
And beg your pardon. Pardon, I beseech you!
Henceforward I am ever rul’d by you.

Cap.  Send for the county; go tell him of this:
I’ll have this knot knit up to-morrow morning.   25

Jul.  I met the youthful lord at Laurence’ cell;
And gave him what becomed love I might,
Not stepping o’er the bounds of modesty.

Cap.  Why, I’m glad on ‘t; this is well: stand up:
This is as ‘t should be. Let me see the county;   30
Ay, marry, go, I say, and fetch him hither.
Now, afore God! this reverend holy friar,
All our whole city is much bound to him.

Jul.  Nurse, will you go with me into my closet,
To help me sort such needful ornaments   35
As you think fit to furnish me to-morrow?

Lady Cap.  No, not till Thursday; there is time enough.

Cap.  Go, nurse, go with her. We’ll to church to-morrow.  [Exeunt JULIET and Nurse.

Lady Cap.  We shall be short in our provision:
’Tis now near night.   40

Cap.        Tush! I will stir about,
And all things shall be well, I warrant thee, wife:
Go thou to Juliet, help to deck up her;
I’ll not to bed to-night; let me alone;
I’ll play the housewife for this once. What, ho!   45
They are all forth: well, I will walk myself
To County Paris, to prepare him up
Against to-morrow. My heart is wondrous light,
Since this same wayward girl is so reclaim’d.  [Exeunt.

Act IV. Scene III.

The Same.  JULIET’S Chamber.

Enter JULIET and Nurse.

Jul.  Ay, those attires are best; but, gentle nurse,
I pray thee, leave me to myself to-night;
For I have need of many orisons   5
To move the heavens to smile upon my state,
Which, well thou know’st, is cross and full of sin.

Enter LADY CAPULET.

Lady Cap.  What! are you busy, ho? need you my help?

Jul.  No, madam; we have cull’d such necessaries   10
As are behoveful for our state to-morrow:
So please you, let me now be left alone,
And let the nurse this night sit up with you;
For, I am sure, you have your hands full all
In this so sudden business.   15

Lady Cap.        Good-night:
Get thee to bed, and rest; for thou hast need.  [Exeunt LADY CAPULET and Nurse.

Jul.  Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again.
I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins,
That almost freezes up the heat of life:   20
I’ll call them back again to comfort me:
Nurse! What should she do here?
My dismal scene I needs must act alone.
Come, vial.
What if this mixture do not work at all?   25
Shall I be married then to-morrow morning?
No, no; this shall forbid it: lie thou there.  [Laying down a dagger.
What if it be a poison, which the friar
Subtly hath minister’d to have me dead,
Lest in this marriage he should be dishonour’d   30
Because he married me before to Romeo?
I fear it is: and yet, methinks, it should not,
For he hath still been tried a holy man.
I will not entertain so bad a thought.
How if, when I am laid into the tomb,   35
I wake before the time that Romeo
Come to redeem me? there’s a fearful point!
Shall I not then be stifled in the vault,
To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in,
And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes?   40
Or, if I live, is it not very like,
The horrible conceit of death and night,
Together with the terror of the place,
As in a vault, an ancient receptacle,
Where, for these many hundred years, the bones   45
Of all my buried ancestors are pack’d;
Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth,
Lies festering in his shroud; where, as they say,
At some hours in the night spirits resort:
Alack, alack! is it not like that I,   50
So early waking, what with loathsome smells,
And shrieks like mandrakes’ torn out of the earth,
That living mortals, hearing them, run mad:
O! if I wake, shall I not be distraught,
Environed with all these hideous fears,   55
And madly play with my forefathers’ joints,
And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud?
And, in this rage, with some great kinsman’s bone,
As with a club, dash out my desperate brains?
O, look! methinks I see my cousin’s ghost   60
Seeking out Romeo, that did spit his body
Upon a rapier’s point. Stay, Tybalt, stay!
Romeo, I come! this do I drink to thee.  [She falls upon her bed within the curtains.

Act IV. Scene IV.

The Same.  Hall in CAPULET’S House.

Enter LADY CAPULET and Nurse.

Lady Cap.  Hold, take these keys, and fetch more spices, nurse.

Nurse.  They call for dates and quinces in the pastry.

Enter CAPULET.   5

Cap.  Come, stir, stir, stir! the second cock hath crow’d,
The curfew bell hath rung, ’tis three o’clock:
Look to the bak’d meats, good Angelica:
Spare not for cost.

Nurse.        Go, go, you cot-quean, go;   10
Get you to bed; faith, you’ll be sick to-morrow
For this night’s watching.

Cap.  No, not a whit; what! I have watch’d ere now
All night for lesser cause, and ne’er been sick.

Lady Cap.  Ay, you have been a mouse-hunt in your time;   15
But I will watch you from such watching now.  [Exeunt LADY CAPULET and Nurse.

Cap.  A jealous-hood, a jealous-hood!

Enter three or four Serving-men, with spits, logs, and baskets.
Now, fellow,
What’s there?   20

First Serv.  Things for the cook, sir; but I know not what.

Cap.  Make haste, make haste.  [Exit first Serving-man.]  Sirrah, fetch drier logs:
Call Peter, he will show thee where they are.

Sec. Serv.  I have a head, sir, that will find out logs,
And never trouble Peter for the matter.  [Exit.   25

Cap.  Mass, and well said; a merry whoreson, ha!
Thou shalt be logger-head. Good faith! ’tis day:
The county will be here with music straight,
For so he said he would.  [Music within.]  I hear him near.
Nurse! Wife! what, ho! What, nurse, I say!   30

Re-enter Nurse.
Go waken Juliet, go and trim her up;
I’ll go and chat with Paris. Hie, make haste,
Make haste; the bridegroom he is come already:
Make haste, I say.  [Exeunt.   35

Act IV. Scene V.

The Same.  JULIET’S Chamber.

Enter Nurse.

Nurse.  Mistress! what, mistress! Juliet! fast, I warrant her, she:
Why, lamb! why, lady! fie, you slug-a-bed!
Why, love, I say! madam! sweet-heart! why, bride!   5
What! not a word? you take your pennyworths now:
Sleep for a week; for the next night, I warrant,
The County Paris hath set up his rest,
That you shall rest but little. God forgive me,
Marry, and amen, how sound is she asleep!   10
I needs must wake her. Madam, madam, madam!
Ay, let the county take you in your bed;
He’ll fright you up, i’ faith. Will it not be?
What, dress’d! and in your clothes! and down again!
I must needs wake you. Lady! lady! lady!   15
Alas! alas! Help! help! my lady’s dead!
O! well-a-day, that ever I was born.
Some aqua-vitœ, ho! My lord! my lady!

Enter LADY CAPULET.

Lady Cap.  What noise is here?   20

Nurse.        O lamentable day!

Lady Cap.  What is the matter?

Nurse.        Look, look! O heavy day!

Lady Cap.  O me, O me! my child, my only life,
Revive, look up, or I will die with thee!   25
Help, help! Call help.

Enter CAPULET.

Cap.  For shame! bring Juliet forth; her lord is come.

Nurse.  She’s dead, deceas’d, she’s dead; alack the day!

Lady Cap.  Alack the day! she’s dead, she’s dead! she’s dead!   30

Cap.  Ha! let me see her. Out, alas! she’s cold;
Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff;
Life and these lips have long been separated:
Death lies on her like an untimely frost
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.   35

Nurse.  O lamentable day!

Lady Cap.        O woeful time!

Cap.  Death, that hath ta’en her hence to make me wail,
Ties up my tongue, and will not let me speak.

Enter FRIAR LAURENCE, and PARIS, with Musicians.   40

Fri. L.  Come, is the bride ready to go to church?

Cap.  Ready to go, but never to return.
O son! the night before thy wedding-day
Hath Death lain with thy wife. There she lies,
Flower as she was, deflowered by him.   45
Death is my son-in-law, Death is my heir;
My daughter he hath wedded: I will die,
And leave him all; life, living, all is Death’s!

Par.  Have I thought long to see this morning’s face,
And doth it give me such a sight as this?   50

Lady Cap.  Accurs’d, unhappy, wretched, hateful day!
Most miserable hour, that e’er time saw
In lasting labour of his pilgrimage!
But one, poor one, one poor and loving child,
But one thing to rejoice and solace in,   55
And cruel death hath catch’d it from my sight!

Nurse.  O woe! O woeful, woeful, woeful day!
Most lamentable day, most woeful day,
That ever, ever, I did yet behold!
O day! O day! O day! O hateful day!   60
Never was seen so black a day as this:
O woeful day, O woeful day!

Par.  Beguil’d, divorced, wronged, spited, slain!
Most detestable death, by thee beguil’d,
By cruel cruel thee quite overthrown!   65
O love! O life! not life, but love in death!

Cap.  Despis’d, distressed, hated, martyr’d, kill’d!
Uncomfortable time, why cam’st thou now
To murder, murder our solemnity?
O child! O child! my soul, and not my child!   70
Dead art thou! dead! alack, my child is dead;
And with my child my joys are buried!

Fri. L.  Peace, ho! for shame! confusion’s cure lives not
In these confusions. Heaven and yourself
Had part in this fair maid; now heaven hath all,   75
And all the better is it for the maid:
Your part in her you could not keep from death,
But heaven keeps his part in eternal life.
The most you sought was her promotion,
For ’twas your heaven she should be advanc’d;   80
And weep ye now, seeing she is advanc’d
Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself?
O! in this love, you love your child so ill,
That you run mad, seeing that she is well:
She’s not well married that lives married long;   85
But she’s best married that dies married young.
Dry up your tears, and stick your rosemary
On this fair corse; and, as the custom is,
In all her best array bear her to church;
For though fond nature bids us all lament,   90
Yet nature’s tears are reason’s merriment.

Cap.  All things that we ordained festival,
Turn from their office to black funeral;
Our instruments to melancholy bells,
Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast,   95
Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change,
Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse,
And all things change them to the contrary.

Fri. L.  Sir, go you in; and, madam, go with him;
And go, Sir Paris; every one prepare   100
To follow this fair corse unto her grave.
The heavens do lower upon you for some ill;
Move them no more by crossing their high will.  [Exeunt CAPULET, LADY CAPULET, PARIS, and Friar.

First Mus.  Faith, we may put up our pipes, and be gone.

Nurse.  Honest good fellows, ah! put up, put up, for, well you know, this is a pitiful case.  [Exit.   105

First Mus.  Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended.

Enter PETER.

Pet.  Musicians! O! musicians, ‘Heart’s ease, Heart’s ease:’ O! an ye will have me live, play ‘Heart’s ease.’

First Mus.  Why ‘Heart’s ease?’

Pet.  O! musicians, because my heart itself plays ‘My heart is full of woe;’ O! play me some merry dump, to comfort me.   110

Sec. Mus.  Not a dump we; ’tis no time to play now.

Pet.  You will not then?

Musicians.  No.

Pet.  I will then give it you soundly.

First Mus.  What will you give us?   115

Pet.  No money, on my faith! but the gleek: I will give you the minstrel.

First Mus.  Then will I give you the serving-creature.

Pet.  Then will I lay the serving-creature’s dagger on your pate, I will carry no crotchets: I’ll re you, I’ll fa you. Do you note me?

First Mus.  An you re us, and fa us, you note us.

Sec. Mus.  Pray you, put up your dagger, and put out your wit.   120

Pet.  Then have at you with my wit! I will dry-beat you with an iron wit, and put up my iron dagger. Answer me like men:
When griping grief the heart doth wound,
And doleful dumps the mind oppress,
Then music with her silver sound —

Why ‘silver sound?’ why ‘music with her silver sound?’ What say you, Simon Catling?

First Mus.  Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.

Pet.  Pretty! What say you, Hugh Rebeck?

Sec. Mus.  I say ‘silver sound,’ because musicians sound for silver.   125

Pet.  Pretty too! What say you, James Soundpost?

Third Mus.  Faith, I know not what to say.

Pet.  O! I cry you mercy; you are the singer; I will say for you. It is, ‘music with her silver sound,’ because musicians have no gold for sounding:
Then music with her silver sound
With speedy help doth lend redress.
[Exit.

First Mus.  What a pestilent knave is this same!

Sec. Mus.  Hang him, Jack! Come, we’ll in here; tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner.  [Exeunt.   130

Act V. Scene I.

Mantua.  A Street.

Enter ROMEO.

Rom.  If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep,
My dreams presage some joyful news at hand:
My bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne;   5
And all this day an unaccustom’d spirit
Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.
I dreamt my lady came and found me dead; —
Strange dream, that gives a dead man leave to think, —
And breath’d such life with kisses in my lips,   10
That I reviv’d, and was an emperor.
Ah me! how sweet is love itself possess’d,
When but love’s shadows are so rich in joy!

Enter BALTHASAR, booted.
News from Verona! How now, Balthasar?   15
Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar?
How doth my lady? Is my father well?
How fares my Juliet? That I ask again;
For nothing can be ill if she be well.

Bal.  Then she is well, and nothing can be ill;   20
Her body sleeps in Capel’s monument,
And her immortal part with angels lives.
I saw her laid low in her kindred’s vault,
And presently took post to tell it you.
O! pardon me for bringing these ill news,   25
Since you did leave it for my office, sir.

Rom.  Is it even so? then I defy you, stars!
Thou know’st my lodging: get me ink and paper,
And hire post-horses; I will hence to-night.

Bal.  I do beseech you, sir, have patience:   30
Your looks are pale and wild, and do import
Some misadventure.

Rom.        Tush, thou art deceiv’d;
Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do.
Hast thou no letters to me from the friar?   35

Bal.  No, my good lord.

Rom.        No matter; get thee gone,
And hire those horses: I’ll be with thee straight.  [Exit BALTHASAR.
Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to-night.
Let’s see for means: O mischief! thou art swift   40
To enter in the thoughts of desperate men.
I do remember an apothecary,
And hereabouts he dwells, which late I noted
In tatter’d weeds, with overwhelming brows,
Culling of simples; meagre were his looks,   45
Sharp misery had worn him to the bones:
And in his needy shop a tortoise hung,
An alligator stuff’d, and other skins
Of ill-shap’d fishes; and about his shelves
A beggarly account of empty boxes,   50
Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds,
Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses,
Were thinly scatter’d, to make up a show.
Noting this penury, to myself I said
An if a man did need a poison now,   55
Whose sale is present death in Mantua,
Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.
O! this same thought did but fore-run my need,
And this same needy man must sell it me.
As I remember, this should be the house:   60
Being holiday, the beggar’s shop is shut.
What, ho! apothecary!

Enter Apothecary.

Ap.        Who calls so loud?

Rom.  Come hither, man. I see that thou art poor;   65
Hold, there is forty ducats; let me have
A dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear
As will disperse itself through all the veins
That the life-weary taker may fall dead,
And that the trunk may be discharg’d of breath   70
As violently as hasty powder fir’d
Doth hurry from the fatal cannon’s womb.

Ap.  Such mortal drugs I have; but Mantua’s law
Is death to any he that utters them.

Rom.  Art thou so bare, and full of wretchedness,   75
And fear’st to die? famine is in thy cheeks,
Need and oppression starveth in thine eyes,
Contempt and beggary hang upon thy back;
The world is not thy friend nor the world’s law:
The world affords no law to make thee rich;   80
Then be not poor, but break it, and take this.

Ap.  My poverty, but not my will, consents.

Rom.  I pay thy poverty, and not thy will.

Ap.  Put this in any liquid thing you will
And drink it off; and, if you had the strength   85
Of twenty men, it would dispatch you straight.

Rom.  There is thy gold, worse poison to men’s souls,
Doing more murders in this loathsome world
Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell:
I sell thee poison, thou hast sold me none.   90
Farewell; buy food, and get thyself in flesh.
Come, cordial and not poison, go with me
To Juliet’s grave, for there must I use thee.  [Exeunt.

Act V. Scene II.

Verona.  FRIAR LAURENCE’S Cell.

Enter FRIAR JOHN.

Fri. J.  Holy Franciscan friar! brother, ho!

Enter FRIAR LAURENCE.

Fri. L.  This same should be the voice of Friar John.   5
Welcome from Mantua: what says Romeo?
Or, if his mind be writ, give me his letter.

Fri. J.  Going to find a bare-foot brother out,
One of our order, to associate me,
Here in this city visiting the sick,   10
And finding him, the searchers of the town,
Suspecting that we both were in a house
Where the infectious pestilence did reign,
Seal’d up the doors, and would not let us forth;
So that my speed to Mantua there was stay’d.   15

Fri. L.  Who bare my letter then to Romeo?

Fri. J.  I could not send it, here it is again,
Nor get a messenger to bring it thee,
So fearful were they of infection.

Fri. L.  Unhappy fortune! by my brotherhood,   20
The letter was not nice, but full of charge
Of dear import; and the neglecting it
May do much danger. Friar John, go hence;
Get me an iron crow, and bring it straight
Unto my cell.   25

Fri. J.        Brother, I’ll go and bring it thee.  [Exit.

Fri. L  Now must I to the monument alone;
Within these three hours will fair Juliet wake:
She will beshrew me much that Romeo
Hath had no notice of these accidents;   30
But I will write again to Mantua,
And keep her at my cell till Romeo come:
Poor living corse, clos’d in a dead man’s tomb!  [Exit.

Act V. Scene III.

The Same.  A Churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the CAPULETS.

Enter PARIS, and his Page, bearing flowers and a torch.

Par.  Give me thy torch, boy: hence, and stand aloof;
Yet put it out, for I would not be seen.
Under yond yew-trees lay thee all along,   5
Holding thine ear close to the hollow ground:
So shall no foot upon the churchyard tread,
Being loose, unfirm with digging up of graves,
But thou shalt hear it: whistle then to me,
As signal that thou hear’st something approach.   10
Give me those flowers. Do as I bid thee; go.

Page.  [Aside.]  I am almost afraid to stand alone
Here in the churchyard; yet I will adventure.  [Retires.

Par.  Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew,
O woe! thy canopy is dust and stones;   15
Which with sweet water nightly I will dew,
Or, wanting that, with tears distill’d by moans:
The obsequies that I for thee will keep
Nightly shall be to strew thy grave and weep.  [The Page whistles.
The boy gives warning something doth approach.   20
What cursed foot wanders this way to-night,
To cross my obsequies and true love’s rite?
What! with a torch? — muffle me, night, awhile.  [Retires.

Enter ROMEO and BALTHASAR, with a torch, mattock, &c.

Rom.  Give me that mattock, and the wrenching iron.   25
Hold, take this letter; early in the morning
See thou deliver it to my lord and father.
Give me the light: upon thy life I charge thee,
Whate’er thou hear’st or seest, stand all aloof,
And do not interrupt me in my course.   30
Why I descend into this bed of death,
Is partly, to behold my lady’s face;
But chiefly to take thence from her dead finger
A precious ring, a ring that I must use
In dear employment: therefore hence, be gone:   35
But, if thou, jealous, dost return to pry
In what I further shall intend to do,
By heaven, I will tear thee joint by joint,
And strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs.
The time and my intents are savage-wild,   40
More fierce and more inexorable far
Than empty tigers or the roaring sea.

Bal.  I will be gone, sir, and not trouble you.

Rom.  So shalt thou show me friendship. Take thou that:
Live, and be prosperous; and farewell, good fellow.   45

Bal.  [Aside.]  For all this same, I’ll hide me here about:
His looks I fear, and his intents I doubt.  [Retires.

Rom.  Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death,
Gorg’d with the dearest morsel of the earth,
Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open,  [Opens the tomb.   50
And, in despite, I’ll cram thee with more food!

Par.  This is that banish’d haughty Montague,
That murder’d my love’s cousin, with which grief
It is supposed the fair creature died;
And here is come to do some villanous shame   55
To the dead bodies: I will apprehend him. —  [Comes forward.
Stop thy unhallow’d toil, vile Montague,
Can vengeance be pursu’d further than death?
Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee:
Obey, and go with me; for thou must die.   60

Rom.  I must, indeed; and therefore came I hither.
Good gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man;
Fly hence and leave me: think upon these gone;
Let them affright thee. I beseech thee, youth,
Put not another sin upon my head   65
By urging me to fury: O! be gone:
By heaven, I love thee better than myself.
For I come hither arm’d against myself:
Stay not, be gone; live, and hereafter say
A madman’s mercy bade thee run away.   70

Par.  I do defy thy conjurations,
And apprehend thee for a felon here.

Rom.  Wilt thou provoke me? then have at thee, boy!  [They fight.

Page.  O Lord! they fight: I will go call the watch.  [Exit.

Par.  [Falls.]  O, I am slain! — If thou be merciful,   75
Open the tomb, lay me with Juliet.  [Dies.

Rom.  In faith, I will. Let me peruse this face:
Mercutio’s kinsman, noble County Paris!
What said my man when my betossed soul
Did not attend him as we rode? I think   80
He told me Paris should have married Juliet:
Said he not so? or did I dream it so?
Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet,
To think it was so? O! give me thy hand,
One writ with me in sour misfortune’s book:   85
I’ll bury thee in a triumphant grave;
A grave? O, no! a lanthorn, slaughter’d youth,
For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes
This vault a feasting presence full of light.
Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interr’d,  [Laying PARIS in the tomb.   90
How oft when men are at the point of death
Have they been merry! which their keepers call
A lightning before death: O! how may I
Call this a lightning? O my love! my wife!
Death, that hathsuck’d the honey of thy breath,   95
Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty:
Thou art not conquer’d; beauty’s ensign yet
Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,
And death’s pale flag is not advanced there.
Tybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet?   100
O! what more favour can I do to thee,
Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain
To sunder his that was thine enemy?
Forgive me, cousin! Ah! dear Juliet,
Why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe   105
That unsubstantial Death is amorous,
And that the lean abhorred monster keeps
Thee here in dark to be his paramour?
For fear of that I still will stay with thee,
And never from this palace of dim night   110
Depart again: here, here will I remain
With worms that are thy chambermaids; O! here
Will I set up my everlasting rest,
And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars
From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last!   115
Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you
The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss
A dateless bargain to engrossing death!
Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide!
Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on   120
The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark!
Here’s to my love!  [Drinks.]  O true apothecary!
Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die.  [Dies.

Enter, at the other end of the Churchyard, FRIAR LAURENCE, with a lanthorn, crow, and spade.

Fri. L.  Saint Francis be my speed! how oft to-night   125
Have my old feet stumbled at graves! Who’s there?

Bal.  Here’s one, a friend, and one that knows you well.

Fri. L.  Bliss be upon you! Tell me, good my friend,
What torch is yond, that vainly lends his light
To grubs and eyeless skulls? as I discern,   130
It burneth in the Capel’s monument.

Bal.  It doth so, holy sir; and there’s my master,
One that you love.

Fri. L.        Who is it?

Bal.                Romeo.   135

Fri. L.  How long hath he been there?

Bal.        Full half an hour.

Fri. L.  Go with me to the vault.

Bal.        I dare not, sir.
My master knows not but I am gone hence;   140
And fearfully did menace me with death
If I did stay to look on his intents.

Fri. L.  Stay then, I’ll go alone. Fear comes upon me;
O! much I fear some ill unlucky thing.

Bal.  As I did sleep under this yew-tree here,   145
I dreamt my master and another fought,
And that my master slew him.

Fri. L.        [Advances.]  Romeo!
Alack, alack! what blood is this which stains
The stony entrance of this sepulchre?   150
What mean these masterless and gory swords
To lie discolour’d by this place of peace?  [Enters the tomb.
Romeo! O, pale! Who else? what! Paris too?
And steep’d in blood? Ah! what an unkind hour
Is guilty of this lamentable chance.   155
The lady stirs.  [JULIET wakes.

Jul.  O, comfortable friar! where is my lord?
I do remember well where I should be,
And there I am. Where is my Romeo?  [Noise within.

Fri. L.  I hear some noise. Lady, come from that nest   160
Of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep:
A greater power than we can contradict
Hath thwarted our intents: come, come away.
Thy husband in thy bosom there lies dead;
And Paris too: come, I’ll dispose of thee   165
Among a sisterhood of holy nuns.
Stay not to question, for the watch is coming;
Come, go, good Juliet. — [Noise again.]  I dare no longer stay.

Jul.  Go, get thee hence, for I will not away.  [Exit FRIAR LAURENCE.
What’s here? a cup, clos’d in my true love’s hand?   170
Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end.
O churl! drunk all, and left no friendly drop
To help me after! I will kiss thy lips;
Haply, some poison yet doth hang on them,
To make me die with a restorative.  [Kisses him.   175
Thy lips are warm!

First Watch.  [Within.]  Lead, boy: which way?

Jul.  Yea, noise? then I’ll be brief. O happy dagger!  [Snatching ROMEO’S dagger.
This is thy sheath;  [Stabs herself.]  there rest, and let me die.  [Falls on ROMEO’S body and dies.

Enter Watch, with the Page of PARIS.   180

Page.  This is the place; there where the torch doth burn.

First Watch.  The ground is bloody; search about the churchyard.
Go, some of you; whoe’er you find, attach.  [Exeunt some of the Watch.
Pitiful sight! here lies the county slain,
And Juliet bleeding, warm, and newly dead,   185
Who here hath lain these two days buried.
Go, tell the prince, run to the Capulets,
Raise up the Montagues, some others search:  [Exeunt others of the Watch.
We see the ground whereon these woes do lie;
But the true ground of all these piteous woes   190
We cannot without circumstance descry.

Re-enter some of the Watch, with BALTHASAR.

Sec. Watch.  Here’s Romeo’s man; we found him in the churchyard.

First Watch.  Hold him in safety, till the prince come hither.

Re-enter others of the Watch, with FRIAR LAURENCE.   195

Third Watch.  Here is a friar, that trembles, sighs, and weeps;
We took this mattock and this spade from him,
As he was coming from this churchyard side.

First Watch.  A great suspicion: stay the friar too.

Enter the PRINCE and Attendants.   200

Prince.  What misadventure is so early up,
That calls our person from our morning’s rest?

Enter CAPULET, LADY CAPULET, and Others.

Cap.  What should it be, that they so shriek abroad?

Lady Cap.  The people in the street cry Romeo,   205
Some Juliet, and some Paris; and all run
With open outcry toward our monument.

Prince.  What fear is this which startles in our ears?

First Watch.  Sovereign, here lies the County Paris slain;
And Romeo dead; and Juliet, dead before,   210
Warm and new kill’d.

Prince.  Search, seek, and know how this foul murder comes.

First Watch.  Here is a friar, and slaughter’d Romeo’s man;
With instruments upon them, fit to open
These dead men’s tombs.   215

Cap.  O, heaven! — O wife! look how our daughter bleeds!
This dagger hath mista’en! — for, lo, his house
Is empty on the back of Montague —
And is mis-sheathed in my daughter’s bosom.

Lady Cap.  O me! this sight of death is as a bell,   220
That warns my old age to a sepulchre.

Cap.  O, heaven! — O wife! look how our daughter bleeds!
This dagger hath mista’en! — for, lo, his house
Is empty on the back of Montague —
And is mis-sheathed in my daughter’s bosom.   225

Lady Cap.  O me! this sight of death is as a bell,
That warns my old age to a sepulchre.

Enter MONTAGUE and Others.

Prince.  Come, Montague: for thou art early up,
To see thy son and heir more early down.   230

Mon.  Alas! my liege, my wife is dead to-night;
Grief of my son’s exile hath stopp’d her breath.
What further woe conspires against mine age?

Prince.  Look, and thou shalt see.

Mon.  O thou untaught! what manners is in this,   235
To press before thy father to a grave?

Prince.  Seal up the mouth of outrage for a while,
Till we can clear these ambiguities,
And know their spring, their head, their true descent;
And then will I be general of your woes,   240
And lead you even to death: meantime forbear,
And let mischance be slave to patience.
Bring forth the parties of suspicion.

Fri. L.  I am the greatest, able to do least,
Yet most suspected, as the time and place   245
Doth make against me, of this direful murder;
And here I stand, both to impeach and purge
Myself condemned and myself excus’d.

Prince.  Then say at once what thou dost know in this.

Fri. L.  I will be brief, for my short date of breath   250
Is not so long as is a tedious tale.
Romeo, there dead, was husband to that Juliet;
And she, there dead, that Romeo’s faithful wife:
I married them; and their stolen marriage-day
Was Tybalt’s doomsday, whose untimely death   255
Banish’d the new-made bridegroom from this city;
For whom, and not for Tybalt, Juliet pin’d.
You, to remove that siege of grief from her,
Betroth’d, and would have married her perforce,
To County Paris: then comes she to me,   260
And, with wild looks bid me devise some mean
To rid her from this second marriage,
Or in my cell there would she kill herself.
Then gave I her, — so tutor’d by my art, —
A sleeping potion; which so took effect   265
As I intended, for it wrought on her
The form of death: meantime I writ to Romeo
That he should hither come as this dire night,
To help to take her from her borrow’d grave,
Being the time the potion’s force should cease.   270
But he which bore my letter, Friar John,
Was stay’d by accident, and yesternight
Return’d my letter back. Then, all alone,
At the prefixed hour of her waking,
Came I to take her from her kindred’s vault,   275
Meaning to keep her closely at my cell,
Till I conveniently could send to Romeo:
But, when I came, — some minute ere the time
Of her awakening, — here untimely lay
The noble Paris and true Romeo dead.   280
She wakes; and I entreated her come forth,
And bear this work of heaven with patience;
But then a noise did scare me from the tomb,
And she, too desperate, would not go with me,
But, as it seems, did violence on herself.   285
All this I know; and to the marriage
Her nurse is privy: and, if aught in this
Miscarried by my fault, let my old life
Be sacrific’d, some hour before his time,
Unto the rigour of severest law.   290

Prince.  We still have known thee for a holy man.
Where’s Romeo’s man? what can he say in this?

Bal.  I brought my master news of Juliet’s death;
And then in post he came from Mantua
To this same place, to this same monument.   295
This letter he early bid me give his father,
And threaten’d me with death, going in the vault,
If I departed not and left him there.

Prince.  Give me the letter; I will look on it.
Where is the county’s page that rais’d the watch?   300
Sirrah, what made your master in this place?

Page.  He came with flowers to strew his lady’s grave,
And bid me stand aloof, and so I did;
Anon, comes one with light to ope the tomb;
And by and by my master drew on him;   305
And then I ran away to call the watch.

Prince.  This letter doth make good the friar’s words,
Their course of love, the tidings of her death:
And here he writes that he did buy a poison
Of a poor ‘pothecary, and therewithal   310
Came to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet.
Where be these enemies? — Capulet! Montague!
See what a scourge is laid upon your hate,
That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love;
And I, for winking at your discords too,   315
Have lost a brace of kinsmen: all are punish’d.

Cap.  O brother Montague! give me thy hand:
This is my daughter’s jointure, for no more
Can I demand.

Mon.        But I can give thee more;   320
For I will raise her statue in pure gold;
That while Verona by that name is known.
There shall no figure at such rate be set
As that of true and faithful Juliet.

Cap.  As rich shall Romeo by his lady lie;   325
Poor sacrifices of our enmity!

Prince.  A glooming peace this morning with it brings;
The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head:
Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things:
Some shall be pardon’d, and some punished:   330
For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.  [Exeunt.

RICHARD II

Written in 1595, this history play is the first part of a tetralogy, along with Henry IV, Part 1, Henry IV, part 2, and Henry V.  Although the 1623 First Folio lists the play as a history play, the earlier Quarto edition of 1597 calls itself The Tragedie Of King Richard The Second. The play tells the story of Henry Bolingbroke, who deposes the corrupt King Richard.  Themes and moral questions concerning divine right and the power of language dominate the play.  Although lesser known than Shakespeare’s more famous history plays, Richard II boasts some of the playwright’s finest poetry, with Gaunt’s ‘This England’ speech being a particular highlight.

The first page of the First Folio, 1623

Richard II

CONTENTS

Dramatis Personæ

Act I. Scene I.

Act I. Scene II.

Act I. Scene III.

Act I. Scene IV.

Act II. Scene I.

Act II. Scene II.

Act II. Scene III.

Act II. Scene IV.

Act III. Scene I.

Act III. Scene II.

Act III. Scene III.

Act III. Scene IV.

Act IV. Scene I.

Act V. Scene I.

Act V. Scene II.

Act V. Scene III.

Act V. Scene IV.

Act V. Scene V.

Act V. Scene VI.

Ben Whishaw as the hapless King in the 2012 television adaptation series ‘The Hollow Crown’

Dramatis Personæ

KING RICHARD THE SECOND.
JOHN OF GAUNT, Duke of Lancaster, & EDMUND OF LANGLEY, Duke of York: Uncles to the King.
HENRY, surnamed BOLINGBROKE, Duke of Hereford, Son to John of Gaunt: afterwards King Henry IV.
DUKE OF AUMERLE, Son to the Duke of York.
THOMAS MOWBRAY, Duke of Norfolk.
DUKE OF SURREY.
EARL OF SALISBURY.
LORD BERKELEY.
BUSHY, BAGOT, & GREEN: Servants to King Richard.
EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND.
HENRY PERCY, surnamed Hotspur, his Son.
LORD ROSS.
LORD WILLOUGHBY.
LORD FITZWATER.
BISHOP OF CARLISLE.
ABBOT OF WESTMINSTER.
LORD MARSHAL.
SIR PIERCE OF EXTON.
SIR STEPHEN SCROOP.
Captain of a Band of Welshmen.
QUEEN TO KING RICHARD.
DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER.
DUCHESS OF YORK.
Lady attending on the Queen.
Lords, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Gardeners, Keeper, Messenger, Groom, and other Attendants.

SCENE. — Dispersedly in England and Wales.

Act I. Scene I.

London.  A Room in the Palace.

Enter KING RICHARD, attended; JOHN OF GAUNT, and other Nobles.

K. Rich.  Old John of Gaunt, time-honour’d Lancaster,
Hast thou, according to thy oath and band,
Brought hither Henry Hereford thy bold son,   5
Here to make good the boisterous late appeal,
Which then our leisure would not let us hear,
Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?

Gaunt.  I have, my liege.

K. Rich.  Tell me, moreover, hast thou sounded him,   10
If he appeal the duke on ancient malice,
Or worthily, as a good subject should,
On some known ground of treachery in him?

Gaunt.  As near as I could sift him on that argument,
On some apparent danger seen in him   15
Aim’d at your highness, no inveterate malice.

K. Rich.  Then call them to our presence: face to face,
And frowning brow to brow, ourselves will hear
The accuser and the accused freely speak:  [Exeunt some Attendants.
High-stomach’d are they both, and full of ire,   20
In rage deaf as the sea, hasty as fire.

Re-enter Attendants, with BOLINGBROKE and MOWBRAY.

Boling.  Many years of happy days befall
My gracious sovereign, my most loving liege!

Mow.  Each day still better other’s happiness;   25
Until the heavens, envying earth’s good hap,
Add an immortal title to your crown!

K. Rich.  We thank you both: yet one but flatters us,
As well appeareth by the cause you come;
Namely, to appeal each other of high treason.   30
Cousin of Hereford, what dost thou object
Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?

Boling.  First, — heaven be the record to my speech! —
In the devotion of a subject’s love,
Tendering the precious safety of my prince,   35
And free from other misbegotten hate,
Come I appellant to this princely presence.
Now, Thomas Mowbray, do I turn to thee,
And mark my greeting well; for what I speak
My body shall make good upon this earth,   40
Or my divine soul answer it in heaven.
Thou art a traitor and a miscreant;
Too good to be so and too bad to live,
Since the more fair and crystal is the sky,
The uglier seem the clouds that in it fly.   45
Once more, the more to aggravate the note,
With a foul traitor’s name stuff I thy throat;
And wish, so please my sovereign, ere I move,
What my tongue speaks, my right drawn sword may prove.

Mow.  Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal:   50
’Tis not the trial of a woman’s war,
The bitter clamour of two eager tongues,
Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain;
The blood is hot that must be cool’d for this:
Yet can I not of such tame patience boast   55
As to be hush’d and nought at all to say.
First, the fair reverence of your highness curbs me
From giving reins and spurs to my free speech;
Which else would post until it had return’d
These terms of treason doubled down his throat.   60
Setting aside his high blood’s royalty,
And let him be no kinsman to my liege,
I do defy him, and I spit at him;
Call him a slanderous coward and a villain:
Which to maintain I would allow him odds,   65
And meet him, were I tied to run afoot
Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps,
Or any other ground inhabitable,
Wherever Englishman durst set his foot.
Meantime let this defend my loyalty:   70
By all my hopes, most falsely doth he lie.

Boling.  Pale trembling coward, there I throw my gage,
Disclaiming here the kindred of the king;
And lay aside my high blood’s royalty,
Which fear, not reverence, makes thee to except:   75
If guilty dread have left thee so much strength
As to take up mine honour’s pawn, then stoop:
By that, and all the rites of knighthood else,
Will I make good against thee, arm to arm,
What I have spoke, or thou canst worse devise.   80

Mow.  I take it up; and by that sword I swear,
Which gently laid my knighthood on my shoulder,
I’ll answer thee in any fair degree,
Or chivalrous design of knightly trial
And when I mount, alive may I not light,   85
If I be traitor or unjustly fight!

K. Rich.  What doth our cousin lay to Mowbray’s charge?
It must be great that can inherit us
So much as of a thought of ill in him.

Boling.  Look, what I speak, my life shall prove it true;   90
That Mowbray hath receiv’d eight thousand nobles
In name of lendings for your highness’ soldiers,
The which he hath detain’d for lewd employments,
Like a false traitor and injurious villain.
Besides I say and will in battle prove,   95
Or here or elsewhere to the furthest verge
That ever was survey’d by English eye,
That all the treasons for these eighteen years
Complotted and contrived in this land,
Fetch from false Mowbray their first head and spring.   100
Further I say and further will maintain
Upon his bad life to make all this good,
That he did plot the Duke of Gloucester’s death,
Suggest his soon-believing adversaries,
And consequently, like a traitor coward,   105
Sluic’d out his innocent soul through streams of blood:
Which blood, like sacrificing Abel’s, cries,
Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth,
To me for justice and rough chastisement;
And, by the glorious worth of my descent,   110
This arm shall do it, or this life be spent.

K. Rich.  How high a pitch his resolution soars!
Thomas of Norfolk, what sayst thou to this?

Mow.  O! let my sovereign turn away his face
And bid his ears a little while be deaf,   115
Till I have told this slander of his blood
How God and good men hate so foul a liar.

K. Rich.  Mowbray, impartial are our eyes and ears:
Were he my brother, nay, my kingdom’s heir, —
As he is but my father’s brother’s son, —   120
Now, by my sceptre’s awe I make a vow,
Such neighbour nearness to our sacred blood
Should nothing privilege him, nor partialize
The unstooping firmness of my upright soul.
He is our subject, Mowbray; so art thou:   125
Free speech and fearless I to thee allow.

Mow.  Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart,
Through the false passage of thy throat, thou liest.
Three parts of that receipt I had for Calais
Disburs’d I duly to his highness’ soldiers;   130
The other part reserv’d I by consent,
For that my sovereign liege was in my debt
Upon remainder of a dear account,
Since last I went to France to fetch his queen.
Now swallow down that lie. For Gloucester’s death,   135
I slew him not; but to mine own disgrace
Neglected my sworn duty in that case.
For you, my noble Lord of Lancaster,
The honourable father to my foe,
Once did I lay an ambush for your life,   140
A trespass that doth vex my grieved soul;
But ere I last receiv’d the sacrament
I did confess it, and exactly begg’d
Your Grace’s pardon, and I hope I had it.
This is my fault: as for the rest appeal’d,   145
It issues from the rancour of a villain,
A recreant and most degenerate traitor;
Which in myself I boldly will defend,
And interchangeably hurl down my gage
Upon this overweening traitor’s foot,   150
To prove myself a loyal gentleman
Even in the best blood chamber’d in his bosom.
In haste whereof, most heartily I pray
Your highness to assign our trial day.

K. Rich.  Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be rul’d by me;   155
Let’s purge this choler without letting blood:
This we prescribe, though no physician;
Deep malice makes too deep incision:
Forget, forgive; conclude and be agreed,
Our doctors say this is no month to bleed.   160
Good uncle, let this end where it begun;
We’ll calm the Duke of Norfolk, you your son.

Gaunt.  To be a make-peace shall become my age:
Throw down, my son, the Duke of Norfolk’s gage.

K. Rich.  And, Norfolk, throw down his.   165

Gaunt.        When, Harry, when?
Obedience bids I should not bid again.

K. Rich.  Norfolk, throw down, we bid; there is no boot.

Mow.  Myself I throw, dread sovereign, at thy foot.
My life thou shalt command, but not my shame:   170
The one my duty owes; but my fair name, —
Despite of death that lives upon my grave, —
To dark dishonour’s use thou shalt not have.
I am disgrac’d, impeach’d, and baffled here,
Pierc’d to the soul with slander’s venom’d spear,   175
The which no balm can cure but his heart-blood
Which breath’d this poison.

K. Rich.        Rage must be withstood:
Give me his gage: lions make leopards tame.

Mow.  Yea, but not change his spots: take but my shame,   180
And I resign my gage. My dear dear lord,
The purest treasure mortal times afford
Is spotless reputation; that away,
Men are but gilded loam or painted clay.
A jewel in a ten-times-barr’d-up chest   185
Is a bold spirit in a loyal breast.
Mine honour is my life; both grow in one;
Take honour from me, and my life is done:
Then, dear my liege, mine honour let me try;
In that I live and for that will I die.   190

K. Rich.  Cousin, throw down your gage: do you begin.

Boling.  O! God defend my soul from such deep sin.
Shall I seem crest-fall’n in my father’s sight,
Or with pale beggar-fear impeach my height
Before this out-dar’d dastard? Ere my tongue   195
Shall wound mine honour with such feeble wrong,
Or sound so base a parle, my teeth shall tear
The slavish motive of recanting fear,
And spit it bleeding in his high disgrace,
Where shame doth harbour, even in Mowbray’s face.  [Exit GAUNT.   200

K. Rich.  We were not born to sue, but to command:
Which since we cannot do to make you friends,
Be ready, as your lives shall answer it,
At Coventry, upon Saint Lambert’s day:
There shall your swords and lances arbitrate   205
The swelling difference of your settled hate:
Since we cannot atone you, we shall see
Justice design the victor’s chivalry.
Marshal, command our officers-at-arms
Be ready to direct these home alarms.  [Exeunt.   210

Act I. Scene II.

The Same.  A Room in the DUKE OF LANCASTER’S Palace.

Enter GAUNT and DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER.

Gaunt.  Alas! the part I had in Woodstock’s blood
Doth more solicit me than your exclaims,
To stir against the butchers of his life.   5
But since correction lieth in those hands
Which made the fault that we cannot correct,
Put we our quarrel to the will of heaven;
Who, when they see the hours ripe on earth,
Will rain hot vengeance on offenders’ heads.   10

Duch.  Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur?
Hath love in thy old blood no living fire?
Edward’s seven sons, whereof thyself art one,
Were as seven vials of his sacred blood,
Or seven fair branches springing from one root:   15
Some of those seven are dried by nature’s course,
Some of those branches by the Destinies cut;
But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloucester,
One vial full of Edward’s sacred blood,
One flourishing branch of his most royal root,   20
Is crack’d, and all the precious liquor spilt;
Is hack’d down, and his summer leaves all vaded,
By envy’s hand and murder’s bloody axe.
Ah, Gaunt! his blood was thine: that bed, that womb,
That metal, that self-mould, that fashion’d thee   25
Made him a man; and though thou liv’st and breath’st,
Yet art thou slain in him: thou dost consent
In some large measure to thy father’s death
In that thou seest thy wretched brother die,
Who was the model of thy father’s life.   30
Call it not patience, Gaunt; it is despair:
In suffering thus thy brother to be slaughter’d
Thou show’st the naked pathway to thy life,
Teaching stern murder how to butcher thee:
That which in mean men we entitle patience   35
Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.
What shall I say? to safeguard thine own life,
The best way is to venge my Gloucester’s death.

Gaunt.  God’s is the quarrel; for God’s substitute,
His deputy anointed in his sight,   40
Hath caus’d his death; the which if wrongfully,
Let heaven revenge, for I may never lift
An angry arm against his minister.

Duch.  Where then, alas! may I complain myself?

Gaunt.  To God, the widow’s champion and defence.   45

Duch.  Why then, I will. Farewell, old Gaunt.
Thou go’st to Coventry, there to behold
Our cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight:
O! sit my husband’s wrongs on Hereford’s spear,
That it may enter butcher Mowbray’s breast.   50
Or if misfortune miss the first career,
Be Mowbray’s sins so heavy in his bosom
That they may break his foaming courser’s back,
And throw the rider headlong in the lists,
A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford!   55
Farewell, old Gaunt: thy sometimes brother’s wife
With her companion grief must end her life.

Gaunt.  Sister, farewell; I must to Coventry.
As much good stay with thee as go with me!

Duch.  Yet one word more. Grief boundeth where it falls,   60
Not with the empty hollowness, but weight:
I take my leave before I have begun,
For sorrow ends not when it seemeth done.
Commend me to my brother, Edmund York.
Lo! this is all: nay, yet depart not so;   65
Though this be all, do not so quickly go;
I shall remember more. Bid him — ah, what? —
With all good speed at Plashy visit me.
Alack! and what shall good old York there see
But empty lodgings and unfurnish’d walls,   70
Unpeopled offices, untrodden stones?
And what hear there for welcome but my groans?
Therefore commend me; let him not come there,
To seek out sorrow that dwells every where.
Desolate, desolate will I hence, and die:   75
The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye.  [Exeunt.

Act I. Scene III.

Open Space, near Coventry.  Lists set out, and a Throne. Heralds, &c., attending.

Enter the Lord Marshal and AUMERLE.

Mar.  My Lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford arm’d?

Aum.  Yea, at all points, and longs to enter in.

Mar.  The Duke of Norfolk, sprightfully and bold,   5
Stays but the summons of the appellant’s trumpet.

Aum.  Why then, the champions are prepar’d, and stay
For nothing but his majesty’s approach.

Flourish.  Enter KING RICHARD, who takes his seat on his Throne; GAUNT, BUSHY, BAGOT, GREEN, and Others, who take their places.  A trumpet is sounded, and answered by another trumpet within.  Then enter MOWBRAY, in armour, defendant, preceded by a Herald.

K. Rich.  Marshal, demand of yonder champion   10
The cause of his arrival here in arms:
Ask him his name, and orderly proceed
To swear him in the justice of his cause.

Mar.  In God’s name, and the king’s, say who thou art,
And why thou com’st thus knightly clad in arms,   15
Against what man thou com’st, and what thy quarrel.
Speak truly, on thy knighthood and thine oath;
As so defend thee heaven and thy valour!

Mow.  My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
Who hither come engaged by my oath, —   20
Which God defend a knight should violate! —
Both to defend my loyalty and truth
To God, my king, and his succeeding issue,
Against the Duke of Hereford that appeals me;
And, by the grace of God and this mine arm,   25
To prove him, in defending of myself,
A traitor to my God, my king, and me:
And as I truly fight, defend me heaven!  [He takes his seat.

Trumpet sounds.  Enter BOLINGBROKE, appellant, in armour, preceded by a Herald.

K. Rich.  Marshal, ask yonder knight in arms,   30
Both who he is and why he cometh hither
Thus plated in habiliments of war;
And formally, according to our law,
Depose him in the justice of his cause.

Mar.  What is thy name? and wherefore com’st thou hither,   35
Before King Richard in his royal lists?
Against whom comest thou? and what’s thy quarrel?
Speak like a true knight, so defend thee heaven!

Boling.  Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
Am I; who ready here do stand in arms,   40
To prove by God’s grace and my body’s valour,
In lists, on Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
That he’s a traitor foul and dangerous,
To God of heaven, King Richard, and to me:
And as I truly fight, defend me heaven!   45

Mar.  On pain of death, no person be so bold
Or daring-hardy as to touch the lists,
Except the marshal and such officers
Appointed to direct these fair designs.

Boling.  Lord marshal, let me kiss my sovereign’s hand,   50
And bow my knee before his majesty:
For Mowbray and myself are like two men
That vow a long and weary pilgrimage;
Then let us take a ceremonious leave
And loving farewell of our several friends.   55

Mar.  The appellant in all duty greets your highness,
And craves to kiss your hand and take his leave.

K. Rich.  [Descends from his throne.]  We will descend and fold him in our arms.
Cousin of Hereford, as thy cause is right,
So be thy fortune in this royal fight!   60
Farewell, my blood; which if to-day thou shed,
Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead.

Boling.  O! let no noble eye profane a tear
For me, if I be gor’d with Mowbray’s spear.
As confident as is the falcon’s flight   65
Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight.
My loving lord, I take my leave of you;
Of you, my noble cousin, Lord Aumerle;
Not sick, although I have to do with death,
But lusty, young, and cheerly drawing breath.   70
Lo! as at English feasts, so I regreet
The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet:
O thou, the earthly author of my blood,
Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate,
Doth with a two-fold vigour lift me up   75
To reach at victory above my head,
Add proof unto mine armour with thy prayers,
And with thy blessings steel my lance’s point,
That it may enter Mowbray’s waxen coat,
And furbish new the name of John a Gaunt,   80
Even in the lusty haviour of his son.

Gaunt.  God in thy good cause make thee prosperous!
Be swift like lightning in the execution;
And let thy blows, doubly redoubled,
Fall like amazing thunder on the casque   85
Of thy adverse pernicious enemy:
Rouse up thy youthful blood, be valiant and live.

Boling.  Mine innocency and Saint George to thrive!  [He takes his seat.

Mow.  [Rising.]  However God or fortune cast my lot,
There lives or dies, true to King Richard’s throne,   90
A loyal, just, and upright gentleman.
Never did captive with a freer heart
Cast off his chains of bondage and embrace
His golden uncontroll’d enfranchisement,
More than my dancing soul doth celebrate   95
This feast of battle with mine adversary.
Most mighty liege, and my companion peers,
Take from my mouth the wish of happy years.
As gentle and as jocund as to jest,
Go I to fight: truth has a quiet breast.   100

K. Rich.  Farewell, my lord: securely I espy
Virtue with valour couched in thine eye.
Order the trial, marshal, and begin.  [The KING and the Lords return to their seats.

Mar.  Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
Receive thy lance; and God defend the right!   105

Boling.  [Rising.]  Strong as a tower in hope, I cry ‘amen.’

Mar.  [To an Officer.]  Go bear this lance to Thomas, Duke of Norfolk.

First Her.  Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
Stands here for God, his sovereign, and himself,
On pain to be found false and recreant,   110
To prove the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray,
A traitor to his God, his king, and him;
And dares him to set forward to the fight.

Sec. Her.  Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
On pain to be found false and recreant,   115
Both to defend himself and to approve
Henry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
To God, his sovereign, and to him, disloyal;
Courageously and with a free desire,
Attending but the signal to begin.   120

Mar.  Sound, trumpets; and set forward, combatants.  [A charge sounded.
Stay, stay, the king hath thrown his warder down.

K. Rich.  Let them lay by their helmets and their spears,
And both return back to their chairs again:
Withdraw with us; and let the trumpets sound   125
While we return these dukes what we decree.  [A long flourish.
[To the Combatants.]  Draw near,
And list what with our council we have done.
For that our kingdom’s earth should not be soil’d
With that dear blood which it hath fostered;   130
And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect
Of civil wounds plough’d up with neighbours’ swords;
And for we think the eagle-winged pride
Of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts,
With rival-hating envy, set on you   135
To wake our peace, which in our country’s cradle
Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep;
Which so rous’d up with boist’rous untun’d drums,
With harsh-resounding trumpets’ dreadful bray,
And grating shock of wrathful iron arms,   140
Might from our quiet confines fright fair peace
And make us wade even in our kindred’s blood:
Therefore, we banish you our territories:
You, cousin Hereford, upon pain of life,
Till twice five summers have enrich’d our fields,   145
Shall not regreet our fair dominions,
But tread the stranger paths of banishment.

Boling.  Your will be done: this must my comfort be,
That sun that warms you here shall shine on me;
And those his golden beams to you here lent   150
Shall point on me and gild my banishment.

K. Rich.  Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom,
Which I with some unwillingness pronounce:
The sly slow hours shall not determinate
The dateless limit of thy dear exile;   155
The hopeless word of ‘never to return’
Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life.

Mow.  A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege,
And all unlook’d for from your highness’ mouth:
A dearer merit, not so deep a maim   160
As to be cast forth in the common air,
Have I deserved at your highness’ hands.
The language I have learn’d these forty years,
My native English, now I must forego;
And now my tongue’s use is to me no more   165
Than an unstringed viol or a harp,
Or like a cunning instrument cas’d up,
Or, being open, put into his hands
That knows no touch to tune the harmony:
Within my mouth you have engaol’d my tongue,   170
Doubly portcullis’d with my teeth and lips;
And dull, unfeeling, barren ignorance
Is made my gaoler to attend on me.
I am too old to fawn upon a nurse,
Too far in years to be a pupil now:   175
What is thy sentence then but speechless death,
Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath?

K. Rich.  It boots thee not to be compassionate:
After our sentence plaining comes too late.

Mow.  Then, thus I turn me from my country’s light,   180
To dwell in solemn shades of endless night.  [Retiring.

K. Rich.  Return again, and take an oath with thee.
Lay on our royal sword your banish’d hands;
Swear by the duty that you owe to God —
Our part therein we banish with yourselves —   185
To keep the oath that we administer:
You never shall, — so help you truth and God! —
Embrace each other’s love in banishment;
Nor never look upon each other’s face;
Nor never write, regreet, nor reconcile   190
This low’ring tempest of your home-bred hate;
Nor never by advised purpose meet
To plot, contrive, or complot any ill
‘Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land.

Boling.  I swear.   195

Mow.  And I, to keep all this.

Boling.  Norfolk, so far, as to mine enemy: —
By this time, had the king permitted us,
One of our souls had wander’d in the air,
Banish’d this frail sepulchre of our flesh,   200
As now our flesh is banish’d from this land:
Confess thy treasons ere thou fly the realm;
Since thou hast far to go, bear not along
The clogging burden of a guilty soul.

Mow.  No, Bolingbroke: if ever I were traitor,   205
My name be blotted from the book of life,
And I from heaven banish’d as from hence!
But what thou art, God, thou, and I do know;
And all too soon, I fear, the king shall rue.
Farewell, my liege. Now no way can I stray;   210
Save back to England, all the world’s my way.  [Exit.

K. Rich.  Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes
I see thy grieved heart: thy sad aspect
Hath from the number of his banish’d years
Pluck’d four away. — [To BOLINGBROKE.]  Six frozen winters spent,   215
Return with welcome home from banishment.

Boling.  How long a time lies in one little word!
Four lagging winters and four wanton springs
End in a word: such is the breath of kings.

Gaunt.  I thank my liege, that in regard of me   220
He shortens four years of my son’s exile;
But little vantage shall I reap thereby:
For, ere the six years that he hath to spend
Can change their moons and bring their times about,
My oil-dried lamp and time-bewasted light   225
Shall be extinct with age and endless night;
My inch of taper will be burnt and done,
And blindfold death not let me see my son.

K. Rich.  Why, uncle, thou hast many years to live.

Gaunt.  But not a minute, king, that thou canst give:   230
Shorten my days thou canst with sullen sorrow,
And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow;
Thou canst help time to furrow me with age.
But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage;
Thy word is current with him for my death,   235
But dead, thy kingdom cannot buy my breath.

K. Rich.  Thy son is banish’d upon good advice,
Whereto thy tongue a party-verdict gave:
Why at our justice seem’st thou then to lower?

Gaunt.  Things sweet to taste prove in digestion sour.   240
You urg’d me as a judge; but I had rather
You would have bid me argue like a father.
O! had it been a stranger, not my child,
To smooth his fault I should have been more mild:
A partial slander sought I to avoid,   245
And in the sentence my own life destroy’d.
Alas! I look’d when some of you should say,
I was too strict to make mine own away;
But you gave leave to my unwilling tongue
Against my will to do myself this wrong.   250

K. Rich.  Cousin, farewell; and, uncle, bid him so:
Six years we banish him, and he shall go.  [Flourish. Exeunt KING RICHARD and Train.

Aum.  Cousin, farewell: what presence must not know,
From where you do remain let paper show.

Mar.  My lord, no leave take I; for I will ride,   255
As far as land will let me, by your side.

Gaunt.  O! to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words,
That thou return’st no greeting to thy friends?

Boling.  I have too few to take my leave of you,
When the tongue’s office should be prodigal   260
To breathe the abundant dolour of the heart.

Gaunt.  Thy grief is but thy absence for a time.

Boling.  Joy absent, grief is present for that time.

Gaunt.  What is six winters? they are quickly gone.

Boling.  To men in joy; but grief makes one hour ten.   265

Gaunt.  Call it a travel that thou tak’st for pleasure.

Boling.  My heart will sigh when I miscall it so,
Which finds it an inforced pilgrimage.

Gaunt.  The sullen passage of thy weary steps
Esteem as foil wherein thou art to set   270
The precious jewel of thy home return.

Boling.  Nay, rather, every tedious stride I make
Will but remember me what a deal of world
I wander from the jewels that I love.
Must I not serve a long apprenticehood   275
To foreign passages, and in the end,
Having my freedom, boast of nothing else
But that I was a journeyman to grief?

Gaunt.  All places that the eye of heaven visits
Are to a wise man ports and happy havens.   280
Teach thy necessity to reason thus;
There is no virtue like necessity.
Think not the king did banish thee,
But thou the king. Woe doth the heavier sit,
Where it perceives it is but faintly borne.   285
Go, say I sent thee forth to purchase honour,
And not the king exil’d thee; or suppose
Devouring pestilence hangs in our air,
And thou art flying to a fresher clime.
Look, what thy soul holds dear, imagine it   290
To lie that way thou go’st, not whence thou com’st.
Suppose the singing birds musicians,
The grass whereon thou tread’st the presence strew’d,
The flowers fair ladies, and thy steps no more
Than a delightful measure or a dance;   295
For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite
The man that mocks at it and sets it light.

Boling.  O! who can hold a fire in his hand
By thinking on the frosty Caucasus?
Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite   300
By bare imagination of a feast?
Or wallow naked in December snow
By thinking on fantastic summer’s heat?
O, no! the apprehension of the good
Gives but the greater feeling to the worse:   305
Fell sorrow’s tooth doth never rankle more
Than when it bites, but lanceth not the sore.

Gaunt.  Come, come, my son, I’ll bring thee on thy way.
Had I thy youth and cause, I would not stay.

Boling.  Then, England’s ground, farewell; sweet soil, adieu:   310
My mother, and my nurse, that bears me yet!
Where’er I wander, boast of this I can,
Though banish’d, yet a true-born Englishman.  [Exeunt.

Act I. Scene IV.

London.  A Room in the KING’S Castle.

Enter KING RICHARD, BAGOT, and GREEN at one door; AUMERLE at another.

K. Rich.  We did observe. Cousin Aumerle,
How far brought you high Hereford on his way?

Aum.  I brought high Hereford, if you call him so,   5
But to the next highway, and there I left him.

K. Rich.  And say, what store of parting tears were shed?

Aum.  Faith, none for me; except the northeast wind,
Which then blew bitterly against our faces,
Awak’d the sleeping rheum, and so by chance   10
Did grace our hollow parting with a tear.

K. Rich.  What said our cousin when you parted with him?

Aum.  ‘Farewell:’
And, for my heart disdained that my tongue
Should so profane the word, that taught me craft   15
To counterfeit oppression of such grief
That words seem’d buried in my sorrow’s grave.
Marry, would the word ‘farewell’ have lengthen’d hours
And added years to his short banishment,
He should have had a volume of farewells;   20
But, since it would not, he had none of me.

K. Rich.  He is our cousin, cousin; but ’tis doubt,
When time shall call him home from banishment,
Whether our kinsman come to see his friends.
Ourself and Bushy, Bagot here and Green   25
Observ’d his courtship to the common people,
How he did seem to dive into their hearts
With humble and familiar courtesy,
What reverence he did throw away on slaves,
Wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of smiles   30
And patient underbearing of his fortune,
As ‘twere to banish their affects with him.
Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench;
A brace of draymen bid God speed him well,
And had the tribute of his supple knee,   35
With ‘Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends;’
As were our England in reversion his,
And he our subjects’ next degree in hope.

Green.  Well, he is gone; and with him go these thoughts.
Now for the rebels which stand out in Ireland;   40
Expedient manage must be made, my liege,
Ere further leisure yield them further means
For their advantage and your highness’ loss.

K. Rich.  We will ourself in person to this war.
And, for our coffers with too great a court   45
And liberal largess are grown somewhat light,
We are enforc’d to farm our royal realm;
The revenue whereof shall furnish us
For our affairs in hand. If that come short,
Our substitutes at home shall have blank charters;   50
Whereto, when they shall know what men are rich,
They shall subscribe them for large sums of gold,
And send them after to supply our wants;
For we will make for Ireland presently.

Enter BUSHY.   55
Bushy, what news?

Bushy.  Old John of Gaunt is grievous sick, my lord,
Suddenly taken, and hath sent post-haste
To entreat your majesty to visit him.

K. Rich.  Where lies he?   60

Bushy.  At Ely House.

K. Rich.  Now, put it, God, in his physician’s mind
To help him to his grave immediately!
The lining of his coffers shall make coats
To deck our soldiers for these Irish wars.   65
Come, gentlemen, let’s all go visit him:
Pray God we may make haste, and come too late.

All.  Amen.  [Exeunt.

Act II. Scene I.

London.  An Apartment in Ely House.

GAUNT on a couch; the DUKE OF YORK and Others standing by him.

Gaunt.  Will the king come, that I may breathe my last
In wholesome counsel to his unstaid youth?

York.  Vex not yourself, nor strive not with your breath;   5
For all in vain comes counsel to his ear.

Gaunt.  O! but they say the tongues of dying men
Enforce attention like deep harmony:
Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain,
For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain.   10
He that no more must say is listen’d more
Than they whom youth and ease have taught to glose;
More are men’s ends mark’d than their lives before:
The setting sun, and music at the close,
As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last,   15
Writ in remembrance more than things long past:
Though Richard my life’s counsel would not hear,
My death’s sad tale may yet undeaf his ear.

York.  No; it is stopp’d with other flattering sounds,
As praises of his state: then there are fond   20
Lascivious metres, to whose venom sound
The open ear of youth doth always listen:
Report of fashions in proud Italy,
Whose manners still our tardy apish nation
Limps after in base imitation.   25
Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity, —
So it be new there’s no respect how vile, —
That is not quickly buzz’d into his ears?
Then all too late comes counsel to be heard,
Where will doth mutiny with wit’s regard.   30
Direct not him whose way himself will choose:
’Tis breath thou lack’st, and that breath wilt thou lose.

Gaunt.  Methinks I am a prophet new inspir’d,
And thus expiring do foretell of him:
His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last,   35
For violent fires soon burn out themselves;
Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short;
He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes;
With eager feeding food doth choke the feeder:
Light vanity, insatiate cormorant,   40
Consuming means, soon preys upon itself.
This royal throne of kings, this scepter’d isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself   45
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,   50
Against the envy of less happier lands,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
Fear’d by their breed and famous by their birth,
Renowned for their deeds as far from home, —   55
For Christian service and true chivalry, —
As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry
Of the world’s ransom, blessed Mary’s Son:
This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land,
Dear for her reputation through the world,   60
Is now leas’d out, — I die pronouncing it, —
Like to a tenement, or pelting farm:
England, bound in with the triumphant sea,
Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege
Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame,   65
With inky blots, and rotten parchment bonds:
That England, that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.
Ah! would the scandal vanish with my life,
How happy then were my ensuing death.   70

Enter KING RICHARD and QUEEN; AUMERLE, BUSHY, GREEN, BAGOT, ROSS, and WILLOUGHBY.

York.  The king is come: deal mildly with his youth;
For young hot colts, being rag’d, do rage the more.

Queen.  How fares our noble uncle, Lancaster?

K. Rich.  What comfort, man? How is ‘t with aged Gaunt?   75

Gaunt.  O! how that name befits my composition;
Old Gaunt indeed, and gaunt in being old:
Within me grief hath kept a tedious fast;
And who abstains from meat that is not gaunt?
For sleeping England long time have I watch’d;   80
Watching breeds leanness, leanness is all gaunt.
The pleasure that some fathers feed upon
Is my strict fast, I mean my children’s looks;
And therein fasting hast thou made me gaunt.
Gaunt am I for the grave, gaunt as a grave,   85
Whose hollow womb inherits nought but bones.

K. Rich.  Can sick men play so nicely with their names?

Gaunt.  No; misery makes sport to mock itself:
Since thou dost seek to kill my name in me,
I mock my name, great king, to flatter thee.   90

K. Rich.  Should dying men flatter with those that live?

Gaunt.  No, no; men living flatter those that die.

K. Rich.  Thou, now a-dying, sayst thou flatter’st me.

Gaunt.  O, no! thou diest, though I the sicker be.

K. Rich.  I am in health, I breathe, and see thee ill.   95

Gaunt.  Now, he that made me knows I see thee ill;
Ill in myself to see, and in thee seeing ill.
Thy death-bed is no lesser than thy land
Wherein thou liest in reputation sick:
And thou, too careless patient as thou art,   100
Committ’st thy anointed body to the cure
Of those physicians that first wounded thee:
A thousand flatterers sit within thy crown,
Whose compass is no bigger than thy head;
And yet, incaged in so small a verge,   105
The waste is no whit lesser than thy land.
O! had thy grandsire, with a prophet’s eye,
Seen how his son’s son should destroy his sons,
From forth thy reach he would have laid thy shame,
Deposing thee before thou wert possess’d,   110
Which art possess’d now to depose thyself.
Why, cousin, wert thou regent of the world,
It were a shame to let this land by lease;
But for thy world enjoying but this land,
Is it not more than shame to shame it so?   115
Landlord of England art thou now, not king:
Thy state of law is bond-slave to the law,
And —

K. Rich.  And thou a lunatic lean-witted fool,
Presuming on an ague’s privilege,   120
Dar’st with thy frozen admonition
Make pale our cheek, chasing the royal blood
With fury from his native residence.
Now, by my seat’s right royal majesty,
Wert thou not brother to great Edward’s son, —   125
This tongue that runs so roundly in thy head
Should run thy head from thy unreverent shoulders.

Gaunt.  O! spare me not, my brother Edward’s son,
For that I was his father Edward’s son.
That blood already, like the pelican,   130
Hast thou tapp’d out and drunkenly carous’d:
My brother Gloucester, plain well-meaning soul, —
Whom fair befall in heaven ‘mongst happy souls! —
May be a precedent and witness good
That thou respect’st not spilling Edward’s blood:   135
Join with the present sickness that I have;
And thy unkindness be like crooked age,
To crop at once a too-long wither’d flower.
Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee!
These words hereafter thy tormentors be!   140
Convey me to my bed, then to my grave:
Love they to live that love and honour have.  [Exit, borne out by his Attendants.

K. Rich.  And let them die that age and sullens have;
For both hast thou, and both become the grave.

York.  I do beseech your majesty, impute his words   145
To wayward sickliness and age in him:
He loves you, on my life, and holds you dear
As Harry, Duke of Hereford, were he here.

K. Rich.  Right, you say true: as Hereford’s love, so his;
As theirs, so mine; and all be as it is.   150

Enter NORTHUMBERLAND.

North.  My liege, old Gaunt commends him to your majesty.

K. Rich.  What says he?

North.  Nay, nothing; all is said:
His tongue is now a stringless instrument;   155
Words, life, and all, old Lancaster hath spent.

York.  Be York the next that must be bankrupt so!
Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.

K. Rich.  The ripest fruit first falls, and so doth he:
His time is spent; our pilgrimage must be.   160
So much for that. Now for our Irish wars.
We must supplant those rough rug-headed kerns,
Which live like venom where no venom else
But only they have privilege to live.
And for these great affairs do ask some charge,   165
Towards our assistance we do seize to us
The plate, coin, revenues, and moveables,
Whereof our uncle Gaunt did stand possess’d.

York.  How long shall I be patient? Ah! how long
Shall tender duty make me suffer wrong?   170
Not Gloucester’s death, nor Hereford’s banishment,
Not Gaunt’s rebukes, nor England’s private wrongs,
Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke
About his marriage, nor my own disgrace,
Have ever made me sour my patient cheek,   175
Or bend one wrinkle on my sovereign’s face.
I am the last of noble Edward’s sons,
Of whom thy father, Prince of Wales, was first;
In war was never lion rag’d more fierce,
In peace was never gentle lamb more mild,   180
Than was that young and princely gentleman.
His face thou hast, for even so look’d he,
Accomplish’d with the number of thy hours;
But when he frown’d, it was against the French,
And not against his friends; his noble hand   185
Did win what he did spend, and spent not that
Which his triumphant father’s hand had won:
His hands were guilty of no kindred’s blood,
But bloody with the enemies of his kin.
O, Richard! York is too far gone with grief,   190
Or else he never would compare between.

K. Rich.  Why, uncle, what’s the matter?

York.        O! my liege.
Pardon me, if you please; if not, I, pleas’d
Not to be pardon’d, am content withal.   195
Seek you to seize and gripe into your hands
The royalties and rights of banish’d Hereford?
Is not Gaunt dead, and doth not Hereford live?
Was not Gaunt just, and is not Harry true?
Did not the one deserve to have an heir?   200
Is not his heir a well-deserving son?
Take Hereford’s rights away, and take from Time
His charters and his customary rights;
Let not to-morrow then ensue to-day;
Be not thyself; for how art thou a king   205
But by fair sequence and succession?
Now, afore God, — God forbid I say true! —
If you do wrongfully seize Hereford’s rights,
Call in the letters-patent that he hath
By his attorneys-general to sue   210
His livery, and deny his offer’d homage,
You pluck a thousand dangers on your head,
You lose a thousand well-disposed hearts,
And prick my tender patience to those thoughts
Which honour and allegiance cannot think.   215

K. Rich.  Think what you will: we seize into our hands
His plate, his goods, his money, and his lands.

York.  I’ll not be by the while: my liege, farewell:
What will ensue hereof, there’s none can tell;
But by bad courses may be understood   220
That their events can never fall out good.  [Exit.

K. Rich.  Go, Bushy, to the Earl of Wiltshire straight:
Bid him repair to us to Ely House
To see this business. To-morrow next
We will for Ireland; and ’tis time, I trow:   225
And we create, in absence of ourself,
Our uncle York lord governor of England;
For he is just, and always lov’d us well.
Come on, our queen: to-morrow must we part;
Be merry, for our time of stay is short.  [Flourish.  Exeunt KING, QUEEN, BUSHY, AUMERLE, GREEN, and BAGOT.   230

North.  Well, lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead.

Ross.  And living too; for now his son is duke.

Willo.  Barely in title, not in revenue.

North.  Richly in both, if justice had her right.

Ross.  My heart is great; but it must break with silence,   235
Ere ‘t be disburden’d with a liberal tongue.

North.  Nay, speak thy mind; and let him ne’er speak more
That speaks thy words again to do thee harm!

Willo.  Tends that thou’dst speak to the Duke of Hereford?
If it be so, out with it boldly, man;   240
Quick is mine ear to hear of good towards him.

Ross.  No good at all that I can do for him,
Unless you call it good to pity him,
Bereft and gelded of his patrimony.

North.  Now, afore God, ’tis shame such wrongs are borne   245
In him, a royal prince, and many more
Of noble blood in this declining land.
The king is not himself, but basely led
By flatterers; and what they will inform,
Merely in hate, ‘gainst any of us all,   250
That will the king severely prosecute
‘Gainst us, our lives, our children, and our heirs.

Ross.  The commons hath he pill’d with grievous taxes,
And quite lost their hearts: the nobles hath he fin’d
For ancient quarrels, and quite lost their hearts.   255

Willo.  And daily new exactions are devis’d;
As blanks, benevolences, and I wot not what:
But what, o’ God’s name, doth become of this?

North.  Wars have not wasted it, for warr’d he hath not,
But basely yielded upon compromise   260
That which his ancestors achiev’d with blows.
More hath he spent in peace than they in wars.

Ross.  The Earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in farm.

Willo.  The king’s grown bankrupt, like a broken man.

North.  Reproach and dissolution hangeth over him.   265

Ross.  He hath not money for these Irish wars,
His burdenous taxations notwithstanding,
But by the robbing of the banish’d duke.

North.  His noble kinsman: most degenerate king!
But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing,   270
Yet seek no shelter to avoid the storm;
We see the wind sit sore upon our sails,
And yet we strike not, but securely perish.

Ross.  We see the very wrack that we must suffer;
And unavoided is the danger now,   275
For suffering so the causes of our wrack.

North.  Not so: even through the hollow eyes of death
I spy life peering; but I dare not say
How near the tidings of our comfort is.

Willo.  Nay, let us share thy thoughts, as thou dost ours.   280

Ross.  Be confident to speak, Northumberland:
We three are but thyself: and, speaking so,
Thy words are but as thoughts; therefore, be bold.

North.  Then thus: I have from Port le Blanc, a bay
In Brittany, receiv’d intelligence   285
That Harry Duke of Hereford, Rainold Lord Cobham,
That late broke from the Duke of Exeter,
His brother, Archbishop late of Canterbury,
Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir John Ramston,
Sir John Norbery, Sir Robert Waterton, and Francis Quoint,   290
All these well furnish’d by the Duke of Britaine,
With eight tall ships, three thousand men of war,
Are making hither with all due expedience,
And shortly mean to touch our northern shore.
Perhaps they had ere this, but that they stay   295
The first departing of the king for Ireland.
If then we shall shake off our slavish yoke,
Imp out our drooping country’s broken wing,
Redeem from broking pawn the blemish’d crown,
Wipe off the dust that hides our sceptre’s gilt,   300
And make high majesty look like itself,
Away with me in post to Ravenspurgh;
But if you faint, as fearing to do so,
Stay and be secret, and myself will go.

Ross.  To horse, to horse! urge doubts to them that fear.   305

Willo.  Hold out my horse, and I will first be there.  [Exeunt.

Act II. Scene II.

The Same.  A Room in the Palace.

Enter QUEEN, BUSHY, and BAGOT.

Bushy.  Madam, your majesty is too much sad:
You promis’d, when you parted with the king,
To lay aside life-harming heaviness,   5
And entertain a cheerful disposition.

Queen.  To please the king I did; to please myself
I cannot do it; yet I know no cause
Why I should welcome such a guest as grief,
Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest   10
As my sweet Richard: yet, again, methinks,
Some unborn sorrow, ripe in fortune’s womb,
Is coming towards me, and my inward soul
With nothing trembles; at some thing it grieves
More than with parting from my lord the king.   15

Bushy.  Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows,
Which show like grief itself, but are not so.
For sorrow’s eye, glazed with blinding tears,
Divides one thing entire to many objects;
Like perspectives, which rightly gaz’d upon   20
Show nothing but confusion; ey’d awry
Distinguish form: so your sweet majesty,
Looking awry upon your lord’s departure,
Finds shapes of grief more than himself to wail;
Which, look’d on as it is, is nought but shadows   25
Of what it is not. Then, thrice-gracious queen,
More than your lord’s departure weep not: more’s not seen;
Or if it be, ’tis with false sorrow’s eye,
Which for things true weeps things imaginary.

Queen.  It may be so; but yet my inward soul   30
Persuades me it is otherwise: howe’er it be,
I cannot but be sad, so heavy sad,
As, though in thinking on no thought I think,
Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink.

Bushy.  ’Tis nothing but conceit, my gracious lady.   35

Queen.  ’Tis nothing less: conceit is still deriv’d
From some forefather grief; mine is not so,
For nothing hath begot my something grief;
Or something hath the nothing that I grieve:
’Tis in reversion that I do possess;   40
But what it is, that is not yet known; what
I cannot name; ’tis nameless woe, I wot.

Enter GREEN.

Green.  God save your majesty! and well met, gentlemen:
I hope the king is not yet shipp’d for Ireland.   45

Queen.  Why hop’st thou so? ’tis better hope he is,
For his designs crave haste, his haste good hope:
Then wherefore dost thou hope he is not shipp’d?

Green.  That he, our hope, might have retir’d his power,
And driven into despair an enemy’s hope,   50
Who strongly hath set footing in this land:
The banish’d Bolingbroke repeals himself,
And with uplifted arms is safe arriv’d
At Ravenspurgh.

Queen.        Now God in heaven forbid!   55

Green.  Ah! madam, ’tis too true: and that is worse,
The Lord Northumberland, his son young Henry Percy,
The Lords of Ross, Beaumond, and Willoughby,
With all their powerful friends, are fled to him.

Bushy.  Why have you not proclaim’d Northumberland   60
And all the rest of the revolted faction traitors?

Green.  We have: whereupon the Earl of Worcester
Hath broke his staff, resign’d his stewardship,
And all the household servants fled with him
To Bolingbroke.   65

Queen.  So, Green, thou art the midwife to my woe,
And Bolingbroke my sorrow’s dismal heir:
Now hath my soul brought forth her prodigy,
And I, a gasping new-deliver’d mother,
Have woe to woe, sorrow to sorrow join’d.   70

Bushy.  Despair not, madam.

Queen.        Who shall hinder me?
I will despair, and be at enmity
With cozening hope: he is a flatterer,
A parasite, a keeper-back of death,   75
Who gently would dissolve the bands of life,
Which false hope lingers in extremity.

Enter YORK.

Green.  Here comes the Duke of York.

Queen.  With signs of war about his aged neck:   80
O! full of careful business are his looks.
Uncle, for God’s sake, speak comfortable words.

York.  Should I do so, I should belie my thoughts:
Comfort’s in heaven; and we are on the earth,
Where nothing lives but crosses, cares, and grief.   85
Your husband, he is gone to save far off,
Whilst others come to make him lose at home:
Here am I left to underprop his land,
Who, weak with age, cannot support myself.
Now comes the sick hour that his surfeit made;   90
Now shall he try his friends that flatter’d him.

Enter a Servant.

Serv.  My lord, your son was gone before I came.

York.  He was? Why, so! go all which way it will!
The nobles they are fled, the commons they are cold,   95
And will, I fear, revolt on Hereford’s side.
Sirrah, get thee to Plashy, to my sister Gloucester;
Bid her send me presently a thousand pound.
Hold, take my ring.

Serv.  My lord, I had forgot to tell your lordship:   100
To-day, as I came by, I called there;
But I shall grieve you to report the rest.

York.  What is ‘t, knave?

Serv.  An hour before I came the duchess died.

York.  God for his mercy! what a tide of woes   105
Comes rushing on this woeful land at once!
I know not what to do: I would to God, —
So my untruth had not provok’d him to it, —
The king had cut off my head with my brother’s.
What! are there no posts dispatch’d for Ireland?   110
How shall we do for money for these wars?
Come, sister, — cousin, I would say, — pray, pardon me. —
Go, fellow, get thee home; provide some carts
And bring away the armour that is there.  [Exit Servant.
Gentlemen, will you go muster men? If I know   115
How or which way to order these affairs
Thus thrust disorderly into my hands,
Never believe me. Both are my kinsmen:
The one is my sovereign, whom both my oath
And duty bids defend; the other again   120
Is my kinsman, whom the king hath wrong’d,
Whom conscience and my kindred bids to right.
Well, somewhat we must do. Come, cousin,
I’ll dispose of you. Gentlemen, go muster up your men,
And meet me presently at Berkeley Castle.   125
I should to Plashy too:
But time will not permit. All is uneven,
And every thing is left at six and seven.  [Exeunt YORK and QUEEN.

Bushy.  The wind sits fair for news to go to Ireland,
But none returns. For us to levy power   130
Proportionable to the enemy
Is all unpossible.

Green.  Besides, our nearness to the king in love
Is near the hate of those love not the king.

Bagot.  And that’s the wavering commons; for their love   135
Lies in their purses, and whoso empties them,
By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate.

Bushy.  Wherein the king stands generally condemn’d.

Bagot.  If judgment lie in them, then so do we,
Because we ever have been near the king.   140

Green.  Well, I’ll for refuge straight to Bristol Castle;
The Earl of Wiltshire is already there.

Bushy.  Thither will I with you; for little office
Will the hateful commons perform for us,
Except like curs to tear us all to pieces.   145
Will you go along with us?

Bagot.  No; I will to Ireland to his majesty.
Farewell: if heart’s presages be not vain,
We three here part that ne’er shall meet again.

Bushy.  That’s as York thrives to beat back Bolingbroke.   150

Green.  Alas, poor duke! the task he undertakes
Is numbering sands and drinking oceans dry:
Where one on his side fights, thousands will fly.
Farewell at once; for once, for all, and ever.

Bushy.  Well, we may meet again.   155

Bagot.        I fear me, never.  [Exeunt.

Act II. Scene III.

The Wolds in Gloucestershire.

Enter BOLINGBROKE and NORTHUMBERLAND, with Forces.

Boling.  How far is it, my lord, to Berkeley now?

North.  Believe me, noble lord,
I am a stranger here in Gloucestershire:   5
These high wild hills and rough uneven ways
Draw out our miles and make them wearisome;
But yet your fair discourse hath been as sugar,
Making the hard way sweet and delectable.
But I bethink me what a weary way   10
From Ravenspurgh to Cotswold will be found
In Ross and Willoughby, wanting your company,
Which, I protest, hath very much beguil’d
The tediousness and process of my travel:
But theirs is sweeten’d with the hope to have   15
The present benefit which I possess;
And hope to joy is little less in joy
Than hope enjoy’d: by this the weary lords
Shall make their way seem short, as mine hath done
By sight of what I have, your noble company.   20

Boling.  Of much less value is my company
Than your good words. But who comes here?

Enter HENRY PERCY.

North.  It is my son, young Harry Percy,
Sent from my brother Worcester, whencesoever.   25
Harry, how fares your uncle?

H. Percy.  I had thought, my lord, to have learn’d his health of you.

North.  Why, is he not with the queen?

H. Percy.  No, my good lord; he hath forsook the court,
Broken his staff of office, and dispers’d   30
The household of the king.

North.        What was his reason?
He was not so resolv’d when last we spake together.

H. Percy.  Because your lordship was proclaimed traitor.
But he, my lord, is gone to Ravenspurgh,   35
To offer service to the Duke of Hereford,
And sent me over by Berkeley to discover
What power the Duke of York had levied there;
Then with direction to repair to Ravenspurgh.

North.  Have you forgot the Duke of Hereford, boy?   40

H. Percy.  No, my good lord; for that is not forgot
Which ne’er I did remember: to my knowledge
I never in my life did look on him.

North.  Then learn to know him now: this is the duke.

H. Percy.  My gracious lord, I tender you my service,   45
Such as it is, being tender, raw, and young,
Which elder days shall ripen and confirm
To more approved service and desert.

Boling.  I thank thee, gentle Percy; and be sure
I count myself in nothing else so happy   50
As in a soul remembering my good friends;
And as my fortune ripens with thy love,
It shall be still thy true love’s recompense:
My heart this covenant makes, my hand thus seals it.

North.  How far is it to Berkeley? and what stir   55
Keeps good old York there with his men of war?

H. Percy.  There stands the castle, by yon tuft of trees,
Mann’d with three hundred men, as I have heard;
And in it are the Lords of York, Berkeley, and Seymour;
None else of name and noble estimate.   60

Enter ROSS and WILLOUGHBY.

North.  Here come the Lords of Ross and Willoughby,
Bloody with spurring, fiery-red with haste.

Boling.  Welcome, my lords. I wot your love pursues
A banish’d traitor; all my treasury   65
Is yet but unfelt thanks, which, more enrich’d,
Shall be your love and labour’s recompense.

Ross.  Your presence makes us rich, most noble lord.

Willo.  And far surmounts our labour to attain it.

Boling.  Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor;   70
Which, till my infant fortune comes to years,
Stands for my bounty. But who comes here?

Enter BERKELEY.

North.  It is my Lord of Berkeley, as I guess.

Berk.  My lord of Hereford, my message is to you.   75

Boling.  My lord, my answer is — to Lancaster;
And I am come to seek that name in England;
And I must find that title in your tongue
Before I make reply to aught you say.

Berk.  Mistake me not, my lord; ’tis not my meaning   80
To raze one title of your honour out:
To you, my lord, I come, what lord you will,
From the most gracious regent of this land,
The Duke of York, to know what pricks you on
To take advantage of the absent time   85
And fright our native peace with self-born arms.

Enter YORK, attended.

Boling.  I shall not need transport my words by you:
Here comes his Grace in person.
My noble uncle!  [Kneels.   90

York.  Show me thy humble heart, and not thy knee,
Whose duty is deceivable and false.

Boling.  My gracious uncle —

York.  Tut, tut!
Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle:   95
I am no traitor’s uncle: and that word ‘grace’
In an ungracious mouth is but profane.
Why have those banish’d and forbidden legs
Dar’d once to touch a dust of England’s ground?
But then, more ‘why?’ why have they dar’d to march   100
So many miles upon her peaceful bosom,
Frighting her pale-fac’d villages with war
And ostentation of despised arms?
Com’st thou because the anointed king is hence?
Why, foolish boy, the king is left behind,   105
And in my loyal bosom lies his power.
Were I but now the lord of such hot youth
As when brave Gaunt thy father, and myself,
Rescu’d the Black Prince, that young Mars of men,
From forth the ranks of many thousand French,   110
O! then, how quickly should this arm of mine,
Now prisoner to the palsy, chastise thee
And minister correction to thy fault!

Boling.  My gracious uncle, let me know my fault:
On what condition stands it and wherein?   115

York.  Even in condition of the worst degree,
In gross rebellion and detested treason:
Thou art a banish’d man, and here art come
Before the expiration of thy time,
In braving arms against thy sovereign.   120

Boling.  As I was banish’d, I was banish’d Hereford;
But as I come, I come for Lancaster.
And, noble uncle, I beseech your Grace
Look on my wrongs with an indifferent eye:
You are my father, for methinks in you   125
I see old Gaunt alive: O! then, my father,
Will you permit that I shall stand condemn’d
A wandering vagabond; my rights and royalties
Pluck’d from my arms perforce and given away
To upstart unthrifts? Wherefore was I born?   130
If that my cousin king be King of England,
It must be granted I am Duke of Lancaster.
You have a son, Aumerle, my noble kinsman;
Had you first died, and he been thus trod down,
He should have found his uncle Gaunt a father,   135
To rouse his wrongs and chase them to the bay.
I am denied to sue my livery here,
And yet my letters-patent give me leave:
My father’s goods are all distrain’d and sold,
And these and all are all amiss employ’d.   140
What would you have me do? I am a subject,
And challenge law: attorneys are denied me,
And therefore personally I lay my claim
To my inheritance of free descent.

North.  The noble duke hath been too much abus’d.   145

Ross.  It stands your Grace upon to do him right.

Willo.  Base men by his endowments are made great.

York.  My lords of England, let me tell you this:
I have had feeling of my cousin’s wrongs,
And labour’d all I could to do him right;   150
But in this kind to come, in braving arms,
Be his own carver and cut out his way,
To find out right with wrong, it may not be;
And you that do abet him in this kind
Cherish rebellion and are rebels all.   155

North.  The noble duke hath sworn his coming is
But for his own; and for the right of that
We all have strongly sworn to give him aid;
And let him ne’er see joy that breaks that oath!

York.  Well, well, I see the issue of these arms:   160
I cannot mend it, I must needs confess,
Because my power is weak and all ill left;
But if I could, by him that gave me life,
I would attach you all and make you stoop
Unto the sovereign mercy of the king;   165
But since I cannot, be it known to you
I do remain as neuter. So, fare you well;
Unless you please to enter in the castle
And there repose you for this night.

Boling.  An offer, uncle, that we will accept:   170
But we must win your Grace to go with us
To Bristol Castle; which they say is held
By Bushy, Bagot, and their complices,
The caterpillars of the commonwealth,
Which I have sworn to weed and pluck away.   175

York.  It may be I will go with you; but yet I’ll pause;
For I am loath to break our country’s laws.
Nor friends nor foes, to me welcome you are:
Things past redress are now with me past care.  [Exeunt.

Act II. Scene IV.

A Camp in Wales.

Enter SALISBURY and a Captain.

Cap.  My Lord of Salisbury, we have stay’d ten days,
And hardly kept our countrymen together,
And yet we hear no tidings from the king;   5
Therefore we will disperse ourselves: farewell.

Sal.  Stay yet another day, thou trusty Welshman:
The king reposeth all his confidence in thee.

Cap.  ’Tis thought the king is dead: we will not stay.
The bay-trees in our country are all wither’d   10
And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven,
The pale-fac’d moon looks bloody on the earth
And lean-look’d prophets whisper fearful change,
Rich men look sad and ruffians dance and leap,
The one in fear to lose what they enjoy,   15
The other to enjoy by rage and war:
These signs forerun the death or fall of kings.
Farewell: our countrymen are gone and fled,
As well assur’d Richard their king is dead.  [Exit.

Sal.  Ah, Richard! with the eyes of heavy mind   20
I see thy glory like a shooting star
Fall to the base earth from the firmament.
Thy sun sets weeping in the lowly west,
Witnessing storms to come, woe, and unrest.
Thy friends are fled to wait upon thy foes,   25
And crossly to thy good all fortune goes.  [Exit.

Act III. Scene I.

Bristol.  BOLINGBROKE’S Camp.

Enter BOLINGBROKE, YORK, NORTHUMBERLAND, HENRY PERCY, WILLOUGHBY, ROSS; Officers behind, with BUSHY and GREEN prisoners.

Boling.  Bring forth these men.
Bushy and Green, I will not vex your souls —
Since presently your souls must part your bodies —   5
With too much urging your pernicious lives,
For ‘twere no charity; yet, to wash your blood
From off my hands, here in the view of men
I will unfold some causes of your deaths.
You have misled a prince, a royal king,   10
A happy gentleman in blood and lineaments,
By you unhappied and disfigur’d clean:
You have in manner with your sinful hours
Made a divorce betwixt his queen and him,
Broke the possession of a royal bed,   15
And stain’d the beauty of a fair queen’s cheeks
With tears drawn from her eyes by your foul wrongs.
Myself, a prince by fortune of my birth,
Near to the king in blood, and near in love
Till you did make him misinterpret me,   20
Have stoop’d my neck under your injuries,
And sigh’d my English breath in foreign clouds,
Eating the bitter bread of banishment;
Whilst you have fed upon my signories,
Dispark’d my parks, and felled my forest woods,   25
From mine own windows torn my household coat,
Raz’d out my impress, leaving me no sign,
Save men’s opinions and my living blood,
To show the world I am a gentleman.
This and much more, much more than twice all this,   30
Condemns you to the death. See them deliver’d over
To execution and the hand of death.

Bushy.  More welcome is the stroke of death to me
Than Bolingbroke to England. Lords, farewell.

Green.  My comfort is, that heaven will take our souls   35
And plague injustice with the pains of hell.

Boling.  My Lord Northumberland, see them dispatch’d.  [Exeunt NORTHUMBERLAND and Others, with BUSHY and GREEN.
Uncle, you say the queen is at your house;
For God’s sake, fairly let her be entreated:
Tell her I send to her my kind commends;   40
Take special care my greetings be deliver’d.

York.  A gentleman of mine I have dispatch’d
With letters of your love to her at large.

Boling.  Thanks, gentle uncle. Come, lords, away,
To fight with Glendower and his complices:   45
Awhile to work, and after holiday.  [Exeunt.

Act III. Scene II.

The Coast of Wales.  A Castle in view.

Flourish: drums and trumpets.  Enter KING RICHARD, the BISHOP OF CARLISLE, AUMERLE, and Soldiers.

K. Rich.  Barkloughly Castle call they this at hand?

Aum.  Yea, my lord. How brooks your Grace the air,
After your late tossing on the breaking seas?   5

K. Rich.  Needs must I like it well: I weep for joy
To stand upon my kingdom once again.
Dear earth, I do salute thee with my hand,
Though rebels wound thee with their horses’ hoofs:
As a long-parted mother with her child   10
Plays fondly with her tears and smiles in meeting,
So, weeping, smiling, greet I thee, my earth,
And do thee favour with my royal hands.
Feed not thy sovereign’s foe, my gentle earth,
Nor with thy sweets comfort his ravenous sense;   15
But let thy spiders, that suck up thy venom,
And heavy-gaited toads lie in their way,
Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet
Which with usurping steps do trample thee.
Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies;   20
And when they from thy bosom pluck a flower,
Guard it, I pray thee, with a lurking adder
Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch
Throw death upon thy sovereign’s enemies.
Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords:   25
This earth shall have a feeling and these stones
Prove armed soldiers, ere her native king
Shall falter under foul rebellion’s arms.

Car.  Fear not, my lord: that power that made you king
Hath power to keep you king in spite of all.   30
The means that heaven yields must be embrac’d,
And not neglected; else, if heaven would,
And we will not, heaven’s offer we refuse,
The proffer’d means of succour and redress.

Aum.  He means, my lord, that we are too remiss;   35
Whilst Bolingbroke, through our security,
Grows strong and great in substance and in friends.

K. Rich.  Discomfortable cousin! know’st thou not
That when the searching eye of heaven is hid
Behind the globe, and lights the lower world,   40
Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen,
In murders and in outrage bloody here;
But when, from under this terrestrial ball
He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines
And darts his light through every guilty hole,   45
Then murders, treasons, and detested sins,
The cloak of night being pluck’d from off their backs,
Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves?
So when this thief, this traitor, Bolingbroke,
Who all this while hath revell’d in the night   50
Whilst we were wandering with the antipodes,
Shall see us rising in our throne, the east,
His treasons will sit blushing in his face,
Not able to endure the sight of day,
But self-affrighted tremble at his sin.   55
Not all the water in the rough rude sea
Can wash the balm from an anointed king;
The breath of worldly men cannot depose
The deputy elected by the Lord.
For every man that Bolingbroke hath press’d   60
To lift shrewd steel against our golden crown,
God for his Richard hath in heavenly pay
A glorious angel: then, if angels fight,
Weak men must fall, for heaven still guards the right.

Enter SALISBURY.   65
Welcome, my lord: how far off lies your power?

Sal.  Nor near nor further off, my gracious lord,
Than this weak arm: discomfort guides my tongue
And bids me speak of nothing but despair.
One day too late, I fear me, noble lord,   70
Hath clouded all thy happy days on earth.
O! call back yesterday, bid time return,
And thou shalt have twelve thousand fighting men:
To-day, to-day, unhappy day too late,
O’erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune, and thy state;   75
For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead,
Are gone to Bolingbroke, dispers’d, and fled.

Aum.  Comfort, my liege! why looks your Grace so pale?
K. Rich.  But now, the blood of twenty thousand men
Did triumph in my face, and they are fled;   80
And till so much blood thither come again
Have I not reason to look pale and dead?
All souls that will be safe, fly from my side;
For time hath set a blot upon my pride.

Aum.  Comfort, my liege! remember who you are.   85

K. Rich.  I had forgot myself. Am I not king?
Awake, thou sluggard majesty! thou sleepest.
Is not the king’s name twenty thousand names?
Arm, arm, my name! a puny subject strikes
At thy great glory. Look not to the ground,   90
Ye favourites of a king: are we not high?
High be our thoughts: I know my uncle York
Hath power enough to serve our turn. But who comes here?

Enter SIR STEPHEN SCROOP.

Scroop.  More health and happiness betide my liege   95
Than can my care-tun’d tongue deliver him!

K. Rich.  Mine ear is open and my heart prepar’d:
The worst is worldly loss thou canst unfold.
Say, is my kingdom lost? why, ’twas my care;
And what loss is it to be rid of care?   100
Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as we?
Greater he shall not be: if he serve God
We’ll serve him too, and be his fellow so:
Revolt our subjects? that we cannot mend;
They break their faith to God as well as us:   105
Cry woe, destruction, ruin, loss, decay;
The worst is death, and death will have his day.

Scroop.  Glad am I that your highness is so arm’d
To bear the tidings of calamity.
Like an unseasonable stormy day   110
Which makes the silver rivers drown their shores,
As if the world were all dissolv’d to tears,
So high above his limits swells the rage
Of Bolingbroke, covering your fearful land
With hard bright steel and hearts harder than steel.   115
White-beards have arm’d their thin and hairless scalps
Against thy majesty; and boys, with women’s voices,
Strive to speak big, and clap their female joints
In stiff unwieldy arms against thy crown;
Thy very beadsmen learn to bend their bows   120
Of double-fatal yew against thy state;
Yea, distaff-women manage rusty bills
Against thy seat: both young and old rebel,
And all goes worse than I have power to tell.

K. Rich.  Too well, too well thou tell’st a tale so ill.   125
Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? where is Bagot?
What is become of Bushy? where is Green?
That they have let the dangerous enemy
Measure our confines with such peaceful steps?
If we prevail, their heads shall pay for it.   130
I warrant they have made peace with Bolingbroke.

Scroop.  Peace have they made with him, indeed, my lord.

K. Rich.  O villains, vipers, damn’d without redemption!
Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man!
Snakes, in my heart-blood warm’d, that sting my heart!   135
Three Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas!
Would they make peace? terrible hell make war
Upon their spotted souls for this offence!

Scroop.  Sweet love, I see, changing his property,
Turns to the sourest and most deadly hate.   140
Again uncurse their souls; their peace is made
With heads and not with hands: those whom you curse
Have felt the worst of death’s destroying wound
And lie full low, grav’d in the hollow ground.

Aum.  Is Bushy, Green, and the Earl of Wiltshire dead?   145

Scroop.  Yea, all of them at Bristol lost their heads.

Aum.  Where is the duke my father with his power?

K. Rich.  No matter where. Of comfort no man speak:
Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;
Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes   150
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth;
Let’s choose executors and talk of wills:
And yet not so — for what can we bequeath
Save our deposed bodies to the ground?
Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke’s,   155
And nothing can we call our own but death,
And that small model of the barren earth
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.
For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of kings:   160
How some have been depos’d, some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos’d,
Some poison’d by their wives, some sleeping kill’d;
All murder’d: for within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a king   165
Keeps Death his court, and there the antick sits,
Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp;
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,
To monarchize, be fear’d, and kill with looks,
Infusing him with self and vain conceit   170
As if this flesh which walls about our life
Were brass impregnable; and humour’d thus
Comes at the last, and with a little pin
Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood   175
With solemn reverence: throw away respect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,
For you have but mistook me all this while:
I live with bread like you, feel want,
Taste grief, need friends: subjected thus,   180
How can you say to me I am a king?

Car.  My lord, wise men ne’er sit and wail their woes,
But presently prevent the ways to wail.
To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength,
Gives in your weakness strength unto your foe,   185
And so your follies fight against yourself.
Fear and be slain; no worse can come to fight:
And fight and die is death destroying death;
Where fearing dying pays death servile breath.

Aum.  My father hath a power; inquire of him   190
And learn to make a body of a limb.

K. Rich.  Thou chid’st me well. Proud Bolingbroke, I come
To change blows with thee for our day of doom.
This ague-fit of fear is over-blown;
An easy task it is, to win our own. —   195
Say, Scroop, where lies our uncle with his power?
Speak sweetly, man, although thy looks be sour.

Scroop.  Men judge by the complexion of the sky
The state and inclination of the day;
So may you by my dull and heavy eye,   200
My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say.
I play the torturer, by small and small
To lengthen out the worst that must be spoken.
Your uncle York is join’d with Bolingbroke,
And all your northern castles yielded up,   205
And all your southern gentlemen in arms
Upon his party.

K. Rich.        Thou hast said enough.
[To AUMERLE.]  Beshrew thee, cousin, which didst lead me forth
Of that sweet way I was in to despair!   210
What say you now? What comfort have we now?
By heaven, I’ll hate him everlastingly
That bids me be of comfort any more.
Go to Flint Castle: there I’ll pine away;
A king, woe’s slave, shall kingly woe obey.   215
That power I have, discharge; and let them go
To ear the land that hath some hope to grow,
For I have none: let no man speak again
To alter this, for counsel is but vain.

Aum.  My liege, one word.   220

K. Rich.        He does me double wrong,
That wounds me with the flatteries of his tongue.
Discharge my followers: let them hence away,
From Richard’s night to Bolingbroke’s fair day.  [Exeunt.

Act III. Scene III.

Wales.  Before Flint Castle.

Enter, with drum and colours, BOLINGBROKE and Forces; YORK, NORTHUMBERLAND, and Others.

Boling.  So that by this intelligence we learn
The Welshmen are dispers’d and Salisbury
Is gone to meet the king, who lately landed   5
With some few private friends upon this coast.

North.  The news is very fair and good, my lord:
Richard not far from hence hath hid his head.

York.  It would beseem the Lord Northumberland
To say, ‘King Richard:’ alack the heavy day   10
When such a sacred king should hide his head!

North.  Your Grace mistakes; only to be brief
Left I his title out.

York.        The time hath been,
Would you have been so brief with him, he would   15
Have been so brief with you, to shorten you,
For taking so the head, your whole head’s length.

Boling.  Mistake not, uncle, further than you should.

York.  Take not, good cousin, further than you should,
Lest you mistake the heavens are o’er our heads.   20

Boling.  I know it, uncle; and oppose not myself
Against their will. But who comes here?

Enter HENRY PERCY.
Welcome, Harry: what, will not this castle yield?

H. Percy.  The castle royally is mann’d, my lord,   25
Against thy entrance.

Boling.  Royally!
Why, it contains no king?

H. Percy.        Yes, my good lord,
It doth contain a king: King Richard lies   30
Within the limits of yon lime and stone;
And with him are the Lord Aumerle, Lord Salisbury,
Sir Stephen Scroop; besides a clergyman
Of holy reverence; who, I cannot learn.

North.  O! belike it is the Bishop of Carlisle.   35

Boling.  [To NORTH.]  Noble lord,
Go to the rude ribs of that ancient castle,
Through brazen trumpet send the breath of parley
Into his ruin’d ears, and thus deliver:
Henry Bolingbroke   40
On both his knees doth kiss King Richard’s hand,
And sends allegiance and true faith of heart
To his most royal person; hither come
Even at his feet to lay my arms and power,
Provided that my banishment repeal’d,   45
And lands restor’d again be freely granted.
If not, I’ll use the advantage of my power,
And lay the summer’s dust with showers of blood
Rain’d from the wounds of slaughter’d Englishmen:
The which, how far off from the mind of Bolingbroke   50
It is, such crimson tempest should bedrench
The fresh green lap of fair King Richard’s land,
My stooping duty tenderly shall show.
Go, signify as much, while here we march
Upon the grassy carpet of this plain.   55
Let’s march without the noise of threat’ning drum,
That from the castle’s totter’d battlements
Our fair appointments may be well perus’d.
Methinks King Richard and myself should meet
With no less terror than the elements   60
Of fire and water, when their thundering shock
At meeting tears the cloudy cheeks of heaven.
Be he the fire, I’ll be the yielding water:
The rage be his, while on the earth I rain
My waters; on the earth, and not on him.   65
March on, and mark King Richard how he looks.

A Parley sounded, and answered by a Trumpet within.  Flourish.  Enter on the Walls KING RICHARD, the BISHOP OF CARLISLE, AUMERLE, SCROOP, and SALISBURY.

H. Percy.  See, see, King Richard doth himself appear,
As doth the blushing discontented sun
From out the fiery portal of the east,   70
When he perceives the envious clouds are bent
To dim his glory and to stain the track
Of his bright passage to the occident.

York.  Yet looks he like a king: behold, his eye,
As bright as is the eagle’s, lightens forth   75
Controlling majesty: alack, alack, for woe,
That any harm should stain so fair a show!

K. Rich.  [To NORTHUMBERLAND.]  We are amaz’d; and thus long have we stood
To watch the fearful bending of thy knee,
Because we thought ourself thy lawful king:   80
And if we be, how dare thy joints forget
To pay their awful duty to our presence?
If we be not, show us the hand of God
That hath dismiss’d us from our stewardship;
For well we know, no hand of blood and bone   85
Can gripe the sacred handle of our sceptre,
Unless he do profane, steal, or usurp.
And though you think that all, as you have done,
Have torn their souls by turning them from us,
And we are barren and bereft of friends;   90
Yet know, my master, God omnipotent,
Is mustering in his clouds on our behalf
Armies of pestilence; and they shall strike
Your children yet unborn and unbegot,
That lift your vassal hands against my head   95
And threat the glory of my precious crown.
Tell Bolingbroke, — for yond methinks he is, —
That every stride he makes upon my land
Is dangerous treason: he is come to open
The purple testament of bleeding war;   100
But ere the crown he looks for live in peace,
Ten thousand bloody crowns of mothers’ sons
Shall ill become the flower of England’s face,
Change the complexion of her maid-pale peace
To scarlet indignation, and bedew   105
Her pastures’ grass with faithful English blood.

North.  The king of heaven forbid our lord the king
Should so with civil and uncivil arms
Be rush’d upon! Thy thrice-noble cousin,
Harry Bolingbroke, doth humbly kiss thy hand;   110
And by the honourable tomb he swears,
That stands upon your royal grandsire’s bones,
And by the royalties of both your bloods,
Currents that spring from one most gracious head,
And by the buried hand of war-like Gaunt,   115
And by the worth and honour of himself,
Comprising all that may be sworn or said,
His coming hither hath no further scope
Than for his lineal royalties and to beg
Enfranchisement immediate on his knees:   120
Which on thy royal party granted once,
His glittering arms he will commend to rust,
His barbed steeds to stables, and his heart
To faithful service of your majesty.
This swears he, as he is a prince, is just;   125
And, as I am a gentleman, I credit him.

K. Rich.  Northumberland, say, thus the king returns:
His noble cousin is right welcome hither;
And all the number of his fair demands
Shall be accomplish’d without contradiction:   130
With all the gracious utterance thou hast
Speak to his gentle hearing kind commends.  [NORTHUMBERLAND retires to BOLINGBROKE.
[To AUMERLE.]  We do debase ourself, cousin, do we not,
To look so poorly and to speak so fair?
Shall we call back Northumberland and send   135
Defiance to the traitor, and so die?

Aum.  No, good my lord; let’s fight with gentle words,
Till time lend friends and friends their helpful swords.

K. Rich.  O God! O God! that e’er this tongue of mine,
That laid the sentence of dread banishment   140
On yond proud man, should take it off again
With words of sooth. O! that I were as great
As is my grief, or lesser than my name,
Or that I could forget what I have been,
Or not remember what I must be now.   145
Swell’st thou, proud heart? I’ll give thee scope to beat,
Since foes have scope to beat both thee and me.

Aum.  Northumberland comes back from Bolingbroke.

K. Rich.  What must the king do now? Must he submit?
The king shall do it: must he be depos’d?   150
The king shall be contented: must he lose
The name of king? o’ God’s name, let it go:
I’ll give my jewels for a set of beads,
My gorgeous palace for a hermitage,
My gay apparel for an almsman’s gown,   155
My figur’d goblets for a dish of wood,
My sceptre for a palmer’s walking-staff,
My subjects for a pair of carved saints,
And my large kingdom for a little grave,
A little little grave, an obscure grave;   160
Or I’ll be buried in the king’s highway,
Some way of common trade, where subjects’ feet
May hourly trample on their sovereign’s head;
For on my heart they tread now whilst I live;
And buried once, why not upon my head?   165
Aumerle, thou weep’st, my tender-hearted cousin!
We’ll make foul weather with despised tears;
Our sighs and they shall lodge the summer corn,
And make a dearth in this revolting land.
Or shall we play the wantons with our woes,   170
And make some pretty match with shedding tears?
As thus; to drop them still upon one place,
Till they have fretted us a pair of graves
Within the earth; and, there inlaid: ‘There lies
Two kinsmen digg’d their graves with weeping eyes.’   175
Would not this ill do well? Well, well, I see
I talk but idly and you laugh at me.
Most mighty prince, my Lord Northumberland,
What says King Bolingbroke? will his majesty
Give Richard leave to live till Richard die?   180
You make a leg, and Bolingbroke says ay.

North.  My lord, in the base court he doth attend
To speak with you; may ‘t please you to come down?

K. Rich.  Down, down, I come; like glistering Phaethon,
Wanting the manage of unruly jades.   185
In the base court? Base court, where kings grow base,
To come at traitors’ calls and do them grace.
In the base court? Come down? Down, court! down, king!
For night-owls shriek where mounting larks should sing.  [Exeunt from above.

Boling.  What says his majesty?   190

North.        Sorrow and grief of heart
Makes him speak fondly, like a frantic man:
Yet he is come.

Enter KING RICHARD, and his Attendants.

Boling.  Stand all apart,   195
And show fair duty to his majesty.  [Kneeling.
My gracious lord, —

K. Rich.  Fair cousin, you debase your princely knee
To make the base earth proud with kissing it:
Me rather had my heart might feel your love   200
Than my unpleas’d eye see your courtesy.
Up, cousin, up; your heart is up, I know,
Thus high at least, although your knee be low.

Boling.  My gracious lord, I come but for mine own.

K. Rich.  Your own is yours, and I am yours, and all.   205

Boling.  So far be mine, my most redoubted lord,
As my true service shall deserve your love.

K. Rich.  Well you deserve: they well deserve to have
That know the strong’st and surest way to get.
Uncle, give me your hand: nay, dry your eyes;   210
Tears show their love, but want their remedies.
Cousin, I am too young to be your father,
Though you are old enough to be my heir.
What you will have I’ll give, and willing too;
For do we must what force will have us do.   215
Set on towards London. Cousin, is it so?

Boling.  Yea, my good lord.

K. Rich.        Then I must not say no.  [Flourish.  Exeunt.

Act III. Scene IV.

Langley.  The DUKE OF YORK’S Garden.

Enter the QUEEN and two Ladies.

Queen.  What sport shall we devise here in this garden,
To drive away the heavy thought of care?

First Lady.  Madam, we’ll play at bowls.   5

Queen.  ‘Twill make me think the world is full of rubs,
And that my fortune runs against the bias.

First Lady.  Madam, we’ll dance.

Queen.  My legs can keep no measure in delight
When my poor heart no measure keeps in grief:   10
Therefore, no dancing, girl; some other sport.

First Lady.  Madam, we’ll tell tales.

Queen.  Of sorrow or of joy?

First Lady.        Of either, madam.

Queen.  Of neither, girl:   15
For if of joy, being altogether wanting,
It doth remember me the more of sorrow;
Or if of grief, being altogether had,
It adds more sorrow to my want of joy:
For what I have I need not to repeat,   20
And what I want it boots not to complain.

First Lady.  Madam, I’ll sing.

Queen.        ’Tis well that thou hast cause;
But thou shouldst please me better wouldst thou weep.

First Lady.  I could weep, madam, would it do you good.   25

Queen.  And I could sing would weeping do me good,
And never borrow any tear of thee.
But stay, here come the gardeners:
Let’s step into the shadow of these trees.
My wretchedness unto a row of pins,   30
They’ll talk of state; for every one doth so
Against a change: woe is forerun with woe.  [QUEEN and Ladies retire.

Enter a Gardener and two Servants.

Gard.  Go, bind thou up you dangling apricocks,
Which, like unruly children, make their sire   35
Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight:
Give some supportance to the bending twigs.
Go thou, and like an executioner,
Cut off the heads of too fast growing sprays,
That look too lofty in our commonwealth:   40
All must be even in our government.
You thus employ’d, I will go root away
The noisome weeds, that without profit suck
The soil’s fertility from wholesome flowers.

First Serv.  Why should we in the compass of a pale   45
Keep law and form and due proportion,
Showing, as in a model, our firm estate,
When our sea-walled garden, the whole land,
Is full of weeds, her fairest flowers chok’d up,
Her fruit-trees all unprun’d, her hedges ruin’d,   50
Her knots disorder’d, and her wholesome herbs
Swarming with caterpillars?

Gard.        Hold thy peace:
He that hath suffer’d this disorder’d spring
Hath now himself met with the fall of leaf;   55
The weeds that his broad-spreading leaves did shelter,
That seem’d in eating him to hold him up,
Are pluck’d up root and all by Bolingbroke;
I mean the Earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green.

First Serv.  What! are they dead?   60

Gard.        They are; and Bolingbroke
Hath seiz’d the wasteful king. O! what pity is it
That he hath not so trimm’d and dress’d his land
As we this garden. We at time of year
Do wound the bark, the skin of our fruit-trees,   65
Lest, being over-proud with sap and blood,
With too much riches it confound itself:
Had he done so to great and growing men,
They might have liv’d to bear and he to taste
Their fruits of duty: superfluous branches   70
We lop away that bearing boughs may live:
Had he done so, himself had borne the crown,
Which waste of idle hours hath quite thrown down.

First Serv.  What! think you then the king shall be depos’d?

Gard.  Depress’d he is already, and depos’d   75
’Tis doubt he will be: letters came last night
To a dear friend of the good Duke of York’s,
That tell black tidings.

Queen.  O! I am press’d to death through want of speaking.  [Coming forward.
Thou, old Adam’s likeness, set to dress this garden,   80
How dares thy harsh rude tongue sound this unpleasing news?
What Eve, what serpent, hath suggested thee
To make a second fall of cursed man?
Why dost thou say King Richard is depos’d?
Dar’st thou, thou little better thing than earth,   85
Divine his downfall? Say, where, when, and how
Cam’st thou by these ill tidings? speak, thou wretch.

Gard.  Pardon me, madam: little joy have I
To breathe these news, yet what I say is true.
King Richard, he is in the mighty hold   90
Of Bolingbroke; their fortunes both are weigh’d:
In your lord’s scale is nothing but himself,
And some few vanities that make him light;
But in the balance of great Bolingbroke,
Besides himself, are all the English peers,   95
And with that odds he weighs King Richard down.
Post you to London and you’ll find it so;
I speak no more than every one doth know.

Queen.  Nimble mischance, that art so light of foot,
Doth not thy embassage belong to me,   100
And am I last that knows it? O! thou think’st
To serve me last, that I may longest keep
Thy sorrow in my breast. Come, ladies, go,
To meet at London London’s king in woe.
What! was I born to this, that my sad look   105
Should grace the triumph of great Bolingbroke?
Gardener, for telling me these news of woe,
Pray God the plants thou graft’st may never grow.  [Exeunt QUEEN and Ladies.

Gard.  Poor queen! so that thy state might be no worse,
I would my skill were subject to thy curse.   110
Here did she fall a tear; here, in this place,
I’ll set a bank of rue, sour herb of grace;
Rue, even for ruth, here shortly shall be seen,
In the remembrance of a weeping queen.  [Exeunt.

Act IV. Scene I.

London.  Westminster Hall.

The Lords spiritual on the right side of the throne: the Lords temporal on the left; the Commons below.  Enter BOLINGBROKE, AUMERLE, SURREY, NORTHUMBERLAND, HENRY PERCY, FITZWATER, another Lord, the BISHOP OF CARLISLE, the ABBOT OF WESTMINSTER, and Attendants.  Officers behind with BAGOT.

Boling.  Call forth Bagot.
Now, Bagot, freely speak thy mind;
What thou dost know of noble Gloucester’s death,   5
Who wrought it with the king, and who perform’d
The bloody office of his timeless end.

Bagot.  Then set before my face the Lord Aumerle.

Boling.  Cousin, stand forth, and look upon that man.

Bagot.  My Lord Aumerle, I know your daring tongue   10
Scorns to unsay what once it hath deliver’d.
In that dead time when Gloucester’s death was plotted,
I heard you say, ‘Is not my arm of length,
That reacheth from the restful English court
As far as Calais, to my uncle’s head?’   15
Amongst much other talk, that very time,
I heard you say that you had rather refuse
The offer of a hundred thousand crowns
Than Bolingbroke’s return to England;
Adding withal, how blest this land would be   20
In this your cousin’s death.

Aum.        Princes and noble lords,
What answer shall I make to this base man?
Shall I so much dishonour my fair stars,
On equal terms to give him chastisement?   25
Either I must, or have mine honour soil’d
With the attainder of his slanderous lips.
There is my gage, the manual seal of death,
That marks thee out for hell: I say thou liest,
And will maintain what thou hast said is false   30
In thy heart-blood, though being all too base
To stain the temper of my knightly sword.

Boling.  Bagot, forbear; thou shalt not take it up.

Aum.  Excepting one, I would he were the best
In all this presence that hath mov’d me so.   35

Fitz.  If that thy valour stand on sympathies,
There is my gage, Aumerle, in gage to thine:
By that fair sun which shows me where thou stand’st,
I heard thee say, and vauntingly thou spak’st it,
That thou wert cause of noble Gloucester’s death.   40
If thou deny’st it twenty times, thou liest;
And I will turn thy falsehood to thy heart,
Where it was forged, with my rapier’s point.

Aum.  Thou dar’st not, coward, live to see that day.

Fitz.  Now, by my soul, I would it were this hour.   45

Aum.  Fitzwater, thou art damn’d to hell for this.

H. Percy.  Aumerle, thou liest; his honour is as true
In this appeal as thou art all unjust;
And that thou art so, there I throw my gage,
To prove it on thee to the extremest point   50
Of mortal breathing: seize it if thou dar’st.

Aum.  And if I do not may my hands rot off
And never brandish more revengeful steel
Over the glittering helmet of my foe!

Lord.  I task the earth to the like, forsworn Aumerle;   55
And spur thee on with full as many lies
As may be holla’d in thy treacherous ear
From sun to sun: there is my honour’s pawn;
Engage it to the trial if thou dar’st.

Aum.  Who sets me else? by heaven, I’ll throw at all:   60
I have a thousand spirits in one breast,
To answer twenty thousand such as you.

Surrey.  My Lord Fitzwater, I do remember well
The very time Aumerle and you did talk.

Fitz.  ’Tis very true: you were in presence then;   65
And you can witness with me this is true.

Surrey.  As false, by heaven, as heaven itself is true.

Fitz.  Surrey, thou liest.

Surrey.        Dishonourable boy!
That lie shall lie so heavy on my sword   70
That it shall render vengeance and revenge,
Till thou the lie-giver and that lie do lie
In earth as quiet as thy father’s skull.
In proof whereof, there is my honour’s pawn:
Engage it to the trial if thou dar’st.   75

Fitz.  How fondly dost thou spur a forward horse!
If I dare eat, or drink, or breathe, or live,
I dare meet Surrey in a wilderness,
And spit upon him, whilst I say he lies,
And lies, and lies: there is my bond of faith   80
To tie thee to my strong correction.
As I intend to thrive in this new world,
Aumerle is guilty of my true appeal:
Besides, I heard the banish’d Norfolk say
That thou, Aumerle, didst send two of thy men   85
To execute the noble duke at Calais.

Aum.  Some honest Christian trust me with a gage.
That Norfolk lies, here do I throw down this,
If he may be repeal’d to try his honour.

Boling.  These differences shall all rest under gage   90
Till Norfolk be repeal’d: repeal’d he shall be,
And though mine enemy, restor’d again
To all his lands and signories; when he’s return’d,
Against Aumerle we will enforce his trial.

Car.  That honourable day shall ne’er be seen.   95
Many a time hath banish’d Norfolk fought
For Jesu Christ in glorious Christian field,
Streaming the ensign of the Christian cross
Against black pagans, Turks, and Saracens;
And toil’d with works of war, retir’d himself   100
To Italy; and there at Venice gave
His body to that pleasant country’s earth,
And his pure soul unto his captain Christ,
Under whose colours he had fought so long.

Boling.  Why, bishop, is Norfolk dead?   105

Car.  As surely as I live, my lord.

Boling.  Sweet peace conduct his sweet soul to the bosom
Of good old Abraham! Lords appellants,
Your differences shall all rest under gage
Till we assign you to your days of trial.   110

Enter YORK, attended.

York.  Great Duke of Lancaster, I come to thee
From plume-pluck’d Richard; who with willing soul
Adopts thee heir, and his high sceptre yields
To the possession of thy royal hand.   115
Ascend his throne, descending now from him;
And long live Henry, of that name the fourth!

Boling.  In God’s name, I’ll ascend the regal throne.

Car.  Marry, God forbid!
Worst in this royal presence may I speak,   120
Yet best beseeming me to speak the truth.
Would God that any in this noble presence
Were enough noble to be upright judge
Of noble Richard! then, true noblesse would
Learn him forbearance from so foul a wrong.   125
What subject can give sentence on his king?
And who sits here that is not Richard’s subject?
Thieves are not judg’d but they are by to hear,
Although apparent guilt be seen in them;
And shall the figure of God’s majesty,   130
His captain, steward, deputy elect,
Anointed, crowned, planted many years,
Be judg’d by subject and inferior breath,
And he himself not present? O! forfend it, God,
That in a Christian climate souls refin’d   135
Should show so heinous, black, obscene a deed.
I speak to subjects, and a subject speaks,
Stirr’d up by God thus boldly for his king.
My Lord of Hereford here, whom you call king,
Is a foul traitor to proud Hereford’s king;   140
And if you crown him, let me prophesy,
The blood of English shall manure the ground
And future ages groan for this foul act;
Peace shall go sleep with Turks and infidels,
And in this seat of peace tumultuous wars   145
Shall kin with kin and kind with kind confound;
Disorder, horror, fear and mutiny
Shall here inhabit, and this land be call’d
The field of Golgotha and dead men’s skulls.
O! if you rear this house against this house,   150
It will the woefullest division prove
That ever fell upon this cursed earth.
Prevent it, resist it, let it not be so,
Lest child, child’s children, cry against you ‘woe!’

North.  Well have you argu’d, sir; and, for your pains,   155
Of capital treason we arrest you here.
My Lord of Westminster, be it your charge
To keep him safely till his day of trial.
May it please you, lords, to grant the commons’ suit?

Boling.  Fetch hither Richard, that in common view   160
He may surrender; so we shall proceed
Without suspicion.

York.        I will be his conduct.  [Exit.

Boling.  Lords, you that here are under our arrest,
Procure your sureties for your days of answer.   165
[To CARLISLE.]  Little are we beholding to your love,
And little look’d for at your helping hands.

Re-enter YORK, with KING RICHARD, and Officers bearing the Crown, &c.

K. Rich.  Alack! why am I sent for to a king
Before I have shook off the regal thoughts   170
Wherewith I reign’d? I hardly yet have learn’d
To insinuate, flatter, bow, and bend my limbs:
Give sorrow leave awhile to tutor me
To this submission. Yet I well remember
The favours of these men: were they not mine?   175
Did they not sometime cry, ‘All hail!’ to me?
So Judas did to Christ: but he, in twelve,
Found truth in all but one; I, in twelve thousand, none.
God save the king! Will no man say, amen?
Am I both priest and clerk? well then, amen.   180
God save the king! although I be not he;
And yet, amen, if heaven do think him me.
To do what service am I sent for hither?

York.  To do that office of thine own good will
Which tired majesty did make thee offer,   185
The resignation of thy state and crown
To Henry Bolingbroke.

K. Rich.  Give me the crown. Here, cousin, seize the crown;
Here cousin,
On this side my hand and on that side thine.   190
Now is this golden crown like a deep well
That owes two buckets filling one another;
The emptier ever dancing in the air,
The other down, unseen and full of water:
That bucket down and full of tears am I,   195
Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high.

Boling.  I thought you had been willing to resign.

K. Rich.  My crown, I am; but still my griefs are mine.
You may my glories and my state depose,
But not my griefs; still am I king of those.   200

Boling.  Part of your cares you give me with your crown.

K. Rich.  Your cares set up do not pluck my cares down.
My care is loss of care, by old care done;
Your care is gain of care, by new care won.
The cares I give I have, though given away;   205
They tend the crown, yet still with me they stay.

Boling.  Are you contented to resign the crown?

K. Rich.  Ay, no; no, ay; for I must nothing be;
Therefore no no, for I resign to thee.
Now mark me how I will undo myself:   210
I give this heavy weight from off my head,
And this unwieldy sceptre from my hand,
The pride of kingly sway from out my heart;
With mine own tears I wash away my balm,
With mine own hands I give away my crown,   215
With mine own tongue deny my sacred state,
With mine own breath release all duteous rites:
All pomp and majesty I do forswear;
My manors, rents, revenues, I forego;
My acts, decrees, and statutes I deny:   220
God pardon all oaths that are broke to me!
God keep all vows unbroke are made to thee!
Make me, that nothing have, with nothing griev’d,
And thou with all pleas’d, that hast all achiev’d!
Long mayst thou live in Richard’s seat to sit,   225
And soon lie Richard in an earthy pit!
God save King Henry, unking’d Richard says,
And send him many years of sunshine days!
What more remains?

North.  [Offering a paper.]  No more, but that you read   230
These accusations and these grievous crimes
Committed by your person and your followers
Against the state and profit of this land;
That, by confessing them, the souls of men
May deem that you are worthily depos’d.   235

K. Rich.  Must I do so? and must I ravel out
My weav’d-up follies? Gentle Northumberland,
If thy offences were upon record,
Would it not shame thee in so fair a troop
To read a lecture of them? If thou wouldst,   240
There shouldst thou find one heinous article,
Containing the deposing of a king,
And cracking the strong warrant of an oath,
Mark’d with a blot, damn’d in the book of heaven.
Nay, all of you that stand and look upon me,   245
Whilst that my wretchedness doth bait myself,
Though some of you with Pilate wash your hands,
Showing an outward pity; yet you Pilates
Have here deliver’d me to my sour cross,
And water cannot wash away your sin.   250

North.  My lord, dispatch; read o’er these articles.

K. Rich.  Mine eyes are full of tears, I cannot see:
And yet salt water blinds them not so much
But they can see a sort of traitors here.
Nay, if I turn mine eyes upon myself,   255
I find myself a traitor with the rest;
For I have given here my soul’s consent
To undeck the pompous body of a king;
Made glory base and sovereignty a slave,
Proud majesty a subject, state a peasant.   260

North.  My lord, —

K. Rich.  No lord of thine, thou haught insulting man,
Nor no man’s lord; I have no name, no title,
No, not that name was given me at the font,
But ’tis usurp’d: alack the heavy day!   265
That I have worn so many winters out,
And know not now what name to call myself.
O! that I were a mockery king of snow,
Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke,
To melt myself away in water-drops.   270
Good king, great king, — and yet not greatly good,
An if my word be sterling yet in England,
Let it command a mirror hither straight,
That it may show me what a face I have,
Since it is bankrupt of his majesty.   275

Boling.  Go some of you and fetch a looking-glass.  [Exit an Attendant.

North.  Read o’er this paper while the glass doth come.

K. Rich.  Fiend! thou torment’st me ere I come to hell.

Boling.  Urge it no more, my Lord Northumberland.

North.  The commons will not then be satisfied.   280

K. Rich.  They shall be satisfied: I’ll read enough
When I do see the very book indeed
Where all my sins are writ, and that’s myself.

Re-enter Attendant, with a glass.
Give me the glass, and therein will I read.   285
No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck
So many blows upon this face of mine
And made no deeper wounds? O, flattering glass!
Like to my followers in prosperity,
Thou dost beguile me. Was this face the face   290
That every day under his household roof
Did keep ten thousand men? Was this the face
That like the sun did make beholders wink?
Was this the face that fac’d so many follies,
And was at last out-fac’d by Bolingbroke?   295
A brittle glory shineth in this face:
As brittle as the glory is the face;  [Dashes the glass against the ground.
For there it is, crack’d in a hundred shivers.
Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport,
How soon my sorrow hath destroy’d my face.   300

Boling.  The shadow of your sorrow hath destroy’d
The shadow of your face.

K. Rich.        Say that again.
The shadow of my sorrow! Ha! let’s see:
’Tis very true, my grief lies all within;   305
And these external manners of laments
Are merely shadows to the unseen grief
That swells with silence in the tortur’d soul;
There lies the substance: and I thank thee, king,
For thy great bounty, that not only giv’st   310
Me cause to wail, but teachest me the way
How to lament the cause. I’ll beg one boon,
And then be gone and trouble you no more.
Shall I obtain it?

Boling.        Name it, fair cousin.   315

K. Rich.  ‘Fair cousin!’ I am greater than a king;
For when I was a king, my flatterers
Were then but subjects; being now a subject,
I have a king here to my flatterer.
Being so great, I have no need to beg.   320

Boling.  Yet ask.

K. Rich.  And shall I have?

Boling.  You shall.

K. Rich.  Then give me leave to go.

Boling.  Whither?   325

K. Rich.  Whither you will, so I were from your sights.

Boling.  Go, some of you convey him to the Tower.

K. Rich.  O, good! convey? conveyers are you all,
That rise thus nimbly by a true king’s fall.  [Exeunt KING RICHARD and Guard.

Boling.  On Wednesday next we solemnly set down   330
Our coronation: lords, prepare yourselves.  [Exeunt all except the BISHOP OF CARLISLE, the ABBOT OF WESTMINSTER, and AUMERLE.
Abbot.  A woeful pageant have we here beheld.
Bishop.  The woe’s to come; the children yet unborn
Shall feel this day as sharp to them as thorn.

Aum.  You holy clergymen, is there no plot   335
To rid the realm of this pernicious blot?

Abbot.  My lord,
Before I freely speak my mind herein,
You shall not only take the sacrament
To bury mine intents, but also to effect   340
Whatever I shall happen to devise.
I see your brows are full of discontent,
Your hearts of sorrow, and your eyes of tears:
Come home with me to supper; I will lay
A plot shall show us all a merry day.  [Exeunt.   345

Act V. Scene I.

London.  A Street leading to the Tower.

Enter the QUEEN and LADIES.

Queen.  This way the king will come; this is the way
To Julius Cæsar’s ill-erected tower,
To whose flint bosom my condemned lord   5
Is doom’d a prisoner by proud Bolingbroke.
Here let us rest, if this rebellious earth
Have any resting for her true king’s queen.

Enter KING RICHARD and Guard.
But soft, but see, or rather do not see,   10
My fair rose wither: yet look up, behold,
That you in pity may dissolve to dew,
And wash him fresh again with true-love tears.
Ah! thou, the model where old Troy did stand,
Thou map of honour, thou King Richard’s tomb,   15
And not King Richard; thou most beauteous inn,
Why should hard-favour’d grief be lodg’d in thee,
When triumph is become an alehouse guest?

K. Rich.  Join not with grief, fair woman, do not so,
To make my end too sudden: learn, good soul,   20
To think our former state a happy dream;
From which awak’d, the truth of what we are
Shows us but this. I am sworn brother, sweet,
To grim Necessity, and he and I
Will keep a league till death. Hie thee to France,   25
And cloister thee in some religious house:
Our holy lives must win a new world’s crown,
Which our profane hours here have stricken down.

Queen.  What! is my Richard both in shape and mind
Transform’d and weaken’d! Hath Bolingbroke depos’d   30
Thine intellect? hath he been in thy heart?
The lion dying thrusteth forth his paw
And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage
To be o’erpower’d; and wilt thou, pupil-like,
Take thy correction mildly, kiss the rod,   35
And fawn on rage with base humility,
Which art a lion and a king of beasts?

K. Rich.  A king of beasts indeed; if aught but beasts,
I had been still a happy king of men.
Good sometime queen, prepare thee hence for France,   40
Think I am dead, and that even here thou tak’st,
As from my death-bed, my last living leave.
In winter’s tedious nights sit by the fire
With good old folks, and let them tell thee tales
Of woeful ages, long ago betid;   45
And ere thou bid good night, to quit their grief,
Tell thou the lamentable tale of me,
And send the hearers weeping to their beds:
For why the senseless brands will sympathize
The heavy accent of thy moving tongue,   50
And in compassion weep the fire out;
And some will mourn in ashes, some coal-black,
For the deposing of a rightful king.

Enter NORTHUMBERLAND, attended.

North.  My lord, the mind of Bolingbroke is chang’d;   55
You must to Pomfret, not unto the Tower.
And, madam, there is order ta’en for you;
With all swift speed you must away to France.

K. Rich.  Northumberland, thou ladder where-withal
The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne,   60
The time shall not be many hours of age
More than it is, ere foul sin gathering head
Shall break into corruption. Thou shalt think,
Though he divide the realm and give thee half,
It is too little, helping him to all;   65
And he shall think that thou, which know’st the way
To plant unrightful kings, wilt know again,
Being ne’er so little urg’d, another way
To pluck him headlong from the usurped throne.
The love of wicked friends converts to fear;   70
That fear to hate, and hate turns one or both
To worthy danger and deserved death.

North.  My guilt be on my head, and there an end.
Take leave and part; for you must part forthwith.

K. Rich.  Doubly divorc’d! Bad men, ye violate   75
A two-fold marriage; ‘twixt my crown and me,
And then, betwixt me and my married wife.
Let me unkiss the oath ‘twixt thee and me;
And yet not so, for with a kiss ’twas made.
Part us, Northumberland: I towards the north,   80
Where shivering cold and sickness pines the clime;
My wife to France: from whence, set forth in pomp,
She came adorned hither like sweet May,
Sent back like Hallowmas or short’st of day.

Queen.  And must we be divided? must we part?   85

K. Rich.  Ay, hand from hand, my love, and heart from heart.

Queen.  Banish us both and send the king with me.

North.  That were some love but little policy.

Queen.  Then whither he goes, thither let me go.

K. Rich.  So two, together weeping, make one woe.   90
Weep thou for me in France, I for thee here;
Better far off, than near, be ne’er the near.
Go, count thy way with sighs, I mine with groans.

Queen.  So longest way shall have the longest moans.

K. Rich.  Twice for one step I’ll groan, the way being short,   95
And piece the way out with a heavy heart.
Come, come, in wooing sorrow let’s be brief,
Since, wedding it, there is such length in grief.
One kiss shall stop our mouths, and dumbly part;
Thus give I mine, and thus take I thy heart.  [They kiss.   100

Queen.  Give me mine own again; ‘twere no good part
To take on me to keep and kill thy heart.  [They kiss again.
So, now I have mine own again, be gone,
That I may strive to kill it with a groan.

K. Rich.  We make woe wanton with this fond delay:   105
Once more, adieu; the rest let sorrow say.  [Exeunt.

Act V. Scene II.

The Same.  A Room in the DUKE OF YORK’S Palace.

Enter YORK and his DUCHESS.

Duch.  My lord, you told me you would tell the rest,
When weeping made you break the story off,
Of our two cousins coming into London.   5

York.  Where did I leave?

Duch.        At that sad stop, my lord,
Where rude misgovern’d hands, from windows’ tops,
Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard’s head.

York.  Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke,   10
Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,
Which his aspiring rider seem’d to know,
With slow but stately pace kept on his course,
While all tongues cried, ‘God save thee, Bolingbroke!’
You would have thought the very windows spake,   15
So many greedy looks of young and old
Through casements darted their desiring eyes
Upon his visage, and that all the walls
With painted imagery had said at once
‘Jesu preserve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke!’   20
Whilst he, from one side to the other turning,
Bare-headed, lower than his proud steed’s neck,
Bespake them thus, ‘I thank you, countrymen:’
And thus still doing, thus he pass’d along.

Duch.  Alack, poor Richard! where rode he the whilst?   25

York.  As in a theatre, the eyes of men,
After a well-grac’d actor leaves the stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious;
Even so, or with much more contempt, men’s eyes   30
Did scowl on Richard: no man cried, ‘God save him;’
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home;
But dust was thrown upon his sacred head,
Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,
His face still combating with tears and smiles,   35
The badges of his grief and patience,
That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel’d
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarism itself have pitied him.
But heaven hath a hand in these events,   40
To whose high will we bound our calm contents.
To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now,
Whose state and honour I for aye allow.

Duch.  Here comes my son Aumerle.

York.        Aumerle that was;   45
But that is lost for being Richard’s friend,
And, madam, you must call him Rutland now.
I am in parliament pledge for his truth
And lasting fealty to the new-made king.

Enter AUMERLE.   50

Duch.  Welcome, my son: who are the violets now
That strew the green lap of the new come spring?

Aum.  Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not:
God knows I had as lief be none as one.

York.  Well, bear you well in this new spring of time,   55
Lest you be cropp’d before you come to prime.
What news from Oxford? hold those justs and triumphs?

Aum.  For aught I know, my lord, they do.

York.  You will be there, I know.

Aum.  If God prevent it not, I purpose so.   60

York.  What seal is that that hangs without thy bosom?
Yea, look’st thou pale? let me see the writing.

Aum.  My lord, ’tis nothing.

York.        No matter then, who sees it:
I will be satisfied; let me see the writing.   65

Aum.  I do beseech your Grace to pardon me:
It is a matter of small consequence,
Which for some reasons I would not have seen.

York.  Which for some reasons, sir, I mean to see.
I fear, I fear, —   70

Duch.        What should you fear?
’Tis nothing but some bond he’s enter’d into
For gay apparel ‘gainst the triumph day.

York.  Bound to himself! what doth he with a bond
That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a fool.   75
Boy, let me see the writing.

Aum.  I do beseech you, pardon me; I may not show it.

York.  I will be satisfied; let me see it, I say.  [Snatches it, and reads.
Treason! foul treason! villain! traitor! slave!

Duch.  What is the matter, my lord?   80

York.  Ho! who is within there?

Enter a Servant.
Saddle my horse.
God for his mercy! what treachery is here!

Duch.  Why, what is it, my lord?   85

York.  Give me my boots, I say; saddle my horse.
Now, by mine honour, by my life, my troth,
I will appeach the villain.  [Exit Servant.

Duch.        What’s the matter?

York.  Peace, foolish woman.   90

Duch.  I will not peace. What is the matter, Aumerle?

Aum.  Good mother, be content; it is no more
Than my poor life must answer.

Duch.        Thy life answer!

York.  Bring me my boots: I will unto the king.   95

Re-enter Servant with boots.

Duch.  Strike him, Aumerle. Poor boy, thou art amaz’d.
[To Servant.]  Hence, villain! never more come in my sight.  [Exit Servant.

York.  Give me my boots, I say.

Duch.  Why, York, what wilt thou do?   100
Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own?
Have we more sons, or are we like to have?
Is not my teeming date drunk up with time?
And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age,
And rob me of a happy mother’s name?   105
Is he not like thee? is he not thine own?

York.  Thou fond, mad woman,
Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy?
A dozen of them here have ta’en the sacrament,
And interchangeably set down their hands,   110
To kill the king at Oxford.

Duch.        He shall be none;
We’ll keep him here: then, what is that to him?

York.  Away, fond woman! were he twenty times
My son, I would appeach him.   115

Duch.        Hadst thou groan’d for him
As I have done, thou’dst be more pitiful.
But now I know thy mind: thou dost suspect
That I have been disloyal to thy bed,
And that he is a bastard, not thy son:   120
Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind:
He is as like thee as a man may be,
Not like to me, nor any of my kin,
And yet I love him.

York.        Make way, unruly woman!  [Exit.   125

Duch.  After, Aumerle! Mount thee upon his horse;
Spur post, and get before him to the king,
And beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee.
I’ll not be long behind; though I be old,
I doubt not but to ride as fast as York:   130
And never will I rise up from the ground
Till Bolingbroke have pardon’d thee. Away! be gone.  [Exeunt.

Act V. Scene III.

Windsor.  A Room in the Castle.

Enter BOLINGBROKE as King; HENRY PERCY, and other Lords.

Boling.  Can no man tell of my unthrifty son?
’Tis full three months since I did see him last.
If any plague hang over us, ’tis he.   5
I would to God, my lords, he might be found:
Inquire at London, ‘mongst the taverns there,
For there, they say, he daily doth frequent,
With unrestrained loose companions,
Even such, they say, as stand in narrow lanes   10
And beat our watch and rob our passengers;
While he, young wanton and effeminate boy,
Takes on the point of honour to support
So dissolute a crew.

H. Percy.  My lord, some two days since I saw the prince,   15
And told him of these triumphs held at Oxford.

Boling.  And what said the gallant?

H. Percy.  His answer was: he would unto the stews,
And from the common’st creature pluck a glove,
And wear it as a favour; and with that   20
He would unhorse the lustiest challenger.

Boling.  As dissolute as desperate; yet, through both,
I see some sparkles of a better hope,
Which elder days may happily bring forth.
But who comes here?   25

Enter AUMERLE.

Aum.        Where is the king?

Boling.                What means
Our cousin, that he stares and looks so wildly?

Aum.  God save your Grace! I do beseech your majesty,   30
To have some conference with your Grace alone.

Boling  Withdraw yourselves, and leave us here alone.  [Exeunt H. PERCY and Lords.
What is the matter with our cousin now?

Aum.  [Kneels.]  For ever may my knees grow to the earth,
My tongue cleave to my roof within my mouth,   35
Unless a pardon ere I rise or speak.

Boling.  Intended or committed was this fault?
If on the first, how heinous e’er it be,
To win thy after-love I pardon thee.

Aum.  Then give me leave that I may turn the key,   40
That no man enter till my tale be done.

Boling.  Have thy desire.  [AUMERLE locks the door.

York.  [Within.]  My liege, beware! look to thyself;
Thou hast a traitor in thy presence there.

Boling.  [Drawing.]  Villain, I’ll make thee safe.   45

Aum.  Stay thy revengeful hand; thou hast no cause to fear.

York.  [Within.]  Open the door, secure, foolhardy king:
Shall I for love speak treason to thy face?
Open the door, or I will break it open.  [BOLINGBROKE unlocks the door; and afterwards relocks it.

Enter YORK.   50

Boling.  What is the matter, uncle? speak;
Recover breath; tell us how near is danger,
That we may arm us to encounter it.

York.  Peruse this writing here, and thou shalt know
The treason that my haste forbids me show.   55

Aum.  Remember, as thou read’st, thy promise pass’d:
I do repent me; read not my name there;
My heart is not confederate with my hand.

York.  ’Twas, villain, ere thy hand did set it down.
I tore it from the traitor’s bosom, king;   60
Fear, and not love, begets his penitence.
Forget to pity him, lest thy pity prove
A serpent that will sting thee to the heart.

Boling.  O heinous, strong, and bold conspiracy!
O loyal father of a treacherous son!   65
Thou sheer, immaculate, and silver fountain,
From whence this stream through muddy passages
Hath held his current and defil’d himself!
Thy overflow of good converts to bad,
And thy abundant goodness shall excuse   70
This deadly blot in thy digressing son.

York.  So shall my virtue be his vice’s bawd,
And he shall spend mine honour with his shame,
As thriftless sons their scraping fathers’ gold.
Mine honour lives when his dishonour dies,   75
Or my sham’d life in his dishonour lies:
Thou kill’st me in his life; giving him breath,
The traitor lives, the true man’s put to death.

Duch.  [Within.]  What ho, my liege! for God’s sake let me in.

Boling.  What shrill-voic’d suppliant makes this cager cry?   80

Duch.  [Within.]  A woman, and thine aunt, great king; ’tis I.
Speak with me, pity me, open the door:
A beggar begs, that never begg’d before.

Boling.  Our scene is alter’d from a serious thing,
And now chang’d to ‘The Beggar and the King.’   85
My dangerous cousin, let your mother in:
I know she’s come to pray for your foul sin.  [AUMERLE unlocks the door.

York.  If thou do pardon, whosoever pray,
More sins, for this forgiveness, prosper may.
This fester’d joint cut off, the rest rests sound;   90
This, let alone, will all the rest confound.

Enter DUCHESS.

Duch.  O king! believe not this hard-hearted man:
Love, loving not itself, none other can.

York.  Thou frantic woman, what dost thou make here?   95
Shall thy old dugs once more a traitor rear?

Duch.  Sweet York, be patient.  [Kneels.
Hear me, gentle liege.

Boling.  Rise up, good aunt.

Duch.        Not yet, I thee beseech.   100
For ever will I walk upon my knees,
And never see day that the happy sees,
Till thou give joy; until thou bid me joy,
By pardoning Rutland, my transgressing boy.

Aum.  Unto my mother’s prayers I bend my knee.  [Kneels.   105

York.  Against them both my true joints bended be.  [Kneels.
Ill mayst thou thrive if thou grant any grace!

Duch.  Pleads he in earnest? look upon his face;
His eyes do drop no tears, his prayers are in jest;
His words come from his mouth, ours from our breast:   110
He prays but faintly and would be denied;
We pray with heart and soul and all beside:
His weary joints would gladly rise, I know;
Our knees shall kneel till to the ground they grow:
His prayers are full of false hypocrisy;   115
Ours of true zeal and deep integrity.
Our prayers do out pray his; then let them have
That mercy which true prayer ought to have.

Boling.  Good aunt, stand up.

Duch.        Nay, do not say ‘stand up;’   120
But ‘pardon’ first, and afterwards ‘stand up.’
An if I were thy nurse, thy tongue to teach,
‘Pardon’ should be the first word of thy speech.
I never long’d to hear a word till now;
Say ‘pardon,’ king; let pity teach thee how:   125
The word is short, but not so short as sweet;
No word like ‘pardon,’ for kings’ mouths so meet.

York.  Speak it in French, king; say, ‘pardonnez moy.’

Duch.  Dost thou teach pardon pardon to destroy?
Ah! my sour husband, my hard-hearted lord,   130
That sett’st the word itself against the word.
Speak ‘pardon’ as ’tis current in our land;
The chopping French we do not understand.
Thine eye begins to speak, set thy tongue there,
Or in thy piteous heart plant thou thine ear,   135
That hearing how our plaints and prayers do pierce,
Pity may move thee pardon to rehearse.

Boling.  Good aunt, stand up.

Duch.        I do not sue to stand;
Pardon is all the suit I have in hand.   140

Boling.  I pardon him, as God shall pardon me.

Duch.  O happy vantage of a kneeling knee!
Yet am I sick for fear: speak it again;
Twice saying ‘pardon’ doth not pardon twain,
But makes one pardon strong.   145

Boling.        With all my heart
I pardon him.

Duch.        A god on earth thou art.

Boling.  But for our trusty brother-in-law and the abbot,
With all the rest of that consorted crew,   150
Destruction straight shall dog them at the heels.
Good uncle, help to order several powers
To Oxford, or where’er these traitors are:
They shall not live within this world, I swear,
But I will have them, if I once know where.   155
Uncle, farewell: and cousin too, adieu:
Your mother well hath pray’d, and prove you true.

Duch.  Come, my old son: I pray God make thee new.  [Exeunt.

Act V. Scene IV.

Another Room in the Castle.

Enter EXTON and a Servant.

Exton.  Didst thou not mark the king, what words he spake?
‘Have I no friend will rid me of this living fear?’
Was it not so?   5

Serv.        Those were his very words.

Exton.  ‘Have I no friend?’ quoth he: he spake it twice,
And urg’d it twice together, did he not?

Serv.  He did.

Exton.  And speaking it, he wistly looked on me,   10
As who should say, ‘I would thou wert the man
That would divorce this terror from my heart;’
Meaning the king at Pomfret. Come, let’s go:
I am the king’s friend, and will rid his foe.  [Exeunt.

Act V. Scene V.

Pomfret.  The Dungeon of the Castle.

Enter KING RICHARD.

K. Rich.  I have been studying how I may compare
This prison where I live unto the world:
And for because the world is populous,   5
And here is not a creature but myself,
I cannot do it; yet I’ll hammer it out.
My brain I’ll prove the female to my soul;
My soul the father: and these two beget
A generation of still-breeding thoughts,   10
And these same thoughts people this little world
In humours like the people of this world,
For no thought is contented. The better sort,
As thoughts of things divine, are intermix’d
With scruples, and do set the word itself   15
Against the word:
As thus, ‘Come, little ones;’ and then again,
‘It is as hard to come as for a camel
To thread the postern of a needle’s eye.’
Thoughts tending to ambition, they do plot   20
Unlikely wonders; how these vain weak nails
May tear a passage through the flinty ribs
Of this hard world, my ragged prison walls;
And, for they cannot, die in their own pride.
Thoughts tending to content flatter themselves   25
That they are not the first of fortune’s slaves,
Nor shall not be the last; like silly beggars
Who sitting in the stocks refuge their shame,
That many have and others must sit there:
And in this thought they find a kind of ease,   30
Bearing their own misfortune on the back
Of such as have before endur’d the like.
Thus play I in one person many people,
And none contented: sometimes am I king;
Then treason makes me wish myself a beggar,   35
And so I am: then crushing penury
Persuades me I was better when a king;
Then am I king’d again; and by and by
Think that I am unking’d by Bolingbroke,
And straight am nothing: but whate’er I be,   40
Nor I nor any man that but man is
With nothing shall be pleas’d, till he be eas’d
With being nothing. Music do I hear?  [Music.
Ha, ha! keep time. How sour sweet music is
When time is broke and no proportion kept!   45
So is it in the music of men’s lives.
And here have I the daintiness of ear
To check time broke in a disorder’d string;
But for the concord of my state and time
Had not an ear to hear my true time broke.   50
I wasted time, and now doth time waste me;
For now hath time made me his numbering clock:
My thoughts are minutes, and with sighs they jar
Their watches on unto mine eyes, the outward watch,
Whereto my finger, like a dial’s point,   55
Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears.
Now sir, the sound that tells what hour it is
Are clamorous groans, that strike upon my heart
Which is the bell: so sighs and tears and groans
Show minutes, times, and hours; but my time   60
Runs posting on in Bolingbroke’s proud joy,
While I stand fooling here, his Jack o’ the clock.
This music mads me: let it sound no more;
For though it have holp madmen to their wits,
In me it seems it will make wise men mad.   65
Yet blessing on his heart that gives it me!
For ’tis a sign of love, and love to Richard
Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world.

Enter Groom of the Stable.

Groom.  Hail, royal prince!   70

K. Rich.        Thanks, noble peer;
The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear.
What art thou? and how comest thou hither, man,
Where no man never comes but that sad dog
That brings me food to make misfortune live?   75

Groom.  I was a poor groom of thy stable, king,
When thou wert king; who, travelling towards York,
With much ado at length have gotten leave
To look upon my sometimes royal master’s face.
O! how it yearn’d my heart when I beheld   80
In London streets, that coronation day
When Bolingbroke rode on roan Barbary,
That horse that thou so often hast bestrid,
That horse that I so carefully have dress’d.

K. Rich.  Rode he on Barbary? Tell me, gentle friend,   85
How went he under him?

Groom.  So proudly as if he disdain’d the ground.

K. Rich.  So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back!
That jade hath eat bread from my royal hand;
This hand hath made him proud with clapping him.   90
Would he not stumble? Would he not fall down, —
Since pride must have a fall, — and break the neck
Of that proud man that did usurp his back?
Forgiveness, horse! why do I rail on thee,
Since thou, created to be aw’d by man,   95
Wast born to bear? I was not made a horse;
And yet I bear a burden like an ass,
Spur-gall’d and tir’d by jauncing Bolingbroke.

Enter Keeper, with a dish.

Keep.  [To the Groom.]  Fellow, give place; here is no longer stay.   100

K. Rich.  If thou love me, ’tis time thou wert away.

Groom.  What my tongue dares not, that my heart shall say.  [Exit.

Keep.  My lord, will ‘t please you to fall to?

K. Rich.  Taste of it first, as thou art wont to do.

Keep.  My lord, I dare not: Sir Pierce of Exton, who lately came from the king, commands the contrary.   105

K. Rich.  The devil take Henry of Lancaster, and thee!
Patience is stale, and I am weary of it.  [Strikes the Keeper.

Keep.  Help, help, help!

Enter EXTON and Servants, armed.

K. Rich.  How now! what means death in this rude assault?   110
Villain, thine own hand yields thy death’s instrument.  [Snatching a weapon and killing one.
Go thou and fill another room in hell.  [He kills another: then EXTON strikes him down.
That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire
That staggers thus my person. Exton, thy fierce hand
Hath with the king’s blood stain’d the king’s own land.   115
Mount, mount, my soul! thy seat is up on high,
Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to die.  [Dies.

Exton.  As full of valour as of royal blood:
Both have I spilt; O! would the deed were good;
For now the devil, that told me I did well,   120
Says that this deed is chronicled in hell.
This dead king to the living king I’ll bear.
Take hence the rest and give them burial here.  [Exeunt.

Act V. Scene VI.

Windsor.  An Apartment in the Castle.

Flourish.  Enter BOLINGBROKE and YORK, with Lords and Attendants.

Boling.  Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear
Is that the rebels have consum’d with fire
Our town of Cicester in Gloucestershire;   5
But whether they be ta’en or slain we hear not.

Enter NORTHUMBERLAND.
Welcome, my lord. What is the news?

North.  First, to thy sacred state wish I all happiness.
The next news is: I have to London sent   10
The heads of Salisbury, Spencer, Blunt, and Kent.
The manner of their taking may appear
At large discoursed in this paper here.

Boling.  We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains,
And to thy worth will add right worthy gains.   15

Enter FITZWATER.

Fitz.  My lord, I have from Oxford sent to London
The heads of Brocas and Sir Bennet Seely,
Two of the dangerous consorted traitors
That sought at Oxford thy dire overthrow.   20

Boling.  Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot;
Right noble is thy merit, well I wot.

Enter HENRY PERCY, with the BISHOP OF CARLISLE.

H. Percy.  The grand conspirator, Abbot of Westminster,
With clog of conscience and sour melancholy,   25
Hath yielded up his body to the grave;
But here is Carlisle living, to abide
Thy kingly doom and sentence of his pride.

Boling.  Carlisle, this is your doom:
Choose out some secret place, some reverend room,   30
More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life;
So, as thou livest in peace, die free from strife:
For though mine enemy thou hast ever been,
High sparks of honour in thee have I seen.

Enter EXTON, with Attendants bearing a coffin.   35

Exton.  Great king, within this coffin I present
Thy buried fear: herein all breathless lies
The mightiest of thy greatest enemies,
Richard of Bordeaux, by me hither brought.

Boling.  Exton, I thank thee not; for thou hast wrought   40
A deed of slander with thy fatal hand
Upon my head and all this famous land.

Exton.  From your own mouth, my lord, did I this deed.

Boling.  They love not poison that do poison need,
Nor do I thee: though I did wish him dead,   45
I hate the murderer, love him murdered.
The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour,
But neither my good word nor princely favour:
With Cain go wander through the shade of night,
And never show thy head by day nor light.   50
Lords, I protest, my soul is full of woe,
That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow:
Come, mourn with me for that I do lament,
And put on sullen black incontinent.
I’ll make a voyage to the Holy Land,   55
To wash this blood off from my guilty hand.
March sadly after; grace my mournings here,
In weeping after this untimely bier.  [Exeunt.

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM

This famous comedy was written in approximately 1595 and concerns the mythical marriage of Theseus, Duke of Athens, and the Queen of the Amazons, Hippolyta. The comedy also features the adventures of four young Athenian lovers and a group of amateur actors, who are manipulated by the fairies inhabiting the forest in which most of the play is set.

‘The Quarrel of Oberon and Titania’ by Joseph Noel Paton

CONTENTS

Dramatis Personæ

Act I. Scene I.

Act I. Scene II.

Act II. Scene I.

Act II. Scene II.

Act III. Scene I.

Act III. Scene II.

Act IV. Scene I.

Act IV. Scene II.

Act V. Scene I.

Act V. Scene II.

The 1968 film adaptation by the Royal Shakespeare Company

The 1999 film adaptation

Dramatis Personæ

THESEUS, Duke of Athens.
EGEUS, Father to Hermia.
LYSANDER, DEMETRIUS, in love with Hermia.
PHILOSTRATE, Master of the Revels to Theseus.
QUINCE, a Carpenter.
SNUG, a Joiner.
BOTTOM, a Weaver.
FLUTE, a Bellows-mender.
SNOUT, a Tinker.
STARVELING, a Tailor.
HIPPOLYTA, Queen of the Amazons, betrothed to Theseus.
HERMIA, Daughter to Egeus, in love with Lysander.
HELENA, in love with Demetrius.
OBERON, King of the Fairies.
TITANIA, Queen of the Fairies.
PUCK, or Robin Goodfellow.
PEASE-BLOSSOM, COBWEB, MOTH, MUSTARD-SEED, Fairies.
Other Fairies attending their King and Queen.
Attendants on Theseus and Hippolyta.

SCENE. — Athens, and a Wood near it.

Act I. Scene I.

Athens.  The Palace of THESEUS.

Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, PHILOSTRATE, and Attendants.

The.  Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour
Draws on apace: four happy days bring in
Another moon; but O! methinks how slow   5
This old moon wanes; she lingers my desires,
Like to a step-dame, or a dowager
Long withering out a young man’s revenue.

Hip.  Four days will quickly steep themselves in night;
Four nights will quickly dream away the time;   10
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;   15
Awake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth;
Turn melancholy forth to funerals;
The pale companion is not for our pomp.  [Exit PHILOSTRATE.
Hippolyta, I woo’d thee with my sword,
And won thy love doing thee injuries;   20
But I will wed thee in another key,
With pomp, with triumph, and with revelling.

Enter EGEUS, HERMIA, LYSANDER, and DEMETRIUS.

Ege.  Happy be Theseus, our renowned duke!

The.  Thanks, good Egeus: what’s the news with thee?   25

Ege.  Full of vexation come I, with complaint
Against my child, my daughter Hermia.
Stand forth, Demetrius. My noble lord,
This man hath my consent to marry her.
Stand forth, Lysander: and, my gracious duke,   30
This man hath bewitch’d the bosom of my child:
Thou, thou, Lysander, thou hast given her rimes,
And interchang’d love-tokens with my child;
Thou hast by moonlight at her window sung,
With feigning voice, verses of feigning love;   35
And stol’n the impression of her fantasy
With bracelets of thy hair, rings, gawds, conceits,
Knacks, trifles, nosegays, sweetmeats, messengers,
Of strong prevailment in unharden’d youth;
With cunning hast thou filch’d my daughter’s heart;   40
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,   45
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.

The.  What say you, Hermia? be advis’d, fair maid.   50
To you, your father should be as a god;
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.   55
Demetrius is a worthy gentleman.

Her.  So is Lysander.

The.        In himself he is;
But, in this kind, wanting your father’s voice,
The other must be held the worthier.   60

Her.  I would my father look’d but with my eyes.

The.  Rather your eyes must with his judgment look.

Her.  I do entreat your Grace to pardon me.
I know not by what power I am made bold,
Nor how it may concern my modesty   65
In such a presence here to plead my thoughts;
But I beseech your Grace, that I may know
The worst that may befall me in this case,
If I refuse to wed Demetrius.

The.  Either to die the death, or to abjure   70
For ever the society of men.
Therefore, fair Hermia, question your desires;
Know of your youth, examine well your blood,
Whe’r, if you yield not to your father’s choice,
You can endure the livery of a nun,   75
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;   80
But earthlier happy is the rose distill’d,
Than that which withering on the virgin 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   85
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, —   90
Upon that day either prepare to die
For disobedience to your father’s will,
Or else to wed Demetrius, as he would;
Or on Diana’s altar to protest
For aye austerity and single life.   95

Dem.  Relent, sweet Hermia; and, Lysander, yield
Thy crazed title to my certain right.

Lys.  You have her father’s love, Demetrius;
Let me have Hermia’s: do you marry him.

Ege.  Scornful Lysander! true, he hath my love,   100
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 is more than his;   105
My fortunes every way as fairly rank’d
If not with vantage, as Demetrius’;
And, which is more than all these boasts can be,
I am belov’d of beauteous Hermia.
Why should not I then prosecute my right?   110
Demetrius, I’ll avouch it to his head,
Made love to Nedar’s daughter, Helena,
And won her soul; and she, sweet lady, dotes,
Devoutly dotes, dotes in idolatry,
Upon this spotted and inconstant man.   115

The.  I must confess that I have heard so much,
And with Demetrius thought to have spoke thereof;
But, being over-full of self-affairs,
My mind did lose it. But, Demetrius, come;
And come, Egeus; you shall go with me,   120
I have some private schooling for you both,
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,   125
To death, or to a vow of single life.
Come, my Hippolyta: what cheer, my love?
Demetrius and Egeus, go along:
I must employ you in some business
Against our nuptial, and confer with you   130
Of something nearly that concerns yourselves.

Ege.  With duty and desire we follow you.  [Exeunt THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, EGEUS, DEMETRIUS, and Train.

Lys.  How now, my love! Why is your cheek so pale?
How chance the roses there do fade so fast?

Her.  Belike for want of rain, which I could well   135
Beteem them from the tempest of mine eyes.

Lys.  Ay me! for aught that ever I could read,
Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth;
But, either it was different in blood, —   140

Her.  O cross! too high to be enthrall’d to low.

Lys.  Or else misgraffed in respect of years, —

Her.  O spite! too old to be engag’d to young.

Lys.  Or else it stood upon the choice of friends, —

Her.  O hell! to choose love by another’s eye.   145

Lys.  Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,
War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it,
Making it momentany as a sound,
Swift as a shadow, short as any dream,
Brief as the lightning in the collied night,   150
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,   155
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.   160

Lys.  A good persuasion: therefore, hear me, Hermia.
I 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.   165
There, gentle Hermia, may I marry thee,
And to that place the sharp Athenian law
Cannot pursue us. If thou lov’st me then,
Steal forth thy father’s house to-morrow night,
And in the wood, a league without the town,   170
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,   175
By his best arrow with the golden head,
By the simplicity of Venus’ doves,
By that which knitteth souls and prospers loves,
And by that fire which burn’d the Carthage queen,
When the false Troyan under sail was seen,   180
By all the vows that ever men have broke, —
In number more than ever women spoke, —
In that same place thou hast appointed me,
To-morrow truly will I meet with thee.

Lys.  Keep promise, love. Look, here comes Helena.   185

Enter HELENA.

Her.  God speed fair Helena! Whither away?

Hel.  Call you me fair? that fair again unsay.
Demetrius loves your fair: O happy fair!
Your eyes are lode-stars! and your tongue’s sweet air   190
More tuneable than lark to shepherd’s ear,
When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear.
Sickness is catching: O! were favour so,
Yours would I catch, fair Hermia, ere I go;
My ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye,   195
My tongue should catch your tongue’s sweet melody.
Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated,
The rest I’d give to be to you translated.
O! teach me how you look, and with what art
You sway the motion of Demetrius’ heart.   200

Her.  I frown upon him, yet he loves me still.

Hel.  O! that your frowns would teach my smiles such skill.

Her.  I give him curses, yet he gives me love.

Hel.  O! that my prayers could such affection move.

Her.  The more I hate, the more he follows me.   205

Hel.  The more I love, the more he hateth me.

Her.  His folly, Helena, is no fault of mine.

Hel.  None, but your beauty: would that fault were mine!

Her.  Take comfort: he no more shall see my face;
Lysander and myself will fly this place.   210
Before the time I did Lysander see,
Seem’d Athens as a paradise to me:
O! then, what graces in my love do dwell,
That he hath turn’d a heaven unto a hell.

Lys.  Helen, to you our minds we will unfold.   215
To-morrow night, when Phœbe doth behold
Her silver visage in the wat’ry glass,
Decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass, —
A time that lovers’ flights doth still conceal, —
Through Athens’ gates have we devis’d to steal.   220

Her.  And in the wood, where often you and I
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,   225
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.   230

Lys.  I will, my Hermia. — [Exit HERMIA.]  Helena, adieu:
As you on him, Demetrius dote on you!  [Exit.

Hel.  How happy some o’er other some can be!
Through Athens I am thought as fair as she;
But what of that? Demetrius thinks not so;   235
He will not know what all but he do know;
And as he errs, doting on Hermia’s eyes,
So I, admiring of his qualities.
Things base and vile, holding no quantity,
Love can transpose to form and dignity.   240
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 unheedy haste:
And therefore is Love said to be a child,   245
Because in choice he is so oft beguil’d.
As waggish boys in game themselves forswear,
So the boy Love is perjur’d every where;
For ere Demetrius look’d on Hermia’s eyne,
He hail’d down oaths that he was only mine;   250
And when this hail some heat from Hermia felt,
So he dissolv’d, and showers of oaths 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   255
If I have thanks, it is a dear expense:
But herein mean I to enrich my pain,
To have his sight thither and back again.  [Exit.

Act I. Scene II.

The Same.  A Room in QUINCE’S House.

Enter QUINCE, SNUG, BOTTOM, FLUTE, SNOUT, and STARVELING.

Quin.  Is all our 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.   5

Bot.  First, good Peter Quince, say what the play treats on; then read the names of the actors, and so grow to a point.

Quin.  Marry, our play is, The most lamentable comedy, and most cruel death of Pyramus and Thisby.

Bot.  A very good piece of work, I assure you, and a merry. Now, good Peter Quince, call forth your actors by the scroll. Masters, spread yourselves.

Quin.  Answer as I call you. Nick Bottom, the weaver.

Bot.  Ready. Name what part I am for, and proceed.   10

Quin.  You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Pyramus.

Bot.  What is Pyramus? a lover, or a tyrant?

Quin.  A lover, that kills himself most gallantly for love.

Bot.  That will ask some tears in the true performing of it: if I do it, let the audience look to their eyes; I will move storms, I will condole in some measure. To the rest: yet my chief humour is for a tyrant. I could play Ercles rarely, 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 tyrant’s vein; a lover is more condoling.

Quin.  Francis Flute, the bellows-mender.   15

Flu.  Here, Peter Quince.

Quin.  You must take Thisby on you.

Flu.  What is Thisby? a wandering knight?

Quin.  It is the lady that Pyramus must love.

Flu.  Nay, faith, let not me play a woman; I have a beard coming.   20

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’ll 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.   25

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.   30

Quin.  You may do it extempore, for it is nothing 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 fright the duchess and the ladies, that they would shriek; and that were enough to hang us all.

All.  That would hang us, every mother’s son.

Bot.  I grant you, friends, if that you should fright the ladies out of their wits, they would have no more discretion but to hang us; but I will aggravate my voice so that I will roar you as gently as any sucking dove; I will roar you as ‘twere any nightingale.   35

Quin.  You can play no part but Pyramus; for Pyramus is a sweet-faced man; a proper man, as one shall see in a summer’s day; a most lovely, gentleman-like 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.

Bot.  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 play bare-faced. But masters, here are your parts; and I am to entreat you, request you, and desire you, to con them by to-morrow night, and meet me in the palace wood, a mile without the town, by moon-light: there will we rehearse; for if we meet in the city, we shall be dogged with company, and our devices known. In the meantime I will draw a bill of properties, such as our play wants. I pray you, fail me not.   40

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.  [Exeunt.

Act II. Scene I.

A Wood near Athens.

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,   5
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander every where,
Swifter than the moone’s sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen,   10
To dew her orbs upon the green:
The cowslips tall her pensioners be;
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In their freckles live their savours:   15
I must go seek some dew-drops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.
Farewell, thou lob of spirits: I’ll be gone;
Our queen and all her elves come here anon.

Puck.  The king doth keep his revels here to-night.   20
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;   25
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 her joy.
And now they never meet in grove, or green,   30
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   35
Call’d Robin Goodfellow: are you not he
That frights the maidens of the villagery;
Skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern,
And bootless make the breathless housewife churn;
And sometime make the drink to bear no barm;   40
Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm?
Those that Hobgoblin call you and sweet Puck,
You do their work, and they shall have good luck:
Are you not he?

Puck.        Fairy, thou speak’st aright;   45
I am that merry wanderer of the night.
I jest to Oberon, and make him smile
When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile,
Neighing in likeness of a filly foal:
And sometime lurk I in a gossip’s bowl,   50
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;   55
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 loff;
And waxen in their mirth, and neeze, and swear
A merrier hour was never wasted there.   60
But, room, fairy! here comes Oberon.

Fai.  And here my mistress. Would that he were gone!

Enter OBERON from one side, with his Train; and TITANIA from the other, with hers.

Obe.  Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.

Tita.  What! jealous Oberon. Fairies, skip hence:   65
I have forsworn his bed and company.

Obe.  Tarry, rash wanton! am not I thy lord?

Tita.  Then, I must be thy lady; but I know
When thou hast stol’n away from fairy land,
And in the shape of Corin sat all day,   70
Playing on pipes of corn, and versing love
To amorous Phillida. Why art thou here,
Come from the furthest steppe of India?
But that, forsooth, the bouncing Amazon,
Your buskin’d mistress and your warrior love,   75
To Theseus must be wedded, and you come
To give their bed joy and prosperity.

Obe.  How canst thou thus for shame, Titania,
Glance at my credit with Hippolyta,
Knowing I know thy love to Theseus?   80
Didst thou not lead him through the glimmering night
From Perigouna, whom he ravished?
And make him with fair Ægle break his faith,
With Ariadne, and Antiopa?

Tita.  These are the forgeries of jealousy:   85
And never, since the middle summer’s spring,
Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead,
By paved fountain, or by rushy brook,
Or in the beached margent of the sea,
To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind,   90
But with thy brawls thou hast disturb’d our sport.
Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain,
As in revenge, have suck’d up from the sea
Contagious fogs; which, falling in the land,
Have every pelting river made so proud   95
That they have overborne their continents;
The ox hath therefore stretch’d his yoke in vain,
The ploughman lost his sweat, and the green corn
Hath rotted ere his youth attain’d a beard:
The fold stands empty in the drowned field,   100
And crows are fatted with the murrion flock;
The nine men’s morris is fill’d up with mud,
And the quaint mazes in the wanton green
For lack of tread are undistinguishable:
The human mortals want their winter here:   105
No night is now with hymn or carol blest:
Therefore the moon, the governess of floods,
Pale in her anger, washes all the air,
That rheumatic diseases do abound:
And thorough this distemperature we see   110
The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts
Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose,
And on old Hiems’ thin and icy crown
An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds
Is, as in mockery, set. The spring, the summer,   115
The childing autumn, angry winter, change
Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world,
By their increase, now knows not which is which.
And this same progeny of evil comes
From our debate, from our dissension:   120
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.   125

Tita.        Set your heart at rest;
The fairy land buys not the child of me.
His mother was a votaress of my order:
And, in the spiced Indian air, by night,
Full often hath she gossip’d by my side,   130
And sat with me on Neptune’s yellow sands,
Marking the embarked traders on the flood;
When we have laugh’d to see the sails conceive
And grow big-bellied with the wanton wind;
Which she, with pretty and with swimming gait   135
Following, — her womb then rich with my young squire, —
Would imitate, and sail upon the land,
To fetch me trifles, and return again,
As from a voyage, rich with merchandise.
But she, being mortal, of that boy did die;   140
And for her sake I do rear up her boy,
And for her sake I will not part with him.

Obe.  How long within this wood intend you stay?

Tita.  Perchance, till after Theseus’ wedding-day.
If you will patiently dance in our round,   145
And see our moonlight revele, go with us;
If not, shun me, and I will spare your haunts.

Obe.  Give me that boy, and I will go with thee.

Tita.  Not for thy fairy kingdom. Fairies, away!
We shall chide downright, if I longer stay.  [Exit TITANIA with her Train.   150

Obe.  Well, go thy way: thou shalt not from this grove
Till I torment thee for this injury.
My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou remember’st
Since once I sat upon a promontory,
And heard a mermaid on a dolphin’s back   155
Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath,
That the rude sea grew civil at her song,
And certain stars shot madly from their spheres
To hear the sea-maid’s music.

Puck.        I remember.   160

Obe.  That very time I saw, but thou couldst not,
Flying between the cold moon and the earth,
Cupid all arm’d: a certain aim he took
At a fair vestal throned by the west,
And loos’d his love-shaft smartly from his bow,   165
As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts;
But I might see young Cupid’s fiery shaft
Quench’d in the chaste beams of the wat’ry moon,
And the imperial votaress passed on,
In maiden meditation, fancy-free.   170
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:   175
The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid
Will make or man or woman madly dote
Upon the next live creature that it sees.
Fetch me this herb; and be thou here again
Ere the leviathan can swim a league.   180

Puck.  I’ll put a girdle round about the earth
In forty minutes.  [Exit.

Obe.        Having once this juice
I’ll watch Titania when she is asleep,
And drop the liquor of it in her eyes:   185
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,   190
As I can take it with another herb,
I’ll make her render up her page to me.
But who comes here? I am invisible,
And I will overhear their conference.

Enter DEMETRIUS, HELENA following him.   195

Dem.  I love thee not, therefore pursue me not.
Where is Lysander and fair Hermia?
The one I’ll slay, the other slayeth me.
Thou told’st me they were stol’n into this wood;
And here am I, and wood within this wood,   200
Because I cannot meet my Hermia.
Hence! get thee gone, and follow me no more.

Hel.  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,   205
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 cannot love you?

Hel.  And even for that do I love you the more.   210
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.   215
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 you.   220

Hel.  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   225
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;   230
Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company,
For you in my respect are all the world:
Then how can it be said I am alone,
When all the world is here to look on me?

Dem.  I’ll run from thee and hide me in the brakes,   235
And leave thee to the mercy of wild beasts.

Hel.  The wildest hath not such a heart as you.
Run when you will, the story shall be chang’d;
Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase;
The dove pursues the griffin; the mild hind   240
Makes speed to catch the tiger: bootless speed,
When cowardice pursues and valour flies.

Dem.  I will not stay thy questions: let me go;
Or, if thou follow me, do not believe
But I shall do thee mischief in the wood.   245

Hel.  Ay, in the temple, in the town, the field,
You do me mischief. Fie, Demetrius!
Your wrongs do set a scandal on my sex.
We cannot fight for love, as men may do;
We should be woo’d and were not made to woo.  [Exit DEMETRIUS.   250
I’ll follow thee and make a heaven of hell,
To die upon the hand I love so well.  [Exit.

Obe.  Fare thee well, nymph: ere he do leave this grove,
Thou shalt fly him, and he shall seek thy love.

Re-enter PUCK.   255
Hast thou the flower there? Welcome, wanderer.

Puck.  Ay, there it is.

Obe.        I pray thee, give it me.
I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows   260
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 enamell’d skin,   265
Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in:
And with the juice of this I’ll streak her eyes,
And make her full of hateful fantasies.
Take thou some of it, and seek through this grove:
A sweet Athenian lady is in love   270
With a disdainful youth: anoint his eyes;
But do it when the next thing he espies
May be the lady. Thou shalt know the man
By the Athenian garments he hath on.
Effect it with some care, that he may prove   275
More fond on her than she upon her love.
And look thou meet me ere the first cock crow.

Puck.  Fear not, my lord, your servant shall do so.  [Exeunt.

Act II. Scene II.

Another Part of the Wood.

Enter TITANIA, with her Train.

Tita.  Come, now a roundel and a fairy song;
Then, for the third of a minute, hence;
Some to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds,   5
Some war with rere-mice for their leathern wings,
To make my small elves coats, and some keep back
The clamorous owl, that nightly hoots, and wonders
At our quaint spirits. Sing me now asleep;
Then to your offices, and let me rest.   10

The Fairies sing.
I.
You spotted snakes with double tongue,
Thorny hedge-hogs, be not seen;
Newts, and blind-worms, do no wrong;
Come not near our fairy queen.

Philomel, with melody,
Sing in our sweet lullaby;
Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby:
Never harm,
Nor spell, nor charm,
Come our lovely lady nigh;
So, good night, with lullaby.

II.
Weaving spiders come not here;
Hence, you long-legg’d spinners, hence!
Beetles black, approach not near;
Worm nor snail, do no offence.

Philomel, with melody, &c.

Fai.  Hence, away! now all is well.
One aloof stand sentinel.  [Exeunt Fairies. TITANIA sleeps.   15

Enter OBERON, and squeezes the flower on TITANIA’S eyelids.

Obe.  What thou seest when thou dost wake,
Do it for thy true-love take;
Love and languish for his sake:
Be it ounce, or cat, or bear,   20
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 LYSANDER and HERMIA.   25

Lys.  Fair love, you faint with wandering in the wood;
And to speak troth, I have forgot our way:
We’ll rest us, Hermia, if you think it good,
And tarry for the comfort of the day.

Her.  Be it so, Lysander: find you out a bed,   30
For I upon this bank will rest my head.

Lys.  One turf shall serve as pillow for us both;
One heart, one bed, two bosoms, and one troth.

Her.  Nay, good Lysander; for my sake, my dear,
Lie further off yet, do not lie so near.   35

Lys.  O! take the sense, sweet, of my innocence,
Love takes the meaning in love’s conference.
I mean that my heart unto yours is knit,
So that but one heart we can make of it;
Two bosoms interchained with an oath;   40
So then two bosoms and a single troth.
Then by your side no bed-room me deny,
For, lying so, Hermia. I do not lie.

Her.  Lysander riddles very prettily:
Now much beshrew my manners and my pride,   45
If Hermia meant to say Lysander lied.
But, gentle friend, for love and courtesy
Lie further off; in human modesty,
Such separation as may well be said
Becomes a virtuous bachelor and a maid,   50
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!  [Retires a little distance,
Here is my bed: sleep give thee all his rest!   55

Her.  With half that wish the wisher’s eyes be press’d!  [They sleep.

Enter PUCK.

Puck.  Through the forest have I gone,
But Athenian found I none,
On whose eyes I might approve   60
This flower’s force in stirring love.
Night and silence! who is here?
Weeds of Athens he doth wear:
This is he, my master said,
Despised the Athenian maid;   65
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.  [Squeezes the flower on LYSANDER’S eyelids.]
Churl, upon thy eyes I throw   70
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.   75

Enter DEMETRIUS and HELENA, running.

Hel.  Stay, though thou kill me, sweet Demetrius.

Dem.  I charge thee, hence, and do not haunt me thus.

Hel.  O! wilt thou darkling leave me? do not so.

Dem.  Stay, on thy peril: I alone will go.  [Exit DEMETRIUS.   80

Hel.  O! I am out of breath in this fond chase.
The more my prayer, the lesser is my grace.
Happy is Hermia, wheresoe’er she lies;
For she hath blessed and attractive eyes.
How came her eyes so bright? Not with salt tears:   85
If so, my eyes are oftener 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.   90
What wicked and dissembling glass of mine
Made me compare with Hermia’s sphery eyne?
But who is here? Lysander! on the ground!
Dead? or asleep? I see no blood, no wound.
Lysander, if you live, good sir, awake.   95

Lys.  [Awaking.]  And run through fire I will for thy sweet sake.
Transparent Helena! Nature shows art,
That through thy bosom makes me see thy heart.
Where is Demetrius? O! how fit a word
Is that vile name to perish on my sword.   100

Hel.  Do not say so, Lysander; say not so.
What though he love your Hermia? Lord! 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.   105
Not Hermia, but Helena I love:
Who 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 growing are not ripe until their season;   110
So I, being young, till now ripe not to reason;
And touching now the point of human skill,
Reason becomes the marshal to my will,
And leads me to your eyes; where I o’erlook
Love’s stories written in love’s richest book.   115

Hel.  Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born?
When 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 from Demetrius’ eye,   120
But you must flout my insufficiency?
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 true gentleness.   125
O! that a lady of one man refus’d,
Should of another therefore be abus’d.  [Exit.

Lys.  She sees not Hermia. Hermia, sleep thou there;
And never mayst thou come Lysander near.
For, as a surfeit of the sweetest things   130
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!   135
And, all my powers, address your love and might
To honour Helen, and to be her knight.  [Exit.

Her.  [Awaking.]  Help me, Lysander, help me! do thy best
To pluck this crawling serpent from my breast.
Ay me, for pity! what a dream was here!   140
Lysander, look how I do quake with fear:
Methought a serpent eat 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?   145
Alack! where are you? speak, an if you hear;
Speak, of all loves! I swound almost with fear.
No! then I well perceive you are not nigh:
Either death or you I’ll find immediately.  [Exit.

Act III. Scene I.

A Wood.  TITANIA lying asleep.

Enter QUINCE, SNUG, BOTTOM, FLUTE, SNOUT, and STARVELING.

Bot.  Are we all met?

Quin.  Pat, pat; and here’s a marvellous convenient 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, —   5

Quin.  What sayst thou, bully Bottom?

Bot.  There are things in this comedy of Pyramus and Thisby that will never please. First Pyramus must draw a sword to kill himself, which the ladies cannot abide. How answer you that?

Snout.  By ‘r lakin, 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 seem to say, we will do no harm with our swords, and that Pyramus is not killed indeed; and, for the more better assurance, tell them that I, Pyramus, am not Pyramus, but Bottom the weaver: this will put them out of fear.   10

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 eight and eight.

Snout.  Will not the ladies be afeard of the lion?

Star.  I fear it, I promise you.

Bot.  Masters, you ought to consider with yourselves: to bring in, — God shield us! — a lion among ladies, is a most dreadful thing; for there is not a more fearful wild-fowl than your lion living, and we ought to look to it.   15

Snout.  Therefore, another prologue must tell he is not a lion.

Bot.  Nay, you must name his name, and half his face must be seen through the lion’s neck; and he himself must speak through, saying 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;’ and there indeed let him name his name, and tell them plainly he is Snug the joiner.

Quin.  Well, it shall be so. But there is two hard things, that is, to bring the moonlight into a chamber; for, you know, Pyramus and Thisby meet by moonlight.

Snug.  Doth the moon shine that night we play our play?

Bot.  A calendar, a calendar! look in the almanack; find out moonshine, find out moonshine.   20

Quin.  Yes, it doth shine that night.

Bot.  Why, then may you leave a casement of the great chamber-window, where we play, open; and the moon may shine in at the casement.

Quin.  Ay; or else one must come in with a bush of thorns and a lanthorn, and say he comes to disfigure, or to present, the person of Moonshine. Then, there is another thing: we must have a wall in the great chamber; for Pyramus and Thisby, says the story, did talk through the chink of a wall.

Snug.  You can never bring in a wall. What say you, Bottom?

Bot.  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; and let him hold his fingers thus, and through that cranny shall Pyramus and Thisby whisper.   25

Quin.  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 home-spuns have we swaggering here,
So near the cradle of the fairy queen?
What! a play toward; I’ll be an auditor;   30
An actor too perhaps, if I see cause.

Quin.  Speak, Pyramus. — Thisby, stand forth.

Bot.  Thisby, the flowers have odious savours sweet, —

Quin.  Odorous, odorous.

Bot.  — odours savours sweet:   35

So hath thy breath, my dearest Thisby dear.
But hark, a voice! stay thou but here awhile,

And by and by I will to thee appear.  [Exit.

Puck.  A stranger Pyramus than e’er play’d here!  [Exit.

Flu.  Must I speak now?   40

Quin.  Ay, marry, must you; for you must understand, he goes but to see a noise that he heard, and is to come again.

Flu.  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,   45
I’ll meet thee, Pyramus, at Ninny’s tomb.

Quin.  ‘Ninus’ tomb,’ man. Why, you must not speak that yet; that you answer to Pyramus: you speak all your part at once, eues and all. Pyramus, enter: your cue is past; it is ‘never tire.’

Flu.  O! — As true as truest horse, that yet would never tire.

Re-enter PUCK, and BOTTOM with an ass’s head.

Bot.  If I were, fair Thisby, I were only thine.   50

Quin.  O monstrous! O strange! we are haunted.
Pray, masters! fly, masters! — Help!  [Exeunt Clowns.

Puck.  I’ll follow you, I’ll lead you about a round,
Through bog, through bush, through brake, through brier:
Sometime a horse I’ll be, sometime a hound,   55
A hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire;
And neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and burn,
Like horse, hound, hog, bear, fire, at every turn.  [Exit.

Bot.  Why do they run away? this is a knavery of them to make me afeard.

Re-enter SNOUT.   60

Snout.  O Bottom, thou art changed! what do I see on thee?

Bot.  What do you see? you see an ass-head of your own, do you?  [Exit SNOUT.

Re-enter QUINCE.

Quin.  Bless thee, Bottom! bless thee! thou art translated.  [Exit.

Bot.  I see their knavery: 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 afraid.
The ousel-cock, so black of hue,
With orange-tawny bill,
The throstle with his note so true,
The wren with little quill.   65

Tita.  [Awaking.]  What angel wakes me from my flowery bed?

Bot.
The finch, the sparrow, 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 he 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;   70
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 reason for that: and yet, to say the truth, 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 gleek upon occasion.

Tita.  Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful.

Bot.  Not so, neither; but if I had wit enough to get out of this wood, I have enough to serve mine own turn.   75

Tita.  Out of this wood do not desire to go:
Thou shalt remain here, whe’r 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;   80
I’ll 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.   85
Pease-blossom! Cobweb! Moth! and Mustard-seed!

Enter Four Fairies.

Peas.  Ready.

Cob.          And I.

Moth.            And I.   90

Mus.                And I.

All Four.                    Where shall we go?

Tita.  Be kind and courteous to this gentleman;
Hop in his walks, and gambol in his eyes;
Feed him with apricocks and dewberries,   95
With 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;   100
And pluck the wings from painted butterflies
To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes:
Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies.

Peas.  Hail, mortal!

Cob.  Hail!   105

Moth.  Hail!

Mus.  Hail!

Bot.  I cry your worships mercy, heartily: I beseech your worship’s name.

Cob.  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 gentleman?   110

Peas.  Pease-blossom.

Bot.  I pray you, commend me to Mistress Squash, your mother, and to Master Peascod, your father. Good Master Pease-blossom, I shall desire you of more acquaintance too. Your name, I beseech you, sir?

Mus.  Mustard-seed.

Bot.  Good Master Mustard-seed, I know your 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.

Tita.  Come, wait upon him; lead him to my bower.   115
The moon methinks, looks with a watery eye;
And when she weeps, weeps every little flower,
Lamenting some enforced chastity.
Tie up my love’s tongue, bring him silently.  [Exeunt.

Act III. Scene II.

Another Part of the Wood.

Enter OBERON.

Obe.  I wonder if Titania be awak’d;
Then, what it was that next came in her eye,
Which she must dote on in extremity.   5
Here comes my messenger.

Enter PUCK.
How now, mad spirit!
What night-rule now about this haunted grove?

Puck.  My mistress with a monster is in love.   10
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 stalls,
Were met together to rehearse a play   15
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;   20
An ass’s nowl I fixed on his head:
Anon his Thisbe must be answered,
And forth my mimick comes. When they him spy,
As wild geese that the creeping fowler eye,
Or russet-pated choughs, many in sort,   25
Rising and cawing at the gun’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.   30
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 things catch.
I led them on in this distracted fear,   35
And left sweet Pyramus translated there;
When in that moment, so it came to pass,
Titania wak’d and straightway lov’d an ass.

Obe.  This falls out better than I could devise.
But hast thou yet latch’d the Athenian’s eyes   40
With the love-juice, as I did bid thee do?

Puck.  I took him sleeping, — that is finish’d too, —
And the Athenian woman by his side;
That, when he wak’d, of force she must be ey’d.

Enter DEMETRIUS and HERMIA.   45

Obe.  Stand close: this is the same Athenian.

Puck.  This is the woman; but not this the man.

Dem.  O! 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,   50
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 knee deep,
And kill me too.
The sun was not so true unto the day   55
As he to me. Would he have stol’n away
From sleeping Hermia? I’ll 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 the Antipodes.   60
It cannot be but thou hast murder’d him;
So should a murderer look, so dead, so grim.

Dem.  So should the murder’d look, and so should I,
Piere’d through the heart with your stern cruelty;
Yet you, the murderer, look as bright, as clear,   65
As yonder Venus in her glimmering sphere.

Her.  What’s this to my Lysander? where is he?
Ah! good Demetrius, wilt thou give him me?

Dem.  I had rather give his carcass to my hounds.

Her.  Out, dog! out, cur! thou driv’st me past the bounds   70
Of maiden’s patience. Hast thou slain him then?
Henceforth be never number’d among men!
O! once tell true, tell true, e’en for my sake;
Durst thou have look’d upon him being awake,
And hast thou kill’d him sleeping? O brave touch!   75
Could not a worm, an adder, do so much?
An adder did it; for with doubler tongue
Than thine, thou serpent, never adder stung.

Dem.  You spend your passion on a mispris’d mood:
I am not guilty of Lysander’s blood,   80
Nor is he dead, for aught that I can tell.

Her.  I pray thee, tell me then that he is well.

Dem.  An if I could, what should I get therefore?

Her.  A privilege never to see me more.
And from thy hated presence part I so;   85
See me no more, whe’r he be dead or no.  [Exit.

Dem.  There is no following her in this fierce vein:
Here therefore for a while I will remain.
So sorrow’s heaviness doth heavier grow
For debt that bankrupt sleep doth sorrow owe;   90
Which now in some slight measure it will pay,
If for his tender here I make some stay.  [Lies down and sleeps.

Obe.  What hast thou done? thou hast mistaken quite,
And laid the love-juice on some true-love’s sight:
Of thy misprision must perforce ensue   95
Some true-love turn’d, and not a false turn’d true.

Puck.  Then fate o’er-rules, that, one man holding troth,
A million fail, confounding oath on oath.

Obe.  About the wood go swifter than the wind,
And Helena of Athens look thou find:   100
All fancy-sick she is, and pale of cheer
With sighs of love, that cost the fresh blood dear.
By some illusion see thou bring her here:
I’ll charm his eyes against she do appear.

Puck.  I go, I go; look how I go;   105
Swifter than arrow from the Tartar’s bow.  [Exit.

Obe.  Flower of this purple dye,
Hit with Cupid’s archery,
Sink in apple of his eye.
When his love he doth espy,   110
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.   115

Puck.  Captain of our fairy band,
Helena is here at hand,
And the youth, mistook by me,
Pleading for a lover’s fee.
Shall we their fond pageant see?   120
Lord, what fools these mortals be!

Obe.  Stand aside: the noise they make
Will cause Demetrius to awake.

Puck.  Then will two at once woo one;
That must needs be sport alone;   125
And those things do best please me
That befall preposterously.

Enter LYSANDER and HELENA.

Lys.  Why should you think that I should woo in scorn?
Scorn and derision never come in tears:   130
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?

Hel.  You do advance your cunning more and more.   135
When truth kills truth, O devilish-holy fray!
These vows are Hermia’s: will you give her o’er?
Weigh oath with oath, and you will nothing weigh:
Your vows, to her and me, put in two scales,
Will even weigh, and both as light as tales.   140

Lys.  I had no judgment when to her I swore.

Hel.  Nor none, in my mind, now you give her o’er.

Lys.  Demetrius loves her, and he loves not you.

Dem.  [Awaking.]  O Helen! goddess, nymph, perfect, divine!
To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne?   145
Crystal is muddy. O! how ripe in show
Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow;
This pure congealed white, high Taurus’ snow,
Fann’d with the eastern wind, turns to a crow
When thou hold’st up thy hand. O! let me kiss   150
That princess of pure white, this seal of bliss.

Hel.  O spite! O hell! I see you all are bent
To set against me for your merriment:
If you were civil and knew courtesy,
You would not do me thus much injury.   155
Can you not hate me, 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,   160
When I am sure you hate me with your hearts.
You both are rivals, and love Hermia,
And now both rivals, to mock Helena:
A trim exploit, a manly enterprise,
To conjure tears up in a poor maid’s eyes   165
With your derision! none of noble sort
Would 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 Hermia; this you know I know:   170
And here, with all good will, with all my heart,
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 death.

Hel.  Never did mockers waste more idle breath.   175

Dem.  Lysander, keep thy Hermia; I will none:
If e’er I lov’d her, all that love is gone.
My heart with her but as guest-wise sojourn’d,
And now to Helen it is home return’d,
There to remain.   180

Lys.        Helen, it is not so.

Dem.  Disparage not the faith thou dost not know,
Lest to thy peril thou aby it dear.
Look! where thy love comes: yonder is thy dear.

Enter HERMIA.   185

Her.  Dark night, that from the eye his function takes,
The ear more quick of apprehension makes;
Wherein it doth impair the seeing sense,
It pays the hearing double recompense.
Thou art not by mine eye, Lysander, found;   190
Mine ear, I thank 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 Lysander from my side?

Lys.  Lysander’s love, that would not let him bide,   195
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 thee know,
The hate I bear thee made me leave thee so?

Her.  You speak not as you think: it cannot be.   200

Hel.  Lo! she is one of this confederacy.
Now I perceive they have conjoin’d all three
To fashion this false sport in spite of me.
Injurious Hermia! most ungrateful maid!
Have you conspir’d, have you with these contriv’d   205
To bait me with this foul derision?
Is all the counsel that we two have shar’d,
The sister-vows, the hours that we have spent,
When we have chid the hasty-footed time
For parting us, O! is it all forgot?   210
All school-days’ friendship, childhood innocence?
We, Hermia, like two artificial gods,
Have with our neelds created both one flower,
Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion,
Both warbling of one song, both in one key,   215
As if our hands, our sides, voices, and minds,
Had been incorporate. So we grew together,
Like to a double cherry, seeming parted,
But yet an union in partition;
Two lovely berries moulded on one stem;   220
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 rent our ancient love asunder,
To join with men in scorning your poor friend?   225
It is not friendly, ’tis 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.   230

Hel.  Have you not set Lysander, as in scorn,
To follow me and praise my eyes and face,
And made your other love, Demetrius, —
Who even but now did spurn me with his foot, —
To call me goddess, nymph, divine and rare,   235
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 your setting on, by your consent?   240
What though I be not so in grace as you,
So hung upon with love, so fortunate,
But miserable most to love unlov’d?
This you should pity rather than despise.

Her.  I understand not what you mean by this.   245

Hel.  Ay, do, persever, counterfeit sad looks,
Make mouths upon me when I turn my back;
Wink each at other; hold the sweet jest up:
This sport, well carried, shall be chronicled.
If you have any pity, grace, or manners,   250
You would not make me such an argument.
But, fare ye well: ’tis partly mine own fault,
Which death or absence soon shall remedy.

Lys.  Stay, gentle Helena! hear my excuse:
My love, my life, my soul, fair Helena!   255

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:
Thy threats have no more strength than her weak prayers.   260
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 thee not.

Dem.  I say I love thee more than he can do.

Lys.  If thou say so, withdraw, and prove it too.   265

Dem.  Quick, come!

Her.        Lysander, whereto tends all this?

Lys.  Away, you Ethiop!

Dem.        No, no, he’ll …
Seem to break loose; take on, as you would follow,   270
But yet come not: you are a tame man, go!

Lys.  [To HERMIA.]  Hang off, thou cat, thou burr! vile thing, let loose,
Or I will shake thee from me like a serpent.

Her.  Why are you grown so rude? what change is this,
Sweet love, —   275

Lys.        Thy love! out, tawny Tartar, out!
Out, loathed medicine! hated poison, hence!

Her.  Do you not jest?

Hel.        Yes, sooth; and so do you.

Lys.  Demetrius, I will keep my word with thee.   280

Dem.  I would I had your bond, for I perceive
A weak bond holds you: I’ll not trust your word.

Lys.  What! should I hurt her, strike her, kill her dead?
Although I hate her, I’ll not harm her so.

Her.  What! can you do me greater harm than hate?   285
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, — O, the gods forbid! —   290
In earnest, shall I say?

Lys.        Ay, by my life;
And never did desire to see thee more.
Therefore be out of hope, of question, doubt;
Be certain, nothing truer: ’tis no jest,   295
That I do hate thee and love Helena.

Her.  O me! you juggler! 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!   300
Have you no modesty, no maiden shame,
No touch of bashfulness? What! will you tear
Impatient answers from my gentle tongue?
Fie, fie! you counterfeit, you puppet you!

Her.  Puppet! why, so: ay, that way goes the game.   305
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,   310
Because I am so dwarfish and so low?
How low am I, thou painted maypole? speak;
How low am I? I am not yet so low
But that my nails can reach unto thine eyes.

Hel.  I pray you, though you mock me, gentlemen,   315
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 is something lower than myself,   320
That I can match her.

Her.        Lower! hark, again.

Hel.  Good Hermia, do not be so bitter with me.
I evermore did love you, Hermia,
Did ever keep your counsels, never wrong’d you;   325
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:   330
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:
You see how simple and how fond I am.

Her.  Why, get you gone. Who is ‘t that hinders you?   335

Hel.  A foolish heart, that I leave here behind.

Her.  What! with Lysander?

Hel.        With Demetrius.

Lys.  Be not afraid: she shall not harm thee, Helena.

Dem.  No, sir; she shall not, though you take her part.   340

Hel.  O! when she’s angry, she is keen and shrewd.
She was a vixen 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?   345
Let me come to her.

Lys.        Get you gone, you dwarf;
You minimus, of hindering knot-grass made;
You bead, you acorn!

Dem.        You are too officious   350
In her behalf that scorns your services.
Let her alone; speak not of Helena;
Take not her part, for, if thou dost intend
Never so little show of love to her,
Thou shalt aby it.   355

Lys.        Now she holds me not;
Now follow, if thou dar’st, to try whose right,
Or thine or mine, is most in Helena.

Dem.  Follow! nay, I’ll go with thee, cheek by jole.  [Exeunt LYSANDER and DEMETRIUS.

Her.  You, mistress, all this coil is ‘long of you:   360
Nay, go not back.

Hel.        I will not trust you, I,
Nor longer stay in your curst company.
Your hands than mine are quicker for a fray,
My legs are longer though, to run away.  [Exit.   365

Her.  I am amaz’d, and know not what to say.  [Exit.

Obe.  This is thy negligence: still thou mistak’st,
Or else commit’st thy knaveries wilfully.

Puck.  Believe me, king of shadows, I mistook.
Did not you tell me I should know the man   370
By the Athenian garments 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.   375

Obe.  Thou see’st these lovers seek a place to fight:
Hie therefore, Robin, overcast the night;
The starry welkin cover thou anon
With drooping fog as black as Acheron;
And lead these testy rivals so astray,   380
As one come not within another’s way.
Like to Lysander sometime frame thy tongue,
Then stir Demetrius up with bitter wrong;
And sometime rail thou like Demetrius;
And from each other look thou lead them thus,   385
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 error with his might,   390
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 never end.   395
Whiles I in this affair do thee employ,
I’ll to my queen and beg her Indian boy;
And then I will her charmed eye release
From monster’s view, and all things shall be peace.

Puck.  My fairy lord, this must be done with haste,   400
For night’s swift dragons cut the clouds full fast,
And yonder shines Aurora’s harbinger;
At whose approach, ghosts, wandering here and there,
Troop home to churchyards: damned spirits all,
That in cross-ways and floods have burial,   405
Already to their wormy beds are gone;
For fear lest day should look their shames upon,
They wilfully themselves exile from light,
And must for aye consort with black-brow’d night.

Obe.  But we are spirits of another sort.   410
I with the morning’s love have oft made sport;
And, like a forester, the groves may tread,
Even till the eastern gate, all fiery-red,
Opening on Neptune with fair blessed beams,
Turns into yellow gold his salt green streams.   415
But, notwithstanding, haste; make no delay:
We may effect this business yet ere day.  [Exit OBERON.

Puck.  Up and down, up and down;
I will lead them up and down:
I am fear’d in field and town;   420
Goblin, lead them up and down.
Here comes one.

Re-enter LYSANDER.

Lys.  Where art thou, proud Demetrius? speak thou now.

Puck.  Here, villain! drawn and ready. Where art thou?   425

Lys.  I will be with thee straight.

Puck.        Follow me, then,
To plainer ground.  [Exit LYSANDER as following the voice.

Re-enter DEMETRIUS.

Dem.        Lysander! speak again.   430
Thou runaway, thou coward, art thou fled?
Speak! In some bush? Where dost thou hide thy head?

Puck.  Thou coward! art thou bragging to the stars,
Telling the bushes that thou look’st for wars,
And wilt not come? Come, recreant; come, thou child;   435
I’ll whip thee with a rod: he is defil’d
That draws a sword on thee.

Dem.        Yea, art thou there?

Puck.  Follow my voice: we’ll try no manhood here.  [Exeunt.

Re-enter LYSANDER.   440

Lys.  He goes before me and still dares me on:
When I come where he calls, then he is gone.
The villain is much lighter-heel’d than I:
I follow’d fast, but faster he did fly;
That fallen am I in dark uneven way,   445
And here will rest me.  [Lies down.]  Come, thou gentle day!
For it but once thou show me thy grey light,
I’ll find Demetrius and revenge this spite.  [Sleeps.

Re-enter PUCK and DEMETRIUS.

Puck.  Ho! ho! ho! Coward, why com’st thou not?   450

Dem.  Abide me, if thou dar’st; for well I wot
Thou runn’st before me, shifting every place,
And dar’st not stand, nor look me in the face.
Where art thou now?

Puck.  Come hither: I am here.   455

Dem.  Nay then, thou mock’st me. Thou shalt buy this dear,
If ever I thy face by daylight see:
Now, go thy way. Faintness constraineth me
To measure out my length on this cold bed:
By day’s approach look to be visited.  [Lies down and sleeps.   460

Re-enter HELENA.

Hel.  O weary night! O long and tedious night,
Abate thy hours! shine, comforts, from the east!
That I may back to Athens by daylight,
From these that my poor company detest:   465
And sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow’s eye,
Steal me a while from mine own company.  [Lies down and sleeps.

Puck.  Yet but three? Come one more;
Two of both kinds make up four.
Here she comes, curst and sad:   470
Cupid is a knavish lad,
Thus to make poor females mad.

Re-enter HERMIA.

Her.  Never so weary, never so in woe,
Bedabbled with the dew and torn with briers,   475
I can no further crawl, no further go;
My legs can keep no pace with my desires.
Here will I rest me till the break of day.
Heavens shield Lysander, if they mean a fray!  [Lies down and sleeps.

Puck.  On the ground   480
Sleep sound:
I’ll apply
To your eye,
Gentle lover, remedy  [Squeezing the juice on LYSANDER’S eyes.
When thou wak’st,   485
Thou tak’st
True delight
In the sight
Of thy former lady’s eye:
And the country proverb known,   490
That every man should take his own,
In your waking shall be shown:
Jack shall have Jill;
Nought shall go ill;
The man shall have his mare again,   495
And all shall be well.  [Exit.

Act IV. Scene I.

A Wood.  LYSANDER, DEMETRIUS, HELENA and HERMIA lying asleep.

Enter TITANIA and BOTTOM, Fairies attending; OBERON behind unseen.

Tita.  Come, sit thee down upon this flowery bed,
While I thy amiable cheeks do coy,
And stick musk-roses in thy sleek smooth head,   5
And kiss thy fair large ears, my gentle joy.

Bot.  Where’s Pease-blossom?

Peas.  Ready.

Bot.  Scratch my head, Pease-blossom. Where’s Mounsieur Cobweb?

Cob.  Ready.   10

Bot.  Mounsieur Cobweb, good mounsieur, get your weapons in your hand, and kill me a redhipped humble-bee on the top of a thistle; and, good mounsieur, bring me the honey-bag. Do not fret yourself too much in the action, mounsieur; and, good mounsieur, have a care the honey-bag break not; I would be loath to have you overflown with a honey-bag, signior. Where’s Mounsieur Mustard-seed?

Must.  Ready.

Bot.  Give me your neaf, Mounsieur Mustard-seed. Pray you, leave your curtsy, good mounsieur.

Must.  What’s your will?

Bot.  Nothing, good mounsieur, but to help Cavalery Cobweb to scratch. I must to the barber’s, mounsieur, 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.   15

Tita.  What, wilt thou hear some music, my sweet love?

Bot.  I have a reasonable good ear in music: let us have the tongs and the bones.

Tita.  Or say, sweet love, what thou desir’st to eat.

Bot.  Truly, a peck of provender: I could munch your good dry oats. Methinks I have a great desire to a bottle of hay: good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow.

Tita.  I have a venturous fairy that shall seek   20
The squirrel’s hoard, and fetch thee thence new nuts.

Bot.  I had rather have a handful or two of dried pease. But, I pray you, let none of your people stir me: I have an exposition of sleep come upon me.

Tita.  Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms.
Fairies, be gone, and be all ways away.  [Exeunt Fairies.
So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle   25
Gently entwist; the female ivy so
Enrings the barky fingers of the elm.
O! how I love thee; how I dote on thee!  [They sleep.

Enter PUCK.

Obe.  [Advancing.]  Welcome, good Robin. See’st thou this sweet sight?   30
Her dotage now I do begin to pity:
For, meeting her of late behind the wood,
Seeking sweet favours for this hateful fool,
I did upbraid her and fall out with her;
For she his hairy temples then had rounded   35
With coronet of fresh and fragrant flowers;
And that same dew, which sometime on the buds
Was wont to swell like round and orient pearls,
Stood now within the pretty flowerets’ eyes
Like tears that did their own disgrace bewail.   40
When I had at my pleasure taunted her,
And she in mild terms begg’d my patience,
I then did ask of her her changeling child;
Which straight she gave me, and her fairy sent
To bear him to my bower in fairy land.   45
And now I have the boy, I will undo
This hateful imperfection of her eyes:
And, gentle Puck, take this transformed scalp
From off the head of this Athenian swain,
That he, awaking when the other do,   50
May all to Athens back again repair,
And think no more of this night’s accidents
But as the fierce vexation of a dream.
But first I will release the fairy queen.  [Touching her eyes with an herb.
Be as thou wast wont to be;   55
See as thou wast wont to see:
Dian’s bud o’er Cupid’s flower
Hath such force and blessed power.
Now, my Titania; wake you, my sweet queen.

Tita.  My Oberon! what visions have I seen!   60
Methought I was enamour’d of an ass.

Obe.  There lies your love.

Tita.        How came these things to pass?
O! how mine eyes do loathe his visage now.

Obe.  Silence, awhile. Robin, take off this head.   65
Titania, music call; and strike more dead
Than common sleep of all these five the sense.

Tita.  Music, ho! music! such as charmeth sleep.  [Music.

Puck.  When thou wak’st, with thine own fool’s eyes peep.

Obe.  Sound, music!  [Still, music.]  Come, my queen, take hands with me,   70
And rock the ground whereon these sleepers be.
Now thou and I are new in amity,
And will to-morrow midnight solemnly
Dance in Duke Theseus’ house triumphantly,
And bless it to all fair prosperity.   75
There shall the pairs of faithful lovers be
Wedded, with Theseus, all in jollity.

Puck.  Fairy king, attend, and mark:
I do hear the morning lark.

Obe.  Then, my queen, in silence sad,   80
Trip we after the night’s shade;
We the globe can compass soon,
Swifter than the wandering moon.

Tita.  Come, my lord; and in our flight
Tell me how it came this night   85
That I sleeping here was found
With these mortals on the ground.  [Exeunt.  Horns winded within.

Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, EGEUS, and Train.

The.  Go, one of you, find out the forester;
For now our observation is perform’d;   90
And since we have the vaward of the day,
My love shall hear the music of my hounds.
Uncouple in the western valley; let them go:
Dispatch, I say, and find the forester.
We will, fair queen, up to the mountain’s top,   95
And mark the musical confusion
Of hounds and echo in conjunction.

Hip.  I was with Hercules and Cadmus once,
When in a wood of Crete they bay’d the bear
With hounds of Sparta: never did I hear   100
Such gallant chiding; for, besides the groves,
The skies, the fountains, every region near
Seem’d all one mutual cry. I never heard
So musical a discord, such sweet thunder.

The.  My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind,   105
So flew’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 tuneable   110
Was never holla’d to, nor cheer’d with horn,
In Crete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly:
Judge, when you hear. But, soft! what nymphs are these?

Ege.  My lord, this is my daughter here asleep;
And this, Lysander; this Demetrius is;   115
This Helena, old Nedar’s Helena:
I wonder of their being here together.

The.  No doubt they rose up early to observe
The rite of May, and, hearing our intent,
Came here in grace of our solemnity.   120
But speak, Egeus, is not this the day
That Hermia should give answer of her choice?

Ege.  It is, my lord.

The.  Go, bid the huntsmen wake them with their horns.  [Horns and shout within.  LYSANDER, DEMETRIUS, HERMIA, and HELENA, wake and start up.
Good morrow, friends. Saint Valentine is past:   125
Begin these wood-birds but to couple now?

Lys.  Pardon, my lord.  [He and the rest kneel.

The.        I pray you all, stand up.
I know you two are rival enemies:
How comes this gentle concord in the world,   130
That hatred is so far from jealousy,
To sleep by hate, and fear no enmity?

Lys.  My lord, I shall reply amazedly,
Half sleep, half waking: but as yet, I swear,
I cannot truly say how I came here;   135
But, as I think, — for truly would I speak,
And now I do bethink me, so it is, —
I came with Hermia hither: our intent
Was to be gone from Athens, where we might,
Without the peril of the Athenian law —   140

Ege.  Enough, enough, my lord; you have enough:
I beg the law, the law, upon his head.
They would have stol’n away; they would, Demetrius,
Thereby to have defeated you and me;
You of your wife, and me of my consent,   145
Of my consent that she should be your wife.

Dem.  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.   150
But, my good lord, I wot not by what power, —
But by some power it is, — my love to Hermia,
Melted as doth the snow, seems to me now
As the remembrance of an idle gaud
Which in my childhood I did dote upon;   155
And all the faith, the virtue of my heart,
The object and the pleasure 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;   160
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.   165
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.   170
Away with us, to Athens: three and three,
We’ll hold a feast in great solemnity.
Come, Hippolyta.  [Exeunt THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, EGEUS, and Train.

Dem.  These things seem small and undistinguishable,
Like far-off mountains turned into clouds.   175

Her.  Methinks I see these things with parted eye,
When everything seems double.

Hel.        So methinks:
And I have found Demetrius, like a jewel,
Mine own, and not mine own.   180

Dem.        Are you sure
That we are awake? It seems to me
That yet we sleep, we dream. Do you not think
The duke was here, and bid us follow him?

Her.  Yea; and my father.   185

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.  [Exeunt.

Bot.  [Awaking.]  When my cue comes, call me, and I will answer: my next is, ‘Most fair Pyramus.’ Heigh-ho! Peter Quince! Flute, the bellows-mender! Snout, the tinker! Starveling! God’s my life! stolen 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 patched fool, if he will offer to say what methought I had. The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man’s hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor 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.

Act IV. Scene II.

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 marred: it goes not forward, doth it?   5

Quin.  It is not possible: you have not a man in all Athens able to discharge Pyramus but he.

Flu  No; he 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 is, God bless us! a thing of naught.

Enter SNUG.   10

Snug.  Masters, the duke is coming from the temple, and there is two or three lords and ladies more married: if our sport had gone forward, we had all been made men.

Flu.  O sweet bully Bottom! Thus hath 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’ll be hanged; he would have deserved it: sixpence a day in Pyramus, or nothing.

Enter BOTTOM.

Bot.  Where are these lads? where are these hearts?

Quin.  Bottom! O most courageous day! O most happy hour!   15

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, sweet Bottom.

Bot.  Not a word of me. All that I will tell you is, that the duke hath dined. Get your apparel together, good strings to your beards, new ribbons to your pumps; meet presently at the palace; every man look o’er his part; for the short and the long is, our play is preferred. In any case, let Thisby 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, HIPPOLYTA, PHILOSTRATE, Lords, and Attendants.

Hip.  ’Tis strange, my Theseus, that these lovers speak of.

The.  More strange than true. I never may believe
These antique fables, nor these fairy toys.   5
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:   10
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;   15
And, as 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,   20
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!

Hip.  But all the story of the night told over,   25
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.   30

Enter LYSANDER, DEMETRIUS, HERMIA, and HELENA.
Joy, gentle friends! joy, and fresh days of love
Accompany your hearts!

Lys.        More than to us
Wait in your royal walks, your board, your bed!   35

The.  Come now; what masques, what 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,   40
To ease the anguish of a torturing hour?
Call Philostrate.

Philost.        Here, mighty Theseus.

The.  Say, what abridgment have you for this evening?
What masque? what music? How shall we beguile   45
The lazy time, if not with some delight?

Philost.  There is a brief how many sports are ripe;
Make choice of which your highness will see first.  [Gives a paper.

The.  The battle with the Centaurs, to be sung
By an Athenian eunuch to the harp.   50
We’ll none of that: that have I told my love,
In glory of my kinsman Hercules.
The riot of the tipsy Bacchanals,
Tearing the Thracian singer in their rage.
That is an old device; and it was play’d   55
When I from Thebes came last a conqueror.
The thrice three Muses mourning for the death
Of Learning, late deceas’d in beggary.
That is some satire keen and critical,
Not sorting with a nuptial ceremony.   60
A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus
And his love Thisbe; very tragical mirth.
Merry and tragical! tedious and brief!
That is, hot ice and wonderous strange snow.
How shall we find the concord of this discord?   65

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.   70
And tragical my noble lord, it is;
For Pyramus therein doth kill himself.
Which when I saw rehears’d, I must confess,
Made mine eyes water; but more merry tears
The passion of loud laughter never shed.   75

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,
And now have toil’d their unbreath’d memories
With this same play, against your nuptial.   80

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,   85
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 simpleness and duty tender it.   90
Go, bring them in: and take your places, ladies.  [Exit PHILOSTRATE.

Hip.  I love not to see wretchedness o’er-charg’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.   95

The.  The kinder we, to give them thanks for nothing.
Our sport shall be to take what they mistake:
And what poor duty cannot do, noble respect
Takes it in might, not merit.
Where I have come, great clerks have purposed