part I

had in Woodstock’s blood Doth more solicit me than your exclaims To stir against the butchers of his life. 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.

DUCHESS. 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. 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, Is cracked, and all the precious liquor spilt, Is hacked down, and his summer leaves all faded, 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 fashioned thee Made him a man; and though thou livest and breathest, 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. Call it not patience, Gaunt; it is despair. In suff’ring thus thy brother to be slaughtered, Thou showest the naked pathway to thy life, Teaching stern murder how to butcher thee. That which in mean men we entitle patience 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, Hath caused his death, the which if wrongfully, Let heaven revenge, for I may never lift An angry arm against His minister.

DUCHESS. Where then, alas! may I complain myself?

GAUNT. To God, the widow’s champion and defence.

DUCHESS. Why then, I will. Farewell, old Gaunt. Thou goest 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! 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! 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!

DUCHESS. Yet one word more. Grief boundeth where it falls, 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 thy brother, Edmund York. Lo, this is all. Nay, yet depart not so! 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 unfurnished walls, 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 everywhere. Desolate, desolate, will I hence and die! The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE III. Open Space, near Coventry. Lists set out, and a Throne.

Heralds, &c., attending.

Enter the Lord Marshal and the Duke of Aumerle.

MARSHAL. My Lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford armed?

AUMERLE. Yea, at all points, and longs to enter in.

MARSHAL. The Duke of Norfolk, sprightfully and bold, Stays but the summons of the appelant’s trumpet.

AUMERLE. Why then, the champions are prepared and stay For nothing but his Majesty’s approach.

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.

KING RICHARD. Marshal, demand of yonder champion The cause of his arrival here in arms. Ask him his name, and orderly proceed To swear him in the justice of his cause.

MARSHAL. In God’s name and the King’s, say who thou art, And why thou comest thus knightly clad in arms, Against what man thou com’st, and what thy quarrel. Speak truly, on thy knighthood and thy oath, As so defend thee heaven and thy valour.

MOWBRAY. My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, Who hither come engaged by my oath— Which God defend a knight should violate!— Both to defend my loyalty and truth To God, my King, and my succeeding issue, Against the Duke of Hereford that appeals me, And, by the grace of God and this mine arm, 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.

KING RICHARD. Marshal, ask yonder knight in arms 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.

MARSHAL. What is thy name? And wherefore com’st thou hither 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!

BOLINGBROKE. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, Am I, who ready here do stand in arms 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.

MARSHAL. 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.

BOLINGBROKE. Lord Marshal, let me kiss my sovereign’s hand 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.

MARSHAL. The appellant in all duty greets your highness And craves to kiss your hand and take his leave.

KING RICHARD. [_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. Farewell, my blood, which if today thou shed, Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead.

BOLINGBROKE. O, let no noble eye profane a tear For me, if I be gored with Mowbray’s spear. As confident as is the falcon’s flight 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. 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 twofold vigour lift me up 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 o’ Gaunt, 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 Of thy adverse pernicious enemy. Rouse up thy youthful blood, be valiant, and live.

BOLINGBROKE. Mine innocence and Saint George to thrive!

[_He takes his seat._]

MOWBRAY. [_Rising_.] However God or fortune cast my lot, There lives or dies, true to King Richard’s throne, A loyal, just, and upright gentleman. Never did captive with a freer heart Cast off his chains of bondage and embrace His golden uncontrolled enfranchisement, More than my dancing soul doth celebrate 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 hath a quiet breast.

KING RICHARD. 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._]

MARSHAL. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, Receive thy lance; and God defend the right.

BOLINGBROKE. [_Rising_.] Strong as a tower in hope, I cry “Amen”!

MARSHAL. [_To an officer_.] Go bear this lance to Thomas, Duke of Norfolk.

FIRST HERALD. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, Stands here for God, his sovereign, and himself, On pain to be found false and recreant, 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.

SECOND HERALD. Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, On pain to be found false and recreant, 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.

MARSHAL. Sound trumpets, and set forward, combatants.

[_A charge sounded._]

Stay! the King hath thrown his warder down.

KING RICHARD. 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 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 soiled With that dear blood which it hath fostered; And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect Of civil wounds ploughed 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 To wake our peace, which in our country’s cradle Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep, Which so roused up with boist’rous untuned drums, With harsh-resounding trumpets’ dreadful bray, And grating shock of wrathful iron arms, 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 enriched our fields Shall not regreet our fair dominions, But tread the stranger paths of banishment.

BOLINGBROKE. 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 Shall point on me and gild my banishment.

KING RICHARD. 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. The hopeless word of “never to return” Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life.

MOWBRAY. A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege, And all unlooked for from your highness’ mouth. A dearer merit, not so deep a maim As to be cast forth in the common air, Have I deserved at your highness’ hands. The language I have learnt these forty years, My native English, now I must forgo; And now my tongue’s use is to me no more Than an unstringed viol or a harp, Or like a cunning instrument cased up Or, being open, put into his hands That knows no touch to tune the harmony. Within my mouth you have engaoled my tongue, Doubly portcullised 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. What is thy sentence, then, but speechless death, Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath?

KING RICHARD. It boots thee not to be compassionate. After our sentence plaining comes too late.

MOWBRAY. Then thus I turn me from my country’s light, To dwell in solemn shades of endless night.

[_Retiring._]

KING RICHARD. Return again, and take an oath with thee. Lay on our royal sword your banished hands. Swear by the duty that you owe to God— Our part therein we banish with yourselves— 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 This louring 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.

BOLINGBROKE. I swear.

MOWBRAY. And I, to keep all this.

BOLINGBROKE. Norfolk, so far as to mine enemy: By this time, had the King permitted us, One of our souls had wandered in the air, Banished this frail sepulchre of our flesh, As now our flesh is banished 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.

MOWBRAY. No, Bolingbroke. If ever I were traitor, My name be blotted from the book of life, And I from heaven banished 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; Save back to England, all the world’s my way.

[_Exit._]

KING RICHARD. Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes I see thy grieved heart. Thy sad aspect Hath from the number of his banished years Plucked four away. [_To Bolingbroke_.] Six frozen winters spent, Return with welcome home from banishment.

BOLINGBROKE. 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 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 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.

KING RICHARD. Why, uncle, thou hast many years to live.

GAUNT. But not a minute, king, that thou canst give. 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, But dead, thy kingdom cannot buy my breath.

KING RICHARD. Thy son is banished upon good advice, Whereto thy tongue a party-verdict gave. Why at our justice seem’st thou then to lour?

GAUNT. Things sweet to taste prove in digestion sour. You urged 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, And in the sentence my own life destroyed. Alas, I looked 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.

KING RICHARD. Cousin, farewell, and, uncle, bid him so. Six years we banish him, and he shall go.

[_Flourish. Exit King Richard and Train._]

AUMERLE. Cousin, farewell. What presence must not know, From where you do remain let paper show.

MARSHAL. My lord, no leave take I, for I will ride, 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?

BOLINGBROKE. I have too few to take my leave of you, When the tongue’s office should be prodigal To breathe the abundant dolour of the heart.

GAUNT. Thy grief is but thy absence for a time.

BOLINGBROKE. Joy absent, grief is present for that time.

GAUNT. What is six winters? They are quickly gone.

BOLINGBROKE. To men in joy; but grief makes one hour ten.

GAUNT. Call it a travel that thou tak’st for pleasure.

BOLINGBROKE. My heart will sigh when I miscall it so, Which finds it an enforced pilgrimage.

GAUNT. The sullen passage of thy weary steps Esteem as foil wherein thou art to set The precious jewel of thy home return.

BOLINGBROKE. 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 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. 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. Go, say I sent thee forth to purchase honour, And not the King exiled 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 To lie that way thou goest, not whence thou com’st. Suppose the singing birds musicians, The grass whereon thou tread’st the presence strewed, The flowers fair ladies, and thy steps no more Than a delightful measure or a dance; For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite The man that mocks at it and sets it light.

BOLINGBROKE. O, who can hold a fire in his hand By thinking on the frosty Caucasus? Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite 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. 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.

BOLINGBROKE. Then, England’s ground, farewell; sweet soil, adieu, My mother and my nurse that bears me yet! Where’er I wander, boast of this I can, Though banished, yet a true-born Englishman.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE IV. London. A Room in the King’s Castle

Enter King Richard, Green and Bagot at one door; Aumerle at another.

KING RICHARD. We did observe.—Cousin Aumerle, How far brought you high Hereford on his way?

AUMERLE. I brought high Hereford, if you call him so, But to the next highway, and there I left him.

KING RICHARD. And say, what store of parting tears were shed?

AUMERLE. Faith, none for me, except the northeast wind, Which then blew bitterly against our faces, Awaked the sleeping rheum, and so by chance Did grace our hollow parting with a tear.

KING RICHARD. What said our cousin when you parted with him?

AUMERLE. “Farewell.” And, for my heart disdained that my tongue Should so profane the word, that taught me craft To counterfeit oppression of such grief That words seemed buried in my sorrow’s grave. Marry, would the word “farewell” have lengthened hours And added years to his short banishment, He should have had a volume of farewells, But since it would not, he had none of me.

KING RICHARD. 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, Observed 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 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, 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, Expedient manage must be made, my liege, Ere further leisure yield them further means For their advantage and your highness’ loss.

KING RICHARD. We will ourself in person to this war. And, for our coffers, with too great a court And liberal largess, are grown somewhat light, We are enforced 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 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.

Bushy, what news?

BUSHY. Old John of Gaunt is grievous sick, my lord, Suddenly taken, and hath sent posthaste To entreat your Majesty to visit him.

KING RICHARD. Where lies he?

BUSHY. At Ely House.

KING RICHARD. 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. 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, 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. He that no more must say is listened more Than they whom youth and ease have taught to glose. More are men’s ends marked than their lives before. The setting sun and music at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, 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 stopped with other flattering sounds, As praises, of whose state the wise are fond; 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. Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity— So it be new, there’s no respect how vile— That is not quickly buzzed into his ears? Then all too late comes counsel to be heard, Where will doth mutiny with wit’s regard. 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 inspired, And thus expiring do foretell of him: His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last, 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, Consuming means, soon preys upon itself. This royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself 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, Against the envy of less happier lands; This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England, This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, Feared by their breed, and famous by their birth, Renowned for their deeds as far from home, 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, Is now leased 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 wat’ry Neptune, is now bound in with shame, 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!

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 raged, do rage the more.

QUEEN. How fares our noble uncle, Lancaster?

KING RICHARD. What comfort, man? How is’t with aged Gaunt?

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 watched; 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, Whose hollow womb inherits nought but bones.

KING RICHARD. 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.

KING RICHARD. Should dying men flatter with those that live?

GAUNT. No, no, men living flatter those that die.

KING RICHARD. Thou, now a-dying, sayest thou flatterest me.

GAUNT. O, no, thou diest, though I the sicker be.

KING RICHARD. I am in health, I breathe, and see thee ill.

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, 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, encaged in so small a verge, 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 possessed, Which art possessed 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? Landlord of England art thou now, not king. Thy state of law is bondslave to the law, And thou—

KING RICHARD. A lunatic lean-witted fool, Presuming on an ague’s privilege, Darest 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, 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, Hast thou tapped out, and drunkenly caroused. 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. Join with the present sickness that I have, And thy unkindness be like crooked age To crop at once a too-long withered flower. Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee! These words hereafter thy tormentors be! Convey me to my bed, then to my grave. Love they to live that love and honour have.

[_Exit, borne off by his Attendants._]

KING RICHARD. 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 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.

KING RICHARD. Right, you say true: as Hereford’s love, so his; As theirs, so mine; and all be as it is.

Enter Northumberland.

NORTHUMBERLAND. My liege, old Gaunt commends him to your Majesty.

KING RICHARD. What says he?

NORTHUMBERLAND. Nay, nothing; all is said. His tongue is now a stringless instrument; 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.

KING RICHARD. The ripest fruit first falls, and so doth he. His time is spent; our pilgrimage must be. 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, Towards our assistance we do seize to us The plate, coin, revenues, and moveables Whereof our uncle Gaunt did stand possessed.

YORK. How long shall I be patient? Ah, how long Shall tender duty make me suffer wrong? Not Gloucester’s death, nor Hereford’s banishment, Nor 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, 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 raged more fierce, In peace was never gentle lamb more mild, Than was that young and princely gentleman. His face thou hast, for even so looked he, Accomplished with the number of thy hours; But when he frowned, it was against the French And not against his friends. His noble hand 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, Or else he never would compare between.

KING RICHARD. Why, uncle, what’s the matter?

YORK. O my liege. Pardon me, if you please; if not, I, pleased Not to be pardoned, am content withal. Seek you to seize and gripe into your hands The royalties and rights of banished 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? 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 tomorrow then ensue today; Be not thyself; for how art thou a king 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 patents that he hath By his attorneys-general to sue His livery, and deny his offered 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.

KING RICHARD. 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 That their events can never fall out good.

[_Exit._]

KING RICHARD. Go, Bushy, to the Earl of Wiltshire straight. Bid him repair to us to Ely House To see this business. Tomorrow next We will for Ireland, and ’tis time, I trow. And we create, in absence of ourself, Our Uncle York Lord Governor of England, For he is just, and always loved us well. Come on, our queen. Tomorrow must we part; Be merry, for our time of stay is short.

[_Exeunt King, Queen, Bushy, Aumerle, Green and Bagot._]

NORTHUMBERLAND. Well, lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead.

ROSS. And living too, for now his son is Duke.

WILLOUGHBY. Barely in title, not in revenues.

NORTHUMBERLAND. Richly in both, if justice had her right.

ROSS. My heart is great, but it must break with silence Ere’t be disburdened with a liberal tongue.

NORTHUMBERLAND. Nay, speak thy mind, and let him ne’er speak more That speaks thy words again to do thee harm!

WILLOUGHBY. Tends that thou wouldst speak to the Duke of Hereford? If it be so, out with it boldly, man. 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.

NORTHUMBERLAND. Now, afore God, ’tis shame such wrongs are borne In him, a royal prince, and many moe 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, That will the King severely prosecute ’Gainst us, our lives, our children, and our heirs.

ROSS. The commons hath he pilled with grievous taxes, And quite lost their hearts. The nobles hath he fined For ancient quarrels and quite lost their hearts.

WILLOUGHBY. And daily new exactions are devised, As blanks, benevolences, and I wot not what. But what, i’ God’s name, doth become of this?

NORTHUMBERLAND. Wars hath not wasted it, for warred he hath not, But basely yielded upon compromise That which his ancestors achieved with blows. More hath he spent in peace than they in wars.

ROSS. The Earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in farm.

WILLOUGHBY. The King’s grown bankrupt like a broken man.

NORTHUMBERLAND. Reproach and dissolution hangeth over him.

ROSS. He hath not money for these Irish wars, His burdenous taxations notwithstanding, But by the robbing of the banished Duke.

NORTHUMBERLAND. His noble kinsman. Most degenerate king! But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing, 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 For suffering so the causes of our wrack.

NORTHUMBERLAND. 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.

WILLOUGHBY. Nay, let us share thy thoughts as thou dost ours.

ROSS. Be confident to speak, Northumberland. We three are but thyself, and, speaking so, Thy words are but as thoughts. Therefore be bold.

NORTHUMBERLAND. Then thus: I have from Le Port Blanc, a bay In Brittany, received intelligence 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 Coint, All these well furnished by the Duke of Brittany 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 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 blemished crown, Wipe off the dust that hides our sceptre’s gilt, 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.

WILLOUGHBY. Hold out my horse, and I will first be there.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE II. The Same. A Room in the Castle.

Enter Queen, Bushy and Bagot.

BUSHY. Madam, your Majesty is too much sad. You promised, when you parted with the King, To lay aside life-harming heaviness 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 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 something it grieves More than with parting from my lord the King.

BUSHY. Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows, Which shows like grief itself, but is not so; For sorrow’s eye, glazed with blinding tears, Divides one thing entire to many objects, Like perspectives which, rightly gazed upon, Show nothing but confusion; eyed awry, Distinguish form. So your sweet Majesty, Looking awry upon your lord’s departure, Find shapes of grief more than himself to wail, Which, looked on as it is, is naught but shadows Of what it is not. Then, thrice-gracious Queen, More than your lord’s departure weep not. More is 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 Persuades me it is otherwise. Howe’er it be, I cannot but be sad—so heavy sad As thought, in thinking, on no thought I think, Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink.

BUSHY. ’Tis nothing but conceit, my gracious lady.

QUEEN. ’Tis nothing less. Conceit is still derived 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, 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 shipped for Ireland.

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 shipped?

GREEN. That he, our hope, might have retired his power, And driven into despair an enemy’s hope Who strongly hath set footing in this land. The banished Bolingbroke repeals himself, And with uplifted arms is safe arrived At Ravenspurgh.

QUEEN. Now God in heaven forbid!

GREEN. Ah, madam, ’tis too true; and that is worse, The Lord Northumberland, his son young Harry Percy, The Lords of Ross, Beaumond, and Willoughby, With all their powerful friends, are fled to him.

BUSHY. Why have you not proclaimed Northumberland And all the rest revolted faction traitors?

GREEN. We have, whereupon the Earl of Worcester Hath broken his staff, resigned his stewardship, And all the household servants fled with him To Bolingbroke.

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-delivered mother, Have woe to woe, sorrow to sorrow joined.

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, 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. 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. 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; Now shall he try his friends that flattered him.

Enter a Servingman.

SERVINGMAN. 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 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.

SERVINGMAN. My lord, I had forgot to tell your lordship: Today, as I came by, I called there— But I shall grieve you to report the rest.

YORK. What is’t, knave?

SERVINGMAN. An hour before I came, the Duchess died.

YORK. God for his mercy, what a tide of woes Comes rushing on this woeful land at once! I know not what to do. I would to God, So my untruth had not provoked him to it, The King had cut off my head with my brother’s. What, are there no posts dispatched for Ireland? 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 Servingman._]

Gentlemen, will you go muster men? If I know how or which way to order these affairs Thus disorderly thrust into my hands, Never believe me. Both are my kinsmen. Th’ one is my sovereign, whom both my oath And duty bids defend; th’ other again Is my kinsman, whom the King hath wronged, 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. I should to Plashy too, But time will not permit. All is uneven, And everything 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 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 is the wavering commons, for their love Lies in their purses; and whoso empties them, By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate.

BUSHY. Wherein the King stands generally condemned.

BAGOT. If judgment lie in them, then so do we, Because we ever have been near the King.

GREEN. Well, I will 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. 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.

GREEN. Alas, poor Duke! The task he undertakes Is numb’ring 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.

BAGOT. I fear me, never.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE III. The Wolds in Gloucestershire.

Enter Bolingbroke and Northumberland with Forces.

BOLINGBROKE. How far is it, my lord, to Berkeley now?

NORTHUMBERLAND. Believe me, noble lord, I am a stranger here in Gloucestershire. These high wild hills and rough uneven ways Draws out our miles and makes them wearisome. And yet your fair discourse hath been as sugar, Making the hard way sweet and delectable. But I bethink me what a weary way From Ravenspurgh to Cotshall will be found In Ross and Willoughby, wanting your company, Which, I protest, hath very much beguiled The tediousness and process of my travel. But theirs is sweetened with the hope to have The present benefit which I possess; And hope to joy is little less in joy Than hope enjoyed. By this the weary lords Shall make their way seem short as mine hath done By sight of what I have, your noble company.

BOLINGBROKE. Of much less value is my company Than your good words. But who comes here?

Enter Harry Percy.

NORTHUMBERLAND. It is my son, young Harry Percy, Sent from my brother Worcester, whencesoever. Harry, how fares your uncle?

PERCY. I had thought, my lord, to have learned his health of you.

NORTHUMBERLAND. Why, is he not with the Queen?

PERCY. No, my good lord. He hath forsook the court, Broken his staff of office, and dispersed The household of the King.

NORTHUMBERLAND. What was his reason? He was not so resolved when last we spake together.

PERCY. Because your lordship was proclaimed traitor. But he, my lord, is gone to Ravenspurgh 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 directions to repair to Ravenspurgh.

NORTHUMBERLAND. Have you forgot the Duke of Hereford, boy?

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.

NORTHUMBERLAND. Then learn to know him now. This is the Duke.

PERCY. My gracious lord, I tender you my service, Such as it is, being tender, raw, and young, Which elder days shall ripen and confirm To more approved service and desert.

BOLINGBROKE. I thank thee, gentle Percy; and be sure I count myself in nothing else so happy As in a soul rememb’ring 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.

NORTHUMBERLAND. How far is it to Berkeley, and what stir Keeps good old York there with his men of war?

PERCY. There stands the castle by yon tuft of trees, Manned 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.

Enter Ross and Willoughby.

NORTHUMBERLAND. Here come the Lords of Ross and Willoughby, Bloody with spurring, fiery-red with haste.

BOLINGBROKE. Welcome, my lords. I wot your love pursues A banished traitor. All my treasury Is yet but unfelt thanks, which, more enriched, Shall be your love and labour’s recompense.

ROSS. Your presence makes us rich, most noble lord.

WILLOUGHBY. And far surmounts our labour to attain it.

BOLINGBROKE. Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor; Which, till my infant fortune comes to years, Stands for my bounty. But who comes here?

Enter Berkeley.

NORTHUMBERLAND. It is my Lord of Berkeley, as I guess.

BERKELEY. My Lord of Hereford, my message is to you.

BOLINGBROKE. 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.

BERKELEY. Mistake me not, my lord, ’tis not my meaning To rase 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, And fright our native peace with self-borne arms.

Enter York, attended.

BOLINGBROKE. I shall not need transport my words by you. Here comes his Grace in person. My noble uncle!

[_Kneels._]

YORK. Show me thy humble heart, and not thy knee, Whose duty is deceivable and false.

BOLINGBROKE. My gracious uncle—

YORK. Tut, tut! Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle. I am no traitor’s uncle, and that word “grace” In an ungracious mouth is but profane. Why have those banished and forbidden legs Dared once to touch a dust of England’s ground? But then more why: why have they dared to march So many miles upon her peaceful bosom, Frighting her pale-faced 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, And in my loyal bosom lies his power. Were I but now lord of such hot youth As when brave Gaunt, thy father, and myself Rescued the Black Prince, that young Mars of men, From forth the ranks of many thousand French, O, then how quickly should this arm of mine, Now prisoner to the palsy, chastise thee And minister correction to thy fault!

BOLINGBROKE. My gracious uncle, let me know my fault. On what condition stands it and wherein?

YORK. Even in condition of the worst degree, In gross rebellion and detested treason. Thou art a banished man, and here art come, Before the expiration of thy time, In braving arms against thy sovereign.

BOLINGBROKE. As I was banished, I was banished 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 I see old Gaunt alive. O then, my father, Will you permit that I shall stand condemned A wandering vagabond, my rights and royalties Plucked from my arms perforce and given away To upstart unthrifts? Wherefore was I born? If that my cousin king be King in England, It must be granted I am Duke of Lancaster. You have a son, Aumerle, my noble cousin. Had you first died and he been thus trod down, He should have found his uncle Gaunt a father To rouse his wrongs and chase them to the bay. I am denied to sue my livery here, And yet my letters patents give me leave. My father’s goods are all distrained and sold, And these, and all, are all amiss employed. 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.

NORTHUMBERLAND. The noble Duke hath been too much abused.

ROSS. It stands your Grace upon to do him right.

WILLOUGHBY. 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 laboured all I could to do him right. 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.

NORTHUMBERLAND. 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 never see joy that breaks that oath!

YORK. Well, well, I see the issue of these arms. 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. But since I cannot, be it known unto 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.

BOLINGBROKE. An offer, uncle, that we will accept; 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.

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._]

## SCENE IV. A camp in Wales.

Enter Earl of Salisbury and a Welsh Captain.

CAPTAIN. My Lord of Salisbury, we have stayed ten days And hardly kept our countrymen together, And yet we hear no tidings from the King. Therefore we will disperse ourselves. Farewell.

SALISBURY. Stay yet another day, thou trusty Welshman. The King reposeth all his confidence in thee.

CAPTAIN. ’Tis thought the King is dead. We will not stay. The bay trees in our country are all withered, And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven; The pale-faced moon looks bloody on the earth, And lean-looked prophets whisper fearful change; Rich men look sad, and ruffians dance and leap, The one in fear to lose what they enjoy, 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 assured Richard their king is dead.

[_Exit._]

SALISBURY. Ah, Richard! With the eyes of heavy mind 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, And crossly to thy good all fortune goes.

[_Exit._]

## ACT III

## SCENE I. Bristol. Bolingbroke’s camp.

Enter Bolingbroke, York, Northumberland, Harry Percy, Willoughby, Ross; Officers behind, with Bushy and Green, prisoners.

BOLINGBROKE. Bring forth these men. Bushy and Green, I will not vex your souls— Since presently your souls must part your bodies— 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, A happy gentleman in blood and lineaments, By you unhappied and disfigured clean. You have in manner with your sinful hours Made a divorce betwixt his queen and him, Broke the possession of a royal bed, And stained 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, Have stooped my neck under your injuries And sighed my English breath in foreign clouds, Eating the bitter bread of banishment, Whilst you have fed upon my signories, Disparked my parks and felled my forest woods, From my own windows torn my household coat, Rased out my imprese, 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, Condemns you to the death. See them delivered 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 And plague injustice with the pains of hell.

BOLINGBROKE. My Lord Northumberland, see them dispatched.

[_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; Take special care my greetings be delivered.

YORK. A gentleman of mine I have dispatched With letters of your love to her at large.

BOLINGBROKE. Thanks, gentle uncle. Come, lords, away, To fight with Glendower and his complices. A while to work, and after holiday.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE II. The coast of Wales. A castle in view.

Flourish: drums and trumpets. Enter King Richard, the Bishop of Carlisle, Aumerle and soldiers.

KING RICHARD. Barkloughly Castle call they this at hand?

AUMERLE. Yea, my lord. How brooks your Grace the air After your late tossing on the breaking seas?

KING RICHARD. 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 Plays fondly with her tears and smiles in meeting, So weeping-smiling greet I thee, my earth, And do thee favours with my royal hands. Feed not thy sovereign’s foe, my gentle earth, Nor with thy sweets comfort his ravenous sense, 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; 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. This earth shall have a feeling, and these stones Prove armed soldiers, ere her native king Shall falter under foul rebellion’s arms.

CARLISLE. Fear not, my lord. That Power that made you king Hath power to keep you king in spite of all. The means that heaven yields must be embraced And not neglected; else if heaven would, And we will not. Heaven’s offer we refuse, The proffered means of succour and redress.

AUMERLE. He means, my lord, that we are too remiss, Whilst Bolingbroke, through our security, Grows strong and great in substance and in power.

KING RICHARD. Discomfortable cousin, know’st thou not That when the searching eye of heaven is hid Behind the globe that lights the lower world, Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen In murders and in outrage boldly 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, Then murders, treasons, and detested sins, The cloak of night being plucked from off their backs, Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves? So when this thief, this traitor, Bolingbroke, Who all this while hath revelled in the night Whilst we were wand’ring 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. Not all the water in the rough rude sea Can wash the balm off from an anointed king; The breath of worldly men cannot depose The deputy elected by the Lord. For every man that Bolingbroke hath pressed 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.

Welcome, my lord. How far off lies your power?

SALISBURY. Nor near nor farther 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, Hath clouded all thy happy days on earth. O, call back yesterday, bid time return, And thou shalt have twelve thousand fighting men! Today, today, unhappy day, too late, O’erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune, and thy state; For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead, Are gone to Bolingbroke, dispersed, and fled.

AUMERLE. Comfort, my liege. Why looks your Grace so pale?

KING RICHARD. But now, the blood of twenty thousand men Did triumph in my face, and they are fled; 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.

AUMERLE. Comfort, my liege. Remember who you are.

KING RICHARD. I had forgot myself. Am I not king? Awake, thou coward 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, 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 Than can my care-tuned tongue deliver him.

KING RICHARD. Mine ear is open and my heart prepared. 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? 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. 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 armed To bear the tidings of calamity. Like an unseasonable stormy day Which makes the silver rivers drown their shores As if the world were all dissolved 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. Whitebeards have armed their thin and hairless scalps Against thy majesty; 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 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.

KING RICHARD. Too well, too well thou tell’st a tale so ill. 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. I warrant they have made peace with Bolingbroke.

SCROOP. Peace have they made with him indeed, my lord.

KING RICHARD. O villains, vipers, damned without redemption! Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man! Snakes, in my heart-blood warmed, that sting my heart! Three Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas! Would they make peace? Terrible hell Make war upon their spotted souls for this!

SCROOP. Sweet love, I see, changing his property, Turns to the sourest and most deadly hate. 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, graved in the hollow ground.

AUMERLE. Is Bushy, Green, and the Earl of Wiltshire dead?

SCROOP. Ay, all of them at Bristol lost their heads.

AUMERLE. Where is the Duke my father with his power?

KING RICHARD. 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 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, 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— How some have been deposed, some slain in war, Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed, Some poisoned by their wives, some sleeping killed, All murdered. For within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king Keeps Death his court; and there the antic sits, Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp, Allowing him a breath, a little scene, To monarchize, be feared, and kill with looks, Infusing him with self and vain conceit, As if this flesh which walls about our life Were brass impregnable; and, humoured 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 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, How can you say to me I am a king?

CARLISLE. 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, 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.

AUMERLE. My father hath a power. Enquire of him, And learn to make a body of a limb.

KING RICHARD. 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 overblown; An easy task it is to win our own. 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 in inclination of the day; So may you by my dull and heavy eye. 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 joined with Bolingbroke, And all your northern castles yielded up, And all your southern gentlemen in arms Upon his party.

KING RICHARD. Thou hast said enough. [_To Aumerle_.] Beshrew thee, cousin, which didst lead me forth Of that sweet way I was in to despair. 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. 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.

AUMERLE. My liege, one word.

KING RICHARD. 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._]

## SCENE III. Wales. Before Flint Castle.

Enter, with drum and colours, Bolingbroke and Forces; Northumberland and Others.

BOLINGBROKE. So that by this intelligence we learn The Welshmen are dispersed, and Salisbury Is gone to meet the King, who lately landed With some few private friends upon this coast.

NORTHUMBERLAND. 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 When such a sacred king should hide his head!

NORTHUMBERLAND. 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 Have been so brief with you to shorten you, For taking so the head, your whole head’s length.

BOLINGBROKE. 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.

BOLINGBROKE. I know it, uncle, and oppose not myself Against their will. But who comes here?

Enter Harry Percy.

Welcome, Harry. What, will not this castle yield?

PERCY. The castle royally is manned, my lord, Against thy entrance.

BOLINGBROKE. Royally! Why, it contains no king?

PERCY. Yes, my good lord, It doth contain a king. King Richard lies 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.

NORTHUMBERLAND. O, belike it is the Bishop of Carlisle.

BOLINGBROKE. [_To Northumberland_.] Noble lord, Go to the rude ribs of that ancient castle; Through brazen trumpet send the breath of parley Into his ruined ears, and thus deliver: Henry Bolingbroke 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 repealed And lands restored again be freely granted. If not, I’ll use the advantage of my power And lay the summer’s dust with showers of blood Rained from the wounds of slaughtered Englishmen— The which how far off from the mind of Bolingbroke 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. Let’s march without the noise of threat’ning drum, That from this castle’s tottered battlements Our fair appointments may be well perused. Methinks King Richard and myself should meet With no less terror than the elements Of fire and water, when their thund’ring shock At meeting tears the cloudy cheeks of heaven. Be he the fire, I’ll be the yielding water; The rage be his, whilst on the earth I rain My waters—on the earth, and not on him. March on, and mark King Richard how he looks.

A parley sounded, and answered by a trumpet within. Flourish. Enter on the Walls, the King, the Bishop of Carlisle, Aumerle, Scroop and Salisbury

See, see, King Richard doth himself appear, As doth the blushing discontented sun From out the fiery portal of the east, 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 he looks like a king. Behold, his eye, As bright as is the eagle’s, lightens forth Controlling majesty. Alack, alack, for woe That any harm should stain so fair a show!

KING RICHARD. [_To Northumberland._] We are amazed, and thus long have we stood To watch the fearful bending of thy knee Because we thought ourself thy lawful king. 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 dismissed us from our stewardship; For well we know no hand of blood and bone 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, 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 And threat the glory of my precious crown. Tell Bolingbroke—for yon methinks he stands— That every stride he makes upon my land Is dangerous treason. He is come to open The purple testament of bleeding war; 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 Her pastures’ grass with faithful English blood.

NORTHUMBERLAND. The King of Heaven forbid our lord the King Should so with civil and uncivil arms Be rushed upon! Thy thrice-noble cousin, Harry Bolingbroke, doth humbly kiss thy hand; 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 warlike Gaunt, 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; 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 and just; And as I am a gentleman I credit him.

KING RICHARD. Northumberland, say, thus the King returns: His noble cousin is right welcome hither, And all the number of his fair demands Shall be accomplished without contradiction. With all the gracious utterance thou hast, Speak to his gentle hearing kind commends.

[_Northumberland returns to Bolingbroke._]

[_To Aumerle_.] We do debase ourselves, cousin, do we not, To look so poorly and to speak so fair? Shall we call back Northumberland and send Defiance to the traitor, and so die?

AUMERLE. No, good my lord. Let’s fight with gentle words Till time lend friends, and friends their helpful swords.

KING RICHARD. O God, O God, that e’er this tongue of mine That laid the sentence of dread banishment On yon 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. Swell’st thou, proud heart? I’ll give thee scope to beat, Since foes have scope to beat both thee and me.

AUMERLE. Northumberland comes back from Bolingbroke.

KING RICHARD. What must the King do now? Must he submit? The King shall do it. Must he be deposed? The King shall be contented. Must he lose The name of King? I’ 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, My figured 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; 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? 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 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, therein laid, there lies Two kinsmen digged their graves with weeping eyes. 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? You make a leg, and Bolingbroke says ay.

NORTHUMBERLAND. My lord, in the base court he doth attend To speak with you. May it please you to come down?

KING RICHARD. Down, down I come, like glist’ring Phaëthon, Wanting the manage of unruly jades. 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._]

BOLINGBROKE. What says his Majesty?

NORTHUMBERLAND. Sorrow and grief of heart Makes him speak fondly like a frantic man. Yet he is come.

Enter King Richard and his attendants.

BOLINGBROKE. Stand all apart, And show fair duty to his Majesty. [_Kneeling_.] My gracious lord.

KING RICHARD. 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 Than my unpleased eye see your courtesy. Up, cousin, up. Your heart is up, I know, Thus high at least, although your knee be low.

BOLINGBROKE. My gracious lord, I come but for mine own.

KING RICHARD. Your own is yours, and I am yours, and all.

BOLINGBROKE. So far be mine, my most redoubted lord, As my true service shall deserve your love.

KING RICHARD. Well you deserve. They well deserve to have That know the strong’st and surest way to get. Uncle, give me your hands. Nay, dry your eyes. 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. Set on towards London, cousin, is it so?

BOLINGBROKE. Yea, my good lord.

KING RICHARD. Then I must not say no.

[_Flourish. Exeunt._]

## 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?

LADY. Madam, we’ll play at bowls.

QUEEN. ’Twill make me think the world is full of rubs And that my fortune runs against the bias.

LADY. Madam, we’ll dance.

QUEEN. My legs can keep no measure in delight When my poor heart no measure keeps in grief. Therefore no dancing, girl; some other sport.

LADY. Madam, we’ll tell tales.

QUEEN. Of sorrow or of joy?

LADY. Of either, madam.

QUEEN. Of neither, girl. 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, And what I want it boots not to complain.

LADY. Madam, I’ll sing.

QUEEN. ’Tis well that thou hast cause; But thou shouldst please me better wouldst thou weep.

LADY. I could weep, madam, would it do you good.

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, They will talk of state, for everyone doth so Against a change; woe is forerun with woe.

[_Queen and Ladies retire._]

Enter a Gardener and two Servants.

GARDENER. Go, bind thou up young dangling apricocks, Which, like unruly children, make their sire 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. All must be even in our government. You thus employed, I will go root away The noisome weeds which without profit suck The soil’s fertility from wholesome flowers.

SERVANT. Why should we in the compass of a pale 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 choked up, Her fruit trees all unpruned, her hedges ruined, Her knots disordered, and her wholesome herbs Swarming with caterpillars?

GARDENER. Hold thy peace. He that hath suffered this disordered spring Hath now himself met with the fall of leaf. The weeds which his broad-spreading leaves did shelter, That seemed in eating him to hold him up, Are plucked up, root and all, by Bolingbroke— I mean the Earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green.

SERVANT. What, are they dead?

GARDENER. They are. And Bolingbroke Hath seized the wasteful King. O, what pity is it That he had not so trimmed and dressed his land As we this garden! We at time of year Do wound the bark, the skin of our fruit trees, Lest, being over-proud in sap and blood, With too much riches it confound itself. Had he done so to great and growing men, They might have lived to bear and he to taste Their fruits of duty. Superfluous branches We lop away, that bearing boughs may live. Had he done so, himself had home the crown, Which waste of idle hours hath quite thrown down.

SERVANT. What, think you the King shall be deposed?

GARDENER. Depressed he is already, and deposed ’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 pressed to death through want of speaking!

[_Coming forward._]

Thou, old Adam’s likeness, set to dress this garden, 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 deposed? Dar’st thou, thou little better thing than earth, Divine his downfall? Say, where, when, and how, Cam’st thou by this ill tidings? Speak, thou wretch!

GARDENER. Pardon me, madam. Little joy have I To breathe this news; yet what I say is true. King Richard, he is in the mighty hold Of Bolingbroke. Their fortunes both are weighed. 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, And with that odds he weighs King Richard down. Post you to London, and you will find it so. I speak no more than everyone doth know.

QUEEN. Nimble mischance, that art so light of foot, Doth not thy embassage belong to me, And am I last that knows it? O, thou thinkest 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 Should grace the triumph of great Bolingbroke? Gard’ner, for telling me these news of woe, Pray God the plants thou graft’st may never grow!

[_Exeunt Queen and Ladies._]

GARDENER. Poor Queen, so that thy state might be no worse, I would my skill were subject to thy curse. 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. 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, Harry Percy, Fitzwater, another Lord, the Bishop of Carlisle, the Abbot of Westminster and attendants.

BOLINGBROKE. Call forth Bagot.

Enter Officers with Bagot.

Now, Bagot, freely speak thy mind, What thou dost know of noble Gloucester’s death, Who wrought it with the King, and who performed The bloody office of his timeless end.

BAGOT. Then set before my face the Lord Aumerle.

BOLINGBROKE. Cousin, stand forth, and look upon that man.

BAGOT. My Lord Aumerle, I know your daring tongue Scorns to unsay what once it hath delivered. 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 mine uncle’s head?” Amongst much other talk that very time I heard you say that you had rather refuse The offer of an hundred thousand crowns Than Bolingbroke’s return to England, Adding withal, how blest this land would be In this your cousin’s death.

AUMERLE. 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? Either I must, or have mine honour soiled 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 In thy heart-blood, though being all too base To stain the temper of my knightly sword.

BOLINGBROKE. Bagot, forbear. Thou shalt not take it up.

AUMERLE. Excepting one, I would he were the best In all this presence that hath moved me so.

FITZWATER. If that thy valour stand on sympathy, 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. If thou deniest it twenty times, thou liest! And I will turn thy falsehood to thy heart, Where it was forged, with my rapier’s point.

AUMERLE. Thou dar’st not, coward, live to see that day.

FITZWATER. Now, by my soul, I would it were this hour.

AUMERLE. Fitzwater, thou art damned to hell for this.

HARRY PERCY. Aumerle, thou liest. His honour is as true In this appeal as thou art an unjust; And that thou art so, there I throw my gage, To prove it on thee to the extremest point Of mortal breathing. Seize it if thou dar’st.

AUMERLE. And if I do not, may my hands rot off And never brandish more revengeful steel Over the glittering helmet of my foe!

ANOTHER LORD. I task the earth to the like, forsworn Aumerle, And spur thee on with full as many lies As may be holloaed in thy treacherous ear From sun to sun. There is my honour’s pawn. Engage it to the trial if thou dar’st.

AUMERLE. Who sets me else? By heaven, I’ll throw at all. 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.

FITZWATER. ’Tis very true. You were in presence then, And you can witness with me this is true.

SURREY. As false, by heaven, as heaven itself is true.

FITZWATER. Surrey, thou liest.

SURREY. Dishonourable boy! That lie shall lie so heavy on my sword 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.

FITZWATER. 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 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 banished Norfolk say That thou, Aumerle, didst send two of thy men To execute the noble duke at Calais.

AUMERLE. Some honest Christian trust me with a gage. That Norfolk lies, here do I throw down this, If he may be repealed to try his honour.

BOLINGBROKE. These differences shall all rest under gage Till Norfolk be repealed. Repealed he shall be, And, though mine enemy, restored again To all his lands and signories. When he is returned, Against Aumerle we will enforce his trial.

CARLISLE. That honourable day shall ne’er be seen. Many a time hath banished Norfolk fought For Jesu Christ in glorious Christian field, Streaming the ensign of the Christian cross Against black pagans, Turks, and Saracens; And, toiled with works of war, retired himself 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.

BOLINGBROKE. Why, Bishop, is Norfolk dead?

CARLISLE. As surely as I live, my lord.

BOLINGBROKE. 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.

Enter York, attended.

YORK. Great Duke of Lancaster, I come to thee From plume-plucked Richard, who with willing soul Adopts thee heir, and his high sceptre yields To the possession of thy royal hand. Ascend his throne, descending now from him, And long live Henry, of that name the fourth!

BOLINGBROKE. In God’s name, I’ll ascend the regal throne.

CARLISLE. Marry, God forbid! Worst in this royal presence may I speak, 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. What subject can give sentence on his king? And who sits here that is not Richard’s subject? Thieves are not judged but they are by to hear, Although apparent guilt be seen in them; And shall the figure of God’s majesty, His captain, steward, deputy elect, Anointed, crowned, planted many years, Be judged by subject and inferior breath, And he himself not present? O, forfend it, God, That in a Christian climate souls refined Should show so heinous, black, obscene a deed! I speak to subjects, and a subject speaks, Stirred 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. 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 Shall kin with kin and kind with kind confound. Disorder, horror, fear, and mutiny Shall here inhabit, and this land be called The field of Golgotha and dead men’s skulls. O, if you raise this house against this house, 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!”

NORTHUMBERLAND. Well have you argued, sir; and, for your pains, 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?

BOLINGBROKE. Fetch hither Richard, that in common view He may surrender. So we shall proceed Without suspicion.

YORK. I will be his conduct.

[_Exit._]

BOLINGBROKE. Lords, you that here are under our arrest, Procure your sureties for your days of answer. Little are we beholding to your love, And little looked for at your helping hands.

Enter York with King Richard and Officers bearing the Crown, &c.

KING RICHARD. Alack, why am I sent for to a king Before I have shook off the regal thoughts Wherewith I reigned? I hardly yet have learned To insinuate, flatter, bow, and bend my knee. Give sorrow leave awhile to tutor me To this submission. Yet I well remember The favours of these men. Were they not mine? 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. 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: The resignation of thy state and crown To Henry Bolingbroke.

KING RICHARD. Give me the crown. Here, cousin, seize the crown. Here, cousin, On this side my hand, and on that side thine. 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, Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high.

BOLINGBROKE. I thought you had been willing to resign.

KING RICHARD. 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.

BOLINGBROKE. Part of your cares you give me with your crown.

KING RICHARD. 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; They ’tend the crown, yet still with me they stay.

BOLINGBROKE. Are you contented to resign the crown?

KING RICHARD. 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: 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, With mine own tongue deny my sacred state, With mine own breath release all duteous oaths. All pomp and majesty I do forswear; My manors, rents, revenues, I forgo; My acts, decrees, and statutes, I deny. 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 grieved, And thou with all pleased that hast all achieved. Long mayst thou live in Richard’s seat to sit, And soon lie Richard in an earthly pit! God save King Henry, unkinged Richard says, And send him many years of sunshine days! What more remains?

NORTHUMBERLAND. [_Offering a paper_.] No more, but that you read 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 deposed.

KING RICHARD. Must I do so? And must I ravel out My weaved-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, There shouldst thou find one heinous article Containing the deposing of a king And cracking the strong warrant of an oath, Marked with a blot, damned in the book of heaven. Nay, all of you that stand and look upon me 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 delivered me to my sour cross, And water cannot wash away your sin.

NORTHUMBERLAND. My lord, dispatch. Read o’er these articles.

KING RICHARD. 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, I find myself a traitor with the rest; For I have given here my soul’s consent T’ undeck the pompous body of a king, Made glory base and sovereignty a slave, Proud majesty a subject, state a peasant.

NORTHUMBERLAND. My lord—

KING RICHARD. 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 usurped. Alack the heavy day! 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! 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.

BOLINGBROKE. Go, some of you, and fetch a looking-glass.

[_Exit an Attendant._]

NORTHUMBERLAND. Read o’er this paper while the glass doth come.

KING RICHARD. Fiend, thou torments me ere I come to hell!

BOLINGBROKE. Urge it no more, my Lord Northumberland.

NORTHUMBERLAND. The commons will not then be satisfied.

KING RICHARD. 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 glass.

Give me that glass, and therein will I read. No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck So many blows upon this face of mine And made no deeper wounds? O flatt’ring glass, Like to my followers in prosperity, Thou dost beguile me. Was this face the face That every day under his household roof Did keep ten thousand men? Was this the face That like the sun did make beholders wink? Is this the face which faced so many follies, That was at last outfaced by Bolingbroke? 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, cracked in an hundred shivers. Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport, How soon my sorrow hath destroyed my face.

BOLINGBROKE. The shadow of your sorrow hath destroyed The shadow of your face.

KING RICHARD. Say that again. The shadow of my sorrow? Ha, let’s see. ’Tis very true, my grief lies all within; And these external manner of laments Are merely shadows to the unseen grief That swells with silence in the tortured soul. There lies the substance. And I thank thee, king, For thy great bounty, that not only giv’st 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?

BOLINGBROKE. Name it, fair cousin.

KING RICHARD. “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.

BOLINGBROKE. Yet ask.

KING RICHARD. And shall I have?

BOLINGBROKE. You shall.

KING RICHARD. Then give me leave to go.

BOLINGBROKE. Whither?

KING RICHARD. Whither you will, so I were from your sights.

BOLINGBROKE. Go, some of you, convey him to the Tower.

KING RICHARD. O, good! “Convey”? Conveyers are you all, That rise thus nimbly by a true king’s fall.

[_Exeunt King Richard and Guard._]

BOLINGBROKE. On Wednesday next we solemnly set down Our coronation. Lords, prepare yourselves.

[_Exeunt all but the Bishop of Carlisle, the Abbot of Westminster and Aumerle._]

ABBOT. A woeful pageant have we here beheld.

CARLISLE. The woe’s to come. The children yet unborn Shall feel this day as sharp to them as thorn.

AUMERLE. You holy clergymen, is there no plot 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 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._]

## 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 Caesar’s ill-erected tower, To whose flint bosom my condemned lord Is doomed 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 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, And not King Richard! Thou most beauteous inn, Why should hard-favoured grief be lodged in thee, When triumph is become an alehouse guest?

KING RICHARD. Join not with grief, fair woman, do not so, To make my end too sudden. Learn, good soul, To think our former state a happy dream, From which awaked, 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, And cloister thee in some religious house. Our holy lives must win a new world’s crown, Which our profane hours here have thrown down.

QUEEN. What, is my Richard both in shape and mind Transformed and weakened! Hath Bolingbroke Deposed 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’erpowered; and wilt thou, pupil-like, Take the correction mildly, kiss the rod, And fawn on rage with base humility, Which art a lion and the king of beasts?

KING RICHARD. A king of beasts, indeed! If aught but beasts, I had been still a happy king of men. Good sometimes queen, prepare thee hence for France. Think I am dead, and that even here thou tak’st, As from my death-bed, thy 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; And ere thou bid good night, to quit their griefs, 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, 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.

NORTHUMBERLAND. My lord, the mind of Bolingbroke is changed. 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.

KING RICHARD. Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne, 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. And he shall think that thou, which knowst the way To plant unrightful kings, wilt know again, Being ne’er so little urged, another way To pluck him headlong from the usurped throne. The love of wicked men converts to fear, That fear to hate, and hate turns one or both To worthy danger and deserved death.

NORTHUMBERLAND. My guilt be on my head, and there an end. Take leave and part, for you must part forthwith.

KING RICHARD. Doubly divorced! Bad men, you violate A twofold 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, 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?

KING RICHARD. Ay, hand from hand, my love, and heart from heart.

QUEEN. Banish us both, and send the King with me.

NORTHUMBERLAND. That were some love, but little policy.

QUEEN. Then whither he goes, thither let me go.

KING RICHARD. So two, together weeping, make one woe. 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.

KING RICHARD. Twice for one step I’ll groan, the way being short, 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._]

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.

KING RICHARD. We make woe wanton with this fond delay: Once more, adieu. The rest let sorrow say.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE II. The same. A room in the Duke of York’s palace.

Enter York and his Duchess.

DUCHESS. 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.

YORK. Where did I leave?

DUCHESS. At that sad stop, my lord, Where rude misgoverned hands from windows’ tops Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard’s head.

YORK. Then, as I said, the Duke, great Bolingbroke, Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed, Which his aspiring rider seemed to know, With slow but stately pace kept on his course, Whilst all tongues cried “God save thee, Bolingbroke!” You would have thought the very windows spake, 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!” Whilst he, from the one side to the other turning, Bareheaded, lower than his proud steed’s neck, Bespake them thus, “I thank you, countrymen.” And thus still doing, thus he passed along.

DUCHESS. Alack, poor Richard! Where rode he the whilst?

YORK. As in a theatre the eyes of men After a well-graced 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 Did scowl on gentle 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, The badges of his grief and patience, That had not God for some strong purpose, steeled The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted, And barbarism itself have pitied him. But heaven hath a hand in these events, To whose high will we bound our calm contents. To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now, Whose state and honour I for aye allow.

Enter Aumerle.

DUCHESS. Here comes my son Aumerle.

YORK. Aumerle that was; 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.

DUCHESS. Welcome, my son. Who are the violets now That strew the green lap of the new-come spring?

AUMERLE. 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, Lest you be cropped before you come to prime. What news from Oxford? Do these jousts and triumphs hold?

AUMERLE. For aught I know, my lord, they do.

YORK. You will be there, I know.

AUMERLE. If God prevent not, I purpose so.

YORK. What seal is that that hangs without thy bosom? Yea, look’st thou pale? Let me see the writing.

AUMERLE. My lord, ’tis nothing.

YORK. No matter, then, who see it. I will be satisfied. Let me see the writing.

AUMERLE. 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—

DUCHESS. What should you fear? ’Tis nothing but some bond that he is entered 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. Boy, let me see the writing.

AUMERLE. 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 it._]

Treason, foul treason! Villain! traitor! slave!

DUCHESS. What is the matter, my lord?

YORK. Ho! who is within there?

Enter a Servant.

Saddle my horse. God for his mercy, what treachery is here!

DUCHESS. Why, what is it, my lord?

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._]

DUCHESS. What is the matter?

YORK. Peace, foolish woman.

DUCHESS. I will not peace. What is the matter, Aumerle?

AUMERLE. Good mother, be content. It is no more Than my poor life must answer.

DUCHESS. Thy life answer?

YORK. Bring me my boots. I will unto the King.

Re-enter Servant with boots.

DUCHESS. Strike him, Aumerle! Poor boy, thou art amazed. [_To Servant_.] Hence, villain! Never more come in my sight.

[_Exit Servant._]

YORK. Give me my boots, I say.

DUCHESS. Why, York, what wilt thou do? 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? 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 To kill the King at Oxford.

DUCHESS. 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.

DUCHESS. Hadst thou groaned for him As I have done, thou wouldst 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. Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind. He is as like thee as a man may be, Not like to me, or any of my kin, And yet I love him.

YORK. Make way, unruly woman!

[_Exit._]

DUCHESS. 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. And never will I rise up from the ground Till Bolingbroke have pardoned thee. Away, be gone!

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE III. Windsor. A room in the Castle.

Enter Bolingbroke as King, Harry Percy and other Lords.

KING HENRY. Can no man tell me of my unthrifty son? ’Tis full three months since I did see him last. If any plague hang over us, ’tis he. 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 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.

PERCY. My lord, some two days since I saw the Prince, And told him of those triumphs held at Oxford.

KING HENRY. And what said the gallant?

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 He would unhorse the lustiest challenger.

KING HENRY. As dissolute as desperate! Yet through both I see some sparks of better hope, which elder years May happily bring forth. But who comes here?

Enter Aumerle.

AUMERLE. Where is the King?

KING HENRY. What means our cousin that he stares and looks so wildly?

AUMERLE. God save your Grace! I do beseech your majesty To have some conference with your Grace alone.

KING HENRY. Withdraw yourselves, and leave us here alone.

[_Exeunt Harry Percy and Lords._]

What is the matter with our cousin now?

AUMERLE. [_Kneels_.] For ever may my knees grow to the earth, My tongue cleave to my roof within my mouth, Unless a pardon ere I rise or speak.

KING HENRY. Intended or committed was this fault? If on the first, how heinous e’er it be, To win thy after-love I pardon thee.

AUMERLE. Then give me leave that I may turn the key, That no man enter till my tale be done.

KING HENRY. Have thy desire.

[_Aumerle locks the door._]

YORK. [_Within_.] My liege, beware! Look to thyself! Thou hast a traitor in thy presence there.

KING HENRY. [_Drawing_.] Villain, I’ll make thee safe.

AUMERLE. 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.

[_King Henry unlocks the door; and afterwards, relocks it._]

Enter York.

KING HENRY. 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.

AUMERLE. Remember, as thou read’st, thy promise passed. I do repent me. Read not my name there; My heart is not confederate with my hand.

YORK. It was, villain, ere thy hand did set it down. I tore it from the traitor’s bosom, king. Fear, and not love, begets his penitence. Forget to pity him, lest thy pity prove A serpent that will sting thee to the heart.

KING HENRY. O heinous, strong, and bold conspiracy! O loyal father of a treacherous son! Thou sheer, immaculate, and silver fountain From whence this stream through muddy passages Hath held his current and defiled himself! Thy overflow of good converts to bad, And thy abundant goodness shall excuse 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, Or my shamed 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.

DUCHESS. [_Within_.] What ho, my liege! For God’s sake, let me in!

KING HENRY. What shrill-voiced suppliant makes this eager cry?

DUCHESS. [_Within_.] A woman, and thine aunt, great king, ’tis I. Speak with me, pity me, open the door! A beggar begs that never begged before.

KING HENRY. Our scene is altered from a serious thing, And now changed to “The Beggar and the King.” My dangerous cousin, let your mother in. I know she’s come to pray for your foul sin.

Enter Duchess.

YORK. If thou do pardon whosoever pray, More sins for this forgiveness prosper may. This festered joint cut off, the rest rest sound; This let alone will all the rest confound.

DUCHESS. O King, believe not this hard-hearted man. Love loving not itself none other can.

YORK. Thou frantic woman, what dost thou make here? Shall thy old dugs once more a traitor rear?

DUCHESS. Sweet York, be patient. [_Kneels_.] Hear me, gentle liege.

KING HENRY. Rise up, good aunt.

DUCHESS. Not yet, I thee beseech. 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.

AUMERLE. Unto my mother’s prayers I bend my knee.

[_Kneels._]

YORK. Against them both, my true joints bended be.

[_Kneels._]

Ill mayst thou thrive if thou grant any grace!

DUCHESS. 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. 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 still kneel till to the ground they grow. His prayers are full of false hypocrisy; Ours of true zeal and deep integrity. Our prayers do outpray his; then let them have That mercy which true prayer ought to have.

KING HENRY. Good aunt, stand up.

DUCHESS. Nay, do not say “stand up”. Say “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 longed to hear a word till now. Say “pardon,” king; let pity teach thee how. 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 “pardonne moy.”

DUCHESS. Dost thou teach pardon pardon to destroy? Ah! my sour husband, my hard-hearted lord, That sets 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, That, hearing how our plaints and prayers do pierce, Pity may move thee “pardon” to rehearse.

KING HENRY. Good aunt, stand up.

DUCHESS. I do not sue to stand. Pardon is all the suit I have in hand.

KING HENRY. I pardon him, as God shall pardon me.

DUCHESS. 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.

KING HENRY. With all my heart I pardon him.

DUCHESS. A god on earth thou art.

KING HENRY. But for our trusty brother-in-law and the Abbot, With all the rest of that consorted crew, 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. Uncle, farewell, and cousin, adieu. Your mother well hath prayed, and prove you true.

DUCHESS. Come, my old son. I pray God make thee new.

[_Exeunt._]

## 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?

SERVANT. These were his very words.

EXTON. “Have I no friend?” quoth he. He spake it twice And urged it twice together, did he not?

SERVANT. He did.

EXTON. And speaking it, he wishtly looked on me, 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._]

## SCENE V. Pomfret. The dungeon of the Castle.

Enter Richard.

RICHARD. I have been studying how I may compare This prison where I live unto the world; And for because the world is populous 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, 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 intermixed With scruples, and do set the word itself 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 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 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, Bearing their own misfortunes on the back Of such as have before endured the like. Thus play I in one person many people, And none contented. Sometimes am I king; Then treasons make me wish myself a beggar, And so I am. Then crushing penury Persuades me I was better when a king; Then am I kinged again, and by and by Think that I am unkinged by Bolingbroke, And straight am nothing. But whate’er I be, Nor I nor any man that but man is With nothing shall be pleased till he be eased 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! So is it in the music of men’s lives. And here have I the daintiness of ear To check time broke in a disordered string; But for the concord of my state and time Had not an ear to hear my true time broke. I wasted time, and now doth time waste me; For now hath time made me his numb’ring 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, Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears. Now, sir, the sound that tells what hour it is Are clamorous groans which strike upon my heart, Which is the bell. So sighs and tears and groans Show minutes, times, and hours. But my time 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. 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 a Groom of the stable.

GROOM. Hail, royal Prince!

RICHARD. Thanks, noble peer. The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear. What art thou, and how comest thou hither Where no man never comes but that sad dog That brings me food to make misfortune live?

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 erned my heart when I beheld 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 dressed.

RICHARD. Rode he on Barbary? Tell me, gentle friend, How went he under him?

GROOM. So proudly as if he disdained the ground.

RICHARD. 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. 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 awed by man, Wast born to bear? I was not made a horse, And yet I bear a burden like an ass, Spurred, galled and tired by jauncing Bolingbroke.

Enter Keeper with a dish.

KEEPER. [_To the Groom_.] Fellow, give place. Here is no longer stay.

RICHARD. If thou love me, ’tis time thou wert away.

GROOM. My tongue dares not, that my heart shall say.

[_Exit._]

KEEPER. My lord, will’t please you to fall to?

RICHARD. Taste of it first as thou art wont to do.

KEEPER. My lord, I dare not. Sir Pierce of Exton, Who lately came from the King, commands the contrary.

RICHARD. The devil take Henry of Lancaster and thee! Patience is stale, and I am weary of it.

[_Strikes the Keeper._]

KEEPER. Help, help, help!

Enter Exton and Servants, armed.

RICHARD. How now! What means death in this rude assault? Villain, thy 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 stained the King’s own land. 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 spilled. O, would the deed were good! For now the devil that told me I did well 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._]

## SCENE VI. Windsor. An Apartment in the Castle.

Flourish. Enter King Henry and York with Lords and Attendants.

KING HENRY. Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear Is that the rebels have consumed with fire Our town of Cicester in Gloucestershire, But whether they be ta’en or slain we hear not.

Enter Northumberland.

Welcome, my lord. What is the news?

NORTHUMBERLAND. First, to thy sacred state wish I all happiness. The next news is: I have to London sent The heads of Salisbury, Spencer, Blunt, and Kent. The manner of their taking may appear At large discoursed in this paper here.

KING HENRY. We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains, And to thy worth will add right worthy gains.

Enter Fitzwater.

FITZWATER. 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.

KING HENRY. Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot. Right noble is thy merit, well I wot.

Enter Harry Percy with the Bishop of Carlisle.

PERCY. The grand conspirator, Abbot of Westminster, With clog of conscience and sour melancholy, Hath yielded up his body to the grave. But here is Carlisle living, to abide Thy kingly doom and sentence of his pride.

KING HENRY. Carlisle, this is your doom: Choose out some secret place, some reverend room, More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life. So as thou liv’st 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.

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.

KING HENRY. Exton, I thank thee not, for thou hast wrought 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.

KING HENRY. They love not poison that do poison need, Nor do I thee. Though I did wish him dead, 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 thorough shades of night, And never show thy head by day nor light. Lords, I protest my soul is full of woe That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow. Come, mourn with me for what I do lament, And put on sullen black incontinent. I’ll make a voyage to the Holy Land To wash this blood off from my guilty hand. March sadly after; grace my mournings here In weeping after this untimely bier.

[_Exeunt._]

KING RICHARD THE THIRD

Contents

## ACT I

## Scene I. London. A street

## Scene II. London. Another street

## Scene III. London. A Room in the Palace

## Scene IV. London. A Room in the Tower

## ACT II

## Scene I. London. A Room in the palace

## Scene II. Another Room in the palace

## Scene III. London. A street

## Scene IV. London. A Room in the Palace

## ACT III

## Scene I. London. A street

## Scene II. Before Lord Hastings’ house

## Scene III. Pomfret. Before the Castle

## Scene IV. London. A Room in the Tower

## Scene V. London. The Tower Walls

## Scene VI. London. A street

## Scene VII. London. Court of Baynard’s Castle

## ACT IV

## Scene I. London. Before the Tower

## Scene II. London. A Room of State in the Palace

## Scene III. London. Another Room in the Palace

## Scene IV. London. Before the Palace

## Scene V. A Room in Lord Stanley’s house

## ACT V

## Scene I. Salisbury. An open place

## Scene II. Plain near Tamworth

## Scene III. Bosworth Field

## Scene IV. Another part of the Field

## Scene V. Another part of the Field

Dramatis Personæ

RICHARD, DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, afterwards KING RICHARD III. LADY ANNE, widow to Edward, Prince of Wales, son to King Henry VI.; afterwards married to the Duke of Gloucester

KING EDWARD THE FOURTH, brother to Richard QUEEN ELIZABETH, Queen to King Edward IV. Sons to the king: EDWARD, PRINCE OF WALES, afterwards KING EDWARD V. RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK

GEORGE, DUKE OF CLARENCE, brother to Edward and Richard BOY, son to Clarence GIRL, daughter to Clarence

DUCHESS OF YORK, mother to King Edward IV., Clarence, and Gloucester QUEEN MARGARET, widow to King Henry VI. DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM LORD HASTINGS, the Lord Chamberlain LORD STANLEY, the Earl of Derby EARL RIVERS, brother to Queen Elizabeth LORD GREY, son of Queen Elizabeth by her former marriage MARQUESS OF DORSET, son of Queen Elizabeth by her former marriage SIR THOMAS VAUGHAN

SIR WILLIAM CATESBY SIR RICHARD RATCLIFFE LORD LOVELL DUKE OF NORFOLK EARL OF SURREY

HENRY, EARL OF RICHMOND, afterwards KING HENRY VII. EARL OF OXFORD SIR JAMES BLUNT SIR WALTER HERBERT SIR WILLIAM BRANDON CHRISTOPHER URSWICK, a priest THOMAS ROTHERHAM, ARCHBISHOP OF YORK CARDINAL BOURCHIER, ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY John Morton, BISHOP OF ELY SIR ROBERT BRAKENBURY, Lieutenant of the Tower SIR JAMES TYRREL Another Priest LORD MAYOR OF LONDON SHERIFF OF WILTSHIRE

Lords, and other Attendants; two Gentlemen, a Pursuivant, Scrivener, Citizens, Murderers, Messengers, Ghosts, Soldiers, &c.

SCENE: England

## ACT I

## SCENE I. London. A street

Enter Richard, Duke of Gloucester, alone.

RICHARD. Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this son of York; And all the clouds that loured upon our house 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. Grim-visaged war hath smoothed 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. But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass; I, that am rudely stamped, and want love’s majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph; I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion, Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, Deformed, unfinished, 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— Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace, Have no delight to pass away the time, Unless to spy my shadow in the sun, And descant on mine own deformity. And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover 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, 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 mewed up 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 That waits upon your Grace?

CLARENCE. His Majesty, Tend’ring my person’s safety, hath appointed This conduct to convey me to the Tower.

RICHARD. Upon what cause?

CLARENCE. Because my name is George.

RICHARD. 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-christened in the Tower. But what’s the matter, Clarence? May I know?

CLARENCE. 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, 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, Hath moved his Highness to commit me now.

RICHARD. Why, this it is when men are ruled 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. 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 delivered? We are not safe, Clarence; we are not safe.

CLARENCE. 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 an humble suppliant Lord Hastings was to her for his delivery?

RICHARD. 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. The jealous o’er-worn widow and herself, Since that our brother dubbed them gentlewomen, Are mighty gossips in our monarchy.

BRAKENBURY. I beseech your Graces both to pardon me. His Majesty hath straitly given in charge That no man shall have private conference, Of what degree soever, with your brother.

RICHARD. Even so; an please your worship, Brakenbury, You may partake of anything we say. We speak no treason, man. We say the King 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. How say you, sir? Can you deny all this?

BRAKENBURY. With this, my lord, myself have naught to do.

RICHARD. 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.

BRAKENBURY. What one, my lord?

RICHARD. Her husband, knave! Wouldst thou betray me?

BRAKENBURY. I do beseech your Grace to pardon me, and withal Forbear your conference with the noble Duke.

CLARENCE. We know thy charge, Brakenbury, and will obey.

RICHARD. 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. Meantime, this deep disgrace in brotherhood Touches me deeper than you can imagine.

CLARENCE. I know it pleaseth neither of us well.

RICHARD. Well, your imprisonment shall not be long. I will deliver or else lie for you. Meantime, have patience.

CLARENCE. I must perforce. Farewell.

[_Exeunt Clarence, Brakenbury and guard._]

RICHARD. 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, If heaven will take the present at our hands. But who comes here? The new-delivered Hastings?

Enter Lord Hastings.

HASTINGS. Good time of day unto my gracious lord.

RICHARD. As much unto my good Lord Chamberlain. Well are you welcome to the open air. How hath your lordship brooked imprisonment?

HASTINGS. With patience, noble lord, as prisoners must; But I shall live, my lord, to give them thanks That were the cause of my imprisonment.

RICHARD. No doubt, no doubt; and so shall Clarence too, For they that were your enemies are his, And have prevailed as much on him as you.

HASTINGS. More pity that the eagles should be mewed, Whiles kites and buzzards prey at liberty.

RICHARD. What news abroad?

HASTINGS. No news so bad abroad as this at home: The King is sickly, weak, and melancholy, And his physicians fear him mightily.

RICHARD. Now, by Saint John, that news is bad indeed. O, he hath kept an evil diet long, And overmuch consumed his royal person. ’Tis very grievous to be thought upon. Where is he, in his bed?

HASTINGS. He is.

RICHARD. Go you before, and I will follow you.

[_Exit Hastings._]

He cannot live, I hope, and must not die Till George be packed with post-horse up to heaven. I’ll in to urge his hatred more to Clarence With lies well steeled with weighty arguments; 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. What though I killed 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, 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._]

## SCENE II. London. Another street

Enter the corse of King Henry the Sixth, with Halberds to guard it, Lady Anne, being the mourner, Tressel and Berkeley and other Gentlemen.

ANNE. Set down, set down your honourable load, If honour may be shrouded in a hearse, Whilst I awhile obsequiously lament Th’ 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 To hear the lamentations of poor Anne, Wife to thy Edward, to thy slaughtered son, Stabbed by the selfsame hand that made these wounds. Lo, in these windows that let forth thy life I pour the helpless balm of my poor eyes. 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 Than I can wish to adders, spiders, toads, Or any creeping venomed thing that lives. If ever he have child, abortive be it, Prodigious, and untimely brought to light, Whose ugly and unnatural aspect 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. Come now towards Chertsey with your holy load, Taken from Paul’s to be interred there; And still, as you are weary of this weight, Rest you, whiles I lament King Henry’s corse.

[_They take up the bier._]

Enter Richard, Duke of Gloucester.

RICHARD. Stay, you that bear the corse, and set it down.

ANNE. What black magician conjures up this fiend To stop devoted charitable deeds?

RICHARD. Villains, set down the corse or, by Saint Paul, I’ll make a corse of him that disobeys!

GENTLEMAN. My lord, stand back, and let the coffin pass.

RICHARD. Unmannered 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.

[_They set down the bier._]

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; His soul thou canst not have; therefore begone.

RICHARD. 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, Filled it with cursing cries and deep exclaims. If thou delight to view thy heinous deeds, Behold this pattern of thy butcheries. O, gentlemen, see, see dead Henry’s wounds Open their congealed mouths and bleed afresh! Blush, blush, thou lump of foul deformity, For ’tis thy presence that exhales this blood From cold and empty veins where no blood dwells. Thy deeds, inhuman and unnatural, Provokes this deluge most unnatural. O God, which this blood mad’st, revenge his death! 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-governed arm hath butchered.

RICHARD. Lady, you know no rules of charity, Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses.

ANNE. Villain, thou know’st nor law of God nor man. No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity.

RICHARD. But I know none, and therefore am no beast.

ANNE. O wonderful, when devils tell the truth!

RICHARD. More wonderful when angels are so angry. Vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman, Of these supposed crimes to give me leave, By circumstance, but to acquit myself.

ANNE. Vouchsafe, diffused infection of a man, Of these known evils but to give me leave, By circumstance, to accuse thy cursed self.

RICHARD. Fairer than tongue can name thee, let me have Some patient leisure to excuse myself.

ANNE. Fouler than heart can think thee, thou canst make No excuse current but to hang thyself.

RICHARD. By such despair I should accuse myself.

ANNE. And by despairing shalt thou stand excused For doing worthy vengeance on thyself That didst unworthy slaughter upon others.

RICHARD. Say that I slew them not?

ANNE. Then say they were not slain. But dead they are, and, devilish slave, by thee.

RICHARD. I did not kill your husband.

ANNE. Why then he is alive.

RICHARD. Nay, he is dead, and slain by Edward’s hand.

ANNE. In thy foul throat thou liest. Queen Margaret saw Thy murd’rous falchion smoking in his blood, The which thou once didst bend against her breast, But that thy brothers beat aside the point.

RICHARD. 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 dream’st on aught but butcheries. Didst thou not kill this King?

RICHARD. I grant ye.

ANNE. Dost grant me, hedgehog? Then, God grant me too Thou mayst be damned for that wicked deed. O, he was gentle, mild, and virtuous.

RICHARD. The better for the King of Heaven that hath him.

ANNE. He is in heaven, where thou shalt never come.

RICHARD. Let him thank me that holp to send him thither, For he was fitter for that place than earth.

ANNE. And thou unfit for any place but hell.

RICHARD. Yes, one place else, if you will hear me name it.

ANNE. Some dungeon.

RICHARD. Your bed-chamber.

ANNE. Ill rest betide the chamber where thou liest!

RICHARD. So will it, madam, till I lie with you.

ANNE. I hope so.

RICHARD. I know so. But, gentle Lady Anne, To leave this keen encounter of our wits, And fall something into a slower method: Is not the causer of the timeless deaths Of these Plantagenets, Henry and Edward, As blameful as the executioner?

ANNE. Thou wast the cause and most accursed effect.

RICHARD. Your beauty was the cause of that effect: Your beauty, that did haunt me in my sleep To undertake the death of all the world, So I might 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.

RICHARD. These eyes could not endure that beauty’s wrack; 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.

RICHARD. Curse not thyself, fair creature; thou art both.

ANNE. I would I were, to be revenged on thee.

RICHARD. It is a quarrel most unnatural, To be revenged on him that loveth thee.

ANNE. It is a quarrel just and reasonable, To be revenged on him that killed my husband.

RICHARD. 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.

RICHARD. He lives that loves thee better than he could.

ANNE. Name him.

RICHARD. Plantagenet.

ANNE. Why, that was he.

RICHARD. The selfsame name, but one of better nature.

ANNE. Where is he?

RICHARD. Here.

[_She spits at him._]

Why dost thou spit at me?

ANNE. Would it were mortal poison, for thy sake.

RICHARD. 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.

RICHARD. Thine eyes, sweet lady, have infected mine.

ANNE. Would they were basilisks to strike thee dead!

RICHARD. 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, Shamed their aspects with store of childish drops. 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-faced Clifford shook his sword at him; Nor when thy warlike father, like a child, 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 bedashed with rain. In that sad time My manly eyes did scorn an humble tear; And what these sorrows could not thence exhale, Thy beauty hath, and made them blind with weeping. I never sued to friend nor enemy; My tongue could never learn sweet smoothing word; But now thy beauty is proposed my fee, 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, Which if thou please to hide in this true breast And let the soul forth that adoreth thee, I lay it naked to the deadly stroke, And humbly beg the death upon my knee,

[_He kneels and lays his breast open; she offers at it with his sword._]

Nay, do not pause, for I did kill King Henry— But ’twas thy beauty that provoked me. Nay, now dispatch; ’twas I that stabbed young Edward— But ’twas thy heavenly face that set me on.

[_She falls the sword._]

Take up the sword again, or take up me.

ANNE. Arise, dissembler. Though I wish thy death, I will not be thy executioner.

RICHARD. Then bid me kill myself, and I will do it.

ANNE. I have already.

RICHARD. That was in thy rage. Speak it again, and even with the word, 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.

RICHARD. ’Tis figured in my tongue.

ANNE. I fear me both are false.

RICHARD. Then never was man true.

ANNE. Well, well, put up your sword.

RICHARD. Say then my peace is made.

ANNE. That shalt thou know hereafter.

RICHARD. But shall I live in hope?

ANNE. All men, I hope, live so.

RICHARD. Vouchsafe to wear this ring.

ANNE. To take is not to give.

[_He places the ring on her hand._]

RICHARD. Look how my ring encompasseth thy finger; 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.

ANNE. What is it?

RICHARD. 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 interred 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.

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.

RICHARD. Bid me farewell.

ANNE. ’Tis more than you deserve; But since you teach me how to flatter you, Imagine I have said farewell already.

[_Exeunt Lady Anne, Tressel and Berkeley._]

RICHARD. Sirs, take up the corse.

GENTLEMAN. Towards Chertsey, noble lord?

RICHARD. No, to White Friars; there attend my coming.

[_Exeunt Halberds and Gentlemen with corse._]

Was ever woman in this humour wooed? Was ever woman in this humour won? I’ll have her, but I will not keep her long. What, I that killed her husband and his father, To take her in her heart’s extremest hate, 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 I no friends to back my suit at all, But the plain devil and dissembling looks? 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, Stabbed in my angry mood at Tewksbury? A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman, Framed 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, That cropped 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, 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 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 yon fellow in his grave, And then return lamenting to my love. Shine out, fair sun, till I have bought a glass, That I may see my shadow as I pass.

[_Exit._]

## SCENE III. London. A Room in the Palace

Enter Queen Elizabeth, the Marquess of Dorset, Lord Rivers and Lord Grey.

RIVERS. Have patience, madam. There’s no doubt his Majesty Will soon recover his accustomed health.

GREY. In that you brook it ill, it makes him worse. Therefore, for God’s sake, entertain good comfort, And cheer his Grace with quick and merry eyes.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. If he were dead, what would betide on me?

GREY. No other harm but loss of such a lord.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. The loss of such a lord includes all harms.

GREY. The heavens have blessed you with a goodly son To be your comforter when he is gone.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Ah, he is young, and his minority Is put unto the trust of Richard Gloucester, A man that loves not me, nor none of you.

RIVERS. Is it concluded he shall be Protector?

QUEEN ELIZABETH. It is determined, not concluded yet; But so it must be, if the King miscarry.

Enter Buckingham and Stanley, Earl of Derby.

GREY. Here come the Lords of Buckingham and Derby.

BUCKINGHAM. Good time of day unto your royal Grace.

STANLEY. God make your Majesty joyful as you have been.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. The Countess Richmond, good my Lord of Derby, To your good prayer will scarcely say amen. Yet, Derby, notwithstanding she’s your wife, And loves not me, be you, good lord, assured I hate not you for her proud arrogance.

STANLEY. I do beseech you, either not believe The envious slanders of her false accusers, Or if she be accused on true report, Bear with her weakness, which I think proceeds From wayward sickness, and no grounded malice.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Saw you the King today, my Lord of Derby?

STANLEY. But now the Duke of Buckingham and I Are come from visiting his Majesty.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. What likelihood of his amendment, lords?

BUCKINGHAM. Madam, good hope; his Grace speaks cheerfully.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. God grant him health! Did you confer with him?

BUCKINGHAM. Ay, madam; he desires to make atonement Between the Duke of Gloucester and your brothers, And between them and my Lord Chamberlain; And sent to warn them to his royal presence.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Would all were well—but that will never be. I fear our happiness is at the height.

Enter Richard, Duke of Gloucester and Hastings.

RICHARD. They do me wrong, and I will not endure it! Who is it that complains 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. Because I cannot flatter and look 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, But thus his simple truth must be abused With silken, sly, insinuating Jacks?

GREY. To who in all this presence speaks your Grace?

RICHARD. To thee, that hast nor honesty nor grace. When have I injured thee? When done thee wrong? Or thee? Or thee? Or any of your faction? A plague upon you all! His royal Grace, Whom God preserve better than you would wish, Cannot be quiet scarce a breathing while But you must trouble him with lewd complaints.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Brother of Gloucester, you mistake the matter. The King, on his own royal disposition, And not provoked by any suitor else, Aiming, belike, at your interior hatred That in your outward action shows itself Against my children, brothers, and myself, Makes him to send, that he may learn the ground Of your ill will, and thereby to remove it.

RICHARD. I cannot tell. The world is grown so bad That wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch. Since every Jack became a gentleman, There’s many a gentle person made a Jack.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Come, come, we know your meaning, brother Gloucester. You envy my advancement, and my friends’. God grant we never may have need of you.

RICHARD. Meantime, God grants that we have need of you. Our brother is imprisoned by your means, Myself disgraced, and the nobility Held in contempt, while great promotions Are daily given to ennoble those That scarce some two days since were worth a noble.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. By Him that raised me to this careful height From that contented hap which I enjoyed, I never did incense his Majesty Against the Duke of Clarence, but have been An earnest advocate to plead for him. My lord, you do me shameful injury Falsely to draw me in these vile suspects.

RICHARD. You may deny that you were not the mean Of my Lord Hastings’ late imprisonment.

RIVERS. She may, my lord; for—

RICHARD. 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, And lay those honours on your high desert. What may she not? She may, ay, marry, may she—

RIVERS. What, marry, may she?

RICHARD. What, marry, may she? Marry with a king, A bachelor, and a handsome stripling too. Iwis your grandam had a worser match.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. 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 endured. I had rather be a country servant-maid Than a great queen with this condition, To be so baited, scorned, and stormed at.

Enter old Queen Margaret behind.

Small joy have I in being England’s queen.

QUEEN MARGARET. [_Aside._] And lessened be that small, God, I beseech Him! Thy honour, state, and seat, is due to me.

RICHARD. What, threat you me with telling of the King? Tell him, and spare not. Look what I have said I will avouch ’t in presence of the King; I dare adventure to be sent to th’ Tower. ’Tis time to speak. My pains are quite forgot.

QUEEN MARGARET. [_Aside._] Out, devil! I do remember them too well: Thou killed’st my husband Henry in the Tower, And Edward, my poor son, at Tewksbury.

RICHARD. 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.

QUEEN MARGARET. [_Aside._] Ay, and much better blood than his or thine.

RICHARD. 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 Albans slain? Let me put in your minds, if you forget, What you have been ere this, and what you are; Withal, what I have been, and what I am.

QUEEN MARGARET. [_Aside._] A murd’rous villain, and so still thou art.

RICHARD. Poor Clarence did forsake his father Warwick, Ay, and forswore himself—which Jesu pardon!—

QUEEN MARGARET. [_Aside._] Which God revenge!

RICHARD. To fight on Edward’s party for the crown; And for his meed, poor lord, he is mewed up. I would to God my heart were flint, like Edward’s, Or Edward’s soft and pitiful, like mine. I am too childish-foolish for this world.

QUEEN MARGARET. [_Aside._] Hie thee to hell for shame, and leave this world, Thou cacodemon! There thy kingdom is.

RIVERS. My lord of Gloucester, in those busy days Which here you urge to prove us enemies, We followed then our lord, our sovereign king. So should we you, if you should be our king.

RICHARD. If I should be! I had rather be a pedler. Far be it from my heart, the thought thereof.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. 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.

QUEEN MARGARET. [_Aside._] As little joy enjoys the Queen thereof, For I am she, and altogether joyless. I can no longer hold me patient.

[_Coming forward._]

Hear me, you wrangling pirates, that fall out In sharing that which you have pilled from me! Which of you trembles not that looks on me? If not, that I am Queen, you bow like subjects, Yet that, by you deposed, you quake like rebels. Ah, gentle villain, do not turn away.

RICHARD. Foul wrinkled witch, what mak’st thou in my sight?

QUEEN MARGARET. But repetition of what thou hast marred. That will I make before I let thee go.

RICHARD. Wert thou not banished on pain of death?

QUEEN MARGARET. 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; 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.

RICHARD. The curse my noble father laid on thee When thou didst crown his warlike brows with paper, And with thy scorns drew’st rivers from his eyes, And then to dry them, gav’st the Duke a clout Steeped in the faultless blood of pretty Rutland— His curses then, from bitterness of soul Denounced against thee, are all fall’n upon thee, And God, not we, hath plagued thy bloody deed.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. So just is God, to right the innocent.

HASTINGS. O, ’twas the foulest deed to slay that babe, And the most merciless that e’er was heard of.

RIVERS. Tyrants themselves wept when it was reported.

DORSET. No man but prophesied revenge for it.

BUCKINGHAM. Northumberland, then present, wept to see it.

QUEEN MARGARET. 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? 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? 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 our son, that was Prince of Wales, 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 death, And see another, as I see thee now, Decked in thy rights, as thou art stalled in mine; Long die thy happy days before thy death, And, after many lengthened hours of grief, Die neither mother, wife, nor England’s Queen. Rivers and Dorset, you were standers-by, And so wast thou, Lord Hastings, when my son Was stabbed with bloody daggers. God, I pray Him, That none of you may live his natural age, But by some unlooked accident cut off.

RICHARD. Have done thy charm, thou hateful withered hag.

QUEEN MARGARET. 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 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, Unless it be while some tormenting dream Affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils. Thou elvish-marked, abortive, rooting hog, Thou that wast sealed in thy nativity The slave of nature and the son of hell; Thou slander of thy heavy mother’s womb, Thou loathed issue of thy father’s loins, Thou rag of honour, thou detested—

RICHARD. Margaret.

QUEEN MARGARET. Richard!

RICHARD. Ha?

QUEEN MARGARET. I call thee not.

RICHARD. I cry thee mercy then, for I did think That thou hadst called me all these bitter names.

QUEEN MARGARET. Why, so I did, but looked for no reply. O, let me make the period to my curse!

RICHARD. ’Tis done by me, and ends in “Margaret”.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Thus have you breathed your curse against yourself.

QUEEN MARGARET. Poor painted queen, vain flourish of my fortune, Why strew’st thou sugar on that bottled spider, 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 poisonous bunch-backed toad.

HASTINGS. False-boding woman, end thy frantic curse, Lest to thy harm thou move our patience.

QUEEN MARGARET. Foul shame upon you, you have all moved mine.

RIVERS. Were you well served, you would be taught your duty.

QUEEN MARGARET. To serve me well, you all should do me duty: Teach me to be your queen, and you my subjects. O, serve me well, and teach yourselves that duty!

DORSET. Dispute not with her; she is lunatic.

QUEEN MARGARET. Peace, Master Marquess, you are malapert. Your fire-new stamp of honour is scarce current. O, that your young nobility could judge 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.

RICHARD. Good counsel, marry. Learn it, learn it, Marquess.

DORSET. It touches you, my lord, as much as me.

RICHARD. 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.

QUEEN MARGARET. And turns the sun to shade, alas, alas! Witness my son, now in the shade of death, 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 is won with blood, lost be it so.

BUCKINGHAM. Peace, peace, for shame, if not for charity.

QUEEN MARGARET. Urge neither charity nor shame to me. Uncharitably with me have you dealt, And shamefully my hopes by you are butchered. My charity is outrage, life my shame, And in that shame still live my sorrow’s rage.

BUCKINGHAM. Have done, have done.

QUEEN MARGARET. O princely Buckingham, I’ll kiss thy hand In sign of league and amity with thee. Now fair befall thee and thy noble house! Thy garments are not spotted with our blood, Nor thou within the compass of my curse.

BUCKINGHAM. Nor no one here, for curses never pass The lips of those that breathe them in the air.

QUEEN MARGARET. I will not think but they ascend the sky, 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; Sin, death, and hell have set their marks on him, And all their ministers attend on him.

RICHARD. What doth she say, my lord of Buckingham?

BUCKINGHAM. Nothing that I respect, my gracious lord.

QUEEN MARGARET. What, dost thou scorn me for my gentle counsel, 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 subjects to his hate, And he to yours, and all of you to God’s!

[_Exit._]

BUCKINGHAM. My hair doth stand on end to hear her curses.

RIVERS. And so doth mine. I muse why she’s at liberty.

RICHARD. I cannot blame her. By God’s holy mother, She hath had too much wrong; and I repent My part thereof that I have done to her.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. I never did her any, to my knowledge.

RICHARD. 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. Marry, as for Clarence, he is well repaid; He is franked up to fatting for his pains. God pardon them that are the cause thereof.

RIVERS. A virtuous and a Christian-like conclusion, To pray for them that have done scathe to us.

RICHARD. So do I ever—(_Speaks to himself_) being well advised; For had I cursed now, I had cursed myself.

Enter Catesby.

CATESBY. Madam, his Majesty doth call for you, And for your Grace, and you, my gracious lords.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Catesby, I come. Lords, will you go with me?

RIVERS. We wait upon your Grace.

[_Exeunt all but Richard._]

RICHARD. I do the wrong, and first begin to brawl. The secret mischiefs that I set abroach I lay unto the grievous charge of others. Clarence, whom I indeed have cast in darkness, I do beweep to many simple gulls, Namely, to Derby, Hastings, Buckingham; And tell them ’tis the Queen and her allies That stir the King against the Duke my brother. Now they believe it, and withal whet me To be revenged on Rivers, Dorset, 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 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; Are you now going to dispatch this thing?

FIRST MURDERER. We are, my lord, and come to have the warrant, That we may be admitted where he is.

RICHARD. Well thought upon; I have it here about me.

[_Gives the warrant._]

When you have done, repair to Crosby Place. 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.

SECOND MURDERER. Tut, tut, my lord, we will not stand to prate. Talkers are no good doers. Be assured We go to use our hands, and not our tongues.

RICHARD. Your eyes drop millstones when fools’ eyes fall tears. I like you, lads. About your business straight. Go, go, dispatch.

BOTH MURDERERS. We will, my noble lord.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE IV. London. A Room in the Tower

Enter Clarence and Keeper.

KEEPER. Why looks your Grace so heavily today?

CLARENCE. O, I have passed a miserable night, So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights, 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!

KEEPER. What was your dream, my lord? I pray you tell me.

CLARENCE. Methoughts that I had broken from the Tower, And was embarked to cross to Burgundy; And in my company my brother Gloucester, Who from my cabin tempted me to walk Upon the hatches. Thence we looked toward England, And cited up a thousand heavy times, During the wars of York and Lancaster, That had befall’n us. As we paced along Upon the giddy footing of the hatches, Methought that Gloucester stumbled, and in falling, Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard Into the tumbling billows of the main. O Lord, methought what pain it was to drown, What dreadful noise of waters in my ears; What sights of ugly death within my eyes. Methoughts I saw a thousand fearful wracks; A thousand men that fishes gnawed upon; Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels, All scattered in the bottom of the sea. Some lay in dead men’s skulls, and in the holes Where eyes did once inhabit there were crept— As ’twere in scorn of eyes—reflecting gems, That wooed the slimy bottom of the deep, And mocked the dead bones that lay scattered by.

KEEPER. Had you such leisure in the time of death To gaze upon these secrets of the deep?

CLARENCE. Methought I had; and often did I strive To yield the ghost, but still the envious flood Stopped in my soul, and would not let it forth To find the empty, vast, and wand’ring air, But smothered it within my panting bulk, Who almost burst to belch it in the sea.

KEEPER. Awaked you not in this sore agony?

CLARENCE. No, no, my dream was lengthened after life. O, then began the tempest to my soul. I passed, methought, the melancholy flood, With that sour ferryman which poets write of, Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. The first that there did greet my stranger-soul Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick, Who spake aloud, “What scourge for perjury Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?” And so he vanished. Then came wand’ring by A shadow like an angel, with bright hair Dabbled in blood; and he shrieked out aloud “Clarence is come—false, fleeting, perjured Clarence, That stabbed me in the field by Tewksbury! Seize on him, Furies! Take him unto torment!” With that, methoughts, a legion of foul fiends Environed me, and howled in mine ears Such hideous cries that with the very noise I trembling waked, and for a season after Could not believe but that I was in hell, Such terrible impression made my dream.

KEEPER. No marvel, lord, though it affrighted you; I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.

CLARENCE. Ah, Keeper, Keeper, I have done these things, That now give evidence against my soul, For Edward’s sake, and see how he requites me. O God, if my deep prayers cannot appease Thee, But Thou wilt be avenged on my misdeeds, Yet execute Thy wrath in me alone; O, spare my guiltless wife and my poor children! Keeper, I prithee sit by me awhile. My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.

KEEPER. I will, my lord; God give your Grace good rest.

[_Clarence reposes himself on a chair._]

Enter Brakenbury the Lieutenant.

BRAKENBURY. Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, Makes the night morning, and the noontide night. Princes have but their titles for their glories, 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 name, There’s nothing differs but the outward fame.

Enter the two Murderers.

FIRST MURDERER. Ho, who’s here?

BRAKENBURY. What wouldst thou, fellow? And how cam’st thou hither?

SECOND MURDERER. I would speak with Clarence, and I came hither on my legs.

BRAKENBURY. What, so brief?

FIRST MURDERER. ’Tis better, sir, than to be tedious. Let him see our commission, and talk no more.

[_Brakenbury reads the commission._]

BRAKENBURY. I am in this commanded to deliver The noble Duke of Clarence to your hands. I will not reason what is meant hereby, 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 resigned to you my charge.

FIRST MURDERER. You may, sir; ’tis a point of wisdom. Fare you well.

[_Exeunt Brakenbury and the Keeper._]

SECOND MURDERER. What, shall I stab him as he sleeps?

FIRST MURDERER. No. He’ll say ’twas done cowardly, when he wakes.

SECOND MURDERER. Why, he shall never wake until the great Judgement Day.

FIRST MURDERER. Why, then he’ll say we stabbed him sleeping.

SECOND MURDERER. The urging of that word “judgement” hath bred a kind of remorse in me.

FIRST MURDERER. What, art thou afraid?

SECOND MURDERER. Not to kill him, having a warrant, but to be damned for killing him, from the which no warrant can defend me.

FIRST MURDERER. I thought thou hadst been resolute.

SECOND MURDERER. So I am—to let him live.

FIRST MURDERER. I’ll back to the Duke of Gloucester and tell him so.

SECOND MURDERER. Nay, I prithee stay a little. I hope this passionate humour will change. It was wont to hold me but while one tells twenty.

FIRST MURDERER. How dost thou feel thyself now?

SECOND MURDERER. Faith, some certain dregs of conscience are yet within me.

FIRST MURDERER. Remember our reward, when the deed’s done.

SECOND MURDERER. Zounds, he dies! I had forgot the reward.

FIRST MURDERER. Where’s thy conscience now?

SECOND MURDERER. O, in the Duke of Gloucester’s purse.

FIRST MURDERER. So, when he opens his purse to give us our reward, thy conscience flies out.

SECOND MURDERER. ’Tis no matter; let it go. There’s few or none will entertain it.

FIRST MURDERER. What if it come to thee again?

SECOND MURDERER. I’ll not meddle with it; it makes a man 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 shamefaced spirit that mutinies in a man’s bosom. It fills a man full of obstacles. It made me once restore a purse of gold that by chance I found. It beggars any man that keeps it. It is turned out of 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 MURDERER. Zounds, ’tis even now at my elbow, persuading me not to kill the Duke.

SECOND MURDERER. Take the devil in thy mind, and believe him not. He would insinuate with thee but to make thee sigh.

FIRST MURDERER. I am strong-framed; he cannot prevail with me.

SECOND MURDERER. Spoke like a tall man that respects thy reputation. Come, shall we fall to work?

FIRST MURDERER. Take him on the costard with the hilts of thy sword, and then throw him in the malmsey-butt in the next room.

SECOND MURDERER. O excellent device—and make a sop of him.

FIRST MURDERER. Soft, he wakes.

SECOND MURDERER. Strike!

FIRST MURDERER. No, we’ll reason with him.

CLARENCE. Where art thou, keeper? Give me a cup of wine.

SECOND MURDERER. You shall have wine enough, my lord, anon.

CLARENCE. In God’s name, what art thou?

FIRST MURDERER. A man, as you are.

CLARENCE. But not as I am, royal.

SECOND MURDERER. Nor you as we are, loyal.

CLARENCE. Thy voice is thunder, but thy looks are humble.

FIRST MURDERER. My voice is now the King’s, my looks mine own.

CLARENCE. How darkly and how deadly dost thou speak! Your eyes do menace me; why look you pale? Who sent you hither? Wherefore do you come?

SECOND MURDERER. To, to, to—

CLARENCE. To murder me?

BOTH MURDERERS. Ay, ay.

CLARENCE. You scarcely have the hearts to tell me so, And therefore cannot have the hearts to do it. Wherein, my friends, have I offended you?

FIRST MURDERER. Offended us you have not, but the King.

CLARENCE. I shall be reconciled to him again.

SECOND MURDERER. Never, my lord; therefore prepare to die.

CLARENCE. Are you drawn forth among 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 pronounced 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, That you depart, and lay no hands on me. The deed you undertake is damnable.

FIRST MURDERER. What we will do, we do upon command.

SECOND MURDERER. And he that hath commanded is our King.

CLARENCE. Erroneous vassals! The great King of kings 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.

SECOND MURDERER. 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 MURDERER. And like a traitor to the name of God Didst break that vow, and with thy treacherous blade Unrippedst the bowels of thy sovereign’s son.

SECOND MURDERER. Whom thou wast sworn to cherish and defend.

FIRST MURDERER. How canst thou urge God’s dreadful law to us, When thou hast broke it in such dear degree?

CLARENCE. 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, 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 MURDERER. Who made thee then a bloody minister When gallant-springing, brave Plantagenet, That princely novice, was struck dead by thee?

CLARENCE. My brother’s love, the devil, and my rage.

FIRST MURDERER. Thy brother’s love, our duty, and thy faults, Provoke us hither now to slaughter thee.

CLARENCE. If you do love my brother, hate not me. I am his brother, and I love him well. If you are hired for meed, go back again, And I will send you to my brother Gloucester, Who shall reward you better for my life Than Edward will for tidings of my death.

SECOND MURDERER. You are deceived. Your brother Gloucester hates you.

CLARENCE. O no, he loves me, and he holds me dear. Go you to him from me.

FIRST MURDERER. Ay, so we will.

CLARENCE. Tell him when that our princely father York Blessed his three sons with his victorious arm, And charged us from his soul to love each other, He little thought of this divided friendship. Bid Gloucester think of this, and he will weep.

FIRST MURDERER. Ay, millstones, as he lessoned us to weep.

CLARENCE. O, do not slander him, for he is kind.

FIRST MURDERER. Right, as snow in harvest. Come, you deceive yourself. ’Tis he that sends us to destroy you here.

CLARENCE. It cannot be, for he bewept my fortune, And hugged me in his arms, and swore with sobs That he would labour my delivery.

FIRST MURDERER. Why, so he doth, when he delivers you From this earth’s thraldom to the joys of heaven.

SECOND MURDERER. Make peace with God, for you must die, my lord.

CLARENCE. Have you that holy feeling in your souls To counsel me to make my peace with God, And are you yet to your own souls so blind That you will war with God by murd’ring me? O sirs, consider: they that set you on To do this deed will hate you for the deed.

SECOND MURDERER. What shall we do?

CLARENCE. Relent, and save your souls.

FIRST MURDERER. Relent? No, ’tis cowardly and womanish.

CLARENCE. 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 murderers as yourselves came to you, Would not entreat for life? Ay, you would beg, Were you in my distress. 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; A begging prince what beggar pities not?

SECOND MURDERER. Look behind you, my lord.

FIRST MURDERER. Take that, and that! [_Stabs him._] If all this will not do, I’ll drown you in the malmsey-butt within.

[_Exit with the body._]

SECOND MURDERER. A bloody deed, and desperately dispatched. How fain, like Pilate, would I wash my hands Of this most grievous murder.

Enter First Murderer.

FIRST MURDERER. How now? What mean’st thou that thou help’st me not? By heavens, the Duke shall know how slack you have been.

SECOND MURDERER. I would he knew that I had saved his brother. Take thou the fee, and tell him what I say, For I repent me that the Duke is slain.

[_Exit._]

FIRST MURDERER. 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. And when I have my meed, I will away, For this will out, and then 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.

KING EDWARD. Why, so. Now have I done a good day’s work. You peers, continue this united league. I every day expect an embassage From my Redeemer, to redeem me hence; And more at 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.

RIVERS. By heaven, my soul is purged from grudging hate, And with my hand I seal my true heart’s love.

HASTINGS. So thrive I, as I truly swear the like.

KING EDWARD. Take heed you dally not before your King, Lest He that is the supreme King of kings Confound your hidden falsehood, and award Either of you to be the other’s end.

HASTINGS. So prosper I, as I swear perfect love.

RIVERS. And I, as I love Hastings with my heart.

KING EDWARD. Madam, yourself is not exempt from this; 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.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. There, Hastings, I will never more remember Our former hatred, so thrive I and mine.

KING EDWARD. Dorset, embrace him; Hastings, love lord Marquess.

DORSET. This interchange of love, I here protest, Upon my part shall be inviolable.

HASTINGS. And so swear I.

[_They embrace._]

KING EDWARD. Now, princely Buckingham, seal thou this league With thy embracements to my wife’s allies, And make me happy in your unity.

BUCKINGHAM. Whenever Buckingham doth turn his hate Upon your Grace, but with all duteous love 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 Be he unto me: this do I beg of God, When I am cold in love to you or yours.

[_Embrace._]

KING EDWARD. A pleasing cordial, princely Buckingham, Is this thy vow unto my sickly heart. There wanteth now our brother Gloucester here, To make the blessed period of this peace.

BUCKINGHAM. And in good time, Here comes Sir Ratcliffe and the Duke.

Enter Ratcliffe and Richard.

RICHARD. Good morrow to my sovereign King and Queen; And, princely peers, a happy time of day.

KING EDWARD. 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.

RICHARD. A blessed labour, my most sovereign lord, Among this princely heap, if any here By false intelligence or wrong surmise Hold me a foe, If I unwittingly, or in my rage, Have aught committed that is hardly borne 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, Which I will purchase with my duteous service; Of you, my noble cousin Buckingham, If ever any grudge were lodged between us; Of you and you, Lord Rivers and of Dorset, That all without desert have frowned on me; Of you, Lord Woodville 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 tonight. I thank my God for my humility.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. A holy day shall this be kept hereafter. I would to God all strifes were well compounded. My sovereign lord, I do beseech your Highness To take our brother Clarence to your grace.

RICHARD. Why, madam, have I offered 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.

KING EDWARD. Who knows not he is dead! Who knows he is?

QUEEN ELIZABETH. All-seeing heaven, what a world is this!

BUCKINGHAM. Look I so pale, Lord Dorset, as the rest?

DORSET. Ay, my good lord, and no man in the presence But his red colour hath forsook his cheeks.

KING EDWARD. Is Clarence dead? The order was reversed.

RICHARD. 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, Nearer in bloody thoughts, and not in blood, Deserve not worse than wretched Clarence did, And yet go current from suspicion!

Enter Stanley Earl of Derby.

STANLEY. A boon, my sovereign, for my service done!

KING EDWARD. I prithee, peace. My soul is full of sorrow.

STANLEY. I will not rise unless your Highness hear me.

KING EDWARD. Then say at once what is it thou requests.

STANLEY. The forfeit, sovereign, of my servant’s life Who slew today a riotous gentleman Lately attendant on the Duke of Norfolk.

KING EDWARD. Have I a tongue to doom my brother’s death, And shall that tongue give pardon to a slave? My brother killed no man; his fault was thought, And yet his punishment was bitter death. Who sued to me for him? Who, in my wrath, Kneeled at my feet, and bid me be advised? 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? Who told me, in the field at Tewksbury, When Oxford had me down, he rescued 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 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 plucked, and not a man of you Had so much grace to put it in my mind. But when your carters or your waiting vassals Have done a drunken slaughter, and defaced The precious image of our dear Redeemer, You straight are on your knees for pardon, pardon, And I, unjustly too, must grant it you. 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. 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. Ah, poor Clarence!

[_Exeunt some with King and Queen._]

RICHARD. This is the fruit of rashness. Marked you not How that the guilty kindred of the Queen Looked 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?

BUCKINGHAM. We wait upon your Grace.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE II. Another Room in the palace

Enter the old Duchess of York with the two Children of Clarence.

BOY. Good grandam, tell us, is our father dead?

DUCHESS. No, boy.

GIRL. Why do you weep so oft, and beat your breast, 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 were alive?

DUCHESS. My pretty cousins, you mistake me both. 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 you conclude, my grandam, he is dead. The King mine uncle is to blame for it. God will revenge it, whom I will importune With earnest prayers all to that effect.

GIRL. And so will I.

DUCHESS. Peace, children, peace. The King doth love you well. Incapable and shallow innocents, You cannot guess who caused your father’s death.

BOY. Grandam, we can, for my good uncle Gloucester Told me, the King, provoked to it by the Queen, Devised impeachments to imprison him; And when my uncle told me so, he wept, And pitied me, and kindly kissed my cheek; Bade me rely on him as on my father, And he would love me dearly as his child.

DUCHESS. Ah, that deceit should steal such gentle shape, And with a virtuous visard hide deep vice! 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?

DUCHESS. Ay, boy.

BOY. I cannot think it. Hark, what noise is this?

Enter Queen Elizabeth with her hair about her ears, Rivers and Dorset after her.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Ah, 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.

DUCHESS. What means this scene of rude impatience?

QUEEN ELIZABETH. To make an act of tragic violence. Edward, my lord, thy son, our King, is dead. Why grow the branches when the root is gone? Why wither not the leaves that want their sap? 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 ne’er-changing night.

DUCHESS. Ah, so much interest have I in thy sorrow As I had title in thy noble husband. I have bewept a worthy husband’s death, And lived by looking on his images; But now two mirrors of his princely semblance Are cracked in pieces by malignant death, 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; But death hath snatched my husband from mine arms And plucked two crutches from my feeble hands, Clarence and Edward. O, what cause have I, Thine being but a moiety of my moan, To overgo thy woes and drown thy cries.

BOY. Ah, aunt, you wept not for our father’s death. How can we aid you with our kindred tears?

GIRL. Our fatherless distress was left unmoaned. Your widow-dolour likewise be unwept!

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Give me no help in lamentation. I am not barren to bring forth complaints. All springs reduce their currents to mine eyes, That I, being governed by the watery moon, May send forth plenteous tears to drown the world. Ah, for my husband, for my dear Lord Edward!

CHILDREN. Ah for our father, for our dear Lord Clarence!

DUCHESS. Alas for both, both mine, Edward and Clarence!

QUEEN ELIZABETH. What stay had I but Edward? And he’s gone.

CHILDREN. What stay had we but Clarence? And he’s gone.

DUCHESS. What stays had I but they? And they are gone.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Was never widow had so dear a loss.

CHILDREN. Were never orphans had so dear a loss.

DUCHESS. Was never mother had so dear a loss. Alas, I am the mother of these griefs. Their woes are parcelled, mine is general. She for an Edward weeps, and so do I; 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 distressed, Pour all your tears. I am your sorrow’s nurse, And I will pamper it with lamentation.

DORSET. Comfort, dear mother. God is much displeased That you take with unthankfulness His doing. In common worldly things ’tis called ungrateful With dull unwillingness to repay a debt 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.

RIVERS. Madam, bethink you, like a careful mother, Of the young prince your son. Send straight for him; Let him be crowned; in him your comfort lives. Drown desperate sorrow in dead Edward’s grave, And plant your joys in living Edward’s throne.

Enter Richard, Buckingham, Stanley Earl of Derby, Hastings and Ratcliffe.

RICHARD. Sister, have comfort. All of us have cause To wail the dimming of our shining star, But none can help our 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.

[_Kneels._]

DUCHESS. God bless thee, and put meekness in thy breast, Love, charity, obedience, and true duty.

RICHARD. 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.

BUCKINGHAM. 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. The broken rancour of your high-swoll’n hates, But lately splintered, knit, and joined together, Must gently be preserved, cherished, and kept. Me seemeth good that with some little train, Forthwith from Ludlow the young Prince be fet Hither to London, to be crowned our King.

RIVERS. Why with some little train, my Lord of Buckingham?

BUCKINGHAM. Marry, my lord, lest by a multitude The new-healed wound of malice should break out, Which would be so much the more dangerous By how much the estate is green and yet ungoverned. 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.

RICHARD. I hope the King made peace with all of us; And the compact is firm and true in me.

RIVERS. 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, Which haply by much company might be urged. Therefore I say with noble Buckingham That it is meet so few should fetch the Prince.

HASTINGS. And so say I.

RICHARD. Then be it so, and go we to determine Who they shall be that straight shall post to Ludlow. Madam, and you, my sister, will you go To give your censures in this business?

[_Exeunt all but Buckingham and Richard._]

BUCKINGHAM. My lord, whoever journeys to the Prince, For God’s sake, let not us two stay at home. For by the way I’ll sort occasion, As index to the story we late talked of, To part the Queen’s proud kindred from the Prince.

RICHARD. My other self, my counsel’s consistory, My oracle, my prophet, my dear cousin, I, as a child, will go by thy direction. Toward Ludlow then, for we’ll not stay behind.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE III. London. A street

Enter one Citizen at one door, and Another at the other.

FIRST CITIZEN. Good morrow, neighbour, whither away so fast?

SECOND CITIZEN. I promise you, I scarcely know myself. Hear you the news abroad?

FIRST CITIZEN. Yes, that the King is dead.

SECOND CITIZEN. Ill news, by’r Lady; seldom comes the better. I fear, I fear ’twill prove a giddy world.

Enter another Citizen.

THIRD CITIZEN. Neighbours, God speed.

FIRST CITIZEN. Give you good morrow, sir.

THIRD CITIZEN. Doth the news hold of good King Edward’s death?

SECOND CITIZEN. Ay, sir, it is too true, God help the while.

THIRD CITIZEN. Then, masters, look to see a troublous world.

FIRST CITIZEN. No, no; by God’s good grace, his son shall reign.

THIRD CITIZEN. Woe to that land that’s governed by a child.

SECOND CITIZEN. In him there is a hope of government, Which, in his nonage, council under him, And, in his full and ripened years, himself, No doubt shall then, and till then, govern well.

FIRST CITIZEN. So stood the state when Henry the Sixth Was crowned in Paris but at nine months old.

THIRD CITIZEN. Stood the state so? No, no, good friends, God wot. For then this land was famously enriched With politic grave counsel; then the King Had virtuous uncles to protect his Grace.

FIRST CITIZEN. Why, so hath this, both by his father and mother.

THIRD CITIZEN. 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 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 ruled, and not to rule, This sickly land might solace as before.

FIRST CITIZEN. Come, come, we fear the worst; all will be well.

THIRD CITIZEN. 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. All may be well; but, if God sort it so, ’Tis more than we deserve or I expect.

SECOND CITIZEN. Truly, the hearts of men are full of fear. You cannot reason almost with a man That looks not heavily and full of dread.

THIRD CITIZEN. 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 water swell before a boist’rous storm. But leave it all to God. Whither away?

SECOND CITIZEN. Marry, we were sent for to the Justices.

THIRD CITIZEN. And so was I. I’ll bear you company.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE IV. London. A Room in the Palace

Enter the Archbishop of York, the young Duke of York, Queen Elizabeth and the Duchess of York.

ARCHBISHOP. Last night, I hear, they lay at Stony Stratford, And at Northampton they do rest tonight. Tomorrow or next day they will be here.

DUCHESS. I long with all my heart to see the Prince. I hope he is much grown since last I saw him.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. But I hear no; they say my son of York Has almost overta’en him in his growth.

YORK. Ay, mother, but I would not have it so.

DUCHESS. Why, my good cousin? It is good to grow.

YORK. Grandam, one night as we did sit at supper, My uncle Rivers talked how I did grow More than my brother. “Ay,” quoth my uncle Gloucester, “Small herbs have grace; great weeds do grow apace.” And since, methinks I would not grow so fast, Because sweet flowers are slow and weeds make haste.

DUCHESS. 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, So long a-growing and so leisurely, That if his rule were true, he should be gracious.

ARCHBISHOP. And so no doubt he is, my gracious madam.

DUCHESS. I hope he is, but yet let mothers doubt.

YORK. Now, by my troth, if I had been remembered, I could have given my uncle’s Grace a flout To touch his growth nearer than he touched mine.

DUCHESS. 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. ’Twas full two years ere I could get a tooth. Grandam, this would have been a biting jest.

DUCHESS. I prithee, pretty York, who told thee this?

YORK. Grandam, his nurse.

DUCHESS. His nurse? Why she was dead ere thou wast born.

YORK. If ’twere not she, I cannot tell who told me.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. A parlous boy! Go to, you are too shrewd.

DUCHESS. Good madam, be not angry with the child.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Pitchers have ears.

Enter a Messenger.

ARCHBISHOP. Here comes a messenger. What news?

MESSENGER. Such news, my lord, as grieves me to report.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. How doth the Prince?

MESSENGER. Well, madam, and in health.

DUCHESS. What is thy news?

MESSENGER. Lord Rivers and Lord Grey are sent to Pomfret, And, with them Sir Thomas Vaughan, prisoners.

DUCHESS. Who hath committed them?

MESSENGER. The mighty Dukes, Gloucester and Buckingham.

ARCHBISHOP. For what offence?

MESSENGER. The sum of all I can, I have disclosed. Why or for what the nobles were committed Is all unknown to me, my gracious lord.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Ah me! I see the ruin of my house. The tiger now hath seized the gentle hind; Insulting tyranny begins to jut Upon the innocent and aweless throne. Welcome, destruction, blood, and massacre; I see, as in a map, the end of all.

DUCHESS. 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 tossed For me to joy and weep their gain and loss. 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, Or let me die, to look on earth no more.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Come, come, my boy. We will to sanctuary. Madam, farewell.

DUCHESS. Stay, I will go with you.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. You have no cause.

ARCHBISHOP. [_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. Go, I’ll conduct you to the sanctuary.

[_Exeunt._]

## ACT III

## SCENE I. London. A street

The trumpets sound. Enter young Prince Edward, Richard, Buckingham, Cardinal Bourchier, Catesby and others.

BUCKINGHAM. Welcome, sweet Prince, to London, to your chamber.

RICHARD. Welcome, dear cousin, my thoughts’ sovereign. The weary way hath made you melancholy.

PRINCE. No, uncle, but our crosses on the way Have made it tedious, wearisome, and heavy. I want more uncles here to welcome me.

RICHARD. Sweet prince, the untainted virtue of your years Hath not yet dived into the world’s deceit, Nor 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 sugared words But looked 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.

RICHARD. My lord, the Mayor of London comes to greet you.

Enter Lord Mayor with Attendants.

MAYOR. 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 To tell us whether they will come or no!

Enter Lord Hastings.

BUCKINGHAM. And in good time, here comes the sweating lord.

PRINCE. Welcome, my lord. What, will our mother come?

HASTINGS. On what occasion God He knows, not I, 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.

BUCKINGHAM. Fie, what an indirect and peevish course 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.

CARDINAL. 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 Of blessed sanctuary! Not for all this land Would I be guilty of so deep a sin.

BUCKINGHAM. You are too senseless-obstinate, my lord, Too ceremonious and traditional. Weigh it but with the grossness of this age, You break not sanctuary in seizing him. The benefit thereof is always granted To those whose dealings have deserved the place And those who have the wit to claim the place. This prince hath neither claimed it nor deserved it 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, never till now.

CARDINAL. My lord, you shall o’errule my mind for once. Come on, Lord Hastings, will you go with me?

HASTINGS. I go, my lord.

PRINCE. Good lords, make all the speedy haste you may.

[_Exeunt Cardinal and Hastings._]

Say, uncle Gloucester, if our brother come, Where shall we sojourn till our coronation?

RICHARD. 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 For your best health and recreation.

PRINCE. I do not like the Tower, of any place. Did Julius Caesar build that place, my lord?

BUCKINGHAM. He did, my gracious lord, begin that place, Which, since, succeeding ages have re-edified.

PRINCE. Is it upon record, or else reported Successively from age to age, he built it?

BUCKINGHAM. Upon record, my gracious lord.

PRINCE. But say, my lord, it were not registered, Methinks the truth should live from age to age, As ’twere retailed to all posterity, Even to the general all-ending day.

RICHARD. [_Aside_.] So wise so young, they say, do never live long.

PRINCE. What say you, uncle?

RICHARD. I say, without characters, fame lives long. [_Aside_.] Thus, like the formal Vice, Iniquity, I moralize two meanings in one word.

PRINCE. That Julius Caesar was a famous man. With what his valour did enrich his wit, His wit set down to make his valour live; 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.

BUCKINGHAM. What, my gracious lord?

PRINCE. An if I live until I be a man, I’ll win our ancient right in France again, Or die a soldier, as I lived a king.

RICHARD. [_Aside_.] Short summers lightly have a forward spring.

Enter young Duke of York, Hastings and the Cardinal.

BUCKINGHAM. Now, in good time here comes the Duke of York.

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.

RICHARD. 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.

RICHARD. He hath, my lord.

YORK. And therefore is he idle?

RICHARD. O, my fair cousin, I must not say so.

YORK. Then he is more beholding to you than I.

RICHARD. He may command me as my sovereign, But you have power in me as in a kinsman.

YORK. I pray you, uncle, give me this dagger.

RICHARD. 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.

RICHARD. A greater gift than that I’ll give my cousin.

YORK. A greater gift? O, that’s the sword to it.

RICHARD. Ay, gentle cousin, were it light enough.

YORK. O, then I see you will part but with light gifts; In weightier things you’ll say a beggar nay.

RICHARD. It is too heavy for your Grace to wear.

YORK. I weigh it lightly, were it heavier.

RICHARD. What, would you have my weapon, little lord?

YORK. I would, that I might thank you as you call me.

RICHARD. How?

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. Because that I am little, like an ape, He thinks that you should bear me on your shoulders.

BUCKINGHAM. With what a sharp-provided wit he reasons! To mitigate the scorn he gives his uncle, He prettily and aptly taunts himself. So cunning and so young is wonderful.

RICHARD. My lord, wil’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.

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.

RICHARD. Why, what should you fear?

YORK. Marry, my uncle Clarence’ angry ghost. My grandam told me he was murdered there.

PRINCE. I fear no uncles dead.

RICHARD. Nor none that live, I hope.

PRINCE. An if they live, I hope I need not fear. But come, my lord. With a heavy heart, Thinking on them, go I unto the Tower.

[_A Sennet. Exeunt Prince Edward, York, Hastings, Dorset and all but Richard, Buckingham and Catesby._]

BUCKINGHAM. Think you, my lord, this little prating York Was not incensed by his subtle mother To taunt and scorn you thus opprobriously?

RICHARD. No doubt, no doubt. O, ’tis a parlous boy, Bold, quick, ingenious, forward, capable. He is all the mother’s, from the top to toe.

BUCKINGHAM. Well, let them rest. Come hither, Catesby. Thou art sworn as deeply to effect what we intend As closely to conceal what we impart. Thou know’st our reasons urged 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?

CATESBY. He for his father’s sake so loves the Prince That he will not be won to aught against him.

BUCKINGHAM. What think’st thou then of Stanley? Will not he?

CATESBY. He will do all in all as Hastings doth.

BUCKINGHAM. Well then, no more but this: go, gentle Catesby, And, as it were far off, sound thou Lord Hastings How he doth stand affected to our purpose, And summon him tomorrow to the Tower To sit about the coronation. If thou dost find him tractable to us, 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 tomorrow hold divided councils, Wherein thyself shalt highly be employed.

RICHARD. Commend me to Lord William. Tell him, Catesby, His ancient knot of dangerous adversaries Tomorrow are let blood at Pomfret Castle, And bid my lord, for joy of this good news, Give Mistress Shore one gentle kiss the more.

BUCKINGHAM. Good Catesby, go effect this business soundly.

CATESBY. My good lords both, with all the heed I can.

RICHARD. Shall we hear from you, Catesby, ere we sleep?

CATESBY. You shall, my lord.

RICHARD. At Crosby Place, there shall you find us both.

[_Exit Catesby._]

BUCKINGHAM. Now, my lord, what shall we do if we perceive Lord Hastings will not yield to our complots?

RICHARD. Chop off his head, man; somewhat we will do. And look when I am king, claim thou of me The earldom of Hereford, and all the movables Whereof the King my brother was possessed.

BUCKINGHAM. I’ll claim that promise at your Grace’s hand.

RICHARD. And look to have it yielded with all kindness. Come, let us sup betimes, that afterwards We may digest our complots in some form.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE II. Before Lord Hastings’ house

Enter a Messenger to the door of Hastings.

MESSENGER. My lord, my lord!

[_Knocking._]

HASTINGS. [_Within_.] Who knocks?

MESSENGER. One from the Lord Stanley.

HASTINGS. [_Within_.] What is’t o’clock?

MESSENGER. Upon the stroke of four.

Enter Hastings.

HASTINGS. Cannot my Lord Stanley sleep these tedious nights?

MESSENGER. So it appears by that I have to say. First, he commends him to your noble self.

HASTINGS. What then?

MESSENGER. Then certifies your lordship that this night He dreamt the boar had razed off his helm. Besides, he says there are two councils kept, And that may be determined at the one Which may make you and him to rue at th’ 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 toward the north, To shun the danger that his soul divines.

HASTINGS. Go, fellow, go. Return unto thy lord; Bid him not fear the separated council. His honour and myself are at the one, And at the other is my good friend Catesby, Where nothing can proceed that toucheth us Whereof I shall not have intelligence. Tell him his fears are shallow, without instance. And for his dreams, I wonder he’s so simple To trust the mockery of unquiet slumbers. 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, Where he shall see the boar will use us kindly.

MESSENGER. I’ll go, my lord, and tell him what you say.

[_Exit._]

Enter Catesby.

CATESBY. Many good morrows to my noble lord.

HASTINGS. Good morrow, Catesby; you are early stirring. What news, what news in this our tott’ring state?

CATESBY. It is a reeling world indeed, my lord, And I believe will never stand upright Till Richard wear the garland of the realm.

HASTINGS. How, wear the garland? Dost thou mean the crown?

CATESBY. Ay, my good lord.

HASTINGS. I’ll have this crown of mine cut from my shoulders Before I’ll see the crown so foul misplaced. But canst thou guess that he doth aim at it?

CATESBY. Ay, on my life, and hopes to find you forward 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.

HASTINGS. Indeed, I am no mourner for that news, 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.

CATESBY. God keep your lordship in that gracious mind.

HASTINGS. But I shall laugh at this a twelve-month 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.

CATESBY. ’Tis a vile thing to die, my gracious lord, When men are unprepared and look not for it.

HASTINGS. O monstrous, monstrous! And so falls it out With Rivers, Vaughan, Grey; and so ’twill do With some men else that think themselves as safe As thou and I, who, as thou know’st, are dear To princely Richard and to Buckingham.

CATESBY. The Princes both make high account of you— [_Aside_.] For they account his head upon the Bridge.

HASTINGS. I know they do, and I have well deserved it.

Enter Stanley Earl of Derby.

Come on, come on. Where is your boar-spear, man? Fear you the boar, and go so unprovided?

STANLEY. My lord, good morrow; good morrow, Catesby. You may jest on, but, by the Holy Rood, I do not like these several councils, I.

HASTINGS. 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, I would be so triumphant as I am?

STANLEY. The lords at Pomfret, when they rode from London, Were jocund and supposed their states were sure, And they indeed had no cause to mistrust; But yet you see how soon the day o’ercast. 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.

HASTINGS. Come, come. Have with you. Wot you what, my lord? Today the lords you talked of are beheaded.

STANLEY. They, for their truth, might better wear their heads Than some that have accused them wear their hats. But come, my lord, let’s away.

Enter a Pursuivant.

HASTINGS. Go on before; I’ll talk with this good fellow.

[_Exeunt Stanley and Catesby._]

How now, sirrah? How goes the world with thee?

PURSUIVANT. The better that your lordship please to ask.

HASTINGS. I tell thee, man, ’tis better with me now Than when thou met’st me last where now we meet. Then was I going prisoner to the Tower, 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.

PURSUIVANT. God hold it, to your honour’s good content!

HASTINGS. Gramercy, fellow. There, drink that for me.

[_Throws him his purse._]

PURSUIVANT. I thank your honour.

[_Exit._]

Enter a Priest.

PRIEST. Well met, my lord; I am glad to see your honour.

HASTINGS. I thank thee, good Sir John, with all my heart. I am in your debt for your last exercise. Come the next sabbath, and I will content you.

Enter Buckingham.

PRIEST. I’ll wait upon your lordship.

[_Exit Priest._]

BUCKINGHAM. What, talking with a priest, Lord Chamberlain? Your friends at Pomfret, they do need the priest; Your honour hath no shriving work in hand.

HASTINGS. Good faith, and when I met this holy man, The men you talk of came into my mind. What, go you toward the Tower?

BUCKINGHAM. I do, my lord, but long I cannot stay there. I shall return before your lordship thence.

HASTINGS. Nay, like enough, for I stay dinner there.

BUCKINGHAM. [_Aside_.] And supper too, although thou knowest it not. Come, will you go?

HASTINGS. I’ll wait upon your lordship.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE III. Pomfret. Before the Castle

Enter Sir Richard Ratcliffe, with Halberds, carrying the nobles Rivers, Grey and Vaughan to death at Pomfret.

RIVERS. Sir Richard Ratcliffe, let me tell thee this: Today shalt thou behold a subject die For truth, for duty, and for loyalty.

GREY. God bless the Prince from all the pack of you! A knot you are of damned bloodsuckers.

VAUGHAN You live that shall cry woe for this hereafter.

RATCLIFFE Dispatch. The limit of your lives is out.

RIVERS. O Pomfret, Pomfret! O thou bloody prison, Fatal and ominous to noble peers! Within the guilty closure of thy walls Richard the Second here was hacked to death; And, for more slander to thy dismal seat, We give to thee our guiltless blood to drink.

GREY. Now Margaret’s curse is fall’n upon our heads, When she exclaimed on Hastings, you, and I, For standing by when Richard stabbed her son.

RIVERS. Then cursed she Richard, then cursed she Buckingham, Then cursed she Hastings. O, remember, God, 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.

RATCLIFFE. Make haste. The hour of death is expiate.

RIVERS. Come, Grey, come, Vaughan, let us here embrace. Farewell, until we meet again in heaven.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE IV. London. A Room in the Tower

Enter Buckingham, Stanley Earl of Derby, Hastings, the Bishop of Ely, Norfolk, Ratcliffe, Lovell with others, at a table.

HASTINGS. Now, noble peers, the cause why we are met Is to determine of the coronation. In God’s name speak. When is the royal day?

BUCKINGHAM. Is all things ready for that royal time?

STANLEY. It is, and wants but nomination.

ELY. Tomorrow, then, I judge a happy day.

BUCKINGHAM. Who knows the Lord Protector’s mind herein? Who is most inward with the noble Duke?

ELY. Your Grace, we think, should soonest know his mind.

BUCKINGHAM. We know each other’s faces; for our hearts, He knows no more of mine than I of yours, Or I of his, my lord, than you of mine. Lord Hastings, you and he are near in love.

HASTINGS. I thank his Grace, I know he loves me well; But for his purpose in the coronation I have not sounded him, nor he delivered His gracious pleasure any way therein. But you, my honourable lords, may name the time, And in the Duke’s behalf I’ll give my voice, Which I presume he’ll take in gentle part.

Enter Richard.

ELY. In happy time, here comes the Duke himself.

RICHARD. My noble lords and cousins all, good morrow. I have been long a sleeper; but I trust My absence doth neglect no great design Which by my presence might have been concluded.

BUCKINGHAM. Had you not come upon your cue, my lord, William Lord Hastings had pronounced your part— I mean your voice for crowning of the King.

RICHARD. 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; I do beseech you, send for some of them.

ELY. Marry, and will, my lord, with all my heart.

[_Exit._]

RICHARD. Cousin of Buckingham, a word with you.

[_They move aside._]

Catesby hath sounded Hastings in our business, And finds the testy gentleman so hot 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.

BUCKINGHAM. Withdraw yourself awhile. I’ll go with you.

[_Exeunt Richard and Buckingham._]

STANLEY. We have not yet set down this day of triumph. Tomorrow, in my judgement, is too sudden, For I myself am not so well provided As else I would be, were the day prolonged.

Enter Bishop of Ely.

ELY. Where is my lord the Duke of Gloucester? I have sent for these strawberries.

HASTINGS. 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 Can lesser hide his love or hate than he, For by his face straight shall you know his heart.

STANLEY. What of his heart perceive you in his face By any livelihood he showed today?

HASTINGS. Marry, that with no man here he is offended, For were he, he had shown it in his looks.

Enter Richard and Buckingham.

RICHARD. I pray you all, tell me what they deserve That do conspire my death with devilish plots Of damned witchcraft, and that have prevailed Upon my body with their hellish charms?

HASTINGS. 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.

RICHARD. Then be your eyes the witness of their evil. Look how I am bewitched! Behold, mine arm Is like a blasted sapling withered up! And this is Edward’s wife, that monstrous witch, Consorted with that harlot, strumpet Shore, That by their witchcraft thus have marked me.

HASTINGS. If they have done this deed, my noble lord—

RICHARD. 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 I will not dine until I see the same. Lovell and Ratcliffe, look that it be done. The rest that love me, rise and follow me.

[_Exeunt all but Lovell and Ratcliffe with the Lord Hastings._]

HASTINGS. Woe, woe, for England! Not a whit for me, For I, too fond, might have prevented this. Stanley did dream the boar did raze his helm, And I did scorn it and disdain to fly. Three times today my foot-cloth horse did stumble, And started when he looked upon the Tower, As loath to bear me to the slaughter-house. O, now I need the priest that spake to me; I now repent I told the pursuivant, As too triumphing, how mine enemies Today at Pomfret bloodily were butchered, And I myself secure in grace and favour. O Margaret, Margaret, now thy heavy curse Is lighted on poor Hastings’ wretched head.

RATCLIFFE. Come, come, dispatch. The Duke would be at dinner: Make a short shrift. He longs to see your head.

HASTINGS. O momentary grace of mortal men, 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.

LOVELL. Come, come, dispatch. ’Tis bootless to exclaim.

HASTINGS. O bloody Richard! Miserable England, I prophesy the fearfull’st time to thee That ever wretched age hath looked upon. Come, lead me to the block. Bear him my head. They smile at me who shortly shall be dead.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE V. London. The Tower Walls

Enter Richard and Buckingham in rotten armour, marvellous ill-favoured.

RICHARD. Come, cousin, canst thou quake and change thy colour, Murder thy breath in middle of a word, And then again begin, and stop again, As if thou were distraught and mad with terror?

BUCKINGHAM. 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 Are at my service, like enforced smiles, And both are ready in their offices, At anytime to grace my stratagems. But what, is Catesby gone?

RICHARD. He is; and, see, he brings the Mayor along.

Enter the Lord Mayor and Catesby.

BUCKINGHAM. Lord Mayor—

RICHARD. Look to the drawbridge there!

BUCKINGHAM. Hark, a drum.

RICHARD. Catesby, o’erlook the walls.

BUCKINGHAM. Lord Mayor, the reason we have sent—

RICHARD. Look back! Defend thee, here are enemies.

BUCKINGHAM. God and our innocence defend and guard us!

Enter Lovell and Ratcliffe with Hastings’ head.

RICHARD. Be patient, they are friends, Ratcliffe and Lovell.

LOVELL. Here is the head of that ignoble traitor, The dangerous and unsuspected Hastings.

RICHARD. So dear I loved the man that I must weep. I took him for the plainest harmless creature That breathed upon the earth a Christian; Made him my book, wherein my soul recorded The history of all her secret thoughts. So smooth he daubed his vice with show of virtue That, his apparent open guilt omitted— I mean his conversation with Shore’s wife— He lived from all attainder of suspects.

BUCKINGHAM. Well, well, he was the covert’st sheltered traitor That ever lived.— Would you imagine, or almost believe, Were’t not that by great preservation 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?

MAYOR. Had he done so?

RICHARD. What, think you we are Turks or Infidels? 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 persons’ safety, Enforced us to this execution?

MAYOR. Now, fair befall you! He deserved his death, And your good Graces both have well proceeded, To warn false traitors from the like attempts.

BUCKINGHAM. I never looked for better at his hands After he once fell in with Mistress Shore. Yet had we not determined he should die Until your lordship came to see his end Which now the loving haste of these our friends, Something against our meanings, have prevented, Because, my lord, we would have had you heard The traitor speak, and timorously confess The manner and the purpose of his treasons, That you might well have signified the same Unto the citizens, who haply may Misconster us in him, and wail his death.

MAYOR. 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 case.

RICHARD. And to that end we wished your lordship here, T’ avoid the censures of the carping world.

BUCKINGHAM. 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._]

RICHARD. Go, after, after, cousin Buckingham. The Mayor towards Guildhall hies him in all post. There, at your meet’st advantage of the time, Infer the bastardy of Edward’s children; Tell them how Edward put to death a citizen 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, Which stretched 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 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, Being nothing like the noble Duke, my father. Yet touch this sparingly, as ’twere far off; Because, my lord, you know my mother lives.

BUCKINGHAM. Doubt not, my lord, I’ll play the orator As if the golden fee for which I plead Were for myself. And so, my lord, adieu.

RICHARD. If you thrive well, bring them to Baynard’s Castle, Where you shall find me well accompanied With reverend fathers and well-learned bishops.

BUCKINGHAM. I go; and towards three or four o’clock Look for the news that the Guildhall affords.

[_Exit._]

RICHARD. Go, Lovell, with all speed to Doctor Shaa. [_To Ratcliffe_.] Go thou to Friar Penker; bid them both Meet me within this hour at Baynard’s Castle.

[_Exeunt Ratcliffe and Lovell._]

Now will I go to take some privy order To draw the brats of Clarence out of sight, And to give order that no manner person Have any time recourse unto the Princes.

[_Exit._]

## SCENE VI. London. A street

Enter a Scrivener.

SCRIVENER. Here is the indictment of the good Lord Hastings, Which in a set hand fairly is engrossed, That it may be today read o’er in Paul’s. 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 lived, Untainted, unexamined, 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 When such ill dealing must be seen in thought.

[_Exit._]

## SCENE VII. London. Court of Baynard’s Castle

Enter Richard and Buckingham at several doors.

RICHARD. How now, how now? What say the citizens?

BUCKINGHAM. Now, by the holy mother of our Lord, The citizens are mum, say not a word.

RICHARD. Touched you the bastardy of Edward’s children?

BUCKINGHAM. I did; with his contract with Lady Lucy, And his contract by deputy in France; Th’ insatiate greediness of his desire, And his enforcement of the city wives; 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, 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 Untouched or slightly handled in discourse. And when mine oratory drew toward end, I bid them that did love their country’s good Cry “God save Richard, England’s royal King!”

RICHARD. And did they so?

BUCKINGHAM. No, so God help me, they spake not a word, But, like dumb statues or breathing stones, Stared each on other, and looked deadly pale. Which when I saw, I reprehended them, And asked the Mayor what meant this wilful silence. His answer was, the people were not used To be spoke to but by the Recorder. Then he was urged to tell my tale again: “Thus saith the Duke, thus hath the Duke inferred” But nothing spoke in warrant from himself. When he had done, some followers of mine own, At lower end of the hall, hurled 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; “This general applause and cheerful shout Argues your wisdoms and your love to Richard.” And even here brake off and came away.

RICHARD. What, tongueless blocks were they! Would they not speak? Will not the Mayor then and his brethren, come?

BUCKINGHAM. 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. And be not easily won to our requests. Play the maid’s part: still answer nay, and take it.

RICHARD. 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.

BUCKINGHAM. Go, go, up to the leads, the Lord Mayor knocks.

[_Exit Richard._]

Enter the Lord Mayor and Citizens.

Welcome, my lord. I dance attendance here. I think the Duke will not be spoke withal.

Enter Catesby.

Now, Catesby, what says your lord to my request?

CATESBY. He doth entreat your Grace, my noble lord, To visit him tomorrow or next day. He is within, with two right reverend fathers, Divinely bent to meditation; And in no worldly suits would he be moved To draw him from his holy exercise.

BUCKINGHAM. Return, good Catesby, to the gracious Duke; Tell him myself, the Mayor and aldermen, In deep designs, in matter of great moment, No less importing than our general good, Are come to have some conference with his Grace.

CATESBY. I’ll signify so much unto him straight.

[_Exit._]

BUCKINGHAM. Ah ha, my lord, this prince is not an Edward! He is not lolling on a lewd love-bed, But on his knees at meditation; Not dallying with a brace of courtesans, But meditating with two deep divines; Not sleeping, to engross his idle body, But praying, to enrich his watchful soul. Happy were England would this virtuous prince Take on his Grace the sovereignty thereof. But sure I fear we shall not win him to it.

MAYOR. Marry, God defend his Grace should say us nay!

BUCKINGHAM. I fear he will. Here Catesby comes again.

Enter Catesby.

Now, Catesby, what says his Grace?

CATESBY. He wonders to what end you have assembled Such troops of citizens to come to him, His Grace not being warned thereof before. He fears, my lord, you mean no good to him.

BUCKINGHAM. 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._]

When holy and devout religious men Are at their beads, ’tis much to draw them thence, So sweet is zealous contemplation.

Enter Richard aloft, between two Bishops. Catesby reenters.

MAYOR. See where his Grace stands ’tween two clergymen!

BUCKINGHAM. 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 ornaments to know a holy man. Famous Plantagenet, most gracious Prince, Lend favourable ear to our requests, And pardon us the interruption Of thy devotion and right Christian zeal.

RICHARD. My lord, there needs no such apology. I do beseech your Grace to pardon me, Who, earnest in the service of my God, Deferred the visitation of my friends. But, leaving this, what is your Grace’s pleasure?

BUCKINGHAM. Even that, I hope, which pleaseth God above, And all good men of this ungoverned isle.

RICHARD. I do suspect I have done some offence That seems disgracious in the city’s eye, And that you come to reprehend my ignorance.

BUCKINGHAM. You have, my lord. Would it might please your Grace, On our entreaties, to amend your fault.

RICHARD. Else wherefore breathe I in a Christian land?

BUCKINGHAM. Know then, it is your fault that you resign The supreme seat, the throne majestical, The sceptered office of your ancestors, Your state of fortune, and your due of birth, The lineal glory of your royal house, To the corruption of a blemished stock; Whiles in the mildness of your sleepy thoughts, Which here we waken to our country’s good, The noble isle doth want her proper limbs; Her face defaced with scars of infamy, Her royal stock graft with ignoble plants, And almost shouldered in the swallowing gulf Of dark forgetfulness and deep oblivion; Which to recure, we heartily solicit 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, 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.

RICHARD. 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 To bear the golden yoke of sovereignty, Which fondly you would here impose on me; If to reprove you for this suit of yours, So seasoned with your faithful love to me, Then, on the other side, I checked my friends. 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. 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, 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 smothered. But, God be thanked, there is no need of me, And much I need to help you, were there need. The royal tree hath left us royal fruit, Which, mellowed by the stealing hours of time, Will well become the seat of majesty, And make, no doubt, us happy by his reign. 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.

BUCKINGHAM. My lord, this argues conscience in your Grace; But the respects thereof are nice and trivial, 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, And afterward by substitute betrothed To Bona, sister to the King of France. These both put off, a poor petitioner, A care-crazed mother to a many sons, A beauty-waning and distressed widow, Even in the afternoon of her best days, Made prize and purchase of his wanton eye, Seduced the pitch and height of his degree To base declension and loathed bigamy. By her, in his unlawful bed, he got 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 This proffered 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.

MAYOR. Do, good my lord. Your citizens entreat you.

BUCKINGHAM. Refuse not, mighty lord, this proffered love.

CATESBY. O, make them joyful; grant their lawful suit.

RICHARD. Alas, why would you heap those cares on me? I am unfit for state and majesty. I do beseech you, take it not amiss; I cannot, nor I will not, yield to you.

BUCKINGHAM. 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 And gentle, kind, effeminate remorse, Which we have noted in you to your kindred, And equally indeed to all estates— Yet know, whe’er you accept our suit or no, Your brother’s son shall never reign our king, 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; zounds, I’ll entreat no more.

[_Exeunt Buckingham, the Mayor and citizens._]

CATESBY. Call him again, sweet Prince; accept their suit. If you deny them, all the land will rue it.

RICHARD. Will you enforce me to a world of cares? Call them again. I am not made of stones, But penetrable to your kind entreaties, Albeit against my conscience and my soul.

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’er I will or no, I must have patience to endure the load. But if black scandal or foul-faced 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, How far I am from the desire of this.

MAYOR. God bless your Grace! We see it, and will say it.

RICHARD. In saying so, you shall but say the truth.

BUCKINGHAM. Then I salute you with this royal title: Long live King Richard, England’s worthy King!

ALL. Amen.

BUCKINGHAM. Tomorrow may it please you to be crowned?

RICHARD. Even when you please, for you will have it so.

BUCKINGHAM. Tomorrow, then, we will attend your Grace; And so most joyfully we take our leave.

RICHARD. [_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 Queen Elizabeth, the Duchess of York and Marquess of Dorset, at one door; Anne Duchess of Gloucester with Clarence’s young Daughter at another door.

DUCHESS. Who meets us here? My niece Plantagenet Led in the hand of her kind aunt of Gloucester? Now, for my life, she’s wandering to the Tower, On pure heart’s love, to greet the tender Prince. Daughter, well met.

ANNE. God give your Graces both A happy and a joyful time of day.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. As much to you, good sister. Whither away?

ANNE. No farther than the Tower, and, as I guess, Upon the like devotion as yourselves, To gratulate the gentle Princes there.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Kind sister, thanks; we’ll enter all together.

Enter Brakenbury.

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?

BRAKENBURY. Right well, dear madam. By your patience, I may not suffer you to visit them. The King hath strictly charged the contrary.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. The King? Who’s that?

BRAKENBURY. I mean the Lord Protector.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. The Lord protect him from that kingly title! Hath he set bounds between their love and me? I am their mother; who shall bar me from them?

DUCHESS. 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.

BRAKENBURY. No, madam, no. I may not leave it so. I am bound by oath, and therefore pardon me.

[_Exit._]

Enter Stanley.

STANLEY. Let me but meet you, ladies, one hour hence, And I’ll salute your Grace of York as mother And reverend looker-on of two fair queens. [_To Anne._] Come, madam, you must straight to Westminster, There to be crowned Richard’s royal queen.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Ah, cut my lace asunder That my pent heart may have some scope to beat, Or else I swoon with this dead-killing news!

ANNE. Despiteful tidings! O unpleasing news!

DORSET. Be of good cheer, mother. How fares your Grace?

QUEEN ELIZABETH. O Dorset, speak not to me; get thee gone. Death and destruction dog thee at thy heels; 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, And make me die the thrall of Margaret’s curse, Nor mother, wife, nor England’s counted Queen.

STANLEY. Full of wise care is this your counsel, madam. Take all the swift advantage of the hours; You shall have letters from me to my son In your behalf, to meet you on the way. Be not ta’en tardy by unwise delay.

DUCHESS. O ill-dispersing wind of misery! O my accursed womb, the bed of death! A cockatrice hast thou hatched to the world, Whose unavoided eye is murderous.

STANLEY. 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 Were red-hot steel, to sear me to the brains. Anointed let me be with deadly venom, And die ere men can say “God save the Queen.”

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Go, go, poor soul; I envy not thy glory. To feed my humour, wish thyself no harm.

ANNE. No? Why? When he that is my husband now Came to me as I followed Henry’s corse, When scarce the blood was well washed from his hands Which issued from my other angel husband, And that dear saint which then I weeping followed; O, when, I say, I looked on Richard’s face, This was my wish: “Be thou,” quoth I, “accursed 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, 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, And proved the subject of mine own soul’s curse, Which hitherto hath held my 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 awaked. Besides, he hates me for my father Warwick, And will, no doubt, shortly be rid of me.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Poor heart, adieu; I pity thy complaining.

ANNE. No more than with my soul I mourn for yours.

DORSET. Farewell, thou woeful welcomer of glory.

ANNE. Adieu, poor soul, that tak’st thy leave of it.

DUCHESS. [_To Dorset._] Go thou to Richmond, and good fortune guide thee. [_To Anne._] Go thou to Richard, and good angels tend thee. [_To Queen Elizabeth._] Go thou to sanctuary, and good thoughts possess thee. I to my grave, where peace and rest lie with me. Eighty odd years of sorrow have I seen, And each hour’s joy wracked with a week of teen.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Stay, yet look back with me unto the Tower. Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes Whom envy hath immured within your walls— Rough cradle for such little pretty one, Rude ragged nurse, old sullen playfellow For tender princes, use my babies well. So foolish sorrows bids your stones farewell.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE II. London. A Room of State in the Palace

The trumpets sound a sennet. Enter Richard in pomp, Buckingham, Catesby, Ratcliffe, Lovell, a Page and others.

KING RICHARD. Stand all apart. Cousin of Buckingham!

BUCKINGHAM. My gracious sovereign!

KING RICHARD. Give me thy hand.

[_Here he ascendeth the throne. Sound trumpets._]

Thus high, by thy advice 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?

BUCKINGHAM. Still live they, and for ever let them last!

KING RICHARD. Ah, Buckingham, now do I play the touch, To try if thou be current gold indeed. Young Edward lives; think now what I would speak.

BUCKINGHAM. Say on, my loving lord.

KING RICHARD. Why, Buckingham, I say I would be King.

BUCKINGHAM. Why, so you are, my thrice-renowned lord.

KING RICHARD. Ha! Am I King? ’Tis so—but Edward lives.

BUCKINGHAM. True, noble Prince.

KING RICHARD. O bitter consequence, That Edward still should live “true noble prince!” Cousin, thou wast not wont to be so dull. Shall I be plain? I wish the bastards dead, And I would have it suddenly performed. What sayst thou now? Speak suddenly, be brief.

BUCKINGHAM. Your Grace may do your pleasure.

KING RICHARD. Tut, tut, thou art all ice; thy kindness freezes. Say, have I thy consent that they shall die?

BUCKINGHAM. Give me some little breath, some pause, dear lord, Before I positively speak in this. I will resolve you herein presently.

[_Exit._]

CATESBY. [_Aside_.] The King is angry. See, he gnaws his lip.

KING RICHARD. [_Aside_.] 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!

PAGE. My lord?

KING RICHARD. 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. Gold were as good as twenty orators, And will, no doubt, tempt him to anything.

KING RICHARD. What is his name?

PAGE. His name, my lord, is Tyrrel.

KING RICHARD. I partly know the man. Go, call him hither, boy.

[_Exit Page._]

[_Aside_.] The deep-revolving witty Buckingham No more shall be the neighbour to my counsels. Hath he so long held out with me, untired, And stops he now for breath? Well, be it so.

Enter Stanley.

How now, Lord Stanley, what’s the news?

STANLEY. Know, my loving lord, The Marquess Dorset, as I hear, is fled To Richmond, in the parts where he abides.

KING RICHARD. Come hither, Catesby. Rumour it abroad 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. 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, 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.

Enter Tyrrel.

Is thy name Tyrrel?

TYRREL. James Tyrrel, and your most obedient subject.

KING RICHARD. Art thou indeed?

TYRREL. Prove me, my gracious lord.

KING RICHARD. Dar’st thou resolve to kill a friend of mine?

TYRREL. Please you. But I had rather kill two enemies.

KING RICHARD. 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. Tyrell, I mean those bastards in the Tower.

TYRREL. Let me have open means to come to them, And soon I’ll rid you from the fear of them.

KING RICHARD. Thou sing’st sweet music. Hark, come hither, Tyrrel. Go, by this token. Rise, and lend thine ear. [_Whispers_.] There is no more but so. Say it is done, And I will love thee, and prefer thee for it.

TYRREL. I will dispatch it straight.

[_Exit._]

Enter Buckingham.

BUCKINGHAM. My lord, I have considered in my mind The late request that you did sound me in.

KING RICHARD. Well, let that rest. Dorset is fled to Richmond.

BUCKINGHAM. I hear the news, my lord.

KING RICHARD. Stanley, he is your wife’s son. Well, look unto it.

BUCKINGHAM. My lord, I claim the gift, my due by promise, For which your honour and your faith is pawned: Th’ earldom of Hereford, and the movables Which you have promised I shall possess.

KING RICHARD. Stanley, look to your wife. If she convey Letters to Richmond, you shall answer it.

BUCKINGHAM. What says your Highness to my just request?

KING RICHARD. I do remember me, Henry the Sixth Did prophesy that Richmond should be King, When Richmond was a little peevish boy. A king perhaps—

BUCKINGHAM. My lord—

KING RICHARD. How chance the prophet could not at that time Have told me, I being by, that I should kill him?

BUCKINGHAM. My lord, your promise for the earldom—

KING RICHARD. Richmond! When last I was at Exeter, The Mayor in courtesy showed me the castle And called it Rougemount, at which name I started, Because a bard of Ireland told me once I should not live long after I saw Richmond.

BUCKINGHAM. My lord—

KING RICHARD. Ay, what’s o’clock?

BUCKINGHAM. I am thus bold to put your Grace in mind Of what you promised me.

KING RICHARD. Well, but what’s o’clock?

BUCKINGHAM. Upon the stroke of ten.

KING RICHARD. Well, let it strike.

BUCKINGHAM. Why let it strike?

KING RICHARD. Because that, like a jack, thou keep’st the stroke Betwixt thy begging and my meditation. I am not in the giving vein today.

BUCKINGHAM. Why then, resolve me whether you will or no.

KING RICHARD. Thou troublest me; I am not in the vein.

[_Exit followed by all save Buckingham._]

BUCKINGHAM. 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 To Brecknock while my fearful head is on!

[_Exit._]

## SCENE III. London. Another Room in the Palace

Enter Tyrrel.

TYRREL. The tyrannous and bloody act is done, The most arch deed of piteous massacre That ever yet this land was guilty of. Dighton and Forrest, who I did suborn To do this piece of ruthless butchery, Albeit they were fleshed villains, bloody dogs, Melted with tenderness and mild compassion, Wept like two children in their deaths’ sad story. “O, 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, And in their summer beauty kissed each other. A book of prayers on their pillow lay, Which once,” quoth Forrest, “almost changed my mind. But, O, the devil—” There the villain stopped; When Dighton thus told on: “We smothered The most replenished sweet work of nature That from the prime creation e’er she framed.” 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.

Enter King Richard.

And here he comes. All health, my sovereign lord.

KING RICHARD. Kind Tyrrel, am I happy in thy news?

TYRREL. If to have done the thing you gave in charge Beget your happiness, be happy then, For it is done.

KING RICHARD. But didst thou see them dead?

TYRREL. I did, my lord.

KING RICHARD. And buried, gentle Tyrrel?

TYRREL. The chaplain of the Tower hath buried them, But where, to say the truth, I do not know.

KING RICHARD. Come to me, Tyrrel, soon, at after-supper, When thou shalt tell the process of their death. Meantime, but think how I may do thee good, And be inheritor of thy desire. Farewell till then.

TYRREL. I humbly take my leave.

[_Exit._]

KING RICHARD. The son of Clarence have I pent up close; His daughter meanly have I matched in marriage; The sons of Edward sleep in Abraham’s bosom, 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.

Enter Ratcliffe.

RATCLIFFE. My lord!

KING RICHARD. Good or bad news, that thou com’st in so bluntly?

RATCLIFFE. Bad news, my lord. Morton is fled to Richmond, And Buckingham, backed with the hardy Welshmen, Is in the field, and still his power increaseth.

KING RICHARD. Ely with Richmond troubles me more near Than Buckingham and his rash-levied strength. Come, I have learned that fearful commenting Is leaden servitor to dull delay; Delay leads impotent and snail-paced 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._]

## SCENE IV. London. Before the Palace

Enter old Queen Margaret.

QUEEN MARGARET. So now prosperity begins to mellow, And drop into the rotten mouth of death. Here in these confines slily have I lurked 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?

[_Retires._]

Enter Duchess of York and Queen Elizabeth.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. 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 fixed in doom perpetual, Hover about me with your airy wings And hear your mother’s lamentation.

QUEEN MARGARET. [_Aside_.] Hover about her; say that right for right Hath dimmed your infant morn to aged night.

DUCHESS. So many miseries have crazed my voice That my woe-wearied tongue is still and mute. Edward Plantagenet, why art thou dead?

QUEEN MARGARET. [_Aside_.] Plantagenet doth quit Plantagenet; Edward for Edward pays a dying debt.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Wilt thou, O God, fly from such gentle lambs, And throw them in the entrails of the wolf? When didst Thou sleep when such a deed was done?

QUEEN MARGARET. [_Aside_.] When holy Harry died, and my sweet son.

DUCHESS. Dead life, blind sight, poor mortal living ghost, Woe’s scene, world’s shame, grave’s due by life usurped, Brief abstract and record of tedious days, Rest thy unrest on England’s lawful earth, [_Sitting_.] Unlawfully made drunk with innocent blood.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Ah, that thou wouldst as soon afford a grave As thou canst yield a melancholy seat, Then would I hide my bones, not rest them here. [_Sitting_.] Ah, who hath any cause to mourn but we?

QUEEN MARGARET.

[_Coming forward._]

If ancient sorrow be most reverend, Give mine the benefit of seigniory, And let my griefs frown on the upper hand. 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 killed him; I had a husband, till a Richard killed him. Thou hadst an Edward, till a Richard killed him; Thou hadst a Richard, till a Richard killed him.

DUCHESS. I had a Richard too, and thou didst kill him; I had a Rutland too; thou holp’st to kill him.

QUEEN MARGARET. Thou hadst a Clarence too, and Richard killed him. From forth the kennel of thy womb hath crept 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 excellent grand tyrant of the earth, That reigns in galled eyes of weeping souls; That foul defacer of God’s handiwork 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, And makes her pew-fellow with others’ moan!

DUCHESS. O Harry’s wife, triumph not in my woes! God witness with me, I have wept for thine.

QUEEN MARGARET. Bear with me. I am hungry for revenge, And now I cloy me with beholding it. Thy Edward he is dead, that killed my Edward; The other Edward dead, to quit my Edward; Young York, he is but boot, because both they Matched not the high perfection of my loss. Thy Clarence he is dead that stabbed my Edward; And the beholders of this frantic play, Th’ adulterate Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan, Grey, Untimely smothered in their dusky graves. Richard yet lives, hell’s black intelligencer, Only reserved their factor to buy souls 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 conveyed from hence. Cancel his bond of life, dear God, I pray, That I may live to say “The dog is dead.”

QUEEN ELIZABETH. O, thou didst prophesy the time would come That I should wish for thee to help me curse That bottled spider, that foul bunch-backed toad!

QUEEN MARGARET. I called thee then, vain flourish of my fortune; I called thee then, poor shadow, painted queen, The presentation of but what I was, The flattering index of a direful pageant; One heaved a-high to be hurled down below, A mother only mocked with two fair babes; A dream of what thou wast; a garish flag, To be the aim of every dangerous shot; A sign of dignity, a breath, a bubble; A queen in jest, only to fill the scene. Where is thy husband now? Where be thy brothers? Where are thy two sons? Wherein dost thou joy? Who sues, and kneels, and says, “God save the Queen?” Where be the bending peers that flattered thee? Where be the thronging troops that followed thee? Decline all this, and see what now thou art: For happy wife, a most distressed widow; For joyful mother, one that wails the name; For one being sued to, one that humbly sues; For Queen, a very caitiff crowned with care; For she that scorned at me, now scorned of me; For she being feared of all, now fearing one; For she commanding all, obeyed of none. Thus hath the course of justice wheeled about And left thee but a very prey to time, Having no more but thought of what thou wast 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 burdened yoke, From which even here I slip my weary head, 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.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. O thou well skilled in curses, stay awhile, And teach me how to curse mine enemies.

QUEEN MARGARET. Forbear to sleep the night, and fast the days; Compare dead happiness with living woe; Think that thy babes were sweeter than they were, And he that slew them fouler than he is. Bettering thy loss makes the bad-causer worse. Revolving this will teach thee how to curse.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. My words are dull. O, quicken them with thine!

QUEEN MARGARET. Thy woes will make them sharp and pierce like mine.

[_Exit._]

DUCHESS. Why should calamity be full of words?

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Windy attorneys to their clients’ woes, 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.

DUCHESS. If so, then be not tongue-tied. Go with me, And in the breath of bitter words let’s smother My damned son, that thy two sweet sons smothered.

[_A trumpet sounds._]

The trumpet sounds. Be copious in exclaims.

Enter King Richard and his Train, including Catesby, marching.

KING RICHARD. Who intercepts me in my expedition?

DUCHESS. O, she that might have intercepted thee, By strangling thee in her accursed womb, From all the slaughters, wretch, that thou hast done.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Hid’st thou that forehead with a golden crown Where should be branded, if that right were right, The slaughter of the Prince that owed that crown, And the dire death of my poor sons and brothers? Tell me, thou villain-slave, where are my children?

DUCHESS. Thou toad, thou toad, where is thy brother Clarence, And little Ned Plantagenet his son?

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Where is the gentle Rivers, Vaughan, Grey?

DUCHESS. Where is kind Hastings?

KING RICHARD. 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._]

Either be patient and entreat me fair, Or with the clamorous report of war Thus will I drown your exclamations.

DUCHESS. Art thou my son?

KING RICHARD. Ay, I thank God, my father, and yourself.

DUCHESS. Then patiently hear my impatience.

KING RICHARD. Madam, I have a touch of your condition, That cannot brook the accent of reproof.

DUCHESS. O, let me speak!

KING RICHARD. Do then, but I’ll not hear.

DUCHESS. I will be mild and gentle in my words.

KING RICHARD. And brief, good mother, for I am in haste.

DUCHESS. Art thou so hasty? I have stayed for thee, God knows, in torment and in agony.

KING RICHARD. And came I not at last to comfort you?

DUCHESS. 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, desp’rate, wild, and furious; Thy prime of manhood daring, bold, and venturous; Thy age confirmed, proud, subtle, sly, and bloody, More mild, but yet more harmful, kind in hatred. What comfortable hour canst thou name That ever graced me with thy company?

KING RICHARD. Faith, none but Humphrey Hower, that called 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.

DUCHESS. I prithee, hear me speak.

KING RICHARD. You speak too bitterly.

DUCHESS. Hear me a word, For I shall never speak to thee again.

KING RICHARD. So.

DUCHESS. 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 more behold thy face again. Therefore take with thee my most grievous curse, 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 And promise them success and victory. Bloody thou art; bloody will be thy end. Shame serves thy life and doth thy death attend.

[_Exit._]

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Though far more cause, yet much less spirit to curse Abides in me, I say amen to her.

KING RICHARD. Stay, madam, I must talk a word with you.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. I have no more 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.

KING RICHARD. You have a daughter called Elizabeth, Virtuous and fair, royal and gracious.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. 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, Throw over her the veil of infamy. So she may live unscarred of bleeding slaughter, I will confess she was not Edward’s daughter.

KING RICHARD. Wrong not her birth; she is a royal princess.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. To save her life I’ll say she is not so.

KING RICHARD. Her life is safest only in her birth.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. And only in that safety died her brothers.

KING RICHARD. Lo, at their births good stars were opposite.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. No, to their lives ill friends were contrary.

KING RICHARD. All unavoided is the doom of destiny.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. True, when avoided grace makes destiny. My babes were destined to a fairer death, If grace had blessed thee with a fairer life.

KING RICHARD. You speak as if that I had slain my cousins.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Cousins, indeed, and by their uncle cozened Of comfort, kingdom, kindred, freedom, life. Whose hand soever lanced their tender hearts, Thy head, all indirectly, gave direction. No doubt the murd’rous knife was dull and blunt Till it was whetted on thy stone-hard heart, 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 anchored in thine eyes, And I, in such a desp’rate bay of death, Like a poor bark of sails and tackling reft, Rush all to pieces on thy rocky bosom.

KING RICHARD. Madam, so thrive I in my enterprise And dangerous success of bloody wars, As I intend more good to you and yours Than ever you or yours by me were harmed!

QUEEN ELIZABETH. What good is covered with the face of heaven, To be discovered, that can do me good?

KING RICHARD. Th’ advancement of your children, gentle lady.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Up to some scaffold, there to lose their heads.

KING RICHARD. Unto the dignity and height of fortune, The high imperial type of this earth’s glory.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Flatter my sorrows with report of it. Tell me what state, what dignity, what honour, Canst thou demise to any child of mine?

KING RICHARD. 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.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Be brief, lest that the process of thy kindness Last longer telling than thy kindness’ date.

KING RICHARD. Then know, that from my soul I love thy daughter.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. My daughter’s mother thinks it with her soul.

KING RICHARD. What do you think?

QUEEN ELIZABETH. 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.

KING RICHARD. Be not so hasty to confound my meaning. I mean that with my soul I love thy daughter, And do intend to make her Queen of England.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Well, then, who dost thou mean shall be her king?

KING RICHARD. Even he that makes her Queen. Who else should be?

QUEEN ELIZABETH. What, thou?

KING RICHARD. Even so. How think you of it?

QUEEN ELIZABETH. How canst thou woo her?

KING RICHARD. That would I learn of you, As one being best acquainted with her humour.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. And wilt thou learn of me?

KING RICHARD. Madam, with all my heart.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. 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 sometimes Margaret Did to thy father, steeped in Rutland’s blood— A handkerchief, which, say to her, did drain The purple sap from her sweet brothers’ 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; 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.

KING RICHARD. You mock me, madam; this is not the way To win your daughter.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. There is no other way, Unless thou couldst put on some other shape, And not be Richard, that hath done all this.

KING RICHARD. Say that I did all this for love of her?

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Nay, then indeed she cannot choose but hate thee, Having bought love with such a bloody spoil.

KING RICHARD. Look what is done cannot be now amended. Men shall deal unadvisedly sometimes, Which after-hours gives leisure to repent. If I did take the kingdom from your sons, To make amends I’ll give it to your daughter. If I have killed 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 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 Endured of her, for whom you bid like sorrow. 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; 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. 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 Repaired with double riches of content. What, we have many goodly days to see. The liquid drops of tears that you have shed Shall come again, transformed to orient pearl, Advantaging their loan with interest Of ten times double gain of happiness. 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 th’ aspiring flame Of golden sovereignty; acquaint the Princess With the sweet silent hours of marriage joys, And when this arm of mine hath chastised The petty rebel, dull-brained Buckingham, Bound with triumphant garlands will I come And lead thy daughter to a conqueror’s bed; To whom I will retail my conquest won, And she shall be sole victoress, Caesar’s Caesar.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. 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? 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?

KING RICHARD. Infer fair England’s peace by this alliance.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Which she shall purchase with still-lasting war.

KING RICHARD. Tell her the King, that may command, entreats.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. That at her hands, which the King’s King forbids.

KING RICHARD. Say she shall be a high and mighty queen.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. To vail the title, as her mother doth.

KING RICHARD. Say I will love her everlastingly.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. But how long shall that title “ever” last?

KING RICHARD. Sweetly in force unto her fair life’s end.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. But how long fairly shall her sweet life last?

KING RICHARD. As long as heaven and nature lengthens it.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. As long as hell and Richard likes of it.

KING RICHARD. Say I, her sovereign, am her subject low.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. But she, your subject, loathes such sovereignty.

KING RICHARD. Be eloquent in my behalf to her.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. An honest tale speeds best being plainly told.

KING RICHARD. Then plainly to her tell my loving tale.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Plain and not honest is too harsh a style.

KING RICHARD. Your reasons are too shallow and too quick.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. O no, my reasons are too deep and dead— Too deep and dead, poor infants, in their graves.

KING RICHARD. Harp not on that string, madam; that is past.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Harp on it still shall I till heart-strings break.

KING RICHARD. Now, by my George, my Garter, and my crown—

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Profaned, dishonoured, and the third usurped.

KING RICHARD. I swear—

QUEEN ELIZABETH. By nothing, for this is no oath. Thy George, profaned, hath lost his lordly honour; Thy Garter, blemished, pawned his knightly virtue; Thy crown, usurped, disgraced his kingly glory. If something thou wouldst swear to be believed, Swear then by something that thou hast not wronged.

KING RICHARD. Now, by the world—

QUEEN ELIZABETH. ’Tis full of thy foul wrongs.

KING RICHARD. My father’s death—

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Thy life hath that dishonoured.

KING RICHARD. Then, by myself—

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Thyself is self-misused.

KING RICHARD. Why, then, by God—

QUEEN ELIZABETH. God’s wrong is most of all. If thou didst fear to break an oath with Him, The unity the King my husband made Thou hadst not broken, nor my brothers died. If thou hadst feared to break an oath by Him, Th’ imperial metal circling now thy head Had graced the tender temples of my child, And both the Princes had been breathing here, Which now, two tender bedfellows for dust, Thy broken faith hath made a prey for worms. What canst thou swear by now?

KING RICHARD. The time to come.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. That thou hast wronged in the time o’erpast; For I myself have many tears to wash Hereafter time, for time past wronged by thee. The children live whose fathers thou hast slaughtered, Ungoverned youth, to wail it in their age; The parents live whose children thou hast butchered, Old barren plants, to wail it with their age. Swear not by time to come, for that thou hast Misused ere used, by times ill-used o’erpast.

KING RICHARD. As I intend to prosper and repent, So thrive I in my dangerous affairs 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 dear heart’s love, 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, 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; 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 found in great designs.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Shall I be tempted of the devil thus?

KING RICHARD. Ay, if the devil tempt you to do good.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Shall I forget myself to be myself?

KING RICHARD. Ay, if your self’s remembrance wrong yourself.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Yet thou didst kill my children.

KING RICHARD. But in your daughter’s womb I bury them, Where, in that nest of spicery, they will breed Selves of themselves, to your recomforture.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. Shall I go win my daughter to thy will?

KING RICHARD. And be a happy mother by the deed.

QUEEN ELIZABETH. I go. Write to me very shortly, And you shall understand from me her mind.

KING RICHARD. Bear her my true love’s kiss; and so, farewell.

[_Kissing her. Exit Queen Elizabeth._]

Relenting fool, and shallow, changing woman!

Enter Ratcliffe.

How now, what news?

RATCLIFFE. Most mighty sovereign, on the western coast Rideth a puissant navy; to our shores Throng many doubtful hollow-hearted friends, Unarmed, and unresolved to beat them back. ’Tis thought that Richmond is their admiral; And there they hull, expecting but the aid Of Buckingham to welcome them ashore.

KING RICHARD. Some light-foot friend post to the Duke of Norfolk. Ratcliffe, thyself, or Catesby. Where is he?

CATESBY. Here, my good lord.

KING RICHARD. Catesby, fly to the Duke.

CATESBY. I will my lord, with all convenient haste.

KING RICHARD. Ratcliffe, 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?

CATESBY. First, mighty liege, tell me your Highness’ pleasure, What from your Grace I shall deliver to him.

KING RICHARD. O, true, good Catesby. Bid him levy straight The greatest strength and power that he can make, And meet me suddenly at Salisbury.

CATESBY. I go.

[_Exit._]

RATCLIFFE. What, may it please you, shall I do at Salisbury?

KING RICHARD. Why, what wouldst thou do there before I go?

RATCLIFFE. Your Highness told me I should post before.

KING RICHARD. My mind is changed.

Enter Stanley Earl of Derby.

Stanley, what news with you?

STANLEY. None good, my liege, to please you with the hearing; Nor none so bad but well may be reported.

KING RICHARD. Hoyday, a riddle! Neither good nor bad. What need’st thou run so many miles about When thou mayst tell thy tale the nearest way? Once more, what news?

STANLEY. Richmond is on the seas.

KING RICHARD. There let him sink, and be the seas on him! White-livered runagate, what doth he there?

STANLEY. I know not, mighty sovereign, but by guess.

KING RICHARD. Well, as you guess?

STANLEY. Stirred up by Dorset, Buckingham, and Morton, He makes for England, here to claim the crown.

KING RICHARD. Is the chair empty? Is the sword unswayed? Is the King dead? The empire unpossessed? 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?

STANLEY. Unless for that, my liege, I cannot guess.

KING RICHARD. 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.

STANLEY. No, my good lord; therefore mistrust me not.

KING RICHARD. Where is thy power, then, to beat him back? Where be thy tenants and thy followers? Are they not now upon the western shore, Safe-conducting the rebels from their ships?

STANLEY. No, my good lord, my friends are in the north.

KING RICHARD. Cold friends to me. What do they in the north, When they should serve their sovereign in the west?

STANLEY. 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.

KING RICHARD. Ay, ay, thou wouldst be gone to join with Richmond. But I’ll not trust thee.

STANLEY. Most mighty sovereign, You have no cause to hold my friendship doubtful. I never was nor never will be false.

KING RICHARD. 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.

STANLEY. So deal with him as I prove true to you.

[_Exit._]

Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER. My gracious sovereign, now in Devonshire, As I by friends am well advertised, Sir Edward Courtney, and the haughty prelate, Bishop of Exeter, his elder brother, With many more confederates, are in arms.

Enter another Messenger.

SECOND MESSENGER. In Kent, my liege, the Guilfords are in arms, And every hour more competitors Flock to the rebels, and their power grows strong.

Enter another Messenger.

THIRD MESSENGER. My lord, the army of great Buckingham—

KING RICHARD. Out on you, owls! Nothing but songs of death?

[_He strikes him._]

There, take thou that till thou bring better news.

THIRD MESSENGER. The news I have to tell your Majesty Is, that by sudden floods and fall of waters, Buckingham’s army is dispersed and scattered, And he himself wandered away alone, No man knows whither.

KING RICHARD. I cry thee mercy. There is my purse to cure that blow of thine. Hath any well-advised friend proclaimed Reward to him that brings the traitor in?

THIRD MESSENGER. Such proclamation hath been made, my lord.

Enter another Messenger.

FOURTH MESSENGER. Sir Thomas Lovell and Lord Marquess Dorset, ’Tis said, my liege, in Yorkshire are in arms. But this good comfort bring I to your Highness: The Breton navy is dispersed by tempest. Richmond, in Dorsetshire, sent out a boat Unto the shore, to ask those on the banks If they were his assistants, yea or no?— Who answered him they came from Buckingham Upon his party. He, mistrusting them, Hoised sail, and made his course again for Brittany.

KING RICHARD. March on, march on, since we are up in arms, If not to fight with foreign enemies, Yet to beat down these rebels here at home.

Enter Catesby.

CATESBY. My liege, the Duke of Buckingham is taken. That is the best news. That the Earl of Richmond Is with a mighty power landed at Milford Is colder tidings, yet they must be told.

KING RICHARD. Away towards Salisbury! While we reason here A royal battle might be won and lost. Someone take order Buckingham be brought To Salisbury; the rest march on with me.

[_Flourish. Exeunt._]

## SCENE V. A Room in Lord Stanley’s house

Enter Stanley Earl of Derby and Sir Christopher Urswick.

STANLEY. Sir Christopher, tell Richmond this from me: That in the sty of the most deadly boar My son George Stanley is franked up in hold; 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. But tell me, where is princely Richmond now?

CHRISTOPHER. At Pembroke, or at Ha’rfordwest in Wales.

STANLEY. What men of name resort to him?

CHRISTOPHER. Sir Walter Herbert, a renowned soldier; Sir Gilbert Talbot, Sir William Stanley, 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.

STANLEY. 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 Sheriff and Halberds, with Buckingham, led to execution.

BUCKINGHAM. Will not King Richard let me speak with him?

SHERIFF. No, my good lord; therefore be patient.

BUCKINGHAM. Hastings, and Edward’s children, Grey, and Rivers, 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, Even for revenge mock my destruction. This is All-Souls’ day, fellow, is it not?

SHERIFF. It is.

BUCKINGHAM. Why, then All-Souls’ day is my body’s doomsday. This is the day which, in King Edward’s time, I wished might fall on me when I was found False to his children and his wife’s allies. This is the day wherein I wished to fall By the false faith of him whom most I trusted. This, this All-Souls’ day to my fearful soul Is the determined respite of my wrongs. That high All-Seer which I dallied with Hath turned my feigned prayer on my head And given in earnest what I begged in jest. Thus doth He force the swords of wicked men To turn their own points in 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; Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the due of blame.

[_Exit with Officers._]

## SCENE II. Plain near Tamworth

Enter Richmond, Oxford, Blunt, Herbert, and others, with drum and colours.

RICHMOND. Fellows in arms, and my most loving friends, Bruised underneath the yoke of tyranny, Thus far into the bowels of the land Have we marched on without impediment; And here receive we from our father Stanley Lines of fair comfort and encouragement. The wretched, bloody, and usurping boar, That spoiled your summer fields and fruitful vines, Swills your warm blood like wash, and makes his trough In your embowelled 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. In God’s name, cheerly on, courageous friends, To reap the harvest of perpetual peace By this one bloody trial of sharp war.

OXFORD. Every man’s conscience is a thousand men, To fight against that guilty homicide.

HERBERT. 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.

RICHMOND. All for our vantage. Then in God’s name, march. True hope is swift, and flies with swallow’s wings; Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE III. Bosworth Field

Enter King Richard in arms, with Norfolk, Ratcliffe and the Earl of Surrey with others.

KING RICHARD. Here pitch our tent, even here in Bosworth field. My Lord of Surrey, why look you so sad?

SURREY. My heart is ten times lighter than my looks.

KING RICHARD. My lord of Norfolk.

NORFOLK. Here, most gracious liege.

KING RICHARD. Norfolk, we must have knocks, ha, must we not?

NORFOLK. We must both give and take, my loving lord.

KING RICHARD. Up with my tent! Here will I lie tonight. But where tomorrow? Well, all’s one for that. Who hath descried the number of the traitors?

NORFOLK. Six or seven thousand is their utmost power.

KING RICHARD. Why, our battalia trebles that account. Besides, the King’s name is a tower of strength 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, For, lords, tomorrow is a busy day.

[_The tent is now ready. Exeunt._]

Enter Richmond, Sir William Brandon, Oxford, Herbert, Blunt, and others who pitch Richmond’s tent.

RICHMOND. The weary sun hath made a golden set, And by the bright track of his fiery car Gives token of a goodly day tomorrow. 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. 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 goodnight to him, And by the second hour in the morning Desire the Earl to see me in my tent. Yet one thing more, good captain, do for me. Where is Lord Stanley quartered, do you know?

BLUNT. Unless I have mista’en his colours much, Which well I am assured I have not done, His regiment lies half a mile at least South from the mighty power of the King.

RICHMOND. If without peril it be possible, Sweet Blunt, make some good means to speak with him, And give him from me this most needful note.

BLUNT. Upon my life, my lord, I’ll undertake it; And so God give you quiet rest tonight.

RICHMOND. Good night, good Captain Blunt.

[_Exit Blunt._]

Come, gentlemen, Let us consult upon tomorrow’s business; Into my tent. The dew is raw and cold.

[_Richmond, Brandon Herbert, and Oxford withdraw into the tent. The others exeunt._]

Enter to his tent, King Richard, Ratcliffe, Norfolk and Catesby with Soldiers.

KING RICHARD. What is’t o’clock?

CATESBY. It’s supper time, my lord. It’s nine o’clock.

KING RICHARD. I will not sup tonight. Give me some ink and paper. What, is my beaver easier than it was? And all my armour laid into my tent?

CATESBY. It is, my liege, and all things are in readiness.

KING RICHARD. Good Norfolk, hie thee to thy charge; Use careful watch; choose trusty sentinels.

NORFOLK. I go, my lord.

KING RICHARD. Stir with the lark tomorrow, gentle Norfolk.

NORFOLK. I warrant you, my lord.

[_Exit._]

KING RICHARD. Catesby!

CATESBY. My lord?

KING RICHARD. Send out a pursuivant-at-arms To Stanley’s regiment. Bid him bring his power Before sunrising, lest his son George fall Into the blind cave of eternal night.

[_Exit Catesby._]

Fill me a bowl of wine. Give me a watch. Saddle white Surrey for the field tomorrow. Look that my staves be sound, and not too heavy. Ratcliffe!

RATCLIFFE. My lord?

KING RICHARD. Saw’st thou the melancholy Lord Northumberland?

RATCLIFFE. Thomas the Earl of Surrey and himself, Much about cockshut time, from troop to troop Went through the army, cheering up the soldiers.

KING RICHARD. So, I am satisfied. Give me a bowl of wine. 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?

RATCLIFFE. It is, my lord.

KING RICHARD. Bid my guard watch; leave me. Ratcliffe, about the mid of night come to my tent And help to arm me. Leave me, I say.

[_Exit Ratcliffe. Richard withdraws into his tent; attendant soldiers guard it_.]

Enter Stanley Earl of Derby to Richmond in his tent.

STANLEY. Fortune and victory sit on thy helm!

RICHMOND. All comfort that the dark night can afford Be to thy person, noble father-in-law. Tell me, how fares our loving mother?

STANLEY. I, by attorney, bless thee from thy mother, Who prays continually for Richmond’s good. 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 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, 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, Which so-long-sundered friends should dwell upon. God give us leisure for these rites of love! Once more, adieu. Be valiant, and speed well.

RICHMOND. Good lords, conduct him to his regiment. I’ll strive with troubled thoughts to take a nap, Lest leaden slumber peise me down tomorrow When I should mount with wings of victory. Once more, good night, kind lords and gentlemen.

[_All but Richmond leave his tent._]

[_Kneels_.] O Thou, whose captain I account myself, Look on my forces with a gracious eye; Put in their hands Thy bruising irons of wrath, That they may crush down with a heavy fall Th’ usurping helmets of our adversaries; Make us Thy ministers of chastisement, That we may praise Thee in the victory. 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._]

Enter the Ghost of young Prince Edward, son to Harry the Sixth.

GHOST OF EDWARD. [_To King Richard._] Let me sit heavy on thy soul tomorrow. Think how thou stabbed’st me in my prime of youth At Tewksbury; despair therefore, and die! [_To Richmond._] Be cheerful, Richmond, for the wronged souls Of butchered princes fight in thy behalf. King Henry’s issue, Richmond, comforts thee.

[_Exit._]

Enter the Ghost of Henry the Sixth.

GHOST OF HENRY. [_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; Harry the Sixth bids thee despair and die. [_To Richmond._] Virtuous and holy, be thou conqueror. Harry, that prophesied thou shouldst be King, Doth comfort thee in thy sleep. Live, and flourish!

[_Exit._]

Enter the Ghost of Clarence.

GHOST OF CLARENCE. [_To King Richard._] Let me sit heavy in thy soul tomorrow, I, that was washed to death with fulsome wine, Poor Clarence, by thy guile betrayed to death. Tomorrow in the battle think on me, And fall thy edgeless sword. Despair, and die! [_To Richmond._] Thou offspring of the house of Lancaster, The wronged heirs of York do pray for thee. Good angels guard thy battle; live, and flourish.

[_Exit._]

Enter the Ghosts of Rivers, Grey and Vaughan.

GHOST OF RIVERS. [_To King Richard._] Let me sit heavy in thy soul tomorrow, Rivers that died at Pomfret. Despair and die!

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 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.

[_Exeunt._]

Enter the Ghost of Hastings.

GHOST OF HASTINGS. [_To King Richard._] Bloody and guilty, guiltily awake, And in a bloody battle end thy days. Think on Lord Hastings. Despair and die! [_To Richmond._] Quiet untroubled soul, awake, awake. Arm, fight, and conquer for fair England’s sake.

[_Exit._]

Enter the Ghosts of the two young Princes.

GHOSTS OF PRINCES. [_To King Richard._] Dream on thy cousins smothered in the Tower. Let us be lead within thy bosom, Richard, And weigh thee down to ruin, shame, and death; 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.

[_Exeunt._]

Enter the Ghost of Lady Anne, his wife.

GHOST OF ANNE. [_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. Tomorrow in the battle think on me, 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.

[_Exit._]

Enter the Ghost of Buckingham.

GHOST OF BUCKINGHAM. [_To King Richard._] The first was I that helped 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. 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 dismayed. God and good angels fight on Richmond’s side; And Richard fall in height of all his pride.

[_Exit._]

[_King Richard starts up out of his dream._]

KING RICHARD. 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. 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? 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. 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 highest degree; Murder, stern murder, in the direst degree; All several sins, all used 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. And wherefore should they, since that I myself Find in myself no pity to myself? Methought the souls of all that I had murdered Came to my tent, and everyone did threat Tomorrow’s vengeance on the head of Richard.

Enter Ratcliffe.

RATCLIFFE. My lord!

KING RICHARD. Zounds! Who’s there?

RATCLIFFE. Ratcliffe, my lord; ’tis I. The early village cock Hath twice done salutation to the morn; Your friends are up and buckle on their armour.

KING RICHARD. O Ratcliffe, I have dreamed a fearful dream! What think’st thou, will our friends prove all true?

RATCLIFFE. No doubt, my lord.

KING RICHARD. O Ratcliffe, I fear, I fear!

RATCLIFFE. Nay, good my lord, be not afraid of shadows.

KING RICHARD. By the apostle Paul, shadows tonight 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. ’Tis not yet near day. Come, go with me. Under our tents I’ll play the eavesdropper, To see if any mean to shrink from me.

[_Exeunt Richard and Ratcliffe._]

Enter the Lords to Richmond in his tent.

LORDS. Good morrow, Richmond.

RICHMOND. Cry mercy, lords and watchful gentlemen, That you have ta’en a tardy sluggard here.

LORDS. How have you slept, my lord?

RICHMOND. The sweetest sleep and fairest-boding dreams That ever entered in a drowsy head Have I since your departure had, my lords. Methought their souls whose bodies Richard murdered Came to my tent and cried on victory. I promise you, my heart is very jocund In the remembrance of so fair a dream. How far into the morning is it, lords?

LORDS. Upon the stroke of four.

RICHMOND. Why, then ’tis time to arm and give direction.

His oration to his soldiers.

More than I have said, loving countrymen, The leisure and enforcement of the time Forbids to dwell upon. Yet remember this: God, and our good cause, fight upon our side; The prayers of holy saints and wronged souls, Like high-reared bulwarks, stand before our faces. 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 raised in blood, and one in blood established; One that made means to come by what he hath, And slaughtered 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. 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, 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 quits it in your age. 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 corpse on the earth’s cold face; But if I thrive, the gain of my attempt The least of you shall share his part thereof. Sound drums and trumpets boldly and cheerfully! God, and Saint George! Richmond and victory!

[_Exeunt._]

Enter King Richard, Ratcliffe and Soldiers.

KING RICHARD. What said Northumberland as touching Richmond?

RATCLIFFE. That he was never trained up in arms.

KING RICHARD. He said the truth. And what said Surrey then?

RATCLIFFE. He smiled, and said, “The better for our purpose.”

KING RICHARD. He was in the right, and so indeed it is.

[_The clock striketh._]

Tell the clock there. Give me a calendar. Who saw the sun today?

RATCLIFFE. Not I, my lord.

KING RICHARD. Then he disdains to shine, for by the book He should have braved the east an hour ago. A black day will it be to somebody. Ratcliffe!

RATCLIFFE. My lord?

KING RICHARD. The sun will not be seen today! The sky doth frown and lour upon our army. I would these dewy tears were from the ground. Not shine today? Why, what is that to me More than to Richmond? For the selfsame heaven That frowns on me looks sadly upon him.

Enter Norfolk.

NORFOLK. Arm, arm, my lord. The foe vaunts in the field.

KING RICHARD. 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, 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 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?

NORFOLK. A good direction, warlike sovereign.

[_He sheweth him a paper._]

This found I on my tent this morning.

KING RICHARD. [_Reads_.] “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 unto his charge. Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls; Conscience is but a word that cowards use, Devised at first to keep the strong in awe. Our strong arms be our conscience, swords our law. March on. Join bravely. Let us to it pell-mell, If not to heaven, then hand in hand to hell.

His oration to his army.

What shall I say more than I have inferred? Remember whom you are to cope withal, A sort of vagabonds, rascals, and runaways, A scum of Bretons and base lackey peasants, Whom their o’er-cloyed country vomits forth To desperate adventures and assured destruction. You sleeping safe, they bring to you unrest; You having lands, and blessed with beauteous wives, They would restrain the one, distain the other. And who doth lead them but a paltry fellow, Long kept in Brittany 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 seas again, Lash hence these overweening rags of France, These famished beggars, weary of their lives, Who, but for dreaming on this fond exploit, For want of means, poor rats, had hanged themselves. If we be conquered, let men conquer us, And not these bastard Bretons, whom our fathers Have in their own land beaten, bobbed, and thumped, And in record left them the heirs of shame. Shall these enjoy our lands? Lie with our wives, Ravish our daughters?

[_Drum afar off._]

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!

Enter a Messenger.

What says Lord Stanley? Will he bring his power?

MESSENGER. My lord, he doth deny to come.

KING RICHARD. Off with his son George’s head!

NORFOLK. My lord, the enemy is past the marsh. After the battle let George Stanley die.

KING RICHARD. 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! Upon them! Victory sits on our helms.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE IV. Another part of the Field

Alarum. Excursions. Enter Norfolk and Soldiers; to him Catesby.

CATESBY. Rescue, my lord of Norfolk, rescue, rescue! The King enacts more wonders than a man, Daring an opposite to every danger. 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!

[_Exeunt Norfolk and Soldiers._]

Alarum. Enter King Richard.

KING RICHARD. A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!

CATESBY. Withdraw, my lord; I’ll help you to a horse.

KING RICHARD. 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 today instead of him. A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE V. Another part of the Field

Alarum. Enter King Richard and Richmond. They fight. Richard is slain. Then retreat being sounded. Richmond exits, and Richard’s body is carried off. Flourish. Enter Richmond, Stanley Earl of Derby, bearing the crown, with other Lords and Soldiers.

RICHMOND. God and your arms be praised, victorious friends! The day is ours, the bloody dog is dead.

STANLEY. Courageous Richmond, well hast thou acquit thee! Lo, here, this long-usurped royalty From the dead temples of this bloody wretch Have I plucked off, to grace thy brows withal. Wear it, enjoy it, and make much of it.

RICHMOND. Great God of heaven, say Amen to all! But tell me, is young George Stanley living?

STANLEY. He is, my lord, and safe in Leicester town, Whither, if it please you, we may now withdraw us.

RICHMOND. What men of name are slain on either side?

STANLEY. John, Duke of Norfolk, Walter, Lord Ferrers, Sir Robert Brakenbury, and Sir William Brandon.

RICHMOND. 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, We will unite the white rose and the red. Smile heaven upon this fair conjunction, That long have frowned upon their enmity. What traitor hears me and says not Amen? England hath long been mad, and scarred herself: The brother blindly shed the brother’s blood; The father rashly slaughtered his own son; The son, compelled, been butcher to the sire. All this divided York and Lancaster, Divided in their dire division. 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 smoothed-faced peace, 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, That would with treason wound this fair land’s peace. Now civil wounds are stopped, peace lives again. That she may long live here, God say Amen.

[_Exeunt._]

THE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET

Contents

THE PROLOGUE.

## ACT I

## Scene I. A public place.

## Scene II. A Street.

## Scene III. Room in Capulet’s House.

## Scene IV. A Street.

## Scene V. A Hall in Capulet’s House.

## ACT II

CHORUS.

## Scene I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.

## Scene II. Capulet’s Garden.

## Scene III. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.

## Scene IV. A Street.

## Scene V. Capulet’s Garden.

## Scene VI. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.

## ACT III

## Scene I. A public Place.

## Scene II. A Room in Capulet’s House.

## Scene III. Friar Lawrence’s cell.

## Scene IV. A Room in Capulet’s House.

## Scene V. An open Gallery to Juliet’s Chamber, overlooking the Garden.

## ACT IV

## Scene I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.

## Scene II. Hall in Capulet’s House.

## Scene III. Juliet’s Chamber.

## Scene IV. Hall in Capulet’s House.

## Scene V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed.

## ACT V

## Scene I. Mantua. A Street.

## Scene II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.

## Scene III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets.

Dramatis Personæ

ESCALUS, Prince of Verona. MERCUTIO, kinsman to the Prince, and friend to Romeo. PARIS, a young Nobleman, kinsman to the Prince. Page to Paris.

MONTAGUE, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Capulets. LADY MONTAGUE, wife to Montague. ROMEO, son to Montague. BENVOLIO, nephew to Montague, and friend to Romeo. ABRAM, servant to Montague. BALTHASAR, servant to Romeo.

CAPULET, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Montagues. LADY CAPULET, wife to Capulet. JULIET, daughter to Capulet. TYBALT, nephew to Lady Capulet. CAPULET’S COUSIN, an old man. NURSE to Juliet. PETER, servant to Juliet’s Nurse. SAMPSON, servant to Capulet. GREGORY, servant to Capulet. Servants.

FRIAR LAWRENCE, a Franciscan. FRIAR JOHN, of the same Order. An Apothecary. CHORUS. Three Musicians. An Officer. Citizens of Verona; several Men and Women, relations to both houses; Maskers, Guards, Watchmen and Attendants.

SCENE. During the greater part of the Play in Verona; once, in the Fifth Act, at Mantua.

THE PROLOGUE

Enter Chorus.

CHORUS. 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. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life; Whose misadventur’d piteous overthrows Doth with their death bury their parents’ strife. The fearful passage of their death-mark’d love, And the continuance of their parents’ rage, Which, but their children’s end, nought could remove, Is now the two hours’ traffic of our stage; The which, if you with patient ears attend, What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.

[_Exit._]

## ACT I

## SCENE I. A public place.

Enter Sampson and Gregory armed with swords and bucklers.

SAMPSON. Gregory, on my word, we’ll not carry coals.

GREGORY. No, for then we should be colliers.

SAMPSON. I mean, if we be in choler, we’ll draw.

GREGORY. Ay, while you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar.

SAMPSON. I strike quickly, being moved.

GREGORY. But thou art not quickly moved to strike.

SAMPSON. A dog of the house of Montague moves me.

GREGORY. To move is to stir; and to be valiant is to stand: therefore, if thou art moved, thou runn’st away.

SAMPSON. A dog of that house shall move me to stand. I will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague’s.

GREGORY. That shows thee a weak slave, for the weakest goes to the wall.

SAMPSON. 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.

GREGORY. The quarrel is between our masters and us their men.

SAMPSON. ’Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: when I have fought with the men I will be civil with the maids, I will cut off their heads.

GREGORY. The heads of the maids?

SAMPSON. Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense thou wilt.

GREGORY. They must take it in sense that feel it.

SAMPSON. Me they shall feel while I am able to stand: and ’tis known I am a pretty piece of flesh.

GREGORY. ’Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John. Draw thy tool; here comes of the house of Montagues.

Enter Abram and Balthasar.

SAMPSON. My naked weapon is out: quarrel, I will back thee.

GREGORY. How? Turn thy back and run?

SAMPSON. Fear me not.

GREGORY. No, marry; I fear thee!

SAMPSON. Let us take the law of our sides; let them begin.

GREGORY. I will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list.

SAMPSON. Nay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them, which is disgrace to them if they bear it.

ABRAM. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

SAMPSON. I do bite my thumb, sir.

ABRAM. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

SAMPSON. Is the law of our side if I say ay?

GREGORY. No.

SAMPSON. No sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir.

GREGORY. Do you quarrel, sir?

ABRAM. Quarrel, sir? No, sir.

SAMPSON. But if you do, sir, I am for you. I serve as good a man as you.

ABRAM. No better.

SAMPSON. Well, sir.

Enter Benvolio.

GREGORY. Say better; here comes one of my master’s kinsmen.

SAMPSON. Yes, better, sir.

ABRAM. You lie.

SAMPSON. Draw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy washing blow.

[_They fight._]

BENVOLIO. Part, fools! put up your swords, you know not what you do.

[_Beats down their swords._]

Enter Tybalt.

TYBALT. What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds? Turn thee Benvolio, look upon thy death.

BENVOLIO. I do but keep the peace, put up thy sword, Or manage it to part these men with me.

TYBALT. 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 three or four Citizens with clubs.

FIRST CITIZEN. Clubs, bills and partisans! Strike! Beat them down! Down with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues!

Enter Capulet in his gown, and Lady Capulet.

CAPULET. What noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!

LADY CAPULET. A crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword?

CAPULET. My sword, I say! Old Montague is come, And flourishes his blade in spite of me.

Enter Montague and his Lady Montague.

MONTAGUE. Thou villain Capulet! Hold me not, let me go.

LADY MONTAGUE. Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.

Enter Prince Escalus, with Attendants.

PRINCE. 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 With purple fountains issuing from your veins, On pain of torture, from those bloody hands Throw your mistemper’d weapons to the ground And hear the sentence of your moved prince. Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word, 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, 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, And Montague, come you this afternoon, To know our farther pleasure in this case, To old Free-town, our common judgement-place. Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.

[_Exeunt Prince and Attendants; Capulet, Lady Capulet, Tybalt, Citizens and Servants._]

MONTAGUE. Who set this ancient quarrel new abroach? Speak, nephew, were you by when it began?

BENVOLIO. 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, 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, Till the Prince came, who parted either part.

LADY MONTAGUE. O where is Romeo, saw you him today? Right glad I am he was not at this fray.

BENVOLIO. Madam, an hour before the worshipp’d sun Peer’d forth the golden window of the east, A troubled mind drave me to walk abroad, Where underneath the grove of sycamore That westward rooteth from this city side, So early walking did I see your son. Towards him I made, but he was ware of me, And stole into the covert of the wood. I, measuring his affections by my own, Which then most sought where most might not be found, Being one too many by my weary self, Pursu’d my humour, not pursuing his, And gladly shunn’d who gladly fled from me.

MONTAGUE. 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 farthest east begin to draw 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. Black and portentous must this humour prove, Unless good counsel may the cause remove.

BENVOLIO. My noble uncle, do you know the cause?

MONTAGUE. I neither know it nor can learn of him.

BENVOLIO. Have you importun’d him by any means?

MONTAGUE. 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, 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.

Enter Romeo.

BENVOLIO. See, where he comes. So please you step aside; I’ll know his grievance or be much denied.

MONTAGUE. I would thou wert so happy by thy stay To hear true shrift. Come, madam, let’s away,

[_Exeunt Montague and Lady Montague._]

BENVOLIO. Good morrow, cousin.

ROMEO. Is the day so young?

BENVOLIO. But new struck nine.

ROMEO. Ay me, sad hours seem long. Was that my father that went hence so fast?

BENVOLIO. It was. What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?

ROMEO. Not having that which, having, makes them short.

BENVOLIO. In love?

ROMEO. Out.

BENVOLIO. Of love?

ROMEO. Out of her favour where I am in love.

BENVOLIO. Alas that love so gentle in his view, Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof.

ROMEO. Alas that love, whose view is muffled still, Should, without eyes, see pathways to his will! 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 anything, of nothing first create! O heavy lightness! serious vanity! Misshapen 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. Dost thou not laugh?

BENVOLIO. No coz, I rather weep.

ROMEO. Good heart, at what?

BENVOLIO. At thy good heart’s oppression.

ROMEO. Why such is love’s transgression. Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast, Which thou wilt propagate to have it prest With more of thine. This love that thou hast shown Doth add more grief to too much of mine own. Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs; 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._]

BENVOLIO. Soft! I will go along: And if you leave me so, you do me wrong.

ROMEO. Tut! I have lost myself; I am not here. This is not Romeo, he’s some other where.

BENVOLIO. Tell me in sadness who is that you love?

ROMEO. What, shall I groan and tell thee?

BENVOLIO. Groan! Why, no; but sadly tell me who.

ROMEO. Bid a sick man in sadness make his will, A word ill urg’d to one that is so ill. In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.

BENVOLIO. I aim’d so near when I suppos’d you lov’d.

ROMEO. A right good markman, and she’s fair I love.

BENVOLIO. A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.

ROMEO. Well, in that hit you miss: she’ll not be hit 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 uncharm’d. She will not stay the siege of loving terms Nor bide th’encounter of assailing eyes, Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold: O she’s rich in beauty, only poor That when she dies, with beauty dies her store.

BENVOLIO. Then she hath sworn that she will still live chaste?

ROMEO. She hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste; 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 Do I live dead, that live to tell it now.

BENVOLIO. Be rul’d by me, forget to think of her.

ROMEO. O teach me how I should forget to think.

BENVOLIO. By giving liberty unto thine eyes; Examine other beauties.

ROMEO. ’Tis the way To call hers, exquisite, in question more. These happy masks that kiss fair ladies’ brows, Being black, puts us in mind they hide the fair; He that is strucken blind cannot forget 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.

BENVOLIO. I’ll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE II. A Street.

Enter Capulet, Paris and Servant.

CAPULET. 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.

PARIS. 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?

CAPULET. But saying o’er what I have said before. My child is yet a stranger in the world, 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.

PARIS. Younger than she are happy mothers made.

CAPULET. And too soon marr’d are those so early made. The earth hath swallowed 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; And she agree, within her scope of choice 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. 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 apparell’d April on the heel Of limping winter treads, even such delight 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. Come, go with me. Go, sirrah, trudge about Through fair Verona; find those persons out Whose names are written there, [_gives a paper_] and to them say, My house and welcome on their pleasure stay.

[_Exeunt Capulet and Paris._]

SERVANT. 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!

Enter Benvolio and Romeo.

BENVOLIO. 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: Take thou some new infection to thy eye, And the rank poison of the old will die.

ROMEO. Your plantain leaf is excellent for that.

BENVOLIO. For what, I pray thee?

ROMEO. For your broken shin.

BENVOLIO. Why, Romeo, art thou mad?

ROMEO. Not mad, but bound more than a madman is: Shut up in prison, kept without my food, Whipp’d and tormented and—God-den, good fellow.

SERVANT. God gi’ go-den. I pray, sir, can you read?

ROMEO. Ay, mine own fortune in my misery.

SERVANT. Perhaps you have learned it without book. But I pray, can you read anything you see?

ROMEO. Ay, If I know the letters and the language.

SERVANT. Ye say honestly, rest you merry!

ROMEO. Stay, fellow; I can read.

[_He reads the letter._]

_Signior Martino and his wife and daughters; County Anselmo and his beauteous sisters; The lady widow of Utruvio; Signior Placentio and his lovely nieces; Mercutio and his brother Valentine; Mine uncle Capulet, his wife, and daughters; My fair niece Rosaline and Livia; Signior Valentio and his cousin Tybalt; Lucio and the lively Helena. _

A fair assembly. [_Gives back the paper_] Whither should they come?

SERVANT. Up.

ROMEO. Whither to supper?

SERVANT. To our house.

ROMEO. Whose house?

SERVANT. My master’s.

ROMEO. Indeed I should have ask’d you that before.

SERVANT. 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._]

BENVOLIO. At this same ancient feast of Capulet’s 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.

ROMEO. When the devout religion of mine eye Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fire; And these who, often drown’d, could never die, Transparent heretics, be burnt for liars. One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun Ne’er saw her match since first the world begun.

BENVOLIO. 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 That I will show you shining at this feast, And she shall scant show well that now shows best.

ROMEO. I’ll go along, no such sight to be shown, But to rejoice in splendour of my own.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE III. Room in Capulet’s House.

Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse.

LADY CAPULET. 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! God forbid! Where’s this girl? What, Juliet!

Enter Juliet.

JULIET. How now, who calls?

NURSE. Your mother.

JULIET. Madam, I am here. What is your will?

LADY CAPULET. 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 knowest my daughter’s of a pretty age.

NURSE. Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour.

LADY CAPULET. 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 To Lammas-tide?

LADY CAPULET. 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!— 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; 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 dovehouse wall; My lord and you were then at Mantua: 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 dovehouse: ’twas no need, I trow, To bid me trudge. And since that time it is eleven years; For then she could stand alone; nay, by th’rood She could have run and waddled all about; For even the day before she broke her brow, 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 holidame, The pretty wretch left crying, and said ‘Ay’. To see now how a jest shall come about. I warrant, and 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.’

LADY CAPULET. 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 it brow A bump as big as a young cockerel’s stone; A perilous knock, and it cried bitterly. ‘Yea,’ quoth my husband, ‘fall’st upon thy face? Thou wilt fall backward when thou comest to age; Wilt thou not, Jule?’ it stinted, and said ‘Ay’.

JULIET. And stint thou too, I pray thee, Nurse, say I.

NURSE. Peace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace Thou wast the prettiest babe that e’er I nurs’d: And I might live to see thee married once, I have my wish.

LADY CAPULET. Marry, that marry is the very theme I came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet, How stands your disposition to be married?

JULIET. 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.

LADY CAPULET. 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; 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 CAPULET. Verona’s summer hath not such a flower.

NURSE. Nay, he’s a flower, in faith a very flower.

LADY CAPULET. 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, 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: The fish lives in the sea; and ’tis much pride For fair without the fair within to hide. That book in many’s eyes doth share the glory, That in gold clasps locks in the golden story; So shall you share all that he doth possess, By having him, making yourself no less.

NURSE. No less, nay bigger. Women grow by men.

LADY CAPULET. Speak briefly, can you like of Paris’ love?

JULIET. I’ll look to like, if looking liking move: But no more deep will I endart mine eye Than your consent gives strength to make it fly.

Enter a Servant.

SERVANT. 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 CAPULET. We follow thee.

[_Exit Servant._]

Juliet, the County stays.

NURSE. Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE IV. A Street.

Enter Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, with five or six Maskers; Torch-bearers and others.

ROMEO. What, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse? Or shall we on without apology?

BENVOLIO. The date is out of such prolixity: We’ll have no Cupid hoodwink’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: But let them measure us by what they will, We’ll measure them a measure, and be gone.

ROMEO. Give me a torch, I am not for this ambling; Being but heavy I will bear the light.

MERCUTIO. Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.

ROMEO. 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.

MERCUTIO. You are a lover, borrow Cupid’s wings, And soar with them above a common bound.

ROMEO. 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.

MERCUTIO. And, to sink in it, should you burden love; Too great oppression for a tender thing.

ROMEO. Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, Too rude, too boisterous; and it pricks like thorn.

MERCUTIO. If love be rough with you, be rough with love; Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down. Give me a case to put my visage in: [_Putting on a mask._] A visor for a visor. What care I What curious eye doth quote deformities? Here are the beetle-brows shall blush for me.

BENVOLIO. Come, knock and enter; and no sooner in But every man betake him to his legs.

ROMEO. 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, The game was ne’er so fair, and I am done.

MERCUTIO. Tut, dun’s the mouse, the constable’s own word: If thou art dun, we’ll draw thee from the mire Or save your reverence love, wherein thou stickest Up to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho.

ROMEO. Nay, that’s not so.

MERCUTIO. I mean sir, in delay We waste our lights in vain, light lights by day. Take our good meaning, for our judgment sits Five times in that ere once in our five wits.

ROMEO. And we mean well in going to this mask; But ’tis no wit to go.

MERCUTIO. Why, may one ask?

ROMEO. I dreamt a dream tonight.

MERCUTIO. And so did I.

ROMEO. Well what was yours?

MERCUTIO. That dreamers often lie.

ROMEO. In bed asleep, while they do dream things true.

MERCUTIO. O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you. 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 Over men’s noses as they lie asleep: Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners’ legs; The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers; Her 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; 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 hazelnut, Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub, Time out o’ mind the fairies’ coachmakers. 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; O’er ladies’ lips, who straight on kisses dream, Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are: Sometime she gallops o’er a courtier’s nose, And then dreams he of smelling out a suit; And sometime 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, Of breaches, ambuscados, 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 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, Making them women of good carriage: This is she,—

ROMEO. Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace, Thou talk’st of nothing.

MERCUTIO. True, I talk of dreams, 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, And, being anger’d, puffs away from thence, Turning his side to the dew-dropping south.

BENVOLIO. This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves: Supper is done, and we shall come too late.

ROMEO. I fear too early: for my mind misgives 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. But he that hath the steerage of my course Direct my suit. On, lusty gentlemen!

BENVOLIO. Strike, drum.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE V. A Hall in Capulet’s House.

Musicians waiting. Enter Servants.

FIRST SERVANT. Where’s Potpan, that he helps not to take away? He shift a trencher! He scrape a trencher!

SECOND SERVANT. When good manners shall lie all in one or two men’s hands, and they unwash’d too, ’tis a foul thing.

FIRST SERVANT. Away with the join-stools, remove the court-cupboard, look to the plate. Good thou, save me a piece of marchpane; and as thou loves me, let the porter let in Susan Grindstone and Nell. Antony and Potpan!

SECOND SERVANT. Ay, boy, ready.

FIRST SERVANT. You are looked for and called for, asked for and sought for, in the great chamber.

SECOND SERVANT. We cannot be here and there too. Cheerly, boys. Be brisk awhile, and the longer liver take all.

[_Exeunt._]

Enter Capulet, &c. with the Guests and Gentlewomen to the Maskers.

CAPULET. Welcome, gentlemen, ladies that have their toes Unplagu’d with corns will have a bout with you. Ah 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? 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. A hall, a hall, give room! And foot it, girls.

[_Music plays, and they dance._]

More light, you knaves; and turn the tables up, And quench the fire, the room is grown too hot. Ah sirrah, this unlook’d-for sport comes well. Nay sit, nay sit, good cousin Capulet, For you and I are past our dancing days; How long is’t now since last yourself and I Were in a mask?

CAPULET’S COUSIN. By’r Lady, thirty years.

CAPULET. What, man, ’tis not so much, ’tis not so much: ’Tis since the nuptial of Lucentio, Come Pentecost as quickly as it will, Some five and twenty years; and then we mask’d.

CAPULET’S COUSIN. ’Tis more, ’tis more, his son is elder, sir; His son is thirty.

CAPULET. Will you tell me that? His son was but a ward two years ago.

ROMEO. What lady is that, which doth enrich the hand Of yonder knight?

SERVANT. I know not, sir.

ROMEO. O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night As 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 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.

TYBALT. This by his voice, should be a Montague. Fetch me my rapier, boy. What, dares the slave Come hither, cover’d with an antic face, To fleer and scorn at our solemnity? Now by the stock and honour of my kin, To strike him dead I hold it not a sin.

CAPULET. Why how now, kinsman! Wherefore storm you so?

TYBALT. Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe; A villain that is hither come in spite, To scorn at our solemnity this night.

CAPULET. Young Romeo, is it?

TYBALT. ’Tis he, that villain Romeo.

CAPULET. Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone, A bears him like a portly gentleman; And, to say truth, Verona brags of him To be a virtuous and well-govern’d youth. I would not for the wealth of all the 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, Show a fair presence and put off these frowns, An ill-beseeming semblance for a feast.

TYBALT. It fits when such a villain is a guest: I’ll not endure him.

CAPULET. He shall be endur’d. 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!

TYBALT. Why, uncle, ’tis a shame.

CAPULET. 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. 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.

TYBALT. Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting. I will withdraw: but this intrusion shall, Now seeming sweet, convert to bitter gall.

[_Exit._]

ROMEO. [_To Juliet._] If I profane with my unworthiest hand This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this, My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.

JULIET. 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.

ROMEO. Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?

JULIET. Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.

ROMEO. O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do: They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.

JULIET. Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.

ROMEO. Then move not while my prayer’s effect I take. Thus from my lips, by thine my sin is purg’d. [_Kissing her._]

JULIET. Then have my lips the sin that they have took.

ROMEO. Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg’d! Give me my sin again.

JULIET. You kiss by the book.

NURSE. Madam, your mother craves a word with you.

ROMEO. What is her mother?

NURSE. Marry, bachelor, Her mother is the lady of the house, 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.

ROMEO. Is she a Capulet? O dear account! My life is my foe’s debt.

BENVOLIO. Away, be gone; the sport is at the best.

ROMEO. Ay, so I fear; the more is my unrest.

CAPULET. Nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone, We have a trifling foolish banquet towards. 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 but Juliet and Nurse._]

JULIET. Come hither, Nurse. What is yond gentleman?

NURSE. The son and heir of old Tiberio.

JULIET. What’s he that now is going out of door?

NURSE. Marry, that I think be young Petruchio.

JULIET. What’s he that follows here, that would not dance?

NURSE. I know not.

JULIET. 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.

JULIET. 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?

JULIET. A rhyme I learn’d even now Of one I danc’d withal.

[_One calls within, ‘Juliet’._]

NURSE. Anon, anon! Come let’s away, the strangers all are gone.

[_Exeunt._]

## ACT II

Enter Chorus.

CHORUS. Now old desire doth in his deathbed 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. 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 To breathe such vows as lovers use to swear; And she as much in love, her means much less To meet her new beloved anywhere. But passion lends them power, time means, to meet, Tempering extremities with extreme sweet.

[_Exit._]

## SCENE I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.

Enter Romeo.

ROMEO. 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.

BENVOLIO. Romeo! My cousin Romeo! Romeo!

MERCUTIO. He is wise, And on my life hath stol’n him home to bed.

BENVOLIO. He ran this way, and leap’d this orchard wall: Call, good Mercutio.

MERCUTIO. Nay, I’ll conjure too. Romeo! Humours! Madman! Passion! Lover! Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh, Speak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied; Cry but ‘Ah me!’ Pronounce but Love and dove; Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word, One nickname for her purblind son and heir, Young Abraham Cupid, he that shot so trim When King Cophetua lov’d the beggar-maid. He heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not; 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, That in thy likeness thou appear to us.

BENVOLIO. An if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him.

MERCUTIO. This cannot anger him. ’Twould anger him To raise a spirit in his mistress’ circle, Of some strange nature, letting it there stand 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.

BENVOLIO. Come, he hath hid himself among these trees To be consorted with the humorous night. Blind is his love, and best befits the dark.

MERCUTIO. 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 As maids call medlars when they laugh alone. O Romeo, that she were, O that she were An open-arse and thou a poperin pear! Romeo, good night. I’ll to my truckle-bed. This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep. Come, shall we go?

BENVOLIO. Go then; for ’tis in vain To seek him here that means not to be found.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE II. Capulet’s Garden.

Enter Romeo.

ROMEO. 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! 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, 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. 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? 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. O that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek.

JULIET. Ay me.

ROMEO. She speaks. O speak again bright angel, for thou art As glorious to this night, being o’er my head, As is a winged messenger of heaven Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him When he bestrides the lazy-puffing clouds And sails upon the bosom of the air.

JULIET. 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.

ROMEO. [_Aside._] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?

JULIET. ’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 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 Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name, And for thy name, which is no part of thee, Take all myself.

ROMEO. I take thee at thy word. Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptis’d; Henceforth I never will be Romeo.

JULIET. What man art thou that, thus bescreen’d in night So stumblest on my counsel?

ROMEO. By a name I know not how to tell thee who I am: My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, Because it is an enemy to thee. Had I it written, I would tear the word.

JULIET. My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words Of thy tongue’s utterance, yet I know the sound. Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?

ROMEO. Neither, fair maid, if either thee dislike.

JULIET. 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, If any of my kinsmen find thee here.

ROMEO. 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.

JULIET. If they do see thee, they will murder thee.

ROMEO. Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye Than twenty of their swords. Look thou but sweet, And I am proof against their enmity.

JULIET. I would not for the world they saw thee here.

ROMEO. 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.

JULIET. By whose direction found’st thou out this place?

ROMEO. By love, that first did prompt me to enquire; 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 farthest sea, I should adventure for such merchandise.

JULIET. Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face, Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek For that which thou hast heard me speak tonight. Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny What I have spoke; but farewell compliment. 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. Or if thou thinkest 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: 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 overheard’st, ere I was ’ware, My true-love passion; therefore pardon me, And not impute this yielding to light love, Which the dark night hath so discovered.

ROMEO. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I vow, That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops,—

JULIET. O swear not by the moon, th’inconstant moon, That monthly changes in her circled orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.

ROMEO. What shall I swear by?

JULIET. Do not swear at all. Or if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, Which is the god of my idolatry, And I’ll believe thee.

ROMEO. If my heart’s dear love,—

JULIET. Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract tonight; 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. Good night, good night. As sweet repose and rest Come to thy heart as that within my breast.

ROMEO. O wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?

JULIET. What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?

ROMEO. Th’exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine.

JULIET. I gave thee mine before thou didst request it; And yet I would it were to give again.

ROMEO. Would’st thou withdraw it? For what purpose, love?

JULIET. But to be frank and give it thee again. And yet I wish but for the thing I have; 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. I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu. [_Nurse calls within._] Anon, good Nurse!—Sweet Montague be true. Stay but a little, I will come again.

[_Exit._]

ROMEO. O blessed, blessed night. I am afeard, Being in night, all this is but a dream, Too flattering sweet to be substantial.

Enter Juliet above.

JULIET. Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed. If that thy bent of love be honourable, Thy purpose marriage, send me word tomorrow, By one that I’ll procure to come to thee, Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite, And all my fortunes at thy foot I’ll lay And follow thee my lord throughout the world.

NURSE. [_Within._] Madam.

JULIET. I come, anon.— But if thou meanest not well, I do beseech thee,—

NURSE. [_Within._] Madam.

JULIET. By and by I come— To cease thy strife and leave me to my grief. Tomorrow will I send.

ROMEO. So thrive my soul,—

JULIET. A thousand times good night.

[_Exit._]

ROMEO. A thousand times the worse, to want thy light. Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books, But love from love, towards school with heavy looks.

[_Retiring slowly._]

Re-enter Juliet, above.

JULIET. 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 With repetition of my Romeo’s name.

ROMEO. It is my soul that calls upon my name. How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night, Like softest music to attending ears.

JULIET. Romeo.

ROMEO. My nyas?

JULIET. What o’clock tomorrow Shall I send to thee?

ROMEO. By the hour of nine.

JULIET. I will not fail. ’Tis twenty years till then. I have forgot why I did call thee back.

ROMEO. Let me stand here till thou remember it.

JULIET. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, Remembering how I love thy company.

ROMEO. And I’ll still stay, to have thee still forget, Forgetting any other home but this.

JULIET. ’Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone, And yet no farther than a wanton’s bird, That lets it hop a little from her hand, Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, And with a silk thread plucks it back again, So loving-jealous of his liberty.

ROMEO. I would I were thy bird.

JULIET. Sweet, so would I: Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing. Good night, good night. Parting is such sweet sorrow That I shall say good night till it be morrow.

[_Exit._]

ROMEO. 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 Sire’s cell, His help to crave and my dear hap to tell.

[_Exit._]

## SCENE III. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.

Enter Friar Lawrence with a basket.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. The grey-ey’d morn smiles on the frowning night, Chequering the eastern clouds with streaks of light; And fleckled darkness like a drunkard reels From forth day’s pathway, made by 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 upfill this osier cage of ours With baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers. 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, None but for some, and yet all different. O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies In plants, herbs, stones, and their true qualities. For naught so vile that on the earth doth live But to the earth some special good doth give; 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.

Enter Romeo.

Within the infant rind of this weak flower 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 kings encamp them still In man as well as herbs,—grace and rude will; And where the worser is predominant, Full soon the canker death eats up that plant.

ROMEO. Good morrow, father.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. Benedicite! 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; 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 uprous’d with some distemperature; Or if not so, then here I hit it right, Our Romeo hath not been in bed tonight.

ROMEO. That last is true; the sweeter rest was mine.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. God pardon sin. Wast thou with Rosaline?

ROMEO. With Rosaline, my ghostly father? No. I have forgot that name, and that name’s woe.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. That’s my good son. But where hast thou been then?

ROMEO. 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 Within thy help and holy physic lies. I bear no hatred, blessed man; for lo, My intercession likewise steads my foe.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift; Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift.

ROMEO. 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 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 today.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. Holy Saint Francis! What a change is here! Is Rosaline, that thou didst love so dear, 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, To season love, that of it doth not taste. The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears, Thy old groans yet ring in mine ancient ears. Lo here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit Of an old tear that is not wash’d off yet. If ere 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.

ROMEO. Thou chidd’st me oft for loving Rosaline.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. For doting, not for loving, pupil mine.

ROMEO. And bad’st me bury love.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. Not in a grave To lay one in, another out to have.

ROMEO. I pray thee chide me not, her I love now Doth grace for grace and love for love allow. The other did not so.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. O, she knew well Thy love did read by rote, that could not spell. But come young waverer, come go with me, In one respect I’ll thy assistant be; For this alliance may so happy prove, To turn your households’ rancour to pure love.

ROMEO. O let us hence; I stand on sudden haste.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE IV. A Street.

Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.

MERCUTIO. Where the devil should this Romeo be? Came he not home tonight?

BENVOLIO. Not to his father’s; I spoke with his man.

MERCUTIO. Why, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline, torments him so that he will sure run mad.

BENVOLIO. Tybalt, the kinsman to old Capulet, hath sent a letter to his father’s house.

MERCUTIO. A challenge, on my life.

BENVOLIO. Romeo will answer it.

MERCUTIO. Any man that can write may answer a letter.

BENVOLIO. Nay, he will answer the letter’s master, how he dares, being dared.

MERCUTIO. Alas poor Romeo, he is already dead, stabbed with a white wench’s black eye; run 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?

BENVOLIO. Why, what is Tybalt?

MERCUTIO. More than Prince of cats. O, he’s the courageous captain of compliments. He fights as you sing prick-song, keeps time, distance, and proportion. He rests 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.

BENVOLIO. The what?

MERCUTIO. The pox of such antic lisping, affecting phantasies; these new tuners of accent. 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 pardon-me’s, who stand so much on the new form that they cannot sit at ease on the old bench? O their bones, their bones!

Enter Romeo.

BENVOLIO. Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo!

MERCUTIO. 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 berhyme her: Dido a dowdy; Cleopatra a gypsy; Helen and Hero hildings and harlots; Thisbe a grey eye or so, but not to the purpose. Signior Romeo, bonjour! There’s a French salutation to your French slop. You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night.

ROMEO. Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you?

MERCUTIO. The slip sir, the slip; can you not conceive?

ROMEO. Pardon, good Mercutio, my business was great, and in such a case as mine a man may strain courtesy.

MERCUTIO. That’s as much as to say, such a case as yours constrains a man to bow in the hams.

ROMEO. Meaning, to curtsy.

MERCUTIO. Thou hast most kindly hit it.

ROMEO. A most courteous exposition.

MERCUTIO. Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy.

ROMEO. Pink for flower.

MERCUTIO. Right.

ROMEO. Why, then is my pump well flowered.

MERCUTIO. Sure wit, follow me this jest now, till thou hast worn out thy pump, that when the single sole of it is worn, the jest may remain after the wearing, solely singular.

ROMEO. O single-soled jest, solely singular for the singleness!

MERCUTIO. Come between us, good Benvolio; my wits faint.

ROMEO. Swits and spurs, swits and spurs; or I’ll cry a match.

MERCUTIO. Nay, if thy wits run the wild-goose chase, I am 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?

ROMEO. Thou wast never with me for anything, when thou wast not there for the goose.

MERCUTIO. I will bite thee by the ear for that jest.

ROMEO. Nay, good goose, bite not.

MERCUTIO. Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting, it is a most sharp sauce.

ROMEO. And is it not then well served in to a sweet goose?

MERCUTIO. O here’s a wit of cheveril, that stretches from an inch narrow to an ell broad.

ROMEO. I stretch it out for that word broad, which added to the goose, proves thee far and wide a broad goose.

MERCUTIO. 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.

BENVOLIO. Stop there, stop there.

MERCUTIO. Thou desirest me to stop in my tale against the hair.

BENVOLIO. Thou wouldst else have made thy tale large.

MERCUTIO. 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.

Enter Nurse and Peter.

ROMEO. Here’s goodly gear! A sail, a sail!

MERCUTIO. Two, two; a shirt and a smock.

NURSE. Peter!

PETER. Anon.

NURSE. My fan, Peter.

MERCUTIO. Good Peter, to hide her face; for her fan’s the fairer face.

NURSE. God ye good morrow, gentlemen.

MERCUTIO. God ye good-den, fair gentlewoman.

NURSE. Is it good-den?

MERCUTIO. ’Tis no less, I tell ye; for the bawdy hand of the dial is now upon the prick of noon.

NURSE. Out upon you! What a man are you?

ROMEO. 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?

ROMEO. 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.

NURSE. You say well.

MERCUTIO. Yea, is the worst well? Very well took, i’faith; wisely, wisely.

NURSE. If you be he, sir, I desire some confidence with you.

BENVOLIO. She will endite him to some supper.

MERCUTIO. A bawd, a bawd, a bawd! So ho!

ROMEO. What hast thou found?

MERCUTIO. 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.

ROMEO. I will follow you.

MERCUTIO. Farewell, ancient lady; farewell, lady, lady, lady.

[_Exeunt Mercutio and Benvolio._]

NURSE. I pray you, sir, what saucy merchant was this that was so full of his ropery?

ROMEO. 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. And a speak anything against me, I’ll take him down, and 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 skains-mates.—And thou must stand by too and suffer every knave to use me at his pleasure!

PETER. 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 bid me enquire you out; what she bade me say, I will keep to myself. But first let me tell ye, if ye should lead her in 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.

ROMEO. 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.

ROMEO. 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.

ROMEO. Bid her devise Some means to come to shrift this afternoon, And there she shall at Friar Lawrence’ cell Be shriv’d and married. Here is for thy pains.

NURSE. No truly, sir; not a penny.

ROMEO. Go to; I say you shall.

NURSE. This afternoon, sir? Well, she shall be there.

ROMEO. 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 topgallant of my joy 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.

ROMEO. What say’st thou, my dear Nurse?

NURSE. Is your man secret? Did you ne’er hear say, Two may keep counsel, putting one away?

ROMEO. 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 is 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?

ROMEO. Ay, Nurse; what of that? Both with an R.

NURSE. Ah, mocker! That’s the dog’s name. R is for the—no, I know it begins with some other letter, and she hath the prettiest sententious of it, of you and rosemary, that it would do you good to hear it.

ROMEO. Commend me to thy lady.

NURSE. Ay, a thousand times. Peter!

[_Exit Romeo._]

PETER. Anon.

NURSE. Before and apace.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE V. Capulet’s Garden.

Enter Juliet.

JULIET. The clock struck nine when I did send the Nurse, In half an hour she promised to return. Perchance she cannot meet him. That’s not so. O, she is lame. Love’s heralds should be thoughts, Which ten times faster glides 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. 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; 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.

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._]

JULIET. Now, good sweet Nurse,—O Lord, why look’st thou sad? Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily; 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 jaunt have I had!

JULIET. I would thou hadst my bones, and I thy news: Nay come, I pray thee speak; good, good Nurse, speak.

NURSE. Jesu, what haste? Can you not stay a while? Do you not see that I am out of breath?

JULIET. How art thou out of breath, when thou hast breath To say to me that thou art out of breath? 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?

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?

JULIET. 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! Beshrew your heart for sending me about To catch my death with jauncing up and down.

JULIET. 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?

JULIET. 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, Are you so hot? Marry, come up, I trow. Is this the poultice for my aching bones? Henceforward do your messages yourself.

JULIET. Here’s such a coil. Come, what says Romeo?

NURSE. Have you got leave to go to shrift today?

JULIET. I have.

NURSE. Then hie you hence to Friar Lawrence’ 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. 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. Go. I’ll to dinner; hie you to the cell.

JULIET. Hie to high fortune! Honest Nurse, farewell.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE VI. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.

Enter Friar Lawrence and Romeo.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. So smile the heavens upon this holy act That after-hours with sorrow chide us not.

ROMEO. Amen, amen, but come what sorrow can, 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.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. 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. 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. A lover may bestride the gossamers That idles in the wanton summer air And yet not fall; so light is vanity.

JULIET. Good even to my ghostly confessor.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.

JULIET. As much to him, else is his thanks too much.

ROMEO. 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 Unfold the imagin’d happiness that both Receive in either by this dear encounter.

JULIET. Conceit more rich in matter than in words, Brags of his substance, not of ornament. They are but beggars that can count their worth; But my true love is grown to such excess, I cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. 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._]

## ACT III

## SCENE I. A public Place.

Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page and Servants.

BENVOLIO. 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, For now these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.

MERCUTIO. Thou art like one of these 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.

BENVOLIO. Am I like such a fellow?

MERCUTIO. 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.

BENVOLIO. And what to?

MERCUTIO. 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 an old riband? And yet thou wilt tutor me from quarrelling!

BENVOLIO. And 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.

MERCUTIO. The fee simple! O simple!

Enter Tybalt and others.

BENVOLIO. By my head, here comes the Capulets.

MERCUTIO. By my heel, I care not.

TYBALT. Follow me close, for I will speak to them. Gentlemen, good-den: a word with one of you.

MERCUTIO. And but one word with one of us? Couple it with something; make it a word and a blow.

TYBALT. You shall find me apt enough to that, sir, and you will give me occasion.

MERCUTIO. Could you not take some occasion without giving?

TYBALT. Mercutio, thou consortest with Romeo.

MERCUTIO. Consort? What, dost thou make us minstrels? And thou make minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but discords. Here’s my fiddlestick, here’s that shall make you dance. Zounds, consort!

BENVOLIO. We talk here in the public haunt of men. Either withdraw unto some private place, And reason coldly of your grievances, Or else depart; here all eyes gaze on us.

MERCUTIO. Men’s eyes were made to look, and let them gaze. I will not budge for no man’s pleasure, I.

Enter Romeo.

TYBALT. Well, peace be with you, sir, here comes my man.

MERCUTIO. But I’ll be hanged, 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.

TYBALT. Romeo, the love I bear thee can afford No better term than this: Thou art a villain.

ROMEO. 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.

TYBALT. Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries That thou hast done me, therefore turn and draw.

ROMEO. 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 As dearly as mine own, be satisfied.

MERCUTIO. O calm, dishonourable, vile submission! [_Draws._] Alla stoccata carries it away. Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk?

TYBALT. What wouldst thou have with me?

MERCUTIO. 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.

TYBALT. [_Drawing._] I am for you.

ROMEO. Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up.

MERCUTIO. Come, sir, your passado.

[_They fight._]

ROMEO. Draw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons. Gentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage, Tybalt, Mercutio, the Prince expressly hath Forbid this bandying in Verona streets. Hold, Tybalt! Good Mercutio!

[_Exeunt Tybalt with his Partizans._]

MERCUTIO. I am hurt. A plague o’ both your houses. I am sped. Is he gone, and hath nothing?

BENVOLIO. What, art thou hurt?

MERCUTIO. Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch. Marry, ’tis enough. Where is my page? Go villain, fetch a surgeon.

[_Exit Page._]

ROMEO. Courage, man; the hurt cannot be much.

MERCUTIO. No, ’tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but ’tis enough, ’twill serve. Ask for me tomorrow, 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.

ROMEO. I thought all for the best.

MERCUTIO. Help me into some house, Benvolio, Or I shall faint. A plague o’ both your houses. They have made worms’ meat of me. I have it, and soundly too. Your houses!

[_Exeunt Mercutio and Benvolio._]

ROMEO. This gentleman, the Prince’s near ally, My very friend, hath got his mortal hurt In my behalf; my reputation stain’d With Tybalt’s slander,—Tybalt, that an hour Hath been my cousin. O sweet Juliet, Thy beauty hath made me effeminate And in my temper soften’d valour’s steel.

Re-enter Benvolio.

BENVOLIO. O Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio’s dead, That gallant spirit hath aspir’d the clouds, Which too untimely here did scorn the earth.

ROMEO. This day’s black fate on mo days doth depend; This but begins the woe others must end.

Re-enter Tybalt.

BENVOLIO. Here comes the furious Tybalt back again.

ROMEO. Again in triumph, and Mercutio slain? Away to heaven respective lenity, And fire-ey’d fury be my conduct now! 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.

TYBALT. Thou wretched boy, that didst consort him here, Shalt with him hence.

ROMEO. This shall determine that.

[_They fight; Tybalt falls._]

BENVOLIO. Romeo, away, be gone! The citizens are up, and Tybalt slain. Stand not amaz’d. The Prince will doom thee death If thou art taken. Hence, be gone, away!

ROMEO. O, I am fortune’s fool!

BENVOLIO. Why dost thou stay?

[_Exit Romeo._]

Enter Citizens.

FIRST CITIZEN. Which way ran he that kill’d Mercutio? Tybalt, that murderer, which way ran he?

BENVOLIO. There lies that Tybalt.

FIRST CITIZEN. Up, sir, go with me. I charge thee in the Prince’s name obey.

Enter Prince, attended; Montague, Capulet, their Wives and others.

PRINCE. Where are the vile beginners of this fray?

BENVOLIO. O noble Prince, I can discover all The unlucky manage of this fatal brawl. There lies the man, slain by young Romeo, That slew thy kinsman, brave Mercutio.

LADY CAPULET. Tybalt, my cousin! O my brother’s child! O Prince! O husband! O, the blood is spill’d Of my dear kinsman! Prince, as thou art true, For blood of ours shed blood of Montague. O cousin, cousin.

PRINCE. Benvolio, who began this bloody fray?

BENVOLIO. Tybalt, here slain, whom Romeo’s hand did slay; Romeo, that spoke him fair, bid him bethink How nice the quarrel was, and urg’d withal 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, 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, ‘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. 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. This is the truth, or let Benvolio die.

LADY CAPULET. 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. I beg for justice, which thou, Prince, must give; Romeo slew Tybalt, Romeo must not live.

PRINCE. Romeo slew him, he slew Mercutio. Who now the price of his dear blood doth owe?

MONTAGUE. Not Romeo, Prince, he was Mercutio’s friend; His fault concludes but what the law should end, The life of Tybalt.

PRINCE. And for that offence Immediately we do exile him hence. I have an interest in your hate’s proceeding, 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. Therefore use none. Let Romeo hence in haste, Else, when he is found, that hour is his last. Bear hence this body, and attend our will. Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE II. A Room in Capulet’s House.

Enter Juliet.

JULIET. Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds, Towards Phoebus’ lodging. Such a waggoner As Phaeton would whip you to the west 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 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. Hood my unmann’d blood, bating in my cheeks, With thy black mantle, till strange love, grow 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 Whiter than new snow upon a raven’s back. Come gentle night, come loving black-brow’d night, Give me my Romeo, and when I shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine 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 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, And she brings news, and every tongue that speaks But Romeo’s name speaks heavenly eloquence.

Enter Nurse, with cords.

Now, Nurse, what news? What hast thou there? The cords that Romeo bid thee fetch?

NURSE. Ay, ay, the cords.

[_Throws them down._]

JULIET. Ay me, what news? Why dost thou wring thy hands?

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 kill’d, he’s dead.

JULIET. Can heaven be so envious?

NURSE. Romeo can, Though heaven cannot. O Romeo, Romeo. Who ever would have thought it? Romeo!

JULIET. 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 Ay, 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 Ay. If he be slain, say Ay; or if not, No. 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, All in gore-blood. I swounded at the sight.

JULIET. O, break, my heart. Poor bankrout, 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.

NURSE. O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had. O courteous Tybalt, honest gentleman! That ever I should live to see thee dead.

JULIET. What storm is this that blows so contrary? Is Romeo slaughter’d and is Tybalt dead? 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.

JULIET. O God! Did Romeo’s hand shed Tybalt’s blood?

NURSE. It did, it did; alas the day, it did.

JULIET. O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face! Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave? Beautiful tyrant, fiend angelical, 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 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.

NURSE. There’s no trust, No faith, no honesty in men. All perjur’d, All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers. Ah, where’s my man? Give me some aqua vitae. These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old. Shame come to Romeo.

JULIET. 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 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?

JULIET. Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband? Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name, 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, 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, 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,’ 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, Thy father or thy mother, nay or both, Which modern lamentation might have mov’d? But with a rear-ward following Tybalt’s death, ‘Romeo is banished’—to speak that word Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet, 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. Will you go to them? I will bring you thither.

JULIET. 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. 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 To comfort you. I wot well where he is. Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at night. I’ll to him, he is hid at Lawrence’ cell.

JULIET. O find him, give this ring to my true knight, And bid him come to take his last farewell.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE III. Friar Lawrence’s cell.

Enter Friar Lawrence.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man. Affliction is enanmour’d of thy parts And thou art wedded to calamity.

Enter Romeo.

ROMEO. Father, what news? What is the Prince’s doom? What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand, That I yet know not?

FRIAR LAWRENCE. Too familiar Is my dear son with such sour company. I bring thee tidings of the Prince’s doom.

ROMEO. What less than doomsday is the Prince’s doom?

FRIAR LAWRENCE. A gentler judgment vanish’d from his lips, Not body’s death, but body’s banishment.

ROMEO. Ha, banishment? Be merciful, say death; For exile hath more terror in his look, Much more than death. Do not say banishment.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. Hence from Verona art thou banished. Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.

ROMEO. 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 misterm’d. Calling death banished, Thou cutt’st my head off with a golden axe, And smilest upon the stroke that murders me.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. O deadly sin, O rude unthankfulness! Thy fault our law calls death, but the kind Prince, Taking thy part, hath brush’d aside the law, And turn’d that black word death to banishment. This is dear mercy, and thou see’st it not.

ROMEO. ’Tis torture, and not mercy. Heaven is here Where Juliet lives, and every cat and dog, And little mouse, every unworthy thing, 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, And steal immortal blessing from her lips, Who, even in pure and vestal modesty Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin. But Romeo may not, he is banished. This may flies do, when I from this must fly. They are free men but I am banished. And say’st 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. Howling attends 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?

FRIAR LAWRENCE. Thou fond mad man, hear me speak a little,

ROMEO. O, thou wilt speak again of banishment.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. I’ll give thee armour to keep off that word, Adversity’s sweet milk, philosophy, To comfort thee, though thou art banished.

ROMEO. Yet banished? Hang up philosophy. Unless philosophy can make a Juliet, Displant a town, reverse a Prince’s doom, It helps not, it prevails not, talk no more.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. O, then I see that mad men have no ears.

ROMEO. How should they, when that wise men have no eyes?

FRIAR LAWRENCE. Let me dispute with thee of thy estate.

ROMEO. 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, 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._]

FRIAR LAWRENCE. Arise; one knocks. Good Romeo, hide thyself.

ROMEO. Not I, unless the breath of heartsick groans Mist-like infold me from the search of eyes.

[_Knocking._]

FRIAR LAWRENCE. 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 simpleness is this.—I come, I come.

[_Knocking._]

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.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. Welcome then.

Enter Nurse.

NURSE. O holy Friar, O, tell me, holy Friar, Where is my lady’s lord, where’s Romeo?

FRIAR LAWRENCE. There on the ground, with his own tears made drunk.

NURSE. O, he is even in my mistress’ case. Just in her case! O woeful sympathy! Piteous predicament. Even so lies she, Blubbering and weeping, weeping and blubbering. Stand up, stand up; stand, and you be a man. For Juliet’s sake, for her sake, rise and stand. Why should you fall into so deep an O?

ROMEO. Nurse.

NURSE. Ah sir, ah sir, death’s the end of all.

ROMEO. Spakest thou of Juliet? How is it with her? Doth not she think me an old murderer, 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; And now falls on her bed, and then starts up, And Tybalt calls, and then on Romeo cries, And then down falls again.

ROMEO. As if that name, Shot from the deadly level of a gun, 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._]

FRIAR LAWRENCE. 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, And 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, 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, 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; 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, Is set afire 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, But thou slew’st Tybalt; there art thou happy. 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; But like a misshaped and sullen wench, Thou putt’st up 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. 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 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. 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.

ROMEO. Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide.

NURSE. Here sir, a ring she bid me give you, sir. Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late.

[_Exit._]

ROMEO. How well my comfort is reviv’d by this.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. Go hence, good night, and here stands all your state: Either be gone before the watch be set, 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; good night.

ROMEO. But that a joy past joy calls out on me, It were a grief so brief to part with thee. Farewell.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE IV. A Room in Capulet’s House.

Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet and Paris.

CAPULET. Things have fallen out, sir, so unluckily That we have had no time to move our daughter. Look you, she lov’d her kinsman Tybalt dearly, And so did I. Well, we were born to die. ’Tis very late; she’ll not come down tonight. I promise you, but for your company, I would have been abed an hour ago.

PARIS. These times of woe afford no tune to woo. Madam, good night. Commend me to your daughter.

LADY CAPULET. I will, and know her mind early tomorrow; Tonight she’s mew’d up to her heaviness.

CAPULET. Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender Of my child’s love. I think she will be rul’d 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?

PARIS. Monday, my lord.

CAPULET. Monday! Ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon, A Thursday let it be; a Thursday, tell her, She shall be married to this noble earl. Will you be ready? Do you like this haste? 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, And there an end. But what say you to Thursday?

PARIS. My lord, I would that Thursday were tomorrow.

CAPULET. Well, get you gone. A Thursday be it then. Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed, Prepare her, wife, against this wedding day. 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._]

## SCENE V. An open Gallery to Juliet’s Chamber, overlooking the Garden.

Enter Romeo and Juliet.

JULIET. 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; Nightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree. Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

ROMEO. It was the lark, the herald of the morn, No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east. 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.

JULIET. Yond light is not daylight, I know it, I. It is some meteor that the sun exhales To be to thee this night a torchbearer And light thee on thy way to Mantua. Therefore stay yet, thou need’st not to be gone.

ROMEO. Let me be ta’en, let me be put to death, I am content, so thou wilt have it so. I’ll say yon 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. Come, death, and welcome. Juliet wills it so. How is’t, my soul? Let’s talk. It is not day.

JULIET. 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. 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, Hunting thee hence with hunt’s-up to the day. O now be gone, more light and light it grows.

ROMEO. More light and light, more dark and dark our woes.

Enter Nurse.

NURSE. Madam.

JULIET. Nurse?

NURSE. Your lady mother is coming to your chamber. The day is broke, be wary, look about.

[_Exit._]

JULIET. Then, window, let day in, and let life out.

ROMEO. Farewell, farewell, one kiss, and I’ll descend.

[_Descends._]

JULIET. Art thou gone so? Love, lord, ay husband, 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.

ROMEO. Farewell! I will omit no opportunity That may convey my greetings, love, to thee.

JULIET. O thinkest thou we shall ever meet again?

ROMEO. I doubt it not, and all these woes shall serve For sweet discourses in our time to come.

JULIET. 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.

ROMEO. And trust me, love, in my eye so do you. Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu.

[_Exit below._]

JULIET. 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; For then, I hope thou wilt not keep him long But send him back.

LADY CAPULET. [_Within._] Ho, daughter, are you up?

JULIET. Who is’t that calls? Is it my lady mother? Is she not down so late, or up so early? What unaccustom’d cause procures her hither?

Enter Lady Capulet.

LADY CAPULET. Why, how now, Juliet?

JULIET. Madam, I am not well.

LADY CAPULET. Evermore weeping for your cousin’s death? 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.

JULIET. Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss.

LADY CAPULET. So shall you feel the loss, but not the friend Which you weep for.

JULIET. Feeling so the loss, I cannot choose but ever weep the friend.

LADY CAPULET. Well, girl, thou weep’st not so much for his death As that the villain lives which slaughter’d him.

JULIET. What villain, madam?

LADY CAPULET. That same villain Romeo.

JULIET. Villain and he be many miles asunder. God pardon him. I do, with all my heart. And yet no man like he doth grieve my heart.

LADY CAPULET. That is because the traitor murderer lives.

JULIET. Ay madam, from the reach of these my hands. Would none but I might venge my cousin’s death.

LADY CAPULET. We will have vengeance for it, fear thou not. 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.

JULIET. 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, 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 Upon his body that hath slaughter’d him.

LADY CAPULET. Find thou the means, and I’ll find such a man. But now I’ll tell thee joyful tidings, girl.

JULIET. And joy comes well in such a needy time. What are they, I beseech your ladyship?

LADY CAPULET. Well, well, thou hast a careful father, child; One who to put thee from thy heaviness, Hath sorted out a sudden day of joy, That thou expects not, nor I look’d not for.

JULIET. Madam, in happy time, what day is that?

LADY CAPULET. Marry, my child, early next Thursday morn The gallant, young, and noble gentleman, The County Paris, at Saint Peter’s Church, Shall happily make thee there a joyful bride.

JULIET. Now by Saint Peter’s Church, and Peter too, He shall not make me there a joyful bride. 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, Rather than Paris. These are news indeed.

LADY CAPULET. Here comes your father, tell him so yourself, And see how he will take it at your hands.

Enter Capulet and Nurse.

CAPULET. When the sun sets, the air doth drizzle dew; 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 counterfeits a bark, a sea, a wind. 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 Thy tempest-tossed body. How now, wife? Have you deliver’d to her our decree?

LADY CAPULET. Ay, sir; but she will none, she gives you thanks. I would the fool were married to her grave.

CAPULET. Soft. Take me with you, take me with you, wife. How, will she none? Doth she not give us thanks? Is she not proud? Doth she not count her blest, Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought So worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom?

JULIET. Not proud you have, but thankful that you have. Proud can I never be of what I hate; But thankful even for hate that is meant love.

CAPULET. How now, how now, chopp’d logic? What is this? Proud, and, I thank you, and I thank you not; And yet not proud. Mistress minion you, 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! You tallow-face!

LADY CAPULET. Fie, fie! What, are you mad?

JULIET. Good father, I beseech you on my knees, Hear me with patience but to speak a word.

CAPULET. Hang thee young baggage, disobedient wretch! I tell thee what,—get thee to church a 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 blest That God had lent us but this only child; 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.

CAPULET. And why, my lady wisdom? Hold your tongue, Good prudence; smatter with your gossips, go.

NURSE. I speak no treason.

CAPULET. O God ye good-en!

NURSE. May not one speak?

CAPULET. Peace, you mumbling fool! Utter your gravity o’er a gossip’s bowl, For here we need it not.

LADY CAPULET. You are too hot.

CAPULET. God’s bread, it makes me mad! Day, night, hour, ride, 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 allied, 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, I am too young, I pray you pardon me.’ But, and 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. And you be mine, I’ll give you to my friend; And 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._]

JULIET. 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 In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.

LADY CAPULET. Talk not to me, for I’ll not speak a word. Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee.

[_Exit._]

JULIET. O God! O Nurse, how shall this be prevented? My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven. 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 stratagems Upon so soft a subject as myself. What say’st 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. 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, 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, As living here and you no use of him.

JULIET. Speakest thou from thy heart?

NURSE. And from my soul too, Or else beshrew them both.

JULIET. Amen.

NURSE. What?

JULIET. Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much. Go in, and tell my lady I am gone, Having displeas’d my father, to Lawrence’ cell, To make confession and to be absolv’d.

NURSE. Marry, I will; and this is wisely done.

[_Exit._]

JULIET. 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 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. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.

Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. On Thursday, sir? The time is very short.

PARIS. My father Capulet will have it so; And I am nothing slow to slack his haste.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. You say you do not know the lady’s mind. Uneven is the course; I like it not.

PARIS. 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. Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous That she do 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, May be put from her by society. Now do you know the reason of this haste.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. [_Aside._] I would I knew not why it should be slow’d.— Look, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell.

Enter Juliet.

PARIS. Happily met, my lady and my wife!

JULIET. That may be, sir, when I may be a wife.

PARIS. That may be, must be, love, on Thursday next.

JULIET. What must be shall be.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. That’s a certain text.

PARIS. Come you to make confession to this father?

JULIET. To answer that, I should confess to you.

PARIS. Do not deny to him that you love me.

JULIET. I will confess to you that I love him.

PARIS. So will ye, I am sure, that you love me.

JULIET. If I do so, it will be of more price, Being spoke behind your back than to your face.

PARIS. Poor soul, thy face is much abus’d with tears.

JULIET. The tears have got small victory by that; For it was bad enough before their spite.

PARIS. Thou wrong’st it more than tears with that report.

JULIET. That is no slander, sir, which is a truth, And what I spake, I spake it to my face.

PARIS. Thy face is mine, and thou hast slander’d it.

JULIET. It may be so, for it is not mine own. Are you at leisure, holy father, now, Or shall I come to you at evening mass?

FRIAR LAWRENCE. My leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now.— My lord, we must entreat the time alone.

PARIS. God shield I should disturb devotion!— Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye, Till then, adieu; and keep this holy kiss.

[_Exit._]

JULIET. O shut the door, and when thou hast done so, Come weep with me, past hope, past cure, past help!

FRIAR LAWRENCE. O Juliet, I already know thy grief; 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.

JULIET. Tell me not, Friar, that thou hear’st of this, Unless thou tell me how I may prevent it. 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’s seal’d, 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 ’Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife Shall play the empire, 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, If what thou speak’st speak not of remedy.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. 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 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.

JULIET. 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 hide me nightly in a charnel-house, 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, And I will do it without fear or doubt, To live an unstain’d wife to my sweet love.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. Hold then. Go home, be merry, give consent To marry Paris. Wednesday is tomorrow; Tomorrow night look that thou lie alone, 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 Shall keep his native progress, but surcease. No warmth, no breath shall testify thou livest, 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. 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. 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 Where all the kindred of the Capulets lie. In the meantime, 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 Shall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua. And this shall free thee from this present shame, If no inconstant toy nor womanish fear Abate thy valour in the acting it.

JULIET. Give me, give me! O tell not me of fear!

FRIAR LAWRENCE. 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.

JULIET. Love give me strength, and strength shall help afford. Farewell, dear father.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE II. Hall in Capulet’s House.

Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, Nurse and Servants.

CAPULET. So many guests invite as here are writ.

[_Exit first Servant._]

Sirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks.

SECOND SERVANT. You shall have none ill, sir; for I’ll try if they can lick their fingers.

CAPULET. How canst thou try them so?

SECOND SERVANT. Marry, sir, ’tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers; therefore he that cannot lick his fingers goes not with me.

CAPULET. Go, begone.

[_Exit second Servant._]

We shall be much unfurnish’d for this time. What, is my daughter gone to Friar Lawrence?

NURSE. Ay, forsooth.

CAPULET. Well, he may chance to do some good on her. A peevish self-will’d harlotry it is.

Enter Juliet.

NURSE. See where she comes from shrift with merry look.

CAPULET. How now, my headstrong. Where have you been gadding?

JULIET. Where I have learnt me to repent the sin Of disobedient opposition To you and your behests; and am enjoin’d By holy Lawrence to fall prostrate here, To beg your pardon. Pardon, I beseech you. Henceforward I am ever rul’d by you.

CAPULET. Send for the County, go tell him of this. I’ll have this knot knit up tomorrow morning.

JULIET. I met the youthful lord at Lawrence’ cell, And gave him what becomed love I might, Not stepping o’er the bounds of modesty.

CAPULET. Why, I am glad on’t. This is well. Stand up. This is as’t should be. Let me see the County. 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.

JULIET. Nurse, will you go with me into my closet, To help me sort such needful ornaments As you think fit to furnish me tomorrow?

LADY CAPULET. No, not till Thursday. There is time enough.

CAPULET. Go, Nurse, go with her. We’ll to church tomorrow.

[_Exeunt Juliet and Nurse._]

LADY CAPULET. We shall be short in our provision, ’Tis now near night.

CAPULET. 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 tonight, let me alone. I’ll play the housewife for this once.—What, ho!— They are all forth: well, I will walk myself To County Paris, to prepare him up Against tomorrow. My heart is wondrous light Since this same wayward girl is so reclaim’d.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE III. Juliet’s Chamber.

Enter Juliet and Nurse.

JULIET. Ay, those attires are best. But, gentle Nurse, I pray thee leave me to myself tonight; For I have need of many orisons To move the heavens to smile upon my state, Which, well thou know’st, is cross and full of sin.

Enter Lady Capulet.

LADY CAPULET. What, are you busy, ho? Need you my help?

JULIET. No, madam; we have cull’d such necessaries As are behoveful for our state tomorrow. 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.

LADY CAPULET. Good night. Get thee to bed and rest, for thou hast need.

[_Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse._]

JULIET. 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. 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? Shall I be married then tomorrow morning? No, No! This shall forbid it. Lie thou there.

[_Laying down her 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, 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. How if, when I am laid into the tomb, 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? 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 this many hundred years the bones 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, 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, 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 Seeking out Romeo that did spit his body Upon a rapier’s point. Stay, Tybalt, stay! Romeo, Romeo, Romeo, here’s drink! I drink to thee.

[_Throws herself on the bed._]

## SCENE IV. Hall in Capulet’s House.

Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse.

LADY CAPULET. Hold, take these keys and fetch more spices, Nurse.

NURSE. They call for dates and quinces in the pastry.

Enter Capulet.

CAPULET. 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, you cot-quean, go, Get you to bed; faith, you’ll be sick tomorrow For this night’s watching.

CAPULET. No, not a whit. What! I have watch’d ere now All night for lesser cause, and ne’er been sick.

LADY CAPULET. Ay, you have been a mouse-hunt in your time; But I will watch you from such watching now.

[_Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse._]

CAPULET. A jealous-hood, a jealous-hood!

Enter Servants, with spits, logs and baskets.

Now, fellow, what’s there?

FIRST SERVANT. Things for the cook, sir; but I know not what.

CAPULET. Make haste, make haste.

[_Exit First Servant._]

—Sirrah, fetch drier logs. Call Peter, he will show thee where they are.

SECOND SERVANT. I have a head, sir, that will find out logs And never trouble Peter for the matter.

[_Exit._]

CAPULET. Mass and well said; a merry whoreson, ha. Thou shalt be loggerhead.—Good faith, ’tis day. The County will be here with music straight, For so he said he would. I hear him near.

[_Play music._]

Nurse! Wife! What, ho! What, Nurse, I say!

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._]

## SCENE V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed.

Enter Nurse.

NURSE. Mistress! What, mistress! Juliet! Fast, I warrant her, she. Why, lamb, why, lady, fie, you slug-abed! Why, love, I say! Madam! Sweetheart! Why, bride! 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! 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! Alas, alas! Help, help! My lady’s dead! O, well-a-day that ever I was born. Some aqua vitae, ho! My lord! My lady!

Enter Lady Capulet.

LADY CAPULET. What noise is here?

NURSE. O lamentable day!

LADY CAPULET. What is the matter?

NURSE. Look, look! O heavy day!

LADY CAPULET. O me, O me! My child, my only life. Revive, look up, or I will die with thee. Help, help! Call help.

Enter Capulet.

CAPULET. For shame, bring Juliet forth, her lord is come.

NURSE. She’s dead, deceas’d, she’s dead; alack the day!

LADY CAPULET. Alack the day, she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead!

CAPULET. 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.

NURSE. O lamentable day!

LADY CAPULET. O woful time!

CAPULET. Death, that hath ta’en her hence to make me wail, Ties up my tongue and will not let me speak.

Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris with Musicians.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. Come, is the bride ready to go to church?

CAPULET. Ready to go, but never to return. O son, the night before thy wedding day Hath death lain with thy bride. There she lies, Flower as she was, deflowered by him. 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.

PARIS. Have I thought long to see this morning’s face, And doth it give me such a sight as this?

LADY CAPULET. 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, 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. Never was seen so black a day as this. O woeful day, O woeful day.

PARIS. Beguil’d, divorced, wronged, spited, slain. Most detestable death, by thee beguil’d, By cruel, cruel thee quite overthrown. O love! O life! Not life, but love in death!

CAPULET. 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, Dead art thou. Alack, my child is dead, And with my child my joys are buried.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. 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, 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, 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, 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, And in her best array bear her to church; For though fond nature bids us all lament, Yet nature’s tears are reason’s merriment.

CAPULET. 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; Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change; Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse, And all things change them to the contrary.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. Sir, go you in, and, madam, go with him, And go, Sir Paris, everyone prepare 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 MUSICIAN. 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.

FIRST MUSICIAN. Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended.

[_Exit Nurse._]

Enter Peter.

PETER. Musicians, O, musicians, ‘Heart’s ease,’ ‘Heart’s ease’, O, and you will have me live, play ‘Heart’s ease.’

FIRST MUSICIAN. Why ‘Heart’s ease’?

PETER. O musicians, because my heart itself plays ‘My heart is full’. O play me some merry dump to comfort me.

FIRST MUSICIAN. Not a dump we, ’tis no time to play now.

PETER. You will not then?

FIRST MUSICIAN. No.

PETER. I will then give it you soundly.

FIRST MUSICIAN. What will you give us?

PETER. No money, on my faith, but the gleek! I will give you the minstrel.

FIRST MUSICIAN. Then will I give you the serving-creature.

PETER. 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 MUSICIAN. And you re us and fa us, you note us.

SECOND MUSICIAN. Pray you put up your dagger, and put out your wit.

PETER. 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 griefs 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 MUSICIAN. Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.

PETER. Prates. What say you, Hugh Rebeck?

SECOND MUSICIAN. I say ‘silver sound’ because musicians sound for silver.

PETER. Prates too! What say you, James Soundpost?

THIRD MUSICIAN. Faith, I know not what to say.

PETER. 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 MUSICIAN. What a pestilent knave is this same!

SECOND MUSICIAN. Hang him, Jack. Come, we’ll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner.

[_Exeunt._]

## ACT V

## SCENE I. Mantua. A Street.

Enter Romeo.

ROMEO. If I may trust the flattering eye of sleep, My dreams presage some joyful news at hand. My bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne; 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, 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.

News from Verona! How now, Balthasar? 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.

BALTHASAR. Then she is well, and nothing can be ill. 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, Since you did leave it for my office, sir.

ROMEO. 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 tonight.

BALTHASAR. I do beseech you sir, have patience. Your looks are pale and wild, and do import Some misadventure.

ROMEO. Tush, thou art deceiv’d. Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do. Hast thou no letters to me from the Friar?

BALTHASAR. No, my good lord.

ROMEO. No matter. Get thee gone, And hire those horses. I’ll be with thee straight.

[_Exit Balthasar._]

Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee tonight. Let’s see for means. O mischief thou art swift 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, 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-shaped fishes; and about his shelves A beggarly account of empty boxes, 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, And if a man did need a poison now, Whose sale is present death in Mantua, Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him. O, this same thought did but forerun my need, And this same needy man must sell it me. As I remember, this should be the house. Being holiday, the beggar’s shop is shut. What, ho! Apothecary!

Enter Apothecary.

APOTHECARY. Who calls so loud?

ROMEO. Come hither, man. I see that thou art poor. 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 As violently as hasty powder fir’d Doth hurry from the fatal cannon’s womb.

APOTHECARY. Such mortal drugs I have, but Mantua’s law Is death to any he that utters them.

ROMEO. Art thou so bare and full of wretchedness, And fear’st to die? Famine is in thy cheeks, Need and oppression starveth in thine eyes, Contempt and beggary hangs upon thy back. The world is not thy friend, nor the world’s law; The world affords no law to make thee rich; Then be not poor, but break it and take this.

APOTHECARY. My poverty, but not my will consents.

ROMEO. I pay thy poverty, and not thy will.

APOTHECARY. Put this in any liquid thing you will And drink it off; and, if you had the strength Of twenty men, it would despatch you straight.

ROMEO. There is thy gold, worse poison to men’s souls, Doing more murder in this loathsome world Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell. I sell thee poison, thou hast sold me none. 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._]

## SCENE II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.

Enter Friar John.

FRIAR JOHN. Holy Franciscan Friar! Brother, ho!

Enter Friar Lawrence.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. This same should be the voice of Friar John. Welcome from Mantua. What says Romeo? Or, if his mind be writ, give me his letter.

FRIAR JOHN. Going to find a barefoot brother out, One of our order, to associate me, Here in this city visiting the sick, 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.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. Who bare my letter then to Romeo?

FRIAR JOHN. I could not send it,—here it is again,— Nor get a messenger to bring it thee, So fearful were they of infection.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. Unhappy fortune! By my brotherhood, 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.

FRIAR JOHN. Brother, I’ll go and bring it thee.

[_Exit._]

FRIAR LAWRENCE. Now must I to the monument alone. Within this three hours will fair Juliet wake. She will beshrew me much that Romeo Hath had no notice of these accidents; 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._]

## SCENE III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets.

Enter Paris, and his Page bearing flowers and a torch.

PARIS. Give me thy torch, boy. Hence and stand aloof. Yet put it out, for I would not be seen. Under yond yew tree lay thee all along, Holding thy 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. 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._]

PARIS. Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew. O woe, thy canopy is dust and stones, 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. What cursed foot wanders this way tonight, 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.

ROMEO. Give me that mattock and the wrenching iron. 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. 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. 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; More fierce and more inexorable far Than empty tigers or the roaring sea.

BALTHASAR. I will be gone, sir, and not trouble you.

ROMEO. So shalt thou show me friendship. Take thou that. Live, and be prosperous, and farewell, good fellow.

BALTHASAR. For all this same, I’ll hide me hereabout. His looks I fear, and his intents I doubt.

[_Retires_]

ROMEO. Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death, Gorg’d with the dearest morsel of the earth, Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open,

[_Breaking open the door of the monument._]

And in despite, I’ll cram thee with more food.

PARIS. 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 villainous shame To the dead bodies. I will apprehend him.

[_Advances._]

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.

ROMEO. 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 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 bid thee run away.

PARIS. I do defy thy conjuration, And apprehend thee for a felon here.

ROMEO. Wilt thou provoke me? Then have at thee, boy!

[_They fight._]

PAGE. O lord, they fight! I will go call the watch.

[_Exit._]

PARIS. O, I am slain! [_Falls._] If thou be merciful, Open the tomb, lay me with Juliet.

[_Dies._]

ROMEO. 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 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. I’ll bury thee in a triumphant grave. A grave? O no, a lantern, slaught’red 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 monument._]

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 hath suck’d the honey of thy breath, 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? 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 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 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. 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 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 Lawrence, with a lantern, crow, and spade.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. Saint Francis be my speed. How oft tonight Have my old feet stumbled at graves? Who’s there? Who is it that consorts, so late, the dead?

BALTHASAR. Here’s one, a friend, and one that knows you well.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. 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, It burneth in the Capels’ monument.

BALTHASAR. It doth so, holy sir, and there’s my master, One that you love.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. Who is it?

BALTHASAR. Romeo.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. How long hath he been there?

BALTHASAR. Full half an hour.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. Go with me to the vault.

BALTHASAR. I dare not, sir; My master knows not but I am gone hence, And fearfully did menace me with death If I did stay to look on his intents.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. Stay then, I’ll go alone. Fear comes upon me. O, much I fear some ill unlucky thing.

BALTHASAR. As I did sleep under this yew tree here, I dreamt my master and another fought, And that my master slew him.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. Romeo! [_Advances._] Alack, alack, what blood is this which stains The stony entrance of this sepulchre? What mean these masterless and gory swords To lie discolour’d by this place of peace?

[_Enters the monument._]

Romeo! O, pale! Who else? What, Paris too? And steep’d in blood? Ah what an unkind hour Is guilty of this lamentable chance? The lady stirs.

[_Juliet wakes and stirs._]

JULIET. 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._]

FRIAR LAWRENCE. I hear some noise. Lady, come from that nest 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 Among a sisterhood of holy nuns. Stay not to question, for the watch is coming. Come, go, good Juliet. I dare no longer stay.

JULIET. Go, get thee hence, for I will not away.

[_Exit Friar Lawrence._]

What’s here? A cup clos’d in my true love’s hand? Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end. O churl. Drink 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._]

Thy lips are warm!

FIRST WATCH. [_Within._] Lead, boy. Which way?

JULIET. 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.

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, Who here hath lain this 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 We cannot without circumstance descry.

Re-enter some of the Watch with Balthasar.

SECOND 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 Lawrence.

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.

PRINCE. What misadventure is so early up, That calls our person from our morning’s rest?

Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet and others.

CAPULET. What should it be that they so shriek abroad?

LADY CAPULET. O the people in the street cry Romeo, 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, 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.

CAPULET. 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 it mis-sheathed in my daughter’s bosom.

LADY CAPULET. 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.

MONTAGUE. Alas, my liege, my wife is dead tonight. Grief of my son’s exile hath stopp’d her breath. What further woe conspires against mine age?

PRINCE. Look, and thou shalt see.

MONTAGUE. O thou untaught! What manners is in this, 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, And lead you even to death. Meantime forbear, And let mischance be slave to patience. Bring forth the parties of suspicion.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. I am the greatest, able to do least, Yet most suspected, as the time and place 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.

FRIAR LAWRENCE. I will be brief, for my short date of breath 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 stol’n marriage day Was Tybalt’s doomsday, whose untimely death 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, And with wild looks, bid me devise some means To rid her from this second marriage, Or in my cell there would she kill herself. Then gave I her, so tutored by my art, A sleeping potion, which so took effect 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. 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, 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 awaking, here untimely lay The noble Paris and true Romeo dead. 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. All this I know; and to the marriage Her Nurse is privy. And if ought in this Miscarried by my fault, let my old life Be sacrific’d, some hour before his time, Unto the rigour of severest law.

PRINCE. We still have known thee for a holy man. Where’s Romeo’s man? What can he say to this?

BALTHASAR. 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. 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? 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, 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 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, Have lost a brace of kinsmen. All are punish’d.

CAPULET. O brother Montague, give me thy hand. This is my daughter’s jointure, for no more Can I demand.

MONTAGUE. But I can give thee more, For I will raise her statue in pure gold, That whiles Verona by that name is known, There shall no figure at such rate be set As that of true and faithful Juliet.

CAPULET. As rich shall Romeo’s by his lady’s lie, 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, For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

[_Exeunt._]

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW

Contents

INDUCTION

## Scene I. Before an alehouse on a heath.

## Scene II. A bedchamber in the Lord’s house.

## ACT I

## Scene I. Padua. A public place.

## Scene II. Padua. Before Hortensio’s house.

## ACT II

## Scene I. Padua. A room in Baptista’s house.

## ACT III

## Scene I. Padua. A room in Baptista’s house.

## Scene II. The same. Before Baptista’s house.

## ACT IV

## Scene I. A hall in Petruchio’s country house.

## Scene II. Padua. Before Baptista’s house.

## Scene III. A room in Petruchio’s house.

## Scene IV. Before Baptista’s house.

## Scene V. A public road.

## ACT V

## Scene I. Padua. Before Lucentio’s house.

## Scene II. A room in Lucentio’s house.

Dramatis Personæ

Persons in the Induction A LORD CHRISTOPHER SLY, a tinker HOSTESS PAGE PLAYERS HUNTSMEN SERVANTS

BAPTISTA MINOLA, 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 Katherina

Suitors to Bianca GREMIO HORTENSIO

Servants to Lucentio TRANIO BIONDELLO

Servants to Petruchio GRUMIO CURTIS

PEDANT, set up to personate Vincentio

Daughters to Baptista KATHERINA, the shrew BIANCA

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 heath.

Enter Hostess and Sly

SLY. I’ll pheeze you, in faith.

HOSTESS. 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!

HOSTESS. You will not pay for the glasses you have burst?

SLY. No, not a denier. Go by, Saint Jeronimy, go to thy cold bed and warm thee.

HOSTESS. 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.

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? I would not lose the dog for twenty pound.

FIRST HUNTSMAN. Why, Bellman is as good as he, my lord; He cried upon it at the merest loss, And twice today pick’d out the dullest scent; Trust me, I take him for the better dog.

LORD. Thou art a fool: if Echo were as fleet, I would esteem him worth a dozen such. But sup them well, and look unto them all; Tomorrow I intend to hunt again.

FIRST HUNTSMAN. I will, my lord.

LORD. [_Sees Sly_.] What’s here? One dead, or drunk? See, doth he breathe?

SECOND HUNTSMAN. 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! 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, Would not the beggar then forget himself?

FIRST HUNTSMAN. Believe me, lord, I think he cannot choose.

SECOND HUNTSMAN. 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. 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, 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 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?’ Someone be ready with a costly suit, And ask him what apparel he will wear; Another tell him of his hounds and horse, And that his lady mourns at his disease. 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. This do, and do it kindly, gentle sirs; It will be pastime passing excellent, If it be husbanded with modesty.

FIRST HUNTSMAN. My lord, I warrant you we will play our part, As he shall think by our true diligence, 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, Travelling some journey, to repose him here.

Re-enter Servant.

How now! who is it?

SERVANT. An it please your honour, players That offer service to your lordship.

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 tonight?

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 Was aptly fitted and naturally perform’d.

PLAYER. 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 Wherein your cunning can assist me much. There is a lord will hear you play tonight; But I am doubtful of your modesties, Lest, over-eying of his odd behaviour,— For yet his honour never heard a play,— You break into some merry passion And so offend him; for I tell you, sirs, If you should smile, he grows impatient.

PLAYER. Fear not, my lord; we can contain ourselves, Were he the veriest antick in the world.

LORD. Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery, And give them friendly welcome everyone: Let them want nothing that my house affords.

[_Exit one with the Players._]

Sirrah, go you to Barthol’mew my page, And see him dress’d in all suits like a lady; That done, conduct him to the drunkard’s chamber, And call him ‘madam,’ do him obeisance. Tell him from me—as he will win my love,— He bear himself with honourable action, Such as he hath observ’d in noble ladies Unto their lords, by them accomplished; Such duty to the drunkard let him do, With soft low tongue and lowly courtesy, And say ‘What is’t your honour will command, Wherein your lady and your humble wife 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, 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, 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, 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 May well abate the over-merry spleen, Which otherwise would grow into extremes.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE II. A bedchamber in the Lord’s house.

Sly is discovered in a rich nightgown, with Attendants: some with apparel, basin, ewer, and other appurtenances; and Lord, dressed like a servant.

SLY. For God’s sake! a pot of small ale.

FIRST SERVANT. Will’t please your lordship drink a cup of sack?

SECOND SERVANT. Will’t please your honour taste of these conserves?

THIRD SERVANT. What raiment will your honour wear today?

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 over-leather.

LORD. Heaven cease this idle humour in your honour! O, that a mighty man of such descent, Of such possessions, and so high esteem, Should be infused with so foul a spirit!

SLY. What! would you make me mad? Am not I Christopher Sly, old Sly’s son of Burton-heath; by birth a 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—

THIRD SERVANT. O! this it is that makes your lady mourn.

SECOND SERVANT. O! this is it that makes your servants droop.

LORD. Hence comes it that your kindred shuns your house, As beaten hence by your strange lunacy. O noble lord, bethink thee of thy birth, Call home thy ancient thoughts from banishment, And banish hence these abject lowly dreams. Look how thy servants do attend on thee, Each in his office ready at thy beck: Wilt thou have music? 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 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 Above the morning lark: or wilt thou hunt? Thy hounds shall make the welkin answer them And fetch shrill echoes from the hollow earth.

FIRST SERVANT. Say thou wilt course; thy greyhounds are as swift As breathed stags; ay, fleeter than the roe.

SECOND SERVANT. 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.

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 SERVANT. Or Daphne roaming through a thorny wood, Scratching her legs, that one shall swear she bleeds And at that sight shall sad Apollo weep, So 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.

FIRST SERVANT. 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? 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. Well, bring our lady hither to our sight; And once again, a pot o’ the smallest ale.

SECOND SERVANT. 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! 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 SERVANT. O! yes, my lord, but very idle words; 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. Sometimes you would call out for Cicely Hacket.

SLY. Ay, the woman’s maid of the house.

THIRD SERVANT. 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, And Peter Turph, 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.

Enter the Page, as a lady, with Attendants.

SLY. I thank thee; thou shalt not lose by it.

PAGE. How fares my noble lord?

SLY. Marry, I fare well; for here is cheer enough. Where is my wife?

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 goodman.

PAGE. My husband and my lord, my lord and husband; I am your wife in all obedience.

SLY. I know it well. What must I call her?

LORD. Madam.

SLY. Alice madam, or Joan madam?

LORD. Madam, and nothing else; so lords call ladies.

SLY. Madam wife, they say that I have dream’d 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.

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, 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 despite of the flesh and the blood.

Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER. Your honour’s players, hearing your amendment, 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, 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?

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.

## ACT I

## SCENE I. Padua. A public place.

Flourish. Enter Lucentio and Tranio.

LUCENTIO. Tranio, since for the great desire I had To see fair Padua, nursery of arts, I am arriv’d for fruitful Lombardy, 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 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. 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 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, And with satiety seeks to quench his thirst.

TRANIO. _Mi perdonato_, gentle master mine; I am in all affected as yourself; Glad that you thus continue your resolve To suck the sweets of sweet philosophy. 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. 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: No profit grows where is no pleasure ta’en; In brief, sir, study what you most affect.

LUCENTIO. Gramercies, Tranio, well dost thou advise. If, Biondello, thou wert come ashore, We could at once put us in readiness, And take a lodging fit to entertain Such friends as time in Padua shall beget. But stay awhile; what company is this?

TRANIO. Master, some show to welcome us to town.

[_Lucentio and Tranio stand aside._]

Enter Baptista, Katherina, Bianca, Gremio and Hortensio.

BAPTISTA. Gentlemen, importune me no farther, 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 Katherina, Because I know you well and love you well, Leave shall you have to court her at your pleasure.

GREMIO. To cart her rather: she’s too rough for me. There, there, Hortensio, will you any wife?

KATHERINA. [_To Baptista_] I pray you, sir, is it your will To make a stale of me amongst these mates?

HORTENSIO. Mates, maid! How mean you that? No mates for you, Unless you were of gentler, milder mould.

KATHERINA. I’ faith, sir, you shall never need to fear; I wis it is not half way to her heart; 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.

HORTENSIO. From all such devils, good Lord deliver us!

GREMIO. And me, too, good Lord!

TRANIO. Husht, master! Here’s some good pastime toward: That wench is stark mad or wonderful froward.

LUCENTIO. But in the other’s silence do I see Maid’s mild behaviour and sobriety. Peace, Tranio!

TRANIO. Well said, master; mum! and gaze your fill.

BAPTISTA. 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.

KATHERINA. A pretty peat! it is best put finger in the eye, and she knew why.

BIANCA. Sister, content you in my discontent. Sir, to your pleasure humbly I subscribe: My books and instruments shall be my company, On them to look, and practise by myself.

LUCENTIO. Hark, Tranio! thou mayst hear Minerva speak.

HORTENSIO. Signior Baptista, will you be so strange? Sorry am I that our good will effects Bianca’s grief.

GREMIO. Why will you mew her up, Signior Baptista, for this fiend of hell, And make her bear the penance of her tongue?

BAPTISTA. Gentlemen, content ye; I am resolv’d. Go in, Bianca.

[_Exit Bianca._]

And for I know she taketh most delight In music, instruments, and poetry, Schoolmasters will I keep within my house Fit to instruct her youth. If you, Hortensio, Or, Signior Gremio, you, know any such, Prefer them hither; for to cunning men I will be very kind, and liberal To mine own children in good bringing up; And so, farewell. Katherina, you may stay; For I have more to commune with Bianca.

[_Exit._]

KATHERINA. 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._]

GREMIO. 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.

HORTENSIO. 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.

GREMIO. What’s that, I pray?

HORTENSIO. Marry, sir, to get a husband for her sister.

GREMIO. A husband! a devil.

HORTENSIO. I say, a husband.

GREMIO. 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?

HORTENSIO. Tush, Gremio! Though it pass your patience and mine to endure her loud alarums, why, man, there be good fellows in the world, and a man could light on them, would take her with all faults, and money enough.

GREMIO. I cannot tell; but I had as lief take her dowry with this condition: to be whipp’d at the high cross every morning.

HORTENSIO. 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?

GREMIO. 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._]

TRANIO. I pray, sir, tell me, is it possible That love should of a sudden take such hold?

LUCENTIO. 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; 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. Counsel me, Tranio, for I know thou canst: Assist me, Tranio, for I know thou wilt.

TRANIO. 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: _Redime te captum quam queas minimo._

LUCENTIO. Gramercies, lad; go forward; this contents; The rest will comfort, for thy counsel’s sound.

TRANIO. Master, you look’d so longly on the maid. Perhaps you mark’d not what’s the pith of all.

LUCENTIO. 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.

TRANIO. Saw you no more? mark’d you not how her sister Began to scold and raise up such a storm That mortal ears might hardly endure the din?

LUCENTIO. 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.

TRANIO. 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, 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.

LUCENTIO. Ah, Tranio, what a cruel father’s he! But art thou not advis’d he took some care To get her cunning schoolmasters to instruct her?

TRANIO. Ay, marry, am I, sir, and now ’tis plotted.

LUCENTIO. I have it, Tranio.

TRANIO. Master, for my hand, Both our inventions meet and jump in one.

LUCENTIO. Tell me thine first.

TRANIO. You will be schoolmaster, And undertake the teaching of the maid: That’s your device.

LUCENTIO. It is: may it be done?

TRANIO. 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?

LUCENTIO. _Basta_, content thee, for I have it full. We have not yet been seen in any house, Nor can we be distinguish’d by our faces For man or master: then it follows thus: Thou shalt be master, Tranio, in my stead, Keep house and port and servants, as I should; I will some other be; some Florentine, Some Neapolitan, or meaner man of Pisa. ’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; But I will charm him first to keep his tongue.

[_They exchange habits_]

TRANIO. So had you need. In brief, sir, sith it your pleasure is, And I am tied to be obedient; For so your father charg’d me at our parting, ‘Be serviceable to my son,’ quoth he, Although I think ’twas in another sense: I am content to be Lucentio, Because so well I love Lucentio.

LUCENTIO. Tranio, be so, because Lucentio loves; And let me be a slave, to achieve that maid Whose sudden sight hath thrall’d my wounded eye.

Enter Biondello.

Here comes the rogue. Sirrah, where have you been?

BIONDELLO. 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?

LUCENTIO. Sirrah, come hither: ’tis no time to jest, And therefore frame your manners to the time. Your fellow Tranio here, to save my life, Puts my apparel and my count’nance on, And I for my escape have put on his; For in a quarrel since I came ashore I kill’d a man, and fear I was descried. Wait you on him, I charge you, as becomes, While I make way from hence to save my life. You understand me?

BIONDELLO. I, sir! Ne’er a whit.

LUCENTIO. And not a jot of Tranio in your mouth: Tranio is changed to Lucentio.

BIONDELLO. The better for him: would I were so too!

TRANIO. So could 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 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.

LUCENTIO. 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._]

FIRST SERVANT. 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._]

## SCENE II. Padua. Before Hortensio’s house.

Enter Petruchio and his man Grumio.

PETRUCHIO. Verona, for a while I take my leave, To see my friends in Padua; but of all My best beloved and approved friend, Hortensio; and I trow this is his house. Here, sirrah Grumio, knock, I say.

GRUMIO. Knock, sir? Whom should I knock? Is there any man has rebused your worship?

PETRUCHIO. Villain, I say, knock me here soundly.

GRUMIO. Knock you here, sir? Why, sir, what am I, sir, that I should knock you here, sir?

PETRUCHIO. Villain, I say, knock me at this gate; And rap me well, or I’ll knock your knave’s pate.

GRUMIO. My master is grown quarrelsome. I should knock you first, And then I know after who comes by the worst.

PETRUCHIO. Will it not be? Faith, sirrah, and 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._]

GRUMIO. Help, masters, help! my master is mad.

PETRUCHIO. Now, knock when I bid you, sirrah villain!

Enter Hortensio.

HORTENSIO. How now! what’s the matter? My old friend Grumio! and my good friend Petruchio! How do you all at Verona?

PETRUCHIO. Signior Hortensio, come you to part the fray? _Con tutto il cuore ben trovato_, may I say.

HORTENSIO. _Alla nostra casa ben venuto; molto honorato signor mio Petruchio._ Rise, Grumio, rise: we will compound this quarrel.

GRUMIO. 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.

PETRUCHIO. A senseless villain! Good Hortensio, I bade the rascal knock upon your gate, And could not get him for my heart to do it.

GRUMIO. 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’?

PETRUCHIO. Sirrah, be gone, or talk not, I advise you.

HORTENSIO. Petruchio, patience; I am Grumio’s pledge; Why, this’s a heavy chance ’twixt him and you, Your ancient, trusty, pleasant servant Grumio. And tell me now, sweet friend, what happy gale Blows you to Padua here from old Verona?

PETRUCHIO. Such wind as scatters young men through the world To seek their fortunes farther than at home, Where small experience grows. But in a few, Signior Hortensio, thus it stands with me: Antonio, my father, is deceas’d, And I have thrust myself into this maze, Haply to wive and thrive as best I may; Crowns in my purse I have, and goods at home, And so am come abroad to see the world.

HORTENSIO. 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; And yet I’ll promise thee she shall be rich, And very rich: but th’art too much my friend, And I’ll not wish thee to her.

PETRUCHIO. Signior Hortensio, ’twixt such friends as we Few words suffice; and therefore, if thou know 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, 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.

GRUMIO. 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.

HORTENSIO. 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; 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, I would not wed her for a mine of gold.

PETRUCHIO. 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.

HORTENSIO. Her father is Baptista Minola, An affable and courteous gentleman; Her name is Katherina Minola, Renown’d in Padua for her scolding tongue.

PETRUCHIO. I know her father, though I know not her; And he knew my deceased father well. I will not sleep, Hortensio, till I see her; And therefore let me be thus bold with you, To give you over at this first encounter, Unless you will accompany me thither.

GRUMIO. I pray you, sir, let him go while the humour lasts. O’ my word, and 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; and he begin once, he’ll rail in his rope-tricks. I’ll tell you what, sir, and 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.

HORTENSIO. 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, 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 Katherina will be woo’d: Therefore this order hath Baptista ta’en, That none shall have access unto Bianca Till Katherine the curst have got a husband.

GRUMIO. Katherine the curst! A title for a maid of all titles the worst.

HORTENSIO. 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 Have leave and leisure to make love to her, And unsuspected court her by herself.

GRUMIO. 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?

HORTENSIO. Peace, Grumio! It is the rival of my love. Petruchio, stand by awhile.

GRUMIO. A proper stripling, and an amorous!

GREMIO. O! very well; I have perus’d the note. Hark you, sir; I’ll have them very fairly bound: All books of love, see that at any hand, And see you read no other lectures to her. You understand me. Over and beside Signior Baptista’s liberality, I’ll mend it with a largess. Take your papers too, And let me have them very well perfum’d; For she is sweeter than perfume itself To whom they go to. What will you read to her?

LUCENTIO. Whate’er I read to her, I’ll plead for you, As for my patron, stand you so assur’d, As firmly as yourself were still in place; Yea, and perhaps with more successful words Than you, unless you were a scholar, sir.

GREMIO. O! this learning, what a thing it is.

GRUMIO. O! this woodcock, what an ass it is.

PETRUCHIO. Peace, sirrah!

HORTENSIO. Grumio, mum! God save you, Signior Gremio!

GREMIO. And you are well met, Signior Hortensio. Trow you whither I am going? To Baptista Minola. I promis’d to enquire carefully About a schoolmaster for the fair Bianca; And by good fortune I have lighted well On this young man; for learning and behaviour Fit for her turn, well read in poetry And other books, good ones, I warrant ye.

HORTENSIO. ’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.

GREMIO. Belov’d of me, and that my deeds shall prove.

GRUMIO. [_Aside._] And that his bags shall prove.

HORTENSIO. 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. Here is a gentleman whom by chance I met, Upon agreement from us to his liking, Will undertake to woo curst Katherine; Yea, and to marry her, if her dowry please.

GREMIO. So said, so done, is well. Hortensio, have you told him all her faults?

PETRUCHIO. I know she is an irksome brawling scold; If that be all, masters, I hear no harm.

GREMIO. No, say’st me so, friend? What countryman?

PETRUCHIO. Born in Verona, old Antonio’s son. My father dead, my fortune lives for me; And I do hope good days and long to see.

GREMIO. O sir, such a life, with such a wife, were strange! But if you have a stomach, to’t a God’s name; You shall have me assisting you in all. But will you woo this wild-cat?

PETRUCHIO. Will I live?

GRUMIO. Will he woo her? Ay, or I’ll hang her.

PETRUCHIO. Why came I hither but to that intent? Think you a little din can daunt mine ears? 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? 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? Tush, tush! fear boys with bugs.

GRUMIO. [_Aside_] For he fears none.

GREMIO. Hortensio, hark: This gentleman is happily arriv’d, My mind presumes, for his own good and yours.

HORTENSIO. I promis’d we would be contributors, And bear his charge of wooing, whatsoe’er.

GREMIO. And so we will, provided that he win her.

GRUMIO. I would I were as sure of a good dinner.

Enter Tranio brave, and Biondello.

TRANIO. 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?

BIONDELLO. He that has the two fair daughters; is’t he you mean?

TRANIO. Even he, Biondello!

GREMIO. Hark you, sir, you mean not her to—

TRANIO. Perhaps him and her, sir; what have you to do?

PETRUCHIO. Not her that chides, sir, at any hand, I pray.

TRANIO. I love no chiders, sir. Biondello, let’s away.

LUCENTIO. [_Aside_] Well begun, Tranio.

HORTENSIO. Sir, a word ere you go. Are you a suitor to the maid you talk of, yea or no?

TRANIO. And if I be, sir, is it any offence?

GREMIO. No; if without more words you will get you hence.

TRANIO. Why, sir, I pray, are not the streets as free For me as for you?

GREMIO. But so is not she.

TRANIO. For what reason, I beseech you?

GREMIO. For this reason, if you’ll know, That she’s the choice love of Signior Gremio.

HORTENSIO. That she’s the chosen of Signior Hortensio.

TRANIO. Softly, my masters! If you be gentlemen, Do me this right; hear me with patience. Baptista is a noble gentleman, To whom my father is not all unknown; And were his daughter fairer than she is, She may more suitors have, and me for one. Fair Leda’s daughter had a thousand wooers; Then well one more may fair Bianca have; And so she shall: Lucentio shall make one, Though Paris came in hope to speed alone.

GREMIO. What, this gentleman will out-talk us all.

LUCENTIO. Sir, give him head; I know he’ll prove a jade.

PETRUCHIO. Hortensio, to what end are all these words?

HORTENSIO. Sir, let me be so bold as ask you, Did you yet ever see Baptista’s daughter?

TRANIO. 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.

PETRUCHIO. Sir, sir, the first’s for me; let her go by.

GREMIO. Yea, leave that labour to great Hercules, And let it be more than Alcides’ twelve.

PETRUCHIO. Sir, understand you this of me, in sooth: The youngest daughter, whom you hearken for, Her father keeps from all access of suitors, And will not promise her to any man Until the elder sister first be wed; The younger then is free, and not before.

TRANIO. If it be so, sir, that you are the man Must stead us all, and me amongst the rest; 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.

HORTENSIO. Sir, you say well, and well you do conceive; And since you do profess to be a suitor, You must, as we do, gratify this gentleman, To whom we all rest generally beholding.

TRANIO. Sir, I shall not be slack; in sign whereof, Please ye we may contrive this afternoon, And quaff carouses to our mistress’ health; And do as adversaries do in law, Strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends.

GRUMIO, BIONDELLO. O excellent motion! Fellows, let’s be gone.

HORTENSIO. The motion’s good indeed, and be it so:— Petruchio, I shall be your _ben venuto_.

[_Exeunt._]

## ACT II

## SCENE I. Padua. A room in Baptista’s house.

Enter Katherina and Bianca.

BIANCA. 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, 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.

KATHERINA. Of all thy suitors here I charge thee tell Whom thou lov’st best: see thou dissemble not.

BIANCA. Believe me, sister, of all the men alive I never yet beheld that special face Which I could fancy more than any other.

KATHERINA. Minion, thou liest. Is’t not Hortensio?

BIANCA. If you affect him, sister, here I swear I’ll plead for you myself but you shall have him.

KATHERINA. O! then, belike, you fancy riches more: You will have Gremio to keep you fair.

BIANCA. Is it for him you do envy me so? Nay, then you jest; and now I well perceive You have but jested with me all this while: I prithee, sister Kate, untie my hands.

KATHERINA. If that be jest, then all the rest was so.

[_Strikes her._]

Enter Baptista.

BAPTISTA. 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? When did she cross thee with a bitter word?

KATHERINA. Her silence flouts me, and I’ll be reveng’d.

[_Flies after Bianca._]

BAPTISTA. What! in my sight? Bianca, get thee in.

[_Exit Bianca._]

KATHERINA. What! will you not suffer me? Nay, now I see She is your treasure, she must have a husband; 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._]

BAPTISTA. Was ever gentleman thus griev’d as I? 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.

GREMIO. Good morrow, neighbour Baptista.

BAPTISTA. Good morrow, neighbour Gremio. God save you, gentlemen!

PETRUCHIO. And you, good sir! Pray, have you not a daughter Call’d Katherina, fair and virtuous?

BAPTISTA. I have a daughter, sir, call’d Katherina.

GREMIO. You are too blunt: go to it orderly.

PETRUCHIO. You wrong me, Signior Gremio: give me leave. I am a gentleman of Verona, sir, 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 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, Whereof I know she is not ignorant. Accept of him, or else you do me wrong: His name is Licio, born in Mantua.

BAPTISTA. Y’are welcome, sir, and he for your good sake; But for my daughter Katherine, this I know, She is not for your turn, the more my grief.

PETRUCHIO. I see you do not mean to part with her; Or else you like not of my company.

BAPTISTA. Mistake me not; I speak but as I find. Whence are you, sir? What may I call your name?

PETRUCHIO. Petruchio is my name, Antonio’s son; A man well known throughout all Italy.

BAPTISTA. I know him well: you are welcome for his sake.

GREMIO. Saving your tale, Petruchio, I pray, Let us, that are poor petitioners, speak too. Backare! you are marvellous forward.

PETRUCHIO. O, pardon me, Signior Gremio; I would fain be doing.

GREMIO. 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.

BAPTISTA. 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?

TRANIO. 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, In the preferment of the eldest sister. This liberty is all that I request, That, upon knowledge of my parentage, I may have welcome ’mongst the rest that woo, And free access and favour as the rest: And, toward the education of your daughters, I here bestow a simple instrument, And this small packet of Greek and Latin books: If you accept them, then their worth is great.

BAPTISTA. Lucentio is your name, of whence, I pray?

TRANIO. Of Pisa, sir; son to Vincentio.

BAPTISTA. 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. Holla, within!

Enter a Servant.

Sirrah, lead these gentlemen To my daughters, and tell them both These are their tutors: bid them use them well.

[_Exeunt Servant with Hortensio, Lucentio and Biondello._]

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.

PETRUCHIO. Signior Baptista, my business asketh haste, And every day I cannot come to woo. You knew my father well, and in him me, Left solely heir to all his lands and goods, Which I have bettered rather than decreas’d: Then tell me, if I get your daughter’s love, What dowry shall I have with her to wife?

BAPTISTA. After my death, the one half of my lands, And in possession twenty thousand crowns.

PETRUCHIO. And, for that dowry, I’ll assure her of Her widowhood, be it that she survive me, In all my lands and leases whatsoever. Let specialities be therefore drawn between us, That covenants may be kept on either hand.

BAPTISTA. Ay, when the special thing is well obtain’d, That is, her love; for that is all in all.

PETRUCHIO. Why, that is nothing; for I tell you, father, 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; So I to her, and so she yields to me; For I am rough and woo not like a babe.

BAPTISTA. Well mayst thou woo, and happy be thy speed! But be thou arm’d for some unhappy words.

PETRUCHIO. Ay, to the proof, as mountains are for winds, That shake not though they blow perpetually.

Re-enter Hortensio, with his head broke.

BAPTISTA. How now, my friend! Why dost thou look so pale?

HORTENSIO. For fear, I promise you, if I look pale.

BAPTISTA. What, will my daughter prove a good musician?

HORTENSIO. I think she’ll sooner prove a soldier: Iron may hold with her, but never lutes.

BAPTISTA. Why, then thou canst not break her to the lute?

HORTENSIO. Why, no; for she hath broke the lute to me. I did but tell her she mistook her frets, And bow’d her hand to teach her fingering; When, with a most impatient devilish 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; 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 had she studied to misuse me so.

PETRUCHIO. 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!

BAPTISTA. [_To Hortensio_.] Well, go with me, and be not so discomfited; Proceed in practice with my younger daughter; 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?

PETRUCHIO. I pray you do.

[_Exeunt Baptista, Gremio, Tranio and Hortensio._]

I will attend her here, And woo her with some spirit when she comes. 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; 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 When I shall ask the banns, and when be married. But here she comes; and now, Petruchio, speak.

Enter Katherina.

Good morrow, Kate; for that’s your name, I hear.

KATHERINA. Well have you heard, but something hard of hearing: They call me Katherine that do talk of me.

PETRUCHIO. 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, For dainties are all Kates, and therefore, Kate, Take this of me, Kate of my consolation; Hearing thy mildness prais’d in every town, Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded,— Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs,— Myself am mov’d to woo thee for my wife.

KATHERINA. 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.

PETRUCHIO. Why, what’s a moveable?

KATHERINA. A joint-stool.

PETRUCHIO. Thou hast hit it: come, sit on me.

KATHERINA. Asses are made to bear, and so are you.

PETRUCHIO. Women are made to bear, and so are you.

KATHERINA. No such jade as bear you, if me you mean.

PETRUCHIO. Alas! good Kate, I will not burden thee; For, knowing thee to be but young and light,—

KATHERINA. Too light for such a swain as you to catch; And yet as heavy as my weight should be.

PETRUCHIO. Should be! should buz!

KATHERINA. Well ta’en, and like a buzzard.

PETRUCHIO. O, slow-wing’d turtle! shall a buzzard take thee?

KATHERINA. Ay, for a turtle, as he takes a buzzard.

PETRUCHIO. Come, come, you wasp; i’ faith, you are too angry.

KATHERINA. If I be waspish, best beware my sting.

PETRUCHIO. My remedy is then to pluck it out.

KATHERINA. Ay, if the fool could find it where it lies.

PETRUCHIO. Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting? In his tail.

KATHERINA. In his tongue.

PETRUCHIO. Whose tongue?

KATHERINA. Yours, if you talk of tales; and so farewell.

PETRUCHIO. What! with my tongue in your tail? Nay, come again, Good Kate; I am a gentleman.

KATHERINA. That I’ll try.

[_Striking him._]

PETRUCHIO. I swear I’ll cuff you if you strike again.

KATHERINA. So may you lose your arms: If you strike me, you are no gentleman; And if no gentleman, why then no arms.

PETRUCHIO. A herald, Kate? O! put me in thy books.

KATHERINA. What is your crest? a coxcomb?

PETRUCHIO. A combless cock, so Kate will be my hen.

KATHERINA. No cock of mine; you crow too like a craven.

PETRUCHIO. Nay, come, Kate, come; you must not look so sour.

KATHERINA. It is my fashion when I see a crab.

PETRUCHIO. Why, here’s no crab, and therefore look not sour.

KATHERINA. There is, there is.

PETRUCHIO. Then show it me.

KATHERINA. Had I a glass I would.

PETRUCHIO. What, you mean my face?

KATHERINA. Well aim’d of such a young one.

PETRUCHIO. Now, by Saint George, I am too young for you.

KATHERINA. Yet you are wither’d.

PETRUCHIO. ’Tis with cares.

KATHERINA. I care not.

PETRUCHIO. Nay, hear you, Kate: in sooth, you ’scape not so.

KATHERINA. I chafe you, if I tarry; let me go.

PETRUCHIO. 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; 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; But thou with mildness entertain’st thy wooers; With gentle conference, soft and affable. Why does the world report that Kate doth limp? O sland’rous world! Kate like the hazel-twig Is straight and slender, and as brown in hue As hazel-nuts, and sweeter than the kernels. O! let me see thee walk: thou dost not halt.

KATHERINA. Go, fool, and whom thou keep’st command.

PETRUCHIO. Did ever Dian so become a grove As Kate this chamber with her princely gait? O! be thou Dian, and let her be Kate, And then let Kate be chaste, and Dian sportful!

KATHERINA. Where did you study all this goodly speech?

PETRUCHIO. It is extempore, from my mother-wit.

KATHERINA. A witty mother! witless else her son.

PETRUCHIO. Am I not wise?

KATHERINA. Yes; keep you warm.

PETRUCHIO. Marry, so I mean, sweet Katherine, in thy bed; And therefore, setting all this chat aside, Thus in plain terms: your father hath consented That you shall be my wife your dowry ’greed on; And will you, nill you, I will marry you. Now, Kate, I am a husband for your turn; For, by this light, whereby I see thy beauty,— Thy beauty that doth make me like thee well,— Thou must be married to no man but me; For I am he am born to tame you, Kate, And bring you from a wild Kate to a Kate Conformable as other household Kates.

Re-enter Baptista, Gremio and Tranio.

Here comes your father. Never make denial; I must and will have Katherine to my wife.

BAPTISTA. Now, Signior Petruchio, how speed you with my daughter?

PETRUCHIO. How but well, sir? how but well? It were impossible I should speed amiss.

BAPTISTA. Why, how now, daughter Katherine, in your dumps?

KATHERINA. 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, That thinks with oaths to face the matter out.

PETRUCHIO. 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; 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.

KATHERINA. I’ll see thee hang’d on Sunday first.

GREMIO. Hark, Petruchio; she says she’ll see thee hang’d first.

TRANIO. Is this your speeding? Nay, then good-night our part!

PETRUCHIO. Be patient, gentlemen. I choose her for myself; If she and I be pleas’d, what’s that to you? ’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 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. 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 Katherine shall be fine.

BAPTISTA. I know not what to say; but give me your hands. God send you joy, Petruchio! ’Tis a match.

GREMIO, TRANIO. Amen, say we; we will be witnesses.

PETRUCHIO. Father, and wife, and gentlemen, adieu. I will to Venice; Sunday comes apace; We will have rings and things, and fine array; And kiss me, Kate; we will be married o’ Sunday.

[_Exeunt Petruchio and Katherina, severally._]

GREMIO. Was ever match clapp’d up so suddenly?

BAPTISTA. Faith, gentlemen, now I play a merchant’s part, And venture madly on a desperate mart.

TRANIO. ’Twas a commodity lay fretting by you; ’Twill bring you gain, or perish on the seas.

BAPTISTA. The gain I seek is, quiet in the match.

GREMIO. No doubt but he hath got a quiet catch. But now, Baptista, to your younger daughter: Now is the day we long have looked for; I am your neighbour, and was suitor first.

TRANIO. And I am one that love Bianca more Than words can witness or your thoughts can guess.

GREMIO. Youngling, thou canst not love so dear as I.

TRANIO. Greybeard, thy love doth freeze.

GREMIO. But thine doth fry. Skipper, stand back; ’tis age that nourisheth.

TRANIO. But youth in ladies’ eyes that flourisheth.

BAPTISTA. Content you, gentlemen; I’ll compound this strife: ’Tis deeds must win the prize, and he of both That can assure my daughter greatest dower Shall have my Bianca’s love. Say, Signior Gremio, what can you assure her?

GREMIO. First, as you know, my house within the city Is richly furnished with plate and gold: Basins and ewers to lave her dainty hands; My hangings all of Tyrian tapestry; In ivory coffers I have stuff’d my crowns; In cypress chests my arras counterpoints, Costly apparel, tents, and canopies, Fine linen, Turkey cushions boss’d with pearl, Valance of Venice gold in needlework; 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, 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 tomorrow this is hers, If whilst I live she will be only mine.

TRANIO. 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’s walls as anyone Old Signior Gremio has in Padua; Besides two thousand ducats by the year Of fruitful land, all which shall be her jointure. What, have I pinch’d you, Signior Gremio?

GREMIO. Two thousand ducats by the year of land! 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?

TRANIO. Gremio, ’tis known my father hath no less 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.

GREMIO. Nay, I have offer’d all; I have no more; And she can have no more than all I have; If you like me, she shall have me and mine.

TRANIO. Why, then the maid is mine from all the world, By your firm promise; Gremio is out-vied.

BAPTISTA. I must confess your offer is the best; And let your father make her the assurance, She is your own; else, you must pardon me; If you should die before him, where’s her dower?

TRANIO. That’s but a cavil; he is old, I young.

GREMIO. And may not young men die as well as old?

BAPTISTA. Well, gentlemen, I am thus resolv’d. On Sunday next, you know, My daughter Katherine 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. And so I take my leave, and thank you both.

GREMIO. 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! An old Italian fox is not so kind, my boy.

[_Exit._]

TRANIO. 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 Must get a father, call’d suppos’d Vincentio; And that’s a wonder: fathers commonly Do get their children; but in this case of wooing A child shall get a sire, if I fail not of my cunning.

[_Exit._]

## ACT III

## SCENE I. Padua. A room in Baptista’s house.

Enter Lucentio, Hortensio and Bianca.

LUCENTIO. Fiddler, forbear; you grow too forward, sir. Have you so soon forgot the entertainment Her sister Katherine welcome’d you withal?

HORTENSIO. 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.

LUCENTIO. 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, And while I pause serve in your harmony.

HORTENSIO. Sirrah, I will not bear these braves of thine.

BIANCA. Why, gentlemen, you do me double wrong, To strive for that which resteth in my choice. I am no breeching scholar in the schools, 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.

HORTENSIO. You’ll leave his lecture when I am in tune?

[_Retires._]

LUCENTIO. That will be never: tune your instrument.

BIANCA. Where left we last?

LUCENTIO. Here, madam:— _Hic ibat Simois; hic est Sigeia tellus; Hic steterat Priami regia celsa senis._

BIANCA. Construe them.

LUCENTIO. _Hic 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.

HORTENSIO. [_Returning._] Madam, my instrument’s in tune.

BIANCA. Let’s hear.—

[Hortensio _plays._]

O fie! the treble jars.

LUCENTIO. Spit in the hole, man, and tune again.

BIANCA. Now let me see if I can construe it: _Hic 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.

HORTENSIO. Madam, ’tis now in tune.

LUCENTIO. All but the base.

HORTENSIO. The base is right; ’tis the base knave that jars. [_Aside_] How fiery and forward our pedant is! Now, for my life, the knave doth court my love: Pedascule, I’ll watch you better yet.

BIANCA. In time I may believe, yet I mistrust.

LUCENTIO. Mistrust it not; for sure, Æacides Was Ajax, call’d so from his grandfather.

BIANCA. 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. Good master, take it not unkindly, pray, That I have been thus pleasant with you both.

HORTENSIO. [_To Lucentio_] You may go walk and give me leave a while; My lessons make no music in three parts.

LUCENTIO. Are you so formal, sir? Well, I must wait, [_Aside_] And watch withal; for, but I be deceiv’d, Our fine musician groweth amorous.

HORTENSIO. Madam, before you touch the instrument, To learn the order of my fingering, I must begin with rudiments of art; To teach you gamut in a briefer sort, More pleasant, pithy, and effectual, Than hath been taught by any of my trade: And there it is in writing, fairly drawn.

BIANCA. Why, I am past my gamut long ago.

HORTENSIO. Yet read the gamut of Hortensio.

BIANCA. _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: _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.

Enter a Servant.

SERVANT. Mistress, your father prays you leave your books, And help to dress your sister’s chamber up: You know tomorrow is the wedding-day.

BIANCA. Farewell, sweet masters, both: I must be gone.

[_Exeunt Bianca and Servant._]

LUCENTIO. Faith, mistress, then I have no cause to stay.

[_Exit._]

HORTENSIO. 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 wand’ring eyes on every stale, Seize thee that list: if once I find thee ranging, Hortensio will be quit with thee by changing.

[_Exit._]

## SCENE II. The same. Before Baptista’s house.

Enter Baptista, Gremio, Tranio, Katherina, Bianca, Lucentio and Attendants.

BAPTISTA. [_To Tranio_.] Signior Lucentio, this is the ’pointed day That Katherine and Petruchio should be married, And yet we hear not of our son-in-law. 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?

KATHERINA. No shame but mine; I must, forsooth, be forc’d To give my hand, oppos’d against my heart, Unto a mad-brain rudesby, full of spleen; Who woo’d in haste and means to wed at leisure. I told you, I, he was a frantic fool, Hiding his bitter jests in blunt behaviour; 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 Katherine, And say ‘Lo! there is mad Petruchio’s wife, If it would please him come and marry her.’

TRANIO. Patience, good Katherine, and Baptista too. Upon my life, Petruchio means but well, Whatever fortune stays him from his word: Though he be blunt, I know him passing wise; Though he be merry, yet withal he’s honest.

KATHERINA. Would Katherine had never seen him though!

[_Exit weeping, followed by Bianca and others._]

BAPTISTA. Go, girl, I cannot blame thee now to weep, For such an injury would vex a very saint; Much more a shrew of thy impatient humour.

Enter Biondello.

Master, master! News! old news, and such news as you never heard of!

BAPTISTA. Is it new and old too? How may that be?

BIONDELLO. Why, is it not news to hear of Petruchio’s coming?

BAPTISTA. Is he come?

BIONDELLO. Why, no, sir.

BAPTISTA. What then?

BIONDELLO. He is coming.

BAPTISTA. When will he be here?

BIONDELLO. When he stands where I am and sees you there.

TRANIO. But say, what to thine old news?

BIONDELLO. 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 pack-thread.

BAPTISTA. Who comes with him?

BIONDELLO. 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 prick’d in’t for a feather: a monster, a very monster in apparel, and not like a Christian footboy or a gentleman’s lackey.

TRANIO. ’Tis some odd humour pricks him to this fashion; Yet oftentimes he goes but mean-apparell’d.

BAPTISTA. I am glad he’s come, howsoe’er he comes.

BIONDELLO. Why, sir, he comes not.

BAPTISTA. Didst thou not say he comes?

BIONDELLO. Who? that Petruchio came?

BAPTISTA. Ay, that Petruchio came.

BIONDELLO. No, sir; I say his horse comes, with him on his back.

BAPTISTA. Why, that’s all one.

BIONDELLO. Nay, by Saint Jamy, I hold you a penny, A horse and a man Is more than one, And yet not many.

Enter Petruchio and Grumio.

PETRUCHIO. Come, where be these gallants? Who is at home?

BAPTISTA. You are welcome, sir.

PETRUCHIO. And yet I come not well.

BAPTISTA. And yet you halt not.

TRANIO. Not so well apparell’d as I wish you were.

PETRUCHIO. 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, As if they saw some wondrous monument, Some comet or unusual prodigy?

BAPTISTA. Why, sir, you know this is your wedding-day: First were we sad, fearing you would not come; Now sadder, that you come so unprovided. Fie! doff this habit, shame to your estate, An eye-sore to our solemn festival.

TRANIO. And tell us what occasion of import Hath all so long detain’d you from your wife, And sent you hither so unlike yourself?

PETRUCHIO. Tedious it were to tell, and harsh to hear; Sufficeth I am come to keep my word, Though in some part enforced to digress; Which at more leisure I will so excuse As you shall well be satisfied withal. But where is Kate? I stay too long from her; The morning wears, ’tis time we were at church.

TRANIO. See not your bride in these unreverent robes; Go to my chamber, put on clothes of mine.

PETRUCHIO. Not I, believe me: thus I’ll visit her.

BAPTISTA. But thus, I trust, you will not marry her.

PETRUCHIO. 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, ’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._]

TRANIO. He hath some meaning in his mad attire. We will persuade him, be it possible, To put on better ere he go to church.

BAPTISTA. I’ll after him and see the event of this.

[_Exeunt Baptista, Gremio and Attendants._]

TRANIO. But, sir, to love concerneth us to add Her father’s liking; which to bring to pass, As I before imparted to your worship, I am to get a man,—whate’er he be It skills not much; we’ll fit him to our turn,— And he shall be Vincentio of Pisa, And make assurance here in Padua, Of greater sums than I have promised. So shall you quietly enjoy your hope, And marry sweet Bianca with consent.

LUCENTIO. Were it not that my fellow schoolmaster Doth watch Bianca’s steps so narrowly, ’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.

TRANIO. That by degrees we mean to look into, And watch our vantage in this business. 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.

Signior Gremio, came you from the church?

GREMIO. As willingly as e’er I came from school.

TRANIO. And is the bride and bridegroom coming home?

GREMIO. A bridegroom, say you? ’Tis a groom indeed, A grumbling groom, and that the girl shall find.

TRANIO. Curster than she? Why, ’tis impossible.

GREMIO. Why, he’s a devil, a devil, a very fiend.

TRANIO. Why, she’s a devil, a devil, the devil’s dam.

GREMIO. Tut! she’s a lamb, a dove, a fool, to him. I’ll tell you, Sir Lucentio: when the priest Should ask if Katherine 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 That down fell priest and book, and book and priest: ‘Now take them up,’ quoth he ‘if any list.’

TRANIO. What said the wench, when he rose again?

GREMIO. Trembled and shook, for why, he stamp’d and swore As if the vicar meant to cozen him. But after many ceremonies done, He calls for wine: ‘A health!’ quoth he, as if He had been abroad, carousing to his mates After a storm; quaff’d off the muscadel, And threw the sops all in the sexton’s face, 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 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 plays._]

Enter Petruchio, Katherina, Bianca, Baptista, Hortensio, Grumio and Train.

PETRUCHIO. Gentlemen and friends, I thank you for your pains: I know you think to dine with me today, And have prepar’d great store of wedding cheer But so it is, my haste doth call me hence, And therefore here I mean to take my leave.

BAPTISTA. Is’t possible you will away tonight?

PETRUCHIO. I must away today before night come. Make it no wonder: if you knew my business, You would entreat me rather go than stay. And, honest company, I thank you all, That have beheld me give away myself To this most patient, sweet, and virtuous wife. Dine with my father, drink a health to me. For I must hence; and farewell to you all.

TRANIO. Let us entreat you stay till after dinner.

PETRUCHIO. It may not be.

GREMIO. Let me entreat you.

PETRUCHIO. It cannot be.

KATHERINA. Let me entreat you.

PETRUCHIO. I am content.

KATHERINA. Are you content to stay?

PETRUCHIO. I am content you shall entreat me stay; But yet not stay, entreat me how you can.

KATHERINA. Now, if you love me, stay.

PETRUCHIO. Grumio, my horse!

GRUMIO. Ay, sir, they be ready; the oats have eaten the horses.

KATHERINA. Nay, then, Do what thou canst, I will not go today; No, nor tomorrow, not till I please myself. The door is open, sir; there lies your way; You may be jogging whiles your boots are green; For me, I’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.

PETRUCHIO. O Kate! content thee: prithee be not angry.

KATHERINA. I will be angry: what hast thou to do? Father, be quiet; he shall stay my leisure.

GREMIO. Ay, marry, sir, now it begins to work.

KATHERINA. Gentlemen, forward to the bridal dinner: I see a woman may be made a fool, If she had not a spirit to resist.

PETRUCHIO. They shall go forward, Kate, at thy command. Obey the bride, you that attend on her; Go to the feast, revel and domineer, Carouse full measure to her maidenhead, Be mad and merry, or go hang yourselves: But for my bonny Kate, she must with me. Nay, look not big, nor stamp, nor stare, nor fret; I will be master of what is mine own. She is my goods, my chattels; she is my house, My household stuff, my field, my barn, My horse, my ox, my ass, my anything; And here she stands, touch her whoever dare; I’ll bring mine action on the proudest he That stops my way in Padua. Grumio, Draw forth thy weapon; we are beset with thieves; Rescue thy mistress, if thou be a man. Fear not, sweet wench; they shall not touch thee, Kate; I’ll buckler thee against a million.

[_Exeunt Petruchio, Katherina and Grumio._]

BAPTISTA. Nay, let them go, a couple of quiet ones.

GREMIO. Went they not quickly, I should die with laughing.

TRANIO. Of all mad matches, never was the like.

LUCENTIO. Mistress, what’s your opinion of your sister?

BIANCA. That, being mad herself, she’s madly mated.

GREMIO. I warrant him, Petruchio is Kated.

BAPTISTA. 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; And let Bianca take her sister’s room.

TRANIO. Shall sweet Bianca practise how to bride it?

BAPTISTA. She shall, Lucentio. Come, gentlemen, let’s go.

[_Exeunt._]

## ACT IV

## SCENE I. A hall in Petruchio’s country house.

Enter Grumio.

GRUMIO. Fie, fie on all tired jades, on all mad masters, and all foul ways! Was ever man so beaten? Was ever man so ray’d? Was ever man so weary? I am sent before to make a 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.

CURTIS. Who is that calls so coldly?

GRUMIO. 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.

CURTIS. Is my master and his wife coming, Grumio?

GRUMIO. O, ay! Curtis, ay; and therefore fire, fire; cast on no water.

CURTIS. Is she so hot a shrew as she’s reported?

GRUMIO. 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.

CURTIS. Away, you three-inch fool! I am no beast.

GRUMIO. 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?

CURTIS. I prithee, good Grumio, tell me, how goes the world?

GRUMIO. 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.

CURTIS. There’s fire ready; and therefore, good Grumio, the news.

GRUMIO. Why, ‘Jack boy! ho, boy!’ and as much news as wilt thou.

CURTIS. Come, you are so full of cony-catching.

GRUMIO. Why, therefore, fire; for I have caught extreme cold. Where’s the cook? Is supper ready, the house trimmed, rushes strewed, cobwebs swept, the servingmen 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?

CURTIS. All ready; and therefore, I pray thee, news.

GRUMIO. First, know my horse is tired; my master and mistress fallen out.

CURTIS. How?

GRUMIO. Out of their saddles into the dirt; and thereby hangs a tale.

CURTIS. Let’s ha’t, good Grumio.

GRUMIO. Lend thine ear.

CURTIS. Here.

GRUMIO. [_Striking him._] There.

CURTIS. This ’tis to feel a tale, not to hear a tale.

GRUMIO. And therefore ’tis 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,—

CURTIS. Both of one horse?

GRUMIO. What’s that to thee?

CURTIS. Why, a horse.

GRUMIO. 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.

CURTIS. By this reckoning he is more shrew than she.

GRUMIO. 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 brush’d 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 horse-tail till they kiss their hands. Are they all ready?

CURTIS. They are.

GRUMIO. Call them forth.

CURTIS. Do you hear? ho! You must meet my master to countenance my mistress.

GRUMIO. Why, she hath a face of her own.

CURTIS. Who knows not that?

GRUMIO. Thou, it seems, that calls for company to countenance her.

CURTIS. I call them forth to credit her.

GRUMIO. Why, she comes to borrow nothing of them.

Enter four or five Servants.

NATHANIEL. Welcome home, Grumio!

PHILIP. How now, Grumio!

JOSEPH. What, Grumio!

NICHOLAS. Fellow Grumio!

NATHANIEL. How now, old lad!

GRUMIO. 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?

NATHANIEL. All things is ready. How near is our master?

GRUMIO. E’en at hand, alighted by this; and therefore be not,— Cock’s passion, silence! I hear my master.

Enter Petruchio and Katherina.

PETRUCHIO. Where be these knaves? What! no man at door To hold my stirrup nor to take my horse? Where is Nathaniel, Gregory, Philip?—

ALL SERVANTS. Here, here, sir; here, sir.

PETRUCHIO. 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?

GRUMIO. Here, sir; as foolish as I was before.

PETRUCHIO. You peasant swain! you whoreson malt-horse drudge! Did I not bid thee meet me in the park, And bring along these rascal knaves with thee?

GRUMIO. Nathaniel’s coat, sir, was not fully made, And Gabriel’s pumps were all unpink’d i’ the heel; There was no link to colour Peter’s hat, And Walter’s dagger was not come from sheathing; There was none fine but Adam, Ralph, and Gregory; The rest were ragged, old, and beggarly; Yet, as they are, here are they come to meet you.

PETRUCHIO. 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. Food, food, food, food!

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: 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._]

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?

KATHERINA. Patience, I pray you; ’twas a fault unwilling.

PETRUCHIO. 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 SERVANT. Ay.

PETRUCHIO. Who brought it?

PETER. I.

PETRUCHIO. ’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, And serve it thus to me that love it not?

[_Throws the meat, etc., 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.

KATHERINA. I pray you, husband, be not so disquiet; The meat was well, if you were so contented.

PETRUCHIO. 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, Since, of ourselves, ourselves are choleric, Than feed it with such over-roasted flesh. Be patient; tomorrow ’t shall be mended. And for this night we’ll fast for company: Come, I will bring thee to thy bridal chamber.

[_Exeunt Petruchio, Katherina and Curtis._]

NATHANIEL. Peter, didst ever see the like?

PETER. He kills her in her own humour.

Re-enter Curtis.

GRUMIO. Where is he?

CURTIS. In her chamber, making a sermon of continency to her; And rails, and swears, and rates, that she, poor soul, Knows not which way to stand, to look, to speak, And sits as one new risen from a dream. Away, away! for he is coming hither.

[_Exeunt._]

Re-enter Petruchio.

PETRUCHIO. 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. 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 today, nor none shall eat; Last night she slept not, nor tonight 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; 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. 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._]

## SCENE II. Padua. Before Baptista’s house.

Enter Tranio and Hortensio.

TRANIO. Is ’t possible, friend Licio, that Mistress Bianca Doth fancy any other but Lucentio? I tell you, sir, she bears me fair in hand.

HORTENSIO. 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.

LUCENTIO. Now, mistress, profit you in what you read?

BIANCA. What, master, read you? First resolve me that.

LUCENTIO. I read that I profess, _The Art to Love_.

BIANCA. And may you prove, sir, master of your art!

LUCENTIO. While you, sweet dear, prove mistress of my heart.

[_They retire._]

HORTENSIO. Quick proceeders, marry! Now tell me, I pray, You that durst swear that your Mistress Bianca Lov’d none in the world so well as Lucentio.

TRANIO. O despiteful love! unconstant womankind! I tell thee, Licio, this is wonderful.

HORTENSIO. Mistake no more; I am not Licio. Nor a musician as I seem to be; But one that scorn 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.

TRANIO. Signior Hortensio, I have often heard 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.

HORTENSIO. See, how they kiss and court! Signior Lucentio, Here is my hand, and here I firmly vow Never to woo her more, but do forswear her, As one unworthy all the former favours That I have fondly flatter’d her withal.

TRANIO. And here I take the like unfeigned oath, Never to marry with her though she would entreat; Fie on her! See how beastly she doth court him!

HORTENSIO. Would all the world but he had quite forsworn! For me, that I may surely keep mine oath, I will be married to a wealthy widow Ere three days pass, which hath as long lov’d me As I have 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, In resolution as I swore before.

[_Exit Hortensio. Lucentio and Bianca advance._]

TRANIO. 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.

BIANCA. Tranio, you jest; but have you both forsworn me?

TRANIO. Mistress, we have.

LUCENTIO. Then we are rid of Licio.

TRANIO. I’ faith, he’ll have a lusty widow now, That shall be woo’d and wedded in a day.

BIANCA. God give him joy!

TRANIO. Ay, and he’ll tame her.

BIANCA. He says so, Tranio.

TRANIO. Faith, he is gone unto the taming-school.

BIANCA. The taming-school! What, is there such a place?

TRANIO. 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.

BIONDELLO. O master, master! I have watch’d so long That I am dog-weary; but at last I spied An ancient angel coming down the hill Will serve the turn.

TRANIO. What is he, Biondello?

BIONDELLO. Master, a mercatante or a pedant, I know not what; but formal in apparel, In gait and countenance surely like a father.

LUCENTIO. And what of him, Tranio?

TRANIO. If he be credulous and trust my tale, I’ll make him glad to seem Vincentio, And give assurance to Baptista Minola, As if he were the right Vincentio. Take in your love, and then let me alone.

[_Exeunt Lucentio and Bianca._]

Enter a Pedant.

PEDANT. God save you, sir!

TRANIO. And you, sir! you are welcome. Travel you far on, or are you at the farthest?

PEDANT. Sir, at the farthest for a week or two; But then up farther, and as far as Rome; And so to Tripoli, if God lend me life.

TRANIO. What countryman, I pray?

PEDANT. Of Mantua.

TRANIO. Of Mantua, sir? Marry, God forbid, And come to Padua, careless of your life!

PEDANT. My life, sir! How, I pray? for that goes hard.

TRANIO. ’Tis death for anyone 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. ’Tis marvel, but that you are but newly come You might have heard it else proclaim’d about.

PEDANT. Alas, sir! it is worse for me than so; For I have bills for money by exchange From Florence, and must here deliver them.

TRANIO. 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?

PEDANT. Ay, sir, in Pisa have I often been, Pisa renowned for grave citizens.

TRANIO. Among them know you one Vincentio?

PEDANT. I know him not, but I have heard of him, A merchant of incomparable wealth.

TRANIO. He is my father, sir; and, sooth to say, In countenance somewhat doth resemble you.

BIONDELLO. [_Aside._] As much as an apple doth an oyster, and all one.

TRANIO. 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. 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. If this be courtesy, sir, accept of it.

PEDANT. O, sir, I do; and will repute you ever The patron of my life and liberty.

TRANIO. Then go with me to make the matter good. This, by the way, I let you understand: 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._]

## SCENE III. A room in Petruchio’s house.

Enter Katherina and Grumio.

GRUMIO. No, no, forsooth; I dare not for my life.

KATHERINA. The more my wrong, the more his spite appears. What, did he marry me to famish me? 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, 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 ’Twere deadly sickness, or else present death. I prithee go and get me some repast; I care not what, so it be wholesome food.

GRUMIO. What say you to a neat’s foot?

KATHERINA. ’Tis passing good; I prithee let me have it.

GRUMIO. I fear it is too choleric a meat. How say you to a fat tripe finely broil’d?

KATHERINA. I like it well; good Grumio, fetch it me.

GRUMIO. I cannot tell; I fear ’tis choleric. What say you to a piece of beef and mustard?

KATHERINA. A dish that I do love to feed upon.

GRUMIO. Ay, but the mustard is too hot a little.

KATHERINA. Why then the beef, and let the mustard rest.

GRUMIO. Nay, then I will not: you shall have the mustard, Or else you get no beef of Grumio.

KATHERINA. Then both, or one, or anything thou wilt.

GRUMIO. Why then the mustard without the beef.

KATHERINA. 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 That triumph thus upon my misery! Go, get thee gone, I say.

Enter Petruchio with a dish of meat; and Hortensio.

PETRUCHIO. How fares my Kate? What, sweeting, all amort?

HORTENSIO. Mistress, what cheer?

KATHERINA. Faith, as cold as can be.

PETRUCHIO. 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. 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.

KATHERINA. I pray you, let it stand.

PETRUCHIO. The poorest service is repaid with thanks; And so shall mine, before you touch the meat.

KATHERINA. I thank you, sir.

HORTENSIO. Signior Petruchio, fie! you are to blame. Come, Mistress Kate, I’ll bear you company.

PETRUCHIO. [_Aside._] Eat it up all, Hortensio, if thou lovest me. Much good do it unto thy gentle heart! Kate, eat apace: and now, my honey love, Will we return unto thy father’s house And revel it as bravely as the best, With silken coats and caps, and golden rings, With 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.

Enter Tailor.

Come, tailor, let us see these ornaments; Lay forth the gown.—

Enter Haberdasher.

What news with you, sir?

HABERDASHER. Here is the cap your worship did bespeak.

PETRUCHIO. 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: Away with it! come, let me have a bigger.

KATHERINA. I’ll have no bigger; this doth fit the time, And gentlewomen wear such caps as these.

PETRUCHIO. When you are gentle, you shall have one too, And not till then.

HORTENSIO. [_Aside_] That will not be in haste.

KATHERINA. 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. 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.

PETRUCHIO. Why, thou say’st true; it is a paltry cap, A custard-coffin, a bauble, a silken pie; I love thee well in that thou lik’st it not.

KATHERINA. Love me or love me not, I like the cap; And it I will have, or I will have none.

[_Exit Haberdasher._]

PETRUCHIO. Thy gown? Why, ay: come, tailor, let us see’t. 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. Why, what i’ devil’s name, tailor, call’st thou this?

HORTENSIO. [_Aside_] I see she’s like to have neither cap nor gown.

TAILOR. You bid me make it orderly and well, According to the fashion and the time.

PETRUCHIO. Marry, and did; but if you be remember’d, 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.

KATHERINA. I never saw a better fashion’d gown, More quaint, more pleasing, nor more commendable; Belike you mean to make a puppet of me.

PETRUCHIO. Why, true; he means to make a puppet of thee.

TAILOR. She says your worship means to make a puppet of her.

PETRUCHIO. O monstrous arrogance! Thou liest, thou thread, Thou thimble, Thou yard, three-quarters, half-yard, quarter, nail! Thou flea, thou nit, thou winter-cricket thou! Brav’d in mine own house with a skein of thread! Away! thou rag, thou quantity, thou remnant, 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.

TAILOR. Your worship is deceiv’d: the gown is made Just as my master had direction. Grumio gave order how it should be done.

GRUMIO. I gave him no order; I gave him the stuff.

TAILOR. But how did you desire it should be made?

GRUMIO. Marry, sir, with needle and thread.

TAILOR. But did you not request to have it cut?

GRUMIO. Thou hast faced many things.

TAILOR. I have.

GRUMIO. Face not me. Thou hast braved many men; brave not me: I will neither be fac’d nor brav’d. I say unto thee, I bid thy master cut out the gown; but I did not bid him cut it to pieces: ergo, thou liest.

TAILOR. Why, here is the note of the fashion to testify.

PETRUCHIO. Read it.

GRUMIO. The note lies in ’s throat, if he say I said so.

TAILOR. ’Imprimis, a loose-bodied gown.’

GRUMIO. 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.

PETRUCHIO. Proceed.

TAILOR. ‘With a small compassed cape.’

GRUMIO. I confess the cape.

TAILOR. ‘With a trunk sleeve.’

GRUMIO. I confess two sleeves.

TAILOR. ‘The sleeves curiously cut.’

PETRUCHIO. Ay, there’s the villainy.

GRUMIO. Error i’ the bill, sir; error i’ the bill. I commanded the sleeves should be cut out, and sew’d up again; and that I’ll prove upon thee, though thy little finger be armed in a thimble.

TAILOR. This is true that I say; and I had thee in place where thou shouldst know it.

GRUMIO. I am for thee straight; take thou the bill, give me thy mete-yard, and spare not me.

HORTENSIO. God-a-mercy, Grumio! Then he shall have no odds.

PETRUCHIO. Well, sir, in brief, the gown is not for me.

GRUMIO. You are i’ the right, sir; ’tis for my mistress.

PETRUCHIO. Go, take it up unto thy master’s use.

GRUMIO. Villain, not for thy life! Take up my mistress’ gown for thy master’s use!

PETRUCHIO. Why, sir, what’s your conceit in that?

GRUMIO. O, sir, the conceit is deeper than you think for. Take up my mistress’ gown to his master’s use! O fie, fie, fie!

PETRUCHIO. [_Aside_] Hortensio, say thou wilt see the tailor paid. [_To Tailor._] Go take it hence; be gone, and say no more.

HORTENSIO. [_Aside to Tailor._] Tailor, I’ll pay thee for thy gown tomorrow; Take no unkindness of his hasty words. Away, I say! commend me to thy master.

[_Exit Tailor._]

PETRUCHIO. Well, come, my Kate; we will unto your father’s Even in these honest mean habiliments. Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor 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? 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; 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. Let’s see; I think ’tis now some seven o’clock, And well we may come there by dinner-time.

KATHERINA. I dare assure you, sir, ’tis almost two, And ’twill be supper-time ere you come there.

PETRUCHIO. It shall be seven ere I go to horse. Look what I speak, or do, or think to do, You are still crossing it. Sirs, let ’t alone: I will not go today; and ere I do, It shall be what o’clock I say it is.

HORTENSIO. Why, so this gallant will command the sun.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE IV. Padua. Before Baptista’s house.

Enter Tranio and the Pedant dressed like Vincentio

TRANIO. Sir, this is the house; please it you that I call?

PEDANT. Ay, what else? and, but I be deceived, Signior Baptista may remember me, Near twenty years ago in Genoa, Where we were lodgers at the Pegasus.

TRANIO. ’Tis well; and hold your own, in any case, With such austerity as ’longeth to a father.

PEDANT. I warrant you. But, sir, here comes your boy; ’Twere good he were school’d.

Enter Biondello.

TRANIO. Fear you not him. Sirrah Biondello, Now do your duty throughly, I advise you. Imagine ’twere the right Vincentio.

BIONDELLO. Tut! fear not me.

TRANIO. But hast thou done thy errand to Baptista?

BIONDELLO. I told him that your father was at Venice, And that you look’d for him this day in Padua.

TRANIO. Th’art a tall fellow; hold thee that to drink. 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; Give me Bianca for my patrimony.

PEDANT. Soft, son! Sir, by your leave: having come to Padua To gather in some debts, my son Lucentio Made me acquainted with a weighty cause Of love between your daughter and 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, 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, Signior Baptista, of whom I hear so well.

BAPTISTA. 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, 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: Your son shall have my daughter with consent.

TRANIO. 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?

BAPTISTA. Not in my house, Lucentio, for you know Pitchers have ears, and I have many servants; Besides, old Gremio is hearkening still, And happily we might be interrupted.

TRANIO. Then at my lodging, and it like you: There doth my father lie; and there this night 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 are like to have a thin and slender pittance.

BAPTISTA. 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.

LUCENTIO. I pray the gods she may, with all my heart!

TRANIO. 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.

BAPTISTA. I follow you.

[_Exeunt Tranio, Pedant and Baptista._]

BIONDELLO. Cambio!

LUCENTIO. What say’st thou, Biondello?

BIONDELLO. You saw my master wink and laugh upon you?

LUCENTIO. Biondello, what of that?

BIONDELLO. Faith, nothing; but has left me here behind to expound the meaning or moral of his signs and tokens.

LUCENTIO. I pray thee moralize them.

BIONDELLO. Then thus: Baptista is safe, talking with the deceiving father of a deceitful son.

LUCENTIO. And what of him?

BIONDELLO. His daughter is to be brought by you to the supper.

LUCENTIO. And then?

BIONDELLO. The old priest at Saint Luke’s church is at your command at all hours.

LUCENTIO. And what of all this?

BIONDELLO. I cannot tell, except they are busied about a counterfeit assurance. Take your 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 more to say, But bid Bianca farewell for ever and a day.

[_Going._]

LUCENTIO. Hear’st thou, Biondello?

BIONDELLO. 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._]

LUCENTIO. I may, and will, if she be so contented. She will be pleas’d; then wherefore should I doubt? Hap what hap may, I’ll roundly go about her; It shall go hard if Cambio go without her:

[_Exit._]

## SCENE V. A public road.

Enter Petruchio, Katherina, Hortensio and Servants.

PETRUCHIO. Come on, i’ God’s name; once more toward our father’s. Good Lord, how bright and goodly shines the moon!

KATHERINA. The moon! The sun; it is not moonlight now.

PETRUCHIO. I say it is the moon that shines so bright.

KATHERINA. I know it is the sun that shines so bright.

PETRUCHIO. 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. Go on and fetch our horses back again. Evermore cross’d and cross’d; nothing but cross’d!

HORTENSIO. Say as he says, or we shall never go.

KATHERINA. Forward, I pray, since we have come so far, And be it moon, or sun, or what you please; And if you please to call it a rush-candle, Henceforth I vow it shall be so for me.

PETRUCHIO. I say it is the moon.

KATHERINA. I know it is the moon.

PETRUCHIO. Nay, then you lie; it is the blessed sun.

KATHERINA. 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 Katherine.

HORTENSIO. Petruchio, go thy ways; the field is won.

PETRUCHIO. Well, forward, forward! thus the bowl should run, And not unluckily against the bias. But, soft! Company is coming here.

Enter Vincentio, in a travelling dress.

[_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 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.

HORTENSIO. A will make the man mad, to make a woman of him.

KATHERINA. Young budding virgin, fair and fresh and sweet, Whither away, or where is thy abode? Happy the parents of so fair a child; Happier the man whom favourable stars Allot thee for his lovely bedfellow.

PETRUCHIO. Why, how now, Kate! I hope thou art not mad: This is a man, old, wrinkled, faded, wither’d, And not a maiden, as thou sayst he is.

KATHERINA. Pardon, old father, my mistaking eyes, That have been so bedazzled with the sun That everything I look on seemeth green: Now I perceive thou art a reverend father; Pardon, I pray thee, for my mad mistaking.

PETRUCHIO. Do, good old grandsire, and withal make known Which way thou travellest: if along with us, We shall be joyful of thy company.

VINCENTIO. 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.

PETRUCHIO. What is his name?

VINCENTIO. Lucentio, gentle sir.

PETRUCHIO. Happily met; the happier for thy son. And now by law, as well as reverend age, I may entitle thee my loving father: The sister to my wife, this gentlewoman, Thy son by this hath married. Wonder not, Nor be not griev’d: she is of good esteem, Her dowry wealthy, and of worthy birth; Beside, so qualified as may beseem The spouse of any noble gentleman. Let me embrace with old Vincentio; And wander we to see thy honest son, Who will of thy arrival be full joyous.

VINCENTIO. But is this true? or is it else your pleasure, Like pleasant travellers, to break a jest Upon the company you overtake?

HORTENSIO. I do assure thee, father, so it is.

PETRUCHIO. Come, go along, and see the truth hereof; For our first merriment hath made thee jealous.

[_Exeunt all but Hortensio._]

HORTENSIO. 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 other side.

BIONDELLO. Softly and swiftly, sir, for the priest is ready.

LUCENTIO. I fly, Biondello; but they may chance to need thee at home, therefore leave us.

BIONDELLO. Nay, faith, I’ll see the church o’ your back; and then come back to my master’s as soon as I can.

[_Exeunt Lucentio, Bianca and Biondello._]

GREMIO. I marvel Cambio comes not all this while.

Enter Petruchio, Katherina, Vincentio and Attendants.

PETRUCHIO. 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.

VINCENTIO. 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._]

GREMIO. They’re busy within; you were best knock louder.

Enter Pedant above, at a window.

PEDANT. What’s he that knocks as he would beat down the gate?

VINCENTIO. Is Signior Lucentio within, sir?

PEDANT. He’s within, sir, but not to be spoken withal.

VINCENTIO. What if a man bring him a hundred pound or two to make merry withal?

PEDANT. Keep your hundred pounds to yourself: he shall need none so long as I live.

PETRUCHIO. 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.

PEDANT. Thou liest: his father is come from Padua, and here looking out at the window.

VINCENTIO. Art thou his father?

PEDANT. Ay, sir; so his mother says, if I may believe her.

PETRUCHIO. [_To Vincentio_] Why, how now, gentleman! why, this is flat knavery to take upon you another man’s name.

PEDANT. Lay hands on the villain: I believe a means to cozen somebody in this city under my countenance.

Re-enter Biondello.

BIONDELLO. 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.

VINCENTIO. [_Seeing Biondello._] Come hither, crack-hemp.

BIONDELLO. I hope I may choose, sir.

VINCENTIO. Come hither, you rogue. What, have you forgot me?

BIONDELLO. Forgot you! No, sir: I could not forget you, for I never saw you before in all my life.

VINCENTIO. What, you notorious villain! didst thou never see thy master’s father, Vincentio?

BIONDELLO. What, my old worshipful old master? Yes, marry, sir; see where he looks out of the window.

VINCENTIO. Is’t so, indeed?

[_He beats Biondello._]

BIONDELLO. Help, help, help! here’s a madman will murder me.

[_Exit._]

PEDANT. Help, son! help, Signior Baptista!

[_Exit from the window._]

PETRUCHIO. Prithee, Kate, let’s stand aside and see the end of this controversy.

[_They retire._]

Re-enter Pedant, below; Baptista, Tranio and Servants.

TRANIO. Sir, what are you that offer to beat my servant?

VINCENTIO. 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.

TRANIO. How now! what’s the matter?

BAPTISTA. What, is the man lunatic?

TRANIO. Sir, you seem a sober ancient gentleman by your habit, but your words show you a madman. Why, sir, what ’cerns it you if I wear pearl and gold? I thank my good father, I am able to maintain it.

VINCENTIO. Thy father! O villain! he is a sailmaker in Bergamo.

BAPTISTA. You mistake, sir; you mistake, sir. Pray, what do you think is his name?

VINCENTIO. 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.

PEDANT. Away, away, mad ass! His name is Lucentio; and he is mine only son, and heir to the lands of me, Signior Vincentio.

VINCENTIO. 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?

TRANIO. Call forth an officer.

Enter one with an Officer.

Carry this mad knave to the gaol. Father Baptista, I charge you see that he be forthcoming.

VINCENTIO. Carry me to the gaol!

GREMIO. Stay, officer; he shall not go to prison.

BAPTISTA. Talk not, Signior Gremio; I say he shall go to prison.

GREMIO. Take heed, Signior Baptista, lest you be cony-catched in this business; I dare swear this is the right Vincentio.

PEDANT. Swear if thou darest.

GREMIO. Nay, I dare not swear it.

TRANIO. Then thou wert best say that I am not Lucentio.

GREMIO. Yes, I know thee to be Signior Lucentio.

BAPTISTA. Away with the dotard! to the gaol with him!

VINCENTIO. Thus strangers may be haled and abus’d: O monstrous villain!

Re-enter Biondello, with Lucentio and Bianca.

BIONDELLO. O! we are spoiled; and yonder he is: deny him, forswear him, or else we are all undone.

LUCENTIO. [_Kneeling._] Pardon, sweet father.

VINCENTIO. Lives my sweetest son?

[_Biondello, Tranio and Pedant run out._]

BIANCA. [_Kneeling._] Pardon, dear father.

BAPTISTA. How hast thou offended? Where is Lucentio?

LUCENTIO. Here’s Lucentio, Right son to the right Vincentio; That have by marriage made thy daughter mine, While counterfeit supposes blear’d thine eyne.

GREMIO. Here ’s packing, with a witness, to deceive us all!

VINCENTIO. Where is that damned villain, Tranio, That fac’d and brav’d me in this matter so?

BAPTISTA. Why, tell me, is not this my Cambio?

BIANCA. Cambio is chang’d into Lucentio.

LUCENTIO. Love wrought these miracles. Bianca’s love Made me exchange my state with Tranio, While he did bear my countenance in the town; And happily I have arriv’d at the last Unto the wished haven of my bliss. What Tranio did, myself enforc’d him to; Then pardon him, sweet father, for my sake.

VINCENTIO. I’ll slit the villain’s nose that would have sent me to the gaol.

BAPTISTA. [_To Lucentio._] But do you hear, sir? Have you married my daughter without asking my good will?

VINCENTIO. Fear not, Baptista; we will content you, go to: but I will in, to be revenged for this villainy.

[_Exit._]

BAPTISTA. And I to sound the depth of this knavery.

[_Exit._]

LUCENTIO. Look not pale, Bianca; thy father will not frown.

[_Exeunt Lucentio and Bianca._]

GREMIO. 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 Katherina advance.

KATHERINA. Husband, let’s follow to see the end of this ado.

PETRUCHIO. First kiss me, Kate, and we will.

KATHERINA. What! in the midst of the street?

PETRUCHIO. What! art thou ashamed of me?

KATHERINA. No, sir; God forbid; but ashamed to kiss.

PETRUCHIO. Why, then, let’s home again. Come, sirrah, let’s away.

KATHERINA. Nay, I will give thee a kiss: now pray thee, love, stay.

PETRUCHIO. Is not this well? Come, my sweet Kate: Better once than never, for never too late.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE II. A room in Lucentio’s house.

Enter Baptista, Vincentio, Gremio, the Pedant, Lucentio, Bianca, Petruchio, Katherina, Hortensio and Widow. Tranio, Biondello and Grumio and Others, attending.

LUCENTIO. At last, though long, our jarring notes agree: And time it is when raging war is done, To smile at ’scapes and perils overblown. My fair Bianca, bid my father welcome, While I with self-same kindness welcome thine. Brother Petruchio, sister Katherina, And thou, Hortensio, with thy loving widow, Feast with the best, and welcome to my house: My banquet is to close our stomachs up, After our great good cheer. Pray you, sit down; For now we sit to chat as well as eat.

[_They sit at table._]

PETRUCHIO. Nothing but sit and sit, and eat and eat!

BAPTISTA. Padua affords this kindness, son Petruchio.

PETRUCHIO. Padua affords nothing but what is kind.

HORTENSIO. For both our sakes I would that word were true.

PETRUCHIO. Now, for my life, Hortensio fears his widow.

WIDOW. Then never trust me if I be afeard.

PETRUCHIO. You are very sensible, and yet you miss my sense: I mean Hortensio is afeard of you.

WIDOW. He that is giddy thinks the world turns round.

PETRUCHIO. Roundly replied.

KATHERINA. Mistress, how mean you that?

WIDOW. Thus I conceive by him.

PETRUCHIO. Conceives by me! How likes Hortensio that?

HORTENSIO. My widow says thus she conceives her tale.

PETRUCHIO. Very well mended. Kiss him for that, good widow.

KATHERINA. ’He that is giddy thinks the world turns round’: I pray you tell me what you meant by that.

WIDOW. Your husband, being troubled with a shrew, Measures my husband’s sorrow by his woe; And now you know my meaning.

KATHERINA. A very mean meaning.

WIDOW. Right, I mean you.

KATHERINA. And I am mean, indeed, respecting you.

PETRUCHIO. To her, Kate!

HORTENSIO. To her, widow!

PETRUCHIO. A hundred marks, my Kate does put her down.

HORTENSIO. That’s my office.

PETRUCHIO. Spoke like an officer: ha’ to thee, lad.

[_Drinks to Hortensio._]

BAPTISTA. How likes Gremio these quick-witted folks?

GREMIO. Believe me, sir, they butt together well.

BIANCA. Head and butt! An hasty-witted body Would say your head and butt were head and horn.

VINCENTIO. Ay, mistress bride, hath that awaken’d you?

BIANCA. Ay, but not frighted me; therefore I’ll sleep again.

PETRUCHIO. Nay, that you shall not; since you have begun, Have at you for a bitter jest or two.

BIANCA. Am I your bird? I mean to shift my bush, And then pursue me as you draw your bow. You are welcome all.

[_Exeunt Bianca, Katherina and Widow._]

PETRUCHIO. 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.

TRANIO. O, sir! Lucentio slipp’d me like his greyhound, Which runs himself, and catches for his master.

PETRUCHIO. A good swift simile, but something currish.

TRANIO. ’Tis well, sir, that you hunted for yourself: ’Tis thought your deer does hold you at a bay.

BAPTISTA. O ho, Petruchio! Tranio hits you now.

LUCENTIO. I thank thee for that gird, good Tranio.

HORTENSIO. Confess, confess; hath he not hit you here?

PETRUCHIO. A has a little gall’d me, I confess; And as the jest did glance away from me, ’Tis ten to one it maim’d you two outright.

BAPTISTA. Now, in good sadness, son Petruchio, I think thou hast the veriest shrew of all.

PETRUCHIO. Well, I say no; and therefore, for assurance, Let’s each one send unto his wife, 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.

HORTENSIO. Content. What’s the wager?

LUCENTIO. Twenty crowns.

PETRUCHIO. Twenty crowns! I’ll venture so much of my hawk or hound, But twenty times so much upon my wife.

LUCENTIO. A hundred then.

HORTENSIO. Content.

PETRUCHIO. A match! ’tis done.

HORTENSIO. Who shall begin?

LUCENTIO. That will I. Go, Biondello, bid your mistress come to me.

BIONDELLO. I go.

[_Exit._]

BAPTISTA. Son, I’ll be your half, Bianca comes.

LUCENTIO. I’ll have no halves; I’ll bear it all myself.

Re-enter Biondello.

How now! what news?

BIONDELLO. Sir, my mistress sends you word That she is busy and she cannot come.

PETRUCHIO. How! She’s busy, and she cannot come! Is that an answer?

GREMIO. Ay, and a kind one too: Pray God, sir, your wife send you not a worse.

PETRUCHIO. I hope better.

HORTENSIO. Sirrah Biondello, go and entreat my wife To come to me forthwith.

[_Exit Biondello._]

PETRUCHIO. O, ho! entreat her! Nay, then she must needs come.

HORTENSIO. I am afraid, sir, Do what you can, yours will not be entreated.

Re-enter Biondello.

Now, where’s my wife?

BIONDELLO. She says you have some goodly jest in hand: She will not come; she bids you come to her.

PETRUCHIO. 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._]

HORTENSIO. I know her answer.

PETRUCHIO. What?

HORTENSIO. She will not.

PETRUCHIO. The fouler fortune mine, and there an end.

Re-enter Katherina.

BAPTISTA. Now, by my holidame, here comes Katherina!

KATHERINA. What is your will sir, that you send for me?

PETRUCHIO. Where is your sister, and Hortensio’s wife?

KATHERINA. They sit conferring by the parlour fire.

PETRUCHIO. Go fetch them hither; if they deny to come, Swinge me them soundly forth unto their husbands. Away, I say, and bring them hither straight.

[_Exit Katherina._]

LUCENTIO. Here is a wonder, if you talk of a wonder.

HORTENSIO. And so it is. I wonder what it bodes.

PETRUCHIO. Marry, peace it bodes, and love, and quiet life, An awful rule, and right supremacy; And, to be short, what not that’s sweet and happy.

BAPTISTA. Now fair befall thee, good Petruchio! The wager thou hast won; and I will add Unto their losses twenty thousand crowns; Another dowry to another daughter, For she is chang’d, as she had never been.

PETRUCHIO. Nay, I will win my wager better yet, And show more sign of her obedience, Her new-built virtue and obedience. See where she comes, and brings your froward wives As prisoners to her womanly persuasion.

Re-enter Katherina with Bianca and Widow.

Katherine, that cap of yours becomes you not: Off with that bauble, throw it underfoot.

[_Katherina pulls off her cap and throws it down._]

WIDOW. Lord, let me never have a cause to sigh Till I be brought to such a silly pass!

BIANCA. Fie! what a foolish duty call you this?

LUCENTIO. I would your duty were as foolish too; The wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca, Hath cost me a hundred crowns since supper-time!

BIANCA. The more fool you for laying on my duty.

PETRUCHIO. Katherine, I charge thee, tell these headstrong women What duty they do owe their lords and husbands.

WIDOW. Come, come, you’re mocking; we will have no telling.

PETRUCHIO. Come on, I say; and first begin with her.

WIDOW. She shall not.

PETRUCHIO. I say she shall: and first begin with her.

KATHERINA. Fie, fie! unknit that threatening unkind brow, And dart not scornful glances from those eyes 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, Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty; And while it is so, none so dry or thirsty Will deign to sip or touch one drop of it. Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper, Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee, And for thy maintenance commits his body To painful labour both by sea and land, To watch the night in storms, the day in cold, Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe; And craves no other tribute at thy hands But love, fair looks, and true obedience; Too little payment for so great a debt. Such duty as the subject owes the prince, Even such a woman oweth to her husband; And when she is froward, peevish, sullen, sour, And not obedient to his honest will, What is she but a foul contending rebel And graceless traitor to her loving lord?— I am asham’d that women are so simple To offer war where they should kneel for peace, Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway, When they are bound to serve, love, and obey. Why are our bodies soft and weak and smooth, Unapt to toil and trouble in the world, But that our soft conditions and our hearts Should well agree with our external parts? Come, come, you froward and unable worms! My mind hath been as big as one of yours, My heart as great, my reason haply more, To bandy word for word and frown for frown; But now I see our lances are but straws, Our strength as weak, our weakness past 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: In token of which duty, if he please, My hand is ready; may it do him ease.

PETRUCHIO. Why, there’s a wench! Come on, and kiss me, Kate.

LUCENTIO. Well, go thy ways, old lad, for thou shalt ha’t.

VINCENTIO. ’Tis a good hearing when children are toward.

LUCENTIO. But a harsh hearing when women are froward.

PETRUCHIO. 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 Katherina._]

HORTENSIO. Now go thy ways; thou hast tam’d a curst shrew.

LUCENTIO. ’Tis a wonder, by your leave, she will be tam’d so.

[_Exeunt._]

THE TEMPEST

Contents

## ACT I

## Scene I. On a ship at sea; a tempestuous noise of thunder and lightning

heard.

## Scene II. The Island. Before the cell of Prospero.

## ACT II

## Scene I. Another part of the island.

## Scene II. Another part of the island.

## ACT III

## Scene I. Before Prospero’s cell.

## Scene II. Another part of the island.

## Scene III. Another part of the island.

## ACT IV

## Scene I. Before Prospero’s cell.

## ACT V

## Scene I. Before the cell of Prospero.

Epilogue.

Dramatis Personæ

ALONSO, King of Naples SEBASTIAN, his brother PROSPERO, the right Duke of Milan ANTONIO, his brother, the usurping Duke of Milan FERDINAND, Son to the King of Naples GONZALO, an honest old counsellor ADRIAN, Lord FRANCISCO, Lord CALIBAN, a savage and deformed slave TRINCULO, a jester STEPHANO, a drunken butler MASTER OF A SHIP BOATSWAIN MARINERS

MIRANDA, daughter to Prospero

ARIEL, an airy Spirit

IRIS, presented by Spirits CERES, presented by Spirits JUNO, presented by Spirits NYMPHS, presented by Spirits REAPERS, presented by Spirits

Other Spirits attending on Prospero

SCENE: The sea, with a Ship; afterwards an Island.

## ACT I

## SCENE I. On a ship at sea; a tempestuous noise of thunder and lightning

heard.

Enter a Shipmaster and a Boatswain severally.

MASTER. Boatswain!

BOATSWAIN. Here, master: what cheer?

MASTER. Good! Speak to the mariners: fall to ’t yarely, or we run ourselves aground: bestir, bestir.

[_Exit._]

Enter Mariners.

BOATSWAIN. Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly, my hearts! yare, yare! Take in the topsail. Tend to th’ master’s whistle. Blow till thou burst thy wind, if room enough.

Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Ferdinand, Gonzalo and others.

ALONSO. Good boatswain, have care. Where’s the master? Play the men.

BOATSWAIN. I pray now, keep below.

ANTONIO. Where is the master, boson?

BOATSWAIN. Do you not hear him? You mar our labour: keep your cabins: you do assist the storm.

GONZALO. Nay, good, be patient.

BOATSWAIN. When the sea is. Hence! What cares these roarers for the name of king? To cabin! silence! Trouble us not.

GONZALO. Good, yet remember whom thou hast aboard.

BOATSWAIN. None that I more love than myself. You are a counsellor: if you can command these elements to silence, and work the peace of the present, we will not hand a rope more. Use your authority: if you cannot, give thanks you have lived so long, and make yourself ready in your cabin for the mischance of the hour, if it so hap.—Cheerly, good hearts!—Out of our way, I say.

[_Exit._]

GONZALO. I have great comfort from this fellow. Methinks he hath no drowning mark upon him. His complexion is perfect gallows. Stand fast, good Fate, to his hanging! Make the rope of his destiny our cable, for our own doth little advantage! If he be not born to be hang’d, our case is miserable.

[_Exeunt._]

Re-enter Boatswain.

BOATSWAIN. Down with the topmast! yare! lower, lower! Bring her to try wi’ th’ maincourse.

[_A cry within._]

A plague upon this howling! They are louder than the weather or our office.

Enter Sebastian, Antonio and Gonzalo.

Yet again! What do you here? Shall we give o’er, and drown? Have you a mind to sink?

SEBASTIAN. A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!

BOATSWAIN. Work you, then.

ANTONIO. Hang, cur, hang, you whoreson, insolent noisemaker! We are less afraid to be drowned than thou art.

GONZALO. I’ll warrant him for drowning, though the ship were no stronger than a nutshell, and as leaky as an unstanched wench.

BOATSWAIN. Lay her a-hold, a-hold! Set her two courses: off to sea again: lay her off.

Enter Mariners, wet.

MARINERS. All lost! to prayers, to prayers! all lost!

[_Exeunt._]

BOATSWAIN. What, must our mouths be cold?

GONZALO. The King and Prince at prayers! Let’s assist them, For our case is as theirs.

SEBASTIAN. I am out of patience.

ANTONIO. We are merely cheated of our lives by drunkards. This wide-chapp’d rascal—would thou might’st lie drowning The washing of ten tides!

GONZALO. He’ll be hang’d yet, Though every drop of water swear against it, And gape at wid’st to glut him.

_A confused noise within: _“Mercy on us!”— “We split, we split!”—“Farewell, my wife and children!”— “Farewell, brother!”—“We split, we split, we split!”

ANTONIO. Let’s all sink wi’ th’ King.

[_Exit._]

SEBASTIAN. Let’s take leave of him.

[_Exit._]

GONZALO. Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground. Long heath, brown furze, anything. The wills above be done! but I would fain die a dry death.

[_Exit._]

## SCENE II. The Island. Before the cell of Prospero.

Enter Prospero and Miranda.

MIRANDA. If by your art, my dearest father, you have Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them. The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch, But that the sea, mounting to th’ welkin’s cheek, Dashes the fire out. O! I have suffered With those that I saw suffer! A brave vessel, Who had, no doubt, some noble creature in her, Dash’d all to pieces. O, the cry did knock Against my very heart. Poor souls, they perish’d. Had I been any god of power, I would Have sunk the sea within the earth, or ere It should the good ship so have swallow’d and The fraughting souls within her.

PROSPERO. Be collected: No more amazement: tell your piteous heart There’s no harm done.

MIRANDA. O, woe the day!

PROSPERO. No harm. I have done nothing but in care of thee, Of thee, my dear one, thee, my daughter, who Art ignorant of what thou art, nought knowing Of whence I am, nor that I am more better Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell, And thy no greater father.

MIRANDA. More to know Did never meddle with my thoughts.

PROSPERO. ’Tis time I should inform thee farther. Lend thy hand, And pluck my magic garment from me.—So:

[_Lays down his mantle._]

Lie there my art. Wipe thou thine eyes; have comfort. The direful spectacle of the wrack, which touch’d The very virtue of compassion in thee, I have with such provision in mine art So safely ordered that there is no soul— No, not so much perdition as an hair Betid to any creature in the vessel Which thou heard’st cry, which thou saw’st sink. Sit down; For thou must now know farther.

MIRANDA. You have often Begun to tell me what I am, but stopp’d, And left me to a bootless inquisition, Concluding “Stay; not yet.”

PROSPERO. The hour’s now come, The very minute bids thee ope thine ear; Obey, and be attentive. Canst thou remember A time before we came unto this cell? I do not think thou canst, for then thou wast not Out three years old.

MIRANDA. Certainly, sir, I can.

PROSPERO. By what? By any other house, or person? Of anything the image, tell me, that Hath kept with thy remembrance.

MIRANDA. ’Tis far off, And rather like a dream than an assurance That my remembrance warrants. Had I not Four or five women once that tended me?

PROSPERO. Thou hadst, and more, Miranda. But how is it That this lives in thy mind? What seest thou else In the dark backward and abysm of time? If thou rememb’rest aught ere thou cam’st here, How thou cam’st here, thou mayst.

MIRANDA. But that I do not.

PROSPERO. Twelve year since, Miranda, twelve year since, Thy father was the Duke of Milan, and A prince of power.

MIRANDA. Sir, are not you my father?

PROSPERO. Thy mother was a piece of virtue, and She said thou wast my daughter. And thy father Was Duke of Milan, and his only heir And princess, no worse issued.

MIRANDA. O, the heavens! What foul play had we that we came from thence? Or blessed was’t we did?

PROSPERO. Both, both, my girl. By foul play, as thou say’st, were we heav’d thence; But blessedly holp hither.

MIRANDA. O, my heart bleeds To think o’ th’ teen that I have turn’d you to, Which is from my remembrance. Please you, farther.

PROSPERO. My brother and thy uncle, call’d Antonio— I pray thee, mark me, that a brother should Be so perfidious!—he whom next thyself Of all the world I lov’d, and to him put The manage of my state; as at that time Through all the signories it was the first, And Prospero the prime duke, being so reputed In dignity, and for the liberal arts, Without a parallel: those being all my study, The government I cast upon my brother, And to my state grew stranger, being transported And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle— Dost thou attend me?

MIRANDA. Sir, most heedfully.

PROSPERO. Being once perfected how to grant suits, How to deny them, who t’ advance, and who To trash for over-topping, new created The creatures that were mine, I say, or chang’d ’em, Or else new form’d ’em: having both the key Of officer and office, set all hearts i’ th’ state To what tune pleas’d his ear: that now he was The ivy which had hid my princely trunk, And suck’d my verdure out on ’t. Thou attend’st not.

MIRANDA. O, good sir! I do.

PROSPERO. I pray thee, mark me. I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated To closeness and the bettering of my mind With that which, but by being so retir’d, O’er-priz’d all popular rate, in my false brother Awak’d an evil nature; and my trust, Like a good parent, did beget of him A falsehood in its contrary as great As my trust was; which had indeed no limit, A confidence sans bound. He being thus lorded, Not only with what my revenue yielded, But what my power might else exact, like one Who having into truth, by telling of it, Made such a sinner of his memory, To credit his own lie, he did believe He was indeed the Duke; out o’ the substitution, And executing th’ outward face of royalty, With all prerogative. Hence his ambition growing— Dost thou hear?

MIRANDA. Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.

PROSPERO. To have no screen between this part he play’d And him he play’d it for, he needs will be Absolute Milan. Me, poor man, my library Was dukedom large enough: of temporal royalties He thinks me now incapable; confederates, So dry he was for sway, wi’ th’ King of Naples To give him annual tribute, do him homage, Subject his coronet to his crown, and bend The dukedom, yet unbow’d—alas, poor Milan!— To most ignoble stooping.

MIRANDA. O the heavens!

PROSPERO. Mark his condition, and the event; then tell me If this might be a brother.

MIRANDA. I should sin To think but nobly of my grandmother: Good wombs have borne bad sons.

PROSPERO. Now the condition. This King of Naples, being an enemy To me inveterate, hearkens my brother’s suit; Which was, that he, in lieu o’ th’ premises Of homage and I know not how much tribute, Should presently extirpate me and mine Out of the dukedom, and confer fair Milan, With all the honours on my brother: whereon, A treacherous army levied, one midnight Fated to th’ purpose, did Antonio open The gates of Milan; and, i’ th’ dead of darkness, The ministers for th’ purpose hurried thence Me and thy crying self.

MIRANDA. Alack, for pity! I, not rememb’ring how I cried out then, Will cry it o’er again: it is a hint That wrings mine eyes to ’t.

PROSPERO. Hear a little further, And then I’ll bring thee to the present business Which now’s upon us; without the which this story Were most impertinent.

MIRANDA. Wherefore did they not That hour destroy us?

PROSPERO. Well demanded, wench: My tale provokes that question. Dear, they durst not, So dear the love my people bore me, nor set A mark so bloody on the business; but With colours fairer painted their foul ends. In few, they hurried us aboard a bark, Bore us some leagues to sea, where they prepared A rotten carcass of a butt, not rigg’d, Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats Instinctively have quit it. There they hoist us, To cry to th’ sea, that roar’d to us; to sigh To th’ winds, whose pity, sighing back again, Did us but loving wrong.

MIRANDA. Alack, what trouble Was I then to you!

PROSPERO. O, a cherubin Thou wast that did preserve me. Thou didst smile, Infused with a fortitude from heaven, When I have deck’d the sea with drops full salt, Under my burden groan’d: which rais’d in me An undergoing stomach, to bear up Against what should ensue.

MIRANDA. How came we ashore?

PROSPERO. By Providence divine. Some food we had and some fresh water that A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo, Out of his charity, who being then appointed Master of this design, did give us, with Rich garments, linens, stuffs, and necessaries, Which since have steaded much: so, of his gentleness, Knowing I lov’d my books, he furnish’d me From mine own library with volumes that I prize above my dukedom.

MIRANDA. Would I might But ever see that man!

PROSPERO. Now I arise. Sit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow. Here in this island we arriv’d; and here Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit Than other princes can, that have more time For vainer hours, and tutors not so careful.

MIRANDA. Heavens thank you for ’t! And now, I pray you, sir, For still ’tis beating in my mind, your reason For raising this sea-storm?

PROSPERO. Know thus far forth. By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune, Now my dear lady, hath mine enemies Brought to this shore; and by my prescience I find my zenith doth depend upon A most auspicious star, whose influence If now I court not but omit, my fortunes Will ever after droop. Here cease more questions; Thou art inclin’d to sleep; ’tis a good dulness, And give it way. I know thou canst not choose.

[_Miranda sleeps._]

Come away, servant, come! I am ready now. Approach, my Ariel. Come!

Enter Ariel.

ARIEL. All hail, great master! grave sir, hail! I come To answer thy best pleasure; be’t to fly, To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride On the curl’d clouds, to thy strong bidding task Ariel and all his quality.

PROSPERO. Hast thou, spirit, Perform’d to point the tempest that I bade thee?

ARIEL. To every article. I boarded the King’s ship; now on the beak, Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin, I flam’d amazement; sometime I’d divide, And burn in many places; on the topmast, The yards, and bowsprit, would I flame distinctly, Then meet and join. Jove’s lightning, the precursors O’ th’ dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary And sight-outrunning were not: the fire and cracks Of sulphurous roaring the most mighty Neptune Seem to besiege and make his bold waves tremble, Yea, his dread trident shake.

PROSPERO. My brave spirit! Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil Would not infect his reason?

ARIEL. Not a soul But felt a fever of the mad, and play’d Some tricks of desperation. All but mariners Plunged in the foaming brine and quit the vessel, Then all afire with me: the King’s son, Ferdinand, With hair up-staring—then like reeds, not hair— Was the first man that leapt; cried “Hell is empty, And all the devils are here.”

PROSPERO. Why, that’s my spirit! But was not this nigh shore?

ARIEL. Close by, my master.

PROSPERO. But are they, Ariel, safe?

ARIEL. Not a hair perish’d; On their sustaining garments not a blemish, But fresher than before: and, as thou bad’st me, In troops I have dispers’d them ’bout the isle. The King’s son have I landed by himself, Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs In an odd angle of the isle, and sitting, His arms in this sad knot.

PROSPERO. Of the King’s ship The mariners, say how thou hast dispos’d, And all the rest o’ th’ fleet?

ARIEL. Safely in harbour Is the King’s ship; in the deep nook, where once Thou call’dst me up at midnight to fetch dew From the still-vex’d Bermoothes; there she’s hid: The mariners all under hatches stowed; Who, with a charm join’d to their suff’red labour, I have left asleep: and for the rest o’ th’ fleet, Which I dispers’d, they all have met again, And are upon the Mediterranean flote Bound sadly home for Naples, Supposing that they saw the King’s ship wrack’d, And his great person perish.

PROSPERO. Ariel, thy charge Exactly is perform’d; but there’s more work. What is the time o’ th’ day?

ARIEL. Past the mid season.

PROSPERO. At least two glasses. The time ’twixt six and now Must by us both be spent most preciously.

ARIEL. Is there more toil? Since thou dost give me pains, Let me remember thee what thou hast promis’d, Which is not yet perform’d me.

PROSPERO. How now! moody? What is’t thou canst demand?

ARIEL. My liberty.

PROSPERO. Before the time be out? No more!

ARIEL. I prithee, Remember I have done thee worthy service; Told thee no lies, made no mistakings, serv’d Without or grudge or grumblings: thou didst promise To bate me a full year.

PROSPERO. Dost thou forget From what a torment I did free thee?

ARIEL. No.

PROSPERO. Thou dost, and think’st it much to tread the ooze Of the salt deep, To run upon the sharp wind of the north, To do me business in the veins o’ th’ earth When it is bak’d with frost.

ARIEL. I do not, sir.

PROSPERO. Thou liest, malignant thing! Hast thou forgot The foul witch Sycorax, who with age and envy Was grown into a hoop? Hast thou forgot her?

ARIEL. No, sir.

PROSPERO. Thou hast. Where was she born? Speak; tell me.

ARIEL. Sir, in Argier.

PROSPERO. O, was she so? I must Once in a month recount what thou hast been, Which thou forget’st. This damn’d witch Sycorax, For mischiefs manifold, and sorceries terrible To enter human hearing, from Argier, Thou know’st, was banish’d: for one thing she did They would not take her life. Is not this true?

ARIEL. Ay, sir.

PROSPERO. This blue-ey’d hag was hither brought with child, And here was left by th’ sailors. Thou, my slave, As thou report’st thyself, wast then her servant; And, for thou wast a spirit too delicate To act her earthy and abhorr’d commands, Refusing her grand hests, she did confine thee, By help of her more potent ministers, And in her most unmitigable rage, Into a cloven pine; within which rift Imprison’d, thou didst painfully remain A dozen years; within which space she died, And left thee there, where thou didst vent thy groans As fast as mill-wheels strike. Then was this island— Save for the son that she did litter here, A freckl’d whelp, hag-born—not honour’d with A human shape.

ARIEL. Yes, Caliban her son.

PROSPERO. Dull thing, I say so; he, that Caliban, Whom now I keep in service. Thou best know’st What torment I did find thee in; thy groans Did make wolves howl, and penetrate the breasts Of ever-angry bears: it was a torment To lay upon the damn’d, which Sycorax Could not again undo; it was mine art, When I arriv’d and heard thee, that made gape The pine, and let thee out.

ARIEL. I thank thee, master.

PROSPERO. If thou more murmur’st, I will rend an oak And peg thee in his knotty entrails till Thou hast howl’d away twelve winters.

ARIEL. Pardon, master: I will be correspondent to command, And do my spriting gently.

PROSPERO. Do so; and after two days I will discharge thee.

ARIEL. That’s my noble master! What shall I do? Say what? What shall I do?

PROSPERO. Go make thyself like a nymph o’ th’ sea. Be subject To no sight but thine and mine; invisible To every eyeball else. Go, take this shape, And hither come in ’t. Go, hence with diligence!

[_Exit Ariel._]

Awake, dear heart, awake! thou hast slept well; Awake!

MIRANDA. [_Waking._] The strangeness of your story put Heaviness in me.

PROSPERO. Shake it off. Come on; We’ll visit Caliban my slave, who never Yields us kind answer.

MIRANDA. ’Tis a villain, sir, I do not love to look on.

PROSPERO. But as ’tis, We cannot miss him: he does make our fire, Fetch in our wood; and serves in offices That profit us. What ho! slave! Caliban! Thou earth, thou! Speak.

CALIBAN. [_Within._] There’s wood enough within.

PROSPERO. Come forth, I say; there’s other business for thee. Come, thou tortoise! when?

Re-enter Ariel like a water-nymph.

Fine apparition! My quaint Ariel, Hark in thine ear.

ARIEL. My lord, it shall be done.

[_Exit._]

PROSPERO. Thou poisonous slave, got by the devil himself Upon thy wicked dam, come forth!

Enter Caliban.

CALIBAN. As wicked dew as e’er my mother brush’d With raven’s feather from unwholesome fen Drop on you both! A south-west blow on ye, And blister you all o’er!

PROSPERO. For this, be sure, tonight thou shalt have cramps, Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up; urchins Shall forth at vast of night that they may work All exercise on thee. Thou shalt be pinch’d As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging Than bees that made them.

CALIBAN. I must eat my dinner. This island’s mine, by Sycorax my mother, Which thou tak’st from me. When thou cam’st first, Thou strok’st me and made much of me; wouldst give me Water with berries in ’t; and teach me how To name the bigger light, and how the less, That burn by day and night: and then I lov’d thee, And show’d thee all the qualities o’ th’ isle, The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place, and fertile. Curs’d be I that did so! All the charms Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you! For I am all the subjects that you have, Which first was mine own King; and here you sty me In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me The rest o’ th’ island.

PROSPERO. Thou most lying slave, Whom stripes may move, not kindness! I have us’d thee, Filth as thou art, with human care, and lodg’d thee In mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate The honour of my child.

CALIBAN. Oh ho! Oh ho! Would ’t had been done! Thou didst prevent me; I had peopled else This isle with Calibans.

PROSPERO. Abhorred slave, Which any print of goodness wilt not take, Being capable of all ill! I pitied thee, Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hour One thing or other: when thou didst not, savage, Know thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble like A thing most brutish, I endow’d thy purposes With words that made them known. But thy vile race, Though thou didst learn, had that in ’t which good natures Could not abide to be with; therefore wast thou Deservedly confin’d into this rock, Who hadst deserv’d more than a prison.

CALIBAN. You taught me language, and my profit on ’t Is, I know how to curse. The red plague rid you, For learning me your language!

PROSPERO. Hag-seed, hence! Fetch us in fuel; and be quick, thou ’rt best, To answer other business. Shrug’st thou, malice? If thou neglect’st, or dost unwillingly What I command, I’ll rack thee with old cramps, Fill all thy bones with aches, make thee roar, That beasts shall tremble at thy din.

CALIBAN. No, pray thee. [_Aside._] I must obey. His art is of such power, It would control my dam’s god, Setebos, And make a vassal of him.

PROSPERO. So, slave, hence!

[_Exit Caliban._]

Re-enter Ariel, playing and singing; Ferdinand following.

ARIEL’S SONG.

_Come unto these yellow sands, And then take hands: Curtsied when you have, and kiss’d The wild waves whist. Foot it featly here and there, And sweet sprites bear The burden. Hark, hark!_ Burden dispersedly. _Bow-wow. The watch dogs bark._ [Burden dispersedly.] _Bow-wow. Hark, hark! I hear The strain of strutting chanticleer Cry cock-a-diddle-dow._

FERDINAND. Where should this music be? i’ th’ air or th’ earth? It sounds no more; and sure it waits upon Some god o’ th’ island. Sitting on a bank, Weeping again the King my father’s wrack, This music crept by me upon the waters, Allaying both their fury and my passion With its sweet air: thence I have follow’d it, Or it hath drawn me rather,—but ’tis gone. No, it begins again.

ARIEL. [_Sings._] _Full fathom five thy father lies. Of his bones are coral made. Those are pearls that were his eyes. Nothing of him that doth fade But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange. Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:_ Burden: _Ding-dong. Hark! now I hear them: ding-dong, bell._

FERDINAND. The ditty does remember my drown’d father. This is no mortal business, nor no sound That the earth owes:—I hear it now above me.

PROSPERO. The fringed curtains of thine eye advance, And say what thou seest yond.

MIRANDA. What is’t? a spirit? Lord, how it looks about! Believe me, sir, It carries a brave form. But ’tis a spirit.

PROSPERO. No, wench; it eats and sleeps and hath such senses As we have, such. This gallant which thou seest Was in the wrack; and, but he’s something stain’d With grief,—that’s beauty’s canker,—thou mightst call him A goodly person: he hath lost his fellows And strays about to find ’em.

MIRANDA. I might call him A thing divine; for nothing natural I ever saw so noble.

PROSPERO. [_Aside._] It goes on, I see, As my soul prompts it. Spirit, fine spirit! I’ll free thee Within two days for this.

FERDINAND. Most sure, the goddess On whom these airs attend! Vouchsafe, my prayer May know if you remain upon this island; And that you will some good instruction give How I may bear me here: my prime request, Which I do last pronounce, is, O you wonder! If you be maid or no?

MIRANDA. No wonder, sir; But certainly a maid.

FERDINAND. My language! Heavens! I am the best of them that speak this speech, Were I but where ’tis spoken.

PROSPERO. How! the best? What wert thou, if the King of Naples heard thee?

FERDINAND. A single thing, as I am now, that wonders To hear thee speak of Naples. He does hear me; And that he does I weep: myself am Naples, Who with mine eyes, never since at ebb, beheld The King my father wrack’d.

MIRANDA. Alack, for mercy!

FERDINAND. Yes, faith, and all his lords, the Duke of Milan, And his brave son being twain.

PROSPERO. [_Aside._] The Duke of Milan And his more braver daughter could control thee, If now ’twere fit to do’t. At the first sight They have changed eyes. Delicate Ariel, I’ll set thee free for this. [_To Ferdinand._] A word, good sir. I fear you have done yourself some wrong: a word.

MIRANDA. Why speaks my father so ungently? This Is the third man that e’er I saw; the first That e’er I sigh’d for. Pity move my father To be inclin’d my way!

FERDINAND. O! if a virgin, And your affection not gone forth, I’ll make you The Queen of Naples.

PROSPERO. Soft, sir; one word more. [_Aside._] They are both in either’s powers. But this swift business I must uneasy make, lest too light winning Make the prize light. [_To Ferdinand._] One word more. I charge thee That thou attend me. Thou dost here usurp The name thou ow’st not; and hast put thyself Upon this island as a spy, to win it From me, the lord on ’t.

FERDINAND. No, as I am a man.

MIRANDA. There’s nothing ill can dwell in such a temple: If the ill spirit have so fair a house, Good things will strive to dwell with ’t.

PROSPERO. [_To Ferdinand._] Follow me.— [_To Miranda._] Speak not you for him; he’s a traitor. [_To Ferdinand._] Come; I’ll manacle thy neck and feet together: Sea-water shalt thou drink; thy food shall be The fresh-brook mussels, wither’d roots, and husks Wherein the acorn cradled. Follow.

FERDINAND. No; I will resist such entertainment till Mine enemy has more power.

[_He draws, and is charmed from moving._]

MIRANDA. O dear father! Make not too rash a trial of him, for He’s gentle, and not fearful.

PROSPERO. What! I say, My foot my tutor? Put thy sword up, traitor; Who mak’st a show, but dar’st not strike, thy conscience Is so possess’d with guilt: come from thy ward, For I can here disarm thee with this stick And make thy weapon drop.

MIRANDA. Beseech you, father!

PROSPERO. Hence! Hang not on my garments.

MIRANDA. Sir, have pity; I’ll be his surety.

PROSPERO. Silence! One word more Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee. What! An advocate for an impostor? hush! Thou think’st there is no more such shapes as he, Having seen but him and Caliban: foolish wench! To th’ most of men this is a Caliban, And they to him are angels.

MIRANDA. My affections Are then most humble; I have no ambition To see a goodlier man.

PROSPERO. [_To Ferdinand._] Come on; obey: Thy nerves are in their infancy again, And have no vigour in them.

FERDINAND. So they are: My spirits, as in a dream, are all bound up. My father’s loss, the weakness which I feel, The wrack of all my friends, nor this man’s threats, To whom I am subdued, are but light to me, Might I but through my prison once a day Behold this maid: all corners else o’ th’ earth Let liberty make use of; space enough Have I in such a prison.

PROSPERO. [_Aside._] It works. [_To Ferdinand._] Come on. Thou hast done well, fine Ariel! [_To Ferdinand._] Follow me. [_To Ariel._] Hark what thou else shalt do me.

MIRANDA. Be of comfort; My father’s of a better nature, sir, Than he appears by speech: this is unwonted Which now came from him.

PROSPERO. Thou shalt be as free As mountain winds; but then exactly do All points of my command.

ARIEL. To th’ syllable.

PROSPERO. [_To Ferdinand._] Come, follow. Speak not for him.

[_Exeunt._]

## ACT II

## SCENE I. Another part of the island.

Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Gonzalo, Adrian, Francisco and others.

GONZALO. Beseech you, sir, be merry; you have cause, So have we all, of joy; for our escape Is much beyond our loss. Our hint of woe Is common; every day, some sailor’s wife, The masters of some merchant and the merchant, Have just our theme of woe; but for the miracle, I mean our preservation, few in millions Can speak like us: then wisely, good sir, weigh Our sorrow with our comfort.

ALONSO. Prithee, peace.

SEBASTIAN. He receives comfort like cold porridge.

ANTONIO. The visitor will not give him o’er so.

SEBASTIAN. Look, he’s winding up the watch of his wit; by and by it will strike.

GONZALO. Sir,—

SEBASTIAN. One: tell.

GONZALO. When every grief is entertain’d that’s offer’d, Comes to the entertainer—

SEBASTIAN. A dollar.

GONZALO. Dolour comes to him, indeed: you have spoken truer than you purposed.

SEBASTIAN. You have taken it wiselier than I meant you should.

GONZALO. Therefore, my lord,—

ANTONIO. Fie, what a spendthrift is he of his tongue!

ALONSO. I prithee, spare.

GONZALO. Well, I have done: but yet—

SEBASTIAN. He will be talking.

ANTONIO. Which, of he or Adrian, for a good wager, first begins to crow?

SEBASTIAN. The old cock.

ANTONIO. The cockerel.

SEBASTIAN. Done. The wager?

ANTONIO. A laughter.

SEBASTIAN. A match!

ADRIAN. Though this island seem to be desert,—

ANTONIO. Ha, ha, ha!

SEBASTIAN. So. You’re paid.

ADRIAN. Uninhabitable, and almost inaccessible,—

SEBASTIAN. Yet—

ADRIAN. Yet—

ANTONIO. He could not miss ’t.

ADRIAN. It must needs be of subtle, tender, and delicate temperance.

ANTONIO. Temperance was a delicate wench.

SEBASTIAN. Ay, and a subtle; as he most learnedly delivered.

ADRIAN. The air breathes upon us here most sweetly.

SEBASTIAN. As if it had lungs, and rotten ones.

ANTONIO. Or, as ’twere perfum’d by a fen.

GONZALO. Here is everything advantageous to life.

ANTONIO. True; save means to live.

SEBASTIAN. Of that there’s none, or little.

GONZALO. How lush and lusty the grass looks! how green!

ANTONIO. The ground indeed is tawny.

SEBASTIAN. With an eye of green in’t.

ANTONIO. He misses not much.

SEBASTIAN. No; he doth but mistake the truth totally.

GONZALO. But the rarity of it is,—which is indeed almost beyond credit,—

SEBASTIAN. As many vouch’d rarities are.

GONZALO. That our garments, being, as they were, drenched in the sea, hold notwithstanding their freshness and glosses, being rather new-dyed than stained with salt water.

ANTONIO. If but one of his pockets could speak, would it not say he lies?

SEBASTIAN. Ay, or very falsely pocket up his report.

GONZALO. Methinks our garments are now as fresh as when we put them on first in Afric, at the marriage of the King’s fair daughter Claribel to the King of Tunis.

SEBASTIAN. ’Twas a sweet marriage, and we prosper well in our return.

ADRIAN. Tunis was never graced before with such a paragon to their Queen.

GONZALO. Not since widow Dido’s time.

ANTONIO. Widow! a pox o’ that! How came that widow in? Widow Dido!

SEBASTIAN. What if he had said, widower Aeneas too? Good Lord, how you take it!

ADRIAN. Widow Dido said you? You make me study of that; she was of Carthage, not of Tunis.

GONZALO. This Tunis, sir, was Carthage.

ADRIAN. Carthage?

GONZALO. I assure you, Carthage.

ANTONIO. His word is more than the miraculous harp.

SEBASTIAN. He hath rais’d the wall, and houses too.

ANTONIO. What impossible matter will he make easy next?

SEBASTIAN. I think he will carry this island home in his pocket, and give it his son for an apple.

ANTONIO. And, sowing the kernels of it in the sea, bring forth more islands.

ALONSO. Ay.

ANTONIO. Why, in good time.

GONZALO. [_To Alonso._] Sir, we were talking that our garments seem now as fresh as when we were at Tunis at the marriage of your daughter, who is now Queen.

ANTONIO. And the rarest that e’er came there.

SEBASTIAN. Bate, I beseech you, widow Dido.

ANTONIO. O! widow Dido; ay, widow Dido.

GONZALO. Is not, sir, my doublet as fresh as the first day I wore it? I mean, in a sort.

ANTONIO. That sort was well fish’d for.

GONZALO. When I wore it at your daughter’s marriage?

ALONSO. You cram these words into mine ears against The stomach of my sense. Would I had never Married my daughter there! for, coming thence, My son is lost; and, in my rate, she too, Who is so far from Italy removed, I ne’er again shall see her. O thou mine heir Of Naples and of Milan, what strange fish Hath made his meal on thee?

FRANCISCO. Sir, he may live: I saw him beat the surges under him, And ride upon their backs. He trod the water, Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted The surge most swoln that met him. His bold head ’Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oared Himself with his good arms in lusty stroke To th’ shore, that o’er his wave-worn basis bowed, As stooping to relieve him. I not doubt He came alive to land.

ALONSO. No, no, he’s gone.

SEBASTIAN. Sir, you may thank yourself for this great loss, That would not bless our Europe with your daughter, But rather lose her to an African; Where she, at least, is banish’d from your eye, Who hath cause to wet the grief on ’t.

ALONSO. Prithee, peace.

SEBASTIAN. You were kneel’d to, and importun’d otherwise By all of us; and the fair soul herself Weigh’d between loathness and obedience at Which end o’ th’ beam should bow. We have lost your son, I fear, for ever: Milan and Naples have More widows in them of this business’ making, Than we bring men to comfort them. The fault’s your own.

ALONSO. So is the dear’st o’ th’ loss.

GONZALO. My lord Sebastian, The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness And time to speak it in. You rub the sore, When you should bring the plaster.

SEBASTIAN. Very well.

ANTONIO. And most chirurgeonly.

GONZALO. It is foul weather in us all, good sir, When you are cloudy.

SEBASTIAN. Foul weather?

ANTONIO. Very foul.

GONZALO. Had I plantation of this isle, my lord,—

ANTONIO. He’d sow ’t with nettle-seed.

SEBASTIAN. Or docks, or mallows.

GONZALO. And were the King on’t, what would I do?

SEBASTIAN. ’Scape being drunk for want of wine.

GONZALO. I’ th’ commonwealth I would by contraries Execute all things; for no kind of traffic Would I admit; no name of magistrate; Letters should not be known; riches, poverty, And use of service, none; contract, succession, Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none; No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil; No occupation; all men idle, all; And women too, but innocent and pure; No sovereignty,—

SEBASTIAN. Yet he would be King on’t.

ANTONIO. The latter end of his commonwealth forgets the beginning.

GONZALO. All things in common nature should produce Without sweat or endeavour; treason, felony, Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine, Would I not have; but nature should bring forth, Of it own kind, all foison, all abundance, To feed my innocent people.

SEBASTIAN. No marrying ’mong his subjects?

ANTONIO. None, man; all idle; whores and knaves.

GONZALO. I would with such perfection govern, sir, T’ excel the Golden Age.

SEBASTIAN. Save his Majesty!

ANTONIO. Long live Gonzalo!

GONZALO. And,—do you mark me, sir?

ALONSO. Prithee, no more: thou dost talk nothing to me.

GONZALO. I do well believe your highness; and did it to minister occasion to these gentlemen, who are of such sensible and nimble lungs that they always use to laugh at nothing.

ANTONIO. ’Twas you we laughed at.

GONZALO. Who in this kind of merry fooling am nothing to you. So you may continue, and laugh at nothing still.

ANTONIO. What a blow was there given!

SEBASTIAN. An it had not fallen flat-long.

GONZALO. You are gentlemen of brave mettle. You would lift the moon out of her sphere, if she would continue in it five weeks without changing.

Enter Ariel, invisible, playing solemn music.

SEBASTIAN. We would so, and then go a-bat-fowling.

ANTONIO. Nay, good my lord, be not angry.

GONZALO. No, I warrant you; I will not adventure my discretion so weakly. Will you laugh me asleep, for I am very heavy?

ANTONIO. Go sleep, and hear us.

[_All sleep but Alonso, Sebastian and Antonio._]

ALONSO. What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts: I find They are inclin’d to do so.

SEBASTIAN. Please you, sir, Do not omit the heavy offer of it: It seldom visits sorrow; when it doth, It is a comforter.

ANTONIO. We two, my lord, Will guard your person while you take your rest, And watch your safety.

ALONSO. Thank you. Wondrous heavy!

[_Alonso sleeps. Exit Ariel._]

SEBASTIAN. What a strange drowsiness possesses them!

ANTONIO. It is the quality o’ th’ climate.

SEBASTIAN. Why Doth it not then our eyelids sink? I find not Myself dispos’d to sleep.

ANTONIO. Nor I. My spirits are nimble. They fell together all, as by consent; They dropp’d, as by a thunder-stroke. What might, Worthy Sebastian? O, what might?—No more. And yet methinks I see it in thy face, What thou shouldst be. Th’ occasion speaks thee; and My strong imagination sees a crown Dropping upon thy head.

SEBASTIAN. What, art thou waking?

ANTONIO. Do you not hear me speak?

SEBASTIAN. I do; and surely It is a sleepy language, and thou speak’st Out of thy sleep. What is it thou didst say? This is a strange repose, to be asleep With eyes wide open; standing, speaking, moving, And yet so fast asleep.

ANTONIO. Noble Sebastian, Thou let’st thy fortune sleep—die rather; wink’st Whiles thou art waking.

SEBASTIAN. Thou dost snore distinctly: There’s meaning in thy snores.

ANTONIO. I am more serious than my custom; you Must be so too, if heed me; which to do Trebles thee o’er.

SEBASTIAN. Well, I am standing water.

ANTONIO. I’ll teach you how to flow.

SEBASTIAN. Do so: to ebb, Hereditary sloth instructs me.

ANTONIO. O, If you but knew how you the purpose cherish Whiles thus you mock it! how, in stripping it, You more invest it! Ebbing men indeed, Most often, do so near the bottom run By their own fear or sloth.

SEBASTIAN. Prithee, say on: The setting of thine eye and cheek proclaim A matter from thee, and a birth, indeed Which throes thee much to yield.

ANTONIO. Thus, sir: Although this lord of weak remembrance, this Who shall be of as little memory When he is earth’d, hath here almost persuaded,— For he’s a spirit of persuasion, only Professes to persuade,—the King his son’s alive, ’Tis as impossible that he’s undrown’d As he that sleeps here swims.

SEBASTIAN. I have no hope That he’s undrown’d.

ANTONIO. O, out of that “no hope” What great hope have you! No hope that way is Another way so high a hope, that even Ambition cannot pierce a wink beyond, But doubts discovery there. Will you grant with me That Ferdinand is drown’d?

SEBASTIAN. He’s gone.

ANTONIO. Then tell me, Who’s the next heir of Naples?

SEBASTIAN. Claribel.

ANTONIO. She that is Queen of Tunis; she that dwells Ten leagues beyond man’s life; she that from Naples Can have no note, unless the sun were post— The Man i’ th’ Moon’s too slow—till newborn chins Be rough and razorable; she that from whom We all were sea-swallow’d, though some cast again, And by that destiny, to perform an act Whereof what’s past is prologue, what to come In yours and my discharge.

SEBASTIAN. What stuff is this! How say you? ’Tis true, my brother’s daughter’s Queen of Tunis; So is she heir of Naples; ’twixt which regions There is some space.

ANTONIO. A space whose ev’ry cubit Seems to cry out “How shall that Claribel Measure us back to Naples? Keep in Tunis, And let Sebastian wake.” Say this were death That now hath seiz’d them; why, they were no worse Than now they are. There be that can rule Naples As well as he that sleeps; lords that can prate As amply and unnecessarily As this Gonzalo. I myself could make A chough of as deep chat. O, that you bore The mind that I do! What a sleep were this For your advancement! Do you understand me?

SEBASTIAN. Methinks I do.

ANTONIO. And how does your content Tender your own good fortune?

SEBASTIAN. I remember You did supplant your brother Prospero.

ANTONIO. True. And look how well my garments sit upon me; Much feater than before; my brother’s servants Were then my fellows; now they are my men.

SEBASTIAN. But, for your conscience.

ANTONIO. Ay, sir; where lies that? If ’twere a kibe, ’Twould put me to my slipper: but I feel not This deity in my bosom: twenty consciences That stand ’twixt me and Milan, candied be they And melt ere they molest! Here lies your brother, No better than the earth he lies upon, If he were that which now he’s like, that’s dead; Whom I, with this obedient steel, three inches of it, Can lay to bed for ever; whiles you, doing thus, To the perpetual wink for aye might put This ancient morsel, this Sir Prudence, who Should not upbraid our course. For all the rest, They’ll take suggestion as a cat laps milk. They’ll tell the clock to any business that We say befits the hour.

SEBASTIAN. Thy case, dear friend, Shall be my precedent: as thou got’st Milan, I’ll come by Naples. Draw thy sword: one stroke Shall free thee from the tribute which thou payest, And I the King shall love thee.

ANTONIO. Draw together, And when I rear my hand, do you the like, To fall it on Gonzalo.

SEBASTIAN. O, but one word.

[_They converse apart._]

Music. Re-enter Ariel, invisible.

ARIEL. My master through his art foresees the danger That you, his friend, are in; and sends me forth— For else his project dies—to keep them living.

[_Sings in Gonzalo’s ear._] _While you here do snoring lie, Open-ey’d conspiracy His time doth take. If of life you keep a care, Shake off slumber, and beware. Awake! awake!_

ANTONIO. Then let us both be sudden.

GONZALO. Now, good angels Preserve the King!

[_They wake._]

ALONSO. Why, how now! Ho, awake! Why are you drawn? Wherefore this ghastly looking?

GONZALO. What’s the matter?

SEBASTIAN. Whiles we stood here securing your repose, Even now, we heard a hollow burst of bellowing Like bulls, or rather lions; did ’t not wake you? It struck mine ear most terribly.

ALONSO. I heard nothing.

ANTONIO. O! ’twas a din to fright a monster’s ear, To make an earthquake. Sure, it was the roar Of a whole herd of lions.

ALONSO. Heard you this, Gonzalo?

GONZALO. Upon mine honour, sir, I heard a humming, And that a strange one too, which did awake me. I shak’d you, sir, and cried; as mine eyes open’d, I saw their weapons drawn:—there was a noise, That’s verily. ’Tis best we stand upon our guard, Or that we quit this place: let’s draw our weapons.

ALONSO. Lead off this ground, and let’s make further search For my poor son.

GONZALO. Heavens keep him from these beasts! For he is, sure, i’ th’ island.

ALONSO. Lead away.

[_Exit with the others._]

ARIEL. Prospero my lord shall know what I have done: So, King, go safely on to seek thy son.

[_Exit._]

## SCENE II. Another part of the island.

Enter Caliban with a burden of wood. A noise of thunder heard.

CALIBAN. All the infections that the sun sucks up From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall, and make him By inch-meal a disease! His spirits hear me, And yet I needs must curse. But they’ll nor pinch, Fright me with urchin-shows, pitch me i’ the mire, Nor lead me, like a firebrand, in the dark Out of my way, unless he bid ’em; but For every trifle are they set upon me, Sometime like apes that mow and chatter at me, And after bite me; then like hedgehogs which Lie tumbling in my barefoot way, and mount Their pricks at my footfall; sometime am I All wound with adders, who with cloven tongues Do hiss me into madness.

Enter Trinculo.

Lo, now, lo! Here comes a spirit of his, and to torment me For bringing wood in slowly. I’ll fall flat; Perchance he will not mind me.

TRINCULO. Here’s neither bush nor shrub to bear off any weather at all, and another storm brewing; I hear it sing i’ th’ wind. Yond same black cloud, yond huge one, looks like a foul bombard that would shed his liquor. If it should thunder as it did before, I know not where to hide my head: yond same cloud cannot choose but fall by pailfuls. What have we here? a man or a fish? dead or alive? A fish: he smells like a fish; a very ancient and fish-like smell; a kind of not of the newest Poor-John. A strange fish! Were I in England now, as once I was, and had but this fish painted, not a holiday fool there but would give a piece of silver: there would this monster make a man; any strange beast there makes a man. When they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian. Legg’d like a man, and his fins like arms! Warm, o’ my troth! I do now let loose my opinion, hold it no longer: this is no fish, but an islander, that hath lately suffered by thunderbolt. [_Thunder._] Alas, the storm is come again! My best way is to creep under his gaberdine; there is no other shelter hereabout: misery acquaints a man with strange bed-fellows. I will here shroud till the dregs of the storm be past.

Enter Stephano singing; a bottle in his hand.

STEPHANO. _I shall no more to sea, to sea, Here shall I die ashore—_

This is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man’s funeral. Well, here’s my comfort.

[_Drinks._]

_The master, the swabber, the boatswain, and I, The gunner, and his mate, Lov’d Mall, Meg, and Marian, and Margery, But none of us car’d for Kate: For she had a tongue with a tang, Would cry to a sailor “Go hang!” She lov’d not the savour of tar nor of pitch, Yet a tailor might scratch her where’er she did itch. Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang._

This is a scurvy tune too: but here’s my comfort.

[_Drinks._]

CALIBAN. Do not torment me: O!

STEPHANO. What’s the matter? Have we devils here? Do you put tricks upon ’s with savages and men of Ind? Ha? I have not scap’d drowning, to be afeard now of your four legs; for it hath been said, As proper a man as ever went on four legs cannot make him give ground; and it shall be said so again, while Stephano breathes at’ nostrils.

CALIBAN. The spirit torments me: O!

STEPHANO. This is some monster of the isle with four legs, who hath got, as I take it, an ague. Where the devil should he learn our language? I will give him some relief, if it be but for that. If I can recover him and keep him tame, and get to Naples with him, he’s a present for any emperor that ever trod on neat’s-leather.

CALIBAN. Do not torment me, prithee; I’ll bring my wood home faster.

STEPHANO. He’s in his fit now, and does not talk after the wisest. He shall taste of my bottle: if he have never drunk wine afore, it will go near to remove his fit. If I can recover him, and keep him tame, I will not take too much for him. He shall pay for him that hath him, and that soundly.

CALIBAN. Thou dost me yet but little hurt; thou wilt anon, I know it by thy trembling: now Prosper works upon thee.

STEPHANO. Come on your ways. Open your mouth; here is that which will give language to you, cat. Open your mouth. This will shake your shaking, I can tell you, and that soundly. [_gives Caliban a drink_] You cannot tell who’s your friend: open your chaps again.

TRINCULO. I should know that voice: it should be—but he is drowned; and these are devils. O, defend me!

STEPHANO. Four legs and two voices; a most delicate monster! His forward voice now is to speak well of his friend; his backward voice is to utter foul speeches and to detract. If all the wine in my bottle will recover him, I will help his ague. Come. Amen! I will pour some in thy other mouth.

TRINCULO. Stephano!

STEPHANO. Doth thy other mouth call me? Mercy! mercy! This is a devil, and no monster: I will leave him; I have no long spoon.

TRINCULO. Stephano! If thou beest Stephano, touch me, and speak to me; for I am Trinculo—be not afeared—thy good friend Trinculo.

STEPHANO. If thou beest Trinculo, come forth. I’ll pull thee by the lesser legs: if any be Trinculo’s legs, these are they. Thou art very Trinculo indeed! How cam’st thou to be the siege of this moon-calf? Can he vent Trinculos?

TRINCULO. I took him to be kill’d with a thunderstroke. But art thou not drown’d, Stephano? I hope now thou are not drown’d. Is the storm overblown? I hid me under the dead moon-calf’s gaberdine for fear of the storm. And art thou living, Stephano? O Stephano, two Neapolitans scap’d!

STEPHANO. Prithee, do not turn me about. My stomach is not constant.

CALIBAN. [_Aside._] These be fine things, an if they be not sprites. That’s a brave god, and bears celestial liquor. I will kneel to him.

STEPHANO. How didst thou scape? How cam’st thou hither? Swear by this bottle how thou cam’st hither—I escaped upon a butt of sack, which the sailors heaved o’erboard, by this bottle! which I made of the bark of a tree with mine own hands, since I was cast ashore.

CALIBAN. I’ll swear upon that bottle to be thy true subject, for the liquor is not earthly.

STEPHANO. Here. Swear then how thou escapedst.

TRINCULO. Swum ashore, man, like a duck: I can swim like a duck, I’ll be sworn.

STEPHANO. Here, kiss the book. Though thou canst swim like a duck, thou art made like a goose.

TRINCULO. O Stephano, hast any more of this?

STEPHANO. The whole butt, man: my cellar is in a rock by th’ seaside, where my wine is hid. How now, moon-calf! How does thine ague?

CALIBAN. Hast thou not dropped from heaven?

STEPHANO. Out o’ the moon, I do assure thee: I was the Man in the Moon, when time was.

CALIBAN. I have seen thee in her, and I do adore thee. My mistress showed me thee, and thy dog, and thy bush.

STEPHANO. Come, swear to that. Kiss the book. I will furnish it anon with new contents. Swear.

TRINCULO. By this good light, this is a very shallow monster. I afeard of him? A very weak monster. The Man i’ the Moon! A most poor credulous monster! Well drawn, monster, in good sooth!

CALIBAN. I’ll show thee every fertile inch o’ the island; and I will kiss thy foot. I prithee, be my god.

TRINCULO. By this light, a most perfidious and drunken monster. When ’s god’s asleep, he’ll rob his bottle.

CALIBAN. I’ll kiss thy foot. I’ll swear myself thy subject.

STEPHANO. Come on, then; down, and swear.

TRINCULO. I shall laugh myself to death at this puppy-headed monster. A most scurvy monster! I could find in my heart to beat him,—

STEPHANO. Come, kiss.

TRINCULO. But that the poor monster’s in drink. An abominable monster!

CALIBAN. I’ll show thee the best springs; I’ll pluck thee berries; I’ll fish for thee, and get thee wood enough. A plague upon the tyrant that I serve! I’ll bear him no more sticks, but follow thee, Thou wondrous man.

TRINCULO. A most ridiculous monster, to make a wonder of a poor drunkard!

CALIBAN. I prithee, let me bring thee where crabs grow; And I with my long nails will dig thee pig-nuts; Show thee a jay’s nest, and instruct thee how To snare the nimble marmoset; I’ll bring thee To clustering filberts, and sometimes I’ll get thee Young scamels from the rock. Wilt thou go with me?

STEPHANO. I prithee now, lead the way without any more talking. Trinculo, the King and all our company else being drowned, we will inherit here. Here, bear my bottle. Fellow Trinculo, we’ll fill him by and by again.

CALIBAN. [_Sings drunkenly._] _Farewell, master; farewell, farewell!_

TRINCULO. A howling monster, a drunken monster.

CALIBAN. _No more dams I’ll make for fish; Nor fetch in firing At requiring, Nor scrape trenchering, nor wash dish; ’Ban ’Ban, Cacaliban, Has a new master—Get a new man._ Freedom, high-day! high-day, freedom! freedom, high-day, freedom!

STEPHANO. O brave monster! lead the way.

[_Exeunt._]

## ACT III

## SCENE I. Before Prospero’s cell.

Enter Ferdinand bearing a log.

FERDINAND. There be some sports are painful, and their labour Delight in them sets off: some kinds of baseness Are nobly undergone; and most poor matters Point to rich ends. This my mean task Would be as heavy to me as odious, but The mistress which I serve quickens what’s dead, And makes my labours pleasures: O, she is Ten times more gentle than her father’s crabbed, And he’s compos’d of harshness. I must remove Some thousands of these logs, and pile them up, Upon a sore injunction: my sweet mistress Weeps when she sees me work, and says such baseness Had never like executor. I forget: But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labours, Most busy, least when I do it.

Enter Miranda and Prospero behind.

MIRANDA. Alas now, pray you, Work not so hard: I would the lightning had Burnt up those logs that you are enjoin’d to pile! Pray, set it down and rest you. When this burns, ’Twill weep for having wearied you. My father Is hard at study; pray, now, rest yourself: He’s safe for these three hours.

FERDINAND. O most dear mistress, The sun will set, before I shall discharge What I must strive to do.

MIRANDA. If you’ll sit down, I’ll bear your logs the while. Pray give me that; I’ll carry it to the pile.

FERDINAND. No, precious creature; I had rather crack my sinews, break my back, Than you should such dishonour undergo, While I sit lazy by.

MIRANDA. It would become me As well as it does you: and I should do it With much more ease; for my good will is to it, And yours it is against.

PROSPERO. [_Aside._] Poor worm! thou art infected. This visitation shows it.

MIRANDA. You look wearily.

FERDINAND. No, noble mistress; ’tis fresh morning with me When you are by at night. I do beseech you— Chiefly that I might set it in my prayers— What is your name?

MIRANDA. Miranda—O my father! I have broke your hest to say so.

FERDINAND. Admir’d Miranda! Indeed, the top of admiration; worth What’s dearest to the world! Full many a lady I have ey’d with best regard, and many a time Th’ harmony of their tongues hath into bondage Brought my too diligent ear: for several virtues Have I lik’d several women; never any With so full soul but some defect in her Did quarrel with the noblest grace she ow’d, And put it to the foil: but you, O you, So perfect and so peerless, are created Of every creature’s best.

MIRANDA. I do not know One of my sex; no woman’s face remember, Save, from my glass, mine own; nor have I seen More that I may call men than you, good friend, And my dear father: how features are abroad, I am skilless of; but, by my modesty, The jewel in my dower, I would not wish Any companion in the world but you; Nor can imagination form a shape, Besides yourself, to like of. But I prattle Something too wildly, and my father’s precepts I therein do forget.

FERDINAND. I am, in my condition, A prince, Miranda; I do think, a King; I would not so!—and would no more endure This wooden slavery than to suffer The flesh-fly blow my mouth. Hear my soul speak: The very instant that I saw you, did My heart fly to your service; there resides, To make me slave to it; and for your sake Am I this patient log-man.

MIRANDA. Do you love me?

FERDINAND. O heaven, O earth, bear witness to this sound, And crown what I profess with kind event, If I speak true; if hollowly, invert What best is boded me to mischief! I, Beyond all limit of what else i’ the world, Do love, prize, honour you.

MIRANDA. I am a fool To weep at what I am glad of.

PROSPERO. [_Aside._] Fair encounter Of two most rare affections! Heavens rain grace On that which breeds between ’em!

FERDINAND. Wherefore weep you?

MIRANDA. At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer What I desire to give; and much less take What I shall die to want. But this is trifling; And all the more it seeks to hide itself, The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning! And prompt me, plain and holy innocence! I am your wife if you will marry me; If not, I’ll die your maid: to be your fellow You may deny me; but I’ll be your servant, Whether you will or no.

FERDINAND. My mistress, dearest; And I thus humble ever.

MIRANDA. My husband, then?

FERDINAND. Ay, with a heart as willing As bondage e’er of freedom: here’s my hand.

MIRANDA. And mine, with my heart in ’t: and now farewell Till half an hour hence.

FERDINAND. A thousand thousand!

[_Exeunt Ferdinand and Miranda severally._]

PROSPERO. So glad of this as they, I cannot be, Who are surpris’d withal; but my rejoicing At nothing can be more. I’ll to my book; For yet, ere supper time, must I perform Much business appertaining.

[_Exit._]

## SCENE II. Another part of the island.

Enter Caliban with a bottle, Stephano and Trinculo.

STEPHANO. Tell not me:—when the butt is out we will drink water; not a drop before: therefore bear up, and board ’em. Servant-monster, drink to me.

TRINCULO. Servant-monster! The folly of this island! They say there’s but five upon this isle; we are three of them; if th’ other two be brained like us, the state totters.

STEPHANO. Drink, servant-monster, when I bid thee: thy eyes are almost set in thy head.

TRINCULO. Where should they be set else? He were a brave monster indeed, if they were set in his tail.

STEPHANO. My man-monster hath drown’d his tongue in sack: for my part, the sea cannot drown me; I swam, ere I could recover the shore, five-and-thirty leagues, off and on, by this light. Thou shalt be my lieutenant, monster, or my standard.

TRINCULO. Your lieutenant, if you list; he’s no standard.

STEPHANO. We’ll not run, Monsieur monster.

TRINCULO. Nor go neither. But you’ll lie like dogs, and yet say nothing neither.

STEPHANO. Moon-calf, speak once in thy life, if thou beest a good moon-calf.

CALIBAN. How does thy honour? Let me lick thy shoe. I’ll not serve him, he is not valiant.

TRINCULO. Thou liest, most ignorant monster: I am in case to justle a constable. Why, thou deboshed fish thou, was there ever man a coward that hath drunk so much sack as I today? Wilt thou tell a monstrous lie, being but half a fish and half a monster?

CALIBAN. Lo, how he mocks me! wilt thou let him, my lord?

TRINCULO. “Lord” quoth he! That a monster should be such a natural!

CALIBAN. Lo, lo again! bite him to death, I prithee.

STEPHANO. Trinculo, keep a good tongue in your head: if you prove a mutineer, the next tree! The poor monster’s my subject, and he shall not suffer indignity.

CALIBAN. I thank my noble lord. Wilt thou be pleas’d to hearken once again to the suit I made to thee?

STEPHANO. Marry. will I. Kneel and repeat it. I will stand, and so shall Trinculo.

Enter Ariel, invisible.

CALIBAN. As I told thee before, I am subject to a tyrant, a sorcerer, that by his cunning hath cheated me of the island.

ARIEL. Thou liest.

CALIBAN. Thou liest, thou jesting monkey, thou; I would my valiant master would destroy thee; I do not lie.

STEPHANO. Trinculo, if you trouble him any more in his tale, by this hand, I will supplant some of your teeth.

TRINCULO. Why, I said nothing.

STEPHANO. Mum, then, and no more. Proceed.

CALIBAN. I say, by sorcery he got this isle; From me he got it. If thy greatness will, Revenge it on him,—for I know thou dar’st; But this thing dare not,—

STEPHANO. That’s most certain.

CALIBAN. Thou shalt be lord of it and I’ll serve thee.

STEPHANO. How now shall this be compassed? Canst thou bring me to the party?

CALIBAN. Yea, yea, my lord: I’ll yield him thee asleep, Where thou mayst knock a nail into his head.

ARIEL. Thou liest. Thou canst not.

CALIBAN. What a pied ninny’s this! Thou scurvy patch! I do beseech thy greatness, give him blows, And take his bottle from him: when that’s gone He shall drink nought but brine; for I’ll not show him Where the quick freshes are.

STEPHANO. Trinculo, run into no further danger: interrupt the monster one word further, and by this hand, I’ll turn my mercy out o’ doors, and make a stock-fish of thee.

TRINCULO. Why, what did I? I did nothing. I’ll go farther off.

STEPHANO. Didst thou not say he lied?

ARIEL. Thou liest.

STEPHANO. Do I so? Take thou that.

[_Strikes Trinculo._]

As you like this, give me the lie another time.

TRINCULO. I did not give the lie. Out o’ your wits and hearing too? A pox o’ your bottle! this can sack and drinking do. A murrain on your monster, and the devil take your fingers!

CALIBAN. Ha, ha, ha!

STEPHANO. Now, forward with your tale.—Prithee stand further off.

CALIBAN. Beat him enough: after a little time, I’ll beat him too.

STEPHANO. Stand farther.—Come, proceed.

CALIBAN. Why, as I told thee, ’tis a custom with him I’ th’ afternoon to sleep: there thou mayst brain him, Having first seiz’d his books; or with a log Batter his skull, or paunch him with a stake, Or cut his wezand with thy knife. Remember First to possess his books; for without them He’s but a sot, as I am, nor hath not One spirit to command: they all do hate him As rootedly as I. Burn but his books. He has brave utensils,—for so he calls them,— Which, when he has a house, he’ll deck withal. And that most deeply to consider is The beauty of his daughter; he himself Calls her a nonpareil: I never saw a woman But only Sycorax my dam and she; But she as far surpasseth Sycorax As great’st does least.

STEPHANO. Is it so brave a lass?

CALIBAN. Ay, lord, she will become thy bed, I warrant, And bring thee forth brave brood.

STEPHANO. Monster, I will kill this man. His daughter and I will be king and queen,—save our graces!—and Trinculo and thyself shall be viceroys. Dost thou like the plot, Trinculo?

TRINCULO. Excellent.

STEPHANO. Give me thy hand: I am sorry I beat thee; but while thou liv’st, keep a good tongue in thy head.

CALIBAN. Within this half hour will he be asleep. Wilt thou destroy him then?

STEPHANO. Ay, on mine honour.

ARIEL. This will I tell my master.

CALIBAN. Thou mak’st me merry. I am full of pleasure. Let us be jocund: will you troll the catch You taught me but while-ere?

STEPHANO. At thy request, monster, I will do reason, any reason. Come on, Trinculo, let us sing.

[_Sings._]

_Flout ’em and cout ’em, and scout ’em and flout ’em: Thought is free._

CALIBAN. That’s not the tune.

[_Ariel plays the tune on a tabor and pipe._]

STEPHANO. What is this same?

TRINCULO. This is the tune of our catch, played by the picture of Nobody.

STEPHANO. If thou beest a man, show thyself in thy likeness: if thou beest a devil, take ’t as thou list.

TRINCULO. O, forgive me my sins!

STEPHANO. He that dies pays all debts: I defy thee. Mercy upon us!

CALIBAN. Art thou afeard?

STEPHANO. No, monster, not I.

CALIBAN. Be not afeard. The isle is full of noises, Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not. Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments Will hum about mine ears; and sometimes voices, That, if I then had wak’d after long sleep, Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming, The clouds methought would open and show riches Ready to drop upon me; that, when I wak’d, I cried to dream again.

STEPHANO. This will prove a brave kingdom to me, where I shall have my music for nothing.

CALIBAN. When Prospero is destroyed.

STEPHANO. That shall be by and by: I remember the story.

TRINCULO. The sound is going away. Let’s follow it, and after do our work.

STEPHANO. Lead, monster: we’ll follow. I would I could see this taborer! he lays it on. Wilt come?

TRINCULO. I’ll follow, Stephano.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE III. Another part of the island.

Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Gonzalo, Adrian, Francisco, &c.

GONZALO. By ’r lakin, I can go no further, sir; My old bones ache: here’s a maze trod, indeed, Through forth-rights and meanders! By your patience, I needs must rest me.

ALONSO. Old lord, I cannot blame thee, Who am myself attach’d with weariness To th’ dulling of my spirits: sit down, and rest. Even here I will put off my hope, and keep it No longer for my flatterer: he is drown’d Whom thus we stray to find; and the sea mocks Our frustrate search on land. Well, let him go.

ANTONIO. [_Aside to Sebastian._] I am right glad that he’s so out of hope. Do not, for one repulse, forgo the purpose That you resolv’d to effect.

SEBASTIAN. [_Aside to Antonio._] The next advantage Will we take throughly.

ANTONIO. [_Aside to Sebastian._] Let it be tonight; For, now they are oppress’d with travel, they Will not, nor cannot, use such vigilance As when they are fresh.

SEBASTIAN. [_Aside to Antonio._] I say, tonight: no more.

Solemn and strange music: and Prospero above, invisible. Enter several strange Shapes, bringing in a banquet: they dance about it with gentle

## actions of salutation; and inviting the King &c., to eat, they depart.

ALONSO. What harmony is this? My good friends, hark!

GONZALO. Marvellous sweet music!

ALONSO. Give us kind keepers, heavens! What were these?

SEBASTIAN. A living drollery. Now I will believe That there are unicorns; that in Arabia There is one tree, the phoenix’ throne; one phoenix At this hour reigning there.

ANTONIO. I’ll believe both; And what does else want credit, come to me, And I’ll be sworn ’tis true: travellers ne’er did lie, Though fools at home condemn them.

GONZALO. If in Naples I should report this now, would they believe me? If I should say, I saw such islanders,— For, certes, these are people of the island,— Who, though, they are of monstrous shape, yet, note, Their manners are more gentle, kind, than of Our human generation you shall find Many, nay, almost any.

PROSPERO. [_Aside._] Honest lord, Thou hast said well; for some of you there present Are worse than devils.

ALONSO. I cannot too much muse Such shapes, such gesture, and such sound, expressing— Although they want the use of tongue—a kind Of excellent dumb discourse.

PROSPERO. [_Aside._] Praise in departing.

FRANCISCO. They vanish’d strangely.

SEBASTIAN. No matter, since They have left their viands behind; for we have stomachs.— Will’t please you taste of what is here?

ALONSO. Not I.

GONZALO. Faith, sir, you need not fear. When we were boys, Who would believe that there were mountaineers Dewlapp’d like bulls, whose throats had hanging at ’em Wallets of flesh? Or that there were such men Whose heads stood in their breasts? which now we find Each putter-out of five for one will bring us Good warrant of.

ALONSO. I will stand to, and feed, Although my last, no matter, since I feel The best is past. Brother, my lord the duke, Stand to, and do as we.

Thunder and lightning. Enter Ariel like a Harpy; claps his wings upon the table; and, with a quaint device, the banquet vanishes.

ARIEL. You are three men of sin, whom Destiny, That hath to instrument this lower world And what is in’t,—the never-surfeited sea Hath caused to belch up you; and on this island Where man doth not inhabit; you ’mongst men Being most unfit to live. I have made you mad; And even with such-like valour men hang and drown Their proper selves.

[_Seeing Alonso, Sebastian &c., draw their swords._]

You fools! I and my fellows Are ministers of Fate: the elements Of whom your swords are temper’d may as well Wound the loud winds, or with bemock’d-at stabs Kill the still-closing waters, as diminish One dowle that’s in my plume. My fellow-ministers Are like invulnerable. If you could hurt, Your swords are now too massy for your strengths, And will not be uplifted. But, remember— For that’s my business to you,—that you three From Milan did supplant good Prospero; Expos’d unto the sea, which hath requit it, Him and his innocent child: for which foul deed The powers, delaying, not forgetting, have Incens’d the seas and shores, yea, all the creatures, Against your peace. Thee of thy son, Alonso, They have bereft; and do pronounce, by me Ling’ring perdition,—worse than any death Can be at once,—shall step by step attend You and your ways; whose wraths to guard you from— Which here, in this most desolate isle, else falls Upon your heads,—is nothing but heart-sorrow, And a clear life ensuing.

[_He vanishes in thunder: then, to soft music, enter the Shapes again, and dance, with mocks and mows, and carry out the table._]

PROSPERO. [_Aside._] Bravely the figure of this Harpy hast thou Perform’d, my Ariel; a grace it had, devouring. Of my instruction hast thou nothing bated In what thou hadst to say: so, with good life And observation strange, my meaner ministers Their several kinds have done. My high charms work, And these mine enemies are all knit up In their distractions; they now are in my power; And in these fits I leave them, while I visit Young Ferdinand,—whom they suppose is drown’d,— And his and mine lov’d darling.

[_Exit above._]

GONZALO. I’ the name of something holy, sir, why stand you In this strange stare?

ALONSO. O, it is monstrous! monstrous! Methought the billows spoke, and told me of it; The winds did sing it to me; and the thunder, That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounc’d The name of Prosper: it did bass my trespass. Therefore my son i’ th’ ooze is bedded; and I’ll seek him deeper than e’er plummet sounded, And with him there lie mudded.

[_Exit._]

SEBASTIAN. But one fiend at a time, I’ll fight their legions o’er.

ANTONIO. I’ll be thy second.

[_Exeunt Sebastian and Antonio._]

GONZALO. All three of them are desperate: their great guilt, Like poison given to work a great time after, Now ’gins to bite the spirits. I do beseech you That are of suppler joints, follow them swiftly And hinder them from what this ecstasy May now provoke them to.

ADRIAN. Follow, I pray you.

[_Exeunt._]

## ACT IV

## SCENE I. Before Prospero’s cell.

Enter Prospero, Ferdinand and Miranda.

PROSPERO. If I have too austerely punish’d you, Your compensation makes amends: for I Have given you here a third of mine own life, Or that for which I live; who once again I tender to thy hand: all thy vexations Were but my trials of thy love, and thou Hast strangely stood the test: here, afore Heaven, I ratify this my rich gift. O Ferdinand, Do not smile at me that I boast her off, For thou shalt find she will outstrip all praise, And make it halt behind her.

FERDINAND. I do believe it Against an oracle.

PROSPERO. Then, as my gift and thine own acquisition Worthily purchas’d, take my daughter: but If thou dost break her virgin knot before All sanctimonious ceremonies may With full and holy rite be minister’d, No sweet aspersion shall the heavens let fall To make this contract grow; but barren hate, Sour-ey’d disdain, and discord shall bestrew The union of your bed with weeds so loathly That you shall hate it both: therefore take heed, As Hymen’s lamps shall light you.

FERDINAND. As I hope For quiet days, fair issue, and long life, With such love as ’tis now, the murkiest den, The most opportune place, the strong’st suggestion Our worser genius can, shall never melt Mine honour into lust, to take away The edge of that day’s celebration, When I shall think, or Phoebus’ steeds are founder’d, Or Night kept chain’d below.

PROSPERO. Fairly spoke: Sit, then, and talk with her, she is thine own. What, Ariel! my industrious servant, Ariel!

Enter Ariel.

ARIEL. What would my potent master? here I am.

PROSPERO. Thou and thy meaner fellows your last service Did worthily perform; and I must use you In such another trick. Go bring the rabble, O’er whom I give thee power, here to this place. Incite them to quick motion; for I must Bestow upon the eyes of this young couple Some vanity of mine art: it is my promise, And they expect it from me.

ARIEL. Presently?

PROSPERO. Ay, with a twink.

ARIEL. Before you can say “Come” and “Go,” And breathe twice, and cry “so, so,” Each one, tripping on his toe, Will be here with mop and mow. Do you love me, master? no?

PROSPERO. Dearly, my delicate Ariel. Do not approach Till thou dost hear me call.

ARIEL. Well, I conceive.

[_Exit._]

PROSPERO. Look thou be true; do not give dalliance Too much the rein: the strongest oaths are straw To th’ fire i’ the blood: be more abstemious, Or else good night your vow!

FERDINAND. I warrant you, sir; The white cold virgin snow upon my heart Abates the ardour of my liver.

PROSPERO. Well. Now come, my Ariel! bring a corollary, Rather than want a spirit: appear, and pertly. No tongue! all eyes! be silent.

[_Soft music._]

A Masque. Enter Iris.

IRIS. Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas Of wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats, and peas; Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep, And flat meads thatch’d with stover, them to keep; Thy banks with pioned and twilled brims, Which spongy April at thy hest betrims, To make cold nymphs chaste crowns; and thy broom groves, Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves, Being lass-lorn; thy pole-clipt vineyard; And thy sea-marge, sterile and rocky-hard, Where thou thyself dost air: the Queen o’ th’ sky, Whose wat’ry arch and messenger am I, Bids thee leave these; and with her sovereign grace, Here on this grass-plot, in this very place, To come and sport; her peacocks fly amain: Approach, rich Ceres, her to entertain.

Enter Ceres.

CERES. Hail, many-colour’d messenger, that ne’er Dost disobey the wife of Jupiter; Who with thy saffron wings upon my flowers Diffusest honey drops, refreshing showers; And with each end of thy blue bow dost crown My bosky acres and my unshrubb’d down, Rich scarf to my proud earth; why hath thy queen Summon’d me hither to this short-grass’d green?

IRIS. A contract of true love to celebrate, And some donation freely to estate On the blest lovers.

CERES. Tell me, heavenly bow, If Venus or her son, as thou dost know, Do now attend the queen? Since they did plot The means that dusky Dis my daughter got, Her and her blind boy’s scandal’d company I have forsworn.

IRIS. Of her society Be not afraid. I met her deity Cutting the clouds towards Paphos, and her son Dove-drawn with her. Here thought they to have done Some wanton charm upon this man and maid, Whose vows are, that no bed-right shall be paid Till Hymen’s torch be lighted; but in vain. Mars’s hot minion is return’d again; Her waspish-headed son has broke his arrows, Swears he will shoot no more, but play with sparrows, And be a boy right out.

CERES. Highest queen of State, Great Juno comes; I know her by her gait.

Enter Juno.

JUNO. How does my bounteous sister? Go with me To bless this twain, that they may prosperous be, And honour’d in their issue.

[_They sing._]

JUNO. _Honour, riches, marriage-blessing, Long continuance, and increasing, Hourly joys be still upon you! Juno sings her blessings on you._

CERES. _Earth’s increase, foison plenty, Barns and garners never empty; Vines with clust’ring bunches growing; Plants with goodly burden bowing; Spring come to you at the farthest In the very end of harvest! Scarcity and want shall shun you; Ceres’ blessing so is on you._

FERDINAND. This is a most majestic vision, and Harmonious charmingly. May I be bold To think these spirits?

PROSPERO. Spirits, which by mine art I have from their confines call’d to enact My present fancies.

FERDINAND. Let me live here ever. So rare a wonder’d father and a wise, Makes this place Paradise.

[_Juno and Ceres whisper, and send Iris on employment._]

PROSPERO. Sweet now, silence! Juno and Ceres whisper seriously, There’s something else to do: hush, and be mute, Or else our spell is marr’d.

IRIS. You nymphs, call’d Naiads, of the windring brooks, With your sedg’d crowns and ever-harmless looks, Leave your crisp channels, and on this green land Answer your summons; Juno does command. Come, temperate nymphs, and help to celebrate A contract of true love. Be not too late.

Enter certain Nymphs.

You sun-burn’d sicklemen, of August weary, Come hither from the furrow, and be merry: Make holiday: your rye-straw hats put on, And these fresh nymphs encounter every one In country footing.

Enter certain Reapers, properly habited: they join with the Nymphs in a graceful dance; towards the end whereof Prospero starts suddenly, and speaks; after which, to a strange, hollow, and confused noise, they heavily vanish.

PROSPERO. [_Aside._] I had forgot that foul conspiracy Of the beast Caliban and his confederates Against my life: the minute of their plot Is almost come. [_To the Spirits._] Well done! avoid; no more!

FERDINAND. This is strange: your father’s in some passion That works him strongly.

MIRANDA. Never till this day Saw I him touch’d with anger so distemper’d.

PROSPERO. You do look, my son, in a mov’d sort, As if you were dismay’d: be cheerful, sir: Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits and Are melted into air, into thin air: And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep. Sir, I am vex’d: Bear with my weakness; my old brain is troubled. Be not disturb’d with my infirmity. If you be pleas’d, retire into my cell And there repose: a turn or two I’ll walk, To still my beating mind.

FERDINAND, MIRANDA. We wish your peace.

[_Exeunt._]

PROSPERO. Come, with a thought. I thank thee, Ariel. Come!

Enter Ariel.

ARIEL. Thy thoughts I cleave to. What’s thy pleasure?

PROSPERO. Spirit, We must prepare to meet with Caliban.

ARIEL. Ay, my commander. When I presented Ceres, I thought to have told thee of it; but I fear’d Lest I might anger thee.

PROSPERO. Say again, where didst thou leave these varlets?

ARIEL. I told you, sir, they were red-hot with drinking; So full of valour that they smote the air For breathing in their faces; beat the ground For kissing of their feet; yet always bending Towards their project. Then I beat my tabor; At which, like unback’d colts, they prick’d their ears, Advanc’d their eyelids, lifted up their noses As they smelt music: so I charm’d their ears, That calf-like they my lowing follow’d through Tooth’d briers, sharp furzes, pricking goss, and thorns, Which enter’d their frail shins: at last I left them I’ th’ filthy-mantled pool beyond your cell, There dancing up to th’ chins, that the foul lake O’erstunk their feet.

PROSPERO. This was well done, my bird. Thy shape invisible retain thou still: The trumpery in my house, go bring it hither For stale to catch these thieves.

ARIEL. I go, I go.

[_Exit._]

PROSPERO. A devil, a born devil, on whose nature Nurture can never stick; on whom my pains, Humanely taken, all, all lost, quite lost; And as with age his body uglier grows, So his mind cankers. I will plague them all, Even to roaring.

Re-enter Ariel, loaden with glistering apparel, &c.

Come, hang them on this line.

Prospero and Ariel remain invisible. Enter Caliban, Stephano and Trinculo all wet.

CALIBAN. Pray you, tread softly, that the blind mole may not Hear a foot fall: we now are near his cell.

STEPHANO. Monster, your fairy, which you say is a harmless fairy, has done little better than played the Jack with us.

TRINCULO. Monster, I do smell all horse-piss; at which my nose is in great indignation.

STEPHANO. So is mine. Do you hear, monster? If I should take a displeasure against you, look you,—

TRINCULO. Thou wert but a lost monster.

CALIBAN. Good my lord, give me thy favour still. Be patient, for the prize I’ll bring thee to Shall hoodwink this mischance: therefore speak softly. All’s hush’d as midnight yet.

TRINCULO. Ay, but to lose our bottles in the pool!

STEPHANO. There is not only disgrace and dishonour in that, monster, but an infinite loss.

TRINCULO. That’s more to me than my wetting: yet this is your harmless fairy, monster.

STEPHANO. I will fetch off my bottle, though I be o’er ears for my labour.

CALIBAN. Prithee, my King, be quiet. Seest thou here, This is the mouth o’ th’ cell: no noise, and enter. Do that good mischief which may make this island Thine own for ever, and I, thy Caliban, For aye thy foot-licker.

STEPHANO. Give me thy hand. I do begin to have bloody thoughts.

TRINCULO. O King Stephano! O peer! O worthy Stephano! Look what a wardrobe here is for thee!

CALIBAN. Let it alone, thou fool; it is but trash.

TRINCULO. O, ho, monster! we know what belongs to a frippery. O King Stephano!

STEPHANO. Put off that gown, Trinculo; by this hand, I’ll have that gown.

TRINCULO. Thy Grace shall have it.

CALIBAN. The dropsy drown this fool! What do you mean To dote thus on such luggage? Let’t alone, And do the murder first. If he awake, From toe to crown he’ll fill our skins with pinches, Make us strange stuff.

STEPHANO. Be you quiet, monster. Mistress line, is not this my jerkin? Now is the jerkin under the line: now, jerkin, you are like to lose your hair, and prove a bald jerkin.

TRINCULO. Do, do: we steal by line and level, an’t like your Grace.

STEPHANO. I thank thee for that jest. Here’s a garment for ’t: wit shall not go unrewarded while I am King of this country. “Steal by line and level,” is an excellent pass of pate. There’s another garment for ’t.

TRINCULO. Monster, come, put some lime upon your fingers, and away with the rest.

CALIBAN. I will have none on’t. We shall lose our time, And all be turn’d to barnacles, or to apes With foreheads villainous low.

STEPHANO. Monster, lay-to your fingers: help to bear this away where my hogshead of wine is, or I’ll turn you out of my kingdom. Go to, carry this.

TRINCULO. And this.

STEPHANO. Ay, and this.

A noise of hunters heard. Enter divers Spirits, in shape of dogs and hounds, and hunt them about; Prospero and Ariel setting them on.

PROSPERO. Hey, Mountain, hey!

ARIEL. Silver! there it goes, Silver!

PROSPERO. Fury, Fury! There, Tyrant, there! hark, hark!

[_Caliban, Stephano and Trinculo are driven out._]

Go, charge my goblins that they grind their joints With dry convulsions; shorten up their sinews With aged cramps, and more pinch-spotted make them Than pard, or cat o’ mountain.

ARIEL. Hark, they roar.

PROSPERO. Let them be hunted soundly. At this hour Lies at my mercy all mine enemies. Shortly shall all my labours end, and thou Shalt have the air at freedom. For a little Follow, and do me service.

[_Exeunt._]

## ACT V

## SCENE I. Before the cell of Prospero.

Enter Prospero in his magic robes, and Ariel.

PROSPERO. Now does my project gather to a head: My charms crack not; my spirits obey, and time Goes upright with his carriage. How’s the day?

ARIEL. On the sixth hour; at which time, my lord, You said our work should cease.

PROSPERO. I did say so, When first I rais’d the tempest. Say, my spirit, How fares the King and ’s followers?

ARIEL. Confin’d together In the same fashion as you gave in charge, Just as you left them; all prisoners, sir, In the line grove which weather-fends your cell; They cannot budge till your release. The King, His brother, and yours, abide all three distracted, And the remainder mourning over them, Brimful of sorrow and dismay; but chiefly Him you term’d, sir, “the good old lord, Gonzalo”. His tears run down his beard, like winter’s drops From eaves of reeds; your charm so strongly works ’em, That if you now beheld them, your affections Would become tender.

PROSPERO. Dost thou think so, spirit?

ARIEL. Mine would, sir, were I human.

PROSPERO. And mine shall. Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling Of their afflictions, and shall not myself, One of their kind, that relish all as sharply Passion as they, be kindlier mov’d than thou art? Though with their high wrongs I am struck to th’ quick, Yet with my nobler reason ’gainst my fury Do I take part: the rarer action is In virtue than in vengeance: they being penitent, The sole drift of my purpose doth extend Not a frown further. Go release them, Ariel. My charms I’ll break, their senses I’ll restore, And they shall be themselves.

ARIEL. I’ll fetch them, sir.

[_Exit._]

PROSPERO. Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves; And ye that on the sands with printless foot Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him When he comes back; you demi-puppets that By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make, Whereof the ewe not bites; and you whose pastime Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid, Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm’d The noontide sun, call’d forth the mutinous winds, And ’twixt the green sea and the azur’d vault Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder Have I given fire, and rifted Jove’s stout oak With his own bolt; the strong-bas’d promontory Have I made shake, and by the spurs pluck’d up The pine and cedar: graves at my command Have wak’d their sleepers, op’d, and let ’em forth By my so potent art. But this rough magic I here abjure; and, when I have requir’d Some heavenly music,—which even now I do,— To work mine end upon their senses that This airy charm is for, I’ll break my staff, Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, And deeper than did ever plummet sound I’ll drown my book.

[_Solemn music._]

Re-enter Ariel: after him, Alonso with a frantic gesture, attended by Gonzalo, Sebastian and Antonio in like manner, attended by Adrian and Francisco: they all enter the circle which Prospero had made, and there stand charmed; which Prospero observing, speaks.

A solemn air, and the best comforter To an unsettled fancy, cure thy brains, Now useless, boil’d within thy skull! There stand, For you are spell-stopp’d. Holy Gonzalo, honourable man, Mine eyes, e’en sociable to the show of thine, Fall fellowly drops. The charm dissolves apace; And as the morning steals upon the night, Melting the darkness, so their rising senses Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle Their clearer reason. O good Gonzalo! My true preserver, and a loyal sir To him thou follow’st, I will pay thy graces Home, both in word and deed. Most cruelly Didst thou, Alonso, use me and my daughter: Thy brother was a furtherer in the act. Thou art pinch’d for ’t now, Sebastian. Flesh and blood, You, brother mine, that entertain’d ambition, Expell’d remorse and nature, who, with Sebastian,— Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong, Would here have kill’d your King; I do forgive thee, Unnatural though thou art. Their understanding Begins to swell, and the approaching tide Will shortly fill the reasonable shores That now lie foul and muddy. Not one of them That yet looks on me, or would know me. Ariel, Fetch me the hat and rapier in my cell.

[_Exit Ariel._]

I will discase me, and myself present As I was sometime Milan. Quickly, spirit; Thou shalt ere long be free.

Ariel re-enters, singing, and helps to attire Prospero.

ARIEL _Where the bee sucks, there suck I: In a cowslip’s bell I lie; There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat’s back I do fly After summer merrily. Merrily, merrily shall I live now Under the blossom that hangs on the bough._

PROSPERO. Why, that’s my dainty Ariel! I shall miss thee; But yet thou shalt have freedom; so, so, so. To the King’s ship, invisible as thou art: There shalt thou find the mariners asleep Under the hatches; the master and the boatswain Being awake, enforce them to this place, And presently, I prithee.

ARIEL. I drink the air before me, and return Or ere your pulse twice beat.

[_Exit._]

GONZALO. All torment, trouble, wonder and amazement Inhabits here. Some heavenly power guide us Out of this fearful country!

PROSPERO. Behold, sir King, The wronged Duke of Milan, Prospero. For more assurance that a living prince Does now speak to thee, I embrace thy body; And to thee and thy company I bid A hearty welcome.

ALONSO. Whe’er thou be’st he or no, Or some enchanted trifle to abuse me, As late I have been, I not know: thy pulse Beats, as of flesh and blood; and, since I saw thee, Th’ affliction of my mind amends, with which, I fear, a madness held me: this must crave, An if this be at all, a most strange story. Thy dukedom I resign, and do entreat Thou pardon me my wrongs. But how should Prospero Be living and be here?

PROSPERO. First, noble friend, Let me embrace thine age, whose honour cannot Be measur’d or confin’d.

GONZALO. Whether this be Or be not, I’ll not swear.

PROSPERO. You do yet taste Some subtleties o’ the isle, that will not let you Believe things certain. Welcome, my friends all. [_Aside to Sebastian and Antonio._] But you, my brace of lords, were I so minded, I here could pluck his highness’ frown upon you, And justify you traitors: at this time I will tell no tales.

SEBASTIAN. [_Aside._] The devil speaks in him.

PROSPERO. No. For you, most wicked sir, whom to call brother Would even infect my mouth, I do forgive Thy rankest fault, all of them; and require My dukedom of thee, which perforce I know Thou must restore.

ALONSO. If thou beest Prospero, Give us particulars of thy preservation; How thou hast met us here, whom three hours since Were wrack’d upon this shore; where I have lost,— How sharp the point of this remembrance is!— My dear son Ferdinand.

PROSPERO. I am woe for ’t, sir.

ALONSO. Irreparable is the loss, and patience Says it is past her cure.

PROSPERO. I rather think You have not sought her help, of whose soft grace, For the like loss I have her sovereign aid, And rest myself content.

ALONSO. You the like loss!

PROSPERO. As great to me, as late; and, supportable To make the dear loss, have I means much weaker Than you may call to comfort you, for I Have lost my daughter.

ALONSO. A daughter? O heavens, that they were living both in Naples, The King and Queen there! That they were, I wish Myself were mudded in that oozy bed Where my son lies. When did you lose your daughter?

PROSPERO. In this last tempest. I perceive, these lords At this encounter do so much admire That they devour their reason, and scarce think Their eyes do offices of truth, their words Are natural breath; but, howsoe’er you have Been justled from your senses, know for certain That I am Prospero, and that very duke Which was thrust forth of Milan; who most strangely Upon this shore, where you were wrack’d, was landed To be the lord on’t. No more yet of this; For ’tis a chronicle of day by day, Not a relation for a breakfast nor Befitting this first meeting. Welcome, sir. This cell’s my court: here have I few attendants, And subjects none abroad: pray you, look in. My dukedom since you have given me again, I will requite you with as good a thing; At least bring forth a wonder, to content ye As much as me my dukedom.

Here Prospero discovers Ferdinand and Miranda playing at chess.

MIRANDA. Sweet lord, you play me false.

FERDINAND. No, my dearest love, I would not for the world.

MIRANDA. Yes, for a score of kingdoms you should wrangle, And I would call it fair play.

ALONSO. If this prove A vision of the island, one dear son Shall I twice lose.

SEBASTIAN. A most high miracle!

FERDINAND. Though the seas threaten, they are merciful. I have curs’d them without cause.

[_Kneels to Alonso._]

ALONSO. Now all the blessings Of a glad father compass thee about! Arise, and say how thou cam’st here.

MIRANDA. O, wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world That has such people in ’t!

PROSPERO. ’Tis new to thee.

ALONSO. What is this maid, with whom thou wast at play? Your eld’st acquaintance cannot be three hours: Is she the goddess that hath sever’d us, And brought us thus together?

FERDINAND. Sir, she is mortal; But by immortal Providence she’s mine. I chose her when I could not ask my father For his advice, nor thought I had one. She Is daughter to this famous Duke of Milan, Of whom so often I have heard renown, But never saw before; of whom I have Receiv’d a second life; and second father This lady makes him to me.

ALONSO. I am hers: But, O, how oddly will it sound that I Must ask my child forgiveness!

PROSPERO. There, sir, stop: Let us not burden our remembrances with A heaviness that’s gone.

GONZALO. I have inly wept, Or should have spoke ere this. Look down, you gods, And on this couple drop a blessed crown; For it is you that have chalk’d forth the way Which brought us hither.

ALONSO. I say, Amen, Gonzalo!

GONZALO. Was Milan thrust from Milan, that his issue Should become Kings of Naples? O, rejoice Beyond a common joy, and set it down With gold on lasting pillars: in one voyage Did Claribel her husband find at Tunis, And Ferdinand, her brother, found a wife Where he himself was lost; Prospero his dukedom In a poor isle; and all of us ourselves, When no man was his own.

ALONSO. [_To Ferdinand and Miranda._] Give me your hands: Let grief and sorrow still embrace his heart That doth not wish you joy!

GONZALO. Be it so. Amen!

Re-enter Ariel with the Master and Boatswain amazedly following.

O look, sir, look, sir! Here are more of us. I prophesied, if a gallows were on land, This fellow could not drown. Now, blasphemy, That swear’st grace o’erboard, not an oath on shore? Hast thou no mouth by land? What is the news?

BOATSWAIN. The best news is that we have safely found Our King and company. The next, our ship,— Which but three glasses since, we gave out split, Is tight and yare, and bravely rigg’d as when We first put out to sea.

ARIEL. [_Aside to Prospero._] Sir, all this service Have I done since I went.

PROSPERO. [_Aside to Ariel._] My tricksy spirit!

ALONSO. These are not natural events; they strengthen From strange to stranger. Say, how came you hither?

BOATSWAIN. If I did think, sir, I were well awake, I’d strive to tell you. We were dead of sleep, And,—how, we know not,—all clapp’d under hatches, Where, but even now, with strange and several noises Of roaring, shrieking, howling, jingling chains, And mo diversity of sounds, all horrible, We were awak’d; straightway, at liberty: Where we, in all her trim, freshly beheld Our royal, good, and gallant ship; our master Cap’ring to eye her. On a trice, so please you, Even in a dream, were we divided from them, And were brought moping hither.

ARIEL. [_Aside to Prospero._] Was’t well done?

PROSPERO. [_Aside to Ariel._] Bravely, my diligence. Thou shalt be free.

ALONSO. This is as strange a maze as e’er men trod; And there is in this business more than nature Was ever conduct of: some oracle Must rectify our knowledge.

PROSPERO. Sir, my liege, Do not infest your mind with beating on The strangeness of this business. At pick’d leisure, Which shall be shortly, single I’ll resolve you, Which to you shall seem probable, of every These happen’d accidents; till when, be cheerful And think of each thing well. [_Aside to Ariel._] Come hither, spirit; Set Caliban and his companions free; Untie the spell.

[_Exit Ariel._]

How fares my gracious sir? There are yet missing of your company Some few odd lads that you remember not.

Re-enter Ariel driving in Caliban, Stephano and Trinculo in their stolen apparel.

STEPHANO. Every man shift for all the rest, and let no man take care for himself, for all is but fortune.—Coragio! bully-monster, coragio!

TRINCULO. If these be true spies which I wear in my head, here’s a goodly sight.

CALIBAN. O Setebos, these be brave spirits indeed. How fine my master is! I am afraid He will chastise me.

SEBASTIAN. Ha, ha! What things are these, my lord Antonio? Will money buy them?

ANTONIO. Very like; one of them Is a plain fish, and, no doubt, marketable.

PROSPERO. Mark but the badges of these men, my lords, Then say if they be true. This mis-shapen knave, His mother was a witch; and one so strong That could control the moon, make flows and ebbs, And deal in her command without her power. These three have robb’d me; and this demi-devil, For he’s a bastard one, had plotted with them To take my life. Two of these fellows you Must know and own; this thing of darkness I Acknowledge mine.

CALIBAN. I shall be pinch’d to death.

ALONSO. Is not this Stephano, my drunken butler?

SEBASTIAN. He is drunk now: where had he wine?

ALONSO. And Trinculo is reeling-ripe: where should they Find this grand liquor that hath gilded ’em? How cam’st thou in this pickle?

TRINCULO. I have been in such a pickle since I saw you last that, I fear me, will never out of my bones. I shall not fear fly-blowing.

SEBASTIAN. Why, how now, Stephano!

STEPHANO. O! touch me not. I am not Stephano, but a cramp.

PROSPERO. You’d be King o’ the isle, sirrah?

STEPHANO. I should have been a sore one, then.

ALONSO. This is as strange a thing as e’er I look’d on.

[_Pointing to Caliban._]

PROSPERO. He is as disproportioned in his manners As in his shape. Go, sirrah, to my cell; Take with you your companions. As you look To have my pardon, trim it handsomely.

CALIBAN. Ay, that I will; and I’ll be wise hereafter, And seek for grace. What a thrice-double ass Was I, to take this drunkard for a god, And worship this dull fool!

PROSPERO. Go to; away!

ALONSO. Hence, and bestow your luggage where you found it.

SEBASTIAN. Or stole it, rather.

[_Exeunt Caliban, Stephano and Trinculo._]

PROSPERO. Sir, I invite your Highness and your train To my poor cell, where you shall take your rest For this one night; which, part of it, I’ll waste With such discourse as, I not doubt, shall make it Go quick away: the story of my life And the particular accidents gone by Since I came to this isle: and in the morn I’ll bring you to your ship, and so to Naples, Where I have hope to see the nuptial Of these our dear-belov’d solemnized; And thence retire me to my Milan, where Every third thought shall be my grave.

ALONSO. I long To hear the story of your life, which must Take the ear strangely.

PROSPERO. I’ll deliver all; And promise you calm seas, auspicious gales, And sail so expeditious that shall catch Your royal fleet far off. [_Aside to Ariel._] My Ariel, chick, That is thy charge: then to the elements Be free, and fare thou well! Please you, draw near.

[_Exeunt._]

EPILOGUE

PROSPERO. Now my charms are all o’erthrown, And what strength I have’s mine own, Which is most faint. Now ’tis true, I must be here confin’d by you, Or sent to Naples. Let me not, Since I have my dukedom got, And pardon’d the deceiver, dwell In this bare island by your spell, But release me from my bands With the help of your good hands. Gentle breath of yours my sails Must fill, or else my project fails, Which was to please. Now I want Spirits to enforce, art to enchant; And my ending is despair, Unless I be reliev’d by prayer, Which pierces so that it assaults Mercy itself, and frees all faults. As you from crimes would pardon’d be, Let your indulgence set me free.

[_Exit._]

THE LIFE OF TIMON OF ATHENS

Contents

## ACT I

## Scene I. Athens. A hall in Timon’s house

## Scene II. The Same. A room of state in Timon’s house

## ACT II

## Scene I. Athens. A room in a senator’s house

## Scene II. The same. A hall in Timon’s house

## ACT III

## Scene I. Athens. A room in Lucullus’ house

## Scene II. A public place

## Scene III. The same. A room in Sempronius’ house

## Scene IV. A hall in Timon’s house

## Scene V. The same. The senate house

## Scene VI. A room of state in Timon’s house

## ACT IV

## Scene I. Without the walls of Athens

## Scene II. Athens. A room in Timon’s house

## Scene III. Woods and caves near the sea-shore

## ACT V

## Scene I. The woods. Before Timon’s cave

## Scene III. The same

## Scene III. Before the walls of Athens

## Scene IV. The woods. Timon’s cave, and a rude tomb seen

## Scene V. Before the walls of Athens

Dramatis Personæ

TIMON, a noble Athenian FLAVIUS, steward to Timon FLAMINIUS, servant to Timon LUCILIUS, servant to Timon SERVILIUS, servant to Timon

APEMANTUS, a churlish philosopher ALCIBIADES, an Athenian captain PHRYNIA, mistress to Alcibiades TIMANDRA, mistress to Alcibiades

LUCIUS, friend of Timon LUCULLUS, friend of Timon SEMPRONIUS, friend of Timon VENTIDIUS, friend of Timon

CAPHIS, servant of Timon’s creditors SERVANT of Isidore Two SERVANTS of Varro TITUS, servant of Timon’s creditors HORTENSIUS, servant of Timon’s creditors LUCIUS, servant of Timon’s creditors PHILOTUS, servant of Timon’s creditors

LORDS and SENATORS of Athens Three STRANGERS, one called HOSTILIUS An OLD ATHENIAN POET PAINTER JEWELLER MERCHANT A FOOL A PAGE

CUPID and Amazons in the Masque

BANDITTI

Officers, Soldiers, Servants, Thieves, Messengers and Attendants

SCENE. Athens, and the neighbouring woods

## ACT I

## SCENE I. Athens. A hall in Timon’s house

Enter Poet, Painter, Jeweller and Merchant at several doors.

POET. Good day, sir.

PAINTER. I am glad you’re well.

POET. I have not seen you long. How goes the world?

PAINTER. It wears, sir, as it grows.

POET. Ay, that’s well known. But what particular rarity? What strange, Which manifold record not matches? See, Magic of bounty, all these spirits thy power Hath conjured to attend! I know the merchant.

PAINTER. I know them both. Th’ other’s a jeweller.

MERCHANT. O, ’tis a worthy lord!

JEWELLER. Nay, that’s most fixed.

MERCHANT. A most incomparable man, breathed, as it were, To an untirable and continuate goodness. He passes.

JEWELLER. I have a jewel here—

MERCHANT. O, pray let’s see’t. For the Lord Timon, sir?

JEWELLER. If he will touch the estimate. But for that—

POET. When we for recompense have praised the vile, It stains the glory in that happy verse Which aptly sings the good.

MERCHANT. [_Looking at the jewel_.] ’Tis a good form.

JEWELLER. And rich. Here is a water, look ye.

PAINTER. You are rapt, sir, in some work, some dedication To the great lord.

POET. A thing slipped idly from me. Our poesy is as a gum which oozes From whence ’tis nourished. The fire i’ th’ flint Shows not till it be struck; our gentle flame Provokes itself and, like the current, flies Each bound it chases. What have you there?

PAINTER. A picture, sir. When comes your book forth?

POET. Upon the heels of my presentment, sir. Let’s see your piece.

PAINTER. ’Tis a good piece.

POET. So ’tis. This comes off well and excellent.

PAINTER. Indifferent.

POET. Admirable! How this grace Speaks his own standing! What a mental power This eye shoots forth! How big imagination Moves in this lip! To th’ dumbness of the gesture One might interpret.

PAINTER. It is a pretty mocking of the life. Here is a touch. Is’t good?

POET. I’ll say of it, It tutors nature. Artificial strife Lives in these touches livelier than life.

Enter certain Senators, who pass over the stage.

PAINTER. How this lord is followed!

POET. The senators of Athens, happy men!

PAINTER. Look, more!

POET. You see this confluence, this great flood of visitors. I have in this rough work shaped out a man Whom this beneath world doth embrace and hug With amplest entertainment. My free drift Halts not particularly, but moves itself In a wide sea of wax. No levelled malice Infects one comma in the course I hold, But flies an eagle flight, bold and forth on, Leaving no tract behind.

PAINTER. How shall I understand you?

POET. I will unbolt to you. You see how all conditions, how all minds, As well of glib and slipp’ry creatures as Of grave and austere quality, tender down Their services to Lord Timon. His large fortune, Upon his good and gracious nature hanging, Subdues and properties to his love and tendance All sorts of hearts; yea, from the glass-faced flatterer To Apemantus, that few things loves better Than to abhor himself; even he drops down The knee before him and returns in peace Most rich in Timon’s nod.

PAINTER. I saw them speak together.

POET. Sir, I have upon a high and pleasant hill Feigned Fortune to be throned. The base o’ th’ mount Is ranked with all deserts, all kind of natures That labour on the bosom of this sphere To propagate their states. Amongst them all Whose eyes are on this sovereign lady fixed, One do I personate of Lord Timon’s frame, Whom Fortune with her ivory hand wafts to her, Whose present grace to present slaves and servants Translates his rivals.

PAINTER. ’Tis conceived to scope. This throne, this Fortune, and this hill, methinks, With one man beckoned from the rest below, Bowing his head against the steepy mount To climb his happiness, would be well expressed In our condition.

POET. Nay, sir, but hear me on. All those which were his fellows but of late, Some better than his value, on the moment Follow his strides, his lobbies fill with tendance, Rain sacrificial whisperings in his ear, Make sacred even his stirrup, and through him Drink the free air.

PAINTER. Ay, marry, what of these?

POET. When Fortune in her shift and change of mood Spurns down her late beloved, all his dependants, Which laboured after him to the mountain’s top Even on their knees and hands, let him slip down, Not one accompanying his declining foot.

PAINTER. ’Tis common. A thousand moral paintings I can show That shall demonstrate these quick blows of Fortune’s More pregnantly than words. Yet you do well To show Lord Timon that mean eyes have seen The foot above the head.

Trumpets sound. Enter Lord Timon, addressing himself courteously to every suitor. He is accompanied by a Messenger; Lucilius and other servants follow.

TIMON. Imprisoned is he, say you?

MESSENGER. Ay, my good lord. Five talents is his debt, His means most short, his creditors most strait. Your honourable letter he desires To those have shut him up, which, failing, Periods his comfort.

TIMON. Noble Ventidius. Well, I am not of that feather to shake off My friend when he must need me. I do know him A gentleman that well deserves a help, Which he shall have. I’ll pay the debt and free him.

MESSENGER. Your lordship ever binds him.

TIMON. Commend me to him, I will send his ransom; And, being enfranchised, bid him come to me. ’Tis not enough to help the feeble up, But to support him after. Fare you well.

MESSENGER. All happiness to your honour.

[_Exit._]

Enter an Old Athenian.

OLD ATHENIAN. Lord Timon, hear me speak.

TIMON. Freely, good father.

OLD ATHENIAN. Thou hast a servant named Lucilius.

TIMON. I have so. What of him?

OLD ATHENIAN. Most noble Timon, call the man before thee.

TIMON. Attends he here or no? Lucilius!

LUCILIUS. Here, at your lordship’s service.

OLD ATHENIAN. This fellow here, Lord Timon, this thy creature, By night frequents my house. I am a man That from my first have been inclined to thrift, And my estate deserves an heir more raised Than one which holds a trencher.

TIMON. Well, what further?

OLD ATHENIAN. One only daughter have I, no kin else, On whom I may confer what I have got. The maid is fair, o’ th’ youngest for a bride, And I have bred her at my dearest cost In qualities of the best. This man of thine Attempts her love. I prithee, noble lord, Join with me to forbid him her resort; Myself have spoke in vain.

TIMON. The man is honest.

OLD ATHENIAN. Therefore he will be, Timon. His honesty rewards him in itself; It must not bear my daughter.

TIMON. Does she love him?

OLD ATHENIAN. She is young and apt. Our own precedent passions do instruct us What levity’s in youth.

TIMON. [_To Lucilius_.] Love you the maid?

LUCILIUS. Ay, my good lord, and she accepts of it.

OLD ATHENIAN. If in her marriage my consent be missing, I call the gods to witness, I will choose Mine heir from forth the beggars of the world And dispossess her all.

TIMON. How shall she be endowed, If she be mated with an equal husband?

OLD ATHENIAN. Three talents on the present; in future, all.

TIMON. This gentleman of mine hath served me long. To build his fortune I will strain a little, For ’tis a bond in men. Give him thy daughter. What you bestow, in him I’ll counterpoise, And make him weigh with her.

OLD ATHENIAN. Most noble lord, Pawn me to this your honour, she is his.

TIMON. My hand to thee; mine honour on my promise.

LUCILIUS. Humbly I thank your lordship. Never may That state or fortune fall into my keeping Which is not owed to you.

[_Exeunt Lucilius and Old Athenian._]

POET. [_Presenting his poem_.] Vouchsafe my labour, and long live your lordship.

TIMON. I thank you, you shall hear from me anon. Go not away.—What have you there, my friend?

PAINTER. A piece of painting, which I do beseech Your lordship to accept.

TIMON. Painting is welcome. The painting is almost the natural man, For since dishonour traffics with man’s nature, He is but outside; these pencilled figures are Even such as they give out. I like your work, And you shall find I like it. Wait attendance Till you hear further from me.

PAINTER. The gods preserve you.

TIMON. Well fare you, gentleman. Give me your hand. We must needs dine together. Sir, your jewel Hath suffered under praise.

JEWELLER. What, my lord, dispraise?

TIMON. A mere satiety of commendations. If I should pay you for ’t as ’tis extolled, It would unclew me quite.

JEWELLER. My lord, ’tis rated As those which sell would give. But you well know Things of like value, differing in the owners, Are prized by their masters. Believe’t, dear lord, You mend the jewel by the wearing it.

TIMON. Well mocked.

MERCHANT. No, my good lord, he speaks the common tongue, Which all men speak with him.

Enter Apemantus.

TIMON. Look who comes here. Will you be chid?

JEWELLER. We’ll bear, with your lordship.

MERCHANT. He’ll spare none.

TIMON. Good morrow to thee, gentle Apemantus.

APEMANTUS. Till I be gentle, stay thou for thy good morrow— When thou art Timon’s dog, and these knaves honest.

TIMON. Why dost thou call them knaves? Thou know’st them not.

APEMANTUS. Are they not Athenians?

TIMON. Yes.

APEMANTUS. Then I repent not.

JEWELLER. You know me, Apemantus?

APEMANTUS. Thou know’st I do, I called thee by thy name.

TIMON. Thou art proud, Apemantus.

APEMANTUS. Of nothing so much as that I am not like Timon.

TIMON. Whither art going?

APEMANTUS. To knock out an honest Athenian’s brains.

TIMON. That’s a deed thou’lt die for.

APEMANTUS. Right, if doing nothing be death by th’ law.

TIMON. How lik’st thou this picture, Apemantus?

APEMANTUS. The best, for the innocence.

TIMON. Wrought he not well that painted it?

APEMANTUS. He wrought better that made the painter, and yet he’s but a filthy piece of work.

PAINTER. You’re a dog.

APEMANTUS. Thy mother’s of my generation. What’s she, if I be a dog?

TIMON. Wilt dine with me, Apemantus?

APEMANTUS. No, I eat not lords.

TIMON. An thou shouldst, thou’dst anger ladies.

APEMANTUS. O, they eat lords. So they come by great bellies.

TIMON. That’s a lascivious apprehension.

APEMANTUS. So thou apprehend’st it, take it for thy labour.

TIMON. How dost thou like this jewel, Apemantus?

APEMANTUS. Not so well as plain-dealing, which will not cost a man a doit.

TIMON. What dost thou think ’tis worth?

APEMANTUS. Not worth my thinking. How now, poet?

POET. How now, philosopher?

APEMANTUS. Thou liest.

POET. Art not one?

APEMANTUS. Yes.

POET. Then I lie not.

APEMANTUS. Art not a poet?

POET. Yes.

APEMANTUS. Then thou liest. Look in thy last work, where thou hast feigned him a worthy fellow.

POET. That’s not feigned, he is so.

APEMANTUS. Yes, he is worthy of thee, and to pay thee for thy labour. He that loves to be flattered is worthy o’ th’ flatterer. Heavens, that I were a lord!

TIMON. What wouldst do then, Apemantus?

APEMANTUS. E’en as Apemantus does now, hate a lord with my heart.

TIMON. What, thyself?

APEMANTUS. Ay.

TIMON. Wherefore?

APEMANTUS. That I had no angry wit to be a lord. Art not thou a merchant?

MERCHANT. Ay, Apemantus.

APEMANTUS. Traffic confound thee, if the gods will not.

MERCHANT. If traffic do it, the gods do it.

APEMANTUS. Traffic’s thy god, and thy god confound thee!

Trumpet sounds. Enter a Messenger.

TIMON. What trumpet’s that?

MESSENGER. ’Tis Alcibiades, and some twenty horse, All of companionship.

TIMON. Pray entertain them, give them guide to us.

[_Exeunt some Attendants._]

You must needs dine with me. Go not you hence Till I have thanked you; when dinner’s done, Show me this piece. I am joyful of your sights.

Enter Alcibiades with his company.

Most welcome, sir.

[_They bow to each other._]

APEMANTUS. [_Aside_.] So, so, there! Aches contract and starve your supple joints! That there should be small love amongst these sweet knaves, And all this courtesy! The strain of man’s bred out Into baboon and monkey.

ALCIBIADES. Sir, you have saved my longing, and I feed Most hungerly on your sight.

TIMON. Right welcome, sir! Ere we depart we’ll share a bounteous time In different pleasures. Pray you, let us in.

[_Exeunt all but Apemantus._]

Enter two Lords.

FIRST LORD. What time o’ day is’t, Apemantus?

APEMANTUS. Time to be honest.

FIRST LORD. That time serves still.

APEMANTUS. The more accursed thou, that still omitt’st it.

SECOND LORD. Thou art going to Lord Timon’s feast?

APEMANTUS. Ay, to see meat fill knaves and wine heat fools.

SECOND LORD. Fare thee well, fare thee well.

APEMANTUS. Thou art a fool to bid me farewell twice.

SECOND LORD. Why, Apemantus?

APEMANTUS. Shouldst have kept one to thyself, for I mean to give thee none.

FIRST LORD. Hang thyself!

APEMANTUS. No, I will do nothing at thy bidding. Make thy requests to thy friend.

SECOND LORD. Away, unpeaceable dog, or I’ll spurn thee hence.

APEMANTUS. I will fly, like a dog, the heels o’ th’ ass.

[_Exit._]

FIRST LORD. He’s opposite to humanity. Come, shall we in And taste Lord Timon’s bounty? He outgoes The very heart of kindness.

SECOND LORD. He pours it out; Plutus, the god of gold, Is but his steward. No meed but he repays Sevenfold above itself, no gift to him But breeds the giver a return exceeding All use of quittance.

FIRST LORD. The noblest mind he carries That ever governed man.

SECOND LORD. Long may he live in fortunes. Shall we in?

FIRST LORD. I’ll keep you company.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE II. The Same. A room of state in Timon’s house

Hautboys playing loud music. A great banquet served in, Flavius and others attending; and then enter Lord Timon, the Senators, the Athenian Lords, Alcibiades, and Ventidius, which Timon redeemded from prison. Then comes, dropping after all, Apemantus, discontentedly, like himself.

VENTIDIUS. Most honoured Timon, It hath pleased the gods to remember my father’s age And call him to long peace. He is gone happy and has left me rich. Then, as in grateful virtue I am bound To your free heart, I do return those talents, Doubled with thanks and service, from whose help I derived liberty.

TIMON. O, by no means, Honest Ventidius. You mistake my love. I gave it freely ever, and there’s none Can truly say he gives if he receives. If our betters play at that game, we must not dare To imitate them; faults that are rich are fair.

VENTIDIUS. A noble spirit!

TIMON. Nay, my lords, ceremony was but devised at first To set a gloss on faint deeds, hollow welcomes, Recanting goodness, sorry ere ’tis shown; But where there is true friendship there needs none. Pray, sit, more welcome are ye to my fortunes Than my fortunes to me.

[_They sit._]

FIRST LORD. My lord, we always have confessed it.

APEMANTUS. Ho, ho, confessed it? Hanged it, have you not?

TIMON. O Apemantus, you are welcome.

APEMANTUS. No, You shall not make me welcome. I come to have thee thrust me out of doors.

TIMON. Fie, thou’rt a churl, ye’ve got a humour there Does not become a man; ’tis much to blame. They say, my lords, _ira furor brevis est_, But yond man is ever angry. Go, let him have a table by himself, For he does neither affect company, Nor is he fit for it indeed.

APEMANTUS. Let me stay at thine apperil, Timon. I come to observe; I give thee warning on’t.

TIMON. I take no heed of thee. Thou’rt an Athenian, therefore, welcome. I myself would have no power; prithee; let my meat make thee silent.

APEMANTUS. I scorn thy meat, ’twould choke me, for I should ne’er flatter thee. O you gods, what a number of men eats Timon, and he sees ’em not! It grieves me to see so many dip their meat in one man’s blood; and all the madness is, he cheers them up too. I wonder men dare trust themselves with men. Methinks they should invite them without knives. Good for their meat, and safer for their lives. There’s much example for ’t. The fellow that sits next him, now parts bread with him, pledges the breath of him in a divided draft, is the readiest man to kill him. ’T has been proved. If I were a huge man, I should fear to drink at meals, Lest they should spy my wind-pipe’s dangerous notes. Great men should drink with harness on their throats.

TIMON. My lord, in heart, and let the health go round.

SECOND LORD. Let it flow this way, my good lord.

APEMANTUS. Flow this way? A brave fellow! He keeps his tides well. Those healths will make thee and thy state look ill, Timon. Here’s that which is too weak to be a sinner, Honest water, which ne’er left man i’ the mire. This and my food are equals, there’s no odds. Feasts are too proud to give thanks to the gods.

_Apemantus’ grace_

Immortal gods, I crave no pelf, I pray for no man but myself. Grant I may never prove so fond To trust man on his oath or bond, Or a harlot for her weeping, Or a dog that seems a-sleeping, Or a keeper with my freedom, Or my friends if I should need ’em. Amen. So fall to’t. Rich men sin, and I eat root.

[_He eats and drinks._]

Much good dich thy good heart, Apemantus!

TIMON. Captain Alcibiades, your heart’s in the field now.

ALCIBIADES. My heart is ever at your service, my lord.

TIMON. You had rather be at a breakfast of enemies than a dinner of friends.

ALCIBIADES. So they were bleeding new, my lord, there’s no meat like ’em. I could wish my best friend at such a feast.

APEMANTUS. Would all those flatterers were thine enemies then, that then thou mightst kill ’em, and bid me to ’em.

FIRST LORD. Might we but have that happiness, my lord, that you would once use our hearts, whereby we might express some part of our zeals, we should think ourselves for ever perfect.

TIMON. O, no doubt, my good friends, but the gods themselves have provided that I shall have much help from you. How had you been my friends else? Why have you that charitable title from thousands, did not you chiefly belong to my heart? I have told more of you to myself than you can with modesty speak in your own behalf. And thus far I confirm you. O you gods, think I, what need we have any friends if we should ne’er have need of ’em? They were the most needless creatures living, should we ne’er have use for ’em, and would most resemble sweet instruments hung up in cases, that keep their sounds to themselves. Why, I have often wished myself poorer that I might come nearer to you. We are born to do benefits, and what better or properer can we call our own than the riches of our friends? O, what a precious comfort ’tis to have so many, like brothers, commanding one another’s fortunes. O joy’s e’en made away ere’t can be born! Mine eyes cannot hold out water, methinks. To forget their faults, I drink to you.

APEMANTUS. Thou weep’st to make them drink, Timon.

SECOND LORD. Joy had the like conception in our eyes And, at that instant like a babe sprung up.

APEMANTUS. Ho, ho! I laugh to think that babe a bastard.

THIRD LORD. I promise you, my lord, you moved me much.

APEMANTUS. Much!

[_A tucket sounds._]

TIMON. What means that trump?

Enter a Servant.

How now?

SERVANT. Please you, my lord, there are certain ladies most desirous of admittance.

TIMON. Ladies? What are their wills?

SERVANT. There comes with them a forerunner, my lord, which bears that office, to signify their pleasures.

TIMON. I pray, let them be admitted.

[_Exit Servant._]

Enter Cupid.

CUPID. Hail to thee, worthy Timon, and to all That of his bounties taste! The five best senses Acknowledge thee their patron and come freely To gratulate thy plenteous bosom. There Taste, touch, all, pleased from thy table rise; They only now come but to feast thine eyes.

TIMON. They’re welcome all, let ’em have kind admittance. Music, make their welcome!

FIRST LORD. You see, my lord, how ample you’re beloved.

Music. Enter a masque of Ladies as Amazons, with lutes in their hands, dancing and playing.

APEMANTUS. Hoy-day! What a sweep of vanity comes this way. They dance? They are madwomen. Like madness is the glory of this life, As this pomp shows to a little oil and root. We make ourselves fools to disport ourselves, And spend our flatteries to drink those men Upon whose age we void it up again With poisonous spite and envy. Who lives that’s not depraved or depraves? Who dies that bears not one spurn to their graves Of their friend’s gift? I should fear those that dance before me now Would one day stamp upon me. ’T has been done. Men shut their doors against a setting sun.

[_The Lords rise from table, with much adoring of Timon, and to show their loves each singles out an Amazon, and all dance, men with women, a lofty strain or two to the hautboys, and cease._]

TIMON. You have done our pleasures much grace, fair ladies, Set a fair fashion on our entertainment, Which was not half so beautiful and kind. You have added worth unto ’t and lustre, And entertained me with mine own device. I am to thank you for ’t.

FIRST LADY. My lord, you take us even at the best.

APEMANTUS. Faith, for the worst is filthy and would not hold taking, I doubt me.

TIMON. Ladies, there is an idle banquet attends you, Please you to dispose yourselves.

ALL LADIES. Most thankfully, my lord.

[_Exeunt Cupid and Ladies._]

TIMON. Flavius!

FLAVIUS. My lord?

TIMON. The little casket bring me hither.

FLAVIUS. Yes, my lord. [_Aside_.] More jewels yet? There is no crossing him in ’s humour; Else I should tell him well, i’ faith, I should, When all’s spent, he’d be crossed then, an he could. ’Tis pity bounty had not eyes behind, That man might ne’er be wretched for his mind.

[_Exit._]

FIRST LORD. Where be our men?

SERVANT. Here, my lord, in readiness.

SECOND LORD. Our horses!

Enter Flavius with the casket.

TIMON. O, my friends, I have one word To say to you. Look you, my good lord, I must entreat you, honour me so much As to advance this jewel. Accept it and wear it, Kind my lord.

FIRST LORD. I am so far already in your gifts—

ALL. So are we all.

Enter a Servant.

SERVANT. My lord, there are certain nobles of the Senate Newly alighted and come to visit you.

TIMON. They are fairly welcome.

[_Exit Servant._]

FLAVIUS. I beseech your honour, Vouchsafe me a word. It does concern you near.

TIMON. Near? Why then, another time I’ll hear thee. I prithee let’s be provided to show them entertainment.

FLAVIUS. [_Aside_.] I scarce know how.

Enter another Servant.

SECOND SERVANT. May it please your honour, Lord Lucius, Out of his free love, hath presented to you Four milk-white horses, trapped in silver.

TIMON. I shall accept them fairly; let the presents Be worthily entertained.

[_Exit Servant._]

Enter a third Servant.

How now? What news?

THIRD SERVANT. Please you, my lord, that honourable gentleman, Lord Lucullus, entreats your company tomorrow to hunt with him and has sent your honour two brace of greyhounds.

TIMON. I’ll hunt with him; and let them be received, Not without fair reward.

[_Exit Servant._]

FLAVIUS. [_Aside_.] What will this come to? He commands us to provide, and give great gifts, And all out of an empty coffer; Nor will he know his purse or yield me this: To show him what a beggar his heart is, Being of no power to make his wishes good. His promises fly so beyond his state That what he speaks is all in debt; he owes For every word. He is so kind that he now Pays interest for ’t; his land’s put to their books. Well, would I were gently put out of office Before I were forced out. Happier is he that has no friend to feed Than such that do e’en enemies exceed. I bleed inwardly for my lord.

[_Exit._]

TIMON. You do yourselves much wrong, You bate too much of your own merits. Here, my lord, a trifle of our love.

SECOND LORD. With more than common thanks I will receive it.

THIRD LORD. O, he’s the very soul of bounty!

TIMON. And now I remember, my lord, you gave good words the other day of a bay courser I rode on. ’Tis yours because you liked it.

THIRD LORD. O, I beseech you, pardon me, my lord, in that.

TIMON. You may take my word, my lord. I know no man Can justly praise but what he does affect. I weigh my friend’s affection with mine own. I’ll tell you true, I’ll call to you.

ALL LORDS. O, none so welcome!

TIMON. I take all and your several visitations So kind to heart, ’tis not enough to give; Methinks I could deal kingdoms to my friends, And ne’er be weary. Alcibiades, Thou art a soldier, therefore seldom rich. It comes in charity to thee, for all thy living Is ’mongst the dead, and all the lands thou hast Lie in a pitched field.

ALCIBIADES. Ay, defiled land, my lord.

FIRST LORD. We are so virtuously bound—

TIMON. And so am I to you.

SECOND LORD. So infinitely endeared—

TIMON. All to you. Lights, more lights!

FIRST LORD. The best of happiness, honour, and fortunes keep with you, Lord Timon.

TIMON. Ready for his friends.

[_Exeunt all but Apemantus and Timon._]

APEMANTUS. What a coil’s here! Serving of becks and jutting out of bums! I doubt whether their legs be worth the sums That are given for ’em. Friendship’s full of dregs. Methinks false hearts should never have sound legs. Thus honest fools lay out their wealth on curtsies.

TIMON. Now, Apemantus, if thou wert not sullen, I would be good to thee.

APEMANTUS. No, I’ll nothing, for if I should be bribed too, there would be none left to rail upon thee, and then thou wouldst sin the faster. Thou giv’st so long, Timon, I fear me thou wilt give away thyself in paper shortly. What needs these feasts, pomps, and vainglories?

TIMON. Nay, an you begin to rail on society once, I am sworn not to give regard to you. Farewell, and come with better music.

[_Exit._]

APEMANTUS. So. Thou wilt not hear me now, thou shalt not then. I’ll lock thy heaven from thee. O, that men’s ears should be To counsel deaf, but not to flattery!

[_Exit._]

## ACT II

## SCENE I. Athens. A room in a senator’s house

Enter a Senator with papers.

SENATOR. And late five thousand. To Varro and to Isidore He owes nine thousand, besides my former sum, Which makes it five-and-twenty. Still in motion Of raging waste! It cannot hold; it will not. If I want gold, steal but a beggar’s dog And give it Timon, why, the dog coins gold. If I would sell my horse, and buy twenty more Better than he, why, give my horse to Timon— Ask nothing, give it him—it foals me straight, And able horses. No porter at his gate, But rather one that smiles and still invites All that pass by. It cannot hold; no reason Can sound his state in safety. Caphis, ho! Caphis, I say!

Enter Caphis.

CAPHIS. Here, sir, what is your pleasure?

SENATOR. Get on your cloak and haste you to Lord Timon. Importune him for my moneys; be not ceased With slight denial, nor then silenced when “Commend me to your master”, and the cap Plays in the right hand, thus; but tell him, My uses cry to me, I must serve my turn Out of mine own, his days and times are past, And my reliances on his fracted dates Have smit my credit. I love and honour him, But must not break my back to heal his finger. Immediate are my needs, and my relief Must not be tossed and turned to me in words, But find supply immediate. Get you gone. Put on a most importunate aspect, A visage of demand, for I do fear When every feather sticks in his own wing, Lord Timon will be left a naked gull, Which flashes now a phoenix. Get you gone.

CAPHIS. I go, sir.

SENATOR. Take the bonds along with you, And have the dates in. Come.

CAPHIS. I will, sir.

SENATOR. Go.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE II. The same. A hall in Timon’s house

Enter Flavius with many bills in his hand.

FLAVIUS. No care, no stop, so senseless of expense, That he will neither know how to maintain it Nor cease his flow of riot. Takes no account How things go from him, nor resumes no care Of what is to continue. Never mind Was to be so unwise, to be so kind. What shall be done? He will not hear till feel. I must be round with him, now he comes from hunting. Fie, fie, fie, fie!

Enter Caphis and the Servants of Isidore and Varro.

CAPHIS. Good even, Varro. What, you come for money?

VARRO’S SERVANT. Is’t not your business too?

CAPHIS. It is. And yours too, Isidore?

ISIDORE’S SERVANT. It is so.

CAPHIS. Would we were all discharged!

VARRO’S SERVANT. I fear it.

CAPHIS. Here comes the lord.

Enter Timon and his train with Alcibiades

TIMON. So soon as dinner’s done, we’ll forth again, My Alcibiades. With me? What is your will?

CAPHIS. My lord, here is a note of certain dues.

TIMON. Dues? Whence are you?

CAPHIS. Of Athens here, my lord.

TIMON. Go to my steward.

CAPHIS. Please it your lordship, he hath put me off To the succession of new days this month. My master is awaked by great occasion To call upon his own and humbly prays you That with your other noble parts you’ll suit In giving him his right.

TIMON. Mine honest friend, I prithee but repair to me next morning.

CAPHIS. Nay, good my lord—

TIMON. Contain thyself, good friend.

VARRO’S SERVANT. One Varro’s servant, my good lord—

ISIDORE’S SERVANT. From Isidore. He humbly prays your speedy payment.

CAPHIS. If you did know, my lord, my master’s wants—

VARRO’S SERVANT. ’Twas due on forfeiture, my lord, six weeks and past.

ISIDORE’S SERVANT. Your steward puts me off, my lord, and I Am sent expressly to your lordship.

TIMON. Give me breath. I do beseech you, good my lords, keep on, I’ll wait upon you instantly.

[_Exeunt Alcibiades and Timon’s train._]

[_To Flavius_.] Come hither. Pray you, How goes the world, that I am thus encountered With clamorous demands of debt, broken bonds, And the detention of long-since-due debts Against my honour?

FLAVIUS. Please you, gentlemen, The time is unagreeable to this business. Your importunacy cease till after dinner, That I may make his lordship understand Wherefore you are not paid.

TIMON. Do so, my friends. See them well entertained.

[_Exit._]

FLAVIUS. Pray, draw near.

[_Exit._]

Enter Apemantus and Fool.

CAPHIS. Stay, stay, here comes the fool with Apemantus. Let’s ha’ some sport with ’em.

VARRO’S SERVANT. Hang him, he’ll abuse us.

ISIDORE’S SERVANT. A plague upon him, dog!

VARRO’S SERVANT. How dost, fool?

APEMANTUS. Dost dialogue with thy shadow?

VARRO’S SERVANT. I speak not to thee.

APEMANTUS. No, ’tis to thyself. [_To the Fool_.] Come away.

ISIDORE’S SERVANT. [_To Varro’s servant_.] There’s the fool hangs on your back already.

APEMANTUS. No, thou stand’st single; thou’rt not on him yet.

CAPHIS. Where’s the fool now?

APEMANTUS. He last asked the question. Poor rogues and usurers’ men, bawds between gold and want.

ALL SERVANTS. What are we, Apemantus?

APEMANTUS. Asses.

ALL SERVANTS. Why?

APEMANTUS. That you ask me what you are, and do not know yourselves. Speak to ’em, fool.

FOOL. How do you, gentlemen?

ALL SERVANTS. Gramercies, good fool. How does your mistress?

FOOL. She’s e’en setting on water to scald such chickens as you are. Would we could see you at Corinth!

APEMANTUS. Good, gramercy.

Enter Page.

FOOL. Look you, here comes my mistress’ page.

PAGE. [_To the Fool_.] Why, how now, captain? What do you in this wise company? How dost thou, Apemantus?

APEMANTUS. Would I had a rod in my mouth, that I might answer thee profitably.

PAGE. Prithee, Apemantus, read me the superscription of these letters. I know not which is which.

APEMANTUS. Canst not read?

PAGE. No.

APEMANTUS. There will little learning die, then, that day thou art hanged. This is to Lord Timon, this to Alcibiades. Go, thou wast born a bastard, and thou’lt die a bawd.

PAGE. Thou wast whelped a dog, and thou shalt famish a dog’s death. Answer not; I am gone.

[_Exit Page._]

APEMANTUS. E’en so thou outrunn’st grace. Fool, I will go with you to Lord Timon’s.

FOOL. Will you leave me there?

APEMANTUS. If Timon stay at home.—You three serve three usurers?

ALL SERVANTS. Ay, would they served us!

APEMANTUS. So would I—as good a trick as ever hangman served thief.

FOOL. Are you three usurers’ men?

ALL SERVANTS. Ay, fool.

FOOL. I think no usurer but has a fool to his servant. My mistress is one, and I am her fool. When men come to borrow of your masters, they approach sadly and go away merry, but they enter my mistress’s house merrily and go away sadly. The reason of this?

VARRO’S SERVANT. I could render one.

APEMANTUS. Do it then, that we may account thee a whoremaster and a knave, which notwithstanding, thou shalt be no less esteemed.

VARRO’S SERVANT. What is a whoremaster, fool?

FOOL. A fool in good clothes, and something like thee. ’Tis a spirit; sometime ’t appears like a lord, sometime like a lawyer, sometime like a philosopher, with two stones more than’s artificial one. He is very often like a knight; and generally, in all shapes that man goes up and down in from fourscore to thirteen, this spirit walks in.

VARRO’S SERVANT. Thou art not altogether a fool.

FOOL. Nor thou altogether a wise man. As much foolery as I have, so much wit thou lack’st.

APEMANTUS. That answer might have become Apemantus.

VARRO’S SERVANT. Aside, aside, here comes Lord Timon.

Enter Timon and Flavius.

APEMANTUS. Come with me, fool, come.

FOOL. I do not always follow lover, elder brother, and woman; sometime the philosopher.

[_Exeunt Apemantus and Fool._]

FLAVIUS. Pray you walk near. I’ll speak with you anon.

[_Exeunt Servants._]

TIMON. You make me marvel wherefore ere this time Had you not fully laid my state before me, That I might so have rated my expense As I had leave of means.

FLAVIUS. You would not hear me, At many leisures I proposed.

TIMON. Go to. Perchance some single vantages you took When my indisposition put you back, And that unaptness made your minister Thus to excuse yourself.

FLAVIUS. O my good lord, At many times I brought in my accounts, Laid them before you; you would throw them off And say you found them in mine honesty. When for some trifling present you have bid me Return so much, I have shook my head and wept, Yea, ’gainst th’ authority of manners, prayed you To hold your hand more close. I did endure Not seldom nor no slight checks, when I have Prompted you in the ebb of your estate And your great flow of debts. My loved lord, Though you hear now, too late, yet now’s a time. The greatest of your having lacks a half To pay your present debts.

TIMON. Let all my land be sold.

FLAVIUS. ’Tis all engaged, some forfeited and gone, And what remains will hardly stop the mouth Of present dues; the future comes apace. What shall defend the interim? And at length How goes our reckoning?

TIMON. To Lacedaemon did my land extend.

FLAVIUS. O my good lord, the world is but a word; Were it all yours to give it in a breath, How quickly were it gone!

TIMON. You tell me true.

FLAVIUS. If you suspect my husbandry or falsehood, Call me before th’ exactest auditors And set me on the proof. So the gods bless me, When all our offices have been oppressed With riotous feeders, when our vaults have wept With drunken spilth of wine, when every room Hath blazed with lights and brayed with minstrelsy, I have retired me to a wasteful cock And set mine eyes at flow.

TIMON. Prithee, no more.

FLAVIUS. Heavens, have I said, the bounty of this lord! How many prodigal bits have slaves and peasants This night englutted? Who is not Timon’s? What heart, head, sword, force, means, but is Lord Timon’s? Great Timon, noble, worthy, royal Timon! Ah, when the means are gone that buy this praise, The breath is gone whereof this praise is made. Feast-won, fast-lost; one cloud of winter showers, These flies are couched.

TIMON. Come, sermon me no further. No villainous bounty yet hath passed my heart; Unwisely, not ignobly, have I given. Why dost thou weep? Canst thou the conscience lack To think I shall lack friends? Secure thy heart. If I would broach the vessels of my love And try the argument of hearts by borrowing, Men and men’s fortunes could I frankly use As I can bid thee speak.

FLAVIUS. Assurance bless your thoughts!

TIMON. And in some sort these wants of mine are crowned, That I account them blessings. For by these Shall I try friends. You shall perceive how you Mistake my fortunes. I am wealthy in my friends. Within there! Flaminius! Servilius!

Enter Flaminius, Servilius and a third Servant.

SERVANTS. My lord, my lord.

TIMON. I will dispatch you severally. [_To Servilius_.] You to Lord Lucius; [_To Flaminius_.] to Lord Lucullus you, I hunted with his honour today; [_To the third Servant_.] you to Sempronius. Commend me to their loves; and I am proud, say, that my occasions have found time to use ’em toward a supply of money. Let the request be fifty talents.

FLAMINIUS. As you have said, my lord.

[_Exeunt Servants._]

FLAVIUS. [_Aside_.] Lord Lucius and Lucullus? Humh!

TIMON. Go you, sir, to the senators, Of whom, even to the state’s best health, I have Deserved this hearing, Bid ’em send o’ th’ instant A thousand talents to me.

FLAVIUS. I have been bold— For that I knew it the most general way— To them to use your signet and your name, But they do shake their heads, and I am here No richer in return.

TIMON. Is’t true? Can’t be?

FLAVIUS. They answer in a joint and corporate voice That now they are at fall, want treasure, cannot Do what they would, are sorry. You are honourable, But yet they could have wished—they know not— Something hath been amiss—a noble nature May catch a wrench—would all were well—’tis pity. And so, intending other serious matters, After distasteful looks and these hard fractions, With certain half-caps and cold-moving nods They froze me into silence.

TIMON. You gods, reward them! Prithee, man, look cheerly. These old fellows Have their ingratitude in them hereditary. Their blood is caked, ’tis cold, it seldom flows; ’Tis lack of kindly warmth they are not kind; And nature, as it grows again toward earth, Is fashioned for the journey, dull and heavy. Go to Ventidius. Prithee, be not sad, Thou art true and honest, ingenuously I speak, No blame belongs to thee. Ventidius lately Buried his father, by whose death he’s stepped Into a great estate. When he was poor, Imprisoned and in scarcity of friends, I cleared him with five talents. Greet him from me, Bid him suppose some good necessity Touches his friend, which craves to be remembered With those five talents. That had, give’t these fellows To whom ’tis instant due. Ne’er speak, or think That Timon’s fortunes ’mong his friends can sink.

[_Exit._]

FLAVIUS. I would I could not think it. That thought is bounty’s foe; Being free itself, it thinks all others so.

[_Exit._]

## ACT III

## SCENE I. Athens. A room in Lucullus’ house

Flaminius waiting to speak with Lucullus from his master.

Enter a Servant to him.

SERVANT. I have told my lord of you; he is coming down to you.

FLAMINIUS. I thank you, sir.

Enter Lucullus.

SERVANT. Here’s my lord.

LUCULLUS. [_Aside_.] One of Lord Timon’s men? A gift, I warrant. Why, this hits right. I dreamt of a silver basin and ewer tonight.—Flaminius, honest Flaminius, you are very respectively welcome, sir. Fill me some wine.

[_Exit Servant._]

And how does that honourable, complete, free-hearted gentleman of Athens, thy very bountiful good lord and master?

FLAMINIUS. His health is well, sir.

LUCULLUS. I am right glad that his health is well, sir. And what hast thou there under thy cloak, pretty Flaminius?

FLAMINIUS. Faith, nothing but an empty box, sir, which in my lord’s behalf I come to entreat your honour to supply; who, having great and instant occasion to use fifty talents, hath sent to your lordship to furnish him, nothing doubting your present assistance therein.

LUCULLUS. La, la, la, la! Nothing doubting, says he? Alas, good lord! A noble gentleman ’tis, if he would not keep so good a house. Many a time and often I ha’ dined with him, and told him on’t, and come again to supper to him of purpose to have him spend less, and yet he would embrace no counsel, take no warning by my coming. Every man has his fault, and honesty is his. I ha’ told him on’t, but I could ne’er get him from ’t.

Enter Servant with wine.

SERVANT. Please your lordship, here is the wine.

LUCULLUS. Flaminius, I have noted thee always wise. Here’s to thee.

FLAMINIUS. Your lordship speaks your pleasure.

LUCULLUS. I have observed thee always for a towardly prompt spirit, give thee thy due, and one that knows what belongs to reason, and canst use the time well, if the time use thee well. Good parts in thee. [_To Servant_.] Get you gone, sirrah.—

[_Exit Servant._]

Draw nearer, honest Flaminius. Thy lord’s a bountiful gentleman, but thou art wise and thou know’st well enough, although thou com’st to me, that this is no time to lend money, especially upon bare friendship without security. Here’s three solidares for thee. Good boy, wink at me, and say thou saw’st me not. Fare thee well.

FLAMINIUS. Is’t possible the world should so much differ, And we alive that lived? Fly, damned baseness, To him that worships thee.

[_Throws the money back._]

LUCULLUS. Ha! Now I see thou art a fool and fit for thy master.

[_Exit._]

FLAMINIUS. May these add to the number that may scald thee! Let molten coin be thy damnation, Thou disease of a friend, and not himself! Has friendship such a faint and milky heart It turns in less than two nights? O you gods, I feel my master’s passion. This slave Unto his honour has my lord’s meat in him. Why should it thrive and turn to nutriment When he is turned to poison? O, may diseases only work upon’t, And when he’s sick to death, let not that part of nature Which my lord paid for be of any power To expel sickness, but prolong his hour.

[_Exit._]

## SCENE II. A public place

Enter Lucius with three Strangers.

LUCIUS. Who, the Lord Timon? He is my very good friend and an honourable gentleman.

FIRST STRANGER. We know him for no less, though we are but strangers to him. But I can tell you one thing, my lord, and which I hear from common rumours: now Lord Timon’s happy hours are done and past, and his estate shrinks from him.

LUCIUS. Fie, no, do not believe it; he cannot want for money.

SECOND STRANGER. But believe you this, my lord, that, not long ago one of his men was with the Lord Lucullus to borrow so many talents, nay, urged extremely for’t, and showed what necessity belonged to’t, and yet was denied.

LUCIUS. How?

SECOND STRANGER. I tell you, denied, my lord.

LUCIUS. What a strange case was that! Now, before the gods, I am ashamed on’t. Denied that honourable man? There was very little honour showed in’t. For my own part, I must needs confess, I have received some small kindnesses from him, as money, plate, jewels, and such like trifles, nothing comparing to his; yet had he mistook him, and sent to me, I should ne’er have denied his occasion so many talents.

Enter Servilius.

SERVILIUS. See, by good hap, yonder’s my lord; I have sweat to see his honour. [_To Lucius_.] My honoured lord!

LUCIUS. Servilius? You are kindly met, sir. Fare thee well. Commend me to thy honourable virtuous lord, my very exquisite friend.

SERVILIUS. May it please your honour, my lord hath sent—

LUCIUS. Ha! What has he sent? I am so much endeared to that lord; he’s ever sending. How shall I thank him, thinkest thou? And what has he sent now?

SERVILIUS. Has only sent his present occasion now, my lord, requesting your lordship to supply his instant use with so many talents.

LUCIUS. I know his lordship is but merry with me; He cannot want fifty-five hundred talents.

SERVILIUS. But in the meantime he wants less, my lord. If his occasion were not virtuous, I should not urge it half so faithfully.

LUCIUS. Dost thou speak seriously, Servilius?

SERVILIUS. Upon my soul, ’tis true, sir.

LUCIUS. What a wicked beast was I to disfurnish myself against such a good time, when I might ha’ shown myself honourable! How unluckily it happened that I should purchase the day before for a little part, and undo a great deal of honour! Servilius, now before the gods, I am not able to do—the more beast, I say—I was sending to use Lord Timon myself, these gentlemen can witness; but I would not for the wealth of Athens I had done it now. Commend me bountifully to his good lordship, and I hope his honour will conceive the fairest of me, because I have no power to be kind. And tell him this from me: I count it one of my greatest afflictions, say, that I cannot pleasure such an honourable gentleman. Good Servilius, will you befriend me so far as to use mine own words to him?

SERVILIUS. Yes, sir, I shall.

LUCIUS. I’ll look you out a good turn, Servilius.

[_Exit Servilius._]

True, as you said, Timon is shrunk indeed, And he that’s once denied will hardly speed.

[_Exit._]

FIRST STRANGER. Do you observe this, Hostilius?

SECOND STRANGER. Ay, too well.

FIRST STRANGER. Why, this is the world’s soul, and just of the same piece Is every flatterer’s spirit. Who can call him his friend That dips in the same dish? For, in my knowing, Timon has been this lord’s father And kept his credit with his purse, Supported his estate, nay, Timon’s money Has paid his men their wages. He ne’er drinks But Timon’s silver treads upon his lip, And yet—O, see the monstrousness of man When he looks out in an ungrateful shape— He does deny him, in respect of his, What charitable men afford to beggars.

THIRD STRANGER. Religion groans at it.

FIRST STRANGER. For mine own part, I never tasted Timon in my life, Nor came any of his bounties over me To mark me for his friend. Yet I protest, For his right noble mind, illustrious virtue, And honourable carriage, Had his necessity made use of me, I would have put my wealth into donation, And the best half should have returned to him, So much I love his heart. But I perceive Men must learn now with pity to dispense, For policy sits above conscience.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE III. The same. A room in Sempronius’ house

Enter a Third Servant of Timon’s with Sempronius, another of Timon’s friends.

SEMPRONIUS. Must he needs trouble me in’t? Hum! ’Bove all others? He might have tried Lord Lucius or Lucullus; And now Ventidius is wealthy too, Whom he redeemed from prison. All these Owe their estates unto him.

SERVANT. My lord, They have all been touched and found base metal, For they have all denied him.

SEMPRONIUS. How? Have they denied him? Has Ventidius and Lucullus denied him And does he send to me? Three? Humh! It shows but little love or judgment in him. Must I be his last refuge? His friends, like physicians, Thrive, give him over. Must I take th’ cure upon me? Has much disgraced me in’t. I’m angry at him, That might have known my place. I see no sense for’t But his occasions might have wooed me first; For, in my conscience, I was the first man That e’er received gift from him. And does he think so backwardly of me now That I’ll requite it last? No. So it may prove an argument of laughter To th’ rest, and I ’mongst lords be thought a fool. I’d rather than the worth of thrice the sum Had sent to me first, but for my mind’s sake; I’d such a courage to do him good. But now return, And with their faint reply this answer join: Who bates mine honour shall not know my coin.

[_Exit._]

SERVANT. Excellent! Your lordship’s a goodly villain. The devil knew not what he did when he made man politic; he crossed himself by’t, and I cannot think but, in the end the villainies of man will set him clear. How fairly this lord strives to appear foul! Takes virtuous copies to be wicked, like those that under hot ardent zeal would set whole realms on fire. Of such a nature is his politic love. This was my lord’s best hope, now all are fled Save only the gods. Now his friends are dead, Doors that were ne’er acquainted with their wards Many a bounteous year must be employed Now to guard sure their master. And this is all a liberal course allows, Who cannot keep his wealth must keep his house.

[_Exit._]

## SCENE IV. A hall in Timon’s house

Enter two of Varro’s Servants meeting Titus and Hortensius and then Lucius, all Servants of Timon’s creditors, to wait for his coming out.

FIRST VARRO’S SERVANT. Well met, good morrow, Titus and Hortensius.

TITUS. The like to you, kind Varro.

HORTENSIUS. Lucius! What, do we meet together?

LUCIUS. Ay, and I think One business does command us all; For mine is money.

TITUS. So is theirs and ours.

Enter Philotus.

LUCIUS. And, sir, Philotus too!

PHILOTUS. Good day at once.

LUCIUS. Welcome, good brother. What do you think the hour?

PHILOTUS. Labouring for nine.

LUCIUS. So much?

PHILOTUS. Is not my lord seen yet?

LUCIUS. Not yet.

PHILOTUS. I wonder on’t, he was wont to shine at seven.

LUCIUS. Ay, but the days are waxed shorter with him. You must consider that a prodigal course Is like the sun’s, but not like his recoverable. I fear ’tis deepest winter in Lord Timon’s purse: That is, one may reach deep enough, and yet Find little.

PHILOTUS. I am of your fear for that.

TITUS. I’ll show you how t’ observe a strange event. Your lord sends now for money?

HORTENSIUS. Most true, he does.

TITUS. And he wears jewels now of Timon’s gift, For which I wait for money.

HORTENSIUS. It is against my heart.

LUCIUS. Mark how strange it shows, Timon in this should pay more than he owes, And e’en as if your lord should wear rich jewels And send for money for ’em.

HORTENSIUS. I’m weary of this charge, the gods can witness. I know my lord hath spent of Timon’s wealth, And now ingratitude makes it worse than stealth.

FIRST VARRO’S SERVANT. Yes, mine’s three thousand crowns. What’s yours?

LUCIUS. Five thousand mine.

FIRST VARRO’S SERVANT. ’Tis much deep, and it should seem by th’ sum Your master’s confidence was above mine, Else surely his had equalled.

Enter Flaminius.

TITUS. One of Lord Timon’s men.

LUCIUS. Flaminius? Sir, a word. Pray, is my lord ready to come forth?

FLAMINIUS. No, indeed he is not.

TITUS. We attend his lordship; pray, signify so much.

FLAMINIUS. I need not tell him that, he knows you are too diligent.

[_Exit Flaminius._]

Enter Flavius in a cloak, muffled.

LUCIUS. Ha, is not that his steward muffled so? He goes away in a cloud. Call him, call him.

TITUS. Do you hear, sir?

SECOND VARRO’S SERVANT. By your leave, sir.

FLAVIUS. What do you ask of me, my friend?

TITUS. We wait for certain money here, sir.

FLAVIUS. Ay, If money were as certain as your waiting, ’Twere sure enough. Why then preferred you not your sums and bills When your false masters eat of my lord’s meat? Then they could smile and fawn upon his debts, And take down th’ interest into their gluttonous maws. You do yourselves but wrong to stir me up, Let me pass quietly. Believe’t, my lord and I have made an end, I have no more to reckon, he to spend.

LUCIUS. Ay, but this answer will not serve.

FLAVIUS. If ’twill not serve, ’tis not so base as you, For you serve knaves.

[_Exit._]

FIRST VARRO’S SERVANT. How? What does his cashiered worship mutter?

SECOND VARRO’S SERVANT. No matter what, he’s poor, and that’s revenge enough. Who can speak broader than he that has no house to put his head in? Such may rail against great buildings.

Enter Servilius.

TITUS. O, here’s Servilius; now we shall know some answer.

SERVILIUS. If I might beseech you, gentlemen, to repair some other hour, I should derive much from’t. For take’t of my soul, my lord leans wondrously to discontent. His comfortable temper has forsook him, he’s much out of health and keeps his chamber.

LUCIUS. Many do keep their chambers are not sick. And if it be so far beyond his health, Methinks he should the sooner pay his debts And make a clear way to the gods.

SERVILIUS. Good gods!

TITUS. We cannot take this for answer, sir.

FLAMINIUS. [_Within_.] Servilius, help! My lord, my lord!

Enter Timon in a rage.

TIMON. What, are my doors opposed against my passage? Have I been ever free, and must my house Be my retentive enemy, my jail? The place which I have feasted, does it now, Like all mankind, show me an iron heart?

LUCIUS. Put in now, Titus.

TITUS. My lord, here is my bill.

LUCIUS. Here’s mine.

HORTENSIUS. And mine, my lord.

BOTH VARRO’S SERVANTS. And ours, my lord.

PHILOTUS. All our bills.

TIMON. Knock me down with ’em! Cleave me to the girdle.

LUCIUS. Alas, my lord—

TIMON. Cut my heart in sums!

TITUS. Mine, fifty talents.

TIMON. Tell out my blood.

LUCIUS. Five thousand crowns, my lord.

TIMON. Five thousand drops pays that. What yours, and yours?

FIRST VARRO’S SERVANT. My lord—

SECOND VARRO’S SERVANT. My lord—

TIMON. Tear me, take me, and the gods fall upon you!

[_Exit._]

HORTENSIUS. Faith, I perceive our masters may throw their caps at their money. These debts may well be called desperate ones, for a madman owes ’em.

[_Exeunt._]

Enter Timon and Flavius.

TIMON. They have e’en put my breath from me, the slaves. Creditors? Devils!

FLAVIUS. My dear lord—

TIMON. What if it should be so?

FLAVIUS. My lord—

TIMON. I’ll have it so.—My steward!

FLAVIUS. Here, my lord.

TIMON. So fitly? Go, bid all my friends again, Lucius, Lucullus, and Sempronius, all. I’ll once more feast the rascals.

FLAVIUS. O my lord, You only speak from your distracted soul; There is not so much left to furnish out A moderate table.

TIMON. Be it not in thy care. Go, I charge thee, invite them all. Let in the tide Of knaves once more. My cook and I’ll provide.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE V. The same. The senate house

Enter three Senators at one door, Alcibiades meeting them, with Attendants.

FIRST SENATOR. My lord, you have my voice to ’t. The fault’s Bloody. ’Tis necessary he should die. Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy.

SECOND SENATOR. Most true, the law shall bruise ’em.

ALCIBIADES. Honour, health, and compassion to the senate!

FIRST SENATOR. Now, captain?

ALCIBIADES. I am a humble suitor to your virtues, For pity is the virtue of the law, And none but tyrants use it cruelly. It pleases time and fortune to lie heavy Upon a friend of mine, who in hot blood Hath stepped into the law, which is past depth To those that without heed do plunge into’t. He is a man, setting his fate aside, Of comely virtues, Nor did he soil the fact with cowardice— An honour in him which buys out his fault— But with a noble fury and fair spirit, Seeing his reputation touched to death, He did oppose his foe; And with such sober and unnoted passion He did behave his anger, ere ’twas spent, As if he had but proved an argument.

FIRST SENATOR. You undergo too strict a paradox, Striving to make an ugly deed look fair. Your words have took such pains as if they laboured To bring manslaughter into form and set quarrelling Upon the head of valour, which indeed Is valour misbegot and came into the world When sects and factions were newly born. He’s truly valiant that can wisely suffer The worst that man can breathe, and make his wrongs His outsides to wear them like his raiment, carelessly, And ne’er prefer his injuries to his heart, To bring it into danger. If wrongs be evils and enforce us kill, What folly ’tis to hazard life for ill!

ALCIBIADES. My lord—

FIRST SENATOR. You cannot make gross sins look clear. To revenge is no valour, but to bear.

ALCIBIADES. My lords, then, under favour, pardon me If I speak like a captain. Why do fond men expose themselves to battle And not endure all threats? Sleep upon’t, And let the foes quietly cut their throats Without repugnancy? If there be Such valour in the bearing, what make we Abroad? Why, then, women are more valiant That stay at home, if bearing carry it, And the ass more captain than the lion, the felon Loaden with irons wiser than the judge, If wisdom be in suffering. O my lords, As you are great, be pitifully good. Who cannot condemn rashness in cold blood? To kill, I grant, is sin’s extremest gust, But in defence, by mercy, ’tis most just. To be in anger is impiety, But who is man that is not angry? Weigh but the crime with this.

SECOND SENATOR. You breathe in vain.

ALCIBIADES. In vain? His service done At Lacedaemon and Byzantium Were a sufficient briber for his life.

FIRST SENATOR. What’s that?

ALCIBIADES. Why, I say, my lords, has done fair service And slain in fight many of your enemies. How full of valour did he bear himself In the last conflict, and made plenteous wounds!

SECOND SENATOR. He has made too much plenty with ’em. He’s a sworn rioter. He has a sin That often drowns him and takes his valour prisoner. If there were no foes, that were enough To overcome him. In that beastly fury, He has been known to commit outrages And cherish factions. ’Tis inferred to us His days are foul and his drink dangerous.

FIRST SENATOR. He dies.

ALCIBIADES. Hard fate! He might have died in war. My lords, if not for any parts in him, Though his right arm might purchase his own time And be in debt to none, yet, more to move you, Take my deserts to his and join ’em both. And, for I know your reverend ages love Security, I’ll pawn my victories, all My honour, to you upon his good returns. If by this crime he owes the law his life, Why, let the war receive’t in valiant gore, For law is strict, and war is nothing more.

FIRST SENATOR. We are for law. He dies. Urge it no more, On height of our displeasure. Friend or brother, He forfeits his own blood that spills another.

ALCIBIADES. Must it be so? It must not be. My lords, I do beseech you, know me.

SECOND SENATOR. How?

ALCIBIADES. Call me to your remembrances.

THIRD SENATOR. What?

ALCIBIADES. I cannot think but your age has forgot me, It could not else be I should prove so base To sue and be denied such common grace. My wounds ache at you.

FIRST SENATOR. Do you dare our anger? ’Tis in few words, but spacious in effect: We banish thee for ever.

ALCIBIADES. Banish me? Banish your dotage, banish usury, That makes the Senate ugly.

FIRST SENATOR. If, after two days’ shine, Athens contain thee, Attend our weightier judgment. And, not to swell our spirit, He shall be executed presently.

[_Exeunt Senators._]

ALCIBIADES. Now the gods keep you old enough, that you may live Only in bone, that none may look on you! I’m worse than mad. I have kept back their foes While they have told their money and let out Their coin upon large interest, I myself Rich only in large hurts. All those for this? Is this the balsam that the usuring senate Pours into captains’ wounds? Banishment. It comes not ill. I hate not to be banished. It is a cause worthy my spleen and fury, That I may strike at Athens. I’ll cheer up My discontented troops and lay for hearts. ’Tis honour with most lands to be at odds. Soldiers should brook as little wrongs as gods.

[_Exit._]

## SCENE VI. A room of state in Timon’s house

Music. Enter divers Friends at several doors.

FIRST FRIEND. The good time of day to you, sir.

SECOND FRIEND. I also wish it to you. I think this honourable lord did but try us this other day.

FIRST FRIEND. Upon that were my thoughts tiring when we encountered. I hope it is not so low with him as he made it seem in the trial of his several friends.

SECOND FRIEND. It should not be, by the persuasion of his new feasting.

FIRST FRIEND. I should think so. He hath sent me an earnest inviting, which many my near occasions did urge me to put off; but he hath conjured me beyond them, and I must needs appear.

SECOND FRIEND. In like manner was I in debt to my importunate business, but he would not hear my excuse. I am sorry, when he sent to borrow of me, that my provision was out.

FIRST FRIEND. I am sick of that grief too, as I understand how all things go.

SECOND FRIEND. Every man here’s so. What would he have borrowed you?

FIRST FRIEND. A thousand pieces.

SECOND FRIEND. A thousand pieces!

FIRST FRIEND. What of you?

SECOND FRIEND. He sent to me, sir—here he comes.

Enter Timon and Attendants.

TIMON. With all my heart, gentlemen both! And how fare you?

FIRST FRIEND. Ever at the best, hearing well of your lordship.

SECOND FRIEND. The swallow follows not summer more willing than we your lordship.

TIMON. [_Aside_.] Nor more willingly leaves winter, such summer birds are men. Gentlemen, our dinner will not recompense this long stay. Feast your ears with the music awhile, if they will fare so harshly o’ th’ trumpet’s sound; we shall to’t presently.

FIRST FRIEND. I hope it remains not unkindly with your lordship that I returned you an empty messenger.

TIMON. O, sir, let it not trouble you.

SECOND FRIEND. My noble lord—

TIMON. Ah, my good friend, what cheer?

SECOND FRIEND. My most honourable lord, I am e’en sick of shame that when your lordship this other day sent to me I was so unfortunate a beggar.

TIMON. Think not on’t, sir.

SECOND FRIEND. If you had sent but two hours before—

TIMON. Let it not cumber your better remembrance.

[_The banquet brought in._]

Come, bring in all together.

SECOND FRIEND. All covered dishes!

FIRST FRIEND. Royal cheer, I warrant you.

THIRD FRIEND. Doubt not that, if money and the season can yield it.

FIRST FRIEND. How do you? What’s the news?

THIRD FRIEND. Alcibiades is banished. Hear you of it?

FIRST AND SECOND FRIENDS. Alcibiades banished?

THIRD FRIEND. ’Tis so, be sure of it.

FIRST FRIEND. How, how?

SECOND FRIEND. I pray you, upon what?

TIMON. My worthy friends, will you draw near?

THIRD FRIEND. I’ll tell you more anon. Here’s a noble feast toward.

SECOND FRIEND. This is the old man still.

THIRD FRIEND. Will’t hold, will’t hold?

SECOND FRIEND. It does, but time will—and so—

THIRD FRIEND. I do conceive.

TIMON. Each man to his stool with that spur as he would to the lip of his mistress. Your diet shall be in all places alike. Make not a city feast of it, to let the meat cool ere we can agree upon the first place. Sit, sit. The gods require our thanks: You great benefactors, sprinkle our society with thankfulness. For your own gifts make yourselves praised, but reserve still to give, lest your deities be despised. Lend to each man enough, that one need not lend to another; for, were your godheads to borrow of men, men would forsake the gods. Make the meat be beloved more than the man that gives it. Let no assembly of twenty be without a score of villains. If there sit twelve women at the table, let a dozen of them be as they are. The rest of your foes, O gods, the senators of Athens, together with the common lag of people, what is amiss in them, you gods, make suitable for destruction. For these my present friends, as they are to me nothing, so in nothing bless them, and to nothing are they welcome. Uncover, dogs, and lap.

[_The dishes are uncovered and prove to be full of lukewarm water._]

SOME SPEAK. What does his lordship mean?

SOME OTHER. I know not.

TIMON. May you a better feast never behold, You knot of mouth-friends! Smoke and lukewarm water Is your perfection. This is Timon’s last, Who, stuck and spangled with your flatteries, Washes it off and sprinkles in your faces Your reeking villainy.

[_Throws water in their faces._]

Live loathed, and long, Most smiling, smooth, detested parasites, Courteous destroyers, affable wolves, meek bears, You fools of fortune, trencher-friends, time’s flies, Cap-and-knee slaves, vapours, and minute-jacks! Of man and beast the infinite malady Crust you quite o’er! [_They stand_.] What, dost thou go? Soft! Take thy physic first; thou too, and thou! Stay, I will lend thee money, borrow none.

[_He attacks them and forces them out._]

What, all in motion? Henceforth be no feast Whereat a villain’s not a welcome guest. Burn, house! Sink Athens! Henceforth hated be Of Timon man and all humanity!

[_Exit._]

Enter Timon’s Friends, the Senators with other Lords.

FIRST FRIEND. How now, my lords?

SECOND FRIEND. Know you the quality of Lord Timon’s fury?

THIRD FRIEND. Push! Did you see my cap?

FOURTH FRIEND. I have lost my gown.

FIRST FRIEND. He’s but a mad lord, and nought but humours sways him. He gave me a jewel th’ other day, and now he has beat it out of my hat. Did you see my jewel?

THIRD FRIEND. Did you see my cap?

SECOND FRIEND. Here ’tis.

FOURTH FRIEND. Here lies my gown.

FIRST FRIEND. Let’s make no stay.

SECOND FRIEND. Lord Timon’s mad.

THIRD FRIEND. I feel’t upon my bones.

FOURTH FRIEND. One day he gives us diamonds, next day stones.

[_Exeunt._]

## ACT IV

## SCENE I. Without the walls of Athens

Enter Timon.

TIMON. Let me look back upon thee. O thou wall That girdles in those wolves, dive in the earth And fence not Athens! Matrons, turn incontinent! Obedience fail in children! Slaves and fools, Pluck the grave wrinkled senate from the bench And minister in their steads! To general filths Convert, o’ th’ instant, green virginity, Do’t in your parents’ eyes! Bankrupts, hold fast; Rather than render back, out with your knives And cut your trusters’ throats! Bound servants, steal! Large-handed robbers your grave masters are, And pill by law. Maid, to thy master’s bed, Thy mistress is o’ th’ brothel. Son of sixteen, Pluck the lined crutch from thy old limping sire, With it beat out his brains! Piety and fear, Religion to the gods, peace, justice, truth, Domestic awe, night-rest and neighbourhood, Instruction, manners, mysteries and trades, Degrees, observances, customs and laws, Decline to your confounding contraries, And let confusion live! Plagues incident to men, Your potent and infectious fevers heap On Athens, ripe for stroke! Thou cold sciatica, Cripple our senators, that their limbs may halt As lamely as their manners! Lust and liberty, Creep in the minds and marrows of our youth, That ’gainst the stream of virtue they may strive And drown themselves in riot! Itches, blains, Sow all th’ Athenian bosoms, and their crop Be general leprosy! Breath infect breath, That their society, as their friendship, may Be merely poison! Nothing I’ll bear from thee But nakedness, thou detestable town! Take thou that too, with multiplying bans! Timon will to the woods, where he shall find Th’ unkindest beast more kinder than mankind. The gods confound—hear me, you good gods all!— Th’ Athenians both within and out that wall, And grant, as Timon grows, his hate may grow To the whole race of mankind, high and low! Amen.

[_Exit._]

## SCENE II. Athens. A room in Timon’s house

Enter Flavius with two or three Servants.

FIRST SERVANT. Hear you, Master Steward, where’s our master? Are we undone, cast off, nothing remaining?

FLAVIUS. Alack, my fellows, what should I say to you? Let me be recorded by the righteous gods, I am as poor as you.

FIRST SERVANT. Such a house broke? So noble a master fall’n? All gone, and not One friend to take his fortune by the arm And go along with him?

SECOND SERVANT. As we do turn our backs From our companion, thrown into his grave, So his familiars to his buried fortunes Slink all away, leave their false vows with him, Like empty purses picked; and his poor self, A dedicated beggar to the air, With his disease of all-shunned poverty, Walks, like contempt, alone.—More of our fellows.

Enter other Servants.

FLAVIUS. All broken implements of a ruined house.

THIRD SERVANT. Yet do our hearts wear Timon’s livery. That see I by our faces. We are fellows still, Serving alike in sorrow. Leaked is our bark, And we, poor mates, stand on the dying deck, Hearing the surges threat. We must all part Into this sea of air.

FLAVIUS. Good fellows all, The latest of my wealth I’ll share amongst you. Wherever we shall meet, for Timon’s sake Let’s yet be fellows. Let’s shake our heads and say, As ’twere a knell unto our master’s fortune, “We have seen better days.” Let each take some.

[_Offering them money._]

Nay, put out all your hands. Not one word more. Thus part we rich in sorrow, parting poor.

[_They embrace and part several ways._]

O, the fierce wretchedness that glory brings us! Who would not wish to be from wealth exempt, Since riches point to misery and contempt? Who would be so mocked with glory, or to live But in a dream of friendship, To have his pomp and all what state compounds But only painted, like his varnished friends? Poor honest lord, brought low by his own heart, Undone by goodness! Strange, unusual blood When man’s worst sin is he does too much good! Who then dares to be half so kind again? For bounty, that makes gods, does still mar men. My dearest lord, blessed to be most accursed, Rich only to be wretched, thy great fortunes Are made thy chief afflictions. Alas, kind lord, He’s flung in rage from this ingrateful seat Of monstrous friends; Nor has he with him to supply his life, Or that which can command it. I’ll follow and inquire him out. I’ll ever serve his mind with my best will. Whilst I have gold, I’ll be his steward still.

[_Exit._]

## SCENE III. Woods and caves near the sea-shore

Enter Timon in the woods.

TIMON. O blessed breeding sun, draw from the earth Rotten humidity, below thy sister’s orb Infect the air! Twinned brothers of one womb, Whose procreation, residence and birth Scarce is dividant, touch them with several fortunes, The greater scorns the lesser. Not nature, To whom all sores lay siege, can bear great fortune But by contempt of nature. Raise me this beggar, and deny’t that lord; The senator shall bear contempt hereditary, The beggar native honour. It is the pasture lards the rother’s sides, The want that makes him lean. Who dares, who dares In purity of manhood stand upright And say, “This man’s a flatterer”? If one be, So are they all, for every grece of fortune Is smoothed by that below. The learned pate Ducks to the golden fool. All’s obliquy. There’s nothing level in our cursed natures But direct villainy. Therefore be abhorred All feasts, societies, and throngs of men! His semblable, yea, himself, Timon disdains. Destruction fang mankind! Earth, yield me roots!

[_Digs in the earth._]

Who seeks for better of thee, sauce his palate With thy most operant poison! What is here? Gold? Yellow, glittering, precious gold? No, gods, I am no idle votarist. Roots, you clear heavens! Thus much of this will make Black white, foul fair, wrong right, Base noble, old young, coward valiant. Ha, you gods, why this? What this, you gods? Why, this Will lug your priests and servants from your sides, Pluck stout men’s pillows from below their heads. This yellow slave Will knit and break religions, bless th’ accursed, Make the hoar leprosy adored, place thieves And give them title, knee, and approbation With senators on the bench. This is it That makes the wappened widow wed again; She whom the spittle-house and ulcerous sores Would cast the gorge at, this embalms and spices To th’ April day again. Come, damned earth, Thou common whore of mankind, that puts odds Among the rout of nations, I will make thee Do thy right nature.

[_March afar off._]

Ha? A drum? Thou’rt quick, But yet I’ll bury thee. Thou’lt go, strong thief, When gouty keepers of thee cannot stand. Nay, stay thou out for earnest.

[_Keeping some gold._]

Enter Alcibiades with drum and fife, in warlike manner, and Phrynia and Timandra.

ALCIBIADES. What art thou there? Speak.

TIMON. A beast, as thou art. The canker gnaw thy heart For showing me again the eyes of man!

ALCIBIADES. What is thy name? Is man so hateful to thee That art thyself a man?

TIMON. I am Misanthropos and hate mankind. For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog, That I might love thee something.

ALCIBIADES. I know thee well, But in thy fortunes am unlearned and strange.

TIMON. I know thee too, and more than that I know thee I not desire to know. Follow thy drum, With man’s blood paint the ground gules, gules. Religious canons, civil laws are cruel, Then what should war be? This fell whore of thine Hath in her more destruction than thy sword, For all her cherubin look.

PHRYNIA. Thy lips rot off!

TIMON. I will not kiss thee, then the rot returns To thine own lips again.

ALCIBIADES. How came the noble Timon to this change?

TIMON. As the moon does, by wanting light to give. But then renew I could not like the moon; There were no suns to borrow of.

ALCIBIADES. Noble Timon, What friendship may I do thee?

TIMON. None, but to maintain my opinion.

ALCIBIADES. What is it, Timon?

TIMON. Promise me friendship, but perform none. If thou wilt not promise, the gods plague thee, for thou art a man. If thou dost perform, confound thee, for thou art a man.

ALCIBIADES. I have heard in some sort of thy miseries.

TIMON. Thou saw’st them when I had prosperity.

ALCIBIADES. I see them now; then was a blessed time.

TIMON. As thine is now, held with a brace of harlots.

TIMANDRA. Is this th’ Athenian minion whom the world Voiced so regardfully?

TIMON. Art thou Timandra?

TIMANDRA. Yes.

TIMON. Be a whore still, they love thee not that use thee; Give them diseases, leaving with thee their lust. Make use of thy salt hours. Season the slaves For tubs and baths, bring down rose-cheeked youth To the tub-fast and the diet.

TIMANDRA. Hang thee, monster!

ALCIBIADES. Pardon him, sweet Timandra, for his wits Are drowned and lost in his calamities. I have but little gold of late, brave Timon, The want whereof doth daily make revolt In my penurious band. I have heard and grieved How cursed Athens, mindless of thy worth, Forgetting thy great deeds when neighbour states, But for thy sword and fortune, trod upon them—

TIMON. I prithee, beat thy drum and get thee gone.

ALCIBIADES. I am thy friend and pity thee, dear Timon.

TIMON. How dost thou pity him whom thou dost trouble? I had rather be alone.

ALCIBIADES. Why, fare thee well. Here is some gold for thee.

TIMON. Keep it, I cannot eat it.

ALCIBIADES. When I have laid proud Athens on a heap—

TIMON. Warr’st thou ’gainst Athens?

ALCIBIADES. Ay, Timon, and have cause.

TIMON. The gods confound them all in thy conquest, And thee after, when thou hast conquered!

ALCIBIADES. Why me, Timon?

TIMON. That by killing of villains Thou wast born to conquer my country. Put up thy gold. Go on, here’s gold, go on. Be as a planetary plague when Jove Will o’er some high-viced city hang his poison In the sick air. Let not thy sword skip one. Pity not honoured age for his white beard; He is an usurer. Strike me the counterfeit matron; It is her habit only that is honest, Herself’s a bawd. Let not the virgin’s cheek Make soft thy trenchant sword, for those milk paps That through the window-bars bore at men’s eyes, Are not within the leaf of pity writ, But set them down horrible traitors. Spare not the babe, Whose dimpled smiles from fools exhaust their mercy; Think it a bastard whom the oracle Hath doubtfully pronounced thy throat shall cut, And mince it sans remorse. Swear against objects; Put armour on thine ears and on thine eyes, Whose proof nor yells of mothers, maids, nor babes, Nor sight of priests in holy vestments bleeding, Shall pierce a jot. There’s gold to pay thy soldiers. Make large confusion and, thy fury spent, Confounded be thyself! Speak not, be gone.

ALCIBIADES. Hast thou gold yet? I’ll take the gold thou giv’st me, Not all thy counsel.

TIMON. Dost thou or dost thou not, heaven’s curse upon thee!

PHRYNIA AND TIMANDRA. Give us some gold, good Timon. Hast thou more?

TIMON. Enough to make a whore forswear her trade, And to make whores a bawd. Hold up, you sluts, Your aprons mountant. You are not oathable, Although I know you’ll swear—terribly swear Into strong shudders and to heavenly agues Th’ immortal gods that hear you. Spare your oaths, I’ll trust to your conditions. Be whores still, And he whose pious breath seeks to convert you, Be strong in whore, allure him, burn him up; Let your close fire predominate his smoke, And be no turncoats. Yet may your pains six months, Be quite contrary. And thatch your poor thin roofs With burdens of the dead—some that were hanged, No matter; wear them, betray with them. Whore still, Paint till a horse may mire upon your face. A pox of wrinkles!

PHRYNIA AND TIMANDRA. Well, more gold. What then? Believe’t that we’ll do anything for gold.

TIMON. Consumptions sow In hollow bones of man; strike their sharp shins, And mar men’s spurring. Crack the lawyer’s voice, That he may never more false title plead Nor sound his quillets shrilly. Hoar the flamen, That scolds against the quality of flesh And not believes himself. Down with the nose, Down with it flat, take the bridge quite away Of him that, his particular to foresee, Smells from the general weal. Make curled-pate ruffians bald, And let the unscarred braggarts of the war Derive some pain from you. Plague all, That your activity may defeat and quell The source of all erection. There’s more gold. Do you damn others, and let this damn you, And ditches grave you all!

PHRYNIA AND TIMANDRA. More counsel with more money, bounteous Timon.

TIMON. More whore, more mischief first! I have given you earnest.

ALCIBIADES. Strike up the drum towards Athens. Farewell, Timon. If I thrive well, I’ll visit thee again.

TIMON. If I hope well, I’ll never see thee more.

ALCIBIADES. I never did thee harm.

TIMON. Yes, thou spok’st well of me.

ALCIBIADES. Call’st thou that harm?

TIMON. Men daily find it. Get thee away, and take Thy beagles with thee.

ALCIBIADES. We but offend him. Strike.

[_Drum beats. Exeunt all but Timon._]

TIMON. That nature, being sick of man’s unkindness, Should yet be hungry! [_He digs_.] Common mother, thou, Whose womb unmeasurable and infinite breast Teems and feeds all; whose selfsame mettle Whereof thy proud child, arrogant man, is puffed, Engenders the black toad and adder blue, The gilded newt and eyeless venomed worm, With all the abhorred births below crisp heaven Whereon Hyperion’s quickening fire doth shine: Yield him who all thy human sons doth hate, From forth thy plenteous bosom, one poor root! Ensear thy fertile and conceptious womb, Let it no more bring out ingrateful man. Go great with tigers, dragons, wolves, and bears; Teem with new monsters, whom thy upward face Hath to the marbled mansion all above Never presented. O, a root, dear thanks! Dry up thy marrows, vines and plough-torn leas, Whereof ingrateful man, with liquorish draughts And morsels unctuous greases his pure mind, That from it all consideration slips—

Enter Apemantus.

More man? Plague, plague!

APEMANTUS. I was directed hither. Men report Thou dost affect my manners and dost use them.

TIMON. ’Tis, then, because thou dost not keep a dog Whom I would imitate. Consumption catch thee!

APEMANTUS. This is in thee a nature but infected, A poor unmanly melancholy sprung From change of fortune. Why this spade, this place? This slave-like habit and these looks of care? Thy flatterers yet wear silk, drink wine, lie soft, Hug their diseased perfumes, and have forgot That ever Timon was. Shame not these woods By putting on the cunning of a carper. Be thou a flatterer now, and seek to thrive By that which has undone thee. Hinge thy knee And let his very breath whom thou’lt observe Blow off thy cap; praise his most vicious strain, And call it excellent. Thou wast told thus; Thou gav’st thine ears, like tapsters that bade welcome, To knaves and all approachers. ’Tis most just That thou turn rascal; had’st thou wealth again, Rascals should have’t. Do not assume my likeness.

TIMON. Were I like thee, I’d throw away myself.

APEMANTUS. Thou hast cast away thyself, being like thyself A madman so long, now a fool. What, think’st That the bleak air, thy boisterous chamberlain, Will put thy shirt on warm? Will these mossed trees, That have outlived the eagle, page thy heels And skip when thou point’st out? Will the cold brook, Candied with ice, caudle thy morning taste To cure thy o’ernight’s surfeit? Call the creatures Whose naked natures live in all the spite Of wreakful heaven, whose bare unhoused trunks, To the conflicting elements exposed, Answer mere nature, bid them flatter thee. O, thou shalt find—

TIMON. A fool of thee. Depart.

APEMANTUS. I love thee better now than e’er I did.

TIMON. I hate thee worse.

APEMANTUS. Why?

TIMON. Thou flatter’st misery.

APEMANTUS. I flatter not, but say thou art a caitiff.

TIMON. Why dost thou seek me out?

APEMANTUS. To vex thee.

TIMON. Always a villain’s office or a fool’s. Dost please thyself in’t?

APEMANTUS. Ay.

TIMON. What, a knave too?

APEMANTUS. If thou didst put this sour cold habit on To castigate thy pride, ’twere well; but thou Dost it enforcedly. Thou’dst courtier be again Wert thou not beggar. Willing misery Outlives incertain pomp, is crowned before; The one is filling still, never complete, The other, at high wish. Best state, contentless, Hath a distracted and most wretched being, Worse than the worst, content. Thou shouldst desire to die, being miserable.

TIMON. Not by his breath that is more miserable. Thou art a slave whom Fortune’s tender arm With favour never clasped, but bred a dog. Hadst thou, like us from our first swath, proceeded The sweet degrees that this brief world affords To such as may the passive drugs of it Freely command, thou wouldst have plunged thyself In general riot, melted down thy youth In different beds of lust and never learned The icy precepts of respect, but followed The sugared game before thee. But myself— Who had the world as my confectionary, The mouths, the tongues, the eyes and hearts of men At duty, more than I could frame employment, That numberless upon me stuck as leaves Do on the oak, have with one winter’s brush Fell from their boughs and left me open, bare For every storm that blows—I to bear this, That never knew but better, is some burden. Thy nature did commence in sufferance, time Hath made thee hard in’t. Why shouldst thou hate men? They never flattered thee. What hast thou given? If thou wilt curse, thy father, that poor rag, Must be thy subject, who in spite put stuff To some she-beggar and compounded thee Poor rogue hereditary. Hence, be gone! If thou hadst not been born the worst of men, Thou hadst been a knave and flatterer.

APEMANTUS. Art thou proud yet?

TIMON. Ay, that I am not thee.

APEMANTUS. I, that I was no prodigal.

TIMON. I, that I am one now. Were all the wealth I have shut up in thee, I’d give thee leave to hang it. Get thee gone. That the whole life of Athens were in this! Thus would I eat it.

[_Eats a root._]

APEMANTUS. Here, I will mend thy feast.

TIMON. First mend my company, take away thyself.

APEMANTUS. So I shall mend mine own, by th’ lack of thine.

TIMON. ’Tis not well mended so, it is but botched. If not, I would it were.

APEMANTUS. What wouldst thou have to Athens?

TIMON. Thee thither in a whirlwind. If thou wilt, Tell them there I have gold. Look, so I have.

APEMANTUS. Here is no use for gold.

TIMON. The best and truest, For here it sleeps and does no hired harm.

APEMANTUS. Where liest a-nights, Timon?

TIMON. Under that’s above me. Where feed’st thou a-days, Apemantus?

APEMANTUS. Where my stomach finds meat, or rather where I eat it.

TIMON. Would poison were obedient and knew my mind!

APEMANTUS. Where wouldst thou send it?

TIMON. To sauce thy dishes.

APEMANTUS. The middle of humanity thou never knewest, but the extremity of both ends. When thou wast in thy gilt and thy perfume, they mocked thee for too much curiosity; in thy rags thou know’st none, but art despised for the contrary. There’s a medlar for thee. Eat it.

TIMON. On what I hate I feed not.

APEMANTUS. Dost hate a medlar?

TIMON. Ay, though it look like thee.

APEMANTUS. An thou’dst hated medlars sooner, thou shouldst have loved thyself better now. What man didst thou ever know unthrift that was beloved after his means?

TIMON. Who, without those means thou talk’st of, didst thou ever know beloved?

APEMANTUS. Myself.

TIMON. I understand thee. Thou hadst some means to keep a dog.

APEMANTUS. What things in the world canst thou nearest compare to thy flatterers?

TIMON. Women nearest; but men—men are the things themselves. What wouldst thou do with the world, Apemantus, if it lay in thy power?

APEMANTUS. Give it the beasts, to be rid of the men.

TIMON. Wouldst thou have thyself fall in the confusion of men and remain a beast with the beasts?

APEMANTUS. Ay, Timon.

TIMON. A beastly ambition, which the gods grant thee t’ attain to. If thou wert the lion, the fox would beguile thee; if thou wert the lamb, the fox would eat thee; if thou wert the fox, the lion would suspect thee when peradventure thou wert accused by the ass; if thou wert the ass, thy dulness would torment thee, and still thou lived’st but as a breakfast to the wolf; if thou wert the wolf, thy greediness would afflict thee, and oft thou shouldst hazard thy life for thy dinner. Wert thou the unicorn, pride and wrath would confound thee and make thine own self the conquest of thy fury; wert thou a bear, thou wouldst be killed by the horse; wert thou a horse, thou wouldst be seized by the leopard; wert thou a leopard, thou wert germane to the lion, and the spots of thy kindred were jurors on thy life. All thy safety were remotion, and thy defence absence. What beast couldst thou be that were not subject to a beast? And what beast art thou already that seest not thy loss in transformation!

APEMANTUS. If thou couldst please me with speaking to me, thou mightst have hit upon it here. The commonwealth of Athens is become a forest of beasts.

TIMON. How has the ass broke the wall, that thou art out of the city?

APEMANTUS. Yonder comes a poet and a painter. The plague of company light upon thee! I will fear to catch it, and give way. When I know not what else to do, I’ll see thee again.

TIMON. When there is nothing living but thee, thou shalt be welcome. I had rather be a beggar’s dog than Apemantus.

APEMANTUS. Thou art the cap of all the fools alive.

TIMON. Would thou wert clean enough to spit upon!

APEMANTUS. A plague on thee! Thou art too bad to curse.

TIMON. All villains that do stand by thee are pure.

APEMANTUS. There is no leprosy but what thou speak’st.

TIMON. If I name thee, I’ll beat thee, but I should infect my hands.

APEMANTUS. I would my tongue could rot them off!

TIMON. Away, thou issue of a mangy dog! Choler does kill me that thou art alive. I swoon to see thee.

APEMANTUS. Would thou wouldst burst!

TIMON. Away, thou tedious rogue! I am sorry I shall lose a stone by thee.

[_Throws a stone at him._]

APEMANTUS. Beast!

TIMON. Slave!

APEMANTUS. Toad!

TIMON. Rogue, rogue, rogue! I am sick of this false world, and will love nought But even the mere necessities upon’t. Then, Timon, presently prepare thy grave. Lie where the light foam of the sea may beat Thy gravestone daily. Make thine epitaph, That death in me at others’ lives may laugh. [_To the gold._] O thou sweet king-killer and dear divorce ’Twixt natural son and sire; thou bright defiler Of Hymen’s purest bed, thou valiant Mars; Thou ever young, fresh, loved, and delicate wooer, Whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow That lies on Dian’s lap; thou visible god, That solder’st close impossibilities And mak’st them kiss, that speak’st with every tongue To every purpose! O thou touch of hearts, Think thy slave man rebels, and by thy virtue Set them into confounding odds, that beasts May have the world in empire!

APEMANTUS. Would ’twere so! But not till I am dead. I’ll say thou’st gold; Thou wilt be thronged to shortly.

TIMON. Thronged to?

APEMANTUS. Ay.

TIMON. Thy back, I prithee.

APEMANTUS. Live and love thy misery.

TIMON. Long live so, and so die! I am quit.

APEMANTUS. More things like men. Eat, Timon, and abhor them.

[_Exit Apemantus._]

Enter Banditti.

FIRST BANDIT. Where should he have this gold? It is some poor fragment, some slender ort of his remainder. The mere want of gold and the falling-from of his friends drove him into this melancholy.

SECOND BANDIT. It is noised he hath a mass of treasure.

THIRD BANDIT. Let us make the assay upon him. If he care not for’t, he will supply us easily; if he covetously reserve it, how shall’s get it?

SECOND BANDIT. True, for he bears it not about him. ’Tis hid.

FIRST BANDIT. Is not this he?

BANDITTI. Where?

SECOND BANDIT. ’Tis his description.

THIRD BANDIT. He; I know him.

BANDITTI. Save thee, Timon!

TIMON. Now, thieves?

BANDITTI. Soldiers, not thieves.

TIMON. Both too, and women’s sons.

BANDITTI. We are not thieves, but men that much do want.

TIMON. Your greatest want is, you want much of meat. Why should you want? Behold, the earth hath roots, Within this mile break forth a hundred springs, The oaks bear mast, the briars scarlet hips, The bounteous housewife Nature on each bush Lays her full mess before you. Want? Why want?

FIRST BANDIT. We cannot live on grass, on berries, water, As beasts and birds and fishes.

TIMON. Nor on the beasts themselves, the birds, and fishes; You must eat men. Yet thanks I must you con That you are thieves professed, that you work not In holier shapes, for there is boundless theft In limited professions. Rascal thieves, Here’s gold. Go, suck the subtle blood o’ th’ grape Till the high fever seethe your blood to froth, And so scape hanging. Trust not the physician; His antidotes are poison, and he slays More than you rob. Take wealth and lives together, Do villainy, do, since you protest to do’t, Like workmen. I’ll example you with thievery. The sun’s a thief and with his great attraction Robs the vast sea; the moon’s an arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun; The sea’s a thief, whose liquid surge resolves The moon into salt tears; the earth’s a thief, That feeds and breeds by a composture stol’n From general excrement. Each thing’s a thief. The laws, your curb and whip, in their rough power Has unchecked theft. Love not yourselves; away! Rob one another. There’s more gold. Cut throats, All that you meet are thieves. To Athens go, Break open shops, nothing can you steal But thieves do lose it. Steal no less for this I give you, And gold confound you howsoe’er! Amen.

THIRD BANDIT. Has almost charmed me from my profession by persuading me to it.

FIRST BANDIT. ’Tis in the malice of mankind that he thus advises us, not to have us thrive in our mystery.

SECOND BANDIT. I’ll believe him as an enemy and give over my trade.

FIRST BANDIT. Let us first see peace in Athens. There is no time so miserable but a man may be true.

[_Exeunt Banditti._]

Enter Flavius.

FLAVIUS. O you gods! Is yond despised and ruinous man my lord? Full of decay and failing? O monument And wonder of good deeds evilly bestowed! What an alteration of honour has desperate want made! What viler thing upon the earth than friends Who can bring noblest minds to basest ends! How rarely does it meet with this time’s guise, When man was wished to love his enemies! Grant I may ever love, and rather woo Those that would mischief me than those that do! He has caught me in his eye. I will present My honest grief unto him and as my lord Still serve him with my life.—My dearest master!

TIMON. Away! What art thou?

FLAVIUS. Have you forgot me, sir?

TIMON. Why dost ask that? I have forgot all men. Then, if thou grant’st thou’rt a man, I have forgot thee.

FLAVIUS. An honest poor servant of yours.

TIMON. Then I know thee not. I never had honest man about me. I; all I kept were knaves to serve in meat to villains.

FLAVIUS. The gods are witness, Ne’er did poor steward wear a truer grief For his undone lord than mine eyes for you.

TIMON. What, dost thou weep? Come nearer then. I love thee Because thou art a woman and disclaim’st Flinty mankind, whose eyes do never give But thorough lust and laughter. Pity’s sleeping. Strange times that weep with laughing, not with weeping!

FLAVIUS. I beg of you to know me, good my lord, T’ accept my grief, and whilst this poor wealth lasts To entertain me as your steward still.

TIMON. Had I a steward So true, so just, and now so comfortable? It almost turns my dangerous nature mild. Let me behold thy face. Surely this man Was born of woman. Forgive my general and exceptless rashness, You perpetual sober gods! I do proclaim One honest man, mistake me not, but one; No more, I pray, and he’s a steward. How fain would I have hated all mankind, And thou redeem’st thyself. But all, save thee, I fell with curses. Methinks thou art more honest now than wise, For by oppressing and betraying me Thou mightst have sooner got another service; For many so arrive at second masters Upon their first lord’s neck. But tell me true— For I must ever doubt, though ne’er so sure— Is not thy kindness subtle, covetous, A usuring kindness and as rich men deal gifts, Expecting in return twenty for one?

FLAVIUS. No, my most worthy master, in whose breast Doubt and suspect, alas, are placed too late. You should have feared false times when you did feast, Suspect still comes where an estate is least. That which I show, heaven knows, is merely love, Duty and zeal to your unmatched mind, Care of your food and living. And believe it, My most honoured lord, For any benefit that points to me, Either in hope or present, I’d exchange For this one wish, that you had power and wealth To requite me by making rich yourself.

TIMON. Look thee, ’tis so! Thou singly honest man, Here, take. The gods out of my misery Have sent thee treasure. Go, live rich and happy, But thus conditioned: thou shalt build from men; Hate all, curse all, show charity to none, But let the famished flesh slide from the bone Ere thou relieve the beggar; give to dogs What thou deniest to men; let prisons swallow ’em, Debts wither ’em to nothing; be men like blasted woods, And may diseases lick up their false bloods! And so farewell and thrive.

FLAVIUS. O, let me stay And comfort you, my master.

TIMON. If thou hat’st curses, Stay not. Fly whilst thou’rt blest and free. Ne’er see thou man, and let me ne’er see thee.

[_Exeunt severally._]

## ACT V

## SCENE I. The woods. Before Timon’s cave

Enter Poet and Painter.

PAINTER. As I took note of the place, it cannot be far where he abides.

POET. What’s to be thought of him? Does the rumour hold for true that he is so full of gold?

PAINTER. Certain. Alcibiades reports it; Phrynia and Timandra had gold of him. He likewise enriched poor straggling soldiers with great quantity. ’Tis said he gave unto his steward a mighty sum.

POET. Then this breaking of his has been but a try for his friends?

PAINTER. Nothing else. You shall see him a palm in Athens again, and flourish with the highest. Therefore ’tis not amiss we tender our loves to him in this supposed distress of his. It will show honestly in us and is very likely to load our purposes with what they travail for, if it be a just and true report that goes of his having.

POET. What have you now to present unto him?

PAINTER. Nothing at this time but my visitation; only I will promise him an excellent piece.

POET. I must serve him so too, tell him of an intent that’s coming toward him.

PAINTER. Good as the best. Promising is the very air o’ th’ time; it opens the eyes of expectation. Performance is ever the duller for his act and, but in the plainer and simpler kind of people, the deed of saying is quite out of use. To promise is most courtly and fashionable; performance is a kind of will or testament which argues a great sickness in his judgment that makes it.

Enter Timon from his cave.

TIMON. [_Aside_.] Excellent workman! Thou canst not paint a man so bad as is thyself.

POET. I am thinking what I shall say I have provided for him. It must be a personating of himself, a satire against the softness of prosperity, with a discovery of the infinite flatteries that follow youth and opulency.

TIMON. [_Aside_.] Must thou needs stand for a villain in thine own work? Wilt thou whip thine own faults in other men? Do so, I have gold for thee.

POET. Nay, let’s seek him. Then do we sin against our own estate When we may profit meet and come too late.

PAINTER. True. When the day serves, before black-cornered night, Find what thou want’st by free and offered light. Come.

TIMON. [_Aside_.] I’ll meet you at the turn. What a god’s gold, That he is worshipped in a baser temple Than where swine feed! ’Tis thou that rigg’st the bark and plough’st the foam, Settlest admired reverence in a slave. To thee be worship, and thy saints for aye Be crowned with plagues, that thee alone obey! Fit I meet them.

[_He comes forward._]

POET. Hail, worthy Timon!

PAINTER. Our late noble master!

TIMON. Have I once lived to see two honest men?

POET. Sir, Having often of your open bounty tasted, Hearing you were retired, your friends fall’n off, Whose thankless natures—O abhorred spirits! Not all the whips of heaven are large enough— What, to you, Whose star-like nobleness gave life and influence To their whole being? I am rapt and cannot cover The monstrous bulk of this ingratitude With any size of words.

TIMON. Let it go naked. Men may see’t the better. You that are honest, by being what you are, Make them best seen and known.

PAINTER. He and myself Have travailed in the great shower of your gifts, And sweetly felt it.

TIMON. Ay, you are honest men.

PAINTER. We are hither come to offer you our service.

TIMON. Most honest men! Why, how shall I requite you? Can you eat roots and drink cold water? No?

BOTH. What we can do we’ll do, to do you service.

TIMON. Ye’re honest men. Ye’ve heard that I have gold, I am sure you have. Speak truth, you’re honest men.

PAINTER. So it is said, my noble lord; but therefore Came not my friend nor I.

TIMON. Good honest men! [_To Painter_.] Thou draw’st a counterfeit Best in all Athens. Thou’rt indeed the best, Thou counterfeit’st most lively.

PAINTER. So so, my lord.

TIMON. E’en so, sir, as I say. [_To the Poet_.] And for thy fiction, Why, thy verse swells with stuff so fine and smooth That thou art even natural in thine art. But for all this, my honest-natured friends, I must needs say you have a little fault. Marry, ’tis not monstrous in you, neither wish I You take much pains to mend.

BOTH. Beseech your honour To make it known to us.

TIMON. You’ll take it ill.

BOTH. Most thankfully, my lord.

TIMON. Will you indeed?

BOTH. Doubt it not, worthy lord.

TIMON. There’s never a one of you but trusts a knave That mightily deceives you.

BOTH. Do we, my lord?

TIMON. Ay, and you hear him cog, see him dissemble, Know his gross patchery, love him, feed him, Keep in your bosom, yet remain assured That he’s a made-up villain.

PAINTER. I know not such, my lord.

POET. Nor I.

TIMON. Look you, I love you well. I’ll give you gold. Rid me these villains from your companies, Hang them or stab them, drown them in a draught, Confound them by some course, and come to me, I’ll give you gold enough.

BOTH. Name them, my lord, let’s know them.

TIMON. You that way, and you this, but two in company. Each man apart, all single and alone, Yet an arch-villain keeps him company. [_To one_.] If where thou art, two villians shall not be, Come not near him. [_To the other_.] If thou wouldst not reside But where one villain is, then him abandon. Hence, pack! There’s gold. You came for gold, ye slaves. [_To one_.] You have work for me, there’s payment, hence! [_To the other_.] You are an alchemist; make gold of that. Out, rascal dogs!

[_Timon drives them out and then retires to his cave_]

## SCENE II. The same

Enter Flavius and two Senators.

FLAVIUS. It is vain that you would speak with Timon. For he is set so only to himself That nothing but himself which looks like man Is friendly with him.

FIRST SENATOR. Bring us to his cave. It is our part and promise to th’ Athenians To speak with Timon.

SECOND SENATOR. At all times alike Men are not still the same: ’twas time and griefs That framed him thus. Time, with his fairer hand, Offering the fortunes of his former days, The former man may make him. Bring us to him And chance it as it may.

FLAVIUS. Here is his cave. Peace and content be here! Lord Timon! Timon, Look out and speak to friends. The Athenians By two of their most reverend senate greet thee. Speak to them, noble Timon.

Enter Timon out of his cave.

TIMON. Thou sun that comforts, burn! Speak and be hanged! For each true word, a blister, and each false Be as a cantherizing to the root o’ th’ tongue, Consuming it with speaking.

FIRST SENATOR. Worthy Timon—

TIMON. Of none but such as you, and you of Timon.

FIRST SENATOR. The senators of Athens greet thee, Timon.

TIMON. [_Aside_.] I thank them and would send them back the plague, Could I but catch it for them.

FIRST SENATOR. O, forget What we are sorry for ourselves in thee. The senators with one consent of love Entreat thee back to Athens, who have thought On special dignities, which vacant lie For thy best use and wearing.

SECOND SENATOR. They confess Toward thee forgetfulness too general gross, Which now the public body, which doth seldom Play the recanter, feeling in itself A lack of Timon’s aid, hath sense withal Of its own fall, restraining aid to Timon, And send forth us to make their sorrowed render, Together with a recompense more fruitful Than their offence can weigh down by the dram, Ay, even such heaps and sums of love and wealth, As shall to thee blot out what wrongs were theirs, And write in thee the figures of their love, Ever to read them thine.

TIMON. You witch me in it, Surprise me to the very brink of tears. Lend me a fool’s heart and a woman’s eyes And I’ll beweep these comforts, worthy senators.

FIRST SENATOR. Therefore so please thee to return with us, And of our Athens, thine and ours, to take The captainship, thou shalt be met with thanks, Allowed with absolute power, and thy good name Live with authority. So soon we shall drive back Of Alcibiades th’ approaches wild, Who like a boar too savage doth root up His country’s peace.

SECOND SENATOR. And shakes his threatening sword Against the walls of Athens.

FIRST SENATOR. Therefore, Timon—

TIMON. Well, sir, I will. Therefore I will, sir, thus: If Alcibiades kill my countrymen, Let Alcibiades know this of Timon, That Timon cares not. But if he sack fair Athens And take our goodly aged men by th’ beards, Giving our holy virgins to the stain Of contumelious, beastly, mad-brained war, Then let him know, and tell him Timon speaks it, In pity of our aged and our youth, I cannot choose but tell him that I care not; And—let him take’t at worst—for their knives care not While you have throats to answer. For myself, There’s not a whittle in th’ unruly camp But I do prize it at my love before The reverend’st throat in Athens. So I leave you To the protection of the prosperous gods, As thieves to keepers.

FLAVIUS. Stay not, all’s in vain.

TIMON. Why, I was writing of my epitaph; It will be seen tomorrow. My long sickness Of health and living now begins to mend And nothing brings me all things. Go, live still, Be Alcibiades your plague, you his, And last so long enough.

FIRST SENATOR. We speak in vain.

TIMON. But yet I love my country and am not One that rejoices in the common wrack, As common bruit doth put it.

FIRST SENATOR. That’s well spoke.

TIMON. Commend me to my loving countrymen.

FIRST SENATOR. These words become your lips as they pass through them.

SECOND SENATOR. And enter in our ears like great triumphers In their applauding gates.

TIMON. Commend me to them, And tell them that to ease them of their griefs, Their fears of hostile strokes, their aches, losses, Their pangs of love, with other incident throes That nature’s fragile vessel doth sustain In life’s uncertain voyage, I will some kindness do them; I’ll teach them to prevent wild Alcibiades’ wrath.

FIRST SENATOR. [_Aside_.] I like this well, he will return again.

TIMON. I have a tree which grows here in my close That mine own use invites me to cut down, And shortly must I fell it. Tell my friends, Tell Athens, in the sequence of degree From high to low throughout, that whoso please To stop affliction, let him take his haste, Come hither ere my tree hath felt the axe And hang himself. I pray you do my greeting.

FLAVIUS. Trouble him no further; thus you still shall find him.

TIMON. Come not to me again, but say to Athens Timon hath made his everlasting mansion Upon the beached verge of the salt flood, Who once a day with his embossed froth The turbulent surge shall cover; thither come, And let my gravestone be your oracle. Lips, let sour words go by, and language end: What is amiss, plague and infection mend; Graves only be men’s works and death their gain, Sun, hide thy beams, Timon hath done his reign.

[_Exit Timon into his cave._]

FIRST SENATOR. His discontents are unremovably Coupled to nature.

SECOND SENATOR. Our hope in him is dead. Let us return And strain what other means is left unto us In our dear peril.

FIRST SENATOR. It requires swift foot.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE III. Before the walls of Athens

Enter two other Senators, with a Messenger.

FIRST SENATOR. Thou hast painfully discovered. Are his files As full as thy report?

MESSENGER. I have spoke the least. Besides, his expedition promises Present approach.

SECOND SENATOR. We stand much hazard if they bring not Timon.

MESSENGER. I met a courier, one mine ancient friend, Whom, though in general part we were opposed, Yet our old love made a particular force And made us speak like friends. This man was riding From Alcibiades to Timon’s cave With letters of entreaty, which imported His fellowship i’ th’ cause against your city, In part for his sake moved.

Enter the other Senators from Timon.

THIRD SENATOR. Here come our brothers.

FIRST SENATOR. No talk of Timon, nothing of him expect. The enemy’s drum is heard, and fearful scouring Doth choke the air with dust. In, and prepare. Ours is the fall, I fear, our foe’s the snare.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE IV. The woods. Timon’s cave, and a rude tomb seen

Enter a Soldier in the woods, seeking Timon.

SOLDIER. By all description this should be the place. Who’s here? Speak, ho! No answer? What is this? _Timon is dead, who hath outstretched his span. Some beast read this; there does not live a man._ Dead, sure, and this his grave. What’s on this tomb I cannot read. The character I’ll take with wax. Our captain hath in every figure skill, An aged interpreter, though young in days. Before proud Athens he’s set down by this, Whose fall the mark of his ambition is.

[_Exit._]

## SCENE V. Before the walls of Athens

Trumpets sound. Enter Alcibiades with his powers before Athens.

ALCIBIADES. Sound to this coward and lascivious town Our terrible approach.

[_A parley sounds._]

The Senators appear upon the walls.

Till now you have gone on and filled the time With all licentious measure, making your wills The scope of justice. Till now myself and such As slept within the shadow of your power Have wandered with our traversed arms, and breathed Our sufferance vainly. Now the time is flush, When crouching marrow, in the bearer strong Cries of itself, “No more!” Now breathless wrong Shall sit and pant in your great chairs of ease, And pursy insolence shall break his wind With fear and horrid flight.

FIRST SENATOR. Noble and young, When thy first griefs were but a mere conceit, Ere thou hadst power or we had cause of fear, We sent to thee to give thy rages balm, To wipe out our ingratitude with loves Above their quantity.

SECOND SENATOR. So did we woo Transformed Timon to our city’s love By humble message and by promised means. We were not all unkind, nor all deserve The common stroke of war.

FIRST SENATOR. These walls of ours Were not erected by their hands from whom You have received your griefs; nor are they such That these great towers, trophies, and schools should fall For private faults in them.

SECOND SENATOR. Nor are they living Who were the motives that you first went out. Shame, that they wanted cunning, in excess Hath broke their hearts. March, noble lord, Into our city with thy banners spread. By decimation and a tithed death, If thy revenges hunger for that food Which nature loathes, take thou the destined tenth, And by the hazard of the spotted die Let die the spotted.

FIRST SENATOR. All have not offended. For those that were, it is not square to take, On those that are, revenge. Crimes, like lands, Are not inherited. Then, dear countryman, Bring in thy ranks but leave without thy rage; Spare thy Athenian cradle and those kin Which in the bluster of thy wrath must fall With those that have offended. Like a shepherd Approach the fold and cull th’ infected forth, But kill not all together.

SECOND SENATOR. What thou wilt, Thou rather shalt enforce it with thy smile Than hew to ’t with thy sword.

FIRST SENATOR. Set but thy foot Against our rampired gates and they shall ope, So thou wilt send thy gentle heart before To say thou’lt enter friendly.

SECOND SENATOR. Throw thy glove, Or any token of thine honour else, That thou wilt use the wars as thy redress And not as our confusion, all thy powers Shall make their harbour in our town till we Have sealed thy full desire.

ALCIBIADES. Then there’s my glove; Descend and open your uncharged ports. Those enemies of Timon’s and mine own Whom you yourselves shall set out for reproof Fall, and no more. And, to atone your fears With my more noble meaning, not a man Shall pass his quarter or offend the stream Of regular justice in your city’s bounds, But shall be remedied to your public laws At heaviest answer.

BOTH. ’Tis most nobly spoken.

ALCIBIADES. Descend, and keep your words.

[_The Senators descend._]

Enter a Soldier.

SOLDIER. My noble general, Timon is dead, Entombed upon the very hem o’ th’ sea, And on his gravestone this insculpture, which With wax I brought away, whose soft impression Interprets for my poor ignorance.

ALCIBIADES. [_Reads the Epitaph._] _Here lies a wretched corse, of wretched soul bereft. Seek not my name. A plague consume you, wicked caitiffs left! Here lie I, Timon, who alive all living men did hate. Pass by and curse thy fill, but pass and stay not here thy gait._ These well express in thee thy latter spirits. Though thou abhorred’st in us our human griefs, Scorned’st our brains’ flow and those our droplets which From niggard nature fall, yet rich conceit Taught thee to make vast Neptune weep for aye On thy low grave, on faults forgiven. Dead Is noble Timon, of whose memory Hereafter more. Bring me into your city, And I will use the olive with my sword, Make war breed peace, make peace stint war, make each Prescribe to other, as each other’s leech. Let our drums strike.

[_Exeunt._]

THE TRAGEDY OF TITUS ANDRONICUS

Contents

## ACT I

## Scene I. Rome. Before the Capitol

## ACT II

## Scene I. Rome. Before the palace

## Scene II. A Forest near Rome; a Lodge seen at a distance. Horns and cry of hounds heard

## Scene III. A lonely part of the Forest

## Scene IV. Another part of the Forest

## ACT III

## Scene I. Rome. A street

## Scene II. Rome. A Room in Titus’s House. A banquet set out

## ACT IV

## Scene I. Rome. Before Titus’s House

## Scene II. Rome. A Room in the Palace

## Scene III. Rome. A public Place

## Scene IV. Rome. Before the Palace

## ACT V

## Scene I. Plains near Rome

## Scene II. Rome. Before Titus’s House

## Scene III. Rome. A Pavilion in Titus’s Gardens, with tables, &c.

Dramatis Personæ

SATURNINUS, elder son to the late Emperor of Rome, afterwards Emperor BASSIANUS, brother to Saturninus

TITUS ANDRONICUS, a noble Roman, General against the Goths MARCUS ANDRONICUS, Tribune of the People, and brother to Titus

LAVINIA, daughter to Titus Andronicus LUCIUS, son to Titus Andronicus QUINTUS, son to Titus Andronicus MARTIUS, son to Titus Andronicus MUTIUS, son to Titus Andronicus

YOUNG LUCIUS, a boy, son to Lucius PUBLIUS, son to Marcus the Tribune

SEMPRONIUS, kinsman to Titus CAIUS, kinsman to Titus VALENTINE, kinsman to Titus

AEMILIUS, a noble Roman

TAMORA, Queen of the Goths AARON, a Moor, beloved by Tamora ALARBUS, son to Tamora DEMETRIUS, son to Tamora CHIRON, son to Tamora

A CAPTAIN MESSENGER A NURSE, and a black child CLOWN Goths and Romans

Tribunes, Senators, Officers, Soldiers, and Attendants

SCENE: Rome, and the Country near it

## ACT I

## SCENE I. Rome. Before the Capitol

Enter the Tribunes and Senators aloft. And then enter Saturninus and his followers at one door, and Bassianus and his followers at the other, with drums and trumpets.

SATURNINUS. Noble patricians, patrons of my right, Defend the justice of my cause with arms; And, countrymen, my loving followers, Plead my successive title with your swords. I am his firstborn 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.

BASSIANUS. Romans, friends, followers, favourers of my right, If ever Bassianus, Caesar’s son, Were gracious in the eyes of royal Rome, Keep then this passage to the Capitol, And suffer not dishonour to approach 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, holding the crown.

MARCUS. Princes, that strive by factions and by friends Ambitiously for rule and empery, Know that the people of Rome, for whom we stand A special party, have by common voice, In election for the Roman empery, Chosen Andronicus, surnamed Pius For many good and great deserts to Rome. A nobler man, a braver warrior, Lives not this day within the city walls. He by the senate is accited home From weary wars against the barbarous Goths, That with his sons, a terror to our foes, Hath yoked a nation strong, trained up in arms. Ten years are spent since first he undertook This cause of Rome, and chastised with arms Our enemies’ pride. Five times he hath returned 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, Renowned Titus, flourishing in arms. Let us entreat, by honour of his name Whom worthily you would have now succeed, And in the Capitol and senate’s right, Whom you pretend to honour and adore, That you withdraw you and abate your strength, Dismiss your followers, and, as suitors should, Plead your deserts in peace and humbleness.

SATURNINUS. How fair the tribune speaks to calm my thoughts!

BASSIANUS. Marcus Andronicus, so I do affy In thy uprightness and integrity, And so I love and honour thee and thine, Thy noble brother Titus and his sons, And her to whom my thoughts are humbled all, Gracious Lavinia, Rome’s rich ornament, That I will here dismiss my loving friends, And to my fortunes and the people’s favour Commit my cause in balance to be weighed.

[_Exeunt the followers of Bassianus._]

SATURNINUS. Friends, that have been thus forward in my right, I thank you all and here dismiss you all, And to the love and favour of my country Commit myself, my person, and the cause.

[_Exeunt 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.

BASSIANUS. Tribunes, and me, a poor competitor.

[_Flourish. They go up into the Senate House._]

Enter a Captain.

CAPTAIN. Romans, make way! The good Andronicus, Patron of virtue, Rome’s best champion, Successful in the battles that he fights, With honour and with fortune is returned From where he circumscribed with his sword And brought to yoke the enemies of Rome.

Sound drums and trumpets, and then enter two of Titus’ sons, and then two men bearing a coffin covered with black; then two other sons; then Titus Andronicus; and then Tamora, the Queen of Goths and her sons Alarbus, Chiron and Demetrius with Aaron the Moor, and others as many as can be, then set down the coffin, and Titus speaks.

TITUS. Hail, Rome, victorious in thy mourning weeds! Lo, as the bark that hath discharged her fraught Returns with precious lading to the bay From whence at first she weighed her anchorage, Cometh Andronicus, bound with laurel boughs, To resalute his country with his tears, Tears of true joy for his return to Rome. Thou great defender of this Capitol, Stand gracious to the rites that we intend. Romans, of five-and-twenty valiant sons, Half of the number that King Priam had, Behold the poor remains, alive and dead. These that survive let Rome reward with love; These that I bring unto their latest home, With burial amongst their ancestors. Here Goths have given me leave to sheathe my sword. 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.

[_They open the tomb._]

There greet in silence, as the dead are wont, And sleep in peace, slain in your country’s wars. O sacred receptacle of my joys, Sweet cell of virtue and nobility, How many sons hast thou of mine in store, That thou wilt never render to me more?

LUCIUS. 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 unappeased, Nor we disturbed with prodigies on earth.

TITUS. I give him you, the noblest that survives, The eldest son of this distressed queen.

TAMORA. Stay, Roman brethren! Gracious conqueror, Victorious Titus, rue the tears I shed, A mother’s tears in passion for her son. And if thy sons were ever dear to thee, O, think my son to be as dear to me. Sufficeth not that we are brought to Rome, To beautify thy triumphs and return Captive to thee and to thy Roman yoke; But must my sons be slaughtered in the streets For valiant doings in their country’s cause? O, if to fight for king and commonweal Were piety in thine, it is in these. Andronicus, stain not thy tomb with blood. Wilt thou draw near the nature of the gods? Draw near them then in being merciful. Sweet mercy is nobility’s true badge. Thrice-noble Titus, spare my first-born son.

TITUS. 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 marked, and die he must, T’ appease their groaning shadows that are gone.

LUCIUS. 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 consumed.

[_Exeunt Titus’ sons with Alarbus._]

TAMORA. O cruel, irreligious piety!

CHIRON. Was never Scythia half so barbarous!

DEMETRIUS. Oppose not Scythia to ambitious Rome. Alarbus goes to rest, and we survive To tremble under Titus’ threat’ning look. Then, madam, stand resolved, but hope withal The self-same gods that armed the Queen of Troy With opportunity of sharp revenge Upon the Thracian tyrant in his tent May favour Tamora, the queen of Goths, (When Goths were Goths and Tamora was queen) To quit the bloody wrongs upon her foes.

Enter the sons of Andronicus again with bloody swords.

LUCIUS. See, lord and father, how we have performed Our Roman rites. Alarbus’ limbs are lopped, And entrails feed the sacrificing fire, Whose smoke like incense doth perfume the sky. Remaineth naught but to inter our brethren, And with loud ’larums welcome them to Rome.

TITUS. Let it be so; and let Andronicus Make this his latest farewell to their souls.

[_Sound trumpets, and lay the coffin in the tomb._]

In peace and honour rest you here, my sons; Rome’s readiest champions, repose you here in rest, Secure from worldly chances and mishaps. Here lurks no treason, here no envy swells, Here grow no damned drugs; here are no storms, No noise, but silence and eternal sleep. In peace and honour rest you here, my sons.

Enter Lavinia.

LAVINIA. In peace and honour live Lord Titus long; My noble lord and father, live in fame. Lo, at this tomb my tributary tears I render for my brethren’s obsequies; And at thy feet I kneel, with tears of joy Shed on this earth for thy return to Rome. O, bless me here with thy victorious hand, Whose fortunes Rome’s best citizens applaud.

TITUS. Kind Rome, that hast thus lovingly reserved The cordial of mine age to glad my heart! Lavinia, live; outlive thy father’s days, And fame’s eternal date, for virtue’s praise.

Enter Marcus Andronicus and Tribunes; re-enter Saturninus, Bassianus and others.

MARCUS. Long live Lord Titus, my beloved brother, Gracious triumpher in the eyes of Rome.

TITUS. Thanks, gentle tribune, noble brother Marcus.

MARCUS. And welcome, nephews, from successful wars, 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 aspired to Solon’s happiness 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, 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.

TITUS. A better head her glorious body fits Than his that shakes for age and feebleness. What, should I don this robe and trouble you? Be chosen with proclamations today, Tomorrow yield up rule, resign my life, And set abroad new business for you all? Rome, I have been thy soldier forty years, And led my country’s strength successfully, And buried one and twenty valiant sons, Knighted in field, slain manfully in arms, In right and service of their noble country. Give me a staff of honour for mine age, But not a sceptre to control the world. Upright he held it, lords, that held it last.

MARCUS. Titus, thou shalt obtain and ask the empery.

SATURNINUS. Proud and ambitious tribune, canst thou tell?

TITUS. Patience, Prince Saturninus.

SATURNINUS. Romans, do me right. Patricians, draw your swords, and sheathe them not Till Saturninus be Rome’s emperor. Andronicus, would thou were shipped to hell Rather than rob me of the people’s hearts!

LUCIUS. Proud Saturnine, interrupter of the good That noble-minded Titus means to thee!

TITUS. Content thee, prince; I will restore to thee The people’s hearts, and wean them from themselves.

BASSIANUS. 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.

TITUS. People of Rome, and people’s tribunes here, I ask your voices and your suffrages. Will you bestow them friendly on Andronicus?

TRIBUNES. To gratify the good Andronicus, And gratulate his safe return to Rome, The people will accept whom he admits.

TITUS. Tribunes, I thank you; and this suit I make, That you create your emperor’s eldest son, Lord Saturnine; whose virtues will, I hope, Reflect on Rome as Titan’s rays on earth, And ripen justice in this commonweal. Then, if you will elect by my advice, Crown him, and say “Long live our emperor!”

MARCUS. With voices and applause of every sort, Patricians and plebeians, we create Lord Saturninus Rome’s great emperor, And say “Long live our Emperor Saturnine!”

[_A long flourish._]

SATURNINUS. Titus Andronicus, for thy favours done To us in our election this day, I give thee thanks in part of thy deserts, And will with deeds requite thy gentleness. And for an onset, Titus, to advance Thy name and honourable family, Lavinia will I make my empress, Rome’s royal mistress, mistress of my heart, And in the sacred Pantheon her espouse. Tell me, Andronicus, doth this motion please thee?

TITUS. It doth, my worthy lord, and in this match I hold me highly honoured of your grace; And here in sight of Rome, to Saturnine, 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, Mine honour’s ensigns humbled at thy feet.

SATURNINUS. Thanks, noble Titus, father of my life. How proud I am of thee and of thy gifts Rome shall record, and when I do forget The least of these unspeakable deserts, Romans, forget your fealty to me.

TITUS. [_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.

SATURNINUS. A goodly lady, trust me, of the hue That I would choose, were I to choose anew. Clear up, fair queen, that cloudy countenance. Though chance of war hath wrought this change of cheer, Thou com’st not to be made a scorn in Rome. Princely shall be thy usage every way. Rest on my word, and let not discontent Daunt all your hopes. Madam, he comforts you Can make you greater than the Queen of Goths. Lavinia, you are not displeased with this?

LAVINIA. Not I, my lord, sith true nobility Warrants these words in princely courtesy.

SATURNINUS. Thanks, sweet Lavinia. Romans, let us go. Ransomless here we set our prisoners free. Proclaim our honours, lords, with trump and drum.

[_Flourish. Saturninus and his Guards exit, with Drums and Trumpets. Tribunes and Senators exit aloft._]

BASSIANUS. Lord Titus, by your leave, this maid is mine.

TITUS. How, sir? Are you in earnest then, my lord?

BASSIANUS. Ay, noble Titus; and resolved withal To do myself this reason and this right.

MARCUS. _Suum cuique_ is our Roman justice. This prince in justice seizeth but his own.

LUCIUS. And that he will and shall, if Lucius live.

TITUS. Traitors, avaunt! Where is the emperor’s guard?

Enter Saturninus and his Guards.

Treason, my lord, Lavinia is surprised.

SATURNINUS. Surprised? By whom?

BASSIANUS. By him that justly may Bear his betrothed from all the world away.

[_Exeunt Bassianus and Marcus with Lavinia._]

MUTIUS. Brothers, help to convey her hence away, And with my sword I’ll keep this door safe.

[_Exeunt Lucius, Quintus and Martius._]

TITUS. Follow, my lord, and I’ll soon bring her back.

[_Exeunt Saturninus, Tamora, Demetrius, Chiron, Aaron, and Guards._]

MUTIUS. My lord, you pass not here.

TITUS. What, villain boy, Barr’st me my way in Rome?

[_Stabbing Mutius._]

MUTIUS. Help, Lucius, help!

[_Dies._]

Re-enter Lucius.

LUCIUS. My lord, you are unjust, and more than so, In wrongful quarrel you have slain your son.

TITUS. Nor thou nor he are any sons of mine; My sons would never so dishonour me. Traitor, restore Lavinia to the Emperor.

LUCIUS. Dead, if you will; but not to be his wife, That is another’s lawful promised love.

[_Exit._]

Enter aloft the Emperor Saturninus with Tamora and her two sons and Aaron the Moor.

SATURNINUS. 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, Confederates all thus to dishonour me. Was none in Rome to make a stale But Saturnine? Full well, Andronicus, Agree these deeds with that proud brag of thine That said’st I begged the empire at thy hands.

TITUS. O monstrous! What reproachful words are these?

SATURNINUS. But go thy ways; go, give that changing piece To him that flourished for her with his sword. A valiant son-in-law thou shalt enjoy; One fit to bandy with thy lawless sons, To ruffle in the commonwealth of Rome.

TITUS. These words are razors to my wounded heart.

SATURNINUS. And therefore, lovely Tamora, Queen of Goths, That like the stately Phœbe ’mongst her nymphs Dost overshine the gallant’st dames of Rome, If thou be pleased 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, Sith priest and holy water are so near, And tapers burn so bright, and everything In readiness for Hymenæus stand, I will not re-salute the streets of Rome, Or climb my palace, till from forth this place I lead espoused my bride along with me.

TAMORA. 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.

SATURNINUS. Ascend, fair queen, Pantheon. Lords, accompany Your noble emperor and his lovely bride, Sent by the heavens for Prince Saturnine, Whose wisdom hath her fortune conquered. There shall we consummate our spousal rites.

[_Exeunt all but Titus._]

TITUS. I am not bid to wait upon this bride. Titus, when wert thou wont to walk alone, Dishonoured thus, and challenged of wrongs?

Re-enter Marcus, Lucius, Quintus and Martius.

MARCUS. O Titus, see, O, see what thou hast done! In a bad quarrel slain a virtuous son.

TITUS. No, foolish tribune, no; no son of mine, Nor thou, nor these, confederates in the deed That hath dishonoured all our family. Unworthy brother and unworthy sons!

LUCIUS. But let us give him burial, as becomes; Give Mutius burial with our brethren.

TITUS. Traitors, away! He rests not in this tomb. This monument five hundred years hath stood, Which I have sumptuously re-edified. Here none but soldiers and Rome’s servitors Repose in fame; none basely slain in brawls. Bury him where you can, he comes not here.

MARCUS. My lord, this is impiety in you. My nephew Mutius’ deeds do plead for him; He must be buried with his brethren.

MARTIUS. And shall, or him we will accompany.

TITUS. “And shall”? What villain was it spake that word?

QUINTUS. He that would vouch it in any place but here.

TITUS. What, would you bury him in my despite?

MARCUS. No, noble Titus, but entreat of thee To pardon Mutius and to bury him.

TITUS. Marcus, even thou hast struck upon my crest, And with these boys mine honour thou hast wounded. My foes I do repute you every one; So trouble me no more, but get you gone.

QUINTUS. He is not with himself; let us withdraw.

MARTIUS. Not I, till Mutius’ bones be buried.

[_Marcus and the sons of Titus kneel._]

MARCUS. Brother, for in that name doth nature plead,—

QUINTUS. Father, and in that name doth nature speak,—

TITUS. Speak thou no more, if all the rest will speed.

MARCUS. Renowned Titus, more than half my soul,—

LUCIUS. Dear father, soul and substance of us all,—

MARCUS. Suffer thy brother Marcus to inter His noble nephew here in virtue’s nest, That died in honour and Lavinia’s cause. Thou art a Roman; be not barbarous. The Greeks upon advice did bury Ajax, That slew himself; and wise Laertes’ son Did graciously plead for his funerals. Let not young Mutius, then, that was thy joy, Be barred his entrance here.

TITUS. Rise, Marcus, rise. The dismall’st day is this that e’er I saw, To be dishonoured by my sons in Rome! Well, bury him, and bury me the next.

[_They put Mutius in the tomb._]

LUCIUS. 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.

MARCUS. My lord, to step out of these dreary dumps, How comes it that the subtle Queen of Goths Is of a sudden thus advanced in Rome?

TITUS. I know not, Marcus, but I know it is. Whether by device or no, the heavens can tell. Is she not then beholding to the man That brought her for this high good turn so far? Yes, and will nobly him remunerate.

Flourish. Enter the Emperor Saturninus, Tamora and her two sons, with Aaron the Moor. Drums and Trumpets, at one door. Enter at the other door Bassianus and Lavinia with others.

SATURNINUS. So, Bassianus, you have played your prize. God give you joy, sir, of your gallant bride.

BASSIANUS. And you of yours, my lord. I say no more, Nor wish no less; and so I take my leave.

SATURNINUS. Traitor, if Rome have law or we have power, Thou and thy faction shall repent this rape.

BASSIANUS. 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 am I possessed of that is mine.

SATURNINUS. ’Tis good, sir. You are very short with us; But if we live, we’ll be as sharp with you.

BASSIANUS. My lord, what I have done, as best I may, Answer I must, and shall do with my life. Only thus much I give your grace to know: By all the duties that I owe to Rome, This noble gentleman, Lord Titus here, Is in opinion and in honour wronged, That, in the rescue of Lavinia, With his own hand did slay his youngest son, In zeal to you, and highly moved to wrath To be controlled in that he frankly gave. Receive him then to favour, Saturnine, That hath expressed himself in all his deeds A father and a friend to thee and Rome.

TITUS. Prince Bassianus, leave to plead my deeds. ’Tis thou, and those, that have dishonoured me. Rome and the righteous heavens be my judge How I have loved and honoured Saturnine.

TAMORA. My worthy lord, if ever Tamora Were gracious in those princely eyes of thine, Then hear me speak indifferently for all; And at my suit, sweet, pardon what is past.

SATURNINUS. What, madam, be dishonoured openly, And basely put it up without revenge?

TAMORA. Not so, my lord; the gods of Rome forfend I should be author to dishonour you! But on mine honour dare I undertake For good Lord Titus’ innocence in all, Whose fury not dissembled speaks his griefs. Then at my suit look graciously on him; Lose not so noble a friend on vain suppose, Nor with sour looks afflict his gentle heart. [_Aside_.] My lord, be ruled by me, be won at last; Dissemble all your griefs and discontents. You are but newly planted in your throne; Lest, then, the people, and patricians too, Upon a just survey take Titus’ part, And so supplant you for ingratitude, Which Rome reputes to be a heinous sin, Yield at entreats, and then let me alone. 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 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.

SATURNINUS. Rise, Titus, rise; my empress hath prevailed.

TITUS. I thank your majesty and her, my lord. These words, these looks, infuse new life in me.

TAMORA. Titus, I am incorporate in Rome, A Roman now adopted happily, And must advise the emperor for his good. This day all quarrels die, Andronicus; And let it be mine honour, good my lord, That I have reconciled your friends and you. For you, Prince Bassianus, I have passed My word and promise to the emperor 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.

LUCIUS. We do, and vow to heaven and to his highness That what we did was mildly as we might, Tend’ring our sister’s honour and our own.

MARCUS. That on mine honour here do I protest.

SATURNINUS. Away, and talk not; trouble us no more.

TAMORA. Nay, nay, sweet emperor, we must all be friends. The tribune and his nephews kneel for grace; I will not be denied. Sweet heart, look back.

SATURNINUS. Marcus, for thy sake, and thy brother’s here, And at my lovely Tamora’s entreats, I do remit these young men’s heinous faults. Stand up. Lavinia, though you left me like a churl, I found a friend, and sure as death I swore I would not part a bachelor from the priest. Come, if the emperor’s court can feast two brides, You are my guest, Lavinia, and your friends. This day shall be a love-day, Tamora.

TITUS. Tomorrow, an it please your majesty To hunt the panther and the hart with me, With horn and hound we’ll give your grace _bonjour_.

SATURNINUS. Be it so, Titus, and gramercy too.

[_Sound trumpets. Exeunt all but Aaron._]

## ACT II

## SCENE I. Rome. Before the palace

Aaron alone.

AARON. Now climbeth Tamora Olympus’ top, Safe out of Fortune’s shot, and sits aloft, Secure of thunder’s crack or lightning’s flash, Advanced 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 glistening coach, And overlooks the highest-peering hills; So Tamora. Upon her wit doth earthly honour wait, And virtue stoops and trembles at her frown. Then, Aaron, arm thy heart and fit thy thoughts To mount aloft with thy imperial mistress, And mount her pitch, whom thou in triumph long Hast prisoner held, fett’red in amorous chains, And faster bound to Aaron’s charming eyes Than is Prometheus tied to Caucasus. Away with slavish weeds and servile thoughts! I will be bright, and shine in pearl and gold, To wait upon this new-made empress. To wait, said I? To wanton with this queen, This goddess, this Semiramis, this nymph, This siren, that will charm Rome’s Saturnine, And see his shipwrack and his commonweal’s. Holla! What storm is this?

Enter Chiron and Demetrius braving.

DEMETRIUS. Chiron, thy years wants wit, thy wit wants edge And manners, to intrude where I am graced, And may, for aught thou knowest, affected be.

CHIRON. Demetrius, thou dost overween 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. 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.

AARON. [_Aside_.] Clubs, clubs! These lovers will not keep the peace.

DEMETRIUS. Why, boy, although our mother, unadvised, Gave you a dancing-rapier by your side, Are you so desperate grown to threat your friends? Go to; have your lath glued within your sheath Till you know better how to handle it.

CHIRON. Meanwhile, sir, with the little skill I have, Full well shalt thou perceive how much I dare.

DEMETRIUS. Ay, boy, grow ye so brave?

[_They draw._]

AARON. Why, how now, lords! So near the emperor’s palace dare ye draw, And maintain such a quarrel openly? Full well I wot the ground of all this grudge. I would not for a million of gold The cause were known to them it most concerns; Nor would your noble mother for much more Be so dishonoured in the court of Rome. For shame, put up.

DEMETRIUS. Not I, till I have sheathed My rapier in his bosom, and withal Thrust those reproachful speeches down his throat That he hath breathed in my dishonour here.

CHIRON. For that I am prepared and full resolved, Foul-spoken coward, that thund’rest with thy tongue, And with thy weapon nothing dar’st perform.

AARON. Away, I say! Now, by the gods that warlike Goths adore, This pretty 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, Or Bassianus so degenerate, That for her love such quarrels may be broached Without controlment, justice, or revenge? Young lords, beware! And should the empress know This discord’s ground, the music would not please.

CHIRON. I care not, I, knew she and all the world. I love Lavinia more than all the world.

DEMETRIUS. Youngling, learn thou to make some meaner choice. Lavina is thine elder brother’s hope.

AARON. Why, are ye mad? Or know ye not in Rome How furious and impatient they be, And cannot brook competitors in love? I tell you, lords, you do but plot your deaths By this device.

CHIRON. Aaron, a thousand deaths Would I propose to achieve her whom I love.

AARON. To achieve her! How?

DEMETRIUS. Why makes thou it so strange? She is a woman, therefore may be wooed; She is a woman, therefore may be won; She is Lavinia, therefore must be loved. What, man, more water glideth by the mill Than wots the miller of; and easy it is Of a cut loaf to steal a shive, we know. Though Bassianus be the emperor’s brother, Better than he have worn Vulcan’s badge.

AARON. [_Aside_.] Ay, and as good as Saturninus may.

DEMETRIUS. Then why should he despair that knows to court it With words, fair looks, and liberality? What, hast not thou full often struck a doe, And borne her cleanly by the keeper’s nose?

AARON. Why, then, it seems some certain snatch or so Would serve your turns.

CHIRON. Ay, so the turn were served.

DEMETRIUS. Aaron, thou hast hit it.

AARON. Would you had hit it too! Then should not we be tired 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?

CHIRON. Faith, not me.

DEMETRIUS. Nor me, so I were one.

AARON. For shame, be friends, and join for that you jar. ’Tis policy and stratagem must do That you affect; and so must you resolve That what you cannot as you would achieve, You must perforce accomplish as you may. Take this of me: Lucrece was not more chaste Than this Lavinia, Bassianus’ love. A speedier course than ling’ring languishment Must we pursue, and I have found the path. My lords, a solemn hunting is in hand; There will the lovely Roman ladies troop. The forest walks are wide and spacious, And many unfrequented plots there are Fitted by kind for rape and villainy. Single you thither, then, this dainty doe, And strike her home by force, if not by words. This way, or not at all, stand you in hope. Come, come, our empress, with her sacred wit To villainy and vengeance consecrate, Will we acquaint with all what we intend; And she shall file our engines with advice That will not suffer you to square yourselves, But to your wishes’ height advance you both. The emperor’s court is like the house of Fame, The palace full of tongues, of eyes and ears; The woods are ruthless, dreadful, deaf, and dull. There speak and strike, brave boys, and take your turns; There serve your lust, shadowed from heaven’s eye, And revel in Lavinia’s treasury.

CHIRON. Thy counsel, lad, smells of no cowardice.

DEMETRIUS. _Sit fas aut nefas_, till I find the stream To cool this heat, a charm to calm these fits, _Per Stygia, per manes vehor._

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE II. A Forest near Rome; a Lodge seen at a distance. Horns and cry

of hounds heard

Enter Titus Andronicus and his three sons, and Marcus, making a noise with hounds and horns.

TITUS. The hunt is up, the morn is bright and grey, The fields are fragrant, and the woods are green. Uncouple here, and let us make a bay, And wake the emperor and his lovely bride, And rouse the prince, and ring a hunter’s peal, That all the court may echo with the noise. Sons, let it be your charge, as it is ours, To attend the emperor’s person carefully. I have been troubled in my sleep this night, But dawning day new comfort hath inspired.

Here a cry of hounds, and wind horns in a peal. Then enter Saturninus, Tamora, Bassianus, Lavinia, Chiron, Demetrius, and their Attendants.

Many good morrows to your majesty; Madam, to you as many and as good. I promised your grace a hunter’s peal.

SATURNINUS. And you have rung it lustily, my lords; Somewhat too early for new-married ladies.

BASSIANUS. Lavinia, how say you?

LAVINIA. I say no; I have been broad awake two hours and more.

SATURNINUS. Come on then; horse and chariots let us have, And to our sport. [_To Tamora_.] Madam, now shall ye see Our Roman hunting.

MARCUS. I have dogs, my lord, Will rouse the proudest panther in the chase, And climb the highest promontory top.

TITUS. And I have horse will follow where the game Makes way, and run like swallows o’er the plain.

DEMETRIUS. Chiron, we hunt not, we, with horse nor hound, But hope to pluck a dainty doe to ground.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE III. A lonely part of the Forest

Enter Aaron, alone, carrying a bag of gold.

AARON. He that had wit would think that I had none, To bury so much gold under a tree, And never after to inherit it. Let him that thinks of me so abjectly Know that this gold must coin a stratagem, Which, cunningly effected, will beget A very excellent piece of villainy. And so repose, sweet gold, for their unrest That have their alms out of the empress’ chest.

[_He hides the bag._]

Enter Tamora alone to the Moor.

TAMORA. My lovely Aaron, wherefore look’st thou sad When everything doth make a gleeful boast? The birds chant melody on every bush, The snakes lie rolled in the cheerful sun, The green leaves quiver with the cooling wind, And make a chequered shadow on the ground. Under their sweet shade, Aaron, let us sit, And whilst the babbling echo mocks the hounds, Replying shrilly to the well-tuned 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 supposed The wand’ring prince and Dido once enjoyed, When with a happy storm they were surprised, And curtained 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 Be unto us as is a nurse’s song Of lullaby to bring her babe asleep.

AARON. Madam, though Venus govern your desires, Saturn is dominator over mine. What signifies my deadly-standing eye, My silence and my cloudy melancholy, My fleece of woolly hair that now uncurls Even as an adder when she doth unroll To do some fatal execution? No, madam, these are no venereal signs. Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand, Blood and revenge are hammering in my head. Hark, Tamora, the empress of my soul, Which never hopes more heaven than rests in thee, This is the day of doom for Bassianus; His Philomel must lose her tongue today, Thy sons make pillage of her chastity, And wash their hands in Bassianus’ blood. Seest thou this letter? Take it up, I pray thee, And give the king this fatal-plotted scroll. Now question me no more; we are espied; Here comes a parcel of our hopeful booty, Which dreads not yet their lives’ destruction.

Enter Bassianus and Lavinia.

TAMORA. Ah, my sweet Moor, sweeter to me than life!

AARON. No more, great empress. Bassianus comes. Be cross with him; and I’ll go fetch thy sons To back thy quarrels, whatsoe’er they be.

[_Exit._]

BASSIANUS. Who have we here? Rome’s royal empress, Unfurnished of her well-beseeming troop? Or is it Dian, habited like her, Who hath abandoned her holy groves To see the general hunting in this forest?

TAMORA. Saucy controller of my private steps! Had I the power that some say Dian had, Thy temples should be planted presently With horns, as was Actaeon’s; and the hounds Should drive upon thy new-transformed limbs, Unmannerly intruder as thou art.

LAVINIA. Under your patience, gentle empress, ’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 today! ’Tis pity they should take him for a stag.

BASSIANUS. Believe me, queen, your swarthy Cimmerian Doth make your honour of his body’s hue, Spotted, detested, and abominable. Why are you sequestered from all your train, Dismounted from your snow-white goodly steed, And wandered hither to an obscure plot, Accompanied but with a barbarous Moor, If foul desire had not conducted you?

LAVINIA. And, being intercepted in your sport, Great reason that my noble lord be rated For sauciness. I pray you, let us hence, And let her joy her raven-coloured love; This valley fits the purpose passing well.

BASSIANUS. The king my brother shall have notice of this.

LAVINIA. Ay, for these slips have made him noted long. Good king, to be so mightily abused!

TAMORA. Why, I have patience to endure all this.

Enter Chiron and Demetrius.

DEMETRIUS. How now, dear sovereign, and our gracious mother! Why doth your highness look so pale and wan?

TAMORA. Have I not reason, think you, to look pale? These two have ticed me hither to this place, A barren detested vale you see it is; The trees, though summer, yet forlorn and lean, Overcome with moss and baleful mistletoe. Here never shines the sun, here nothing breeds, Unless the nightly owl or fatal raven. And when they showed me this abhorred pit, They told me, here, at dead time of the night, A thousand fiends, a thousand hissing snakes, Ten thousand swelling toads, as many urchins, Would make such fearful and confused cries As any mortal body hearing it Should straight fall mad, or else die suddenly. No sooner had they told this hellish tale But straight they told me they would bind me here Unto the body of a dismal yew, And leave me to this miserable death. And then they called me foul adulteress, Lascivious Goth, and all the bitterest terms That ever ear did hear to such effect. And had you not by wondrous fortune come, This vengeance on me had they executed. Revenge it, as you love your mother’s life, Or be ye not henceforth called my children.

DEMETRIUS. This is a witness that I am thy son.

[_Stabs Bassianus._]

CHIRON. And this for me, struck home to show my strength.

[_Also stabs Bassianus, who dies._]

LAVINIA. Ay, come, Semiramis, nay, barbarous Tamora, For no name fits thy nature but thy own!

TAMORA. Give me thy poniard; you shall know, my boys, Your mother’s hand shall right your mother’s wrong.

DEMETRIUS. 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, And with that painted hope braves your mightiness; And shall she carry this unto her grave?

CHIRON. And 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.

TAMORA. But when ye have the honey ye desire, Let not this wasp outlive, us both to sting.

CHIRON. I warrant you, madam, we will make that sure. Come, mistress, now perforce we will enjoy That nice-preserved honesty of yours.

LAVINIA. O Tamora, thou bearest a woman’s face,—

TAMORA. I will not hear her speak; away with her!

LAVINIA. Sweet lords, entreat her hear me but a word.

DEMETRIUS. Listen, fair madam: let it be your glory To see her tears; but be your heart to them As unrelenting flint to drops of rain.

LAVINIA. When did the tiger’s young ones teach the dam? O, do not learn her wrath; she taught it thee; The milk thou suck’st from her did turn to marble; Even at thy teat thou hadst thy tyranny. Yet every mother breeds not sons alike. [_To Chiron_.] Do thou entreat her show a woman’s pity.

CHIRON. What, wouldst thou have me prove myself a bastard?

LAVINIA. ’Tis true the raven doth not hatch a lark. Yet have I heard—O, could I find it now!— The lion, moved with pity, did endure To have his princely paws pared 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, Nothing so kind, but something pitiful.

TAMORA. I know not what it means; away with her!

LAVINIA. 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.

TAMORA. Hadst thou in person ne’er offended me, Even for his sake am I pitiless. Remember, boys, I poured forth tears in vain To save your brother from the sacrifice, But fierce Andronicus would not relent. Therefore away with her, and use her as you will; The worse to her, the better loved of me.

LAVINIA. O Tamora, be called a gentle queen, And with thine own hands kill me in this place! For ’tis not life that I have begged so long; Poor I was slain when Bassianus died.

TAMORA. What begg’st thou, then? Fond woman, let me go.

LAVINIA. ’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, And tumble me into some loathsome pit, Where never man’s eye may behold my body. Do this, and be a charitable murderer.

TAMORA. So should I rob my sweet sons of their fee. No, let them satisfy their lust on thee.

DEMETRIUS. Away, for thou hast stayed us here too long.

LAVINIA. No grace, no womanhood? Ah, beastly creature, The blot and enemy to our general name! Confusion fall—

CHIRON. Nay, then I’ll stop your mouth. Bring thou her husband. This is the hole where Aaron bid us hide him.

[_They put Bassianus’s body in the pit and exit, carrying off Lavinia._]

TAMORA. Farewell, my sons. See that you make her sure. Ne’er let my heart know merry cheer indeed Till all the Andronici be made away. Now will I hence to seek my lovely Moor, And let my spleenful sons this trull deflower.

[_Exit._]

Enter Aaron with two of Titus’ sons, Quintus and Martius.

AARON. Come on, my lords, the better foot before. Straight will I bring you to the loathsome pit Where I espied the panther fast asleep.

QUINTUS. My sight is very dull, whate’er it bodes.

MARTIUS. And mine, I promise you. Were it not for shame, Well could I leave our sport to sleep awhile.

[_He falls into the pit._]

QUINTUS. What, art thou fallen? What subtle hole is this, Whose mouth is covered with rude-growing briers, Upon whose leaves are drops of new-shed blood As fresh as morning dew distilled on flowers? A very fatal place it seems to me. Speak, brother, hast thou hurt thee with the fall?

MARTIUS. O brother, with the dismall’st object hurt That ever eye with sight made heart lament!

AARON. [_Aside_.] Now will I fetch the king to find them here, That he thereby may have a likely guess How these were they that made away his brother.

[_Exit._]

MARTIUS. Why dost not comfort me, and help me out From this unhallowed and blood-stained hole?

QUINTUS. I am surprised with an uncouth fear; A chilling sweat o’er-runs my trembling joints. My heart suspects more than mine eye can see.

MARTIUS. To prove thou hast a true-divining heart, Aaron and thou look down into this den, And see a fearful sight of blood and death.

QUINTUS. Aaron is gone, and my compassionate heart Will not permit mine eyes once to behold The thing whereat it trembles by surmise. O, tell me who it is; for ne’er till now Was I a child to fear I know not what.

MARTIUS. Lord Bassianus lies berayed in blood, All on a heap, like to a slaughtered lamb, In this detested, dark, blood-drinking pit.

QUINTUS. If it be dark, how dost thou know ’tis he?

MARTIUS. Upon his bloody finger he doth wear A precious ring that lightens all the hole, Which, like a taper in some monument, Doth shine upon the dead man’s earthy cheeks, And shows the ragged entrails of the pit. So pale did shine the moon on Pyramus When he by night lay bathed in maiden blood. O brother, help me with thy fainting hand, If fear hath made thee faint, as me it hath, Out of this fell devouring receptacle, As hateful as Cocytus’ misty mouth.

QUINTUS. Reach me thy hand, that I may help thee out, Or, wanting strength to do thee so much good, I may be plucked into the swallowing womb Of this deep pit, poor Bassianus’ grave. I have no strength to pluck thee to the brink.

MARTIUS. Nor I no strength to climb without thy help.

QUINTUS. Thy hand once more; I will not loose again, Till thou art here aloft, or I below. Thou canst not come to me. I come to thee.

[_Falls in._]

Enter the Emperor Saturninus and Aaron the Moor.

SATURNINUS. Along with me! I’ll see what hole is here, And what he is that now is leapt into it. Say, who art thou that lately didst descend Into this gaping hollow of the earth?

MARTIUS. The unhappy sons of old Andronicus, Brought hither in a most unlucky hour, To find thy brother Bassianus dead.

SATURNINUS. My brother dead! I know thou dost but jest. He and his lady both are at the lodge Upon the north side of this pleasant chase; ’Tis not an hour since I left them there.

MARTIUS. We know not where you left them all alive; But, out, alas, here have we found him dead.

Enter Tamora, Titus Andronicus and Lucius.

TAMORA. Where is my lord the king?

SATURNINUS. Here, Tamora; though grieved with killing grief.

TAMORA. Where is thy brother Bassianus?

SATURNINUS. Now to the bottom dost thou search my wound. Poor Bassianus here lies murdered.

TAMORA. Then all too late I bring this fatal writ, The complot of this timeless tragedy; And wonder greatly that man’s face can fold In pleasing smiles such murderous tyranny.

[_She giveth Saturnine a letter._]

SATURNINUS. [_Reads_.] _An 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 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. Look, sirs, if you can find the huntsman out That should have murdered Bassianus here.

AARON. My gracious lord, here is the bag of gold.

[_Showing it._]

SATURNINUS. [_To Titus_.] Two of thy whelps, fell curs of bloody kind, Have here bereft my brother of his life. Sirs, drag them from the pit unto the prison. There let them bide until we have devised Some never-heard-of torturing pain for them.

TAMORA. What, are they in this pit? O wondrous thing! How easily murder is discovered!

TITUS. 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 proved in them—

SATURNINUS. If it be proved! You see it is apparent. Who found this letter? Tamora, was it you?

TAMORA. Andronicus himself did take it up.

TITUS. I did, my lord, yet let me be their bail; For by my fathers’ reverend tomb I vow They shall be ready at your highness’ will To answer their suspicion with their lives.

SATURNINUS. Thou shalt not bail them. See thou follow me. Some bring the murdered body, some the murderers. Let them not speak a word; the guilt is plain; For, by my soul, were there worse end than death, That end upon them should be executed.

TAMORA. Andronicus, I will entreat the king. Fear not thy sons; they shall do well enough.

TITUS. Come, Lucius, come; stay not to talk with them.

[_Exeunt severally. Attendants bearing the body._]

## SCENE IV. Another part of the Forest

Enter the empress’ sons, Demetrius and Chiron with Lavinia, her hands cut off, and her tongue cut out, and ravished.

DEMETRIUS. So, now go tell, an if thy tongue can speak, Who ’twas that cut thy tongue and ravished thee.

CHIRON. Write down thy mind, bewray thy meaning so, An if thy stumps will let thee play the scribe.

DEMETRIUS. See how with signs and tokens she can scrowl.

CHIRON. Go home, call for sweet water, wash thy hands.

DEMETRIUS. She hath no tongue to call, nor hands to wash; And so let’s leave her to her silent walks.

CHIRON. An ’twere my cause, I should go hang myself.

DEMETRIUS. If thou hadst hands to help thee knit the cord.

[_Exeunt Chiron and Demetrius._]

Enter Marcus, from hunting.

MARCUS. Who is this? My niece, that flies away so fast? Cousin, a word; where is your husband? If I do dream, would all my wealth would wake me! If I do wake, some planet strike me down, That I may slumber an eternal sleep! Speak, gentle niece, what stern ungentle hands Hath lopped and hewed and made thy body bare Of her two branches, those sweet ornaments Whose circling shadows kings have sought to sleep in, And might not gain so great a happiness As half thy love? Why dost not speak to me? Alas, a crimson river of warm blood, Like to a bubbling fountain stirred with wind, Doth rise and fall between thy rosed lips, Coming and going with thy honey breath. But sure some Tereus hath deflowered thee, And, lest thou shouldst detect him, cut thy tongue. 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 encountered with a cloud. 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 an oven stopped, Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is. Fair Philomela, why she but lost her tongue, And in a tedious sampler sewed her mind; But, lovely niece, that mean is cut from thee; A craftier Tereus, cousin, hast thou met, And he hath cut those pretty fingers off That could have better sewed 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 touched them for his life. Or had he heard the heavenly harmony Which that sweet tongue hath made, He would have dropped his knife, and fell asleep, As Cerberus at the Thracian poet’s feet. Come, let us go, and make thy father blind, For such a sight will blind a father’s 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._]

## ACT III

## SCENE I. Rome. A street

Enter the Judges and Senators, with Titus’ two sons Quintus and Martius bound, passing on the stage to the place of execution, and Titus going before, pleading.

TITUS. Hear me, grave fathers; noble tribunes, stay! For pity of mine age, whose youth was spent In dangerous wars whilst you securely slept; For all my blood in Rome’s great quarrel shed, For all the frosty nights that I have watched, And for these bitter tears, which now you see Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks, Be pitiful to my condemned sons, Whose souls are not corrupted as ’tis thought. For two and twenty sons I never wept, Because they died in honour’s lofty bed.

[_Andronicus lieth down, and the Judges pass by him._]

[_Exeunt with the prisoners as Titus continues speaking._]

For these, tribunes, in the dust I write My heart’s deep languor and my soul’s sad tears. Let my tears staunch the earth’s dry appetite; My sons’ sweet blood will make it shame and blush. 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. 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 weapon drawn.

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.

LUCIUS. O noble father, you lament in vain. The tribunes hear you not, no man is by; And you recount your sorrows to a stone.

TITUS. Ah, Lucius, for thy brothers let me plead. Grave tribunes, once more I entreat of you—

LUCIUS. My gracious lord, no tribune hears you speak.

TITUS. Why, ’tis no matter, man. If they did hear, They would not mark me; if they did mark, They would not pity me, yet plead I must, And bootless unto them. Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones, 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; And were they but attired in grave weeds, Rome could afford no tribunes 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. But wherefore stand’st thou with thy weapon drawn?

LUCIUS. To rescue my two brothers from their death; For which attempt the judges have pronounced My everlasting doom of banishment.

TITUS. O happy man, they have befriended thee. Why, foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceive That Rome is but a wilderness of tigers? Tigers must prey, and Rome affords no prey But me and mine. How happy art thou then, From these devourers to be banished! But who comes with our brother Marcus here?

Enter Marcus with Lavinia.

MARCUS. Titus, prepare thy aged eyes to weep; Or if not so, thy noble heart to break. I bring consuming sorrow to thine age.

TITUS. Will it consume me? Let me see it then.

MARCUS. This was thy daughter.

TITUS. Why, Marcus, so she is.

LUCIUS. Ay me, this object kills me!

TITUS. Faint-hearted boy, arise, and look upon her. 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, 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 nursed this woe in feeding life; In bootless prayer have they been held up, And they have served 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 is but vain.

LUCIUS. Speak, gentle sister, who hath martyred thee?

MARCUS. O, that delightful engine of her thoughts, That blabbed them with such pleasing eloquence, Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage, Where, like a sweet melodious bird, it sung Sweet varied notes, enchanting every ear.

LUCIUS. O, say thou for her, who hath done this deed?

MARCUS. O, thus I found her straying in the park, Seeking to hide herself, as doth the deer That hath received some unrecuring wound.

TITUS. It was my dear, and he that wounded her Hath hurt me more than had he killed me dead. For now I stand as one upon a rock, Environed with a wilderness of sea, Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave, Expecting ever when some envious surge Will in his brinish bowels swallow him. This way to death my wretched sons are gone; Here stands my other son, a banished man, And here my brother, weeping at my woes. But that which gives my soul the greatest spurn Is dear Lavinia, dearer than my soul. Had I but seen thy picture in this plight It would have madded me. What shall I do Now I behold thy lively body so? Thou hast no hands to wipe away thy tears, Nor tongue to tell me who hath martyred thee. Thy husband he is dead, and for his death Thy brothers are condemned, and dead by this. Look, Marcus! Ah, son Lucius, look on her! When I did name her brothers, then fresh tears Stood on her cheeks, as doth the honey-dew Upon a gathered lily almost withered.

MARCUS. Perchance she weeps because they killed her husband; Perchance because she knows them innocent.

TITUS. If they did kill thy husband, then be joyful, Because the law hath ta’en revenge on them. No, no, they would not do so foul a deed; Witness the sorrow that their sister makes. Gentle Lavinia, let me kiss thy lips, Or make some sign how I may do thee ease. Shall thy good uncle, and thy brother Lucius, And thou, and I, sit round about some fountain, Looking all downwards to behold our cheeks How they are stained, like meadows yet not dry, With miry slime left on them by a flood? And in the fountain shall we gaze so long Till the fresh taste be taken from that clearness, And made a brine-pit with our bitter tears? Or shall we cut away our hands like thine? Or shall we bite our tongues, and in dumb shows Pass the remainder of our hateful days? What shall we do? Let us that have our tongues Plot some device of further misery, To make us wondered at in time to come.

LUCIUS. Sweet father, cease your tears; for at your grief See how my wretched sister sobs and weeps.

MARCUS. Patience, dear niece. Good Titus, dry thine eyes.

TITUS. Ah, Marcus, Marcus! Brother, well I wot Thy napkin cannot drink a tear of mine, For thou, poor man, hast drowned it with thine own.

LUCIUS. Ah, my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks.

TITUS. 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. 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 the Moor, alone.

AARON. 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 Will send thee hither both thy sons alive, And that shall be the ransom for their fault.

TITUS. O gracious emperor! O gentle Aaron! Did ever raven sing so like a lark That gives sweet tidings of the sun’s uprise? With all my heart I’ll send the emperor my hand. Good Aaron, wilt thou help to chop it off?

LUCIUS. Stay, father, for that noble hand of thine, That hath thrown down so many enemies, Shall not be sent. My hand will serve the turn. My youth can better spare my blood than you; And therefore mine shall save my brothers’ lives.

MARCUS. Which of your hands hath not defended Rome, And reared aloft the bloody battle-axe, Writing destruction on the enemy’s castle? 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.

AARON. Nay, come, agree whose hand shall go along, For fear they die before their pardon come.

MARCUS. My hand shall go.

LUCIUS. By heaven, it shall not go!

TITUS. Sirs, strive no more. Such withered herbs as these Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine.

LUCIUS. Sweet father, if I shall be thought thy son, Let me redeem my brothers both from death.

MARCUS. And for our father’s sake and mother’s care, Now let me show a brother’s love to thee.

TITUS. Agree between you; I will spare my hand.

LUCIUS. Then I’ll go fetch an axe.

MARCUS. But I will use the axe.

[_Exeunt Lucius and Marcus._]

TITUS. Come hither, Aaron; I’ll deceive them both. Lend me thy hand, and I will give thee mine.

AARON. [_Aside_.] If that be called deceit, I will be honest, 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.

[_He cuts off Titus’s hand._]

Enter Lucius and Marcus again.

TITUS. Now stay your strife. What shall be is dispatched. Good Aaron, give his majesty my hand. Tell him it was a hand that warded him From thousand dangers, bid him bury it; More hath it merited, that let it have. As for my sons, say I account of them As jewels purchased at an easy price; And yet dear too, because I bought mine own.

AARON. I go, Andronicus; and for thy hand Look by and by to have thy sons with thee. [_Aside_.] Their heads, I mean. O, how this villainy 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._]

TITUS. O, here I lift this one hand up to heaven, And bow this feeble ruin to the earth. If any power pities wretched tears, To that I call! [_To Lavinia_.] What, wouldst 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 When they do hug him in their melting bosoms.

MARCUS. O brother, speak with possibility, And do not break into these deep extremes.

TITUS. Is not my sorrow deep, having no bottom? Then be my passions bottomless with them.

MARCUS. But yet let reason govern thy lament.

TITUS. 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, Threatening the welkin with his big-swol’n face? And wilt thou have a reason for this coil? I am the sea. Hark how her sighs doth flow! She is the weeping welkin, I the earth. Then must my sea be moved with her sighs; Then must my earth with her continual tears Become a deluge, overflowed and drowned; For why my bowels cannot hide her woes, But like a drunkard must I vomit them. Then give me leave, for losers will have leave To ease their stomachs with their bitter tongues.

Enter a Messenger with two heads and a hand.

MESSENGER. Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repaid For that good hand thou sent’st the emperor. Here are the heads of thy two noble sons, And here’s thy hand, in scorn to thee sent back. Thy grief their sports, thy resolution mocked; That woe is me to think upon thy woes, More than remembrance of my father’s death.

[_Exit._]

MARCUS. Now let hot Etna cool in Sicily, And be my heart an ever-burning hell! These miseries are more than may be borne. To weep with them that weep doth ease some deal, But sorrow flouted at is double death.

LUCIUS. Ah, that this sight should make so deep a wound, And yet detested life not shrink thereat! That ever death should let life bear his name, Where life hath no more interest but to breathe!

[_Lavinia kisses Titus._]

MARCUS. Alas, poor heart, that kiss is comfortless As frozen water to a starved snake.

TITUS. When will this fearful slumber have an end?

MARCUS. Now farewell, flattery; die, Andronicus; Thou dost not slumber. See thy two sons’ heads, Thy warlike hand, thy mangled daughter here; Thy other banished son with this dear sight Struck pale and bloodless; and thy brother, I, Even like a stony image, cold and numb. Ah, now no more will I control thy griefs. Rent off thy silver hair, thy other hand Gnawing with thy teeth; and be this dismal sight The closing up of our most wretched eyes. Now is a time to storm; why art thou still?

TITUS. Ha, ha, ha!

MARCUS. Why dost thou laugh? It fits not with this hour.

TITUS. Why, I have not another tear to shed. Besides, this sorrow is an enemy, And would usurp upon my watery eyes, And make them blind with tributary tears. Then which way shall I find Revenge’s cave? For these two heads do seem to speak to me, And threat me I shall never come to bliss Till all these mischiefs be returned 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, That I may turn me to each one of you, And swear unto my soul to right your wrongs. The vow is made. Come, brother, take a head; And in this hand the other will I bear. And, Lavinia, thou shalt be employed in these arms. Bear thou my hand, sweet wench, between thy teeth. As for thee, boy, go, get thee from my sight; Thou art an exile, and thou must not stay. Hie to the Goths, and raise an army there. And if you love me, as I think you do, Let’s kiss and part, for we have much to do.

[_Exeunt Titus, Marcus and Lavinia._]

LUCIUS. Farewell, Andronicus, my noble father, The woefull’st man that ever lived in Rome. Farewell, proud Rome, till Lucius come again; He loves his pledges dearer than his life. 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, 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 revenged on Rome and Saturnine.

[_Exit._]

## SCENE II. Rome. A Room in Titus’s House. A banquet set out

Enter Titus Andronicus, Marcus, Lavinia and the boy Young Lucius.

TITUS. So so; now sit; and look you eat no more Than will preserve just so much strength in us As will revenge these bitter woes of ours. Marcus, unknit that sorrow-wreathen knot. Thy niece and I, poor creatures, want our hands, And cannot passionate our tenfold grief With folded arms. This poor right hand of mine Is left to tyrannize upon my breast; Who when my heart, all mad with misery, Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh, Then thus I thump it down. Thou map of woe, that thus dost talk in signs, When thy poor heart beats with outrageous beating, Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still. Wound it with sighing, girl, kill it with groans; Or get some little knife between thy teeth, And just against thy heart make thou a hole, That all the tears that thy poor eyes let fall May run into that sink, and, soaking in, Drown the lamenting fool in sea-salt tears.

MARCUS. Fie, brother, fie! Teach her not thus to lay Such violent hands upon her tender life.

TITUS. How now! Has sorrow made thee dote already? Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I. What violent hands can she lay on her life? Ah, wherefore dost thou urge the name of hands, To bid Æneas tell the tale twice o’er How Troy was burnt and he made miserable? O, handle not the theme, to talk of hands, Lest we remember still that we have none. Fie, fie, how frantically I square my talk, As if we should forget we had no hands, If Marcus did not name the word of hands! Come, let’s fall to; and, gentle girl, eat this. Here is no drink! Hark, Marcus, what she says; I can interpret all her martyred signs. She says she drinks no other drink but tears, Brewed with her sorrow, meshed upon her cheeks. Speechless complainer, I will learn thy thought; In thy dumb action will I be as perfect As begging hermits in their holy prayers. Thou shalt not sigh, nor hold thy stumps to heaven, Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a sign, But I of these will wrest an alphabet, And by still practice learn to know thy meaning.

YOUNG LUCIUS. Good grandsire, leave these bitter deep laments. Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale.

MARCUS. Alas, the tender boy, in passion moved, Doth weep to see his grandsire’s heaviness.

TITUS. 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?

MARCUS. At that that I have killed, my lord, a fly.

TITUS. Out on thee, murderer! Thou kill’st my heart; Mine eyes are cloyed 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.

MARCUS. Alas, my lord, I have but killed a fly.

TITUS. “But”? How if that fly had a father and mother? How would he hang his slender gilded wings And buzz lamenting doings in the air! Poor harmless fly, That with his pretty buzzing melody, Came here to make us merry, and thou hast killed him.

MARCUS. Pardon me, sir; ’twas a black ill-favoured fly, Like to the empress’ Moor; therefore I killed him.

TITUS. O, O, O! Then pardon me for reprehending thee, For thou hast done a charitable deed. Give me thy knife, I will insult on him, Flattering myself as if it were the Moor Come hither purposely to poison me. There’s for thyself, and that’s for Tamora. Ah, 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.

MARCUS. Alas, poor man, grief has so wrought on him, He takes false shadows for true substances.

TITUS. 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. Come, boy, and go with me. Thy sight is young, And thou shalt read when mine begin to dazzle.

[_Exeunt._]

## ACT IV

## SCENE I. Rome. Before Titus’s House

Enter Young Lucius and Lavinia running after him, and the boy flies from her with his books under his arm. Enter Titus and Marcus.

YOUNG LUCIUS. Help, grandsire, help! My aunt Lavinia Follows me everywhere, I know not why. Good uncle Marcus, see how swift she comes! Alas, sweet aunt, I know not what you mean.

MARCUS. Stand by me, Lucius. Do not fear thine aunt.

TITUS. She loves thee, boy, too well to do thee harm.

YOUNG LUCIUS Ay, when my father was in Rome she did.

MARCUS. What means my niece Lavinia by these signs?

TITUS. 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 Sweet poetry and Tully’s _Orator_.

MARCUS. Canst thou not guess wherefore she plies thee thus?

YOUNG LUCIUS. My lord, I know not, I, nor can I guess, Unless some fit or frenzy do possess her; For I have heard my grandsire say full oft, Extremity of griefs would make men mad; And I have read that Hecuba of Troy Ran mad for sorrow. That made me to fear, Although, my lord, I know my noble aunt Loves me as dear as e’er my mother did, And would not, but in fury, fright my youth; Which made me down to throw my books, and fly, Causeless, perhaps. But pardon me, sweet aunt. And, madam, if my uncle Marcus go, I will most willingly attend your ladyship.

MARCUS. Lucius, I will.

[_Lavinia turns over with her stumps the books which Lucius has let fall._]

TITUS. 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 skilled. Come and take choice of all my library, And so beguile thy sorrow, till the heavens Reveal the damned contriver of this deed. Why lifts she up her arms in sequence thus?

MARCUS. I think she means that there were more than one Confederate in the fact. Ay, more there was, Or else to heaven she heaves them for revenge.

TITUS. Lucius, what book is that she tosseth so?

YOUNG LUCIUS. Grandsire, ’tis Ovid’s _Metamorphosis_. My mother gave it me.

MARCUS. For love of her that’s gone, Perhaps, she culled it from among the rest.

TITUS. Soft! So busily she turns the leaves! Help her! What would she find? Lavinia, shall I read? This is the tragic tale of Philomel, And treats of Tereus’ treason and his rape; And rape, I fear, was root of thy annoy.

MARCUS. See, brother, see! Note how she quotes the leaves.

TITUS. Lavinia, wert thou thus surprised, sweet girl, Ravished and wronged, as Philomela was, Forced 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!— Patterned by that the poet here describes, By nature made for murders and for rapes.

MARCUS. O, why should nature build so foul a den, Unless the gods delight in tragedies?

TITUS. Give signs, sweet girl, for here are none but friends, What Roman lord it was durst do the deed. Or slunk not Saturnine, as Tarquin erst, That left the camp to sin in Lucrece’ bed?

MARCUS. Sit down, sweet niece. Brother, sit down by me. Apollo, Pallas, Jove, or Mercury, Inspire me, that I may this treason find! My lord, look here. Look here, Lavinia. This sandy plot is plain; guide, if thou canst, This after me. I have writ my name

[_He writes his name with his staff and guides it with feet and mouth._]

Without the help of any hand at all. Cursed be that heart that forced us to this shift! Write thou, good niece, and here display at last What God will have discovered 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._]

O, do ye read, my lord, what she hath writ?

TITUS. “_Stuprum_. Chiron. Demetrius.”

MARCUS. What, what! The lustful sons of Tamora Performers of this heinous bloody deed?

TITUS. _Magni Dominator poli, Tam lentus audis scelera, tam lentus vides?_

MARCUS. 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. 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 dishonoured dame, Lord Junius Brutus sware for Lucrece’ rape, That we will prosecute, by good advice Mortal revenge upon these traitorous Goths, And see their blood, or die with this reproach.

TITUS. ’Tis sure enough, an you knew how. But if you hunt these bear-whelps, then beware; The dam will wake, and if she wind you once. She’s with the lion deeply still in league, And lulls him whilst she playeth on her back, And when he sleeps will she do what she list. You are a young huntsman, Marcus; let alone; And come, I will go get a leaf of brass, And with a gad of steel will write these words, And lay it by. The angry northern wind Will blow these sands like Sibyl’s leaves abroad, And where’s our lesson, then? Boy, what say you?

YOUNG LUCIUS. I say, my lord, that if I were a man, Their mother’s bedchamber should not be safe For these base bondmen to the yoke of Rome.

MARCUS. Ay, that’s my boy! Thy father hath full oft For his ungrateful country done the like.

YOUNG LUCIUS. And, uncle, so will I, an if I live.

TITUS. 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. Come, come; thou’lt do my message, wilt thou not?

YOUNG LUCIUS. Ay, with my dagger in their bosoms, grandsire.

TITUS. 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; Ay, marry, will we, sir; and we’ll be waited on.

[_Exeunt Titus, Lavinia and Young Lucius._]

MARCUS. 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 Than foemen’s marks upon his battered shield, But yet so just that he will not revenge. Revenge ye heavens for old Andronicus!

[_Exit._]

## SCENE II. Rome. A Room in the Palace

Enter Aaron, Chiron and Demetrius at one door, and at the other door Young Lucius and another, with a bundle of weapons and verses writ upon them.

CHIRON. Demetrius, here’s the son of Lucius; He hath some message to deliver us.

AARON. Ay, some mad message from his mad grandfather.

YOUNG LUCIUS. My lords, with all the humbleness I may, I greet your honours from Andronicus; [_Aside_.] And pray the Roman gods confound you both.

DEMETRIUS. Gramercy, lovely Lucius. What’s the news?

YOUNG LUCIUS. [_Aside_.] That you are both deciphered, that’s the news, For villains marked with rape. [_Aloud_.] May it please you, My grandsire, well advised, hath sent by me The goodliest weapons of his armoury To gratify your honourable youth, The hope of Rome; for so he bid me say; 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 Young Lucius and Attendant._]

DEMETRIUS. What’s here? A scroll; and written round about? Let’s see: [_Reads_.] _Integer vitae, scelerisque purus, Non eget Mauri iaculis, nec arcu._

CHIRON. O, ’tis a verse in Horace; I know it well. I read it in the grammar long ago.

AARON. Ay, just; a verse in Horace; right, you have it. [_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 wrapped about with lines, That wound, beyond their feeling, to the quick. But were our witty empress well afoot, She would applaud Andronicus’ conceit. But let her rest in her unrest awhile.— And now, young lords, was’t not a happy star Led us to Rome, strangers, and more than so, Captives, to be advanced to this height? It did me good before the palace gate To brave the tribune in his brother’s hearing.

DEMETRIUS. But me more good to see so great a lord Basely insinuate and send us gifts.

AARON. Had he not reason, Lord Demetrius? Did you not use his daughter very friendly?

DEMETRIUS. I would we had a thousand Roman dames At such a bay, by turn to serve our lust.

CHIRON. A charitable wish, and full of love.

AARON. Here lacks but your mother for to say amen.

CHIRON. And that would she for twenty thousand more.

DEMETRIUS. Come, let us go and pray to all the gods For our beloved mother in her pains.

AARON. [_Aside_.] Pray to the devils; the gods have given us over.

[_Trumpets sound._]

DEMETRIUS. Why do the emperor’s trumpets flourish thus?

CHIRON. Belike for joy the emperor hath a son.

DEMETRIUS. Soft, who comes here?

Enter Nurse with a blackamoor Child in her arms.

NURSE. Good morrow, lords. O, tell me, did you see Aaron the Moor?

AARON. Well, more or less, or ne’er a whit at all, Here Aaron is; and what with Aaron now?

NURSE. O gentle Aaron, we are all undone! Now help, or woe betide thee evermore!

AARON. Why, what a caterwauling dost thou keep! What dost thou wrap and fumble in thy arms?

NURSE. O, that which I would hide from heaven’s eye, Our empress’ shame and stately Rome’s disgrace. She is delivered, lords, she is delivered.

AARON. To whom?

NURSE. I mean, she’s brought a-bed.

AARON. Well, God give her good rest! What hath he sent her?

NURSE. A devil.

AARON. Why, then she is the devil’s dam. A joyful issue.

NURSE. A joyless, dismal, black, and sorrowful issue. Here is the babe, as loathsome as a toad Amongst the fair-faced breeders of our clime. The empress sends it thee, thy stamp, thy seal, And bids thee christen it with thy dagger’s point.

AARON. Zounds, ye whore, is black so base a hue? Sweet blowse, you are a beauteous blossom sure.

DEMETRIUS. Villain, what hast thou done?

AARON. That which thou canst not undo.

CHIRON. Thou hast undone our mother.

AARON. Villain, I have done thy mother.

DEMETRIUS. And therein, hellish dog, thou hast undone her. Woe to her chance, and damned her loathed choice! Accursed the offspring of so foul a fiend!

CHIRON. It shall not live.

AARON. It shall not die.

NURSE. Aaron, it must; the mother wills it so.

AARON. What, must it, nurse? Then let no man but I Do execution on my flesh and blood.

DEMETRIUS. I’ll broach the tadpole on my rapier’s point. Nurse, give it me; my sword shall soon dispatch it.

AARON. Sooner this sword shall plough thy bowels up.

[_Taking the baby._]

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, 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, Shall seize this prey out of his father’s hands. What, what, ye sanguine, shallow-hearted boys! Ye white-limed walls, ye alehouse-painted signs! Coal-black is better than another hue In that it scorns to bear another hue; For all the water in the ocean Can never turn the swan’s black legs to white, Although she lave them hourly in the flood. Tell the empress from me, I am of age To keep mine own, excuse it how she can.

DEMETRIUS. Wilt thou betray thy noble mistress thus?

AARON. My mistress is my mistress; this my self; The vigour and the picture of my youth. This before all the world do I prefer; This maugre all the world will I keep safe, Or some of you shall smoke for it in Rome.

DEMETRIUS. By this our mother is for ever shamed.

CHIRON. Rome will despise her for this foul escape.

NURSE. The emperor in his rage will doom her death.

CHIRON. I blush to think upon this ignomy.

AARON. Why, there’s the privilege your beauty bears. Fie, treacherous hue, that will betray with blushing The close enacts and counsels of thy heart! Here’s a young lad framed of another leer. Look how the black slave smiles upon the father, As who should say “Old lad, I am thine own.” He is your brother, lords, sensibly fed Of that self blood that first gave life to you; And from your womb where you imprisoned were He is enfranchised and come to light. Nay, he is your brother by the surer side, Although my seal be stamped in his face.

NURSE. Aaron, what shall I say unto the empress?

DEMETRIUS. Advise thee, Aaron, what is to be done, And we will all subscribe to thy advice. Save thou the child, so we may all be safe.

AARON. Then sit we down, and let us all consult. My son and I will have the wind of you. Keep there. Now talk at pleasure of your safety.

[_They sit._]

DEMETRIUS. How many women saw this child of his?

AARON. Why, so, brave lords! When we join in league, I am a lamb; but if you brave the Moor, The chafed boar, the mountain lioness, The ocean swells not so as Aaron storms. But say again, how many saw the child?

NURSE. Cornelia the midwife and myself, And no one else but the delivered empress.

AARON. The empress, the midwife, and yourself. Two may keep counsel when the third’s away. Go to the empress; tell her this I said.

[_He kills her._]

“Wheak, wheak!” So cries a pig prepared to the spit.

DEMETRIUS. What mean’st thou, Aaron? Wherefore didst thou this?

AARON. O Lord, sir, ’tis a deed of policy. Shall she live to betray this guilt of ours, A long-tongued babbling gossip? No, lords, no. And now be it known to you my full intent. Not far, one Muliteus lives, my countryman; His wife but yesternight was brought to bed. His child is like to her, fair as you are. 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 advanced, And be received for the emperor’s heir, And substituted in the place of mine, To calm this tempest whirling in the court; And let the emperor dandle him for his own. Hark ye, lords; ye see I have given her physic,

[_Indicating the Nurse._]

And you must needs bestow her funeral; The fields are near, and you are gallant grooms. This done, see that you take no longer days, But send the midwife presently to me. The midwife and the nurse well made away, Then let the ladies tattle what they please.

CHIRON. Aaron, I see thou wilt not trust the air With secrets.

DEMETRIUS. For this care of Tamora, Herself and hers are highly bound to thee.

[_Exeunt Demetrius and Chiron, carrying the Nurse’s body._]

AARON. Now to the Goths, as swift as swallow flies, There to dispose this treasure in mine arms, And secretly to greet the empress’ friends. Come on, you thick-lipped 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, And cabin in a cave, and bring you up To be a warrior and command a camp.

[_Exit._]

## SCENE III. Rome. A public Place

Enter Titus, old Marcus, his son Publius, Young Lucius, and other gentlemen with bows, and Titus bears the arrows with letters on the ends of them.

TITUS. Come, Marcus, come. Kinsmen, this is the way. Sir boy, let me see your archery. Look ye draw home enough, and ’tis there straight. _Terras Astraea reliquit._ Be you remembered, 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 catch her in the sea; 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, I pray you, deliver him this petition; Tell him it is for justice and for aid, And that it comes from old Andronicus, Shaken with sorrows in ungrateful Rome. Ah, Rome! Well, well, I made thee miserable What time I threw the people’s suffrages On him that thus doth tyrannize o’er me. Go, get you gone; and pray be careful all, And leave you not a man-of-war unsearched. This wicked emperor may have shipped her hence; And, kinsmen, then we may go pipe for justice.

MARCUS. O Publius, is not this a heavy case, To see thy noble uncle thus distract?

PUBLIUS. Therefore, my lords, it highly us concerns By day and night to attend him carefully, And feed his humour kindly as we may, Till time beget some careful remedy.

MARCUS. Kinsmen, his sorrows are past remedy, But . . . . Join with the Goths, and with revengeful war Take wreak on Rome for this ingratitude, And vengeance on the traitor Saturnine.

TITUS. Publius, how now? How now, my masters? What, have you met with her?

PUBLIUS. No, my good lord; but Pluto sends you word, If you will have Revenge from hell, you shall. Marry, for Justice, she is so employed, He thinks, with Jove in heaven, or somewhere else, So that perforce you must needs stay a time.

TITUS. He doth me wrong to feed me with delays. I’ll dive into the burning lake below, And pull her out of Acheron by the heels. Marcus, we are but shrubs, no cedars we, No big-boned men framed of the Cyclops’ size; But metal, Marcus, steel to the very back, Yet wrung with wrongs more than our backs can bear; And sith there’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_”; “_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.— Of my word, I have written to effect; There’s not a god left unsolicited.

MARCUS. Kinsmen, shoot all your shafts into the court. We will afflict the emperor in his pride.

TITUS. Now, masters, draw. [_They shoot_.] O, well said, Lucius! Good boy, in Virgo’s lap! Give it Pallas.

MARCUS. My lord, I aim a mile beyond the moon. Your letter is with Jupiter by this.

TITUS. Ha! ha! Publius, Publius, what hast thou done? See, see, thou hast shot off one of Taurus’ horns.

MARCUS. This was the sport, my lord; when Publius shot, The Bull, being galled, 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 laughed, and told the Moor he should not choose But give them to his master for a present.

TITUS. Why, there it goes. God give his lordship joy!

Enter the 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? Shall I have justice? What says Jupiter?

CLOWN. Ho, the gibbet-maker? He says that he hath taken them down again, for the man must not be hanged till the next week.

TITUS. But what says Jupiter, I ask thee?

CLOWN. Alas, sir, I know not Jubiter; I never drank with him in all my life.

TITUS. Why, villain, art not thou the carrier?

CLOWN. Ay, of my pigeons, sir; nothing else.

TITUS. Why, didst thou not come from heaven?

CLOWN. From heaven? Alas, sir, I never came there. God forbid I should be so bold to press to heaven in my young days. Why, I am going with my pigeons to the tribunal plebs, to take up a matter of brawl betwixt my uncle and one of the emperal’s men.

MARCUS. 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.

TITUS. Tell me, can you deliver an oration to the emperor with a grace?

CLOWN. Nay, truly, sir, I could never say grace in all my life.

TITUS. 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. Give me pen and ink. Sirrah, can you with a grace deliver up a supplication?

CLOWN. Ay, sir.

TITUS. 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.

CLOWN. I warrant you, sir; let me alone.

TITUS. 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.

CLOWN. God be with you, sir; I will.

[_Exit._]

TITUS. Come, Marcus, let us go. Publius, follow me.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE IV. Rome. Before the Palace

Enter Emperor Saturninus and Empress Tamora and her two sons Chiron and Demetrius, with Attendants. The Emperor brings the arrows in his hand that Titus shot at him.

SATURNINUS. Why, lords, what wrongs are these! Was ever seen An emperor in Rome thus overborne, Troubled, confronted thus; and, for the extent Of legal justice, used in such contempt? My lords, you know, as know the mightful gods, However these disturbers of our peace Buzz in the people’s ears, there naught hath passed But even with law against the wilful sons Of old Andronicus. And what an if His sorrows have so overwhelmed his wits? Shall we be thus afflicted in his wreaks, His fits, his frenzy, and his bitterness? And now he writes to heaven for his redress! See, here’s “to Jove,” and this “to Mercury,” This “to Apollo,” this to the god of war. Sweet scrolls to fly about the streets of Rome! What’s this but libelling against the senate, And blazoning our injustice everywhere? 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 In Saturninus’ health; whom, if she sleep, He’ll so awake as he in fury shall Cut off the proud’st conspirator that lives.

TAMORA. My gracious lord, my lovely Saturnine, Lord of my life, commander of my thoughts, Calm thee, and bear the faults of Titus’ age, Th’ effects of sorrow for his valiant sons, Whose loss hath pierced him deep and scarred his heart; And rather comfort his distressed plight Than prosecute the meanest or the best For these contempts. [_Aside_.] Why, thus it shall become High-witted Tamora to gloze with all. But, Titus, I have touched thee to the quick; Thy life-blood out, if Aaron now be wise, Then is all safe, the anchor in the port.

Enter Clown.

How now, good fellow, wouldst thou speak with us?

CLOWN. Yes, forsooth, an your mistresship be emperial.

TAMORA. Empress I am, but yonder sits the emperor.

CLOWN. ’Tis he. God and Saint Stephen give you good e’en. I have brought you a letter and a couple of pigeons here.

[_Saturninus reads the letter._]

SATURNINUS. Go take him away, and hang him presently.

CLOWN. How much money must I have?

TAMORA. Come, sirrah, you must be hanged.

CLOWN. Hanged! by’r Lady, then I have brought up a neck to a fair end.

[_Exit guarded._]

SATURNINUS. Despiteful and intolerable wrongs! Shall I endure this monstrous villainy? I know from whence this same device proceeds. May this be borne as if his traitorous sons, That died by law for murder of our brother, Have by my means been butchered 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, In hope thyself should govern Rome and me.

Enter Aemilius.

What news with thee, Aemilius?

AEMILIUS. Arm, my lord! Rome never had more cause. The Goths have gathered head, and with a power Of high-resolved men, bent to the spoil, They hither march amain, under conduct Of Lucius, son to old Andronicus; Who threats, in course of this revenge, to do As much as ever Coriolanus did.

SATURNINUS. Is warlike Lucius general of the Goths? These tidings nip me, and I hang the head As flowers with frost, or grass beat down with storms. Ay, now begins our sorrows to approach. ’Tis he the common people love so much; Myself hath often overheard them say, When I have walked like a private man, That Lucius’ banishment was wrongfully, And they have wished that Lucius were their emperor.

TAMORA. Why should you fear? Is not your city strong?

SATURNINUS. Ay, but the citizens favour Lucius, And will revolt from me to succour him.

TAMORA. King, be thy thoughts imperious like thy name. Is the sun dimmed, that gnats do fly in it? The eagle suffers little birds to sing, And is not careful what they mean thereby, Knowing that with the shadow of his wings He can at pleasure stint their melody; Even so mayest thou the giddy men of Rome. Then cheer thy spirit; for know, thou emperor, I will enchant the old Andronicus With words more sweet, and yet more dangerous, Than baits to fish or honey-stalks to sheep, Whenas the one is wounded with the bait, The other rotted with delicious feed.

SATURNINUS. But he will not entreat his son for us.

TAMORA. If Tamora entreat him, then he will, For I can smooth and fill his aged ears With golden promises, that, were his heart Almost impregnable, his old ears deaf, Yet should both ear and heart obey my tongue. [_to Aemilius_] Go thou before, be our ambassador. Say that the emperor requests a parley Of warlike Lucius, and appoint the meeting Even at his father’s house, the old Andronicus.

SATURNINUS. Aemilius, do this message honourably, And if he stand on hostage for his safety, Bid him demand what pledge will please him best.

AEMILIUS. Your bidding shall I do effectually.

[_Exit._]

TAMORA. Now will I to that old Andronicus, And temper him with all the art I have, To pluck proud Lucius from the warlike Goths. And now, sweet emperor, be blithe again, And bury all thy fear in my devices.

SATURNINUS. Then go successantly, and plead to him.

[_Exeunt._]

## ACT V

## SCENE I. Plains near Rome

Enter Lucius with an army of Goths, with drums and soldiers.

LUCIUS. Approved warriors and my faithful friends, I have received letters from great Rome Which signifies what hate they bear their emperor 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.

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, Like stinging bees in hottest summer’s day Led by their master to the flowered fields, And be avenged on cursed Tamora.

GOTHS. And as he saith, so say we all with him.

LUCIUS. I humbly thank him, and I thank you all. But who comes here, led by a lusty Goth?

Enter a Goth, leading of Aaron with his Child in his arms.

SECOND GOTH. Renowned Lucius, from our troops I strayed To gaze upon a ruinous monastery; And as I earnestly did fix mine eye Upon the wasted building, suddenly I heard a child cry underneath a wall. I made unto the noise, when soon I heard The crying babe controlled with this discourse: “Peace, tawny slave, half me and half thy dame! Did not thy hue bewray whose brat thou art, Had nature lent thee but thy mother’s look, Villain, thou mightst have been an emperor. But where the bull and cow are both milk-white, They never do beget a coal-black calf. Peace, villain, peace!” even thus he rates the babe, “For I must bear thee to a trusty Goth, Who, when he knows thou art the empress’ babe, Will hold thee dearly for thy mother’s sake.” With this, my weapon drawn, I rushed upon him, Surprised him suddenly, and brought him hither To use as you think needful of the man.

LUCIUS. O worthy Goth, this is the incarnate devil That robbed Andronicus of his good hand; This is the pearl that pleased your empress’ eye; And here’s the base fruit of her burning lust. Say, wall-eyed 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, And by his side his fruit of bastardy.

AARON. Touch not the boy, he is of royal blood.

LUCIUS. 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. Get me a ladder.

[_A ladder is brought, which Aaron is made to ascend._]

AARON. 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. If thou wilt not, befall what may befall, I’ll speak no more but “Vengeance rot you all!”

LUCIUS. Say on, and if it please me which thou speak’st, Thy child shall live, and I will see it nourished.

AARON. And if it please thee? Why, assure thee, Lucius, ’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, villainies, Ruthful to hear, yet piteously performed. And this shall all be buried in my death, Unless thou swear to me my child shall live.

LUCIUS. Tell on thy mind; I say thy child shall live.

AARON. Swear that he shall, and then I will begin.

LUCIUS. Who should I swear by? Thou believ’st no god. That granted, how canst thou believe an oath?

AARON. What if I do not? As indeed I do not; Yet, for I know thou art religious, And hast a thing within thee called conscience, With twenty popish tricks and ceremonies Which I have seen thee careful to observe, Therefore I urge thy oath; for that I know An idiot holds 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 By that same god, what god soe’er it be That thou adorest and hast in reverence, To save my boy, to nourish and bring him up; Or else I will discover naught to thee.

LUCIUS. Even by my god I swear to thee I will.

AARON. First know thou, I begot him on the empress.

LUCIUS. O most insatiate and luxurious woman!

AARON. Tut, Lucius, this was but a deed of charity To that which thou shalt hear of me anon. ’Twas her two sons that murdered Bassianus; They cut thy sister’s tongue, and ravished her, And cut her hands, and trimmed her as thou sawest.

LUCIUS. O detestable villain, call’st thou that trimming?

AARON. Why, she was washed, and cut, and trimmed; and ’twas Trim sport for them which had the doing of it.

LUCIUS. O barbarous beastly villains, like thyself!

AARON. Indeed, I was their tutor to instruct them. That codding spirit had they from their mother, As sure a card as ever won the set; That bloody mind I think they learned of me, As true a dog as ever fought at head. Well, let my deeds be witness of my worth. I trained thy brethren to that guileful hole Where the dead corpse of Bassianus lay. I wrote the letter that thy father found, And hid the gold within that letter mentioned, 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’t? I played the cheater for thy father’s hand, And, when I had it, drew myself apart, And almost broke my heart with extreme laughter. I pried me through the crevice of a wall When, for his hand, he had his two sons’ heads; Beheld his tears, and laughed so heartily That both mine eyes were rainy like to his. And when I told the empress of this sport, She sounded almost at my pleasing tale, And for my tidings gave me twenty kisses.

GOTH. What, canst thou say all this and never blush?

AARON. Ay, like a black dog, as the saying is.

LUCIUS. Art thou not sorry for these heinous deeds?

AARON. 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, 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; Make poor men’s cattle break their necks; Set fire on barns and haystalks in the night, And bid the owners quench them with their tears. Oft have I digged up dead men from their graves, And set them upright at their dear friends’ door, Even when their sorrows almost was 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.” But I have done a thousand dreadful things As willingly as one would kill a fly, And nothing grieves me heartily indeed But that I cannot do ten thousand more.

LUCIUS. Bring down the devil, for he must not die So sweet a death as hanging presently.

AARON. If there be devils, would I were a devil, To live and burn in everlasting fire, So I might have your company in hell But to torment you with my bitter tongue!

LUCIUS. Sirs, stop his mouth, and let him speak no more.

Enter Aemilius.

GOTH. My lord, there is a messenger from Rome Desires to be admitted to your presence.

LUCIUS. Let him come near. Welcome, Aemilius. What’s the news from Rome?

AEMILIUS. 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, Willing you to demand your hostages, And they shall be immediately delivered.

FIRST GOTH. What says our general?

LUCIUS. Aemilius, let the emperor give his pledges Unto my father and my uncle Marcus, And we will come. March away.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE II. Rome. Before Titus’s House

Enter Tamora and her two sons, disguised.

TAMORA. Thus, in this strange and sad habiliment, I will encounter with Andronicus, And say I am Revenge, sent from below To join with him and right his heinous wrongs. Knock at his study, where they say he keeps To ruminate strange plots of dire revenge; Tell him Revenge is come to join with him And work confusion on his enemies.

[_They knock._]

Titus above opens his study door.

TITUS. 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? You are deceived; for what I mean to do See here in bloody lines I have set down; And what is written shall be executed.

TAMORA. Titus, I am come to talk with thee.

TITUS. No, not a word; how can I grace my talk, Wanting a hand to give it action? Thou hast the odds of me; therefore no more.

TAMORA. If thou didst know me, thou wouldst talk with me.

TITUS. I am not mad; I know thee well enough. Witness this wretched stump, witness these crimson lines; 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?

TAMORA. Know thou, sad man, I am not Tamora; She is thy enemy, and I thy friend. I am Revenge, sent from th’ infernal kingdom To ease the gnawing vulture of thy mind By working wreakful vengeance on thy foes. Come down and welcome me to this world’s light; Confer with me of 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 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.

TITUS. Art thou Revenge? And art thou sent to me To be a torment to mine enemies?

TAMORA. I am; therefore come down and welcome me.

TITUS. 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, And then I’ll come and be thy waggoner, And whirl along with thee about the globe. Provide thee two proper palfreys, black as jet, To hale thy vengeful waggon swift away, And find out murderers in their guilty caves. And when thy car is loaden with their heads, I will dismount, and by the waggon-wheel Trot like a servile footman all day long, Even from Hyperion’s rising in the east Until his very downfall in the sea. And day by day I’ll do this heavy task, So thou destroy Rapine and Murder there.

TAMORA. These are my ministers, and come with me.

TITUS. Are they thy ministers? What are they called?

TAMORA. Rapine and Murder; therefore called so ’Cause they take vengeance of such kind of men.

TITUS. 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; And, if one arm’s embracement will content thee, I will embrace thee in it by and by.

[_He exits above._]

TAMORA. This closing with him fits his lunacy. Whate’er I forge to feed his brain-sick humours, Do you uphold and maintain in your speeches, 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 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.

TITUS. Long have I been forlorn, and all for thee. 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? 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?

TAMORA. What wouldst thou have us do, Andronicus?

DEMETRIUS. Show me a murderer, I’ll deal with him.

CHIRON. Show me a villain that hath done a rape, And I am sent to be revenged on him.

TAMORA. Show me a thousand that hath done thee wrong, And I will be revenged on them all.

TITUS. 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 To find another that is like to thee, Good Rapine, stab him; he is a ravisher. Go thou with them; and in the emperor’s court There is a queen, attended by a Moor; Well shalt thou know her by thine own proportion, 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.

TAMORA. Well hast thou lessoned us; this shall we do. But would it please thee, good Andronicus, To send for Lucius, thy thrice-valiant son, Who leads towards Rome a band of warlike Goths, And bid him come and banquet at thy house? When he is here, even at thy solemn feast, I will bring in the empress and her sons, 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?

TITUS. Marcus, my brother, ’tis sad Titus calls.

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; 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.

MARCUS. This will I do, and soon return again.

[_Exit._]

TAMORA. Now will I hence about thy business, And take my ministers along with me.

TITUS. Nay, nay, let Rape and Murder stay with me, Or else I’ll call my brother back again And cleave to no revenge but Lucius.

TAMORA. [_Aside to them_.] What say you, boys? Will you abide with him, Whiles I go tell my lord the emperor How I have governed our determined jest? Yield to his humour, smooth and speak him fair, And tarry with him till I come again.

TITUS. [_Aside_.] I knew them all, though they suppose me mad, And will o’erreach them in their own devices, A pair of cursed hell-hounds and their dam.

DEMETRIUS. Madam, depart at pleasure; leave us here.

TAMORA. Farewell, Andronicus. Revenge now goes To lay a complot to betray thy foes.

TITUS. I know thou dost; and, sweet Revenge, farewell.

[_Exit Tamora._]

CHIRON. Tell us, old man, how shall we be employed?

TITUS. Tut, I have work enough for you to do. Publius, come hither, Caius, and Valentine.

Enter Publius and others.

PUBLIUS. What is your will?

TITUS. Know you these two?

PUBLIUS. The empress’ sons, I take them, Chiron, Demetrius.

TITUS. Fie, Publius, fie, thou art too much deceived. The one is Murder, and Rape is the other’s name; And therefore bind them, gentle Publius. Caius and Valentine, lay hands on them. 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 Titus._]

CHIRON. Villains, forbear! We are the empress’ sons.

PUBLIUS. And therefore do we what we are commanded. Stop close their mouths, let them not speak a word. Is he sure bound? Look that you bind them fast.

Enter Titus Andronicus with a knife, and Lavinia with a basin.

TITUS. Come, come, Lavinia; look, thy foes are bound. Sirs, stop their mouths, let them not speak to me, But let them hear what fearful words I utter. O villains, Chiron and Demetrius! Here stands the spring whom you have stained with mud, This goodly summer with your winter mixed. You killed her husband, and for that vile fault Two of her brothers were condemned to death, My hand cut off and made a merry jest, Both her sweet hands, her tongue, and that more dear Than hands or tongue, her spotless chastity, Inhuman traitors, you constrained and forced. 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, Whiles that Lavinia ’tween her stumps doth hold 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, And of the paste a coffin I will rear, And make two pasties of your shameful heads, And bid that strumpet, your unhallowed dam, Like to the earth swallow her own increase. This is the feast that I have bid her to, And this the banquet she shall surfeit on; For worse than Philomel you used my daughter, And worse than Procne I will be revenged. And now prepare your throats.—Lavinia, come Receive the blood.

[_He cuts their throats._]

And when that they are dead, Let me go grind their bones to powder small, And with this hateful liquor temper it, And in that paste let their vile heads be baked. Come, come, be everyone officious To make this banquet, which I wish may prove More stern and bloody than the Centaurs’ feast. So, now bring them in, for I’ll play the cook, And see them ready against their mother comes.

[_Exeunt, carrying the dead bodies._]

## SCENE III. Rome. A Pavilion in Titus’s Gardens, with tables, &c.

Enter Lucius, Marcus and the Goths, with Aaron, prisoner.

LUCIUS. Uncle Marcus, since ’tis my father’s mind That I repair to Rome, I am content.

FIRST GOTH. And ours with thine, befall what fortune will.

LUCIUS. Good uncle, take you in this barbarous Moor, This ravenous tiger, this accursed devil; Let him receive no sust’nance, fetter him, Till he be brought unto the empress’ face For testimony of her foul proceedings. And see the ambush of our friends be strong; I fear the emperor means no good to us.

AARON. Some devil whisper curses in my ear, And prompt me that my tongue may utter forth The venomous malice of my swelling heart!

LUCIUS. Away, inhuman dog, unhallowed slave! Sirs, help our uncle to convey him in.

[_Sound trumpets._]

The trumpets show the emperor is at hand.

[_Exeunt Goths with Aaron._]

Enter Emperor Saturninus and Empress Tamora with Aemilius, Tribunes and others.

SATURNINUS. What, hath the firmament more suns than one?

LUCIUS. What boots it thee to call thyself a sun?

MARCUS. Rome’s emperor, and nephew, break the parle; These quarrels must be quietly debated. The feast is ready which the careful Titus Hath ordained to an honourable end, For peace, for love, for league, and good to Rome. Please you, therefore, draw nigh and take your places.

SATURNINUS. Marcus, we will.

Trumpets sounding, enter Titus like a cook, placing the dishes, with Young Lucius and others, and Lavinia with a veil over her face.

TITUS. Welcome, my lord; welcome, dread queen; Welcome, ye warlike Goths; welcome, Lucius; And welcome all. Although the cheer be poor, ’Twill fill your stomachs; please you eat of it.

SATURNINUS. Why art thou thus attired, Andronicus?

TITUS. Because I would be sure to have all well To entertain your highness and your empress.

TAMORA. We are beholden to you, good Andronicus.

TITUS. An if your highness knew my heart, you were. My lord the emperor, resolve me this: Was it well done of rash Virginius To slay his daughter with his own right hand, Because she was enforced, stained, and deflowered?

SATURNINUS. It was, Andronicus.

TITUS. Your reason, mighty lord?

SATURNINUS. Because the girl should not survive her shame, And by her presence still renew his sorrows.

TITUS. A reason mighty, strong, and effectual; A pattern, precedent, and lively warrant For me, most wretched, to perform the like. Die, die, Lavinia, and thy shame with thee; And with thy shame thy father’s sorrow die!

[_He kills Lavinia._]

SATURNINUS. What hast thou done, unnatural and unkind?

TITUS. Killed 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 To do this outrage, and it now is done.

SATURNINUS. What, was she ravished? Tell who did the deed.

TITUS. Will’t please you eat? Will’t please your highness feed?

TAMORA. Why hast thou slain thine only daughter thus?

TITUS. Not I; ’twas Chiron and Demetrius. They ravished her, and cut away her tongue; And they, ’twas they, that did her all this wrong.

SATURNINUS. Go fetch them hither to us presently.

TITUS. Why, there they are, both baked in that pie, Whereof their mother daintily hath fed, Eating the flesh that she herself hath bred. ’Tis true, ’tis true; witness my knife’s sharp point.

[_He stabs the Empress._]

SATURNINUS. Die, frantic wretch, for this accursed deed.

[_He kills Titus._]

LUCIUS. Can the son’s eye behold his father bleed?

[_He kills Saturninus._]

There’s meed for meed, death for a deadly deed.

[_A great tumult. Lucius, Marcus, and others go aloft to the upper stage._]

MARCUS. You sad-faced men, people and sons of Rome, By uproar severed, as a flight of fowl Scattered by winds and high tempestuous gusts, O, let me teach you how to knit again This scattered corn into one mutual sheaf, 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. But if my frosty signs and chaps of age, Grave witnesses of true experience, Cannot induce you to attend my words, Speak, Rome’s dear friend, [_to Lucius_] as erst our ancestor, When with his solemn tongue he did discourse To love-sick Dido’s sad attending ear The story of that baleful burning night When subtle Greeks surprised King Priam’s Troy. Tell us what Sinon hath bewitched our ears, Or who hath brought the fatal engine in That gives our Troy, our Rome, the civil wound. My heart is not compact of flint nor steel, Nor can I utter all our bitter grief, But floods of tears will drown my oratory And break my utterance, even in the time When it should move you to attend me most, And force you to commiseration. Here’s Rome’s young captain, let him tell the tale, While I stand by and weep to hear him speak.

LUCIUS. Then, noble auditory, be it known to you That Chiron and the damned Demetrius Were they that murdered our emperor’s brother; And they it were that ravished our sister. For their fell faults our brothers were beheaded, Our father’s tears despised, and basely cozened 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 turned weeping out, To beg relief among Rome’s enemies; Who drowned their enmity in my true tears, And oped their arms to embrace me as a friend. I am the turned-forth, be it known to you, That have preserved her welfare in my blood And from her bosom took the enemy’s point, Sheathing the steel in my advent’rous body. Alas, you know I am no vaunter, I; My scars can witness, dumb although they are, That my report is just and full of truth. But soft, methinks I do digress too much, Citing my worthless praise. O, pardon me; For when no friends are by, men praise themselves.

MARCUS. Now is my turn to speak. Behold the child. Of this was Tamora delivered, The issue of an irreligious Moor, Chief architect and plotter of these woes. The villain is alive in Titus’ house, And as he is to witness, this is true. Now judge what cause had Titus to revenge These wrongs unspeakable, past patience, Or more than any living man could bear. Now have you heard the truth. What say you, Romans? Have we done aught amiss? Show us wherein, And, from the place where you behold us pleading, The poor remainder of Andronici Will, hand in hand, all headlong hurl ourselves, And on the ragged stones beat forth our souls, 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.

AEMILIUS. 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!

MARCUS. Go, go into old Titus’ sorrowful house, And hither hale that misbelieving Moor To be adjudged some direful slaught’ring death, As punishment for his most wicked life.

[_Exeunt Attendants. Lucius and Marcus come down from the upper stage._]

ROMANS. Lucius, all hail, Rome’s gracious governor!

LUCIUS. 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. Stand all aloof; but, uncle, draw you near To shed obsequious tears upon this trunk.

[_He kisses Titus._]

O, take this warm kiss on thy pale cold lips. These sorrowful drops upon thy blood-stained face, The last true duties of thy noble son.

MARCUS. 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.

LUCIUS. Come hither, boy; come, come, and learn of us To melt in showers. Thy grandsire loved thee well. Many a time he danced thee on his knee, Sung thee asleep, his loving breast thy pillow; Many a story hath he told to thee, And bid thee bear his pretty tales in mind And talk of them when he was dead and gone.

MARCUS. How many thousand times hath these poor lips, When they were living, warmed themselves on thine! O, now, sweet boy, give them their latest kiss. Bid him farewell; commit him to the grave. Do them that kindness, and take leave of them.

YOUNG LUCIUS. O grandsire, grandsire, e’en 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.

Re-enter Attendants with Aaron.

AEMILIUS. You sad Andronici, have done with woes. Give sentence on the execrable wretch That hath been breeder of these dire events.

LUCIUS. Set him breast-deep in earth and famish him; There let him stand and rave and cry for food. If anyone relieves or pities him, For the offence he dies. This is our doom. Some stay to see him fastened in the earth.

AARON. Ah, why should wrath be mute and fury dumb? I am no baby, I, that with base prayers I should repent the evils I have done. Ten thousand worse than ever yet I did Would I perform, if I might have my will. If one good deed in all my life I did, I do repent it from my very soul.

LUCIUS. Some loving friends convey the emperor hence, And give him burial in his father’s grave. My father and Lavinia shall forthwith Be closed in our household’s monument. As for that ravenous tiger, Tamora, No funeral rite, nor man in mournful weed, No mournful bell shall ring her burial; But throw her forth to beasts and birds of prey. Her life was beastly and devoid of pity; And being dead, let birds on her take pity.

[_Exeunt._]

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA

Contents

## ACT I

Prologue.

## Scene I.

Troy. Before Priam’s palace.

## Scene II.

Troy. A street.

## Scene III.

The Grecian camp. Before Agamemnon’s tent.

## ACT II

## Scene I.

The Grecian camp.

## Scene II.

Troy. Priam’s palace.

## Scene III.

The Grecian camp. Before the tent of Achilles.

## ACT III

## Scene I.

Troy. Priam’s palace.

## Scene II.

Troy. Pandarus’ orchard.

## Scene III.

The Greek camp.

## ACT IV

## Scene I.

Troy. A street.

## Scene II.

Troy. The court of Pandarus’ house.

## Scene III.

Troy. A street before Pandarus’ house.

## Scene IV.

Troy. Pandarus’ house.

## Scene V.

The Grecian camp. Lists set out.

## ACT V

## Scene I.

The Grecian camp. Before the tent of Achilles.

## Scene II.

The Grecian camp. Before Calchas’ tent.

## Scene III.

Troy. Before Priam’s palace.

## Scene IV.

The plain between Troy and the Grecian camp.

## Scene V.

Another part of the plain.

## Scene VI.

Another part of the plain.

## Scene VII.

Another part of the plain.

## Scene VIII.

Another part of the plain.

## Scene IX.

Another part of the plain.

## Scene X.

Another part of the plain.

Dramatis Personæ

PRIAM, King of Troy

His sons: HECTOR TROILUS PARIS DEIPHOBUS HELENUS MARGARELON, a bastard son of Priam

Trojan commanders: AENEAS ANTENOR

CALCHAS, a Trojan priest, taking part with the Greeks PANDARUS, uncle to Cressida AGAMEMNON, the Greek general MENELAUS, his brother

Greek commanders: ACHILLES AJAX ULYSSES NESTOR DIOMEDES PATROCLUS

THERSITES, a deformed and scurrilous Greek ALEXANDER, servant to Cressida SERVANT to Troilus SERVANT to Paris SERVANT to Diomedes HELEN, wife to Menelaus ANDROMACHE, wife to Hector CASSANDRA, daughter to Priam, a prophetess CRESSIDA, daughter to Calchas

Trojan and Greek Soldiers, and Attendants

SCENE: Troy and the Greek camp before it

PROLOGUE

In Troy, there lies the scene. From isles of Greece The princes orgulous, their high blood chaf’d, Have to the port of Athens sent their ships Fraught with the ministers and instruments Of cruel war. Sixty and nine that wore Their crownets regal from the Athenian bay Put forth toward Phrygia; and their vow is made To ransack Troy, within whose strong immures The ravish’d Helen, Menelaus’ queen, With wanton Paris sleeps—and that’s the quarrel. To Tenedos they come, And the deep-drawing barks do there disgorge Their war-like fraughtage. Now on Dardan plains The fresh and yet unbruised Greeks do pitch Their brave pavilions: Priam’s six-gated city, Dardan, and Tymbria, Ilias, Chetas, Troien, And Antenorides, with massy staples And corresponsive and fulfilling bolts, Stir up the sons of Troy. Now expectation, tickling skittish spirits On one and other side, Trojan and Greek, Sets all on hazard. And hither am I come A prologue arm’d, but not in confidence Of author’s pen or actor’s voice, but suited In like conditions as our argument, To tell you, fair beholders, that our play Leaps o’er the vaunt and firstlings of those broils, Beginning in the middle; starting thence away, To what may be digested in a play. Like or find fault; do as your pleasures are; Now good or bad, ’tis but the chance of war.

## ACT I

## SCENE I. Troy. Before Priam’s palace.

Enter Troilus armed, and Pandarus.

TROILUS. Call here my varlet; I’ll unarm again. Why should I war without the walls of Troy That find such cruel battle here within? Each Trojan that is master of his heart, Let him to field; Troilus, alas! hath none.

PANDARUS. Will this gear ne’er be mended?

TROILUS. The Greeks are strong, and skilful to their strength, Fierce to their skill, and to their fierceness valiant; But I am weaker than a woman’s tear, Tamer than sleep, fonder than ignorance, Less valiant than the virgin in the night, And skilless as unpractis’d infancy.

PANDARUS. Well, I have told you enough of this; for my part, I’ll not meddle nor make no farther. He that will have a cake out of the wheat must tarry the grinding.

TROILUS. Have I not tarried?

PANDARUS. Ay, the grinding; but you must tarry the bolting.

TROILUS. Have I not tarried?

PANDARUS. Ay, the bolting; but you must tarry the leavening.

TROILUS. Still have I tarried.

PANDARUS. Ay, to the leavening; but here’s yet in the word ‘hereafter’ the kneading, the making of the cake, the heating of the oven, and the baking; nay, you must stay the cooling too, or you may chance burn your lips.

TROILUS. Patience herself, what goddess e’er she be, Doth lesser blench at suff’rance than I do. At Priam’s royal table do I sit; And when fair Cressid comes into my thoughts, So, traitor! ‘when she comes’! when she is thence?

PANDARUS. Well, she look’d yesternight fairer than ever I saw her look, or any woman else.

TROILUS. I was about to tell thee: when my heart, As wedged with a sigh, would rive in twain, Lest Hector or my father should perceive me, I have, as when the sun doth light a storm, Buried this sigh in wrinkle of a smile. But sorrow that is couch’d in seeming gladness Is like that mirth fate turns to sudden sadness.

PANDARUS. An her hair were not somewhat darker than Helen’s, well, go to, there were no more comparison between the women. But, for my part, she is my kinswoman; I would not, as they term it, praise her, but I would somebody had heard her talk yesterday, as I did. I will not dispraise your sister Cassandra’s wit; but—

TROILUS. O Pandarus! I tell thee, Pandarus, When I do tell thee there my hopes lie drown’d, Reply not in how many fathoms deep They lie indrench’d. I tell thee I am mad In Cressid’s love. Thou answer’st ‘She is fair’; Pour’st in the open ulcer of my heart Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice, Handlest in thy discourse. O! that her hand, In whose comparison all whites are ink Writing their own reproach; to whose soft seizure The cygnet’s down is harsh, and spirit of sense Hard as the palm of ploughman! This thou tell’st me, As true thou tell’st me, when I say I love her; But, saying thus, instead of oil and balm, Thou lay’st in every gash that love hath given me The knife that made it.

PANDARUS. I speak no more than truth.

TROILUS. Thou dost not speak so much.

PANDARUS. Faith, I’ll not meddle in’t. Let her be as she is: if she be fair, ’tis the better for her; and she be not, she has the mends in her own hands.

TROILUS. Good Pandarus! How now, Pandarus!

PANDARUS. I have had my labour for my travail, ill thought on of her and ill thought on of you; gone between and between, but small thanks for my labour.

TROILUS. What! art thou angry, Pandarus? What! with me?

PANDARUS. Because she’s kin to me, therefore she’s not so fair as Helen. And she were not kin to me, she would be as fair on Friday as Helen is on Sunday. But what care I? I care not and she were a blackamoor; ’tis all one to me.

TROILUS. Say I she is not fair?

PANDARUS. I do not care whether you do or no. She’s a fool to stay behind her father. Let her to the Greeks; and so I’ll tell her the next time I see her. For my part, I’ll meddle nor make no more i’ the matter.

TROILUS. Pandarus—

PANDARUS. Not I.

TROILUS. Sweet Pandarus—

PANDARUS. Pray you, speak no more to me: I will leave all as I found it, and there an end.

[_Exit Pandarus. An alarum._]

TROILUS. Peace, you ungracious clamours! Peace, rude sounds! Fools on both sides! Helen must needs be fair, When with your blood you daily paint her thus. I cannot fight upon this argument; It is too starv’d a subject for my sword. But Pandarus, O gods! how do you plague me! I cannot come to Cressid but by Pandar; And he’s as tetchy to be woo’d to woo As she is stubborn-chaste against all suit. Tell me, Apollo, for thy Daphne’s love, What Cressid is, what Pandar, and what we? Her bed is India; there she lies, a pearl; Between our Ilium and where she resides Let it be call’d the wild and wandering flood; Ourself the merchant, and this sailing Pandar Our doubtful hope, our convoy, and our bark.

Alarum. Enter Aeneas.

AENEAS. How now, Prince Troilus! Wherefore not afield?

TROILUS. Because not there. This woman’s answer sorts, For womanish it is to be from thence. What news, Aeneas, from the field today?

AENEAS. That Paris is returned home, and hurt.

TROILUS. By whom, Aeneas?

AENEAS. Troilus, by Menelaus.

TROILUS. Let Paris bleed: ’tis but a scar to scorn; Paris is gor’d with Menelaus’ horn.

[_Alarum._]

AENEAS. Hark what good sport is out of town today!

TROILUS. Better at home, if ‘would I might’ were ‘may.’ But to the sport abroad. Are you bound thither?

AENEAS. In all swift haste.

TROILUS. Come, go we then together.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE II. Troy. A street.

Enter Cressida and her man Alexander.

CRESSIDA. Who were those went by?

ALEXANDER. Queen Hecuba and Helen.

CRESSIDA. And whither go they?

ALEXANDER. Up to the eastern tower, Whose height commands as subject all the vale, To see the battle. Hector, whose patience Is as a virtue fix’d, today was mov’d. He chid Andromache, and struck his armourer; And, like as there were husbandry in war, Before the sun rose he was harness’d light, And to the field goes he; where every flower Did as a prophet weep what it foresaw In Hector’s wrath.

CRESSIDA. What was his cause of anger?

ALEXANDER. The noise goes, this: there is among the Greeks A lord of Trojan blood, nephew to Hector; They call him Ajax.

CRESSIDA. Good; and what of him?

ALEXANDER. They say he is a very man _per se_ And stands alone.

CRESSIDA. So do all men, unless they are drunk, sick, or have no legs.

ALEXANDER. This man, lady, hath robb’d many beasts of their particular additions: he is as valiant as the lion, churlish as the bear, slow as the elephant—a man into whom nature hath so crowded humours that his valour is crush’d into folly, his folly sauced with discretion. There is no man hath a virtue that he hath not a glimpse of, nor any man an attaint but he carries some stain of it; he is melancholy without cause and merry against the hair; he hath the joints of everything; but everything so out of joint that he is a gouty Briareus, many hands and no use, or purblind Argus, all eyes and no sight.

CRESSIDA. But how should this man, that makes me smile, make Hector angry?

ALEXANDER. They say he yesterday cop’d Hector in the battle and struck him down, the disdain and shame whereof hath ever since kept Hector fasting and waking.

Enter Pandarus.

CRESSIDA. Who comes here?

ALEXANDER. Madam, your uncle Pandarus.

CRESSIDA. Hector’s a gallant man.

ALEXANDER. As may be in the world, lady.

PANDARUS. What’s that? What’s that?

CRESSIDA. Good morrow, uncle Pandarus.

PANDARUS. Good morrow, cousin Cressid. What do you talk of?—Good morrow, Alexander.—How do you, cousin? When were you at Ilium?

CRESSIDA. This morning, uncle.

PANDARUS. What were you talking of when I came? Was Hector arm’d and gone ere you came to Ilium? Helen was not up, was she?

CRESSIDA. Hector was gone; but Helen was not up.

PANDARUS. E’en so. Hector was stirring early.

CRESSIDA. That were we talking of, and of his anger.

PANDARUS. Was he angry?

CRESSIDA. So he says here.

PANDARUS. True, he was so; I know the cause too; he’ll lay about him today, I can tell them that. And there’s Troilus will not come far behind him; let them take heed of Troilus, I can tell them that too.

CRESSIDA. What, is he angry too?

PANDARUS. Who, Troilus? Troilus is the better man of the two.

CRESSIDA. O Jupiter! there’s no comparison.

PANDARUS. What, not between Troilus and Hector? Do you know a man if you see him?

CRESSIDA. Ay, if I ever saw him before and knew him.

PANDARUS. Well, I say Troilus is Troilus.

CRESSIDA. Then you say as I say, for I am sure he is not Hector.

PANDARUS. No, nor Hector is not Troilus in some degrees.

CRESSIDA. ’Tis just to each of them: he is himself.

PANDARUS. Himself! Alas, poor Troilus! I would he were!

CRESSIDA. So he is.

PANDARUS. Condition I had gone barefoot to India.

CRESSIDA. He is not Hector.

PANDARUS. Himself! no, he’s not himself. Would a’ were himself! Well, the gods are above; time must friend or end. Well, Troilus, well! I would my heart were in her body! No, Hector is not a better man than Troilus.

CRESSIDA. Excuse me.

PANDARUS. He is elder.

CRESSIDA. Pardon me, pardon me.

PANDARUS. Th’other’s not come to’t; you shall tell me another tale when th’other’s come to’t. Hector shall not have his wit this year.

CRESSIDA. He shall not need it if he have his own.

ANDARUS. Nor his qualities.

CRESSIDA. No matter.

PANDARUS. Nor his beauty.

CRESSIDA. ’Twould not become him: his own’s better.

PANDARUS. You have no judgement, niece. Helen herself swore th’other day that Troilus, for a brown favour, for so ’tis, I must confess—not brown neither—

CRESSIDA. No, but brown.

PANDARUS. Faith, to say truth, brown and not brown.

CRESSIDA. To say the truth, true and not true.

PANDARUS. She prais’d his complexion above Paris.

CRESSIDA. Why, Paris hath colour enough.

PANDARUS. So he has.

CRESSIDA. Then Troilus should have too much. If she prais’d him above, his complexion is higher than his; he having colour enough, and the other higher, is too flaming a praise for a good complexion. I had as lief Helen’s golden tongue had commended Troilus for a copper nose.

PANDARUS. I swear to you I think Helen loves him better than Paris.

CRESSIDA. Then she’s a merry Greek indeed.

PANDARUS. Nay, I am sure she does. She came to him th’other day into the compass’d window—and you know he has not past three or four hairs on his chin—

CRESSIDA. Indeed a tapster’s arithmetic may soon bring his particulars therein to a total.

PANDARUS. Why, he is very young, and yet will he within three pound lift as much as his brother Hector.

CRESSIDA. Is he so young a man and so old a lifter?

PANDARUS. But to prove to you that Helen loves him: she came and puts me her white hand to his cloven chin—

CRESSIDA. Juno have mercy! How came it cloven?

PANDARUS. Why, you know, ’tis dimpled. I think his smiling becomes him better than any man in all Phrygia.

CRESSIDA. O, he smiles valiantly!

PANDARUS. Does he not?

CRESSIDA. O yes, an ’twere a cloud in autumn!

PANDARUS. Why, go to, then! But to prove to you that Helen loves Troilus—

CRESSIDA. Troilus will stand to the proof, if you’ll prove it so.

PANDARUS. Troilus! Why, he esteems her no more than I esteem an addle egg.

CRESSIDA. If you love an addle egg as well as you love an idle head, you would eat chickens i’ th’ shell.

PANDARUS. I cannot choose but laugh to think how she tickled his chin. Indeed, she has a marvell’s white hand, I must needs confess.

CRESSIDA. Without the rack.

PANDARUS. And she takes upon her to spy a white hair on his chin.

CRESSIDA. Alas, poor chin! Many a wart is richer.

PANDARUS. But there was such laughing! Queen Hecuba laugh’d that her eyes ran o’er.

CRESSIDA. With millstones.

PANDARUS. And Cassandra laugh’d.

CRESSIDA. But there was a more temperate fire under the pot of her eyes. Did her eyes run o’er too?

PANDARUS. And Hector laugh’d.

CRESSIDA. At what was all this laughing?

PANDARUS. Marry, at the white hair that Helen spied on Troilus’ chin.

CRESSIDA. And’t had been a green hair I should have laugh’d too.

PANDARUS. They laugh’d not so much at the hair as at his pretty answer.

CRESSIDA. What was his answer?

PANDARUS. Quoth she ‘Here’s but two and fifty hairs on your chin, and one of them is white.’

CRESSIDA. This is her question.

PANDARUS. That’s true; make no question of that. ‘Two and fifty hairs,’ quoth he ‘and one white. That white hair is my father, and all the rest are his sons.’ ‘Jupiter!’ quoth she ‘which of these hairs is Paris my husband?’ ‘The forked one,’ quoth he, ’pluck’t out and give it him.’ But there was such laughing! and Helen so blush’d, and Paris so chaf’d; and all the rest so laugh’d that it pass’d.

CRESSIDA. So let it now; for it has been a great while going by.

PANDARUS. Well, cousin, I told you a thing yesterday; think on’t.

CRESSIDA. So I do.

PANDARUS. I’ll be sworn ’tis true; he will weep you, and ’twere a man born in April.

CRESSIDA. And I’ll spring up in his tears, an ’twere a nettle against May.

[_Sound a retreat._]

PANDARUS. Hark! they are coming from the field. Shall we stand up here and see them as they pass toward Ilium? Good niece, do, sweet niece Cressida.

CRESSIDA. At your pleasure.

PANDARUS. Here, here, here’s an excellent place; here we may see most bravely. I’ll tell you them all by their names as they pass by; but mark Troilus above the rest.

[Aeneas _passes_.]

CRESSIDA. Speak not so loud.

PANDARUS. That’s Aeneas. Is not that a brave man? He’s one of the flowers of Troy, I can tell you. But mark Troilus; you shall see anon.

[Antenor _passes_.]

CRESSIDA. Who’s that?

PANDARUS. That’s Antenor. He has a shrewd wit, I can tell you; and he’s a man good enough; he’s one o’ th’ soundest judgements in Troy, whosoever, and a proper man of person. When comes Troilus? I’ll show you Troilus anon. If he see me, you shall see him nod at me.

CRESSIDA. Will he give you the nod?

PANDARUS. You shall see.

CRESSIDA. If he do, the rich shall have more.

[Hector _passes_.]

PANDARUS. That’s Hector, that, that, look you, that; there’s a fellow! Go thy way, Hector! There’s a brave man, niece. O brave Hector! Look how he looks. There’s a countenance! Is’t not a brave man?

CRESSIDA. O, a brave man!

PANDARUS. Is a’ not? It does a man’s heart good. Look you what hacks are on his helmet! Look you yonder, do you see? Look you there. There’s no jesting; there’s laying on; take’t off who will, as they say. There be hacks.

CRESSIDA. Be those with swords?

PANDARUS. Swords! anything, he cares not; and the devil come to him, it’s all one. By God’s lid, it does one’s heart good. Yonder comes Paris, yonder comes Paris.

[Paris _passes_.]

Look ye yonder, niece; is’t not a gallant man too, is’t not? Why, this is brave now. Who said he came hurt home today? He’s not hurt. Why, this will do Helen’s heart good now, ha! Would I could see Troilus now! You shall see Troilus anon.

[Helenus _passes_.]

CRESSIDA. Who’s that?

PANDARUS. That’s Helenus. I marvel where Troilus is. That’s Helenus. I think he went not forth today. That’s Helenus.

CRESSIDA. Can Helenus fight, uncle?

PANDARUS. Helenus! no. Yes, he’ll fight indifferent well. I marvel where Troilus is. Hark! do you not hear the people cry ‘Troilus’?—Helenus is a priest.

CRESSIDA. What sneaking fellow comes yonder?

[Troilus _passes_.]

PANDARUS. Where? yonder? That’s Deiphobus. ’Tis Troilus. There’s a man, niece. Hem! Brave Troilus, the prince of chivalry!

CRESSIDA. Peace, for shame, peace!

PANDARUS. Mark him; note him. O brave Troilus! Look well upon him, niece; look you how his sword is bloodied, and his helm more hack’d than Hector’s; and how he looks, and how he goes! O admirable youth! he never saw three and twenty. Go thy way, Troilus, go thy way. Had I a sister were a grace or a daughter a goddess, he should take his choice. O admirable man! Paris? Paris is dirt to him; and, I warrant, Helen, to change, would give an eye to boot.

CRESSIDA. Here comes more.

[_Common soldiers pass_.]

PANDARUS. Asses, fools, dolts! chaff and bran, chaff and bran! porridge after meat! I could live and die in the eyes of Troilus. Ne’er look, ne’er look; the eagles are gone. Crows and daws, crows and daws! I had rather be such a man as Troilus than Agamemnon and all Greece.

CRESSIDA. There is amongst the Greeks Achilles, a better man than Troilus.

PANDARUS. Achilles? A drayman, a porter, a very camel!

CRESSIDA. Well, well.

PANDARUS. Well, well! Why, have you any discretion? Have you any eyes? Do you know what a man is? Is not birth, beauty, good shape, discourse, manhood, learning, gentleness, virtue, youth, liberality, and such like, the spice and salt that season a man?

CRESSIDA. Ay, a minc’d man; and then to be bak’d with no date in the pie, for then the man’s date is out.

PANDARUS. You are such a woman! A man knows not at what ward you lie.

CRESSIDA. Upon my back, to defend my belly; upon my wit, to defend my wiles; upon my secrecy, to defend mine honesty; my mask, to defend my beauty; and you, to defend all these; and at all these wards I lie, at a thousand watches.

PANDARUS. Say one of your watches.

CRESSIDA. Nay, I’ll watch you for that; and that’s one of the chiefest of them too. If I cannot ward what I would not have hit, I can watch you for telling how I took the blow; unless it swell past hiding, and then it’s past watching.

PANDARUS. You are such another!

Enter Troilus' Boy.

BOY. Sir, my lord would instantly speak with you.

PANDARUS. Where?

BOY. At your own house; there he unarms him.

PANDARUS. Good boy, tell him I come. [_Exit_ Boy.] I doubt he be hurt. Fare ye well, good niece.

CRESSIDA. Adieu, uncle.

PANDARUS. I will be with you, niece, by and by.

CRESSIDA. To bring, uncle.

PANDARUS. Ay, a token from Troilus.

[_Exit_ Pandarus.]

CRESSIDA. By the same token, you are a bawd. Words, vows, gifts, tears, and love’s full sacrifice, He offers in another’s enterprise; But more in Troilus thousand-fold I see Than in the glass of Pandar’s praise may be, Yet hold I off. Women are angels, wooing: Things won are done; joy’s soul lies in the doing. That she belov’d knows naught that knows not this: Men prize the thing ungain’d more than it is. That she was never yet that ever knew Love got so sweet as when desire did sue; Therefore this maxim out of love I teach: ‘Achievement is command; ungain’d, beseech.’ Then though my heart’s content firm love doth bear, Nothing of that shall from mine eyes appear.

[_Exit_.]

## SCENE III. The Grecian camp. Before Agamemnon’s tent.

Sennet. Enter Agamemnon, Nestor, Ulysses, Diomedes, Menelaus and others.

AGAMEMNON. Princes, What grief hath set these jaundies o’er your cheeks? The ample proposition that hope makes In all designs begun on earth below Fails in the promis’d largeness; checks and disasters Grow in the veins of actions highest rear’d, As knots, by the conflux of meeting sap, Infects the sound pine, and diverts his grain Tortive and errant from his course of growth. Nor, princes, is it matter new to us That we come short of our suppose so far That after seven years’ siege yet Troy walls stand; Sith every action that hath gone before, Whereof we have record, trial did draw Bias and thwart, not answering the aim, And that unbodied figure of the thought That gave’t surmised shape. Why then, you princes, Do you with cheeks abash’d behold our works And call them shames, which are, indeed, naught else But the protractive trials of great Jove To find persistive constancy in men; The fineness of which metal is not found In fortune’s love? For then the bold and coward, The wise and fool, the artist and unread, The hard and soft, seem all affin’d and kin. But in the wind and tempest of her frown Distinction, with a broad and powerful fan, Puffing at all, winnows the light away; And what hath mass or matter by itself Lies rich in virtue and unmingled.

NESTOR. With due observance of thy godlike seat, Great Agamemnon, Nestor shall apply Thy latest words. In the reproof of chance Lies the true proof of men. The sea being smooth, How many shallow bauble boats dare sail Upon her patient breast, making their way With those of nobler bulk! But let the ruffian Boreas once enrage The gentle Thetis, and anon behold The strong-ribb’d bark through liquid mountains cut, Bounding between the two moist elements Like Perseus’ horse. Where’s then the saucy boat, Whose weak untimber’d sides but even now Co-rivall’d greatness? Either to harbour fled Or made a toast for Neptune. Even so Doth valour’s show and valour’s worth divide In storms of fortune; for in her ray and brightness The herd hath more annoyance by the breeze Than by the tiger; but when the splitting wind Makes flexible the knees of knotted oaks, And flies fled under shade—why, then the thing of courage, As rous’d with rage, with rage doth sympathise, And with an accent tun’d in self-same key Retorts to chiding fortune.

ULYSSES. Agamemnon, Thou great commander, nerve and bone of Greece, Heart of our numbers, soul and only spirit In whom the tempers and the minds of all Should be shut up—hear what Ulysses speaks. Besides th’applause and approbation The which, [_To Agamemnon_] most mighty, for thy place and sway, [_To Nestor_] And, thou most reverend, for thy stretch’d-out life, I give to both your speeches—which were such As Agamemnon and the hand of Greece Should hold up high in brass; and such again As venerable Nestor, hatch’d in silver, Should with a bond of air, strong as the axle-tree On which heaven rides, knit all the Greekish ears To his experienc’d tongue—yet let it please both, Thou great, and wise, to hear Ulysses speak.

AGAMEMNON. Speak, Prince of Ithaca; and be’t of less expect That matter needless, of importless burden, Divide thy lips than we are confident, When rank Thersites opes his mastic jaws, We shall hear music, wit, and oracle.

ULYSSES. Troy, yet upon his basis, had been down, And the great Hector’s sword had lack’d a master, But for these instances: The specialty of rule hath been neglected; And look how many Grecian tents do stand Hollow upon this plain, so many hollow factions. When that the general is not like the hive, To whom the foragers shall all repair, What honey is expected? Degree being vizarded, Th’unworthiest shows as fairly in the mask. The heavens themselves, the planets, and this centre, Observe degree, priority, and place, Insisture, course, proportion, season, form, Office, and custom, in all line of order; And therefore is the glorious planet Sol In noble eminence enthron’d and spher’d Amidst the other, whose med’cinable eye Corrects the influence of evil planets, And posts, like the commandment of a king, Sans check, to good and bad. But when the planets In evil mixture to disorder wander, What plagues and what portents, what mutiny, What raging of the sea, shaking of earth, Commotion in the winds! Frights, changes, horrors, Divert and crack, rend and deracinate, The unity and married calm of states Quite from their fixture! O, when degree is shak’d, Which is the ladder of all high designs, The enterprise is sick! How could communities, Degrees in schools, and brotherhoods in cities, Peaceful commerce from dividable shores, The primogenity and due of birth, Prerogative of age, crowns, sceptres, laurels, But by degree stand in authentic place? Take but degree away, untune that string, And hark what discord follows! Each thing melts In mere oppugnancy: the bounded waters Should lift their bosoms higher than the shores, And make a sop of all this solid globe; Strength should be lord of imbecility, And the rude son should strike his father dead; Force should be right; or, rather, right and wrong— Between whose endless jar justice resides— Should lose their names, and so should justice too. Then everything includes itself in power, Power into will, will into appetite; And appetite, an universal wolf, So doubly seconded with will and power, Must make perforce an universal prey, And last eat up himself. Great Agamemnon, This chaos, when degree is suffocate, Follows the choking. And this neglection of degree it is That by a pace goes backward, with a purpose It hath to climb. The general’s disdain’d By him one step below, he by the next, That next by him beneath; so every step, Exampl’d by the first pace that is sick Of his superior, grows to an envious fever Of pale and bloodless emulation. And ’tis this fever that keeps Troy on foot, Not her own sinews. To end a tale of length, Troy in our weakness stands, not in her strength.

NESTOR. Most wisely hath Ulysses here discover’d The fever whereof all our power is sick.

AGAMEMNON. The nature of the sickness found, Ulysses, What is the remedy?

ULYSSES. The great Achilles, whom opinion crowns The sinew and the forehand of our host, Having his ear full of his airy fame, Grows dainty of his worth, and in his tent Lies mocking our designs; with him Patroclus Upon a lazy bed the livelong day Breaks scurril jests; And with ridiculous and awkward action— Which, slanderer, he imitation calls— He pageants us. Sometime, great Agamemnon, Thy topless deputation he puts on; And like a strutting player whose conceit Lies in his hamstring, and doth think it rich To hear the wooden dialogue and sound ’Twixt his stretch’d footing and the scaffoldage— Such to-be-pitied and o’er-wrested seeming He acts thy greatness in; and when he speaks ’Tis like a chime a-mending; with terms unsquar’d, Which, from the tongue of roaring Typhon dropp’d, Would seem hyperboles. At this fusty stuff The large Achilles, on his press’d bed lolling, From his deep chest laughs out a loud applause; Cries ‘Excellent! ’Tis Agamemnon right! Now play me Nestor; hem, and stroke thy beard, As he being drest to some oration.’ That’s done—as near as the extremest ends Of parallels, as like as Vulcan and his wife; Yet god Achilles still cries ‘Excellent! ’Tis Nestor right. Now play him me, Patroclus, Arming to answer in a night alarm.’ And then, forsooth, the faint defects of age Must be the scene of mirth: to cough and spit And, with a palsy fumbling on his gorget, Shake in and out the rivet. And at this sport Sir Valour dies; cries ‘O, enough, Patroclus; Or give me ribs of steel! I shall split all In pleasure of my spleen.’ And in this fashion All our abilities, gifts, natures, shapes, Severals and generals of grace exact, Achievements, plots, orders, preventions, Excitements to the field or speech for truce, Success or loss, what is or is not, serves As stuff for these two to make paradoxes.

NESTOR. And in the imitation of these twain— Who, as Ulysses says, opinion crowns With an imperial voice—many are infect. Ajax is grown self-will’d and bears his head In such a rein, in full as proud a place As broad Achilles; keeps his tent like him; Makes factious feasts; rails on our state of war Bold as an oracle, and sets Thersites, A slave whose gall coins slanders like a mint, To match us in comparisons with dirt, To weaken and discredit our exposure, How rank soever rounded in with danger.

ULYSSES. They tax our policy and call it cowardice, Count wisdom as no member of the war, Forestall prescience, and esteem no act But that of hand. The still and mental parts That do contrive how many hands shall strike When fitness calls them on, and know, by measure Of their observant toil, the enemies’ weight— Why, this hath not a finger’s dignity: They call this bed-work, mapp’ry, closet-war; So that the ram that batters down the wall, For the great swinge and rudeness of his poise, They place before his hand that made the engine, Or those that with the fineness of their souls By reason guide his execution.

NESTOR. Let this be granted, and Achilles’ horse Makes many Thetis’ sons.

[_Tucket_.]

AGAMEMNON. What trumpet? Look, Menelaus.

MENELAUS. From Troy.

Enter Aeneas.

AGAMEMNON. What would you fore our tent?

AENEAS. Is this great Agamemnon’s tent, I pray you?

AGAMEMNON. Even this.

AENEAS. May one that is a herald and a prince Do a fair message to his kingly eyes?

AGAMEMNON. With surety stronger than Achilles’ arm Fore all the Greekish heads, which with one voice Call Agamemnon head and general.

AENEAS. Fair leave and large security. How may A stranger to those most imperial looks Know them from eyes of other mortals?

AGAMEMNON. How?

AENEAS. Ay; I ask, that I might waken reverence, And bid the cheek be ready with a blush Modest as morning when she coldly eyes The youthful Phoebus. Which is that god in office, guiding men? Which is the high and mighty Agamemnon?

AGAMEMNON. This Trojan scorns us, or the men of Troy Are ceremonious courtiers.

AENEAS. Courtiers as free, as debonair, unarm’d, As bending angels; that’s their fame in peace. But when they would seem soldiers, they have galls, Good arms, strong joints, true swords; and, Jove’s accord, Nothing so full of heart. But peace, Aeneas, Peace, Trojan; lay thy finger on thy lips. The worthiness of praise distains his worth, If that the prais’d himself bring the praise forth; But what the repining enemy commends, That breath fame blows; that praise, sole pure, transcends.

AGAMEMNON. Sir, you of Troy, call you yourself Aeneas?

AENEAS. Ay, Greek, that is my name.

AGAMEMNON. What’s your affairs, I pray you?

AENEAS. Sir, pardon; ’tis for Agamemnon’s ears.

AGAMEMNON He hears naught privately that comes from Troy.

AENEAS. Nor I from Troy come not to whisper with him; I bring a trumpet to awake his ear, To set his sense on the attentive bent, And then to speak.

AGAMEMNON. Speak frankly as the wind; It is not Agamemnon’s sleeping hour. That thou shalt know, Trojan, he is awake, He tells thee so himself.

AENEAS. Trumpet, blow loud, Send thy brass voice through all these lazy tents; And every Greek of mettle, let him know What Troy means fairly shall be spoke aloud.

[_Sound trumpet_.]

We have, great Agamemnon, here in Troy A prince called Hector—Priam is his father— Who in this dull and long-continued truce Is resty grown; he bade me take a trumpet And to this purpose speak: Kings, princes, lords! If there be one among the fair’st of Greece That holds his honour higher than his ease, That feeds his praise more than he fears his peril, That knows his valour and knows not his fear, That loves his mistress more than in confession With truant vows to her own lips he loves, And dare avow her beauty and her worth In other arms than hers—to him this challenge. Hector, in view of Trojans and of Greeks, Shall make it good or do his best to do it: He hath a lady wiser, fairer, truer, Than ever Greek did couple in his arms; And will tomorrow with his trumpet call Mid-way between your tents and walls of Troy To rouse a Grecian that is true in love. If any come, Hector shall honour him; If none, he’ll say in Troy, when he retires, The Grecian dames are sunburnt and not worth The splinter of a lance. Even so much.

AGAMEMNON. This shall be told our lovers, Lord Aeneas. If none of them have soul in such a kind, We left them all at home. But we are soldiers; And may that soldier a mere recreant prove That means not, hath not, or is not in love. If then one is, or hath, or means to be, That one meets Hector; if none else, I am he.

NESTOR. Tell him of Nestor, one that was a man When Hector’s grandsire suck’d. He is old now; But if there be not in our Grecian host A noble man that hath one spark of fire To answer for his love, tell him from me I’ll hide my silver beard in a gold beaver, And in my vambrace put this wither’d brawns, And meeting him, will tell him that my lady Was fairer than his grandam, and as chaste As may be in the world. His youth in flood, I’ll prove this troth with my three drops of blood.

AENEAS. Now heavens forfend such scarcity of youth!

ULYSSES. Amen.

AGAMEMNON. Fair Lord Aeneas, let me touch your hand; To our pavilion shall I lead you, sir. Achilles shall have word of this intent; So shall each lord of Greece, from tent to tent. Yourself shall feast with us before you go, And find the welcome of a noble foe.

[_Exeunt all but Ulysses and Nestor_.]

ULYSSES. Nestor!

NESTOR. What says Ulysses?

ULYSSES. I have a young conception in my brain; Be you my time to bring it to some shape.

NESTOR. What is’t?

ULYSSES. This ’tis: Blunt wedges rive hard knots. The seeded pride That hath to this maturity blown up In rank Achilles must or now be cropp’d Or, shedding, breed a nursery of like evil To overbulk us all.

NESTOR. Well, and how?

ULYSSES. This challenge that the gallant Hector sends, However it is spread in general name, Relates in purpose only to Achilles.

NESTOR. True. The purpose is perspicuous even as substance Whose grossness little characters sum up; And, in the publication, make no strain But that Achilles, were his brain as barren As banks of Libya—though, Apollo knows, ’Tis dry enough—will with great speed of judgement, Ay, with celerity, find Hector’s purpose Pointing on him.

ULYSSES. And wake him to the answer, think you?

NESTOR. Why, ’tis most meet. Who may you else oppose That can from Hector bring those honours off, If not Achilles? Though ’t be a sportful combat, Yet in this trial much opinion dwells For here the Trojans taste our dear’st repute With their fin’st palate; and trust to me, Ulysses, Our imputation shall be oddly pois’d In this vile action; for the success, Although particular, shall give a scantling Of good or bad unto the general; And in such indexes, although small pricks To their subsequent volumes, there is seen The baby figure of the giant mass Of things to come at large. It is suppos’d He that meets Hector issues from our choice; And choice, being mutual act of all our souls, Makes merit her election, and doth boil, As ’twere from forth us all, a man distill’d Out of our virtues; who miscarrying, What heart receives from hence a conquering part, To steel a strong opinion to themselves? Which entertain’d, limbs are his instruments, In no less working than are swords and bows Directive by the limbs.

ULYSSES. Give pardon to my speech. Therefore ’tis meet Achilles meet not Hector. Let us, like merchants, First show foul wares, and think perchance they’ll sell; If not, the lustre of the better shall exceed By showing the worse first. Do not consent That ever Hector and Achilles meet; For both our honour and our shame in this Are dogg’d with two strange followers.

NESTOR. I see them not with my old eyes. What are they?

ULYSSES. What glory our Achilles shares from Hector, Were he not proud, we all should share with him; But he already is too insolent; And it were better parch in Afric sun Than in the pride and salt scorn of his eyes, Should he scape Hector fair. If he were foil’d, Why, then we do our main opinion crush In taint of our best man. No, make a lott’ry; And, by device, let blockish Ajax draw The sort to fight with Hector. Among ourselves Give him allowance for the better man; For that will physic the great Myrmidon, Who broils in loud applause, and make him fall His crest, that prouder than blue Iris bends. If the dull brainless Ajax come safe off, We’ll dress him up in voices; if he fail, Yet go we under our opinion still That we have better men. But, hit or miss, Our project’s life this shape of sense assumes— Ajax employ’d plucks down Achilles’ plumes.

NESTOR. Now, Ulysses, I begin to relish thy advice; And I will give a taste thereof forthwith To Agamemnon. Go we to him straight. Two curs shall tame each other: pride alone Must tarre the mastiffs on, as ’twere their bone.

[_Exeunt_.]

## ACT II

## SCENE I. The Grecian camp.

Enter Ajax and Thersites.

AJAX. Thersites!

THERSITES. Agamemnon—how if he had boils, full, all over, generally?

AJAX. Thersites!

THERSITES. And those boils did run—say so. Did not the general run then? Were not that a botchy core?

AJAX. Dog!

THERSITES. Then there would come some matter from him; I see none now.

AJAX. Thou bitch-wolf’s son, canst thou not hear? Feel, then.

[_Strikes him_.]

THERSITES. The plague of Greece upon thee, thou mongrel beef-witted lord!

AJAX. Speak, then, thou unsalted leaven, speak. I will beat thee into handsomeness.

THERSITES. I shall sooner rail thee into wit and holiness; but I think thy horse will sooner con an oration than thou learn a prayer without book. Thou canst strike, canst thou? A red murrain o’ thy jade’s tricks!

AJAX. Toadstool, learn me the proclamation.

THERSITES. Dost thou think I have no sense, thou strikest me thus?

AJAX. The proclamation!

THERSITES. Thou art proclaim’d fool, I think.

AJAX. Do not, porpentine, do not; my fingers itch.

THERSITES. I would thou didst itch from head to foot and I had the scratching of thee; I would make thee the loathsomest scab in Greece. When thou art forth in the incursions, thou strikest as slow as another.

AJAX. I say, the proclamation.

THERSITES. Thou grumblest and railest every hour on Achilles; and thou art as full of envy at his greatness as Cerberus is at Proserpina’s beauty—ay, that thou bark’st at him.

AJAX. Mistress Thersites!

THERSITES. Thou shouldst strike him.

AJAX. Cobloaf!

THERSITES. He would pun thee into shivers with his fist, as a sailor breaks a biscuit.

AJAX. You whoreson cur!

[_Strikes him_.]

THERSITES. Do, do.

AJAX. Thou stool for a witch!

THERSITES. Ay, do, do; thou sodden-witted lord! Thou hast no more brain than I have in mine elbows; an asinico may tutor thee. You scurvy valiant ass! Thou art here but to thrash Trojans, and thou art bought and sold among those of any wit like a barbarian slave. If thou use to beat me, I will begin at thy heel and tell what thou art by inches, thou thing of no bowels, thou!

AJAX. You dog!

THERSITES. You scurvy lord!

AJAX. You cur!

[_Strikes him_.]

THERSITES. Mars his idiot! Do, rudeness; do, camel; do, do.

Enter Achilles and Patroclus.

ACHILLES. Why, how now, Ajax! Wherefore do ye thus? How now, Thersites! What’s the matter, man?

THERSITES. You see him there, do you?

ACHILLES. Ay; what’s the matter?

THERSITES. Nay, look upon him.

ACHILLES. So I do. What’s the matter?

THERSITES. Nay, but regard him well.

ACHILLES. Well! why, so I do.

THERSITES. But yet you look not well upon him; for whosomever you take him to be, he is Ajax.

ACHILLES. I know that, fool.

THERSITES. Ay, but that fool knows not himself.

AJAX. Therefore I beat thee.

THERSITES. Lo, lo, lo, lo, what modicums of wit he utters! His evasions have ears thus long. I have bobb’d his brain more than he has beat my bones. I will buy nine sparrows for a penny, and his pia mater is not worth the ninth part of a sparrow. This lord, Achilles—Ajax, who wears his wit in his belly and his guts in his head—I’ll tell you what I say of him.

ACHILLES. What?

THERSITES. I say this Ajax—

[_Ajax offers to strike him_.]

ACHILLES. Nay, good Ajax.

THERSITES. Has not so much wit—

ACHILLES. Nay, I must hold you.

THERSITES. As will stop the eye of Helen’s needle, for whom he comes to fight.

ACHILLES. Peace, fool.

THERSITES. I would have peace and quietness, but the fool will not— he there; that he; look you there.

AJAX. O thou damned cur! I shall—

ACHILLES. Will you set your wit to a fool’s?

THERSITES. No, I warrant you, the fool’s will shame it.

PATROCLUS. Good words, Thersites.

ACHILLES. What’s the quarrel?

AJAX. I bade the vile owl go learn me the tenour of the proclamation, and he rails upon me.

THERSITES. I serve thee not.

AJAX. Well, go to, go to.

THERSITES. I serve here voluntary.

ACHILLES. Your last service was suff’rance; ’twas not voluntary. No man is beaten voluntary. Ajax was here the voluntary, and you as under an impress.

THERSITES. E’en so; a great deal of your wit too lies in your sinews, or else there be liars. Hector shall have a great catch and knock out either of your brains: a’ were as good crack a fusty nut with no kernel.

ACHILLES. What, with me too, Thersites?

THERSITES. There’s Ulysses and old Nestor—whose wit was mouldy ere your grandsires had nails on their toes—yoke you like draught oxen, and make you plough up the wars.

ACHILLES. What, what?

THERSITES. Yes, good sooth. To Achilles, to Ajax, to—

AJAX. I shall cut out your tongue.

THERSITES. ’Tis no matter; I shall speak as much as thou afterwards.

PATROCLUS. No more words, Thersites; peace!

THERSITES. I will hold my peace when Achilles’ brach bids me, shall I?

ACHILLES. There’s for you, Patroclus.

THERSITES. I will see you hang’d like clotpoles ere I come any more to your tents. I will keep where there is wit stirring, and leave the faction of fools.

[_Exit_.]

PATROCLUS. A good riddance.

ACHILLES. Marry, this, sir, is proclaim’d through all our host, That Hector, by the fifth hour of the sun, Will with a trumpet ’twixt our tents and Troy, Tomorrow morning, call some knight to arms That hath a stomach; and such a one that dare Maintain I know not what; ’tis trash. Farewell.

AJAX. Farewell. Who shall answer him?

ACHILLES. I know not; ’tis put to lott’ry, otherwise, He knew his man.

AJAX. O, meaning you? I will go learn more of it.

[_Exeunt_.]

## SCENE II. Troy. Priam’s palace.

Enter Priam, Hector, Troilus, Paris and Helenus.

PRIAM. After so many hours, lives, speeches spent, Thus once again says Nestor from the Greeks: ‘Deliver Helen, and all damage else— As honour, loss of time, travail, expense, Wounds, friends, and what else dear that is consum’d In hot digestion of this cormorant war— Shall be struck off.’ Hector, what say you to’t?

HECTOR. Though no man lesser fears the Greeks than I, As far as toucheth my particular, Yet, dread Priam, There is no lady of more softer bowels, More spongy to suck in the sense of fear, More ready to cry out ‘Who knows what follows?’ Than Hector is. The wound of peace is surety, Surety secure; but modest doubt is call’d The beacon of the wise, the tent that searches To th’ bottom of the worst. Let Helen go. Since the first sword was drawn about this question, Every tithe soul ’mongst many thousand dismes Hath been as dear as Helen—I mean, of ours. If we have lost so many tenths of ours To guard a thing not ours, nor worth to us, Had it our name, the value of one ten, What merit’s in that reason which denies The yielding of her up?

TROILUS. Fie, fie, my brother! Weigh you the worth and honour of a king, So great as our dread father’s, in a scale Of common ounces? Will you with counters sum The past-proportion of his infinite, And buckle in a waist most fathomless With spans and inches so diminutive As fears and reasons? Fie, for godly shame!

HELENUS. No marvel though you bite so sharp of reasons, You are so empty of them. Should not our father Bear the great sway of his affairs with reason, Because your speech hath none that tells him so?

TROILUS. You are for dreams and slumbers, brother priest; You fur your gloves with reason. Here are your reasons: You know an enemy intends you harm; You know a sword employ’d is perilous, And reason flies the object of all harm. Who marvels, then, when Helenus beholds A Grecian and his sword, if he do set The very wings of reason to his heels And fly like chidden Mercury from Jove, Or like a star disorb’d? Nay, if we talk of reason, Let’s shut our gates and sleep. Manhood and honour Should have hare hearts, would they but fat their thoughts With this cramm’d reason. Reason and respect Make livers pale and lustihood deject.

HECTOR. Brother, she is not worth what she doth cost the keeping.

TROILUS. What’s aught but as ’tis valued?

HECTOR. But value dwells not in particular will: It holds his estimate and dignity As well wherein ’tis precious of itself As in the prizer. ’Tis mad idolatry To make the service greater than the god, And the will dotes that is attributive To what infectiously itself affects, Without some image of th’affected merit.

TROILUS. I take today a wife, and my election Is led on in the conduct of my will; My will enkindled by mine eyes and ears, Two traded pilots ’twixt the dangerous shores Of will and judgement: how may I avoid, Although my will distaste what it elected, The wife I chose? There can be no evasion To blench from this and to stand firm by honour. We turn not back the silks upon the merchant When we have soil’d them; nor the remainder viands We do not throw in unrespective sieve, Because we now are full. It was thought meet Paris should do some vengeance on the Greeks; Your breath with full consent bellied his sails; The seas and winds, old wranglers, took a truce, And did him service. He touch’d the ports desir’d; And for an old aunt whom the Greeks held captive He brought a Grecian queen, whose youth and freshness Wrinkles Apollo’s, and makes stale the morning. Why keep we her? The Grecians keep our aunt. Is she worth keeping? Why, she is a pearl Whose price hath launch’d above a thousand ships, And turn’d crown’d kings to merchants. If you’ll avouch ’twas wisdom Paris went— As you must needs, for you all cried ‘Go, go’— If you’ll confess he brought home worthy prize— As you must needs, for you all clapp’d your hands, And cried ‘Inestimable!’—why do you now The issue of your proper wisdoms rate, And do a deed that never Fortune did— Beggar the estimation which you priz’d Richer than sea and land? O theft most base, That we have stol’n what we do fear to keep! But thieves unworthy of a thing so stol’n That in their country did them that disgrace We fear to warrant in our native place!

CASSANDRA. [_Within_.] Cry, Trojans, cry.

PRIAM. What noise, what shriek is this?

TROILUS. ’Tis our mad sister; I do know her voice.

CASSANDRA. [_Within_.] Cry, Trojans.

HECTOR. It is Cassandra.

Enter Cassandra, raving.

CASSANDRA. Cry, Trojans, cry. Lend me ten thousand eyes, And I will fill them with prophetic tears.

HECTOR. Peace, sister, peace.

CASSANDRA. Virgins and boys, mid-age and wrinkled eld, Soft infancy, that nothing canst but cry, Add to my clamours. Let us pay betimes A moiety of that mass of moan to come. Cry, Trojans, cry. Practise your eyes with tears. Troy must not be, nor goodly Ilion stand; Our firebrand brother, Paris, burns us all. Cry, Trojans, cry, A Helen and a woe! Cry, cry. Troy burns, or else let Helen go.

[_Exit_.]

HECTOR. Now, youthful Troilus, do not these high strains Of divination in our sister work Some touches of remorse? Or is your blood So madly hot, that no discourse of reason, Nor fear of bad success in a bad cause, Can qualify the same?

TROILUS. Why, brother Hector, We may not think the justness of each act Such and no other than event doth form it; Nor once deject the courage of our minds Because Cassandra’s mad. Her brain-sick raptures Cannot distaste the goodness of a quarrel Which hath our several honours all engag’d To make it gracious. For my private part, I am no more touch’d than all Priam’s sons; And Jove forbid there should be done amongst us Such things as might offend the weakest spleen To fight for and maintain.

PARIS. Else might the world convince of levity As well my undertakings as your counsels; But I attest the gods, your full consent Gave wings to my propension, and cut off All fears attending on so dire a project. For what, alas, can these my single arms? What propugnation is in one man’s valour To stand the push and enmity of those This quarrel would excite? Yet I protest, Were I alone to pass the difficulties, And had as ample power as I have will, Paris should ne’er retract what he hath done, Nor faint in the pursuit.

PRIAM. Paris, you speak Like one besotted on your sweet delights. You have the honey still, but these the gall; So to be valiant is no praise at all.

PARIS. Sir, I propose not merely to myself The pleasures such a beauty brings with it; But I would have the soil of her fair rape Wip’d off in honourable keeping her. What treason were it to the ransack’d queen, Disgrace to your great worths, and shame to me, Now to deliver her possession up On terms of base compulsion! Can it be, That so degenerate a strain as this Should once set footing in your generous bosoms? There’s not the meanest spirit on our party Without a heart to dare or sword to draw When Helen is defended; nor none so noble Whose life were ill bestow’d or death unfam’d, Where Helen is the subject. Then, I say, Well may we fight for her whom we know well The world’s large spaces cannot parallel.

HECTOR. Paris and Troilus, you have both said well; And on the cause and question now in hand Have gloz’d, but superficially; not much Unlike young men, whom Aristotle thought Unfit to hear moral philosophy. The reasons you allege do more conduce To the hot passion of distemp’red blood Than to make up a free determination ’Twixt right and wrong; for pleasure and revenge Have ears more deaf than adders to the voice Of any true decision. Nature craves All dues be rend’red to their owners. Now, What nearer debt in all humanity Than wife is to the husband? If this law Of nature be corrupted through affection; And that great minds, of partial indulgence To their benumbed wills, resist the same; There is a law in each well-order’d nation To curb those raging appetites that are Most disobedient and refractory. If Helen, then, be wife to Sparta’s king— As it is known she is—these moral laws Of nature and of nations speak aloud To have her back return’d. Thus to persist In doing wrong extenuates not wrong, But makes it much more heavy. Hector’s opinion Is this, in way of truth. Yet, ne’ertheless, My spritely brethren, I propend to you In resolution to keep Helen still; For ’tis a cause that hath no mean dependence Upon our joint and several dignities.

TROILUS. Why, there you touch’d the life of our design. Were it not glory that we more affected Than the performance of our heaving spleens, I would not wish a drop of Trojan blood Spent more in her defence. But, worthy Hector, She is a theme of honour and renown, A spur to valiant and magnanimous deeds, Whose present courage may beat down our foes, And fame in time to come canonize us; For I presume brave Hector would not lose So rich advantage of a promis’d glory As smiles upon the forehead of this action For the wide world’s revenue.

HECTOR. I am yours, You valiant offspring of great Priamus. I have a roisting challenge sent amongst The dull and factious nobles of the Greeks Will strike amazement to their drowsy spirits. I was advertis’d their great general slept, Whilst emulation in the army crept. This, I presume, will wake him.

[_Exeunt_.]

## SCENE III. The Grecian camp. Before the tent of Achilles.

Enter Thersites, solus.

THERSITES. How now, Thersites! What, lost in the labyrinth of thy fury? Shall the elephant Ajax carry it thus? He beats me, and I rail at him. O worthy satisfaction! Would it were otherwise: that I could beat him, whilst he rail’d at me! ‘Sfoot, I’ll learn to conjure and raise devils, but I’ll see some issue of my spiteful execrations. Then there’s Achilles, a rare engineer! If Troy be not taken till these two undermine it, the walls will stand till they fall of themselves. O thou great thunder-darter of Olympus, forget that thou art Jove, the king of gods, and, Mercury, lose all the serpentine craft of thy caduceus, if ye take not that little little less than little wit from them that they have! which short-arm’d ignorance itself knows is so abundant scarce, it will not in circumvention deliver a fly from a spider without drawing their massy irons and cutting the web. After this, the vengeance on the whole camp! or, rather, the Neapolitan bone-ache! for that, methinks, is the curse depending on those that war for a placket. I have said my prayers; and devil Envy say ‘Amen.’ What ho! my Lord Achilles!

Enter Patroclus.

PATROCLUS. Who’s there? Thersites! Good Thersites, come in and rail.

THERSITES. If I could a’ rememb’red a gilt counterfeit, thou wouldst not have slipp’d out of my contemplation; but it is no matter; thyself upon thyself! The common curse of mankind, folly and ignorance, be thine in great revenue! Heaven bless thee from a tutor, and discipline come not near thee! Let thy blood be thy direction till thy death. Then if she that lays thee out says thou art a fair corse, I’ll be sworn and sworn upon’t she never shrouded any but lazars. Amen. Where’s Achilles?

PATROCLUS. What, art thou devout? Wast thou in prayer?

THERSITES. Ay, the heavens hear me!

PATROCLUS. Amen.

Enter Achilles.

ACHILLES. Who’s there?

PATROCLUS. Thersites, my lord.

ACHILLES. Where, where? O, where? Art thou come? Why, my cheese, my digestion, why hast thou not served thyself in to my table so many meals? Come, what’s Agamemnon?

THERSITES. Thy commander, Achilles. Then tell me, Patroclus, what’s Achilles?

PATROCLUS. Thy lord, Thersites. Then tell me, I pray thee, what’s Thersites?

THERSITES. Thy knower, Patroclus. Then tell me, Patroclus, what art thou?

PATROCLUS. Thou must tell that knowest.

ACHILLES. O, tell, tell,

THERSITES. I’ll decline the whole question. Agamemnon commands Achilles; Achilles is my lord; I am Patroclus’ knower; and Patroclus is a fool.

PATROCLUS. You rascal!

THERSITES. Peace, fool! I have not done.

ACHILLES. He is a privileg’d man. Proceed, Thersites.

THERSITES. Agamemnon is a fool; Achilles is a fool; Thersites is a fool; and, as aforesaid, Patroclus is a fool.

ACHILLES. Derive this; come.

THERSITES. Agamemnon is a fool to offer to command Achilles; Achilles is a fool to be commanded of Agamemnon; Thersites is a fool to serve such a fool; and this Patroclus is a fool positive.

PATROCLUS. Why am I a fool?

THERSITES. Make that demand of the Creator. It suffices me thou art. Look you, who comes here?

Enter Agamemnon, Ulysses, Nestor, Diomedes, Ajax and Calchas.

ACHILLES. Come, Patroclus, I’ll speak with nobody. Come in with me, Thersites.

[_Exit_.]

THERSITES. Here is such patchery, such juggling, and such knavery. All the argument is a whore and a cuckold—a good quarrel to draw emulous factions and bleed to death upon. Now the dry serpigo on the subject, and war and lechery confound all!

[_Exit_.]

AGAMEMNON. Where is Achilles?

PATROCLUS. Within his tent; but ill-dispos’d, my lord.

AGAMEMNON. Let it be known to him that we are here. He shent our messengers; and we lay by Our appertainings, visiting of him. Let him be told so; lest, perchance, he think We dare not move the question of our place Or know not what we are.

PATROCLUS. I shall say so to him.

[_Exit_.]

ULYSSES. We saw him at the opening of his tent. He is not sick.

AJAX. Yes, lion-sick, sick of proud heart. You may call it melancholy, if you will favour the man; but, by my head, ’tis pride. But why, why? Let him show us a cause. A word, my lord.

[_Takes Agamemnon aside_.]

NESTOR. What moves Ajax thus to bay at him?

ULYSSES. Achilles hath inveigled his fool from him.

NESTOR. Who, Thersites?

ULYSSES. He.

NESTOR. Then will Ajax lack matter, if he have lost his argument.

ULYSSES. No; you see he is his argument that has his argument, Achilles.

NESTOR. All the better; their fraction is more our wish than their faction. But it was a strong composure a fool could disunite!

ULYSSES. The amity that wisdom knits not, folly may easily untie.

Re-enter Patroclus.

Here comes Patroclus.

NESTOR. No Achilles with him.

ULYSSES. The elephant hath joints, but none for courtesy; his legs are legs for necessity, not for flexure.

PATROCLUS. Achilles bids me say he is much sorry If any thing more than your sport and pleasure Did move your greatness and this noble state To call upon him; he hopes it is no other But for your health and your digestion sake, An after-dinner’s breath.

AGAMEMNON. Hear you, Patroclus. We are too well acquainted with these answers; But his evasion, wing’d thus swift with scorn, Cannot outfly our apprehensions. Much attribute he hath, and much the reason Why we ascribe it to him. Yet all his virtues, Not virtuously on his own part beheld, Do in our eyes begin to lose their gloss; Yea, like fair fruit in an unwholesome dish, Are like to rot untasted. Go and tell him We come to speak with him; and you shall not sin If you do say we think him over-proud And under-honest, in self-assumption greater Than in the note of judgement; and worthier than himself Here tend the savage strangeness he puts on, Disguise the holy strength of their command, And underwrite in an observing kind His humorous predominance; yea, watch His course and time, his ebbs and flows, as if The passage and whole stream of this commencement Rode on his tide. Go tell him this, and add That if he overhold his price so much We’ll none of him, but let him, like an engine Not portable, lie under this report: Bring action hither; this cannot go to war. A stirring dwarf we do allowance give Before a sleeping giant. Tell him so.

PATROCLUS. I shall, and bring his answer presently.

[_Exit_.]

AGAMEMNON. In second voice we’ll not be satisfied; We come to speak with him. Ulysses, enter you.

[_Exit_ Ulysses.]

AJAX. What is he more than another?

AGAMEMNON. No more than what he thinks he is.

AJAX. Is he so much? Do you not think he thinks himself a better man than I am?

AGAMEMNON. No question.

AJAX. Will you subscribe his thought and say he is?

AGAMEMNON. No, noble Ajax; you are as strong, as valiant, as wise, no less noble, much more gentle, and altogether more tractable.

AJAX. Why should a man be proud? How doth pride grow? I know not what pride is.

AGAMEMNON. Your mind is the clearer, Ajax, and your virtues the fairer. He that is proud eats up himself. Pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle; and whatever praises itself but in the deed devours the deed in the praise.

Re-enter Ulysses.

AJAX. I do hate a proud man as I do hate the engend’ring of toads.

NESTOR. [_Aside._] And yet he loves himself: is’t not strange?

ULYSSES. Achilles will not to the field tomorrow.

AGAMEMNON. What’s his excuse?

ULYSSES. He doth rely on none; But carries on the stream of his dispose, Without observance or respect of any, In will peculiar and in self-admission.

AGAMEMNON. Why will he not, upon our fair request, Untent his person and share th’air with us?

ULYSSES. Things small as nothing, for request’s sake only, He makes important; possess’d he is with greatness, And speaks not to himself but with a pride That quarrels at self-breath. Imagin’d worth Holds in his blood such swol’n and hot discourse That ’twixt his mental and his active parts Kingdom’d Achilles in commotion rages, And batters down himself. What should I say? He is so plaguy proud that the death tokens of it Cry ‘No recovery.’

AGAMEMNON. Let Ajax go to him. Dear lord, go you and greet him in his tent. ’Tis said he holds you well; and will be led At your request a little from himself.

ULYSSES. O Agamemnon, let it not be so! We’ll consecrate the steps that Ajax makes When they go from Achilles. Shall the proud lord That bastes his arrogance with his own seam And never suffers matter of the world Enter his thoughts, save such as doth revolve And ruminate himself—shall he be worshipp’d Of that we hold an idol more than he? No, this thrice worthy and right valiant lord Shall not so stale his palm, nobly acquir’d, Nor, by my will, assubjugate his merit, As amply titled as Achilles is, By going to Achilles. That were to enlard his fat-already pride, And add more coals to Cancer when he burns With entertaining great Hyperion. This lord go to him! Jupiter forbid, And say in thunder ‘Achilles go to him.’

NESTOR. [_Aside_.] O, this is well! He rubs the vein of him.

DIOMEDES. [_Aside_.] And how his silence drinks up this applause!

AJAX. If I go to him, with my armed fist I’ll pash him o’er the face.

AGAMEMNON. O, no, you shall not go.

AJAX. An a’ be proud with me I’ll pheeze his pride. Let me go to him.

ULYSSES. Not for the worth that hangs upon our quarrel.

AJAX. A paltry, insolent fellow!

NESTOR. [_Aside_.] How he describes himself!

AJAX. Can he not be sociable?

ULYSSES. [_Aside_.] The raven chides blackness.

AJAX. I’ll let his humours blood.

AGAMEMNON. [_Aside_.] He will be the physician that should be the patient.

AJAX. And all men were o’ my mind—

ULYSSES. [_Aside_.] Wit would be out of fashion.

AJAX. A’ should not bear it so, a’ should eat’s words first. Shall pride carry it?

NESTOR. [_Aside_.] And ’twould, you’d carry half.

ULYSSES. [_Aside_.] A’ would have ten shares.

AJAX. I will knead him, I’ll make him supple.

NESTOR. [_Aside_.] He’s not yet through warm. Force him with praises; pour in, pour in; his ambition is dry.

ULYSSES. [_To Agamemnon_.] My lord, you feed too much on this dislike.

NESTOR. Our noble general, do not do so.

DIOMEDES. You must prepare to fight without Achilles.

ULYSSES. Why ’tis this naming of him does him harm. Here is a man—but ’tis before his face; I will be silent.

NESTOR. Wherefore should you so? He is not emulous, as Achilles is.

ULYSSES. Know the whole world, he is as valiant.

AJAX. A whoreson dog, that shall palter with us thus! Would he were a Trojan!

NESTOR. What a vice were it in Ajax now—

ULYSSES. If he were proud.

DIOMEDES. Or covetous of praise.

ULYSSES. Ay, or surly borne.

DIOMEDES. Or strange, or self-affected.

ULYSSES. Thank the heavens, lord, thou art of sweet composure. Praise him that gat thee, she that gave thee suck; Fam’d be thy tutor, and thy parts of nature Thrice fam’d beyond, beyond all erudition; But he that disciplin’d thine arms to fight— Let Mars divide eternity in twain And give him half; and, for thy vigour, Bull-bearing Milo his addition yield To sinewy Ajax. I will not praise thy wisdom, Which, like a bourn, a pale, a shore, confines Thy spacious and dilated parts. Here’s Nestor, Instructed by the antiquary times— He must, he is, he cannot but be wise; But pardon, father Nestor, were your days As green as Ajax’ and your brain so temper’d, You should not have the eminence of him, But be as Ajax.

AJAX. Shall I call you father?

NESTOR. Ay, my good son.

DIOMEDES. Be rul’d by him, Lord Ajax.

ULYSSES. There is no tarrying here; the hart Achilles Keeps thicket. Please it our great general To call together all his state of war; Fresh kings are come to Troy. Tomorrow We must with all our main of power stand fast; And here’s a lord—come knights from east to west And cull their flower, Ajax shall cope the best.

AGAMEMNON. Go we to council. Let Achilles sleep. Light boats sail swift, though greater hulks draw deep.

[_Exeunt_.]

## ACT III

## SCENE I. Troy. Priam’s palace.

Music sounds within. Enter Pandarus and a Servant.

PANDARUS. Friend, you—pray you, a word. Do you not follow the young Lord Paris?

SERVANT. Ay, sir, when he goes before me.

PANDARUS. You depend upon him, I mean?

SERVANT. Sir, I do depend upon the Lord.

PANDARUS. You depend upon a notable gentleman; I must needs praise him.

SERVANT. The Lord be praised!

PANDARUS. You know me, do you not?

SERVANT. Faith, sir, superficially.

PANDARUS. Friend, know me better: I am the Lord Pandarus.

SERVANT. I hope I shall know your honour better.

PANDARUS. I do desire it.

SERVANT. You are in the state of grace?

PANDARUS. Grace? Not so, friend; honour and lordship are my titles. What music is this?

SERVANT. I do but partly know, sir; it is music in parts.

PANDARUS. Know you the musicians?

SERVANT. Wholly, sir.

PANDARUS. Who play they to?

SERVANT. To the hearers, sir.

PANDARUS. At whose pleasure, friend?

SERVANT. At mine, sir, and theirs that love music.

PANDARUS. Command, I mean, friend.

SERVANT. Who shall I command, sir?

PANDARUS. Friend, we understand not one another: I am too courtly, and thou art too cunning. At whose request do these men play?

SERVANT. That’s to’t, indeed, sir. Marry, sir, at the request of Paris my lord, who is there in person; with him the mortal Venus, the heart-blood of beauty, love’s invisible soul—

PANDARUS. Who, my cousin, Cressida?

SERVANT. No, sir, Helen. Could not you find out that by her attributes?

PANDARUS. It should seem, fellow, that thou hast not seen the Lady Cressida. I come to speak with Paris from the Prince Troilus; I will make a complimental assault upon him, for my business seethes.

SERVANT. Sodden business! There’s a stew’d phrase indeed!

Enter Paris and Helen, attended.

PANDARUS. Fair be to you, my lord, and to all this fair company! Fair desires, in all fair measure, fairly guide them—especially to you, fair queen! Fair thoughts be your fair pillow.

HELEN. Dear lord, you are full of fair words.

PANDARUS. You speak your fair pleasure, sweet queen. Fair prince, here is good broken music.

PARIS. You have broke it, cousin; and by my life, you shall make it whole again; you shall piece it out with a piece of your performance.

HELEN. He is full of harmony.

PANDARUS. Truly, lady, no.

HELEN. O, sir—

PANDARUS. Rude, in sooth; in good sooth, very rude.

PARIS. Well said, my lord. Well, you say so in fits.

PANDARUS. I have business to my lord, dear queen. My lord, will you vouchsafe me a word?

HELEN. Nay, this shall not hedge us out. We’ll hear you sing, certainly—

PANDARUS. Well sweet queen, you are pleasant with me. But, marry, thus, my lord: my dear lord and most esteemed friend, your brother Troilus—

HELEN. My Lord Pandarus, honey-sweet lord—

PANDARUS. Go to, sweet queen, go to—commends himself most affectionately to you—

HELEN. You shall not bob us out of our melody. If you do, our melancholy upon your head!

PANDARUS. Sweet queen, sweet queen; that’s a sweet queen, i’ faith.

HELEN. And to make a sweet lady sad is a sour offence.

PANDARUS. Nay, that shall not serve your turn; that shall it not, in truth, la. Nay, I care not for such words; no, no.—And, my lord, he desires you that, if the King call for him at supper, you will make his excuse.

HELEN. My Lord Pandarus!

PANDARUS. What says my sweet queen, my very very sweet queen?

PARIS. What exploit’s in hand? Where sups he tonight?

HELEN. Nay, but, my lord—

PANDARUS. What says my sweet queen?—My cousin will fall out with you.

HELEN. You must not know where he sups.

PARIS. I’ll lay my life, with my disposer Cressida.

PANDARUS. No, no, no such matter; you are wide. Come, your disposer is sick.

PARIS. Well, I’ll make’s excuse.

PANDARUS. Ay, good my lord. Why should you say Cressida? No, your poor disposer’s sick.

PARIS. I spy.

PANDARUS. You spy! What do you spy?—Come, give me an instrument. Now, sweet queen.

HELEN. Why, this is kindly done.

PANDARUS. My niece is horribly in love with a thing you have, sweet queen.

HELEN. She shall have it, my lord, if it be not my Lord Paris.

PANDARUS. He? No, she’ll none of him; they two are twain.

HELEN. Falling in, after falling out, may make them three.

PANDARUS. Come, come. I’ll hear no more of this; I’ll sing you a song now.

HELEN. Ay, ay, prithee now. By my troth, sweet lord, thou hast a fine forehead.

PANDARUS. Ay, you may, you may.

HELEN. Let thy song be love. This love will undo us all. O Cupid, Cupid, Cupid!

PANDARUS. Love! Ay, that it shall, i’ faith.

PARIS. Ay, good now, love, love, nothing but love.

PANDARUS. In good troth, it begins so.

[_Sings_.]

_Love, love, nothing but love, still love, still more! For, oh, love’s bow Shoots buck and doe; The shaft confounds Not that it wounds, But tickles still the sore. These lovers cry, O ho, they die! Yet that which seems the wound to kill Doth turn O ho! to ha! ha! he! So dying love lives still. O ho! a while, but ha! ha! ha! O ho! groans out for ha! ha! ha!—hey ho!_

HELEN. In love, i’ faith, to the very tip of the nose.

PARIS. He eats nothing but doves, love; and that breeds hot blood, and hot blood begets hot thoughts, and hot thoughts beget hot deeds, and hot deeds is love.

PANDARUS. Is this the generation of love: hot blood, hot thoughts, and hot deeds? Why, they are vipers. Is love a generation of vipers? Sweet lord, who’s a-field today?

PARIS. Hector, Deiphobus, Helenus, Antenor, and all the gallantry of Troy. I would fain have arm’d today, but my Nell would not have it so. How chance my brother Troilus went not?

HELEN. He hangs the lip at something. You know all, Lord Pandarus.

PANDARUS. Not I, honey-sweet queen. I long to hear how they spend today. You’ll remember your brother’s excuse?

PARIS. To a hair.

PANDARUS. Farewell, sweet queen.

HELEN. Commend me to your niece.

PANDARUS. I will, sweet queen.

[_Exit. Sound a retreat_.]

PARIS. They’re come from the field. Let us to Priam’s hall To greet the warriors. Sweet Helen, I must woo you To help unarm our Hector. His stubborn buckles, With these your white enchanting fingers touch’d, Shall more obey than to the edge of steel Or force of Greekish sinews; you shall do more Than all the island kings—disarm great Hector.

HELEN. ’Twill make us proud to be his servant, Paris; Yea, what he shall receive of us in duty Gives us more palm in beauty than we have, Yea, overshines ourself.

PARIS. Sweet, above thought I love thee.

[_Exeunt_.]

## SCENE II. Troy. Pandarus’ orchard.

Enter Pandarus and Troilus’ Boy, meeting.

PANDARUS. How now! Where’s thy master? At my cousin Cressida’s?

BOY. No, sir; he stays for you to conduct him thither.

Enter Troilus.

PANDARUS. O, here he comes. How now, how now?

TROILUS. Sirrah, walk off.

[_Exit_ Boy.]

PANDARUS. Have you seen my cousin?

TROILUS. No, Pandarus. I stalk about her door Like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks Staying for waftage. O, be thou my Charon, And give me swift transportance to these fields Where I may wallow in the lily beds Propos’d for the deserver! O gentle Pandar, from Cupid’s shoulder pluck his painted wings, and fly with me to Cressid!

PANDARUS. Walk here i’ th’ orchard, I’ll bring her straight.

[_Exit_.]

TROILUS. I am giddy; expectation whirls me round. Th’imaginary relish is so sweet That it enchants my sense; what will it be When that the wat’ry palate tastes indeed Love’s thrice-repured nectar? Death, I fear me; Sounding destruction; or some joy too fine, Too subtle-potent, tun’d too sharp in sweetness, For the capacity of my ruder powers. I fear it much; and I do fear besides That I shall lose distinction in my joys; As doth a battle, when they charge on heaps The enemy flying.

Re-enter Pandarus.

PANDARUS. She’s making her ready, she’ll come straight; you must be witty now. She does so blush, and fetches her wind so short, as if she were fray’d with a sprite. I’ll fetch her. It is the prettiest villain; she fetches her breath as short as a new-ta’en sparrow.

[_Exit_.]

TROILUS. Even such a passion doth embrace my bosom. My heart beats thicker than a feverous pulse, And all my powers do their bestowing lose, Like vassalage at unawares encount’ring The eye of majesty.

Re-enter Pandarus with Cressida.

PANDARUS. Come, come, what need you blush? Shame’s a baby. Here she is now; swear the oaths now to her that you have sworn to me.—What, are you gone again? You must be watch’d ere you be made tame, must you? Come your ways, come your ways; and you draw backward, we’ll put you i’ th’ fills. Why do you not speak to her? Come, draw this curtain and let’s see your picture. Alas the day, how loath you are to offend daylight! And ’twere dark, you’d close sooner. So, so; rub on, and kiss the mistress. How now, a kiss in fee-farm! Build there, carpenter; the air is sweet. Nay, you shall fight your hearts out ere I part you. The falcon as the tercel, for all the ducks i’ th’ river. Go to, go to.

TROILUS. You have bereft me of all words, lady.

PANDARUS. Words pay no debts, give her deeds; but she’ll bereave you o’ th’ deeds too, if she call your activity in question. What, billing again? Here’s ‘In witness whereof the parties interchangeably.’ Come in, come in; I’ll go get a fire.

[_Exit_.]

CRESSIDA. Will you walk in, my lord?

TROILUS. O Cressid, how often have I wish’d me thus!

CRESSIDA. Wish’d, my lord! The gods grant—O my lord!

TROILUS. What should they grant? What makes this pretty abruption? What too curious dreg espies my sweet lady in the fountain of our love?

CRESSIDA. More dregs than water, if my fears have eyes.

TROILUS. Fears make devils of cherubins; they never see truly.

CRESSIDA. Blind fear, that seeing reason leads, finds safer footing than blind reason stumbling without fear. To fear the worst oft cures the worse.

TROILUS. O, let my lady apprehend no fear! In all Cupid’s pageant there is presented no monster.

CRESSIDA. Nor nothing monstrous neither?

TROILUS. Nothing, but our undertakings when we vow to weep seas, live in fire, eat rocks, tame tigers; thinking it harder for our mistress to devise imposition enough than for us to undergo any difficulty imposed. This is the monstruosity in love, lady, that the will is infinite, and the execution confin’d; that the desire is boundless, and the act a slave to limit.

CRESSIDA. They say all lovers swear more performance than they are able, and yet reserve an ability that they never perform; vowing more than the perfection of ten, and discharging less than the tenth part of one. They that have the voice of lions and the act of hares, are they not monsters?

TROILUS. Are there such? Such are not we. Praise us as we are tasted, allow us as we prove; our head shall go bare till merit crown it. No perfection in reversion shall have a praise in present. We will not name desert before his birth; and, being born, his addition shall be humble. Few words to fair faith: Troilus shall be such to Cressid as what envy can say worst shall be a mock for his truth; and what truth can speak truest not truer than Troilus.

CRESSIDA. Will you walk in, my lord?

Re-enter Pandarus.

PANDARUS. What, blushing still? Have you not done talking yet?

CRESSIDA. Well, uncle, what folly I commit, I dedicate to you.

PANDARUS. I thank you for that; if my lord get a boy of you, you’ll give him me. Be true to my lord; if he flinch, chide me for it.

TROILUS. You know now your hostages: your uncle’s word and my firm faith.

PANDARUS. Nay, I’ll give my word for her too: our kindred, though they be long ere they are wooed, they are constant being won; they are burs, I can tell you; they’ll stick where they are thrown.

CRESSIDA. Boldness comes to me now and brings me heart. Prince Troilus, I have lov’d you night and day For many weary months.

TROILUS. Why was my Cressid then so hard to win?

CRESSIDA. Hard to seem won; but I was won, my lord, With the first glance that ever—pardon me. If I confess much, you will play the tyrant. I love you now; but till now not so much But I might master it. In faith, I lie; My thoughts were like unbridled children, grown Too headstrong for their mother. See, we fools! Why have I blabb’d? Who shall be true to us, When we are so unsecret to ourselves? But, though I lov’d you well, I woo’d you not; And yet, good faith, I wish’d myself a man, Or that we women had men’s privilege Of speaking first. Sweet, bid me hold my tongue, For in this rapture I shall surely speak The thing I shall repent. See, see, your silence, Cunning in dumbness, from my weakness draws My very soul of counsel. Stop my mouth.

TROILUS. And shall, albeit sweet music issues thence.

PANDARUS. Pretty, i’ faith.

CRESSIDA. My lord, I do beseech you, pardon me; ’Twas not my purpose thus to beg a kiss. I am asham’d. O heavens! what have I done? For this time will I take my leave, my lord.

TROILUS. Your leave, sweet Cressid!

PANDARUS. Leave! And you take leave till tomorrow morning—

CRESSIDA. Pray you, content you.

TROILUS. What offends you, lady?

CRESSIDA. Sir, mine own company.

TROILUS. You cannot shun yourself.

CRESSIDA. Let me go and try. I have a kind of self resides with you; But an unkind self, that itself will leave To be another’s fool. I would be gone. Where is my wit? I know not what I speak.

TROILUS. Well know they what they speak that speak so wisely.

CRESSIDA. Perchance, my lord, I show more craft than love; And fell so roundly to a large confession To angle for your thoughts; but you are wise— Or else you love not; for to be wise and love Exceeds man’s might; that dwells with gods above.

TROILUS. O that I thought it could be in a woman— As, if it can, I will presume in you— To feed for aye her lamp and flames of love; To keep her constancy in plight and youth, Outliving beauty’s outward, with a mind That doth renew swifter than blood decays! Or that persuasion could but thus convince me That my integrity and truth to you Might be affronted with the match and weight Of such a winnowed purity in love. How were I then uplifted! But, alas, I am as true as truth’s simplicity, And simpler than the infancy of truth.

CRESSIDA. In that I’ll war with you.

TROILUS. O virtuous fight, When right with right wars who shall be most right! True swains in love shall in the world to come Approve their truth by Troilus, when their rhymes, Full of protest, of oath, and big compare, Want similes, truth tir’d with iteration— As true as steel, as plantage to the moon, As sun to day, as turtle to her mate, As iron to adamant, as earth to th’ centre— Yet, after all comparisons of truth, As truth’s authentic author to be cited, ‘As true as Troilus’ shall crown up the verse And sanctify the numbers.

CRESSIDA. Prophet may you be! If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth, When time is old and hath forgot itself, When waterdrops have worn the stones of Troy, And blind oblivion swallow’d cities up, And mighty states characterless are grated To dusty nothing—yet let memory From false to false, among false maids in love, Upbraid my falsehood when th’ have said ‘As false As air, as water, wind, or sandy earth, As fox to lamb, or wolf to heifer’s calf, Pard to the hind, or stepdame to her son’— Yea, let them say, to stick the heart of falsehood, ‘As false as Cressid.’

PANDARUS. Go to, a bargain made; seal it, seal it; I’ll be the witness. Here I hold your hand; here my cousin’s. If ever you prove false one to another, since I have taken such pains to bring you together, let all pitiful goers-between be call’d to the world’s end after my name—call them all Pandars; let all constant men be Troiluses, all false women Cressids, and all brokers between Pandars. Say ‘Amen.’

TROILUS. Amen.

CRESSIDA. Amen.

PANDARUS. Amen. Whereupon I will show you a chamber and a bed; which bed, because it shall not speak of your pretty encounters, press it to death. Away!

[_Exeunt Troilus and Cressida_.]

And Cupid grant all tongue-tied maidens here, Bed, chamber, pander, to provide this gear!

[_Exit_.]

## SCENE III. The Greek camp.

Flourish. Enter Agamemnon, Ulysses, Diomedes, Nestor, Ajax, Menelaus and Calchas.

CALCHAS. Now, Princes, for the service I have done, Th’advantage of the time prompts me aloud To call for recompense. Appear it to your mind That, through the sight I bear in things to come, I have abandon’d Troy, left my possession, Incurr’d a traitor’s name, expos’d myself From certain and possess’d conveniences To doubtful fortunes, sequest’ring from me all That time, acquaintance, custom, and condition, Made tame and most familiar to my nature; And here, to do you service, am become As new into the world, strange, unacquainted— I do beseech you, as in way of taste, To give me now a little benefit Out of those many regist’red in promise, Which you say live to come in my behalf.

AGAMEMNON. What wouldst thou of us, Trojan? Make demand.

CALCHAS. You have a Trojan prisoner call’d Antenor, Yesterday took; Troy holds him very dear. Oft have you—often have you thanks therefore— Desir’d my Cressid in right great exchange, Whom Troy hath still denied; but this Antenor, I know, is such a wrest in their affairs That their negotiations all must slack Wanting his manage; and they will almost Give us a prince of blood, a son of Priam, In change of him. Let him be sent, great Princes, And he shall buy my daughter; and her presence Shall quite strike off all service I have done In most accepted pain.

AGAMEMNON. Let Diomedes bear him, And bring us Cressid hither. Calchas shall have What he requests of us. Good Diomed, Furnish you fairly for this interchange; Withal, bring word if Hector will tomorrow Be answer’d in his challenge. Ajax is ready.

DIOMEDES. This shall I undertake; and ’tis a burden Which I am proud to bear.

[_Exeunt Diomedes and Calchas_.]

[_Achilles and Patroclus stand in their tent_.]

ULYSSES. Achilles stands i’ th’entrance of his tent. Please it our general pass strangely by him, As if he were forgot; and, Princes all, Lay negligent and loose regard upon him. I will come last. ’Tis like he’ll question me Why such unplausive eyes are bent, why turn’d on him. If so, I have derision med’cinable To use between your strangeness and his pride, Which his own will shall have desire to drink. It may do good. Pride hath no other glass To show itself but pride; for supple knees Feed arrogance and are the proud man’s fees.

AGAMEMNON. We’ll execute your purpose, and put on A form of strangeness as we pass along. So do each lord; and either greet him not, Or else disdainfully, which shall shake him more Than if not look’d on. I will lead the way.

ACHILLES. What comes the general to speak with me? You know my mind. I’ll fight no more ’gainst Troy.

AGAMEMNON. What says Achilles? Would he aught with us?

NESTOR. Would you, my lord, aught with the general?

ACHILLES. No.

NESTOR. Nothing, my lord.

AGAMEMNON. The better.

[_Exeunt Agamemnon and Nestor_.]

ACHILLES. Good day, good day.

MENELAUS. How do you? How do you?

[_Exit_.]

ACHILLES. What, does the cuckold scorn me?

AJAX. How now, Patroclus?

ACHILLES. Good morrow, Ajax.

AJAX. Ha?

ACHILLES. Good morrow.

AJAX. Ay, and good next day too.

[_Exit_.]

ACHILLES. What mean these fellows? Know they not Achilles?

PATROCLUS. They pass by strangely. They were us’d to bend, To send their smiles before them to Achilles, To come as humbly as they us’d to creep To holy altars.

ACHILLES. What, am I poor of late? ’Tis certain, greatness, once fall’n out with fortune, Must fall out with men too. What the declin’d is, He shall as soon read in the eyes of others As feel in his own fall; for men, like butterflies, Show not their mealy wings but to the summer; And not a man for being simply man Hath any honour, but honour for those honours That are without him, as place, riches, and favour, Prizes of accident, as oft as merit; Which when they fall, as being slippery standers, The love that lean’d on them as slippery too, Doth one pluck down another, and together Die in the fall. But ’tis not so with me: Fortune and I are friends; I do enjoy At ample point all that I did possess Save these men’s looks; who do, methinks, find out Something not worth in me such rich beholding As they have often given. Here is Ulysses. I’ll interrupt his reading. How now, Ulysses!

ULYSSES. Now, great Thetis’ son!

ACHILLES. What are you reading?

ULYSSES. A strange fellow here Writes me that man—how dearly ever parted, How much in having, or without or in— Cannot make boast to have that which he hath, Nor feels not what he owes, but by reflection; As when his virtues shining upon others Heat them, and they retort that heat again To the first giver.

ACHILLES. This is not strange, Ulysses. The beauty that is borne here in the face The bearer knows not, but commends itself To others’ eyes; nor doth the eye itself— That most pure spirit of sense—behold itself, Not going from itself; but eye to eye opposed Salutes each other with each other’s form; For speculation turns not to itself Till it hath travell’d, and is mirror’d there Where it may see itself. This is not strange at all.

ULYSSES. I do not strain at the position— It is familiar—but at the author’s drift; Who, in his circumstance, expressly proves That no man is the lord of anything, Though in and of him there be much consisting, Till he communicate his parts to others; Nor doth he of himself know them for aught Till he behold them formed in the applause Where th’are extended; who, like an arch, reverb’rate The voice again; or, like a gate of steel Fronting the sun, receives and renders back His figure and his heat. I was much rapt in this; And apprehended here immediately Th’unknown Ajax. Heavens, what a man is there! A very horse that has he knows not what! Nature, what things there are Most abject in regard and dear in use! What things again most dear in the esteem And poor in worth! Now shall we see tomorrow— An act that very chance doth throw upon him— Ajax renown’d. O heavens, what some men do, While some men leave to do! How some men creep in skittish Fortune’s hall, Whiles others play the idiots in her eyes! How one man eats into another’s pride, While pride is fasting in his wantonness! To see these Grecian lords!—why, even already They clap the lubber Ajax on the shoulder, As if his foot were on brave Hector’s breast, And great Troy shrieking.

ACHILLES. I do believe it; for they pass’d by me As misers do by beggars, neither gave to me Good word nor look. What, are my deeds forgot?

ULYSSES. Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great-siz’d monster of ingratitudes. Those scraps are good deeds past, which are devour’d As fast as they are made, forgot as soon As done. Perseverance, dear my lord, Keeps honour bright. To have done is to hang Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail In monumental mock’ry. Take the instant way; For honour travels in a strait so narrow— Where one but goes abreast. Keep then the path, For emulation hath a thousand sons That one by one pursue; if you give way, Or hedge aside from the direct forthright, Like to an ent’red tide they all rush by And leave you hindmost; Or, like a gallant horse fall’n in first rank, Lie there for pavement to the abject rear, O’er-run and trampled on. Then what they do in present, Though less than yours in past, must o’ertop yours; For Time is like a fashionable host, That slightly shakes his parting guest by th’hand; And with his arms out-stretch’d, as he would fly, Grasps in the comer. The welcome ever smiles, And farewell goes out sighing. O, let not virtue seek Remuneration for the thing it was; For beauty, wit, High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service, Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all To envious and calumniating Time. One touch of nature makes the whole world kin— That all with one consent praise new-born gauds, Though they are made and moulded of things past, And give to dust that is a little gilt More laud than gilt o’er-dusted. The present eye praises the present object. Then marvel not, thou great and complete man, That all the Greeks begin to worship Ajax, Since things in motion sooner catch the eye Than what stirs not. The cry went once on thee, And still it might, and yet it may again, If thou wouldst not entomb thyself alive And case thy reputation in thy tent, Whose glorious deeds but in these fields of late Made emulous missions ’mongst the gods themselves, And drave great Mars to faction.

ACHILLES. Of this my privacy I have strong reasons.

ULYSSES. But ’gainst your privacy The reasons are more potent and heroical. ’Tis known, Achilles, that you are in love With one of Priam’s daughters.

ACHILLES. Ha! known!

ULYSSES. Is that a wonder? The providence that’s in a watchful state Knows almost every grain of Plutus’ gold; Finds bottom in th’uncomprehensive deeps; Keeps place with thought, and almost, like the gods, Do thoughts unveil in their dumb cradles. There is a mystery—with whom relation Durst never meddle—in the soul of state, Which hath an operation more divine Than breath or pen can give expressure to. All the commerce that you have had with Troy As perfectly is ours as yours, my lord; And better would it fit Achilles much To throw down Hector than Polyxena. But it must grieve young Pyrrhus now at home, When fame shall in our island sound her trump, And all the Greekish girls shall tripping sing ‘Great Hector’s sister did Achilles win; But our great Ajax bravely beat down him.’ Farewell, my lord. I as your lover speak. The fool slides o’er the ice that you should break.

[_Exit_.]

PATROCLUS. To this effect, Achilles, have I mov’d you. A woman impudent and mannish grown Is not more loath’d than an effeminate man In time of action. I stand condemn’d for this; They think my little stomach to the war And your great love to me restrains you thus. Sweet, rouse yourself; and the weak wanton Cupid Shall from your neck unloose his amorous fold, And, like a dew-drop from the lion’s mane, Be shook to air.

ACHILLES. Shall Ajax fight with Hector?

PATROCLUS. Ay, and perhaps receive much honour by him.

ACHILLES. I see my reputation is at stake; My fame is shrewdly gor’d.

PATROCLUS. O, then, beware: Those wounds heal ill that men do give themselves; Omission to do what is necessary Seals a commission to a blank of danger; And danger, like an ague, subtly taints Even then when they sit idly in the sun.

ACHILLES. Go call Thersites hither, sweet Patroclus. I’ll send the fool to Ajax, and desire him T’invite the Trojan lords, after the combat, To see us here unarm’d. I have a woman’s longing, An appetite that I am sick withal, To see great Hector in his weeds of peace; To talk with him, and to behold his visage, Even to my full of view.

Enter Thersites.

A labour sav’d!

THERSITES. A wonder!

ACHILLES. What?

THERSITES. Ajax goes up and down the field asking for himself.

ACHILLES. How so?

THERSITES. He must fight singly tomorrow with Hector, and is so prophetically proud of an heroical cudgelling that he raves in saying nothing.

ACHILLES. How can that be?

THERSITES. Why, a’ stalks up and down like a peacock—a stride and a stand; ruminates like an hostess that hath no arithmetic but her brain to set down her reckoning, bites his lip with a politic regard, as who should say ‘There were wit in this head, and ’twould out’; and so there is; but it lies as coldly in him as fire in a flint, which will not show without knocking. The man’s undone for ever; for if Hector break not his neck i’ th’ combat, he’ll break’t himself in vainglory. He knows not me. I said ‘Good morrow, Ajax’; and he replies ‘Thanks, Agamemnon.’ What think you of this man that takes me for the general? He’s grown a very land fish, languageless, a monster. A plague of opinion! A man may wear it on both sides, like leather jerkin.

ACHILLES. Thou must be my ambassador to him, Thersites.

THERSITES. Who, I? Why, he’ll answer nobody; he professes not answering. Speaking is for beggars: he wears his tongue in’s arms. I will put on his presence. Let Patroclus make his demands to me, you shall see the pageant of Ajax.

ACHILLES. To him, Patroclus. Tell him I humbly desire the valiant Ajax to invite the most valorous Hector to come unarm’d to my tent; and to procure safe conduct for his person of the magnanimous and most illustrious six-or-seven-times-honour’d Captain General of the Grecian army, Agamemnon. Do this.

PATROCLUS. Jove bless great Ajax!

THERSITES. Hum!

PATROCLUS. I come from the worthy Achilles—

THERSITES. Ha!

PATROCLUS. Who most humbly desires you to invite Hector to his tent—

THERSITES. Hum!

PATROCLUS. And to procure safe conduct from Agamemnon.

THERSITES. Agamemnon?

PATROCLUS. Ay, my lord.

THERSITES. Ha!

PATROCLUS. What you say to’t?

THERSITES. God buy you, with all my heart.

PATROCLUS. Your answer, sir.

THERSITES. If tomorrow be a fair day, by eleven of the clock it will go one way or other. Howsoever, he shall pay for me ere he has me.

PATROCLUS. Your answer, sir.

THERSITES. Fare ye well, with all my heart.

ACHILLES. Why, but he is not in this tune, is he?

THERSITES. No, but out of tune thus. What music will be in him when Hector has knock’d out his brains, I know not; but, I am sure, none; unless the fiddler Apollo get his sinews to make catlings on.

ACHILLES. Come, thou shalt bear a letter to him straight.

THERSITES. Let me bear another to his horse; for that’s the more capable creature.

ACHILLES. My mind is troubled, like a fountain stirr’d; And I myself see not the bottom of it.

[_Exeunt Achilles and Patroclus_.]

THERSITES. Would the fountain of your mind were clear again, that I might water an ass at it. I had rather be a tick in a sheep than such a valiant ignorance.

[_Exit_.]

## ACT IV

## SCENE I. Troy. A street.

Enter, at one side, Aeneas and servant with a torch; at another Paris, Deiphobus, Antenor, Diomedes the Grecian, and others, with torches.

PARIS. See, ho! Who is that there?

DEIPHOBUS. It is the Lord Aeneas.

AENEAS. Is the Prince there in person? Had I so good occasion to lie long As you, Prince Paris, nothing but heavenly business Should rob my bed-mate of my company.

DIOMEDES. That’s my mind too. Good morrow, Lord Aeneas.

PARIS. A valiant Greek, Aeneas—take his hand: Witness the process of your speech, wherein You told how Diomed, a whole week by days, Did haunt you in the field.

AENEAS. Health to you, valiant sir, During all question of the gentle truce; But when I meet you arm’d, as black defiance As heart can think or courage execute.

DIOMEDES. The one and other Diomed embraces. Our bloods are now in calm; and so long health! But when contention and occasion meet, By Jove, I’ll play the hunter for thy life With all my force, pursuit, and policy.

AENEAS. And thou shalt hunt a lion that will fly With his face backward. In humane gentleness, Welcome to Troy! Now, by Anchises’ life, Welcome indeed! By Venus’ hand I swear No man alive can love in such a sort The thing he means to kill, more excellently.

DIOMEDES. We sympathise. Jove let Aeneas live, If to my sword his fate be not the glory, A thousand complete courses of the sun! But in mine emulous honour let him die With every joint a wound, and that tomorrow!

AENEAS. We know each other well.

DIOMEDES. We do; and long to know each other worse.

PARIS. This is the most despiteful gentle greeting, The noblest hateful love, that e’er I heard of. What business, lord, so early?

AENEAS. I was sent for to the King; but why, I know not.

PARIS. His purpose meets you: ’twas to bring this Greek To Calchas’ house, and there to render him, For the enfreed Antenor, the fair Cressid. Let’s have your company; or, if you please, Haste there before us. I constantly believe— Or rather call my thought a certain knowledge— My brother Troilus lodges there tonight. Rouse him and give him note of our approach, With the whole quality wherefore; I fear We shall be much unwelcome.

AENEAS. That I assure you: Troilus had rather Troy were borne to Greece Than Cressid borne from Troy.

PARIS. There is no help; The bitter disposition of the time Will have it so. On, lord; we’ll follow you.

AENEAS. Good morrow, all.

[_Exit with servant_.]

PARIS. And tell me, noble Diomed, faith, tell me true, Even in the soul of sound good-fellowship, Who in your thoughts deserves fair Helen best, Myself, or Menelaus?

DIOMEDES. Both alike: He merits well to have her that doth seek her, Not making any scruple of her soilure, With such a hell of pain and world of charge; And you as well to keep her that defend her, Not palating the taste of her dishonour, With such a costly loss of wealth and friends. He like a puling cuckold would drink up The lees and dregs of a flat tamed piece; You, like a lecher, out of whorish loins Are pleas’d to breed out your inheritors. Both merits pois’d, each weighs nor less nor more, But he as he, the heavier for a whore.

PARIS. You are too bitter to your country-woman.

DIOMEDES. She’s bitter to her country. Hear me, Paris: For every false drop in her bawdy veins A Grecian’s life hath sunk; for every scruple Of her contaminated carrion weight A Trojan hath been slain. Since she could speak, She hath not given so many good words breath As for her Greeks and Trojans suff’red death.

PARIS. Fair Diomed, you do as chapmen do, Dispraise the thing that you desire to buy; But we in silence hold this virtue well, We’ll not commend what we intend to sell. Here lies our way.

[_Exeunt_.]

## SCENE II. Troy. The court of Pandarus’ house.

Enter Troilus and Cressida.

TROILUS. Dear, trouble not yourself; the morn is cold.

CRESSIDA. Then, sweet my lord, I’ll call mine uncle down; He shall unbolt the gates.

TROILUS. Trouble him not; To bed, to bed! Sleep kill those pretty eyes, And give as soft attachment to thy senses As infants empty of all thought!

CRESSIDA. Good morrow, then.

TROILUS. I prithee now, to bed.

CRESSIDA. Are you aweary of me?

TROILUS. O Cressida! but that the busy day, Wak’d by the lark, hath rous’d the ribald crows, And dreaming night will hide our joys no longer, I would not from thee.

CRESSIDA. Night hath been too brief.

TROILUS. Beshrew the witch! with venomous wights she stays As tediously as hell, but flies the grasps of love With wings more momentary-swift than thought. You will catch cold, and curse me.

CRESSIDA. Prithee tarry. You men will never tarry. O foolish Cressid! I might have still held off, And then you would have tarried. Hark! there’s one up.

PANDARUS. [_Within._] What’s all the doors open here?

TROILUS. It is your uncle.

Enter Pandarus.

CRESSIDA. A pestilence on him! Now will he be mocking. I shall have such a life!

PANDARUS. How now, how now! How go maidenheads? Here, you maid! Where’s my cousin Cressid?

CRESSIDA. Go hang yourself, you naughty mocking uncle. You bring me to do, and then you flout me too.

PANDARUS. To do what? to do what? Let her say what. What have I brought you to do?

CRESSIDA. Come, come, beshrew your heart! You’ll ne’er be good, nor suffer others.

PANDARUS. Ha, ha! Alas, poor wretch! Ah, poor capocchia! Hast not slept tonight? Would he not, a naughty man, let it sleep? A bugbear take him!

CRESSIDA. Did not I tell you? Would he were knock’d i’ th’ head!

[_One knocks_.]

Who’s that at door? Good uncle, go and see. My lord, come you again into my chamber. You smile and mock me, as if I meant naughtily.

TROILUS. Ha! ha!

CRESSIDA. Come, you are deceiv’d, I think of no such thing.

[_Knock_.]

How earnestly they knock! Pray you come in: I would not for half Troy have you seen here.

[_Exeunt Troilus and Cressida_.]

PANDARUS. Who’s there? What’s the matter? Will you beat down the door? How now? What’s the matter?

Enter Aeneas.

AENEAS. Good morrow, lord, good morrow.

PANDARUS. Who’s there? My lord Aeneas? By my troth, I knew you not. What news with you so early?

AENEAS. Is not Prince Troilus here?

PANDARUS. Here! What should he do here?

AENEAS. Come, he is here, my lord; do not deny him. It doth import him much to speak with me.

PANDARUS. Is he here, say you? It’s more than I know, I’ll be sworn. For my own part, I came in late. What should he do here?

AENEAS. Who, nay then! Come, come, you’ll do him wrong ere you are ware; you’ll be so true to him to be false to him. Do not you know of him, but yet go fetch him hither; go.

Re-enter Troilus.

TROILUS. How now! What’s the matter?

AENEAS. My lord, I scarce have leisure to salute you, My matter is so rash. There is at hand Paris your brother, and Deiphobus, The Grecian Diomed, and our Antenor Deliver’d to us; and for him forthwith, Ere the first sacrifice, within this hour, We must give up to Diomedes’ hand The Lady Cressida.

TROILUS. Is it so concluded?

AENEAS. By Priam and the general state of Troy. They are at hand, and ready to effect it.

TROILUS. How my achievements mock me! I will go meet them; and, my Lord Aeneas, We met by chance; you did not find me here.

AENEAS. Good, good, my lord, the secrets of neighbour Pandar Have not more gift in taciturnity.

[_Exeunt Troilus and Aeneas_.]

PANDARUS. Is’t possible? No sooner got but lost? The devil take Antenor! The young prince will go mad. A plague upon Antenor! I would they had broke’s neck.

Re-enter Cressida.

CRESSIDA. How now! What’s the matter? Who was here?

PANDARUS. Ah, ah!

CRESSIDA. Why sigh you so profoundly? Where’s my lord? Gone? Tell me, sweet uncle, what’s the matter?

PANDARUS. Would I were as deep under the earth as I am above!

CRESSIDA. O the gods! What’s the matter?

PANDARUS. Pray thee get thee in. Would thou hadst ne’er been born! I knew thou wouldst be his death! O, poor gentleman! A plague upon Antenor!

CRESSIDA. Good uncle, I beseech you, on my knees I beseech you, what’s the matter?

PANDARUS. Thou must be gone, wench, thou must be gone; thou art chang’d for Antenor; thou must to thy father, and be gone from Troilus. ’Twill be his death; ’twill be his bane; he cannot bear it.

CRESSIDA. O you immortal gods! I will not go.

PANDARUS. Thou must.

CRESSIDA. I will not, uncle. I have forgot my father; I know no touch of consanguinity, No kin, no love, no blood, no soul so near me As the sweet Troilus. O you gods divine, Make Cressid’s name the very crown of falsehood, If ever she leave Troilus! Time, force, and death, Do to this body what extremes you can, But the strong base and building of my love Is as the very centre of the earth, Drawing all things to it. I’ll go in and weep—

PANDARUS. Do, do.

CRESSIDA. Tear my bright hair, and scratch my praised cheeks, Crack my clear voice with sobs and break my heart, With sounding ‘Troilus.’ I will not go from Troy.

[_Exeunt_.]

## SCENE III. Troy. A street before Pandarus’ house.

Enter Paris, Troilus, Aeneas, Deiphobus, Antenor and Diomedes.

PARIS. It is great morning; and the hour prefix’d For her delivery to this valiant Greek Comes fast upon. Good my brother Troilus, Tell you the lady what she is to do And haste her to the purpose.

TROILUS. Walk into her house. I’ll bring her to the Grecian presently; And to his hand when I deliver her, Think it an altar, and thy brother Troilus A priest, there off’ring to it his own heart.

[_Exit_.]

PARIS. I know what ’tis to love, And would, as I shall pity, I could help! Please you walk in, my lords?

[_Exeunt_.]

## SCENE IV. Troy. Pandarus’ house.

Enter Pandarus and Cressida.

PANDARUS. Be moderate, be moderate.

CRESSIDA. Why tell you me of moderation? The grief is fine, full, perfect, that I taste, And violenteth in a sense as strong As that which causeth it. How can I moderate it? If I could temporize with my affections Or brew it to a weak and colder palate, The like allayment could I give my grief. My love admits no qualifying dross; No more my grief, in such a precious loss.

Enter Troilus.

PANDARUS. Here, here, here he comes. Ah, sweet ducks!

CRESSIDA. [_Embracing him_.] O Troilus! Troilus!

PANDARUS. What a pair of spectacles is here! Let me embrace too. ‘O heart,’ as the goodly saying is,—

O heart, heavy heart, Why sigh’st thou without breaking?

where he answers again

Because thou canst not ease thy smart By friendship nor by speaking.

There was never a truer rhyme. Let us cast away nothing, for we may live to have need of such a verse. We see it, we see it. How now, lambs!

TROILUS. Cressid, I love thee in so strain’d a purity That the bless’d gods, as angry with my fancy, More bright in zeal than the devotion which Cold lips blow to their deities, take thee from me.

CRESSIDA. Have the gods envy?

PANDARUS. Ay, ay, ay, ay; ’tis too plain a case.

CRESSIDA. And is it true that I must go from Troy?

TROILUS. A hateful truth.

CRESSIDA. What! and from Troilus too?

TROILUS. From Troy and Troilus.

CRESSIDA. Is’t possible?

TROILUS. And suddenly; where injury of chance Puts back leave-taking, justles roughly by All time of pause, rudely beguiles our lips Of all rejoindure, forcibly prevents Our lock’d embrasures, strangles our dear vows Even in the birth of our own labouring breath. We two, that with so many thousand sighs Did buy each other, must poorly sell ourselves With the rude brevity and discharge of one. Injurious time now with a robber’s haste Crams his rich thiev’ry up, he knows not how. As many farewells as be stars in heaven, With distinct breath and consign’d kisses to them, He fumbles up into a loose adieu, And scants us with a single famish’d kiss, Distasted with the salt of broken tears.

AENEAS. [_Within_.] My lord, is the lady ready?

TROILUS. Hark! you are call’d. Some say the Genius Cries so to him that instantly must die. Bid them have patience; she shall come anon.

PANDARUS. Where are my tears? Rain, to lay this wind, or my heart will be blown up by my throat!

[_Exit_.]

CRESSIDA. I must then to the Grecians?

TROILUS. No remedy.

CRESSIDA. A woeful Cressid ’mongst the merry Greeks! When shall we see again?

TROILUS. Hear me, my love. Be thou but true of heart.

CRESSIDA. I true? How now! What wicked deem is this?

TROILUS. Nay, we must use expostulation kindly, For it is parting from us. I speak not ‘Be thou true’ as fearing thee, For I will throw my glove to Death himself That there’s no maculation in thy heart; But ‘Be thou true’ say I to fashion in My sequent protestation: be thou true, And I will see thee.

CRESSIDA. O! you shall be expos’d, my lord, to dangers As infinite as imminent! But I’ll be true.

TROILUS. And I’ll grow friend with danger. Wear this sleeve.

CRESSIDA. And you this glove. When shall I see you?

TROILUS. I will corrupt the Grecian sentinels To give thee nightly visitation. But yet be true.

CRESSIDA. O heavens! ‘Be true’ again!

TROILUS. Hear why I speak it, love. The Grecian youths are full of quality; They’re loving, well compos’d, with gifts of nature, Flowing and swelling o’er with arts and exercise. How novelty may move, and parts with person, Alas, a kind of godly jealousy, Which, I beseech you, call a virtuous sin, Makes me afear’d.

CRESSIDA. O heavens! you love me not!

TROILUS. Die I a villain then! In this I do not call your faith in question So mainly as my merit. I cannot sing, Nor heel the high lavolt, nor sweeten talk, Nor play at subtle games; fair virtues all, To which the Grecians are most prompt and pregnant; But I can tell that in each grace of these There lurks a still and dumb-discoursive devil That tempts most cunningly. But be not tempted.

CRESSIDA. Do you think I will?

TROILUS. No. But something may be done that we will not; And sometimes we are devils to ourselves, When we will tempt the frailty of our powers, Presuming on their changeful potency.

AENEAS. [_Within_.] Nay, good my lord!

TROILUS. Come, kiss; and let us part.

PARIS. [_Within_.] Brother Troilus!

TROILUS. Good brother, come you hither; And bring Aeneas and the Grecian with you.

CRESSIDA. My lord, will you be true?

TROILUS. Who, I? Alas, it is my vice, my fault! Whiles others fish with craft for great opinion, I with great truth catch mere simplicity; Whilst some with cunning gild their copper crowns, With truth and plainness I do wear mine bare. Fear not my truth: the moral of my wit Is plain and true; there’s all the reach of it.

Enter Aeneas, Paris, Antenor, Deiphobus and Diomedes.

Welcome, Sir Diomed! Here is the lady Which for Antenor we deliver you; At the port, lord, I’ll give her to thy hand, And by the way possess thee what she is. Entreat her fair; and, by my soul, fair Greek, If e’er thou stand at mercy of my sword, Name Cressid, and thy life shall be as safe As Priam is in Ilion.

DIOMEDES. Fair Lady Cressid, So please you, save the thanks this prince expects. The lustre in your eye, heaven in your cheek, Pleads your fair usage; and to Diomed You shall be mistress, and command him wholly.

TROILUS. Grecian, thou dost not use me courteously To shame the zeal of my petition to thee In praising her. I tell thee, lord of Greece, She is as far high-soaring o’er thy praises As thou unworthy to be call’d her servant. I charge thee use her well, even for my charge; For, by the dreadful Pluto, if thou dost not, Though the great bulk Achilles be thy guard, I’ll cut thy throat.

DIOMEDES. O, be not mov’d, Prince Troilus. Let me be privileg’d by my place and message To be a speaker free: when I am hence I’ll answer to my lust. And know you, lord, I’ll nothing do on charge: to her own worth She shall be priz’d. But that you say ‘Be’t so,’ I speak it in my spirit and honour, ‘No.’

TROILUS. Come, to the port. I’ll tell thee, Diomed, This brave shall oft make thee to hide thy head. Lady, give me your hand; and, as we walk, To our own selves bend we our needful talk.

[_Exeunt Troilus, Cressida and Diomedes_.]

[_Sound trumpet_.]

PARIS. Hark! Hector’s trumpet.

AENEAS. How have we spent this morning! The Prince must think me tardy and remiss, That swore to ride before him to the field.

PARIS. ’Tis Troilus’ fault. Come, come to field with him.

DEIPHOBUS. Let us make ready straight.

AENEAS. Yea, with a bridegroom’s fresh alacrity Let us address to tend on Hector’s heels. The glory of our Troy doth this day lie On his fair worth and single chivalry.

[_Exeunt_.]

## SCENE V. The Grecian camp. Lists set out.

Enter Ajax, armed; Agamemnon, Achilles, Patroclus, Menelaus, Ulysses, Nestor and others.

AGAMEMNON. Here art thou in appointment fresh and fair, Anticipating time with starting courage. Give with thy trumpet a loud note to Troy, Thou dreadful Ajax, that the appalled air May pierce the head of the great combatant, And hale him hither.

AJAX. Thou, trumpet, there’s my purse. Now crack thy lungs and split thy brazen pipe; Blow, villain, till thy sphered bias cheek Out-swell the colic of puff’d Aquilon. Come, stretch thy chest, and let thy eyes spout blood: Thou blowest for Hector.

[_Trumpet sounds_.]

ULYSSES. No trumpet answers.

ACHILLES. ’Tis but early days.

AGAMEMNON. Is not yond Diomed, with Calchas’ daughter?

ULYSSES. ’Tis he, I ken the manner of his gait: He rises on the toe. That spirit of his In aspiration lifts him from the earth.

Enter Diomedes and Cressida.

AGAMEMNON. Is this the Lady Cressid?

DIOMEDES. Even she.

AGAMEMNON. Most dearly welcome to the Greeks, sweet lady.

NESTOR. Our general doth salute you with a kiss.

ULYSSES. Yet is the kindness but particular; ’Twere better she were kiss’d in general.

NESTOR. And very courtly counsel: I’ll begin. So much for Nestor.

ACHILLES. I’ll take that winter from your lips, fair lady. Achilles bids you welcome.

MENELAUS. I had good argument for kissing once.

PATROCLUS. But that’s no argument for kissing now; For thus popp’d Paris in his hardiment, And parted thus you and your argument.

ULYSSES. O deadly gall, and theme of all our scorns! For which we lose our heads to gild his horns.

PATROCLUS. The first was Menelaus’ kiss; this, mine: Patroclus kisses you.

MENELAUS. O, this is trim!

PATROCLUS. Paris and I kiss evermore for him.

MENELAUS. I’ll have my kiss, sir. Lady, by your leave.

CRESSIDA. In kissing, do you render or receive?

PATROCLUS. Both take and give.

CRESSIDA. I’ll make my match to live, The kiss you take is better than you give; Therefore no kiss.

MENELAUS. I’ll give you boot; I’ll give you three for one.

CRESSIDA. You are an odd man; give even or give none.

MENELAUS. An odd man, lady! Every man is odd.

CRESSIDA. No, Paris is not; for you know ’tis true That you are odd, and he is even with you.

MENELAUS. You fillip me o’ th’head.

CRESSIDA. No, I’ll be sworn.

ULYSSES. It were no match, your nail against his horn. May I, sweet lady, beg a kiss of you?

CRESSIDA. You may.

ULYSSES. I do desire it.

CRESSIDA. Why, beg then.

ULYSSES. Why then, for Venus’ sake give me a kiss When Helen is a maid again, and his.

CRESSIDA. I am your debtor; claim it when ’tis due.

ULYSSES. Never’s my day, and then a kiss of you.

DIOMEDES. Lady, a word. I’ll bring you to your father.

[_Exit with_ Cressida.]

NESTOR. A woman of quick sense.

ULYSSES. Fie, fie upon her! There’s language in her eye, her cheek, her lip, Nay, her foot speaks; her wanton spirits look out At every joint and motive of her body. O! these encounterers so glib of tongue That give a coasting welcome ere it comes, And wide unclasp the tables of their thoughts To every tickling reader! Set them down For sluttish spoils of opportunity, And daughters of the game.

[_Trumpet within_.]

ALL. The Trojans’ trumpet.

AGAMEMNON. Yonder comes the troop.

Enter Hector, armed; Aeneas, Troilus, Paris, Deiphobus and other Trojans, with attendants.

AENEAS. Hail, all you state of Greece! What shall be done To him that victory commands? Or do you purpose A victor shall be known? Will you the knights Shall to the edge of all extremity Pursue each other, or shall be divided By any voice or order of the field? Hector bade ask.

AGAMEMNON. Which way would Hector have it?

AENEAS. He cares not; he’ll obey conditions.

AGAMEMNON. ’Tis done like Hector.

ACHILLES. But securely done, A little proudly, and great deal misprising The knight oppos’d.

AENEAS. If not Achilles, sir, What is your name?

ACHILLES. If not Achilles, nothing.

AENEAS. Therefore Achilles. But whate’er, know this: In the extremity of great and little Valour and pride excel themselves in Hector; The one almost as infinite as all, The other blank as nothing. Weigh him well, And that which looks like pride is courtesy. This Ajax is half made of Hector’s blood; In love whereof half Hector stays at home; Half heart, half hand, half Hector comes to seek This blended knight, half Trojan and half Greek.

ACHILLES. A maiden battle then? O! I perceive you.

Re-enter Diomedes.

AGAMEMNON. Here is Sir Diomed. Go, gentle knight, Stand by our Ajax. As you and Lord Aeneas Consent upon the order of their fight, So be it; either to the uttermost, Or else a breath. The combatants being kin Half stints their strife before their strokes begin.

Ajax and Hector enter the lists.

ULYSSES. They are oppos’d already.

AGAMEMNON. What Trojan is that same that looks so heavy?

ULYSSES. The youngest son of Priam, a true knight; Not yet mature, yet matchless; firm of word; Speaking in deeds and deedless in his tongue; Not soon provok’d, nor being provok’d soon calm’d; His heart and hand both open and both free; For what he has he gives, what thinks he shows, Yet gives he not till judgement guide his bounty, Nor dignifies an impure thought with breath; Manly as Hector, but more dangerous; For Hector in his blaze of wrath subscribes To tender objects, but he in heat of action Is more vindicative than jealous love. They call him Troilus, and on him erect A second hope as fairly built as Hector. Thus says Aeneas, one that knows the youth Even to his inches, and, with private soul, Did in great Ilion thus translate him to me.

[_Alarum. Hector and Ajax fight._]

AGAMEMNON. They are in action.

NESTOR. Now, Ajax, hold thine own!

TROILUS. Hector, thou sleep’st; awake thee!

AGAMEMNON. His blows are well dispos’d. There, Ajax!

[_Trumpets cease_.]

DIOMEDES. You must no more.

AENEAS. Princes, enough, so please you.

AJAX. I am not warm yet; let us fight again.

DIOMEDES. As Hector pleases.

HECTOR. Why, then will I no more. Thou art, great lord, my father’s sister’s son, A cousin-german to great Priam’s seed; The obligation of our blood forbids A gory emulation ’twixt us twain: Were thy commixtion Greek and Trojan so That thou could’st say ‘This hand is Grecian all, And this is Trojan; the sinews of this leg All Greek, and this all Troy; my mother’s blood Runs on the dexter cheek, and this sinister Bounds in my father’s; by Jove multipotent, Thou shouldst not bear from me a Greekish member Wherein my sword had not impressure made Of our rank feud; but the just gods gainsay That any drop thou borrow’dst from thy mother, My sacred aunt, should by my mortal sword Be drained! Let me embrace thee, Ajax. By him that thunders, thou hast lusty arms; Hector would have them fall upon him thus. Cousin, all honour to thee!

AJAX. I thank thee, Hector. Thou art too gentle and too free a man. I came to kill thee, cousin, and bear hence A great addition earned in thy death.

HECTOR. Not Neoptolemus so mirable, On whose bright crest Fame with her loud’st Oyes Cries ‘This is he!’ could promise to himself A thought of added honour torn from Hector.

AENEAS. There is expectance here from both the sides What further you will do.

HECTOR. We’ll answer it: The issue is embracement. Ajax, farewell.

AJAX. If I might in entreaties find success, As seld’ I have the chance, I would desire My famous cousin to our Grecian tents.

DIOMEDES. ’Tis Agamemnon’s wish; and great Achilles Doth long to see unarm’d the valiant Hector.

HECTOR. Aeneas, call my brother Troilus to me, And signify this loving interview To the expecters of our Trojan part; Desire them home. Give me thy hand, my cousin; I will go eat with thee, and see your knights.

Agamemnon and the rest of the Greeks come forward.

AJAX. Great Agamemnon comes to meet us here.

HECTOR. The worthiest of them tell me name by name; But for Achilles, my own searching eyes Shall find him by his large and portly size.

AGAMEMNON. Worthy all arms! as welcome as to one That would be rid of such an enemy. But that’s no welcome. Understand more clear, What’s past and what’s to come is strew’d with husks And formless ruin of oblivion; But in this extant moment, faith and troth, Strain’d purely from all hollow bias-drawing, Bids thee with most divine integrity, From heart of very heart, great Hector, welcome.

HECTOR. I thank thee, most imperious Agamemnon.

AGAMEMNON. [_To Troilus._] My well-fam’d lord of Troy, no less to you.

MENELAUS. Let me confirm my princely brother’s greeting. You brace of warlike brothers, welcome hither.

HECTOR. Who must we answer?

AENEAS. The noble Menelaus.

HECTOR. O you, my lord? By Mars his gauntlet, thanks! Mock not that I affect the untraded oath; Your quondam wife swears still by Venus’ glove. She’s well, but bade me not commend her to you.

MENELAUS. Name her not now, sir; she’s a deadly theme.

HECTOR. O, pardon; I offend.

NESTOR. I have, thou gallant Trojan, seen thee oft, Labouring for destiny, make cruel way Through ranks of Greekish youth; and I have seen thee, As hot as Perseus, spur thy Phrygian steed, Despising many forfeits and subduements, When thou hast hung thy advanced sword i’ th’air, Not letting it decline on the declined; That I have said to some my standers-by ‘Lo, Jupiter is yonder, dealing life!’ And I have seen thee pause and take thy breath, When that a ring of Greeks have shrap’d thee in, Like an Olympian wrestling. This have I seen; But this thy countenance, still lock’d in steel, I never saw till now. I knew thy grandsire, And once fought with him. He was a soldier good, But, by great Mars, the captain of us all, Never like thee. O, let an old man embrace thee; And, worthy warrior, welcome to our tents.

AENEAS. ’Tis the old Nestor.

HECTOR. Let me embrace thee, good old chronicle, That hast so long walk’d hand in hand with time. Most reverend Nestor, I am glad to clasp thee.

NESTOR. I would my arms could match thee in contention As they contend with thee in courtesy.

HECTOR. I would they could.

NESTOR. Ha! By this white beard, I’d fight with thee tomorrow. Well, welcome, welcome! I have seen the time.

ULYSSES. I wonder now how yonder city stands, When we have here her base and pillar by us.

HECTOR. I know your favour, Lord Ulysses, well. Ah, sir, there’s many a Greek and Trojan dead, Since first I saw yourself and Diomed In Ilion on your Greekish embassy.

ULYSSES. Sir, I foretold you then what would ensue. My prophecy is but half his journey yet; For yonder walls, that pertly front your town, Yon towers, whose wanton tops do buss the clouds, Must kiss their own feet.

HECTOR. I must not believe you. There they stand yet; and modestly I think The fall of every Phrygian stone will cost A drop of Grecian blood. The end crowns all; And that old common arbitrator, Time, Will one day end it.

ULYSSES. So to him we leave it. Most gentle and most valiant Hector, welcome. After the General, I beseech you next To feast with me and see me at my tent.

ACHILLES. I shall forestall thee, Lord Ulysses, thou! Now, Hector, I have fed mine eyes on thee; I have with exact view perus’d thee, Hector, And quoted joint by joint.

HECTOR. Is this Achilles?

ACHILLES. I am Achilles.

HECTOR. Stand fair, I pray thee; let me look on thee.

ACHILLES. Behold thy fill.

HECTOR. Nay, I have done already.

ACHILLES. Thou art too brief. I will the second time, As I would buy thee, view thee limb by limb.

HECTOR. O, like a book of sport thou’lt read me o’er; But there’s more in me than thou understand’st. Why dost thou so oppress me with thine eye?

ACHILLES. Tell me, you heavens, in which part of his body Shall I destroy him? Whether there, or there, or there? That I may give the local wound a name, And make distinct the very breach whereout Hector’s great spirit flew. Answer me, heavens.

HECTOR. It would discredit the blest gods, proud man, To answer such a question. Stand again. Think’st thou to catch my life so pleasantly As to prenominate in nice conjecture Where thou wilt hit me dead?

ACHILLES. I tell thee yea.

HECTOR. Wert thou an oracle to tell me so, I’d not believe thee. Henceforth guard thee well; For I’ll not kill thee there, nor there, nor there; But, by the forge that stithied Mars his helm, I’ll kill thee everywhere, yea, o’er and o’er. You wisest Grecians, pardon me this brag. His insolence draws folly from my lips; But I’ll endeavour deeds to match these words, Or may I never—

AJAX. Do not chafe thee, cousin; And you, Achilles, let these threats alone Till accident or purpose bring you to’t. You may have every day enough of Hector, If you have stomach. The general state, I fear, Can scarce entreat you to be odd with him.

HECTOR. I pray you let us see you in the field; We have had pelting wars since you refus’d The Grecians’ cause.

ACHILLES. Dost thou entreat me, Hector? Tomorrow do I meet thee, fell as death; Tonight all friends.

HECTOR. Thy hand upon that match.

AGAMEMNON. First, all you peers of Greece, go to my tent; There in the full convive we; afterwards, As Hector’s leisure and your bounties shall Concur together, severally entreat him. Beat loud the tambourines, let the trumpets blow, That this great soldier may his welcome know.

[_Exeunt all but Troilus and Ulysses_.]

TROILUS. My Lord Ulysses, tell me, I beseech you, In what place of the field doth Calchas keep?

ULYSSES. At Menelaus’ tent, most princely Troilus. There Diomed doth feast with him tonight, Who neither looks upon the heaven nor earth, But gives all gaze and bent of amorous view On the fair Cressid.

TROILUS. Shall I, sweet lord, be bound to you so much, After we part from Agamemnon’s tent, To bring me thither?

ULYSSES. You shall command me, sir. As gentle tell me of what honour was This Cressida in Troy? Had she no lover there That wails her absence?

TROILUS. O, sir, to such as boasting show their scars A mock is due. Will you walk on, my lord? She was belov’d, she lov’d; she is, and doth; But still sweet love is food for fortune’s tooth.

[_Exeunt_.]

## ACT V

## SCENE I. The Grecian camp. Before the tent of Achilles.

Enter Achilles and Patroclus.

ACHILLES. I’ll heat his blood with Greekish wine tonight, Which with my scimitar I’ll cool tomorrow. Patroclus, let us feast him to the height.

PATROCLUS. Here comes Thersites.

Enter Thersites.

ACHILLES. How now, thou core of envy! Thou crusty batch of nature, what’s the news?

THERSITES. Why, thou picture of what thou seemest, and idol of idiot worshippers, here’s a letter for thee.

ACHILLES. From whence, fragment?

THERSITES. Why, thou full dish of fool, from Troy.

PATROCLUS. Who keeps the tent now?

THERSITES. The surgeon’s box or the patient’s wound.

PATROCLUS. Well said, adversity! And what needs these tricks?

THERSITES. Prithee, be silent, boy; I profit not by thy talk; thou art said to be Achilles’ male varlet.

PATROCLUS. Male varlet, you rogue! What’s that?

THERSITES. Why, his masculine whore. Now, the rotten diseases of the south, the guts-griping ruptures, catarrhs, loads o’ gravel in the back, lethargies, cold palsies, raw eyes, dirt-rotten livers, wheezing lungs, bladders full of imposthume, sciaticas, lime-kilns i’ th’ palm, incurable bone-ache, and the rivelled fee-simple of the tetter, take and take again such preposterous discoveries!

PATROCLUS. Why, thou damnable box of envy, thou, what meanest thou to curse thus?

THERSITES. Do I curse thee?

PATROCLUS. Why, no, you ruinous butt; you whoreson indistinguishable cur, no.

THERSITES. No! Why art thou, then, exasperate, thou idle immaterial skein of sleave silk, thou green sarcenet flap for a sore eye, thou tassel of a prodigal’s purse, thou? Ah, how the poor world is pestered with such water-flies, diminutives of nature!

PATROCLUS. Out, gall!

THERSITES. Finch egg!

ACHILLES. My sweet Patroclus, I am thwarted quite From my great purpose in tomorrow’s battle. Here is a letter from Queen Hecuba, A token from her daughter, my fair love, Both taxing me and gaging me to keep An oath that I have sworn. I will not break it. Fall Greeks; fail fame; honour or go or stay; My major vow lies here, this I’ll obey. Come, come, Thersites, help to trim my tent; This night in banqueting must all be spent. Away, Patroclus!

[_Exit with_ Patroclus.]

THERSITES. With too much blood and too little brain these two may run mad; but, if with too much brain and too little blood they do, I’ll be a curer of madmen. Here’s Agamemnon, an honest fellow enough, and one that loves quails, but he has not so much brain as ear-wax; and the goodly transformation of Jupiter there, his brother, the bull, the primitive statue and oblique memorial of cuckolds, a thrifty shoeing-horn in a chain at his brother’s leg, to what form but that he is, should wit larded with malice, and malice forced with wit, turn him to? To an ass, were nothing: he is both ass and ox. To an ox, were nothing: he is both ox and ass. To be a dog, a mule, a cat, a fitchook, a toad, a lizard, an owl, a puttock, or a herring without a roe, I would not care; but to be Menelaus, I would conspire against destiny. Ask me not what I would be, if I were not Thersites; for I care not to be the louse of a lazar, so I were not Menelaus. Hey-day! sprites and fires!

Enter Hector, Troilus, Ajax, Agamemnon, Ulysses, Nestor, Menelaus and Diomedes with lights.

AGAMEMNON. We go wrong, we go wrong.

AJAX. No, yonder ’tis; There, where we see the lights.

HECTOR. I trouble you.

AJAX. No, not a whit.

ULYSSES. Here comes himself to guide you.

Re-enter Achilles.

ACHILLES. Welcome, brave Hector; welcome, Princes all.

AGAMEMNON. So now, fair Prince of Troy, I bid good night; Ajax commands the guard to tend on you.

HECTOR. Thanks, and good night to the Greeks’ general.

MENELAUS. Good night, my lord.

HECTOR. Good night, sweet Lord Menelaus.

THERSITES. Sweet draught! ‘Sweet’ quoth a’! Sweet sink, sweet sewer!

ACHILLES. Good night and welcome, both at once, to those That go or tarry.

AGAMEMNON. Good night.

[_Exeunt Agamemnon and Menelaus_.]

ACHILLES. Old Nestor tarries; and you too, Diomed, Keep Hector company an hour or two.

DIOMEDES. I cannot, lord; I have important business, The tide whereof is now. Good night, great Hector.

HECTOR. Give me your hand.

ULYSSES. [_Aside to Troilus._] Follow his torch; he goes to Calchas’ tent; I’ll keep you company.

TROILUS. Sweet sir, you honour me.

HECTOR. And so, good night.

[_Exit Diomedes, Ulysses and Troilus following._]

ACHILLES. Come, come, enter my tent.

[_Exeunt all but_ Thersites.]

THERSITES. That same Diomed’s a false-hearted rogue, a most unjust knave; I will no more trust him when he leers than I will a serpent when he hisses. He will spend his mouth and promise, like Brabbler the hound; but when he performs, astronomers foretell it: it is prodigious, there will come some change; the sun borrows of the moon when Diomed keeps his word. I will rather leave to see Hector than not to dog him. They say he keeps a Trojan drab, and uses the traitor Calchas’ tent. I’ll after. Nothing but lechery! All incontinent varlets!

[_Exit_.]

## SCENE II. The Grecian camp. Before Calchas’ tent.

Enter Diomedes.

DIOMEDES. What, are you up here, ho! Speak.

CALCHAS. [_Within_.] Who calls?

DIOMEDES. Diomed. Calchas, I think. Where’s your daughter?

CALCHAS. [_Within_.] She comes to you.

Enter Troilus and Ulysses, at a distance; after them Thersites.

ULYSSES. Stand where the torch may not discover us.

Enter Cressida.

TROILUS. Cressid comes forth to him.

DIOMEDES. How now, my charge!

CRESSIDA. Now, my sweet guardian! Hark, a word with you.

[_Whispers_.]

TROILUS. Yea, so familiar?

ULYSSES. She will sing any man at first sight.

THERSITES. And any man may sing her, if he can take her cliff; she’s noted.

DIOMEDES. Will you remember?

CRESSIDA. Remember! Yes.

DIOMEDES. Nay, but do, then; And let your mind be coupled with your words.

TROILUS. What should she remember?

ULYSSES. List!

CRESSIDA. Sweet honey Greek, tempt me no more to folly.

THERSITES. Roguery!

DIOMEDES. Nay, then—

CRESSIDA. I’ll tell you what—

DIOMEDES. Fo, fo! come, tell a pin; you are a forsworn.

CRESSIDA. In faith, I cannot. What would you have me do?

THERSITES. A juggling trick, to be secretly open.

DIOMEDES. What did you swear you would bestow on me?

CRESSIDA. I prithee, do not hold me to mine oath; Bid me do anything but that, sweet Greek.

DIOMEDES. Good night.

TROILUS. Hold, patience!

ULYSSES. How now, Trojan!

CRESSIDA. Diomed!

DIOMEDES. No, no, good night; I’ll be your fool no more.

TROILUS. Thy better must.

CRESSIDA. Hark! a word in your ear.

TROILUS. O plague and madness!

ULYSSES. You are moved, Prince; let us depart, I pray, Lest your displeasure should enlarge itself To wrathful terms. This place is dangerous; The time right deadly; I beseech you, go.

TROILUS. Behold, I pray you.

ULYSSES. Nay, good my lord, go off; You flow to great distraction; come, my lord.

TROILUS. I pray thee stay.

ULYSSES. You have not patience; come.

TROILUS. I pray you, stay; by hell and all hell’s torments, I will not speak a word.

DIOMEDES. And so, good night.

CRESSIDA. Nay, but you part in anger.

TROILUS. Doth that grieve thee? O withered truth!

ULYSSES. How now, my lord?

TROILUS. By Jove, I will be patient.

CRESSIDA. Guardian! Why, Greek!

DIOMEDES. Fo, fo! adieu! you palter.

CRESSIDA. In faith, I do not. Come hither once again.

ULYSSES. You shake, my lord, at something; will you go? You will break out.

TROILUS. She strokes his cheek.

ULYSSES. Come, come.

TROILUS. Nay, stay; by Jove, I will not speak a word: There is between my will and all offences A guard of patience. Stay a little while.

THERSITES. How the devil Luxury, with his fat rump and potato finger, tickles these together! Fry, lechery, fry!

DIOMEDES. But will you, then?

CRESSIDA. In faith, I will, la; never trust me else.

DIOMEDES. Give me some token for the surety of it.

CRESSIDA. I’ll fetch you one.

[_Exit_.]

ULYSSES. You have sworn patience.

TROILUS. Fear me not, my lord; I will not be myself, nor have cognition Of what I feel. I am all patience.

Re-enter Cressida.

THERSITES. Now the pledge; now, now, now!

CRESSIDA. Here, Diomed, keep this sleeve.

TROILUS. O beauty! where is thy faith?

ULYSSES. My lord!

TROILUS. I will be patient; outwardly I will.

CRESSIDA. You look upon that sleeve; behold it well. He lov’d me—O false wench!—Give’t me again.

DIOMEDES. Whose was’t?

CRESSIDA. It is no matter, now I have’t again. I will not meet with you tomorrow night. I prithee, Diomed, visit me no more.

THERSITES. Now she sharpens. Well said, whetstone.

DIOMEDES. I shall have it.

CRESSIDA. What, this?

DIOMEDES. Ay, that.

CRESSIDA. O all you gods! O pretty, pretty pledge! Thy master now lies thinking on his bed Of thee and me, and sighs, and takes my glove, And gives memorial dainty kisses to it, As I kiss thee. Nay, do not snatch it from me; He that takes that doth take my heart withal.

DIOMEDES. I had your heart before; this follows it.

TROILUS. I did swear patience.

CRESSIDA. You shall not have it, Diomed; faith, you shall not; I’ll give you something else.

DIOMEDES. I will have this. Whose was it?

CRESSIDA. It is no matter.

DIOMEDES. Come, tell me whose it was.

CRESSIDA. ’Twas one’s that lov’d me better than you will. But, now you have it, take it.

DIOMEDES. Whose was it?

CRESSIDA. By all Diana’s waiting women yond, And by herself, I will not tell you whose.

DIOMEDES. Tomorrow will I wear it on my helm, And grieve his spirit that dares not challenge it.

TROILUS. Wert thou the devil and wor’st it on thy horn, It should be challeng’d.

CRESSIDA. Well, well, ’tis done, ’tis past; and yet it is not; I will not keep my word.

DIOMEDES. Why, then farewell; Thou never shalt mock Diomed again.

CRESSIDA. You shall not go. One cannot speak a word But it straight starts you.

DIOMEDES. I do not like this fooling.

THERSITES. Nor I, by Pluto; but that that likes not you Pleases me best.

DIOMEDES. What, shall I come? The hour?

CRESSIDA. Ay, come; O Jove! Do come. I shall be plagu’d.

DIOMEDES. Farewell till then.

CRESSIDA. Good night. I prithee come.

[_Exit_ Diomedes.]

Troilus, farewell! One eye yet looks on thee; But with my heart the other eye doth see. Ah, poor our sex! this fault in us I find, The error of our eye directs our mind. What error leads must err; O, then conclude, Minds sway’d by eyes are full of turpitude.

[_Exit_.]

THERSITES. A proof of strength she could not publish more, Unless she said ‘My mind is now turn’d whore.’

ULYSSES. All’s done, my lord.

TROILUS. It is.

ULYSSES. Why stay we, then?

TROILUS. To make a recordation to my soul Of every syllable that here was spoke. But if I tell how these two did co-act, Shall I not lie in publishing a truth? Sith yet there is a credence in my heart, An esperance so obstinately strong, That doth invert th’attest of eyes and ears; As if those organs had deceptious functions Created only to calumniate. Was Cressid here?

ULYSSES. I cannot conjure, Trojan.

TROILUS. She was not, sure.

ULYSSES. Most sure she was.

TROILUS. Why, my negation hath no taste of madness.

ULYSSES. Nor mine, my lord. Cressid was here but now.

TROILUS. Let it not be believ’d for womanhood. Think, we had mothers; do not give advantage To stubborn critics, apt, without a theme, For depravation, to square the general sex By Cressid’s rule. Rather think this not Cressid.

ULYSSES. What hath she done, Prince, that can soil our mothers?

TROILUS. Nothing at all, unless that this were she.

THERSITES. Will he swagger himself out on’s own eyes?

TROILUS. This she? No; this is Diomed’s Cressida. If beauty have a soul, this is not she; If souls guide vows, if vows be sanctimonies, If sanctimony be the god’s delight, If there be rule in unity itself, This was not she. O madness of discourse, That cause sets up with and against itself! Bi-fold authority! where reason can revolt Without perdition, and loss assume all reason Without revolt: this is, and is not, Cressid. Within my soul there doth conduce a fight Of this strange nature, that a thing inseparate Divides more wider than the sky and earth; And yet the spacious breadth of this division Admits no orifice for a point as subtle As Ariachne’s broken woof to enter. Instance, O instance! strong as Pluto’s gates: Cressid is mine, tied with the bonds of heaven. Instance, O instance! strong as heaven itself: The bonds of heaven are slipp’d, dissolv’d, and loos’d; And with another knot, five-finger-tied, The fractions of her faith, orts of her love, The fragments, scraps, the bits, and greasy relics Of her o’er-eaten faith, are given to Diomed.

ULYSSES. May worthy Troilus be half attach’d With that which here his passion doth express?

TROILUS. Ay, Greek; and that shall be divulged well In characters as red as Mars his heart Inflam’d with Venus. Never did young man fancy With so eternal and so fix’d a soul. Hark, Greek: as much as I do Cressid love, So much by weight hate I her Diomed. That sleeve is mine that he’ll bear on his helm; Were it a casque compos’d by Vulcan’s skill My sword should bite it. Not the dreadful spout Which shipmen do the hurricano call, Constring’d in mass by the almighty sun, Shall dizzy with more clamour Neptune’s ear In his descent than shall my prompted sword Falling on Diomed.

THERSITES. He’ll tickle it for his concupy.

TROILUS. O Cressid! O false Cressid! false, false, false! Let all untruths stand by thy stained name, And they’ll seem glorious.

ULYSSES. O, contain yourself; Your passion draws ears hither.

Enter Aeneas.

AENEAS. I have been seeking you this hour, my lord. Hector, by this, is arming him in Troy; Ajax, your guard, stays to conduct you home.

TROILUS. Have with you, Prince. My courteous lord, adieu. Fairwell, revolted fair! and, Diomed, Stand fast, and wear a castle on thy head.

ULYSSES. I’ll bring you to the gates.

TROILUS. Accept distracted thanks.

[_Exeunt Troilus, Aeneas and Ulysses_.]

THERSITES. Would I could meet that rogue Diomed! I would croak like a raven; I would bode, I would bode. Patroclus will give me anything for the intelligence of this whore; the parrot will not do more for an almond than he for a commodious drab. Lechery, lechery! Still wars and lechery! Nothing else holds fashion. A burning devil take them!

[_Exit_.]

## SCENE III. Troy. Before Priam’s palace.

Enter Hector and Andromache.

ANDROMACHE. When was my lord so much ungently temper’d To stop his ears against admonishment? Unarm, unarm, and do not fight today.

HECTOR. You train me to offend you; get you in. By all the everlasting gods, I’ll go.

ANDROMACHE. My dreams will, sure, prove ominous to the day.

HECTOR. No more, I say.

Enter Cassandra.

CASSANDRA. Where is my brother Hector?

ANDROMACHE. Here, sister, arm’d, and bloody in intent. Consort with me in loud and dear petition, Pursue we him on knees; for I have dreamt Of bloody turbulence, and this whole night Hath nothing been but shapes and forms of slaughter.

CASSANDRA. O, ’tis true!

HECTOR. Ho! bid my trumpet sound.

CASSANDRA. No notes of sally, for the heavens, sweet brother!

HECTOR. Be gone, I say. The gods have heard me swear.

CASSANDRA. The gods are deaf to hot and peevish vows; They are polluted off’rings, more abhorr’d Than spotted livers in the sacrifice.

ANDROMACHE. O, be persuaded! Do not count it holy To hurt by being just. It is as lawful, For we would give much, to use violent thefts And rob in the behalf of charity.

CASSANDRA. It is the purpose that makes strong the vow; But vows to every purpose must not hold. Unarm, sweet Hector.

HECTOR. Hold you still, I say. Mine honour keeps the weather of my fate. Life every man holds dear; but the dear man Holds honour far more precious dear than life.

Enter Troilus.

How now, young man! Mean’st thou to fight today?

ANDROMACHE. Cassandra, call my father to persuade.

[_Exit_ Cassandra.]

HECTOR. No, faith, young Troilus; doff thy harness, youth; I am today i’ th’vein of chivalry. Let grow thy sinews till their knots be strong, And tempt not yet the brushes of the war. Unarm thee, go; and doubt thou not, brave boy, I’ll stand today for thee and me and Troy.

TROILUS. Brother, you have a vice of mercy in you, Which better fits a lion than a man.

HECTOR. What vice is that? Good Troilus, chide me for it.

TROILUS. When many times the captive Grecian falls, Even in the fan and wind of your fair sword, You bid them rise and live.

HECTOR. O, ’tis fair play!

TROILUS. Fool’s play, by heaven, Hector.

HECTOR. How now? how now?

TROILUS. For th’ love of all the gods, Let’s leave the hermit Pity with our mother; And when we have our armours buckled on, The venom’d vengeance ride upon our swords, Spur them to ruthful work, rein them from ruth!

HECTOR. Fie, savage, fie!

TROILUS. Hector, then ’tis wars.

HECTOR. Troilus, I would not have you fight today.

TROILUS. Who should withhold me? Not fate, obedience, nor the hand of Mars Beckoning with fiery truncheon my retire; Not Priamus and Hecuba on knees, Their eyes o’er-galled with recourse of tears; Nor you, my brother, with your true sword drawn, Oppos’d to hinder me, should stop my way, But by my ruin.

Re-enter Cassandra with Priam.

CASSANDRA. Lay hold upon him, Priam, hold him fast; He is thy crutch; now if thou lose thy stay, Thou on him leaning, and all Troy on thee, Fall all together.

PRIAM. Come, Hector, come, go back. Thy wife hath dreamt; thy mother hath had visions; Cassandra doth foresee; and I myself Am like a prophet suddenly enrapt To tell thee that this day is ominous. Therefore, come back.

HECTOR. Aeneas is a-field; And I do stand engag’d to many Greeks, Even in the faith of valour, to appear This morning to them.

PRIAM. Ay, but thou shalt not go.

HECTOR. I must not break my faith. You know me dutiful; therefore, dear sir, Let me not shame respect; but give me leave To take that course by your consent and voice Which you do here forbid me, royal Priam.

CASSANDRA. O Priam, yield not to him!

ANDROMACHE. Do not, dear father.

HECTOR. Andromache, I am offended with you. Upon the love you bear me, get you in.

[_Exit_ Andromache.]

TROILUS. This foolish, dreaming, superstitious girl Makes all these bodements.

CASSANDRA. O, farewell, dear Hector! Look how thou diest. Look how thy eye turns pale. Look how thy wounds do bleed at many vents. Hark how Troy roars; how Hecuba cries out; How poor Andromache shrills her dolours forth; Behold distraction, frenzy, and amazement, Like witless antics, one another meet, And all cry, ‘Hector! Hector’s dead! O Hector!’

TROILUS. Away, away!

CASSANDRA. Farewell! yet, soft! Hector, I take my leave. Thou dost thyself and all our Troy deceive.

[_Exit_.]

HECTOR. You are amaz’d, my liege, at her exclaim. Go in, and cheer the town; we’ll forth, and fight, Do deeds worth praise and tell you them at night.

PRIAM. Farewell. The gods with safety stand about thee!

[_Exeunt severally Priam and Hector. Alarums._]

TROILUS. They are at it, hark! Proud Diomed, believe, I come to lose my arm or win my sleeve.

Enter Pandarus.

PANDARUS. Do you hear, my lord? Do you hear?

TROILUS. What now?

PANDARUS. Here’s a letter come from yond poor girl.

TROILUS. Let me read.

PANDARUS. A whoreson tisick, a whoreson rascally tisick, so troubles me, and the foolish fortune of this girl, and what one thing, what another, that I shall leave you one o’ these days; and I have a rheum in mine eyes too, and such an ache in my bones that unless a man were curs’d I cannot tell what to think on’t. What says she there?

TROILUS. Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart; Th’effect doth operate another way.

[_Tearing the letter_.]

Go, wind, to wind, there turn and change together. My love with words and errors still she feeds, But edifies another with her deeds.

[_Exeunt severally_.]

## SCENE IV. The plain between Troy and the Grecian camp.

Alarums. Excursions. Enter Thersites.

THERSITES. Now they are clapper-clawing one another; I’ll go look on. That dissembling abominable varlet, Diomed, has got that same scurvy doting foolish young knave’s sleeve of Troy there in his helm. I would fain see them meet, that that same young Trojan ass that loves the whore there might send that Greekish whoremasterly villain with the sleeve back to the dissembling luxurious drab of a sleeve-less errand. O’ the other side, the policy of those crafty swearing rascals that stale old mouse-eaten dry cheese, Nestor, and that same dog-fox, Ulysses, is not prov’d worth a blackberry. They set me up, in policy, that mongrel cur, Ajax, against that dog of as bad a kind, Achilles; and now is the cur, Ajax prouder than the cur Achilles, and will not arm today; whereupon the Grecians begin to proclaim barbarism, and policy grows into an ill opinion.

Enter Diomedes, Troilus following.

Soft! here comes sleeve, and t’other.

TROILUS. Fly not; for shouldst thou take the river Styx, I would swim after.

DIOMEDES. Thou dost miscall retire. I do not fly; but advantageous care Withdrew me from the odds of multitude. Have at thee!

THERSITES. Hold thy whore, Grecian; now for thy whore, Trojan! now the sleeve, now the sleeve!

[_Exeunt Troilus and Diomedes fighting_.]

Enter Hector.

HECTOR. What art thou, Greek? Art thou for Hector’s match? Art thou of blood and honour?

THERSITES. No, no I am a rascal; a scurvy railing knave; a very filthy rogue.

HECTOR. I do believe thee. Live.

[_Exit_.]

THERSITES. God-a-mercy, that thou wilt believe me; but a plague break thy neck for frighting me! What’s become of the wenching rogues? I think they have swallowed one another. I would laugh at that miracle. Yet, in a sort, lechery eats itself. I’ll seek them.

[_Exit_.]

## SCENE V. Another part of the plain.

Enter Diomedes and a Servant.

DIOMEDES. Go, go, my servant, take thou Troilus’ horse; Present the fair steed to my lady Cressid. Fellow, commend my service to her beauty; Tell her I have chastis’d the amorous Trojan, And am her knight by proof.

SERVANT. I go, my lord.

[_Exit_.]

Enter Agamemnon.

AGAMEMNON. Renew, renew! The fierce Polydamas Hath beat down Menon; bastard Margarelon Hath Doreus prisoner, And stands colossus-wise, waving his beam, Upon the pashed corses of the kings Epistrophus and Cedius. Polixenes is slain; Amphimacus and Thoas deadly hurt; Patroclus ta’en, or slain; and Palamedes Sore hurt and bruis’d. The dreadful Sagittary Appals our numbers. Haste we, Diomed, To reinforcement, or we perish all.

Enter Nestor.

NESTOR. Go, bear Patroclus’ body to Achilles, And bid the snail-pac’d Ajax arm for shame. There is a thousand Hectors in the field; Now here he fights on Galathe his horse, And there lacks work; anon he’s there afoot, And there they fly or die, like scaled sculls Before the belching whale; then is he yonder, And there the strawy Greeks, ripe for his edge, Fall down before him like the mower’s swath. Here, there, and everywhere, he leaves and takes; Dexterity so obeying appetite That what he will he does, and does so much That proof is call’d impossibility.

Enter Ulysses.

ULYSSES. O, courage, courage, courage, Princes! Great Achilles Is arming, weeping, cursing, vowing vengeance. Patroclus’ wounds have rous’d his drowsy blood, Together with his mangled Myrmidons, That noseless, handless, hack’d and chipp’d, come to him, Crying on Hector. Ajax hath lost a friend And foams at mouth, and he is arm’d and at it, Roaring for Troilus; who hath done today Mad and fantastic execution, Engaging and redeeming of himself With such a careless force and forceless care As if that lust, in very spite of cunning, Bade him win all.

Enter Ajax.

AJAX. Troilus! thou coward Troilus!

[_Exit_.]

DIOMEDES. Ay, there, there.

NESTOR. So, so, we draw together.

[_Exit_.]

Enter Achilles.

ACHILLES. Where is this Hector? Come, come, thou boy-queller, show thy face; Know what it is to meet Achilles angry. Hector! where’s Hector? I will none but Hector.

[_Exeunt_.]

## SCENE VI. Another part of the plain.

Enter Ajax.

AJAX. Troilus, thou coward Troilus, show thy head.

Enter Diomedes.

DIOMEDES. Troilus, I say! Where’s Troilus?

AJAX. What wouldst thou?

DIOMEDES. I would correct him.

AJAX. Were I the general, thou shouldst have my office Ere that correction. Troilus, I say! What, Troilus!

Enter Troilus.

TROILUS. O traitor Diomed! Turn thy false face, thou traitor, And pay thy life thou owest me for my horse.

DIOMEDES. Ha! art thou there?

AJAX. I’ll fight with him alone. Stand, Diomed.

DIOMEDES. He is my prize. I will not look upon.

TROILUS. Come, both, you cogging Greeks; have at you both!

[_Exeunt fighting_.]

Enter Hector.

HECTOR. Yea, Troilus? O, well fought, my youngest brother!

Enter Achilles.

ACHILLES. Now do I see thee. Ha! have at thee, Hector!

HECTOR. Pause, if thou wilt.

ACHILLES. I do disdain thy courtesy, proud Trojan. Be happy that my arms are out of use; My rest and negligence befriend thee now, But thou anon shalt hear of me again; Till when, go seek thy fortune.

[_Exit_.]

HECTOR. Fare thee well. I would have been much more a fresher man, Had I expected thee.

Re-enter Troilus.

How now, my brother!

TROILUS. Ajax hath ta’en Aeneas. Shall it be? No, by the flame of yonder glorious heaven, He shall not carry him; I’ll be ta’en too, Or bring him off. Fate, hear me what I say: I reck not though thou end my life today.

[_Exit_.]

Enter one in armour.

HECTOR. Stand, stand, thou Greek; thou art a goodly mark. No? wilt thou not? I like thy armour well; I’ll frush it and unlock the rivets all But I’ll be master of it. Wilt thou not, beast, abide? Why then, fly on; I’ll hunt thee for thy hide.

[_Exeunt_.]

## SCENE VII. Another part of the plain.

Enter Achilles with Myrmidons.

ACHILLES. Come here about me, you my Myrmidons; Mark what I say. Attend me where I wheel; Strike not a stroke, but keep yourselves in breath; And when I have the bloody Hector found, Empale him with your weapons round about; In fellest manner execute your arms. Follow me, sirs, and my proceedings eye. It is decreed Hector the great must die.

[_Exeunt_.]

Enter Menelaus and Paris, fighting; then Thersites.

THERSITES. The cuckold and the cuckold-maker are at it. Now, bull! Now, dog! ’Loo, Paris, ’loo! now my double-hen’d Spartan! ’loo, Paris, ’loo! The bull has the game. ’Ware horns, ho!

[_Exeunt Paris and Menelaus_.]

Enter Margarelon.

MARGARELON. Turn, slave, and fight.

THERSITES. What art thou?

MARGARELON. A bastard son of Priam’s.

THERSITES. I am a bastard too; I love bastards. I am a bastard begot, bastard instructed, bastard in mind, bastard in valour, in everything illegitimate. One bear will not bite another, and wherefore should one bastard? Take heed, the quarrel’s most ominous to us: if the son of a whore fight for a whore, he tempts judgement. Farewell, bastard.

[_Exit_.]

MARGARELON. The devil take thee, coward!

[_Exit_.]

## SCENE VIII. Another part of the plain.

Enter Hector.

HECTOR. Most putrified core so fair without, Thy goodly armour thus hath cost thy life. Now is my day’s work done; I’ll take my breath: Rest, sword; thou hast thy fill of blood and death!

[_Disarms_.]

Enter Achilles and Myrmidons.

ACHILLES. Look, Hector, how the sun begins to set, How ugly night comes breathing at his heels; Even with the vail and dark’ning of the sun, To close the day up, Hector’s life is done.

HECTOR. I am unarm’d; forego this vantage, Greek.

ACHILLES. Strike, fellows, strike; this is the man I seek.

[_Hector falls_.]

So, Ilion, fall thou next! Now, Troy, sink down; Here lies thy heart, thy sinews, and thy bone. On, Myrmidons, and cry you all amain ‘Achilles hath the mighty Hector slain.’

[_A retreat sounded_.]

Hark! a retire upon our Grecian part.

MYRMIDON. The Trojan trumpets sound the like, my lord.

ACHILLES. The dragon wing of night o’erspreads the earth And, stickler-like, the armies separates. My half-supp’d sword, that frankly would have fed, Pleas’d with this dainty bait, thus goes to bed.

[_Sheathes his sword_.]

Come, tie his body to my horse’s tail; Along the field I will the Trojan trail.

[_Exeunt_.]

## SCENE IX. Another part of the plain.

Sound retreat. Shout. Enter Agamemnon, Ajax, Menelaus, Nestor, Diomedes and the rest, marching.

AGAMEMNON. Hark! hark! what shout is this?

NESTOR. Peace, drums!

SOLDIERS. [_Within_.] Achilles! Achilles! Hector’s slain. Achilles!

DIOMEDES. The bruit is, Hector’s slain, and by Achilles.

AJAX. If it be so, yet bragless let it be; Great Hector was as good a man as he.

AGAMEMNON. March patiently along. Let one be sent To pray Achilles see us at our tent. If in his death the gods have us befriended; Great Troy is ours, and our sharp wars are ended.

[_Exeunt_.]

## SCENE X. Another part of the plain.

Enter Aeneas, Paris, Antenor and Deiphobus.

AENEAS. Stand, ho! yet are we masters of the field. Never go home; here starve we out the night.

Enter Troilus.

TROILUS. Hector is slain.

ALL. Hector! The gods forbid!

TROILUS. He’s dead, and at the murderer’s horse’s tail, In beastly sort, dragg’d through the shameful field. Frown on, you heavens, effect your rage with speed. Sit, gods, upon your thrones, and smile at Troy. I say at once let your brief plagues be mercy, And linger not our sure destructions on.

AENEAS. My lord, you do discomfort all the host.

TROILUS. You understand me not that tell me so. I do not speak of flight, of fear of death, But dare all imminence that gods and men Address their dangers in. Hector is gone. Who shall tell Priam so, or Hecuba? Let him that will a screech-owl aye be call’d Go in to Troy, and say there ‘Hector’s dead.’ There is a word will Priam turn to stone; Make wells and Niobes of the maids and wives, Cold statues of the youth; and, in a word, Scare Troy out of itself. But, march away; Hector is dead; there is no more to say. Stay yet. You vile abominable tents, Thus proudly pight upon our Phrygian plains, Let Titan rise as early as he dare, I’ll through and through you. And, thou great-siz’d coward, No space of earth shall sunder our two hates; I’ll haunt thee like a wicked conscience still, That mouldeth goblins swift as frenzy’s thoughts. Strike a free march to Troy. With comfort go; Hope of revenge shall hide our inward woe.

Enter Pandarus.

PANDARUS. But hear you, hear you!

TROILUS. Hence, broker-lackey. Ignominy and shame Pursue thy life, and live aye with thy name!

[_Exeunt all but_ Pandarus.]

PANDARUS. A goodly medicine for my aching bones! O world! world! Thus is the poor agent despis’d! O traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you set a-work, and how ill requited! Why should our endeavour be so lov’d, and the performance so loathed? What verse for it? What instance for it? Let me see—

Full merrily the humble-bee doth sing Till he hath lost his honey and his sting; And being once subdu’d in armed trail, Sweet honey and sweet notes together fail.

Good traders in the flesh, set this in your painted cloths. As many as be here of Pandar’s hall, Your eyes, half out, weep out at Pandar’s fall; Or, if you cannot weep, yet give some groans, Though not for me, yet for your aching bones. Brethren and sisters of the hold-door trade, Some two months hence my will shall here be made. It should be now, but that my fear is this, Some galled goose of Winchester would hiss. Till then I’ll sweat and seek about for eases, And at that time bequeath you my diseases.

[_Exit_.]

TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL

Contents

## ACT I

## Scene I. An Apartment in the Duke’s Palace.

## Scene II. The sea-coast.

## Scene III. A Room in Olivia’s House.

## Scene IV. A Room in the Duke’s Palace.

## Scene V. A Room in Olivia’s House.

## ACT II

## Scene I. The sea-coast.

## Scene II. A street.

## Scene III. A Room in Olivia’s House.

## Scene IV. A Room in the Duke’s Palace.

## Scene V. Olivia’s garden.

## ACT III

## Scene I. Olivia’s garden.

## Scene II. A Room in Olivia’s House.

## Scene III. A street.

## Scene IV. Olivia’s garden.

## ACT IV

## Scene I. The Street before Olivia’s House.

## Scene II. A Room in Olivia’s House.

## Scene III. Olivia’s Garden.

## ACT V

## Scene I. The Street before Olivia’s House.

Dramatis Personæ

ORSINO, Duke of Illyria. VALENTINE, Gentleman attending on the Duke CURIO, Gentleman attending on the Duke VIOLA, in love with the Duke. SEBASTIAN, a young Gentleman, twin brother to Viola. A SEA CAPTAIN, friend to Viola ANTONIO, a Sea Captain, friend to Sebastian. OLIVIA, a rich Countess. MARIA, Olivia’s Woman. SIR TOBY BELCH, Uncle of Olivia. SIR ANDREW AGUECHEEK. MALVOLIO, Steward to Olivia. FABIAN, Servant to Olivia. CLOWN, Servant to Olivia. PRIEST Lords, Sailors, Officers, Musicians, and other Attendants.

SCENE: A City in Illyria; and the Sea-coast near it.

## ACT I.

## SCENE I. An Apartment in the Duke’s Palace.

Enter Orsino, Duke of Illyria, Curio, and other Lords; Musicians attending.

DUKE. If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken and so die. That strain again, it had a dying fall; O, it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour. Enough; no more; ’Tis not so sweet now as it was before. O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou, That notwithstanding thy capacity Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there, Of what validity and pitch soever, But falls into abatement and low price Even in a minute! So full of shapes is fancy, That it alone is high fantastical.

CURIO. Will you go hunt, my lord?

DUKE. What, Curio?

CURIO. The hart.

DUKE. Why so I do, the noblest that I have. O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first, Methought she purg’d the air of pestilence; That instant was I turn’d into a hart, And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds, E’er since pursue me. How now? what news from her?

Enter Valentine.

VALENTINE. So please my lord, I might not be admitted, But from her handmaid do return this answer: The element itself, till seven years’ heat, Shall not behold her face at ample view; But like a cloistress she will veiled walk, And water once a day her chamber round With eye-offending brine: all this to season A brother’s dead love, which she would keep fresh And lasting in her sad remembrance.

DUKE. O, she that hath a heart of that fine frame To pay this debt of love but to a brother, How will she love, when the rich golden shaft Hath kill’d the flock of all affections else That live in her; when liver, brain, and heart, These sovereign thrones, are all supplied and fill’d Her sweet perfections with one self king! Away before me to sweet beds of flowers, Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bowers.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE II. The sea-coast.

Enter Viola, a Captain and Sailors.

VIOLA. What country, friends, is this?

CAPTAIN. This is Illyria, lady.

VIOLA. And what should I do in Illyria? My brother he is in Elysium. Perchance he is not drown’d. What think you, sailors?

CAPTAIN. It is perchance that you yourself were sav’d.

VIOLA. O my poor brother! and so perchance may he be.

CAPTAIN. True, madam; and to comfort you with chance, Assure yourself, after our ship did split, When you, and those poor number sav’d with you, Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother, Most provident in peril, bind himself, (Courage and hope both teaching him the practice) To a strong mast that liv’d upon the sea; Where, like Arion on the dolphin’s back, I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves So long as I could see.

VIOLA. For saying so, there’s gold! Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope, Whereto thy speech serves for authority, The like of him. Know’st thou this country?

CAPTAIN. Ay, madam, well, for I was bred and born Not three hours’ travel from this very place.

VIOLA. Who governs here?

CAPTAIN. A noble duke, in nature as in name.

VIOLA. What is his name?

CAPTAIN. Orsino.

VIOLA. Orsino! I have heard my father name him. He was a bachelor then.

CAPTAIN. And so is now, or was so very late; For but a month ago I went from hence, And then ’twas fresh in murmur, (as, you know, What great ones do, the less will prattle of) That he did seek the love of fair Olivia.

VIOLA. What’s she?

CAPTAIN. A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count That died some twelvemonth since; then leaving her In the protection of his son, her brother, Who shortly also died; for whose dear love They say, she hath abjur’d the company And sight of men.

VIOLA. O that I served that lady, And might not be delivered to the world, Till I had made mine own occasion mellow, What my estate is.

CAPTAIN. That were hard to compass, Because she will admit no kind of suit, No, not the Duke’s.

VIOLA. There is a fair behaviour in thee, Captain; And though that nature with a beauteous wall Doth oft close in pollution, yet of thee I will believe thou hast a mind that suits With this thy fair and outward character. I pray thee, and I’ll pay thee bounteously, Conceal me what I am, and be my aid For such disguise as haply shall become The form of my intent. I’ll serve this duke; Thou shalt present me as an eunuch to him. It may be worth thy pains; for I can sing, And speak to him in many sorts of music, That will allow me very worth his service. What else may hap, to time I will commit; Only shape thou thy silence to my wit.

CAPTAIN. Be you his eunuch and your mute I’ll be; When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see.

VIOLA. I thank thee. Lead me on.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE III. A Room in Olivia’s House.

Enter Sir Toby and Maria.

SIR TOBY. What a plague means my niece to take the death of her brother thus? I am sure care’s an enemy to life.

MARIA. By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier o’ nights; your cousin, my lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours.

SIR TOBY. Why, let her except, before excepted.

MARIA. Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits of order.

SIR TOBY. Confine? I’ll confine myself no finer than I am. These clothes are good enough to drink in, and so be these boots too; and they be not, let them hang themselves in their own straps.

MARIA. That quaffing and drinking will undo you: I heard my lady talk of it yesterday; and of a foolish knight that you brought in one night here to be her wooer.

SIR TOBY. Who? Sir Andrew Aguecheek?

MARIA. Ay, he.

SIR TOBY. He’s as tall a man as any’s in Illyria.

MARIA. What’s that to th’ purpose?

SIR TOBY. Why, he has three thousand ducats a year.

MARIA. Ay, but he’ll have but a year in all these ducats. He’s a very fool, and a prodigal.

SIR TOBY. Fie, that you’ll say so! he plays o’ the viol-de-gamboys, and speaks three or four languages word for word without book, and hath all the good gifts of nature.

MARIA. He hath indeed, almost natural: for, besides that he’s a fool, he’s a great quarreller; and, but that he hath the gift of a coward to allay the gust he hath in quarrelling, ’tis thought among the prudent he would quickly have the gift of a grave.

SIR TOBY. By this hand, they are scoundrels and substractors that say so of him. Who are they?

MARIA. They that add, moreover, he’s drunk nightly in your company.

SIR TOBY. With drinking healths to my niece; I’ll drink to her as long as there is a passage in my throat, and drink in Illyria. He’s a coward and a coystril that will not drink to my niece till his brains turn o’ the toe like a parish top. What, wench! _Castiliano vulgo:_ for here comes Sir Andrew Agueface.

Enter Sir Andrew.

AGUECHEEK. Sir Toby Belch! How now, Sir Toby Belch?

SIR TOBY. Sweet Sir Andrew!

SIR ANDREW. Bless you, fair shrew.

MARIA. And you too, sir.

SIR TOBY. Accost, Sir Andrew, accost.

SIR ANDREW. What’s that?

SIR TOBY. My niece’s chamber-maid.

SIR ANDREW. Good Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance.

MARIA. My name is Mary, sir.

SIR ANDREW. Good Mistress Mary Accost,—

SIR TOBY. You mistake, knight: accost is front her, board her, woo her, assail her.

SIR ANDREW. By my troth, I would not undertake her in this company. Is that the meaning of accost?

MARIA. Fare you well, gentlemen.

SIR TOBY. And thou let part so, Sir Andrew, would thou mightst never draw sword again.

SIR ANDREW. And you part so, mistress, I would I might never draw sword again. Fair lady, do you think you have fools in hand?

MARIA. Sir, I have not you by the hand.

SIR ANDREW. Marry, but you shall have, and here’s my hand.

MARIA. Now, sir, thought is free. I pray you, bring your hand to th’ buttery bar and let it drink.

SIR ANDREW. Wherefore, sweetheart? What’s your metaphor?

MARIA. It’s dry, sir.

SIR ANDREW. Why, I think so; I am not such an ass but I can keep my hand dry. But what’s your jest?

MARIA. A dry jest, sir.

SIR ANDREW. Are you full of them?

MARIA. Ay, sir, I have them at my fingers’ ends: marry, now I let go your hand, I am barren.

[_Exit Maria._]

SIR TOBY. O knight, thou lack’st a cup of canary: When did I see thee so put down?

SIR ANDREW. Never in your life, I think, unless you see canary put me down. Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian or an ordinary man has; but I am a great eater of beef, and I believe that does harm to my wit.

SIR TOBY. No question.

SIR ANDREW. And I thought that, I’d forswear it. I’ll ride home tomorrow, Sir Toby.

SIR TOBY. _Pourquoy_, my dear knight?

SIR ANDREW. What is _pourquoy?_ Do, or not do? I would I had bestowed that time in the tongues that I have in fencing, dancing, and bear-baiting. O, had I but followed the arts!

SIR TOBY. Then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair.

SIR ANDREW. Why, would that have mended my hair?

SIR TOBY. Past question; for thou seest it will not curl by nature.

SIR ANDREW. But it becomes me well enough, does’t not?

SIR TOBY. Excellent, it hangs like flax on a distaff; and I hope to see a huswife take thee between her legs, and spin it off.

SIR ANDREW. Faith, I’ll home tomorrow, Sir Toby; your niece will not be seen, or if she be, it’s four to one she’ll none of me; the Count himself here hard by woos her.

SIR TOBY. She’ll none o’ the Count; she’ll not match above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I have heard her swear’t. Tut, there’s life in’t, man.

SIR ANDREW. I’ll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o’ the strangest mind i’ the world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes altogether.

SIR TOBY. Art thou good at these kick-shawses, knight?

SIR ANDREW. As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the degree of my betters; and yet I will not compare with an old man.

SIR TOBY. What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight?

SIR ANDREW. Faith, I can cut a caper.

SIR TOBY. And I can cut the mutton to’t.

SIR ANDREW. And I think I have the back-trick simply as strong as any man in Illyria.

SIR TOBY. Wherefore are these things hid? Wherefore have these gifts a curtain before ’em? Are they like to take dust, like Mistress Mall’s picture? Why dost thou not go to church in a galliard, and come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a jig; I would not so much as make water but in a sink-a-pace. What dost thou mean? Is it a world to hide virtues in? I did think, by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was formed under the star of a galliard.

SIR ANDREW. Ay, ’tis strong, and it does indifferent well in a dam’d-colour’d stock. Shall we set about some revels?

SIR TOBY. What shall we do else? Were we not born under Taurus?

SIR ANDREW. Taurus? That’s sides and heart.

SIR TOBY. No, sir, it is legs and thighs. Let me see thee caper. Ha, higher: ha, ha, excellent!

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE IV. A Room in the Duke’s Palace.

Enter Valentine and Viola in man’s attire.

VALENTINE. If the duke continue these favours towards you, Cesario, you are like to be much advanced; he hath known you but three days, and already you are no stranger.

VIOLA. You either fear his humour or my negligence, that you call in question the continuance of his love. Is he inconstant, sir, in his favours?

VALENTINE. No, believe me.

Enter Duke, Curio and Attendants.

VIOLA. I thank you. Here comes the Count.

DUKE. Who saw Cesario, ho?

VIOLA. On your attendance, my lord, here.

DUKE. Stand you awhile aloof.—Cesario, Thou know’st no less but all; I have unclasp’d To thee the book even of my secret soul. Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her, Be not denied access, stand at her doors, And tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow Till thou have audience.

VIOLA. Sure, my noble lord, If she be so abandon’d to her sorrow As it is spoke, she never will admit me.

DUKE. Be clamorous and leap all civil bounds, Rather than make unprofited return.

VIOLA. Say I do speak with her, my lord, what then?

DUKE. O then unfold the passion of my love, Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith; It shall become thee well to act my woes; She will attend it better in thy youth, Than in a nuncio’s of more grave aspect.

VIOLA. I think not so, my lord.

DUKE. Dear lad, believe it; For they shall yet belie thy happy years, That say thou art a man: Diana’s lip Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe Is as the maiden’s organ, shrill and sound, And all is semblative a woman’s part. I know thy constellation is right apt For this affair. Some four or five attend him: All, if you will; for I myself am best When least in company. Prosper well in this, And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord, To call his fortunes thine.

VIOLA. I’ll do my best To woo your lady. [_Aside._] Yet, a barful strife! Whoe’er I woo, myself would be his wife.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE V. A Room in Olivia’s House.

Enter Maria and Clown.

MARIA. Nay; either tell me where thou hast been, or I will not open my lips so wide as a bristle may enter, in way of thy excuse: my lady will hang thee for thy absence.

CLOWN. Let her hang me: he that is well hanged in this world needs to fear no colours.

MARIA. Make that good.

CLOWN. He shall see none to fear.

MARIA. A good lenten answer. I can tell thee where that saying was born, of I fear no colours.

CLOWN. Where, good Mistress Mary?

MARIA. In the wars, and that may you be bold to say in your foolery.

CLOWN. Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are fools, let them use their talents.

MARIA. Yet you will be hanged for being so long absent; or to be turned away; is not that as good as a hanging to you?

CLOWN. Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage; and for turning away, let summer bear it out.

MARIA. You are resolute then?

CLOWN. Not so, neither, but I am resolved on two points.

MARIA. That if one break, the other will hold; or if both break, your gaskins fall.

CLOWN. Apt, in good faith, very apt! Well, go thy way; if Sir Toby would leave drinking, thou wert as witty a piece of Eve’s flesh as any in Illyria.

MARIA. Peace, you rogue, no more o’ that. Here comes my lady: make your excuse wisely, you were best.

[_Exit._]

Enter Olivia with Malvolio.

CLOWN. Wit, and’t be thy will, put me into good fooling! Those wits that think they have thee, do very oft prove fools; and I that am sure I lack thee, may pass for a wise man. For what says Quinapalus? Better a witty fool than a foolish wit. God bless thee, lady!

OLIVIA. Take the fool away.

CLOWN. Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the lady.

OLIVIA. Go to, y’are a dry fool; I’ll no more of you. Besides, you grow dishonest.

CLOWN. Two faults, madonna, that drink and good counsel will amend: for give the dry fool drink, then is the fool not dry; bid the dishonest man mend himself, if he mend, he is no longer dishonest; if he cannot, let the botcher mend him. Anything that’s mended is but patched; virtue that transgresses is but patched with sin, and sin that amends is but patched with virtue. If that this simple syllogism will serve, so; if it will not, what remedy? As there is no true cuckold but calamity, so beauty’s a flower. The lady bade take away the fool, therefore, I say again, take her away.

OLIVIA. Sir, I bade them take away you.

CLOWN. Misprision in the highest degree! Lady, _cucullus non facit monachum:_ that’s as much to say, I wear not motley in my brain. Good madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool.

OLIVIA. Can you do it?

CLOWN. Dexteriously, good madonna.

OLIVIA. Make your proof.

CLOWN. I must catechize you for it, madonna. Good my mouse of virtue, answer me.

OLIVIA. Well sir, for want of other idleness, I’ll ’bide your proof.

CLOWN. Good madonna, why mourn’st thou?

OLIVIA. Good fool, for my brother’s death.

CLOWN. I think his soul is in hell, madonna.

OLIVIA. I know his soul is in heaven, fool.

CLOWN. The more fool you, madonna, to mourn for your brother’s soul being in heaven. Take away the fool, gentlemen.

OLIVIA. What think you of this fool, Malvolio? doth he not mend?

MALVOLIO. Yes; and shall do, till the pangs of death shake him. Infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever make the better fool.

CLOWN. God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the better increasing your folly! Sir Toby will be sworn that I am no fox; but he will not pass his word for twopence that you are no fool.

OLIVIA. How say you to that, Malvolio?

MALVOLIO. I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a barren rascal; I saw him put down the other day with an ordinary fool, that has no more brain than a stone. Look you now, he’s out of his guard already; unless you laugh and minister occasion to him, he is gagged. I protest I take these wise men, that crow so at these set kind of fools, no better than the fools’ zanies.

OLIVIA. O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distempered appetite. To be generous, guiltless, and of free disposition, is to take those things for bird-bolts that you deem cannon bullets. There is no slander in an allowed fool, though he do nothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet man, though he do nothing but reprove.

CLOWN. Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou speak’st well of fools!

Enter Maria.

MARIA. Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman much desires to speak with you.

OLIVIA. From the Count Orsino, is it?

MARIA. I know not, madam; ’tis a fair young man, and well attended.

OLIVIA. Who of my people hold him in delay?

MARIA. Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman.

OLIVIA. Fetch him off, I pray you; he speaks nothing but madman. Fie on him!

[_Exit Maria._]

Go you, Malvolio. If it be a suit from the Count, I am sick, or not at home. What you will, to dismiss it.

[_Exit Malvolio._]

Now you see, sir, how your fooling grows old, and people dislike it.

CLOWN. Thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as if thy eldest son should be a fool: whose skull Jove cram with brains, for here he comes, one of thy kin has a most weak _pia mater_.

Enter Sir Toby.

OLIVIA. By mine honour, half drunk. What is he at the gate, cousin?

SIR TOBY. A gentleman.

OLIVIA. A gentleman? What gentleman?

SIR TOBY. ’Tis a gentleman here. A plague o’ these pickle-herrings! How now, sot?

CLOWN. Good Sir Toby.

OLIVIA. Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early by this lethargy?

SIR TOBY. Lechery! I defy lechery. There’s one at the gate.

OLIVIA. Ay, marry, what is he?

SIR TOBY. Let him be the devil an he will, I care not: give me faith, say I. Well, it’s all one.

[_Exit._]

OLIVIA. What’s a drunken man like, fool?

CLOWN. Like a drowned man, a fool, and a madman: one draught above heat makes him a fool, the second mads him, and a third drowns him.

OLIVIA. Go thou and seek the coroner, and let him sit o’ my coz; for he’s in the third degree of drink; he’s drowned. Go, look after him.

CLOWN. He is but mad yet, madonna; and the fool shall look to the madman.

[_Exit Clown._]

Enter Malvolio.

MALVOLIO. Madam, yond young fellow swears he will speak with you. I told him you were sick; he takes on him to understand so much, and therefore comes to speak with you. I told him you were asleep; he seems to have a foreknowledge of that too, and therefore comes to speak with you. What is to be said to him, lady? He’s fortified against any denial.

OLIVIA. Tell him, he shall not speak with me.

MALVOLIO. Has been told so; and he says he’ll stand at your door like a sheriff’s post, and be the supporter of a bench, but he’ll speak with you.

OLIVIA. What kind o’ man is he?

MALVOLIO. Why, of mankind.

OLIVIA. What manner of man?

MALVOLIO. Of very ill manner; he’ll speak with you, will you or no.

OLIVIA. Of what personage and years is he?

MALVOLIO. Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy; as a squash is before ’tis a peascod, or a codling, when ’tis almost an apple. ’Tis with him in standing water, between boy and man. He is very well-favoured, and he speaks very shrewishly. One would think his mother’s milk were scarce out of him.

OLIVIA. Let him approach. Call in my gentlewoman.

MALVOLIO. Gentlewoman, my lady calls.

[_Exit._]

Enter Maria.

OLIVIA. Give me my veil; come, throw it o’er my face. We’ll once more hear Orsino’s embassy.

Enter Viola.

VIOLA. The honourable lady of the house, which is she?

OLIVIA. Speak to me; I shall answer for her. Your will?

VIOLA. Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty,—I pray you, tell me if this be the lady of the house, for I never saw her. I would be loath to cast away my speech; for besides that it is excellently well penned, I have taken great pains to con it. Good beauties, let me sustain no scorn; I am very comptible, even to the least sinister usage.

OLIVIA. Whence came you, sir?

VIOLA. I can say little more than I have studied, and that question’s out of my part. Good gentle one, give me modest assurance, if you be the lady of the house, that I may proceed in my speech.

OLIVIA. Are you a comedian?

VIOLA. No, my profound heart: and yet, by the very fangs of malice I swear, I am not that I play. Are you the lady of the house?

OLIVIA. If I do not usurp myself, I am.

VIOLA. Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp yourself; for what is yours to bestow is not yours to reserve. But this is from my commission. I will on with my speech in your praise, and then show you the heart of my message.

OLIVIA. Come to what is important in’t: I forgive you the praise.

VIOLA. Alas, I took great pains to study it, and ’tis poetical.

OLIVIA. It is the more like to be feigned; I pray you keep it in. I heard you were saucy at my gates; and allowed your approach, rather to wonder at you than to hear you. If you be mad, be gone; if you have reason, be brief: ’tis not that time of moon with me to make one in so skipping a dialogue.

MARIA. Will you hoist sail, sir? Here lies your way.

VIOLA. No, good swabber, I am to hull here a little longer. Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady. Tell me your mind. I am a messenger.

OLIVIA. Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver, when the courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak your office.

VIOLA. It alone concerns your ear. I bring no overture of war, no taxation of homage; I hold the olive in my hand: my words are as full of peace as matter.

OLIVIA. Yet you began rudely. What are you? What would you?

VIOLA. The rudeness that hath appeared in me have I learned from my entertainment. What I am and what I would are as secret as maidenhead: to your ears, divinity; to any other’s, profanation.

OLIVIA. Give us the place alone: we will hear this divinity.

[_Exit Maria._]

Now, sir, what is your text?

VIOLA. Most sweet lady—

OLIVIA. A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it. Where lies your text?

VIOLA. In Orsino’s bosom.

OLIVIA. In his bosom? In what chapter of his bosom?

VIOLA. To answer by the method, in the first of his heart.

OLIVIA. O, I have read it; it is heresy. Have you no more to say?

VIOLA. Good madam, let me see your face.

OLIVIA. Have you any commission from your lord to negotiate with my face? You are now out of your text: but we will draw the curtain and show you the picture. [_Unveiling._] Look you, sir, such a one I was this present. Is’t not well done?

VIOLA. Excellently done, if God did all.

OLIVIA. ’Tis in grain, sir; ’twill endure wind and weather.

VIOLA. ’Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white Nature’s own sweet and cunning hand laid on. Lady, you are the cruel’st she alive If you will lead these graces to the grave, And leave the world no copy.

OLIVIA. O, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted; I will give out divers schedules of my beauty. It shall be inventoried and every particle and utensil labelled to my will: as, item, two lips indifferent red; item, two grey eyes with lids to them; item, one neck, one chin, and so forth. Were you sent hither to praise me?

VIOLA. I see you what you are, you are too proud; But, if you were the devil, you are fair. My lord and master loves you. O, such love Could be but recompens’d though you were crown’d The nonpareil of beauty!

OLIVIA. How does he love me?

VIOLA. With adorations, fertile tears, With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.

OLIVIA. Your lord does know my mind, I cannot love him: Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble, Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth; In voices well divulg’d, free, learn’d, and valiant, And in dimension and the shape of nature, A gracious person. But yet I cannot love him. He might have took his answer long ago.

VIOLA. If I did love you in my master’s flame, With such a suff’ring, such a deadly life, In your denial I would find no sense, I would not understand it.

OLIVIA. Why, what would you?

VIOLA. Make me a willow cabin at your gate, And call upon my soul within the house; Write loyal cantons of contemned love, And sing them loud even in the dead of night; Hallow your name to the reverberate hills, And make the babbling gossip of the air Cry out Olivia! O, you should not rest Between the elements of air and earth, But you should pity me.

OLIVIA. You might do much. What is your parentage?

VIOLA. Above my fortunes, yet my state is well: I am a gentleman.

OLIVIA. Get you to your lord; I cannot love him: let him send no more, Unless, perchance, you come to me again, To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well: I thank you for your pains: spend this for me.

VIOLA. I am no fee’d post, lady; keep your purse; My master, not myself, lacks recompense. Love make his heart of flint that you shall love, And let your fervour like my master’s be Plac’d in contempt. Farewell, fair cruelty.

[_Exit._]

OLIVIA. What is your parentage? ‘Above my fortunes, yet my state is well: I am a gentleman.’ I’ll be sworn thou art; Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit, Do give thee five-fold blazon. Not too fast: soft, soft! Unless the master were the man. How now? Even so quickly may one catch the plague? Methinks I feel this youth’s perfections With an invisible and subtle stealth To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be. What ho, Malvolio!

Enter Malvolio.

MALVOLIO. Here, madam, at your service.

OLIVIA. Run after that same peevish messenger The County’s man: he left this ring behind him, Would I or not; tell him, I’ll none of it. Desire him not to flatter with his lord, Nor hold him up with hopes; I am not for him. If that the youth will come this way tomorrow, I’ll give him reasons for’t. Hie thee, Malvolio.

MALVOLIO. Madam, I will.

[_Exit._]

OLIVIA. I do I know not what, and fear to find Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind. Fate, show thy force, ourselves we do not owe. What is decreed must be; and be this so!

[_Exit._]

## ACT II.

## SCENE I. The sea-coast.

Enter Antonio and Sebastian.

ANTONIO. Will you stay no longer? Nor will you not that I go with you?

SEBASTIAN. By your patience, no; my stars shine darkly over me; the malignancy of my fate might perhaps distemper yours; therefore I shall crave of you your leave that I may bear my evils alone. It were a bad recompense for your love, to lay any of them on you.

ANTONIO. Let me know of you whither you are bound.

SEBASTIAN. No, sooth, sir; my determinate voyage is mere extravagancy. But I perceive in you so excellent a touch of modesty, that you will not extort from me what I am willing to keep in. Therefore it charges me in manners the rather to express myself. You must know of me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian, which I called Roderigo; my father was that Sebastian of Messaline whom I know you have heard of. He left behind him myself and a sister, both born in an hour. If the heavens had been pleased, would we had so ended! But you, sir, altered that, for some hour before you took me from the breach of the sea was my sister drowned.

ANTONIO. Alas the day!

SEBASTIAN. A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled me, was yet of many accounted beautiful. But though I could not with such estimable wonder overfar believe that, yet thus far I will boldly publish her, she bore a mind that envy could not but call fair. She is drowned already, sir, with salt water, though I seem to drown her remembrance again with more.

ANTONIO. Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment.

SEBASTIAN. O good Antonio, forgive me your trouble.

ANTONIO. If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant.

SEBASTIAN. If you will not undo what you have done, that is, kill him whom you have recovered, desire it not. Fare ye well at once; my bosom is full of kindness, and I am yet so near the manners of my mother, that upon the least occasion more, mine eyes will tell tales of me. I am bound to the Count Orsino’s court: farewell.

[_Exit._]

ANTONIO. The gentleness of all the gods go with thee! I have many enemies in Orsino’s court, Else would I very shortly see thee there: But come what may, I do adore thee so, That danger shall seem sport, and I will go.

[_Exit._]

## SCENE II. A street.

Enter Viola; Malvolio at several doors.

MALVOLIO. Were you not even now with the Countess Olivia?

VIOLA. Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since arrived but hither.

MALVOLIO. She returns this ring to you, sir; you might have saved me my pains, to have taken it away yourself. She adds, moreover, that you should put your lord into a desperate assurance she will none of him. And one thing more, that you be never so hardy to come again in his affairs, unless it be to report your lord’s taking of this. Receive it so.

VIOLA. She took the ring of me: I’ll none of it.

MALVOLIO. Come sir, you peevishly threw it to her; and her will is it should be so returned. If it be worth stooping for, there it lies in your eye; if not, be it his that finds it.

[_Exit._]

VIOLA. I left no ring with her; what means this lady? Fortune forbid my outside have not charm’d her! She made good view of me, indeed, so much, That methought her eyes had lost her tongue, For she did speak in starts distractedly. She loves me, sure, the cunning of her passion Invites me in this churlish messenger. None of my lord’s ring? Why, he sent her none. I am the man; if it be so, as ’tis, Poor lady, she were better love a dream. Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness Wherein the pregnant enemy does much. How easy is it for the proper false In women’s waxen hearts to set their forms! Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we, For such as we are made of, such we be. How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly, And I, poor monster, fond as much on him, And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me. What will become of this? As I am man, My state is desperate for my master’s love; As I am woman (now alas the day!) What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe! O time, thou must untangle this, not I, It is too hard a knot for me t’untie!

[_Exit._]

## SCENE III. A Room in Olivia’s House.

Enter Sir Toby and Sir Andrew.

SIR TOBY. Approach, Sir Andrew; not to be abed after midnight, is to be up betimes; and _diluculo surgere_, thou know’st.

SIR ANDREW. Nay, by my troth, I know not; but I know to be up late is to be up late.

SIR TOBY. A false conclusion; I hate it as an unfilled can. To be up after midnight, and to go to bed then is early: so that to go to bed after midnight is to go to bed betimes. Does not our lives consist of the four elements?

SIR ANDREW. Faith, so they say, but I think it rather consists of eating and drinking.

SIR TOBY. Th’art a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink. Marian, I say! a stoup of wine.

Enter Clown.

SIR ANDREW. Here comes the fool, i’ faith.

CLOWN. How now, my hearts? Did you never see the picture of “we three”?

SIR TOBY. Welcome, ass. Now let’s have a catch.

SIR ANDREW. By my troth, the fool has an excellent breast. I had rather than forty shillings I had such a leg, and so sweet a breath to sing, as the fool has. In sooth, thou wast in very gracious fooling last night when thou spok’st of Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus; ’twas very good, i’ faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy leman. Hadst it?

CLOWN. I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio’s nose is no whipstock. My lady has a white hand, and the Myrmidons are no bottle-ale houses.

SIR ANDREW. Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling, when all is done. Now, a song.

SIR TOBY. Come on, there is sixpence for you. Let’s have a song.

SIR ANDREW. There’s a testril of me too: if one knight give a—

CLOWN. Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life?

SIR TOBY. A love-song, a love-song.

SIR ANDREW. Ay, ay. I care not for good life.

CLOWN. [_sings._] _O mistress mine, where are you roaming? O stay and hear, your true love’s coming, That can sing both high and low. Trip no further, pretty sweeting. Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man’s son doth know._

SIR ANDREW. Excellent good, i’ faith.

SIR TOBY. Good, good.

CLOWN. _What is love? ’Tis not hereafter, Present mirth hath present laughter. What’s to come is still unsure. In delay there lies no plenty, Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty. Youth’s a stuff will not endure._

SIR ANDREW. A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight.

SIR TOBY. A contagious breath.

SIR ANDREW. Very sweet and contagious, i’ faith.

SIR TOBY. To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion. But shall we make the welkin dance indeed? Shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch that will draw three souls out of one weaver? Shall we do that?

SIR ANDREW. And you love me, let’s do’t: I am dog at a catch.

CLOWN. By’r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.

SIR ANDREW. Most certain. Let our catch be, “Thou knave.”

CLOWN. “Hold thy peace, thou knave” knight? I shall be constrain’d in’t to call thee knave, knight.

SIR ANDREW. ’Tis not the first time I have constrained one to call me knave. Begin, fool; it begins “Hold thy peace.”

CLOWN. I shall never begin if I hold my peace.

SIR ANDREW. Good, i’ faith! Come, begin.

[_Catch sung._]

Enter Maria.

MARIA. What a caterwauling do you keep here! If my lady have not called up her steward Malvolio, and bid him turn you out of doors, never trust me.

SIR TOBY. My lady’s a Cataian, we are politicians, Malvolio’s a Peg-a-Ramsey, and [_Sings._] _Three merry men be we._ Am not I consanguineous? Am I not of her blood? Tilly-vally! “Lady”! _There dwelt a man in Babylon, Lady, Lady._

CLOWN. Beshrew me, the knight’s in admirable fooling.

SIR ANDREW. Ay, he does well enough if he be disposed, and so do I too; he does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural.

SIR TOBY. [_Sings._] _O’ the twelfth day of December—_

MARIA. For the love o’ God, peace!

Enter Malvolio.

MALVOLIO. My masters, are you mad? Or what are you? Have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night? Do ye make an ale-house of my lady’s house, that ye squeak out your coziers’ catches without any mitigation or remorse of voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time, in you?

SIR TOBY. We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up!

MALVOLIO. Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell you that, though she harbours you as her kinsman she’s nothing allied to your disorders. If you can separate yourself and your misdemeanours, you are welcome to the house; if not, and it would please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell.

SIR TOBY. [_Sings._] _Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone._

MARIA. Nay, good Sir Toby.

CLOWN. [_Sings._] _His eyes do show his days are almost done._

MALVOLIO. Is’t even so?

SIR TOBY. [_Sings._] _But I will never die._

CLOWN. [_Sings._] _Sir Toby, there you lie._

MALVOLIO. This is much credit to you.

SIR TOBY. [_Sings._] _Shall I bid him go?_

CLOWN. [_Sings._] _What and if you do?_

SIR TOBY. [_Sings._] _Shall I bid him go, and spare not?_

CLOWN. [_Sings._] _O, no, no, no, no, you dare not._

SIR TOBY. Out o’ tune? sir, ye lie. Art any more than a steward? Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?

CLOWN. Yes, by Saint Anne, and ginger shall be hot i’ the mouth too.

SIR TOBY. Th’art i’ the right. Go, sir, rub your chain with crumbs. A stoup of wine, Maria!

MALVOLIO. Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady’s favour at anything more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule; she shall know of it, by this hand.

[_Exit._]

MARIA. Go shake your ears.

SIR ANDREW. ’Twere as good a deed as to drink when a man’s a-hungry, to challenge him the field, and then to break promise with him and make a fool of him.

SIR TOBY. Do’t, knight. I’ll write thee a challenge; or I’ll deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth.

MARIA. Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for tonight. Since the youth of the Count’s was today with my lady, she is much out of quiet. For Monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with him. If I do not gull him into a nayword, and make him a common recreation, do not think I have wit enough to lie straight in my bed. I know I can do it.

SIR TOBY. Possess us, possess us, tell us something of him.

MARIA. Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of Puritan.

SIR ANDREW. O, if I thought that, I’d beat him like a dog.

SIR TOBY. What, for being a Puritan? Thy exquisite reason, dear knight?

SIR ANDREW. I have no exquisite reason for’t, but I have reason good enough.

MARIA. The devil a Puritan that he is, or anything constantly but a time-pleaser, an affectioned ass that cons state without book and utters it by great swarths; the best persuaded of himself, so crammed (as he thinks) with excellencies, that it is his grounds of faith that all that look on him love him. And on that vice in him will my revenge find notable cause to work.

SIR TOBY. What wilt thou do?

MARIA. I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of love, wherein by the colour of his beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of his gait, the expressure of his eye, forehead, and complexion, he shall find himself most feelingly personated. I can write very like my lady your niece; on a forgotten matter we can hardly make distinction of our hands.

SIR TOBY. Excellent! I smell a device.

SIR ANDREW. I have’t in my nose too.

SIR TOBY. He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that they come from my niece, and that she is in love with him.

MARIA. My purpose is indeed a horse of that colour.

SIR ANDREW. And your horse now would make him an ass.

MARIA. Ass, I doubt not.

SIR ANDREW. O ’twill be admirable!

MARIA. Sport royal, I warrant you. I know my physic will work with him. I will plant you two, and let the fool make a third, where he shall find the letter. Observe his construction of it. For this night, to bed, and dream on the event. Farewell.

[_Exit._]

SIR TOBY. Good night, Penthesilea.

SIR ANDREW. Before me, she’s a good wench.

SIR TOBY. She’s a beagle true bred, and one that adores me. What o’ that?

SIR ANDREW. I was adored once too.

SIR TOBY. Let’s to bed, knight. Thou hadst need send for more money.

SIR ANDREW. If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out.

SIR TOBY. Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i’ th’ end, call me cut.

SIR ANDREW. If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will.

SIR TOBY. Come, come, I’ll go burn some sack, ’tis too late to go to bed now. Come, knight, come, knight.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE IV. A Room in the Duke’s Palace.

Enter Duke, Viola, Curio and others.

DUKE. Give me some music. Now, good morrow, friends. Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song, That old and antique song we heard last night; Methought it did relieve my passion much, More than light airs and recollected terms Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times. Come, but one verse.

CURIO. He is not here, so please your lordship, that should sing it.

DUKE. Who was it?

CURIO. Feste, the jester, my lord, a fool that the Lady Olivia’s father took much delight in. He is about the house.

DUKE. Seek him out, and play the tune the while.

[_Exit Curio. Music plays._]

Come hither, boy. If ever thou shalt love, In the sweet pangs of it remember me: For such as I am, all true lovers are, Unstaid and skittish in all motions else, Save in the constant image of the creature That is belov’d. How dost thou like this tune?

VIOLA. It gives a very echo to the seat Where love is throned.

DUKE. Thou dost speak masterly. My life upon’t, young though thou art, thine eye Hath stayed upon some favour that it loves. Hath it not, boy?

VIOLA. A little, by your favour.

DUKE. What kind of woman is’t?

VIOLA. Of your complexion.

DUKE. She is not worth thee, then. What years, i’ faith?

VIOLA. About your years, my lord.

DUKE. Too old, by heaven! Let still the woman take An elder than herself; so wears she to him, So sways she level in her husband’s heart. For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn, Than women’s are.

VIOLA. I think it well, my lord.

DUKE. Then let thy love be younger than thyself, Or thy affection cannot hold the bent: For women are as roses, whose fair flower Being once display’d, doth fall that very hour.

VIOLA. And so they are: alas, that they are so; To die, even when they to perfection grow!

Enter Curio and Clown.

DUKE. O, fellow, come, the song we had last night. Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain; The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, And the free maids, that weave their thread with bones Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love Like the old age.

CLOWN. Are you ready, sir?

DUKE. Ay; prithee, sing.

[_Music._]

The Clown’s song.

_ Come away, come away, death. And in sad cypress let me be laid. Fly away, fly away, breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O, prepare it! My part of death no one so true Did share it._

_ Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be strown: Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse where my bones shall be thrown: A thousand thousand sighs to save, Lay me, O, where Sad true lover never find my grave, To weep there._

DUKE. There’s for thy pains.

CLOWN. No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, sir.

DUKE. I’ll pay thy pleasure, then.

CLOWN. Truly sir, and pleasure will be paid one time or another.

DUKE. Give me now leave to leave thee.

CLOWN. Now the melancholy god protect thee, and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal. I would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business might be everything, and their intent everywhere, for that’s it that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewell.

[_Exit Clown._]

DUKE. Let all the rest give place.

[_Exeunt Curio and Attendants._]

Once more, Cesario, Get thee to yond same sovereign cruelty. Tell her my love, more noble than the world, Prizes not quantity of dirty lands; The parts that fortune hath bestow’d upon her, Tell her I hold as giddily as fortune; But ’tis that miracle and queen of gems That nature pranks her in attracts my soul.

VIOLA. But if she cannot love you, sir?

DUKE. I cannot be so answer’d.

VIOLA. Sooth, but you must. Say that some lady, as perhaps there is, Hath for your love as great a pang of heart As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her; You tell her so. Must she not then be answer’d?

DUKE. There is no woman’s sides Can bide the beating of so strong a passion As love doth give my heart: no woman’s heart So big, to hold so much; they lack retention. Alas, their love may be called appetite, No motion of the liver, but the palate, That suffer surfeit, cloyment, and revolt; But mine is all as hungry as the sea, And can digest as much. Make no compare Between that love a woman can bear me And that I owe Olivia.

VIOLA. Ay, but I know—

DUKE. What dost thou know?

VIOLA. Too well what love women to men may owe. In faith, they are as true of heart as we. My father had a daughter loved a man, As it might be perhaps, were I a woman, I should your lordship.

DUKE. And what’s her history?

VIOLA. A blank, my lord. She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i’ th’ bud, Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed? We men may say more, swear more, but indeed, Our shows are more than will; for still we prove Much in our vows, but little in our love.

DUKE. But died thy sister of her love, my boy?

VIOLA. I am all the daughters of my father’s house, And all the brothers too: and yet I know not. Sir, shall I to this lady?

DUKE. Ay, that’s the theme. To her in haste. Give her this jewel; say My love can give no place, bide no denay.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE V. Olivia’s garden.

Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew and Fabian.

SIR TOBY. Come thy ways, Signior Fabian.

FABIAN. Nay, I’ll come. If I lose a scruple of this sport, let me be boiled to death with melancholy.

SIR TOBY. Wouldst thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally sheep-biter come by some notable shame?

FABIAN. I would exult, man. You know he brought me out o’ favour with my lady about a bear-baiting here.

SIR TOBY. To anger him we’ll have the bear again, and we will fool him black and blue, shall we not, Sir Andrew?

SIR ANDREW. And we do not, it is pity of our lives.

Enter Maria.

SIR TOBY. Here comes the little villain. How now, my metal of India?

MARIA. Get ye all three into the box-tree. Malvolio’s coming down this walk; he has been yonder i’ the sun practising behaviour to his own shadow this half hour: observe him, for the love of mockery; for I know this letter will make a contemplative idiot of him. Close, in the name of jesting! [_The men hide themselves._] Lie thou there; [_Throws down a letter_] for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling.

[_Exit Maria._]

Enter Malvolio.

MALVOLIO. ’Tis but fortune, all is fortune. Maria once told me she did affect me, and I have heard herself come thus near, that should she fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Besides, she uses me with a more exalted respect than anyone else that follows her. What should I think on’t?

SIR TOBY. Here’s an overweening rogue!

FABIAN. O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him; how he jets under his advanced plumes!

SIR ANDREW. ’Slight, I could so beat the rogue!

SIR TOBY. Peace, I say.

MALVOLIO. To be Count Malvolio.

SIR TOBY. Ah, rogue!

SIR ANDREW. Pistol him, pistol him.

SIR TOBY. Peace, peace.

MALVOLIO. There is example for’t. The lady of the Strachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe.

SIR ANDREW. Fie on him, Jezebel!

FABIAN. O, peace! now he’s deeply in; look how imagination blows him.

MALVOLIO. Having been three months married to her, sitting in my state—

SIR TOBY. O for a stone-bow to hit him in the eye!

MALVOLIO. Calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet gown; having come from a day-bed, where I have left Olivia sleeping.

SIR TOBY. Fire and brimstone!

FABIAN. O, peace, peace.

MALVOLIO. And then to have the humour of state; and after a demure travel of regard, telling them I know my place as I would they should do theirs, to ask for my kinsman Toby.

SIR TOBY. Bolts and shackles!

FABIAN. O, peace, peace, peace! Now, now.

MALVOLIO. Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make out for him. I frown the while, and perchance wind up my watch, or play with some rich jewel. Toby approaches; curtsies there to me—

SIR TOBY. Shall this fellow live?

FABIAN. Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace!

MALVOLIO. I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile with an austere regard of control—

SIR TOBY. And does not Toby take you a blow o’ the lips then?

MALVOLIO. Saying ‘Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your niece, give me this prerogative of speech—’

SIR TOBY. What, what?

MALVOLIO. ‘You must amend your drunkenness.’

SIR TOBY. Out, scab!

FABIAN. Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot.

MALVOLIO. ‘Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish knight—’

SIR ANDREW. That’s me, I warrant you.

MALVOLIO. ‘One Sir Andrew.’

SIR ANDREW. I knew ’twas I, for many do call me fool.

MALVOLIO. [_Taking up the letter._] What employment have we here?

FABIAN. Now is the woodcock near the gin.

SIR TOBY. O, peace! And the spirit of humours intimate reading aloud to him!

MALVOLIO. By my life, this is my lady’s hand: these be her very C’s, her U’s, and her T’s, and thus makes she her great P’s. It is in contempt of question, her hand.

SIR ANDREW. Her C’s, her U’s, and her T’s. Why that?

MALVOLIO. [_Reads._] _To the unknown beloved, this, and my good wishes._ Her very phrases! By your leave, wax. Soft! and the impressure her Lucrece, with which she uses to seal: ’tis my lady. To whom should this be?

FABIAN. This wins him, liver and all.

MALVOLIO. [_Reads._] _ Jove knows I love, But who? Lips, do not move, No man must know._

‘No man must know.’ What follows? The numbers alter’d! ‘No man must know.’—If this should be thee, Malvolio?

SIR TOBY. Marry, hang thee, brock!

MALVOLIO. _ I may command where I adore, But silence, like a Lucrece knife, With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore; M.O.A.I. doth sway my life._

FABIAN. A fustian riddle!

SIR TOBY. Excellent wench, say I.

MALVOLIO. ‘M.O.A.I. doth sway my life.’—Nay, but first let me see, let me see, let me see.

FABIAN. What dish o’ poison has she dressed him!

SIR TOBY. And with what wing the staniel checks at it!

MALVOLIO. ‘I may command where I adore.’ Why, she may command me: I serve her, she is my lady. Why, this is evident to any formal capacity. There is no obstruction in this. And the end—what should that alphabetical position portend? If I could make that resemble something in me! Softly! ‘M.O.A.I.’—

SIR TOBY. O, ay, make up that:—he is now at a cold scent.

FABIAN. Sowter will cry upon’t for all this, though it be as rank as a fox.

MALVOLIO. ‘M’—Malvolio; ‘M!’ Why, that begins my name!

FABIAN. Did not I say he would work it out? The cur is excellent at faults.

MALVOLIO. ‘M’—But then there is no consonancy in the sequel; that suffers under probation: ‘A’ should follow, but ‘O’ does.

FABIAN. And ‘O’ shall end, I hope.

SIR TOBY. Ay, or I’ll cudgel him, and make him cry ‘O!’

MALVOLIO. And then ‘I’ comes behind.

FABIAN. Ay, and you had any eye behind you, you might see more detraction at your heels than fortunes before you.

MALVOLIO. ‘M.O.A.I.’ This simulation is not as the former: and yet, to crush this a little, it would bow to me, for every one of these letters are in my name. Soft, here follows prose. [_Reads._] _If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my stars I am above thee, but be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon ’em. Thy fates open their hands, let thy blood and spirit embrace them. And, to inure thyself to what thou art like to be, cast thy humble slough and appear fresh. Be opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants. Let thy tongue tang arguments of state; put thyself into the trick of singularity. She thus advises thee that sighs for thee. Remember who commended thy yellow stockings, and wished to see thee ever cross-gartered. I say, remember. Go to, thou art made, if thou desir’st to be so. If not, let me see thee a steward still, the fellow of servants, and not worthy to touch Fortune’s fingers. Farewell. She that would alter services with thee, The Fortunate Unhappy._

Daylight and champian discovers not more! This is open. I will be proud, I will read politic authors, I will baffle Sir Toby, I will wash off gross acquaintance, I will be point-device, the very man. I do not now fool myself, to let imagination jade me; for every reason excites to this, that my lady loves me. She did commend my yellow stockings of late, she did praise my leg being cross-gartered, and in this she manifests herself to my love, and with a kind of injunction, drives me to these habits of her liking. I thank my stars, I am happy. I will be strange, stout, in yellow stockings, and cross-gartered, even with the swiftness of putting on. Jove and my stars be praised!—Here is yet a postscript. [_Reads._] _Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou entertain’st my love, let it appear in thy smiling; thy smiles become thee well. Therefore in my presence still smile, dear my sweet, I prithee._ Jove, I thank thee. I will smile, I will do everything that thou wilt have me.

[_Exit._]

FABIAN. I will not give my part of this sport for a pension of thousands to be paid from the Sophy.

SIR TOBY. I could marry this wench for this device.

SIR ANDREW. So could I too.

SIR TOBY. And ask no other dowry with her but such another jest.

Enter Maria.

SIR ANDREW. Nor I neither.

FABIAN. Here comes my noble gull-catcher.

SIR TOBY. Wilt thou set thy foot o’ my neck?

SIR ANDREW. Or o’ mine either?

SIR TOBY. Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip, and become thy bond-slave?

SIR ANDREW. I’ faith, or I either?

SIR TOBY. Why, thou hast put him in such a dream, that when the image of it leaves him he must run mad.

MARIA. Nay, but say true, does it work upon him?

SIR TOBY. Like aqua-vitae with a midwife.

MARIA. If you will then see the fruits of the sport, mark his first approach before my lady: he will come to her in yellow stockings, and ’tis a colour she abhors, and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests; and he will smile upon her, which will now be so unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him into a notable contempt. If you will see it, follow me.

SIR TOBY. To the gates of Tartar, thou most excellent devil of wit!

SIR ANDREW. I’ll make one too.

[_Exeunt._]

## ACT III.

## SCENE I. Olivia’s garden.

Enter Viola and Clown with a tabor.

VIOLA. Save thee, friend, and thy music. Dost thou live by thy tabor?

CLOWN. No, sir, I live by the church.

VIOLA. Art thou a churchman?

CLOWN. No such matter, sir. I do live by the church, for I do live at my house, and my house doth stand by the church.

VIOLA. So thou mayst say the king lies by a beggar, if a beggar dwell near him; or the church stands by thy tabor, if thy tabor stand by the church.

CLOWN. You have said, sir. To see this age! A sentence is but a chev’ril glove to a good wit. How quickly the wrong side may be turned outward!

VIOLA. Nay, that’s certain; they that dally nicely with words may quickly make them wanton.

CLOWN. I would, therefore, my sister had had no name, sir.

VIOLA. Why, man?

CLOWN. Why, sir, her name’s a word; and to dally with that word might make my sister wanton. But indeed, words are very rascals, since bonds disgraced them.

VIOLA. Thy reason, man?

CLOWN. Troth, sir, I can yield you none without words, and words are grown so false, I am loath to prove reason with them.

VIOLA. I warrant thou art a merry fellow, and car’st for nothing.

CLOWN. Not so, sir, I do care for something. But in my conscience, sir, I do not care for you. If that be to care for nothing, sir, I would it would make you invisible.

VIOLA. Art not thou the Lady Olivia’s fool?

CLOWN. No, indeed, sir; the Lady Olivia has no folly. She will keep no fool, sir, till she be married, and fools are as like husbands as pilchards are to herrings, the husband’s the bigger. I am indeed not her fool, but her corrupter of words.

VIOLA. I saw thee late at the Count Orsino’s.

CLOWN. Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun; it shines everywhere. I would be sorry, sir, but the fool should be as oft with your master as with my mistress. I think I saw your wisdom there.

VIOLA. Nay, and thou pass upon me, I’ll no more with thee. Hold, there’s expenses for thee.

CLOWN. Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send thee a beard!

VIOLA. By my troth, I’ll tell thee, I am almost sick for one, though I would not have it grow on my chin. Is thy lady within?

CLOWN. Would not a pair of these have bred, sir?

VIOLA. Yes, being kept together, and put to use.

CLOWN. I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir, to bring a Cressida to this Troilus.

VIOLA. I understand you, sir; ’tis well begged.

CLOWN. The matter, I hope, is not great, sir, begging but a beggar: Cressida was a beggar. My lady is within, sir. I will conster to them whence you come; who you are and what you would are out of my welkin. I might say “element”, but the word is overworn.

[_Exit._]

VIOLA. This fellow is wise enough to play the fool, And to do that well, craves a kind of wit: He must observe their mood on whom he jests, The quality of persons, and the time, And like the haggard, check at every feather That comes before his eye. This is a practice As full of labour as a wise man’s art: For folly, that he wisely shows, is fit; But wise men, folly-fall’n, quite taint their wit.

Enter Sir Toby and Sir Andrew.

SIR TOBY. Save you, gentleman.

VIOLA. And you, sir.

SIR ANDREW. _Dieu vous garde, monsieur._

VIOLA. _Et vous aussi; votre serviteur._

SIR ANDREW. I hope, sir, you are, and I am yours.

SIR TOBY. Will you encounter the house? My niece is desirous you should enter, if your trade be to her.

VIOLA. I am bound to your niece, sir, I mean, she is the list of my voyage.

SIR TOBY. Taste your legs, sir, put them to motion.

VIOLA. My legs do better understand me, sir, than I understand what you mean by bidding me taste my legs.

SIR TOBY. I mean, to go, sir, to enter.

VIOLA. I will answer you with gait and entrance: but we are prevented.

Enter Olivia and Maria.

Most excellent accomplished lady, the heavens rain odours on you!

SIR ANDREW. That youth’s a rare courtier. ‘Rain odours,’ well.

VIOLA. My matter hath no voice, lady, but to your own most pregnant and vouchsafed ear.

SIR ANDREW. ‘Odours,’ ‘pregnant,’ and ‘vouchsafed.’—I’ll get ’em all three ready.

OLIVIA. Let the garden door be shut, and leave me to my hearing.

[_Exeunt Sir Toby, Sir Andrew and Maria._]

Give me your hand, sir.

VIOLA. My duty, madam, and most humble service.

OLIVIA. What is your name?

VIOLA. Cesario is your servant’s name, fair princess.

OLIVIA. My servant, sir! ’Twas never merry world, Since lowly feigning was call’d compliment: Y’are servant to the Count Orsino, youth.

VIOLA. And he is yours, and his must needs be yours. Your servant’s servant is your servant, madam.

OLIVIA. For him, I think not on him: for his thoughts, Would they were blanks rather than fill’d with me!

VIOLA. Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts On his behalf.

OLIVIA. O, by your leave, I pray you. I bade you never speak again of him. But would you undertake another suit, I had rather hear you to solicit that Than music from the spheres.

VIOLA. Dear lady—

OLIVIA. Give me leave, beseech you. I did send, After the last enchantment you did here, A ring in chase of you. So did I abuse Myself, my servant, and, I fear me, you. Under your hard construction must I sit; To force that on you in a shameful cunning, Which you knew none of yours. What might you think? Have you not set mine honour at the stake, And baited it with all th’ unmuzzled thoughts That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your receiving Enough is shown. A cypress, not a bosom, Hides my heart: so let me hear you speak.

VIOLA. I pity you.

OLIVIA. That’s a degree to love.

VIOLA. No, not a grize; for ’tis a vulgar proof That very oft we pity enemies.

OLIVIA. Why then methinks ’tis time to smile again. O world, how apt the poor are to be proud! If one should be a prey, how much the better To fall before the lion than the wolf! [_Clock strikes._] The clock upbraids me with the waste of time. Be not afraid, good youth, I will not have you. And yet, when wit and youth is come to harvest, Your wife is like to reap a proper man. There lies your way, due west.

VIOLA. Then westward ho! Grace and good disposition attend your ladyship! You’ll nothing, madam, to my lord by me?

OLIVIA. Stay: I prithee tell me what thou think’st of me.

VIOLA. That you do think you are not what you are.

OLIVIA. If I think so, I think the same of you.

VIOLA. Then think you right; I am not what I am.

OLIVIA. I would you were as I would have you be.

VIOLA. Would it be better, madam, than I am? I wish it might, for now I am your fool.

OLIVIA. O what a deal of scorn looks beautiful In the contempt and anger of his lip! A murd’rous guilt shows not itself more soon Than love that would seem hid. Love’s night is noon. Cesario, by the roses of the spring, By maidhood, honour, truth, and everything, I love thee so, that maugre all thy pride, Nor wit nor reason can my passion hide. Do not extort thy reasons from this clause, For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause; But rather reason thus with reason fetter: Love sought is good, but given unsought is better.

VIOLA. By innocence I swear, and by my youth, I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth, And that no woman has; nor never none Shall mistress be of it, save I alone. And so adieu, good madam; never more Will I my master’s tears to you deplore.

OLIVIA. Yet come again: for thou perhaps mayst move That heart, which now abhors, to like his love.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE II. A Room in Olivia’s House.

Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew and Fabian.

SIR ANDREW. No, faith, I’ll not stay a jot longer.

SIR TOBY. Thy reason, dear venom, give thy reason.

FABIAN. You must needs yield your reason, Sir Andrew.

SIR ANDREW. Marry, I saw your niece do more favours to the Count’s servingman than ever she bestowed upon me; I saw’t i’ th’ orchard.

SIR TOBY. Did she see thee the while, old boy? Tell me that.

SIR ANDREW. As plain as I see you now.

FABIAN. This was a great argument of love in her toward you.

SIR ANDREW. ’Slight! will you make an ass o’ me?

FABIAN. I will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the oaths of judgment and reason.

SIR TOBY. And they have been grand-jurymen since before Noah was a sailor.

FABIAN. She did show favour to the youth in your sight only to exasperate you, to awake your dormouse valour, to put fire in your heart and brimstone in your liver. You should then have accosted her, and with some excellent jests, fire-new from the mint, you should have banged the youth into dumbness. This was looked for at your hand, and this was balked: the double gilt of this opportunity you let time wash off, and you are now sailed into the north of my lady’s opinion; where you will hang like an icicle on Dutchman’s beard, unless you do redeem it by some laudable attempt, either of valour or policy.

SIR ANDREW. And’t be any way, it must be with valour, for policy I hate; I had as lief be a Brownist as a politician.

SIR TOBY. Why, then, build me thy fortunes upon the basis of valour. Challenge me the Count’s youth to fight with him. Hurt him in eleven places; my niece shall take note of it, and assure thyself there is no love-broker in the world can more prevail in man’s commendation with woman than report of valour.

FABIAN. There is no way but this, Sir Andrew.

SIR ANDREW. Will either of you bear me a challenge to him?

SIR TOBY. Go, write it in a martial hand, be curst and brief; it is no matter how witty, so it be eloquent and full of invention. Taunt him with the licence of ink. If thou ‘thou’st’ him some thrice, it shall not be amiss, and as many lies as will lie in thy sheet of paper, although the sheet were big enough for the bed of Ware in England, set ’em down. Go about it. Let there be gall enough in thy ink, though thou write with a goose-pen, no matter. About it.

SIR ANDREW. Where shall I find you?

SIR TOBY. We’ll call thee at the cubiculo. Go.

[_Exit Sir Andrew._]

FABIAN. This is a dear manikin to you, Sir Toby.

SIR TOBY. I have been dear to him, lad, some two thousand strong, or so.

FABIAN. We shall have a rare letter from him; but you’ll not deliver it.

SIR TOBY. Never trust me then. And by all means stir on the youth to an answer. I think oxen and wainropes cannot hale them together. For Andrew, if he were opened and you find so much blood in his liver as will clog the foot of a flea, I’ll eat the rest of th’ anatomy.

FABIAN. And his opposite, the youth, bears in his visage no great presage of cruelty.

Enter Maria.

SIR TOBY. Look where the youngest wren of nine comes.

MARIA. If you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourselves into stitches, follow me. Yond gull Malvolio is turned heathen, a very renegado; for there is no Christian that means to be saved by believing rightly can ever believe such impossible passages of grossness. He’s in yellow stockings.

SIR TOBY. And cross-gartered?

MARIA. Most villainously; like a pedant that keeps a school i’ th’ church. I have dogged him like his murderer. He does obey every point of the letter that I dropped to betray him. He does smile his face into more lines than is in the new map with the augmentation of the Indies. You have not seen such a thing as ’tis. I can hardly forbear hurling things at him. I know my lady will strike him. If she do, he’ll smile and take’t for a great favour.

SIR TOBY. Come, bring us, bring us where he is.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE III. A street.

Enter Sebastian and Antonio.

SEBASTIAN. I would not by my will have troubled you, But since you make your pleasure of your pains, I will no further chide you.

ANTONIO. I could not stay behind you: my desire, More sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth; And not all love to see you, though so much, As might have drawn one to a longer voyage, But jealousy what might befall your travel, Being skilless in these parts; which to a stranger, Unguided and unfriended, often prove Rough and unhospitable. My willing love, The rather by these arguments of fear, Set forth in your pursuit.

SEBASTIAN. My kind Antonio, I can no other answer make but thanks, And thanks, and ever thanks; and oft good turns Are shuffled off with such uncurrent pay. But were my worth, as is my conscience, firm, You should find better dealing. What’s to do? Shall we go see the relics of this town?

ANTONIO. Tomorrow, sir; best first go see your lodging.

SEBASTIAN. I am not weary, and ’tis long to night; I pray you, let us satisfy our eyes With the memorials and the things of fame That do renown this city.

ANTONIO. Would you’d pardon me. I do not without danger walk these streets. Once in a sea-fight, ’gainst the Count his galleys, I did some service, of such note indeed, That were I ta’en here, it would scarce be answer’d.

SEBASTIAN. Belike you slew great number of his people.

ANTONIO. Th’ offence is not of such a bloody nature, Albeit the quality of the time and quarrel Might well have given us bloody argument. It might have since been answered in repaying What we took from them, which for traffic’s sake, Most of our city did. Only myself stood out, For which, if I be lapsed in this place, I shall pay dear.

SEBASTIAN. Do not then walk too open.

ANTONIO. It doth not fit me. Hold, sir, here’s my purse. In the south suburbs, at the Elephant, Is best to lodge. I will bespeak our diet Whiles you beguile the time and feed your knowledge With viewing of the town. There shall you have me.

SEBASTIAN. Why I your purse?

ANTONIO. Haply your eye shall light upon some toy You have desire to purchase; and your store, I think, is not for idle markets, sir.

SEBASTIAN. I’ll be your purse-bearer, and leave you for an hour.

ANTONIO. To th’ Elephant.

SEBASTIAN. I do remember.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE IV. Olivia’s garden.

Enter Olivia and Maria.

OLIVIA. I have sent after him. He says he’ll come; How shall I feast him? What bestow of him? For youth is bought more oft than begg’d or borrow’d. I speak too loud.— Where’s Malvolio?—He is sad and civil, And suits well for a servant with my fortunes; Where is Malvolio?

MARIA. He’s coming, madam: But in very strange manner. He is sure possessed, madam.

OLIVIA. Why, what’s the matter? Does he rave?

MARIA. No, madam, he does nothing but smile: your ladyship were best to have some guard about you if he come, for sure the man is tainted in ’s wits.

OLIVIA. Go call him hither. I’m as mad as he, If sad and merry madness equal be.

Enter Malvolio.

How now, Malvolio?

MALVOLIO. Sweet lady, ho, ho!

OLIVIA. Smil’st thou? I sent for thee upon a sad occasion.

MALVOLIO. Sad, lady? I could be sad: this does make some obstruction in the blood, this cross-gartering. But what of that? If it please the eye of one, it is with me as the very true sonnet is: ‘Please one and please all.’

OLIVIA. Why, how dost thou, man? What is the matter with thee?

MALVOLIO. Not black in my mind, though yellow in my legs. It did come to his hands, and commands shall be executed. I think we do know the sweet Roman hand.

OLIVIA. Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio?

MALVOLIO. To bed? Ay, sweetheart, and I’ll come to thee.

OLIVIA. God comfort thee! Why dost thou smile so, and kiss thy hand so oft?

MARIA. How do you, Malvolio?

MALVOLIO. At your request? Yes, nightingales answer daws!

MARIA. Why appear you with this ridiculous boldness before my lady?

MALVOLIO. ‘Be not afraid of greatness.’ ’Twas well writ.

OLIVIA. What mean’st thou by that, Malvolio?

MALVOLIO. ‘Some are born great’—

OLIVIA. Ha?

MALVOLIO. ‘Some achieve greatness’—

OLIVIA. What say’st thou?

MALVOLIO. ‘And some have greatness thrust upon them.’

OLIVIA. Heaven restore thee!

MALVOLIO. ‘Remember who commended thy yellow stockings’—

OLIVIA. Thy yellow stockings?

MALVOLIO. ‘And wished to see thee cross-gartered.’

OLIVIA. Cross-gartered?

MALVOLIO. ‘Go to: thou art made, if thou desir’st to be so:’—

OLIVIA. Am I made?

MALVOLIO. ‘If not, let me see thee a servant still.’

OLIVIA. Why, this is very midsummer madness.

Enter Servant.

SERVANT. Madam, the young gentleman of the Count Orsino’s is returned; I could hardly entreat him back. He attends your ladyship’s pleasure.

OLIVIA. I’ll come to him.

[_Exit Servant._]

Good Maria, let this fellow be looked to. Where’s my cousin Toby? Let some of my people have a special care of him; I would not have him miscarry for the half of my dowry.

[_Exeunt Olivia and Maria._]

MALVOLIO. O ho, do you come near me now? No worse man than Sir Toby to look to me. This concurs directly with the letter: she sends him on purpose, that I may appear stubborn to him; for she incites me to that in the letter. ‘Cast thy humble slough,’ says she; ‘be opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants, let thy tongue tang with arguments of state, put thyself into the trick of singularity,’ and consequently, sets down the manner how: as, a sad face, a reverend carriage, a slow tongue, in the habit of some sir of note, and so forth. I have limed her, but it is Jove’s doing, and Jove make me thankful! And when she went away now, ‘Let this fellow be looked to;’ ‘Fellow!’ not ‘Malvolio’, nor after my degree, but ‘fellow’. Why, everything adheres together, that no dram of a scruple, no scruple of a scruple, no obstacle, no incredulous or unsafe circumstance. What can be said? Nothing that can be can come between me and the full prospect of my hopes. Well, Jove, not I, is the doer of this, and he is to be thanked.

Enter Sir Toby, Fabian and Maria.

SIR TOBY. Which way is he, in the name of sanctity? If all the devils of hell be drawn in little, and Legion himself possessed him, yet I’ll speak to him.

FABIAN. Here he is, here he is. How is’t with you, sir? How is’t with you, man?

MALVOLIO. Go off, I discard you. Let me enjoy my private. Go off.

MARIA. Lo, how hollow the fiend speaks within him! Did not I tell you? Sir Toby, my lady prays you to have a care of him.

MALVOLIO. Ah, ha! does she so?

SIR TOBY. Go to, go to; peace, peace, we must deal gently with him. Let me alone. How do you, Malvolio? How is’t with you? What, man! defy the devil! Consider, he’s an enemy to mankind.

MALVOLIO. Do you know what you say?

MARIA. La you, an you speak ill of the devil, how he takes it at heart! Pray God he be not bewitched.

FABIAN. Carry his water to th’ wise woman.

MARIA. Marry, and it shall be done tomorrow morning, if I live. My lady would not lose him for more than I’ll say.

MALVOLIO. How now, mistress!

MARIA. O Lord!

SIR TOBY. Prithee hold thy peace, this is not the way. Do you not see you move him? Let me alone with him.

FABIAN. No way but gentleness, gently, gently. The fiend is rough, and will not be roughly used.

SIR TOBY. Why, how now, my bawcock? How dost thou, chuck?

MALVOLIO. Sir!

SIR TOBY. Ay, biddy, come with me. What, man, ’tis not for gravity to play at cherry-pit with Satan. Hang him, foul collier!

MARIA. Get him to say his prayers, good Sir Toby, get him to pray.

MALVOLIO. My prayers, minx?

MARIA. No, I warrant you, he will not hear of godliness.

MALVOLIO. Go, hang yourselves all! You are idle, shallow things. I am not of your element. You shall know more hereafter.

[_Exit._]

SIR TOBY. Is’t possible?

FABIAN. If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.

SIR TOBY. His very genius hath taken the infection of the device, man.

MARIA. Nay, pursue him now, lest the device take air and taint.

FABIAN. Why, we shall make him mad indeed.

MARIA. The house will be the quieter.

SIR TOBY. Come, we’ll have him in a dark room and bound. My niece is already in the belief that he’s mad. We may carry it thus for our pleasure, and his penance, till our very pastime, tired out of breath, prompt us to have mercy on him, at which time we will bring the device to the bar, and crown thee for a finder of madmen. But see, but see!

Enter Sir Andrew.

FABIAN. More matter for a May morning.

SIR ANDREW. Here’s the challenge, read it. I warrant there’s vinegar and pepper in’t.

FABIAN. Is’t so saucy?

SIR ANDREW. Ay, is’t, I warrant him. Do but read.

SIR TOBY. Give me. [_Reads._] _Youth, whatsoever thou art, thou art but a scurvy fellow._

FABIAN. Good, and valiant.

SIR TOBY. _Wonder not, nor admire not in thy mind, why I do call thee so, for I will show thee no reason for’t._

FABIAN. A good note, that keeps you from the blow of the law.

SIR TOBY. _Thou comest to the Lady Olivia, and in my sight she uses thee kindly: but thou liest in thy throat; that is not the matter I challenge thee for._

FABIAN. Very brief, and to exceeding good sense—less.

SIR TOBY. _I will waylay thee going home; where if it be thy chance to kill me—_

FABIAN. Good.

SIR TOBY. _Thou kill’st me like a rogue and a villain._

FABIAN. Still you keep o’ th’ windy side of the law. Good.

SIR TOBY. _Fare thee well, and God have mercy upon one of our souls! He may have mercy upon mine, but my hope is better, and so look to thyself. Thy friend, as thou usest him, and thy sworn enemy, Andrew Aguecheek._ If this letter move him not, his legs cannot. I’ll give’t him.

MARIA. You may have very fit occasion for’t. He is now in some commerce with my lady, and will by and by depart.

SIR TOBY. Go, Sir Andrew. Scout me for him at the corner of the orchard, like a bum-baily. So soon as ever thou seest him, draw, and as thou draw’st, swear horrible, for it comes to pass oft that a terrible oath, with a swaggering accent sharply twanged off, gives manhood more approbation than ever proof itself would have earned him. Away.

SIR ANDREW. Nay, let me alone for swearing.

[_Exit._]

SIR TOBY. Now will not I deliver his letter, for the behaviour of the young gentleman gives him out to be of good capacity and breeding; his employment between his lord and my niece confirms no less. Therefore this letter, being so excellently ignorant, will breed no terror in the youth. He will find it comes from a clodpole. But, sir, I will deliver his challenge by word of mouth, set upon Aguecheek notable report of valour, and drive the gentleman (as I know his youth will aptly receive it) into a most hideous opinion of his rage, skill, fury, and impetuosity. This will so fright them both that they will kill one another by the look, like cockatrices.

Enter Olivia and Viola.

FABIAN. Here he comes with your niece; give them way till he take leave, and presently after him.

SIR TOBY. I will meditate the while upon some horrid message for a challenge.

[_Exeunt Sir Toby, Fabian and Maria._]

OLIVIA. I have said too much unto a heart of stone, And laid mine honour too unchary on’t: There’s something in me that reproves my fault: But such a headstrong potent fault it is, That it but mocks reproof.

VIOLA. With the same ’haviour that your passion bears Goes on my master’s griefs.

OLIVIA. Here, wear this jewel for me, ’tis my picture. Refuse it not, it hath no tongue to vex you. And I beseech you come again tomorrow. What shall you ask of me that I’ll deny, That honour sav’d, may upon asking give?

VIOLA. Nothing but this, your true love for my master.

OLIVIA. How with mine honour may I give him that Which I have given to you?

VIOLA. I will acquit you.

OLIVIA. Well, come again tomorrow. Fare thee well; A fiend like thee might bear my soul to hell.

[_Exit._]

Enter Sir Toby and Fabian.

SIR TOBY. Gentleman, God save thee.

VIOLA. And you, sir.

SIR TOBY. That defence thou hast, betake thee to’t. Of what nature the wrongs are thou hast done him, I know not, but thy intercepter, full of despite, bloody as the hunter, attends thee at the orchard end. Dismount thy tuck, be yare in thy preparation, for thy assailant is quick, skilful, and deadly.

VIOLA. You mistake, sir; I am sure no man hath any quarrel to me. My remembrance is very free and clear from any image of offence done to any man.

SIR TOBY. You’ll find it otherwise, I assure you. Therefore, if you hold your life at any price, betake you to your guard, for your opposite hath in him what youth, strength, skill, and wrath, can furnish man withal.

VIOLA. I pray you, sir, what is he?

SIR TOBY. He is knight, dubbed with unhatched rapier, and on carpet consideration, but he is a devil in private brawl. Souls and bodies hath he divorced three, and his incensement at this moment is so implacable that satisfaction can be none but by pangs of death and sepulchre. Hob, nob is his word; give’t or take’t.

VIOLA. I will return again into the house and desire some conduct of the lady. I am no fighter. I have heard of some kind of men that put quarrels purposely on others to taste their valour: belike this is a man of that quirk.

SIR TOBY. Sir, no. His indignation derives itself out of a very competent injury; therefore, get you on and give him his desire. Back you shall not to the house, unless you undertake that with me which with as much safety you might answer him. Therefore on, or strip your sword stark naked, for meddle you must, that’s certain, or forswear to wear iron about you.

VIOLA. This is as uncivil as strange. I beseech you, do me this courteous office, as to know of the knight what my offence to him is. It is something of my negligence, nothing of my purpose.

SIR TOBY. I will do so. Signior Fabian, stay you by this gentleman till my return.

[_Exit Sir Toby._]

VIOLA. Pray you, sir, do you know of this matter?

FABIAN. I know the knight is incensed against you, even to a mortal arbitrement, but nothing of the circumstance more.

VIOLA. I beseech you, what manner of man is he?

FABIAN. Nothing of that wonderful promise, to read him by his form, as you are like to find him in the proof of his valour. He is indeed, sir, the most skilful, bloody, and fatal opposite that you could possibly have found in any part of Illyria. Will you walk towards him? I will make your peace with him if I can.

VIOLA. I shall be much bound to you for’t. I am one that had rather go with sir priest than sir knight: I care not who knows so much of my mettle.

[_Exeunt._]

Enter Sir Toby and Sir Andrew.

SIR TOBY. Why, man, he’s a very devil. I have not seen such a firago. I had a pass with him, rapier, scabbard, and all, and he gives me the stuck-in with such a mortal motion that it is inevitable; and on the answer, he pays you as surely as your feet hits the ground they step on. They say he has been fencer to the Sophy.

SIR ANDREW. Pox on’t, I’ll not meddle with him.

SIR TOBY. Ay, but he will not now be pacified: Fabian can scarce hold him yonder.

SIR ANDREW. Plague on’t, an I thought he had been valiant, and so cunning in fence, I’d have seen him damned ere I’d have challenged him. Let him let the matter slip, and I’ll give him my horse, grey Capilet.

SIR TOBY. I’ll make the motion. Stand here, make a good show on’t. This shall end without the perdition of souls. [_Aside._] Marry, I’ll ride your horse as well as I ride you.

Enter Fabian and Viola.

[_To Fabian._] I have his horse to take up the quarrel. I have persuaded him the youth’s a devil.

FABIAN. He is as horribly conceited of him, and pants and looks pale, as if a bear were at his heels.

SIR TOBY. There’s no remedy, sir, he will fight with you for’s oath sake. Marry, he hath better bethought him of his quarrel, and he finds that now scarce to be worth talking of. Therefore, draw for the supportance of his vow; he protests he will not hurt you.

VIOLA. [_Aside._] Pray God defend me! A little thing would make me tell them how much I lack of a man.

FABIAN. Give ground if you see him furious.

SIR TOBY. Come, Sir Andrew, there’s no remedy, the gentleman will for his honour’s sake have one bout with you. He cannot by the duello avoid it; but he has promised me, as he is a gentleman and a soldier, he will not hurt you. Come on: to’t.

SIR ANDREW. [_Draws._] Pray God he keep his oath!

Enter Antonio.

VIOLA. [_Draws._] I do assure you ’tis against my will.

ANTONIO. Put up your sword. If this young gentleman Have done offence, I take the fault on me. If you offend him, I for him defy you.

SIR TOBY. You, sir? Why, what are you?

ANTONIO. [_Draws._] One, sir, that for his love dares yet do more Than you have heard him brag to you he will.

SIR TOBY. [_Draws._] Nay, if you be an undertaker, I am for you.

Enter Officers.

FABIAN. O good Sir Toby, hold! Here come the officers.

SIR TOBY. [_To Antonio._] I’ll be with you anon.

VIOLA. [_To Sir Andrew._] Pray, sir, put your sword up, if you please.

SIR ANDREW. Marry, will I, sir; and for that I promised you, I’ll be as good as my word. He will bear you easily, and reins well.

FIRST OFFICER. This is the man; do thy office.

SECOND OFFICER. Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit Of Count Orsino.

ANTONIO. You do mistake me, sir.

FIRST OFFICER. No, sir, no jot. I know your favour well, Though now you have no sea-cap on your head.— Take him away, he knows I know him well.

ANTONIO. I must obey. This comes with seeking you; But there’s no remedy, I shall answer it. What will you do? Now my necessity Makes me to ask you for my purse. It grieves me Much more for what I cannot do for you, Than what befalls myself. You stand amaz’d, But be of comfort.

SECOND OFFICER. Come, sir, away.

ANTONIO. I must entreat of you some of that money.

VIOLA. What money, sir? For the fair kindness you have show’d me here, And part being prompted by your present trouble, Out of my lean and low ability I’ll lend you something. My having is not much; I’ll make division of my present with you. Hold, there’s half my coffer.

ANTONIO. Will you deny me now? Is’t possible that my deserts to you Can lack persuasion? Do not tempt my misery, Lest that it make me so unsound a man As to upbraid you with those kindnesses That I have done for you.

VIOLA. I know of none, Nor know I you by voice or any feature. I hate ingratitude more in a man Than lying, vainness, babbling, drunkenness, Or any taint of vice whose strong corruption Inhabits our frail blood.

ANTONIO. O heavens themselves!

SECOND OFFICER. Come, sir, I pray you go.

ANTONIO. Let me speak a little. This youth that you see here I snatch’d one half out of the jaws of death, Reliev’d him with such sanctity of love; And to his image, which methought did promise Most venerable worth, did I devotion.

FIRST OFFICER. What’s that to us? The time goes by. Away!

ANTONIO. But O how vile an idol proves this god! Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame. In nature there’s no blemish but the mind; None can be call’d deform’d but the unkind. Virtue is beauty, but the beauteous evil Are empty trunks, o’erflourished by the devil.

FIRST OFFICER. The man grows mad, away with him. Come, come, sir.

ANTONIO. Lead me on.

[_Exeunt Officers with Antonio._]

VIOLA. Methinks his words do from such passion fly That he believes himself; so do not I. Prove true, imagination, O prove true, That I, dear brother, be now ta’en for you!

SIR TOBY. Come hither, knight; come hither, Fabian. We’ll whisper o’er a couplet or two of most sage saws.

VIOLA. He nam’d Sebastian. I my brother know Yet living in my glass; even such and so In favour was my brother, and he went Still in this fashion, colour, ornament, For him I imitate. O if it prove, Tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh in love!

[_Exit._]

SIR TOBY. A very dishonest paltry boy, and more a coward than a hare. His dishonesty appears in leaving his friend here in necessity, and denying him; and for his cowardship, ask Fabian.

FABIAN. A coward, a most devout coward, religious in it.

SIR ANDREW. ’Slid, I’ll after him again and beat him.

SIR TOBY. Do, cuff him soundly, but never draw thy sword.

SIR ANDREW. And I do not—

[_Exit._]

FABIAN. Come, let’s see the event.

SIR TOBY. I dare lay any money ’twill be nothing yet.

[_Exeunt._]

## ACT IV.

## SCENE I. The Street before Olivia’s House.

Enter Sebastian and Clown.

CLOWN. Will you make me believe that I am not sent for you?

SEBASTIAN. Go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow. Let me be clear of thee.

CLOWN. Well held out, i’ faith! No, I do not know you, nor I am not sent to you by my lady, to bid you come speak with her; nor your name is not Master Cesario; nor this is not my nose neither. Nothing that is so, is so.

SEBASTIAN. I prithee vent thy folly somewhere else, Thou know’st not me.

CLOWN. Vent my folly! He has heard that word of some great man, and now applies it to a fool. Vent my folly! I am afraid this great lubber, the world, will prove a cockney. I prithee now, ungird thy strangeness, and tell me what I shall vent to my lady. Shall I vent to her that thou art coming?

SEBASTIAN. I prithee, foolish Greek, depart from me. There’s money for thee; if you tarry longer I shall give worse payment.

CLOWN. By my troth, thou hast an open hand. These wise men that give fools money get themselves a good report—after fourteen years’ purchase.

Enter Sir Andrew, Sir Toby and Fabian.

SIR ANDREW. Now sir, have I met you again? There’s for you.

[_Striking Sebastian._]

SEBASTIAN. Why, there’s for thee, and there, and there. Are all the people mad?

[_Beating Sir Andrew._]

SIR TOBY. Hold, sir, or I’ll throw your dagger o’er the house.

CLOWN. This will I tell my lady straight. I would not be in some of your coats for twopence.

[_Exit Clown._]

SIR TOBY. Come on, sir, hold!

SIR ANDREW. Nay, let him alone, I’ll go another way to work with him. I’ll have an

## action of battery against him, if there be any law in Illyria. Though I

struck him first, yet it’s no matter for that.

SEBASTIAN. Let go thy hand!

SIR TOBY. Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, my young soldier, put up your iron: you are well fleshed. Come on.

SEBASTIAN. I will be free from thee. What wouldst thou now? If thou dar’st tempt me further, draw thy sword.

[_Draws._]

SIR TOBY. What, what? Nay, then, I must have an ounce or two of this malapert blood from you.

[_Draws._]

Enter Olivia.

OLIVIA. Hold, Toby! On thy life I charge thee hold!

SIR TOBY. Madam.

OLIVIA. Will it be ever thus? Ungracious wretch, Fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves, Where manners ne’er were preach’d! Out of my sight! Be not offended, dear Cesario. Rudesby, be gone!

[_Exeunt Sir Toby, Sir Andrew and Fabian._]

I prithee, gentle friend, Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway In this uncivil and unjust extent Against thy peace. Go with me to my house, And hear thou there how many fruitless pranks This ruffian hath botch’d up, that thou thereby Mayst smile at this. Thou shalt not choose but go. Do not deny. Beshrew his soul for me, He started one poor heart of mine, in thee.

SEBASTIAN. What relish is in this? How runs the stream? Or I am mad, or else this is a dream. Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep; If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!

OLIVIA. Nay, come, I prithee. Would thou’dst be ruled by me!

SEBASTIAN. Madam, I will.

OLIVIA. O, say so, and so be!

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE II. A Room in Olivia’s House.

Enter Maria and Clown.

MARIA. Nay, I prithee, put on this gown and this beard; make him believe thou art Sir Topas the curate. Do it quickly. I’ll call Sir Toby the whilst.

[_Exit Maria._]

CLOWN. Well, I’ll put it on, and I will dissemble myself in’t, and I would I were the first that ever dissembled in such a gown. I am not tall enough to become the function well, nor lean enough to be thought a good student, but to be said, an honest man and a good housekeeper goes as fairly as to say, a careful man and a great scholar. The competitors enter.

Enter Sir Toby and Maria.

SIR TOBY. Jove bless thee, Master Parson.

CLOWN. _Bonos dies_, Sir Toby: for as the old hermit of Prague, that never saw pen and ink, very wittily said to a niece of King Gorboduc, ‘That that is, is’: so I, being Master Parson, am Master Parson; for what is ‘that’ but ‘that’? and ‘is’ but ‘is’?

SIR TOBY. To him, Sir Topas.

CLOWN. What ho, I say! Peace in this prison!

SIR TOBY. The knave counterfeits well. A good knave.

Malvolio within.

MALVOLIO. Who calls there?

CLOWN. Sir Topas the curate, who comes to visit Malvolio the lunatic.

MALVOLIO. Sir Topas, Sir Topas, good Sir Topas, go to my lady.

CLOWN. Out, hyperbolical fiend! how vexest thou this man? Talkest thou nothing but of ladies?

SIR TOBY. Well said, Master Parson.

MALVOLIO. Sir Topas, never was man thus wronged. Good Sir Topas, do not think I am mad. They have laid me here in hideous darkness.

CLOWN. Fie, thou dishonest Satan! I call thee by the most modest terms, for I am one of those gentle ones that will use the devil himself with courtesy. Say’st thou that house is dark?

MALVOLIO. As hell, Sir Topas.

CLOWN. Why, it hath bay windows transparent as barricadoes, and the clerestories toward the south-north are as lustrous as ebony; and yet complainest thou of obstruction?

MALVOLIO. I am not mad, Sir Topas. I say to you this house is dark.

CLOWN. Madman, thou errest. I say there is no darkness but ignorance, in which thou art more puzzled than the Egyptians in their fog.

MALVOLIO. I say this house is as dark as ignorance, though ignorance were as dark as hell; and I say there was never man thus abused. I am no more mad than you are. Make the trial of it in any constant question.

CLOWN. What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning wildfowl?

MALVOLIO. That the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit a bird.

CLOWN. What think’st thou of his opinion?

MALVOLIO. I think nobly of the soul, and no way approve his opinion.

CLOWN. Fare thee well. Remain thou still in darkness. Thou shalt hold the opinion of Pythagoras ere I will allow of thy wits, and fear to kill a woodcock, lest thou dispossess the soul of thy grandam. Fare thee well.

MALVOLIO. Sir Topas, Sir Topas!

SIR TOBY. My most exquisite Sir Topas!

CLOWN. Nay, I am for all waters.

MARIA. Thou mightst have done this without thy beard and gown. He sees thee not.

SIR TOBY. To him in thine own voice, and bring me word how thou find’st him. I would we were well rid of this knavery. If he may be conveniently delivered, I would he were, for I am now so far in offence with my niece that I cannot pursue with any safety this sport to the upshot. Come by and by to my chamber.

[_Exeunt Sir Toby and Maria._]

CLOWN. [_Singing._] _Hey, Robin, jolly Robin, Tell me how thy lady does._

MALVOLIO. Fool!

CLOWN. _My lady is unkind, perdy._

MALVOLIO. Fool!

CLOWN. _Alas, why is she so?_

MALVOLIO. Fool, I say!

CLOWN. _She loves another_— Who calls, ha?

MALVOLIO. Good fool, as ever thou wilt deserve well at my hand, help me to a candle, and pen, ink, and paper. As I am a gentleman, I will live to be thankful to thee for’t.

CLOWN. Master Malvolio?

MALVOLIO. Ay, good fool.

CLOWN. Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits?

MALVOLIO. Fool, there was never man so notoriously abused. I am as well in my wits, fool, as thou art.

CLOWN. But as well? Then you are mad indeed, if you be no better in your wits than a fool.

MALVOLIO. They have here propertied me; keep me in darkness, send ministers to me, asses, and do all they can to face me out of my wits.

CLOWN. Advise you what you say: the minister is here. [_As Sir Topas_] Malvolio, Malvolio, thy wits the heavens restore. Endeavour thyself to sleep, and leave thy vain bibble-babble.

MALVOLIO. Sir Topas!

CLOWN. [_As Sir Topas_] Maintain no words with him, good fellow. [_As himself_] Who, I, sir? not I, sir. God buy you, good Sir Topas. [_As Sir Topas_] Marry, amen. [_As himself_] I will sir, I will.

MALVOLIO. Fool, fool, fool, I say!

CLOWN. Alas, sir, be patient. What say you, sir? I am shent for speaking to you.

MALVOLIO. Good fool, help me to some light and some paper. I tell thee I am as well in my wits as any man in Illyria.

CLOWN. Well-a-day that you were, sir!

MALVOLIO. By this hand, I am. Good fool, some ink, paper, and light, and convey what I will set down to my lady. It shall advantage thee more than ever the bearing of letter did.

CLOWN. I will help you to’t. But tell me true, are you not mad indeed? or do you but counterfeit?

MALVOLIO. Believe me, I am not. I tell thee true.

CLOWN. Nay, I’ll ne’er believe a madman till I see his brains. I will fetch you light, and paper, and ink.

MALVOLIO. Fool, I’ll requite it in the highest degree: I prithee be gone.

CLOWN. [_Singing._] _I am gone, sir, and anon, sir, I’ll be with you again, In a trice, like to the old Vice, Your need to sustain; Who with dagger of lath, in his rage and his wrath, Cries ‘ah, ha!’ to the devil: Like a mad lad, ‘Pare thy nails, dad. Adieu, goodman devil.’_

[_Exit._]

## SCENE III. Olivia’s Garden.

Enter Sebastian.

SEBASTIAN. This is the air; that is the glorious sun, This pearl she gave me, I do feel’t and see’t, And though ’tis wonder that enwraps me thus, Yet ’tis not madness. Where’s Antonio, then? I could not find him at the Elephant, Yet there he was, and there I found this credit, That he did range the town to seek me out. His counsel now might do me golden service. For though my soul disputes well with my sense That this may be some error, but no madness, Yet doth this accident and flood of fortune So far exceed all instance, all discourse, That I am ready to distrust mine eyes And wrangle with my reason that persuades me To any other trust but that I am mad, Or else the lady’s mad; yet if ’twere so, She could not sway her house, command her followers, Take and give back affairs and their dispatch, With such a smooth, discreet, and stable bearing As I perceive she does. There’s something in’t That is deceivable. But here the lady comes.

Enter Olivia and a Priest.

OLIVIA. Blame not this haste of mine. If you mean well, Now go with me and with this holy man Into the chantry by: there, before him And underneath that consecrated roof, Plight me the full assurance of your faith, That my most jealous and too doubtful soul May live at peace. He shall conceal it Whiles you are willing it shall come to note, What time we will our celebration keep According to my birth. What do you say?

SEBASTIAN. I’ll follow this good man, and go with you, And having sworn truth, ever will be true.

OLIVIA. Then lead the way, good father, and heavens so shine, That they may fairly note this act of mine!

[_Exeunt._]

## ACT V.

## SCENE I. The Street before Olivia’s House.

Enter Clown and Fabian.

FABIAN. Now, as thou lov’st me, let me see his letter.

CLOWN. Good Master Fabian, grant me another request.

FABIAN. Anything.

CLOWN. Do not desire to see this letter.

FABIAN. This is to give a dog, and in recompense desire my dog again.

Enter Duke, Viola, Curio and Lords.

DUKE. Belong you to the Lady Olivia, friends?

CLOWN. Ay, sir, we are some of her trappings.

DUKE. I know thee well. How dost thou, my good fellow?

CLOWN. Truly, sir, the better for my foes, and the worse for my friends.

DUKE. Just the contrary; the better for thy friends.

CLOWN. No, sir, the worse.

DUKE. How can that be?

CLOWN. Marry, sir, they praise me, and make an ass of me. Now my foes tell me plainly I am an ass: so that by my foes, sir, I profit in the knowledge of myself, and by my friends I am abused. So that, conclusions to be as kisses, if your four negatives make your two affirmatives, why then, the worse for my friends, and the better for my foes.

DUKE. Why, this is excellent.

CLOWN. By my troth, sir, no; though it please you to be one of my friends.

DUKE. Thou shalt not be the worse for me; there’s gold.

CLOWN. But that it would be double-dealing, sir, I would you could make it another.

DUKE. O, you give me ill counsel.

CLOWN. Put your grace in your pocket, sir, for this once, and let your flesh and blood obey it.

DUKE. Well, I will be so much a sinner to be a double-dealer: there’s another.

CLOWN. _Primo, secundo, tertio_, is a good play, and the old saying is, the third pays for all; the triplex, sir, is a good tripping measure; or the bells of Saint Bennet, sir, may put you in mind—one, two, three.

DUKE. You can fool no more money out of me at this throw. If you will let your lady know I am here to speak with her, and bring her along with you, it may awake my bounty further.

CLOWN. Marry, sir, lullaby to your bounty till I come again. I go, sir, but I would not have you to think that my desire of having is the sin of covetousness: but as you say, sir, let your bounty take a nap, I will awake it anon.

[_Exit Clown._]

Enter Antonio and Officers.

VIOLA. Here comes the man, sir, that did rescue me.

DUKE. That face of his I do remember well. Yet when I saw it last it was besmear’d As black as Vulcan, in the smoke of war. A baubling vessel was he captain of, For shallow draught and bulk unprizable, With which such scathful grapple did he make With the most noble bottom of our fleet, That very envy and the tongue of loss Cried fame and honour on him. What’s the matter?

FIRST OFFICER. Orsino, this is that Antonio That took the _Phoenix_ and her fraught from Candy, And this is he that did the _Tiger_ board When your young nephew Titus lost his leg. Here in the streets, desperate of shame and state, In private brabble did we apprehend him.

VIOLA. He did me kindness, sir; drew on my side, But in conclusion, put strange speech upon me. I know not what ’twas, but distraction.

DUKE. Notable pirate, thou salt-water thief, What foolish boldness brought thee to their mercies, Whom thou, in terms so bloody and so dear, Hast made thine enemies?

ANTONIO. Orsino, noble sir, Be pleased that I shake off these names you give me: Antonio never yet was thief or pirate, Though, I confess, on base and ground enough, Orsino’s enemy. A witchcraft drew me hither: That most ingrateful boy there by your side From the rude sea’s enraged and foamy mouth Did I redeem; a wreck past hope he was. His life I gave him, and did thereto add My love, without retention or restraint, All his in dedication. For his sake Did I expose myself, pure for his love, Into the danger of this adverse town; Drew to defend him when he was beset; Where being apprehended, his false cunning (Not meaning to partake with me in danger) Taught him to face me out of his acquaintance, And grew a twenty years’ removed thing While one would wink; denied me mine own purse, Which I had recommended to his use Not half an hour before.

VIOLA. How can this be?

DUKE. When came he to this town?

ANTONIO. Today, my lord; and for three months before, No int’rim, not a minute’s vacancy, Both day and night did we keep company.

Enter Olivia and Attendants.

DUKE. Here comes the Countess, now heaven walks on earth. But for thee, fellow, fellow, thy words are madness. Three months this youth hath tended upon me; But more of that anon. Take him aside.

OLIVIA. What would my lord, but that he may not have, Wherein Olivia may seem serviceable? Cesario, you do not keep promise with me.

VIOLA. Madam?

DUKE. Gracious Olivia—

OLIVIA. What do you say, Cesario? Good my lord—

VIOLA. My lord would speak, my duty hushes me.

OLIVIA. If it be aught to the old tune, my lord, It is as fat and fulsome to mine ear As howling after music.

DUKE. Still so cruel?

OLIVIA. Still so constant, lord.

DUKE. What, to perverseness? You uncivil lady, To whose ingrate and unauspicious altars My soul the faithfull’st off’rings hath breathed out That e’er devotion tender’d! What shall I do?

OLIVIA. Even what it please my lord that shall become him.

DUKE. Why should I not, had I the heart to do it, Like to the Egyptian thief at point of death, Kill what I love?—a savage jealousy That sometime savours nobly. But hear me this: Since you to non-regardance cast my faith, And that I partly know the instrument That screws me from my true place in your favour, Live you the marble-breasted tyrant still. But this your minion, whom I know you love, And whom, by heaven I swear, I tender dearly, Him will I tear out of that cruel eye Where he sits crowned in his master’s spite.— Come, boy, with me; my thoughts are ripe in mischief: I’ll sacrifice the lamb that I do love, To spite a raven’s heart within a dove.

VIOLA. And I, most jocund, apt, and willingly, To do you rest, a thousand deaths would die.

OLIVIA. Where goes Cesario?

VIOLA. After him I love More than I love these eyes, more than my life, More, by all mores, than e’er I shall love wife. If I do feign, you witnesses above Punish my life for tainting of my love.

OLIVIA. Ah me, detested! how am I beguil’d!

VIOLA. Who does beguile you? Who does do you wrong?

OLIVIA. Hast thou forgot thyself? Is it so long? Call forth the holy father.

[_Exit an Attendant._]

DUKE. [_To Viola._] Come, away!

OLIVIA. Whither, my lord? Cesario, husband, stay.

DUKE. Husband?

OLIVIA. Ay, husband. Can he that deny?

DUKE. Her husband, sirrah?

VIOLA. No, my lord, not I.

OLIVIA. Alas, it is the baseness of thy fear That makes thee strangle thy propriety. Fear not, Cesario, take thy fortunes up. Be that thou know’st thou art, and then thou art As great as that thou fear’st.

Enter Priest.

O, welcome, father! Father, I charge thee, by thy reverence Here to unfold—though lately we intended To keep in darkness what occasion now Reveals before ’tis ripe—what thou dost know Hath newly passed between this youth and me.

PRIEST. A contract of eternal bond of love, Confirmed by mutual joinder of your hands, Attested by the holy close of lips, Strengthen’d by interchangement of your rings, And all the ceremony of this compact Sealed in my function, by my testimony; Since when, my watch hath told me, toward my grave, I have travelled but two hours.

DUKE. O thou dissembling cub! What wilt thou be When time hath sowed a grizzle on thy case? Or will not else thy craft so quickly grow That thine own trip shall be thine overthrow? Farewell, and take her; but direct thy feet Where thou and I henceforth may never meet.

VIOLA. My lord, I do protest—

OLIVIA. O, do not swear. Hold little faith, though thou has too much fear.

Enter Sir Andrew.

SIR ANDREW. For the love of God, a surgeon! Send one presently to Sir Toby.

OLIVIA. What’s the matter?

SIR ANDREW. ’Has broke my head across, and has given Sir Toby a bloody coxcomb too. For the love of God, your help! I had rather than forty pound I were at home.

OLIVIA. Who has done this, Sir Andrew?

SIR ANDREW. The Count’s gentleman, one Cesario. We took him for a coward, but he’s the very devil incardinate.

DUKE. My gentleman, Cesario?

SIR ANDREW. ’Od’s lifelings, here he is!—You broke my head for nothing; and that that I did, I was set on to do’t by Sir Toby.

VIOLA. Why do you speak to me? I never hurt you: You drew your sword upon me without cause, But I bespake you fair and hurt you not.

Enter Sir Toby, drunk, led by the Clown.

SIR ANDREW. If a bloody coxcomb be a hurt, you have hurt me. I think you set nothing by a bloody coxcomb. Here comes Sir Toby halting, you shall hear more: but if he had not been in drink, he would have tickled you othergates than he did.

DUKE. How now, gentleman? How is’t with you?

SIR TOBY. That’s all one; ’has hurt me, and there’s th’ end on’t. Sot, didst see Dick Surgeon, sot?

CLOWN. O, he’s drunk, Sir Toby, an hour agone; his eyes were set at eight i’ th’ morning.

SIR TOBY. Then he’s a rogue, and a passy measures pavin. I hate a drunken rogue.

OLIVIA. Away with him. Who hath made this havoc with them?

SIR ANDREW. I’ll help you, Sir Toby, because we’ll be dressed together.

SIR TOBY. Will you help? An ass-head, and a coxcomb, and a knave, a thin-faced knave, a gull?

OLIVIA. Get him to bed, and let his hurt be looked to.

[_Exeunt Clown, Fabian, Sir Toby and Sir Andrew._]

Enter Sebastian.

SEBASTIAN. I am sorry, madam, I have hurt your kinsman; But had it been the brother of my blood, I must have done no less with wit and safety. You throw a strange regard upon me, and by that I do perceive it hath offended you. Pardon me, sweet one, even for the vows We made each other but so late ago.

DUKE. One face, one voice, one habit, and two persons! A natural perspective, that is, and is not!

SEBASTIAN. Antonio, O my dear Antonio! How have the hours rack’d and tortur’d me Since I have lost thee.

ANTONIO. Sebastian are you?

SEBASTIAN. Fear’st thou that, Antonio?

ANTONIO. How have you made division of yourself? An apple cleft in two is not more twin Than these two creatures. Which is Sebastian?

OLIVIA. Most wonderful!

SEBASTIAN. Do I stand there? I never had a brother: Nor can there be that deity in my nature Of here and everywhere. I had a sister, Whom the blind waves and surges have devoured. Of charity, what kin are you to me? What countryman? What name? What parentage?

VIOLA. Of Messaline: Sebastian was my father; Such a Sebastian was my brother too: So went he suited to his watery tomb. If spirits can assume both form and suit, You come to fright us.

SEBASTIAN. A spirit I am indeed, But am in that dimension grossly clad, Which from the womb I did participate. Were you a woman, as the rest goes even, I should my tears let fall upon your cheek, And say, ‘Thrice welcome, drowned Viola.’

VIOLA. My father had a mole upon his brow.

SEBASTIAN. And so had mine.

VIOLA. And died that day when Viola from her birth Had numbered thirteen years.

SEBASTIAN. O, that record is lively in my soul! He finished indeed his mortal act That day that made my sister thirteen years.

VIOLA. If nothing lets to make us happy both But this my masculine usurp’d attire, Do not embrace me till each circumstance Of place, time, fortune, do cohere and jump That I am Viola; which to confirm, I’ll bring you to a captain in this town, Where lie my maiden weeds; by whose gentle help I was preserv’d to serve this noble count. All the occurrence of my fortune since Hath been between this lady and this lord.

SEBASTIAN. [_To Olivia._] So comes it, lady, you have been mistook. But nature to her bias drew in that. You would have been contracted to a maid; Nor are you therein, by my life, deceived: You are betroth’d both to a maid and man.

DUKE. Be not amazed; right noble is his blood. If this be so, as yet the glass seems true, I shall have share in this most happy wreck. [_To Viola._] Boy, thou hast said to me a thousand times Thou never shouldst love woman like to me.

VIOLA. And all those sayings will I over-swear, And all those swearings keep as true in soul As doth that orbed continent the fire That severs day from night.

DUKE. Give me thy hand, And let me see thee in thy woman’s weeds.

VIOLA. The captain that did bring me first on shore Hath my maid’s garments. He, upon some action, Is now in durance, at Malvolio’s suit, A gentleman and follower of my lady’s.

OLIVIA. He shall enlarge him. Fetch Malvolio hither. And yet, alas, now I remember me, They say, poor gentleman, he’s much distract.

Enter Clown, with a letter and Fabian.

A most extracting frenzy of mine own From my remembrance clearly banished his. How does he, sirrah?

CLOWN. Truly, madam, he holds Belzebub at the stave’s end as well as a man in his case may do. Has here writ a letter to you. I should have given it you today morning, but as a madman’s epistles are no gospels, so it skills not much when they are delivered.

OLIVIA. Open ’t, and read it.

CLOWN. Look then to be well edified, when the fool delivers the madman. _By the Lord, madam,—_

OLIVIA. How now, art thou mad?

CLOWN. No, madam, I do but read madness: an your ladyship will have it as it ought to be, you must allow _vox_.

OLIVIA. Prithee, read i’ thy right wits.

CLOWN. So I do, madonna. But to read his right wits is to read thus; therefore perpend, my princess, and give ear.

OLIVIA. [_To Fabian._] Read it you, sirrah.

FABIAN. [_Reads._] _By the Lord, madam, you wrong me, and the world shall know it. Though you have put me into darkness and given your drunken cousin rule over me, yet have I the benefit of my senses as well as your ladyship. I have your own letter that induced me to the semblance I put on; with the which I doubt not but to do myself much right or you much shame. Think of me as you please. I leave my duty a little unthought of, and speak out of my injury. The madly-used Malvolio._

OLIVIA. Did he write this?

CLOWN. Ay, madam.

DUKE. This savours not much of distraction.

OLIVIA. See him delivered, Fabian, bring him hither.

[_Exit Fabian._]

My lord, so please you, these things further thought on, To think me as well a sister, as a wife, One day shall crown th’ alliance on’t, so please you, Here at my house, and at my proper cost.

DUKE. Madam, I am most apt t’ embrace your offer. [_To Viola._] Your master quits you; and for your service done him, So much against the mettle of your sex, So far beneath your soft and tender breeding, And since you call’d me master for so long, Here is my hand; you shall from this time be Your master’s mistress.

OLIVIA. A sister? You are she.

Enter Fabian and Malvolio.

DUKE. Is this the madman?

OLIVIA. Ay, my lord, this same. How now, Malvolio?

MALVOLIO. Madam, you have done me wrong, Notorious wrong.

OLIVIA. Have I, Malvolio? No.

MALVOLIO. Lady, you have. Pray you peruse that letter. You must not now deny it is your hand, Write from it, if you can, in hand, or phrase, Or say ’tis not your seal, not your invention: You can say none of this. Well, grant it then, And tell me, in the modesty of honour, Why you have given me such clear lights of favour, Bade me come smiling and cross-garter’d to you, To put on yellow stockings, and to frown Upon Sir Toby, and the lighter people; And acting this in an obedient hope, Why have you suffer’d me to be imprison’d, Kept in a dark house, visited by the priest, And made the most notorious geck and gull That e’er invention played on? Tell me why?

OLIVIA. Alas, Malvolio, this is not my writing, Though I confess, much like the character: But out of question, ’tis Maria’s hand. And now I do bethink me, it was she First told me thou wast mad; then cam’st in smiling, And in such forms which here were presuppos’d Upon thee in the letter. Prithee, be content. This practice hath most shrewdly pass’d upon thee. But when we know the grounds and authors of it, Thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge Of thine own cause.

FABIAN. Good madam, hear me speak, And let no quarrel, nor no brawl to come, Taint the condition of this present hour, Which I have wonder’d at. In hope it shall not, Most freely I confess, myself and Toby Set this device against Malvolio here, Upon some stubborn and uncourteous parts We had conceiv’d against him. Maria writ The letter, at Sir Toby’s great importance, In recompense whereof he hath married her. How with a sportful malice it was follow’d May rather pluck on laughter than revenge, If that the injuries be justly weigh’d That have on both sides passed.

OLIVIA. Alas, poor fool, how have they baffled thee!

CLOWN. Why, ‘some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrown upon them.’ I was one, sir, in this interlude, one Sir Topas, sir, but that’s all one. ‘By the Lord, fool, I am not mad.’ But do you remember? ‘Madam, why laugh you at such a barren rascal? And you smile not, he’s gagged’? And thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges.

MALVOLIO. I’ll be revenged on the whole pack of you.

[_Exit._]

OLIVIA. He hath been most notoriously abus’d.

DUKE. Pursue him, and entreat him to a peace: He hath not told us of the captain yet. When that is known, and golden time convents, A solemn combination shall be made Of our dear souls.—Meantime, sweet sister, We will not part from hence.—Cesario, come: For so you shall be while you are a man; But when in other habits you are seen, Orsino’s mistress, and his fancy’s queen.

[_Exeunt._]

Clown sings.

_ When that I was and a little tiny boy, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, A foolish thing was but a toy, For the rain it raineth every day._

_ But when I came to man’s estate, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, ’Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate, For the rain it raineth every day._

_ But when I came, alas, to wive, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, By swaggering could I never thrive, For the rain it raineth every day._

_ But when I came unto my beds, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, With toss-pots still had drunken heads, For the rain it raineth every day._

_ A great while ago the world begun, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, But that’s all one, our play is done, And we’ll strive to please you every day._

[_Exit._]

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA

Contents

## ACT I

## Scene I. Verona. An open place

## Scene II. The same. The garden of Julia’s house

## Scene III. The same. A room in Antonio’s house

## ACT II

## Scene I. Milan. A room in the Duke’s palace

## Scene II. Verona. A room in Julia’s house

## Scene III. The same. A street

## Scene IV. Milan. A room in the Duke’s palace

## Scene V. The same. A street

## Scene VI. The same. The Duke’s palace

## Scene VII. Verona. A room in Julia’s house

## ACT III

## Scene I. Milan. An anteroom in the Duke’s palace

## Scene II. The same. A room in the Duke’s palace

## ACT IV

## Scene I. A forest between Milan and Verona

## Scene II. Milan. The court of the Duke’s palace

## Scene III. The same

## Scene IV. The same

## ACT V

## Scene I. Milan. An abbey

## Scene II. The same. A room in the Duke’s palace

## Scene III. Frontiers of Mantua. The forest

## Scene IV. Another part of the forest

Dramatis Personæ

DUKE OF MILAN, father to Silvia VALENTINE, one of the two gentlemen PROTEUS, one of 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 LANCE, the like to Proteus PANTINO, servant to Antonio HOST, where Julia lodges in Milan OUTLAWS, with Valentine

JULIA, a lady of Verona, beloved of Proteus SILVIA, beloved of Valentine LUCETTA, waiting-woman to Julia

Servants, Musicians

SCENE: Verona; Milan; the frontiers of Mantua

## ACT I

## SCENE I. Verona. An open place

Enter Valentine and Proteus.

VALENTINE. Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus. Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits. Were’t not affection chains thy tender days To the sweet glances of thy honoured love, I rather would entreat thy company To see the wonders of the world abroad Than, living dully sluggardized at home, Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness. But since thou lov’st, love still, and thrive therein, Even as I would when I to love begin.

PROTEUS. Wilt thou be gone? Sweet Valentine, adieu. Think on thy Proteus when thou haply seest Some rare noteworthy object in thy travel. Wish me partaker in thy happiness When thou dost meet good hap; and in thy danger, If ever danger do environ thee, Commend thy grievance to my holy prayers, For I will be thy headsman, Valentine.

VALENTINE. And on a love-book pray for my success?

PROTEUS. Upon some