part I

love him not nor hate him not; and yet I have more cause to hate him than to love him. For what had he to do to chide at me? He said mine eyes were black and my hair black, And now I am remembered, scorned at me. I marvel why I answered not again. But that’s all one: omittance is no quittance. I’ll write to him a very taunting letter, And thou shalt bear it. Wilt thou, Silvius?

SILVIUS. Phoebe, with all my heart.

PHOEBE. I’ll write it straight, The matter’s in my head and in my heart. I will be bitter with him and passing short. Go with me, Silvius.

[_Exeunt._]

## ACT IV

## SCENE I. The Forest of Arden

Enter Rosalind, Celia and Jaques.

JAQUES. I prithee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee.

ROSALIND. They say you are a melancholy fellow.

JAQUES. I am so; I do love it better than laughing.

ROSALIND. Those that are in extremity of either are abominable fellows, and betray themselves to every modern censure worse than drunkards.

JAQUES. Why, ’tis good to be sad and say nothing.

ROSALIND. Why then, ’tis good to be a post.

JAQUES. I have neither the scholar’s melancholy, which is emulation; nor the musician’s, which is fantastical; nor the courtier’s, which is proud; nor the soldier’s, which is ambitious; nor the lawyer’s, which is politic; nor the lady’s, which is nice; nor the lover’s, which is all these; but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness.

ROSALIND. A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to be sad. I fear you have sold your own lands to see other men’s. Then to have seen much and to have nothing is to have rich eyes and poor hands.

JAQUES. Yes, I have gained my experience.

ROSALIND. And your experience makes you sad. I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad—and to travel for it too.

Enter Orlando.

ORLANDO. Good day and happiness, dear Rosalind!

JAQUES. Nay, then, God be wi’ you, an you talk in blank verse.

ROSALIND. Farewell, Monsieur Traveller. Look you lisp and wear strange suits; disable all the benefits of your own country; be out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are, or I will scarce think you have swam in a gondola.

[_Exit Jaques._]

Why, how now, Orlando, where have you been all this while? You a lover! An you serve me such another trick, never come in my sight more.

ORLANDO. My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.

ROSALIND. Break an hour’s promise in love? He that will divide a minute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of the thousand part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapped him o’ the shoulder, but I’ll warrant him heart-whole.

ORLANDO. Pardon me, dear Rosalind.

ROSALIND. Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight. I had as lief be wooed of a snail.

ORLANDO. Of a snail?

ROSALIND. Ay, of a snail, for though he comes slowly, he carries his house on his head—a better jointure, I think, than you make a woman. Besides, he brings his destiny with him.

ORLANDO. What’s that?

ROSALIND. Why, horns, which such as you are fain to be beholding to your wives for. But he comes armed in his fortune and prevents the slander of his wife.

ORLANDO. Virtue is no horn-maker and my Rosalind is virtuous.

ROSALIND. And I am your Rosalind.

CELIA. It pleases him to call you so, but he hath a Rosalind of a better leer than you.

ROSALIND. Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a holiday humour, and like enough to consent. What would you say to me now, an I were your very, very Rosalind?

ORLANDO. I would kiss before I spoke.

ROSALIND. Nay, you were better speak first, and when you were gravelled for lack of matter, you might take occasion to kiss. Very good orators, when they are out, they will spit; and for lovers lacking—God warn us—matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss.

ORLANDO. How if the kiss be denied?

ROSALIND. Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter.

ORLANDO. Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress?

ROSALIND. Marry, that should you, if I were your mistress, or I should think my honesty ranker than my wit.

ORLANDO. What, of my suit?

ROSALIND. Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your suit. Am not I your Rosalind?

ORLANDO. I take some joy to say you are because I would be talking of her.

ROSALIND. Well, in her person, I say I will not have you.

ORLANDO. Then, in mine own person, I die.

ROSALIND. No, faith, die by attorney. The poor world is almost six thousand years old, and in all this time there was not any man died in his own person, _videlicet_, in a love-cause. Troilus had his brains dashed out with a Grecian club, yet he did what he could to die before, and he is one of the patterns of love. Leander, he would have lived many a fair year though Hero had turned nun, if it had not been for a hot midsummer night; for, good youth, he went but forth to wash him in the Hellespont and, being taken with the cramp, was drowned; and the foolish chroniclers of that age found it was Hero of Sestos. But these are all lies. Men have died from time to time and worms have eaten them, but not for love.

ORLANDO. I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind, for I protest her frown might kill me.

ROSALIND. By this hand, it will not kill a fly. But come, now I will be your Rosalind in a more coming-on disposition, and ask me what you will, I will grant it.

ORLANDO. Then love me, Rosalind.

ROSALIND. Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and Saturdays and all.

ORLANDO. And wilt thou have me?

ROSALIND. Ay, and twenty such.

ORLANDO. What sayest thou?

ROSALIND. Are you not good?

ORLANDO. I hope so.

ROSALIND. Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing?—Come, sister, you shall be the priest and marry us.—Give me your hand, Orlando.—What do you say, sister?

ORLANDO. Pray thee, marry us.

CELIA. I cannot say the words.

ROSALIND. You must begin “Will you, Orlando—”

CELIA. Go to.—Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind?

ORLANDO. I will.

ROSALIND. Ay, but when?

ORLANDO. Why now, as fast as she can marry us.

ROSALIND. Then you must say “I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.”

ORLANDO. I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.

ROSALIND. I might ask you for your commission. But I do take thee, Orlando, for my husband. There’s a girl goes before the priest, and certainly a woman’s thought runs before her actions.

ORLANDO. So do all thoughts. They are winged.

ROSALIND. Now tell me how long you would have her after you have possessed her.

ORLANDO. For ever and a day.

ROSALIND. Say “a day” without the “ever.” No, no, Orlando, men are April when they woo, December when they wed. Maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives. I will be more jealous of thee than a Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen, more clamorous than a parrot against rain, more new-fangled than an ape, more giddy in my desires than a monkey. I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain, and I will do that when you are disposed to be merry. I will laugh like a hyena, and that when thou are inclined to sleep.

ORLANDO. But will my Rosalind do so?

ROSALIND. By my life, she will do as I do.

ORLANDO. O, but she is wise.

ROSALIND. Or else she could not have the wit to do this. The wiser, the waywarder. Make the doors upon a woman’s wit, and it will out at the casement. Shut that, and ’twill out at the keyhole. Stop that, ’twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.

ORLANDO. A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might say, “Wit, whither wilt?”

ROSALIND. Nay, you might keep that check for it till you met your wife’s wit going to your neighbour’s bed.

ORLANDO. And what wit could wit have to excuse that?

ROSALIND. Marry, to say she came to seek you there. You shall never take her without her answer unless you take her without her tongue. O, that woman that cannot make her fault her husband’s occasion, let her never nurse her child herself, for she will breed it like a fool.

ORLANDO. For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee.

ROSALIND. Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours.

ORLANDO. I must attend the Duke at dinner. By two o’clock I will be with thee again.

ROSALIND. Ay, go your ways, go your ways. I knew what you would prove. My friends told me as much, and I thought no less. That flattering tongue of yours won me. ’Tis but one cast away, and so, come death! Two o’clock is your hour?

ORLANDO. Ay, sweet Rosalind.

ROSALIND. By my troth, and in good earnest, and so God mend me, and by all pretty oaths that are not dangerous, if you break one jot of your promise or come one minute behind your hour, I will think you the most pathetical break-promise, and the most hollow lover, and the most unworthy of her you call Rosalind that may be chosen out of the gross band of the unfaithful. Therefore beware my censure, and keep your promise.

ORLANDO. With no less religion than if thou wert indeed my Rosalind. So, adieu.

ROSALIND. Well, Time is the old justice that examines all such offenders, and let time try. Adieu.

[_Exit Orlando._]

CELIA. You have simply misused our sex in your love-prate! We must have your doublet and hose plucked over your head and show the world what the bird hath done to her own nest.

ROSALIND. O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou didst know how many fathom deep I am in love! But it cannot be sounded; my affection hath an unknown bottom, like the Bay of Portugal.

CELIA. Or rather, bottomless, that as fast as you pour affection in, it runs out.

ROSALIND. No, that same wicked bastard of Venus, that was begot of thought, conceived of spleen, and born of madness, that blind rascally boy that abuses everyone’s eyes because his own are out, let him be judge how deep I am in love. I’ll tell thee, Aliena, I cannot be out of the sight of Orlando. I’ll go find a shadow and sigh till he come.

CELIA. And I’ll sleep.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE II. Another part of the Forest

Enter Jaques and Lords, like foresters.

JAQUES. Which is he that killed the deer?

FIRST LORD. Sir, it was I.

JAQUES. Let’s present him to the Duke, like a Roman conqueror, and it would do well to set the deer’s horns upon his head for a branch of victory. Have you no song, forester, for this purpose?

SECOND LORD. Yes, sir.

JAQUES. Sing it. ’Tis no matter how it be in tune, so it make noise enough.

SONG

SECOND LORD. [_Sings_.] What shall he have that killed the deer? His leather skin and horns to wear. Then sing him home: [_The rest shall bear this burden_.] Take thou no scorn to wear the horn. It was a crest ere thou wast born. Thy father’s father wore it And thy father bore it. The horn, the horn, the lusty horn Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE III. Another part of the Forest

Enter Rosalind and Celia.

ROSALIND. How say you now? Is it not past two o’clock? And here much Orlando.

CELIA. I warrant you, with pure love and troubled brain he hath ta’en his bow and arrows and is gone forth to sleep.

Enter Silvius.

Look who comes here.

SILVIUS. My errand is to you, fair youth. My gentle Phoebe did bid me give you this.

[_Giving a letter._]

I know not the contents, but, as I guess By the stern brow and waspish action Which she did use as she was writing of it, It bears an angry tenor. Pardon me, I am but as a guiltless messenger.

ROSALIND. Patience herself would startle at this letter And play the swaggerer. Bear this, bear all! She says I am not fair, that I lack manners; She calls me proud, and that she could not love me, Were man as rare as phoenix. ’Od’s my will, Her love is not the hare that I do hunt. Why writes she so to me? Well, shepherd, well, This is a letter of your own device.

SILVIUS. No, I protest, I know not the contents. Phoebe did write it.

ROSALIND. Come, come, you are a fool, And turned into the extremity of love. I saw her hand. She has a leathern hand, A freestone-coloured hand. I verily did think That her old gloves were on, but ’twas her hands. She has a huswife’s hand—but that’s no matter. I say she never did invent this letter; This is a man’s invention, and his hand.

SILVIUS. Sure, it is hers.

ROSALIND. Why, ’tis a boisterous and a cruel style, A style for challengers. Why, she defies me, Like Turk to Christian. Women’s gentle brain Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention, Such Ethiop words, blacker in their effect Than in their countenance. Will you hear the letter?

SILVIUS. So please you, for I never heard it yet, Yet heard too much of Phoebe’s cruelty.

ROSALIND. She Phoebes me. Mark how the tyrant writes.

[_Reads._]

_Art thou god to shepherd turned, That a maiden’s heart hath burned?_ Can a woman rail thus?

SILVIUS. Call you this railing?

ROSALIND. _Why, thy godhead laid apart, Warr’st thou with a woman’s heart?_ Did you ever hear such railing? _Whiles the eye of man did woo me, That could do no vengeance to me._ Meaning me a beast. _If the scorn of your bright eyne Have power to raise such love in mine, Alack, in me what strange effect Would they work in mild aspect? Whiles you chid me, I did love, How then might your prayers move? He that brings this love to thee Little knows this love in me; And by him seal up thy mind, Whether that thy youth and kind Will the faithful offer take Of me, and all that I can make, Or else by him my love deny, And then I’ll study how to die._

SILVIUS. Call you this chiding?

CELIA. Alas, poor shepherd.

ROSALIND. Do you pity him? No, he deserves no pity.—Wilt thou love such a woman? What, to make thee an instrument and play false strains upon thee? Not to be endured! Well, go your way to her, for I see love hath made thee a tame snake, and say this to her: that if she love me, I charge her to love thee; if she will not, I will never have her unless thou entreat for her. If you be a true lover, hence, and not a word, for here comes more company.

[_Exit Silvius._]

Enter Oliver.

OLIVER. Good morrow, fair ones. Pray you, if you know, Where in the purlieus of this forest stands A sheepcote fenced about with olive trees?

CELIA. West of this place, down in the neighbour bottom; The rank of osiers, by the murmuring stream, Left on your right hand, brings you to the place. But at this hour the house doth keep itself. There’s none within.

OLIVER. If that an eye may profit by a tongue, Then should I know you by description, Such garments, and such years. “The boy is fair, Of female favour, and bestows himself Like a ripe sister; the woman low, And browner than her brother.” Are not you The owner of the house I did inquire for?

CELIA. It is no boast, being asked, to say we are.

OLIVER. Orlando doth commend him to you both, And to that youth he calls his Rosalind He sends this bloody napkin. Are you he?

ROSALIND. I am. What must we understand by this?

OLIVER. Some of my shame, if you will know of me What man I am, and how, and why, and where This handkerchief was stained.

CELIA. I pray you tell it.

OLIVER. When last the young Orlando parted from you, He left a promise to return again Within an hour, and pacing through the forest, Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy, Lo, what befell. He threw his eye aside, And mark what object did present itself. Under an oak, whose boughs were mossed with age And high top bald with dry antiquity, A wretched ragged man, o’ergrown with hair, Lay sleeping on his back; about his neck A green and gilded snake had wreathed itself, Who with her head, nimble in threats, approached The opening of his mouth. But suddenly, Seeing Orlando, it unlinked itself And with indented glides did slip away Into a bush; under which bush’s shade A lioness, with udders all drawn dry, Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike watch When that the sleeping man should stir. For ’tis The royal disposition of that beast To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead. This seen, Orlando did approach the man And found it was his brother, his elder brother.

CELIA. O, I have heard him speak of that same brother, And he did render him the most unnatural That lived amongst men.

OLIVER. And well he might so do, For well I know he was unnatural.

ROSALIND. But, to Orlando: did he leave him there, Food to the sucked and hungry lioness?

OLIVER. Twice did he turn his back and purposed so; But kindness, nobler ever than revenge, And nature, stronger than his just occasion, Made him give battle to the lioness, Who quickly fell before him; in which hurtling From miserable slumber I awaked.

CELIA. Are you his brother?

ROSALIND. Was it you he rescued?

CELIA. Was’t you that did so oft contrive to kill him?

OLIVER. ’Twas I; but ’tis not I. I do not shame To tell you what I was, since my conversion So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.

ROSALIND. But, for the bloody napkin?

OLIVER. By and by. When from the first to last betwixt us two Tears our recountments had most kindly bathed— As how I came into that desert place— In brief, he led me to the gentle Duke, Who gave me fresh array and entertainment, Committing me unto my brother’s love, Who led me instantly unto his cave, There stripped himself, and here upon his arm The lioness had torn some flesh away, Which all this while had bled; and now he fainted, And cried in fainting upon Rosalind. Brief, I recovered him, bound up his wound, And after some small space, being strong at heart, He sent me hither, stranger as I am, To tell this story, that you might excuse His broken promise, and to give this napkin, Dyed in his blood, unto the shepherd youth That he in sport doth call his Rosalind.

[_Rosalind faints._]

CELIA. Why, how now, Ganymede, sweet Ganymede!

OLIVER. Many will swoon when they do look on blood.

CELIA. There is more in it. Cousin—Ganymede!

OLIVER. Look, he recovers.

ROSALIND. I would I were at home.

CELIA. We’ll lead you thither. I pray you, will you take him by the arm?

OLIVER. Be of good cheer, youth. You a man? You lack a man’s heart.

ROSALIND. I do so, I confess it. Ah, sirrah, a body would think this was well counterfeited. I pray you tell your brother how well I counterfeited. Heigh-ho.

OLIVER. This was not counterfeit. There is too great testimony in your complexion that it was a passion of earnest.

ROSALIND. Counterfeit, I assure you.

OLIVER. Well then, take a good heart, and counterfeit to be a man.

ROSALIND. So I do. But, i’ faith, I should have been a woman by right.

CELIA. Come, you look paler and paler. Pray you draw homewards. Good sir, go with us.

OLIVER. That will I, for I must bear answer back How you excuse my brother, Rosalind.

ROSALIND. I shall devise something. But I pray you commend my counterfeiting to him. Will you go?

[_Exeunt._]

## ACT V

## SCENE I. The Forest of Arden

Enter Touchstone and Audrey.

TOUCHSTONE. We shall find a time, Audrey; patience, gentle Audrey.

AUDREY. Faith, the priest was good enough, for all the old gentleman’s saying.

TOUCHSTONE. A most wicked Sir Oliver, Audrey, a most vile Martext. But Audrey, there is a youth here in the forest lays claim to you.

AUDREY. Ay, I know who ’tis. He hath no interest in me in the world.

Enter William.

Here comes the man you mean.

TOUCHSTONE. It is meat and drink to me to see a clown. By my troth, we that have good wits have much to answer for. We shall be flouting; we cannot hold.

WILLIAM. Good ev’n, Audrey.

AUDREY. God ye good ev’n, William.

WILLIAM. And good ev’n to you, sir.

TOUCHSTONE. Good ev’n, gentle friend. Cover thy head, cover thy head. Nay, prithee, be covered. How old are you, friend?

WILLIAM. Five-and-twenty, sir.

TOUCHSTONE. A ripe age. Is thy name William?

WILLIAM. William, sir.

TOUCHSTONE. A fair name. Wast born i’ th’ forest here?

WILLIAM. Ay, sir, I thank God.

TOUCHSTONE. “Thank God.” A good answer. Art rich?

WILLIAM. Faith, sir, so-so.

TOUCHSTONE. “So-so” is good, very good, very excellent good. And yet it is not, it is but so-so. Art thou wise?

WILLIAM. Ay, sir, I have a pretty wit.

TOUCHSTONE. Why, thou sayst well. I do now remember a saying: “The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.” The heathen philosopher, when he had a desire to eat a grape, would open his lips when he put it into his mouth, meaning thereby that grapes were made to eat and lips to open. You do love this maid?

WILLIAM. I do, sir.

TOUCHSTONE. Give me your hand. Art thou learned?

WILLIAM. No, sir.

TOUCHSTONE. Then learn this of me: to have is to have. For it is a figure in rhetoric that drink, being poured out of cup into a glass, by filling the one doth empty the other. For all your writers do consent that _ipse_ is “he.” Now, you are not _ipse_, for I am he.

WILLIAM. Which he, sir?

TOUCHSTONE. He, sir, that must marry this woman. Therefore, you clown, abandon—which is in the vulgar, “leave”—the society—which in the boorish is “company”—of this female—which in the common is “woman”; which together is, abandon the society of this female, or, clown, thou perishest; or, to thy better understanding, diest; or, to wit, I kill thee, make thee away, translate thy life into death, thy liberty into bondage. I will deal in poison with thee, or in bastinado, or in steel. I will bandy with thee in faction; will o’errun thee with policy. I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways! Therefore tremble and depart.

AUDREY. Do, good William.

WILLIAM. God rest you merry, sir.

[_Exit._]

Enter Corin.

CORIN. Our master and mistress seek you. Come away, away.

TOUCHSTONE. Trip, Audrey, trip, Audrey! I attend, I attend.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE II. Another part of the Forest

Enter Orlando and Oliver.

ORLANDO. Is’t possible that on so little acquaintance you should like her? That but seeing, you should love her? And loving woo? And wooing, she should grant? And will you persever to enjoy her?

OLIVER. Neither call the giddiness of it in question, the poverty of her, the small acquaintance, my sudden wooing, nor her sudden consenting. But say with me, I love Aliena; say with her that she loves me; consent with both that we may enjoy each other. It shall be to your good, for my father’s house and all the revenue that was old Sir Rowland’s will I estate upon you, and here live and die a shepherd.

Enter Rosalind.

ORLANDO. You have my consent. Let your wedding be tomorrow. Thither will I invite the Duke and all’s contented followers. Go you and prepare Aliena; for, look you, here comes my Rosalind.

ROSALIND. God save you, brother.

OLIVER. And you, fair sister.

[_Exit._]

ROSALIND. O my dear Orlando, how it grieves me to see thee wear thy heart in a scarf!

ORLANDO. It is my arm.

ROSALIND. I thought thy heart had been wounded with the claws of a lion.

ORLANDO. Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a lady.

ROSALIND. Did your brother tell you how I counterfeited to swoon when he showed me your handkercher?

ORLANDO. Ay, and greater wonders than that.

ROSALIND. O, I know where you are. Nay, ’tis true. There was never anything so sudden but the fight of two rams, and Caesar’s thrasonical brag of “I came, saw and overcame.” For your brother and my sister no sooner met but they looked; no sooner looked but they loved; no sooner loved but they sighed; no sooner sighed but they asked one another the reason; no sooner knew the reason but they sought the remedy; and in these degrees have they made pair of stairs to marriage, which they will climb incontinent, or else be incontinent before marriage. They are in the very wrath of love, and they will together. Clubs cannot part them.

ORLANDO. They shall be married tomorrow, and I will bid the Duke to the nuptial. But O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man’s eyes! By so much the more shall I tomorrow be at the height of heart-heaviness, by how much I shall think my brother happy in having what he wishes for.

ROSALIND. Why, then, tomorrow I cannot serve your turn for Rosalind?

ORLANDO. I can live no longer by thinking.

ROSALIND. I will weary you then no longer with idle talking. Know of me then—for now I speak to some purpose—that I know you are a gentleman of good conceit. I speak not this that you should bear a good opinion of my knowledge, insomuch I say I know you are. Neither do I labour for a greater esteem than may in some little measure draw a belief from you, to do yourself good, and not to grace me. Believe then, if you please, that I can do strange things. I have, since I was three year old, conversed with a magician, most profound in his art and yet not damnable. If you do love Rosalind so near the heart as your gesture cries it out, when your brother marries Aliena shall you marry her. I know into what straits of fortune she is driven and it is not impossible to me, if it appear not inconvenient to you, to set her before your eyes tomorrow, human as she is, and without any danger.

ORLANDO. Speak’st thou in sober meanings?

ROSALIND. By my life, I do, which I tender dearly, though I say I am a magician. Therefore put you in your best array, bid your friends; for if you will be married tomorrow, you shall, and to Rosalind, if you will.

Enter Silvius and Phoebe.

Look, here comes a lover of mine and a lover of hers.

PHOEBE. Youth, you have done me much ungentleness To show the letter that I writ to you.

ROSALIND. I care not if I have; it is my study To seem despiteful and ungentle to you. You are there followed by a faithful shepherd. Look upon him, love him; he worships you.

PHOEBE. Good shepherd, tell this youth what ’tis to love.

SILVIUS. It is to be all made of sighs and tears, And so am I for Phoebe.

PHOEBE. And I for Ganymede.

ORLANDO. And I for Rosalind.

ROSALIND. And I for no woman.

SILVIUS. It is to be all made of faith and service, And so am I for Phoebe.

PHOEBE. And I for Ganymede.

ORLANDO. And I for Rosalind.

ROSALIND. And I for no woman.

SILVIUS. It is to be all made of fantasy, All made of passion, and all made of wishes, All adoration, duty, and observance, All humbleness, all patience, and impatience, All purity, all trial, all observance, And so am I for Phoebe.

PHOEBE. And so am I for Ganymede.

ORLANDO. And so am I for Rosalind.

ROSALIND. And so am I for no woman.

PHOEBE. [_To Rosalind_.] If this be so, why blame you me to love you?

SILVIUS. [_To Phoebe_.] If this be so, why blame you me to love you?

ORLANDO. If this be so, why blame you me to love you?

ROSALIND. Why do you speak too, “Why blame you me to love you?”

ORLANDO. To her that is not here, nor doth not hear.

ROSALIND. Pray you, no more of this, ’tis like the howling of Irish wolves against the moon. [_to Silvius_.] I will help you if I can. [_to Phoebe_.] I would love you if I could.—Tomorrow meet me all together. [_to Phoebe_.] I will marry you, if ever I marry woman, and I’ll be married tomorrow. [_to Orlando_.] I will satisfy you if ever I satisfied man, and you shall be married tomorrow. [_to Silvius_.] I will content you, if what pleases you contents you, and you shall be married tomorrow. [_to Orlando_.] As you love Rosalind, meet. [_to Silvius_.] As you love Phoebe, meet.—And as I love no woman, I’ll meet. So fare you well. I have left you commands.

SILVIUS. I’ll not fail, if I live.

PHOEBE. Nor I.

ORLANDO. Nor I.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE III. Another part of the Forest

Enter Touchstone and Audrey.

TOUCHSTONE. Tomorrow is the joyful day, Audrey, tomorrow will we be married.

AUDREY. I do desire it with all my heart; and I hope it is no dishonest desire to desire to be a woman of the world.

Enter two Pages.

Here come two of the banished Duke’s pages.

FIRST PAGE. Well met, honest gentleman.

TOUCHSTONE. By my troth, well met. Come sit, sit, and a song.

SECOND PAGE. We are for you, sit i’ th’ middle.

FIRST PAGE. Shall we clap into’t roundly, without hawking or spitting or saying we are hoarse, which are the only prologues to a bad voice?

SECOND PAGE. I’faith, i’faith, and both in a tune like two gipsies on a horse.

SONG

PAGES. [_Sing_.] It was a lover and his lass, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, That o’er the green cornfield did pass In the spring-time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding. Sweet lovers love the spring.

Between the acres of the rye, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, These pretty country folks would lie, In the spring-time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding. Sweet lovers love the spring.

This carol they began that hour, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, How that a life was but a flower, In the spring-time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding. Sweet lovers love the spring.

And therefore take the present time, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, For love is crowned with the prime, In the spring-time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding. Sweet lovers love the spring.

TOUCHSTONE Truly, young gentlemen, though there was no great matter in the ditty, yet the note was very untuneable.

FIRST PAGE. You are deceived, sir, we kept time, we lost not our time.

TOUCHSTONE. By my troth, yes. I count it but time lost to hear such a foolish song. God be wi’ you, and God mend your voices. Come, Audrey.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE IV. Another part of the Forest

Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, Jaques, Orlando, Oliver and Celia.

DUKE SENIOR. Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the boy Can do all this that he hath promised?

ORLANDO. I sometimes do believe and sometimes do not, As those that fear they hope, and know they fear.

Enter Rosalind, Silvius and Phoebe.

ROSALIND. Patience once more whiles our compact is urged. [_To the Duke._] You say, if I bring in your Rosalind, You will bestow her on Orlando here?

DUKE SENIOR. That would I, had I kingdoms to give with her.

ROSALIND. [_To Orlando_.] And you say you will have her when I bring her?

ORLANDO. That would I, were I of all kingdoms king.

ROSALIND. [_To Phoebe_.] You say you’ll marry me if I be willing?

PHOEBE. That will I, should I die the hour after.

ROSALIND. But if you do refuse to marry me, You’ll give yourself to this most faithful shepherd?

PHOEBE. So is the bargain.

ROSALIND. [_To Silvius_.] You say that you’ll have Phoebe if she will?

SILVIUS. Though to have her and death were both one thing.

ROSALIND. I have promised to make all this matter even. Keep you your word, O Duke, to give your daughter, You yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter. Keep your word, Phoebe, that you’ll marry me, Or else, refusing me, to wed this shepherd. Keep your word, Silvius, that you’ll marry her If she refuse me. And from hence I go To make these doubts all even.

[_Exeunt Rosalind and Celia._]

DUKE SENIOR. I do remember in this shepherd boy Some lively touches of my daughter’s favour.

ORLANDO. My lord, the first time that I ever saw him Methought he was a brother to your daughter. But, my good lord, this boy is forest-born And hath been tutored in the rudiments Of many desperate studies by his uncle, Whom he reports to be a great magician, Obscured in the circle of this forest.

Enter Touchstone and Audrey.

JAQUES. There is sure another flood toward, and these couples are coming to the ark. Here comes a pair of very strange beasts, which in all tongues are called fools.

TOUCHSTONE. Salutation and greeting to you all.

JAQUES. Good my lord, bid him welcome. This is the motley-minded gentleman that I have so often met in the forest. He hath been a courtier, he swears.

TOUCHSTONE. If any man doubt that, let him put me to my purgation. I have trod a measure; I have flattered a lady; I have been politic with my friend, smooth with mine enemy; I have undone three tailors; I have had four quarrels, and like to have fought one.

JAQUES. And how was that ta’en up?

TOUCHSTONE. Faith, we met, and found the quarrel was upon the seventh cause.

JAQUES. How seventh cause?—Good my lord, like this fellow?

DUKE SENIOR. I like him very well.

TOUCHSTONE. God ’ild you, sir, I desire you of the like. I press in here, sir, amongst the rest of the country copulatives, to swear and to forswear according as marriage binds and blood breaks. A poor virgin, sir, an ill-favoured thing, sir, but mine own; a poor humour of mine, sir, to take that that no man else will. Rich honesty dwells like a miser, sir, in a poor house, as your pearl in your foul oyster.

DUKE SENIOR. By my faith, he is very swift and sententious.

TOUCHSTONE. According to the fool’s bolt, sir, and such dulcet diseases.

JAQUES. But, for the seventh cause. How did you find the quarrel on the seventh cause?

TOUCHSTONE. Upon a lie seven times removed—bear your body more seeming, Audrey—as thus, sir. I did dislike the cut of a certain courtier’s beard. He sent me word if I said his beard was not cut well, he was in the mind it was. This is called the “retort courteous”. If I sent him word again it was not well cut, he would send me word he cut it to please himself. This is called the “quip modest”. If again it was not well cut, he disabled my judgement. This is called the “reply churlish”. If again it was not well cut, he would answer I spake not true. This is called the “reproof valiant”. If again it was not well cut, he would say I lie. This is called the “countercheck quarrelsome”, and so, to the “lie circumstantial”, and the “lie direct”.

JAQUES. And how oft did you say his beard was not well cut?

TOUCHSTONE. I durst go no further than the lie circumstantial, nor he durst not give me the lie direct; and so we measured swords and parted.

JAQUES. Can you nominate in order now the degrees of the lie?

TOUCHSTONE. O sir, we quarrel in print, by the book, as you have books for good manners. I will name you the degrees: the first, the retort courteous; the second, the quip modest; the third, the reply churlish; the fourth, the reproof valiant; the fifth, the countercheck quarrelsome; the sixth, the lie with circumstance; the seventh, the lie direct. All these you may avoid but the lie direct and you may avoid that too with an “if”. I knew when seven justices could not take up a quarrel, but when the parties were met themselves, one of them thought but of an “if”, as, “if you said so, then I said so;” and they shook hands, and swore brothers. Your “if” is the only peacemaker; much virtue in “if.”

JAQUES. Is not this a rare fellow, my lord? He’s as good at anything, and yet a fool.

DUKE SENIOR. He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and under the presentation of that he shoots his wit.

Enter Hymen, Rosalind in woman’s clothes, and Celia. Still music.

HYMEN. Then is there mirth in heaven When earthly things made even Atone together. Good Duke, receive thy daughter. Hymen from heaven brought her, Yea, brought her hither, That thou mightst join her hand with his, Whose heart within his bosom is.

ROSALIND. [_To Duke Senior_.] To you I give myself, for I am yours. [_To Orlando_.] To you I give myself, for I am yours.

DUKE SENIOR. If there be truth in sight, you are my daughter.

ORLANDO. If there be truth in sight, you are my Rosalind.

PHOEBE. If sight and shape be true, Why then, my love adieu.

ROSALIND. [_To Duke Senior_.] I’ll have no father, if you be not he. [_To Orlando_.] I’ll have no husband, if you be not he. [_To Phoebe_.] Nor ne’er wed woman, if you be not she.

HYMEN. Peace, ho! I bar confusion. ’Tis I must make conclusion Of these most strange events. Here’s eight that must take hands To join in Hymen’s bands, If truth holds true contents. [_To Orlando and Rosalind_.] You and you no cross shall part. [_To Celia and Oliver_.] You and you are heart in heart. [_To Phoebe_.] You to his love must accord Or have a woman to your lord. [_To Audrey and Touchstone_.] You and you are sure together As the winter to foul weather. Whiles a wedlock hymn we sing, Feed yourselves with questioning, That reason wonder may diminish How thus we met, and these things finish.

SONG Wedding is great Juno’s crown, O blessed bond of board and bed. ’Tis Hymen peoples every town, High wedlock then be honoured. Honour, high honour, and renown To Hymen, god of every town.

DUKE SENIOR. O my dear niece, welcome thou art to me Even daughter, welcome in no less degree.

PHOEBE. [_To Silvius_.] I will not eat my word, now thou art mine, Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine.

Enter Jaques de Boys.

JAQUES DE BOYS. Let me have audience for a word or two. I am the second son of old Sir Rowland, That bring these tidings to this fair assembly. Duke Frederick, hearing how that every day Men of great worth resorted to this forest, Addressed a mighty power, which were on foot In his own conduct, purposely to take His brother here and put him to the sword; And to the skirts of this wild wood he came, Where, meeting with an old religious man, After some question with him, was converted Both from his enterprise and from the world, His crown bequeathing to his banished brother, And all their lands restored to them again That were with him exiled. This to be true I do engage my life.

DUKE SENIOR. Welcome, young man. Thou offer’st fairly to thy brother’s wedding: To one his lands withheld, and to the other A land itself at large, a potent dukedom. First, in this forest let us do those ends That here were well begun and well begot; And after, every of this happy number That have endured shrewd days and nights with us Shall share the good of our returned fortune, According to the measure of their states. Meantime, forget this new-fall’n dignity, And fall into our rustic revelry. Play, music! And you brides and bridegrooms all, With measure heaped in joy to th’ measures fall.

JAQUES. Sir, by your patience. If I heard you rightly, The Duke hath put on a religious life And thrown into neglect the pompous court.

JAQUES DE BOYS. He hath.

JAQUES. To him will I. Out of these convertites There is much matter to be heard and learned. [_To Duke Senior_.] You to your former honour I bequeath; Your patience and your virtue well deserves it. [_To Orlando_.] You to a love that your true faith doth merit. [_To Oliver_.] You to your land, and love, and great allies. [_To Silvius_.] You to a long and well-deserved bed. [_To Touchstone_.] And you to wrangling, for thy loving voyage Is but for two months victualled.—So to your pleasures, I am for other than for dancing measures.

DUKE SENIOR. Stay, Jaques, stay.

JAQUES. To see no pastime, I. What you would have I’ll stay to know at your abandoned cave.

[_Exit._]

DUKE SENIOR. Proceed, proceed! We will begin these rites, As we do trust they’ll end, in true delights.

[_Dance. Exeunt all but Rosalind._]

EPILOGUE

ROSALIND. It is not the fashion to see the lady the epilogue, but it is no more unhandsome than to see the lord the prologue. If it be true that good wine needs no bush, ’tis true that a good play needs no epilogue. Yet to good wine they do use good bushes, and good plays prove the better by the help of good epilogues. What a case am I in then, that am neither a good epilogue nor cannot insinuate with you in the behalf of a good play! I am not furnished like a beggar; therefore to beg will not become me. My way is to conjure you, and I’ll begin with the women. I charge you, O women, for the love you bear to men, to like as much of this play as please you. And I charge you, O men, for the love you bear to women—as I perceive by your simpering, none of you hates them—that between you and the women the play may please. If I were a woman, I would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me, complexions that liked me, and breaths that I defied not. And I am sure as many as have good beards, or good faces, or sweet breaths will for my kind offer, when I make curtsy, bid me farewell.

[_Exit._]

THE COMEDY OF ERRORS

Contents

## ACT I

## Scene I. A hall in the Duke’s palace

## Scene II. A public place

## ACT II

## Scene I. A public place

## Scene II. The same

## ACT III

## Scene I. The same

## Scene II. The same

## ACT IV

## Scene I. The same

## Scene II. The same

## Scene III. The same

## Scene IV. The same

## ACT V

## Scene I. The same

Dramatis Personæ

SOLINUS, Duke of Ephesus. EGEON, a Merchant of Syracuse.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS, Twin brothers and sons to Egeon and ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE, Emilia, but unknown to each other.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS, Twin brothers, and attendants on DROMIO OF SYRACUSE, the two Antipholuses.

BALTHASAR, a Merchant. ANGELO, a Goldsmith. A MERCHANT, friend to Antipholus of Syracuse. PINCH, a Schoolmaster and a Conjurer. EMILIA, Wife to Egeon, an Abbess at Ephesus. ADRIANA, Wife to Antipholus of Ephesus. LUCIANA, her Sister. LUCE, her Servant. A COURTESAN Messenger, Jailer, Officers, Attendants

SCENE: Ephesus

## ACT I

## SCENE I. A hall in the Duke’s palace

Enter Duke, Egeon, Jailer, Officers and other Attendants.

EGEON. Proceed, Solinus, to procure my fall, And by the doom of death end woes and all.

DUKE. Merchant of Syracusa, plead no more. I am not partial to infringe our laws. The enmity and discord which of late Sprung from the rancorous outrage of your Duke To merchants, our well-dealing countrymen, Who, wanting guilders to redeem their lives, Have seal’d his rigorous statutes with their bloods, Excludes all pity from our threat’ning looks. For since the mortal and intestine jars ’Twixt thy seditious countrymen and us, It hath in solemn synods been decreed, Both by the Syracusians and ourselves, To admit no traffic to our adverse towns; Nay more, if any born at Ephesus Be seen at Syracusian marts and fairs; Again, if any Syracusian born Come to the bay of Ephesus, he dies, His goods confiscate to the Duke’s dispose, Unless a thousand marks be levied To quit the penalty and to ransom him. Thy substance, valued at the highest rate, Cannot amount unto a hundred marks; Therefore by law thou art condemn’d to die.

EGEON. Yet this my comfort; when your words are done, My woes end likewise with the evening sun.

DUKE. Well, Syracusian, say in brief the cause Why thou departedst from thy native home, And for what cause thou cam’st to Ephesus.

EGEON. A heavier task could not have been impos’d Than I to speak my griefs unspeakable; Yet, that the world may witness that my end Was wrought by nature, not by vile offence, I’ll utter what my sorrow gives me leave. In Syracusa was I born, and wed Unto a woman happy but for me, And by me, had not our hap been bad. With her I liv’d in joy; our wealth increas’d By prosperous voyages I often made To Epidamnum, till my factor’s death, And the great care of goods at random left, Drew me from kind embracements of my spouse; From whom my absence was not six months old Before herself (almost at fainting under The pleasing punishment that women bear) Had made provision for her following me, And soon and safe arrived where I was. There had she not been long but she became A joyful mother of two goodly sons, And, which was strange, the one so like the other As could not be distinguish’d but by names. That very hour, and in the self-same inn, A mean woman was delivered Of such a burden, male twins, both alike. Those, for their parents were exceeding poor, I bought, and brought up to attend my sons. My wife, not meanly proud of two such boys, Made daily motions for our home return. Unwilling I agreed; alas, too soon We came aboard. A league from Epidamnum had we sail’d Before the always-wind-obeying deep Gave any tragic instance of our harm; But longer did we not retain much hope; For what obscured light the heavens did grant Did but convey unto our fearful minds A doubtful warrant of immediate death, Which though myself would gladly have embrac’d, Yet the incessant weepings of my wife, Weeping before for what she saw must come, And piteous plainings of the pretty babes, That mourn’d for fashion, ignorant what to fear, Forc’d me to seek delays for them and me. And this it was (for other means was none). The sailors sought for safety by our boat, And left the ship, then sinking-ripe, to us. My wife, more careful for the latter-born, Had fast’ned him unto a small spare mast, Such as sea-faring men provide for storms. To him one of the other twins was bound, Whilst I had been like heedful of the other. The children thus dispos’d, my wife and I, Fixing our eyes on whom our care was fix’d, Fast’ned ourselves at either end the mast, And, floating straight, obedient to the stream, Was carried towards Corinth, as we thought. At length the sun, gazing upon the earth, Dispers’d those vapours that offended us, And by the benefit of his wished light The seas wax’d calm, and we discovered Two ships from far, making amain to us, Of Corinth that, of Epidaurus this. But ere they came—O, let me say no more! Gather the sequel by that went before.

DUKE. Nay, forward, old man, do not break off so, For we may pity, though not pardon thee.

EGEON. O, had the gods done so, I had not now Worthily term’d them merciless to us. For, ere the ships could meet by twice five leagues, We were encountered by a mighty rock, Which being violently borne upon, Our helpful ship was splitted in the midst; So that, in this unjust divorce of us, Fortune had left to both of us alike What to delight in, what to sorrow for. Her part, poor soul, seeming as burdened With lesser weight, but not with lesser woe, Was carried with more speed before the wind, And in our sight they three were taken up By fishermen of Corinth, as we thought. At length another ship had seiz’d on us; And, knowing whom it was their hap to save, Gave healthful welcome to their ship-wrack’d guests, And would have reft the fishers of their prey, Had not their bark been very slow of sail; And therefore homeward did they bend their course. Thus have you heard me sever’d from my bliss, That by misfortunes was my life prolong’d To tell sad stories of my own mishaps.

DUKE. And for the sake of them thou sorrowest for, Do me the favour to dilate at full What have befall’n of them and thee till now.

EGEON. My youngest boy, and yet my eldest care, At eighteen years became inquisitive After his brother, and importun’d me That his attendant, so his case was like, Reft of his brother, but retain’d his name, Might bear him company in the quest of him; Whom whilst I laboured of a love to see, I hazarded the loss of whom I lov’d. Five summers have I spent in farthest Greece, Roaming clean through the bounds of Asia, And, coasting homeward, came to Ephesus, Hopeless to find, yet loath to leave unsought Or that or any place that harbours men. But here must end the story of my life; And happy were I in my timely death, Could all my travels warrant me they live.

DUKE. Hapless Egeon, whom the fates have mark’d To bear the extremity of dire mishap; Now, trust me, were it not against our laws, Against my crown, my oath, my dignity, Which princes, would they, may not disannul, My soul should sue as advocate for thee. But though thou art adjudged to the death, And passed sentence may not be recall’d But to our honour’s great disparagement, Yet will I favour thee in what I can. Therefore, merchant, I’ll limit thee this day To seek thy health by beneficial help. Try all the friends thou hast in Ephesus; Beg thou, or borrow, to make up the sum, And live; if no, then thou art doom’d to die. Jailer, take him to thy custody.

JAILER. I will, my lord.

EGEON. Hopeless and helpless doth Egeon wend, But to procrastinate his lifeless end.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE II. A public place

Enter Antipholus and Dromio of Syracuse and a Merchant.

MERCHANT. Therefore give out you are of Epidamnum, Lest that your goods too soon be confiscate. This very day a Syracusian merchant Is apprehended for arrival here, And, not being able to buy out his life, According to the statute of the town Dies ere the weary sun set in the west. There is your money that I had to keep.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Go bear it to the Centaur, where we host, And stay there, Dromio, till I come to thee. Within this hour it will be dinnertime; Till that, I’ll view the manners of the town, Peruse the traders, gaze upon the buildings, And then return and sleep within mine inn, For with long travel I am stiff and weary. Get thee away.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Many a man would take you at your word, And go indeed, having so good a mean.

[_Exit Dromio._]

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. A trusty villain, sir, that very oft, When I am dull with care and melancholy, Lightens my humour with his merry jests. What, will you walk with me about the town, And then go to my inn and dine with me?

MERCHANT. I am invited, sir, to certain merchants, Of whom I hope to make much benefit. I crave your pardon. Soon, at five o’clock, Please you, I’ll meet with you upon the mart, And afterward consort you till bedtime. My present business calls me from you now.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Farewell till then: I will go lose myself, And wander up and down to view the city.

MERCHANT. Sir, I commend you to your own content.

[_Exit Merchant._]

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. He that commends me to mine own content Commends me to the thing I cannot get. I to the world am like a drop of water That in the ocean seeks another drop, Who, failing there to find his fellow forth, Unseen, inquisitive, confounds himself. So I, to find a mother and a brother, In quest of them, unhappy, lose myself.

Enter Dromio of Ephesus.

Here comes the almanac of my true date. What now? How chance thou art return’d so soon?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Return’d so soon? rather approach’d too late. The capon burns, the pig falls from the spit; The clock hath strucken twelve upon the bell; My mistress made it one upon my cheek. She is so hot because the meat is cold; The meat is cold because you come not home; You come not home because you have no stomach; You have no stomach, having broke your fast; But we that know what ’tis to fast and pray, Are penitent for your default today.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Stop in your wind, sir, tell me this, I pray: Where have you left the money that I gave you?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. O, sixpence that I had o’ Wednesday last To pay the saddler for my mistress’ crupper: The saddler had it, sir, I kept it not.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. I am not in a sportive humour now. Tell me, and dally not, where is the money? We being strangers here, how dar’st thou trust So great a charge from thine own custody?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. I pray you jest, sir, as you sit at dinner: I from my mistress come to you in post; If I return, I shall be post indeed, For she will score your fault upon my pate. Methinks your maw, like mine, should be your clock, And strike you home without a messenger.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Come, Dromio, come, these jests are out of season, Reserve them till a merrier hour than this. Where is the gold I gave in charge to thee?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. To me, sir? why, you gave no gold to me!

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Come on, sir knave, have done your foolishness, And tell me how thou hast dispos’d thy charge.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. My charge was but to fetch you from the mart Home to your house, the Phoenix, sir, to dinner. My mistress and her sister stay for you.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Now, as I am a Christian, answer me In what safe place you have bestow’d my money, Or I shall break that merry sconce of yours That stands on tricks when I am undispos’d; Where is the thousand marks thou hadst of me?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. I have some marks of yours upon my pate, Some of my mistress’ marks upon my shoulders, But not a thousand marks between you both. If I should pay your worship those again, Perchance you will not bear them patiently.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Thy mistress’ marks? what mistress, slave, hast thou?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Your worship’s wife, my mistress at the Phoenix; She that doth fast till you come home to dinner, And prays that you will hie you home to dinner.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. What, wilt thou flout me thus unto my face, Being forbid? There, take you that, sir knave.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. What mean you, sir? for God’s sake hold your hands. Nay, an you will not, sir, I’ll take my heels.

[_Exit Dromio._]

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Upon my life, by some device or other The villain is o’er-raught of all my money. They say this town is full of cozenage, As nimble jugglers that deceive the eye, Dark-working sorcerers that change the mind, Soul-killing witches that deform the body, Disguised cheaters, prating mountebanks, And many such-like liberties of sin: If it prove so, I will be gone the sooner. I’ll to the Centaur to go seek this slave. I greatly fear my money is not safe.

[_Exit._]

## ACT II

## SCENE I. A public place

Enter Adriana, wife to Antipholus (of Ephesus) with Luciana her sister.

ADRIANA. Neither my husband nor the slave return’d That in such haste I sent to seek his master? Sure, Luciana, it is two o’clock.

LUCIANA. Perhaps some merchant hath invited him, And from the mart he’s somewhere gone to dinner. Good sister, let us dine, and never fret; A man is master of his liberty; Time is their master, and when they see time, They’ll go or come. If so, be patient, sister.

ADRIANA. Why should their liberty than ours be more?

LUCIANA. Because their business still lies out o’ door.

ADRIANA. Look when I serve him so, he takes it ill.

LUCIANA. O, know he is the bridle of your will.

ADRIANA. There’s none but asses will be bridled so.

LUCIANA. Why, headstrong liberty is lash’d with woe. There’s nothing situate under heaven’s eye But hath his bound in earth, in sea, in sky. The beasts, the fishes, and the winged fowls Are their males’ subjects, and at their controls. Man, more divine, the masters of all these, Lord of the wide world and wild wat’ry seas, Indued with intellectual sense and souls, Of more pre-eminence than fish and fowls, Are masters to their females, and their lords: Then let your will attend on their accords.

ADRIANA. This servitude makes you to keep unwed.

LUCIANA. Not this, but troubles of the marriage-bed.

ADRIANA. But, were you wedded, you would bear some sway.

LUCIANA. Ere I learn love, I’ll practise to obey.

ADRIANA. How if your husband start some other where?

LUCIANA. Till he come home again, I would forbear.

ADRIANA. Patience unmov’d! No marvel though she pause; They can be meek that have no other cause. A wretched soul bruis’d with adversity, We bid be quiet when we hear it cry; But were we burd’ned with like weight of pain, As much, or more, we should ourselves complain: So thou, that hast no unkind mate to grieve thee, With urging helpless patience would relieve me: But if thou live to see like right bereft, This fool-begg’d patience in thee will be left.

LUCIANA. Well, I will marry one day, but to try. Here comes your man, now is your husband nigh.

Enter Dromio of Ephesus.

ADRIANA. Say, is your tardy master now at hand?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Nay, he’s at two hands with me, and that my two ears can witness.

ADRIANA. Say, didst thou speak with him? know’st thou his mind?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Ay, ay, he told his mind upon mine ear. Beshrew his hand, I scarce could understand it.

LUCIANA. Spake he so doubtfully thou couldst not feel his meaning?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Nay, he struck so plainly I could too well feel his blows; and withal so doubtfully that I could scarce understand them.

ADRIANA. But say, I prithee, is he coming home? It seems he hath great care to please his wife.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Why, mistress, sure my master is horn-mad.

ADRIANA. Horn-mad, thou villain?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. I mean not cuckold-mad, But sure he’s stark mad. When I desir’d him to come home to dinner, He ask’d me for a thousand marks in gold. “’Tis dinner time,” quoth I. “My gold,” quoth he. “Your meat doth burn” quoth I. “My gold,” quoth he. “Will you come home?” quoth I. “My gold,” quoth he. “Where is the thousand marks I gave thee, villain?” “The pig” quoth I “is burn’d”. “My gold,” quoth he. “My mistress, sir,” quoth I. “Hang up thy mistress; I know not thy mistress; out on thy mistress!”

LUCIANA. Quoth who?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Quoth my master. “I know,” quoth he, “no house, no wife, no mistress.” So that my errand, due unto my tongue, I thank him, I bare home upon my shoulders; For, in conclusion, he did beat me there.

ADRIANA. Go back again, thou slave, and fetch him home.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Go back again, and be new beaten home? For God’s sake, send some other messenger.

ADRIANA. Back slave, or I will break thy pate across.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. And he will bless that cross with other beating. Between you I shall have a holy head.

ADRIANA. Hence, prating peasant. Fetch thy master home.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Am I so round with you, as you with me, That like a football you do spurn me thus? You spurn me hence, and he will spurn me hither. If I last in this service, you must case me in leather.

[_Exit._]

LUCIANA. Fie, how impatience loureth in your face.

ADRIANA. His company must do his minions grace, Whilst I at home starve for a merry look. Hath homely age th’ alluring beauty took From my poor cheek? then he hath wasted it. Are my discourses dull? barren my wit? If voluble and sharp discourse be marr’d, Unkindness blunts it more than marble hard. Do their gay vestments his affections bait? That’s not my fault; he’s master of my state. What ruins are in me that can be found By him not ruin’d? Then is he the ground Of my defeatures. My decayed fair A sunny look of his would soon repair; But, too unruly deer, he breaks the pale And feeds from home; poor I am but his stale.

LUCIANA. Self-harming jealousy! fie, beat it hence.

ADRIANA. Unfeeling fools can with such wrongs dispense. I know his eye doth homage otherwhere, Or else what lets it but he would be here? Sister, you know he promis’d me a chain; Would that alone, a love he would detain, So he would keep fair quarter with his bed. I see the jewel best enamelled Will lose his beauty; yet the gold bides still That others touch, yet often touching will Wear gold; and no man that hath a name By falsehood and corruption doth it shame. Since that my beauty cannot please his eye, I’ll weep what’s left away, and weeping die.

LUCIANA. How many fond fools serve mad jealousy!

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE II. The same

Enter Antipholus of Syracuse.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. The gold I gave to Dromio is laid up Safe at the Centaur, and the heedful slave Is wander’d forth in care to seek me out. By computation and mine host’s report. I could not speak with Dromio since at first I sent him from the mart. See, here he comes.

Enter Dromio of Syracuse.

How now, sir! is your merry humour alter’d? As you love strokes, so jest with me again. You know no Centaur? you receiv’d no gold? Your mistress sent to have me home to dinner? My house was at the Phoenix? Wast thou mad, That thus so madly thou didst answer me?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. What answer, sir? when spake I such a word?

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Even now, even here, not half an hour since.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. I did not see you since you sent me hence, Home to the Centaur with the gold you gave me.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Villain, thou didst deny the gold’s receipt, And told’st me of a mistress and a dinner, For which I hope thou felt’st I was displeas’d.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. I am glad to see you in this merry vein. What means this jest, I pray you, master, tell me?

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Yea, dost thou jeer and flout me in the teeth? Think’st thou I jest? Hold, take thou that, and that.

[_Beats Dromio._]

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Hold, sir, for God’s sake, now your jest is earnest. Upon what bargain do you give it me?

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Because that I familiarly sometimes Do use you for my fool, and chat with you, Your sauciness will jest upon my love, And make a common of my serious hours. When the sun shines let foolish gnats make sport, But creep in crannies when he hides his beams. If you will jest with me, know my aspect, And fashion your demeanour to my looks, Or I will beat this method in your sconce.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Sconce, call you it? so you would leave battering, I had rather have it a head. And you use these blows long, I must get a sconce for my head, and ensconce it too, or else I shall seek my wit in my shoulders. But I pray, sir, why am I beaten?

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Dost thou not know?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Nothing, sir, but that I am beaten.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Shall I tell you why?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Ay, sir, and wherefore; for they say, every why hath a wherefore.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Why, first, for flouting me; and then wherefore, For urging it the second time to me.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Was there ever any man thus beaten out of season, When in the why and the wherefore is neither rhyme nor reason? Well, sir, I thank you.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Thank me, sir, for what?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Marry, sir, for this something that you gave me for nothing.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. I’ll make you amends next, to give you nothing for something. But say, sir, is it dinner-time?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. No, sir; I think the meat wants that I have.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. In good time, sir, what’s that?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Basting.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Well, sir, then ’twill be dry.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. If it be, sir, I pray you eat none of it.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Your reason?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Lest it make you choleric, and purchase me another dry basting.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Well, sir, learn to jest in good time. There’s a time for all things.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. I durst have denied that before you were so choleric.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. By what rule, sir?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Marry, sir, by a rule as plain as the plain bald pate of Father Time himself.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Let’s hear it.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. There’s no time for a man to recover his hair that grows bald by nature.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. May he not do it by fine and recovery?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Yes, to pay a fine for a periwig, and recover the lost hair of another man.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Why is Time such a niggard of hair, being, as it is, so plentiful an excrement?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Because it is a blessing that he bestows on beasts, and what he hath scanted men in hair he hath given them in wit.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Why, but there’s many a man hath more hair than wit.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Not a man of those but he hath the wit to lose his hair.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Why, thou didst conclude hairy men plain dealers without wit.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. The plainer dealer, the sooner lost. Yet he loseth it in a kind of jollity.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. For what reason?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. For two, and sound ones too.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Nay, not sound, I pray you.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Sure ones, then.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Nay, not sure, in a thing falsing.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Certain ones, then.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Name them.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. The one, to save the money that he spends in tiring; the other, that at dinner they should not drop in his porridge.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. You would all this time have proved there is no time for all things.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Marry, and did, sir; namely, e’en no time to recover hair lost by nature.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. But your reason was not substantial why there is no time to recover.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Thus I mend it: Time himself is bald, and therefore, to the world’s end will have bald followers.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. I knew ’twould be a bald conclusion. But soft! who wafts us yonder?

Enter Adriana and Luciana.

ADRIANA. Ay, ay, Antipholus, look strange and frown, Some other mistress hath thy sweet aspects. I am not Adriana, nor thy wife. The time was once when thou unurg’d wouldst vow That never words were music to thine ear, That never object pleasing in thine eye, That never touch well welcome to thy hand, That never meat sweet-savour’d in thy taste, Unless I spake, or look’d, or touch’d, or carv’d to thee. How comes it now, my husband, O, how comes it, That thou art then estranged from thyself? Thyself I call it, being strange to me, That, undividable, incorporate, Am better than thy dear self’s better part. Ah, do not tear away thyself from me; For know, my love, as easy mayst thou fall A drop of water in the breaking gulf, And take unmingled thence that drop again Without addition or diminishing, As take from me thyself, and not me too. How dearly would it touch thee to the quick, Should’st thou but hear I were licentious? And that this body, consecrate to thee, By ruffian lust should be contaminate? Wouldst thou not spit at me, and spurn at me, And hurl the name of husband in my face, And tear the stain’d skin off my harlot brow, And from my false hand cut the wedding-ring, And break it with a deep-divorcing vow? I know thou canst; and therefore, see thou do it. I am possess’d with an adulterate blot; My blood is mingled with the crime of lust; For if we two be one, and thou play false, I do digest the poison of thy flesh, Being strumpeted by thy contagion. Keep then fair league and truce with thy true bed, I live distain’d, thou undishonoured.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Plead you to me, fair dame? I know you not. In Ephesus I am but two hours old, As strange unto your town as to your talk, Who, every word by all my wit being scann’d, Wants wit in all one word to understand.

LUCIANA. Fie, brother, how the world is chang’d with you. When were you wont to use my sister thus? She sent for you by Dromio home to dinner.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. By Dromio?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. By me?

ADRIANA. By thee; and this thou didst return from him, That he did buffet thee, and in his blows Denied my house for his, me for his wife.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Did you converse, sir, with this gentlewoman? What is the course and drift of your compact?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. I, sir? I never saw her till this time.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Villain, thou liest, for even her very words Didst thou deliver to me on the mart.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. I never spake with her in all my life.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. How can she thus, then, call us by our names? Unless it be by inspiration.

ADRIANA. How ill agrees it with your gravity To counterfeit thus grossly with your slave, Abetting him to thwart me in my mood; Be it my wrong, you are from me exempt, But wrong not that wrong with a more contempt. Come, I will fasten on this sleeve of thine. Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine, Whose weakness, married to thy stronger state, Makes me with thy strength to communicate: If aught possess thee from me, it is dross, Usurping ivy, brier, or idle moss, Who all, for want of pruning, with intrusion Infect thy sap, and live on thy confusion.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. To me she speaks; she moves me for her theme. What, was I married to her in my dream? Or sleep I now, and think I hear all this? What error drives our eyes and ears amiss? Until I know this sure uncertainty I’ll entertain the offer’d fallacy.

LUCIANA. Dromio, go bid the servants spread for dinner.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. O, for my beads! I cross me for a sinner. This is the fairy land; O spite of spites! We talk with goblins, owls, and sprites; If we obey them not, this will ensue: They’ll suck our breath, or pinch us black and blue.

LUCIANA. Why prat’st thou to thyself, and answer’st not? Dromio, thou drone, thou snail, thou slug, thou sot.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. I am transformed, master, am I not?

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. I think thou art in mind, and so am I.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Nay, master, both in mind and in my shape.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Thou hast thine own form.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. No, I am an ape.

LUCIANA. If thou art chang’d to aught, ’tis to an ass.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. ’Tis true; she rides me, and I long for grass. ’Tis so, I am an ass; else it could never be But I should know her as well as she knows me.

ADRIANA. Come, come, no longer will I be a fool, To put the finger in the eye and weep Whilst man and master laughs my woes to scorn. Come, sir, to dinner; Dromio, keep the gate. Husband, I’ll dine above with you today, And shrive you of a thousand idle pranks. Sirrah, if any ask you for your master, Say he dines forth, and let no creature enter. Come, sister; Dromio, play the porter well.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Am I in earth, in heaven, or in hell? Sleeping or waking, mad, or well-advis’d? Known unto these, and to myself disguis’d! I’ll say as they say, and persever so, And in this mist at all adventures go.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Master, shall I be porter at the gate?

ADRIANA. Ay; and let none enter, lest I break your pate.

LUCIANA. Come, come, Antipholus, we dine too late.

[_Exeunt._]

## ACT III

## SCENE I. The same

Enter Antipholus of Ephesus, his man Dromio of Ephesus, Angelo the goldsmith and Balthasar the merchant.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Good Signior Angelo, you must excuse us all, My wife is shrewish when I keep not hours. Say that I linger’d with you at your shop To see the making of her carcanet, And that tomorrow you will bring it home. But here’s a villain that would face me down. He met me on the mart, and that I beat him, And charg’d him with a thousand marks in gold, And that I did deny my wife and house. Thou drunkard, thou, what didst thou mean by this?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Say what you will, sir, but I know what I know. That you beat me at the mart I have your hand to show; If the skin were parchment, and the blows you gave were ink, Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. I think thou art an ass.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Marry, so it doth appear By the wrongs I suffer and the blows I bear. I should kick, being kick’d; and being at that pass, You would keep from my heels, and beware of an ass.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. You’re sad, Signior Balthasar; pray God our cheer May answer my good will and your good welcome here.

BALTHASAR. I hold your dainties cheap, sir, and your welcome dear.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. O, Signior Balthasar, either at flesh or fish A table full of welcome makes scarce one dainty dish.

BALTHASAR. Good meat, sir, is common; that every churl affords.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. And welcome more common, for that’s nothing but words.

BALTHASAR Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Ay, to a niggardly host and more sparing guest. But though my cates be mean, take them in good part; Better cheer may you have, but not with better heart. But soft; my door is lock’d. Go bid them let us in.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Maud, Bridget, Marian, Cicely, Gillian, Ginn!

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. [_Within._] Mome, malt-horse, capon, coxcomb, idiot, patch! Either get thee from the door or sit down at the hatch: Dost thou conjure for wenches, that thou call’st for such store When one is one too many? Go, get thee from the door.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. What patch is made our porter? My master stays in the street.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Let him walk from whence he came, lest he catch cold on’s feet.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Who talks within there? Ho, open the door.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Right, sir, I’ll tell you when an you’ll tell me wherefore.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Wherefore? For my dinner. I have not dined today.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Nor today here you must not; come again when you may.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. What art thou that keep’st me out from the house I owe?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. The porter for this time, sir, and my name is Dromio.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. O villain, thou hast stolen both mine office and my name; The one ne’er got me credit, the other mickle blame. If thou hadst been Dromio today in my place, Thou wouldst have chang’d thy face for a name, or thy name for an ass.

Enter Luce concealed from Antipholus of Ephesus and his companions.

LUCE. [_Within._] What a coil is there, Dromio, who are those at the gate?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Let my master in, Luce.

LUCE. Faith, no, he comes too late, And so tell your master.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. O Lord, I must laugh; Have at you with a proverb:—Shall I set in my staff?

LUCE. Have at you with another: that’s—When? can you tell?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. If thy name be called Luce,—Luce, thou hast answer’d him well.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Do you hear, you minion? you’ll let us in, I hope?

LUCE. I thought to have ask’d you.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. And you said no.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. So, come, help. Well struck, there was blow for blow.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Thou baggage, let me in.

LUCE. Can you tell for whose sake?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Master, knock the door hard.

LUCE. Let him knock till it ache.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. You’ll cry for this, minion, if I beat the door down.

LUCE. What needs all that, and a pair of stocks in the town?

Enter Adriana concealed from Antipholus of Ephesus and his companions.

ADRIANA. [_Within._] Who is that at the door that keeps all this noise?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. By my troth, your town is troubled with unruly boys.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Are you there, wife? you might have come before.

ADRIANA. Your wife, sir knave? go, get you from the door.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. If you went in pain, master, this knave would go sore.

ANGELO. Here is neither cheer, sir, nor welcome. We would fain have either.

BALTHASAR. In debating which was best, we shall part with neither.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. They stand at the door, master; bid them welcome hither.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. There is something in the wind, that we cannot get in.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. You would say so, master, if your garments were thin. Your cake here is warm within; you stand here in the cold. It would make a man mad as a buck to be so bought and sold.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Go, fetch me something, I’ll break ope the gate.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Break any breaking here, and I’ll break your knave’s pate.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. A man may break a word with you, sir, and words are but wind; Ay, and break it in your face, so he break it not behind.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. It seems thou want’st breaking; out upon thee, hind!

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Here’s too much “out upon thee”; I pray thee, let me in.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Ay, when fowls have no feathers and fish have no fin.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Well, I’ll break in; go, borrow me a crow.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. A crow without feather; master, mean you so? For a fish without a fin, there’s a fowl without a feather. If a crow help us in, sirrah, we’ll pluck a crow together.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Go, get thee gone; fetch me an iron crow.

BALTHASAR. Have patience, sir. O, let it not be so: Herein you war against your reputation, And draw within the compass of suspect The unviolated honour of your wife. Once this,—your long experience of her wisdom, Her sober virtue, years, and modesty, Plead on her part some cause to you unknown; And doubt not, sir, but she will well excuse Why at this time the doors are made against you. Be rul’d by me; depart in patience, And let us to the Tiger all to dinner, And about evening, come yourself alone To know the reason of this strange restraint. If by strong hand you offer to break in Now in the stirring passage of the day, A vulgar comment will be made of it; And that supposed by the common rout Against your yet ungalled estimation That may with foul intrusion enter in, And dwell upon your grave when you are dead; For slander lives upon succession, For ever hous’d where it gets possession.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. You have prevail’d. I will depart in quiet, And, in despite of mirth, mean to be merry. I know a wench of excellent discourse, Pretty and witty; wild, and yet, too, gentle; There will we dine. This woman that I mean, My wife (but, I protest, without desert) Hath oftentimes upbraided me withal; To her will we to dinner.—Get you home And fetch the chain, by this I know ’tis made. Bring it, I pray you, to the Porpentine, For there’s the house. That chain will I bestow (Be it for nothing but to spite my wife) Upon mine hostess there. Good sir, make haste. Since mine own doors refuse to entertain me, I’ll knock elsewhere, to see if they’ll disdain me.

ANGELO. I’ll meet you at that place some hour hence.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Do so; this jest shall cost me some expense.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE II. The same

Enter Luciana with Antipholus of Syracuse.

LUCIANA. And may it be that you have quite forgot A husband’s office? Shall, Antipholus, Even in the spring of love, thy love-springs rot? Shall love, in building, grow so ruinous? If you did wed my sister for her wealth, Then for her wealth’s sake use her with more kindness; Or if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth, Muffle your false love with some show of blindness. Let not my sister read it in your eye; Be not thy tongue thy own shame’s orator; Look sweet, speak fair, become disloyalty; Apparel vice like virtue’s harbinger; Bear a fair presence though your heart be tainted; Teach sin the carriage of a holy saint, Be secret-false. What need she be acquainted? What simple thief brags of his own attaint? ’Tis double wrong to truant with your bed And let her read it in thy looks at board. Shame hath a bastard fame, well managed; Ill deeds is doubled with an evil word. Alas, poor women, make us but believe, Being compact of credit, that you love us. Though others have the arm, show us the sleeve; We in your motion turn, and you may move us. Then, gentle brother, get you in again; Comfort my sister, cheer her, call her wife. ’Tis holy sport to be a little vain When the sweet breath of flattery conquers strife.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Sweet mistress, what your name is else, I know not, Nor by what wonder you do hit on mine; Less in your knowledge and your grace you show not Than our earth’s wonder, more than earth divine. Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak; Lay open to my earthy gross conceit, Smother’d in errors, feeble, shallow, weak, The folded meaning of your words’ deceit. Against my soul’s pure truth why labour you To make it wander in an unknown field? Are you a god? would you create me new? Transform me, then, and to your power I’ll yield. But if that I am I, then well I know Your weeping sister is no wife of mine, Nor to her bed no homage do I owe. Far more, far more, to you do I decline. O, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note To drown me in thy sister’s flood of tears. Sing, siren, for thyself, and I will dote; Spread o’er the silver waves thy golden hairs, And as a bed I’ll take thee, and there lie, And, in that glorious supposition think He gains by death that hath such means to die. Let love, being light, be drowned if she sink!

LUCIANA. What, are you mad, that you do reason so?

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Not mad, but mated; how, I do not know.

LUCIANA. It is a fault that springeth from your eye.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. For gazing on your beams, fair sun, being by.

LUCIANA. Gaze where you should, and that will clear your sight.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. As good to wink, sweet love, as look on night.

LUCIANA. Why call you me love? Call my sister so.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Thy sister’s sister.

LUCIANA. That’s my sister.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. No, It is thyself, mine own self’s better part, Mine eye’s clear eye, my dear heart’s dearer heart, My food, my fortune, and my sweet hope’s aim, My sole earth’s heaven, and my heaven’s claim.

LUCIANA. All this my sister is, or else should be.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Call thyself sister, sweet, for I aim thee; Thee will I love, and with thee lead my life; Thou hast no husband yet, nor I no wife. Give me thy hand.

LUCIANA. O, soft, sir, hold you still; I’ll fetch my sister to get her goodwill.

[_Exit Luciana._]

Enter Dromio of Syracuse.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Why, how now, Dromio? where runn’st thou so fast?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Do you know me, sir? Am I Dromio? Am I your man? Am I myself?

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Thou art Dromio, thou art my man, thou art thyself.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. I am an ass, I am a woman’s man, and besides myself.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. What woman’s man? and how besides thyself?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Marry, sir, besides myself, I am due to a woman, one that claims me, one that haunts me, one that will have me.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. What claim lays she to thee?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Marry, sir, such claim as you would lay to your horse, and she would have me as a beast; not that I being a beast she would have me, but that she being a very beastly creature lays claim to me.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. What is she?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. A very reverent body; ay, such a one as a man may not speak of without he say “sir-reverence”. I have but lean luck in the match, and yet is she a wondrous fat marriage.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. How dost thou mean a “fat marriage”?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Marry, sir, she’s the kitchen wench, and all grease, and I know not what use to put her to but to make a lamp of her and run from her by her own light. I warrant her rags and the tallow in them will burn a Poland winter. If she lives till doomsday, she’ll burn a week longer than the whole world.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. What complexion is she of?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Swart like my shoe, but her face nothing like so clean kept. For why? she sweats, a man may go overshoes in the grime of it.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. That’s a fault that water will mend.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. No, sir, ’tis in grain; Noah’s flood could not do it.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. What’s her name?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Nell, sir; but her name and three quarters, that’s an ell and three quarters, will not measure her from hip to hip.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Then she bears some breadth?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. No longer from head to foot than from hip to hip. She is spherical, like a globe. I could find out countries in her.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. In what part of her body stands Ireland?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Marry, sir, in her buttocks; I found it out by the bogs.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Where Scotland?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. I found it by the barrenness, hard in the palm of the hand.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Where France?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. In her forehead; armed and reverted, making war against her hair.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Where England?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. I looked for the chalky cliffs, but I could find no whiteness in them. But I guess it stood in her chin, by the salt rheum that ran between France and it.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Where Spain?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Faith, I saw it not; but I felt it hot in her breath.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Where America, the Indies?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. O, sir, upon her nose, all o’er-embellished with rubies, carbuncles, sapphires, declining their rich aspect to the hot breath of Spain, who sent whole armadoes of carracks to be ballast at her nose.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Where stood Belgia, the Netherlands?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. O, sir, I did not look so low. To conclude: this drudge or diviner laid claim to me, called me Dromio, swore I was assured to her, told me what privy marks I had about me, as the mark of my shoulder, the mole in my neck, the great wart on my left arm, that I, amazed, ran from her as a witch. And, I think, if my breast had not been made of faith, and my heart of steel, she had transformed me to a curtal dog, and made me turn i’ the wheel.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Go, hie thee presently, post to the road; And if the wind blow any way from shore, I will not harbour in this town tonight. If any bark put forth, come to the mart, Where I will walk till thou return to me. If everyone knows us, and we know none, ’Tis time, I think, to trudge, pack and be gone.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. As from a bear a man would run for life, So fly I from her that would be my wife.

[_Exit._]

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. There’s none but witches do inhabit here, And therefore ’tis high time that I were hence. She that doth call me husband, even my soul Doth for a wife abhor. But her fair sister, Possess’d with such a gentle sovereign grace, Of such enchanting presence and discourse, Hath almost made me traitor to myself. But lest myself be guilty to self-wrong, I’ll stop mine ears against the mermaid’s song.

Enter Angelo with the chain.

ANGELO. Master Antipholus.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Ay, that’s my name.

ANGELO. I know it well, sir. Lo, here is the chain; I thought to have ta’en you at the Porpentine, The chain unfinish’d made me stay thus long.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. What is your will that I shall do with this?

ANGELO. What please yourself, sir; I have made it for you.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Made it for me, sir! I bespoke it not.

ANGELO. Not once, nor twice, but twenty times you have. Go home with it, and please your wife withal, And soon at supper-time I’ll visit you, And then receive my money for the chain.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. I pray you, sir, receive the money now, For fear you ne’er see chain nor money more.

ANGELO. You are a merry man, sir; fare you well.

[_Exit._]

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. What I should think of this I cannot tell, But this I think, there’s no man is so vain That would refuse so fair an offer’d chain. I see a man here needs not live by shifts, When in the streets he meets such golden gifts. I’ll to the mart, and there for Dromio stay; If any ship put out, then straight away.

[_Exit._]

## ACT IV

## SCENE I. The same

Enter Merchant, Angelo and an Officer.

MERCHANT. You know since Pentecost the sum is due, And since I have not much importun’d you, Nor now I had not, but that I am bound To Persia, and want guilders for my voyage; Therefore make present satisfaction, Or I’ll attach you by this officer.

ANGELO. Even just the sum that I do owe to you Is growing to me by Antipholus, And in the instant that I met with you He had of me a chain; at five o’clock I shall receive the money for the same. Pleaseth you walk with me down to his house, I will discharge my bond, and thank you too.

Enter Antipholus of Ephesus and Dromio of Ephesus from the Courtesan’s.

OFFICER. That labour may you save. See where he comes.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. While I go to the goldsmith’s house, go thou And buy a rope’s end; that will I bestow Among my wife and her confederates For locking me out of my doors by day. But soft, I see the goldsmith; get thee gone; Buy thou a rope, and bring it home to me.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. I buy a thousand pound a year! I buy a rope!

[_Exit Dromio._]

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. A man is well holp up that trusts to you, I promised your presence and the chain, But neither chain nor goldsmith came to me. Belike you thought our love would last too long If it were chain’d together, and therefore came not.

ANGELO. Saving your merry humour, here’s the note How much your chain weighs to the utmost carat, The fineness of the gold, and chargeful fashion, Which doth amount to three odd ducats more Than I stand debted to this gentleman. I pray you, see him presently discharg’d, For he is bound to sea, and stays but for it.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. I am not furnished with the present money; Besides, I have some business in the town. Good signior, take the stranger to my house, And with you take the chain, and bid my wife Disburse the sum on the receipt thereof; Perchance I will be there as soon as you.

ANGELO. Then you will bring the chain to her yourself.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. No, bear it with you, lest I come not time enough.

ANGELO. Well, sir, I will. Have you the chain about you?

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. And if I have not, sir, I hope you have, Or else you may return without your money.

ANGELO. Nay, come, I pray you, sir, give me the chain; Both wind and tide stays for this gentleman, And I, to blame, have held him here too long.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Good Lord, you use this dalliance to excuse Your breach of promise to the Porpentine. I should have chid you for not bringing it, But, like a shrew, you first begin to brawl.

MERCHANT. The hour steals on; I pray you, sir, dispatch.

ANGELO. You hear how he importunes me. The chain!

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Why, give it to my wife, and fetch your money.

ANGELO. Come, come, you know I gave it you even now. Either send the chain or send by me some token.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Fie, now you run this humour out of breath. Come, where’s the chain? I pray you, let me see it.

MERCHANT. My business cannot brook this dalliance. Good sir, say whe’er you’ll answer me or no; If not, I’ll leave him to the officer.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. I answer you? What should I answer you?

ANGELO. The money that you owe me for the chain.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. I owe you none till I receive the chain.

ANGELO. You know I gave it you half an hour since.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. You gave me none. You wrong me much to say so.

ANGELO. You wrong me more, sir, in denying it. Consider how it stands upon my credit.

MERCHANT. Well, officer, arrest him at my suit.

OFFICER. I do, and charge you in the duke’s name to obey me.

ANGELO. This touches me in reputation. Either consent to pay this sum for me, Or I attach you by this officer.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Consent to pay thee that I never had? Arrest me, foolish fellow, if thou dar’st.

ANGELO. Here is thy fee; arrest him, officer. I would not spare my brother in this case If he should scorn me so apparently.

OFFICER. I do arrest you, sir. You hear the suit.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. I do obey thee till I give thee bail. But, sirrah, you shall buy this sport as dear As all the metal in your shop will answer.

ANGELO. Sir, sir, I shall have law in Ephesus, To your notorious shame, I doubt it not.

Enter Dromio of Syracuse from the bay.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Master, there’s a bark of Epidamnum That stays but till her owner comes aboard, And then, sir, bears away. Our fraughtage, sir, I have convey’d aboard, and I have bought The oil, the balsamum, and aqua-vitae. The ship is in her trim; the merry wind Blows fair from land; they stay for nought at all But for their owner, master, and yourself.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. How now? a madman? Why, thou peevish sheep, What ship of Epidamnum stays for me?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. A ship you sent me to, to hire waftage.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Thou drunken slave, I sent thee for a rope, And told thee to what purpose and what end.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. You sent me for a rope’s end as soon. You sent me to the bay, sir, for a bark.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. I will debate this matter at more leisure, And teach your ears to list me with more heed. To Adriana, villain, hie thee straight: Give her this key, and tell her in the desk That’s cover’d o’er with Turkish tapestry There is a purse of ducats; let her send it. Tell her I am arrested in the street, And that shall bail me. Hie thee, slave; be gone. On, officer, to prison till it come.

[_Exeunt Merchant, Angelo, Officer and Antipholus of Ephesus._]

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. To Adriana, that is where we din’d, Where Dowsabel did claim me for her husband. She is too big, I hope, for me to compass. Thither I must, although against my will, For servants must their masters’ minds fulfil.

[_Exit._]

## SCENE II. The same

Enter Adriana and Luciana.

ADRIANA. Ah, Luciana, did he tempt thee so? Might’st thou perceive austerely in his eye That he did plead in earnest, yea or no? Look’d he or red or pale, or sad or merrily? What observation mad’st thou in this case Of his heart’s meteors tilting in his face?

LUCIANA. First he denied you had in him no right.

ADRIANA. He meant he did me none; the more my spite.

LUCIANA. Then swore he that he was a stranger here.

ADRIANA. And true he swore, though yet forsworn he were.

LUCIANA. Then pleaded I for you.

ADRIANA. And what said he?

LUCIANA. That love I begg’d for you he begg’d of me.

ADRIANA. With what persuasion did he tempt thy love?

LUCIANA. With words that in an honest suit might move. First he did praise my beauty, then my speech.

ADRIANA. Did’st speak him fair?

LUCIANA. Have patience, I beseech.

ADRIANA. I cannot, nor I will not hold me still. My tongue, though not my heart, shall have his will. He is deformed, crooked, old, and sere, Ill-fac’d, worse bodied, shapeless everywhere; Vicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, unkind, Stigmatical in making, worse in mind.

LUCIANA. Who would be jealous then of such a one? No evil lost is wail’d when it is gone.

ADRIANA. Ah, but I think him better than I say, And yet would herein others’ eyes were worse: Far from her nest the lapwing cries away; My heart prays for him, though my tongue do curse.

Enter Dromio of Syracuse.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Here, go; the desk, the purse, sweet now, make haste.

LUCIANA. How hast thou lost thy breath?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. By running fast.

ADRIANA. Where is thy master, Dromio? is he well?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. No, he’s in Tartar limbo, worse than hell. A devil in an everlasting garment hath him, One whose hard heart is button’d up with steel; A fiend, a fairy, pitiless and rough; A wolf, nay worse, a fellow all in buff; A back-friend, a shoulder-clapper, one that countermands The passages of alleys, creeks, and narrow lands; A hound that runs counter, and yet draws dryfoot well, One that, before the judgement, carries poor souls to hell.

ADRIANA. Why, man, what is the matter?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. I do not know the matter. He is ’rested on the case.

ADRIANA. What, is he arrested? Tell me at whose suit?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. I know not at whose suit he is arrested, well; But he’s in a suit of buff which ’rested him, that can I tell. Will you send him, mistress, redemption, the money in his desk?

ADRIANA. Go fetch it, sister. This I wonder at,

[_Exit Luciana._]

Thus he unknown to me should be in debt. Tell me, was he arrested on a band?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Not on a band, but on a stronger thing; A chain, a chain. Do you not hear it ring?

ADRIANA. What, the chain?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. No, no, the bell, ’tis time that I were gone. It was two ere I left him, and now the clock strikes one.

ADRIANA. The hours come back! That did I never hear.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. O yes, if any hour meet a sergeant, ’a turns back for very fear.

ADRIANA. As if time were in debt. How fondly dost thou reason!

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Time is a very bankrupt, and owes more than he’s worth to season. Nay, he’s a thief too. Have you not heard men say That time comes stealing on by night and day? If he be in debt and theft, and a sergeant in the way, Hath he not reason to turn back an hour in a day?

Enter Luciana.

ADRIANA. Go, Dromio, there’s the money, bear it straight, And bring thy master home immediately. Come, sister, I am press’d down with conceit; Conceit, my comfort and my injury.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE III. The same

Enter Antipholus of Syracuse.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. There’s not a man I meet but doth salute me As if I were their well-acquainted friend, And everyone doth call me by my name. Some tender money to me, some invite me; Some other give me thanks for kindnesses; Some offer me commodities to buy. Even now a tailor call’d me in his shop, And show’d me silks that he had bought for me, And therewithal took measure of my body. Sure, these are but imaginary wiles, And Lapland sorcerers inhabit here.

Enter Dromio of Syracuse.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Master, here’s the gold you sent me for. What, have you got the picture of old Adam new apparelled?

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. What gold is this? What Adam dost thou mean?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Not that Adam that kept the paradise, but that Adam that keeps the prison; he that goes in the calf’s skin that was killed for the Prodigal; he that came behind you, sir, like an evil angel, and bid you forsake your liberty.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. I understand thee not.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. No? Why, ’tis a plain case: he that went like a bass-viol in a case of leather; the man, sir, that, when gentlemen are tired, gives them a sob, and ’rests them; he, sir, that takes pity on decayed men and gives them suits of durance; he that sets up his rest to do more exploits with his mace than a morris-pike.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. What! thou mean’st an officer?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Ay, sir, the sergeant of the band; he that brings any man to answer it that breaks his band; one that thinks a man always going to bed, and says, “God give you good rest.”

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Well, sir, there rest in your foolery. Is there any ship puts forth tonight? may we be gone?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Why, sir, I brought you word an hour since that the bark _Expedition_ put forth tonight, and then were you hindered by the sergeant to tarry for the hoy _Delay_. Here are the angels that you sent for to deliver you.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. The fellow is distract, and so am I, And here we wander in illusions. Some blessed power deliver us from hence!

Enter a Courtesan.

COURTESAN. Well met, well met, Master Antipholus. I see, sir, you have found the goldsmith now. Is that the chain you promis’d me today?

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Satan, avoid! I charge thee, tempt me not.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Master, is this Mistress Satan?

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. It is the devil.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Nay, she is worse, she is the devil’s dam; and here she comes in the habit of a light wench, and thereof comes that the wenches say “God damn me”, that’s as much to say, “God make me a light wench.” It is written they appear to men like angels of light. Light is an effect of fire, and fire will burn; ergo, light wenches will burn. Come not near her.

COURTESAN. Your man and you are marvellous merry, sir. Will you go with me? We’ll mend our dinner here.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Master, if you do, expect spoon-meat, or bespeak a long spoon.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Why, Dromio?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Marry, he must have a long spoon that must eat with the devil.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Avoid then, fiend! What tell’st thou me of supping? Thou art, as you are all, a sorceress. I conjure thee to leave me and be gone.

COURTESAN. Give me the ring of mine you had at dinner, Or, for my diamond, the chain you promis’d, And I’ll be gone, sir, and not trouble you.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Some devils ask but the paring of one’s nail, A rush, a hair, a drop of blood, a pin, A nut, a cherry-stone; but she, more covetous, Would have a chain. Master, be wise; and if you give it her, The devil will shake her chain and fright us with it.

COURTESAN. I pray you, sir, my ring, or else the chain; I hope you do not mean to cheat me so.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Avaunt, thou witch! Come, Dromio, let us go.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Fly pride, says the peacock. Mistress, that you know.

[_Exeunt Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse._]

COURTESAN. Now, out of doubt Antipholus is mad, Else would he never so demean himself. A ring he hath of mine worth forty ducats, And for the same he promis’d me a chain; Both one and other he denies me now. The reason that I gather he is mad, Besides this present instance of his rage, Is a mad tale he told today at dinner Of his own doors being shut against his entrance. Belike his wife, acquainted with his fits, On purpose shut the doors against his way. My way is now to hie home to his house, And tell his wife that, being lunatic, He rush’d into my house and took perforce My ring away. This course I fittest choose, For forty ducats is too much to lose.

[_Exit._]

## SCENE IV. The same

Enter Antipholus of Ephesus with an Officer.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Fear me not, man, I will not break away: I’ll give thee ere I leave thee so much money, To warrant thee, as I am ’rested for. My wife is in a wayward mood today, And will not lightly trust the messenger That I should be attach’d in Ephesus; I tell you ’twill sound harshly in her ears.

Enter Dromio of Ephesus with a rope’s end.

Here comes my man. I think he brings the money. How now, sir! have you that I sent you for?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Here’s that, I warrant you, will pay them all.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. But where’s the money?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Why, sir, I gave the money for the rope.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Five hundred ducats, villain, for a rope?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. I’ll serve you, sir, five hundred at the rate.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. To what end did I bid thee hie thee home?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. To a rope’s end, sir; and to that end am I return’d.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. And to that end, sir, I will welcome you.

[_Beating him._]

OFFICER. Good sir, be patient.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Nay, ’tis for me to be patient. I am in adversity.

OFFICER. Good now, hold thy tongue.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Nay, rather persuade him to hold his hands.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Thou whoreson, senseless villain.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. I would I were senseless, sir, that I might not feel your blows.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Thou art sensible in nothing but blows, and so is an ass.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. I am an ass indeed; you may prove it by my long ears. I have served him from the hour of my nativity to this instant, and have nothing at his hands for my service but blows. When I am cold, he heats me with beating; when I am warm he cools me with beating. I am waked with it when I sleep, raised with it when I sit, driven out of doors with it when I go from home, welcomed home with it when I return. Nay, I bear it on my shoulders as a beggar wont her brat; and I think when he hath lamed me, I shall beg with it from door to door.

Enter Adriana, Luciana, Courtesan and a Schoolmaster called Pinch.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Come, go along, my wife is coming yonder.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Mistress, _respice finem_, respect your end, or rather, the prophesy like the parrot, “Beware the rope’s end.”

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Wilt thou still talk?

[_Beats him._]

COURTESAN. How say you now? Is not your husband mad?

ADRIANA. His incivility confirms no less. Good Doctor Pinch, you are a conjurer; Establish him in his true sense again, And I will please you what you will demand.

LUCIANA. Alas, how fiery and how sharp he looks!

COURTESAN. Mark how he trembles in his ecstasy.

PINCH. Give me your hand, and let me feel your pulse.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. There is my hand, and let it feel your ear.

PINCH. I charge thee, Satan, hous’d within this man, To yield possession to my holy prayers, And to thy state of darkness hie thee straight. I conjure thee by all the saints in heaven.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Peace, doting wizard, peace; I am not mad.

ADRIANA. O, that thou wert not, poor distressed soul!

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. You minion, you, are these your customers? Did this companion with the saffron face Revel and feast it at my house today, Whilst upon me the guilty doors were shut, And I denied to enter in my house?

ADRIANA. O husband, God doth know you din’d at home, Where would you had remain’d until this time, Free from these slanders and this open shame.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Din’d at home? Thou villain, what sayest thou?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Sir, sooth to say, you did not dine at home.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Were not my doors lock’d up and I shut out?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Perdy, your doors were lock’d, and you shut out.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. And did not she herself revile me there?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Sans fable, she herself revil’d you there.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Did not her kitchen-maid rail, taunt, and scorn me?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Certes, she did, the kitchen-vestal scorn’d you.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. And did not I in rage depart from thence?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. In verity, you did; my bones bear witness, That since have felt the vigour of his rage.

ADRIANA. Is’t good to soothe him in these contraries?

PINCH. It is no shame; the fellow finds his vein, And yielding to him, humours well his frenzy.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Thou hast suborn’d the goldsmith to arrest me.

ADRIANA. Alas! I sent you money to redeem you By Dromio here, who came in haste for it.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Money by me? Heart and goodwill you might, But surely, master, not a rag of money.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Went’st not thou to her for a purse of ducats?

ADRIANA. He came to me, and I deliver’d it.

LUCIANA. And I am witness with her that she did.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. God and the rope-maker bear me witness That I was sent for nothing but a rope.

PINCH. Mistress, both man and master is possess’d, I know it by their pale and deadly looks. They must be bound and laid in some dark room.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Say, wherefore didst thou lock me forth today, And why dost thou deny the bag of gold?

ADRIANA. I did not, gentle husband, lock thee forth.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. And gentle master, I receiv’d no gold; But I confess, sir, that we were lock’d out.

ADRIANA. Dissembling villain, thou speak’st false in both.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Dissembling harlot, thou art false in all, And art confederate with a damned pack To make a loathsome abject scorn of me. But with these nails I’ll pluck out these false eyes That would behold in me this shameful sport.

[_Enter three or four, and offer to bind him. He strives. _]

ADRIANA. O, bind him, bind him; let him not come near me.

PINCH. More company; the fiend is strong within him.

LUCIANA. Ay me, poor man, how pale and wan he looks!

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. What, will you murder me? Thou jailer, thou, I am thy prisoner. Wilt thou suffer them To make a rescue?

OFFICER. Masters, let him go. He is my prisoner, and you shall not have him.

PINCH. Go, bind this man, for he is frantic too.

ADRIANA. What wilt thou do, thou peevish officer? Hast thou delight to see a wretched man Do outrage and displeasure to himself?

OFFICER. He is my prisoner. If I let him go, The debt he owes will be requir’d of me.

ADRIANA. I will discharge thee ere I go from thee; Bear me forthwith unto his creditor, And knowing how the debt grows, I will pay it. Good master doctor, see him safe convey’d Home to my house. O most unhappy day!

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. O most unhappy strumpet!

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Master, I am here enter’d in bond for you.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Out on thee, villain! wherefore dost thou mad me?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Will you be bound for nothing? Be mad, good master; cry, “the devil”.

LUCIANA. God help, poor souls, how idly do they talk!

ADRIANA. Go bear him hence. Sister, go you with me.

[_Exeunt Pinch and Assistants, with Antipholus of Ephesus and Dromio of Ephesus._]

Say now, whose suit is he arrested at?

OFFICER. One Angelo, a goldsmith; do you know him?

ADRIANA. I know the man. What is the sum he owes?

OFFICER. Two hundred ducats.

ADRIANA. Say, how grows it due?

OFFICER. Due for a chain your husband had of him.

ADRIANA. He did bespeak a chain for me, but had it not.

COURTESAN. When as your husband, all in rage, today Came to my house and took away my ring, The ring I saw upon his finger now, Straight after did I meet him with a chain.

ADRIANA. It may be so, but I did never see it. Come, jailer, bring me where the goldsmith is, I long to know the truth hereof at large.

Enter Antipholus of Syracuse with his rapier drawn, and Dromio of Syracuse.

LUCIANA. God, for thy mercy, they are loose again!

ADRIANA. And come with naked swords. Let’s call more help To have them bound again.

OFFICER. Away, they’ll kill us.

[_Exeunt, as fast as may be, frighted._]

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. I see these witches are afraid of swords.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. She that would be your wife now ran from you.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Come to the Centaur, fetch our stuff from thence. I long that we were safe and sound aboard.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Faith, stay here this night, they will surely do us no harm; you saw they speak us fair, give us gold. Methinks they are such a gentle nation that, but for the mountain of mad flesh that claims marriage of me, I could find in my heart to stay here still and turn witch.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. I will not stay tonight for all the town; Therefore away, to get our stuff aboard.

[_Exeunt._]

## ACT V

## SCENE I. The same

Enter Merchant and Angelo.

ANGELO. I am sorry, sir, that I have hinder’d you, But I protest he had the chain of me, Though most dishonestly he doth deny it.

MERCHANT. How is the man esteem’d here in the city?

ANGELO. Of very reverend reputation, sir, Of credit infinite, highly belov’d, Second to none that lives here in the city. His word might bear my wealth at any time.

MERCHANT. Speak softly. Yonder, as I think, he walks.

Enter Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse.

ANGELO. ’Tis so; and that self chain about his neck Which he forswore most monstrously to have. Good sir, draw near to me, I’ll speak to him. Signior Antipholus, I wonder much That you would put me to this shame and trouble, And not without some scandal to yourself, With circumstance and oaths so to deny This chain, which now you wear so openly. Beside the charge, the shame, imprisonment, You have done wrong to this my honest friend, Who, but for staying on our controversy, Had hoisted sail and put to sea today. This chain you had of me, can you deny it?

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. I think I had: I never did deny it.

MERCHANT. Yes, that you did, sir, and forswore it too.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Who heard me to deny it or forswear it?

MERCHANT. These ears of mine, thou know’st, did hear thee. Fie on thee, wretch. ’Tis pity that thou liv’st To walk where any honest men resort.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Thou art a villain to impeach me thus; I’ll prove mine honour and mine honesty Against thee presently, if thou dar’st stand.

MERCHANT. I dare, and do defy thee for a villain.

[_They draw._]

Enter Adriana, Luciana, Courtesan and others.

ADRIANA. Hold, hurt him not, for God’s sake, he is mad. Some get within him, take his sword away. Bind Dromio too, and bear them to my house.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Run, master, run, for God’s sake, take a house. This is some priory; in, or we are spoil’d.

[_Exeunt Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse to the priory._]

Enter Lady Abbess.

ABBESS. Be quiet, people. Wherefore throng you hither?

ADRIANA. To fetch my poor distracted husband hence. Let us come in, that we may bind him fast And bear him home for his recovery.

ANGELO. I knew he was not in his perfect wits.

MERCHANT. I am sorry now that I did draw on him.

ABBESS. How long hath this possession held the man?

ADRIANA. This week he hath been heavy, sour, sad, And much different from the man he was. But till this afternoon his passion Ne’er brake into extremity of rage.

ABBESS. Hath he not lost much wealth by wreck of sea? Buried some dear friend? Hath not else his eye Stray’d his affection in unlawful love? A sin prevailing much in youthful men Who give their eyes the liberty of gazing? Which of these sorrows is he subject to?

ADRIANA. To none of these, except it be the last, Namely, some love that drew him oft from home.

ABBESS. You should for that have reprehended him.

ADRIANA. Why, so I did.

ABBESS. Ay, but not rough enough.

ADRIANA. As roughly as my modesty would let me.

ABBESS. Haply in private.

ADRIANA. And in assemblies too.

ABBESS. Ay, but not enough.

ADRIANA. It was the copy of our conference. In bed he slept not for my urging it; At board he fed not for my urging it; Alone, it was the subject of my theme; In company I often glanced it; Still did I tell him it was vile and bad.

ABBESS. And thereof came it that the man was mad. The venom clamours of a jealous woman Poisons more deadly than a mad dog’s tooth. It seems his sleeps were hindered by thy railing, And thereof comes it that his head is light. Thou say’st his meat was sauc’d with thy upbraidings. Unquiet meals make ill digestions; Thereof the raging fire of fever bred, And what’s a fever but a fit of madness? Thou say’st his sports were hinder’d by thy brawls. Sweet recreation barr’d, what doth ensue But moody and dull melancholy, Kinsman to grim and comfortless despair, And at her heels a huge infectious troop Of pale distemperatures and foes to life? In food, in sport, and life-preserving rest To be disturb’d would mad or man or beast. The consequence is, then, thy jealous fits Hath scar’d thy husband from the use of’s wits.

LUCIANA. She never reprehended him but mildly, When he demean’d himself rough, rude, and wildly. Why bear you these rebukes and answer not?

ADRIANA. She did betray me to my own reproof. Good people, enter and lay hold on him.

ABBESS. No, not a creature enters in my house.

ADRIANA. Then let your servants bring my husband forth.

ABBESS. Neither. He took this place for sanctuary, And it shall privilege him from your hands Till I have brought him to his wits again, Or lose my labour in assaying it.

ADRIANA. I will attend my husband, be his nurse, Diet his sickness, for it is my office, And will have no attorney but myself; And therefore let me have him home with me.

ABBESS. Be patient, for I will not let him stir Till I have used the approved means I have, With wholesome syrups, drugs, and holy prayers, To make of him a formal man again. It is a branch and parcel of mine oath, A charitable duty of my order; Therefore depart, and leave him here with me.

ADRIANA. I will not hence and leave my husband here; And ill it doth beseem your holiness To separate the husband and the wife.

ABBESS. Be quiet and depart. Thou shalt not have him.

[_Exit Abbess._]

LUCIANA. Complain unto the duke of this indignity.

ADRIANA. Come, go. I will fall prostrate at his feet, And never rise until my tears and prayers Have won his grace to come in person hither And take perforce my husband from the abbess.

MERCHANT. By this, I think, the dial points at five. Anon, I’m sure, the Duke himself in person Comes this way to the melancholy vale, The place of death and sorry execution Behind the ditches of the abbey here.

ANGELO. Upon what cause?

MERCHANT. To see a reverend Syracusian merchant, Who put unluckily into this bay Against the laws and statutes of this town, Beheaded publicly for his offence.

ANGELO. See where they come. We will behold his death.

LUCIANA. Kneel to the Duke before he pass the abbey.

Enter the Duke, attended; Egeon, bareheaded; with the Headsman and other Officers.

DUKE. Yet once again proclaim it publicly, If any friend will pay the sum for him, He shall not die; so much we tender him.

ADRIANA. Justice, most sacred duke, against the abbess!

DUKE. She is a virtuous and a reverend lady, It cannot be that she hath done thee wrong.

ADRIANA. May it please your grace, Antipholus, my husband, Who I made lord of me and all I had At your important letters, this ill day A most outrageous fit of madness took him; That desp’rately he hurried through the street, With him his bondman all as mad as he, Doing displeasure to the citizens By rushing in their houses, bearing thence Rings, jewels, anything his rage did like. Once did I get him bound and sent him home, Whilst to take order for the wrongs I went, That here and there his fury had committed. Anon, I wot not by what strong escape, He broke from those that had the guard of him, And with his mad attendant and himself, Each one with ireful passion, with drawn swords, Met us again, and, madly bent on us, Chased us away; till raising of more aid, We came again to bind them. Then they fled Into this abbey, whither we pursued them. And here the abbess shuts the gates on us, And will not suffer us to fetch him out, Nor send him forth that we may bear him hence. Therefore, most gracious duke, with thy command Let him be brought forth and borne hence for help.

DUKE. Long since thy husband serv’d me in my wars, And I to thee engag’d a prince’s word, When thou didst make him master of thy bed, To do him all the grace and good I could. Go, some of you, knock at the abbey gate, And bid the lady abbess come to me. I will determine this before I stir.

Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER. O mistress, mistress, shift and save yourself. My master and his man are both broke loose, Beaten the maids a-row, and bound the doctor, Whose beard they have singed off with brands of fire, And ever as it blazed they threw on him Great pails of puddled mire to quench the hair. My master preaches patience to him, and the while His man with scissors nicks him like a fool; And sure (unless you send some present help) Between them they will kill the conjurer.

ADRIANA. Peace, fool, thy master and his man are here, And that is false thou dost report to us.

MESSENGER. Mistress, upon my life, I tell you true. I have not breath’d almost since I did see it. He cries for you, and vows, if he can take you, To scorch your face and to disfigure you.

[_Cry within._]

Hark, hark, I hear him, mistress. Fly, be gone!

DUKE. Come, stand by me, fear nothing. Guard with halberds.

ADRIANA. Ay me, it is my husband. Witness you That he is borne about invisible. Even now we hous’d him in the abbey here, And now he’s there, past thought of human reason.

Enter Antipholus and Dromio of Ephesus.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Justice, most gracious duke; O, grant me justice! Even for the service that long since I did thee When I bestrid thee in the wars, and took Deep scars to save thy life; even for the blood That then I lost for thee, now grant me justice.

EGEON. Unless the fear of death doth make me dote, I see my son Antipholus and Dromio.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Justice, sweet prince, against that woman there. She whom thou gav’st to me to be my wife; That hath abused and dishonour’d me Even in the strength and height of injury. Beyond imagination is the wrong That she this day hath shameless thrown on me.

DUKE. Discover how, and thou shalt find me just.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. This day, great duke, she shut the doors upon me While she with harlots feasted in my house.

DUKE. A grievous fault. Say, woman, didst thou so?

ADRIANA. No, my good lord. Myself, he, and my sister Today did dine together. So befall my soul As this is false he burdens me withal.

LUCIANA. Ne’er may I look on day nor sleep on night But she tells to your highness simple truth.

ANGELO. O perjur’d woman! They are both forsworn. In this the madman justly chargeth them.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. My liege, I am advised what I say, Neither disturb’d with the effect of wine, Nor heady-rash, provok’d with raging ire, Albeit my wrongs might make one wiser mad. This woman lock’d me out this day from dinner. That goldsmith there, were he not pack’d with her, Could witness it, for he was with me then, Who parted with me to go fetch a chain, Promising to bring it to the Porpentine, Where Balthasar and I did dine together. Our dinner done, and he not coming thither, I went to seek him. In the street I met him, And in his company that gentleman. There did this perjur’d goldsmith swear me down That I this day of him receiv’d the chain, Which, God he knows, I saw not. For the which He did arrest me with an officer. I did obey, and sent my peasant home For certain ducats. He with none return’d. Then fairly I bespoke the officer To go in person with me to my house. By th’ way we met My wife, her sister, and a rabble more Of vile confederates. Along with them They brought one Pinch, a hungry lean-faced villain, A mere anatomy, a mountebank, A threadbare juggler, and a fortune-teller; A needy, hollow-ey’d, sharp-looking wretch; A living dead man. This pernicious slave, Forsooth, took on him as a conjurer, And gazing in mine eyes, feeling my pulse, And with no face (as ’twere) outfacing me, Cries out, I was possess’d. Then altogether They fell upon me, bound me, bore me thence, And in a dark and dankish vault at home There left me and my man, both bound together, Till gnawing with my teeth my bonds in sunder, I gain’d my freedom and immediately Ran hither to your Grace, whom I beseech To give me ample satisfaction For these deep shames and great indignities.

ANGELO. My lord, in truth, thus far I witness with him, That he din’d not at home, but was lock’d out.

DUKE. But had he such a chain of thee, or no?

ANGELO. He had, my lord, and when he ran in here These people saw the chain about his neck.

MERCHANT. Besides, I will be sworn these ears of mine Heard you confess you had the chain of him, After you first forswore it on the mart, And thereupon I drew my sword on you; And then you fled into this abbey here, From whence I think you are come by miracle.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. I never came within these abbey walls, Nor ever didst thou draw thy sword on me. I never saw the chain, so help me heaven; And this is false you burden me withal.

DUKE. Why, what an intricate impeach is this! I think you all have drunk of Circe’s cup. If here you hous’d him, here he would have been. If he were mad, he would not plead so coldly. You say he din’d at home, the goldsmith here Denies that saying. Sirrah, what say you?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Sir, he dined with her there, at the Porpentine.

COURTESAN. He did, and from my finger snatch’d that ring.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. ’Tis true, my liege, this ring I had of her.

DUKE. Saw’st thou him enter at the abbey here?

COURTESAN. As sure, my liege, as I do see your grace.

DUKE. Why, this is strange. Go call the abbess hither. I think you are all mated, or stark mad.

[_Exit one to the Abbess._]

EGEON. Most mighty Duke, vouchsafe me speak a word; Haply I see a friend will save my life And pay the sum that may deliver me.

DUKE. Speak freely, Syracusian, what thou wilt.

EGEON. Is not your name, sir, call’d Antipholus? And is not that your bondman Dromio?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Within this hour I was his bondman, sir, But he, I thank him, gnaw’d in two my cords. Now am I Dromio, and his man, unbound.

EGEON. I am sure you both of you remember me.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Ourselves we do remember, sir, by you. For lately we were bound as you are now. You are not Pinch’s patient, are you, sir?

EGEON. Why look you strange on me? you know me well.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. I never saw you in my life till now.

EGEON. O! grief hath chang’d me since you saw me last, And careful hours with time’s deformed hand, Have written strange defeatures in my face. But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice?

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Neither.

EGEON. Dromio, nor thou?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. No, trust me, sir, nor I.

EGEON. I am sure thou dost.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Ay, sir, but I am sure I do not, and whatsoever a man denies, you are now bound to believe him.

EGEON. Not know my voice! O time’s extremity, Hast thou so crack’d and splitted my poor tongue In seven short years that here my only son Knows not my feeble key of untun’d cares? Though now this grained face of mine be hid In sap-consuming winter’s drizzled snow, And all the conduits of my blood froze up, Yet hath my night of life some memory, My wasting lamps some fading glimmer left, My dull deaf ears a little use to hear. All these old witnesses, I cannot err, Tell me thou art my son Antipholus.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. I never saw my father in my life.

EGEON. But seven years since, in Syracusa, boy, Thou know’st we parted; but perhaps, my son, Thou sham’st to acknowledge me in misery.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. The duke and all that know me in the city, Can witness with me that it is not so. I ne’er saw Syracusa in my life.

DUKE. I tell thee, Syracusian, twenty years Have I been patron to Antipholus, During which time he ne’er saw Syracusa. I see thy age and dangers make thee dote.

Enter the Abbess with Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse.

ABBESS. Most mighty duke, behold a man much wrong’d.

[_All gather to see them._]

ADRIANA. I see two husbands, or mine eyes deceive me.

DUKE. One of these men is _genius_ to the other; And so of these, which is the natural man, And which the spirit? Who deciphers them?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. I, sir, am Dromio, command him away.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. I, sir, am Dromio, pray let me stay.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Egeon, art thou not? or else his ghost?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. O, my old master, who hath bound him here?

ABBESS. Whoever bound him, I will loose his bonds, And gain a husband by his liberty. Speak, old Egeon, if thou be’st the man That hadst a wife once called Emilia, That bore thee at a burden two fair sons. O, if thou be’st the same Egeon, speak, And speak unto the same Emilia!

DUKE. Why, here begins his morning story right: These two Antipholus’, these two so like, And these two Dromios, one in semblance, Besides her urging of her wreck at sea. These are the parents to these children, Which accidentally are met together.

EGEON. If I dream not, thou art Emilia. If thou art she, tell me where is that son That floated with thee on the fatal raft?

ABBESS. By men of Epidamnum, he and I And the twin Dromio, all were taken up; But, by and by, rude fishermen of Corinth By force took Dromio and my son from them, And me they left with those of Epidamnum. What then became of them I cannot tell; I to this fortune that you see me in.

DUKE. Antipholus, thou cam’st from Corinth first?

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. No, sir, not I, I came from Syracuse.

DUKE. Stay, stand apart, I know not which is which.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. I came from Corinth, my most gracious lord.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. And I with him.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Brought to this town by that most famous warrior, Duke Menaphon, your most renowned uncle.

ADRIANA. Which of you two did dine with me today?

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. I, gentle mistress.

ADRIANA. And are not you my husband?

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. No, I say nay to that.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. And so do I, yet did she call me so; And this fair gentlewoman, her sister here, Did call me brother. What I told you then, I hope I shall have leisure to make good, If this be not a dream I see and hear.

ANGELO. That is the chain, sir, which you had of me.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. I think it be, sir. I deny it not.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. And you, sir, for this chain arrested me.

ANGELO. I think I did, sir. I deny it not.

ADRIANA. I sent you money, sir, to be your bail By Dromio, but I think he brought it not.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. No, none by me.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. This purse of ducats I receiv’d from you, And Dromio my man did bring them me. I see we still did meet each other’s man, And I was ta’en for him, and he for me, And thereupon these errors are arose.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. These ducats pawn I for my father here.

DUKE. It shall not need, thy father hath his life.

COURTESAN. Sir, I must have that diamond from you.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. There, take it, and much thanks for my good cheer.

ABBESS. Renowned duke, vouchsafe to take the pains To go with us into the abbey here, And hear at large discoursed all our fortunes; And all that are assembled in this place, That by this sympathised one day’s error Have suffer’d wrong, go, keep us company, And we shall make full satisfaction. Thirty-three years have I but gone in travail Of you, my sons, and till this present hour My heavy burden ne’er delivered. The duke, my husband, and my children both, And you, the calendars of their nativity, Go to a gossips’ feast, and go with me. After so long grief, such nativity.

DUKE. With all my heart, I’ll gossip at this feast.

[_Exeunt except the two Dromios and two Brothers._]

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Master, shall I fetch your stuff from shipboard?

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Dromio, what stuff of mine hast thou embark’d?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Your goods that lay at host, sir, in the Centaur.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. He speaks to me; I am your master, Dromio. Come, go with us. We’ll look to that anon. Embrace thy brother there, rejoice with him.

[_Exeunt Antipholus of Syracuse and Antipholus of Ephesus._]

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. There is a fat friend at your master’s house, That kitchen’d me for you today at dinner. She now shall be my sister, not my wife.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother. I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth. Will you walk in to see their gossiping?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Not I, sir, you are my elder.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. That’s a question, how shall we try it?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. We’ll draw cuts for the senior. Till then, lead thou first.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Nay, then, thus: We came into the world like brother and brother, And now let’s go hand in hand, not one before another.

[_Exeunt._]

THE TRAGEDY OF CORIOLANUS

Contents

## ACT I

## Scene I. Rome. A street

## Scene II. Corioles. The Senate House

## Scene III. Rome. An apartment in Martius’ house

## Scene IV. Before Corioles

## Scene V. Within Corioles. A street

## Scene VI. Near the camp of Cominius

## Scene VII. The gates of Corioles

## Scene VIII. A field of battle between the Roman and the Volscian camps

## Scene IX. The Roman camp

## Scene X. The camp of the Volsces

## ACT II

## Scene I. Rome. A public place

## Scene II. Rome. The Capitol

## Scene III. Rome. The Forum

## ACT III

## Scene I. Rome. A street

## Scene II. Rome. A room in Coriolanus’s house

## Scene III. Rome. The Forum

## ACT IV

## Scene I. Rome. Before a gate of the city

## Scene II. Rome. A street near the gate

## Scene III. A highway between Rome and Antium

## Scene IV. Antium. Before Aufidius’s house

## Scene V. Antium. A hall in Aufidius’s house

## Scene VI. Rome. A public place

## Scene VII. A camp at a short distance from Rome

## ACT V

## Scene I. Rome. A public place

## Scene II. An Advanced post of the Volscian camp before Rome.

## Scene III. The tent of Coriolanus

## Scene IV. Rome. A public place

## Scene V. Rome. A street near the gate

## Scene VI. Antium. A public place

Dramatis Personæ

CAIUS MARTIUS CORIOLANUS, a noble Roman VOLUMNIA, his mother VIRGILIA, his wife YOUNG MARTIUS, their son VALERIA, friend to Volumnia and Virgilia A GENTLEWOMAN, Volumnia’s attendant

MENENIUS AGRIPPA, Friend to Coriolanus COMINIUS, General against the Volscians TITUS LARTIUS, General against the Volscians SICINIUS VELUTUS, Tribune of the People JUNIUS BRUTUS, Tribune of the People A ROMAN HERALD

TULLUS AUFIDIUS, General of the Volscians LIEUTENANT, to Aufidius Conspirators with Aufidius A CITIZEN of Antium TWO VOLSCIAN GUARDS

Roman and Volscian Senators, Patricians, Aediles, Lictors, Soldiers, Citizens, Messengers, Servants to Aufidius, and other Attendants

SCENE: Partly in Rome, and partly in the territories of the Volscians and Antiates.

## ACT I

## SCENE I. Rome. A street

Enter a company of mutinous Citizens, with staves, clubs, and other weapons.

FIRST CITIZEN. Before we proceed any further, hear me speak.

ALL. Speak, speak!

FIRST CITIZEN. You are all resolved rather to die than to famish?

ALL. Resolved, resolved!

FIRST CITIZEN. First, you know Caius Martius is chief enemy to the people.

ALL. We know’t, we know’t!

FIRST CITIZEN. Let us kill him, and we’ll have corn at our own price. Is’t a verdict?

ALL. No more talking on’t; let it be done. Away, away!

SECOND CITIZEN. One word, good citizens.

FIRST CITIZEN. We are accounted poor citizens, the patricians good. What authority surfeits on would relieve us. If they would yield us but the superfluity while it were wholesome, we might guess they relieved us humanely. But they think we are too dear. The leanness that afflicts us, the object of our misery, is as an inventory to particularize their abundance; our sufferance is a gain to them. Let us revenge this with our pikes ere we become rakes; for the gods know I speak this in hunger for bread, not in thirst for revenge.

SECOND CITIZEN. Would you proceed especially against Caius Martius?

FIRST CITIZEN. Against him first. He’s a very dog to the commonalty.

SECOND CITIZEN. Consider you what services he has done for his country?

FIRST CITIZEN. Very well, and could be content to give him good report for’t, but that he pays himself with being proud.

SECOND CITIZEN. Nay, but speak not maliciously.

FIRST CITIZEN. I say unto you, what he hath done famously he did it to that end. Though soft-conscienced men can be content to say it was for his country, he did it to please his mother and to be partly proud, which he is, even to the altitude of his virtue.

SECOND CITIZEN. What he cannot help in his nature you account a vice in him. You must in no way say he is covetous.

FIRST CITIZEN. If I must not, I need not be barren of accusations. He hath faults, with surplus, to tire in repetition. [_Shouts within_.] What shouts are these? The other side o’ th’ city is risen. Why stay we prating here? To th’ Capitol!

ALL. Come, come!

Enter Menenius Agrippa.

FIRST CITIZEN. Soft, who comes here?

SECOND CITIZEN. Worthy Menenius Agrippa, one that hath always loved the people.

FIRST CITIZEN. He’s one honest enough. Would all the rest were so!

MENENIUS. What work’s, my countrymen, in hand? Where go you With bats and clubs? The matter? Speak, I pray you.

FIRST CITIZEN. Our business is not unknown to th’ Senate. They have had inkling this fortnight what we intend to do, which now we’ll show ’em in deeds. They say poor suitors have strong breaths; they shall know we have strong arms too.

MENENIUS. Why, masters, my good friends, mine honest neighbours, Will you undo yourselves?

FIRST CITIZEN. We cannot, sir; we are undone already.

MENENIUS. I tell you, friends, most charitable care Have the patricians of you. For your wants, Your suffering in this dearth, you may as well Strike at the heaven with your staves as lift them Against the Roman state, whose course will on The way it takes, cracking ten thousand curbs Of more strong link asunder than can ever Appear in your impediment. For the dearth, The gods, not the patricians, make it, and Your knees to them, not arms, must help. Alack, You are transported by calamity Thither where more attends you, and you slander The helms o’ th’ state, who care for you like fathers, When you curse them as enemies.

FIRST CITIZEN. Care for us? True, indeed! They ne’er cared for us yet. Suffer us to famish, and their storehouses crammed with grain; make edicts for usury to support usurers; repeal daily any wholesome act established against the rich, and provide more piercing statutes daily to chain up and restrain the poor. If the wars eat us not up, they will; and there’s all the love they bear us.

MENENIUS. Either you must confess yourselves wondrous malicious Or be accused of folly. I shall tell you A pretty tale. It may be you have heard it, But since it serves my purpose, I will venture To stale’t a little more.

FIRST CITIZEN. Well, I’ll hear it, sir; yet you must not think to fob off our disgrace with a tale. But, an’t please you, deliver.

MENENIUS. There was a time when all the body’s members Rebelled against the belly, thus accused it: That only like a gulf it did remain I’ th’ midst o’ th’ body, idle and unactive, Still cupboarding the viand, never bearing Like labour with the rest, where th’ other instruments Did see and hear, devise, instruct, walk, feel, And, mutually participate, did minister Unto the appetite and affection common Of the whole body. The belly answered—

FIRST CITIZEN. Well, sir, what answer made the belly?

MENENIUS. Sir, I shall tell you. With a kind of smile, Which ne’er came from the lungs, but even thus— For, look you, I may make the belly smile As well as speak—it tauntingly replied To th’ discontented members, the mutinous parts That envied his receipt; even so most fitly As you malign our senators for that They are not such as you.

FIRST CITIZEN. Your belly’s answer—what? The kingly crowned head, the vigilant eye, The counsellor heart, the arm our soldier, Our steed the leg, the tongue our trumpeter, With other muniments and petty helps Is this our fabric, if that they—

MENENIUS. What then? ’Fore me, this fellow speaks. What then? What then?

FIRST CITIZEN. Should by the cormorant belly be restrained, Who is the sink o’ th’ body—

MENENIUS. Well, what then?

FIRST CITIZEN. The former agents, if they did complain, What could the belly answer?

MENENIUS. I will tell you, If you’ll bestow a small—of what you have little— Patience awhile, you’st hear the belly’s answer.

FIRST CITIZEN. You are long about it.

MENENIUS. Note me this, good friend; Your most grave belly was deliberate, Not rash like his accusers, and thus answered: “True is it, my incorporate friends,” quoth he, “That I receive the general food at first Which you do live upon; and fit it is, Because I am the storehouse and the shop Of the whole body. But, if you do remember, I send it through the rivers of your blood Even to the court, the heart, to th’ seat o’ th’ brain; And, through the cranks and offices of man, The strongest nerves and small inferior veins From me receive that natural competency Whereby they live. And though that all at once, You, my good friends”—this says the belly, mark me—

FIRST CITIZEN. Ay, sir, well, well.

MENENIUS. “Though all at once cannot See what I do deliver out to each, Yet I can make my audit up, that all From me do back receive the flour of all, And leave me but the bran.” What say you to’t?

FIRST CITIZEN. It was an answer. How apply you this?

MENENIUS. The senators of Rome are this good belly, And you the mutinous members. For examine Their counsels and their cares, digest things rightly Touching the weal o’ th’ common, you shall find No public benefit which you receive But it proceeds or comes from them to you And no way from yourselves. What do you think, You, the great toe of this assembly?

FIRST CITIZEN. I the great toe? Why the great toe?

MENENIUS. For that, being one o’ th’ lowest, basest, poorest, Of this most wise rebellion, thou goest foremost. Thou rascal, that art worst in blood to run, Lead’st first to win some vantage. But make you ready your stiff bats and clubs. Rome and her rats are at the point of battle; The one side must have bale.

Enter Caius Martius.

Hail, noble Martius.

MARTIUS. Thanks.—What’s the matter, you dissentious rogues, That, rubbing the poor itch of your opinion, Make yourselves scabs?

FIRST CITIZEN. We have ever your good word.

MARTIUS. He that will give good words to thee will flatter Beneath abhorring. What would you have, you curs, That like nor peace nor war? The one affrights you; The other makes you proud. He that trusts to you, Where he should find you lions, finds you hares; Where foxes, geese. You are no surer, no, Than is the coal of fire upon the ice Or hailstone in the sun. Your virtue is To make him worthy whose offence subdues him, And curse that justice did it. Who deserves greatness Deserves your hate; and your affections are A sick man’s appetite, who desires most that Which would increase his evil. He that depends Upon your favours swims with fins of lead, And hews down oaks with rushes. Hang ye! Trust ye? With every minute you do change a mind And call him noble that was now your hate, Him vile that was your garland. What’s the matter, That in these several places of the city You cry against the noble senate, who, Under the gods, keep you in awe, which else Would feed on one another?—What’s their seeking?

MENENIUS. For corn at their own rates, whereof they say The city is well stored.

MARTIUS. Hang ’em! They say? They’ll sit by th’ fire and presume to know What’s done i’ th’ Capitol, who’s like to rise, Who thrives and who declines; side factions and give out Conjectural marriages, making parties strong And feebling such as stand not in their liking Below their cobbled shoes. They say there’s grain enough? Would the nobility lay aside their ruth And let me use my sword, I’d make a quarry With thousands of these quartered slaves as high As I could pick my lance.

MENENIUS. Nay, these are almost thoroughly persuaded; For though abundantly they lack discretion, Yet are they passing cowardly. But I beseech you, What says the other troop?

MARTIUS. They are dissolved. Hang ’em! They said they were an-hungry, sighed forth proverbs That hunger broke stone walls, that dogs must eat, That meat was made for mouths, that the gods sent not Corn for the rich men only. With these shreds They vented their complainings, which being answered And a petition granted them—a strange one, To break the heart of generosity And make bold power look pale—they threw their caps As they would hang them on the horns o’ th’ moon, Shouting their emulation.

MENENIUS. What is granted them?

MARTIUS. Five tribunes to defend their vulgar wisdoms, Of their own choice. One’s Junius Brutus, Sicinius Velutus, and I know not. ’Sdeath! The rabble should have first unroofed the city Ere so prevailed with me. It will in time Win upon power and throw forth greater themes For insurrection’s arguing.

MENENIUS. This is strange.

MARTIUS. Go get you home, you fragments.

Enter a Messenger hastily.

MESSENGER. Where’s Caius Martius?

MARTIUS. Here. What’s the matter?

MESSENGER. The news is, sir, the Volsces are in arms.

MARTIUS. I am glad on’t. Then we shall ha’ means to vent Our musty superfluity.

Enter Sicinius Velutus, Junius Brutus, two Tribunes; Cominius, Titus Lartius with other Senators.

See, our best elders.

FIRST SENATOR. Martius, ’tis true that you have lately told us: The Volsces are in arms.

MARTIUS. They have a leader, Tullus Aufidius, that will put you to’t. I sin in envying his nobility, And, were I anything but what I am, I would wish me only he.

COMINIUS. You have fought together.

MARTIUS. Were half to half the world by th’ ears and he Upon my party, I’d revolt, to make Only my wars with him. He is a lion That I am proud to hunt.

FIRST SENATOR. Then, worthy Martius, Attend upon Cominius to these wars.

COMINIUS. It is your former promise.

MARTIUS. Sir, it is, And I am constant.—Titus Lartius, thou Shalt see me once more strike at Tullus’ face. What, art thou stiff? Stand’st out?

TITUS LARTIUS. No, Caius Martius, I’ll lean upon one crutch and fight with th’ other Ere stay behind this business.

MENENIUS. O, true bred!

FIRST SENATOR. Your company to th’ Capitol, where I know Our greatest friends attend us.

TITUS LARTIUS. Lead you on. Follow Cominius. We must follow you; Right worthy your priority.

COMINIUS. Noble Martius.

FIRST SENATOR. [_To the Citizens_.] Hence to your homes, begone.

MARTIUS. Nay, let them follow. The Volsces have much corn; take these rats thither To gnaw their garners. Worshipful mutineers, Your valour puts well forth. Pray follow.

[_Exeunt. Sicinius and Brutus remain_.]

SICINIUS. Was ever man so proud as is this Martius?

BRUTUS. He has no equal.

SICINIUS. When we were chosen tribunes for the people—

BRUTUS. Marked you his lip and eyes?

SICINIUS. Nay, but his taunts.

BRUTUS. Being moved, he will not spare to gird the gods.

SICINIUS. Bemock the modest moon.

BRUTUS. The present wars devour him! He is grown Too proud to be so valiant.

SICINIUS. Such a nature, Tickled with good success, disdains the shadow Which he treads on at noon. But I do wonder His insolence can brook to be commanded Under Cominius.

BRUTUS. Fame, at the which he aims, In whom already he’s well graced, cannot Better be held nor more attained than by A place below the first; for what miscarries Shall be the General’s fault, though he perform To th’ utmost of a man, and giddy censure Will then cry out of Martius “O, if he Had borne the business!”

SICINIUS. Besides, if things go well, Opinion that so sticks on Martius shall Of his demerits rob Cominius.

BRUTUS. Come. Half all Cominius’ honours are to Martius, Though Martius earned them not, and all his faults To Martius shall be honours, though indeed In aught he merit not.

SICINIUS. Let’s hence and hear How the dispatch is made, and in what fashion, More than in singularity, he goes Upon this present action.

BRUTUS. Let’s along.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE II. Corioles. The Senate House

Enter Tullus Aufidius with Senators of Corioles.

FIRST SENATOR. So, your opinion is, Aufidius, That they of Rome are entered in our counsels And know how we proceed.

AUFIDIUS. Is it not yours? What ever have been thought on in this state That could be brought to bodily act ere Rome Had circumvention? ’Tis not four days gone Since I heard thence. These are the words—I think I have the letter here. Yes, here it is. [_Reads_.] _They have pressed a power, but it is not known Whether for east or west. The dearth is great. The people mutinous; and, it is rumoured, Cominius, Martius your old enemy, Who is of Rome worse hated than of you,— And Titus Lartius, a most valiant Roman, These three lead on this preparation Whither ’tis bent. Most likely ’tis for you. Consider of it._

FIRST SENATOR. Our army’s in the field. We never yet made doubt but Rome was ready To answer us.

AUFIDIUS. Nor did you think it folly To keep your great pretences veiled till when They needs must show themselves, which, in the hatching, It seemed, appeared to Rome. By the discovery We shall be shortened in our aim, which was To take in many towns ere almost Rome Should know we were afoot.

SECOND SENATOR. Noble Aufidius, Take your commission; hie you to your bands. Let us alone to guard Corioles. If they set down before’s, for the remove Bring up your army. But I think you’ll find They’ve not prepared for us.

AUFIDIUS. O, doubt not that; I speak from certainties. Nay, more, Some parcels of their power are forth already, And only hitherward. I leave your Honours. If we and Caius Martius chance to meet, ’Tis sworn between us we shall ever strike Till one can do no more.

ALL. The gods assist you!

AUFIDIUS. And keep your Honours safe!

FIRST SENATOR. Farewell.

SECOND SENATOR. Farewell.

ALL. Farewell.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE III. Rome. An apartment in Martius’ house

Enter Volumnia and Virgilia, mother and wife to Martius. They set them down on two low stools and sew.

VOLUMNIA. I pray you, daughter, sing, or express yourself in a more comfortable sort. If my son were my husband, I should freelier rejoice in that absence wherein he won honour than in the embracements of his bed where he would show most love. When yet he was but tender-bodied and the only son of my womb, when youth with comeliness plucked all gaze his way, when for a day of kings’ entreaties a mother should not sell him an hour from her beholding, I, considering how honour would become such a person—that it was no better than picture-like to hang by th’ wall, if renown made it not stir—was pleased to let him seek danger where he was like to find fame. To a cruel war I sent him, from whence he returned, his brows bound with oak. I tell thee, daughter, I sprang not more in joy at first hearing he was a man-child than now in first seeing he had proved himself a man.

VIRGILIA. But had he died in the business, madam, how then?

VOLUMNIA. Then his good report should have been my son; I therein would have found issue. Hear me profess sincerely: had I a dozen sons, each in my love alike and none less dear than thine and my good Martius, I had rather had eleven die nobly for their country than one voluptuously surfeit out of action.

Enter a Gentlewoman.

GENTLEWOMAN. Madam, the Lady Valeria is come to visit you.

VIRGILIA. Beseech you, give me leave to retire myself.

VOLUMNIA. Indeed you shall not. Methinks I hear hither your husband’s drum, See him pluck Aufidius down by th’ hair; As children from a bear, the Volsces shunning him. Methinks I see him stamp thus and call thus: “Come on, you cowards! You were got in fear, Though you were born in Rome.” His bloody brow With his mailed hand then wiping, forth he goes Like to a harvestman that’s tasked to mow Or all or lose his hire.

VIRGILIA. His bloody brow? O Jupiter, no blood!

VOLUMNIA. Away, you fool! It more becomes a man Than gilt his trophy. The breasts of Hecuba, When she did suckle Hector, looked not lovelier Than Hector’s forehead when it spit forth blood At Grecian sword, contemning.—Tell Valeria We are fit to bid her welcome.

[_Exit Gentlewoman._]

VIRGILIA. Heavens bless my lord from fell Aufidius!

VOLUMNIA. He’ll beat Aufidius’ head below his knee And tread upon his neck.

Enter Valeria with an Usher and a Gentlewoman.

VALERIA. My ladies both, good day to you.

VOLUMNIA. Sweet madam.

VIRGILIA. I am glad to see your Ladyship.

VALERIA. How do you both? You are manifest housekeepers. What are you sewing here? A fine spot, in good faith. How does your little son?

VIRGILIA. I thank your Ladyship; well, good madam.

VOLUMNIA. He had rather see the swords and hear a drum than look upon his schoolmaster.

VALERIA. O’ my word, the father’s son! I’ll swear ’tis a very pretty boy. O’ my troth, I looked upon him o’ Wednesday half an hour together. H’as such a confirmed countenance. I saw him run after a gilded butterfly, and when he caught it, he let it go again, and after it again, and over and over he comes, and up again, catched it again. Or whether his fall enraged him or how ’twas, he did so set his teeth and tear it. O, I warrant how he mammocked it!

VOLUMNIA. One on’s father’s moods.

VALERIA. Indeed, la, ’tis a noble child.

VIRGILIA. A crack, madam.

VALERIA. Come, lay aside your stitchery. I must have you play the idle huswife with me this afternoon.

VIRGILIA. No, good madam, I will not out of doors.

VALERIA. Not out of doors?

VOLUMNIA. She shall, she shall.

VIRGILIA. Indeed, no, by your patience. I’ll not over the threshold till my lord return from the wars.

VALERIA. Fie, you confine yourself most unreasonably. Come, you must go visit the good lady that lies in.

VIRGILIA. I will wish her speedy strength and visit her with my prayers, but I cannot go thither.

VOLUMNIA. Why, I pray you?

VIRGILIA. ’Tis not to save labour, nor that I want love.

VALERIA. You would be another Penelope. Yet they say all the yarn she spun in Ulysses’ absence did but fill Ithaca full of moths. Come, I would your cambric were sensible as your finger, that you might leave pricking it for pity. Come, you shall go with us.

VIRGILIA. No, good madam, pardon me; indeed, I will not forth.

VALERIA. In truth, la, go with me, and I’ll tell you excellent news of your husband.

VIRGILIA. O, good madam, there can be none yet.

VALERIA. Verily, I do not jest with you. There came news from him last night.

VIRGILIA. Indeed, madam!

VALERIA. In earnest, it’s true. I heard a senator speak it. Thus it is: the Volsces have an army forth, against whom Cominius the General is gone with one part of our Roman power. Your lord and Titus Lartius are set down before their city Corioles. They nothing doubt prevailing, and to make it brief wars. This is true, on mine honour, and so, I pray, go with us.

VIRGILIA. Give me excuse, good madam. I will obey you in everything hereafter.

VOLUMNIA. Let her alone, lady. As she is now, she will but disease our better mirth.

VALERIA. In troth, I think she would.—Fare you well, then.—Come, good sweet lady.—Prithee, Virgilia, turn thy solemness out o’ door, and go along with us.

VIRGILIA. No, at a word, madam. Indeed I must not. I wish you much mirth.

VALERIA. Well then, farewell.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE IV. Before Corioles

Enter Martius, Titus Lartius, with drum and colours, with Captains and Soldiers, as before the city of Corioles. To them a Messenger.

MARTIUS. Yonder comes news. A wager they have met.

LARTIUS. My horse to yours, no.

MARTIUS. ’Tis done.

LARTIUS. Agreed.

MARTIUS. [_To Messenger_.] Say, has our general met the enemy?

MESSENGER. They lie in view but have not spoke as yet.

LARTIUS. So the good horse is mine.

MARTIUS. I’ll buy him of you.

LARTIUS. No, I’ll nor sell nor give him. Lend you him I will For half a hundred years.—Summon the town.

MARTIUS. How far off lie these armies?

MESSENGER. Within this mile and half.

MARTIUS. Then shall we hear their ’larum, and they ours. Now, Mars, I prithee, make us quick in work, That we with smoking swords may march from hence To help our fielded friends!—Come, blow thy blast.

[_They sound a parley._]

Enter two Senators with others on the walls of Corioles.

Tullus Aufidius, is he within your walls?

FIRST SENATOR. No, nor a man that fears you less than he: That’s lesser than a little. [_Drum afar off_.] Hark, our drums Are bringing forth our youth. We’ll break our walls Rather than they shall pound us up. Our gates, Which yet seem shut, we have but pinned with rushes. They’ll open of themselves. [_Alarum far off_.] Hark you, far off! There is Aufidius. List what work he makes Amongst your cloven army.

MARTIUS. O, they are at it!

LARTIUS. Their noise be our instruction.—Ladders, ho!

Enter the Army of the Volsces as through the city gates.

MARTIUS. They fear us not but issue forth their city.— Now put your shields before your hearts, and fight With hearts more proof than shields.—Advance, brave Titus. They do disdain us much beyond our thoughts, Which makes me sweat with wrath.—Come on, my fellows! He that retires, I’ll take him for a Volsce, And he shall feel mine edge.

[_Alarums. The Romans are beat back to their trenches. They exit, with the Volsces following_.]

Enter Martius cursing, with Roman soldiers.

MARTIUS. All the contagion of the south light on you, You shames of Rome! You herd of—Boils and plagues Plaster you o’er, that you may be abhorred Farther than seen, and one infect another Against the wind a mile! You souls of geese, That bear the shapes of men, how have you run From slaves that apes would beat! Pluto and hell! All hurt behind. Backs red, and faces pale With flight and agued fear! Mend, and charge home, Or, by the fires of heaven, I’ll leave the foe And make my wars on you. Look to’t. Come on! If you’ll stand fast we’ll beat them to their wives, As they us to our trenches. Follow’s!

[_Another alarum. The Volsces re-enter and are driven back to the gates of Corioles, which open to admit them._]

So, now the gates are ope. Now prove good seconds! ’Tis for the followers fortune widens them, Not for the fliers. Mark me, and do the like.

[_Martius follows the fleeing Volsces through the gates, and is shut in._]

FIRST SOLDIER. Foolhardiness, not I.

SECOND SOLDIER. Nor I.

FIRST SOLDIER. See, they have shut him in.

[_Alarum continues._]

ALL. To th’ pot, I warrant him.

Enter Titus Lartius.

LARTIUS. What is become of Martius?

ALL. Slain, sir, doubtless.

FIRST SOLDIER. Following the fliers at the very heels, With them he enters, who upon the sudden Clapped to their gates. He is himself alone, To answer all the city.

LARTIUS. O noble fellow, Who sensibly outdares his senseless sword, And when it bows, stand’st up! Thou art left, Martius. A carbuncle entire, as big as thou art, Were not so rich a jewel. Thou wast a soldier Even to Cato’s wish, not fierce and terrible Only in strokes, but with thy grim looks and The thunderlike percussion of thy sounds Thou mad’st thine enemies shake, as if the world Were feverous and did tremble.

Enter Martius, bleeding, assaulted by the enemy.

FIRST SOLDIER. Look, sir.

LARTIUS. O, ’tis Martius! Let’s fetch him off or make remain alike.

[_They fight, and all enter the city._]

## SCENE V. Within Corioles. A street

Enter certain Romans, with spoils.

FIRST ROMAN. This will I carry to Rome.

SECOND ROMAN. And I this.

THIRD ROMAN. A murrain on’t! I took this for silver.

Enter Martius and Titus Lartius with a Trumpet.

MARTIUS. See here these movers that do prize their hours At a cracked drachma. Cushions, leaden spoons, Irons of a doit, doublets that hangmen would Bury with those that wore them, these base slaves, Ere yet the fight be done, pack up. Down with them!

[_Exit the Romans with spoils._]

[_Alarum continues still afar off._]

And hark, what noise the General makes! To him! There is the man of my soul’s hate, Aufidius, Piercing our Romans. Then, valiant Titus, take Convenient numbers to make good the city, Whilst I, with those that have the spirit, will haste To help Cominius.

LARTIUS. Worthy sir, thou bleed’st. Thy exercise hath been too violent For a second course of fight.

MARTIUS. Sir, praise me not. My work hath yet not warmed me. Fare you well. The blood I drop is rather physical Than dangerous to me. To Aufidius thus I will appear and fight.

LARTIUS. Now the fair goddess Fortune Fall deep in love with thee, and her great charms Misguide thy opposers’ swords! Bold gentleman, Prosperity be thy page!

MARTIUS. Thy friend no less Than those she placeth highest! So farewell.

LARTIUS. Thou worthiest Martius!

[_Exit Martius._]

Go sound thy trumpet in the marketplace. Call thither all the officers o’ th’ town, Where they shall know our mind. Away!

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE VI. Near the camp of Cominius

Enter Cominius as it were in retire, with Soldiers.

COMINIUS. Breathe you, my friends. Well fought! We are come off Like Romans, neither foolish in our stands Nor cowardly in retire. Believe me, sirs, We shall be charged again. Whiles we have struck, By interims and conveying gusts we have heard The charges of our friends. The Roman gods Lead their successes as we wish our own, That both our powers, with smiling fronts encount’ring, May give you thankful sacrifice!

Enter a Messenger.

Thy news?

MESSENGER. The citizens of Corioles have issued, And given to Lartius and to Martius battle. I saw our party to their trenches driven, And then I came away.

COMINIUS. Though thou speakest truth, Methinks thou speak’st not well. How long is’t since?

MESSENGER. Above an hour, my lord.

COMINIUS. ’Tis not a mile; briefly we heard their drums. How couldst thou in a mile confound an hour And bring thy news so late?

MESSENGER. Spies of the Volsces Held me in chase, that I was forced to wheel Three or four miles about; else had I, sir, Half an hour since brought my report.

[_Exit Messenger._]

Enter Martius, bloody.

COMINIUS. Who’s yonder, That does appear as he were flayed? O gods, He has the stamp of Martius, and I have Before-time seen him thus.

MARTIUS. Come I too late?

COMINIUS. The shepherd knows not thunder from a tabor More than I know the sound of Martius’ tongue From every meaner man.

MARTIUS. Come I too late?

COMINIUS. Ay, if you come not in the blood of others, But mantled in your own.

MARTIUS. O, let me clip you In arms as sound as when I wooed, in heart As merry as when our nuptial day was done And tapers burned to bedward!

COMINIUS. Flower of warriors, how is’t with Titus Lartius?

MARTIUS. As with a man busied about decrees, Condemning some to death and some to exile; Ransoming him or pitying, threat’ning the other; Holding Corioles in the name of Rome Even like a fawning greyhound in the leash, To let him slip at will.

COMINIUS. Where is that slave Which told me they had beat you to your trenches? Where’s he? Call him hither.

MARTIUS. Let him alone. He did inform the truth. But for our gentlemen, The common file—a plague! Tribunes for them!— The mouse ne’er shunned the cat as they did budge From rascals worse than they.

COMINIUS. But how prevailed you?

MARTIUS. Will the time serve to tell? I do not think. Where is the enemy? Are you lords o’ th’ field? If not, why cease you till you are so?

COMINIUS. Martius, we have at disadvantage fought, And did retire to win our purpose.

MARTIUS. How lies their battle? Know you on which side They have placed their men of trust?

COMINIUS. As I guess, Martius, Their bands i’ th’ vaward are the Antiates, Of their best trust; o’er them Aufidius, Their very heart of hope.

MARTIUS. I do beseech you, By all the battles wherein we have fought, By th’ blood we have shed together, by th’ vows we have made To endure friends, that you directly set me Against Aufidius and his Antiates, And that you not delay the present, but, Filling the air with swords advanced and darts, We prove this very hour.

COMINIUS. Though I could wish You were conducted to a gentle bath And balms applied to you, yet dare I never Deny your asking. Take your choice of those That best can aid your action.

MARTIUS. Those are they That most are willing. If any such be here— As it were sin to doubt—that love this painting Wherein you see me smeared; if any fear Lesser his person than an ill report; If any think brave death outweighs bad life, And that his country’s dearer than himself; Let him alone, or so many so minded, Wave thus to express his disposition And follow Martius.

[_He waves his sword._]

[_They all shout and wave their swords, take him up in their arms, and cast up their caps._]

O, me alone! Make you a sword of me? If these shows be not outward, which of you But is four Volsces? None of you but is Able to bear against the great Aufidius A shield as hard as his. A certain number, Though thanks to all, must I select from all. The rest shall bear the business in some other fight, As cause will be obeyed. Please you to march, And I shall quickly draw out my command, Which men are best inclined.

COMINIUS. March on, my fellows. Make good this ostentation, and you shall Divide in all with us.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE VII. The gates of Corioles

Titus Lartius, having set a guard upon Corioles, going with drum and trumpet toward Cominius and Caius Martius, enters with a Lieutenant, other Soldiers, and a Scout.

LARTIUS. So, let the ports be guarded. Keep your duties As I have set them down. If I do send, dispatch Those centuries to our aid; the rest will serve For a short holding. If we lose the field, We cannot keep the town.

LIEUTENANT. Fear not our care, sir.

LARTIUS. Hence, and shut your gates upon’s. Our guider, come. To th’ Roman camp conduct us.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE VIII. A field of battle between the Roman and the Volscian camps

Alarum, as in battle. Enter Martius and Aufidius at several doors.

MARTIUS. I’ll fight with none but thee, for I do hate thee Worse than a promise-breaker.

AUFIDIUS. We hate alike. Not Afric owns a serpent I abhor More than thy fame and envy. Fix thy foot.

MARTIUS. Let the first budger die the other’s slave, And the gods doom him after!

AUFIDIUS. If I fly, Martius, Hollo me like a hare.

MARTIUS. Within these three hours, Tullus, Alone I fought in your Corioles’ walls, And made what work I pleased. ’Tis not my blood Wherein thou seest me masked. For thy revenge Wrench up thy power to th’ highest.

AUFIDIUS. Wert thou the Hector That was the whip of your bragged progeny, Thou shouldst not scape me here.

[_Here they fight, and certain Volsces come to the aid of Aufidius._]

Officious and not valiant, you have shamed me In your condemned seconds.

[_Martius fights till they be driven in breathless. Aufidius and Martius exit, separately._]

## SCENE IX. The Roman camp

Alarum. A retreat is sounded. Flourish. Enter, at one door, Cominius with the Romans; at another door, Martius, with his arm in a scarf.

COMINIUS. If I should tell thee o’er this thy day’s work, Thou’t not believe thy deeds. But I’ll report it Where senators shall mingle tears with smiles; Where great patricians shall attend and shrug, I’ th’ end admire; where ladies shall be frighted And, gladly quaked, hear more; where the dull tribunes, That with the fusty plebeians hate thine honours, Shall say against their hearts “We thank the gods Our Rome hath such a soldier.” Yet cam’st thou to a morsel of this feast, Having fully dined before.

Enter Titus Lartius with his power, from the pursuit.

LARTIUS. O general, Here is the steed, we the caparison. Hadst thou beheld—

MARTIUS. Pray now, no more. My mother, Who has a charter to extol her blood, When she does praise me grieves me. I have done As you have done—that’s what I can; Induced as you have been—that’s for my country. He that has but effected his good will Hath overta’en mine act.

COMINIUS. You shall not be The grave of your deserving. Rome must know The value of her own. ’Twere a concealment Worse than a theft, no less than a traducement, To hide your doings and to silence that Which, to the spire and top of praises vouched, Would seem but modest. Therefore, I beseech you— In sign of what you are, not to reward What you have done—before our army hear me.

MARTIUS. I have some wounds upon me, and they smart To hear themselves remembered.

COMINIUS. Should they not, Well might they fester ’gainst ingratitude And tent themselves with death. Of all the horses— Whereof we have ta’en good and good store—of all The treasure in this field achieved and city, We render you the tenth, to be ta’en forth Before the common distribution At your only choice.

MARTIUS. I thank you, general, But cannot make my heart consent to take A bribe to pay my sword. I do refuse it; And stand upon my common part with those That have beheld the doing.

[_A long flourish. They all cry “Martius, Martius!” and cast up their caps and lances. Cominius and Lartius stand bare._]

May these same instruments which, you profane, Never sound more! When drums and trumpets shall I’ th’ field prove flatterers, let courts and cities be Made all of false-faced soothing! When steel grows soft Soft as the parasite’s silk, let him be made An ovator for the wars! No more, I say. For that I have not washed my nose that bled, Or foiled some debile wretch—which, without note, Here’s many else have done—you shout me forth In acclamations hyperbolical, As if I loved my little should be dieted In praises sauced with lies.

COMINIUS. Too modest are you, More cruel to your good report than grateful To us that give you truly. By your patience, If ’gainst yourself you be incensed, we’ll put you, Like one that means his proper harm, in manacles, Then reason safely with you. Therefore be it known, As to us to all the world, that Caius Martius Wears this war’s garland, in token of the which My noble steed, known to the camp, I give him, With all his trim belonging. And from this time, For what he did before Corioles, call him, With all th’ applause and clamour of the host, Caius Martius Coriolanus! Bear Th’ addition nobly ever!

[_Flourish. Trumpets sound, and drums._]

ALL. Caius Martius Coriolanus!

CORIOLANUS. I will go wash; And when my face is fair, you shall perceive Whether I blush or no. Howbeit, I thank you. I mean to stride your steed and at all times To undercrest your good addition To th’ fairness of my power.

COMINIUS. So, to our tent, Where, ere we do repose us, we will write To Rome of our success.—You, Titus Lartius, Must to Corioles back. Send us to Rome The best, with whom we may articulate For their own good and ours.

LARTIUS. I shall, my lord.

CORIOLANUS. The gods begin to mock me. I, that now Refused most princely gifts, am bound to beg Of my lord general.

COMINIUS. Take’t, ’tis yours. What is’t?

CORIOLANUS. I sometime lay here in Corioles At a poor man’s house; he used me kindly. He cried to me; I saw him prisoner; But then Aufidius was within my view, And wrath o’erwhelmed my pity. I request you To give my poor host freedom.

COMINIUS. O, well begged! Were he the butcher of my son, he should Be free as is the wind.—Deliver him, Titus.

LARTIUS. Martius, his name?

CORIOLANUS. By Jupiter, forgot! I am weary; yea, my memory is tired. Have we no wine here?

COMINIUS. Go we to our tent. The blood upon your visage dries; ’tis time It should be looked to. Come.

[_A flourish of cornets. Exeunt._]

## SCENE X. The camp of the Volsces

A flourish. Cornets. Enter Tullus Aufidius, bloody, with two or three soldiers.

AUFIDIUS. The town is ta’en.

SOLDIER. ’Twill be delivered back on good condition.

AUFIDIUS. Condition? I would I were a Roman, for I cannot, Being a Volsce, be that I am. Condition? What good condition can a treaty find I’ th’ part that is at mercy? Five times, Martius, I have fought with thee; so often hast thou beat me And wouldst do so, I think, should we encounter As often as we eat. By th’ elements, If e’er again I meet him beard to beard, He’s mine or I am his. Mine emulation Hath not that honour in’t it had; for where I thought to crush him in an equal force, True sword to sword, I’ll potch at him some way, Or wrath or craft may get him.

SOLDIER. He’s the devil.

AUFIDIUS. Bolder, though not so subtle. My valour’s poisoned With only suff’ring stain by him; for him Shall fly out of itself. Nor sleep nor sanctuary, Being naked, sick, nor fane nor Capitol, The prayers of priests nor times of sacrifice, Embarquements all of fury, shall lift up Their rotten privilege and custom ’gainst My hate to Martius. Where I find him, were it At home, upon my brother’s guard, even there, Against the hospitable canon, would I Wash my fierce hand in’s heart. Go you to th’ city; Learn how ’tis held and what they are that must Be hostages for Rome.

SOLDIER. Will not you go?

AUFIDIUS. I am attended at the cypress grove. I pray you— ’Tis south the city mills,—bring me word thither How the world goes, that to the pace of it I may spur on my journey.

SOLDIER. I shall, sir.

[_Exeunt._]

## ACT II

## SCENE I. Rome. A public place

Enter Menenius with the two Tribunes of the people, Sicinius and Brutus.

MENENIUS. The augurer tells me we shall have news tonight.

BRUTUS. Good or bad?

MENENIUS. Not according to the prayer of the people, for they love not Martius.

SICINIUS. Nature teaches beasts to know their friends.

MENENIUS. Pray you, who does the wolf love?

SICINIUS. The lamb.

MENENIUS. Ay, to devour him, as the hungry plebeians would the noble Martius.

BRUTUS. He’s a lamb indeed, that baas like a bear.

MENENIUS. He’s a bear indeed, that lives like a lamb. You two are old men; tell me one thing that I shall ask you.

BOTH TRIBUNES. Well, sir.

MENENIUS. In what enormity is Martius poor in, that you two have not in abundance?

BRUTUS. He’s poor in no one fault, but stored with all.

SICINIUS. Especially in pride.

BRUTUS. And topping all others in boasting.

MENENIUS. This is strange now. Do you two know how you are censured here in the city, I mean of us o’ th’ right-hand file, do you?

BOTH TRIBUNES. Why, how are we censured?

MENENIUS. Because you talk of pride now, will you not be angry?

BOTH TRIBUNES. Well, well, sir, well?

MENENIUS. Why, ’tis no great matter; for a very little thief of occasion will rob you of a great deal of patience. Give your dispositions the reins, and be angry at your pleasures, at the least, if you take it as a pleasure to you in being so. You blame Martius for being proud.

BRUTUS. We do it not alone, sir.

MENENIUS. I know you can do very little alone, for your helps are many, or else your actions would grow wondrous single. Your abilities are too infantlike for doing much alone. You talk of pride. O that you could turn your eyes toward the napes of your necks and make but an interior survey of your good selves! O, that you could!

BOTH TRIBUNES. What then, sir?

MENENIUS. Why, then you should discover a brace of unmeriting, proud, violent, testy magistrates, alias fools, as any in Rome.

SICINIUS. Menenius, you are known well enough, too.

MENENIUS. I am known to be a humorous patrician and one that loves a cup of hot wine with not a drop of allaying Tiber in’t; said to be something imperfect in favouring the first complaint, hasty and tinder-like upon too trivial motion; one that converses more with the buttock of the night than with the forehead of the morning. What I think I utter, and spend my malice in my breath. Meeting two such wealsmen as you are—I cannot call you Lycurguses—if the drink you give me touch my palate adversely, I make a crooked face at it. I cannot say your Worships have delivered the matter well when I find the ass in compound with the major part of your syllables. And though I must be content to bear with those that say you are reverend grave men, yet they lie deadly that tell you have good faces. If you see this in the map of my microcosm, follows it that I am known well enough too? What harm can your bisson conspectuities glean out of this character, if I be known well enough, too?

BRUTUS. Come, sir, come; we know you well enough.

MENENIUS. You know neither me, yourselves, nor anything. You are ambitious for poor knaves’ caps and legs. You wear out a good wholesome forenoon in hearing a cause between an orange-wife and a faucet-seller, and then rejourn the controversy of threepence to a second day of audience. When you are hearing a matter between party and party, if you chance to be pinched with the colic, you make faces like mummers, set up the bloody flag against all patience, and, in roaring for a chamber pot, dismiss the controversy bleeding, the more entangled by your hearing. All the peace you make in their cause is calling both the parties knaves. You are a pair of strange ones.

BRUTUS. Come, come. You are well understood to be a perfecter giber for the table than a necessary bencher in the Capitol.

MENENIUS. Our very priests must become mockers if they shall encounter such ridiculous subjects as you are. When you speak best unto the purpose, it is not worth the wagging of your beards, and your beards deserve not so honourable a grave as to stuff a botcher’s cushion or to be entombed in an ass’s packsaddle. Yet you must be saying Martius is proud, who, in a cheap estimation, is worth all your predecessors since Deucalion, though peradventure some of the best of ’em were hereditary hangmen. Good e’en to your Worships. More of your conversation would infect my brain, being the herdsmen of the beastly plebeians. I will be bold to take my leave of you.

[_He begins to exit. Brutus and Sicinius stand aside._]

Enter Volumnia, Virgilia and Valeria

How now, my as fair as noble ladies—and the moon, were she earthly, no nobler—whither do you follow your eyes so fast?

VOLUMNIA. Honourable Menenius, my boy Martius approaches. For the love of Juno, let’s go!

MENENIUS. Ha? Martius coming home?

VOLUMNIA. Ay, worthy Menenius, and with most prosperous approbation.

MENENIUS. Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee! Hoo! Martius coming home?

VALERIA, VIRGILIA. Nay, ’tis true.

VOLUMNIA. Look, here’s a letter from him. The state hath another, his wife another, and I think there’s one at home for you.

MENENIUS. I will make my very house reel tonight. A letter for me?

VIRGILIA. Yes, certain, there’s a letter for you; I saw it.

MENENIUS. A letter for me? It gives me an estate of seven years’ health, in which time I will make a lip at the physician. The most sovereign prescription in Galen is but empiricutic and, to this preservative, of no better report than a horse drench. Is he not wounded? He was wont to come home wounded.

VIRGILIA. O, no, no, no!

VOLUMNIA. O, he is wounded, I thank the gods for’t.

MENENIUS. So do I too, if it be not too much. Brings he victory in his pocket, the wounds become him.

VOLUMNIA. On’s brows, Menenius. He comes the third time home with the oaken garland.

MENENIUS. Has he disciplined Aufidius soundly?

VOLUMNIA. Titus Lartius writes they fought together, but Aufidius got off.

MENENIUS. And ’twas time for him too, I’ll warrant him that. An he had stayed by him, I would not have been so ’fidiused for all the chests in Corioles and the gold that’s in them. Is the Senate possessed of this?

VOLUMNIA. Good ladies, let’s go.—Yes, yes, yes. The Senate has letters from the General, wherein he gives my son the whole name of the war. He hath in this action outdone his former deeds doubly.

VALERIA. In troth, there’s wondrous things spoke of him.

MENENIUS. Wondrous? Ay, I warrant you, and not without his true purchasing.

VIRGILIA. The gods grant them true.

VOLUMNIA. True? Pow, waw!

MENENIUS. True? I’ll be sworn they are true. Where is he wounded? [_To the Tribunes_.] God save your good Worships! Martius is coming home; he has more cause to be proud.—Where is he wounded?

VOLUMNIA. I’ th’ shoulder and i’ th’ left arm. There will be large cicatrices to show the people when he shall stand for his place. He received in the repulse of Tarquin seven hurts i’ th’ body.

MENENIUS. One i’ th’ neck and two i’ th’ thigh—there’s nine that I know.

VOLUMNIA. He had, before this last expedition, twenty-five wounds upon him.

MENENIUS. Now it’s twenty-seven. Every gash was an enemy’s grave.

[_A shout and flourish_.]

Hark, the trumpets!

VOLUMNIA. These are the ushers of Martius: before him he carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears. Death, that dark spirit, in’s nervy arm doth lie, Which, being advanced, declines, and then men die.

[_A sennet_.]

Enter Cominius the General and Titus Lartius, between them Coriolanus crowned with an oaken garland, with Captains and Soldiers and a Herald. Trumpets sound.

HERALD. Know, Rome, that all alone Martius did fight Within Corioles’ gates, where he hath won, With fame, a name to Caius Martius; these In honour follows “Coriolanus.” Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus.

[_Sound flourish._]

ALL. Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!

CORIOLANUS. No more of this, it does offend my heart. Pray now, no more.

COMINIUS. Look, sir, your mother.

CORIOLANUS. O, You have, I know, petitioned all the gods For my prosperity.

[_Kneels._]

VOLUMNIA. Nay, my good soldier, up.

[_He stands._]

My gentle Martius, worthy Caius, and By deed-achieving honour newly named— What is it? Coriolanus must I call thee? But, O, thy wife—

CORIOLANUS. My gracious silence, hail. Wouldst thou have laughed had I come coffined home, That weep’st to see me triumph? Ah, my dear, Such eyes the widows in Corioles wear And mothers that lack sons.

MENENIUS. Now the gods crown thee!

CORIOLANUS. And live you yet? [_To Valeria_] O my sweet lady, pardon.

VOLUMNIA. I know not where to turn. O, welcome home! And welcome, general.—And you’re welcome all.

MENENIUS. A hundred thousand welcomes! I could weep, And I could laugh; I am light and heavy. Welcome. A curse begin at very root on’s heart That is not glad to see thee! You are three That Rome should dote on; yet, by the faith of men, We have some old crab trees here at home that will not Be grafted to your relish. Yet welcome, warriors! We call a nettle but a nettle, and The faults of fools but folly.

COMINIUS. Ever right.

CORIOLANUS. Menenius ever, ever.

HERALD. Give way there, and go on!

CORIOLANUS. [_To Volumnia and Virgilia_.] Your hand, and yours. Ere in our own house I do shade my head, The good patricians must be visited, From whom I have received not only greetings, But with them change of honours.

VOLUMNIA. I have lived To see inherited my very wishes And the buildings of my fancy. Only There’s one thing wanting, which I doubt not but Our Rome will cast upon thee.

CORIOLANUS. Know, good mother, I had rather be their servant in my way Than sway with them in theirs.

COMINIUS. On, to the Capitol.

[_Flourish of cornets. Exeunt in state, as before._]

Brutus and Sicinius come forward.

BRUTUS. All tongues speak of him, and the bleared sights Are spectacled to see him. Your prattling nurse Into a rapture lets her baby cry While she chats him. The kitchen malkin pins Her richest lockram ’bout her reechy neck, Clamb’ring the walls to eye him. Stalls, bulks, windows Are smothered up, leads filled, and ridges horsed With variable complexions, all agreeing In earnestness to see him. Seld-shown flamens Do press among the popular throngs and puff To win a vulgar station. Our veiled dames Commit the war of white and damask in Their nicely-gauded cheeks to th’ wanton spoil Of Phoebus’ burning kisses. Such a pother, As if that whatsoever god who leads him Were slyly crept into his human powers And gave him graceful posture.

SICINIUS. On the sudden I warrant him consul.

BRUTUS. Then our office may, During his power, go sleep.

SICINIUS. He cannot temp’rately transport his honours From where he should begin and end, but will Lose those he hath won.

BRUTUS. In that there’s comfort.

SICINIUS. Doubt not the commoners, for whom we stand, But they, upon their ancient malice will forget With the least cause these his new honours—which That he will give them make as little question As he is proud to do’t.

BRUTUS. I heard him swear, Were he to stand for consul, never would he Appear i’ th’ marketplace nor on him put The napless vesture of humility, Nor showing, as the manner is, his wounds To th’ people, beg their stinking breaths.

SICINIUS. ’Tis right.

BRUTUS. It was his word. O, he would miss it rather Than carry it but by the suit of the gentry to him And the desire of the nobles.

SICINIUS. I wish no better Than have him hold that purpose and to put it In execution.

BRUTUS. ’Tis most like he will.

SICINIUS. It shall be to him then, as our good wills, A sure destruction.

BRUTUS. So it must fall out To him, or our authorities for an end. We must suggest the people in what hatred He still hath held them; that to’s power he would Have made them mules, silenced their pleaders, and Dispropertied their freedoms; holding them In human action and capacity Of no more soul nor fitness for the world Than camels in their war, who have their provand Only for bearing burdens, and sore blows For sinking under them.

SICINIUS. This, as you say, suggested At some time when his soaring insolence Shall touch the people—which time shall not want If it be put upon’t, and that’s as easy As to set dogs on sheep—will be his fire To kindle their dry stubble, and their blaze Shall darken him for ever.

Enter a Messenger.

BRUTUS. What’s the matter?

MESSENGER. You are sent for to the Capitol. ’Tis thought That Martius shall be consul. I have seen The dumb men throng to see him, and the blind to hear him speak; matrons flung gloves, Ladies and maids their scarves and handkerchiefs, Upon him as he passed; the nobles bended As to Jove’s statue, and the Commons made A shower and thunder with their caps and shouts. I never saw the like.

BRUTUS. Let’s to the Capitol; And carry with us ears and eyes for th’ time, But hearts for the event.

SICINIUS. Have with you.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE II. Rome. The Capitol

Enter two Officers, to lay cushions, as it were in the Capitol.

FIRST OFFICER. Come, come. They are almost here. How many stand for consulships?

SECOND OFFICER. Three, they say; but ’tis thought of everyone Coriolanus will carry it.

FIRST OFFICER. That’s a brave fellow, but he’s vengeance proud and loves not the common people.

SECOND OFFICER. ’Faith, there have been many great men that have flattered the people who ne’er loved them; and there be many that they have loved they know not wherefore; so that, if they love they know not why, they hate upon no better a ground. Therefore, for Coriolanus neither to care whether they love or hate him manifests the true knowledge he has in their disposition and, out of his noble carelessness, lets them plainly see’t.

FIRST OFFICER. If he did not care whether he had their love or no, he waved indifferently ’twixt doing them neither good nor harm; but he seeks their hate with greater devotion than they can render it him and leaves nothing undone that may fully discover him their opposite. Now, to seem to affect the malice and displeasure of the people is as bad as that which he dislikes, to flatter them for their love.

SECOND OFFICER. He hath deserved worthily of his country, and his ascent is not by such easy degrees as those who, having been supple and courteous to the people, bonnetted, without any further deed to have them at all into their estimation and report; but he hath so planted his honours in their eyes and his actions in their hearts that for their tongues to be silent and not confess so much were a kind of ingrateful injury. To report otherwise were a malice that, giving itself the lie, would pluck reproof and rebuke from every ear that heard it.

FIRST OFFICER. No more of him; he’s a worthy man. Make way. They are coming.

A sennet. Enter the Patricians and the Tribunes of the people, Lictors before them; Coriolanus, Menenius, Cominius the consul. The Patricians sit. Sicinius and Brutus take their places by themselves. Coriolanus stands.

MENENIUS. Having determined of the Volsces and To send for Titus Lartius, it remains, As the main point of this our after-meeting, To gratify his noble service that Hath thus stood for his country. Therefore please you, Most reverend and grave elders, to desire The present consul and last general In our well-found successes to report A little of that worthy work performed By Martius Caius Coriolanus, whom We met here both to thank and to remember With honours like himself.

[_Coriolanus sits._]

FIRST SENATOR. Speak, good Cominius. Leave nothing out for length, and make us think Rather our state’s defective for requital, Than we to stretch it out. Masters o’ th’ people, We do request your kindest ears and, after, Your loving motion toward the common body To yield what passes here.

SICINIUS. We are convented Upon a pleasing treaty and have hearts Inclinable to honour and advance The theme of our assembly.

BRUTUS. Which the rather We shall be blest to do if he remember A kinder value of the people than He hath hereto prized them at.

MENENIUS. That’s off, that’s off! I would you rather had been silent. Please you To hear Cominius speak?

BRUTUS. Most willingly. But yet my caution was more pertinent Than the rebuke you give it.

MENENIUS. He loves your people, But tie him not to be their bedfellow.— Worthy Cominius, speak.

[_Coriolanus rises, and offers to go away._]

Nay, keep your place.

FIRST SENATOR. Sit, Coriolanus. Never shame to hear What you have nobly done.

CORIOLANUS. Your Honours, pardon. I had rather have my wounds to heal again Than hear say how I got them.

BRUTUS. Sir, I hope My words disbenched you not?

CORIOLANUS. No, sir. Yet oft, When blows have made me stay, I fled from words. You soothed not, therefore hurt not; but your people, I love them as they weigh.

MENENIUS. Pray now, sit down.

CORIOLANUS. I had rather have one scratch my head i’ th’ sun When the alarum were struck than idly sit To hear my nothings monstered.

[_Exit._]

MENENIUS. Masters of the people, Your multiplying spawn how can he flatter— That’s thousand to one good one—when you now see He had rather venture all his limbs for honour Than one on’s ears to hear it?—Proceed, Cominius.

COMINIUS. I shall lack voice. The deeds of Coriolanus Should not be uttered feebly. It is held That valour is the chiefest virtue and Most dignifies the haver; if it be, The man I speak of cannot in the world Be singly counterpoised. At sixteen years, When Tarquin made a head for Rome, he fought Beyond the mark of others. Our then dictator, Whom with all praise I point at, saw him fight When with his Amazonian chin he drove The bristled lips before him. He bestrid An o’erpressed Roman and i’ th’ Consul’s view Slew three opposers. Tarquin’s self he met And struck him on his knee. In that day’s feats, When he might act the woman in the scene, He proved best man i’ th’ field and for his meed Was brow-bound with the oak. His pupil age Man-entered thus, he waxed like a sea, And in the brunt of seventeen battles since He lurched all swords of the garland. For this last, Before and in Corioles, let me say, I cannot speak him home. He stopped the flyers And by his rare example made the coward Turn terror into sport. As weeds before A vessel under sail, so men obeyed And fell below his stem. His sword, Death’s stamp, Where it did mark, it took; from face to foot He was a thing of blood, whose every motion Was timed with dying cries. Alone he entered The mortal gate o’ th’ city, which he painted With shunless destiny; aidless came off And with a sudden reinforcement struck Corioles like a planet. Now all’s his, When by and by the din of war gan pierce His ready sense; then straight his doubled spirit Requickened what in flesh was fatigate, And to the battle came he, where he did Run reeking o’er the lives of men as if ’Twere a perpetual spoil; and till we called Both field and city ours, he never stood To ease his breast with panting.

MENENIUS. Worthy man!

FIRST SENATOR. He cannot but with measure fit the honours Which we devise him.

COMINIUS. Our spoils he kicked at; And looked upon things precious as they were The common muck of the world. He covets less Than misery itself would give, rewards His deeds with doing them, and is content To spend the time to end it.

MENENIUS. He’s right noble. Let him be called for.

FIRST SENATOR. Call Coriolanus.

OFFICER. He doth appear.

Enter Coriolanus.

MENENIUS. The Senate, Coriolanus, are well pleased To make thee consul.

CORIOLANUS. I do owe them still My life and services.

MENENIUS. It then remains That you do speak to the people.

CORIOLANUS. I do beseech you Let me o’erleap that custom, for I cannot Put on the gown, stand naked, and entreat them For my wounds’ sake to give their suffrage. Please you That I may pass this doing.

SICINIUS. Sir, the people Must have their voices; neither will they bate One jot of ceremony.

MENENIUS. Put them not to’t. Pray you, go fit you to the custom, and Take to you, as your predecessors have, Your honour with your form.

CORIOLANUS. It is a part That I shall blush in acting, and might well Be taken from the people.

BRUTUS. Mark you that?

CORIOLANUS. To brag unto them, “thus I did, and thus!” Show them th’ unaching scars which I should hide, As if I had received them for the hire Of their breath only!

MENENIUS. Do not stand upon’t.— We recommend to you, tribunes of the people, Our purpose to them, and to our noble consul Wish we all joy and honour.

SENATORS. To Coriolanus come all joy and honour!

[_Flourish cornets. Exeunt all but Sicinius and Brutus._]

BRUTUS. You see how he intends to use the people.

SICINIUS. May they perceive’s intent! He will require them As if he did contemn what he requested Should be in them to give.

BRUTUS. Come, we’ll inform them Of our proceedings here. On th’ marketplace I know they do attend us.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE III. Rome. The Forum

Enter seven or eight Citizens.

FIRST CITIZEN. Once, if he do require our voices, we ought not to deny him.

SECOND CITIZEN. We may, sir, if we will.

THIRD CITIZEN. We have power in ourselves to do it, but it is a power that we have no power to do; for, if he show us his wounds and tell us his deeds, we are to put our tongues into those wounds and speak for them. So, if he tell us his noble deeds, we must also tell him our noble acceptance of them. Ingratitude is monstrous, and for the multitude to be ingrateful were to make a monster of the multitude, of the which we being members, should bring ourselves to be monstrous members.

FIRST CITIZEN. And to make us no better thought of, a little help will serve; for once we stood up about the corn, he himself stuck not to call us the many-headed multitude.

THIRD CITIZEN. We have been called so of many; not that our heads are some brown, some black, some auburn, some bald, but that our wits are so diversely coloured; and truly I think if all our wits were to issue out of one skull, they would fly east, west, north, south, and their consent of one direct way should be at once to all the points o’ th’ compass.

SECOND CITIZEN. Think you so? Which way do you judge my wit would fly?

THIRD CITIZEN. Nay, your wit will not so soon out as another man’s will; ’tis strongly wedged up in a blockhead. But if it were at liberty, ’twould, sure, southward.

SECOND CITIZEN. Why that way?

THIRD CITIZEN. To lose itself in a fog, where being three parts melted away with rotten dews, the fourth would return for conscience’ sake, to help to get thee a wife.

SECOND CITIZEN. You are never without your tricks. You may, you may.

THIRD CITIZEN. Are you all resolved to give your voices? But that’s no matter; the greater part carries it. I say, if he would incline to the people, there was never a worthier man.

Enter Coriolanus in a gown of humility, with Menenius.

Here he comes, and in the gown of humility. Mark his behaviour. We are not to stay all together, but to come by him where he stands, by ones, by twos, and by threes. He’s to make his requests by particulars, wherein everyone of us has a single honour in giving him our own voices with our own tongues. Therefore follow me, and I’ll direct you how you shall go by him.

ALL. Content, content.

[_Exeunt._]

MENENIUS. O sir, you are not right. Have you not known The worthiest men have done’t?

CORIOLANUS. What must I say? “I pray, sir”—plague upon’t! I cannot bring My tongue to such a pace. “Look, sir, my wounds! I got them in my country’s service when Some certain of your brethren roared and ran From th’ noise of our own drums.”

MENENIUS. O me, the gods! You must not speak of that. You must desire them To think upon you.

CORIOLANUS. Think upon me! Hang ’em! I would they would forget me, like the virtues Which our divines lose by ’em.

MENENIUS. You’ll mar all. I’ll leave you. Pray you speak to ’em, I pray you, In wholesome manner.

[_Exit Menenius._]

CORIOLANUS. Bid them wash their faces And keep their teeth clean.

Enter three of the Citizens.

So, here comes a brace. You know the cause, sirs, of my standing here.

THIRD CITIZEN. We do, sir. Tell us what hath brought you to’t.

CORIOLANUS. Mine own desert.

SECOND CITIZEN. Your own desert?

CORIOLANUS. Ay, but not mine own desire.

THIRD CITIZEN. How, not your own desire?

CORIOLANUS. No, sir, ’twas never my desire yet to trouble the poor with begging.

THIRD CITIZEN. You must think if we give you anything, we hope to gain by you.

CORIOLANUS. Well then, I pray, your price o’ th’ consulship?

FIRST CITIZEN. The price is to ask it kindly.

CORIOLANUS. Kindly, sir, I pray, let me ha’t. I have wounds to show you, which shall be yours in private.—Your good voice, sir. What say you?

SECOND CITIZEN. You shall ha’ it, worthy sir.

CORIOLANUS. A match, sir. There’s in all two worthy voices begged. I have your alms. Adieu.

THIRD CITIZEN. But this is something odd.

SECOND CITIZEN. An ’twere to give again—but ’tis no matter.

[_Exeunt two citizens._]

Enter two other Citizens.

CORIOLANUS. Pray you now, if it may stand with the tune of your voices that I may be consul, I have here the customary gown.

FOURTH CITIZEN. You have deserved nobly of your country, and you have not deserved nobly.

CORIOLANUS. Your enigma?

FOURTH CITIZEN. You have been a scourge to her enemies; you have been a rod to her friends. You have not indeed loved the common people.

CORIOLANUS. You should account me the more virtuous that I have not been common in my love. I will, sir, flatter my sworn brother, the people, to earn a dearer estimation of them; ’tis a condition they account gentle. And since the wisdom of their choice is rather to have my hat than my heart, I will practise the insinuating nod and be off to them most counterfeitly. That is, sir, I will counterfeit the bewitchment of some popular man and give it bountiful to the desirers. Therefore, beseech you, I may be consul.

FIFTH CITIZEN. We hope to find you our friend, and therefore give you our voices heartily.

FOURTH CITIZEN. You have received many wounds for your country.

CORIOLANUS. I will not seal your knowledge with showing them. I will make much of your voices and so trouble you no farther.

BOTH CITIZENS. The gods give you joy, sir, heartily.

[_Exeunt citizens._]

CORIOLANUS. Most sweet voices! Better it is to die, better to starve, Than crave the hire which first we do deserve. Why in this wolvish toge should I stand here To beg of Hob and Dick that does appear Their needless vouches? Custom calls me to’t. What custom wills, in all things should we do’t? The dust on antique time would lie unswept And mountainous error be too highly heaped For truth to o’erpeer. Rather than fool it so, Let the high office and the honour go To one that would do thus. I am half through; The one part suffered, the other will I do.

Enter three Citizens more.

Here come more voices. Your voices! For your voices I have fought; Watched for your voices; for your voices bear Of wounds two dozen odd. Battles thrice six I have seen and heard of; for your voices have Done many things, some less, some more. Your voices! Indeed, I would be consul.

SIXTH CITIZEN. He has done nobly, and cannot go without any honest man’s voice.

SEVENTH CITIZEN. Therefore let him be consul. The gods give him joy, and make him good friend to the people!

ALL THREE CITIZENS. Amen, amen. God save thee, noble consul.

[_Exeunt citizens._]

CORIOLANUS. Worthy voices!

Enter Menenius with Brutus and Sicinius.

MENENIUS. You have stood your limitation, and the Tribunes Endue you with the people’s voice. Remains That in th’ official marks invested, you Anon do meet the Senate.

CORIOLANUS. Is this done?

SICINIUS. The custom of request you have discharged. The people do admit you, and are summoned To meet anon upon your approbation.

CORIOLANUS. Where? At the Senate House?

SICINIUS. There, Coriolanus.

CORIOLANUS. May I change these garments?

SICINIUS. You may, sir.

CORIOLANUS. That I’ll straight do and, knowing myself again, Repair to th’ Senate House.

MENENIUS. I’ll keep you company.—Will you along?

BRUTUS. We stay here for the people.

SICINIUS. Fare you well.

[_Exeunt Coriolanus and Menenius._]

He has it now; and by his looks, methinks, ’Tis warm at his heart.

BRUTUS. With a proud heart he wore His humble weeds. Will you dismiss the people?

Enter the Pebleians.

SICINIUS. How now, my masters, have you chose this man?

FIRST CITIZEN. He has our voices, sir.

BRUTUS. We pray the gods he may deserve your loves.

SECOND CITIZEN. Amen, sir. To my poor unworthy notice, He mocked us when he begged our voices.

THIRD CITIZEN. Certainly, he flouted us downright.

FIRST CITIZEN. No, ’tis his kind of speech. He did not mock us.

SECOND CITIZEN. Not one amongst us, save yourself, but says He used us scornfully. He should have showed us His marks of merit, wounds received for’s country.

SICINIUS. Why, so he did, I am sure.

ALL. No, no. No man saw ’em.

THIRD CITIZEN. He said he had wounds, which he could show in private, And with his hat, thus waving it in scorn, “I would be consul,” says he; “aged custom, But by your voices, will not so permit me; Your voices therefore.” When we granted that, Here was “I thank you for your voices. Thank you. Your most sweet voices! Now you have left your voices, I have no further with you.” Was not this mockery?

SICINIUS. Why either were you ignorant to see’t Or, seeing it, of such childish friendliness To yield your voices?

BRUTUS. Could you not have told him As you were lessoned? When he had no power, But was a petty servant to the state, He was your enemy, ever spake against Your liberties and the charters that you bear I’ th’ body of the weal; and, now arriving A place of potency and sway o’ th’ state, If he should still malignantly remain Fast foe to th’ plebeii, your voices might Be curses to yourselves. You should have said That as his worthy deeds did claim no less Than what he stood for, so his gracious nature Would think upon you for your voices, and Translate his malice towards you into love, Standing your friendly lord.

SICINIUS. Thus to have said, As you were fore-advised, had touched his spirit And tried his inclination; from him plucked Either his gracious promise, which you might, As cause had called you up, have held him to; Or else it would have galled his surly nature, Which easily endures not article Tying him to aught. So putting him to rage, You should have ta’en th’ advantage of his choler And passed him unelected.

BRUTUS. Did you perceive He did solicit you in free contempt When he did need your loves, and do you think That his contempt shall not be bruising to you When he hath power to crush? Why, had your bodies No heart among you? Or had you tongues to cry Against the rectorship of judgment?

SICINIUS. Have you ere now denied the asker, and now Again, of him that did not ask but mock, Bestow your sued-for tongues?

THIRD CITIZEN. He’s not confirmed. We may deny him yet.

SECOND CITIZEN. And will deny him. I’ll have five hundred voices of that sound.

FIRST CITIZEN. I twice five hundred, and their friends to piece ’em.

BRUTUS. Get you hence instantly, and tell those friends They have chose a consul that will from them take Their liberties, make them of no more voice Than dogs that are as often beat for barking As therefore kept to do so.

SICINIUS. Let them assemble And, on a safer judgment, all revoke Your ignorant election. Enforce his pride And his old hate unto you. Besides, forget not With what contempt he wore the humble weed, How in his suit he scorned you; but your loves, Thinking upon his services, took from you Th’ apprehension of his present portance, Which most gibingly, ungravely, he did fashion After the inveterate hate he bears you.

BRUTUS. Lay A fault on us, your tribunes, that we laboured, No impediment between, but that you must Cast your election on him.

SICINIUS. Say you chose him More after our commandment than as guided By your own true affections, and that your minds, Preoccupied with what you rather must do Than what you should, made you against the grain To voice him consul. Lay the fault on us.

BRUTUS. Ay, spare us not. Say we read lectures to you, How youngly he began to serve his country, How long continued, and what stock he springs of, The noble house o’ th’ Martians, from whence came That Ancus Martius, Numa’s daughter’s son, Who, after great Hostilius here was king, Of the same house Publius and Quintus were, That our best water brought by conduits hither; And Censorinus, that was so surnamed, And nobly named so, twice being censor, Was his great ancestor.

SICINIUS. One thus descended, That hath beside well in his person wrought To be set high in place, we did commend To your remembrances; but you have found, Scaling his present bearing with his past, That he’s your fixed enemy, and revoke Your sudden approbation.

BRUTUS. Say you ne’er had done’t— Harp on that still—but by our putting on. And presently when you have drawn your number, Repair to th’ Capitol.

ALL. We will so. Almost all Repent in their election.

[_Exeunt Plebeians._]

BRUTUS. Let them go on. This mutiny were better put in hazard Than stay, past doubt, for greater. If, as his nature is, he fall in rage With their refusal, both observe and answer The vantage of his anger.

SICINIUS. To th’ Capitol, come. We will be there before the stream o’ th’ people, And this shall seem, as partly ’tis, their own, Which we have goaded onward.

[_Exeunt._]

## ACT III

## SCENE I. Rome. A street

Cornets. Enter Coriolanus, Menenius, all the Gentry, Cominius, Titus Lartius and other Senators.

CORIOLANUS. Tullus Aufidius then had made new head?

LARTIUS. He had, my lord, and that it was which caused Our swifter composition.

CORIOLANUS. So then the Volsces stand but as at first, Ready, when time shall prompt them, to make road Upon’s again.

COMINIUS. They are worn, lord consul, so That we shall hardly in our ages see Their banners wave again.

CORIOLANUS. Saw you Aufidius?

LARTIUS. On safeguard he came to me, and did curse Against the Volsces, for they had so vilely Yielded the town. He is retired to Antium.

CORIOLANUS. Spoke he of me?

LARTIUS. He did, my lord.

CORIOLANUS. How? What?

LARTIUS. How often he had met you sword to sword; That of all things upon the earth he hated Your person most; that he would pawn his fortunes To hopeless restitution, so he might Be called your vanquisher.

CORIOLANUS. At Antium lives he?

LARTIUS. At Antium.

CORIOLANUS. I wish I had a cause to seek him there, To oppose his hatred fully. Welcome home.

Enter Sicinius and Brutus.

Behold, these are the tribunes of the people, The tongues o’ th’ common mouth. I do despise them, For they do prank them in authority Against all noble sufferance.

SICINIUS. Pass no further.

CORIOLANUS. Ha? What is that?

BRUTUS. It will be dangerous to go on. No further.

CORIOLANUS. What makes this change?

MENENIUS. The matter?

COMINIUS. Hath he not passed the noble and the common?

BRUTUS. Cominius, no.

CORIOLANUS. Have I had children’s voices?

FIRST SENATOR. Tribunes, give way. He shall to the marketplace.

BRUTUS. The people are incensed against him.

SICINIUS. Stop, Or all will fall in broil.

CORIOLANUS. Are these your herd? Must these have voices, that can yield them now And straight disclaim their tongues? What are your offices? You being their mouths, why rule you not their teeth? Have you not set them on?

MENENIUS. Be calm, be calm.

CORIOLANUS. It is a purposed thing, and grows by plot, To curb the will of the nobility. Suffer’t, and live with such as cannot rule Nor ever will be ruled.

BRUTUS. Call’t not a plot. The people cry you mocked them; and, of late, When corn was given them gratis, you repined, Scandaled the suppliants for the people, called them Timepleasers, flatterers, foes to nobleness.

CORIOLANUS. Why, this was known before.

BRUTUS. Not to them all.

CORIOLANUS. Have you informed them sithence?

BRUTUS. How? I inform them?

COMINIUS. You are like to do such business.

BRUTUS. Not unlike, each way, to better yours.

CORIOLANUS. Why then should I be consul? By yond clouds, Let me deserve so ill as you, and make me Your fellow tribune.

SICINIUS. You show too much of that For which the people stir. If you will pass To where you are bound, you must inquire your way, Which you are out of, with a gentler spirit, Or never be so noble as a consul, Nor yoke with him for tribune.

MENENIUS. Let’s be calm.

COMINIUS. The people are abused, set on. This palt’ring Becomes not Rome, nor has Coriolanus Deserved this so dishonoured rub, laid falsely I’ th’ plain way of his merit.

CORIOLANUS. Tell me of corn? This was my speech, and I will speak’t again.

MENENIUS. Not now, not now.

FIRST SENATOR. Not in this heat, sir, now.

CORIOLANUS. Now, as I live, I will. My nobler friends, I crave their pardons. For The mutable, rank-scented many, let them Regard me, as I do not flatter, and Therein behold themselves. I say again, In soothing them we nourish ’gainst our senate The cockle of rebellion, insolence, sedition, Which we ourselves have ploughed for, sowed, and scattered By mingling them with us, the honoured number, Who lack not virtue, no, nor power, but that Which they have given to beggars.

MENENIUS. Well, no more.

FIRST SENATOR. No more words, we beseech you.

CORIOLANUS. How? No more? As for my country I have shed my blood, Not fearing outward force, so shall my lungs Coin words till their decay against those measles Which we disdain should tetter us, yet sought The very way to catch them.

BRUTUS. You speak o’ th’ people As if you were a god to punish, not A man of their infirmity.

SICINIUS. ’Twere well We let the people know’t.

MENENIUS. What, what? His choler?

CORIOLANUS. Choler? Were I as patient as the midnight sleep, By Jove, ’twould be my mind.

SICINIUS. It is a mind That shall remain a poison where it is, Not poison any further.

CORIOLANUS. “Shall remain”? Hear you this Triton of the minnows? Mark you His absolute “shall”?

COMINIUS. ’Twas from the canon.

CORIOLANUS. “Shall”? O good but most unwise patricians, why, You grave but reckless senators, have you thus Given Hydra leave to choose an officer, That with his peremptory “shall,” being but The horn and noise o’ th’ monster’s, wants not spirit To say he’ll turn your current in a ditch And make your channel his? If he have power, Then vail your ignorance; if none, awake Your dangerous lenity. If you are learned, Be not as common fools; if you are not, Let them have cushions by you. You are plebeians, If they be senators; and they are no less When, both your voices blended, the great’st taste Most palates theirs. They choose their magistrate, And such a one as he, who puts his “shall,” His popular “shall,” against a graver bench Than ever frowned in Greece. By Jove himself, It makes the consuls base! And my soul aches To know, when two authorities are up, Neither supreme, how soon confusion May enter ’twixt the gap of both and take The one by th’ other.

COMINIUS. Well, on to th’ marketplace.

CORIOLANUS. Whoever gave that counsel to give forth The corn o’ th’ storehouse gratis, as ’twas used Sometime in Greece—

MENENIUS. Well, well, no more of that.

CORIOLANUS. Though there the people had more absolute power, I say they nourished disobedience, fed The ruin of the state.

BRUTUS. Why shall the people give One that speaks thus their voice?

CORIOLANUS. I’ll give my reasons, More worthier than their voices. They know the corn Was not our recompense, resting well assured They ne’er did service for’t. Being pressed to th’ war, Even when the navel of the state was touched, They would not thread the gates. This kind of service Did not deserve corn gratis. Being i’ th’ war, Their mutinies and revolts, wherein they showed Most valour, spoke not for them. Th’ accusation Which they have often made against the Senate, All cause unborn, could never be the native Of our so frank donation. Well, what then? How shall this bosom multitude digest The senate’s courtesy? Let deeds express What’s like to be their words: “We did request it; We are the greater poll, and in true fear They gave us our demands.” Thus we debase The nature of our seats and make the rabble Call our cares fears, which will in time Break ope the locks o’ th’ Senate and bring in The crows to peck the eagles.

MENENIUS. Come, enough.

BRUTUS. Enough, with over-measure.

CORIOLANUS. No, take more! What may be sworn by, both divine and human, Seal what I end withal! This double worship— Where one part does disdain with cause, the other Insult without all reason, where gentry, title, wisdom Cannot conclude but by the yea and no Of general ignorance—it must omit Real necessities and give way the while To unstable slightness. Purpose so barred, it follows Nothing is done to purpose. Therefore, beseech you— You that will be less fearful than discreet, That love the fundamental part of state More than you doubt the change on’t, that prefer A noble life before a long, and wish To jump a body with a dangerous physic That’s sure of death without it—at once pluck out The multitudinous tongue; let them not lick The sweet which is their poison. Your dishonour Mangles true judgment and bereaves the state Of that integrity which should become’t, Not having the power to do the good it would For th’ ill which doth control’t.

BRUTUS. ’Has said enough.

SICINIUS. ’Has spoken like a traitor, and shall answer As traitors do.

CORIOLANUS. Thou wretch, despite o’erwhelm thee! What should the people do with these bald tribunes, On whom depending, their obedience fails To th’ greater bench. In a rebellion, When what’s not meet but what must be was law, Then were they chosen. In a better hour, Let what is meet be said it must be meet, And throw their power i’ th’ dust.

BRUTUS. Manifest treason.

SICINIUS. This a consul? No.

BRUTUS. The aediles, ho! Let him be apprehended.

Enter an Aedile.

SICINIUS. Go call the people;

[_Exit Aedile._]

in whose name myself Attach thee as a traitorous innovator, A foe to th’ public weal. Obey, I charge thee, And follow to thine answer.

CORIOLANUS. Hence, old goat.

ALL PATRICIANS. We’ll surety him.

COMINIUS. [_to Sicinius_.] Aged sir, hands off.

CORIOLANUS. [_to Sicinius_.] Hence, rotten thing, or I shall shake thy bones Out of thy garments.

SICINIUS. Help, ye citizens!

Enter a rabble of Plebeians with the Aediles.

MENENIUS. On both sides more respect!

SICINIUS. Here’s he that would take from you all your power.

BRUTUS. Seize him, aediles.

ALL PLEBEIANS. Down with him, down with him!

SECOND SENATOR. Weapons, weapons, weapons!

[_They all bustle about Coriolanus._]

Tribunes, patricians, citizens, what, ho! Sicinius, Brutus, Coriolanus, citizens!

ALL. Peace, peace, peace! Stay, hold, peace!

MENENIUS. What is about to be? I am out of breath. Confusion’s near. I cannot speak. You tribunes To th’ people!—Coriolanus, patience!— Speak, good Sicinius.

SICINIUS. Hear me, people! Peace!

ALL PLEBEIANS. Let’s hear our tribune. Peace! Speak, speak, speak.

SICINIUS. You are at point to lose your liberties. Martius would have all from you, Martius, Whom late you have named for consul.

MENENIUS. Fie, fie, fie! This is the way to kindle, not to quench.

FIRST SENATOR. To unbuild the city and to lay all flat.

SICINIUS. What is the city but the people?

ALL PLEBEIANS. True, The people are the city.

BRUTUS. By the consent of all, we were established The people’s magistrates.

ALL PLEBEIANS. You so remain.

MENENIUS. And so are like to do.

COMINIUS. That is the way to lay the city flat, To bring the roof to the foundation And bury all which yet distinctly ranges In heaps and piles of ruin.

SICINIUS. This deserves death.

BRUTUS. Or let us stand to our authority Or let us lose it. We do here pronounce, Upon the part o’ th’ people, in whose power We were elected theirs, Martius is worthy Of present death.

SICINIUS. Therefore lay hold of him, Bear him to th’ rock Tarpeian, and from thence Into destruction cast him.

BRUTUS. Aediles, seize him!

ALL PLEBEIANS. Yield, Martius, yield!

MENENIUS. Hear me one word. Beseech you, tribunes, hear me but a word.

AEDILES. Peace, peace!

MENENIUS. Be that you seem, truly your country’s friend, And temp’rately proceed to what you would Thus violently redress.

BRUTUS. Sir, those cold ways, That seem like prudent helps, are very poisonous Where the disease is violent.—Lay hands upon him, And bear him to the rock.

[_Coriolanus draws his sword._]

CORIOLANUS. No; I’ll die here. There’s some among you have beheld me fighting. Come, try upon yourselves what you have seen me.

MENENIUS. Down with that sword!—Tribunes, withdraw awhile.

BRUTUS. Lay hands upon him!

MENENIUS. Help Martius, help! You that be noble, help him, young and old!

ALL PLEBEIANS. Down with him, down with him!

[_In this mutiny the Tribunes, the Aediles and the People are beat in._]

MENENIUS. Go, get you to your house. Begone, away. All will be naught else.

SECOND SENATOR. Get you gone.

CORIOLANUS. Stand fast! We have as many friends as enemies.

MENENIUS. Shall it be put to that?

FIRST SENATOR. The gods forbid! I prithee, noble friend, home to thy house; Leave us to cure this cause.

MENENIUS. For ’tis a sore upon us You cannot tent yourself. Begone, beseech you.

COMINIUS. Come, sir, along with us.

CORIOLANUS. I would they were barbarians, as they are, Though in Rome littered, not Romans, as they are not, Though calved i’ th’ porch o’ th’ Capitol.

MENENIUS. Begone! Put not your worthy rage into your tongue. One time will owe another.

CORIOLANUS. On fair ground I could beat forty of them.

MENENIUS. I could myself Take up a brace o’ th’ best of them, yea, the two tribunes.

COMINIUS. But now ’tis odds beyond arithmetic, And manhood is called foolery when it stands Against a falling fabric. Will you hence, Before the tag return, whose rage doth rend Like interrupted waters, and o’erbear What they are used to bear?

MENENIUS. Pray you, begone. I’ll try whether my old wit be in request With those that have but little. This must be patched With cloth of any colour.

COMINIUS. Nay, come away.

[_Exeunt Coriolanus and Cominius._]

PATRICIAN. This man has marred his fortune.

MENENIUS. His nature is too noble for the world. He would not flatter Neptune for his trident Or Jove for’s power to thunder. His heart’s his mouth; What his breast forges, that his tongue must vent, And, being angry, does forget that ever He heard the name of death.

[_A noise within._]

Here’s goodly work.

PATRICIAN. I would they were abed!

MENENIUS. I would they were in Tiber! What the vengeance, Could he not speak ’em fair?

Enter Brutus and Sicinius with the rabble again.

SICINIUS. Where is this viper That would depopulate the city and Be every man himself?

MENENIUS. You worthy tribunes—

SICINIUS. He shall be thrown down the Tarpeian rock With rigorous hands. He hath resisted law, And therefore law shall scorn him further trial Than the severity of the public power Which he so sets at naught.

FIRST CITIZEN. He shall well know The noble tribunes are the people’s mouths, And we their hands.

ALL PLEBEIANS. He shall, sure on’t.

MENENIUS. Sir, sir—

SICINIUS. Peace!

MENENIUS. Do not cry havoc where you should but hunt With modest warrant.

SICINIUS. Sir, how comes’t that you Have holp to make this rescue?

MENENIUS. Hear me speak. As I do know the Consul’s worthiness, So can I name his faults.

SICINIUS. Consul? What consul?

MENENIUS. The consul Coriolanus.

BRUTUS. He consul?

ALL PLEBEIANS. No, no, no, no, no!

MENENIUS. If, by the Tribunes’ leave, and yours, good people, I may be heard, I would crave a word or two, The which shall turn you to no further harm Than so much loss of time.

SICINIUS. Speak briefly then, For we are peremptory to dispatch This viperous traitor. To eject him hence Were but one danger, and to keep him here Our certain death. Therefore it is decreed He dies tonight.

MENENIUS. Now the good gods forbid That our renowned Rome, whose gratitude Towards her deserved children is enrolled In Jove’s own book, like an unnatural dam Should now eat up her own.

SICINIUS. He’s a disease that must be cut away.

MENENIUS. O, he’s a limb that has but a disease— Mortal to cut it off; to cure it easy. What has he done to Rome that’s worthy death? Killing our enemies, the blood he hath lost— Which I dare vouch is more than that he hath By many an ounce—he dropt it for his country; And what is left, to lose it by his country Were to us all, that do’t and suffer it A brand to th’ end o’ th’ world.

SICINIUS. This is clean cam.

BRUTUS. Merely awry. When he did love his country, It honoured him.

MENENIUS. The service of the foot, Being once gangrened, is not then respected For what before it was.

BRUTUS. We’ll hear no more. Pursue him to his house, and pluck him thence, Lest his infection, being of catching nature, Spread further.

MENENIUS. One word more, one word! This tiger-footed rage, when it shall find The harm of unscanned swiftness, will too late, Tie leaden pounds to’s heels. Proceed by process, Lest parties—as he is beloved—break out And sack great Rome with Romans.

BRUTUS. If it were so—

SICINIUS. What do ye talk? Have we not had a taste of his obedience? Our aediles smote! Ourselves resisted? Come.

MENENIUS. Consider this: he has been bred i’ th’ wars Since he could draw a sword, and is ill schooled In bolted language; meal and bran together He throws without distinction. Give me leave, I’ll go to him and undertake to bring him Where he shall answer by a lawful form, In peace, to his utmost peril.

FIRST SENATOR. Noble tribunes, It is the humane way: the other course Will prove too bloody, and the end of it Unknown to the beginning.

SICINIUS. Noble Menenius, Be you then as the people’s officer.— Masters, lay down your weapons.

BRUTUS. Go not home.

SICINIUS. Meet on the marketplace. We’ll attend you there, Where if you bring not Martius, we’ll proceed In our first way.

MENENIUS. I’ll bring him to you. [_To Senators_.] Let me desire your company. He must come, Or what is worst will follow.

FIRST SENATOR. Pray you, let’s to him.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE II. Rome. A room in Coriolanus’s house

Enter Coriolanus with Nobles.

CORIOLANUS. Let them pull all about mine ears, present me Death on the wheel or at wild horses’ heels, Or pile ten hills on the Tarpeian rock, That the precipitation might down stretch Below the beam of sight, yet will I still Be thus to them.

FIRST PATRICIAN. You do the nobler.

CORIOLANUS. I muse my mother Does not approve me further, who was wont To call them woollen vassals, things created To buy and sell with groats, to show bare heads In congregations, to yawn, be still, and wonder When one but of my ordinance stood up To speak of peace or war.

Enter Volumnia.

I talk of you. Why did you wish me milder? Would you have me False to my nature? Rather say I play The man I am.

VOLUMNIA. O, sir, sir, sir, I would have had you put your power well on Before you had worn it out.

CORIOLANUS. Let go.

VOLUMNIA. You might have been enough the man you are With striving less to be so. Lesser had been The thwartings of your dispositions if You had not showed them how ye were disposed Ere they lacked power to cross you.

CORIOLANUS. Let them hang!

VOLUMNIA. Ay, and burn too.

Enter Menenius with the Senators.

MENENIUS. Come, come, you have been too rough, something too rough. You must return and mend it.

FIRST SENATOR. There’s no remedy, Unless, by not so doing, our good city Cleave in the midst and perish.

VOLUMNIA. Pray be counselled. I have a heart as little apt as yours, But yet a brain that leads my use of anger To better vantage.

MENENIUS. Well said, noble woman. Before he should thus stoop to th’ herd—but that The violent fit o’ th’ time craves it as physic For the whole state—I would put mine armour on, Which I can scarcely bear.

CORIOLANUS. What must I do?

MENENIUS. Return to th’ Tribunes.

CORIOLANUS. Well, what then? What then?

MENENIUS. Repent what you have spoke.

CORIOLANUS. For them? I cannot do it to the gods. Must I then do’t to them?

VOLUMNIA. You are too absolute, Though therein you can never be too noble But when extremities speak. I have heard you say Honour and policy, like unsevered friends, I’ th’ war do grow together. Grant that, and tell me In peace what each of them by th’ other lose That they combine not there.

CORIOLANUS. Tush, tush!

MENENIUS. A good demand.

VOLUMNIA. If it be honour in your wars to seem The same you are not, which for your best ends You adopt your policy, how is it less or worse That it shall hold companionship in peace With honour as in war, since that to both It stands in like request?

CORIOLANUS. Why force you this?

VOLUMNIA. Because that now it lies you on to speak To th’ people, not by your own instruction, Nor by th’ matter which your heart prompts you, But with such words that are but rooted in Your tongue, though but bastards and syllables Of no allowance to your bosom’s truth. Now, this no more dishonours you at all Than to take in a town with gentle words, Which else would put you to your fortune and The hazard of much blood. I would dissemble with my nature where My fortunes and my friends at stake required I should do so in honour. I am in this Your wife, your son, these senators, the nobles; And you will rather show our general louts How you can frown than spend a fawn upon ’em For the inheritance of their loves and safeguard Of what that want might ruin.

MENENIUS. Noble lady!— Come, go with us; speak fair. You may salve so, Not what is dangerous present, but the loss Of what is past.

VOLUMNIA. I prithee now, my son, Go to them with this bonnet in thy hand, And thus far having stretched it—here be with them— Thy knee bussing the stones—for in such busines

## Action is eloquence, and the eyes of th’ ignorant

More learned than the ears—waving thy head, Which often thus correcting thy stout heart, Now humble as the ripest mulberry That will not hold the handling. Or say to them Thou art their soldier and, being bred in broils, Hast not the soft way, which thou dost confess Were fit for thee to use, as they to claim, In asking their good loves; but thou wilt frame Thyself, forsooth, hereafter theirs, so far As thou hast power and person.

MENENIUS. This but done Even as she speaks, why, their hearts were yours; For they have pardons, being asked, as free As words to little purpose.

VOLUMNIA. Prithee now, Go, and be ruled; although I know thou hadst rather Follow thine enemy in a fiery gulf Than flatter him in a bower.

Enter Cominius.

Here is Cominius.

COMINIUS. I have been i’ th’ marketplace; and, sir, ’tis fit You make strong party or defend yourself By calmness or by absence. All’s in anger.

MENENIUS. Only fair speech.

COMINIUS. I think ’twill serve, if he Can thereto frame his spirit.

VOLUMNIA. He must, and will.— Prithee, now, say you will, and go about it.

CORIOLANUS. Must I go show them my unbarbed sconce? Must I With my base tongue give to my noble heart A lie that it must bear? Well, I will do’t. Yet, were there but this single plot to lose, This mould of Martius, they to dust should grind it And throw’t against the wind. To th’ marketplace! You have put me now to such a part which never I shall discharge to th’ life.

COMINIUS. Come, come, we’ll prompt you.

VOLUMNIA. I prithee now, sweet son, as thou hast said My praises made thee first a soldier, so, To have my praise for this, perform a part Thou hast not done before.

CORIOLANUS. Well, I must do’t. Away, my disposition, and possess me Some harlot’s spirit! My throat of war be turned, Which choired with my drum, into a pipe Small as an eunuch or the virgin voice That babies lulls asleep! The smiles of knaves Tent in my cheeks, and schoolboys’ tears take up The glasses of my sight! A beggar’s tongue Make motion through my lips, and my armed knees, Who bowed but in my stirrup, bend like his That hath received an alms! I will not do’t, Lest I surcease to honour mine own truth And, by my body’s action, teach my mind A most inherent baseness.

VOLUMNIA. At thy choice, then. To beg of thee, it is my more dishonour Than thou of them. Come all to ruin. Let Thy mother rather feel thy pride than fear Thy dangerous stoutness, for I mock at death With as big heart as thou. Do as thou list. Thy valiantness was mine; thou suck’dst it from me, But owe thy pride thyself.

CORIOLANUS. Pray, be content. Mother, I am going to the marketplace. Chide me no more. I’ll mountebank their loves, Cog their hearts from them, and come home beloved Of all the trades in Rome. Look, I am going. Commend me to my wife. I’ll return consul, Or never trust to what my tongue can do I’ th’ way of flattery further.

VOLUMNIA. Do your will.

[_Exit Volumnia._]

COMINIUS. Away! The Tribunes do attend you. Arm yourself To answer mildly, for they are prepared With accusations, as I hear, more strong Than are upon you yet.

CORIOLANUS. The word is “mildly.” Pray you, let us go. Let them accuse me by invention, I Will answer in mine honour.

MENENIUS. Ay, but mildly.

CORIOLANUS. Well, mildly be it, then. Mildly.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE III. Rome. The Forum

Enter Sicinius and Brutus.

BRUTUS. In this point charge him home, that he affects Tyrannical power. If he evade us there, Enforce him with his envy to the people, And that the spoil got on the Antiates Was ne’er distributed.

Enter an Aedile.

What, will he come?

AEDILE. He’s coming.

BRUTUS. How accompanied?

AEDILE. With old Menenius, and those senators That always favoured him.

SICINIUS. Have you a catalogue Of all the voices that we have procured, Set down by th’ poll?

AEDILE. I have. ’Tis ready.

SICINIUS. Have you collected them by tribes?

AEDILE. I have.

SICINIUS. Assemble presently the people hither; And when they hear me say “It shall be so I’ th’ right and strength o’ th’ commons,” be it either For death, for fine, or banishment, then let them If I say “Fine,” cry “Fine,” if “Death,” cry “Death,” Insisting on the old prerogative And power i’ th’ truth o’ th’ cause.

AEDILE. I shall inform them.

BRUTUS. And when such time they have begun to cry, Let them not cease, but with a din confused Enforce the present execution Of what we chance to sentence.

AEDILE. Very well.

SICINIUS. Make them be strong and ready for this hint When we shall hap to give’t them.

BRUTUS. Go about it.

[_Exit Aedile._]

Put him to choler straight. He hath been used Ever to conquer and to have his worth Of contradiction. Being once chafed, he cannot Be reined again to temperance; then he speaks What’s in his heart; and that is there which looks With us to break his neck.

Enter Coriolanus, Menenius and Cominius with other Senators.

SICINIUS. Well, here he comes.

MENENIUS. Calmly, I do beseech you.

CORIOLANUS. Ay, as an ostler, that for th’ poorest piece Will bear the knave by th’ volume.—Th’ honoured gods Keep Rome in safety and the chairs of justice Supplied with worthy men! Plant love among’s! Throng our large temples with the shows of peace And not our streets with war!

FIRST SENATOR. Amen, amen.

MENENIUS. A noble wish.

Enter the Aedile with the Plebeians.

SICINIUS. Draw near, ye people.

AEDILE. List to your tribunes. Audience! Peace, I say!

CORIOLANUS. First, hear me speak.

BOTH TRIBUNES. Well, say.—Peace, ho!

CORIOLANUS. Shall I be charged no further than this present? Must all determine here?

SICINIUS. I do demand If you submit you to the people’s voices, Allow their officers, and are content To suffer lawful censure for such faults As shall be proved upon you.

CORIOLANUS. I am content.

MENENIUS. Lo, citizens, he says he is content. The warlike service he has done, consider. Think Upon the wounds his body bears, which show Like graves i’ th’ holy churchyard.

CORIOLANUS. Scratches with briars, Scars to move laughter only.

MENENIUS. Consider further, That when he speaks not like a citizen, You find him like a soldier. Do not take His rougher accents for malicious sounds, But, as I say, such as become a soldier Rather than envy you.

COMINIUS. Well, well, no more.

CORIOLANUS. What is the matter, That, being passed for consul with full voice, I am so dishonoured that the very hour You take it off again?

SICINIUS. Answer to us.

CORIOLANUS. Say then. ’Tis true, I ought so.

SICINIUS. We charge you that you have contrived to take From Rome all seasoned office and to wind Yourself into a power tyrannical, For which you are a traitor to the people.

CORIOLANUS. How? Traitor?

MENENIUS. Nay, temperately! Your promise.

CORIOLANUS. The fires i’ th’ lowest hell fold in the people! Call me their traitor? Thou injurious tribune! Within thine eyes sat twenty thousand deaths, In thy hands clutched as many millions, in Thy lying tongue both numbers, I would say “Thou liest” unto thee with a voice as free As I do pray the gods.

SICINIUS. Mark you this, people?

ALL PLEBEIANS. To th’ rock, to th’ rock with him!

SICINIUS. Peace! We need not put new matter to his charge. What you have seen him do and heard him speak, Beating your officers, cursing yourselves, Opposing laws with strokes, and here defying Those whose great power must try him—even this, So criminal and in such capital kind, Deserves th’ extremest death.

BRUTUS. But since he hath Served well for Rome—

CORIOLANUS. What do you prate of service?

BRUTUS. I talk of that that know it.

CORIOLANUS. You?

MENENIUS. Is this the promise that you made your mother?

COMINIUS. Know, I pray you—

CORIOLANUS. I’ll know no further. Let them pronounce the steep Tarpeian death, Vagabond exile, flaying, pent to linger But with a grain a day, I would not buy Their mercy at the price of one fair word, Nor check my courage for what they can give, To have’t with saying “Good morrow.”

SICINIUS. For that he has, As much as in him lies, from time to time Envied against the people, seeking means To pluck away their power, as now at last Given hostile strokes, and that not in the presence Of dreaded justice, but on the ministers That do distribute it, in the name o’ th’ people And in the power of us the Tribunes, we, Even from this instant, banish him our city In peril of precipitation From off the rock Tarpeian, never more To enter our Rome gates. I’ th’ people’s name, I say it shall be so.

ALL PLEBEIANS. It shall be so, it shall be so! Let him away! He’s banished, and it shall be so.

COMINIUS. Hear me, my masters and my common friends—

SICINIUS. He’s sentenced. No more hearing.

COMINIUS. Let me speak. I have been consul and can show for Rome Her enemies’ marks upon me. I do love My country’s good with a respect more tender, More holy and profound, than mine own life, My dear wife’s estimate, her womb’s increase, And treasure of my loins. Then if I would Speak that—

SICINIUS. We know your drift. Speak what?

BRUTUS. There’s no more to be said, but he is banished As enemy to the people and his country. It shall be so.

ALL PLEBEIANS. It shall be so, it shall be so!

CORIOLANUS. You common cry of curs, whose breath I hate As reek o’ th’ rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air, I banish you! And here remain with your uncertainty; Let every feeble rumour shake your hearts; Your enemies, with nodding of their plumes, Fan you into despair! Have the power still To banish your defenders, till at length Your ignorance—which finds not till it feels, Making but reservation of yourselves, Still your own foes—deliver you, As most abated captives to some nation That won you without blows! Despising For you the city, thus I turn my back. There is a world elsewhere.

[_Exeunt Coriolanus, Cominius, with other Senators._]

AEDILE. The people’s enemy is gone, is gone.

ALL PLEBEIANS. Our enemy is banished; he is gone. Hoo, hoo!

[_They all shout and throw up their caps._]

SICINIUS. Go see him out at gates, and follow him, As he hath followed you, with all despite. Give him deserved vexation. Let a guard Attend us through the city.

ALL PLEBEIANS. Come, come, let’s see him out at gates! Come! The gods preserve our noble tribunes! Come.

[_Exeunt._]

## ACT IV

## SCENE I. Rome. Before a gate of the city

Enter Coriolanus, Volumnia, Virgilia, Menenius, Cominius with the young nobility of Rome.

CORIOLANUS. Come, leave your tears. A brief farewell. The beast With many heads butts me away. Nay, mother, Where is your ancient courage? You were used To say extremities was the trier of spirits; That common chances common men could bear; That when the sea was calm, all boats alike Showed mastership in floating; fortune’s blows When most struck home, being gentle wounded craves A noble cunning. You were used to load me With precepts that would make invincible The heart that conned them.

VIRGILIA. O heavens! O heavens!

CORIOLANUS. Nay, I prithee, woman—

VOLUMNIA. Now the red pestilence strike all trades in Rome, And occupations perish!

CORIOLANUS. What, what, what! I shall be loved when I am lacked. Nay, mother, Resume that spirit when you were wont to say If you had been the wife of Hercules, Six of his labours you’d have done and saved Your husband so much sweat.—Cominius, Droop not. Adieu.—Farewell, my wife, my mother. I’ll do well yet.—Thou old and true Menenius, Thy tears are salter than a younger man’s And venomous to thine eyes.—My sometime general, I have seen thee stern, and thou hast oft beheld Heart-hard’ning spectacles. Tell these sad women ’Tis fond to wail inevitable strokes As ’tis to laugh at ’em.—My mother, you wot well My hazards still have been your solace, and— Believe’t not lightly—though I go alone, Like to a lonely dragon that his fen Makes feared and talked of more than seen, your son Will or exceed the common or be caught With cautelous baits and practice.

VOLUMNIA. My first son, Whither wilt thou go? Take good Cominius With thee awhile. Determine on some course More than a wild exposture to each chance That starts i’ th’ way before thee.

VIRGILIA. O the gods!

COMINIUS. I’ll follow thee a month, devise with thee Where thou shalt rest, that thou mayst hear of us And we of thee; so if the time thrust forth A cause for thy repeal, we shall not send O’er the vast world to seek a single man And lose advantage, which doth ever cool I’ th’ absence of the needer.

CORIOLANUS. Fare ye well. Thou hast years upon thee, and thou art too full Of the wars’ surfeits to go rove with one That’s yet unbruised. Bring me but out at gate.— Come, my sweet wife, my dearest mother, and My friends of noble touch. When I am forth, Bid me farewell, and smile. I pray you, come. While I remain above the ground, you shall Hear from me still, and never of me aught But what is like me formerly.

MENENIUS. That’s worthily As any ear can hear. Come, let’s not weep. If I could shake off but one seven years From these old arms and legs, by the good gods, I’d with thee every foot.

CORIOLANUS. Give me thy hand. Come.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE II. Rome. A street near the gate

Enter two Tribunes, Sicinius, Brutus with the Aedile.

SICINIUS. Bid them all home. He’s gone, and we’ll no further. The nobility are vexed, whom we see have sided In his behalf.

BRUTUS. Now we have shown our power, Let us seem humbler after it is done Than when it was a-doing.

SICINIUS. Bid them home. Say their great enemy is gone, and they Stand in their ancient strength.

BRUTUS. Dismiss them home.

[_Exit Aedile._]

Here comes his mother.

Enter Volumnia, Virgilia and Menenius.

SICINIUS. Let’s not meet her.

BRUTUS. Why?

SICINIUS. They say she’s mad.

BRUTUS. They have ta’en note of us. Keep on your way.

VOLUMNIA. O, you’re well met. The hoarded plague o’ th’ gods Requite your love!

MENENIUS. Peace, peace! Be not so loud.

VOLUMNIA. If that I could for weeping, you should hear— Nay, and you shall hear some. [_To Sicinius_.] Will you be gone?

VIRGILIA. [_To Brutus_.] You shall stay too. I would I had the power To say so to my husband.

SICINIUS. Are you mankind?

VOLUMNIA. Ay, fool, is that a shame? Note but this, fool. Was not a man my father? Hadst thou foxship To banish him that struck more blows for Rome Than thou hast spoken words?

SICINIUS. O blessed heavens!

VOLUMNIA. More noble blows than ever thou wise words, And for Rome’s good. I’ll tell thee what—yet go. Nay, but thou shalt stay too. I would my son Were in Arabia and thy tribe before him, His good sword in his hand.

SICINIUS. What then?

VIRGILIA. What then? He’d make an end of thy posterity.

VOLUMNIA. Bastards and all. Good man, the wounds that he does bear for Rome!

MENENIUS. Come, come, peace.

SICINIUS. I would he had continued to his country As he began, and not unknit himself The noble knot he made.

BRUTUS. I would he had.

VOLUMNIA. “I would he had?” ’Twas you incensed the rabble. Cats, that can judge as fitly of his worth As I can of those mysteries which heaven Will not have Earth to know.

BRUTUS. Pray, let’s go.

VOLUMNIA. Now, pray, sir, get you gone. You have done a brave deed. Ere you go, hear this: As far as doth the Capitol exceed The meanest house in Rome, so far my son— This lady’s husband here, this, do you see?— Whom you have banished, does exceed you all.

BRUTUS. Well, well, we’ll leave you.

SICINIUS. Why stay we to be baited With one that wants her wits?

[_Exeunt Tribunes._]

VOLUMNIA. Take my prayers with you. I would the gods had nothing else to do But to confirm my curses. Could I meet ’em But once a day, it would unclog my heart Of what lies heavy to’t.

MENENIUS. You have told them home, And, by my troth, you have cause. You’ll sup with me?

VOLUMNIA. Anger’s my meat. I sup upon myself And so shall starve with feeding. Come, let’s go. Leave this faint puling, and lament as I do, In anger, Juno-like. Come, come, come.

[_Exeunt._]

MENENIUS. Fie, fie, fie!

[_Exit Menenius._]

## SCENE III. A highway between Rome and Antium

Enter a Roman and a Volsce.

ROMAN. I know you well, sir, and you know me. Your name I think is Adrian.

VOLSCE. It is so, sir. Truly, I have forgot you.

ROMAN. I am a Roman, and my services are, as you are, against ’em. Know you me yet?

VOLSCE. Nicanor, no?

ROMAN. The same, sir.

VOLSCE. You had more beard when I last saw you, but your favour is well approved by your tongue. What’s the news in Rome? I have a note from the Volscian state to find you out there. You have well saved me a day’s journey.

ROMAN. There hath been in Rome strange insurrections, the people against the senators, patricians, and nobles.

VOLSCE. Hath been? Is it ended, then? Our state thinks not so. They are in a most warlike preparation and hope to come upon them in the heat of their division.

ROMAN. The main blaze of it is past, but a small thing would make it flame again; for the nobles receive so to heart the banishment of that worthy Coriolanus that they are in a ripe aptness to take all power from the people and to pluck from them their tribunes for ever. This lies glowing, I can tell you, and is almost mature for the violent breaking out.

VOLSCE. Coriolanus banished?

ROMAN. Banished, sir.

VOLSCE. You will be welcome with this intelligence, Nicanor.

ROMAN. The day serves well for them now. I have heard it said the fittest time to corrupt a man’s wife is when she’s fallen out with her husband. Your noble Tullus Aufidius will appear well in these wars, his great opposer Coriolanus being now in no request of his country.

VOLSCE. He cannot choose. I am most fortunate thus accidentally to encounter you. You have ended my business, and I will merrily accompany you home.

ROMAN. I shall between this and supper tell you most strange things from Rome, all tending to the good of their adversaries. Have you an army ready, say you?

VOLSCE. A most royal one. The centurions and their charges, distinctly billeted, already in th’ entertainment, and to be on foot at an hour’s warning.

ROMAN. I am joyful to hear of their readiness and am the man, I think, that shall set them in present action. So, sir, heartily well met, and most glad of your company.

VOLSCE. You take my part from me, sir. I have the most cause to be glad of yours.

ROMAN. Well, let us go together.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE IV. Antium. Before Aufidius’s house

Enter Coriolanus in mean apparel, disguised and muffled.

CORIOLANUS. A goodly city is this Antium. City, ’Tis I that made thy widows. Many an heir Of these fair edifices ’fore my wars Have I heard groan and drop. Then know me not, Lest that thy wives with spits and boys with stones In puny battle slay me.

Enter a Citizen.

Save you, sir.

CITIZEN. And you.

CORIOLANUS. Direct me, if it be your will, Where great Aufidius lies. Is he in Antium?

CITIZEN. He is, and feasts the nobles of the state At his house this night.

CORIOLANUS. Which is his house, beseech you?

CITIZEN. This here before you.

CORIOLANUS. Thank you, sir. Farewell.

[_Exit Citizen._]

O world, thy slippery turns! Friends now fast sworn, Whose double bosoms seems to wear one heart, Whose hours, whose bed, whose meal and exercise Are still together, who twin, as ’twere, in love Unseparable, shall within this hour, On a dissension of a doit, break out To bitterest enmity; so fellest foes, Whose passions and whose plots have broke their sleep To take the one the other, by some chance, Some trick not worth an egg, shall grow dear friends And interjoin their issues. So with me: My birthplace hate I, and my love’s upon This enemy town. I’ll enter. If he slay me, He does fair justice; if he give me way, I’ll do his country service.

[_Exit._]

## SCENE V. Antium. A hall in Aufidius’s house

Music plays. Enter a Servingman.

FIRST SERVINGMAN. Wine, wine, wine! What service is here? I think our fellows are asleep.

[_Exit._]

Enter another Servingman.

SECOND SERVINGMAN. Where’s Cotus? My master calls for him. Cotus!

[_Exit._]

Enter Coriolanus.

CORIOLANUS. A goodly house. The feast smells well, but I Appear not like a guest.

Enter the First Servingman.

FIRST SERVINGMAN. What would you have, friend? Whence are you? Here’s no place for you. Pray go to the door.

[_Exit._]

CORIOLANUS. I have deserved no better entertainment In being Coriolanus.

Enter Second Servingman.

SECOND SERVINGMAN. Whence are you, sir?—Has the porter his eyes in his head, that he gives entrance to such companions?—Pray, get you out.

CORIOLANUS. Away!

SECOND SERVINGMAN. Away? Get you away.

CORIOLANUS. Now th’ art troublesome.

SECOND SERVINGMAN. Are you so brave? I’ll have you talked with anon.

Enter Third Servingman; the First, entering, meets him.

THIRD SERVINGMAN. What fellow’s this?

FIRST SERVINGMAN. A strange one as ever I looked on. I cannot get him out o’ th’ house. Prithee call my master to him.

THIRD SERVINGMAN. What have you to do here, fellow? Pray you, avoid the house.

CORIOLANUS. Let me but stand. I will not hurt your hearth.

THIRD SERVINGMAN. What are you?

CORIOLANUS. A gentleman.

THIRD SERVINGMAN. A marv’llous poor one.

CORIOLANUS. True, so I am.

THIRD SERVINGMAN. Pray you, poor gentleman, take up some other station. Here’s no place for you. Pray you, avoid. Come.

CORIOLANUS. Follow your function, go, and batten on cold bits.

[_Pushes him away from him_.]

THIRD SERVINGMAN. What, you will not?—Prithee, tell my master what a strange guest he has here.

SECOND SERVINGMAN. And I shall.

[_Exit._]

THIRD SERVINGMAN. Where dwell’st thou?

CORIOLANUS. Under the canopy.

THIRD SERVINGMAN. Under the canopy?

CORIOLANUS. Ay.

THIRD SERVINGMAN. Where’s that?

CORIOLANUS. I’ th’ city of kites and crows.

THIRD SERVINGMAN. I’ th’ city of kites and crows? What an ass it is! Then thou dwell’st with daws too?

CORIOLANUS. No, I serve not thy master.

THIRD SERVINGMAN. How, sir? Do you meddle with my master?

CORIOLANUS. Ay, ’tis an honester service than to meddle with thy mistress. Thou prat’st and prat’st. Serve with thy trencher, hence!

[_Beats him away_.]

[_Exit Third Servingman._]

Enter Aufidius with the Second Servingman.

AUFIDIUS. Where is this fellow?

SECOND SERVINGMAN. Here, sir. I’d have beaten him like a dog, but for disturbing the lords within.

AUFIDIUS. Whence com’st thou? What wouldst thou? Thy name? Why speak’st not? Speak, man. What’s thy name?

CORIOLANUS. [_Removing his muffler_.] If, Tullus, Not yet thou know’st me, and, seeing me, dost not Think me for the man I am, necessity Commands me name myself.

AUFIDIUS. What is thy name?

CORIOLANUS. A name unmusical to the Volscians’ ears And harsh in sound to thine.

AUFIDIUS. Say, what’s thy name? Thou has a grim appearance, and thy face Bears a command in’t. Though thy tackle’s torn, Thou show’st a noble vessel. What’s thy name?

CORIOLANUS. Prepare thy brow to frown. Know’st thou me yet?

AUFIDIUS. I know thee not. Thy name?

CORIOLANUS. My name is Caius Martius, who hath done To thee particularly and to all the Volsces Great hurt and mischief; thereto witness may My surname Coriolanus. The painful service, The extreme dangers, and the drops of blood Shed for my thankless country are requited But with that surname, a good memory And witness of the malice and displeasure Which thou shouldst bear me. Only that name remains. The cruelty and envy of the people, Permitted by our dastard nobles, who Have all forsook me, hath devoured the rest, And suffered me by th’ voice of slaves to be Whooped out of Rome. Now this extremity Hath brought me to thy hearth, not out of hope— Mistake me not—to save my life; for if I had feared death, of all the men i’ th’ world I would have ’voided thee, but in mere spite, To be full quit of those my banishers, Stand I before thee here. Then if thou hast A heart of wreak in thee, that wilt revenge Thine own particular wrongs and stop those maims Of shame seen through thy country, speed thee straight And make my misery serve thy turn. So use it That my revengeful services may prove As benefits to thee, for I will fight Against my cankered country with the spleen Of all the under fiends. But if so be Thou dar’st not this, and that to prove more fortunes Thou ’rt tired, then, in a word, I also am Longer to live most weary, and present My throat to thee and to thy ancient malice, Which not to cut would show thee but a fool, Since I have ever followed thee with hate, Drawn tuns of blood out of thy country’s breast, And cannot live but to thy shame, unless It be to do thee service.

AUFIDIUS. O Martius, Martius, Each word thou hast spoke hath weeded from my heart A root of ancient envy. If Jupiter Should from yond cloud speak divine things And say ’tis true, I’d not believe them more Than thee, all-noble Martius. Let me twine Mine arms about that body, whereagainst My grained ash an hundred times hath broke And scarred the moon with splinters. Here I clip The anvil of my sword and do contest As hotly and as nobly with thy love As ever in ambitious strength I did Contend against thy valour. Know thou first, I loved the maid I married; never man Sighed truer breath. But that I see thee here, Thou noble thing, more dances my rapt heart Than when I first my wedded mistress saw Bestride my threshold. Why, thou Mars, I tell thee We have a power on foot, and I had purpose Once more to hew thy target from thy brawn Or lose mine arm for’t. Thou hast beat me out Twelve several times, and I have nightly since Dreamt of encounters ’twixt thyself and me; We have been down together in my sleep, Unbuckling helms, fisting each other’s throat, And waked half dead with nothing. Worthy Martius, Had we no other quarrel else to Rome but that Thou art thence banished, we would muster all From twelve to seventy and, pouring war Into the bowels of ungrateful Rome, Like a bold flood o’erbear ’t. O, come, go in, And take our friendly senators by th’ hands, Who now are here, taking their leaves of me, Who am prepared against your territories, Though not for Rome itself.

CORIOLANUS. You bless me, gods!

AUFIDIUS. Therefore, most absolute sir, if thou wilt have The leading of thine own revenges, take Th’ one half of my commission and set down— As best thou art experienced, since thou know’st Thy country’s strength and weakness—thine own ways, Whether to knock against the gates of Rome, Or rudely visit them in parts remote To fright them ere destroy. But come in. Let me commend thee first to those that shall Say yea to thy desires. A thousand welcomes! And more a friend than e’er an enemy— Yet, Martius, that was much. Your hand. Most welcome!

[_Exeunt Coriolanus and Aufidius._]

Two of the Servingmen come forward.

FIRST SERVINGMAN. Here’s a strange alteration!

SECOND SERVINGMAN. By my hand, I had thought to have strucken him with a cudgel, and yet my mind gave me his clothes made a false report of him.

FIRST SERVINGMAN. What an arm he has! He turned me about with his finger and his thumb as one would set up a top.

SECOND SERVINGMAN. Nay, I knew by his face that there was something in him. He had, sir, a kind of face, methought—I cannot tell how to term it.

FIRST SERVINGMAN. He had so, looking as it were—Would I were hanged, but I thought there was more in him than I could think.

SECOND SERVINGMAN. So did I, I’ll be sworn. He is simply the rarest man i’ th’ world.

FIRST SERVINGMAN. I think he is. But a greater soldier than he you wot one.

SECOND SERVINGMAN. Who, my master?

FIRST SERVINGMAN. Nay, it’s no matter for that.

SECOND SERVINGMAN. Worth six on him.

FIRST SERVINGMAN. Nay, not so neither. But I take him to be the greater soldier.

SECOND SERVINGMAN. Faith, look you, one cannot tell how to say that. For the defence of a town our general is excellent.

FIRST SERVINGMAN. Ay, and for an assault too.

Enter the Third Servingman.

THIRD SERVINGMAN. O slaves, I can tell you news, news, you rascals!

FIRST and SECOND SERVINGMAN. What, what, what? Let’s partake.

THIRD SERVINGMAN. I would not be a Roman, of all nations; I had as lief be a condemned man.

FIRST and SECOND SERVINGMAN. Wherefore? Wherefore?

THIRD SERVINGMAN. Why, here’s he that was wont to thwack our general, Caius Martius.

FIRST SERVINGMAN. Why do you say, “thwack our general”?

THIRD SERVINGMAN. I do not say “thwack our general,” but he was always good enough for him.

SECOND SERVINGMAN. Come, we are fellows and friends. He was ever too hard for him; I have heard him say so himself.

FIRST SERVINGMAN. He was too hard for him directly, to say the troth on’t, before Corioles; he scotched him and notched him like a carbonado.

SECOND SERVINGMAN. An he had been cannibally given, he might have boiled and eaten him too.

FIRST SERVINGMAN. But, more of thy news?

THIRD SERVINGMAN. Why, he is so made on here within as if he were son and heir to Mars; set at upper end o’ th’ table; no question asked him by any of the senators but they stand bald before him. Our general himself makes a mistress of him, sanctifies himself with’s hand, and turns up the white o’ th’ eye to his discourse. But the bottom of the news is, our general is cut i’ th’ middle and but one half of what he was yesterday, for the other has half, by the entreaty and grant of the whole table. He’ll go, he says, and sowl the porter of Rome gates by th’ ears. He will mow all down before him and leave his passage polled.

SECOND SERVINGMAN. And he’s as like to do’t as any man I can imagine.

THIRD SERVINGMAN. Do’t? He will do’t! For look you, sir, he has as many friends as enemies, which friends, sir, as it were, durst not, look you, sir, show themselves, as we term it, his friends whilest he’s in directitude.

FIRST SERVINGMAN. Directitude? What’s that?

THIRD SERVINGMAN. But when they shall see, sir, his crest up again, and the man in blood, they will out of their burrows like coneys after rain, and revel all with him.

FIRST SERVINGMAN. But when goes this forward?

THIRD SERVINGMAN. Tomorrow, today, presently. You shall have the drum struck up this afternoon. ’Tis as it were parcel of their feast, and to be executed ere they wipe their lips.

SECOND SERVINGMAN. Why then, we shall have a stirring world again. This peace is nothing but to rust iron, increase tailors, and breed ballad-makers.

FIRST SERVINGMAN. Let me have war, say I. It exceeds peace as far as day does night. It’s sprightly walking, audible, and full of vent. Peace is a very apoplexy, lethargy; mulled, deaf, sleepy, insensible; a getter of more bastard children than war’s a destroyer of men.

SECOND SERVINGMAN. ’Tis so, and as war in some sort, may be said to be a ravisher, so it cannot be denied but peace is a great maker of cuckolds.

FIRST SERVINGMAN. Ay, and it makes men hate one another.

THIRD SERVINGMAN. Reason: because they then less need one another. The wars for my money! I hope to see Romans as cheap as Volscians. They are rising; they are rising.

ALL. In, in, in, in!

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE VI. Rome. A public place

Enter the two Tribunes. Sicinius and Brutus.

SICINIUS. We hear not of him, neither need we fear him. His remedies are tame—the present peace, And quietness of the people, which before Were in wild hurry. Here do we make his friends Blush that the world goes well, who rather had, Though they themselves did suffer by’t, behold Dissentious numbers pest’ring streets than see Our tradesmen singing in their shops and going About their functions friendly.

BRUTUS. We stood to’t in good time.

Enter Menenius.

Is this Menenius?

SICINIUS. ’Tis he, ’tis he. O, he is grown most kind Of late.—Hail, sir!

MENENIUS. Hail to you both.

SICINIUS. Your Coriolanus is not much missed But with his friends. The commonwealth doth stand, And so would do were he more angry at it.

MENENIUS. All’s well, and might have been much better if He could have temporized.

SICINIUS. Where is he, hear you?

MENENIUS. Nay, I hear nothing; His mother and his wife hear nothing from him.

Enter three or four Citizens.

ALL CITIZENS. The gods preserve you both!

SICINIUS. Good e’en, our neighbours.

BRUTUS. Good e’en to you all, good e’en to you all.

FIRST CITIZEN. Ourselves, our wives, and children, on our knees Are bound to pray for you both.

SICINIUS. Live and thrive!

BRUTUS. Farewell, kind neighbours. We wished Coriolanus Had loved you as we did.

CITIZENS. Now the gods keep you!

BOTH TRIBUNES. Farewell, farewell.

[_Exeunt Citizens._]

SICINIUS. This is a happier and more comely time Than when these fellows ran about the streets Crying confusion.

BRUTUS. Caius Martius was A worthy officer i’ th’ war, but insolent, O’ercome with pride, ambitious, past all thinking Self-loving.

SICINIUS. And affecting one sole throne, without assistance.

MENENIUS. I think not so.

SICINIUS. We should by this, to all our lamentation, If he had gone forth consul, found it so.

BRUTUS. The gods have well prevented it, and Rome Sits safe and still without him.

Enter an Aedile.

AEDILE. Worthy tribunes, There is a slave, whom we have put in prison, Reports the Volsces with two several powers Are entered in the Roman territories, And with the deepest malice of the war Destroy what lies before ’em.

MENENIUS. ’Tis Aufidius, Who, hearing of our Martius’ banishment, Thrusts forth his horns again into the world, Which were inshelled when Martius stood for Rome, And durst not once peep out.

SICINIUS. Come, what talk you of Martius?

BRUTUS. Go see this rumourer whipped. It cannot be The Volsces dare break with us.

MENENIUS. Cannot be? We have record that very well it can, And three examples of the like hath been Within my age. But reason with the fellow Before you punish him, where he heard this, Lest you shall chance to whip your information And beat the messenger who bids beware Of what is to be dreaded.

SICINIUS. Tell not me. I know this cannot be.

BRUTUS. Not possible.

Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER. The nobles in great earnestness are going All to the Senate House. Some news is coming That turns their countenances.

SICINIUS. ’Tis this slave— Go whip him ’fore the people’s eyes—his raising, Nothing but his report.

MESSENGER. Yes, worthy sir, The slave’s report is seconded, and more, More fearful, is delivered.

SICINIUS. What more fearful?

MESSENGER. It is spoke freely out of many mouths— How probable I do not know—that Martius, Joined with Aufidius, leads a power ’gainst Rome And vows revenge as spacious as between The young’st and oldest thing.

SICINIUS. This is most likely!

BRUTUS. Raised only that the weaker sort may wish Good Martius home again.

SICINIUS. The very trick on ’t.

MENENIUS. This is unlikely; He and Aufidius can no more atone Than violent’st contrariety.

Enter a Second Messenger.

SECOND MESSENGER. You are sent for to the Senate. A fearful army, led by Caius Martius Associated with Aufidius, rages Upon our territories, and have already O’erborne their way, consumed with fire and took What lay before them.

Enter Cominius.

COMINIUS. O, you have made good work!

MENENIUS. What news? What news?

COMINIUS. You have holp to ravish your own daughters and To melt the city leads upon your pates, To see your wives dishonoured to your noses—

MENENIUS. What’s the news? What’s the news?

COMINIUS. Your temples burned in their cement, and Your franchises, whereon you stood, confined Into an auger’s bore.

MENENIUS. Pray now, your news?— You have made fair work, I fear me.—Pray, your news? If Martius should be joined with Volscians—

COMINIUS. If? He is their god; he leads them like a thing Made by some other deity than Nature, That shapes man better; and they follow him Against us brats with no less confidence Than boys pursuing summer butterflies Or butchers killing flies.

MENENIUS. You have made good work, You and your apron-men, you that stood so much Upon the voice of occupation and The breath of garlic eaters!

COMINIUS. He’ll shake your Rome about your ears.

MENENIUS. As Hercules did shake down mellow fruit. You have made fair work.

BRUTUS. But is this true, sir?

COMINIUS. Ay, and you’ll look pale Before you find it other. All the regions Do smilingly revolt, and who resists Are mocked for valiant ignorance And perish constant fools. Who is’t can blame him? Your enemies and his find something in him.

MENENIUS. We are all undone unless The noble man have mercy.

COMINIUS. Who shall ask it? The Tribunes cannot do’t for shame; the people Deserve such pity of him as the wolf Does of the shepherds. For his best friends, if they Should say “Be good to Rome,” they charged him even As those should do that had deserved his hate And therein showed like enemies.

MENENIUS. ’Tis true. If he were putting to my house the brand That should consume it, I have not the face To say “Beseech you, cease.”—You have made fair hands, You and your crafts! You have crafted fair!

COMINIUS. You have brought A trembling upon Rome such as was never S’ incapable of help.

TRIBUNES. Say not we brought it.

MENENIUS. How? Was it we? We loved him, but like beasts And cowardly nobles, gave way unto your clusters, Who did hoot him out o’ th’ city.

COMINIUS. But I fear They’ll roar him in again. Tullus Aufidius, The second name of men, obeys his points As if he were his officer. Desperation Is all the policy, strength, and defence That Rome can make against them.

Enter a troop of Citizens.

MENENIUS. Here comes the clusters.— And is Aufidius with him? You are they That made the air unwholesome when you cast Your stinking, greasy caps in hooting at Coriolanus’ exile. Now he’s coming, And not a hair upon a soldier’s head Which will not prove a whip. As many coxcombs As you threw caps up will he tumble down And pay you for your voices. ’Tis no matter. If he could burn us all into one coal We have deserved it.

ALL CITIZENS. Faith, we hear fearful news.

FIRST CITIZEN. For mine own part, When I said banish him, I said ’twas pity.

SECOND CITIZEN. And so did I.

THIRD CITIZEN. And so did I. And, to say the truth, so did very many of us. That we did we did for the best; and though we willingly consented to his banishment, yet it was against our will.

COMINIUS. You are goodly things, you voices!

MENENIUS. You have made good work, you and your cry!— Shall’s to the Capitol?

COMINIUS. O, ay, what else?

[_Exeunt Cominius and Menenius._]

SICINIUS. Go, masters, get you home. Be not dismayed. These are a side that would be glad to have This true which they so seem to fear. Go home, And show no sign of fear.

FIRST CITIZEN. The gods be good to us! Come, masters, let’s home. I ever said we were i’ th’ wrong when we banished him.

SECOND CITIZEN. So did we all. But, come, let’s home.

[_Exeunt Citizens._]

BRUTUS. I do not like this news.

SICINIUS. Nor I.

BRUTUS. Let’s to the Capitol. Would half my wealth Would buy this for a lie!

SICINIUS. Pray let’s go.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE VII. A camp at a short distance from Rome

Enter Aufidius with his Lieutenant.

AUFIDIUS. Do they still fly to th’ Roman?

LIEUTENANT. I do not know what witchcraft’s in him, but Your soldiers use him as the grace ’fore meat, Their talk at table, and their thanks at end; And you are dark’ned in this action, sir, Even by your own.

AUFIDIUS. I cannot help it now, Unless by using means I lame the foot Of our design. He bears himself more proudlier, Even to my person, than I thought he would When first I did embrace him. Yet his nature In that’s no changeling, and I must excuse What cannot be amended.

LIEUTENANT. Yet I wish, sir— I mean for your particular—you had not Joined in commission with him, but either Had borne the action of yourself or else To him had left it solely.

AUFIDIUS. I understand thee well, and be thou sure, When he shall come to his account, he knows not What I can urge against him, although it seems, And so he thinks and is no less apparent To th’ vulgar eye, that he bears all things fairly, And shows good husbandry for the Volscian state, Fights dragonlike, and does achieve as soon As draw his sword; yet he hath left undone That which shall break his neck or hazard mine Whene’er we come to our account.

LIEUTENANT. Sir, I beseech you, think you he’ll carry Rome?

AUFIDIUS. All places yield to him ere he sits down, And the nobility of Rome are his; The Senators and Patricians love him too. The Tribunes are no soldiers, and their people Will be as rash in the repeal as hasty To expel him thence. I think he’ll be to Rome As is the osprey to the fish, who takes it By sovereignty of nature. First, he was A noble servant to them, but he could not Carry his honours even. Whether ’twas pride, Which out of daily fortune ever taints The happy man; whether defect of judgment, To fail in the disposing of those chances Which he was lord of; or whether nature, Not to be other than one thing, not moving From th’ casque to th’ cushion, but commanding peace Even with the same austerity and garb As he controlled the war; but one of these— As he hath spices of them all—not all, For I dare so far free him—made him feared, So hated, and so banished. But he has a merit To choke it in the utt’rance. So our virtues Lie in th’ interpretation of the time, And power, unto itself most commendable, Hath not a tomb so evident as a chair T’ extol what it hath done. One fire drives out one fire, one nail one nail; Rights by rights falter; strengths by strengths do fail. Come, let’s away. When, Caius, Rome is thine, Thou art poor’st of all; then shortly art thou mine.

[_Exeunt._]

## ACT V

## SCENE I. Rome. A public place

Enter Menenius, Cominius, Sicinius, Brutus (the two Tribunes), with others.

MENENIUS. No, I’ll not go. You hear what he hath said Which was sometime his general, who loved him In a most dear particular. He called me father, But what o’ that? Go you that banished him; A mile before his tent, fall down, and knee The way into his mercy. Nay, if he coyed To hear Cominius speak, I’ll keep at home.

COMINIUS. He would not seem to know me.

MENENIUS. Do you hear?

COMINIUS. Yet one time he did call me by my name. I urged our old acquaintance, and the drops That we have bled together. “Coriolanus” He would not answer to, forbade all names. He was a kind of nothing, titleless, Till he had forged himself a name i’ th’ fire Of burning Rome.

MENENIUS. Why, so; you have made good work! A pair of tribunes that have wracked Rome To make coals cheap! A noble memory!

COMINIUS. I minded him how royal ’twas to pardon When it was less expected. He replied It was a bare petition of a state To one whom they had punished.

MENENIUS. Very well. Could he say less?

COMINIUS. I offered to awaken his regard For’s private friends. His answer to me was He could not stay to pick them in a pile Of noisome musty chaff. He said ’twas folly For one poor grain or two to leave unburnt And still to nose th’ offence.

MENENIUS. For one poor grain or two! I am one of those! His mother, wife, his child, And this brave fellow too, we are the grains; You are the musty chaff, and you are smelt Above the moon. We must be burnt for you.

SICINIUS. Nay, pray, be patient. If you refuse your aid In this so-never-needed help, yet do not Upbraid’s with our distress. But sure, if you Would be your country’s pleader, your good tongue, More than the instant army we can make, Might stop our countryman.

MENENIUS. No, I’ll not meddle.

SICINIUS. Pray you, go to him.

MENENIUS. What should I do?

BRUTUS. Only make trial what your love can do For Rome, towards Martius.

MENENIUS. Well, and say that Martius Return me, as Cominius is returned, unheard, What then? But as a discontented friend, Grief-shot with his unkindness? Say’t be so?

SICINIUS. Yet your good will Must have that thanks from Rome after the measure As you intended well.

MENENIUS. I’ll undertake’t. I think he’ll hear me. Yet to bite his lip And hum at good Cominius much unhearts me. He was not taken well; he had not dined. The veins unfilled, our blood is cold, and then We pout upon the morning, are unapt To give or to forgive; but when we have stuffed These pipes and these conveyances of our blood With wine and feeding, we have suppler souls Than in our priestlike fasts. Therefore I’ll watch him Till he be dieted to my request, And then I’ll set upon him.

BRUTUS. You know the very road into his kindness And cannot lose your way.

MENENIUS. Good faith, I’ll prove him, Speed how it will. I shall ere long have knowledge Of my success.

[_Exit._]

COMINIUS. He’ll never hear him.

SICINIUS. Not?

COMINIUS. I tell you, he does sit in gold, his eye Red as ’twould burn Rome; and his injury The jailer to his pity. I kneeled before him; ’Twas very faintly he said “Rise”; dismissed me Thus with his speechless hand. What he would do He sent in writing after me; what he Would not, bound with an oath to yield to his Conditions. So that all hope is vain Unless his noble mother and his wife, Who, as I hear, mean to solicit him For mercy to his country. Therefore let’s hence And with our fair entreaties haste them on.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE II. An Advanced post of the Volscian camp before Rome.

Enter Menenius to the Watch, or Guard.

FIRST WATCH. Stay! Whence are you?

SECOND WATCH. Stand, and go back.

MENENIUS. You guard like men; ’tis well. But by your leave, I am an officer of state and come To speak with Coriolanus.

FIRST WATCH. From whence?

MENENIUS. From Rome.

FIRST WATCH. You may not pass; you must return. Our general Will no more hear from thence.

SECOND WATCH. You’ll see your Rome embraced with fire before You’ll speak with Coriolanus.

MENENIUS. Good my friends, If you have heard your general talk of Rome And of his friends there, it is lots to blanks My name hath touched your ears. It is Menenius.

FIRST WATCH. Be it so; go back. The virtue of your name Is not here passable.

MENENIUS. I tell thee, fellow, Thy general is my lover. I have been The book of his good acts, whence men have read His fame unparalleled happily amplified; For I have ever verified my friends— Of whom he’s chief—with all the size that verity Would without lapsing suffer. Nay, sometimes, Like to a bowl upon a subtle ground, I have tumbled past the throw, and in his praise Have almost stamped the leasing. Therefore, fellow, I must have leave to pass.

FIRST WATCH. Faith, sir, if you had told as many lies in his behalf as you have uttered words in your own, you should not pass here, no, though it were as virtuous to lie as to live chastely. Therefore, go back.

MENENIUS. Prithee, fellow, remember my name is Menenius, always factionary on the party of your general.

SECOND WATCH. Howsoever you have been his liar, as you say you have, I am one that, telling true under him, must say you cannot pass. Therefore go back.

MENENIUS. Has he dined, can’st thou tell? For I would not speak with him till after dinner.

FIRST WATCH. You are a Roman, are you?

MENENIUS. I am, as thy general is.

FIRST WATCH. Then you should hate Rome as he does. Can you, when you have pushed out your gates the very defender of them, and, in a violent popular ignorance given your enemy your shield, think to front his revenges with the easy groans of old women, the virginal palms of your daughters, or with the palsied intercession of such a decayed dotant as you seem to be? Can you think to blow out the intended fire your city is ready to flame in with such weak breath as this? No, you are deceived. Therefore back to Rome and prepare for your execution. You are condemned. Our general has sworn you out of reprieve and pardon.

MENENIUS. Sirrah, if thy captain knew I were here, he would use me with estimation.

SECOND WATCH. Come, my captain knows you not.

MENENIUS. I mean thy general.

FIRST WATCH. My general cares not for you. Back, I say, go, lest I let forth your half pint of blood. Back! That’s the utmost of your having. Back!

MENENIUS. Nay, but fellow, fellow—

Enter Coriolanus with Aufidius.

CORIOLANUS. What’s the matter?

MENENIUS. Now, you companion, I’ll say an errand for you. You shall know now that I am in estimation; you shall perceive that a Jack guardant cannot office me from my son Coriolanus. Guess but by my entertainment with him if thou stand’st not i’ th’ state of hanging or of some death more long in spectatorship and crueller in suffering; behold now presently, and swoon for what’s to come upon thee. [_to Coriolanus_.] The glorious gods sit in hourly synod about thy particular prosperity and love thee no worse than thy old father Menenius does! O my son, my son! Thou art preparing fire for us; look thee, here’s water to quench it. I was hardly moved to come to thee; but being assured none but myself could move thee, I have been blown out of your gates with sighs, and conjure thee to pardon Rome and thy petitionary countrymen. The good gods assuage thy wrath and turn the dregs of it upon this varlet here, this, who, like a block, hath denied my access to thee.

CORIOLANUS. Away!

MENENIUS. How? Away?

CORIOLANUS. Wife, mother, child, I know not. My affairs Are servanted to others. Though I owe My revenge properly, my remission lies In Volscian breasts. That we have been familiar, Ingrate forgetfulness shall poison rather Than pity note how much. Therefore begone. Mine ears against your suits are stronger than Your gates against my force. Yet, for I loved thee, Take this along; I writ it for thy sake,

[_He gives Menenius a paper._]

And would have sent it. Another word, Menenius, I will not hear thee speak.—This man, Aufidius, Was my beloved in Rome; yet thou behold’st.

AUFIDIUS. You keep a constant temper.

[_They exit._]

[_The Guard and Menenius remain._]

FIRST WATCH. Now, sir, is your name Menenius?

SECOND WATCH. ’Tis a spell, you see, of much power. You know the way home again.

FIRST WATCH. Do you hear how we are shent for keeping your Greatness back?

SECOND WATCH. What cause do you think I have to swoon?

MENENIUS. I neither care for th’ world nor your general. For such things as you, I can scarce think there’s any, you’re so slight. He that hath a will to die by himself fears it not from another. Let your general do his worst. For you, be that you are, long; and your misery increase with your age! I say to you, as I was said to, away!

[_Exit._]

FIRST WATCH. A noble fellow, I warrant him.

SECOND WATCH. The worthy fellow is our general. He is the rock, the oak not to be wind-shaken.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE III. The tent of Coriolanus

Enter Coriolanus and Aufidius.

CORIOLANUS. We will before the walls of Rome tomorrow Set down our host. My partner in this action, You must report to th’ Volscian lords how plainly I have borne this business.

AUFIDIUS. Only their ends You have respected, stopped your ears against The general suit of Rome; never admitted A private whisper, no, not with such friends That thought them sure of you.

CORIOLANUS. This last old man, Whom with cracked heart I have sent to Rome, Loved me above the measure of a father, Nay, godded me indeed. Their latest refuge Was to send him, for whose old love I have— Though I showed sourly to him—once more offered The first conditions, which they did refuse And cannot now accept, to grace him only That thought he could do more. A very little I have yielded to. Fresh embassies and suits, Nor from the state nor private friends, hereafter Will I lend ear to.

[_Shout within._]

Ha? What shout is this? Shall I be tempted to infringe my vow In the same time ’tis made? I will not.

Enter Virgilia, Volumnia, Valeria, young Martius with attendants.

My wife comes foremost, then the honoured mold Wherein this trunk was framed, and in her hand The grandchild to her blood. But out, affection! All bond and privilege of nature, break! Let it be virtuous to be obstinate. What is that curtsy worth? Or those doves’ eyes, Which can make gods forsworn? I melt and am not Of stronger earth than others. My mother bows, As if Olympus to a molehill should In supplication nod; and my young boy Hath an aspect of intercession which Great Nature cries “Deny not!” Let the Volsces Plough Rome and harrow Italy, I’ll never Be such a gosling to obey instinct, but stand As if a man were author of himself, And knew no other kin.

VIRGILIA. My lord and husband.

CORIOLANUS. These eyes are not the same I wore in Rome.

VIRGILIA. The sorrow that delivers us thus changed Makes you think so.

CORIOLANUS. Like a dull actor now, I have forgot my part, and I am out, Even to a full disgrace. Best of my flesh, Forgive my tyranny, but do not say For that, “Forgive our Romans.”

[_They kiss._]

O, a kiss Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge! Now, by the jealous queen of heaven, that kiss I carried from thee, dear, and my true lip Hath virgined it e’er since. You gods! I prate And the most noble mother of the world Leave unsaluted. Sink, my knee, i’ th’ earth;

[_Kneels._]

Of thy deep duty more impression show Than that of common sons.

VOLUMNIA. O, stand up blest,

[_He rises_.]

Whilst with no softer cushion than the flint I kneel before thee and unproperly Show duty, as mistaken all this while Between the child and parent.

[_She kneels._]

CORIOLANUS. What is this? Your knees to me? To your corrected son?

[_He raises her up._]

Then let the pebbles on the hungry beach Fillip the stars! Then let the mutinous winds Strike the proud cedars ’gainst the fiery sun, Murdering impossibility to make What cannot be slight work.

VOLUMNIA. Thou art my warrior; I holp to frame thee. Do you know this lady?

CORIOLANUS. The noble sister of Publicola, The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle That’s curdied by the frost from purest snow And hangs on Dian’s temple!—Dear Valeria.

VOLUMNIA. This is a poor epitome of yours, Which by th’ interpretation of full time May show like all yourself.

CORIOLANUS. The god of soldiers, With the consent of supreme Jove, inform Thy thoughts with nobleness, that thou mayst prove To shame unvulnerable, and stick i’ th’ wars Like a great seamark standing every flaw And saving those that eye thee.

VOLUMNIA. [_To young Martius_.] Your knee, sirrah.

[_He kneels._]

CORIOLANUS. That’s my brave boy!

VOLUMNIA. Even he, your wife, this lady, and myself Are suitors to you.

[_Young Martius rises._]

CORIOLANUS. I beseech you, peace; Or, if you’d ask, remember this before: The thing I have forsworn to grant may never Be held by you denials. Do not bid me Dismiss my soldiers or capitulate Again with Rome’s mechanics. Tell me not Wherein I seem unnatural; desire not T’ allay my rages and revenges with Your colder reasons.

VOLUMNIA. O, no more, no more! You have said you will not grant us anything; For we have nothing else to ask but that Which you deny already. Yet we will ask, That if you fail in our request, the blame May hang upon your hardness. Therefore hear us.

CORIOLANUS. Aufidius, and you Volsces, mark, for we’ll Hear naught from Rome in private. Your request?

VOLUMNIA. Should we be silent and not speak, our raiment And state of bodies would bewray what life We have led since thy exile. Think with thyself How more unfortunate than all living women Are we come hither; since that thy sight, which should Make our eyes flow with joy, hearts dance with comforts, Constrains them weep and shake with fear and sorrow, Making the mother, wife, and child to see The son, the husband, and the father tearing His country’s bowels out. And to poor we Thine enmity’s most capital. Thou barr’st us Our prayers to the gods, which is a comfort That all but we enjoy. For how can we— Alas, how can we—for our country pray, Whereto we are bound, together with thy victory, Whereto we are bound? Alack, or we must lose The country, our dear nurse, or else thy person, Our comfort in the country. We must find An evident calamity, though we had Our wish, which side should win, for either thou Must as a foreign recreant be led With manacles through our streets, or else Triumphantly tread on thy country’s ruin And bear the palm for having bravely shed Thy wife and children’s blood. For myself, son, I purpose not to wait on fortune till These wars determine. If I cannot persuade thee Rather to show a noble grace to both parts Than seek the end of one, thou shalt no sooner March to assault thy country than to tread— Trust to’t, thou shalt not—on thy mother’s womb That brought thee to this world.

VIRGILIA. Ay, and mine, That brought you forth this boy to keep your name Living to time.

YOUNG MARTIUS. He shall not tread on me. I’ll run away till I am bigger, but then I’ll fight.

CORIOLANUS. Not of a woman’s tenderness to be Requires nor child nor woman’s face to see.— I have sat too long.

[_He rises._]

VOLUMNIA. Nay, go not from us thus. If it were so, that our request did tend To save the Romans, thereby to destroy The Volsces whom you serve, you might condemn us As poisonous of your honour. No, our suit Is that you reconcile them, while the Volsces May say “This mercy we have showed,” the Romans “This we received,” and each in either side Give the all-hail to thee and cry, “Be blessed For making up this peace!” Thou know’st, great son, The end of war’s uncertain, but this certain, That, if thou conquer Rome, the benefit Which thou shalt thereby reap is such a name Whose repetition will be dogged with curses, Whose chronicle thus writ: “The man was noble, But with his last attempt he wiped it out; Destroyed his country, and his name remains To th’ ensuing age abhorred.” Speak to me, son. Thou hast affected the fine strains of honour To imitate the graces of the gods, To tear with thunder the wide cheeks o’ th’ air And yet to charge thy sulphur with a bolt That should but rive an oak. Why dost not speak? Think’st thou it honourable for a noble man Still to remember wrongs?—Daughter, speak you. He cares not for your weeping.—Speak thou, boy. Perhaps thy childishness will move him more Than can our reasons.—There’s no man in the world More bound to’s mother, yet here he lets me prate Like one i’ th’ stocks. Thou hast never in thy life Showed thy dear mother any courtesy When she, poor hen, fond of no second brood, Has clucked thee to the wars and safely home, Loaden with honour. Say my request’s unjust And spurn me back; but if it be not so, Thou art not honest, and the gods will plague thee That thou restrain’st from me the duty which To a mother’s part belongs.—He turns away.— Down, ladies! Let us shame him with our knees. To his surname Coriolanus ’longs more pride Than pity to our prayers. Down! An end.

[_They kneel._]

This is the last. So we will home to Rome And die among our neighbours.—Nay, behold’s. This boy that cannot tell what he would have, But kneels and holds up hands for fellowship, Does reason our petition with more strength Than thou hast to deny’t.—Come, let us go.

[_They rise._]

This fellow had a Volscian to his mother, His wife is in Corioles, and his child Like him by chance.—Yet give us our dispatch. I am hushed until our city be afire, And then I’ll speak a little.

[_He holds her by the hand, silent._]

CORIOLANUS. O mother, mother! What have you done? Behold, the heavens do ope, The gods look down, and this unnatural scene They laugh at. O my mother, mother, O! You have won a happy victory to Rome, But, for your son—believe it, O, believe it!— Most dangerously you have with him prevailed, If not most mortal to him. But let it come.— Aufidius, though I cannot make true wars, I’ll frame convenient peace. Now, good Aufidius, Were you in my stead, would you have heard A mother less? Or granted less, Aufidius?

AUFIDIUS. I was moved withal.

CORIOLANUS. I dare be sworn you were. And, sir, it is no little thing to make Mine eyes to sweat compassion. But, good sir, What peace you’ll make, advise me. For my part, I’ll not to Rome, I’ll back with you; and pray you, Stand to me in this cause.—O mother!—Wife!

[_He speaks with them aside._]

AUFIDIUS. [_Aside_.] I am glad thou hast set thy mercy and thy honour At difference in thee. Out of that I’ll work Myself a former fortune.

CORIOLANUS. [_To the Women_.] Ay, by and by; But we’ll drink together, and you shall bear A better witness back than words, which we, On like conditions, will have countersealed. Come, enter with us. Ladies, you deserve To have a temple built you. All the swords In Italy, and her confederate arms, Could not have made this peace.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE IV. Rome. A public place

Enter Menenius and Sicinius.

MENENIUS. See you yond coign o’ the Capitol, yond cornerstone?

SICINIUS. Why, what of that?

MENENIUS. If it be possible for you to displace it with your little finger, there is some hope the ladies of Rome, especially his mother, may prevail with him. But I say there is no hope in’t. Our throats are sentenced and stay upon execution.

SICINIUS. Is’t possible that so short a time can alter the condition of a man?

MENENIUS. There is differency between a grub and a butterfly, yet your butterfly was a grub. This Martius is grown from man to dragon. He has wings; he’s more than a creeping thing.

SICINIUS. He loved his mother dearly.

MENENIUS. So did he me; and he no more remembers his mother now than an eight-year-old horse. The tartness of his face sours ripe grapes. When he walks, he moves like an engine, and the ground shrinks before his treading. He is able to pierce a corslet with his eye, talks like a knell, and his hum is a battery. He sits in his state as a thing made for Alexander. What he bids be done is finished with his bidding. He wants nothing of a god but eternity and a heaven to throne in.

SICINIUS. Yes, mercy, if you report him truly.

MENENIUS. I paint him in the character. Mark what mercy his mother shall bring from him. There is no more mercy in him than there is milk in a male tiger. That shall our poor city find, and all this is long of you.

SICINIUS. The gods be good unto us.

MENENIUS. No, in such a case the gods will not be good unto us. When we banished him, we respected not them; and he returning to break our necks, they respect not us.

Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER. Sir, if you’d save your life, fly to your house. The plebeians have got your fellow tribune And hale him up and down, all swearing if The Roman ladies bring not comfort home, They’ll give him death by inches.

Enter another Messenger.

SICINIUS. What’s the news?

SECOND MESSENGER. Good news, good news! The ladies have prevailed. The Volscians are dislodged and Martius gone. A merrier day did never yet greet Rome, No, not th’ expulsion of the Tarquins.

SICINIUS. Friend, Art thou certain this is true? Is’t most certain?

SECOND MESSENGER. As certain as I know the sun is fire. Where have you lurked that you make doubt of it? Ne’er through an arch so hurried the blown tide As the recomforted through th’ gates. Why, hark you!

[_Trumpets, hautboys, drums beat, all together._]

The trumpets, sackbuts, psalteries, and fifes, Tabors and cymbals, and the shouting Romans Make the sun dance. Hark you!

[_A shout within._]

MENENIUS. This is good news. I will go meet the ladies. This Volumnia Is worth of consuls, senators, patricians A city full; of tribunes such as you A sea and land full. You have prayed well today. This morning for ten thousand of your throats I’d not have given a doit. Hark, how they joy!

[_Sound still with the shouts._]

SICINIUS. First, the gods bless you for your tidings; next, accept my thankfulness.

SECOND MESSENGER. Sir, we have all great cause to give great thanks.

SICINIUS. They are near the city?

MESSENGER. Almost at point to enter.

SICINIUS. We’ll meet them, and help the joy.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE V. Rome. A street near the gate

Enter two Senators, with Ladies (Volumnia, Virgilia, Valeria) passing over the stage, with other Lords.

SENATOR. Behold our patroness, the life of Rome! Call all your tribes together, praise the gods, And make triumphant fires. Strew flowers before them, Unshout the noise that banished Martius, Repeal him with the welcome of his mother. Cry “Welcome, ladies, welcome!”

ALL. Welcome, ladies, welcome!

[_A flourish with drums and trumpets._]

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE VI. Antium. A public place

Enter Tullus Aufidius with Attendants.

AUFIDIUS. Go tell the lords o’ th’ city I am here. Deliver them this paper.

[_He gives them a paper_.]

Having read it, Bid them repair to th’ marketplace, where I, Even in theirs and in the commons’ ears, Will vouch the truth of it. Him I accuse The city ports by this hath entered and Intends t’ appear before the people, hoping To purge himself with words. Dispatch.

[_Exeunt Attendants._]

Enter three or four Conspirators of Aufidius’s faction.

Most welcome!

FIRST CONSPIRATOR. How is it with our general?

AUFIDIUS. Even so As with a man by his own alms empoisoned And with his charity slain.

SECOND CONSPIRATOR. Most noble sir, If you do hold the same intent wherein You wished us parties, we’ll deliver you Of your great danger.

AUFIDIUS. Sir, I cannot tell. We must proceed as we do find the people.

THIRD CONSPIRATOR. The people will remain uncertain whilst ’Twixt you there’s difference, but the fall of either Makes the survivor heir of all.

AUFIDIUS. I know it, And my pretext to strike at him admits A good construction. I raised him, and I pawned Mine honour for his truth, who being so heightened, He watered his new plants with dews of flattery, Seducing so my friends; and to this end, He bowed his nature, never known before But to be rough, unswayable, and free.

THIRD CONSPIRATOR. Sir, his stoutness When he did stand for consul, which he lost By lack of stooping—

AUFIDIUS. That I would have spoke of. Being banished for’t, he came unto my hearth, Presented to my knife his throat. I took him, Made him joint servant with me, gave him way In all his own desires; nay, let him choose Out of my files, his projects to accomplish, My best and freshest men; served his designments In mine own person; holp to reap the fame Which he did end all his; and took some pride To do myself this wrong; till at the last I seemed his follower, not partner; and He waged me with his countenance as if I had been mercenary.

FIRST CONSPIRATOR. So he did, my lord. The army marvelled at it, and, in the last, When he had carried Rome and that we looked For no less spoil than glory—

AUFIDIUS. There was it For which my sinews shall be stretched upon him. At a few drops of women’s rheum, which are As cheap as lies, he sold the blood and labour Of our great action. Therefore shall he die, And I’ll renew me in his fall. But, hark!

[_Drums and trumpets sound, with great shouts of the people._]

FIRST CONSPIRATOR. Your native town you entered like a post And had no welcomes home, but he returns Splitting the air with noise.

SECOND CONSPIRATOR. And patient fools, Whose children he hath slain, their base throats tear With giving him glory.

THIRD CONSPIRATOR. Therefore at your vantage, Ere he express himself or move the people With what he would say, let him feel your sword, Which we will second. When he lies along, After your way his tale pronounced shall bury His reasons with his body.

AUFIDIUS. Say no more. Here come the lords.

Enter the Lords of the city.

ALL LORDS. You are most welcome home.

AUFIDIUS. I have not deserved it. But, worthy lords, have you with heed perused What I have written to you?

ALL LORDS. We have.

FIRST LORD. And grieve to hear’t. What faults he made before the last, I think Might have found easy fines, but there to end Where he was to begin and give away The benefit of our levies, answering us With our own charge, making a treaty where There was a yielding—this admits no excuse.

Enter Coriolanus marching with Drum and Colours, the Commoners being with him.

AUFIDIUS. He approaches. You shall hear him.

CORIOLANUS. Hail, lords! I am returned your soldier, No more infected with my country’s love Than when I parted hence, but still subsisting Under your great command. You are to know That prosperously I have attempted, and With bloody passage led your wars even to The gates of Rome. Our spoils we have brought home Doth more than counterpoise a full third part The charges of the action. We have made peace With no less honour to the Antiates Than shame to th’ Romans, and we here deliver, Subscribed by th’ Consuls and patricians, Together with the seal o’ th’ Senate, what We have compounded on.

[_He offers the lords a paper._]

AUFIDIUS. Read it not, noble lords, But tell the traitor in the highest degree He hath abused your powers.

CORIOLANUS. “Traitor?” How now?

AUFIDIUS. Ay, traitor, Martius.

CORIOLANUS. Martius?

AUFIDIUS. Ay, Martius, Caius Martius. Dost thou think I’ll grace thee with that robbery, thy stol’n name Coriolanus, in Corioles? You lords and heads o’ th’ state, perfidiously He has betrayed your business and given up For certain drops of salt your city Rome— I say your city—to his wife and mother, Breaking his oath and resolution like A twist of rotten silk, never admitting Counsel o’ th’ war, but at his nurse’s tears He whined and roared away your victory, That pages blushed at him and men of heart Looked wond’ring each at other.

CORIOLANUS. Hear’st thou, Mars?

AUFIDIUS. Name not the god, thou boy of tears.

CORIOLANUS. Ha?

AUFIDIUS. No more.

CORIOLANUS. Measureless liar, thou hast made my heart Too great for what contains it. “Boy”? O slave!— Pardon me, lords, ’tis the first time that ever I was forced to scold. Your judgments, my grave lords, Must give this cur the lie; and his own notion— Who wears my stripes impressed upon him, that Must bear my beating to his grave—shall join To thrust the lie unto him.

FIRST LORD. Peace, both, and hear me speak.

CORIOLANUS. Cut me to pieces, Volsces. Men and lads, Stain all your edges on me. “Boy”? False hound! If you have writ your annals true, ’tis there, That like an eagle in a dovecote, I Fluttered your Volscians in Corioles, Alone I did it. “Boy”!

AUFIDIUS. Why, noble lords, Will you be put in mind of his blind fortune, Which was your shame, by this unholy braggart, ’Fore your own eyes and ears?

ALL CONSPIRATORS. Let him die for’t.

ALL PEOPLE Tear him to pieces! Do it presently! He killed my son! My daughter! He killed my cousin Marcus! He killed my father!

SECOND LORD. Peace, ho! No outrage! Peace! The man is noble, and his fame folds in This orb o’ th’ Earth. His last offences to us Shall have judicious hearing. Stand, Aufidius, And trouble not the peace.

CORIOLANUS. O that I had him, With six Aufidiuses, or more, his tribe, To use my lawful sword.

AUFIDIUS. Insolent villain!

ALL CONSPIRATORS. Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill him!

[_Draw the Conspirators, and kills Martius, who falls. Aufidius stands on him._]

LORDS. Hold, hold, hold, hold!

AUFIDIUS. My noble masters, hear me speak.

FIRST LORD. O Tullus!

SECOND LORD. Thou hast done a deed whereat valour will weep.

THIRD LORD. Tread not upon him.—Masters, all be quiet.— Put up your swords.

AUFIDIUS. My lords, when you shall know—as in this rage, Provoked by him, you cannot—the great danger Which this man’s life did owe you, you’ll rejoice That he is thus cut off. Please it your Honours To call me to your senate, I’ll deliver Myself your loyal servant, or endure Your heaviest censure.

FIRST LORD. Bear from hence his body, And mourn you for him. Let him be regarded As the most noble corse that ever herald Did follow to his urn.

SECOND LORD. His own impatience Takes from Aufidius a great part of blame. Let’s make the best of it.

AUFIDIUS. My rage is gone, And I am struck with sorrow.—Take him up. Help, three o’ th’ chiefest soldiers; I’ll be one.— Beat thou the drum that it speak mournfully.— Trail your steel pikes. Though in this city he Hath widowed and unchilded many a one, Which to this hour bewail the injury, Yet he shall have a noble memory. Assist.

[_Exeunt, bearing the body of Martius. A dead march sounded._]

CYMBELINE

Contents

## ACT I

## Scene I. Britain. The garden of Cymbeline’s palace.

## Scene II. The same.

## Scene III. Britain. A public place.

## Scene IV. Britain. Cymbeline’s palace.

## Scene V. Rome. Philario’s house.

## Scene VI. Britain. Cymbeline’s palace.

## Scene VII. Britain. The palace.

## ACT II

## Scene I. Britain. Before Cymbeline’s palace.

## Scene II. Britain. Imogen’s bedchamber in Cymbeline’s palace; a trunk

in one corner.

## Scene III. Cymbeline’s palace. An ante-chamber adjoining Imogen’s

apartments.

## Scene IV. Rome. Philario’s house.

## Scene V. Rome. Another room in Philario’s house.

## ACT III

## Scene I. Britain. A hall in Cymbeline’s palace.

## Scene II. Britain. Another room in Cymbeline’s palace.

## Scene III. Wales. A mountainous country with a cave.

## Scene IV. Wales, near Milford Haven.

## Scene V. Britain. Cymbeline’s palace.

## Scene VI. Wales. Before the cave of Belarius.

## Scene VII. The same.

## Scene VIII. Rome. A public place.

## ACT IV

## Scene I. Wales. Near the cave of Belarius.

## Scene II. Wales. Before the cave of Belarius.

## Scene III. Britain. Cymbeline’s palace.

## Scene IV. Wales. Before the cave of Belarius.

## ACT V

## Scene I. Britain. The Roman camp.

## Scene II. Britain. A field of battle between the British and Roman

camps.

## Scene III. Another part of the field.

## Scene IV. Britain. A prison.

## Scene V. Britain. Cymbeline’s tent.

Dramatis Personæ

CYMBELINE, King of Britain CLOTEN, son to the Queen by a former husband POSTHUMUS LEONATUS, a gentleman, husband to Imogen BELARIUS, a banished lord, disguised under the name of Morgan GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS, sons to Cymbeline, disguised under the names of POLYDORE and CADWAL, supposed sons to Belarius PHILARIO, Italian, friend to Posthumus IACHIMO, Italian, friend to Philario CAIUS LUCIUS, General of the Roman forces PISANIO, servant to Posthumus CORNELIUS, a physician A SOOTHSAYER A ROMAN CAPTAIN TWO BRITISH CAPTAINS A FRENCH GENTLEMAN, friend to Philario TWO LORDS of Cymbeline’s court TWO GENTLEMEN of the same TWO GAOLERS

QUEEN, wife to Cymbeline IMOGEN, daughter to Cymbeline by a former queen HELEN, a lady attending on Imogen

APPARITIONS

Lords, Ladies, Roman Senators, Tribunes, a Dutch Gentleman, a Spanish Gentleman, Musicians, Officers, Captains, Soldiers, Messengers, and Attendants

SCENE: Britain; Italy.

## ACT I

## SCENE I. Britain. The garden of Cymbeline’s palace.

Enter two Gentlemen.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. You do not meet a man but frowns; our bloods No more obey the heavens than our courtiers Still seem as does the King’s.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. But what’s the matter?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. His daughter, and the heir of’s kingdom, whom He purpos’d to his wife’s sole son—a widow That late he married—hath referr’d herself Unto a poor but worthy gentleman. She’s wedded; Her husband banish’d; she imprison’d. All Is outward sorrow, though I think the King Be touch’d at very heart.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. None but the King?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. He that hath lost her too. So is the Queen, That most desir’d the match. But not a courtier, Although they wear their faces to the bent Of the King’s looks, hath a heart that is not Glad at the thing they scowl at.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. And why so?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. He that hath miss’d the Princess is a thing Too bad for bad report; and he that hath her— I mean that married her, alack, good man! And therefore banish’d—is a creature such As, to seek through the regions of the earth For one his like, there would be something failing In him that should compare. I do not think So fair an outward and such stuff within Endows a man but he.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. You speak him far.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. I do extend him, sir, within himself; Crush him together rather than unfold His measure duly.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. What’s his name and birth?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. I cannot delve him to the root; his father Was call’d Sicilius, who did join his honour Against the Romans with Cassibelan, But had his titles by Tenantius, whom He serv’d with glory and admir’d success, So gain’d the sur-addition Leonatus; And had, besides this gentleman in question, Two other sons, who, in the wars o’ th’ time, Died with their swords in hand; for which their father, Then old and fond of issue, took such sorrow That he quit being; and his gentle lady, Big of this gentleman, our theme, deceas’d As he was born. The King he takes the babe To his protection, calls him Posthumus Leonatus, Breeds him and makes him of his bed-chamber, Puts to him all the learnings that his time Could make him the receiver of; which he took, As we do air, fast as ’twas minist’red, And in’s spring became a harvest, liv’d in court— Which rare it is to do—most prais’d, most lov’d, A sample to the youngest; to th’ more mature A glass that feated them; and to the graver A child that guided dotards. To his mistress, For whom he now is banish’d, her own price Proclaims how she esteem’d him and his virtue; By her election may be truly read What kind of man he is.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. I honour him Even out of your report. But pray you tell me, Is she sole child to th’ King?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. His only child. He had two sons—if this be worth your hearing, Mark it—the eldest of them at three years old, I’ th’ swathing clothes the other, from their nursery Were stol’n; and to this hour no guess in knowledge Which way they went.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. How long is this ago?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Some twenty years.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. That a king’s children should be so convey’d, So slackly guarded, and the search so slow That could not trace them!

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Howsoe’er ’tis strange, Or that the negligence may well be laugh’d at, Yet is it true, sir.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. I do well believe you.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. We must forbear; here comes the gentleman, The Queen, and Princess.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE II. The same.

Enter Queen, Posthumus and Imogen.

QUEEN. No, be assur’d you shall not find me, daughter, After the slander of most stepmothers, Evil-ey’d unto you. You’re my prisoner, but Your gaoler shall deliver you the keys That lock up your restraint. For you, Posthumus, So soon as I can win th’ offended King, I will be known your advocate. Marry, yet The fire of rage is in him, and ’twere good You lean’d unto his sentence with what patience Your wisdom may inform you.

POSTHUMUS. Please your Highness, I will from hence today.

QUEEN. You know the peril. I’ll fetch a turn about the garden, pitying The pangs of barr’d affections, though the King Hath charg’d you should not speak together.

[_Exit._]

IMOGEN. O dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant Can tickle where she wounds! My dearest husband, I something fear my father’s wrath, but nothing (Always reserv’d my holy duty) what His rage can do on me. You must be gone; And I shall here abide the hourly shot Of angry eyes, not comforted to live But that there is this jewel in the world That I may see again.

POSTHUMUS. My queen! my mistress! O lady, weep no more, lest I give cause To be suspected of more tenderness Than doth become a man. I will remain The loyal’st husband that did e’er plight troth; My residence in Rome at one Philario’s, Who to my father was a friend, to me Known but by letter; thither write, my queen, And with mine eyes I’ll drink the words you send, Though ink be made of gall.

Enter Queen.

QUEEN. Be brief, I pray you. If the King come, I shall incur I know not How much of his displeasure. [_Aside._] Yet I’ll move him To walk this way. I never do him wrong But he does buy my injuries, to be friends; Pays dear for my offences.

[_Exit._]

POSTHUMUS. Should we be taking leave As long a term as yet we have to live, The loathness to depart would grow. Adieu!

IMOGEN. Nay, stay a little. Were you but riding forth to air yourself, Such parting were too petty. Look here, love: This diamond was my mother’s; take it, heart; But keep it till you woo another wife, When Imogen is dead.

POSTHUMUS. How, how? Another? You gentle gods, give me but this I have, And sear up my embracements from a next With bonds of death! Remain, remain thou here

[_Puts on the ring._]

While sense can keep it on. And, sweetest, fairest, As I my poor self did exchange for you, To your so infinite loss, so in our trifles I still win of you. For my sake wear this; It is a manacle of love; I’ll place it Upon this fairest prisoner.

[_Puts a bracelet on her arm._]

IMOGEN. O the gods! When shall we see again?

Enter Cymbeline and Lords.

POSTHUMUS. Alack, the King!

CYMBELINE. Thou basest thing, avoid; hence from my sight If after this command thou fraught the court With thy unworthiness, thou diest. Away! Thou’rt poison to my blood.

POSTHUMUS. The gods protect you, And bless the good remainders of the court! I am gone.

[_Exit._]

IMOGEN. There cannot be a pinch in death More sharp than this is.

CYMBELINE. O disloyal thing, That shouldst repair my youth, thou heap’st A year’s age on me!

IMOGEN. I beseech you, sir, Harm not yourself with your vexation. I am senseless of your wrath; a touch more rare Subdues all pangs, all fears.

CYMBELINE. Past grace? obedience?

IMOGEN. Past hope, and in despair; that way past grace.

CYMBELINE. That mightst have had the sole son of my queen!

IMOGEN. O blessed that I might not! I chose an eagle, And did avoid a puttock.

CYMBELINE. Thou took’st a beggar, wouldst have made my throne A seat for baseness.

IMOGEN. No; I rather added A lustre to it.

CYMBELINE. O thou vile one!

IMOGEN. Sir, It is your fault that I have lov’d Posthumus. You bred him as my playfellow, and he is A man worth any woman; overbuys me Almost the sum he pays.

CYMBELINE. What, art thou mad?

IMOGEN. Almost, sir. Heaven restore me! Would I were A neat-herd’s daughter, and my Leonatus Our neighbour shepherd’s son!

Enter Queen.

CYMBELINE. Thou foolish thing! [_To the Queen._] They were again together. You have done Not after our command. Away with her, And pen her up.

QUEEN. Beseech your patience. Peace, Dear lady daughter, peace!—Sweet sovereign, Leave us to ourselves, and make yourself some comfort Out of your best advice.

CYMBELINE. Nay, let her languish A drop of blood a day and, being aged, Die of this folly.

[_Exit with Lords._]

Enter Pisanio.

QUEEN. Fie! you must give way. Here is your servant. How now, sir! What news?

PISANIO. My lord your son drew on my master.

QUEEN. Ha! No harm, I trust, is done?

PISANIO. There might have been, But that my master rather play’d than fought, And had no help of anger; they were parted By gentlemen at hand.

QUEEN. I am very glad on’t.

IMOGEN. Your son’s my father’s friend; he takes his part To draw upon an exile! O brave sir! I would they were in Afric both together; Myself by with a needle, that I might prick The goer-back. Why came you from your master?

PISANIO. On his command. He would not suffer me To bring him to the haven; left these notes Of what commands I should be subject to, When’t pleas’d you to employ me.

QUEEN. This hath been Your faithful servant. I dare lay mine honour He will remain so.

PISANIO. I humbly thank your Highness.

QUEEN. Pray walk awhile.

IMOGEN. About some half-hour hence, Pray you speak with me. You shall at least go see my lord aboard. For this time leave me.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE III. Britain. A public place.

Enter Cloten and two Lords.

FIRST LORD. Sir, I would advise you to shift a shirt; the violence of action hath made you reek as a sacrifice. Where air comes out, air comes in; there’s none abroad so wholesome as that you vent.

CLOTEN. If my shirt were bloody, then to shift it. Have I hurt him?

SECOND LORD. [_Aside._] No, faith; not so much as his patience.

FIRST LORD. Hurt him! His body’s a passable carcass if he be not hurt. It is a throughfare for steel if it be not hurt.

SECOND LORD. [_Aside._] His steel was in debt; it went o’ th’ backside the town.

CLOTEN. The villain would not stand me.

SECOND LORD. [_Aside._] No; but he fled forward still, toward your face.

FIRST LORD. Stand you? You have land enough of your own; but he added to your having, gave you some ground.

SECOND LORD. [_Aside._] As many inches as you have oceans. Puppies!

CLOTEN. I would they had not come between us.

SECOND LORD. [_Aside._] So would I, till you had measur’d how long a fool you were upon the ground.

CLOTEN. And that she should love this fellow, and refuse me!

SECOND LORD. [_Aside._] If it be a sin to make a true election, she is damn’d.

FIRST LORD. Sir, as I told you always, her beauty and her brain go not together; she’s a good sign, but I have seen small reflection of her wit.

SECOND LORD. [_Aside._] She shines not upon fools, lest the reflection should hurt her.

CLOTEN. Come, I’ll to my chamber. Would there had been some hurt done!

SECOND LORD. [_Aside._] I wish not so; unless it had been the fall of an ass, which is no great hurt.

CLOTEN. You’ll go with us?

FIRST LORD. I’ll attend your lordship.

CLOTEN. Nay, come, let’s go together.

SECOND LORD. Well, my lord.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE IV. Britain. Cymbeline’s palace.

Enter Imogen and Pisanio.

IMOGEN. I would thou grew’st unto the shores o’ th’ haven, And questioned’st every sail; if he should write, And I not have it, ’twere a paper lost, As offer’d mercy is. What was the last That he spake to thee?

PISANIO. It was: his queen, his queen!

IMOGEN. Then wav’d his handkerchief?

PISANIO. And kiss’d it, madam.

IMOGEN. Senseless linen, happier therein than I! And that was all?

PISANIO. No, madam; for so long As he could make me with his eye, or ear Distinguish him from others, he did keep The deck, with glove, or hat, or handkerchief, Still waving, as the fits and stirs of’s mind Could best express how slow his soul sail’d on, How swift his ship.

IMOGEN. Thou shouldst have made him As little as a crow, or less, ere left To after-eye him.

PISANIO. Madam, so I did.

IMOGEN. I would have broke mine eyestrings, crack’d them but To look upon him, till the diminution Of space had pointed him sharp as my needle; Nay, followed him till he had melted from The smallness of a gnat to air, and then Have turn’d mine eye and wept. But, good Pisanio, When shall we hear from him?

PISANIO. Be assur’d, madam, With his next vantage.

IMOGEN. I did not take my leave of him, but had Most pretty things to say. Ere I could tell him How I would think on him at certain hours Such thoughts and such; or I could make him swear The shes of Italy should not betray Mine interest and his honour; or have charg’d him, At the sixth hour of morn, at noon, at midnight, T’ encounter me with orisons, for then I am in heaven for him; or ere I could Give him that parting kiss which I had set Betwixt two charming words, comes in my father, And like the tyrannous breathing of the north Shakes all our buds from growing.

Enter a Lady.

LADY. The Queen, madam, Desires your Highness’ company.

IMOGEN. Those things I bid you do, get them dispatch’d. I will attend the Queen.

PISANIO. Madam, I shall.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE V. Rome. Philario’s house.

Enter Philario, Iachimo, a Frenchman, a Dutchman and a Spaniard.

IACHIMO. Believe it, sir, I have seen him in Britain. He was then of a crescent note, expected to prove so worthy as since he hath been allowed the name of. But I could then have look’d on him without the help of admiration, though the catalogue of his endowments had been tabled by his side, and I to peruse him by items.

PHILARIO. You speak of him when he was less furnish’d than now he is with that which makes him both without and within.

FRENCHMAN. I have seen him in France; we had very many there could behold the sun with as firm eyes as he.

IACHIMO. This matter of marrying his king’s daughter, wherein he must be weighed rather by her value than his own, words him, I doubt not, a great deal from the matter.

FRENCHMAN. And then his banishment.

IACHIMO. Ay, and the approbation of those that weep this lamentable divorce under her colours are wonderfully to extend him, be it but to fortify her judgement, which else an easy battery might lay flat, for taking a beggar, without less quality. But how comes it he is to sojourn with you? How creeps acquaintance?

PHILARIO. His father and I were soldiers together, to whom I have been often bound for no less than my life.

Enter Posthumus.

Here comes the Briton. Let him be so entertained amongst you as suits with gentlemen of your knowing to a stranger of his quality. I beseech you all be better known to this gentleman, whom I commend to you as a noble friend of mine. How worthy he is I will leave to appear hereafter, rather than story him in his own hearing.

FRENCHMAN. Sir, we have known together in Orleans.

POSTHUMUS. Since when I have been debtor to you for courtesies, which I will be ever to pay and yet pay still.

FRENCHMAN. Sir, you o’errate my poor kindness. I was glad I did atone my countryman and you; it had been pity you should have been put together with so mortal a purpose as then each bore, upon importance of so slight and trivial a nature.

POSTHUMUS. By your pardon, sir. I was then a young traveller; rather shunn’d to go even with what I heard than in my every action to be guided by others’ experiences; but upon my mended judgement (if I offend not to say it is mended) my quarrel was not altogether slight.

FRENCHMAN. Faith, yes, to be put to the arbitrement of swords, and by such two that would by all likelihood have confounded one the other or have fall’n both.

IACHIMO. Can we, with manners, ask what was the difference?

FRENCHMAN. Safely, I think. ’Twas a contention in public, which may, without contradiction, suffer the report. It was much like an argument that fell out last night, where each of us fell in praise of our country mistresses; this gentleman at that time vouching (and upon warrant of bloody affirmation) his to be more fair, virtuous, wise, chaste, constant, qualified, and less attemptable, than any the rarest of our ladies in France.

IACHIMO. That lady is not now living, or this gentleman’s opinion, by this, worn out.

POSTHUMUS. She holds her virtue still, and I my mind.

IACHIMO. You must not so far prefer her ’fore ours of Italy.

POSTHUMUS. Being so far provok’d as I was in France, I would abate her nothing, though I profess myself her adorer, not her friend.

IACHIMO. As fair and as good—a kind of hand-in-hand comparison—had been something too fair and too good for any lady in Britain. If she went before others I have seen as that diamond of yours outlustres many I have beheld, I could not but believe she excelled many; but I have not seen the most precious diamond that is, nor you the lady.

POSTHUMUS. I prais’d her as I rated her. So do I my stone.

IACHIMO. What do you esteem it at?

POSTHUMUS. More than the world enjoys.

IACHIMO. Either your unparagon’d mistress is dead, or she’s outpriz’d by a trifle.

POSTHUMUS. You are mistaken: the one may be sold or given, if there were wealth enough for the purchase or merit for the gift; the other is not a thing for sale, and only the gift of the gods.

IACHIMO. Which the gods have given you?

POSTHUMUS. Which by their graces I will keep.

IACHIMO. You may wear her in title yours; but you know strange fowl light upon neighbouring ponds. Your ring may be stol’n too. So your brace of unprizable estimations, the one is but frail and the other casual; a cunning thief, or a that-way-accomplish’d courtier, would hazard the winning both of first and last.

POSTHUMUS. Your Italy contains none so accomplish’d a courtier to convince the honour of my mistress, if in the holding or loss of that you term her frail. I do nothing doubt you have store of thieves; notwithstanding, I fear not my ring.

PHILARIO. Let us leave here, gentlemen.

POSTHUMUS. Sir, with all my heart. This worthy signior, I thank him, makes no stranger of me; we are familiar at first.

IACHIMO. With five times so much conversation I should get ground of your fair mistress; make her go back even to the yielding, had I admittance and opportunity to friend.

POSTHUMUS. No, no.

IACHIMO. I dare thereupon pawn the moiety of my estate to your ring, which, in my opinion, o’ervalues it something. But I make my wager rather against your confidence than her reputation; and, to bar your offence herein too, I durst attempt it against any lady in the world.

POSTHUMUS. You are a great deal abus’d in too bold a persuasion, and I doubt not you sustain what y’are worthy of by your attempt.

IACHIMO. What’s that?

POSTHUMUS. A repulse; though your attempt, as you call it, deserve more; a punishment too.

PHILARIO. Gentlemen, enough of this. It came in too suddenly; let it die as it was born, and I pray you be better acquainted.

IACHIMO. Would I had put my estate and my neighbour’s on th’ approbation of what I have spoke!

POSTHUMUS. What lady would you choose to assail?

IACHIMO. Yours, whom in constancy you think stands so safe. I will lay you ten thousand ducats to your ring that, commend me to the court where your lady is, with no more advantage than the opportunity of a second conference, and I will bring from thence that honour of hers which you imagine so reserv’d.

POSTHUMUS. I will wage against your gold, gold to it. My ring I hold dear as my finger; ’tis part of it.

IACHIMO. You are a friend, and therein the wiser. If you buy ladies’ flesh at a million a dram, you cannot preserve it from tainting. But I see you have some religion in you, that you fear.

POSTHUMUS. This is but a custom in your tongue; you bear a graver purpose, I hope.

IACHIMO. I am the master of my speeches, and would undergo what’s spoken, I swear.

POSTHUMUS. Will you? I shall but lend my diamond till your return. Let there be covenants drawn between’s. My mistress exceeds in goodness the hugeness of your unworthy thinking. I dare you to this match: here’s my ring.

PHILARIO. I will have it no lay.

IACHIMO. By the gods, it is one. If I bring you no sufficient testimony that I have enjoy’d the dearest bodily part of your mistress, my ten thousand ducats are yours; so is your diamond too. If I come off, and leave her in such honour as you have trust in, she your jewel, this your jewel, and my gold are yours: provided I have your commendation for my more free entertainment.

POSTHUMUS. I embrace these conditions; let us have articles betwixt us. Only, thus far you shall answer: if you make your voyage upon her, and give me directly to understand you have prevail’d, I am no further your enemy; she is not worth our debate; if she remain unseduc’d, you not making it appear otherwise, for your ill opinion and th’ assault you have made to her chastity you shall answer me with your sword.

IACHIMO. Your hand, a covenant! We will have these things set down by lawful counsel, and straight away for Britain, lest the bargain should catch cold and starve. I will fetch my gold and have our two wagers recorded.

POSTHUMUS. Agreed.

[_Exeunt Posthumus and Iachimo._]

FRENCHMAN. Will this hold, think you?

PHILARIO. Signior Iachimo will not from it. Pray let us follow ’em.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE VI. Britain. Cymbeline’s palace.

Enter Queen, Ladies and Cornelius.

QUEEN. Whiles yet the dew’s on ground, gather those flowers; Make haste; who has the note of them?

LADY. I, madam.

QUEEN. Dispatch.

[_Exeunt Ladies._]

Now, Master Doctor, have you brought those drugs?

CORNELIUS. Pleaseth your Highness, ay. Here they are, madam.

[_Presenting a box._]

But I beseech your Grace, without offence, (My conscience bids me ask) wherefore you have Commanded of me these most poisonous compounds Which are the movers of a languishing death, But, though slow, deadly?

QUEEN. I wonder, Doctor, Thou ask’st me such a question. Have I not been Thy pupil long? Hast thou not learn’d me how To make perfumes? distil? preserve? yea, so That our great king himself doth woo me oft For my confections? Having thus far proceeded (Unless thou think’st me devilish) is’t not meet That I did amplify my judgement in Other conclusions? I will try the forces Of these thy compounds on such creatures as We count not worth the hanging (but none human) To try the vigour of them, and apply Allayments to their act, and by them gather Their several virtues and effects.

CORNELIUS. Your Highness Shall from this practice but make hard your heart; Besides, the seeing these effects will be Both noisome and infectious.

QUEEN. O, content thee.

Enter Pisanio.

[_Aside._] Here comes a flattering rascal; upon him Will I first work. He’s for his master, An enemy to my son. How now, Pisanio! Doctor, your service for this time is ended; Take your own way.

CORNELIUS. [_Aside._] I do suspect you, madam; But you shall do no harm.

QUEEN. [_To Pisanio._] Hark thee, a word.

CORNELIUS. [_Aside._] I do not like her. She doth think she has Strange ling’ring poisons. I do know her spirit, And will not trust one of her malice with A drug of such damn’d nature. Those she has Will stupefy and dull the sense awhile, Which first perchance she’ll prove on cats and dogs, Then afterward up higher; but there is No danger in what show of death it makes, More than the locking up the spirits a time, To be more fresh, reviving. She is fool’d With a most false effect; and I the truer So to be false with her.

QUEEN. No further service, Doctor, Until I send for thee.

CORNELIUS. I humbly take my leave.

[_Exit._]

QUEEN. Weeps she still, say’st thou? Dost thou think in time She will not quench, and let instructions enter Where folly now possesses? Do thou work. When thou shalt bring me word she loves my son, I’ll tell thee on the instant thou art then As great as is thy master; greater, for His fortunes all lie speechless, and his name Is at last gasp. Return he cannot, nor Continue where he is. To shift his being Is to exchange one misery with another, And every day that comes comes to decay A day’s work in him. What shalt thou expect To be depender on a thing that leans, Who cannot be new built, nor has no friends So much as but to prop him?

[_The Queen drops the box. Pisanio takes it up._]

Thou tak’st up Thou know’st not what; but take it for thy labour. It is a thing I made, which hath the King Five times redeem’d from death. I do not know What is more cordial. Nay, I prithee take it; It is an earnest of a further good That I mean to thee. Tell thy mistress how The case stands with her; do’t as from thyself. Think what a chance thou changest on; but think Thou hast thy mistress still; to boot, my son, Who shall take notice of thee. I’ll move the King To any shape of thy preferment, such As thou’lt desire; and then myself, I chiefly, That set thee on to this desert, am bound To load thy merit richly. Call my women. Think on my words.

[_Exit Pisanio._]

A sly and constant knave, Not to be shak’d; the agent for his master, And the remembrancer of her to hold The hand-fast to her lord. I have given him that Which, if he take, shall quite unpeople her Of liegers for her sweet; and which she after, Except she bend her humour, shall be assur’d To taste of too.

Enter Pisanio and Ladies.

So, so. Well done, well done. The violets, cowslips, and the primroses, Bear to my closet. Fare thee well, Pisanio; Think on my words.

[_Exeunt Queen and Ladies._]

PISANIO. And shall do. But when to my good lord I prove untrue I’ll choke myself: there’s all I’ll do for you.

[_Exit._]

## SCENE VII. Britain. The palace.

Enter Imogen alone.

IMOGEN. A father cruel and a step-dame false; A foolish suitor to a wedded lady That hath her husband banish’d. O, that husband! My supreme crown of grief! and those repeated Vexations of it! Had I been thief-stol’n, As my two brothers, happy! but most miserable Is the desire that’s glorious. Blessed be those, How mean soe’er, that have their honest wills, Which seasons comfort. Who may this be? Fie!

Enter Pisanio and Iachimo.

PISANIO. Madam, a noble gentleman of Rome Comes from my lord with letters.

IACHIMO. Change you, madam? The worthy Leonatus is in safety, And greets your Highness dearly.

[_Presents a letter._]

IMOGEN. Thanks, good sir. You’re kindly welcome.

IACHIMO. [_Aside._] All of her that is out of door most rich! If she be furnish’d with a mind so rare, She is alone th’ Arabian bird, and I Have lost the wager. Boldness be my friend! Arm me, audacity, from head to foot! Or, like the Parthian, I shall flying fight; Rather, directly fly.

IMOGEN. [_Reads._] _He is one of the noblest note, to whose kindnesses I am most infinitely tied. Reflect upon him accordingly, as you value your trust. LEONATUS._

So far I read aloud; But even the very middle of my heart Is warm’d by th’ rest and takes it thankfully. You are as welcome, worthy sir, as I Have words to bid you; and shall find it so In all that I can do.

IACHIMO. Thanks, fairest lady. What, are men mad? Hath nature given them eyes To see this vaulted arch and the rich crop Of sea and land, which can distinguish ’twixt The fiery orbs above and the twinn’d stones Upon the number’d beach, and can we not

## Partition make with spectacles so precious

’Twixt fair and foul?

IMOGEN. What makes your admiration?

IACHIMO. It cannot be i’ th’ eye, for apes and monkeys, ’Twixt two such shes, would chatter this way and Contemn with mows the other; nor i’ th’ judgement, For idiots in this case of favour would Be wisely definite; nor i’ th’ appetite; Sluttery, to such neat excellence oppos’d, Should make desire vomit emptiness, Not so allur’d to feed.

IMOGEN. What is the matter, trow?

IACHIMO. The cloyed will— That satiate yet unsatisfied desire, that tub Both fill’d and running—ravening first the lamb, Longs after for the garbage.

IMOGEN. What, dear sir, Thus raps you? Are you well?

IACHIMO. Thanks, madam; well. Beseech you, sir, Desire my man’s abode where I did leave him. He’s strange and peevish.

PISANIO. I was going, sir, To give him welcome.

[_Exit._]

IMOGEN. Continues well my lord? His health beseech you?

IACHIMO. Well, madam.

IMOGEN. Is he dispos’d to mirth? I hope he is.

IACHIMO. Exceeding pleasant; none a stranger there So merry and so gamesome. He is call’d The Briton reveller.

IMOGEN. When he was here He did incline to sadness, and oft-times Not knowing why.

IACHIMO. I never saw him sad. There is a Frenchman his companion, one An eminent monsieur that, it seems, much loves A Gallian girl at home. He furnaces The thick sighs from him; whiles the jolly Briton (Your lord, I mean) laughs from’s free lungs, cries “O, Can my sides hold, to think that man, who knows By history, report, or his own proof, What woman is, yea, what she cannot choose But must be, will’s free hours languish for Assured bondage?”

IMOGEN. Will my lord say so?

IACHIMO. Ay, madam, with his eyes in flood with laughter. It is a recreation to be by And hear him mock the Frenchman. But heavens know Some men are much to blame.

IMOGEN. Not he, I hope.

IACHIMO. Not he; but yet heaven’s bounty towards him might Be us’d more thankfully. In himself, ’tis much; In you, which I account his, beyond all talents. Whilst I am bound to wonder, I am bound To pity too.

IMOGEN. What do you pity, sir?

IACHIMO. Two creatures heartily.

IMOGEN. Am I one, sir? You look on me: what wreck discern you in me Deserves your pity?

IACHIMO. Lamentable! What, To hide me from the radiant sun and solace I’ th’ dungeon by a snuff?

IMOGEN. I pray you, sir, Deliver with more openness your answers To my demands. Why do you pity me?

IACHIMO. That others do, I was about to say, enjoy your—But It is an office of the gods to venge it, Not mine to speak on’t.

IMOGEN. You do seem to know Something of me, or what concerns me; pray you, Since doubting things go ill often hurts more Than to be sure they do; for certainties Either are past remedies, or, timely knowing, The remedy then born—discover to me What both you spur and stop.

IACHIMO. Had I this cheek To bathe my lips upon; this hand, whose touch, Whose every touch, would force the feeler’s soul To th’ oath of loyalty; this object, which Takes prisoner the wild motion of mine eye, Fixing it only here; should I, damn’d then, Slaver with lips as common as the stairs That mount the Capitol; join gripes with hands Made hard with hourly falsehood (falsehood as With labour): then by-peeping in an eye Base and illustrious as the smoky light That’s fed with stinking tallow: it were fit That all the plagues of hell should at one time Encounter such revolt.

IMOGEN. My lord, I fear, Has forgot Britain.

IACHIMO. And himself. Not I Inclin’d to this intelligence pronounce The beggary of his change; but ’tis your graces That from my mutest conscience to my tongue Charms this report out.

IMOGEN. Let me hear no more.

IACHIMO. O dearest soul, your cause doth strike my heart With pity that doth make me sick! A lady So fair, and fasten’d to an empery, Would make the great’st king double, to be partner’d With tomboys hir’d with that self exhibition Which your own coffers yield! with diseas’d ventures That play with all infirmities for gold Which rottenness can lend nature! Such boil’d stuff As well might poison poison! Be reveng’d; Or she that bore you was no queen, and you Recoil from your great stock.

IMOGEN. Reveng’d? How should I be reveng’d? If this be true, (As I have such a heart that both mine ears Must not in haste abuse) if it be true, How should I be reveng’d?

IACHIMO. Should he make me Live like Diana’s priest betwixt cold sheets, Whiles he is vaulting variable ramps, In your despite, upon your purse? Revenge it. I dedicate myself to your sweet pleasure, More noble than that runagate to your bed, And will continue fast to your affection, Still close as sure.

IMOGEN. What ho, Pisanio!

IACHIMO. Let me my service tender on your lips.

IMOGEN. Away! I do condemn mine ears that have So long attended thee. If thou wert honourable, Thou wouldst have told this tale for virtue, not For such an end thou seek’st, as base as strange. Thou wrong’st a gentleman who is as far From thy report as thou from honour; and Solicits here a lady that disdains Thee and the devil alike. What ho, Pisanio! The King my father shall be made acquainted Of thy assault. If he shall think it fit A saucy stranger in his court to mart As in a Romish stew, and to expound His beastly mind to us, he hath a court He little cares for, and a daughter who He not respects at all. What ho, Pisanio!

IACHIMO. O happy Leonatus! I may say The credit that thy lady hath of thee Deserves thy trust, and thy most perfect goodness Her assur’d credit. Blessed live you long, A lady to the worthiest sir that ever Country call’d his! and you his mistress, only For the most worthiest fit! Give me your pardon. I have spoke this to know if your affiance Were deeply rooted, and shall make your lord That which he is new o’er; and he is one The truest manner’d, such a holy witch That he enchants societies into him, Half all men’s hearts are his.

IMOGEN. You make amends.

IACHIMO. He sits ’mongst men like a descended god: He hath a kind of honour sets him off More than a mortal seeming. Be not angry, Most mighty Princess, that I have adventur’d To try your taking of a false report, which hath Honour’d with confirmation your great judgement In the election of a sir so rare, Which you know cannot err. The love I bear him Made me to fan you thus; but the gods made you, Unlike all others, chaffless. Pray your pardon.

IMOGEN. All’s well, sir; take my pow’r i’ th’ court for yours.

IACHIMO. My humble thanks. I had almost forgot T’ entreat your Grace but in a small request, And yet of moment too, for it concerns Your lord; myself and other noble friends Are partners in the business.

IMOGEN. Pray what is’t?

IACHIMO. Some dozen Romans of us, and your lord (The best feather of our wing) have mingled sums To buy a present for the Emperor; Which I, the factor for the rest, have done In France. ’Tis plate of rare device, and jewels Of rich and exquisite form, their values great; And I am something curious, being strange, To have them in safe stowage. May it please you To take them in protection?

IMOGEN. Willingly; And pawn mine honour for their safety. Since My lord hath interest in them, I will keep them In my bedchamber.

IACHIMO. They are in a trunk, Attended by my men. I will make bold To send them to you only for this night; I must aboard tomorrow.

IMOGEN. O, no, no.

IACHIMO. Yes, I beseech; or I shall short my word By length’ning my return. From Gallia I cross’d the seas on purpose and on promise To see your Grace.

IMOGEN. I thank you for your pains. But not away tomorrow!

IACHIMO. O, I must, madam. Therefore I shall beseech you, if you please To greet your lord with writing, do’t tonight. I have outstood my time, which is material To th’ tender of our present.

IMOGEN. I will write. Send your trunk to me; it shall safe be kept And truly yielded you. You’re very welcome.

[_Exeunt._]

## ACT II

## SCENE I. Britain. Before Cymbeline’s palace.

Enter Cloten and the two Lords.

CLOTEN. Was there ever man had such luck! When I kiss’d the jack, upon an upcast to be hit away! I had a hundred pound on’t; and then a whoreson jackanapes must take me up for swearing, as if I borrowed mine oaths of him, and might not spend them at my pleasure.

FIRST LORD. What got he by that? You have broke his pate with your bowl.

SECOND LORD. [_Aside._] If his wit had been like him that broke it, it would have run all out.

CLOTEN. When a gentleman is dispos’d to swear, it is not for any standers-by to curtail his oaths. Ha?

SECOND LORD. No, my lord; [_Aside._] nor crop the ears of them.

CLOTEN. Whoreson dog! I gave him satisfaction. Would he had been one of my rank!

SECOND LORD. [_Aside._] To have smell’d like a fool.

CLOTEN. I am not vex’d more at anything in th’ earth. A pox on’t! I had rather not be so noble as I am; they dare not fight with me, because of the Queen my mother. Every jackslave hath his bellyful of fighting, and I must go up and down like a cock that nobody can match.

SECOND LORD. [_Aside._] You are cock and capon too; and you crow, cock, with your comb on.

CLOTEN. Sayest thou?

SECOND LORD. It is not fit your lordship should undertake every companion that you give offence to.

CLOTEN. No, I know that; but it is fit I should commit offence to my inferiors.

SECOND LORD. Ay, it is fit for your lordship only.

CLOTEN. Why, so I say.

FIRST LORD. Did you hear of a stranger that’s come to court tonight?

CLOTEN. A stranger, and I not known on’t?

SECOND LORD. [_Aside._] He’s a strange fellow himself, and knows it not.

FIRST LORD. There’s an Italian come, and, ’tis thought, one of Leonatus’ friends.

CLOTEN. Leonatus? A banish’d rascal; and he’s another, whatsoever he be. Who told you of this stranger?

FIRST LORD. One of your lordship’s pages.

CLOTEN. Is it fit I went to look upon him? Is there no derogation in’t?

SECOND LORD. You cannot derogate, my lord.

CLOTEN. Not easily, I think.

SECOND LORD. [_Aside._] You are a fool granted; therefore your issues, being foolish, do not derogate.

CLOTEN. Come, I’ll go see this Italian. What I have lost today at bowls I’ll win tonight of him. Come, go.

SECOND LORD. I’ll attend your lordship.

[_Exeunt Cloten and First Lord._]

That such a crafty devil as is his mother Should yield the world this ass! A woman that Bears all down with her brain; and this her son Cannot take two from twenty, for his heart, And leave eighteen. Alas, poor princess, Thou divine Imogen, what thou endur’st, Betwixt a father by thy step-dame govern’d, A mother hourly coining plots, a wooer More hateful than the foul expulsion is Of thy dear husband, than that horrid act Of the divorce he’d make! The heavens hold firm The walls of thy dear honour, keep unshak’d That temple, thy fair mind, that thou mayst stand T’ enjoy thy banish’d lord and this great land!

[_Exit._]

## SCENE II. Britain. Imogen’s bedchamber in Cymbeline’s palace; a trunk

in one corner.

Enter Imogen in her bed, and a Lady attending.

IMOGEN. Who’s there? My woman Helen?

LADY. Please you, madam.

IMOGEN. What hour is it?

LADY. Almost midnight, madam.

IMOGEN. I have read three hours then. Mine eyes are weak; Fold down the leaf where I have left. To bed. Take not away the taper, leave it burning; And if thou canst awake by four o’ th’ clock, I prithee call me. Sleep hath seiz’d me wholly.

[_Exit Lady._]

To your protection I commend me, gods. From fairies and the tempters of the night Guard me, beseech ye!

[_Sleeps. Iachimo comes from the trunk._]

IACHIMO. The crickets sing, and man’s o’er-labour’d sense Repairs itself by rest. Our Tarquin thus Did softly press the rushes ere he waken’d The chastity he wounded. Cytherea, How bravely thou becom’st thy bed! fresh lily, And whiter than the sheets! That I might touch! But kiss; one kiss! Rubies unparagon’d, How dearly they do’t! ’Tis her breathing that Perfumes the chamber thus. The flame o’ th’ taper Bows toward her and would under-peep her lids To see th’ enclosed lights, now canopied Under these windows white and azure, lac’d With blue of heaven’s own tinct. But my design To note the chamber. I will write all down: Such and such pictures; there the window; such Th’ adornment of her bed; the arras, figures, Why, such and such; and the contents o’ th’ story. Ah, but some natural notes about her body Above ten thousand meaner movables Would testify, t’ enrich mine inventory. O sleep, thou ape of death, lie dull upon her! And be her sense but as a monument, Thus in a chapel lying! Come off, come off;

[_Taking off her bracelet._]

As slippery as the Gordian knot was hard! ’Tis mine; and this will witness outwardly, As strongly as the conscience does within, To th’ madding of her lord. On her left breast A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops I’ th’ bottom of a cowslip. Here’s a voucher Stronger than ever law could make; this secret Will force him think I have pick’d the lock and ta’en The treasure of her honour. No more. To what end? Why should I write this down that’s riveted, Screw’d to my memory? She hath been reading late The tale of Tereus; here the leaf’s turn’d down Where Philomel gave up. I have enough. To th’ trunk again, and shut the spring of it. Swift, swift, you dragons of the night, that dawning May bare the raven’s eye! I lodge in fear; Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here.

[_Clock strikes._]

One, two, three. Time, time!

[_Exit into the trunk._]

## SCENE III. Cymbeline’s palace. An ante-chamber adjoining Imogen’s

apartments.

Enter Cloten and Lords.

FIRST LORD. Your lordship is the most patient man in loss, the most coldest that ever turn’d up ace.

CLOTEN. It would make any man cold to lose.

FIRST LORD. But not every man patient after the noble temper of your lordship. You are most hot and furious when you win.

CLOTEN. Winning will put any man into courage. If I could get this foolish Imogen, I should have gold enough. It’s almost morning, is’t not?

FIRST LORD. Day, my lord.

CLOTEN. I would this music would come. I am advised to give her music a mornings; they say it will penetrate.

Enter Musicians.

Come on, tune. If you can penetrate her with your fingering, so. We’ll try with tongue too. If none will do, let her remain; but I’ll never give o’er. First, a very excellent good-conceited thing; after, a wonderful sweet air, with admirable rich words to it, and then let her consider.

SONG

Hark, hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings, And Phœbus ’gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chalic’d flow’rs that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes. With everything that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise; Arise, arise!

CLOTEN. So, get you gone. If this penetrate, I will consider your music the better; if it do not, it is a vice in her ears which horsehairs and calves’ guts, nor the voice of unpaved eunuch to boot, can never amend.

[_Exeunt Musicians._]

Enter Cymbeline and Queen.

SECOND LORD. Here comes the King.

CLOTEN. I am glad I was up so late, for that’s the reason I was up so early. He cannot choose but take this service I have done fatherly.—Good morrow to your Majesty and to my gracious mother.

CYMBELINE. Attend you here the door of our stern daughter? Will she not forth?

CLOTEN. I have assail’d her with musics, but she vouchsafes no notice.

CYMBELINE. The exile of her minion is too new; She hath not yet forgot him; some more time Must wear the print of his remembrance on’t, And then she’s yours.

QUEEN. You are most bound to th’ King, Who lets go by no vantages that may Prefer you to his daughter. Frame yourself To orderly solicits, and be friended With aptness of the season; make denials Increase your services; so seem as if You were inspir’d to do those duties which You tender to her; that you in all obey her, Save when command to your dismission tends, And therein you are senseless.

CLOTEN. Senseless? Not so.

Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER. So like you, sir, ambassadors from Rome; The one is Caius Lucius.

CYMBELINE. A worthy fellow, Albeit he comes on angry purpose now; But that’s no fault of his. We must receive him According to the honour of his sender; And towards himself, his goodness forespent on us, We must extend our notice. Our dear son, When you have given good morning to your mistress, Attend the Queen and us; we shall have need T’ employ you towards this Roman. Come, our queen.

[_Exeunt all but Cloten._]

CLOTEN. If she be up, I’ll speak with her; if not, Let her lie still and dream. By your leave, ho!

[_Knocks._]

I know her women are about her; what If I do line one of their hands? ’Tis gold Which buys admittance (oft it doth) yea, and makes Diana’s rangers false themselves, yield up Their deer to th’ stand o’ th’ stealer; and ’tis gold Which makes the true man kill’d and saves the thief; Nay, sometime hangs both thief and true man. What Can it not do and undo? I will make One of her women lawyer to me, for I yet not understand the case myself. By your leave.

[_Knocks._]

Enter a Lady.

LADY. Who’s there that knocks?

CLOTEN. A gentleman.

LADY. No more?

CLOTEN. Yes, and a gentlewoman’s son.

LADY. That’s more Than some whose tailors are as dear as yours Can justly boast of. What’s your lordship’s pleasure?

CLOTEN. Your lady’s person; is she ready?

LADY. Ay, To keep her chamber.

CLOTEN. There is gold for you; sell me your good report.

LADY. How? My good name? or to report of you What I shall think is good? The Princess!

Enter Imogen.

CLOTEN. Good morrow, fairest sister. Your sweet hand.

[_Exit Lady._]

IMOGEN. Good morrow, sir. You lay out too much pains For purchasing but trouble. The thanks I give Is telling you that I am poor of thanks, And scarce can spare them.

CLOTEN. Still I swear I love you.

IMOGEN. If you but said so, ’twere as deep with me. If you swear still, your recompense is still That I regard it not.

CLOTEN. This is no answer.

IMOGEN. But that you shall not say I yield, being silent, I would not speak. I pray you spare me. Faith, I shall unfold equal discourtesy To your best kindness; one of your great knowing Should learn, being taught, forbearance.

CLOTEN. To leave you in your madness ’twere my sin; I will not.

IMOGEN. Fools are not mad folks.

CLOTEN. Do you call me fool?

IMOGEN. As I am mad, I do; If you’ll be patient, I’ll no more be mad; That cures us both. I am much sorry, sir, You put me to forget a lady’s manners By being so verbal; and learn now, for all, That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce, By th’ very truth of it, I care not for you, And am so near the lack of charity To accuse myself I hate you; which I had rather You felt than make’t my boast.

CLOTEN. You sin against Obedience, which you owe your father. For The contract you pretend with that base wretch, One bred of alms and foster’d with cold dishes, With scraps o’ th’ court, it is no contract, none. And though it be allowed in meaner parties (Yet who than he more mean?) to knit their souls (On whom there is no more dependency But brats and beggary) in self-figur’d knot, Yet you are curb’d from that enlargement by The consequence o’ th’ crown, and must not foil The precious note of it with a base slave, A hilding for a livery, a squire’s cloth, A pantler; not so eminent!

IMOGEN. Profane fellow! Wert thou the son of Jupiter, and no more But what thou art besides, thou wert too base To be his groom. Thou wert dignified enough, Even to the point of envy, if ’twere made Comparative for your virtues to be styl’d The under-hangman of his kingdom, and hated For being preferr’d so well.

CLOTEN. The south fog rot him!

IMOGEN. He never can meet more mischance than come To be but nam’d of thee. His mean’st garment That ever hath but clipp’d his body, is dearer In my respect, than all the hairs above thee, Were they all made such men. How now, Pisanio!

Enter Pisanio.

CLOTEN. ‘His garment’! Now the devil—

IMOGEN. To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently.

CLOTEN. ‘His garment’!

IMOGEN. I am sprited with a fool; Frighted, and ang’red worse. Go bid my woman Search for a jewel that too casually Hath left mine arm. It was thy master’s; shrew me, If I would lose it for a revenue Of any king’s in Europe! I do think I saw’t this morning; confident I am Last night ’twas on mine arm; I kiss’d it. I hope it be not gone to tell my lord That I kiss aught but he.

PISANIO. ’Twill not be lost.

IMOGEN. I hope so. Go and search.

[_Exit Pisanio._]

CLOTEN. You have abus’d me. ‘His meanest garment’!

IMOGEN. Ay, I said so, sir. If you will make ’t an action, call witness to ’t.

CLOTEN. I will inform your father.

IMOGEN. Your mother too. She’s my good lady and will conceive, I hope, But the worst of me. So I leave you, sir, To th’ worst of discontent.

[_Exit._]

CLOTEN. I’ll be reveng’d. ‘His mean’st garment’! Well.

[_Exit._]

## SCENE IV. Rome. Philario’s house.

Enter Posthumus and Philario.

POSTHUMUS. Fear it not, sir; I would I were so sure To win the King as I am bold her honour Will remain hers.

PHILARIO. What means do you make to him?

POSTHUMUS. Not any; but abide the change of time, Quake in the present winter’s state, and wish That warmer days would come. In these fear’d hopes I barely gratify your love; they failing, I must die much your debtor.

PHILARIO. Your very goodness and your company O’erpays all I can do. By this your king Hath heard of great Augustus. Caius Lucius Will do’s commission throughly; and I think He’ll grant the tribute, send th’ arrearages, Or look upon our Romans, whose remembrance Is yet fresh in their grief.

POSTHUMUS. I do believe Statist though I am none, nor like to be, That this will prove a war; and you shall hear The legions now in Gallia sooner landed In our not-fearing Britain than have tidings Of any penny tribute paid. Our countrymen Are men more order’d than when Julius Cæsar Smil’d at their lack of skill, but found their courage Worthy his frowning at. Their discipline, Now mingled with their courages, will make known To their approvers they are people such That mend upon the world.

Enter Iachimo.

PHILARIO. See! Iachimo!

POSTHUMUS. The swiftest harts have posted you by land, And winds of all the corners kiss’d your sails, To make your vessel nimble.

PHILARIO. Welcome, sir.

POSTHUMUS. I hope the briefness of your answer made The speediness of your return.

IACHIMO. Your lady Is one of the fairest that I have look’d upon.

POSTHUMUS. And therewithal the best; or let her beauty Look through a casement to allure false hearts, And be false with them.

IACHIMO. Here are letters for you.

POSTHUMUS. Their tenour good, I trust.

IACHIMO. ’Tis very like.

PHILARIO. Was Caius Lucius in the Britain court When you were there?

IACHIMO. He was expected then, But not approach’d.

POSTHUMUS. All is well yet. Sparkles this stone as it was wont, or is’t not Too dull for your good wearing?

IACHIMO. If I have lost it, I should have lost the worth of it in gold. I’ll make a journey twice as far t’ enjoy A second night of such sweet shortness which Was mine in Britain; for the ring is won.

POSTHUMUS. The stone’s too hard to come by.

IACHIMO. Not a whit, Your lady being so easy.

POSTHUMUS. Make not, sir, Your loss your sport. I hope you know that we Must not continue friends.

IACHIMO. Good sir, we must, If you keep covenant. Had I not brought The knowledge of your mistress home, I grant We were to question farther; but I now Profess myself the winner of her honour, Together with your ring; and not the wronger Of her or you, having proceeded but By both your wills.

POSTHUMUS. If you can make’t apparent That you have tasted her in bed, my hand And ring is yours. If not, the foul opinion You had of her pure honour gains or loses Your sword or mine, or masterless leaves both To who shall find them.

IACHIMO. Sir, my circumstances, Being so near the truth as I will make them, Must first induce you to believe; whose strength I will confirm with oath; which I doubt not You’ll give me leave to spare when you shall find You need it not.

POSTHUMUS. Proceed.

IACHIMO. First, her bedchamber, (Where I confess I slept not, but profess Had that was well worth watching) it was hang’d With tapestry of silk and silver; the story, Proud Cleopatra when she met her Roman And Cydnus swell’d above the banks, or for The press of boats or pride. A piece of work So bravely done, so rich, that it did strive In workmanship and value; which I wonder’d Could be so rarely and exactly wrought, Since the true life on’t was—

POSTHUMUS. This is true; And this you might have heard of here, by me Or by some other.

IACHIMO. More particulars Must justify my knowledge.

POSTHUMUS. So they must, Or do your honour injury.

IACHIMO. The chimney Is south the chamber, and the chimneypiece Chaste Dian bathing. Never saw I figures So likely to report themselves. The cutter Was as another nature, dumb; outwent her, Motion and breath left out.

POSTHUMUS. This is a thing Which you might from relation likewise reap, Being, as it is, much spoke of.

IACHIMO. The roof o’ th’ chamber With golden cherubins is fretted; her andirons (I had forgot them) were two winking Cupids Of silver, each on one foot standing, nicely Depending on their brands.

POSTHUMUS. This is her honour! Let it be granted you have seen all this, and praise Be given to your remembrance; the description Of what is in her chamber nothing saves The wager you have laid.

IACHIMO. Then, if you can, [_Shows the bracelet_] Be pale. I beg but leave to air this jewel. See! And now ’tis up again. It must be married To that your diamond; I’ll keep them.

POSTHUMUS. Jove! Once more let me behold it. Is it that Which I left with her?

IACHIMO. Sir (I thank her) that. She stripp’d it from her arm; I see her yet; Her pretty action did outsell her gift, And yet enrich’d it too. She gave it me, and said She priz’d it once.

POSTHUMUS. May be she pluck’d it off To send it me.

IACHIMO. She writes so to you, doth she?

POSTHUMUS. O, no, no, no! ’tis true. Here, take this too;

[_Gives the ring._]

It is a basilisk unto mine eye, Kills me to look on’t. Let there be no honour Where there is beauty; truth where semblance; love Where there’s another man. The vows of women Of no more bondage be to where they are made Than they are to their virtues, which is nothing. O, above measure false!

PHILARIO. Have patience, sir, And take your ring again; ’tis not yet won. It may be probable she lost it, or Who knows if one her women, being corrupted Hath stol’n it from her?

POSTHUMUS. Very true; And so I hope he came by’t. Back my ring. Render to me some corporal sign about her, More evident than this; for this was stol’n.

IACHIMO. By Jupiter, I had it from her arm!

POSTHUMUS. Hark you, he swears; by Jupiter he swears. ’Tis true, nay, keep the ring, ’tis true. I am sure She would not lose it. Her attendants are All sworn and honourable:—they induc’d to steal it! And by a stranger! No, he hath enjoy’d her. The cognizance of her incontinency Is this: she hath bought the name of whore thus dearly. There, take thy hire; and all the fiends of hell Divide themselves between you!

PHILARIO. Sir, be patient; This is not strong enough to be believ’d Of one persuaded well of.

POSTHUMUS. Never talk on’t; She hath been colted by him.

IACHIMO. If you seek For further satisfying, under her breast (Worthy the pressing) lies a mole, right proud Of that most delicate lodging. By my life, I kiss’d it; and it gave me present hunger To feed again, though full. You do remember This stain upon her?

POSTHUMUS. Ay, and it doth confirm Another stain, as big as hell can hold, Were there no more but it.

IACHIMO. Will you hear more?

POSTHUMUS. Spare your arithmetic; never count the turns. Once, and a million!

IACHIMO. I’ll be sworn—

POSTHUMUS. No swearing. If you will swear you have not done’t, you lie; And I will kill thee if thou dost deny Thou’st made me cuckold.

IACHIMO. I’ll deny nothing.

POSTHUMUS. O that I had her here to tear her limb-meal! I will go there and do’t, i’ th’ court, before Her father. I’ll do something—

[_Exit._]

PHILARIO. Quite besides The government of patience! You have won. Let’s follow him and pervert the present wrath He hath against himself.

IACHIMO. With all my heart.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE V. Rome. Another room in Philario’s house.

Enter Posthumus.

POSTHUMUS. Is there no way for men to be, but women Must be half-workers? We are all bastards, And that most venerable man which I Did call my father was I know not where When I was stamp’d. Some coiner with his tools Made me a counterfeit; yet my mother seem’d The Dian of that time. So doth my wife The nonpareil of this. O, vengeance, vengeance! Me of my lawful pleasure she restrain’d, And pray’d me oft forbearance; did it with A pudency so rosy, the sweet view on’t Might well have warm’d old Saturn; that I thought her As chaste as unsunn’d snow. O, all the devils! This yellow Iachimo in an hour, was’t not? Or less; at first? Perchance he spoke not, but, Like a full-acorn’d boar, a German one, Cried “O!” and mounted; found no opposition But what he look’d for should oppose and she Should from encounter guard. Could I find out The woman’s part in me! For there’s no motion That tends to vice in man but I affirm It is the woman’s part. Be it lying, note it, The woman’s; flattering, hers; deceiving, hers; Lust and rank thoughts, hers, hers; revenges, hers; Ambitions, covetings, change of prides, disdain, Nice longing, slanders, mutability, All faults that man may name, nay, that hell knows, Why, hers, in part or all; but rather all; For even to vice They are not constant, but are changing still One vice but of a minute old for one Not half so old as that. I’ll write against them, Detest them, curse them. Yet ’tis greater skill In a true hate to pray they have their will: The very devils cannot plague them better.

[_Exit._]

## ACT III

## SCENE I. Britain. A hall in Cymbeline’s palace.

Enter in state Cymbeline, Queen, Cloten and Lords at one door, and at another Caius Lucius and Attendants.

CYMBELINE. Now say, what would Augustus Cæsar with us?

LUCIUS. When Julius Cæsar, (whose remembrance yet Lives in men’s eyes, and will to ears and tongues Be theme and hearing ever) was in this Britain, And conquer’d it, Cassibelan, thine uncle, Famous in Cæsar’s praises no whit less Than in his feats deserving it, for him And his succession granted Rome a tribute, Yearly three thousand pounds, which by thee lately Is left untender’d.

QUEEN. And, to kill the marvel, Shall be so ever.

CLOTEN. There be many Cæsars ere such another Julius. Britain is a world by itself, and we will nothing pay for wearing our own noses.

QUEEN. That opportunity, Which then they had to take from’s, to resume We have again. Remember, sir, my liege, The kings your ancestors, together with The natural bravery of your isle, which stands As Neptune’s park, ribb’d and pal’d in With rocks unscaleable and roaring waters, With sands that will not bear your enemies’ boats But suck them up to th’ top-mast. A kind of conquest Cæsar made here, but made not here his brag Of ‘Came, and saw, and overcame.’ With shame (The first that ever touch’d him) he was carried From off our coast, twice beaten; and his shipping (Poor ignorant baubles!) on our terrible seas, Like egg-shells mov’d upon their surges, crack’d As easily ’gainst our rocks; for joy whereof The fam’d Cassibelan, who was once at point (O, giglot fortune!) to master Cæsar’s sword, Made Lud’s Town with rejoicing fires bright And Britons strut with courage.

CLOTEN. Come, there’s no more tribute to be paid. Our kingdom is stronger than it was at that time; and, as I said, there is no moe such Cæsars. Other of them may have crook’d noses; but to owe such straight arms, none.

CYMBELINE. Son, let your mother end.

CLOTEN. We have yet many among us can gripe as hard as Cassibelan. I do not say I am one; but I have a hand. Why tribute? Why should we pay tribute? If Cæsar can hide the sun from us with a blanket, or put the moon in his pocket, we will pay him tribute for light; else, sir, no more tribute, pray you now.

CYMBELINE. You must know, Till the injurious Romans did extort This tribute from us, we were free. Cæsar’s ambition, Which swell’d so much that it did almost stretch The sides o’ th’ world, against all colour here Did put the yoke upon’s; which to shake off Becomes a warlike people, whom we reckon Ourselves to be.

CLOTEN. We do.

CYMBELINE. Say then to Cæsar, Our ancestor was that Mulmutius which Ordain’d our laws, whose use the sword of Cæsar Hath too much mangled; whose repair and franchise Shall, by the power we hold, be our good deed, Though Rome be therefore angry. Mulmutius made our laws, Who was the first of Britain which did put His brows within a golden crown, and call’d Himself a king.

LUCIUS. I am sorry, Cymbeline, That I am to pronounce Augustus Cæsar (Cæsar, that hath moe kings his servants than Thyself domestic officers) thine enemy. Receive it from me, then: war and confusion In Cæsar’s name pronounce I ’gainst thee; look For fury not to be resisted. Thus defied, I thank thee for myself.

CYMBELINE. Thou art welcome, Caius. Thy Cæsar knighted me; my youth I spent Much under him; of him I gather’d honour, Which he to seek of me again, perforce, Behoves me keep at utterance. I am perfect That the Pannonians and Dalmatians for Their liberties are now in arms, a precedent Which not to read would show the Britons cold; So Cæsar shall not find them.

LUCIUS. Let proof speak.

CLOTEN. His majesty bids you welcome. Make pastime with us a day or two, or longer. If you seek us afterwards in other terms, you shall find us in our salt-water girdle. If you beat us out of it, it is yours; if you fall in the adventure, our crows shall fare the better for you; and there’s an end.

LUCIUS. So, sir.

CYMBELINE. I know your master’s pleasure, and he mine; All the remain is, welcome.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE II. Britain. Another room in Cymbeline’s palace.

Enter Pisanio reading of a letter.

PISANIO. How? of adultery? Wherefore write you not What monsters her accuse? Leonatus! O master, what a strange infection Is fall’n into thy ear! What false Italian (As poisonous-tongu’d as handed) hath prevail’d On thy too ready hearing? Disloyal? No. She’s punish’d for her truth, and undergoes, More goddess-like than wife-like, such assaults As would take in some virtue. O my master, Thy mind to her is now as low as were Thy fortunes. How? that I should murder her? Upon the love, and truth, and vows, which I Have made to thy command? I, her? Her blood? If it be so to do good service, never Let me be counted serviceable. How look I That I should seem to lack humanity So much as this fact comes to?

[_Reads._]

‘Do’t. The letter That I have sent her, by her own command Shall give thee opportunity.’ O damn’d paper, Black as the ink that’s on thee! Senseless bauble, Art thou a fedary for this act, and look’st So virgin-like without? Lo, here she comes.

Enter Imogen.

I am ignorant in what I am commanded.

IMOGEN. How now, Pisanio?

PISANIO. Madam, here is a letter from my lord.

IMOGEN. Who? thy lord? That is my lord, Leonatus? O, learn’d indeed were that astronomer That knew the stars as I his characters; He’d lay the future open. You good gods, Let what is here contain’d relish of love, Of my lord’s health, of his content; yet not That we two are asunder; let that grieve him! Some griefs are med’cinable; that is one of them, For it doth physic love: of his content, All but in that. Good wax, thy leave. Blest be You bees that make these locks of counsel! Lovers And men in dangerous bonds pray not alike; Though forfeiters you cast in prison, yet You clasp young Cupid’s tables. Good news, gods!

[_Reads._]

_Justice and your father’s wrath, should he take me in his dominion, could not be so cruel to me as you, O the dearest of creatures, would even renew me with your eyes. Take notice that I am in Cambria, at Milford Haven. What your own love will out of this advise you, follow. So he wishes you all happiness that remains loyal to his vow, and your increasing in love. LEONATUS POSTHUMUS._

O for a horse with wings! Hear’st thou, Pisanio? He is at Milford Haven. Read, and tell me How far ’tis thither. If one of mean affairs May plod it in a week, why may not I Glide thither in a day? Then, true Pisanio, Who long’st like me to see thy lord, who long’st (O, let me ’bate!) but not like me, yet long’st, But in a fainter kind. O, not like me, For mine’s beyond beyond: say, and speak thick, (Love’s counsellor should fill the bores of hearing To th’ smothering of the sense) how far it is To this same blessed Milford. And by th’ way Tell me how Wales was made so happy as T’ inherit such a haven. But first of all, How we may steal from hence; and for the gap That we shall make in time from our hence-going And our return, to excuse. But first, how get hence. Why should excuse be born or ere begot? We’ll talk of that hereafter. Prithee speak, How many score of miles may we well rid ’Twixt hour and hour?

PISANIO. One score ’twixt sun and sun, Madam, ’s enough for you, and too much too.

IMOGEN. Why, one that rode to’s execution, man, Could never go so slow. I have heard of riding wagers Where horses have been nimbler than the sands That run i’ th’ clock’s behalf. But this is fool’ry. Go bid my woman feign a sickness; say She’ll home to her father; and provide me presently A riding suit, no costlier than would fit A franklin’s huswife.

PISANIO. Madam, you’re best consider.

IMOGEN. I see before me, man. Nor here, nor here, Nor what ensues, but have a fog in them That I cannot look through. Away, I prithee; Do as I bid thee. There’s no more to say. Accessible is none but Milford way.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE III. Wales. A mountainous country with a cave.

Enter from the cave Belarius, Guiderius and Arviragus.

BELARIUS. A goodly day not to keep house with such Whose roof’s as low as ours! Stoop, boys; this gate Instructs you how t’ adore the heavens, and bows you To a morning’s holy office. The gates of monarchs Are arch’d so high that giants may jet through And keep their impious turbans on without Good morrow to the sun. Hail, thou fair heaven! We house i’ th’ rock, yet use thee not so hardly As prouder livers do.

GUIDERIUS. Hail, heaven!

ARVIRAGUS. Hail, heaven!

BELARIUS. Now for our mountain sport. Up to yond hill, Your legs are young; I’ll tread these flats. Consider, When you above perceive me like a crow, That it is place which lessens and sets off; And you may then revolve what tales I have told you Of courts, of princes, of the tricks in war. This service is not service so being done, But being so allow’d. To apprehend thus Draws us a profit from all things we see, And often to our comfort shall we find The sharded beetle in a safer hold Than is the full-wing’d eagle. O, this life Is nobler than attending for a check, Richer than doing nothing for a robe, Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk: Such gain the cap of him that makes him fine, Yet keeps his book uncross’d. No life to ours!

GUIDERIUS. Out of your proof you speak. We, poor unfledg’d, Have never wing’d from view o’ th’ nest, nor know not What air’s from home. Haply this life is best, If quiet life be best; sweeter to you That have a sharper known; well corresponding With your stiff age. But unto us it is A cell of ignorance, travelling abed, A prison for a debtor that not dares To stride a limit.

ARVIRAGUS. What should we speak of When we are old as you? When we shall hear The rain and wind beat dark December, how, In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse. The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing; We are beastly: subtle as the fox for prey, Like warlike as the wolf for what we eat. Our valour is to chase what flies; our cage We make a choir, as doth the prison’d bird, And sing our bondage freely.

BELARIUS. How you speak! Did you but know the city’s usuries, And felt them knowingly; the art o’ th’ court, As hard to leave as keep, whose top to climb Is certain falling, or so slipp’ry that The fear’s as bad as falling; the toil o’ th’ war, A pain that only seems to seek out danger I’ th’ name of fame and honour, which dies i’ th’ search, And hath as oft a sland’rous epitaph As record of fair act; nay, many times, Doth ill deserve by doing well; what’s worse, Must curtsy at the censure. O, boys, this story The world may read in me; my body’s mark’d With Roman swords, and my report was once First with the best of note. Cymbeline lov’d me; And when a soldier was the theme, my name Was not far off. Then was I as a tree Whose boughs did bend with fruit. But in one night A storm, or robbery, call it what you will, Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, And left me bare to weather.

GUIDERIUS. Uncertain favour!

BELARIUS. My fault being nothing, as I have told you oft, But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail’d Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline I was confederate with the Romans. So Follow’d my banishment, and this twenty years This rock and these demesnes have been my world, Where I have liv’d at honest freedom, paid More pious debts to heaven than in all The fore-end of my time. But up to th’ mountains! This is not hunters’ language. He that strikes The venison first shall be the lord o’ th’ feast; To him the other two shall minister; And we will fear no poison, which attends In place of greater state. I’ll meet you in the valleys.

[_Exeunt Guiderius and Arviragus._]

How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature! These boys know little they are sons to th’ King, Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive. They think they are mine; and though train’d up thus meanly I’ th’ cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit The roofs of palaces, and nature prompts them In simple and low things to prince it much Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore, The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, who The King his father call’d Guiderius—Jove! When on my three-foot stool I sit and tell The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out Into my story; say ‘Thus mine enemy fell, And thus I set my foot on’s neck’; even then The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats, Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture That acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal, Once Arviragus, in as like a figure Strikes life into my speech, and shows much more His own conceiving. Hark, the game is rous’d! O Cymbeline, heaven and my conscience knows Thou didst unjustly banish me! Whereon, At three and two years old, I stole these babes, Thinking to bar thee of succession as Thou refts me of my lands. Euriphile, Thou wast their nurse; they took thee for their mother, And every day do honour to her grave. Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call’d, They take for natural father. The game is up.

[_Exit._]

## SCENE IV. Wales, near Milford Haven.

Enter Pisanio and Imogen.

IMOGEN. Thou told’st me, when we came from horse, the place Was near at hand. Ne’er long’d my mother so To see me first as I have now. Pisanio! Man! Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that sigh From th’ inward of thee? One but painted thus Would be interpreted a thing perplex’d Beyond self-explication. Put thyself Into a haviour of less fear, ere wildness Vanquish my staider senses. What’s the matter? Why tender’st thou that paper to me with A look untender? If’t be summer news, Smile to’t before; if winterly, thou need’st But keep that count’nance still. My husband’s hand? That drug-damn’d Italy hath out-craftied him, And he’s at some hard point. Speak, man; thy tongue May take off some extremity, which to read Would be even mortal to me.

PISANIO. Please you read, And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing The most disdain’d of fortune.

IMOGEN. [_Reads._] _Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath play’d the strumpet in my bed, the testimonies whereof lie bleeding in me. I speak not out of weak surmises, but from proof as strong as my grief and as certain as I expect my revenge. That part thou, Pisanio, must act for me, if thy faith be not tainted with the breach of hers. Let thine own hands take away her life; I shall give thee opportunity at Milford Haven; she hath my letter for the purpose; where, if thou fear to strike, and to make me certain it is done, thou art the pandar to her dishonour, and equally to me disloyal._

PISANIO. What shall I need to draw my sword? The paper Hath cut her throat already. No, ’tis slander, Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue Outvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath Rides on the posting winds and doth belie All corners of the world. Kings, queens, and states, Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave, This viperous slander enters. What cheer, madam?

IMOGEN. False to his bed? What is it to be false? To lie in watch there, and to think on him? To weep twixt clock and clock? If sleep charge nature, To break it with a fearful dream of him, And cry myself awake? That’s false to’s bed, Is it?

PISANIO. Alas, good lady!

IMOGEN. I false! Thy conscience witness! Iachimo, Thou didst accuse him of incontinency; Thou then look’dst like a villain; now, methinks, Thy favour’s good enough. Some jay of Italy, Whose mother was her painting, hath betray’d him. Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion, And for I am richer than to hang by th’ walls I must be ripp’d. To pieces with me! O, Men’s vows are women’s traitors! All good seeming, By thy revolt, O husband, shall be thought Put on for villainy; not born where’t grows, But worn a bait for ladies.

PISANIO. Good madam, hear me.

IMOGEN. True honest men being heard, like false Æneas, Were, in his time, thought false; and Sinon’s weeping Did scandal many a holy tear, took pity From most true wretchedness. So thou, Posthumus, Wilt lay the leaven on all proper men: Goodly and gallant shall be false and perjur’d From thy great fail. Come, fellow, be thou honest; Do thou thy master’s bidding; when thou seest him, A little witness my obedience. Look! I draw the sword myself; take it, and hit The innocent mansion of my love, my heart. Fear not; ’tis empty of all things but grief; Thy master is not there, who was indeed The riches of it. Do his bidding; strike. Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause, But now thou seem’st a coward.

PISANIO. Hence, vile instrument! Thou shalt not damn my hand.

IMOGEN. Why, I must die; And if I do not by thy hand, thou art No servant of thy master’s. Against self-slaughter There is a prohibition so divine That cravens my weak hand. Come, here’s my heart: Something’s afore’t. Soft, soft! we’ll no defence, Obedient as the scabbard. What is here? The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus All turn’d to heresy? Away, away, Corrupters of my faith, you shall no more Be stomachers to my heart. Thus may poor fools Believe false teachers; though those that are betray’d Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor Stands in worse case of woe. And thou, Posthumus, That didst set up my disobedience ’gainst the King My father, and make me put into contempt the suits Of princely fellows, shalt hereafter find It is no act of common passage but A strain of rareness; and I grieve myself To think, when thou shalt be disedg’d by her That now thou tirest on, how thy memory Will then be pang’d by me. Prithee dispatch. The lamb entreats the butcher. Where’s thy knife? Thou art too slow to do thy master’s bidding, When I desire it too.

PISANIO. O gracious lady, Since I receiv’d command to do this busines I have not slept one wink.

IMOGEN. Do’t, and to bed then.

PISANIO. I’ll wake mine eyeballs first.

IMOGEN. Wherefore then Didst undertake it? Why hast thou abus’d So many miles with a pretence? This place? Mine action and thine own? our horses’ labour? The time inviting thee? The perturb’d court, For my being absent? whereunto I never Purpose return. Why hast thou gone so far To be unbent when thou hast ta’en thy stand, Th’ elected deer before thee?

PISANIO. But to win time To lose so bad employment, in the which I have consider’d of a course. Good lady, Hear me with patience.

IMOGEN. Talk thy tongue weary, speak. I have heard I am a strumpet, and mine ear, Therein false struck, can take no greater wound, Nor tent to bottom that. But speak.

PISANIO. Then, madam, I thought you would not back again.

IMOGEN. Most like, Bringing me here to kill me.

PISANIO. Not so, neither; But if I were as wise as honest, then My purpose would prove well. It cannot be But that my master is abus’d. Some villain, Ay, and singular in his art, hath done you both This cursed injury.

IMOGEN. Some Roman courtezan!

PISANIO. No, on my life! I’ll give but notice you are dead, and send him Some bloody sign of it, for ’tis commanded I should do so. You shall be miss’d at court, And that will well confirm it.

IMOGEN. Why, good fellow, What shall I do the while? Where bide? How live? Or in my life what comfort, when I am Dead to my husband?

PISANIO. If you’ll back to th’ court—

IMOGEN. No court, no father, nor no more ado With that harsh, noble, simple nothing, That Cloten, whose love-suit hath been to me As fearful as a siege.

PISANIO. If not at court, Then not in Britain must you bide.

IMOGEN. Where then? Hath Britain all the sun that shines? Day, night, Are they not but in Britain? I’ th’ world’s volume Our Britain seems as of it, but not in’t; In a great pool a swan’s nest. Prithee think There’s livers out of Britain.

PISANIO. I am most glad You think of other place. Th’ ambassador, Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford Haven Tomorrow. Now, if you could wear a mind Dark as your fortune is, and but disguise That which t’ appear itself must not yet be But by self-danger, you should tread a course Pretty and full of view; yea, happily, near The residence of Posthumus; so nigh, at least, That though his actions were not visible, yet Report should render him hourly to your ear As truly as he moves.

IMOGEN. O! for such means, Though peril to my modesty, not death on’t, I would adventure.

PISANIO. Well then, here’s the point: You must forget to be a woman; change Command into obedience; fear and niceness (The handmaids of all women, or, more truly, Woman it pretty self) into a waggish courage; Ready in gibes, quick-answer’d, saucy, and As quarrelous as the weasel. Nay, you must Forget that rarest treasure of your cheek, Exposing it (but, O, the harder heart! Alack, no remedy) to the greedy touch Of common-kissing Titan, and forget Your laboursome and dainty trims wherein You made great Juno angry.

IMOGEN. Nay, be brief; I see into thy end, and am almost A man already.

PISANIO. First, make yourself but like one. Fore-thinking this, I have already fit (’Tis in my cloak-bag) doublet, hat, hose, all That answer to them. Would you, in their serving, And with what imitation you can borrow From youth of such a season, ’fore noble Lucius Present yourself, desire his service, tell him Wherein you’re happy; which will make him know If that his head have ear in music; doubtless With joy he will embrace you; for he’s honourable, And, doubling that, most holy. Your means abroad: You have me, rich; and I will never fail Beginning nor supplyment.

IMOGEN. Thou art all the comfort The gods will diet me with. Prithee away! There’s more to be consider’d; but we’ll even All that good time will give us. This attempt I am soldier to, and will abide it with A prince’s courage. Away, I prithee.

PISANIO. Well, madam, we must take a short farewell, Lest, being miss’d, I be suspected of Your carriage from the court. My noble mistress, Here is a box; I had it from the Queen. What’s in’t is precious. If you are sick at sea Or stomach-qualm’d at land, a dram of this Will drive away distemper. To some shade, And fit you to your manhood. May the gods Direct you to the best!

IMOGEN. Amen. I thank thee.

[_Exeunt severally._]

## SCENE V. Britain. Cymbeline’s palace.

Enter Cymbeline, Queen, Cloten, Lucius and Lords.

CYMBELINE. Thus far, and so farewell.

LUCIUS. Thanks, royal sir. My emperor hath wrote; I must from hence, And am right sorry that I must report ye My master’s enemy.

CYMBELINE. Our subjects, sir, Will not endure his yoke; and for ourself To show less sovereignty than they, must needs Appear unkinglike.

LUCIUS. So, sir. I desire of you A conduct overland to Milford Haven. Madam, all joy befall your Grace, and you!

CYMBELINE. My lords, you are appointed for that office; The due of honour in no point omit. So farewell, noble Lucius.

LUCIUS. Your hand, my lord.

CLOTEN. Receive it friendly; but from this time forth I wear it as your enemy.

LUCIUS. Sir, the event Is yet to name the winner. Fare you well.

CYMBELINE. Leave not the worthy Lucius, good my lords, Till he have cross’d the Severn. Happiness!

[_Exeunt Lucius and Lords._]

QUEEN. He goes hence frowning; but it honours us That we have given him cause.

CLOTEN. ’Tis all the better; Your valiant Britons have their wishes in it.

CYMBELINE. Lucius hath wrote already to the Emperor How it goes here. It fits us therefore ripely Our chariots and our horsemen be in readiness. The pow’rs that he already hath in Gallia Will soon be drawn to head, from whence he moves His war for Britain.

QUEEN. ’Tis not sleepy business, But must be look’d to speedily and strongly.

CYMBELINE. Our expectation that it would be thus Hath made us forward. But, my gentle queen, Where is our daughter? She hath not appear’d Before the Roman, nor to us hath tender’d The duty of the day. She looks us like A thing more made of malice than of duty; We have noted it. Call her before us, for We have been too slight in sufferance.

[_Exit an Attendant._]

QUEEN. Royal sir, Since the exile of Posthumus, most retir’d Hath her life been; the cure whereof, my lord, ’Tis time must do. Beseech your Majesty, Forbear sharp speeches to her; she’s a lady So tender of rebukes that words are strokes, And strokes death to her.

Enter Attendant.

CYMBELINE. Where is she, sir? How Can her contempt be answer’d?

ATTENDANT. Please you, sir, Her chambers are all lock’d, and there’s no answer That will be given to th’ loud of noise we make.

QUEEN. My lord, when last I went to visit her, She pray’d me to excuse her keeping close; Whereto constrain’d by her infirmity She should that duty leave unpaid to you Which daily she was bound to proffer. This She wish’d me to make known; but our great court Made me to blame in memory.

CYMBELINE. Her doors lock’d? Not seen of late? Grant, heavens, that which I fear Prove false!

[_Exit._]

QUEEN. Son, I say, follow the King.

CLOTEN. That man of hers, Pisanio, her old servant, I have not seen these two days.

QUEEN. Go, look after.

[_Exit Cloten._]

Pisanio, thou that stand’st so for Posthumus! He hath a drug of mine. I pray his absence Proceed by swallowing that; for he believes It is a thing most precious. But for her, Where is she gone? Haply despair hath seiz’d her; Or, wing’d with fervour of her love, she’s flown To her desir’d Posthumus. Gone she is To death or to dishonour, and my end Can make good use of either. She being down, I have the placing of the British crown.

Enter Cloten.

How now, my son?

CLOTEN. ’Tis certain she is fled. Go in and cheer the King. He rages; none Dare come about him.

QUEEN. All the better. May This night forestall him of the coming day!

[_Exit._]

CLOTEN. I love and hate her; for she’s fair and royal, And that she hath all courtly parts more exquisite Than lady, ladies, woman. From every one The best she hath, and she, of all compounded, Outsells them all. I love her therefore; but Disdaining me and throwing favours on The low Posthumus slanders so her judgement That what’s else rare is chok’d; and in that point I will conclude to hate her, nay, indeed, To be reveng’d upon her. For when fools Shall—

Enter Pisanio.

Who is here? What, are you packing, sirrah? Come hither. Ah, you precious pandar! Villain, Where is thy lady? In a word, or else Thou art straightway with the fiends.

PISANIO. O good my lord!

CLOTEN. Where is thy lady? or, by Jupiter— I will not ask again. Close villain, I’ll have this secret from thy heart, or rip Thy heart to find it. Is she with Posthumus? From whose so many weights of baseness cannot A dram of worth be drawn.

PISANIO. Alas, my lord, How can she be with him? When was she miss’d? He is in Rome.

CLOTEN. Where is she, sir? Come nearer. No farther halting! Satisfy me home What is become of her.

PISANIO. O my all-worthy lord!

CLOTEN. All-worthy villain! Discover where thy mistress is at once, At the next word. No more of ‘worthy lord’! Speak, or thy silence on the instant is Thy condemnation and thy death.

PISANIO. Then, sir, This paper is the history of my knowledge Touching her flight.

[_Presenting a letter._]

CLOTEN. Let’s see’t. I will pursue her Even to Augustus’ throne.

PISANIO. [_Aside._] Or this or perish. She’s far enough; and what he learns by this May prove his travel, not her danger.

CLOTEN. Humh!

PISANIO. [_Aside._] I’ll write to my lord she’s dead. O Imogen, Safe mayst thou wander, safe return again!

CLOTEN. Sirrah, is this letter true?

PISANIO. Sir, as I think.

CLOTEN. It is Posthumus’ hand; I know’t. Sirrah, if thou wouldst not be a villain, but do me true service, undergo those employments wherein I should have cause to use thee with a serious industry—that is, what villainy soe’er I bid thee do, to perform it directly and truly—I would think thee an honest man; thou shouldst neither want my means for thy relief nor my voice for thy preferment.

PISANIO. Well, my good lord.

CLOTEN. Wilt thou serve me? For since patiently and constantly thou hast stuck to the bare fortune of that beggar Posthumus, thou canst not, in the course of gratitude, but be a diligent follower of mine. Wilt thou serve me?

PISANIO. Sir, I will.

CLOTEN. Give me thy hand; here’s my purse. Hast any of thy late master’s garments in thy possession?

PISANIO. I have, my lord, at my lodging, the same suit he wore when he took leave of my lady and mistress.

CLOTEN. The first service thou dost me, fetch that suit hither. Let it be thy first service; go.

PISANIO. I shall, my lord.

[_Exit._]

CLOTEN. Meet thee at Milford Haven! I forgot to ask him one thing; I’ll remember’t anon. Even there, thou villain Posthumus, will I kill thee. I would these garments were come. She said upon a time—the bitterness of it I now belch from my heart—that she held the very garment of Posthumus in more respect than my noble and natural person, together with the adornment of my qualities. With that suit upon my back will I ravish her; first kill him, and in her eyes. There shall she see my valour, which will then be a torment to her contempt. He on the ground, my speech of insultment ended on his dead body, and when my lust hath dined—which, as I say, to vex her I will execute in the clothes that she so prais’d—to the court I’ll knock her back, foot her home again. She hath despis’d me rejoicingly, and I’ll be merry in my revenge.

Enter Pisanio with the clothes.

Be those the garments?

PISANIO. Ay, my noble lord.

CLOTEN. How long is’t since she went to Milford Haven?

PISANIO. She can scarce be there yet.

CLOTEN. Bring this apparel to my chamber; that is the second thing that I have commanded thee. The third is that thou wilt be a voluntary mute to my design. Be but duteous and true, preferment shall tender itself to thee. My revenge is now at Milford, would I had wings to follow it! Come, and be true.

[_Exit._]

PISANIO. Thou bid’st me to my loss; for true to thee Were to prove false, which I will never be, To him that is most true. To Milford go, And find not her whom thou pursuest. Flow, flow, You heavenly blessings, on her! This fool’s speed Be cross’d with slowness! Labour be his meed!

[_Exit._]

## SCENE VI. Wales. Before the cave of Belarius.

Enter Imogen alone, in boy’s clothes.

IMOGEN. I see a man’s life is a tedious one. I have tir’d myself, and for two nights together Have made the ground my bed. I should be sick But that my resolution helps me. Milford, When from the mountain-top Pisanio show’d thee, Thou wast within a ken. O Jove! I think Foundations fly the wretched; such, I mean, Where they should be reliev’d. Two beggars told me I could not miss my way. Will poor folks lie, That have afflictions on them, knowing ’tis A punishment or trial? Yes; no wonder, When rich ones scarce tell true. To lapse in fulness Is sorer than to lie for need; and falsehood Is worse in kings than beggars. My dear lord! Thou art one o’ th’ false ones. Now I think on thee My hunger’s gone; but even before, I was At point to sink for food. But what is this? Here is a path to’t; ’tis some savage hold. I were best not call; I dare not call. Yet famine, Ere clean it o’erthrow nature, makes it valiant. Plenty and peace breeds cowards; hardness ever Of hardiness is mother. Ho! who’s here? If anything that’s civil, speak; if savage, Take or lend. Ho! No answer? Then I’ll enter. Best draw my sword; and if mine enemy But fear the sword, like me, he’ll scarcely look on’t. Such a foe, good heavens!

[_Exit into the cave._]

## SCENE VII. The same.

Enter Belarius, Guiderius and Arviragus.

BELARIUS. You, Polydore, have prov’d best woodman and Are master of the feast. Cadwal and I Will play the cook and servant; ’tis our match. The sweat of industry would dry and die But for the end it works to. Come, our stomachs Will make what’s homely savoury; weariness Can snore upon the flint, when resty sloth Finds the down pillow hard. Now, peace be here, Poor house, that keep’st thyself!

GUIDERIUS. I am thoroughly weary.

ARVIRAGUS. I am weak with toil, yet strong in appetite.

GUIDERIUS. There is cold meat i’ th’ cave; we’ll browse on that Whilst what we have kill’d be cook’d.

BELARIUS. [_Looking into the cave._] Stay, come not in. But that it eats our victuals, I should think Here were a fairy.

GUIDERIUS. What’s the matter, sir?

BELARIUS. By Jupiter, an angel! or, if not, An earthly paragon! Behold divineness No elder than a boy!

Enter Imogen.

IMOGEN. Good masters, harm me not. Before I enter’d here I call’d, and thought To have begg’d or bought what I have took. Good troth, I have stol’n nought; nor would not though I had found Gold strew’d i’ th’ floor. Here’s money for my meat. I would have left it on the board, so soon As I had made my meal, and parted With pray’rs for the provider.

GUIDERIUS. Money, youth?

ARVIRAGUS. All gold and silver rather turn to dirt, As ’tis no better reckon’d but of those Who worship dirty gods.

IMOGEN. I see you’re angry. Know, if you kill me for my fault, I should Have died had I not made it.

BELARIUS. Whither bound?

IMOGEN. To Milford Haven.

BELARIUS. What’s your name?

IMOGEN. Fidele, sir. I have a kinsman who Is bound for Italy; he embark’d at Milford; To whom being going, almost spent with hunger, I am fall’n in this offence.

BELARIUS. Prithee, fair youth, Think us no churls, nor measure our good minds By this rude place we live in. Well encounter’d! ’Tis almost night; you shall have better cheer Ere you depart, and thanks to stay and eat it. Boys, bid him welcome.

GUIDERIUS. Were you a woman, youth, I should woo hard but be your groom. In honesty I bid for you as I’d buy.

ARVIRAGUS. I’ll make’t my comfort He is a man. I’ll love him as my brother; And such a welcome as I’d give to him After long absence, such is yours. Most welcome! Be sprightly, for you fall ’mongst friends.

IMOGEN. ’Mongst friends, If brothers. [_Aside._] Would it had been so that they Had been my father’s sons! Then had my prize Been less, and so more equal ballasting To thee, Posthumus.

BELARIUS. He wrings at some distress.

GUIDERIUS. Would I could free’t!

ARVIRAGUS. Or I, whate’er it be, What pain it cost, what danger! Gods!

BELARIUS. [_Whispering._] Hark, boys.

IMOGEN. [_Aside._] Great men, That had a court no bigger than this cave, That did attend themselves, and had the virtue Which their own conscience seal’d them, laying by That nothing-gift of differing multitudes, Could not out-peer these twain. Pardon me, gods! I’d change my sex to be companion with them, Since Leonatus false.

BELARIUS. It shall be so. Boys, we’ll go dress our hunt. Fair youth, come in. Discourse is heavy, fasting; when we have supp’d, We’ll mannerly demand thee of thy story, So far as thou wilt speak it.

GUIDERIUS. Pray draw near.

ARVIRAGUS. The night to th’ owl and morn to th’ lark less welcome.

IMOGEN. Thanks, sir.

ARVIRAGUS. I pray draw near.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE VIII. Rome. A public place.

Enter two Roman Senators and Tribunes.

FIRST SENATOR. This is the tenour of the Emperor’s writ: That since the common men are now in action ’Gainst the Pannonians and Dalmatians, And that the legions now in Gallia are Full weak to undertake our wars against The fall’n-off Britons, that we do incite The gentry to this business. He creates Lucius proconsul; and to you, the tribunes, For this immediate levy, he commands His absolute commission. Long live Cæsar!

TRIBUNE. Is Lucius general of the forces?

SECOND SENATOR. Ay.

TRIBUNE. Remaining now in Gallia?

FIRST SENATOR. With those legions Which I have spoke of, whereunto your levy Must be supplyant. The words of your commission Will tie you to the numbers and the time Of their dispatch.

TRIBUNE. We will discharge our duty.

[_Exeunt._]

## ACT IV

## SCENE I. Wales. Near the cave of Belarius.

Enter Cloten alone.

CLOTEN. I am near to th’ place where they should meet, if Pisanio have mapp’d it truly. How fit his garments serve me! Why should his mistress, who was made by him that made the tailor, not be fit too? The rather, saving reverence of the word, for ’tis said a woman’s fitness comes by fits. Therein I must play the workman. I dare speak it to myself, for it is not vain-glory for a man and his glass to confer in his own chamber; I mean, the lines of my body are as well drawn as his; no less young, more strong, not beneath him in fortunes, beyond him in the advantage of the time, above him in birth, alike conversant in general services, and more remarkable in single oppositions. Yet this imperceiverant thing loves him in my despite. What mortality is! Posthumus, thy head, which now is growing upon thy shoulders, shall within this hour be off; thy mistress enforced; thy garments cut to pieces before her face; and all this done, spurn her home to her father, who may, haply, be a little angry for my so rough usage; but my mother, having power of his testiness, shall turn all into my commendations. My horse is tied up safe. Out, sword, and to a sore purpose! Fortune, put them into my hand. This is the very description of their meeting-place; and the fellow dares not deceive me.

[_Exit._]

## SCENE II. Wales. Before the cave of Belarius.

Enter from the cave, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus and Imogen.

BELARIUS. [_To Imogen._] You are not well. Remain here in the cave; We’ll come to you after hunting.

ARVIRAGUS. [_To Imogen._] Brother, stay here. Are we not brothers?

IMOGEN. So man and man should be; But clay and clay differs in dignity, Whose dust is both alike. I am very sick.

GUIDERIUS. Go you to hunting; I’ll abide with him.

IMOGEN. So sick I am not, yet I am not well; But not so citizen a wanton as To seem to die ere sick. So please you, leave me; Stick to your journal course. The breach of custom Is breach of all. I am ill, but your being by me Cannot amend me; society is no comfort To one not sociable. I am not very sick, Since I can reason of it. Pray you trust me here. I’ll rob none but myself; and let me die, Stealing so poorly.

GUIDERIUS. I love thee; I have spoke it. How much the quantity, the weight as much As I do love my father.

BELARIUS. What? how? how?

ARVIRAGUS. If it be sin to say so, sir, I yoke me In my good brother’s fault. I know not why I love this youth, and I have heard you say Love’s reason’s without reason. The bier at door, And a demand who is’t shall die, I’d say ‘My father, not this youth.’

BELARIUS. [_Aside._] O noble strain! O worthiness of nature! breed of greatness! Cowards father cowards and base things sire base. Nature hath meal and bran, contempt and grace. I’m not their father; yet who this should be Doth miracle itself, lov’d before me.— ’Tis the ninth hour o’ th’ morn.

ARVIRAGUS. Brother, farewell.

IMOGEN. I wish ye sport.

ARVIRAGUS. Your health. [_To Belarius._] So please you, sir.

IMOGEN. [_Aside._] These are kind creatures. Gods, what lies I have heard! Our courtiers say all’s savage but at court. Experience, O, thou disprov’st report! Th’ imperious seas breed monsters; for the dish, Poor tributary rivers as sweet fish. I am sick still; heart-sick. Pisanio, I’ll now taste of thy drug.

[_Swallows some._]

GUIDERIUS. I could not stir him. He said he was gentle, but unfortunate; Dishonestly afflicted, but yet honest.

ARVIRAGUS. Thus did he answer me; yet said hereafter I might know more.

BELARIUS. To th’ field, to th’ field! We’ll leave you for this time. Go in and rest.

ARVIRAGUS. We’ll not be long away.

BELARIUS. Pray be not sick, For you must be our huswife.

IMOGEN. Well, or ill, I am bound to you.

BELARIUS. And shalt be ever.

[_Exit Imogen into the cave._]

This youth, howe’er distress’d, appears he hath had Good ancestors.

ARVIRAGUS. How angel-like he sings!

GUIDERIUS. But his neat cookery! He cut our roots in characters, And sauc’d our broths as Juno had been sick, And he her dieter.

ARVIRAGUS. Nobly he yokes A smiling with a sigh, as if the sigh Was that it was for not being such a smile; The smile mocking the sigh that it would fly From so divine a temple to commix With winds that sailors rail at.

GUIDERIUS. I do note That grief and patience, rooted in him both, Mingle their spurs together.

ARVIRAGUS. Grow patience! And let the stinking elder, grief, untwine His perishing root with the increasing vine!

BELARIUS. It is great morning. Come, away! Who’s there?

Enter Cloten.

CLOTEN. I cannot find those runagates; that villain Hath mock’d me. I am faint.

BELARIUS. Those runagates? Means he not us? I partly know him; ’tis Cloten, the son o’ th’ Queen. I fear some ambush. I saw him not these many years, and yet I know ’tis he. We are held as outlaws. Hence!

GUIDERIUS. He is but one; you and my brother search What companies are near. Pray you away; Let me alone with him.

[_Exeunt Belarius and Arviragus._]

CLOTEN. Soft! What are you That fly me thus? Some villain mountaineers? I have heard of such. What slave art thou?

GUIDERIUS. A thing More slavish did I ne’er than answering A slave without a knock.

CLOTEN. Thou art a robber, A law-breaker, a villain. Yield thee, thief.

GUIDERIUS. To who? To thee? What art thou? Have not I An arm as big as thine, a heart as big? Thy words, I grant, are bigger, for I wear not My dagger in my mouth. Say what thou art; Why I should yield to thee.

CLOTEN. Thou villain base, Know’st me not by my clothes?

GUIDERIUS. No, nor thy tailor, rascal, Who is thy grandfather; he made those clothes, Which, as it seems, make thee.

CLOTEN. Thou precious varlet, My tailor made them not.

GUIDERIUS. Hence, then, and thank The man that gave them thee. Thou art some fool; I am loath to beat thee.

CLOTEN. Thou injurious thief, Hear but my name, and tremble.

GUIDERIUS. What’s thy name?

CLOTEN. Cloten, thou villain.

GUIDERIUS. Cloten, thou double villain, be thy name, I cannot tremble at it. Were it Toad, or Adder, Spider, ’Twould move me sooner.

CLOTEN. To thy further fear, Nay, to thy mere confusion, thou shalt know I am son to th’ Queen.

GUIDERIUS. I’m sorry for’t; not seeming So worthy as thy birth.

CLOTEN. Art not afeard?

GUIDERIUS. Those that I reverence, those I fear—the wise; At fools I laugh, not fear them.

CLOTEN. Die the death. When I have slain thee with my proper hand, I’ll follow those that even now fled hence, And on the gates of Lud’s Town set your heads. Yield, rustic mountaineer.

[_Exeunt, fighting._]

Enter Belarius and Arviragus.

BELARIUS. No company’s abroad?

ARVIRAGUS. None in the world; you did mistake him, sure.

BELARIUS. I cannot tell; long is it since I saw him, But time hath nothing blurr’d those lines of favour Which then he wore; the snatches in his voice, And burst of speaking, were as his. I am absolute ’Twas very Cloten.

ARVIRAGUS. In this place we left them. I wish my brother make good time with him, You say he is so fell.

BELARIUS. Being scarce made up, I mean to man, he had not apprehension Or roaring terrors; for defect of judgement Is oft the cease of fear.

Enter Guiderius with Cloten’s head.

But, see, thy brother.

GUIDERIUS. This Cloten was a fool, an empty purse; There was no money in’t. Not Hercules Could have knock’d out his brains, for he had none; Yet I not doing this, the fool had borne My head as I do his.

BELARIUS. What hast thou done?

GUIDERIUS. I am perfect what: cut off one Cloten’s head, Son to the Queen, after his own report; Who call’d me traitor, mountaineer, and swore With his own single hand he’d take us in, Displace our heads where, thank the gods, they grow, And set them on Lud’s Town.

BELARIUS. We are all undone.

GUIDERIUS. Why, worthy father, what have we to lose But that he swore to take, our lives? The law Protects not us; then why should we be tender To let an arrogant piece of flesh threat us, Play judge and executioner all himself, For we do fear the law? What company Discover you abroad?

BELARIUS. No single soul Can we set eye on, but in all safe reason He must have some attendants. Though his humour Was nothing but mutation, ay, and that From one bad thing to worse, not frenzy, not Absolute madness could so far have rav’d, To bring him here alone. Although perhaps It may be heard at court that such as we Cave here, hunt here, are outlaws, and in time May make some stronger head, the which he hearing, As it is like him, might break out and swear He’d fetch us in; yet is’t not probable To come alone, either he so undertaking Or they so suffering. Then on good ground we fear, If we do fear this body hath a tail More perilous than the head.

ARVIRAGUS. Let ordinance Come as the gods foresay it. Howsoe’er, My brother hath done well.

BELARIUS. I had no mind To hunt this day; the boy Fidele’s sickness Did make my way long forth.

GUIDERIUS. With his own sword, Which he did wave against my throat, I have ta’en His head from him. I’ll throw’t into the creek Behind our rock, and let it to the sea And tell the fishes he’s the Queen’s son, Cloten. That’s all I reck.

[_Exit._]

BELARIUS. I fear ’twill be reveng’d. Would, Polydore, thou hadst not done’t! though valour Becomes thee well enough.

ARVIRAGUS. Would I had done’t, So the revenge alone pursu’d me! Polydore, I love thee brotherly, but envy much Thou hast robb’d me of this deed. I would revenges, That possible strength might meet, would seek us through, And put us to our answer.

BELARIUS. Well, ’tis done. We’ll hunt no more today, nor seek for danger Where there’s no profit. I prithee to our rock. You and Fidele play the cooks; I’ll stay Till hasty Polydore return, and bring him To dinner presently.

ARVIRAGUS. Poor sick Fidele! I’ll willingly to him; to gain his colour I’d let a parish of such Cloten’s blood, And praise myself for charity.

[_Exit._]

BELARIUS. O thou goddess, Thou divine Nature, thou thyself thou blazon’st In these two princely boys! They are as gentle As zephyrs blowing below the violet, Not wagging his sweet head; and yet as rough, Their royal blood enchaf’d, as the rud’st wind That by the top doth take the mountain pine And make him stoop to th’ vale. ’Tis wonder That an invisible instinct should frame them To royalty unlearn’d, honour untaught, Civility not seen from other, valour That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop As if it had been sow’d. Yet still it’s strange What Cloten’s being here to us portends, Or what his death will bring us.

Enter Guiderius.

GUIDERIUS. Where’s my brother? I have sent Cloten’s clotpoll down the stream, In embassy to his mother; his body’s hostage For his return.

[_Solemn music._]

BELARIUS. My ingenious instrument! Hark, Polydore, it sounds. But what occasion Hath Cadwal now to give it motion? Hark!

GUIDERIUS. Is he at home?

BELARIUS. He went hence even now.

GUIDERIUS. What does he mean? Since death of my dear’st mother It did not speak before. All solemn things Should answer solemn accidents. The matter? Triumphs for nothing and lamenting toys Is jollity for apes and grief for boys. Is Cadwal mad?

Enter Arviragus with Imogen as dead, bearing her in his arms.

BELARIUS. Look, here he comes, And brings the dire occasion in his arms Of what we blame him for!

ARVIRAGUS. The bird is dead That we have made so much on. I had rather Have skipp’d from sixteen years of age to sixty, To have turn’d my leaping time into a crutch, Than have seen this.

GUIDERIUS. O sweetest, fairest lily! My brother wears thee not the one half so well As when thou grew’st thyself.

BELARIUS. O melancholy! Who ever yet could sound thy bottom? find The ooze to show what coast thy sluggish crare Might’st easiliest harbour in? Thou blessed thing! Jove knows what man thou mightst have made; but I, Thou diedst, a most rare boy, of melancholy. How found you him?

ARVIRAGUS. Stark, as you see; Thus smiling, as some fly had tickled slumber, Not as death’s dart, being laugh’d at; his right cheek Reposing on a cushion.

GUIDERIUS. Where?

ARVIRAGUS. O’ th’ floor; His arms thus leagu’d. I thought he slept, and put My clouted brogues from off my feet, whose rudeness Answer’d my steps too loud.

GUIDERIUS. Why, he but sleeps. If he be gone he’ll make his grave a bed; With female fairies will his tomb be haunted, And worms will not come to thee.

ARVIRAGUS. With fairest flowers, Whilst summer lasts and I live here, Fidele, I’ll sweeten thy sad grave. Thou shalt not lack The flower that’s like thy face, pale primrose; nor The azur’d hare-bell, like thy veins; no, nor The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, Out-sweet’ned not thy breath. The ruddock would, With charitable bill (O bill, sore shaming Those rich-left heirs that let their fathers lie Without a monument!) bring thee all this; Yea, and furr’d moss besides, when flow’rs are none, To winter-ground thy corse—

GUIDERIUS. Prithee have done, And do not play in wench-like words with that Which is so serious. Let us bury him, And not protract with admiration what Is now due debt. To th’ grave.

ARVIRAGUS. Say, where shall’s lay him?

GUIDERIUS. By good Euriphile, our mother.

ARVIRAGUS. Be’t so; And let us, Polydore, though now our voices Have got the mannish crack, sing him to th’ ground, As once to our mother; use like note and words, Save that Euriphile must be Fidele.

GUIDERIUS. Cadwal, I cannot sing. I’ll weep, and word it with thee; For notes of sorrow out of tune are worse Than priests and fanes that lie.

ARVIRAGUS. We’ll speak it, then.

BELARIUS. Great griefs, I see, med’cine the less, for Cloten Is quite forgot. He was a queen’s son, boys; And though he came our enemy, remember He was paid for that. Though mean and mighty rotting Together have one dust, yet reverence, That angel of the world, doth make distinction Of place ’tween high and low. Our foe was princely; And though you took his life, as being our foe, Yet bury him as a prince.

GUIDERIUS. Pray you fetch him hither. Thersites’ body is as good as Ajax’, When neither are alive.

ARVIRAGUS. If you’ll go fetch him, We’ll say our song the whilst. Brother, begin.

[_Exit Belarius._]

GUIDERIUS. Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to th’ East; My father hath a reason for’t.

ARVIRAGUS. ’Tis true.

GUIDERIUS. Come on, then, and remove him.

ARVIRAGUS. So. Begin.

SONG

GUIDERIUS. _ Fear no more the heat o’ th’ sun, Nor the furious winter’s rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages. Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust._

ARVIRAGUS. _ Fear no more the frown o’ th’ great; Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke. Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak. The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this and come to dust._

GUIDERIUS. _ Fear no more the lightning flash._

ARVIRAGUS. _ Nor th’ all-dreaded thunder-stone._

GUIDERIUS. _ Fear not slander, censure rash;_

ARVIRAGUS. _ Thou hast finish’d joy and moan._

BOTH. _ All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee and come to dust._

GUIDERIUS. _ No exorciser harm thee!_

ARVIRAGUS. _ Nor no witchcraft charm thee!_

GUIDERIUS. _ Ghost unlaid forbear thee!_

ARVIRAGUS. _ Nothing ill come near thee!_

BOTH. _ Quiet consummation have, And renowned be thy grave!_

Enter Belarius with the body of Cloten.

GUIDERIUS. We have done our obsequies. Come, lay him down.

BELARIUS. Here’s a few flowers; but ’bout midnight, more. The herbs that have on them cold dew o’ th’ night Are strewings fit’st for graves. Upon their faces. You were as flow’rs, now wither’d. Even so These herblets shall which we upon you strew. Come on, away. Apart upon our knees. The ground that gave them first has them again. Their pleasures here are past, so is their pain.

[_Exeunt all but Imogen._]

IMOGEN. [_Awaking._] Yes, sir, to Milford Haven. Which is the way? I thank you. By yond bush? Pray, how far thither? ’Ods pittikins! can it be six mile yet? I have gone all night. Faith, I’ll lie down and sleep. But, soft! no bedfellow. O gods and goddesses!

[_Seeing the body._]

These flow’rs are like the pleasures of the world; This bloody man, the care on’t. I hope I dream; For so I thought I was a cave-keeper, And cook to honest creatures. But ’tis not so; ’Twas but a bolt of nothing, shot at nothing, Which the brain makes of fumes. Our very eyes Are sometimes, like our judgements, blind. Good faith, I tremble still with fear; but if there be Yet left in heaven as small a drop of pity As a wren’s eye, fear’d gods, a part of it! The dream’s here still. Even when I wake it is Without me, as within me; not imagin’d, felt. A headless man? The garments of Posthumus? I know the shape of’s leg; this is his hand, His foot Mercurial, his Martial thigh, The brawns of Hercules; but his Jovial face— Murder in heaven! How! ’Tis gone. Pisanio, All curses madded Hecuba gave the Greeks, And mine to boot, be darted on thee! Thou, Conspir’d with that irregulous devil, Cloten, Hath here cut off my lord. To write and read Be henceforth treacherous! Damn’d Pisanio Hath with his forged letters (damn’d Pisanio) From this most bravest vessel of the world Struck the main-top. O Posthumus! alas, Where is thy head? Where’s that? Ay me! where’s that? Pisanio might have kill’d thee at the heart, And left this head on. How should this be? Pisanio? ’Tis he and Cloten; malice and lucre in them Have laid this woe here. O, ’tis pregnant, pregnant! The drug he gave me, which he said was precious And cordial to me, have I not found it Murd’rous to th’ senses? That confirms it home. This is Pisanio’s deed, and Cloten. O! Give colour to my pale cheek with thy blood, That we the horrider may seem to those Which chance to find us. O, my lord, my lord!

[_Falls fainting on the body._]

Enter Lucius, Captains and a Soothsayer.

CAPTAIN. To them the legions garrison’d in Gallia, After your will, have cross’d the sea, attending You here at Milford Haven; with your ships, They are in readiness.

LUCIUS. But what from Rome?

CAPTAIN. The Senate hath stirr’d up the confiners And gentlemen of Italy, most willing spirits, That promise noble service; and they come Under the conduct of bold Iachimo, Sienna’s brother.

LUCIUS. When expect you them?

CAPTAIN. With the next benefit o’ th’ wind.

LUCIUS. This forwardness Makes our hopes fair. Command our present numbers Be muster’d; bid the captains look to’t. Now, sir, What have you dream’d of late of this war’s purpose?

SOOTHSAYER. Last night the very gods show’d me a vision (I fast and pray’d for their intelligence) thus: I saw Jove’s bird, the Roman eagle, wing’d From the spongy south to this part of the west, There vanish’d in the sunbeams; which portends, Unless my sins abuse my divination, Success to th’ Roman host.

LUCIUS. Dream often so, And never false. Soft, ho! what trunk is here Without his top? The ruin speaks that sometime It was a worthy building. How? a page? Or dead or sleeping on him? But dead, rather; For nature doth abhor to make his bed With the defunct, or sleep upon the dead. Let’s see the boy’s face.

CAPTAIN. He’s alive, my lord.

LUCIUS. He’ll then instruct us of this body. Young one, Inform us of thy fortunes; for it seems They crave to be demanded. Who is this Thou mak’st thy bloody pillow? Or who was he That, otherwise than noble nature did, Hath alter’d that good picture? What’s thy interest In this sad wreck? How came’t? Who is’t? What art thou?

IMOGEN. I am nothing; or if not, Nothing to be were better. This was my master, A very valiant Briton and a good, That here by mountaineers lies slain. Alas! There is no more such masters. I may wander From east to occident; cry out for service; Try many, all good; serve truly; never Find such another master.

LUCIUS. ’Lack, good youth! Thou mov’st no less with thy complaining than Thy master in bleeding. Say his name, good friend.

IMOGEN. Richard du Champ. [_Aside._] If I do lie, and do No harm by it, though the gods hear, I hope They’ll pardon it.—Say you, sir?

LUCIUS. Thy name?

IMOGEN. Fidele, sir.

LUCIUS. Thou dost approve thyself the very same; Thy name well fits thy faith, thy faith thy name. Wilt take thy chance with me? I will not say Thou shalt be so well master’d; but, be sure, No less belov’d. The Roman Emperor’s letters, Sent by a consul to me, should not sooner Than thine own worth prefer thee. Go with me.

IMOGEN. I’ll follow, sir. But first, an’t please the gods, I’ll hide my master from the flies, as deep As these poor pickaxes can dig; and when With wild wood-leaves and weeds I ha’ strew’d his grave, And on it said a century of prayers, Such as I can, twice o’er, I’ll weep and sigh; And leaving so his service, follow you, So please you entertain me.

LUCIUS. Ay, good youth; And rather father thee than master thee. My friends, The boy hath taught us manly duties; let us Find out the prettiest daisied plot we can, And make him with our pikes and partisans A grave. Come, arm him. Boy, he is preferr’d By thee to us; and he shall be interr’d As soldiers can. Be cheerful; wipe thine eyes. Some falls are means the happier to arise.

[_Exeunt._]

## SCENE III. Britain. Cymbeline’s palace.

Enter Cymbeline, Lords, Pisanio and Attendants.

CYMBELINE. Again! and bring me word how ’tis with her.

[_Exit an Attendant._]

A fever with the absence of her son; A madness, of which her life’s in danger. Heavens, How deeply you at once do touch me! Imogen, The great part of my comfort, gone; my queen Upon a desperate bed, and in a time When fearful wars point at me; her son gone, So needful for this present. It strikes me past The hope of comfort. But for thee, fellow, Who needs must know of her departure and Dost seem so ignorant, we’ll enforce it from thee By a sharp torture.

PISANIO. Sir, my life is yours; I humbly set it at your will; but for my mistress, I nothing know where she remains, why gone, Nor when she purposes return. Beseech your Highness, Hold me your loyal servant.

LORD. Good my liege, The day that she was missing he was here. I dare be bound he’s true and shall perform All parts of his subjection loyally. For Cloten, There wants no diligence in seeking him, And will no doubt be found.

CYMBELINE. The time is troublesome. [_To Pisanio._] We’ll slip you for a season; but our jealousy Does yet depend.

LORD. So please your Majesty, The Roman legions, all from Gallia drawn, Are landed on your coast, with a supply Of Roman gentlemen by the Senate sent.

CYMBELINE. Now for the counsel of my son and queen! I am amaz’d with matter.

LORD. Good my liege, Your preparation can affront no less Than what you hear of. Come more, for more you’re ready. The want is but to put those pow’rs in motion That long to move.

CYMBELINE. I thank you. Let’s withdraw, And meet the time as it seeks us. We fear not What can from Italy annoy us; but We grieve at chances here. Away!

[_Exeunt all but Pisanio._]

PISANIO. I heard no letter from my master since I wrote him Imogen was slain. ’Tis strange. Nor hear I from my mistress, who did promise To yield me often tidings. Neither know I What is betid to Cloten, but remain Perplex’d in all. The heavens still must work. Wherein I am false I am honest; not true, to be true. These present wars shall find I love my country, Even to the note o’ th’ King, or I’ll fall in them. All other doubts, by time let them be clear’d: Fortune brings in some boats that are not steer’d.

[_Exit._]

## SCENE IV. Wales. Before the cave of Belarius.

Enter Belarius, Guiderius and Arviragus.

GUIDERIUS. The noise is round about us.

BELARIUS. Let us from it.

ARVIRAGUS. What pleasure, sir, find we in life, to lock it From action and adventure?

GUIDERIUS. Nay, what hope Have we in hiding us? This way the Romans Must or for Britons slay us, or receive us For barbarous and unnatural revolts During their use, and slay us after.

BELARIUS. Sons, We’ll higher to the mountains; there secure us. To the King’s party there’s no going. Newness Of Cloten’s death (we being not known, not muster’d Among the bands) may drive us to a render Where we have liv’d, and so extort from’s that Which we have done, whose answer would be death, Drawn on with torture.

GUIDERIUS. This is, sir, a doubt In such a time nothing becoming you Nor satisfying us.

ARVIRAGUS. It is not likely That when they hear the Roman horses neigh, Behold their quarter’d fires, have both their eyes And ears so cloy’d importantly as now, That they will waste their time upon our note, To know from whence we are.

BELARIUS. O, I am known Of many in the army. Many years, Though Cloten then but young, you see, not wore him From my remembrance. And, besides, the King Hath not deserv’d my service nor your loves, Who find in my exile the want of breeding, The certainty of this hard life; aye hopeless To have the courtesy your cradle promis’d, But to be still hot summer’s tanlings and The shrinking slaves of winter.

GUIDERIUS. Than be so, Better to cease to be. Pray, sir, to th’ army. I and my brother are not known; yourself So out of thought, and thereto so o’ergrown, Cannot be questioned.

ARVIRAGUS. By this sun that shines, I’ll thither. What thing is’t that I never Did see man die! scarce ever look’d on blood But that of coward hares, hot goats, and venison! Never bestrid a horse, save one that had A rider like myself, who ne’er wore rowel Nor iron on his heel! I am asham’d To look upon the holy sun, to have The benefit of his blest beams, remaining So long a poor unknown.

GUIDERIUS. By heavens, I’ll go! If you will bless me, sir, and give me leave, I’ll take the better care; but if you will not, The hazard therefore due fall on me by The hands of Romans!

ARVIRAGUS. So say I. Amen.

BELARIUS. No reason I, since of your lives you set So slight a valuation, should reserve My crack’d one to more care. Have with you, boys! If in your country wars you chance to die, That is my bed too, lads, and there I’ll lie. Lead, lead. [_Aside._] The time seems long; their blood thinks scorn Till it fly out and show them princes born.

[_Exeunt._]

## ACT V

## SCENE I. Britain. The Roman camp.

Enter Posthumus alone, with a bloody handkerchief.

POSTHUMUS. Yea, bloody cloth, I’ll keep thee; for I wish’d Thou shouldst be colour’d thus. You married ones, If each of you should take this course, how many Must murder wives much better than themselves For wrying but a little! O Pisanio! Every good servant does not all commands; No bond but to do just ones. Gods! if you Should have ta’en vengeance on my faults, I never Had liv’d to put on this; so had you saved The noble Imogen to repent, and struck Me, wretch more worth your vengeance. But alack, You snatch some hence for little faults; that’s love, To have them fall no more. You some permit To second ills with ills, each elder worse, And make them dread it, to the doers’ thrift. But Imogen is your own. Do your best wills, And make me blest to obey. I am brought hither Among th’ Italian gentry, and to fight Against my lady’s kingdom. ’Tis enough That, Britain, I have kill’d thy mistress; peace! I’ll give no wound to thee. Therefore, good heavens, Hear patiently my purpose. I’ll disrobe me Of these Italian weeds, and suit myself As does a Britain peasant. So I’ll fight Against the